Paul consigned his beloved to Mrs. Herbert and went up to town. Mrs. Cooper and Sylvia were useless. The former wept over the disgrace and made speeches beginning with “if”—the latter said “everyone was unfortunate and miserable.” Paul felt as if everyone were happy, beginning with himself and including Launa. Her cry to him had not been the cry of disappointment and sorrow; it had been what? He could not define it. Relief was too mild, joy too great a name.

Mr. Wainbridge found a certain amount of awkwardness in the interview with his uncle, which had to take place at once on account of the approaching marriage, which was now broken off. It was so difficult to explain what had transpired and to do it with a due regard for his own feelings.

Lord Wainbridge expressed much disappointment at his nephew’s engagement being broken off. He had received an announcement thereof by telegraph.

“Why! why! why!” he exclaimed. “My temper is very much upset to-day. Your aunt is most trying.”

“We have disagreed about settlements,” said the nephew.

“Damn settlements. That is rubbish. What else?”

“There is,” said his nephew slowly, “only one insurmountable barrier and she knows it.”

“Well? Can’t you do away with it?”

“I am married already.”

“Married? What a fool! You mean that you have had an establishment which you will give up now, of course, and she will not forgive this. She will naturally in time. Things will come right, do not be alarmed.”

“No, this will never come right for I am really married.”

“Yet you love Launa, and you meant to marry her and to live with her as your wife?”

“Yes.”

“To commit bigamy—in spite of the insurmountable barrier?”

“Yes,” replied Wainbridge.

His uncle stared at him aghast. Admiration, blended with contempt, showed in his countenance—admiration for the audacity of the plan, contempt for its failure.

“I thought, when I did think,” said the nephew, “that if we were once married, if she were only bound to me by indissoluble ties, she could not leave me, and if at any time she heard rumours, well, she would have kept quiet about it. The other woman does not know my name.”

“It is dreadful,” said Lord Wainbridge. “Now there is no heir and your aunt—” he sighed. “I wish you had not told me. I should have preferred your being reticent with me. It is most unfortunate. I wish I did not know it.”

His was the hopeless lament of the aged.

“How old you are,” thought his nephew, who was more than sorry; but he did not groan—that was of no avail.

“There is an heir,” he said.

“You are a greater fool than I thought you. What will you tell your aunt?”

“Nothing—or the settlement story? which you prefer.”

He regretted being found out. His god had been the fear of discovery; he worshipped it, and to it he had made many sacrifices. But it was all over.

“He is quiet, and bears it well,” thought Lord Wainbridge; but then we should always bear the result of our own wrong-doing with philosophy. No one—Lord Wainbridge least of all—would have pitied him had he not endured it with patience. Inwardly Hugh Wainbridge was raging—raging with a wild longing to possess Launa—to have held her in his arms alone, while she was his—to have kissed the life and breath out of her. It was intolerable to think that it was over, that she was not his, and never would be. All through his own stupidity, which he cursed, he felt a mad wild beast, just an animal longing to kill anyone in his way, and to possess the one object of his passion. How he wished he had not told his uncle. Lord Wainbridge was so disappointed.

Mr. Wainbridge sat and meditated on the unsatisfactoriness, the dreariness of all things. His one desire was withheld from him, the desire which now threatened to become madness. He was hardly aware of his uncle’s departure—he seemed to see Launa with a smile of triumph, of victory, on her face, and he could not get to her; she eluded him. How he loved her!—loved her, would, must have her.

Paul wrote to Launa; then he waited and did not go down to see her, much as he longed to do so.

One afternoon he met Sylvia alone. She greeted him with joy. She looked different.

“You look wicked,” he said; and she laughed.

“When are you going to Launa? Go soon. One woman may as well think she is going to be happy in this world. As for me, I have learned that there is no happiness anywhere. I have vanquished my illusions.”

“How is Launa?”

