Indianapolis Journal, Indianapolis, Marion County, 24 February 1889 — Page 6

THE INDLiWcnnb-OUKNAL, SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 1889-TWELVE PAGES.

ICopjTnsht, 1880, by

THE BURIED EIYEK A Romance of California.

BY JOAQUIN MILLER.

CHAPTER XII. THE DKATH OF SANELLO.

Though the excitement of her sister's peril and rescne had been too much for Eanello, it would seem as if Farla were the one that should have been made ilL But not 60. She seemed older, that was all; she seemed to be at least ten years older now, and went about her strango ways and prescribed walks of life with a sobered and earnest step. But Sanello wa9 ill. She was pensive, silent, more than sad. Iler illness seemed to be an illness of soul as well as of body. Bnt John Gray saw little of her now. And if he saw bat little of her, he saw nothing at all of Farla. They seemed to b drifting far, far apart now; and that, too. just as he began to know the strength and the deep mystery of her soul. Heretofore he had seen only the strength and beanty of her body. He had stood serenely above the temptations of these. But now, after what had passed, he came 6lowlyt certainly to know something of her matchless truth and glory. Ana this made him shy; this mado him avoid her. And she, seeing how he avoided her, responded in kind.' 2o! Do not ask me to stop and give the reason, if reason there is. I have only time to hastily set down the facts; the effect. Find the cause lor yourself. The season wore away, and the elbows of the artist's coat with it, in a figurative Nrnse at least. The mystery of the Buried River remained as deeply buried as ever. The enterprise, the light, was surely fading out of the man's life. He was miserable, almost indifferent now to the one great purpose of his existence. One afternoon late in the season, as tho artist climbed up the hill to his cabin, after a long and hard walk from tho town away down in the valley, he saw Farla standing by the path, evidently waiting for him. Her old nervousness was on her. Without knowing it she was tearing the thorny thistle heads, and her hands were bleeding. "Mr. Gray, I waut you to come to our house. Come now, at once. Sanello is ill. Kello is so sick, Mr. Gray, that we are afraid she will die. Father has gone for th'j priest Come, come and help us, if yon please." The man's hat was in his hand. He walked hastily at her side; an empty hand sought hers and held it as they walked on add entered the stoutly-built door. It is 6af e to say that she did not know that he took her hand. It is also safe to say that he would not have touched it at any other time. . , The dying sister lay moaning and unconscious. The poor mother was dumb with misery. The little children stood in groups about the large room in silent awe. A st ran ger was coming. A stranger that had never set foot over that broad door-sill before was not far off. K was snrely coming straight for that house. It was Death. The children seemed to know this and were awed to continual silence. "It seems to me that something dreadful is going to happen," said Farla to her companion, as they stood close by the dying girl. "I hope not. Farla," said the man, softly. "You don't know all, Mr. John Gray." she went on. "I must tell you. You know Swain went aw?y." "Yes." "And Oh. if he had never come," murmured Farla. "And now I must tell you they weTO secretly married." "Then Swain should be sent for, and be at her side," said the man. firmly. "That is it. You see 'Kello told mother, -"and mother was afraid to tell father till after Swain was gone to the Sandwich Islands; and now we don't know where hjsis." ... As they spoke the father came in with uncovered head, the good priest, red-faced ., andpanting. close at his side. . "The doctor has gone away," moaned the mother, "and says he can do no good any more." ' . The priest put out his hand above the troubled old head before him, but could not comfort her or quiet her moaning. The dying girl gasped, started, half arose in bed, and throwing out her half-robed arms in a wild, eager way, wailed out, T ' want I I want my my little babyl" And then she gathered in her empty arms, - and so looking steadfastly ahead, and half - smiling, as if she saw what her hungry heart so much desired, she sank back dead. "Father, Fathor, shrive her! Bless her! Bave her soul!"pitcously wailed the mother. The bended, holy man laid his two hands on the still head and, silently praying, offered all the consolation his lips could . titter. The mother seemed comforted a lit.tle, at last, and, standing by the side of her dead, she put back the heavy mass of hair from the poor, sweet face, and then kissed it tenderly. Then looking up at the priest she said: "We forgive ner for keeping tho secret from us; God will forgive her for marrying without letting ns know; and surely you Jrnew what was best and what was right." The good Father began to look at her as . she went on; "And it was so good in you to come so far; so good in you to come up the . . steep mountain. But I did so want j ou .. Who married her to bless her." "Bnt I I did not marry her. I did not perform the ceremony." Back in a darkened corner, for night was falling, you could have heard the teetli of a giant grind together like millstones. ' Two huge hands clenched till blood ran down. "You did not marry herf And she was aiot married, thsn!" shrieked the mother. . John Gray stepped a little forward, and, looking the holy man calmly in the face, Aaid in a soft, earnest voice: : "Father, you have forgotten. Do you not remember, I was theret You did marry them; didyounot?" The good man, the brave good man, understood: "Yes, I remember now. I married them." . The priest said this solemnly, tirmly; them towed nis head and prayed. And the angel that bore at that instant a poor weary sonl into heaven paused a little as it passed in by the way of the recording angel, and rested there for a space, to hear what the good priest said of tho soul he had borne away. And when the holy man said, 'Yes, I married them," one long and snow white wing of the angel reached out, and en and o'er the spotless page that stood against the name of that priest. And it lay there till the recording angel had forgotten to write down the lie that he had uttered. CHAPTER XIIL . . WHO KILLED SWAIN! John Gray went out from the presence of the dead alone and in silence, with uncovered head held low. Little had life ever been to him at best. Life had begun, for him. with death. He now felt that it must end with him as it had begun. No, he had not loved this girl, this angel cow; not really loved her. But it looked to him now as if the sun had gone down and would never, never rise up any more. The flowers had been gathered from his path. The stars had all fallen out of heaven, and blackness was in their places. That night as he sat and sat. and still sat, in the solitude of his cabin, even when the white ringer of God came pointing sharp through a chink in the wall from out the golden doors of dawn, he could continually hear a strone man moaning in a dark corner. He could hear the wild, passionate appeal of the wretched mother to the priest. And Farla, and the little gronp of children in that awful silence and darkness about their dead! He lifted up his head with the rising sun; and, reproaching himselt for his seltih misery, he resolved, if possible, to be of some better use in the world than he had jet been. : .What were all the buried rivers to him now with their beds paved with goldf II is heart wis not down in the deeps of the earth now. His religious nature, and his rarly religions training, too, came to help him now. And so his thoughts were not down in the earth, but up up inthatvague

