The Yale expositor., 1912-09-12

or his wife, although he had burned
the letters unread, and by the same
token he could no longer cherish the
dream that she had loved him and him
alone. Those words that had pre-
coded that pistol shot had made It
possible for him to take Enid Matt
land as his wife without doing violence
to his sense of honor or his self-re-
spect. Armstrong had made that
much reparation. And Newbold could
not doubt that the other had known
what would be the result of his speech
and had chosen his words deliberately;
score that last action to his credit. He
was a sensitive man, however; he
realized the brutal and beast.lixe part
he and Armstrong had both played be-
fore this woman they both loved, how
they had battled like savage animals
and how but for lucky interposition
he would have added murder to his
other disabilities.
He was honest enough to say to him
self that he would have done the same
thing over under the same circum-
stances, but that did not absolve his
conscience. He did not know how the
woman looked at the transaction or
looked at him, and he had not enjoyed
one moment alone with her. In all
that had transpired since that morn
ing in the hut. the four had naturally
and inevitably remained inseparably
together.
They had buried Armstrong in the
snow, Robert Maitland saying over
him brief but fervent petition in
which even Newbold Joined. Enid
Maitland herself had repeated elo-
quently to her uncle and old Kirkby
that night before the fire the story of
her rescue from the food by this man,
how he had carried her in the storm
to the hut and how he had treated her
since; and Maitland had afterwards
repeated her account to his brother in
Denver
Maitland had insisted that Newbold
share his hospitality, but that young
man had refused. Kirkby had little
place not far from Denver and easily
accessible to 1t. and the old man had
gladly taken the younger one with
him. Newbold had been in fever of
anxiety over Enid Maitland's illness,
but his alarm had soon been dispelled
by the physicians assurance. and
there was nothing now left for him
but to wait until she could see him.
He inquired for her morning and even
ing at the great house on the hill;
he kept her room bower Of beauty
with priceless blossoms, but he had
sent no word.
Robert Maitland had promised to let
him know, however. so soon as Enid
could see him, and it was in pursuance
of telephone message that he was in
the library that morning
He had not yet become accustomed
to the world; he had lived so long
alone that he had grown somewhat shy
and retiring: the habits and customs
Of years were not to be lightly thrown
aside in a week or month. He had
sought no interview with Ends father
heretofore; indeed had rather avoided
it, but on this morning he had asked
for 1t, and when Robert Maitland
would have withdrawn he begged him
to remain.
Mr. Maitland" Newbold began. II
presume that you know my unfortu-
nate history
II have heard the general outlines |
of it, sir, from my brother and Others"
answered the other kindly.
II need not dwell upon 1t further |
then. Although my hair is tinged with |
gray and doubtless look much older. |
| was only twenty-eight on my last |
birthday. was not born in this sec.
ton of the country, my home was in
Baltimore"
CTO BE CONTINUED)