“My Dear Martin,—Helen has given me your message, that you wish to see me. I have thought about it very carefully, and I wish to tell you quite candidly the conclusion I have come to.“You know what I felt about your going over to the Roman Church; I feel that all still, and as strongly as ever. You have deliberately left your own church, and for reasons, as far as I can understand, which are frivolous and unessential. And I am afraid—I know in fact—that if I saw you I should, without beingable to help myself, express to you what I feel. Now, I do not think this would do any good, it would only widen the gulf between us; and one of the great aims of my life now is to do the opposite. I do not suppose my opinion will ever change, it cannot, in fact, but in time I shall, I suppose, get more used to what has happened, and shall be able to see you without bitterness. At present I am unwilling to tear open a wound which may be beginning to heal. But all this is to me still so keen a daily and hourly pain that I feel sure we should be wiser not to meet yet. But Helen, of course, is quite free to come and see you, and you to come and see her.“It gives me great pain to write this. But I cannot separate you from what you have done.“I am rejoiced to hear from her of the great success of your concert. Personally, as you know, I have no educated taste in music, but I gather that your master is satisfied both with your progress and your industry, which is more important than success.“My dear boy, I wish I could see you; I wish I could trust myself!“Your affectionate father,“Sidney Challoner.“P.S.—Your Aunt Clara, I am sorry to say, is in bed with a sharp attack of influenza.”
“My Dear Martin,—Helen has given me your message, that you wish to see me. I have thought about it very carefully, and I wish to tell you quite candidly the conclusion I have come to.
“You know what I felt about your going over to the Roman Church; I feel that all still, and as strongly as ever. You have deliberately left your own church, and for reasons, as far as I can understand, which are frivolous and unessential. And I am afraid—I know in fact—that if I saw you I should, without beingable to help myself, express to you what I feel. Now, I do not think this would do any good, it would only widen the gulf between us; and one of the great aims of my life now is to do the opposite. I do not suppose my opinion will ever change, it cannot, in fact, but in time I shall, I suppose, get more used to what has happened, and shall be able to see you without bitterness. At present I am unwilling to tear open a wound which may be beginning to heal. But all this is to me still so keen a daily and hourly pain that I feel sure we should be wiser not to meet yet. But Helen, of course, is quite free to come and see you, and you to come and see her.
“It gives me great pain to write this. But I cannot separate you from what you have done.
“I am rejoiced to hear from her of the great success of your concert. Personally, as you know, I have no educated taste in music, but I gather that your master is satisfied both with your progress and your industry, which is more important than success.
“My dear boy, I wish I could see you; I wish I could trust myself!
“Your affectionate father,“Sidney Challoner.
“P.S.—Your Aunt Clara, I am sorry to say, is in bed with a sharp attack of influenza.”
Martin read this through twice before he got up; then he dressed, his cold bath making him shiver, and went downstairs. The sight of his own face in the looking-glass, as he brushed his hair, was somehow rather a shock to him; it did not look exactly ill, but it was unfamiliar, it looked like the face of somebody else. His uncle was not yet down, and he strolled out on to the terrace, waiting for him, into the warm, windy sunshine of the April morning. But here again he had the same impression of unfamiliarity: the sun did not feel to him the same, nor did the sunshine look the same,—both light and colour had an odd dream-like unreality about them. It was as if some curious, hardbarrier had been put up between his sense of perception and that which he perceived. Then, with a feeling of relief, he remembered his father’s postscript. Probably he had influenza, too.
That explanation, or the divine freshness of the morning, made him feel rather better, and half-laughing at himself for his vague fear that there was something really wrong with him, he went indoors again. People were coming to stay at Chartries that afternoon, but this morning he and his uncle were alone. Lord Flintshire was already seated at breakfast when he came in.
He gave him his father’s letter to read, unconscious that his uncle looked rather closely at him as he entered, being also struck by a curious drawn look in his face, but he said nothing on the subject, and read the letter through.
