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went on, with depleted advertising columns, but with ever-fattening news columns, and with a resolved and untroubled air which invited victory, if it did not predict it. At Rignold's suggestion she had found a substitute for Barton, who, released from his mechanical duties, gathered local news for her and looked after the advertising. Barton could not actually replace Rignold, but, in common with many Western men, he balanced an incapacity to do anything very well by an inability to do anything very badly; and he soon discovered that faculty for thinning out one local item into four, and imagining one out of nothing, which is the bulwark of the rural press. With his help Berna got out a very creditable paper. Removed from the office, and informed only by Barton's report of the system by which the matter outside her own department was gathered, she was often driven to wonder, as she held a fresh issue in her hand, where all the good things had come from. Her judgment told her that it was in fact quite as presentable a sheet as in the good days when Rignold was by her side; but though she would have been glad to believe this for the sake of the future, she denied it to herself resolutely, with a sentiment of loyalty to her old associate; and out of the same feeling, coupled with a knightly unwillingness to think ill of a rival, she put away from her the doubt whether the "Apex" was, after all, as good a paper as her own.

Kignold had never worked harder than he was now working on the "Apex." He had never reached the "Telepheme" office so early as he now reached the office of the "Apex," nor left it so late. He had promised himself not to see Berna again for a long time to come; his news of her came by way of the town. All that he knew of her was gathered from observation of the outside of her home, as he passed it, morning and night, on his way to or from his canvas-roofed cabin on Ticknor's Mountain. Three months passed without giving him a sight of her, until, passing her house after midnight one night on his way home from the office, he saw a light burning in her bedroom, on the upper floor, and knew that she was sitting up, writing. The gravel which he threw softly against the pane brought her instantly to the window. For a moment she looked bewilderedly about in the unaccustomed darkness, straining her eyes first upon the road where Rignold was standing in the shadow, and then over toward the huge black frame of Ticknor's swelling up behind the opposite row of houses, and darkening against the starless sky. "Well, Telepheme'?"

The figure in the window drew back, startled; but in a moment the answer came softly: Yell, 'Apex '?”

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'Keep? An article against you? Like ice at zero!"

"Then I won't prepare my answer till next week. Good night.-Oh, Ben!" "Well ?"

"I'm preparing a surprise for the 'Apex.'' "No?"

"Yes. You remember my speaking of that girl with the strange character who used to go to school with me at Kansas City before I went East to Miss Drewett's-Dodo McFarlane? She's just married to Mr. Mutrie, the President of the Three C's, and she 's coming here on her wedding journey. I had her letter to-day, and I 've written to invite them to stay here with me."

Rignold allowed an expressive whistle to escape into the darkness.

"It is interesting, is n't it?" continued Berna.

"Interesting? It's a scare-head sensation news item. I'll have to get to work myself. Good night."

She leaned a little further out of the window. "You won't divulge my secret, of course. I'm keeping it to surprise the town."

"Oh, I won't give you away. Go to bed!" "I will. I'm so glad to have seen you again, Ben."

"That's right. Good night."

He disappeared up the dark road, and Berna closed her window.

When Rignold reached the Bloxham Block next morning he found Dibble in the narrow stall he had partitioned off from the composingroom for his office. His visitor dropped his feet from the table to the floor as he entered, and rose, folding up a copy (Berna and Rignold of course exchanged) of the last issue of the "Telepheme." Dibble shook himself down into his trousers with a frown.

"Morning," said he.

Rignold nodded as he swept a space clear on his desk, and settled down to work.

"Been losing Hymee, the hatter, I see," continued his visitor, dusting his hand with Berna's paper.

"Mr. Hymee has seen fit to withdraw his advertisement, if that 's what you mean, Mr. Dibble."

"Yes; I 've been around to see him this morning. He says he wants to see our paper succeed. He ain't got nothing against it, and he ain't going to support our lady contemporary, anyway. But, 'See here, now,' he says, 'your paper - "

"My paper, please, Mr. Dibble."
"Well, yours, if you like to call it so."

