THE BANCROFT LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 BANCROFT 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
FREE PRISONERS 
 
 BY 
 
 JANE W. BRUNER. 
 
 " We have all to be laid upon an altar ; we have all, as it -were, to be 
 subjected to the action of fire" 
 
 v 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 TY 
 
 / 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, 
 
 624, 626 & 62% MARKET STREET. 
 
 1877. 
 
PZs 
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by 
 
 JANE W. BRUNER, 
 in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 Selheimer &. Moore, Pinters, 
 501 Chestnut Street. 
 
TO HER 
 
 DOWNINGTOWN FRIENDS 
 OF 1873, 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 vii 
 
 X*u /' 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. PAGB 
 
 THE EXCHANGE 13 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 AFTER MANY YEARS .......... 17 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 CALIFORNIA IN '49 22 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 THE BROKEN LINK OF LOVE 25 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 A DOMESTIC AFFINITY 29 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 THE DISCARDED LOVER . 34 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 REVEALING THE GRAVE OF MURDERED LOVE .... 43 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 THROUGH THE GOLDEN GATE TO THE MOUNTAIN HOME . . 51 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A FAIRY IN THE SIERRAS 56 
 
 ix 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 ON-LOWING TIDES OF DESTINY ...... 59 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 UNDERCURRENTS . . ....... 62 
 
 ' CHAPTER XII. 
 THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW ...... 65 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 ROBBERY ........... 71 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 A MODERN AGRIPPINA ........ 78 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 GRAND PATHWAYS TO A CELL ....... 82 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 "WAITING FOR THE VERDICT" ..... . 86 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 DESPERATE COMPANY ......... 94 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER ....... 103 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 MRS. NEAL ..... ....... u 3 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 EYES THAT BESPEAK STORMS ...... . n8 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 IN PRISON ........... 124 
 
CONTENTS. XI 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. PAGE 
 
 THE ANONYMOUS LETTER 126 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 THE LOST WIFE FOUND AND LOST 129 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 TEMPTATION CLOTHED IN LOVE 135 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 THE FATAL MISTAKE 143 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 PLIGHTED LOVES 152 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 FOREBODINGS OF EVIL 154 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 THE MARRIAGE 156 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 THE BRIDAL TRIP 162 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 " GUILTY" 164 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 CONVALESCING 169 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 DEMANDING THE PLEDGE 175 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 THE FLIGHT 180 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 THE FATAL SECRET 187 
 
Xli CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 UNDERCURRENTS IN PRISON 191 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 JACK HUNTER'S UNFINISHED STORY 196 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 THE FATAL SHOT A YEAR AND A HALF LATER . . . 205 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 MRS. NEAL FINDS HER DAUGHTER 212 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 VENGEANCE 217 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 ABSENT FRIENDS 227 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 THE GHOSTLY APPARITION 229 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 THE LIVING TOMB 232 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 AFTER THE WEDDING 237 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 UNRAVELLING MYSTERIES . . . . ' . . . 240 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 THE HARVESTER, DEATH . . . 251 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 FINALE 2 5 6 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE EXCHANGE. 
 
 IN the suburbs of New Orleans was a stately mansion, from 
 which two tiny coffins, covered with rarest flowers, were 
 borne silently and reverently to be laid in our mother earth. 
 Following, were two hearts almost broken by the loss of the 
 sweet spirits that had filled them for a little season, and left 
 them dreary and void at their flight. 
 
 Over the way was a vine-covered cottage, very humble, but 
 ever so cheery, where a young mother bent anxiously and 
 lovingly over her two cherubs, lest they, too, might take wings 
 and fly away. 
 
 Fever was sweeping the purest and sweetest from mothers' 
 hearts and breasts. Every hour struck a death-knell. Pesti 
 lence was everywhere in the heated, poisonous atmosphere. It 
 seemed as if the great Creator had need of very precious jewels 
 in his heavenly mansion, for the harvester was merciless. 
 
 The rich man's children died and were buried; the poor 
 young mother's lived. t 
 
 For weeks after, the street before the stately house was 
 covered with straw, lest the rattling of vehicles would disturb the 
 2 13 
 
14 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 anguished mother, who lay at the verge of death, calling con 
 tinually, in her delirium, for Mrs. Neal, the young mother 
 opposite, who, she fancied, could bring back her lost babes. 
 
 Though Mrs. Neal and her aged mother had but a short 
 time previously moved into the neighborhood, and lived in 
 great retirement, the children had brought the young mothers 
 together. 
 
 Mr. Warren, anxious to gratify every wish expressed by his 
 wife, called at the cottage to tell Mrs. Neal of his wife's oft- 
 repeated request, and asked her to come to the sufferer: . 
 
 Mrs. Neal went at once, and by one of those unaccountable 
 electrical influences we all experience at times, Mrs. Warren 
 seemed soothed by her presence. As she took no interest in 
 any one else, and her mind was clouded much of the time, the 
 physician expressed to Mrs. Neal the hope that, through the 
 strange attachment for her, his patient might be saved. 
 
 Unconscious self-immolation was Mrs. Neal's greatest charm. 
 Her life belonged to those who needed her. She at once took 
 her post at Mrs. Warren's bedside, leaving her little ones, quite 
 recovered, to her mother's care. 
 
 As time passed, Mrs. Warren slowly but surely recovered ; 
 but nothing could rouse her from the dreadful apathy into 
 which she had fallen. Mrs. Neal became the one great neces 
 sity of her existence. As soon as her morning duties were over, 
 she was by her side until the day was far advanced, when she 
 would return home, put her little ones sweetly to sleep, and 
 often, when Mr. Warren was obliged to be absent, would spend 
 an hour or two with his wife in the evening. 
 
 Three months had passed. It was a dark, gusty night. The 
 wind howled and whistled as^ it swept through the windows and 
 doors. Mrs. Neal was sitting by Mrs. Warren's couch reading 
 aloud, when she was suddenly interrupted by her asking : 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 15 
 
 "If God is kind and merciful, why did He take my children 
 and leave yours, Agnes Neal ? " 
 
 Mrs. Neal dropped her book, and regarded her friend atten 
 tively. There was something ominous in the wild black eyes 
 and pale face before her. The question was so foreign to all 
 their thoughts and conversation, so strange, that she shuddered ; 
 but it was for the safety of Mrs. Warren's mind. 
 
 The wind whistled in wild and desperate shrieks ; windows 
 rattled and doors slammed in every direction ; servants were 
 hastening to close the house before the coming storm. 
 
 Mrs. Warren's acute nerves seemed to have been touched by 
 some electric spark, indefinite and incomprehensible, that 
 prompted that strange question, for at that time, in the garden, 
 at the rear of the cottage, which communicated with the back 
 street, while the winds were wailing through the vines and trees, 
 a man, closely muffled in a large dark cloak and soft hat 
 slouched over his face, stepped from behind a cluster of bushes 
 and went stealthily to the window. He smiled with grim satis 
 faction at the aged grandmother, who sat alone rocking and 
 reading. The place seemed perfectly familiar to him. He 
 passed to an open window, the rooms all being on one floor, 
 where he could see, by the dim light, the crib with the sleeping 
 babes. He regarded the heavens an instant, then his watch, 
 and with an oath muttered, "This storm may bring her back 
 too soon," and hurriedly left, as he had entered, by the back 
 gate. 
 
 In half an hour he came again, surveying the place as before, 
 and finding nothing changed, he quietly entered Mrs. Neal's 
 chamber, where the children slept ; placed a handkerchief satu 
 rated with a powerful anaesthetic a few seconds to their nostrils ; 
 then took them in his arms and softly stole away through the 
 garden to the back street, where a carriage was in waiting. 
 
l6 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 Not a word was spoken between him and the occupant, a 
 woman, who handed him two children in return. He hastened 
 back to the deserted chamber, laid the little strangelings in the 
 crib where Mrs. Neal's darlings had been so sweetly sleeping, 
 turned out the light, dropped a note on the floor, and as he left 
 the room, stopped on the threshold and, looking back, with 
 clenched fist in menace, hissed between his teeth : 
 
 "Agnes Neal, you have lost your children, but you still have 
 his. Hug them for his sake. You would not love a poor man, 
 and the rich one would not love you. You have had your 
 choice, and I have my revenge. ' ' 
 
 The wretch hastened from the house to the carriage, and, 
 without even glancing toward the occupants, mounted the box, 
 and drove off. 
 
 Hearing a noise, the grandmother entered her daughter's 
 room, but seeing no light, hesitated an instant, when a sharp 
 gust of wind blew in at the open door, and she said, im 
 patiently, " How careless Agnes has been, to leave the door 
 open. The wind has blown out the light." Then closing the 
 windows and bolting the door, the old lady returned to her 
 reading. 
 
 The wretch was right. Agnes Neal would not leave her 
 mother and children alone when a raging storm was imminent. 
 Mrs. Warren's strange question hastened her return. All in 
 terest in their reading was thereby broken off ; so she bade her 
 friend affectionately good-night, and went to her mother's side, 
 where she sat while the storm raged without. Gradually the 
 wind subsided ; the rain poured in torrents. Then came the 
 dripping from the eaves and vines. All nature sent forth a 
 strange sobbing. The moon peeped through the drifting 
 clouds, and a balmy atmosphere, purified by an autumn storm, 
 filled the earth. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. .. I/ 
 
 "Good-night, mother, dear," said Mrs. Neal, and kissing 
 her mother fondly, she left her for the night. On entering her 
 room, she opened the window that the moonlight might stream 
 in, and looking out over the earth, a sweet smile lighted her 
 bright young face as she said half aloud : 
 
 " How lovely the earth is after a storm. She seems so grate 
 ful for the refreshing rain. How thankful I should be that my 
 storm is over, and my heart at rest again. Oh, Richard, if 
 you had come back, and found your cherubs gone." 
 
 She went intuitively, with deep feeling, to the crib and kissed 
 each child. Then, while she knelt by their side, and offered 
 up such a prayer as only a mother can offer for the safety of her 
 little ones, a fiendish face peered in through the open window, 
 drinking in that mockery of peace with infinite satisfaction. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 AFTER MANY YEARS. 
 
 IT was a wonderful era '49 in California a new Gol- 
 conda was announced to the world. Plenty of gold for 
 everybody ! Gold ! The lever of the world the mainspring 
 of this mundane sphere, that is said to be governed by laws of 
 gravitation. The beautiful, dazzling, bewitching gold that 
 builds up cities and destroys them ; raises men and lowers them ; 
 kindles love to leave it ashes the severest tempter of man 
 hood and womanhood, in its acceptance and appropriation, 
 a glittering thing more fatal than the scintillations from the 
 serpent-charmer's eyes a magnet that draws from principali 
 ties and hovels, from homes and brothels, from pulpits and 
 2* B 
 
18 FREE* PRISONERS. 
 
 i 
 
 prisons. It is the one thing that strikes a reverberating cord 
 in every human breast. 
 
 "Gold in the far-off West," was the cry, and a human tide went 
 westward, from all parts of the earth, all nations and tongues. 
 Gentlemen of broken fortunes ; villains whose only fortunes 
 had been dishonor ; young wives and mothers, and women 
 whose lives began anew, for better or for worse. It was a con 
 course of humanity as intricate as a Roman mosaic ; yet the one 
 object of pursuit made all men equal patrician and plebeian 
 labored side by side in one common brotherhood ; gentlemen 
 did menial labor, and menials were as gentlemen. 
 
 There was no law of society other than Nature makes, when 
 she creates nobility and infamy two currents that forever run 
 side by side, yet never assimilate. This state of society could 
 only last for a little season, for humanity's streams, like rivulets 
 from the mountains, soon find their centre of gravitation, and 
 form classes and sects. 
 
 On this inflowing tide came George Gray, with his young 
 wife and two small children. Mr. Gray was a young man, the 
 only heir to a large estate in New York, but was possessed with 
 a longing for adventure and quiet enterprise that would make 
 an estate for himself. 
 
 His wife, although from the South, had' been sent at the early 
 age of twelve, when her mother died, to be educated under the 
 care of an aunt residing in New York. There she met George 
 Gray, who was their neighbor's son. The two families were 
 intimate friends; so the younger members became constant 
 companions. 
 
 Nellie French was a fine musician, and George Gray played 
 the violin with more than ordinary ability; so from their love 
 of music arose almost imperceptibly a friendship which ripened 
 into a pure and lasting affection. And not until the time 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 19 
 
 approached for their separation, did they in the least realize 
 how essential each was to the happiness of the other. 
 
 Nellie's eighteenth birthday was near at hand, when she was 
 to return to her Southern home, where, from her beauty and 
 accomplishments, she was to become a bright star in a brilliant 
 constellation of fashionable society. Nothing was talked of 
 but her departure, and George first thought how much he would 
 miss her, then how much 'he loved her. He was not long in 
 making his sentiments known, and they were betrothed. 
 Nellie's aunt, Mrs. Van Winkle, not only gave her hearty 
 approval, but declared it had been her most earnest wish. 
 
 Nellie felt sad at parting from her aunt, who had been to her 
 as a mother. And George, too ; it was hard for her to leave 
 her old friend and new lover, but all bitterness was effaced by 
 her fond father's tender welcome. As he held her at arm's 
 length, regarding her attentively, he said, with a shade of 
 sadness in his voice: "My little girl has grown to be the 
 likeness of her mother, when I courted her twenty-five years 
 ago." 
 
 For two months Nellie's visit was a perfect ovation. Gen 
 eral French always kept open house, and when it became known 
 his accomplished daughter had returned, and she was pretty, 
 too, there was no end to visitors and invitations. Nellie had 
 one brother, Walter, six years her senior, who was always her 
 ready escort, and the General, being very social, usually accom 
 panied them. 
 
 One morning the General's trusted servant entered the break 
 fast-room very excitedly, where Walter and Nellie were awaiting 
 their father. He whispered something to Walter, who imme 
 diately left the room with him. As it lacked a few minutes of 
 breakfast Jiour, Nellie thought nothing strange of the occur 
 rence, but picked up the paper Walter had laid down and began 
 
2O . FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 reading. After a while she heard confused conversations, mys 
 terious whispers. The groom dashed down the avenue on her 
 father's fleetest horse; servants ran hither and thither, and she 
 joined in the general tumult. After repeated inquiries, she 
 learned from an old negro that the General was very sick. 
 She ran to her father's apartments, and there found Walter 
 and the attendants rubbing and working over his apparently 
 lifeless form. The family physician soon arrived, but shook 
 his head, as he said all efforts at resuscitation were useless 
 their father was dead. He had long been suffering from a 
 disease of the heart, and had been perfectly aware of the un 
 certainty of his life. 
 
 General French had lived in princely style, and was supposed 
 to be wealthy. As it often occurs in such cases, at his death 
 his affairs were found to be hopelessly entangled. After the 
 sale of all his possessions, and the payment of mortgages and 
 other indebtednesses, little remained. 
 
 A letter full of sympathy and love, from Mrs. Van Winkle, 
 welcoming Nellie back to her heart and home, and one from 
 George sympathizing in her grief, but happy to have her return 
 so speedily, provided for her well and tenderly. 
 
 There was little choice for Walter. As a poor young man, 
 he could no longer mingle with the revellers of fashion, and his 
 first impulse was to leave the place where the lightness of his 
 heart seemed to have gone out like a meteor. He was fine- 
 looking, with prominent, but regular features ; tall, stately, and 
 formal in his address to strangers. His hair was almost black. 
 His eyes were deep and fathomless,when softened by affection, 
 but fierce and burning when fired by anger. 
 
 He was engaged to be married to a charming creature of 
 fashion and wealth, but could not marry her then perhaps 
 never. He told her so in his straightforward way, but with a 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 21 
 
 shade of pride and coldness in his manner, which some sensi 
 tive natures cannot avoid when humbled or wounded. 
 
 Belle Burton was proud, talented, and rich, and, although not 
 a beauty, had many admirers. She haughtily released her 
 lover, and when the door closed and he was gone, she thought, 
 " Go, if you choose ; there are many who would be proud of 
 Belle Burton for a wife." 
 
 Then there came a little feeling of remorse. She might have 
 been wrong, considering Walter's changed circumstances. She 
 knew he had loved her dearly, and, hard as it was to admit, 
 she also had loved Walter better than any one else. There 
 was no human eye to see the weakness, so, unrestrainedly, the 
 tears of real regret coursed down her cheeks. She would gladly 
 have called him back and told him she would do her part in the 
 labor of their life, but it was too late he had gone. 
 
 A servant entering with the card of Major Wall, a dashing 
 officer, brought back her old pride ; and as she chatted gayly 
 an hour later, seemed to have forgotten there was anything in 
 life for her to regret. 
 
 Walter left quietly with his sister for New York, without a 
 single adieu, except to the faithful old servants ; one of whom, 
 a negress of thirty-five years of age, Nellie's nurse in childhood, 
 accompanied them. He remained in New York until George 
 and Nellie were married, then left to swell the band of Califor 
 nia pioneers. 
 
22 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 CALIFORNIA IN '49. 
 
 ON arriving in California, Walter's party, lured into the 
 Sierra Nevada Mountains by the fabulous reports of 
 wealth, decided upon Grass Valley as their temporary 
 home. This was in '49 a beautiful valley, nestling between 
 high hills, through which a mountain stream went leisurely on 
 its way, singing to the wild flowers that decorated its borders, 
 like a weary spirit after a toilsome day chanting its lullaby as 
 it sank to rest. As if it had gained new force and vigor by this 
 gentle interlude, one would scarcely recognize this peaceful, 
 murmuring stream a few miles distant, in the foaming, dashing 
 waters that madly plunged over rocks and precipices. Grass 
 Valley was so called from its luxuriant growth of grass, which, 
 in its emerald beauty, would have done honor to old Erin. 
 The surrounding hills and mountains were covered with lofty 
 pine-trees, with thick undergrowth of balsam, manzanita, and 
 chaparral, beneath which clustered fragrant pinks, delicate 
 roses, and myriads of exquisite flowers, that would have graced 
 a princely estate ; yet there, in the wilderness, they bloomed 
 unplucked and unappreciated, and only the great Giver of 
 blessings knew for what strange purpose. The giant grizzly 
 bear passed them by grumly. The lions and the wild cats 
 heeded them not, and the bushes, in whose branches nestled 
 quail, doves, and beautiful singing-birds, only paid them 
 obeisance when bowed by the weight of their fair occu 
 pants. The patrician pines sighed and wailed over a scene so 
 enchanting, lonely, and wild ; but the arrival of the pioneers 
 changed all this the emerald sward covered glittering gold, 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 23 
 
 and the murmuring water nestled in its bosom precious treas 
 ures, that caused its peace to be disturbed and its crystal purity 
 to be converted into a muddy stream. The wild flowers ceased 
 to grow upon its borders, for the busy hand of man trans 
 formed the fairy land into a scene of confusion and desolation, 
 and the wavering pines moaned a pitiful dirge over the havoc, 
 done the enchanting Grass Valley. 
 
 Four years later, George and Nellie came to make their home 
 in this mountain town, with their two little children and the 
 faithful Sofie. 
 
 Walter had a nice little cottage in readiness for their recep 
 tion, but it was a comical little home in comparison with the 
 luxurious one they had left in New York. The furniture of this 
 pioneer home was principally of mountain manufacture un- 
 painted pine. There was a lack of many domestic comforts, 
 which was amply supplied after Nellie's unpacking process. 
 . One might have fancied that the magic wand of an enchant 
 ress had been waved over the plain little home, to make it 
 inviting and cosy. The table had a snowy cover and was fur 
 nished with choice books. In one corner stood a cottage piano, 
 near by lay a violin. A crimson and gold-striped cloth covered 
 the dining-table, for this snug little place served as parlor, 
 dining-room, and family sitting-room. 
 
 Servants were not to be had, so Nellie assumed the care of 
 the children, while Sofie was installed as cook and general 
 house-maid. 
 
 " What can a New York gentleman know of the hard, wild 
 life of a California pioneer?" was a question Walter asked 
 himself with considerable trepidation, as he welcomed George 
 to his mountain home. He found him a faithful, industrious 
 young man, who had seen only the sunny side of life, but 
 cheerfully accepted discomforts. He aided him in business, 
 
24 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 and in return felt a fatherly sort of care and interest in his new 
 friend and brother, from his greater experience of life and its 
 trials. 
 
 They were strangely different. George, rather fair, was 
 tender and delicate, almost to effeminacy, and was perfectly 
 happy with his wife and babies. He soon came to regard 
 Walter as a shield between him and the perplexities of life. 
 As for the world at large, he seemed to care as little for it as 
 he knew of it. On the other hand, Walter had seen all phases 
 and forms of humanity from the experience of a youth passed 
 under the indulgent care of a mother, who idolized him, to that 
 of early manhood, as the flattered, petted idol of aristocratic 
 society, and afterwards hurled at one blow from this pedestal 
 of fortune to poverty. He had no profession ; why should he 
 have ? Was he not the heir to a large estate ? His education 
 had been such as to fit him for society, to control his slaves, 
 to entertain and fill his father's place as the son of General 
 french should, when the haughty, but hospitable General 
 would be laid in the family vault. 
 
 This polished Southern gentleman found himself almost help 
 less, at first, in the vocation of a California pioneer ; but he had 
 a stout, brave heart, always ready to try ; and the rapidity with 
 which he learned from that stern teacher necessity, astonished 
 even himself. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 25 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE BROKEN LINK OF LOVE. 
 
 YEARS passed with little change in the happy, monotonous 
 life of the inmates of the cottage. The mill still stamped 
 t with its steady beat the crystal quartz. The bed of the 
 little stream at the foot of the hill was almost dry, and the 
 muddy water dashed furiously along in sluice-boxes which the 
 miners had constructed in their placer-diggings. The sur 
 rounding hills had lost many waving pines, but neat cottages 
 marked their places. Here and there were piles of yellow 
 earth dug up by ambitious miners in search of gold. Afar off 
 came the dull sound from distant mills. Heavily loaded teams 
 went slowly clambering over the uneven roads, with precious 
 burdens, from mines to mills. It was a busy place, and many 
 fortunes were dug out of those once beautiful green hills, with 
 their forest of waving pines. 
 
 One evening, Walter returned from the post-office with a 
 package of letters from home, as the Eastern States were gener 
 ally designated. These letters came every fortnight, and 
 many unsuccessful miners were comforted and encouraged by 
 the precious burdens the steamers bore to the Western shore 
 every two weeks. 
 
 He handed one to Nellie, saying : 
 
 "Read this, Nellie; it is from Belle Burton. You remem 
 ber her, do you not? " 
 
 " Yes, perfectly," answered Nellie; reading the letter. 
 
 " She and I were brought up something like you and George," 
 resumed Walter; "were engaged when very young, and were 
 to have been married when she became twenty. She says, 
 3 
 
26 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 ' after years of fruitless effort, ' she has in a most unaccountable 
 manner discovered my whereabouts, and gives me a character 
 istic feminine lecture, as you will see. ' ' 
 
 "I do not blame her," said Nellie, returning the letter. 
 "If you have broken your promise, her displeasure is pardon 
 able." 
 
 "You do not understand the case, little sister. I have done 
 nothing of the kind. Our engagement was broken off by 
 mutual consent ; and I supposed she had married some dashing 
 fellow long before this." 
 
 "It seems she has neither forgotten you nor your engage 
 ment, and alludes, in a lady-like manner, to her estate being at 
 your command. As she has taken the trouble to find out 
 where you are, and has written you the first letter after your 
 neglect, I think the least you can do is to renew your old 
 friendship. And who knows? you may eventually marry her. 
 She must love you, or she would not have written you that 
 letter; besides, she is rich." 
 
 Nellie spoke thoughtlessly, for riches had no weight in her 
 honest decision. 
 
 Walter's face flushed, as he asked, bitterly : 
 
 " Do you think I would marry her for her money ? " 
 
 " I do you no such injustice, dear Walter. But when you 
 loved a young lady from childhood, and were engaged to her 
 for years, I do not think a fortune in her possession should be 
 any obstacle, especially when your position was equal, if not 
 superior, to hers at the time of your engagement. I am sure 
 no one would accuse you of marrying for money under such 
 circumstances. Besides, you are not poor. ' ' 
 
 " You have a wonderful facility for arguing away all difficul 
 ties, Nellie ; but I doubt if we would even be congenial friends 
 now. Our lives for years past have necessarily been so differ- 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 2? 
 
 cut, that I do not feel there is any tie to bind me to the fancies 
 of my youth. ' ' 
 
 "Surely, the words of betrothal that bound your young life 
 to that of Belle Burton are a tie that should not be lightly cast 
 off. It is a matter of honor. She has been waiting for years, 
 hoping for your return, and still you did not come. Go at 
 once, Walter," pleaded Nellie, "to your patient Belle. Tell 
 her she need pine no longer for her truant lover, but rest her 
 heart in your keeping. Bring her out to our mountain home, 
 and we will all be sweet, good friends together." 
 
 " Do not waste your sentiment, little sister; the case in hand 
 is not worth it. I assure you, Belle would find this rough life 
 little to her taste. You do not understand that the charming, 
 witty Belle, with her cold conceit, has fooled with her admirers 
 until she has unwittingly flirted herself into the unredeemable 
 realm of old maids, and thinks a cast-off lover in a wilder 
 ness better than none at all. With regard to her fruitless 
 efforts to find me, she knew perfectly well, by sending a few 
 lines to Aunt Harriet Van Winkle, she could get my address. 
 I am not so easily caught, my dear, even by an expert angler. 
 You will have your model brother on your hands now, hence 
 forth, and forevermore. I am a confirmed old bachelor. The 
 disease has become chronic first, from necessity; second, from 
 habit, and third, and lastly, from inclination." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Walter. I despise old bachelors. They are 
 such selfish, unfeeling mortals. But you will, at least, write 
 Belle a nice letter?" 
 
 "Yes, Nellie, I will write her, and say anything you like. 
 For instance, if my business prospers, I may pay a visit East 
 within the next quarter of a century, and if she can love such a 
 sunburnt heathen as I have become who knows ? my tender, 
 
28 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 susceptible, yielding heart may succumb to the infatuations and 
 tender outbursts of an old maid's first passion." 
 
 " You cynical old bachelor ! You do i\ot deserve to have a 
 wife ! " said Nellie, sharply. " There you sit, making sport of 
 your old sweetheart, without the least conscience. Do not let 
 me see you again before dinner. You are getting worse and 
 worse every day. Even my patience is becoming exhausted." 
 
 " I never saw you so provoked with me before, Nellie," said 
 Walter, coaxingly. " I suppose I am a crusty fellow ; but never 
 mind, I will try to be better in future. You are the only 
 sincere admirer I ever had, and I could not lose your sweet, 
 unselfish affection. I will do anything you may command, to 
 make amends for my unfeeling remarks toward that young lady 
 of uncertain age, but get married, and that well, I vow I 
 never will have the courage to attempt to go in double team." 
 
 "No, you prefer tandem, with your sweetheart behind," 
 and Nellie smiled in spite of her anger. 
 
 "You deserve a kiss for that, Nell. Good-by till dinner." 
 
 Walter passed down the well-beaten path to the mill, and 
 thought, " What a treasure that Nellie is. I believe she would 
 be contented under a tent, with bread-and-water diet, if every 
 one about her was comfortable. She never seems to think of 
 herself at all, but is continually looking after the. happiness and 
 pleasure of others. If all women had such dispositions, and 
 were willing to make the sacrifices she does, we would have a 
 very different world, perhaps a happier one." 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 2g 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A DOMESTIC AFFINITY. 
 
 IT was the habit of the family to congregate on the portico 
 after dinner and have a general review of the day's doings. 
 
 There were no places of entertainment, and few congenial per 
 sons in that mountain village, so they were greatly dependent 
 upon one another for amusement, and the most trifling incidents 
 of the day were of importance. To watch the sunset was the 
 closing duty of each day, and they never wearied of the grand 
 and varied freaks of nature's artist among the pine-covered 
 Sierras, that vie in warmth and coloring with those of tropical 
 regions. 
 
 " There is smoke from the chimney in the new addition of 
 Captain Wetherell's house. I wonder if it is finished," asked 
 Walter, carelessly, as he laid aside the paper he had been read 
 ing. 
 
 "Oh, yes; I forgot to tell you," answered Nellie. "Mrs. 
 Williams was here this afternoon with her sewing, and she told 
 me ever so much news." 
 
 " She can tell you news, if any one can," said Walter. "If 
 she has none on hand, she is a good manufacturer." 
 
 "I am sorry you do not like her," said Nellie. " I think 
 she is a very good woman, although she does know everything 
 that is taking place in this little town. She told me Captain 
 Wetherell's house was completely finished, and he expects his 
 wife and daughter next week. And she told me, too, that the 
 Captain and his wife had not lived together for a number of 
 years. That is, dear, they live in the same house; but well, 
 they do live together in the eyes of the world." 
 3* 
 
30 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 "I understand exactly," laughed Walter. "You mean they 
 live together in the eyes of the world, but they do not see it in 
 the same light." 
 
 "Walter, you are getting in the habit of using California 
 slang phrases to such an extent that I fear you will be very 
 rough by the time you go home to marry Belle." 
 
 " Never mind about my getting married, Nellie," said Walter, 
 a little sarcastically. "What were the rest of to-day's revela 
 tions? It cannot be possible that was all v Mrs. Williams had to 
 tell." 
 
 " Oh, no," she said. " You know the Captain has not spoken 
 to his son Ben for nearly two years. Of course, I told her I 
 knew nothing about it. Then she informed me Ben was such a 
 wild, dissipated fellow, that his father was obliged to ignore 
 his existence entirely, and never even permit him to come 
 home. The poor old gentleman's heart is almost broken with 
 grief, through that misguided son. He asked the members of 
 the church, with tears in his eyes, to pray for him, last prayer- 
 meeting." 
 
 " Did she not say it was because the old Captain was so busy 
 making love to that French girl from Limerick, who is keeping 
 house for him, that his son was in the way, and he shipped him? 
 Was not that the story, Nell ? " asked Walter. 
 
 "No, indeed. I was trying to tell you what she did say, 
 but you shock me by insinuating such things of the Captain. 
 He is the most pious and best old gentleman I have met in 
 this country. He makes beautiful prayers, and was the means 
 of getting our church built." 
 
 " Did he have the contract to build it? if so, that accounts 
 for his piety." 
 
 " Oh, Walter, you are getting so wicked. You make sport 
 of everything that is pious, lately." 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 3! 
 
 " No, Nellie ; you misunderstand me. For sincerely good 
 and pious people, I have great respect, but not for the sort to 
 which your friend the Captain belongs." 
 
 " I wish you knew him as he really is. I fear you are prej 
 udiced." 
 
 George had gone into the house, as it grew dark, and was 
 rocking the two children, one on each knee, telling them a 
 fairy tale. The lamps had not yet been lighted, and from a 
 side window Captain Wetherell's house was distinctly to be 
 seen, only a short distance off. George called Walter and 
 Nellie to come in and witness some private theatricals, and 
 added : " The play is a romance of real life." 
 
 They immediately obeyed the summons, wondering what 
 George could possibly mean. 
 
 " Look out there," said he, pointing to the open window. 
 
 "Ah, Nell," laughed Walter, "there is your pious old saint 
 at his devotions. To what form of religion does that style of 
 worship belong ? ' ' 
 
 Nellie made no reply, but looked in blank amazement. 
 There sat her ideal of goodness and piety with his housemaid 
 on his knee, and they were sportirig like young lovers. He 
 would kiss her freckled face, with the nez retrousse, and she 
 would pull his whiskers in return. A very tender embrace, 
 and the Captain left his accommodating housemaid, took up 
 his gold-headed cane, and went out into the street as serene 
 and saintly as ever. 
 
 ' ' Homer says : 
 
 ' So lovers to their fair one, fondly blind, 
 E'en on their ugliness with transport gaze,' " 
 
 quoted Walter, jocosely, and turning to Nellie, asked : 
 
 "What of your pious friend now, Nell? I suppose he is on 
 his way to prayer-meeting, is he not?" 
 
32 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 " I am sorry to admit it, but this is the evening for prayer- 
 meeting. ' ' 
 
 "He is one of your pillars, is he not? " asked George. 
 
 "Yes," said Nellie; "but I am so shocked. I wish I had 
 not witnessed the little drama, as you called that disgusting 
 scene a few moments ago." 
 
 "Oh, that was only a domestic affinity," laughed George. 
 " There are worse things in the world." 
 
 "Do you think Mrs. Williams was right, when she said the 
 son was so bad the father could not get along with him ; or 
 was I right when I said he interfered with the old reprobate's 
 love-making with his servant ? ' ' asked Walter. 
 
 "Let us admit that each might have faults," said Nellie, in 
 her conciliatory way. "Mrs. Williams told me the Captain 
 wrote his son a note, a few days ago, asking him to come home, 
 and he would receive him with open arms, and forgive him all 
 the past. The son replied, he had committed no offence, and 
 consequently required no forgiveness ; but if his father would 
 endeavor to be honorable and upright in future, he would for 
 give him the past. I thought that a very impudent message 
 from a son to a father. ' ' 
 
 "I do not think he meant it as insolence," said Walter, 
 earnestly. "To tell you the truth, Nellie, I cannot cultivate 
 any interest in the country gossip. The Captain must have 
 unburdened his heart to Mrs. Williams, or she would not have 
 been so familiar with his grievances ; and I assure you, when 
 a person can give his troubles to the village to take care of, 
 they have ceased to oppress the original owner. True sorrow 
 never goes abroad, but bides at home. As for young Wetherell, 
 I have known him for three years, and never heard a word 
 against him. He and his father disagree because he knows the 
 old gentleman's real character, and is not sparing in his criti- 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 33 
 
 cism of his conduct. As I said before, the old Captain will 
 not be interfered with, and yet he wants to make himself out 
 a saint. So he turns his son away from home, goes about 
 telling all the world how bad he is, puts on a long face of in 
 jured innocence, and asks the pious brethren to pray for his 
 misguided son. The pious sympathize deeply with the grief- 
 stricken parent, and pray for the lost son, while the father hugs 
 the housemaid. Young Wetherell is an imp of Satan, and yet 
 the son of one of God's chosen disciples. How can you solve 
 that enigma ? ' ' 
 
 "Do not try, Nellie. It is a miracle," interposed George. 
 
 "You must not become sacrilegious, too, George," said 
 Nellie, earnestly; and turning to Walter, "what does young 
 Wetherell do for a living? " 
 
 " He and two other young men own a mine a few miles 
 from here. He is ambitious and industrious, and doing well, I 
 believe. It is- a wonder to me he is even honest, with such a 
 father. ' ' 
 
 "I am sorry we have such neighbors," said Nellie; "but 
 Mrs. Williams told me that Linda, the daughter, is an unusually 
 fine girl. Her sister attended school with her a long time in 
 New York State, and considers her in every way very superior, 
 besides being beautiful." 
 
 " There will be a chance for you, Walter," suggested George. 
 
 "No, I thank you," replied Walter, scornfully. "That 
 stock will never do for me. Why, the mother is a regular ter 
 magant, and with such parentage, what may not the daughter 
 be?" 
 
 "Ah, yes, Walter; but the ways of the heart, like the work 
 ings of Providence, are inscrutable," added Nellie. 
 
 C 
 
34 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE DISCARDED LOVER. 
 " She tells thee where to love and where to hate." Juvenal. 
 
 IT was a charming spring morning when the "Ocean Queen" 
 sailed out of New York harbor, crowded with passengers for 
 California, among whom were Mrs. Captain Wetherell and 
 her daughter, Linda. The mother was a cold, stately woman, 
 apparently about forty years of age, with jetty black hair and 
 eyes, and a firm, hard mouth. 
 
 The daughter had brown hair and large hazel eyes, which 
 sometimes looked black, but they were soft and true. Her 
 complexion was fresh and rosy, her mouth pretty and expres 
 sive, unlike the mother's, for it lacked the iron bars that seemed 
 to shut out all human sympathy from her soul. There was a 
 girlish elegance and grace about everything she did that made 
 her perfectly charming, and withal such a forgetfulness of self, 
 as she waited upon her mother, bathed her sick neighbor's 
 aching head, and amused the little girls whose mothers were 
 sea-sick, that, unconsciously, she made herself generally useful 
 and universally admired and beloved. 
 
 Everything was wonderful to her, because it was new. She 
 was looking at life with the first glow of pleasure, and saw 
 only the sunshine, and did not dream that storms mig'ht be 
 gathering in the distance that would break over her young 
 head. 
 
 When they arrived at Aspinwall, she was greatly amused by 
 the natives, who, like swarms of bees, went buzzing about quite 
 as primitive in dress as Adam and Eve when they wore but 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 35 
 
 fig-leaves. The little children running around looked like 
 diminutive bronze statues, in their blessed ignorance neither 
 desiring nor needing more to clothe them than the sunburnt 
 skin their great Creator gave them. 
 
 As they crossed the beautiful Isthmus of Panama, where 
 Nature runs riot in her exuberance of spirit ; where the luxuriant 
 vegetation weaves into the wilderness a perfect bower of wild 
 beauty with the stately palms, cocoanuts, bananas, tree-ferns, 
 and majestic rubber trees decorated with orchids and other 
 parasites, with their drooping stems knotted here and there 
 with air roots, the bush ropes hanging from them in graceful 
 festoons, intermingled with running plants, decorated with 
 variegated green leaves, and serjania and bignonia voluptuously 
 interlaced and entangled she almost imagined, while gazing 
 into, those fantastic bowers, that she was looking into an en 
 chanted abode of fairies, so light and airy was the picture. But 
 when she thought of the creeping reptiles, venomous insects, 
 and wild beasts that had their abode there, the fairy scene 
 became a labyrinth so dense and heavy, that the very atmos 
 phere seemed infected, and she longed to be gliding over the 
 Pacific, whose waters were so calm that it seemed useless for the 
 steamer to be puffing and blowing and making such hard work 
 of skimming the glassy surface. 
 
 Among the passengers was a Mr. Warren, an old acquaint 
 ance of Mrs. Wetherell, a widower, who had an adopted daughter, 
 about Linda's age, at school in Boston, of whom he frequently 
 talked to Linda, telling her how much she reminded him of 
 his own open-hearted girl Alice. 
 
 Mrs. Wetherell was pleased to have his attentions during the 
 monotonous voyage, and Linda accepted them as kindness from 
 an elderly gentleman. Before the voyage was ended his man 
 ner changed, and instead of fatherly attentions they became 
 
36 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 unmistakably the smiles, simperings, and contortions of an old 
 fool trying to play the youthful lover. 
 
 Linda did not notice his altered manner in fact, she thought 
 little of Mr. Warren at best only it was pleasant to have a gen 
 tleman to accompany her upon deck to admire the glorious 
 sunsets and see the moon rise, and in the morning to count 
 the nautilus, as they floated by with their mimic sails, and 
 watch the schools of porpoise as they sported and tossed in the 
 fathomless deep. 
 
 Steadily the ship went on ; land was in sight ; on the mor 
 row they would sail through the Golden Gate and enter the 
 picturesque bay of San Francisco. It was moonlight, and Linda 
 wished to pass the last evening of her sea voyage on deck. 
 Mrs. Wetherell complained of indisposition, and requested Mr. 
 Warren to accompany her. 
 
 They sat some time in silence watching the moonshine play 
 ing upon the phosphorescent waves. Linda was the first to 
 break the stillness. 
 
 "Mr. Warren, you promised long ago to tell me the history 
 of your adopted daughter, which you said was very strange. As 
 this is our last evening together, may I claim the fulfilment of 
 your promise ? ' ' 
 
 "With pleasure, Miss Linda. Your slightest wish is a com 
 mand; but it is long since I have even thought of it, and the 
 whole event was so completely enveloped in mystery, that it may 
 prove less interesting than you expect. However, your wo 
 manly curiosity shall be gratified. 
 
 " About sixteen years ago, we lived in New Orleans. My wife 
 was a very domestic woman, devoutly fond of her home and 
 family. We had three darling bright children two boys and 
 one girl. That summer the scarlet fever raged like a fiend 
 of fury among the little folks. The brightest and loveliest 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 37 
 
 dropped off by dozens. Ours were all swept away within a week. 
 My wife, never very robust, was so overcome by the blow that she 
 lay for weeks hovering between life and death. Near us lived 
 the widow of a clergyman and her daughter, who had two 
 children. These children were among the few who had the 
 fever and recovered. Hearing of our misfortunes and my 
 wife's illness, the young mother left her little ones with her 
 mother, and spent days by my wife's bedside. She became 
 devotedly attached to her, and the good young woman was ever 
 ready to minister to her comforts. One night, she went home 
 quite late from our house, and retired as usual, with her chil 
 dren in their crib by her side. The next morning, when she 
 awoke, she found them changed. They were smaller, and did 
 not know her. She, poor soul, thought her eyesight and reason 
 were leaving her, and called to her mother, who was equally at 
 a loss; for without doubt the young mother's children were 
 gone and two strange ones left in their place. 
 
 "The bereaved mother was almost crazed, and in fact the 
 entire neighborhood was greatly excited over the event, for it 
 was so singular, and apparently uncalled for, that no one could 
 comprehend it. When my wife asked for her friend, I told her 
 of her affliction, hoping that others' sorrows might draw her 
 from her own. It acted like a charm. She forgot herself 
 entirely in the endeavor to console her friend. 
 
 "The boy's resemblance to the lost one was so remarkable, 
 the mother clung to him madly ; but she positively refused to 
 have anything to do with the girl ; so my wife took her. That 
 is all I know of my lovely, nameless, adopted daughter." 
 
 " How mysterious ! " said Linda, musingly. " Was nothing 
 done to discover the truth?" 
 
 " Yes, everything that was in their power ; and I entered into 
 the search with all my heart, but not the slightest clue could 
 4 
 
38 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 ever be found. We moved North soon after, and I have never 
 heard of them since". ' ' 
 
 " How exceedingly strange and sad it must be, to live in this 
 world and not know one's own parents," and Linda sat silently 
 thinking a long time, then, in her girlish way, exclaimed : 
 
 " How delightful to think we will bd in San Francisco to 
 morrow. I am so glad ! ' ' 
 
 "And I am so sorry," said Mr. Warren, languidly. 
 
 " Sorry? How can you be sorry ? I have enjoyed our voy 
 age exceedingly, but am heartily glad we are so near our 
 destination." 
 
 "There is something strangely fascinating to me about the 
 tropical regions," continued Mr. Warren, "where the posts 
 put into the ground for fences send forth young branches and 
 form beautiful hedges. There Nature is so lavish with her 
 products, that man is exempt from the command, ' By the sweat 
 of thy brow shalt thou earn thy bread.' She furnishes her 
 people with fruits according to the seasons, and a few posts, 
 with palm leaves for roofs, suffice for houses for the poorer ones. 
 No clothes are required in childhood, and few when they are 
 grown. Speculative controversies are useless, as existence is a 
 certainty and death a settled fact ; but, of course, always a 
 great ways off, in the impenetrable mists of futurity." 
 
 "It is a wise dispensation, for it surely would not be very 
 gratifying to those poor natives to, contemplate the immediate 
 approach of death, when they know their remains will be 
 deposited in one of the double rows of vaults surrounding the 
 open square of their burying-ground, of two or three acres, 
 and finally burned as rubbish. You should have gone with us 
 there, Mr. Warren. It is horribly interesting. When all the 
 vaults are full, the thin layer of mortar is broken open that 
 shuts the oldest reposer in his narrow cell, and coffin and con- 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 39 
 
 tents are hurled into one of the small open squares left in each 
 corner for that purpose. When these are full, the whole mass 
 is removed and burned. In some places the mortar covering 
 was broken, and we could see the decomposing corpse in the 
 open coffin. It was not such a disgusting sight as one might 
 imagine, for decomposition there is generally a more drying 
 process, that leaves the corpse as inoffensive to sense and sight 
 as an Egyptian mummy. Some are honored above the rest, by 
 having their skulls placed upon the top of the vaults, to grin 
 dismally down upon those who enter there, in mockery of their 
 bright dreams of life. There is nothing in the centre of this 
 square but rank weeds, so suggestive of reptiles it makes me 
 shudder to think of it. I am sure Longfellow would never 
 have called that loathsome place, with its debris of human 
 bones and broken coffins, God's-acre." 
 
 " That is rather tob sacred a title for such a mouldering place 
 as you have described," answered Mr. Warren; "but I think 
 you regard it with too much feeling. You forget the church 
 dignitaries and high officials are buried with great honors in 
 the churches, and only the common people are interred in that 
 potter's field." 
 
 " True, Mr. Warren. But the common people are the masses ; 
 very few receive church honors." 
 
 ''Still," persisted Mr. Warren, "for a semi-barbarous race, 
 I do not find that burial system so disgusting. In the world- 
 famed ' Pere-la-Chaise ' of Paris, in the potter's field, there is a 
 deep trench ever open, where daily the coffins are packed in, 
 with only a thin layer of earth between, and every five years 
 these trenches are dug over for new occupants, and the old ones 
 are exhumed and burned." 
 
 "Thank Heaven," exclaimed Linda, "in the free country 
 where we are going, there is ample room for the dead to repose 
 
4O FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 until called by the great Voice on high. With all the attrac 
 tions of Panama and Acapulco, with their beautiful and varied 
 foliage, I am glad they are so far behind us, and to-morrow I 
 will meet my dear father and brother Ben once more. I cannot 
 understand why you are not glad our journey is so near ended." 
 
 "Because I will have to leave you, Linda," sighed the 
 enamored old widower. 
 
 " Oh, is that the only reason? " laughed Linda. 
 
 " Surely, that is sufficient cause," and Mr. Warren's manner 
 became very earnest. " Linda, you are as lovely in mind and 
 disposition as you are in form and face. I love you; forgive 
 me for telling you so ; but I cannot control the passion that 
 fills my heart and soul, and occupies every corner of my brain. 
 I may seem too old to woo one so young and fair as you," for 
 he noticed a strange expression about Linda's mouth that 
 strongly indicated disgust. "I may seem rather old," he 
 continued, "but I can offer you an honest, faithful heart, and 
 it would grieve me to have a mind so pure and bright and 
 mature as yours thrown away on some unappreciative person. 
 I am wealthy and can provide for you lavishly. In a few years 
 my adopted daughter will be with us, and you will find her a 
 charming companion. Every wish of your heart shall be grati 
 fied, if possible, before your sweet lips have time to give utter 
 ance to them. Although you regard me now in the light of a 
 friend and protector, or, as you jokingly said last night, of a 
 father, I feel sure the time will speedily come when, from my 
 untiring efforts to please, you will learn to love me. Linda, 
 darling, will you be the wife of one who loves you better than 
 life?" 
 
 He attempted to take her hand, but Linda drew back. 
 
 "Mr. Warren, you shock me ! " and her pale face showed 
 she was either shocked or angry. " I have one father, sir, 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 4! 
 
 and until he dies do not wish to engage another. I bid you 
 good-night, sir." 
 
 Before Mr. Warren had time to appreciate fully what had 
 transpired, his beautiful Linda was safely down stairs in the 
 state-room with her mother. 
 
 " Mother, what do you think? That old imbecile, Mr. War 
 ren, asked me to marry him," burst forth Linda, as she rushed 
 into her mother's state-room quite out of breath. 
 
 "Well," asked the mother, coolly, "what was your answer?" 
 
 " My answer ! " Linda was as much surprised at her mother's 
 manner and tone of voice as she had been at Mr. Warren's. 
 "I told him I had one father, and until he died did not wish 
 to engage another," answered the excited girl. 
 
 "Linda!" said Mrs. Wetherell, sharply, " I am sorry you 
 spoke in that manner to such an estimable gentleman as Mr. 
 Warren. I was in hopes you would be flattered by such an 
 opportunity, and accept his offer." 
 
 Linda sat down and buried her face in her hands, as Mrs. 
 Wetherell continued : 
 
 " Mr. Warren is wealthy, and, as you have been frequently 
 told, your father is only in moderate circumstances. You are a 
 handsome and accomplished girl, and surely do not intend to 
 throw yourself away on some poor, good-for-nothing fellow, for 
 the fancy of love. Girls at your age are apt to dream of love 
 and lovers, but when you get older, you will find them only in 
 name and in novels. A woman does well who marries a man 
 of position, and has power to command. Money gives that 
 power, and nothing else can. Mr. Warren may be a little too 
 far advanced in years to suit your present fancy, but I gave his 
 proposition my most hearty approval. When he conversed 
 with me on the subject, I bade him make his own proposals to 
 you, thinking, with your good sense in other matters, you would 
 4* 
 
42 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 feel that our family affairs required you to marry one who could 
 well support you. I will see Mr. Warren, and bid him be 
 patient until you have had time to reflect. You were taken too 
 much by surprise ; but he need not be in the least discouraged, 
 for I intend you shall marry him. Do you hear, wilful girl ? 
 You are to marry Mr. Warren. I have not raised you, and 
 educated you, to be thus opposed by your girlish whims. You 
 have no right to any opinion on the subject, and I grant you 
 none." 
 
 Linda raised her proud head, and her flashing eyes, like 
 burning stars in that dimly-lighted room, proved that the 
 daughter could be as firm as the stately woman, her mother. 
 Coldly, but respectfully, she answered : 
 
 " For what you have done, I thank you with all my heart, 
 and through my whole life hope to prove my gratitude. I have 
 always endeavored to be an obedient daughter, and it is my 
 most earnest wish to continue so ; but I know of no law of God 
 or man that compels me to yield all my hopes of happiness, in 
 fact, sacrifice my whole life, to a heartless requirement of a 
 selfish mother, to prove me a faithful child." 
 