“I think your father is wrong about it,” he said, “and if you approve, I will tell him so. There is surely no need to enter into theological discussion. You want just to see him and shake hands with him.”
Martin had taken some fish, but gave it up as a bad job, and drank tea instead.
“Yes, just that,” he said. “I hate being on bad terms with anybody, especially him.”
Lord Flintshire looked at him again.
“The boy’s ill,” he said to himself. Then aloud,—“Well, let us walk over after breakfast, if you feel inclined. You can see Helen while I go in and talk to your father. You don’t look particularly fit this morning, Martin. Anything wrong?”
“I feel beastly,” said Martin, with directness. “I shouldn’t wonder if I had got influenza, too.”
“Are you sure you feel up to coming over? Yes, your father mentions that Clara has got it. If the doctor is there, he might just have a look at you. Or, if you don’t feel up to coming, I would send him back here.”
Martin pulled himself together. The tea had made him feel quite distinctly better.
“Oh, no, I’m quite up to it,” he said. “Probably the doctor will tell me to go for a long walk and eat a big dinner. And I should like to see my father as soon as possible, and get it over. It will all be easier after that.”
His uncle got up.
“Shall we start in half an hour, then? We shall be sure to catch him before he goes out. Cigarette?”
“No, I think not, thanks,” said Martin.
Their way lay down through the woods where Helen and Frank had met a month ago, and the gracious influence of springtime had gone steadily forward with the great yearly miracle of the renewal of life. The green that had then hung mist-like round the trees was now formed and definite leaf, exquisitely tender and clear, and in this early morning hour shining with the moisture and dews of night. Daffodils still lingered in sheltered places and the delicate wood-anemone flushed faintly in the thickets. Below the chalk-stream, where Martin last summer had spent that hour of self-revelation, was brimful from bank to bank of hurrying translucent water, which combed the subaqueous weeds and turned to topazes the yellow pebbles and into heaps of pearl the beds of chalk that flashed beneath the water. But this morning he was heavy-eyed andclogged of brain; he felt that somebody else was seeing these things, that somebody else was putting foot in front of foot, while he himself had dwindled to a mere pin-point set in the centre of a great lump of hot metal which filled his head. Sometimes this body that was once his felt sudden flushes of heat, sometimes it shivered for no reason. Then, after an interminable walk, so it seemed to him, they turned through the church-yard and went up the gravel path that ran to join the carriage sweep in front of the vicarage door. And, in spite of all, it was with a wonderful sense of coming home that Martin saw the grey creeper-covered walls again, the long box-hedge, and the croquet-lawn wet and shining with dew in the sun.
“I’ll wait out here while you see my father,” said he. “Perhaps you would tell Helen I am here.” And he sat down all of a heap on a garden seat.
This tired, spiritless boy was so utterly unlike Martin that his uncle felt suddenly anxious.
“Are you feeling bad, Martin?” he asked. “Do you feel faint? Hadn’t you better come indoors?”
“Oh, no. I shall be better when I’ve rested a minute. But my head aches so. Lord, it gets worse every minute.”
Lord Flintshire left him and went straight to Mr. Challoner’s study, where he was at work.
“Good-morning, Sidney,” he said. “I have come over with Martin, who wants to see you. I also want you to see him; but we can talk of that afterwards. Now, is the doctor in the house? Martin is not at all well. He looks to me very ill. He——“
But at that word there was no longer any thoughtof “talking of that afterwards.” All that was human and tender, all that was loving, all that there was of “father” in Mr. Challoner sprang to that call.
“Dear lad, where is he?” he said. “Yes; the doctor is with Clara now. He will be out in a minute. But where is Martin? I must go to him.”
Lord Flintshire just laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“I knew you would, Sidney,” he said. “He is outside by the front door.”
Martin had dropped heavily on to the garden seat, and sat there with his eyes closed. That lump of hot metal in his head had grown larger and hotter; he felt as if something must burst. And he was so terribly tired; his walk had not done him the least good. Then he heard quick steps behind him on the gravel, but simply could not be troubled to look round. And then came his father’s voice.
