Earle Wayne's nobility

Sumner Dalton lingered only a little more than a week after Earle’s arrival.

But with his mind relieved of the burden of revenge so long cherished, and of the secret which had threatened to ruin Editha’s life—with his hate confessed, and his evil passions burned out—he grew quieter and more at ease, even though he knew that he must enter the dark valley very soon.

He had talked with Earle once again regarding the past, seeming anxious to know something of Marion’s last days, and appeared much agitated when, with as little reflection upon him as possible, he gave a short account of her sorrowful, secluded life, and her calm resignation in the hour of death.

Earle knew that he longed to be assured of his forgiveness for the bitter wrongs of which he had been guilty, and yet deemed it a mockery to crave it; but he knew that it would comfort him inexpressibly, and he told him one day that he accorded it fully and freely, and begged him to seek pardon also from a higher source.

Whether he did or not they never knew, for he avoided referring to anything that bore upon the past from that time; but he grew comparatively peaceful, and they hoped that he had obtained mercy from the divine Healer of souls.

He seemed more content when Earle was in his room, and lay and watched him by the hour, a wistful look in his sunken eyes, as if all too late he realized what a crown to his life such a son would have been.

Together Earle and Editha watched beside him, until the flame of life burned down to its socket and then went out, and with it every spark of feeling (save that of regret for a life that seemed to have been so spent in vain) expired from their hearts also.

They laid him beside his wife, and placed above him a costly marble shaft, simply inscribed with his name, age, and the date of his death. What more could they do?

Unloving and unloved he had lived, unlamented he had died, without one grand or noble act to crown his life or to be remembered when he was gone.

What a record! and sad enough for tears “such as angels weep.”

Editha and her mother went together to Richard Forrester’s grave—Editha with a strange, sad yearning for the father she had never known as such while he lived, and madam with a heart filled with deep regret for the past, and for the noble life she had so saddened by one rash act.

But each felt, as they turned away from the sacred spot, that could he have spoken, he would have blessed them both, and rejoiced with them in their new-found joy and reunion.

Three weeks later there was a quiet wedding one morning in the fine old church where Editha had been wont to attend since her earliest remembrance.

Notwithstanding that Editha had desired everything done with as little ostentation as possible, on account of their recent bereavement, yet the church had been elegantly decorated by her numerous friends, many of whom were present, with no small degree of curiosity, to witness the ceremony that made her the Marchioness of Wycliffe.

The wedding breakfast was a very informal affair, to which only her most intimate friends had been bidden.

Of course Mr. Felton, the trusty lawyer, was among these, and with him a quiet, matronly woman, whom he had found thus late in life to share the remainder of his journey; and into his hands Editha’s beautiful home was to pass upon her departure for England.

John Loker’s wife and daughter, both neatly and tastefully clad, were also among the favored guests; and, looking into their cheerful countenances, one would scarce have recognized the wretched beings whom Editha had visited on that memorable night two years previous.

The fair bride’s wedding robes were of heavy white crape, with satin facings, while the mist-like vail which floated from her golden hair was fastened with fragrant lilies of the valley and delicate, feathery cypress vine.

“So appropriate under the circumstances,” murmured the admiring friends who had gathered to do honor to the occasion; and indeed the fair-haired, blue-eyed girl had never looked more lovely than when she stood at the altar in her pure white raiment, and plighted her vows to the one to whom she had been so true through the dark hours of adversity as well as in prosperity.

She had loved him while yet a poor boy serving in her father’s office; she had loved and bravely defended him when he stood before the judge and was unjustly condemned, and during the three weary years that followed; and the depth of that love she testified when she almost sacrificed her life to preserve his character from dishonor. Not less did she love him now, as he stood by her side, grand noble, and honored by all, as the Marquis of Wycliffe and Viscount Wayne, and possessor of a proud inheritance—an old and honored name.

But she would have loved him just as fondly, she would have wedded him just as proudly, had he been simple Earle Wayne, without a dollar in his pocket or a foot of land, save what his own strong right arm had won for himself.

