[CHAPTER XVII: HARVEST TIME AND WHAT CAME WITH IT]

HARVEST time, harvest time! When the harvest
time is, all worries have passed. When the harvest
time is, all doubts, droughts, fears and tears are
no more. When the golden grain falls upon the canvas;
when the meadow larks, the robins and all the birds of the
land sing the song of harvest time, the farmer is happy, is
gay, and confident.

And harvest time was on in the country of our story.

Jean Baptiste pulled his new binder before the barn,
jumped from the seat, and before he started to unhitch,
he gazed out over a stretch of land which two years before,
had been a mass of unbroken prairie, but was now a world
of shocked grain. Thousands upon thousands of shocks
stood over the field like a great army in the distance. His
crop was good the best. And no crops are like the crop
on new land. Never, since the beginning of time had that
soil tasted tamed plant life. It had seemed to appreciate
the change, and the countless shocks before him were evi-
dence to the fact.

From where he stood when he had unhitched, he gazed
across country toward the southeast where lay his other
land. Only a part of which he could see. As it rose in the
distance he could see the white topped oats ; and just beyond
he could see the deep purple of the flaxseed blossoms. He
sighed contentedly, unharnessed his horses, let them drink,
and turned them toward the pasture. He was not tired ;but he went to the side of the house which the sun did not
strike, and sat him down. At the furthest side of the field
he observed Bill and George as they shocked away to finish.
He was at peace again, as he always was, and thereupon fell
into deep thought.
" My crop of wheat will yield not less than thirty bushels
to the acre," he whispered to himself. " And one hundred
and thirty acres should then yield almost four thousand
bushels. I should receive at least eighty cents the bushel,
and that would approximate about three thousand dollars,
with seed left to sow the land again." He paused in his
meditation, and considered what even that alone would mean
to him. He could pay the entire amount on the land he
had purchased, and perhaps a thousand or two more from
the flax crop. That would leave him owing but four hun-
dred dollars on the land he had bought, and that amount he
felt he would be able to squeeze out somewhere and have
520 acres clear!

He could not help being cheerful, perhaps somewhat vain
over his prospects. He was now just twenty-three and
appreciated that most of his life was yet before him. With,
at the most, two or three more seasons like the present one,
he could own the coveted thousand acres and the example
would be completed.

That was the goal toward which he was working. If he
or any other man of the black race could acquire one thou-
sand acres of such land it would stand out with more credit
to the Negro race than all the protestations of a world of
agitators in so far as the individual was concerned.
" It is things accomplished," he often said to himself.

" It is what is actually accomplished that will get notice
and credit ! Damn excuses ! The best an excuse can secure
is dismissal, and positively that is no asset." He would then invariably think deeply into the conditions of his race,
the race who protested loudly that they were being held
down. Truly it was an intricate, delicate subject to try to
solve with prolific thinkings. He compared them with the
Jew went away back to thousands of years before. Out
of the past he could not solve it either. All had begun to-
gether. The Jew was hated, but was a merchant enjoying
a large portion of the world commerce and success. The
Negro was disliked because of his black skin and some-
times seemingly for daring to be human.

At such times he would live over again the life that had
been his before coming West. He thought of the multi-
tudes in the employment of a great corporation who
monopolized the sleeping car trade. Indeed this company
after all was said, afforded great opportunities to the men.
Not so much in what was collected in tips and in other
devious ways, nor from the small salary, but from the great
opportunity of observation that that particular form of
travel afforded.

But so few made the proper effort to benefit themselves
thereby. He continued to think along these lines until his
thoughts came back to a point where in the past they were
wont to come and stop. He could not in that moment un-
derstand why they had not been coming back to that self-
same point in recent months. . . . Since one cold day during
the first month of that year. ... He gave a start when he
realized why, then sighed. It seemed too much for his
thoughts just then. He regarded Bill and George at their
task of trying to finish their work. Upon hearing a sound,
he turned. Behind him stood Agnes.
" My, how you frightened me ! " he cried.

She held in her hand a basket containing lunch for him
and her brothers. This she had brought every day, but he
had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he had quite
forgotten that she was coming on this day as well. As
she stood quietly before him, she seemed rather shorter
than she really was, also more slender, and appeared
withal more girlish than usual. Her eyes twinkled and
her heavy hair drawn together at the back of her head,
hung over her shoulders. Her sunkist skin was a bit
tanned; her arms almost to the elbows were bare, brown
and were very round. And as Jean Baptiste regarded
her there in the bright golden sunlight she appeared to
him like the Virgin Mary.

" You are tired/' he cried, and pointed to a crude bench
that reposed against the sod house, which he had just left
in his prolific thinking of a moment before.

" Sit down, please, and rest yourself," he commanded.
She obeyed him modestly, with a smile still upon her
pleasant face.

" I judge that Bill and George will finish in a few min-
utes, so I'll wait, that we may all dine together. You'll
be so kind as to wait until then, will you not?" he asked
graciously, and bowed.

" Until then, my lord," she smiled, coquettishly.

" Thanks ! " he laughed, good humoredly. Suddenly
she cried :

" Oh, isn't it beautiful ! " And swept her hands toward
the field of shocked wheat. He had been looking away,
but as she spoke he turned and smiled with satisfaction.

" It is."

" Just lovely/' she cried, her eyes sparkling.

" And all safe, that's the best part about it," he said.

" Grand. I'm so glad you have saved it," she said with
feeling.

" Thank you."

" You have earned it."

" I hope so. Still I thank you."

" It will bring you lots of money/'

" I am hoping it will."

" Oh, it will."

" I was thinking of it before you came up."

" I knew it."

"You knew it!"

" I saw you from a distance/'

" Oh. . . ."

" And I knew you were thinking/'

" Oh, come now."

" Why shouldn't I ? You're always thinking. The only
time when you are not is when you are sleeping."

" You can say such wonderful things," he said, standing
before her, the sun shining on his tanned features.

" Won't ah won't you be seated ? " she invited. He
colored unseen. She made room for him and he hesi-
tatingly took a seat, at a conventional distance, on the
bench beside her.

" Your other crops are fine, too," she said, sociably.

" I'm going over to look at them this afternoon."

"You should."

" Where is your father today ? "

" Gone to town/'

" Wish I'd known he was going ; I'd had him bring out
some twine for me. I think the oats will be ready to cut
over on the other place right away, and I don't want to
miss any time."

" No, indeed. A hail storm might come up/' He
glanced at her quickly. She was gazing across the field
to where her halfwitted brothers worked, while he was
thinking how thoughtful she was. Presently he heard her
again.

" Why, if it is urgent you are out, I I could go to
town and get the twine for you." She was looking at him
now and he was confused. Her offer was so like her, so
natural. Why was it that they understood each other
so well?

" Oh, why, Agnes," he stammered, " that would be ask-
ing too much of you ! "

" Why so ? I shall be glad glad to oblige you in any
way. And it is not too much if one takes into consider-
ation what you have done for I'll be glad to go. . . ."

" Done for what ? " he said, catching up where she had
broken off, and eyeing her inquiringly.

She was confused and the same showed in her face.
She blushed. She had not meant to say what she did.
But he was regarding her curiously. He hadn't thought
about the note. She turned then and regarded him out of
tender eyes. She played with the bonnet she held in her
lap. She looked away and then back up into his face, and
her eyes were more tender still. In her expression there
was almost an appeal.

" What did you mean by what you started to say, Agnes,"
he repeated, evenly, but kindly.

"I I mean what you did for papa. What you
you did about that that note." It was out at last
and she lowered her eyes and struggled to hold back the
tears with great effort.

" Oh," he laughed lowly, relievedly. " That was noth-
ing." And he laughed again as if to dismiss it.

" But it was something," she cried, protestingly. " It
was something. It was everything to us." She ended with
great emotion apparent in her shaking voice. He shifted.
It was awkward, and he was a trifle confused.

" Please don't think of it, Agnes."

" But how can I keep from thinking of it when I know
that had it not been your graciousness ; your wonderful
thoughtfulness, your great kindness, we would have been
sold out bankrupted, disgraced, oh, me ! " She covered
her face with her hands, but he could see the tears now
raining down her face and dropping upon her lap.

" Oh, Agnes," he cried. " I wish you wouldn't do that !
Please don't. It hurts me. - Besides, how did you know
it? I told Brookings that your father was not to know it.
I did not want it known." He paused and his voice shook
slightly. They had drawn closer and now she reached
out and placed her small hand upon his arm.

" Brookings didn't tell. He didn't tell papa ; but I
knew." She was looking down at the earth.

" I don't understand," she heard him say wonderingly.

" But didn't you think, Jean, that / understood ! I un-
derstood the very day a few minutes after papa returned
home, brought the old note and told me about the exten-
sion." She paused and looked thoughtfully away across
the field. " I understood when you drove by a few min-
utes later. You had forgotten about it, I could see, and
your mind was on other things ; but the moment you came
into my sight, and I looked out upon you from the window,
I knew you had saved us."

Her hand still rested lightly upon his arm. She was
not aware of it, but deeply concerned with what she was
saying. Presently, when he did not speak, she went on.
" I understood and knew that you had forgotten it that
you were too much of a man to let us know what you had
done. I can't forget it! I have wanted to tell you how
I felt I felt that I owed it to you to tell you, but I
couldn't before."

" Please let's forget it, Agnes," she heard him whisper.

" I can keep from speaking of it, but forget it never !
It was so much like you, like the man that's in you ! " and
the tears fell again.

" Agnes, Agnes, if you don't hush, almost I will forget
myself. . . ."

" I had to tell you, I had to ! " she sobbed.

" But it is only a small return for what you did for me.
Do you realize, Agnes, had it not been for you, I I
would not be sitting here now? Oh, think of that and then
you will see how little I have done how very little I can
ever do to repay ! " His voice was brave, albeit emotional.
He leaned toward her, and the passion was in his face. She
grasped his arm tighter as she looked up again into his
face out of her tear bedimmed eyes and cried brokenly :

" But Jean, the cases are not parallel. What I did for
you I would have done for anybody. It was merely an
act of providence; but yours oh, Jean, cant you under-
stand!" He was silent.

" Yours was the act of kindness," she went on again,
" the act of a man ; and you would have kept it secret ;
because you would never have had it known, because you
would not have us feel under obligation to you. Oh, that
is what makes me oh, it makes me cry when I think of
it." The tears flowed freely while her slender shoulders
shook with emotion.

And when she had concluded, the man beside her had
forgotten the custom of the country, and its law had
passed beyond him. He was as a man toward the maid
now. Beside him wept the one he had loved as a dream
girl. Behind him was the house with the bed she had laid
him upon when she saved his life. And when he had awak-
ened, before being conscious of where he was or what had
happened to him, he had looked into her eyes and had seen
therein his dream girl. She was his by the right of God;
he forgot now that she was white while he was black. He
only remembered that she was his, and he loved her.

His voice was husky when he answered:

"Agnes, oh, Agnes, I begged you not to. I almost be-
seeched you, because oh, don't you understand what is
in me, that I am as all men, weak? To have seen you that
night the night I can never forget, the night when you
stood over me and I came back to life and saw you. You
didn't know then and understand that I had dreamed of
you these two years since I had come here: that out of
my vision I had seen you, had talked with you, oh, Agnes ! "
She straightened perceptibly; she looked up at him with
that peculiarity in her eyes that even she had never come
to understand. They became oblivious to all that was
about them, and had unconsciously drawn closer together
now and regarded each other as if in some enchanted
garden. She sang to him then the music that was in her,
and the words were :

"Jean, oh, Jean Baptiste, you have spoken and now at
last 7 understand. And do you know that before I left
back there from where I came, I saw you: I dreamed of
you and that I would know you, and then I came and so
strangely met and have known you now for the man you
are, oh, Jean ! "

Gradually as the composure that had been theirs passed
momentarily into oblivion, and the harvest birds twittered
gayly about them, his man's arm went out, and into the
embrace her slender body found its way. His lips found
hers, and all else was forgotten.

