GRAVEN.

Oamaru Mail, Volume XXXVI, Issue 11612, 20 April 1912, Page 1 (Supplement)

GRAVEN.

; (By Laura L. Hiukley.)

Abominable pain; fever. blotting all things indistinguishably in a hot haze: weariness were less a memory to me than a hardly withdrawmprespnce, the painful condition, of half-conscious being. I passed into the realisation that I was still myself. 1 In that interminable <igony I had seemed many persons at once—a gang of galley slaves toiling pitilessly; a party of rescued miners', each mangled, blackened body of whom, as it came to the surf ace, was mine, whose pangs I suffered withl- - ceasing to feel the pangs of those ) who had come before. Hi another phase of the fever, whether before or after 1 do not know, I believed that my • own body was monstrously enlarged to . contain the misery it endured, and that its swollen, misshapen immensity covered the bed on which I lay. iNow I recognised myself. I h,ad .one man's normally formed body. I was Richard Trent, in the twenty-fourth year of my age, with the world before me and my way to make —and presently I should be well: . - I opened rny eyes and looked about the room. 1 did not know it. It was large and bare and still and' airy. In spite of its bareness it looked subtly expensive^—vastly more so than .Mrs Miller's back bedroom—with delicately toned walls, marble lavatory and gleaming brass bedstead. At a trim, white little table in the middle distance stood a white-clad /nurse arariiging bottles. "They brought me here after-the smashup," I reflected: Obviously there had been a smashup. , There'll be a thundering bill tq pay!" But I was too tired to wonder how it could possibly be paid. I shut my eyes. Utter weakness possesed me. I thought of my loneliness, of my dead mother. Delirious mists crept back upon me. I though my mother sat beside me and laid her hand on my forehead, bidding me sleep. Whether I slept or not I do not kmnr; but, a little while after, my mother was gone. I was dreaming another dream—a vague, yearning fantasy of woman's tenderness. I looked up suddenly. A beautiful' woman stood beside the bed, looking down at me,' with passionate love in her eves:

She wore a sort of loose housedress of soft, pale blue, with lace in the V of the neck, where it showed her full, white throat. Her wavy, bronze-brown hair crowned her like a queen. She was pale, with parted rosy lips and shining eyes. And from her whole sweet, breathless countenance poured upon me the look that all men dream of in their sweetest, maddest dreams. "Richard!" she cried softly. "You know me,, don't you, Dicky? Oh, Dick!"

She dropped'on her knees and hid her face'against mine. 1 thought she was an apparition. Ninety-nine men in .a hundred would have done—as I did. • " . * s She drew her head back, curving her white throat adorably. Her vivid, exquisite face bloomed and sparkled. Such eyes I had not" imagined! Blue and deep as Heaven, misty and radiant with tears "and laughter and rapture. "Dicky! Dicky! Dicky!" she br.eathed. "Speak to me, Dick!" I tried to speak, I think. I moved my lips; she misunderstood—or did she? Her mouth met mine again. It was wrong", of course. I should have said: "Pardon me, madam —-I am not the person you evidently believe ma to be\" - - Remember, if you are inclined to excuse me, that I was much tco bewildered by sheer physical weakness to formulate even so simple a thought. Remember that. I had not spoken rationally for nine weeks. And remember that I took her for some strangely gracious phantom from -the grim world "of shadows I had labored in so long. Yet even then a doubt crossed. me. My finger caught in • the lace at her throat and the stuff turned appallingly real. I closed my eyes, my , sole defence against all my weakness could not meet. When I opened them again I caught a last glimpse of her vanishing in a delicate swirl of blue drapery. v The white-robed nurse over me. Tp my surprise rfecoghised her. "Miss Podmore," I asked, "who or what in creation was here?" My voice startled me; it sounded like "a faint, husky echo of itself. "Better not talk now," said Miss Podmore soothingly, and slipped, a' clinical thermometer under my tongue. So it was an apparition! 0 course it couldn't exist simultaneously wjth Miss Podmore, who was freckled _ and sandy-haired and of the indeterminate age that stays precisely the same for a decade or so. Also, the apparition had called me by my own name. That —and other thin es—seemed to clinch her -visionary quality. Was I, perhaps, about to die —and visited bv angel ministrants? Could I have deserved such -a. harbinger of, eternal blessedness? ' Or had I died already and reached celestial— — No—tthere was Miss Podmore. I gave.it up and went to sleep. : Now in this narrative of mine the time sequence'of these, early memories is-badly confused. I "have no idea. ; whether days,'hours, or weeks elapsed before; that conversation with vMiss Podmore which must have come next. Meanwhile I had thought much of my apparition. I lay with -shut eyes and brooded warmly' on her loveliness. Several times I saw her briefly. Once she appeared floating in a cloud a little above the foot of my bed. She. held a branch of lilies in her hand and all round and behind her flocked a crowd of smiling cherubs whose white wings gleamed against her. sky-blue robes. At another time she seemed, in quite mortal guise, to throw me a kiss from a distance. On a morning when-'I felt wholly awake and sane Miss Podmore said: "Whv do vou hold your right leg' so still'and wmc.9 when I touch it?" "Why, it's broken—isn't it?" I asked, surprised. '. „ Miss podmore laughed in my race. "It's perfectly sound!" she declared. "There isn't a bruise on it.-'- Try to move it. Flex the knee." ".'-_•

I declined.. "It feels broken, anyway. It aches bad enough without moving." Miss Podmore began gently to massage the' limb in dispute. I should have remonstrated had I dared; out one in my. position does not argue with the commanding nurse.. • "S'av, Mi*s- Podmore.". T asked between*" clinched teeth, "what have I been up against- anyway?" - "Several" things," she returned quietly. "But you're coming out uicelv. You've got a great constitution." ' ... "Why were the black fellows sitting on mv 'chest?" I inquired seriously. "That: must have been the broken Tibs. We had three.'" .~. "And tliev took my head off, I Pursued reminiseently, " "laved football with it—the red and black, teams: Oh I know that didn't happen—but what did?" " ■'.- • ."Yoi: had concussion of the brain, and a good manvbruises besides.-'' "Whew! Was it a wreck?" "Yes Nine weeks ago; and even then.. Doctor Worrall" thinks you've done well." _■ . Tlie period of time she mentioned made: no impression' upon me, but the name, did- ' ■' ~ , "Worrall? I don t know him. Why dirir.'t the'v get Doctor Kane?" Sh/ looked at me -oddly and I si*w I had made some kind of break. "Doctor "Worrall is considered the best physician in town," she said prf mlv. • "The. best- physi ! Snv. what bu'rrr is this anyway? Ain't I in Glencoe?" She came and felt mv forehead; she spokp . cplhiiiigly and looked at me anxiously... ■ •'. ■ - ' . "No; voii're a. hundred miles from Gleneoe. V You are. in Morristown. Better not .ask any more questions now. -I'm"going to",give you a seda-

tive." . '. ■•-. - -'' "One more question!" -I beggert, "Was- that wreck a Jiead-on •collision?"- - - ■ . . - "I .believe so. . Try not to think about, it now." It might raise the temperature." - • •■■" I- disobeyed.- . I. tried , with all- my strerigth to think about the wreck—nnd altogether in vain. I -coiild not recall it in the; least. The last thing T remembered—andi that .with absolute, clear-cut distinctness—was 'taking a girl home from a--dance at the armory. • It was Enid White. I reeol-

