* * * * *

Meanwhile the affairs of Fisher and Fox were becoming more and more involved. Crops had failed, and collections could not be made. Williams, under alleged imperative orders from Boston, was pressing for money or security. Tom had "overdrawn" his account in Williams's office; and, with the penitentiary staring him in the face, was clamoring for money to make good the overdraft. At home he used the words "overdraft" and "overdrawn" in confessing the situation. Williams, when speaking to Tom of the shortage, had used the words "embezzlement" and "thief."



Rita's illness had prevented Williams's visits; but when she recovered, he began calling, though he was ominously sullen in his courtship, and his passion for the girl looked very much like a mania.

One evening at supper table, Tom said: "Father, I must have five hundred dollars. I have overdrawn my account with Williams, and I'll lose my place if it is not paid. I must have it. Can't you help me?"

"What on earth have you been doing with the money?" asked Tom, Sr. "I have paid your tailor bills and your other bills to a sufficient amount, in all conscience, and what could you have done with the money you got from Williams and your salary?"

Tom tried to explain, and soon the Chief Justice joined in: "La, father, there are so many temptations in town for young men, and our Tom is so popular. Money goes fast, doesn't it, Tom? The boy can't tell what went with it. Poor Tom! If your father was half a man, he'd get the money for you; that's what he would. If your sister was not the most wicked, selfish girl alive, she could settle all our troubles. Mr. Williams would not press his brother-in-law or his wife's father. I have toiled and suffered and worked for that girl all my life, and so has her father, and so have you, Tom. We have all toiled and suffered and worked for her, and now she's too ungrateful to help us. Oh, 'sharper than a serpent's tooth,' as the Immortal Bard of Avon truly says."

Rita began to cry and rose from her chair, intending to leave the room, but her mother detained her.

"Sit down!" she commanded. "At least you shall hear of the trouble you bring upon us. I have been thinking of a plan, and maybe you can help us carry it out if you want to do anything to help your father and brother. As for myself, I don't care. I am always willing to suffer and endure. 'Blessed are they that suffer, for they shall inherit the kingdom of heaven.'"

Tom pricked up his ears, Tom, Sr., put down his knife and fork to listen, and Rita again took her seat at table.

"Billy Little has plenty of money," continued Mrs. Margarita, addressing her daughter. "The old skinflint has refused to lend it to your father or Tom, but perhaps he'll not refuse you if you ask him. I believe the old fool is in love with you. What they all want with you I can't see, but if you'll write to him—"

"Oh, I can't, mother, I can't," cried Rita, in a flood of tears.

I will not drag the reader through another scene of heart failure and maternal raving. Rita, poor girl, at last surrendered, and, amid tears of humiliation, wrote to Billy Little, telling of her father's distress, her mother's commands, and her own grief because she was compelled to apply to him. "You need not fear loss of your money, my friend," she wrote, honestly believing that she told the truth. "You will soon be repaid. Mr. Williams is demanding money from my father and Uncle Jim, and I dislike, for many reasons well known to you, to be under obligations to him. If you can, without inconvenience to yourself, lend this money, it will help father greatly just at this time, and will perhaps save me from a certain frightful importunity. The money will be repaid to you after harvest, when collections become easier. If I did not honestly believe so, even my mother's commands would not induce me to write this letter."

Rita fully believed the money would be paid; but Billy knew that if he made the loan, he would be throwing his money away forever.

After making good Dic's loss of twenty-six hundred dollars,—which sum, you may remember, went to Bays,—Little had remaining in his strong-box notes to the amount of two thousand dollars, which, together with his small stock of goods and two or three hundred dollars in cash, constituted the total sum of his worldly wealth. He had reached a point in life where he plainly saw old age staring him in the face—an ugly stare which few can return with equanimity. The small bundle of notes was all that stood between him and want when that time should come "sans everything." But Williams was staring Rita in the face, and if the little hoard could save her, she was welcome to it.

Billy's sleep the night after he received Rita's letter was meagre and disturbed, but next morning he took his notes and his poor little remainder of cash and went to Indianapolis. He discounted the notes, as he had done in Dic's case, and with the proceeds he went to the store of Fisher and Bays. Fisher was present when Billy entered the private office and announced his readiness to supply the firm with twenty-three hundred dollars on their note of hand. The money, of course, being borrowed by the firm, went to the firm account, and was at once applied by Fisher upon one of the many Williams notes. Therefore Tom's "overdrafts" remained in statu quo; likewise the penitentiary.

The payment of Billy Little's twenty-three hundred dollars upon the Williams debt did not help matters in the least. The notes owed by the firm of Fisher and Bays to the Williams house aggregated nearly fourteen thousand dollars, and Billy's poor little all did not stem the tide of importunity one day, although it left him penniless. The thought of his poverty was of course painful to Billy, but he rode home that evening without seeing Rita, happy and exultant in the mistaken belief that he had helped to save her from the grasp of Williams.

That same evening at supper Tom, Sr., told of Billy Little's loan, and there was at once an outburst of wrath from mother and son because part of the money had not been applied to Tom's "overdraft."

"The pitiful sum of twenty-three hundred dollars!" cried Tom. "The old skinflint might as well have kept his money for all the good it will do us. Do you think that will keep Williams from suing us?" In Tom's remarks Mrs. Bays concurred, saying that she "always knew he was a mean old miser."

Rita tried to speak in her friend's defence, but the others furiously silenced her, so she broke down entirely, covered her face with her hands, and wept bitterly. She went through the after-supper work amid blinding tears, and when she had finished she sought her room. Without undressing she lay down on the bed, sobbing till the morning light shone in at her window. Before she had lost Dic her heart could fly from every trouble and find sweet comfort in thoughts of him; but now there was no refuge. She was alone in the world, save for Billy Little. She loved her father, but she knew he was weak. She loved Tom, but she could not help despising him. She loved her mother, but she feared her, and knew there was no comfort or consolation for her in that hard heart. Billy had not come to see her when he brought the money, and she feared she had offended him by asking for it.

Such was the situation when Dic received Miss Tousy's letter inviting him to call upon her.

* * * * *

Miss Tousy greeted Dic kindly when he presented himself at her door, and led him to the same cosey front parlor wherein Rita had imparted the story of her woes and of Dic's faithlessness. She left her guest in the parlor a moment or two, while she despatched a note to a friend in town. When she returned she said:—

"I'm sorry to hear of the trouble between you and Rita, and am determined it shall be made up at once."

"I fear that is impossible, Miss Tousy," returned Dic, sadly. "She will never forgive me. I should not were I in her place. I do not expect it and am not worth it."

"But she will forgive you; she will not be able to hold out against you five minutes if you crowd her. Trust my word. I know more about girls than you do; but, above all, I know Rita."

Miss Tousy watched him as he stood before her, hanging his head, a very handsome picture of abject humility. After a moment of silence Dic answered:—

"Miss Tousy, the truth is, I have lost all self-respect, and know that I am both a fool and a—a criminal. Rita will not, cannot, and ought not to forgive me. I am entirely unworthy of her. She is gentle and tender as she can be; but she has more spirit than you would suspect. I have seen her under the most trying circumstances, and with all her gentleness she is very strong. I have lost her and must give her up."