 "How dare you speak thus to me?" shrieked the exasper 
 ated woman. " Am I not your mother? Do you not owe your 
 life to me ? Have I, then, not a right to command it ? " 
 
 " Have you a right to kill me? " asked Linda, calmly. 
 
 " No, silly child; neither have I the desire," answered Mrs. 
 Wetherell, in a more subdued tone. 
 
 "Tell me, mother, do you think the only death is when the 
 heart-throbs cease ? No ! There are worse deaths, a thousand 
 times worse living deaths. I would rather you would pierce 
 my heart, and let my life-blood ebb away, than compel me to 
 marry that old simpering fool, for in either case you would be 
 guilty of murder. I will never change. I despise him ; he is 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 43 
 
 abhorrent to me. I am seventeen, he is forty-six. It is a pity 
 grandfather is dead, for he was rich." 
 
 "Cease your insolent mockery, girl," cried the angry 
 mother, taking her by the shoulder and turning her pale face 
 to the light. The cold, selfish woman was livid with rage, and 
 her eyes were as black as the eyes of a demon of darkness, as 
 she said, fiercely: "I will go and find Mr. Warren, and tell 
 him you will marry him when he wishes it, that you have so 
 promised me. If you deny my words or oppose me further, I 
 will curse the hour that gave you birth, and every hour of your 
 life. I will crush you to the very earth until you will be glad 
 to comply with my command. You shall feel the depth of my 
 hatred. You do not know me, girl. We have lived pleasantly 
 thus far, because we have seldom been together, and when we 
 were, nothing transpired to disturb our peace. Now, when I 
 command, and you disobey, you shall have a glimpse under 
 neath my cold exterior. You shall be introduced to your 
 mother. Listen, and I will tell you my history at your age, and 
 since then the pages are no fairer." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 REVEALING THE GRAVE OF MURDERED LOVE. 
 
 I WAS a child, as you know, but ten years old when my 
 mother died. She was a gentle, amiable creature. My 
 father followed her two years later. He was a severe, stern, 
 heartless man. It was said his neglect and indifference killed 
 my mother. 
 
 "After the death of my father, I was sent to live with a 
 
44 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 cousin of my mother's, who had an only son, Henry. He and 
 I grew up like brother and sister. We went to the same school, 
 played together, in short, were seldom apart. 
 
 " I loved my gentle, new mother and merry brother. I was 
 free and light-hearted, knowing nothing of the ills of life. My 
 mother, as I always called Mrs. Graham, was a widow in 
 moderate circumstances. She never had a daughter, and I 
 believe loved me as deeply as if I had been her own. When I 
 was sixteen, Henry was twenty, and we were engaged to be 
 married. 
 
 " About a year after our engagement, an army officer in the 
 place came to see me frequently, and paid me quite marked at 
 tention. I encouraged him for amusement, not that there was 
 one thought in my heart false to my plighted lover. One day 
 Henry came home unexpectedly, and found us sitting "side by 
 side in the arbor, reading from one book. He knew his mother 
 was absent, and all the jealous anger he had previously so well 
 concealed burst forth. He ordered Captain McDonald to leave 
 at once, and bade me retire to the house. I asked the Captain 
 to remain, and quietly told Henry, although I was burning with 
 rage, his company could better be dispensed with ; I was not in 
 the habit of being ordered by any one, and he could consider 
 his right, if he ever had any, forfeited. Still, I went into the 
 house, and left the young men together. All I ever knew of 
 what passed between them was from a note I found under my 
 door the next morning, in which Henry told me he had chal 
 lenged Captain McDonald, and expected to be killed. Life had 
 become a burden to him since I ceased to love him and re 
 nounced our engagement. At seven he said he would be a 
 corpse, and bade me be kind to his mother. I flew out of the 
 house like one mad. At seven he said. It still lacked a few 
 minutes of that time. I might yet save him ; but where were 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 45 
 
 they to be found, those murderers ? I started to the hillside, 
 but turned' back. I thought of the woods, but they were two 
 miles away. I met a small boy, and asked him, excitedly, 
 1 Have you seen Henry Graham this morning? ' 'Yes, ma'am,' 
 he answered, ' I saw him going down toward the creek, a little 
 while ago, with a gentleman.' 
 
 ' ' Toward the creek ! I never thought to ask what part of 
 the creek, but rushed on. The wind and my running disar 
 ranged my hair. My dress caught in the bushes, and left great 
 pieces behind, and yet I sped on. Just as I was emerging from 
 a thicket into open space, I heard the report of a pistol. I al 
 most fell, for it seemed to strike my heart. Not seemed it 
 did ! and left it paralyzed. 
 
 " I saw Henry stagger, and sprang forward to catch him in 
 my arms. 'Great God! I am too late/ I screamed. 'Yes,' 
 said Henry, 'I am killed.' 'And by me,' I cried. 'No, 
 Laura, not by you,' he answered, in his kind, old way. On 
 my knees, with his dear head pillowed on my breast, I begged 
 in rny agony for Heaven's sake to be forgiven. 
 
 " 'Dearest, I have nothing to forgive. I only loved you too 
 selfishly, too well.' As he spoke, every instant with more 
 difficulty, he added : ' I have but a moment longer, darling. 
 Tell the news gently to mother. I fear it will break her heart. 
 Be a good daughter to her, and try to be happy. God 
 be merciful to me good-by. ' His head fell back, his 
 hands released their hold on mine. He was dead ! Did you 
 hear me, girl? I said he was dead ! dead ! " 
 
 Mrs. Wetherell fell back in her chair, trembling and sobbing 
 violently. Linda hastened to her side to comfort her ; but the 
 paroxysm was past, and she was herself again, only a little paler. 
 She pushed Linda away, saying harshly : 
 
 "Sit down; that is only half the story. There I sat, with 
 
46 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 my murdered lover, until aroused by his friend, who had stood 
 by and witnessed the deed. I was to break the news gently to 
 his mother, so he told me ; and I went home to do his bidding. 
 
 "Mother was arranging his room and singing, or rather chant 
 ing, an old hymn. 'What ails you, child?' she asked, coming 
 toward me. I must have looked startling, with my dishevelled 
 hair and torn dress all stained with blood my livid face and 
 staring eyes, for I seemed to see death all around me. ' What 
 can be the matter, child?' repeated mother. I think I lost 
 my senses for the moment, or the devil took possession of me, 
 for I screamed out, 'I have killed your son. my affianced 
 husband ! ' 
 
 " The grief-stricken mother fell to the floor. The fall aroused 
 me. I stooped to pick her up, but she was senseless. I heard 
 footsteps ; I knew they were bringing the lifeless form of my 
 darling. I shed not one tear, only directed them to the room 
 which his mother had just arranged so carefully for his recep 
 tion. I sent for a physician, and had mother well cared for ; 
 but she lay in a perfect stupor all that day and the next. Then 
 she gradually awakened to consciousness, but she was paralyzed. 
 
 " Friends were very kind, and did all they possibly could ; but 
 what I endured those days and nights no human being could 
 ever imagine. I never closed my eyes in sleep until after the 
 funeral. I wandered to the chamber of death, and there tried 
 to think, to feel grief, but it was useless. I was paralyzed, too, 
 but not like mother ; my heart was dead. I went to mother, 
 and when she would turn her eyes upon me, those tender, 
 loving eyes, I felt as if they were two coals of livid fire upon 
 my heart and brain ; that was all I could feel. I wanted to die, 
 but did not know how. If I could only have become uncon 
 scious, and awakened to new sensibilities. If I had been very 
 ill, and gradually recovered, I might have been something like 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 47 
 
 my old self. Being full of health, the blow that stunned me left 
 me semi-conscious. There was nothing to soften me, not a 
 human being to whom I could unburden my heart and expect 
 sympathy in return, and every sensibility in my nature seemed 
 gradually, but surely, to be consumed. I was a murderess that 
 the law could not reach, and my life a wreck. 
 
 " One short month passed, and mother died, too, There in 
 the still old churchyard they lay, the two precious ones I had 
 loved so well, killed by my rash conduct. I was alone in the 
 world, without a friend or relation. Seventeen years old 
 beautiful and accomplished, and the author of two murders. 
 Girl! Do you hear? I had committed two murders at your 
 age!" 
 
 Again the strange woman gasped as if for breath, and fell 
 back on her chair exhausted. 
 
 Linda arose to aid her, but was again repulsed by the wave 
 of her hand. The poor child, not less excited than the mother, 
 sat staring vacantly at the pallid face before her. 
 
 In a few moments, Mrs. Wetherell continued : "I had a 
 monument erected over the two graves. I remained there in 
 that graveyard every day, until I felt sure I had buried every 
 feeling of human sympathy and human love in those two graves. 
 My heart was dead. I buried it there with those I loved 
 trampled upon the clay, and covered it with sward, and until 
 this day has the moss-covered tomb never been disturbed. 
 
 "My kind, adopted mother, in fact, the only one I ever 
 knew, had a sister married to a poor mechanic, who lived some 
 distance from us. I wrote her immediately after Henry's 
 death, and she came to attend her sister during her illness. 
 From the goodness of her heart, she resigned all claim upon 
 the Graham estate, which had become quite valuable, because 
 I had been engaged and was shortly to have been married to 
 
48 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 Henry. That I peremptorily refused, renouncing all claim, in 
 short, had none, and told the good woman it was rightfully and 
 justly hers. Then she came with her husband and four little 
 children to live in my old home. I did not know where to go, 
 or what to do, but fancied some strange place would suit me 
 best. So I started, leaving the old home and the two graves 
 behind; but I had two ghosts with me, and they have been with 
 me ever since. 
 
 " Being unaccustomed to travelling, I asked for the captain 
 of the steamboat on which I had taken passage, and told him I 
 was alone, that I had lost my adopted mother and brother sud 
 denly, and, with limited means, wished to visit a Southern 
 city for a while, as everything had become hateful to me in my 
 old home. He was very kind, and told me he knew of a place 
 which would exactly suit me in the city where his boat stopped, 
 the home of a widowed friend of his, whose slender means 
 compelled her to take a few boarders, and he thought she would 
 be a nice, kind person to advise with in regard to any future 
 plans. The place proved all the captain had represented. He 
 called to see me every time he came to the city, which was 
 twice a week, and appeared greatly interested in me. My 
 landlady told me he was wealthy and good-hearted, but a very 
 immoral man. 
 
 "My monotonous life soon became wearisome ; I yearned for 
 a change of any kind. My limited means compelled me to live 
 economically, and that did not suit me. I longed for excite 
 ment, the only thing I felt that could drown my unhappy past. 
 I knew I was attractive, and determined to marry the captain, 
 for whom I had not even a feeling of gratitude, as I considered 
 his kindness entirely selfish, because I was handsome, and my 
 lonely position made his attentions a novelty for the time. 
 
 " It was not difficult work flattering him into love-making, and 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 49 
 
 in less than six months we were married. It was arranged that 
 I should continue living in the same place, and my husband 
 would be there two days in the week. I was no sooner mar 
 ried than I threw aside my amiable submission, moved to the 
 first hotel in the city, and, knowing the Captain's wealth, fur 
 nished myself with an equipage and attendance accordingly. 
 Finding all opposition useless, he let me have my own way, and 
 I led a gay and merry life. Soon after, the Captain purchased 
 an elegant home, but our princely magnificence was short-lived, 
 for he failed a few years after, and went to India, where he re 
 mained ten years. We have lived in the same house since, but 
 I have never been a wife to him, and never will be. He and I 
 know the reason, which is sufficient. I despise the old idiot, 
 and he fears me, 
 
 "Now you know/tfr/ of my life. You will never love me, but 
 you will fear me. Once more, you must marry Mr. Warren, 
 because I command you. I go in search of him, to give your 
 answer. ' ' 
 
 She closed the state-room door, and was gone. 
 
 Linda sat like one stupefied ; then, from the depths of her 
 heart, she cried in bitter anguish : " Merciful God, and are the 
 sins of the parents to be visited upon the children?" As if 
 waiting for an answer, she sat silently gazjng before her, then 
 instinctively fell upon her knees, and poured out her first heart 
 sorrow to Him who is ever ready and willing to hear those who 
 call upon His name. 
 
 Miss Adams, the principal of the school where Linda had 
 been educated, was a good Christian woman ; who tried to in 
 culcate moral and religious principles in the young minds com 
 mitted to her care, besides making them accomplished young 
 ladies. She was a good judge of human nature, and 'from the 
 manner in which Mrs. Wetherell placed her daughter in school, 
 5 D 
 
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 leaving her there for months without visiting her, when, by 
 three hours' travel she could have been with her, made Miss 
 Adams think she was an unloving woman, and, true to the re 
 ligion she professed, she took the lonely Linda to her heart. 
 
 Linda loved her preceptress, and was deeply grateful when 
 troubles came, for to her she owed much of the strong, womanly 
 character she possessed, and years after, when far away from 
 her protecting care and motherly advice, she realized what a 
 watchful friend she had been during the many years passed 
 under her guidance. 
 
 Half an hour passed, and Linda still knelt with her face in 
 her hands, occasionally sobbing aloud from the bitterness of 
 her sorrow-laden heart. Then she rose and retired to her nar 
 row berth over her mother's. 
 
 " How everything has changed," she said, half aloud. " This 
 morning, the steamer seemed gliding along without any effort, 
 breathing like a child ; to-night, the moon is hid, the billows 
 roll, and the ship works as if under a heavy burden. So my 
 heart was all sunshine this morning, but now my sun is eclipsed. 
 My heart beat lightly this morning ; to-night it throbs and wells 
 up as if it would overflow." 
 
 The moon came peeping in at the half-open window, leaving 
 a silvery pathway over the trackless ocean, and a ray of light in 
 Linda's aching heart, that brightened the sweet young face, and 
 left it full of hope, as she asked herself, with childish disdain : 
 "Why should I despair? That is God's handiwork, and so 
 am I. He guards that with its myriads of creatures and its 
 fathomless depths, and so He will me. That is vast and sub 
 limely grand, and so am I, for am not I made in the likeness 
 of God himself? One storm does not annihilate old ocean, 
 but makes it all the mightier and grander ; and so shall the 
 storms that overshadow my heart leave it all the more patient 
 
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 and good. Old ocean, you are a queer old personage to com 
 pare with a maiden of seventeen." 
 
 She heard her mother bidding Mr. Warren good-night, in 
 her pleasantest tone. The door opened and Mrs. Wetherell 
 swept in, filling the entire state-room with her august presence. 
 Through the partly drawn curtain Linda regarded her face 
 as she disrobed for the night. Not once did she even glance 
 toward the berth where her daughter lay. Her eyes had a 
 strange, wild expression, and her face was very pale. She did 
 not kneel to ask God's blessing during that last night out on 
 the sea; so Linda involuntarily offered up a childish petition 
 for her. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 . THROUGH THE GOLDEN GATE TO THE MOUNTAIN HOME. 
 
 IT was noon when the " Sonora " fired her gun as she passed 
 through the Golden Gate. The bleak, barren, sand hills of 
 San Francisco were anything but inviting, and the weight 
 at Linda's heart made everything appear terribly dismal. 
 
 She expected her father and brother to meet them, but 
 neither was there. Instead, a stranger handed Mrs. Wetherell 
 a letter from the Captain, stating it was impossible for him to 
 leave home, but his friend being in San Francisco on business, 
 would kindly pay them w any necessary attention. Mrs. Weth 
 erell thanked him politely, but declined any assistance, as Mr. 
 Warren was going with them as far as Sacramento, and would 
 gladly attend to their wants. 
 
 It was two o'clock in the afternoon when they landed, and 
 having no object in remaining in San Francisco, they took the 
 
52 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 steamer for Sacramento at four, and were soon on their way up 
 the picturesque stream of that name. They arrived at Sacra 
 mento during the night, and at six o'clock the next morning 
 took the stage for Grass Valley, leaving Mr. Warren behind, 
 much to Linda's delight. 
 
 It was six o'clock in the evening when they arrived at their 
 destination, after having been driven rapidly for twelve hours, 
 by a reckless driver of four rearing, plunging mustangs, over 
 hills and down dales, over rocks and ruts, that almost sent their 
 heads through the top of the stage. 
 
 Mrs. Wetherell did not speak one word to Linda during the 
 entire day. While Mr. Warren was still with them her man 
 ner was unchanged, but after leaving him, one might have 
 taken them for strangers. Linda would not force any conver 
 sation upon her mother when she met with no response, and 
 Mrs. Wetherell took that unwomanly way of showing her dis 
 pleasure towards her daughter. 
 
 The stage took them to the door of their vine-covered 
 cottage, where the Captain was waiting to receive them. He 
 took Linda in his arms and kissed her affectionately, but he 
 only shook hands with his wife. 
 
 There was a pleasant-faced housemaid, who had a steaming 
 supper in readiness ; but the brother, Ben, was not there. 
 
 " Father, where is Ben ? " asked Linda. 
 
 " He stepped out a short time ago, my dear," answered the 
 Captain; "perhaps he went to the stage-office, thinking you 
 might stop there." 
 
 The door opened, and Ben made his appearance. Linda 
 ran to meet and embrace him. 
 
 " Dear Linda, I a*n so glad to see you once more," he said, 
 and went to welcome his mother. She offered him her cheek, 
 which he kissed, and going back to Linda, stood with his arm 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 53 
 
 about her waist, regarding her with affectionate admiration. 
 They were a handsome couple, that brother and sister, for Ben, 
 in his commanding, manly way, was quite as handsome as 
 Linda. 
 
 * ' You quite surprise me, Linda. You have grown so hand 
 some," said he, earnestly. 
 
 "Happiness is always a great beautifier," laughed Linda. 
 "But I think I can safely return your compliment." 
 
 " Owing, -undoubtedly, to the same magic power." 
 
 " None of your raillery to begin with, Ben. I remember 
 well what a tease you used to be." 
 
 "I have changed since then, Linda. In fact, I am so com 
 pletely reformed, I have lost the art of tormenting. " 
 
 "For which I offer up thanks," said Linda, with feigned 
 seriousness. 
 
 They passed the entire evening together, talking of the 
 .changes that had taken place since their separation, of the 
 old pleasures in the years gone by, and asked and answered 
 innumerable questions interesting only to themselves. 
 
 " I am very fortunate in having you to escort me around 
 this wild country, Ben," said Linda. 
 
 "I am sorry to disappoint you, but I am working very indus 
 triously now, and will have little time to come down here." 
 
 " Where do you work, and what do you do? " asked Linda, 
 eagerly. 
 
 "I am mining, not very far from here, with two splendid 
 young fellows." 
 
 "Then I am disappointed, indeed. I thought, of course, 
 you would be at home with me at least every evening. ' ' 
 
 " That will be impossible. I can only be with you on Sun 
 days, and perhaps not every Sunday. Besides, I would not 
 stay at home, if I was in town all the time." 
 5* 
 
54 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 "Pray, why not?" 
 
 "For reasons that are better left unexplained," said Ben, 
 bitterly. 
 
 "As you like, dear," answered Linda, who never forced a 
 question upon anyone. " I often wondered you never wrote 
 me what your business was, and father only mentioned occa 
 sionally that you were well." 
 
 Ben laughed a hard sort of laugh. 
 
 " He actually took the trouble to report occasionally that I 
 was well, did he? I wonder how he obtained his valuable 
 information." 
 
 "I was speaking of father," said Linda, in astonishment. 
 "You could not have understood me." 
 
 "I understood perfectly," and Ben compressed his lips 
 firmly an instant. "But that is a topic I should have 
 avoided, for my feelings towards him make me say bitter 
 things. For over two years I have not spoken to him nor 
 entered this house. ' ' 
 
 " You really cannot mean what you say, Ben ? " 
 
 "Every word, Linda. But I did not mean to tell you such 
 things to-night," added he, regretfully. 
 
 "Before you came in, I asked father where you were," con 
 tinued Linda, " and he told me you had just stepped out. Per 
 haps you had gone to the stage-office, thinking we might have 
 stopped there." 
 
 " Here is a note I received from him yesterday. It will ex 
 plain." 
 
 Linda took the note and read : 
 
 MY DEAR SON : Your mother and sister are expected to 
 arrive in Grass Valley to-morrow evening. Perhaps I have 
 been a little severe with you. Although I have scarcely seen 
 you for the past two years, I invite you home to meet them, and 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 55 
 
 hope all differences between us will never be again thought of, 
 much less mentioned. 
 
 Your forgiving father, 
 
 RICHARD WETHERELL. 
 
 "What could you have done to displease father so?" asked 
 Linda, with tears in her eyes. 
 
 " It is one of those inexplicable things better left unanswered, 
 Linda. Differences and disagreements usually arise from a 
 want of mutual understanding, but sometimes from too good 
 an understanding. Even with those immediately connected, 
 friendship is a curious thing, and fragile as an exotic. Respect 
 and confidence are its vital organs. When they become dis 
 eased, the shadowy thing vanishes, as if swept by the four 
 winds of heaven, and can no more be brought to life than the 
 ashes of the dead." 
 
 " Then I am to infer that you and father have had a misun 
 derstanding ?" 
 
 " Au contraire, ma chere, we have had an understanding a 
 much more fatal thing in its result." 
 
 " I hope it is all a mistake. It would grieve me to have you 
 and father at variance, for mother and I had a very unpleasant 
 scene the last night out at sea, which has caused a coldness be 
 tween us." 
 
 " I am sorry to hear that. What was the matter, little one ? ' ' 
 
 "As you have already said, Ben, we must not speak of un 
 pleasant things to-night. Besides, it was nothing of much 
 consequence, now that it is over," answered Linda, blushing 
 deeply. 
 
 "We will not resurrect it then," said Ben, noticing her con 
 fusion. " We will speak only of pleasant things the first even 
 ing we have been together for five years : it seems ten to me, 
 Linda, I have missed you so much. Try to be patient, and 
 
56 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 endure as cheerfully as possible the unpleasant life you may 
 have to lead here, and I hope, before many months, to be able 
 to take you to a home of my own." 
 
 " That would be delightful. Do you know, I think I would 
 make a very efficient housekeeper for you, Ben." 
 
 Ben smiled rather incredulously at Linda's remark, as he 
 bade her affectionately good -night. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A FAIRY IN THE SIERRAS. 
 
 IT was one of those sweet, balmy days when spring is being 
 lost in summer. Nellie and the children had wandered far 
 
 away from home over the hills. The little ones were running 
 about gathering wild flowers, while Nellie sat in the shade of a 
 great cluster of manzanitas, reading. Her attention was at 
 tracted by a sweet voice saying : 
 
 "Where did you come from, little folks? Are you not lost 
 upon these great mountains ? ' ' 
 
 "Oh, no, ma'am," answered Nellie's bright boy, Hugh. 
 " We came from home, and we know the way back." 
 
 " Do you, indeed? Then you are wiser than I am." Tak 
 ing Daisy up in her arms, Linda Wetherell, for it was none 
 other, said : 
 
 " I think you are a little fairy, and have no home." 
 
 "Do you really think she is a fairy?" asked Hugh, very 
 honestly. 
 
 "I almost believe so," said Linda, amused at his earnest- 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 57 
 
 ness, "because she is such a tiny creature to be running about 
 here alone." 
 
 " We are not alone. There is our mamma." 
 
 Hugh pointed to where his mother sat, and ran to her side 
 with the mysterious whisper, " Mamma, here is somebody we do 
 not know, and she is such a pretty lady. ' ' 
 
 Being thus introduced by her little son, Nellie immediately 
 rose to meet Linda with her habitual affability. 
 
 " I thought my little ones and I were the only wanderers 
 over these hills. It is a pleasant surprise to meet with com 
 pany. ' ' 
 
 "Thank you," replied Linda, warmly. "I am a stranger 
 here. We only arrived a short time ago, and, from the appear 
 ance of the place, I did not think there was an agreeable human 
 being in it. It is a happy surprise to meet some one with whom 
 I can converse. I am home-sick, though I have no other home 
 to yearn for. I never was so utterly unhappy in my life." 
 
 "I am sorry to hear such expressions from one so young," 
 said Nellie, sympathetically. "I admif this is not a very in 
 viting place, but you will soon become accustomed to it, and 
 like it better. I have been here several years, and am quite 
 attached to it. ' ' 
 
 " But were you not very unhappy when you first arrived? " 
 
 " No, I never was unhappy, for my husband and children 
 were with me, and where they are I could . not be unhappy. 
 Besides, my brother was here to welcome us, which made it 
 much pleasanter than it otherwise would have been, for we felt 
 satisfied to live any place where he was." 
 
 "I am old enough to be more philosophical," said Linda, 
 with a sigh; "but look at that cluster of little houses, and 
 those barren hills. The heart of the place has been dug out 
 by miners, and it is an unshapely mass of red earth, with 
 
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 nothing left of the pretty stream but mud puddles here and 
 there." 
 
 " True, the miners have done great damage to the beauty of 
 the place, but great wealth has been found ; and, after all, we 
 are only staying here until we feel able to live in a pleasanter 
 place." 
 
 " I would rather be a beggar in New York than a millionaire 
 in California," exclaimed Linda, desperately. 
 
 "It is to be hoped you will soon have cause to change your 
 unfavorable opinion," and Nellie's sweet persuasive powers 
 were strained to the utmost to lay the foundation for the fulfil 
 ment of her wish, as they strolled down the hillside, chatting 
 merrily. When they arrived at Nellie's home, they parted like 
 old acquaintances, with promises to meet the following day. 
 
 " So that is the daughter of that old hypocrite, Captain 
 Wetherell," thought Nellie, as she stood a moment looking 
 after Linda. " Her brother is a wild fellow, her mother a ter 
 magant, so Walter says ; and, notwithstanding those connec 
 tions, she is just as sweet as she can be." 
 
 "I was just thinking of going in search of you runaways," 
 said George, as he met them at the door. " You must have 
 enjoyed your walk, for I saw you when you were starting out 
 over two hours ago." 
 
 "We did, my dear," answered Nellie, as she sat down by her 
 husband's side. - "We met Miss Wetherell, who was also wan 
 dering over the hills. She is very lonesome here, poor thing." 
 
 " Is she a Venus or a Sphinx ? a demon or an angel ? " asked 
 Walter. 
 
 "I think she is an angel," answered Nellie, decidedly. 
 
 "Of course you do. My little sister thinks this world is 
 populated with angels, but I am afraid this one will soon shed 
 her wings." 
 
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 "Walter, you should see her before you judge." 
 
 " I am not at all anxious. If her society affords you pleasure, 
 
 I am content. For my part, I am not desirous of cultivating 
 
 my acquaintance with that family. ' ' 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ON-FLOWING TIDES OF DESTINY. 
 
 " A form more fair, a voice more sweet, 
 Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet." 
 
 next day, according to promise, Linda wandered for 
 hours with Nellie and the children over the hills, gathering 
 the choice wild flowers, and went home laden with their 
 pretty treasures. As Nellie insisted upon her remaining to tea, 
 she left word at home where she could be found, and returned 
 delighted to be a visitor in that cosy, homelike cottage. 
 
 She possessed a special gift for charming children. When 
 with them, she seemed almost a child herself, so merry was 
 her laughter, so true her hazel eyes, and so heartily did she 
 enter into all their youthful pleasures. 
 
 Sitting on a stool with Fairy, as she insisted upon calling 
 Daisy, on her lap, Hugh kneeling on the floor by her side, 
 leaning with both arms upon her knee, she was telling them a 
 wonderful fairy tale about " Hop o' my thumb." 
 
 When Walter came up unheard, seeing the little group so 
 deeply interested in their story, he quietly sat down upon the 
 veranda until it was ended. He felt sure the pretty narrator 
 was Miss Wetherell, and would have been quite inclined to think 
 with Nellie that she was almost an angel, had she been the 
 
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 daughter of any one else than Captain Wetherell. She had a 
 pleasing, musical voice, and as she finished the story, she kissed 
 each little one sweetly, and, to Hugh's .entreaties for another, 
 said: 
 
 " No more stories to-day, dear. You might get tired of 
 listening. The next time I come I will tell you another. Let 
 us go <3utside, now, and see if we cannot find something there 
 to interest us." 
 
 Hugh caught sight of his uncle, and ran to him with out 
 stretched arms, saying : " Oh, Uncle Walter.. You should have 
 come a little sooner, and heard the lovely story. ' ' 
 
 Nellie immediately came and introduced her new friend to 
 her brother, and they sat talking, as strangers naturally do, of 
 everything in general and nothing in particular, until George 
 came, when supper was announced. 
 
 Walter was determined to dislike Miss Wetherell, but when 
 he felt inclined to be sarcastic or disagreeable, a single glance 
 of her soft, brown eyes would compel him not only to speak 
 very respectfully, but kindly. 
 
 They were leaving the table, when Walter said : 
 
 "I almost forgot to tell you about the stage robbery last 
 night." 
 
 " Stage robbery ! " exclaimed Linda. " Oh, this barbarous 
 country ! " 
 
 " Was it near here? " asked Nellie. 
 
 "About nine miles from here, just this side of Indian Springs. 
 One of the passengers was so frightened, he let himself down 
 from the top of the stage and walked back. He says it was one 
 of the boldest robberies ever perpetrated. There were eight 
 men in the stage and two on top with the driver. The horses 
 were going along at a lively trot, when suddenly a lighted torch 
 was thrown in front of them. It demoralized the little mus- 
 
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 tangs so completely, that it was impossible to proceed. The 
 leaders threw themselves back on the wheel-horses, which, in 
 their desperate efforts to get away, became worse entangled. 
 Of course, that all happened like a flash. Simultaneously, four 
 masked men came out of the bushes and demande'd Wells & 
 Fargo 's treasury box." 
 
 "They did not get it, did they?" asked Nellie, impa 
 tiently. 
 
 " Yes, they did. The driver and the passengers were taken 
 so completely off their guard, they were wholly unprepared ; 
 whereas, the four men each held two pistols ready for use. 
 The driver felt not only his own life, but that of his passengers 
 were at stake ; so he was really compelled to surrender. 
 
 "The man who gave the report said he let himself down 
 from the top of the stage while the box was being delivered. 
 He was in the chaparral when the robbers passed within three 
 feet of him. He saw them break the* box open, and heard their 
 discussions about dividing the spoil. He says he can identify 
 every one, for he saw them distinctly by the light of their lan 
 terns, with their masks off." 
 
 "I hope he can and will. Such desperadoes should be 
 brought to justice," said Nellie, energetically. 
 
 " It is scarcely probable they will be caught, "answered George. 
 "The country is so thinly populated, they can wander about 
 for months and avoid detection, if they have had the fore 
 thought to provide provisions." 
 
 "They will not be likely to do that," said Walter. "In all 
 probability they will come directly into town, and show they 
 are flush by betting heavily at a gambling-table, and in that 
 way betray themselves. ' ' 
 
 "If robberies will occur, and robbers will get caught, it is 
 surely no fault of mine," said Nellie* "So long as you and 
 
62 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 Walter are honest and good, why should I grieve over others' 
 bad husbands and brothers ? ' ' 
 
 Walter looked inquiringly at this new development in Nellie's 
 usually sympathetic soul, as he exclaimed : 
 
 "What a philosophical little woman you are getting to be, 
 Nell ! I have.no' doubt they cause enough hearts to ache with 
 out yours to swell the number." 
 
 They were all anxious to hear the latest news, so Walter and 
 George walked up town to hear if there were any further de 
 velopments, and if any of the robbers had come to grief. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 UNDER-CURRENTS. 
 
 MONTHS had passed since Linda's arrival in Grass Valley, 
 during which time her mother had left her entirely to her 
 own resources, scarcely noting her existence, except on 
 the reception of letters from Mr. Warren, and once during a 
 visit from that gentleman she assumed her motherly interest. 
 
 The Captain appeared very fond of her, but was always oc 
 cupied, and spent very little time at home. 
 
 Soon after the arrival of his family, he purchased an interest 
 in a mill above Nevada, about seven miles from Grass Valley ; 
 and as it did not prove a success under the management of his 
 partner, he went there himself to superintend it, and seldom 
 visited home oftener than once a month. 
 
 One evening, after a peaceful, happy day spent at the cottage, 
 Linda went home, and, unobserved, retired to her own room. 
 Hearing her father's voice, she started to meet him, when she 
 
FREE PRISONERS. , 63 
 
 was arrested by her mother saying in an unusually loud manner : 
 " What is your object in remaining in Nevada all the time, 
 Captain Wetherell?" 
 
 "I do not remain in Nevada, madam." replied the Captain, 
 coolly. "1 am overseeing my mill, three miles from there." 
 
 " Do you intend remaining there? " 
 
 "Yes, so long as it is necessary." 
 
 "Then, why did you insist upon my coming out here, to 
 mope my time away. My society is surely no pleasure to you. ' ' 
 
 "Well, I cannot say that it is absolutely disagreeable, seven 
 miles distant." 
 
 " What do you mean by that? " demanded Mrs. Wetherell, 
 curtly. 
 
 " Simply, that distance lends enchantment even to your 
 amiability and loveliness," said the Captain, bluntly. 
 
 " I never could understand your stupid efforts at witticisms." 
 
 " I know you were always rather dull, my dear." 
 
 " That will do, Captain Wetherell. Once again, I want to 
 know what your object could have been in bringing me out 
 here. You know I would have been much more pleasantly situ 
 ated East." 
 
 "Yes, I know you would." 
 
 "It is surely no pleasure to have me with you," continued 
 Mrs. Wetherell, in a more subdued tone. 
 
 "I should say not," and the Captain's serene, almost smil 
 ing countenance, exasperated Mrs. Wetherell much more than 
 anger would have done. 
 
 "Then," exclaimed she, excitedly, "what in the name of 
 Heaven did you bring me here for ? ' 
 
 " Do not call upon places so remote, my dear, and so utterly 
 unattainable by you, and I will tell you. ' ' 
 
 From the Captain's complacent manner, one might have 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
64 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 thought he was making a few pious remarks at a church meet 
 ing, as he continued : 
 
 "I brought you here to make you as miserable as possible, 
 my fair old dame. You are piqued because there are other 
 ladies here quite as handsome as you were fifteen or twenty 
 years ago. Then gentlemen, in all probability, prefer the hand 
 some daughter to the old mother. I bid you good-evening, 
 my sweet creature," and he stalked past her and out of the 
 house. 
 
 Seeing Linda, and not dreaming she had overheard his con 
 versation, he embraced her, and imprinted a kiss upon her 
 forehead. 
 
 "Why, my dear, have you returned? I feared I was not 
 going to see my little girl this visit. Go in, dear, and stay with 
 your mamma. This dull place is tiresome for her. You know 
 she has always been accustomed to gayety, and I am compelled 
 to be absent so much." He kissed her again and was gone. 
 
 Linda, in her amazement, could not answer one word. She 
 sat long in the twilight, thinking what a strange world had been 
 revealed to her during the few previous months. How the 
 pathway of spring flowers she had so lightly trodden was sud 
 denly transformed into a precipitous, rocky cliff, rising higher 
 and higher as her weary feet essayed to climb. The poor child, 
 the beautiful girl, felt like a wreck tossed upon a boundless sea 
 without rudder or compass. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 65 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW. 
 
 " She listened, while a sweet surprise 
 Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes." 
 
 E next morning the sun rose gloriously; the air was 
 bracing and fresh, as it went sighing through the lofty 
 pines that filled it With their aromatic perfume. 
 
 Linda took a long walk, and returned by the cottage, where 
 she found Nellie busy as usual. 
 
 "A bad penny always returns," she said, with her sweetest 
 smile, as Nellie greeted her. " I am sure, if some busy god 
 dess were to take upon herself the arduous task of transforming 
 me into my normal condition, I would develop into nothing 
 more nor less than that valueless appendage to your household 
 gods, for, wander where I will, I naturally gravitate here." 
 
 "It is because you are always welcome, Linda; not that 
 there is any simile between you and the old proverb." 
 
 " You are very generous and kind with your friendship, Mrs. 
 Gray, for idlers, like me, often levy heavy taxes upon their 
 friends by robbing them of their valuable time in frivolous 
 visits." 
 
 " Seriously, Linda, you have no idea what a comfort you are 
 to me. I have not the leisure, had I the inclination, to visit 
 among my neighbors, and your unceremonious visits are a real 
 source of happiness to me." 
 
 "It is very sweet of you to say so," and Linda wound her 
 arm about her friend. "As beggars seek their daily bread 
 from door to door, I come to you for happiness. You live in 
 6* E 
 
66 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 such sweet harmony in your little cottage, and in my own 
 home I find no congeniality. 
 
 " There was an old widower on board the steamer, when we 
 were coming out here from New York, who wished me to marry 
 him," and her eyes flashed at the mere mention of those disa 
 greeable scenes of the past. " Mother said he was rich, and 
 she wished me to marry him on that account ; although she 
 knew my only feeling for him was profound contempt. It was 
 the first time I ever disobeyed my mother ; but I could not 
 comply with her request, and positively refused. Since then 
 she has only spoken to me when compelled, and from her man 
 ner, I live in daily dread of renewed trouble. In fact, she 
 insists upon enforcing her determination." 
 
 "You poor, dear child." Nellie's sympathizing heart was 
 touched. She drew Linda's head upon her shoulder, and 
 stroking the soft brown hair, said, in her sweet, gentle way : 
 
 "I cannot advise you to do anything contrary to your 
 parents' wishes, but I think it equally sinful to marry a man for 
 gain whom you cannot love." 
 
 "Thank you for those reassuring words, Mrs. Gray," and 
 Linda's soft hazel eyes were moist with unshed tears. " 1 
 know it is not right to disobey, yet. I am equally sure it would 
 in this case be wrong to obey. Of the two evils, I choose the 
 lesser, and bear the ills myself, rather than force them upon 
 another, who is surely deceived. I can never marry him. 
 Never ! no matter what the result might be. It is possible I 
 cannot live with mother, but in that case I will go to Ben. 
 Poor fellow, he has no one to care for him but me." 
 
 "You shall never be in want of a home, Linda, for you have 
 endeared yourself to us all by your sweetness and intelligence. 
 Sometimes, dear," and Nellie drew her closer to her, "I trem 
 ble for Belle Burton when I see Walter looking so fondly at 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 67 
 
 you. Do you remember I told you once of their having been 
 engaged to be married, and how it was broken off, and about 
 her writing to him after so many years?" 
 
 "I remember," said Linda, softly. 
 
 "I do not believe he loves her at all," continued Nellie. 
 " Not exactly that, either. I am sure he loved her once, and 
 if they were to meet again under favorable circumstances, he 
 might be as fond of her as ever. I think she expects him to 
 return and marry her." 
 
 Little did Nellie think what sharp pain she inflicted upon her 
 listener with every word she uttered. 
 
 Linda simply answered, "I hope they will be happy." 
 There was a slight quiver about her mouth as sh<? uttered those 
 words, but Nellie did not notice it, and soon after left her to 
 attend to some duties in an adjoining room. 
 
 Although the morning had been unusually fine, there had 
 been indications of rain for several days. Before noon, the 
 heavens became clouded, the wind blew fiercely, and great 
 raindrops fell the first of the rainy season. 
 
 Linda sat by the window watching the drops as they fell 
 faster and faster, until they came down in torrents. It seemed 
 as if the flood-gates of heaven were opened wide to pour down 
 upon the earth, all at once, what the dry summer had so long 
 been thirsting for. 
 
 It was one of those days that are dark and dreary, that natu 
 rally make one feel forlorn, and Nellie's conversation added 
 bitter drops to the wretched rain. Linda felt as if it was rain 
 ing in her heart, too, it seemed so chilled, and from its very 
 depths she cried : 
 
 " Why was I ever brought here to love those deep black eyes, 
 that seem to read my every thought, and make my life-blood 
 bound and burn in my veins ? What torture to hear of his 
 
68 . FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 marrying another. Thrice blessed Belle ! Can ye take him 
 from me, ye fates, and leave me in desolation, as seared and 
 barren as the scorching wastes of Sahara ? 
 
 " Dante/ I could tell you of another hell. At eighteen I 
 have found it. What could be more exquisite torture on earth, 
 or in the infernal, than to smile and seem indifferent when you 
 hear how the only one you love on earth loves another, and she 
 is to become his wife? " 
 
 There were footsteps on the walk ; a manly form came towards 
 the house. What of the rain in Linda's heart? After the 
 shower the sunshine, and one smile from Walter French, as 
 Linda opened the door for him, dissipated every cloud from her 
 stormy heart. * Women are tender plants. They only grow in 
 sunshine ; shadows deform the heart, as every sorrow embitters 
 a joy. 
 
 " Is this not an unusual hour for you to come home?" asked 
 Linda. 
 
 "It is rather early; but I am at leisure, and would much 
 prefer being with you than remaining alone at the office? " 
 
 " But how did you know you would find me ? " 
 
 " I submitted myself to the gods, and they brought me to my 
 goddess. If I could only say with Julius Csesar, after his 
 victory over Pharnaces, ' Veni, vidi, vici,' my happiness would 
 be complete. So far as I can I will quote the noble victor. 
 I came, I saw, and when may I add conquered, Linda? " 
 
 " When you have married Belle Burton. You know the old 
 
 song says : 
 
 ' It 's good to be merry and wise, 
 
 It 's good to be honest and true, 
 
 It's good to be off wi' the old love, 
 
 Before you be on wi' the new.' " 
 
 Although Walter's searching gaze never left her face, he read 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 69 
 
 there only what he had already seen. Her eyes were frank and 
 truthful, her voice soft and musical, her cheeks crimson. If a 
 little more so than usual, his remarks had been a little freer 
 than ordinary, and Linda was a modest maiden. 
 
 "I will never marry Belle Burton," said Walter, firmly. 
 " Nellie has been talking nonsense to you. She is so fond of 
 me, she says and thinks whatever she fancies would give me the 
 greatest pleasure, and it would be useless to restrain her so 
 long as she is happy in her womanly arrangements. I foolishly 
 showed her a letter from Belle, over a year ago, and that res 
 urrected the old, dead topic. I answered the letter, and told 
 Belle, if my business would permit, I would pay a visit East a 
 year from that time ; that I wanted to see my old- home in the 
 South, and would be pleased to meet her. That was the extent 
 of our renewal of friendship. There was nothing whatever said 
 of marriage. . I have received two or three friendly letters from 
 her since. The last one is still unanswered. I could not con 
 veniently leave my business when the year had passed, and now 
 do not wish to. 
 
 " If you had not grown so dear to me, Linda, I might have 
 gone, and perhaps What is the use of talking such stuff! 
 I never would have married Belle Burton. What has a boy's 
 fancy at twenty to do with a man's love at thirty? There is 
 a pair of brown eyes I do love, and would like to make the 
 owner my wife. Could you love a rough miner like me, 
 Linda?" 
 
 He took both her small hands in his, and with a look of in 
 expressible tenderness seemed to penetrate her very heart. 
 
 "I will not love any one whom I have no right to love," 
 said she, softly. "So long as Belle Burton is awaiting your 
 return, I shall not be the cause of her disappointment." 
 
 "You love me, then?" asked Walter, passionately. 
 
7O FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, scarcely above a whisper, "as the 
 noblest, best friend I ever had," and despite her great effort at 
 self-command, her voice was tremulous and strange. 
 
 " But I cannot be only a friend to you, Linda. I must be 
 more," and Walter's soft black eyes pleaded more eloquently 
 than words. 
 
 "Come here, Linda," called Nellie from the kitchen; "I 
 will give you your first lesson in cooking, which I have prom 
 ised so long. Sofie, poor soul, has such a headache that she 
 was obliged to lie down." 
 
 Linda went instantly, to avoid further conversation on a sub 
 ject that pained while it pleased. She would gladly have 
 given her whole, loving heart to that noble, good man, if it had 
 not been for Belle Burton. Fortunate Belle, to hold him in 
 such thraldom. Fortunate Linda, to know he loved her. Such 
 thoughts went constantly flashing through her brain, and the 
 first lesson in cooking proved a sad failure. 
 
 Nellie asked her how she had done certain things, after hav 
 ing taken great pains to instruct her. She stammered woefully, 
 and finally said : 
 
 " I really have forgotten. You will have to show me again, 
 I am such a dull scholar." 
 
 Nellie's merriment over Linda's stupidity brought Walter to 
 the kitchen. He seemed also greatly amused at her incapacity 
 for cooking, much to Nellie's surprise, for he was a great ad 
 mirer of fine housewifery. But Nellie could not dream of the 
 distracting elements in Linda's brain that would not be over 
 come by mashed potatoes or macaroni. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. ?I 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ROBBERY. 
 
 peace of the village had been undisturbed for a long 
 time by acts of violence. Crime seemed on the decrease. 
 Still, an occasional outrage was added to the long list. 
 The last, though insignificant in itself, was so bold in its per 
 petration that it caused the wildest excitement. No citizen 
 could feel safe a mile from the town, if such things were per 
 mitted to go unpunished. 
 
 When Mr. Gray came home, he repeated the circumstance 
 as it had been told by the excited teamster on his arrival in 
 Grass Valley. 
 
 The man had been robbed, in Rattlesnake Canon, of five 
 hundred dollars and his watch. He said a young man, with a 
 shot-gun and a hunting-coat thrown over his shoulders, with the 
 most perfect nonchalance, and without any effort at disguise, 
 came out of the bushes, and pointing the gun at him, demanded 
 his money and watch. Being unarmed, and thus menaced, he 
 surrendered them ; and the young fellow walked off as coolly as 
 if nothing had happened. 
 
 "It was the audacity of the thing," continued Mr. Gray, 
 "as much as the loss, that exasperated the ire of the teamster; 
 and he swears he will remain in the neighborhood until he finds 
 the thief." 
 
 "It is no wonder the poor fellow is furious," said Linda, 
 indignantly. "But who could be so unprincipled as to rob a 
 poor, hard-working teamster ? ' ' 
 
 " So unprincipled ? " asked George. " Why, some of those 
 fellows would rob their mothers." 
 
72 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 " By the way, has that other stage-robber ever been caught ? " 
 asked Nellie. 
 
 " No, I believe not," answered George. " One, as you know, 
 turned State's evidence, and two were arrested on his statement. 
 The other has escaped all search. ' ' 
 
 " I do hope the teamster will find the man who robbed him," 
 said Linda, thoughtlessly, as we all often hope for things we do 
 not want when they come. And George took up the refrain 
 quite naturally, saying : 
 
 " I hope so. He should be made an example, for the safety 
 of others." 
 
 " I pity the examples," said the kind-hearted Nellie. 
 
 "They are unworthy your sympathy," chimed in Walter, as 
 if suddenly awakened from a dream. "If men will commit 
 outrages and violences, they must be punished, to stop their 
 own bad career, and intimidate those who would follow in 
 their footsteps. Laws are the result of civilization, and are 
 for the protection of mankind. Without them, we would soon 
 return to the feudal times, when might made right, and power 
 was law." 
 
 " Do you believe in capital punishment? " asked Linda. 
 
 " No. I do not think any man should die to enforce laws. 
 There are other punishments imprisonment for life, or 
 banishment from home and friends more terrible to sensitive 
 natures ; yet they have then a hope of something, however re 
 mote or indefinite." 
 
 "I quite agree with you," said Linda. "Still, as Mr. 
 Gray remarked, there must be examples for the benefit of the 
 world at large. Even Renan admitted Christ was the only 
 perfect man that ever lived, yet He was crucified." 
 
 "You blood-thirsty little woman," said George, in astonish 
 ment. " Would you have all offenders, even though they were 
 as guiltless as your Saviour, punished to the extreme? " 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 73 
 
 " I do not believe a guiltless man suffers as much from pun 
 ishment as one who is guilty, for he has no prickings of con 
 science to add to the bodily suffering," interposed Nellie. 
 
 "I should think the prickings of conscience would very 
 effectually deaden the bodily agony," argued Linda. "To be 
 ignominiously punished for what one has never done, must be 
 fearful; but to meet with punishment for a perpetrated crime 
 must bring with it a sense of just retribution that would make 
 it more endurable." 
 
 " You talk as earnestly as if you really were experienced in 
 crime, Miss Linda," said Walter, amused at her earnestness. 
 
 " I think we are," she answered, decidedly. " It would be 
 impossible to live long here and not know something of crime. 
 We are unlike the women of old countries, who read of crimes 
 in the newspapers, with doubt as to the veracity of three-fourths 
 of the story. We are brought in closer contact with it. We 
 know the victims of crime, and men who have escaped the vigi 
 lance of the law, although their lives are chapter after chapter 
 of blood and violence. Crime is to us no romance thrilling 
 in narrative, but a matter of oblivion in a week. We have in 
 it the real tragedies of life. How can we be otherwise than 
 conversant with it? " 
 
 "It is true, pioneer women of all countries see the darkest 
 side of life. Every new colony is the rendezvous of bandits 
 and outlaws those who flee from punishment, and those 
 whose punishments have been followed by crimes ad infinitum ; 
 but they fight and murder until the desperadoes are killed off, 
 and the peaceful and industrious make thriving countries of 
 their new homes," replied Walter. "Take the penal colo 
 nies of England, for example. Felons, whose deeds did not 
 warrant capital punishment, were exported, because the govern 
 ment could not be burdened with their support. The desper- 
 7 
 
74 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 ate exhausted themselves, but three-fourths settled down to 
 industry and honesty. Although the original blood of rebellion 
 boils over occasionally, and ends in deeds of crime, those colo 
 nies are as respectable in deportment and government as any 
 new colonies. Look at our own California, with its aristocratic 
 landed natives. Most of their forefathers were criminals driven 
 from Mexico. In the fertile valleys of California they found 
 no resources for crime. Instead, there was ample reward for 
 light labor, and they became honest men. Their families know 
 nothing of the stained past, and history will forget it." 
 
