Nearer and clearer came the sounds, each word distinct as the song rose from many throats in growing tumult.
They learnt their lesson easily, after all, these Breton peasants.
"They are coming this way," said Madame de Quernais quietly.
"Alas! I fear it is true; but they may not see us. The mists protect us."
The wind is rising; it will blow the mists aside."
"Peace, my daughter. Have we not sought the protection of God? Have no fear."
"It is not for myself, father."
Madame's voice trembled a little.
"The lambs of the flock are in His special care. See, let us go forward—yonder."
As he spoke Père Mouet pointed to where, on a low hillock, a Calvary had been placed.
Over the head of the rugged rock, which had been hewn into a rough cross, hung a blackened crown of thorns.
Nearer and nearer came the trampling of feet, the sound of singing and shouting. The men of Kérnak had been drinking at the Golden Merman on their way hither.
It was the wine, quite as much as the words of Jean Floessel, which had made them red republicans that night.
Around the foot of the Calvary knelt the little group of fugitives—waiting.
"Aux armes, citoyens."
Torches flared, killing the white charm of the moonlight with their sickly rays.
"Aux armes——"
A burst of laughter, followed by fierce shouting, checked the song.
The men of Kérnak had come in sight of the Calvary, and those who now stood awaiting them there.
"A cold night, Mesdames, for a walk. Your blood needs warming."
The mocking voice of their leader evoked another roar of laughter from the rest.
They were new to their role, those others, and Madame de Quernais had always been one to command much respect and awe as the great lady of the place. Now it was strange, and a little awe-inspiring, too, to see her standing there, facing them so quietly.
She did not seem afraid of the Terror, this Madame of theirs.
It was disappointing.
But Jean Floessel knew how to deal with vile aristos. He advanced with a swagger.
"Come," he jeered. "We're on our way to pay you a visit. It's a large party, but there's room enough at the château for all. It's absurd for three people to occupy so many apartments when we herd by the dozen in one. But there's an end to that now. Come, Citoyenne, you'll return with us, and we'll have a pleasant evening. If I mistake not, the little one there has a fine pair of eyes and a pretty mouth. Aha! we shall have amusement. And you'll be kind, my friends, if you're wise, or there's a citoyenne at St. Malo whose embrace is closer and colder than that of Jean Floessel, and less to your taste, I'll swear."
A hoarse shout of laughter greeted the sally.
After all, it was their day now, and, as Jean said, they would amuse themselves. There would be wine as well as dancing at the château.
It was at this moment that Père Mouet stepped forward.
A familiar little figure in brown habit, with a brown, kindly old face.
But, just now, the memories of the men of Kérnak were short.
"My children," he cried, raising his arm, "what is this? You would be led by this man into sin? I will not believe it of you. This is not Paris—it is not even France. It is Brittany—our Brittany. We of a good and noble land will not join hands with murderers; or what will le bon Dieu say to us,—He who guards and protects us in storm and gale, and who brings love and joy to our homes? Go back to those homes now, my children, and thank the blessed saints that you have been saved from crime."
A low murmur died away into silence.
Père Mouet spoke to his people's hearts.
A harsh laugh interrupted him.
"Be silent, old fool," shouted Jean Floessel, "or I will throttle your whinings in your throat. Malédiction! it's always the way of you priests to be greedy; but since there are three of them we can all have our share of the kisses."
He looked round, expecting the coarse jest to meet with applause. But none came. The men of Kérnak were thinking.
"Silence!" cried Père Mouet sternly, raising his hand again. "See you not where we stand, fellow? Beware lest Heaven shrivel your foul tongue in your throat in punishment. Repent you of your evil ways ere it is too late, and the fires of Purgatory chastise you for your sins."
Again the murmur rose from the crowd.
Religion and superstition were too deeply imbedded in these Breton peasants to be easily up-rooted. Already fear of the Church's anathema was at work in their hearts.
But Jean Floessel had been in Paris. He had learnt things there—amongst others how to forget the early lessons his mother had taught him.