JOAQUIN MILLER.l

and indescribablo Somewhere which men call heaven. The singular and isolated man, who had set his teeth so terribly and clenched his lists so tirmly that night, chose to bury his dead in silence, and almost in secrecy. It would seem that he hollowed the grave and laid his lost child away with his own hands somewhere. It may be that Farla and tie did it together. For the next day after her death, Mr. Gray walked up toward the house, where he heard a sound as of the nailing of boards. But when Farla and her father, who, at that moment, chanced to be looking his way, saw him coming, they closed the door. He went np to the strong gate, but finding that, also, iirmly fastened, he stood still for a little time, and then went back home. It might have been months after, it seeined years to Gray, that Farla came to the cabin-door, and hastily and excitedly looked in where the artist, weary and desolate, was trying to paint a picture of the dead girl from memory. "Swain! Swain has come back," she hissed, and was gone. It has been said that the murderer cannot keep always away from the scene of his crime, but will sometimes return, even though it be in his sleep. Two days after Farla had hastily put her head in at the cabin door, and as hastily passed on, the artist saw one. two, three men searching up and down and scouring the hills and canyons, as if for something lost. On the third day the coroner came to impanel a jury down on a grassy bench of the mountain by a little trout stream, where Swain the summer before had been so fond of fishing. The dead had been found. The rich man's son from San Francisco had been found lying dead in the grass, all in a heap, as if he had been pitched there; as if he had been shaken as a dog shakes a drabble-bellied cat, and then throws it far aside in the grass. KobbersT Murderers? Thieves? The papers weie crowded with accounts of the dreadful crime. He was a young man of great promise, the papers saiu; but too fearless of danger. And now he had fallen a victim to his own courage and his romantic love of nature. The desperate outlaws that hung about the savage haunts of Mount Diablo had robbed and murdered him. But the coroner found the costly diamond still on -his linger. His watch, too. was found close by in tho grass. And strangest of all. his well-filled purse was still in his rocket. Farla was not to be seen anywhere about, all this time; neither was her father. True, little groups of children dotted the door yard, and looked curiously out now and then, as men went and came up and down the green hills, and round and about the little groves of graceful redwoods, but that was all. The great, stout gate was as tirmly closed as if the white bull was still the terror of the hills.' . According to the coroner's report columns in length, but which I must compress into a paragraph the jury found cruel ringer marks on the young man's throat the distinct marks of three lingers about the throat, more as if thcropoof a hangman had made them. Tho thumb of the dead man's murderer had almost buried itself opposite the three red bars across the threat. The man's back was found to have been broken. John Gray had taken intense interest in all the proceedings. He was on the ground along with the coroner and his men from the first, nervous and anxious. He wore a painter's blouse. Up and down the front of this blouse ran a row of bright gilt buttons. He kept rolling one of these oyer and over and round about between his thumb and finger. In this nervous way he had worked it loose. It was nearly ready to fall. He was still twisting it about between his thumb and finger when the surgeon announced that the dead man's back had been broken. Then he jerked more nervously at the button than ever. It came loose from the blouse, slipped from his lingers and fell to tho ground. CHAPTER XIV. JOIIN GRAT IX MANACLES. The coroner and the coroner's jury no longer trampled the pleasant grass down by the sparkling trout stream. The ceremonious old humbug had taken up his dead, and left the sweet landscape to the squirrel and the piping quail. But, some how, the strange men did not melt away, as had been expected. On tho contrary, strange men came and went, up and down and round about continually. A great reward had been offered for the murderer, dead or alive, by the dead man's father, the millionaire. Silvia and his daughter kept all this time on the island. One day a hunter came to the cabin where Gray was still patiently painting the dead girl's picture. He seemed to be very much of a hunter; too much of a hunter in fact. A genuine hunter cirries but light weights here. And then he stood his gun in the corner, muzzle down; a most dangerous thing to do, and most unlike a hunter. Gray smiled faintly as he saw all this, but with that innate gentleness of the true gentleman he seemed to take no notice at all, but quietly reached the man his little three-legged stool, and went on with his work. His back was to the stranger as he wrought This seemed to annoy the self-important intruder, and he left the little seat more than once, and tried in vain to get a front view of the artist by pretending to desire a better look at the work in hand. How Gray did despise this average representative of that most despicable class known as detectives; those pitiful, miserable man-hunters, whose only real place of success is in the dime novel! He kept his back to the detective for a long time. At last the conceited fellow seemed to hit on a splended idea. Taking up a small pebble from the moss that lay scattered about the doorway, he cried out: "Is not this goldf Come here quick to the door and see!" Quietly and slowly the artist laid aside his brush; quietly and slowly he Btepped back into the corner, where stood a little wash basin, and at last quietly and slowly came to the door and stood in the full light before this brilliant detective. A glance np and down that row of buttons. "The same! And one of them gone! Good! Good! The reward is ours!" In his eagerness to be off, he could hardly wait to take himself away decently. "The picture alone is a dead give-away, to say nothing of the button. Jealousy, jealousy. That's why the fool didn't take the loot. Why, I knowed it was this fellow from the first." And chuckling thus to himself, the great detective was gone. John Gray again took np his brush, and by sunset the beautiful bit of painting was on its way to the dead girl's mother. He did not enter, but stood the picture over inside the gate -where were gathered tho children. Their glad surprise, their little clasped brown hands, their wonderful eyes wide open, the group of sweet faces all focused close up to the sweet picture in the redwood frame which he had fashioned with his own hand; all this his rewaru was nomine; everyimng. As he turned back with a very sad, and yet light, heart, he saw even more men than ever before passing u. and down. and round about. His cabin, as noted before, stood in a sort of amphitheater of hills high up here on this crown of hills. with the Itttle dense copse where the grasses were and the lilies grew for the center. Near the depression, overhanging it almost, toward a precipice of shelving rocks, the trail passed uuder these loose rocks. It now seemed to him as if his cabin was literally surrounded by armed men. Thislittle circle of hills was certainly set thick with men men who seemed not to be noticing him, and yet clearly were noticing nothing else. As the artist entered his cabin ho sighed, and he smiled, also. What a continualcontradictionis man. even in the same breath! "I must make it cettain," he said firmly, as he turned about in hisdoonvar and saw. ktow gradually nearer. Then takiughis brush, le wrote in red and indellible let