"You'll be no such fool," cried Miss Tousy; "but some one is knocking at the front door. Be seated, please." She opened the front hall door, kissed "some one" who had knocked, and said to "some one":—

"Step into the parlor, please. I will be with you soon." Then she closed the parlor door and basely fled.

Dic sprang to his feet, and Rita, turning backward toward the door, stood trembling, her hand on the knob.

"Don't go, Rita," said Dic, huskily. "I did not know you were coming here. I give you my word, I did not set a trap for you. Miss Tousy will tell you I had no thought of seeing you here. I wanted to see you, but I would not try to entrap you. I intended going to your house openly that you might refuse to see me if you wished; but since you are here, please—oh, Rita, for God's sake, stay and hear me. I am almost crazed by what I have suffered, though I deserve it all, all. You don't know what I have to say." She partly opened the door; but he stepped quickly to her side, shut the door, and spoke almost angrily:—

"You shall hear me, and after I have spoken, if you wish, you may go, but not until then."

He unclasped her hand from the knob, and, using more of his great strength than he knew, led her to a chair and brought another for himself.

The touch of command in Dic's manner sent a strange thrill to the girl's heart, and she learned in one brief moment that all her sophistry had been in vain; that her love was not dead, and could not be killed. That knowledge, however, did not change her resolution not to forgive him. You see, there was a touch of the Chief Justice in the girl.

"I want you to hear me, Rita, and, if you can, I want you to forgive me, and then I want you to forget me," said Dic.

The words "forget me" were not what she had expected to hear. She had supposed he would make a plea for forgiveness and beg to be taken back; but the words "forget me," seeming to lead in another direction, surprised her. With all her resolutions she was not prepared to forget. She lifted her eyes for a fleeting glance, and could not help thinking that the memory of his face had been much less effective than its presence. The tones of his voice, too, were stronger and sweeter at close range than she had remembered. In short, Dic by her side and Dic twenty-five miles away were two different propositions—the former a very dangerous and irresistible one, indeed. Still, she would not forgive him. She could not and would not forget him; but she would shut her eyes to the handsome face, she would close her ears to the deep, strong voice, she would harden her heart to his ardent love, and, alas! to her own. She insisted to herself that she no longer loved him, and never, never would.

Every word that Sukey had ever spoken concerning Dic, every meeting of which she knew that had ever taken place between him and the dimpler,—in fact, all the trivial events that had happened between her lover and the girl who was trying to steal him from her, including the occurrence at Scott's social,—came vividly back to Rita at that moment with exaggerated meaning, and told her she had for years been a poor, trusting dupe. She would listen to Dic because he was the stronger and could compel her to remain in the room; but when he should finish, she would go and would never speak to Miss Tousy again.

"This is a terrible calamity I have brought upon us," said Dic, speaking with difficulty and constraint. "It is like blindness or madness, and means wretchedness for life to you and me."

Still the unexpected direction, thought Rita, but she answered out of her firm resolve:—

"I shall not be wretched, for I do not—don't care. The time was when I did care very, very much; but now I—" She did not finish the sentence, and her conscience reproached her, for she knew she was uttering a big, black lie.

Dic had expected scorn, and had thought he would be able to bear it without flinching. He had fortified himself days before by driving all hope out of his heart, but (as we say and feel when our dear ones die) he was not prepared, even though he well knew what was coming. Her words stunned him for a moment, but he soon pulled himself together, and his unselfish love brought a feeling akin to relief: a poor, dry sort of joy, because he had learned that she did not suffer the pain that was torturing him. No mean part of his pain was because of Rita's suffering. If she did not suffer, he could endure the penalty of his sin with greater fortitude. This slight relief came to him, not because his love was weak, but because his unselfishness was strong.

"If I could really believe that you do not care," he said, struggling with a torturing lump in his throat, "if I could surely know that you do not suffer the pain I feel, I might endure it—God in heaven! I suppose I might endure it. But when I think that I have brought suffering to you, I am almost wild."

The girl's hands were folded demurely upon her lap, and she was gazing down at them. She lifted her eyes for an instant, and there was an unwonted hardness in them as she answered: "You need not waste any sympathy on me. I don't want it."

"Is it really true, Rita," he asked, "that you no longer care for me? Was your love a mere garment you could throw off at will?" He paused, but Rita making no reply, he continued: "It wounds my vanity to learn that I so greatly overestimated your love for me, and I can hardly believe that you speak the truth, but—but I hope—I almost hope you do. Every sense of honor I possess tells me I must accept the wages of my sin and marry Sukey Yates, even though—"

Suddenly a change came over the scene. The girl who had been so passive and cold at once became active and very warm. She sprang to her feet, panting with excitement. Resolutions and righteous indignation were scattered to the four winds by the tremendous shock of his words. Sukey at last had stolen him. That thought seemed to be burning itself into the very heart of her consciousness.

"You—you marry Sukey Yates!" she cried, breathing heavily and leaning toward Dic, one hand resting on the arm of his chair, "you marry her?" The question was almost a wail.

"But if you no longer care there can be no reason why I should not," said Dic, hardly knowing in the whirl of his surprise what he was saying.

Rita thought of the letter to Tom, and all the sympathetic instincts of her nature sprang up to protect Dic, and to save him from Sukey's wicked designs.

"Oh," she cried, falling back into her chair, "you surely did not believe me!"

"And you do care?" asked Dic, almost stunned by her sudden change of front. Rita's conduct had always been so sedate and sensible that he did not suppose she was possessed of ordinary feminine weaknesses.

"Oh, Dic," she replied, "I never thought you would desert me." Inconsistency may also be a jewel.

Dic concluded he was an incarnate mistake. Whichever way he turned, he seemed to be wrong.

"I desert you?" he exclaimed. "But you returned my ring and did not even answer my letter, and now your scorn—"

"What else could you expect?" asked the girl, in a passionate flow of tears.

"I don't know what I expected, but I certainly did not expect this," answered Dic, musing on the blessed fault of inconsistency that dwells in every normal woman's breast. "I did not expect this, or I should have acted differently toward her after you returned the ring. I would not have—I—I—God help me!" and he buried his face in his hands.

"You would not have done what, Dic? Tell me all." Her heart came to him in his trouble. He had sinned, but he was suffering, and that she could not bear.

The low, soft tones of her voice soothed him, and he answered: "I would not have allowed her to believe I intended marrying her. I did not tell her in words that I would, but—I can't tell you. I can't speak." He saw Rita's face turn pale, and though his words almost choked him, he continued, "I suppose I must pay the penalty of my sin."

He gently put the girl from him, and went to the window, where he leaned, gazing into the street. She also rose, and stood waiting for him to speak. After a long pause she called his name,—

"Dic!"

When he turned she was holding out her arms to him, and the next moment they were round his neck.

