CHAPTER VIII.

Robert Dalyellstole forth from the house which was his own, yet could never more be his, in what would have been the dead of night had it been any other season but June and any place but a northern country. It was already daylight, with a pearl-like radiance as of spiritual day, and something more mystic and almost awful in the silence of night, combined with this diffusion of lovely light, than any darkness could have been. He seemed to see the great spreading landscape like a picture, with his own single and solitary figure in it, with a momentary terror of himself alone in that great surrounding silence. He was not afraid of being seen, as he was when he had stolen under cover of the brief darkness into the house; but it occurred to him that anybody who should look out of a curtained window or from the crevice of a closed shutter, and see him walking along at an hour when nobody was abroad, would be afraid of him as an unnatural wanderer in the wide brightnesswhich was night. He was in point of fact a ghost, as he had been believed to be—a man with no place or meaning in the world, with his name upon a funeral tablet, and his place knowing him no more; and like a ghost he passed through the pale diffused light which cast no shadow. Never man was in a position more strange and cruel. He had made the sacrifice of his life, not as his son and his friend had feared, by suicide, but in a more dreadful way. He had put himself to death, and yet he lived. The man had been in this living death for nearly two years. He had lost everything—himself, his name, and his personal identity, as well as wife and children, and home and living. And yet he had never fully realised what it was till now. Something of the Bohemian, something of the adventurer in the man, which had been hidden under the most decorous exterior for nearly fifty years, had made that curious new start in existence almost amusing to him in its absolute novelty and relief from the long monotony of usual life.

Even his sudden going home, with the object of frightening his wife out of a marriage which would have been no marriage, had something of the character of a jest in it. But there was no longerany jest in the matter. He had seen his wife, he had seen his son, and he was at last aware of what it was he had done—the darker aspect of it—the dishonour to others, the deadly extinction of himself, the end of everything which he had accomplished, almost with a light heart. A ghost indeed, offending the eyes and chilling the very soul of those who were most near and dear to him. “A swindler,” the boy had said. Was he a swindler? To be sure the insurance offices would never have paid that money had they known; but surely he had paid the price for it. He had died to all intents and purposes. He had given himself for his children—a living sacrifice—not less, but more than if he had really died and been thrown up by the sea, as everybody believed, on Portobello sands. It is hard to see guilt in a transaction, not for your own advantage, for which you have given your life. Robert Dalyell did not blame his son; he could perceive that there was much in what Fred said, though his heart swelled in his breast against that injustice. He was not angry with Fred, but much impressed, and moved (strangely enough) to something like satisfaction by his son’s demeanour. The boy was a good boy, wounded inhis honour, and therefore inexorable, but only as a good man would wish his boy to be. He was glad Fred was an honourable fellow, feeling it like that. Poor Dalyell himself had all the instincts and habits of mind of an honourable man; he had not seen the dishonour in it; he had thought that, giving his life for it as he had done, there was nothing morally wrong in his act. Surely he had bought the money dear: it was not for him; it was for them, and for their good. There they were, all of them—the wife who was about to give him a successor within two years, and the boy who was himself his successor—safe in Yalton, honoured, respected, enjoying the position to which they were born: while he was an outcast, without anything but what he made for himself, and the boy called him a swindler! He was an honest boy for all that, and Dalyell’s mind had a certain forlorn satisfaction in it: though a more forlorn being than he, walking, walking like a ghost through that morning light which began in its pearly paleness to warm to the rising of the sun, could not be. It was wonderful at what leisure he was, in the utter forlornness of his being, to think of them all. He was not sorry that he had given himself to savethem. The only thing he was sorry for was that, being dead, he had interfered at all. He ought to have gone upon his own way—married, too, as he might have done, and got himself new ties in his new life. He believed now that there would have been no harm in that. There would be no harm in it. He would get away as quickly as it was practicable, and get back to his new world, and this time he would feel himself really emancipated. He would think no more of the bonds of the past. She should be free to marry if she liked, and so would he. This old world and he had nothing to do with each other any more.

