"Yes, indeed, but I little thought that it was my own mother who was so worn out by performing such unaccustomed labor," the young girl responded, as she raised the hand she was holding and touched her lips softly to it.

"Neither of us had a suspicion of the tie between us," returned Mrs. Stewart; "and yet, from the moment that you entered the house, I experienced an unaccountable fondness for you."

"And I was immediately impressed that there was something very mysterious about you—our portly housekeeper," Edith smilingly replied.

"Did you?"

"Yes; for one thing, these hands"—regarding them fondly—"never looked as if they really belonged to portly Mrs. Weld, and, several times, you forgot to speak in your coarse, assumed tones; while, that evening, when I captured your hideous blue glasses, and looked into these lovely eyes, I was almost sure that you were not the woman you appeared to be."

"I remember," said her mother, "and I was conscious of your suspicions; but I did not mind, for my mission in that house was almost ended, and I intended, as soon as I could resume my real character, to renew my acquaintance with you, as Mrs. Stewart, and see if I could not persuade you to leave that uncongenial atmosphere and come to me."

"How strange!" murmured Edith.

"It was the motherly instinct reaching out after its own," was the tender response. "But, about my finding the certificate: You remember you offered to put the rooms in order, if I would sew for you meanwhile?"

"Yes."

"Well, that was the time that I learned where that precious paper could be found," and then she proceeded to relate the conversation that she had overheard between Mr. and Mrs. Goddard, and how, emboldened by it, she had afterward gone to the room of the latter to find her in the act of examining the very document she wanted.

She also told how, later, she had gone, by herself, to the room and deliberately taken possession of it.

She also mentioned the incident that had occurred on the same day in the dining-room, when Mr. Goddard had knocked her glasses off and seemed so disconcerted upon looking into her eyes.

"He appeared like one who had suddenly come face to face with some ghost of his past—as indeed he had," she concluded, with a sigh.

"I do not see how it can be possible for him to have known one peaceful moment since the day of his desertion of you in Rome," Edith remarked, with a grave, thoughtful face.

"I do not think he has," said her mother. "No one can be really at peace while leading a life of sin and selfish indulgence. I would rather, a thousand times, have lived my life, saddened and overshadowed by a great wrong and a lasting disgrace—as I have believed it to be—than to have exchanged places with either Gerald Goddard or Anna Correlli."

"How relieved you must have been when you met Mr. Forsyth and learned that your marriage had been a legal one," Edith observed, while she uttered a sigh of gratitude as she realized that thus all reproach had also been removed from her.

"Indeed I was, love; but more on your account than mine. And I immediately returned to America to prove it, and then reveal to my dear old friend, Edith, the fact that no stigma rested upon the birth of the child whom she had so nobly adopted as her own. Poor Edith! I loved her with all my heart," interposed the fair woman, with starting tears. "I wish I might have seen her once more, to bless her, from the depths of my grateful soul, for having so sacredly treasured the jewel that I committed to her care. If I could but have known two years earlier, and found her, she never need have suffered the privations which I am sure hastened her untimely death. You, too, my darling, would have been spared the wretched experience of which you have told me."

"I do not mind so much for myself, but was in despair sometimes to see how much mamma missed and needed the comforts to which she had always been accustomed," said Edith, the tears rolling over her cheeks as she remembered the patient sufferer who never murmured, even when she was enduring the pangs of hunger.

"Well, dear, do not grieve," said Mrs. Stewart, folding her in a fond embrace. "I know, from what you have told me, that you did your utmost to shield her from every ill; and, judging from what you have said regarding the state of her health at the time of Mr. Allandale's death, I believe she could not have lived very much longer, even under the most favorable circumstances. Now, my child," she continued, more brightly, and to distract the girl's thoughts from the sad past, "since everything is all explained, tell me something about these new friends of whom you have spoken—Mr. Bryant, Mrs. Morrell and Mr. Raymond."

Edith blushed rosily at the mention of her lover's name, and almost involuntarily she slipped her hand into her pocket and clasped a letter that lay concealed there.

"Mr. Bryant is the gentleman in whose office I was working at the time of mamma's death," she explained. "He, too, was the one who was so kind when I got into trouble with the five-dollar gold piece, and so it was to him I applied for advice, after escaping from Emil Correlli."

"Ah!" simply remarked Mrs. Stewart, but she was quick to observe the shy smile that hovered about the beautiful girl's mouth while she was speaking of Roy.

"I telegraphed him to meet me when I should arrive in New York," Edith resumed, "because I knew it would be late, and I did not know where it would be best for me to go. He did so, and took me directly to his cousin, and that is how I happened to be with Mrs. Morrell."

Mrs. Stewart put one taper finger beneath Edith's pretty, round chin, and gently lifting her downcast face, looked searchingly into her eyes.

"Darling, you are very fond of Mr. Bryant, are you not?" she softly questioned.

Instantly the fair face was dyed crimson, and, dropping her head upon her mother's shoulder, she murmured:

"How can I help it?"

"And he is going to win my daughter from me? I hope he is worthy."

"Oh, he is noble to the core of his heart," was the earnest reply.

"I believe he must be, dear, or you could not love him," smilingly returned her companion, adding: "At all events, he has been very kind and faithful to you, and therefore deserves my everlasting gratitude. Now tell me of this Mr. Raymond."

So Edith proceeded to relate the story of that gentleman's unfortunate love for and devotion to Mrs. Allandale; his recent quest for her, after learning of Mr. Allandale's misfortune and death, in order to leave his money to her; and how, after learning from Roy that she had died, he had then advertised for herself, and, since her return to New York, had settled the half of his fortune upon her.

"Really, it is like a romance, dear," said Mrs. Stewart, smiling, though somewhat sadly, when she concluded her pathetic tale. "To think that, after all, I should find my little girl an heiress in her own right! What a rich little body you will be by and by, when you also come in possession of your mother's inheritance," she added, lightly.

"Oh, pray do not suggest such a thought!" cried Edith, clinging to her. "All the wealth of the world could not make up to me the loss of my mother. Now that we have found each other, pray Heaven that we may be spared many, many years to enjoy our happiness."