[EPOCH THE SECOND]
[CHAPTER I: REGARDING THE INTERMARRIAGE OF RACES]

IT WAS winter, and the white snow lay everywhere;
icicles hung from the eaves. All work on the farms
was completed. People were journeying to a town
half way between Bonesteel and Gregory to take the train
for their former homes; others to spend it with their rela-
tives, and Jean Baptiste was taking it for Chicago and
New York where he went as a rule at the end of each year.
He was going with an air of satisfaction apparently;
for, in truth, he had everything to make him feel so
that is, almost everything. He had succeeded in the West.
The country had experienced a most profitable season, and
the crop he reaped and sold had made him in round num-
bers the sum of seven thousand five hundred dollars. He
had paid for the two hundred acres of land he had bar-
gained for; he had seeded more land in the autumn just
passed to winter wheat which had gone into the winter
in the best of shape; his health was the best. For what
more could he have wished?

And yet no man was more worried than he when he
stepped from the stage onto the platform of the station
where he was to entrain for the East. ... It is barely pos-
sible that any man could have been more sad. ... To ex-
plain this we are compelled to go back a few months ; back
to the harvest time; to his homestead and where he sat
with some one near, very near, and what followed.

" I couldn't help it I loved you; love you have loved
you always ! " he passionately told her.

For answer she had yielded again her lips, and all the
love of her warm young heart went out to him.

" I don't understand you always, dear," he whispered.
" Sometimes there is something about you that puzzles
me. I think it's in your eyes; but I do understand that
whatever it is it is something good it couldn't be other-
wise, could it?"

" No, Jean," she faltered.

"And did you wonder at my calling your name that
night?"

" I have never understood that fully until now/' she re-
plied.

"You came in a vision, and it must have been divine, two
years ago gone now," she heard him ; " and ever since your
face, dear, has been before me. I have loved it, and, of
course, I knew that I would surely love you when you
came."

Isn't it strange," she whispered.

" But beautiful."

" So beautiful!"

" Was it providence, or was it God that brought you that
night and saved me from the slow death that was coming
over me, Agnes ? "

"Please, Jean, don't! Don't speak again of that awful
night! Surely it must have been some divine providence
that brought me to this place; but I can never recall it
without a tremor. To think that you would have died out
there! Please, never tell me of it again, dear." She
trembled and nestled closer to him, while her little heart
beat a tattoo against her ribs. They looked up then, as
across the field her halfwitted brothers were approaching.
It was only then that they seemed to realize what had trans-
pired and upon realization they silently disembraced. What
had passed was the most natural thing in the world, true;
and to them it had come because it was in them to assert
themselves, but now before him rose the Custom of the
Country, and its law. So vital is this Custom; so much is
it a part of the body politic that certain states have went
on record against it. Not because any bad, or good, any
wealth or poverty was involved. It had been because of
sentiment, the sentiment of the stronger faction. . . .

So it ruled.

In the lives of the two in our story, no thought but to
live according to God's law, and the law of the land, had
ever entered their minds, but now they had while laboring
under the stress of the pent-up excitement and emotion
overruled and forgot the law two races are wont to
observe and had given vent and words to the feeling which
was in them. . . . They stood conventionally apart now,
each absorbed in the calm realization of their positions in
our great American society. They were obviously dis-
turbed ; but that which had drawn them to the position they
had occupied and declared, still remained, and that was
love.

So time had gone on as time will ; never stopping for any-
thing, never hesitating, never delaying. So the day went,
and the week and the month, and the month after that and
the month after that, until in time the holidays were near,
and Jean Baptiste was going away, away to forget that
which was more to him than all the world the love of
Agnes Stewart.

He had considered it he had considered it before he
caught the one he loved into his arms and said the truth
that was in him. . . . But there was another side to it
that will have much space in our story.

Down the line a few stations from where he now was,
there lived an example. A man had come years ago into
the country, there, a strong, powerfully built man. He
was healthy, he was courageous and he was dark, because
forsooth, the man was a Negro. And so it had been with
time this man's heart went out to one near by, a white. Be-
cause of his race it was with him as with Jean Baptiste.
Near him there had been none of his kind. So unto him-
self he had taken a white wife. He had loved her and she
had loved him ; and because it was so, she had given to him
children. And when the children had come she died.
And after she had died and some years had passed, he
took unto himself another wife of the same blood, and
to that union there had come other children.

So when years had passed, and these selfsame children
had reached their majority, they too, took unto themselves
wives, and the wives were of the Caucasian blood. But
when this dark man had settled in the land below, which, at
that time, had been a new country, he decided to claim him-
self as otherwise than he was. He said and said again,
that he was of Mexican descent, mongrel, forsooth; but
there was no Custom Of The Country with regard to the
Mexican, mongrel though he be. But the people and the
neighbors all knew that he lied and that he was Ethiopian,
the which looked out through his eyes. But even to merely
claim being something else was a sort of compromise.

So his family had grown to men and women, and they
in turn brought more children into the world. And all
claimed allegiance to a race other than the one to which
they belonged.

Once lived a man who was acknowledged as great and
much that goes with greatness was given unto him by the
public. A Negro he was, but as a climax in his great life,
he had married a wife of that race that is superior in life,
wealth and achievements to his own, the Caucasian. So
it had gone.

The first named, Jean Baptiste never felt he could be
quite like. Even if he should disregard The Custom Of
The Country, and its law, and marry Agnes, he did not
feel he would ever attempt that. But to marry out of
the race to which he belonged, especially into the race
in which she belonged, would be the most unpopular thing
he could do. He had set himself in this new land to suc-
ceed ; he had worked and slaved to that end. He liked his
people; he wanted to help them. Examples they needed,
and such he was glad he had become; but if he married
now the one he loved, the example was lost; he would be
condemned, he would be despised by the race that was his.
Moreover, last but not least, he would perhaps, by such a
union bring into her life much unhappiness, and he loved
her too well for that.

Jean Baptiste had decided. He loved Agnes, and had
every reason to; but he forswore. He would change it.
He would go back from where he had come. He would
be a man as befitted him to be. He would find a girl; he
would marry in his race. They had education; they were
refined well, he would marry one of them anyhow !

So Jean Baptiste was going. He would forget Agnes.
He would court one in his own race. So to Chicago he
now sped.

He had lived in the windy city before going West,
and was very familiar with that section of the city on the
south side that is the center of the Negro life of that great
metropolis. Accordingly, he approached a station in the
loop district, entered one of the yellow cars and took a seat.
He looked below at the hurly-burly of life and action, and
then his eyes took survey of the car. It was empty, all save
himself and another, and that other was a girl, a girl of
his race! The first he had seen since last he was in the
city. How little did she know as she sat across the aisle
from him, that she was the first of his race his eyes had
looked upon for the past twelve months. He regarded her
curiously. She was of that cross bred type that are so
numerous, full bloods seemingly to have become rare about
those parts. She was of a light brown complexion, almost
a mulatto. She seemed about twenty-two years of age. Of
the curious eyes upon her she seemed entirely unaware,
finally leaving the train at a station that he was familiar
with and disappeared.

At Thirty-first Street he left the train, fell in with the
scattered crowd below and the dash of the city life was
his again in a twinkling. He found his way to State Street,
the great thoroughfare of his people. The novelty in view-
ing those of his clan now had left him, for they were all
about. Even had he been blind he could have known he was
among them, for was not there the usual noise; the old
laugh, and all that went with it ?

He hurried across and passed down Thirty-first to Dear-
born Street, Darktown proper; but even when he had
reached Federal, then called Armour, he had seen noth-
ing but his race. He had friends at least acquaintances,
so to where they lived he walked briskly.

" And if it isn't Jean Baptiste, so 'elp me Jesus," cried
the woman, as she opened the door in response to his knock,
and without further ceremony encircled his neck with her
arms, and kissed his lips once and twice. " You old dear ! "
she exclaimed with him inside, holding him at arms' length
and regarding him fondly. " How are you, anyhow ? "

" Oh, fine," he replied, regarding her pleasantly.

" You are certainly looking good," she said, looking up
into his face with fun in her eyes. " Sit down, sit down and
make yourself at home," she invited, drawing up a chair.

"Well, how's Chicago?" he inquired irrelevantly.

" Same old burg," she replied, drawing a chair up close.

"And how's hubby?"

"Fine!"

" And the rest of the family? "

" The same. Pearl, too."

"Oh, Pearl. . . . How is Pearl?"

" Still single. . . ."

" Thought she was engaged to be married when I was
here last year ? "

" Oh, that fellow was no good ! "

" What was the matter ?"

" What's the matter with lots of these n***a' men 'round
Chicago ? They can't keep a wife a posing on State Street."

" Humph ! "

" It's the truth ! "

" And how about the women? They seem to be fond of
passing along to be posed at. . . ."

" Oh, you're mean," she pouted. Then : " Are you
married yet? "

" Oh, lordy ! How could I get married ? Not thirty
minutes ago I saw the first colored girl I have seen in a
year ! "

"Oh, you're a liar!"

"It's the truth!"

" Is it so, Jean ? Have you really not seen a colored girl
in a whole year ? "

" I have never lied to you, have I ? "

" Well, no. Of course you haven't ; but I don't know
what I would do under such circumstances. Not seeing
n***a's for a year."

" But I've seen enough already to make up."

She laughed. " Lordy, me. Did you ever see so many
' shines ' as there are on State Street ! " She paused and
her face became a little serious for a moment. " By the
way, Jean, why don't you marry my sister ? "

" You're shameful ! Your sister wouldn't have me. I'm
a farmer."

" Oh, yes she would. Pearl's getting tired of getting
engaged to these Negroes around Chicago. She likes you,
anyhow."

" Tut, tut," he laughed depreciatingly. " Pearl would
run me ragged out there on that farm ! " She laughed too.

" No, she wouldn't, really. Pearl is good looking and is
tired of working."

" She's good looking, all right, and perhaps tired of work-
ing; but she wouldn't do out there on the farm."

" Oh, you won't do. I'll bet you are married already."

" Oh, Mrs. White ! "

"But you're engaged?"

"Nope!"

"Jean. I'll bet you'll marry a white girl out there and
have nothing more to do with n***a's."

" Now you're worse."

" And when you marry a white woman, I want to be
the first one to shoot you in the leg."

He laughed long and uproariously."

' You can laf all you want ; but you ain't goin' through
life lovin' nobody. You gotta girl somewhere; but do
what you please so long as it don't come to that."

"Come to what?"

"Marrying a white woman."

" Wouldn't that be all right? "

She looked up at him with a glare. He smiled amusedly.
" Don't you laf here on a subject like that! Lord! I think
lots of you, but if I should hear that you had married a
white woman, man, I'd steal money enough to come there
and kill you dead ! "

" Why would you want to do that ? "

" Why would I want to do that? Humph ! What you
want to ask me such a question for ? The idea ! "

" But you haven't answered my question ? "

She glared at him again, all the humor gone out of her face.
Presently, biting at the thread in some sewing she was doing,
she said : " In the first place, white people and Negroes
have no business marrying each other. In the second place,
a n***a' only gets a po' white woman. And in the third
place, white people and n***a's don't mix well when it comes
to society. Now, supposin' you married a white woman
and brought her here to Chicago, who would you associate
with? We n***a's 's sho goin' to pass 'er up. And the
white folks you better not look their way ! "

He was silent.

" Ain't I done outlined it right? "

" You've revealed some very delicate points with regard
to the matter," he acknowledged.

"Of course I have, and you can't get away from it. But
that ain't all. Now, to be frank with yu'. I wouldn't ceh
so much about some triflin' no 'count n***a' marrying some
old white woman; but that ain't the kind no white woman
wants when she stoops so low as to marry a n***a'. Uh,
naw ! Naw indeedy ! She don't fool with nothin' like
that! She leaves that kind for some poor colored woman
to break her heart and get her head broken over. She mar-
ries somebody like you with plenty of money and sense with
it, see!"