The foolish thing was that he had come at all on this fool’s errand. It was all the old woman’s fault. It had been weak of him to let her into his secret, to keep himself up with news of home, to be moved by her horror at this marriage. Why should not she marry if she wished to do so? She had been a good wife to him, and he had made her a widow. He had known that she was not a woman who could act for herself, that she was one who must have a caretaker, a manager of external matters? Why should he interfere with her? It was all that confounded old woman’s scruples.But Dalyell decided that he would interfere no more, that he would go back whence he came and marry too, and thus justify his wife. The man’s heart was very heavy in his breast when he made this resolution; but yet he had a great courage, and was determined to stand up against fate and get a new life for himself, being thus horribly, hopelessly cut off from the old. The boy would not carry out his threat if he disappeared thus, and was heard of no more. And all would be well with them, all would go right, as he had meant it should when he gave up his life.

By this time the sun had risen, the birds had begun to twitter and hold their morning conversations about all the business of life before it was time to tune up for the concert of the day. Where was he going? He had left such things as he had brought with him at a little lonely wayside public-house near the sea before he went to Yalton, but it was still too early to get admittance there. He found himself on the shore before he knew. Yalton was not above a few miles from the sea, or rather from the Firth in its upper part, not far from the spot where that monstrous prodigy of science, about which so many trumpets have beenblown, the Forth Bridge, now strides hideous across the lovely inlet—those golden gates through which the westering sun was wont to stream unbroken from the upper reaches of the great estuary upon the stronger tides below. Dalyell came out upon it suddenly, forgetting in the intense preoccupation of his thoughts where he was. The sun had risen beyond the distant Grampians, touching the Fife villages all along the coast with gold. The air was damp, yet sweet with the saltness of the sea in it, and the breath of distance and the sensation of the vast unknown to which this great, splendid ocean pathway was one of the ways. When Dalyell came out thus upon the shore he was the one speck of animated being in the whole still world. He sat down to rest for a little upon a rock. At three o’clock in the morning there is nothing stirring, not even the cattle, though they were waking and thinking of an early breakfast in the fields. He sat there and noted, and thought over it all again. He was very forlorn, but not angry with anybody, scarcely vexed by the thought that he was so soon forgotten. He even laughed a little at the thought of Pat Wedderburn. How had he got himself the length of that idea ofmarrying? He divined old Pat’s thoughts, a little troubled by the necessity, going bravely through it. He had no sense of resentment towards any of them. As soon as there was any one stirring about the “Dun Cow” he would steal in and get his things and some breakfast, and take himself off at once and for ever—never, whatever happened, to interfere again.

But in the meantime there was some time to wait, and the sun was growing warmer every moment, and the tide was in, and the little wavelets rippling along the shore. Baths were not luxuries known at the “Dun Cow,” and here was the bath he liked best, ready before him. It would be the last time he would ever bathe in his native waters. He slipped out of his clothes, laid them in a little heap, without even thinking how on one supreme occasion he had done that before, and plunging from the nearest rock launched himself into the sea and sunshine. It would brace him up for the journeys and troubles of the day.

Dalyell swam about for some time, and dived and sported in the water like a boy, with a curious sudden lightness of heart. He could not make up his mind to come out of the water. And thenorthern seas are cold at three o’clock (getting on for four) in the morning, with the sun not yet very strong, and but newly risen. What it was that happened there was no one to tell. Perhaps it was the shock of the night’s proceedings, though he had reasoned it away, which struck to his heart—perhaps it was the cold of the water—it might be a cramp, which, had there been any one near to help, would have been of little consequence. None of these things would any one ever know. It was said afterwards that a cry was heard, piercing the sober stillness of the morning, so that somebody woke and got up at the “Dun Cow,” but finding no sign of harm, went to bed again for another hour. And it is certainly true that the minister woke in his manse, which is near the shore, and got up and opened his window, and remarked upon the beauty of the morning, and the wonderful delightful calm and brightness of the Firth. He thought after that it must have been the drowning man’s cry that woke him, though he was not conscious of the sound itself.

Thus, with the strangest repetition, all the incidents of Dalyell’s fictitious drowning were reproduced; and it did not fail to be remarkedin the papers that the accident up the Firth was singularly like the accident that had happened nearly two years before to Mr. Dalyell, of Yalton, on Portobello sands. It was a remarkable coincidence: but the sufferer in this case, it was added, was a stranger, who had arrived at the “Dun Cow” the night before, and was supposed to be a foreigner. The body was found among the rocks, as if he had made a despairing grip upon the seaweeds that covered them to save himself, from which it was judged that the misadventure was wholly accidental; but, naturally, all was conjecture, and this was a thing that never could be known.