"Forgive me, Edith—I should not have spoken like that," said Mrs. Stewart, bending forward to kiss the sweet, pained face beside her. "We will not begin to apprehend a parting in this first hour of our joy. Now I suppose we ought to consider what relationship we are going to sustain to each other in the future, before the world. Of course, neither of us would enjoy the notoriety which a true statement of our affairs would entail; at the same time, having found you, my darling, I feel that I can never allow you to call me anything but 'mother'—which is music to my hungry ears."

"No, indeed—I can never be denied the privilege of owning you," cried Edith, earnestly.

"Well, then, suppose you submit to a second adoption?" Mrs. Stewart suggested. "It will be very easy, and perfectly truthful, to state that, having been a dear friend of Mrs. Allandale's youth, and returning from abroad to find you alone in the world, I solicited the privilege of adopting the child of my old schoolmate and providing for her future. Such an arrangement would appear perfectly natural to the world, and no one could criticise us for loving each other just as tenderly as we choose, or question your right to give me the title I desire. What do you say, dear?"

"I think the plan a very nice one, and agree to it with all my heart," Edith eagerly responded.

"Then we will proceed to carry it out immediately, for I am very impatient to set up an establishment of my own, and introduce my darling daughter to society," smilingly returned Mrs. Stewart; adding, as she observed her somewhat curiously, "Are you fond of society and gay life, Edith?"

"Y-es, to a certain extent," was the rather thoughtful reply.

"How am I to interpret that slightly indefinite remark?" Mrs. Stewart playfully inquired. "Most girls are only too eager for fashionable life."

"And I used to enjoy it exceedingly," said the young girl, gravely, "but I have had an opportunity to see the other side during the last two years, and my ideas regarding what constitutes true enjoyment and happiness have become somewhat modified. I am sure that I shall still enjoy refined society; but, mother, dear, if your means are so ample, and you intend to set up an establishment of your own, let us, at the outset, take a stand in the social world that no one can mistake, and maintain it most rigidly."

"A 'stand,' Edith! I don't quite clearly comprehend your meaning," said Mrs. Stewart, as she paused an instant.

"I mean regarding the people with whom we will and will not mingle. Have you ever heard of Paula Nelson, mother?"

"Yes, dear; I met her only a few evenings ago, at the house of Mrs. Raymond Ventnor; she is a noble woman, with a noble mission. I begin to comprehend you now, Edith."

"Then let us join her, heart and hand—let us take our stand for chastity and morality," Edith earnestly resumed. "Let us pledge ourselves never to admit within our doors any man who bears the reputation of being immoral, or who lightly esteems the purity of any woman, however humble; while, on the other hand, let us never refuse to hold out a helping hand to those poor, unfortunate girls, who, having once been deceived, honestly desire to rise above their mistake."

"That is bravely spoken, my noble Edith," said Mrs. Stewart, with dewy eyes. "And surely I, who have so much greater cause for taking such a stand than you, will second you most heartily in maintaining it in our future home. I believe that such a determination on the part of every pure woman, would soon make a radical change in the tone of society."

Both were silent for a few moments after this, but finally Edith turned to her companion and inquired:

"Mother, dear, where is Mr. Willard Livermore—the gentleman who rescued you from the Tiber—and his sister, also, who cared for you so faithfully during your long illness?"

"Alice Livermore is in Philadelphia, where she has long been practicing medicine for sweet charity's sake. Mr. Livermore is—here in New York," Mrs. Stewart responded, but flushing slightly as she spoke the name of the gentleman.

Something in her tone caused Edith to glance up curiously into her face, and she read there, in the lovely flush and tender eye, which told her that her mother regarded her deliverer with a sentiment far stronger and deeper than that of mere gratitude or admiration.

"Ah! you—" she began, impulsively, and then stopped, confused.

"Yes, love," confessed the beautiful woman, with shining eyes, "I will have no secrets from you—we both love each other with an everlasting love; for long years this has been so; and had we been sure that there existed no obstacle to our union, it is probable that I should have married Mr. Livermore long ago. But we both believe in the Bible ritual, and those words, 'until death doth part,' have been a barrier which neither of us was willing to overleap. Each knows the heart of the other; and, though it sometimes seems hard that our lives must be divided, when our tastes are so congenial in every particular, yet we have mutually decided that only as 'friends' have we the right to clasp hands and greet each other in this world."

Edith put up her lips and softly kissed the flushed cheek nearest her.

"How I love and honor you!" she whispered.

"We will never speak about this again, if you please, dear," said Isabel Stewart, in a slightly tremulous tone. "I wished you to know the truth, but I cannot talk about it. I do not deny the affection; that is something over which I have no control; but I can at least say 'thus far and no farther,' for the sake of conscience and self-respect. Now, about that letter which was handed to you to-day," she continued, suddenly changing the subject. "Suppose we look it over again, and then I think it should go directly into the hands of Mr. Bryant."

She had hardly finished speaking when there came a knock upon her door.

Rising, she opened it, to find a servant standing without and waiting to deliver a card that lay upon a silver salver.

Mrs. Stewart took it and read the name of Royal Bryant, together with the following lines, written in pencil:

"Will Mrs. Stewart kindly excuse this seeming intrusion of a stranger? but I understand that Miss Allandale is with you, and it is necessary that I have a few moments' conversation with her.

R. B."

"Show the gentleman up," the lady quietly remarked to the servant, then stepped back into the room and passed the card to Edith.

The young girl's eyes lighted with sudden joy, and the quick color flushed her cheeks, betraying how even the sight of Roy's name and handwriting had power to move her.

A few moments later there came another tap to tell her that her dear one was awaiting admittance, and she herself went to receive him.

"Roy! I am so glad you have come!" she exclaimed, holding out both hands to him, her face radiant with happiness.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

"MY DARLING, YOU ARE FREE!"

The young man regarded her with astonishment, for she had never greeted him so warmly before.

Edith saw his look and met it with a blush. She took his hat, then led him directly to Mrs. Stewart.

"Roy, you will be astonished," she remarked, "but my first duty is to introduce you to—my mother."

