Chapter XXV: “was It a Dream?”

Spirits have oftentimes descended
Upon our slumbers, and the blessed ones
Have in the calm and quiet of the soul
Conversed with us.
SHIRLEY.

Sunshine flowed into the room, filling it with dazzling light. Yet David Lindsay, after having opened the shutters and let down the windowsashes, stood in the middle of the floor, gazing down like one still half entranced, with the impression of that soft touch still on his brow, and the melody of that tender voice still in his ear.

“Was it a dream?” he murmured to himself. “Could it have been a dream? No dream I ever had was ever so like reality. Or could some dreaming sleep-walker have entered my chamber and saluted me? Impossible! Yet, let me examine the doors once more.”

He roused himself, and went again to investigate the fastenings on the only two outlets from the room—the first leading into the hall, and the second into the rear room.

He found them both securely locked and bolted, and, moreover, the locks and bolts were both so strong and so rusty that they required some considerable exertion to move them.

No one could have entered through the doors, that was certain.

He looked into both closets that flanked the fireplace, but the bare plastered walls and oaken shelves afforded no opportunity of concealment or of passage.

Every other nook and corner of the room was clearly visible in the bright sunshine. Even the space under the high bedstead was a vista. The plastered walls of the room, like those of the closets, gave no chance of a sliding panel for entrance or exit through a secret passage. Nor could any one have come in or gone out through the windows, which, besides having been securely fastened with oaken shutters secured by strong and rusty iron hooks and bolts, were full fifty feet above the ground, with a sheer descent of stone wall below them, and no tree, or vine, or porch, or balcony to assist the climber.

No! it was utterly and entirely impossible that any human being, besides himself, could have been concealed in the room when he went to bed, or could have entered it afterward.

And yet he had been awakened from a deep and dreamless sleep by a light touch on his forehead, and had perceived a benignant presence that he could not see, a presence which, to his half-conscious question of “Who is there?” had answered in murmuring music, soft as the notes of an Æolian harp:

“It is I, your mother. David Gryphyn, arise, and go hence; get to your home—my mother has somewhat to say to you.”

And the soft voice sunk into silence, and when he started up and opened the window-shutters, letting in the rays of the rising sun, there was nothing to be seen but the great bare walls and floor of the room, with its scant and rude furniture.

David Lindsay sat down on one of the rough chairs, and took his head between his hands to think it over. He could make nothing of it. The voice had said: “It is I, your mother.” But the voice was not at all like that of his mother, as he remembered hers. Again, the mysterious visitant had said, “David Gryphyn.” But his name was not David Gryphyn; it was David Lindsay. Finally, it had concluded with these unaccountable words—“Go hence and get to your home, for my mother has somewhat to communicate to you.” But his mother had no mother living on this earth, he knew. His mother had been an orphan when his father, James Lindsay, had married her. The old woman at his home, Dame Lindsay, was his grandmother on his father’s side.

The dream, or vision, strange and real and superhuman as it seemed, was an absurdly mixed-up affair, caused, no doubt, by confused memories and thoughts jumbled up together in his disturbed brain. So David Lindsay said to himself, yet he could not shake off the supernatural, perhaps even the superstitious, effects left upon his mind.

He had been moving about and then sitting still in the cold room, just as he had jumped out of bed. He had been too much absorbed by his strange subject of thought to feel the chill that was creeping upon him.

Now, however, as he aroused himself from useless reverie, he shivered and shook as with an ague, and hastened to the hearth and uncovered the smouldering coals and brands, and threw upon them several handfuls of resinous pine cones and knots taken from a box in the corner, and upon them several cedar sticks and logs from a pile in the opposite corner, that soon blazed up, filling the room with an agreeable warmth and pleasant fragrance.

Then he dressed himself and went out.

There was no one in the hall outside the bedchambers, so he could not tell whether he was not the only one up in this strange house.

He passed down stairs and found the fires burning brightly in the broad front and back fireplaces in the hall, but still no one was to be seen.

He entered the “big parlor,” and found another pine fire there, but the room was empty.

In the spirit of restlessness he wandered into every room on that floor, finding every one well warmed by great open fires of costly logs—costly in every other locality, but cheap enough, because plenty enough on Cedar Mountain.