He was not afraid of curse or Purgatory. With a scream of rage he flung himself forward with hand outstretched to strike the old man standing there so fearlessly before him.
But one of the peasants—a brawny fisherman of the coast, caught him by the collar, dragging him back.
Père Mouet was ready to follow up his advantage.
"My children," he cried. "Ah, my children, you will listen to me. You will return to your homes and pray God and His dear saints to keep you in peace from all the madness and evil of these terrible days."
His voice broke off, quavering with emotion, but the crowd answered by a sigh—a long sigh as of waves receding from impregnable cliffs back into the deep.
Here and there a woman sobbed and a man muttered prayer or oath. They were remembering how this Père Mouet had indeed a right to call them his children; for had he not been a father to them these forty years and more?
One recalled how he sat up three nights with little Gaston when he had the fever, another of the prayers he offered without payment for the soul of the poor Louis who died unshriven last autumn. Then how good he had been when bad days came during the winter. Père Mouet had been the only one who had a cheery word then, always cheery, always helpful, always ready to nurse a sick one, or get food for a hungry one. As for the children, there was not one in Kérnak who did not adore him.
And now what were they doing?
That was the question many put to themselves, and hung their heads in very shame for answer. But Jean Floessel was quick to see the way in which the wind was blowing.
Nom d'un chien! Was he to have all his eloquence and exertions wasted because these fools were ready to listen to one old man?
Bah! they had also learnt how to deal with priests in Paris.
In an instant he had thrust his hand within his blouse.
Ah, ah! It was so sudden that not even great Gourmel Tenoit, who had him by the coat, could see what he was about.
A click, a flash, a loud report, followed by a shriek from the women.
But Père Mouet did not cry out, though the bullet winged its way straight enough to its mark. Only he staggered a little, threw up both arms, and then sank back upon the ground, at the very foot of the Calvary, his head resting against the rough rock.
It was a terrible silence that followed pistol-shot and screams.
Madame de Quernais was on her knees beside the fallen man; all eyes were upon her.
Presently she rose.
"He is dead," she said, and her voice, low and dull at first, became shrill as she repeated the words "He is dead."
A picture to be remembered, that, by more than one who stood there.
The desolate stretch of moor with its tangle of briar, thistle, and patches of purple heather; the mists broken and fleeing before the rising wind; the smoking glare of torches on the outskirts of the crowd, and the pale glory of moonlight streaming down unmarred upon the great rough-hewn cross, emblem of suffering and death, with its blackened crown of thorns telling its tale of love and victory immortal; whilst below, gathered round the little hillock, the three women, two girls clinging together, yet erect and dauntless, whilst the third knelt by the prostrate figure of the dead man.
Moonbeams fell on Madame's silver hair, from which the heavy wrap had slipped back; they fell too, on the wrinkled, kindly face of Père Mouet.
So small, so helpless he looked lying there, yet never had he been so powerful. No wonder that he was smiling—the glad, sweet smile of one who had gone straight from his life-task to meet the Bridegroom.
But the life-work was not over, even though the worn old hands, which had always been so ready for any labour of love, were stiffening now in death.
The great crowd, gathered round, was swaying first one way, then another. Père Mouet was dead! Père Mouet was dead! Yonder stood his murderer.
They were honest men, after all, these humble peasants of Brittany.
Père Mouet, and the relentless antagonism of the sea, had taught them to fear God. If they had forgotten, in a sudden burst of mad excitement and intoxication, they were remembering with quick and sharpened stabs of conscience.
And Père Mouet was dead!
Madame was telling them so, even now, whilst she stood like some accusing spirit before them. Alone, but fearless, telling them this dread news.
Père Mouet dead! They were realizing it—to the cost of Jean Floessel.
With a yell they would have flung themselves upon him, but Jean had already seen his danger.
If fools must be fools, it was time for wise men to escape.
Wrenching himself free from Gourmel's slackened grasp, he dived under the big man's arm and set off at full speed across the lande.
He must reach Varenac and Marcel Trouet. But the men of Kérnak were of another mind.
The tide had turned.