With a look of blank amazement, the young man mechanically put out his hand to greet the beautiful woman who approached and graciously welcomed him.

"That was rather an abrupt and startling announcement, Mr. Bryant," she smilingly remarked, to cover his confusion; "but pray be seated and we will soon explain the mysterious situation."

"Pardon my bewilderment," said the young man, as he bowed over her extended hand; "but really, ladies, I am free to confess that you have almost taken my breath away."

"Then you will know how to sympathize with us," cried Edith, with a silvery little laugh, "for we have both been in the same condition during the last few hours."

"Indeed! Then I must say you look very bright for a person who has not breathed for 'hours,'" he retorted, as he began to recover himself.

"Well, figuratively speaking, our respiration has been retarded many times, during a short interval, by the strangest developments imaginable," Edith explained. "But how did you trace me to the Waldorf?"

"I had something important to tell you, so ran up to Nellie's to see you, but was told that you had accompanied Mrs. Stewart thither," Roy explained. "I hope, however, I shall be pardoned for interrupting your interview," he concluded with an apologetic glance at the elder lady.

"Certainly; and, strange to say, we were speaking of you almost at the moment that your card was brought to us," she returned. "Edith has had an important communication handed her to-day, which I thought you ought to have, since you are her attorney, without any unnecessary delay."

"Oh! it is most wonderful, Roy! This is it," said the young girl, producing it from her pocket. "But first I must tell you that in Mrs. Stewart I have discovered mamma's old friend—the writer of those letters of which I told you. She did not die in Rome, as was feared."

"Can that be possible?" exclaimed Mr. Bryant.

"Yes, dear. It is a long story, and I cannot stop to tell it all now," Edith went on, eagerly, "but I must explain that she has discovered an important document that proves what makes me the happiest girl in New York to-day. We met at Mrs. Wallace's this afternoon, where some one addressed me as Miss Allandale, when she instantly knew that I must be her child. Isn't it all too wonderful to seem true?"

After chatting a little longer over the wonderful revelations, he suddenly remembered the "important communication" which Mrs. Stewart had mentioned.

"What was the matter of business which you felt needed early consideration?" he inquired.

Instantly Edith's lovely face was suffused with blushes, and Mrs. Stewart, thinking it would be wise to leave the lovers alone during the forthcoming explanations, excused herself and quietly slipped into an adjoining room.

Edith immediately went to the young man's side and gave her letter to him.

"Roy, this is even more wonderful than what I have already told you," she gravely remarked. "Read it; it will explain itself better than any words of mine can do."

He drew the contents from the envelope, and began at once to read the following confession:

"For the sake of performing one right act in my life, I wish to make the following statement, namely: I hereby declare that the marriage of my brother, Emil Correlli, to Miss Edith Allen, who, for several weeks, has acted as my companion, was not a legal ceremony, inasmuch as it was accomplished solely by fraud and treachery. Miss Allen was tricked into it by being overpersuaded to personate a supposed character in a play, entitled 'The Masked Bridal.' The play was written and acted before a large audience for the sole purpose of deceiving Miss Allen and making her the wife of my brother, whom she had absolutely refused to marry, but who was determined to carry his point at all hazards. Motives of affection for him, and of jealousy, on account of my husband's apparent fondness for the girl, alone prompted me to aid him in his bold design. I hereby declare again that it was all a trick, from beginning to end, and it was only by my indomitable will, and by working upon Miss Allen's sympathies, that I was enabled to carry out my purpose." (Then followed a detailed account of the plot of the play and its concluding ceremony, after which the document closed as follows): "I am impressed that I have not long to live; and wishing, if it can be done, to right this great wrong, and make it possible for the proper officials to declare Miss Allen freed from her bonds, I make this confession of a fraud that weighs too heavily upon my conscience to be borne.

"ANNA CORRELLI GODDARD."

The above was dated the day previous to that of madam's death, and underneath she had appended a few lines to Mr. Goddard, stating that she knew he was in sympathy with Edith; therefore she should leave the epistle with her lawyer, to be given to him, in the event of her death, and she enjoined him to see that justice was done the girl whom she had injured.

This was the missive that the lawyer had passed to Mr. Goddard at the same time that he had read the woman's will in the presence of her husband and Emil Correlli, and over which, as we have seen, he afterward became so strangely agitated.

We know how he had hurriedly removed from his former elegant home to a habitation on another street; after which, instead of going abroad, as the papers had stated, he had gone directly to New York, upon the same quest as Emil Correlli, but with a very different purpose in view—that of giving to Edith the precious document that was to declare her free from the man whom she loathed.

He could get no trace of her, however; unlike Correlli, he had no knowledge of her acquaintance with Royal Bryant, and therefore all he could do was to carry the letter about with him, wherever he went, in the hope of some day meeting her upon the street, or elsewhere.

One day he was out at Central Park, when he suddenly came upon a former friend—Mrs. Wallace—who immediately announced to him her intention of arranging a charitable art exhibition and solicited contributions from him to aid her in the good work.

Thus the appearance of that bit of old "Roman Wall" is accounted for, as well as the presence of Mr. Goddard himself, who was particularly requested by Mrs. Wallace to honor the occasion, and allow her to introduce him to some of her friends.

It would be difficult to describe the terrible shock which the man sustained when he heard Edith addressed by and respond to the name—Miss Allandale.

Like a flash of light it was revealed to him that the beautiful girl was his own daughter!—that, in her, he had, for months, been "entertaining an angel unawares," but only to abuse his privilege in a way to reap her lasting contempt and aversion.

This blighting knowledge was followed by a sense of sickening despair and misery, when, almost at the same moment, he saw Isabel Stewart start forward to claim her child and lead her from the room, when he knew she must learn the wretched truth regarding his life of selfishness and sin.

As they disappeared from sight, he sank back behind the easel that supported his Roman picture, groaning in spirit with remorse and humiliation.

A little later he stole unseen from the room, and, crossing the hall, opened the door of the reception-room, which he had seen Edith and her mother enter.

