Motion Picture Story Magazine (Feb-Jul 1912)

26 TEE MOTION PICTURE STORY MAGAZINE behind. Even so, the bony arms of the Past never release their choking grip about his throat. The Past is a debtor, who always collects in full — some time. Suddenly he emerged from the forest upon the edge of a precipice, and slewed the sledge around. He stopped, for the first time puzzled. The scene before him was vast. He felt that he had come to the end of the earth. For a long while he looked over the rocks into the mighty valley below, then turned around and fastened his glistening eyes upon the skins that covered some object on the sledge. His face softened. Something about the sledge must have pleased him, for a smile worked about his lips. He stepped back to the sledge — a crude thing built of hickory sticks, fastened together by thongs — and, patting the cover over the object, leaned his head down close to listen. All that you could have heard, tho, was the deep breathing of the forest, as it filled its great lungs with fresh air. Still Aleric smiled as a father who looks down upon his sleeping offspring, then turned again to his labor. Quickly taking his direction, he prepared to skirt the edge of the cliff down to the valley, a mile below his vantage. But the sledge would not budge. Either it had frozen to the snow, or some dead brush, concealed by the snow, had caught into its parts and held it fast. He tugged harder, but the thing stuck still. Impatient, he jerked the thongs tighter about his shoulders and pulled harder. The muscles in him swelled, but the sledge did not move. But something else did happen: the harness parted, and Aleric stumbled backward. The next moment, without a sound, his huge body shot over the precipice. It was a mile from where he toppled to where he found rest. Before his body was cold, a strange smile — that exultant, ironical, demoniac smile which only the countenance of the dead sometimes assumes — spread over his rugged, hairy features. All of the tragedies and hopes of his life were as a tale that is told. It is not a wonder that the dead smile. The wonder is that the living do ! For a long time there was no sound, no movement from the sledge. Only the wind sang thru the trees. Then the skins covering the object on the sledge stirred. A plump red hand reached out into the cold air, and the cover was lifted. Little Chloe 's bright eyes peeped from under. Her head and shoulders followed. She looked around in surprise, then threw off the skins and stood upon her naked knees. "Father !" she called, softly. In another moment she was upon her feet, wildly excited. She peered over the cliff, and perceived instantly what had happened. Then she shrieked aloud, again and again, and fell prone upon the snow. A woman was always a woman in all things, and always will be, for she lives more largely in her heart, which feels ; but a man, who stops and considers, is variable as the wind, for the mind is deceitful and desperately wicked — it never feels. When Chloe, the little Norse woman, fainted, it was her mind that surrendered, her heart that took possession. Her beautiful old father had been all she loved in all the world. Not far away two men were following a bear thru the forest. They were both young, both handsome. One was hairy and heavy-faced; the other was smooth, longer of face and noble-looking. They were Dagban and Eric, brothers. Their natures were very dissimilar. Their respective types are found today — the one where crime hides its face, the other within cloisters where meditation breeds beauty. The same woman who gave Cain gave Abel, and loved them both. So also with Else, the mother of these two men. She was all they had; they were her heart and life. Lieth, their father, had met his end somewhat after the fashion of Aleric a week after the birth of Eric — a tree had fallen upon him and crushed him flat. Of other men and women Dagban and Eric only dreamed — they had seen but few. Both heard Chloe 's