Wichita Eagle

OVER THE RANGE.

Down the zigzag road came the lumbering old stage, the horses' heels clattering along the rocky way, and the driver, a direct opposite of Hank Monk tendencies, drawling out "G'lang thar" every few minutes in an odd, lazy way, all his own.

Inside the vehicle were four passengers bound for Burnaby, a few miles further on; it was getting dusk, and the drizzling rain setting in rendered the prospect for the remainder of the journey anything but pleasant.

The foot hills were very uninviting in the murkiness, the old coach was horribly "stuffy" and her fellow travelers—a lady and two gentlemen—were unaccountably silent, somehow; so Belle Norton sighed a little, and began rubbing the dust off the one little window, in order to get a clearer view of the misty landscape.

She peered out with a very dissatisfied air and rebellious mutterings; had she but known that it was such an uncomfortable transit, why, she never would have undertaken it, and the children, over the range at Burnaby, might have gone without a teacher.

But she was in for it now, without a shadow of an alternative, and, almost there, she wondered vaguely if Burnaby Glen was so desolate as the route thereto; if it was, why, she should die of pure homesickness or grow hysterical and resign at the end of the first month.

The old stage jolted uncomfortably, the man in the corner snored ominously, and the driver's monotonous "G'lang thar" merged into a troublous dream, as she journeyed on toward her destination.

Presently the quick report of a revolver cut the dull monotony, and Belle started up to find the light from a dark lantern streaming into the coach and a masked figure blocking up the doorway. She with difficulty repressed a scream, but the woman opposite shrieked "Robbers!" and went off in a dead faint.

"That's the style we prefer," said the masked visitor in a soft, musical tone Belle could scarcely feel willing to connect with the profession of a brigand, even in her fright.

Then he reached over and relieved the unconscious lady of her watch and chain, and with the "click" of a derringer he presented the weapon in the faces of the horrified gentlemen in quick succession, and said suavely: "Come down, now, without further trouble," which they did handsomely.

It was Belle's fortune to be robbed last.

"Your watch please," said the musical voice, as the derringer disappeared in magic gallantry.

"No," said Belle, "it is a present, and I don't want to give it up," and she made no move toward giving it to him.

"Sorry," answered the musical voice, "but I will be obliged to take it then."

She made frantic efforts to seize the watch that the robber deftly detached from its guard; he laughed a little musical ripple of amused merriment as she clutched his wrist for a moment in fruitless endeavor to regain her property, then with a quick dexterous movement he freed himself from the plucky Belle and withdrew from the stage, leaving the crestfallen inmates in blank darkness.

Outside they could hear two voices chuckling over the mailbags and intimidating the driver alternately; in a moment or two more of terrible suspense it was all over, and the highwaymen took their departure, and they were suffered to go on their way.

"Oh dear!" wailed Belle, clasping her hands in desperation, "my watch that Uncle Nathan gave me. Oh, dear, dear!" the nervous fingers laced themselves in restless sympathy with the two big tears on her cheek—but what was that in her lap? Something that felt like money. She drew off her glove and took the object between her thumb and finger; it wasn't money; that was evident, for one side was rough and corrugated. The silvery voiced robber must have dropped it; she would keep it, and examine it at her leisure, if she lived to reach Burnaby and see the blessed light once more, which two things seemed a long way off just now, certainly.

Rattle, clatter, grind, jog; now a brisk trot, and "whoa," and the hapless quartet had arrived at Burnaby Glen.

Belle was helped out, and, amid the jacularations of the old innkeeper and the recital of the evening's adventure by the drawling coachman, was hustled into the waiting room of the long, low structure known as Burnaby house, together with her long faced companions.

The experience had to be gone over again at the late repast, and the lady who fainted in the stage thought better of it now, and only wept interestingly. Belle sat bolt upright and made no sign of the grief which had taken away her appetite for the savory meal before her; they left the table finally after every gentleman present had given a similar personal adventure, and our young friend was shown to her room.

"An' so you are to teach our skule?" repeated the voluble landlady again, as she put the tallow dip in its tin case on the wall and placed a basin of water on the drygoods box serving for a washstand.

"Yes," answered Belle, "but I heartily wish I had never accepted the situation. To-night's experience has cost me more than my summer's school will come to, to begin with."

"I dare say," agreed the old lady, folding her arms and sighing in unison with her guest; "it's too bad, but they say 'a bad beginning makes a good ending,' you know."

"Small comfort in that," ejaculated Belle taking off her boots with an impatient jerk.

"She's all out o' gear," muttered the old landlady to the motley array of kettles and pans an hour later; "she's all out o' gear, but nobody can blame her as I know of; mighty nice gal tho' ugh, only jest a little too high-falutnl' for the Glen, I'm a thinkin'."

The next morning dawned lovely enough to hint of paradise, and Belle's spirits arose on fancy's mounting wing; she straightway promised herself a happy summer at the Glen, leaning just a little on the maxim of the previous evening, in spite of herself.

Belle Norton had come over the range to spend the season in teaching at Burnaby, as a sort of break in the usual routine of music roll and dullards in sharps and flats. She found that she was expected to board at the Burnaby house and pay the bill out of the amount received for instructing the juveniles of the little village in "readin', writin' and 'rithmetic."

Settling herself to circumstances, she went to work among chalk and books with a will; and in due time the citizens talked it over down at the store, and concluded that they had a fine teacher, notwithstanding her stylish dresses and "banged" hair.

"My son's coming home to spend his vacation," said her hostess one morning, as they walked in the garden, before the school hours: "he's coming to-day, Miss Norton, so you will get to see him; an' he's as fine a young man as breathes the valley air, if 'tis his old mother that says so."

"Coming?" said Belle: "I shall be glad to see him."