It was the noble spirit, the stainless character, the firm, unwavering rectitude and honor that had won her heart’s devotion; and yet his position and wealth were not valueless in her sight; they were accessories by which they would be enabled to make more perfect and useful the life which God had given them.

“If I live I mean to make my life foursquare,” he had said, with quiet determination, when he had come to her from his weary prison life; and she had never forgotten the resolute words—they had rung in her ears ever since like a watch-word. And to-day, as she stood at his side and spoke those solemn vows, she thought of them again, and she prayed that together they might live a life so perfect and complete that it should be like that “golden city whose length, and breath, and height were equal.”

“So exceedingly romantic. Who would have thought it?” was the comment of not a few who had been rehearsing the incidents of the past six or seven years, but were interrupted as the distinguished bridal party passed up the broad aisle to the altar.

Gustave Sylvester was to give away the bride, while Madam Forrester, very handsome, in mauve-colored moire, Spanish lace, and diamonds, came in on the arm of Paul Tressalia, who was by no means the least distinguished-looking one of the party, though his face might have been thought much too pale and stern for a wedding.

Earle met them at the altar, very quiet and self-possessed, but with a luminous light in his eyes that told of the depth of the joy in his heart.

After the wedding breakfast this party of five bade a long farewell to their guests and friends, and departed for the steamer that was to bear them to their beautiful home on England’s shores.

Three years have passed, and we will take just one peep at the domestic life at Wycliffe before we, too, part with them for all time.

The great mansion, the pride of all the country around, with its wide wings on either side, stands on a slight eminence, and is grand and imposing in appearance.

It was built in the Tudor style of architecture, with massive carvings and ornamentations, and was a home of which any man, however great, might have been proud.

An extensive lawn spread out in front, and was decorated here and there with patches and borders of landscape gardening, beautiful shrubbery, fountains, and statuary, while beyond and to the right of this was the park, with its noble trees, its deer and game.

Magnificent beeches, elms, and maples spread their lofty, protecting arms above and around the mansion, lending a delightful shade, and making a pleasing contrast with the brown-stone of the dwelling.

Beneath one of these trees there might have been seen, on a certain summer’s day, an exceedingly attractive group, and, to all appearances, a very happy one also.

Upon a graceful rustic seat there are sitting two beautiful women.

Editha, fair and lovely as of old, no cloud to dim the blue of her sunny eyes, no care or trouble having left a line on her white brow. She is a trifle more matronly in her appearance, has a bit more of dignity, perhaps, but is otherwise unchanged. Her companion is a lady of perhaps thirty-two or three years, whose face impresses one at once with its expression of sweetness and gentleness. It is a face that we have seen before, and that once seen could never be forgotten.

The lady is none other than the one we have known as Miss Isabelle Grafton, the daughter of Bishop Grafton, that good old man who married Earle’s mother.

Standing behind her, his eyes resting with peculiar fondness upon her face, is a noble-appearing man. It is Paul Tressalia, her husband of a few months.

Madam’s prophecy had come true, and he had at last found the “woman whom he should marry,” and they are as quietly, calmly happy as they could ever hope to be in this world, neither feeling, perhaps, the fervor of a first passion, but loving earnestly and with an enduring affection that would grow riper with every year.

It was this gentle woman’s face that had come, unbidden, to Paul Tressalia’s mind on that day when madam had told him that he would yet find one good and true who would fill the wants of his nature better than Editha could ever do.

A year after his return to England they had met again; each had attracted the other, and out of it had grown the union, which bade fair to be a most happy one.

At Editha’s feet there is playing a dark-eyed, noble-looking boy of two years—little Paul, the future Marquis of Wycliffe; while an old lady, of perhaps sixty, sits at a respectful distance and watches with her heart in her eyes his every movement, lest he should annoy “my lady” with his play and his constant prattle. This latter is Tom Drake’s mother. A short distance away there paces back and forth under the trees a white-aproned, white-capped nurse, with a fair-haired, blue-eyed little girl in her arms—the “small Lady Isabelle” she is called, being as yet only three months old, and of very tiny though perfect proportions.