He laughed amusedly.

" No laffin' in it. You know I'm tellin' the truth. So
take warning ! Don't marry no white woman up there and
come trottin' down here expectin' me to give you blessin'.
Because if you do, and just as sure as my name is Ida
White, I'm going to do something to you ! "

" But a white woman might help a fellow to get up in
the world/' he argued.

"Yes, I'll admit that, too. But ouh burden is ouh bur-
den, and we've got to bear it. And, besides, you c'n get
a girl that'll help you when you really want a wife. That
ain't no argument. Of course I'd like to see Pearl mar-
ried. But you ain't going to fool with her, and I know it.
Pearl thinks she would like it better if she could marry
somebody from out of Chicago; but they'd all be the same
after a month or so with her."

" Well," said he, " I'd better get over to the Keystone.
You've interested me today. I've learned something re-
garding the amalgamation of races. . . ."

" I hope you have, if you had it in your mind. Any-
thing else might be forgiven, but marrying a white woman
never ! "

They parted then. She to her sewing, and Jean Bap-
tiste to his thoughts. . . .

[CHAPTER II: WHICH?]

JEAN BAPTISTE returned to the West after two
months' travel through the East, and the spring fol-
lowing, sowed a large crop of small grain and reaped
a bountiful yield that fall. About this time the county
just west of where he lived was opened to settlement, and
a still larger crowd than had registered for the land in
the county he lived came hither and sought a quarter
section.

The opening passed to the day of the drawing, and
when all the lucky numbers had secured their filings, con-
tracts for the purchases of relinquishments began. By
this time the lands had reached great values, and that
which he had purchased a short time before for twenty
dollars the acre, had by this time reached the value of
fifty dollars the acre. And now he had an opportunity
of increasing his possessions to the number coveted, one
thousand acres.

He had paid a visit to his parents that winter, and
found his sisters, who were mere children when he had
left home, grown to womanhood, and old enough to take
claims. So with them he had discussed the matter. In-
spired by his great success, they were all heart and soul
to follow his bidding; so thereupon it was agreed that he
would try to secure three relinquishments on good quarters,
and upon one or more of these they would make filings.

His grandmother, who had raised a family in the days of
slavery agreed and was anxious to file on one ; one sister on
another, and the third place, was to be his bride's.

By doing this, he could have her use her homestead
right, providing she filed on the claim before marrying him.
So it was planned. But Jean Baptiste knew no girl that
he could ask to become his wife, therefore this was yet
to be. When he had given up his real love to be loyal to
his race, he had determined on one thing: that marriage
was a business, even if it was supposed to be inspired by
love. But when Agnes was left out, he loved no one.
Therefore it must be resolved into a business proposition
and the love to come after.

So, resigned to the fact, he set himself to choose a wife.

On his trip East the winter before he met two persons
with whom he had since corresponded. One, the first, was
a young man not long out of an agricultural college whose
father was a great success as a potato grower. He and
Jean became intimate friends. It now so happened that the
one mentioned had a sister, and through him Jean Baptiste
was introduced to her by mail.

Correspondence followed and by this time it had become
very agreeable. She proved to be a very logical young
woman, and Jean Baptiste was favorably impressed. She
was, moreover, industrious, ambitious, and well educated.
Her age was about the same as his, so on the surface he
thought that they should make a very good match. So be it.

In the meantime, however, he had opened a correspond-
ence with another whom he had met on his trip the winter
before where she had been teaching in a coal mining town
south of Chicago. The same had developed mutually, and
he had found her agreeable and obviously eligible. Her
father was a minister, a dispenser of the gospel, and while
for reasons we will become acquainted with in due time
he had cultivated small acquaintance with preachers, he
took only such slight consideration of the girl's father's pro-
fession that he had good cause to recall some time later.

About the time he was deeply engrossed in his corre-
spondence with both the farmer's daughter and the young
school teacher, he received a letter from a friend in Chicago
introducing him to a lady friend of hers through mail.
This one happened to be a maid on the Twentieth Century
Limited, running between New York and Chicago. Well,
Jean Baptiste was looking for a wife. Sentiment was in
order, but it was with him, first of all, a business propo-
sition. So be it. He would give her too a chance.

He was somewhat ashamed of himself when he ad-
dressed three letters when perhaps, he should have been ad-
dressing but one. It was not fair to either of the three,
he guiltily felt; but, business was business with him.

From his friend's sister he received most delightful
epistles, not altogether frivolous, with a great amount of
common sense between the lines. But what was more to
the point, her father was wealthy, and she must have some
conception of what was required to accumulate and to
hold. He rather liked her, it now seemed.

Now from the preacher's daughter he received also pleas-
ing letters. Encouraging, but not to say unconventionally
forward. He appreciated the fact that she was a preach-
er's child, and naturally expected to conform to a certain
custom.

But from New York he received the most encourage-
ment. The position the maid held rather thrilled him. He
loved the road and she wrote such letters ! It was plain
to be seen here what the answer would be.

Which?

He borrowed ten thousand dollars, giving a mortgage
upon his land in security therefor. He purchased relin-
quishments upon three beautiful quarter sections of land
in the county lying just to the west. The same, having to
be homesteaded before title was acquired, had all ready
been in part arranged for. His grandmother and sister
were waiting to file on a place each the third was for
the bride-to-be. There remained a few weeks yet in which
to make said selection; but, notwithstanding, all must be
ready to make filing not later than the first day of October
and September at last arrived.

He became serious, then uneasy. Which? He wrote all
three letters that would give either or all a right to hear
the words from him, but did not say sufficient to any to
give grounds for a possible breach of promise suit later.

He rather liked the girl whose father had made money.
Yes, it so seemed more than either of the other two. A
match with her on the surface seemed more practical. But
for some reason she did not reply within the time to the
letter he had written her. Oh, if he could only have
courted her; could have been in the position to have seen
her of a warm night ; to have said to her : " ."

Poor Jean Baptiste your life might not have later come to
what it did. . . .

He waited but in vain. October was drawing danger-
ously near when at last he left for somewhere. Indeed he
had not a complete idea where, but of one thing he had
concluded, when he returned he would bring the bride-to-be.

At Omaha he made up his mind. The girl whose father
had made money had had her chance and failed. He re-
gretted it very much, but this was a business proposition,
and he had two thousand dollars at stake that he would
lose if he failed to get some one to file on that quarter
section he had provided, on October first.

He was rather disturbed over the idea. He really would
have preferred a little more sentiment but time had be-
come the expedient. "Of course," he argued, as he sped
toward Chicago, " I'll be awfully good to the one I choose,
so if it is a little out of the ordinary why, I'll try to
make up for it when she is mine."

With this consolation he arrived in Chicago, wishing that
the girl who lived two hundred miles south of Omaha and
whose father was well-to-do had replied to his letter. He
really had chosen her out of the three. However, he re-
signed himself to the inevitable one of the other two.

He left the train and boarded the South Side L. He
got off again at Thirty-first Street, and found what he had
always found before, State Street and Negroes. He was
not interested in either this time. He had sent a tele-
gram to New York from Omaha to the effect that he was
headed for Chicago. It was to the maid, for she had drawn
second choice. He planned to meet her at the number her
dear friend and the match maker, lived.

So it was to this number he now hurried.

" Oh, Mr. Baptiste," cried this little woman, whose name
happened to be Rankin, and she was an old maid. She
gave him her little hand, and was " delighted " to see him.

" And you've come ! Miss Pitt will be so glad ! She
has talked of nobody but Mr. Baptiste this summer. Oh,
I'm so glad you have come ! " and she shook his hand
again.

" I sent her a telegram that I was coming, and I trust she
will let me know. . . ."

" She is due in tomorrow," cried their little friend, and
her voice was like delicate music.

"I expect a telegram," he said evenly. " I am somewhat
rushed."

" Indeed ! But of course, you are a business man, Mr.
Baptiste," chimed Miss Rankin with much admiration in
her little voice. " How Miss Pitt will like you ! "

Jean Baptiste smiled a smile of vanity. He was getting
anxious to meet Miss Pitt himself inasmuch as he ex-
pected to ask her to become his wife on the morrow.

" Ting-aling-aling ! " went the bell on the street door, and
little Miss Rankin rushed forth to open it.

" Special for Mr. Jean Baptiste," he heard and went to
get it. After signing, he broke the seal a little nervously,
and drawing the contents forth, read the enclosed message.

He sighed when it was over. Miss Pitt had been taken
with a severe attack of neuralgia in New York, was indis-
posed and under the care of a physician, but would be in
Chicago in six days. He studied the calendar on the wall.
Six days would mean October second !

Too late, Miss Pitt, your chance is gone. And now we
turn to the party of the third part who will follow us through
our story.

[CHAPTER III: MEMORIES N. JUSTINE MCCARTHY]

"HE will not be in tomorrow," said Baptiste, handing the letter to Miss Rankin.

" Oh, is that so ! " cried Miss Rankin in a tone
of deep disappointment, as she took the letter. " Now isn't
that just too bad ! "

" It is," agreed Baptiste. " I will not get to see her, since
I shall have to return to the West not later than two or
three days." He was extremely disappointed. He sat
down with a sigh and rested his chin in his palm, looking
before him thoughtfully.

" I'm sure sorry, so sorry," mused Miss Rankin ab-
stractedly. " And you cannot possibly wait until next
week ? " she asked, anxiously.

He shook his head sadly.

" Impossible, absolutely impossible."

" It is certainly too bad. Miss Pitt was so anxious to
meet you. And I was, too, because I think you and her
would like each each other. She's an awfully good girl,
and willing to help a fellow. Just the kind of a girl you
need."

He shifted his position now and was absorbed in
his thoughts. He had come back to his purpose. He was
sorry for Miss Pitt; but he had also been sorry that Miss
Grey had not answered his letter. . . . The association with
neither, true, had developed into a love affair, so would not
be hard to forget. He had agreed with himself that love
was to come later. He had exercised discretion. Any one
of the three was a desirable mate from a practical point of
view. After marriage he was confident that they could
conform sufficiently to each other's views to get along, per-
haps be happy. Miss McCarthy was, in his opinion, the
most intelligent of the three, as she had been to school and
had graduated from college. He had confidence in educa-
tion uplifting people; it made them more observing. It
helped them morally. And with him this meant much.
He was very critical when it came to morals. He
had studied his race along this line, and he was very
exacting; because, unfortunately as a whole their stand-
ard of morals were not so high as it should be. Of
course he understood that the same began back in the
time of slavery. They had not been brought up to a regard
of morality in a higher sense and they were possessed with
certain weaknesses. He was aware that in the days of
slavery the Negro to begin with had had, as a rule only
what he could steal, therefore stealing became a virtue.
When accused as he naturally was sure to be, he had re-
sorted to the subtle art of lying. So lying became an ex-
pedient. So it had gone. Then he came down to the point
of physical morality.

The masters had so often the slave women, lustful by dis-
position, as concubine. He had, in so doing of course,
mixed the races, Jean Baptiste knew until not more than one
half of the entire race in America are without some trait of
Caucasian blood. There had been no defense then, and
for some time after. There was no law that exacted pun-
ishment for a master's cohabitation with slave women, so
it had grown into a custom and was practiced in the South
in a measure still.

So with freedom his race had not gotten away from these
loose practices. They were given still to lustful, unde-
pendable habits, which he at times became very impatient
with. His version was that a race could not rise higher
than their morals. So in his business procedure of choosing
a wife, one thing over all else was unalterable, she must
be chaste and of high morals.

Orlean McCarthy, however she as yet appeared from a
practical standpoint, could, he estimated rightly, boast of
this virtue. No doubt she was equally as high in all other
perquisites. But strangely he did not just wish to ask Miss
McCarthy to become his wife. He could not understand
it altogether. He was confident that no girl lived who per-
haps was likely, as likely, to conform to his desires as she ;
but plan, do as he would, that lurking aversion still re-
mained infinitely worse, it grew to a fear.

