Timar's Two Worlds

"I kiss your hand, kind sir."

"Is it you, fraülein? A thousand pardons! I did not recognize you in the darkness."

"No consequence, Herr Major."

"Pardon my blindness, and give me back the insulting present, I beg."

Athalie drew back with a mocking bow, hiding the hand which held the thaler behind her. "I will give it you back to-morrow—leave it with me till then; I have fairly earned it."

Herr Katschuka swore at his stupidity. The inexplicable load he felt on his spirits seemed to have redoubled in weight. When he reached the street, he felt it impossible to go home, but went toward the main guard and said to the officer on duty, "My friend, I invite you to my wedding to-morrow; be so good as to let me share your watch to-night—let us go the rounds together."

In the servants' hall there was great fun. As the major had rung for the porter when he left, the mistress was known to be alone, and her maid went up to ask for orders. Timéa thought she was the one who had shown the major out, and told her to go to bed—she would undress herself; so the maid went back to the others.

"If only we had a drop of punch now," said the porter, thrusting the door-key into his pocket.

As if by magic, the door opened, and in came Fraülein Athalie, bearing a tray of steaming glasses, which clinked cheerfully together. "Long live our dear young lady!" cried every one. Athalie set the tray on the table with a smile. Among the glasses stood a basin full of sugar well rubbed over with orange rind, which made it yellow and aromatic. Frau Sophie liked her tea made in that way, with plenty of rum and orange-sugar. "Are you not going to join us?" she asked her daughter.

"Thanks; I had my tea with our gracious lady. My head aches, and I shall go to bed." She wished her mother good-night, and told the servants to go to bed in good time, as they must get up early next day. They fell eagerly on the punch, and found it perfectly delicious. Only Frau Sophie did not like it. When she had tasted the first spoonful, she turned up her nose. "This tastes just like the poppy-syrup that bad nurses give the wakeful babies at night." It was so unpleasant to her that she could not take any more, but gave it to the cook's boy, who had never tasted anything so good before. She said she was tired with her day's work, and conjured the household not to oversleep themselves, and to take care no cat got into the larder; then she said good-night, and followed Athalie.

When she entered their bedroom, Athalie was already in bed. The curtains were drawn; she knew Athalie's way of turning her back to the room and putting her head under the clothes. She hastened to get into bed.

But she could not get rid of the taste of that single spoonful of punch, which spoiled her enjoyment of the whole supper. After she had put out the light, she leaned on her elbow and looked toward the figure in the other bed. She looked, till at last her eyes closed and she fell asleep. Her dreams carried her back to the servants' hall. She seemed to see them all asleep there—the coachman stretched on the long bench, the footman with his head on the table, the groom on the ground, using an overturned chair as a pillow, the cook on the settle, the house-maid on the hearth, and the cook's boy under the table. Before each his empty glass; she alone had not drunk hers. She dreamed that Athalie, with bare feet and in her night-dress, crept up behind her and said in her ear, "Why don't you drink your punch, dear mamma? Do you want more sugar?" and filled the glass with sugar up to the brim. But she noticed the repulsive smell. "I don't want it!" she said in her dream. However, Athalie held the steaming glass to her mouth. She turned away, and pushed the glass from her, and with that movement she upset the bottle of water which stood on the table beside her, and all the water poured into the bed. That thoroughly awoke her.

And still she seemed to see Athalie before her with threatening looks. "Are you awake, Athalie?" she asked, uneasily; no answer. She listened; the sleeper could not be heard to breathe. Sophie got up and went to Athalie's bed; it was empty. She could not trust her eyes in the dim twilight, and felt with her hands: no one there. "Athalie, where are you?" she murmured, anxiously. Receiving no answer, a nameless horror numbed her limbs. She felt blind and dumb; she could not even scream. She listened, and then fancied she was deaf: neither inside nor out was there the faintest sound. Where could Athalie be?

Athalie was in the secret room—she had been there a long time.