 " You are right, Walter," said Nellie. " It is the first lesson 
 we learn from sacred history. Adam and Eve were cast from 
 heaven for breaking the Divine laws. God did not hang them 
 to the tree from which they ate the forbidden fruit, but sent 
 them from His presence. If this beautiful earth was first in 
 habited by outcasts, even from Paradise, why should not the 
 deserted islands in the remotest seas, teeming with vegetable 
 life and lavish with nature's stores, be brought into use as homes 
 for the wretched, steeped in crime, in our own land." 
 
 "Mrs. Gray speaks of outcasts from heaven, and we are 
 always taught to prepare for heaven, yet how do we know 
 there is such a place ? ' ' asked Linda. 
 
 "We do not know," answered Walter, "but it has come 
 to us as an undying tradition from those who have been there. 
 Adam and Eve must have fallen from some perfect condition 
 of happiness, and told their children, and, with all the terror 
 of their fearful fall, taught the result of sin, and made heaven 
 and hell from their own lives. It is generally supposed that 
 this world of ours was in a state of chaos not many thousand 
 years ago ; but even so, it must have been, as it now is, a small 
 world in the firmament, performing its revolutions in harmony 
 with the infinitude of worlds. What is in the many greater 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 75 
 
 worlds about us, we cannot tell. Astronomical calculations 
 make them uninhabitable from excessive heat or cold; but 
 we cannot imagine the conditions of nature that might fit 
 beings for their habitation. 
 
 "It evidently became necessary to people and bring into 
 use our world, and, the story is, by those unworthy of Paradise ; 
 and they left their traditions, which became history, as every 
 nation in the wide world has done since. History speaks to us 
 so much in metaphor, every brain must be its own interpreter, 
 according to its understanding. For instance, the old super 
 stition of walking with God and talking to Him, is entirely 
 figurative. God's voice speaks to us, as it did to the ancients, 
 in every breath of nature, but mostly through man, nature's 
 noblest work. Nature is God's direct work, His very breath, 
 and so perfect, so reliable, that we believe in her. If the .labor 
 is so absolute, so munificent, why not bow to the Laborer ? Why 
 not ? We must. We are mere spokes in the great wheel of 
 life, and must turn with every revolution. And it is a most 
 unpleasant fact, that we are of so little importance, in the great 
 machinery of life, that we can be dispensed with, and leave no 
 vacuum. 
 
 "Every life history finds a parallel in ancient tradition ; for 
 instance, we are all like the wandering Israelites, with a cloud 
 of uncertainty ever before us, patiently plodding on, searching 
 and prying into the veiled future for a single glimpse of heaven 
 and happiness, and after all dying with the misty veil never 
 lifted. This life is a training-school for something higher : it 
 is a warfare with shadows. Nothing is real, because nothing is 
 sure. We are serving an apprenticeship for something, because 
 nature wastes nothing." 
 
 "But nature is sometimes defective," suggested George. 
 
 "Never without a cause," answered Walter, emphatically. 
 
76 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 "We are too apt to combine the artificial with the natural, 
 and attribute the defects to nature. We cut down forests, and 
 future generations will abuse nature for her deserts. Nature is 
 revengeful and exacting ; when we abuse her, she cries back. ' ' 
 
 "Don't stop, Walter. I am just getting interested," said 
 Nellie. 
 
 "You would make a first-class preacher to start a new 
 school," suggested George. 
 
 "All right; when I get too lazy to work for a living I will 
 go to preaching," answered Walter. 
 
 It was late when Walter took Linda home through the mud 
 and the rain. Fortunately, the distance was short, for there 
 was no spare room at the cottage. As he bade her good-night, 
 he said, earnestly: "Think over what I asked you to-day, 
 Linda, and tell me soon, for I shall be anxious." 
 
 " My good friend, when you can prove to me that Belle Bur 
 ton has wholly released you, and is not awaiting your return to 
 marry her, you can ask me the question of to-day over again. 
 Good-night." 
 
 A slight pressure of the little hand, and the door closed be 
 tween Walter and his angel. 
 
 "Nellie was right," he 'soliloquized. "The first time she 
 saw her she said she was an angel. Women have much quicker 
 perceptions than men. They comprehend by intuition what 
 men stop to consider and prove. I believe I have been a fool 
 all these years, and am just getting sensible. It may be exactly 
 the reverse, for I am in love, et cela, on dit, always makes a 
 fool of a man. I certainly would never go, for practical phi 
 losophy, *to a man in love. 
 
 "What of the night-winds moaning through the tall trees 
 and the pelting rain ? They go on, notwithstanding my heart 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 77 
 
 is as light as noonday, and the black heavens, to my fancy, are 
 illuminated by two bright, burning stars. Ah, Linda, your 
 beautiful brown eyes, so soft and bright, yet so firm and true, 
 are radiant jewels in my heart. I believe I am a fool ! I 
 wonder if every man makes such a simpleton of himself when 
 he is in love. It is very pleasant idiocy, Walter, my boy. I 
 guess you are willing to be a fool of that sort all your life. 
 She wants proofs from Belle. I will write to-night, and to 
 morrow's mail will meet the steamer. But, no. I would write 
 too earnestly. I once knew a woman to swear to what she saw 
 through an adobe wall three feet thick. And as for men's 
 hearts, why, their contents can be delivered printed at a mo 
 ment's notice. If Belle Burton should mistrust that I loved a 
 pretty girl with brown eyes, she would swear we were engaged 
 before we were born. I will wait until I can write a quiet, 
 friendly letter, and tell her. I have given up all idea of going 
 East, and hope soon to hear of her marriage with some splendid 
 fellow; that I shall positively remain an old bachelor, for the 
 most veritable Hebe alive could not inspire me with the 
 tender passion. If I should say that, she would surely think I 
 was in love. Oh, woman ! woman ! you are as variable as 
 the kaleidoscope. When one fancies he has a right square, 
 honest view of your character, you present an entirely different 
 picture. I can no more comprehend you than the infinity of 
 the universe ; but, like all Christians, suppose the best way is 
 to shut my eyes to facts, and take my chances." 
 7* 
 
7 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A MODERN AGRIPPINA. 
 
 THE next day Linda did not visit the cottage as usual, but 
 busied herself quietly at home. Toward evening, Nellie 
 came to inquire if she was ill, or anything unusual had hap 
 pened. She gave a plausible reason for absenting herself, and 
 when Nellie invited her and Ben to dine with them the next 
 day, she made all manner of excuses, which were readily ex 
 plained away ; and it was finally arranged, if Ben had no other 
 engagement, they would accept, although Linda felt great 
 delicacy in going, as formerly, where she was sure to meet 
 Walter. 
 
 Before Ben's arrival the next morning, Mrs. Wetherell entered 
 Linda's room with an open letter in her hand. 
 
 " Here is a letter from Mr. Warren, Linda. He will be here 
 to-morrow or next day. You know I have promised you should 
 marry him on your eighteenth birthday, three months from to 
 day. He is coming to make arrangements concerning your 
 future home in Sacramento. It is my command that you re 
 ceive him in a manner befitting my daughter and the Major's 
 future wife. He has been appointed major on the Governor's 
 staff, and you must respect his title." 
 
 "It is useless wasting words, mother. I can only tell you 
 once more, I will never marry Mr. Warren." 
 
 "I suppose you want to marry that poor fellow, Walter 
 French," said Mrs. Wetherell, sarcastically. "He is a good- 
 looking man, and in all probability will give his wife enough 
 to eat, and live after the manner of the Grays, in demi-poverty, 
 love in a cottage style." 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 79 
 
 "Yes. If I can ever be the wife of a man fond and true as 
 George Gray, and have a home full of contentment and happi 
 ness as his, simple though it be, I will be happy as a queen." 
 
 "Of course, you picture Walter French lord of this humble 
 paradise of yours," said. Mrs. Wetherell, bitterly. 
 
 " I picture a man I could love, and no amount of gold could 
 replace to me the want of affection in a home," answered Linda, 
 earnestly. 
 
 "Go on, wilful girl; love Walter French; adore him if 
 you choose ; you shall never marry him. I told you long ago 
 my will is of iron. Would that I were another Agrippina, that 
 I might convert my son into another Nero, and my daughter, 
 a second self anything whereby I could see those who oppose 
 me writhe in mortal anguish. Girl, I am a fiend when enraged. 
 Turn pale, and tremble, too ! I am to be feared. I want 
 money. I came to this miserable country for money, and will 
 sacrifice you for gold. I must have it, by fair means or by foul. 
 I am wretched ! wretched ! I must have money to make me 
 free to go ' ' 
 
 "To the devil ! " interrupted Ben. "I have overheard every 
 word of this conversation. You said well you are a fiend, 
 woman ! You may find another in your son, if you provoke 
 him too much. You shall never compel Linda to marry that 
 old fool." 
 
 " Dear Ben, do not talk so," pleaded Linda. 
 
 "I am sorry our mother compelled me to use such language 
 in your presence," said Ben, bitterly. "But she outraged all 
 claims of maternity. You need not marry that old Warren, 
 Linda. I will put him over the Styx first." 
 
 "There will be no need of bloodshed. I will never marry 
 him," said Linda, decidedly. 
 
 " I will leave you, amiable children, to discuss your obedient 
 
8O FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 inclinations." Mrs. Wetherell left the room trembling with 
 rage, her face was livid as she gasped for breath. She had so 
 long given way to her passionate temper when anything extraor 
 dinary happened to enrage her, she almost went into spasms. 
 
 "Poor Linda ! " said Ben, as they were left alone; " I am 
 sorry for you in this home. It is a perfect mystery to me that 
 a mother and daughter can be such perfect contrasts in disposi 
 tion and feelings. How do you manage to live with her? " 
 
 " Oh, very well. Mother says little to me. She lets me do 
 just as I choose, so I pass most of my time with Mrs. Gray. I 
 am always happy there." 
 
 " I am inclined to think the attraction is not altogether Mrs. 
 Gray," said Ben, jokingly. " How is it, my sweet sister ? " 
 
 " I confess I love them all, they are such good people." 
 
 "We all like contrasts, and I know of no more striking one 
 than that family and ours," said Ben. 
 
 "True. I wish we were more like them. I would even be 
 contented, if you and I could be together more. ' ' 
 
 "You shall have me all day to-morrow. I have made ar 
 rangements with the boys to do without me one day, in order 
 to fulfil the promise made long ago to take you over the moun 
 tains ; but then you must not expect me next Sunday." 
 
 " I shall be so delighted to have you with me all day to-mor 
 row. We will not borrow trouble about next Sunday ; but you 
 know that disagreeable old Mr. Warren is coming here to 
 remain a week. What will I do without you all that time? " 
 
 "You need not be in the least concerned about his coming. 
 A note will reach me in a short time ; and if you should be in 
 need of friends before I could get to you, go to the Grays. 
 They will be happy in serving you." 
 
 " Let me live with you, Ben. Can I not be of some service 
 to you ? " asked Linda, like a coaxing child. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 8l 
 
 "You go with me?" Ben laughed heartily at the idea. 
 "You could not live in a log cabin, Linda. A delicately 
 reared New York boarding-school Miss housekeeper for her 
 brother, in a log cabin with two rooms ! That would be a 
 pretty picture to send back to your friends." 
 
 "You do not know what I can do until you try me. I could 
 endure a great many hardships to be with you," said Linda, 
 modestly. 
 
 "You do not know what hardships are," said Ben, kindly. 
 "Besides, if you knew what a bad, rough fellow I am, you 
 would not be so fond of me." 
 
 " Yes, I would love you just the same. If you are rough and 
 bad, as you say, you need some one all the more to love and 
 care for you." 
 
 "I wish we had never been parted, Linda. I would not 
 have become such a rough miner as I am now, and perhaps been 
 more capable of taking care of you as you deserve and need." 
 
 " It is not too late, Ben. Divine laws supply all our necessi 
 ties." 
 
 " Do not begin preaching, or I will leave," said Ben, good- 
 naturedly. 
 
 " You naughty boy, you need preaching to every day." 
 
 " Well, we will postpone it for the present, and make arrange 
 ments for to-morrow. I am wholly at your command, and the 
 day shall be spent according to your dictation." 
 
 "Then let us go over the mountains on horseback," decided 
 Linda, at once. 
 
 "That will suit me splendidly. But I must leave you now, 
 and go up town on some business, and will meet you in a little 
 while at Mr. Gray's. Until then, good-by." 
 
 F 
 
82 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 GRAND PATHWAYS TO A CELL. 
 
 " Die Lufte weh'n so scliaurig, 
 Wir ziehen dahin so traurig, 
 Nach ungewissem Ziel.'' 
 
 nnHOSE who have never ridden among the Sierra Nevada 
 Mountains can form but a faint idea of the sublime grand 
 eur of their loneliness. Winding in and out their pre 
 cipitous sides, one is deep down in a great canon or gorge, 
 where rushing waters go dancing gleefully, or plunging over 
 great boulders, with ferns and drooping grasses dipping here 
 and there in the cool waters ; where nothing is heard but the 
 busy hum of nature, and the tramp of horses' feet or sound of 
 human voice seems hollow and out of place. Then, as if as 
 cending Nature's spiral stairway, one is thousands of feet above 
 the level of the sea, and as far as the eye can reach rise peak 
 after peak and range after range of forest mountains, whose 
 tall pines seem mere shrubs in the distance. So one can jour 
 ney on over the uneven roads for days, seldom finding a single 
 habitation, and at evening look back over the day's journey 
 and see only a purple haze veiling the great mountains of one's 
 admiration an indistinct outline, a mist, as the day's pleas 
 ure or unhappiness is veiled in the past a dream once realized. 
 These roads were originally Indian trails, where the children 
 of the forest went lazily, day after day, with their soft, catlike 
 tread in their moccasins, but leaving "footprints in the sands 
 of time," and unknowingly engineering with great nicety roads 
 and highways for their more learned pale-faced brethren. The 
 poor Indians will soon be among the things of the past. Cul- 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 83 
 
 tivation kills them ; civilization annihilates them. Those who 
 have been kindly taken into families and cared for, droop and 
 die young ; while those near villages work only pour boire. 
 They all take with wonderful tenacity to alcohol, and will work 
 for that when for nothing else, and it is rapidly and surely 
 exterminating them. 
 
 Ben and Linda had taken a long ride. The horses were 
 walking leisurely. The riders were lost in thought, when Ben 
 broke the stillness by saying : 
 
 " Let us turn to the right. That is a shorter route to Ne 
 vada, and we can return by the other road." 
 
 " That would be delightful ! " exclaimed Linda. " I think 
 Nevada is such a pretty place. ' ' 
 
 "I do not," answered Ben, emphatically. "I never did 
 fancy it." 
 
 Urging his horse on more rapidly, they continued their ride 
 in silence. But long after, Linda wondered what strange pre 
 monition had caused him to speak of Nevada with so much 
 bitterness. 
 
 They had ridden through Nevada, and were on the way to 
 Grass Valley, when they were passed by two horsemen. 
 
 " One of those men looked very hard at us, Ben. Who are 
 they?" asked Linda. 
 
 " I did not know either of them." Ben turned in his saddle 
 as he spoke, for horses' hoofs were heard rapidly overtaking 
 them. 
 
 The same men came dashing up, one on either side of Ben, 
 each with a pistol in hand : 
 
 "If you have any arms, sir, give them up, and surrender 
 yourself our prisoner," demanded one. Ben turned pale, but 
 asked firmly : 
 
 " By what authority am I to yield myself your prisoner? " 
 
84 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 "lam the sheriff," answered the stranger. "Here is the 
 warrant for your arrest. Read it." 
 
 As Ben read, the color came back to his face, and he said 
 politely : 
 
 " There is some mistake here, sir. I know nothing about 
 this affair." 
 
 "Of course you don't," said the second man, insolently; 
 and to the sheriff, "Did you ever hear tell of a thief who did 
 know his own business?" Turning again to Ben, "Maybe 
 I can tell you a little about this here story that you 've heard 
 tell of before, young man." 
 
 Linda sat like one in a trance, not having power to speak. 
 She heard all they said ; saw Ben give up his pistol and surren 
 der himself to their authority. Then he turned to her, and 
 with trembling voice addressed the strangers : 
 
 "Gentlemen, consider my sister." 
 
 That aroused her, and she exclaimed : 
 
 "Never mind me. I will go where he goes." 
 
 " That is impossible, Linda," said Ben, decidedly; and turn 
 ing to the sheriff, " In the name of God and humanity, do not 
 tell her where I am going. ' ' 
 
 To comfort Linda, he added : " I am summoned to appear at 
 court. The case being urgent, in which I am one of the chief 
 witneses, they have taken these extreme measures. These 
 gentlemen will accompany us until we are near Grass Valley, 
 then you must go home alone this time, little sister." 
 
 There was something so strangely pathetic in his voice, 
 that Linda's eyes were full of tears as she looked searchingly 
 into his face, and said pleadingly : 
 
 "I am afraid you are deceiving me, Ben. As I told you 
 yesterday, I can endure more than you think. For Heaven's 
 sake, tell me the truth." 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 85 
 
 " I really do not know any more to tell you now, but will write 
 you to-morrow or next day, and the sheriff will see that you get 
 the letter." 
 
 Linda raised her beautiful eyes full on the sheriff's face, and 
 he had not the heart to deny her request, as she asked, softly, 
 "Will you?" 
 
 " Yes, Miss, I will," he answered, with a respectful bow. 
 
 They were approaching Grass Valley, when he said quietly 
 to Ben, "You can go no further." 
 
 Ben reined in his horse, and, giving his hand to Linda, 
 said tenderly: " Good-by, sweet sister. There is something 
 altogether wrong about this affair ; but I am sure it will come 
 out right. Try to forget it and be as happy as you can." 
 
 Linda kissed him and bade him good-by, with tears stream 
 ing down her cheeks. Slowly she went on her way, thinking : 
 "There is more in this than Ben would tell me. How can I 
 learn the particulars? To-morrow's paper will tell: it is the 
 revealer of everything dreadful. But, surely, Ben has done 
 nothing dreadful. There must be a mistake somewhere. No 
 matter how it is ; good it cannot be ; but if it is bad, or even 
 vile, I will serve my brother to the last. I wonder where they 
 will take him. Oh, Ben, if I could only have gone with you ! 
 How can I wait until to-morrow ! It seems a century off." 
 8 
 
86 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 "WAITING FOR THE VERDICT." 
 
 THE longest day must have an ending, the longest night 
 must have its dawn, and yet the night seemed interminable 
 to Linda, as she kept her solitary vigil. Not one thought 
 of sleep came to her mind until the sun was peeping over the 
 mountains, then from weariness she slept heavily. 
 
 When she made her appearance at the breakfast-table, her 
 father, who had arrived at home the previous evening, after 
 greeting her, asked: "What makes you look so pale, Linda? 
 Are you sick ? ' ' 
 
 "No, sir; but I did not sleep well." 
 
 Mrs. Wetherell did not so much as look toward her daughter, 
 and not another word was spoken during that morning meal, 
 excepting the necessary demands at any table. 
 
 All day Linda wandered restlessly, awaiting the arrival of 
 the evening paper, and, perhaps, a letter from Ben. 
 
 Evening came at last, and the stage brought the irrepressible 
 Major Warren to the door. Linda watched him, as he came 
 up the walk with his quick step and pompous bearing, and 
 saw her mother meet him with charming grace and earnest 
 welcome. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Wetherell, how are you? and how is my fair 
 future bride?" asked the Major, all in one breath. 
 
 "I am in excellent health, my dear Major, and your future 
 bride" . 
 
 " Is as charming as ever," interrupted the Major. 
 
 " Yes, she is a charming girl, if she is mine, or rather yours," 
 said Mrs. Wetherell, coquettishly. " She has finally consented 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 87 
 
 to your marriage on her eighteenth birthday, which will be in 
 a little less than three months, as you urged so strongly in your 
 last letter it should take place speedily." 
 
 " My dear madam, I assure you I will be the happiest man in 
 the world," said the Major, jubilantly. 
 
 "You must not expect too much, for she is a thoroughly 
 spoiled child. Still, you need have no doubts. I assure you 
 she loves you very fondly, and is delighted with her approach 
 ing marriage ; only some girls have such ridiculous notions. I 
 fear, to all appearances, you will find her as arbitrary as for 
 merly." 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Wetherell, fear nothing on my account. I 
 am a persistent man ; and, as long as I have made up my mind 
 to marry your daughter, I will have her." 
 
 "I admire your force of character," said Mrs. Wetherell, 
 warmly. "You shall have my daughter with pleasure. You 
 are a genuine man, one after my own heart. Linda will be 
 with you presently. In the meantime, I will leave you to be 
 entertained by the Captain, whom I see coming. Perhaps it 
 would be well to broach the subject of your approaching mar 
 riage to him, as I have not thought it prudent to speak of it 
 until all your arrangements were finally completed." 
 
 Although Linda's door was closed, she could distinctly hear 
 every word that was spoken in the adjoining room. The effect 
 of that conversation can better be imagined than described. An 
 insupportable loathing for such foulness of purpose and vile hy 
 pocrisy took possession of her, and she vowed again that death 
 would be preferable to a marriage with Major Warren. 
 
 She held in her hand the paper for which she had so anxiously 
 waited, but the arrival of Major Warren quite drove it from her 
 mind. Slowly she unfolded it, and began her search for what 
 might solve the mystery concerning Ben. Her first glance dis- 
 
88 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 covered nothing, and thinking, after all, she had been uselessly 
 alarmed, began reading an article headed, in great capital let 
 ters, "The teamster identifies the man who robbed him." 
 Just below the heading her eye caught the sentence, "Ben 
 Wetherell was arrested yesterday by the sheriff on the testimony 
 of the teamster." 
 
 The paper dropped from her hands, and she fell back in her 
 chair perfectly unconscious. 
 
 The family was seated at the table, and dinner served ; still, 
 Linda did not make her appearance. 
 
 "Bridget," said Mrs. Wetherell to the general housemaid, 
 "go to Miss Linda's room, and tell her we are at dinner." 
 
 Bridget knocked at the door, but receiving no answer, opened 
 it, and found Linda still insensible. In her horror she screamed 
 loudly, which brought the party from the table into the room, 
 and also aided in bringing Linda to her senses. 
 
 The Captain, from genuine alarm and anxiety for Linda, 
 went for a physician. On his arrival, she said to him : 
 
 " Doctor, I am not ill. Nothing ails me but that," pointing 
 to the paper. " But please let me remain in bed, and tell father 
 and mother I must have perfect quiet and rest." 
 
 The Doctor readily granted her request, for she had a way 
 of asking and commanding so pleasantly, it was almost impos 
 sible to tell upon whom the favor was conferred. 
 
 Bridget was very attentive, and when Linda refused to eat, 
 said in her rough way : 
 
 " Remimber Mr. Ben, Miss Linda. Sure and ye can't help 
 'im a lyin' here on ye're back; and if ye won't ate, how do ye 
 iver expect to git up ? " 
 
 "You are righ,t, Bridget; I must eat and I must act, and 
 not lie here repining." 
 
 In spite of her good resolutions, the tears ran down her 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 89 
 
 cheeks. Ben had been her great hope, and now that he was 
 taken from her, and in such an ignominious way, the poor girl 
 felt crushed to the earth. What wounded her most deeply was 
 the manner in which the affair had been commented upon in 
 the dining-room immediately after she had recovered her self- 
 possession. 
 
 The Captain seemed greatly shocked, but relieved himself 
 of all responsibility by saying: "I did my duty by that boy; 
 but he was an imp of Satan from his birth." 
 
 The mother exclaimed fiercely. "A thief! an outlaw, my 
 son! I have no son ! Captain, do you hear? We have no 
 son ! To us he is dead. Let the law take its course." 
 
 "You are right, my amiable spouse; we should never have 
 had any son," said the Captain, earnestly. "I am glad you 
 do not let your motherly feelings overcome your better judg 
 ment, and you can so firmly disown your son." 
 
 To Major Warren the Captain's words and manner implied 
 simply what was spoken ; but to Mrs. Wetherell they were of other 
 import, and her face grew paler, and her black eyes burned with 
 a dangerous light, as she steadily gazed upon the speaker's un 
 conscious, saintly face, like a tigress ready to spring upon and 
 annihilate her prey. 
 
 Turning to the Major, she said, with a strange, disappointed 
 tone : 
 
 " I suffer for you, Major, with regard to Linda. You cannot 
 think of uniting your most honorable position with that of one 
 whose brother " with much feeling " is an outlaw." 
 
 " My dear madam, you misjudge me," answered the Major, 
 with an imperious air. "No stain upon the family name of 
 the woman I marry can reach me. Au contraire, madam, I 
 arn more anxious than ever to hasten our marriage. I feel I 
 am performing an act of kindness in marrying your daughter, 
 
9O FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 and shall fear no further opposition on her part, knowing, 
 as she must, few would marry her under the present circum 
 stances. ' ' 
 
 " You are your noble self forever ! " exclaimed Mrs. Wetherell. 
 " I shall be only too proud to welcome you to my heart, instead 
 of him who is gone, but whom I loved tenderly and well." 
 
 "Control yourself, dear v madam," said the Major, kindly, 
 taking her hand. " I pity you from the depths of my heart." 
 
 The Captain, who had been sitting quite apart, took up his 
 gold-headed cane and silently left the room, to walk up town 
 with the downcast air of a martyr, and call forth the sympathy 
 of every one he met. 
 
 Major Warren led Mrs. Wetherell into the parlor, using all 
 his eloquence to divert her mind and soothe her sorrow. 
 
 She had hard work to play the aggrieved parent to perfection, 
 for her joy was complete, to think the rich old Major was still 
 to be her son-in-law. Her only grief had been lest he would 
 not care to fulfil his marriage contract with Linda. 
 
 In the meantime there had been a soft tap at Linda's door, 
 and Mrs. Gray had entered in response to the gentle "Come 
 in." Her sympathizing heart fully comprehended Linda's 
 misfortune. She talked freely, without wounding, and Linda 
 felt half the heavy burden was gone, in the friendly, confident 
 manner she could talk and speculate on the probabilities and 
 improbabilities of such an act on Ben's part. She seemed only 
 to think of him in his trouble, and frequently exclaimed : 
 " Pity him, Mrs. Gray ! 1 knew he is not guilty." 
 
 "'I am sure not, dear," said Mrs. Gray, earnestly ; "but you 
 are the one I pity most. Walter and George both wished me 
 to say, if there is anything in the world they can do for you, 
 you are to call upon them unhesitatingly. They will be only 
 too happy in serving you." 
 
FREE PRISONERS. QI 
 
 "How good and kind you are," said Linda, with tears in 
 her eyes. "I thank you with all my heart. To-morrow I 
 hope to hear from Ben ; then, perhaps, something can be done. 
 In the meantime I shall remain in bed, to avoid Mr. Warren, 
 who arrived last night." 
 
 That evening Nellie took her usual seat at George's side, to 
 question him on the all-absorbing topic of Linda's trouble. 
 
 " George, dear, do you really think young Wetherell is guilty 
 of that outrageous crime?" 
 
 "It is hard to tell, Nellie; but there seems little doubt, as 
 the teamster has so positively identified him." 
 
 "It is shocking ! I never, in my life, felt for any one as I 
 do for Linda." 
 
 " She is a noble girl, and very different from the rest of the 
 family," added George. 
 
 " Yes, dear ; and she is so cheerful and hopeful in her trouble. 
 Her father and mother deliberately disowned Ben as soon as 
 they heard of this affair ; so the poor child has no sympathy at 
 home. But, then, she never had from her mother. Oh, George, 
 I think it would break my heart, if I could not think of my 
 dear mother with holy reverence and love." 
 
 "Yes, darling; it is a great source of happiness to recall 
 those who are near and dear to us with affection, and have rea 
 son to cherish their memory when they are gone. You know 
 how good mother always was. What a whole soul of love and 
 tender anxiety she bestowed upon us ; and her thoughtful care 
 is over us to-day as when I was a child." 
 
 "We have much to be thankful for in our family love, dear, 
 especially when we see those around us yearning for such love. 
 But can you not think of some way by which Ben might escape 
 the full penaltv of the law, for Linda's sake?" 
 
 " No, Nellie ; I do not think any interference would save him. 
 
92 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 If this act was lightly passed over, it would very soon be re 
 peated ; and the only way of quelling such lawlessness .is in 
 bringing the criminals to immediate punishment." 
 
 " That may be true, George ; but think how our sweet friend 
 we love so much will have to suffer. You have no idea how her 
 poor wounded heart is bleeding from this last blow of family 
 dishonor, for she is extremely sensitive." 
 
 " Of course, it is a great sorrow and lasting disgrace. George, 
 dear," said Nellie, timidly, as she pressed her husband's hand 
 tighter in hers, " did it ever occur to you that Walter was very 
 fond of Linda? " 
 
 "No; he despises the whole family so thoroughly, he would 
 never think more of her than as a friend." 
 
 "I am not so sure of that; and I have been very much 
 bothered about Belle Burton, for I really think Walter loves 
 Linda." 
 
 "Well, if he does, I hope he will marry her, and take her 
 entirely away from the rest of the family." 
 
 " But what will become of Belle? " 
 
 " My opinion about Belle is not very flattering, Nellie. She 
 was always a gay, fashionable woman of the world, who made 
 no effort to find Walter until about a year ago. The truth is, 
 she is no longer young, and does not exactly like the idea of 
 being an old maid, after the score of admirers she has had. 
 So she managed to open a correspondence with Walter, in hope 
 of renewing their old relationship." 
 
 " Perhaps you do not quite understand the case," said Nellie, 
 partly convinced, "but of the same opinion still." 
 
 " I would be sorry to misjudge her. It certainly would be 
 pleasanter to have Walter marry Linda, because we all know 
 her and Iqve her ; but I think it will never be, especially now 
 Walter is so high-spirited, and thinks so much of family honor. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 93 
 
 Not that he would think lebS of Linda, but it is doubtful if he 
 would ever marry into such a family. My dear little wife," 
 said George, fondly, "you are always worrying over some 
 one's troubles. Especially, if there is the least chance of 
 their getting married, you waste an immense deal of sym 
 pathy on them. One would think you had been shipwrecked 
 on the shoals and reefs of matrimony, that uncertain sea, 
 so difficult to navigate, and were trying to pilot others more 
 safely." 
 
 "George, dear, how can you talk so?" and the little wife 
 nestled closer to her husband. " It seems a sin for happy 
 people to joke over others' misfortunes. You have always been 
 such a good darling, we could not well be otherwise than 
 happy. ' ' 
 
 " Indeed ! is that it ? " laughed George. "I always thought 
 it was because you were so good." 
 
 " No, George. There must be a good husband where there 
 is a cheerful, happy wife and mother. ' ' 
 
 " Exceptio probat regulam. In fact, there are exceptions to 
 all rules, Nellie." 
 
 "There is no exception to this rule. A good woman may 
 drag through necessary duties, as the wife of an unloving, un 
 congenial husband, with apparent cheerfulness and content 
 ment, but in time her smile becomes forced, her eyes lack the 
 fire of life, her cheeks lose their rosy tint, her step its elasticity; 
 in fact, her whole appearance becomes a settled melancholy, 
 when the labor of life goes on without the friendly companion 
 ship of an appreciative husband. Even her children's prattle 
 grates upon her nerves, and their merry laughter drops heavily 
 into her hollow heart, and each day grows longer and wearier 
 as she plods on and on. But take me for an example of my 
 rule. I am one who does the best she can, and although fa- 
 
94 FREE PRISONEKS. 
 
 from perfect, expects her husband's kind smile and pleasant 
 evening chat as the reward of the day's labor; while he, dear 
 soul, will not let her sew on the children's aprons after dark, 
 but rather play a game of chess and beat her to death ; and 
 thinks when his day's labor ends her's should. Such a hus 
 band will always have a good wife, because labor for those we 
 love, and who love us, is one of the few pleasures that engender 
 real peace and contentment." 
 
 " Is that your wise conclusion, after years of mature delibera 
 tion?" asked George, quite amused at her earnestness over 
 what she professed never to have experienced. He continued, 
 more seriously, "If you are convinced of your opinions, and 
 I of mine, my dear little woman, we must be a wonderfully 
 good couple." 
 
 "Not so good, dear, but what we might be better; but we 
 do our duty as well as we know how, and that makes life easy. 
 Besides, when troubles come, we explain them away, kiss and 
 make up, and start on again, just the same. So our mole-hills 
 never become mountains they are only mole-hills, that make 
 us laugh, after we are past them, that they ever should have 
 been in our way." 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 DESPERATE COMPANY. 
 
 next morning, when the first rays of dawn were break 
 ing over the horizon, Linda arose, dressed herself quietly, 
 and started out into the uncertain light. The roads were 
 muddy, and the sticky clay, peculiar to that mountainous re 
 gion, made walking very fatiguing. She hurried through the 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 95 
 
 town, and taking the Nevada road, walked rapidly over hills 
 and down dales until compelled to stop and rest. Fortunately, 
 there were few persons on the road so early in the morning, 
 and when she heard any one approaching, she stepped behind 
 some friendly bush until they had passed. It was not yet 
 seven o'clock when she reached Nevada. She stopped at a 
 restaurant, the only one in the place, and asked -for a cup of 
 coffee. The proprietor, who was also head waiter, brought her 
 the coffee and a steaming breakfast. 
 
 Linda expressed so much astonishment at the sumptuous 
 manner in which her simple order had been filled, that she 
 quite upset the good-hearted German, and he stammered a 
 most awkward apology : 
 
 "Ich keeps a zimlich cheep restaurant, ma'am, und ven any 
 pody cums lookin' hunrich, like you, by Got, Ich gibs 'em all 
 dey can eat, und says, Das ish fur der Lord. Das ish all die 
 relichion Ich hab." 
 
 Linda fancied she must have presented a very hungry appear 
 ance, from the amount of sympathy she drew from that honest 
 German's heart. She was so pale from her sleepless nights, 
 and exhausted from the long walk to Nevada, that she did in 
 deed appear in need of sympathy. She ate heartily, for the 
 breakfast was tempting, and she was soon ready to undertake 
 her difficult task. Upon offering to pay her host, it took con 
 siderable persuasion to induce the old German to accept the 
 money ; he seemed to think he had no business with it, as it 
 interfered with his charity. 
 
 It was but a short walk from the restaurant to the jail. There 
 was no one in sight, so Linda mounted the steps and knocked 
 at the iron-barred door. The jailor immediately made his 
 appearance, at t the grating, -and asked, " Who is there?" 
 When he saw it was a woman, he said, roughly : 
 
96 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 "I would like to see Mr. Wetherell, if you please," said 
 Linda, quite afraid of the rough specimen of humanity peering 
 through the grating. 
 
 "But I don't please; not if I know myself, and I think I 
 do," said the man, yawning. 
 
 " Can I not see him for one moment? " pleaded Linda. 
 
 " Let me introduce to your respectful notice, Mr. Jacob 
 Sniffens. When you know Jake Sniffens, you know a man 
 what is a man a man as keeps his word." 
 
 Linda felt discouraged, but asked again imploringly, " Can 
 I not speak a few words to him through the grating ? " 
 
 " Can you hyer, or can't you hyer ? " said Mr. Jacob Sniffens, 
 fiercely. " I never could get along with petticoats. Them 
 and me don't hitch somehow. When I says no to a man, he 
 walks off in a style becoming so high a functionary as a pair of 
 pantaloons ; but when I says no to a woman, she stands there 
 a blubberin', and teasin', and tormentin' of a fellow as natural 
 as if she had a self-acting pump inside o' her." 
 
 The tears rolled down Linda's cheeks, and it was with great 
 effort she asked : " Where can I find the sheriff? " 
 
 "Well, I think you can't find him," said Mr. Sniffens, 
 coolly. "He's went to Sacramento after that ere other cuss 
 in the same line of business as your sweetheart ; only he robbed 
 the stage a darned site decenter job." 
 
 "When will he be back?" asked Linda, without appearing 
 to notice his insulting remarks. 
 
 "He won't be back afore day after to-morrow, and maybe 
 not then. Have you got any more questions to ask? " 
 
 "No, sir; but will you please tell Mr. Wetherell his sister 
 came to see him, and was not admitted ? ' ' 
 
 As Linda went away, she heard the insolent fellow laughing. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 97 
 
 " Sister ! That 's good ! That 's excellent ! Them women 
 folks must think Jake Sniffens is green." 
 
 When Linda was out of hearing, he said, after considerable 
 reflection : "I guess I '11 not trouble that ere young devil with 
 that ere message, for like enough he 'd try to get out, and the 
 sheriff bein' away, Jake's head might come to grief. I would n't 
 trust that imp of Satan if he was reposin' in Abraham's 
 bosom. ' ' 
 
 Linda had no alternative but to retrace her steps. She knew 
 Bridget would miss her, but had arranged that by saying she 
 might go to Mrs. Gray's. 
 
 The kind German's breakfast was a lucky deed of charity, 
 notwithstanding it was paid for. Linda's disappointment at 
 not seeing her brother, after the fatigue of the morning, almost 
 prostrated her. She longed to rest in some quiet place, but 
 the dread of being interrogated and stared at, prevented her 
 entering a strange house, so she wearily went on her way. 
 When some distance from Nevada she noticed a by-path, 
 which seemed a nearer road to Grass Valley. She followed it 
 through the thick chaparral until she came to a little emi 
 nence, from which she saw the smoke from a chimney of a log 
 cabin. It was not far distant, and she hailed it with delight, 
 thinking the humble inmates might be kind enough to let her 
 rest there. She had no sooner approached the cabin, and stepped 
 upon the great log steps, and taken one glance at the interior, 
 than she comprehended her position and mistake. There were 
 three men lying in bunks, who started at her approach ; and 
 one of them, with long, black, curly hair, who prove*d to be the 
 famous " Curly Smith," exclaimed : 
 
 " Hellow ! Where the devil did you come from? Walk in, 
 sis. You 've struck a good camp. We are in need of petti- 
 9 G 
 
98 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 coats, since Jennie on the Green went down to Boston Ravine 
 to live." * 
 
 Linda started to run, pale as a ghost, and almost fainting 
 from fear. Curly Smith jumped to the floor, calling, " Come 
 back here, or I '11 bring you back." 
 
 Just then, a man who was lying on some straw in what 
 seemed a dog kennel, only larger, and like a small addition to 
 the cabin, said to Linda, in a loud whisper, as she was passing, 
 "Take this." 
 
 As a drowning man will grasp after a straw, Linda grasped 
 the pistol the stranger offered her. She had never fired one, 
 although she had handled them and understood how to use 
 them ; for the country was so wild, almost every one carried 
 weapons of some description. As Curly Smith was determined 
 to pursue her, she knew running was out of the question. She 
 turned suddenly, and raising her pistol, said, with the firmness 
 despair only brings, " Stand off, sir, or I '11 shoot ! " 
 
 "You will, will you?" said Curly, with a contemptuous 
 sneer. "Two can play that game. My kitten, you will find 
 yourself in a lion's paws before you get through." 
 
 " Hold," said the man coming out of the kennel. " If you 
 touch that girl, I '11 spill your vile blood for you." He imme 
 diately drew another pistol from his belt, and, aiming it at 
 Smith, stood at Linda's side. 
 
 The two men in the cabin had come out in the meantime, 
 and both with one voice said, "We'll back you, Bob; sail 
 in." 
 
 The plot of ground where this strange group stood was brown 
 and seared from the scorching summer sun. They were com 
 pletely hedged in with chaparral and underbrush on all sides, 
 only relieved by the brown cabin to their right, with its blue 
 smoke wreathing toward the purer blue of the mountain sky. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 99 
 
 Beyond the cabin, the pine-covered mountains seemed to touch 
 the very heavens, while down to the left rushed a foaming 
 stream, almost lost in the labyrinth of luxuriant greens. There 
 seemed to be no outlet to the place, it was so isolated from 
 human habitations, and so thickly woven in the mountain forest. 
 
 Linda looked superbly beautiful, as she stood there, pistol in 
 hand, ready to shoot at one of the most desperate villains the 
 Sierra Nevada Mountains ever knew. Her slight, maidenly 
 form seemed little in accordance with her position. Her hat 
 had fallen back, and her soft brown hair was dishevelled ; her 
 face was perfectly colorless ; but her large, luminous eyes blazed 
 like flashes of fire, as she cast eager glances at those desperate 
 men in whose hands her destiny lay. 
 
 Curly Smith was dressed in black pants and a gray flannel 
 shirt. He wore a broad leather belt around his waist, which 
 contained a second pistol and a knife; and his companions 
 were all similarly attired. Curly would not have been a homely 
 man, but for the fiendish expression of his small, black eyes. 
 His hair, which was jet black, hung in a mat of small curls 
 about his neck and over his shoulders, from which peculiarity 
 he received the cognomen of "Curly Smith." He was a 
 desperate-looking man, and one of the most dangerous and 
 unrelenting in the mountain gangs. On one side of Linda 
 stood her friend of the kennel, a man with a handsome, benign 
 countenance, quite out of place in a desperado. On her other 
 side were the two who had come out of the cabin, and ap 
 parently equal companions with Curly Smith, although, by 
 some strange influence, entirely controlled by the milder man. 
 
 Smith laughed a low, fiendish laugh, as he said, in a deep, 
 discordant voice : 
 
 " Is this the way you miserable drones respect my laws ? I '11 
 show you what Curly Smith says shall be done, and if words 
 
IOO FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 won't do, I'll put a hole through you that will make you re 
 member." Saying this, he aimed at Linda's first friend. 
 There was a click of pistols, and four were pointed at Smith. 
 Linda, in her excitement, bore a little heavily on the trigger, 
 and her pistol went off, the ball passing through Smith's sleeve. 
 He was said to have known no fear, but he dropped his weapon 
 as the ball grazed his arm, saying, doggedly, "Four against 
 one is not fair play." 
 
 The men were astonished at Linda's shooting. Thinking 
 she had done it intentionally, her first friend said : 
 
 " She is a trump, by George. Curly Smith, if you, who 
 dote on courage, can beat her, you may fight her." 
 
 "I move," said another, "that we three escort her to the 
 road." 
 
 "Escort her to , if you like. Such spoonies as you 
 
 would make a fine howling congregation," said Curly, as he 
 disappeared within the cabin. 
 
 One of the men said to Linda's first friend, "Bob, you can 
 have the pleasure of seeing this young lady home ; but be back 
 by dark, for we will want you. ' ' 
 
 The two men then followed Curly into the cabin. Linda and 
 her friend went quickly along the narrow path for some distance 
 without exchanging a word, Bob leading the way, and Linda 
 following closely. Finally, feeling quite faint after her unnat 
 ural excitement, and coming into a more open country, Linda 
 asked, wearily : 
 
 " Can I not sit down on this log and rest a while? I am so 
 tired." 
 
 "Yes, certainly," said her escort, stopping at once, but 
 keeping at a respectful distance. "We are so near the main 
 road here, there is no danger. I hurried to get as far away 
 from the cabin as possible, for, if Curly Smith had taken a 
 
FREE PRISONERS. IOI 
 
 notion to come after us, he would have come. How in the 
 world did you chance to come to his cabin? " 
 
 " I was on my way from Nevada when I saw the path lead 
 ing off toward Grass Valley, and thinking it a shorter route, 
 followed it. But who is Curly Smith?" 
 
 " He is one of the most desperate, daring villains in these 
 mountains." 
 
 " How can I ever thank you for your kindness to me this 
 day?" 
 
 " Do not thank me at all. I am not overly tender or gentle, 
 Miss ; but, somehow or other, the moment I saw you, to-day, 
 you brought back to my mind so forcibly one who is gone from 
 me, that at first sight of you I would almost have sworn it was 
 she. She had brown eyes and hair like yours, and if she had 
 only lived, Bob Rivers would have been a different man. I can 
 be bold and daring with the rest of them until I think of my 
 lost Fannie, then I weaken. You can thank Fannie, the sweet 
 est angel in heaven, for taking care of you to-day, and not 
 me." 
 
 " Let us hope that her holy influence may yet take as good 
 care of you, and bring you out of trouble to peace as safely, as 
 it has done me to-day." 
 
 "Safe?" asked Bob Rivers, bitterly. "You think you are 
 safe, do you ? ' ' 
 
 " Yes, with you I feel I am perfectly safe," said Linda, earn 
 estly. " How could it be otherwise, after your kind protec 
 tion to-day? Notwithstanding you attribute it to my likeness 
 to Fannie, I am sure it was due more to your own noble sense 
 of honor." 
 
 "Really, Miss, you make me feel more like a man than I 
 have felt for many a long day. You are safe with me, but there 
 are few men, let alone young girls, who would consider them- 
 
IO2 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 selves safe on this lonely mountain path, hedged in on all 
 sides with thick chaparral, in company with Bob Rivers." 
 
 " Is Bob Rivers, then, so desperate a character as he is pic 
 tured by himself?" asked Linda, kindly. 
 
 ' ' Bob Rivers, ' ' continued her companion, ' ' was once a gentle 
 man ; but a calamity befell him, and he is living to redress it. 
 I told you I owed Curly Smith a grudge. It is a little thing, 
 perhaps only the loss of peace and happiness." 
 
 ' ' You are not half so bad as you think, or you could not so 
 clearly define your own position. You are not lost to all sense 
 of goodness, and I hope to hear better things of you in the 
 future. Have you ever heard of Ben Wetherell, who is under 
 arrest for having robbed a teamster? " 
 
 It was with great effort Linda asked that question of her 
 companion, but it occurred to her if Ben was guilty, such a 
 man would lively know it. 
 
 " Yes, I knew him by sight. He was a fine, brave fellow; 
 and I don't see how he got into such a mean scrape. He was 
 a great hunter, and used to go all over these mountains. Every 
 body knew who he was, and liked him, and no one molested 
 him. Once, a couple of our men, just from over the moun 
 tains, were out on a lark. They stopped Wetherell, and 
 politely asked for his purse. He turned on them, and they 
 faced about and left in double quick. He was a brave fellow." 
 
 " Do you think he is guilty? " 
 
 " Guilty ? To be sure. The teamster swears to his identity; 
 and that very afternoon I saw him out hunting, dressed just as 
 the teamster described him. His partners, poor fellows, feel 
 dreadfully cut up about it, and think him perfectly innocent ; but 
 they say he was out hunting that afternoon later than usual, and 
 was still away at the time .tjie teamster was robbed. Great 
 
FREE PRISONERS. IO3 
 
 God! what ails you?" and Bob sprang forward just in time 
 to catch Linda in his arms as she staggered and fell. 
 
 The excitement of the day and her bodily fatigue had quite 
 exhausted her; and this final blow, this man's positive asser 
 tion of Ben's guilt, felled her to the ground. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER. 
 
 BOB RIVERS had never before seen a lady faint, and his 
 first impression was that she was dead. He did not dare 
 go for assistance, lest it might be thought he had been the 
 cause of her death ; still, he could not leave her there alone. 
 Finally, it flashed upon him that some delicate persons became 
 unconscious and still lived. With that idea, he rushed through 
 the thick brush to the running stream, saturated his handker 
 chief and filled his hat with water. When he returned, and 
 found her still insensible, he quietly, and gently as a woman, 
 bathed her face and hands, and moistened her colorless lips. 
 Soon she moved, gasped for breath ; then opened her eyes and 
 stared wildly around. Bob's reassuring words that she was 
 safe, soon brought her back to a perfect realization of her 
 position. 
 
 It was some time before she was able to undertake the re 
 mainder of her journey, although Bob assured her it was not 
 more than half a mile. Grass Valley was a country town and a 
 long town, the principal part being built on two streets that 
 formed a perfect right angle. After reaching Main Street, where 
 the settlement began, it was fully half a mile to Linda's home. 
 
IO4 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 Her feet were wet, her dress muddy, her hair in disorder, and 
 her whole appearance so remarkable she dreaded the prying 
 eyes of the villagers. 
 
 When she recovered herself sufficiently to continue her walk, 
 Bob kindly offered her his assistance. She took his arm, and 
 was thankful for his strong support, until they reached the edge 
 of the town, when he said : 
 
 "I am sorry, but I must leave you here, Miss. I dare not 
 go any farther." 
 
 "I am sorry, too, my friend," and Linda offered him her 
 hand. "I cannot thank you enough for your kindness to me 
 to-day. If my humble prayers can avail you anything, they 
 shall be offered up nightly, that the remembrance of Fannie 
 may yet bring you back to the paths of rectitude. Here is the 
 pistol you so kindly gave me. I almost forgot to return it." 
 
 "Please keep it," said Bob, beseechingly. "Carry it; if 
 you should ever go alone again, it may serve you." 
 
 "I will not deprive you of it." 
 
 " I have more ; and if you will only honor me by accepting 
 such a poor gift from so unworthy a personage, you will make 
 me happy." 
 
 "Then I will keep it, and the giver shall always be kindly 
 remembered." 
 
 " May I not know the young lady's name I have had the 
 pleasure of escorting to-day?" asked Bob, with all the def 
 erential grace of a polished gentleman. 
 
 " I am Linda Wetherell, Ben's sister. I went to Nevada to 
 day to try and see him, but was unsuccessful." 
 
 "Mr. Wetherell is fortunate in having such a sister. If he 
 is worthy of you, and I believe him to be a good fellow, you 
 may yet save him." 
 
 "Thank you for those comforting words. I hope we may 
 
t FREE PRISONERS. 10$ 
 
 meet again." She was turning to go, when Bob delayed her 
 by saying : 
 
 11 If you ever have occasion to wander in the mountains, and 
 are in danger, mention my name ; and if I can be found, I will 
 be your obedient servant." 
 
 A buggy went dashing past, containing a lady and gentle 
 man. It was her mother, with Major Warren. Linda started 
 as if shot. She knew her mother's piercing black eyes had 
 seen her bidding Bob Rivers good-by. Fortunately, Mr. 
 Warren's attention was so entirely engrossed by his unruly 
 horses that he noticed nothing. 
 