After a blank hour of almost total silence in the parlor, Miss Tousy came to the door and knocked. She had listened at the door several times during the hour; but, hearing no enlightening words or sounds, she had retreated in good order.

Allowing a moment to elapse after knocking, Miss Tousy called:—

"Are you still there?"

Rita had been very still there, and was vividly conscious of the fact when Miss Tousy knocked. Going to the door, Rita opened it, saying:—

"Yes, we are still here. I'm ashamed to have kept you out so long." She looked her shame and blushed most convincingly.

Upon hearing the knock, Dic hurried over to the window, and when Miss Tousy entered he deluded himself into the belief that his attitude of careless repose would induce her to conclude he had been standing there all the afternoon. But Miss Tousy, in common with all other young ladies, had innate knowledge upon such subjects, and possibly also a little experience—she was twenty-five, mind you—; so she was amused rather than deceived.

"Well?" she asked, and paused for answer.

"Yes," answered Rita.

They understood each other, if we do not, for Miss Tousy kissed Rita and then boldly went to Dic and deliberately kissed him. Thereupon Rita cried, "Oh!" Dic blushed, and all three laughed.

"But I'll leave you to yourselves again," said accommodating Miss Tousy. "I know you want to be alone."

"Oh, we are through," answered Rita, blushing, and Dic reluctantly assented. Miss Tousy laughed and asked:—

"Through what?"

Then there was more blushing and more laughing, and Rita replied, "Just through—that's all."

"Well, I congratulate you," said Miss Tousy, taking Rita's hand, "and am very happy that I have been the means of bringing you together again. Take the advice of one who is older than you," continued Miss Tousy, the old and the wise, "and never, never again allow anything to separate you. Love is the sweetest blossom of life, whose gentle wings will always cover you with the aromatic harmony of an everlasting sunlight." Rita thought the metaphor beautiful, and Dic was too interested to be critical. Then Rita and Miss Tousy, without any reason at all, began to weep, and Dic felt as uncomfortable as the tears of two women could make him.



THE CHRISTMAS GIFT

CHAPTER XV

THE CHRISTMAS GIFT

Dic started home with his heart full of unalloyed happiness; but at the end of four hours, when he was stabling his horse, the old pain for the sake of another's sorrow asserted itself, and his happiness seemed to be a sin. Rita's tender heart also underwent a change while she lay that night wakeful with joy and gazing into the darkness.

Amid all her joy came the ever recurring vision of Sukey's wretchedness. While under the convincing influence of her own arguments and Dic's resistless presence, she had seen but one side of the question,—her own; but darkness is a great help to the inner sight, and now the other side of the case had its hearing. She remembered Sukey's letter to Tom, but she knew the unfortunate girl loved Dic. Was it right, she asked herself over and over again, was it right that she should be happy at the cost of another's woe? Then came again the flood of her great longing—the longing of her whole life—and she tried to tell herself she did not care who suffered, she intended to be happy. That was the way of the world, and it should be her way. But Rita's heart was a poor place for such thoughts to thrive, and when she arose next morning, after a sleepless night of mingled joy and sorrow, she was almost as unhappy as she had been the previous morning. She spent several days and nights alternating between two opinions; but finally, after repeated conversations with Miss Tousy, whose opinions you already know, and after meditating upon Sukey's endeavor to entrap two men, she arrived at two opposing conclusions. First, it was her duty to give Dic up; and second, she would do nothing of the sort. That was the first, and I believe the only selfish resolve that ever established itself in the girl's heart with her full knowledge and consent. But the motive behind it was overpowering. She shut her lips and said she "didn't care," and once having definitely settled the question, she dismissed it, feeling that she was very sinful, but also very happy.

Dic, of course, soon sought Billy Little, the ever ready receptacle of his joys and sorrows.

No man loved the words, "I told you so," more dearly than Little, and when Dic entered the store he was greeted with that irritating sentence before he had spoken a word.

"You told me what?" asked Dic, pretending not to understand.

"Come, come," returned Billy, joyously, "I see it in your face. You know what I mean. Don't try to appear more thick-headed than you are. Oh, perhaps you are troubled with false modesty, and wish to hide the light of a keen perception. Let it shine, Dic, let it shine. Hide it not. Avoid the bushel."

Dic laughed and said: "Well, you were right; she did forgive me. Now please don't continue to point out your superior wisdom. I see it without your help. Get thee a bushel, Billy Little, lest you shine too brightly."

"No insolence, young man, no insolence," retorted Billy, with a face grave and serious, save for a joyful smile in his eyes.

"Close the store door, Billy Little," said Dic, after a few minutes of conversation, "and come back to the room. I want to talk to you."

"The conceit of some people!" replied the happy merchant. "So you would have me close my emporium for the sake of your small affairs?"

"Yes," responded Dic.

"Well, nothing wins like self-conceit," answered Billy. "Here's the key. Lock the front door, and I'll be with you when I fold this bolt of India silk."

Dic locked the door, Billy finished folding the India silk—a bolt of two-bit muslin,—and the friends went into the back room.

How sweet it is to prepare one's self deliberately for good news! Billy, in a glow of joy, lighted his pipe, moved his chair close to the fireplace, for the day was cold, and gave the word of command—"Go ahead!"

Dic told him all that had happened in Miss Tousy's parlor, omitting, of course, to mention the blank hour, and added: "I had a letter from Rita this morning, and she feels as I do, that we are very cruel; but she says she would rather be selfish and happy than unselfish and miserable, which, as you know, is not at all true. She couldn't be selfish if she were to try."

"Good little brain in that little head," exclaimed Billy. "There never was a better. But, as you say, she's wrong in charging herself with selfishness. I believe she has more common sense, more virtue, more tenderness, gentleness, beauty, and unselfishness than any other girl in the world."

Dic laughed, very much pleased with his friend's comments upon Rita. "I believe you are in love with her yourself."

The shaft unintentionally struck centre and Billy's scalp blushed as he haltingly remarked, "Well, I suppose you're right." Then after a long pause—"Maxwelton's braes, um, um, um." Another long pause ensued, during which Billy knocked the ashes from his pipe against the wall of the fireplace, poked the back-log, and threw on two or three large pieces of wood.

"I don't mind telling you," he said, chuckling with laughter, "that I was almost in love with her at one time. She was so perfect—had the same name, face, and disposition of—of another that—Jove! I was terribly jealous of you."

"Nonsense," answered Dic, with a great pleased laugh.

"Of course it was nonsense. I knew it then and know it now; but when, let me ask you, had nonsense or any other kind of sense anything to do with a man falling in love?"

"I think it the most sensible thing a man can do," answered Dic, out of the fulness of his cup of youth.

"Has it made you happy?"

"Yes, and no."

"But mostly no?" responded the cynic.

"Yes, Billy Little, so far it's been mostly no; but the time will come when I will be very happy because of it."

"Not if you can help it. We will see how it turns out in the end."

"Billy Little, you are the greatest croaker I ever knew," observed Dic, testily.

"It is better to croak early than to sing too soon. But what do you want?"

