THE story of the midnight murder of Maj. Buell Hampton at the hands of the Vigilantes traveled swiftly from door to door across the bleak Kansas prairies.

Again the people thronged the streets of Meade. The lamentations of bronzed men and emaciated women, with pale-faced babes clinging to their breasts, was a scene never to be forgotten. These were the ones who had received charities from this man of complex destiny.

No broad-brimmed sombreros and Mexican spurs were observable among the people. The cattlemen were conspicuous only by their absence.

The sudden and startling discovery of Maj. Buell Hampton’s misdeeds on the day before had intimidated many into partial inaction. Twenty-four hours had changed all this, however, and a love for their idol, the man of gentle manners and of generous acts, rose up before them like a spirit from the martyr’s grave. The eyes of the gaunt and half-famished women were red with weeping, while mutterings of vengeance were heard on every side from the lips of disappointed and restless men.

Some few seemed inclined to blame Captain Osborn for his assurance of the prisoner’s safety, in his speech of the night before.

A part of the men went in search of the sheriff, only to find that he had taken an early train for Kansas City. Captain Osborn’s high standing and known friendship for Major Hampton, however, protected him from general censure, but the sheriff was branded as a Judas and a traitor.

Judge Linus Lynn, during the afternoon, climbed on top of a dry-goods box in the middle of the public square, and made a speech. The people were quite ready to listen to eulogies pronounced in behalf of their lost benefactor, and Judge Lynn made Major Hampton’s charities and nobleness of heart his theme. He promised them that the Patriot should be issued on the following day under his management, and that he would map out and publish a plan looking toward disinterring the body of Major Hampton from Dead Man’s Hollow and giving it a decent Christian burial in Graceland Cemetery. The people contented themselves with this arrangement, and returned to their homes.

The next day was Thursday, and, when the Patriot made its appearance, half the population of the surrounding country was waiting for a copy. Judge Lynn was the hero of the hour. His editorial, entitled “The Death of a Martyr,” was, indeed, an able and forceful presentation of facts from the farmers’ and Barley Hullers’ point of view. The plan suggested by Judge Lynn was that the people should assemble en masse the following Saturday and give a proper burial to the remains of the founder of the Barley Hullers, and that the ceremonies should be conducted under the auspices of that order.

The suggestions were at once approved, and on the following Saturday there assembled on the streets of Meade such a gathering of people as had never before been seen on the frontier of the Great Southwest. The Barley Hullers from all over the district, wearing sprigs of barley as boutonnihres, occupied the places of honor next to Mr. Horton’s carriage, in which were Marie, Hugh, Mrs. Horton, and Ethel. They were escorted to Dead Man’s Hollow by the village band, which played a funeral march. In all the vast concourse of people that followed, there was not one but cherished tender memories for Buell Hampton.

On arriving at the new-made grave, willing hands commenced removing the soft earth. Presently their shovels struck against the rough-board coffin. A little later it was lifted to view, and a wailing sob went up from the people. Conscience smote their hearts, while charity and mercy blotted out all memory of Major Hampton, save his generosity to the poor and his goodness of heart.

The Barley Hullers formed in procession, and six pall-bearers lifted the coffin preparatory to the march to Graceland Cemetery. At this critical moment, destiny, by the hidden hand of her jester, loosened a buckle in the belt of fate. The wooden bottom of the coffin gave way, and several bushels of earth fell to the ground. The dirge-like music played by the band ceased abruptly. A hushed, death-like silence fell over the multitude. An awful suspense trembled in the balance of uncertainty, until the stupefied throng saw something white flutter and fall at their feet—it was Truth.

Then, as if by magic, it dawned upon them that the Vigilantes had been cheated and that Maj. Buell Hampton was not dead. A spontaneous yell of triumph rent the air. Women screamed in hysterical and tearful exultation. Men shouted, hugged each other, and wept like children. There were acclamations of joy on every hand, and the air became rent with a deafening clamor of happiness. Hugh could hardly control his team in the wild demonstrations of enthusiasm. Marie laughed and cried alternately, and finally fainted in the arms of Mrs. Horton and Ethel. Wild pandemonium of joy reigned. The people were transported with startling excitement and exalting surprise into a happiness that nothing but yells, hugs, and tears could express.

When the tumult had quieted a little, and Marie had partially recovered, Hugh managed to escape from the crush of excited people, and drove rapidly homeward.

The crowd, now thoroughly good-natured, drifted back into the streets of Meade, and then celebrated, in various ways, the noted event. Every man in the vast throng inquired of his neighbor, over and over, where he supposed Major Hampton was.

When the cattlemen learned of the deception that had been practised upon them by the committee of three selected by the council of the Vigilantes, they were greatly surprised but, strange as it may appear, they were neither sorry nor angry. The pendulum of public opinion had swung back, and influenced their better judgment. Indeed, they were already beginning to regret their hasty action, and they experienced a sense of relief when it was discovered that their chosen committee had proved treacherous and that Maj. Buell Hampton’s blood was not on their heads.