ters, back behind the door, on the smooth surface of one of the red-wood logs: ............................................ . . : Hand to hand! Man toman! Equal, : : and armed only with nature's arms, : ; we met. He died, 'for he deserved to : : die j.o. : 1 . .............................................. "There! Farla and her old father shall hold these heights, and keep their little llock in hand together. There's two of them; and only one of me only half a one of me, now." He pitched the brush in a corner. No more forever. His lip curled scornfully as he heard the cautions tread of the girdle of men that was slowlv tightening around the cabin in the darkness without. His thoughts went back to the old battle-field, and he stood once more by the side of his dying father. He felt that death was not far off, and it made him stronger now, in this trying hour, to know how indifferent had been his father at the approach otV death caring only to be surely in the path of duty in the end. He laid some fine wdints and knots on the hearthstone, and there was a cheerful blaze. Closer and closer camo the clumsy feet without. '. Then there was a dull thud, a thrust one, two, three, four, live, ten! At last ten glittering barrels were thrust through the port-holes, and four men came crowding in through the door by the light of the pleasant fire. The wonderful detective headed the four. Gray looked at him al moment, and then pointing quietly at the guns said: "If those guns are loaded you are putting yonrsetf in great peril.' The detective dodged, and called out to the men to put down their guns, as he had captured his prisoner. "And what is the matter! What do you want!' ;' "No questions are wanted; we only want you. Come! Get ready." "I am ready." The detective fumbled at his belt. There was a clink of chains against a pistol, and then the manacles! lie first put them ou both wrists of his serene and silent prisoner: but finding that he was absurdly placed by this arrangement, he took off the manacle from his left hand, and fastening it to one of his own led the way out and on hastily down the narrow trail that led by the rocky precipice above tho Indian well. His dozen well-armed men were ordered to follow with drawn guns at the back of the prisoner. Kuinble! Roll! Crash! Crash again! Has the overhanging precipice broken loose! Is it tho work of an earthquake! Kumble! Kuinble! Koll! Crash! There is not a second of cessation. And not a man is left at the back of the leader with his prisoner fastened so fast that he cannot run away with him; else he too had been gone. A stone has struck Gray and he falls down senseless! And now suddenly out of the darkness a hand reaches; a heavy and a terrible hand; a hand as heavy and as terrible as the terrible rocks that had tumbled down from the samo direction. The hand is about the throat of the detective. A man is on his knees, but there is no time to pray. His neck is broken; his back is broken and the manacle is torn from his dead hand with such ferocity that the flesh is torn off with it. And then that dead and bleeding body is caught up and hurled far away into tho dark arroya below. Down deep in the copse by the Indian well there burned a dim light. The vestal virgin was there waiting. She knew what would be done; she knew how well it would be done, and she sat there by the grass waitiug, waiting the rising of the tide in the well with all the calmness and certainty of fate. Soon there came creeping up through the way by which John Gray entered the bowed and huge form of her shaggy-headed father. This time John Uray did not see the glittering eyes of the white bnll rise slowly above the snow-white rim of lilies of the Nile. His own eyes were closed; closed as if in death. But clearly Farla had not calculated on this. She had not thought of death coming to him in this form. She threw herself on her knees as her father laid his burden at her feet and thrust her hand within his blouse. The heart was still beating. In gratitude tho girl clasped her hands and prayed. And then sho put her right hand suddenly to her head. All her plans of hiding him away here for the night in this haunted spot must be changed. The man must havo help. He might dio here. What would be worse than death, he, iu this helpless plight, might again fall into tho hands of his enemies. No; he could not bo left here now. It would be perilous to all concerned; perilous to him, to ner, to her father; most of all and worst of all. perilous to her poor, heartbroken old father. Finally she seemed to have made one last desperate resolve; so desperate thai she almost hissed her words through her snowwhite teeth as she arose and turned to her father and said: "Lay him in there, in the boat. Lay him in there, and leave me. You will go back; go back to our cave on the other side of tho Islands and stay; stay till I come. Go now. and go alone; and stay till I come. Do you hear me. father! Do you understand!" He let his heavy, shaggy head fall above tho pale face, lifted and laid his charge-in the boat, and then heaved n great heartbreaking sigh and turned to go. "Father!" ' He turned about hastily, caught her to. his great, true heart and held her for lone, so long. Then he turned, lifted his head like a lion for a second; bowed his head low then, and was gone. CHAPTER XV. DOWN TO THE BURIED RIVER. Farla listened; the last faint footfall of her father had died away. There was no sound of any life; no sound save the sharp cry of the little brown wolf, calling his shaggy companions down from the crags of Mount Diablo to smell of blood. ; . She looked at the pale, thin face that lay there on tho soft, white gunwale of the boat in the full and flowing Indian well. It was hard saying which were the whiter, the face of the stricken man or the soft, white and shaggy skin on which it rested as it lay there reaching up out of the boat. Soon the tide began to recede. The boat began to settle down in its bed of lillies. It began to sink slowly, surely out of sight. She leaned over, reached far down and cast loose the anchor that had always chained the boat to the confines of the well. And whither now with its precious .freight! Where would the little bull-hide boat drift and drive to now, with its speechless captain, its single, silent passenger! She did not know. She did not even dare to guess. She only knew that he was going away; going away from her forever; and going away alone, helpless, dying I She clasped her hands in her despair and pity. She leaned over and looked down at the dim and fast fading white object below. Oh, how she repented that she had in that moment of sudden impulse cast loose the anchorage. Now he could never, never come back to her any more. The boat would be borne far away under the earth; to where! She did not even dream wherej he sprang to her feet, pressed her two hands an instant to her throbbing heart, and t hen, like a panther, she sprang through the lilies, and clinging to the rocky rim and walls of the well, descended with a swiftness and precision that startled and astonished even herself. She overtook tho descending boat as it bumped and thumped with hollow thuds, against the jutting crags, and setting foot in the prow settled down to the shoulders in the softest of skin cushions. She adiusted the rudder, laying the rope ready to land, and then rested. And as she rested her eyes fell upon the helpless and pitiful faco before her. There was danger Irom the rocks. Sho put out her long, strong arms and drew the unconscious form soitlv to herself. She felt that his heart still beat. It beat very faintly; but it was not so far from her own now. She reached her right hand over the side of the boat, bathed the white faco in tho cool, deep water and wiped it with her hair. Then she drew the watertight sealskin and sea-lion skins close np alout their shoulders, down there in the deeps of the earth, and rested. She reallv rested, it seemed, for the first time in her hard, desperate life. How little, indeed, had life been to her! How little had she had of life, of love, if this, with death so close at hand, was so delicious to her! Bump! and thumu! The light was bright enough; the boat was strong and secure. But, oh! how long and continual this perpendicular vovagel Where and when tho bottom! the end! But even as she mentally spoke thus there was a gasp, a great strong breath, as if the boat had caught in its breath for a desperate dash forward; and then, on! on! on!