These numerous fires were needed now, and would be needed for some time yet, to correct the dampness and bad air of the long-deserted house.

Last of all he wandered into the dining-room where they had taken dinner and tea in one on the preceding day.

Here the table was drawn up before the bright, blazing fire, and neatly set for breakfast.

“What a home this is for Gloria to come to! What a strange fascination it is that brings her here and keeps her here. Why, our poor little cottage on Sandy Isle is a civilized and refined home compared to this! And we have the small comforts of life and a few books and a few little ornaments. And Promontory Hall is a queen’s palace to this. For here, in this unfinished and almost unfurnished place, there is not a papered wall, not a single carpet, nor a curtain, nor a picture, nor a cast, nor a book to be seen. It supplies only an inventory of negations. How can she stay here? But there is one good in the place. She is as safe here, perhaps safer here with Mrs. Brent, than she would be anywhere else; for I am not sure, if she were within the reach of her half-crazy guardian, that her marriage would be any protection against his persecution. Finding out this marriage to have been only a form, he might choose to ignore it and urge upon her the expediency of having it legally annulled. I cannot trust an infatuated man without religious principles to restrain him. Yes, she is better here for the present, and if I could get Miss de Crespigney to join her here, it would be the best thing that could happen for her; for Miss Agrippina is too strictly principled not to hold to the sanctity of marriage vows, even in such a case as ours, and she would be now the best protection for my unloving bride. I will try to get Miss Agrippina to come to her, even if I have to brave that lady’s rage.”

So mused David Lindsay, sitting before the dining-room fire, until he was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Brent, bringing a coffee-pot in her hands and followed by a negro man with a large dish of broiled partridges.

“Dear me! Good-morning, sir! You here! I was just a going to send Hector to let you know breakfast was ready; for as I didn’t see you in the big parlor with Mrs. Lindsay, I thought you were still in your room,” said the good woman.

“I have been down some time; but there was no one in the parlor when I looked in.”

“Mrs. Lindsay has only been there for a few minutes, sir. Here she comes now! Now, Hector, bring in the muffins.”

Gloria entered at the same moment.

David Lindsay arose and placed a chair for her. They only said good-morning to each other by a look.

The last dishes were set on the board, Philippa joined them, and they all sat down to the table, the girl just nodding by way of a morning salutation.

“I hope you slept well, ma’am?” said Mrs. Brent, interrogatively.

“Profoundly. I never even dreamed or stirred until morning! If there be a ghost about the house it didn’t disturb me,” answered Gloria.

“Well, I suppose I should have slept quietly enough too, if it hadn’t been for Philly! She kept jumping and starting, and talking, and crying out the live-long night,” said the housekeeper.

Gloria looked at her young companion and saw that she was pale and anxious, yet Gloria did not dare to ask the reason, lest “Philly” should blurt out something about the ghastly apparition that had appalled them in the cavern.

But Philippa spoke for herself.

“It was too much supper and the nightmare,” she explained, with serio-comic gravity.

As soon as breakfast was over, Gloria left the table and retreated into the big parlor, followed by David Lindsay.

Gloria had unpacked some materials for the silk embroidery which she liked so well to do. Now she had brought some down to the parlor with her, and she sat down and began to arrange it for work.

“If I were not still so extremely tired with my week’s rumbling over rough roads, I should like to go out to-day and explore some of this magnificent mountain scenery,” she said, as she threaded her needle.

“What? In paths covered deep in snow and ice?” queried David Lindsay, as he stood on the hearth with his elbow leaning on the mantelpiece.

“Yes! It is not the condition of the ground that would prevent me! It is my own state. I feel as weary and worn out as if I were seventy years old instead of seventeen. In fact, I feel my fatigue even more to-day than I did yesterday.”

“I am sorry to hear that. I had hoped that you had quite recovered. You said that you had slept so soundly.”

“That was from my deep weariness. Yes, I slept ‘like death’ all night. But I will venture to say that you did not, David Lindsay. You look as if you had been interviewed by an unpleasant ghost!” said Gloria lightly.