Fredwent to his mother’s room, about which an agitated crowd had already gathered, the two girls and their maid, and an anxious domestic or two from downstairs, besides Mrs. Dalyell’s own maid, who was with her mistress. Foggo stood outside on the staircase, anxious to know if he should go for the doctor, and still more anxious to know what had happened, for there was already a conviction in the house that it was not mere illness which had produced that shriek which startled everybody. Mrs. Dalyell was not the kind of woman to shriek from physical pain, and there had been a whisper in the house that the horseman had been heard in the avenue, which, naturally, was a preparation for trouble. Fred, however, was not admitted till some time later, of which the poor young fellow was glad: for he was in no condition to meet his mother in the nervous and excited state in which she must be, while he himself was so shaken and miserable from the same cause. He went to hisown room and endeavoured there to calm himself, and thrust away the appalling question that was now before him. How lately he had said to himself that his father’s previsions had all been mistaken, and instead of having to take upon himself the anxieties and cares of the head of the house, to break off his studies and turn his thoughts to the grave side of life, he had only been more free, more independent, than before, since he had succeeded his father as Dalyell of Yalton. Ah! but who could have thought of this, this further chapter of disaster, unimaginable, incurable, which would involve the name of Dalyell of Yalton in dishonour and shame—the name his ancestors had borne in credit and pride, the name that poverty and ruin could not have stained, but which must now perish amid records of deceit and fraud. Fred’s very heart seemed to shrink and wither up within him when he thought of what he had now to do. It would be his to put the stamp of shame upon that name—to expose the whole disgraceful story, the dishonest means by which downfall had been staved off, only to fall more dreadfully upon the unhappy and innocent now. No, he must not palter with right and wrong, he mustnot allow any sentiment of pity either for the criminal or for himself to steal in. The criminal! Now that Fred had time to think, that criminal—whose very name he could not endure to think of—whom he had denounced and disowned with such force and almost hatred—had looked at him, oh, with such fatherly eyes! He had scarcely said anything, not a word in his own defence. Fred felt that if he had stayed another minute his courage would have failed him, and the old dear familiar image would have regained its power. The criminal!—worse than a fraudulent bankrupt, almost worse than a suicide, and yet so like—oh, so like——! Oh, he must not think, he must not allow himself to fail in his duty. In a week’s time—that was what he had said—to give full time for that fugitive to escape, that he might not be taken or injured, or brought to justice. In a week’s time! There must be no paltering with duty. It was clear before him what he had to do.

And then there began to pluck as it were at the skirts of Fred’s mind thoughts of what this thing was, of what it must have cost. Had not the man died, had he not more than died? It was not suicide, but it was worse. He had given his lifewhile still a living man. Strange words crept into Fred’s mind, which did not come there of themselves, as if some one had thrown them into the surging sea of passion and pain which was within him. Greater love hath no man than this. Oh, silence, silence! these words were said of another, a greater—one Divine. Greater love hath no man than this: they came back and back: as if they could be applied to a man who was a sinner, who had committed a fraud, and deceived his fellow men! Had he deceived them? Had he not died? Died more terribly, more completely than the man in the family grave in Yalton churchyard, who was not Robert Dalyell. Which would one choose if one had to choose? Surely the home in the churchyard, the tablet on the wall—and not the life of an outcast, the death in life of a man who had no identity, who had neither name nor fame. Fred’s young soul was rent asunder by these thoughts. There had been no relenting in him, no pity. But now outraged nature avenged herself. Oh, how cruel he had been, how harsh!—not a word of kindness in him, not a softening touch. And he ought not to think of nature now, he ought not to be moved by kindness. He ought to subdue allrelenting. In a week’s time! He must set his face like brass. He must think of nothing that could make him fail.

It was late when Fred was called to his mother, and he went down as timid as a child called to an interview of which it knows nothing, but that it must involve terrific consequences. He had looked at himself anxiously in the glass before he obeyed the summons, wishing that he knew some way of making himself look less pale, his eyes less excited. The girls knew ways of doing this, Fred believed, but he did not know. He plunged his head into cold water to relieve the heaviness and heat he felt, as of something bursting from his forehead; and then he went downstairs, slowly labouring to collect his thoughts to think what he should say. Mrs. Dalyell was in bed, her head with the background of the red curtains looking at the first glance almost ghastly, her face very pale, her eyes excited like his own. She grasped him by both hands and made him sit down by her. The candles were still burning, but a faint glimmer of blue showed between the curtains. She kept holding his hand, but it was a minute or two before she spoke.

