The Bridgeport evening farmer. [volume] (Bridgeport, Conn.) 1866-1917, 1917-05-22

them empty. Haven't told you to be
more careful about these things? And
where is my rifle powder? The canis-
ter is here, but It's empty Come,
come, must have better service than
this
But even as he chided the rennissness
Of his servant he seemed to forget the
matter in his mind. Presently he was
again pacing apart, stopping now and
then to stare out over the forest.
II must have place to WRITE" said
he at length. II shall be awake for
time tonight, occupied with business
matters OF Importance. Where is Ma
jor Nicely? Where are the other men?
Why have they not come up?"
Peria could not or did not answer
these questions, but sullenly went
about the business Of making his mas
ter as comfortable as he might, and
then departed to his own quarters
down the hill in another building. The
old backwoods woman herself with
drew to the other apartment beyond
the open space Of the double cabin.
The soft, velvet darkness Of night in
the forest now came ON apace-a night
Of silence. There was not even the call
OF tree toad. The voice of the whip
poorwill was stilled at that season Of
the year. II there were human beings
awake, alert, at that time, they made
no sound. Meriwether Lewis was
alone alone In the wilderness again.
ITS silences, its mysteries, drew about
him.
But now he stood, not enjoying In his
usual fashion the familiar feeling Of
the night In the forest, the calm, the
repose it customarily brought to him.
He stood looking intently as II he ex-
pected some one-nay, indeed, as il he
saw some one-as If he saw a face.
What face was it?
At last he made his way across the
room to the heavy saddle case which
had been placed there. He flung the
lid open and felt among the contents.
It seemed to him there was not 80
much within the case as there should
have been. He missed certain papers
and resolved to ask Peria about them.
He could not find the little bags Of
coin which he expected, but he found
the watch lying covered in corner Of
the case. he drew it out and, stepping
toward the Pickering candle, opened it,
gazing fxedly at the little silhouette
cut around to fit in the back OF the
case.
It was face that he had seen be-
fore. A hundred times he had gazed
thus at it on the far western trails.
He brought the little portrait close
up to his eyes, but not close to his lips.
No; he did not kiss the face of the wo-
man whose eyes had told him she was
In his power.
Meriwether Lewis had won his long
fight. He had mastered the human
emotions of his soul at last. The bat
tie had been such that he sat here now
weak and spent. He sat looking at the
fact which had meant SO much to him
all these years.
There came into his mind some rec
election of words that she had written
to him once - something about the
sound of water He lifted his head
and listened. Yes; there was sound
coming family through the night-the
trickle Of little brook in the ravine
below the window.
Always, he recalled, she had spoken
of the sound of water, saying that
that music would, blot out memory,
saying that water would wash out Sc
crets, would wash out sins. What was
1t she had said? What was 1t she had
written to him long ago?
The sound Of the little brook came
to his ears again in some shift Of the
wind. He rose and stumbled toward
the window, carrying the candle in his
hand. His haggard face was lighted
by its flare as he stood there, leaning
out, listening.
1t was then that his doom came to
him
There came the sound Of shot, q
second and yet another.
The woman In the cabin near by
heard them clearly enough. She rose
and listened. There was no sound
frro he continued