He sighed perceptibly, and Miss Rankin, catching the
same, was deeply sympathetic because she thought it was
due to the disappointment he felt in realizing that he was
not to see Miss Pitt on the morrow. She placed her arm
gently about his shoulders, leaned her small head close to
his, and stroked his hair with her other hand.

" Well," said he, after a time, and to himself, " I left the
West to find a wife. I've lived out there alone long
enough. I want a home, love and comfort and only a wife
can bring that." He paused briefly in his mutterings. His
face became firm. That will that had asserted itself and
made him what he was today, became uppermost. He
slowly let the sentiment out of him, which was at once
mechanically replaced by a cold set purpose. He smiled
then ; not a sentimental smile, but one cold, hard, and
singularly dry.

" Oh, by the way, Miss Rankin," he essayed, rising, apparently cheerful. " Do you happen to be acquainted with
a family here by the name of McCarthy? "

"McCarthy?"

" Yes. I think the man's a preacher. A Rev. N. J.
McCarthy, if I remember correctly." She looked up at
him. Her face took on an expression of defined contempt
as she grunted a reply.

"Humph!"

" Well . . ."

" Who doesn't know that old rascal ! "

" Indeed ! " he echoed, in affected surprise ; but in the
same instant he had a feeling that he was to hear just this.
Still, he maintained his expression of surprise.

" The worst old rascal in the state of Illinois," she pur-
sued with equal contempt.

"Oh, really!"

" Really yes, positively!"

" I cannot understand ? "

" Oh well," she emitted, vindictively. " You won't have
to inquire far to get the record of N. J. McCarthy. Lordy,
no! But now," she started with a heightening of color,
" He's got a nice family. Two fine girls, Orlean and Ethel,
and his wife is a good little soul, rather helpless and with-
out the force a woman should have; but very nice. But
that husband forget him ! "

" This is er rather unusual, don't you think ? "

" Well, it is," she said. " One would naturally suppose
that a man with such a family of moral girls as he has,
would not be so not because he is a preacher." She
paused thoughtfully. " Because you know that does not
count for a high morality always in our society. . . . But
N. J. McCarthy has been like he is ever since I knew him.
He's a rascal of the deep water if the Lord ever made one.

And such a hypocrite there never lived! Added to it,
he is the most pious old saint you ever saw ! Looks just as
innocent as the Christ and treats his wife like a dog ! "

" Oh, no ! "

" No ! " disdainfully. " Well, you'd better hush I " She
paused again, and then as if having reconsidered she turned
and said : " I'll not say any more about him. Indeed, I
don't like to discuss the man even. He is the very embodi-
ment of rascalism, deceit and hypocrisy. Now, I've said
enough. Be a good boy, go out and buy me some cream."
And smilingly she got his hat and ushered him outside.

" Well, now what do you think of that," he kept repeat-
ing to himself, as he went for the ice cream, " what do you
think of that?" Suddenly he halted, and raised his hands
to his head. He was thinking, thinking, thinking deeply,
reflectively. His mind was going back, back, away back
into his youth, his earliest youth no ! It was going
had gone back to his childhood !

" N. J. McCarthy, N. J. McCarthy? Where did / know
you! Where, where, where!" His head was throbbing,
his brain was struggling with something that happened a
long time before. A saloon was just to his left, and into it
he turned. He wanted to think ; but he didn't want to think
too fast. He took a glass of beer. It was late September,
but rather warm, and when the cold beverage struck his
throat, his mind went back into its yesterdays.

It had happened in the extremely southern portion of the
state, in that part commonly referred to as " Egypt," where
he then lived. He recalled the incident as it occurred about
twenty years before, for he was just five years of age at
the time. His mother's baby boy they called him, because
he was the youngest of four boys in a large family of chil-
dren. It was a day in the autumn. He was sure of this
because his older brothers had been hunting; they had
caught several rabbits and shot a few partridges. He had
been allowed to follow for the first time, and had carried
the game. . . . How distinctly it came back to him now.

He had picked the feathers from the quail, and had held
the rabbits while his brothers skinned them. And, later,
they had placed the game in cold water from their deep well,
and had thereupon placed the pan holding the same upon
the roof of the summer kitchen, and that night the frost
had come. And when morning was again, the ice cold
water had drawn the blood -from the meat of the game,
and the same was clear and white.

" Now, young man," his mother said to him the following
morning, " you will get into clean cothes and stay clean, do
you understand ? "

" Yes, mama, I understand," he answered. " But, mama,
why ? " he inquired. Jean Baptiste had always asked such
questions and for his doing so his mother had always re-
buked him.

" You will ask the questions, my son," she said, raising
his child body in her arms and kissing him fondly. " But
I don't mind telling you." She stood him on the ground
then, and pointed to him with her forefinger. " Because we
are going to have company from town. Big people. The
preachers. Lots of them, so little boys should be good, and
clean, and be scarce when the preachers are around. They
are big men with no time, or care, to waste with little boys ! "

" M-um ! " he had chimed.

" And, why, mama, do the preachers have no time for
little boys? Were they not little boys once themselves?"

" Now, Jean! "she had admonished thereupon, " you are
entirely too inquisitive for a little boy. There will be other
company, also. Teachers, and Mrs. Winston, do you un-
derstand ! So be good." With that she went about her
dinner, cooking the rabbits and the quail that he had
brought home the day before.

It had seemed an age before, in their spring wagon fol-
lowed by the lumber wagon, the dignitaries of the occasion
wheeled into the yard. He could not recall now how many
preachers there were, except that there were many. He
was in the way, he recalled, however, because, unlike his
other brothers, he was not bashful. But the preachers did
not seem to see him. They were all large and tall and
stout, he could well remember. But the teachers took
notice of him. One had caught him up fondly, kissed him
and thereupon carried him into the house in her arms. She
talked with him and he with her. And he could well recall
that she listened intently to all he told her regarding his
adventures of the day before in the big woods that was at
their back. How beautiful and sweet he had thought she
was. When she smiled she showed a golden tooth, some-
thing new to him, and he did not understand except that
it was different from anything he had ever seen before.

After a long time, he thought, dinner was called, and, as
was the custom, he was expected to wait. He had very
often tried to reason with his mother that he could sit at
the corner of the table in a high chair and eat out of a
saucer. He had promised always to be good, just as good
as he could be, and he would not talk. But his mother
would not trust him, and it was understood that he should
wait.

At the call of dinner he slid from the teacher's lap upon
the floor and went outside. He peeped through the window
from where he stood on a block. He saw them eat, and
eat, and eat, He saw the quail the boys had shot disappear
one after another into the mouths of the big preachers,
and since he had counted and knew how many quail there
were, he had watched with a growing fear. " Will they not
leave one ? " he cried.

At last, when he could endure it no longer, he ran into
the house, walked into the dining room unseen, and stood
looking on. Now, the teacher who had the golden tooth
happened to turn and espy him and thereupon she cried :

" Oh, there is my little man, and I know he is hungry !
Where did you go, sweet one? Come, now, quick to
me," whereupon she held out loving arms into which he
went and he had great difficulty in keeping back the tears.
But he was hungry, and he had seen the last quail taken
from the plate by a preacher who had previously taken two.

Upon her knee she had sat him, and he looked up into
all the faces about. He then looked down into her plate and
saw a half of quail. His anxious eyes found hers, and then
went back to the plate and the half of quail thereon.

" That is for you, sweetness/' she cried, and began to
take from the table other good things, while he fell to eating,
feeding his mouth with both hands for he was never before
so hungry.

After a few moments he happened to lift his eyes from
the plate. Just to the side of the beloved teacher, he ob-
served a large, tall and stout preacher. He wore a jet
black suit and around his throat a clerical vest fit closely;
while around his neck he wore a white collar hind part
before. The preacher's eyes had found Jean's and he gave
a start. The eyes of the other were upon him, and they
were angry eyes. He paused in his eats and gazed not un-
derstanding, into the eyes that were upon him. Then sud-
denly he recalled that he had observed that the preacher
had been smiling upon the teacher. He had laughed and
joked; and said many things that little Jean had not un- derstood. As far as he could see, it appeared as if the
teacher had not wished it; but the flirtation had been kept
up.

At last, in his child mind he had understood. His crawl-
ing upon the teacher's lap had spoiled it all ! The preacher
was angry, therefore the expression in his eyes.

From across the table his mother stood observing him.
She seemed not to know what to say or do, for it had
always been so very hard to keep this one out of grown
people's way. So she continued to stand hesitatingly.

" Didn't your mother say that you were to wait,"
growled the preacher, and his face was darker by the anger
that was in it. This frightened Jean. He could find no
answer in the moment to such words. His little eyes had
then sought those of the teacher, who in reply drew him
closely to her.

" Why, Reverend," she cried, amazed, " he's a little boy,
a nice child, and hungry ! " Whereupon she caressed him
again. He was pacified then, and his eyes held some fire
when he found the preacher's again. The others, too, had
grown more evil. The preacher's lips parted. He leaned
slightly forward as he said lowly, angrily:

" You're an impudent, ill mannered little boy, and you
need a spanking ! "

Then suddenly the child grew strangely angry. He
couldn't understand. Perhaps it was because he had helped
secure the quail, all of which the preachers were eating, and
felt that in view of this he was entitled to a piece of one.
He could not understand afterward how he had said it, but
he extended his little face forward, close to the preacher's,
as he poured :

" I ain't no impudent 'ittle boy, either ! I went to hunt
with my brothers yistidy and I carried all the game, and now you goin' eat it all and leave me none when I'm hungry.
You're mean man and make me mad ! "

As he spoke everything seemed to grow dark around him.
He recalled that he was suddenly snatched from the teach-
er's lap, and carried to the summer kitchen which was all
closed and dark inside. He recalled that switches were
there, and that soon he felt them. As a rule he cried and
begged before he was ever touched; but strangely then he
never cried, and he never begged. He just kept his mouth
shut tightly, and had borne all the pain inflicted by his
mother, and she had punished him longer than she had ever
done before. Perhaps it was because she felt she had to
make him cry ; felt that he must cry else he had not repented.
After a time he felt terribly dazed, became sleepy, and
gradually fell into a slumber while the blows continued
to fall.

How long he slept he could not remember, but gradually
he came out of it. There were no more blows then. Yet,
his little body felt sore all over. When he looked up (for
he was lying on his back in the summer kitchen), his
mother sat near and was crying and wiping the tears with
her apron, while over him bent the teacher, and she was
crying also. And as the tears had fallen unchecked upon
his face he had heard the teacher saying :

" It's a shame, an awful shame ! The poor, poor little
fellow! He was hungry and had helped to get the game.
And to be punished so severely because he wanted to eat
is a shame ! Oh, Mrs. Baptiste, you must pray to your
God for forgiveness ! " And his mother had cried more
than ever then.

Presently he heard a heavy footfall, and peeped upward
to see his father standing over him. His father was fair of
complexion, and unlike his mother, never said much and
was not commonly emotional. But when he was angry he
was terrible, and he was angry now. His blue eyes shone
like fire.

" What is this, Belle," he cried in a terrible voice, " you've
killed my boy about that d n preacher ! " His father
stooped and looked closely into his face. In fear he had
opened his eyes. " Jean ! " he heard his father breathe,
" God, but it's a blessing you are alive, or there would be
a dead preacher in that house/'

" Oh, Fawn," his mother cried and fell on him, weeping.
The teacher joined in to pacify him, and in that moment
Jean was forgotten. Stiffly he had slipped from the room,
and had gone around near the kitchen step of the big
house to a place where the dogs had their bed. Here he
kept a heavy green stick, a short club. He passed before
the door, and observed the preacher still sitting at the table,
talking with Mrs. Winston. He glared at him a moment
and his little eyes narrowed to mere slits. Then he thought
of something else ... It was Mose Allen, Mose Allen, a
hermit who lived in the woods. It was miles in his mind

to where Mose lived, through heavy forests and timber ;
but he was going there, he was going there to stay with old
Mose and live in the woods. He had done nothing wrong,
yet had been severely punished. Before this he had thought
several times that when he became a man he would like to
be a preacher, a big preacher, and be admired ; but, now
never ! He would go to old Mose Allen's, live in the woods
and hate preachers forever!