"I want to know again what I shall do about Sukey since this new change in Rita. When I thought Rita was lost to me, I fear I permitted Sukey to believe I would, you know, comply with her wishes; but now I can't, and I don't know how to tell her about it. I said nothing, but my silence almost committed me."

After a moment spent in thought, Billy answered: "Frederick the Great used to say, 'In default of unanswerable arguments it is better to express one's self laconically and not go beating about the bush.' Go tell her."

"That's easier to advise than to do," retorted Dic. "She will cry, and—"

"Yes, I know; if it were as easy to do as it is to advise, this would be a busy world. She will cry, and a woman's tears hurt the right sort of man. But bless my soul, Dic, why don't you settle your own affairs? I'm tired of it all. It's getting to trouble me as much as it troubles you." Billy paused, gazing into the fire, and dropped into a half-revery. "I can see the poor little dimpler weeping and grieving. I can hear her sobs and feel her heartaches. She is not good; but the fault is not hers, and I wish I might bear her pain and suffer in her stead. I believe it hurts me more to see others suffer than to suffer myself. I wish I might bear every one's suffering and die on a modern Calvary. What a glorious thought that is, Dic—the Master's vicarious atonement! Even if the story be nothing but a fable, as some men claim, the thought is a glorious one, and the fate—ah, the fate—but such a fate is only for God. If I can't help the suffering of the world, I wish I might live in the midst of Sahara, where I could not hear of human pain. It hurts me, Dic. Indeed it does. And this poor little dimpler—I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Ah, Billy Little, think of my sorrow," said Dic.

"It's a question whether we should shrink from our troubles or face them," continued Little; "but in your case I should choose the shrinking, and write to the poor, pathetic little dimpler. Poor thing! Her days of dimpling are over. If you knew that you had led her astray, your duty, I believe, would be clear; but there is the 'if' that gives us serious pause and makes cowards of us both. Write to her, Dic. You are too great a coward to face her, and I'm not brave enough even to advise it."

Dic wrote to Sukey, and avoided the pain of facing her, but not the pain of knowing that she suffered. His letter brought an answer from Sukey that was harder to bear than reproaches.

Within two or three days Sukey wrote to Rita, whom she knew to be the cause of Dic's desertion. The letter to Rita, like the one to Dic, contained no word of reproach. "I do not blame you for keeping him," she said in closing. "He has always belonged to you. I hope you will be happy and not trouble yourselves about me. No one knows about this terrible affair, Rita, but you and Dic, and I hope you will tell nobody. Especially, please, please, don't tell Tom. This is the only request I make: don't let Tom know anything about it. I want to confess, Rita, that I have been very wicked, and that Dic is not to blame. I feel it my duty to tell you this, so that you may not blame him. I have brought trouble to you both, and it is as little as I should do to tell you the truth. The fault was mine. I gave him a love powder. But I loved him."

Sukey's letter came one morning four or five days before Christmas. Rita wept all day over it, and at night it helped her in taking a step that settled all the momentous questions touching Dic and herself.

On the same fateful day Mr. Bays and Tom came home together in the middle of the afternoon. That unwonted event was, in itself, alarming. Rita was reading near the window, and her mother was knitting before the fire. When our Toms, father and son, entered the room, trouble was plainly visible upon their faces. Tom senior threw his cap and great fur coat on the bed, while De Triflin' leaned against the mantel-shelf. Drawing a chair to the fire, Tom the elder said:—

"Well, Margarita, I guess we're ruined—Jim and me and Tom—all of us. I see no earthly way out of it."

"What's the matter?" asked Madam Jeffreys, folding her knitting and placing it in her lap with great deliberation. Rita dropped her book, and went over to her father.

"Williams, I suppose?" queried Madam Jeffreys.

"Yes; he has had orders from home to collect the money we owe the house, or else to take the store, the farm, our household furniture, everything, at once. Williams leaves for home Christmas Day, and everything must be settled before then. He gives us till to-morrow noon to raise the money. But that is not the worst," continued Mr. Bays, nervously, rising and turning his back to the fire, "Tom has—has overdrawn his account more than a thousand dollars in Williams's office. Williams don't call it 'overdrawn.' He calls it embezzlement, theft. Tom and me went to Judge Blackford and told him just how the money was taken. The Judge says Williams is right about it; it is embezzlement, and Williams says the firm insists on prosecuting Tom and sending him to the penitentiary if the money is not replaced. God only knows what we are to do, Margarita. The farm is mortgaged for its full value, and so far as I can see we are ruined, ruined." Tears began to flow over his cheeks, and Rita, drawing his face down to hers, stood on tiptoe and tried to kiss the tears away.

"Let me go to see Billy Little," she said in desperation. "He will lend us the money; I know he will."

"Like h—he will," cried gentle Tom. "Dic asked him to loan me enough money to pay my overdraft—said he would go on the note—but he refused point blank; said the twenty-three hundred dollars he loaned father and Uncle Jim Fisher was all the money he had. The miserly old curmudgeon!"

Mrs. Bays went weeping to Tom's side. "Poor Tom, my dear, dear son," she whimpered, trying to embrace him.

Dear son roughly repulsed her, saying: "There's no need to go outside of our family for help. If Rita wasn't the most selfish, ungrateful fool alive, she'd settle all our troubles by one word."

"Would you have me sell myself, Tom?" asked the ungrateful sister.

"Of course I would!! sell yourself!! rot!! You'd be getting a mighty good price. There's lots better-looking girls 'en you would jump at the chance. Sell yourself? Ain't Williams a fine gentleman? Where's another like him? Ain't he rich? Ain't he everything a girl could want in a man—everything but a green country clodhopper?"

"All that may be true, Tom, but I can't marry him. I can't," returned Rita, weeping and sobbing in her father's arms.

"Can't you, Rita?" asked Mr. Bays. "All that Tom says about him is true, every word. Williams is good enough for any girl in the world but you. No man is that. You would soon forget Dic."

"No, no, father, never, never, in all my life."

"And you would soon learn to like Williams," continued the distracted father. "Please, Rita, try to do this and save me and Tom."

"She shall do it," cried Madam Jeffreys, taking courage from the knowledge that at last her husband was her ally. She went to Rita and pulled her from her father's arms. "She shall do it or go into the street this very night, never to enter my house again. I'll never speak to her again if she don't. It will pain me to treat my own flesh and blood so harshly, but it is my duty—my duty. I have toiled and suffered and endured for her sake all my life, and it will almost kill me to turn against her now; but if she don't save her father and brother, I surely will. God tells me it is my duty. I do not care for myself. I have eaten husks all my life, ever since I got married, and I can die eating them; but for the sake of my dear husband and my dear son who bears his own father's name, it is my duty, God tells me it is my duty to spurn her. It is but duty and justice; and justice to all is my motto. It was my father's motto." She was a wordy orator, but her vocabulary was limited; and after several repetitions of the foregoing sentiments, she turned from oratory to anatomy. "Oh, my heart," she cried, placing her hand upon her breast, "I believe I am about to die."

