OLD NINETY-NINE’S CAVE

CONTENTS

Reuben

OLD NINETY-NINE’S CAVE

BY
ELIZABETH H. GRAY

Le Succès est un Devoir
CMC Pub. Co.
MCM

THE C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO.
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
1909

Copyright, 1909
by
The C. M. Clark Publishing Co.
Boston, Massachusetts
U. S. A.

All Rights Reserved

PRESS OF MURRAY AND EMERY COMPANY
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

DEDICATED
To the loving memory of my Father and in grateful
recognition to my friend J. F. C., whose
encouragement made this book possible.

ILLUSTRATIONS

INTRODUCTION

Tourists in the Shawangunk region are unanimous in pronouncing it one of the most beautiful spots east of the Mississippi, and in some respects unique on this continent. Mokonk and Minnewaska need no eulogy from any pen, Sam’s Point tells its own story, while the entire Rondout Valley has a charm of its own.

It has been the author’s good fortune to have access to old books and papers relating to the local tradition of “Old Ninety-Nine.” He is said to have been the last of the Delawares in the Rondout Valley, and, excepting his death, on which tradition is silent, the account given is the one generally told.

The house of Benny De Puy is still standing and the “very spring from which old Ninety-Nine drank on his way to and from his cave” yet gushes out not far from the door.

The photographs of Sam’s Point and Margaret are by V. T. Wright. That of Reuben and others used are by A. V. Turner.

The author feels indebted to “The Four Track News and Travel Magazine” for courteous permission to reprint parts of two articles by herself that were published by them.

Old Ninety-Nine’s Cave

CHAPTER I

THE Shawangunk Mountains extend from near the center of Ulster County to the southwestern corner in an almost unbroken chain. The Catskills are in the northeastern part and between these two ranges is the Rondout Valley, which extends from the Delaware to the Hudson River, averaging in width about three miles.

Shawangunk is an Indian word meaning “Great Wall,” and the range separates the Wallkill from this beautiful valley. Here flourish the trailing arbutus, azalea and laurel, and in July that glory of our continent—the American rhododendron—is found in perfection.

History and tradition have added charm to the natural beauty of this region, and every lake and mountain-pass has its legends.

Early settlers were Dutch, and French Huguenots who found the country disputed by different tribes of the Delawares. Those living in Ulster County were called the Esopus Indians, and their hunting-grounds embraced the territory between the Highlands on the south, Tendeyackemick on the north, the Hudson on the east, and the head waters of the Delaware on the west. They were, however, divided into clans which generally took the name of the place where they lived: thus those on the east side of the Shawangunk Mountains were called “Waconawankongs” and those on the west were called “Wawarsings,” “Minisinks” and “Mamakatings.” Originally they were a portion of the Minqua or Delawares, who always claimed a protectorate over them and with whom they merged when driven westward by the settlements of the whites.

In the heart of this valley and nestling close to the base of Point Wawanda lay Nootwyck, a quaint little village and seemingly part of its surroundings. Huguenot Street intersected the village, running from east to west towards the mountain, and extended part way up its side.

It was in December, 1878, that John De Vere hurried up this street towards the home whose welcome lights glimmered through the falling snow; even the gaunt Lombardy poplars which lined the street were attractive in their soft mantle of white. At the extreme end of the street he turned into his grounds and ascended to the house by the winding road which led up to it. Being a scholarly man and an admirer of the Greek style of architecture, his house had been made to conform as nearly as possible to it. The broad piazza which extended around three sides commanded a fine view of the valley.

Springing up the broad steps, Mr. De Vere was soon in the midst of his family, who were seated at the supper-table. The family consisted of his mother, wife, and four children: Jack, a handsome young fellow of twenty-two; Celeste, a girl of twenty; Eletheer, sixteen; and Cornelia, six. Reuben and Margaret, the two blacks who served them, were husband and wife.

“Ugh!” said Mr. De Vere, “a bitter night and this snow added to what is already on the ground will make a heavy body of it.”

“I think the temperature is moderating,” said his mother, “and the snow will probably turn to rain.”

“Father,” said Jack, “Mr. Valentine Mills called at the office to-day. He seemed anxious to see you.”

“What can he want in the country at this season of the year?” returned his father.

“He said something about wishing to purchase your mining claim and erecting a sanitarium on Point Wawanda; he showed me his plans and I tell you the structure would be an ornament.”

“O, don’t sell it!” protested Eletheer, “you know that is to be the site of my hospital.”

“John, I don’t like that man’s looks and would have as little dealing as possible with him.”

“Why, mother, he seems very much of a gentleman.”

“Nevertheless, I mistrust him.”

Mrs. De Vere, or “Granny,” was a woman of positive ideas and, in her younger days, of great executive ability. A strict Calvinist, she had accepted the doctrines of her church as ultimate truth beyond which there was no cause for investigation; these questions had been settled for all time and those who differed from her were either deluded or wilfully in error. She never obtruded her religious beliefs on others, but, when asked, always gave them in a remarkably direct manner, which precluded all argument.

After supper she retired early, accompanied by Eletheer whose self-imposed duty it was to see her comfortably tucked in bed and then read her to sleep from her beloved Bible. Mr. and Mrs. De Vere went to the library where a bright fire crackled on the hearth, scenting the room with birch. Throwing himself on a couch, Mr. De Vere with a deep sigh said: “You know the mortgage on this place comes due January first, and probably Mills wants his money. I can’t blame him either for Nootwyck is dead. One enterprise after another falls through for want of railway communication. Look at the iron mine, the blast-furnace and the rolling-mill. They cannot compete with like industries elsewhere and consequently fail.”

“This town is bonded for the railroad and we are entitled to have it extended through to Kingston,” his wife said.

“The business men of Elmdale do not want this extension, and I fear they have played a winning game.”

A loud ring at the door announced the arrival of some one, and who should Reuben usher in but Mr. Mills himself.

“Good evening, Mr. Mills,” said Mr. De Vere cordially. “Stormy night.”

Divesting himself of overcoat and rubbers, Mr. Mills entered the library and shook hands graciously with both.

He was tall and spare, of about fifty-five, and his manner was that of a man of the world; but his unsteady glance never met one’s frankly and his movements were restless.

Reuben brought in a tray on which were a plate of crullers and some cider and while they were sipping it, he replenished the fire.

“Where did you get that treasure?” inquired Mills after Reuben left the room.

“He was a porter in the college at Vicksburg, Mississippi, when I occupied the Chair of Ancient Languages there. He became enamored of Mrs. De Vere’s maid, Margaret, and begged me to buy him, which I did.”

“If not an impertinent question, may I ask what you paid for him?”

“Certainly. I gave one thousand dollars for him. He is not an ignorant man, as you can see.”

“How did he get his education?”

“I taught him and he still studies every spare moment of his time.”

“Your life has been an eventful one,” said Mills interestedly.

“Mrs. De Vere’s has,” her husband returned soberly. “Jack told me that you were at the office to-day.”

“Yes, I wanted to see you on some business connected with your mountain preserve.”

For some inexplicable reason, Granny at this juncture entered the room, leaning on Eletheer. Mills sprang to offer her a chair, and as soon as she was seated Eletheer left the room.

“A charming family, De Vere,” said Mills.

“A God-fearing one,” returned Granny, “all except Eletheer have accepted the Word of God, which is cause for great thankfulness.”

“God is good. His ways are inscrutable. Let us trust that the remaining lamb may be received into the fold,” said Mills reverently.

