Chapter XXVII

It was a cloudless, warm day when Mr. Herriott crossed the bridge, and walked up the road bordering a creek hidden by its vivid fringe of willows. At the ruined mill he paused; here the sandy road ended. Beyond on an upland towered a pine forest, its organ pipes whispering as the south wind touched the tremolo; in front nestled the small, white house, partly veiled by rose and yellow jasmine vines, and all the little hollow was brimmed with cool, green shadows cast by trees across clustering flower beds. A blended perfume distilled by dew from Herse's crystal fingers hovered over the Dingle, the cold, unctuous odor of tuberoses, the warm spice of carnations, and that clinging breath of wan lilies that evokes white faces and folded fingers of the dead, but stronger than all, the fragrance of wild grapes in creamy bloom. More than cloistral quiet reigned; only the rippling monody of water feeling its way over the crumbling dam to the far-off sea, and the tinkle of the spring runnel sounding low, clear, elfish, as if some Malis or "April-eyed Nycheia" smote her tambourine and set silver bells ringing. Once from the green silken tent of willows a shy lark, hermit of dells, thrilled the silence with his resonant, sylvan roulade, and a locust under beech boughs answered, clashing his brazen sistrum.

The blinds and windows at the front of the cottage were open, and white muslin curtains stirred now and then, as the breeze swayed them. Pots of flowering geranium and heliotrope were grouped on the piazza, and among them slept Delilah. As Mr. Herriott looked at the humble nest of a home, and thought of stately Nutwood, of gilded ballrooms where Eglah had reigned an acknowledged beauty, he began to realize the monotony, the dreary loneliness of life here in the heart of almost primeval forests. She had elected to shut herself far away from the brilliant circle of former days, but he could not believe it was for his sake; grief for her father had made her a recluse.

The dazzling possibility with which Mrs. Mitchell enticed him, he had put aside as a delusion he could not indulge a second time, for behind it was the biting mockery with which he had once grappled. His nominal wife had led the life of a nun during his absence, but loyalty was far removed from love, and the steps of an altar suited her nature better than a husband's arms. For many hours he had fought the hope that would smile out of the folds of his old jacket, but the intense longing to see her again conquered reason, prudence, consistent adherence to the line of action he had voluntarily prescribed for both. He would secrete himself, and merely look once more at the face he had striven ineffectually to forget, and she should never suspect his presence.

At a little distance was the gate of the low wire fence, but he stepped across the wire, and passed through the open door of the dairy to a tall tulip tree, around the body of which coiled the brown serpent of the muscadine. Very near this tree, now all aglow with its orange-spotted cups, stood--on the edge of a verbena bed--an ancient mimosa in full bloom. Years before, an August gale had pollarded it, and lateral branches drooped almost to the ground, except on one side, where they were cut away to frame an arch, and this entrance showed a wooden bench set against the trunk of the tree. To-day it resembled a huge Japanese umbrella of olive-green lace thickly studded with pink silk aigrettes that shook out waves of sweetness, mellow, fruity, languorous. Looking around for the best coign of vantage, Mr. Herriott noticed the narrow arbor covered by a thick growth of butter-bean vines, where he stood secure from observation. On the ground, only five yards distant, lay a woman's broad black straw hat tied basket-fashion with its ribbon strings, and filled with spikes of tuberoses. By cautious pressure of the bean vines he could see very distinctly the front of the house and the mimosa seat.

With his head on his hand and a throbbing of his heart that defied control, he waited, his eyes on the hat, he never knew how long, until a sudden thrill shook him.

