 Quiche, son of Quiche, by Jack London. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Quiche, son of Quiche, by Jack London. Thus will I give six blankets, warm and double, six files, large and hard, six Hudson Bay knives, keen-edged and long, two canoes, the work of Mogam, the maker of things, ten dogs, heavy-shouldered and strong in the harness, and three guns, the trigger of one be broken, but it is a good gun and can doubtless be mended. Quiche paused and swept his eyes over the circle of intent faces. It was the time of the great fishing, and he was bidding to Knob for Susu, his daughter. The place was the St. George Mission by the Yukon, and the tribes had gathered for many a hundred miles from north, south, east and west they had come, even from Tosa Kakat and Far Tanana. And further, O Knob, thou art chief of the Tanana, and I, Quiche, the son of Quiche, am chief of the Klangat, wherefore, when my seed springs from the loins of thy daughter, there shall be a friendship between the tribes, a great friendship, and Tanana and Klangat shall be brothers of the blood in the time to come. What I have said I will do, that will I do. And how is it with you, O Knob, in this matter? Knob nodded his head gravely, his gnarled and age-twisted face inscrutably masking the soul that dwelt behind. His narrow eyes burned like twin coals through their narrow slits as he piped in a high-cracked voice. But that is not all. What, more? Quiche demanded. Have I not offered full measure? Was there ever yet a Tanana maiden who fetched so great a price? Then name her. An open snicker passed around the circle, and Quiche knew that he stood in shame before these people. Nay, nay, good Quiche, thou dost not understand. Knob made a soft stroking gesture. The price is fair. It is a good price, nor do I question the broken trigger. But that is not all. What of the man? I want of the man, the circle snarled. It is said, Knob's shrill voice piped, it is said that Quiche does not walk in the way of his father's. It is said that he has wandered into the dark after strange gods, and that he has become afraid. The face of Quiche went dark. It is a lie, he thundered. Quiche is afraid of no man. It is said, old Knob piped on, that he has harkened to the speech of the white man up at the big house, and that he bends head to the white man's god, and moreover, that blood is displeasing to the white man's god. Quiche dropped his eyes, and his hands clenched passionately. The sabbied circle laughed erisively, and in the ear of Knob whispered Madwan the shaman, high priest of the tribe and maker of medicine. The shaman poked among the shadows on the rim of the firelight, and roused up a slender young boy, whom he brought face to face with Quiche, and in the hand of Quiche he thrust a knife. Knob leaned forward. Quiche, darest thou to kill a man? Behold, this is Kitsnu, a slave. Strike, Quiche, strike with the strength of thy arm. The boy trembled and waited the stroke. Quiche looked at him, and thoughts of Mr. Brown's higher morality floated through his mind, and strong upon him was a vision of the leaping flames of Mr. Brown's particular brand of hellfire. The knife fell to the ground. And the boy sighed, and went out beyond the firelight with shaking knees. At the feet of Knob sprawled a wolfdog, which bared its gleaming teeth and prepared to spring after the boy, but the shaman ground his foot into the brute's body, and so doing gave Knob an idea. And then, O Quiche, what wouldst thou do should a man do this thing to you? As he spoke, Knob held a ribbon of salmon to White Fang, and when the animal attempted to take it, smote him sharply on the nose with a stick. And afterward, O Quiche, whatst thou do thus? White Fang was cringing back on his belly and fawning to the hand of Knob. Listen, leaning on the arm of Madwan, Knob had risen to his feet, I am very old, and because I am very old, I will tell thee things. Thy father, Quiche, was a mighty man, and he did love the song of the boasting and battle, and these eyes have beheld him cast to spear till the head stood out beyond a man's body. But thou art unlike. Since thou let the raven to worship the wolf, thou art become afraid of blood, and thou makest thy people afraid. This is not good, for behold, when I was a boy, even as kids knew here, there was no white man in all the land. But they came, one by one, these white men, till now they are many, and they are a restless breed, never content to rest by the fire with a full belly and let the morrow bring its own meat. A curse was laid upon them, it would seem, and they must work it out in toil and hardship. Quiche was startled, a recollection of a hazy story told by Mr. Brown of one Adam of old time came to him, and it seemed that Mr. Brown had spoken true. So they laid hands upon all they beheld these white men, and they go everywhere and behold all things, and ever do more follow in their footsteps, so that if nothing can be done they will come to possess all the land, and there will be no room for the tribes of the raven, wherefore it is meat that we fight with them till none are left. Then will we hold the passes and the land, and perhaps our children and our children's children shall flourish and grow fat. There is a great struggle to come when wolf and raven shall grapple, but Quiche will not fight, nor will he let his people fight, so it is not well that he should take to him my daughter. Thus have I spoken, I knob, chief of the Taunana. But the white men are good and great, Quiche made answer. The white men have taught us many things. The white men have given us blankets and knives and guns, such as we have never made and never could make. I remember in what manner we lived before they came. I was unborn then, but I have it from my father. When we went on the hunt, we must creep so close to the moose that a spear cast would cover the distance. Today we use the white man's rifle and farther away than can a child's cry be heard. We ate fish and meat and berries. There was nothing else to eat, and we ate without salt. How many may there be among you who care to go back to the fish and meat without salt? It would have sunk home, had not mad one, leap to his feet, or silence could come. And first a question to thee, Quiche. The white man up at the big house tells you that it is wrong to kill. Yet do we not know that the white men kill? Have we forgotten the great fight on the Koyukkuk? Or the great fight at Neklokjeto? Were three white men killed twenty of the Tozakakats? Do you think we no longer remember the three men of the Taunana that the white man Macklerath killed? Tell me, Quiche, why does the shaman brown teach you that it is wrong to fight when all his brothers fight? Nay, nay, there is no need to answer, knob-piped, while Quiche struggled with the paradox. It is very simple. The good man brown would hold the raven tight whilst his brothers pluck the feathers. He raised his voice, but so long as there is one Taunana to strike a blow, or one maiden to bear a man-child, the raven shall not be plucked. Knob turned to a husky young man across the fire. And what sayest thou, Makamuk, who art brother to Susu? Makamuk came to his feet. A long-faced scar lifted his upper lip into a perpetual grin, which belied the glowing ferocity of his eyes. This day he began with cunning irrelevance. I came by the trader Macklerath's cabin, and in the door I saw a child laughing at the sun, and the child looked at me with the trader Macklerath's eyes, and it was frightened. The mother ran to it and quieted it. The mother was Ziska, the plungate woman. A snarl of rage rose up and drowned his voice, which he instilled by turning dramatically upon Kish with outstretched arm and accusing finger. So you give your women away, you plungate, and come to the Taunana for more? But we have need of our women, Kish, for we must breed men, many men, against the day when the raven grapples with the wolf. Through the storm of applause Knob's voice shriiled clear, and Thou Nassabuck, who art her favorite brother, the young man was slender and graceful with the strong acolyne nose and high brows of his type. But from some nervous affliction the lid of one eye drooped at odd times in a suggestive wink. Even as he arose it drooped and rested a moment against his cheek, but it was not greeted with the accustomed laughter. Every face was grave. I too passed by the Trader Macklerath's cabin, he rippled in soft, early tones, and I saw Indians with the sweat running into their eyes and their knees shaking with weariness. I say, I saw Indians groaning under the logs from