'He is made one with Nature; there is heardHis voice in all her music, from the moanOf thunder to the song of night's sweet bird.'
'He is made one with Nature; there is heardHis voice in all her music, from the moanOf thunder to the song of night's sweet bird.'
Youhavemade a clean sweep of me and my personal immortality."
The splash of the oars sounded nearer. They could hear the voices of the crew; the boat, lightened of her first load, was returning with horrible rapidity, it came dancing toward them in its malignant glee; and they sat facing each other for the last time, tongue-tied.
They had paced the deck together again; one more turn for the last time.
Durant was silent. Her confession was still ringingin his ears; but it rang confusedly, it left his reason as unconvinced as his heart was unsatisfied.
Shehadloved him, and not in her way, as she called it, but in his. And that was a mystery. He felt that if he could account for it he would have grasped the clue, the key of the position. Whatever she might say, these things were more than subtleties of the pure reason, they were matters of the heart. He was still building a hope beyond the ruins of hope.
"Frida," he said at last, "you are a wonderful woman, so I can believe that you loved me. But, seeing what I was and what you knew about me, I wonder why?"
Louder and nearer they heard the stroke of the oars measuring the minutes. Frida's eyes were fixed on the boat as she answered.
"Why? Ah, Maurice, how many times have I asked myself that question? Why does any woman love any man? As far as I can see, in nine hundred cases out of a thousand woman is unhappy because she loves. In the thousandth case she loves because she is unhappy."
The boat had arrived. The oars knocked against the yacht's side with a light shock. Durant's hour was at an end.
Frida held out her hand. He hardly touched it, hardly raised his eyes to her as she said "Good-bye." But on the last step of the gangway he turned and looked at her—the woman in a thousand.
She was not unhappy.
Frida had played high and yet she had won the game of life; that dangerous game which most women playing single-handed are bound to lose. She had won,but whether by apathy or care, by skill or divine chance, he could not tell. As to himself he was very certain; when he might have won her he did not care to win, now that he had lost her he would always care. That was just his way.
Alone in the little hotel that looked over the harbor, left to the tyrannous company of his own thoughts, he made a desperate effort to understand her, to accept her point of view, to be, as she was, comprehensive and generous and just.
He believed every word she had ever said to him, for she was truth itself; he believed her when she said that she had loved him, that she loved him still. Of course she loved him; but how?
They say that passion in a pure woman is first lit at the light of the ideal, and burns downward from spirit to earth. But Frida's had shot up full-flamed from the dark, kindled at the hot heart of nature, thence it had taken to itself wings and flown to the ideal; and for its insatiable longing there was no ideal but the whole. Other women before Frida had loved the world too well; but for them the world meant nothing but their own part and place in it. For Frida it meant nothing short of the divine cosmos. Impossible to fix her part and place in it; the woman was so merged with the object of her desire. He, Maurice Durant, was as she had said a part of that world, but he was not the whole; he was not even the half, that half which for most women is more than the whole. From the first he had been to her the symbol of a reality greater than himself; she loved not him, but the world in him. And thus her love, like his own art, had missed the touch of greatness. It was neither the joy nor the tragedy of her life, but its one illuminatingepisode; or, rather, it was the lyrical prologue to the grand drama of existence.
He did her justice. It was not that she was changeable or capricious, or that her love was weak; on the contrary, its very nature was to grow out of all bounds of sex and mood and circumstance. Its progress had been from Maurice Durant outward; from Maurice, as the innermost kernel and heart of the world, to the dim verge, the uttermost margin of the world; and that by a million radiating paths. It was not that she left Maurice behind her, for all those million paths led back to him, the man was the center of her universe; but then the center is infinitely small compared with the circumference. He saw himself diminished to a mathematical point in this cosmopolitan's cosmos. For Frida he had ceased to have any objective existence, he was an intellectual quantity, what the Colonel would have called an abstraction. There was nothing for him to do but to accept the transcendent position.
Thus, through all the tension of his soul, his intellect still struggled for comprehension.
Meanwhile, from his window looking over the white-walled harbor, he could see theWindwardwith all her sails spread, outward bound.
He watched her till there was nothing to be seen but her flying sails, till the sails were one white wing on a dim violet sea, till the white wing was a gray dot, indistinct on the margin of the world.
