And as she sang I saw Mary Gordon looking past me with the glory of the New Song in her eyes. And I knew that her heart, too, was touched.

By the pillar in the arched nook at the door stood Hob my brother, and by him Alexander-Jonita. They looked sedately down upon one psalm-book. And in that day I was glad to think that one man was happy.

Poor lad! That which it was laid upon me to do came as a sad surprise to him. Out of the window, as I stood up to the sermon, I could see the river slowly take its way. It glinted back more blue and sparkling than ever I had seen it, and my heart gave a great stound that never more was I to abide by the side of that quiet water, and in the sheltered nook where I had known such strange providences. Once I had thought it would be gladsome for me to leave it, but now, when the time came, I thought so no more.

Even the little glimpses I had of that fair landscape through the narrow kirk windows brought back a thousand memories. Yonder, by the thorn, I had seen a weak one made nobler than I by the mighty power of love.

Down there beside the dark still waters I had watched the lights glimmer in the Kirk of Crossmichael, where sat my foes, angry-eager to make an end. But the psalm again seized my heart and held it.

And in a moment the Dee Water and its memories of malice were blotted out. The ripples played instead over the River that flows from about the Throne of God. I saw all the warrings of earth, the heart-burnings, the strifes, the little days and evil nights washed away in a broad flood of grace and mercy.

I was ready to go I knew not whither. It might be that there was a work greater and more enduring for me to do, my pilgrim staff in my hand, among the flowe-mosses and peaty wildernesses of the South-west than here in the well-sheltered strath of Dee.

Now, at all events, I must face the blast, the bluster and the bite of it. But though I was to look no more on these well-kenned, kindly faces as their minister, I knew that their hearts would hold by me, and their lips breathe a prayer for me each day at eventide.

And so I bade them farewell. What I said to them is no man’s business but theirs and mine, and shall not be written here. But the tears flowed down and the voice of mourning was heard.

Then, ere I pronounced the benediction, I told them how that one dear to me and well known to them had a certain matter to set before them.

With that uprose Alexander Gordon in the midst, looming great like a hero seen in the morning mist.

I put him to the solemn oath, and then and there he declared before them his innocence of the greater evil, purging himself, as the manner was, by solemn and binding oath, which purgation had been refused him by the Presbytery.

“By the grace and kindness of your minister, I, Alexander Gordon of Earlstoun, being known to you all, declare myself wholly innocent of the crime laid to my charge by the Presbytery of Kirkcudbright. May the Lord in whom I believe have no mercy on my soul if I speak not the truth.

“But as for the lesser shame,” so he continued, “that I brought on myself and on the cause for which I have been in time past privileged to suffer, in that I was overcome with wine in the change-house of St. John’s, Clachan—that much is true. With contrition do I confess it. And I confess also to the unholy and hellish anger that descended on my spirit, from which blackness of darkness I was brought by your minister. For which I, unworthy, shall ever continue to praise the Lord of mercies, who did not cut me off with my sin unconfessed or my innocence unproclaimed.”

Alexander Gordon sat down, and there went a sigh and a murmur over all the folk like the wind over ripe wheat in a large field.

Then I told them how that my resolve was taken, and that it was necessary that I should depart from the midst of them in order that there might be peace.

But one and another throughout the kirk cried, “Nay, we will not let you go! We have fought for you; desert us not now. The bitterness of the blast is surely over; now they will let us alone!”

Thus one and another cried out there in the kirk, but the most part only groaned in spirit and were troubled.

“Ye shall not be less my people that another is set in my place. I go indeed to seek a wider ministry. I have been called by the remnant of the Hill-folk that have so long been without a pastor. Whether I am fitted to be their minister I do not know, but in weakness and the acknowledgment of it there is ever the beginning of strength. I have loved your parish and you. Dear dust lies in that kirkyard out there, and when for me the Angel of the Presence comes who calls not twice, that is where I should like to lie, under the blossoming hawthorn trees near by where the waters of Dee flow largely and quietly about the bonny kirk-knowe of Balmaghie.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

“I LOVE YOU, QUINTIN!”

“I daresay,” said my mother, “but the lad will get mony a wet fit and weary mile if he ministers to the Hill-folk. Aye, and mony a sair heart to please them.”

“Fear ye not for Quintin,” said my father, to soothe her, “for if it comes to dourness the Lord pity them that try to overcrow our Quintin.”

I made no farewell round of the kindly, faithful folk of Balmaghie. My heart would have had too many breakings. Besides, I promised myself that, when I took up the pilgrim’s staff and ministered to the remnant scattered abroad, seeking no reward, I should often be glad of a night’s shelter at Drumglass or Cullenoch.

Nevertheless, for all my brave resolves, it was with an overweighted heart that I passed the Black Water at the Tornorrach fords with my staff in my hand. I had as it were come over in two bands, with Hob driving the beasts for the glebe, and I the house furniture upon a car or trail cart.

Now I left the parish poorer than I entered it. I knew not so much as where I would sleep that night. I had ten pounds in my pocket, and when that was done—well, I would surely not be worse off than the King’s Blue Gown. I was to minister to a scattered people, mostly of the poorest. But at the worst I was sure of an inglenook, a bed in the stable-loft, and a porringer of brose at morn and e’en anywhere in Scotland. And I am sure that ofttimes the Galilean fishermen had not so much.

My mother threw her arms about my neck.

“O laddie, laddie, ye are ganging far awa on a rough road and a lonely. Guid kens if your auld mither will ever look on your face again. Quintin, this is a sair heartbreak. But I ken I hae mysel’ to thank for it. I bred ye to the Hill-folks’ ways mysel’. It was your ain mither that took ye in her arms to the sweet conventicles on the green bosom of Cairnsmuir, that delectable mountain. I, even I, had ye baptized at the Holy Linn by guid Maister Semple, and never a whinge or a greet did ye gae when he stappit ye into the thickest o’ the jaw.”

