Chapter XXX: The Camp Again

Buller’s patience and respectful stolidity were sorely strained that day. In the first place I told him nothing about our destination; and when we made several changes during the journey only to alight at the exceedingly unpromising depot at Samac in the afternoon, his manner began to afford me genuine amusement.

“Do we wait here long for the train, sir?” he asked, as if the sooner we were off again the better.

“Only until Karasch can get a carriage or some horses, Buller. I suppose you can ride, by the by?”

“Yes, sir; that is--oh, yes, sir--a little.”

Karasch got four horses after some difficulty but no carriage; one to carry my valises. They were four rank bad animals; but they carried us to Poabja, albeit with much discomfort for Buller. But his disgust appeared to reach a climax when he saw the little inn and I told him it was our hotel.

“That, sir?” he exclaimed incredulously, with a very wry face.

“They have some excellent black bread there, Buller, and the water is as fine as any in the district.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied mechanically, as he got off his horse awkwardly. He was very stiff and discomfited. “Beg pardon, sir, but do we stay long here?” he asked, dejectedly.

“Not more than a month or two--till we start to rough it in the hills.”

He groaned and his face fell so that I laughed, and to hide it dismounted and told him to go into the house and make such arrangements as he could for our accommodation, without mentioning my name. “Be very guarded, Buller, for much hangs upon your discretion, and I don’t want our lives to be imperilled by any loose talk.”

Then I walked away up the narrow hilly street, whistling. I was in such spirits that I could not resist the temptation of playing this small joke upon my superlatively proper and decorous servant. In my humour, the veriest trifle set me smiling, the minutest detail of life in the little place interested me.

The children came out to stare at me and I scattered some small coins among them and brought them about me in a scrambling, laughing, boisterous crowd. Some of the men recognised me; and I stopped now and again to exchange a word or two with them and gave them money. The whole of the little street was full of smiling faces and I had such a body guard when I reached Father Michel’s cottage, that the good priest came out in some surprise to learn the cause of the clatter.

“I need your protection again, father,” I cried cheerily; “but from a different sort of crowd this time. Let me come in and talk to you, and send these young brigands away. They take _me_ for the witch this time with a power to coin money.”

“I bid you welcome, sir,” he said gravely as he bade the youngsters run home and led me indoors.

I was closeted with him for an hour or more, telling him many things which vastly surprised him, gaining his help for the purpose I had in view, preparing him for what was coming, and binding him to secresy until the time arrived for all to be explained.

When I got back to the inn Karasch, as the result of my instructions had a carriage ready, and Buller looking very glum and very much out of his element was standing by a saddle horse for me.

“You can go on, Karasch, I shall overtake you,” I said, and he drove off.

“Am I not to go, sir?” asked Buller, nervously.

“No, Buller, thank you. You stay here. And mind, don’t get quarrelling; these people are very good-natured, but very handy with the knife.”

“Beg pardon, sir, but how long am I to stay here alone?”

“You’re not frightened, are you?”

“No, I hope not, sir, but if anything’s likely to happen--to you, sir, I mean I’d like to know of it, in case I could help.”

“I think I’ve done you some injustice, Buller, and I’m sorry.” I was pleased by his words. “Nothing will happen--nothing dangerous that is. All is as right as it could be. I’ve come here for a special purpose; and we shall all be away to-morrow or very soon after, for Vienna I expect. All you need do is--to amuse yourself for an hour or two. If you go out, walk down the hill and not up; I don’t want you to be seen up that way. I shall be back soon after dark; and you can hunt around and get me the best thing in the way of dinner you can contrive.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said in a tone of obvious relief; and stepped back, as I mounted and rode after Karasch on the road back to the station at Samac.

“All you’ve got to be careful about, Karasch,” I told him when we reached there; “is not to let your face be seen. It’s quite dark, so there’s very little risk.”

I tethered my horse out of sight and walked up the little hill where Gatrina and I had had our talk that day, and waited there, thinking of her and of much that had passed since we had parted there, and she had sent poor old Chris back to me. The picture was very vivid in my thoughts; her retreating figure on the winding path, and the old dog coming slowly up the path toward me and turning to look after her; when the reverie was broken by the noise of the coming train, and I hurried down the hill back to the station.

I found a spot where I could get close enough to observe what occurred without being seen.