 The shock seemed to strengthen Linda for the remainder of 
 her walk home. She hurried along, meeting few she knew, and 
 no one appeared to take especial notice of her. On reaching 
 home, she went quietly to her own room, arranged her toilette, 
 and called Bridget, to find out whether her mother had been 
 inquiring for her. 
 
 "To be sure," said Bridget, "yer mither was after askin* 
 for ye; for, bless yer swate sowl, the grand Major was after 
 wantin' to take ye ridin'. So I tould 'er ye were at Mrs. Gray's ; 
 and she wint there after ye, but come home and jawed me up 
 and jawed me down ; said I was a liar, and in wid ye, and if I 
 didn't moind me ane business, I might take mesilf off, bag 
 and baggage, the first of the month." 
 
 " I am sorry it caused you so much trouble," said Linda, 
 kindly ; " but I hope it will not prove serious." 
 
 "Sure, ye naden't bother yer dear sowl about me," said 
 Bridget, apparently not bothered about herself. " She'll not be 
 after sindin' me off in a hurry. Faith she can't find another 
 that 'd put up with her impudence." 
 
 "Bridget, you forget yourself sometimes. You must speak 
 more respectfully of my mother," said Linda, firmly. 
 
106 FREE PRISONERS. I 
 
 "Disrespictful ! Is it me ye would call disrespictful? Be 
 the stick, I niver said a disrespictful word of a livin' craythur, 
 espichially of yer mither, for she 's a foine-lookin' lady, if she 
 is the biggest divil I ever saw. How she iver begot such a 
 swate little craythur as yersilf, Miss Linda, faith it 's beyand 
 the power o' mortal to tell ; but I 'm after thinkin' the blissed 
 angel Gabriel smoiled on the divil about that toime." 
 
 Bridget was perfectly incorrigible, and Linda wisely con 
 cluded to let her chatter in her harmless way. The twig had 
 not been properly bent in girlhood, and the sturdy tree with 
 stood all attempts at improvement and cultivation. 
 
 It was quite late in the afternoon when Linda had a delicate 
 lunch, after which she laid down, and slept sweetly, until 
 awakened by Bridget, who came with a message from Mrs. 
 Wetherell requesting her to be present at tea that evening. 
 
 Linda accepted the request as a command, and hastened to 
 comply. On entering the supper-room, Major Warren came 
 toward her to shake hands, but she gave him a stately bow, and 
 passed on to her seat. 
 
 " Your mother assures me we are to be the best of friends 
 now, Miss Linda," said the Major, with a simpering smile. 
 
 "You should not hold the daughter accountable for what the 
 mother may say, Major Warren," replied Linda, coldly. 
 
 The Major's countenance darkened, but he did not reply. It 
 was the first time Linda had ever spoken disrespectfully of her 
 mother, and Mrs. Wetherell' s face showed she felt it keenly. 
 Perhaps it was the loss of her power over Linda she felt. It 
 was only an instantaneous flash, but Linda's quick eye read it, 
 and her own face was suffused with blushes. 
 
 Mrs. Wetherell never allowed her feelings in any way to be 
 tray her, and while the spasmodic indication of annoyance 
 flashed over her dark, oval face, she darted an angry glance at 
 
FREE PRISONERS. IC>7 
 
 Linda, and changed the conversation in a sprightly, racy man 
 ner, that can only be done by a shrewd woman of the world. 
 
 'There are many modest tea-tables, where the frugal meal be 
 gins with grace and ends with a blessing, whereat are played 
 finer plays and better acted than often appear behind the foot 
 lights of the world-famed theatres. Mrs. Wetherell's whole 
 life seemed to be one studied part, in which the real woman 
 seldom appeared. 
 
 After the evening meal, Captain Wetherell asked Major War 
 ren to accompany him up town, to which he assented, much to 
 Linda's relief; but it only proved a respite from one terror to 
 encounter another. She was going to her room to pass the 
 evening alone, as was her habit, when Mrs. Wetherell called her 
 back. 
 
 "Linda,.! wish to have one more conversation with you in 
 regard to your marriage with Major Warren, which is to take 
 place a little more than two months from now. You must give 
 him your answer in person. You should feel flattered to think 
 he would marry you, disgraced as you are by your brother. As 
 I have already told you, in marrying him you will be independ 
 ent financially, and in becoming Mrs. Major Warren the old 
 dishonored name of Wetherell will be lost, and, it is hoped, 
 forgotten. You do not know your own good ; and I ask you 
 again kindly, hoping you have wisdom enough to decide to 
 your own future advantage." 
 
 " I have decided, mother," said Linda, firmly but respect 
 fully. "I decided in the beginning. I told you then, and 
 repeat it now, I never will take sacred vows upon myself I posi 
 tively can never fulfil, or be the wife of any man so thoroughly 
 obnoxious to me, were he as rich as Croesus." 
 
 " Is that your final answer ? " hissed Mrs. Wetherell between 
 her teeth. 
 
IO8 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 "Yes, mother, that can be my only answer," replied Linda, 
 while her soft brown eyes pleaded more eloquently than words. 
 
 ''Then, imdutiful girl, you shall be nothing more to me ! " 
 and Mrs. Wetherell paced the floor rapidly. She looked a 
 fiend in her grand rage. Suddenly stopping before Linda, she 
 exclaimed : 
 
 "Go from my presence. Before to-morrow noon you shall 
 be on your way to Nevada, where you can remain near your 
 well-mated brother. Anything to get you out of my sight ! I 
 am, indeed, blessed in my children one a highwayman, the 
 other an outcast ! I will see that your board is paid and you 
 have clothes to wear, but I never wish to lay my eyes upon 
 your face again, unless you change your present decision. So 
 long as you persist in your wilful course, you are no longer my 
 daughter. ' ' 
 
 " Oh, mother," pleaded Linda, but her sobs choked her fur 
 ther utterance. 
 
 " Go, I say ; I hate your very presence ! " and Mrs. Weth 
 erell stood cold and unbending, pointing toward the open door, 
 until Linda, with her head bowed and weeping bitterly, passed 
 submissively through the dining-room into her own quiet cham 
 ber, where, unmolested, she could pour forth the bitterness of 
 her sorrow, and reflect upon her cheerless future. Her mother 
 never threatened without executing, and she knew, before the 
 close of another day, her home would be among strangers. 
 
 The Major had received a telegraphic despatch to return 
 home at once. The midnight stage would take him away, and 
 she had no fear of her mother seeking her under any circum 
 stances; 'so, endeavoring to conceal the traces of grief her 
 weeping had made, she went out into the friendly darkness, and 
 was soon at the cottage. , 
 
 Nellie, with her gentle, warm heart, was always ready to greet 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 her. George and Walter were also there to welcome her, and 
 they saw, by the pale, haggard face and bloodshot eyes, what 
 struggles the poor girl had passed through. 
 
 " Linda," said Nellie, " your mother was here this morning 
 inquiring after you, but I could not give her any account of 
 you. About noon I went over to see you, but Bridget said you 
 were not at home. Your bed was tumbled, but you had evi 
 dently not slept in it last night. You must tell me where you 
 have been, little truant." 
 
 Linda's face flushed as she thought of her venturesome day. 
 " I will some time, but am too tired to-night. I came to say to 
 you," and she drew her chair closer to Nellie's, as George and 
 Walter were talking over some business arrangements, " that I 
 must leave you to-morrow." 
 
 " Leave us to-morrow ? " 
 
 "Yes." Linda tried to suppress the tears that seemed ready 
 to flow continually in her long days of grief. "I must leave 
 you, my best, my only friends. Mother has told me I must 
 go to Nevada to live, but' I have no idea with whom. ' ' 
 
 " Why are you to go there ? " 
 
 "The same old feud because I will not marry Major War 
 ren." 
 
 "You poor child!" Nellie's eyes were filled with tears. 
 " Could your mother be persuaded to let you stay with us? We 
 would be so happy to have you. Would we not, George ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, my dear, if you say so," answered George, smiling; 
 "but I have not the faintest idea what you are talking 
 about." 
 
 " Linda's mother says she must leave home, and I want her 
 to come and stay with us. ' ' 
 
 " Certainly, Linda. We will be delighted to have you," 
 said George, warmly. " If our little nookery is not big enough, 
 10 
 
HO FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 we will gladly enlarge it for such a valuable addition as your 
 self." 
 
 ** You are very kind. I thank you with all my heart ; but you 
 know father has business near Nevada, and is there quite often 
 besides," her voice trefrnbled slightly as she added, " Ben is 
 there." 
 
 No persuasions would avail to change her purpose, and she 
 left the little cottage, where she had spent so many happy 
 days, with a heavy heart. Walter ha'd been unusually quiet all 
 the evening, and Nellie told her he had been as blue as an in 
 digo bag ever since she stopped coming there, and if she ceased 
 her visits altogether, she feared he would soon become as dis 
 agreeable as all other old bachelors. 
 
 After affectionate good-nights, with a promise from Nellie to 
 be with her the next day before she went away, and also assur 
 ances of frequent visits, wherever her future home might be, 
 Linda left the cottage, accompanied by Walter. As they went 
 out into the street, he said : 
 
 " If you are to leave us to-morrow, Linda, will you not grant 
 me one parting favor ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, certainly, if I can," answered Linda, frankly. 
 
 " Then you have said ' yes,' for you can as easily as not. I 
 want you to take a roundabout way to get home. The evening 
 is pleasant, and I want to have a talk with you before you go 
 away. It seems an age since I last saw you, yet it is only a few 
 days. You must not leave me for an indefinite time without 
 some assurance that my hopes are not in vain. Linda, you do 
 not know how dear you are to me. I cannot live without 
 you." 
 
 We are all weak, human creatures often when the spirit 
 says "no" the yielding flesh goes astray. Linda did not in 
 tend to give Walter this opportunity to address her, but she 
 
FREE PRISONERS. Ill 
 
 loved to be with him. Besides, it was her last evening there, 
 perhaps for a long time, and that meant the last of her happi 
 ness. "Why not be as happy then as possible?" So they 
 walked and talked over all Ben's troubles and their own future 
 happiness. Finally, Walter asked her why she was going to 
 leave home, and she unhesitatingly told him the cause. 
 
 "Go, then, dear Linda. In a few weeks I will^bring you 
 proofs that Belle Burton has no claim upon me, and asks none, 
 and you shall be my wife." 
 
 Linda's hand trembled within his arm, as she said, quietly : 
 
 "It is a great happiness to talk of and hope for, but there 
 seems to be an evil fate that governs my every effort, and all 
 my dreams of happiness are followed in reality by horrid night 
 mares. Do not talk to me any more, Walter, of love or mar 
 riage. When you are free, come ; but even then I will dread 
 your coming, for my mother has cursed my union with any 
 other person than Major Warren." 
 
 " My poor little girl ! " said Walter, tenderly. "A mother's 
 curse should not be feared, when you are* innocent and she 
 guilty. So long as you do that which is right, you will not 
 suffer from her ambitious designs." 
 
 "But, Walter, she will make it her life study to make me 
 miserable. You cannot understand the unnatural feelings she 
 has towards me. It seems contrary to all laws of consanguinity. 
 I have longed so for her love and affectionate caresses, and 
 instead I have seen a shudder pass over her frame at my touch. 
 If she knew you loved me," said Linda, timidly, "mark my 
 words, she would turn your love to hatred." 
 
 " Never ! " said Walter, firmly. " No one shall influence me 
 against the woman I love. If you say but the word, to-morrow 
 shall be our wedding-day, and Walter French will be the hap 
 piest man in Nevada County." 
 
112 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 " No, Walter, no. You are noble and good, but you must 
 wait until your future wife's brother is out of jail. I would 
 make a sad bride, and be entirely selfish, if I could not now 
 devote myself to poor Ben." 
 
 "Then, darling, you can choose your own time, provided it 
 is not too long, and at last I can claim you as my own little 
 wife." 
 
 "That you shall, Walter. If you can love such a sorrow- 
 stricken creature as I am, you are welcome to me." 
 
 Walter's arm was about her waist; her head nestled on his 
 breast ; his lips touched hers, and the plighted hearts beat in 
 ecstatic unison. Nothing but the dull thud of the distant mills 
 broke the stillness of the calm night. Nature seemed hushed 
 in reverence of happiness so full, so sweet, so silent. The very 
 pines ceased their moaning, and when the cold moon peeped 
 from behind the far-off mountains, she seemed a relentless in- 
 termeddler, exposing Linda's blushes and Walter's triumphant 
 smiles. 
 
 Ah, Linda, a week ago you would have said, " Not until you 
 have heard from Belle Burton ! ' ' But Linda was a sad, lonely 
 girl, and she loved Walter. What was Belle Burton to her 
 then? 
 
 Weary, but with a happy heart, Linda sank to rest. The 
 old prayers came back in all their freshness, and she thought 
 bitterly, "I can always kneel and pray when I am happy, but 
 grief deadens my senses, and seems to come between me and 
 everything heavenly. The time when all good people say they 
 feel drawn toward God, I am farthest away. ' ' 
 
FREE PRISONERS 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 MRS. NEAL. 
 
 * f The life of woman is full of woe, 
 Toiling on and on and on, 
 With breaking heart and tearful eyes 
 
 And silent lips, and in the soul 
 The secret longings that arise, 
 
 Which this world never satisfies ! 
 Some more, some less, but of the whole 
 Not one quite happy, no, not one." 
 
 Golden Legend. 
 
 ON entering the dining-room the next morning, Linda found 
 the breakfast-table arranged for but one. "Ah," she 
 thought, " mother is off already in search of my new 
 home." 
 
 "Gude mornin' to yez, Miss Linda," said Bridget, entering 
 with the breakfast. "I hope yez have a gude appetite this 
 mornin'." 
 
 "From the number of delicacies you have prepared, you 
 surely expected I would have, Bridget." 
 
 "Well, Miss Linda, yer mither tould me to give yez yer 
 breakfast, and thin hilp yez pack yer trunk. Now, that car- 
 tainly maines lavin'; and if yez be goin* to lave us, Bid '11 give 
 yez all yez can ate the rist o' yer stay. It 's not for me to be 
 axin' questions, but if yez be goin' to lave us, bad luck '11 cum 
 to this house." 
 
 " Oh, no, Bridget ; there will nothing serious happen. I 
 am only going to Nevada for a while." 
 
 "Now yez mark me words, something will happen! Yer 
 10* H 
 
114 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 mither got to the gate, and she forgot her gloves, and .back she 
 cum. This be Saturday mornin', and bad luck cums to all thim 
 as turns back on a Saturday mornin'. Yez may smile, Miss 
 Linda, but I 've lived to see it mesilf. There was me Uncle Pat 
 Mallerry's boy. He started to work on a Saturday mornin', 
 and whin he got to the door he cums back, and says he : 
 ' Mither, I forgot to tell yez, I think the dapple pony's gettin' a 
 corn on his right fore-foot. ' ' Be off wid yez, ye young spalpeen, 
 that yez would turn back on a Saturday mornin' to tell yer ould 
 mither that the dapple pony's gettin' a corn. Bad Uick to yer 
 brainless pate, that yez have no better sinse than that,' and, will 
 yez belave it, Miss Linda, before the sun had set that day, Bar 
 ney Mallerry cum home with his neck broke short off, and it 
 was the dapple pony as throwed him on a pile o' stones. If 
 it don't cum to-day, nor to-morrow, the bad luck 's overtaken 
 yer mither, and ye '11 live to see it." 
 
 Bridget's eloquence was interrupted by the appearance of 
 Nellie Gray's smiling face at the door, with her habitual pleas 
 ant greeting : 
 
 " Good-morning, Linda. I have come to stay with you until 
 you leave us, dear ; that is, if you are still expecting to go to 
 day." 
 
 "I know nothing more than what I told you last evening, 
 excepting that mother left home early this morning," answered 
 Linda, warmly returning Nellie's affectionate embrace. " I 
 imagine she has gone to Nevada in search of my new abiding 
 place, and shall make my preparations for leaving as directed. 
 She seldom changes her mind." 
 
 "Then, if you *must leave us, I will assist you all I can, 
 although I would so much rather you were not going. We will 
 miss you sadly. ' ' 
 
 While they were arranging for Linda's departure, a carriage 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 115 
 
 drove up to a cottage on the outskirts of Nevada, which stood 
 in the midst of a neatly-kept garden. A few words from the 
 driver, and Mrs. Wetherell alighted, hastily approached the 
 door, and rapped loudly. In an instant it was opened by a 
 trim, motherly-looking woman in deep mourning. Mrs. Weth 
 erell gave a searching glance of admiration before speaking ; 
 so did every one, for the first time seeing Widow Neal. She 
 was of medium height and stout, with quite a round face ; her 
 complexion still transparent and her cheeks rosy, notwithstand 
 ing forty years of cares and sorrows were indelibly stamped 
 upon her sweet face. But the great feature, that made all 
 look twice and thrice, was the profusion of wavy white locks, 
 loosely but neatly caught back with a band of black velvet. 
 
 "Mrs. Neal, I presume?" asked Mrs. Wetherell, very re 
 spectfully. 
 
 "Yes, madam, I am Mrs. Neal." 
 
 "I was told you wanted a lady boarder. Was I rightly in 
 formed ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, madam, you were." Mrs. Neal spoke slowly, and her 
 voice was very sweet not one of those simpering, lisping, drawl 
 ing vocal instruments in use by many women who play at being 
 sweet and fascinating for company or holidays, but a full, clear, 
 well-modulated voice, that was always in tune and never jarred. 
 
 Mrs. Wetherell looked steadily into Mrs. Neal's honest brown 
 eyes, as she said : 
 
 " I have a daughter, almost eighteen years old, whose health 
 has not been very good in Grass Valley. If I can find a desira 
 ble place in Nevada, I wish her to remain here a few months." 
 
 " Although I would be very happy to have a young person 
 in the house with me, I fear my home would not be desirable 
 for her. She might find it lonely, as I go out seldom, and am 
 a stranger here." 
 
Il6 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 " That is rather an advantage than otherwise in this case. 
 My daughter is naturally quiet and not inclined to visit a 
 great deal. I was told you were a widow ; have you no chil 
 dren ?" 
 
 "No, madam." 
 
 The eloquent regret expressed in those two words did not 
 even escape the hard-hearted, impenetrable Mrs. Wetherell. 
 
 "I had an adopted son, who was to have met me here, but 
 my coming was delayed by the illness and death of my mother. 
 Although I have been here two months, and made every effort, 
 I have not yet been able to find him." 
 
 Mrs. Wetherell was little interested in others' disappoint 
 ments or troubles, and thinking Mrs. Neal about to give her a 
 detailed account of family distresses, at once entered upon the 
 business of her visit, and everything was soon satisfactorily 
 arranged. . 
 
 Agreeing to send her daughter that day, Mrs. Wetherell 
 arose to take her departure. Handing Mrs. Neal a card, she 
 said: "I leave you this, that you may know the name of the 
 young lady you are to expect." With a stately " Good-morn 
 ing, madam," she took her seat in the carriage, and was soon 
 out of sight. 
 
 Mrs. Neal closed the door quietly, thinking, "I am almost 
 sorry I agreed to take that woman's daughter. There is some 
 thing terribly cold and repellent about her; but then the 
 daughter may be quite different. It is to be hoped so, at least. 
 There is little in a name ; still, let me see. ' Mrs. Richard 
 Wetherell.' Can it be possible ? " 
 
 The card dropped from her hand. It seemed as though an 
 adder had stung her to the heart and drawn all the life-blood, 
 she sat so motionless, looking into space the space of many 
 years. Instead of the rosy, cheerful Mrs. Neal of the few 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 117 
 
 minutes before, there sat a spectre, whose pale and anguish- 
 stricken countenance told how the hair became so hoary long 
 before the time for frost on her brow. Over that scrap of 
 paper on the floor passed volumes of unwritten history 
 panoramas of years. 
 
 "What a relentless fate!" said the widow, solemnly. 
 " Can there be no mercy in my God ? I thought my hopes 
 and joys and very life had been rotting in the past. So many 
 years their ashes were scattered to the winds, that not a trace 
 even of sorrow at their having existed could be found on the 
 earth. I awake to find the outer man and the inner man may 
 change, but the feelings, though changed with all the changes, 
 vibrate to the old touch and shudder at the old agony. 
 
 "The Agnes Neal of twenty-four years ago has long been 
 forgotten, -and who would recognize her in the Widow Neal of 
 to-day, with these gray locks ? Still, there is an elastic cord 
 between the young Agnes and the old the past and the pres 
 ent that bends to all oppressions, and stretches over every 
 curve, yet never breaks. 
 
 "I thought my happy young life was buried forever, and 
 out of the fragments of what was once lovely I could make a 
 new woman, known only to myself nobler and better, if pos 
 sible, from much endurance and hopeful resignation ; but I 
 find no workman, however skilful, can tear down a noble edifice 
 and build another of the old materials, and make it strong and 
 beautiful as it was in the beginning. 
 
 "After all my studied self-control, my patient longing and 
 waiting for forgetfulness of the past, a simple scrap of paper 
 tears open my heart wounds as if it were but yesterday they 
 were lacerated, and in my desolate future leaves Hope a bleeding 
 corpse as my companion. 
 
 " How can I take their child into my house? Their child ! 
 
Il8 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 How can I prevent her coming? I have no messenger, and if 
 I had, where could I send him ? My promise is given ; I will 
 keep my word. It may not be for long. If it should be the 
 daughter of the old Richard Wetherell of years gone by, he 
 will never recognize me, perhaps never see me." 
 
 The widow passed into a cozy little bedroom and mechan 
 ically arranged it for Linda's reception. She was still pale, and 
 the tempest that had swept over her soul had left deep traces ; 
 but those who battle always with storms brave the tempests, too. 
 Mrs. Neal's face, though paler and sadder than usual, again 
 wore the peaceful calm of Christian resignation. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 EYES THAT BESPEAK STORMS. 
 
 IT was past noon when Mrs. Wetherell alighted at her own 
 door. On entering the house, she spoke politely to Mrs. 
 
 Gray, and also to Walter, who had come to say good-by. 
 To Linda she simply said : 
 
 "Linda, the carriage is at the door, and the driver knows 
 where to take you." then passed into her own room. 
 
 Mr. Gray, with the little ones, was at the gate to meet them ; 
 and a stranger would have thought Linda the pet of a loving 
 household, about to leave home, rather than a sad-hearted girl 
 forcibly sent away. Although they did not see her, Mrs. 
 Wetherell stood at the window watching the group so atten 
 tively that not a single glance escaped her hawk-like eyes. She 
 noted every movement with greedy pleasure, particularly the 
 long pressure of the hand and tender good-by of Walter. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. I IQ 
 
 Well for them they saw not the flash of her black eyes, and 
 knew not a storm-cloud was gathering to burst with all the fury 
 of a vengeful woman over their happiness. May the gentle 
 winds of heaven waft it beyond their heads. 
 
 The ride seemed interminable to Linda, not knowing her 
 destination ; and she was too proud to expose her ignorance to 
 the driver by asking questions ; so it was with a strange mix 
 ture of relief and dread she ascended the steps of her future 
 home. Before she had time to rap, the door was opened by 
 Mrs. Neal. For an instant, they silently regarded each other, 
 and during that interval, by one of those strange, magnetic in 
 fluences most of us experience, but none can define, they were 
 friends. 
 
 " I am glad you have arrived, dear," said Mrs. Neal, putting 
 her arm affectionately about Linda, and kissing her as quietly 
 and motherly as if she had known her always. 
 
 Sometimes pleasant surprises are as great a shock as unpleasant 
 ones, and Linda, who had expected only unhappiness after her 
 removal from home and friends, was so overcome by the kind 
 greeting, that she burst into tears as she returned the motherly 
 embrace. 
 
 " My dear child, do not cry," said Mrs. Neal, as she led her 
 to a sofa, and drew her head upon her shoulder. " I can readily 
 understand ; you must feel badly at leaving home, and I fear 
 you will not be happy here. It was unfortunate your mother 
 insisted upon your coming. My humble home will be entirely 
 too lonely for you, with no one but me." 
 
 " No one here but you and me ? " asked Linda. 
 
 "No one, my dear," answered Mrs. Neal, in her sadly-sweet 
 way. 
 
 "Oh, how delightful that will be ! " exclaimed Linda, smil 
 ing through her tears. 
 
I2O FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 Mrs. Neal, in amazement, asked : " Did your mother not 
 tell you how lonely this place would be ? " 
 
 " My mother told me nothing. I had no idea where I was 
 going until I arrived." 
 
 " That is strange," said Mrs. Neal, thoughtfully, raising her 
 anxious eyes to Linda's face. 
 
 "It is not half so strange as many other things she does," 
 said Linda, bitterly. " Did she tell you she was sending me 
 away from home forever ? ' ' 
 
 "No, dear, she did not." 
 
 " Then, before you open your noble heart so generously to 
 take me into your dear little home, it is only just to tell you 
 why and how I am sent here." 
 
 Linda did not usually form sudden attachments, but with 
 Mrs. Neal it proved a case of love at first sight. Not a strange 
 thing either, for every one who knew Mrs. Neal loved her. 
 
 The clock struck six when she withdrew her hand from Lin 
 da's and imprinted a motherly kiss upon her forehead. 
 
 "You are young, child, to have such sorrow; but you will 
 bear it bravely, for you have real womanly nobility of character. 
 Troubles kill weak women, but they strengthen the strong. 
 Those who suffer intensely enjoy intensely, and can better com 
 prehend this wonderful world, with its multitudes of human 
 beings, all suffering and enduring. It is a divine gift, to be 
 able to suffer and accept it as the chastening rod of a merciful 
 Father. If the burden is heavy, the reward is great. It may 
 be long in coming, but it will come, although how or when we 
 can none of us tell. At thirty years of age, my hair was as 
 white as it is to-day. Some time I will tell you what made it 
 white, for one's troubles are easier borne when one knows others 
 have suffered more. I have always been very grateful that my 
 hair alone was changed and my mind left active and vigorous. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 121 
 
 No matter how hard our trials or numerous our afflictions, we 
 can always find something left to be grateful for ; and the little 
 blessings hidden away from human sight by sorrows are doubly 
 sweet. ' ' 
 
 " Oh, you are so noble and good ! " burst forth Linda, grasp 
 ing both her hands. " Everything seems easier to bear already. 
 And you have no one to care for but this adopted son, and you 
 cannot find him. Will you not let me love you, and be a 
 daughter to you ? and please love me a little in return. I have 
 always yearned so for a mother's love." 
 
 "Yes, dear, you shall be a daughter to me in my loneliness, 
 and I will be a mother to you. ' ' 
 
 The promise was sealed with a kiss and embrace; and as 
 Linda raised her head from her new mother's shoulder, she 
 asked, timidly, " May I call you Mother Neal? " 
 
 " Yes, child, what you choose ; but it is past our supper hour, 
 my dear, and I will leave you to amuse yourself while I go to 
 prepare it." 
 
 " But if I am to be your daughter, you must let me share 
 your labors." 
 
 "As you like, my child," said Mrs. Neal, smiling. "My 
 daughter must feel perfectly at home, that she may never weary 
 of her humble choice." 
 
 So sweetly began Linda's residence with Mrs. Neal. Her 
 first letters to Walter and Nellie, instead of being homesick, 
 tear-stained epistles, were simply happy eulogies on Mrs. Neal 
 and her new home, ending by saying : "I know you will love 
 her, too, for you cannot help it." 
 
 Not a week had yet elapsed when Linda was surprised by a 
 visit from her faithful friend Mrs. Gray, accompanied by Wal 
 ter. Mrs. Neal's welcome to them was so quiet and sincere, 
 every movement and every word so subdued and ladylike, that 
 ii 
 
122 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 Walter and Nellie did just as Linda said they would, "loved 
 her too." 
 
 As soon as Nellie and Linda were left alone, Nellie put her 
 arms about Linda and embraced her warmly, saying : " Walter 
 has told me all about it, dear, on the way coming up here, and 
 I am so delighted. I will visit with Mrs. Neal, who is just as 
 lovely as she can be ; and you shall take a long ride with Wal 
 ter. I told him so before we arrived ; so it is all arranged. I 
 am very happy to welcome you to my heart, no longer as one 
 of the sweetest and best of friends, but as the truest, tenderest 
 of sisters." 
 
 There was nothing definite about Ben's trial, and, as Walter 
 had advised Linda, she had taken no further measures to see 
 him. Walter's visit to Nevada was as much to the sheriff as 
 Linda, to get permission for her to visit her brother. This he 
 readily obtained, but was told the keeper of the jail must be 
 present during the visits, as the building was a poor structure, 
 and almost any simple carpenter's tool would be sufficient, if 
 dexterously used, to effect an escape. They could not keep too 
 strict watch, and he would not show any favors. 
 
 Linda could visit Ben once every week, and she was delighted 
 with the privilege on any terms. 
 
 After the errand to the sheriff was accomplished, Walter 
 took her for a short ride over the mountain roads, but it proved, 
 as Nellie had previously told her, "a nice long one." It was 
 a glorious day to Linda. The air was so balmy and fresh, as 
 they swept along the mountain side, that it wafted all weariness 
 and sadness from her heart. 
 
 We will not mock the sweet felicity of our lovers, by recount 
 ing the many nothings that, combined, made up their perfect 
 happiness during the fleeting hours, as they wound in and out 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 123 
 
 of those romantic by-ways in the mountains. Lovers' talk 
 should be as unintelligible as the cooings of turtle-doves, for 
 they will say silly things sometimes. Yet they are wise in their 
 silliness ; for, after all, true wisdom consists in being happy 
 in extracting happiness from all the sweets in life, and casting 
 aside the bitter. Many seem to hunt out the bitter drops and 
 let the sweet ones go untasted. To love deeply and fondly may 
 be silly, but the wise who ignore such foolishness, lose the real 
 essence of life, for the only approach to perfect happiness is 
 the repose of two souls blended into one by pure, unalloyed 
 affection and deep, tender sympathy. 
 
 Linda's mother had sent her away from home, and refused 
 to see her. Her father was at his mill, a few miles distant from 
 Nevada, and had not yet visited her in her new home. Her 
 brother was awaiting the judgment of the law for the crime 
 which he was accused of perpetrating. Walter argued eloquently 
 that her lonely position was not befitting a young lady of her 
 age, and wished their marriage hastened on that account. He 
 told her he was building a cottage near George's, and they 
 would be ever so happy and contented there. Still, Linda 
 would not consent to an immediate marriage. "Wait, Walter, 
 until Ben is liberated," was her constant plea. 
 
 When evening twilight crept over the earth, Linda was once 
 more alone, looking out over the dull little town, surrounded 
 by its lofty, wild mountains. She felt lonelier than ever. Some 
 times, when happiness pays us fleeting visits, it leaves us all the 
 more wretched after it has gone. 
 
 She went softly to the sofa, where Mrs. Neal had lain down, 
 and crept closely to her side. That wise, good woman knew 
 Linda's heart better than she did herself, and, as she gently 
 caressed her, talked of her absent friends, that she might pour 
 forth the weight at her heart. When absent from those we love, 
 it seems to bring us nearer, when we can talk of them freely. 
 
124 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 IN PRISON. 
 
 nnHE sheriff had granted Linda permission to visit her 
 brother the next day. Accompanied by Mrs. Neal, she 
 carried the treasure in her hand, addressed to Jake Sniffens, 
 that was to admit her that day of each week to see Ben. 
 
 She dreaded meeting the rough Jake, who had so grossly in 
 sulted her on her previous visit ; still, her heart beat lightly, 
 as she ase-ended the steps and knocked at the iron-barred door. 
 The same rough voice called out from behind the grating : 
 
 ' ' Who ' s there ? What do you want ? ' ' 
 
 Linda trembled at the very sound of the voice, but answered 
 firmly : 
 
 "I have permission from the sheriff to see Mr. Wetherell." 
 
 " Certainly, Miss," said Jake, politely, taking the permit and 
 reading it. "Walk in." 
 
 "You were not so accommodating last week," said Linda, 
 smiling. 
 
 "No? "asked Jake, astonished. "Oh, I'm always accom- 
 modatin' to the ladies. If any fellow wouldn't let you in last 
 week, it wa'nt Jake Sniffens, or I 'm a Dutchman." 
 
 Linda made no attempt to convince him of the veracity of 
 her statement, but was pleased to find the present Jake so much 
 more amiable than the former owing, of course, to the 
 sheriff's pass. She thought truly, "Telle est la vie." 
 
 Jake went on talking. "You know the regulations, I sup 
 pose. I have to keep my eye on you all the time you are visit 
 ing him." 
 
 " Certainly. I expect that," answered Linda. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 125 
 
 Jake disappeared, but soon returned followed by Ben. It 
 was a sad meeting. He and Linda both wept like children, 
 and but for Jake's rough comfort they would have had a mourn 
 ful visit. After he thought they had wept about enough, he 
 burst out in his rough way : 
 
 " Here ! no more of that nonsense. That 's the*worst I ever 
 did see." 
 
 It was not delicate sympathy, but it had the better effect of 
 bringing them to their senses. Mrs. Neal sat apart, and tried 
 to entertain Jake while Linda talked with Ben, who was so low- 
 spirited that it required all her self-possession to divert and 
 cheer him. As she rose to leave, he said : 
 
 " I wish they would take me out and hang me, Linda. I am 
 a living disgrace to you." 
 
 "Don't- talk so, Ben," she answered, tenderly. "This, I 
 am convinced, is your misfortune, and not your fault. I know 
 you are innocent, and no matter about the disgrace, dear. You 
 will soon be liberated, and then all the world will know of your 
 innocence." 
 
 "Oh, Linda, you know little of the law and the courts. 
 Innocent or guilty, the man has sworn that I robbed him. Un 
 fortunately, I was out hunting at the time, and I can bring no 
 evidence in favor of my statements. All is against me. I will 
 be tried, found guilty, and sent to State's prison for life, or 
 until life is not worth having." 
 
 " Do not be so desponding, dear brother. Can you not get 
 away ? ' ' This was asked sotto voce. 
 
 "I might, Linda; but I would not go if the door was left 
 open for me." 
 
 " Think it over, dear, and I will come to see you every week, 
 on this same day. ' ' 
 
 " Here ! " exclaimed Jake, " that whisperin' won't pay. You 
 ii * 
 
126 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 two can't put yer heads together, and plot treason against Jake 
 Sniffens, with him a settin' here a lookin' you out of counte 
 nance. ' ' 
 
 In a low whisper he added, "A fellow must say sweet things 
 sometimes ; but I think the resurrection would overtake me, a 
 settin' here a starin', if I had to stare that ere hard crust of 
 Satan out of countenance. He 's the worst I ever did see he 
 plays so innocent like." 
 
 Jake heard all the rest of the conversation, and the visit was 
 finally ended. With a promise to return the same day the next 
 week, Linda took her leave. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 
 
 THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 
 
 WHEN Walter returned to his office after his visit to Linda, 
 he found a letter addressed to him lying on his desk. 
 He tore it open hastily, and read : 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND : True to her family instinct, your sweet 
 heart, Linda Wetherell, is false to you. She is wholly unworthy 
 of you. Within ten days she left her home, was gone all night 
 and until a late hour the next day, when she was seen, by the 
 writer of this, parting from her. lover at the outskirts of Grass 
 Valley. I write you this because I am 
 
 YOUR FRIEND. 
 
 After reading it, Walter threw the note down, as if it was 
 unworthy any notice. He asked himself: "Why should I re 
 gard such a vile, little, nameless epistle, when Linda is my be 
 trothed wife, and we are soon to be married? Have I not 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 known her better than any one else, and watched her closely, 
 too, for over a year, and she has proved herself as pure, good, 
 and unselfish as any woman possibly could ? ' ' 
 
 He took up the note and read it over again. He paced the 
 floor, trying to think of Linda and his approaching marriage 
 hoping those bright thoughts, that had so completely filled his 
 mind one hour previous, would dispel all gloomy doubts ; but, 
 no ! ever and anon the contents of that note would flash across 
 his mind. He tried to think when Linda could possibly have 
 been away from home in that manner, when suddenly he re 
 membered that Mrs. Wetherell had been in search of her at the 
 cottage one morning, the week before, and greatly annoyed 
 Nellie by insisting upon her being there. 
 
 "Of course Nellie knows where Linda was," he said, half 
 aloud. "I will go up immediately and ask her, for this thing 
 annoys me more than I like to admit." 
 
 He hastened to the cottage, and assuming a careless tone, 
 asked: 
 
 " By the way, Nellie, did Linda tell you where she had been 
 that day her mother came heref in search of her ? ' ' 
 
 "No," answered Nellie, carelessly, and went on with her 
 reading. 
 
 Walter felt more annoyed than ever. He walked to the 
 window and stood nervously tapping the glass. 
 
 Nellie noticed his uneasiness, and laying aside her book, 
 asked : 
 
 " Why do you wish to know? " 
 
 "For no reason in particular," he said, shortly; but his 
 manner and tone belied him. 
 
 " Yes, it is something in particular, Walter, for you look very 
 unhappy. Can I not help you ? ' ' 
 
 Nellie had a fond way of saying things that comforted one 
 
128 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 amazingly. Walter drew the note from his pocket, and handed 
 it to her, without saying. a word. 
 
 After reading it, she looked up and smiled, as she asked : " Is 
 this all?" 
 
 " Is that all ! " said Walter, astonished. 
 
 " Well, Walter ! I thought you were more of a man. If I 
 were engaged to Linda Wetherell, and received a hundred such 
 miserable, intriguing notes, from a hundred different persons, I 
 would burn them all, and go and ask Linda where she had been, 
 and feel sure she would tell me the truth." 
 
 "But, Nellie," persisted Walter, "the one who wrote that 
 note seems to know more of my future wife than I do." 
 
 "Walter, her mother wrote that note," said Nellie, de 
 cidedly. 
 
 "Impossible! Nellie. I know her mother is a very bad 
 woman, but she surely could not be such a fiend as to interfere 
 in that unprincipled way, when she must know her daughter 
 is honorably engaged to be married. On the contrary, I should 
 think she would be pleased to get rid of her." 
 
 " She has cast her out already, and considers she has got rid 
 of her," answered Nellie. "Besides, Linda told me long ago 
 her mother had said she would make her miserable all the rest 
 of her life, if she refused to marry Major Warren. Linda 
 answered, she would be as miserable as she possibly could be 
 if she married him ; so she preferred being made miserable 
 by her mother. Mrs. Wetherell said, you shall be miserable 
 enough, if you leave it to me." 
 
 " I wish Linda had told me that," said Walter. " I do not 
 feel quite satisfied about this matter." 
 
 "Then go to Linda to-morrow morning, and have her ex 
 plain her absence. If she cannot explain it satisfactorily, then 
 there will be sufficient time to doubt her." 
 
FREE PRISONERS. I2Q 
 
 "I will do as you advise, Nell," said Walter, better satis 
 fied. " I believe you have more good sense than any other 
 woman in the world." 
 
 "Excepting Linda," smiled Nellie. "You will find her as 
 sensible, faithful, and true as any woman in the world 1 can be." 
 
 The next morning, when Walter awoke, sweet sleep had 
 entirely dispelled the gloomy doubts of the night before, and 
 he felt heartily ashamed of his foolishness. He told Nellie so, 
 and requested her, as a special favor, never to mention the sub 
 ject to Linda, nor question her with regard to her absence. 
 He felt he could and would trust- her implicitly, but if ever 
 anything else disturbed his peace of mind, he would go to her 
 and have her explain all. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE LOST WIFE FOUND AND LOST. 
 
 T INDA had gone to spend a few hours with Ben, for Jake 
 [^ Sniffens had become very lenient, exercising great pa 
 tience toward her, in permitting her visits to be prolonged 
 into hours. 
 
 Mrs. Neal's door stood open, and the soft breezes, laden with 
 the perfume of honeysuckles and roses, pervaded the cottage. 
 There were footsteps on the gravel walk, then the shadow of a 
 man, and Mrs. Neal, raising her eyes from her work, saw Cap 
 tain Wetherell standing in her cottage door. She had often 
 seen him without being seen, and had so dexterously avoided 
 all possibility of meeting, that she had ceased to dread it. 
 Now, from her far-off dreaming and security, she was suddenly 
 
 I 
 
I3O FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 recalled by the presence of that man, face to face, in her 
 cottage door. She gave a low cry of anguish, sprang to her 
 feet, and the ashen lips said, slowly : 
 
 ''Richard Neal ! " 
 
 The Captain stood aghast. He staggered to a chair and 
 dropped into it heavily. His eyes never left Mrs. Neal's 
 face they stared blankly, apparently seeing nothing. 
 
 Mrs. Neal, with the pallor of death, stood confronting him. 
 Recovering herself, she said mechanically : 
 
 " Captain Wetherell, Miss Linda is not at home." 
 
 She was leaving the room, when the Captain sprang forward 
 and grasped her hand, exclaiming : 
 
 "Agnes, for God's sake, stay." 
 
 She tried to free herself from his firm hold, but he was the 
 stronger, and held her like a vise, as he hoarsely whispered : 
 
 "Agnes, I have searched the world over for you. Listen to 
 me one moment." 
 
 "Captain Wetherell, I cannot listen. You and I parted 
 years ago parted forever ! You betrayed me ; you acted a 
 coward's part. No explanations will avail. All reference to 
 that wretched past is inexpressibly bitter. Let it rest. ' ' 
 
 " I know I did wrong, Agnes, very wrong. I admit it all." 
 
 "Wrong ! " said Mrs. Neal, bitterly. " Wrong is too mild 
 a term for a crime like yours." 
 
 " Crime ? What do you mean by that, Agnes ? " 
 
 " How can you stand face to face with me, Captain Wether 
 ell, and blandly ask what I mean by terming your villany 
 crime? You, who came to my father's house, received his hos 
 pitalities, won his daughter's love, and took her before the altar 
 to have that aged man bless his child as your wife ; then, on 
 pretext of business that kept you roaming about, left me at 
 home, in our out-of-the-way village, until my father died, when 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 13! 
 
 you took us to New Orleans. I was your happy, trusting, lov 
 ing wife, and bore you two children and then and then 
 I discovered you had another wife, and other children who bore 
 your name, and I and mine were aliens." 
 
 "Stop!" cried the Captain, fiercely. "I did act like a 
 scoundrel, but not toward you. You were, and are, my wife. 
 My name is Neal Richard Neal. There is a Mrs. Wetherell, 
 but there is no such person as Richard Wetherell." 
 
 Mrs. Neal shuddered at the thought of being that man's wife 
 the man whose very name had become synonymous with 
 everything wretched and vile, the destroying demon of her 
 peace and happiness. She knew not what to think, much less 
 to say ; besides, she could not place any confidence in a single 
 word he uttered. 
 
 " No such man as Richard Wetherell? " she asked, dreamily, 
 as if she had not heard distinctly. 
 
 "No such man," echoed the Captain. "You shall know 
 what you should have known when we were married. What I 
 told your father, although I did not quite tell him the truth " 
 
 " Scoundrel ! to lie to my unsuspicious old father ! " A fire 
 was kindled in the mild woman a fire doubly dangerous from 
 the smouldering cinders underneath the blaze. 
 
 The Captain, at all times a coward, instinctively retreated 
 toward the door. He remembered her a sweet, mild, loving 
 girl he met a wronged woman. 
 
 " Hear me, Agnes, hear me," he pleaded. " My name was 
 and is Richard Neal. My parents died when I was young, and 
 left me to the care of an uncle who was cruel and harsh with 
 me. My father had left me quite a sum of money in a bank, 
 subject to my uncle's control until I was of age. He had a son, 
 an only child, and I fancied sometimes he would liked to have 
 killed me, to bestow my wealth upon that boy. There was 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 always jealousy between us, and my uncle being poor, felt bit 
 terly toward my father for not having left him anything, except 
 ing the sum for my board, which was drawn quarterly from the 
 bank ; and I was always the messenger sent for it. My home 
 was hard and unpleasant. I was compelled to work like a day- 
 laborer, notwithstanding my expenses were paid. I could not 
 endure such a life. My father had been kind and gentle, and 
 left me a fortune, ample for my education and comfort. 
 
 "I was sixteen years of age, and had still five years more of 
 slavery before I could control what was justly my own. When 
 the time came again for the quarterly payment, I wrote a check 
 myself, for I had labored until I could imitate my uncle's signa 
 ture to perfection. It happened, very propitiously, at that time 
 there was an estate for sale that had a good rental, and the 
 banker, an old friend of my father, tried to induce my uncle to 
 buy it for me, as it was the exact sum of my bank deposit, and 
 he argued it would double in value by the time I was of age. 
 My uncle would not hear of it. He could not make me richer 
 than his son, and from that time his dislike to me became ab 
 solute hatred. The time approached for the sale, and I signed 
 a check for the full amount, telling the banker my uncle had 
 changed his mind and had purchased the property. I had always 
 been so upright and reliable in my transactions for years, that 
 I had the perfect confidence of the banker, and he gave me the 
 money. 
 
 " I left that part of the world, and have never been there since. 
 I only took what was justly my own, but I dreaded the result of 
 my uncle's anger, and fled westward under the name of Weth- 
 erell, and, becoming identified with that name, never changed 
 it. I told your father I had changed it to get some money an 
 uncle had left me on that condition, for I loved you, Agnes, 
 and our marriage, to be legal, had to be solemnized under my 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 133 
 
 real name. Then fate threw in my way a dashing beauty. 
 When I look back, she seems like one of those enchanted devils 
 one reads about. I had always led a fast life, had met and won 
 many handsome women, but this one was by far the most bril 
 liant creature I had ever seen. I was her slave, and, but for 
 our marriage, would have married her. She led me so gently, 
 so surely, that I made a vow to possess her. She was proud 
 and fiery, and as no one knew that my name was not Wether- 
 ell, and I could not win her any other way, I went through a 
 ceremony of marriage that I soon had deep cause to regret, for 
 she was a full-fledged devil. She discovered our marriage 
 God only knows how and threatened me with State's prison for 
 bigamy, if I would not leave the country. So I agreed to go to 
 India for ten years. 
 
 "You know with what a sad heart I left you, Agnes, for, 
 although I had been false to you, I loved you, and you alone, 
 of all the women on earth. I kept writing to you continually, 
 but when eight years had passed, and I had never heard from 
 you, I could endure my exile no longer. I came back, and 
 searched for years in vain for you. My life has been a pitiable 
 failure without you. I have no home, no resting-place on earth. 
 That woman and I have never lived together since she discov 
 ered the fraud practised upon her ; yet her selfish pride induces 
 her to keep up the appearance of family ties. All these years 
 I have wandered over the earth, peering into every woman's 
 face, seeking and never finding you till now." 
 
 "Sir, I am nothing to you. Mrs. Wetherell has passed for 
 your wife so many years, she is entitled to the honor. I am 
 dead to you." 
 
 " Agnes, I will break every tie, brave every danger, if you 
 will only be mine once again my long-lost wife, my love." 
 
 " Captain Wetherell, I disclaim all relationship. Your own 
 
 12 
 
134 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 conduct broke the bonds that bound us. Your cruelty turned 
 my love into bitterest hatred and contempt. Nothing can ever 
 soften my heart to you. ' ' 
 
 " Not even our children, Agnes? " 
 
 Mrs. Neal trembled visibly, but made no reply. The Captain 
 noticing her distress, asked : 
 
 " Our children, Agnes, where are they ? " 
 
 "Where, indeed?" said the agonized woman, in tones of 
 deepest despair. 
 
 She turned suddenly upon the man who had been her hus 
 band, and, with a ghostly smile that seemed only the action of 
 the muscles that had no connection with her innermost self, 
 hissed from between her set teeth : 
 
 " They are dead ! And there is not a living creature to 
 bind together the past. I am a stranger to you, Captain Weth- 
 erell, and my house is not open to you in future. Good-day, 
 sir." 
 
 "Good-by, Agnes, if you say it must be; but think it over. 
 Remember my years of penitence, my desolate future, and ask 
 me to come again, and be what I am before heaven, your hus 
 band. I will obey you, Agnes; only be merciful." 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 135 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 TEMPTATION CLOTHED IN LOVE. 
 
 " Nor should Apollo, with his silver bow, 
 Shoot me to instant death, would I forbear 
 To do a deed so full of cause so dear." Homer. 
 
 r \ ^WO months had passed, with nothing to disturb the mo 
 notony of Linda's life, excepting the regular visits from 
 Walter and Nellie, and her unfailing attendance at the 
 prison. 
 
 Mrs. Neal was the same sweet, motherly friend ; if anything, 
 lovelier, and fonder of Linda, who found her a wise counsellor, 
 and returned her love with devotion. Their time was passed 
 in sweet communion, never wearying of each other, but daily 
 becoming more essential to each other's happiness. 
 
 Linda had but one secret from her adopted mother, and 
 sometimes that weighed heavily upon her mind. She had de 
 termined, if possible, to liberate Ben, and in that she knew 
 she would meet with opposition in the conscientious Mrs. 
 Neal ; so she resolved to keep the secret until she could tell the 
 result. 
 
 It was the day for her regular visit to Ben. Mrs. Neal had 
 gone to a cabin some distance off, to carry some broth to a 
 lonely, sick miner, and Linda knew it would take her some 
 time, as she was ministering angel to all in need for miles 
 around. She leisurely arranged her toilette, and, smiling to 
 herself, slipped a carpenter's chisel up one sleeve and a file up 
 the other. 
 
 "This is desperate business," thought she, "but I am sure 
 
136 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 the means will overcome Ben's scruples, and he will at least 
 make an effort to escape. I saw him at the grating watching 
 for me last week, so I know in which cell he is confined. If 
 Jake Sniifens is half as careless to-day as he was last time, I 
 will have no trouble." 
 