“I have!” replied David Lindsay, with an assumed solemnity that imposed upon his companion.

“WHAT!”

“I have.”

“Do you know what I asked you?”

“Yes.”

“And you say you have?”

“Yes.”

“Been interviewed by a ghost?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, David Lindsay, what do you mean?” demanded Gloria, in wonder and perplexity.

“My dear little lady, I mean very much of what I have said,” he gravely replied.

“Do explain yourself. Have you seen or heard anything extraordinary in this strange house?”

“My dear lady, yes, I have. Last night, or rather early this morning, I had an extraordinary dream, or vision—no, not vision, for I saw nothing—but visitation, for I both felt and heard the presence,” said the young man, as seriously as before.

“Now, are you in earnest? But of course you are. You would not jest on such a subject.”

“I am not jesting,” said the young man, gently. “Yet it would seem absurd to be in earnest about the matter. In truth, I am perplexed. For, dear Gloria, I am not ready to deny or utterly disbelieve in the possibility of communication between the natural and the spiritual world—in the face of so much evidence from tradition and history and even from the Word of the Lord. What I experienced last night would have almost persuaded me to believe in the possible return of departed spirits, but for some strange inconsistency in the communication made me.”

“Tell me all about it, David Lindsay,” exclaimed Gloria, dropping her work upon her lap and gazing up at him.

“Last night, after I went to my room, I locked and bolted both the doors and hooked and bolted both pairs of window-shutters. Then I went to bed, and towards morning fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, such as would naturally follow the last week of excessive fatigue.”

“Like mine, yes.”

“From that death-like sleep I was gently but completely awakened by feeling a light hand laid on my forehead. ‘Who is there?’ I called. A low, tender, flute-like voice replied: ‘It is I, your mother. David Gryphyn, arise and go hence—get to your home. My mother has somewhat to say to you.’”

“Gracious Heaven, David Lindsay, do you tell me that!” exclaimed Gloria, turning pale.

“Yes, but whether this was a dream or a visitation, I cannot tell you. I must say it was more like a visitation.”

“What did you do or say?”

“Nothing at first. I felt spell-bound—dumfounded.”

“Did you see this mysterious visitant?”

“No, I only felt her hand on my forehead and heard her voice in my ears.”

“Did she speak again?”

“No.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I sprang out of bed and threw open the window-shutters. The sun was rising and filled the room full of light. I searched the place thoroughly, and found no one; examined the doors, and found them securely locked and bolted as I had left them on the previous night.”

“And so you were convinced that no one was concealed in your chamber, or could have entered it during the night.”

“Yes, I am convinced of that.”

“David Lindsay, what do you think of this yourself?”

“I do not know what to think. It was less like a dream than like a real visitation.”

“Was the mysterious visitant like your mother?”

“I repeat that I did not see the visitant at all. I felt her hand upon my forehead. I heard her voice in my ear. That was all. But I must say that though she called herself my mother, her hand felt much smaller, slenderer, softer and lighter than my poor mother’s hand, which was large and hard and roughened by coarse work; her voice also was fine and flute-like, whereas my dear mother’s voice was deep and strong. No! though I did not see my mysterious visitant, I perceived that she must have been a very opposite person to my own poor mother.”

“Yet she said she was your mother, and her mother had somewhat to say to you.”

“Yes, which is an inconsistency with fact; for my poor mother was an orphan from her youth.”

“And she called you David Gryphyn.”

“Yes, another inconsistency, since my name is David Lindsay—these two incoherencies favor the theory that my possible supernatural experience was nothing more than a very distinct dream; for you know dreams are notoriously incoherent.”

“Yes, I know all that; but still, David Lindsay, I think there must be something more than a commonplace dream in what you have just told me. You have not heard from Dame Lindsay since we left ten days ago, have you?”

“No. I wrote to her from Washington, and again from Staunton; but of course you know there has been no chance of hearing from her.”

“And she is old and infirm. She may be ill or dying. David Lindsay, I hope you will set out and return to her as soon as possible.”