“Alone down there in this dreary weather,” she replied. “She sent us all away—got rid of us very cleverly, even of Mrs. Herbert, and is there by herself.”

“Where are you going?” asked Paul.

“Home—I am wretched. I am so lonely and so weary of—virtue. I think it is very dull. My thoughts annoy me, and they continue so incessantly.”

“Come and have some tea with me,” he said.

For he was glad to be able to talk to her. He could not well rush down to Shelton at five o’clock, and he doubted the expediency of doing so.

“Launa took it quietly,” said Sylvia, as she drank her tea. “After we were alone she was so different—so glad. I rejoice when I remember how she said, ‘Paul!’ Did you hear the sound in her voice when she called you?—as if she could not be relieved and grateful enough. I am thinking of marriage—serious, uncomfortable marriage myself.”

“You are? I thought—”

“You thought me broken-hearted. So I am; I am wretched—tired of waiting, of longing, and of thinking what a fool I have been. He loved me, and it is too late. I long for love until I feel nearly mad, so I am going to marry. I shall be bound, tied up, and there will be no escape, and so I must feel peaceful.”

“You will not.”

“Ah, but I shall. Why did I not go with him? Why did I not love him while I could?”

“Who are you going to marry?”

“A man who knows it all. I am not going to deceive him. He says the heart of a woman cannot remain in a man’s grave for ever. But . . . when he is with me I see . . . the other. It is ghastly.”

“So I should think, and it will be worse. Don’t do it, Sylvia. You will regret it always.”

“No, I think you are mistaken. Let us talk of Launa.”

That night Paul wrote to her. He waited with impatience for her answer.

When it came, she said she was leaving for Canada and the letter was posted at Liverpool.

Launa’s first feeling was relief, relief—so intense, so endless, that she felt buoyant, joyful, secure. But after some days she felt shame. What had Hugh Wainbridge thought of her? What could a man think of a woman whom he could propose to wrong so terribly? And what had Paul thought of her? Why did he not come?

Why should she think he cared still? She had no reason to think so. Doubt, misery, and loneliness, became torturing demons; in action she saw the only relief possible, and then she remembered Canada, “Solitude,” the woods, the shore. Paul despised her, she was sure; she would go away, go home.

The penetrating depressing autumn mist was slowly making its way over the land, it was almost rain, it was so thick, and far more wetting. The river was shrouded in a white ghostly mantle. She thought of the keen air at “Solitude,” of the clear sky, and of the shore with the far-away landscape, mysterious and, always to her, enticing. And then of the storms, howling, fierce, and powerful, like the terrible force and presence of an unseen mighty power, the devastating Great Spirit of the North who, for five months of the year, reigns supreme, who is real, tangible, brutal, unlike the horrible slowness of this climate.

“Solitude” was empty, Launa cabled to the gardener’s wife who inhabited a lodge, and who once had been housekeeper.

When Paul got her letter, she and her maid were out on the Atlantic, rapidly going farther away.

Launa was beginning to forget the Wainbridge incident, though at first her anger had seemed unending.

The weather became very cold as they neared Halifax. The big blue harbour, with its white-capped waves and white-covered shores, was home. The drifting bits of ice were gaily rushing on, tossed by the waves, the tide, and the wash of the big steamer. The decks and rigging were covered with ice, the sea had swept the ship, and, after sweeping it, the frost demon bound everything in his cold arms. She wondered how she had existed so long in that grey land without sun. The sky looked higher and more deeply blue.

“Solitude” was quite ready for her, huge fires blazed everywhere, old servants had come back. She drove ten miles from the nearest station, how the sleigh runners creaked, and the bells rang clear, a big yellow moon was up before she arrived; everything was so strong, so intense, so cold.

“Solitude” was lonely. She spent the greater part of the days out of doors. She was young, and the horribleness of Mr. Wainbridge’s behaviour became dimmer. She had only been angry, how would she have felt if she had loved him?

After a week of driving and snowshoeing she got out her toboggan.