From an invisible corner of the garden, Eglah came slowly toward the arbor. Her mourning gown of lustreless, thin black silk fitted perfectly the curves of her finely moulded figure, and at her throat she had fastened a spray of white star jasmine. High on her head the glossy, gold-flecked chestnut hair was piled in soft loose coils and puffs that caught the sunshine as she walked, holding in the clasp of one arm a sheaf of long-stemmed lilies. Advancing until she reached the hat, she leaned down, swung the knotted ribbons over her right wrist, and stood a moment listening to the peaceful woodland message of the lark. Three years had wrought a marvellous change. The rich promise of her youth had expanded into an almost flawless loveliness. A certain girlish slimness had given place to the fuller, rounded lines of graceful, perfect womanhood, and over the pathetic, pale face had settled a passionless repose that comes only when hope is dead, and silent pride sits on its tombstone. As she held the lilies with her left arm, the hand gleamed white against the folds of her black dress, and the wedding ring flashed. Her cold, exquisite purity matched that of a Roman vestal on her way to shrines, but her large brown eyes, looking far away, were so darkened by shadows of mournful memory, of helpless yet uncomplaining renunciation, that Mr. Herriott could not endure the sight. He threw his hand across his face, and strangled the impulse to spring to her side, to catch her in his arms. When he looked again, she had walked away toward the house.

With a book in her hand, Mrs. Mitchell ran down the steps.

"I am waiting for the flowers, before I close the box for the little bride. These lilies are just what she needs for the altar. Give them to me."

Then a low, sweet, sad voice swept the heartstrings of the man who watched and listened.

"Do not forget to send my present. I put my card inside the case. Dear little Minna, I hope she may be happy. If her husband really loves her, she enters her heaven; but if not, the poor little thing will soon wish the burial instead of marriage service had been read over her to-night. I trust the child may never find out that a tolling bell is sweeter than a wedding peal. You found my Baedeker?"

"Yes, in the mill where you left it a week ago."

"I must look out one or two points in it, and the air is so deliciously sweet I think I shall stay a while in the garden on this last Dingle day, unless you need me to help you."

"There is nothing for you to do inside; everything is ready."

"Ma-Lila, you have been crying! What makes you so nervous? You are trembling."

"Oh, I feel upset! Leaving Robert's lonely grave, and all."

The girl stooped, and kissed her cheek.

"It seems very selfish to ask you to leave a place so dear to you; but I hope God will begin to pity me at last, and call me soon where I shall trouble no one any more. Then----"

Mrs. Mitchell laid the lilies on her lips to close them.

"Hush, my baby--hush! I am screwed up now like a frazzled fiddle-string, and if you give another twist I shall just go to pieces."

Taking the flower-laden hat, she placed it with the lilies on the step, and turned toward the dairy.

Baedeker in hand, Eglah moved away, but as she neared the arbor she looked back over her shoulder and called:

"Little mother, when Dorcas brings the clothes she kept to flute, please call me. I ought to finish packing my trunk by one o'clock. Mr. Boynton says the baggage should be at the station not later than five o'clock, and you know we have to shake hands with all the plantation folks at four. Where are you going?"

"Only to the spring house for the cream I promised Minna for charlotte-russe. I set the jug there to cool."

"Let me bring it. You will wear yourself out."

"As if you knew morning's cream from that two days old! Go read your book."

She sped toward the dairy like a running bird and though she did not turn her head, the black eyes were busy. In the shelter of the spring house she fell on her knees beside pans and bowls and with streaming eyes prayed that after the battle perpetual peace might come.

Under the canopy of the mimosa Eglah passed, seated herself on the bench, and opened the Baedeker. Through the lace meshes of the foliage filtered sunshine, dappling her mourning gown with gold, quivering in the waves of her hair, and after a while she pushed the book aside, laid her head back against the trunk of the tree, and her long, silky lashes touched her cheeks.

Mr. Herriott's glowing, hungry eyes watched every movement, noted the outline of the full white throat, the listless drooping of the hands at her side, the sad, proud curve of sensitive lips closed on ceaseless pain that no complaint could adequately voice. He was unable to bear any longer the look of patient hopelessness that each moment stabbed his heart. At the thought that this was possibly his last sight of her, that in obedience to his harsh dictates she was passing forever out of his life, a wave of invincible protest surged over him, and before its passionate fury pride, resolutions, his pledges of renunciation vanished. The longing of many years seized, mastered him. In the sight of God and man she was his. He would possess his own. With a quick, noiseless stride he crossed the narrow space that separated them, and entered the arch. His shadow was thrown forward, and she lifted her eyes.