She felt that the well of the world was behind her now. She caught the cord of tho helm firmly m hand, and then proceeded to tighten the skins close about herself and her helpless charge. This drew them closer still together. Her strong and healthful body warmed his helpless form. Her sweet breath was in his face. Why should the man die now! It was surely not the time to dio now. Suddenly there was a check in the forward night of the boat. The waters boomed together and recoiled back. Tho boat whirled about and for a moment was beyond control. Then she gave the keel up to the eddy, and they spun about in a circle under the lofty arches of an immense cavern, liut this cavern was tilling, fast tilling up with the booming, eddying, inflowing waters of the ocean. She could not we now, as thev whirled about, the place bv which they had entered. In a little time all would be over. True, the water-tight covering could be closed, but they could not live long thus. He would surely die, and then she would not care to live. Around, around and around! And now the boat almost struck a low place in the arch of the cavern. So close, indeed, the boat caiue to the arch or roof of tho cavern that a great white and wide-winced sea-bat Avas brushed off and went whirling madly round about, adding its own dismay and consternation to that of the terrified girl in tho boat. And then another white sea bat broke loose; and then a black sea-bat broke loose from the beetling arch, till all was terror and confusion, as if the waters of the deep had been broken up. "We are going to die," cried the girL "John Gray, we are going to die!" She drew him closer to her still in her terror; she looked down into his face. .She had folded him to her heart in that time of terror, and in thut narrow place without even knowing it. Boom and boom came the waters! Thrash! thrash! boom and thunder! The sea-bats struck her face; and one had fastened in her hair. "John Gray!" She had bowed her face even to his to escape the hideous creatures about her." "John Gray, wo are going to die, and and and I will kiss you as we die together." Her lins lay tenderly to his unconscious lips; and then her great, ardent and impetuous soul came up trom out its hiding place in the corners of her heart; even as the great sea came up to them there, booming and thundering, from tho caverns of its trembling bosom. And the flower and tho perfume of her holy womanhood she laid, as if it were religion, on the altar of her love. And she was strontrer for it. braver.