The only remaining one of this group—Madam Forrester—reclines in a chair a little in the background. She is as handsome and attractive as ever, with a tranquil joy in her face that bespeaks very little to wish for even in this world. Her white shapely hands are busied with some dainty piece of work destined to grace the “small ladyship,” who is her particular pride and comfort, while every now and then she joins in the conversation carried on chiefly by Editha and Paul Tressalia and his wife.

Down the broad drive-way at some distance, and approaching slowly, are two men.

One glance is sufficient to tell us which is Earle—there is no mistaking his grand proportions, his upright form, with its noble head setting square and firm and with manly dignity upon his broad shoulders.

He is evidently giving some directions to his companion, for they stop every now and then while Earle points here and there, and then resumes his way.

As they draw nearer the group under the beech, it is noticeable that his companion is slightly lame, and as they reach the spot he lifts his hat respectfully to Editha, smiles fondly into the eyes of the old lady who is watching Earle’s boy, and then passes on.

It is none other than Tom Drake, once the midnight robber and abductor.

Before Earle’s return he was able to be about once more, and had made himself acquainted with much pertaining to the estate.

He had worked diligently and with great interest over the accounts Earle had left him, and unheeding the admonitions of his mother, who had arrived a few days after his departure, he refused to leave them until every figure was straightened.

He had taken it upon himself to superintend the decorations of the mansion and grounds, when Earle had telegraphed on what day he should arrive at Wycliffe with his bride, and a scene of almost bewildering beauty greeted their home-coming.

It was made a day of general rejoicing, the tenantry, servants, and laborers all turning out in gala attire to give them a glorious reception and welcome to Wycliffe.

But Tom Drake had remained in the background while all others went forward to tender their good wishes and congratulations, and it was not until Earle asked particularly for him that he ventured to present himself before those two, whose lives he had done so much to render miserable. Then he came modestly forward, bearing a magnificent bouquet and wreath in his hand.

The former composed entirely of box, white bell-flowers, and blue violets, and embodying the sentiments, constancy, gratitude, and faithfulness, he placed in Earle’s hand, wishing him “long life and happiness.” The wreath, a marvel of delicate beauty, was made of the finest leaves of yew tree and graceful clusters of pure white wisteria, the leaves signifying sorrow for the past, the flowers “Welcome, fair stranger.”

This Tom Drake laid at the feet of Editha, with a few murmured words of greeting, made a low obeisance, and then went away.

Both Earle and his wife were surprised at this manifestation of feeling, and the delicate manner in which it was expressed; and they prized these simple offerings as highly as any of the rich gifts that they had received from their numerous wealthy friends, on account of the emotions which had prompted them and which they had been quick to read and appreciate.

Earle was so pleased with his work upon the tangled accounts, and the interest he manifested in things generally, that he allowed him in the future to assist the steward, who was quite old, and, upon the death of that individual, which occurred about two years after their return, Tom was so well versed in all his duties, and had proved himself so faithful and trustworthy, that he elected him as his successor. He had lost very much of the ruffian-like appearance that had made him so repulsive to Editha, and was now very quiet and unostentatious in his manner.

The unsightly scar, of course, still remained upon his face, but his expression told of a firm resolve to conquer himself and become the man that Earle desired.

He was lame in the limb that had been wounded, and probably always would be, but Earle never looks at him without a thrill of thankfulness that he was impressed to pursue the course that he has with him, and believes him to be a lasting monument to the power of kindness.

Tom and his mother live in a pretty cottage, covered with climbing woodbine and clematis, and situated only a short distance from the mansion.

Both mother and son idolize my lady, who is kind and gracious to them, and old Mrs. Drake is often seen, as to-day, caring for Earle’s noble boy, “the like of which,” she fondly declares, “was never born before.”

Editha arose as Earle approached, the smile upon her lips and the tender light in her eyes bespeaking the glad welcome in her heart.

“You are late, dear,” she said, slipping her white hand within his arm.

“A little; but you have plenty of pleasant company,” Earle replied, with a smile, as his eyes wandered over the group.

The look that the fair wife flashed up at him from her lovely eyes plainly told him that no company, however pleasant, was quite like his—no group complete to her without him.