The land from “Solitude” to the Bay sloped down for about half a mile, and then the Bay was frozen, the ice covered with snow, and she could toboggan straight across it. The crust of the snow was very hard. The toboggan started slowly, then went faster, faster, little bits of crisp snow flew in her face, the air whistled past her as she rushed along, the pace became swifter,—it was glorious: the sun, the air, and the clear blue sky were life-giving as she tore on. The toboggan bounded over the rough blocks of ice on the edge of the Bay which were broken by the tide. On the flat stretch of ice it began to move more slowly and then stopped. It was splendid. She spent all the afternoon at it; the thermometer was ten below zero, but it was so still and sunny that she could not feel cold.

It was snowing hard and blowing from the north-east; the view from “Solitude” was dim, whirling snow hurled by the wind, little drifting eddies of snow curled round the top of the drifts already forming quickly.

Launa started on snowshoes. The wind knocked her about and she staggered before it. She waited in the shelter of the porch until the fury of the blast seemed to have swept past, then she went on again. The snow was loose, and the walking, even on snowshoes, very heavy. She struggled to the little post-office, though there was no need for this, for they would have sent up her letters; the one she wanted was not there. She wandered on in the storm to pass the time hoping to grow very tired. The road was gone, it had disappeared in a level plain of snow, only like black specks occasional stones showed up in the walls. The snow drifted and whirled, and the wind was so keen and cold, like knives, with a stinging burning sensation. The snow made its way under her big fur collar and chilled her neck and face though she was so hot.

Suddenly she saw a dark figure coming nearer. It was a man. “Good-night,” she said as they passed. She doubted if he could hear, the wind crashed by them, it roared over their heads and howled behind them.

The man turned, and with two steps towards her, said:

“Launa, darling!”

He put his arms round her, and then walked on her snowshoes, nearly knocking her over, and Launa lay in his arms; her feet were most uncomfortable, one snowshoe was on its side.

“Paul!” she gasped.

His thick blanket coat against her mouth prevented conversation.

“Come back to ‘Solitude,’ ” he said; “it is too cold and too stormy for you to be out.”

He took her hand, and they trudged on for the greater part of the way in silence; it was too windy to talk, and neither knew when the other spoke unless their heads were close together.

At “Solitude” Paul undid her snowshoes and his own, then they went into the hall, all bright with a huge fire and flowers. Paul put his arms round her and kissed her. She was covered with snow.

“I must go. Let me go, Paul; you will stay. There are things you can put on in the dressing-room; but I must get them for you. I want to tell you about him.”

“I don’t want to know anything. He was a beast; you are mine now. I am not wet, Launa; you have forgotten the snow is dry. Even Mrs. Grundy could not turn a man out on a dark night, with the thermometer at zero and a gale blowing.”

When she came down he was waiting. He came towards her. She loved him, he loved her; was there anything in the world she needed now?

He put his arms round her.

“You have forgiven me?” he said, and he kissed her.

“Paul, you won’t hate me?”

“Probably I shall. Tell me why?”

“Well, you know I do not like—much kissing.”

“I have observed that with regret, or rather I hear you say it with sorrow; for since I came I have kissed you several times and you—”

“Yes,” she interrupted, “but do you not think we had better be careful? It might get—common, we might grow accustomed to it, and not—like it as much.”

Paul laughed.

“Oh, Launa!”

“Tell me how you got here?” she asked. They were sitting by the tea-table. “The roads are blocked, and it snowed all night as well as to-day.”

“Changing the subject rapidly was always one of your accomplishments. Kissing and roads—I see the connection to you.”

“Paul!”

“I started to drive,” he answered. “At last we stuck in a drift near Montague’s; so I came on snowshoes.”

“It was a dreadful tramp.”

“It was the best I ever had—with you at the end of it. I wonder if you will ever know? How soon will you marry me? I cannot stay at ‘Solitude,’ and fifteen miles is too far apart for you and me.”