For an instant, a bewildered expression drifted over her countenance, then her features settled into a marble mask. Her eyes shone suddenly with a jewel gleam, as when a lamp flashes over the face of a gem; her lids drooped, and she rose.

They stood only a few feet apart, a little belt of white verbena fluttering flags of truce between them. His bronze face locked, his eager grey eyes starred with the glint of battle probed hers for an instant; she calmly defiant, colorless as the jasmine on her breast.

He held out his hand.

"Eglah!" His voice was a passionate appeal.

She interlaced and clasped her own fingers, her hands hanging in front of her.

"Mr. Herriott, I am very glad you have reached home safely. I congratulate you upon escaping the dangers of your Arctic journey."

"You are not surprised to see me in the United States?"

"Not at all. I happened to call at Calvary House recently, and accidentally I saw and heard you talking in the cloister."

"You were so near, so near--yet gave me no intimation of your presence?"

"I have studied and learned thoroughly the lesson you selected and set for me; you wished to avoid me. My schooling was effectual, and I was glad to gratify you."

"When I landed I went first to Calvary House with a suffering human wreck whom I promised----"

"Why trouble yourself to explain what concerns only you and your sick friend? Your reasons I have neither the right to ask, nor any desire to hear."

"At least you will permit me to thank you for all your gracious kindness to Amos Lea. He tells me you saved his life, and thereby I am far more your debtor than is the poor old man."

"Never my debtor. Amos and I understand each other, and I was glad to help take care of him. You owe me absolutely nothing but the fulfilment of your own unsolicited pledges."

"Why do you suppose I came here?"

"Why--indeed; when you pressed on my acceptance the promise that my 'future should be spared your shadow'? I presume you came from a chivalric sense of imaginary duty, or possibly a courteous semi-recognition of what you may have conjectured I might regard as my legal claims. I have absolutely none of any kind, along any lines. Having renounced and banished me, perhaps you wished to assure yourself that the condemned is at least not needy in exile? By what right could you expect me--disowned, rejected, scorned--to desire ever to see again a man whom once I trusted, almost as I did my God? To whom I fled as sole refuge from the infamy that threatened one supreme in my life, and when like a frantic child I clung to him, believing he loved me, he shook me off, as if a worm crawled on his hand. After the whirlwind passed, after the black veil of death mercifully interposed and hid us from ruin, I came to my senses--I realized the magnitude of my error. My ideal world had crumbled, you alone survived the wreck; I honored you for your loyalty to the innocent man in his grave, and God knows I have rejoiced that you denied my prayer, that you refused to perjure yourself, but--your cruel words sank deep. While I could not blame you, my punishment has been as severe as I deserved, as keenly mortifying as you intended and desired. In my helplessness and sorrow you have humiliated me by every means at your command, made me a target for derision and for slander. Three long, sad years, without a line. Yet you found a way to write to your gardener."

"Yes, I knew Amos loved me. You did not."

"As you felt assured of that fact, I fail to understand why you have come."

"Not from the chivalric motives you have done me the honor to impute to me. I am no walking code of priggish courtesy; I am merely a man who knows exactly what he wants most, and, missing that, deceives himself with nothing less. I am here to-day solely to see, at least once more, the face that has held my heart in bondage since you were a child. To intrude upon you was not my purpose, and I did not intend to violate my self-imposed limit of absolute silence, but I could not resist the longing to look into your eyes, to hear your voice; and I thought I was strong enough to watch you a little while, without your knowledge, and go away forever, leaving you in peace. I might have known better. The sight of you shivered my own compact. I have suffered far more than you, and if my harshness wounded you beyond forgiveness, remember, oh, remember, how long I have loved you!"

"I can remember only that your last spoken words were a vehement request that I should forget you."

Her lower lip fluttered, and she caught it between her teeth.

"Yes, but if farewell utterances are inexorably binding, you must pardon me if I remind you of yours. All through the gloom and bitterness of our separation a sacred, sweet voice has sounded in my ears the precious words of promise you whispered when your arms clasped my neck, and your dear face lay on my heart: 'You will never be out of my life--my own Mr. Noel.'"

