"The reason, first of all, is that I do not like this man Sidwell in any particular. If you respect my wishes you will have nothing to do with him or with any of his class in future. The second reason is that it is high time some one was watching the kind of affairs you attend." The speaker looked down on the girl sternly. "I think it unnecessary to suggest that neither of us desires a repetition of last night's experience."

Of a sudden, her face very red, Florence was likewise upon her feet. In the irony of circumstances, Sidwell could not have had a more powerful ally. Her decision was instantly formed.

"I quite agree with you about the incident of last evening," she flamed. "As to who shall be my associates, and where I shall go, however, I am of age—" and she started to leave the room.

But preventing, Scotty was between her and the door. "Florence,"—his face was very white and his voice trembled,—"we may as well have an understanding now as to defer it. Maybe, as you say, I have no authority over you longer; but at least I can make a request. You know that I love you, that I would not ask anything which was not for your good. Knowing this, won't you at my request cease going with this man? Won't you refuse his invitation for to-night?"

Nearer than ever before in his life was the Englishman at that moment to grasping the secret of control of this child of many moods. Had he but learned it a few years, even a few months, sooner—But again was the satire of fate manifest, the same irony which, jealously withholding the rewards of labor, keeps the student at his desk, the laborer at his bench, until the worse than useless prizes flutter about like Autumn leaves.

For a moment following Scotty's request there was absolute silence and inaction; then, with a little appealing movement, the girl came close to him.

"Oh, daddy!" she cried. "Dear old daddy! You make it so hard for me! I know you love me, and I do want to do as you wish; I want to be good; but—but"—the brown head was upon Scotty's shoulder, and two soft arms gripped him tight,—"but," the voice was all but choking, "I can't let him go now. It's too late!"

* * * * *

The driving of his own conveyance was to Sidwell a source of pride. It was therefore no surprise to Florence that at dusk he and his pair of thoroughbreds should appear alone. The girl, very grave, very quiet, had been waiting for him, and was ready almost before he stopped. With a smile of parental pride upon her face, Mollie was on the porch to say good-bye. At the last moment she approached and kissed her daughter on the cheek. Not in months before had the mother done such a thing as that; and despite herself, as she walked toward the waiting carriage, there came to the girl the thought of another historic kiss, and of a Judas, the betrayer. Once within the narrow single-seated buggy she looked back, hoping against hope; but her father was nowhere in sight.

After the first greeting, neither she nor Sidwell spoke for some minutes. For a time Florence did not even look at her companion. She had a suspicion that he already knew most if not all that had taken place in the Baker home the last day; and the thought tinged her face scarlet. At last she gave a furtive glance at him. He was not looking, and her eyes lingered on his face. It was paler than she had ever seen it before; there were deep circles under the eyes, and he looked nervous and tired; but over it all there was an expression of exaltation that could have but one meaning to her.

"You must let me read it when you get it in shape," she began suddenly.

Sidwell turned blankly. "Read what, please?" he asked.

The girl smiled triumphantly. "The story you have just written. I know by your face it must be good."

The flame of exaltation vanished. The man understood now.

"What if I should refute your theory?" he asked.

"I hardly believe that is possible. I know of nothing else which could make you look like that."

Sidwell hesitated. "There are but few things," he admitted, "but nevertheless I spoke the truth. It was one of them this time."

Florence smiled interestedly. "I am very curious," she suggested.

The brown eyes and the black met steadily. "Very well, then," said the man, "I'll tell you. The reason was, because I have with me the handsomest girl in the whole city."

Instantly the brown eyes dropped; the face reddened, but not with the flush of pleasure. Florence was not yet sufficiently artificial for such empty compliment.

"I'd rather you wouldn't say such things," she said simply. "They hurt me."

"But not when they're true," he persisted.

There was no answer, and they drove on again in silence; the tap of the thoroughbreds' feet on the asphalt sounding regular as the rattle of a snare-drum, the rows of houses at either side running past like the shifting scenes of a panorama. They passed numbers of other carriages, and to the occupants of several Sidwell lifted his hat. Each as he did so glanced at his companion curiously. The man was far too well known to have his actions pass without gossip. At last they reached a semblance of the open country, and a few minutes later Sidwell pointed out the row of lights on the broad veranda of the big one-story club-house. The affair had begun in the afternoon with a golf tournament, and when the two drove up and Sidwell turned over his trotters to a man in waiting, the entertainment was in full blast, although the hour was still early.

The building itself, ordinarily ample for the organization's rather exclusive membership, was fairly crowded on this occasion. The club-house had been given up to the orchestra and dancers, and refreshments were being served on the lawn and under the adjoining trees. Even the veranda had been cleared of chairs.

