The Dim Lantern. Temple Bailey

      He shook his head. “I didn’t say it for that. I just had to have the truth between us. And I don’t want—pity. If—if I ever get back—I’ll make you love me, Jane.” There was a hint of his old masterfulness—and she was thrilled by it.

      She withdrew her hand and stood up. “Then I’ll—pray—that you—get back——”

      “Do you mean it, Janey?”

      “I mean it, Evans.”

      “Then pray good and hard, my dear, for I’m going to do it.”

      They smiled at each other, but it was a sacred moment.

      The things they did after that were rendered unimportant by the haze of enchantment which hung over Evans’ revelation. No man can tell a woman that he loves her, no woman can listen, without a throbbing sense of the magnitude of the thing which has happened. From such beginnings is written the history of humanity.

      Deep in a hollow where the wind had swept up the snow, and left the ground bare they found crowfoot in an emerald carpet—there were holly branches dripping red berries like blood on the white drifts. They filled their arms, and at last they were ready to go.

      Evans whistled for Rusty but the little dog did not come. “He’ll find us; he knows every inch of the way.”

      But Rusty did not find them, and they were on the ridge when that first awful cry came to them.

      Jane clutched Evans. “What is it—oh, what is it?”

      He swallowed twice before he could speak. “It’s—Rusty—one of those steel traps”—he was panting now—his forehead wet—“the negroes put them around for rabbits——” Again that frenzied cry broke the stillness. “They’re hellish things——”

      Jane began to run in the direction of the sound. “Come on, Evans—oh, come quick——”

      He stumbled after her. At last he caught at her dress and held her. “If he’s hurt I can’t stand it.”

      It was dreadful to see him. Jane felt as if clutched by a nightmare. “Stay here, and don’t worry. I’ll get him out——”

      It was a cruel thing to face. There was blood and that little trembling body. The cry reduced now to an agonized whimpering. How she opened the trap she never knew, but she did open it, and made a bandage from her blouse which she tore from her shoulders regardless of the cold. And after what seemed to be ages, she staggered back to Evans with her dreadful burden wrapped in her cape. “We’ve got to get him to a veterinary. Run down to the road and see if there’s a car in sight.”

      There was a car, and when Evans stopped it, two men came charging up the bank. Jane gave the dog into the arms of one of them. “You’ll have to go with them, Evans,” she said and wrapped herself more closely in her cape. “There are several doctors at Rockville. You’d better ask the station-master about the veterinary.”

      After they had gone, she stood there on the ridge and watched the car out of sight. She felt stunned and hysterical. It had been awful to see Rusty, but the most awful thing was that vision of Evans stumbling through the snow. A broken body is for tears—a broken spirit is beyond tears.

      She shuddered and pressed her hands against her eyes. Then she went down the hill and across the road in the darkening twilight. She crept into the house. Baldy must not see her; there was blood on her cape and her clothes were torn, and Baldy would ask questions, and he would call Evans a—coward. …

      It was late when Evans came to Castle Manor with his dog in his arms. Rusty was comfortable and he had wagged a grateful tail. The pain had gone out of his eyes and the veterinary had said that in a few days the wound would heal. There were no vital parts affected—and he would give some medicine which would prevent further suffering.

      Mrs. Follette was out, and old Mary was in the kitchen, singing. She stopped her song as Evans came through. He asked her to help him and she brought a square, deep basket and made Rusty a bed.

      “You-all jes’ put him heah by the fiah, and I’ll look atter him.”

      Evans shook his head. “I want him in my room. I’ll take care of him in the night.”

      He carried the dog up-stairs with him, knelt beside him, drew hard deep breaths as the little fellow licked his hand.

      “What kind of a man am I?” Evans said sharply in the silence. “God, what kind of a man?”

      Through the still house came old Mary’s thin and piping song:

      “Stay in the fiel’,

      Stay in the fiel’, oh, wah-yah—

      Stay in the fiel’

      Till the wah is ended.”

      Evans got up and shut the door. …