“My dearest lad,” he said, “come indoors at once.”
Martin sat up with a jerk, and some chord of old memory twanged on the surface of his brain.
“You’re not angry with me, father?” he said, nervously.
Mr. Challoner bit his lip to stifle the exclamation of pain that rose bitterly within him.
“Angry?” he said. “What put that into your dear old head? There, Martin, take my arm, and lean on me. Come inside out of the wind. There, old boy, steadily; there’s plenty of time. I hope we shan’t have you down with influenza, too. But it’s the luckiest thing in the world. The doctor is here now with your aunt, and he shall have a look at you.”
But it needed all Mr. Challoner’s courage to getthrough with this cheerful chattering. Martin looked terribly ill to him. But he got him into his study, arranged the cushions on the sofa he so seldom used himself, and made him lie down.
“Ah, that’s better,” said Martin. “Thanks, thanks ever so much, father.”
He held out his hand to his father, who pressed it, and his voice trembled a little as he answered.
“God bless you, my dear lad, for wanting to come and see me,” he said. “Now, is there anything you want? I shall send Dr. Thaxter to you as soon as he leaves your aunt.”
Dr. Thaxter was a merry, rosy-faced little man with a manner so reassuring that one felt quite well directly, and in a few minutes he came bustling into the room.
“Ah, Mr. Challoner,” he said, “your father tells me you are a bit knocked up. Not uncommon in this spring weather. Quite right to lie down. There, put that under your tongue, and don’t bite it.”
He adjusted the thermometer and went chattering on.
“And you’ve walked over from Chartries with your uncle, have you? Fine place that, and a fine healthy situation. Of course, you only came down yesterday. I saw the account of your concert in the paper. Ah, I wish I had been there. Now, I think we’ve given the thermometer long enough. Thank you. And you feel rather——“
The little doctor stopped suddenly in the middle of his sentence when he saw what was recorded on it.
“You have a headache, I think your father said.”
“I have nothing else, I think,” said Martin.
Dr. Thaxter drew a chair close to the sofa, and sat down, looking at him very closely.
“Ah, yes; that is to be expected with a little fever. You are rather feverish. Now, when did you begin to feel ill? When did you first feel a headache? Try to tell me all about it.”
“Oh, five days ago now. No, six, I think. I don’t think I felt anything else, except that everything seemed rather queer all the time.”
He made a movement to sit up, but the doctor gently pressed him back again.
“Better not sit up,” he said. “You’ll be far more comfortable lying down. And you can tell me nothing else? Just a bad headache.”
“Am I ill?” asked Martin, suddenly. “Really ill, I mean? What’s the matter with me?”
“My dear Mr. Challoner, I can’t possibly tell you, because I don’t know. And when one doesn’t know, one takes precautions against anything that it may conceivably be. Perhaps it is influenza. If it is, it’s a pretty sharp attack. I wonder at your being able to walk over this morning. Now, will you promise me to lie quite still while I just go and talk to your father and settle with him what we shall do with you.”
The little doctor went quietly out of the room and across the hall to the drawing-room. Helen, her father, and Lord Flintshire were all there. He did not look quite so brisk and cheerful as he had done before he saw Martin.
“He has a very high temperature,” he said; “much higher than I like. It may, of course, be an attack of influenza. I have seen cases of it with temperatures higher than that. But he must be nursed as if somethingmore serious was the matter. He has probably had a temperature for nearly a week.”
Mr. Challoner turned to him almost fiercely.
“What is it?” he said.
“It may be several things. Perhaps I can tell you when I have seen him again, when we have got him to bed. Now, there is a good spare-room in this house?”
“Yes; his own,” said Helen.
“Very well; he must be moved there, just as he is, without getting up. If you and Lord Flintshire will help me, we will do it at once. And is there a room where a nurse can sleep?”
Helen took a step nearer him.
“Is it typhoid?” she asked.
“I am afraid it may be. It looks very like it.”