“She is a good child, but wilfully in error, I fear,” replied the old lady wiping her glasses. “Cornelia is a true De Vere and even at her age the family traits are pronounced in her.” Mills moved uneasily.

“We were discussing Mr. De Vere’s preserve on the mountain back of this house,” he remarked. “I should like to erect a sanitarium on it.”

“Eletheer has set her heart on that mining claim, and I think she ought to have it,” said her grandmother.

“As a mining claim, it is worthless. Experts say that gold is there but not in sufficient quantities to pay for mining. Instead of chasing a phantom, would it not be better to erect an institution where the sick and suffering may be benefited by the medicinal springs and balsamic air of these mountains?” Mills replied.

“That is just what she proposes doing.”

“But it takes money,” he answered with a sinister smile which no one saw. “Several charitable New York men are interested in the scheme and wish to negotiate through me for the purchase.”

The old lady was momentarily won and Mills, seeing his advantage, continued: “The company wish to begin operations as soon as possible. That is what brings me into the country at this season of the year.”

“Well,” said Mr. De Vere, “there are reasons which must be carefully weighed before deciding, and I will let you know my decision within a week.”

Seeing that Mr. De Vere was determined and that nothing would be gained by prolonging the interview, Mills was obliged to be content and soon after left, fully convinced that his mission was accomplished.

CHAPTER II

JOHN DE VERE was born on a farm at Greenmeadow, New York. His grandfather, Benoni De Vere, came from Tarrytown to Greenmeadow in 1796 and was the first settler there.

John’s father was a representative of the sturdy men of those stirring times and his mother was a woman of great strength of character. Nine children were reared in a veritable wilderness and their destinies were governed by the restrictions of the times. Six days of the week were spent in hard labor on the farm and the seventh lived in John’s memory as a horrible dream. On this day, winter and summer, instead of five they arose at six o’clock. Milking and breakfast over, the whole family repaired to the parlor for family prayers, which ceremony lasted an hour. They then hurried off to church where for two mortal hours the good dominie preached Calvinism unabridged. Woe to the culprit who fidgeted or betrayed any lack of interest, and John sat on those hard seats without moving a muscle until his bones ached.

Relatives and friends usually dined with them on Sunday and the children “waited.” After the sermon in all its bearings had been discussed, the sweetmeats and tea—which appeared on company days—were sparingly dealt out to the children and they took what else remained on the table, John inwardly vowing that when he grew up, he would have all the sweetmeats and tea he wanted.

Pilgrim’s Progress, Baxter’s Saints Everlasting Rest, Fox’s Book of Martyrs and the Bible were the only books allowed, and a funereal atmosphere pervaded everything. When the guests left and the chores were done, the children went to bed thankful for the Sunday less.

Naturally a student, John worked hard, saved his money, studied every spare moment of his time and eventually was graduated with honors from Union College; then, broken in health, he went South to accept the Chair of Ancient Languages at Vicksburg College, Vicksburg, Mississippi, where he met and married Miss Bessie Ragsdale, a beautiful southern girl and an heiress; meantime pursuing the study of law and was admitted to the bar of that State two years after his arrival there.

In the sunny South on the bank of “The Father of Waters,” their life was a poet’s dream, “Where the sweet magnolia blossoms grew as white as snow, and they never thought that sorrow, grief nor pain would come.” True, there were mutterings of war, but none believed they would amount to anything, and when the firing on Fort Sumpter was heralded abroad people said it would be a short war. After the secession of Mississippi and the formal election of Jefferson Davis as President of the Southern Confederacy, the defeat of Commodore Montgomery at Memphis, its occupation by the Union forces, and the concentration of forces upon Vicksburg, they knew then that war in all its horrors was upon them. This last Confederate stronghold on the Mississippi which had refused to surrender to Farragut’s fleet was strongly fortified. General Grant’s attempt to change the channel of the river, leaving Vicksburg some distance back, had failed, and the people were still confident until he attacked them from the rear. The railroads were destroyed and for six weeks the city was cannonaded unceasingly night and day. The siege of Vicksburg was John De Vere’s last picture of Mississippi; the city battered to pieces, the streets red with blood, two gallant young Confederate officers shot dead at his door, his home in ruins.

Hearing that he was about to be pressed into the Southern Army, he managed, through the influence of his wife’s family, to get on board a boat bound for St. Louis, taking what little money he could scrape together. His wife and children with the faithful Reuben and Margaret joined him the next morning and they started for the last-named city where he hoped to earn enough to take him North.

Will he ever forget that sail up the mighty stream so full of snags and timber from the far North? That river which has played so important a part in the destiny of our nation? In 1542, its muddy waters received the fever-racked body of its discoverer. Down this stream came Marquette with his devoted Canadian followers in their birch-bark canoes, “ready to seek new nations towards the South Sea who are still unknown to us, and to teach them of our God.” LaSalle, Iberville, Bienville and many others floated before his mental vision. The levees, which were built before each river plantation by the owners’ slaves, were simply artificial mud-banks sometimes strengthened by ribs of timber and sometimes not. These answered very well so long as kept in repair. An unusual flood, of course, was apt to destroy them, but slave labor was cheap. Mr. De Vere noted with dismay their present neglected condition. The largest and most substantial was the one over Yazoo Pass twelve miles above Vicksburg; but this was in bad shape, and he pictured the wholesale destruction which would follow the inevitable spring flood, and the dank pools left by the receding waters, filling the air with deadly miasma.

On the fourth day of their journey they reached St. Louis. Mr. McElwee, a member of the “Christian Commission,” which did such noble work in the armies, offered them the shelter of his home until work could be found and they gratefully accepted his offer. He used his influence and one day Thomas Murphy from a settlement near Lake Crevecœur, about thirteen miles west of St. Louis, offered Mr. De Vere the position of teacher in their school at a salary of fifty dollars per month and the use of a log house belonging to him. Autumn found them installed in their new quarters. Mrs. De Vere, accustomed to every luxury, yet accepted her lot uncomplainingly; and with the assistance of Reuben and Margaret the rude house was made to appear quite home-like. It consisted of two rooms, a living-room and a sleeping-room. Mr. and Mrs. De Vere and the children occupied the latter, and all that the bed would not hold were stored away on the floor. Reuben and Margaret slept on the floor of the living-room.

Time passed more quickly than they feared it would. Christmas came and went, but Mr. De Vere’s step was not so springy as formerly. His head ached continually and memory failed. All night long he tossed and moaned but stern duty demanded his services and when morning came he sought the school-house tired in mind and body. No butter nor milk; coarse corn bread, sweet potatoes and pork constituted their daily fare, but no one complained. Coffee at twenty dollars a pound was not to be thought of and they all declared corn coffee delicious.

One morning immediately after school was called and the arithmetic class was on the floor, for no apparent reason, Mr. De Vere dismissed them. This he did three times in succession, and each time a general titter went round. Suddenly Elisha Vedder, a great lubberly fellow, rose to his feet and in a ringing voice said, “Shame, you cowards! Don’t you see that our teacher is a sick man?” Then going up to Mr. De Vere, he said: “Mr. De Vere, your wife is not very well and wants you to come home with me, and George Murphy will bring the doctor”; at the same time putting on his own and his teacher’s hat. Mr. De Vere leaned heavily upon him, and when they reached the house he fell on the bed, too sick to undress. No doctor lived nearer than St. Louis, but George Murphy on Elisha’s mare was flying like the wind after one, and by evening, when the doctor arrived, Mr. De Vere was raving in delirium. After a short examination and a few intelligent questions, Dr. Hoff, the physician summoned, took Mrs. De Vere aside and said, “I need not question further, the diagnosis is clear. It is typhoid and about the end of the second week. An ordinary man would have added to his chances for recovery by having spent the time in bed. Though a very sick man, I trust that we may be able to pull him through. Who is to help you?”