The patience of that woman, to be so long learning the prayer by heart! At last Timéa shut the book and sighed deeply. Then she took the candle and looked to see that all the doors were locked. She looked behind the curtains; her bridegroom's words had implanted fear in her breast, and she looked round carefully to see if any one could get in. Then she went to the dressing-table, took down her plaits, wound her thick hair round and round her head, and put a net over it. She was not free from vanity, this young creature: that her hands and arms might be white, she rubbed them with salve and put on long gloves. Then she undressed, but before she lay down she went behind the bed, opened a closet, and took out a sword-hilt with a broken blade; looking tenderly at it, she pressed it to her breast. Then she put it under her pillow; she always slept with it there. Athalie saw it all. Timéa extinguished the light, and Athalie saw no more; she only heard the clock tick, and had the patience to wait.

She guesses when sleep will close Timéa's eyes—that is the time. A quarter of an hour seems like an eternity; at last the clock strikes one. The picture of St. George with his dragon (which is by no means dead) moves aside, and Athalie comes out, barefoot, so that no sound is heard. It is quite dark in the room—the shutters are shut and curtains drawn; her groping hand finds Timéa's pillow; she feels underneath, and a cold object meets her hand. It is the sword-hilt. What hell-fire runs through her veins from the cold steel! she too presses it to her heart. She draws the edge of the blade through her lips and feels how sharp it is. But it is too dark to see the sleeper—one can not even hear her gentle breathing; the blow must be well aimed, and Athalie bends her head to listen.

The sleeper moves, and sighs aloud in her dream, "Oh, my God!" Then Athalie strikes in the direction of the sigh. But the blow was not mortal: Timéa had covered her head with her right arm, and the sword only hit that, though the sharp steel cut through the glove and wounded her hand. She started up and rose on her knees in the bed; then a second blow caught her head, but the thick hair blunted it, and the sword only cut the forehead down to the eyebrow.

Now Timéa seized the blade with her left hand. "Murderer!" she screamed, sprung out of bed, and while the sharp edge cut the inside of her left hand, she caught the enemy with her wounded right hand by the hair. She felt it was a woman's, and now knew who was before her.

There are critical moments in which the mind traverses a chain of thought with lightning speed: this is Athalie; her mother is next door; they want to murder her out of revenge and jealousy; it would be vain to call for help, it is a struggle for life. Timéa screamed no more, but collected all her strength in order, with her wounded hand, to draw down her enemy's head and get the murderous weapon from her.

Timéa was strong, and a murderer never puts forth his full strength. They struggled silently in the darkness, the carpet deadening their footfalls. Suddenly a cry sounded from the next room. "Murder!" screamed the voice of Frau Sophie: at the sound Athalie's strength gave way.

Her victim's blood streamed over her face. In the next room was heard the sound of falling glass; through the broken window Frau Sophie's screeching voice was heard resounding down the quiet street, "Murder, murder!"

Athalie let go the sword in terror, and put up both hands to loosen Timéa's fingers from her hair: now she is the one attacked and she the one alarmed. When she got her hair free, she pushed Timéa away, flew to the opening of the hiding-place, and drew the picture gently over the entrance.

Timéa tottered forward a few steps with the sword in her hand, and then fell swooning on the carpet.

At Frau Sophie's cry, double-quick march was heard in the street—the patrol was coming—the major was the first to reach the house. Frau Sophie knew him and called out, "Quick, quick! they are killing Timéa!" The major tore at the bell, thundered at the door, but no one came; the soldiers tried to burst it in, but it was too strong and would not give way. "Wake the servants," shouted the major. Frau Sophie ran, with the courage born of great fear, through the dark rooms and passages, knocking up against doors and furniture, till she came to the servants' rooms. Her dream had come true. The whole household lay asleep: a burned-down candle flickered on the table, and threw uncanny shadows on the grotesque group.

"There are murderers in the house!" screamed Frau Sophie, in a voice quivering with terror; the only answer was a heavy snore. She shook some of the sleepers, called them by name, but they only sunk back without waking up. Blows could be heard on the house door. The porter too was asleep, but the key was in his pocket; Frau Sophie got it out with great difficulty, and ran through the dark passages, down the dark stairs, and along the dark hall to open the door, while the fearful thought went with her—how if she were to meet the murderer? and an even more frightful doubt pursued her—suppose she should recognize that murderer?