As Sidwell and his companion approached the place, he said in an undertone, "Let's not get in the crush yet; if we do, we won't escape all the evening." His dark eyes looked into his companion's face meaningly. "I have something I wish especially to say to you."

Florence did not meet his eyes, but she well knew the message therein. She nodded assent to the request.

Making a detour, they emerged into the park, and strolled back to a place where, seeing, they themselves could not be seen. Sidwell found a bench, and they sat down side by side. The girl offered no suggestion, no protest. Since that row of lights had appeared in the distance she had become passive. She knew beforehand all that was to take place; something that she had decided to accede to, the details of which were unimportant. An apathy which she did not attempt to explain held her. The music heard so near, the glimpses of shifting, faultlessly dressed figures, the loveliness of a perfect night—things that ordinarily would have been intensely exhilarating—now passed by her unnoticed. Her senses were temporarily in lethargy. If she had a conscious wish, it was that the inevitable would come, and be over with.

From without this land of unreality she was suddenly conscious of a voice speaking to her. "Florence," it said, "Florence Baker, you know before I say a word the thing I wish to tell you, the question I wish to ask. You know, because more than once I've tried to speak, and at the last moment you have prevented. But you can't stop me to-night. We have run on understanding each other long enough; too long. I have never lied to you yet, Florence, and I am not going to begin now. I will not even analyze the feeling I have for you, or call it by name. I know this is an unheard-of-way to talk to a girl, especially one so impressionable as you; but I cannot help it. There is something about you, Florence, that keeps me from untruth, when probably under the same circumstances I would lie to any other woman in the world. I simply know that you impersonate a desire of my nature ungratified; that without you I have no wish to live."

Strange and cold-blooded as this proposal would have seemed to a listener, Florence heard it without a sign. It did not even affect her with the shock of the unexpected. It was merely a part of that inevitable something she had anticipated, and had for months watched slowly taking form.

"I suppose it seems unaccountable to you," the voice went on, "that I should have been attracted to you in the first place. It has often been so to me, and I've tried to explain it. Beautiful, you undeniably are, Florence; but I do not believe it was that. It was, I think, because, despite your ideals of something which—pardon me—doesn't exist, you were absolutely natural; and the women I'd met before were the reverse of that. Like myself, they had tasted of life and found it flat. I danced with them, drank with them, went the round of so-called gayety with them; but they repelled me. But you, Florence, are very different. You make me think of a prairie anemone with the dew on its petals. I haven't much to offer you save money, which you already have in plenty, and an empty fame; but I'll play the game fair. I'll take you anywhere in the world, do anything you wish." Out of the shadow an arm crept around the girl's waist, closed there, and she did not stir. "I am writing an English story now, and the principal character, a soldier, has been ordered to India. To catch the atmosphere, I've got to be on the spot. The boat I wish to take will leave in ten days. Will you go with me as my wife?"

The voice paused, and the face so near her own remained motionless, waiting. Into the pause crept the music of the orchestra—beat, beat, beat, like the throbbing of a mighty heart. Above it, distinct for an instant, sounded the tinkle of a woman's laugh; then again silence. It was now the girl's turn to speak, to answer; but not a sound left her lips. She had an odd feeling that she was playing a game of checkers, and that it was her turn to play. "Move!" said an inward monitor. "Move! move!" But she knew not where or how.

The man's arm tightened around her; his lips touched hers again and again; and although she was conscious of the fact, it carried no particular significance. It all seemed a part of the scene that was going on in which she was a silent actor—of the game in which she was a player.

"Florence," said an insistent voice, "Florence, Florence Baker! Don't sit like that! For God's sake, speak to me, answer me!"

This time the figure stirred, the head drooped in assent.

"Yes," she said.

Again the circling arm tightened, and the man's lips touched her own, again and again. The very repetition aroused her.

"And you will sail with me in ten days?"

Fully awake was Florence Baker now, fully conscious of all that had happened and was happening.

"Yes," she said. "The sooner the better. I want to have it over with." A moment longer she sat still as death; then suddenly the mood of apathy departed, and in infinite weakness, infinite pathos, the dark head buried itself on the man's shoulder. "Promise me," she pleaded brokenly, "that you will be kind to me! Promise me that you always will be kind!"



CHAPTER XXVI

LOVE'S SURRENDER

Scotty Baker was not an adept at concealing his emotions, and he stared in unqualified surprise at the long figure in brown which of a sudden intruded into his range of vision. The morning paper upon his knees fluttered unnoticed to the floor of the porch.

"Ben Blair, by all that's good and proper!" he exclaimed to the man who, without a look to either side, turned up the short walk. "Where in heaven's name did you come from? I supposed you'd gone home a week ago."

Blair stopped at the steps, and deliberately wiped the perspiration from his face.

"You were misinformed about my going," he explained. "I changed hotels, that was all."

Scotty stared harder than before.