Reuben, who had been stationed near his master’s bed, caught the last words and exclaimed, “Who but me, Massa?”

Eyeing him critically, the doctor said: “Ever had any experience in fevers?”

“Yes, Massa. Yaller Jack, break bone, intermittent, remittent, congestive, typhoid, small pox—”

“I reckon you have then,” returned the doctor. “Where were you raised?”

“New Orleans, Massa.”

“Ever worked in the charity hospital there?”

“Law me, Massa, I has so!”

Doctor Hoff looked satisfied, and after giving careful directions left, promising to come the next day.

Needless to dwell on the anxious weeks to follow. Reuben never left his post, faithfully recording every symptom even when others would gladly have relieved him. His black lips were almost constantly moving in prayer and who shall say that they did not penetrate to the “Throne of Grace.” At last the change came and when Doctor Hoff paid his next visit, he grasped those black hands and in a tone of profound respect said: “Reuben, your master will live and you, not I, have saved his life.”

Falling on his knees, Reuben poured forth his soul in an earnest prayer. Unconsciously, the doctor knelt beside him, bowing his head on those faithful black shoulders, and the man of science and the descendant of Ham were one in the presence of their Maker. A silence as of death followed and then a voice low and sweet, but trembling with emotion, came from the doorway:

“On Christ, the solid rock, I stand,

All other ground is sinking sand.”

The dim morning light, with the stars still twinkling in the heavens, the rude log house in a strange country,—the picture is not soon forgotten.

How the tedious weeks of convalescence were brightened by those honest people. They could not do enough and blamed themselves for former neglect. Delicacies from down the river came by the basketful; fruits from New Orleans, fresh vegetables, tender chickens and everything which kind hearts could suggest and ingenuity procure. Elisha Vedder was untiring and his horse always at their disposal.

Letters from Greenmeadow contained sad news. Mr. De Vere’s brother had been severely wounded in the battle of Gettysburg and many dear to him were fighting for their country. His mother could not become reconciled to the fact that her son had married what she termed a “Creole.”

It was April now and although Mr. De Vere had not taught school since February, the kind people of Crevecœur insisted on paying his salary, and the family were preparing to leave for the North. At Nootwyck, New York, was a good opening for a lawyer, and Andrew Genung, president of the savings bank there, had written him urging him to come; and only too glad to do so, Mr. De Vere answered saying that he would start in April. Now that the time had come to say good-bye to these more than friends, his heart failed him. Doctor Hoff and Elisha Vedder had particularly endeared themselves to him and though neither of them would accept a cent of remuneration, he exacted a promise that if he could ever serve them in any way, they would let him know.

The morning they left, the whole neighborhood assembled to see them off. Mrs. Murphy had provided a generous lunch-basket and her eyes were red with weeping. Mr. Murphy clumsily concealed his sorrow and Elisha Vedder was nowhere to be seen, but Reuben’s diligent search disclosed him behind the house, shaking with ill-suppressed emotion.

“Now, Massa ’Lish, don’t give way to idle grief. Jes’ run along and saddle Jinnie. Massa Murphy wants you to lead the way.”

Elisha obeyed willingly, and after a tearful parting and promises to write often, they were off. No one seemed inclined to talk. Nothing but the rolling Missouri broke the stillness. Their way led along its banks and in sight of Lake Crevecœur, and the mocking-bird’s voice was heard imitating first one bird and then another. Just as they were leaving the lake behind them, Mr. De Vere turned for a last look and said, “Farewell to Crevecœur! No more does that word to me mean ‘broken heart,’ but ‘grateful heart.’”

A little after noon they reached St. Louis where they were met by Doctor Hoff, and after again and again thanking him for all his kindness, the De Veres said good-bye to Missouri and soon were speeding northward.

Mr. De Vere’s brother-in-law, Peter Brown, met them at a hamlet west of the Shawangunks which they had crossed by stage from Middleburgh, bundled them into his great wagon, cracked his whip over his horses’ heads and in a little over an hour set them down at his home in Greenmeadow. Oh, that welcome home! Can words describe it? Dear old mother, with her silver hair, forgot all differences and the welcome accorded her ‘baby’s’ wife made Bessie feel that she was one of them in very truth.

Peter Brown was a generous provider, but to-day his table groaned under its weight of good things. Such deliciously sweet white bread and butter, steaming roast chickens, cranberries; and with appetites whetted by their ride over the hills, the hungry wayfarers did ample justice to everything.

Bessie’s sweet ways won the love of all, and when John told that, but for her, his heart many times would have failed, how she had lost everything and used all her influence to prevent his being forced into the Confederate service, their glowing eyes expressed the welcome addition she was.

The children were duly admired and all points of resemblance settled. John De Vere’s mother positively detested negroes, regarding them as all alike, and as a race of filthy, lying, lazy thieves. This condition, of course, was due to the system of slavery, but Reuben and Margaret’s devotion was regarded by her as a special dispensation of Providence and her heart went out to them.

Anxious to be up and doing, John De Vere made arrangements to begin at once in his new field of labor, and another month found them comfortably settled at Nootwyck. It was a fortunate time. The village was being boomed by “The Consolidated Iron-Mining Company” which employed several hundred men. The town had been bonded for the Valley Railroad and the route surveyed. Prospects were good, for with this valley opened up to the outside world, its wonderful resources would be developed.

But oh, the uncertainty of human plans! Fifteen years had passed; the iron mine had long since shut down; the coal mine was unsteady and the Valley Railroad, after tunneling the mountain, penetrated to Elmdale—a short distance south of Nootwyck—and stopped. People along the promised line were powerless, and with the apathy born of repeated disappointments, they submitted to the inevitable.

CHAPTER III

DURING the night our story opens, the snow turned to rain; a warm, steady downpour, which continued for three days in a manner unparalleled in the annals of the town. On the third day, the scene from the “Laurels,” as the De Vere place had been named, was one of wholesale destruction. The heavy body of snow which had lain on the ground had melted and added its water to help swell the streams. The Rondout Creek was a raging torrent, filled with logs, trees, cakes of ice and portions of houses. The Delaware and Hudson Canal, from which the water had been drawn at the close of the previous boating season, was full of water and now formed part of the creek. In places the tow-path was completely covered and canal boats, loosened from their fastenings, drifted over the valley. The flats were one vast expanse of water, and lock-keepers had fled from their homes along the canal, thankful to escape with their lives. The roar was tremendous! Gurgling mountain brooks had been converted into rivers which rushed madly down to mingle their waters with the seething flood below.

The De Veres stood on a point of rock which projected out from their grounds. It was still raining, but from under their umbrellas they looked sadly on the work of destruction yet in progress. So absorbed were they that the approach of two gentlemen on horseback was unheeded until the elder of the two shouted, “Hello, there!”

They all turned quickly and at Mr. De Vere’s invitation Mr. Andrew Genung, followed by a young man, dismounted at the gate and joined them.

