"I cannot!" she said, "I cannot! We must think of others beside ourselves. If you are willing to sacrifice yourself, think of your mother and sisters!"

"Sacrifice myself! I sacrifice myself only if I give you up. You must feel the falseness of such a use of the word. As for my mother and sisters, I ask you to test that matter. Agree to marry me and I promise that they will come to our wedding, and my mother will call you daughter, and my sisters will call you sister, and they will open their hearts to you and love you."

"Because your will is all-powerful with them," she said.

"Yes, partly because they trust and believe in me, and will sanction what I do; and also because—in spite of a good deal of surface conventionality and worldliness—they are right-minded, true-hearted, good women, who will only need to know your whole history, as I know it, and to realize my love for you, as I can make them realize it, to feel that our marriage is the right and true and only issue of it all."

Christine felt herself terribly shaken. She did not dare to look at Noel lest her eyes might betray her, and she would not for anything have him to know how she was weakened in her resolve by what he had said of his mother and sisters. The conviction with which he spoke had carried its own force to her mind, and she suddenly found the strongest weapon with which she had fought her fight shattered in her hands. He saw that she was weakening, but he would not take advantage of it. She was so white and tremulous; her breath came forth so quick and short; the drawn lines about her mouth were so piteous that he felt she must be spared.

"I will not press you now, Christine," he said; "take time to think about it. Let me come again to-morrow morning. I will leave you now and you must try to rest. Talk freely to Mrs. Murray. Ask her what you must do. Remember that I consent to wait, only because I am so determined. Listen to me one moment. I swear before Heaven I will never give you up. You gave yourself to me in that kiss, and you are mine."

"Yes," she said, as if that struggle were over with her now, "I am yours. I know it. Even if we part forever I am always yours. I will tell you what I will do. Your mother shall know everything and she shall decide."

He was at once afraid and glad, and Christine saw it.

"I must see your mother," she began.

"I will see her for you. I will tell her everything and you shall see she will be for us. But if she should not, I warn you, Christine, I will not give you up for any one alive."

"Listen to me," said Christine calmly. "This is what you must do. You must go to your mother and tell her there is some one that you love. Tell her as fully and freely as you choose. Convince her of the truth and strength of it as thoroughly as you can, and tell her that woman loves you in return, but has refused to marry you, for reasons which, if she would like to hear them, that woman herself will lay before her. I cannot let you do it for me," she went on earnestly. "I know you would wish to spare me this, but only a woman's tongue could tell that story of misery, and only a woman's heart could understand it. You think she will love me for my misfortunes, as you have done in your great, generous heart. I do not dare to think it, but I will put it to the test. You must promise me to tell her nothing except just what I have told you. Do you promise this?"

"I promise it, upon my honor; but remember, if my mother should decide against me, I do not give you up."

"No, but I will give you up."

"Christine!" he cried. "And yet you say you love me!"

"Oh, yes, I say I love you—and you know whether it is true."

She stood in front of him and looked him firmly in the face, but the look of her clear eyes was so full of crowding, overwhelming sorrow that love, for a while, seemed to have taken flight.

In vain he tried to put his hopeful spirit into her. She only shook her head and showed him a face of deep, unhoping sorrow.

"If your mother consents to see me, appoint an hour to-morrow morning and let me know. I will take a carriage and go alone—"

"I will come for you. I will bring my mother's carriage—"

"No, I must go alone, and I prefer to go in a hired carriage. You must see that no one else is present—neither of your sisters. It is to your mother only that I can say what I have to say."

"Everything shall be as you wish. But, Christine, don't be hurt if you find my mother's manner difficult, at first. She has had a great deal of trouble, and it has made her manner a little hard—"

"Ah," she said, "I can understand that."

"But it is only her manner," Noel went on, "her heart is kind and true."

"Don't try to encourage me. I am not afraid. If she has known the face of sorrow that is the best passport between us. Perhaps she will understand me."

"Promise me this, Christine—that whatever happens, you will see me to-morrow evening—and see me alone."

"I promise, but it may be to say good-by."

He repressed the defiant protest of his heart, secure in his strong resolve.

"Good-night, Christine," he said.

"Good-night," she answered. Her eyes seemed to look at him through a great cloud of sorrow, and her voice was like the speaking of a woman in a dream. There was a great and availing force in the mood that held her. Noel knew she wished to be alone and that she had need of the repose of solitude. So he only clasped her hand an instant, in a strong, assuring pressure, and was gone.