How a just and learned judge would have looked upon their “intentions,” had they been tried for manslaughter, did not enter into their contemplations. Even the council that had decreed Major Hampton’s death had no means of knowing the personnel of the committee of three; evidently, however, they were friends of the condemned man.

Within a week the excitement of the strange incident had practically subsided, but interest and diligent inquiry as to Major Hampton’s whereabouts were still active. The mystery of Major Hampton’s escape was no greater surprise than had been the discovery that he was the master spirit of the cattle thieves of Southwestern Kansas. His crime was of such a nature that no self-respecting, law-abiding citizen could countenance it, and even sympathy from the better class would certainly have been withheld had developments not indicated so plainly that his reason was dethroned.

Marie soon recovered from the severe shock occasioned by the supposed death of her father, and anxiously awaited his return. The fact that he still lived acted as a tonic to her shattered nerves.

Her genealogy, found among the major’s private papers, fully established her kinship to Dr. Jack Redfield. It was a joyful discovery to each of them, and the doctor never tired of answering the questions about the Redfield family, which were put to him by his pretty cousin.

“Just think, Marie,” said Ethel, enthusiastically, “I shall soon—very soon—be your cousin, and you shall come and live with me in Chicago.”

“No, Ethel,” replied Marie, “I must wait for papa. I know he says that I am not his daughter, but my heart goes out to him just as much as if I were. Indeed, since I have learned the truth, it seems to me that I love him more than ever. His kindness to my mother, his loyalty, his generosity and love during all these many years, doubly endear him to me.”

Hugh exhibited an increased consideration for Marie. He told Captain Osborn that it was because the major had requested him to look after her interests until he returned. The captain laughed good-naturedly, and Hugh looked embarrassed.

“But what will happen,” asked Captain Osborn, in a bantering tone, “if the major never returns?”

“Your question,” replied Hugh, in half-irritation, “is untenable, because it is not supposable. Major Hampton has promised to return, and he was never known to break his word in keeping an engagement.”

In the solitude of his room, Hugh confessed to himself that at last he was face to face with love itself; and just at a time, too, when Marie appeared indifferent. Perhaps her seeming indifference had aroused him into action.

“I have always been willing to look at a difficulty and to go around it heretofore,” he mused, “but in this case I will jump over every obstacle that stands between my foolish self and Marie Hampton.”

Generous, noble-hearted Hugh Stanton was, indeed, awakened to his first great passion of absorbing love. Heretofore he had been influenced by cold judgment, seasoned by his high sense of honor; now, however, a new condition confronted him. His heart was speaking wildly, and it jealously bid defiance to judgment and to reason. He thought how blind he had been in not understanding his heart long before. Once he fancied that his interest in Marie was inspired by her musical gifts. Now he knew differently, and marveled at his stupidity in not recognizing, in the bud, the full-blown rose. It was no longer the jewels in the casket, but the wondrous casket itself.

The dinner-bell sounded, and, after an extra adjustment of his necktie, and a special brushing of his hair, he went down to the dining-room.

He was confused when Ethel spoke to him, and made unintelligible answers. Dr. Jack Redfield laughingly accused him of being absent-minded. The cattle king said that he had been working too hard, while Mrs. Horton insisted that Hugh, poor boy, must take a vacation and a rest from the severe nervous strain that he had been under.

A sense of guilt crept into Hugh’s heart, for he knew a secret which he believed none of them guessed. Presently he discovered that he had no appetite. He raised his eyes like a blushing schoolboy to Marie’s sweet face, and she was laughing a wicked, mischievous laugh. It was more than he could endure. He gulped rather than drank a swallow of coffee.

“I beg pardon, Miss Marie; you seem amused.”

“Yes,” said she, still laughing; “I know what is the matter with you, but seemingly the others do not.”

Hugh’s face was now on fire. He imagined that she at last knew the secret of his heart, and he feared that she would reveal it before the entire household.

Was ever a girl more beautiful, bewitching, and tantalizing than Marie!

Hastily arising from the table, he asked to be excused, and bolted like an awkward overgrown boy from the room.

Mrs. Horton looked distressed, and at once inquired of Marie what she fancied was troubling: Hugh.

“Why, Mrs. Horton,” replied Marie, “could you not see that his collar was so tight that his face was fairly crimson?”

“Hey?” interposed Mr. Horton. “Collar too tight, you say? Then he must have been wearing the same sized collar for the last ten days. I have noticed a wonderful change in him for the past week or so.”

Dr. Jack Redfield smiled and made a sign to Ethel, who in turn nodded her knowing head toward Marie.