The last car was a saloon from which three men in the uniform of officers alighted. One of them turned and helped out a lady, a somewhat portly person who appeared to be stiff and cramped with a long journey. Then without assistance another lady stepped out and looked about her as if recognising the place.

All five passed through the station house, and one of the men spoke to Karasch, who murmured some reply and touched his hat. Four of them entered the carriage and the fifth got up by Karasch who then drove off.

The station master and his assistants stood looking after the carriage and gossipping with three peasants and a woman, the only other passengers by the train; and were still discussing the possible meaning of the unusual event as I mounted and rode away.

I kept well behind but I was near enough to the carriage when it reached the priest’s house to see him come out, exchange a few words with the officers, and then lead someone into the house. He returned and spoke again to the officers, all three of whom entered the carriage which passed me directly afterwards on the return to Samac.

I rode on to the inn, and having an hour to wait, I filled up the time by changing my clothes and eating the dinner which Buller had had prepared. I was in a condition of intense nervous excitement, and kept glancing at my watch wishing the time to pass, impatient of the delay. I was intensely absorbed by the thought of what was to follow, and yet curiously conscious of Buller’s consequential pride at having provided so good a meal under such circumstances and profound disappointment at my failure to be impressed by his cleverness.

At last the time was up and I started for the priest’s house, followed by a look of blank dismay from Buller because I left before his chief dish was served. I was half way up the street when the reason of his look flashed upon me, and I burst out laughing.

Someone was waiting for me in the priest’s garden and fetched him immediately.

“She is very sad and depressed, but she asked to be brought to me, it seems. She is in there;” and he pointed to a door which stood ajar.

I pushed it open and entered.

She was sitting with her back to the door in a very dejected attitude, and thinking it was Father Michel who had returned, she did not look round, but said, as I closed the door:

“You have many calls on your time.”

“Well, I’ve been pretty busy during the last week,” I answered.

She jumped up at the sound of my voice and turned to me a face pale for a fleeting second and then flushing with the glory of rich, deep crimson.

“Bourgwan!”

“Yes, Mademoiselle, Bourgwan, no other;” and I stretched my hands to her.

She held hers back and tried to look indignant.

“What does this mean?”

“You must blame Petrosch. He’s the villain of the piece.”

Despite her efforts her eyes smiled.

“This is a conspiracy, then,” she cried.

“That’s about the size of it. They’ve been pretty plentiful lately, you see.”

“I had no idea....”

“That was the conspiracy, of course,” I broke in. “He’s a subtle villain, Petrosch. I was a mere child in his hands.”

The smile was spreading very fast all over her face now.

“I ought to be very angry,” she exclaimed.

“Yes, he’s broken up all my plans shamefully. Instead of being in Vienna on my way back to the States, here I am, just Bourgwan again, and you’re just Mademoiselle. And goodness knows now what’s going to happen.”

We both laughed then and she no longer held back her hands. I held them instead.

“I don’t understand yet in the least.”

“Well, you see it was like this. I thought you would rather that Father Michel than any other priest should----”

“Bourgwan!” she cried, quickly.

“Wasn’t that right?” I asked, with an air of innocence.

“Do you mean that Colonel Petrosch....”

“Yes. He’s a dreadful scoundrel to guess things.”

“Do you know that I am a beggar and an exile?”

“Yes, indeed. He told me all about it; and I was awfully glad. There’s another country over seas which will be glad to adopt you. It’s a free country, too; with a home in it where we shan’t be quite beggars.”

“Bourgwan! I told you it was impossible.”

“And I told you that we’re forgetting how to spell that word in the States; although I came near learning it in Belgrade.”

“But I--I have nothing.”

“Oh yes, you have. You can draw a bill on the bank of my affection and I’ll honour it right now--to any amount.”

“You make a jest of it,” she said, now between laughter and tears.

“Well, don’t you think they made things serious enough for us in Belgrade? What you’ve got to do is just to forget all that, and to laugh and be glad--if you are glad; and then to--well, there _is_ something else to do;” and I looked grave.

“What is that?”

“It’s a very serious thing, very serious, indeed. But I think I ought to tell you, and I think you ought to do it if your laughter is to ring true.”

“Are you in earnest?”

“Yes, quite. Did you know that when we were here before there was a man very badly wounded--desperately, in fact. I was speaking to Father Michel to-day about it and I told him I was sure you would not like to have such a thing on your conscience without doing all you could to help him. That was right, wasn’t it?”