Itwas very early, only a little after six, and the sun had risen on a day exquisite, warm, and windless. In Martin’s room the big window had been open all night, and all night the blind had not once rattled or stirred, while the lamp on the table near it burned steady without a flicker. But though it had been light for nearly an hour, the nurse had only this moment put out the lamp, for she had been alert, quick, and watchful, unable to leave his bedside for a moment for the last four hours.
He had been very restless, attempting again and again to sit up in bed, and it had needed not only all her care but all her strength to keep him lying down. All night long, too, that terrible uncontrollable twitching of the muscles of leg and arm had gone on incessantly, and again and again, for ten minutes or more at a stretch, she had kept one arm with steady pressure over those poor, jumping knees, while she held the other ready to prevent his getting up. It had been all she could do, in fact, to manage him alone, but she had been unwilling, except at the last extremity, to rouse Nurse James from the next room, for she had had a terribly tiring day yesterday with him. Yesterday, too, a second doctor had come down from London. The case was extremely grave, but all that could be done was being done.
Martin was lying rather more quiet just now, and Nurse Baker had moved from the bed to put out thelamp and draw the blind up a little. His eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling, and he was talking in a high, meaningless drone.
“No, Karl, I can’t do it” he was saying. “I don’t see it like that. I know I shall break down, because I haven’t the slightest idea of how it begins, and I can’t leave out the beginning. And father is angry with me, and when he is angry he frightens me. Hasn’t Stella come to see me? I had such a headache, you know; like a great piece of hot iron, you know, right inside my head. They took off the top of my head to put it there. I’m frightened of him when he’s like that. Where’s Stella? No; Lady Sunningdale was in the bird of para—para—parachute—I don’t know, in that hat anyhow, you fool with Sahara. That’s what made it so hot, and I can’t endure English chants. Oh, father, don’t, don’t. It isn’t my fault.”
His voice rose to a scream, and the nurse came quickly back to the bedside, just in time to prevent him rising.
The door opened gently, and Helen came in in her dressing-gown. And the terrible drone began again.
“And when we’re married, Helen and Frank shall come and stay with us, and I’ll play to them, if it gets cooler. But father mustn’t know; he mustn’t come. Karl is the loud pedal you see, and the music-stool, and I’m only the black notes. I hope they won’t play me much, as I’m all out of tune with the iron. And all those faces are there, a sea of them, and I’m all alone. If I break down father will be angry!”
He turned his head sideways on the pillow, closed his eyes, and was silent for a little. Helen, with quivering lip, was looking at that dear face, so thinand hollow, so untidy and unshaven, with unspeakable love and longing. Then the nurse left the bed and came to her. Helen did not ask if he was better.
“Can I help you in anything?” she said.
“No, dear Miss Helen, thank you. I think he will be quieter for a little now. But I should like Dr. Thaxter to be sent for at once, please. Yes, he is very ill. He is as ill as he can be. There, there, my dear!”
Helen clasped her hands together a moment, holding them out towards Martin with a dumb, beseeching gesture, as if imploring him.
“And I am so strong,” she said. “Why can’t I give him some of my strength! It is cruel.”
“Ah, if one only could do that,” said Nurse Baker. “But he is not suffering; he is quite unconscious.”
“May my father come in to see him a moment?” asked the girl.
“No; much better not. He does not know what he is saying, but he keeps on saying what you have heard. Now, will you send somebody for the doctor? There are certain things I don’t like about his looks. And then come back, dear, if you like. He never says a word his sister should not hear.”
Helen advanced to the side of the bed a moment, and just touched Martin’s hand, which lay outside the bedclothes. She could not speak, but just nodded to the nurse and went away.
She sent word to the stables that the cart was to go at once to fetch Dr. Thaxter, and then went to her father’s study, where he was waiting for her.
He was kneeling by his table, as he had knelt forthe last half-hour, but rose when she entered, and they stood together, hands clasped, a moment.
“No, dear father, he is no better,” she said. “He—he is very ill, indeed. And Nurse Baker thinks you had better not go in.”