He cared immensely. But not to come behind her in generosity and comprehension he owned that he had no right to complain because this remarkable womanloved the world better than one man, even if that man happened to be himself; in fact, while his heart revolted against it, his pure intellect admired her attitude, for the world is a greater thing that any man in it.
Now and again letters reached him across seas and continents, letters with strange, outlandish postmarks, wonderful, graphic, triumphant letters, which showed him plainly, though unintentionally, that Frida Tancred was still on the winning side, that she could do without him. Across seas and continents he watched her career with a sad and cynical sympathy, as a man naturally watches a woman who triumphs where he has failed.
Meanwhile he lived on her letters, long and expansive, or short and to the point. They proved a stimulating diet; they had so much of her full-blooded personality in them. His own grew shorter and shorter and more and more to the point, till at last he wrote: "Delightful. Only tell me when you've had enough of it."
The answer to that came bounding, as it were, from the other side of the Atlantic. "Not yet. I shall never have enough of it. I've only been 'seeing the world,' only traveling from point to point along an infinite surface, and there's no satisfaction in that. I'm not tired—not tired, Maurice, remember. I don't want to stop. I want to strike down—deeper. It doesn't matter what point you take, so long as you strike down. Just at present I'm off for India."
Her postscript said: "If you ever hear of me doing queer things, remember they were all in the day's pleasure or the day's work."
He remembered—that Frida was only thirty-five; which was young for Frida. And he said to himself,"It is all very well now, but what will she be in another three years? I will give her another three years. By that time she will be tired of the world, or the world will be tired of her, which comes to the same thing, and her heart (for she has a heart) will find her out. With Frida you never know. I will wait and see."
He waited. The three years passed; he saw nothing and he had ceased to hear. He concluded that Frida still loved the world.
As if in a passionate resentment against the rival that had fascinated and won her, he had left off wandering and had buried himself in an obscure Cornish village, where he gave himself up to his work. He was not quite so successful as he had been; on the other hand, he cared less than ever about success. It was the end of the century, a century that had been forced by the contemplation of such realities as plague and famine, and war and rumors of war, to forego and forget the melancholy art of its decadence. And from other causes Durant had fallen into a state of extreme dissatisfaction with himself. Five years ago he had found himself, as they said; found himself out,hesaid, when at the age of thirty-three he condemned himself and his art as more decadent than the decadents. Frida Tancred had shown insight when she reproached him with his inability to see anything that he could not paint, or to paint anything that he could not see. She had shown him the vanity of the sensuous aspect, she had forced him to love the intangible, the unseen, till he had almost come to believe that it was all he loved. The woman lived for him in her divine form, as his imagination had first seen her, as an Idea, an eternal dream. It was as if he could see nothing and paint nothing else. And when a clever versatile artist of Durant's type flings himself away in a mad struggle togive form and color to the invisible it is not to be wondered at if the world is puzzled and fights shy of him.
Meanwhile the critic who had a right to his opinion said of him: "Now that he has thrown the reins on the back of his imagination it will carry him far. Ten years hence the world will realize that Maurice Durant is a great painter. But in those ten years he must work hard."
As if to show how little he cared he left off working hard and bestirred himself for news of Frida Tancred.
It came at last—from Poona of all places. Frida wrote in high spirits and at length. "I like writing to you," she said, "because I can say what I like, because you always know—you've been there. Where? Oh, everywhere where I've been, except Whithorn-in-Arden. And, now I come to think of it, you were there, too—for a fortnight" ("three weeks—three long weeks—and for your sake, Frida!"). "No, I'm not 'coming home.' WhymustI 'stop somewhere'? I can't stop, didn't I tell you? I can only strike down where it's deepest.
"It seems to be pretty deep here. If I could only understand these people—but what European can? They mean something we don't mean.... You should see my Munshi, a terrifically high-caste fellow with a diminutive figure and unfathomable eyes. I am trying to learn Sanscrit. He is trying to teach me. We sit opposite each other at a bamboo table with an immense Sanscrit dictionary between us. He smiles in his sleeve at my attempt to bridge the gulf between Europe and Asia with a Sanscrit dictionary. He is always smiling at me in his sleeve. I know it, and he knows that I know it, which endears me to him very much.