“Fred, do you know if I said anything? Whatdid I say? What did they tell you? Did they say that I——?” She gasped for breath, and could not finish the sentence, but did so with her eyes and with the pressure of her hand.

“I heard nothing, mother, but that you fainted.”

She pressed his hand tightly again and said, “I didn’t faint. I let them think so—to conceal—Though I was scarcely conscious of what I was doing, I felt it gleam through me that to let them think I was unconscious was best. But I never was unconscious for a moment, Fred—you understand what I am saying?—nor was I asleep, nor could I have been dreaming. You hear what I am saying, Fred?”

“Yes, mother: but don’t, for heaven’s sake, excite yourself; it may make you ill again.”

“What will make me ill? I want you to understand. I’ve not been ill, only—that they might have no suspicion. Fred, above all things I want you to understand that I am in my full senses, meaning every word I say.”

“Yes, mother,” he said, pressing her hand.

She renewed her grip upon it, as if she were holding fast to something lest she should be carried away. “Well!” she said, with a long-drawnbreath. Then looking him fall in the eyes as if to defy misunderstanding: “Fred,” she said, “I have seen your father!”

“Mother!” he cried.

“Hush—this was what I was afraid of—that you would think me out of my senses. Look at me. I am not calm, perhaps, but I am as steady as you are.” (That was not saying much; but absorbed in her own extraordinary sensations, Mrs. Dalyell fortunately did not notice Fred.) “I was not thinking of him, nor even questioning as I sometimes do. I was more quiet than usual: when, just there, where the curtain is, I saw your father!”

“You must have been over-excited, mother, though you did not know it. My coming home and the girls’ talk—and all of us making ourselves disagreeable—without knowing it your mind must have——”

“My mind was quite calm. I made allowance for you children. I could have sympathised with you. But don’t go away with any such idea. I saw your father—as plain as I ever saw him in my life.”

What could Fred say? He patted her hand tosoothe her, and shook his head gently; he could not trust himself to speak.

“It all passed in a moment,” she went on. “He said something. I feel sure he used the word marriage, but I was too much startled to make out, and I was so foolish as to give that cry. I can’t tell you what a dreadful feeling came upon me. I am not a woman to scream, but I could not help it. And he disappeared, and they all came rushing in.”

“It must have been an optical illusion, mother—that’s what they call those sort of things. You were disturbed by all of us, and your imagination got excited.”

“Don’t speak such nonsense to me. I saw your father as I see you. Fred, that’s not half I’ve got to tell you.” She closed her fingers more and more closely upon his hand, and drew him close to her. “He was changed,” she said almost in a whisper. “He was not as he used to be.” She put her face nearer to her son’s. “An apparition would have been nothing in comparison. It would have been not wonderful, considering everything. But this: Fred”—she drew him quite close and her fingers were upon his hand like iron—“Fred, your father had grown a beard!”

“Mother!” he cried again.

“You think I’m mad, and I don’t wonder: but there’s more in what I say than you think, Fred: a man who was dead could not do that. Fred, find me words. I don’t know what to say. There is more in this than we know.”

They looked at each other, the eyes of the one shooting light and meaning into those of the other. How could the boy stand the keen scrutiny of his mother’s eyes? He faltered before her and tried to avert them, but failed. At last he faltered, “Mother! I think your guess is right!”

She seized him by the shoulder with her other hand and shook him in the vehemence of her passion. “Have you known this all along? Have you known and never said a word?”

“No,” he said; “how could you think it? Could I have been a party to a fraud? But I saw him too—to-night.”

Mrs. Dalyell’s hands relaxed; she fell back upon her pillow, and, covering her face with her hands, began to cry and moan. “Oh, how shall I ever look him in the face! How shall I ever look him in the face!”

Fred was prepared for many things on his mother’s part. He was prepared to see her burst into indignation like his own; he could have understood her stern and angry, or he could have understood her grieved and miserable. He could even have understood it—had she been unreasonably and foolishly glad. But ashamed, asking how she could look him in the face!—this was beyond the knowledge of her son. After a little she calmed down and said with the echo of a sob, “We will have something to forgive each other—on both sides.”

“Mother,” cried Fred, “do you realise all the difference it will make?”

She was silent for a moment, with a flush upon her face. “Oh, my dear,” she cried, with a look of awe, “how can we ever be sufficiently thankful that we knew in time!”