Mr. Challoner looked at her with that dreadful dry-eyed despair that she had seen on his face so often during this last week.
“Does he still talk about me?” he asked.
Helen laid her hands on his shoulders.
“Yes, father,” she said; “but he does not know what he is saying. Indeed, he does not. He talks all sorts of nonsense. He has no idea what he says.”
“Ah, Helen, that is just it,” he moaned. “The poor lad speaks instinctively; he says what has become a habit of thought. Oh, my God, my God!”
Helen knew her impotence to help him.
“I have sent for Dr. Thaxter,” she said. “Nurse Baker wanted him to come at once. And, father, there is another thing, which I have only just thought of. If Dr. Thaxter thinks—if he thinksthat, we ought to send for a Roman priest.”
Mr. Challoner’s face changed suddenly.
“No,” he said, in a harsh whisper; “no Roman priest shall enter the house.”
“Ah, but he must, he must,” said Helen. “Think a moment. If Martin was conscious, you know he would wish it, and you would send for one.”
Mr. Challoner did not reply for a moment; then he lifted his hands with a helpless gesture.
“And it is Easter morning,” he said.
Somehow that cut at the girl’s heart more than anything.
“Yes, dear father,” she said at length; “and is not that—whatever happens—enough for us all? Whoever we are, Frank, Martin, you, I, that is where we meet.”
Then for the first time since that day, now nearly a fortnight ago, when Martin had sat down dead tired on the seat by the front door, the blessed relief of tears came to his father, and he wept long, silently, a man’s hard, painful tears. And with those tears the upright hardness of him, the God-fearing, God-loving narrowness went from him. The bitter frosts of his nature melted, they were dissolved.
“Oh, Helen, if he lives,” he said at length.
“Ah, yes, dear father, or if he dies. Even if he dies, dear.”
She took his hands, holding them tightly.
“Oh, help me to remember that,” she whispered; “I shall need all the help you can give me. We shall want—we shall want all the help we can get—both of us. We will give it each other. And Stella——“
“You telegraphed to her?”
“Yes; she cannot get here till to-morrow!”
Then the girl gave way.
“To-morrow,” she said; “and it is only just to-day. Father, father, I can’t bear it. I can’t.”
But the strength she had given him so often during this last week was ready again to help her.
“Yes, dear Helen,” he said, speaking quite calmly again. “We can both bear whatever is to be. God does not send us anything that we are not capable of bearing, and of bearing without bitterness and without complaint. And whether it is life or death with our dear Martin, it is all life. We believe that, do wenot? Let us hold on to that, for it sustains the sorrows of all the world. There is nothing so sure as that. It is the Rock of Ages, Helen.”
There was the sound of wheels on the gravel outside.
“That will be the doctor, dear,” said he; “will you go and meet him, and—and the cart must wait if he thinks a priest should be sent for.”
She got up at once.
“Yes, father,” she said.
Helen went out into the hall. Dr. Thaxter had just come in, and at the same moment Nurse Baker hurried downstairs.
“Come up at once, please, doctor,” she said. “He—he came to himself a few minutes ago, after being delirious all night. I took his temperature. It is normal, just about normal.”
Helen’s face suddenly brightened.
“He is better, then?” she said.
Nurse Baker turned to her, as the doctor took off his coat, with infinite compassion in her kind, brown eyes.
“No, dear Miss Helen,” she said. “He is—ah, I need not explain to you. But it is very bad. It is—you must be very brave, my dear. Go to your father.”
She gave her a quick little kiss, and followed the doctor upstairs. Helen went back into the study.
“Something has happened,” she said. “I had no time to speak to Dr. Thaxter. They will send for us, dear. I think—I think that is what nurse meant.”
It was now about seven of the morning, and the sun about an hour above the horizon streamed gloriously into the room. It shone on the table, the sofa,on the big chair where Helen and Martin as little children used to sit together, looking at Bible pictures. And she sat down in that chair now. The big things had been said between her father and her, and as they waited now both turned to little memories of the past.