He had determined to give the young girl the letter that would serve to release her from her hateful fetters; he would, perhaps, experience some comfort in the thought that he had rendered her this one simple service that would bring her happiness; then he would go away—hide himself and his misery from all who knew him, and live out his future to what purpose he could.

We know how he carried out his resolve regarding the confession of Anna Correlli; and the picture which met his eye, as he opened that door and looked upon the mother and daughter clasped in each other's arms, was one that haunted his memory during the rest of his life.

As soon as Royal Bryant comprehended the import of Anna Correlli's confession, he turned to Edith with a radiant face and open arms.

"My darling! nothing can keep us apart now!" he murmured, in tones vibrant with joy, "you are free—free as the air you breathe—free to give yourself to me! Come!"

With a smile of love and happiness Edith sprang into his embrace and laid her face upon his breast.

"Oh, Roy!" she breathed, "all this seems too much joy to be real or to be borne in one day!"

"I think we can manage to endure it," returned her lover, with a fond smile. "I confess, however, that it seems like a day especially dedicated to blessings, for I have other good news for you."

"Can it be possible? What more could I ask, or even think of?" exclaimed Edith, wonderingly.

Roy smiled mysteriously, and returned, with a roguish gleam in his eyes:

"My news will keep a while—until you give me the pledge I crave, my darling. You will be my wife, Edith?" he added, with tender earnestness.

"You know that I will, Roy," she whispered; and, lifting her face to his, their mutual vows were sealed by their betrothal caress.

The young man drew from an inner pocket a tiny circlet of gold in which there blazed a flawless stone, clear as a drop of dew, and slipped it upon the third finger of Edith's left hand.

"I have had it ever since the day after your arrival in New York," he smilingly remarked, "but coward conscience would not allow me to give it to you; however, it will prove to you that I was lacking in neither faith nor hope."

"Now for my good news," he added, after Edith had thanked him, in a shy, sweet way that thrilled him anew, while he gently drew her to a seat. "I met Giulia Fiorini on the street this afternoon."

"Oh, Roy! did you?"

"Yes; she is here, searching for Correlli. I recognized her and the child from your description. I boldly resolved to address her, as I feared it might be my only opportunity. I did so, asking if I was right in supposing her to be Madam Fiorini, and told her that I was searching for her, at your request. She almost wept at the sound of your name, and eagerly inquired where she could find you. I took her to my office, where I told her what I wished to prove regarding her relations with Correlli, and that, if I could accomplish my purpose, it would give her and the child a claim upon him which he could not ignore. She at once frankly related her story to me, and stated that when they had first arrived in New York from Italy, Correlli had taken her to Madam ——'s boarding-house, where he had made arrangements for himself, wife and child—"

"Oh, then that settles the question of her claim upon him!" Edith here interposed, eagerly.

"Yes—if we can prove her statements, and I think we can; for when I told Giulia of my visit to madam, and how I had failed to elicit the slightest information from her, she said that she knew where one of the servants—who was in the house when she went there—could be found, for she had stumbled across the girl in the street and learned where she is now living. She gave me her address, and I went immediately to interview her. Luck was in my favor—the girl was at home, and remembered the 'pretty Italian girl, who was so sweet-spoken and polite;' she also knew where her previous fellow-servant could be found, and asserted that they would both be willing to swear that madam herself had told them to 'always to be very attentive to the handsome Italian's wife, for she made more out of them than out of any of her other boarders.' So, I flatter myself that I have gathered conclusive evidence against the man," Roy added, in a tone of satisfaction. "I shall interview Monsieur Correlli at once, and perhaps, when he realizes that his supposed claim upon you is null and void, he may be persuaded to do what is right regarding his wife and child."

The lovers then fell to talking of their own affairs, Edith relating what she had so recently learned from her mother, and concluded by mentioning the plan of readoption, suggested by Mrs. Stewart, in order to avoid the gossip of the world.



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER.

The morning following his conference with his betrothed, our young lawyer went early to seek an interview with Emil Correlli.

He was fortunate enough to find him at the hotel where he had told him he could be found if wanted.

In a few terse sentences he stated the object of his visit, cited the evidence he possessed of Correlli's bigamous exploit, and then startled that audacious person by summarizing the contents of the late Mrs. Goddard's confession.

"If you are not already sure of the fact," the lawyer emphatically added, "allow me to inform you that your sister was never the wife of Mr. Gerald Goddard, as that gentleman had been married previous to his meeting with Miss Correlli. It was supposed that his first wife was drowned in Rome, but the report was false, as the woman is still living."

"I do not believe it," angrily exclaimed Emil Correlli, and yet, in his heart, he felt that it was true, for it but verified his own previous suspicions. "I tell you it is all a lie, for Goddard himself told me, only two days after my sister's death, that, if I chose to look, I would find the record of his marriage to her in the books of the —— Church in Rome."

"That is true; Mr. Goddard supposed the marriage to have been legal, because, at the time he deserted his lovely wife for Miss Correlli, he did not know that he was lawfully bound to her. But, later, both he and your sister learned the truth, and the secret of their unfortunate relations embittered the lives of both, especially after they discovered that the real Mrs. Goddard is still living," Roy exclaimed.

"How do you know this?" hoarsely demanded his companion.

"I have recently seen and conversed with Mrs. Goddard, and all the facts of her history are in my possession."

"Who is she? Under what name is she known?"

"That is a question that I must refuse to answer, as the revelation of the lady's identity cannot affect the case in hand; unless—it should come before the courts and the truth be forced from me," Roy replied.

"Then why have you told me this wretched story?" cried the man, almost savagely.

"A lawyer, in fighting his cases, is often obliged to use a variety of weapons," was the significant response. "I thought it might be just as well to warn you, at the outset, that your sister's reputation might suffer in the event of a lawsuit, during which much might be revealed which otherwise would remain a secret among ourselves."

To convince Correlli of the truth of his disclosures Mr. Bryant announced that he had in his possession, at that moment, a copy of Mrs. Goddard's confession, and proceeded to read it, having first declared that the original was in his office safe.

Emil Correlli, was ghastly white when Roy stopped, after reading the entire confession. He realized that his case was hopeless; that he had been ignominiously defeated in his scheme to possess Edith, and nothing remained to him but to submit to the inevitable.

