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"I DON'T THINK YOU UNDERSTAND,' SHE SAID BREATHLESSLY" (SEE NEXT PAGE

handkerchief stuck into his over-tall, but exceedingly limp, white collar. Yet his inquiring spirit still seemed undismayed. He stopped where John Herrick's nervous black pony was tied, peered over the fence, and poised his pencil once more above a page. "Won't you just tell me " he began.

"I have told you already," said John Herrick, "that I have nothing to say. When the men get rid of their leader and come to me willing to work again, we will inquire into this matter of the company's finances. But while they are not in our employ, the company's money is none of their business. Until Thorvik leaves Ely and the workmen stop talking of strikes, things shall stand exactly as they are."

His tone was so final that even Dabney Mills realized that this was the end of the interview, and walked on unwillingly in the direction Thorvik had gone. John Herrick caught Buck, gave the rein to Beatrice, and went to untie his own horse, but hesitated a moment before mounting. His manner assumed suddenly a stiff shyness quite unlike his cordiality of a moment before.

"There is one thing more," be began. "I have been away for some days, but I now understand from Hester that your aunt, who is with you, has been ill. Is that true?"

"Yes," assented Beatrice. She was puzzled by his change of manner, but she still felt that his kindness invited confidence, and she told him fully of the state of Aunt Anna's health and how concerned they were about her.

"I wanted to suggest," John Herrick went on slowly, "that there is a doctor who lives on the other side of Gray Cloud Mountain-a man who does not practise now, but who has been a famous specialist for just such illness. He could help your aunt, I know. He would come to see her if I asked him, for he has always been a good friend to me. Would you care to consult him?"

"Oh, indeed I would! How kind of you, how wonderfully good to have thought of it!" exclaimed Beatrice. She had seen the regular doctor of Broken Bow Valley and had felt that he could not help them very much.

"Oh, it is nothing," John Herrick returned, apparently somewhat disturbed by the eagerness of her gratitude, "just friendly interest in a neighbor." He went on speaking in a tone of rather careful indifference. "Dr. Minturn and his wife are very fond of my Hester, and she often rides over to visit them. It takes a whole day to go there and

another to come back, but I believe she would like to take the ride with you. She was saying something yesterday about going over to see them. I would fetch the doctor myself, but I can not leave Ely to-day. does not often ride to town for his mail and there is no telephone-line, so he is rather difficult to reach. If you wish to wait for a day or two, I will gladly go to fetch him."

He

"Oh no," replied Beatrice, "I will go today if Hester is willing. I feel as though I could not wait. And how can I ever thank you for for everything?"

John Herrick looked at her oddly.

"You have taken up rather a large task," he said, "taken it, for the most part, upon your own shoulders. I want you to know that, as far as is in my power, I am going to help you make a success of it."

His shyness had dropped away as suddenly as it had come upon him, and there was nothing but the warmest friendliness in his smile as he swung into the saddle.

CHAPTER VI

THE UPWARD TRAIL

TURNING Buck's head, Beatrice made all speed back toward the house. Once she paused and looked back to see John Herrick still immovable upon his horse, looking after her. She did not know just what sudden impulse made her wheel her pony once more and ride back to speak to him.

"I don't think you understand," she said breathlessly; "I could n't ever tell you how grateful-"

She could not go on; she was stopped by the look on his face as his keen eyes met hers. "It is you who can not understand," he answered, "I—I—”

Perhaps it was because the restless mare refused to stand a moment longer, perhaps he himself had jerked the rein, at least it was true that he also broke off in what he was saying, plunged past her, and went, at a headlong gallop, down the road. Somewhat puzzled by what had occurred, Beatrice went through her own gate and climbed the path to the house.

It did not take many minutes to explain matters to Nancy and Aunt Anna, to gather up what she would need for the journey, and to bid them an excited good-by.

"Of course, it is all right for me to go," she assured her aunt, in reply to some protests. "Hester often goes alone, and she will be there to show me the way." And she

was away down the path before any one could frame further remonstrance.