Earle stooped and picked up his boy, which had toddled to his side, and gave him a toss on high that made the little fellow clap his hands with delight, and the air rang with his happy, childish laughter.

“Earle, I have been trying to explain to Isabelle your theory of the golden city,” said Editha, when Master Paul had become quiet once more; “but I’ve only made a bungle of it, and you will have to interpret yourself.”

“I presume Mrs. Tressalia would not agree with me in my ideas regarding the revelation,” Earle said, with a smile, as he turned to that lady. “There is so much that seems visionary and mystical in it, that none of us can fully understand or explain it, but whatever lessons we may draw from it can do us no harm. As for the ‘city which lieth foursquare, whose length, breadth, and height are equal,’ it seems to me more like the symbol of a perfected life than like the description of a literal city.”

“I had never thought of it in that light before,” Mrs. Tressalia said, thoughtfully.

“If we make the height and breath of our life equal with its length, it cannot fail to be perfect and of faultless symmetry, can it?” asked the young marquis.

“What constitutes the height and breadth of a life as you express it?” Mrs. Tressalia queried.

“The height,” Earle replied, his eyes resting earnestly on the far-off purple and crimson clouds of the western sky, as if beyond them he could almost distinguish that golden symbol of which he was speaking—“the height is attained only by a continued reaching upward of the finite for the infinite; the breadth, by the constant practice of that divine charity or love and self-denial as taught by the Man of Sorrows while He dwelt on earth—at least, this is my idea of it. This aspiration after holiness, this daily practice of the divine commands, if followed as long as one lives, cannot fail to make his being one of faultless symmetry in the end, and fit to be measured by the ‘golden reed of the angel.’”

“Yours is a beautiful theory,” Mrs. Tressalia said, a mist gathering in her soft eyes; “and yet, after all, I do not feel that I can quite agree with you. I have always believed that chapter of revelation describes the heavenly city in which we are to dwell when we leave this earth. It is a more tangible idea to me, and I think I like it better than your theory on that account.”

“You believe in the literal city, pure and holy; I in a state or existence of a like nature. Whichever is the correct belief, it cannot fail of attaining one and the same result—eternal happiness,” Earle said, with his rare smile.

“That is true; but if you do not believe in the literal city, what do you make the foundations, ‘garnished with precious stones,’ to mean?”

Mrs. Tressalia was deeply interested in his ideas, even if she did not fully agree with them.

“I fear if I should try to explain all my theory regarding it, it would involve us in an endless discussion,” Earle said. “The garnishing of precious stones may mean the cultivation of those many virtues spoken of by the apostle Paul—such as love, peace, long suffering, gentleness, etc. Surely those are precious jewels that every one would like to possess.”

“Sonny boy, if you square your life by your father’s rule, you’ll not lack for symmetry in the sight of God when you come into the ‘golden city,’” muttered Tom Drake’s mother, with fast-dropping tears, as she bent fondly over little Paul, whom she had taken from his father’s arms. Earle smiled good-naturedly as he caught the low-spoken words, for he knew that in the grateful old creature’s eyes he lacked no good thing in all the catalogue of virtues.

“That is so,” said Paul Tressalia, who had also heard her; “and whether Earle’s theory is the correct one or not, it can never harm one to put it in practice, particularly if it attains to that nobility which has become so rooted and grounded in his character,” and the look of affectionate admiration which he bestowed upon his kinsman testified to the heartiness of his words.

We cannot follow them further, but we have learned enough to tell us something of the principles of goodness and purity which dwelt in that charming household, and which could not fail to ennoble and elevate all by whom they were surrounded.

Who, like Earle Wayne, would not like to make his life foursquare? Who, although he may never attain to the worldly greatness which fell to his life, would not seek to attain that better nobility of character, which, when measured by the “golden reed of the angel,” will be found of faultless symmetry, like the city whose “length, and breadth, and height are equal?”

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Abbe Constantin. By Ludovic Halevy.

Abbott. By Sir Walter Scott.

Adam Bede. By George Eliot.

Addison’s Essays. Edited by John Richard Green.

Aeneid of Virgil. Translated by John Connington.

Aesop’s Fables.