“Of course. Was it that struggle in the street here?”

“No, the man doesn’t belong to Poabja; but he was here to-day. The poor fellow will never get over the wound. And he blames you, and feels that you alone can save him.”

“Wound? Blames me? What can I do?”

“Marry him.”

“Bourgwan!” she cried, changing on the instant from puzzled pity to laughing confusion; and then--well, no matter what then.

Soon afterwards we sat down together and had a good, square talk which did not end until she had agreed that we had better consult Father Michel about the details.

I was a happier man than ever when, after a very informal little ceremony in Father Michel’s quaint, crude church very early in the morning, we started to indulge a mutual wish to have a last look at the camp which had been so much to us.

What a ride that was! What memories it roused! How delighted was Gatrina with everything! And in what spirits! How we chattered and laughed, and laughed and chattered, forgetting for the time, selfishly if you will in our own happiness, the gloom and tragedy from which we had just emerged. The world appeared all bright and glorious for us, and care and trouble far away.

Karasch was with us, of course; solemn, reserved and taciturn as ever; but breaking into a sort of grim smile whenever Gatrina spoke to him to point out some bit of the road where some incident of that other ride had occurred.

Buller I packed off to Samac to go by rail and meet us afterwards at a place to which we could get the train from Tuzla on the other side of the camp. He did not belong to our hill comradeship and would have been in the way.

We were careful to have a guide this time; and how we laughed now when he told us we must have come at least ten or fifteen miles out of our way during that comradeship ride of ours by the compass. We could laugh at anything.

We turned aside to visit the hill where we had slept on the morning after the check by the two rivers, and Gatrina recognised with a positive relish the spot where she had washed on the brink of the stream.

And when at last we came near the long, stiff hill in the middle of which was the ravine leading to the camp, her excitement and pleasure were greater than ever. We chattered just like two glad children, first about the incidents of her flight and rescue, and then about that little contest of wills we had had the following morning, and indeed about every incident of the time at the camp.

Then came the camp itself, and Gatrina’s unbounded surprise that already men were there getting ready for the mining work. I told her what I had done in Vienna and that in the superintendent we might look to find our old enemy, Captain Hanske, the Austrian official with whom we had taken such rough liberties that memorable night.

We could stay but an hour there if we were to reach Tuzla before nightfall, the guide told us; and Gatrina and I spent the first few minutes in the little hut which she had occupied.

It was a place full of mingled reminiscences for us; and while we were there our thoughts slipped back to the moment when, as I knew and my sweet wife now confessed, we had fallen in love.

“I think I knew it first,” she said, with a winsome blush, “when we came back here alone after that trial of will, Bourgwan. You were very obstinate; but I--I--I won’t tell you any more.”

“I knew it before that; when you stood at bay against those scoundrels out on the hills there. But you must have thought me an awful scarecrow.”

“I did think you were a peasant, when I knew you were not a brigand. And when I found out my mistake, I could have bitten out my tongue for the way I had spoken to you.”

“I was a brigand. I stole your heart.”

She looked up with a bright, merry smile and was about to answer when some noise and confusion outside startled her.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Quite realistic--like it used to be. We’ll see.”

We went out and I laughed aloud at what we saw. Karasch had been seized by a couple of men who were leading him towards us while the little Austrian ex-official, now the superintendent, was abusing him volubly and with almost frantic gesticulations.

He was a sharp fellow and the instant his eyes fell on us he recognised us, and calling some more men from the tent, he ran toward me shouting, “Here’s the other man. So we meet at last, eh? And you, too?” he cried to Gatrina, who was inclined to be frightened and held my arm tight.

“You have good eyes and a keen memory for faces, Captain Hanske. I congratulate you. We only met in the dark and I see you recognise us.”

“Ah, you admit it, you admit it, do you?” he said, very excitedly. “Now I’ll shew you what it is to assault me, and I’ll know who you are and all about you.”

“There isn’t the least doubt about that. But don’t be excited. I am Mr. Bergwyn, the American, associated with Graf von Hartstein of Vienna in working the mines here. I told him how I had treated you that night and as a recompense had you appointed here.”

His jaw dropped as he gazed at me in amazement.

The silence was broken by a laugh, deep, raucous and loud, from Karasch--the only loud laugh I ever heard from him.

