„0«K) 
 
 
 
 
 
For INFANTS and CHILDRE^^ 
 
 ** Castoria is so well adapted to chil- 
 dren that I recommend it as superior to 
 any prescription known to me.” 
 
 H. A. Archer, M. D., 
 
 HI So. Oxford St., Brooklyn, N. Y. 
 
 “ The use of Castoria is so universal 
 and its merits so well known that it 
 seems a work of supererogation to en- 
 dorse it. Few are the int' Migent fami- 
 lies who do not keep Castoria within 
 easy reach.” .Carlos Martyn, D.D., 
 New York City. 
 
 Late Pastor Bloomingdale Reformed 
 Church. 
 
 The Ceni 
 
 Castoria cures Colic, Constipation, 
 Sour Stomach, Diarrhoea, Eructation, 
 Kills Worms, gives sleep, and promotes 
 digestion. 
 
 Without injurious medication. 
 
 For several years I have recommen- 
 ded your Castoria, a..d shall always 
 continue to do so as it has invariably 
 produced beneficial results.” 
 
 Edwin F. Pardee, M. D., 
 “The Winthrop,” 125th Street and 7th 
 Ave., New York City, 
 
 IR Co., 77 Murray Street, New York. 
 
 THE FHOSE TKAIIAS OF HEHHIH IBSEH 
 
 Translated by WM. ARCHER for FRANK F. LOVELL & CO. 
 
 In paper covers, .... $0.50 
 Cloth, gilt 1.00 
 
 Containing “A Doll’s House,” “Pillars of Society,” “Ghosts,” and 
 Rosmersholm,” the latter being its first translation into English. 
 
 PBANE r. LOVELL & CO., 142 & 114 Worth Street, NEW YOEE. 
 
 JAMES McCREERY & GO., 
 
 Broadway and llth St., 
 
 New York. 
 
 SILKS, SATINS, VELVETS. 
 
 The assortment of Plain Black Silk Fabrics 
 alone contains over 275 different weaves and 
 qualities; of Fancy Blacks there are about 
 200 . 
 
 Send for samples of quality and style 
 desired. 
 
The Lilies of Florence 
 
 MtaxUs %$Qmds 
 
 BY 
 
 MME. GEORGE SAND 
 
 AUTHOR OP “INDIANA,” ** CONSUELO,” “LELIE,” ** MAUPRAT,” ETC, 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPTS 
 
 BY 
 
 LEW VANDERPOOLE 
 
 AUTHOR OP ** THE PILGRIMS OF LOST HOPE,” “ ECBATANA,” “ NORTHERN DAYS||f 
 “ruhanee,” etc, 
 
 AND ONE OF THE LITERARY EXECUTORS OP MME. SAND 
 
 NEW YOKK ; 
 
 GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER 
 
 17 TO 27 Vandewateb Street. 
 
THE CELEBRATED 
 
 SOSI!ES PIANOS ars use! 
 i& tlie following Institutions. 
 Conrent of the Sacred Heart* 
 
 Jrtftjiha ttflJivillQ, Y, 
 
 Hew York College of Music, 
 Vogt’s Conservatory of Musio 
 iLmold’s Conservatory of 
 
 Music, Brooklyn. 
 Philadelphia Conservatory 
 
 of Musie* 
 
 Villa de Sales Convent, 
 
 Long Island. 
 H,Y. Normal ® 
 
 Conservatory of MnsfC. 
 Villa Maria Convent, Mont’L 
 Vassar College,PoughkeepsiO 
 And most all the leading first-* 
 
 ig first-* 
 
 elass theatres in NEW YOKK. 
 and BROOKLYN, 
 
 Ilio X7onaer3il Bijoii 6ran4 
 (I^ely patented) by SOU- 
 M — rt <S« CO,* tho SmnllCiCt 
 Crand ever manufactured 
 length only 6 ft. 6 In., has 
 created a sensation among 
 musicians and artists. Thd 
 music loving public will 
 
 find it In their Interest te 
 ■call at tho warerooms of 
 BOHMElt & CO. and exam* 
 ine the various ftyl.es of 
 Grands, Uprights and 
 Bquare Planoa The orfg* 
 inal and beautiful designs 
 and improvements 1 it i 
 'Grands end UpHghtai 
 Pianos deserves s^iali 
 attenuon* ■ 
 
 Are at present tlie most Popular and Preferred by the Iieadtng^ Artists*,! 
 
 Nos. B4B TO £55 EAST MthSTat HEW YORK- ^ 
 
 BY SPECIAL ARRAWGCE1CMT WITH THE AUTHORS. 
 
