"Gad's life!" I exclaimed, in a whisper.

"What is it?" asked Phil, in a similar voice.

"Falconer!" I replied, ere I had thought.

Philip gazed at the newcomer, who was heedless of our presence. Phil seemed about to stride forward to him, but reconsidered, and whispered to me, in a strange tone:

"What can he be doing here, where she—? You are sure that's the man?"

"Yes—but not now—'tis not the place—we came for another purpose—"

"I know—but if I lose him!"

"No fear of that. I'll keep track of him—learn where he's to be found—while you meet her."

"But if he—if she—"

"Wait and see. His being here, may not in any way concern her. Mere coincidence, no doubt."

"I hope to God it is!" whispered Phil, though his voice quivered. "Nay, I'll believe it is, too, till I see otherwise."

"Good! And when I learn his haunts, as I shall before I sleep, you may find him at any time."

And so we continued to wait, keeping in the darkness, so that the captain, even if he had deigned to be curious, could not have made out our faces from where he stood. Philip watched him keenly, to stamp his features upon memory, as well as they could be observed in the yellow light of the sickly lamp; but yet, every few moments Phil cast an eager glance at the door. I grant I was less confident that Falconer's presence was mere coincidence, than I had appeared, and I was in a tremble of apprehension for what Madge's coming might reveal.

The captain, who was very finely dressed, and, like us, carried a cane but no sword, allowed impatience to show upon his usually serene countenance: evidently he was unused to waiting in such a place, and I wondered why he did not make free of the greenroom instead of doing so. But he composed himself to patience as with a long breath, and fell to humming softly a gay French air the while he stood leaning motionlessly, in an odd but graceful attitude, upon his slender cane. Sometimes he glanced back toward the waiting coach, and then, without change of position as to his body, returned his gaze to the door.

Two or three false alarms were occasioned him, and us, by the coming forth of ladies who proved, as soon as the light struck them, to be other than the person we awaited. But at last she appeared, looking her years and cares a little more than upon the stage, but still beautiful and girlish. She was followed by a young waiting-woman; but before we had time to note this, or to step out of the shadow, we saw Captain Falconer bound across the way, seize her hand, and bend very gallantly to kiss it.

So, then, it was for her he had waited: such was the bitter thought of Phil and me; and how our hearts sickened at it, may be imagined when I say that his hope and mine, though unexpressed, had been to find her penitent and hence worthy of all forgiveness, in which case she would not have renewed even acquaintance with this captain. And there he was, kissing her hand!

But ere either of us could put our thought into speech, our sunken hearts were suddenly revived, by Madge's conduct.

She drew her hand instantly away, and as soon as she saw who it was that had seized it, she took on a look of extreme annoyance and anger, and would have hastened past him, but that he stood right in her way.

"You again!" she said. "Has my absence been for nothing, then?"

"Had you stayed from London twice three years, you would have found me the same, madam," he replied.

"Then I must leave London again, that's all," said she.

"It shall be with me, then," said he. "My coach is waiting yonder."

"And my chair is waiting here," said she, snatching an opportunity to pass him and to step into the sedan, of which the door was invitingly open. It was not her chair, but one that stood in solicitation of some passenger from the stage door; as was now shown by one of the chair-men asking her for directions. She bade her maid hire a boy with a light, and lead the way afoot; and told the chair-men to follow the maid. The chair door being then closed, and the men lifting their burden, her orders were carried out.

Neither Philip nor I had yet thought it opportune to appear from our concealment, and now he whispered that, for the avoidance of a scene before spectators, it would be best for him to follow the chair, and accost her at her own door. I should watch Falconer to his abode, and each of us should eventually go home independently of the other. Our relief to find that the English captain's presence was against Madge's will, needed no verbal expression; it was sufficiently manifest otherwise.

Before Philip moved out to take his place behind the little procession, Falconer, after a moment's thought, walked rapidly past to his coach, and giving the driver and footman brief orders, stepped into it. 'Twas now time for both Phil and me to be in motion, and we went down the way together. The chair passed the coach, which immediately fell in behind it, the horses proceeding at a walk.

"He intends to follow her," said I.

"Then we shall follow both," said Phil, "and await events. 'Tis no use forcing a scene in this neighbourhood."

So Philip's quest and mine lay together, and we proceeded along the footway, a little to the rear of the coach, which in turn was a little to the rear of the chair. Passing the side of Drury Lane Theatre, the procession soon turned into Bow Street, and leaving Covent Garden Theatre behind, presently resumed a Southwestward course, deflecting at St. Martin's Lane so as to come at last into Gerrard Street, and turning thence Northward into Dean Street. Here the maid led the chair-men along the West side of the way; but Philip and I kept the East side. At last the girl stopped before a door with a pillared porch, and the carriers set down the chair.

Instantly Captain Falconer's footman leaped from the box of the coach, and, while the maid was at the chair door to help her mistress, dashed into the porch and stood so as to prevent any one's reaching the door of the house. The captain himself, springing out of the coach, was at Madge's side as soon as she had emerged from the chair. Philip and I, gliding unseen across the street, saw him hand something to the front chair-man which made that rascal open his mouth in astonishnent—'twas, no doubt, a gold piece or two—and heard him say:

"You and your fellow, begone, and divide that among you. Quick! Vanish!"

The men obeyed with alacrity, bearing their empty chair past Phil and me toward Gerrard Street at a run. The captain, by similar means, sent the boy with the light scampering off in the opposite direction. Meanwhile, Philip and I having stopped behind a pillar of the next porch for a moment's consultation, Madge was bidding the footman stand aside from before her door. This we could see by the rays of a street lamp, which were at that place sufficient to make a carried light not absolutely necessary.

"Come into the coach, madam," said Falconer, seizing one of her hands. "You remember my promise. I swear I shall keep it though I hang for it! Don't make a disturbance and compel me to use force, I beg. You see, the street is deserted."

"You scoundrel!" she answered. "If you really think you can carry me off, you're much—"

"Nay," he broke in, "actresses are carried off, and not always for the sake of being talked about, neither! Fetch the maid, Richard—I wouldn't deprive a lady of her proper attendance. Pray pardon this—you put me to it, madam!"

With which, he grasped her around the waist, lifted her as if she were a child, and started with her toward the coach. The footman, a huge fellow, adopted similar measures with the waiting-woman, who set up a shrill screaming that made needless any cries on Madge's part.

