Be

"Oh, we are not afraid, only sometimes rather annoyed. sides, we could come to some understanding if you would be reasonable. But tell me first why they had us followed."

"You understand, my good lady, that I have a family. I must make a case last as long as I can."

"But if some one found you a more lucrative employment ?' "Ah! If I could have something permanent. That is my dream; and if I could leave Paris!"

"Well, just now I have a place to offer you in the country. Come to see me to-morrow morning dressed as you are. If the work does not suit you, you can go back to your detective business at midday."

The next morning Rabarton, in the dress of a bourgeois, presented himself at the house of M. and Mme. du Pouchel. They had made inquiries about him and had received excellent referRabarton was entered as steward in the service of the

ences.

family.

Armand had had some hesitation about carrying out the project. He feared that in default of the detective another would be attached to him. But Rabarton took it upon himself to bring the episode to a definite termination. In fact, some time after, the Prefect of Police, in overlooking the records, came upon the following statement: "The force has been deceived by a false scent. They are now on the track of M. Dubouchet and not du Pouchel. The search continues. The duty has been assigned to another detective, who lives in the same quarter as Dubouchet, and who is equally reliable."

Rabarton had transferred the job to a colleague so that nothing should be lost.

A

PLAIN building of logs, at the foot of a mountain which towered grandly above it. A building shaded gloomily by pine-trees, and in the midst of a loneliness inexpressibly deepened by the little burying-ground close beside it, where the graves were pitifully marked by shining bits of pebbles or colored glass sprinkled over them, or by frameworks of log built about them to protect them from prowling beasts.

For that plain log building is a church;

ཏེ

yet the loneliness of the encompassing pine forest is but

seldom broken by

singing or by the sounds of worship. For in that sparsely settled section of Georgia there is one church where service is held on the first Sunday in each month, and there is another simple structure where worshipers gather on each second Sun

day, and there is, similarly, another for the third, and another for the fourth. And to this unpretentious building under the shadow of Fort Mountain the itinerant preacher comes on every fifth Sunday when there is a fifth Sunday!

* Written for Short Stories, and awarded the prize for the best story, in competition 24, concerning the granting of suffrage to women. Illustrations by A. W. Rimanoczy.-Copyrighted.

"Let us thank the Lord," said the preacher, solemnly, one Sunday morning, when we had the good fortune to be there, "that we are in a country where the Gospel is dispensed with?"

Far up the mountain slope there may be seen, by one beside the church—or, rather, by one standing in the cemetery, for the trees completely hide it from where the church stands-a special clump of giant pines, standing out boldly from among the groves and masses of woods that cover the height. Right there, is one of the many level spaces with which the side of the mountain is dotted, and there is a clearing there, round about that clump of trees, and in the midst of the clearing, and beneath the trees, is the cabin of the Widow Tomlinson.

Tomlinson himself, a rather romantic, soft-hearted sort of fellow, had built the cabin there a year or so before his marriage, and had prided himself on the beauty of the location and on the richness of the ground. For the level space was hemmed in by up-reaching slopes, which in the course of every storm bore down precious alluvium, making the soil very rich and fine. He had bought the patch at a dollar and a quarter an acre, and was going to make his fortune there. He soon found that he would not be able to sell the land for as much as he gave for it, for no matter how rich his crop might be it was impossible to carry it down the rough bridle-paths to the foot of the mountain, and then secure such a price as would even begin to make a fair return for the enormous labor. And so, after some years of trial and disappointment, he resigned himself to a quiet, unambitious life on his mountain patch, and seldom went down upon the plains, for he was very fearful of either contempt or ridicule. He took great pleasure in talking with his only daughter, Angelica (commonly known as Jelliky), but she had scarcely become old enough to begin to understand him a little, and care for him a very great deal, when he suddenly died.