 She felt lighter-hearted than she had for a long time before, 
 as she hurried along to the prison. Much to Jake Sniffens's 
 comfort, there was no "blubbering" on that occasion. They 
 sat down and talked pleasantly together, so that he could hear 
 every word. He did not notice how long Linda held Ben's 
 hand in hers ; but she almost always held his hand, so there was 
 nothing strange in that. Jake shortened the visit by the an 
 nouncement that some one was knocking and he must go, 
 which meant that Linda must go too. 
 
 As she bid Ben good-by, she whispered, pleadingly : " Please 
 try, Ben, for my sake." 
 
 He could not withstand the temptation, clothed in love as it 
 came, and he answered, softly : " Be under my window at eleven 
 to-night. ' ' 
 
 That was all, but it made Linda's heart bound with joy. She 
 was confident Jake Sniffens had not noticed anything peculiar 
 in her visit, nor heard the whispering ; so far, all was well. 
 
 Ben was taken back to his cell, the heavy iron door was 
 closed and locked, and Linda went home anxious but hopeful. 
 
 Mrs. Neal had accompanied Linda several times in her visit 
 to Ben, and felt great interest in his welfare. She was at the 
 door to meet her on her return to inquire after him, and 
 noticing her flushed cheeks, asked anxiously : 
 
 "What ails you, dear child? Is there anything wrong with 
 Ben?" 
 
 " No, good mother, Ben is just as usual, but I have a wretched 
 headache," which was really the case. 
 

 FREE PRISONERS. 137 
 
 " You must lie down, dear, and I will bring you a nice cup 
 jof tea," and Mrs. Neal stroked Linda's aching head. 
 
 Linda did as she was bid, and Mrs. Neal brought the tea 
 with a steaming piece of toast, then sat long by the bedside 
 while Linda slept. She seemed to take great pleasure in her 
 task, for often, as her eyes rested fondly on the sweet face be 
 fore her wrapt in peaceful slumber, a smile of real contentment 
 passed over her usually sad face. 
 
 The striking of the clock startled Linda, and she raised up 
 hastily, exclaiming : 
 
 " Nine o'clock ! How long I have slept ! " 
 
 Seeing Mrs. Neal still by her side, she exclaimed : " Mother 
 Neal ! It is just like you, to have sat here all this time. You 
 must be tired. Please go to bed, now. I am quite well again. 
 The pain in my head is all gone." 
 
 "I am glad. I knew you were better, you slept so quietly. 
 If you should feel sick during the night, or require anything, 
 call me, dear. - Good-night, child, and pleasant dreams." 
 
 "Good-night, darling Mother Neal," and Linda embraced 
 her fondly. 
 
 When the door was closed, she exclaimed, with a yearning 
 appeal : ( ' Oh, you darling, good woman ! If I could only 
 tell you what a task I have before me this night ! May the 
 angels of peace, that have made you such a perfect being, wrap 
 you in slumber so profound that I can go out into the dark 
 ness to-night as undisturbed as if I were spirited away." 
 
 She knelt down and prayed earnestly a strange, incon 
 sistent prayer, like many offered to the great shrine on high 
 a prayer in which she pleaded for help in doing wrong a 
 prayer for forgiveness before the sin was committed, with the 
 full determination of committing it. Half the praying world 
 is quite as inconsistent. Few Christians, so called, seldom return 
 12* 
 
138 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 thanks for past blessings, but kneel regularly to go over their 
 vocabulary of wants. They pray to gain something what,* 
 they do not know themselves but on general principles. If 
 there is a God, it is well to be on the right side of Him. If 
 there is a future, it is just as well to be prepared for it. Linda 
 was in danger and afraid, so she prayed for God's blessing, 
 and expected it as much in doing wrong as in doing right. 
 We cannot understand, when we are bidden to " ask and it 
 shall be given unto you," that our prayers are not always an 
 swered, because we are incapable of judging what is best, and 
 ask for wrong things. So the doubting world sneers at the 
 efficacy of prayer. If we have a delicate child, who pleads 
 and entreats for something we know would positively do him 
 bodily injury, we refuse the request, although our severity 
 grieves him at the time. He does not know what is best, so 
 we must exercise our maturer and better judgment not that 
 we cannot grant the request, but will not, and in the far-off 
 future the child will be all the better for that act of self- 
 denial. So our foolish, impulsive prayers go unanswered for 
 our own future good. With all our conceit and vaunting pride 
 and power, we are only a family of children, under the perfect 
 control of a Great and Wise Power that the most learned can 
 neither comprehend nor influence one atom. We are bubbles 
 on a mighty ocean, sparkling and dancing in the sunlight, to 
 be washed on the beach in a mass of foam at evening, and 
 sink into the thirsty sand. 
 
 As Linda sat waiting for the ticking clock to tell the houi, 
 for starting on her dangerous errand-, her thoughts went flying 
 off to that family circle in Grass Valley ; and most delightful of 
 all, she was soon to be one Df them, and Mother Neal was to 
 go with her. It was the happiest dream of her life to repose 
 in the love and care of such a united home. The little clock 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 139 
 
 struck ten she started nervously. " Only one hour more, and 
 I must be under the prison window. Come out from your 
 hiding place, my only protector/' she said, taking a pistol 
 from a little casket. " A blessing on Bob Rivers for this ! 
 Without it, how could I venture out at half-past ten o'clock 
 this dark night alone ? With it, I can dare almost anything. 
 How I longed to tell Walter all about my intentions with re 
 gard to Ben. How happy I will be if successful, and what 
 will I not suffer if I fail ? Could I but pace up and down this 
 little room, the time would not seem half so long; but the 
 slightest sound might awaken my anxious, slumbering Mother 
 Neal. So I must sit quietly, while my thoughts fly in quick 
 succession, like autumn leaves before a gale. Half-past ten 
 thank God ! I must be off to the prison. Prison ! the very 
 name makes me shudder. Ben in prison ? yes, and so am I. 
 My body is free, but my soul and oh, I fear my happiness is 
 enchained in aliving tomb. How I tremble. Eighteen years 
 old to-morrow, and going alone at midnight to release my 
 guilt-stained brother from prison to break the laws of State. 
 Oh, Ben ! Ben ! if you knew what all this costs me. And 
 Walter, will he love a woman who dares so much ? Will he 
 not fear me instead of loving me, coming, as I do, from such 
 a strange family? Oh, God, if there is any mercy in heaven, 
 have mercy on me." 
 
 She went softly and timidly out in the dark night. Veto, 
 the watch-dog, snarled and growled, but Linda's friendly voice 
 quieted him at once. She tried to make him stay at home, but 
 he would not pay the slightest attention to her pantomime, and 
 persistently followed her. 
 
 Linda reached the prison at the appointed time, and whis 
 pered tremulously, "Ben, I am here." 
 
 "All is well," was the reply. "We will be free by one 
 
I4O FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 o'clock. You must not remain there. Gp down the Grass 
 Valley road about half a mile, where a cross-road leads off to 
 the left. Wait there ; I must see you. Keep in the bushes. 
 If you hear any one approach, be silent. When I come I will 
 call your name; reply to nothing else." 
 
 "God bless you in your task to-night, Ben, but my heart is 
 faint and full of doubts." 
 
 "Fear not ! " said the voice from the dark cell. "I would 
 give the world to be free, if I could only be your slave." 
 
 Linda went carefully away toward the road, with Veto follow 
 ing closely. 
 
 " Thank you, Veto, for your company," she said, patting him 
 on the head. He wagged his tail and licked her hand, as if to 
 say, " I knew you would want me." 
 
 As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she could 
 see the rough, uneven road distinctly; but at midnight, alone 
 in the mountains, with her footsteps resounding like ghostly 
 pursuers, the half mile to where the road led off to the left was 
 a long journey. When they finally reached the spot, she sat 
 down under a thick cluster of manzanita bushes, and Veto, 
 crawling closely to her side, put his head in her lap. It grew 
 darker every moment, and great rain-drops began to fall. The 
 wind rose higher and higher, until it whistled and howled all 
 around them, like a wild beast, in those lonely mountains. The 
 tall pines lashed each other and moaned pitifully. The rain fell 
 faster and faster, until it seemed to have spent its fury, then 
 gradually subsided, like the sobbing of a child after weep 
 ing. 
 
 Under the shelter of the thick manzanita bushes, Linda was 
 quite shielded from the storm ; but the moments were hours, 
 and the hours an eternity to her. After she had waited long 
 and patiently, she heard the sound of approaching voices. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 141 
 
 Veto growled, but she put her arms around his neck and patted 
 him. She whispered something in his ear ; he seemed to com 
 prehend it all, for he did not stir again. 
 
 Poor Linda was almost paralyzed from fear, lest any instant 
 Veto would make their hiding-place known. On they came, 
 nearer and nearer, until she heard a rough voice say : 
 
 " That was a fine piece of business in Curly." 
 
 "Yes, Curly acted the traitor there, sure," was the answer. 
 "What in thunder had he against Bob Rivers, anyway? Bob 
 was the best fellow that ever made an honest living in these 
 mountains." 
 
 " Honest, be d d ! " said the first speaker. " What 's gettin' 
 into you, Ned? Who wants to be honest when he 's gettin' on 
 well?" 
 
 " But what about Bob Rivers and Curly? " asked the second 
 speaker again, paying no attention to his friend's taunt. 
 
 " I don't exactly know," was the reply. " It was something 
 that happened long ago, I believe. Bob was in love with a 
 girl, and they were going to be married, when she disappeared 
 all of a sudden, and has never been heard of since. Some say 
 Curly took her off by force to one of his cabins, and the girl 
 died of grief for Bob." 
 
 "The devil!" 
 
 "Yes," resumed the narrator. "Her name was Fannie 
 West, and a devilish pretty girl, I 've heard." 
 
 "If I 'd been Bob," said the other, "I'd have killed that 
 wretch." 
 
 " So would Bob, I guess, if he could prove he did it. 
 Thompson told me he was down at Curly 's cabin not long ago, 
 when a blamed pretty girl came along that way by some mis 
 take, and if Bob had not given her one of his pistols, and taken 
 her part, it would have been another Fannie West case. Who- 
 
142 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 ever she was, she owes a heap to Bob Rivers, for, after taking 
 her part, he saw her safely on her way home. The boys were 
 going down on a lark to Grass Valley that night, and when 
 Bob got back, he found Curly very much out of humor. 
 Thompson said he tried every way to get up a fight with Bob, 
 but Bob was unusually quiet. That made Curly so mad, when 
 they were near Grass Valley he deliberately turned and fired at 
 Bob. He missed his aim, but it brought a lot of men out of a 
 saloon near by. Curly walked up to them, and said, ' Gentle 
 men, this is that other stage robber that has been missing so , 
 long arrest him ; ' of course they nabbed Bob. Bill Brown 
 was with them, and he drew off and shot Curly, saying, ' Take 
 that for your treachery.' They nabbed Bill, too, and sent 
 him and Bob up to jail. Curly is pretty bad, but the boys 
 have changed mightily if they let Bill swing for killing " 
 
 The last words of the sentence were inaudible, although 
 Linda held her breath to catch every sound. She thought long 
 over that strange dialogue, and felt greatly depressed, when she 
 fully realized how much sorrow had come from that single act 
 of humanity on the part of Bob Rivers toward her. 
 
 "Oh," she exclaimed aloud, "what a singular life I have 
 allotted me in this strange world ! It must have been the 
 wind, but I thought I heard a human voice there, I hear it 
 again ; if it is only Ben ! " 
 
 Veto started again, and it required all her powers of pur- 
 suasion to keep him from rushing off. Nearer and nearer came 
 the voices, and in great haste it seemed ; as they approached 
 her hiding-place, her name was called softly, " Linda." 
 
 "Here I am," she answered joyfully, springing from her 
 hiding place ; but, seeing two men, she stopped suddenly, and 
 asked: "Which is Ben?" 
 
 All was silent for an instant. Then the same voice that had 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 143 
 
 answered her from the prison window said, pleadingly, " For 
 give me for this deception. Ben is not here." 
 
 ' ' Not here ? ' ' gasped Linda. ' ' Not free ? ' ' 
 
 She staggered as if shot, and would have fallen, but for the 
 strong arms that caught her. It was only momentary, and she 
 asked pitifully : " Who are you, and how did this terrible mis 
 take happen ? ' ' 
 
 "I will tell you," answered the same person, kindly. "In 
 the first place, that you may not fear me, I am Bob Rivers. 
 Perhaps you remember, I went part way home with you from 
 Curly Smith's cabin about two months ago." 
 
 "Yes, I remember," said Linda. "I would be heartless, 
 indeed, if I could ever forget your kindness. I am glad you 
 are free, even though poor Ben is still a prisoner, as I feel sure 
 he is." 
 
 " I am sorry to say he is. But we must not remain here," 
 said Bob, nervously. " Let us walk along this side road. I 
 have considerable to tell you, and we are not safe here." 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE FATAL MISTAKE. 
 
 YOUR brother, Bill Brown, this friend of mine," said Bob, 
 pointing to the man by his side, "and I were all con 
 fined in one large cell, facing the road, where you saw 
 Ben to-day. After you went away, your brother brought in 
 those tools. They were safely secreted, arid all the arrange 
 ments made for to-night. As bad luck would have it, the 
 sheriff visited us this afternoon, and told Jake Sniifens Ben's 
 
144 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 trial was to take place next week, and ours the week after. He 
 ordered Ben put in a cell by himself, because he thought he 
 would be more comfortable. The sheriff did it out of kind 
 ness, but it almost broke Ben's heart to go. Jake was going to 
 change him immediately, but some one called him away, and 
 he did not come back for about an hour. In the meantime Ben 
 told me what I was to say to you. You see, during those long 
 days in prison, knowing he was your brother, I told him all 
 about the day you went to Curly Smith's cabin by mistake, and 
 how brave you were, and afterward about my going part way 
 home with you how you fainted when I said I thought he was 
 guilty, and how I could have cut my tongue out the moment 
 afterward, for I knew that was what almost killed you. The 
 poor fellow cried like a child, and said : 
 
 " ' Poor Linda ! What she has to suffer through me ! If 
 she only knew how innocent I am of this charge, it would be 
 lighter to bear. I am very much afraid of the result of my 
 trial, and then what will she not have to endure ? Bob, if you 
 are freed and I am not, if you have one spark of humanity left, 
 do look after Linda a little, for you don't know how much she 
 needs some one to protect her. I could bear to be torn limb 
 from limb and piece from piece, if I could undo this wretched 
 wrong, and lift this load of sorrow from her heart. ' ' 
 
 Linda was sobbing and crying like a child, and Bob, thinking 
 he had added another bitter drop to her already overflowing cup, 
 almost wept too. They had walked along in silence some dis 
 tance before he continued : 
 
 "Ben wanted Bill and me to make the most of our chance 
 and get away. He thought there was no hope of escape for him, 
 but he was innocent, and, perhaps, it would be as well to let 
 the law prove it. He told me what to say at the prison window, 
 and not let you suspect anything was wrong, for he had an ob- 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 145 
 
 ject in having you meet me out here. He wanted us to go 
 along this road about a mile until we came to a cabin, on 
 the right hand side, where the road seems to be lost in the 
 bushes. He said we would know it by a light in the first 
 window. He told me to take you there to see his wife and 
 baby." 
 
 " Did you say Ben's wife and baby? " asked Linda, as if she 
 had not heard aright. 
 
 "Yes, Miss, Ben's wife and baby. He wanted me to ask 
 you to forgive him for not telling you. He was married a few 
 weeks before you arrived from the East. His wife's father and 
 mother had been killed by the Indians a short time before, and 
 she had no relations in this country not even friends. Ben 
 had not known her very long, but he loved her, and she loved 
 him, and was willing to live with him in the humblest manner; 
 so they were married. He said the reason he had not told 
 you was because his family were all at war with one another, 
 and such an announcement would only have added fuel to the 
 flames. Besides, his father would not be likely to recognize 
 his wife, as he would have nothing to do with him, and she was 
 poor, like himself, so his mother would not be pleased with the 
 addition to the family. He was working industriously, and 
 doing well, and had hoped soon to have a pleasant home in 
 which to receive you. His wife understood the circumstances, 
 and was willing to wait patiently. He has sent her two letters 
 telling her all about his troubles, but thinks she never received 
 them, as he has not heard from her. ' ' 
 
 "This is all very strange," said Linda, thoughtfully. " Did 
 you ever see his wife ? ' ' 
 
 " No," answered Bob. " I never knew he was' married until 
 he told me. He thinks the world and all of his wife, and asked 
 you to be kind to her for his sake. ' ' 
 13 K 
 
146 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 "How far do you think it is from here?" inquired Linda, 
 anxiously. 
 
 "It cannot be very far, for he said it was not quite a mile 
 from the main road." 
 
 They were continuing their walk in silence, when Bill Brown, 
 who had not said one word during the entire conversation, ex 
 claimed, excitedly, " There is a light in a cabin window ! " 
 
 Sure enough, there was the talisman that was to guide them. 
 As they approached the cabin a dog barked fiercely within. 
 Instantly a sweet voice asked, " Who is there? " 
 
 "Friends," said Bob, and his voice trembled perceptibly. 
 
 The cry of joy that burst from the frail creature who opened 
 that cabin door brought tears to every eye, and it had been 
 long since Bob Rivers and Bill Brown had shed tears. 
 
 " Oh, Ben, dear Ben ! I thought you must be dead ! " cried 
 the expectant wife. Then, seeing so many strangers, she be 
 came bewildered. No one could speak the first bitter words 
 of disappointment. 
 
 Linda regarded her new sister an instant, with her streaming 
 blonde hair and soft blue eyes. She had made up her mind 
 to love Ben's wife because he loved her, but her quick eye read 
 that gentle creature, and like lightning the thought flashed 
 through her brain "I can love you for yourself." She sprang 
 forward, threw her arms about her neck, saying : 
 
 "I am Linda, your sister, and I have come to tell you of 
 Ben." 
 
 "Then, he is " 
 
 "Not dead," said Linda, earnestly; for Lucy, as Ben had 
 sent word to call her, seemed unable to finish the dread ques 
 tion. 
 
 " Then he is not with you? " asked Lucy. 
 
 "No, he could not come; but here is a friend of his, Mr. 
 Rivers." 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 147 
 
 Lucy bowed coldly to Bob. She could not recover her self- 
 possession after her disappointment. 
 
 "Lucy, I have come," said Linda, with a voice full of sym 
 pathy and love, "to be your friend until Ben can come to you. 
 He is in great trouble." 
 
 "You are fortunate, Mrs. Wetherell. Who ever can claim 
 Miss Linda's friendship, has not only one of the most faithful 
 and truest friends in the world, but a perfect angel to take care 
 of them," said Bob, earnestly. " Two hours ago I was in jail, 
 and she liberated me. My life is at her command." 
 
 " Do you mean that? " asked Linda, seriously. 
 
 "I do," answered Bob, emphatically. 
 
 "Then I command you," said Linda, earnestly, "to let 
 the dead past bury its dead, and henceforth make your life a 
 noble one." 
 
 Bob raised his hand and said, solemnly, "I swear to you, 
 I will." 
 
 They had quite forgotten Lucy, who stood by deathly pale. 
 She turned her soft eyes to Linda, and asked, quietly, "And 
 Ben, is he in prison ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, he is still there," answered Linda, with pity in her 
 great brown eyes ; " but I hope and pray he will soon be free." 
 
 As may be expected, Lucy had heard nothing from Ben. 
 His two partners had been very kind and attentive to her ; but 
 thinking he was innocent and would be speedily released, they 
 had kept her in utter ignorance of the real state of affairs. 
 They told her, when he was first arrested, that while visiting 
 his sister he had been subpoenaed as witness in an important case 
 in San Francisco, and might be absent some time. They thought 
 at first he might be gone two or three weeks, but when two 
 months went by, and still he did not come, she became greatly 
 alarmed. She was fearful some accident had happened, or she 
 
148 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 would at least have heard from him. But with all her conflict 
 ing thoughts, she had never once dreamed of dishonor. 
 
 Bill Brown would not enter the cabin ; he was very sullen and 
 morose, considering he had just escaped from prison. He sat 
 outside in the rain awhile, then mentioned a place of rendez 
 vous with Bob for the next morning, and left. When he was 
 gone, Bob remarked, " That fellow acts as though he was sorry 
 he had left jail." 
 
 Linda and Bob related all the particulars of Ben's imprison 
 ment, with Linda's efforts to release him, and the result. They 
 expressed their firm belief in his innocence, and positive ex 
 pectation that he would be restored to his anxious wife the 
 following week. 
 
 It was a long night of trial for Lucy, but Linda was a good 
 comforter, and had suffered and become quite resigned through 
 the same trials that Lucy had to undergo. 
 
 The rayi poured down in torrents, and as Bob had no other 
 place to go, he remained in the cabin. He was very uneasy, 
 for he wanted to leave Linda and Lucy alone to talk over their 
 troubles in their own womanly way. After he had thought of 
 a great many plans, it occurred to him that Linda must be faint 
 and hungry after her night's exertions, so he said in a very 
 modest way, for a mountain desperado, "If Mrs. Wetherell 
 would let him, he would go into the kitchen and make a cup 
 of coffee. He assured them Miss Linda needed something 
 after her long walk and exposure to the rain, and he had kept 
 bachelor's hall so long, he was fully competent." 
 
 Linda was obliged to go home early in the morning, for she 
 knew how anxious Mrs. Neal would be about her; but she 
 promised to return the following day and remain with Lucy 
 until Ben was released. It was seven o'clock when she started 
 for the main road, accompanied by Bob Rivers. After they 
 had gone a short distance, he said : ' 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 149 
 
 "I have some business out here, about a quarter of a mile 
 from the road ; that is why I remained last night. I should have 
 been a good ways off from here by this time, for those hounds 
 scent a fellow within ten miles. My business is in an old tree 
 not far from here. It serves as my banking-house, and this is 
 my pass-key. ' ' He drew a small coil of rope from an old stump 
 by the roadside. " I want you to remember where I keep that, 
 and also the tree I am going to show you. It has two peculiar 
 chips of bark cut out of it, and the top was burnt off some 
 years ago. About eight feet from the ground a great arm 
 branches off, but the main trunk is perfectly hollow, and will 
 hold a man very comfortably. I have some money deposited 
 there. The interest is decidedly small, but the principal is 
 safe. There, that is the tree." 
 
 " Hark ! did you not hear voices? " asked Linda, in alarm. 
 
 " Yes, I do. If I can only gain that tree." 
 
 " Leave me ; go quick ! " whispered Linda. 
 
 " Have no fear on my account ; I can get along." 
 
 The voices approached nearer every moment. Linda stood 
 in breathless anxiety. Bob gained the tree, threw the rope 
 over the branch, swung up on it, and in an instant was out of 
 sight. He was pulling in the last of the rope, when Veto 
 barked, and sprang forward to meet four men, who came in full 
 view of Linda. The last of the rope disappeared, and Linda 
 leaned against a tree for support. 
 
 "What is that woman doing out here this time of day? 
 Bring her this way," said one, who seemed to be the leader. 
 
 The man nearest to Linda took her gently by the arm and 
 led her to the roadside. 
 
 " Who are you, girl ? " asked the leader. 
 
 Linda, in her alarm for Bob, could not answer immediately. 
 One of the men, who had not appeared to take much interest in 
 13* 
 
I5O FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 her, came up and looked her full in the face, gave a long 
 whistle, and exclaimed: "The devil ! If that there isn't the 
 soft-eyed, tender, blubberin' sister of that there scapegrace that's 
 in jail up there, and was only moved out of that there cell yester 
 day from them there other villains that got out last night. She 
 helped 'em, or I 'm a Dutchman ! " 
 
 " What are you talking about, you old ass? " 
 
 " I mean, sheriff," for the leader was the deputy sheriff, " if 
 that isn't the affectionate sister of that there mighty son of the 
 Plutonian regions, then Jake Sniffens is a Dutchman ; which he 
 ain't, or he don't know himself." 
 
 .i "What is the fellow's name, Jake?" asked the man who 
 had taken care of Linda. 
 
 "His name is Ben Wetherell," answered Jake, decidedly. 
 
 The sheriff turned to Linda and asked: "Are you Ben 
 Wetherell's sister?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, I am," was her firm reply. 
 
 "Did you have anything to do with his friends escape last 
 night? " he asked again. 
 
 "If she didn't, then I'm a sold Dutchman," interrupted 
 Jake. 
 
 " Hold your tongue, you chattering ape, until I speak to 
 you," growled the sheriff, fiercely. 
 
 Turning to Linda, and apparently having forgotten his first 
 question, " Do you know where your brother's friends are, who 
 escaped from jail last night ? ' ' 
 
 Linda hesitated a moment, then answered : " No, sir, I do 
 not," with a mental reservation, " I only know where one is." 
 
 The sheriff noticed her hesitation, and it exasperated him. 
 He took her roughly by the arm and drew her toward him, 
 saying roughly : " Perhaps we can refresh your memory. Jake, 
 take her and put her where she will be safe for the present." 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 151 
 
 Linda's quick ear detected the sound of horses' hoofs upon 
 the road. She screamed loudly fo,r help. In a few seconds a 
 horseman came dashing toward the group. 
 
 " Walter ! " cried Linda, and he was by her side. 
 
 " What does this mean? " he asked. 
 
 "It means," said the sheriff, "through that girl's agency 
 two of the most desperate fellows in jail escaped last night, and 
 she refuses to tell where they are." 
 
 " Perhaps she does not know," said Walter. 
 
 "She says she don't," answered the sheriff, maliciously; 
 "but I know better." 
 
 " What did you propose doing with her because she refused 
 to tell what she did not know ? ' ' asked Walter. 
 
 " I propose -to compel her, sir, or shut her up in their place 
 until she would tell," was the cool rejoinder. 
 
 "You will do nothing of the kind," said Walter, resolutely. 
 " Go about your business, you vulgar fool ! When you do your 
 work so badly as to be foiled and fooled by a girl, you must 
 swallow your chagrin, until you can prove she was implicated. 
 This is Miss Wetherell, my affianced wife, and by the right of 
 my relationship I command you to go about your business." 
 
 The sheriff mounted his horse sullenly, and with his men 
 rode off toward Nevada. 
 
152 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 PLIGHTED LOVES. 
 
 WALTER led Linda to a fallen tree, and sitting down by 
 her side, put his arm about her waist and drew the weary 
 girl to his breast. Her face was so pale, her great brown 
 eyes so wild and anxious, that he felt greatly alarmed about her. 
 Not wishing to tax her with questions until she was rested, he 
 said, as cheerfully as possible : 
 
 "I come with good news this morning to claim my wife. 
 The long looked for letter from Belle Burton has at last arrived. 
 Here it is, my darling ; put it in your pocket, and read it at 
 your leisure. She apologizes for her delay, by saying she had 
 been very muctt occupied, owing to her approaching marriage 
 that her name will be Mrs. Colonel Wall before this letter 
 reaches me. Now, is my particular, conscientious little pet 
 satisfied?" 
 
 " Walter, how can you love such a pitiable object as I am? " 
 asked Linda, with her great eyes full of unshed tears. 
 
 "Tell me first how I can help loving you," said Walter, 
 tenderly, " then I will try to answer your question. But, Linda, 
 do you love me as well as you once did ? ' ' 
 
 " How can you ask such a question, Walter? You surely can 
 not doubt it," and Linda's voice was choked with tears. " You 
 know there are two persons in this world I think of always. 
 One is poor Ben ; the other, and the chief, your noble self. 
 Dear Walter, you are my idol. When I give you the devotion 
 of my life, and all the love of my poor, blighted heart, I am 
 not giving you half enough in return for your noble conduct 
 toward me." 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 153 
 
 " It has been impossible for me to do anything for you, 
 darling, and I would feel that your brave little self would more 
 than repay me, if I had sacrificed half of my existence for you. 
 Tell me, dear, how you happen to be out here so early in 
 the morning, and in such trouble." 
 
 Linda repeated all the events of the previous night, and when 
 she mentioned Bob Rivers, she spoke of him as her noble 
 rescuer two months before. 
 
 "What happened to you two months ago?" asked Walter, 
 eagerly, for the memory of that anonymous note flashed across 
 his mind. 
 
 Linda related all the circumstances connected with her fruit 
 less walk to Nevada and back again to see Ben that by 
 taking a by-path she had gone .accidentally to Curly Smith's 
 cabin. How noble and kind Bob Rivers had been to her, and 
 finally of her mother and Major Warren dashing past just as 
 she was bidding him good-by. She did not fail to repeat the 
 conversation between the two men who had passed her during 
 the night, that he might understand Bob Rivers had gone to 
 prison through his kind act toward her. 
 
 Walter sat gazing into her truthful eyes, with worshipful ad 
 miration, for one so young, so brave and daring, yet so tender 
 and womanly withal. She sat a few minutes, looking off into 
 space, then said, thoughtfully : 
 
 "Walter, dear, I cannot tell you how thankful I am that Bob 
 Rivers was one of the men who escaped last night. I felt under 
 such deep obligations to him, but now his kindness to me is, in 
 a measure, returned. I intended telling you all about it some 
 time, and thought perhaps you could do something for him. ' ' 
 
 " It will afford me great pleasure to serve him, for your sake, 
 Linda ; but first of all, from your desperate doings, my brave 
 girl, you need some one to take care of you. One who dares so 
 
154 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 much for a wayward brother will surely prove a faithful wife, 
 and I want to assume my prerogative at once." 
 
 "I will be as good a wife to you as I know how, Walter," 
 answered Linda, in her innocent, girlish way. 
 
 " Then, dear, I shall have all the happiness I want in this 
 world, and doubt if I will be anxious to try any other." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 FOREBODINGS OF EVIL. 
 
 IT was near noon when Walter and Linda arrived at Mrs. 
 Neal's. They found that good woman anxiously pacing up 
 and down the little veranda. In meeting Linda she neither 
 upbraided nor asked questions, but simply expressed great joy 
 at her safe return. 
 
 Linda was greatly surprised by her mother's presence as she 
 entered the cottage. She approached to welcome her, but 
 Mrs. Wetherell disdainfully ignored all such familiarity, and, 
 for Mrs. Neal's benefit, said : 
 
 " You are at your old tricks again, are you? Running away 
 and staying all night, no one knows where, seems to be a 
 favorite amusement of yours." Seeing Walter, she added, 
 quickly, " Excuse me, Mr. French, I was not aware of your 
 presence, or I would not have exposed my daughter's want of 
 propriety." 
 
 Linda's cheeks were crimson at the taunt, and Walter only 
 by a strong effort mastered his indignation. 
 
 " Madam, you misjudge your daughter. Her errands have 
 been for humanity's sake." 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 155 
 
 "I have no doubt," said Mrs. Wetherell, coldly; "but her 
 humanity is confined to one person, if I am not mistaken." 
 
 "Yes, madam," and Walter's eyes flashed. "To one per 
 son your ill-raised and abandoned son. If he had a mother 
 equal to his sister, he might now have been a free man, instead 
 of a prisoner." 
 
 " You speak of my daughter rather familiarly, Mr. French," 
 said Mrs. Wetherell, sarcastically, trying to conceal her chagrin 
 at Walter's remarks. 
 
 "Yes, madam, I claim that right," answered Walter, with 
 dignity. " As you have resigned all care over her, and denied 
 her your protection, I have not felt it my duty to consult you in 
 the matter. I am your daughter's affianced husband, madam." 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Wetherell, smiling wickedly, " i wish you 
 joy of your choice. She has been a sweet daughter, and I have 
 no doubt will prove as good a wife. ' ' 
 
 She did not wait for any reply, but swept out of the room. 
 
 "Oh, Walter," cried Linda, with tears in her eyes, "why 
 did you tell her that?" 
 
 "She cannot interfere with us, darling. If she annoys you 
 in the least, send for me. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, that is all very well, Walter; but you cannot imagine 
 the depth of that woman's capacity for making those miserable 
 whom she hates." 
 
 "She shall not have long to make you miserable, Linda. 
 Next week Ben will be free, and then, without any unnecessary 
 ceremony, we will be married." 
 
 " Next week is a long way off, Walter, and I shall live in 
 dread until it comes." 
 
 " My little girl is tired and half sick," said Walter, tenderly; 
 "that is what makes her so apprehensive. Lie down and rest 
 all day, darling, and do not let any one disturb you. I must 
 
156 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 leave you now, for I promised to be home at eleven, and it is 
 already past noon." 
 
 " Good-by, then, dear Walter," said Linda, fondly. 
 
 " Good-by, my darling. I will come to see you day after 
 to-morrow, and shall expect to find you cheerful and well." 
 
 Linda went to her room and threw herself upon the snowy 
 little bed. Mrs. Neal, entering soon after, found her weeping 
 bitterly. When she attempted to account for her long absence, 
 the good Mother Neal stroked her hot forehead, and said, sooth 
 ingly : 
 
 " You are too tired to talk now, child; rest first. I know 
 you have been doing what was right, and you shall not fret 
 yourself now by talking. Sleep sweetly, dear; you shall not 
 be disturbed." 
 
 " My precious, darling Mother Neal," said Linda, affection 
 ately, returning her caresses. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE MARRIAGE. 
 
 " What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter." 
 " Some bring libations to mammon, some to ambition, some to love." 
 
 WHILE Mrs. Neal was with Linda, a messenger came with 
 a note addressed to Miss Wetherell. Mrs. Wetherell re 
 ceived it at the door. After reading the superscription, 
 she tore it open, and, to her amazement, read : 
 
 Come immediately. We fear your father has been fatally 
 injured in the mine this afternoon. 
 
 Your obedient servant, 
 
 JOHN MURPHY, 
 
 Boss workman. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 157 
 
 " I will go with you at once instead of my daughter, who is 
 ill," said Mrs. Wetherell to the messenger. She threw on her 
 shawl and bonnet, telling Mrs. Neal she was called away on im 
 portant business, and might possibly not return that night. 
 
 Linda saw her mother go away in the dilapidated old wagon 
 that had driven up a few moments before, with a sense of relief 
 at her departure. The note went with her, so Linda was left 
 wholly ignorant of what was transpiring. 
 
 The mill was three miles from Nevada, the road very un 
 even and rough, and the ride slow and tiresome; still, Mrs. 
 Wetherell did not deign to ask any questions of the stupid little 
 driver by her side. She seemed lost in deep meditation. When 
 the wagon stopped, she sprang out without assistance, and 
 stepped quickly into the house. 
 
 " It 's all over wid 'im, ma'am," said the faithful John Mur 
 phy, sadly. 
 
 An expression of satisfaction passed over Mrs. Wetherell's 
 face, and her eyes were blacker and burned more fiercely than 
 usual. She made no pretence at sorrow, but gazed upon the 
 lifeless form of the man who had been her husband so many 
 years as one would look at a dead dog. 
 
 "How long since he died?" she asked. 
 
 "It's about ten minutes agone since he brathed his last, 
 ma'am," answered John. 
 
 " Did he leave any papers? " asked Mrs. Wetherell, looking 
 searchingly into John's face. 
 
 " None, I think, ma'am; leastways, I hain't got none." 
 
 John gave a side glance at the old man to see if he really 
 was dead, and if he approved of that sort of gabble. 
 
 Mrs. Wetherell gave a significant smile and walked to the 
 door. 
 
 John remarKed aside to the old man: "Begorra, I did that 
 14 
 
158 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 foine. If that she-divil thinks she can pull the wool o'er John 
 Murphy's eyes, sure she's wilcome. Bedad, I'll do as yez 
 tould me, ould gintleman, for I 'm not afther wantin' yer un- 
 aisy spirit to be hobgoblin afther me. Yez fixed it foine wid 
 'er, but I 'm afther thinkin' the divil fixed 'er afore yez, and 
 gave her a gizzard instead of a heart." 
 
 "John," called Mrs. Wetherell. 
 
 " Yis, ma'am," and John was by her side. 
 
 "Dig a grave under that pine-tree to night, and make a rough 
 coffin. I want you to bury the Captain before daylight to-mor 
 row morning." 
 
 " Begorra, and would ye no let a man get cowld afore yez put 
 him under?" asked John, in amazement. 
 
 "Yes, John," said Mrs. Wetherell, more mildly. "It is 
 unnecessary to explain my undue haste. I am obliged to go 
 away suddenly, and cannot delay for funeral services." 
 
 " Be the stick, that bates the divil ! for I do na think he 's 
 got to the ould un yet," said John, meditatively. 
 
 " Will you obey my orders, John? " asked Mrs. Wetherell. 
 
 "Ye, ye-ez, ma'am," said John, doubtfully. 
 
 "Then take this for your pains get a keg of whiskey and 
 have a wake over the Captain, if you like, to-night," and Mrs. 
 Wetherell handed him some money. 
 
 "Thank yez, ma'am," said John, taking the gold. 
 
 Turning to the boy who had brought her there, she said : 
 " Drive me back to Nevada as fast as possible." 
 
 "Begorra, if she ain't a tough 'un ! " exclaimed John 
 Murphy, as they drove off. 
 
 When they reached Nevada, she asked the boy to stop at the 
 telegraph office, and leave his horse there until he was ready 
 to return home. Going inside she asked the operator if there 
 was any dispatch for Mrs. Wetherell, and appeared very much 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 159 
 
 disappointed when she was told there was none. She picked 
 up a blank lying on the desk, and asked for pen and ink, re 
 marking that she wished to make a memorandum. When she 
 had finished, she asked, pleasantly : 
 
 " Will you please give me an envelope? " 
 
 " Certainly, madam," said the operator, who was busy writ 
 ing, and had paid little attention to her. 
 
 She addressed the envelope, and saying, sweetly, "Good- 
 evening, sir; I am obliged to you," went outside where the 
 boy was waiting. 
 
 " I want you to remain here about half an hour, then bring 
 this note up to the same house where you came after me, and 
 take this for your pains," handing him some money. 
 
 The boy nodded stupidly, and she walked hurriedly away, 
 with her imperious air. 
 
 It was almost dark when the boy arrived with the note. 
 Mrs. Neal took it hastily to Linda's room. 
 
 " A telegraphic despatch for me?" asked Linda, alarmed. 
 "What can it mean ? ' ' She read, hurriedly : 
 
 ORLEANS HOTEL, SACRAMENTO. 
 
 Come to me, daughter. I am very ill, I fear dying. Bring 
 your mother, that we may part friends. 
 
 RICHARD WETHERELL. 
 
 Linda read the despatch aloud, and turned to Mrs. Neal for 
 advice : 
 
 "Tell me, dear friend, what shall I do? " 
 
 "You must go, of course," said honest Mrs. Neal; "and, 
 by all means, take your mother with you. It may result in once 
 more uniting your whole family." 
 
 "You are always right, Mother Neal," said Linda, perfectly 
 convinced. " Will you be so kind as to ask my mother to come 
 to me?" 
 
l6o FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 "Yes; but she is all ready to go home." 
 
 " How fortunate I received this despatch before she left," 
 said Linda, rising and beginning to dress. 
 
 In a few minutes, Mrs. Wetherell entered Linda's room as 
 cold and stately as ever. Linda handed her the despatch. 
 She glanced over it hastily, threw it aside, and hiding her face 
 in her hands, exclaimed : 
 
 "Great Heaven ! What other calamity can befall me? At 
 war with every one and myself, goaded by remorse, and now, 
 at my time of life, left penniless ! " 
 
 Linda's sympathies were deeply touched, and she used every 
 possible means to comfort and console her. 
 
 " Will you go with me to see him, mother? " she asked. 
 
 ' ' Yes, Linda, ' ' answered Mrs. Wetherell, more calmly. ' ' Per 
 haps I have not been quite as good a wife to him as I should 
 have been, and I will comply with his last request." 
 
 She kindly offered to assist Linda in preparing for her jour 
 ney. The carriage was waiting to take her back to Grass Valley, 
 and she thought Linda had better hasten to accompany her, 
 that she might also have time to make some preparations for 
 their departure in the morning. Her manner was so kind and 
 affable, that Linda thought in her heart Mrs. Neal was surely 
 right, and this misfortune would entirely change her mother. 
 
 They had a lonely ride in the dark, although the distance 
 was only four miles. Linda's heart was full of conflicting 
 thoughts and emotions over the events of the day. Her mother 
 requested her not to mention the cause of their sudden departure 
 to any one, to which she assented. There was no other con 
 versation between them. 
 
 To Linda's great astonishment, on their arrival home, they 
 were warmly welcomed, and assisted from the carriage, by 
 Major Warren. She was unusually polite to him, but so soon 
 
FREE PRISONERS. l6l 
 
 as possible passed on to her own room, leaving her mother to 
 Entertain him. 
 
 " Have you forgotten, dear madam, this was to be my wed 
 ding day? " he asked, with an aggrieved air. 
 
 "No, indeed," said Mrs. Wetherell, earnestly. "But we 
 met with a misfortune, which delayed us so long. It must be 
 nine o'clock. I fear you will have to postpone it until to-mor 
 row, dear Major, owing to our delay in getting here." 
 
 -'Nine o'clock is only late in the country," pleaded the 
 Major. "I spoke to the magistrate, and he is in his office 
 every evening until ten. Besides forgive the weakness, dear 
 madam but I have a terrible feeling of superstition about 
 postponing marriages." 
 
 " Excuse me, then, a little while ; perhaps I can still arrange 
 matters -to suit you. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Wetherell left the Major with a bewitching smile. In 
 a few moments she returned. The Major, all excitement, 
 sprang to meet her. 
 
 " Well, my dear madam, am I to be so happy as to claim my 
 bride?" 
 
 "Yes," was the calm reply. "My daughter says on two 
 conditions, owing to her brother's trouble. First, that you 
 permit her to go veiled during the ceremony; second, that you 
 will not claim her for one month." 
 
 " To obtain my long-sought prize I will agree to anything," 
 warmly kissing Mrs. Wetherell's hand. "And you, dear 
 madam, I shall always bless you for your perseverance and great 
 kindness to me." 
 
 A few minutes later Major Warren left the house with a 
 closely veiled lady. The marriage ceremony was performed 
 by the justice of the peace, and two strangers were witnesses. 
 14* L 
 
l62 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE BRIDAL TRIP. 
 
 npHE next morning, at daybreak, a carriage left Grass Val 
 ley containing Major Warren, Mrs. Wetherell, and Linda. 
 After travelling all day, they arrived at Sacramento as the 
 street lamps were being lighted. The carriage passed leisurely 
 up J Street, and, turning to the left, stopped before a genteel 
 residence. It was a two-story brick, covered with running 
 roses and honeysuckles, and so completely surrounded by 
 fruit and fancy trees, it seemed to have dropped in the midst 
 of a miniature forest. The bright lights streaming from every 
 window, as tokens of welcome, gave it a cheerful, inviting 
 appearance. As the carriage stopped, a middle-aged servant 
 received them, and assisted with the many necessary travelling 
 packages. 
 
 Linda had caught a severe cold the night she spent in the 
 storm by the roadside awaiting Ben, from which she had been 
 suffering severely. During their long ride she had acted in a 
 strange manner, dozing almost constantly. When she did 
 wake up, it was with a frightened look, only to fall asleep again. 
 
 Mrs. Wetherell told the Major her daughter had not been well 
 for several days, owing, she thought, to the excitement attend 
 ing her brother's misfortunes and her approaching marriage. 
 With the additional cold she had caught, she feared she might 
 be seriously ill. 
 
 The servant who received them led the way to a nicely fur 
 nished room up stairs, while the driver carried Linda in his 
 arms and laid her upon the bed. She was perfectly helpless 
 and passive to all that took place. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 163 
 
 The Major said quietly to the servant: "Ann, Mrs. Warren 
 is quite ill. I want you to sleep on the sofa here to-night and 
 take care of her. The madam," pointing to Mrs. Wetherell, 
 "can take the next room. In case of any alarming symptoms, 
 call her. Give us our supper now, and serve Mrs.. Warren 
 something delicate." 
 
 Mrs. Wetherell began taking off Linda's wrappings, when the 
 Major, who was standing by her side, said, " Mother." 
 
 Mrs. Wetherell turned suddenly and looked severely at him, 
 then, as if suddenly comprehending his meaning, smiled sar 
 castically. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, madam," said the Major, somewhat 
 confused, "but am I not your son now, and your daughter, 
 my wife, is seriously ill ? It befits us to take care of her ten 
 derly and well, as mother and son should do. Shall I not send 
 for the doctor ? ' ' 
 
 " I think it is unnecessary, dear Major," said Mrs. Wether 
 ell, without the least concern. " Linda is quite ill, I admit, 
 but I think, as she appears so drowsy, she may sleep off her 
 sickness, and be quite herself again by morning." 
 
 " But she has a high fever," persisted the Major. 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Wetherell, feeling the burning brow. 
 " Still, I think that is caused by the severe cold she has had 
 for several days." 
 
 Mrs. Wetherell gained her point the doctor was not sent for. 
 They ate their supper agreeably and socially, and afterward 
 sent Ann to wait upon Linda. 
 
 The next morning she was quite delirious from fever. The 
 Major, greatly alarmed, went himself for the doctor, who pro 
 nounced the patient dangerously ill from pneumonia. 
 
164 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 A WEEK had passed since Linda bade Mrs. Neal good-by, 
 J-\ promising to write her at once in regard to her father's 
 condition, and, under all circumstances, to return to Ne 
 vada before Ben's trial. Yet not one line had been received 
 from her, and the time of Ben's trial was at hand. Walter 
 had been twice to inquire after her, but was not alarmed 
 at her silence, thinking the extreme illness of her father, un 
 doubtedly, occupied all her attention. Mrs. Neal also thought 
 that was the case until Ben's trial took place, and still no 
 word came; then she became greatly alarmed, and expressed 
 her anxiety freely to Walter, who remained in Nevada during 
 the entire trial, doing all in his power to save Ben, but to 
 no purpose. 
 
 It was a simple case. The teamster had been robbed, and 
 he swore Ben was the man who robbed him. Although Ben's 
 friends were confident of his innocence, they could do nothing 
 for him. The. simple truth condemned him. He had been 
 out hunting that afternoon, and, although it was his custom, he 
 had remained out later than usual on that particular day, and 
 was still away at the time the robbery had been committed. 
 
 He was found guilty of grand larceny, and sentenced to seven 
 years in State's prison. Although he had expected that result, 
 the sentence came like a death-blow. Seven years ! He sat 
 motionless, looking vacantly over the curious throng, not see 
 ing any one, nor anything, but a confused, misty expanse of 
 seven bleak, weary years. His suffering was so intense, so 
 
FREE PRISONERS. l6$ 
 
 deep, the crowd was awed and every heart was touched with 
 pity. 
 
 In the farthest corner of the court-room sat a crouching 
 figure that might be sixty years old. His hat was drawn closely 
 over his forehead and eyes, and most of his face was concealed 
 by a heavy moustache and full beard. What little could be 
 seen was strangely at variance with the rest of the man, for the 
 fresh, soft cheeks belonged only to youth. His eyes, like all 
 the others, were riveted upon the doomed man. When the 
 sentence was read, and the noble, manly prisoner, without a 
 shudder or external sign of grief, sat looking blankly into 
 space, the crouching figure shuddered his hands grasped 
 the seat convulsively, as from a sudden spasm of pain. Once 
 he made a motion as if to rise, but dropped heavily back into 
 his seat, and his black eyes darted quick, nervous glances from 
 face to face. It was not an expression of fear, for he knew no 
 one would ever recognize in that heavily-bearded, stooping, 
 sluggish man, the smooth-faced, youthful, graceful figure of 
 Bill Brown. But why should Bill Brown manifest such interest 
 in Ben Wetherell's fate, and run the risk of detection and 
 arrest in coming publicly to the very place where he was to have 
 been arraigned for trial the following week"? 
 
 Walter would not permit the sheriff to return Ben alone from 
 the court-room. He put his arm within his, led him with 
 brotherly affection back to his gloomy cell, and there talked 
 hopefully, when he knew there was no hope, trying to cheer 
 him, but it was useless. The broken pride and crushed feel 
 ings refused to rally. His bright, young life seemed shattered 
 forever. He sat listening without hearing a word, and it was 
 with great apprehensions for his mental faculties that Walter 
 reluctantly left him, and returned to Mrs. Neal's, where Nellie 
 was anxiously waiting to hear the result of the trial. It was 
 
l66 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 a solemn announcement, and sadly accepted. They could not 
 think it possible there had been any mistake, yet they had 
 hoped for something better for Linda's sake. 
 
 Walter sat down wearily, and, taking up the day's paper, 
 glanced carelessly over its columns. Suddenly he threw it 
 from him, and went hurriedly out of the room. 
 
 "What can be the matter?" said Nellie, anxiously, starting 
 to follow him. " Is Walter sick ? " 
 
 "I would not follow him," said Mrs. Neal, quietly, taking 
 up the discarded paper. " He/ead something here that shocked 
 him. I was looking at him when he first saw it. Whatever 
 it was, it gave him great pain." 
 
 "What can it be? " and Nellie glanced over the paper with 
 Mrs. Neal. 
 
 "It is that!" said the widow, grasping the paper firmly 
 with one hand, and pointing with the other to a paragraph that 
 read : 
 
 "Married. On the twentieth instant, in Grass Valley, Ma 
 jor W T illiam Warren to Linda, only daughter of Captain and 
 Mrs. Wetherell." 
 
 The two friends stood looking with astonishment at each 
 other. Mrs. Neal t^as the first to recover herself, and said, 
 with a strangely fierce tone for her : 
 
 "Mrs. Gray, there has been foul play with the child." 
 
 "I did not think that of Linda," answered Nellie, with bit 
 ter disappointment in her voice. 
 
