The Washburn times. [volume] (Washburn, Wis.) 1896-1976, 1914-08-13

now 1t seemed a claimant watcher,
tolling JOY. Three! Four!
+. Five! Perhaps he was
sleepless, listening, too. Was he In
the old library, thinking of her?
Six! Seven! Eight!
\. Nine! IL she could only
send her message to him on the bells!
Ten! It swelled more loudly
now, more deliberate. Eleven! q.
Another day was almost gone.
Twelve Joy cometh in the
morning the whisper across her
thought. 1t was morning now.
Thirteen!
She caught a sharp breath Her
ear had not deceived her--the vibra-
ton still palpitated on the air like
heart of sound. 1t had struck thir-
teeni A little eery touch crept along
her nerves and a cool dampness broke
on her skin, for she seemed to hear,
quavering through the wondering 81
lence, the voice of Mad Anthony, as
it had Quavered to her ear on the
doorstep Of the negro cabin, with the
well-sweep throwing its long curved
shadow across the group of laughing
faces:
"Ah sees yo' gwine ter him. All
heahs de co'ot-house clock a-strikin
in de night-en yo' gwine. :.
Dom wait, don wait, III mistis, er
de trouble-cloud gwine kyah him
erway f'om yo' When de clock
strike thuhteen-when de clock strike
thuhteen--"
She dropped the lowered curtain
and drew back. A weird fancy had
begun to press on her brain. Had not
Mad Anthony foretold truly what had
gone before? What if there were
some cryptic meaning in this, too? To
go to him, at midnight, by lonely
country roadside, a girl? Incredible!
Yet her mind had opened to vague
growing fear that was swiftly mount
ing to thriving anxiety. That innate
superstition, secretly cherished while
derided, which is the heritage of the
Southron born bred from centuries of
contact with mystical race, had her
in it's grip. Yet all the while her
sober actual common-sense was crying
out upon her--and crying in vain.
Unknown appetences that lad lain
darkling in her blood, come down to
her from long generations, were sud
denly compelling her. The curtain
began to wave in little wind that
whispered in the silk. and somewhere
in the yard below she could hear Sc
linn nipping the clover.
She was to go or the "trouble-cloud"
would carry him away!
A strange expression of mingled
fright and resolve grew on her face.
She ran on tiptoe to her wardrobe
and with frantic haste dragged out
rough cloak that fell over her soft
house-gown, covering it to the feet. 1t
had a peaked hood falling from It's
collar and into this she thrust the
few seconds she caught her breath In
short gasp, and once she paused
with an apprehensive glance over her
shoulder and shivered. She scarcely
knew what she did, nor did she ask
herself what might be the outcome of
such an absurd adventure. She nei-
Their knew nor cared. She was swept
off her feet and whirled away into
some outlandish limbo of shadowy
fear and crying dread.
Slipping off her shoes, she went
swiftly and noiselessly down the stair.
O Ia <~R %kA ~A
shoes on again, ran across the clover
A hound clambered about her, whin-
ing, but she silenced him with whis-
pered word. Selim lifted his head and
she patted the snufiing inquiring
muzzle an instant before, with her
hand on his name. she led him
through the hedge to the stable. 1t
was but the work of moment to
throw on a side-saddle and buckle the
girth. Then, mounting, she turned
him into the lane.
He was thoroughbred, and her tense
excitement seemed to communicate
itself to him. He blew the breath
through his delicate flaring nostrils
and flung up his head at her restrain
ing hand on the bride. Once on the
Red Road, she let him have his will
The long vacant highway reeled out
behind her TO the fierce and lonely
hoof-tattoo, She was scarcely con-
scious of consecutive Thoughtful was
a vague tumble of chaotic impressions
threaded by that necessity that called
her like an insistent voice.
Copse and hedge few by, streaks Of
distemper on the shifting gloom;
swarthy farmhouse roofs huddled like
giant Indians on the trail, and ponds
in pastures glinted back the pale
glimmering of stars. The faint mist,
tangled in the branches of the trees,
made them look like ghosts gathered
to see her pass. Was this real or
was she dreaming? Was she, Shirley
cambridge, really galloping down an
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