“It’s all right, superintendent,” I added. “I can understand your bewilderment and your mistake. Tell me how the work promises. Let Karasch there go.”

“Mr. Bergwyn,” he stammered, “I am--I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t try. We’ve had enough of it. Just show the things.”

He was a very humble and bewildered superintendent then, and so ashamed that Gatrina spoke to him to try and put him at his ease while he shewed us about the place until the guide sent word that we must start.

We were standing in the tent then and were alone.

“This is where you had the fight with Karasch, Bourgwan, and his arm was broken, isn’t it?”

“Yes, when Chris, the other member of the comradeship was on guard with you.”

“Dear old Chris,” she replied. “I am so sorry.”

“Something else happened here beside that fight.”

“What was that?”

“You told me just now when you think you--knew. Well, it was here I first hoped.”

“Hoped?” she cried, her face wrinkling and her eyes questioning.

“Yes, hoped. You remember I lay here after that blow on the head.”

“Yes, there;” and she pointed to the very spot.

“Someone watched by me here, when I was unconscious.”

She began to understand.

“You mean Chris?” she asked with an air of unconcern.

“No; I mean I wasn’t unconscious quite so long as you thought and you----”

“Bourgwan! The guide says we must go,” she cried quickly, with a lovely blush.

“And when you did, I began to hope.”

“We mustn’t keep him any longer.”

“I think he could wait while you--do it again.”

But she laughed and tossed her head and walked out of the tent.

As we crossed to the horses, she said: “I don’t know what you must have thought.”

“I thought you might do it again so I remained unconscious.”

As I put her on her horse, she whispered: “I was going to, but Karasch came;” and then shook the reins and started.

I caught her up a moment afterwards and by a mutual impulse we turned and had a last look. It was a wild, meagre, rough, dirty and abominably squalid place--but very dear to us.

“Good-bye, old comradeship camp,” said Gatrina, smiling, with a tear in close attendance, I think. “It might be lovelier,” she added, “but it couldn’t be dearer in my thoughts.”

“Nor in mine--for it gave me you.”

“And me my Bourgwan--I may well love it.”

We sat on the horses just gazing back, both heart full, until the silence was broken by a shout from the now impatient guide; and we wheeled about and hurried after him.

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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.

=RICHELIEU.= A tale of France In the reign of King Louis XIII. By G. P. E. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

In 1829 Mr. James published his first romance, “Richelieu,” and was
recognized at once as one of the masters of the craft.

In this book he laid the story during those later days of the great
cardinal’s life, when his power was beginning to wane, but while
it was yet sufficiently strong to permit now and then of volcanic
outbursts which overwhelmed foes and carried friends to the topmost
wave of prosperity. One of the most striking portions of the story
is that of Cinq Mar’s conspiracy; the method of conducting criminal
cases, and the political trickery resorted to by royal favorites,
affording a better insight into the statecraft of that day than can
be had even by an exhaustive study of history. It is a powerful
romance of love and diplomacy, and in point of thrilling and
absorbing interest has never been excelled.

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52-58 Duane St., New York.

_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 SEWELL.

=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 STAHL.

=Countess de Charney.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

=Countess Gisela.= BY E. MARLITT.

=Countess of Rudolstadt.= BY GEORGE SAND.

=Count Robert of Paris.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

=Country Doctor.= BY HONORE DE BALZAC.

=Courtship of Miles Standish.= BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

=Cousin Maude.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

=Cranford.= BY MRS. GASKELL.

=Crockett, David, Life of.= AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

=Cromwell, Oliver, Life of.= BY EDWIN PAXTON HOOD.

=Crown of Wild Olive.= BY JOHN RUSKIN.

=Crusades.= BY GEO. W. COX, M. A.

=Daniel Deronda.= BY GEORGE ELIOT.

=Darkness and Daylight.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

=Data of Ethics.= BY HERBERT SPENCER.

=Daughter of an Empress, The.= BY LOUISA MUHLBACH.

=David Copperfield.= BY CHARLES DICKENS.

=Days of Bruce.= BY GRACE AGUILAR.

=Deemster, The.= BY HALL CAINE.

=Deerslayer, The.= BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

=Descent of Man.= BY CHARLES DARWIN.

=Discourses of Epictetus.= TRANSLATED BY GEORGE LONG.