Philip and I dashed forward at this, and while I fell upon the footman, Phil staggered the captain with a blow. As Falconer turned with an exclamation, to see by whom he was attacked, Madge tore herself from his relaxed hold, ran to the house door, and set the knocker going at its loudest. A second blow from Philip sent the captain reeling against his coach wheel. I, meanwhile, had drawn the footman from the maid; who now joined her mistress and continued shrieking at the top of her voice. The fellow, seeing his master momentarily in a daze, and being alarmed by the knocking and screaming, was put at a loss. The house door opening, and the noise bringing people to their windows, and gentlemen rushing out of Jack's tavern hard by, Master Richard recovered from his irresolution, ran and forced his master into the coach, got in after him to keep him there, and shouted to the coachman to drive off.

"Very well, madam," cried Falconer through the coach door, before it closed with a bang, "but I'll keep my word yet, I promise you!" Whereupon, the coach rolled away behind galloping horses.

Forgetting, in the moment's excitement, my intention of dogging the captain to his residence, I accompanied Philip to the doorway, where stood Madge with her maid and a house servant. She was waiting to thank her protectors, whom, in the rush and partial darkness, she had not yet recognised. It was, indeed, far from her thoughts that we two, whom she had left so many years before in America, should turn up at her side in London at such a moment.

We took off our hats, and bowed. Her face had already formed a smile of thanks, when we raised our heads into the light from a candle the house servant carried. Madge gave a little startled cry of joy, and looked from one to the other of us to make sure she was not under a delusion: then fondly murmuring Phil's name and mine in what faint voice was left her, she made first as if she would fall into his arms; but recollecting with a look of pain how matters stood between them, she drew back, steadied herself against the door-post, and dropped her eyes from his.

"We should like to talk with you a little, my dear," said Phil gently. "May we come in?"

There was a gleam of new-lighted hope in her eyes as she looked up and answered tremulously:

"'Twill be a happiness—more than I dared expect."

We followed the servant with the candle up-stairs to a small drawing-room, in which a table was set with bread, cheese, cold beef, and a bottle of claret.

"'Tis my supper," said Madge. "If I had known I should have such guests—you will do me the honour, will you not?"

Her manner was so tentative and humble, so much that of one who scarce feels a right even to plead, so different from that of the old petted and radiant Madge, that 'twould have taken a harder man than Philip to decline. And so, when the servant had placed additional chairs, down we sat to supper with Miss Warren, of Drury Lane Theatre, who had sent her maid to answer the inquiries of the alarmed house concerning the recent tumult in the street.



CHAPTER XX.

We Intrude upon a Gentleman at a Coffee-house.

Little was eaten at that supper, to which we sat down in a constraint natural to the situation. Philip was presently about to assume the burden of opening the conversation, when Madge abruptly began:

"I make no doubt you recognised him, Bert—the man with the coach."

"Yes. Philip and I saw him outside the theatre."

"And followed him, in following you," added Philip. "We had intended—"

"You must not suppose—" she interrupted; but, after a moment's halt of embarrassment, left the sentence unfinished, and made another beginning: "I never saw him or heard of him, after I left New York, till I had been three years on the stage. Then, when the war was over, he came back to London, and chanced to see me play at Drury Lane. He knew me in spite of my stage name, and during that very performance I found him waiting in the greenroom. I had no desire for any of his society, and told him so. But it seems that, finding me—admired, and successful in the way I had resorted to, he could not be content till he regained my—esteem. If I had shown myself friendly to him then, I should soon have been rid of him: but instead, I showed a resolution to avoid him; and he is the kind of man who can't endure a repulse from a woman. To say truth, he thinks himself invincible to 'em all, and when he finds one of 'em proof against him, even though she may once have seemed—when she didn't know her mind—well, she is the woman he must be pestering, to show that he's not to be resisted.

"And so, at last, to be rid of his plaguing, I went away from London, and took another stage name, and acted in the country. Only Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan were in the secret of this: 'twas Mr. Sheridan gave me letters to the country managers. That was in the Fall of '83. Well, I heard after awhile that he too had gone into the country, to dance attendance on an old aunt, whose heir he had got the chance of being, through his cousin's death. But I knew if I came back to London he would hear of it, and then, sure, farewell to all my peace! He had continually threatened to carry me off in a coach to some village by the Channel, and take me across to France in a fishing-smack. When I declared I would ask the magistrates for protection, he said they would laugh at me as a play-actress trying to make herself talked about. I took that to be true, and so, as I've told you, I left London.

"Well, after more than two years, I thought he must have put me out of his mind, and so I returned, and made my reappearance to-night. And, mercy on me!—there he was, waiting outside the theatre. From his appearance, I suppose the aunt has died and he has come into the money. He followed me home, as you saw; and for a moment, when he was carrying me toward the coach, I vow I had a fear of being rushed away to a seaport, and taken by force, on some fisherman's boat, across the Channel. And then, all of a sudden, 'twas as if you two had sprung out of the earth. Where did you come from? How was it? Oh, tell me all—all the news! Poor Tom! I thought I should die when I heard of his death. 'Twas—'twas Falconer told me—how he was killed in a skirmish with the—What's the matter? Why do you look so? Isn't it true? I entreat—!"

"Did Falconer tell you Tom died that way?" I blurted out, hotly, ere Phil could check me.

"In truth, he did! How was it?" She had turned white as a sheet.

"'Twas Falconer killed him in a duel," said I, with indignation, "the very night after you sailed!"

"What, Fal—! A duel! My God, on my account, then! Oh, I never knew that! Oh, Tom—little Tom—the dear little fellow—'twas I killed him!" She flung her head forward upon the table, and sobbed wildly, so that I repented of my outspoken anger at Falconer's deception of her. For some minutes her grief was pitiful to see. If ever there was the anguish of remorse, it was then. I sat sobered, leaving it to Phil to apply comfort, which, when her outburst of tears had spent its violence, he undertook to do.

"Well, well, Madge," said he, softly, "'tis done and past now, and not for us to recall. 'Twas an honourable death, such as he would never have shrunk from; and he has long been past all sorrow. The most of his life, while it lasted, was happy; and you could never have foreseen. He will not be unavenged, take my word of that!"

But it was a long time ere Phil could restore her to composure. When he had done so, he asked her what had become of Ned. Thereupon she told us all that I have recorded in a former chapter, of their first days in London, and the events leading to her acceptance of Mr. Sheridan's offer. After she had been acting for some time, under the name of Miss Warren, Ned chanced to come to the play, and recognised her. He thereupon dogged her, in miserable plight, claiming some return of the favours which he vowed he had lavished upon her. She put him upon a small pension, but declared that if he molested her with further demands she would send him to jail for robbing her. She had not seen him since; he had called regularly upon her man of business for his allowance, until lately, when he had ceased to appear.