Andrew Genung was not generally liked. By many he was considered an aristocratic bigot. He never forgave an injury, nor forgot a kindness. A stern, uncompromising man, his life was governed by certain fixed rules of conduct which, in his estimation, were the only ones. But his word was as good as his bond, and the friendship which existed between him and De Vere stood the test of years.

The young man was presented as his nephew, Hernando Genung, from Nevada.

Celeste’s brown eyes met his blue ones frankly, but the pink flush of her cheeks deepened to brilliant red under the unconscious admiration in his face. Eletheer noted this and the sly wink she gave her sister made the latter’s face flame.

Mr. Genung was discussing the freshet: “Only four bridges left between here and Kingston.”

“Which ones are they?” Mr. De Vere inquired.

“The Port Ben bridge, the old covered bridge at Accord, the covered bridge at High Falls, and the Auchmmody bridge at Rosendale; down at the coal docks everything is swept away, one iron bridge is intact but the abutments are injured and a wide channel is dug around one end of the bridge; one pier has been destroyed at the Honk Falls bridge, but nothing short of deluge can reach the bridge.”

“Have you any news from Rosendale?” they asked.

“There is about a thousand feet of tow-path gone on the feeder level. The canal bridge and creek bridge with abutments are on the flats. The water is too high to tell how much damage is done. There are slides and other damages too numerous to mention. The canal is a total wreck.”

“Then the Berm[A] is the only road passable to Kingston,” said Mr. De Vere. “How did you manage to get here?”

[A] Berm. “The bank of a canal opposite the tow-path.”

“The road to Wawarsing is in bad condition but we managed to reach there by going across lots and so on to Port Ben, and from there we followed the Berm.”

It was late in the day, and as there was nothing they could do to help, the party went indoors. Mr. Genung and Hernando were wet to the skin, and Mrs. De Vere insisted on their clothes being changed; so they appeared arrayed in suits of Mr. De Vere’s and Jack’s while Reuben dried and pressed theirs. Genung and De Vere wandered into the library and seated themselves before the fire where they were soon in earnest conversation. The latter had mentioned Mills’ offer and his promise to consider it.

“I should not sell,” said Mr. Genung with decision. “He will put up a sanitarium for consumptives, induce others to erect summer boarding-houses and turn this valley into a summer resort; in the end, killing all manufactories and leaving our vast mineral resources undeveloped. Hernando, who has spent nearly all his life among mines, says the precious metals are here. He found some specimens this morning which he says contain gold.”

“But I am afraid not in sufficient quantities for mining,” said Mr. De Vere resignedly.

“Those words are Mills’s,” answered Genung hotly. “I believe that man is a rascal.”

John De Vere judged others from his own standpoint. Absolutely incorruptible himself, he would not see wrong in another until compelled to do so, and Genung’s flat denunciation of Mills annoyed him, but restraining his annoyance, he said: “I fear Mills is in need of money.”

“Let me see, when does your mortgage come due?” said Genung, who always discussed business matters frankly with De Vere.

“January first.”

“I have five thousand dollars which I am anxious to invest, and unless you are in a position to pay your mortgage, I should like to take it.”

Although De Vere believed Mills’s intentions honest, he unconsciously felt a great sense of relief, and thankfully agreed to the transfer.

“One thing more,” said Genung, “Do not sell your mining claim until Hernando has prospected on it. He is a mining expert, and if he says gold is not there in sufficient quantities to pay for mining, I’ll not object if Mills puts up a pest-house on it.”

De Vere laughed as he said, “Genung, I value your friendship more than that of any man living; but I really think you misjudge Mills.”

Hernando was in the sitting-room with Celeste. She played the guitar charmingly and her voice was a clear, sweet soprano. One song followed another and Hernando felt as if vouchsafed a glimpse of Eden. Suddenly recalling himself, he said: “Pardon my selfishness, you must be tired.”

“Not a bit,” she replied gaily. “Are you fond of the guitar?”

“Very, and your singing is a rare treat,” he replied sincerely. “My life has been spent largely in mining camps, and the music in such places is not, to say the least, classical.”

“Have you always lived in Nevada?”

“Nevada and California.”

“That includes San Francisco and Chinatown of course?”

“Of course, but usually ‘California’ means Southern California; the land of flowers, fruits and perpetual sunshine.”

“True, but Chinatown must be very interesting.”

“Five minutes in a Chinese theater would effectively disillusion you, Miss De Vere. The orchestra is a thing of terror, although I am told that Chinese music has a scientific theory and recognized scale, but to the Caucasian ear it is simply beyond belief.”

“I trust you will appreciate our mountains in summer, though you probably consider these hills,” laughed Celeste.

But Hernando was thinking of neither Nevada nor hills. That sweet face, those great brown eyes were raised to his trustfully, and he forgot his own name, while a thrill went through him.

“One always associates Nevada with snowy mountains and balsamy air,” Celeste continued.

Glancing out of the window she saw Eletheer in rubber boots and short skirts with Cornelia on her back, wading through the slush toward the barn. Celeste looked shocked, but attracted Hernando’s attention indoors. She was a little late, however, for seeing her expression, he glanced out just in time to hear Eletheer say, “Hold on tight,” and off they sped.

“I trust she will not fall down with the little one,” said Hernando.

“Eletheer fall!” and Celeste laughed a soft ripple. “She never does that, and it is impossible to lose her in these mountains. When Cornelia was not a year old, mother spied her in the very top of an apple tree sitting in Eletheer’s lap.”

“Mary Genung told me of their experiences after milkweed greens and wild flowers. She says your sister is absolutely fearless.”

“Eletheer is our psychological problem.”

Hernando looked amused and she added, “To her mind time-honored institutions are generally wrong.”

“Marriage, for instance?”

“Yes. That should be a profession with preliminary examinations as to fitness.”

Hernando’s face became a trifle paler as he replied, “They say at birth nine-tenths of man’s evolution is completed. Your sister has encountered a weighty problem, and a melancholy one.”

“Weighty problems require too much effort,” laughed Celeste, “and my contribution to society must be on purely feminine lines.”

In the evening, the younger members of the family gathered in the dining-room. Jack and Hernando cracked walnuts and Celeste read aloud from a newspaper which had just arrived by stage on the Berm. The paper contained a vivid account of the flood, and it was listened to with much interest.

“Who knows but this freshet may reveal ‘Old Ninety-Nine’s Cave’?” said Jack with a light laugh.

“Who is ‘Old Ninety-Nine’?” Hernando asked.

“Have you not heard the story?” asked Jack in some surprise.

“No, but I should like to,” replied Hernando.

“Eletheer remembers, and is full of these old legends; when she returns from putting Granny to bed, I’ll get her to tell this one.”

They heard her presently going into the kitchen and as she did not return, Celeste went into the hall and called her, saying Mr. Hernando Genung wished her to tell the story of “Old Ninety-Nine.”

Eletheer came in, having forgotten to remove her gingham apron, and seemed pleased to repeat the story.