Exhausted, worn out, spent with sorrow, Christine retired at once to her room, and went wearily to bed, wondering what the next day would bring. She soon fell into a deep sleep, and slept heavily till morning, waking with a confused mingling of memory and expectancy in which joy and pain were inseparably united.



XVI.

Noel's note came early. It announced that his mother would be ready to receive her visitor any time after eleven. It was full of the strongest assurances of love and constancy, and Christine knew it was meant to comfort and support her in her approaching ordeal. She felt so strong to meet this, however, that even Mrs. Murray's earnest protest that harm would come of the visit failed to intimidate her, and she turned a deaf ear to all her good friend's entreaties to her to give it up. Mrs. Murray's advice was for the immediate marriage and departure for Europe, but Christine's mind was made up, and could not be shaken.

She was feeling strangely calm as she drove along through a part of the great city she had never ever seen before, where there were none but splendid houses, with glimpses, through richly-curtained windows, of luxurious interiors, and where all the people who passed her, whether on foot or in handsome carriages, had an air of ease and comfort and luxury that made her feel herself still more an alien. She did not regret her resolution, but she felt quite hopeless of its result. It would make matters simpler for her, at all events.

When the carriage stopped she got out with a strange feeling of unreality, closed the door behind her, careful to see that it caught, spoke to the driver quietly and told him to wait, and then walked up the steps and rang the bell. During the moment she stood there a boy came along and threw a small printed paper at her feet. It was an advertisement of a new soap, and she was reading it mechanically when the door was opened by a tall man-servant who stood against the background of a stately hall, whose rich furnishings were revealed by the softened light that came through the stained glass windows. Christine was closely veiled, and coming out of the sunshine it all seemed obscure and dim. She asked if Mrs. Noel was at home, and when the man said yes, and ushered her in she desired him to say to Mrs. Noel that the lady with whom she had an appointment was come.

Then she sat down in the great drawing-room and waited. The silence was intense. She seemed to have shrunk to a very small size as she sat in the midst of all this high-pitched, broad-proportioned stateliness. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness the objects about her seemed to come out, one by one—beautiful pictures, graceful statues, rich draperies and delicate, fine ornaments of many kinds. A carriage rolled by outside, one of the horses slipping on the thin coat of ice with which the shady side of the street was covered. The driver jerked him up sharply, with a smothered exclamation, and went on. As the sound of wheels died away she could hear a street band far off, playing a popular air. Then that too ceased and the silence without was as profound as the silence within. Christine felt precisely as if she were dreaming. It seemed to her hours that she had waited here, though she knew it was only a very few minutes, before the servant returned. Mrs. Noel requested that she would be kind enough to come up-stairs, he said.

Christine followed him silently up the great staircase, and was ushered into a room near its head. She heard the door closed behind her, and saw a small, slight figure, dressed in black, standing opposite to her.

"Good-morning. Excuse my asking you to come up-stairs," a clear, refined voice began; but suddenly it broke off, and perfect silence followed, and the eyes of the two women met. Christine was very pale, and those beautiful eyes of hers had dark rings around them, but they were marvellously clear and true, and, above all, they were eloquent with sorrow.

The elder woman advanced to her and took her hand.

"Oh, my child, how you must have suffered!" she said.

"Ah, you know what it is. You have suffered, too. We shall understand each other better for that."

"My dear, I seem to understand it all. Don't be unhappy. You need have no fear of me. If you love my son as he loves you, you have my consent. I will not ask to know anything."

"You must know. I have come to tell you. You will probably change your mind when you have heard."

The elder woman, who was pale and delicate, and yet in spite of all this bore some resemblance to her strong young son, now led her tall companion to a seat, and sitting down in front of her, said kindly:

"Take off your hat and gloves, my dear. Try to feel at home with me. I love my son too dearly to go against him in the most earnest desire of his life. He has told me nothing, except that you love each other, and that there is something which you consider an obstacle to your marriage, but which he utterly refuses to accept as such. Tell me about it, dear, and let me set your mind at rest."

Christine took off her gloves, because they were a constraint to her, and now, as she gave her two bare hands into those of Mrs. Noel, she said calmly:

"You think it is some little thing—that lack of fortune or a difference in social position is the obstacle. I would not be here now if it were no more than that—for I do love him!"