"But why?" he groped. "I inquired of the clerk, and he said you had gone by an afternoon train. I don't see—"

Ben mounted the steps and took a chair opposite the Englishman.

"If you will excuse me," he said, "I would rather not go into details. The fact's enough—I am still here. Besides—pardon me—I did not call to be questioned, but to question. You remember the last time I saw you?"

Scotty nodded an affirmative. He had a premonition that the unexpected was about to happen.

"Yes," he said.

Ben lit a cigar. "You remember, then, that you made me a certain promise?"

Scotty threw one leg over the other restlessly. "Yes, I remember," he repeated.

The visitor eyed him keenly. "I would like to know if you kept it," he said.

Scotty felt the seat of his chair growing even more uncomfortable than before, and he cast about for an avenue of escape. One presented itself.

"Is that what you stayed to find out?" he questioned in his turn.

Ben blew out a cloud of smoke, and then another.

"No, not the main reason. But that has nothing to do with the subject. I have a right to ask the question. Did you or did you not keep your promise?"

The Englishman's first impulse was to refuse point-blank to answer; then, on second thought, he decided that such a course would be unwise. The other really did have a right to ask.

"I—" he hesitated, "decided—"

But interrupting, Ben raised his hand, palm outward.

"Don't dodge the question. Yes or no?"

Scotty hesitated again, and his face grew red.

"No," he said.

The visitor's hand, fingers outspread, returned to his knee.

"Thank you. I have one more question to ask. Do you intend, without trying to prevent it, to let your daughter throw away her every chance of future happiness? Are you, Florence's father, going to let her marry Sidwell?"

With one motion Scotty was on his feet. The eyes behind the thick lenses fairly flashed.

"You are insulting, sir," he blazed. "I can stand much from you, Ben Blair, but this interference in my family affairs I cannot overlook. I request you to leave my premises!"

Blair did not stir. His face remained as impassive as before.

"Your pardon again," he said steadily, "but I refuse. I did not come to quarrel with you, and I won't; but we will have an understanding—now. Sit down, please."

The Englishman stared, almost with open mouth. Had any one told him he would be coerced in this way within his own home he would have called that person mad; nevertheless, the first flash of anger over, he said no more.

"Sit down, please," repeated Ben; and this time, without a word or a protest, he was obeyed.

Ben straightened in his seat, then leaned forward. "Mr. Baker," he said, "you do not doubt that I love Florence—that I wish nothing but her good?"

Scotty nodded a reluctant assent.

"No; I don't doubt you, Ben," he said.

The thin face of the younger man leaned forward and grew more intense.

"You know what Sidwell is—what the result will be if Florence marries him?"

Scotty's head dropped into his hands. He knew what was coming.

"Yes, I know," he admitted.

Ben paused, and had the other been looking he would have seen that his ordinarily passive face was working in a way which no one would have thought possible.

"In heaven's name, then," he said, slowly, "why do you allow it? Have you forgotten that it is only three days until the date set? God! man, you must be sleeping! It is ghastly—even the thought of it!"

Surprised out of himself, Scotty looked up. The intensity of the appeal was a thing to put life into a figure of clay. For an instant he felt the stimulant, felt his blood quicken at the suggestion of action; then his impotence returned.

"I have tried, Ben," he explained weakly, "but I can do nothing. If I attempted to interfere it would only make matters worse. Florence is as completely out of my control as—" he paused for a simile—"as the sunshine. I missed my opportunity with her when she was young. She has always had her own way, and she will have it now. It is the same as when she decided to come to town. She controls me, not I her."

Blair settled back in his chair. The mask of impassivity dropped back over his face, not again to lift. He was again in command of himself.

"You expect to do nothing more, then?" he asked finally.

Scotty did not look up. "No," he responded. "I can do nothing more. She will have to find out her mistake for herself."

Ben regarded the older man steadily. It would have been difficult to express that look in words.

"You'd be willing to help, would you," he suggested, "if you saw a way?"

The Englishman's eyes lifted. Even the incredible took on an air of possibility in the hands of this strong-willed ranchman.

"Yes," he repeated. "I will gladly do anything I can."

For half a minute Ben Blair did not speak. Not a nerve twitched or a muscle stirred in his long body; then he stood up, the broad sinewy shoulders squared, the masterful chin lifted.

"Very well," he said. "Call a carriage, and be ready to leave town in half an hour."

Scotty blinked helplessly. The necessity of sudden action always threw him into confusion. His mind needed not minutes but days to adjust itself to the unpremeditated.

"Why?" he queried. "What do you intend doing?"

But Ben did not stop to explain. Already he was at the door of the vestibule. "Don't ask me now. Do as I say, and you'll see!" And he stepped inside.