the store which the Trader Macklerath is to build, and with my eyes I saw them chopping wood to keep the shaman brown's big house warm through their frost of the long nights. This besquaw work never shall the Tannanad do that like. We shall be blood brothers to men, not squaws, and the plungate be squaws. A deep silence fell and all eyes centered on quiche. He looked about him carefully, deliberately, full into the face of each grown man. So, he said passionlessly, and so he repeated, then turned on his heel without further word and passed out into the darkness. Wading among sprawling babies and bristling wolf-dogs, he threaded the great camp, and on its outskirts came upon a woman at work by the light of a fire. With strings of bark stripped from the long roots of creeping vines, she was braiding rope for the fishing. For some time without speech he watched her deft hands bringing law and order out of the unruly mass of curling fibers. She was good to look upon, swaying there to her task, strong-limbed, deep-chested, and with hips made for motherhood, and the bronze of her face was golden in the flickering light, her hair blue-black, her eyes jet. Oh, Susu, he spoke finally, thou hast looked upon me kindly in the days that have gone, and in the days yet young. I looked kindly upon thee, for that thou werest chief of the plungent. She answered quickly, and because thou werest big and strong, I. But that was in the old days of the fishing, she hastened to add, before the shaman brown came and topped these ill things and led thy feet on strange trails. But I would tell thee, she held up one hand in a gesture which reminded him of her father. Nay, I know already the speech that stirs in thy throat. O Quiche, and I make answer now. It so happeneth that the fish of the water and the beast of the forest bring forth after their kind. And this is good, likewise it happeneth to women. It is for them to bring forth their kind. And even the maiden, while she is yet a maiden, feels the pang of the berth and the pain of the breast and the small hands at the neck. And when such feeling is strong, then does each maiden look about her with secret eyes for the man, for the man who shall be fit to father her kind. So have I felt. So did I feel, when I looked upon thee and found thee big and strong, a hunter and fighter of beasts and men, well able to win meat when I should eat for two, well able to keep danger afar off when my helplessness drew nigh. But that was before the day the shaman brown came into the land and taught thee, But it is not right, Susu, I have it on good work. It is not right to kill. I know what thou would say. Then breathe thou after thy kind, the kind that does not kill. But come not on such quest among the Tanana. For it is said, in the time to come, that the raven shall grapple with the wolf. I do not know, for this be the affair of men. But I do know, that it is for me to bring forth men against that time. Susu, quiche broken, thou must hear me. A man would beat me with a stick and make me hear, she sneered. But thou hear, she thrust a bunch of bark into his head. I cannot give thee myself. But this, yes, it looks fittest in thy hands. It is squawork, so braid away. He flung it from him, the angry blood pounding, a muddy path under his bronze. One more thing, she went on. There be an old custom which thy father and mine were not strangers to. When a man falls in battle his scalp is to be carried away in token. Very good. But thou who have foresworn the raven must do more. Thou must bring me not scalps, but heads. Two heads, and then will I give thee not bark, but a brave beaded belt, and sheath, and long Russian knife. Then will I look kindly upon thee once again, and all will be well. So the man pondered. So, then he turned and passed out through the night. Nay, oh quiche she called after him, not two heads, but three at least. But quiche remained true to his conversion, lived uprightly, and made his tribe's people obey the gospels propounded by Reverend Jackson Brown. Through all the time of the fishing he gave no heed to the Tanana, nor took notice of the sly things which were said, nor of the laughter of the women of the many tribes. After the fishing, Knob and his people, with great store of salmon, sun-dried and smoke-cured, departed for the hunting on the head reaches of the Tanana. Quiche watched them go, but did not fail in his attendance at Mission Service, where he prayed regularly and led the singing with his deep bass voice. The Reverend Jackson Brown delighted in that deep bass voice, and because of his sterling qualities deemed him the most promising convert. McElrath doubted this. He did not believe in the efficacy of the conversion of the heathen, and he was not slow in speaking his mind. But Mr. Brown was a large man in his way, and he argued it out with such convincingness all of one long and all night that the traitor driven from position after position finally announced in desperation, knock out my brains with apples brown if I don't become a convert myself if Quiche holds fast true blue for two years. Mr. Brown never lost an opportunity, so he clenched the matter on the spot with a virile hand grip and thenceforth the conduct of Quiche was to determine the ultimate abiding place of McElrath's soul. But there came news one day after the winter rhyme had settled down over the land sufficiently for travel. A Tanana man arrived at the St. George Mission in quest of ammunition and bringing information that Susu had set eyes on Niku, a nervy young hunter who had bid brilliantly for her by old Knob's fire. It was at about this time that the Reverend Jackson Brown came upon Quiche by the wood trail which leads down to the river. Quiche had his best dogs in the harness and shoved under the sled lashings was his largest and finest pair of snowshoes. Where goest thou, Quiche? Hunting, Mr. Brown asked, falling into the Indian manner. Quiche looked him steadily in the eyes for a full minute, then started up his dogs, then again turning his deliberate gaze upon the missionary he answered, No, I go to hell. In an open space, striving to burrow into the snow as though for shelter from the appalling desolate-ness, huddled three dreary lodges, ringed all about a dozen paces away was the somber forest. Overhead there was no keen blue sky of naked space, but a vague misty curtain pregnant with snow which had drawn between. There was no wind, no sound, nothing but the snow and silence, nor was there even the gentle stir of life about the camp. For the hunting party had run upon the flank of the caribou herd and the kill had been large. Thus after the period of fasting had come the plentitude of feasting and thus in broad daylight they slept heavily under their roofs of moose hide. By a fire before one of the lodges five pairs of snowshoes stood on end in their element and by the fire set Susu, the hood of her squirrel-skin parka was about her hair and well drawn up around her neck, but her hands were unmittened and nimble at work with needle and sinew, completing the last fantastic design on a belt of leather faced with bright scarlet cloth. A dog somewhere at the rear of one of the lodges raised a short, sharp bark, then ceased as abruptly as it had begun. Once her father in the lodge at her back gurgled and grunted in his sleep. Bad dreams she smiled to herself, he grows old and that last joint was too much. She placed the last bead, nodded the sinew, and replenished the fire. Then after gazing long into the flames she lifted her head to the harsh crunch crunch of a moccasin foot against the flinty snow granules. Kish was at her side, bending slightly forward to a load which he bore upon his back. This was wrapped loosely in a soft tanned moose hide and he dropped it carelessly into the snow and sat down. They looked at each other long and without speech. It is a far fetch, O'Kish, she said at last, a far fetch from St. George Mission by the Yukon. I, he made answer absently, his eyes fixed keenly upon the belt and taking note of its girth. But where is the knife, he demanded? Here she drew it from inside her parka linked in the firelight. It is a good knife. Give it me, he commanded. Nail, Kish, she laughed. It may be that thou was not born to wear it. Give it to me, he re-enterated without change of tone. I was so born. But her eyes, glancing coquettishly past him to the moose hide, saw the snow about us slowly reddening. It is blood, Kish, she asked. I, it is blood. But give me the belt and the long Russian knife. She felt suddenly frayed but thrilled when he took the belt roughly from