At last she got to the door, found the key-hole, and opened it. A bright light burst in—there was the military patrol and the town-watchmen with their lanterns. The captain of the guard had come, and the nearest army-surgeon, all only half dressed in the first clothes they could find, with a pistol or a naked sword in their hand.

Herr Katschuka rushed up the steps straight to the door which led to Timéa's room—it was locked on the inside: he put his shoulder against it and burst the lock.

Timéa lay before him on the ground, covered with blood, and unconscious. The major raised her and carried her to the bed. The surgeon examined the wounds, and said none of them was dangerous, the lady had only fainted. As soon as his anxiety for his beloved one was relieved, the thirst for vengeance awoke in the major—"Where is the murderer?" "Singular," said the officer; "all the doors were locked inside—how could any one get in, and how could he get out?" Nowhere was there a suspicious mark; even the instrument of murder, the broken sword, a treasure kept by Timéa herself, and generally put away in a velvet box, lay blood-stained on the ground. The official physician now arrived: "Let us examine the servants." They all lay sound asleep, and the doctor found that none of them was shamming: they were all drugged. Who could have done it?

Her mother gazed at him in silence and could not answer. She did not know. The captain opened the door of Athalie's room, and they all went in, Frau Sophie following half fainting; she knew the bed must be empty.

Athalie was in bed and asleep. Her white night-dress was buttoned up to her neck, her hair fastened into an embroidered cap, her lovely hands lay on the quilt. Face and hands were clean, and she slept.

Frau Sophie leaned stupefied against the wall when she saw Athalie. "She too has been drugged," said the doctor.

The army-surgeon came up and felt her pulse: it was calm. No muscle moved on her face, no quiver betrayed her consciousness.

She could deceive every one by her marvelous self-control; all but one—the man whose beloved she had tried to murder.

"Is she really asleep?" asked the major.

"Feel her hand," said the doctor; "it is quite cool and calm."

Athalie felt the major take hold of her hand. "But just look, doctor," said he; "if you look closely you will see under the nails of this beautiful hand—fresh blood!"

At these words Athalie's fingers suddenly clinched, and the major felt as if eagle's claws were running into his hand. She laughed aloud and threw off the bedclothes. Completely dressed, she sprung up, looked the astonished men proudly up and down, cast a triumphant glance at the major, and threw a contemptuous look at her mother.

The poor woman could not bear it, and sunk fainting to the ground.

CHAPTER XI.
THE LAST STAB.

In the archives of the Komorn Court, one of the most interesting trials is that of Athalie Brazovics. The woman's defense was masterly; she denied everything, knew how to disprove everything, and when they thought they had caught her, she managed to throw such mystery over it all, that her judges knew not where to have her. Why should she murder Timéa? She was herself engaged, and had good prospects, while Timéa was her benefactress, and had promised her a rich dowry.

Then, too, no traces of the murder could be found except in Timéa's room. Nowhere was a bloody rag or handkerchief to be found—not even the ashes of anything which could have been burned. Who had drugged the servants could not be ascertained. The household had supped together, and among the various sweets and foreign fruits there might have been something which stupefied them. Not a drop of the suspected punch was to be found; even the glasses which had held it were all washed out when the patrol entered.

Athalie maintained that she also had taken something that evening which tasted peculiar, and that she had fallen so fast asleep that she neither heard her mother's cry nor the noises afterward, and only awoke when the major touched her hand. The one person who had found her bed empty half an hour before was her own mother, who could not give evidence against her. Her strongest point was that Timéa had locked all the doors, and was found insensible. How could a murderer get in and get out again? And if there had been an attempt to murder, why should she be suspected more than the rest?

The major remained with Timéa till late at night; perhaps if he left, some one might creep into the room again. They did not even know whether the assassin was man or woman. The only one who knew, Timéa, did not betray it, but kept to her assertion that she could not remember anything about it; her alarm had been so great that everything had faded from her memory like a dream.

She could not accuse Athalie, and was not even confronted with her.

Timéa was still crippled by her wounds, which healed slowly; but the shock to her nerves was more serious than the bodily injury, and she trembled for Athalie. Since that dreadful night she was never left alone—a doctor and a nurse watched her by turns. By day the major hardly left her side, and the magistrate often visited her in order to cross-examine her; but as soon as Athalie was mentioned. Timéa was silent, and not another word could be extracted from her.