Within the entrance, he paused for a moment. He had never been in any room of the house except the library adjoining; and after a few seconds, walking over, he tapped twice on the door.

There was no answer, and he stepped inside. The place was empty, but, listening from the dining-room on the left he heard the low intermittent murmur of voices in conversation and the occasional click of china. Sliding doors connected the rooms, and again for an instant he hesitated. Then, pulling them apart, he stood fairly in the aperture.

As he had expected, Florence and her mother were at breakfast. The doors had slid noiselessly, and for an instant neither observed him. Florence was nearest, half-facing him, and she was the first to glance up. As she did so, the coffee-cup in her hand shook spasmodically and a great brown blotch spread over the white tablecloth. Simultaneously her eyes widened, her cheeks blanched, and she stared as at a ghost. Her mother, too, turned at the spectacle, and her color shifted to an ashen gray.

For some seconds not one of the three spoke or stirred. It was Mrs. Baker who first arose and advanced toward the intruder, as threateningly as it was possible for her to do.

"Who, if I might ask, invited you to come this way?" she challenged.

Ben took one step inside the room and folded his arms.

"I came without being asked," he explained evenly.

Mollie's weak oval face stiffened. She felt instinctively that her chiefest desires were in supreme menace. But one defense suggested itself—to be rid of the intruder at once.

"I trust, then, you are enough of a gentleman to return the way you came," she said icily.

Ben did not even glance at her. He was looking at the dainty little figure still motionless at the table.

"If that is the mark of a gentleman, I am not one," he answered.

The mother's face flamed. Like Scotty, her brain moved slowly, and on the spur of the moment inadequate insult alone answered her call.

"I might have expected such a remark from a cowman!" she burst forth.

Instantly Florence was upon her feet; but Ben Blair gave no indication that he had heard. His arms still folded, he took two steps nearer the girl, then stopped.

"Florence," he said steadily, "I have just seen your father. We three—he, you, and I—are going back home, back to the prairies. Our train leaves at eleven o'clock. The carriage will be here in half an hour. You have plenty of time if you hurry."

Again there was silence. Once more it was the mother who spoke first.

"You must be mad, both of you!" she cried. "Florence is to be married in three days, and it would take two to go each way. You must be mad!"

It was the girl's turn to grow pale. She began to understand.

"You say you and papa evolved this programme?" she said sarcastically. "What part, pray, did he take?"

Blair was as impassive as before.

"I suggested it, and your father acquiesced."

"And the third party, myself—" The girl's eyes were very bright.

"I undertook the task of having you ready when the carriage comes."

One of Florence's brown hands grasped the back of the chair before her.

"I trust you did not underestimate the difficulty," she commented ironically. "Otherwise you might be disappointed."

Ben said nothing. He did not even stir.

Another group of seconds were gathered into the past. The inactivity tugged at the girl's nerves.

"By the way," she asked, "where are we going to stay when we arrive, and for how long?"

"You are to be my guests," answered Blair. "As to the length of time, nothing has been arranged."

Florence made one more effort to consider the affair lightly.

"You speak with a good deal of assurance," she commented. "Did it never occur to you that at this particular time I might decide not to go?"

Ben returned her look.

"No," he said.

Beneath the trim brown figure one foot was nervously tapping the floor.

"In other words, you expect to take me against my will,—by physical force?"

"No." Ben again spoke deliberately. "You will come of your own choice."

"And leave Mr. Sidwell?"

"Yes."

"Without an explanation?"

"None will be necessary, I think. The fact itself will be enough."

"And never—marry him?"

"And never marry him."

"You think he would not follow?"

"I know he would not!"

There was a pause in the swift passage of words. The girl's breath was coming with difficulty. The spell of this indomitable rancher was settling upon her.

"You really imagine I will do such an unheard-of thing?" she asked slowly.

"I imagine nothing," he answered quickly. "I know."

It was the crisis, and into it Mollie intruded with clumsy tread. "Florence," she urged, "Florence, don't listen to him any longer. He must be intoxicated. Come with me!" and she started to drag the girl away.

Without a word, Ben Blair walked across to the door leading into the room beyond, and stood with his hand on the knob.

"Mrs. Baker," he said slowly, "I thought I would not speak an unkind word to-day, no matter what was said to me; but you have offended too often." His glance took in the indolently shapeless figure from head to toe, and back again until he met her eye to eye. "You are the personification of cowardice, of selfishness and snobbery, that makes one despise his kind. For mere personal vanity you would sacrifice your own daughter—your own flesh and blood. Probably we shall never meet again; but if we should, do not dare to speak to me. Do not speak to me now!" He swung open the door, and indicated the passage with a nod of his head. "Go," he said, "and if you are a Christian, pray for a better heart—for forgiveness!"