“You never came back! You never wrote to me at ‘Shelton.’ I thought you did not care—that you despised me, and thought me a beast.”

“And you? You were going to marry someone else. I tried to stop you—”

“I believe I was going to run away the day of the wedding,” she said. “Wasn’t it ghastly?”

“Awful,” he said briefly. “Sylvia has promised to marry the Member for Hackney. Did she write to you?”

“No. She will marry Lord Fairmouth? Ugh! how can she? Is it true?”

“You will marry me soon,” he said. “And we will go—where shall we go?”

“We shall stay here until the spring, and then go up to the North,” she answered. “I am glad we are ‘born Canadian.’ Aren’t you?”

And Paul kissed her.

THE END.

Printed by Cowan & Co., Limited, Perth.

DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“It is vivid and strong, touched with that picturesque, vigorous fancy with which intellect illuminates and interprets the life of action. . . . Mr. Bart Kennedy has talent of a strong order: He shows it clearly in this latest book, in the strength with which he puts these scenes before us, in his power of conveying his impressions, and his picturesque point of view. No one can read this tramp’s reminiscences without adding to his knowledge of human nature, and to his comprehension of a somewhat unknown walk of life.”

ACADEMY.—“The rough-and-ready, unvarnished, straightforward narrative of a rover about the World, living from hand to mouth, getting down on his luck, running strange risks, and meeting picturesque wastrels.”

SCOTSMAN.—“The book is fascinating, and is written with a force which seems born of sincerity, without any sensationalism. It cannot fail to interest readers.”

MORNING LEADER.—“The record of an adventurous life, when well told, always appeals to the imagination and sympathy of the reader, and ‘A Man Adrift’ is such a record. Presumably the adventures are real; they have all the vividness of reality at all events, and one follows the hardships and wanderings of the narrator with keen interest. . . . Mr. Kennedy is to be congratulated on his ‘Man Adrift.’ ”

TO-DAY.—“I have discovered in ‘A Man Adrift’ one of the most remarkable autobiographies ever penned. There is on every one of the incidents the stamp of reality. There does not appear to be a page of fiction in the book, and in his devil-may-care language the author secures the effect of absolute truth.”

UNIVERSE.—“This is really one of the best books we have had the pleasure to read for a long time. . . . The author evidently understands what he is writing about, and the whole is so beautifully written, that as the reader scans the pages the various scenes treated of are brought in a vivid manner before the mind.”

REVIEW OF THE WEEK.—“Each chapter is vivid with actuality. The book is interesting by reason of its absolute sincerity, and the strange quaint phases of life in out-of-the-way places, with which it deals. Mr. Kennedy’s style is peculiarly his own, and we are not prepared to contest its effectiveness. His story of the power of the human eye in obtaining a free lunch is altogether admirable. This is a book which should be widely read, and few will lay it down before the last page has been scanned.”

GREENING & CO., Limited, 20 Cecil Court, Charing Cross Road,

London, W.C.

OUTLOOK.—“Good work in which the influence of Mr. Saltus is perceptible. There are whole pages of admirable rhetoric. The story illustrates the enormous power of woman to excite and obsess man—an old theme, but an inexhaustible one.”

SHEFFIELD TELEGRAPH.—“A good half-crown’s worth of smart clever writing. Both stories are quite off the conventional line.”

ST. PAUL’S.—“The dialogue in ‘My Lady Ruby’ is crisp and distinctly good. The second story, ‘John Basileon,’ is very striking.”

ST. JAMES’ BUDGET.—“ ‘My Lady Ruby’ is a dainty trifle, of the genre made familiar by Anthony Hope, wittily and gracefully told. . . . ‘John Basileon’ is a lurid story in which the senses run riot, and in one of the chapters, ‘The Glory of the God of Sex,’ we have a phrase suggestive of the outlook on life of practically all the characters engaged.”

