"Our cook only wished to show her respect for you, and to do you honor; but, being a very simple and ignorant negro woman, she did not know how to do so politely and properly," soothingly replied the lady of the house.

"What I would like is to be useful, and to do somethink to help earn my keep. But, with so many folks about the place. I don't see as there's any room for me, or anythink to do; so I reckon I had better vamoose the ranch," said the lady from Wild Cats', but without the least loss of temper.

"I beg you to believe that we are all very much pleased to have you remain with us just as long as you can make it convenient to do so," replied Mrs. Force, with sincere hospitality; for she had nothing but good feeling toward the honest woman who was her chance guest.

"Thanky'. I knowed that. But, you see, I don't want to dress up in my best clothes every day, and sit in the big parlor, with my hands crossed before me in idleness, all day long. It seems like a sinful wasting of time, in one like me, who for cooking, washing and ironing, or scrubbing, sweeping, and dusting, hasn't her betters in this univarsal world!" said the colonel's wife.

"You want something to employ your time——" began Mrs. Force.

"You bet!" interjected her guest.

"Well, then, suppose you let me teach you how to do this silk embroidery. It is beautiful and attractive fancywork, and very easy to learn," said Mrs. Force, holding out her frame, on which was stretched the half-finished cover of a foot cushion.

"What! that rubbish?" disdainfully inquired the Wild Cats' lady. "No, thanky'! You can buy a great deal prettier things than that in any of the fancy stores for less money than the things cost to make it with, let alone the lost time! No, ma'am! If I must waste all the days of my life, let it be in honest, barefaced idleness, like I'm a-doing of now, and not in pretending to work—playing at work, like you ladies here! I beg all your pardons! I never meant no offense, but I'm bound to tell the truth!"

"No offense is taken; but we think our handiwork is a little more real, fine, delicate and substantial than the machine work sold in shops," replied Mrs. Force, in some delicate, deprecating defense of her embroidery.

Before Mrs. Anglesea could reply, the door was opened by Mr. Force, who had just come in from his daily ride around his plantation.

He greeted all the ladies present, and the conversation became general.

A little later on, Leonidas and the girls came in from their walk, and the family party separated to get ready for dinner, and at the usual hour met again around the table.



CHAPTER XLIII

LE GOES TO JOIN HIS SHIP

The next morning Dr. Ingle called to keep an appointment with Miss Meeke. He came in his gig to take her to the village to inspect a certain house that he thought of leasing. But she ordered him to send his gig to the stable, and let his horse rest, while he availed himself of the family carriage in which to take her and her invited company, her little pupils, to see the house on trial.

And these being the days of her power and his slavery, he obeyed without a murmur, and gave up his anticipated tete-a-tete drive with his betrothed, with as good a grace as he could assume.

Miss Meeke then gave her impromptu invitation to her little friends to accompany her in a drive; and, as they eagerly accepted the invitation, she sent Wynnette to order the carriage; all this was done according to a prearrangement with Mrs. Force.

"And we will not interrupt you and Leonidas all day long, for we are going to take lunch with us in the carriage, and we won't be home till night—maybe not till morning!

"'Till daylight doth appear,'"

sang Wynnette, as she kissed her elder sister good-by, before running out to jump into the carriage.

Odalite and Leonidas, standing at the front window of the drawing room, watched their departure until the carriage passed through the west gate and rolled out of sight into the woods beyond.

Then they turned toward the fireplace, around, or near, which their father, mother and guest were seated.

And then it was that Mrs. Force announced to the little group the approaching marriage of Dr. Ingle and Miss Meeke.

"Natalie going to leave us!" exclaimed Mr. Force, in mock despair.

"'I never had a dear gazelle To love me with its soft, dark eye, But came a loafing ne'er-do-well And stole her from me on the sly!'"

"Girls never know what's their own good," said Mrs. Anglesea, in all solemnity; "nor no more won't they learn nothing from experience! One girl marries and comes to grief; another sees that, and marries and comes to grief, also; a third does likewise; a fourth follows suit; and so on to the end of the chapter! Girls are just what I read som'er's or other about them and the pigs and the hot swill. You set a pail of it in the yard, and one pig will run and dip his nose into it, and run off scalded and squealing like mad; another sees that, but, all the same, dips his nose and runs off scalded and squealing like a house afire; and a third does likewise, and a fourth follows suit! And so on till the whole herd are scalded! And the girls are just like that!" concluded the lady from the land of gold.

"Oh, I hope not," said Mrs. Force.

"To leave a good home, where she has full run and plenty of everything, and not a care or a trouble on the face of the earth, and to go and marry a young, country doctor, with his way to make! And I know the way of country doctors, you bet! Oh, yes, they have a large practice and a wide one; but, as to the pay—oh, Lord! they ride scores and scores and scores of miles, day in and day out, and night after night, and never can be sure of a single night's rest or a single meal's vittals from year's end to year's end! But when it comes to pay—Lord bless you! they gets more kicks than halfpence, so to speak!"

"We hope it will fare better with our young couple," said Mr. Force, with a smile.

"Well, go on hoping, man! There's no law agin' it!" said the lady, leaning back in her softly cushioned chair and crossing her fat hands on her lap.

The driving party did not stay out until night, as Wynnette had threatened. The young doctor's professional duties, unprofitable as they might be to himself, would not admit of such a long holiday. They returned to Mondreer in good time for dinner, for which Dr. Ingle, at Mrs. Force's invitation, remained.

But immediately after they arose from the table he made his apologies, entered his gig, which had been brought around to the door, and drove away to make his professional calls.

As soon as he had left, Miss Meeke, overwhelmed with the consciousness of her position, stole away to her own room.

And then Wynnette and Elva, full of the importance of their communication, broke out with their wonderful "pipers' news" that Miss Meeke was going to be married to Dr. Ingle, and they were going to housekeeping in a beautiful, new cottage in the village, and that they—Wynnette and Elva—were to go whenever they pleased to spend weeks and weeks with the newly wedded pair, who would always keep a lovely bedroom for their use.

Every one present had the good nature to receive this story as the very newest news, and to be delightfully surprised and enchanted to hear it.

After dinner the evening passed, as usual during the holiday week, in merry parlor games.

On Sunday the whole family went to church, where, it is pleasant to record, the congregation stared less at the Forces and occupied themselves more with their devotions than they had been able to do on Christmas Day.

