INSANITY OR EXILE.

For weeks and weeks after the terrible death of Laurens Cornwallis, the life of his sister Ruth hung on a thread. She was delirious. She cried out incessantly. “O Laurens! Laurens! beautiful angel! Come back! come back! Speak to me Laurens! Kiss me, Laurens!”

They feared her brain was going.

“If we could only make her think he had come back,” said the perplexed doctor—“create a sort of counter delusion.”

They tried it each in turn with no effect—the mother at last.

“Oh, she does not even hear me,” sobbed the mother. “Her sense of hearing must be already gone, only her sight remains. Her eyes were fixed on the door in the far end of the room, as though she expected to see him come through that door, when she calls.”

This gave the doctor a new idea.

“Then we must have some one that looks like him come through that door, in response to her call—some one that knew him and loved him and would be in full sympathy with her in regard to his death.”

“Ralph Norwood!” exclaimed Mr. and Mrs. Cornwallis in the same breath.

“And he must have the kite in his hand,” said Mr. Cornwallis.

“Yes, and I must make him a George Washington cap and whole suit if necessary” said Mrs. Cornwallis. “Ralph is older but he is small of his age and Laurens was large. Besides he is resourceful. He might make himself look younger than he is.”

Ralph was sent for at once. He too, had been ill from the shock of Lauren’s death but he aroused himself and came to the rescue. He dressed himself in the George Washington suit. He donned the Can’t-tell-a-lie cap which Mrs. Cornwallis had made the crowning glory, by adding to it Lauren’s beautiful curls, which had been clipped from his head by the thoughtful undertaker.

He took the kite in hand and waited by the door until Ruth called out:

“Laurens come back! Come back! Speak to me angel! kiss me!”

Then he opened the door and responded to the call. The effect was magical. She fancied it was Laurens. She talked and laughed and slept in that belief. When she awoke, she took her food and medicine from his hand. She did whatever he asked her to do. She was finally saved, brain intact.

But this was not the end of little Ruth’s misery and the anxiety of her parents. She was in a state of nervous wreck that required fully as much watchfulness, if not quite so much solicitude as that of the mental stress. Sudden noises, especially those of an explosive nature, such as the firing of a gun or pistol, would cause a nervous shock, from which it would take days and often weeks to recover. But worse than all was her horror of Independence Day. She looked forward to its coming with a dread, akin to terror.

“O what shall we do now, Doctor? What can we do?” asked her mother.

“Take her away out of sight and sound of it,” replied the doctor, “and give her immediate assurance that you will do so.”

“But where to go, Doctor? This terrible thing is everywhere more or less.”

“Out of the country. To Europe or Canada, where they don’t pretend to have an Independence Day,” replied the doctor, smiling grimly.

“O Doctor! What cruel mockery is this—this being compelled to go away from our home! It seems such a shame—a positive disgrace!”

“They are not to be weighed in the balance,” said the doctor seriously. “It is a matter of life or death, nerve or no nerve, to your child. If you will begin promptly and continue to take her away every year as long as the present symptoms remain, she may get well in time. Otherwise I will not answer for the result. Another Independence Day as full of racket and accident as the last, would be likely to bring on a mental lapse, for which there would be no hope. The only really safe thing to do is to take a month’s vacation—that is, go out of the country three weeks before Independence Day and stay until two weeks after. That would cover the time which is usually seized upon by the independent and ignorant boys and hoodlums of the community, to put the rest of the people in chains and agony—or exile.”

“O! O! Doctor! Is there no better way? Could we not go among them and talk to them and tell them just how it is with us and ask them to be quiet?”

The doctor shook his head. “I have tried that without effect more than once in the case of very sick patients. It will take years of talk and legislation and education to silence the loud-mouthed monster—and you can’t wait for that.”

“Lord help us to do it then and bring us out of it with health and strength to fight against this terrible evil!” sobbed Mrs. Cornwallis. “O, it seems to me there is no place in this world for the sick, the helpless, and the afraid.”

“Not even in your beautiful new world,” said the doctor. He was a German but he was honest and the reply struck home with double force. She held a long consultation with her husband that evening and they decided to carry out his instructions faithfully. Consequently every year before the Independence Day racket began they sought out a quiet spot on the Canadian border—or rather a place where the American citizen freighted with children and firecrackers was never known to come. It was not always an easy or an agreeable task, to find just such a place; but it had to be found, else the going away would be of no avail.

Ralph was invited to go with them at first and did go as a matter of course, until one fateful year when the parents suddenly awoke to the fact that Ralph was growing a mustache and Ruth was developing into a rather shy but pretty young maiden. The next year they went without him; and the next. Then the unexpected happened. Ruth was disinclined to go, to begin with; but the doctor shook his head and they went. They had been there only a few days, however, when the long avoided American family made a descent on the boarding house.

“Yes, here they are at last,” said Mr. Cornwallis, as soon as he had given them a thorough looking over—“the pestiferous boys, the rackety firecrackers, the indulgent mamma and the blindly patriotic papa, if I mistake not. I fear we shall have to move on.”“No! no, papa! Let’s stay. I’m sure I can endure it now. I’m so much better and perhaps we can talk to them and tell them about our experience with the dangerous things and make them more careful. Let’s try it, papa. I hate the idea of running away from our own people. I begin to think it isn’t quite right.”

“It’s far safer to stay here than to go home,” remarked Mrs. Cornwallis, “where there are hundreds of armed boys to the four that are here.”

Mr. Cornwallis gave it up and they stayed.

Ruth lost no time in making the acquaintance of the American family, at least of Mrs. Bearington and the boys, nor any opportunity of impressing upon them the danger of playing with fireworks. She gave her own experience as proof. She told them of the terrible accidents that had happened in her own town and of her little brother’s mysterious death that had wrecked her health, broken her father’s and mother’s hearts and made them fugitives from home.

“Do you hear that, Robbie,” said Mrs. Bearington to her oldest son. “You know that mamma has always been afraid you would get hurt, handling those dreadful things.”

“Papa bought them for us and I want mine now,” said the boy bluntly. “I know how to handle them.”

“Have a care my boy. You may not know as much as you think you do. If you should have an accident, your papa would never buy any more for you, and mamma would never forgive herself,” said Mrs. Bearington in her soft-hearted, unreasoning way.

“But the accident!” gasped Ruth. “How can you risk it? It might be of the kind that could never be repaired—the loss of a hand or an eye!”

“Oh! dear, dear! it’s too horrible to think of,” exclaimed Mrs. Bearington, nervously.

“Perhaps if you should think of it, you would see your way out,” persisted Ruth. “There are so many beautiful things made for children now-a-days.” Then, she turned to the boys and asked:

“Can’t you tell me of anything you would like better than those evil looking, nasty smelling, dangerous fire crackers and things? Something that you could keep instead of burning up?”

The three older boys maintained a dubious silence while Teddy the youngest cried out: “O mamma! I’d rather have a bugle! A real nice big bugle!”

“He makes me think of little Laurens,” said Ruth turning to Mrs. Bearington with a sob. “He asked mamma ‘why they didn’t have a bugle instead of a cannon on Schwarmer Hill,’ the very morning before he was killed.”

They looked at each other for a moment in sympathetic silence. Then Mrs. Bearington turned quite bravely to the boys.

“See here, boys, mamma is going to ask papa not to buy you any more fireworks. Mamma is going to hunt the city over next year and find you some things that you will like better—bugles! tambourines! trumpets! bicycles!”