A vivid rose stole into her cheeks, and she leaned farther back to increase the space between them.

"I had not then received my text-book--had not learned the lesson assigned. After that, you wrote your final mandate: 'My freedom was complete,' and you urged me to use it in any way most 'conducive to the happiness so unwisely imperilled' by my rash marriage. I shall endeavor to follow your counsel, and if you had waited one day later, you would have been spared this unpleasant duty-visit. I go away to-night, and never again shall you be annoyed by even hearing of me. Mr. Herriott, in spite of all your wrongs, at the last you trusted your name to my keeping. I have indeed held it 'sacred as the Grail,' and now I return it to you as stainless as when you gave it. I am leaving America to find an obscure resting-place in a strange land where I shall be known only by the name to which I was born; and, once across the ocean, I can escape, perhaps, the social gibbet from which dangle, deservedly, 'women with histories.' I have no need of your name, noble though it is, to help me keep my oath to God. Divorce I hold a shameful blot on true womanhood, a menace to domestic and national morality, an insult to the Lord. Human law can no more annul my marriage than my baptismal vow; neither was made to man; both stand on that divine record only death can erase; they are locked among the sacraments of God, _'so long as ye both shall live.'_ Your freedom is as unconditional as you may wish, and that court of release which you commended to me, is equally open to you."

The pulse in her lovely throat throbbed violently, and watching her lift one hand there with the old childish effort to loosen the stricture, his lips tightened and he stepped closer.

"And if I decline to accept, to permit your renunciation of my name, which is more sacred since you have worn it? To make a football of God's statute is as little my purpose as is yours. Sometimes I have cheated myself with the forlorn hope that absence might possibly help me to accomplish that which long association failed to bring me. After years of suffering, of sombre retrospection, I hope I have come back less a Tartar than when we parted. Then I surrendered you entirely--absolutely. I do so still. I claim no more rights or privileges than I possessed before that marriage ceremony made you nominally mine; but if your great pity for the lonely man who never loved any other woman can possibly grow into a deeper feeling, will you try to forgive my harshness that dreadful night? Knowing what you are to me, will you come to me?"

"Come to you who repudiated me! By what right dare you suppose, expect----"

"I have no right even to hope, but my hungry heart dares, and will dare desperate chances."

"You told me your confidence was dead as your love. The scar of that brand can never heal."

"Yes, I said many bitter, cruel things in the hot rage of my disappointment, that I should be glad to forget. In extenuation, you must remember that you beckoned me unexpectedly to heaven, and when I was thrust out the crash unhinged me. It was for your own sake I asked you to put me out of your life; to save you from the horrible martyrdom of unloving wifehood, from dragging through life the ball and chain of a galling, intolerable tie. To put you out of mine I knew was as impossible in future years as I had found it in the past. In my farewell note I considered your peace of mind, not my own. If you could realize all you are to me, perhaps you might understand better what that voluntary surrender of your precious self cost me, when, by the law of God and of man, you belonged to me."

She had avoided meeting his eyes; the strain set her lips to quivering, increased the strangling grip on her throat, and unconsciously her fingers clutched and wrung one another.

"After three years of dreary absence you have not even a friendly hand to offer to the man who has carried you in his heart ever since you wore muslin aprons--who holds you the one love of his life?"

"Mr. Herriott, you ceased to love me when you ceased to trust me, else all these years----"

She paused, warned by the treacherous quiver in her voice. He stood quite still, and after a moment opened his arms.

"My sweetheart, will you try me? Will you grant me the privilege of convincing you?"

She shook her head. Something in his eyes dazzled her, and an alarming pallor overspread her face, blanching her lips.

"If you have found happiness in forgetting and excluding me entirely from your life and your future, I cannot complain that you followed my counsel; but I will accept that positive assurance only from your own truthful lips. Your peace of mind is more to me than my own. Have you shut me out of your heart forever?"

She tried to move aside, to pass him, but he barred her escape with an outstretched arm, and she shrank back.