“Old Ninety-Nine,” Neopakiutic, was a Wawarsing chief and supposed to have been the sole remnant of the Ninety-ninth Tribe. He was a great hunter and after the Revolution lived for some years among the settlers, doing nothing in summer, but hunting and trapping in the winter. Benny Depuy was a well-known resident of Wawarsing and as he was a lazy, good soul who loved to fish and hunt and tell stories, he became a great favorite of “Ninety-Nine,” and one day the Indian told him that he would show him a sight he would never forget, and one that he would not show his own brother; that in Benny he had much confidence and was willing to take him along on his next trip up the mountain. The two started up the mountain above Port Ben and after travelling several miles, often over fallen rocks and decayed trees, they came to the dry channel of a mountain creek. Here Benny was blindfolded and after going up the bed of the creek for about an hour, as nearly as he could estimate, the bandage was taken from his eyes and he found himself at the foot of a high ledge of rocks. The old Indian, who was a muscular giant, rolled aside a boulder and a passage-way was disclosed that seemed to run directly under the cliff. The old Indian told Benny to follow and he went into the passage for a short distance, Benny holding him by his shirt-sleeves so as not to lose him, for he thought there was nothing to come of this adventure, but expected to be carried away by goblins. A short piece of candle was lighted and they found themselves in a large, vaulted room that seemed cut out from the solid rock. It looked like the abode of fairies. On the floor were rich and costly carpets so thickly spread that the heavy boots of the hunters gave no sound. The sides of the cavern were hung with tapestry. The cave was lined with beautiful vases and rare things of many kinds. In one corner of the cave was a large chest which “Ninety-Nine” opened and told Benny to look in, holding over it the lighted candle. Benny looked and beheld “heaps upon heaps of gold, silver and precious stones.” “Ninety-Nine” raked his fingers back and forth through the shining treasures and finally, after bandaging Benny’s eyes, they started down the mountain.

“What became of the Indian?” Hernando inquired.

“No one knows. He was very old and the people lost sight of him. This valley is full of Indian legends, and some of them are beautiful,” said Eletheer.

“Now, Eletheer,” said Jack, “you recited that so well, let us hear how well you remember your catechism.”

Hernando smiled, and said, “The settlers of this valley seem to have been engaged in constant warfare with the Indians.”

“Well,” said Eletheer, “in the first place the whites seized their hunting-grounds and corn-patches. They never purchased the land as the settlers on the other side of the mountain did. The Indians were peaceable until the French war, during which one family was massacred. After that they were still on good terms, but during the Revolution, the British were at the bottom of all their depredations, telling them that the settlers had stolen their lands and that they were cowards not to be avenged. The British offered them a guinea for every white scalp they obtained and gave them every assistance. If the Indians had been let alone, they would never have committed the fearful outrages which they are now charged with. As it was, the Indian hesitated where the Tories did not; the latter would sneak into the home when the men were laboring in the fields and plunge his knife into the bosom of a sleeping infant or a defenseless woman. Can you wonder that the word Tory is hated by every descendant of the early settlers of this town?”

“I should think they could have been convicted of Toryism,” Hernando continued.

“It was a hard thing to do. They lived out in the woods disguised as Indians, whom they kept posted in regard to the doings in the settlements, but pretended to be friends of the whites. Talk of the treachery of an Indian! He can’t begin where a Tory left off,” said Eletheer warmly.

Just then the clock struck eleven, and soon after Mr. De Vere and Mr. Genung entered the dining-room.

“Time all honest folks were in bed,” said Mr. De Vere. “What have you young people been doing all the evening?”

“I have been listening to some very interesting events in the history of this town,” Hernando replied.

“Our ancestors were firm believers in special dispensations of Providence,” said Mr. De Vere.

“And their intercession met with favor,” replied Mr. Genung.

“Strange!” said Hernando musingly, “that no trace of ‘Old Ninety-Nine’s’ cave has ever been discovered. His history sounds like a fairy tale.”

“Which I verily believe it is,” laughed Mr. De Vere. “Aside from those in the limestone district, there are no true caves in the Shawangunk Mountains intersected as they are with metalliferous veins.”

“Do you consider the story of the mine apocryphal?”

“I regard it as simply a local tradition. Instead of a Captain Kidd or some other pirate, we, on this side of the mountains, have an equally romantic hero in ‘Old Ninety-Nine.’ Benny Depuy, however, is well remembered by some of the old residents of this town, was a weaver by trade, and had an imagination as vivid as the colors he wove. His house, a quaint specimen of the architecture of pioneer days when each home was a veritable fort for protection against Indian outbreak, is still in a good state of preservation. Benny claims that ‘Old Ninety-Nine’ frequently stopped there. According to tradition, the Indian was a “Medicine man”; knew the properties of every medicinal root and herb and effected some wonderful cures. He is said to have spoken Spanish, coined Spanish money in his cave, and gone to the West Indies to dispose of it, where it was believed he had a white wife. But an Indian, were he ever so friendly to the whites, never divulged the location of mines. Thirst for revenge is the most deeply seated trait in the savage breast, and for this reason Benny kept his adventure a secret for many years. He never visited the cave but that once, and not long afterward ‘Old Ninety-Nine’ disappeared. Some supposed that he died of old age, others that in clambering over the dangerous crevices he had fallen into one of them and been killed. When Benny felt that all danger from Indian vengeance was passed, he searched repeatedly and in every direction for the cave but never succeeded in finding it, so concluded that a fallen rock must have closed its entrance.” And with a shrug Mr. De Vere turned to reply to a question of Mr. Genung’s.

Hernando strolled to the window; the night was one of Egyptian darkness but eastward, up the mountain side and nearly to the summit, a bright light, like the flame of a candle, burned steadily. To assure himself that it was no illusion or trick of the imagination, he watched it carefully for several minutes. “What can it be?” he thought. There was no possibility of reflection and no smoke. “Perhaps a belated prospecting party or a signal of distress,” he reasoned, at the same time opening the window.

“What now!” called Mr. Genung, stepping beside his nephew.

“Great Scott!” he exclaimed, with a hasty glance at his watch. “The ‘light’ and ‘twelve o’clock!’ Is it seven years?”

Simultaneously all rushed forward. Steadily burned the flame while its observers remained mute.

“Well, what is it?” Hernando asked with impatience.

“The ‘light,’” his uncle replied excitedly.

“Great Heavens! what light? Are you mad?”

“To be sure, I beg your pardon, Hernando,” Mr. Genung replied. “There is a saying in this valley that ‘every seven years, a bright light, like a candle, rises at twelve o’clock at night over the mine, and disappears in the clouds; but no one that has ever seen it has been able in daylight to find from where it arose.’ Come to think of it, it is exactly seven years since we closed out that Shushan deal. It was a dark night and on my way home I saw the light.”

“But is it visible every seven years and at twelve o’clock?” Hernando asked.

“That is what they all say. I pledge my word on having seen it twice at that time,” replied his uncle.

During this dialogue Hernando had not once removed his glance from the flame which rose clear and steady, from out its ebon surroundings. No sound but the distant roar from turbulent streams, and a soft tick! tick! of the great hall clock, broke the stillness. For a full half hour the watchers waited, and then, as suddenly as it came, the mysterious light disappeared.

“There!” said Mr. Genung, slapping his nephew on the shoulder; “can you beat this out West?”

The young man’s face wore an amused smile as he replied: “It is, indeed, singular and, except possibly the elimination of gases, I can think of no logical explanation. But its having any connection whatever with ‘Old Ninety-Nine’ strikes me as absurd. What say you, Miss De Vere?”

“Well,” she replied, with a tip of her head that reminded one of a pet canary, and which caused Hernando’s heart to beat unmercifully, “mystery has no charm for me, and I have never been able to enthuse over ‘Old Ninety-Nine,’ much to the disgust of your cousin Mary Genung and Eletheer. He belongs to a half mythical past and what more natural than that the ‘light,’ occurring as it does with such singular regularity, should be connected with the old chief? They are equally elusive.”