Alexander, the Great, Life of. By John Williams.

Alfred, the Great, Life of. By Thomas Hughes.

Alhambra. By Washington Irving.

Alice in Wonderland, and Through the Looking-Glass. By Lewis Carroll.

Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Blackmore.

All Sorts and Conditions of Men. By Walter Besant.

Alton Locke. By Charles Kingsley.

Amiel’s Journal. Translated by Mrs. Humphrey Ward.

Andersen’s Fairy Tales.

Anne of Geirstein. By Sir Walter Scott.

Antiquary. By Sir Walter Scott.

Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.

Ardath. By Marie Corelli.

Arnold, Benedict, Life of. By George Canning Hill.

Arnold’s Poems. By Matthew Arnold.

Around the World in the Yacht Sunbeam. By Mrs. Brassey.

Arundel Motto. By Mary Cecil Hay.

At the Back of the North Wind. By George Macdonald.

Attic Philosopher. By Emile Souvestre.

Auld Licht Idylls. By James M. Barrie.

Aunt Diana. By Rosa N. Carey.

Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin.

Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. By O. W. Holmes.

Averil. By Rosa N. Carey.

Bacon’s Essays. By Francis Bacon.

Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. By Rosa N. Carey.

Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens.

Barrack Room Ballads. By Rudyard Kipling.

Betrothed. By Sir Walter Scott.

Beulah. By Augusta J. Evans.

Black Beauty. By Anna Sewall.

Black Dwarf. By Sir Walter Scott.

Black Rock. By Ralph Connor.

Black Tulip. By Alexandre Dumas.

Bleak House. By Charles Dickens.

Blithedale Romance. By Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Bondman. By Hall Caine.

Book of Golden Deeds. By Charlotte M. Yonge.

Boone, Daniel, Life of. By Cecil B. Hartley.

Bride of Lammermoor. By Sir Walter Scott.

Bride of the Nile. By George Ebers.

Browning’s Poems. By Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Browning’s Poems. (SELECTIONS.) By Robert Browning.

Bryant’s Poems. (EARLY.) By William Cullen Bryant.

Burgomaster’s Wife. By George Ebers.

Burn’s Poems. By Robert Burns.

By Order of the King. By Victor Hugo.

Byron’s Poems. By Lord Byron.

Caesar, Julius, Life of. By James Anthony Froude.

Carson, Kit, Life of. By Charles Burdett.

Cary’s Poems. By Alice and Phoebe Cary.

Cast Up by the Sea. By Sir Samuel Baker.

Charlemagne (Charles the Great), Life of. By Thomas Hodgkin, D. C. L.

Charles Auchester. By E. Berger.

Character. By Samuel Smiles.

Charles O’Malley. By Charles Lever.

Chesterfield’s Letters. By Lord Chesterfield.

Chevalier de Maison Rouge. By Alexandre Dumas.

Chicot the Jester. By Alexandre Dumas.

Children of the Abbey. By Regina Maria Roche.

Child’s History of England. By Charles Dickens.

Christmas Stories. By Charles Dickens.

Cloister and the Hearth. By Charles Reade.

Coleridge’s Poems. By Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Columbus, Christopher, Life of. By Washington Irving.

Companions of Jehu. By Alexandre Dumas.

Complete Angler. By Walton and Cotton.

Conduct of Life. By Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Confessions of an Opium Eater. By Thomas de Quincey.

Conquest of Granada. By Washington Irving.

Conscript. By Erckmann-Chatrian.

Conspiracy of Pontiac. By Francis Parkman, Jr.

Conspirators. By Alexandre Dumas.

Consuelo. By George Sand.

Cook’s Voyages. By Captain James Cook.

Corinne. By Madame de Stael.

Countess de Charney. By Alexandre Dumas.

Countess Gisela. By E. Marlitt.

Countess of Rudolstadt. By George Sand.

Count Robert of Paris. By Sir Walter Scott.

Country Doctor. By Honore de Balzac.

Courtship of Miles Standish. By H. W. Longfellow.

Cousin Maude. By Mary J. Holmes.

Cranford. By Mrs. Gaskell.

