CHAPTER XIX

“It is only yourself who will accuse you of being a coward,” he said.

Jeannietapped at the bed-room door, and Phœbe’s voice answered her quite cheerfully.

“I was just coming down, Miss Avesham,” she said; “I should have come down before, but I just waited to collect myself. Now, please tell me truly. Dr. Maitland, I thought, looked very grave. Is that not so?”

Jeannie could hardly believe that this brisk, cheerful woman was the same who had sat so limply and undecidedly in the drawing-room half an hour ago. What had caused this change of front she could not guess, for, evidently, Dr. Maitland had not been reassuring. But her own part was made easier for her.

“Yes, he was very grave,” said Jeannie. “Dear Miss Clifford, it is idle for me to say how sorry I am. But it is very grave, indeed.”

Phœbe stood at the window a moment with her back to Jeannie, and Jeannie could see that her hand, which played with the blind-cord, trembled, and at that her courage again failed her, and a sickening helplessness took its place. But almost immediately Phœbe turned round again, and her poor, gray face was quite composed, and her hand firm.

“Please tell me what it is, Miss Avesham,” she said.

Jeannie rose, took both her hands in hers, and looked at her with infinite compassion.

“It is cancer,” she said.

Phoebe drew a long sigh.

“You will think it very singular of me, Miss Avesham,” she said, “but it is almost a relief to hear that. The fear of it, I think, was worse than the knowledge. Can anything be done?”

“An operation could be attempted,” said Jeannie, “but it would be very dangerous, and not hopeful.”

“I am glad of that,” said Miss Phœbe, “for you must know, Miss Avesham, that Iam a terrible coward, and if there is one thing I dread it is being pulled about by a professional man. I have three teeth now that ought to come out. Would you think it very cowardly of me if I preferred not to have the operation?”

“Oh, thank God you bear it so well!” cried Jeannie, suddenly. “No, I should not think it cowardly. I think you are right. You a coward!” she said; “you are the bravest woman I ever saw.”

Miss Clifford’s face brightened with pleasure.

“I prayed God to let me not be very foolish about it,” she said. “Tell me one more thing. Would there have been a chance if I had gone to a doctor sooner?”

“There would,” said Jeannie, simply.

“Then will you promise me something?” asked Phœbe.

“Anything.”

“Don’t let poor Clara know that,” said Phœbe. “And oh, Miss Avesham, supposing she puts it to you rather directly, do you think you could go so far as to—well, to tell her just a little fib about it? It would saveClara a great deal of distress, for she would reproach herself for not having insisted on my seeing a doctor.”

“I will lie to any extent,” said Jeannie; “and I promise you that Dr. Maitland shall, too.”

Phœbe shrank back.

“Oh, you put it so strongly, Miss Avesham,” she said. “I would not ask you to tell a lie, but if you could just be a little diplomatic, if you could lead Clara off the scent, so to speak.”

“She shall never know,” said Jeannie.

“Thank you so much. And now I will put on my hat and go home. I wonder, Miss Avesham, would it be too much to ask you to come and see us to-morrow morning? I am afraid Clara will be very much upset, and you can deal with her as no one else can. I shall send a line to Dr. Maitland, asking him to come and tell me what I must do.”

And she put on her hat, taking great care to have it straight, and adjusted her silk scarf round her neck.

“It is a little chilly this afternoon,” she said, “and to catch a cold at this time ofyear is so tiresome. It is curious how much harder it is to throw off a cold in the summer.”

To Jeannie there was something infinitely pathetic about this. The poor lady had a mortal disease, yet the possibility of getting a cold in the head appeared, even at this first stunning moment, to rank at far greater importance in her mind. In a few weeks, now even, she was beyond all mortal aid, yet the adjustment of the silk scarf to shield her throat from possible chills was not less advisable.

The scarf adjusted, Miss Clifford paused again to pull down her veil to its accustomed point. At first it was too low, and then too high; this mattered no less than before. Little pleasures, little pains, seem to have a deeper and more intimate hold over certain natures than the greater calls: a man going out to be hung has been known to complain that his boot hurt him.