The woman hesitated; her lips moved, but she was dumb. She wanted to refuse, but the irresistible power in those relentless blue eyes compelled her to obey. Without a word she left the room and closed the door behind her.

Ben Blair came back. The girl had not moved.

"Florence," he said, "there are but twenty minutes left. I ask you again to get ready."

The girl's color rose anew; her blood flowed tumultuously, until she could feel the beating of the pulses at her wrists.

"Ben Blair," she challenged, "you are trying to prevent my marrying another man! Is it not so?"

The rancher folded his arms again.

"I am preventing it," he said.

Florence's brown eyes blazed. She clasped her hands together until the fingers were white.

"You admit it, then!" she cried, looking at her companion steadily, a world of scorn in her face. "I never thought such a thing possible—that you would let your jealousy get the better of you like this!" She paused, and hurled the taunt she knew would hurt him most. "You are the last person on earth I would have selected to become a dog in the manger!"

Ben did not stir, although the brown of his sun-tanned face went white.

"I looked for that," he said simply.

Florence's brown eyes widened in wonder—and in something more—something she did not understand. Her heart was beating more wildly than before. She felt her self-control slipping from her grasp, like a rope through her hands.

"There seems nothing more to be said, then," she said, "except that I will not go."

Even yet Blair did not move.

"You will go. The carriage comes in ten minutes," he reiterated calmly.

The small figure stiffened, the dainty chin tilted in the air.

"I defy you to tell me how you can force me to go!"

It was the supreme moment, but Benjamin Blair showed no trace of excitement or of passion. His folded arms remained passive across his chest.

"Florence Baker, did I ever lie to you?"

The girl's lip trembled. She knew now what to expect.

"No," she said.

"You are quite sure?"

"Yes, I am quite sure."

"Did I ever say I would do anything that I did not do?"

The girl had an all but irrepressible desire to cry out, to cover her face like a child. A flash of anger at her inability to maintain her self-control swept over her.

"No," she admitted. "I never knew you to break your word."

"Very well, then," still no haste, no anger,—only the relentless calm which was infinitely more terrible than either. "I will tell you why of your own choice you will go with me. It is because you value the life of Clarence Sidwell; because, as surely as I have not lied to you or to any human being in the past, there is no power on earth that can otherwise keep me away from him an hour longer."

Realization came instantaneously to Florence Baker and blotted out self-consciousness. The nervous tension vanished as fog before the sun.

"You would not do it," she said, very steadily. "You could not do it!"

Ben Blair said not a word.

"You could not," repeated the girl swiftly; "could not, because you—love me!"

One of the man's hands loosened in an unconscious gesture.

"Don't repeat that, please, or trust in it," he answered. "You misled me once, but you can't mislead me again. It is because I love you that I will do what I said."

There was but one weapon in the arsenal adequate to meet the emergency. With a sudden motion, the girl came close to him.

"Ben, Ben Blair," her arms flashed around the man's neck, the brown eyes—moist, sparkling—were turned to his face, "promise me you will not do it." The dainty throat swelled and receded with her short quick breaths. "Promise me! Please promise me!"

For a second the rancher did not stir; then, very gently, he freed himself and moved a step backward.

"Florence," he said slowly, "you do not know me even yet." He drew out his big old-fashioned silver watch, once Rankin's. "You still have four minutes to get ready—no more, no less."

Silence like that of a death-chamber fell over the bright little dining-room. From the outside came the sound of Mollie's step as she moved back and forth, back and forth, but dared not enter. A boy was clipping the lawn, and the muffled purr of the mower, accompanied by the bit of popular ragtime he was whistling, stole into the room.

Suddenly a carriage drove up in front of the house, and leaping from his seat the driver stood waiting. The door of the vestibule opened, and Scotty himself stepped uncertainly within. At the library entrance he halted, but the odor of the black cigar he was smoking was wafted in.

Through it all, neither of the two in that room had stirred. It would have been impossible to tell what Ben Blair was thinking. His eyes never left the watch in his hand. During the first minute the girl had not looked at her companion. Unappeasable anger seemed personified in her. For half of the next minute she still stood impassive; then she glanced up almost surreptitiously. For the long third minute the eyes held where they had lifted, and slowly over the soft brown face, taking the place of the former expression, came a look that was not of anger or of hatred, not even of dislike, but of something the reverse, something all but unbelievable. Her dark eyes softened. A choking lump came into her throat; and still, in seeming paradox, she was of a sudden happier than at any time she could remember.

Before the last minute was up, before Ben Blair had replaced the watch, she was in the adjoining room saying good-bye to Mollie hurriedly; saying something more,—a thing that fairly took the mother's breath.

"Florence Baker!" she gasped, "you shall not do it! If you do, I will disown you! I will never forgive you—never! never!"