WOMAN’S WEEKLY.—“ ‘My Lady Ruby,’ by Mr. G. F. Monkshood, whose work on Rudyard Kipling was so much appreciated, is a dainty little study of a pair of lovers; the other story, ‘John Basileon,’ shows the author has several styles, and while a less pleasant theme has a strength that one cannot but admire.”

LIVERPOOL REVIEW.—“ ‘My Lady Ruby’ is a little love story told in an extremely unconventional fashion. Between the same covers is a short lurid story of passion called ‘John Basileon,’ in which the moralities are discussed in a very free and easy, and not altogether commendable, style. Still Mr. Monkshood can write.”

MONITOR.—“ ‘My Lady Ruby’ is charming, and as witty as she is charming. . . . ‘John Basileon’ evinces imagination and subtlety of a highly vivid and intense quality. The note of the book is modern, but of a modernity far removed from that of the term understood by the French Symbolists and the English Degenerates. Messrs. Greening & Co. are to be congratulated on a publication which is likely to arouse considerable attention in those literary circles from which approbation is praise indeed.”

NORTH BRITISH DAILY MAIL.—“The titular story—one of two—displays a lightness of touch and a deftness of construction that make its perusal a source of keen mental stimulation, while the wit of its dialogue and the gentle and kindly humour that permeates the whole of it serve to increase and intensify the intellectual exhilaration, which every cultured man who reads it, must feel. . . . The second tale, ‘John Basileon,’ is of a different stamp. The language is strong, and its suggestion ever stronger, and it displays a real power over the emotional states, and an insight into the psychology of a man’s love, seldom arrived at by writers of Fiction.”

AT ALL BOOKSELLERS AND LIBRARIES.

GREENING & CO., Limited, 20 Cecil Court, Charing Cross Road,

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English Writers of To-Day:
Being a Series of Monographs on living Authors. Each volume is written by a competent authority, and each subject is treated in an appreciative, yet critical, manner. The following are the first volumes in the Series:—

Rudyard Kipling. The Man and His Work. Being an attempt at an “Appreciation.” By G. F. Monkshood, Author of “Woman and The Wits,” “My Lady Ruby,” etc. Containing a portrait of Mr Kipling and an autograph letter to the author in facsimile. Second Impression. Crown 8vo, buckram, gilt lettered, top edge gilt, 5s. nett.

Daily Telegraph.—“He writes fluently, and he has genuine enthusiasm for his subject, and an intimate acquaintance with his work. Moreover, the book has been submitted to Mr Kipling, whose characteristic letter to the author is set forth on the preface. . . . Of Kipling’s heroes Mr Monkshood has a thorough understanding, and his remarks on them are worth quoting” (extract follows).

Globe.—“It has at the basis of it both knowledge and enthusiasm—knowledge of the works estimated and enthusiasm for them. This book may be accepted as a generous exposition of Mr Kipling’s merits as a writer. We can well believe that it will have many interested and approving readers.”

Scotsman.—“This well-informed volume is plainly sincere. It is thoroughly well studied, and takes pains to answer all the questions that are usually put about Mr Kipling. The writer’s enthusiasm carries both himself and his reader along in the most agreeable style. One way and another his book is full of interest, and those who wish to talk about Kipling will find it invaluable, while the thousands of his admirers will read it through with delighted enthusiasm.”

VOLUMES OF E.W.O.T. (In preparation.)

Thomas Hardy. By W. L. Courtney.

George Meredith. By Walter Jerrold.

Bret Harte. By T. Edgar Pemberton.

Richard Le Gallienne. By C. Ranger Gull.

Arthur Wing Pinero. By Hamilton Fyffe.

W. E. Henley, and the “National Observer” Group. By George Gamble.

The Parnassian School in English Poetry. (Andrew Lang, Edmund Gosse and Robert Bridges.) By Sir George Douglas.

Algernon Charles Swinburne. By g. f. Monkshood.

Realistic Writers of To-day. By Justin Hannaford.