Elected bits of our talk —"and that was doing well, for it was frothy stuff—sheer chaff and banter. I could see Enid's trim little figure standing on the porch, with the moon shining on the snow and in her brown-black eyes as she waved her muff hi farewell. , Biit what came next? Had I' been ' going on a railroad journey? Of course it was possible that Stewart had sent me on some errand—given me a chance. What rotten hick to get smashed up if hehM! But why couldn't I remember it? Where was Morristown ? I had never heard of the place. I tested my memory en other things—my own. earlier life. " Scenes, persons, places,' 1 and events reproduced themselves flawlessly, as I thought; but it all ended with the moonlight sparkling on ' the snow and in eyes. I had cared a good deal about Enid's eyes; in fact, I had considered myself quite miserable because I was much too poor'to tell her so. What inconstancy lies in man! I had merely passed through" an illness—and seen an apparition—and I cared no more. I wondered a little why my apparition, had not been more like Enid, - Probably all this raised the temperature. At any rate, after a while I woke and saw Her! She knelt'beside the bed 1 , with her head drawn back in the attitude of that first meeting. She was lovelier than I remembered. We looked at each other—it seemed a long a sort of still ecstasy. _ "I'm going to be very good, Dicky,' J she murmured, "and quiet, and not make you delirious." i "But I want to be delirious," I whispered, "and keep-on seeing you." . She laughed very tenderly. . "It isn't delirious to see me, Dick. I'm quite real." . "Of course you'd say that," I retorted, unbelieving, "because it's the sweetest thing you could say—and you'd always say the sweetest thing." She laughed, crinkling tip .her eyes adorably. I saw the pearly shadows under them and the length of- her brown lashes, darker than the, clearly pencilled brows. ' 'Are you sure you're not delirious Dick?" she asked as if it were a joke. "I don't know. Better'ask Miss Podmore. Of course, a professional opinion——" She didn't vanish when JL -mentioned Miss Podmore, as I feared the instant I said" it. Instead, she, laughed once more. L . "Oh, it's so lovely, Dick, to hear you talk like yourself again!" x Her .eyes did not cease to worship me.

"I wish you wouldn't look at me like that," I said. "I —my head isn't very strong; and I'm afraid I'll wake up." "Your head isn't very strong, is- it, Richard?" She patted my cheek; but she followed" the suggestion too strictly. She sat down in a big wicker chair near the window and began sewing—or perhaps it was embroidering—on some small piece of work which she kept crumpled up in her hands or on her

lap.. ■ - I lay and watched her. SometimesI tempted the miracle by shutting my eyes, but she was always there when. I opened them. Strange ideas began to assail me. Our second interview had approximated the possible so much more nearly than the first. Suppose she were not an apparition after all! Suppose she were a perfect mortal maiden by some inconceivable freak of fate reserved for me! My heart beat so fast it half frightened me; my gaze clung to Ker avidly. She flushed; she threw me strange little glances, conscious, divinely shy, telltale —if I could have understood; "Why do you look at me so, Dick?" she asked guiltily. . "I don't know," I murmured back. Suddenly she shook out her work and' held it up. It was a little baby's short. Completely bewildered, I stared at her. Her eyes, dark and wonderful above the tiny neckpiece, told me that it meant something supreme. But what?; .

With a sweet cry she fled to me, hiding her blushes and quick tears on my breast.. you understand?" Her face hidden ■'- against mine, she whispered in my ear yet other word's. I understood at last..- .-'.-■ A hideous crash —a, ghastly wrench—tore the bottom out of things and dropped-me to a lower level,; sick, and shaken, blinded with the- dust of defeated thoughts, but rational and whole in spirit. I knew Jier now for what she was—neither apparition nor maiden, but another man's wife! At the same time, as by a flash of baleful lightning, I saw the main outlines of the situation. I had been falsely identified after the wreck as the other fellow! I had been taken to his home; and his wife

Oh. the horror, the dasgrace v of my position! I" felt sick,with disgust-. My ! sole desire in that first moment of revelation was to extricate myself from the horrid'involution. I wanted to get out —to get away! / "Aren't vou_glad, Dicky ?" she cried softly, lifting a sparkling face. "Why, how vou tremble', Dick!" > ' 'l'm thinking—of you!" I gasped. This was not true. I was thinking verv intensely of myself. What a moment for explanations, apologies! Could I say to that tender, palpitating.women, in that instant so sacred t a her —I, with her tears and kisses warm upon my cheek: "Excuse me, madam, I am not your husband! Yet I swear I meant to when I began. ', "It's all my fault," I babbled—"my misfortune, I mean. It's all so dreadful for vou—the sho'ck of it, I.mean " -"But that's all over now —it's ro sweet of vou to think of me, Richard! That's all over now! - If you had died, Dick, I'm sure —we," she corrected herself—"we should all have died together! But I never believed you would die, Dick. Never for one minute! Why, Dick, you're crying!" • The shamefully futile, unmanly tears, flowed on. I felt so sorry for her, so sorry for myself. She misunderstood. . She wiped- the tears away, with cooing words and r'esses; with intimate, delicate, -wifely sweetness—and I lay and swallowed my shame! .. :-■ It's hard to exnlain the thing I said. "I do love yon !" I said. "Always remember, whatever happens, that I did love you from the first instant I.saw you." I spoke the words with some insane notion of saving her dignitywhen she should learn who I was. They were no sooner uttered than they, seemed -.'tfcje most Irevdlut-ingly inexcusable 1 ' could have chosen. "I've told you too suddenly, Dicky,' she repented sweetly. "I oughn't to have done it. I didn't think you'd care so much." .

• "Sare!" I groaned. "Oh, good Lord!" I groped desperately for something to say.- "God bless you!" I said'. "God bless you anyway!" ; After she left.me I though with shut eyes a long tiiue. Ido not believe that mental shocks have.power to unsettle some types of brain. Mine, on the criiitrarv. was cleared and stimulated. After all, "the thing was plain enough. The man I "resembled and whose Christian name I bore must have been killed or badly injured in'the-wreck.' I seemed to recall that I had been considerably braised about the face. That, doubtless, had helped the mistaken identification, and 1 my delirium and'folly had done the rest. -There remained only to set myself right as speedily, as I could.

Miss Podmore had lighted a softlyshaded lamp and settled- herself beside it. I reflected that if, I tried my storv on her she would certainly tell me 'riot .to"talk'now. arid threaten me with temperature. Besides, I was tired out. I decided to wait till morning and begin with the doctor. ■ -. Doctor Worr?.U I had not particularly noticed. Mine had been the simple policy of literally shutting my e yes to whatever did not please me, and the doctor had been one of those things. He was a ? young man. with bright, hard brown eyes, and a nose too big for his forehead. Miss Podmore.. at my. urgent request, propped me up with pillows; I felt better able to-,face riiy fellbwhian from that slight elevation. The doctor went through his usual professional .patter; I judged him a bad man to throw out of-his routine. He pronounced me on the high-road to convalescence. I.took the opening. ' "Arid": now, doctor.- I want to-, ask you. a few things. In .the first. it sounds like a where am I?\' - ' ;-i':''

He didn't look particularly surprised. I guessed Miss Podmore had prepared him. "You arc. in your own.home, .Mr Craven." "My name isn't Craven and I haven't any home. I'm 'Richard Trent, of Glencoe. I'm working oil the Herald there. You see, they picked up the,wrong man after that wreck. I happen to look like him, —"

J I went on to explain the case: encouraged by 1 ' the doctor's look of absorbed attention. "One moment," he interrupted. He leaned! over to finger my head, inquiring with each pressure, whether it gave me pain. He spoke to Miss Podmore about) "abnormal symptoms" as if I had not been there. After an outraged second I caught lu's drift, _ " "I kno.w what you think! You think I'm crazy: but I can easily prove my identity. Why. Miss Podmore knows me—that is, she might remember me. Miss Podmore, don't you recall .when you were in Glencoe looking after Judge Hendricks? I often saw you." She looked at Doctor Worrall' doubtfully.