"Now I have just one question to ask you, Mr. Correlli," Roy remarked, as he refolded the paper and laid it upon the table for him to examine at his leisure. "What is your decision? Will you still contest the point of Miss Allandale's freedom, or will you quietly withdraw your claim, and allow it to be publicly announced, through the Boston papers, that that ceremony in Wyoming was simply a farce after all?"

"You leave me no choice," was the sullen response; "but," with a murderous gleam in his dusky eyes, "if you had brought the original confession with you to-day, you would never have gone out of this house with it in your possession."

"Excuse me for contradicting you, sir; but I think I should," Roy returned, with the utmost courtesy. "I took all proper precautions before coming to you, as it was—although not because of any personal fear of you. No less than three persons in this house, and as many more outside, know of my visit to you at this hour. And, now, since you have decided to yield to my requirements, I have here some papers for you to sign."

He drew them forth as he spoke, spreading them out upon the table, after which he arose and touched the electric button over the mantel.

"What is that for?" curtly demanded his companion.

"To summon witnesses to your signature to these documents."

"Your assurance is something refreshing," sneered the elder man. "How do you know that I will sign them?"

"I feel very sure that you will, Mr. Correlli," was the quiet rejoinder; "for, in the event of your refusal, there is an officer in waiting to arrest you upon the two serious charges before mentioned."

The baffled man snarled in impotent rage; but before he could frame a retort, there came a knock on the door.

Roy answered it, and bade the servant without to "show up the gentlemen who were waiting in the office."

Five minutes later they appeared, when Emil Correlli, without a demur, signed the papers which Roy had brought and now read aloud in their presence.

His signature was then duly witnessed by them, after which they withdrew, Mr. Bryant's clerk, who was one of the number, taking the documents with him.

Roy, however, remained behind.

"Mr. Correlli," he said, as soon as the door closed, "I have one more request to make of you, before I leave; it is that you will openly acknowledge as your wife the woman you have wronged, and thus bestow upon your child the name which it is his right to bear."

"I will see them both—"

"Hush!" sternly interrupted Roy, before he could complete his passionate sentence. "I simply wish to give you the opportunity to do what is right, of your own free will. If you refuse, I shall do my utmost to compel you; and, mark my words, it can be done. That woman and her child are justly entitled to your name and support, and they shall have their rights, even though you may never look upon their faces again. I give you just one week to think over the matter. You can leave the country if you choose, and thus escape appearing in court; but you doubtless know what will happen if you do—the case will go by default, and Giulia and Ino will come off victors."

The man knew that what the lawyer said was true, but he was so enraged over his inability to help himself that he was utterly reckless, and cried out, fiercely:

"Do your worst—I defy you to the last! And now, the quicker you relieve me of your presence the better I shall like it."

The young lawyer took up his hat, bowed politely to his defeated foe, and quietly left the room, very well satisfied with the result of his morning's work.

All the necessary forms of law were complied with to release Edith from even a seeming alliance with the man who had been so determined to win her.

An announcement was inserted in the Boston papers explaining as much as was deemed necessary, and thus the fair girl was free!—free to give herself to him whom her heart had chosen.

Then she was formally adopted by Mrs. Stewart, the old schoolmate of the late Mrs. Allandale, and a little later, when they were settled in their elegant residence on one of the fashionable avenues, society was bidden to a great feast to honor the new relationship and to congratulate the charming hostess and her beautiful daughter, who was thus restored to a position she was so well fitted to grace.

At the same time Edith's engagement to the young lawyer was announced, and it seemed to the happy young couple as if the future held for them only visions of joy.

True to his promise, Roy gave Emil Correlli the week specified to decide either for or against Giulia; then, not having heard from him, he instituted proceedings to establish her claim upon him.

Correlli did not appear to defend himself, consequently the court indorsed her petition and awarded her a handsome maintenance.

Once only Gerald Goddard met his daughter after she learned the facts relating to her birth and parentage.

They suddenly came face to face, one morning, in one of the up-town parks. He looked ill and wretched; his hair had become white as snow, his face thin and pale, and his clothing hung loosely about him.

"Pardon me," he began, in uncertain tones, while he searched her face wistfully. "No doubt you despise me too thoroughly to wish to hold any intercourse with me; still, I feel that I must tell you how deeply I regret, and ask your pardon for, what occurred in the dressing-room at Wyoming on the last night of that 'winter frolic.'"

Edith's tender heart could not fail to experience a feeling of sympathy for the proud man in his humiliated and broken state. Remembering that it was through him that her blessed freedom from Emil Correlli and her present happiness had come, she forced herself to respond in a gentle tone:

"I have always felt, Mr. Goddard, that you were not fully conscious of what you were saying to me at that time."

"I was not," he eagerly returned, his face lighting a trifle that she should judge him thus leniently. "I had been drinking too much; still, that fact should, perhaps, also be a cause for shame. Pray assure me of your pardon for what I can never forgive myself."

"Certainly; I have no right to withhold it, in view of your apology," she responded.

"Thank you; and—and may I presume to ask you one question more?" he pleaded.

Edith's heart leaped into her throat at this, for she was impressed with a knowledge and a dread of what was coming.

For the moment she could not speak—she could only bow her assent to his request.

"I want to ask if—if, since you left my house, you have learned anything regarding my previous history?" he inquired, with pale lips.

"Yes," she said, sadly, "I know it all. My mother told me only because I demanded the truth. She would have preferred to keep some things from me, for your sake as well as mine, but I could not be satisfied with any partial disclosure."

"How you must hate me!" the man burst forth, while great drops of agony gathered about his mouth.

He had never believed that a human being could suffer as he suffered at that moment, in knowing that by his own vileness he had forever barred himself outside the affections of this lovely girl, toward whom he had always—since the first hour of their meeting—been strangely attracted, and whose love and respect, now that he knew she was his own child, seemed the most priceless boons that earth could hold for him.

At first Edith could make no reply to his passionate outburst.

"No," she said, at last, and lifting a regretful look to him, "I hope that there is not an atom of 'hate' in my heart toward any human being, especially toward any one who might experience an honest, though late, repentance for misdeeds."