 "Linda is not to blame," insisted Mrs. Neal. 
 
 "I am not so sure," said Nellie, her confidence in Linda 
 evidently shaken. "No matter how great the pressure brought 
 to bear by her mother, Linda could not have been forced into 
 marrying the Major, if she had had proper affection for Wal 
 ter." 
 
FREE PRISONERS. l6/ 
 
 " You forget her father was dying when she left here, and 
 this might have been his last request ; and dying requests are 
 hard to refuse." 
 
 "But why has she not written to you and explained her 
 troubles?" 
 
 "That I cannot answer, Mrs. Gray; but my confidence in 
 Linda is so implicit, I am positive only extreme necessity 
 would compel her to do what she so strongly opposed, and then 
 there would have to be a perfect conviction that in sacrificing 
 her own feelings she was doing her duty. ' ' 
 
 " But Walter ! has she no pity for him? " 
 
 Nellie's voice trembled, and tears of sympathy for her idol 
 ized brother streamed down her cheeks. She went quietly into 
 the adjoining room, and going up to him, put her arms around 
 his neck and caressed him fondly. He grasped her hand 
 spasmodically, and his features worked convulsively as he hissed 
 out: 
 
 " False ! false ! Never let her name be spoken in my pres 
 ence." Then, as if ashamed of his weakness, he rose hurriedly, 
 saying, quite like himself, " Nellie, it is time we were going 
 home. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Neal's heart ached for him, but she only pressed his 
 hand warmly at parting, and whispered, " Never doubt her. 
 She has been wronged." 
 
 Walter glanced quickly at the sweet, motherly face at his 
 side. She had poured oil upon his burning wounds ; they 
 burned less fiercely ; but they were still there, deep and bleed 
 ing. Then he thought, " Only one more dupe. She has de 
 ceived us all. It is better so than to discover it later." 
 
 On their arriving home, as George was assisting Nellie from 
 the carriage, Walter joined them and said, abruptly : 
 
 " George, come down to my office right away. I want to 
 see you on business." 
 
l68 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 "All right, I will come," said George, wondering what the 
 sudden haste could mean. 
 
 Nellie put her arm in George's, and like a cooing dove re 
 lated all the sad events of the day. She could not think Linda 
 deliberately false, but, in her sympathy for Walter, felt she 
 might have done otherwise. 
 
 When George arrived at the office, he found Walter restlessly 
 pacing the floor. He turned suddenly at George's entrance, 
 saying : 
 
 " George, Wheeler has offered me eighty thousand dollars 
 for the mill, and I want to sell." 
 
 George was greatly surprised at the announcement, but after 
 what Nellie had told him, he comprehended the cause perfectly. 
 As Walter seemed waiting for an answer, he said : 
 
 "Well ? " apparently waiting for further particulars. 
 
 " I am sick of this country," burst out Walter. " I will sell 
 my interest. You can do as you like. I shall go East at once, 
 and settle down South. ' ' 
 
 "If you sell," said George, in his characteristic, earnest way, 
 "I will too, and go with you." 
 
 "Agreed!" said Walter, grasping his hand warmly. "It 
 is a bargain, is it ? " 
 
 " Yes, so far as I am concerned." 
 
 "Will you never regret it?" asked Walter, eagerly. 
 
 " No. I want to go East anyway. You know mother is 
 failing fast, and wants to see us all once more." 
 
 "Yes," added Walter, thoughtfully, "and you are the only 
 heir to all that estate. ' ' 
 
 "The only one." George put his arm through Walter's, 
 and they walked in silence up to the cottage. 
 

 FREE PRISONERS. 169 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 CONVALESCING. 
 
 npHREE weeks had elapsed, and Linda was still confined to her 
 bed. The disease was conquered, but the great prostration 
 following such a severe attack required time and patience 
 to recuperate. Convalescence, under pleasant circumstances, is 
 tedious ; but to one in Linda's situation it was doubly weari 
 some. She was continually harassed by anxiety for Ben, and 
 her peculiar, incomprehensible situation in Major Warren's 
 house, added to her separation from Mrs. Neal and Walter, 
 weighed heavily upon her mind. They were all kind to her, 
 but she did not dare ask questions. Once she ventured to in 
 quire of her mother where her father was. She answered : 
 " He recovered, and went home long ago." 
 
 Encouraged by that reply, she asked why the servants called 
 her Mrs. Warren. 
 
 "Because you are Mrs. Warren, I suppose," answered Mrs. 
 Wetherell, shortly, and withdrew apparently to avoid further 
 questions. 
 
 Still another week had gone by, during which Linda had 
 been sitting up part of each day, and was rapidly regaining 
 her strength. 
 
 The Doctor came to pay one of his regular visits, and fearing 
 they might cease altogether, without an opportunity of advising 
 with him, she took advantage of the first occasion of their 
 being alone. 
 
 "Doctor, you have been very kind, and I am so much 
 in need of a friend. I feel I can take the liberty of saying to 
 you what I cannot to any one else. You call me Mrs. Warren ; 
 15 
 
I/O FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 so do the servants ; but by what right, I assure you I do not 
 know. ' ' 
 
 " By the common right a wife has to her husband's name, no 
 doubt," said the Doctor, eyeing her strangely. 
 
 "But I do not know that I have a husband," said Linda, 
 earnestly. " If I have been married, I assure you I was not in 
 my right senses at the time." 
 
 "You astonish me!" said the Doctor, still regarding her 
 intently. "You must be laboring under some mental excite 
 ment, my child, and need rest." 
 
 "No, Doctor," said Linda, firmly. "I am perfectly calm 
 and collected, when I tell you I have no knowledge of my 
 marriage, neither have I the slightest idea how I came here. ' ' 
 
 " Perhaps your illness has impaired your memory. When you 
 regain your strength entirely, all will return fresh to your mind 
 again," and the Doctor withdrew his searching gaze, apparently 
 satisfied. 
 
 "No, Doctor. I think I will be firmer in my belief that I 
 have been wronged in some way. My mother was so deter 
 mined I should marry Major Warren, and I so positively opposed 
 it, I assure you there has been foul play. I know her well, and 
 no obstacle would prevent her gaining her object. That I was 
 wholly unconscious the day I came here is certain. Sometimes 
 I have thought I must have been drugged." 
 
 It was Linda's turn to look searchingly at the Doctor, and her 
 quick eye detected the contraction of his firm mouth, and the 
 lines on his brow grow deeper. When she had finished speak 
 ing, he sat thoughtfully a few seconds, then taking her hand in 
 his, the good old man said, with much earnestness : 
 
 " My child, I am of the same opinion as yourself in regard to 
 the drugging. The first morning I came to see you I imme 
 diately said you had pneumonia, but were also suffering from 
 
FREE PRISONERS. \Jl 
 
 some narcotic poison. I asked your mother and the Major, but 
 they both positively denied the use of any drugs. Still, they 
 admitted you had been very stupid, and slept most of the pre 
 vious day on your way from Grass Valley. They had been with 
 you all the time, they said, and were sure you had not taken 
 any medicine whatever. I still persisted firmly in my decision, 
 although I said nothing more to them, excepting to ask the Ma 
 jor's permission to bring Dr. Moore, an old friend of mine, with 
 me to see you, as I thought you were alarmingly ill. As he not 
 only gave his consent, but asked me to spare no pains in having 
 everything done for you at once that I possibly could, I im 
 mediately found my friend, and brought him around, my mo 
 tive being entirely to have his opinion in regard to the narcotics 
 you had taken. His decision coincided exactly with mine, that 
 you had taken powerful narcotics, and he expressed great aston 
 ishment that you were alive, considering the inflamed condition 
 of your lungs. If I had not given you antidotes at once, not 
 withstanding the assertions of your mother and the Major, in all 
 probability you would not have been alive now. I tell you this 
 in confidence, and hope you will not repeat it. However, if 
 there is anything wrong in this matter, come to me and I will 
 befriend you. You are getting along so nicely, I had intended 
 to dispense with my daily visits, but now I will continue to 
 come as your friend." 
 
 " Thank you, Doctor. You do not know how grateful I am 
 for all you have told me. It will put me now on my guard. I 
 am in constant fear of something, I scarcely know what. My 
 mother is hard' and ambitious, and I have opposed her wishes, 
 which gives me cause to fear her. The Major I despise. I am 
 greatly in need of friendly advice ; although I am still so weak, 
 I suppose I must sit here and wait until my strength returns 
 before undertaking anything." 
 
\J2 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 " Yes, you must keep moderately quiet. Be guarded in your 
 conversations, and advise with me before taking any decided 
 measures. ' ' 
 
 "As you are to be my friend, will you begin by doing me a 
 favor?" 
 
 "With pleasure, my child," said the Doctor, kindly. 
 
 "Thank you. Will you please mail these letters? One is 
 for my sister-in-law, as you will see by the superscription. I 
 am anxious she should get it, for she must be very lonely. My 
 brother, I expect, is away from home. His marriage is a secret 
 from my mother, that is the reason I could not mail the letter 
 through any one in the house. The other is for the dearest, 
 best woman on earth, Mrs. Neal." 
 
 The Doctor put trie letters carefully in his pocket, and rose 
 to take his leave, saying : 
 
 " I will come to see you again to-morrow. Until then, good- 
 by." 
 
 " Good-by, my good friend," said Linda, returning the 
 friendly pressure of the hand. 
 
 From the window she watched him as he drove off, smiling 
 a last adieu, as was his custom. She buried her face in her 
 hands and wept bitterly. She was still so feeble from her 
 long sickness, the slight effort of conversing with the Doctor 
 completely unnerved her. With an impatient yearning, she 
 cried aloud : 
 
 "Oh, what a tiresome, unreal month this has been. Not 
 one tender, affectionate word during all my suffering. Only 
 the Doctor was really kind. All my prayers for death have 
 availed nothing. Still, I am not entirely forgotten, for in the 
 midst of my desolation another friend comes to me. Blessings 
 seem to spring from the very shadows of curses." 
 
 She threw herself wearily upon the sofa. Her thoughts wan- 
 

 FREE PRISONERS. 1/3 
 
 dered back to the dear old times with Walter and Nellie, and 
 she chafed impatiently at the weeks that must elapse before 
 those happy days would come again. Then came the over 
 whelming thought perhaps she was really married to the Major. 
 If so, what should she do what could she do ? Again, like 
 the ever-varying kaleidoscope, old memories passed before her. 
 She was happy with Walter or Mrs. Neal. Ben was in trouble 
 again, and she was trying to liberate him. Then came the sad, 
 sweet face of Lucy, as she had left her at her cabin door 
 until all became a confused mass, and she slept. 
 
 It was dusk when she was awakened by the entrance of her 
 nurse, with a tray of tempting delicacies. While she was par 
 taking sparingly of her evening meal, the nurse said : 
 
 ' ' I am very sorry, Mrs. Warren, that I have to leave you to 
 night, but my time is up ; and I should have gone this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "Going away?" asked Linda, surprised. "Do not leave 
 me, Margaret ; you have been so kind and pleasant, I cannot 
 get along without you." 
 
 " I am just as sorry to go as you are to have me," answered 
 Margaret. "But Major Warren has paid me my wages, and 
 told me I could go, for you were so well now you did not 
 need my services any longer, and Ann could bring up your 
 meals. ' ' 
 
 " Then I suppose you must go," said Linda; "but I will be 
 very lonely without you. You have made many weary hours 
 pass pleasantly, Margaret." 
 
 "Thank you, ma'am. If I have done you good service, I 
 did only my duty, and was well paid for it." 
 
 "You have done more than you were paid for," said Linda, 
 kindly. " And if I can ever do anything for you, come to me 
 without hesitation." 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 " Thank you, ma'am," said Margaret, quite moved by Linda's 
 disinterested kindness. " You are sweet .and good, indeed, and 
 I shall never forget your kindness to me. Oh, bless me ! I 
 almost forgot. Here are all those Nevada papers you wanted, 
 for a whole month back, pinned up in my petticoat, and I liked 
 to have gone away with them." 
 
 "Oh, thank you," said Linda, taking them, hurriedly. 
 
 She looked over each paper carefully until she came to the 
 date of Ben's trial. During the long month of her sickness, 
 as soon as consciousness returned, she had thought continually 
 of him, yet did not dare ask questions. Now, after long and 
 patient waiting, she had the whole truth before her. She 
 thought she was prepared for anything, and had given up all 
 hope, but when she read over the trial, and found it was just as 
 Ben had said, her heart grew faint. The teamster swore Ben 
 was the man who had robbed him. His partners could only 
 say that he was absent from home that evening hunting, al 
 though that was his habit ; he had remained out later than usual 
 on that particular evening, and was still away at the time the 
 teamster was robbed. Nothing could be done in Ben's favor. 
 He had no evidence to offer, only his solemn oath that he was 
 an innocent man. And what regard has a judge of justice for 
 the oath of a highwayman ? The trial was short, but decisive, 
 and Ben Wetherell was sentenced to imprisonment, in the State's 
 prison at San Quentin, for the term of seven years. 
 
 When Linda had finished reading, she leaned back as life 
 less and hopeless as if every ray of sunshine had been forever 
 shut out from her soul. She thought she was prepared for the 
 worst, but all frail mortals will hope even when there is no 
 hope. When Pandora let the miseries out over the earth, she 
 kept back hope to cheer us, but so cunningly, that hope, when 
 disappointed, proves only a misery in disguise. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 Linda sat as if stupefied. She tried to arrange some plans for 
 the future, but could not concentrate her ideas sufficiently to 
 think of anything but her brother, in his lonely cell that night 
 in State's prison. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 DEMANDING THE PLEDGE. 
 
 THE little clock on the mantle struck ten : Linda started, sur 
 prised at the lateness of the hour. She had just risen to 
 retire, when there was a gentle tap at the door, and Major 
 Warren entered. Although Linda was alarmed at the unusual 
 familiarity, she demanded, with dignity : 
 
 "What is your errand at this late hour, Major Warren? " 
 
 The Major smiled, as he said, sarcastically: "That is a 
 strange question for a wife to ask her husband, because he 
 comes to her room unannounced, when they have been married 
 a month." 
 
 "Sir," said Linda, defiantly, "I do not believe I am mar 
 ried to you at all, and never will, until you give me positive 
 proofs. ' ' 
 
 "Girl," said the Major, furiously, "you will find no nig 
 gard fool in me. I promised your mother, at your request, not 
 to claim you for one month after our marriage. Your sickness 
 has kept us more apart than I desired, but your month is up to 
 day, and I claim the rights of a husband." 
 
 "Will you please tell me where and by whom we were mar 
 ried ? " asked Linda, with ill-feigned coolness. 
 
 "Your memory seems remarkably short," said the Major, 
 
1/6 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 curtly. "We were married in Grass Valley, one month ago to 
 day, by the justice of the peace." 
 
 " Major Warren, there is something wrong about this." 
 Linda trembled visibly. " I still do not believe I am your 
 wife, and if I am, it shall only be in name I will never be 
 a wife to you ! " 
 
 "Do you take me for a fool?" asked the enraged Major. 
 "I will show you who is master in this house. As your hus 
 band, I will either bend or break you." 
 
 He made a motion as if to grasp her arm, but Linda, who 
 was standing near a window, threw up the sash and sprang 
 into it. 
 
 "Not one step nearer, sir, or I will throw myself from this 
 window," almost shrieked the frightened girl. 
 
 " Fool ! " hissed the Major. " Don't you know that would 
 be instant death." 
 
 He took another step nearer. 
 
 "I tell you again, keep off. I know in all probability it 
 would be death to fall from here, but death would be welcome, 
 rather than life with you and that woman in the other room." 
 
 Linda's pale face and firm manner forced the Major to retreat 
 a few steps. 
 
 "I cannot expect much from one who speaks so disrespect 
 fully of her kind and worthy mother." He stopped a second, 
 but receiving no answer, continued, in a more subdued manner, 
 " I did not expect much love from you, but I certainly felt 
 I could command your respect." 
 
 "Major Warren, I despise any man who would persevere, as 
 you have, in marrying a young girl whom he knew did not love 
 him, and never would. If we are so unfortunate as to be mar 
 ried, it is without my consent or knowledge, and there is no 
 law that can compel me to live with you. Leave me." 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 1/7 
 
 "Leave you?" said the Major, fiercely. "I will not leave 
 you, you scrap of a disgraced family. What your noble, gen 
 erous, heart-grieved mother can endure, I may be able to bear 
 in part." 
 
 " Major Warren !" said Linda, fiercely, "leave this room. 
 I will not get down from this open window until you have 
 gone." 
 
 "You are weak and sick, I know," said the Major, finding 
 'it was useless to parley with her. " I have still a little feeling 
 of humanity left. Get down from that window. I will give 
 you still another week to think this matter over; if you then 
 persist in your stupid stubbornness, you shall bear the conse 
 quence of my just anger." 
 
 The door closed after him, and Linda hastened to draw the 
 bolt, their she threw herself upon the lounge, where she lay a 
 long time before she was able to undress and retire. 
 
 When the Doctor called the next day, she felt her good 
 friend, after all, could be of little service. She could not con 
 fide to him the scene of the previous evening, lest he might 
 condemn her conduct toward the Major ; so the conversation 
 was principally concerning her health. He told her all she re 
 quired was a good tonic, gentle exercise, and nutritious food, 
 and in a few weeks she would be as well as ever again. If the 
 next day was pleasant, she could go out riding a little while, 
 and he bade her a friendly good-morning. 
 
 He had only been gone a short time, when Mrs. Wetherell 
 entered, dressed for a ride. She walked to the window, and 
 looking out, said indifferently, "Your friends, the Grays, 
 were at the Orleans Hotel yesterday on their way East. Why, 
 the Major has returned already," and dashing out of the room, 
 seemed perfectly contented, knowing she had said enough to 
 make Linda very miserable all that afternoon. 
 
 M 
 
1/8 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 An hour after the Major and Mrs. Wetherell had gone, Ann 
 came to ask Linda's permission to visit her sister, who was very 
 ill. " If Mrs. Warren would not be too lonesome, for the Major 
 and Mrs. Wetherell would not be home until late." 
 
 " How far is it to your sister's? " asked Linda. 
 
 "It is about half a mile," said Ann; "but it won't take 
 me a great while. ' ' 
 
 " I do not mind being alone, Ann," said Linda, thought 
 fully. ' ' You can go to see your sister, and remain as long as 
 you like, if you are only back in time to receive the Major and 
 mother. ' ' 
 
 " Thank you," said Ann, going away delighted. 
 
 "Now," thought Linda, "is my time; when will I have 
 another opportunity like this ? Great God, this must be provi 
 dential ! What a superstitious child I am getting to be. I 
 honestly believe, if I keep on in my stupid course, and made 
 up my mind to cut my throat, I could soon convince myself it 
 was providential it should be done. Oh, Linda, I fear it is a 
 very dim star that rules your destiny ; it leaves you groping in 
 the dark so much." 
 
 She sat by the window until Ann was quite out of sight, 
 then, with a smile, she energetically addressed herself: " Now, 
 invalid, you must work industriously." She sprang up with 
 her old elastic, buoyant step, ready for anything, almost for 
 getting she had ever been ill. 
 
 There were two boys playing with marbles on the sidewalk 
 below ; she had been watching them for some time ; now she 
 called to them : 
 
 " Boys, if you will go very quickly, and bring me an express 
 wagon to take a trunk to the express office, I will give you 
 each a dollar. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, ma'am, I will," said one. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 "So '11 I, ma'am," said the other. 
 
 "But," said Linda, "you must bring the wagon immediately, 
 or you will not have performed your part of the bargain." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," said one. 
 
 " Oh, we will," said the other, as he went tumbling down 
 the steps, saying, " Oh, my ! what lots of marbles we '11 have." 
 
 Not many of Linda's things had been unpacked during her 
 sickness, so it was only the work of a few moments to gather 
 them together ; but with all her haste, the boys were back before 
 she was ready for them. Breathless they rushed up the steps, 
 saying : 
 
 " He 's come, ma'am. He 's here." 
 
 Linda hastily completed her work. The expressman strapped 
 her trunk, and promised to send it at once to the address of 
 Mrs. Neal. He was to engage a seat in the stage the next morn 
 ing for Miss Forbes to Nevada, and return as soon as possible 
 with the receipt for her trunk. Away went the wagon, trunk, 
 and all. 
 
 Linda turned from the window with a sigh of relief, and 
 there stood the boys looking earnestly at her. 
 
 "Oh, boys, I almost forgot you," said she, smiling at their 
 anxious little faces. "You must not tell any one but your 
 mothers how you got this money. Run along now and finish 
 your game of marbles." 
 
 The expressman was so long in returning, Linda became 
 nervous least Ann should come first ; but, to her delight, he had 
 delivered the receipt and just left when Ann's freckled face 
 made its appearance around the corner. 
 
ISO FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THE FLIGHT. 
 
 'T^HE first pale light of morning had scarcely dawned over 
 the horizon, when Linda arose, dressed herself, and with 
 satchel in hand went stealthily down the stairs, that would 
 give back an answer at every step, despite her caution, that 
 made her heart beat violently. Out into the street she followed 
 the direction the expressman had taken, and soon arrived at 
 the Orleans Hotel. She asked the privilege of looking over 
 the hotel register, but her search did not meet with the success 
 she had expected. The names of Walter French, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Gray, nurse, and two children, were there as her mother 
 had said, but she could not find her father's name. The clerk 
 came to her assistance, and every name was carefully read over 
 for three months back, but no one by the name of Wetherell 
 had been there. 
 
 After breakfast the stage drove up to the door. "All 
 aboard ! ' ' shouted Cal Crippen, the driver. Linda took her 
 place on the back seat. 
 
 "All aboard here for Rough and Ready, Grass Valley, Ne 
 vada, and Red Dog." 
 
 Crack went the long whip, and the four little mustangs gave 
 a desperate plunge forward, to be pulled back instantly by the 
 muscular Cal, giving the occupants a sound shaking. 
 
 It was a long, tiresome ride of thirteen hours to Nevada. 
 When the stage stopped at Mrs. Neal's door, the good-hearted 
 driver handed the reins to a passenger, and carefully assisted 
 the exhausted Linda into the house. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. l8l 
 
 "My dear child," exclaimed Mrs. Neal, "what is the 
 matter ? ' ' 
 
 . "I have been .sick, Mother Neal, but am well again, and so 
 glad to be at home with you." 
 
 "Well again, darling? Are you well again? You are only 
 the shadow of your old self, child ; but we will take good care 
 of you, dear, and soon get back the roses." 
 
 The door opened, and Lucy entered, sad and pale. Seeing 
 Linda, her face brightened ; she put her arms about her and held 
 her to her heart, as she said, with a soft wail : 
 
 " Oh, Linda, he has been sent away ; and we thought you had 
 forgotten us. But for Mrs. Neal, baby and I would have been 
 desolate indeed." 
 
 " Forget you ? " said Linda. " You do not know me, Lucy. 
 I have a sad, broken heart for a young girl, but it is honest anc} 
 true. Forget you and Mother Neal? Oh, no." 
 
 After a long night's rest, Linda arose refreshed, and the free 
 dom of her soul seemed to bring back the light spirits of health. 
 She related all that had happened since the evening she went 
 away in company with her mother. Finally, when she came to 
 the fact that her father's name was not on the register of the 
 hotel at Sacramento, Mrs. Neal expressed her belief that the 
 whole thing had been a plot to get her away. 
 
 Linda was too impatient to wait ; so a carriage was sent for, 
 and the young ladies drove out to Captain Wetherell's mill, as 
 Mrs. Neal declined accompanying them. 
 
 They were met by John Murphy, who very laconically 
 pointed to the mound under the great pine, when Lucy asked 
 for Captain Wetherell. Seeing Linda's pale face, lie explained 
 in his rough way all about the accident in the mine, and her 
 father's sudden death, Mrs. Wetherell's visit, and the Captain's 
 16 
 
l82 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 burial. Then he went into the house and brought out a large 
 package of papers, which he handed to Linda, saying: 
 
 " He gave 'em to me, Miss, for you. The ould lady wanted 
 'erfy but she didn't get 'em." 
 
 Making a note of her father's death and burial, Linda bade 
 the faithful John good-by, telling him where he could find her 
 at any time, and assuring him when the estate was settled he 
 should not be forgotten. 
 
 Back in the cottage every detail was gone over to Mrs. Neal. 
 That wise mother sat long in earnest thought, then insisting 
 upon Linda's resting awhile, put on her bonnet and shawl, 
 without any explanations, and drove at once to Grass Valley. 
 
 An examination of the records of marriage by the justice of 
 the peace proved that on the same date of Captain Wetherell's 
 death, and the same evening Linda had gone away with her 
 mother, Major William Warren had married Laura Wetherell, 
 instead of Linda. The joy that lighted up that sweet, motherly 
 face, with its crown of snowy hair, seemed like a ray of glory 
 from the very throne of heaven. 
 
 " Back home as fast as possible," she said to the driver, as 
 she sprang into the carriage as lightly as a young girl. 
 
 The four miles seemed interminable. As she found Linda 
 still sleeping, she took her old position by the bedside, 
 patiently waiting to tell her the joyful tidings of her perfect 
 freedom. Regarding the thin, pale face, so peacefully calm in 
 its refreshing slumber, Zedlitz's lines to Mary came to her mind, 
 and she repeated, softly : 
 
 " Wie schlafst du so ruhig und traumest, 
 
 Du armer, verlassener Wurm, 
 Es donnert, die Tropfen fallen, 
 Die Baume schiittelt der Sturm ! 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 183 
 
 " Dein Vater hat dich vergessen, 
 
 Dich und die Mutter dein ; 
 Du bist, du arme Waise, 
 
 Auf der weiten Erde allein ! " 
 
 When Linda opened her eyes, Mrs. Neal put her arms affec 
 tionately about her neck and imprinted a fond kiss upon her 
 brow. 
 
 " At your old post, Mother Neal. If you only knew how 
 happy I am to be back under your loving care. Nothing can 
 ever get me away again." 
 
 "No, darling, nothing," and Mrs. Neal stroked Linda's 
 forehead caressingly. " Since you have been sleeping, I have 
 been to Grass Valley to look over the marriage records of the 
 justice of the peace ; and, dear, they say that Major Warren was 
 married to Laura Wetherell, not Linda." 
 
 " To my mother ! " exclaimed Linda. 
 
 " Yes, to your mother; the evening of the day your father 
 was killed. It must have been that night you went to Grass 
 Valley from here." 
 
 " Oh, you darling, Mother Neal ! what glorious news ! 
 Then I am the same old Linda, and not married ; but ' ' 
 The joy left her face, and she leaned wearily back upon the pil 
 low, " Walter has gone forever." 
 
 "Perhaps not, child. You must not yield to despair so 
 easily. Every morning begins a new chapter in our lives, and 
 often the saddest openings are sometimes the most joyous end 
 ings. The workings of life are sadly irregular and hopelessly 
 incomprehensible. Some of us do not live one life, nor two, 
 but many. As long as the vital organs perform their functions, 
 the mechanisms of life go on ; but the senses or soul of man live 
 and die and live again. Most of us, looking back, can remember 
 when life was dead every joy, every hope ; and if the beating 
 
184 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 of our hearts could have stopped, how gladly the weary soul 
 would have taken its flight. But the heart went on beating to 
 its own funeral, until new hopes, new joys, new life were born 
 out of the old one, wholly unlike, and seemingly in no way 
 related to it." 
 
 "With your ideas, you cannot dread death, Mother Neal." 
 "Death, my child, only relates to these bodies, and surely 
 there can be nothing to dread in the thought that we can one 
 day leave these aching, tired, decaying tenements. Scientists 
 may prate of nervous centres being all there is of life. It is 
 false for the paralytic has still his life, his soul, without sen 
 sibilities. I believe we have more than one soul that every 
 human being is possessed of two. Life is a perpetual warfare 
 between right and wrong, duty and inclination, and there must 
 be conflicting elements to make contention. One soul cannot 
 fight itself. There is nothing in our bodies to fight. Without 
 the souls they are, like other great and wonderful machines, 
 harmless and useless until set in motion by the great life-giving 
 power, steam. Very often a great soul enshrined in a feeble 
 casket wears it out prematurely, with its perpetual fretting and 
 longing for grander, nobler exploits. To my poor judgment, 
 everything indicates two persons in one, two ruling spirits. 
 We often start out under the dictation of one soul, and the 
 other, under what we term circumstances, interferes, and we 
 do exactly the reverse of our first intention. We have not a 
 thought that cannot be opposed. When two spirits are of 
 equal strength it leaves a vacillating condition of mind, never 
 at rest, never satisfied. One must be superior to the other, for 
 good or bad, to make a decided character, and even then the 
 weaker cries ever for pre-eminence and power. We are fear- 
 lull y weak and ignorant human beings to be made in the like 
 ness of God himself; for His commonest attribute, creation, 
 
FREE PRISONERS. I$5 
 
 we can neither understand nor imitate. We all know we exist, 
 yet we cannot define what it is. My dear child, when we can 
 humbly accept our position, and bow reverently to the Great 
 Power that controls us, whatever it may be when we can lay 
 aside our importance, and realize that we are mere atoms of a 
 vast machine, run by an all-wise Creator, knowing no more of the 
 use of our neighbor machine than the revolving spoke knows 
 of the axle upon which it makes its revolutions, then we can 
 realize that the Great Creator, who had use for us here in our 
 infancy, can need us for something better after the purifying 
 fires of His chasten ings/' 
 
 "But so many believe in annihilation after death, perpetual 
 rest, eternal sleep," suggested Linda. 
 
 "It is a very senseless theory to me, 'Ex nihilo nihil fit? 
 out of nothing, nothing is made. Nature has no such word 
 as nothing in her vocabulary. She does everything for some 
 thing. It has always been a mystery to me why we should 
 have been created for so much rest, when there is so much in 
 the world to be done, and so short a time to accomplish it. 
 Surely if there was nothing but sleep hereafter, there would be 
 less of it here ; for man sleeps away more than one-third of his 
 life." 
 
 " Just think of a man sixty years old, having slept over twenty 
 years. I never thought of it before," said Linda. "Surely one 
 should have a very comfortable bed, when so much more time 
 is passed there than anywhere else during life." 
 
 "Yes, it is all-important, for the bodies require much rest; 
 and yet every organ performs its duty whether sleeping or 
 waking, though in sleep more sluggishly. The spirits 
 never rest. They go out while we sleep. We often meet 
 people whom we feel we have met before, and so we have in 
 spirit. When we swoon, life goes out. There may not be the 
 16* 
 
l86 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 slightest defect in the human organization, yet a sudden shock 
 may lay it apparently lifeless. Everything is there nerves, 
 brains, and all, in perfect working order yet stopped because 
 the appalled spirits have fled. Sometimes, when you sleep, 
 dear, your longing, unsatisfied soul will go out to that of Walter, 
 and you will meet again." 
 
 " How hopefully you talk," said Linda, encouraged. 
 
 "I feel what I say, dear, for I have some place a daughter, 
 a little older than yourself; and I am sure I have been with 
 her sometimes, for I awake refreshed in body and satisfied in 
 mind." 
 
 "You promised long ago to tell me about her, Mother 
 Neal." 
 
 " Yes, child, if you can listen to such a sad story, I will tell 
 you how I lost my babies," and Mrs. Neal related, with the 
 pathos of a broken-hearted mother, all the terrors of that dark, 
 stormy night, and the darker dawn for her. 
 
 Linda sat as if spell-bound, listening to every word. Then 
 turning her great brown eyes upon Mrs. Neal, exclaimed : 
 
 "Why, Mother Neal, I have heard that story before." 
 
 Mrs. Neal started nervously.' "Heard that? How could 
 you have heard it ? " 
 
 " Mr. Warren told me, in relating the history of his adopted 
 daughter, Alice. It was he who lived opposite to you. It was 
 his wife you watched so tenderly, and he has still that little 
 girl that was left with you." 
 
 "Yes, it was Mrs. Warren I was with; but Warren is not a 
 remarkable name, and I never expected to hear of them again. 
 Besides, you never mentioned his adopted daughter. Poor 
 child," slie said, thoughtfully, "I wonder if that dark mys 
 tery will ever be solved ? ' ' 
 
 " I hope so, with all my heart," said Linda, earnestly. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 187 
 
 " My child, I must hold my daughter to my heart as I hold 
 you now, or I could not die contentedly." And the tears that 
 came to the longing mother's eyes, might have been drops of 
 life-blood wrung from her heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 THE FATAL SECRET. 
 
 MAJOR WARREN and Mrs. Wetherell were greatly alarmed 
 at Linda's mysterious disappearance. All possible search 
 was made to no purpose not the slightest trace could 
 be found. They supposed she had gone back to Nevada, but 
 her registering as Miss Forbes quite misled them. 
 
 " I will write to a friend of mine in Nevada, upon whom I 
 can rely, without creating any suspicions," said the Major, one 
 evening, as he unfolded the paper and began reading. 
 
 "It would be shocking to have a disgraceful scandal about 
 your runaway wife," said Mrs. Wetherell. "I feel convinced 
 she is in Nevada, and as soon as you can ascertain to a cer 
 tainty, I will quietly go and bring her back." 
 
 "Halloo! what is this?" The Major dropped his paper, 
 and stared at Mrs. Wetherell. 
 
 "Why, Major, have you seen a ghost?" asked Mrs. Weth 
 erell, smiling. 
 
 "A ghost!" ejaculated the Major. "Almost, madam," 
 and he lowered his voice almost to a whisper. " Did you know 
 your husband was dead ? ' ' 
 
 " My husband dead ! Major, you joke," said Mrs. Wetherell, 
 with a forced smile, and a shade paler than usual. 
 
l88 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 "Read this." The Major thrust the paper into her hand. 
 "The will of Richard Wetherell, of Grass Valley, was filed 
 in the probate court on Monday last." 
 
 "Merciful heaven!" exclaimed Mrs. Wetherell, dropping 
 her head upon her hands. Her whole frame shook convul 
 sively. It was well done ; that woman, whose every act in life 
 was a lie, played her part to the end. There were no partic 
 ulars, only the simple statement. 
 
 The Major, really quite affected, led her to her room, earn 
 estly entreating her to bear patiently the cross common to all. 
 He sat down at once and wrote to an attorney in behalf of Mrs. 
 Wetherell' s interest in her husband's estate, and also to ascer 
 tain if the daughter was at Mrs. Neal's. 
 
 A few days later, Mrs. Wetherell, robed in deep mourning, 
 with a very becoming widow's cap, sat awaiting the Major's 
 return to dinner. The door opened, and the usually benign, 
 amiable Major stalked into the room, his face livid, and his 
 eyes bloodshot. 
 
 "My dear Major, what has happened?" asked Mrs. Weth 
 erell, going toward him. 
 
 He waved her back with his hand, looking her steadily in 
 the face with a hard expression hitherto wholly unknown to 
 him, and handing her a letter, he growled savagely: "Read 
 that!" 
 
 Mrs. Wetherell took the paper, and, as she read, her face 
 blanched. 
 
 MAJOR WARREN. 
 
 DEAR SIR : You have requested me to look after Mrs. Weth- 
 erelfs interest in her husband's estate, whose real name, by the 
 way, was Richard Neal, instead of Wetherell. The will gives 
 her one-third in case she never marries again ; in that event, 
 nothing. As she was married in Grass Valley the day of her 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 189 
 
 husband's death, to William Warren, she has forfeited all 
 claim. 
 
 Your obedient servant, 
 
 MARK WINTERS, 
 
 Attorney-at-Law. 
 
 As her face blanched, the Major- grew more livid. There 
 was a demoniac glare from his gray eyes. .His breathing was 
 heavy and irregular. He grasped her by the arm and screamed 
 into her ear, " Tell me, woman, is that true or false ? " 
 
 For once, the woman who had moulded all obstacles to her 
 will was awe-stricken. She dropped the paper ; her chin fell 
 upon her breast. She tried several times to articulate, but 
 seemed incapable. 
 
 " Tell me, woman ! " and the iron grasp of the Major's hand 
 sent a sharp cry of pain from the statue- like figure before him. 
 
 "It is " she began. 
 
 " Don't you dare to lie to me ! " hissed the Major between his 
 teeth, and the iron grasp tightened ; " speak, or I '11 kill you ! " 
 
 The miserable woman gasped, rather than spoke, "It is 
 true." 
 
 With one effort of his strong arm he flung her from him 
 across the room. Regarding her senseless form with a fiendish 
 grin, he paced the floor like a wild beast. The form before 
 him moved, gradually raised herself upon her hand, and with 
 the other felt her head, while she stared about vacantly. 
 
 The Major, with his arms crossed over his breast, stood re 
 garding her with bitter defiance : 
 
 " Do not muss your widow's cap, Mrs. Wetherell. I forgot 
 you are no ! I swear you never shall be called Mrs. 
 Warren. Such a devil my wife ! It must have been a sacred 
 rite that bound your cursed, lying self to me. You, monster, 
 are the mother of a lovely, artless girl, whom I condemned 
 
IQO FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 i 
 
 because you did whom you would have vilely prostituted, 
 under sacred garbs, and for what, God only knows." 
 
 " For money ! " gasped Mrs. Wetherell. 
 
 " For money ! There are women who sell their own souls 
 for money ; but a mother who could sell her innocent child is 
 too vile a thing for hell ! " 
 
 " Hell ! " moaned Mrs. Wetherell. " Hell ! I 've had it all 
 my life." 
 
 " And if you have it through all eternity, too, the devil will 
 not get even with you." 
 
 Where was the affable, courteous Major Warren ? There was 
 not a shadow of the old Major left. His very features seemed 
 to have changed, as he stood with outstretched hand pointing 
 toward the door, and, with voice hoarse and discordant, com 
 manded : 
 
 " Go to your room, madam ! " 
 
 The frightened woman tried to obey, but fell back exhausted. 
 
 " Go to your room, I say ! " thundered the Major. 
 
 She made another desperate effort, and by the aid of a chair 
 and the wall reached the foot of the stairs, when she sank help 
 less. 
 
 The merciless Major following, still with outstretched hand 
 pointing the way, said again, "Go ! " 
 
 She turned her great black eyes upon him so strangely 
 glaring and cowed and slowly climbed on her hands and knees, 
 step by step, until she reached the top, then fell prostrate. 
 
 That night was a busy one in the Major's house, which the 
 still, balmy morning seemed to smile at. In the rear of the 
 house, back of the twining roses, was a window, on the inside 
 of which were great iron bars, and the door was heavily bolted. 
 On the bed lay a pale woman with staring eyes, that seemed 
 the loopholes of a sepulchre, and the room was a living tomb. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. Ipl 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 UNDERCURRENTS IN PRISON. 
 
 ROSE-TINTS of morning were playing on the rippling 
 waves, as the waters of the San Francisco Bay swept the 
 sands and bore them away wailing a low refrain over 
 the dead night, and sighing at the dawning day. Afar off was 
 Mount Tamelpais, capped with floating clouds, that in their 
 fleecy rose-tints seemed stray blushes from the mist maiden's 
 cheeks. 
 
 On the bleak and barren promontory, with its great stone 
 walls, under the very smile of the soft- tinted Tamelpais, was 
 the prison of San Quentin. Click, click, click. In quick suc 
 cession the iron doors swung back, and the hundreds of doomed 
 mortals, expiating their sins, came out in their striped felon's 
 clothes, passed over to the eating-hall, where they partook of 
 the plain prison fare, then out into God's sunshine, that will 
 smile upon the good and the bad alike. It was Sunday, an 
 idle day. Some collected in groups, and in loud bravado 
 boasted of their exploits in the crimes that brought them there, 
 while others, less inured to vice, drank in the unwholesome 
 lesson for future use. Some in silence and alone walked up and 
 down, while their hungry souls went out in search of happi 
 ness, or were turned inward, seeking peace in memory's granary 
 away back before temptations came and the iron hand of 
 fate ground their souls to the dust. 
 
 Apart sat Ben Wetherell, with his hand full of letters. A 
 letter was part of Ben's every-day existence. Twice a week 
 the three faithful women wrote. So he received a letter every 
 day, excepting Sunday, and on that day, when he had more 
 
192 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 leisure, he read them all over. This Sunday his eyes were 
 moist, as he sat intently gazing at a photograph his baby's 
 likeness. An old, gray-headed man came up and accosted 
 him. Ben startled in surprise at the sound of the well-known 
 voice. 
 
 " Why, Walker, are you back here ? " 
 
 " Yes, and glad to get back," was the hopeless reply. 
 
 "You cannot mean what you say? " said Ben, in astonish 
 ment. 
 
 " Yes, Wetherell, I mean what I say. You know I had been 
 here ten years that is, prison years, for I always got my 
 credits for good behavior, and when I went into the world 
 again I was like a cat in a strange garret. Nobody knew 
 me, or wanted to nobody wanted a felon to work for him. 
 I got hungry, and stole to get back here. I have no relations 
 with the world any more, Wetherell, and before my next ten 
 years are up, it will all be up with me, too, and it will be best 
 so." 
 
 "My dear fellow," said Ben, in deepest pity, "have you 
 no friends ? ' ' 
 
 " Friends? A State' s-prison bird have friends? ha, ha," and 
 Walker laughed a hard, hollow laugh. 
 
 Catching a glimpse of the baby's picture and the pile of 
 letters, a softer expression passed over his face, and he said, 
 politely : 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Wetherell. I forgot you are one of 
 the few lucky dogs who has friends. For my part, I agree with 
 the minstrel who said, ' Every dog must have his day; ' but he 
 had come to the conclusion there were more dogs than days. 
 But, Wetherell," and Walker's voice grew soft and musical, 
 *' I had friends once. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 " ' My hair is gray, but not with years ; 
 Nor grew it white 
 In a single night, 
 
 As men's have grown, from sudden fears; 
 My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 
 
 But rusted with a vile repose, 
 For they have been a dungeon's spoil. 
 And mine has been the fate of those 
 To whom the goodly earth and air 
 Are bann'd and barr'd-r- forbidden fare.' 
 
 " Twelve years ago I came to California with my family a 
 wife so sweet and fondly true, that she seemed a waif from 
 heaven's throne. We had been married ten years, and ten 
 such years of happiness are not often allotted to man. Young, 
 earnest, and full of health, we walked the path of life hand in 
 hand, sharing every joy and sorrow, every thought and care 
 at least, I thought so then ; but since I have often fancied Mary 
 kept many weary, anxious thoughts from me. We had three 
 children, the oldest a girl nine years of age. The other two 
 were boys, seven and five years old. When I look back, I re 
 member my Mary never complained, never fretted ; and yet I 
 know there were times when she would come and rest her head 
 on my shoulder, with a faint, weary sigh, that comes to me 
 after all these years, and tells me what I could not see then, 
 that her life was going away but I weary you. ' ' 
 
 " No, indeed, Walker ; talk on. It does one good some 
 times." 
 
 " Well, we came to California, the land of gold and promise ; 
 brought with us all our possessions, which were not very much, 
 and rented a little house, but, with the best of recommendations, 
 it was two months before I obtained a clerkship in a bank. I 
 had been employed six months when I was taken ill with 
 17 N 
 
194 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 typhoid fever, which confined me to the house for weeks. As 
 soon as I was able, I went to the bank, but, to my horror, I had 
 been superseded, and there was no vacancy. Our resources 
 were almost gone, and my wife was expecting soon to add a 
 little member to our household. Day after day I searched for 
 work, but without success. Finally my wife became sick, and 
 on me devolved the care of the other children. Wetherell, can 
 you imagine how I felt, when I discovered what my wife had 
 hidden from me ? The last morsel of food had been eaten, and 
 we were positively destitute. The dear, pale wife had almost 
 starved herself to keep the shocking truth from me. To be a 
 man, with all the pride of manhood, enfeebled from sickness, 
 and stand by helpless, while those we love suffer for the neces 
 saries of life great God! what torture. So the tempter 
 came. The man I had served, though a man of family, had a 
 mistress, to whom he gave monthly the generous check of two 
 thousand dollars. I had blanks, and knew his signature fatally 
 well. I had always been an adept with my pen. I wrote the 
 check ; it was cashed. Then I laughed in my heart to think 
 I had so cunningly fooled the harlot out of her ill-gotten gains, 
 and my good, suffering wife could have the comforts of life. 
 I must have been mad to have hoped for success. My gift at 
 imitation was well known, and betrayed me. I was lodged in 
 jail, and my sick wife and starving children left. My God ! 
 man, that thought maddens me to this hour. For months I 
 languished in a crowded jail, then was sentenced to ten years 
 here. My Mary faded like a flower, and died before I came, 
 and the baby went with her. The other children were sent to 
 an orphan asylum. The years went by, and I was released, with 
 still some of the hopes of a man, to find my sons had both died, 
 and my daughter was an outcast. ' ' 
 
 The man's head fell lower between his stooping shoulders, 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 195 
 
 and the two sat long in silence. Ben could understand how it 
 was he had no relations with the world. 
 
 He handed him a letter from Mrs. Neal, saying, " Read that." 
 Walker took it mechanically, and read : 
 
 NEVADA, June 20. 
 
 MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND : The melancholy tenor of your 
 letters grieves me. Be not so oppressed by your bondage, for, 
 after all, Ben, we are all prisoners. Every heart is a prison- 
 house bound by fetters, invisible to the human eye, but surely 
 bound. There is not one soul upon the face of the earth entirely 
 satisfied, and, unfortunately, the more refined the feelings and 
 cultivated the intellect, the more perplexing and unreal becomes 
 this ever-revolving treadmill called life. 
 
 It has been wisely said, "there is nothing new under the 
 sun." Your experience, is an old story of life, only differently 
 worded. The inevitable is submission to fate, and inevitable 
 fate is sorrow. The youngest heart has the germ that will bind 
 it sooner or later. Deck it in gorgeous apparel, link it with 
 jewels, the chain of sorrow ever so deep is surely hidden in the 
 human heart. Perfect happiness has been and is, but no orie 
 dare say it is his, for it is turned to ashes by a breath from 
 heaven, and fades like the rose-tints of morning. Each thinks 
 his lot the hardest, and we are given to envying our neighbor's 
 peace and contentment, but when the veil is raised there is 
 neither peace nor contentment there, because man is ever long 
 ing for what he does not possess, and craves what he cannot 
 attain. ' Labor as he will, the summit of his ambitions is never 
 attained, because every success opens a new vista of glory, and 
 after a life of toil, in the very zenith of his power, like Moses, 
 he dies on the threshold of success. Another takes up the 
 burden where he left off, but it is incomprehensible and beyond 
 him. He, too, must take the first step on the ladder, and each 
 round at a time, and possibly reach a few degrees higher than 
 his predecessor, but the result is quite as unsatisfactory and in 
 complete. So man, in his self-righteousness, goes on working 
 over and over the old clay that composed the earth centuries 
 ago, pulling down and building up like the sweeping waves 
 of ocean, washing away the sands on one shore to strand them 
 on another. 
 
196 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 It impresses me rather strangely, that in your physical bond 
 age, your soul should yearn so for the material instead of the 
 spiritual, and you avoid using the name of God, my dear, which 
 grieves me. I would have you bow submissively and rever 
 ently before the Great Power that controls us ; whose mandate 
 is supreme, divine ; in whom we live and have our being ; 
 whose laws of discipline are for the perfection of our souls. 
 Regard it in that light, if possible, Ben. Remember you are 
 no exception every soul is a prisoner free agency is a fallacy. 
 There is no perfect freedom for mortals. According to worldly 
 interpretation, I am free, and yet if my longing soul could 
 escape from the body that holds it, and go out into the world 
 in search of my long lost beloved, I would be free. As it is, 
 I am a pitiable prisoner to the decrees of fate. While your 
 body Is in bondage your soul is freer than mine, for it has its 
 loved ones, and your mind no man can control. No one is 
 entirely free, body and soul. We are all free prisoners, serv 
 ing out the penalty of fallen humanity. It is the curse of mor 
 tality. When our race is run, our time is served, then we will 
 be free to accept the reward of our long-suffering penance. 
 * God bless you. dear Ben, in your affliction, and always be 
 comforted by the sweet assurance that faithful love awaits im 
 patiently your release. 
 
 Your friend, most sincerely, 
 
 AGNES NEAL. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 JACK HUNTER'S UNFINISHED STORY. 
 
 A THIRD prisoner had joined them quietly and sat down 
 by Ben, listening to Walker. After a long silence, he said : 
 "Boys, maybe my story might interest you, if you 
 would like to hear it." 
 
 Ben and Walker inclined their heads affirmatively, and the 
 speaker began. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 197 
 
 " Twenty-five years ago I fell in love with a minister's 
 daughter. Her name was Agnes White. I was a poor country 
 school-teacher, scarcely making a living for myself, let alone a 
 wife, who was as poor as I was. A young heart can love as 
 ardently with an empty purse as a full one ; but hearts are not 
 so easily kindled into passion without the blaze of gold at 
 least I thought so then, now I see I might have been mis 
 taken. We cannot force the fruit before the blossom, and in 
 my hot impetuosity I thought her. heart must respond to mine, 
 no matter what its feelings were. 
 
 " It happened at that time there was a steamboat accident 
 on the Mississippi. Many were killed, and as man more 
 wounded. Among the latter was the captain, who was taken 
 to Parson White's, and for weeks lay ill, attended by the par 
 son's wife and daughter, Agnes, their only child. Agnes read 
 to him and talked to him, in fact was his constant companion. 
 I went sometimes to relieve her, but soon found she drooped 
 her eyes and blushed when I spoke of the captain, and he was 
 not content when she was out of his sight. I became a jealous 
 monster, continually watching and scheming to get rid of him ; 
 then imagine my despair when I heard, one day, Agnes had been 
 quietly married to the captain, who was to return on duty at 
 once. He did not take her with him, but came every Saturday 
 to spend Sunday with her. 
 
