A Son of the Hills. Harriet T. Comstock

and Ann Walden had witnessed the struggle of life and death, which ended in the birth of Cynthia and the release of Queenie Walden.

      The four following years were nightmares of torture to Ann Walden. After bringing her sister's body home from the supposed sanatorium she lived a double life. As often as she dared she went to that cabin in the far woods. She carried clothes and food to her old servant and the little secreted child. She watched with fear-filled eyes the baby's development, and to her great relief she knew at last that no mark of mental evil had touched her! Then, when the old black woman died she brought the baby thing home; had explained it according to her knowledge of the people; they would believe what she told them—but this stranger who had left the letter—she had not been deceived for one moment!

      The letter! While she had been reliving the past the words were entering her consciousness. What she knew she passed unheedingly; what she was yet to know rose as if to strike her by its force.

      "I had believed that love," so Starr had written to his sister, "as men know it, was not for me; my work, my joy in the service had always seemed my recompense. I had asked Ann Walden to marry me because I felt sure of myself, and in this lonely place I needed the companionship, the wisdom and the social position her presence would give to this great work of lifting up those worthy of recognition. Then came the day when I saw the little sister—Ann Walden's and mine, for we had always called her that—a woman! She cast her childhood off like a disguise—I saw another man look at her and I saw her look at him! Something was born in me then after all the slow, sombre years—and I wanted—love! I think a madness overcame me, for, blinded and almost beside myself—I spoke to her—that child-woman, and told her how it was with me. She is the sort that wins your heart secrets by a glance of her tender eyes. And then——" Then came sharp words; disconnected and flashing like flame; but Ann Walden read on while her brain beat and ached.

      "It was I she loved. I had aroused her—she saw only one man in the world—me!

      "She lay in my arms—I kissed her.

      "I took her with me on a long drive through the mountains—there was a dying woman and my dear love carried the poor soul unto the parting of the ways with such divine tenderness as I had never before beheld. She sang and almost played with her until the sad creature forgot her death pangs. It was the most beautiful thing I ever saw—that dying hour was perhaps the only joyous hour the woman ever had known—and my sun-touched darling gave it to her!

      "We were married on our way home. I wanted to speak at once, but Queenie pleaded. She did not wish, just in her own first moment of joy, to hurt the sister who was mother to her as well as sister. I listened, but I realized that my child-wife was afraid! That was it. With all her brave, splendid characteristics, Ann Walden is one to call forth fear. I felt myself shrinking hourly from confession. She is all judge; she can be just, but she cannot, I think, be merciful. Hers it is to carry out the law, not sympathize with those who fall under the law. She makes cowards of us all! She is too detached to reach humanity, or for humanity, erring, sinning humanity, to reach her.

      "The call came—I had to come to the sick and dying. I made half peace with myself by telling Ann Walden that I could not carry out our compact. I told her, what is the hardest thing for any man to tell a woman—that I did not love her. I could not love her! and that it was her sister I loved. I meant to explain everything later and confess—I expected to be back in a day or so—but I am here still and the chances are I must stay on for a long time, and I may lose my life; conditions are terrible, and only once a week a doctor comes!

      "She, Ann Walden, is not the hard judge alone. I must not give you a wrong impression. When I told her, she shielded me against myself; would not let me suffer as I should—she excused me. She, to excuse me! But if anything happens to me—I want all my money to go to Ann Walden. By this act she will understand my trust in her and, accepting it, she will do for Queenie what otherwise she could not do—and do it more wisely than my darling could for herself. It must be the common tie, this little fortune.

      "I am feeling very ill.

      "I fear—my time—has come!

      "I recall—there was no marriage certificate, but the service was performed by——"

      Ann Walden dropped the blurred sheet and steadied herself against the window. Evidently Theodore Starr had forgotten the name, or perhaps the deadly dizziness of the disease had overcome him. It did not matter. Ann Walden, like Marcia Lowe, had no doubts—but his sister evidently had had, and suddenly a bitter hatred filled Ann Walden's soul toward the dead woman she had never known.

      "She who should have known him best," Ann Walden's thoughts ran burningly on—"she to doubt him and let all the years of injustice go on!"

      And then the eyes of the tormented woman turned fearfully toward the far side of the room. The late afternoon was turning into twilight and the corner by the chimney was dim and full of shadow.

      "And I—who should have trusted Queenie—I who knew her best of all—I let her suffer——"

      The wraith by the hearth had her full revenge at that hour, for Ann Walden bowed beneath the memories that crowded upon her; the vivid, torturing memories. That last night—when the moans and calls of the dumb mind strove to express the agony of the poor body! The solemn hour when God entrusted a living soul to a mother incapable of realizing anything but the mortal pangs that were costing her her life!

      The child dishonoured, shamed and hidden because of—misunderstanding. Humbly Ann Walden confessed that Theodore Starr's sister was no more to blame than she herself.

      Outside a sudden shower had come over Lost Mountain; the room in which Ann Walden stood became dark and still, then a sharp crash shook the house—something white fell upon the hearth; ashes, long dead ashes were blown hither and yon by a rising wind. With a wild cry of—"My God!" Ann Walden sank in a chair. Wornout nerves could stand no more.

      When she recovered consciousness she was lying upon the old horsehair sofa in the library. Ivy had gone on an errand, but Cynthia stood over her and the girl's face shocked the reviving woman into alertness. Familiarity had dulled her in the past, but now she saw the expression and outline of Theodore Starr's features bending near her.

      "Oh!" she moaned shudderingly. "Oh! oh!"

      "Aunt Ann, it is little Cyn! The tree by the smoke-house was struck, but we-all are safe."

      "I must be alone!" Then gropingly and tremblingly Ann Walden got upon her feet.

      "The letter," she panted, "the letter."

      "Here it is—I found it on the floor where you fell."

      At the time Cynthia was too distressed to attach any importance to the matter, but she recalled the incident later.

      "Yes, yes!" Ann Walden gripped the closely written sheets; "and now I—I want to be alone!"