Jeannie called at Villa Montrose next morning, and, standing on the steps while the door was being answered, she heard the subdued tremolo of a mandolin. She wasshown at once into the drawing-room, and there in Phœbe’s corner was sitting Phœbe, with one leg thrown over the other, in the approved attitude, and in front of her, on a brass music-stand, was Funiculi, Funicula. She got up with alacrity when Jeannie entered.

“A lovely morning, is it not?” she said. “Dr. Maitland was so kind as to come early, and he told me I might get up and spend a quiet morning, going out in the afternoon, if I felt inclined. He recommended a drive, which I think I shall enjoy.”

Evidently for Phœbe the day of little things was not over. Uncertainty had worried her, the relief of certainty had let her tiny occupations resume their wonted importance. It seemed to Jeannie that condolence or congratulations on her bravery would be alike misplaced. It is good to weep with those who weep, but weeping friends are bad company if one does not show any inclination to weep one’s self, and certainly Phœbe showed none. And to continue congratulating any one on their fortitude is gratuitous. Courage, above all the virtues,brings its own reward, for it is warming to the heart.

“But Clara offered to take off my hands all the work of the household,” continued Phœbe, “which was very thoughtful of her, for she had noticed, she said, that it seemed to have fatigued me these last few weeks. And so, Miss Avesham, I have been spending a holiday morning with my music. I have hardly any pain this morning.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” said Jeannie, “and I see you have Funiculi. I know it, so I will accompany you.”

Clara upstairs, employed in looking out the towels in the bed-room, heard the light-hearted, rollicking tune vibrate through the house, and guessed Jeannie had come. Clara had a marked bedside manner, and her custom when any one was ill was to batter them with innocent questions as to whether they would have the door shut or the window opened, and to look at them with anxious, deprecating eyes, and to walk on a creaking tip-toe. Phœbe’s faint tinkling had been inaudible upstairs, and to play that song now seemed scarcely proper. She felt as shewould have felt if some one in the house was dead and the blinds had not been drawn down.

She was nearly at an end of her tour of inspection, and when, a few minutes later, she entered the drawing-room, the third verse of the song was not yet ended. She closed the door with elaborate precaution, and walking on tip-toe to Phœbe’s side, gazed into her face with a sad smile. But Phœbe only frowned; Jeannie was taking the song at a pace she was not used to, and it was as much as she could do to keep up.

“Turn over quick, Clara,” she said. “Now!” and Phœbe’s soul was in the thrumming of the mandolin.

The verse came to an end, and Jeannie turned round.

“That’s more the pace,” she said. “I remember I was with my father and mother in Naples when it came out, and it was the first sound you heard in the morning and the last you heard at night. I have a book of those Neapolitan airs; I’ll send them round to you if you like.”

Jeannie’s manner was anything but the ideal mortal-disease attitude which Clara had expected. She had expected to find her sitting by Phœbe’s side, with one hand in hers, talking about the next world and the lessons to be learned from pain. Perhaps she might with advantage have been found playing a hymn on the soft pedal, but instead of that she was thumping Neapolitan songs, and Phœbe seemed to be enjoying it. Was it possible that Dr. Maitland was wrong, and had told Jeannie so? In that case surely Jeannie would have let her know.

“There is another one,” Jeannie went on, running her hands gently over the keys. “Yes, that is right. It’s a duet, Stella d’Amore. The young man is walking by the sea, and sees a girl. He does not speak to her, but he sings to himself, as he passes, ‘There is a star by the sea,’ and when he has finished his verse, she sings, like him, ‘There is a star by the sea, but who am I that the star should hear me?’ And then they both sing, ‘Star of love by the sea.’”

Clara flushed.

“How romantic!” she said. “And did they marry?”

“It doesn’t say,” said Jeannie. “You must write an extra verse, Miss Clara, saying that they did.”

Jeannie got up from the piano and began putting on her gloves.

“I must go,” she said; “but whenever you feel up to it, Miss Clifford, send me a note, and we’ll have another go at the mandolin. I won’t forget to let you have the book. Now mind you do all that Dr. Maitland tells you. Good-bye.”

Clara came to show Jeannie out, and stopped her in the hall.

