CHAPTER XIX.

For several days she lay at the point of death, but mercifully unconscious of her own suffering, and her apparently blighted life. Then she slowly began to rally, coming back to life and consciousness, but so broken-hearted thatit was painful to be in her presence.

But, three weeks afterward, her mourning was turned into joy by the sudden appearance of her husband, who, after various thrilling experiences, had been rescued, with two or three others, by a sailing-vessel which had arrived in port only that morning, when he immediately hastened to his wife.

The fair invalid’s convalescence was very rapid after that, and as soon as she was able to travel, the happy couple started for the home of the Lyttletons, in Illinois, where, upon their arrival, the family were astounded to learn that Mabel had been a wife for nearly a year, and would soon leave them again, to reside permanently in England.

The brothers, who worshiped their only sister—the baby and pet of the household—at once accorded their new brother-in-law a hearty welcome, and rather enjoyed the romance that had attended Mabel’s marriage; but their father, a reserved, austere man, was inclined to be very harsh with his daughter for having played them such a trick.

It was not, however, in the power of any one to long resist the frank, manly young husband, who boldly asserted that he might have been wrong in enticing his wife into a secret marriage, but that “he would do it over again if it were necessary, rather than run the risk of losing her.”

Such a spirit rather staggered the old gentleman, but, on the whole, he secretly admired the handsome sinner; while the fact of being father-in-law to an English Baronet, to have one’s daughter addressed as Lady Bromley,proved to be a salve to his wounded dignity and love of authority; therefore, the erring little lady’s indiscretion was finally condoned, and all was well.

After a few weeks spent in her home, she departed for England with her husband, where, with the exception of occasional visits to this country, she had resided ever since, and led a very happy life.

Her husband had died the year previous to Gerald’s connection with Mr. Lyttleton, and the “complicated case,” which this gentleman was conducting for his sister, was the settlement of the Bromley estate, a distant relative having laid claim to it, upon the ground of being nearest of kin, since Sir Charles had left no heir.

The property had been largely augmented by the fortune of the distant cousin, whom the elder baronet had wished his son to marry. The lady had always cherished a secret affection for the young man, and her love proving stronger and more enduring than her resentment against him for choosing a younger and fairer bride, she had bequeathed everything to him upon her death, which occurred some ten years after the present Lady Bromley had come to Bromley Court, and of whom also she became very fond.

Thus the Bromley fortune was a magnificent inheritance, and Richard Lyttleton was doing his utmost to save it for his sister. Nevertheless, a court of chancery was an almost hopeless labyrinth in which to become involved, and it might be years before the case would be settled.

Lady Bromley was a fair, sweet-faced woman of about thirty-eight or forty years, and, from the momentof their meeting, Gerald had been strongly attracted to her, and she to him.

Therefore, upon learning of the terrible shock and sorrow that had recently come to him, her sympathies were instantly enlisted in his behalf, and she went to him often during his illness, to be sure he had proper care and to cheer him as well as she could.

When he was able to leave his room, she conceived a plan by which she hoped to be of real benefit to him. She made him come to lunch with her one day, and, after she had induced him to speak freely of his bereavement and his love for the beautiful girl whom he had hoped to marry, she confided to him something of her own story, as related above.

“Come and stay here with me for a while,” she pleaded during this exchange of confidence; “I am almost alone in this great, silent house”—glancing around the spacious, luxurious room with a sigh—“and I should be glad to have some young life about me. Richard, you know, is always so busy he can never spare me much of his time, and my evenings are especially lonely. I want you to tell me more of this lovely Allison Brewster; it will do you good to talk of her, even though the story is so sad. Ah! I shall never forget the dreadful day when I read that tragic account in the newspaper and believed my husband to be lying in the depths of the sea!”

So, with her sweet sympathy and her plea for companionship, she won her point, and almost every day after that, when his work was done, Gerald might have been seen driving about or visiting some place of interestwith her. There was a gentle graciousness about her—a sort of elder-sisterly manner toward him, that made her very charming, and he soon grew to feel as if he must always have known her, and he became devoted to her.

This pleased Mr. Lyttleton, who was intensely relieved to see that the face of his confidential clerk was beginning to lose its tense look of pain, and that, when he came to his work in the morning, he no longer appeared jaded and haggard, as if he had spent the whole night in grieving.

Thus time passed, and it was nearly the first of October when, one day, Mr. Lyttleton announced that, for the fourth time, the long-contested case had been put off until another term; and accordingly they would return to New York at the end of another week.

“Then, Richard, I am going with you,” suddenly exclaimed Lady Bromley, as she shot a wistful look at Gerald, who had grown very pale at the thought of going home, where the loss of Allison would seem like a fresh grief to him. “I will leave all business matters in the hands of Mr. Cram, the steward, and make a little visit to my native land, where I will stay until this dreadful lawsuit is called again. I am almost ready to give up the battle. I am tired out with it, and begin to think that the whole Bromley fortune is not worth the wear and tear of all this worry.”

“Nonsense, Mabel!” impatiently returned her brother, a dogged expression settling over his face;“that is just what the other side is working for—they want to tire you out, and I’m not going to give up the fight, by any means. I know that Sir Charles wanted you to be sole mistress of everything. I have often heard him say that you were to have all, in case anything happened to him; and how he ever allowed himself to be so negligent, and leave no will, I cannot understand. I sometimes think he may have made one, and it has slipped away somewhere.”

“I’m afraid not, Richard; I have hunted the house over and over, as you know, and I am sure no such document exists,” said her ladyship, with a sigh. “However, I am going to run away from the whole business, and try to forget it for a while. I’m going home with you and Gerald,” she concluded, smiling.

“Come, and welcome, dear,” said her brother cordially.

The very next morning, as Gerald was walking down the Strand, intent upon a matter of business for Mr. Lyttleton, he was suddenly confronted by a man the sight of whom caused him to grow deathly pale, and his heart to throb suffocatingly, from various emotions.

This man was none other than John Hubbard.

The expert, upon recognizing Gerald, lifted his upper lip, and showed his gleaming teeth in a vicious grin. Then he attempted to pass on without any other sign of recognition. But the young man resolutely placed himself in his path.