"You see," said Wynnette, confidentially, to Elva, on their way home, "that it was better for Odalite to take the bull by the horns at once—to face the music promptly—to break the ice bravely—to take the plunge and have it all over! Oh, you know what I mean well enough, Elf, although you pretend to look so puzzled! I mean, it was wise in Odalite to go to church on Christmas Day, just as usual—just as if nothing had happened there on the Tuesday before—and have it all over! And now it is all over. The great gun is fired, and no one is killed or wounded! That is to say that Odalite has made her first appearance in public after her catastrophe, and she has stood all the staring and has lived through it! And now she has made her second appearance, and escaped all the staring! And the battle has been fought and victory won! Do you understand?"

"I understand a little, but, if you go on explaining, I shall not understand at all," replied Elva, with the cruel candor of childhood.

And the subject was immediately dropped.

On Monday morning, while the family party were gathered in the drawing room, opening their letters and papers, which the mail messenger had just brought from the post office, there came an early visitor.

Tom Grandiere, looking more red-headed, freckle-faced, blushing and blundering than usual, arrived, as the bearer of a verbal invitation to attend an informal party, to be composed mostly of young people, at Oldfield Lodge, on Thursday evening, the thirty-first, to dance the Old Year out and the New Year in.

"But, although," as he bashfully explained, "it was understood and intended to be a young folks' entertainment, yet the elders of the family were invited, and expected to be present with them."

This was quite in accordance with "the custom of the country," or, at least, of the county, as had been shown at the Christmas Eve gathering at Mondreer.

"We thank you very much, and we shall like to go, if we can," said Mrs. Force, as she left her seat and went to the front window, where Odalite stood looking out on the fast-gathering clouds.

"You heard Tom Grandiere's message, dear?" she asked, in a low tone.

"Yes, mamma," answered Odalite, who slipped a letter into her pocket.

"Then it depends on you, dear, whether we accept the invitation or not. If you prefer to stay quietly at home, be sure that we shall not go and leave you alone."

"Then I prefer to go, mamma. I could not bear that the children should be disappointed. And, indeed," she added, seeing that her mother hesitated, "I shall enjoy going."

"Very well, dear," said Mrs. Force. And she went back and spoke to Tom Grandiere, accepting, in the name of her whole family, the invitation of which he was the bearer.

Tom then arose, and, saying that he had yet to go to a good many other houses, took leave and departed.



CHAPTER XLIV

ANGLESEA AGAIN

Mrs. Force went up to her daughter, and said:

"Come with me to my own room. I have something to say to you."

Odalite immediately followed her mother to that little parlor which had been the scene of so many critical interviews.

When the door was shut, and the mother and daughter were seated together before the fire, the lady inquired:

"Odalite, my love, what letter was that which you received by this morning's mail, and put into your pocket the moment I joined you at the window?"

"Oh, mamma, it was a little note that would only have given you pain!" said Odalite, shrinking.

"Yet what was it? Tell me."

"It was a letter from him, mother, written on Saturday morning, an hour before he sailed for Liverpool. It was directed on the outside to Miss Odalite Force, but, on the inside, to Mrs. Angus Anglesea."

"The serpent! He knew full well that, if he had presumed to offer us such an affront as to give you his name where your father could see it, the insult would never have been permitted to reach your eyes! Where is the letter, Odalite? Let me see it."

The girl took the paper from its envelope, and, in wrath and scorn, read as follows:

"To Mrs. Angus Anglesea: My wife—for wife you are, despite all the false testimony brought forward to separate us—I was forced by circumstances to depart from you without a last farewell; yet I cannot deny myself the privilege of writing to you a last letter before I leave the country—to assure you that I am your lawful husband, lord and master, who will never yield one jot or tittle of his rights to mortal man or woman, but who will contest them, if need be, through every court in the country; and, if driven to extremity, will defend them at the sword's point. I refer you to your mother for proofs in her possession—proofs which I gave her, and which must convince you that our marriage was a perfectly regular and legal transaction, and that you are, therefore, my lawful wife, and I exhort you to be wise, prudent and faithful to your marriage bonds; for, be assured, I am not one who will brook offense, but who will follow with swift, sharp vengeance the slightest infringement of my rights. I remain, and I intend to remain, until death, your husband,

Angus Anglesea. "New York, December —, 18—."

When Mrs. Force had read this delectable epistle, she tossed it into the fire, where it quickly blazed up and burned to ashes.

"There!" she said. "It is gone. Forget it, my dear. It was nothing but the vain boast of a brute, a coward and a braggadocio! He is on the ocean now, a fugitive from justice—yes, my dear, no less. He could not stay in this country without the danger of being prosecuted for bigamy, and sent to the State prison. He dared not stay and face that peril. In all human probability, we shall never see him again."

"But, mamma, has he—can he have—any claim on me? He referred me to you for proof that he has. What proof did he mean, mamma?" pleaded the girl.

"I do not believe that he has any claims on you, Odalite," gravely replied the lady.

"But, mamma, do you know that he has not?" inquired poor Odalite, in an access of anxiety.

"He has no claim that either the law or the gospel would sustain, or that your father would admit for a single instant."

"Oh, mamma, but has he any? Oh, mother, dear mother, speak plainly to me! He referred me to you for proofs that the marriage of last Tuesday was a lawful one. What proofs? What did he mean, mother?" pleaded Odalite, wringing her hands in growing doubt and distress.

"He meant to brag, to boast, to threaten to make you grieve, fear and suffer—the brute, the poltroon, the miscreant!" hissed the lady, stamping her foot.

"But, mother—oh, mother—the proofs, the proofs he spoke of!" persisted Odalite, white with dread.

"They are no proofs of anything; but I will tell you what he was writing of. Two days after the scene at the All Faith Church, while your father and your cousin were both out, that outlying brigand seized the opportunity for which he had been watching, and came in here to see and threaten me."

"Oh, mother, dear mother!" said Odalite, in tender compassion.

"Never mind, my child. He is away now, thank Heaven! His talk to me was all of a piece with his letters to you. That is enough to say about it—except that, during the interview, he told me something that I believe to be a mere tissue of falsehoods."

"And what was that, mamma?"

"He told me—think of the audacity and shamelessness of such an avowal!—he told me that at the time he married the Widow Wright, at St. Sebastian, he had a wife living in London."

"Oh, mother!" said Odalite, with a low cry of horror.

