Life — August 19, 1915 — page 15: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

I've a small matter I don’t wish to entrust to any one here, being private. It’s a letter for Mr. Thomas Sewall, to he delivered upon my demise, which I feel is about to take place.” She spoke with a little note of relief, as if from some long strain. I took the small envelope. “It’s just the cats,” she was moved to confide further; “the little ones and the smart ones will all find friends. But the two old ones! Mr. Sewall has a notion for the old things. And"—here she hesitated long, while I breathlessly assured her of my best care for the letter— there’s—some- what in the note besides the cats,” she brought out bravely. “ You'll make sure it doesn’t fall into John and Mary’s hands?” This was Saturday morning. Sun- day, as I listened absent-mindedly to the slow toll of the meeting-house bell, my housekeeper remarked, on bringing in my coffee: “Did you notice, sir? It was eighty- six. There’s an old man and an old “LT Re woman, both just the same age, in the village, died in the night.” eee ee The old chair, upon which—when they were young together—the little Tom had been spanked and comforted ; and the mirror, still treasuring the picture of the round, saucy phiz over his mother’s shoulder, were offered at auction and bid in for a trifle by me. I would have paid gold sovereigns for them, but not into the hands of John and Mary! The cats, likewise, sit by the hearth, on which was burned to ashes the letter “not entirely” about their disposal. And the “Old Things” that cher- ished these earthly companions? The minister—himself a rare “old thing "— preached a funeral sermon for the two so strangely united by death; and his thin voice, like the tone of an old violin, still haunts me: “Their youth is renewed like the eagle's; . . . And they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.” North of Fifty-Three By Mary Woodbury Caswell TH short winter day of Alaska was brightening as Gertrude pushed her chair back from the breakfast table and announced that she proposed to go at once for her constitutional. Her brother placidly assented, but Keith interposed with a worried look. “Hadn't you better go with her, Bob? I suppose I’ve grown to be an old granny, but since Jacques told us of that outlaw who threatened to kid- nap a white girl for his wife, I don't like to have Gertrude get out of sight.” The girl bent over him caressingly. “Don’t worry, dear,” she said “ Jacques had been drinking hard when he told you of this mythical exile. Besides, I am no Helen of Troy to be abducted for my beauty. I'd really much rather have Bob stay with you.” And she kissed him, put on warm wraps, took her snow-shoes and started for the daily tramp that had kept her fit ever since she had come up on the last boat, hastily summoned by a cable from Bob when her fiancé had his shoulder crushed, and it would be im- possible for the young men to return to the States with their stake She and Bob had nursed him into conva- lescence, but it had been a hard winter for him, and she did not wonder that he had developed some nervousness, though she considered his fear for her wholly unnecessary, as, indeed, did Bob. When she was a half mile from the cabin and a slight rise of ground hid it from her, she saw a dog team approaching, and smiled, thinking that Keith would surely consider that dan- ger was near. As it met her the driver touched his cap, and she had a swift impression of a very different type than she had recently met, and one that made Jacques’s fantastic tale seem less absurd. As she involuntarily glanced back she saw, and now with alarm, that the stranger had turned and was coming toward hen He stopped the dogs close to her and inquired cour- teously, and with a foreign accent: 319 “Can you tell me, mademoiselle, how near I am to some residence?” “Our cabin is over the hill,” she re- plied quietly, though with growing terror, which was justified, as he sprang toward her, swathing her in a blanket, so that she could neither speak nor struggle, and placing her on the sled. She could not have told whether it was hours or minutes before she was lifted, carried into a cabin and the Dlanket unfolded from her, while a savage-looking husky dog growled a greeting. Her captor shook off his heavy outer coat, removed his cap, and with exaggerated deference said: “Mademoiselle, pray remove your parka and permit that I relieve you of your snow-shoes. I do myself the honor, mademoiselle, to offer you marriage.” Resolutely conquering her fear, Gertrude looked steadily at him. The man evidently was, or had been, a gentleman; but what must his life have been to bring him to this! As composedly as she could she answered: “T must decline your offer. Pray permit me to return home.” “Ah, no, mademoisella I fear I can not allow that. As for marriage—as you please, but in any case you must remain here.” “Not alive,” she said. “Ah, but, mademoiselle, how not?” he asked, in mockery of courtesy more pronounced. “It is not so easy to die"—with a sudden bitter sadness. “There are many ways,” she replied. “Here is one.” And, seizing a dog whip lying near, she struck the husky a sharp blow and, as he furiously leaped to his feet, flung herself upon the floor before him. He fastened his teeth in her arm as his master grasped his throat, and the struggle shook the cabin, At last the man broke the dog’s hold and dragged him to the door. Gertrude's heavy clothing had saved her arm from anything but a superficial wound, but as he bound it up she said: “The dog will not forget, and if he fails me I can find another way.” His face, which had paled, flushed a dark red as he hastily spoke. ‘or God's sake do not think—but why should you not? You are free, comicbooks.com