It was no longer "À bas les aristocrats," "Vive la nation!" but the howl of men who seek vengeance.
Floessel heard the howl, and it added wings to his feet.
The blockheads! the fools! All this outcry because one insignificant priest had been killed! Why! they died like flies in Paris. He himself had been a cursed idiot ever to leave that glorious city.
And behind him came the avengers of Père Mouet.
He ran well—-that Jean Floessel—for over a mile, stumbling, sweating, cursing, whilst anger gave way to growing fear.
And he had reason to fear, for behind him ran Gourmel Tenoit, whose little lad had been nursed back to life by the good priest of Kérnak, and beside him was Blaise Fermat, who owed wife and happiness to the same kindly influence.
They caught Jean Floessel just by the great rock where three brave Breton soldiers lie buried, and where the fairies visit the dead on moonlit nights and talk to them. Yes, they caught him there, and he had not even time to cry "Vive la nation!" ...
Those two were happier as they walked home together, leaving behind them a limp and hideous thing, face downwards amongst the heather.
But many wept that night in Kérnak as they whispered Père Mouet's name in their prayers.
They were alone.
Those three helpless women standing together under the shadow of the Calvary beside their dead. The crowd had gone. Some in pursuit of Floessel, others drifting away, shamed and frightened, as you have seen whipped curs creep back to their kennels.
Here and there a woman had stolen near to the little group, sobbing out a petition for pardon; but most of them had gone silently, with doubt and fear in their hearts.
Père Mouet had bidden them return to their homes, and, at this moment, Père Mouet's commands were powerful.
So they went—regretfully, perhaps,—when they thought of the château, and the fine night's plunder and amusement they had promised themselves, but hurriedly when they remembered the woman who stood, crying, scornfully and accusingly, to them that their good priest was dead—murdered.
But it was possible they would come back. Cowed they might be, but they were dangerous still.
None knew that better than Madame.
They had tasted the sweets of momentary power. They had cried "Vive la nation!"
They would cry it again at the bidding of another Floessel.
"We must not delay," she said, speaking very quietly, yet with a great effort; "it is still far to the cave."
"To the cave! You will leave the good father, Madame Maman?"
Cécile's voice was reproachful.
"He needs no more of our care, my child," replied her mother gravely. "Nor could we leave him in a more fitting resting-place."
She crossed herself reverently as she spoke, bending over the little figure in its brown habit; such a little shrunken figure it looked, but the smile transfigured a wrinkled, care-worn old face into a strangely majestic beauty.
Yes, Père Mouet would sleep well under the shadow of the cross.
They left him there, resting so peacefully after a very hard and lonely life, and the moonbeams, falling softly on his closed eyelids, seemed to kiss away the deep lines of care and sorrow, which he had borne so bravely, and leave only beauty behind. The night-wind sang his requiem as it swept wailing over the moors. It might rather have been the lament of many in Kérnak, who that night had lost a friend.
*****
It was, indeed, a long and weary walk to the coast.
Yet none of the three travellers who wended their way across the moor complained.
It was the inevitable, which must be conquered by resignation.
Yet at last they paused to look around them and wonder, in but half-framed whispers, whether they were coming the right way.
Père Mouet was an unerring guide; without him difficulties presented themselves more forcibly every moment.
It was no easy task, indeed, to keep to a right track across that almost trackless lande.
Gorse-bushes made but poor landmarks, and there were neither trees nor hillocks near to guide them.
It was true that the coast lay before them, but this cave would be hard to find if they had gone out of their path in approaching it.
Had it not been for the moonlight they would have despaired. As it was, they gazed around in bewilderment and anxiety. Behind them lay the forest. Beyond that—Varenac.
Ah! what was happening at Varenac? Another question to torment them!
Again, it was possible that the others had already reached the cave. If so, in what apprehension they would be waiting!
At any rate they must press forward. Enemies might overtake them at any moment. The persuasions of Floessel or his fellows might again incite the peasants to pursue them, and they had walked but slowly.
Hark! Listen! The muffled thud, thud, of horse-hoofs coming from the left.