 " I wandered about for years, and returned to find Agnes the 
 happy mother of a son and daughter. All my old love for her 
 came back, and my jealous hatred for her husband preyed upon 
 me so I was compelled to leave that part of the world, for in 
 my innermost soul I nursed a demon of revenge, before whom 
 I sometimes quailed myself. 
 
 "I went to New Orleans, obtained employment, and strove 
 manfully to tear the past from my heart ; but the hand of fate 
 17* 
 
198 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 was upon me. I was a doomed mortal. While I was thus try 
 ing to bridge over the past, imagine my astonishment, one day, 
 in seeing the captain, Agnes's husband, seated in an open car 
 riage with a dashing beauty by his side. It was evidently a 
 private carriage, and I followed it. It drove into the grounds 
 and stopped before the door of a princely mansion. The occu 
 pants alighted, entered the house, and the carriage was driven 
 around to the stable. 'So,' I thought, 'my enemy on such 
 intimate terms here. What can it mean ? ' I inquired of a 
 policeman who lived in that elegant house. He answered, 
 'Captain Wetherell.' " 
 
 Ben started at the name, and the speaker looked at him 
 strangely. 
 
 "His name is Wetherell, you know, Jack?" explained 
 Walker. 
 
 " And my father was captain of a Mississippi steamboat, 
 once," added Ben. "It is a strange coincidence." 
 
 "It is strange," said Jack, stupidly, as if he could not com 
 prehend. " May I ask what your father's first name is? " 
 
 " My father is dead. His name was Richard." 
 
 Jack's thin lips were firmly compressed an instant. He drew 
 his fists tight together, and whispered faintly, as if it had been 
 the refrain of a sigh, " At last ! " 
 
 Ben regarded him in surprise, but there was nothing to be 
 read in the man's face, as he asked: " May I also ask your 
 mother's name? " 
 
 "Yes; her name is Laura." 
 
 "Is Laura " Jack sat silently a long time, as if lost in 
 thought, when the stillness was broken by Walker. 
 
 "Well, Jack, you began to tell us something very interest 
 ing, and stopped rather queer. Do those names fit in your 
 story ? ' ' 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 " What names ? " asked Jack. 
 
 " What is the matter with you, man ? " asked Walker. 
 
 Jack's eyes came back from their far-off journey, as he con 
 tinued : 
 
 "Oh, yes, I remember. I spoke of Captain Wetherell, and 
 this young man's name is Wetherell, and you thought it queer. 
 Yes, it is queer. Well, will you believe it, that wretch I was 
 talking about was married to that dashing creature, living like 
 a prince in New Orleans, and he had brought the sweet woman 
 I loved there too, and she was living in a cottage not half a 
 mile away. 
 
 " I lost no time, and soon found out Agnes was the real wife, 
 and the other was not. If it had been the other way, and my 
 Agnes been deceived, I would have taken her with her guilt 
 less soul away from the wretch who betrayed her ; but, as it 
 was, my case was hopeless. 
 
 "I opened a correspondence with the second wife told 
 her she had been betrayed, and I could prove it. It was some 
 time before I could induce her to make any response. Finally, 
 when I had almost despaired, a summons came to be at her 
 house a"t a certain hour on a day named. I was ascending the 
 marble steps, at the appointed time, when the door was opened 
 by the lady herself, who was evidently awaiting me. I was 
 shown into a reception room, with gold and brown hangings. 
 Across the hall I could just catch a glimpse,, in the soft light, of 
 gold and silver and crimson. It was regal paradise, where even 
 the delicate-tinted flowers under my feet seemed capable of 
 sending forth perfumes in their artistic perfection. I had never 
 seen such luxury before. 
 
 " The lady closed the door, and asked at once : 
 
 " 'Are you the person who has been annoying me with anony 
 mous letters ? ' 
 
2OO FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 "I answered quite as coldly, * Yes, madam, I am.' 
 
 " ' What your object may be, I have been unable to under 
 stand. You have never threatened, or attempted any extor 
 tions. You utterly ignore my silence, and persistently write. 
 Your letters annoy me, and I demand an explanation.' 
 
 "There was a dangerous flash from her black eyes, and she 
 paced the floor without looking toward me. I had tracked a 
 lion to its den, and had scarcely the courage to give the blow 
 that would make it spring in self-defence. For one moment 
 I had not the courage, one moment, only one, in which I 
 thought of my desolate fate, and all the bitterness of my soul 
 came back. 
 
 " 'Madam, I have written you nothing but the truth, for which 
 I ignore return.' 
 
 " ' Sir, do you dare to tell me to my face I am not the wife 
 of the man whose name I bear, and my children are bastards ? ' 
 
 " That livid face, those burning eyes, and that stately woman, 
 who stood looking fiercely into my face, as if she could an 
 nihilate me I see them now. I had never been a bad man. 
 My life had been a simple country life a poor orphan, brought 
 up here and there, without home or friends. Parson White was 
 all the father I ever knew, and Agnes was my life, my all, and 
 I had lost her. So you can understand I quailed before the 
 appalling work I was doing. I had not counted on such a fury 
 as I met. 
 
 "My silence and irresolution exasperated her. She stamped 
 her foot, and the one word, ' Answer ! ' made me turn pale 
 and tremble. She stood with her fierce eyes riveted on mine, 
 and, as a snake charms its prey, drew forth the truth drew it 
 from me. Ay, I stood there like a tool at her command. I 
 told her of her husband's double marriage and my lost love 
 that Agnes was his wife and the mother of two children, while 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 2OI 
 
 she, the beautiful fiend before me, was the mistress of the man 
 she lived with, and her children were bastards. 
 
 " She paced the floor with clinched hands. A deep shadow 
 had fallen over her handsome face. She was thinking, darkly 
 thinking, and she took long, sweeping strides to keep pace 
 with her thoughts. An hour must have passed, when she turned 
 suddenly to me. 
 
 "'You have been wronged, too. You hate them both. I 
 will investigate this matter, and if it is as you say, may I trust 
 to your aid for revenge ? ' 
 
 " ' You can,' I answered, with all my heart. 
 
 " ' I believe you,' she gasped, almost breathless, as she firmly 
 grasped my hand. ' Come at this same hour one week from 
 to-day, and we will see what can be done.' 
 
 " She opened the door, and I went silently out into the dark 
 night. 
 
 " I went again in one week. As I ascended the steps the door 
 was opened, as on my previous visit, by the lady herself, and I 
 was silently motioned into the reception room. To my amaze 
 ment, there sat the Captain. 
 
 " The madam had examined the marriage register and found 
 Captain Richard Neal had married Agnes White, and that Cap 
 tain Wetherell's name was Neal she was perfectly convinced, 
 for all his property was in that name. His second marriage 
 was registered R. Wetherell. There was no mistake. The 
 little country girl, whose sweet devotion had won the Captain, 
 he thought harmless, and he was determined to. possess the 
 beautiful woman who had completely fascinated him. 
 
 " She did not hesitate an instant. The inquisition began. 
 " ' Captain Wetherell, look at this young man.' , 
 
 " The Captain raised his eyes to mine, and turned deathly 
 pale. 
 
2O2 . FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 "'You know him/ she continued. 'You married the wo 
 man he loved. She has two children bearing your name. You 
 married me, Captain Wetherell, and I have two children two 
 illegitimate children you parade before the world in this 
 princely home, where you keep your mistress. The others, who 
 bear your name, and are the heirs to your estate, are hidden in 
 an obscure cottage.' 
 
 "She sprang in front of the silent, cowering man, and hissed : 
 
 "'If I had a dagger that could cut but never kill, never 
 cease its exquisite torture, how I could plunge it into your false 
 heart. Captain Wetherell, I am from this hour my own mis 
 tress, not yours. You are my tool. You shall obey my slight 
 est command. Make over this day your estate to me, and leave 
 this country. Do you hear ? You are a felon, if I speak but 
 the word. You dare not disobey. I choose to remain Mrs. 
 Wetherell. The little country girl need never know. She will 
 never take the pains to find out. You had an offer to go to 
 India. Go, and never come back. If you dare to oppose my 
 command, I will throw aside my pride, and you shall meet what 
 you deserve a felon's doom.' 
 
 " Every word came like a curse, and the woman who uttered 
 them looked a superb fiend. 
 
 "The Captain, with his head drooping on his breast, rose to 
 leave the room. She stepped in front of him. He shuddered, 
 as if she had been a viper. 
 
 '"I give you forty-eight hours to leave this place,' she said. 
 ' Will you go ? ' 
 
 " The bowed head dropped lower in acquiescence, and he 
 passed out. 
 
 " The woman approached me. ' Sir,' she whispered, hoarsely, 
 1 you will never relent ; never repent ? You swear it ? f 
 
 "I answered, scarcely audible, 'I swear.' 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 2O3 
 
 "Again the ashen lips parted, her dark eyes scanned the 
 room nervously, as she grasped my arm : 
 
 " ' I married that dotard for money. I hate him, but I must 
 have his wealth. The other two children are his heirs; mine,' 
 she trembled like an aspen, ' are nothing. You hate that other 
 woman. So do I. She has robbed me. He is an arrant cow 
 ard ; he will leave in two days. You tell me that woman spends 
 a great deal of her time at a neighbor's. Watch the cottage 
 closely. The first time she is absent after dark, meet me here 
 with a carriage. No matter when, I will be ready. Be your 
 own driver, for no other human being but you and I can eyer 
 know what is done. Drive to the rear of the cottage. Take 
 her children and leave mine ; then we will get the property.' 
 
 "I shuddered at the thought of taking Agnes's children. It 
 was horrible. But the still, small voice of revenge said, 'Ag 
 nes took your heart.' 
 
 " I answered promptly : ' I will do your bidding, madam ; but 
 after that, we part forever.' 
 
 " ' It will be best,' she answered." 
 
 The man ceased talking. Presently he began again in a low 
 whisper : 
 
 "I went like a thief, that I was, in the darkness of night ; 
 lightning flashed angrily from heaven ; thunder rolled over 
 my head in awful threatening, but I took Agnes's children and 
 left the bastards in their place. I left the city that night, and 
 wandered over the earth like an evil spirit for rest, but there 
 was none for me ; never any more. Sleeping or waking, I could 
 not rest. Finally, I went back to confess my guilt, and restore 
 the children, for whom I knew the mother's heart was break 
 ing. They were gone all gone. The cottage was for rent, 
 and strangers occupied the mansion. What I have endured, 
 wandering this wide world over, in search of the woman I 
 
2O4 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 wronged, no human tongue could ever tell. Poor, starv 
 ing, haunted wretch that I am if I could only redeem the 
 past." 
 
 His eyes rested upon the open letter in Walker's hand, and 
 on it was written "Agnes Neal." The man shrank back as 
 if shot, and his face was convulsed with pain. He grasped 
 Walker's arm with one hand and with the other pointed to the 
 letter. His white lips parted, but for an instant no sound 
 came. Finally, recovering himself, he whispered, " Where did 
 you get that ? ' ' 
 
 "It is his," said Walker, pointing to Ben. 
 
 Jack picked up the envelope, read the post-mark, arose, 
 staggered off, and was seen no more. 
 
 Ben's attention had been attracted in another direction, and 
 he had not seen the strange pantomime. He turned toward 
 Walker, saying : 
 
 " That is a strange specimen of humanity. I think his mind 
 is affected. He started in to tell us how he came here, and 
 never mentioned it after all." 
 
 Walker made no reply. He had read more in the man's face 
 than Ben, and was strongly convinced that he was in some way 
 connected with the story. 
 
 Poor Jack Hunter had been so long in the prison, and had 
 never received any message from the outside world, that it had 
 quite escaped the minds of others that he had ever been a part 
 of it. For several years he had been a " trusty," never failing, 
 never wavering in his duty. The day after the above conver 
 sation, he was sent with a guard on an errand. When they 
 were about a mile away from the prison, where there were 
 many curves in the road, and the hills were covered with 
 underbrush, Jack suddenly discovered the linch-pin in the 
 cart was missing. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 20$ 
 
 " I think I know just where we lost it," he said. " I thought 
 I heard something drop. I will run back and get it." 
 
 The guard waited, but Jack did not return. The guard 
 went in search, but he was not to be found, and the prison 
 walls were never to hold him any more. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 THE FATAL SHOT A YEAR AND A HALF LATER. 
 
 WHO is that fellow? " asked Bill Brown of Blaize, the pro 
 prietor of the most extensive drinking and gambling 
 saloon in Nevada, as Jack Hunter hobbled out by the 
 aid of his cane. 
 
 "I don't know," answered Blaize. "We call him Jack. 
 He came here over a year ago, so doubled up with rheumatism 
 he could hardly move. He told me he had been a long time 
 in a hospital somewhere. He wanted work, and I pitied the 
 poor devil, for he was almost naked and half starved. The 
 old darkey who used to take care of the saloon had just died, so I 
 let him work around for his board and clothes. He's the 
 most reliable fellow I ever saw, and the willingest dog alive. 
 I pay him wages now, and he 's worth a dozen ordinary sound 
 men." 
 
 "He's a little crazy, I think," said Bill. "He's been 
 talking about some mission he has to perform, and says I re 
 mind him of some one he used to know asks me every time 
 he sees me if I ever knew Captain Wetherell. It 's blamed 
 queer; almost every day I meet somebody who has known 
 somebody else that I look like. I can't get rid of this fellow. 
 18 
 
2O6 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 He wants me to walk a little way down the street with him 
 this evening just after dark, to show me somebody, and ask my 
 advice." 
 
 "Well, go with him," said Blaize. "If there is anything 
 you can do for the poor devil, do it. I will consider it as a 
 favor to me. Come, take a drink." 
 
 Presently Jack came limping in a great deal spryer than usual. 
 Several people had congregated in the saloon in the meantime. 
 In his usual quiet way he went up to Bill, and reminded him 
 of the walk he had asked him to take an hour or two before. 
 
 " I was just going to have a game of cards with these friends 
 of mine," answered Bill; but seeing Jack's disappointed face, 
 he turned to his friends and said : " Gentlemen, excuse me a 
 few minutes, I have to go up street a little ways with Jack, but 
 will be back presently." 
 
 " I guess Jack can wait," said one, roughly. 
 
 " Well, we '11 excuse you, but don't stay long," said another. 
 
 Bill and Jack walked silently along until they approached 
 Mrs. Neal's cottage, when Jack, as if suddenly awakened from 
 a reverie, said : 
 
 "You must go softly, so as not to disturb them." 
 
 " Disturb who? Who are you talking about? " asked Bill. 
 
 "Why, the two ladies." 
 
 "Are you bringing me away out here to see two ladies, you 
 old fool, as though ladies were a curiosity about these diggins." 
 Bill stopped short, as if to turn around and go back. 
 
 "Oh, sir, please come and look in at the window; just 
 one moment, and see how happy they are," pleaded Jack. 
 
 " What do I want to look into people's windows for to see 
 how happy they are? " growled Bill, sullenly. 
 
 "But I want you to; I want your advice," insisted Jack. 
 " I stole her boy and girl from her eighteen years ago, and left 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 2QJ 
 
 two bastards in their place. For more than a year I have come 
 here daily, watching her with that strange girl. They are so 
 happy and contented, I have not had the courage to tell her 
 how it happened, although I would give my life to redeem the 
 past by restoring them to her." 
 
 ' < What are you talking about, Jack ? I believe you are crazy, ' ' 
 said Bill, impatiently. 
 
 " Crazy ! I wish to God I was. for then this consuming re 
 morse would be ended. No, I am worse than crazy I'm a 
 villain!" 
 
 They had reached the cottage, Jack had noiselessly approached 
 a window, and motioned to Bill, who reluctantly followed, and 
 looked in through the half-closed blinds where Jack indicated. 
 He gave a sudden start, grasped Jack's arm, and said, ex 
 citedly : 
 
 " What did you bring me here for? " 
 
 Jack was terrified lest Mrs. Neal, who sat sewing, with Linda 
 reading by her side, should hear the noise and become alarmed. 
 He took Bill by the arm to lead him away, but his mute en 
 treaties were of no avail. Bill stood persistently leaning against 
 the window, looking intently at the little group, as if spell 
 bound. 
 
 Finally, in terror, Jack whispered, " They are coming to 
 close the blinds ; you must go." 
 
 Bill permitted himself to be led some distance from the cot 
 tage, when he stopped short, and facing Jack, demanded : 
 
 " Are you the devil who broke that woman's heart? " 
 
 " I am," whispered Jack, hoarsely. 
 
 "You ought to be killed," said Bill, fiercely clinching his 
 arm. 
 
 " Will you be merciful enough to kill me? " asked Jack, with 
 the most pitiful appeal. 
 
2O8 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 Bill regarded him an instant with amazement, then, letting 
 go his hold, said contemptuously, "It is greater punishment to 
 let you live." 
 
 "Ay, my life is hell," said Jack, desperately. "But what 
 do you know of her ? " 
 
 "What do I know of her?" asked Bill, thoughtfully. "I 
 know the whole story from her own lips. I was the boy who 
 was left in the place of her lost one." 
 
 "You ! " exclaimed Jack, staggering, as if from a blow, and 
 he would have fallen had not Bill caught him. " Then you are 
 that woman' s child, and the boy in prison is Agnes Neal's 
 son." 
 
 "What boy in prison, Jack?" It was Bill's turn to be 
 astonished. 
 
 " Ben Wetherell," was the answer. 
 
 " What do you know of him ? " asked Bill, nervously. 
 
 " I was in prison, too. I saw him there." 
 
 "How does the poor fellow bear it?" asked Bill, evincing 
 great sympathy. 
 
 "Like a man," answered Jack. 
 
 " Poor fellow !" said Bill, more to himself than to Jack. 
 
 They were retracing their steps in silence, as they had come. 
 Bill, with his slight, graceful figure, taking long, sweeping 
 strides, while the stooped cripple by his side hobbled along, 
 scarcely able to keep up with his young companion. Bill soon 
 discovered the discomfort of his escort, and regarding him 
 attentively, slackened his pace, as he said : 
 
 " Jack, if you stole me, you must know who I am, and where 
 I belong. It would be some satisfaction to a fellow to know." 
 
 "All I could tell you would be very unsatisfactory," answered 
 Jack, hesitatingly. "But you misunderstood me. I did not 
 steal you. It was Agnes Neal's children I took, and left you 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 2CX) 
 
 and your sister in their place. It was all done at your mother's 
 command." 
 
 "At my mother's command?" asked Bill, in amazement. 
 " Did my mother give her children about in that style ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir; your mother had been betrayed. Your father 
 was Mrs. Neal's husband, but under the name of Wetherell mar 
 ried your mother." 
 
 "Under the name of Wetherell?" asked Bill, in breathless 
 haste. 
 
 "Yes, your father always went by that name, although his 
 real name was Richard Neal. Your mother married him for 
 his wealth, and when she discovered how he had wronged her, 
 and she had no claim or title to his estate, she conceived the 
 hellish plot of taking Agnes Neal's children, who were his heirs, 
 and leaving her illegitimate ones in their place. It was a hor 
 rible thing to do, but the woman hated the man so intensely for 
 his perfidy, that I believe her hatred extended to the children 
 she had borne him. I loved Agnes Neal, and she had preferred 
 another. So I became your mother's accomplice, to avenge my 
 own supposed wrong as well as her real one." 
 
 "Where is that Wetherell now, my most honorable father?" 
 asked Bill, in bitter irony. 
 
 " Captain Wetherell is dead," answered Jack. 
 
 "What ! the old Captain, who was. killed not far from here 
 in a mine a year and a half ago. Ben's father was he my 
 father, too ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, he was your father and Ben's." 
 
 " That accounts for our wonderful resemblance," said Bill. 
 
 "Yes, you both look like your father. That's how I 
 came to be around so much where you were. I thought I 
 could not be mistaken. I knew you by your resemblance to 
 Ben." 
 
 18* O 
 
2IO FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 "Then the haughty Mrs. Wetherell, down in Sacramento, is 
 my mother, is she? " asked Bill. 
 
 "Mrs. Wetherell in Sacramento. Where in Sacramento ?" 
 asked Jack, nervously. 
 
 "I don't exactly know she went down there with a Mr. 
 Warren. There was some talk about his marrying Ben's sister, 
 but I think there is more probability of his marrying the old 
 lady, for the sister lives here." 
 
 "Where does she live? " asked Jack, hurriedly. 
 
 " That was she we saw this evening in the cottage with Mrs. 
 Neal." 
 
 "That ! Is it possible? Agnes' own child happy with her 
 mother? The fates are kinder than God's creatures." 
 
 " Yes, so it seems," added Bill, thoughtfully. " I took a deep 
 interest in young Wetherell 's case, knew all the parties con 
 nected with it by sight, and have kept track of them pretty 
 well ever since. I see Miss Wetherell on the street quite often 
 with Ben's wife, but I have never seen Mrs. Neal here before. 
 You can readily imagine my surprise to find you were taking 
 me to see the good woman who reared me until I was sixteen 
 years old. Then I became restless and started westward. I 
 wrote her regularly for several years, until her mother died and 
 left her all alone in the world, and she wanted to join me out 
 here. Then I ceased ,all correspondence, hoping she would 
 think me dead. I had fallen into wild company, and led a 
 reckless life, which would have been a new source of sorrow to 
 her. But with all, Jack, I wish I was worthy to go to her, for 
 I love her devotedly." 
 
 They had reached the saloon door. Bill's friends at once 
 motioned for him to join them. He bade Jack good-night. 
 Telling him they would have a long talk to-morrow, he joined 
 his reckless companions. Jack, cuddled up in an easy chair, 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 211 
 
 in one corner of the saloon, was so busy with his own wild 
 thoughts, he heard nothing, although the talking grew louder 
 and more desperate after every drink, and the stakes ran higher 
 and higher. 
 
 Bill Brown was winning at every hand. It was a desperate 
 stake. The last dollar of his antagonist was on the table, and 
 Bill won. 
 
 The man, in despairing frenzy, grabbed the money, and hissed 
 in Bill's ear, " It was foul ! You 're a thief! " 
 
 " You 're a liar ! " thundered Bill. 
 
 The discharge of a pistol rang through the saloon. A single 
 shot, and every man sprang to his feet, as Bill Brown fell to 
 the floor in a pool of blood. Jack was the first by his side. 
 
 Bill raised his eyes to the thin, searching face before him, and 
 with effort said : "We won't have that 'long talk to-morrow,' 
 Jack. It 's all over with me." 
 
 " Oh, no, my boy. It 's not so bad as you think," answered 
 Jack, encouragingly. 
 
 A surgeon was found, who carefully dressed the wound, and 
 had him removed to comfortable quarters. He pronounced 
 his patient in a dangerous condition, but not necessarily fatal. 
 
 When Bill was comfortably in his own room, he whispered 
 to Jack : 
 
 " I would like to see that good woman once more. Do 
 you think she would come to me if you would ask her? " 
 
 "Why, of course she would," answered Jack, promptly, 
 thinking only of the kind, thoughtful Agnes of many years 
 ago. " I '11 go at once and fetch her," and he limped off with 
 wonderful alacrity. 
 
212 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 MRS. NEAL FINDS HER DAUGHTER. 
 
 IT was midnight. The cottage was dark ; the occupants all 
 slept. The repeated knocking at the door awakened Mrs. 
 
 Neal, and to her inquiry, "Who is there?" Jack Hunter, 
 trembling in every limb, answered : "A person on urgent bus 
 iness. ' ' 
 
 "What, business can you possibly have with me that should 
 bring you at such a late hour?" asked Mrs. Neal, hurriedly 
 dressing 
 
 " Madam, your son has met with an accident." 
 
 " My son? " asked Mrs. Neal, in amazement. 
 
 "Yes, madam, your son." 
 
 " You mean my adopted son, William Neal? " 
 
 Jack had only known him as Bill Brown, but at once under 
 stood his motive in having changed his name. He answered 
 promptly, "Yes, madam, William Neal." 
 
 ' ' Where, and how did it happen ? ' ' asked Mrs. Neal, anx 
 iously, as she opened the door. 
 
 Jack had watched her face so often, it was perfectly familiar 
 to- him ; but her voice that same sweet, sympathetic voice, he 
 had not heard for years awakened every memory of the bitter 
 past. He limped into the room, and fell heavily into a chair. 
 
 "You are tired, poor man. You came too rapidly. Rest a 
 moment, then you can tell me better." 
 
 " He was shot by accident, madam," stammered Jack, as if 
 he was suffocating. Suddenly, forgetting his infirmities, he rose 
 to his feet, and looking eagerly into Mrs. Neal's face, asked, 
 abruptly, " Do you know me ? " 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 21$ 
 
 "No," she answered, quietly. 
 
 " Is there nothing about me you have ever seen before? " 
 
 Mrs. Neal scrutinized him earnestly, and answered deliber 
 ately, "Nothing that I recognize." 
 
 " Great God, Agnes, have I gone from your memory 
 entirely? " 
 
 " Who are you, that you call me Agnes? " 
 
 " Who am I ? You may well ask," cried the poor, wretched 
 mortal. " I am the man who stole your children." 
 
 "You you and you dare to come and tell me?" 4 
 
 "Oh, Agnes, will you not forgive me?" and Jack Hunter 
 knelt at her feet. 
 
 " No, never ! " cried she, fiercely. 
 
 "Oh, Agnes, if the doors of the past could be opened, 
 and you could see the path I have trodden step by step, the 
 burning hell I have lived in year after year, searching this 
 wide world over for you, you could forgive me. The letter I 
 wrote and left on your chamber-floor in the cottage in New 
 Orleans, the night I took your children and left hers, explained 
 my motive. I went away that night, but I soon came back, 
 the victim of remorse, to confess my crime, to restore your 
 children, but you had gone, and she had gone." 
 
 " She who is she?" 
 
 "The illegal wife of Captain Wetherell. In my bitterness 
 toward you, I lied in that note. You were his legal wife. His 
 real name was Richard Neal, and the dashing beauty was his 
 mistress. You each had two children, a son and a daughter ; 
 and that woman, to gain the Captain's property, induced me to 
 steal your children and leave hers, for yours were the heirs to 
 his estate." 
 
 "Then that woman has had my children all these years?" 
 whispered the excited mother, hoarsely. Her very breathing 
 
214 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 was suspended, as if the next respiration depended upon the 
 answer. 
 
 "Yes," whispered Jack, in terror, as if he thought the word 
 would kill her. 
 
 "Linda my child my child at last ! " cried the over 
 joyed mother, and sank senseless to the floor. 
 
 Linda ran from her room at the piercing call, to find Mrs. 
 Neal senseless upon the floor and Jack Hunter bending over 
 her. 
 
 "What have you done to her?" she demanded, wildly. 
 "Oh, Mother Neal, are you forever to be persecuted? Wake 
 up, my darling, angel mother. There, that does her good," 
 she said, as Jack bathed her face with cold water. 
 
 Mrs. Neal opened her eyes, and, seeing Jack bending over 
 her, closed them again quickly. Shuddering, she turned to 
 Linda, and said : 
 
 "Send him away, Linda; send him away. The very sight 
 of him is horrible." 
 
 " Horrible ! " cried poor Jack, rocking his body to and fro, 
 weeping like a child. " Yes, horrible ! I should be revolting 
 to the sight of every human creature, and no one has a better 
 right to tell me so than you." 
 
 Mrs. Neal seemed suddenly to have awakened to a full reali 
 zation of what had happened. Going to the cowering, weep 
 ing creature, with all the mildness of her old self, she said, 
 earnestly : 
 
 "Jack Hunter, do you swear before God you have spoken 
 the truth this night?" 
 
 Jack raised his two hands heavenward, and with great tears 
 streaming from his uplifted eyes, that were wonderfully large 
 and luminous in his emaciated face, said, solemnly : 
 
 "Agnes Neal, before God, I do most solemnly swear. Every 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 215 
 
 word I have spoken this night was the truth, the whole truth, 
 and nothing but the truth. That is the daughter I stole from 
 you," pointing toward Linda, "and Ben Wetherell, in San 
 Quentin, is your son." 
 
 Linda stood in amazement, regarding first one, then the 
 other. 
 
 "At last," exclaimed Mrs. Neal, "I live again. Linda, 
 darling, you are my own, my long lost child." 
 
 " Oh, Mother Neal, what happiness ! " and Linda was folded 
 to her heart; "and Ben, what joyful news for him. How has 
 it all come about, that we at last have a tender, loving mother ? 
 We could not love that woman, she was so hard and cold. I 
 often asked myself, if it was possible for a mother to hate her 
 own children as she evidently did us. But how strange that 
 she should bring us together, to love one another, before we 
 knew what a claim we had upon each other's affections." 
 
 They quite forgot Jack in their mutual happiness, and he in 
 turn had forgotten the errand that brought him there, and was 
 quietly moving toward the door, when Linda exclaimed : 
 
 " But this good man, who has brought us so much happiness, 
 surely is not going without a word of thanks ? " 
 
 Jack turned and looked at Linda, with his great eyes beam 
 ing with gratitude. He was so unaccustomed to consideration, 
 it seemed like the dawning of a new life. 
 
 Her words awakened a cord of sympathy in Mrs. Neal's 
 heart. She went to Jack, took his thin, bony hand in hers, 
 and with deep feeling said : 
 
 "The agony I have suffered, through you, no words could 
 adequately portray ; but one need only look at you^ to know 
 how you have expiated your wrong. I forgive you. ' ' 
 
 "I don't deserve it, Agnes. I had no right to expect it," 
 said poor Jack, quite overcome ; " you are too good to me." 
 
2l6 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 "But wait," said Mrs. Neal,, "I must go with you to poor 
 William, and you must tell me all about him on the way." 
 
 Mrs. Neal hurriedly explained that an accident had befallen 
 her adopted son, for whom she had so long been searching in 
 vain, and Jack had come to conduct her to him. 
 
 The unusual noise at that hour of the night awakened Lucy, 
 who made her appearance, looking exceedingly sleepy, but she 
 was suddenly thoroughly awakened by Linda springing toward 
 her with the incomprehensible announcement : 
 
 " The world has turned upside down and inside out in the 
 short space of an hour. Lucy, you are Mrs. Neal's daughter-in- 
 law instead of Mrs. Wetherell's, and your name is not Weth- 
 erellatall." 
 
 Lucy rubbed her eyes, as if upon a clear vision depended a 
 clear comprehension of such an enigmatical statement. 
 
 Mrs. Neal left them, with a request that they should retire 
 and talk everything over in the morning. So it came to pass 
 that Jack Hunter escorted the old sweetheart of his boyish days 
 to the bedside of Richard Wetherell's illegitimate son. 
 
 As the physician said nothing but the best of care could save 
 him, and even then there was little hope of his life being 
 spared, Mrs. Neal had Bill Brown, who shall henceforth be 
 known as William Neal the name he had borne since the night 
 he had been left in the cottage at New Orleans removed to 
 her own house, where he could be under her constant care. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 2I/ 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 VENGEANCE. 
 
 AFTER William Neal was removed to the cottage, Jack 
 Hunter grew restless and absent-minded. A cough that 
 had been annoying him for a long time, became alarming. 
 He grew daily more like a spectre than a man. Still, he mechan 
 ically performed his duties, until duty seemed to become insup 
 portable. He asked for a leave of absence for a few weeks, 
 under the pretence of ill health, and it was at once granted. 
 Without saying a word to any one of his intentions, he took the 
 midnight stage for Sacramento. There was a strange light in 
 his large, searching eyes, that was attributed to the ravishings 
 of consumption ; but the approach of the end came with a new 
 light in Jack's soul that thirsting soul panting for revenge, 
 and seeing it, at last, within its grasp. 
 
 On his arrival, he soon ascertained the residence of Major 
 Warren. He took his post every evening among the shrubbery 
 in the garden, where he could readily see all who came and went, 
 and sometimes catch glimpses of the interior of the house. 
 Night after night, for two weeks, he had watched, until every 
 light in the house was extinguished, excepting one, that evi 
 dently burned all night, and often in the still hours a shadow 
 passed between it and the barred window. It was the shadow 
 of a woman. 
 
 Jack's curiosity was greatly excited over that lonely watcher, 
 all the more because he could never see anything distinctly be 
 hind the thick vines, yet the blind seemed never down. A 
 young lady came sometimes and walked in the garden a tall, 
 slight, graceful girl. Jack knew it was the discarded daughter 
 19 
 
218 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 of Mrs. Wetherell, and mentally asked, what the young girl had 
 often asked herself: " Your mother, where is she?" 
 
 The still night gave back no answer "The mills of the 
 gods" grind noiselessly. 
 
 The next afternoon Jack came strolling lazily along and 
 engaged the gardener in conversation, carefully leading him 
 to talk of the family with whom he lived. The man was not 
 inclined to be communicative, until after Jack had rendered 
 him a slight service. Then he thanked him, and added : 
 
 "They do say 'the greather the haste the liss spade/ and 
 I 'm after doin' iverything wrong to-day, becase I 'm in sich a 
 divil o' a hurry. Miss Alice is to be married to-morrow, and 
 there 's a hape to be done." 
 
 " Who is Miss Alice? " asked Jack, carelessly. 
 
 "Sure, she's the Major's darter." The gardener stuck his 
 spade deep in the ground, and turning to Jack, said, stupidly, 
 as if the idea had just occurred to him: "Will, no, she beant 
 the Major's darter, aither. They do say, as how he dun know 
 whose darter she be ; and I belave it, for he niver tould me she 
 was his darter. Sure the Major is a little quare entirely, and 
 do say quare things. He cum out here one day, whin I was a 
 worken, and says he to me, says he, 'Mike.' Says I to him, 
 says I, ' Sur ! ' Says he to me, says he, ' Mike, why don't yez 
 be after gittin' married ? ' Says I to him, says I, ' What fur ? ' 
 Says he to me, says he, ' It 's a dacent thing to be doin'.' Says 
 I to him, says I, ' Major, if it 's a dacent thing entirely, why 
 don't yez be after marryin' yerself,' says I, ' fur ye' re hale and 
 hearty, and younger than hapes o' the spry dogs around,' says I. 
 Will, now, will ye blave it? He flew in a rage, and says, says 
 he, 'Mike, ye're an impertant dog,' says he. Says I to him, 
 says I, ' Axin' yer honor's pardon, it was yerself that first 
 talked o 'marryin' ; and they do say, what 's sauce for the goose 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 2ig 
 
 is sauce for the gander. Faith, I'm a goose entirely.' 'I 
 belave ye're right,' says he. ' I did begin it,' says he, ' but it 's 
 a subject I don't care to be talkin' about,' says he, and divil a 
 word could I git out o 'im after that. Says I to myself, says I, 
 ' The Major has had it rough,' says I ; ' and niver a word did I 
 say from that day to this; and there 's Mag now, begorra I can't 
 worry a word out o' her. There 's something mysterious some 
 where," and Mike gave Jack a knowing look, then silently went 
 on with his work. 
 
 Jack bade him good afternoon, and went on his way, think 
 ing of the barred window, with the light in it every night, and 
 wondering who the human being was who occupied that cham 
 ber, and peered out so eagerly behind the vines; Mag, who 
 could not be worried into telling anything, and what Mike's 
 significant assurance of mystery was. 
 
 Twilight found Jack at his post in the shrubbery; the grace 
 ful form of Alice gliding to and fro on the veranda, and the 
 eager eyes behind the vines at the barred window. That in 
 distinct figure at its post every evening acted like a magnet upon 
 Jack, His eyes scarcely left it, even to watch Alice's sweeping, 
 graceful figure as it came and went. 
 
 Familiar footsteps were heard upon the walk, and the young 
 girl hastened to meet her lover. Still, Jack watched those strain 
 ing eyes at the barred window. If he could only get a glimpse 
 of the face. There was nothing to be seen between the thick 
 vines but two eyes such strange, wild eyes, they could scarcely 
 belong to a human being. 
 
 The lights came streaming from the lower windows. Soft 
 strains of music filled the air, then two voices, fresh and 
 musical, blended in sweetest harmony. Jack sat entranced, his 
 eyes never leaving the mysterious window, that was dark, for 
 the first time after twilight. But his thoughts were of those 
 
22O FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 voices that filled the night with music that woman's daughter, 
 with her lover, and the morrow, when she would be his wife. 
 He asked himself, "If I should rend the veil, and tell her 
 birth, would he love her then, or would their happiness be 
 dead? Happiness and contentment," murmured the shivering 
 skeleton of unrest, " they are the only fragments left us of 
 the wreck of Paradise, and rare as they are priceless. ' ' 
 
 At six o'clock, as usual, the door of Mrs. Wetherell's room, 
 or rather Mrs. Warren's, was opened, and a dark figure entered 
 with a tray of dinner. It was the nurse, who had for a year 
 and a half waited upon the lonely inmate of that chamber, and 
 no other human being had crossed the threshold. The room 
 had, originally, a small hall connecting it with a larger one, 
 but it had been boarded up and a private entrance made so 
 adroitly, that the house might be full of inmates and not one 
 suspect there was such a tomb there. 
 
 The great masculine creature who waited upon Mrs. Weth- 
 erell seldom ever spoke she obeyed orders and requests, but 
 never volunteered a word. That night she seemed more affable 
 than usual. As she lighted the lamp, she regarded Mrs. Weth- 
 erell with a strange, empty smile, that remained on the counte 
 nance long after the mind had ceased smiling. That slight 
 indication of amiability encouraged Mrs. Wetherell wonder 
 fully. It was an event, where there had not been a smile for a 
 year and a half. She asked : 
 
 " Mag, what is the meaning of those three taps of the bell at 
 intervals of three, at the convent, morning, noon, and night ? 
 I hear them so regularly, and they sound so free and clear, they 
 have become quite like friends to me." 
 
 Other nights Mag would have arranged the tray, let her 
 lower jaw drop an inch, as if to speak, but make no further in 
 dication of sociability, and pass out. To-night was Christmas 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 221 
 
 eve, and her heart, or the tough substance that served in that 
 capacity in her bony frame, was softened, and she answered in 
 a rough, discordant voice : 
 
 "Thim bells? why. thirris the Angelis." 
 
 " What is the Angelis? " asked Mrs. Wetherell. 
 
 " Why, all thim as hares it drops on their knase, and says three 
 Hail Marys." 
 
 " And what are Hail Marys? " asked Mrs. Wetherell, anxious 
 to prolong the conversation. 
 
 " Lord luv ye, but ye' re stupid," burst out Mag, impatiently. 
 " Jist as he said her head is gone entirely, all gone. Dun 
 know what a Hail Mary is, and he tould me she was a gude 
 Catholic. It 's thankful I am, entirely, my head was niver turned 
 upside down wi' book larnin'," 
 
 The door closed after her, and Mrs. Wetherell sank back in 
 her chair tired, so tired. Never could she get any satisfac 
 tion out of that woman, and it seemed as if she would forget 
 the English language, if she did not persist 
 
 "Three Hail Marys," she said, aloud. "How strange. 
 For a year and a half I have heard those bells calling to prayer 
 several times a day, and it never once occurred to me to pray. 
 Why should I ? What have I to pray for ? My health ? Surely 
 that is no blessing, for death were preferable to this living tomb 
 but I will not die. Mag was a little better to-night. For a 
 whole year she never spoke at all. Lately she is relenting. I 
 will work upon her feelings, and surely I can get out of this 
 wretched prison." 
 
 Mrs. Wetherell ate sparingly, and set the tray to one side. 
 She went to a mirror and regarded herself attentively. 
 
 "This year and a half has not altered me much ever so 
 little older. How white my hair is getting, but it brings out 
 my black eyes, and makes my complexion clearer. Thinner, 
 19* 
 
222 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 yes, much thinner ; pale, rather too pale, but erect ; and alto 
 gether I am a handsome middle-aged woman. There is a deal 
 of satisfaction in that, for I think this Christmas Major War 
 ren will surely come, and I will use all the eloquence of looks 
 and words I used to command so well." 
 
 She sat rocking and waiting, as she had waited so often, but 
 no one came 'save Mag, with her heavy tread, to remove the 
 tray. 
 
 " Mag, please ask Major Warren to come to me," said Mrs. 
 Wetherell, pleadingly. 
 
 "It's no use, ma'am," answered Mag, shaking her head. 
 " This is Christmas ave, and Miss Alice do be gettin' married 
 to-morrow avenin' to the rich banker, and there '11 be great 
 goins on altogither," and as Mag passed out her lower jaw drop 
 ped to express the reverse of what it indicated that her mouth 
 was closed. 
 
 " Miss Alice to be married to-morrow," said Mrs. Wetherell, 
 who had a habit of talking aloud to herself, as if to hear a 
 human voice, even if it was her own. "That sweet, pretty girl 
 I have seen through the vines, Miss Alice, his adopted daughter. 
 Old stupid, to adopt a daughter. I tried that. I wonder where 
 my daughter is ? My daughter it seems like a dream that I 
 ever had one." 
 
 The light was turned very low, and she sat softly rocking, 
 with her arms crossed over her chest, thinking, thinking, 
 ever thinking ; and her face changed continually under the vary 
 ing brain flashes. Soft strains of music came from below. It 
 was the voice of her long lost daughter blended with that of 
 her lover that long lost daughter under the same roof with 
 her, but lost to her forever. The music died away and night 
 was still again. 
 
 Jack shivered. It was damp and chilly. He was feeling 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 223 
 
 worse than usual, and was just going to leave his hiding-place, 
 when he heard voices approaching. One he recognized as 
 Mike, the gardener, the other was a woman. They came near 
 his place of concealment and stopped, when Mike said : 
 
 " Mag, ye're too hard on a fellow intirely. A whole yare and 
 a half ago, says ye to me, says ye, ' Mike, if ye '11 only con- 
 sint to me nussin' that woman, and yez be gardner yersilf, and 
 lay up yer arnens a yare, I '11 marry ye, says ye.' Now, it 's a 
 yare and a half, and ye says, says ye, ' Mike, it 's well we 're 
 doin' ; we '11 wait a little longer.' It 's nussin' a sick woman 
 yez be ; but nobody iver sane 'er or heard o 'er but yersilf, and 
 divil a whimper will yez tell a fellow." 
 
 " Mike, it 's will paid I am for-holdin' me tongue." 
 
 " Mag, I don't want to be hard on ye, but, by Saint Patrick, 
 I 'm after thinkin' it 's fur sumthing ilse ye 're paid." 
 
 "Mike, what the divil do ye mane?" burst out Mag, in a 
 rage. 
 
 " Be aisy, Mag ; be aisy, now. Sure, it 's a bouncin 1 , foine 
 lass ye are now, Mag; and begorra, Mag, I 've me eye on the 
 foine Major, he pays ye so divilish well." 
 
 Mag drew her great, ungainly, bony figure more erect, with 
 an air of conscious pride, and it was well for Mike that he 
 could not see the flash of her cold gray eyes. 
 
 " Mike, it 's a fool ye are. Do ye think I 've lived these five 
 and thirty years to be givin' meself to the loike o' the Major? " 
 
 Mike put his arm about her cautiously, as he said : " No, 
 darlant, no ; not whin I 'm around. But begorra, Mag, it 's div 
 ilish quare, so it is." 
 
 "Do ye sae yon window?" asked Mag, suddenly, pointing 
 to the mysterious window. 
 
 Jack's eyes and ears were all attention. 
 
 "Begorra, I do," answered Mike, stupidly. 
 
224 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 "Whist, thin. If iver yez brathe a word, I'll niver marry 
 yez at all. Do yez moind that, now? " 
 
 " May the divil burn me if iver I do, Mag, ye swate cra- 
 thur, ye." 
 
 "Will, thin, Mike, in that room is a woman. Will yez be- 
 lave it, she 's bin there a year and a half, and niver been out o' 
 the door ? ' ' 
 
 " The divil ! " exclaimed Mike. 
 
 " Yes, and it 's there she '11 stay ; for the divil himsilf could n't 
 hate a craythur like the Major do hate her. It 's mad he says 
 she is; but, Mike, take my word for 't, she 's no madder than 
 yez or. me." 
 
 " Now, Mag, yez don't mane it? " 
 
 " Faith, an' I do mane ivery word o' it. That 's what I 'm 
 here fur, moind ; and the Major will double me wages sooner 
 than let me go, becase I hould me tongue, and yez know I do, 
 Mike." 
 
 " Hould yer tongue. I niver saw the bate o' ye for that 
 now; but if the Major is nadin' ye so, sure he'd consint to 
 our marryin' iny way, and stayin' on just the same." 
 
 "What's the use, Mike? Sure it's all nonsince. We're 
 young and harty, and there 's plenty o' time to be marryin' 
 whin there 's nothin' ilse to be done." 
 
 " Young, is it ye say ? Now, Mag, I 've known ye these twinty 
 yares, darlant, and always wundered how ould ye were, for faith 
 an' ye've looked loike a pache blossum iver since I furst sane ye. 
 Now it 's thirty-foive yares ould ye say ye are, an' ye call that 
 young ? ' ' 
 
 " Mike, what 's the matter wid ye? Who said I was thirty- 
 foive years ould?" 
 
 "Ye did, yersilf." 
 
 "Ye 're a loiar ! How could I iver say sich a thing? " 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 22$ 
 
 " Begorra, Mag, I wundered mesilf. Sure, it 's only afther 
 tasin' ye, I am, ye swate little buttercup, ye daisy. Sure 
 there 's not a flower in the garden so swate and purty as yer- 
 silf," and Mike gave her a desperate hug. 
 
 "Will ye lave off yer foolin', now," said Mag, without at- 
 tempting to resist. 
 
 "Say, Mag." 
 
 "Say it yersilf." 
 
 "Ax the Major to-morrow." 
 
 " Ax the Major what ? " 
 
 "What I tould ye." 
 > " Ax 'im yersilf." 
 
 " Lord luv ye. Thin ye 're willin', are ye? " 
 
 "No, I ain't." 
 
 "Now, Mag." 
 
 "Mike, ye 're a fool." 
 
 "Did iver ye hare tell o' the birds o' a feather? Sure, it's 
 divilish fond ye are o' a fool, Mag." 
 
 " Now is n't it ashamed ye are o' yersilf? " 
 
 " Divil a bit, Mag. Shame and me parted company long 
 ago." 
 
 " Faith an' yez spake the truth. Sure, yez might a' bin mar 
 ried, for the kinship's run out entirely. Jist look at the imper- 
 dense o' the spalpeen, now, wi his arrums both around me. ' ' 
 
 "It's jintle as a dove ye are, Mag. Sure, ye don't moind 
 me arrums. Faith, ye 're swater ivery day, darlant. If I was 
 only a bae, sure I 'd have swates fur the rist o' me loife." 
 
 "Mike, ye 're a fool! " 
 
 " Now, Mag, how can yez call yer dare, ould gardner a fool? 
 But ye 're always right, darlant; faith, an' I have a lanin' fur 
 grane things." 
 
 " Do ye mane me, now, Mike ? " 
 
 P 
 
226 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 " Mane ye? Now, Mag, ye know viry well there's nuthin' 
 grane about ye, with yer beautiful brown frickles. I do think 
 frickles is the beautifullest thing at all. One day I heard the 
 Major say, says he, ' Miss Alice do have a beautiful nose,' says 
 he. Now, Mag, it 's too long and strait intirely fur my loikin'. 
 If anything do plase me on arth, it be a nose jist loike yourn 
 short and round, and turnin' sort o' wo'rshipful loike to hivin 
 all the time." 
 
 "Oh, Mike, lave off yer blarneyin'. I'm frazin' cowld." 
 
 " Cowld in me arrums? Sure, Mag, the foire in me heart 
 should kape ye warrum." 
 
 " Foire, do ye call it foire? Sure, it 's nuthin' but smoke 
 wid yez, Mike." 
 
 " Smoke? Where the divil do the smoke cum from, if there 
 beant no fire? It's yer own fault, Mag, that it hasn't ben a 
 blazin' these foive yares. Sure, I 've kept the foire down, an' 
 if I didn't take me poipe now an' thin, to show the smoke 
 the way out, sure it would 'a choked me intirely." 
 
 "Faith, an' ye've let off enough stame to-night; an' I'm 
 goin' in." 
 
 "Jist one more word, Mag. Will ye ax the Major?" 
 
 "Whin?" 
 
 " To-morrow." 
 
 "I'llsae." 
 
 "Ah, darlant, say yis." 
 
 "Wall yis Mike." 
 
 "Lord luve ye now, ye 're an angel. One kiss, Mag, just 
 one, Mag. Sure, ye 're too savin' o' thim, intirely." 
 
 " It 's savin' thim I am for ye, Mike." 
 
 " It 's too gud ye are intirely to the loike o' me. But don't 
 be after savin' 'em iny more. Sure, I 'd be better plased if ye 'd 
 waste 'em on me." 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 22/ 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 ABSENT FRIENDS. 
 " La philosophic qui nous promet de nous rendre heureux, nous trompe." 
 
 WHEN Mr. and Mrs. Gray and Walter arrived in New 
 York, they found the old lady Gray in declining health. 
 Her bachelor brother, who had always lived with her, 
 and superintended her affairs, had suddenly died. The old 
 lady, never very robust, was so overcome by the sudden calam 
 ity, she declined rapidly, only living a few weeks after their 
 return. The estate had been judiciously managed ; every* 
 thing was under the most perfect system, and George found 
 himself much better off than he had expected. Without anything 
 in particular to do, he and Walter were quite out of their ele 
 ment, and the uncongenial winter offered no inducements to 
 enter into business. 
 
 To Californians, accustomed to a mild climate, never exces 
 sively warm nor cold, the biting frosts and snow of New York 
 were a poor substitute. They' soon tired of their inactive 
 
 indoor life, 
 
 And " folded their tents like the Arabs* 
 And as silently stole away " 
 
 over the boisterous Atlantic, and the letter Nellie wrote Mrs. 
 Neal relating to all their movements, by some mischance, never 
 reached its destination. 
 