Of what had occurred before she turned actress, she told us all, I say; for the news of Tom's real fate had put her into a state for withholding nothing. Never was confession more complete; uttered as it was in a stricken voice, broken as it was by convulsive sobs, marked as it was by falling tears, hesitations for phrases less likely to pain Philip, remorseful lowerings of her eyes. She reverted, finally, to her acquaintance with Falconer in New York, and finished with the words:

"But I protest I have never been guilty of the worst—the one thing—I swear it, Philip; before God, I do!"

If any load was taken from Phil's mind by this, he refrained from showing it.

"I came in search of you," said he, in a low voice, "to see what I could do toward your happiness. I knew that in your situation, a wife separated from her husband, dependent on heaven knew what for a maintenance, you must have many anxious, distressful hours. If I had known where to find you, I should have sent you money regularly from the first, and eased your mind with a definite understanding. And now I wish to do this—nay, I will do it, for it is my right. Whatever may have happened, you are still the Madge Faringfield I—I loved from the first; nothing can make you another woman to me: and though you chose to be no longer my wife, 'tis impossible that while I live I can cease to be your husband."

The corners of her lips twitched, but she recovered herself with a disconsolate sigh. "Chose to be no longer your wife," she repeated. "Yes, it appeared so. I wanted to shine in the world. I have shone—on the stage, I mean; but that's far from the way I had looked to. A woman in my situation—a wife separated from her husband—can never shine as I had hoped to, I fancy. But I've been admired in a way—and it hasn't made me happy. Admiration can't make a woman happy if she has a deeper heart than her desire of admiration will fill. If I could have forgot, well and good; but I couldn't forget, and can't forget. And one must have love, and devotion; but after having known yours, Philip, whose else could I find sufficient?"

And now there was a pause while each, fearing that the other might not desire reunion, hesitated to propose it; and so, each one waiting for the other to say the word, both left it unsaid. When the talk was finally renewed, it was with a return of the former constraint.

She asked us, with a little stiffness of manner, when we had come to London; which led to our relation, between us, of all that had passed since her departure from New York. She opened her eyes at the news of our residence in Hampstead, and lost her embarrassment in her glad, impulsive acceptance of my invitation to come and see us as soon as possible. While Philip and she still kept their distance, as it were, I knew not how far to go in cordiality, or I should have pressed her to come and live with us. She wept and laughed, at the prospect of seeing Fanny and my mother, and declared they must visit her in town. And then her tongue faltered as the thought returned of Falconer's probable interference with the quiet and safety of her further residence in London; and her face turned anxious.

"'Faith! you need have no fear on that score," said Philip, quietly. "Where does he live?"

She did not know, but she named a club, and a tavern, from which he had dated importunate letters to her before she left London.

"Well," said Philip, rising, "I shall see a lawyer to-morrow, and you may expect to hear from him soon regarding the settlement I make upon you."

"You are too kind," she murmured. "I have no right to accept it of you."

"Oh, yes, you have. I am always your husband, I tell you; and you will have no choice but to accept. I know not what income you get by acting; but this will suffice if you choose to leave the stage."

"But you?" she replied faintly, rising. "Shall I not see—?"

"I shall leave England in a few days: I don't know how long I shall be abroad. But there will be Bert, and Fanny, and Mrs. Russell—I know you may command them for anything." There was an oppressive pause now, during which she looked at him wistfully, hoping he might at the last moment ask her that, which he waited to give her a final opportunity of asking him. But neither dared, for fear of the other's hesitation or refusal. And so, at length, with a good-bye spoken in an unnatural voice on each side, the two exchanged a hand-clasp, and Philip left the room. She stood pale and trembling, bereft of speech, while I told her that I should wait upon her soon. Then I followed Philip down-stairs and to the street.

"I will stay to-night at Jack's tavern yonder," said he. "I can watch this house, in case that knave should return to annoy her. Go you home—Fanny and your mother will be anxious. And come for me to-morrow at the tavern, as early as you can. You may tell them what you see fit, at home. That's all, I think—'tis very late. Good night!"

I sought a hackney-coach, and went home to relieve the fears of the ladies, occasioned by our long absence. My news that Margaret was found (I omitted mention of Captain Falconer in my account) put the good souls into a great flutter of joy and excitement, and they would have it that they should go in to see her the first thing on the morrow, a resolution I saw no reason to oppose. So I took them with me to town in the morning, left them at Madge's lodgings, and was gone to join Philip ere the laughing and crying of their meeting with her was half-done.

As there was little chance to find Captain Falconer stirring early, Phil and I gave the forenoon to his arrangements with his man of law at Lincoln's Inn. When these were satisfactorily concluded, and a visit incidental to them had been made to a bank in the city, we refreshed ourselves at the Globe tavern in Fleet Street, and then turned our faces Westward.

At the tavern that Madge had named, we learned where Falconer abode, but, proceeding to his lodgings, found he had gone out. We looked in at various places whither we were directed; but 'twas not till late in the afternoon, that Philip caught sight of him writing a letter at a table in the St. James Coffeehouse.

Philip recognised him from the view he had obtained the previous night; but, to make sure, he nudged me to look. On my giving a nod of confirmation, Philip went to him at once, and said:

"Pray pardon my interrupting: you are Captain Falconer, I believe."

The captain looked up, and saw only Philip, for I stood a little to the rear of the former's elbow.

"I believe so, too, sir," he replied urbanely.

"Our previous meeting was so brief," said Philip, "that I doubt you did not observe my face so as to recall it now."

"That must be the case," said the captain, "for I certainly do not remember having ever met you."

"And yet our meeting was no longer ago than last night—in Dean Street."

The captain's face changed: he gazed, half in astonishment, half in a dawning resentment.

"The deuce, sir! Have you intruded upon me to insult me?"

"'Faith, sir, I've certainly intruded upon you for no friendly purpose."

Falconer continued to gaze, in wonder as well as annoyance.

"Who the devil are you, sir?" he said at last.

"My name is Winwood, sir—Captain Winwood, late of the American army of Independence."

Falconer opened his eyes wide, parted his lips, and turned a little pale. At that moment, I shifted my position; whereupon he turned, and saw me.

"And Russell, too!" said he. "Well, this is a—an odd meeting, gentlemen."

"Not a chance one," said Philip. "I have been some time seeking you."

"Well, well," replied the captain, recovering his self-possession. "I imagine I know your purpose, sir."

"That will spare my explaining it. You will, of course, accommodate me?"

"Oh, yes; I see no way out of it. Gad, I'm the most obliging of men—Mr. Russell will vouch for it."