Later, deep into the forest he plodded. Deep, deeper,
until all about him he was surrounded with overgrowth,
but resolutely he struggled onward. He crossed a branch
presently, and knew where he was. The branch divided
their land with Eppencamp's, the German. From there the
forest grew deeper, the trees larger, and the underbrush
more tangled. But he was going to Mose Allen and re-
membered that that was the way. He grasped his green
club tighter and felt like a hunter in the bear stories his
big brothers had read to him. He crossed a raise between
the branch and the creek where the water flowed deeply,
and where they always went fishing. He paused upon
reaching the creek, for there a footlog lay. For the first
time he experienced a slight fear. He didn't like foot logs,
and had never crossed one alone. He had always been
carried across by his brothers; but his brothers were not
near, and he was running away ! So he took courage, and
approached the treacherous bridge. He looked down at the
whirling waters below with some awe; but finally with a
grimace, he set his foot on the slick trunk of the fallen tree
and started across. He recalled then that if one looked
straight ahead and not down at the water, it was easy;
but his mind was so much on the waters below. He kept
his eyes elsewhere with great effort, and finally reached the
middle. Now it seemed that he could not go one step
further unless he saw what was below him. He hesitated,
closed his eyes, and thought of the whipping he had re-
ceived and the preacher he hated, opened them, and with
calm determination born of anger, crossed safely to the other
side.

He sighed long and deeply when he reached the other
side. He looked back at the muddy waters whirling below,
and with another sigh plunged into the forest again and on
toward Mose Allen's.

He gained the other side of the forest in due time, and
came into the clearing. A cornfield was between him and
another forest, and almost to the other side of this Mose
Allen lived. The sun was getting low, and the large oaks
behind him cast great shadows that stretched before him
and far out into the cornfield. He thought of ghosts and
hurried on. He must reach Mose Allen's before night,
that was sure.

It was a long way he thought when he reached the other
side, and the forest before him appeared ominous. He was
inclined to be frightened, but when he looked toward the
west and home he saw that the sun had sunk and he plunged
grimly again into the deep woodland before him.

Now the people of the neighborhood had made com-
plaints, and it was common talk about the country, that
chickens, and young pigs, and calves had been attacked and
destroyed by something evil in the forests. At night this
evil spirit had stolen out and ravaged the stock and the
chickens.

Accordingly, those interested had planned a hunt for
what was thought to be a catamount. It was not until he
had gone deeply into the woods, and the darkness was every-
where about him, that he remembered the catamount. He
stopped and tried to pick the briers out of his bleeding
hands, and as he did so, he heard a terrible cry. He went
cold with fear. He hardly dared breathe, and crouched
in a hole he had found where only his shoulders and head
were exposed. He awaited with abated breath for some
minutes and was about to venture out when again the
night air and darkness was rent by the terrible cry. He
crouched deeper into the hole and trembled, for the noise
was drawing nearer. On and on it came. He thought
of a thousand things in one minute, and again he heard
the cry. It was very near now, and he could hear the
crunch of the animal's feet upon the dry leaves. And still
on and on it came. Presently it was so close that he could
see it. The body of the beast became dimly outlined before
him and he could see the eyes plainly, as it swung its head
back and forth, and its red eyes shone like coals of fire.
Again the varmint rent the night air with its yell, as it
espied its prey crouching in the hole.

By watching the eyes he observed the head sink lower
and lower until it almost touched the earth. And there-
upon he became suddenly calm and apprehensive. He held
his breath and met it calmly, face to face. His club was
drawn, his eyes were keen and intense. He waited. Sud-
denly the air was rent with another death rendering cry,
and the beast sprung.

It had reckoned well, but so had he. He had, more-
over, struck direct. The blow caught the beast on the
point of its nose and muffled and spoiled its directed spring.
He quickly came out of the hole and then, before the ani-
mal could get out of his reach, he struck it again with such
force at the back of the head, that the beast was stunned.
Again and again he struck until the head was like a bag
of bones. When his strength was gone, and all was quiet,
he became conscious of a drowsiness. He sank down and
laid his head upon the body of the dead animal, and fell into
a deep sleep.

And there they found him during the early hours of
the morning and took him and the dead catamount home.

" Another beer, Cap'n ? " he heard from the bartender.
He quickly stood erect and gazed about in some confusion.

" Yes," he replied, throwing a coin upon the bar. He
drank the beer quickly, went out, bought Miss Rankin the
cream and after delivering it to her, went outside again
and up State Street.

He was overcome with memories, was Jean Baptiste. He
had a task to accomplish. He was going to Vernon Avenue
where Miss McCarthy lived to ask her to become his wife.
And the preacher who had been the cause of his severe
punishment twenty years before was her father, the Rev.
N. J. McCarthy.

[CHAPTER IV: ORLEAN]

"MAMA," cried Orlean E. McCarthy, coming hastily from the hallway into the room where her mother sat sewing, and handing her a note,
" Mr. Baptiste is in the city and wishes to call at the earliest
possible convenience."

" Indeed," replied her mother, affecting a serious ex-
pression, " this is rather sudden. Have you sent him word
when he could ? "

" Yes, mama, I wrote him a note and returned it by the
boy that brought this one, that he could call at two o'clock/'
Her mother's gaze sought the clock automatically.

" And it is now past one," she replied. " You will have
to get ready to receive him," she advised ceremoniously.

" All right, mama," said Orlean cheerfully, and suddenly
bending forward, kissed her mother impulsively upon the
cheek, and a moment later hurried upstairs.

" What is this I hear about somebody coming to call,"
inquired another, coming into the room at that moment.
Mrs. McCarthy looked up on recognizing the voice of her
younger daughter, Ethel, who now stood before her. She
gave a perceptible start as she did so, and swallowed before
she replied. In the meantime the other stood, regarding
her rather severely, as was her nature.

She was very tall, was Ethel, and because she was so
very thin she appeared really taller than she was. She did
not resemble her mother, who was a dumpy light brown
skinned woman. She was part Indian, and possessed a
heavy head of hair which, when let down, fell over her
shoulders.

Ethel, on the other hand, was somewhat darker, had a
thin face, with hair that was thick, but rather short and
bushy. Her eyes were small and dark, out of which she
never seemed to look straight at one. They appeared
always to be lurking and without any expression, unless it
was an expression of dislike. Forsooth, she was a known
disagreeable person, ostentatious, pompous, and hard to get
along with.

She was a bride of a few weeks and was then resting
after a short honeymoon spent in Racine, Wisconsin, sixty
miles north of Chicago.

" Why, Mr. Baptiste is coming. Coming to call on your
sister. He has been corresponding with her for some time,
you understand," her mother returned in her mild, trained
manner.

" Oh ! " echoed Ethel, apparently at a loss whether to be
pleased or displeased. She was as often one way as the
other, so her mother was apprehensive of something more.

" I think you have met him, have you not ? " her mother
inquired.

"Yes, I've met him," admitted Ethel. "Last winter
while teaching."

" And what do you think of him, my dear? "

" Well, he has some ways I don't like."

" What ways, please ? " She had started to say
" naturally" but thought better of it.

" Oh, he does not possess the dignity I like in a man.
Struck me as much too commonplace."

" Oh," her mother grunted. She was acquainted with
Ethel's disposition, which was extremely vain. She loved
pomp and ceremony, and admired very few people.

" What's he calling to see Orlean for ? "

Her mother looked up in some surprise. She regarded
her daughter keenly. " Why, my dear ! Why do you ask
such a question! Why do young men call to see any
young ladies ? " Both turned at this moment to see Orlean
coming down the stairway, and attention was fastened upon
her following.

" All ' dolled ' up to meet your farmer," commented Ethel
with a touch of envy in her voice. In truth she was en-
vious. Her husband was just an ordinary fellow that is,
he was largely what she was making of him. It was said
that she had found no other man who was willing to tolerate
her evil temper and that, perhaps, was why she had married
him. While with him, he had been anxious to marry her
to satisfy his social ambition. Although an honest, hard-
working fellow, he had come of very common stock. From
the backwoods of Tennessee where his father had been a
crude, untrained preacher, he had come to Chicago and had
met and married her after a courtship of six years.

" You look very nice, my dear," said her mother, address-
ing Orlean. Between the two children there was a great
difference. Although older, Orlean was by far the more
timid by disposition. An obedient girl in every way, she
had never been known to cross her parents, and had the
happy faculty of making herself generally liked, while Ethel
invited disfavor.

She was not so tall as Ethel, and while not as short as
her mother, she was heavier than either. She was the im-
age of her father who was dark, although not black. After
her mother she had taken her hair, which, while not as
fine, was nevertheless heavy, black and attractive. Her eyes
were dark like .her mother's, which were coal black. They
were small and tender. Her expression was very frank;
but she had inherited her mother's timidness and was sub-
servient unto her father, and in a measure unto her younger
sister, Ethel.

She was a year older than the man who was coming to
see her, and had never had a beau.

" Do I look all right, mama ? " she asked, turning so that
she might be seen all around.

" Yes, my dear," the other replied. She always used the
term "my dear." She had been trained to say that when
she was a young wife, and had never gotten out of the
habit.

" Now sit down, my daughter," she said judiciously, " and
before the young man comes to call on you, tell me all about
him."

" Yes, and leave out nothing," interposed Ethel.

" She is talking to your mother, Ethel. You will do her a
favor by going to your room until it is over," advised their
mother.

" Oh, well, if I'm not wanted, then I'll go," spit out Ethel
wickedly, whereupon she turned and hastened up the stairs
to her room and slammed the door behind her.

" Ethel has such a temper," her mother sighed deplor-
ingly. " She is so different from you, dear. You are like
your mother, while she well, she has her father's ways."

" Papa is not as mean as Ethel," defended Orlean, ever
obedient to her mother, yet always upholding her father,
it mattered not what the issue.

Her mother sighed again, shifted in her chair, and said
no more on that subject. She knew the father better than
Orlean, and would not argue. She had been trained not
to. .

" Now where did you meet Mr. Baptiste, my dear?" she
began.

" Where I taught last winter, mother," she replied obedi-
ently.

" And how did you come to meet him, daughter ? "

" Why, he was calling on a girl friend of mine, and I
happened along while he was there, and the girl introduced
us."

" M-m. Was that the first time you had seen him ? "

" No, I had met him on the street when he was on the
way down there."

" I see. Did he speak to you on the street ? "

" Oh, no, mother. He did not know me."

" But he might have spoken anyhow. . . ."

" But he was a gentleman, and he never spoke." She
paused briefly, and then, her voice a trifle lower, said : "Of
course he looked at me. But "

" Well, any man would do that. We must grant that
men are men. How were you impressed with him when
you met him later at this friend's house ? "

" Well, I don't know," returned Orlean hesitatingly.
" He seemed to be a great talker, was very commonplace,
dressed nicely but not showily. He knew quite a few people
in Chicago that we know, and was born near the town in
which I met him. He was just returning from New York,
and well, I rather admired him. He is far above the
average colored man, I can say."

" M-m," her mother mused thoughtfully, and with an air
of satisfaction. She couldn't think of anything more to
say just then, and upon looking at the clock which showed
ten minutes of two, she said : " Well, you had better go in
the parlor, and after he has called, when convenient, call
me and permit me to meet him. You will be careful, my
dear, and understand that we have raised you to be a
lady, and exercise your usual dignity."

" Yes, mama."

On the hour the street door bell was pulled with a jerk,
and arising, Orlean went toward the door expectantly.

" Oh, how do you do," she cried, a moment later, her face
lighted with a radiant smile as she extended her hand and
allowed it to rest in that of Jean Baptiste's.