"To prove it, he took a slip of paper from his pocketbook, which he said was cut from the London Times, and which he said that he had received while staying at Niagara with us. It was, in fact, the notice of the death of his wife, and, if I remember rightly, it ran something like this:

"'Died.—Suddenly, at Anglewood Manor, on August twenty-fifth, in the forty-ninth year of her age, Lady Mary, eldest daughter of the late and sister of the present Earl of Middlemoor, and wife of Col. the Hon. Angus Anglesea, late of the H.E.I.C.S.'

"There, Odalite, I have tried to reproduce from memory the proof that he produced to establish as facts that his first wife was living at the time of his marriage with the Widow Wright, which was, consequently, not binding, and that she died some months before his marriage with yourself, which is, according to him, lawful and binding."

"Oh, mother—mother! There seems to be no doubt of it!" wailed Odalite, throwing her arms over the table and dropping her head upon it in a sudden collapse of despair.

"Even if there were no doubt about the matter—even if he has a legal claim upon you—it is not a moral or Christian one, but a technicality which your father will never admit, even if that man should dare to come back and urge it."

"But, oh, mother, he will come back, some time, when he thinks the danger past, and he will put the screws upon you and me as he did before! He will make me declare that my happiness depends upon my reunion to him, my 'legal husband.' He will make you plead with my father to give me up without bringing the matter into court!" said Odalite, moaning, rather than speaking the words.

"Even if he should—even if you should declare that you wished to be reunited to that monster of wickedness, and even if I were to plead your cause, I tell you that your father would not only see you unhappy, but he would see you dead, before he would give you up to Angus Anglesea! He would prosecute him, and settle his claim in that way. But, Odalite, I do not believe that notice of his wife's death to be just what it purported to be, or just what he represented it to be."

"What do you mean, mother, dear? How can you doubt, when you yourself saw the printed slip, with name, place, day and date, family relations—all complete? Ah, me! I wish there was room for doubt!"

"There is wide room for doubt. The date of the day and of the month is given, but not the date of the year, in that slip; and I saw nothing but the slip, not the paper it was cut from. How, then, do I know that his first wife did not die on August twenty-fifth, two years ago, or ten years ago, instead of in August of this year? It would be like him to produce an old obituary notice for purposes of deception."

"Oh-h-h!" exclaimed Odalite, as the new light of hope dawned on her mind.

"I confess that I did not think of this view of the case when he first showed me this notice, and, therefore, I was utterly bowed down by the sight of it. But now, the more I reflect upon it, the more convinced I feel that it was the notice of a death in an August of some previous year. Why, now I think of it, the very paper was soft and dark, and the printing was blurred, as by age and handling."

"Oh, mother, if I could but be certain that I am free!" sighed Odalite.

"Be certain of this—that you are free from him. He dare not return to this country to annoy you. He may write you threatening letters. Put them in the fire, and forget them."

"And—and—and—dear, true, noble Le!" sighed the girl.

"Of course, there must be no thought of an engagement between Leonidas and yourself. He has given me his word of honor that there shall not be. You may correspond as brother and sister; but his letters to you must, as a mere matter of prudence, come under cover to me. In three years Le will return to us. Much may happen in three years! But, in the meantime, oh, my daughter! 'keep innocency!'"



CHAPTER XLV

NEW YEAR'S EVE

For three days and nights the snow fell, covering all the ground for some feet deep.

Never, in the memory of the people, had such a snowfall been seen in that section. Yet it could scarcely be called a snowstorm, for there was no wind, not a single whiff, and therefore, of course, no snowdrifts. The snow fell slowly, evenly, steadily, dropping over the earth a soft, thick, white mantle.

"We shall be all snowed up, and there's an end to our New Year's dance at Oldfield," said Wynnette, as she stood at the front window of the little parlor, on the third day of the snowfall, looking drearily out over the white earth and powdering sky.

"It can't snow forever!" exclaimed Elva, who was seated at the center table, playing "jacks" with hazelnuts.

"I believe it will snow forever! It looks like it. Just look out and see! All the low fences are covered, and nothing but the tops of the high fences can be seen, and the Scotch firs are so loaded down with snow I should think the limbs would snap right off! And it is still snowing as steadily as ever! It just reminds one of the snowbound traveler at the 'Holly Tree Inn,' when—'It snowed, and it snowed, and it snowed, and it continued to snow, and it never ceased from snowing.' No, nor it never will!" said Wynnette, flattening her nose against the cold window pane.

"Call this snow?" rather slightingly demanded the lady from Wild Cats', as she sat in front of the wood fire, with her feet on the fender and her skirts drawn up to toast her shins, while she was eating hazelnuts, of which she had a lap full, and which she cracked with her strong, white teeth. "Call this snow, indeed! You don't know what snow is! Hush, honeys! You ought to see the Nevadas after a midwinter snowfall! Yes! where whole trains of wagons are stopped and whole camps snowed up, until all hands perish of cold and hunger. Don't tell me! You don't know nothin' about snow here." And she stopped talking to put another nut between her teeth and crack it.

"I wouldn't mind if it wasn't for the New Year's Eve party," said Wynnette.

"Never mind, it will be clear to-morrow. You know we never do have more than three days at a time of any sort of bad weather—wind, or rain, or snow, or anything! I am sure it will clear off to-morrow," hopefully suggested Elva, deftly throwing a "jack" into the air and snatching two from the table in time to catch the falling one.

"I know it won't be clear to-morrow! Just look how it comes. I can hardly see the fir trees now through the thick falling powder. No! it is going to keep on this way forever and ever," growled Wynnette, who was, for her, in a very despondent mood.

Next day, being New Year's Eve, it did clear off, however. And in the most delightful way. Not with a high wind, as it often does, to drift the new-fallen snow and obstruct the roads and make matters worse than before; but with a still, cold, bright, frosty air that hardened the snow and glazed its surface and made—such splendid sleighing.

"Oh, good-morning, Sun!" said little Elva, standing at the front window of the parlor and looking eastward. "Good-morning, Sun! We are very glad to see you again!"

"After your uncommonly bad behavior in sulking and hiding yourself for the last three days," added Wynnette, who was now standing beside her youngest sister.