“Mr. Hubbard,” he remarked, with cold constraint,“you must excuse me for delaying you, but I want to ask you a few questions. I wish to inquire if any light has been thrown upon Miss Brewster’s fate during the last few weeks?”

“Not that I am aware of,” the man stiffly replied.

“It was all true, then—the story of that railway accident, and her—her burial by some parties unknown?” questioned Gerald, with quivering lips.

“I suppose it was, since every possible effort was made to find her, but without avail,” the man returned, with a frown of annoyance, for his own pillow was, by no means, free from thorns in view of his agency in driving Allison from her home and to her death.

Often, during the night, he would start from his sleep, the perspiration standing in cold beads all over him, his heart beating wildly with fear, as if some demon had seemed to shout in his ear the word “murderer!” and warn him that the wrongs which he had perpetrated against her would yet be avenged.

“It was a mysterious affair,” he continued, after a moment of hesitation, and impelled almost against his will to make the explanation. “I went to Boston as soon as I learned of the accident, and saw her name in the paper, and made diligent inquiry for the—the body.”

Gerald gave utterance to a shuddering exclamation.

“It seems strange to me,” he said, “that, since her cards were found with her—at least, the paper so stated—any one should claim her unless there happened to be another Miss Brewster upon the train.”

“It was strange.”

“What can you tell me about this woman who claims to be Mrs. Adam Brewster?” Gerald asked, and abruptly leaving the other subject.“Where did she come from? Where has she been hiding all these years?”

“She has lived in various places in New York City during the last few years,” responded the man, flushing hotly, for Gerald was now probing a sensitive spot; but he seemed helpless to get away from his inquiries. “She’s rather a fine-looking woman, though not particularly well educated, or what one would have expected a man like Mr. Brewster to choose for a wife. Her daughter, however, has had far better advantages. She made her claims known to me not so very long after her husband’s death; but I tried to stave them off, for Allison’s sake, hoping that the matter could be quietly settled. But after her—the accident, there was nothing to be done but let the case come to trial.”

“It seems to me the most improbable story in the world,” said Gerald reflectively. “Mrs. Manning should have inherited that property.”

“She would have, but for the incontestable proofs which Mrs. Brewster presented; even had Allison lived, she would have won the suit,” returned John Hubbard, searching his companion’s pale, thin face with his cruel eyes. He was secretly gloating over every stab that he was giving him.

“It is a mystery to me that she never put in an appearance while Mr. Brewster was living,” the young man mused. “I suppose, however, there must have been something questionable in her life or claim, and she did not dare to. And you acted as her counsel?”

“I did.”

“That seems to me the strangest proceeding of all.”

“Well, and what are you going to do about it?” was the sneering demand; and for a moment the two menstood absolutely motionless, gazing into each other’s eyes—one with a look of dogged defiance, the other with a stern, searching, accusing expression.

“I cannot understand your doing such a thing as that, Mr. Hubbard,” Gerald remarked, his tone plainly indicating that he believed there had been foul play.

“Probably not,” was the curt, ironic retort, “and I do not know that it is necessary that you should understand it. I was the administrator of the Brewster estate, and when it was proved that there wasn’t a drop of Brewster blood in Allison’s veins, there is nothing so very remarkable about the fact that I conducted the transfer of the property—especially after the death of Allison, who might, perhaps, have contested the woman’s claim upon the ground that a will had been made in her favor, though that would easily have been broken.”

“What were these proofs that Allison was not Mr. Brewster’s own daughter?”

“Oh, some clothing and some letters that were found in a box——”

“What box—where was the box found?” queried Gerald, with breathless interest, his mind instantly reverting to one of those which he had taken from the secret vault at the banker’s command.

“I see you suspect the truth,” said John Hubbard, with a malicious grin. “Yes, it was one of those we caught you lugging off that Sunday.”

Gerald flushed at this fling, but he was too much absorbed in his own thoughts, just then, to pay much heed to it.

“Ah! I understand now!” he said; “that was why Mr. Brewster made me promise that I would never speak of my errand to any person. He wanted to get that box into his hands without having any one know of its existence—he meant to destroy the contents, so that Allison should never learn the truth.”

“It certainly looks like it; you reason very well, young man. But justice sometimes triumphs, as in this case,” sneered his companion.

“Justice!” repeated Gerald, with infinite scorn; “that is yet to be proved. But did no one question the genuineness of this woman’s proofs?”

“Oh, yes, there was some talk in that direction—there naturally would be,” returned the attorney, with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders. “But it didn’t amount to anything; the evidence was so conclusive it was promptly admitted by the court.”

“Where did this alleged marriage take place?” demanded Gerald.

“In New Haven, Connecticut.”

“And were the records pertaining to this event thoroughly examined?”

“Certainly; everything was conducted with all due regard to the requirements of law, Mr. Winchester. Mr. Manning made a very brave showing in the interests of his wife—he is no half-way worker; while, as for myself, I seldom undertake anything which I am not pretty sure of carrying to a successful end,” Mr. Hubbard concluded, with significant emphasis.

“All the same, I do not believe one word of that woman’s story,” stoutly affirmed our hero, a frown ofperplexity gathering upon his brow. “Mr. Brewster certainly never appeared like a man who had any such skeleton in his closet. I believe him to have been a strictly honorable man in every act of his life, and——”

“Yes, I believe there was a sort of mutual admiration society between you,” sarcastically interposed John Hubbard.

“And,” the young man continued, without appearing to heed the interruption, “I am sure that if he had known that he had an own child living he never would have allowed it to live in such poverty as the papers have represented was the lot of this woman and her daughter; he would, at least, have given them a comfortable support.”

“That is your idea of the matter, young man; but stranger things than that are happening every day,” dryly observed his companion. “It is rather difficult to judge just what kind of an existence some of our aristocrats do lead; indeed, many of them have been known to have been engaged in love-intrigues that would not bear the light of day.”

Gerald’s hand clenched involuntarily at this indirect slur upon his former high-minded employer.

