short, sharp, and forced. They spoke but little, for their dry throats forbade. But when they spoke, more parched than ever by this exertion, their few words flashed vivid as the heat-lightning that rippled and flashed and glowed along the peaks. Eventually, they passed the infested region and resumed their normal progress.

Perhaps an hour passed. They were making little progress now. Weariness

was taking its toll, and the rough country held them back. Pete broke the monotony.

"I'm goin' up top o' that ridge, Smithy. You go on an' I'll catch you."

"Go on, -?" remarked Smithy, "I'm goin' to lie down and rest till you come back."

"Right. Back in a minute," and Pete was gone.

Smithy stretched out upon the ground, and gave himself over to the joy of the tiny breeze that once more stole through the pass in the hills. It seemed once more that he heard the faint rumble of mine machinery. Faint, a mere suggestion, which would awaken no answering train of thought in the mind of other than Smithy. But Smithy had worked in the mines and with mine machinery, and was moreover blessed with imagination enough to consider all possibilities. Now his imagination merely turned to the possibility of his head ringing from his long hours of toil and thirst, and he arrived at no conclusion. And then Pete returned.

"Smithy, I-I-" he faltered, and then confessed, "I'm lost, Smithy. Don't know where I am."

"Well, what's next?" queried the younger, much more calmly than he felt.

"Why, I reckon' we better lay here till its light, so's I can see the country better. Maybe I'll recognize where I am.

"Well, not for me," snapped Smithy, "We'll last half hour after sunrise. Not time enough to get anywhere less'n we're right on top of it. I'm goin' to follow the noise o' that stamp mill. Can't make us any worse off'n we are now-Are you comin'?

"Well, I ain't much hankerin' "

"Comin', yes or no, quick," interrupted Smithy.

"Ye"

"Ye-es," hesitatingly.

"Come on then," Smithy struck the nearest burro with his club, resoundingly.

The outfit plodded southward and upward toward the gap in the close dark hills. They returned to the region of the water-courses, and plodded up and down in silence forced by their parched throats and swelling tongues. At last, they found what Smithy sought, the main arroyo. Here was a smooth path through most of the pass. Smithy slipped ahead and after a close scrutiny of the sands made out burro tracks going in the same direction. His cracked lips contorted themselves into what was intended for a smile. He felt sure he heard the sounds of industry louder, and looked at Pete to see if he also heard. But Pete dragged along with the hopeless expression of one going knowingly to his death, but unable to save himself. This troubled Smithy and stirred up in his mind weird fancies and told tales of men being led to their death by visions and seemingly natural happenings; until his imaginative mind became influenced and inflamed to such an extent that all semblance of rational thought disappeared.

ous.

The enfolding sides of the pass now rose dark and forbidding. The shapes of huge rocks, cactus plants, and shrubs now loomed thrice large in the dark, great monsters threatening and dangerSmithy's fancy went back to the days when he had studied and read. And he sought to give definition and explanation to his surroundings from the pictures of long-forgotten lore. "What is this place?" the question flung itself at him persistently. "The valley of the shadow," perhaps. Or, a suggestion from Dante, "The gateway to Hell." At last his mind settled on his being in "The Valley of the Shadow." If he could avoid the pitfalls and these threatening horrible creatures on either side of the path, he felt that he would survive the test. "But what if it be the gateway?" came the clamoring response to this. "Perhaps you should turn back. Who is lead

At that word Smithy thought that he cried out, but never a sound passed his lips.

"One quick stroke with the knife in your belt, and you are free," persisted the voice. Smithy considered. The voice became more urgent, more insistent, more mandatory. His bleary eyes began to brighten. Unconsciously, his hand sought the wicked blade, sheathed at his belt. Unconsciously, he drew closer to the unsuspecting Pete.

By some fortunate turning of chanceor destiny, Pete stumbled and fell, plunging headlong in the sand. Another voice now spoke. "This is the valley"The Valley of the Shadow,' and this is one caught in a pitfall. Help him." Smithy leaned over and helped his partner up. The effort cleared away the foul imaginings of his brain, and left him free to plod on as before unthinking, unfeeling, for he was numb from weariness that he no longer sensed. Only two sensations was he aware of-thirst, great burning thirst, and the half-realized thought that he must go on-on

The burros no longer needed urging, yet neither man noticed it. Half consciously they climbed out of the arroyo; half consciously felt the ground begin to slope downward. Smithy had occasional moments of conscious thought. Once he noted the black void of another great valley; noted the stars seemed dimmer, and endeavored to quicken his pace. Another time he saw the great arm of the hills, saw they were heading toward the abrupt end of this, and noted how rapidly the stars were dimming, and realized that in two or three short hours they would be

stricken down by the hot rays of the sun-and then once more his mind became a blank. The last star faded away as they neared the end of the arm of the hill.

Painfully they picked their way through the jumble of rocks at the point of the spur, and unconsciously following the burros, swung back along the ridge. Ahead, nestling in a pocket formed by the hills, showed the bright paint of new buildings, and the scar of great dumps. The two men walked on unseeing, heads bowed, footsteps uncertain.