“Martin used to sit by me,” she said.
“Yes; and then you grew too big. After that you used each to have a chair, one on each side of me.”
“And we did our lessons there,” said Helen. Then she stopped suddenly, for there was a foot on the stairs.
Nurse Baker came in.
“You must both come,” she said.
The blind was drawn up in Martin’s room, and the same wonderful sun flooded the room, and outside many thrushes were singing. There was but little apparatus of medicine there,—it was just a boy’s clean room: cricket bats and racquets stood in one corner, on the table there was a heap of music, school-books were in the bookcase by the door. And on the bed lay Martin. His eyes were still open, but they were blind and unseeing no more, and he turned them wearily to the door when Helen and his father entered. But when he saw them, they brightened a little. The doctor had stood back from the bed, Nurse Baker was by him. Then Martin spoke.
“It is nice to be in my own room again,” he said in a voice just audible. “Oh, good-morning, Helen; good-morning, father. I have had horrible dreams, father. I dreamed you were angry with me. How silly. You are not angry?”
Mr. Challoner came up to the bed, and knelt there, his arm resting on the blanket.
“No, dear lad,” he said. “I am not; indeed, I am not.”
Martin shifted his position a little.
“I’m glad,” he said, “because I’m so tired. Helen, I played well, really well, did I?”
“Yes, Martin; Karl Rusoff said—he said nobody ever played better.”
And she was silent because she could not say any more just then.
“And what is to-day?” asked Martin at length.
“It is Easter Sunday, dear Martin,” said his father.
Martin half raised his head.
“I ought to be at Mass,” he said, “but I can’t. It doesn’t matter, does it, if one can’t?”
His father came a little closer yet.
“No, dear boy,” he said. “It is Mass everywhere this morning. He was crucified, and this morning He rose again. That is all the world holds, and the heaven of heavens.”
“Yes, all,” said the boy. “And to-day——“
The whisper in which he had spoken died, and Dr. Thaxter took a step towards the bed, looked at him a moment, and then went back again.
For a minute or two Martin lay there quite still; then he put out his two hands on each side of the bed, one towards Helen, one to his father.
“I am awfully tired,” he said, “and I can’t talk. But I can listen still. Is Stella here?”
“No, Martin,” said Helen; “but she is coming as quickly as she can.”
“Ah! Father, say something, something that you and I both know and like.”
Mr. Challoner gently kissed the boy’s hand; then he raised his head and spoke.
“The King of Love my Shepherd is,Whose Goodness faileth never;I nothing lack if I am His,And He is mine for ever.”
“The King of Love my Shepherd is,Whose Goodness faileth never;I nothing lack if I am His,And He is mine for ever.”
“The King of Love my Shepherd is,Whose Goodness faileth never;I nothing lack if I am His,And He is mine for ever.”
Helen was on the other side of the bed, and as her father’s voice faltered and stopped, she looked up.
“Shall father and I say it together, Martin?” she asked.
“Yes, together,” said he.
So sometimes one, sometimes the other, sometimes both repeated the beautiful words. But just before the last verse Martin raised his head a little, looking straight in front of him. Then his father began:
“And so through all the length of daysThy goodness faileth never——“
“And so through all the length of daysThy goodness faileth never——“
“And so through all the length of daysThy goodness faileth never——“
He paused, for he saw that look in dying eyes, those eyes that were so dear to him, which means that the great event is there, that the great, white presence has entered. Helen had seen, too.
Then Martin raised himself a little further and spoke no longer in a whisper,—
“Good Shepherd, may I sing Thy praise,Within Thy courts for ever.”
“Good Shepherd, may I sing Thy praise,Within Thy courts for ever.”
“Good Shepherd, may I sing Thy praise,Within Thy courts for ever.”
Then he sank down again, withdrew his hand from his father’s, and put it on the pillow. Then he laid his face on it, as was his custom, and fell asleep.
PIGS IN CLOVER
BY “FRANK DANBY”
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THE ISSUE
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A SEQUENCE IN HEARTS
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“Decidedly clever, and well worth reading.”—N. Y. Mail and Express.