"If you care no more for me now than when I left you, I have no alternative but to live alone; and I will never again intrude, never annoy you by the sight of my face. I will not accept compassion, or friendly sympathy. All--or none. I want love--love that brings a pure woman gladly to her husband's breast. Once you took some solemn vows for me, invoking the presence of the Lord you worship. Now, trusting you implicitly, knowing you will not deceive me, I must ask you to give me one final pledge. If you cannot love me as I wish--if your heart, your whole heart will never belong to me--then, calling God to witness the truth of your words, look me straight in the eyes and tell me so."

She trembled, shut her eyes, and, as a rich red rushed into her white cheeks, she covered her face with her hands.

A gust of wind shook the mimosa, and on her bowed head drifted the pink silk filaments, powdering her brown coil and puffs.

Very gently Mr. Herriott took the trembling little hands, kissed the palms, and, drawing her slowly, tenderly toward him, lifted her arms to his neck, holding them there.

With a low, broken cry she surrendered.

"Mr. Noel, you have broken my heart."

He waited to steady his voice.

"My proud darling, there seemed no other way. When it heals, please God, I shall have my throne inside."

With her face hidden on his shoulder, he held her close, his cheek against her hair, and each knew how fiercely the heart of the other throbbed. After some moments, he tightened the arm clasping her waist, and his deep, passionately tender tone caressed like a velvet glove.

"I don't know how many years I have longed for the touch of your lips. Even as a child you never allowed me to kiss you; and, except your father, I am sure no man ever has. My sweetheart, if indeed you are learning to love me, can you, will you give me now what I want--my own wife's pure lips?"

She crimsoned to the tips of her small ears, and clung to him, not daring to meet his eyes.

"One memorable night, when two of my dogs froze at my feet, I sat under the lee of my sledge, waiting for a gale of sleet to howl itself to rest. I fell asleep and had a heavenly dream, in which you came and kissed me."

"Mr. Herriott, you cannot love me now as you did before that horrible journey on the cars when your words seemed to scorch--brand me. I am afraid--I am afraid----"

He felt her tremble.

"My darling, I love you infinitely more. You were never so sacred, so dear as to-day. Of what can you feel afraid now? In my dream you were more generous. I can take, but I prefer to receive the blessed seal I hope you will give me, as holy assurance that you are entirely my own."

Shyly she turned her flushed face towards his, one hand, quivering like a frightened bird, softly drew his brown cheek closer, and the proud, beautiful, vestal lips nestled and clung to her husband's.

Sitting beside her on the bench, he said, as his brilliant, happy eyes studied her face:

"Will you please tell me when you began really to care for me?"

"What can that matter now? Do not make me look back into shadows I wish to forget. All our light shines ahead."

"I should like to fix the date of my coronation, that I may compute accurately my despotic reign from the hour I entered into possession of my kingdom. Tell me, sweetheart; why should you shrink?"

"Do you recall that last morning at home, when you came from the beach followed by the dogs? Seeing me at the window, you took off your cap and waved it. As I looked down at you then, something strange seemed suddenly to stir and wake up and tremble in my heart. I did not understand; it was a new feeling, and I was so wounded and tortured over many things I could not analyze it; supposed it a part of my punishment. I had seen you look better. Your boating suit and full evening dress were certainly more becoming, but in some unaccountable, extraordinary way that grey cap wave, and the peculiar expression I had never before seen in your eyes, brought you closer to me than you had ever been. When I sat alone in your smoking-room and saw the strapped trunks and your fur overcoat--like a coffin and a pall--a terribly bitter wave rolled over me at the thought of giving you up. I began to be jealous of Amos, and I envied the dear old dogs the tender caress of your stroking hand. At the last you coldly said good-bye; but when you caught, strained me against you, I found out what it all meant. I knew then that woman's heritage of sorrow was mine, and that my heart followed you into Polar night. The ache that began that day at Greyledge grew and tortured me until--I felt your arms around me once more."

He lifted her left hand and kissed it, pressing the ring against his face.