The cook of the Balwin mine rubbed his eyes sleepily and yawned, magnificently, unabashed, a great cavernous yawn, revealing a vast cave, boarded by yellow teeth-permitted himself a final stretch, then stepped outside to cast "a look around," before turning to the day's work. Suddenly he stiffened, all traces of sleepiness vanished. He disappeared inside for a minute, and then was back bearing a canteen and running swiftly down the slope.

Some thirty-six hours later, rested and refreshed, busily engaged in taking three meals at one time, Smithy paused and grinned at Pete, a grin that was somewhat marred by the arrival of a prodigious mouthful of potato.

The cook was filling up their plates for the fourth time. He addressed the awestruck assemblage of miners watching the wholesale destruction being performed by Smithy and Pete. "I guess it's mighty lucky for these fellows the mill was workin' overtime tother night."

Smithy paused again. "I guess," he said, "I guess the old desert thought we'd worked long enough and had our time checks all made out, but there's some power stronger'n the desert that puts it hand into things sometimes. I reckon it's you an' me that's doin' overtime now, Pete.

And Pete, who never in his life read a book, managed to say, "Lord, Smithy, but its hard to understand you sometimes."

S

HE sat very often at

one of the windows in her quiet little home on a side street of the Southern city where she had lived for years. She, herself, was Southern, and back in the dim years of her childhood, her father had been a slave-holder. One faithful old retainer, a white-headed old black man, had come with her to the town where she now lived, but years ago she had been forced by circumstances to let him go, since she could no longer afford a servant, and had for many years performed the greater part of the simple duties of her home herself. Her faithful old servant lived near, and although he made his living choring about town, he found time to give many a lift to his adored "Mis' Rachael. For, notwithstanding the fact that she had been Mrs. Rachael Ladly for half a century, she was still "Mis' " Rachael to his loyal old heart. The Southern negroes never say "Mrs." Married or unmarried a woman is always "Miss" to them. They very seldom speak the last name of white people of either sex.

Mrs. Ladly-Mother Ladly, the neighborhood called her-was more often than otherwise sitting by the window where stood year in and year out the plain oldfashioned stand which held the large family Bible.

Sometimes she was writing, sometimes reading, her collar and apron spotless, her unpretentious dress in perfect order and irreproachable taste. At seventy, Mother Ladly's hair was beginning to whiten; it had kept its glossy darkness late in life, but the record of years was silvering it.

When passers-by saw her writing at the window it was suddenly remembered

that she, to quote their words, "Had once been a great writer," and was reputed to have written for real magazines and newspapers in the big cities in the East. Some people guessed it was a fish story about the big magazines and newspapers -why, Mother Ladly lived in one of the most unpretentious houses in the town, and did her own work, excepting when old Uncle Ike came once a week and got her dinner for her and served her as he had done in past years when she could afford a servant. She had no children near her to do those things for her for love's sake, back in the dim years mother had laid one of them-her baby-to rest in a quiet churchyard, the others were far from her in distant cities.

One day the boy of the Searchlightthe Searchlight was the weekly papertold a great secret. The poems that occasionally appeared in the Searchlight were written by Mrs. Ladly. Her neighbors had mostly forgotten that her first name was Rachael, and they guessed that Mrs. Rachael Ladly, the Searchlight author, was some other Mrs. Ladly and not old Mother Ladly.

But the office boy, Ted, knew better. He had taxed the editor who was also the owner with a searching question and the editor had told him the truth. Rachael Ladly was henceforth a heroine enthroned in his boyish heart.

"Why sure!" the editor had said with a softening in his big voice. "Dear soul! she used to be a great writer and I wouldn't turn her verses and stories down for the world."

Big, good-hearted Jim Walton, the editor of the Searchlight, was almost the idol of Mother Ladly's dear old heart. The Searchlight was the only paper pub

lished in the small city. It had held its own for eleven years and had run every other paper out of the business. It was the pride of the Searchlight staff, that the Searchlight was as sure of being published as the sun was of coming up in the East. The staff consisted of the editor and proprietor, Samuel J. Walton, and the office boy, Ted Cartright, who was printer-devil and compositor, the editor himself taking a hand at the case when an emergency called for his services in that direction.

Every Saturday night the Searchlight, smelling alluringly of printer's ink, came to Mother fresh from the press, brought by old Uncle Ike's trembling black hands, and an eager-faced old woman sat at the window where the stand which held her Bible stood, and with a faint flush on her sweet old face, read the paper from the first page to the last. If there were verses of her own in the paper signed by her own name, the flush in her face deepened and the light in her eyes grew stronger until she looked almost young again.

Saturday being a gala day for Mother, Uncle Ike always stayed and got her dinner for her, and served her as he had done in years gone by. Tip-toeing in and out softly, laying the spotless cloth, and getting out the old, rare China, the best silver and lighting the big shade lamp; and in the kitchen he would dash the tears from his faithful old black face muttering in mingled pride and wrath:

"God bless her! she's a great writer yet! an' they's sech fools they ain't one of 'em knows it, but old Uncle Ike!'ceptin' mebby it's that little gen'men what prints the paper-little Marsa Ted!"