“Mr. Brewster was never such a man,” he said sternly; “his life was clean, through and through. Where are these women now?”

“Ahem!” said Mr. Hubbard, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. “Mrs. Adam Brewster is at present in New York City; her daughter, who is nowMrs. John Hubbard, is here, in London, and we are stopping at the Langham.”

For a moment Gerald was stricken dumb with astonishment by the unexpected announcement that John Hubbard had married the heiress to Adam Brewster’s fortune, and all that it implied.

Then there arose with him a terrible indignation in view of what he believed to be a foul wrong—the successful consummation of the long and cunning plotting of a skilful knave.

“Do I understand that you have married this so-called Miss Anna Brewster?” he finally demanded in a strangely calm voice.

“Exactly; that is just what I have done,” replied the man, showing his teeth. “Miss Anna was a handsome girl, of whom almost any man might feel proud—well educated and—ah—amiable. She is a few years older than Allison. She was naturally grateful for the interest which I manifested in her affairs; we found, upon a closer acquaintance, that we were mutually congenial, and she consented to honor me with her hand.”

“And her fortune, also—it goes without saying, I suppose?” scornfully interposed Gerald, who was fast losing command of himself, as he realized what consummate villainy lay behind this revelation.

“Certainly; Miss Brewster being the only child of her father, of course inherits the bulk of his property, although the widow has her third; while the lady having become my wife, it naturally devolves upon me to manage her interests,” the man responded, a ghastly, malicious grin expressing his enjoyment of the situation.

“You are a scoundrel, sir!” said Gerald, between his compressed teeth. “I firmly believe that for years you have been scheming for this very thing. I know that you wanted to marry Allison when you believed her to be rich, and when you could not carry your point in that direction, and get her money, you doubtless plotted to bring the same result about in some other way.”

“Well, you certainly did not succeed in getting any of Adam Brewster’s gold!—you were rather balked in your efforts to win the pretty heiress—eh!” sneered the wretch, but flushing guiltily beneath the young man’s fiery, accusing glance.

“I would scorn to marry any woman for her money,” said Gerald proudly.

“You did care, for the girl, though—you became very sweet on her, if I remember rightly.”

“That is a matter which does not concern you in the least, sir.”

“Think so?” was the satirical rejoinder.“Possibly it does not—now, but it did concern me very much at one time. Have you forgotten the very significant little object-lesson which I gave you over three years ago? I told you, when I crushed the bud which she had given to you, that everything which stood in my path should share the same fate.”

“I remember,” said Gerald sternly, but with bloodless lips, as he thought how that act had symbolized Allison’s fate as she lay crushed and bleeding beneath that fatal wreck; “but,” he continued in the same tone, “let me now, in turn, prophesy for you—your day of triumph will be short, for if you have been guilty of fraud—and I firmly believe you have—if you have been false to the trust which Mr. Brewster reposed in you, you will ere long find yourself doomed. I am studying law, Mr. Hubbard, under one of the shrewdest attorneys of our day, and, when I complete my studies, if not before, I shall make it my business to investigate this singular case, which has so recently excited the gossip of New York society, and given a million or more of money into your greedy hands; and, if such a thing be possible, justice shall be meted out to you.”

“Bah! you brag like a second David, aching to slay another Goliath; but such valiant deeds are not achieved in this nineteenth century, you insufferable boaster!” snarled John Hubbard, as he turned resolutely aside to pursue his way.

“Hold!” commanded Gerald authoritatively;“I have yet one more word for you. Following out your simile, let me say that my sling is a dauntless will, and a pebble may yet be found which will do its work and hurl you from the heights, upon which you feel so secure, into an ignominious abyss from which you will never arise.”

Upon returning to Lady Bromley’s elegant residence in Portland Square, Gerald informed Mr. Lyttleton of his encounter with John Hubbard. The lawyer was deeply interested in the rehearsal of the conversation which had taken place between the two, and when the young man concluded, he remarked, with no little warmth and conviction:

“There certainly has been foul play in connection with the Brewster property. I always felt that the man was a rascal, but he is a very clever one, and you may be very sure that he has so covered his tracks and burned his bridges behind him that, unless some unforeseen evidence comes to light, it would be very difficult to depose him from his position.”

“I cannot credit that story regarding the woman who calls herself Mrs. Brewster,” said Gerald reflectively. “I would give a good deal to have our old friend, Plum, examine that certificate of hers, and those old letters, which she claims were written by Mr. Brewster before their marriage.”

“I fear you will never be gratified, my boy,” said his friend; “the case has been settled, and no one has any authority to rake it over again, unless, as I said before, some new evidence should be forthcoming, or some barefaced fraud detected which would implicate the victors in the recent trial. If we had been in New York at the time the case was in court, I should have followed it with a great deal of interest.”

Gerald said no more about the matter at that time. All the same, he made a secret resolve that immediately upon his return he would go to New Haven and examinethe records of marriage-certificates, to assure himself that matters were exactly as they had been represented.

He could not—he would not believe that there had ever been an ignoble secret in his former employer’s life. He almost felt it a personal injury, and resented it as such, that his fair name should have been so smirched before the public. He felt, too, that Mrs. Manning, as the nearest of kin, was being deeply wronged by having Mr. Brewster’s large fortune so diverted from its proper channel.

The week following found him, with Lady Bromley and Mr. Lyttleton, on the broad Atlantic, and fast approaching the shores of their native land.

Upon their arrival in New York her ladyship took a suite of rooms in a hotel, saying that she wanted a place of her own in the city, where she could go and come, making visits here and there, as she liked. She, however, persuaded Gerald to take a room in the same house with her.

“I shall want an escort,” she smilingly told him, “for I mean to go about a good deal, and it will be so convenient to have you near—that is, if you will not feel that I am imposing upon you.”

Gerald assured her that it would give him great pleasure to attend her wherever she might feel inclined to go; and he was thankful to her for looking to him for companionship, for it seemed to him that it would be almost more than he could bear to be left to himself among the familiar scenes which reminded him so forcibly of Allison.

He did not have a suspicion that Lady Bromley had made all these arrangements wholly on his account; that his sorrowful face and heavy eyes so haunted her that she resolved to give him just as little time as possible to dwell upon his trouble.