“I shall leave here to-morrow. But, my dear lady, you should have some better protection here than your housekeeper and servants. Did you not tell me that Miss de Crespigney would be in Washington by the first of February?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Because I think she would be the most desirable companion that you could have here, and I think if she knew your condition she would come to you.”

“Oh, yes! I know she would! Well thought of, David Lindsay! Aunt Agrippina was to have been in Washington this month. The month is nearly out now. After the commencement of Lent she will not care to stay in the city, as she never goes to any place of amusement during that season, so it will be no sacrifice on her part to leave Washington,” said Gloria, with animation.

“Then as I go through the city, I will find out where her party is stopping, and call and see her.”

“Yes, David Lindsay, and take a letter from me.”

“If you wish.”

“Yes, I do; for I must tell her how it all was, and she will understand better than most people would, the straits to which I have been driven! She knows Marcel and she knows me, and, moreover, she would have considered it a mortal sin for me to have married my Uncle Marcel. I will go and get out my writing materials, and commence the letter at once,” she exclaimed, rolling up her embroidery and rising to leave the room; but looking up, she met the eyes of the young man fixed on her, and full of the disappointment and sorrow that he could not always banish from them.

“Oh, David Lindsay, can you ever forgive me for the great wrong I have done you?” she cried, dropping into her chair again and covering her face with both hands.

He did not say that there was nothing to forgive; that no wrong had been done him; he could not speak so falsely even to soothe her whom he loved so fondly and so unselfishly. He had been asked to marry her, and then had been rejected at the altar. He had been deprived of his liberty, and then bitterly disappointed and humiliated. This was a deep wrong, and he felt it very acutely. He could not soothe her by any smooth denial that it was so, yet neither did he reproach her even in his thoughts.

When she dropped her hands upon her lap, revealing her tear-stained face and repeated her question:

“Oh, David Lindsay, can you ever, ever forgive me, for the great wrong I have done you?” his heart melted with tenderness towards her, he knelt by her side, took her limp hands in his own, looked up in her woeful little face—his own fine face full of the heavenly light of self-renunciation, and said:

“Whatever there may be to forgive, dearest, I forgive with all my heart and soul. I love you too deeply and truly to feel a shade of anger towards you. Never, even in my thoughts, have I blamed you.”

“Oh, you are so good and great-hearted, David Lindsay! And I have, in my impulsive selfishness, so spoiled your life! Married you and then refused to be your wife, and put it out of your power to wed any other woman!” she cried, weeping bitterly.

“No, Gloria, no, dear, do not reproach yourself with that last consequence, for it is not true. I love you only, and have loved you only all the days of my life. I could not, and cannot change. So even if I had not married you I could never have married any other woman. Put that cause of self-reproach out of your mind, Gloria.”

She was crying so convulsively that she could not speak for some time. When she could, her hands clasped his, and she sobbed forth:

“And I love you, David Lindsay! Oh, I do! I do! I do! I do love you, so dearly! You feel so near to me, David Lindsay; just like my own heart and soul; but I don’t want to be married! That is, I know I am married, but I don’t want to be!”

He made no sort of reply to this tirade.

“Oh, David Lindsay, I don’t want you to go and leave me, either. I don’t! What should I do without you now? I should cry myself blind! Oh, David Lindsay, how unhappy we are!”

“There is a wall between us, dear. I know not what it is, but I feel it bitterly. It may be the wall of caste or prejudice. I would it were down.”

“Ah, Heaven, so do I! Oh, dear David Lindsay, don’t go and leave me. Stay with me, and let us be just like brother and sister. Say, darling old playmate, won’t you stay and be my brother?” she pleaded, taking his head between her little hands, and laying her face against his forehead.

Now, if he had been a hypocrite, or even a diplomatist, he would have accepted these terms, and trusted to time to win the entire heart of his bride. But he was too honest, open and straightforward, and though his frame shook with emotion, and his voice was well-nigh suffocated, he answered firmly:

“No, Gloria. No, dearest. What you ask is beyond human nature; or, at least, beyond mine.”

She cried hard for a few minutes, and then suddenly clasped his head again as he knelt beside her, dropped her own upon it, and sobbed forth her submission:

“Well, then take me! Take me! I will keep my vow! I will be your wife, David Lindsay!”