The last words broke from her as if involuntarily, and the impulse that made her utter them sent the swift tears to her eyes. But she forced them back, and they had no successors.

"And he loves you, too—oh, how he loves you! I wonder if you know."

"Yes, I know—I know it all. He has shown and proved, as well as told me. We love each other with a complete and perfect love. Even if I have to give him up nothing can take that away."

"My dear, you need not give him up. I asked my son one question only: 'Is her honor free from stain?'"

"And what was his answer?"

"'Absolutely and utterly. She is as stainless as an angel.' Those were his very words."

"God bless him for them! God forever bless him!" said Christine. "I know, in his eyes, it is so."

"In his eyes!" repeated Mrs. Noel. "Is there any doubt that it would be so in any eyes?"

"Yes," said Christine, "there is great doubt."

It was well for her that she had not hoped too much—well that she had kept continually in mind the awful value of the revelation she had come to make. If she had been sanguine and confident the look that now came over the face of Noel's mother would have been a harder thing to bear. But Christine was all prepared for it. It wounded, but it did not surprise nor disturb her perfect calm. There was a distinct change in the tone with which Mrs. Noel now said:

"If you have been unfortunate, poor girl, and have been led into trouble without fault of your own, as may possibly be, no one could pity you more than I. I can imagine such a case, and I could not look at you and think any evil of you. But if you know the world at all, you must know that these things—let a woman be utterly free from fault herself—carry their inexorable consequences."

"I know the world but little," said Christine, "and yet I know that."

"Then, my dear child, you cannot wonder that the woman so unfortunately situated is thought to be debarred from honorable marriage."

"I do not wonder when I meet with this judgment in the world or in you. I only wondered when I found in your son a being too high for it—a being to whom right is right and pureness is pureness, as it is to God. You will remember, madame, that it was your son who claimed that I was not debarred from honorable marriage, and not I. Oh, I have suffered—you were right. No wonder that the sign of it is branded on my forehead for all the world to see. I have suffered in a way as far beyond the worst pain you have ever known as that pain of yours has been from pleasure. You have known death in its most awful form when it took from you your dearest ones, but I have known death too. My little baby, who was like the very core of my heart, round which the heartstrings twisted, and the clinging flesh was wrapped, was torn away from me by death, and it was pain and anguish unspeakable—but I have known a suffering compared to which that agony was joy. There can be worse things to bear than the death of your heart's dearest treasure—at least I know it may be so with women. And it was because you were a woman, with a woman's possibilities of pain, that I wanted to come to you—to tell you all, and let you say whether I am a fit wife for your son."

Ah, poor Christine! She felt, as she spoke those words, the silent, still, impalpable recoil in her companion's heart. She knew the poor woman was trying to be kind and merciful and sympathetic, but she also knew that what she had just said had rendered Noel's mother the foe and opposer of this marriage, instead of its friend.

"Go on, tell me all," his mother said, and that subtle change of voice and manner was distincter still to the acute consciousness of Christine's suffering soul. "I will be your friend whatever happens, and I honor you for the spirit in which you look upon this thing. I will speak out boldly, though you know I dislike to give you pain. But tell me this: Do you think yourself a fit wife for my son?"

Christine raised her head and answered with a very noble look of pride:

"I do."

Her companion seemed to be surprised, and a faint shade of disapproval crossed her face.

"I know it," said Christine. "I know he did not say too much when he spoke those blessed words to you and said I was stainless. God saw my heart through everything and He knows that it is so, but the world thinks otherwise. The world, and his own family, perhaps, would think your son lowered and dishonored by marrying me, and I never could consent to go among the people who could think it; so, if he married me, he would not only have to bear this odium, but to give up too, forever, his home and relatives, and friends and country, and it was for these reasons I refused to marry him—not for an instant because I felt myself unworthy."

It was plain that these earnest words had moved her companion deeply, and that she felt a desire to hear more.

"Tell me the whole story," she said. "This you have promised to do, and you have made me eager to hear it. Remember how little I have been told. I do not even know your name."

With the full gaze of her sorrowful eyes upon the elder woman's face, she said quietly:

"My name is Christine."