And the remembrance seemed in part to reconcile my mother to the stern Cameronian ministry I was about to take up.

“And what stipend are they promising ye?” she said, presently, after she had thought the matter over.

“Nothing!” I answered, calmly.

“Nocht ava’—no a bawbee—and a’ that siller spent on your colleging.”

Then my mother’s mind took a new tack.

“And what will puir Hob be gaun to do, puir fellow? He has had nae ither thocht than you since ever he was a laddie.”

“Faith,” said I, smiling back at her, “I am thinking that now at last he has some other thought in his mind.”

My mother fell back a step.

“No a lassie!” she cried, “a laddie like him.”

“Hob is no week-old bairn chicken, mother,” said I; “he will be five-and-thirty if he is a day.”

“But our Hob—to be thinking o’ a lassie!”

“At what age might ye have been married, mother?” I asked, knowing that I could turn her from thinking of Hob’s presumption and my own waygoing.

“Me? I was married at seventeen, and your father scant a score. Faith, there was spunk in the countryside then. Noo a lass will be four-and-twenty before she gets an offer; aye, and not think hersel’ ayont the mark for the wedding-ring, when I had sons and dochters man and woman-muckle!”

“Then,” said I, “that being so, ye will not be hard on Hob if he marries and settles himself down at Drumglass.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

My father clapped me on the shoulder.

“God speed ye,” he said; “I need not tell ye to be noways feared. And if ye come to the bottom of your purse—well, your faither is no rich man. But there will be aye a bit of yellow siller for ye in the cupboard of Ardarroch.”

I had meant to take my way past Earlstoun without calling. And with that intent it was in my mind to hold directly over the moor past Lochinvar. But when it came to the pinch I simply could not do it.

So to the dear grey tower chin-deep among the woodlands I betook me once more. My eyes had been looking for the first glint of it over the tree tops for miles ere I came within sight of it. “There,” and “there,” so I said to myself, “under that white cloud, by the nick of that hill, where the woodland curls down, that is the place.”

At last I arrived.

“Quintin MacClellan, come your ways in. Welcome are ye as the smell o’ the supper brose,” cried Alexander Gordon, coming heartily across from the far angle of the courtyard at sight of me. “Whither away so travel-harnessed?”

“To the Upper Ward,” said I, “to make a beginning on the widest minister’s charge in Scotland.”

“You are, then, truly bent on leaving all and taking upon you the blue bonnet and the plaid of the minister of the Remnant?”

“I have already done it,” said I, “burned my boats, emptied my house, sold my plenishing and bestial. And now with my scrip and staff I go forth, whither I know not—perchance to a hole in the hedge-root and the death of a dog.”

“Tut, man,” cried Alexander Gordon, “‘tis not thus that the apostle of the Hill-folk, the bearer of their banner, should go forth. Bide at least this night with me, and I will set you up the waterside, aye, and fit you with a beast to ride on forbye.”

“I thank you from my heart, Earlstoun. This is spoken like a true man and from the full heart. Only Alexander Gordon would offer as much. But I would begin as I must end if I am to be the poor man’s minister. I must not set out on my pilgrimage riding on the back of Earlstoun’s charger. I must tramp it—moss and mountain, dub and mire. Yet, friend of mine, I could not go without bidding you a kindly adieu.”

“At least bide till the mistress and Mary can shake ye by the hand,” cried Alexander Gordon.

And with that he betook him to the nearest window, and without ceremony pushed it open, for the readiest way was ever Sandy Gordon’s way. Then he roared for his wife and daughter till the noise shook the tower like an earthquake.

In a moment Mary Gordon came out and stood on the doorstep with her fingers in her ears, pretending a pretty anger.

“What an unwholesome uproar, father! Well do they call you the Bull of Earlstoun, and say that they hear you over the hill at Ardoch bidding the herd lads to be quiet!”

Then seeing me (as it appeared) for the first time, she came forward and took my hand simply, and with a pleasant open frankness.

“You will come in and rest, will you not?” she said. “Are you here on business with my father?”

“Nay,” said I, smiling at her; “I have no business save that of bidding you farewell.”

“Farewell!” cried she, dropping the needle-work she held in her hand, “why farewell?”

“I go far away to a new and untried work. I know not when nor how I shall return.”

She gave a little quick shivering gasp, as if she had been about to speak.

“At the least, come in and see my mother,” she said, and led the way within.

But when we had gone into the long oaken chamber naught of the Lady of Earlstoun was to be seen. And the laird himself cried up to Mary to entertain me till he should speak to his grieve over at the cottage.

In the living room of Earlstoun was peace and the abiding pleasant sense of on ordered home. As soon as she had shut the door the lass turned upon me.

“You have truly given up your parish?” she said, holding her hands before her with the fingers clasped firmly together.

I nodded.

“And you are journeying to the west to join the Hill-folk?”

I smiled as I looked into her deep and anxious eyes.

“Again you have rightly divined,” I said.

“And what stipend are ye to get from them?”

“I am to have no stipend. It has not been mentioned between us.”

“O Quintin!” she cried suddenly, her eyes growing ever larger and darker, till the pupil seemed to invade the iris and swallow it up.

But though I waited for her to speak further she said nothing more.

So I went on to tell her how I was going to the west to spend my life among the poor folk there who had been so long without a shepherd.

“And would you”—she paused—“would you leave us all?”

“Nay,” said I, “for this Earlstoun shall ever be a kindly and a beloved spot to me. Often when the ways are long and dreary, the folk unfriendly, will my heart turn in hither. And, whenever I am in Galloway, be sure that I will not pass you by. Your father hath been a good and loving friend to me.”

“My father!” she cried, with a little disdainful outward pout of the lip.