Thus it came to pass that they breakfasted and dined together, Gerald getting his luncheon down-town, near the office, while in the evening they almost invariably went out to some concert, lecture, or place of amusement, or had friends come to them.

In this way they grew to be more and more fond of each other, until the sweet, though lonely woman gradually came to regard the high-minded fellow with almost as much affection as if he had been her son; while he never failed to experience a feeling of restfulness and content in her presence.

One Sunday afternoon Gerald and his friend were sitting in Lady Bromley’s charming little parlor. The young man had been reading aloud from a new book that was just out, until, as the daylight began to wane, Gerald had observed that her ladyship had seemed somewhat restless, and several times had glanced rather wistfully around the room. At last, realizing that he was watching her, she broke forth with an apologetic little laugh:

“Gerald, I really must have a hassock. I have acquired the habit of using a foot-rest, and I shall not feel at home until I can get into my natural position. I shall go out to-morrow morning and buy three or four; then I can have one in every room.”

“Why did you not speak of it before?” Gerald inquired.“I would have supplied your needs with pleasure. Possibly I might find one in the house to-night for you. I will go and ask the clerk. Ah!”—with sudden thought—“I have the very thing for you; at least, it will answer your purpose until you are better equipped.”

With that he started up, and, going to his own room, took from his trunk the old-fashioned cricket that had belonged to his aunt.

With a smile of amusement over the antiquated appearance of the thing, he returned with it to his friend.

“It is as ‘old as the hills,’ and rather a shabby affair for a modern boudoir,” he remarked as he placed it conveniently for Lady Bromley, and then he told her the history of it, while she listened with curious interest.

“But for Aunt Honor’s wish that I would not part with it, because it was an heirloom which she prized, I would have gotten rid of it long ago,” he remarked, in conclusion. “It is a veritable ‘elephant’ upon my hands, for I usually carry it in my trunk wherever I go.”

“That must indeed be rather inconvenient for you,” Lady Bromley observed, as she regarded the quaint old foot-rest critically. “It is queer how tenacious of heirlooms some people are,” she added reflectively;“I know of some attics and storerooms that are full of just such things, and they are of no use to any one; but, having been purchased and prized by some remote ancestor, they are regarded as sacred, and it would be thought desecration to either dispose of or destroy them. But, Gerald, this cricket is made of solid mahogany! If it was repolished, the brass claw feet nicely cleaned and laquered, and the top handsomely upholstered, it would really be a very pretty thing.”

Gerald laughed.

“That involves a good deal of reconstruction, and I am afraid I do not care enough for it to take all that trouble, especially as I never use anything of the kind,” he smilingly responded, and then they drifted to some other subject. A few days later, when he returned at his usual hour for dinner, his friend lifted a doubtful face to him.

“Gerald,” she said plaintively. “I have ruined your cricket! Look!” she continued, removing her feet from it, when he saw that the bright, intricate patchwork, which had been the work of Miss Winchester’s patient fingers, was all discolored.

“I was trying, this afternoon, to remove some spots of iron-rust from a couple of nice handkerchiefs, and I did not like to trust the work to any one else,” her ladyship continued. “Suddenly the bottle of acid slipped from my hands, the contents were spilled upon the cricket, and the color all taken out of the cover, as you see.”

“Never mind; pray do not give it another thought,” replied the young man indifferently, “that patchwork was years and years old—it has served its day and generation.”

“May I fix it over for you?” questioned his companion.“I will have it done nicely, and then it will make a pretty ornament for my room as long as we remain here.”

“Certainly; do with it as you like,” heartily replied Gerald. “I would like to give it to you, since it seems to interest you so much, but I’m afraid Aunt Honor’s ghost would haunt me for being so unmindful of her wishes.”

“Oh, I do not want you to give it to me; but I would like to make it a more presentable piece of furniture,” said her ladyship, and there the matter rested.

But the next day, when she was alone, she looked it over carefully, to consider just how she would repair it. Taking her scissors, she cut away a portion of the patchwork covering, and then laughed out amusedly as another, faded and worn, was revealed to her.

“There may be half a dozen, for aught I know,” she mused, “and I have a curiosity to see what taste and texture represent the previous generations of my Gerald’s family.”

Clipping busily away, she cut the whole outer cover off, when a piece of worsted work came to light.

“Ah!” said Lady Bromley. “Miss Winchester’s ancestor, next removed, was evidently fond of crewel embroidery! It is a very pretty design—ferns and honeysuckles—and there are an endless number of stitches in it; if it could only speak, what an interesting history it might give me of the girl or woman who wrought it!

“But this is strange!” she added, a moment after. “It has been partially cut away on three sides, and”—lifting it—“so has the next cover, which is a piece of ordinary tapestry, and the next, also, which is of ordinaryhorsehair, and probably the original covering.

“Generation the fourth, and last,” she observed in a tone of satisfaction, as she removed the ragged hair-cloth and threw it to one side, for her occupation was becoming rather distasteful, on account of the dust which arose from her efforts.

This left only a layer of cotton to be disposed of, and, as she gathered it up and laid it upon the heap of rags beside her, a low, startled exclamation burst from her lips upon observing that there was a lid in the top of the cricket, and that a leather loop had been tacked upon one side of it, to enable it to be readily lifted from its place.

“Well! I am afraid I have stumbled upon some secret with which I have no business!” rather nervously murmured her ladyship, as she curiously eyed the ancient foot-rest. “What can it mean? Possibly this heirloom, which he has so affected to despise, may prove, after all, to be very precious to ‘my Gerald.’”

She had almost unconsciously grown into the habit of calling him “my Gerald,” her constantly increasing affection for him giving her a certain sense of possession.

“Perhaps we shall discover title-deeds to a great fortune—as we read about in novels—in this dusty, musty little sepulcher which, in all probability, has not been opened for many years,” she went on, with a light, mocking laugh at her romantic suspicion. “And yet”—with a slight start—“every cover except the last had been partially cut away, so, of course, Miss Winchester must have known the secret—possibly she also may have concealed something in here for him to find, and that is why she made him promise never to part with it.”