The Wheel of Life. A Few Memories and Recollections (de omnibus rebus). By Clement Scott, Author of “Madonna Mia,” “Poppyland,” etc. With Portrait of the Author from the celebrated Painting by J. Mordecai. Third Edition. Crown 8vo, crimson buckram, gilt lettered, gilt top, 2s.

Weekly Sun (T. P. O’Connor) says:—A Book of the Week—“I have found this slight and unpretentious little volume bright, interesting reading. I have read nearly every line with pleasure.”

Illustrated London News.—“The story Mr Scott has to tell is full of varied interest, and is presented with warmth and buoyancy.”

Punch.—“What pleasant memories does not Clement Scott’s little book, ‘The Wheel of Life,’ revive! The writer’s memory is good, his style easy, and above all, which is a great thing for reminiscences, chatty.”

Referee.—George R. Sims (Dagonet) says:—Deeply interesting are these last memories and recollections of the last days of Bohemia. . . . I picked up ‘The Wheel of Life’ at one in the morning, after a hard night’s work, and flung myself, weary and worn, into an easy-chair, to glance at it while I smoked my last pipe. As I read, all my weariness departed, for I was young and light-hearted once again, and the friends of my young manhood had come trooping back from the shadows to make a merry night of it once more in London town. And when I put the book down, having read it from cover to cover, it was ‘past three o’clock and a windy morning.’ ”

A Trip to Paradoxia, and other Humours of the Hour. Being Contemporary Pictures of Social Fact and Political Fiction. By T. H. S. Escott, Author of “Personal Forces of the Period,” “Social Transformation of the Victorian Age,” “Platform, Press, Politics, and Play,” Etc. Crown 8vo, art cloth. Gilt, 5s. nett.

Standard.—“A book which is amusing from cover to cover. Bright epigrams abound in Mr Escott’s satirical pictures of the modern world. . . . Those who know the inner aspects of politics and society will, undoubtedly, be the first to recognise the skill and adroitness with which he strikes at the weak places in a world of intrigue and fashion. . . . There is a great deal of very clever sword-play in Mr Escott’s description of Dum-Dum (London), the capital of Paradoxia (England).”

Court Circular.—“It is brilliantly written, and will afford keen enjoyment to the discriminating taste. Its satire is keen-edged, but good-humoured enough to hurt no one; and its wit and (may me say?) its impudence should cause a run on it at the libraries.”

M. A. P.—“A sparkling piece of political and social satire. Mr Escott besprinkles his pages with biting epigram and humorous innuendo. It is a most amusing book.”

Athenæum.—“He constantly suggests real episodes and real persons. There are a good many rather pretty epigrams scattered through Mr Escott’s pages.”

Scotsman.—“A bright, witty, and amusing volume, which will entertain everybody who takes it up.”

Newcastle Leader.—“Messrs Greening are fortunate in being the publishers of a volume so humorous, so dexterous, written with such knowledge of men and affairs, and with such solidity and power of style as Mr T. H. S. Escott’s ‘A Trip to Paradoxia.’ ”

Public Opinion.—“Mr T. H. S. Escott throws abundant humour blended with pungent sarcasm into his work, making his pictures very agreeable reading to all but the victim he has selected, and whose weaknesses he so skilfully lays bare. But the very clever manner in which the writer hits the foibles and follies of his fellows must create admiration and respect even from those who view his satire with a wintry smile. We like his writing, his power of discernment, and his high literary style.”

People, Plays, and Places. Being the Second Series of “The Wheel of Life,” Memories and Recollections of “People” I have met, “Plays” I have seen, and “Places” I have visited. By Clement Scott, Author of “The Stage of Yesterday and The Stage of To-day,” “Pictures of the World,” “Thirty Years at the Play.” Crown 8vo, cloth gilt. (In preparation.) 5s.