"My Munshi is a bottomless well of Western wisdom.He takes anything that Europe can give him—art, literature, science, metaphysics. He absorbs it all, and Heaven only knows what he is going to do with it, or it with him. He swallows it as a juggler swallows fire, and with about as much serious intention of assimilating it. That smile of his intimates that the things that matter to us do not matter to him; that nothing matters—neither will nor conscience, nor pain nor passion, nor man nor woman, nor life nor death. There's an attitude for you!
"That attitude is my Munshi, and my Munshi is Asia."
He smiled. He had seen Frida in many attitudes, Frida in love with nothing, Frida in love with a person, Frida in love with a thing. Here was Frida in love with an idea. It was just like her. She was seeing Asia from the Asiatic point of view.
"Meanwhile," she went on, "there's a greater gulf fixed between my Munshi and my 'rickshaw coolie than there is between me and my 'rickshaw coolie, or my Munshi and me."
He wondered if she meant to remind him that there was a still greater gulf between him and her.
"To-morrow I and two coolies are going up to Gujerat where the famine is. I inclose a snapshot of the party. My effacement by the coolie is merely a photographic freak—his grin is the broadest part of him, poor fellow. In the autumn I go down to Bombay. I am deep in bacteriology, which reminds me of father and the first time I met you, and your bad puns."
The snapshot was an unflattering likeness of Frida in a 'rickshaw. The foreground was filled by the figure of the grinning coolie. Behind him Frida's face showed dim and small and far-off; she was smiling with the sun in her eyes.
Such as it was he treasured it as his dearest possession. He had been painting pictures all his life, but he had none of Frida.
Silence again. "In the autumn," she had said, "I go down to Bombay." But the autumn passed and there was no news of her. Durant provided himself with an Indian outfit. He was going out to look for her; he was ready to go to the ends of the world to find her. "The day after to-morrow," he said, "I shall start for Bombay."
That night he dreamed of her; or, rather, not of her, but of a coolie who stood before the door of a wayside bungalow, and held in his hands shafts that were not the shafts of a 'rickshaw. And the coolie's face was all one broad grin.
Two days later—the day he was to have sailed for India—hurriedly skimming a column of theTimeshe came upon the news he was looking for.
"It is with much regret that we record the death from bubonic plague of Miss Frida Tancred. It was quite recently that this lady gave up a large part of her fortune to founding the Bacteriological Laboratory in Bombay, more recently still that she distinguished herself by her services to the famine-stricken population of Gujerat. Miss Tancred has added to the immense debt our Indian Empire owes her by this final example of heroic self-sacrifice. It is said that she contracted plague while nursing one of her coolies, who has since recovered."
He bowed his head.
It was not grief he felt, but a savage exultant joy. The world could have no more of her. She was his, in some inviolable, irrevocable way. He knew. He understood her now, clearly and completely.
His joy deepened to a passionless spiritual content;as if in the fulness of his knowledge he had embraced the immortal part of her.
Why had he not understood her long ago? She had never changed. As he had first seen her, playing cards with her father in the drawing-room at Coton Manor, as he had last seen her, pacing the deck of theWindward, intoxicated with her freedom, as he saw her now, bending her head over the plague-poisoned body of the coolie, she was the same tender, resolute, passionate Frida, who ruined her life and glorified it, laid it down and took it up again at her will. And as he saw—would always see her, in this new light of her death, she was smiling, as if she defied him to see anything pathetic in it.
She had loved the world, the mystic maddening beauty of it, the divine darkness and glory of it. She had taken to her heart the rapture and the pain of it. She had stretched out her hands to the unexplored, to the unchanged and changing, the many-faced, incomprehensible, finite, infinite Whole.
And she had flung it all up; for what?
For a 'rickshaw coolie's life?—Or for something—yet—beyond?