With her thumb and finger she laid hold of the leather loop and lifted the cover, just enough to ascertain whether the thing was empty or not.

The next instant she dropped it again, a quick, startled cry breaking from her.

The receptacle was packed full of papers!

With a very grave face Lady Bromley arose from the floor, carefully placed the cricket in one corner of the room, and dropped an afghan over it.

“Gerald,” said her ladyship that same evening, upon coming up from their dinner, “how far back do you know your family history?”

Gerald turned to his friend with some surprise at this question, and then his fine face clouded.

“Not very far,” he gravely returned. “The most that I know is that—a long time ago—some of my ancestors came to this country from England. I have heard Aunt Honor speak of her great-grandfather, on her mother’s side, being a Scotch Presbyterian minister. Her grand-father was a blacksmith, her father a physician, and——”

“And your father—who and what was he, Gerald?” eagerly questioned Lady Bromley, as he paused suddenly.

Again the young man flashed a look of surprise at his companion, and flushed slightly.

“Pardon me if I seem unduly curious,” said her ladyship, laying her hand fondly upon his shoulder as she caught the look.“I am, perhaps, overstepping the bounds of etiquette in catechizing you thus, but I have a reason for it which I will explain presently. You have already told me that you do not remember either your father or mother.”

“No,” replied Gerald, “my father, who must have been considerably younger than Aunt Honor, went to sea and never came back, and that is about all that I know regarding him; for auntie never seemed to like to talk about him. My mother died of quick consumption when I was an infant only a few months old, and was buried in Ashton, a small town in Rhode Island, where, later, I buried auntie. This is about all that I know concerning my personal history, for my aunt was always so busy trying to make a living for us, she never seemed willing to stop to answer my boyish questions. So I finally grew tired of having her say bruskly, though not unkindly, ‘Oh, go away, child; I’m busy now, and can’t be bothered,’ and thus I gradually came to look upon my birth and early life as a sort of vague dream, and to realize that my chief concern was to improve my time, and get what education I could to fit myself for the future that lay before me. And yet, since I have grown older, I have sometimes thought that Aunt Honor intentionally evaded me and kept back from me facts regarding my parentage. But she was always very good to me—she denied herself a great deal to keep me at school.I really believe that she worked beyond her strength, and that was what caused her to drop away so suddenly.”

“Have you no relics—no keepsakes, that belonged to your mother? Have you no record of her marriage, or her wedding-ring?” asked Lady Bromley.

“No; I was so intent upon my boyish pursuits I never thought to ask for anything of the kind; indeed, I doubt if I even knew that such things were requisite accompaniments to marriage while Aunt Honor lived; you know, I was only fourteen years of age when she died,” Gerald responded, with a sigh.

“Yes, I suppose it is not strange that you did not think of such things at that age,” said Lady Bromley, adding, as she smiled kindly into his rather troubled face: “And now I am going to tell you why I have been so exceedingly inquisitive—perhaps you may have deemed me rudely so. I made a discovery this afternoon, Gerald, which I am impressed will be of great interest to you, even if it does not throw any light upon your own personal history. It was to prepare you somewhat for this that I have questioned you. I took a notion into my head that I would have that ancient cricket of yours made over into something respectable, and, upon removing various coverings, I found that the top of the thing is a kind of box, with a cover which fits snugly into it.”

“That is curious!” Gerald observed, with sudden interest.

“It is; and what is still more so, is the fact that the receptacle is packed with papers.”

“Why, that is very remarkable! What kind of papers?”

“That I cannot tell you, my dear boy,” replied her ladyship, flushing slightly,“for, of course, I did not presume to touch them. I am sure, however that your aunt, Miss Winchester, must have known of this secret, and it is possible that she also may have added something to its contents, for I found that every covering, underneath the outer one, had been partially detached to admit of the lid being lifted.”

“Ah, this explains why she was so insistent that I should never part with the cricket!” Gerald exclaimed. “But why all the secrecy? Why did she not tell me that the thing contained important documents?” he added wonderingly.

“Possibly she may have intended to do so, later on, when you had arrived at years of discretion—she may have regarded you, up to the time of her death, as too young to be entrusted with important information,” replied Lady Bromley. “But come,” she continued, rising and speaking in a playful tone, “you must examine this mysterious inheritance for yourself.”

She went to the corner where she had placed the cricket, removed the coverings she had thrown over it, and pointed to the ancient heirloom, which, in its demolished condition, now appeared more disreputable than ever.

But, somehow, Gerald shrank from the thing. There was an oppressive weight upon his heart—a sense of dread lest, upon investigating the mystery, he should learn some secret which would make his life unendurable.

“Come, come, you indifferent boy; have you no curiosity?” lightly queried her ladyship, who plainly read his thoughts upon his expressive face.“I frankly confess to an element of ‘Mother Eve’ in my nature; but I have some letters to write, so I am going to my chamber while you examine the contents of your treasure-chest.”

“I cannot bear to touch it,” he replied, regarding the inoffensive chest with a moody brow; “I believe I am afraid of it.”

“Fie! do not be superstitious,” laughingly reproved his companion. “Who knows but that you may find yourself the descendant of some ‘lord of high degree’ over the water. In that case, I may have the felicity of your continued friendship and presence in the country of my adoption; that is, if my own case comes to a favorable issue, and I ever get back to England.”

Still Gerald did not move.

He was superstitious in this instance; and if he could have followed the promptings of his own inclinations, he would far rather have burned this mysterious heirloom, without learning the nature of its contents, than run the risk of discovering some story of the past which would make his cheek burn with shame to rehearse to this lovely woman, who had become so much to him during the last year.

Still assuming a lightness of manner, although her own heart was strangely oppressed by the magnetism of his fear, Lady Bromley herself lifted the foot-rest, and bore it to the table, where she deposited it.

Then, after placing a chair before it, she again went to Gerald’s side, slipping her hand within his arm, and forcibly compelling him to cross the room and be seated.