Good old Mother Burnaby was highly pleased at Belle's seeming interest in her son's coming, and smiled benignly on the young teacher.

"This is my boy, Tom Burnaby, Miss Norton; Tom, this is Belle Norton, the new teacher come over the range," said the mother, in a flourish of western pride, as the trio met at the tea table. Belle acknowledged the introduction, while a curious feeling crept over her she could not explain while a deadly pallor overspread the handsome face of the son.

"Why, whatever ails the child?" exclaimed his mother, as Tom Burnaby left the table, after having made a failure of entertaining or being entertained; but Belle made no reply, for she was too busy revolving a question of her own: where had she heard that sweet, musical voice before? Surely somewhere, for it seemed so familiar; yet she was certain of never having met him anywhere previously, and she gave it up willingly.

In a short time she and Tom became great friends; no wonder his mother loved him so. Belle thought he was so kind and intellectual; he was so everything one would wish for in a friend, that she was afraid she would love him herself; there was such a strange, sweet fascination in that musical voice of his for her that Belle was yielding her heart to its power.

And Tom, he haunted her steps; if she went into the garden he came presently on some pretext; if she chose to read her book in the parlor he was there, but not obtrusively. "If I hold half the fascination for him that his splendid voice does for me, he can't help it," she thought.

But, after all, there was something mysterious about handsome Tom Burnaby; often when she looked up from her book she found him looking at her in such an earnest, sorrowful way that instinctively she pitied him, but for what she could not have told; sometimes his eyes held such a curious questioning that she felt uncomfortable.

School was out at last, and she would return home the next day; they were on the long piazza together, Belle and Tom, watching the raindrops beat on the roses running over the lattice work.

"I have never shown you my box of specimens, have I?" he questioned with a great effort, in changing the subject abruptly for a purpose.

"No."

"Then I will bring them," and he went in; Belle followed.

"Let us go into the parlor: there is no one there to interrupt," and she followed on into the room where they had spent their last happy evening together; she became intensely interested in the fine collection, and the color came back to his handsome face. Belle was looking in the box; down under a piece of quartz something was gleaming brightly.

"What is this?" she asked, making a dive, and securing the shining object by the time she finished her question.

"Oh, an old sleeve button of mine," answered Tom, but Belle scarcely heard him; a cold sensation went over her. "Yours," she gasped; "where is the other one?"

"I have lost it," he said, busy trying to arrange some specimens, and not noticing the look of pain and horror creeping into her face.

"Ah!" she answered in a voice calm enough, but she felt as if she must be dying. It all came to her now, and she knew why his musical voice impressed her as familiar and the sleeve button rough, corrugated, as the other, as the lost one, which was at that moment in her pocket: Tom and the robber were one. The room whirled around and grew dark; a sharp pain was at her heart, and she threw up her hands with an agonized cry.

"Oh! Tom Burnaby!"

"My God! Miss Norton, what is the matter?" exclaimed the terrified man. "Oh! Belle, are you ill—dear?" he whispered with his fine voice all a-tremble, but she did not reply.

He took the dazed girl in his arms and kissed her white face. "Oh! to be thus ever near"

"Don't," she said in a strange, sad way "you have killed me, I believe."

"Why, Belle—Miss Norton, I would not harm you for worlds—God knows I love you better than my life;" the musical tones rang with a passionate tenderness, and he opened his arms, saying: "Come, please?"

"Too late!" she moaned. "too late, Tom Burnaby; here," and she put the lost sleeve button in his hand. A perplexed, pained look swept over his fine features, and he asked, in a puzzled way:

"Where did you find it, Miss Norton?"

"In the coach that night," she answered hoarsely, covering her face with icy hands.

Tom Burnaby staggered to his feet.

"Oh! my God!" he moaned in agony of soul, "it is all over with me now:" he reeled to a corner and cowered down like a hunted animal.

Belle went over to him presently, and laid her hand on his arm; he was trembling violently.

"Tom!" she said, trying to be calm, "I'll never tell any one."

"God bless you, I knew you would not; but what is imprisonment and death to losing you, Belle? that night's work stands between my happiness and heaven; and yours, too, for you said I had killed you, love."

He took her hand, and she felt his tears on her palm, and his words of an hour before recurred to her.

"My punishment is terrible," he continued; "you will soon go away, never to return—and how will you remember me, Belle?"

"With pitying love," she said; "my idol is shattered."

In a moment more he was gone. She heard him go up stairs with a heavy, uncertain step.

"Poor Tom!" she said. "how he suffers!"

It was time to go; her trunk had been carried out and Belle stood bidding good-by to good old Mrs. Burnaby. "I'm sorry you couldn't love Tom," said his mother, breaking down

"Oh, Mrs. Burnaby! I do love him, and it's killing me, too; you don't know—no, you will never know!" and Belle fled from the house in sheer desperation.

At the gate a boy gave her a package.

"Tom Burnaby said I was to give you this ere," said the urchin, and she took it mechanically.

Rattle, clatter, jolt, and the lumbering stage was on the road "Good-by, Burnaby," sobbed the one desolate passenger: "it didn't end well, either." Then it occurred to her to see what was in the package.

She drew it forth and tore off the wrapper, disclosing an elegant watch case. With trembling fingers she opened the case, when lo! there was her long lost watch, ticking merrily on as if nothing had happened since she last looked on its bright face. Under the watch was a note from Tom, which said:

"BELLE DEAR—I have made all the reparation in my power, and I promise herein to steadfastly lead an honorable life hereafter, because you loved me once. With pitying love, remember me.

TOM BURNABY."

Five years have passed since that summer at Burnaby, but Belle never looks at her watch or sees the lumbering old stage come down from over the range but what she thinks, "with pitying love," of poor, broken hearted Tom Burnaby.—Manda L. Crocker in New York Mercury.