"Then I beg you will increase the obligation by letting us despatch matters without the least delay."

"Certainly, if you will have it so—though I abominate hurry in all things."

"To-morrow at dawn, I hope, will not be too soon for your preparations?"

"Why, no, I fancy not. Let me see. One moment, I pray."

He called a waiter, and asked:

"Thomas, is there any gentleman of my acquaintance in the house at present?"

"Oh, a score, sir. There's Mr. Hidsleigh hup-stairs, and—"

"Mr. Idsleigh will do. Ask him to grant me the favour of coming down for a minute." The waiter hastened away. "Mr. Russell, of course, represents you, sir," the captain added, to Philip.

"Yes, sir; and you are the challenged party, of course."

"I thank you, sir. If Mr. Russell will wait, I will introduce my friend here, and your desire for expedition may be carried out."

"I am much indebted, sir," said Philip; and requesting me to join him later at the tavern in Dean Street, he took his leave.

When Mr. Idsleigh, a fashionable young buck whom I now recalled having once seen in the company of Lord March, had presented himself, a very brief explanation on Falconer's part sufficed to enlist his services as second; whereupon the captain desired affably that he might be allowed to finish his letter, and Idsleigh and I retired to a compartment at the farther end of the room. Idsleigh regarded me with disdainful indifference, and conducted his side of the preliminaries in a bored fashion, as if the affair were of even less consequence than Falconer had pretended to consider it. He set me down as a nobody, a person quite out of the pale of polite society, and one whom it was proper to have done with in the shortest time, and with the fewest words, possible. I was equally chary of speech, and it was speedily settled that our principals should fight with small swords, at sunrise, at a certain spot in Hyde Park; and Idsleigh undertook to provide a surgeon. He then turned his back on me, and walked over to Falconer, without the slightest civility of leave-taking.

I went first in a hackney-coach to Hyde Park, to ascertain exactly the spot which Mr. Idsleigh had designated. Having done so, I returned to Dean Street; and, in order that I might without suspicion accompany Philip before daybreak, I called at Madge's lodgings, and suggested that my mother and Fanny should pass the night in her house (in which I had observed there were rooms to let) and take her to Hampstead the next day; while I should sleep at the tavern. This plan was readily adopted. Thereupon, rejoining Philip, I went with him to the Strand, where he engaged a post-chaise to be in waiting for him and me the next morning, for our flight in the event of the duel having the fatal termination he desired.

"We'll take a hint from Captain Falconer's threat," said Phil: "ride post to Hastings, and have the Doughty boys sail us across to France. You'd best write a letter this evening, to leave at Madge's lodgings after the affair, explaining your departure, to Fanny and your mother. Afterward, you can either send for them to come to France, or you can return to Hampstead when the matter blows over. I might have spared you these inconveniences and risks, by getting another second; but I knew you wouldn't stand that."

And there, indeed, he spoke the truth.



CHAPTER XXI.

The Last, and Most Eventful, of the History.

I took my mother and Fanny to the play that night, to see Madge act, and we three met her after the performance and were driven to her lodgings with her. I then bade the ladies good-night, with a secret tenderness arising from the possibility, unknown to them, that our parting then might be for as many months as they supposed hours.

Returning to Philip at the tavern, I found he had passed the evening in writing letters; among others, one for me to copy in my own name, to be left at Madge's lodgings in case of my having to flee the country for awhile. It was so phrased that the result of the duel, whether in Philip's death or his antagonist's, could be told by the insertion of a single line, after its occurrence.

Phil and I rose betimes the next morning, and went by hackney-coach, in the darkness, to a place in the Oxford road, near Tyburn; where we left our conveyance waiting, and proceeded afoot to the chosen spot in the Park.

No one was there when we arrived, and we paced to and fro together to keep in exercise, talking in low voices, and beguiling our agitation by confining our thoughts to a narrow channel. The sod was cool and soft to our tread, and the smell of the leaves was pleasant to our nostrils. As the sky whitened above the silent trees, and the gray light penetrated to the grassy turf at our feet, Phil quoted softly the line from Grey's Elegy in which the phrase of "incense-breathing morn" occurs; and from that he went to certain parts of Milton's "L'Allegro" and then to Shakespeare's songs, "When Daisies Pied" and "Under the Greenwood Tree."

"'Faith," said he, breaking off from the poetry, "'tis a marvel how content I feel! You would not believe it, the serene happiness that has come over me. 'Tis easy to explain, though: I have adjusted my affairs, provided for my wife, left nothing in confusion or disorder, and am as ready for death as for life. I feel at last responsible to no one; free to accept whatever fate I may incur; clear of burdens. The great thing, man, is to have one's debts paid, one's obligations discharged: then death or life matters little, and the mere act of breathing fresh air is a joy unspeakable."

We now descried the figures of Falconer, Idsleigh, and a third gentleman, approaching under the trees. Civil greetings passed as they came up, and Falconer overwent the demands of mere courtesy so far as to express himself upon the coolness and sweetness of the morning. But he was scrutinising Philip curiously the while, as if there were some reason why he should be less indifferent regarding this antagonist than he had shown himself regarding Tom Faringfield and me.

The principals removed their hats, coats, and waistcoats. As they were not booted, but appeared in stockings and low shoes, they made two fine and supple figures to look upon. The formalities between Mr. Idsleigh and me were as brief as possible. Falconer chose his sword with a pretence of scarce looking at it, Philip gave his the usual examination, and the two men stood on guard.

There was a little wary play at first, while each sought an inkling of the other's method. Then some livelier work, in which they warmed themselves and got their muscles into complete facility, followed upon Phil's pretending to lose his guard. All this was but overture, and it came to a stop for a short pause designed as preliminary to the real duel. Both were now perspiring, and breathing into their lungs deep draughts of air. Falconer's expression showed that he had recognised better fencing in Phil's work than he had thought to find; but Phil's face conveyed no such surprise, for he had counted upon an adversary possessed of the first skill.

'Twas Falconer who began what we all felt was to be the serious part of the combat. Phil parried the thrust neatly; made a feint, but, instantly recovering, availed himself of his opponent's counter movement, and sank his point fair into Falconer's left breast. The English captain tumbled instantly to the ground. The swiftness of the thing startled us. Idsleigh and his medical companion stared in amazement, wondering that the fallen man should lie so still. It took a second or two for that which their eyes had informed them, to penetrate to their understanding. But Philip and I knew that the lunge had pierced the heart, and that the accomplished Lovelace on the ground would charm no more women.