“Oh, Miss Avesham,” she said, “is Phœbe better? Is it not what Dr. Maitland thought?”

Jeannie shook her head.

“Better?” she said. “Has he not told you?”

Clara’s eyes filled with tears.

“Yes, he told me,” she said; “but you were so cheerful, I thought perhaps it was not as bad as he said.”

“No; you must not comfort yourself with that,” said Jeannie. “But comfort her, if I may suggest it, in little ways. You see, shestill cares for little things. She has not lost interest in life at all, it seems to me. Do not do or say anything that will remind her of what she is suffering from. My dear Miss Clara, it is not that I do not realize it that I recommend you this, but just because I do. All we can do is to help her in little ways. It is just that we can do.”

Poor Miss Clara looked bewildered and puzzled.

“But these things matter so little now,” she said. “I cannot understand Phœbe caring for her songs and her mandolin now. To be sure, she was never very fond of going to church, and she always says there are a great many black sheep who are clergymen. But now, Miss Avesham. Oh, to think of her playingFuniculi!”

Miss Clara delivered herself of this incoherent dissatisfaction with shaking head and trembling lips. It was all she could do to keep herself from bursting out crying, and the effort tied her face into hard knots. Phœbe had evidently taken up her mandolin again, for its little metallic notes came from the drawing-room, playing Funiculi, and ina few bars her quavering voice joined it. They had been speaking in low tones for fear Phœbe should hear them, but when the song began again Jeannie spoke louder.

“It seems to me such a great thing that she can still take an interest and a pleasure in things,” said Jeannie. “I would encourage her all I could to continue to do that.”

“But it seems so strange,” said Clara. “I know my poor mother saw a clergyman every day for six weeks before she died. And when I suggested this morning to Phœbe that I should ask Mr. Crawshaw to call she got quite angry, and said, ‘What for?’ So as any agitation, Dr. Maitland told me, is bad for her, I didn’t urge it. But my conscience has pricked me ever since.”

Jeannie smiled.

“Put it in a pin-cushion, then,” she said. “Oh, how little I should want to see a clergyman if I was going to die soon. Fancy wanting a clergyman when you were dying,” she said, half to herself.

For a moment Miss Clara looked shocked, but any opinion expressed by her idol demanded unusual thought before it was condemned. And, after a little reflection:

“I think I see what you mean,” she said. “But it seems so odd.”

“Well, I must go,” said Jeannie; “and I think it would be wise of you to let your sister do as she likes and to encourage her in anything she may wish.”

Clara sighed.

“I am sure you must be right,” she said. “Dear Miss Avesham, there is one thing more I wanted to ask you. You do not think, do you, that if Phœbe had seen a doctor sooner it would have been more hopeful?”

“I am sure it would have made no difference,” said Jeannie, with assurance. Then, seeing that doubt still lingered on Miss Clara’s face:

“I happened to ask Dr. Maitland that myself,” she added, which happened to be quite true.

Clara looked inexpressibly relieved.

“You can’t think how I worried about it since Phœbe told me last night,” she said. “I was afraid it might have been, however indirectly, my fault.”

“Well, anyhow, you needn’t worry about that any more,” said Jeannie.

She went down the steps and turned homeward, a little shocked at herself at the ease with which what Miss Phœbe had called “the little fib” had been spoken. No one had practised the difficult art of lying less than she, but it seemed to come quite naturally. And not for a moment did she repent it. “If it was wrong,” she said to herself, “God will understand.”

Clara stayed for a moment looking after Jeannie and composing herself. Then she nailed a smile to her face and went back into the drawing-room.

Phœbe was still sitting in her chair strumming to herself on the mandolin, but she stopped as Clara entered.

“I wonder if you could play that accompaniment,” she said; “I want to try the song that comes next, Amore Mysterio.”

“I will try,” said Clara, and seated herself at the piano.

But she did not make much of a success out of it, for, in addition to the fact that she found four sharps even at the best of times ascarcely negotiable quantity, her fingers were trembling, and she could scarcely see the keys. Then quite suddenly, in the middle of the second part, she put her elbows on the piano and, burying her face in her hands, burst out crying.