better in this brief and singular completeness of her perfect nature. But he, John Gray, never Knew. If the girl had pansed to reflect on tho flood of rising . waters around her, she would have known that as these birds of the sea made their home there, why 6urely the place was secure. But tho birds and beasts tranquilly trust God, where man, with all his intelligence, despairs. Ju3t when the reaction in the pent up waters came, Farla could not tell. But tho boat drew low and slow along tho edge of a deept dark river, with pebbly banks, when she lifted her face and looked forth. Perhaps she had been unconscious from exhaustion and terror. There was a low arch here. The waters were surging to pass under this arch. There was a narrow cleft near the keystone of this arch, and through this, the sea bats by thousands, black and white, were eagerly struggling to get out. She could hear their teeth smiting as trey angrily struck at one another. The boat eddied past tho mouth of the Uuried River, bumped and thumped, as if it too was eager to get out; but it soon passed on, and around, and around. At each round or circle the water grew lower. Another round and the prow of the boat could pass under the arch. Only the length of a hand more! Around, slowly around, they went once more. . To her consternation this time 6he found that tho waters had ceased to subside. There was a bit of wood by the wall under tho arch. To her horror, as she watched this closely, she saw that it had ceased to move. The waters were at a standstill! Hastily pushing the boat back up to the pebblv bank, by laying hold of the ledge with her right hand, she leaned over and caught up the big and heavy yellow pebbles, and dropped them as fast as possible into the bottom of her boat. They were singularly heavy, and almost before she knew it, to her great delight the little craft had sunk down into the water twelve or fifteen inches from the great weight of the curious yellow pebbles that lay there in such prof usion and so ready to hand. And now the girl drove herboat straight and with all her strength, into tho low, rocky arch. The bats were still whirling, biting, fighting in legions through the key6tono crevice overhead, but she did not hoed them now; on! on! on! Her little vessel began to totter, to tremble, to sink down from the suction of the waters underneath. Nature, the elements, werebattlintr in the bosom of the sea below. The bats kept battling in fthe broken and ugly, arch overhead. One earnest prayer, for she wanted to escape now, she so wanted to live now, and the girl once more drew the water-tight skins firmly together and fastening them thus prepared for the worst. Sho was none too soon with her precaution. So suddenly as to almost make her dizzy, the craft spun around, and around, and around. Then down, like a great white swan, deep, deeper, deepest! Then like a ball it bounded to the surface and leaped along the waters, the swift running waters, like a racer, right on and out toward the Golden Gate and the great, roaring, lion-locked islands of rock with their clouds of sea-birds beyond. Swift swept the tide by tho foamy pillars of the mighty gate. The sun was going down. Tho sun was rolled down out of heaven, a huge molten ball of immensity. It filled the Gate completely. Looking out against the rocky islands you see them set tight and fast against a wall of fire. The stars were out in heaven as they rounded to the further side of the larger island, where a yellow sail nodded welcome, where it lay bobbing and backing to a hidden cavern there. A million stars were oat in heaven, but tho sun and the moon and ten million stars together were rassing their light and their love into the fortitiedf heart of Farla now. For he had called her name. The balm, and the calm, and the great strength of the all restoring arms had brought him back to life. And John Gray had come back to life out of the water of his Buried River with her name, tho name of Farla on his lips. After the silent old giant had lifted and borne them both from the boat into the warm and skin-lined heart of the cave, he came out to empty the boat of its ballast, and draw it in out of sight, so that it might not attract attention and betray too much to a too meddlesome world. He caught up one of the yellow rocks hastily, but it slipped from his hand and sank in the foamy sea. He caught up another, and still another, till all the largest were gone. But each one seemed so very heavy; and as hard to hold as if they had been fish fresh from the sea. Finally he took np a smaller pebble, and lifted it to his great white teeth. Then he rubbed it with his rough palm, then on his sleeve, then on his lips, and chuckled, till his massive shoulders shook and shook. This man had been a miner in the days Of '49. He seemed singularly glad to see John Gray sitting up, warming bis hands by the big oil lamp, as he wentback into the cavern, after taking care to hide the remaining half-bushel of ballast. Farla, in fact, had never seen him so glad. He even laughed, laughed twice, thrice, till it seemed that the laughter of tho giant would shake the walls of the cavern. Silvia took his daughter with him, the next morning, in the yellow sail, and went direct to the great stone edifice, with its grand Greek porch, where nearly all the money of this country is coined. He had only two of the "yellow pebbles" in his pocket. There is a pleasaut fiction, a firm belief, indeed, among the miners of California, that 3'ou can step in at this Greek porch with your gold and have it coined "while you wait," True, you get your coin at the end of a few moments; but it is not coin made from the gold which you have dug from the earth and so much desire to have in vour pocket. The truth is. your gold is weighed, assayed, then its value is handed you, even to the little red coppers. But your particular gold which you take to the mint may not be made into money for years. Silvia and his daughter did not wait long for the "j-ellow pebbles" were almost pure gold, and their value was readily determined. As they came down the ereat stone steps, he laid tho heavy buckskin-bag in her bauds: "It is yours; all yours, Farla. Yonr dowry. Xo, don't be afraid to take it. girL. There is a half bushel more in the cave; to say nothing of the heaviest part of your ballast in the ocean at the mouth of the