But, unheeding, the girl was already back, and looking into Ben's face. Her eyes were very bright, and there was about her a suppressed excitement that the other did not clearly understand.

"I am ready," she said, "on one condition."

Blair's blue eyes looked a question. In any other mood he would have recognized Florence, but this strange person he hardly seemed to know.

"I am listening," he said.

The girl hesitated, the rosy color mounting to her cheeks. Decision of action was far easier than expression.

"I will go with you," she faltered, "but alone."

A suggestion of the flame on the other's face sprang to the man's also.

"I think, under the circumstances," he stammered, "it would be better to have your father go too."

The dainty brown figure stiffened.

"Very well, then—I will not go!"

The man stood for a moment immovable, with unshifting eyes, like a figure in clay; then, turning, without a word, he started to leave the room. He had almost reached the door, when he heard a voice behind him.

"Ben Blair," it said insistently, "Ben Blair!"

He paused, glanced back, and could scarcely believe his eyes. The girl was coming toward him; but it was a Florence he had not previously known. Her face was rosier than before, red to her very ears and to the waves of her hair. Her chin was held high, and beneath the thin brown skin of the throat the veins were athrob.

"Ben Blair," she repeated intensely, "Ben Blair, can't you understand what I meant? Must I put it into words?" The soft brown eyes were looking at him frankly. "Oh, you are blind, blind!"

For a second, like the lull before the thunderclap, the man did not move; then of a sudden he grasped the girl by the shoulders, and held her at arm's length.

"Florence," he cried, "are you playing with me?"

She spoke no word, but her gaze held his unfalteringly.

Minutes passed, but still the man could not believe the testimony of his eyes. The confession was too unexpected, too incredible. Unconsciously the grip of his hands tightened.

"Am I—mad?" he gasped. "You care for me—you are willing to go—because you love me?"

Even yet the girl did not answer; but no human being could longer question the expression on her face. Ben Blair could not doubt it, and the reflection of love glowing in the tear-wet eyes flashed into his own. The past, with all that it had held, vanished like the memory of an unpleasant dream. The present, the vital throbbing present, alone remained. Suddenly the tense arms relaxed. Another second, and the brown head was upon his shoulder.

"Florence," he cried passionately, "Florence, Florence!"

He could say no more, only repeat over and over her dear name.

"Ben," sobbed the girl, "Ben! Ben!" An interrupting memory drew her to him closer and closer. "I loved you all the time!—loved you!—and yet I so nearly—can you ever forgive me?"

Wondering at the prolonged silence, Scotty came hesitatingly into the library, peered in at the open doorway, and stood transfixed.