"You wrong the beautiful and benignant sun, Wynnette, dear," said Miss Meeke, coming up behind them. "The sun is always shining for us. The earth turns around from the sun, and it is night—turns toward him, and it is day. The earth wanders far away from the sun, and it is winter—comes toward him again, and it is summer. But the sun shines in the empyrean all the time, wherever the earth may be. Fogs and mists arise from the land and water, condense in clouds, and obscure his glorious face, but they come down in rain or snow, clearing the atmosphere, and we say the sun shines again, when, in truth, he has been shining all the time. And as it is with the sun and earth, dear children, so it is with our Father in heaven and ourselves. We turn away from Him, and our souls grow dark; we turn to Him again, and we receive His light. We wander far from Him into selfishness and worldliness, and we suffer a spiritual coldness and blindness; we come back to Him, and we are warmed and enlightened by His love and His wisdom. Sometimes doubts and fears and hates—the opposites of faith and hope and love—arise from our lower nature and hide from us the face of our Father in heaven; but He has not changed. He is always ready to bless us when we turn again to Him—turn in truth and love, children, not in terror and self-seeking. So, dear ones, when clouds and storms darken the atmosphere, think of the sun that is shining above them; and when doubts and fears and sorrows and temptations come, think of the love and wisdom and power of our Father in heaven, and turn to Him for light and strength and guidance."

Miss Meeke's little lesson was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Force, who gave a cheery good-morning to the young trio, and then said:

"Well, my dears, after all you have the prospect of a very pleasant afternoon and evening. The sun, you see, has come out brightly. The snow is frozen as hard as a rock. The moon is full to-night. The sleighing will be capital both in going and coming, and you will have the moonlight in coming home."

"There will be eight of us to go, papa," said Wynnette, beginning to count on her fingers. "There will be you and mamma, two; Le and Odalite, four; Elva and I, six; and Miss Meeke and Mrs. Anglesea, eight. Can we all go in one sleigh? It will be so much jollier if we can."

"With a little sociable crowding, which no one will object to on a cold winter night, we can all go in one sleigh—the largest one, of course, and with four draught horses, equally of course."

While he spoke Mrs. Anglesea came in, eating a large pippin. She bade a general good-morning with her mouth full, took the chair which Mr. Force politely placed for her before the fire, hoisted her stoutly booted feet on the fender, drew up the edge of her skirt to toast her shins as usual, and went on eating her apple, remarking that it had cleared off very cold, and that she always ate an apple before breakfast, when she could get one, to help her digestion.

Now no one could look at the lady from the gold mines and imagine that there was, ever had been, or ever could be, anything the matter with her digestion; but Mr. Force replied that it was no doubt a very healthy habit.

"You bet!" exclaimed the lady from Wild Cats', "Why, old man, if you was to eat an apple every day before breakfast, or better still, two or three of them, it would clarify your liver and take some o' that yellowness out'n your skin, and give you an appetite, and put some flesh on them bare bones of your'n. You bet!"

Mr. Force bowed gravely, thanked her, and said he would think of it.

Other members of the family dropped in, as it was now near the breakfast hour. And the conversation ran on the clear, crisp day, the fine sleighing opportunities, and the coming dance of the evening. All was pleasant anticipation. The day was spent in preparations.

It was still an hour to sundown when the whole family, including, of course, the guest, after an early tea, and being well wrapped up in hooded cloaks and heavy shawls, entered a capacious sleigh, lined with bearskins, furnished with foot warmers, and drawn by four strong horses, covered their laps with more bearskins and started for Oldfield.

The full moon was rising over the bay on the east, and the sun was sinking behind the high, wooded hill on the west, as they passed out of the south gate and entered the turnpike road that skirted the hill and then ran parallel to the shore of the bay all the way to Oldfield Farm. It was a fine, level road along the shore, and they had a delightful sleigh ride over the frozen snow, which, in a little more than an hour's time, brought them to Oldfield Farm. The approach from the bay side was through a pine wood, from which, when they emerged, they came in view of the house, which was lighted up from garret to ground floor. Half a dozen or more of other sleighs, which had brought company to the farm, and from which the horses had been taken and led to the stable, stood in the yard.

The negro boy, Dan, no longer ragged, as when we first made his acquaintance at Grove Hill, but dressed neatly in his new Christmas suit, came to the horses' heads, while Mr. Force and Leonidas got out to assist the ladies and children to alight.

"Marse Abul," said Dan, apologetically, "I can take dese horses to de stable, an' put all dese b'arskins in de lof', an' 'vite Uncle Jake inter de kitchen, but I 'spects I'll hab ter leabe de big sleigh out yere, caze dere ain't no room in de stable fo' all dese yer big sleighs in de yard. 'Sides w'ich, it bein' ob a cl'ar night, de sleigh won't take no harm."

"All right; leave the sleigh here, my boy," said Mr. Force, drawing his wife's arm within his own, and leading the way into the lighted passage, followed by all the rest of his party.

On the right side of the passage was an open door, leading into a room in which tables along the walls were covered with Christmas goodies; while on the left hand was another room, in which were gathered about thirty people, young, middle-aged and old—some sitting down, some standing in groups, some walking about in pairs, and all talking at once, and no one listening, apparently.

At the end of the hall, directly opposite the front door, there was a flight of steps leading to the rooms above, and up these stairs our party went to take off their wraps. In the upper passage there were doors on the right and left leading into bedrooms. At one of these doors, on the right, stood Peggy Grandiere, ready to show the lady guests into their dressing room; at the opposite door, on the left, stood Sam Grandiere, ready to show the gentlemen into theirs.

Here, of course, our set divided and followed their guides—Mr. Force and Leonidas going one way and Mrs. Force and her party the other.

In the ladies' room they found a good, open fire, and the colored girl Henny in attendance; but there was none of the company present besides themselves, except Miss Sibby Bayard, who was standing before the glass, settling a smart cap made of white Irish gauze and white satin ribbon on her head.

"Good-evening! That's right! I am glad to see you all here! Be merry while you may, sez I; for you don't often get the chance, sez I!"

Such was her general greeting of the party; but after she had fixed her cap to her mind, she turned around and shook hands with every individual.

When Mrs. Force and her party had laid off their wraps, they stood up in the same costumes they had worn at their own Christmas Eve dance. There was no extravagance, and but little variety of dressing in that neighborhood.

A changing of boots for slippers, a little shaking down of slightly rumpled skirts, a little touching up of slightly disarranged hair, a drawing on and buttoning of kid gloves, and they were all ready.

Their two gentlemen met them at the chamber door, and they went down together.