Phœbe, whose mind had been entirely concentrated on her own difficulties with the mandolin, looked up suddenly at this cessation of the accompaniment. Then she got up and went to her sister.

“Clara,” she said, “don’t cry so. My dear, it is very hard on you, and you will be lonely, I think. But don’t make it worse for yourself, and don’t make it worse for me.”

Poor Clara turned her tear-stained face to her sister.

“Phœbe, Phœbe, I can’t bear it!” she sobbed. “Oh, to think of what is coming! Indeed, I am not crying for myself; but if only it was me, and not you. Oh, Phœbe, I prayed and I prayed last night that I might have this, and not you, and I hoped God would hear me. But I am just as well as ever this morning. Perhaps if you had seen a doctor sooner. No, that can’t be, becauseMiss Jeannie told me that it would have made no difference.”

Phœbe blessed Jeannie in her heart.

“So you know that nothing has been left undone that could have been done,” she said. “And now, Clara, please go and wash your face, and please try, love, to behave just as usual, just as you have behaved, my own dear sister, all these years. Oh, it is hard, I know. Perhaps, Clara, if we kneel down together and say Our Father we shall feel better, and then let us both make up our minds to make the best of things and to go on living quite simply and ordinarily. That has seemed right to us before, and I do not see that it is not right still. There is no use in my going to be a missionary just because of this.”

They said the prayer together, and when it was done Phœbe kissed her sister.

“Go upstairs if you like, dear,” she said, “and have a good cry. Then when you come down again, if you will be so kind, we will just try this Amore Mysterio again. I should like to surprise Miss Avesham by playing it when she comes. I told her I did not know it this morning.”

Clara stood irresolute a moment. Then she blew her nose, and wiped up her face generally.

“We will try it at once,” she said, in rather a quavering voice. “I hope I shall play it better this time, Phœbe.”

For the most part it is the natures of very strong vitality to whom death seems so unfaceable, and all their courage is needed to meet it. But Phœbe had never been a lusty swimmer in the waves and foam of life; she had but dabbled with her feet in it, and perhaps it was this unacquaintance with the thrill and throb of mere living which helped her to face what was before her with such simple unconcern. She had passed her life in safe and shallow waters, the buffeting and bracing risks of the world had not been her affair; and to her straightforward, if shallow and short-sighted, nature death did not seem an unnatural thing. Her grasp of life had never been firm, and the relaxation and loss of it came with no shock. Her fingers were but holding it lightly, they would come away without a struggle.

But Clara’s capacity for suffering wasgreater. In her gentle way she raged over that hideous end to existence, and it required all her fortitude to meet that which Phœbe met without effort. She had never rebelled or struggled against the ordinary necessities of life, and of these death was one.

But from that day her case grew very rapidly worse. That cruel and inexorable malady, whose only mercy is the swiftness with which it does its work, was to her very merciful, and her suffering was comparatively little. A fortnight after this she came downstairs for the last time, and, sitting once more in her corner, talked very cheerfully to Clara about Jeannie’s approaching marriage.

“It will take place in the Cathedral, so Miss Avesham told me yesterday,” she said, “and Lord Avesham will give her away. I wish—” and she paused.

“Yes, dear,” said Clara.

“I wish I could have been there,” said Phœbe, “but I am afraid Dr. Maitland was not so cheerful this morning. Clara, love, I hope you will go.”

Clara could not speak.

“I shall want to hear all about it, youknow,” said Phœbe; “and your new dress and bonnet and all are ready. I shall want to hear how they all looked, and whether Miss Jeannie spoke up, and who was there.”

Again Phœbe paused.

“And if—if, Clara—I am not here for you to tell, please go very quietly just the same. You can easily slip in among the crowd and see it. In fact, I want you to promise me to go in any case. You will be sorry to have missed it. And now—don’t let us talk any more about that. You were going to read Lord Fauntleroy to me. I think Mr. Arthur must have been so like him when he was little. We had just got to where he went out to ride.”

And Miss Clara wiped her eyes furtively, and found her place.

A brilliantJune sun lay sparkling on tree and tower and over the roofs of Wroxton and the downs which rise above the city. The morning might have been ordered, like the wedding-cake, withcarte-blanche, and no expense to be spared. The promise of that first day of spring when Jeannie had played golf with her fiancé was royally fulfilled, the vigour and glory of the year was at its midmost. A light wind tempered the heat of the morning, and set all the leaves of the trees chattering to each other, and woke innumerable songs in the throats of the lawn-haunting birds.

The marriage was to take place at two, and for an hour before people had streamed into the Cathedral. The rows of free seats in nave and transepts were full of the boys and girls of Jeannie’s classes, and the combined length of feather in the girls’ hats would have stretched from Bolton Street tothe altar. Many of them knew exactly how to behave at a marriage, and long before anything happened at all were crying profusely into their pocket-handkerchiefs. This very proper proceeding was interrupted with interested glances toward the west door, and when, a few minutes before two, it was rumoured that the bridegroom had arrived, the handkerchiefs were discreetly put away, for if you weep you are apt to miss points of interest.

The choir was kept for the invited guests, who had come in enormous numbers. A whole clan of Aveshams and Fortescues were there, and Colonel Raymond felt it was quite a family gathering, and was conscientiously able to congratulate himself on their appearance. The Collingwood party, he considered, lacked that fine air of distinction which marked his race, and the Colonel looked immensely interesting, and quite distinctly caught the eye of a countess no less, who instantly looked away.

Among the women present there was only one dark spot of colour. In a seat near the screen was Miss Clara. She was in black.

Weddings tend to be like each other. There are the same pieces on the organ, and for the most part the same hymns. There is the same anxiety to see how the bride behaves, and the same disappointment to find that she behaves like most other brides.

Jeannie was perhaps a little different; she looked quite radiantly happy, and not self-conscious at all; she said her own word very audibly, and on the way down from the altar she caught sight of Miss Clara, stopped the whole procession to kiss her in the face of the assembled congregation, and all the Avesham contingent said to their neighbours, “Who is that woman in black?”

Afterward there was a reunion at Bolton Street, and Collingwoods mixed in a manner which did not suggest chemical affinity with Aveshams, and each found the other just a shade trying. The bridegroom’s mother, for instance, was, to say the least of it, puzzled with Lady Tamar, the bride’s aunt, who smoked a cigarette with the whole of the close looking on, and really did not seem to be aware how unusually she was behaving. It was idle to explain, and Lady Tamar, on herside, at the end of the interview, said to herself, “Poor Jeannie!” However, as neither knew (or cared) what the other thought of her, there was no harm done. It was lucky indeed that Mrs. Collingwood was not aware what the world in general said about Lady Tamar; lucky also that Lady Tamar did not know the innermost truth about Mrs. Collingwood! She believed that the whole world was made to amuse her, and, if she had known, Mrs. Collingwood would have amused her so much that her inextinguishable laughter might have caused offence. Colonel Raymond alone, perhaps, was of all present in the seventh heaven of bliss; he did not talk to anybody, but he listened with both ears, and stocked himself with distinguished names. He had an excellent memory and the Peerage. Thus his old cronies were likely to hear more of collateral Aveshams.

Both bride and bridegroom effaced themselves from the party until their appearance was necessary. They were to leave Wroxton by a train soon after four, and the interval between their mingling with the party and the last possible moment of catching theirtrain was short. Jack held that wedding parties were a barbarity, Jeannie that it was better not to be a principal actor; and, as a matter of fact, they sat quietly in the nursery and amused the baby till Arthur warned them it was time to go to their train. For both there was rice and slippers, for each there was the other.

The family who had taken Merton were in London, and were delighted that the two should spend their honeymoon there. Merton was only a couple of stations from Wroxton, and they arrived soon after five. All about her were the dear familiarities of childhood, by her the crown of her womanhood. Nowhere else, she thought, could Jack have known her as well as here.

From tea till dinner-time they wandered about the place; like two children, the one introducing the other to her home. This was the hedge where the long-tailed tit built, and this the copse where wild lilies-of-the-valley flowered in May. There was a reminiscence dear to her, and infinitely dear to him, about every yard of the place. The old boat-house with a leaky punt had given her many aColumbus voyage to the island on the lake, and the clusters of water-lilies to surprised eyes had been a Sargasso Sea. The punt was gone, but a newer boat was there, and they rowed about for nearly an hour, and watched the quick fishes in the water, and gathered the tall rushes and the golden-hearted lilies, and together were rung to dressing time, as Jeannie in the old days had been rung to bed. And as before they delayed to obey.

Dinner was over, and they sat on the south of the terrace-fronted house; a full moon moved like a queen bee among the swarming stars, and the world was refashioned out of soft darkness and ivory and pearl. Pearl-coloured was Jeannie’s dress, and she the pearl of pearls.

“How strange one’s life goes in acts,” she said. “The act at Wroxton is over now, but what a pleasant one it was. Oh, Jack, I hope this act will be a long one. Do you remember the plank bridge by the mill, and Toby shaking himself?”

“Do I remember?” echoed Jack. “Do I remember?”

“Only think, it is not a year ago,” shesaid. “And until then we had lived without each other. What a pity we did not advertise for each other before. It has been such a waste of time. Ah, there is the nightingale; there is always one in the elms at the end of the terrace. I remember how it sang all that night on which my father died.”

“It does not hurt you to think of that?” said Jack, gently.

“No, why should it? Life, love, death, the three great gifts of God. ‘What further can be sought for or declared?’”she quoted.

For a long time they sat in silence. The moon, still not yet in zenith, shone with a very clear light across the lake, and made a pathway of silver to the dim farther shore. To the right the nightingale trilled and bubbled, a few lights gleamed from the great house behind. A spell seemed cast over the world, and over the two sitting there a spell was cast.

Suddenly Jeannie turned and laid her arm round his neck.

“You are happy?” she asked. “You have made no mistake?”

But in her heart there was no question, but utter conviction.

“God knows I am happy!” he said.

“And you, Jack, you?” she asked. “Do you know it?”

“You know that I know it,” he replied. “Is that not enough?”

And they rose and walked softly through the softness of the night back to the house.

THE END

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“A better book in some respects than the much read ‘Isabel Carnaby.’”—Evening Post, Louisville, Ky.

“Keeps up her reputation for epigram, brilliant delineation of character, and social climaxes.”—Courier-Journal, Louisville, Ky.

“Full of intellect and brightness.”—Globe-Democrat, St. Louis.

“Miss Fowler’s old lightness and cleverness of touch show throughout the book.”—The World, New York.

“The same ring of keen insight, understanding of types of human nature, and ability to create brilliant conversations—the faint, whimsical describing of the hearts of her characters, which gives so vivid and lasting a conception of their personalities.”—Pioneer Press, St. Paul.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.

TWO IMPORTANT WORKS OF FICTION.

The Silver Poppy.

ByArthur Stringer. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

This notable story should appeal to a wide public through its originality of plot, its dramatic interest, and the literary charm of its description; while the dialogue never flags from start to finish. The New York of to-day is reproduced in graphic and apt scenes as it has not often been done before, with poetic appreciation for its beauties and a keen eye for its dramatic values.

“The story is possessed of much literary merit, full of movement, and shows the author to be a poet as well as a master of fiction.”—Washington Post.“Worth reading for its own sake, on account of its deft and delicate handling of a complicated psychological case.”—New York Mail and Express.“A novel of first-rate dramatic quality in construction and style, and its climaxes are worked up with fine dramatic art and spirited dialogue.”—Brooklyn Eagle.

“The story is possessed of much literary merit, full of movement, and shows the author to be a poet as well as a master of fiction.”—Washington Post.

“Worth reading for its own sake, on account of its deft and delicate handling of a complicated psychological case.”—New York Mail and Express.

“A novel of first-rate dramatic quality in construction and style, and its climaxes are worked up with fine dramatic art and spirited dialogue.”—Brooklyn Eagle.

The Career Triumphant.

ByHenry B. Boone, joint Author of “Eastover Courthouse’ and “The Redfield Succession.” 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

It is always an entertaining subject when the life of the Old Dominion is made the theme for a well-written novel, but Mr. Boone has succeeded in placing in the environment of contemporary Virginia rural life a number of delightful characters set in that environment with absolute fidelity. The social life of the present-day Virginia, with the assured sense of culture and ease that comes of its well-defined social limits, is given with perfect coloring.