"Why did not you tell me? I should have been spared so much brutal bitterness of feeling."

"It was impossible after all the harsh, cruel things you had deemed it your duty to say to me, and you would have scouted such a sudden change of feeling as inconceivable, as absurd. The strangeness of the revelation overwhelmed, frightened me; I was more astonished than you would have been. Tell you? Mr. Noel, I would sooner have gone to the stake."

"Your silence tied me to one. Men are perverse devils. I hated the sight of this wedding ring; I longed to melt it in a crucible in my laboratory. You will never understand the storm that raged within me that day on the train when you hummed Kuecken and laid the baby on your breast. Every time you lifted your hand and patted the poor little creature, that gold band danced and flashed in my eyes like a mocking imp. But your ring had its innings. After a year my temper cooled. Day and night I found myself drifting back more hopelessly to you; and always before me your little white hand flashed that circle--signet of my ownership--because you had clung to it and declared 'it was the badge of your loyalty.' I saw it in the blue gulfs of icebergs, in the wonderful orange radiance of auroral arches, in the glare of low, tired suns that could not set, in the unearthly lustre of moons holding vigil over a silent desert wrapped in its shroud of ice, and in the ghostly phosphorescence of snow-mantled glaciers. Always, everywhere, that dear ringed hand beckoned like a beacon. I knew you did not love me; I was grimly sure you never would; but the assurance that no other man could ever claim lips denied to me, that you would proudly hold and keep your precious self sacred to one whose name you bore, comforted me."

He took her face in his palms, bending close his handsome head, and a mist dimmed the sparkle in his magnetic eyes.

"My darling, the coldest night I ever spent, when lost on the 'Great Ice,' where a snow-storm obliterated sledge tracks and death seemed inevitable, the remembered touch of your dear arms clinging around my neck, the pressure of your face on my breast, thrilled my heart, fired my blood, and warmed my freezing body. I missed the Pole; I nearly lost my life; but, ah, thank God, better than either, more precious than all, I have found at last, and I own the pure heart of my wife."

POPULAR NOVELS

BY AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON.

INEZ
BEULAH
MACARIA
ST. ELMO
VASHTI
INFELICE
AT THE MERCY OF TIBERIUS
A SPECKLED BIRD

"Who has not read with rare delight the novels of Augusta Evans? Her strange, wonderful and fascinating style; the profound depths to which she sinks the probe into human nature, touching its most sacred chords and springs; the intense interest thrown around her characters, and the very marked peculiarities of her principal figures, conspire to give an unusual interest to the works of this eminent Southern authoress."

ECCENTRICITIES OF GENIUS

By Major J. B. Pond.

READ WHAT IS SAID OF IT.

"It is distinctly one of the most interesting books of the year from any point of view."--_Rochester Sunday Herald._

"It is many a day since I have read so fascinating a book of reminiscences. Many a day--or perhaps I should have said a 'night'--for this volume has given me delight during hours, when, according to the laws of nature, I should have been asleep."--_Newell Dwight Hillis._

"One of the most simple, naive and straightforward books ever written. It fairly reeks with personality.... No man living has had such interesting association with so many interesting people."--_Home Journal._

"Adorned by many pictures, never before published."--_Detroit Journal._

"Possesses unparalleled attractions."--_Boston Journal._

"Major Pond goes deep into his subject, furnishing pen-portraits that are admirably clear and graphic."--_The Mail and Express._

"The whole book, stuffed as it is with anecdotes and extracts from personal letters, is marvelously interesting."--_Boston Transcript._

"All the world loves a teller of stories, and readers will surely take approvingly to the man who gives them so much of entertaining reading as is found in Major Pond's 600 pages of bright personal description."--_N.Y. Times._

"Shining by reflected light, its pages literally teem with interesting anecdotes of many sorts."--_Chicago Evening Post._

"Originality stamps the volume, copiously illustrated with portraits."--_The Boston Globe._

"It has a thousand charms, and a thousand points of interest. It is full of striking gems of thought, rare descriptions of men and places; biographical bits that delight one by their variety, and the distinction of those alluded to. From a literary view it is as interesting as Disraeli's famous "Curiosities of Literature."--_Philadelphia Item._

"If any more charming and interesting book has appeared this season, it has not come to our notice. The get-up is worthy of the matter of the book."--_Philadelphia Evening Telegraph._

THE VOYAGE OF ITHOBAL

BY SIR EDWIN ARNOLD

Ithobal was the first African explorer we know about. He was a sea captain of Tyre, who rescued and married an African Princess, and then induced the King of Egypt to put him in charge of a voyage of exploration of the wonderful land of his wife's birth.