'Twas only when we were hastening back to our hackney-coach, that Philip trembled. Then for a few moments his teeth chattered as if he were taken with a chill, and his face was deathly pale.

"'Tis terrible," he said, in an awed tone, "to kill a man this way. 'Tis not like in war. On a morning like this, in the civil manner of gentlemen, to make of such a marvellous living, thinking, feeling machine a poor heap of senseless flesh and bone that can only rot:—and all in the time of a sword-thrust!"

"Tut!" said I, "the world is the better for the riddance. Think of Tom, and all else!"

"I know it," said Phil, conquering his weakness. "And such men know what they risk when they break into the happiness of others. I could not have lived in peace while he lived. Well, that is all behind us now. Yonder is our coach."

We got in, and were driven to the tavern in Dean Street. We there dismissed the coach, and Philip started afoot for the inn, in the Strand, where our post-chaise was to be in readiness. I was to join him there after completing the letter and leaving it at Madge's lodgings, Philip using the mean time in attending to the posting of certain letters of his own. We had no baggage to impede us, as we intended to purchase new wearables in France: we had, on the previous day, provided ourselves with money and letters of credit. My affairs had been so arranged that neither my wife nor my mother could be pecuniarily embarrassed by my absence. Philip's American passport, used upon our former travels, was still in force and had been made to include a travelling companion. So all was smoothed for our flight.

Taking my letter to the house in which Madge lived, I asked for her maid, telling the house servant I would wait at the street door: for, as I did not wish to meet any of the three ladies, I considered it safer to entrust the letter to Madge's own woman. The girl came down; but I had no sooner handed her the letter, and told her what to do with it, than I heard Madge's voice in the hall above. She had come out to see who wanted her maid, suspecting some trick of Falconer's; and, leaning over the stair-rail, had recognised my voice.

"What is it, Bert? Why don't you come up?"

"I can't—I'm in haste," I blundered. "Good morning!"

"But wait! What's wrong? A moment, I entreat! Nay, you shall—!" And at that she came tripping swiftly down the stairs. The maid, embarrassed, handed her the letter. Without opening it, she advanced to me, while I was wildly considering the propriety of taking to my heels; and demanded:

"What is it you had to write? Sure 'tis your own hand. Why can't you tell me?"

"Not so loud," I begged. "My mother and Fanny mustn't know till I am gone."

"Gone!" With this she tore open the letter, and seemed to grasp its general sense in a glance. "A duel! I suspected—from what Philip said. Oh, my God, was he—?" She scanned the writing wildly, but in her excitement it conveyed nothing to her mind.

"Captain Falconer will not annoy you again," I said, "and Philip and I must go to France for awhile. Good-bye! Let mother and Fanny see the letter in half an hour."

"But wait—thank God, he's not hurt!—France, you say? How? Which road?"

She was holding my coat lapel, to make me stay and tell her. So I answered:

"By post to Hastings; there we shall get the Doughty boys to—"

At this, there broke in another voice from above stairs—that of Fanny:

"Is that Bert, Madge dear?"

"Tell her 'no,'" I whispered, appalled at thought of a leave-taking, explanations, weeping, and delay. "And for God's sake, let me—ah, thank you! Read the letter—you shall hear from us—God bless you all!"

The next moment I was speeding from the house, leaving Madge in a tumult of thoughts at the door. I turned into Gerrard Street without looking back; and brisk walking soon brought me to the Strand, where Philip himself was just ready to take the post-chaise.

"A strange thing delayed me," said he, as we forthwith took our seats in the vehicle; which we had no sooner done than the postilions set the four horses going and our journey was begun.

"What was it?" I asked, willing to reserve the account of my interview with Madge till later.

"The most remarkable thing, for me to witness on this particular morning," he replied; and told me the story as we rattled through Temple Bar and Fleet Street, on our way to the bridge and the Surrey side. "After I left you, I don't know what it was that kept me from coming through St. Martin's Lane to the Strand, and made me continue East instead. But something did; and finally I turned to come through Bow Street. When I was nearly in front of the magistrate's house, a post-chaise stopped before it, and a fellow got out whom I took to be a Bow Street runner. Several people ran up to see if he had a prisoner in the chaise, and so the footway was blocked; and I stopped to look on for a moment with the rest. A man called out to the constable, 'What you got, Bill?' The constable, who had turned around and reached into the chaise, stopped to look at the speaker, and said, 'Nobody much—only the Soho Square assault and robbery—I ran him down at Plymouth, waiting for a vessel—he had a mind to travel for his health.' The constable grinned, and the other man said, 'Sure that's a hanging business, and no mistake!'"

"And so it is," said I, interrupting Philip. "I read of the affair at the time. A fellow named Howard knocked down his landlady, robbed her money-box, and got away before she came to."

"Yes," Phil went on, "I remembered it, too. And I waited for a glimpse of the robber's face. He stepped out, and the constable, with a comrade from inside the chaise, led him to where they hold prisoners for examination. He was all mud-stained, dishevelled, and frowsy: for two seconds, though he didn't notice me, I had a good view of him. And who do you think this Howard really was?"

"Bless me, how should I know? My acquaintance among the criminal classes isn't what it might be."

"'Twas Ned Faringfield!" said Philip. "I should have known him anywhere—heavens, how little a man's looks change, through all vicissitudes!"

"Well, upon my soul!" I exclaimed, in a chill. "Who'd have thought it? Yet hanging is what we always predicted for him, in jest. That it should come so soon—for they'll make short work of that case, 'tis certain."

"Yes, I fear they'll not lose much time over it, at the Old Bailey. We may expect to read his name among the Newgate hangings in a month or two. Poor devil!—I'll send him some money through my lawyer, and have Nobbs see that he gets decent counsel. Money will enable him to live his last weeks at Newgate in comfort, at least; though 'tis beyond counsel to save his neck. His people must never know. Nor Fanny."

"Unless he gives his real name at the trial, or in his 'last dying speech and confession.'"

"Why, even then it may not come to their ears. Best bring Fanny and your mother soon to France. Madge will never tell, if she learns; I'll warrant her for that. To think of it!—the dear old house in Queen Street, and the boys and girls we used to play with—Tom's fate—and now Ned's—Fanny in England—and Madge—! Was ever such diversity of destinies in so small a family?"