Their entrance seemed to complete the expected company, and to give the signal for "the opening of the ball," for before seats could be found for the elders of the party the musicians, consisting of two negro fiddlers, a tambourine and a banjo player, struck the stirring, old-fashioned tune of the "Fisher's Hornpipe." And gentlemen immediately took their partners—Mr. Force led out Mrs. Anglesea; Leonidas took Odalite; Ned and Sam Grandiere, Wynnette and Elva, for one set. William Elk and Thomas Grandiere, the elders, took respectively Miss Sukey Grandiere and Miss Sibby Bayard; Dr. Ingle and Roland Bayard took respectively Natalie Meeke and Rosemary Hedge. These formed the second set. There was not room enough in the farmhouse parlor for a third set, so about half the company had to wait their turn; but they amused themselves very well in the interim by listening to the music, watching the dancers, gossiping, flirting, and making flying excursions into the dining room for refreshment in the form of plum cake, pound cake, raisins and almonds, and sugar kisses, lemon punch, apple toddy, or eggnogg.

When the first quadrilles were completed, another set of dancers took the place of the first, and the former rested on their laurels, watched their successors on the floor, gossiped and flirted, and made flying excursions to the dining room in their turn.

And high festivity continued until the tall clock in the passage struck twelve, when the music stopped in the middle of "Malbrook," and all then mingled together, shaking hands and wishing each other

"Happy New Year."

Then all the dancers formed a double line the whole length of the parlor, for the giddy, whirling, exhilarating Virginia reel, with which the ball ended.

Finally, there went around a huge jug of hot mulled port wine, from which a goblet was filled for every guest.

And when this had been drunk amid much jesting and laughter, the company put on their wraps and hoods, bade good-night to their hosts, entered their sleighs, and, with more jesting and more laughter, started for a moonlight drive over the frozen snow to their several homes.

And so ended the New Year's Eve party at Oldfield Farm.



CHAPTER XLVI

THE LADY FROM THE MINES HAS A PLAN

New Year's morning dawned clear and cold.

The family of Mondreer, on account of the party at Oldfield on the previous evening, and the long sleigh ride home "in the wee, sma' hours" before the dawn, slept later than usual that day, so that it was nine o'clock before they were all gathered around the breakfast table, to renew their New Year's greetings over the first morning meal of the year.

The pleasant party of the previous evening was discussed, and then the program of the passing day.

The holiday was to be kept very unostentatiously.

It had been the annual custom of many years for Mr. and Mrs. Force to entertain the Rev. Dr. and Mrs. Peters to dinner at Mondreer on New Year's Day. The custom had not been neglected on the present occasion, and the rector of All Faith and his wife were expected to come. Young Dr. Ingle, in consideration of his betrothal to Natalie Meeke, had been invited to meet the Peters.

These were the only arrangements for keeping New Year's Day at Mondreer.

As there was no church service on that day, the party from the rectory arrived early in the forenoon, for the people of the neighborhood, even on festive occasions, kept the healthful, old-fashioned hours, and dined soon after noon. The rector and his wife were a fine old couple, without children at home, and very much devoted to each other.

Mrs. Anglesea, efflorescent in a cardinal-red damasse silk, and heavy gold jewelry, seized upon the clerical pair instantly as her own especial prey, because they were new acquaintances, who had not heard the story of her marriage, her robbery and her desertion by her husband, from her own lips.

Mrs. Anglesea took so much pleasure in telling her tale that Wynnette, in her pungent way, said that the lady from the Wild Cats' Gulch was a reincarnation of the spirit of the Ancient Mariner, with the variation that to her every new acquaintance was a "wedding guest," to whom she was bound to tell her story. And that for all the sufferings the injured wife had endured she found full compensation in the narration of her great wrongs, and in the abuse of the enormous villainy of her husband.

And facts really bore out Wynnette's theory.

"Now! What do you think of Angus Anglesea for a gentleman and an officer?" demanded Mrs. Anglesea of the rector and his wife, when she had finished her relation.

"We must not judge. We must forgive," said the mild minister.

"'Forgive!'" echoed the lady from the mines. "'Forgive!' I like that; but you are a man, parson, and of course you will take sides with a man, and want me to 'forgive' him. Set him up with it, and you, too! But I'll put it to your ole 'oman here," she added, turning to the rector's wife. "Now see here, ma'am. Take it home, and put yourself in my place. Suppose now that your ole man, the parson there, had a-gone, and a-married of you, and then a-gone and robbed of you of all your money, and levanted off some'er's and married some other 'oman. Could you have 'forgive' him? I put it to yourself now. Answer me."

But the mere hypothesis that the venerable and reverend Dr. Peters could ever by any possibility have been guilty of such misdemeanors was so overwhelming, not to say paralyzing, that the minister's wife could only drop her jaw, open her mouth, and stare.

"I'll forgive that devil after he is well hanged, and not a half a second before. 'Cause it wouldn't be safe, nohow."

The entrance of young Dr. Ingle put an end to the subject. He had heard the story of the lady's wrongs so often that he did not need to hear any part of it repeated.

Mrs. Force, her three daughters, and Miss Meeke, soon filed in, and the conversation became general.

Mr. Force and Leonidas entered soon after, and only in time for dinner.

The afternoon was passed in chess, music and conversation, and after an early tea Dr. and Mrs. Peters bade good-by to their entertainers and started for their home.

Dr. Ingle lingered longer—in fact, until after ten o'clock, the usual bedtime at Mondreer, and then at length he said good-night and went away.

But the family of Mondreer did not immediately retire on the departure of their last guest.

Was not this the first of January? And was not their dear Leonidas to leave them on the second?

They could not bid him good-night so soon. They lingered in the drawing room long after the departure of their last guest.

Mrs. Anglesea, who had by her fine animal instincts scented out the state of affairs in the family which entertained her, watched Leonidas and Odalite with lynx eyes.

"Them young uns is sweethearts," she said, in an aside to Miss Meeke, as she pointed to the youthful pair, who, seated on the cushioned sill of the bay window, were exchanging their last confidences. "Them young uns is sweethearts, as sure as you're born. And why she didn't choose him, instead of choosing my beat, beats me. But perhaps the match was made up all along of the old folks. Shouldn't wonder. Not I! But if they are fond o' one another, why, in the name o' sense, can't the knot be tied afore he goes to sea? They'd be a heaper better contented in parting from one another if they knowed that they belonged to each other, certain sure, no matter what might happen."