This was all she could think of, it seemed; and poor young Fred had to return to his own troubled thoughts by himself without help from his mother. She entertained, it would seem, no doubt as to her duty towards her husband. The fraud did not weigh on her mind. He had come back—that was all.

Inthe afternoon of the miserable day which had begun in this wise, Fred was sitting alone, trying to come to some conclusion in the crowd of his unhappy thoughts. His mother had been able to rest after her agitation, and sleep, but had sent for him again early to ask for his father—where he was in the meantime, and when he was coming home? It had better, she thought, be got over as quietly as possible, and all the friends informed. Mr. Wedderburn was always fond of Robert: he would take it very quietly; he would see that the less said the better for all parties. Her mind was full of these thoughts. She had arranged everything in her mind. There would be much to forgive—on both sides—which perhaps on the whole was better than had it been entirely on one. As for business matters, Mrs. Dalyell was aware there must be troubles; but fortunately this was not her share of the business. Robert and Mr. Wedderburn would settle these things. It allseemed so simple as she put it, that Fred withdrew again with a sort of artificial calm in his spirit, but had no sooner been alone for ten minutes than the hurlyburly began over again. What was he to do? Inform the insurance companies? But what could be done to raise the necessary money? Throw Yalton into the market—or what? Anyhow, it must be ruin, whether the father came home or disappeared again; anyhow, his own happy career was over, and nothing but trouble was to come.

In the meantime he did not know where his father was, or what had become of him, and he had not yet the courage to question Janet, who no doubt knew. Janet was at the bottom of it all. For all he could tell, it might be she who had first suggested that dreadful expedient out of which all this misery came. Oh! had the family been but ruined honestly, naturally, two years ago! Fred felt, like a child, that it must be that wretched old woman’s fault all through, and he could not subdue his mind to the extent of asking her for information. It would come, he felt sure, in good time.

And so it did: that afternoon Foggo entered thelibrary where his young master was sitting, with a very mysterious air, and informed him that there was “one” who desired to speak with him. Fred’s heart leapt to his mouth, for his thoughts were bent solely on his father, and it seemed certain that it could be no other than he.

“A gentleman,” he added faintly, “with a beard?” It was the only description he could venture upon.

“No, Mr. Fred, not a gentleman at all—John Saunderson from the ‘Dun Cow.’”

“John Saunderson from the ‘Dun Cow’?”

“It was to speak about something that had happened. He said that if the young laird would have the kindness to step out at the gate—he’s no just in trim for a grand house, and he would like to speak to yourself in a private way.”

“Bring him here, then, Foggo.”

“No, Mr. Fred: he would take it far kinder if you would just step out to the gate.”

And this was what Fred finally did. He found the landlord of the “Dun Cow” exceedingly embarrassed, not knowing how to begin his story. He took off his blue bonnet at the sight of Fred, and began to twirl it round and round in his hands.

“It’s about an accident that’s happened,” said John.

“Do you want me to do anything? I’m very much occupied; if it’s anything Foggo could do——”

“Na, it’s not Foggo I want” (he said Foggy, after the fashion of his locality), “it’s just yoursel’. There was a gentleman came to lodge in my house last night. We whiles get a stranger—that’s not very particular.”

“A gentleman?”

“A gentleman with a beard.” The man eyed Fred very closely, who did not know what to reply.

“Yes,” he said, with a little catch of his breath, “and what then?”

“The gentleman must have gone down, so far as we can see, very early to take a bath in the sea. Nobody heard him go out. My own idea is he never was in after he got his supper. He first went to the door for a smoke, and my impression is——”

“What happened?” said Fred. His mouth was so dry he could scarcely speak.

“He must have gone into the sea to take a bath awfu’ early in the morning, before we were up.The wife she thought she heard a cry about four o’clock, and I got up, for she gave me no peace, and looked about and saw nothing. But later there was one came running and said a man’s clo’es were on the sands, close by some rocks—just for all the world as they were that time, ye mind, Mr. D’yell, when your father was lost. I just took to my heels and ran all the way to the sands. And there was his clo’es, sure enough.”

“The man?” Fred gasped again.

“They got him after a bittie, with his hands clasped full of the seaweed, and his knee raised up upon a rock. He must have made a fight, poor gentleman, for his life. Na, I see what you are thinking: it was nae suicide. He had got up his knee upon a bit of rock, and his hands were full of the weeds—nasty slimy unprofitable things.” There was a pause, and the man lowered his voice a little significantly before he said, “I would like much, Mr. Frederick, if you would come down and see him.”