She sank gasping into the chair, from which she had risen to hurl her Philippic at Rita's head, and by sheer force of her indomitable will caused a most alarming pallor to overspread her face. Rita ran for the camphor, Mr. Bays fetched the whiskey, and under these restoratives Madam Jeffreys so far recovered that her husband and son were able to remove her from the chair to the bed. Rita, in tribulation and tears, sat upon the bedside, chafing her mother's hands and doing all in her power to relieve the sufferer.

"Don't touch me, ungrateful child," cried Mrs. Margarita, "don't touch me! If you won't save your father and brother from ruin when you can, you are not fit to touch your mother. I am dying now," she continued, gasping for breath. "Because of your cruelty and ingratitude, the blow has been more than God, in His infinite mercy, has given me strength to endure. When I am gone, you will remember about this. I forgive you; I forgive you." Sigh followed sigh, and Rita feared she had killed her parent.

"Oh, mother," she sobbed, "I will do what you wish. Ah, no, I can't. I can't do it. Don't ask me."

"Beg her, father, beg her," whispered Mrs. Bays to her spouse when she saw that Rita was wavering. Bays hesitated; but a look from the bed brought him to a proper condition of obedience:—

"Rita, won't you save your father and brother?" he asked, taking his daughter's hands in his own. "We are all ruined and disgraced and lost forever if you do not. Rita, I beg you to do this for my sake."

The father's appeal she could not withstand. She covered her face with her hands; then, suddenly drawing herself upright and drying her tears, she said in a low voice, "I will."

Those two little words changed the world for father and son from darkness to light. They seemed also to possess wonderful curative powers for heart trouble, for within three minutes they snatched my Lady Jeffreys from the jaws of death and placed her upright in the bed. Within another minute she was on her feet, well and hearty as ever, busily engaged evolving a plan for immediate action.

"Write to Williams at once," she said to Rita, "asking him to call this evening. Tell him you want to talk to him about your father's affairs."

Rita again hesitated, but she had given her word, and accordingly wrote:—

"MR. WILLIAMS: If not otherwise engaged, will you please call this evening. I am in great trouble about my father and Tom, and wish to talk to you concerning their affairs.

"RITA."

Tom delivered the note, which threw Williams into a state of ecstasy bordering on intoxication.

I beg you to pause and consider this girl's piteous condition. Never in all the eighteen years of her life had she unnecessarily given pain to a human heart. A tender, gentle strength, love for all who were near her, fidelity to truth, and purity without the blemish of even an impure thought, had gone to make up the sum of her existence. As a reward for all these virtues she was now called upon to bear the burden of an unspeakable anguish. What keener joy could she know than that which had come to her through her love for Dic? What agony more poignant could she suffer than the loss of him? But, putting Dic aside, what calamity could so blacken the future for her, or for any pure girl, as marriage with a man she loathed? We often speak of these tragedies regretfully and carelessly; but imagine yourself in her position, and you will pity this poor girl of mine, who was about to be sold to the man whom she despised—and who, worst of all, loved her. Madame Pompadour says in her memoirs, "I was married to one whom I did not love, and a misfortune still greater was that he loved me." That condition must be the acme of a woman's suffering.

Williams knocked at Rita's door early in the evening, and was admitted to the front parlor by the girl herself. She took a chair and asked him to be seated. Then a long, awkward silence ensued, which was broken by Williams:—

"You said you wished to see me. Is there any way in which I can serve you?"

"Yes," she murmured, speaking with difficulty. "My father and Tom are in trouble, and I wanted to ask you if anything could be done to—to—" she ceased speaking, and in a moment Williams said:—

"I have held the house off for four or five months, and I cannot induce them to wait longer. Their letters are imperative. I wish I had brought them."

"Then nothing can save them?" asked Rita. The words almost choked her, because she knew the response they would elicit. She was asking him to ask her to marry him.

"Rita, there is one thing might save them," replied Roger of the craven heart. "You know what that is. I have spoken of it so often I am almost ashamed to speak again." Well he might be.

"Well, what is it? Go on," said Rita, without a sign of faltering. She wanted to end the agony as soon as possible.

"If you will marry me, Rita—you know how dearly I love you; I need not tell you of that. Were you not so sure of my love, I might stand better with you. You see, if you will marry me my father could not, in decency, prosecute Tom or ruin your father. He would be compelled to protect them both, being in the family, you know."

"If you will release Tom and save my father from ruin I will ... will do ... as ... you ... wish," answered the girl. Cold and clear were the words which closed this bargain, and cold as ice was the heart that sold itself.

Williams stepped quickly to her side, exclaiming delightedly, "Rita, Rita, is it really true at last?"

He attempted to kiss her, but she held up her hand warningly.

"No," she said, "not till I am your wife. Then I must submit. Till then I belong to myself."

"I have waited a long time," answered this patient suitor, "and I can wait a little longer. When shall we be married?"

"Fix the time yourself," she replied.

"I am to leave Christmas morning by the Napoleon stage for home, and if you wish we may be married Christmas Eve. That will give you four days for preparation."

"As you wish," was the response.

"I know, Rita, you do not love me," said Williams, tenderly.

"You surely do," she interrupted.

"But I also know," he continued, "that I can win your love when you are my wife. I know it, or I would not ask you to marry me. I would not accept your hand if I were not sure that I would soon possess your heart. I will be so loving and tender and your life will be so perfect—so different from anything you have ever known—that you will soon be glad you gave yourself to me. It will not be long, Rita, not long."

"Perhaps you are right," she answered with her lips; but in her heart this girl, who was all tenderness and love, prayed God to strike him dead before Christmas Eve should come.

Williams again took his chair, but Rita said, "I have given you my promise. I—I am—I fear I am ill. Please excuse me for the rest of the evening and—and leave me, I beg you."

Williams took his leave, and Rita went into the sitting room, where father, mother, and Tom were waiting for the verdict.

"You are saved," said Rita, as if she were announcing dinner.

"My daughter! my own dear child! God will bless you!" exclaimed the tender mother, hurrying to embrace the cause of her joy.

"Don't touch me!" said Rita. "I—I—God help me! I—I fear—I—hate you." She turned to the stairway and went to her own room. For hours she sat by the window, gazing into the street, but toward morning she lighted a candle and told Dic the whole piteous story in a dozen pages of anguish and love.

* * * * *

After receiving Sukey's letter, Dic left home for a few days to engage horses to take east with him in the spring. He did not return until late in the afternoon of the day before Christmas.

On the morning of that day—the day before Christmas—Jasper Yates, Sukey's father, came to Billy Little's store in great agitation. Tom Bays had been there the day before and had imparted to Billy the news of Rita's forthcoming wedding. She had supposed that Dic would tell him and had not written; but Dic was away from home and had not received her letter.

I cannot describe to you the overpowering grief this announcement brought to the tender bachelor heart. It stunned him, crushed him, almost killed him; but he tried to bear up manfully under the weight of his grief. He tried, ah, so hard, not to show his suffering, and Maxwelton's braes, was sung all day and was played nearly all night; but the time had come to Billy when even music could not soothe him. There was a dry, hard anguish at his heart that all the music of heaven or of earth could not soften. Late in the night he shut his piano in disgust and sat before the fire during the long black hours without even the comfort of a tear.

