As Percy ran down the stairs to the street door one day, his mind was in a very contented state.

This unfettered life with a thoroughly congenial companion, who lived wholly for him, and yet laid not one restriction upon his liberty--what could be more delightful?

He had all the comforts and benefits of a home, with none of the care or monotony of domestic life.

"I am the most fortunate of men," he mused, as he stopped on the lower landing to light his cigar. "Among the thousands in this city who have their agreeable companions hidden away like choice gems from the eyes of the world, I doubt if there is another Dolores. So beautiful, so true, so sensible, and so perfectly satisfied with her situation. Surely I am an ungrateful dog to ever feel discontented and restless, as I do so often."

He opened the street door, and came face to face with Homer Orton.

They greeted each other cordially, and pa.s.sed down the street together.

One of the first remarks the journalist made, put to flight all Percy's sense of happy security and seclusion, and rendered him miserable during the entire day.

"By the way," Homer said, "do you know if Miss King, at whose rooms we met in Paris, is in New York? I was almost positive I saw her on Broadway, recently."

Percy's heart fairly chilled with fear. Not for the world would he have Homer Orton know, that Dolores was living in the very block from which he had just emerged. For her sake, for both their sakes, this must not be.

"It does not seem possible, that it could have been Miss King:" he answered, evasively. "I gave her my address in Europe, and she promised faithfully to inform me at once, if she returned to America at any time, even for a brief visit."

"Well, I might have been mistaken," Homer continued, unsuspectingly.

"But it certainly was a striking resemblance. What a beautiful creature she was! Too bad she was so carried away with her hobbies, though. I used to think you might be able to talk her out of them, if any one could, and overcome her objections to marriage."

"I am not a marrying man," Percy answered, coldly, "and I respected the lady's views too much to wish her to change them. Good morning."

He felt annoyed and irritated all day, at the recollection of his morning encounter with Homer Orton.

But his annoyance settled into absolute alarm, when, two days later, he met the journalist again, precisely at the same place.

"Are your rooms in this block?" asked Homer, in some surprise, as he greeted his friend. "If so, we are near neighbors. I am boarding in the block above."

"No I have been calling on a friend," Percy answered, boldly. "He is ill, and I drop in often to see him." And then he hastened to change the conversation.

He pondered on the situation all that day. Something evidently must be done. With the journalist so near, Dolores was liable to be seen by him any day, and then, who could say, that the story might not appear with large head lines in the morning papers. It would make an excellent sensation article. But even if the journalist should not make it public, the very fact that he knew of Dolores' presence in America would destroy all their comfort.

Before night, he resolved upon an expedient. Recently he had been making some investments in South America. He had intended to visit Valparaiso to look after his affairs, sometime in the future. Why not go at once, and take Dolores with him? She was the most charming of traveling companions, and the journey, which might occupy two or three months, if they chose to make it, would be one more delightful experience to add to their many adventures.

And the journalist would no doubt have changed his location ere their return. Newspaper men never remained long in one place, he knew.

Before another week had elapsed the two comrades set forth upon their journey.

It was nearly sunset. Two Americans, with native guides, who had been leisurely making the wonderful trip from Arequipa to Santiago, in Spanish saddles, were approaching a canyon, nine thousand feet above the sea level. All day their gentle mules had carefully picked their way on mere shelves of rock, twisting back and forth through fissures and crevices that presented a kaleidoscopic scene to their wondering eyes.

Suddenly emerging from the narrow mountain pa.s.s, a valley burst upon their view, like some beautifully-set stage scene when the curtain rises. The area of the valley was not more than three acres: but all around it were the giant steeples of Andean granite rising in tapering lines to the very clouds: every crevice, every seam, covered with a magnificent verdure of trailing vines, hundreds of feet in length, and heavy with delicate-leaved blossoms. At the base of these mountains the cactus grows to perfection; such gorgeousness of bloom bewilders the credulity of travelers. Ferns that are indescribable in their sensitiveness of texture, interlaced this marvelous floral display: and from various directions out from the fissured rocks, flashed and sparkled bright rivulets, as they leaped from point to point until lost in some underground cavern.