“I supposed love of the mysterious to be a strongly feminine attribute.”

“But there are mysteries and mysteries. Have you any sisters, Mr. Hernando?”

“No.”

“No sisters!” she repeated, with mock severity. “Then I fear that your education has been sadly neglected. Ask Jack what he thinks on the subject.”

Hearing his name mentioned, Jack joined them and a lively debate followed, so that it was after one o’clock before they went to bed, and two of them, at least, sought their pillows strangely disturbed in spirit. Hernando tossed restlessly on his soft bed. Try as he would to banish the vision, Celeste’s sweet face always appeared before him and, like some half-forgotten emotion revived, his heart beat tumultuously. A less discerning eye than his could easily see that Celeste was interested; but why did he find it so difficult to meet those eyes? A sense of uncongeniality with the atmosphere of this woman, the antitype of any he had ever known, disturbed. Chinatown interesting! For the first time in years a red flush of shame surged to his very temples, and he dimly comprehended that “We are begirt with laws which execute themselves.”

Celeste undressed, humming softly to herself. Her bright eyes were unusually brilliant and the color in her cheeks rivalled the roses in June. She flitted about the room, carefully folding each garment as it was removed.

Presently Eletheer, who was nearly asleep, said impatiently: “Celeste De Vere, for goodness’ sake put out that light and come to bed. Don’t you hear the roosters crowing?”

“In just one minute,” Celeste answered, brushing out her curls.

Eletheer turned her face towards the wall and soon slept soundly.

A young girl’s first love is like the bursting of a blossom after a thunderstorm. It is not yet ready to expand and though for a time the fragrance may be overpowering, it is soon lost. Celeste never sang in a minor. Sensitive, intense to a degree, a delicate child, she had always been tenderly watched over and shielded from every care. She had grown into a wonderfully beautiful woman who viewed life from its sunny side. Cultivated in all her tastes, generous to a fault, her purse was always ready to assist in charitable schemes, but the thought that she had an active part to play in the great drama of life never occurred to her. Accustomed all her life to admiration, she accepted it as her simple due.

Of course she would marry, all normal girls do, the expected man always comes, and is intensely interesting.

“Let me see,” she said with another glance in the mirror. “One should marry one’s opposite. His eyes are blue, hair golden. Yes, he is a blond, muscular, rather than massive, and”—putting out the light—“with nothing mysterious about him.”

CHAPTER IV

THE work of repairing the damage caused by the freshet was pushed and by the end of the week a temporary bridge had been constructed over the creek and the canal below the house, enabling foot-passengers from the mountain to cross over to the village.

Mr. De Vere’s letter declining to sell was forwarded to Mills and the mortgage transferred to Mr. Genung. The latter was very anxious that Hernando should prospect on Mr. De Vere’s mining claim so, to satisfy him, Mr. De Vere agreed to accompany them on an expedition to it as soon as the weather would permit. Accordingly they started up the mountain back of the house one morning in the following week. They followed the path to the maple bush for some distance, then, turning to the east, climbed over rocks and broken trees to Point Wawanda and then struck into a gully just behind it. Many rivulets flowed down the mountain above, but one in particular, after a swift rush from the very summit, dropped down into the earth under Point Wawanda. Placing his ear to the earth Hernando could hear a roar as of underground waters and knew that they must have passed through some cavern or cleft far down in the mountain. Carefully taking his bearings, they were found to accord exactly with the description of the marks and locations described by Benny. Hernando felt assured that somewhere near was the cave and one of considerable extent. Directly in front of him rose a cliff over one hundred feet in height. Scaling this, the young man looked westward towards the Laurels. “Ah,” he said, aloud, holding his nose at a crevice in the rocks, “one mystery is explained to my satisfaction: gas. So, ‘no one that has ever seen it has been able in daylight to find whence it arose,’” he laughed. “If all instances were as harmless as this one what a delightful place to live in this dreary old world would be.” He descended to his former position for a closer inspection of the cliff.

Suddenly his experienced eye was attracted by a fissure in the rocks composing the entire eastern side of Wawanda and which ran almost to the top. Hernando approached it and brushing aside the snow he forced his body through an opening just large enough to admit it. The crevice was full of snow but, with much labor, he dug his way along and found this was the entrance to a second passage-way, which he also entered. Further progress was barred by a heap of rocks, but these were loose and, removing them, an almost circular opening was disclosed. He lighted a candle and crawling on hands and knees finally emerged into a sort of cave. Long and loud he shouted to the waiting men outside and at last a faint “Hello” proclaimed that these portly gentlemen were squeezing their way through, and after a long time they stood beside Hernando, panting and perspiring. As soon as they recovered their breath, they proceeded to explore this mysterious cavern.

“Look here!” said Hernando, who, with a deft stroke of his hammer, had shivered the rock, disclosing a dull yellow surface. “Gold!” they exclaimed, looking excitedly into each other’s faces.

“Yes,” Hernando continued calmly. “The whole inner surface of these rocks is full of gold. Others have been here before us too. Some one has struck a pocket, and recently. Look, here is a cavity which seems to have been dug out.”

Mills’s offer flashed through De Vere’s mind, but he dismissed the thought as unworthy, and turned to listen to a sound of rumbling which seemed to come from the bowels of the earth. Hernando heard it too, and removing a heap of rubbish from one corner made his way through a hole, but quickly reappeared saying he had better be secured by a rope as these underground passages were treacherous. Mr. De Vere threw a loop about his waist, securely fastened the other end, and held back the slack in his hand ready to be guided by signals, and Hernando again disappeared from view down a slanting rock worn smooth by the action of water that at one time must have flowed over it, but which now issued from under a slimy boulder some feet lower down at the opposite side. Sliding and falling alternately he at last landed on a sort of platform about ten feet wide and running along the brink of a pit which seemed bottomless. The dim light from his miner’s candle cast weird shadows on the black rocks over whose sides snake-like streams crept stealthily down. Hernando shivered and turned to leave the spot, when his attention was attracted by an object at the further end of the platform. There lay what appeared to be an image of stone. He drew nearer, and kneeling down looked long and carefully down at it. Unmistakably it was the petrified body of an Indian. Those features could belong to no other race. The eyes and hair, one foot and three fingers were gone; but otherwise, the body seemed to be in a state of perfect preservation,—to have been literally turned into stone. Of course all remnants of clothing had disappeared, though even the remaining toe and finger-nails were perfect. But the ears! did human beings ever possess such appendages? The lobes were so elongated as to nearly rest on the shoulders.

This man must have been a giant, for the body measured nearly seven feet. Hernando attempted to roll it over but found this impossible, for besides its great weight, the image was covered with slime, and during his efforts one ear was broken off. This Hernando put into his pocket.

The heavy air oppressed him, and so absorbed had he been in his examination that he had not noticed how near the edge of the platform he was, until on attempting to rise his feet slipped from under him. His cap with the candle rolled down into the pit, and in total darkness he hung suspended over that yawning abyss.

Almost overpowered by the heavy air, he had barely strength enough left to guide the rope which, from the violent jerk it gave, warned those above of danger.

Gasping for breath, he was pulled up to where the fresher air soon revived him and he was then enabled to relate his discovery.

The enormous petrified ear must undoubtedly have belonged to “Old Ninety-Nine.”