And now if his great love had not been utterly without self-love he would have taken her at her word.

But, still shaking with a storm of emotion, still speaking in an almost expiring voice, he answered:

“It is your pity that speaks now, my dearest. You feel grieved for me, and in the pity of your heart you are willing to give up all your late repugnance, and sacrifice yourself to my happiness. Yes, even as you once feared you would do in the case of your guardian——”

“But oh, David Lindsay, it is so different! It would have been a mortal sin for me to have been Marcel’s wife. It seems to me now it would be a sin not to be yours!” wept Gloria.

“You think and speak on an impulse, dearest, that you would repent. You would be sure to repent it; and then, Gloria, I should be most wretched indeed. No, love, I must not take advantage of this pity you feel, for it is nothing else, Gloria. To-morrow I must leave you. It is my duty to do so. I will send your aunt, Miss de Crespigney, to you——”

“Oh! David Lindsay, but my heart will break!”

“No, no, love! Listen to me. Try yourself, dearest. Find out what will make you happy. Now you suffer from a generous, tender sympathy with me, which is not love, not the love the soul craves, and you think I will be unhappy. I shall not be so, dearest. I shall be actively engaged in doing my duty.”

“Oh, but it is not only for you, David Lindsay, it is for myself that I am grieving. I shall miss you so much!”

“Because I have been with you for nearly two weeks, and you have no one else, except these strangers. But, Gloria, in a short time your aunt will be here.”

“But she will not be you!” wailed the girl.

“Listen further. If, when you have got over this pang of parting, and have lived some little time under the influence of your aunt, you should then, after calm reflection, feel that you could be happy with me, write and recall me, and I will be at your feet again, as I am now.”

He had controlled himself by a great and sustained exertion of his will, and she at last grew quieter under his influence.

“Dear David Lindsay,” she said, with a final sob and sigh, “go, if you feel that you must go, and put me on this probation, if you think I need it! But I shall soon write and beg you to come back to me. Be sure of that! And you will come just as soon as I send for you, will you not?”

“Just as soon as you write for me,” he answered.

“And oh, David Lindsay, if I thought you wouldn’t—if I thought that anything could happen to prevent you from coming back to me—I could never bear to see you go. It would break my heart. You will come back to me? Tell me again.”

“I will come back as soon as you send for me.”

THE END

[The sequel to this story is published in another volume, entitled “David Lindsay,” in uniform style and price with this book.]

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=WINDSOR CASTLE.= A Historical Romance of the Reign of Henry VIII Catharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth. 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.

“Windsor Castle” is the story of Henry VIII., Catharine, and Anne
Boleyn. “Bluff King Hal,” although a well-loved monarch, was none too
good a one in many ways. Of all his selfishness and unwarrantable
acts, none was more discreditable than his divorce from Catharine, and
his marriage to the beautiful Anne Boleyn. The King’s love was as
brief as it was vehement. Jane Seymour, waiting maid on the Queen,
attracted him, and Anne Boleyn was forced to the block to make room
for her successor. This romance is one of extreme interest to all
readers.

=HORSESHOE ROBINSON.= A tale of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina in 1780. By John P. Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

Among the old favorites in the field of what is known as historical
fiction, there are none which appeal to a larger number of Americans
than Horseshoe Robinson, and this because it is the only story which
depicts with fidelity to the facts the heroic efforts of the colonists
in South Carolina to defend their homes against the brutal oppression
of the British under such leaders as Cornwallis and Tarleton.

The reader is charmed with the story of love which forms the thread of
the tale, and then impressed with the wealth of detail concerning
those times. The picture of the manifold sufferings of the people, is
never over-drawn, but painted faithfully and honestly by one who
spared neither time nor labor in his efforts to present in this
charming love story all that price in blood and tears which the
Carolinians paid as their share in the winning of the republic.

Take it all in all, “Horseshoe Robinson” is a work which should be
found on every book-shelf, not only because it is a most entertaining
story, but because of the wealth of valuable information concerning
the colonists which it contains. That it has been brought out once
more, well illustrated, is something which will give pleasure to
thousands who have long desired an opportunity to read the story
again, and to the many who have tried vainly in these latter days to
procure a copy that they might read it for the first time.