"I like to stick to facts, if it 's all the same to you. Has anybody got a dime in the 'Apex' besides me?"

"Certainly not. But we feel as if we were supporting you. I suppose you don't mind our holding up your hands?"

"Not if you leave them free," returned Rignold, whirling about in his swivel-seat, tilting it back, and thrusting his hands into his pockets. "What does Hymee say?"

Dibble did the "Telepheme" up into a news paper-carrier's wad, as if he were meditating throwing it over a subscriber's fence into the front yard, before he answered: "Why, it's this way. Hymee says that woman-mush across the way, that some folks in this town call a newspaper, is knocking the stuffing out of us fellows, and we don't know what 's happening to us. He's opposed on principle to a lady paper, but he goes in for straight talk, and he says there ain't no comparison between the Apex' and the 'Telepheme,' and that every one says so." "That's just what we 've always supposed, ain't it?"

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"Not Hymee's way. He tried to prove to me that there was n't the hustle of a dead steer

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"No, sir. You work. But more roar and slam-bang, more git up and howl. That's what does the business."

Rignold surveyed him thoughtfully for a moment, as a silence fell.

"Do you want to buy the paper, Mr. Dibble?"

"Well, no no. I can't say as I do." "Know any one else that wants to buy it?" "No."

"All right, then. I'll run it myself. Good morning."

Within a week two more small advertisements were withdrawn from the "Apex"; and the day after the publication of the succeeding issue, B. G. Franks, dealer in boots and shoes, who had been one of Rignold's original supporters, called at the office to say that he felt forced to withdraw his advertisement temporarily, as an expression of his disapproval of the course of the "Apex"; but should be happy to restore it as soon as Rignold saw his way to making a better paper. Rignold perceived Dibble's hand in this, and smiled; it was what Dibble would have called "bringing pressure." No more advertisements from members of the original committee were discontinued; but subscriptions began to fall off. Even from the surrounding country orders reached Rignold to stop the paper; and no new subscriptions were recorded.

A month later, when Mutrie reached Topaz with his young bride, and stopped over a day, Rustler gnashed its teeth. Dibble, who had now turned frankly against Rignold, swore outright. The news was discussed on the corners of the mountain street by excited groups, like another Bull Run. It represented, stated in the soberest terms, nothing less than disaster to the town that the President of the Three C's should stop at Topaz, and not so much as pass through Rustler. A committee, consisting of Dibble, McDermott, and Franks, was formed to go down to Topaz by the afternoon train, and invite the President at least to take a look at the town. But before they could start, Berna,

who had been holding back her edition of that week for a telegram from Mrs. Mutrie, making all sure, got the "Telepheme" upon the streets. It set forth her news so modestly that at first no one would believe it. The office of the paper was instantly filled with inquirers - Dibble among the first.

"She 's got a telegram, I tell you," said Barton.

"Shoot your telegram! Let's see it."

Barton left them clamoring, and went to ask Berna's permission. As he came back up the street, holding the fluttering bit of paper aloft in his hand, the group outside of the office gave an uncertain cheer; then, as Dibble snatched it and read it aloud, they howled with glee. Some were for going straightway to Berna's house, and offering her the cheers at closer quarters; but every one was in favor of a drink, and for the moment it resolved itself into that. It was about eleven o'clock that night when a little torchlight procession made its way to Berna's house, and relieved in complimentary song its enthusiasm, its happiness, its renewed good will to Berna, and perhaps a little shamefaced repentance and regret.

She was obliged at last to appear in her doorway; but, apparently overcome by emotion, could say nothing until, as she stood swaying on the threshold, she caught sight of Rignold's white face in the midst of the flickering lights, on the fringe of the crowd. Then, plucking up courage, she began tremblingly :

"FELLOW-TOWNSMEN: I am grateful to you for this unexpected honor. Believe me, it touches me deeply. But I must not, even for a moment, take it to myself. It belongs, you and I both know, wholly to another. I lay it proudly at the feet of Alexander Chester."