“Aye, and you also, Mistress Mary. You have been all too kind to a broken man—a man who, when the few coins he carries in his purse are expended, knows not whence he will get his next golden guinea.”

I was silent for a while and only looked steadily at her. She moved her feet this way and that on the floor uncertainly. Her grace and favour cried out to me anew.

“As for me, Mary,” I said, “I need not tell you that I love you. I have loved you ever since I met you on the Bennan brae-face. But now more greatly—more terribly that I love altogether without hope. I had not meant to speak again, but only to take your hand once thus—and get me gone!”

Impulsively she held her fingers out to me and I clasped them in mine.

I thought she was ready to bid me farewell, and that she desired not to prolong the pain of the interview.

“Fare thee well then, Mary,” said I. “I have loved the cause because it is the Cause of the Weak. I have striven to raise again the Banner of Blue. I have loved my people. But none of these hath this aching, weary heart loved as it has loved Mary Gordon. I have neither heart nor right to speak of my love, nor house nor home to offer. I can but go!”

“Speak on,” she said, a little breathlessly, but never once taking her eyes from my face.

“There is no other word to tell, Mary,” said I. “I have spoken the word, and now there remains but to turn about and set face forward as bravely as may be, to shut out the pleasant vision, seen for a moment, to leave behind for ever the heart’s desire——”

“No! No! No!” she interrupted, jerking her clasped hands quickly downward.

“To lay aside the deep, unspoken hopes of a man who has never loved woman before——”

She came a little nearer to me, still exploring my face with her eyes, as I spoke the last words.

“Did you not, Quintin? Are you sure?”

“I have never loved before,” said I, “because I have loved Mary Gordon from the beginning, yea, every day and every hour since I was a herd boy on the hills. Once I was filled with pride and the security of position. But of these the Lord hath stripped me. I am well-nigh as poor as when I came into the world. I have nothing now to offer you or any woman.”

“Nay,” she cried, speaking very quickly and suddenly, laying her clasped hands on my arm, “you are rich—rich, Quintin! Listen, lad! There is one that loves you now—who has loved you long. Do you not understand? Must I, that am a maid, speak for myself? Must I say, I love you, Quintin?”

And then she smiled suddenly, gloriously, like the sun bursting through black and leaden clouds.

Oh, sweet and perilously sweet was her smile!

“Mary,” I cried, suddenly, “you are not playing with me? Ah, for God’s dear sake, do not that! It would break my heart. You cannot love a man broken, penniless, outcast, one of a down-trodden and despised folk. You must not give yourself to one whose future path is lone and desolate!”

“I love you, Quintin!”

“One who has nothing to offer, nothing to give, not even the shelter of a roof-tree—a wanderer, a beggar!”

“I love you, Quintin!”

And the hands that had been clasped on my arm of their own sweet accord stole upward and rested lovingly about my neck. The eyes that had looked so keenly into mine were satisfied at last, and with a long sobbing sigh of content Mary Gordon’s head pillowed itself on my breast.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE LAST ROARING OF THE BULL.

“Just that Quintin and I love one another!”

And as she spoke I saw the frown gather ominously on Alexander Gordon’s face. His wife came near and looked at him. I saw him flash a glance at her so quick, so stern, and full of meaning that the ready river of her speech froze on her lips.

“This is rank foolishness, Mary!” he cried; “go indoors this instant and get to your broidering. Let me hear no more of this!”

But the spirit of the Gordons was in the daughter as well as in the sire.

“I will not,” she said; “I am of age, and though in all else I have obeyed you, in this I will not.”

Glance for glance their eyes encountered, nor could I see that either pair quailed.

The Laird of Earlstoun turned to me.

“And you, sir, whom I trusted as my friend, how came you here under pretext of amity, thus to lead away my daughter?”

The question was fiercely spoken, the tone sullenly angry. Yet somehow both rang hollow.

I was about to answer when Mary interrupted.

“Nay, father,” she cried, looking him fearlessly in the face; “it was I that proffered my love. He would not ask me, though I tried to make him. I had to tell him that I loved him, and make him ask me to marry him!”

Was it fancy that the flicker of a smile passed at that moment over the grim countenance of the Bull?

His wife was again about to speak, but he turned fiercely on her and bade her be silent.

“And now,” he said, turning to his daughter, “what do you propose to do with your man when ye have ‘speered’ him?”

He used the local country expression for a proposal of marriage. “I will marry him here and now,” she said; adding hastily, “that is, if he will have me.”

“Ye had better speer him that too!” said her father, grimly.

“I will do better,” cried Mary Gordon. “I will acknowledge him!”

And holding up my hand in hers she cried aloud: “I take you for my husband, Quintin MacClellan!” She looked up at me with a challenge in her eye.

“My wife!” was all that I could utter.

“Well,” said Sandy, “that is your bed made, my lassie. You have both said it before witnesses. You must take him now, whether ye will or not!

“Hugh,” he cried, with a sudden roar towards the servants’ quarters. And from the haymow in the barn where he had been making a pretence of work a retainer appeared with a scared expression on his face.

“Run over to the cot-house at the road-end and tell the minister lad that the Dumfries Presbytery deposed to come to the Earlstoun and that smartly, else I will come down and fetch him myself!”

The man was already on his way ere the sentence was ended, and when the Laird roared the last words after him he fairly seemed to jump.

He was out of sight among the trees a moment after.

“Now,” said Alexander Gordon, “Mary and you have proclaimed yourselves man and wife. Ye shall be soundly married by a minister, and then ye shall go your ways forth. Think not that I will give you the worth of a boddle either in gear or land. Ye have asked me no permission. Ye have defied me. I say not that I will disown ye. But, at least, I owe you nothing.”

“Father,” said Mary, “did I ask you for aught, or did Quintin?”