The wind had dropped and mists were gathering again. They could not pierce those dark shadows, strain their eyes as they might.
Yet horsemen were coming towards them across the moors.
Could it be those who had gone to Varenac?
It seemed impossible, since they came from the direction of Kérnak.
Who could it be then?
Marcel Trouet and Lord Denningham.
That was Gabrielle's instant thought as she clung to Cécile's hand.
Yes, it would be those two. They were pursuing them, they would find them.
Instinct had long since told Gabrielle what Lord Denningham's feelings towards her were. She already vaguely guessed his intentions.
But she would die sooner than marry him. Oh! it would be easy to die, rather than that.
And he had ridden to, and from, Kérnak now to find her.
She was convinced of it.
But what should they do?
Where hide?
Not even a gorse-bush near, and the horse-hoofs were approaching quickly. Through the mists she would soon see her enemy appear, and then what escape would be possible?
Her fears were the fears of her companions, though theirs were vaguer, wrought more from strained nerves than knowledge. Yet what could they do?
A block of granite rocks, leaning one against the other, formed the only shelter within sight.
It was thither they fled, Madame leaning heavily against them, for exhaustion had well-nigh conquered courage.
So they crouched, whilst Cécile whispered to Gabrielle that, if those who came were Breton born, they might be safe enough.
"Safe?" murmured Gabrielle, cowering low. "Nay, a little search and they must find us."
"They will not think of searching. These are the haunted stones of the Breton landes. Have you never heard? The fairies and dwarfs hide their treasures here—so the ignorant say—and if any approach they are destroyed. But hush, these—these perhaps are——"
"From Varenac."
"Nay, nay! not from Varenac."
"Not those we need? But I have enemies there."
"You——?"
Cécile broke off, slipping her arm round her mother. Madame de Quernais, weak with exhaustion, was battling against growing faintness.
"Mother of Heaven, pity," prayed the girl.
"Merciful God, hear us," moaned Gabrielle.
Through the mists loomed the outline of three horses and their riders.
Gigantic shadows at first, indefinable to those cowering behind the boulders. But they were plainer now; the moonlight, though waning, showed them more than mere outline.
The sound of voices, crying to each other, struck sharply on listening ears, and were answered in glad echoes.
"Michael, Michael!"
"Morice! Ah, ciel! it is they! it is they!"
If the riders paused to ask whence the cries came it was only for an instant. The next they were on the ground beside those who stood, laughing, sobbing, thanking Heaven, and crying welcome in a breath.
Was it possible? All safe.All.
Thank God for that! Again and again thank God.
At first it was Madame who required all their attention.
Joy, following the cruel strain of those past hours, had been too much for her, and she fainted with Jéhan's strong arms around her. But she revived shortly, for the hour of weakness must be put off yet again.
The danger was not over.
Marcel Trouet would see to that. By this time, doubtless, he had joined forces with some of his other friends from Paris, perhaps with Jean Floessel himself.
There had been delay in their ride from Varenac, since they had gone first to Kérnak, where Guillaume had kept them with a long-winded story of the flight.
And then they had passed the Calvary.
Michael's arm was close around Gabrielle, whilst Jéhan de Quernais' voice faltered as he spoke of their great fear and dread when they found the body of Père Mouet.
They had hesitated, indeed, as to whether they should not return to Kérnak at once, convinced that those they sought had been made prisoners.
Finally, however, they decided to ride quickly to the cave and return to the château if their search were in vain.
But it had not been in vain.
God be thanked for that!
It was a moment of emotion, not of convention.
That was why Cécile clung to Morice with no thought but that the man she loved had come back to her from the shadow of death.
And he could look down into her eyes without shame.
After all, Morice Conyers owed something to the Red Revolution. It had made a man of him.
The moment of a man's reward is sweet.
Yet he took it humbly, bending to kiss the small, upturned face with a reverence which no woman had ever inspired in him before.
And she smiled into his eyes with a frank avowal of love returned, unmarred by any veiled doubt.