“Now, my dear boy,” she said, laying her hand caressingly on his head, and speaking with exceeding tenderness,“let not your heart be troubled, no matter what the contents of this strange treasure-chest reveals to you; all is wisely ordered by a good Father. Nothing can harm you individually; Miss Winchester’s judicious training and your own innate nobility of character have made you a man whose friendship any man or woman might be proud to win, and from whose real worth no mistake or shadow of a previous generation could detract one iota.”

Gerald lifted his face to the beautiful one bending above him, and there was a suspicious moisture in his eyes. He gently took the hand from his head, and, bringing it around to his lips, left a reverent caress upon it.

“Lady Bromley, how kind you are to me! How much you have become to me during the short year of our acquaintance! I owe you more than I can express—especially for your almost divine sympathy during my recent trouble. I believe, but for you, I could not have lived and kept my reason, after learning of Allison’s terrible fate, and now——”

Her ladyship laid her fingers upon his tremulous lips. She saw that he was on the verge of a wild outburst of grief, in view of the crushing sorrow of the past, and the dread of what might be in store for him.

“Hush!” she said softly, “do not look back. We all have our troubles and losses. I have had mine, and no living soul, save myself, knows how hard to bear some of them have been”—this with visible emotion; “and if I should allow myself to dwell on them I should be one of the most wretched women living. Now I am going to run away,” she continued morebrightly, “but when I come back, let me find all these somber clouds dispersed.”

She swept her hand lightly and caressingly across his brow as she ceased speaking, then went quickly from the room. Gerald sat moodily, thinking for a long time after she disappeared. His arms were tightly folded across his breast, his head was bent, and his whole attitude plainly indicated the great depression of mind which held him enthralled.

Mentally he went over the ground of his whole life, recalling many incidents of his childhood which, at the time, had seemed of no importance whatever, but which now, viewed in the light of later events—of his aunt’s persistent evasion of his questions and of Lady Bromley’s discovery of that day—appeared to be strongly significant of some vital secret regarding his origin.

Surely, Miss Winchester would never have made him promise so sacredly never to part with her cricket if she had not known that it contained something which might some day become of importance to him.

The partial cutting away of the various coverings also betrayed that, at least, some individual, for four generations back, had been cognizant of an important secret connected with the quaint heirloom, and had probably added something to it. He recalled how very vague his Aunt Honor had always been to him in reference to his parents—particularly so regarding his father, who “went to sea before he was born and never came back”—that was her invariable reply to all questions which he asked, and he was usuallyswitched off upon some other subject when he became too persistent.

He had a picture of his mother, taken when she was a fair, sweet girl of seventeen or eighteen years, and all his life he had loved to look at the lovely face, with its earnest, thoughtful expression, and he often wondered if the sound of her voice would have thrilled him as did those beautiful eyes into which he so loved to gaze.

He never remembered to have seen any relatives—he had had but few playmates. He and his aunt had lived very quietly by themselves in their country home, until they had come to New York, and become a part of its bustling, hustling life.

Miss Winchester had been kind and fond of him, in her way, and he had loved her more because he had no one else to love, than because of the bond of kinship which existed between them.

He smiled now, a trifle bitterly, as he thought of this, and remembered how few people there had ever been in the world who had felt any real interest in him.

Toward Mr. Brewster he had been strongly attracted from the first hour spent in his office, when he had gone to him as a common messenger-boy. He had been his ideal of a true and honorable gentleman, and his regard for him had continued to increase until it had grown into something that might have been called boyish worship.

Then Allison had come into his life, like a star of hope, only to fall again suddenly from his firmament, and leave him in almost rayless darkness.

And yet he knew he should not say that, for there was Mr. Lyttleton, whose kindness had been unvarying, while Lady Bromley was, next to Allison, the dearest friend he had ever known.

His had been rather a barren existence thus far, taking it all in all; what would the future bring him? he wondered, with a weary sigh.

With a look of sudden determination, he straightened himself, put forth his hand, and grasped the Winchester heirloom.

The next moment he swung back the lid in the top, and found himself gazing upon the mysterious documents which, for so long, had been concealed there.

Those on top were yellowed and creased with age. There was a chronological tree of the Winchesters, dating back for ten generations; but although Gerald examined it carefully, he could find no trace of any “lord of high degree,” or anything which threw the slightest light upon his own birth or parentage.

Then there were records of marriages, births, and deaths, some baptismal-certificates, and, among these latter, that of Miss Honor Winchester herself. Also one of Martha Winchester which was pinned to a marriage-certificate, showing her to have married, some fifty years previous, a certain Arthur Harris.

With these there was the record of the birth of a daughter, who had been named Miriam, and who evidently had been the only child of this couple.

“H’m!” said Gerald thoughtfully,“I never heard Miss Honor speak of having had a sister named Martha, and—and my mother’s name was Miriam. This rather mixes things for me, and strikes me as being very queer.”

These papers were the only ones which, as yet, contained anything of special interest to him, and he wondered why they had been placed so near the bottom of the receptacle in the cricket.

He laid them apart from the others, and then drew forth a bulky envelope, which, with a sudden start and thrill, he discovered was addressed to himself, in the familiar handwriting of Miss Honor Winchester.

Now every nerve in his body seemed alive with a sense of painful expectation.

He believed that a crisis in his life had come—that he was about to pass the Rubicon which was perhaps to make or mar his whole future.

The envelope was sealed, but he broke it open impatiently—an intolerance of all delay in learning his fate taking possession of him—and drew out its contents, though with a hand that was far from steady.

There were a few letters bound together with a rubber band, and the writing on their envelopes had a strangely familiar look to him.

Next, there were several closely written sheets which, he saw at once, had been written by his aunt, and doubtless to him, although he could not stop to read them then. He was too anxious to ascertain the contents of those two other papers which lay underneath them.

With a strange heart-sinking, he unfolded the uppermost one, and as he glanced quickly over it, a look of blank astonishment overspread his face.

Laying it down, he opened the only remaining document. There was a minute of utter silence, during which he scarcely seemed to breathe, as he hastily perused its contents.