He fell into his thoughts: of what strange parts we play in the world, how different from those anybody would predict for us in our childhood—how different, from those we then predict for ourselves. And so we were borne across the Thames, looking back to get our last view of St. Paul's dome for some time to come; through Southwark, and finally into the country. The postilions kept the horses at a good gait Southward. We did not urge them to this, for indeed we saw but little necessity for great haste, as there was likely to be some time ere Falconer's death became known to the authorities, and some time longer ere it was traced to us. But as Mr. Idsleigh, before getting out of the way himself, might take means to lay written information against us, which would serve at least to put the minions of the law on the right track, and as we might be subjected to some delay at Hastings, we saw no reason to repress the postilions' zeal, either.

In our second stage we were not favoured with so energetic conductors, and in our third we had unfit horses. So we had occasion to be glad of our excellent start. Thus, between good horses and bad, live postilions and lethargic, smooth roads and rough, we fared on the whole rather well than ill, and felt but the smallest apprehension of being caught. To speak metaphorically, the coast of France was already in our sight.

At the end of the first stage, we had breakfasted upon eggs and beer. We took an early dinner at Tunbridge Wells, and proceeded through Sussex. 'Twas well forward in the afternoon, and we were already preparing our eyes, faces, and nostrils for the refreshing intimation of the sea, when our ears notified us of a vehicle following in our wake. Looking back, at a bend of the road, we saw it was a conveyance similar to our own, and that the postilions were whipping the horses to their utmost speed. "Whoever rides there," said I, "has paid or promised well for haste."

"'Tis strange there should be other folk bound in a hurry for Hastings this same day," replied Phil.

We looked at one another, with the same thought.

"Their post-boys seem to be watching our chaise as much as anything else," I remarked. "To be sure, they can't know 'tis you and I."

"No, but if they were in quest of us, they would try to overtake this chaise or any other on the road. Ho, postilion!—an extra crown apiece for yourselves if you leave those fellows yonder behind for good." And Phil added quietly to me: "It won't do to offer 'em too much at first—'twould make 'em suspicious."

"But," quoth I, as our men put their horses to the gallop. "How the devil could any one have got so soon upon our track?"

"Why, Idsleigh may have turned informer, in his own interest—he was in a devilish difficult position—and men would be sent with our descriptions to the post-houses. 'Tis merely possible. Or our hackney-coachman may have guessed something, and dogged me to the Strand, and informed. If they found where we started, of course they could track us from stage to stage. 'Tis best to be safe—though I scarce think they're in our pursuit."

"Egad, they're in somebody's!" I cried. "Their postilions are shouting to ours to stop."

"Never mind those fellows' holloing," called Philip to our riders. "'Tis a wager—and I'll double that crown apiece."

We bowled over the road in a way to make me think of Apollo's chariot and the horses of Phaeton; but we lengthened not a rod the stretch betwixt us and our followers, though we nullified their efforts to diminish it. We could make out, more by sight than by hearing—for we kept looking back, our heads thrust out at either side—that the pursuing post-boys continued bawling vehemently at ours. What they said, was drowned by the clatter of horses and wheels.

"Well, they have seen we are two men," said Philip, "and still they keep up the race. They certainly must want us. Were they merely in a hurry to reach Hastings, they could do that the sooner by sparing their horses—this is a killing pace."

"Then we're in a serious plight," said I. "Though we may beat 'em to Hastings, they will catch us there."

"Unless we can gain a quarter of an hour's start, and, by one chance in twenty, find the Doughty boys ashore, and their boat in harbour."

"Ay, there's one chance in twenty, maybe," I growled, looking gloomily back, and wishing I might see the pursuing chaise upset, or one of its horses stumble.

There is an old proverb about evil wishes rebounding to strike the sender; and a recollection of this was my paramount thought a moment later: for at a sharp turn our chaise suddenly seemed to leap into the air and alight on one wheel, and then turned over sidewise with what appeared to be a solemn deliberation, piling me upon Philip in a heap. We felt the conveyance dragged some yards along the road, and then it came to a stop. A moment later we heard the postilions cursing the horses, and then we clambered out of the upper side of the chaise, and leaped into the road. We had been knocked, shaken, and bruised, but were not seriously hurt.

"Here's the devil to pay," cried the older postilion excitedly, turning his attention from the trembling horses to the wrecked vehicle.

"We will pay—but you will let us ride your horses the rest of the way?" asked Phil, quietly, rather as a matter of form than with any hope of success.

"No, sir!" roared the man. "Bean't there damage enough? Just look—"

"Tut, man," said Phil, examining the chaise, "a guinea will mend all—and there it is, and your extra crowns, too, though you failed. Well," he added, turning to me, "shall we take to the fields? They'll have to hunt us afoot then, and we may beat 'em at that."

But I found I was too lame, from the knocking about I had got in the upset vehicle, for any game of hare and hounds. "Go you," said I. "I was only the second—there's less danger for me."

"I'll not go, then," said he. "What a pity I drew you into this, Bert! I ought to have considered Fanny and your mother. They'll never forgive me—they never ought to.—Well, now we shall know the worst!"

The second vehicle came to a triumphant stop near us, the postilions grinning with satisfaction. Phil and I stood passive in the road: I remember wondering whether the officers of the law would put handcuffs upon us. A head was thrust out of the window—a voice called to us.

"Madge!" we cried together, and hastened to her.

"I was afraid you might sail before I got to Hastings," cried she, with relief and joy depicted on her face.

"Who is with you?" asked Phil.

"No one," she answered. "I left Bert's letter with my maid, to give to Fanny. I left the girl too, to stay with her if she will take her. I didn't wish to encumber—Your chaise is broken down: get into this one. Oh, Phil!—I couldn't bear to have you go away—and leave me—after I had seen you again. 'Twas something to know you were in London, at least—near me. But if you go to France—you must let me go, too—you must, dear—as your friend, your comrade and helper, if nothing more—your old friend, that knew you so long ago—"

She lost voice here, and began to cry, still looking at him through the mist of tears. His own eyes glistened softly as he returned her gaze; and, after a moment, he went close to the window through which her head was thrust, raised his hand so as to stroke her hair, and kissed her on the lips.

"Why, you shall come as my wife, of course," said he, gently. "If I had been sure you wished it, you might have travelled with us from London, and been spared this chase.—But think what you are giving up, dear—'tis not too late—the theatre, the praise and admiration, London—"

"Oh, hang 'em all!" cried she, looking joyous through her tears. "'Tis you I want!"

And she caught his face between her hands, and kissed it a dozen times, to the open-mouthed wonder of the staring postilions.