Mrs. Tomlinson had never been able to at all understand or justly appreciate his points of view, and perhaps it may be added that, in another sense she had never been able to enjoy the scenic point of view which the home presented, and in which he had delighted. To her, the magnificent prospect of plain and mountains was as nothing. She cared naught for the dark storm cloud that swept, thunder-charged, across the face of "Ole Grassy," nor for the magnificent spectacle that "Potato Patch Mounting" presented when some January storm dropped, Elijah-like, its mantle upon it.

At

She had never appreciated the special beauty of the clump of trees amid which her husband had chosen to erect his home. that height on the mountain side the trees were almost all either scrub-oak or dwarf-pine, while this particular clump were remarkable as being of lofty height. "But thar be a-many better 'n' higher ones down thar!" she would exclaim, sniffing disdainfully.

But she had been a faithful wife, and had been content to take her dissatisfaction out of her husband, so to speak, by means of continual grumbling, and by seeing to it that in all minor matters he followed her lead with faithfulness. She firmly believed, too, that he followed it in all large matters as well, and that, had he lived a little longer, she would infallibly have had him make a home for the family in the plains below.

In truth it was the quiet, restful, delightful mountain air, and the quietly restful ways of the mountaineer community, their neighbors who counted as the height of folly any change or labor not called for by urgent necessity—that had kept both husband and wife there so long, and which now, after the father's death, still kept the widow there with her daughter.

"But I'd rather hev them thar plains down thar, stiddier 'n' this!" Mrs. Tomlinson would exclaim, discontentedly. And indeed the plains did look attractive, far, far below, dotted with scattered homes and checkered with patches of alternating forest and field. "An' ef you-uns father hed a-lived, we-uns would 'a' ben down thar afore this!"

At this point in her monologue, oft-repeated for the benefit and behoof of her Jelliky, the widow would add, taking her snuffbrush from her mouth for the effect of additional emphasis: "Fur my way be the way ez allus is follered! Yer father follered et faithful; an' you-uns be a-follerin' et faithful, too!"

To-day, however, she hesitated, and instead of concluding the monologue in the usual way, she said, with scornful sharpness, and in a tone which betrayed a serious shaking of her usual selfcomplacency:

"Be you-uns raly sot on goin' to them thar wimming's meetin' down to the church?" She frowned heavily and leaned forward as she waited for a reply. Jelliky carefully emptied into the kettle the gourdful of spring-water which she had just dipped from the bucket, and then answered, in a tone that was strangely smooth and modulated :

"Et be n't no wimming's meetin', ma! Thar 'll be a right smart o' men thar too

"Oho! So that be the reesing, be it ? And the widow chuckled loudly. Angelica reddened, but kept her temper as she replied:

"No! That be n't the reesing! The reesing be that all over these Newnited States-oh! in Tennessee, an'-an'-everywhar" -(she paused a moment as if to take breath, for the vastness of a country which could include so much territory as Georgia and Tennessee, and, who could say, possibly a little more as well, was somewhat overpowering,)-"the wimming be now allowed to vote at the polls at all 'lections. Et's the fustest time, and I reckon ez how et be the doochy uv all we-uns to go."

war in the meetin'-house, mine you! But when that thar Deacon Smithling kem up hyar a-interferin' an' a-snuffin' around, an' a-advisin' me ez ter this an' that-why, I up an' tole him ez this war my lan', an' ef he didn't plumb get outen et mighty quick by the path, he'd git out a sight quicker, with my help, down thar! An' he didn't stop no longer, I tell you!"

She laughed and chuckled hoarsely, with reminiscent enjoyment, and almost forgot, in this burst of pleasure, her present cause of grievance. Angelica, meanwhile, looked thoughtfully down the series of sheer descents, abrupt precipices, and perpendicular cliffs which marked the quicker, but not the more comfortable, way of reaching the foot of the mountain. Her mother looked at her, and with a gaze that once more darkened.

"What do you-uns eggspekt ter get by them thar poleses, ennyhow?" she demanded. "To hev yer own way? Look et me! Hain't I hed my way-stiddy-an' 'thout eny poleses, too?" (The extra syllable added to "polls" seems to have a fascination