" Miss McCarthy," he cried, with her hand in one of his,
and his hat in the other, he entered the door.

" May I take your hat ? " asked Orlean, and taking it,
placed it on the hall tree. In the meantime, his habitually
observing eyes were upon her, and when she turned she
found him regarding her closely.

" Come right into the parlor, please, Mr. Baptiste, and be
seated." She hesitated between the davenport and the
chairs; while he, without ado, chose the davenport and be-
came seated, and the look he turned upon her commanded
more than words that she, too, be seated. With a little
hesitation, she finally sank on the davenport at a conven-
tional distance, beside him.

" I was not certain, judging by your last letter, just when
you would get here," she began timidly. He regarded her
out of his searching eyes attentively. He was weighing her
in the balance. He saw in those close glances what kind
of a girl she was, apparently, for, after a respite, he re-
laxed audibly, but kept his eyes on her nevertheless.

" I was not certain myself," he said. " I am so rushed
these days that I do not know always just what comes
next. But I am glad that I am here at last and to see
you looking so well."

They exchanged the usual words about the weather, and
other conventional notes, and then she called her mother.

" Mama, I wish you to meet Mr. Baptiste. Mr. Baptiste,
this is my mother."

" Mr. Baptiste," said her mother, giving him her hand,
" I am glad to know you."

" The same here, madam," he returned cheerfully.
" Guess your health is good ! "

" Very good, I'm glad to say."

They talked for a time, and all were cheered to find
themselves so agreeable.

" I think I can slightly recall your people, Mr. Baptiste,"
her mother remarked, thoughtfully. " My husband, Dr.
McCarthy," she said, giving him an honorary term, " pas-
tored the church in the town near where you were born,
many years ago."

" I do say," he echoed non-commitally.

" Do you recall it ? " she asked.

He appeared to be thinking. . . . He hardly knew what
to say, then, after some deliberation he brightened and
said : " I think I do. I was very young then, but I think
I do recall your husband. . . ."

" Your name the name of your family has always re-
mained in my mind," said she then, reflectively.

" Indeed. It is a rather peculiar name."

" It is so, I should say," she cried. " If it is quite fair,
may I ask where or how your father came by such a
name?"

" Oh, it is very simple. My father, of course, was born a
slave like most almost all Negroes previous to the war
and took the name from his master who I suppose was of
French descent."

" Oh, that explains it. Of course that is natural. M-m ;
but it's a beautiful name, I must say."

He smiled.

" It is an illustrious name, also," she commented further.

" But the man who carries it in this instance, is much to
the contrary notwithstanding," he laughed depreciatingly.

" It is a very beautiful day without, my dear," she said,
addressing her daughter, " and perhaps Mr. Baptiste might
like to walk out and see some of the town."

" I most assuredly would," he cried, glad of something
for a change. He was restless, and estimated that if he
felt the air, with her at his side, it might help him.

Orlean arose, went upstairs, and returned shortly wear-
ing a large hat that set off her features. He rather liked
her under it, and when they walked down the street
together, he was conscious of an air of satisfaction.

" Where would you like to go ? " she asked as they neared
the intersection.

" For a car ride on the elevated," he replied promptly.

" Then we will go right down this street. This is Thirty-
third, and there's an elevated station a few blocks from
here."

They walked along leisurely, she listening attentively,
while he talked freely of the West, his life there and what
he was doing. When they reached the L. he assisted her
upstairs to the station, and in so doing touched her arm for
the first time. The contact gave him a slight sensation but
he felt more easy when they had entered the car and taken
a seat together. A moment later they were gazing out over
the great city below as the cars sped through the air.

It was growing dark when they returned, and she invited
him to dinner. He accepted and thereupon met Ethel and
her husband.

Ethel was all pomp and ceremony, while her husband,
with his cue from her, acted in the same manner, and they
rather bored Jean Baptiste with their airs. He was glad
when the meal was over. He followed Orlean back to the
parlor, where they took a seat on the davenport again, and
drew closer to her this time. Soon she said : " Do you
play?"

" Lord, no ! " he exclaimed ; " but I shall be glad to listen
to you."

" I can't play much," she said modestly ; " but I will
play what little I know." Thereupon she became seated
and played and sang, he thought, very well. After she
had played a few pieces, she turned and looked up at him,
and he caught the full expression of her eyes. He could
see that they were tender eyes ; eyes behind which there was
not apparently the force of will that he desired ; but Orlean
McCarthy was a fine girl. She was fine because she was
not wicked; because she was intelligent and had been care-
fully reared; she was fine because she had never cultivated
the society of undesirable or common people; but she was
not a fine girl because she had a great mind, or great
ability; or because she had done anything illustrious. And
this Jean Baptiste, a judge of human nature could readily
see ; but he would marry her, he would be good to her ; and
she would, he hoped, never have cause to regret having
married him. And thereupon he bent close to her, took
her chin in his hand and kissed her upon the lips. She
turned away when he had done this. In truth she was
not expecting such from him and knew not just how to
accept it. Her lips burned with a new sensation; she had
a peculiar feeling about the heart. She arose and went to
the piano and her fingers wandered idly over the keys as
she endeavored to still her beating heart.

Shortly she felt his hand upon her shoulder and she
turned to hear him say :

" Won't you come back into the parlor ? I would like
to speak to you ? "

She consented without hesitation, and arising followed
him timidly back to the seat they had occupied a few minutes
before. Again seated he drew closely but did not deign
to place his arm about her, looked toward the rear of the
house where the others were, and, seeing that the doors
were closed between them, sighed lightly and turned to her.

" Now, Miss McCarthy," he began, evenly. " I am going
to say something to you that I have never said to a woman
before." He paused while she waited with abated breath.

" I haven't known you long ; but that is not the point.
What I should say is, that in view of our brief corre-
spondence, it will perhaps appear rather bold of me to say
what I wish to. Yet, there comes a time in life when cir-
cumstances alter cases.

" Now, to be frank, I have always regarded matrimony as
a business proposition, and while sentiment is a very great
deal in a way, business considerations should be the first
expedient/' She was all attention. She was peculiarly
thrilled. It was wonderful to listen to him, she thought,
and not for anything would she interrupt him. But what
did he mean ; what was he going to say.

"Well, I, Miss McCarthy, need a wife. I want a wife;
but my life has not been lived where social intercourse with
girls of my race has been afforded, as you might under-
stand." She nodded understandingly, sympathetically.
Her woman's nature was to sympathize, and what she did
was only natural with all women.

" It has not been my privilege to know any girl of my
race intimately; I am not, as I sit here beside you able to
conscientiously, or truly, go to one and say : ' I love you,
dear, and want you to be my wife/ in the conventional
sense. Therefore, can I be forgiven if I say to you; if I
ask you, Miss McCarthy," and so saying, he turned to her,
his face serious, " to become my wife ? "

He had paused, and her soul was afire. Was this a
proposal or was it a play? For a time she was afraid to
say anything. She wouldn't say no, and she was afraid to
say yes, until well, until she was positive that he had
actually asked her to marry him. As it was, she hesitated.
But it was so wonderful she thought. It was so beautiful to
be so near such a wonderful young man, such a strong young
man. The young men she had known had not been like this
one. And, really, she wanted to marry. She was twenty-
six, and since her sister had married, she had found life
lonely. To be a man's wife and go and live alone with him
must be wonderful. She was a reader, and he had sent her
books. In all books and life and everything there was love.
And love always had its climax in a place where one lived
alone with a man. Oh, glorious ! She was ready to listen
to anything he had to say.

" Now, I do not profess love to you, Miss McCarthy, in
trying to make this clear. I could not, and be truthful.
And I have always tried to be truthful. Indeed, I could
not feel very happy, I am sure, unless I was truthful. To
pretend that which I am not is hypocrisy, and I despise a
hypocrite. I am an owner of land in the West, and I be-
lieve you will agree with me, that it behooves any Negro
to acquire all he can. We are such a race of paupers!
We own so little, and have such little prestige. Thankfully,
I am at present, on the high road to success, and, because
of that, I want a wife, a dear, kind girl as a mate, the most
natural thing in the world." She nodded unaware. What
he was saying had not been said to her in that way ; but the
way he said it was so much to the point. She had not been
trained to observe that which was practical; indeed, her
father was regarded as a most impractical man; but she
liked this man beside her now, and was anxious for him to
go on. He did.

" I own 520 acres of very valuable land, and have con-
summated a deal for 480 more acres. This land is divided
into tracts of 160 acres each, and must be homesteaded be-
fore the same is patented.

" Now, my grandmother, and also a sister are already in
the West, and will homestead on two places. The other, I
have arranged for you. The proceeding is simple. It will
be necessary only for you to journey out West, file on this
land as per my directions, after which we can be married
any time after, and we can then live together on your
claim. Do you understand? "

" I think so," she said a bit falteringly.

" Now, my dear, do not feel that I am a charter bar-
terer; we can simply acquire a valuable tract of land by
this process and be as we would under any other circum-
stances. Once you were out there all would be very plain
to you, but at this distance, it is perhaps foreign to you, that
I understand."

She looked up into his face trustingly. Right then she
wanted him to kiss her. It was all so irregular; but he
was a man and she a maid, and she had never had a love.
. . . He seemed to understand, and passionately he caught
her to him, and kissed her many, many times.

It was all over then, as far as she was concerned. She
had not said yes or no with words, but her lips had been her
consent, and she knew she would love him. It was the
happiest hour in the simple life she had lived, and she was
ready to become his forever.


[CHAPTER V: A PROPOSAL; A PROPOSITION; A CERTAIN MRS. PRUITT AND A LETTER]

"MAMA, Mr. Baptiste has asked me to marry
him," cried Orlean, rushing into the room and to
the bed where her mother lay reading, after Jean
Baptiste had left.

" Why, my child, this this is rather sudden, is it not ?
Mr. Baptiste has known you only a few months and has
been corresponding with you just a little while," her mother
said with some excitement, suddenly sitting erect in the bed.

" Yes, mama, what you say is true, but he explained. He
said well, I can't quite explain, but he he wants to
marry me, mama, and you know well, mama, you under-
stand, don't you ? "

" Yes, I understand. All girls want husbands, but it must
be regular. So take off your clothes, dear, get into bed
and tell me just what Mr. Baptiste did say."

The other did as instructed, and as best she could, tried
to make plain what Jean had said to her regarding the land
and all. She didn't make it very plain, and the matter
rather worried her, but the fact that he had asked her
to marry him, was uppermost in her mind, and she finally
went to sleep happier than she had ever been in her life
before.

" Now, when the young man calls today, you will have
him take his business up with me," her mother instructed
judiciously the following morning.

" He will explain it all, mama. He can do so very
easily/' she said, glad to be relieved of the difficult task.
Yet she bad her worries withal. Her mother was a very
difficult person to explain anything to ; besides, Orlean knew
her mother was in constant fear of her father who was a
Presiding Elder, traveling over the southern part of the
state, and who came into the city only every few months.
And if her mother was hard to make understand anything,
her father was worse and business, he knew next to noth-
ing about although he was then five and fifty.

Jean Baptiste had accomplished a great many more diffi-
cult tasks than explaining to his prospective mother-in-law
in regard to the land. When she seemed to have sensed
what it all meant, he observed that she would give a peculiar
little start, and he would have to try it all over again. In
truth she understood better than she appeared to ; but it was
the girl's father whom she feared to anger for in all
her life she had never been able to please him.

But she found a way out along late that afternoon when
a caller was announced.

The visitor was a woman possessed of rare wits, and of
all the people that Mrs. McCarthy disliked, and of all who
disliked Mrs. McCarthy, Mrs. Pruitt was the most pro-
nounced. Yet, it was Mrs. Pruitt who settled the difficulty
and saved the day for Orlean and Jean Baptiste. But as to
why Mrs. Pruitt should dislike Mrs. McCarthy, and Mrs.
McCarthy should dislike Mrs. Pruitt, there is a story that
was known among all their friends and acquaintances.