Crockett, David, Life of. An Autobiography.

Cromwell, Oliver, Life of. By Edwin Paxton Hood.

Crown of Wild Olive. By John Ruskin’.

Crusades. By Geo. W. Cox, M. A.

Daniel Deronda. By George Eliot.

Darkness and Daylight. By Mary J. Holmes.

Data of Ethics. By Herbert Spencer.

Daughter of an Empress, The. By Louisa Muhlbach.

David Copperfield. By Charles Dickens.

Days of Bruce. By Grace Aguilar.

Deemster, The. By Hall Caine.

Deerslayer, The. By James Fenimore Cooper.

Descent of Man. By Charles Darwin.

Discourses of Epictetus. Translated by George Long.

Divine Comedy. (Dante.) Translated by Rev. H. F. Carey.

Dombey & Son. By Charles Dickens.

Donal Grant. By George Macdonald.

Donovan. By Edna Lyall.

Dora Deane. By Mary J. Holmes.

Dove in the Eagle’s Nest. By Charlotte M. Yonge.

Dream Life. By Ik Marvel.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. By R. L. Stevenson.

Duty. By Samuel Smiles.

Early Days of Christianity. By F. W. Farrar.

East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood.

Edith Lyle’s Secret. By Mary J. Holmes.

Education. By Herbert Spencer.

Egoist. By George Meredith.

Egyptian Princess. By George Ebers.

Eight Hundred Leagues on the Amazon. By Jules Verne.

Eliot’s Poems. By George Eliot.

Elizabeth and her German Garden.

Elizabeth (Queen of England), Life of. By Edward Spencer Beesly, M.A.

Elsie Venner. By Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Emerson’s Essays. (COMPLETE.) By Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Emerson’s Poems. By Ralph Waldo Emerson.

English Orphans. By Mary J. Holmes.

English Traits. By R. W. Emerson.

Essays in Criticism. (First and Second Series.) By Matthew Arnold.

Essays of Elia. By Charles Lamb.

Esther. By Rosa N. Carey.

Ethelyn’s Mistake. By Mary J. Holmes.

Evangeline. (WITH NOTES.) By H. W. Longfellow.

Evelina. By Frances Burney.

Fair Maid of Perth. By Sir Walter Scott.

Fairy Land of Science. By Arabella B. Buckley.

Faust. (Goethe.) Translated by Anna Swanwick.

Felix Holt. By George Eliot.

Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World. By E. S. Creasy.

File No. 113. By Emile Gaboriau.

Firm of Girdlestone. By A. Conan Doyle.

First Principles. By Herbert Spencer.

First Violin. By Jessie Fothergill.

For Lilias. By Rosa N. Carey.

Fortunes of Nigel. By Sir Walter Scott.

Forty-Five Guardsmen. By Alexandre Dumas.

Foul Play. By Charles Reade.

Fragments of Science. By John Tyndall.

Frederick, the Great, Life of. By Francis Kugler.

Frederick the Great and His Court. By Louisa Muhlbach.

French Revolution. By Thomas Carlyle.

From the Earth to the Moon. By Jules Verne.

Garibaldi, General, Life of. By Theodore Dwight.

Gil Blas, Adventures of. By A. R. Le Sage.

Gold Bug and Other Tales. By Edgar A. Poe.

Gold Elsie. By E. Marlitt.

Golden Treasury. By Francis T. Palgrave.

Goldsmith’s Poems. By Oliver Goldsmith.

Grandfather’s Chair. By Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Grant, Ulysses S., Life of. By J. T. Headley.

Gray’s Poems. By Thomas Gray.

Great Expectations. By Charles Dickens.

Greek Heroes. Fairy Tales for My Children. By Charles Kingsley.

Green Mountain Boys, The. By D. P. Thompson.

Grimm’s Household Tales. By the Brothers Grimm.

Grimm’s Popular Tales. By the Brothers Grimm.

Gulliver’s Travels. By Dean Swift.

Guy Mannering. By Sir Walter Scott.

Hale, Nathan, the Martyr Spy. By Charlotte Molyneux Holloway.

Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover.

Hans of Iceland. By Victor Hugo.