The doctor advised at last that she should hear some amusing reading aloud. Timéa had left her bed, and sat up to receive visitors.

Herr Katschuka proposed to open the birthday letters which had been put aside on that eventful day. That would be as good as anything—the naïve congratulations of the god-children to the miraculously saved lady, which no one had yet read. Timéa's hands were still bandaged. Herr Katschuka opened the letters and read them aloud. The magistrate, too, was present. The patient's face brightened during the reading, which seemed to do her good.

"What a curious seal this is," said the major, as he took up a letter which had a golden beetle stuck on the wax.

"Very odd," said Timéa; "I noticed it too."

The major opened it. After he had read the first line—"Gracious lady, there is in your room a picture of St. George"—the words stuck in his throat, his eyes rolled wildly, and while he read on, his lips turned blue, and cold sweat stood on his brow: suddenly he threw the letter from him, and rushed like a madman to the picture, burst it in with his fist, and tore it and its heavy frame from the wall. There behind it yawned the dark depths of the secret chamber.

The major dashed into the darkness, and returned in a moment with the evidence of the murder—Athalie's bloody night-dress—in his hand. Timéa hid her face in horror. The magistrate picked up the letter, put it in his pocket, and took possession of the proofs.

Other things were found in this hiding-place: the box of poisons, and Athalie's diary, with the frightful confessions which threw light on her soul's dark abysses, as the phosphoric mollusks do in the coral forests of the sea. What monsters dwell there! Timéa forgets her wounds; with clasped hands she implores the gentlemen, the doctor, the magistrate, and her betrothed too, to tell no one, and keep the whole thing secret. But that would be impossible; the proofs are in the hands of justice, and there is no longer hope for Athalie except in God's mercy. And Timéa can no longer disregard the legal summons: as soon as she can leave her room, she must appear in court and be confronted with Athalie. This was a cruel task. Even now she would only say that she remembered nothing about the murderous attack.

The marriage with the major had to be hurried on, for Timéa was to appear in court as Katschuka's wife. As soon as her health allowed, the wedding took place quite privately, without any festivity, without guests or banquet. Only the clergyman and the witnesses, the magistrate and the doctor, were present. No other visitors were admitted.

Human justice would not spare her the painful scene: once again she had to be brought face to face with her murderess. Athalie had no dread of this meeting, but awaited with impatience the moment when her victim would appear. If with no other weapon, she wished by her eyes to inflict one more stab on Timéa's heart. But she started when the official said—"Call Emerich Katschuka's wife!"

Katschuka's wife! Already married to him! But in spite of that she showed unconcealed satisfaction when Timéa entered, and Athalie saw the face paler than ever, the red line over the marble forehead, the scar from the murderous blow; this memento was from her. Her lovely bosom swelled with joy when Timéa was required to swear in the name of the living God that she would answer truly, and all she said was true, and when Timéa drew off her glove and raised her hand, so that the disfiguring scar of a frightful sword-cut was visible. That, too, was a wedding-present from Athalie. And Timéa swore with that maimed and trembling hand that she had forgotten everything, and could not even remember whether the murderer with whom she had struggled was a man or a woman.

"Fool!" muttered Athalie between her teeth. (Did they not struggle hand to hand?) "What I dared to do, you dare not even accuse me of."

"We are not asking that," said the president. "We only ask you, Did this letter, in a child's writing, and sealed with a beetle, really come to you by post, and on the very day of the attack? Was it then sealed, and did no one know its contents?"

Timéa answered all these questions calmly with Yes or No.

Then the president turned to Athalie—"Now listen, Athalie Brazovics, to the contents of this letter:—

And then the president raised a cloth from the table. Under it lay the accusers of Athalie—the bloody night-dress, the box of poisons, and the diary.

Athalie uttered a scream like a mortally wounded animal, and covered her face with both hands, and when she took them away, that face was no longer pale, but fiery red. She had a narrow black ribbon round her neck; she tore it off now with her two hands, and threw it away, as if to bare the lovely neck for the headsman, or perhaps rather to utter more easily what now burst from her.