* * * * *

She took us in her post-chaise to Hastings, where the three of us embarked as we had planned to do, having first arranged that one of the Doughty boys should go to Hampstead and act as a sort of man servant or protector to my mother and Fanny during their loneliness. They joined us later in Paris, and I finally accompanied them home when Captain Falconer's fatal duel was a forgotten matter. Philip and Madge then visited Italy and Germany; and subsequently returned to New York, having courageously chosen to outface what old scandal remained from the time of her flight. And so, despite Phil's prediction, 'tis finally his children, not mine, that gladden the age of Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield, and have brought back the old-time cheer to the house; for Fanny and I have remained in England, and here our young ones are being reared. Each under the government for which he fought—thus Philip and I abide. 'Tis no news, that Phil has become one of the leading architects in his country. My own life has been pleasantly monotonous, save for the duel I fought against a detractor of General Washington, which, as I merely wounded my adversary, did not necessitate another exile from the kingdom.

It is still an unsolved mystery in London, as to what became of Miss Warren, the actress of Drury Lane: she was for long reported to have been carried away by a strange gentleman who killed Captain Falconer in a duel over her. 'Tis not known in New York that Mrs. Winwood was ever on the stage. And as I must not yet make it known, nor disclose many things which have perforce entered into this history, I perceive that my labour has been, after all, to no purpose. I dare not give the narrative to the world, now it is done; but I cannot persuade myself to give it to the fire, either. Let it lie hid, then, till all of us concerned in it are passed away; and perchance it may serve to instruct some future reader how much a transient vanity and wilfulness may wreck, and how much a steadfast love and courage may retrieve.

THE END.



NOTES.

NOTE 1 (Page 13).

Before the Revolution, there were Queen Street and Pearl Street, together forming a line continuous though not exactly straight. After the Revolution, the whole line was named Pearl Street. King Street and Duke Street were others that rightly underwent re-christening. But, with equal propriety, many old names smacking of the English regime were retained, and serve as memorials of the English part of the city's colonial history: such names, for instance, as William Street, Nassau Street, Hanover Square, Kingsbridge; not to mention New York itself. The old Dutch rule, too, remains marked in the city's nomenclature—for ever, let us hope. I say, "let us hope;" for there have been attempts to have the authorities change the name of the Bowery itself, that renowned thoroughfare which began, in the very morn of the city's history, as a lane leading to Peter Stuyvesant's bauer. I scarce think this desecration shall ever come to pass: yet in such matters one may not be sure of a nation which has permitted the spoiling (by the mutilation of headlands and cliffs, for private gain) of a river the most storied in our own land, and the most beautiful in the world.

NOTE 2 (Page 34).

In 1595 was published in London: "Vincentio Saviolo his Practise. In two Bookes. The first intreating the use of the Rapier and Dagger. The second of Honour and Honourable Quarrels." (Etc.) The celebrated swordsman sets forth only the Italian system, and has naught to say upon the French. The book that Winwood studied may have been some reprint (now unknown), with notes or additions by a later hand. In any case, he may have acquired through it sufficient rudimentary acquaintance with some sort of practice to enable him to excite the French fencing-master's interest.

NOTE 3 (Page 182).

"Lady Washington's Light Horse" was a name sometimes unofficially applied to Lieut.-Col. Baylor's Dragoons. They were sleeping in a barn and outbuildings, at Old Tappan, one night in the Fall of 1778, when they were surprised by General Grey, whose men, attacking with bayonets, killed 11, mangled 25, and took about 40 prisoners. Both Col. Baylor and Major Clough were wounded, the latter fatally. It is of course this affair, to which Lieut. Russell's narrative alludes.

NOTE 4 (Page 191).

The Morris house, now known as the Jumel mansion, was half a generation old at the beginning of the Revolution. Thither, as the bride of Captain Morris, a brother-officer of Washington's in the old French war, went Mary Philipse; whom young Washington was said to have wooed while he tarried in and about New York upon his memorable journey to Boston to solicit in vain, of Governor Shirley, a king's commission. The Revolution found the Morrises on the side opposed to Washington's; for a short time during the operations above New York in 1776 he occupied this house of theirs as headquarters. They lost it through their allegiance to the royal cause, all their American real estate being confiscated by the New York assembly. The mansion became in time the residence of that remarkable woman who, from a barefoot girl in Providence, R.I., had grown up to be the wife of a Frenchman named Jumel; and to be the object of much admiration, and the subject of some scandal. In her widowhood she received under this roof Aaron Burr, after his duel with Hamilton (whose neighbouring country-house still exists, in Convent Avenue), and under this roof she and Burr—both in their old age—were united in marriage. I imagine that some of the ghosts that haunt this mansion, if they might be got in a corner, would yield their interviewers a quaint reminiscence or two. The grounds appertaining to the house have been sadly diminished by the opening of new streets; yet it is still a fine, striking landmark, perched to be seen afar, as from the railroad trains that follow the East bank of the Harlem, or, better, from West 155th Street at and about its junction with St. Nicholas Place and the Speedway. At the time when I left New York for a temporary residence in the Old World, there was talk of moving the house to a less commanding, but still eminent, height that crowns the bluff rising from the Speedway: the owner was compelled, it was said, to avail himself of the increased value of the land whereon it stood. 'Tis some pity if this has been, or has to be, done; but nothing to the pity if the mansion had to be pulled down. Apart from all associations and historical interest, this imposing specimen of our Colonial domestic architecture, so simple and reposeful an edifice amidst a world of flat buildings, and of gew-gaw houses built for sale on the instalment plan to the ubiquitous Mr. and Mrs. Veneering, is a precious relief, nay an untiring delight, to the eye.

NOTE 5 (Page 202).

During this Winter (1779-80) the Continental army was in two main divisions. The one with which Washington made his headquarters was hutted on the heights about Morristown, N.J. The other, under General Heath, was stationed in the highlands of the Hudson. Intermediate territory, of course, was more or less thoroughly guarded by detached posts, militia, and various forces regular and irregular. The most of the cavalry was quartered in Connecticut; but Winwood's troop, as our narrative shows, was established near Washington's headquarters. This was a memorably cold Winter, and as severe upon the patriots as the more famous Winter (1777-78) at Valley Forge. About the latter part of January the Hudson was frozen over, almost to its mouth.

NOTE 6 (Page 269).

Long before I fell upon Lieut. Russell's narrative, a detailed account of a British attempt to capture Washington, by a bold night dash upon his quarters at Morristown, had caught my eyes from the pages of the old "New Jersey Historical Collections." Washington was not the only object of such designs during the War of Independence. One was planned for the seizure of Governor Livingstone at his home in Elizabeth, N.J.; but, much to Sir Henry Clinton's disappointment, that influential and witty champion of independence was not at home when the surprise party called.

NOTE 7 (Page 277).