In the meantime, Hugh put on his hat and walked down the winding path to the lake. He bared his head and let the cool night winds fan his fevered brow. The moon in all its grandeur was climbing the eastern sky. Turning aside to a little summer-house, he seated himself and looked through the checkered openings at the twining tendrils of a honeysuckle. The moon’s rays fell aslant on the earthen floor, which was cut into squares by the shadow. He soon grew restless and sauntered out along a path into the thickest part of the grove. The great trees seemed to him to be a battalion of giant soldiers in repose. The winds stirred the limbs, and, as they swayed up and down, moaning in half-stifled sobs, breaking off dry twigs and withered leaves, he fancied that they were “cracking their knuckles at him” in fiendish glee, and, while they pretended to sympathize, they were in fact only laughing at his rejected love. Yes, Marie had laughed at him, thereby confessing a knowledge of his great love, and at the same time trampling it cruelly beneath her feet.

After walking for an hour through the woods, he returned somewhat calmed, but filled with a determination to tell Marie at once that life to him was worthless without her reciprocal love. He came to the lake and paused a moment to watch the rippling waves, so beautifully yellowed by the moon’s soft rays that they seemed like liquid gold. He turned, and then stopped suddenly. Immediately in front of him, and standing in the doorway of the summer-house, was Marie. She came toward him, and in solicitous tones inquired if he were ill. Her foot caught on a vine of honeysuckle, and she nearly fell. Hugh caught her in his strong arms and held her passionately to his breast.

“Marie, Marie, my darling,” he whispered. “I love you—yes, love you better than life. Can you not see that this great love is driving me desperate and setting my blood on lire? Can you not, will you not, give me a word, a single word of hope?”

She struggled to free herself from his fervid embrace, trembling like a captured bird, but her struggles only caused him to press her closer to his beating heart.

He knew that the one woman in all the wide world, to whom he had given his all-absorbing, blind affection, was resting in his arms.

She ceased struggling, and looked up into his face as if mutely appealing to him.

“Oh, my darling, my beloved Marie,” he continued, “can you not tell me that you love me?”

His hot breath was on her cheeks.

“Pray do not be angry with me,” he went on, wildly; “my heart is sobbing a prayer for your forgiveness; kiss me, dearest, and I shall know that I am forgiven and loved.”

For a moment she hesitated, and then, timidly reaching up her plump, white arms, she clasped them about his neck and pressed her lips—soft as the velvet petals of a rose—to his own. It was a clinging, soulful kiss of an innocent girl given with the wealth of her whole heart to the man she loved.

It seemed that heaven enveloped them for a moment with its dazzling splendor.

“Ah, my darling,” he murmured, “you forgive me, and love me. Complete my happiness by telling me in words.”

Her countenance brightened with a smile of almost heavenly radiance, and, drawing him still closer, she whispered: “Do I love you, Hugh? Why, I loved you from the beginning.”

Retreating within the summer-house, they seated themselves on a rustic seat and began telling over the sacred story that has been whispered by passionate lovers all round the world rom the beginning of time.

The checkered rays of the moon lay like a carpet at their feet, while all the light of starry heaven seemed to fall and rest upon them in glorious benediction.

A shadow fell across the doorway. It was Maj. Buell Hampton who stood before them. With a wild cry of joy and thanksgiving, Marie threw herself into his arms. After tenderly embracing her, he turned slowly toward Hugh, and, extending his hand in greeting, supported the sobbing girl with his other arm.

“My dear Stanton,” said he, in his rich, full voice, “I am indeed delighted to see you. I am going to a new country, and shall begin again my labors for the lowly and suffering humanity. My home shall be somewhere amid the mighty canons and cliffs of rugged mountains. There is no lasting pleasure in living, unless we may do good to our fellow men. Years upon years of earnest labor have taught me that we can secure the blessings of a peaceful death and of a rich reward in the world beyond only by being steadfast in our labor of love while in the vineyards of earth.”

Marie was sobbing as if her heart would break.

“Do not grieve, my little girl, at my going. We shall meet again. I leave you sheltered and protected by the love of a noble man. My blessing is upon you and on him. Remember, my daughter, that the crowning glory of wifehood is motherhood. Let your devotion to your husband and to the children that may bless your fireside be an untarnished shield, protecting your journey through life, and blessing you in old age.

“Hugh, my son, remember that partings are brief—it is possible that we shall meet again. Into your care and keeping I give this noble girl. Heretofore her innocence has been her safeguard. In the future you must be responsible for her happiness.”

He lifted one of Marie’s fair hands to his lips, and then placed it in Hugh’s.

“My children, I can pronounce no richer eulogy than to say that I believe as firmly as I believe in doing good to suffering humanity, that you are each worthy of the other. Adieu, my daughter. Farewell, my son.”

He went out under the quiet stars, and, like a spirit, disappeared in the deep shadows of the woods, and was seen no more by those who marveled at this supposed Rosicrucian, or by the multitudes who had learned to love him on the cattle range of the Great Southwest.

THE END.