The following pages contain advertisements of a few of the Macmillan novelsS. R. CROCKETT'S NEW NOVELSANDYBy S. R. CROCKETTAuthor of "Patsy," "The Stickit Minister," etc.With frontispiece in colors by R. Pearson Lawrence; decorated Cloth, 12mo, $1.35 net; postpaid $1.47.Up from his country home Sandy goes to London. And there he has his great adventure. What it is and the story of his success and of his love is told by Mr. Crockett in a fashion which will convince many people that this is quite the most satisfactory novel he has ever written. Full of the vigor of life, with a wit and humor that win the reader even as they won his associates, Sandy is a cheery kind of hero and the tale of his experiences of that inspiring type which fires men—and women, too—on to the accomplishment of big things. No less appealing a figure is V. V., the girl with whom Sandy falls in love and who long before the book's close becomes his life partner. Altogether "Sandy" thrills and exhilarates as does little of the present day fiction."There's always a good story in a Crockett novel, and has been ever since the days of 'The Stickit Minister.' Sandy is a typical new Scot, most modern and most masterful of all heroes in current fiction.... As winning a heroine as any one could desire is skillfully wrought into the warp and woof of Mr. Crockett's fabric of narrative. Popular favor is likely to score one for 'Sandy'."—Phila. North American.NEW MACMILLAN FICTIONThe ReconnaissanceBy GORDON GARDINERWith frontispiece in colors by George Harper. Cloth, 12mo, $1.35 net.Unusual both in thought and in character is this briskly moving story of adventure in which a young man ultimately finds himself. The action is vigorous and the tale of the youth's endeavors to overcome certain deep-rooted traits in his nature appealing. The novel is distinguished by the vivacity and crispness of the author's style. For the most part Mr. Gardiner reveals his theme and portrays his people through dialogue, thus imbuing his book with a liveliness and an alertness which the reader will find most pleasant. Opening on the veldt in Africa with a situation of striking power and originality, the scene, in the course of the plot, shifts to other lands, bringing in a variety of well-drawn and interesting men and women. Like A. E. W. Mason's "The Four Feathers," to which it bears a slight resemblance, "The Reconnaissance" is a story of courage, raising in perplexing fashion the question as to whether the winner of the Victoria Cross is a hero or a coward, and answering it in a way likely to be satisfactory to all.JACK LONDON'S NEW NOVELThe Valley of the MoonFrontispiece in colors by George Harper. Decorated cover. $1.35 net."The most wholesome, the most interesting, the most acceptable book that Mr. London has written."—The Dial."Read 'The Valley of the Moon.' Once begin it and you can't let it alone until you have finished it.... 'The Valley of the Moon' is that kind of a book."—Pittsburgh Post."A ripping yarn ... goes rushing along ... a human document of real value."—Boston Globe."As winning, as genuine an idyl of love, of mutual trust and happiness, of but a single united aim in life as one can desire. American to the core; picturesque, wholesome, romantic, practical."—N. Y. Tribune."Unlike any book of his we have met before ... extremely pleasant and genial ... holds the reader's attention to the end."—N. Y. Sun."A fine, worthy book, indeed; too popular, perhaps, but the finest Mr. London has done."—Michigan Churchman."Jack London's good story.... A delightful picture of California life ... such a lovable pair.... The story is an excellent one for grouchy persons. It ought to cure them."—Brooklyn Eagle.Short StoriesBy JACK LONDONCloth, 12 mo.This volume representing the maturer work of Mr. London has that compelling style, that skill in character portrayal and in the construction of unusual plot which since he first began to write fiction have always marked him apart from the rank and file of novelists. No writer to-day is more praised than Mr. London for the color of his stories, for the fertility of his imagination, for the strength of his prose, for the way in which he makes his people live. His versatility, for he can turn out a bit of grim tragedy or a tale brimming with humor with equal facility, makes him everybody's author. The present book is a collection of particularly human stories based on a variety of emotions and worked out with consummate mastery of his art.NEW MACMILLAN FICTIONThe TreasureBy KATHLEEN NORRISAuthor of "Mother," "The Rich Mrs. Burgoyne," etc.With illustrations. Decorated cloth, 12mo. $1.00 net.Stories of the home circle Mrs. Norris has made peculiarly her own. Whether the scene be laid in the parlor or the