Then, with a hoarse cry bursting from his colorless lips, he sprang from his chair, the paper clutched in his rigid hands, while the ancient heirloom of the Winchesters, which he had overturned with a sweep of his elbow, went crashing noisily to the floor.

An instant after that hoarse, startled cry rang through the room—after that foot-rest went crashing to the floor, the door of Lady Bromley’s chamber flew open, there was the sound of silken garments trailing swiftly over the carpet, then a jeweled hand was laid upon Gerald’s arm, and the anxious eyes of the beautiful woman searched, with a frightened look, the rigid countenance of our hero.

“Gerald! What is it?” she whispered. “What has excited you so? Tell me!”

“Good heavens! It cannot be true! I can never believe it!” the young man muttered, a far-away look in his eyes, his face still set and white as marble.

“What is it that cannot be true? Have you made some wonderful discovery?” questioned Lady Bromley, her hand still clinging to his arm, her voice full of gentle persuasiveness.

“Yes.”

“Tell me!”

“I am almost afraid to breathe it aloud.”

“No, no! Gerald, surely not to me—your friend under all circumstances; one who will never fail you,” the lovely woman pleaded. “Is it as you surmised, some secret connected with your origin?”

“Yes, and it is wonderful! Incredible!”

“Tell me!” again commanded his friend.

The excited fellow drew in a deep breath that shook his stalwart frame from head to foot.

He straightened himself to his full height, throwing back his head with an air of freedom and conscious pride, while an expression of great joy illumined his eyes.

Then he looked down and smiled into the face of the fair woman beside him.

“You will scarcely believe me,” he said, “but I am Adam Brewster’s son!”

Lady Bromley heard Gerald’s statement with amazement, although she had felt that the papers might have a serious bearing on the life of her young friend. Together they examined the documents so long hidden in the old foot-stool, and when they had finished with the last piece of evidence, so singularly produced, it was evident to both that the mystery of Gerald’s birth had been cleared away, and that, as the lawful son of the banker, he was the rightful heir to the millions for which John Hubbard had seemingly successfully plotted.

How Gerald’s claim to the banker’s fortune was established to the complete undoing of the scheming lawyer, and how the sunshine of love and happiness once more entered into his life, will be found in the sequel to this story, which is published under the title,“A Heritage of Love,” and bound in handsome cloth binding, uniform with this volume.

THE END.

A series of romances containing several of the old favorites in the field of historical fiction, replete with powerful romances of love and diplomacy that excel in thrilling and absorbing interest.

DARNLEY.A Romance of the times of Henry VIII. and Cardinal Wolsey. By G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis, Price, $1.00.

In point of publication, “Darnley” is that work by Mr. James which follows “Richelieu,” and, if rumor can be credited, it was owing to the advice and insistence of our own Washington Irving that we are indebted primarily for the story, the young author questioning whether he could properly paint the difference in the characters of the two great cardinals. And it is not surprising that James should have hesitated; he had been eminently successful in giving to the world the portrait of Richelieu as a man, and by attempting a similar task with Wolsey as the theme, was much like tempting fortune. Irving insisted that “Darnley” came naturally in sequence, and this opinion being supported by Sir Walter Scott, the author set about the work.

As a historical romance “Darnley” is a book that can be taken up pleasurably again and again, for there is about it that subtle charm which those who are strangers to the works of G. P. R. James have claimed was only to be imparted by Dumas.

If there was nothing more about the work to attract especial attention, the account of the meeting of the kings on the historic “field of the cloth of gold” would entitle the story to the most favorable consideration of every reader.

There is really but little pure romance in this story, for the author has taken care to imagine love passages only between those whom history has credited with having entertained the tender passion one for another, and he succeeds in making such lovers as all the world must love.

CAPTAIN BRAND, OF THE SCHOONER CENTIPEDE.By Lieut. Henry A. Wise, U. S. N. (Harry Gringo). Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

The re-publication of this story will please those lovers of sea yarns who delight in so much of the salty flavor of the ocean as can come through the medium of a printed page, for never has a story of the sea and those “who go down in ships” been written by one more familiar with the scenes depicted.

The one book of this gifted author which is best remembered, and which will be read with pleasure for many years to come, is “Captain Brand,” who, as the author states on his title page, was a “pirate of eminence in the West Indies.” As a sea story pure and simple, “Captain Brand” has never been excelled, and as a story of piratical life, told without the usual embellishments of blood and thunder, it has no equal.

NICK OF THE WOODS.A story of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. By Robert Montgomery Bird. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

This most popular novel and thrilling story of early frontier life in Kentucky was originally published in the year 1837. The novel, long out of print, had in its day a phenomenal sale, for its realistic presentation of Indian and frontier life in the early days of settlement in the South, narrated in the tale with all the art of a practiced writer. A very charming love romance runs through the story. This new and tasteful edition of “Nick of the Woods” will be certain to make many new admirers for this enchanting story from Dr. Bird’s clever and versatile pen.

WINDSOR CASTLE.A Historical Romance of the Reign of Henry VIII., Catharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.

“Windsor Castle” is the story of Henry VIII., Catharine, and Anne Boleyn. “Bluff King Hal,” although a well-loved monarch, was none too good a one in many ways. Of all his selfishness and unwarrantable acts, none was more discreditable than his divorce from Catharine, and his marriage to the beautiful Anne Boleyn. The King’s love was as brief as it was vehement. Jane Seymour, waiting maid on the Queen, attracted him, and Anne Boleyn was forced to the block to make room for her successor. This romance is one of extreme interest to all readers.

HORSESHOE ROBINSON.A tale of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina in 1780. By John P. Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

Among the old favorites in the field of what is known as historical fiction, there are none which appeal to a larger number of Americans than Horseshoe Robinson, and this because it is the only story which depicts with fidelity to the facts the heroic efforts of the colonists in South Carolina to defend their homes against the brutal oppression of the British under such leaders as Cornwallis and Tarleton.

The reader is charmed with the story of love which forms the thread of the tale, and then impressed with the wealth of detail concerning those times. The picture of the manifold sufferings of the people, is never overdrawn, but painted faithfully and honestly by one who spared neither time nor labor in his efforts to present in this charming love story all that price in blood and tears which the Carolinians paid as their share in the winning of the republic.