 The little party wandered over the European world, among 
 the beauties of gay, thoughtless, fascinating Paris, and up the 
 Rhine with its picturesque relics of feudal times, and amid the 
 ruins of the once glorious Roman empire, and to their anxious 
 friends in California were lost entirely, 
 
228 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 To Americans, born in the new world of energy and progress, 
 travelling over the lethargic cities of Europe, moss-covered and 
 gray from the dust of centuries, with their human beings for 
 ever in the same place, forever repeating the same things, liv 
 ing in an atmosphere of arts and sciences, yet in a lethiferous 
 condition of inactivity, soon brings with it a feeling of empti 
 ness, a longing for the busy stir and bustle of progress. 
 
 For more than a year they travelled continually, seeing and 
 studying life among the dead. Then came a yearning for 
 home, a longing for rest, after the satiety of sightseeing, and 
 they turned their faces homeward. But when they arrived 
 there, New York had lost its charms. . The connecting links of 
 maternal love and old friendships were gone the cottage in 
 Grass Valley, among the Sierra Nevada Mountains, only an 
 swered to the word " home." Finally, they decided to return 
 to San Francisco, and make a new home in that city of many 
 hills, with its invigorating sea breezes. 
 
 During their foreign travels they had formed the acquaint 
 ance of a Mr. Carlton of New York, who, upon learning their 
 intentions of returning to California, insisted upon their becom 
 ing acquainted with his brother, R. R. Carlton, of Sacramento, 
 and accordingly gave Walter letters to him, at the same time 
 writing to his brother of his new friends. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 229 
 
 ! 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE GHOSTLY APPARITION. 
 
 IT was Christmas night. Mr. Warren's house was a scene of' 
 festivity and mirth. The elite of Sacramento were in at 
 tendance at the marriage of his adopted daughter with 
 Mr. Carlton, the junior partner of a large banking firm of that 
 city. Neither of them had been long in California. The 
 young lady had come from New York, under the care of a gentle 
 man connected with the bank, at the same time Mr. Carlton 
 had come to assihne his duties as partner. It was a perfect 
 love match, with a shade of romance that made it interesting. 
 Everybody seemed delighted and satisfied. 
 
 Major Warren quite renewed his youth on the occasion, by 
 being the gayest of the gay. He was lavish in his generosity 
 toward his adopted daughter presented her with an elegant 
 home, furnished with all the requirements of comfort and lux 
 ury, and made her wedding night'a/^ long to be remembered 
 by the gay and thoughtless as one of unbroken pleasure. But 
 it was a night of tragedy to two accursed souls. 
 
 Carriages were coming and going; joyous music rang 
 through the night air; the murmuring of distant voices and 
 merry peals of laughter could be heard below stairs, while 
 Mrs. Wetherell sat rocking, rocking, looking out into the dark 
 night, toward the starry heavens, wistfully, longingly through 
 the iron bars. There was no light in the room save the uncer 
 tain flicker from the fire, which made her pale face look ghast 
 ly, in its spasms of agony, at every strain of merry music and 
 sound of joyous laughter. Never had she been so utterly 
 
23O FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 wretched. She who should be the mistress of the house, the 
 bright particular star there to-night, was barred in like a wild 
 beast. The very thought almost maddened her. 
 
 Christmas ! Oh, the weary years since Christmas had been a 
 festival to her. When in the humble home of Mrs. Graham, 
 she and Henry had their joyous holidays before the graves 
 were dug in the old churchyard, and her soul stained with 
 blood. All those hidden memories came back horribly fresh 
 to her mind. She could not drive them away. Remorseless 
 thought would not be conquered, but ran on and on to that 
 stormy night in New Orleans, to which there had been no 
 dawn in her life. She rose and paced the floor nervously, 
 as her unbridled thoughts flew on. She wrung her clinched 
 hands, and with all the agonizing despair of a lost soul, 
 cried: "With such a dark past, what can there be in the 
 future?" 
 
 She stopped suddenly before a piece of folded paper on the 
 floor. A shudder ran through her frame. For an instant she 
 dare not pick it up. Her eyes searched every corner of the 
 small room with the terror of a hunted deer. She was all alone, 
 and nothing was changed. The window was lowered at the 
 top as usual, the vines were stirred by the night winds. 
 That was all, and yet that scrap of paper had not been on the 
 floor a moment before. As if ashamed of her weakness, she 
 picked it up hastily, tore it open, and read by the uncertain 
 light of the fire : 
 
 MRS. LAURA WETHERELL : 
 
 It is your daughter's marriage they are celebrating to-night 
 beneath your living tomb the little girl I left with Agnes 
 Neal the night I stole her children for you. Mr. Warren 
 adopted her because Mrs. Neal would not keep her. 
 
 Your son is now lying in Agnes Neal's house, in Nevada, 
 dying from an assassin's blow, while you, more fiend than 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 23! 
 
 woman, are, as you justly deserve, suffering the penalty of your 
 infamy. 
 
 Watch your window at midnight to-night. 
 
 JACK HUNTER. 
 
 At every word the woman grew more livid. Her thin lips 
 parted ; her breathing was hard and irregular, as if laboring 
 under a death-blow. 
 
 "Merciful heaven!" she groaned, and fell heavily into a 
 chair, overcome with horror. " Has that man come back at 
 last to complete my torture?" she gasped, in despair. "A ter 
 ror of eighteen years should cease to be a terror. Every day 
 of my life, during those wretched years, I have lived in dread 
 of meeting him, and at last he finds me here here to tell me 
 Alice, the graceful, lovely girl I have watched so often from 
 my window, is mine, mine, to fill my empty life, to bless my 
 future." 
 
 She spoke hurriedly, as if fearful of losing that one faint ray 
 of sunshine amid the darkness. "But what will she say? 
 What?" All hope vanished at the dread question. She 
 leaned back wearier and more desolate than ever, as she whis 
 pered hoarsely: "That I am a stranger, whom she does not 
 know, and cannot love, and my empty life will be emptier than 
 ever. They will tell her how infamously I deserted her, and 
 she will loathe and hate me, so that my very life-blood will 
 turn to venom. My son dying in her house, under her 
 care Agnes Neal, the woman to whom I took Linda ! I won 
 der I did not drop dead at the sight of her. To think that 
 white-haired woman should be Linda's mother, and I the means 
 of bringing them together again, to be "happy to be happy! " 
 
 The woman gave alow, demoniac laugh. "Her son is in 
 prison. fy. nice place to find him, surely. At least, her cup of 
 happiness will not overflow. How quiet everything has become 
 
232 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 down-stairs. The music has stopped, yet I hear the hum of 
 many voices. It must be the hour for supper, when the wine 
 is poured in to let wit out to make the nothingness of the 
 merry festival charming. The bride will soon go to her new 
 'home, without a mother's blessing, and the man who loves her 
 would hate her if he could see into her mother's dark past. 
 I could almost crush their young lives for daring to be happy 
 under the same roof with my misery." 
 
 There was a tap on the window. She sprang to her feet and 
 raised her eyes, full of fiendish light, to behold the ghostly ap 
 parition of Jack Hunter, by the single gleam of a night-lantern. 
 His lean, white face, with its eyes illumined by the flickering 
 light of consumption, looking unnaturally large and wild in 
 their hollow sockets, made indeed a ghostly thing of the hand 
 some young man of eighteen years before. She stood appalled, 
 staring in breathless terror. 
 
 As the music rang out again on the night air, she gave one 
 heart-rending, piercing cry, and fell senseless to the floor, in 
 the little room almost over the revellers' heads. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 THE LIVING TOMB. 
 
 " I 'm like the dead ere death comes to o'erwhelm." 
 
 MAG found a sadly changed woman when she came with 
 the breakfast the next morning. Pale and almost lifeless, 
 Mrs. Wetherell lay upon the bed staring at the window. 
 Mag was not a very discerning creature, and did not seem to 
 notice ; for she too had been up most of the preceding night. 
 Mrs. Wetherell neither ate nor spoke ; she lay still and white. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 233 
 
 The Angelas pealed out at twelve o'clock. " Three hail 
 Marys. I wish I knew what a ' hail Mary ' was ; but I can say 
 something," and the cowed, broken woman fell on her knees 
 on the floor, with uplifted hands, and cried: "God have 
 mercy on me ! God have mercy on me ! God have mercy on 
 me ! " Overcome by the effort, she crawled back to bed, deso 
 late, wretched. 
 
 That night again, at midnight, she lay staring in horror at 
 the window, when the ghostly spectre came again, with the 
 flash of light from his night-lantern gleaming upon his face. 
 The terrified woman tried to scream, but voice failed her. She 
 mechanically raised herself upon her arm, her eyes riveted upon 
 the ghostly thing before her, and the man stared wildly back. 
 So a fortnight passed, and every night at midnight that same 
 dread spectre came. 
 
 The woman went to the glass, and shrank in terror at the 
 answer it gave back. 
 
 "Two weeks!" she gasped; "two weeks, and my hair is 
 white. No more streaks of black snowy white. My face is 
 gaunt, my eyes sunken, with great black circles around them. 
 I am a shattered thing ; a wreck ! That spectre at the window 
 has done in two weeks what a year and a half could not do 
 before." 
 
 The Angelus pealed out in the still air, and the woman fell 
 upon her knees, as she did regularly three times a day, and in 
 wild despair cried: "God have mercy on me! God have 
 mercy on me ! God have mercy on me ! ' ' 
 
 When Mag came with the tray of dinner, she grasped her 
 great bony hand tightly, turned her burning black eyes to her 
 cold, stony orbs, and with the entreaty of a longing child 
 begged : 
 
 "Mag, if you are human; if there is anything in you that 
 20* 
 
234 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 answers to the name of woman, for God's sake hear me. Look 
 at me, Mag ! ' ' 
 
 Mag looked at the trembling woman before her with parted 
 lips, suspended breath, and staring eyes, awaiting her answer ; 
 but the cold, gray eyes gave no token. There was no soul 
 behind them. 
 
 The woman grasped her two shoulders, and, with the despe 
 ration of despair, shrieked, " Mag! Mag! are you a thing of 
 stone ? Do you not see that I am being tortured to death ; that 
 I am dying? For heaven's sake, take this note to Major War 
 ren. Tell him what a ghostly thing I am. Oh, tell him to 
 come and strike the blow that will end my misery. To live in 
 death, is hell ! Go, Mag, go ; bring the answer soon, or I shall 
 die waiting." 
 
 Mag took the note without answering a word ; as she closed 
 the door her face smiled again, but not her soul. 
 
 An hour after, Mrs. Wetherell's door opened, and Major 
 Warren entered. Changed, too, sadly changed. The affable, 
 pompous coxcomb was stooped and gray, and walked with 
 heavier step. His eyes had become restless, as if in search of 
 something they could not find perpetually seeking. 
 
 The Major started in horror from the ghastly woman before 
 him, but commanding himself, said, coldly: "I believe you 
 sent for me, madam ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes," answered Mrs. Wetherell, quietly, with her wild, 
 black eyes riveted upon the Major's face. " I wanted to beg of 
 you again, what I have so often written in vain, to have mercy 
 on me, and release me from this living tomb. You have kept 
 me here already a year and a half. It seems like a century. 
 I know I have sinned grievously ; but, oh, has not my suffering 
 been sufficient expiation ?" 
 
 She leaned back in her chair pale and trembling. The Major 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 235 
 
 regarded her in silence a few seconds, with an expression of 
 absolute loathing upon his once benign countenance, then said 
 slowly and deliberately : 
 
 "You have had time to reflect and make atonement, I admit, 
 and also to concoct several new villanies since you have had the 
 exclusive pleasure of your own society." 
 
 "Oh, Major, can you never forgive me?" pleaded the 
 wretched woman. 
 
 " No, never! " hissed the merciless Major, between his set 
 teeth. 
 
 " Can I not once more see the light of day before I die?" 
 she cried, wildly. 
 
 "Never, madam!" answered the Major, sternly. "You 
 shall never cross that threshold until you are carried out." 
 
 In that living tomb forever, with that spectre at the window ! 
 The terror of the sentence overwhelmed the woman, whose 
 nervous system was utterly shattered from nightly watching and 
 horror. She sprang suddenly toward the Major, who was at 
 the door, about to leave her, and fell prostrate at his feet. 
 
 A momentary feeling of mercy took possession of him. He 
 raised her with difficulty, and placed her upon the bed, where 
 she lay passive and lifeless. He bathed her face, and worked 
 with her some time before he could discern the least indication 
 of returning consciousness. Finally, after vigorous efforts to 
 restore her, she opened her great wild eyes, glassy in death, and 
 with great effort gasped : 
 
 " In the writing-desk is the history of my life. Read it, and 
 send it to Mrs. Agnes Neal, Nevada. Learn what a fate mine 
 has been how I have been twice married, yet never a legal 
 wife mother of children who do not know me. Read with 
 mercy in your heart, for my life has been what the fates decreed 
 inglorious and wretched. I am neither maiden, wife, widow, 
 nor mother, yet all." 
 
236 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 Her voice had almost died away, her breathing was labored 
 and quick, when, with a sudden, almost superhuman effort, 
 she raised herself upon her arm, and with all the venom of a 
 devil, hissed, between her set teeth, with her dying breath : 
 "Your fate will be like mine. There shall be no more peace 
 for you. You are my murderer ! " 
 
 She fell back upon the pillow, dead. The Angelus pealed out, 
 "God have mercy on her soul! " 
 
 The Major took her writing-desk, and went in search of Mag 
 to prepare her for burial. Still and white she lay upon the 
 bed until after dark, when Mike brought a coffin, placed it on 
 two chairs in front of the vine-covered window, and assisted 
 Mag to lay the lifeless form in its narrow house, then closed the 
 door and retired to sleep, for the next morning before daylight 
 she was to be buried. The same heartless order she had given 
 for the interment of Captain Wetherell by his servants had 
 been given for her burial by Major Warren to his. 
 
 It was midnight ; still Major Warren sat poring over the 
 pages of Mrs. Wetherell' s checkered life, written unsparingly 
 by herself. Now and then he would give a sudden start and 
 look searchingly about him, as if haunted by those last desperate 
 words, uttered like a curse by the dying woman, "You are 
 my murderer ! ' ' 
 
 It was the hour for Jack Hunter's visit. Day after day he 
 had watched the sad havoc he was making of the once hand 
 some woman. His life seemed to have merged into a relent 
 less, hungry desire to see her fade day by day, and die inch by 
 inch, as he was doing, that kept him at his fiendish work. He 
 was growing so feeble it was with great effort he ascended the 
 ladder to the fatal window. When he turned his light into the 
 room, the bed was empty, and the frightened, terrified woman, 
 who had glared at him so wildly, night after night, lay calm 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 237 
 
 and still in an open coffin before him. He became suddenly 
 dizzy his lantern dropped to the ground he lost his hold 
 and fell among the rounds of the ladder. There, within af few 
 feet of his victim, and almost as lifeless, hung the gaunt, dying 
 man, until strength returned sufficiently, and he crawled down, 
 and slowly tottered away. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 AFTER THE WEDDING. 
 "Nil desperandum " Behind the clouds is the sun still shining, 
 
 THE afternoon following the wedding, Mr. Carlton and his 
 young wife took the steamer for San Francisco, where they 
 spent several days, accepting many hospitalities from George 
 and Nellie Gray. 
 
 It was after dinner. The ladies had retired to the drawing- 
 room, while the gentlemen lingered over their cigars. fc A friend 
 called upon Mr. Gray relative to some urgent business ; so he 
 excused himself, leaving Mr. Carlton and Walter alone. 
 
 " This is your first visit to California, I presume, Mr. French," 
 said Mr. Carlton, carelessly. 
 
 "Oh, no; I am a pioneer. Came here in '49, and have 
 only been absent a year and a half since. ' ' 
 
 " Indeed ! " answered Carlton, in surprise. " I thought this 
 was your first visit." 
 
 "No; I passed several years in Grass Valley." 
 
 "Grass Valley!" exclaimed Carlton, "why, that used to 
 be my stamping ground." 
 
 "'Strange we never met there," and Walter gave him a 
 searching look. 
 
238 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 Carlton made no answer. As if to change the subject, he 
 asked, abruptly : 
 
 " Perhaps you knew Miss Wetherell? " 
 
 Walter gave a start. It was the first time he had heard that 
 name in a year and a half. He answered, coldly, " I had the 
 pleasure. ' ' 
 
 Carlton had thrown back his head, and partly closed his 
 eyes, as a great puff of smoke went wreathing over his head. 
 He neither noted Walter's manner nor changed tone, but con 
 tinued his interrogatories. "What became of her?" 
 
 "She married," answered Walter, laconically. 
 
 "Whom did she marry?" persisted Carlton. 
 
 "Major Warren, of Sacramento." 
 
 "Who?" thundered Carlton, in amazement. 
 
 "Major Warren, of Sacramento," again answered Walter, 
 colder and harder than ever. 
 
 "She married Major Warren, of Sacramento?" repeated 
 Carlton, as if he had not heard aright. "Where did you get 
 that valuable information ? ' ' 
 
 " From the newspapers." 
 
 Walter moved restlessly in his chair, and puffed more vigor 
 ously at the inoffensive cigar. 
 
 "Don't you know that my wife is Major Warren's adopted 
 daughter?" asked Carlton, with a sidelong glance at Walter, 
 as he brushed the ashes off his cigar. 
 
 It was Walter's turn to be astonished. 
 
 " His adopted daughter ! And you know his wife ? " 
 
 "He has no wife." 
 
 "Then she is dead." Walter scarcely spoke above a whis 
 per, and his head dropped upon his hand, as if in sudden pain. 
 
 " Of course she is dead. She died ten or fifteen years ago." 
 
 "But, Linda I mean Miss Wetherell?" asked Walter, 
 eagerly. 
 
" 
 
 FREE PRISONERS. 239 
 
 He was never married to Miss Wetherell." 
 Great God! can that be true?" Walter sprang to his 
 feet and paced the floor. " Then that infamous thing that has 
 been gnawing at my heart a year and a half was a lie. I 
 doubted her fidelity, and went away like a coward, when I 
 should have known she was true as a fixed star, and stayed 
 to defend her. Carlton, she would have been my wife, but 
 for that lying statement in the paper that told of her marriage 
 with Major Warren." 
 
 "I do not understand how such an infamous lie could be 
 published," answered Carlton, indignantly. 
 
 " Nor I ; but I will find out," answered Walter, emphatically, 
 and turning suddenly to Carlton, " where is she to be found ? " 
 
 11 1 don't know. When I first returned, I went to Grass Val 
 ley to make some inquiries concerning her brother, who was in 
 trouble when I left here on my return to New York. The an 
 swer was that he had been sent to State's prison for a term of 
 seven years. The father was dead, and the family, consisting 
 of mother and daughter, had moved away." 
 
 " Hold ! I know how to find her. There was a widow re 
 siding in Nevada, who would know all about her. You are 
 going home to-morrow? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then I will accompany you, on my way to Nevada." 
 
 "All right ; and if my wife would like to make a trip up into 
 the mountains, we will go with you all the way." 
 
 "I would be glad to have your company; but it is a long and 
 tiresome journey to undertake on an uncertainty. If you will 
 excuse me to the ladies, I will go down street and telegraph to 
 Nevada, and ascertain if Mrs. Neal is still residing there." 
 
 "All right; and send me word in the morning, will you?" 
 
 "Yes; as soon as the answer comes." 
 
24O FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 It was with a strange fluttering at the heart Walter went on 
 his errand; that heart so cold and bitter seemed suddenly to 
 have leaped into new life. The words of the good Widow Neal, 
 " Never doubt her, Mr. French, she has been wronged," came 
 back with wonderful freshness. She had been wronged, and 
 he, the faithless coward, had decamped, and left her to bear her 
 own burdens. 
 
 " Scoundrel that I was ! " he muttered, in savage rage against 
 himself. "I don't deserve to find her. Yet I feel such a 
 strong conviction that I will, it seems already a reality. I 
 will find her the same faithful girl, whose great brown eyes 
 those soft, truthful eyes will chide my faithlessness every time 
 they are turned to mine. A year and a half I have been wan 
 dering over the earth in search of happiness and pleasure. A 
 year and a half she has been closeted with sorrow. I have 
 grown restless and cynical ; she patient and enduring. 1 will 
 not be worthy of her when I find her. When I find her if 
 ever I do." 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 UNRAVELLING MYSTERIES. 
 " Non ignara mail miseris succurrere disco." 
 
 next morning Walter was pacing his room restlessly, 
 when Nellie entered with a telegraphic despatch. He tore 
 it open hastily and ran his eyes over the contents, which 
 simply read: " There is such a person living here." Walter's 
 face lighted up. He grasped Nellie's hand, and, to her inquir 
 ing look, answered : 
 
 " Linda was never married to Major Warren, Nellie. There 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 24! 
 
 was something wrong about that. I got it all from Carlton. 
 His wife is Major Warren's adopted daughter. The Major was 
 not married at all." 
 
 Nellie regarded him with a strange, puzzled expression. " But 
 that statement in the paper, what about that ? ' ' 
 
 "As you once answered me, with regard to that note, her 
 mother was at the bottom of it. We will soon know all about 
 it now, for I telegraphed to Nevada last evening, immediately 
 after my conversation with Carlton, to ascertain if Mrs. Neal 
 still lived there, and here is my answer. I will go to Sacra 
 mento this afternoon with Carlton and his wife, and they may 
 accompany me on up to Nevada." 
 
 "Really, Walter, this is altogether strange. I can scarcely 
 comprehend it at once. Poor Linda ! What if we had judged 
 her too harshly after all ? To tell you the truth, Walter, although 
 I never mentioned it before, for fear of fretting you, I have 
 never been entirely comfortable with regard to that matter, 
 especially the way we hurried off, without making any effort to 
 ascertain the truth. We should have been prepared for any 
 thing, knowing the character of her mother as we did." 
 
 "You are right, Nellie; but it is rather late to be thinking 
 of all that now. To-morrow night I will know and telegraph 
 you at once." 
 
 "And bring her right down here, if you find her, Walter." 
 
 " If she will come, Nellie ; but you forget we are the offend 
 ers, and she may not forgive us so easily." 
 
 "Never fe|r that. Circumstances strongly prompted our 
 actions, and Linda has the good sense to understand it. But 
 why did Mrs. Neal never answer the letter which I wrote her 
 from New York ? ' ' 
 
 "You will have to ask Mrs. Neal that question," answered 
 Walter, impatiently pacing the floor. "I will go down to the 
 
 21 Q 
 
242 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 hotel now, to give Carlton my answer. There will scarcely be 
 time for me to come back again, so good-by, Nell." 
 
 "Good-by, dear Walter. I hope you will return a happier 
 man than you go away, and not alone." 
 
 Walter found the young bride and groom in a happy state of 
 indifference. It seemed perfectly immaterial to them whether 
 they took a trip down the bay, or over the mountains, so long 
 as they went together. 
 
 Everything was soon arranged, and the afternoon steamer 
 took them all to Sacramento. The following morning they 
 drove to Mr. Carlton 's home for breakfast, where the stage was 
 to call for them. The roads were so muddy, it was utterly im 
 possible to go in a private conveyance ; besides, Alice had never 
 ridden in a stage-coach, and the whole trip was a novelty to 
 her, in which she entered with girlish delight. 
 
 Promptly the stage came dashing round the corner, and stop 
 ped with a suddenness almost incredible, considering its previ 
 ous momentum. "All aboard here for Nevada," rang out the 
 driver's voice in a high tenor. 
 
 The stage contained but one passenger. On the back seat, 
 all muffled up in a great coat, sat Major Warren. There were 
 exclamations of surprise from all excepting Walter, who did 
 not even know the gentleman by sight. 
 
 Carlton at once introduced him, and in his off-hand way ex 
 plained the mistake he had so long been laboring under with 
 regard to his sweetheart. 
 
 " I think he will find her all right in Nevada," quietly re 
 marked the Major ; and, as if he was getting rid of a very un 
 comfortable load, he related all the circumstances with regard 
 to the fraudulent marriage, slightly modifying his own rage 
 when he discovered what a dupe he had been. 
 
 "Where is the mother now?" asked Carlton. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 243 
 
 "She is dead," answered the Major, laconically, with a 
 nervous glance from one to the other, and for a long time there 
 was perfect silence. A few passengers joined them for short 
 distances, but most of the day they were alone. 
 
 Carlton was the very embodiment of sparkling fun the 
 life of the little party. The uncertainty of Walter's journey 
 made him anxious and thoughtful. 
 
 The Major, although evidently relieved after unburdening him- ' 
 self, was so thoroughly possessed by the one subject, that he was 
 continually reverting to it. He censured himself severely for 
 his stubborn persistence in trying to marry a young girl, know 
 ing she did not care for him, but he positively asserted he never 
 suspected she loved anyone else, or he would not have followed 
 the course he did. To prove the duplicity of which he had been 
 the victim, he read extracts from the dead woman's own story. 
 They became so interested, that he began at the beginning 
 and read everything excepting the last few pages, which related 
 to Alice and Mrs. Wetherell's imprisonment by himself. Those 
 he omitted, waiting to consult with Mrs. Neal. 
 
 It was a strange history to the bright young wife, who listened 
 eagerly, as she sat with her husband's hand in hers, as one looks 
 intently at a far-off storm from a place of security, never dream 
 ing there could be any connecting link between her pure young 
 life and the tempest-tossed creature who had written those 
 pages, dark with .crime, replete with suffering and wretched 
 ness. 
 
 On their arrival in Nevada, the party stopped at the hotel, 
 with the exception of Walter, who impatiently set out at once 
 for the cottage of Mrs. Neal, where he had spent so many hap 
 py hours in the days gone by. As he ascended the steps, he 
 heard the tones of a piano accompanying a soft, sweet voice 
 that was strangely familiar. He stood and listened ; the song 
 
244 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 seemed a wail from a wounded heart, as the words came soft 
 and distinct : 
 
 You think, because you see me smile, 
 
 That I have never wept ; 
 That not a cloud of woe or guile 
 
 Across my life has swept; 
 That mine has been a sunny way, 
 
 Bordered with thornless flowers; 
 But, ah ! my heart, though light and gay, 
 
 Has known its bitter hours. 
 
 You think I have a happy heart, 
 
 Where grief has never been; 
 But I have learned concealment's art, 
 
 And hide the tear-stains in. 
 I fear the world's cold, mocking eye, 
 
 And shrink from piteous tones, 
 And cleave to Him who reigns on high, 
 
 In silence and alone. 
 
 As the music ceased, the door opened, and a lady stepped 
 out upon the porch. It was Lucy going for the physician, as 
 Bill had suddenly grown worse. She was startled at Walter's 
 presence, and he, in his confusion, scarcely knowing what he 
 said, asked : 
 
 " Is Miss Wetherell at home?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; will you walk in?" answered Lucy, hurriedly, with 
 her mind more on the doctor than the stranger. 
 
 Walter stepped hesitatingly into the dark room. Linda had 
 finished her song, sung with a choking voice, for a dying man. 
 It had come like an echo from her own sad heart, and when it 
 was ended, she leaned her head upon her hands and wept bit 
 terly. The room was quite dark, only lighted by the dim rays 
 from the lamp in the adjoining sick chamber. 
 
 Walter stood silently wondering what to do or say. It was a 
 strange way to enter a house, unannounced, perhaps an unwel- 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 245 
 
 come guest. As he stood deliberating, Linda's suppressed sobs 
 reached his ear and went to his heart like daggers. There was 
 no more irresolution. With one bound he was kneeling by her 
 side, with his arm about her, and with all the eloquent entreaty 
 of his deep passionate nature, cried : 
 
 "Linda, my darling, do not weep so bitterly." 
 
 Linda gave a faint cry of joy. 
 
 "Walter! where did you come from? I thought I was never 
 going to see you again." 
 
 ' ' I assure you it is only forty-eight hours since I knew you 
 were not another man's wife. I have lost no time in coming, 
 my angel. But can you forgive me for deserting you in such a 
 cowardly way ? ' ' 
 
 "There is nothing to forgive, Walter," answered Linda, in 
 her old, frank way. " Mother told me all about it." 
 
 "Your mother told you before she died?" 
 
 "My mother is not dead." 
 
 "Yes, my dear, she is, and you have not heard. Major 
 Warren came up with us in the stage, to-day, and told us her 
 whole sad history." 
 
 " But, my dear Walter, it is you who are mistaken. You 
 are talking of Mrs. Wetherell. Everything is changed since 
 you were here, and all her unnatural conduct been explained. 
 She was no relation of mine." 
 
 "Of course, I am confused. She told all about abducting 
 you in the memoirs of her life, which Major Warren read us. 
 I assure you, darling, it was a great relief to learn she was no 
 relation to you, for a more dreadful woman never lived." 
 
 "Oh, I know it; but, Walter, I have found my own dear 
 mother from whom she stole me. She unknowingly brought 
 me back to her in this dear little cottage. She is our beloved 
 Mother Neal." 
 21* 
 
246 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 " She is your mother, Linda ! Is it possible? " 
 
 " Yes, Walter, and here she comes to confirm it. Come on, 
 mother, in the dark." Linda took her hand and placed it in 
 Walter's. 
 
 " Mother, this is Walter come back to us, jus.t as you pre 
 dicted." 
 
 "Let us hope never to part again," said Walter, earnestly, 
 as he affectionately embraced the new mother. 
 
 Reunion and joy in one room, dissolution and sorrow in the 
 next. There is always a thin partition between them. 
 
 Lucy returned with the doctor, and Linda was left alone 
 with Walter. 
 
 There was a rap at the door. On opening it, Linda stood 
 face to face with Major Warren, who was followed by Mr. Carl- 
 ton. She involuntarily gave a start on seeing the Major, and 
 went toward Walter. 
 
 " Do not run away from me, Linda ; you have no more cause 
 to fear me. I wronged you, child, innocently, but unpardon- 
 ably. I should have known better than to think of winning 
 your true young heart with gold. Forgive me, child, if you 
 can. I am an older and a wiser man than I was when I perse 
 cuted you." 
 
 There were tears in the Major's eyes, and his voice trembled 
 with emotion. 
 
 Older ? Yes, twenty years might have passed, instead of one 
 and a half, since Linda had seen him, he was so stooped and 
 gray. She took the offered hand, and answered with deep 
 feeling : 
 
 " Major Warren, I forgave you long ago; for I knew how you 
 were wronged." 
 
 She raised her eyes for the first time to Mr. Carlton's face, 
 and, with a cry of pleased surprise, sprang to his side. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 247 
 
 " Bob Rivers ! Where did you come from? " 
 
 Walter and the Major looked amazed. 
 
 Bob smiled at Linda as he took both her hands. "Little 
 detective, I did not think you would recognize me." 
 
 That loudly spoken " Bob Rivers ! " echoed in the next room, 
 and Mrs. Neal came with a message from Bill. Walter intro 
 duced her to Major Warren, then regarded Carlton an instant 
 with hesitation, when Bob promptly answered : 
 
 "Bob Rivers Carlton. I dropped the Carlton awhile, out of 
 respect to my father. But, all things considered, I would like 
 to drop the ' Rivers ' now." 
 
 Mrs. Neal briefly explained that her son was in a dying con 
 dition. The name was familiar to him, and he had requested 
 Mr. Carlton to come into the adjoining room. Bob followed 
 Mrs. Neal to Bill's bedside. He did not immediately recognize 
 the changed Bill Brown, but Bill had no time to lose, and he 
 began his business at once. 
 
 " Bob, I am a dying man, and if the good mother will leave 
 us alone a little while, I have something to tell you. I am 
 afraid I am putting it off too long ; but, Bob, it is a hard thing 
 to turn yourself into a villain the last hours of your life, and 
 blacken your memory to all who love you." 
 
 "Yes, Bill ; but the truth blackens nothing. Make yourself 
 just what you are, and love will be lenient." 
 
 "Bob, the good Lord brought you here. Of all men, none 
 could do for me in my dying hours what you can. That good 
 woman has led me so tenderly and confidently to the verge of 
 my next life, I do not dread the final going. I have grown 
 so light in mind and body, when I unload the one weight on 
 my mind, I believe a breath would waft me over. Do not think 
 I was going without telling her ; but I was waiting. If I had 
 waited a little too long." 
 
248 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 Bill laid still, with his eyes closed, a few seconds, and Bob 
 thought he would not have long to wait, his going would be 
 soon. Bill opened his eyes, and continued, with difficulty : 
 
 " Bob, you remember young Wetherell, who was in jail with 
 us, and sentenced to seven years in San Quentin for robbing a 
 teamster ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I was the man who robbed that teamster, Bob." 
 
 "You ! " exclaimed Bob, in a hoarse whisper. 
 
 " Yes, I did it," answered Bill, softly, with a pleading look 
 at Bob. Then, with a faint glimmer of the old fire, he added : 
 "But the fellow lied. I was out hunting, and he stopped me 
 with a pistol, not seeing my gun, which I had set against a tree. 
 It was more to punish the fellow than anything else, that I 
 turned and made the same demand of him. He was a coward, 
 so he gave up his watch and five hundred dollars. I cannot 
 tell you how I felt the night young Wetherell's sister liberated 
 me from jail I, the guilty one, went out through her agency, 
 while her innocent brother was left to his doom. I went to 
 his trial, and came very near confessing my crime, but I did n't. 
 I was too weak in my selfishness." 
 
 Bill rested a few seconds again, then continued : 
 
 " I am Wetherell's half-brother, and we look wonderfully 
 alike. Mrs. Neal is his mother. His wife and sister wait upon 
 me like ministering angels, and I want to die that way to 
 pass off without their curses following me. Can you fix it ? " 
 
 "Yes," answered Bob, with choking voice. "What has 
 become of the teamster ? ' ' 
 
 " He was working ten miles from here a few weeks ago. I 
 never lost track of him. There is pen and paper. Wouldn't it 
 be well to take my statement, Bob, and get a notary to fix it up ? 
 I have nothing to will anybody ; but that would bring them 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 249 
 
 happiness that is something. But, Bob, say nothing until I 
 am laid away. Let them go with me to my resting-place with 
 love and peace. Promise me, Bob." 
 
 Bob promised solemnly, then wrote the statement as Bill dic 
 tated ; folded and placed it under his pillow. He hurriedly 
 brought a notary, and the statement of Bill Neal was solemnly 
 sworn to and sealed. 
 
 " Bill, if you will tell me where to find the teamster, I will go 
 after him," said Bob, kindly, to the tired Bill, who seemed to 
 think there was nothing more for him to do. " It might be 
 best. Your statement might be doubted, as you are under the 
 care of Wetherell's family, and beyond the reach of the law." 
 
 " That is so," answered the dying man, thoughtfully. Tired 
 and exhausted by his previous efforts, he slowly explained where 
 the teamster could be found. 
 
 Bob left him with Mrs. Neal and hastened to the hotel to 
 explain his prolonged absence to Alice, while a horse was being 
 brought for him to start in search of the teamster. 
 
 Ten miles in the mountains in December, with only the faint 
 light of the stars to guide one, is not an easy task, even to one 
 who has a thorough knowledge of the co.untry. Bob neither 
 heeded the loneliness nor the distance, but, intent upon his mis 
 sion, hurried along, wondering what strange fatality had brought 
 him at the eleventh hour to Bill Brown's death-bed to save Ben 
 Wetherell. 
 
 His thoughts went back to the days of '49, when he crossed 
 the plains in company with the West family, and Fannie, 
 whom he had loved with all the fire of youth sweet, gentle 
 Fannie. Then her disappearance and his suspicions of Curly 
 Smith. His thirst for vengeance. His reckless, desperate life 
 with that villain and his pals, hoping to trace the crime and 
 avenge the wrong. His meeting with Linda, and his oath to 
 
25O FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 her to let the dead past bury its dead. Soon after fate brought 
 him to the man and woman in whose house Fannie had died ; 
 and, after all, the suspected villain was innocent. 
 
 "Why was I brought here? The answer is plain," he said 
 to himself. " 'Cast thy bread upon the waters; for thou shalt 
 find it after many days.' Linda saved me; for the reckless 
 life I was leading was becoming fascinating. She put out her 
 hand to me when I was sinking in the slough of moral degra 
 dation. Now I am to lift her brother from that slough. For 
 the first time I fully realize there is a God. I understand the 
 meaning of justice. Religion, so called, confuses and misleads 
 more souls than it saves. It commands us to pray after pre 
 scribed rules, chant according to fashion, and believe as the 
 minister dictates. His doctrines are according to the amount 
 of brains with which he is gifted and the opportunities he has 
 had in life, and they are in accordance with the amount the 
 blessed pious can afford to pay. If we could renounce sects 
 and factions, and all worship the one God in simplicity and 
 faith ; but that cannot be done, for the thousands who would 
 be reduced to want would be fearful to contemplate. There 
 are no fatter birds in the land to be plucked than these same 
 fanatical sects, and no adroiter hands to pluck them than the 
 pusillanimous, sycophantic proclaimers of religion, each with 
 his new patent way to heaven at reduced rates. Plague take 
 my cynical misanthropy ! I will not constitute myself judge 
 of others ; for to-night, in this wilderness, under the cold 
 stars, something has spoken to my heart. I bow reverently 
 henceforth to the Almighty Power that governs me ; in this 
 age of progress I have gone back to the time when God walked 
 with men. It is His hand that has led me." 
 
 Bob Rivers Mr. Carlton banker. It is the first time you 
 have ridden alone at midnight in search of one who can bring 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 25 I 
 
 freedom and happiness to those you love. It is the first time the 
 spirit of death has hovered over you ; so near, it may have fled 
 and left your efforts unrewarded. You are doing a noble deed 
 of humanity. It fills your heart and soul with light and peace 
 that transforms life. Nothing is changed, only your eyes are 
 looking inward instead of outward. We can all find new worlds 
 in ourselves, if we only explore for them. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 THE HARVESTER, DEATH. 
 
 " The gay will laugh 
 
 When thou art gone ; the solemn brood of care 
 Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
 His favorite phantom." William Cullen Bryant. 
 
 SLOWLY the night was passing away, and with it the life of 
 the young desperado in Widow Neal's cottage. So quietly 
 and peacefully was his soul going out, it did not seem pos 
 sible it could belong to such a stormy life. The widow, who 
 had tenderly led him to this peaceful end, sat by his side wiping 
 away the death-dews that gathered upon his brow, softly speak 
 ing of peace and rest eternal, perfect. 
 
 In the adjoining room Walter and Linda talked softly of the 
 past, the future, and the present, over which the spirit of death 
 was hovering. 
 
 Apart sat Major Warren, where he could watch the sick man's 
 bed. His thoughts were of the mother who had cast her 
 children upon the uncertain sea of fate, to perish or to live, as 
 it might chance, and he said to himself, "It is well she is gone. 
 
252 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 She would have no place here." Suddenly he sprang up, 
 approached the dying man's bed, and whispered : 
 
 "Young man, when you were a little boy, you had a baby 
 sister. You know how you were parted. Would it be any 
 pleasure for you to see her once again ? " 
 
 Bill turned his large dark eyes upon the Major's face with a 
 yearning, longing appeal : 
 
 " Oh, yes. I have never known a human being who was any 
 kin to me. Let me hold her hand in mine just once." 
 
 Day was breaking when Bob returned with the teamster. 
 Again the door was closed, and the widow excluded. The 
 teamster stood staring at the dying man. 
 
 " Do you recognize me? " asked Bill. 
 
 "I can't say I do, and yit you look like that there young 
 man." 
 
 " I am that young man," said Bill, emphatically. "It was my 
 half-brother you mistook for me, and sent to State's prison." 
 
 " So this here gentleman told me; but it don't seem I could 
 make sich a mistake." 
 
 " Did it not seem a little strange to you that the young man 
 made no charges against you?" asked Bill, with great effort. 
 
 " Charges agin me? " The man seemed greatly surprised. 
 
 "Yes; charges against you. That he did not tell how you 
 pointed your pistol at him first, and demanded his 'coin.' 
 How he answered, taking his gun and turning the tables, by 
 making the same demand of you, to punish your rascality." 
 
 " By gal, young man, you speak the truth. That young man 
 never said a word agin me ; and it has worried me more than 
 anything in my life ever done before." 
 
 " It was because he was innocent. He did not know what 
 you had done." 
 
 "Well, young man, will you just tell me where we were 
 when it happened?" 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 253 
 
 Slowly, with many resting spells, Bill recounted the whole 
 scene. The teamster knelt by the bedside, took one of Bill's 
 thin, wasted hands in his, and, with tears coursing down his 
 sunburnt cheeks, sobbed aloud : 
 
 "Young man, it was the first time I ever done sich a thing, 
 and the last, and you served me right. I will do anything in 
 the world for you now. This here gentleman wants me to go 
 to the Governor to git the innocent young man out o' jail, and 
 I '11 go ; you can count on me." 
 
 Bill's mission in life was ended. He turned his head away 
 and closed his eyes. 
 
 The teamster quietly left the sick chamber, as Major Warren 
 entered, leading Alice by the hand, trembling and bewildered, 
 called from sleep to her long-lost brother's deathbed. They 
 were all surprised at her appearance, but no one uttered a word. 
 The Major led her gently to the bed and placed her hand in 
 Bill's, as he said, softly : 
 
 " It is the hand of your sister Alice, dear boy parted from 
 you in life, united in death." 
 
 Bill opened his great eyes, that had become dim and distant. 
 A new fire burned in them. He slowly raised the hand to his 
 lips and kissed it, murmuring, " Alice, my sister." 
 
 Alice stooped and kissed the damp forehead, as she whis 
 pered, "Is it possible, after all, we meet too late?" 
 
 "Yes, too late; but better so. Kiss me once again, sweet 
 sister." 
 
 Alice leaned over the dying man and kissed him again. 
 The Widow Neal came softly to the bedside. He gave her a 
 long look of love. A smile played upon his wasted, manly face, 
 and the soul of Bill Brown, the outlaw, the discarded son, took 
 its flight heavenward. 
 
 At Alice's request, the remains were sent to Sacramento, and 
 
254 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 Major Warren had them interred by the side of his mother, 
 from whom he had been parted in life, and perhaps in death. 
 Yet they were mother and son. 
 
 After the sad event of Bill's death, Walter, whose claim upon 
 Linda was no longer disputed, insisted upon taking her and her 
 mother home with him at once. Then there were Lucy and 
 the baby. Bob claimed them as his guests in the most peremp 
 tory manner. 
 
 The cottage was left in the hands of an agent for sale, and 
 those whose lives had been parted in so many devious ways, 
 to be reunited there, left it with a feeling of sadness, never to 
 return to it any more as their home. 
 
 At Sacramento they lingered one day to bury their dead, 
 which gave Bob and the teamster, who had accompanied them, 
 much to the surprise of the rest of the party, time to fulfil the 
 last request of the departed dead. The Governor's pardon 
 was, without difficulty, obtained for Ben Wetherell. Bob bade 
 the teamster good-by, and he religiously promised to keep the 
 secret of the dying confession in his own heart. 
 
 The following day, as our friends were approaching the boat, 
 on their way to San Francisco, their attention was attracted to 
 a group of men standing near the gang-plank. In their midst, 
 and evidently the object of their curiosity, stood a human 
 skeleton. He was gesticulating wildly, trying to make his feeble 
 voice heard amid the din. 
 
 " I tell you, I must go. I'm an escaped convict, and want 
 to give myself up to the authorities." 
 
 " Get away, you crazy old loon. Hain't I told you a dozen 
 times folks can't float on this 'ere boat without the tin to pay?" 
 growled a burly porter, pushing Jack Hunter aside. 
 
 Poor Jack, too feeble to resist the slightest blow, fell pros 
 trate across the plank, just as our friends were about going on 
 board the boat. 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 Linda saw the emaciated face, and recognized it at once. 
 
 "Oh, mother, it is Jack Hunter. Walter, help him up, 
 do." 
 
 Mrs. Neal bent over the prostrate form, took the bony hand 
 in hers to assist him. He turned his wild eyes upon her, and 
 gave one despairing cry, "Agnes ! " 
 
 "Yes, Jack, it is I," answered the widow, kindly. 
 
 "Go on board ; I will attend to him," said Walter. 
 
 Mrs. Neal started to obey, but the bony hand clutched hers, 
 and, with a heart-rending wail, Jack begged, "For heaven's 
 sake, do not leave me." 
 
 "Mrs. Neal will not leave you," answered Walter, kindly, 
 raising him to his feet. " You wanted to go down the river, 
 did you not?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; but I had no money, and they would not let me 
 
 go." 
 
 "You shall go, and comfortably, too. Porter, assist this 
 man to my state-room." 
 
 Jack turned his great eyes thankfully upon Walter, and asked, 
 in a frightened way : 
 
 " Can she stay with me? " pointing toward Mrs. Neal. 
 
 "Yes, I will stay with you, Jack," answered the widow. 
 
 Again Mrs. Neal sat by the bedside of a departing spirit. 
 The sands of Jack Hunter's life were fast running out. That 
 last great effort to give himself up to justice, and return to 
 prison, was too much for the dying man. The reaction, and 
 the blow that had felled him, shattered the life that was held by 
 a very slender tenure. 
 
 Walter and Linda watched with Mrs. Neal, but, before the 
 boat reached San Francisco that night, the mortal Jack Hunter 
 lay still and lifeless, and the spiritual Jack had gone to that rest 
 and peace which he "could never find on earth any more." 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 FINALE. 
 
 " La patience est amere, mais son fruit est doux." 
 
 Rousseau. 
 
 ALICE was inclined to be melancholy over the events of 
 her brother's death, and the revelations of her own strange 
 history, which Major Warren felt she and Bob had better 
 know. So Bob insisted upon her attending the marriage of 
 Walter and Linda, which was to take place the evening after 
 their arrival in San Francisco. 
 
 Major Warren also accepted the invitation to accompany the 
 party, and participate in the marriage festivities, which were to 
 be entirely enfamille, with George and Nellie. Notwithstand 
 ing the shadows of death that had hovered over them, they had 
 been messengers of rest to the weary and afflicted, that could 
 not leave deep traces of sorrow. 
 
 Poor Lucy, with her bright little girl, quietly followed the 
 others, evidently with little interest in what was transpiring. 
 The following morning, when all were busy over Linda's ap 
 proaching marriage, she stood aside in a bow window, watching 
 the passers-by, with an occasional unruly tear stealing its way 
 down her cheek in spite of her efforts at self-control. 
 
 Linda approached her silently, put her arm about her, and 
 said, in her sweet way : 
 
 ' 'Cheer up, Lucy, on my wedding day. I know that happi 
 ness and mirth sink heavily into your sad heart, but Ben is with 
 us in spirit, and to-morrow you shall see him. It is doubly sad 
 
FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 to have him so near, and yet so entirely separated from us ; but 
 patience, dear sister, and no tears on my wedding day, re 
 member. ' ' 
 
 "I have brought my wife to you early this morning," said 
 Bob, entering in the most unceremonious way, leading Alice by 
 the hand, " because the Major, Mr. French, and myself have 
 to attend to the burial of that poor fellow down town, and I 
 did not want to leave her alone." He turned to Lucy, and 
 took her hand with a bright smile. " Cheer up, little woman ; 
 there are no clouds in the heavens: it is a perfect day." 
 Then hurriedly joining the gentlemen who were waiting for 
 him, they faithfully attended to the burial of Jack Hunter. 
 Bob had confided to them the pardon of the unfortunate Ben 
 Wetherell, who was suffering for the sins of his brother, and 
 they took the first boat to San Quentin to free the captive and 
 make that night one of festivity and happiness to all. They 
 found him performing the last sad duties toward the heart 
 broken Walker. It seemed a harvest-time of wretched mortals 
 weary of life. 
 
 The good tidings quite overcame Ben. He wept like a child. 
 Soon mastering himself, he rose to his feet, straight, command 
 ing as ever, and, with the same manly bearing, but an expres 
 sion of sadness sorrow had stamped upon his handsome face, 
 that made it handsomer than ever, he exclaimed : 
 
 "At last they know I am innocent ! " 
 
 " No," answered Walter ; " they know nothing. This is to 
 be my wedding night, and we have kept the secret to fill them 
 all with joy to fill every heart with happiness." 
 
 "Can it be my wedding night, too? " asked Ben, dreamily. 
 
 Walter and Bob exchanged glances. Could there be any 
 thing wrong with him ? Had the joyful tidings been too sudden ? 
 
 "Your wedding night ?" repeated Walter. " Why, man, 
 
 22* R 
 
258 FREE PRISONERS. 
 
 you were married long ago. Your wife and child await you 
 now at my sister's house." 
 
 "Yes," answered Ben, looking him straight in the face, " I 
 was married long ago under the name of Wetherell. It is not 
 legal. I want to begin life over again under my real name. I 
 have suffered enough. The sins of my father have been visited 
 heavily upon me. With these felon's clothes, I cast off the old 
 life and name that gave it place. To-night let me be married 
 to my wife, and give her legally the name which is justly ours. ' ' 
 
 Walter took his hand and pressed it fervently. "It shall be 
 as you wish." 
 
 It was a festival of perfect happiness ; all the more as the 
 fruit of long-suffering. Mrs. Neal stood by her children as 
 they were united to those they loved the Widow Neal's chil 
 dren. The name of Wetherell was dead; the life of the 
 Wetherells was dead, and the memory of it only known to that 
 small circle of friends, who had all suffered from it in some way. 
 It was a sad heritage, sacredly buried from the world. To see 
 the happy Grandmother Neal of to-day, no one could dream of 
 the tempest that had tossed her upon such a peaceful shore. 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 THE END.