And Mother, dear heart, would sit and dream before the fire after dinner, with her beloved paper in her lap, a paper to which she had been a subscriber since the first copy was issued eleven years ago, and which was one of the few connecting links in her life that kept her in touch with the past when she had written for the big magazines and newspapers in the East and West and had been editor

of several departments of the newspapers and magazines.

At one time in her life she had been associate editor of a society journal on which her brother had been foreman of the printing office, and in odd moments she had learned to set type, to help her brother and lessen the expense-for they had both owned an interest in the paper. She had even made up the forms on several occasions-there wasn't a step from printer to the editorial chair that she did not know perfectly; that dear brother's face came before her now in memory's sacred halls and dimmed her eyes with tears.

And now Jim Walton, editor of the Searchlight, the office boy, Ted, and old Uncle Ike were her only friends in her immediate surroundings that connected her with the past, in which she had been recognized as a distinguished woman, and she would still be recognized by people who knew her and her work in literature and journalism.

Occasionally from the Far East came a package of new magazines or newspapers from her children or friends of years past whom distance could not change in their fidelity. They were hailed with great delight for she could not afford to subscribe for many for her income had dwindled to a very small patrimony with the advancing years.

When such rare treats came a note would go by the faithful hands of Uncle Ike to the editor of the Searchlight, in a delicate old-fashioned hand writing: "Would the highly respected editor of the Searchlight care to look over some new publications which had been sent to Rachael Ladly from the East? Possibly they might contain interesting news which had not happened to come under his notice."

A reply in big, school-boyish hand would come back to Mother Ladly to the efffect that:

"We would esteem it a great favor to the Searlight if our valued contributor, Rachael Ladly, would send the periodicals mentioned, which would be returned

Samuel J. Walton was more often called Jim than by his first name. He was one of the big men of the town, but it hadn't spoiled him.

And then-into the flower-laden atmosphere, into the peace and quiet of the town, forcing its way into countless happy homes-came an unbidden guest, and the dreaded flag was raised at innumerable doors, with its legend of danger and death. And a great cry of terror went up from helpless stricken humanity:

"The yellow fever! The yellow fever!" From lip to lip went the anguished cry, and those who could, fled-and those who could not, stayed to make the fight for life, for themselves and others and face their doom whatever that might be. An aged woman with the tears running down her face sat in her chair by the window, her open Bible in her lap. Now and then she paused to listen for footsteps faltering with age. The deadwagon passed by, and repassed, and passed again. The footsteps were an endless time in coming. Uncle Ike had gone to the Searchlight for the daily news of good cheer: "All is well. Searchlight staff is still here, and trust our esteemed contributor, Rachael Ladly, is O. K."

That was the daily bulletin from the Searchlight office, hoped for, prayed for, by trembling old lips. The footsteps came at last, but at the sound of them, Mother stood up trembling and white. They were running-Uncle Ike running at past eighty years, and crippled with rheumatism:

He burst into the room, his eyes rolling with terror and his black face a sickly, ashen hue.

"Gord Almighty!" he cried-Uncle Ike was apt to get an "r" in where it did not belong, when deeply moved-"Gord Almighty, Mis' Rachael be ca'm, honey! An' Lawd help us all! Dey is downbofe of dem! de yaller debbel done knock

dem out! Dey ain't any Searchlight any moah-dey is bofe got de yaller fevah, dey drop wive it in de office, an' am took to de hospital-de Searchlight won't be published!"

Mother stood for a moment stricken dumb. Then her slender figure straightened erect and tense. Her head was lifted, her delicate nostrils dilated like an old war-horse that has scented battle. The Searchlight not be published? Such a thing was incredible! Jim Walton's paper break its record and fail to appear? Such a thing was impossible!

"The Searchlight will be published!" she cried in a ringing voice. "I will publish the Searchlight, myself, until further notice!"

Old Uncle Ike went down on his knees and caught hold of her garments whimpering in the hem of her dress.

"Oh Mis' Rachael-honey-chile! For Gord's sake don't go near de Searchlight's office! I done tole you dey is bofe drop in dey's tracks, in dat office wif de yallah pahal! de office am chuck full of de fevah infection! Don't go-I deploah yo', honey-chile!"

"Uncle Isaac, get up!" said Mother sternly, yet with a tender hand on his head. "I am ashamed of you. I shall take charge of the Searchlight for Jim Walton-I am the staff now-until I drop in my tracks! Did you ever know me to say what I did not mean, or fail to keep my word?"

No, Uncle Ike never had-and he got up trembling on his rheumatic old limbs and went out of sight and cried like a baby.

Mother put on a clean collar and smoothed her hair, and did up a kitchen apron in a newspaper and putting on her bonnet went immediately to the Searchlight office. Once inside the door of that sacred sanctum she stood for an instant in the silence, and her sturdy old heart almost failed her, but only for an instant. She was like a soldier suddenly drafted into service-to fail, would be to betray a trust to her highest conceptions of professional loyalty and friendship. She would have done anything within the