“Nay,” said he, grimly, “not even for my daughter.”

“Then,” said she, “do not refuse that for which you have not been asked!”

“And how may you propose to live?” her father went on triumphantly. “Ye would not look at him when he had kirk and glebe, manse and stipend. And now ye take him by force when he is no better than a beggar at the dykeback. That it is to be a woman!”

She kindled at the words.

“And what a thing to be a man! Ye think that a woman’s love consists in goods and gear, comfortable beds and fine apparelling!”

“Comfortable beds are not to be lightlied,” said her father; “as ye will find, my lass, or a’ be done.”

She did not heed him, but flashed on with her defiance.

“You, and those like you, think that the way to win a woman is to bide till ye have made all smooth, so that there be not a curl on the rose-leaves, nor yet a bitter drop in the cup. Even Quintin there thought thus, till he learned better.”

She did not so much as pause to smile, though I think her father did—but covertly.

“No!” she cried, “I love, and because I love I will (as you say floutingly) be ready to lie at a dykeback like a tinkler’s wench. I will follow my man through the world because he is my man—yes, all the more because he is injured, despised, one who has had little happiness and no satisfaction in life. And now I will give him these things. I—I only will make it all up to him. With my love I can do it, and I will!”

Her father nodded menacingly.

“Ye shall try the dykebacks this very nicht, my lass! And ye shall e’en see how ye like them, after the fine linen sheets and panelled chambers of the Earlstoun.”

But her mother broke out at last.

“No, my bairn!” she cried. “Married or single ye shall not go forth from us thus!”

“Hold your tongue, woman!” roared the Bull, shaking the very firmament with his voice.

“Be not feared, my lass; ye shall have your mother’s countenance, though your father cast you off,” said Janet Gordon, nodding at us with unexpected graciousness.

“Hold your peace, I tell you!”

“Aye, Sandy, when I have done!”

“Though he turn you to the doorstep I will pray for you,” she went on; “and for company on the way I will give you a copy of my meditations, which are most meet and precious.”

Her husband laughed a quick, mocking laugh.

“A bundle of clean sarks wad fit them better—but here comes the minister.”

I turned about somewhat shamefacedly, and there, bowing to the Laird of Earlstoun, was young Gilchrist of Dunscore, whom the Presbytery of Dumfries had lately deposed. He was about to begin a speech of congratulation, but the Bull broke through.

“Marry these two!” he commanded.

And with his finger he pointed at Mary and myself, as if he had been ordering us for immediate execution.

“But——” began the minister.

Instantly an astonishing volume of sound filled the house.

“But me no buts! Tie them up this moment! Or, by the Lord, I will eviscerate you with my sword!”

And with that he snatched his great basket-hilted blade from the scabbard, where it swung on a pin by the side of the door.

So, with a quaking minister, my own head dazed and uncertain with the whirl of events, and Mary Gordon giving her father back defiant glance for glance, we were married decently and in order.

“Now,” said Alexander Gordon, so soon as the “Amen” was out, “go to your chamber with your mother, Mistress Mary! Take whatever ye can carry, but no more, and get you gone out of this house with the man you have chosen. I will teach you to be fond of dykebacks and of throwing yourself away upon beggarly, broken men!”

And he frowned down upon her, as with head erect and scornful carriage she swept past him—her mother trotting behind like a frightened child.

I think Alexander Gordon greatly desired to say something to me while he and I stood waiting for her return. For he kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other, now turning to the window, anon humming half a tune and breaking off short in the midst. But ever as he came towards me with obvious intent to speak, he checked himself, shaking his head sagely, and so resumed again his restless marching to and fro.

Presently my lass came down with a proud high look on her face, her mother following after, all beblubbered with tears and wringing her hands silently.

“I bid you farewell, father!” Mary said; “till now you have ever been a kind father to me. And some day you will forgive this seeming disobedience!”

Then it was that her father made a strange speech.

“Quintin MacClellan has muckle to thank me for. For had it not been for the roaring of the Bull, he had not so easily gotten away the dainty quey!”

So side by side, and presently when we got to the wood’s edge hand in hand, Mary Gordon and I went out into the world together.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Final Addition and Conclusion by Hob MacClellan.

Thus my brother left the writing which has fallen into my hand. In a word I must finish what I cannot alter or amend.

His marriage with Mary Gordon was most happy and gracious, though I have ever heard that she retained throughout her life her high proud nature and hasty speech.

Her father relented his anger after the great renovation of the Covenants at Auchensaugh. Indeed, I question whether in driving them forth from Earlstoun, as hath been told, Alexander Gordon was not acting a part. For when he came to see my wife, Alexander-Jonita, after our little Quintin was born, he said, “Heard ye aught of your brother and his wife?”

I told him that they were well and hearty, full of honour, work, and the happiness of children.

“Aye,” said he, after a pause of reflection, “Quintin has indeed muckle to thank me for. I took the only way with our Mary, to make her ten times fonder o’ him than she was.”

And he chuckled a little deep laugh in his throat.

“But,” he said, “I wad gie a year’s rent to ken how she liked the dykeback the night she left the Earlstoun.”

THE END.

By S. R. CROCKETT.

Uniform edition. Each, 12mo, cloth, $1.50.

THE STANDARD BEARER. An Historical Romance.

Mr. Crockett stands on ground that he has made his own in this romance of the Scottish Covenanters. The story opens in 1685, “the Terrible Year,” with a vivid picture of the pursuit of fugitive Covenanters by the dragoons. The hero, who becomes a Covenanting minister, sees many strange and stirring adventures. The charming love story which runs through the book is varied by much excellent fighting and many picturesque incidents. “The Standard Bearer” is likely to be ranked by readers with Mr. Crockett’s most successful work.

LADS’ LOVE. Illustrated.