Palæontologists assert and prove the petrifying properties of these mountain streams. Undoubtedly the lower cave had once been the channel of the stream which now rumbled far below, and nature in the throes of growing-pains had opened a new channel.

How “Old Ninety-Nine” came to be there, or met his death, must remain a mystery, but his cave was at last discovered.

Completely restored, Hernando hastened to procure assistance in bringing the body out, and after travelling down the mountain toward the house for a short distance he met Reuben and a sturdy wood-chopper by the name of Mike McGavitt, on their way to the woods. To them he unfolded his plans and they readily consented to assist him. Reuben volunteered to bring whatever articles were needed. These were rubbers for all the party, plenty of stout rope and a plank. Reuben comprehended fully what they were needed for, and in little less than half an hour returned with the things, and they all hastened back to the cave, where De Vere and Genung were strolling about the entrance. Hernando led into the cave followed by the others. Inside, Hernando, Reuben and Mike divested themselves of their boots and securely strapping on their feet a pair of rubbers to prevent slipping, were successfully lowered to the platform on which lay all that was left of “Old Ninety-Nine.” Mike came last, and as he slid down the incline, clutching the rope, he called, “Schteady, me byes, schteady!” He crept along the shelf, averting his eyes from the pit. Next the plank was lowered, and it required the united efforts of all three to roll the body upon it. At last it was securely fastened, and Reuben was pulled up to assist the other two in hauling the body to the surface. “Kape aninst the wall, mind your noose!” Mike shouted, and though his teeth chattered with terror, he winked at Hernando and said, “Phat’s the program, me bye? I’m wid ye phatever it do be, but it’s a howlin’ boost!”

They pushed the plank along carefully and were about to signal for a hoist line when Mike lunged backward and would have fallen over the precipice but for Hernando’s timely assistance. The plank was not yet attached to any thing but the rope by which it had been lowered and Mike’s frantic clutchings sent it over the brink. Down, down, down it went, crashing against first one side and then another. At last a faint splash proclaimed that the terrific leap was over and once more “Old Ninety-Nine’s” body had eluded human gaze. The next discoverer will find it minus one ear. Learned men will account for this on scientific principles; they will analyze petrifying fluids and tell us why some portions of the body are affected and others not; but the fascination which clings so tenaciously to the memory of “Old Ninety-Nine” will endure as long as the Shawangunks, and each succeeding generation will continue to be told that “Every seven years a bright light like a candle rises at twelve o’clock over the mine and disappears in the clouds; but no one who has ever seen it has been able by daylight to find from whence it came.”

The belief of the Indians that after they had endured their punishment for sins committed, the Great Spirit would restore to them their hunting-grounds caused them to keep their mines a secret. “Old Ninety-Nine” is one no longer, and let us hope that in richer mines and fairer hunting-grounds than he dreamed of, he is beyond the treachery of his white brother—beyond injustice and unfair dealing, where his great Manitou does not offer him the cup of good-will in the form of an unknown intoxicant as did Henry Hudson when planning the seizure of the land of his forefathers.

Hernando signalled for them to be drawn up and the news of the accident was duly reported.

“After all,” said Mr. De Vere, “it is better so. His body would simply have been an object of curiosity. Let the waters which transformed his flesh into stone receive it again.”

Mike looked relieved. “Shure, Schquire is after schpakin’ the truth. So help me, God, niver agin will I schpile the works of God Almighty!” he said.

Mr. Genung was inclined to be provoked, but Hernando explained the exceedingly dangerous position and how fortunate Mike had been to escape with his life, and somewhat ashamed, he asked what was to be done next.

“Put in a blast,” replied Hernando.

Silently they emerged from the cave and followed Hernando around the eastern side of Wawanda where the fissure was through which they had entered. Excavations were begun in earnest and a heavy charge put in. The report which followed must have startled the good people of Nootwyck. It tore a great piece out of the eastern side of Wawanda and when the smoke cleared Hernando was almost beside himself with joy at the result of the explosion. Like the cave, the whole inner surface was full of bits of gold and some spongy masses intermixed with leaves of yellow metal. Hernando picked some of the latter off with the point of his jack-knife and placing it in Mr. De Vere’s hand, said, in the tone of a seasoned miner, “You have struck it rich, Mr. De Vere, and I congratulate you. It may not run far like that, but the chances are that it will. I never saw anything equal to it. Point Wawanda is literally filled with gold veins. That is the lode cropping out nearly to the top.”

Stepping up to the young man whose eyes beamed with such unselfish pleasure, Mr. De Vere placed his hands on his shoulders and said: “Will you accept the position of superintendent of the Hernando Mine?”

“I will gladly accept the position, but would prefer another name.”

“What name is more appropriate than the name of its discoverer?” replied Mr. De Vere warmly.

“None; but who is the discoverer?”

Margaret

Mr. De Vere was silent for a moment and Hernando continued, “Pardon me for suggesting, but much as I appreciate your wish to perpetuate my name, it would give me far more pleasure were it named after ‘Old Ninety-Nine.’”

“Old Ninety-Nine it is then!” they all responded with a shout.

“Ah! Hernando,” said his uncle, “you know paying dirt when you see it. It is born in you.”

His disinterested efforts were appreciated. It meant untold wealth to the owner—wealth expended in helping his fellow-beings—work for hundreds and hundreds of idle miners, comfort for their families, and the transformation of the slumbering village below into a great city.

It was nearly night and the three had eaten nothing since breakfast, so Mr. De Vere’s invitation to supper was readily accepted.

The family had grown anxious at their long absence and the tired prospectors were warmly received. A good bath refreshed them greatly, and they were ready to do justice to Margaret’s fried chicken and puffy hot biscuits.

Mr. Genung was apparently intent on dissecting a chicken leg, but his mind was thousands of miles away. In far-off Nevada another scene had been enacted which this one brought anew to his memory. His younger brother, so like Hernando, had also opened up a mine of untold richness. He also dreamed of founding a mighty city and leaving behind him a name which would go down in history. Did his dreams materialize? How would his name appear on the pages of history, and would the volume be savory reading? Glancing across the table his eyes met Hernando’s, full of bitterness. The absolute misery he saw pictured there softened even the stern features of Andrew Genung.

Eletheer, who had been a silent witness of this thought transference, saw the far-away look in Mr. Genung’s eyes and her heart ached with pity for Hernando. Some great sorrow must be buried in his past, for nothing less could cause those blue eyes to become suddenly black and bring that look of mute suffering into them. From that moment, Eletheer was his sworn friend, and this conclusion once reached was final. She said nothing, however, but talked gaily of their prospects and laughingly asked Mr. Genung what he would do for milkweed greens when the “Island” was all settled.

“You and Mary must turn your attention to agriculture and cultivate them,” he replied.

“Our old camping-grounds will all be spoiled,” she said with mock gravity. “Hunting arbutus, gathering bittersweet berries and picking huckleberries will be but a memory.”

“And you will be a great lady with suitors by the score,” laughed Celeste.

“My suitor has long been accepted,” Eletheer returned gravely.

“Indeed,” said Mr. Genung in some surprise, “if his name is not a secret I should like to know it.”

“Mary is in my confidence,” she answered, “and, like me, has chosen her life-work.”

Mr. Genung eyed her curiously. His own daughter, just about Eletheer’s age, was not a girl to have secrets from her parents.

“This is all nonsense,” Eletheer said hotly. “Mary is fitting herself for a professorship and I intend to become a trained nurse. Granny and Reuben are teaching me now.”