kitchen, whether the character be mistress or maid, she writes with an understanding and sympathy which compel admiration. In the present novel Mrs. Norris chronicles the experiences of one family in trying to solve the servant problem! What they do, with the results, not only provide reading that is amusing but will be found by many who look beneath the surface, highly suggestive and significant. As in all of Mrs. Norris's work, the atmosphere of the home has been wonderfully caught; throughout are those intimate little touches which make the incidents described seem almost a part of the reader's own life, so close to reality, so near to the everyday happenings of everybody does Mrs. Norris bring them.GrannieBy MRS. GEORGE WEMYSSCloth 12mo. $1.35 net.Delightful in its characterization and redolent with fragrant charmGranniestands apart from all other recent novels. As a truly beautiful picture of home-life, of the sweetness and significance of age, of the sympathies and understanding between the older generation and the younger, Mrs. Wemyss' new novel will appeal to all readers who hold the word "Grannie" sacred with their childhood and its memories."The picture it gives is sweet and wholesome, and most pleasing."—N. Y. Times."... A charming story of an old lady and her happy family of grandchildren."—Boston Globe.OTHER NEW MACMILLAN FICTIONA Stepdaughter of the PrairieBy MARGARET LYNNA glowing western romance.$1.25net.Stories of Red HanrahanBy WILLIAM BUTLER YEATSCurious and attractive Irish romance.$1.25net.The Secret BookBy EDMUND LESTER PEARSONA fascinating panorama of library life.$1.25net.The Strength of the StrongBy JACK LONDONA new book in this popular author's best style.$1.25net.Faith TresilionBy EDEN PHILLPOTTSA stirring novel of Cornish life.$1.35net.A Lad of KentBy HERBERT HARRISONA bright novel of humor and adventure.$1.35net.The Macmillan CompanyPublishers64-66 Fifth AvenueNew York
The following pages contain advertisements of a few of the Macmillan novels
The following pages contain advertisements of a few of the Macmillan novels
S. R. CROCKETT'S NEW NOVEL
SANDYBy S. R. CROCKETTAuthor of "Patsy," "The Stickit Minister," etc.With frontispiece in colors by R. Pearson Lawrence; decorated Cloth, 12mo, $1.35 net; postpaid $1.47.Up from his country home Sandy goes to London. And there he has his great adventure. What it is and the story of his success and of his love is told by Mr. Crockett in a fashion which will convince many people that this is quite the most satisfactory novel he has ever written. Full of the vigor of life, with a wit and humor that win the reader even as they won his associates, Sandy is a cheery kind of hero and the tale of his experiences of that inspiring type which fires men—and women, too—on to the accomplishment of big things. No less appealing a figure is V. V., the girl with whom Sandy falls in love and who long before the book's close becomes his life partner. Altogether "Sandy" thrills and exhilarates as does little of the present day fiction."There's always a good story in a Crockett novel, and has been ever since the days of 'The Stickit Minister.' Sandy is a typical new Scot, most modern and most masterful of all heroes in current fiction.... As winning a heroine as any one could desire is skillfully wrought into the warp and woof of Mr. Crockett's fabric of narrative. Popular favor is likely to score one for 'Sandy'."—Phila. North American.
By S. R. CROCKETTAuthor of "Patsy," "The Stickit Minister," etc.
With frontispiece in colors by R. Pearson Lawrence; decorated Cloth, 12mo, $1.35 net; postpaid $1.47.
Up from his country home Sandy goes to London. And there he has his great adventure. What it is and the story of his success and of his love is told by Mr. Crockett in a fashion which will convince many people that this is quite the most satisfactory novel he has ever written. Full of the vigor of life, with a wit and humor that win the reader even as they won his associates, Sandy is a cheery kind of hero and the tale of his experiences of that inspiring type which fires men—and women, too—on to the accomplishment of big things. No less appealing a figure is V. V., the girl with whom Sandy falls in love and who long before the book's close becomes his life partner. Altogether "Sandy" thrills and exhilarates as does little of the present day fiction.
"There's always a good story in a Crockett novel, and has been ever since the days of 'The Stickit Minister.' Sandy is a typical new Scot, most modern and most masterful of all heroes in current fiction.... As winning a heroine as any one could desire is skillfully wrought into the warp and woof of Mr. Crockett's fabric of narrative. Popular favor is likely to score one for 'Sandy'."—Phila. North American.