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CLEG KELLY, ARAB OF THE CITY. His Progress and Adventures. Illustrated.

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“A VERY REMARKABLE BOOK.”

THE BETH BOOK. By Sarah Grand, author of “The Heavenly Twins,” etc. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

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“Beth and her environments live before us. We see her sensitive as a musical instrument to the touch of surrounding influences, every latent quality for good and evil in her already warring for mastery.”—London Daily News.

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“Sarah Grand’s new work of fiction, ‘The Beth Book,’ will be likely to meet a wider acceptance than her famous book, ‘The Heavenly Twins,’ for the reason that it is a more attractive piece of literary workmanship, and has about it a certain human interest that the other book lacked.... Madame Grand’s wit and humor, her mastery of a direct and forceful style, her quick insight, and the depth of her penetration into human character, were never more apparent than in ‘The Beth Book.’”—Brooklyn Eagle.

“‘The Beth Book’ is important because it is one of the few intelligent and thoughtful studies of life that have appeared this season.... The essence of the whole book is the effort to study and to trace the evolution of character; and because the author has done this to admiration, her book is a success. Moreover, it is written with a masterly command of style, and is so utterly absorbing and so strongly and connectedly logical, that the author’s thought impresses you at every line. You skip nothing. Even a reader whom the deeper qualities of the book failed to hold would follow every incident from sheer pleasure in its vividness, its picturesqueness, and its entertainment.”—Boston Herald.

‘The Beth Book’ is distinctly a notable achievement in fiction.... Written in a style that is picturesque, vigorous, and varied, with abundance of humor, excellence of graphic description, and the ability to project her chief characters with a boldness of relief that is rare.”—Philadelphia Press.

“One of the strongest and most remarkable books of the year.... ‘The Beth Book’ stands by itself. There is nothing with which to compare it.”—Buffalo Express.

“‘The Beth Book’ is a powerful book. It is written with wonderful insight and equally wonderful vividness of portrayal. It is absorbingly interesting.... The heroine awakens our wonder, pity, and admiration. We soon become enthralled by the fascinating study, and follow her physical and spiritual footsteps with breathless eagerness from page to page, from stage to stage of her development and the foreshadowings of her destiny.”—Boston Advertiser.

“In ‘The Beth Book’ the novelist has given us a story at once a marvelously well-evolved study in psychology and at the same time an absorbing review of human life in its outward aspects. ‘The Beth Book’ is a wonder in its departure from conventional methods of fiction, and in an ever-growing charm in its development and sequence.”—San Francisco Call.

“Decidedly a notable addition to the few works which are of such quality to be classed as ‘books of the year.’ There are many reasons for this. First, it is an intelligent and faithful study of human life and character; second, because it has a depth of purpose rare indeed in ordinary fiction; and last, because from start to finish there is a charm which never ceases to hold the reader’s interest. Decidedly, ‘The Beth Book’ is a great book.”—Philadelphia Item.

HAMLIN GARLAND’S BOOKS.

Uniform edition. Each, 12mo, cloth, $1.25.

WAYSIDE COURTSHIPS.

“A faithful and an entertaining portrayal of village and rural life in the West.... No one can read this collection of short stories without feeling that he is master of the subject.”—Chicago Journal.

“One of the most delightful books of short stories which have come to our notice in a long time.”—Boston Times.

“The historian of the plains has done nothing better than this group of Western stories. Wayside courtships they are, but full of tender feeling and breathing a fine, strong sentiment.”—Louisville Times.

JASON EDWARDS. An Average Man.

“The average man in the industrial ranks is presented in this story in as lifelike a manner as Mr. Bret Harte presented the men in the California mining camps thirty years ago.... A story which will be read with absorbing interest by hundreds of workingmen.”—Boston Herald.

A MEMBER OF THE THIRD HOUSE. A Story of Political Warfare.

“The work is, in brief, a keen and searching study of lobbies and lobbyists. At least, it is the lobbies that furnish its motive. For the rest, the story is narrated with much power, and the characters of Brennan the smart wire-puller, the millionaire Davis, the reformer Turtle, and Evelyn Ward are skillfully individualized.... Mr. Garland’s people have this peculiar characteristic, that they have not had a literary world made for them to live in. They seem to move and act in the cold gray light of reality, and in that trying light they are evidently human.”—Chicago Record.

A SPOIL OF OFFICE. A Story of the Modern West.

“It awakens in the mind a tremendous admiration for an artist who could so find his way through the mists of familiarity to an artistic haven.... In reading ‘A Spoil of Office’ one feels a continuation of interest extending from the fictional into the actual, with no break or divergence. And it seems to be only a question of waiting a day or two ere one will run up against the characters in real life.”

ALSO,

A LITTLE NORSK; or, Ol’ Pap’s Flaxen. 16mo. Boards, 50 cents.

“True feeling, the modesty of Nature, and the sure touch of art are the marks of this pure and graphic story, which has added a bright leaf to the author’s laurels.”—Chicago Tribune.

“A delightful story, full of humor of the finest kind, genuine pathos, and enthralling in its vivid human interest.”—London Academy.

THE BROOM OF THE WAR GOD. A Story of the Recent War between the Greeks and Turks. By Henry Noel Brailsford. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.

This remarkable picture of the actual conditions in the Greek army during the recent war is drawn by a new author of exceptional promise who served in the Foreign Legion. There are glimpses of Lamia, Pharsala, Larissa, Volo, Velestino, and Domoko. The author was one of the disorganized and leaderless assemblage which constituted the Greek army, and his wonderfully graphic sketches of the conditions in the ranks, the incompetence of officers, and the attitude of the King and Crown Prince toward the war shed a new light upon the disasters of the campaign. The hero, an Englishman, embodies the characters and the feelings of his strangely assorted cosmopolitan comrades, and illustrates the psychology of war as displayed in a hopeless campaign.