The guides swung the hammocks; the mules were unloaded and allowed the freedom of the plateau. Off under a young palm the kettles were swinging, while supper was prepared for the tired and hungry travelers.

As they arose from their repast of boiled yam, fried plantain, smoked fish, and cocoa milk, with dessert of mangoes and pines, Dolores noticed the guides busily setting fire to a quant.i.ty of shrubs they had gathered during the day. This shrub was heavily charged with capsic.u.m qualities, and at once filled the air with a stifling cayenne odor.

"What in the world are those men doing?" asked Dolores, with her handkerchief to her mouth. "Do you suppose they are observing some religious rite?"

Percy laughed as he a.s.sisted Dolores into her hammock, and swung himself into his own close beside her.

"I fancy the ceremony you see will be of more practical benefit to us, than any religious rite;" he said. "The guides are burning the poteke--a native shrub, which brings sure deliverance from insects; lizards, gnats, bugs and reptiles of all descriptions take an unceremonious departure when that peppery perfume fills the air. We shall be insured of a good night's rest by that means."

"Yes, if we are not choked to death by the odor," Dolores mumbled from the folds of her handkerchief.

"Oh, Percy, look!"

Percy looked in the direction indicated by Dolores, and his eyes were greeted by a phenomenon seen only in the plateaus of the Andes. It was the duplicating lines of the departing sun, upon the castellated rocks, as they pierced between the apexes and the basin. They reached in like silver threads, then flushed to gold and amber, as they fell deeper and deeper into the valley and rested in a trinity of colors upon the wonderful foliage, or hung like rainbows above the glittering brooks.

Percy and Dolores gazed, silent and almost breathless, while the long lines of glory changed to softest amethyst and gray. The guides were sleeping soundly; the tired mules were knee-deep in wild clover; in among the leaves of the india-rubber trees, a bright-plumaged arajojo sang out his saucy Ta-ha-ha--Ta-ha-ha.

Dolores reached out her hand and clasped Percy's, in the fading glory of the wonderful sunset.

"Oh, love!" she sighed, "I wish G.o.d would let us die to-night, life is so perfect. And something tells me we are never to be so happy on earth again."

CHAPTER XVI.

A MAN AND TWO WOMEN.

Soon after their return, Percy was called to Centerville, a large village a few hours' ride from New York. He had established a Mr.

Griffith there in business, some months previous to his South American trip, and now their affairs needed overhauling and examining.

Being detained over Sunday, Percy strolled out for a walk after his late breakfast. Centerville was not well provided with schools or other public buildings; but like the majority of large villages, it boasted several imposing church edifices.

The day was warm, and crowned with an Indian summer haze. As he strolled by a costly stone temple of worship, out through the open windows floated a voice so pure, so beautiful, so magnetic, that he paused involuntarily to listen. It was a woman's voice, singing the old familiar hymn, but it held a new meaning for him as he listened:

"Guide me, oh, thou Great Jehovah, Pilgrim through a barren land!

I am weak, but thou art mighty, Lead me with thy powerful hand."

Never in his life had Percy so realized his own finiteness, never had he so reverenced the Supreme Majesty of the Creator, as while he listened to that voice, singing the familiar words with indescribable pathos and pa.s.sion.

Percy's fearless criticisms of creeds and dogmas had won for him, among people of illiberal thought, the undeserved reputation of an atheist.

The world is full of good-hearted, but short-sighted people, who brand any man as an infidel or lunatic, whose ideas of divine worship differ from their own.

Percy's whole nature was deeply reverential; but his conceptions of religion were too high and broad for the ordinary mind, accustomed to the well-worn ruts of thought to understand or even grasp. In his early boyhood, he had believed in every thing; church, woman, home, happiness.

But one woman had wrecked him in mid-ocean; and he had thrown overboard all his old faiths in things human and divine, barely saving his life and reason.

Then, as time pa.s.sed on, and his hurts healed, his inborn reverence for _Something_ over and beyond himself returned. His belief in a future life was as fixed and firm as it was vague and undefined. But oftentimes he felt conscious of the near presence of his mother--the mother who had died when he was a youth and most needed her. And he _knew_ that she lived, and loved him, and watched over him. It was her occasional presence, which convinced him, beyond the possibility of doubt, that death was only the gateway to a new life.