"Speak out," he ordered. "He's strong enough to take it." " ; "Ive worked in Glenooe," she said,

considerately, "off and on for a good many years, but I. don't know any Judge Hendricks there." "But—but^- —" I stammered. "Surely you're the same woman,. You haven!t any twin sister, or cousin exactly like ——" This was so obviously in the i shilling-shocker'line that I stopped of my own accord. "It's like this, Mr Craven. You've been hit on the head in such ai. manner that certain of the nerve centres in the brain have been paralysed or destroyed. The association fibres on which memory depends are so involved that a portion of your memories has sunk below the threshold' of consciousness—that is, become subconscious. The affected area iv probably slight, -as you are so' nearly normal in most respects, and that gives us reason to hope the aberration maybe merely temporary. We have cases in which or complete loss of speech, takes place; or even primary conceptions—" I could endure no more. "Rats- I haven't forgotten anything! I remember my whole life. Will you hear my storv ?" He pulled' out, a little redi leathercovered notebook and a pencil; this had the effect of unreasonably, increasing my anger. I waited a minute to cool off. He was keeping his temper, while I was losing mine; and my case was sufficiently damaged' already. " "I am the son of a- Methodist minister.. I was born in Harpersburg in the year —the year—l can't just recall the year now. No matter! There was mute a, family of us—several children. We moved round 1 from place to place the way preachers' families' do. . The other children died of scarlet fever — ooor little lads.! I had the fever too, but I didn't die; I was the tough one, My father .died when I was —was—a young bny, you know —setting lanky and outgrowing things. Mother settled in Hartsville, took in sewing, and saved everv penny of her allowance from 'th» Conference to send me to college. I

helped what I could, —odd jobs and d!riyin<z the grocer's wagon. I went to Painter College—surely you've heard of Painter College!" I drew a long breath ; the tale was running better now without those unaccountable lapses. "You'll find my name in the catalogues there for the years —the years—l graduated in,—l graduated l with the 1 class of—" I.strained for the lost date till my forehead grew damp. It would not come. The doctor mad© a diversion.

"Never mind." he said'gently. "What kannened next?" "Mother died. She lived just long enough to see my sheepskin she'd worked so hard 1 for. Then I couldn't bear Hartsville any longer. I went to (rlencoe because mycollege chum, Henry Milsom lived there, and got a: job on the - Herald ardi —that's- about all-. Funny I can't think of thos e dtotes." ~ "You don't remember the date of your birth or of your graduation?" the ! doctor said. ..:"•; "Not just this- minute." ji; "How many brothers and sisters did "you say you had?" '.""'■'■ "'-. There was Harold and Wesley, and Louise, and' Katie. I came between Wesley and Louise." He looked at nie keenly. "How many does that make?" -'. I stared back blankly. ■' "I don't know." "Sow old we're you when your father died?". "1.-don't know. Look here," doctor, maybe the figures were knocked' out of my head with those association fibres; but I know who lam!" "How did you come to be on the wrecked train?" ■ -_

"I don't know! But I know'l'm Richard Trent!" Tire (Doctor put up his notebook. "That's nil right. I ■ wouldn't worry about anything, Mr Craven. You've evolved a rather complete secondary consciousness—a sort of 'control.' ns the spiritualistic mediums say. Your lost memories will, probably oome back gradually —oerhaps all at once. We must wait." The man was cracked on brajn.. There was b 0 persuading him that 1 : wasn't Craven ,gone nutty! A subterfuge to get an intelligent hearing occurred to me. ' _ "Well, see here; you think I'm Craven, hut you'll admit that I have a delusion I'm not. A man with a delusion the size of mine ought to have a consultation. Send for some of your brain specialists. ' , ,~. „ He pinched his lower lap thoughtfully. "Under ordinary circumstances I should welcome counsel, but there is one consideration " He looked at me reassuringlv. "You are perhaps not yet aware of Mrs Craven's condition " The blood rushed to my forehead. I could not meet his eyes. -"She believes you Tecogngse heT. She thinks you are quite yoirrself.-' After, what she has gone througbalready, any additional shock or alarm -would __ m all probability cost her. life—and the ' In the pause of his.cold./professional tones I heard her soft, .earnest voice : "If you had died, Dick, we should all have* died together !>' _ ' After a hushed minute I asked, with God knows what thoughts: "Do-TOii tliink Craven's dead?" Dr Worrall; smiled." ■ ' ' '' "No; I think die's- only a little out of his head. We must spare Mrs Cloven all we can. We-..must anticipate time a little. We musu't let her suspect the extent of the, aberration." "Looke here, doctor! I can't go on pretending to Mrs Craven that I'm Craven ' No fellow could. It's rotten!" "Tut, tut! I assure you there isn't the least doubt in the world that you're Craven. There hasn't been the slightest question-of your .identity. Mrs Craven" positively recognise-you. Now, iust .anticipate the return of " "I won't. I'm not Craven, audi 1 won't go into any dirty masquerade!" ; '.'Then it is my duty :to inform you that vou must choose between your idea of honor and' Mrs Craven's life—and her •ihild's life." He added, "She hasn't spared'herself for you." There was no use-.talking any more! I dropped- back among the pillows. > My honor' or her" life! The maddening alternative beat back and forth in my brain all" day. It drummed down all the other ■perplexities. I tell the truth in laying that what I- utterly desired was my freedom. If I could have taken' my bruised body, my obscure and penniless identity and gone out of Craven's luxurious • home and evident assured position, away forever from Craven's adorable wife,'without^ hurting any. one but mvself, I would have demanded, bearers'to take me_ to the charity ward <Jf the nearest hospital that.day. I had the infinitely.- galling-. sense of being bound hand and foot. And if I struggled and broke my bonds the wrench would come not on. me but on the tender woman,- the unborn cliild! All'my manhood forbade what all my manhood urged '.."; Toward her my feeling had quite changed that day.: She was no . longer the exquisite, tender efflorescence of womanhood my irresponsible ;faiicy adored. She was.the human being who ■.unconsciously demanded of me -the bitterest sacrifice/ man may make! -' / ■ ■ -' -;' '. '

•Wlien she came to my room that afternoon I-could not hear to see her. " I feigned- sleep.". She hovered over the bed a moment. "You're not asleep; Dick." I opened ••my eyes and 'looked at, her. Her own filled. ' "Poor boy!' Is it so iard tobearas that.?"- I answered no-' thing.' "I Tvish I could 'bear it for you." -she murmured. •.. v.