=Divine Comedy.= (DANTE.) TRANSLATED BY REV. H. F. CAREY.

=Dombey & Son.= BY CHARLES DICKENS.

=Donal Grant.= BY GEORGE MACDONALD.

=Donovan.= BY EDNA LYALL.

=Dora Deane.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

=Dove in the Eagle’s Nest.= BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.

=Dream Life.= BY IK MARVEL.

=Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.= BY R. L. STEVENSON.

=Duty.= BY SAMUEL SMILES.

=Early Days of Christianity.= BY F. W. FARRAR.

=East Lynne.= BY MRS. HENRY WOOD.

=Edith Lyle’s Secret.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

=Education.= BY HERBERT SPENCER.

=Egoist.= BY GEORGE MEREDITH.

=Egyptian Princess.= BY GEORGE EBERS.

=Eight Hundred Leagues on the Amazon.= BY JULES VERNE.

=Eliot’s Poems.= BY GEORGE ELIOT.

=Elizabeth and her German Garden.=

=Elizabeth (Queen of England), Life of.= BY EDWARD SPENCER BEESLY, M.A.

=Elsie Venner.= BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

=Emerson’s Essays.= (COMPLETE.) BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

=Emerson’s Poems.= BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

=English Orphans.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

=English Traits.= BY R. W. EMERSON.

=Essays in Criticism.= (FIRST AND SECOND SERIES.) BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

=Essays of Elia.= BY CHARLES LAMB.

=Esther.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

=Ethelyn’s Mistake.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

=Evangeline.= (WITH NOTES.) BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

=Evelina.= BY FRANCES BURNEY.

=Fair Maid of Perth.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

=Fairy Land of Science.= BY ARABELLA B. BUCKLEY.

=Faust.= (GOETHE.) TRANSLATED BY ANNA SWANWICK.

=Felix Holt.= BY GEORGE ELIOT.

=Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World.= BY E. S. CREASY.

=File No. 113.= BY EMILE GABORIAU.

=Firm of Girdlestone.= BY A. CONAN DOYLE.

=First Principles.= BY HERBERT SPENCER.

=First Violin.= BY JESSIE FOTHERGILL.

=For Lilias.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

=Fortunes of Nigel.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

=Forty-Five Guardsmen.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

=Foul Play.= BY CHARLES READE.

=Fragments of Science.= BY JOHN TYNDALL.

=Frederick, the Great, Life of.= BY FRANCIS KUGLER.

=Frederick the Great and His Court.= BY LOUISA MUHLBACH.

=French Revolution.= BY THOMAS CARLYLE.

=From the Earth to the Moon.= BY JULES VERNE.

=Garibaldi, General, Life of.= BY THEODORE DWIGHT.

=Gil Blas, Adventures of.= BY A. R. LE SAGE.

=Gold Bug and Other Tales.= BY EDGAR A. POE.

=Gold Elsie.= BY E. MARLITT.

=Golden Treasury.= BY FRANCIS T. PALGRAVE.

=Goldsmith’s Poems.= BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

=Grandfather’s Chair.= BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

=Grant, Ulysses S., Life of.= BY J. T. HEADLEY.

=Gray’s Poems.= BY THOMAS GRAY.

=Great Expectations.= BY CHARLES DICKENS.

=Greek Heroes. Fairy Tales for My Children.= BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.

=Green Mountain Boys, The.= BY D. P. THOMPSON.

=Grimm’s Household Tales.= BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM.

=Grimm’s Popular Tales.= BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM.

=Gulliver’s Travels.= BY DEAN SWIFT.

=Guy Mannering.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

=Hale, Nathan, the Martyr Spy.= BY CHARLOTTE MOLYNEUX HOLLOWAY.

=Handy Andy.= BY SAMUEL LOVER.

=Hans of Iceland.= BY VICTOR HUGO.

=Hannibal, the Carthaginian, Life of.= BY THOMAS ARNOLD, M. A.

=Hardy Norseman, A.= BY EDNA LYALL.

=Harold.= BY BULWER-LYTTON.

=Harry Lorrequer.= BY CHARLES LEVER.

=Heart of Midlothian.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

=Heir of Redclyffe.= BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.

=Hemans’ Poems.= BY MRS. FELICIA HEMANS.

=Henry Esmond.= BY WM. M. THACKERAY.

=Henry, Patrick, Life of.= BY WILLIAM WIRT.

