The Pulaskian., 1921-11-17

gentle renoer and refined, like Tor in. stance. Patricia McLaurin. Soon the rav of hope died within her, and she bent her head and sobbed again.
 One of her bare hands began to grope idly in the snow at her side, and she did not feel the cold. Suddenly she realized that her hand was full of shavings. whittlings. Some man had been sitting there whiting with pocket knffe-it must have been a man. for who ever heard of woman whiting? She felt in the snow with both hands. and found more whittlings there were bushels of whittlings, 1t seemed to her, lying there under the snow.
 Then she wondered-wondered who it could have been.
 It was quite dark now, but the moon was not yet up. A great, bright star blazed above David Moreland's tomb like a beacon fire. She heard the muf- fed sounds of slow masculine foot steps in the snow behind her. She did not turn her head. In her soul she knew it could be but one man.
 Bill Dale's head was down, and he moved as though he neither knew nor cared whither he went. Then he saw the dark heap on the rivers bank be- fore him, and he halted. He knew in his soul that it could be but one wom- an.
 Dale went on and sat down on stone the size of small barrel that lay at the rivers rim.
 "Babe?" he said It was the mating call of his heart in the springtime of his life
 "Who d-done all O this whittlin', Bill?" asked Elizabeth.
 "I did," softly.
 But I thought you were so busy here! It's nobody but idlers, of course, that whittles-that is, most O the time it's nobody but idlers that whittles.'
 But I'm not busy on Sundays, y know," replied Dale.
 Tell me this,n Elizabeth asked pointedly: What made you come to this one spot to do your whittlin'? Couldn't you whittle up there in my daddy's cabin yard?"
 He answered her unhesitatingly: Because l like to be here. This place is shrine to me. It was here that I first loved you, Babe. Now you tell me this: Why did you come to this particular spot to sit down in the snow? There's snow in your dad dy's cabin yardr'
 Said Elizabeth, in voice that sound ed smothered: Because like to be here-this place is shrine to me, too-it was here that I first loved you, Bill Dale p
 Then why" he demanded, wont you marry me?"
 Because it was me that shot-Ad- am Ball."
 She went on, and though emotion had set every fibre of her to quivering, she did not fall into the old hill talk, which was proof of the magnificenee of her:
 'T thought you wouldn't want me if you knew that I did that, and couldn't marry you without telling you. But you know nowl And do what ever you feel like doing or saying, you can't hurt me; l can never be hurt any-any m-m-m-more-"
 Bill Dale shot erect. Truly, this was a dar aF c,4raricac fo,. l,;,, Ho stopped and caught her up.
 "A real womanY' he said happily, strengthening with her in his arms. "A real, all gold. pure gold womani You loved me well enough to kill man to save me, and wouldn't let me know itl Woman is mystery. sure enough. But perhaps it's because women are so fine and so far above menfolk that menfolk cannot understand them. Well, Babe, kitten, must I drag you to the altar, or will you go with me of your own accord?"
 She put her arms around his neck and drew them tight.
 "Id go with you, Bill Dale-or David Moreland, whichever it is-to the very last inch of the end of the world" she said
 
 Early the next morning, there came strolling lazily up the rivers bank a tall and lanky mountaineer who wore, among other things, a Niagara Falls mustache and cowhide boots that seemed ridiculously short because of the great length of his slender legs. He carried a rife in the hollow of one arm; he was looking for rabbit-tracks in the snow. Near the pool above the biown-down sycamore, he came upon tracks that had not been made by any four-footed animals. There were the footprints of man coming from one direction, and the footprints of wom- an coming from another direction: only the footprints of the man went