"You can't. That's one good thing. I was suffering at the moment from a nerve-rending headache. She seemed to see that without seeing what caused "Let me sit here and smooth your forehead." ■ "No! Not to-day. Please! Thank I could speak only those abrupt phrases, harshly uttered. Her tenderness was not hurt. She was only sympathetically acquiscent. She touched my hand with, hers —a gesture of soft caressing-r-and went away. ' I By nightfall I had determined what to do. I summoned Miss Podmore. "What was Mrs Craven's maiden name?" She looked at me quickly, but answered with her professional-placidity: "Dora Wolfe." • "Has she any near relatives in this tqwu—or has Sir Graven?" "Certainly. Mrs Craven's parents live here. Mr Wolfe is said to be the richest man in Morristown." "Will you send word to him that I want to see him privately at his earliest convenience to-morrow ?"

She objected, of course, but ultimately I convinced her that to allow the interview was better than to refuse it. Shortly before Mr Wolfe's arrival Dora drifted in to me where I sat among the pillows. ' 'Miss Podmore told me you wanted to see papa. Are you sure you're strong enough, Richard?" I had gained a certain strength from my resolve. I could smile at her as I asked: . "Doesn't he like me?"' "Of course he likes you; bu'V'ybu know, papa is a "little unreasonable sometimes—and youre not strong enough to talk very long.'- Let me stay and do the talking. You're not worried about business, are you, Dick? It's all right." Mr Jameson hasn't cvon come home." "I am not worried about business," I answered, grinning at myself. "1 only want to talk to your father a little." A few moments later I.saw Dora kissing a short, rather, portly gentleman, . with white hair and a florid face. "Delighted.to see you looking natural again, Richard," he said, shaking hands with me. I could have told, without Dora's hint, that the relations between' Mr Wolfe and his son-in-law had not been altogether cordial, His large blue eyes were very cold, his face full, his mouth hidden beneath his neat moustache and short, pointed white beard. He: was not an easy man to talk to. When I found myself alone with him I had a sense of helplessness at the magnitude of misunderstanding between us. Nevertheless, I plunged at it. "Mr Wolfe, I have an explanation to make to you that will surprise and shock and grieve you! I am not your son-in-law."

He turned upon'rue sharply, his hard blue eyes staring, tlie brows above them drawn into a balck'frown. , ■"What!" he cried'harshly. "I am not your daughter's; husband." The blood surged into 1 Mr Wolfe's face till the veins stood'out on his temples"You scoundrel!" he gasped. , "Do you mean to tell .me you had another wife when you married Dora?" I kept my temper.. I explained the strange and cruel mistake that had put me in Craven's place. I told him my history in much greater- detail than I had told it to the doetor._- He listened with half-averted face, pulling at his pointed white beard. • At the end he turned a solemnly unbelieving face upon me. ■

"The Lord forgive you, _ Richard! I always opposed your marrying Dora and this shows how right I was." He glared at me a moment and his exasperation seemed to grow. "You lie there," he cried, "and tell me this cock-and-bull story!'? I swallowed hard. "You may not believe it/' I urged, "but, for your own sake-r-for your own sake—for your daughter's sakeput it to the proof! Write to Glencc-e! Write to Stewart of the Herald. Write to Henry Milsom. Write to Judge Hendricks."" < "Doctor. Worrall prepared me for some mental estrangement, but I didn't expect this! You ■;.' say your'e not home from-that wreck myself.- You had on the .clothes I'd seen you wear a Kindred times. I took'your papers out of your pockets and looked them over myself —your papers! Craven's papers! I took off your watch with Dora's picture in the cover. And you lie there and tell me- " . "I cant explain it,"* I panted; "but will you write to those people?" "To convince you, I will!" he said unexpectedly; He took out a'fountain pen and wrote carefully theaddresses I gave him. : ~ ''lf you have sense of decency left, liichard,- any you'll not mention this illusion to Dora. Poor child!"

His voice husked; I saw that he loved Dora.

"Can't you see that it's only for your daughter's sake—-—" I cried.' We glared at each other in mutual angry helplessness, and he.left me. The proof of. my\ identity, began to seem more complicated than I. had thought. ' How could I have been wearing Craven's clothespN But it was not that which worried me. It was my immediate problem of conduct. I learned from Miss Podmore that Craven had no relatives that she,'knew of; nor had Mrs Craven, besides her parents. Cravens business appeared he was half-owner of a large shoe store—had gorte to Florida for tlio winter. I battered Miss Podmore with questions. She puzzled me. She cordially assisted me to "recall" jevery'incident of Craven's life sh e knew of; but whenever I began to talk of Glencoe she treated 'me in the most exasperating way—as a nervous patient to the soothed at all costs. Yet I convinced myself that she did not: in the least remember me, nor any incident of our slight, acquaintance. -■■ . I was thrust. back upon the core of my problem. There was no one _else to whom I could make my explanation —to whom I imperatively owed it—but..-..Dora herself. Mr Wolfe'wrote me a noteiii which ' anxiety almost, conquered stiffness, entreating me to-conceal from Dora, my "mental perversion." The doctor took occasion to' assure mc again that if .1 told Mrs Craven of my '.'delusion" T made- myself, in all human probability, • answerable for • her , life. And r yet.--.. Are there not some matters o'f.more. moment than life itself ? I was alone with her } I was sitting up in-bed; and she-sat the foot of the :bed- in her loose blue dress with the open throat, fair and rose-cheeked. and softly smiling. I was cold with pity and horror of the thing I was Ao .-do- I meant do it with a straight, clean stroke, and spare her preparations. _ • I. do not know what light, happy talk of hers I stopped with, the' words, hoarsely uttered: • "I must tell you something now—something terrible —something you; have not thought of!';'' '■;,'•.■■ , V \ If she had -flinched! If she had suspected !' But - she leaned toward me, serious, sympathetic—-fullof;sweet, safe. -sectirity;-'-" .• ".■""■•"- ■ '.' ■"■.-, \'.■,','■ ■ "J You. I could not- doit; I sought for ;sbme phrase that: shoiild rouse her suspicion," pierce her security —found ; Qut,' shut my eyes'and' thrust it- at her .like, a'.; dagger. ' "You loved vour husband!" . - ; ' :

I opened my eves —would she be pale and trembling, her face drawn with prevision of the truth ? Her face was close to mine, rosy and laughing. The stroke bad missed. Her eyes, darker in color than I had ever seen them, were wonderful with tender'mockery. "So that's it!" she breathed. "You are jealous, Richard —of your son!" I gasped. Then I rallied and rushed at the opening. "* ■ "You care a great deal about —the child. You could live* for its sake — without your husband?" That stroke went home. She whitened to the lips. She caught at her heart, panting. "Dick —do you mean —your'*!—not so --■ oil?" " " , • ,r , "No, no, no!" I cried. Don t look like that! I'm all right. Let me call' Miss Podinore." She lay back against the bottom rail of the bed, her eyes closed, her breast heaving, one hand pressed tight against her side. I babbled frantic reassurances, undoing what I had so painfully done. Presently she sat up, still pale, smiling faintly. . "I'm all right now. You —frightened me. I'm not very strong, you know. Go on now, Dick. I won't bo foolish again. Tell me what.you wanted to say. Of course I know you've had something on-your mind. " Is it what

you wanted to tell papa?" And as I still sat stupidly silent: "You needn't be a hit afraid. I'm perfectly bravo now. I don't mind anything in theworld so long as I have you." "It's only," I said -after a while, "that I'm a'coward and a sneak! It's only that I've no more right;—that I'm no more worthy of you than It's only that I'm a ' Oh, God knows what I am!"