cave." And the giant laughed and laughed at the thought of the gold that had slipped from his clumsy old hands into the ocean. That night, by the light of the big oil lamp, after John Gray had been strenthened by the most generous repast that could be broucht in the yellow sail, to sav nothing of a most nourishing glass of wine, the old piant laughed louder than ever he laughed lefore. And then he begged Farla for the bag of gold, and began laying down a pavement cr floor with the broad, new pieces of gold, saying as he did so that the cave was not tine enough for such fine ladies and gentlemen as those two that had come to visit him. Then he went and brought a heavy bag of "yellow pebblesv' so heavy that he fairly staggered under the weight of it, and laid the yellow nuggets down for them to walk upon. And when they had explained to John Grav how it all came about he exclaimed: "Xlv Buried River!" . , "But you don't go there any more," cried Farla. quickly; and then she blushed at thought of her bold speech, and held down her head. John Gray took her hand, and, leaning forward, said softly: "Will you go with me; go with me to -to-" To where?" "To church, Farla?" The wind had risen: the sea was roaring at the mouth of the cavern, and he did not hear her answer: although she crept closer to him, as if to be close enough that he might surely hear. And the giant turned his back: but 3011 could see his huge shoulders shake, as if still shaking with laughter. THE END. Copyright t IS 89, byJoacptin ililUr. ALL. FOR BABY'S SAKE.