There was an infinite proud calm in her voice, and in the same tone she went on:

"I bore throughout my childhood and my young girl days another name that seems in no sense to belong to me now. That child and girl, Christine Verrone, is not in any way myself. It seems only a sweet memory of a dear young creature, nearer akin to the birds, and the winds, and the flowers than to me. I cannot feel I ought to take her name, and pass myself for her. For three years I bore another name, but it is one my very lips refuse to utter now, and I never had a right to it. The one name that I feel is really mine is just Christine—the name that was given to the little baby, on whose forehead the sign of the cross was made soon after she came into this sad world, to taste of its most awful sorrow and to grow into the woman that I am. I have always loved it, because, in sound, it seemed to bring me near to Christ—the dear Christ who has never forsaken me since I have borne His sign, who has been through all my loving, dear Brother, knowing and understanding all and grieving that I had to suffer so. He is with me still. He will stay with me if I have to give up earthly love and all that can make life happy. I know He has let it all happen to me, and that it must be for my good. I know I am as pure in His eyes as when I was that little baby, baptized in His name, bearing the humanity He bore. You may decide my earthly happiness as you choose. I am not comfortless. I know now the extent of His perfect power to comfort, since I find that He can support me through the supreme trial of giving up the man I love. It is in our darkest hour He comes closest," she said, as if in a sort of ecstasy. "He is here right with me now, strengthening and blessing me. I can feel His hands on my head. They actually press and touch me."

The fervor of her voice, the exaltation of her look, and the extreme realism of the words she used were indescribably awing and agitating to her companion, to whom such evidences in connection with religious feeling were utterly unprecedented. She saw that the source of this deep emotion was utter despair of earthly happiness, as, in truth, it was. From the moment that Christine had noted the change in her companion, which had followed her partial confession, she felt that her doom was sealed, and it was under the influence of this conviction that she had spoken. She felt anxious now to finish the interview and get away, that she might look her sorrow in the face, without the feeling of strange eyes upon her, and that she might gather strength for her parting with the man she loved.

Her last words had been followed by a thrilling silence which the other felt herself powerless to break. It was Christine who spoke.

"I promised your son that I would tell you the history of my life," she said. "I can give it to you very briefly. I was as innocent and unknowing as a little child when I was taken from the convent where I was educated, and married by my father to a man I scarcely knew. I suppose I was a burden to my father and he wanted to get rid of me. He told me that the whole of my mother's little fortune had been spent on my education, and that he had no home to take me to, and that I must marry. The young man he chose for me was good-looking and kind, though he did not speak my language, and I knew almost nothing of his. My father did everything. He assured me this man adored me and would do everything to make me happy—would always take care of me and give me a beautiful home in his land beyond the sea. I was ignorant of marriage as a baby. It was easy to get up a girlish fancy for the young man thus presented to my childish imagination, and I consented willingly. I had a lot of charming clothes ordered for my trousseau, and I was as delighted as a child. In this way I was married—"

"Ah, you were really married!" interrupted her companion, the cloud on her face beginning to clear away. Christine saw it with a tinge of bitterness in her gentle heart.

"No," she said, almost coldly, "I was not really married. I thought so, and for three years I struggled through pain and woe and horror to do my duty to the man to whom I believed myself bound by the holy and indissoluble tie of marriage. I was ignorant, but somehow I had imbibed from every source ever opened to me a deep sense of the sacredness and eternity of that bond. So I fought and struggled on, feeling that truth to that obligation was my one anchor in a sea of trouble. I thought when I came here I could tell you some of the things I felt and endured, but I cannot. There would be no use. The bare fact is enough for a woman's heart. When my child came I fixed my whole soul's devotion on him. He was always delicate and feeble, but I loved him as, perhaps, a strong and healthy child could not have been loved. His father never noticed him at all, except to show that he thought him a burden. That was the final touch of complete alienation. Love—or what I had once called by that name—was gone long ago. We had become extremely poor—every cent of the principal had been spent in the most reckless way—oh, I can't tell you all that. Your son will tell you if you ask him. I think a sort of mental lack was at the back of it. I must hurry; I can't bear to go over it all now. I met your son on the steamer coming over, and he was kind to me then, suspecting, perhaps, how things were tending. Long after I met him again, accidentally, and he found out how wretched and poor I was, with my baby ill, and in need almost of the necessaries of life. He gave me sittings at his studio, then, and paid me for them—larger sums, I suppose, than they were worth. At any rate, he and a good doctor and an old servant helped me through my trouble when my baby died and was buried. Then—oh, I am almost done with it now, thank God!" she said, with a great sobbing breath—"it came to your son's knowledge, professionally, that another woman claimed the man I supposed to be my husband, and he was about to be tried for—" she hesitated before the word, and could not utter it. "Then—it was months ago—he took me to Mrs. Murray, who took care of me through all the misery and wretchedness of those first weeks, and afterward got me work to do that I might make my own living. There I have been, in my sad peace and safety, ever since—a broken-hearted, wretched, nameless woman, and as such your son loved me. I returned his love with all the fire and strength of an utterly unexpended force. I had never loved before. I never felt the power of that love so mighty as now, in this moment that I give him up."