=THE PEARL OF ORR’S ISLAND.= A story of the Coast of Maine. By Harriet Beecher Stowe. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

Written prior to 1862, the “Pearl of Orr’s Island” is ever new; a book
filled with delicate fancies, such as seemingly array themselves anew
each time one reads them. One sees the “sea like an unbroken mirror
all around the pine-girt, lonely shores of Orr’s Island,” and
straightway comes “the heavy, hollow moan of the surf on the beach,
like the wild angry howl of some savage animal.”

Who can read of the beginning of that sweet life, named Mara, which
came into this world under the very shadow of the Death angel’s wings,
without having an intense desire to know how the premature bud
blossomed? Again and again one lingers over the descriptions of the
character of that baby boy Moses, who came through the tempest, amid
the angry billows, pillowed on his dead mother’s breast.

There is no more faithful portrayal of New England life than that
which Mrs. Stowe gives in “The Pearl of Orr’s Island.”

=THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER.= A Romance of the Early Settlers in the Ohio Valley. By Zane Grey. Cloth. 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

A book rather out of the ordinary is this “Spirit of the Border.” The
main thread of the story has to do with the work of the Moravian
missionaries in the Ohio Valley. Incidentally the reader is given
details of the frontier life of those hardy pioneers who broke the
wilderness for the planting of this great nation. Chief among these,
as a matter of course, is Lewis Wetzel, one of the most peculiar, and
at the same time the most admirable of all the brave men who spent
their lives battling with the savage foe, that others might dwell in
comparative security.

Details of the establishment and destruction of the Moravian “Village
of Peace” are given at some length, and with minute description. The
efforts to Christianize the Indians are described as they never have
been before, and the author has depicted the characters of the leaders
of the several Indian tribes with great care, which of itself will be
of interest to the student.

By no means least among the charms of the story are the vivid
word-pictures of the thrilling adventures, and the intense paintings
of the beauties of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken forests.

It is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by
it, perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too, willingly
braved every privation and danger that the westward progress of the
star of empire might be the more certain and rapid. A love story,
simple and tender, runs through the book.

=CAPTAIN BRAND, OF THE SCHOONER CENTIPEDE.= By Lieut. Henry A. Wise, U. S. N. (Harry Gringo). Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

The re-publication of this story will please those lovers of sea yarns
who delight in so much of the salty flavor of the ocean as can come
through the medium of a printed page, for never has a story of the sea
and those “who go down in ships” been written by one more familiar
with the scenes depicted.

The one book of this gifted author which is best remembered, and which
will be read with pleasure for many years to come, is “Captain Brand,”
who, as the author states on his title page, was a “pirate of eminence
in the West Indies.” As a sea story pure and simple, “Captain Brand”
has never been excelled, and as a story of piratical life, told
without the usual embellishments of blood and thunder, it has no
equal.

=NICK OF THE WOODS.= A story of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. By Robert Montgomery Bird. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

This most popular novel and thrilling story of early frontier life in
Kentucky was originally published in the year 1837. The novel, long
out of print, had in its day a phenomenal sale, for its realistic
presentation of Indian and frontier life in the early days of
settlement in the South, narrated in the tale with all the art of a
practiced writer. A very charming love romance runs through the story.
This new and tasteful edition of “Nick of the Woods” will be certain
to make many new admirers for this enchanting story from Dr. Bird’s
clever and versatile pen.

=GUY FAWKES.= A Romance of the Gunpowder Treason. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.

The “Gunpowder Plot” was a modest attempt to blow up Parliament, the
King and his Counsellors. James of Scotland, then King of England, was
weak-minded and extravagant. He hit upon the efficient scheme of
extorting money from the people by imposing taxes on the Catholics. In
their natural resentment to this extortion, a handful of bold spirits
concluded to overthrow the government. Finally the plotters were
arrested, and the King put to torture Guy Fawkes and the other
prisoners with royal vigor. A very intense love story runs through the
entire romance.