".But there really is-something," she urged. "Tell me what troubles you, dearest dear." "Just that —that I'm not fit—; —" "I feel that way,' too, sometimes," she sighed. "But —you love me, don't you, Richard?" "Oh, Ido love you, Dora! God knows I do! I love you enough to die for you." ' • ' 'Love me enough to live for me!" she whispered. "I will. I will live for you alone!"

I yielded to her arms. I drew her into mine. I folded swift, guilty kisses down upon her lips. Something iii my soul said: "Men 1 may judge me afterward—as they must!" - 11. I remembered at length that, within two weeks at most, Mr Wolfe must 1 hear of me from Glencoe. I had a pang of- passionate regret that I had had made him write. Afterward those Glencoe letters seemed the one tie that bound me to honorable men. I deterfined to steer my course by them. I would impersonate " Craven —I had found that I could do it with brilliant success —until the Glencoe letters should

fix my true identity. Then I would put myself in Mr Wolfe's hands. If he should desire, for his daughter's sake, that Pcontinue the deception until her health should be re-established, then I would do sq. Would a father wish that?

Since everything hung now on the letters, I* dropped other efforts to prove myself me. I did not write -to_my friend Henry Milsom,, or to Stewaut, my employer, as I had intended. Having embarked oil my career of merciful deception, why complicate it with unnecessary truth? I had, moreover, to reckon on a sick -man's lethargy, increased by the constant nervous strain : of playing my part with Dora. I merely waited, with daily increasing dread, for Mr Wolfe's denunciation of my imposture! One morning, while this suspense 'was at its height, I awoke after an evening of intense worry over Mr Wolfe's probable attitude, and a night of confused blissful dreaming—l awake, I say, with a strange sense of imfamiliarity with myself. The thought crossed my halfdreaming mind:' Suppose. I were really Craven after all! Suppose the history and personality of Richard Trent were, as they all said, a dream in Craven's mind! I saw my hand lying on the bedspread, and it struck me suddenly as a smaller, slighter, more refined hand than the hand of Richard Trent. I remembered that I had not seen my own countenance since I awoke in Craven's likeness. What if 1 lay. still several minutes recalling Richard Trent's fea-' tures as vividly as I could. Then I sat up in bed and asked Miss Podmore for a looking-glass. The face that looked at me out of the mirror was pallid and gaunt, worn and worried and strained; but, allowing for the obvious effect of "my recent experience, it was unmistakably, my own. • I remembered that Richard Trent had a small brown mole just under the left collarbone; and, grinning at myself in the glass, I looked; tor the birthmark. It was there. three weeks' after I had committed myself to the role of Craven, on. a. certain evening Mr and Mrs Wolfe were announced. When I recovered from iny sickening sense that the crash had come sufficiently to be aware of what was happening, a dainty, charming little lady, very like Dora, was bending over me, lamenting that her bronchitis had k«pt her from visiting me before. I perceived that Mr Wolfe had not told her of my "delusion." She turned to Dora, and while they were petting and looking over one another MiWolfe sat .down beside me. He talked constrainedly on indifferent topics, where I fear 1.-■ made but a poor and bewildered showing. It was not until the adieus were' being said that "I gathered, courage to blurt out •' ;- ■■—--■■':

,- ' 'Heard anything froni Glericoe lately/Mr Wolfe ?" . ,>'":":"■'■■ .'":■■■• v He cast a swift look of anxiety at Dora, who was carefully- adjusting her mother's furs, and a long look of displeasure at me. "I hadi hoped, Richard," he said sternly, ''that we had beard tlte last of Glencoe!" ''i

I puzzled over that for many days.Had he not spite of his promise ? Could my friends, have failed to answer? Or had the answer failed to convince my putative father-in-law ? Or was he, indeed, convinced, but tacitly acquiescent in the fraud for Dora's sake?

' I dared not ask. The thing I was doing ha<d taken possession of me. My soul was no longer my own. Whether it belonged; now to God or devil,. only Gbd or deyilknew! Meanwhile I was convalescing—with weary delays and dragging weakness; Agitations like these are not favorable for-swift recoveries. I spent most of my days now in the big wicker chair, wrapped in blankets, while Dora fussed! about me with pillows and footstools, pleasing herself in a thousand dainty little ministrations; It seems incredible that I could have deceived Dora, even for a few days," in .so intimate and tender, a relation as' I could "not withhold myself-from drifting into. Several things besides her unassailable faith conspired with me. ■ Chief of "these was my mental condition. It was evident that,., aside from the "delusion," my mental life was not altogether normal. Numbers and their significance had gone from me. Whenever an arithmetical conception challenged me my mind was blank, though it responded at once to any other association. To illustrate: I could instantly, recognise the saying, "Two and, two are four," as a familiar catchword' connoting absolute certainty; but for apprehending it : asi- a mathematical proposition I was on a par with a monthold infant. Three suggested, the Trinity to me, seven a branched candlestick, , twelve the apostles, and thirteen an unlucky dinner table. I had to reacquire all abstract conceptions ,of numbers ;\ and though, after a time, they came swiftly, they brought with them no previous associations—as numbers. Imagine ' how this confused my thoughts! It .baffled painfully my speculations on what must have happened, to me. I could not calculate; how *manv days or weeks had elapsed since I left Enid on that moonlit porch, because, the implements of such calculations were lacking to me. It "was winter then,:; it. was. winter still. I knew no more.

r condition, of course, was known to Dora; and whatever I "forgot" explained itself to her as a phase of the same phenomenon. T "forgot" the less because of Miss Podmore's diligence. Acting, I think, under the doctor's orders to iog my memory gently, she talked continually about Craven in Dora's absence —always as if I were he and might be expected to do my own recollecting in a moment. I got a very fair impression of. the man whose place in the world I had usurped. Graven had come to Morristown about ten years before, a shy and quiet youth of some nineteen years. He found employment in the shoe store of Mr Jameson, where by strict attention to business —For which he showed a decided knack —by quick intelligence, pleasant manners and exemplary habits, he rose at length to a partnership — the latter stages of his rise being materially assisted by his successful courtship" of the town's heiress. Socially he was uncommunicative, but' noV unfriendly. Beginning without friends, moneyj or influence he gradually won the confidence and esteem of' such people as thought about him at all. His life held but one high light. Taking his modest part in the social activities of the church lie had quietly joined, -he met and loved Dora Wolfe. He loved her —but this I gathered from another informant—at first with a. dumb, hopeless adoration that touched 1 her gentleness more than the louder admiration of others. I~ learned as i little of Craven's courtship as I could; i but it was a long one, alternating be--1 tween timid hope and brave despair, | culminating at last, despite Mr Wolfe's ' disapproval, in marriage about a vear | before the accident. There was nothing ; in all Craven's record to censure — I nothing to excuse the hatred of him I that leaped in my breast. But where was Craven now? Lying I in some unmarked grave which my few

