"T T ELLO, JEAN," cried a friend of his at Colome some days later, as he was leading his horses into the livery barn, after loading the coal he was hauling to the men who were breaking prairie on his sister's claim with a steam tractor. " Were those your folks I seen driving into town a while ago? "

"My folks?"

"Yeh. Three of them. A man and two women. One
of the ladies appears to be sick."

"Oh," he echoed, and before he could or would have answered in his sudden surprise, the other passed on. It was
some moments before he recovered from the shock the
other's words had given him. He knew without stopping to
think that the ones referred to were the Reverend, Ethel and
his wife. He had written his wife a few days before that
he would be home the following Sunday, and when he would
be caught up in his hauling sufficiently and could spend a
few days there.

"So he moves without my consent or bid," he breathed,
and for a time he was listless from the feeling that overcame him. He attended to his horses, mechanically, had
supper and went to verify what he had heard.

He had little difficulty in doing so, for the town was small,
but that night, happened to be full of people, and the Reverend had found some difficulty in securing lodging. The
day had not been a beautiful one by any means. It was in early April and the month had borrowed one of the dreary
days of the previous month. Light snow had fallen, which,
along toward evening had turned into a dismal sleet. A bad
day to say the least, to be out, and a sick person of all things!

He went directly to the preacher when he saw him. He
was aroused, and the insults he had suffered did not make
him pleasant.

"Now, look here, Reverend McCarthy" he said and his
tone revealed his feelings," what kind of a stunt are you
pulling off with my wife? " And he blocked his way where
they stood upon the sidewalk.

"Now, now, my son"

"Oh, don't 'son' me," said the other impatiently. "You
and I might as well come to an understanding right here to-
night as any other time. We are not friends and you know
it. We have never since we have known each other been
in accord not since we met yes, twenty-two years ago.
Oh, you remember it." The other started guiltily when Jean
referred to his youth.

"You remember how my mother licked me for letting
Miss Self help me upon her lap and fed me, thereby disturbing your illegitimate flirtation. . . ." The other's pious
face darkened. But it was not his nature to meet and argue
openly as men should and do. Always his counter was
subtle. So while Jean Baptiste was in the mood to come to
an understanding, to admit frankly to the other, that enemies
they were, the Elder permitted a womanish smile to spread
over his face and patted the other on the back, saying:

"Now, now, Jean. You are my daughter's husband, and
it is no time or place to carry on like this. The girl lays
sick over here and if you would be a husband you would go
to her. Now let's dispense with such things as you refer
to and go forth to the indisposed." He appeared more
godly now than he had ever. Distrust was in the face of
Baptiste. He knew the preacher was not sincere, but his
wife, the girl he had married, lay ill. He suspicioned that
the Elder had intended stealing her away without his knowledge; he knew, moreover, that all his affected tenderness was subtle; but he hushed the harsh words that were on his tongue to say and followed the other.

"Yes, my children," his pious face almost unable to veil
the evil behind the mask, " here we are together," he said
when he entered the room followed by Baptiste. Orlean was
in bed and made no effort to greet her husband; while Ethel
sat sulkily in a chair nearby and kept her mouth closed.
Jean went to the bed and sat by his wife and regarded her
meditatively. She did not seem to recognize him, and he
made no effort to arouse her to express her thoughts which
seemed to come and go. He was lost in thoughts, strange
and sinister. Verily his life was in a turmoil. The life he
had come into through his marriage had revived so many
old and unpleasant memories that he had forgotten, until he
was in a sort of daze. He had virtually run away from
those parts wherein he had first seen the light of day, to
escape the effect of dull indolence; the penurious evil that
seemed to have gripped the populace, especially a great portion of his race. In the years Jean Baptiste had spent in
the West, he had been able to follow, unhampered, his convictions. But now, the Reverend's presence seemed to have
brought all this back.

In a conversation one day with that other he had occasion to mention the late James J. Hill, in his eulogy of the
northwest and was surprised to find and have the Reverend admit that he had never even heard of him. In-
deed, what the Elder knew about the big things in life would
have filled a very small book. But when it came to the virtues of the women in the churches over which he presided, he knew everything. And whenever they had become
agreeable in any way, it was sure to end with the Reverend
relating incidents regarding the social and moral conduct
of the women in the churches over which he presided.
Moreover, the Elder sought in his subtle manner, to dig into
the past life of members of Baptiste's family, of what any
had committed that could be used as a measure for gossip.
And this night, as they sat over Jean's wife whose sentiment
and convictions had been crushed, the Elder attempted to
dwell on the subject again.

"Yes, when your older sister taught in Murphysboro, and
got herself talked about because she drew a revolver on
Professor Alexander, that was certainly too bad."

"Looks as if she was able to take care of herself," suggested Baptiste, deciding to counter the old rascal at his own
game.

"But that's what I'm trying to show you, and you could
see it if you wasn't inclined to be so hard headed," argued
the Elder.

"We'll leave personalities out of it, if you please," said
Baptiste, coloring.

"Oh, but if your sister had had protection, such a deplorable incident would not have happened. Now, for in-
stance," argued the Elder, " my girls have never had their
good names embarrassed with such incidents."

"Oh, they haven't," cried Baptiste, all patience gone.
"Then what about their half brother in East St. Louis, eh?
And the other one who died was stabbed to death. Those
were yours, and you were never married to their mother!"