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA
At the Time AppointedBy A. MAYNARD BARBOURColored Frontispiece by Marchand Postpaid, $1.50The Washington Post.“A good mystery that stimulates the imagination and excites the deepest interest.”Doylestown Intelligencer.“A volume that once started will be read through to the end. It has thrills galore, unexpected situations, mysteries enough—in fact, it’s the real thing.”St. Paul Dispatch.“A study in character, and a very unusual, original love story.”Pittsburg Dispatch.“A stirring and dramatic love story.”By same AuthorThat Mainwaring AffairIllustrated. Postpaid, $1.50New York Life.“Possibly in a detective story the main object is to thrill. If so, ‘That Mainwaring Affair’ is all right. The thrill is there, full measure, pressed down and running over.”New York Town Topics.“The book that reminds one of Anna Katherine Green in her palmiest days.... Keeps the reader on the alert, defies the efforts of those who read backwards, deserves the applause of all who like mystery.”Denver News.“The reader will be a good guesser, indeed, if he solves this mystery before the author does it for him. A pleasant love interest runs through the pages.”Publishers:J. B. Lippincott Company: Philadelphia
At the Time Appointed
By A. MAYNARD BARBOUR
Colored Frontispiece by Marchand Postpaid, $1.50
The Washington Post.
“A good mystery that stimulates the imagination and excites the deepest interest.”
Doylestown Intelligencer.
“A volume that once started will be read through to the end. It has thrills galore, unexpected situations, mysteries enough—in fact, it’s the real thing.”
St. Paul Dispatch.
“A study in character, and a very unusual, original love story.”
Pittsburg Dispatch.
“A stirring and dramatic love story.”
By same Author
That Mainwaring Affair
Illustrated. Postpaid, $1.50
New York Life.
“Possibly in a detective story the main object is to thrill. If so, ‘That Mainwaring Affair’ is all right. The thrill is there, full measure, pressed down and running over.”
New York Town Topics.
“The book that reminds one of Anna Katherine Green in her palmiest days.... Keeps the reader on the alert, defies the efforts of those who read backwards, deserves the applause of all who like mystery.”
Denver News.
“The reader will be a good guesser, indeed, if he solves this mystery before the author does it for him. A pleasant love interest runs through the pages.”
Publishers:J. B. Lippincott Company: Philadelphia
JackRaymond.
By E. L. VOYNICH.
12mo. Cloth, $1.50; paper, 50 cents.
“The strongest novel that the present season has produced.”—Pall Mall Gazette, London.
“Wonderful and terrible; wonderful in its intellectual effect terrible for the intensity of feeling effects.”—Boston Courier.
“One of the uniquely interesting stories of the year.”—The World, New York.
SisterTeresa.
By GEORGE MOORE.
12mo. Cloth, $1.50; paper, 50 cents.
“A psychological study of extraordinary power, revealing the fineness of George Moore’s literary methods.”—Philadelphia Press.
“Absorbing to the end as a narrative, ‘Sister Teresa’ is also a remarkable exhibit of finished thought and skill.”—New York World.
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA.
THE UNTILLED FIELD
By GEORGE MOORE
George Moore is ranked as the most conspicuous of serious workers in the field of fiction in Great Britain to-day. This new volume contains the most natural as well as some of the most intense and remarkable of its author’s work.
12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
A TAR-HEEL BARON
A novel of North Carolina life, by
MABELL SHIPPIE CLARKE PELTON
Mrs. Pelton’s story has to do with a gallant and brave German gentleman who comes as a stranger into the little settlement. It is a study of character, at the same time a love story which deals with contemporary figures and conditions.
12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
SPINNERS OF LIFE
By VANCE THOMPSON
A novel of New York club and society life of to-day, in a strong psychological vein.
Mr. Thompson’s novel will surprise and appeal with singular force to that appetite for the esoteric which exists in all of us. It is a modern novel of New York club and society life.
12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA