It seemed to Jane that the world was a great void, filled with the strangled breathing of the baby. Since the first swift descent of danger she had worked mechanically, under the doctor's orders, without sleep, with no attention to the food which they forced her to swallow. Her muscles obeyed the orders of her brain, but her subconscious mind spilled over into her consciousness every minute of the time, and a dreary monologue repeated itself interminably:
"Why did I bring him here? Why did I risk his life this way? For my own selfish purposes, and now God will punish me. He will take him away. I shall have killed him—little Jerry." Over and over it ran, the same words, the same aching accusation. With a reversion to the old, avenging God of her childhood, she foresaw quick doom for sin.
Jerry Jr. had never been ill before and Jane was unprepared for the suddenness of the seizure. A strange doctor had to be summoned, Anna's terror quieted, a trained nurse sent for. Things had to be done quickly for the need was immediate. The baby had evidently taken cold—it had gone into membranous croup before they realized that he was really ill.
Miss Garnett and the doctor were kindness itself,but it seemed to Jane that she was as alone with Nemesis, as if she were lost in the desert. The first day, and part of the second, the doctor insisted there was no need of alarm, but the afternoon of the second day the breathing grew more and more difficult. Then Jane wired for Jerry.
As she waited for him, she tried to think how he would feel toward her, if his son were sacrificed. She thought of the night before they came away—how he had bathed him and said his good-bye to him. He was just beginning to take an interest in him, to be proud of him. And now! She fought down the desire to break into hysterical weeping. She must spare him that, at least.
When, finally, he came into the room, her tragic face drew him to her swiftly. He took her cold hands for a second, with a low word of greeting. Then he went to the baby's bed and bent over him.
"Poor little chap!" he exclaimed, as he looked at the fevered, panting atom of humanity. He asked the nurse quick questions. Jane sat still as a graven image.
"I asked Doctor Grant to come on the next train, Jane. I thought we'd better have him, because he knows Jerry's constitution best."
"Oh, Jerry!" she said, out of her agony.
He went to her and laid his hand on her shoulder.
"Don't be discouraged, Jane; we'll pull him through, he's strong."
"No. I've killed him, Jerry."
"Nonsense! He ran the same chance in New York. Now tell me about it from the beginning."
His matter-of-fact tone steadied her. She told himthe details from the first and he listened intently, nodding as she talked in an undertone not to disturb the child. It was such a relief to share the present responsibility with Jerry, no matter how she reserved the initial responsibility for herself. The thought of Doctor Grant's coming brought hope. He had taken care of Jerry Jr. since his coming; he knew him thoroughly—understood. If anybody could do it, he could thwart God.
Jerry Jr. began to cry. The pitiful wail of sick babyhood. It was agonizing to hear him. Jerry went to him and spoke to him. The baby turned bright eyes upon him, and a smile that was a spasm of pain followed.
"Let me take him up. I know I can help him get his breath," he said to the nurse.
"No, I think you'd better not move him," she said.
"Well, I can't stand here and see him suffer like that," said Jerry. Deftly and with infinite tenderness he lifted his small son, blankets and all, holding his head up with one hand. He walked slowly up and down the room with him, talking to him.
"Look here, old man, this is no kind of welcome to give your daddy! Can't you brace up a bit and manage a smile? Your old pal, Doctor Grant, is coming along presently and he'll give you a pill that will make it all right."
The baby was quiet, watching him, but still that awful gasping for breath went on.
"Ride-a-cock-horse to Banbury Cross," big Jerry began softly. It seemed to Jane that she was smothering. She went out on the balcony outside the room, where thatmocking song came faintly, punctuated with Baby's cries for help.
"God, if you'll let him live till Doctor Grant comes, I'll expiate!" she said over and over.
Presently she heard the distant train, that was to bring her messenger of relief, whistle in the station. After what seemed aeons of time a cab rattled to the house. A quick, alert step came up the steps. She made a supreme effort at self-control and went back into the room to meet him.
One look at Jerry and the boy—a nod to Jane—then his hat and coat were off and he had small Jerry in his hands.
"You want me to take charge here?" he asked.
"Yes, yes," Jane murmured.
"Who is the doctor?" he asked the nurse.
She told him.
"Send for him, please."
She went out to obey.
"Now, Mrs. Paxton, details, please," he said, making tests as he listened.
Jane told him quietly. The nurse returned saying the doctor would come at once. He asked her many questions, and before she had finished answering, the other doctor had arrived. A consultation followed.
"We may have to resort to a tube, but in the meantime, we'll try something else," Doctor Grant explained to Jane and Jerry. "Suppose you go out on the balcony for a little; we'll call you if there is any change. So many of us are disturbing to him, I think."
"All right," said Jerry, laying his hand on Jane's arm.
"Is there any hope, Doctor Grant?" Jane asked.
"He's a sick baby, but I've had them worse off than that. You go out there and make up your mind that Baby is going to get well," he answered.
Jerry led her out into the semi-darkness of the upper veranda.
"I can't sit still, Jerry; let's walk."
"All right."
His hand grasped her forearm, slipped through, until it found her hand. She clung to him with a force that hurt. In silence they walked up and down, up and down. When they passed the windows and the light struck across Jane's face, Jerry thought he had never seen such anguish in a human countenance. He could not bear to look, it was as if he were gazing into something not intended for eyes to see—something primal, savage, terrible which only God could endure. He knew she was on the rack, yet he could not comfort her. He knew that his own grief would be acute if his son was taken away, but he foresaw it would be nothing to the agony of this mother. "Oh, Mary pity, women——" came to his mind, with an overwhelming realization of the pathos of life. This groping of human creatures toward—what? All bound together in strange, even accidental, relationship; held in bondage by affections, instincts, passions; fighting free—going on—but where? Bobs's terrible sculpture of "Woman" stood out before him, and he understood. He looked into the hearts and souls of Bobs, of Jane, evenof Althea and himself, in this sacrament of emotion he was drinking.
Jane's consciousness was like the shifting, fever-haunted dreams of a drug fiend. She was numb, like a lump of stone. She saw things tugging at her—devils. They burned her with torches, but she did not feel anything but this ache of loss. A figure hovered, gray, indistinguishable; she thought it was remorse, or perhaps death, waiting. Suddenly it looked at her and she saw it was Christ, gazing at her with accusing eyes, yet full of sorrow. She groaned, and tried to pray, but her tongue was dead. Visions that had come to her, in sleep, before the baby's birth, came again, to mock her. She knew herself condemned to walk for years this lonely road she was traversing. Always at the end, she must turn and go back looking for little Jerry who was lost. She could hear him crying—she knew he needed her—but she could not get to him. Something seemed to walk beside her—she could not remember what it was—it clung to her and she to it. Out of the horror she turned her head to the light which struck across her husband's face.
"Oh, Jerry!" she sobbed.
"Steady, Jane, steady. They have to hurt him a little, dear."
"Jerry, talk to me. I'm afraid of my thoughts," she whispered to him.
He saw she was nearly beside herself, so he forced himself to tell her all the trivial happenings since her departure. Stories about Billy Biggs, the conversation at one of the Brendons' dinners, the account of the Brycechild's latest escapade. He heard his voice going on and on, he saw Jane's frantic effort to listen to him, yet he knew that his real self was indoors with those low-voiced men, who were trying to hold the fine, silken thread of life in their sensitive fingers.
Presently Doctor Grant stepped to the door and spoke to them. Jerry's hand led Jane toward him. They were like very little children stumbling to him for help. He seemed so steady and sure.
"We're going to put in the tube. Don't be alarmed. It isn't too painful, but I wanted you to know."
He turned back into the room. Jerry put his arms about Jane, but to his touch she felt like stone. She did not cling to him—she leaned on him, stiff and cold. It seemed ages that they stood so, punctuated by one scream of pain from Baby, then silence! Jane shuddered and Jerry's arms tightened. The night and the busy village below were blotted out. They two stood together in a chaos of pain.
Doctor Grant's touch dragged Jerry back.
"Bring her in now and let her look at him," he said.
"Is he dead?" Jerry whispered.
"No—he is asleep—it's all right."
Jerry watched the perspiration run down Doctor Grant's face unnoticed by him.
Then he gently loosed Jane, turned her, and led her in to the bedside.
Little Jerry, still flushed, but at peace, lay breathing gently. The nurse and the doctor smiled at them.
"Wonderful operation of Doctor Grant's. Never saw it better done," said his colleague.
Jerry nodded, but Jane paid no attention to any of them. She laid her hand on the Bald One's damp forehead, she lifted his hands one after the other, adjusted the covers, mechanically. Then she lifted an age-old face to them all.
"God heard me," she said, and slipped into unconsciousness.
For several days Jane lay in her bed, looking like a wax woman, too weak to lift her hand. Doctor Grant ordered her to stay just where she was until she wanted to get up.
"She's the kind that goes through hell without flinching, and collapses at the sight of heaven," he said to Jerry. "Keep her quiet; it's a complete nervous collapse, but she's got a fine constitution and she'll come around quickly."
The baby was improving as rapidly as he became ill, so Doctor Grant left on the night train, promising to come back on Sunday.
The trained nurse looked after Baby, while Anna took care of Jane. Jerry went from one bedside to the other. His happiness and relief were so intense that he was a most cheerful companion. Jane could not respond, but she liked to hear him humming about, and making jokes about the things he tried to persuade her to eat. The second day he carried the baby around nearly all the time. The small tyrant was not content unless he had his amusing parent at hand. Jane watched them, smiling faintly with a sense of peace and gratitude that was like music.
Jerry's new tenderness for them both was very sweet. He had never shown it before. He was always kind, becausehe liked people about him to be comfortable, but this was quite different. He sat beside Jane and tried to coax her to eat. He searched the town for delicacies to tempt her. When she could not sleep at night, he came to her bedside and talked to her by the hour. He had a way with pillows, and nice hands which mesmerized her into relaxation. He never was tired, nothing was too much trouble, and he took it as a matter of course that he should do just what he was doing.
Doctor Grant's week-end visit found the baby almost well again, but Jane lay where she had fallen. She was content to be still. He had a long talk with Jerry about her, suggested that he might be in for a long siege, explained that if he wanted to go back to New York to attend to his affairs, Anna was capable of taking charge, if the nurse stayed on another week.
"I think I'll go back with you then, and finish up some things I have on hand. I can come back later in the week," Jerry said.
So it was arranged. Jane agreed indifferently, nothing mattered much. But after the two men had gone she found she missed Jerry as she never had before. She thought about him a great deal in the aimless fashion which was all her mind could manage.
She could not make out just what had happened to her, but it seemed as if her whole being had suffered such anguish the night of Baby's danger that she had been paralyzed since, was incapable of feeling anything more. She wanted Jerry Jr. where she could see him, but she rarely spoke.
The installation of the picture at the New Age Club detained Jerry in town a day or so, and arrangements for a spring exhibition of portraits, which he had been invited to make, held him up until the end of the week. He was impatient to get to Lakewood, but he knew these things must be attended to, for the expenses of the doctors and nurse would be heavy.
He arrived in Lakewood on Saturday, at noon, and hurried to the cottage. He had had reports daily by telephone from the nurse, but he was surprised when Jane came toward him with the baby in her arms.
"Good work!" he cried, hugging them both. "You're better, Jane?"
"Yes."
"You're as white as a cloud, but it's becoming."
She flushed at that, gave the baby to him, and turned away hastily, on some pretext. A fine romp of the two Jerrys followed.
"The Bald One is outgrowing his title, Jane; he's getting quite a respectable wig."
"Yes—isn't it too bad."
"I don't know, Jane. Our æsthetic ideals are such that a bald child of eight or ten would not be considered beautiful."
"Do you think he looks well, Jerry?"
"Yes, fine. He's all right. Terrifying, the way the little wretch gets sick and well. Jane, my dear!" he added, for she went so white at his words.
"I can't get over it. If I think back to that night I almost die."
"Let's forget it, dear; it's over, and we're all here together. Perhaps a little more together than we ever were before," he said, with his first reference to the situation.
"You were wonderful, Jerry. I did not know how strong and tender you could be."
"Christiansen called me up, Jane."
"Yes."
"I told him you and Baby had been ill, that I had been with you. He felt that he must see you, too."
"Well?"
"I told him you were here."
"Oh, Jerry!"
"He is coming to-morrow."
"I can't see him. I can't stand any more emotion just now," she said anxiously.
"Jane, do you care for him so much?"
She closed her eyes, a second, without replying.
"When to-morrow?" she asked finally.
"In the afternoon," he said.
They did not speak of it again, but something had happened to their new-found oneness. They both tried to be perfectly natural and at ease, but the ghost of Martin was in the room.
The next day he came. He was all concern at Jane's white face. He knew in a second what a crisis she had passed through, and so he made no least reference to anything that had gone before, anything that was to be. He was dear, big Martin, delighted with the baby, courteous to Jerry, at ease in the midst of their self-consciousness. So in the end he dominated the scene.
Jerry and Anna took their small charge for a drive, leaving Martin and Jane alone. As they departed, Jane was filled with terror. She was so afraid of emotion.
"Jerry is an enemy to be proud of," said Martin.
"Jerry is a fine man, Martin," Jane answered.
He looked at her long, holding her steady eyes with his.
"You have suffered much, beloved," he said softly. "I did not come to intrude, or to demand an answer. I came because I had to know what had hurt you."
"I thought I had brought Baby here and risked his life. If he had died, I should have died, too," she said simply.
"I know. Let us not speak of it at all. Let's talk of the new book."
"The new book? Why, Martin, I had forgotten!" she exclaimed.
"Dear child," he said tenderly, "they have been deep waters!"
"The book—is it selling?" she asked.
"Yes. They told me they had good news for you."
They drifted off into talk of other things, new books, a new opera, a poet he had met. It was as if he took her into the arms of his spirit, and there she was at rest. The time flew as it always did when they were together. Jane felt the call back to life and work, the stimulus of his vitality.
Before the others came back, Martin pleaded an engagement in town, and the necessity of taking a train at six o'clock.
"Good-bye, my Jane. Whatever comes, I shall understand."
When he was gone, Jane lay on the couch they had placed for her on the balcony, looking up at the sky, and let her thoughts take shape. They flew swiftly, clearly. How Martin understood her; how tenderly he had protected her against himself—against herself. He had given his thoughts, his vitality, his devotion; he had asked nothing. There was an understanding friendship between them that was the communion of spirits. If only he had not loved her! Or was this, that they had, love? If it was, must she give it up unless she married him? She felt that she could not give it up. It was and always would be a part of her. If this was love that she felt for Martin, why did she not long for the closer union of marriage with him? Was it that she feared what marriage might do to this relation of theirs? Did it mean that she did not love him, since she felt that marriage was not necessary for the perfection of their oneness? Of course the materialistic would scoff at the idea of the marriage of minds. But she knew that Martin had impregnated her spiritual being with the germ of life as truly as she felt her book to be his child. She wondered whether Jerry would understand that.
"Asleep, Jane?" his voice said.
"No."
"Sorry I missed Christiansen; I meant to see him off. Anna has our supper ready in here by the fire. And the Bald One sends a message of urgence."
She rose and came in, laying her hand on his arm, so that he went with her to the baby's room.
"Too bad he's gone, he couldn't wait," said Jerry, as they bent over their sleeping son.
"Isn't he perfect, Jerry?" she said with feeling.
"He's A No. 1, Jane," he answered.
They went to their supper. They did not talk much. Jane was thoughtful, and Jerry respected her mood. Later, while he was smoking on the balcony, he called to her to come and see the moon. She went out, and gazed up at the white disk of radiance.
"Jerry, go get that old driver we have, and take me through that park in this moonlight," she said.
"Are you in earnest?"
"Yes."
"But you aren't well enough."
"I am well. Please, Jerry."
"All right. Wrap up well," he said, as he left her.
Presently he was back with the old, high-backed victoria, and they started. As they went into the gray forest, it was all silvered with moonshine until it looked as lovely as a poet's mind. Jane shivered. Jerry put his arm about her, and held the robe up close to her. She settled herself against him, and at his smile, she groped for his hand.
"Jane, Jane, don't!" he whispered. "I can't stand it for you to be kind, if it's...."
"If it's what?"
"The end, Jane. I feel as if my life was all over if you go. I never knew what you meant to me until—that day. But now I know. I love you so that I want you to be happy, no matter what it does to me."
"Jerry, what is love?"
"I don't know, nobody knows. The people who feel it don't know and those who never felt it, don't know. Why, Jane?"
"Because I've always supposed it was some great surging passion that swept you out of yourself and made you a different being. I thought you'd know the minute it came—the minute it died."
He leaned toward her to look more closely into her face.
"If that's the way love is, I've never known it. But if it is something sweet and poignant that binds you to somebody, something all woven of common experiences and habits and needs; if it means something to lean on when you're in trouble and to be happy with when you're glad, why then...."
"Why then, Jane?" breathlessly.
"Then at last, Jerry, I know love."
His arms tightened about her, her head slipped to his shoulder, and they kissed each other—their betrothal kiss. Jerry said nothing, but when Jane's hand went to his cheek, she felt hot tears there. After a long while he spoke, humbly:
"Jane, are you perfectly sure? Martin Christiansen is a wonderful, rare man, and I'm...."
"You're my man, Jerry. I wish we could have him for our friend, but...."
"We will, dearest, if he'll take me, too."
"He will understand, as God would," she said softly.
"Jane, how can you be so wonderful, and want to belong to me?"
With such foolish tenderness of belated courtship they drove through the silent radiance of the wood. The arbutus scent was intoxicating, and the night sounds were mysterious. They were silent, happy. As they came out of the woods and on to the open road again, Jerry heaved a deep sigh.
"Jane, heart of me, I feel as if all the problems in the world were settled for us!"
She looked up at him, and shook her head, smiling.
"Dear big, little boy-husband, our problems are just beginning. We're looking at them squarely for the first time!"
"But we're looking at them together, Jane."
"Yes, thanks be to love! Jerry, my husband, what a world! I want to cry out, with a loud voice, I want to praise the Lord, with trumpets and with shawms!"
So these two, in goodliest fellowship, turned their faces toward their new day.
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Evans.Infelice.By Augusta Evans Wilson.In Her Own Right.By John Reed Scott.Initials Only.By Anna Katharine Green.In Another Girl's Shoes.By Berta Ruck.Inner Law, The.By Will N. Harben.Innocent.By Marie Corelli.Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, The.By Sax Rohmes.In the Brooding Wild.By Ridgwell Cullum.Intrigues, The.By Harold Bindloss.Iron Trail, The.By Rex Beach.Iron Woman, The.By Margaret Deland.Ishmael.(Ill.) By Mrs. Southworth.Island of Regeneration, The.By Cyrus Townsend Brady.Island of Surprise, The.By Cyrus Townsend Brady.Japonette.By Robert W. Chandlers.Jean of the Lazy A.By B. M. Bower.Joanne of the Marshes.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Jennie Gerhardt.By Theodore Dreiser.Joyful Heatherby.By Payne Erskine.Jude the Obscure.By Thomas Hardy.Judgment House, The.By Gilbert Parker.Keeper of the Door, The.By Ethel M. Dell.Keith of the Border.By Randall Parrish.Kent Knowles: Quahang.By Joseph C. Lincoln.King Spruce.By Holman Day.Kingdom of Earth, The.By Anthony Partridge.Knave of Diamonds, The.By Ethel M. Dell.Lady and the Pirate, The.By Emerson Hough.Lady Merton, Colonist.By Mrs. Humphrey Ward.Landloper, The.By Holman Day.Land of Long Ago, The.By Eliza Calvert Hall.Last Try, The.By John Reed Scott.Last Shot, The.By Frederick N. Palmer.Last Trail, The.By Zane Grey.Laughing Cavalier, The.By Baroness Orczy.Law Breakers, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Lighted Way, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Lighting Conductor Discovers America, The.By C. N. and A. N. Williamson.Lin McLean.By Owen Wister.Little Brown Jug at Kildare, The.By Meredith Nicholson.Lone Wolf, The.By Louis Joseph Vance.Long Roll, The.By Mary Johnson.Lonesome Land.By B. M. Bower.Lord Loveland Discovers America.By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.Lost Ambassador.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Lost Prince, The.By Frances Hodgson Burnett.Lost Road, The.By Richard Harding Davis.Love Under Fire.By Randall Parrish.Macaria.(Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.Maids of Paradise, The.By Robert W. Chambers.Maid of the Forest, The.By Randall Parrish.Maid of the Whispering Hills, The.By Vingie E. Roe.Making of Bobby Burnit, The.By Randolph Chester.Making Money.By Owen Johnson.Mam' Linda.By Will N. Harben.Man Outside, The.By Wyndham Martya.Man Trail, The.By Henry Oyen.Marriage.By H. G. Wells.Marriage of Theodora, The.By Mollie Elliott Seawell.Mary Moreland.By Marie Van Vorst.Master Mummer, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Max.By Katherine Cecil Thurston.Maxwell Mystery, The.By Caroline Wells.Mediator, The.By Roy Norton.Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes.By A. Conan Doyle.Mischief Maker, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Miss Gibbie Gault.By Kate Langley Bosher.Miss Philura's Wedding Gown.By Florence Morse Kingsley.Molly McDonald.By Randall Parrish.Money Master, The.By Gilbert Parker.Money Moon, The.By Jeffery Farnol.Motor Maid, The.By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.Moth, The.By William Dana Orcutt.Mountain Girl, The.By Payne Erskine.Mr. Bingle.By George Barr McCutcheon.Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Mr. Pratt.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Mr. Pratt's Patients.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Mrs. Balfame.By Gertrude Atherton.Mrs. Red Pepper.By Grace S. Richmond.My Demon Motor Boat.By George Fitch.My Friend the Chauffeur.By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.My Lady Caprice.By Jeffery Farnol.My Lady of Doubt.By Randall Parrish.My Lady of the North.By Randall Parrish.My Lady of the South.By Randall Parrish.Ne'er-Do-Well, The.By Rex Beach.Net, The.By Rex Beach.New Clarion.By Will N. Harben.Night Riders, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Night Watches.By W. W. Jacobs.Nobody.By Louis Joseph Vance.Once Upon a Time.By Richard Harding Davis.One Braver Thing.By Richard Dehan.One Way Trail, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Otherwise Phyllis.By Meredith Nicholson.Pardners.By Rex Beach.Parrott & Co.By Harold MacGrath.Partners of the Tide.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Passionate Friends, The.By H. G. Wells.Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail, The.By Ralph Connor.Paul Anthony, Christian.By Hiram W. Hayes.Perch of the Devil.By Gertrude Atherton.Peter Ruff.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.People's Man, A.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Phillip Steele.By James Oliver Curwood.Pidgin Island.By Harold MacGrath.Place of Honeymoon, The.By Harold MacGrath.Plunderer, The.By Roy Norton.Pole Baker.By Will N. Harben.Pool of Flame, The.By Louis Joseph Vance.Port of Adventure, The.By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.Postmaster, The.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Power and the Glory, The.By Grace McGowan Cooke.Prairie Wife, The.By Arthur Stringer.Price of Love, The.By Arnold Bennett.Price of the Prairie, The.By Margaret Hill McCarter.Prince of Sinners.By A. E. Phillips Oppenheim.Princes Passes, The.By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.Princess Virginia, The.By C. N. and A. N. Williamson.Promise, The.By J. B. Hendryx.Purple Parasol, The.By Geo. B. McCutcheon.Ranch at the Wolverine, The.By B. M. Bower.Ranching for Sylvia.By Harold Bindloss.Real Man, The.By Francis Lynde.Reason Why, The.By Elinor Glyn.Red Cross Girl, The.By Richard Harding Davis.Red Mist, The.By Randall Parrish.Redemption of Kenneth Galt, The.By Will N. Harben.Red Lane, The.By Holman Day.Red Mouse, The.By Wm. Hamilton Osborne.Red Pepper Burns.By Grace S. Richmond.Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary, The.By Anne Warner.Return of Tarzan, The.By Edgar Rice Burroughs.Riddle of Night, The.By Thomas W. Hanshew.Rim of the Desert, The.By Ada Woodruff Anderson.Rise of Roscoe Paine, The.By J. C. Lincoln.Road to Providence, The.By Maria Thompson Daviess.Robinetta.By Kate Douglas Wiggin.Rocks of Valpré, The.By Ethel M. Dell.Rogue by Compulsion, A.By Victor Bridges.Rose in the Ring, The.By George Barr McCutcheon.Rose of the World.By Agnes and Egerton Castle.Rose of Old Harpeth, The.By Maria Thompson Daviess.Round the Corner in Gay Street.By Grace S. Richmond.Routledge Rides Alone.By Will L. Comfort.St. Elmo.(Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.Salamander, The.By Owen Johnson.Scientific Sprague.By Francis Lynde.Second Violin, The.By Grace S. Richmond.Secret of the Reef, The.By Harold Bindloss.Secret History.By C. N. & A. M. Williamson.Self-Raised.(Ill.) By Mrs. Southworth.Septimus.By William J. Locke.Set in Silver.By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.Seven Darlings, The.By Gouverneur Morris.Shea of the Irish Brigade.By Randall Parrish.Shepherd of the Hills, The.By Harold Bell Wright.Sheriff of Dyke Hole, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Sign at Six, The.By Stewart Edw. White.Silver Horde, The.By Rex Beach.Simon the Jester.By William J. Locke.Siren of the Snows, A.By Stanley Shaw.Sir Richard Calmady.By Lucas Malet.Sixty-First Second, The.By Owen Johnson.Slim Princess, The.By George Ade.