“Sisters by the Sea.” Seaside and Country Sketches. By Clement Scott, Author of “Blossom Land,” “Amongst the Apple Orchards,” Etc. Frontispiece and Vignette designed by George Pownall. Long 12mo, attractively bound in cloth, 1s.

Observer.—“The little book is bright and readable, and will come like a breath of country air to many unfortunates who are tied by the leg to chair, stool, or counter.”

Sheffield Telegraph.—“Bright, breezy, and altogether readable. . . . East Anglia, Nelson’s Land, etc., etc., are all dealt with, and touched lightly and daintily, as becomes a booklet meant to be slipped in the pocket and read easily to the pleasing accompaniment of the waves lazily lapping on the shingle by the shore.”

Dundee Advertiser.—“It is all delightful, and almost as good as a holiday. The city clerk, the jaded shopman, the weary milliner, the pessimistic dyspeptic, should each read the book. It will bring a suggestion of sea breezes, the plash of waves, and all the accessories of a holiday by the sea.”

Some Famous Hamlets. (Sarah Bernhardt, Henry Irving, Beerbohm Tree, Wilson Barrett and Forbes Robertson.) By Clement Scott. Illustrated with portraits. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.

Some Bible Stories Retold. By “A Churchman.” Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.

Bye-Ways of Crime. With some Stories from the Black Museum. By R. J. Power-Berrey. Profusely Illustrated. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.

Outlook.—“Decidedly you should read Mr Power-Berrey’s interesting book, taking laugh and shudder as they come.”

Sheffield Independent.—“We do not remember to have ever seen a more popularly-written summary of the methods of thieves than this bright and chatty volume. It is the work of a writer who evidently has a most intimate knowledge of the criminal classes, and who can carry on a plain narrative briskly and forcibly. The book fascinates by its freshness and unusualness.”

Literature.—“It contains many interesting stories and new observations on the modus operandi of swindlers.”

Scotsman.—“A most interesting account of the dodges adopted by various criminals in effecting their purposes. The reader will find much that is instructive within its pages.”

Liverpool Review.—“This is no fanciful production, but a clear, dispassionate revelation of the dodges of the professional criminal. Illustrated by numerous pen and ink sketches, Mr Power-Berrey’s excellent work is useful as well as interesting, for it will certainly not assist the common pilferer to have all his little tricks made public property in this lucid and easily rememberable style.”

The Art of Elocution and Public Speaking. By Ross Ferguson. With an Introduction by Geo. Alexander. Dedicated by permission to Miss Ellen Terry. Second Edition. Crown 8vo, strongly bound in cloth, 1s.

Australian Mail.—“A useful little book. We can strongly recommend it to the chairmen of public companies.”

Stage.—“A carefully composed treatise, obviously written by one as having authority. Students will find it of great service.”

People’s Friend.—“Contains many valuable hints, and deals with every branch of the elocutionist’s art in a lucid and intelligible manner.”

Literary World.—“The essentials of elocution are dealt with in a thoroughly capable and practical way. The chapter on public speaking is particularly satisfactory.”

Madame.—“The work is pleasingly thorough. The instructions are most interesting, and are lucidly expressed, physiological details are carefully, yet not redundantly, dwelt on, so that the intending student may have some very real and definite idea of what he is learning about, and many valuable hints may be gleaned from the chapters on ‘Articulation and Modulation.’ Not only for actors and orators will this little book be found of great service, but everyone may find pleasure and profit in reading it.”

The Path of the Soul. Being Essays on Continental Art and Literature. By S. C. de Soissons, Author of “A Parisian in America,” etc. Illustrated with portraits, etc. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 10s. 6d.

A History of Nursery Rhymes. By Percy B. Green. This interesting Book is the result of many years research among nursery folklore of all nations, and traces the origin of nursery-rhymes from the earliest times. Crown 8vo, cloth, 4s.

The Year Book of the Stage. Being an annual record of criticisms of all the important productions of the English Stage, with copious Index and complete Casts of each Play recorded. A useful compilation for students of the Drama. About 260 pages, strongly bound in cloth, 3s. 6d.