"Yes, it is true I tried to kill you, and I am only sorry I did not succeed. You have been the curse of my life, you pale-faced ghost! Through you I have incurred eternal damnation. I tried to kill you—I owed it to myself. See now, there was enough poison to send a whole wedding company into eternity; but I longed for your blood. You are not dead, but my thirst is quenched, and I can die now. But before the executioner's ax severs my head from my body, I will give your heart one more stab, from which it will never be healed, and whose torture shall disturb your sweetest embraces. I swear! hear me, oh, God! hear me, ye saints and angels, and devils! all ye in heaven and earth!—be gracious to me only so far as I speak what is true." And the raving woman sunk on her knees, and threw up her hands, calling heaven and earth to witness. "I swear! I swear that this secret—the secret of the hidden door—was only known to one person besides myself, and that one was Michael Timar Levetinczy. The day after he learned this secret from me he disappeared. If any one has told this, then Michael Timar Levetinczy did not die next day! He lives still, and you can look for your first husband's return. So help me God, it is true that Timar lives! He whom we buried in his stead was a thief who had stolen his clothes. And now live on with this stab in your heart."

CHAPTER XII.
THE PENITENT IN "MARIA-NOSTRA."

CHAPTER XIII.
NOBODY.

Since Timar's disappearance from Komorn forty years had passed. I was in the alphabet-class when we schoolboys went to the funeral of the rich lord, of whom people said afterward he was perhaps not dead, only disappeared. Among the people the belief was strong that Timar lived, and would some day reappear; possibly Athalie's words had set this idea afloat—at any rate, public opinion was strongly in favor of it.

The features, too, of the lovely lady came before me, whom every Sunday I admired as she sat near the organ; her seat was the nearest in the pew to the chancel. She was so radiant with beauty and yet so gentle. I well remember the excitement when it was reported that a companion of this beautiful woman had tried to murder her in the night. I saw the condemned prisoner taken to the place of execution in the headsman's cart; it was said that she would be beheaded. She had on a gray gown with black ribbons, and sat with her back to the driver; before her was a priest holding a crucifix. The market-women overwhelmed her with abuse, and spat at her; but she gazed indifferently before her, and noticed nothing.

The people thronged round the cart; curious boys hurried in troops to see the lovely head separated from the neck. I looked on fearfully from a closed window—oh, dear, if she had looked at me by chance! An hour later the crowd returned grumbling; they were disappointed that the beautiful criminal had been respited. She had only been taken up on to the scaffold, and there informed of the pardon.

And then after that I saw that other lovely rich lady every Sunday in church; but now with a red mark across her forehead, and each year with a sadder and paler face. All sorts of stories were told of her; children heard them from their mothers, and repeated them in school.

And, finally, time swept the whole story out of people's memory.

Some years ago, an old friend of mine, a naturalist, who is celebrated as a collector of plants and insects throughout the world, described to me the singular district between Hungary and Turkey, which belongs to neither State, and is not any one's private property.

On this account it offers a veritable California to the ardent naturalist, who finds there the rarest flora and fauna. My old friend used to visit this region every year, and stay there for weeks zealously collecting specimens: he invited me to share his autumn expedition. I am somewhat of a dilettante in this line, and as I had leisure, I accompanied my friend to the Lower Danube.

He led me to the ownerless island. My learned friend had known it for five-and-twenty years past, when it was in great part a wilderness, and all the work in progress.

Apart from the reed-beds, which still surround and conceal the island, it is now a complete model farm. Surrounded by a dike, it is protected from any floods, and is intersected by canals, provided with water by a horse-power pumping-engine.

When an enthusiastic gardener gets here, he can hardly tear himself away; every inch of ground is utilized, or serves to beautify the place. The tobacco grown here has the most exquisite aroma, and, when properly treated, is a first-class product; the bee-hives look from a distance like a small town, with one-storied houses and many-shaped roofs. The rarest fowls are bred in one inclosure, and on the artificial lake swim curious foreign ducks and swans. In the rich meadows graze short-horned cows, angora goats, and llama sheep with long, soft, black hair.