THE DISASTER. A Romance of the Franco-Prussian War. By Paul and Victor Margueritte. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

Like Zola’s La Debâcle, with which it naturally challenges comparison, Le Désastre has for its theme the Franco-Prussian War. The authors have the advantage of being well equipped for writing of army scenes, being descendants of a line of soldiers; their father was the cavalry general, Auguste Margueritte, who fell at the battle of Sedan; and the youngest son, Victor, was himself an officer in the French army, but recently abandoned the military career in order to associate himself with his brother in literary work.

“This powerful picture of the fate of the Army of the Rhine, by the sons of one of the generals who did their duty, is among the finest descriptions of war that have been penned.”—London Athenæum.

“A strong, a remarkable book. ‘The Disaster’ is even more overwhelming than Zola’s Le Débâcle. Zola’s soldiers possessed, after all, the untold advantage of their ignorance. But the officers in ‘The Disaster’ saw everything, understood from the very beginning the immensity of the blunder. Like the spectators of some grim tragedy, they waited and watched for the curtain to fall.”—London Speaker.

M i s s F. F. MONTRÉSOR’S BOOKS.

UNIFORM EDITION. EACH, 16MO, CLOTH.

AT THE CROSS-ROADS. $1.50.

“Miss Montrésor has the skill in writing of Olive Schreiner and Miss Harraden, added to the fullness of knowledge of life which is a chief factor in the success of George Eliot and Mrs. Humphry Ward.... There is as much strength in this book as in a dozen ordinary successful novels.”—London Literary World.

“I commend it to all my readers who like a strong, cheerful, beautiful story. It is one of the truly notable books of the season.”—Cincinnati Commercial Tribune.

FALSE COIN OR TRUE? $1.25.

“One of the few true novels of the day.... It is powerful, and touched with a delicate insight and strong impressions of life and character.... The author’s theme is original, her treatment artistic, and the book is remarkable for its unflagging interest.”—Philadelphia Record.

“The tale never flags in interest, and once taken up will not be laid down until the last page is finished.”—Boston Budget.

“A well-written novel, with well-depicted characters and well-chosen scenes.”—Chicago News.

“A sweet, tender, pure, and lovely story.”—Buffalo Commercial.

THE ONE WHO LOOKED ON. $1.25.

“A tale quite unusual, entirely unlike any other, full of a strange power and realism, and touched with a fine humor.”—London World.

“One of the most remarkable and powerful of the year’s contributions, worthy to stand with Ian Maclaren’s.”—British Weekly.

“One of the rare books which can be read with great pleasure and recommended without reservation. It is fresh, pure, sweet, and pathetic, with a pathos which is perfectly wholesome.”—St. Paul Globe.

“The story is an intensely human one, and it is delightfully told.... The author shows a marvelous keenness in character analysis, and a marked ingenuity in the development of her story.”—Boston Advertiser.

INTO THE HIGHWAYS AND HEDGES. $1.50.

“A touch of idealism, of nobility of thought and purpose, mingled with an air of reality and well-chosen expression, are the most notable features of a book that has not the ordinary defects of such qualities. With all its elevation of utterance and spirituality of outlook and insight it is wonderfully free from overstrained or exaggerated matter, and it has glimpses of humor. Most of the characters are vivid, yet there are restraint and sobriety in their treatment, and almost all are carefully and consistently evolved.”—London Athenæum.

“‘Into the Highways and Hedges’ is a book not of promise only, but of high achievement. It is original, powerful, artistic, humorous. It places the author at a bound in the rank of those artists to whom we look for the skillful presentation of strong personal impressions of life and character.”—London Daily News.

“The pure idealism of ‘Into the Highways and Hedges’ does much to redeem modern fiction from the reproach it has brought upon itself.... The story is original, and told with great refinement.”—Philadelphia Public Ledger.

NOVELS BY MAARTEN MAARTENS.

THE GREATER GLORY. A Story of High Life. By Maarten Maartens, author of “God’s Fool,” “Joost Avelingh,” etc. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

“Until the Appletons discovered the merits of Maarten Maartens, the foremost of Dutch novelists, it is doubtful if many American readers knew that there were Dutch novelists. His ‘God’s Fool’ and ‘Joost Avelingh’ made for him an American reputation. To our mind this just published work of his is his best.... He is a master of epigram, an artist in description, a prophet in insight.”—Boston Advertiser.

“It would take several columns to give any adequate idea of the superb way in which the Dutch novelist has developed his theme and wrought out one of the most impressive stories of the period.... It belongs to the small class of novels which one can not afford to neglect.”—San Francisco Chronicle.

“Maarten Maartens stands head and shoulders above the average novelist of the day in intellectual subtlety and imaginative power.”—Boston Beacon.

GOD’S FOOL. By Maarten Maartens. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

“Throughout there is an epigrammatic force which would make palatable a less interesting story of human lives or one less deftly told.”—London Saturday Review.

“Perfectly easy, graceful, humorous.... The author’s skill in character-drawing is undeniable.”—London Chronicle.

“A remarkable work.”—New York Times.

“Maarten Maartens has secured a firm footing in the eddies of current literature.... Pathos deepens into tragedy in the thrilling story of ‘God’s Fool.’”—Philadelphia Ledger.

“Its preface alone stamps the author as one of the leading English novelists of to-day.”—Boston Daily Advertiser.

“The story is wonderfully brilliant.... The interest never lags; the style is realistic and intense; and there is a constantly underlying current of subtle humor.... It is, in short, a book which no student of modern literature should fail to read.”—Boston Times.

“A story of remarkable interest and point.”—New York Observer.

JOOST AVELINGH. By Maarten Maartens. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

“So unmistakably good as to induce the hone that an acquaintance with the Dutch literature of fiction may soon become more general among us.”—London Morning Post.