After a voyage of fifteen thousand miles around Africa, he returns after numerous and exciting adventures, which bring out almost every feature of African life and scenery. Ithobal relates the story of his enterprise in a discourse of seven days before the throne of Pharaoh, who crowns him with honors.

SIR HENRY M. STANLEY, in a letter to the author, says of
it:--"You have added greatly to the happiness of many of your
race by the production of so unique a poem, so rich in the
beauties of the sweet English language."

Other able critics who have read the blind poet's new epic poem unite in calling it even better than the old favorite, "The Light of Asia."

EQUAL PARTNERS.

By Howard Fielding.

"This is a thoroughly enjoyable detective story, written in good, crisp style, and with a decided surprise in the last pages. It is adroitly contrived that almost every character in the book shall be suspected of the crime of attempted murder before the actual culprit is discovered. The characters are excellently differentiated, and the story is vastly diverting, nor are there any repulsive features about the book. It is a stirring tale and will enliven a dull evening successfully."--_Chicago Tribune_.

DORIS KINGSLEY, Child and Colonist.

By EMMA RAYNER, author of "Free to Serve," "In Castle and Colony," etc.

This story of the South in the first half of the eighteenth century, opens with one of the strangest episodes in the early history of South Carolina--the pursuit and capture by the Governor of Carolina of a pirate vessel, full, not of treasure, but of English men and women; and the selling of those same unfortunate voyagers as bond servants in the colony. Doris Kingsley, a child stolen from the streets of London, is the youngest of the party, and is the heroine of the story. Doris Kingsley is a novel of absorbing interest, dramatic and historically true.

OLD JED PROUTY (A Narrative of the Penobscot).

By RICHARD GOLDEN and MARY C. FRANCIS.

In "Old Jed Prouty" the reading public is presented with a New England character story of unusual interest and merit. The plot, although not an involved one, hides enough mystery to lend the spice of the unknown to the reader's zest, and the simple and natural denouement emphasizes the high moral ethics of the story, and throws into strong relief the deep human sentiments that dominate the tale. Standing out above all, infusing into the fiber of every chapter the rugged sincerity, the homely wit and the quaint philosophy of New England, is the central character about which the pivot of the story turns, "Old Jed Prouty," real in name and real in goodness, who at the time of his life, some thirty years since, was a landmark in the Valley of the Penobscot.

JOHN WINSLOW.

By HENRY D. NORTHROP.

"'John Winslow' is one of those inviting books of country life of which the best part of 'Eben Holden' has come to be the accepted type. Plenty of shrewd common sense in the chief character, a dash of love on the side, an incidental and inevitable bit of human wickedness--but everything in the picture and the framing attractive. This is a book for a wide reach among readers."--_N. Y. World._

"Properly ranks with 'Eben Holden,' 'David Harum,' and 'Quincy Adams Sawyer.' The four may be put in a class by themselves as distinctive types of homespun Americans."--_The North American._

"Worthy to live with 'David Harum' and 'Eben Holden.'"--_Publishers' Weekly_.

UNDER A LUCKY STAR, a New Book on Astrology.

By CHARLOTTE ABELL WALKER.

Tells what occupation to adopt, and what line of life to follow, what associates and partners to choose, how to recognize the possibilities and limitations of our friends and ourselves, and of other important matters to human life, including suggestions on marriage, being mainly culled from the minds of ancient and modern philosophers. Illustrated, cloth bound.

THE WAY OF A MAN WITH A MAID.

By FRANCES GORDON FANE.