Lieut-Gen. Knyphausen was now (January, 1780) temporarily in chief command at New York, as Sir Henry Clinton and Lord Cornwallis had sailed South (December 26, 1779) to attack Charleston and reduce South Carolina.

NOTE 8 (Page 311).

At that time, the Bristol and Bath stage-coaches took two days for the trip to London. Madge doubtless would have slept a night or two at Bristol after her landing; and probably at the Pelican Inn at Speenhamland (opposite Newbury), the usual midway sleeping-place, at the end of the first day's ride. But bad weather may have hindered the journey, and required the passengers to pass more than one night as inn-guests upon the road.

NOTE 9 (Page 325).

Mrs. Sheridan's surpassing beauty, talent, and amiability are well-known to all readers; as is the fact that her brilliant husband, despite their occasional quarrels, was very much in love with her from first to last.

NOTE 10 (Page 359).

Sir Ralph Winwood, born at Aynho, in Northamptonshire, in 1564, was frequently sent as envoy to Holland in the reign of James I., by whom he was knighted in 1603. He was Secretary of State from a date in 1614 till his death in 1617. His collected papers and letters are entitled, "Memorials of Affairs of State in the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King James I.," etc. His portrait painted by Miereveldt, is in the National Portrait Gallery in London.



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Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 375 pages. $1.25

A powerful story of sociological questions. The scene is laid in Chicago, the hero being a professor in "Rockland University," whose protest against the unequal distribution of wealth and the wretched condition of workmen gains for him the enmity of the "Savior Oil Company," through whose influence he loses his position. His after career as a leader of laborers who are fighting to obtain their rights is described with great earnestness. The character drawing is vigorous and varied, and the romantic plot holds the interest throughout. The Albany Journal is right in pronouncing this novel "an unusually strong story." It can hardly fail to command an immense reading public.

A Georgian Actress. By PAULINE BRADFORD MACKIE.

Author of "Mademoiselle de Berny," "Ye Lyttle Salem Maide," etc.

With four full-page illustrations from drawings by E.W.D. Hamilton.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 300 pages. $1.50

An interesting romance of the days of George III., dealing with the life and adventures of a fair and talented young play-actress, the scene of which is laid in England and America. The success of Miss Mackie's previous books will justify our prediction that a new volume will receive an instant welcome.

God—The King—My Brother. A ROMANCE. By MARY F. NIXON.

Author of "With a Pessimist in Spain," "A Harp of Many Chords," etc.

With a frontispiece by H.C. Edwards.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages. $1.25

An historical tale, dealing with the romantic period of Edward the Black Prince. The scene is laid for the most part in the sunny land of Spain, during the reign of Pedro the Cruel—the ally in war of the Black Prince. The well-told story records the adventures of two young English knight-errants, twin brothers, whose family motto gives the title to the book. The Spanish maid, the heroine of the romance, is a delightful characterization, and the love story, with its surprising yet logical denouement, is enthralling.

Punchinello. By FLORENCE STUART.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 325 pages. $1.50

A love story of intense power and pathos. The hero is a hunchback (Punchinello), who wins the love of a beautiful young girl. Her sudden death, due indirectly to his jealousy, and the discovery that she had never faltered in her love for him, combine to unbalance his mind. The poetic style relieves the sadness of the story, and the reader is impressed with the power and brilliancy of its conception, as well as with the beauty and grace of the execution.

The Golden Fleece. Translated from the French of Amedee Achard, author of "The Huguenot's Love," etc.

Illustrated by Victor A. Searles.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 450 pages. $1.50

Amedee Achard was a contemporary writer of Dumas, and his romances are very similar to those of that great writer. "The Golden Fleece" compares favorably with "The Three Musketeers" and the other D'Artagnan romances. The story relates the adventures of a young Gascon gentleman, an officer in the army sent by Louis XIV. to assist the Austrians in repelling the Turkish Invasion under the celebrated Achmet Kiuperli.

The Good Ship York. By W. CLARK RUSSELL.

Author of "The Wreck of the Grosvenor," "A Sailor's Sweetheart," etc.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 350 pages. $1.50

A romantic and exciting sea tale, equal to the best work of this famous writer, relating the momentous voyage of the clipper ship York, and the adventures that befell Julia Armstrong, a passenger, and George Hardy, the chief mate.

"Mr. Russell has no rival in the line of marine fiction."—Mail and Express.

Tom Ossington's Ghost. By RICHARD MARSH.

Author of "Frivolities," "Ada Vernham, Actress," etc. Illustrated by Harold Pifford.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 325 pages. $1.50

"I read 'Tom Ossington's Ghost' the other night, and was afraid to go up-stairs in the dark after it."—Truth.

"An entrancing book, but people with weak nerves had better not read it at night."—To-day.

"Mr. Marsh has been inspired by an entirely original idea, and has worked it out with great ingenuity. We like the weird but not repulsive story better than anything he has ever done."—World.

The Glory and Sorrow of Norwich. By M.M. BLAKE.

Author of "The Blues and the Brigands," etc., etc., with twelve full-page illustrations.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 315 pages. $1.50

The hero of this romance, Sir John de Reppes, is an actual personage, and throughout the characters and incidents are instinct with the spirit of the age, as related in the chronicles of Froissart. Its main claim for attention, however, is in the graphic representation of the age of chivalry which it gives, forming a series of brilliant and fascinating pictures of mediaeval England, its habits of thought and manner of life, which live in the mind for many a day after perusal, and assist to a clearer conception of what is one of the most charming and picturesque epochs of history.

The Mistress of Maidenwood. By HULBERT FULLER.

Author of "Vivian of Virginia," "God's Rebel," etc.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages. $1.50

A stirring historical romance of the American Revolution, the scene of which for the most part being laid in and about the debatable ground in the vicinity of New York City.

Dauntless. A TALE OF A LOST CAUSE. By CAPTAIN EWAN MARTIN.

Author of "The Knight of King's Guard."

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 400 pages, illustrated. $1.50

A stirring romance of the days of Charles I. and Cromwell in England and Ireland. In its general character the book invites comparison with Scott's "Waverley." It well sustains the reputation gained by Captain Martin from "The Knight of King's Guard."

The Flame Of Life. (IL FUOCO.) Translated from the Italian of Gabriel D'Annunzio, author of "Triumph of Death," etc., by KASSANDRA VIVARIA, author of "Via Lucis."

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages. $1.50

This is the first volume in the Third Trilogy, "The Romances of the Pomegranate," of the three announced by the great Italian writer. We were fortunate in securing the book, and also in securing the services as translator of the talented author of "Via Lucis," herself an Italian by birth.

THE END