It is easy to see that the owner of the island understands luxury—and yet that owner never has a farthing to call his own; no money ever enters the island. Those, however, who need the exports, know also the requirements of the islanders—such as grain, clothes, tools, etc.—and bring them for barter.

My learned friend used to bring garden seeds and eggs of rare poultry, and received in exchange curious insects and dried plants, which he sold to natural history collections and foreign museums, and made a good profit out of them, for science is not only a passion but a means of sustenance. But what surprised me most agreeably was to hear pure Hungarian spoken by the inhabitants, which is very rare in that neighborhood.

The whole colony consisted of one family, and each was called only by his Christian name. The six sons of the first settler had married women of the district, and the numbers of grandchildren and great-grandchildren already exceeded forty, but the island maintained them all. Poverty was unknown; they lived in luxury: each knew some trade, and if they had been ten times as many, their labor would have supported them. The founders of the family still superintended the work.

The male members of the family learn gardening, carpentry, coopering, preparation of tobacco, and the breeding of cattle; among them are cabinet-makers and millers; the women weave Turkish carpets, prepare honey, make cheese, and distill rose-water; and all these occupations go on so naturally that it is never necessary to give orders; each knows his duty, fulfills it untold, and takes pleasure in its completion. The dwellings of the ever-growing families already form a whole street; each little house is built by division of labor, and the elders help the newly married. Strangers who visit the island are received by the nominal head of the family, whom the others call father. Strangers know him under the name of Deodatus. He is a well-built man of over forty, with handsome features; he it is who arranges the terms of barter and shows visitors over the colony.

When we arrived Deodatus received us with the kind cordiality one exhibits to old friends; the naturalist was a regular annual visitor. The subjects of our discourse were pomology, horticulture, botany, entomology, in all of which Deodatus seemed to be well versed; in everything pertaining to gardens and cattle-breeding he had reached a high standard. I could not conceal my surprise, and asked him where he had learned it.

"From our father," answered Deodatus, with a sigh.

"Who is that?"

"You will see him when we assemble in the evening."

It was the time of apples. All the young people and women were busy gathering the pretty golden-yellow, brown, and crimson fruit. It lay in pyramids on the green turf, like cannon-balls inside a fortress. Joyous cries resounded through the island; when the sun set, a bell gave the signal for the holiday feast. At this signal every one hastened to fill baskets with the remaining fruit, which was then carried into the apple-store.

We also, with Deodatus, bent our steps to the place whence the sound came. The bell was on the top of a small wooden building, which, as well as its little tower, was overgrown with ivy; but one could guess by the fantastic forms of the columns under the veranda, that the architect had carved many a thoughtful dream and wish into his work.

Before this house was a circular space with tables and chairs; there every one met when work was over.

"Here dwell our old people," whispered Deodatus.

They soon came out—a fine pair. The wife might be sixty, the man eighty. The great-grandfather's face had that characteristic look which makes you remember a good picture you have once seen, even if forty years ago. I was quite startled: his head was nearly bald, but the remaining hair and his beard were hardly gray, and on his firm, calm features age seemed to have no hold. A temperate and regular life and a cheerful disposition preserve the features unspoiled.

The great-grandmother was still an attractive woman. Her once golden hair certainly was flecked with silver, but her eyes were still girlish, and her cheeks blushed like a bride's when her husband kissed her.

The faces of both beamed with happiness when they saw their whole large family round them, and they called each to them by name and kissed them. This was their joy, their devotion, their song of praise.

Deodatus, the eldest son, was the last to embrace his parents, and then our turn came. They shook hands with us too, and invited us to supper. The old lady still kept the care of the cooking department in her own hands, and she it was who provided for all the family, though each had full liberty to sit at a separate table with any others he cared for, and take his meal with them; but her husband sat down at a table with us and Deodatus. A tiny golden-haired angel of a child called Noémi climbed on his lap, and had permission to listen, wondering, to our wise talk.

When my name was mentioned to the old man he looked long at me, and a visible color rose in his cheeks. My learned friend asked him whether he had ever heard my name before; the old man was silent. Deodatus hastened to say that his father had for forty years read nothing of what was passing in the world: his whole study was books of farming and gardening. I therefore undertook, as people do who have made a profession of imparting what they know, to bring my wares to market, and I told him what was going on in the world. I informed him that Hungary was now united to Austria by the word "and."