The other's face became terrible. The expression upon
his face was dreadful to behold. He started to rise, but Baptiste was not through. He was thoroughly aroused now,
and all he had stood from this arch sinner had come back
to him. Therefore, before the other could deny or do any-
thing, said he:

"Oh, you needn't try to become so upset over it. Your
morals are common knowledge to all the people of Illinois,
and elsewhere. And let me tell you, you can as you have
in your family, force those who know it and condemn it
to keep quiet by making yourself so disagreeable that they
will honey you up to get along with you. But it is not be-
cause they, or all those who know you, are not aware of it!
That's your reputation, and some day you are going to suffer
for it. You deliberately make people miserable to satisfy
your infernal vanity; your desire to be looked upon and
called great. Now right here you are bent upon crucifying
your own daughter's happiness just because I haven't tickled
your rotten vanity, and lied." He arose now, and pointed a
threatening finger at the other.

"You are out to injure me, and you are taking advantage of your own child's position as my wife to do so. I'm
going to let you go ahead. Orlean's a good girl, but she's
weak like the mother that you have abused for thirty years !
But remember this, N. J. McCarthy, and I've called you
Reverend for the last time. The evil that you do unto
others will some day be done unto you and will drag your
ornery heart in its own blood. Mark my words!" And the
next instant he was gone.

The other looked after him uneasily. The truth had
come so forcibly, so impulsively, so abruptly, that it had
for the time overcome his cunningness; but only for a
moment after the other had disappeared was he so. He
regained his usual composure soon enough, and he turned to the sick woman for succor to her whom he was dragging down to the gutter of misery for his own self
aggrandizement.

"Did you hear how he abused your father?" he cried,
the tears from his piggish eyes falling on her cheeks. She
reached and stroked his white hair, and mumbled weak
words.

"Oh, I never thought I would come to this be brought
to this through the daughter that I have loved so much. Oh,
poor me, your poor old father," whereupon he wept bitterly.

"You see, you see," cried Ethel, who had risen and stood
over her, pointing her finger to Orlean as she lay upon the
bed. " This is what comes of marrying that man ! I tried,
oh, I tried so hard to have you see that no good could come
of it, no good at all!" The other sighed. She was too
weak from mortification to reply in the affirmative, or the
negative.

"I tried, and I tried to have you desist, but you would!
When I had at last gotten you to quit him, and you swore
you had, no sooner did he come and place his arm about you
and whisper fool things in your ear, than did you but up
and consent to this. This, this, do you hear? This that
has brought your poor father to that!" and she stopped to
point to where that one lay stretched across the bed, sobbing.

The night was one long, miserable, quarrelsome night.
Ethel and the Elder wore themselves out abusing Baptiste,
and along toward morning all fell into a troubled sleep.

Baptiste met them the next morning as they came from
the rooms, and helped his wife across the street to a restaurant. When they had finished the meal, he said to her as
they came from the restaurant,

"Now, dear, I'll step into the bank here and get you
some money."

"No, no, no, Jean," she said quickly, cutting him off be-
fore he completed what he had started to say.

"Well," and he started toward the bank again as if he
had not understood her.

"No, no, no, Jean," she repeated, and caught his arm
nervously. "No, don't! "

"But you are going away, dear, and will surely need
money?" he insisted.

"Yes, but Jean Jean I have money."

" You have money?" repeated the other uncomprehendingly." But how came you with money? That much
money?"

"I had a check cashed. That is papa had
one cashed for me."

"Oh, so that was it. M-m. Your father had it cashed
for you?" he understood then, and his suspicion that the
Elder had intended taking her to Chicago without letting
him know it was confirmed. They walked down the street
toward the depot, and while she held nervously to his arm,
his mind was concerned with his thoughts. It occurred to
him that he should take his wife back to the claim right then.
He felt that if she went to Chicago there would be trouble.
He began slowly to appreciate that in dealing with Reverend
McCarthy he was not dealing with a man; nor a near man.
He was not dealing with a mere liar, or a thief, even he
was dealing with the lowest of all reptiles, a snake! Then
why did not he, Jean Baptiste, act?

Perhaps if he had, we should never have had this story
to tell. Jean Baptiste did not act. He decided to let her
go. Beyond that he had no decision. It seemed that his
mind would not work beyond the immediate present. Soon
she heard him, as she clung to his arm, allowing her body to
rest against his shoulder:

" How much for, Orlean? "

" Two -- two -- hundred dollars."

Why two hundred dollars!" he cried. "Why, Orlean, what has come over you?" She burst into tears then,
and clung appealingly to him. And in that moment she was
again his God-given mate.

"Besides," he went on, " I haven't such an amount in the
bank, even." He looked up. A half a block in their lead
walked Reverend McCarthy, carrying the luggage.

" Papa, p-a-pa!" called Orlean at the top of her voice.
Pa-p-a," she called again and again until she fell into a fit of
coughing. He halted, and was uneasy, Baptiste could see.
They came up to him. Orlean was running despite her
husband's effort to hold her back.

" Papa, papa ! My God, give Jean back that money.
Give it back, I say! Oh, I didn't want to do this, oh, I
didn't want to! It was you who had me sign that check,
you, you, you!" She was overcome then, and fell into a
swoon in her husband's arms. He stood firmly, bravely,
then like the Rock of Gibraltar. His face was very hard,
it was very firm. His eyes spoke. It told the one before
him the truth, the truth that was.

And as the other ran his hand to his inside vest pocket
and drew forth the money, he kept saying in a low, cowardly
voice :

"It was her, it was her. She did it, she did it!"

Baptiste took the money. He looked at it. He took fifty
dollars from it and handed the amount to the other. He
spoke then, in a voice that was singularly dry:

"I will not keep her from going. She can go; but you
know I ought not let her."

They carried her to where the cars stood, and made her
comfortable when once inside. She opened her eyes when he was about to leave upon hearing the conductor's call.
She looked up into his eyes. He bent and kissed her. She
looked after him as he turned, and called : "Jean!"

"Yes, Orlean!"

"Goodby!"

He stood on the platform of the small western station
as the train pulled down the track. A few moments later
it disappeared from view, and she was gone.