"Yes," replied Miss Meeke. "I think that they are lovers still. And I know that they were engaged to be married before he went to sea the first time, and they would have been married on his return from his first voyage if Col. Anglesea had not come between them. I betray no confidence in telling you this, for the whole county knows it well."

"To be sure they do. Why, didn't I hear all about it before ever I entered into this house? You just bet I did. But why she ever could have thrown over that fine young fellow for my old rascal is more than I can tell."

"I suppose he fascinated her in some way," suggested Natalie.

"You bet your pile on that. Lord! how that man could make love when he tried! Why, there was poor John, my first husband, poor, dear fellow!—that ever I should have forgot him so far as to take up with this furriner!—poor John, after keeping company with me for more'n a year, and never saying a word to me about love, or his heart, or anything, though we knew how it was with each other well enough, one summer Sunday night, when the moon was a-shining bright as day, he kind o' loitered at the gate, and sort o' kicked the gravel slowlike with his foot, and then said:

"'Well, Marier, when hed I better speak to the ole man?'

"And I said: 'Fust time you see him, John.' And that was all. Every word of love-making that passed betwixt us two until we was married."

"He was a plain, good, honest man," put in Miss Meeke.

"You bet your pile on that! And you won't lose nothing by it! He was a good, true man, and so I found him, else I shouldn't a-followed of him all round the world, and out to Wild Cats' Gulch! But as for this other fellow! Lord! Why, from the minute he made up his mind to marry and rob me, he did nothing but make love! Lord, how he could do it! Like a play-actor! Why, honey, one time he fell on his knees before me and looked up in my face in such a way! And what on earth can an ordinary 'oman do when a man goes down on his marrow bones and rolls up his eyes like a dying duck? She has to sort o' give in to him whether she wants to or not! for fear he'd get worse, and have a fit, and do hisself a mischief of some sort! And all the time, dear, it wasn't the poor Californy widow he was after; but her poor, dear, dead-and-gone husband's pile, as he had made by the sweat of his brow, and lost his life in making, too! He fashionated me into marrying of him and trusting of him until he levanted with all my money! And he fashionated that young girl there until she throwed over her own true love for him! But his fashionations don't last long after he is found out—that is one good thing! Leastways they didn't with me, and they don't seem to have done so with her. I come to my senses soon's ever I found out as he had robbed me and run away. And she come to hers soon's ever she found out he had a lawful wife living. But now that the grand vilyun is out of the way, and the young turtledoves has made it all up, why can't they be married before he goes off to sea?" earnestly inquired the Californian lady.

"I wish to Heaven it might be done!" fervently exclaimed Natalie, who, in the happiness of her own love-life, felt a deep sympathy for the young pair in the bay window.

"And why might it not, then? That is what I want to know. There's no lawful impediment why them two mightn't be made one right off! My scamp can't have any claim on her to hinder of it! Good Lord! No! I should think not! When here I am his lawful wife, alive, and likely to live! And a man can't have two wives, in this State, at least! So why can't them young uns be married, and made happy right away?"

"I wish it could be done; but I feel sure that it could not."

"But why, in the name o' common sense?"

"Because neither Mr. nor Mrs. Force would entertain such a plan for a moment. They would consider it indelicate and undignified in all parties concerned to marry their daughter to any other suitor, even though that suitor were Mr. Leonidas Force, so soon after the breaking off of her marriage ceremony with her late bridegroom-expectant," replied Natalie.

"Fiddle-faddle!" exclaimed the lady from Wild Cats'. "I think it is hard enough for poor human natur' to keep the commandments of the Lord and the laws of the land without having to be bound by a passel of fiddle-faddle fancies!"

"My private opinion is," said Natalie, "that the young couple will yet marry; but not until he shall return from his next voyage. And they are both young enough to wait."



CHAPTER XLVII

LEONIDAS LEAVES MONDREER

"Aunty," said Leonidas, taking the hand of Odalite, and leading her up to Mrs. Force, who stood before the grand piano, putting away the sheets of music before closing the instrument—"aunty, dear, I am not going away to-morrow."

"What now?" inquired the lady, in some uneasiness.

"I mean I am not going away to-morrow morning. I can go to-morrow night, and be in time to join my ship on the third. It will be a close shave, as to time, auntie; but then, it will give me twelve more hours with you all. Twelve precious hours! Aunty, are you sorry? You look so grave."

"No, dear boy, I am glad to have you until the last possible moment. I only regret that you have to go at all," kindly replied Mrs. Force.

"Yaw! Oh, Lord! I could crack my jawbones a-gasping! Never was so sleepy in my life! Say, good folks, ain't it time to go to bed? After being up most all night, and not even getting a wink of sleep this morning."

The suggestion came from the lady from the gold diggings, of course; and it was so speedily acted upon—especially since Leonidas had announced his intention of deferring his departure until the next night—that in less than half an hour the parties had separated and retired to their several bedrooms.

The next day was the last that Leonidas Force would spend at Mondreer for three years, at least.

All that day Mr. Force was closeted with his overseer, in his office, looking over the farm books and making up the accounts for the year just closed.

Mrs. Force was merciful, and told Leonidas and Odalite to spend this last day as they pleased.

The young couple, warmly clothed, set out through the splendid winter sunshine and over the crisply frozen snow to walk to Greenbushes.

They went out by the north gate, through the woods, across Chincapin Creek, and so on to the farmhouse.

They took the housekeeper by surprise indeed; but they never could take her unprepared.

She soon laid as dainty a repast upon the table as two young people, with healthy appetites sharpened by a brisk walk through the winter woods, ever sat down to and enjoyed.

The two lingered over that meal, playing at housekeeping, playing at being master and mistress at their own table.

When they were tired of that little drama they went all through the house, Odalite seeing the improvements that had been made there during the weeks of her absence.

"All this new furniture is to be packed up or covered over, and the rooms are to be closed up, and only opened occasionally to be dried or aired. And, my darling of darlings, I mean never to live in this house until I can bring you here as its mistress. I ask no promise from you, my dear, for I must not; but I can and will give you mine," said Leonidas, earnestly.

"Le, dear, you do not need a promise from me, nor I from you. We know and can trust each other, dear. And, Le, I will come over here once every week to open and air the rooms and inspect the furniture, so that nothing shall come to harm from ignorance or neglect. And, Le, this weekly work will be my happiest employment, except that of writing to you."