THE END



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Adventures of Captain Kettle. Cutcliffe Hyne. Adventures of Gerard. A. Conan Doyle. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. A. Conan Doyle. Alton of Somasco. Harold Bindloss. Arms and the Woman. Harold MacGrath. Artemus Ward's Works (extra illustrated). At the Mercy of Tiberius. Augusta Evans Wilson. Battle Ground, The. Ellen Glasgow. Belle of Bowling Green, The. Amelia E. Barr. Ben Blair. Will Lillibridge. Bob, Son of Battle. Alfred Ollivant. Boss, The. Alfred Henry Lewis. Brass Bowl, The. Louis Joseph Vance. Brethren, The. H. Rider Haggard. By Snare of Love. Arthur W. Marchmont. By Wit of Woman. Arthur W. Marchmont. Cap'n Erie. Joseph C. Lincoln. Captain in the Ranks, A. George Cary Eggleston. Cardigan. Robert W. Chambers. Casting Away of Mrs. Lecks and Mrs. Aleshine. Frank R. Stockton. Circle, The. Katherine Cecil Thurston (author of "The Masquerader," "The Gambler"). Conquest of Canaan, The. Booth Tarkington. Courier of Fortune, A. Arthur W. Marchmont. Darrow Enigma, The. Melvin Severy. Deliverance, The. Ellen Glasgow. Exploits of Brigadier Gerard. A. Conan Doyle. Fighting Chance, The. Robert W. Chambers. For a Maiden Brave. Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. For Love or Crown. Arthur W. Marchmont. Fugitive Blacksmith, The. Charles D. Stewart. Heart's Highway, The. Mary E. Wilkins. Holladay Case, The. Burton Egbert Stevenson. Hurricane Island. H. B. Marriott-Watson. Indifference of Juliet, The. Grace S. Richmond. Infelice. Augusta Evans Wilson. In the Name of a Woman. Arthur W. Marchmont. Lady Betty Across the Water. C. N. and A. M. Williamson. Lane That Had No Turning, The. Gilbert Parker. Leavenworth Case, The. Anna Katharine Green. Lilac Sunbonnet, The. S. R. Crockett. Lin McLean. Owen Wister. Long Night, The. Stanley J. Weyman. Maid at Arms, The. Robert W. Chambers. Man from Red Keg, The. Eugene Thwing. Marathon Mystery, The. Burton Egbert Stevenson. Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. A. Conan Doyle. Millionaire Baby, The. Anna Katharine Green. Missourian, The. Eugene P. Lyle, Jr. My Friend the Chauffeur. C. N. and A. M. Williamson. My Lady of the North. Randall Parrish. Mystery of June 13th. Melvin L. Severy. Mystery Tales. Edgar Allen Poe. Nancy Stair. Elinor Macartney Lane. None But the Brave. Hamblen Sears. Order No. 11. Caroline Abbot Stanley. Pam. Bettina von Hutten. Pam Decides. Bettina von Hutten. Partners of the Tide. Joseph C. Lincoln. Phra the Phoenician. Edwin Lester Arnold. President, The. Alfred Henry Lewis. Princess Passes, The. C. N. and A. M. Williamson. Private War, The. Louis Joseph Vance. Prodigal Son, The. Hall Caine. Queen's Advocate, The. Arthur W. Marchmont. Quickening, The. Francis Lynde. Richard the Brazen. Cyrus Townsend Brady and Edward Peple. Rose of the World. Agnes and Egerton Castle. Sarita the Carlist. Arthur W. Marchmont. Seats of the Mighty, The. Gilbert Parker. Sir Nigel. A. Conan Doyle. Sir Richard Calmady. Lucas Malet. Speckled Bird. Augusta Evans Wilson. Spoilers, The. Rex Beach. Sunset Trail, The. Alfred Henry Lewis. Sword of the Old Frontier, A. Randall Parrish. Tales of Sherlock Holmes. A. Conan Doyle. That Printer of Udell's. Harold Bell Wright. Throwback, The. Alfred Henry Lewis. Trail of the Sword, The. Gilbert Parker. Two Vanrevels, The. Booth Tarkington. Up From Slavery. Booker T. Washington. Vashti. Augusta Evans Wilson. Viper of Milan, The (original edition). Marjorie Bowen. Voice of the People, The. Ellen Glasgow. Wheel of Life, The. Ellen Glasgow. When I Was Czar. Arthur W. Marchmont. When Wilderness Was King. Randall Parrish. Woman in Grey, A. Mrs. C. N. Williamson. Woman in the Alcove, The. Anna Katharine Green.

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A. L. BURT CO., Publishers, 52-58 Duane St., New York City

BURT'S SERIES of STANDARD FICTION.

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

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

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

A COLONIAL FREE-LANCE. A story of American Colonial Times. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

A book that appeals to Americans as a vivid picture of Revolutionary scenes. The story is a strong one, a thrilling one. It causes the true American to flush with excitement, to devour chapter after chapter, until the eyes smart, and it fairly smokes with patriotism. The love story is a singularly charming idyl.

THE TOWER OF LONDON. A Historical Romance of the Times of Lady Jane Grey and Mary Tudor. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.

This romance of the "Tower of London" depicts the Tower as palace, prison and fortress, with many historical associations. The era is the middle of the sixteenth century.

The story is divided into two parts, one dealing with Lady Jane Grey, and the other with Mary Tudor as Queen, introducing other notable characters of the era. Throughout the story holds the interest of the reader in the midst of intrigue and conspiracy, extending considerably over a half a century.

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

Mr. Hotchkiss has etched in burning words a story of Yankee bravery, and true love that thrills from beginning to end, with the spirit of the Revolution. The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves taking a part in the exciting scenes described. His whole story is so absorbing that you will sit up far into the night to finish it. As a love romance it is charming.

GARTHOWEN. A story of a Welsh Homestead. By Allen Raine. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

"This is a little idyl of humble life and enduring love, laid bare before us, very real and pure, which in its telling shows us some strong points of Welsh character—the pride, the hasty temper, the quick dying out of wrath.... We call this a well-written story, interesting alike through its romance and its glimpses into another life than ours. A delightful and clever picture of Welsh village life. The result is excellent."—Detroit Free Press.

MIFANWY. The story of a Welsh Singer. By Allan Raine. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

"This is a love story, simple, tender and pretty as one would care to read. The action throughout is brisk and pleasing; the characters, it is apparent at once, are as true to life as though the author had known them all personally. Simple in all its situations, the story is worked up in that touching and quaint strain which never grows wearisome, no matter how often the lights and shadows of love are introduced. It rings true, and does not tax the imagination."—Boston Herald.

DARNLEY. A Romance of the times of Henry VIII. and Cardinal Wolsey. By G.P.R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

As a historical romance "Darnley" is a book that can be taken up pleasurably again and again, for there is about it that subtle charm which those who are strangers to the works of G.P.R. James have claimed was only to be imparted by Dumas.