friends believed to hold the mortal husk of Richard Trent? That seemed likeliest as I grew able to comprehend the time that had elapsed. The newspaper account of the wreck, which I had read, mentioned the bodies of three unidentified men; but later, Miss Podmore told me, all had been identified. Room for ' error there! Surely if Craven were alive —no matter how broken, disfigured, helpless—he would have sent for his wifo long ere this; but suppose he were living without mind or memory, knocked into i'orgetf ulness of his former self? Then, again, darker conjectures occupied me. I could not doubt that I had been found wearing Craven's clothes —nor could I conceive how that could have been, save by Craven's act. Had the in-offensive-quietude of liis life hidden some evil secret which claimed; him at last? Had he noted my personal resemblance to himself and made or seized an opportunity to dress my supposedly lifeless 'body in his own garments, hoping so to conceal his trail? And had some unforeseen accident thus far covered up the loss of the money or -the trace of the woman ? The woman? I would, look at ; Dora's confident serenity and fern-ember—No; it could not be that! In spite of all my thinking, Craven might be living, andguiltless. He might knock at the door to-nigljt! In some moods I almost wished lie .would". That was when something in my soul cried out to be delivered at any cost—at any cost ! from the poisoned ecstasies, the rap-ture-shot agonies, of my relationship with Dora. , I loved her. The•'. more' I writhed beneath my horrible position, the more I loved her; and the more I loved her, the deeper pierced the twin barbsremorse for the shameful thing I was doing; mad .jealousy--of Craven, living or dead. There were moments' when I loved her with a pure and exquisite happiness; other moments I loved her with, a Heaven-defying passion— ■ and-black hours of torment wljsn I i

expiated those! I was not always in passionate extremes, however. Sometimes, by dint of my own pretence and the unwavering belief of' .every one. about me, I half forgot for days together that I was not really Craven. Then some siidden turn would drive the barbed truth home and my wild moods would puzzle Dora.-

She was a creature of the quickest delicacy, the tenderest act. My fits of shame, remorse, passion, jealousy, disgust, and rage, smothered and disguised as they had to- he, often bewildered and sometimes hurt her, but never failed of her respect, her indulgence^ —of some subtle feminine comprehension of the heart. : _ One conversation of ours, typical of many, somehow stays in my memory as a turning-point. "The plum-blossoms are out, remarked Dora from her little rockingchair by the window, where she sat sewing. VI think I shall have you out on the porch to-morrow if it stays warm. Miss Podmore says you ought to be able to walk out a v little before she goes." - •_ ' "Life without Miss Podmore!' I ejaculated. "And Jameson comes back Friday!" I went on quite in the spirit of my part. "I'll have to have a long talk with him about business. Nice hand I am for business when I've only got to six times seven are forty-two! I was relearning the multiplication tables with incredible labor. Never shall I forget* the bewilderment that assailed me in the one interview I had attempted with the firm's 1 "You're learning beautifully, Dick, <. returned Dora with earnest ardor. "And you know the store's all right. Mr Hughes is so And papa keeps an eye on things." "This fuss of mine has cost an awtul 'lot of money," I mused. "Til pay that back anyway!" ..-'„;' "What in the world do you mean, Richard ?'" Dora'.. puzzled. "Do you know, Dick, you're so different,since the accident? An entirely different phase of your character shows, lou re more—boyish!''.V '''ls that an objection?" I.asked with an anxiety I pretended was mocking. "Do. vou 'like me better the wav?"" ("Thief! Sneak! Cad!" L said to "-myself.) "■- "Because, if you do, I can get knocked on the head again. • "She-ignored the question. : "You're even different," she went on weaVing her needle into her work, "in the way you—care tor me." "How?" I asked. • She:looked' up smiling. __ "How can I tell? Just different! I was silent, setting my teeth Mad I not vowed I would not be led that looked out thoughtfully over the lawn I searched for dandelions m its greenness as if my life depended 1 on finding >them. Whew, -involuntarily, 1 looked back at her she was' biting her lip Her eyes filled v with ,sudden tears. I held out my arms to her. _ : Presently she lifted her head a little way eying me earnestly. .• "Why' are you afraid of my kisses, Dick?" • -

"Am I?" - ' ■■■, . .... . At length she whispered, with her face very close to mine: ■ ' \ ,- "Aren't you a little bit glad—about the baby?" x ■ • .•- '■'•, ', ■ So our closest moments always-.- elicited. Always the headi hand: thrust" between ! . . This time I answered: "I am glad of anything you are glad of Dora, I'm nothing but just yours. I belong to'you as no., man ever belonged to a" woman before." ; S'ujeh half-truth that toM nothing I threw as wretched sops to conscience. It was that night-1 dedicated myself to the finding of .Craven. As soon as 1 should regain my strength and might leave Dora I would set myself upon bis trail, I Would search out every clue; I would have the graves.opened! Under the earth or upon it, I would! find him,'. If he were living—and something mme Refused to believe him'dead—l would drag him to Dora's feet and blot myself out of .hei-'Mfe;. I. felt a fierce ]oy in that imagined expiation! As I grew' .stronger and began to see ana talk with people, Craven's social and business associates, I lost the tear I had- that someone would surely detect the 'imposture. My mental condition excited sympathetic interest, but no surprise, no' suspicion. . What grew upon me was.the social hopelessness of my ever righting myself. How many barred and locked! doors lay between me and honor! Bv what miracle should 1 accomplish the substitution of Craven for mvself as .secretly as had 1 been the substitution of myself for Craven? Lacking this, what storm of scandalous tonsues would break upon Dora ? \\ ho would believe • that I had behaved .as decently us I had?. In choosing ..ignominy' for myself, had I not chosen it for'. Dora, too ? Then—not for the first time—the devil.- clad as an angel of light, would whisper: ."Why not —go on? Whv make mor e misery?"

I hung on doggedly to my resolution. I threw mvself into persistent- efforts to master Craven's-business, so that people wondered to see'si man still pallid and tottering with \veakness. and: with _ so hampering a. mental disability, working so desperatly. Nothing of Cravens, I vowed, should- suffer through my stewardship.; - ■'■'.% iOn a certain Sunday afternoon in the late sprang Dora and I walked over to the handsome house of the Wolfes. It. was not the first time we had gone there together, but I thought it might be the last; As'l grew stronger, Dora grew weaker; .the, anxieties she had suffered were telling upon her. Often I feared in anguish of mind that I myself —what must, seem to her my inexplicable perversities—were secretly undermining her strength: On this day, however, we were both 'hi happy mood;. and in-a like calm' Contentment Dora's parents greeted us. . After half: an hour of chat. Mr Wolfe surprised me by saying: "Will von step into the study" for : a moment.- Richard ? ; I want to show you something" _ The study was 'upstairs. - Mr Wolfe carefullv closed-the door before he sat dow)i at his desk—a solid, heavy, sharpcornered piece of .'furniture—-and drew from a pigeonhole a handful of-letters. "I have been gratified to observe, Richard," he said,; with pompons approval, "that your "delusion. has died a. naturals death;- liiit Doctor Worrall thought there' _could'be no harm in showing you these." '. He put the letters into my hands. Thev: were sealed and unripenedy and - slightly/yisoiledarid, worn, as if they through manv hands. They we're ; a3dressed ; ; to,..my, friends in Glencoe; 'arid on v ;the : face ;'r of each.. was

