T H E TORCH OF REASON, S IL V E R T O N , OREGON, TH U R SD A Y , MAY 27, 1891 GOLDEN THRONE. [ a ROMANCE BY SAMUEL P. PUTNAM.] C hapter x v iii . “ Mr. Morton, I believe?” said Blanche, with piquant grace. “ Yes,” said Charlie. “ I’m su r prised. I didn’t expect to se e y o u .” “ I suppose you are anxious to see little Pete?” “ Yes, I called for this purpose. I hope he has the good fortune to be Jiving here.” “ Yes, and as happy as a lark .” “ I should think he would be. I should call it p aradise.” “ A little better than Golden Throne for him , isn ’t it?” “ I should say so. It wasn’t good for his health to stay there, was it? ” “ He has told me about it. W hat a queer place Golden Throne m ust he! I feel quite well acquainted, Pete has told me so much T here’s G rubbins and Prince Hal and S »1 Jones and P ilkins and Paddie Jo h n and Bill and Big Diek and Jennie an d Tim. I’m curious to know all ab o u t th em .” “ T hey’re scattered. Bill and I have left Golden Throne to m ake o ur fo rtn n e.” “ W hat, in this big city! Are you not afraid of being swallowed up?” “ We’ll take our chances. If we go to the wall, we’ll take to digging again. Our arm s are strong, and fortune ca n ’t crush us.” “ And the rest?” “ Paddie is in the city. He’s Jon McConnel now, in civilized parlance. H e’s on the press, and I suppose you read some of his d a sh ing ariicles every day. Big Dig is in the tire departm ent. Mr. R ichard Cole is his name on the books. Sol Jones is running for office, and G rubbins is in the legis lature, and Pilkins is any where be tween two hundred and fifty and three hundred pounds. Prince H al, I suppose, is asleep. Like Rip Van W inkle, he will wake up some tine m orning an d find himself rich; for Golden T hrone is bound to grow, and all one has to do is to stay and grow with it, like Jack on th e bean-stalk, .Jennie and Tim are one and the same. The gray m are is the better horse.” “ I forgot about Gooch. Pete used to describe him and his p ray ing and singing Psalm s and read ing the B ible.” “ Gooch is pursuing his only e a rth ly or heavenly desire, to m ake money: * and he knows how to do it in a quiet way. He buys a n d sells always on the nick of time, and prays witn one eye open.” “ Pm quite interested in all these doings,” said Blanche. “ I ’m so glad to see you. Shall I go for little Pete? He will be delighted to see you ” “ Of course, I w ant to see the lit tle cuss; but, really, I ’ve lost my interest in him since seeing you ” “ Oh, th at isn’t fair! If it h ad n ’t been for little Pete, I should never h av e seen you.’’ “ I did like little Pete.” said C h ar lie. “ There was som ething about him so strange and showy, as if he wasn’t fit for this world, and ought to be an angel. I presum e he’s changed, though.” “ Indeed, he is. You w ouldn’t know him. I assure you he’s quite stylish, and learned, too. Do you know he can play on the piano and paint? He has some notion of be ing an a rtis t.” “ I shouldn’t wonder if he was a genius. He looked half-crazy. Bring him. I do want to see how he looks now.” “ You would know him , if you saw h im ?” said Blanche, looking at him with a bewildering glance and dazzling smile. Again, the strange fam iliarity swept over her features. “ W here have I m et you?” he cried. “ Met me! How you talk, sir!” “ But I have met you,” said C har lie. “ I saw you at the Opera House on the evening of Ingersoll’s lecture, ami thought then th a t I ha<l seen you somewhere. Your face has haunted me, an d —yes, I must confess it now’ th a t I have found you—I have longed to see your face ever since.” “ Is th a t so?” said Blanche, delightedly; “ and now I m ay con fess th a t 1 saw’ you too, hut you looked so abstracted that I thought it no use to speak and claim old acquaintance.” “ Old acquaintance?” said C har lie “ W hat do you m ean? W here could vve have known each other? C ertainly never, unless it was in some fairy kingdom before we were born.” “ Oh, we have met since then, and I rem em ber it well.” “ Tell me if you are not really a fa'ry, where it was.” “ Let me see. It was a dim , weird place, about m idnight. The moon was shining over the rocks and trees. On the one side is the Buried Castle, and not far off the T hrone R jom , and around, darkly glooming, Conscience Pw s. There are two horses, a solitary figure— and th it I b.diev , is C harlie—an<l there is a sudden report, and then another figure, ami th a t”— said Blanche, with blazing eyes and trem bling lips, with a boyish tone in her voice and a sudden flinging back of her bead. “ Was little Pete,” said C harlie, “ a n d ”— “ And Blanche, too,” hurst forth the girl, im petuously. “ Is it possible?’’ said Charlie. “ You th a t little cuss— I m ean th a t little —lady!” “ I ’m thunderstruck. L ittle Pete not himself after all, and you— W ell, I don’t know myself any more. Please stick a pin into me, so th at I can find out w hether I am dream ing or—wak- • M Illg . “ You d id n ’t think you w erecary- ing a woman in your arm s on th a t lovely night, and th a t you m ight have made a runaw ay m atch of it,” carolled Blanche. “ Isn ’t it ro m an tic? W hy, how you stare! You look as if you d id n ’t like it. Do you wish I were a boy again?” “ Yes, for then I sh o u ld n ’t be breaking my heart. But come, tell me all about it. I ’m burning with curiosity. I ’m like a woman, and must have the whole story.” “ I t ’s along one and a sad o n e ,” said Blanche. “ I fear it is, hut what a beautiful ending! You have nothing to fear now.” “ I suppose not, ouly th a t m an. I do so dread to think of him. If he should find me o u t”— “ Don’t fear him, whoever he is. He’s dead.” “ Dead9 Are you sure?” “ I saw his body with my own eyes.” Blanche buried her face in her hands. For a moment, she could say nothing. “ Oh, I am th a n k fu ll” she m ur mured at length softly. “ H e was the horror of my life.” “ W ho was he?” asked Charlie. “ Mv husband. I fled from him as from a serpent.” “ Your husband! l a m amazed! W hat is behind all th is? ” “ Listen. I will tell you. My lather, as near as I can rem em ber and learn, was a m an of literary genius, but indolent and shiftless, floating from place to place. My m other was a bright New England girl, whose parents lived com fort ably on a farm. F allin g in love with my father, R alph K enneday, she m arried him , and they came to New York. He earned a pr* carious living by w riting songs, etc., and sometimes playing in the theatres. My m other soon died, overcome by hardship, when I was a little girl My father growing desperate, m ar ried a woman who kept a saloon on the Bowery. Oh, the horror of those years! My father died, and I was left in the hands of this ter rible step-m other. She treated me cruelly. I was compelled to sell papers on the street, to sing songs, to beg at times. F inally, I was put into a variety theatre. Then, this m an came along. I suppose he gave money to my step-m other. She whipped me, and compelled me to m arry him ; but, somehow, after the ceremony, while they were in the m idst of th eir drunken revels, I escaped. I got on board the cars, and begged my way West. I feared th at he was on my track, pursuing me like a relentle-s hound. I went farther and farther. I crossed the plains. I crept up am ong the m ountains. I cam e at length to Golden Throne as little Pete. I saw him th at night when I tied. You know the rest. W ell, I cam e to this city. I had heard from my father of an elder brother, living here somewhere. H is name was W illiam K ennedy He was m uch older, and had come to Cali fornia when my father was a little boy; and so for years they were separated, and alm ost forgot each other. I presum e, on some ac counts, there was little sym pathy between them ; for Uncle W illiam was a thorough-going business man, and would have no regard for the vagrant genius of my father. I tried to find this uncle on mv arrival in the city. Thanks he to the gold you gave me, I was enabl ed to do so with com parative ease. I found him living in this elegant house. He was a bachelor, and quite aged. H e had no one to care for, and greeted me as if I were his daughter. My identity was soon established, and he m ade me his heir. A few m onths ago, he died; and now I am m istress of this mansion and of wealth that I really cannot c >unt.” “ This is indeed a fairy tale,” said Charlie. “ And this is little Pete— th a t little devil, as we used to call him. You did look funny, no mis take, with that scared expression and silent ways. W ell, it’s lucky I d id n ’t let ’em hang you. I don’t know w hat m ade me interfere >o desperately— a mere whim, I sup pose. A nother time, perhaps, I'd let things g ». You see we get awful rough and cruel in this coun try .” “ I see th a t, yet th ere’s much good th a t shines out. Even Big Dick has s »¡ne genuine good feel ing. H e has a spite agaii.-t me though; but I guess, if lie shoubl see me now, he’d soften a little, w ouldn’t he?” said Blanche, with a ringing laugh. “ I think he would. But he’s m arried, and it w ouldn’t do any good for you to cap tu re him. You look high now, of course—a lord or a duke or a m illionnaire, at least.” “ W hy shouldn’t I? I have had all I w ant of poverty and disgrace, and now I am going to look high and keep high. I ’m going to take the best m an th a t comes alo g.” “ You can have your pick.” said C harlie, disconsolately. “ 1 came to seek my fortune. I have lost it already, for a thousand are ahead of me.” • “ I told you little Pete could play. Listen and hear if he can ’t,” said Blanche. She ran to the piano as graceful ly as a faw n, and sat down, and the music sparkled forth like a fountain. The swift notes glided on in perfect harm ony. Then she sang, and her rich voice expressed the very spirit of the song. There was nothing formal about her, though she was so elegantly attired She was anim ated by a beautiful and, in some respect-», extrao rd in ary genius. She inherited her fath er’s literary and poetic faculty, with much more steadiness of character, which came from her n u th e r’s side.