The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1925-01-23

heart to lean within the arms out
stretched toward her; she knew that
if she had given Lancaster life. he
copld give. her the strength of life
he was of her own people, and all that
was chivalric and dear In the land
she had loved seemed embodied In
him. And before her she saw the
closing hospital walls of some far dis
tant city: she must exile herself from
everything that she had known.
you little stubborn thing, Joan y
said Lancaster tenderly. "But / shall
go on loving you
II shall love you, John"
Il shall hear from you sometimes?"
Eyes. And shall remain in Avon
mouth until your battle is won. But
there will be no battle. They know
that they are beaten. You will never
be weak again."
mo-" said Lancaster. "But, o Joan,
if you had said yes to me 1t would
have been so easy
With the maternal feeling that is
part Of every woman's loves for the
man she loves, she stopped and kissed
his forehead.
You must try to sleep now she
said. II shall leave the revolver
with you, and you shall lock your
door,"
Il am not afraid of thcm," he an
swered. "They can do nothing, Joan.
Keep it to assure you of your own
safety"
That seemed the better way. There
was nothing that the pair could do
to Lancaster. If they aimed at any
one 1t would, be she. She saw that,
and she went out without speaking to
Lancaster again. In the hall she
breathed more freely. It was ended
now, and she knew that she had done
the right thing, the only possible
thing. But Lancaster had not sur
missed the terrific woman's battle
which she had fought during those
last few minutes.
She stood in the hall for few mo-
ments in uncertainty. She did not
mean to sleep, but to lie awake with
her door open, resting. and listening
for any movements in the house. But,
though her brain was awake. she was
more tired than she had ever been
in her life She could hardly drag
her limbs upstairs, and again she had
that sense of walking on air. Under
the little burning lamp she stopped
again to gather strength to go to her
room. The ticking of the clock in
the hall below was the only sound in
the house. She strained her ears to
catch the sound of voices from Myers
room, but she could hear nothing.
Yet the men could not be asleep.
They must be planning together.
The silence in the ramshackle. old
building was a CHASTITY one. 1t seemed
to hide innumerable thoughts. as if
those of all who had ever lived within
it's walls survived, breaking upon her
brain in invisible waves. She felt en-
meshed in web, as the dreamer who
struggles to wake into free life from
the horrors of nightmare. The wind
had gone down, and the raindrops
dripped rhythmically from the caves.
Joan had an intense inclination to
surrender, to run back into Lancas-
ter's room, cry to him to help her, to
let her fight beside him as long as
they lived. And the silence, which
was becoming more terrific every mo-
ment, was Enthusiastically malevolent.
She reached her room and tried to
shake away her fears. She went to
the window and leaned out. The night
was clearing, and delicious air blew
in from the hills. Not light was to
be seen in Millville or Lancaster. And
she, wept again, heartbroken. 1t was
all ended, that peace which had begun
to inclose her, and all her hopes and
all that love within was bound up so
intimately with the idea of home.
(TO BE CONTINUED)