ing back and forth in a curious, furtive
way. His face was harrowed, his eyes blood-shot. He clutched my hand
breathlessly and clung to me as to the proverbial straw.

"'Have you seen Matters?' he asked.

"'Matters?'

"'You know Matters,--the sheriff at Mount Mark.'

"I looked at him in a way which I trust became the daughter of a
district superintendent of the Methodist Episcopal Church.

"He mopped his fevered brow.

"'He has been on my trail for two days.' Then he twinkled, more like
himself. 'It has been a hot trail, too, if I do say it who shouldn't.
If he has had a full breath for the last forty-eight hours, I am
ashamed of myself.'

"'But what in the world--'

"'Let's duck into the station a minute. I know the freight agent and
he will hide me in a trunk if need be. I will tell you about it. It
is enough to make your blood run cold.'

"Honestly, it was running cold already. Here was literature for the
asking. Kirke's wild appearance, his furtive manner, the searching
sheriff--a plot made to order. So I tried to forget the M. E.
Universal, and we slipped into the station and seated ourselves
comfortably on some egg boxes in a shadowy corner where he told his
sad, sad tale.

"'Connie, you keep a wary eye on the world, the flesh and the devil. I
know whereof I speak. Other earth-born creatures may flirt with sin
and escape unscathed. But the Lord is after the minister's son.'

"'I thought it was the sheriff after you?' I interrupted.

"'Well, so it is, technically. And the devil is after the sheriff, but
I think the Lord is touching them both up a little to get even with me.
Anyhow, between the Lord and the devil, with the sheriff thrown in,
this world is no place for a minister's son. And the rule works on
daughters, too.

"'You know, Connie, I have received the world with open hands, a loving
heart, a receptive soul. And I got gloriously filled up, too, let me
tell you. Connie, shun the little gay-backed cards that bear diamonds
and hearts and spades. Connie, flee from the ice-cold bottles that
bubble to meet your lips. Connie, turn a cold shoulder to the gilded
youths who sing when the night is old.'

"'For goodness' sake, Kirke, tell me the story before the sheriff gets
you.'

"'Well, it is a story of bottles on ice.'

"'Mount Mark is dry.'

"'Yes, like other towns, Mount Mark is dry for those who want it dry,
but it is wet enough to drown any misguided soul who loves th