Rignold's face suddenly disappeared, and a voice from the crowd shouted, "No, no!" As she lost sight of the sustaining eye on the outmost circle of her audience, something seemed to give way within her; the denial roused her, however.

"But I say, 'Yes.' Let no one, thinking to please me, refuse to Alexander Chester the praise and the reward that are so utterly his due, and which belong to him, and him alone. Follow townsmen, it was he who first fought your battle for the railroad; it was he who first let you to dream of the possibility of bringing The Three C's to Rustler; it was he whose ringing words, going forth from week to week in the columns of his paper, have made the coming of the road practicable and realizable and near; and he it was, too, whose labors for the town, in cooperation with the strong and willing hands of those I see before me to-night, have brought Rustler to a position where she deserves the railroad!" ("Good! Deserves! That 's

the ticket!" murmured the crowd.) "Whatever I may have been able to do has merely been in humble following of his footsteps. If he had not lived, in all human probability, none of us would be here to-night. When you say a word in praise of me, I must take it, therefore, as intended to be two for him; for he is not only the source and inspiration of everything that I may do, but even in death he watches over us-the guide, the counselor, the captain of our town!"

She paused, and the crowd burst into wild cheers.

"The captain! Hip! Hip! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Tiger!"

Berna smiled upon them from her doorway, beautified.

IV.

An hour later, against all protests from her mother, she left her home for the first time in many months. Strength came to her with her need; that one sweet little moment of success, which compensated for all that she had borne for the town, and for all she had suffered at its hands, seemed to give a lost physical soundness and courage back to her. She felt strong enough for anything; and with that wine of happiness coursing through her veins, she certainly felt strong enough to drive to Barton's. The depression of the past months, since the launching of the "Apex," had made her nervous and doubtful about prosperity; she dared not trust any one to take it by the hand but herself. To be ready for the demand on the morrow, she meant to get Barton to go to the office and to print at once, before morning, on Aleck's old hand-press, five hundred copies of the new issue of the "Telepheme"; and to make quite sure, she meant to drive to the office with him, to see the fresh edition started. The paper had not been obliged to print twice since Aleck's time. She must watch her boom. Her heart beat high.

At Barton's there was no one but his wife. She said her husband was already at the office.

"Seems to me," she lamented, "he 's always at that office. I suppose his new work's a good thing; but it takes him away a sight of time. I don't believe he 's been a night at home since he began it."

Berna wondered, but drove on, drawing her wraps tightly around her against the unaccustomed air. Except for the lights at the European Hotel and at the Elegant Booze, the Honeycomb, and Uncle Dick's, the town was dark. Straggling groups from the serenading party still paraded the streets, singing, and lurching noisily in one another's arms. Berna gazed meditatively at the dusky roofs of the town to which she had given a year's loving

service, and which she had not seen since the warm, sunny morning when she had driven with Aleck to the station to take the train. The town knew her now; but what difference if it did not? He knew!

As she toiled up the dark staircase leading to the "Telepheme" office, supporting herself by her stick, a crack of light shone into her eves from under the door; and she heard the old press jammed down sharply within. Barton had plainly guessed her thought and gone silently to work. How good every one was to

her:

She turned the knob and went in. A gush of light greeted her. The place was all illumined. Barton was at the press; the boy was hurrying about. From the inner room a voice she knew cried out :

"We shall have to put that silver editorial over to the issue after next, Barton. Our next issue will have to be a kind of Jubilee Mutrie number-editorials, locals, everything. I'll do the squibs this week and an account of the President's visit, if you'll look after my regular locals."

"All right," responded Barton from his press. After a moment he looked up and saw Berna standing there.

"Why, Miss Dexter!" he exclaimed, mechanically stopping the press. He came toward her, wiping his hand, which, however, he finally wrapped in a corner of his printer's apron and offered to her that way.

"You ought to have sent for me," he said, abstractedly.

She looked at him for a moment.
"Who 's in there?"

"What?" asked Barton, offering her a chair, with a doubtful glance over his shoulder. She pointed.