Fred was not able to speak. He shrank more than he could say from this dreadful sight. He shook his head in the impulse of his panic and horror.

“Sir,” said the man, “I’ve known your father, Mr. Robert D’yell, Yalton, man and boy, for more than forty year. If I didna know he had been drowned two years ago I would say yon was him.”

It was with difficulty Fred found his voice: “I think that I know who it was. It was a—near relation.”

“Ah, I can well believe that,” said John Saunderson. He was something of a genealogist himself, as so many people of his class are in country life, and he threw a hasty backward glance over the scions of the house of Yalton, which he had known all his life, and settled within himself that there was no such near relation, no cousin that ever he had heard of. He did not say this, nor his own profound conviction as to the drowned man.

“A man,” said Fred, “that we had thought to be dead—for years. He frightened my mother with the likeness you speak of, and I am afraid he did not get a good reception. Oh, Saunderson, you are sure it was not a suicide?”

“So far as I could judge—no. I am not surprised,” said Saunderson, “that the mistress was terrified. It gave me a kind of a shock.‘Lord bless me,’ I said, and then I just held my peace, for I would not be one to raise a scandal on the house of Yalton. But my ostler, confound him, has a long tongue.”

“I’m much obliged to you,” said Fred. “I’ll come down.”

And there he saw, on the poor bed in the “Dun Cow,” surrounded by the few rustic houses about, all excited and discussing the tragedy, his father, at last hushed and safe, seized by the death which he had cheated once, but could not cheat a second time. The dreadful drowning look had departed from his face; he lay tranquil and calm, like a man who had died in his bed, who had never wronged either man or woman. Whom had he wronged? Perhaps the insurance companies—no one else. And Fred at length came to the conclusion that there was now no occasion to disturb the insurance companies. It had come to pass at last—the event which had been supposed to be accomplished long ago. There was no reason now for the confession he had intended, no need to expose his father’s deception, to betray the secret of the house. Fred could scarcely reconcile himself to the fact that this was so. It cost him a great deal of trouble tomake up his mind that his business now—now that all was over, and his father gone for ever—was to be silent for ever. Mr. Wedderburn had been summoned, and this was his advice, as well as the almost imperious command of Fred’s mother. To throw a stain upon her husband’s name was intolerable to Mrs. Dalyell—to attract attention to the house and explain its secret history. She said, with tears, yet with indignation, that it should not, it must not be. And old Pat Wedderburn, who was strangely moved by the story, and who said not a word in blame of his friend, supported her strongly. “They would have had to give the money now, if not then,” he said, “and it’s not your part to open the question. Let it alone. Let him rest in his grave at last—poor Bob! And I hope in my presence no one will ever say an ill word of Bob D’yell.”

There was a tear in the old lawyer’s eye. Perhaps he understood it best of the three, though the other two were wife and son. Fred’s statement that the drowned man was a relation made it possible to lay him in the Yalton vault after all—his last and rightful home. Who the other was, who had received that sad hospitality in the nameof Robert Dalyell of Yalton, they never knew, nor was it necessary to inquire.

Somehow, however, there was no more question of Mrs. Dalyell’s marriage. Neither bride or bridegroom ever spoke of it again. And Mr. Wedderburn resumed something of the old easy relations after a while, and presided at Susie’s marriage, and was the best friend of the house, as he had always been. It was a conclusion which on the whole they all felt to be the best.

THE END.

Stories of College Life

THE UNIVERSITY SERIES

I.Harvard Stories.—Sketches of the Undergraduate.ByW. K. Post. Fifteenth edition. 12°, paper,50 cts.; cloth $1.00

“Mr. Post’s manner of telling these tales is in its way inimitable. The atmosphere of the book in its relation to the localities where the scenes are laid is well-nigh perfect. The different types of undergraduates are clearly drawn, and there is a dramatic element in most of the stories that is very welcome. It goes without saying that Harvard men will find keen pleasure in this volume, while for those who desire a faithful picture of certain phases of American student life it offers a noteworthy fund of instruction and entertainment.”—Literary News.