"Ah! thank you; then have you not some word of comfort—some message of peace for me?" tremulously pleaded the once haughty, self-sufficient man, while he half extended his hands toward her, in a gesture of entreaty.

Her lips quivered, and tears sprang involuntarily to her eyes, while it was only after a prolonged effort that she was able to respond.

"Yes," she said, at last, a solemn sweetness in her unsteady tones, "the Lord lift up His countenance upon thee and give thee peace."

She often wondered afterward how it happened that those words of blessing, once uttered by a patriarch of old, should have slipped almost unconsciously from her lips.

She did not even wait to note their effect upon her companion, but, gliding swiftly past him, went on her way.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

CONCLUSION.

Three months after the incidents related in our previous chapter a large and fashionable audience assembled, one bright day, in a certain church on Madison avenue to witness a marriage that had been anticipated with considerable interest and curiosity among the smart set.

Exactly at the last stroke of noon the bridal party passed down the central aisle.

It was composed of four ushers, as many bridesmaids a maid of honor and two stately, graceful figures in snow-white apparel.

One of these latter was a veiled bride, her tall, willowy figure clad in gleaming satin, her golden head crowned with natural orange blossoms, and she carried an exquisite bouquet of the same fragrant flowers in her ungloved hands—for the groom had forbidden the conventional white kids in this ceremony—while on her lovely face there was a light and sweetness which only perfect happiness could have painted there.

Her companion, a woman of regal presence and equally beautiful in her way, was clothed in costly white velvet, richly garnished with pearls and rare old point lace.

The fair bride and her attendant were no other than Isabel Stewart and her daughter.

"Who should give away my darling save her own mother?" she had questioned, with smiling but tremulous lips, when this matter was being discussed, together with other preparations for the wedding.

Edith was delighted with the idea, and thus it was carried out in the way described.

The party was met at the chancel by Roy, accompanied by his best man and the clergyman, where the ceremony was impressively performed, after which the happy couple led the way from the church with those sweetest strains of Mendelssohn beating their melodious rhythm upon their ears and joyful hearts.

It was an occasion for only smiles and gladness; but, away in a dim corner of that vast edifice, there sat a solitary figure, with bowed head and pale face, over which—as there fell upon his ears those solemn words, "till death us do part"—hot tears streamed like rain.

The figure was Gerald Goddard. He had read the announcement of Edith's marriage in the papers, and, with an irresistible yearning to see her in her bridal robes, he had stolen into the church with the crowd, and hidden himself where he could see without being seen.

But the scene was too much for him, for, as he watched that peerless woman and her beautiful daughter move down the aisle, and listened to the reverent responses of the young couple, there came to him, with terrible force, the consciousness that if he had been true to the same vows which he had once taken upon himself he need not now have been shut out of this happy scene, like some lost soul shut out of heaven.

But no one heeded him; and, when the ceremony was over, he slipped away as secretly as he had come, and no one dreamed that the father of the beautiful bride had been an unbidden guest at her wedding.

In giving Edith to Roy Mrs. Stewart had begged that she need not be separated from her newly recovered treasure—that for the present, at least, they would make their home with her—or, rather, that they would take the house, which was to be a part of Edith's dowry, and allow her to remain with them as their guest.

This they were only too glad to do; therefore, after a delightful wedding trip through the West, they came back to their elegant home, where, with every luxury at their command, the future seemed to promise unlimited happiness.

Poor Louis Raymond had failed very rapidly during the spring months; indeed, he was not even able to attend the marriage of the girl for whom he had formed a strong attachment, and who had bestowed upon him many gracious attentions and services that had greatly brightened his last days. He passed quietly away only a few weeks after their return to New York.

One day, a couple of months after her marriage, Edith was about to step into her carriage, on coming out of a store on Broadway, where she had been shopping, when she was startled by excited shouts and cries directly across the street from her.

Turning to see what had caused the commotion, she saw a heavily loaded team just toppling over, while a man, who had been in the act of crossing the street, was borne down under it, and, with a shriek which she never forgot, apparently crushed to death.

Sick and faint with horror, she crept into her carriage, and ordered her driver to get away from the dreadful scene as soon as possible.

That same evening, as she was looking over the Telegram, a low cry of astonishment broke from her, as she read the following paragraph:

"A sad accident occurred on Broadway this morning. A carelessly loaded team was overturned by its own top-heaviness as it was rounding the corner of Twenty-ninth street, crushing beneath its cruel weight the talented young sculptor, Emil Correlli. Both legs were broken, one in two places, and it is feared that he has suffered fatal internal injuries. He was taken in an unconscious state to the Roosevelt Hospital, where he now lies hovering between life and death. The surgeons have little hope of his recovery."

Edith was greatly shocked by the account, notwithstanding her aversion to the man.

She had not supposed that he was in the city, for Roy believed that he had left the country, rather than appear to defend himself against Giulia's claims, and to escape paying the damages the court awarded her, after proclaiming her his lawful wife.

The woman had since been supporting herself and her child by designing and making dainty costumes for children, a vocation to which she seemed especially adapted, and by which she was making a good living, through the recommendation of both Mrs. Stewart and Edith.

The day after the accident Roy, on his way home from his office, prompted by a feeling of humanity, went to the Roosevelt Hospital to inquire for the injured man.

The surgeon looked grave when he made known his errand.

"There is hardly a ray of hope for him," he remarked; "he is still unconscious. Do you know anything about him or his family?" he asked, with sudden interest.

"Yes, I have had some acquaintance with him," Roy returned.

"Do you know his wife?" the man pursued. "A woman came here last evening, claiming to be his wife, and insisting upon remaining by his bedside as long as he should live."

"Yes, he has a wife," the young man briefly returned, but deeply touched by this evidence of Giulia's devotion.

"Is she a dark, foreign-looking lady, of medium height, rather handsome, and with a slight accent in her speech?"

"That answers exactly to her description."

"I am glad to know it, for we have been in some doubt as to the propriety of allowing her to remain with our patient. We tried to make her leave him, last night, even threatening to have her forcibly removed; but she simply would not go, and is remarkably handy in assisting the nurse, while her self-control is simply wonderful."