stamped a. purple hand pointing to Mr Wolfe's card in the corner, with the words "Return to writer" running along the pointing linger. I stared at them with whirling brain. Then the explanation flashed upon me. 1 .laughed dizzily and pointed with a shaking hand. "You sent them to Glcncoe, Illinois!" T cried. "My town Mas G-lencoe, Nebraska! I had no idea when I talked to you that day that 1 was in Illinois." Mr "Wolfe frowned heavily at my renewed perversity. / "That's easily disposed of!" he retorted. From the bunch of letters he selected one and laid- it before me. It was the one addressed to Stewart, editor of the Herald. Across this some official had written : "Try Glencoe, Neb." It bore the Nebraska postmark and a second, smaller hand, pointing to Mr Wolfe's name—and across one corner, stamped iii purple.-letters. "Unknown." I sunk my head in my hands., There was nothing.to say! However, I. said something. "That explains ,Miss Podmore!" I exclaimed-aloud. "She was

thinking of the other Glencoo!" But I was acutely aware that it explained nothing; it deepened a stupefying mystery. Stewart, the editor of Glencoe's only daily—six months ago the town's most active arid conspicuous citizen—"unknown", there! I went home '. with' Dora., doubting all things, bewildered, stunned! Was I Craven? -Were it riot more 'rational to believe myself mad than all the world raying? Moreover, the unbroken, ■ unchallenged . assumption that I was Craven- had subtly undermined my own sense of identity. If I were hot mad now, in believing .that I was not Craven, what would prevent me. from soon becoming, so, believing tha> I was? As I asked myself the question, I knew (that Dora . would. With lier I was always sure of my own idgntity; remorse and dread kept con-' sciousness awake. The one person for whose sake I had indilred the personality of Craven was the one who .held me inexorably to my own. Seldom have I wanted anything more fiercely than I wanted that night to take the next'train for Nebraska.,-to prove or disprove -my sanity. .The reasons I did nt>t> are sufficiently obvioiis. I was quite without a man's ordinary How could I allege a business errand when every one about me understood mv business better than I did ? Was it likely that a man. physically feeble and. mentally .abnormal would be permitted by his family and physician to follow an impulse which to their minds clinched his insanity? And if I went by stealth or violence, to what possibly fatal misery should" I leave Dora ? ' .I did the next thing—l wrote. The inquiry, was a delicate one, for I wished to avoid causing curiosity or suspicion of the truth. I wrote as' Craven, inquiring for one Richard Trent, said; to-have been on the staff of a looal paper. I described him rather fully and asked if he were supposed to have perished in the railroad tragedy I named. To make sure of the letter's coming to a certain and safe hand, I addressed it to the postmaster at Glenco'e. - I knew the man well. : - ■ .

Within a week my. self-addressd en- ■'. velope came back. It enclosed my own letter, indorsed, in a hasty scrawl: "Person described not known." \ After that I could, only waito and contemplate the net in which I was wound. Hitherto I had assumed that Nature's period to my waiting would ■ . be decisive; but suppose that were not true? Suppose the child died and Dora clung to me for comfort? Suppose she were left a permanent invalid? I had known such cases. One thing only was certain. I could not go on living with Dora as I had lived when no physical frailty of mine or hers should stand ' between us. Suppose I proved _ myself mad and all my Trent-memories a lie! What then? Suppose I found Craven —rotting in his unknown grave? . What then? What then?

"Dick," saidv Dora, "promise me —if I should die —you'll be very, very fond of the baby!" "Die, Dora!" I exclaimed, shocked. "What makes you think of dying? You can't die!" * ■ • She shook her head at me, laughing with tear-bright eyes. J "Don't evade the question! Will you promise ?" "I'll do mv best, Dora," I said at length. "I'll see that it has every care, every right-- I'll do my best. But you mustn't die!" "I don't intend to," she said; "but —you can't always—tell!" You can't always tell! While" I chafed against the waiting, suddenly Nature set her terrible period. Death knocked at the door for Dora. . Death and Craven, it seemed to me, were allies —were one. .Craven's dead hand stretched from his grave to. strike Dora .down. An endless time I waited out"side the room where Death and Craven fought for Dora —and endless times upon that. At. last they brought me Craven's child. I would not look at it —and they whispered—it was natural; the mother had suffered so! Dora, they told me, was barely living—beyond speech, beyond consciousness. They would not let me see-her, lest I break the hair her life hung by. A week of suspense wentrbv—a week of noiseless footsteps and held breath. Then, one evening in the firelight, the old doctor told me that Dora was likely to live. I broke down, and cried. He patted my shoulder embarrassedly and went away. I- cried a long time in- the firelight; and at tho end of my tears I came upon a clear and certain sense that now Dora was really mine. Tt puzzles me still to account for it, because I was at tho same time fully aware that in a few weeks I must take up the search which might part me from her. During Dora's illness my anomalous position had 1 fallen into the background of my thoughts a I had felt as her husband would have felt. As sheslowly recovered, my situation returned upon me, "but never with the _ old! restless rage. I had somehow attained a calm and steadiness that surprised me, nor did I fear any evil greatly sinco Dora lived. Neither did I hate the child. I had expected to, but I couldn't. It was too small. I could fashion no hate within me that would stick to anything so little. The baby was four weeks and three days old "the day these events drew toward their conclusion. Dora reclined languidly in the wicker chair —large-eyed and thin and pallid—with the baby sleeping on her lap. I sat opposite her, wondering if it were time yet to speak of tho Western trip I meant to make soon. "Isn't she whitening out beautifully?" said Dora, gazing adoringly, at lier daughter. "Dick, she's pot the funniest little birthmark I I'm afraid it will bother her when she wears, evening dress. Look!" ' She drew the garment away from the babv's throat and pointed to a spot below the left collarbone. There, on the rosy flesh of Craven's daughter, was an'infinitesimal brown mole! I bent and kissed it. I could _not speak and I wanted to hide my face, from Dora. T had never kissed the baby before and she was greatly pleased. I saw that, even through the bewildering emotion that possessed me. Nothing had moved me like this —that mv mark should be stamped above the baby's heart! "This settles it!" I said to myself. "I am Craven—l am a madman, nrtt a scoundrel!" As it strangely happened that verv day, not more than an hour later, I was called to the telephone.' It was Mr Wolfe's voice that came over the wire. TCven in my perturbation _ I recognised an extraordinary note in ..it; it was shaken, astounded, almost apologetic. "Will you come over to the house t iusf as soon as you conveniently can. Richard?" said Mr Wolfe. "Er—the most amazing thing has come up—the most amazing thing! Come over just as soon as you can!" «.' "I'll come immediately," I said, and hmig up the receiver. I was still too much absorbed in the miracle of the babv to care much about Mr Wolfe's amazing thing. My mind hung near the breaking-point of wonder. Mr Wolfe and Dr Worrall were waiting for me in the library: hut the.v v ■ both stood back while a thirl person came forward to meet mo. If was a woman —young. with a small, trim figure, prettily dressed, and with sparkling dark eyes. She .stretched out both' hands to me without sneakini. »rd hev I look demanded that I knew her : but I did not—and yet■■ I did!—or someone.. I like her! The gay alertness of her