"You shall not give him up! I know it all now, and, in spite of everything, I tell you you shall not. Christine, listen, I give my consent. I declare to you that you honor him supremely when you agree to marry him. My child, if you had had a mother all this would not have come to you. I rejoice to take you for my daughter. Look at me, Christine, and try to feel that you have a mother at last."

It was almost too much for the strained nerves of the girl. She could have borne denial calmly, seeing that she was ready for it, but the great rush of joy that surged into her heart at these unexpected words confused and agitated her. A strong voice spoke to her words of comfort and cheer, and loving arms embraced her. Sweet mother-kisses were pressed upon her cheeks and eyes, and she was gently reassured and calmed and strengthened. Her mind was still a little dazed, however, and she did not quite know how it was that she found herself now standing alone, near the middle of the room.

The door opened. Some one entered and closed it softly. She felt that it was Noel. He paused an instant near the threshold, and she turned her head and looked at him. He held out his arms. They moved toward each other, and she was folded in a close embrace. They remained so, absolutely still. Her heart was beating in full, thick throbs against his, which kept time to it. Her closed eyes were against his throat, and she would not move so much as an eyelash. She gave herself up utterly to this ecstasy of content.

"Don't move," she whispered. She was afraid this perfect moment would be spoiled; a kiss, even, would have done it. But he seemed to understand, and except to tighten slightly the pressure of his arms he kept profoundly still. She could hear his low, uneven breathing and the faint, regular ticking of his watch. They seemed enclosed in a silence vast as space, and sweeter than thought could fathom. A great ocean of contentment flowed about them, stretching into infinity. Neither could have thought of anything to wish for. They seemed in absolute possession of all joy.

A sound—the striking of a clock—broke the spell of silence. They moved a little apart, and so looked long into each other's eyes. Then Noel bent toward the face upraised to his, and their lips met.

There were tears in Christine's eyes as she sank back from that kiss, but her happiness was complete, absolute, supreme. God had given to them both his richest gift of pleasure after pain.



Some Books Worth While

"Some men borrow books; some men steal books; and others beg presentation copies from the author"—Her Majesty the King.

BOSTON 1901



CONTENTS

II The New Literary Review

III Outdoors

IV Wellesley Stories

V The Son of a Tory

VI A Beautiful Alien

VII Her Majesty the King

VIII Irish Mist and Sunshine

IX Four Days of God

X When Half-Gods Go

XI The Anvil

XII The Wings of the Morning

XIII The Lyric Library

XIV An Alphabetical List of Books

The New Literary Review

A Monthly News Journal of Belles Lettres.

Single copies 10 cents. By the year $1.00

The publishers wish to make no large promises, but they believe The New Literary Review will be found to be as interesting a literary news journal as any American periodical of the kind.

The department of notes and comment under the title of Various Appraisements the Editor will endeavor to make particularly inclusive and entertaining.

The Reviews of New Books while for the most part necessarily brief will be written with the object of giving a concise, impartial and careful summary of the books under discussion.

In addition to these Notes and Reviews there will be many contributions of Essays, Poetry, and Fiction.

The object of the Editor and Publishers is to present a programme which without undue pretensions, will prove to be both well proportioned and of considerable entertainment.