In times less perilous he might have found his wooing as long by months as it had been short by days. But fear and danger had swept aside the hundred and one conventions which clustered burr-like around a demoiselle of the old school.
And Gabrielle?
She, too, had her lover, the lover she had chosen from childhood, her loyal knight for ever and ever.
Thus she had claimed and held him.
They belonged to each other, these two. She did not even question so old a fact. And her fears for him made her kinder even than she might have been, for Gabrielle was more woman than babe, and not averse—at times—to the kindling of jealous flame for the sake of listening to fresh vows of love.
But this was no time for jest. Love in such garb as theirs was too sacred a thing for sport or coquetry, though she could smile as she looked up at him.
"We are safe now," she whispered contentedly. "But, oh, Michael, I feared it was Lord Denningham."
"No," he answered gravely. "Heat least will trouble you no more."
"Dead?"
Her tone was awe-struck.
"Yes. It was a duel. I killed him."
She drew a deep breath.
Even though she hated Lord Denningham she knew he had loved her—and a woman's hatred of a lover is ever a partial one.
"Yes, I was afraid of him," she mused, and shuddered. "I am afraid altogether," she cried piteously. "Oh, Michael, let us go home."
She stretched out her hands to him, and he took her tenderly enough in his arms. But it was a moment to be more practical than sentimental.
"They may reach the coast before us," he said, looking from her to Jéhan de Quernais. "We should not delay."
The Count nodded.
"It is true," said he. "We must not delay."
The waning moonlight was playing them false, even as he spoke.
Shadows, deepening around, would have confused clearer heads than theirs.
Yes, it was time they reached the coast. Had they not left it all too late already?
Shouts from the right, where Varenac village lay hidden by a downward sweep of the moor, told them that Marcel Trouet was not minded to be outwitted.
Trackers or spies might have guessed where they rode. At any rate, it was certain that the pursuit was being persevered in,—would be persevered in to the last.
But the shouts gave them warning.
A warning not to be disregarded.
Those who hastened towards the Cave of Lost Souls did not waste time in conversation.
A desolate and gloomy shelter. Well-named, indeed. Moaning winds whistled and sobbed through crevices in the great rocks which hemmed in the cave on each side.
No wonder that the peasantry, steeped in superstition, believed that this was fitting place for lost and wandering souls.
How vividly they could picture dead faces peering from out of the dark clefts, dead mouths uttering their unceasing cries against the fate which had closed for ever the gates of Paradise, dead eyes staring into each other's depths in startled horror, or away over the grey waste of waters ever roaring hungrily for more victims.
Even Cécile shuddered, crossing herself as she stood on the sandy shore, listening to the eerie sobbing of wind and waves, and watched how dying moonbeams shed ghostly patches of light in dark, deserted corners.
But Morice's arm still encircled her, and there was no wavering or weakness in the blue eyes which looked down into hers.
She had cried to him for protection, and manhood, ready armed, had sprung to lusty life within him at the appeal.
"You will trust me, sweetheart?" he asked her, and his voice shook a little over the question in humble self-distrust.
Her smile destroyed all doubt.
What matter that she left home and country behind in the mists of night? Before her lay love and the dawn of a new day.
"With my life, Morice," she whispered, nestling close to his side with the confidence of a trustful child.
But Gabrielle stood nearer to the shore, the waves almost lapping her feet, whilst flaky fragments of spume fluttered against her cloak.
The boats rocked softly to and fro as the waters rose and fell beneath them. Madame de Quernais was already seated in the prow of the larger craft.
It was time to go.
Michael had taken the girl's hand in his, and, though it lay warm and restful there, she was stretching out the other to Count Jéhan, who stood apart.
"You are coming too, my cousin?" she said gently, for instinct told her of a lonely heart beating near hers that night.
The light fell on her fair face and uncovered head. Stray curls lay in pretty disorder in the arch of her neck and across a white forehead. Hazel eyes, sweet and true, looked kindly into the pale face opposite her own.
Count Jéhan drew himself up proudly.
None should ever know the pain which racked him as he looked at her.