=TICONDEROGA=: A Story of Early Frontier Life in the Mohawk Valley. By G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

The setting of the story is decidedly more picturesque than any ever
evolved by Cooper: The frontier of New York State, where dwelt an
English gentleman, driven from his native home by grief over the loss
of his wife, with a son and daughter. Thither, brought by the
exigencies of war, comes an English officer, who is readily recognized
as that Lord Howe who met his death at Ticonderoga. As a most natural
sequence, even amid the hostile demonstrations of both French and
Indians, Lord Howe and the young girl find time to make most
deliciously sweet love, and the son of the recluse has already lost
his heart to the daughter of a great sachem, a dusky maiden whose
warrior-father has surrounded her with all the comforts of a civilized
life.

The character of Captain Brooks, who voluntarily decides to sacrifice
his own life in order to save the son of the Englishman, is not among
the least of the attractions of this story, which holds the attention
of the reader even to the last page. The tribal laws and folk lore of
the different tribes of Indians known as the “Five Nations,” with
which the story is interspersed, shows that the author gave no small
amount of study to the work in question, and nowhere else is it shown
more plainly than by the skilful manner in which he has interwoven
with his plot the “blood” law, which demands a life for a life,
whether it be that of the murderer or one of his race.

A more charming story of mingled love and adventure has never been
written than “Ticonderoga.”

=ROB OF THE BOWL=: A Story of the Early Days of Maryland. By John P. Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. with four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

It was while he was a member of Congress from Maryland that the noted
statesman wrote this story regarding the early history of his native
State, and while some critics are inclined to consider “Horse Shoe
Robinson” as the best of his works, it is certain that “Rob of the
Bowl” stands at the head of the list as a literary production and an
authentic exposition of the manners and customs during Lord
Baltimore’s rule. The greater portion of the action takes place in St.
Mary’s—the original capital of the State.

As a series of pictures of early colonial life in Maryland, “Rob of
the Bowl” has no equal, and the book, having been written by one who
had exceptional facilities for gathering material concerning the
individual members of the settlements in and about St. Mary’s, is a
most valuable addition to the history of the State.

The story is full of splendid action, with a charming love story, and
a plot that never loosens the grip of its interest to its last page.

=BY BERWEN BANKS.= By Allen Raine.

It is a tender and beautiful romance of the idyllic. A charming
picture of life in a Welsh seaside village. It is something of a
prose-poem, true, tender and graceful.

=IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING.= A romance of the American Revolution. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

The story opens in the month of April, 1775, with the provincial
troops hurrying to the defense of Lexington and Concord. Mr. Hotchkiss
has etched in burning words a story of Yankee bravery and true love
that thrills from beginning to end with the spirit of the Revolution.
The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves taking a part in the
exciting scenes described. You lay the book aside with the feeling
that you have seen a gloriously true picture of the Revolution. His
whole story is so absorbing that you will sit up far into the night to
finish it. As a love romance it is charming.

POPULAR LITERATURE FOR THE MASSES, COMPRISING CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM THE
TREASURES OF THE WORLD’S KNOWLEDGE, ISSUED IN A SUBSTANTIAL AND
ATTRACTIVE CLOTH BINDING, AT A POPULAR PRICE

Burt’s Home Library is a series which includes the standard works of the world’s best literature, bound in uniform cloth binding, gilt tops, embracing chiefly selections from writers of the most notable English, American and Foreign Fiction, together with many important works in the domains of History, Biography, Philosophy, Travel, Poetry and the Essays.

A glance at the following annexed list of titles and authors will endorse the claim that the publishers make for it—that it is the most comprehensive, choice, interesting, and by far the most carefully selected series of standard authors for world-wide reading that has been produced by any publishing house in any country, and that at prices so cheap, and in a style so substantial and pleasing, as to win for it millions of readers and the approval and commendation, not only of the book trade throughout the American continent, but of hundreds of thousands of librarians, clergymen, educators and men of letters interested in the dissemination of instructive, entertaining and thoroughly wholesome reading matter for the masses.