A clever, well-written story, full of love and pathos, and thrilling with dramatic crises. Each step of the domestic tragedy is skilfully portrayed, until the final climax is reached.

"Its author has made it a powerful, telling story to read."--_N.Y. World_.

THE CROSSROADS OF DESTINY, a Story of Chivalry in the Fifteenth Century.

By JOHN P. RITTER. Author of "The Man Who Dared."

This is a wonderfully interesting story, and will find a welcome with all who love to read of deeds of chivalry.

"It is a clean, clear and clever story of chivalry at its best, and will find a great many well-pleased readers."--_New York World_. Cloth bound, illustrated.

A MASTER OF FORTUNE, being Further Adventures of "Captain Kettle."

By CUTCLIFFE HYNE.

"It has the dash and tinge of reality that makes you feel as if you were in the midst of it all."--_Detroit Free Press._

"The many readers who followed with bated breath the wild adventures of Captain Kettle in the book named for him, will welcome Cutcliffe Hyne's new collection of tales dealing with that remarkable sea dog. The volume is well called 'A Master of Fortune.'"--_Philadelphia Press._

"Nobody who has followed the gallant sailor--diminutive, but oh, my!--in his previous adventures around the earth, is going to miss this red-hot volume of marvelous exploits."--_N. Y. World._

THE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN KETTLE.

By CUTCLIFFE HYNE.

The best sea story since the days of Marryat. Captain Kettle is a devil-may-care sea dog, half pirate and half preacher. The author carries him through many hairbreadth escapes and makes him a character that will live long in the annals of fiction. The success of this book is marvelous.

THE MULLIGANS. A Novel.

By EDWARD HARRIGAN.

The _New York World_ says: "Mr. Harrigan gave to his Mulligan dramas the most distinctly typical character plays which have ever been seen on the native stage. They were studied and displayed straight from the life of New York and their popularity was unbounded. His book is one of the most generally interesting of the new season's output."

_It is a marvelously entertaining novel, possessing a keenness of wit and humor unsurpassed by any recent work. All the characters stand out, as true to life, as natural and as vivid as if portrayed by Dickens._

NORMAN HOLT, a Story of the Army of the Cumberland.

By GENERAL (Capt.) CHARLES KING.

"No more charming historic war story has ever been written. It is Captain King's best, and bearing, as it does, on the great battle of Mission Ridge, although the story is woven in fiction, it adds an invaluable record of that gigantic contest between the two great armies."

"The characters are real, their emotions natural, and the romance that is interwoven is delightful. It is wholesome and one of General King's best, if not his best book."--_N. Y. Journal._

"From the first chapter to the last page the interest of the reader never fags. General King has written no more brilliant or stirring novel than 'Norman Holt.'"--_N. Y. Press._

JOHN HENRY, (25th Thousand.)

By HUGH MCHUGH.

"'John Henry' has just 'butted' its way in between the literary bars and capered over the book counters to the tune of twelve thousand copies before its publishers could recover their breath.

"Every page is as catchy as a bar from a popular song.

"The slang is as correct, original and smart as the newest handshake from London.

"In the lottery of humorous books 'John Henry' seems to approximate the capital prize."--_N. Y. Journal._

"All who have laughed over 'Billy Baxter' will heartily enjoy this book."--_The Bookseller, Newsdealer and Stationer_.

THE KING OF HONEY ISLAND, (45th Thousand.)

By MAURICE THOMPSON, author of "Alice of Old Vincennes," etc.

"'The King of Honey Island' bears quite as many marks of the genius of the author as does 'Alice of Old Vincennes,' with the additional charm, perhaps of more buoyancy and beauty of thought and expression. In 'Alice' Mr. Thompson plumed himself as a master word painter. In 'The King of Honey Island' he developed into a veritable American Ouida, for his descriptive powers are marvelous. Like the true artist that he was, he paints Nature as it looks, not as it is, so that the reader, in glimpsing the battle of New Orleans, hears, almost, the cannon's roar."--_The Topeka Capital._

<pre id="pg-footer">