When Miss Rankin had said what she did about Rev.
N. J. McCarthy, she had not told all, nor had she referred
to any woman in particular. She was not a scandal monger.
But she knew as all Chicago knew, that in so far as the
parties in question were concerned there was a friendship

between Mrs. Pruitt and the Reverend that was rather sub-
tle, and had been for years. And it was this which caused
the two mentioned to dislike each other with an -unspoken
hatred.

But Mrs. McCarthy trusted Orlean's going eight hun-
dred miles west to file on a homestead, and what might
come of it, to Mrs. Pruitt rather than to herself. While she
could was aware of it she did not dare venture any-
thing to the contrary where it might come back to her hus-
band's ears, she knew Mrs. Pruitt had more influence with
her husband than had she. . . . Therefore when she in-
vited Jean Baptiste to meet Mrs. Pruitt, who had met him
years before, she breathed a sigh of relief.

It was over in a few hours. Mrs. Pruitt would accom-
pany Orlean to the West and back, with Jean Baptiste pay-
ing expenses, and preparations were made thereto.

In two days they had reached Gregory where the great
land excitement was on. From over all the country people
had gathered, and the demand for the land had reached
its greatest boom since Jean Baptiste had come to the
country.

His sister and grandmother had arrived during his ab-
sence, and, after greeting them, he was handed a letter,
which read :

My dear Mr. Baptiste:

Your most delightful letter was received by me today, and
that you may see just how much I appreciate it, I am an-
swering at once and hope you will receive the same real
soon.

To begin with : the reason I have not answered sooner is
quite obvious. I was away on a short visit, and only re-
turned home today, to find that your most interesting letter
had been here several days. Think of it, and I would have
given most anything to have had it sooner.

Well, in reference to what you intimated in your letter
regarding the land up there, I am deeply interested. Noth-
ing strikes my fancy so much as homesteading which I
think you meant. I would the best in the world like to hold
down a claim, and am sure I would make a great home-
steader. But why write more! An hour with you will
explain matters more fully than a hundred letters, so I will
close with this : You hinted about coming down, and my in-
vitation is to do so, and do so at your earliest possible con-
venience. I am waiting with great anxiety your honored
appearance.

In the meantime, trusting that you are healthy, hopeful
and happy, please believe me to be,

Cordially, sincerely and anxiously yours,

IRENE GREY.

He regarded the letter a little wistfully, and the next
moment tore it to bits, flung it to the winds, and went about
his business.

[CHAPTER VI: THE PRAIRIE FIRE]

MOTHER grabbed me, kissed and hugged me
time and again when I returned," Jean Baptiste read in the letter he received from his wife-to-be
a few days after she had returned to the windy city, and he
was satisfied. " She had been so worried, you see, because
she had written father nothing about it, and this was the
first time in her married life that she has dared do anything
without a long consultation with him. But she is glad I
went now, and thinks you are a very sensible fellow there-
for. Papa sent a telegram advising that he had been reap-
pointed Presiding Elder over the same district, and would
come into Chicago for a few days before entering into an-
other year of the work.

" I am deluged with questions regarding the West, and
it gives me a great deal of pleasure to explain everything,
and of the wonderful work you are doing. Now, papa will
be home in a few days, and, knowing how hard he is to
explain anything to, I am preparing myself for quite a
task. I will close now. With love and kisses to you, be-
lieve me to be,

" Your own,

" ORLEAN."

Jean now went about his duties. His sister and grand-
mother were with him, and he had planned to put them on
their claims at once, so as to enable them to prove up as

soon as possible. Therefore to their places he hauled lum-
ber, coal and provisions. Their claims lay some forty-five
miles to the northwest beyond the railroad which now had
its terminus at Dallas. And, referring to that, we have not
found occasion to mention what had taken place in the
country in the two years passed.

When the railroad had missed Dallas and struck Gregory
and the other two government townsites, Dallas was ap-
parently doomed, and in a few months most of the busi-
ness men had gone, and the business buildings, etc., had
been moved to Gregory. This town, because of the fact
that it was only five miles from the next county line the
county that had been opened and which contained the land
that Jean Baptiste had secured for his relatives and bride
was, for a time, expected to become the terminus. And
to this end considerable activity had transpired with a view
to getting the heavy trade that would naturally come with
the opening and settlement of the county west, which had
twice the area of the county in which Gregory lay.

Now, it was shortly after the railroad was under course
of construction that one, the chief promoter of the town-
site, called on the " town Dad's " of Gregory with a prop-
osition. The proposition was, in short, to move Dallas to
Gregory, and thereupon combine in making Gregory a real
city.

Unfortunately for Gregory, her leaders were men who
had grown up in a part of the country where the people
did not know all they might have known. They consisted in
a large measure of rustic mountebanks, who, because, and
only because, Gregory happened to have been in the direct
line of the railroad survey, and had thereby secured the
road, took unto themselves the credit of it all. So, instead
of entertaining the offer in a logical, business and appreci-
ative manner, gave the promoter the big haw! haw! and
turned their backs to him.

There was a spell of inactivity for a time on the part of
the said promoter. But in the fall, when the ground had
frozen hard, and the corn was being gathered, all that was
left in the little town of Dallas, laying beside the claim of
Jean Baptiste, was suddenly hauled five miles west of the
town of Gregory. And still before the Gregory illogics
had time even to think clearly, business was going on in
what they then chose to call New Dallas and the same
lay directly on the line of the two counties, and where the
railroad survey ended.

It is needless to detail the excitement which had followed
this. " Lies, lies, liars ! " were the epithets hurled from
Gregory. " The railroad is in Gregory to stay ; to stay
for" oh, they couldn't say how many years, perhaps a
hundred; but all that noise to the west was a bluff, a
simon pure bluff, and that ended it. That is, until they
started the same noise over again. But it had not been a
bluff. The tracks had been laid from Gregory to Dallas
early in the spring that followed, and now Dallas was the
town instead of Gregory, and the boom that had followed
the building of the town, is a matter never to be forgotten
in the history of the country.

Gregory's one good fortune was that she had secured the
land office which necessitated that all filings should be en-
tered there, and in this way got more of the boom that was
occasioned by the land opening at the west than it had ex-
pected to when the railroad company had pushed its way
west out of the town.

It was about this time while great excitement was on and
thousands of people were in the town of Dallas that some-
thing occurred that came near literally wiping that town
off the map. Jean Baptiste had loaded his wagons and
was on the way from his land to the claims of his sister
when the same came to pass.

The greatest danger in a new country comes after the
grass has died in the fall and before the new grass starts
in the spring. But in the fall when the grass is dry and
crisp, and the surface below is warm and dry, is the time of
prairie fires. No time could have been more opportune for
such an episode than the time now was. The wind had been
blowing for days and days, and had made the short grass
very brittle, and the surface below as hot as in July. Jean
Baptiste was within about a mile of where New Dallas
now reposed vaingloriously on a hillside, her many new
buildings rising proudly, defiantly, as if to taunt and annoy
Gregory, against the skyline, when with the wind greeting
him, he caught the smell of burning grass. He reached a
hillside presently, and from there he could see for miles to
the west beyond, and the sight that met his gaze staggered
him.

" A prairie fire," he cried apprehensively, and urged his
teams forward toward Dallas. One glance had been suffi-
cient to convince him what it might possibly mean. A
prairie fire with the wind behind it as this was, would
bid no good for Dallas, and once there he could be of a little
service, since he knew how to fight it.

When he arrived at the outskirts of the embryo city, he
was met by a frightened herd of humanity. With bags and
trunks and all they could carry ; with eyes wide, and mouths
gaped, in terror they were hurrying madly from the town
to an apparent place of safety a plowed field nearby.
Miles to the west the fire and smoke rose in great, dark
reddened clouds, and cast even at that distance, dark
shadows over the little city. As he drew into the town,
he could see a line of figures working at fire breaks before
the gloom. They were the promoters and the townspeople,
and he imagined how they must feel with death possible
and destruction, positive, coming like an angry beast di-
rectly upon them.

Soon, Jean Baptiste, with wet horse blankets, was with
them on the firing line. The speed at which the wind was
driving the fire was ominous. Soon all the west was as if
lost in the conflagration, for the sun, shining out of a clear
sky an hour before was now shut out as if clouds were over
all. The dull roar and crackle of the burning grass brought
a feeling of awe over all before it. The heat became, after
a time, intense; the air was surcharged with soot, and the
little army worked madly at the firebreaks.

Rolling, tumbling, twisting, turning, but always coming
onward, the hurricane presently struck the fire guards. In
that moment it was seen that a mass of thistles, dried
manure, and all refuse from the prairie was sweeping be-
fore it, as if to draw the fire onward. The fire plunged
over the guards as though they had not been made, pushed
back the little army and rushed madly into the town.

It was impossible now to do more. The conflagration
was beyond control. Now in the town, an effort was there-
fore made to get the people out of their houses where some
had even hidden when it appeared that all would be swept
away in the terrible deluge of fire. One, two, three, four,
five, six ten houses went up like chaff,, and the populace
groaned, when, of a sudden, something happened. Like
Napoleon's army at Waterloo there was a quick change.
One of those rare freaks but what some chose to claim
in after years as the will of the Creator in sympathy
with the hopeful builders, the wind gradually died down,
whipped around, and in less than five minutes, was blowing
from the east, almost directly against its route of a few
minutes before. The fire halted, seemed to hesitate, and
then like some cowardly thing, turned around and started
back of the same ground it had raged over where it
lingered briefly, sputtered, flickered, and then quickly died.
And the town, badly frightened, hard worked, but thankful
withal, was saved.

[CHAPTER VII: VANITY]

"FATHER is home, and, oh ! but he did carry on
when he was informed regarding my trip West
to take the homestead," Orlean wrote her be-
trothed in her next letter. " He was so much upset over it
that he went out of the house and walked in the street for
a time to still his intense excitement. When he returned,
however, he listened to my explanation, and, after a time,
I was pleased to note that he was pacified. And still later
he was pleased, and when a half day had passed he was
tickled to death.

" Of course I was relieved then also, and now I am
fully satisfied. I have not written you as soon as I should
have on this account. I thought it would be best to wait
until papa had heard the news and was settled on the matter,
which he now is. He has written you and I think you
should receive the letter about the same time you will this.
He has never been anxious in his simple old heart for me
to marry, but of course he understands that I must some
day, and now that I am engaged to you, he appears to be
greatly pleased.

" By the way, I have not received the ring yet, and am
rather anxious. Of course I wish to be quite reasonable,
but on the whole, a girl hardly feels she's engaged until she
is wearing the ring, you know. Write me a real sweet
letter, and make it long. In the meantime remember me as
one who thinks a great deal of you,

" From your fond,

" ORLEAN."

Baptiste heard from his father-in-law-to-be in due time,
and read the letter carefully, replying to the same forth-
with.

We should record before going further that the incident
which had happened between them in his youth had been
almost as completely buried as it had been before the day
of its recent resurrection. In his reply he stated that he
would come into the city Xmas, which meant of course,
that they would meet and come to understand each other
better. He was glad that the formalities were in part
through with, and would be glad when it was over. He
did not appreciate so much ado where so little was repre-
sented, as it were. He had it from good authority without
inquiry that the Reverend McCarthy had never possessed
two hundred dollars at one time in his life, and the formali-
ties he felt compelled to go through with far exceeded that
amount already. And with this in mind he began gather-
ing his corn crop which he had been delayed in doing on
account of the stress of other more urgent duties.

He had been at work but a few days when snow began to
fall. For days it fell from a northwesterly direction, and
then turning, for a week came from an easterly direction.
This kept up until the holidays arrived, therefore most of
the corn crop over all the country was caught and remained
in the field all the winter through. By the hardest work his
sister and grandmother succeeded in reaching his place from
their homesteads, and stayed there while he went into
Chicago.