=Her Dearest Foe.= BY MRS. ALEXANDER.

=Hereward.= BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.

=Heriot’s Choice.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

=Heroes and Hero-Worship.= BY THOMAS CARLYLE.

=Hiawatha=, (WITH NOTES.) BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

=Hidden Hand, The.= (COMPLETE.) BY MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

=History of a Crime.= BY VICTOR HUGO.

=History of Civilization in Europe.= BY M. GUIZOT.

=Holmes’ Poems.= (EARLY.) BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

=Holy Roman Empire.= BY JAMES BRYCE.

=Homestead on the Hillside.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

=Hood’s Poems.= BY THOMAS HOOD.

=House of the Seven Gables.= BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

=Hunchback of Notre Dame.= BY VICTOR HUGO.

=Hypatia.= BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.

=Hyperion.= BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

=Iceland Fisherman.= BY PIERRE LOTI.

=Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow.= BY JEROME K. JEROME.

=Iliad.= POPE’S TRANSLATION.

=Inez.= BY AUGUSTA J. EVANS.

=Ingelow’s Poems.= BY JEAN INGELOW.

=Initials.= BY THE BARONESS TAUTPHOEUS.

=Intellectual Life.= BY PHILIP G. HAMERTON.

=In the Counsellor’s House.= BY E. MARLITT.

=In the Golden Days.= BY EDNA LYALL.

=In the Heart of the Storm.= BY MAXWELL GRAY.

=In the Schillingscourt.= BY E. MARLITT.

=Ishmael.= (COMPLETE.) BY MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

=It Is Never Too Late to Mend.= BY CHARLES READE.

=Ivanhoe.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

=Jane Eyre.= BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE.

=Jefferson, Thomas, Life of.= BY SAMUEL M. SCHMUCKER, LL.D.

=Joan of Arc, Life of.= BY JULES MICHELET.

=John Halifax, Gentleman.= BY MISS MULOCK.

=Jones, John Paul, Life of.= BY JAMES OTIS.

=Joseph Balsamo.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

=Josephine, Empress of France, Life of.= BY FREDERICK A. OBER.

=Keats’ Poems.= BY JOHN KEATS.

=Kenilworth.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

=Kidnapped.= BY R. L. STEVENSON.

=King Arthur and His Noble Knights.= BY MARY MACLEOD.

=Knickerbocker’s History of New York.= BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

=Knight Errant.= BY EDNA LYALL.

=Koran.= TRANSLATED BY GEORGE SALE.

=Lady of the Lake.= (WITH NOTES.) BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

=Lady with the Rubies.= BY E. MARLITT.

=Lafayette, Marquis de, Life of.= BY P. C. HEADLEY.

=Lalla Rookh.= (WITH NOTES.) BY THOMAS MOORE.

=Lamplighter.= BY MARIA S. CUMMINS.

=Last Days of Pompeii.= BY BULWER-LYTTON.

=Last of the Barons.= BY BULWER-LYTTON.

=Last of the Mohicans.= BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

=Lay of the Last Minstrel.= (WITH NOTES.) BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

=Lee, General Robert E., Life of.= BY G. MERCER ADAM.

=Lena Rivers.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

=Life of Christ.= BY FREDERICK W. FARRAR.

=Life of Jesus.= BY ERNEST RENAN.

=Light of Asia.= BY SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.

=Light That Failed.= BY RUDYARD KIPLING.

=Lincoln, Abraham, Life of.= BY HENRY KETCHAM.

=Lincoln’s Speeches.= SELECTED AND EDITED BY G. MERCER ADAM.

=Literature and Dogma.= BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

=Little Dorrit.= BY CHARLES DICKENS.

=Little Minister.= BY JAMES M. BARRIE.

=Livingstone, David, Life of.= BY THOMAS HUGHES.

=Longfellow’s Poems.= (EARLY.) BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

=Lorna Doone.= BY R. D. BLACKMORE.

=Louise de la Valliere.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

=Love Me Little, Love Me Long.= BY CHARLES READE.

=Lowell’s Poems.= (EARLY.) BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

=Lucile.= BY OWEN MEREDITH.

=Macaria.= BY AUGUSTA J. EVANS.

=Macaulay’s Literary Essays.= BY T. B. MACAULAY.

=Macaulay’s Poems.= BY THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

=Madame Therese.= BY ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN.