“In scarcely any of the sensational novels of the day will the reader find more nature or more human nature.”—London Standard.

“A novel of a very high type. At once strongly realistic and powerfully idealistic.”—London Literary World.

“Full of local color and rich in quaint phraseology and suggestion.”—London Telegraph.

“Maarten Maartens is a capital story-teller.”—Pall Mall Gazette.

“Our English writers of fiction will have to look to their laurels.”—Birmingham Daily Post.

Books by Mrs. Everard Cotes (Sara Jeannette Duncan).

A VOYAGE OF CONSOLATION. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

Mrs. Cotes returns to the field which she developed with such success in “A Social Departure” and “An American Girl in London.”

HIS HONOUR, AND A LADY. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

THE STORY OF SONNY SAHIB. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.

VERNON’S AUNT. With many Illustrations. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.

A DAUGHTER OF TO-DAY. A Novel. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

“This novel is a strong and serious piece of work, one of a kind that is getting too rare in these days of universal crankiness.”—Boston Courier.

A SOCIAL DEPARTURE: How Orthodocia and I Went Round the World by Ourselves. With 111 Illustrations by F. H. Townsend. 12mo. Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.75.

“A brighter, merrier, more entirely charming book would be, indeed, difficult to find.”—St. Louis Republic.

AN AMERICAN GIRL IN LONDON. With 80 Illustrations by F. H. Townsend. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.50.

“So sprightly a book as this, on life in London, as observed by an American, has never before been written.”—Philadelphia Bulletin.

THE SIMPLE ADVENTURES OF A MEMSAHIB. With 37 Illustrations by F. H. Townsend. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

“It is like traveling without leaving one’s armchair to read it. Miss Duncan has the descriptive and narrative gift in large measure, and she brings vividly before us the street scenes, the interiors, the bewilderingly queer natives, the gayeties of the English colony.”—Philadelphia Telegraph.

SOME LEADING FICTION.

EACH, 12MO, CLOTH, $1.00.

YEKL. A Tale of the New York Ghetto. By A. Cahan.

“A new and striking tale; the charm, the verity, the literary quality of the book depend upon its study of character, its ‘local color,’ its revelation to Americans of a social state at their very doors of which they have known nothing.”—New York Times.

“The story is a revelation to us. It is written in a spirited, breezy way, with an originality in the telling which is quite unexpected. The dialect is striking in its truth to Nature.”—Boston Courier.

THE SENTIMENTAL SEX. By Gertrude Warden.

“The cleverest book by a woman that has been published for months.... Such books as ‘The Sentimental Sex’ are exemplars of a modern cult that will not be ignored.”—New York Commercial Advertiser.

“The story forms an admirable study. The style is graphic, the plot original, and cleverly wrought out.”—Philadelphia Evening Bulletin.

MAJESTY. By Louis Couperus. Translated by A. Teixeira and Ernest Dowson.

“No novelist whom we can call to mind has ever given the world such a masterpiece of royal portraiture as Louis Couperus’s striking romance entitled ‘Majesty.’”—Philadelphia Record.

“There is not an uninteresting page in the book, and it ought to be read by all who desire to keep in line with the best that is published in modern fiction.”—Buffalo Commercial.

A STREET IN SUBURBIA. By Edwin Pugh.

“Thoroughly entertaining, and more: it shows traces of a creative genius something akin to Dickens.”—Boston Traveler.

“Simplicity of style, strength, and delicacy of character study will mark this book as one of the most significant of the year.”—New York Press.

THE WISH. By Hermann Sudermann. With a Biographical Introduction by Elizabeth Lee.

“A powerful story, very simple, very direct.”—Chicago Evening Post.

“Contains some superb specimens of original thought.”—New York World.

THE NEW MOON. By C. E. Raimond, author of “George Mandeville’s Husband,” etc.

“One of the most impressive of recent works of fiction, both for its matter and especially for its presentation.”—Milwaukee Journal.

SOME CHOICE FICTION.

EACH, 16MO, CLOTH, SPECIAL BINDING, $1.25.

THE MYSTERY OF CHOICE. By R. W. Chambers, author of “The Moon-Maker,” “The Red Republic,” etc.

“Probably Mr. Robert W. Chambers is to-day the most promising American writer of fiction of his age.... ‘The Mystery of Choice’ reveals his most delightful qualities at their best.... Imagination he has first of all, and it is of a fine quality; constant action he achieves without apparent effort; naturalness, vividness, the power of description, and especially local color, come to him like delight in one of those glorious mornings when distance seems annihilated.”—Boston Herald.

MARCH HARES. By Harold Frederic, author of “The Damnation of Theron Ware,” “In the Valley,” etc.

“One of the most cheerful novels we have chanced upon for many a day. It has much of the rapidity and vigor of a smartly written farce, with a pervading freshness a smartly written farce rarely possesses.... A book decidedly worth reading.”—London Saturday Review.

“A striking and original story, ... effective, pleasing, and very capable.”—London Literary World.

“Mr. Frederic has found fairyland where few of us would dream of looking for it.... ‘March Hares’ has a joyous impetus which carries everything before it; and it enriches a class of fiction which unfortunately is not copious.”—London Daily Chronicle.

GREEN GATES. An Analysis of Foolishness. By Mrs. K. M. C. Meredith (Johanna Staats), author of “Drumsticks,” etc.

“Crisp and delightful.... Fascinating, not so much for what it suggests as for its manner, and the cleverly outlined people who walk through its pages.”—Chicago Times-Herald.

“An original strain, bright and vivacious, and strong enough in its foolishness and its unexpected tragedy to prove its sterling worth.”—Boston Herald.

THE STATEMENT OF STELLA MABERLY. By F. Anstey, author of “Vice Versa,” “The Giant’s Robe,” etc.