her. Thrilled to the roughness, she looked at him softly and aware of a pain at the breast and of small hands clutching her throat. It was made for a smaller man, he remarked grimly, drawing in his abdomen and clasping the buckle at the first hole. Jesus smiled and her eyes were yet softer. Again she felt the soft hands at her throat. He was good to look upon and the belt was indeed small, made for a smaller man. But what did it matter? She could make many belts. But the blood, she asked, urged on by a hope newborn and growing. The blood, Kish, is it... Are they heads? I, they must be very fresh else would the blood be frozen. I, it is not cold and they be fresh, quite fresh. Oh, Kish! Her face was warm and bright. And for me? I, for thee. He took hold of a corner of the height, flirted it open and rolled the heads out before her. Three, he whispered savagely. Nay, four at least. But she sat transfixed. There they lay, the soft featured Niku, the gnarled old face of Knob, Makamuk grinning at her with his lifted upper lip and lastly, Nassabak, his eyelid up to its old trick drooped on his girlish cheek in a suggestive wink. There they lay, the firelight flashing upon and playing over them and from each of them a widening circle dyed the snow to scarlet. Thawed by the fire, the white crust gave way beneath the head of Knob which rolled over like a thing alive, spun around and came to rest at her feet. But she did not move. Kish too sat motionless. His eyes unblinking centered steadfastly upon her. Once in the forest an overburdened pine dropped its load of snow and the echoes reverberated hollowly down the gorge. Neither stirred. The short day had been waning fast and darkness was wrapping round the camp when white fang trotted up toward the fire. He paused erect a noyter but not being driven back came closer. His nose shot swiftly to the side nostrils a tremble and bristles rising along the spine and straight and true he followed the sudden scent to his master's head. He lifted gingerly at first and licked the forehead with his red lolling tongue. Then he sat up abruptly down pointed his nose up at the first faint star and raised the long wolf howl. This brought Susu to herself. She glanced across at Kish who had unsheathed the Russian knife and was watching her intently. His face was firm and set and in it she read the law. Slipping back the hood of her parka, she bared her neck and rose to her feet. There she paused and took a long look about her at the rimming forest at the faint stars in the sky at the camp at the snow shoes in the snow a last long comprehensive look at life. A light breeze stirred her hair from the side and for the space of one deep breath she turned her head and followed it around until she met it full faced. Then she thought of her children ever to be unborn and she walked over to Kish and said, I am ready. Kish, son of Kish by Jack London. The Last House in C Street by Dinah Mulock. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Anne Erickson. The Last House in C Street by Dinah Mulock. I am not a believer in ghosts in general. I see no good in them. They come, that is, they are reported to come, so irrelevantly purposelessly, so ridiculously in short, that one's common sense as regards this world, one's supernatural sense of the other are like a bolted, and 9 out of 10 capital ghost stories are so easily accounted for and in the 10th, when all natural explanation fails one who has discovered the extraordinary difficulty there is in all society and getting hold of that very slippery article called a fact is strongly inclined to shake a dubious head ejaculating evidence, a question of evidence. But my unbelief springs from no dogged or contemptuous skepticism as to the possibility however great the improbability of that strange impression upon or communication to spirit in matter, from spirit wholly immaterialized which is vulgarly called a ghost. There is no credulity more blind no ignorance more childish than that of the sage who tries to measure heaven and earth with the small two foot rule of his own brains dare we presume to argue concerning any mystery of the universe it is inexplicable and therefore impossible promising these opinions though simply as opinions I'm about to relate what I must confess is to me a thorough ghost story it's external and circumstantial evidence being indisputable while it's psychological causes and results though not easy of explanation are still more difficult to be explained away the ghost like Hamlet's was an honest ghost from her daughter an old lady who bless her good and gentle memory has since learned the secrets of all things I learned this veritable tale my dear said Mrs. MacArthur to me it was in the early days of table moving when young folk ridiculed and elder folk were shocked at the notion of calling up once departed ancestors into one's dinner table and learning the wonders of the angelic world by the bobbings of a hat or the twirlings of a plate my dear continued the old lady I do not like playing at ghosts why not do you believe in them how little did you ever see one never but once I heard she looked serious as if she hardly liked to speak about it either from a sense of awe or from fear of ridicule but no one could have laughed at any illusions of the gentle old lady who never uttered a harsh or satirical word to a living soul and this evident awe was rather remarkable in one who had a large stock of common sense little wonder and no ideality I was rather curious to hear MacArthur's ghost story my dear it was a long time ago so long that you may fancy I forget and confuse the circumstances but I do not sometimes I think one recollects more clearly things that happened in one's teens I was 18 that year then a great many nearer events and besides I had other reasons for remembering vividly everything belonging to this time for I was in love you must know she looked to me with a mild deprecating smile as if hoping my youthfulness would not consider the thing so very impossible or ridiculous no I was all interest at once in love with Mr. MacArthur I said scarcely as a question being at that Arcadian time of life when one takes as a natural necessity and believes as an undoubted truth that everybody marries his or her first love my dear not with Mr. MacArthur I was so astonished so completely dumbfounded or had boven a sort of ideal around my good old friend that I suffered Mrs. MacArthur to knit in silence for full five minutes my surprise was not lessened when she said with a little smile he was a young gentleman of good parts and he was very fond of me proud to rather for though you might not think at my dear actually a beauty in those days I have very little doubt of it the slight live figure the tiny hands and feet if you had walked behind Mrs. MacArthur you might have taken her for a young woman still certainly people live slower and easier in the last generation than in ours yes I was the beauty of Bath Mr. Everest fell in love with me there I was much gratified for I've been reading Miss Bernie Cecilia and thought him exactly like Mortimer Delville a very pretty tale Cecilia did you ever read it no and to arrive at her tale I leaped to the only conclusion which could reconcile the two facts of her having had a lover named Everest and being now Mrs. MacArthur was it his ghost you saw no my dear no thank goodness he is alive still he calls here sometimes he has been a good friend to our family ah with a slow shake of the head half pleased half pensive you would hardly believe my dear what a very pretty fellow he was one could scarcely smile at the odd phrase pertaining to last century novels and to the loves of our great grandmothers I listened patiently to the wondering reminiscences which still further delayed the ghost story but Mrs. MacArthur was it in Bath that you saw or heard what I think you were going to tell me the ghost you know don't call it that it sounds as if you were laughing at it and you must not for it is really true as true as that I sit here an old lady of 75 and that then I was a young gentleman of 18 nay my dear I will tell you all about it we have been staying in London my father and mother Mr. Everest and I we have persuaded them to take me to show me a little of the world though it was but a narrow world my dear for he was a law student living poorly and working hard he took lodgings for us near the temple in C Street the last house there looking on to the river he was very fond of the river and often of evenings when his work was too heavy to let him take us to run a lot or to the play he used to walk with my father and mother and me up and down the temple gardens were you ever in the temple gardens it is a pretty place now a quiet grain nook in the midst of noise and bustle the stars look wonderful through those great trees but still it is not like what it was then when I was a girl ah no impossible it was in the temple gardens my dear that I remember we took our last walk my mother Mr. Everest and I before she went home to Bath she was very anxious and restless to go being too delicate for London gayities besides she had a large family at home of which I was the eldest and we were anxiously expecting the youngest in a month or two nevertheless my dear mother had gone about with me taken me to all the shows and sights that I a hearty and happy girl long to see and entered into them with almost as great enjoyment as my own but tonight she was very pale rather grave and steadfastly bent on returning home we did all we could to persuade her to the contrary for on the next night but one was to have been the crowning treat of all our London pleasures we were to see Hamlet a dreary lane with John Kemble and Sarah Sidon's ah you have no such sights now even my grave father long to go and urged in his mild way that we should put off our departure but my mother was determined at last Mr. Everest said I could show you the very spot where he stood with the river it was high water lapping against the wall and the evening sun shining on the south work houses opposite he said it was very wrong of course my dear but then he was in love and might be excused madam said he it is the first time I ever knew you think of yourself alone myself Edmund pardon me but would it not be possible for you to return home leaving behind for two days only Mr. Thwaite and Mistress Dorothy leave them behind leave them behind she mused over the words what say you Dorothy I was silent in very truth I had never been parted from her in all my life it had never crossed my mind to wish depart from her without her till within the last three months mother don't suppose I but here I caught sight of Mr. Everest and stopped pray continue Mistress Dorothy no I could not he looks so vexed so hurt and we have been so happy together also we might not meet again for years for the journey between London and Bath was then a serious one and he worked very hard had few pleasures in his life it did indeed seem almost selfish of my mother though my lips said nothing perhaps my sad eyes said only too much and my mother felt it she walked with us a few yards slowly and thoughtfully I could see her now with her pale tired face under the cherry colored ribbons of her hood she had been very handsome as a young woman and was most sweet looking still my dear good mother Dorothy we will no more discuss this I'm very sorry but I must go home however I will persuade your father to remain with you till the weeks end are you satisfied no was the first filial impulse of my heart but Mr. Everest pressed my arm with such an intriguing look that almost against my will I answered yes Mr. Everest overwhelmed my mother with his delight and gratitude she walked up and down for some time longer leaning on his arm she was very fond of him then stood looking on the river upwards and downwards I suppose this is my last walk in London thank you for all the care you have taken of me and when I am gone home mind, oh mind Edmund that you take special care of Dorothy these words and the tone in which they were spoken fix themselves on my mind first from gratitude not unmingled with regret is if I had not been so considerate to her as she to me afterwards but we often err my dear I'm dwelling too much on that word we finite creatures have only to deal with now nothing whatever to do with afterwards in this case I have ceased to blame myself for others whatever was being passed was right to be and could not have been otherwise my mother went home next morning alone we were to follow in a few days though she would not allow us to fix any time her departure was so hurried that I remember nothing about it save her answer to my father's urgent desire almost command that if anything was amiss she would immediately let him know under all circumstances wife he reiterated this you promise I promise though when she was gone he declared she need not have said it so earnestly since we should be at home almost as soon as a slow bath coach could take her and bring us a letter and besides there was nothing likely to happen but he fidgeted a good deal being unused to her absence in their happy wedded life he was like most men glad to blame but himself and the whole day and the next was cross at intervals with both Edmund and me but we bore it and patiently it will be all right when we get him to the theater he has no real cause for anxiety about her what a dear woman she is and a precious your mother Dorothy I rejoice to hear my lover speak thus and thought there hardly ever was young gentleman so blessed as I we went to the play you know nothing of what a play is nowadays you never saw John Kemble and Mrs. Siddance though in dresses and shows it was far inferior to the Hamlet you took me to see last week my dear and though I perfectly well remember being on the point of laughing when in the most solemn scene it became clearly evident that the ghost have been drinking strangely enough that's connected there with nothing subsequent ever drove from my mind the vivid impression of this my first play strange also that the play should have been Hamlet do you think that Shakespeare believed in what people call ghost I could not say but I thought Mrs. MacArthur's ghost very long in coming don't my dear don't do anything but laugh at it she was visibly affected and it was not without an effort that she proceeded in her story I wish you to understand exactly my position that night a young girl her head full of the enchantment of the stage her heart of something not less engrossing Mr. Everest had slept with us leaving us both in the best of spirits indeed my father had gone to bed laughing hardly at the remembrance of the antics of Mr. Grimaldi which had almost obliterated the Queen and Hamlet from his memory on which the ridiculous always took a far stronger hold than the awful or sublime I was sitting let me see at the window chatting with my maid Patty who was brushing the powder out of my hair the window was open halfway and looking out on the Thames and the summer night being very warm and starry made it almost like sitting out of doors there was none of the awe given by the solitude of a midnight closed room when every sound is magnified and every shadow seems alive as I said we had been chatting and laughing for Patty and I were both very young and she had a sweetheart too she like every one of our household was a warm admirer of Mr. Everest I had just been half-scolding half-smiling at her praises of him when St. Paul's great clock came booming over the silent river 11. counted Patty terrible late we be Mr. Storthy not like bath hours I reckon mother will have been in bed an hour ago said I with a little self-reproach at not having thought of her till now the next minute my maid and I both started up with a simultaneous exclamation did you hear that yes a bat flying against the window but the lattices are open Mr. Storthy so they were and there was no bird or bat or living thing about only the quiet summer night the river and the stars I'd be certain sure I heard it and I think it was like just a bit like somebody tapping nonsense Patty but it had struck me thus though I said it was a bat exactly like the sound of fingers against a pain very soft gentle fingers such as passing into her flower garden my mother used often to tap outside the school room casement at home I wonder did father hear anything it the bird you know Patty might have flown at his window too well Mr. Storthy Patty would not be deceived I gave her the brush to finish my hair but her hand shook too much I shut the window and we both sat down facing it at that minute distinct clear and unmistakable like a person giving a summons and passing by we heard once more the tapping on the pain but nothing was seen not a single shadow came between us and the open air the bright starlight startled I was an odd but I was not frightened the sound gave me even an inexplicable delight but I had hardly time to recognize my feelings still less to analyze them when a loud cry came from my father's room Dolly Dolly Dolly now my mother and I both had one name but he always gave her the old fashioned pet name I was invariably Dorothy still I did not pause to think but ran to his locked door and answered it was a long time before he took any notice though I heard him talking to himself and moaning he was subject to bad dreams especially before his attacks of gout so my first alarm lightened I stood listening knocking at intervals until at last he replied what do we want child is anything the matter father nothing go to thy bed Dorothy did you not call do you not want anyone not the Oh Dolly my poor Dolly and he seemed to be almost sobbing why did I let the leave me father you are not going to be ill it is not the gout is it that was a time when he wanted my mother most and indeed when he was wholly unmanageable by anyone but her go away get to thy bed girl I don't want thee I thought he was angry with me for having been in some sort the cause of our delay and retired very miserable Patty and I sat up a good while longer discussing the dreary prospect of my father's having a fit of the gout here in London lodgings with only us to nurse him and my mother away our alarm was so great that we quite forgot the curious circumstance which had first attracted us till Patty spoke up from her bed on the floor I hope master being going to be very ill and that you know came for a warning do we think it was a bird mistress Dorothy very likely now Patty let us go to sleep but I did not for all night I heard my father groaning at intervals I was certain it was the doubt and wish from the bottom of my heart that we had gone home with mother what was my surprise when quite early I heard him rise and go down just as if nothing was ailing him I found him sitting at the breakfast table in his travelling coat looking very haggard miserable but evidently bent on a journey father you are not going to bath yes I be not till the evening coach starts I cried alarmed we can't you know I'll take a post says then we must be often an hour an hour the cruel pain of parting my dear I believe I used to feel things keenly when I was young shot through me through and through a single hour and I should have said goodbye to Edmond one of those heartbreaking farewells when we seem to leave half of our poor young life behind us forgetting that the only real parting is when there is no love left apart from a few years and I wondered how I could have crept away and wept in such intolerable agony at the mere bidding goodbye to Edmond Edmond who loved me every minute seemed a day till he came in as usual to breakfast my red eyes and my father's corded trunk explained all doctor thwait you are not going yes I be repeated my father he sat mootily leaning on the table would not taste his breakfast not till the night coach surely I was to take you and Mr. Storthy to see Mr. Benjamin West the king's painter let kings and painters alone lad I be going home to my dolly Mr. Everest used many arguments gay and grave upon which I hung with earnest conviction and hope he may think so clear always he was a man of much brighter parts than my father and had great influence over him Dorothy he whispered help me to persuade the doctor it is so little time I beg for only a few hours and before so long a parting I longer than he thought or I children cried my father at last you are a couple of fools wait till you've been married 20 years I must go now to my dolly I know there is something amiss at home I should have felt alarmed but I saw Mr. Everest smile and besides I was yet glowing under his fond look as my father spoke of our being married 20 years father you have surely no reason for thinking this if you have tell us my father just lifted his head and looked me woefully in the face Dorothy last night as sure as I see you now I saw your mother is that all cried Mr. Everest laughing why am I good sir you were dreaming I had not gone to sleep how did you see her coming into the room just as she used to do in the bedroom at home with a candle in her hand and the baby asleep on her arm did she speak asked Mr. Everest with another and rather satirical smile remember you saw Hamlet last night indeed sir indeed Dorothy it was a mere dream I do not believe in ghosts it would be an insult to common sense to human wisdom nay even to divinity itself Edmund spoke so earnestly so justly so affectionately that perforce I agreed and even my father began to feel rather ashamed of his own weakness he a physician the head of a family to yield to a mere superstitious fancy springing probably from a hot supper and an over excited brain to the same cause Mr. Everest attributed the other incident which somewhat hesitatingly I told him dear it was a bird nothing but a bird one flew in at my window last spring it had hurt itself and I kept it and nursed it and petted it it was such a pretty gentle little thing it put me in mind of Dorothy did it I said and at last it got well and flew away that was not like Dorothy thus my father being persuaded it was not hard to persuade me we settled to remain till evening Edmund and I with my maid Patty went about together chiefly in Mr. West gallery and in the quiet shade of our favorite temple gardens and if for those four stolen hours and the sweetness in them I afterwards suffered untold remorse and bitterness I have entirely forgiven myself as I know my dear mother would have forgiven me long ago Mrs. MacArthur stopped wiped her eyes and then continued speaking more in the matter of fat way that old people speak than she had been lately doing well my dear where was I in the temple gardens yes yes well we came home to dinner my father always enjoyed his dinner and his nap afterwards he had nearly recovered himself now only looked tired from loss of rest Edmund and I sat in the window watching the barges and queries down the Thames there were no steamboats then you know someone knocked at the door with a message from my father but he slept so heavily he did not hear Mr. Everest went to see what it was I stood at the window I remember mechanically watching the red sail of a margot boy that was going down the river and thinking with a sharp pang how dark the room seemed in a moment with Edmund not there re-entering after a somewhat long absence he never looked at me but went straight to my father sir it is almost time for you to start oh Edmund there is a coach at the door and pardon me but I think you should travel quickly my father sprang to his feet dear sir indeed there is no need for anxiety now but I have received news you have another little daughter sir and dolly my dolly without another word my father rushed away without his hat leapt into the post shez that was waiting and drove off Edmund I gassed my poor little girl my own Dorothy by the tenderness of his embrace not lover-like but rather like by his tears where I could feel them on my neck I knew as well as if he had told me that I should never see my dear mother anymore she had died in childbirth continued the old lady after a long pause died at night at the very hour and minute when I had heard a tapping on the window pane and my father had thought he saw her coming into his room with a baby on her arm was the baby dead too they thought so then but it afterwards revived what a strange story I did not ask you to believe in it how and why and what it was I cannot tell I only know that it assuredly was so and Mr. Everest I inquired after some hesitation the old lady shook her head my dear you will soon learn how very very seldom one marries one's first love after that day I did not see Mr. Everest for 20 years how wrong how don't blame him it was not his fault you see after that time my father took a prejudice against him not unnatural perhaps and she was not there to make things straight besides my own conscience was very sore and there were the six children at home and the little baby had no mother so at last I made up my mind I should have loved him just the same if we had waited 20 years but he could not see things so don't blame him my dear don't blame him it was as well perhaps as things turned out did he marry yes after a few years his wife dearly when I was about 1 in 30 I married Mr. MacArthur so neither of us was unhappy you see at least not more so than most people and we became sincere friends afterwards Mr. and Mrs. Everest come to see me almost every Sunday why you foolish child you're not crying I I was but scarcely at the ghost story end of the last house in C Street recording by Anne Erickson Toronto the miniature by J. Y. Ackerman this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Anne Erickson the miniature by J. Y. Ackerman calling one day on a friend who had amassed a large collection of autographs and other manuscript curiosities he showed me a small quartile volume which had been bequeathed to him by a relative a physician who for many years had been in extensive practice in London he attended the patients at a private asylum for insane persons of the better classes said my friend and I have often heard him speak of the writer of that beautiful manuscript a gentleman of good family who had been an inmate of Blank House upwards of 30 years at the time he was first called to attend him on looking over the volume I found it filled with scraps of poetry extracts from classic authors and even from the Talmudic writers but what interested me most was a narrative of several pages which appeared so circumstantially related as to leave little doubt of its being partly if not wholly found it on fact I beg permission to make a transcript which was readily granted and the result is before the reader we laugh at what we call the folly of our ancestors and their notions of destiny and the malignant influences of the stars for what will our children deride us perhaps for dreaming that friendship was a reality and that constant love dwelt upon earth I once believed that friendship was not a vain name and thought with the antique sage that one mind sometimes dwelt in two bodies I dreamt and woke to find that I had been dreaming George S. was my chum at school and my inseparable companion at college we quitted it at the same time he to proceed to London where he was an expectation of obtaining a lucrative appointment in one of the English colonies an eye to return for a short period to the family mansion when I reached Blank Hall I found several visitors among whom was my cousin Maria D she had grown a woman since I had last met her and I now thought I had never seen a more perfect figure or a more bewitching countenance then she sang like a siren and was an elegant horsewoman will those who read this wonder that I fell in love with her that I spent nearly the whole of the day in her company and that I could think of nothing in the world besides something occurred to delay my friend George's departure from England and as he was idling about town I invited him to Blank Hall great as was my regard from I now however discovered that I could live less in his company no marvel I preferred the society of my lovely cousin upon whose heart I had had the happiness to learn my constant intentions had already made a sensible impression I hesitated to make her an offer though I had every reason to believe our attachment was mutual partly perhaps from that excessive delicacy which constantly attends on true love and partly because I wished to do so when my friend should have left us less exposed to intrusion would that the deep sea had swallowed him up or that he had rotted under a tropical sun area come to Blank Hall one morning I rose earlier than usual and was looking from my chamber window on the beautiful prospect which the house commanded wrapped in a delightful reverie of which my lovely cousin was the principal subject I paid but little attention to the sound of voices below suddenly however I awoke to consciousness by the sweet tones of a woman in earnest conversation struck on my ear yes it was hers it was Maria's what could have held her forth at so early an hour as I looked earnestly towards the walk which ran through the plantation I saw a merchant my cousin and my friend my heart rose to my lips and choked my utterance or I should have cried out at the site I withdrew from the window and threw myself on the sofa tormented with surmises a thousand times more painful even than realities at the breakfast table I was moody and thoughtful which my friend perceiving attempted a joke but I was in no humor to receive it when Maria in a compassionate tone remarked that I looked unwell and that I should take a walk or a ride before breakfast adding that she and George had walked for an hour and more in the plantation near the house though this announcement was certainly but ill calculated to afford perfect ease to my mind it was yet made with such an artless air that my more gloomy surmises vanished and I rallied but I wish my friend would take his departure Wright truly says the Italian proverb love's gird and is jealousy after breakfast George proposes stroll on foot to the ruins of the Cisterci and Abbey about a mile distant from the hall to which I at once assented as we walked along the beautiful and shady lane which led to the ruin George was as loquacious as ever as I thought of everybody and everything and of his confident expectation of realizing fortune abroad I was however in no humor for talking and made few remarks in reply but he appeared not to heed my taciturnity and when he arrived to the spot broke forth into raptures at the site of the noble ruin and truly it was a scene a contemplation of which might have lulled the minds of most men a thousand birds were caroling around us the grass near the ruin was not long and rank but short close studded with trefoil and soft as a rich carpet luxuriant ivy climbed the shattered walls leached by the winds of centuries and the lizards basking in the sun started beneath the fallen fragments at the sound of our footsteps as we approached the spot we both sat down on a large stone and surveyed the noble oriole I was passionately fond of Gothic architecture and had often imbired this window but I thought I had never seen it look so beautiful before my moody thoughts fled and I was wrapped in the contemplation of the exquisite tracery when I was suddenly roused by my friend who patting me familiarly on the back exclaimed it is a beautiful ruined dick how I wish thy sweet cousin Maria had accompanied us I was struck dumb by this declaration but my look was sufficiently eloquent to be understood by him and he did not fail to interpret it a right he appeared confused and I regaining my self possession arose from my seat with the volcanic remark indeed George attempted a laugh but it failed he was evidently as much disconcerted and disquieted as myself how linkside is love we mutually read each other's hearts at the same moment I am sorry for you dick said he after a short pause affecting very awkwardly an air of indifference on my soul I am but I'm overhead in ears in love with the girl and should die at the bare thought of her encouraging another I wished for the strength of Milo that I might have dashed out his brains against the huge stone on which she had been sitting I felt my very blood seethe and simmer at the declaration and with my clenched fist I struck him a violent and stunning blow which though it did not beat him to the ground sent him staggering several paces backward liar I screamed frantically take that you dare not proceed with your folly recovering his feet George laid his hand on his sword which he half unsheathed but as if conscious of there being no witness present or wishing perhaps still further to convince me of the advantage he possessed he did not draw nay said I out with your weapon nothing less will do I would rather lose my birthright than yield to the one without whom life would be valueless he smelled bitterly wiped his bruised and bloody face and slowly drew from his bosom a small miniature and circled with diamonds which he held before my eyes one glance was sufficient it was a portrait of Maria that face which sleeping or waking has haunted me these thirty years past villain I cried clutching at the portrait with my left hand while I snatched with my right hand my sword from its sheath you have stolen it with assumed coolness which it was impossible he could feel he smiled again put the miniature in his bosom and drew his sword the next moment our weapons crossed with an angry clash and were flashing in the morning sun my adversary was a perfect master of his weapon and he pressed upon me with a vigor which any attempt to retaliate would have rendered dangerous in one so much inferior to him in skill maddened as I was I yet restrained myself and stood on my guard my eyes fixed on his and watching every glance my desire to destroy him was intense the fiend nerfed my arm and while he warned with the conflict I became more cool and vigilant at length he appeared to grow weary and then I pressed upon him with the fixed determination of taking his life but he rallied instantly and in returning a thrust which I intended for his heart and which he parried scarcely in time his foot slipped and he fell on one knee the point of my sword entering the left breast by accident it was not a deep wound and perhaps he felt it not for I attempted to master my sword with his left hand while he shortened his own weapon and thrust fiercely at my throat making at the same time a spring to regain his feet but his fate was sealed as he rose I dashed aside the thrust intended for me and sheathed my weapon in his left breast I believe I must have pierced his heart where he sank on his knees with a gasp and the next moment fell heavily on his face with his sword still clutched tightly in his hand wearied and panting from the efforts of the violent struggle he had put himself on the large stone which had so recently served us for a seat and looked on the body of my adversary he was dead that fatal thrust had destroyed all rivalry but at the price of a murder the murder of one who had been my friend from boyhood upwards a thousand conflicting emotions wrapped me as I beheld the piteous sight hatred was extinguished and remorse succeeded yet I still thought of the audacity of this deadly resentment fear too fear of the consequences of this fatal encounter in a solitary spot without witnesses added to the intensity of my misery and I groaned in anguish what was to be done should I go and deliver myself up to justice and declare the whole truth should I fly and leave the body of my friend to tell the dismal tale or should I bury him secretly and leave it to be supposed that he had been robbed and murdered as each suggestion was canvassed and rejected in my despair I even thought of dying by my own hand miserable wretch I exclaimed what has thou done to what dire necessity has a fair and false face driven thee yet I will look once more on those bewitching features which have brought me to this wretched past I stooped and turned the dead man on his back his pallid face was writhed and distorted his lips were bloody and his eyes which were wide open seemed still to glare with hatred and defiance as when he stood before me in the desperate struggle for life and death I tore open his vest and discovered the wound that had killed him it had collapsed and looked no bigger than the puncture of a bodkin but one little round crimson spot was visible the hemorrhage was internal there lay the miniature which two minutes before had been held up exultingly to my frantic gaze I seized and pressed it to my lips forgetting in my transports how dearly I had purchased it this delirium however soon subsided and my next thoughts were of the dead body I looked about me for some nook where I might deposit it there was a chasm in the ground among the ruins a few yards off where the vaulted roof of the crypt had fallen in very large enough to admit the corpse but I raised it in my arms bore it thither and with some difficulty thrust it through the aperture I heard it fall as if to some distance with a dull heavy sound and casting in after it my adversaries had ensword I hurried from the spot like another came at dinner one glance from Maria as I replied in answer to her inquiry after George that he was gone to make a call a few miles off one glance I say thrilled through my very soul and almost caused me to betray myself all noticed my perturbed look and complaining of violent headache I withdrew from the table ere the meal was ended and betook myself to my chamber how shall I paint the horror of that evening of the night that succeeded it and the mental darkness which fell upon my wretched self ere the morning dawned I ran for lights and attempted to read but in vain and after pacing my chamber for some hours overpowered by fatigue I threw myself on the bed and slept how long I know not a succession of hideous dreams haunted my slumbers still I was not awakened by them the scene shifted when arrived at their climax and a new ordeal of horror succeeded yet like him who suffers from nightmare with a vague consciousness that all was not real I wished to awake last of all I dreamt that I was arranged for the murder of my friend the judge summed up the evidence which though purely circumstantial was sufficient to condemn me and amidst the silence of the crowded court broken only by the sobs of anxious and sympathizing friends and relatives I received sentence of death and was hurried back to myself here abandoned by all hope I lay groveling on my straw bed and cursed the hour of my birth a figure entered and in gentle accents which I thought I recognized made me arise, quit my prison house and follow the figure was that of a woman closely veiled she led the way and passed the jailers who seemed buried in profound sleep we left the town, crossed the common and entered a wood when I threw myself at the feet of my deliverer and passionately we sought her to unveil she shook her head mournfully made me wait a while till she should return with a change of apparel and departed I cast myself down at the foot of an aged oak drew from my bosom the portrait of Maria and wrapped in the contemplation of those lovely features I did not perceive the approach of a man, the ranger of the forest who recognizing my prison dress darted upon me exclaiming, villain you have escaped from jail and stolen that miniature from the hall I sprang to my feet thrust the fatal portrait into my bosom and would have fled but he seized and closed with me and the struggle which followed we both fell, I undermost at that moment I awoke I was in reality struggling with someone but whom I could not tell for my candle said burnt out and the chamber was in total darkness and my bony hand grasped me tightly by the throat well another was thrust into my bosom as if in search of the miniature which I had placed there previous to lying down with a desperate effort I disengaged myself and left from the bed but I was again seized and again my assailant attempted to reach my fatal prize we struggled violently at one time I seemed to be overpowering him and for several moments there was a pause during which I heard my own breathing and my own heart throbbing violently but he with whom I contended seemed to breathe not nor to feel like a warm and living man an indescribable tremor shook my frame I attempted to cry out but my throat was rigid and incapable of articulation I made another effort to disengage myself from the grasp of my assailant and in doing so drew him as I found by the curtains near to the window again the hand was thrust into my bosom and again I repelled it panting with the violence of the struggle while a cold sweat burst out at every pore I disengaged my right hand and determined to see whom I was contending with I dashed aside the curtain the dim light of the waning moon shone into the chamber it fell upon the face of my antagonist and one glance froze the blood in my veins it was he it was George glaring upon me with eyes which no mortal could look upon a second time my brain whirled a sound like the discharge of artillery shook the place and I fell to the ground blasted at the sight here follows a few incoherent sentences which I have not deemed it necessary to transcribe the reader will probably supply the sequel to this sad story End of the miniature Perdita by Hildegarde Hawthorne This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Louise J. Bell Perdita by Hildegarde Hawthorne Part 1 Alfalfa Ranch low, wide with spreading verandas all overgrown by roses and woodbine and commanding on all sides a wide view of the rolling alfalfa fields was a most bewitching place for a young couple to spend the first few months of their married life So Jack and I were naturally much delighted when Aunt Agnes asked us to consider it our own for as long as we chose the ranch in spite of its distance from the nearest town surrounded as it was by the prairies and without a neighbor within a three mile radius was yet luxuriously fitted with all the modern conveniences Aunt Agnes was a rich young widow and had built the place of Aunt Agnes' death intending to live there with her child to whom she transferred all the wealth of devotion she had lavished on her husband the child however had died when only three years old and Aunt Agnes as soon as she recovered sufficient strength had left Alfalfa Ranch intending never to visit happened nearly ten years ago and the widow relinquishing all the advantages her youth and beauty quite as much as her wealth could give her had devoted herself to work amid the poor of New York at my wedding which she heartily approved and where to a greater extent than ever before she cast off the almost limited quietness which had grown habitual with her she seemed particularly anxious that Jack and I should accept the loan of Alfalfa Ranch apparently having an old idea that the power of our happiness would somehow lift the cloud of sorrow which in her mind brooded over the place I had not been strong and Jack was overjoyed at such an opportunity of taking me into the country high as our expectations were the beauty of the place far exceeded them all what color what glorious sunsets and the long rides we took seeming to be utterly tireless in that fresh sweet air one afternoon I sat on the veranda at the western wing of the house the veranda here was broader than elsewhere and it was reached only by a flight of steps leading up from the lawn on one side and by a door opposite these steps that opened into Jack's study the rest of this veranda was enclosed by a high railing and by wire nettings so quickly overgrown with vines that the place was always very shady I sat near the steps where I could watch the sweep of the great shadows thrown by the clouds that were sailing before the west wind Jack was inside writing and now and then he would say something to me through the open window as I sat lost in delight at the beauty of the view and the sweetness of the flower scented air I marveled that Aunt Agnes could ever have left so charming a spot she must still love it I thought getting up to move my chair to where I might see still further over the prairies and sometimes she will come back at this moment I happened to glance to the further end of the veranda and there I saw to my amazement a little child seated on the floor playing with the shifting shadows of the tangled creepers it was a little girl in a daintily embroidered white dress with golden curls around her baby head as I still gazed she suddenly turned a roguish toss of the yellow hair and fixed her serious blue eyes on me baby I cried where did you come from where's your mama darling and I took a step towards her what's that Sylvia called Jack from within I turned my head and saw him sitting at his desk come quick Jack there's the loveliest baby I turned back to the child looked blinked and at this moment Jack stepped out beside me baby he inquired what on earth are you talking about Sylvia dearest why but I exclaimed there was one how did she get away she was sitting right there when I called a baby repeated my husband my dear babies don't appear and disappear like East Indian magicians you have been napping and are trying to conceal the shameful fact Jack I said decisively don't you suppose I know a baby when I see one she was sitting right there playing with the shadows and I it's certainly very queer Jack grinned go and put on your habit he replied the horses will be here in 10 minutes and remember that when you have accounted for her disappearance her presence still remains to be explained or perhaps you think Wa Sing produced her from his sleeve I laughed Wa Sing was our Chinese cook and more apt I thought to put something up his sleeve than to take anything out I suppose I was dreaming I said though I could almost as well believe I had only dreamed our marriage or rather observe Jack that our marriage had only dreamed us part 2 shadows about a week later I received a letter from Ant Agnes among other things chiefly relating to New York's slums she said I am in need of rest and if you and Jack could put up with me for a few days I believe I should like to get back to the old place as you know I have always dreaded a return there but lately I seem somehow to have lost that dread I feel that the time has come for me to be there again and I'm sure you will not mind me most assuredly most assuredly we would not mind her we sat in the moonlight that night on the veranda Jack swinging my hammock slowly and talked about Agnes the moon silvered the waving alfalfa and sifted through the twisted vines that fenced us in throwing intricate and ever-changing patterns on the smooth flooring there was a hum of insects in the air and the soft wind ever and anon blew a fleecy cloud over the moon dimming for a moment her serene splendor who knows said Jack lighting another cigar this may be a turning point in aunt Agnes's life and she may once more be something like the sunny happy girl your mother describes she is beautiful and she is yet young it may mean the beginning of a new life for her yes I answered it isn't right that her life should always be shadowed by that early sorrow she is so lovely and could be so happy now that she has taken the first step there is no reason why she shouldn't go on we'll do what we can to help her responded my husband let me fix your cushions darling they have slipped he rose to do so and suddenly stood still facing the further end of the veranda his expression was so peculiar that I turned following the direction of his eyes even before his smothered exclamation of Sylvia look there reached me standing in the fluttering moonlight and shadows was the same little girl I had seen already she still wore white and her tangled curls floated shining around her head she seemed to be smiling and slightly shook her head at us what does it mean Jack I whispered slipping out of the hammock how did she get there come said he and we walked hastily towards the little thing who again shook her head just at this moment another cloud obscured the moon for a few seconds and though in the uncertain twilight I fancied I still saw her yet when the cloud passed she was not to be found part three perdita aunt Agnes certainly did look as though she needed rest she seemed very frail and the color had entirely left her face but her curling hair was as golden as ever and her figure as girlish and graceful she kissed me tenderly and kept my hand in hers as she wandered over the house and took long looks across the prairie isn't it beautiful she asked softly softly just the place to be happy in I've always had a strange fancy that I should be happy here again some day and now I feel as though that day had almost come you are happy aren't you dear I looked at Jack and felt the tears coming to my eyes yes I am happy I did not know one could be so happy I answered after a moment aunt Agnes smiled her sweet smile and kissed me again God bless you and your Jack you almost make me feel young again as though you could possibly feel anything else I retorted laughing you little humbug to pretend you're old and slipping my arm round her waist for we had always been dear friends I walked off to chat with her in her room we took a ride that afternoon for aunt Agnes wanted another gallop over that glorious prairie the exercise and the perfect afternoon brought back the color to her cheeks I think I shall be much better tomorrow she observed as we trotted home what a country this is and what horses slipping her hand down her mounts glossy neck I did right to come back here I do not believe I will go away again and she smiled on Jack and me who laughed and said she would find it a difficult thing to attempt we all three came out on the veranda to see the sunset it was always a glorious sight but this evening it was more than usually magnificent immense rays of pale blue pink spread over the sky and the clouds which stretched in horizontal masses glowed rose and golden the whole sky was luminous and tender and seemed to tremble with light we sat silent looking at the sky and at the shadowy grass that seemed to meet it slowly the color deepened and faded there can never be a lovelier evening said Antagnes with a sigh don't say that replied Jack it is only the beginning of even more perfect ones Antagnes rose with a slight shiver it grows chilly when the sun goes she murmured lingeringly to enter the house suddenly she gave a startled exclamation Jack and I jumped up and looked at her she stood with both hands pressed to her heart looking the child again said Jack in a low voice laying his hand on my arm he was right there in the gathering shadow stood the little girl in the white dress her hands were stretched towards us and her lips parted in a smile a belated gleam of sunlight seemed to linger in her hair cried Antagnes in a voice that shook with a kind of terrible joy then with a stifled sob she ran forward and sank before the baby throwing her arms about her the little girl leaned back her golden head and looked at Antagnes with her great serious eyes then she flung both baby arms round her neck and lifted her sweet mouth Jack and I turned away looking at each other with tears in our eyes a slight sound made us turn back Antagnes had fallen forward to the floor and the child was nowhere to be seen we rushed up and Jack raised my aunt in his arms and carried her into the house but she was quite dead the little child we never saw again end of Paradita recording by Louise J. Bell Sebastopol, California