Oh, there. Nobody, I guess." "Will you do me a favor, Mr. Barton." "Yes, of course. I don't know." "Take this chair." Barton seated himself, and stared after her as she pushed quickly into the room where Rignold sat writing busily at his old desk, which was littered with proofs and manuscript.

"Berna!" he exclaimed, looking up as she entered.

Ben Rignold, what are you doing here?" “Getting up a little copy. I often come on here of an evening to do my work, from old habit. You don't mind, I hope?"

"You mean my work!"
"I did n't say so."

"You don't need to. I heard you just now give your order to Barton. Ben! Ben!-You're just wicked!"

Tears filled her eyes. She sat down suddenly.

"Let me move those," he said, rising, and coming to her quickly; and she saw that she had seated herself on a chair heaped with a pile of old exchanges. He moved them to another chair, avoiding her eyes, which followed him everywhere. As he took his seat again under the lamp, which threw down a strong writing light upon the table, she saw how worn he looked. There were purple rings under his eyes, and his face was drawn. His disordered hair, which he had probably tumbled as he wrote, gave him a wild look. It was three months since she had seen him closely by daylight. She reproached herself bitterly.

"You 're too good to breathe!" she murmured, in continuance of her indictment, as she fastened her eyes on him. "How dared you? Why did n't you tell me?"

"See here, Berna, why did n't you stay at home? Then you would n't have known." "Well, I'm glad enough I came," she said, still breathless.

"Well, then, I ain't."

"So it's you, Ben Rignold, who have been making my paper better than the 'Apex'!" she went on, unheeding. "It's been you from the beginning." She stopped suddenly, startled. "Then it must be you, too, who have made the 'Apex' so bad!" she added.

Rignold smiled. "Did you think it was bad?"

"Never till now. I never let myself. But I know now that it 's been the worst paper in the State!"

"Did you expect me to make it the best, with your paper across the way?"

"I did n't expect you to make mine the best! O Ben!"

"Pshaw! that was easy," he said, laughing. "The trouble 's been to make the 'Apex' poor enough without giving the scheme away. I've always been afraid that you 'd tumble, if the town did n't. Come, Berna! You did n't suppose I was working at that rate to succeed, did you?"

"I thought-" began Berna, tremulously. "Then take it back, please! The man who could n't succeed, with that paper and that backing, by smoking cigars in his rear office, ought to give up the business. To make such a paper fail takes work!"

"Ben," she exclaimed, "you 've ruined. yourself!"

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Oh, no, I have n't. But I've ruined the 'Apex.' The sheriff is to pay me a visit tomorrow. Nobody knows it yet; but I may as well tell you, because it 'll be all out in the morning. I had hoped to fail last week. But I could n't get enough advertisements and subscriptions dropped."

She looked thoughtfully at him for a mo

ment. "Ben, I believe you 're the best man in the world," she said solemnly.

"I guess not," laughed Rignold, uneasily. "You are," she repeated. "And, Ben-" "Yes?"

"You must n't fail!"

"But I've got it all fixed. After to-morrow there won't be but one paper in Rustler."

"Well?" she answered, looking down with a deep blush.

He came and stood over her, and laid a hand upon her chair. "Berna, do you mean it ? "

She looked up with tears streaming down her face.

"I guess so."

"And Aleck?"

She smiled happily through her tears as she

"That's what I mean," she said huskily. "Let's make it one-the Telepheme-Apex'! laid a hand in his. Let's consolidate!"

"Berna!"

"Ben, dear, we will keep up the fight!"

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ECAUSE the sky is blue; because blithe May
Masks in the wren's song and the lilac's hue;
Because-in fine, because the sky is blue
I will read none but piteous tales to-day.
Keep happy laughter till the skies be gray,
And the sad season cypress wears, and rue;
Then, when the wind is moaning in the flue,
And ways are dark, bid Chaucer make us gay.
But now a little sadness! All too sweet

This springtide riot, this most poignant air,
This sensuous sphere of color and perfume!

So listen, love, while I the woes repeat
Of Hamlet and Ophelia, and that pair
Whose bridal bed was builded in a tomb.

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