In Quaint East Anglia. Descriptive Sketches. By T. West Carnie. Illustrated by W. S. Rogers. Long 12mo, cloth, 1s.

Observer.—“That East Anglia exercises a very potent spell over those who once come under its influence is proved by the case of George Borrow, and all who share in the fascination will delight in this brightly written, companionable little volume.”

Birmingham Argus.—“Interesting matter entertainingly told.”

Glasgow Herald.—“Mr Carnie’s book is thoroughly charming.”

Literature.—“An æsthetic volume as pleasant to read as to look at.”

Guardian.—“Just the kind of book that would help a tourist in Norfolk and Suffolk to see what ought to be seen with the proper measure of enjoyment.”

Graphic.—“It is a prettily got up and readable little book.”

Saturday Review.—“Will be welcomed by all who have come under the charm of East Anglia.”

A Man Adrift. Being Leaves from a Nomad’s Portfolio. By Bart Kennedy, Author of “Darab’s Wine-Cup,” “The Wandering Romanoff,” etc. This very entertaining book is a narrative of adventures in all parts of the world. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.

Woman and the Wits. Epigrams on Woman, Love, and Beauty. Collected and edited by G. F. Monkshood, Author of “Rudyard Kipling: The Man and His Work,” “Lady Ruby,” etc. Small 8vo, cloth gilt extra, gilt edges, 3s. 6d. nett. Paper boards, rough edges, 2s. 6d. nett.

Weeds and Flowers. Poems by William Luther Longstaff, Author of “Passion and Reflection.” Crown 8vo, art cloth, gilt extra, gilt top, 2s. 6d. nett.

Sun.—“Mr Longstaff has real fire and passion in all of his work. He has a graceful touch and a tuneful ear. There is exquisite melody in his metre.”

Echo.—“The poetry of passion is no rarity to-day, yet scarcely since the date of Philip Bourke Marston’s ‘Song Tide’ has such an arresting and whole-hearted example of this class of poetry been issued by any English author as the volume which Mr William Luther Longstaff entitles ‘Weeds and Flowers.’ Passion, tumultuous and unabashed, sensuous rapture openly flaunting its shame, love in maddest surrender risking all, daring all, these are the dominant motives of Mr Longstaff’s muse. So wild is the rush of his emotion—all storm and fire and blood—to such white heat does he forge his burning phrases, so subtly varied are the constantly recurring expressions of love’s ecstasy, its despair, its bereavement, its appetite, its scorn, so happy sometimes are the unexpected metrical changes and experiments herein adopted, that the younger poet might suggest discreet comparisons with the earlier Swinburne.”

Morning Herald.—“The book contains real poetry. There is always thought and force in the work. ‘At the Gate’ is not merely Swinburnian in metre; in all things it might well have come from that poet’s pen.”

Greening’s Masterpiece Library

Vathek. An Eastern Romance. By Geo. Beckford. Edited with an Introduction by Justin Hannaford. Full-page illustrations by W. S. Rogers. Crown 8vo, art cloth, gilt, 3s 6d. A superb edition of this most interesting and fascinating story.

Asmodeus; or, The Devil on Two Sticks. An Illustrated Edition of the Celebrated Novel by Le Sage, Author of “Gil Blas.” Edited by Justin Hannaford. Crown 8vo, 5s.

Ringan Githaize. A Tale of the Covenanters. By John Galt. Edited with an Introduction by Sir George Douglas. Crown 8vo, 5s.

Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia. A Tale of Adventure. By Dr Johnson. Edited with an Introduction by Justin Hannaford. Full-page illustrations by W. S. Rogers. Crown 8vo, 5s.

The Epicurean. A Tale of Mystery and Adventure. By Thomas Moore. Edited with an Introduction by Justin Hannaford. Illustrated. 8vo, art cloth, 3s. 6d.