BURT’S HOME LIBRARY. Cloth. Gilt Tops. Price, $1.00

Abbe Constantin. BY LUDOVIC HALEVY. Abbott. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. Adam Bede. BY GEORGE ELIOT. Addison’s Essays. EDITED BY JOHN RICHARD GREEN. Aeneid of Virgil. TRANSLATED BY JOHN CONNINGTON. Aesop’s Fables. Alexander, the Great, Life of. BY JOHN WILLIAMS. Alfred, the Great, Life of. BY THOMAS HUGHES. Alhambra. BY WASHINGTON IRVING Alice in Wonderland, and Through the Looking-Glass. BY LEWIS CARROLL Alice Lorraine. BY R. D. BLACKMORE All Sorts and Conditions of Men. BY WALTER BESANT. Alton Locke. BY CHARLES KINGSLEY. Amiel’s Journal. TRANSLATED BY MRS. HUMPHREY WARD. Andersen’s Fairy Tales. Anne of Geirstein. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. Antiquary. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. Arabian Nights’ Entertainments. Ardath. BY MARIE CORELLI. Arnold, Benedict, Life of. BY GEORGE CANNING HILL. Arnold’s Poems. BY MATTHEW ARNOLD. Around the World in the Yacht Sunbeam. BY MRS. BRASSEY. Arundel Motto. BY MARY CECIL HAY. At the Back of the North Wind. BY GEORGE MACDONALD. Attic Philosopher. BY EMILE SOUVESTRE. Auld Licht Idylls. BY JAMES M. BARRIE. Aunt Diana. BY ROSA N. CAREY. Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin. Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. BY O. W. HOLMES. Averil. BY ROSA N. CAREY. Bacon’s Essays. BY FRANCIS BACON. Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. BY ROSA N. CAREY. Barnaby Rudge. BY CHARLES DICKENS. Barrack Room Ballads. BY RUDYARD KIPLING. Betrothed. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. Beulah. BY AUGUSTA J. EVANS. Black Beauty. BY ANNA SEWALL. Black Dwarf. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. Black Rock. BY RALPH CONNOR. Black Tulip. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS. Bleak House. BY CHARLES DICKENS. Blithedale Romance. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. Bondman. BY HALL CAINE. Book of Golden Deeds. BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. Boone, Daniel, Life of. BY CECIL B. HARTLEY. Bride of Lammermoor. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. Bride of the Nile. BY GEORGE EBERS. Browning’s Poems. BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. Browning’s Poems. (SELECTIONS.) BY ROBERT BROWNING. Bryant’s Poems, (EARLY.) BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Burgomaster’s Wife. BY GEORGE EBERS. Burn’s Poems. BY ROBERT BURNS. By Order of the King. BY VICTOR HUGO. Byron’s Poems. BY LORD BYRON. Caesar, Julius, Life of. BY JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE. Carson, Kit, Life of. BY CHARLES BURDETT. Cary’s Poems. BY ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY. Cast Up by the Sea. BY SIR SAMUEL BAKER. Charlemagne (Charles the Great), Life of. BY THOMAS HODGKIN, D. C. L. Charles Auchester. BY E. BERGER. Character. BY SAMUEL SMILES. Charles O’Malley. BY CHARLES LEVER. Chesterfield’s Letters. BY LORD CHESTERFIELD. Chevalier de Maison Rouge. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS. Chicot the Jester. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS. Children of the Abbey. BY REGINA MARIA ROCHE. Child’s History of England. BY CHARLES DICKENS. Christmas Stories. BY CHARLES DICKENS. Cloister and the Hearth. BY CHARLES READE. Coleridge’s Poems. BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. Columbus, Christopher, Life of. BY WASHINGTON IRVING. Companions of Jehu. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS. Complete Angler. BY WALTON AND COTTON. Conduct of Life. BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON. Confessions of an Opium Eater. BY THOMAS DE QUINCEY. Conquest of Granada. BY WASHINGTON IRVING. Conscript. BY ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN. Conspiracy of Pontiac. BY FRANCIS PARKMAN JR. Conspirators. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS. Consuelo. BY GEORGE SAND. Cook’s Voyages. BY CAPTAIN JAMES COOK. Corinne. BY MADAME DE STAEL. Countess de Charney. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS. Countess Gisela. BY E. MARLITT.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling. 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. 4. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.