Grandma Owens's Journey Across the Continent with Little Money and No Ticket. San Francisco Examiner. The champion rate-smasher on the overland roads, as far as returns have been received, is Mrs. Catherine Owens, a lady who reached this city last Wednesday, having come all the way from Kansas City without paying a cent of fare. She is sixty-nine years old and has with her a little grandchild about two years of age. She was put off the cars between twenty and thirty times she has not yet made an exact counting up and was on the road from Kansas City, and at the stations between here and there, for ten days. Iler journey was probably about as exciting and eventful as any woman ever made in coming to the Pacific coast. '1 started from Detroit," said Mrs. Owen yesterday. "This baby, my daughter's little girl, was very sick with bronchitis, and the doctor said she couldn't live if she stayed there. My daughter had been out here about three months. Sho is keeping house on a ranch near Suisuu for a man whose wife is not in her richt mind. The doctor thought if I could get the little one out here she might get well, and so I made up ray mind to try it. A number of ladies in Detroit who knew me and my daughter were very good to me. . They raised money and paid my fare as 'far as Kansas City. Then the superintendent of tho Wabash & Western road gave mo a letter to the railroad people in Kansas City, which they thought would get me a pass from there. But it didn't. Well, I don't believe I'll ever be able to tell any human being the whole story of my experience during the ten days I spent on tho way from Kansas City. I rode from station to station, and was put off at nearly every one, though sometimes a conductor would let me ride further than that. But the letter asking for a pass for me did a little f;ood. The railroad people in Kansas City ct me get on the cars there and brought me a little way, I suppose a couple of hundred miles, perhaps, and then when another conductor got on I had to get off. I don't remember what the name of the twn was. I got off at 60 many places I couldn't remember them all. But I had talked on the cars with a lady who got off there, and told her my circumstances. She took an interest in me and told the Mayor of the place and some other people about me. and they collected enough money to pav my fare about another day's ride. Then I had to get off again, of course. It was at the end of a division, and I went to the division superintendent and showed him my letter, lie told me to get on the cars again, but didn't say how much further I could go. The conductor told me I'd have to get off at the next station. I did, and stayed there until the next train came along, and then I got on again and rode to the next town. That conductor, I remember, was very nice, and said he was sorry: that he'd be glad to let me ride if he dareu, but that his orders wero very strict and he'd have to obey them. I couldn't blamo him." "But what did you do at those stations where you had to get off? WThere did you stay!" "Well, I had a few dollars left over from what the Detroit ladies had given me when 1 left Kansas City. When I stayed all night at a station I sometimes went to a cheap lodging-house, though not very often, for 1 was too much afraid that my little bit of money would run out. If the depot was kept open all night I would get tho statiouegent to let me stay in the waiting-room by the tire. I would make a bed for the baby on the seat with my shawl, and I would lie down on tho seat part of the time and set up part of the time, and get some sleep that way. The baby was very sick nearly all the time, and I didn't dare sleep very Jong at a time," "But your meals? Did you get enough to eat all the time?" "Well, the people on the cars always gave the baby a good many things to eat, so that she always had plenty. I had a basket of lunch when I left Detroit, and I lived on that as long as it lasted. When it was gone I bought a sandwich and a cup of coffee once in a while. But the last twenty-four hours of the trip I didn't have a mouthful to eat." "Were the conductors and other trainmen rude to you?" "Sometimes they were very rude, though others again would be just as nice as could be. There was one conductor who let me ride all the way across the Mojave desert. I told him that I didn't want him to do it if it would endanger his situation, and that I'd rather be put off than for him to get into trouble. And he said to me: 'Madam, if there'sanydangerthat I'll lose my situation because I help an old lady with a sick child through a tough place, why it can just go." Then there was another one down in Arizona who let me rido for about half a day, until we came to town where he thought, perhaps. I could get some help, and then no said he guessed I'd better get off there. He told the station agent about me, and the agent told some other people, and they got a night's lodging for me and paid my fare quite a little distance the next day. But sometimes they were very rough and rude and would tell me that they didn't propose to carry beats on their trains. I couldn't blame them for that, of course, but they would talk no loud that all the people in the car could hear it, and that always hurt me. I didn't like for the people I traveled with to know how I was making the journey. There were only two or three Fassengers all the way that I told about it. was so ashamed that when I would get oft at little stations anybody on the car who knew that I was bound for San Francisco would look surprised, I would tell them that it was on account of the baby. I'm not used to begging my way in the world, and I don't like it. That trip soems to me about the most horrible experience I ever had. I wouldn't have tried it but for the hope of saving the baby. Then the little one, as if she understood the sacrifices that had been made for her, wiped away wit h litt le white hands the tears that had risen to the grandmother's eyes, kissed her eyes and mouth and then, with arms clasped around her neck, put her little cheek against the wrinkled one and alternately cooed and caressed until the 6miles came back to the old ladv's face. "There was one conductor." Mrs. Owens went on. "who was very rude. He put mo off at a station I can't think of the name of it 230 miles below here. He only let me ride from one station to the next and told me very roughly two or three times that he didn't allow anv beats on his train. The boy in the station where I stayed the rest of the night said he was the meanest man on the whole road. I went to some official ot the road who was stationed there and showed him my letter and asked him if he could pass me the rest of the way. He said to me: 'Madam, the man who gave you this letter did you a very great injury. Von had no business to start ou such a trip unless you had the money to pay for it.' But he finally decided to give me a pass the rest of the way, and I got in the ears with a much lighter heart. But still I was very anxious fori had or.lv .10 cents left, and was so afraid to use it that I didn't tret a mouthful to eat for the last twenty-four hours that I was on the train. The passengers were ail very

good to baby, so that she came through all right. She began to get better as soon as we struck warmer weather, and she is almost well now. There was a lady on the cars, Mrs. LaFrauce I think she said sho Jived in Sacramento who took me to th Cosmopolitan Hotel when we reached San Francisco, and gave me enough money to pay loard for a day. Then a gentleman connected with one of the excitable societies sent me here, to Montgomery's Hotel, where I can 6tay until Saturday moraine. I have written to my daughter, and I am expecting her every hour." Mrs. Owens is a woman of a good deal of intelligence and her countenance shows that she pos.esse8 decision and force of character. Her conversation and manner also evidence natural refinement and a fair degree of education. A little further talk with her indicated a rast of varying fortunes. Among thoso were a business and a competence in St. Louis, years ago, which ended in smoko and a rifled safe of which a trusted employe knew the combination the day after a neglected insurance policy ran out. Then there were a broken-down husband and years of struggle, and then sixteen years of hard work as a nurse, during; which time she maintained herself in comfort. A combination of untoward happenings resulted in her present moneyless condition. THE CIIAKTKEUSE SECRET.