NEW MACMILLAN FICTION
The ReconnaissanceBy GORDON GARDINERWith frontispiece in colors by George Harper. Cloth, 12mo, $1.35 net.Unusual both in thought and in character is this briskly moving story of adventure in which a young man ultimately finds himself. The action is vigorous and the tale of the youth's endeavors to overcome certain deep-rooted traits in his nature appealing. The novel is distinguished by the vivacity and crispness of the author's style. For the most part Mr. Gardiner reveals his theme and portrays his people through dialogue, thus imbuing his book with a liveliness and an alertness which the reader will find most pleasant. Opening on the veldt in Africa with a situation of striking power and originality, the scene, in the course of the plot, shifts to other lands, bringing in a variety of well-drawn and interesting men and women. Like A. E. W. Mason's "The Four Feathers," to which it bears a slight resemblance, "The Reconnaissance" is a story of courage, raising in perplexing fashion the question as to whether the winner of the Victoria Cross is a hero or a coward, and answering it in a way likely to be satisfactory to all.
By GORDON GARDINER
With frontispiece in colors by George Harper. Cloth, 12mo, $1.35 net.
Unusual both in thought and in character is this briskly moving story of adventure in which a young man ultimately finds himself. The action is vigorous and the tale of the youth's endeavors to overcome certain deep-rooted traits in his nature appealing. The novel is distinguished by the vivacity and crispness of the author's style. For the most part Mr. Gardiner reveals his theme and portrays his people through dialogue, thus imbuing his book with a liveliness and an alertness which the reader will find most pleasant. Opening on the veldt in Africa with a situation of striking power and originality, the scene, in the course of the plot, shifts to other lands, bringing in a variety of well-drawn and interesting men and women. Like A. E. W. Mason's "The Four Feathers," to which it bears a slight resemblance, "The Reconnaissance" is a story of courage, raising in perplexing fashion the question as to whether the winner of the Victoria Cross is a hero or a coward, and answering it in a way likely to be satisfactory to all.
JACK LONDON'S NEW NOVEL
The Valley of the MoonFrontispiece in colors by George Harper. Decorated cover. $1.35 net."The most wholesome, the most interesting, the most acceptable book that Mr. London has written."—The Dial."Read 'The Valley of the Moon.' Once begin it and you can't let it alone until you have finished it.... 'The Valley of the Moon' is that kind of a book."—Pittsburgh Post."A ripping yarn ... goes rushing along ... a human document of real value."—Boston Globe."As winning, as genuine an idyl of love, of mutual trust and happiness, of but a single united aim in life as one can desire. American to the core; picturesque, wholesome, romantic, practical."—N. Y. Tribune."Unlike any book of his we have met before ... extremely pleasant and genial ... holds the reader's attention to the end."—N. Y. Sun."A fine, worthy book, indeed; too popular, perhaps, but the finest Mr. London has done."—Michigan Churchman."Jack London's good story.... A delightful picture of California life ... such a lovable pair.... The story is an excellent one for grouchy persons. It ought to cure them."—Brooklyn Eagle.
Frontispiece in colors by George Harper. Decorated cover. $1.35 net.
"The most wholesome, the most interesting, the most acceptable book that Mr. London has written."—The Dial.
"Read 'The Valley of the Moon.' Once begin it and you can't let it alone until you have finished it.... 'The Valley of the Moon' is that kind of a book."—Pittsburgh Post.
"A ripping yarn ... goes rushing along ... a human document of real value."—Boston Globe.
"As winning, as genuine an idyl of love, of mutual trust and happiness, of but a single united aim in life as one can desire. American to the core; picturesque, wholesome, romantic, practical."—N. Y. Tribune.
"Unlike any book of his we have met before ... extremely pleasant and genial ... holds the reader's attention to the end."—N. Y. Sun.
"A fine, worthy book, indeed; too popular, perhaps, but the finest Mr. London has done."—Michigan Churchman.
"Jack London's good story.... A delightful picture of California life ... such a lovable pair.... The story is an excellent one for grouchy persons. It ought to cure them."—Brooklyn Eagle.