“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Genung, “I trust you both may find a suitable field for your talents in our own beautiful valley.”

Hernando’s cheeks were unusually pale, and after supper as they all followed Mr. De Vere into the library, Granny saw this and remarked on it, but he only laughed and said he felt perfectly well but a little tired.

The mine was discussed in all its bearings, and they decided that Hernando had better spend the night at Mr. De Vere’s so as to be near the field of operations in the morning.

“You look exhausted anyway,” said Mr. De Vere. “Think of the time you spent in that damp, foul hole after all your exertions in gaining access to it.”

Mr. Genung left after making an appointment at Mr. De Vere’s office the next morning to complete arrangements for working the mine, and soon after the family retired, but before Granny sought her bed, she instructed Eletheer in the art of preparing a bowl of boneset tea, and Hernando obediently promised to swallow it.

Boneset tea was the old lady’s panacea for all ills; a sneeze, cough, or wet feet when noticed by her caused the good woman to instantly brew and force down the throat of the victim a bowl full of this nauseous draught, and Eletheer, who was her special charge, declared that she was forming the “boneset habit.” She could not help smiling as she handed the steaming bowl to Hernando saying, “Prepared strictly according to directions; one scant handful of the dried herb, being careful to omit blossoms (which nauseate), one-half pint of water and two tablespoons of molasses. Steep gradually one hour.” Hernando received it with a quiet “Thank you,” and swallowed it with seeming relish; then saying “Good-night,” entered his room and closed the door behind him.

Granny, whose room joined Eletheer’s, was awake when the latter tiptoed in, and the lamp was still burning. Hearing the door pushed softly to, she called, “Eletheer!”

“Yes, Granny, I’m coming,” she answered.

“Did you give Mr. Hernando the boneset tea piping hot?”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Did you put a hot brick in the bed?”

“No Ma’am, you didn’t tell me to, did you?”

The old lady looked severely at her and then said: “Go straight to the kitchen this minute and bring the one I told Margaret to put in the oven. If you intend to be a trained nurse, you must learn to think for yourself. That poor, motherless boy has taken cold. I wanted to soak his feet but he wouldn’t let me, and there is nothing like a good sweat to break up a cold. Tell him to be sure and tuck the covers in.”

“I will see that he has the brick and attend to him, Granny. You won’t remain awake any longer, will you?” she said, tucking the covers around the old lady, after which she started for the kitchen, putting out the light on her way.

The kitchen was vacant, but she found the brick and wrapping it in a little old shawl of Margaret’s hurried up to Hernando’s room. Her light tap received no response.

“I’m afraid he is asleep and hate to wake him,” she thought. “What makes Granny so set anyway! I’ve got to do it or displease her, so here goes,” and she gave a sounding knock.

“Come in,” said a faint voice and she opened the door.

“Who is it?” Hernando called, his teeth chattering.

“I. Granny told me to bring you this hot brick,” said Eletheer advancing.

“She is very kind. Thank you so much,” he managed to say.

Eletheer handed him the brick, and as he reached for it his hand came in contact with hers. It was like ice.

She glanced helplessly around. “If you are to be a trained nurse you must think for yourself,” rang in her ears.

“You are shivering with cold,” she said. “Didn’t the boneset tea do you any good?”

“I think it will.”

“Granny will feel dreadfully if I don’t do something,” she thought. “There, I have it, I’ll go for Reuben!”

“Reuben!” she whispered at his door, which was always ajar, “I think Mr. Hernando is sick. The boneset tea didn’t do him any good.”

“Very well, honey, jes’ yo’ go to bed, I’se comin’,” he answered cheerily.

In a few seconds he was beside Hernando, bringing as he invariably did, relief. Gradually Hernando’s shivering grew less, then finally ceased altogether and at last he fell asleep only to mutter in delirium which grew wild and wilder. Hour after hour passed yet that faithful black figure met every emergency as it came. Again and again were the heated pillows turned, was the wild call for “water! water!” answered, his every need anticipated, and time sped for both patient and nurse.

“Five o’clock,” thought Reuben, as he returned from replenishing the fire. His charge was asleep; so drawing an easy-chair beside the bed he settled himself for a nap. One by one each familiar object in the room fades from sight and he is in a foreign-looking city of narrow streets, dimly lighted by the soft glow of Chinese lanterns. The streets are thronged with Celestials weaving back and forth. Even Reuben is fascinated by the substratum of actual sin around him. It is a panopticon of strange sights; little rooms in which are huddled together groups of odd-looking women making shoes; eye and ear doctors busily operating on meek-faced patrons; unknown fruits and vegetables, costly wares and curious trinkets; omnipresent female chattels and moral and physical lepers jostle one another. One peep into an inner chamber, and with the sickening fumes of opium in his nostrils Reuben seeks the outer air. But hark! in this fantastic jumble surely he hears familiar voices. Following the sound through a seemingly endless maze of dark alleys, he suddenly stops in a small room gaudy with Oriental hangings. Even in the semi-darkness Reuben sees that there are three figures; one, that of a young woman, an Oriental, in an attitude of perfect abandon. She utters no word, but the smile from her eyes causes Reuben’s to fall in horror. The air clears a little and the two other figures are visible—Granny and Hernando! The latter’s head is bowed in shame. Reuben is shocked at the lines of dissipation in his face and to see how thickly sprinkled with gray is his hair—“Strange!” he thought, that he had not before noticed it.

Granny is pleading with him to forsake this den of depravity. Her hand is clasping his and those old, stern lines have melted into a smile of ineffable sweetness. The air is heavy and her voice not always audible, but Reuben hears:

“Blessed is the man that endureth temptation: for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life which the Lord hath promised to them that love him....

“But every man is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed.

“Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin: and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death.”

“You have had a bad dream, Reuben.”

The gray light of early morning peeped into the room, filling every nook and corner with the weirdness of unreality. Reuben looked vaguely at Hernando, lying quietly with an inscrutable smile on his face. He raised himself in his chair. Sure enough, there were the lines of dissipation and gray hairs! “’Deed, Massa, I has so!” he replied, as he went to replenish the fire.

“Surely, Reuben, you don’t believe in dreams!”

“I’se boun’ ter, Massa; didn’t Joseph’s and Pharaoh’s come true?”

“That is a disputed question. I don’t believe that people now-a-days dream dreams that have no connection with, or some proportion to their waking knowledge.”

“Mebbe so, Massa, but when Massa John was so dreffel sick down in Missouri, Massa Murphy’s dog howled t’ree times befo’ de do’. I sho’ly did b’lieve de Good Laud wanted Massa John Lauzee, how I did go trompin’ troo de grass aftah dat dog! Listen, Massa, aftah a-chasin’ dat dog laster time, I sat down by Massa John’s bed feelin’ po’ful sad, an’ I dreampt he was dead an’ I watchin’ in great tribilation of spirit. I done t’ink de Good Laud didn’t hearken to de moans an’ groans ob dis po’ niggah. Seemed like I’d go plum ’stracted. My ’tention was ’tracted by a bright an’ shinin’ light an’ outen it came a still, small voice: ‘Reuben, yo’ Massa will live, an’ yo’, not I, have saved his life.’ Massa Hernando, dem’s de berry words ob Doctor Hoff when de fever turned. Yes, Massa, I’se boun’ ter b’leeve dat when de Good Laud has a message fo’ us, He’ll mebbe give it in a dream.”

“Reuben!”