“Most admirably done.... We read fascinated, and fully believing every word we read.... The book has deeply interested us, and even thrilled us more than once.”—London Daily Chronicle.

“A wildly fantastic story, thrilling and impressive.... Has an air of vivid reality, ... of bold conception and vigorous treatment.... A very noteworthy novelette.”—London Times.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.

STEPHEN CRANE’S BOOKS.

THE THIRD VIOLET. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.

“By this latest product of his genius our impression of Mr. Crane is confirmed that, for psychological insight, for dramatic intensity, and for potency of phrase, he is already in the front rank of English and American writers of fiction, and that he possesses a certain separate quality which places him apart.”—London Academy.

“The whole book, from beginning to end, fairly bristles with fun.... It is adapted for pure entertainment, yet it is not easily put down or forgotten.”—Boston Herald.

THE LITTLE REGIMENT, and Other Episodes of the American Civil War. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.

“In ‘The Little Regiment’ we have again studies of the volunteers waiting impatiently to fight and fighting, and the impression of the contest as a private soldier hears, sees, and feels it, is really wonderful. The reader has no privileges. He must, it seems, take his place in the ranks, and stand in the mud, wade in the river, fight, yell, swear, and sweat with the men. He has some sort of feeling, when it is all over, that he has been doing just these things. This sort of writing needs no praise. It will make its way to the hearts of men without praise.”—New York Times.

“Told with a verve that brings a whiff of burning powder to one’s nostrils.... In some way he blazons the scene before our eyes, and makes us feel the very impetus of bloody war.”—Chicago Evening Post.

MAGGIE: A GIRL OF THE STREETS. 12mo. Cloth, 75 cents.

“By writing ‘Maggie’ Mr. Crane has made for himself a permanent place in literature.... Zola himself scarcely has surpassed its tremendous portrayal of throbbing, breathing, moving life.”—New York Mail and Express.

“Mr. Crane’s story should be read for the fidelity with which it portrays a life that is potent on this island, along with the best of us. It is a powerful portrayal, and, if somber and repellent, none the less true, none the less freighted with appeal to those who are able to assist in righting wrongs.”—New York Times.

THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE. An Episode of the American Civil War. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.

“Never before have we had the seamy side of glorious war so well depicted.... The action of the story throughout is splendid, and all aglow with color, movement, and vim. The style is as keen and bright as a sword-blade, and a Kipling has done nothing better in this line.”—Chicago Evening Post.

“There is nothing in American fiction to compare with it.... Mr. Crane has added to American literature something that has never been done before, and that is, in its own peculiar way, inimitable.”—Boston Beacon.

“A truer and completer picture of war than either Tolstoy or Zola.”—London New Review.

By A. CONAN DOYLE.

Uniform edition. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50 per volume.

UNCLE BERNAC. A Romance of the Empire. Illustrated.

“‘Uncle Bernac’ is for a truth Dr. Doyle’s Napoleon. Viewed as a picture of the little man in the gray coat, it must rank before anything he has written. The fascination of it is extraordinary.”—London Daily Chronicle.

“From the opening pages the clear and energetic telling of the story never falters and our attention never flags.”—London Observer.

RODNEY STONE. Illustrated.

“A remarkable book, worthy of the pen that gave us ‘The White Company,’ ‘Micah Clarke,’ and other notable romances.”—London Daily News.

“A notable and very brilliant work of genius.”—London Speaker.

“‘Rodney Stone’ is, in our judgment, distinctly the best of Dr. Conan Doyle’s novels.... There are few descriptions in fiction that can vie with that race upon the Brighton road.”—London Times.

THE EXPLOITS OF BRIGADIER GERARD. A Romance of the Life of a Typical Napoleonic Soldier. Illustrated.

“The brigadier is brave, resolute, amorous, loyal, chivalrous; never was a foe more ardent in battle, more clement in victory, or more ready at need.... Gallantry, humor, martial gayety, moving incident, make up a really delightful book.”—London Times.

“May be set down without reservation as the most thoroughly enjoyable book that Dr. Doyle has ever published.”—Boston Beacon.

THE STARK MUNRO LETTERS. Being a Series of Twelve Letters written by Stark Munro, M. B., to his friend and former fellow-student, Herbert Swanborough, of Lowell, Massachusetts, during the years 1881-1884. Illustrated.

“Cullingworth, ... a much more interesting creation than Sherlock Holmes, and I pray Dr. Doyle to give us more of him.”—Richard le Gallienne, in the London Star.

“‘The Stark Munro Letters’ is a bit of real literature.... Its reading will be an epoch-making event in many a life.”—Philadelphia Evening Telegraph.

ROUND THE RED LAMP. Being Facts and Fancies of Medical Life.

“Too much can not be said in praise of these strong productions, that to read, keep one’s heart leaping to the throat, and the mind in a tumult of anticipation to the end.... No series of short stories in modern literature can approach them.”—Hartford Times.

“If Dr. A. Conan Doyle had not already placed himself in the front rank of living English writers by ‘The Refugees,’ and other of his larger stories, he would surely do so by these fifteen short tales.”—New York Mail and Express.

BY ANTHONY HOPE.

THE CHRONICLES OF COUNT ANTONIO. With Photogravure Frontispiece by S. W. Van Schaick. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

“No adventures were ever better worth recounting than are those of Antonio of Monte Velluto, a very Bayard among outlaws.... To all those whose pulses still stir at the recital of deeds of high courage, we may recommend this book.... The chronicle conveys the emotion of heroic adventure, and is picturesquely written.”—London Daily News.

“It has literary merits all its own, of a deliberate and rather deep order.... In point of execution ‘The Chronicles of Count Antonio’ is the best work that Mr. Hope has yet done. The design is clearer, the workmanship more elaborate, the style more colored.”—Westminster Gazette.