Short StoriesBy JACK LONDONCloth, 12 mo.This volume representing the maturer work of Mr. London has that compelling style, that skill in character portrayal and in the construction of unusual plot which since he first began to write fiction have always marked him apart from the rank and file of novelists. No writer to-day is more praised than Mr. London for the color of his stories, for the fertility of his imagination, for the strength of his prose, for the way in which he makes his people live. His versatility, for he can turn out a bit of grim tragedy or a tale brimming with humor with equal facility, makes him everybody's author. The present book is a collection of particularly human stories based on a variety of emotions and worked out with consummate mastery of his art.
By JACK LONDON
Cloth, 12 mo.
This volume representing the maturer work of Mr. London has that compelling style, that skill in character portrayal and in the construction of unusual plot which since he first began to write fiction have always marked him apart from the rank and file of novelists. No writer to-day is more praised than Mr. London for the color of his stories, for the fertility of his imagination, for the strength of his prose, for the way in which he makes his people live. His versatility, for he can turn out a bit of grim tragedy or a tale brimming with humor with equal facility, makes him everybody's author. The present book is a collection of particularly human stories based on a variety of emotions and worked out with consummate mastery of his art.
NEW MACMILLAN FICTION
The TreasureBy KATHLEEN NORRISAuthor of "Mother," "The Rich Mrs. Burgoyne," etc.With illustrations. Decorated cloth, 12mo. $1.00 net.Stories of the home circle Mrs. Norris has made peculiarly her own. Whether the scene be laid in the parlor or the kitchen, whether the character be mistress or maid, she writes with an understanding and sympathy which compel admiration. In the present novel Mrs. Norris chronicles the experiences of one family in trying to solve the servant problem! What they do, with the results, not only provide reading that is amusing but will be found by many who look beneath the surface, highly suggestive and significant. As in all of Mrs. Norris's work, the atmosphere of the home has been wonderfully caught; throughout are those intimate little touches which make the incidents described seem almost a part of the reader's own life, so close to reality, so near to the everyday happenings of everybody does Mrs. Norris bring them.
By KATHLEEN NORRIS
Author of "Mother," "The Rich Mrs. Burgoyne," etc.
With illustrations. Decorated cloth, 12mo. $1.00 net.
Stories of the home circle Mrs. Norris has made peculiarly her own. Whether the scene be laid in the parlor or the kitchen, whether the character be mistress or maid, she writes with an understanding and sympathy which compel admiration. In the present novel Mrs. Norris chronicles the experiences of one family in trying to solve the servant problem! What they do, with the results, not only provide reading that is amusing but will be found by many who look beneath the surface, highly suggestive and significant. As in all of Mrs. Norris's work, the atmosphere of the home has been wonderfully caught; throughout are those intimate little touches which make the incidents described seem almost a part of the reader's own life, so close to reality, so near to the everyday happenings of everybody does Mrs. Norris bring them.
GrannieBy MRS. GEORGE WEMYSSCloth 12mo. $1.35 net.Delightful in its characterization and redolent with fragrant charmGranniestands apart from all other recent novels. As a truly beautiful picture of home-life, of the sweetness and significance of age, of the sympathies and understanding between the older generation and the younger, Mrs. Wemyss' new novel will appeal to all readers who hold the word "Grannie" sacred with their childhood and its memories."The picture it gives is sweet and wholesome, and most pleasing."—N. Y. Times."... A charming story of an old lady and her happy family of grandchildren."—Boston Globe.
By MRS. GEORGE WEMYSS
Cloth 12mo. $1.35 net.
Delightful in its characterization and redolent with fragrant charmGranniestands apart from all other recent novels. As a truly beautiful picture of home-life, of the sweetness and significance of age, of the sympathies and understanding between the older generation and the younger, Mrs. Wemyss' new novel will appeal to all readers who hold the word "Grannie" sacred with their childhood and its memories.
"The picture it gives is sweet and wholesome, and most pleasing."—N. Y. Times.
"... A charming story of an old lady and her happy family of grandchildren."—Boston Globe.
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Transcriber's correctionsp. 64: it would emerge from the doorway[dorway] of the house nextp. 170: any woman alone in a[an] hotel with two men whom hep. 179: white and golden. In her black[glack] gown and against thep. 283: Mrs. Fazakerly[Frazakerly] paused to let her communicationsp. 292: "I say, Frida[Fridah]! you might tell me exactly what I'm