“Should take a prominent place among the early autumn books.”—Boston Transcript.“As a study of Virginians, Bourbon and reconstructed, it is accurate and entertaining.”—Boston Advertiser.

“Should take a prominent place among the early autumn books.”—Boston Transcript.

“As a study of Virginians, Bourbon and reconstructed, it is accurate and entertaining.”—Boston Advertiser.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK

ByA. CONAN DOYLE.

Uniform edition, 12mo. Cloth, $1.50 per volume.

ADUET, WITH AN OCCASIONAL CHORUS.

“Charming is the one word to describe this volume adequately. Dr. Doyle’s crisp style and his rare wit and refined humor, utilized with cheerful art that is perfect of its kind, fill these chapters with joy and gladness for the reader.”—Philadelphia Press.“Bright, brave, simple, natural, delicate. It is the most artistic and most original thing that its author has done.... We can heartily recommend ‘A Duet’ to all classes of readers. It is a good book to put into the hands of the young of either sex. It will interest the general reader, and it should delight the critic, for it is a work of art. This story taken with the best of his previous work gives Dr. Doyle a very high place in modern letters.”—Chicago Times-Herald.

“Bright, brave, simple, natural, delicate. It is the most artistic and most original thing that its author has done.... We can heartily recommend ‘A Duet’ to all classes of readers. It is a good book to put into the hands of the young of either sex. It will interest the general reader, and it should delight the critic, for it is a work of art. This story taken with the best of his previous work gives Dr. Doyle a very high place in modern letters.”—Chicago Times-Herald.

UNCLE BERNAC.A Romance of the Empire.

“Simply clear, and well defined.... Spirited in movement all the way through.... A fine example of clear analytical force.”—Boston Herald.

THE EXPLOITS OF BRIGADIER GERARD.

A Romance of the Life of a Typical Napoleonic Soldier.

“Good, stirring tales are they.... Remind one of those adventures indulged in by ‘The Three Musketeers.’ ... Written with a dash and swing that here and there carry one away.”—New York Mail and Express.

RODNEY STONE.

“A notable and very brilliant work of genius.”—London Speaker.“Dr. Doyle’s novel is crowded with an amazing amount of incident and excitement.... He does not write history, but shows us the human side of his great men, living and moving in an atmosphere charged with the spirit of the hard-living, hard-fighting Anglo-Saxon.”—New York Critic.

“A notable and very brilliant work of genius.”—London Speaker.

“Dr. Doyle’s novel is crowded with an amazing amount of incident and excitement.... He does not write history, but shows us the human side of his great men, living and moving in an atmosphere charged with the spirit of the hard-living, hard-fighting Anglo-Saxon.”—New York Critic.

ROUND THE RED LAMP.

Being Facts and Fancies of Medical Life.

“A strikingly realistic and decidedly original contribution to modern literature.”—Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.

THE STARK MUNRO LETTERS.

Being a Series of Twelve Letters written byStark Munro, M. B., to his friend and former fellow-student, Herbert Swanborough, of Lowell, Massachusetts, during the years 1881-1884.

“Cullingworth, ... a much more interesting creation than Sherlock Holmes, and I pray Dr. Doyle to give us more of him.”—Richard le Gallienne, in the London Star.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.

By FRANK R. STOCKTON.

The Captain’s Toll-Gate.

A Complete Posthumous Novel byFrank R. Stockton, Author of “Kate Bonnet,” “The Lady or the Tiger,” etc. With a Memoir by Mrs. Stockton, an Etched Portrait, Views of Mr. Stockton’s Home, and a Bibliography. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

The scene is partly laid in Washington but mainly in that part of West Virginia where the author spent the last three years of his life. Incidents centering about the “Toll-Gate” and a fashionable country home in the neighborhood are related with the author’s peculiar humor and charm of diction which have endeared him to a host of readers.

The heroine who is an embodiment of the healthy vigorous girl of to-day, and her several suitors, together with the mistress of the country house and a meddlesome unmarried woman of the village, combine to present a fascinating and varied picture of social life to the present day.

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