Roy wrote a few lines on one of his cards, saying that if either he or Mrs. Bryant could be of any service at this trying time, she might be free to call upon them.

This he gave to the surgeon to hand to Giulia, and then went away.

The following evening the woman made her appearance in their home with her child, whom she begged them to care for "as long as Emil should live."

It could not be very long, she said, with streaming eyes. She loved him still, in spite of everything, and she must remain with him while he breathed.

Edith willingly received Ino, saying she would be glad to keep him as long as was necessary; then Giulia went immediately back to her sad vigils beside the man who had caused her nothing but sorrow and shame.

But Emil Correlli did not die.

Very slowly and painfully he came back to life—to an existence, rather, from which he would gladly have escaped when he realized what it was to be.

When he first awakened to consciousness it was to find a pale, patient woman beside him—one who met his sighs and moans with gentle sympathy, and who ministered tirelessly to his every need and comfort.

No other hand was so cool and soft upon his heated head, or so deft to arrange his covers and pillows; no voice was so gently modulated yet so invariably cheerful—no step so quick and light; and, though the querulous invalid often frowned upon her, and chided her sharply for imaginary remissness, she never wavered in her sweetness and gentleness.

Thus, little by little, the selfish man grew to appreciate her and to yearn for her presence, if she was forced to be out of his sight for even a few minutes at a time.

"She has saved your life—she has almost forced life upon you," the surgeon remarked to him one day, when, as he came to make his accustomed visit, Giulia slipped away for a moment of rest and a breath of fresh air.

The invalid frowned. It was not exactly pleasant to be told that he owed such a debt of gratitude to the woman he had wronged. He was too callous to experience very much of gratitude as yet. It was only when he was pronounced well enough to be moved, and informed that he must make arrangements to be cared for outside, in order to make room for more urgent cases, that he began to wonder how he should get along without his faithful nurse and to realize how dependent he was upon her.

He knew that he would be a cripple for life; his broken bones had knitted nicely, and his limbs would be as sound as ever, in time; but his spine had been injured, and he would never walk upright again—henceforth he would only be able to get about upon crutches.

How, then, could he live without some one to wait upon him and bear with him in his future state of helplessness?

"Where shall I go?" he questioned, querulously, when, later, he told Giulia that his removal had been ordered. "A hotel is the most dismal place in the world for a sick man."

"Emil, how would you like a home of your own?" Giulia gravely inquired.

The word "home" thrilled him strangely, making him think yearningly of his mother and the comforts of his childhood, and an irresistible longing took possession of him.

"A home!" he repeated, bitterly. "How on earth could I make a home for myself?"

"I will make it for you—I will go to take care of you in it, if you like," she quietly answered.

"You!" he exclaimed in surprise, while, with sudden discernment, he remarked a certain refined beauty in her face that he had never observed before.

Then he added, with a sullen glance at his useless limbs, a strange sense of shame creeping over him:

"Do you still care enough for me to take that trouble?"

"I am willing to do my duty, Emil," she gravely replied.

"Ha! you evade me!" he cried, sharply, and piqued by her answer. "Tell me truly, Giulia, do you still love me well enough to be willing to devote your life to such a misshapen wretch as I shall always be?"

The woman turned her face away from him, to hide the sudden light of hope that leaped into her eyes at his words, which she fancied had in them a note of appeal.

But she had been learning wisdom during her long weeks of service in the hospital—learning that anything, to be appreciated, must be hardly won; and so she answered as before, without betraying a sign of the eager desire that had taken root in her heart:

"I told you, Emil, that I was willing to do my duty. I bear your name—you are Ino's father—my proper place is in your home; and if you see fit to decide that we shall all live together under the same roof, I will do my utmost to make you comfortable, and your future as pleasant as possible. More than that I cannot promise—now."

"And you really mean this, Giulia?" he questioned, in a low tone.

"Yes, if my proposal meets with your approval, we can at least make the experiment. If it should not prove a success, we can easily abandon it whenever you choose."

He knew that he could not do without her—knew that she had become so essential to him that he was appalled at the mere thought of losing her, while the sound of that magic word "home," around which clustered everything that was comfortable and attractive, opened before him the promise of something better than he had ever yet known in life.

Let us slip over the six months following, to find this little family pleasantly settled in an elegant villa a few miles up the Hudson.

It is replete with every luxury that money can purchase.

The choicest in art of every description decorates its walls, and pleasant, sunny rooms, while in a spacious studio, opening out upon a wide lawn, may be seen numerous unfinished pieces of statuary, upon which the crippled but ambitious master of the house has already begun to work, although his strength will permit him to do but little at a time.

Giulia, or "Madame Correlli," as she is now known, is the presiding genius of this ideal spot, and she fills her place with both dignity and grace; while her watchful care and never-failing patience and cheerfulness are beginning to assert their charm upon the man to whom she is devoting herself, as is noticeable in his many efforts to make life pleasant to her, in his frequent appeals to her judgment and approval of his work, and the courtesy which he invariably accords her.

Ino has grown, although he is still a beautiful child—very bright and forward for his age, and a source of great enjoyment to his father, who, even now, has begun to direct his tiny hands in the use of the mallet and chisel.

* * * * *

It was more than a year after her marriage that Edith, accompanied by her mother, visited the annual exhibition of the —— Academy of Art.

Among the numerous pictures which were shown there were two which attracted more attention than all the others. They were evidently intended as companion-pieces, and had been painted by the same artist.

The scene was laid in an avenue of a park. On either side there grew beautiful, great trees, whose widespread branches made graceful shadows on the graveled walk beneath. In the center of this avenue—in the first picture—two figures stood facing each other; one an elderly man, proud and haughty in his bearing, richly dressed and with a certain air of the world investing him, but with a face—although possessing great natural beauty—so wretched and full of remorse, so lined and seamed with soul-anguish, that the heart of every beholder was instantly moved to deepest sympathy.