When she rode up to the door of the next house, Hester was not immediately visible, but she appeared presently from the kitchen. With a disturbed face, she listened to the plan of crossing the mountain together.

"I wish I could go," she said, "but old Julia has one of her attacks of rheumatism and I know I should not leave her. I did n't tell Roddy about it-he seemed to have other things troubling him. Won't it do to wait a few days until I can go or Roddy can ride over?"

Beatrice, impatient and disappointed, sat silent in her saddle, thinking. She looked She looked down at the long, sun-flooded valley, then up at the sharp slopes and the white, winding trail calling her to the adventure.

"Why should n't I go alone?" she asked boldly. "Where you can go, surely Buck and I can go, too."

Hester looked doubtful. "The way is clear enough," she said, "and not very hard going, but you have never ridden it before."

But Beatrice would listen to no objections. By the weight of her two years' seniority and her natural determination, she speedily overcame Hester's misgivings. She made her friend give her full directions, which she felt would be easy enough to follow.

"I keep to the line of the stream as far as its headwaters, and then go up through a cleft between two rocks at the very top of the pass," she repeated. "You say the trail is fairly plain all the way? Certainly I can follow it."

"One of the men said something about some rocks that had fallen at the very head of the stream, and you may have to go around them," Hester said. "Otherwise it is all plain. Be careful on the slopes of loose stone, and don't leave the trail."

"I will be careful," returned Beatrice. "Oh, Hester, what a ride it is going to be!"

There was not a mile of the way that disappointed her. Up and up she went, through forest, across clearings, fording the noisy shallows of the stream that was her guide.

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"We must be nearly as far as the pass,' she thought at last, and stopped to look back. Broken Bow Valley had shrunk to a mere creek bed, one among many watercourses winding beneath. The heavy, dark forest seemed to cling like a blanket to the lower slopes of the mountains, as though it

had slipped away from the smooth, rocky shoulders of the heights above.

Higher still they mounted until they came, as Hester had foretold, to an impassable mass of rock fallen across the trail. The detour was difficult, up a barren slope covered with stunted bushes, and out on a naked spur whence she could look away at peak beyond peak, some bleak and dark, some shining with never-melting snow. She and Buck seemed tiny specks of creatures, creeping over the rocky hillside.

"Don't leave the trail." So Hester had warned, but there could be no harm in climbing a little higher, since she could see so plainly where her pathway began again and wound crookedly to the narrow passage between two huge boulders where she and Buck must go through. Above her, caught in a cleft in the great shoulder of the mountain, was a still, dark lake, its waters held in this cup of the rocks and fed by the melting snows of the ice-fields far above. She felt that she must see it closer and urged her pony forward.

It was as still as a polished mirror, deep blue and ringed by a dark circle of pines. While she stood, staring fascinated at the gleaming surface, a deer came down to drink, swam leisurely across the far end of the lake, and disappeared into the forest. The motion seemed to break her dream, for she turned quickly in the saddle and looked down. had climbed above the very summit of the pass for she could see where the trail dipped downhill again, disappearing in the trees. "We must hurry," she thought. "I believe this is the best way down."

She

Buck moved forward, hesitated, felt for his footing, and hesitated again. An ominous sound came to her ears, the rattle of sliding stones. The horse slipped, went forward several yards, apparently with no will of his own, then stopped and turned his white face to look around at her. She swung down from the saddle to lead him, but felt the loose shale give way under her feet. Frantically she caught at the pommel of the saddle, but in a moment she and the horse were both slipping together, while the rattle of the stones increased into a roar.

"Buck!" she cried aloud, "what have I done?"

The whole mountain seemed to be moving under her feet; she knew dimly that the saddle-horn was snatched from her grasp just before she plunged forward into darkness. (To be continued)

GREAT MOLIÈRE

By GARDNER TEALL

ON a certain day in January, just three hundred years ago, a son was born to Jean Poquelin of Paris and his beautiful wife Marie, the daughter of Monsieur Louis Cressé, a retired citizen of comfortable means.