OUTDOORS

A BOOK OF THE WOODS, FIELDS AND MARSHLAND

BY ERNEST McGAFFEY

8vo. About 300 pp. Frontispiece in photogravure. $1.50

THE CONTENTS

1. The Marshes in April 17. Down the St. Joe River 2. Plover Shooting 18. Brook-trout Fishing 3. The Melancholy Crane 19. A Masque of the Seasons 4. Fishing for Big-mouth 20. Wood-chucks Bass 21. Frog-hunting 5. Flight of Common Birds 22. The Crow's Wing 6. Fishing for Crappie 23. Prairie Chicken Shooting 7. In the Haunts of the Loon 24. A Fox in the Meramec 8. Blue-bills and Decoys Valley 9. Walking as a Fine Art 25. Fall Jack-snipe Shooting 10. Fishing for Bull-heads 26. In Dim October 11. Along a Country Road 27. Ruffed Grouse 12. Wood-cock Shooting 28. In Prairie Lands 13. Under the Green-wood 29. Hunting with Ferrets Tree 30. The Bare, Brown Fields 14. Pan-fishing 31. Quail Shooting 15. A Northern Nightingale 32. In Winter Woods 16. Squirrel Shooting

[Ready in May



Wellesley Stories

BY GRACE LOUISE COOK

12mo. 340 pp. $1.50

The Stories

Clorinda Submerged President Jefferson A Lyrical Interlude The Trial of Professor Sir Toby's Career Lamont Initiated Into Love

The Verdict

These Wellesley stories give a truthful picture of Wellesley student life that will appeal strongly to its alumnae, greatly interest preparatory students, and should receive the hearty approval of its under-graduates; and also, as is sometimes not the case, they are worthy of a reading outside of college circles, for they meet the requirements of a good "short story" of whatever theme.

Wellesley traditions, customs, and spirit pervade the book, either described at some length or indicated by a masterly allusion. All kinds of girls are depicted, as all kinds of girls go to college—girls poor and rich, clever, dull, and commonplace, refined and unrefined, the unsubstantial and the dilettante, and those with genuine talent, and the life among them seems very real, for nothing is forced or strained in the stories. The trial scene in Professor Lamont is one of the cleverest bits of writing in any recent book of short stories, and it is a true picture of the way in which college girls embrace every opportunity for genuine fun. The last story in the book is one of the best college love stories ever written. The dialogue is spirited, the diction graceful, and a literary style is well sustained throughout.—The N. Y. Times Saturday Review.

[Ready



The Son of a Tory

A ROMANCE OF THE MOHAWK VALLEY BY CLINTON SCOLLARD

Frontispiece. 12mo. 307 pp. Cloth. Ornamental. $1.50

The Son of a Tory is one Wilton Aubrey by name, who narrates his exciting experiences during the summer of 1777....

The first glimpse given of this Wilton Aubrey, also gives the news of the planned invasion by Barry St. Leger and his army from the north, with the hope by all his followers that every Whig should be forced to become a loyal subject to the king.... At heart Aubrey was a true Whig but a promise to his mother and his father's impaired health made it stern duty, not to oppose his father, and to join a small Tory company, which made a daring escape from their home, the Flatts, to Oswego to join St. Leger. From this point one is introduced to countless important personages and in a skillful way the characteristics of each is portrayed. The hero's flight to the Whigs is most entertaining reading, and then we meet with Aubrey many more men, who have made glorious history for Americans. Is it all war? By no means; Margaret is a girl we love with Wilton Aubrey, and revel in the descriptions of his perilous trips to see his beloved, for who can help liking bravery in love as well as in war. In the closing pages episode follows episode in rapid succession, and the reader is carried to the end all too soon.... It is a book, which if all the qualities that make a good book are taken into consideration, ought to prove more of a success than some recent novels which have gained a world-wide reputation.—Clinton Advertiser.

"His Indians are the real thing and his hero is true blue."—N. Y. Journal.

[Second edition ready



A Beautiful Alien

A NOVEL BY JULIA MAGRUDER

Frontispiece. 12mo. Cloth, ornamental. $1.25.

This delightful novel is gradually winning its way into popular favor as the most interesting and attractive piece of work Miss Magruder has ever done. It certainly merits all its success and commendation for never has she drawn a more lovable heroine or a more manly hero, and with characters like these no story could be otherwise than thoroughly charming. It is the story of a young and beautiful "Alien" cruelly mislead by an unworthy father and a scoundrel of an American, who finally succeeds in securing the love and happiness for which she so ardently longs and so well deserves. The plot is well thought out, the interest is wonderfully well sustained, and the charm of the story is irresistible.

[Third edition ready



There are several laughs on every page.—N. Y. Times Saturday Review.