Before him stood a beautiful maiden who was the embodiment of all that was pure and happy. Her face was lovely beyond description—its every feature perfect, its expression full of sweetness and peace, while a divine pity and yearning shone forth from her heavenly blue eyes, which were upraised to the despairing countenance of her companion.

Her dress was simple white, belted at the waist with a girdle and flowing ends of gleaming satin ribbon, while a dainty straw hat, from which a single white plume drooped gracefully, crowned her golden head.

The gentleman was standing with outstretched hands, as if in the act of making some appeal to the fair girl, whose grave sweetness, while it suggested no yielding, yet indicated pity and sorrow for the other's suffering.

The second picture presented the same figures, but its import was entirely different.

Away down the avenue, the young girl, looking even more fair and graceful, was just passing out of sight, while the gentleman had turned and was gazing after her, a rapt expression on his face, the misery all obliterated from it, the despair all gone from his eyes, while in their place there had dawned a look of resignation and peace, and a faint smile even seemed to hover about the previously pain-lined mouth, which told that he had just learned some lesson from his vanishing angel that had changed the whole future for him.

As Edith looked upon these paintings, which betrayed a master-hand in every stroke of the brush, a rush of tears blinded her eyes, for she instantly recognized the scene, although there had been no attempt at portraiture in the faces, and she read at once the story they were intended to reveal.

They were catalogued as "Unrest" and "Peace."

She knew, even before she discovered the initials—"G. G."—in one corner, that Gerald Goddard had painted these pictures, and that he had taken for his subject their meeting in the park the previous year.

They took the first prize, and the artist immediately received numerous and flattering offers for them, but his agent replied to all such that the pictures were not for sale.

A month later a sealed package was delivered at Edith's door, and it was addressed to her.

Upon opening it she found a document bequeathing to her two paintings, lately exhibited at the Academy, which would be delivered to her upon application to a certain art dealer in the city, whose address was inclosed. The communication stated that she was free to make whatever disposition of them she saw fit.

Upon a heavy card accompanying them there was written the following words:

"The blessing of Aaron has been fulfilled. May the same peace rest upon thee and thine forever. G. G."

Upon inquiring about the pictures of the dealer referred to, Edith was informed that Gerald Goddard had died only the week previous of quick consumption, and his body had been quietly interred in Greenwood, according to his own instructions.

His two paintings, "Unrest" and "Peace," were left in the care of his friend, to be delivered to Mrs. Royal Bryant, whenever she should call for them.

Edith was deeply touched by this act, and by the fact that the man had devoted the remnant of his life to picturing that scene which seemed to have made such a deep impression upon his mind, while a feeling of thankfulness swelled in her heart with the thought that perhaps she had spoken the "word in season" that had helped to lead into the "paths of peace" the weary worlding, who, even then, was treading so swiftly toward the verge of the "Great Unknown."

Not many weeks later the New York Herald contained the following announcement:

"MARRIED.—On Wednesday, the 18th, the Honorable Willard Livermore to Mrs. Isabel Stewart, both of New York."

THE END.

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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.

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

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

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

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

This story is 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.

The quaint character of Rob, the loss of whose legs was supplied by a wooden bowl strapped to his thighs, his misfortunes and mother wit, far outshine those fair to look upon. Pirates and smugglers did Rob consort with for gain, and it was to him that Blanche Werden owed her life and her happiness, as the author has told us in such an enchanting manner.

As a series of pictures of early colonial life in Maryland, "Rob of the Bowl" has no equal. 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.

TICONDEROGA. A Story of Early Frontier Life in the Mohawk Valley. By G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. 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 story is located on the frontier of New York State. The principal characters in the story include an English gentleman, his beautiful daughter, Lord Howe, and certain Indian sachems belonging to the Five Nations, and the story ends with the Battle of Ticonderoga.

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.

Interwoven with the plot is the Indian "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."

MARY DERWENT. A tale of the Wyoming Valley in 1778. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. Cloth, 12mo. Four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

The scene of this fascinating story of early frontier life is laid in the Valley of Wyoming. Aside from Mary Derwent, who is of course the heroine, the story deals with Queen Esther's son, Giengwatah, the Butlers of notorious memory, and the adventures of the Colonists with the Indians.

Though much is made of the Massacre of Wyoming, a great portion of the tale describes the love making between Mary Derwent's sister, Walter Butler, and one of the defenders of Forty Fort.

This historical novel stands out bright and pleasing, because of the mystery and notoriety of several of the actors, the tender love scenes, descriptions of the different localities, and the struggles of the settlers. It holds the attention of the reader, even to the last page.

THE LAST TRAIL. A story of early days in the Ohio Valley. By Zane Grey. Cloth, 12mo. Four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

"The Last Trail" is a story of the border. The scene is laid at Fort Henry, where Col. Ebenezer Zane with his family have built up a village despite the attacks of savages and renegades. The Colonel's brother and Wetzel, known as Deathwind by the Indians, are the bordermen who devote their lives to the welfare of the white people. A splendid love story runs through the book.

That Helen Sheppard, the heroine, should fall in love with such a brave, skilful scout as Jonathan Zane seems only reasonable after his years of association and defense of the people of the settlement from savages and renegades.

If one has a liking for stories of the trail, where the white man matches brains against savage cunning, for tales of ambush and constant striving for the mastery, "The Last Trail" will be greatly to his liking.

THE KNIGHTS OF THE HORSESHOE. A traditionary tale of the Cocked Hat Gentry in the Old Dominion. By Dr. Wm. A. Caruthers. Cloth, 12mo. Four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

Many will hail with delight the re-publication of this rare and justly famous story of early American colonial life and old-time Virginian hospitality.

Much that is charmingly interesting will be found in this tale that so faithfully depicts early American colonial life, and also here is found all the details of the founding of the Tramontane Order, around which has ever been such a delicious flavor of romance.

Early customs, much love making, plantation life, politics, intrigues, and finally that wonderful march across the mountains which resulted in the discovery and conquest of the fair Valley of Virginia. A rare book filled with a delicious Savor of romance.

BY BERWEN BANKS. A Romance of Welsh Life. By Allen Raine. Cloth, 12mo. Four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

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.

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52-58 Duane St., New York.

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