If Monsieur Poquelin was bursting with pride on this occasion, so likewise was Monsieur Cressé. "Now, my little one," said he to the young mother, with a twinkle in his eye, "you may, indeed, rejoice in a son, but you will never know what happiness it is to be a grandfather!"

"No, Papa Cressé," the daughter replied, "I am afraid I shall never live to see that day!" And they all laughed gaily at Monsieur Cressé's little joke.

"I suppose, Papa Poquelin, you are still determined to christen him Jean, just to please the little gentleman who moves the king's furniture from place to place!" said Monsieur Cressé.

"He shall be named after his Uncle Jean, yes, Papa Cressé," replied Monsieur Poquelin, taking no notice of Monsieur Cressé's

sarcasm.

The family looked up to Uncle Jean with more or less veneration, since Uncle Jean had, some years before, succeeded to the post of tapissier et valet de chambre du roi, which, in English, might be designated as Upholsterer Groom-of-the-Chamber of the King, an important and lucrative position. Monsieur Poquelin himself was a prosperous upholsterer, descended of a family of tapissiers of Beauvais, famous for their craftsmanship. To tell the truth, Uncle Jean had not, at first, paid much attention to his nephew, Jean. Perhaps in this very large family he could not give much attention to any one of them without neglecting the others. However, now that he was growing old, and now that his nephew was certainly beginning to be considered the best upholsterer in Paris, Uncle Jean began to take more notice of him, and it had been hinted that Monsieur Poquelin might, in time, come to succeed Uncle Jean as the king's upholsterer.

And so it happened, on a day in the middle of a mild January, 1622, that when the christening party came forth from the ancient church of Saint-Eustache,-a church still standing,-Baby Poquelin had been

baptised Jean. As for Uncle Jean, it may be imagined that, flattered as he may have been, he considered it incumbent upon himself to make the suggestion that a nephew of so important an official as the tapissier et valet de chambre du roi ought to have plenty of names. And so, at his suggestion, or at the suggestion of some one else, Baptiste was added, and thereafter the boy was called Jean-Baptiste Poquelin up to his twentyfirst year, when, as we shall see by and by, a fourth name came to be taken by him.

After the christening party had come out of the church of Saint-Eustache, it passed, on the right, the spot where, two years later, the great Cardinal Richelieu built his palace, now known as the Palais Royale, and on the left the palace of the Louvre, and then turned into the Rue Saint Honoré, an old street in which the Poquelins lived, one of the busiest and most historic in old-time Paris. Here, two hundred years before, Jeanne d'Arc had ridden through the old gate which guarded its entrance.

"Well," said Grandfather Cressé, as the party drew up before the Poquelin's house, "here's one more little monkey for the Maison des Singes." At this, every one laughed, for Monsieur Cressé's little joke may be explained by the fact that the old house in which the Poquelins lived was an ancient thirteenth-century structure known as the "House of the Monkeys" (as Maison des Singes may be translated), since a great carved oak panel on its façade depicted a group of scrambling little monkeys in a tree, throwing down cocoanuts on the head of an old monkey at the foot.

As little Jean-Baptiste grew up, Grandfather Cressé had many a story of the old house and of the old street to tell him, for no one in the neighborhood knew more about old Paris than Grandfather Cressé. Perhaps he also told his grandson about the monkey joke, and certainly young Jean-Baptiste was as agile in his pranks as any of the carved wooden singes on the front of the House of the Monkeys. Indeed, he was a husky lad and fond of play-more fond of play than of books; but that was not to be wondered at, since, in those days, books of interest to children were few enough. So far as we

know, the Bible and Plutarch's “Lives” were the only books in the Poquelin household. However, Grandfather Cressé's stories were as entertaining as any book that boys of today have given them to read, and JeanBaptiste enjoyed them intensely. And then this was a particularly exciting time in Paris and throughout all France. Cardinal Richelieu had recently come into power as the chief minister of state to the king, Louis XIII, and in Jean-Baptiste's seventh year occurred the famous siege of La Rochelle, the celebrated Huguenot city. Paris and France of this time was the period of the tale of "The Three Musketeers," which many of you may have read.