II.Yale Yarns.—ByJ. S. Wood. Fifth edition.Illustrated. 12° $1.00

“This delightful little book will be read with intense interest by all Yale men.”—New Haven Eve. Leader.“The Yale atmosphere is wonderfully reproduced in some of the sketches, and very realistic pictures are drawn, particularly of the old ‘fence’ and the ‘old brick row.’”—Boston Times.“College days are regarded by most educated men as the cream of their lives, sweet with excellent flavor. They are not dull and tame even, to the most devoted student, and this is a volume filled with the pure cream of such existence, and many ‘a college joke to cure the dumps’ is given. It is a bright, realistic picture of college life, told in an easy conversational, or descriptive style, and cannot fail to genuinely interest the reader who has the slightest appreciation of humor. The volume is illustrated and is just the book for an idle or a lonely hour.”—Los Angeles Times.

“This delightful little book will be read with intense interest by all Yale men.”—New Haven Eve. Leader.

“The Yale atmosphere is wonderfully reproduced in some of the sketches, and very realistic pictures are drawn, particularly of the old ‘fence’ and the ‘old brick row.’”—Boston Times.

“College days are regarded by most educated men as the cream of their lives, sweet with excellent flavor. They are not dull and tame even, to the most devoted student, and this is a volume filled with the pure cream of such existence, and many ‘a college joke to cure the dumps’ is given. It is a bright, realistic picture of college life, told in an easy conversational, or descriptive style, and cannot fail to genuinely interest the reader who has the slightest appreciation of humor. The volume is illustrated and is just the book for an idle or a lonely hour.”—Los Angeles Times.

The Babe,B.A.The Uneventful History of aYoung Gentleman in Cambridge University. ByEdward F. Benson, author of “Dodo,” etc.Illustrated. 12° $1.00

“The story tells of the every-day life of a young man called the Babe.... Cleverly written and one of the best this author has written.”—Leader, New Haven.

A Princetonian.A Story of Undergraduate Life atthe College of New Jersey. ByJames Barnes.Illustrated. 12° $1.25

“Mr. Barnes is a loyal son of the College of New Jersey, with the cleverness and zeal to write this story of undergraduate life in the college, following his successful use of the pen in earlier books,For King and Country,Midshipman Farragut, etc.... There is enough of fiction in the story to give true liveliness to its fact.... Mr. Barnes’s literary style is humorous and vivid.”—Boston Transcript.

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

Works by Anna Katharine Green

I.—THE LEAVENWORTH CASE.A Lawyer’s Story.4to, paper, 20 cents; 16°, paper, 50 cents; cloth $1 00

“She has worked up acause celèbrewith a fertility of device and ingenuity of treatment hardly second to Wilkie Collins or Edgar Allan Poe.”—Christian Union.

II.—BEHIND CLOSED DOORS.16°, paper, 50 cents;cloth $1 00

“ ...She has never succeeded better in baffling the reader.”—Boston Christian Register.

III.—THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.A Story of NewYork Life. 16°, paper, 50 cents; cloth $1 00

“‘The Sword of Damocles’ is a book of great power, which far surpasses either of its predecessors from her pen, and places her high among American writers. The plot is complicated, and is managed adroitly.... In the delineation of characters she has shown both delicacy and vigor.”—Congregationalist.

IV.—X. Y. Z.; A Detective Story.16°, paper 25 cents

“Well written and extremely exciting and captivating.... She is a perfect genius in the construction of a plot.”—N. Y. Commercial Advertiser.

V.—HAND AND RING.In quarto, paper, 20 cents; 16°,paper, illustrated, 50 cents; cloth $1 00

“It is a tribute to the author’s genius that she never tires and never loses her readers.... It moves on clean and healthy.... It is worked out powerfully and skilfully.”—-N. Y. Independent.

VI.—A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE.In quarto, paper,20 cents; 16°, paper, 50 cents; cloth $1 00

“A most ingenious and absorbingly interesting story. The readers are held spell-bound until the last page.”—Cincinnati Commercial.

VII.—THE MILL MYSTERY.16°, paper, 50 cents;cloth $1 00

“Shows the author’s skill in the manufacture of entirely new and original complications, and as the central figure is a fresh and charming girl, the reader is absorbed and thrilled and wrought up to the last degree in following her fortunes to their triumphant sequel.”—Commercial Advertiser.

The Hudson Library

Published Monthly. Entered as second-class matter. Yearly Subscription, $6.00 per volume, paper, 50 cents. Published also in cloth.

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS,Publishers,

NEW YORK AND LONDON.

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