She was not his—never would be his. Did not Michael Berrington hold her hand—her heart?
So love must be buried at birth, and, if he must rise again, it should be only as some tender, shadowy ghost, which, though sweet to gaze at, could never be held in mortal arms.
Yes, love must hide from sight.
But Brittany remained.
So Count Jéhan held his head high as he made answer, sternly and quietly, thinking—poor fool—that none guessed his secret, least of all the woman who looked so wistfully into his eyes.
"La Rouerie calls me his friend," said he, "and Brittany her son. As friend and son I remain on Breton soil.
"As for the Cause, it will never die till la Rouerie breathes his last. And so Heaven bless and hold you all in its fair keeping till we meet in happier times."
He smiled, making light of the parting as though he went to some merry fête.
Nor would he let his mother weep, or Cécile cling around his neck.
"For Brittany and the Cause," he cried, laughing gaily as the boats glided out at last into the deepest waters of the bay.
"For Brittany and the Cause—we'll cry that in Paris ere long."
He waved his handkerchief as he spoke, and, though the shadows fell around him, they could hear the glad ring of triumph in his voice.
But only Gabrielle, as she clung to Michael's side, in the great joy of reunion and hope, knew that Count Jéhan de Quernais went back with empty, aching heart to a lost cause.
Yet youth is selfish, and love is sweet.
"My true knight for ever and ever," she whispered, and laid a happy head on Michael's shoulder.
There was no room in her heart just then for aught but sweet content.
This Catalogue is divided into two sections; the first (pages 1-14) contains the most recent books and announcements, and the second (pages 15-32) contains the books previously published.
Colonial Editions are issued of all Mills & Boon's Novels, and of most of their books in General Literature. In the case of forthcoming books the approximate prices at which they will be published are given. These may be altered before publication.
By ARTHUR A. LILLEY. With a Portrait in Photogravure and 16 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net.
Surely there is not a better-known cricketer all the world over than Arthur A. Lilley. For the last twenty-four years he has been one of the greatest players the fine old game has ever produced. Popular alike on and off the field, and gifted with a remarkable personality, Arthur Lilley has made such a name in the history of the game that no surprise will be felt at the present book. Indeed, the literature of cricket would be incomplete without it. It would be interesting to know how many games have been turned at the critical stage by the astute judgment and practical ability of England's famous wicket keeper. Arthur Lilley's career has been one long-continued success, and in the breezy pages of his delightful book he tells his fascinating story of great games, great cricketers, and great globe-trotting adventures, with many a good tale in each chapter. "Twenty-four Years of Cricket" also contains the author's advice on cricket, which will be found invaluable by youthful cricketers in every clime. The book is well illustrated and will be one of the most interesting volumes of 1912.
By PADRAIC COLUM. With 12 full-page Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net.
"My Irish Year" is the third of a series of books which MILLS & BOON initiated with that brilliant study by Miss I. A. R. Wylie, entitled "My German Year." This was followed by another fine volume in Mr. Richard Bagot's "My Italian Year."
"My Irish Year," like the previous books, deals with almost every phase of Irish life. Its author, Mr. Padraic Colum, is one of a band of brilliant Irish writers who are rapidly becoming a force in the literary and dramatic world. Mr. Colum aims at giving his readers a faithful portrait of Irish life, and does not occupy himself with its history, except in so far as it bears directly upon the subject to which he has confined himself. He takes us through the length and breadth of Ireland and introduces us to all phases of its social life from the highest to the lowest. "My Irish Year" is a sympathetic impression of Irish life, and contains much curious information regarding the manners and customs both of town and country life.
By LORD ERNEST HAMILTON. Demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net.
"Involution" is a book which sets forth in a popular and readable form the most recent views of the scientific and philosophic world as to the great problem of existence. It dwells especially on the remarkable tendency of the moment to favour the once-ridiculed doctrine of vitalism. In pursuing this line of research it goes closely into the question of religion in all its aspects, ancient and modern; Eastern and Western, and while frankly critical of orthodoxy, brings at the same time to light many little-known points with regard to bibliology which cannot fail to change for the better the point of view of many to whom current Christianity is a perplexity.
By MILDRED CARNEGY, Author of "Kings and Queens of France." With 12 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net.
"A Queen's Knight" is the life-story of Count de Fersen, the devoted friend of Marie Antoinette, and cannot fail to be of interest to the general public. Living as Fersen did in one of the most stirring periods of European history, his story brings before us, the great French Revolution, the American War of Independence, and glimpses of the Swedish Court under that erratic genius, Gustavus III.
By F. W. STODDARD ("Dolomite"). With 20 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net.
By THE AUTHOR OF "THE ENCLOSED NUN." With about 20 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net.
By RICHARD BAGOT, Author of "My Italian Year." Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. net.
Mr. Richard Bagot has been for many years a resident in Italy. This volume deals with Italy in war time and is chiefly a defence of the Italian soldier who has in the author's opinion been seriously maligned. It is certain to create much discussion.
With full notes by LOUIS CALVERT. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. net.
Mr. Louis Calvert's remarkable Shakespearean studies have been universally recognised, and as a producer his work has probably been second to none.
Mr. Louis Calvert has studied the character of Hamlet for over twenty years, and this book is the fruit of his labour. The volume contains the text of "Hamlet," and the play is exhaustively treated with notes which mark the editor as a man of striking originality.
Fcap. 8vo. New Edition. Cloth 2s. 6d. net. Paper 1s. net.
Pall Mall Gazette.—"A remarkably beautiful piece of devotional writing."
By C. F. BENTON and MARY F. HODGE. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. net. Paper, 1s. net.
Daily Telegraph.—"A capital idea. Hitherto the manufacture of toffy has represented the limit of nursery art in the direction indicated, but this volume contains excellent recipes for dishes which children will find quite easy to make, and their elders to eat without misgivings. Every father, mother, uncle, and aunt should make a point of presenting their child friends with a copy of this useful and practical book."
By FRANCES M. GOSTLING, Author of "The Bretons at Home." With 5 Illustrations in Colour, 33 from Photographs, and a Map. Crown 8vo. 6s.
By I. A. R. WYLIE, Author of "My German Year," "Dividing Waters." With 5 Illustrations in Colour and 24 from Photographs. Crown 8vo. 6s.
By CHRISTIAN TEARLE, Author of "Holborn Hill." With 21 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 6s.
By ROBERT LYND, Author of "Home Life in Ireland." Fully Illustrated. Crown 8vo. 6s.
"Rambles in Irish Ways" is a personal book of travel, a volume of descriptions, conversations, notions, memoirs, mostly concerning the southern half of Ireland. Dublin, Galway (at the time of the races), Cong, Lisdoonvarna, Killorglin (while Puck Fair is going on), Kinsale, Cashel, Kilkenny, Enniscorthy, and Glendalough are among the places in which the author wandered, and about which he has something to say. The book also contains a Donegal chapter.
By HAROLD SIMPSON. With 8 Illustrations in Colour, and 32 from Photographs. Crown 8vo. 6s.
A ramble through Norway is one of the most delightful ways imaginable of spending a holiday. The most jaded body or the most overworked brain cannot fail to find new health and strength in that land of invigorating air and almost perpetual sunshine. For the sight-seeing traveller it possesses attractions which can hardly be surpassed anywhere, for Norway can boast of a scenery which is unlike that of any other country in the world. In many of its features, it is true, it resembles Switzerland, but it has an advantage over the latter in the fact of its infinite variety. Lake, mountain, fjord, and forest succeed one another with wonderful rapidity, so that the eye is for ever feasting on new beauties. For the rambler in search of rest and quiet it has a peculiar charm, since it abounds in out-of-the-world nooks and peaceful corners, little dream-places in which one may forget for a while the busy world and its cares. Both these classes of traveller have been catered for in the present book—those who desire to follow the beaten track as well as those whose ambition is to linger "far from the madding crowd," and enjoy the wonderful beauties of nature undisturbed.