He blew a cloud from his pipe: the smoke said, "My island has nothing to do with that."

I told him of our heavy taxes: the smoke replied, "We have no taxes here."

I described to him the fearful wars which had been waged in our kingdom and all over the world: the smoke answered, "We wage war here with no one."

There was at that time a great panic on the exchanges, the oldest firms failed; and this too I explained to him. Only his pipe's steady puffs seemed to say, "Thank God, we have no money here."

I described to him the bitter struggle of parties, the strife between religion, nationalities, and ambition. The old man shook the ashes out of his pipe—"We have neither bishops, electors, nor ministers here."

And finally, I proved to him how great our country would be when everything we hoped for was fulfilled.

Little Noémi meanwhile had fallen asleep on her great-grandfather's lap, and had to be carried to bed. This was more important than what I was talking of; the sleeping child passed into the great-grandmother's arms. When the old lady left us, the old man asked me, "Where were you born?" I told him.

"What is your profession?"

I told him I was a romance-writer.

"What is that?"

"One who can guess by the end of a story what the whole story was from the beginning."

"Well, then, guess my story," said he, clasping my hand. "There was once a man who left a world in which he was admired, and created a second world in which he was loved."

"May I venture to ask your name?"

The old man seemed to grow a head taller; then raising his trembling hands, he laid them on my head. And at this moment it seemed to me as if once, long, long ago, that hand had rested on my head when childish curls covered it, and as if I had seen that noble face before.

To my question he replied, "My name is Nobody." With that he turned away and spoke no more, but went into his house, and did not appear again during our stay on the island.

This is the present condition of the ownerless island. The privilege granted by two kingdoms, that this speck of ground should be excluded from any map, will last for fifty years more.

Fifty years! Who knows what will have become of the world by then?

THE END.

ASK FOR AMERICAN SERIES No. 335.

A Really Great American Novel.

A TALE OF THE TOWN:
OR,
PHILIP HENSON, M. D.

BY GEORGE HASTINGS.

PAPER, 25 CENTS.

PRESS CRITICISMS:

"We do not purpose to rob the story of the zest which remains for the reading by telling here all the ingenious but reasonable complications which beset this man, how love withers under the unseen blight, how rest forsakes him, how success becomes a satire, and how the impervious will sinks into impotency when beset by intangible and inscrutable forces. It is enough to point out that in this book the author has planted his characters upon an elemental truth, and something of the efficacy of that truth gives a strange fascination and power to the story."—New York World.

"It is a cleverly wrought and highly interesting novel, constructed upon somewhat unconventional lines. There is just enough medical science and metaphysics in it to give it spice; there are two murders, a trial and conviction of an innocent man on circumstantial evidence, a series of confidential domestic scenes, and a dash of hypnotism—surely enough to capture the fancy of the inveterate or occasional novel reader. . . . It is a curious but entrancing novel, and once caught in its seductive meshes the reader will find it hard to escape. Incidentally some of Inspector Byrnes' peculiar detective methods are severely satirized."—The Brooklyn Standard-Union.

"It is clever in its way, but trash."—The Buffalo Courier.

"It places the author in the foremost rank of American writers of fiction. . . . It will live—a surpassingly clever delineation of a strange phase of human character."—The London Times.

"Philip Henson, M. D., by George Hastings, is indifferent and mediocre."—The New York Daily Continent.

"Philip Henson, M. D., is more than clever—it is masterly. In exciting and absorbing interest this book excels the novels of Gaboriau and De Boisgobey, and the sketches and characters are capitally drawn. For example, Inspector Byrnes and his methods have never before been so accurately described."—The Spirit of the Times.

"A story quite out of the ordinary."—The Kansas City Journal.

"Very dramatically told, and a well-conceived and thrilling narrative."—America.

"The plot of Philip Henson, M. D., is remarkably strong and tragic. Mr. Hastings is a graphic writer."—The Sacramento Record-Union.

AMERICAN SERIES.

TITLES ALPHABETICALLY ARRANGED

TWENTY-FIVE CENT SERIES.

FIFTY CENT ISSUES.