If there was nothing more about the work to attract especial attention, the account of the meeting of the kings on the historic "field of the cloth of gold" would entitle the story to the most favorable consideration of every reader.

There is really but little pure romance in this story, for the author has taken care to imagine love passages only between those whom history has credited with having entertained the tender passion one for another, and he succeeds in making such lovers as all the world must love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BURT'S SERIES of STANDARD FICTION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BY BERWEN BANKS. By Allen Raine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Abbe Constantin. By Ludovic Halevy. Abbott. By Sir Walter Scott. Adam Bede. By George Eliot. Addison's Essays. Edited by John Richard Green. Aeneid of Virgil. Translated by John Connington. Aesop's Fables. Alexander, the Great, Life of. By John Williams. Alfred, the Great, Life of. By Thomas Hughes. Alhambra. By Washington Irving. Alice in Wonderland, and Through the Looking-Glass. By Lewis Carroll. Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Blackmore. All Sorts and Conditions of Men. By Walter Besant. Alton Locke. By Charles Kingsley. Amiel's Journal. Translated by Mrs. Humphrey Ward. Andersen's Fairy Tales. Anne of Geirstein. By Sir Walter Scott. Antiquary. By Sir Walter Scott. Arabian Nights' Entertainments. Ardath. By Marie Corelli. Arnold, Benedict, Life of. By George Canning Hill. Arnold's Poems. By Matthew Arnold. Around the World in the Yacht Sunbeam. By Mrs. Brassey. Arundel Motto. By Mary Cecil Hay. At the Back of the North Wind. By George Macdonald. Attic Philosopher. By Emile Souvestre. Auld Licht Idylls. By James M. Barrie. Aunt Diana. By Rosa N. Carey. Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin. Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. By O. W. Holmes. Averil. By Rosa N. Carey. Bacon's Essays. By Francis Bacon. Barbara Heathcote's Trial. By Rosa N. Carey. Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens. Barrack Room Ballads. By Rudyard Kipling. Betrothed. By Sir Walter Scott. Beulah. By Augusta J. Evans. Black Beauty. By Anna Sewell. Black Dwarf. By Sir Walter Scott. Black Rock. By Ralph Connor. Black Tulip. By Alexandre Dumas. Bleak House. By Charles Dickens. Blithedale Romance. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Bondman. By Hall Caine. Book of Golden Deeds. By Charlotte M. Yonge. Boone, Daniel, Life of. By Cecil B. Hartley. Bride of Lammermoor. By Sir Walter Scott. Bride of the Nile. By George Ebers. Browning's Poems. By Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Browning's Poems. (selections.) By Robert Browning. Bryant's Poems. (early.) By William Cullen Bryant. Burgomaster's Wife. By George Ebers. Burn's Poems. By Robert Burns. By Order of the King. By Victor Hugo. Byron's Poems. By Lord Byron. Caesar, Julius, Life of. By James Anthony Froude. Carson, Kit, Life of. By Charles Burdett. Cary's Poems. By Alice and Phoebe Cary. Cast Up by the Sea. By Sir Samuel Baker. Charlemagne (Charles the Great), Life of. By Thomas Hodgkin, D.C.L. Charles Auchester. By E. Berger. Character. By Samuel Smiles. Charles O'Malley. By Charles Lever. Chesterfield's Letters. By Lord Chesterfield. Chevalier de Maison Rouge. By Alexandre Dumas. Chicot the Jester. By Alexandre Dumas. Children of the Abbey. By Regina Maria Roche. Child's History of England. By Charles Dickens. Christmas Stories. By Charles Dickens. Cloister and the Hearth. By Charles Reade. Coleridge's Poems. By Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Columbus, Christopher, Life of. By Washington Irving. Companions of Jehu. By Alexandre Dumas. Complete Angler. By Walton And Cotton. Conduct of Life. By Ralph Waldo Emerson. Confessions of an Opium Eater. By Thomas de Quincey. Conquest of Granada. By Washington Irving. Conscript. By Erckmann-Chatrian. Conspiracy of Pontiac. By Francis Parkman, Jr. Conspirators. By Alexandre Dumas. Consuelo. By George Sand. Cook's Voyages. By Captain James Cook. Corinne. By Madame de Stael. Countess de Charney. By Alexandre Dumas. Countess Gisela. By E. Marlitt.

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Transcriber's notes:

Punctuation normalized.

The phrase "Box R" has been used where a literal cattle brand symbol of the letter R inside two sides of a box was used in the original text. Similarly, an R within a circle indicating a ranch has been rendered as the "Circle R" ranch in this transcription.

Page 113, "life" changed to "city" (The city was part of their life).

Page 210, "clapsed" changed to "clasped" (girls hands were clasped).

Page 341, "Sewall" changed to "Sewell" (Anna Sewell).

THE END