" Mr. Baptiste, please meet my father," said Orlean when
he called, following his arrival in the city again. He looked
up to find a tall, dark but handsome old man extending his
hand. He regarded him, studied him carefully in a flash,
and in doing so his mind went back twenty years ; to a
memorable day when he had been punished and had fol-
lowed it by running away. He extended his hand and
grasped the other's, and wondered if he also remem-
bered. . . . They exchanged greetings, and if the other re-
called him, he gave no evidence of the fact in his expres-
sion.

When he had sat beside the teacher, such a long time
before, Baptiste recalled now, that at the back of the other's
head there had been a white spot where the hair was chang-
ing color; but now this spot spread over all the head, and
the hair was almost as white as snow. With his dark skin,
this formed a contrast that gave the other a distinguished
appearance which was noticeably striking. But his eyes did
not meet with Baptiste's favor, though he was not inclined
to take this seriously. But as he continued to glance at
him at times during the evening he did not fail to see that
the other seemed never to look straight and frankly into
his eyes ; and there was in his gaze and expression when he
met Baptiste, so Baptiste thought a peculiar lurking, as
if some hidden evil were looking out of the infinite depths
of the other's soul. It annoyed Baptiste because every
time he caught the other's gaze he recalled the incident of
twenty years before, and wanted to forget it; declared he
would forget it, and to that task he set himself, and ap-
parently succeeded while in the city.

With Ethel and her husband, whose name was Glavis, he
never got along at all. Ethel was pompous, and known
to be .disagreeable ; while Glavis was narrow, and a victim

of his wife's temper and disposition. So unless the talk
was on society and " big " Negroes, which positively did not
interest Jean Baptiste, who was practical to the superlative,
there was no agreement.

So when Jean Baptiste returned West, he was conscious
of a great relief.

The severe winter passed at last and with early spring
everybody completed the gathering of the corn and immedi-
ately turned to seeding their crops. Work was plentiful
everywhere, and to secure men to complete gathering his
crop of corn, Baptiste had the greatest difficulty. Stewarts
had failed to secure any land at all either of the fpur in
the drawing, and, being unable to purchase relinquishments
on even one quarter at the large sum demanded therefor, had
gone toward the western part of the state and taken free
homesteads. As for Agnes, she had apparently passed out
of his life.

He labored so hard in the cold, wet muddy fields in try-
ing to get his corn out that he was taken ill, and was not
able to work at all for days, and while so, he wrote his
fiancee his troubles; and that since he was so indisposed,
with a world of work and expense upon him she would do
him a great favor if she would consent to come to him and
be married.

Now the McCarthys had given Ethel a big wedding al-
though her husband received only thirteen dollars a week for
his work. Two hundred dollars, so it was reported, had
been expended on the occasion. Such display did not appeal
to the practical mind of Jean. He had lived his life too
closely in accomplishing his purpose to become at this late
day a victim of such simple vanity ; the ultra simple vanity
of aping the rich. Upon this point his mind was duly set.
The McCarthys had started to buy a home the summer be-
fore which was quite expensive, and had entered into the
contract with a payment of three hundred dollars. The
Reverend had borrowed a hundred dollars on his life insur-
ance and paid this in, while Glavis had paid another. Ethel
had used what money she had saved teaching, to expend in
the big wedding, so Orlean had paid the other hundred out
of the money she had saved teaching school.

Now, if there was any big wedding for Orlean, then he,
Jean Baptiste, knew that he would be expected to stand
the expense. Therefore, Baptiste tried to make plain to
Orlean in his letters the gravity of his position. She would
be compelled to establish residence on her homestead early
in May, and this was April, or forfeit her right and sacrifice
all he had put into it.

But Orlean became unreasonable Jean Baptiste rea-
soned. She set forth that she did not think it right for her
to go away out there and marry him; that he should
come to her. She seemed to have lost sense of all he had
written her, regarding the crops, responsibilities, and other
considerations. He wrote her to place it up to her mother
and father, which she did, to reply in the same tenor. They
had not agreed to it, either. He replied then heatedly, and
hinted that her father was not a business man else he would
have realized his circumstances, and, as man to man, appre-
ciated the same.

The next letter he received had enclosed the receipt for
the first payment of the purchase price of six dollars an acre,
a charge the government had made on the land, amount-
ing to some $210, in the first payment. She released him
from his promise but kept the ring.

" Now, don't that beat the devil ! " he exclaimed angrily,
when he read the letter. " As though this receipt is worth
anything to me; or that it would suffice to get back the
$2,000 I paid the man for the relinquishment. The only
thing that will suffice is, for her to go on the land, so I guess
I'll have to settle this nuisance at once by going to Chicago
and marrying her."

So he started for the Windy City.

At Omaha he sent a telegram to her to the effect that he
was on the way, and would arrive in the city on the
morrow.

He arrived. He called her up from the Northwestern
station, and she called back that it was settled; she had
given him her word. The engagement was off.

" Oh, foolish," he called jovially. ..." It isn't," she
called back angrily. ..." Well," said he, " I'll call and
see you. . . .'' " No need," she said. ..." But you'll see
me," he called. . . . "Yes, I'll see you. I'll do you that
honor. . . ."

Now when Jean Baptiste had called over the 'phone,
Glavis had answered the call, and thereupon had started an
argument that Orlean had concluded by taking the receiver
from his hand. Of course she had jilted Jean Baptiste and
had sent back the papers; moreover, she had declared she
would not marry him under any circumstances. But she
would attend to that herself and did not need the assistance
of her brother-in-law. . . .

Glavis was quite officious that morning acting under his
wife's orders. When the bell rang, although he should have
been at his work an hour* before he opened the door. Bap-
tiste was there and Glavis started to say something he felt
his wife would be pleased to know he said. But, being af-
fected with a slight impediment of speech, his tongue be-
came twisted and when he could straighten it out, Baptiste
had passed him and was on his way to the rear of the house
where Orlean stood pouting. Ethel stood near with her
lips protruding, and Mrs. McCarthy, whom he had termed,
" Little Mother Mary," stood nearby at a loss as to what
to say.

" Indeed, but it looks more like you were waiting for a
funeral than for me/' as he burst in upon them. Pausing
briefly, he observed the one who had declared everything
against him, turned her face away and refused to greet him.

"What's the matter, hon'," he said gaily and laughed, at
the same time gathering her into his arms.

" Will you look at that ! " exclaimed Ethel, ready to start
something. But Glavis, countered twice the morning so
soon, concluded at last that it was his time to keep his place.
So deciding, he cut his eyes toward Ethel, and said : " Now,
Ethel, this is no affair of yours/' and cautioned her still
more with his eyes.

" No, Ethel," commanded Orlean, " This is my affair.
I " she did not finish, because at that moment Jean Bap-
tiste had kissed her.

" It beats anything I ever witnessed," cried Ethel, almost
bursting to get started.

" Then don't witness it," said Glavis, whereupon he
caught her about the waist and urged her up the stairs and
locked her in their room.

" You've been acting something awful like," chided Bap-
tiste, with Orlean still in his arms. She did not answer
just then. She could not. She decided at that moment,
however, to take him into the parlor, and there tell him all
she said she would. Yes, she would do that at once. So
deciding, she caught him firmly by the arm, and com-
manded :

" Come, and I will get you told ! "

He followed meekly. When they reached the parlor she
was confronted with another proposition. Where would
they sit ? She glanced from the chairs to the davenport ; but
he settled it forthwith by settling upon the davenport. She
hesitated, but before she had reached a decision, she found
herself pulled down by his side and dreadfully close.
Well, she decided then, that this was better, after all, be-
cause, if she was close to him he could hear her better. She
would not have to talk so loud. She did not like loud talk-
ing. It was too " niggerish," and she did not like that.
But behold! He, as soon as she was seated, encircled her
waist with his arm. Dreadful! Then, before she could tell
him what she had made up all the night before to say to him,
she felt his lips upon hers and, my! they were so warm,
and tender and soft. She was confused. Ethel and her
father had said that the country where Jean lived was wild ;
that all the people in it were hard and coarse and rough
but Jean's kisses were warm, and soft and tender. She al-
most forgot what she had intended telling him. And just
then he caught her to him, and that felt so well, she
did not know could not say how it felt ; but she was for-
getting all she had planned to tell him. She heard his voice
presently, and for a moment she caught sight of his eyes.
They were real close to hers, and, oh, such eyes ! She had
not known he possessed such striking ones. How they
moved her! She was as if hypnotized, she could not
seem to break the spell, and in the meantime she was forget-
ting more of what she had made up her mind to say. He
spoke then, and such a wonderful voice he seemed to have !
How musical, how soft, how tender but withal, how
strong, how firm, how resolute and determined it was. She
was held in a thraldom of strange delight.

"What has been the matter with my little girl?" And
thereupon, as if they were not close enough, he gathered her
into his arms. Oh, what a thrill it gave her ! She had for-
gotten now, all she had had in mind to say and it would take
an hour or so, perhaps a day, to think and remember it all
over again. ..." Hasn't she wanted to see me ? Such
beautiful days are these ! Lovely, grand, glorious ! " She
looked out through the window. It was a beautiful day, in-
deed ! And she had not observed it before.

" And hear the birds singing in the trees," she heard.
And thereupon she listened a moment and heard the birds
singing. She started. Now she had felt she was thought-
ful. She really loved to listen to the twitter of birds and
it was springtime. It was life, and sunshine and happi-
ness. She had not heard the birds before that morning,
therefore it must have been because she had let anger rule
instead of sunshine. And as if he had read her thoughts,
she heard his voice again :

" And because you were angry gave in to evil angriness
and pouted instead of being cheerful, happy and gay, you
have failed to observe how beautiful the sun shone, and that
the birds were singing in the trees."

She felt was sensitive of a feeling of genuine
guilt.

" And away out west, where the sunshine kisses the earth,
and the wheat, the corn, the flax, and the oats grow green
in great fields, everybody there is about his duty ; for, when
the winter has been long, cold and dreary, the settlers must
stay indoors lest they freeze. So with such days as these
after the long, cold and dreary winters, everybody must be
up and doing. For if the crops are to mature in the autumn
time, they must be placed in the earth through seed in the
springtime. But there is, unfortunately, one settler, called
St. Jean Baptiste, by those who know him out there, who
is not in his fields ; his crops are not being sown ; his fields
wide, wide fields, which represent many thousands of
dollars, and long years of hard, hard work, are lying idle,
growing to wild weeds ! "

" But, Jean," she cried of a sudden. " It is not so? "

" Unfortunately it is so, my love ! "

" Then Jean you must go hurry, and sow your
crops, also ! " she echoed.

" For years and years has Jean Baptiste labored to get
his fields as they are. For, in the beginning, they were
wild, raw and unproductive, whereupon naught but coyotes,
prairie dogs and wild Indians lived ; where only a wild grass
grew weakly and sickly from the surface and yielded only
a prairie fire that in the autumn time burned all in its path ;
a land wherein no civilized one had resided since the begin-
ning of time."

"Oh, Jean!"

" And he has longed for woman's love. For, according
to the laws of the Christ, man should take unto himself a
wife, else the world and all its people, its activity, its future
will stop forthwith ! "

" You are so wonderful ! "

" Not wonderful, am I," quoth Baptiste. " Just a mite
practical."

" But it is wonderful anyhow, all you say ! "

" And yet my Orlean does not love me yet ! "

" I didn't say that," she argued, thinking of what she had
written him.

" Since therefore she has not said it, then methinks that
she does not."

" I I oh, you are awful ! "

" And she will not go to live alone with me and share my
life and my love ! "

"I oh, I didn't say I wouldn't do all that." She was
done for then. She had shot her last defense.

" Then you will ? " he asked anxiously. " You will go
back with me, and be mine, all mine and love me forever? "

She sought his lips and kissed him then, and he arose
and caught her close to him and kissed her again and looked
into her eyes, and she was then all his own.