When Tom imparted the intelligence of Rita's wedding, he also asked Billy for a loan of four hundred dollars. As an inducement, he explained that he had forged the name of Mr. Wallace to a note calling for that sum, and had negotiated the note at an Indianapolis bank. Rita's marriage would settle the Williams theft, but the matter of the forgery called for immediate adjustment in cash. Billy refused the loan; but he gave Tom fifty dollars and advised him to leave the state.

"If you don't go," said Billy, savagely, "you will be sent to the penitentiary. Rita can't marry every one you have stolen from. What did you do with the money you stole from me—Dic's money? Tell me, or I'll call an officer at once. I'll arrest you myself and commit you. I'm a justice of the peace. Now confess, you miserable thief."

Tom turned pale, and, seeing that Billy was in dreadful earnest, began to cry: "There was five of us in that job," he whispered, "and, Mr. Little, I never got none of the money. Con Gagen and Mike Doles got it all. I give them the sacks to keep for a while after I left the store. They promised to divide, but they run away soon afterwards, and of course we others were afeared to peach. I didn't know you knowed it. Con Gagen put me up to it."

"Well, I do know it. I recognized you when you climbed out the window, and did not shoot you because you were Rita's brother. I said nothing of the robbery for the same reason, but I made a mistake. Leave my store. Get out of the state at once. If you are here Christmas Day, I'll send you where you belong."

Tom took the fifty dollars and the advice; and the next day—the day before Christmas, the day set for Rita's wedding—Sukey's father entered Billy's store, as I have already told you, in great agitation.

After Yates had talked to Billy for three or four minutes, the latter hurriedly closed the store door, donned the Brummel coat, and went across the road to the inn where the Indianapolis coach was waiting, and took his place.

At six o'clock that evening Dic arrived at Billy Little's store from his southern expedition. Finding the store door locked, he got the key from the landlord of the inn, in whose charge Billy had left it, went to the post-office, and rejoiced to find a letter from Rita. He eagerly opened it—and rode home more dead than alive. Rita's wedding would take place that night at eight o'clock. The thing was hopeless. He showed the letter to his mother, and asked that he might be left alone with his sorrow. Mrs. Bright kissed him and retired to her bed in the adjoining room, leaving Dic sitting upon the hearth log beside the fire.

Dic did not blame Rita. He loved her more dearly than ever before, if that were possible, because she was capable of making the awful sacrifice. He well knew what she would suffer. The thought of her anguish drowned the pain he felt on his own account, and his suffering for her sake seemed more than he could bear. Billy Little, he supposed, had gone to the wedding, and for the first time in Dic's life he was angry with that steadfast friend. Dic knew that the sudden plunge from joy to anguish had brought a benumbing shock, and while he sat beside the fire he realized that his suffering had only begun—that his real anguish would come with the keener consciousness of reaction.

At four o'clock that same afternoon Billy was seated in Rita's parlor, whispering to her. "My dear girl, I bring you good news. You can't save Tom. He forged Wallace's name to a note for four hundred dollars, and passed it at the bank six weeks ago. He wanted to borrow the money from me to pay the note, but I did not have it. I gave him fifty dollars, and he has run away—left the state for no one knows where. He carried off two of Yates's horses, and, best of all, he carried off Sukey. All reasons for sacrificing yourself to this man Williams are now removed, save only your father's debt. That, Fisher tells me, has been renewed for sixty days, and at the end of that time your father and Fisher will again have it to face. You could not save them, Rita, if you were to marry half the men in Boston. Even if this debt were paid—cancelled —instead of renewed, your father would soon be as badly off as ever. A bank couldn't keep him in business, Rita. Every one he deals with robs and cheats him. He's a good man, Rita, kind, honest, and hard working, but he is fit only to farm. I hate to say it, but in many respects your father is a great fool, very much like Tom. It is easier to save ten knaves than one fool. A leopard is a leopard; a nigger is a nigger. God can change the spots of the one and the color of the other, but I'm blessed if I believe even God can unmake a fool. Now my dear girl, don't throw away your happiness for life in a hopeless effort to save your father from financial ruin."

"But I have given my word, Billy Little," replied the girl, to whom a promise was a sacred thing. "I believe my father and mother would die if I were to withdraw. I must go on, I must; it is my doom. It is only three hours—oh, my God! have mercy on me—" and she broke down, weeping piteously. Soon she continued: "The guests are all invited, and oh, I can't escape, I can't! I have given my word; I am lost. Thank you, dear friend, thank you, for your effort to help me; but it is too late, too late!"

"No, it is not too late," continued Billy; "but in three hours it will be too late, and you will curse yourself because you did not listen to me."

"I know I shall; I know it only too well," replied the weeping girl. "I will not ask you to remain for the—the tragedy."

"I would not witness it," cried Billy, "for all the gold in the world! When I'm gone, Rita, remember what I've said. Do not wait until it is too late, but come with me; come now with me, Rita, and let the consequences be what they will. They cannot be so evil as those which will follow your marriage. You do not know. You do not understand. Come with me, girl, come with me. Do not hesitate. When I have left you, it will be too late, too late. God only can help you; and if you walk open-eyed into this trouble, He will not help you. He helps those who help themselves."

"No, Billy Little, no; I cannot go with you. I have given my word. I have cast the die."

With these words Billy arose, took up his hat, stick, and gloves, went out into the hall, and opened the front door to go.

"When I'm gone, Rita, remember what I have said and what I'm about to say, and even though the minister be standing before you, until you have spoken the fatal words, it will not be too late. You are an innocent girl, ignorant of many things in life. Still, every girl, if she but stops to think, has innate knowledge of much that she is supposed not to know. When I'm gone, Rita, think, girl, think, think of this night; this night after the ceremony, when all the guests have gone and you are alone with him. Kill yourself, Rita, if you will, if there is no other way out of it—kill yourself, but don't marry that man. For the sake of God's love, don't marry him. Death will be sweet compared to that which you will suffer if you do. Good-by, Rita. Think of this night, girl; think of this night."

"Good-by, Billy Little, good-by," cried the girl, while tears streamed over her cheeks. As she closed the door behind him she covered her face with her hands and moaned: "I cannot marry him. How can I kill myself? How can I escape?"

Meanwhile Madam Jeffreys had donned her black silk dress, made expressly for the occasion, and was a very busy, happy woman indeed. She did not know that Tom had run away, but was expecting him home from Blue by the late stage, which would arrive about seven o'clock.

Billy left for home on the five o'clock stage, but before he left he had a talk with Rita's father.

Soon after Billy's departure, Miss Tousy and a few young lady friends came to assist at the bride's toilet. It was a doleful party of bridesmaids in Rita's room, you may be sure; but by seven o'clock she was dressed. When the task was finished, she said to her friends:—

"I am very tired. I have an hour before the ceremony, and I should like to sit alone by the window in the dark to rest and think. Please leave me to myself. I will lock the door, and, Miss Tousy, please allow no one to disturb me."