Her Majesty the King

A ROMANCE OF THE HAREM BY JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE

With 16 full page pictures, and an elaborate cover design in many colors. 12mo. $1.25.

As Mr. Roche modestly says in his Forewarning, "This volume, containing the surprising adventures of the good Kayenna and the marvellous wisdom of Shacabac, the wayfarer, needeth no apology. Its merits are as many as its words."

And the reviewers have heartily agreed that "there are several laughs on every page."

Published over two years ago, Her Majesty the King is more popular to-day than at any time since its publication. It is plainly not only a book to read but to recommend to your friends.

"The wittiest book of the year."—Boston Journal.

[Fifth edition ready



Irish Mist and Sunshine

A BOOK OF BALLADS BY REV. JAMES B. DOLLARD

(Sliav-na-mon)

With an introduction by William O'Brien, M. P.

Small quarto. $1.50

This is a book of ringing Irish ballads that will stir the heart of every lover of true poetry. "Here and there a verse may be as frankly unadorned as the peasant cabins themselves in their homely cloaks of thatch, but every line rings true to life and home and with the tone, as heartmoving as the Angelus which holds Millet's peasants in its spell," from Mr. O'Brien's introduction.

"Father Dollard's ballads have all the fire and dash of Kipling's, with a firmer poetic grasp," says Mr. Nathan Haskell Dole.

[Ready in May



Four Days of God

BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD

With about 90 illustrations. Bound in white and gold and purple

Small 4 to $1.00

It is quite impossible to describe adequately the surpassing charm of this book. We can say simply that it will appeal to every lover of nature who sees in her manifold beauties the living glories of the work of God.

No one can write more beautiful or sparkling prose than Mrs. Spofford and never has she been so absolutely charming as in Four Days of God.

The book has about 90 illustrations by Miss A. C. Tomlinson which catch the spirit of the text to perfection and with the harmonious print and paper and binding make the book a little gem.

[Ready in September



When Half-Gods Go

A NOVEL BY JULIA MAGRUDER

Frontispiece in photogravure. 12mo. 330 pp. $1.50

A new novel by Miss Magruder is always sure of its welcome and When Half-Gods Go will find for her even a wider audience than she has hitherto enjoyed. It is a fascinating story of social and musical life in New York, full of human interest and those happy touches Miss Magruder can do so well. The title is from Emerson's lines "When half-gods go the gods arrive." In addition to its charm as a story the publishers think this book will be presented in the handsomest dress ever bestowed upon a novel. The fascinating frontispiece is reproduced in photogravure, the book is printed throughout in two colors, the text being enclosed in remarkably well done decorations, and the cover design, in colors, is at once delicate and effective.

[Ready in September



THE ANVIL

A NOVEL BY R. V. RISLEY

12 mo. Cloth. About 300 pp. $1.50

In The Anvil Mr. Risley has produced a novel which for conception, dramatic power, and sheer strength of characterization will stand head and shoulders above the ordinarily well done novel of the day. In it for the first time Mr. Risley "finds himself" and strikes the strong, clear note he will sound, with ever increasing strength, in the literature that lives. It is a novel that will make people think.

[Ready in September



The Wings of the Morning

KENTUCKY STORIES BY ELEANOR TALBOT KINKEAD

12 mo. About 300 pp. $1.50.

This volume by a writer who has already achieved considerable distinction as a delineator of Kentucky life contains ten stories all of which are notable for their originality of conception and delicacy of treatment.

The stories are: The Wings of the Morning, The Sifting of John Witherspoon, The Piggins, Penelope's Suitors, My Young Miss, A Pseudo Madonna, A Point of Honor, Mrs. Vail, The Pine Tree and the Palm, A Glooming Peace.

[Ready in October



The Lyric Library

A series of little books of verse in which it is the publishers' aim to include the best work of the representative poets of America. The volumes are in size a small 16 mo., handsomely printed and bound in full flexible leather, stamped in gold. The price is $1.25 each.

POEMS OF THE TOWN by Ernest McGaffey.

"For terse English, for picturesque and appropriate imagery, for keen and faithful portraiture Mr. McGaffey has no superior. And there will be many to say that this book entitles him to recognition as the interpreter of his age."—Chicago Inter-Ocean.

SONG SURF by Cale Young Rice.