"These are curious times," said Grandfather Cressé; "perilous times," he added, "and exciting." But probably the most exciting things, as far as Jean-Baptiste was concerned, were the visits with his grandfather to the shows given by troupes of strolling players, mountebanks, and showmen with marionettes in the neighborhood of the Halles de la Foire, not far from the old church where Jean-Baptiste had been christened. In fact, Grandfather Cressé was an inveterate playgoer, and his young grandson probably rejoiced in the fact.

One day there came the news that Uncle Jean, who had gone on a visit to Beauvais, had been stricken with apoplexy and had breathed his last. When his will came to be read, it was found that Monsieur Poquelin had not been forgotten and that to him was to descend the much coveted office of Upholsterer Groom-of-the-Chamber to the King. "Poor Uncle Jean!" sighed Monsieur Poquelin; "and after all I am to be tapissier et valet de chambre du roi. It is gratifying." "Well, Papa Poquelin," said Monsieur Cressé, himself highly gratified at the good luck of his daughter's husband, "surely on no more deserving shoulders could have fallen the mantle of your Uncle Jean."

Papa Poquelin bowed solemnly in acknowledgment, and little Jean-Baptiste, who had been standing by listening, spoke up. "What kind of a mantle did Uncle Jean have, Grandfather?" Monsieur Cressé laughed and explained to his grandson that in early times a mantle, or cloak, was so valuable a possession, that the person to whom it descended was considered lucky indeed to have it left to him, and so when any good fortune, such as inheriting an office from another, came to one, it was said that the mantle of the other had fallen upon him.

"Then," said Jean-Baptiste quite earnestly, "I should like to have the mantle of old Räol fall on me." Grandfather Cressé laughed heartily at that, for old Räol was Jean-Baptiste's favorite of the strolling players he had seen that autumn.

Presently Jean-Baptiste asked, "What will Father do with Uncle Jean's mantle, Grandfather?"

"Well," answered Grandfather Cressé, with a smile, "it looks to me as though he intended sometime to share it with you." And he proceeded to explain to Jean-Baptiste that it was the tapissier valet's duty to see that the furniture in the king's apartments was always in condition and properly placed, here a chair and there a chair, wherever the king might be likely to wish to sit; a table, too, at hand in case he wished to write; a stool for his feet, as the floors in those days were cold, since there were no furnaces or radiators; and finally a comfortable bed in which the king could rest. "And then," added Grandfather Cressé, "whenever the king takes a journey, his tapissier valet must go along to see that everything is in order; and he must lose no time about it, for kings can't be kept standing it does n't agree with them!"

It must be admitted that young JeanBaptiste was very shrewd for his years for he said, "Well, it sounds like a lot of work, this shoving the furniture around; I don't think I want any of Uncle Jean's mantle."

One holiday morning not long after this, Monsieur Cressé found Jean-Baptiste and a group of boys his own age at play in the garden of the Maison des Singes.

"Hei! Grandfather!" called Jean-Baptiste, "come and be our audience! We are going to give a play!"

"Well, well, my young grandson," said Grandfather Cressé, "and what is your play going to be?"

"I shall call it "The Mantle of my Uncle,'" Jean-Baptiste replied. "François here is to be the king; Pierre is to be the cardinal; this is the apartment of the king, who has just arrived from Paris on a journey here; and this is the furniture. Now when I get tired moving it about, I am to discover how foolish it is shoving the king's footstools all around the room when I might be having lots more fun doing something else, instead of having to be the tapissier valet all the time, and so I hand my mantle to Gervais, like this-I play he is my nephew. Now François comes in, and because he is the king, he is very angry

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