"No one shall disturb you, my dear," answered Miss Tousy, weeping as she kissed her. Then the young ladies left the room, and Rita locked the door.

Ten minutes later Mr. Bays entered from Tom's room, which was immediately back of Rita's. A stairway descended from Tom's room to the back yard.



Mr. Bays kissed Rita, and hastily whispered: "My great-coat, cap, and gloves are on Tom's bed. Buck is saddled in the stable. Don't ever let your mother know I did this. Good-by. I would rather die than see you marry this man and lose Dic. Don't let your mother know," and he hurried from the room.

Rita went hurriedly into Tom's room and put on the great-coat, made of coonskins, a pair of squirrel-skin gloves, and a heavy beaver cap with curtains that fell almost to her shoulders. She also drew over her shoes a pair of heavy woollen stockings; and thus arrayed, she ran down the stairway to the back yard. Flurrying to the stable, she led out "Old Buck," Mr. Bays's riding horse, and galloped forth in the dark, cold night for a twenty-six mile ride to Billy Little.

Soon after Rita's departure the guests began to assemble. At ten minutes before eight came Williams. Upon his arrival, Mrs. Bays insisted that Rita should be called, so she and Miss Tousy went to Rita's door and knocked. The knock was repeated; still no answer. Then Mrs. Bays determined to enter Rita's room through Tom's,—and I will draw a veil over the scene of consternation, confusion, and rage that ensued.

* * * * *

Near the hour of two o'clock in the morning another scene of this drama was enacted, twenty-six miles away. Billy Little was roused from his dreams—black nightmares they had been—by a knocking on his store door, and when he sat up in bed to listen, he heard Rita's voice calling:—

"Billy Little, let me in."

Billy ran to unlock the front door, crying: "Come in, come in, God bless my soul, come in. Maxwelton's braes are bonny, bonny, bonny. Tell me, are you alone?"

"Yes, Billy, I'm alone, and I fear they will follow me. Hide me somewhere. But you'll freeze without your coat. Go and—"

"Bless me, I haven't my coat and waistcoat on. Excuse me; excuse—Maxwelton's—I'll be out immediately." And the little old fellow scampered to his bedroom to complete his toilet. Then he lighted a candle, placed wood on the fire, and called Rita back to his sanctum sanctorum. She was very cold; but a spoonful of whiskey, prescribed by Dr. Little, with a drop of water and a pinch of sugar, together with a bit of cheese and a biscuit from the store, and the great crackling fire on the hearth, soon brought warmth to her heart and color to her cheeks.

"What are you going to do with me now you've got me? They will come here first to find me," she asked, laughing nervously.

"We'll go to Dic," said Billy, after a moment's meditation. "We'll go to Dic as soon as you are rested."

"Oh, Billy Little, I—I can't go to him. You know I'm not—not—you know."

"Not married? Is that what you mean?"

"Yes."

"I'm mighty thankful you are not. Dic's mother is with him. It will be all perfectly proper. But never mind; I have another idea. I'll think it over as we ride."

After Rita had rested, Billy donned the Beau Brummel coat and saddled his horse, and the pair started up Blue to awaken Dic. He needed no awakening, for he was sitting where we left him, on the hearth, gazing into a bed of embers.

When our runaway couple reached Dic's house, Billy hitched his horse, told Rita to knock at the front door, and took her horse to the stable.

When Dic heard the knock at that strange hour of the night, he called:—

"Who's there?"

"Rita."

Dic began to fear his troubles had affected his mind; but when he heard a voice unmistakably hers calling, "Please let me in; I have brought you a Christmas gift," he knew that he was sane, and that either Rita or her wraith was at the door. When she entered, clad in her wedding gown, coonskin coat and beaver cap, he again began to doubt his senses and stood in wonder, looking at her.

"Aren't you glad to see me, Dic?" she asked, laughing. Still he did not respond, and she continued, "I have ridden all night to bring you a Christmas gift."

"A Christmas gift?" he repeated, hardly conscious of the words he spoke, so great had been the shock of his awakening from a dream of pain to a reality of bliss. "Where—where is it?"

"Here," replied the girl, throwing off the great-coat and pressing her hands upon her bosom to indicate herself. Then Dic, in a flood of perceptive light and returning consciousness, caught the priceless Christmas gift to his heart without further question.

In a moment Billy Little entered the door that Rita had closed.

"Here, here, break away," cried Billy, taking Rita and Dic each by the right hand. As he did so Dic's mother entered from the adjoining room, and Billy greeted her with "Howdy," but was too busy to make explanations.

"Now face me," said that little gentleman, speaking in tones of command to Rita and Dic.

"Clasp your right hands." The hands were clasped. "Now listen to me. Diccon Bright, do you take this woman whom you hold by the hand to be your wedded wife?"

Dic's faculties again began to wane, and he did not answer at once.

"The answer is, 'I do,' you stupid," cried Billy, and Dic said, "I do."

"Do you, Rita Fisher Bays,—Margarita Fisher Bays,—take this man whom you hold by the right hand to be your husband?"

Rita's faculties were in perfect condition and very alert, so she answered quickly, "I do."

"Then," continued our worthy justice of the peace, "by virtue of authority vested in me by the laws of the state of Indiana, I pronounce you husband and wife. I kiss the bride."

After kissing Rita, and shaking hands with Dic and Mrs. Bright, Billy hurried out through the door, and the new-made husband and wife watched him as he mounted and rode away. He was singing—not humming, but singing—at his topmost pitch, "Maxwelton's braes are bonny, where early falls the dew." He had never before been known to complete the stanza. His voice could be heard after he had passed out of sight into the forest, and just as the sun peeped from the east, turning the frost dust to glittering diamonds and the snow-clad forest to a paradise in white, the song lost itself among the trees, and Dic, closing the door, led Rita to his hearth log.

* * * * *

Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall

By CHARLES MAJOR

Author of "When Knighthood Was in Flower," etc.

With eight full-page illustrations by HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY

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* * * * *

The Bears of Blue River

By CHARLES MAJOR

Author of "Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall," etc.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. B. FROST AND OTHERS

Cloth 12mo $1.50

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* * * * *

The Mettle of the Pasture

By JAMES LANE ALLEN

Author of "The Choir Invisible," "A Kentucky Cardinal," etc., etc.

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* * * * *

The Call of the Wild

By JACK LONDON

Author of "The Children of the Frost," etc., etc.

Illustrated Cloth 12mo $1.50

All those who have read it believe that JACK LONDON'S new story, "The Call of the Wild," will prove one of the half-dozen memorable books of 1903. This story takes hold of the universal things in human and animal nature; it is one of those strong, thrilling, brilliant things which are better worth reading the second time than the first. Entertaining stories we have in plenty; but this is something more—it is a piece of literature. At the same time it is an unforgettable picture of the whole wild, thrilling, desperate, vigorous, primeval life of the Klondike regions in the years after the gold fever set in. It ranks beside the best things of its kind in English literature.