"A volume of unusual proportion, artistic workmanship, lyric inspiration; an absence of so much as a trace of morbid feeling, a felicitous and poetic choice of subjects and intuitive good taste raise the writer at once above the ranks of the versifier."—The Arrowhead.

ONE DAY AND ANOTHER by Madison Cawein.

[Ready in May

FOR THINKING HEARTS by John Vance Cheney.

[Ready in May

IN THE HARBOR OF HOPE by Mary E. Blake.

[Ready in June

OTHERS IN PREPARATION.



Alphabetical List of Books by Authors

Barry, John D. JULIA MARLOWE. A Biography. Illustrated. 12mo. 75 cents. New Edition in preparation

Blake, Mary Elizabeth IN THE HARBOR OF HOPE. See Lyric Library.

Brown, Charles Hovey MOSES. A Dramatic Poem. 16mo. Flexible leather. $1.25.

Campbell, Floy CAMP ARCADY. A Story for Girls. 16mo. Illustrated. Cloth. 75 cents.

Cawein, Madison ONE DAY AND ANOTHER. See Lyric Library.

Cheney, John Vance FOR THINKING HEARTS. See Lyric Library.

Cook, Grace Louise WELLESLEY STORIES. 12 mo. 330 pp. $1.50.

Crane, Walter THE SIRENS THREE. Illustrated. 4to. Cloth. $1.25

Dollard, James B. IRISH MIST AND SUNSHINE. 12mo. Cloth. $1.50.

Emerson, Edwin, Jr. PEPYS'S GHOST. Narrow 16mo. Boards. $1.25.

Gallaher, Grace M. VASSAR STORIES. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25 [New edition in preparation

Guthrie, James AN ALBUM OF DRAWINGS. 4to. $2.50 net.

Housman, Laurence SPIKENARD. 4to. Decorative boards. $1.50. ILLUSTRATED DITTIES OF THE OLDEN TIME. 4to. Decorative boards. 75 cents.

Irving, Henry THE THEATRE AND THE STATE. An Address. Photogravure portrait. 12mo. Cloth. 75 cents.

King, Dorothy VERSES. 12mo. Vellum wrappers. $1.00 net.

Kinkead, Eleanor Talbot THE WINGS OF THE MORNING. Kentucky Stories. 12mo. $1.50.

McGaffey, Ernest OUTDOORS. 8vo. 300 pp. $1.50. POEMS OF THE TOWN. See Lyric Library.

Magruder, Julia WHEN HALF-GODS GO. A Novel. $1.50. A BEAUTIFUL ALIEN. A Novel. $1.25.

McFall, Haldane THE HOUSE OF THE SORCERER. A Novel. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25.

Men des, Catulle THE FAIRY SPINNING WHEEL. Illustrated. 4to. Cloth. $1.50.

Miller, Marion Mills THE SICILIAN IDYLS OF THEOCRITUS. 16mo. Flexible leather. $1.25.

Nissen, Hartvig RATIONAL HOME GYMNASTICS. Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth. 50 cents.

Pollard, Percival CAPE OF STORMS. A Novel. Illustrated. $1.25.

Pyle, Howard THE PRICE OF BLOOD. An Extravaganza. Illustrated in colors. 4to. Decorative boards. $1.25.

Reed, Helen Leah MISS THEODORA. A West End Story. Illustrated 16mo. Cloth. $1.00.

Reed, Verner Z ADOBELAND STORIES. Stories of the Southwest. 12mo. Cloth. $1.00.

Rice, Cale Young SONG-SURF. See Lyric Library. $1.25.

Risley, R. V. THE SLEDGE. A Novel. 12mo. $1.50. THE ANVIL. A Novel. $1.50.

Roche, James Jeffrey HER MAJESTY THE KING. A Romance of the Harem. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25. THE VASE AND OTHER BRIC-A-BRAC. A Volume of Verse. 12mo. Cloth. $1.00.

Scollard, Clinton THE SON OF A TORY. An Historical Romance. $1.50.

Spofford, Harriet Prescott FOUR DAYS OF GOD. Illustrated. 4to. $1.00. OLD MADAME AND OTHER STORIES. 12 mo. Cloth. $1.25.

Thompson, Vance FRENCH PORTRAITS. Appreciations of the Writers of Young France. Illustrated. 8vo. Cloth. $2.50.

Richard G Badger & Company (Incorporated) Publishers Boston



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Minor changes have been made to correct typsetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent.

THE END