"Dear Odalite, now I feel that you are my own again. This weekly work, as you call it, will be a sign between us. It will be your own house you will be watching over, darling. And when I return from this voyage, if all should go well with us, we will settle down here, and I will never go to sea again. We two shall not be so very old when I come home again. You will be twenty, and I will be twenty-five."

She smiled up in his face in her old arch manner, but made no reply in words.

When they had gone through all the rooms, as it was some time after noon, they took leave of Greenbushes and of the old servants, and set out to return to Mondreer.

They varied their walk by going down the wooded hill to the bay and walking along the shore until they reached Mondreer, and up the wooded hill again to the mansion.

"This is our last walk by the shore for three years to come; but it is also the happiest we have had since my return from sea; for now we fully understand and trust one another," said Le, as they re-entered the house.

The short winter afternoon was drawing to a close. The sun was just above the wooded hills on the western horizon, and the moon had not yet risen above the bay.

It had been arranged that Mr. Force, Odalite, Wynnette and Elva should accompany their cousin to the distant railway to see him off—"to see the last of him," as Wynnette put it, in a tragi-comic air. They were to go in the large sleigh, drawn by a pair of draught horses driven by Jake.

Tea had been ordered at half-past five o'clock, and the sleigh was to be brought to the door at six. By that time the moon would be up and the road lightened.

The servants were punctual. At the appointed hour the whole family gathered around the tea table, and by much tea drinking and more talking and laughing, tried to enliven the gloom of the last hour.

As soon as tea was over, the girls flew off upstairs to put on hooded cloaks and shawls and overshoes for their moonlight sleigh ride. Leonidas put on his ulster and seal cap, and then made a round of the house and the stables and quarters to bid good-by to all the servants, who gave him many prayers and blessings, after the manner of their warm hearts.

When he returned to the hall he found Mr. Force and the three girls already packed in the sleigh under heaps of bearskins.

"Make your adieus as brief as possible, my dear boy! It is necessary to 'speed the parting guest,' or he will not catch the train, and then what will become of his official honor?" called out Mr. Force from the sleigh.

Le caught his aunt in his arms and kissed her while he received her blessing. Then he embraced Miss Meeke, who cried over him a little. Finally he gave his hand to Mrs. Anglesea to bid her a respectful and friendly good-by; but that affectionate creature caught him in her arms and pressed him to her bosom, saying, when she had kissed him heartily:

"Lord bless you, young un! I don't care if you do miss the train and fail to report for duty and get court-martialed and dismissed the service; for then yer can stay home and marry your gal—and let honor be hanged and the service go to Old Scratch! You'll be happy with your fine farm and your pretty wife."

"Come, come, Le! My dear fellow, come!" called Mr. Force.

Leonidas broke away from the kindly arms that held him and hurried into the sleigh, which started off so suddenly that the young midshipman literally dropped into the seat that had been kept for him beside Odalite.

The sleigh sped over the snow-clad, moonlit ground, through the north gate of the lawn and into the forest.

Before reaching Chincapin Creek it turned off to the left and took the road to the railway station.

Their way lay through the forest for many a mile. Odalite and Leonidas sat in the back seat, covered with the same bearskin, and with their hands clasped together. Very few words passed between them. But the frequent hand pressures silently spoke.

Wynnette and Elva sat in front of them, and chattered incessantly to encourage themselves and their party, very much upon the same principle that boys are said to whistle in going through a churchyard at night, to keep up their spirits—for the children loved their cousin dearly and hated to part from him.

Mr. Force sat on the front seat beside Jake, who drove.

The horses went at full speed and fairly flew over the ground.

When they emerged at last from the forest they saw the lights in the railway station gleaming in the distance, and soon after heard the far-off thunder of the approaching train.

"Faster, Jacob! Faster!" cried Mr. Force. "Oh, Le, my boy, what a close shave this is! How much you have risked for the sake of spending a few more hours with us!"

"Well, I gained the hours, and I shall catch the train!" exclaimed the young man, as the sleigh suddenly pulled up before the ticket office at the same instant that the train ran into the station.

"Don't get out! there's no time!" exclaimed Le, as he suddenly strained Odalite to his bosom, kissed her passionately and started from his seat. A hasty handshake with his uncle and then with Jake, both of whom called blessings down on him; a hasty kiss to Wynnette and Elva, both of whom burst out crying and bellowed lustily; then a last long kiss again to his dear Odalite, who received it in a suffocating silence; and the next moment the young man had jumped from the sleigh and disappeared in the station, and almost immediately the train went on.

The party in the sleigh waited in total silence but for the sobs of Wynnette and Elva, until the train had passed out of sight and hearing.

"I thought he might have missed it, but he has not," said Mr. Force.

"Oh, I wish, I wish he had!" sobbed Elva.

"But what would have become of his honor, my dear?" questioned her father.

"Oh, I don't care a pin for that sort of honor, any more than Mrs. Anglesea does! I wanted him—I loved him!" sobbed Elva.

"I don't see why people should part when they don't want to and are not obliged to, just for a notion!" cried Wynnette.

"Drive home, Jacob. But not too fast. We can spare the horses now," said Mr. Force.

And the coachman turned the horses' heads and took the homeward road.

They arrived at Mondreer at ten o'clock and found Mrs. Force, Mrs. Anglesea and Miss Meeke cozily sitting around the parlor fire and watching a jug of hot mulled port wine which the mistress had brewed for the returning cold and benumbed travelers.

Mrs. Force took Odalite in her arms and kissed her in silent sympathy, while Mrs. Anglesea occupied herself with the congenial task of pouring out the hot, spiced wine into glass goblets for the party.

They all sat around the table—those who had gone abroad and those who had stayed at home—and every one partook of the warming and exhilarating beverage, while Mr. Force related what a fine sleigh ride they had had, and how Le caught his train just in the nick of time.

They all drank Le's health in a final glass, and then separated, and retired to rest.



CHAPTER XLVIII

A WEDDING AT MONDREER

How they missed Leonidas at Mondreer can be felt by all who have ever had a dear one leave the family for an absence of years in far distant lands.

In the city such a loss is felt painfully enough; but the busy life of the crowd distracts attention from individual missings.

In the country, and in the winter, when clouds, and rain, and snow prevail, and with bad weather they have worse roads, and no interchange of neighborly courtesies, and all within the house is still, silent and depressing, the absence of the friend is felt far more deeply.