look was.familiar as breathing; and yet ■] —i;j3i<i'not know her. She smiled with ' av sudden ash of her dark eyes. ';'i'Enid!" I gasped. "Enid!'.' .-Then the cup of wonder overflowed 4 . I'staggered to a chair beside J the lib"rary table and. sank upon it. All I felt , was an overwhelming desire to sleep. -Tcame to myself lying on the _. sofa. 1 At-first, as I sat un, I felt ashamed of ~ making such a fuss; then, for a minute, 1 tI went under a wave of bitter and nor- i rible regret. Not' Craven then!. The 1 wife-and child I loved! so—not mine, j after all! Now, to face the music! _ . < I-turned to Enid- I could-not thmK : wliM'Jiad'so altered her looks. bhe ; •might, have- passed through as devastat- , illness as mine. .■ :pEnid,'''l said, "you .went to the •armory dance with me?" ■'. "Jf'Ye's. Do you remember what liap- j p"enea_next?" . '-■'■■' head. ' , ,■ after I left you on the poich. msm you went on toward the railkWh'culvert bevorid the lumber yaid ? The-• one Mackenzie said would make a good hiding place for a hiding-place for off in, ' ; ftenrv remembered reading in aChicago the time you disappeared .ii^4idin g of - y«r^"Jr r whl the -hospital, ™™ e u^er ■■'■ +Wu<rht of connecting, that with .\ou. you'd just got r^-oj - igl&be aSVgone away. *o£ hadn t #enthere very long, yp *£ n °*v -, = - don't get that about the hosmM I interrupted. ■; -»My tram was ";-Ska you^kn;ow-ihe, wreck wju3re. - vGraven was-KUed. Was 111 %" n . / V : :«-ThevaU looked,at one a?iother. Emu %ened ! ier lipfio-speafe ■mitm and shxit-them agam : . ;He edged " ' further importantly. • -..•- .-• •- ■ 4;-'' Perhaps you ha-v e said enough for : <the- ; ipr"esent, : ; Mrs Milsom- , Jdoes'he call you that?'' --■.■-., i(T S'lßecau'se,". she. answered' swiftly, - 1 /marriedi-Henry-' r - '.■-.-. „ -could delay'me- a .moment:, even ■ ; for Craven.. ! ' ; i f .'&bbd■ .work-!'' I cried, grasping her parenthically.-"Congrats! Wasn t fknowUlsee,vbu know. Was he killed. ' ;ls^e<leaa? ; " . "", . -- '•' . ti " -KAgam they looked at each other, ■ -three mysterious faces, charged - V.-nw. the -.knowledge that was life : or dishonor, Heaven .or me! :..:' . -fitwas -thewoman who answered. •:i r "wasn't dead," she exclaimed ' = little :it^en-.minutes ago! He was here! _. -' was here? In. this room? - i-i -^Y.esj-while you were—-asleep!' -;^ ; V''Here!" cried. "Then he's hero rnow! ;He's in the house. Gall him -;^i±l ; w-ant to see him. I want to see ?£im ; npwj" '.■■..-. , -'-'-'f' : - -The unexplained . look passed again -i#b"mvune face to another of.the three. - : "--'«' I: want.to see Craven!"! repeated ■Jpa'ssioiiately. ; .."What's he-hiding for? .; Why are vou liiding from him? I'can "Took■'■■Him'in the face! You all know T:Trhet3i'er'rve been square with him. Let •■'.himvlook me -in the. face! Where is \ : ■' .■..-■' - ' v ?H;:Half mad with 'pain and pride, I aavyahced furiously on the two men. laid her"hand on my arm. : said, "that armory dance r\3was ; :twelve: yearsago!" -

; fft-Sl'wokfe out of a second swooning lapse, j£mkLithey A told me that he who knew ifinrinseif las Graven had spoken. with my and looked; out of my eyes a second, f.^ftme.^'■ ; They told- ma that, at my first -• ; l6ss .of consciousness, lie had 1 cried- out •iwithi horror at the actual mental presS«hce. ; of theyreck-—which, to him, was r^Ml-happening; that he had been told att that had happened .since "-the wreck," -and was as passionately devious; of meetinjr me as I of meeting tible drowsiness swept over me —-and the . iceptre of-life we held between us passed 'Craven,

;.:'--£hese alterations or "personality con-■■-■''':tfmie&j shor er and. shorter. " Xlihe: briefest' and baffling phase • f tiny search- for Craven had begun. H -LwasaS; if each'of us in our despe-iie leiyjerness to meet overleaped 1 the other. . I grew hot oil Craven's trail circle of consciousness . .whenever he hung on -."Jthe verge of perceiving iae I thrust him ,16b* > of -existence: ' Then," in a phase of '/:r..JtVard- stupor, we came face to face. •. ;i Tou-ed livould find Craven. At : vlast, 3n the .-depths of being, I found 'Mm. and: graphred; with Kim. for life o • TJglath.'-It-wasliot in the feast as if on:.-'mail-'strove to regain lost portions »f; 'memory;, it was two entirely different; men.', enforcing irreconcilable claims.: Death fbir one or both of us.seemed the; .v.oiily -febhtinurag the' painful' combat—but; ■..which must die?" -- TC If Tr-eiit slew Craven would l Trent not in .reality the thief and. adul-- - fererlie had so agonised not to b° y ? praveh slew Trent, he must sacrifice his \ passionate, secret desire to repossess a.; . normal J>ast- : In each of them was "n,: love Of vlife -riot to be yielded, subtly sustained by the love, of Dora. About Dora their fiercest--fight raged. There, -Mo, lay the seed of their ultimate relUhioh, -When at last the image of what : Dora was ito Trent began to melt into (•the image of what she was to Craven, their reconciliation had begun. .-- Z-fi w bo write .these pages, am Craven, Craven's was'the name and outer : personality whichi for obvious reasons, I a'doptedj 'in my inner self I am. tean : 4qual degree, the man. formed by the . ■njembriesj impulses, emotions - the -: :^ole "consciousness settled down, side l%rside. ' Gradually I pieced my whole pasfc;t<igether; gradually I saw. the" cha- ■. .racters of Trent and Craven blend togeftier into one personality, ho more 'contradictory than is humarily\ normal. neVrly a year later, and our ; .. daughter, was toddling from knee, to I ' herrmother's, oiitetretched hand, when \ '< iSfoia Dora the whole story of Richard ■'. "' ':■■'- .- . ■ ; r SHe:listened intently, asking a quiet • how and then. At the end she lifefaV-her blue eyes to mine. ' ■ ,-i : ' :"khew it.' Dick! Not at first! I it! But I saw you couldn't remember . anything—not until after -Baby%as boni. Poor boy! You' worrijJxLiso!" ■'.•'■•■ ' '-S'fjJidn't'..you worry?" I asked. "Did -ifcrrse'ejn-all-right to you?'- 1 -'.' :'Vi'Well;''- she mused. '-'I had you ahy.wayj";- Suddenly she blushed and dim-. plssV:: played in the pinkirfess of her eHe'eK's, " She raised sparkling, shy eyes to'?riiihe: :-'J 'Do you know, Dick, you've .fSJJeiv'in.-love with me three separate : times !'v.:And -.the best was the last. -X^iv-e-made "desperate love to m'e since - Babj")'Was;p)6rD." 7 I redenhed in my turn. -i" ; " That.was so you would forgive mei" '-when -you knew how I'd and pretended to be your : ihj§bafid-when. I was not." 'wasn't exactly deceiving." mur"And, Richard —truly— -lialways kn&w that you were you!" |