A Monopoly that Millions of Ready Cash Cannot liny. Tarts Letter In New York THues. For some days past a mild excitement has pervaded Europe. It was caused by a rumor of which no doubt, the cable nas apprised you that Fope Leo XIII had determined to make the Carthusian monks relinquish the monopoly of the liqueur, whose process of manufacture is a secret with theni. The sum offered was about Jlt5,000,(XiO, and expressed the value that London bankers placed on tho secret and monopoly that belong to the monks of Grenoble. A I'apal legate visited the far-famed monasterythe Grand Chartreuse some days after the offer had been rejected, and it was said that he carried with him from the Vatican many doctrines to show that the monks were violating the rules of their order in engaging in commercial liuesand that thev should accept the proposition of the London bankers. 'Ibis story is officially denied to-day by the Papal nuncio, and the monks may continue their old pursuits without fear of molestation and with tho consciousness that the French government would never permit their time-houcred rights to be infringed. The Carthusian monks have always been secure in the protection of the French government, no matter what its complexion might have been. Other religious orders have been expelled from time to time, but the Chartreuse monks have never had occasion to fear the wrath of the powers that be. They annually turn in $250,000 to the French exchequer, and the profits of their liqneur are distributed in charities in which they could use more than they receive. Their secret no one has ever been able to reach, although time and mouey have been wasted in the etibrt. Experiments without number have been made, but they were as futile as the search to discover the mysteries of the polar regions the freezing presence of an iceberg being nothing to the air of chilliness with which the monks have always treated the investigator. There are. it is said, about fifty different plants, and in the preparation of the liqueur, each monk has his own grounds to cultivate, his own workshop to himself, and in them he pursues his daily manual occupations without conversatlon with any one, and alone to his self-communings. A visit to the Grand Chartreuse many desire to pay but none is privileged to ao so. When the early monks were given the lands . now occupied by the order Chartreuse was a desert. The place is not very cheering to-day, and the ten-mile ride away to the north of Grenoble runs through dreary roads.and takes six hours to traverse. The monastery is seated on a height in a narrow valley, with a rugged cliff on each side. The distillery is situated lower down than the monastery, and there the preliminary work of the monks is converted into the famous liquid, under the direction of a lay brother.whohas a large number of common laborers under his superintendence. No visitor is allowed to remain within the walls of the institution more than fortyeight hours, and ladies are never admitted, and can only look on the buildings as they appear from the convent of the bisters of Providence near by. The rules of the order have never been changed, and they are so strict that any priest or monk can be relieved of his vows to enter the order, but a Carthusian cannot secure translation to any other organization of the church. A brief account of the Carthusians will appropriately conclude this letter. The order was founded by St. Bruno in 105:4. Its founder believed that manual labor was more healthy to relieve the hours of contemplation than other unprofitable exercise. The monks are never allowed to eat meat, and fish cannot be eaten except when given as alms. Eggs and cheese are their food on two days, pulse and boiled herbs ou three others, and bread and water on Wednesday and Friday. One meal a day is the only allowance, except on feasts of the double class, and this they cat in their lonely cells. They sleep on sheet lss beds, and are awakened twice during the night to recite their office. Hough hair shirts aro worn next their skin, and when they die they aro laid in the grave without anything between them and the clay hut the robes they wore in life. A single cross marks their graves, no name being engraved thereon. Strange to say, nearly all the monks die of old age. CULTIVATION OF TarTMEGS. IIow They Are Grown and Made Rearty for the Market In New Guinea. Captain Btrahao, In Glacw Mail. Paddling into a little cove on the south side of the bay, we landed beside a clear rippling stream, and, having ordered the whole of the men to march in Indian file in front, we started by a little rugged path i into the mountains, with my interpreter immediately behind mo and the Kajah just. , in front. Every foot of the journey, which 1 was laborious in the extreme, disclosed ' fresh scenes of verdure and tropical splendor. Winding along tho sides of deepra- . vines, sometimes dragging ourselves up the creepers and undergrowth, we ultimately . attained an altitude of about one thousand feet above the 6ea, and then entered the nutmeg country. Here we halted and rested. The Kajah pulled some of the nutmegs and explained now far they were from being ripe. Having rested sufficiently, we again started forward, and afterscramblingalong for about an hour, we gained a fine niece of table-land, over which we traveled for about another half an hour, when we reached three houses erected in the very heart of the forest. These were used by the natives for drying the nutmegs. The country was everywhere magnificent, and the aroma of the spice-laden air delicious. Nutmeg and other equally valuable trees were everywhere growing in great profusion. The fruit of the nutmeg in appearsnre resembles a pear, and, when riic, opens and displays the nut covered with a beautiful red coating of mace. The nuts are then picked from the trees, put into baskets, and taken to the houses, where they are husked and placed on shelves. They are then partially roasted over a slow fire until all the moisture is extracted. After this they are cooled and carried down to the village in nets ready to be bartered to the Bugis, Arabs and other traders who frequent the gulf in their small prow or junkos at the proper season. A Long-Neglected Error, London Dally New. It is popularly supposed, remarks a correspondent, that the authorized versiou of the Bible, as we have it to-day, is entirely free from printer's errors, and it may be interesting to a good many of your readers to learn that it contains anything of the kind. The following passage, however, speaks for itself, and the misprint coutained in it will be readily noticed. "Woe to the idol shepherd that leaveth the flock! The sword shall be upon his arm, and upon his right eye: his ana shall be clean dried up, and his ri?ht eye shall be utterly darkened" (Zechariah. xi, 17). Curiously enough, this error has been allowed to remain uncorrected b3 tho Universities Press for nearly fifty j-ears and possibly for a much longer period; at any rate, it will be found in the editions of the Bible for is: and li"l, 1V being the date of the publication of the revised version. It was of course discovered by the revising company, and it would seem aa if they wished to consign the fault to oblivion, as they substitute a new adjective. i"worthlesMl for that misprinting name-" y, "idle," avoiding, moreover, any reference, margiual or otherwise, to tho altw- . tion made. ' V

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