Hannibal, the Carthaginian, Life of. By Thomas Arnold, M. A.

Hardy Norseman, A. By Edna Lyall.

Harold. By Bulwer-Lytton.

Harry Lorrequer. By Charles Lever.

Heart of Midlothian. By Sir Walter Scott.

Heir of Redclyffe. By Charlette M. Yonge.

Hemans’ Poems. By Mrs. Felicia Hemans.

Henry Esmond. By Wm. M. Thackeray.

Henry, Patrick, Life of. By William Wirt.

Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alexander.

Hereward. By Charles Kingsley.

Heriot’s Choice. By Rosa N. Carey.

Heroes and Hero-Worship. By Thomas Carlyle.

Hiawatha. (WITH NOTES.) By H. W. Longfellow.

Hidden Hand, The. (COMPLETE.) By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth.

History of a Crime. By Victor Hugo.

History of Civilization in Europe. By M. Guizot.

Holmes’ Poems. (EARLY) By Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Holy Roman Empire. By James Bryce.

Homestead on the Hillside. By Mary J. Holmes.

Hood’s Poems. By Thomas Hood.

House of the Seven Gables. By Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Hunchback of Notre Dame. By Victor Hugo.

Hypatia. By Charles Kingsley.

Hyperion. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Iceland Fisherman. By Pierre Loti.

Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow. By Jerome K. Jerome.

Iliad. Pope’s Translation.

Inez. By Augusta J. Evans.

Ingelow’s Poems. By Jean Ingelow.

Initials. By the Baroness Tautphoeus.

Intellectual Life. By Philip G. Hamerton.

In the Counsellor’s House. By E. Marlitt.

In the Golden Days. By Edna Lyall.

In the Heart of the Storm. By Maxwell Gray.

In the Schillingscourt. By E. Marlitt.

Ishmael. (COMPLETE.) By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth.

It Is Never Too Late to Mend. By Charles Reade.

Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott.

Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Bronte.

Jefferson, Thomas, Life of. By Samuel M. Schmucker, LL.D.

Joan of Arc, Life of. By Jules Michelet.

John Halifax, Gentleman. By Miss Mulock.

Jones, John Paul, Life of. By James Otis.

Joseph Balsamo. By Alexandre Dumas.

Josephine, Empress of France, Life of. By Frederick A. Ober.

Keats’ Poems. By John Keats.

Kenilworth. By Sir Walter Scott.

Kidnapped. By R. L. Stevenson.

King Arthur and His Noble Knights. By Mary Macleod.

Knickerbocker’s History of New York. By Washington Irving.

Knight Errant. By Edna Lyall.

Koran. Translated by George Sale.

Lady of the Lake. (WITH NOTES.) By Sir Walter Scott.

Lady with the Rubies. By E. Marlitt.

Lafayette, Marquis de, Life of. By P. C. Headley.

Lalla Rookh. (WITH NOTES.) By Thomas Moore.

Lamplighter. By Maria S. Cummins.

Last Days of Pompeii. By Bulwer-Lytton.

Last of the Barons. By Bulwer-Lytton.

Last of the Mohicans. By James Fenimore Cooper.

Lay of the Last Minstrel. (WITH NOTES.) By Sir Walter Scott.

Lee, General Robert E., Life of. By G. Mercer Adam.

Lena Rivers. By Mary J. Holmes.

Life of Christ. By Frederick W. Farrar.

Life of Jesus. By Ernest Renan.

Light of Asia. By Sir Edwin Arnold.

Light That Failed. By Rudyard Kipling.

Lincoln, Abraham, Life of. By Henry Ketcham.

Lincoln’s Speeches. Selected and Edited by G. Mercer Adam.

Literature and Dogma. By Matthew Arnold.

Little Dorrit. By Charles Dickens.

Little Minister. By James M. Barrie.

Livingstone, David, Life of. By Thomas Hughes.

Longfellow’s Poems. (Early.) By Henry W. Longfellow.

Lorna Doone. By R. D. Blackmore.

Louise de la Valliere. By Alexandre Dumas.

Love Me Little, Love Me Long. By Charles Reade.