The day after Le's departure the weather changed, bringing a dull, gray sky, and a warm rain, that melted all the splendor of the snow, and turned the hard roads into gullies of mud, so confining the family of Mondreer to their own house.

Certainly they tried "to be jolly under difficulties."

Mr. Force reminded them that they had really nothing to mourn over, since young navy officers must go to sea, and that if they all were as steady as Le the long voyage must do them good, improve their minds, and strengthen their bodies; and that they had much to be thankful for, since sickness and death had kept away from their homes.

Mrs. Force and Odalite were a little more silent than usual, and that was all the difference to be seen in them.

Wynnette went singing about the house, to pretend that she was merry. But, while gazing from the parlor window out upon the dark sky full of soft, fine, warm rain that turned the lawn into a marsh, and hid the wooded hills on the west and the bay on the east from view, she suddenly snapped out:

"Euphonious Mondreer should be relegated to its original, descriptive name, and be called Mount Dreary, as it is in the old patents and deeds!"

"But was it Mount Dreary last week, when we had the glorious sunshine, and the splendid frost and snow, and the waters of the bay as blue as the sky they reflected, eh?" inquired Miss Meeke, deprecatingly.

"I don't know!" said Wynnette, perversely. "I don't remember any glorious sunshine, or splendid frost and snow, or any blue waters. It has always been rain, and mud, and darkness in this world ever since I was born! And I don't remember anything else, and I don't believe in anything else—there, now!"

"My dear! my dear! do not talk so!" said Miss Meeke.

"I can't help it," said Wynnette. "I know it always has been just this way, and it always will be. But who cares if it will? Not I, for one.

"'Hi diddle diddle! The cat and the fiddle!'"

sang Wynnette, dancing away from the dreary window and dancing out of the room.

As for little Elva, she went moping about the house, with red eyes, sniveling in the most undisguised manner.

Miss Meeke was gravely busy with her wedding preparations.

Mrs. Anglesea was the jolliest person in the house, sympathetically interested in everybody's feelings and occupations.

Occasionally, when there was a solemn pause in the conversation around the fire or around the board, the happy creature would take the whole company to task for their gloom.

"Call this a parting, do you? Why, the young fellow hasn't gone out of reach of civilization—newspapers and mail bags and telegraph wires. Wait until he goes on a wild-goose chase after the North Pole, where you can't hear from him for months or years, even if you ever hear from him again, for his chances are to leave his bones on the icebergs, if they are not crunched up by the white bears. My father and my brother were whalers, and used to be gone for years, when we—mother and I—did not hear from them, and had to trust in Providence. And that was bad enough. But when they both went off on an Arctic cruise—craze, I called it—'long of Capt. Kane, I tell you that was a time of trial. But this young Le! Phew! Why, he's only just over there."

The near approach of Natalie Meeke's wedding, however, was the best diversion of all.

The whole family, from Mr. Force down to little Elva, were deeply interested in it. They all made her useful presents. Mr. Force gave her a set of silver spoons and forks; Mrs. Force, a china tea set; Odalite, her own wedding dress, with all its accessories of wreath, veil and fan, etcetera; Wynnette, a handsomely bound Bible; and Elva, a prayer book and hymn book.

Mrs. Anglesea bestowed a heavy, gold cardcase.

"There! Take this, honey," she said, in presenting it. "I ain't got no use for it. I bought it when my dear old man made his first haul, and we went up to 'Frisco to sell the dust and have a lark. It took my fancy, for I thought it was a snuffbox. Now, all the wimmin out at Wild Cats' either smoked pipes or took snuff. As for me, I did neither. Couldn't get into the way of it, you see. But when I saw this splendid snuffbox—as I thought it was—I just said to myself I'd buy it, and carry it in my pocket, to have it always about me to remind me as I was getting to be a rich 'oman, and to take it out and make a show of it by offering of any one who might drop in a pinch of snuff, even if I never sniffed a sniff myself. I thought it would take them all down. But, Lord! didn't one of 'em take me down, neither, when she up and told me as this was a wisitin' cardcase, and wouldn't do to hold snuff noways? Well, honey, it never was no use to me, for what call had I for a wisitin' cardcase at Wild Cats'? No, we didn't send up our cards when we called on our neighbors there. We didn't often put on our bonnets to go a-wisitin'. We just hev a' old shawl over our heads and run in and out 'mong neighbors. We did."

Natalie warmly thanked the donor, as soon as she could get a chance to speak.

Dr. Ingle and Miss Meeke were married on the twentieth of January.

The sky had cleared, the ground had dried, the roads were good.

The wedding was a quiet one, no one being invited but the oldest and most intimate friends of the parties—that is to say, the Rev. Dr. and Mrs. Peters, of All Faith Rectory; the Grandieres, of Oldfield; the Elks, of Grove Hill; Miss Bayard, of Forest Rest, and Mr. Roland Bayard, of nowhere in particular.

The ceremony was performed in the drawing room of Mondreer, by the Rev. Dr. Peters. The bride was given away by Mr. Force. She wore the elegant wedding dress which had been prepared for Odalite; the two little bridesmaids wore the same dresses in which they had appeared at the attempted wedding of the month previous. Roland Bayard was the groomsman.

Immediately after the ceremony the bride's cake was cut and served. Roland Bayard received the hidden ring, which promised him a bride in the course of the year, and he immediately crossed the room and put it on the finger of little Rosemary Hedge, amid the good-humored congratulations and laughter of the little company, and to the great confusion of the quaint, little girl who had been favored.

Soon after this the negro fiddlers came in and tuned up their instruments.

The young men took their partners and the dancing began.

Roland Bayard, as groomsman, opened the ball with the bride. Dr. Ingle, with the first bridesmaid, was their vis-a-vis. The dancing continued until ten o'clock, when an elegant little supper was served in the dining room.

After this the bride changed her dress, and the just-wedded pair took leave of their friends, and entered the carriage engaged for the occasion, and amid a shower of slippers departed for the young doctor's new home.

The subsequent developments of Anglesea's machinations will be related in the sequel to this volume, entitled "Love's Bitterest Cup." This is published in uniform style and price with this volume.

THE END

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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 statecraft of that day than can be had even by an exhaustive study of history. It is a powerful romance of love and diplomacy, and in point of thrilling and absorbing interest has never been excelled.

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.

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BURT'S SERIES of STANDARD FICTION.

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 overdrawn, 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."

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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.

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BURT'S SERIES of STANDARD FICTION.

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 skillful 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.