Take it all in all, “Horseshoe Robinson” is a work which should be found on every book-shelf, not only because it is a most entertaining story, but because of the wealth of valuable information concerning the colonists which it contains. That it has been brought out once more, well illustrated, is something which will give pleasure to thousands who have long desired an opportunity to read the story again, and to the many who have tried vainly in these latter days to procure a copy that they might read it for the first time.

THE PEARL OF ORR’S ISLAND.A story of the Coast of Maine. By Harriet Beecher Stowe. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

Written prior to 1862, the “Pearl of Orr’s Island” is ever new; a book filled with delicate fancies, such as seemingly array themselves anew each time one reads them. One sees the “sea like an unbroken mirror all around the pine-girt, lonely shores of Orr’s Island,” and straightway comes “the heavy, hollow moan of the surf on the beach, like the wild angry howl of some savage animal.”

Who can read of the beginning of that sweet life, named Mara, which came into this world under the very shadow of the Death angel’s wings, without having an intense desire to know how the premature bud blossomed? Again and again one lingers over the descriptions of the character of that baby boy Moses, who came through the tempest, amid the angry billows, pillowed on his dead mother’s breast.

There is no more faithful portrayal of New England life than that which Mrs. Stowe gives in “The Pearl of Orr’s Island.”

GUY FAWKES.A Romance of the Gunpowder Treason. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.

The “Gunpowder Plot” was a modest attempt to blow up Parliament, the King and his Counsellors. James of Scotland, then King of England, was weak-minded and extravagant. He hit upon the efficient scheme of extorting money from the people by imposing taxes on the Catholics. In their natural resentment to this extortion, a handful of bold spirits concluded to overthrow the government. Finally the plotters were arrested, and the King put to torture Guy Fawkes and the other prisoners with royal vigor. A very intense love story runs through the entire romance.

THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER.A Romance of the Early Settlers in the Ohio Valley. By Zane Grey. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

A book rather out of the ordinary is this “Spirit of the Border.” The main thread of the story has to do with the work of the Moravian missionaries in the Ohio Valley. Incidentally the reader is given details of the frontier life of those hardy pioneers who broke the wilderness for the planting of this great nation. Chief among these, as a matter of course, is Lewis Wetzel, one of the most peculiar, and at the same time the most admirable of all the brave men who spent their lives battling with the savage foe, that others might dwell in comparative security.

Details of the establishment and destruction of the Moravian “Village of Peace” are given at some length, and with minute description. The efforts to Christianize the Indians are described as they never have been before, and the author has depicted the characters of the leaders of the several Indian tribes with great care, which of itself will be of interest to the student.

By no means least among the charms of the story are the vivid word-pictures of the thrilling adventures, and the intense paintings of the beauties of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken forests.

It is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by it, perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too, willingly braved every privation and danger that the westward progress of the star of empire might be the more certain and rapid. A love story, simple and tender, runs through the book.

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

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

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

A COLONIAL FREE-LANCE.A story of American Colonial Times. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

A book that appeals to Americans as a vivid picture of Revolutionary scenes. The story is a strong one, a thrilling one. It causes the true American to flush with excitement, to devour chapter after chapter, until the eyes smart, and it fairly smokes with patriotism. The love story is a singularly charming idyl.

THE TOWER OF LONDON.A Historical Romance of the Times of Lady Jane Grey and Mary Tudor. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.

This romance of the “Tower of London” depicts the Tower as palace, prison and fortress, with many historical associations. The era is the middle of the sixteenth century.

The story is divided into two parts, one dealing with Lady Jane Grey, and the other with Mary Tudor as Queen, introducing other notable characters of the era. Throughout the story holds the interest of the reader in the midst of intrigue and conspiracy, extending considerably over a half a century.

IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING.A Romance of the American Revolution. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

Mr. Hotchkiss has etched in burning words a story of Yankee bravery, and true love that thrills from beginning to end, with the spirit of the Revolution. The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves taking a part in the exciting scenes described. His whole story is so absorbing that you will sit up far into the night to finish it. As a love romance it is charming.

GARTHOWEN.A story of a Welsh Homestead. By Allen Raine. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

“This is a little idyl of humble life and enduring love, laid bare before us, very real and pure, which in its telling shows us some strong points of Welsh character—the pride, the hasty temper, the quick dying out of wrath.... We call this a well-written story, interesting alike through its romance and its glimpses into another life than ours. A delightful and clever picture of Welsh village life. The result is excellent.”—Detroit Free Press.

MIFANWY.The story of a Welsh Singer. By Allan Raine. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

“This is a love story, simple, tender and pretty as one would care to read. The action throughout is brisk and pleasing; the characters, it is apparent at once, are as true to life as though the author had known them all personally. Simple in all its situations, the story is worked up in that touching and quaint strain which never grows wearisome, no matter how often the lights and shadows of love are introduced. It rings true, and does not tax the imagination.”—Boston Herald.

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

This story is an authentic exposition of the manners and customs during Lord Baltimore’s rule. The greater portion of the action takes place in St. Mary’s—the original capital of the State.

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

As a series of pictures of early colonial life in Maryland, “Rob of the Bowl” has no equal. The story is full of splendid action, with a charming love story, and a plot that never loosens the grip of its interest to its last page.

TICONDEROGA.A Story of Early Frontier Life in the Mohawk Valley. By G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. Four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

The setting of the story is decidedly more picturesque than any ever evolved by Cooper. The story is located on the frontier of New York State. The principal characters in the story include an English gentleman, his beautiful daughter, Lord Howe, and certain Indian sachems belonging to the Five Nations, and the story ends with the Battle of Ticonderoga.

The character of Captain Brooks, who voluntarily decides to sacrifice his own life in order to save the son of the Englishman, is not among the least of the attractions of this story, which holds the attention of the reader even to the last page.

Interwoven with the plot is the Indian “blood” law, which demands a life for a life, whether it be that of the murderer or one of his race. A more charming story of mingled love and adventure has never been written than “Ticonderoga”.

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

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

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

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

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