The Minneapolis journal. [volume] (Minneapolis, Minn.) 1888-1939, 1903-09-22
By MRS. C. N. WILLIAMSON,
Copyright 1903 by the National Press Agency.


So Maya lay in her bed, wide-eyed in
the darkness. and she was still awake
When sound IN the next room, which
was her fathers, made her spring out of
bed and run to the door with a quickly
beating heart.
He had seemed less well even than usual
that night. after the walk he had taken
| with Michael, and tho he had rather IT.
ritably assured Maya that there was no
cause for anxiety, sending her from him
when she wished to stay the girl re-
preached herself as she heard his means
for letting her thoughts stray so far from
| him.
| 1t was only bad dream he had had.
Maya was impatiently told, when she had
slipped on her dressing gown and gone In
| to her father. But the thick curtains
were pushed back from the window near
| est his bed, and the pale light of early
dawn struggling thru the screen of Icy
showed a face so haggard that she was
| frightened.
Once, 1t must have been an exceedingly
| handsome face, and 1t was still remark
able; face to turn and look after In
crowd. and not to be forgotten. 1t bore
few traces of age: there were no wrinkles,
and the eyes were full Of fire. Yet
stranger seeing the man for the first
| time could scarcely have imagined his
ever being young. He hardly looked hu-
man. for his clear features might have
been cut out Of old ivory, yellow white
and polished. The deep-set eyes might
have been black or gray, but the heavy
brows were like thick line Of ink drawn
on parchment; the hair, combed back
from the forehead and worn rather long,
| was mass of cleaning silver, without a
thread OF Its original color left Even
the lips were colorless, and they shared
the restlessness Of the unnaturally bright
eyes, twitching slightly at the sunken
corners as the restless glance moved. Had
it not been for this restlessness, the face
on the pillow might almost have been
| that of dead man, in the greenish light
which came thru the ivy.
| II have had terrible dreams for the past
week." he said But last night was the
! worst. It has left me exhausted. and
the pain In the heart is very severe T
have borne it almost as long as I can.
1t would be better If you and Michael
| would let me die. Death in peace! that
is all I ask. A happy release for every
one"
II wish you had called me-" said Maya.
There was deep tenderness in her heart
for her father. tho In spite of herself it
struggled with contempt. 1t hurt her
physically that he should have to suffer,
! and she would have cut off her
hand to save him pain, just as
|
happiness to save him that which was
| worse than pain. But she knew him so
| entirely-knew all his weaknesses, his
vanities. Tho he spoke of death as a re-
| lease to be wished for, the girl knew well
that he feared it, shrank from it with
horror. His cries to be saved, to be kept
alive-only alive-when heart spasms had
tortured him. still rang in her ears, and
she dreaded hearing them again should
the pains increase. .-....
,"I didn't want you" the answer came
pettishly. "You are too sparing with
the medicine. I got sup and took 1t my
self-more than the usual dose,- for+sI
needed it. But I am no better I wish
you would call Michael"
Maya hurried to obey. Wrapping a.
white shawl over her dressing gown, she
unlocked the door between the North
Wing and the main part Of the house
and fitted like a ghost thru the dim
corridors till she reached the door Of
MfchaeIs room. There she Knocked
| once, twice, thrice each time louder and
more insistently, but got no response
At last, in desperation, she tried the
door. 1t was not locked. ''Mchael!"
she called. But no Michael answered.
The room was empty; the windows wide
open and uncurtained; the bed had not
been slept in. "
This discovery gave Maya a shock; but
she did not believe yet that her cousin
had gone far. He had been much dis
turbed when she saw him last; and she
had withdrawn herself from him coldly;
still, there had been no quarrel, and she
thought that, If Michael had meditated
a chase of the fugitive, he would at least
have dropped hint of his intention. Per
haps he had felt that he could not sleep
and had not cared to try in vain. He had
| told her that sometimes he sat up all
night reading, and possibly now she would
find him in the sitting-room which the
Truros had given up to his use since the
| beginning Of his visit at the farm.
| She ran downstairs to this room and
| peeped in, but no one was there. Then
she slipped out Of doors, tho her feet
were clad in thin slippers and the grass
was wet with dew. Michael sometimes
| took his books to a dilapidated summer
house not far away, but it was unoc-
| cupied now, save by black cat that
darted past the girl with NEW as she
brushed against the half open door; and
| at last Maya began to be very anxious
not for Michael alone. If he had left the
farm after bidding her goodnight, he
could only have gone upon one Grand
that Of revenge. 1t was ominous that he
had not yet returned, tho 1t must now
be close upon o'clock in the morning,
and already smoke was curling thiny
from the kitchen chimney.
Mayas mind sketched vivid picture of
what might have happened if Michael and
Breakspear had met on the moor-Break-
spear alone or with the other whom
Michael loved to call his confederate. And
! then there was her father. She must
keep her thoughts upon him and his need.
| Michael was the only doctor whom he
| had ever consented to employ, and Mich