=Maggie Miller.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

=Magic Skin.= BY HONORE DE BALZAC.

=Mahomet, Life of.= BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

=Makers of Florence.= BY MRS. OLIPHANT.

=Makers of Venice.= BY MRS. OLIPHANT.

=Man and Wife.= BY WILKIE COLLINS.

=Man in the Iron Mask.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

=Marble Faun.= BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

=Marguerite de la Valois.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

=Marian Grey.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

=Marius, The Epicurian.= BY WALTER PATER.

=Marmion.= (WITH NOTES.) BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

=Marquis of Lossie.= BY GEORGE MACDONALD.

=Martin Chuzzlewit.= BY CHARLES DICKENS.

=Mary, Queen of Scots, Life of.= BY P. C. HEADLEY.

=Mary St. John.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

=Master of Ballantrae, The.= BY R. L. STEVENSON.

=Masterman Ready.= BY CAPTAIN MARRYATT.

=Meadow Brook.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

=Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.= TRANSLATED BY GEORGE LONG.

=Memoirs of a Physician.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

=Merle’s Crusade.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

=Micah Clarke.= BY A. CONAN DOYLE.

=Michael Strogoff.= BY JULES VERNE.

=Middlemarch.= BY GEORGE ELIOT.

=Midshipman Easy.= BY CAPTAIN MARRYATT.

=Mildred.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

=Millbank.= BY MARY J. HOLMES.

=Mill on the Floss.= BY GEORGE ELIOT.

=Milton’s Poems.= BY JOHN MILTON.

=Mine Own People.= BY RUDYARD KIPLING.

=Minister’s Wooing, The.= BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

=Monastery.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

=Moonstone.= BY WILKIE COLLINS.

=Moore’s Poems.= BY THOMAS MOORE.

=Mosses from an Old Manse.= BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

=Murders in the Rue Morgue.= BY EDGAR ALLEN POE.

=Mysterious Island.= BY JULES VERNE.

=Napoleon Bonaparte, Life of.= BY P. C. HEADLEY.

=Napoleon and His Marshals.= BY J. T. HEADLEY.

=Natural Law in the Spiritual World.= BY HENRY DRUMMOND.

=Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym.= BY EDGAR ALLAN POE.

=Nature, Addresses and Lectures.= BY R. W. EMERSON.

=Nellie’s Memories.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

=Nelson, Admiral Horatio, Life of.= BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.

=Newcomes.= BY WILLIAM M. THACKERAY.

=Nicholas Nickleby.= BY CHAS. DICKENS.

=Ninety-Three.= BY VICTOR HUGO.

=Not Like Other Girls.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

=Odyssey.= POPE’S TRANSLATION.

=Old Curiosity Shop.= BY CHARLES DICKENS.

=Old Mam’selle’s Secret.= BY E. MARLITT.

=Old Mortality.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

=Old Myddleton’s Money.= BY MARY CECIL HAY.

=Oliver Twist.= BY CHAS. DICKENS.

=Only the Governess.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

=On the Heights.= BY BERTHOLD AUERBACH.

=Oregon Trail.= BY FRANCIS PARKMAN.

=Origin of Species.= BY CHARLES DARWIN.

=Other Worlds than Ours.= BY RICHARD PROCTOR.

=Our Bessie.= BY ROSA N. CAREY.

=Our Mutual Friend.= BY CHARLES DICKENS.

=Outre-Mer.= BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

=Owl’s Nest.= BY E. MARLITT.

=Page of the Duke of Savoy.= BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

=Pair of Blue Eyes.= BY THOMAS HARDY.

=Pan Michael.= BY HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ.

=Past and Present.= BY THOS. CARLYLE.

=Pathfinder.= BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

=Paul and Virginia.= BY B. DE ST. PIERRE.

=Pendennis, History of.= BY WM. M. THACKERAY.

=Penn, William, Life of.= BY W. HEPWORTH DIXON.

=Pere Goriot.= BY HONORE DE BALZAC.

=Peter the Great, Life of.= BY JOHN BARROW.

=Peveril of the Peak.= BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

=Phantom Rickshaw, The.= BY RUDYARD KIPLING.

=Philip II. of Spain, Life of.= BY MARTIN A. S. HUME.

=Picciola.= BY X. B. SAINTINE.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized or underlined text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.