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* * * * *

People of the Whirlpool

From the Experience Book of a Commuter's Wife

By the Author of "The Garden of a Commuter's Wife"

With Eight Full-page Illustrations

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* * * * *

Anne Carmel

By GWENDOLEN OVERTON

Author of "The Heritage of Unrest"

With Illustrations by ARTHUR I. KELLER

Cloth 12mo $1.50

"A novel of uncommon beauty and depth ... in every way an unusual book."—Louisville Times.

"One of the few very important books of the year."—The Sun, New York.

"Is so far above the general run of the fiction of to-day as to be strongly attractive, just because of this contrast, but it is, for itself, something to move heart and brain to quick action and deep admiration."—Nashville American.

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The Heart of Rome

By F. MARION CRAWFORD

Author of "Saracinesca," "In the Palace of the King," "Cecilia," "Ave Roma Immortalis," etc.

Cloth 12mo $1.50

This striking title is perfectly descriptive of the book. Mr. Crawford, who has studied Rome in all its phases and has been writing novels and serious books about it for twenty years, has undertaken to put "the heart of Rome" into his latest novel. Many authors have undertaken to do this, but in almost every case the result, however it may have been praised for various features, has been adjudged in the end unsatisfactory. The author of "Saracinesca" has here written his strongest and best work; a novel in which, around an absorbing love story, are described the manifold elements that go to make up the whole of the Eternal City as it exists at the present time. It is said by those who have read the story that it will stand as a picture of Roman and Italian life without a peer. Mr. Crawford has been living in Italy most of the year in order to be close to the atmosphere and the life of the city which he has here depicted.

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The Literary Sense

By E. NESBIT

Author of "The Red House," "The Would-Be-Goods," etc.

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This is a collection of very clever and original short stories, by an author whose work has attracted much favorable attention here and in England. The stories deal with lovers' meetings, partings, misunderstandings or reconciliations. They are little tragedies or little comedies, and sometimes both. The situations are strong and ingeniously conceived, and each tale has a turn or twist of its own. There is throughout a quiet vein of humor and a light touch even where the situation is strained. In a way the stories are held together, because most or all of them have a bearing on the idea which is set forth in the first story—the one that gives the book its title. In that story the girl loses her lover because, instead of acting simply and naturally, she tries to act as if she were in a book, to follow her "literary sense"; in other words, she has something of the same temperament that distinguished Mr. Barrie's "Sentimental Tommy." This idea appears and reappears in the other stories, notably in that called "Miss Eden's Baby," which in its way is a little masterpiece.

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On the We-a Trail

By CAROLINE BROWN

Author of "Knights in Fustian"

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This story incidentally portrays the vicissitudes and the lives of the American pioneers in the "Great Wilderness," as the country west of the Alleghanies was generally known. The capture and recapture of Fort Sackville, at Vincennes on the Wabash, are important features among the central incidents.

The action begins in mid-wilderness and culminates with the fall of the fort under the assault of George Rogers Clark. Here the lovers are reunited after months of separation and adventures. They were first parted by the savages, who murdered the heroine's entire family save herself. Driven into the forest, she is taken captive by the Indians. She makes her escape. Later she is taken to the fort by one of Hamilton's coureurs de bois, and adopted into the family of the commandant. The lover meantime wanders from Kaskaskia to Detroit in pursuit of the tribe which has taken captive his sweetheart, and has various adventures by the way, many of which take place on the famous We-a Trail. The action of the story is practically confined to Indiana, the author's native state; and it forms an important addition to the increasing number of novels dealing with the early life of that region of the country.

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The Black Chanter

and Other Highland Tales

By NIMMO CHRISTIE

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This is a remarkable group of stories by a new writer. They are all Scotch, and deal with Scotland at a remote period—about the twelfth century. All the tales except one—"The Wise Woman," which is the best of all—deal with fighting, and the pipers appear in almost all. They are stories rather for men than for women, because they deal with a rough time in a direct way; but they are so clever that women whom virility attracts will like them. The striking originality of these stories augurs well for the author's future. The tales consist largely in legends, traditions, and dramatic incidents connected with the old life of Scottish clans. Each tale has at the end an unexpected turn or quick bit of action, and these endings are almost invariably tragic. The style is well suited to the character of the stories, which are wild, weird, and queer. They have a true imaginative vein.

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Blount of Breckenhow

By BEULAH MARIE DIX

Author of "The Making of Christopher Ferringham," "Soldier Rigdale," and "Hugh Gwyeth"

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Its scene is laid in England in the years 1642-45. It is not a historical novel, nor a romance, nor an adventure story; it is the story of a brave man and a noble woman as set forth in the letters of a prosperous family of Yorkshire gentry. James Blount, the hero, comes by his father's side of a race of decayed northern gentry, and by his mother's side from the yeomanry. Entering the King's army as a private trooper, he wins a commission; but he never wins social recognition from his brother officers, and he is left much alone. He meets Arundel Carewe and loves her. The moment when he is about to tell his love he learns that she is betrothed to his captain, and only friend, Bevill Rowlestone. Blount keeps silent till near the end of the story. Meanwhile Arundel is married to Bevill, who is a delightful seventeenth-century lover, but not wholly satisfactory as a husband.

Arundel is in garrison with Bevill at a lonely village through the first dreary winter of their married life. Bevill neglects what he has won, but Blount in all honor is very tender and thoughtful of her. On the night when Arundel's child is born, Bevill makes a gross error of judgment and shifts a body of troops which exposes his whole position. He entreats Blount, who is his subaltern, to shoulder the blame. For the sake of Arundel and her child, Blount does so. The matter proves very serious. Blount is tried by court-martial, publicly degraded, and kicked out of the army. All trace of him is lost for some eighteen months. Then, when Arundel and her child are in great danger in their besieged country house, Blount, who is serving again as a private trooper, appears and rescues her. The book does not teem with battle and violence; only twice do the people in the story come within sound of the guns.

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McTodd

By CUTCLIFFE HYNE

Author of "Captain Kettle" and "Thompson's Progress"

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Mr. Cutcliffe Hyne's "McTodd" enriches literature with a new and fascinating figure. The author established himself with his "Captain Kettle" books, and he has made his popularity considerably more sure through his latest story, "Thompson's Progress." McTodd, the engineer, was quite as popular a hero in the last Captain Kettle book as that fiery little sailor, and Mr. Hyne now makes him the chief character in a better story. The author's invention never flags, and the new story is full of incidents and experiences of the liveliest and most fascinating kind. Besides drawing a better character, the author has made his experiences more like those of real people, and has constructed a story which is well knit, forceful, and absorbing. He has outgrown the crudities observable in his previous books, and it is expected that his new creation will give him a much better place in literature and will greatly strengthen his hold on the popular approval.

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

66 Fifth Avenue, New York

Transcriber's note:

A number of instances of 'Dic' being misspelt as 'Dick' have been corrected.

Printer's errors have been corrected, all other inconsistencies are as in the original.

THE END