 LOVELL’S SERIES 
 
 OF I 
 
 Foreign Literature. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 EDMUND GOSSE. 
 
 THE CHOICEST WORKS OF FOREIGN LITERATURE ABLY TRANSLATED 
 AND WELL BOUND. 
 
 1. Joshua. By George Ebers, . • / ‘ \ ^ * * 50 
 
 2 Prose Dramas. Vol. I. Henrik Ibsen, • . . • *50 
 
 3. In God’s Way. By Bjomstjeme Bjomson, . . ^ . 50 
 
 4. The Two Brothers. By Guy de Maupassant, . ^ 50 
 
 5. The Chief Justice. By Karl Emil Franzos, . . . 50 
 
 Prose Dramas. VoL IT. By Henrik Ibsen, . . . * 5 ^ 
 
 The Ace of Clubs. By Prince Lubomirski, ... - 50 
 
 Any of the above sent postpaid, on receipt of price, by the publishers. 
 
 OHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, iso WORTH STREET, lYEW YORK. 
 
 \ 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE : page 
 
 I. — Born of the Lilies, ii 
 
 11 . — The Charcoal Sketch, • . • • • .21 
 
 III. — In the Night, 33 
 
 IV. — Face to Face, . 44 
 
 V. — The Juggernaut, . • . . • . *55 
 
 VI. — In the Greenroom, 63 
 
 VIL— Among the Lilies, 72 
 
 STORIES AND LEGENDS : 
 
 My Russian Rival, 87 
 
 Sea Voices, . . . . • • • • .96 
 
 A Sprig of Sweet Brier, . 104 
 
 In Vintage Time, . , . • . • . .113 
 
 Lamia, 122 
 
 The Last Chord, ^ 
 
 He and She, 13^ 
 
 A Seam in the Wall, . 146 
 
 My Queen, Brunehilde, , • • • • • *151 
 
8 
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 STORIES AND LEGENDS (Continued) : page 
 
 Three and One, 159 
 
 A Cry in the Night, 169 
 
 The Sun and Death, 180 
 
 The Himalayan Prisoner, • , ... .187 
 
 In Clanking Chains, 197 
 
 An Etruscan Palace, 209 
 
/t'f a if 
 
 SIS 
 
 I 
 
 ZO 
 
 WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. 
 
 7 ' 778?'9 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 A NOVELETTE. 
 
■ . ■ * / ^ ^ H 1 - ' ^ I ■ J 
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2017 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates 
 
 https://archive.org/details/liliesofflorenceOOsand 
 
THE LILIES OE ELORENCE 
 
 I. 
 
 BORN OF THE LILIES. 
 
 Midnight. 
 
 The streets of Florence wet with a drenching rain. 
 
 Now and then a gleam of lightning from the surround- 
 ing hills, and a rumble of thunder. 
 
 The storm had passed, and had surrendered the city to 
 darkness and silence. 
 
 Above the drip, drip, drip of the wet trees and walls, 
 old Lucrezia heard another sound. It was a moan — as of 
 one sleeping with a weight on his breast. 
 
 The lights burned dimly in the old Etruscan palace, and 
 as Lucrezia leaned on her withered elbow, and looked into 
 the adjoining room, she could see little Fritz tossing about 
 on his couch. 
 
 She left her bed and hurried to his side. He was sleep- 
 ing, but some disturbing dream was robbing him of rest. 
 Unintelligible words occasionally came from his quivering 
 lips. 
 
 The touch of her hand upon his brow did not awaken 
 him, though he began breathing more naturally, and his 
 hands ceased reaching out after some unseen object. 
 
 Lucrezia watched him for several minutes, and after the 
 W’eary look on his face was replaced by a smile of childish 
 happiness, she returned to her bed. 
 
 Oh, papa,” he said in the morning. had such a 
 wonderful dream last night.” 
 
 Did you ? ” answered Count Ahmberg, somewhat 
 gruffly. ^‘You are like your mother. She was always 
 having wonderful dreams. Her head was so full of ro- 
 mantic nonsense that I sometimes wearied of her. The 
 same Italian taint seems to be in your blood. I had 
 
12 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 hoped that you might escape it, and so be sensible. It is 
 a mistake for a German to wed an Italian.’* 
 
 Say, rather,” said Lucrezia, though he did not hear 
 her, ‘‘ that it is a mistake for an Italian to wed a German.” 
 
 The boy saw that his father was displeased, but he was 
 too young to understand the full meaning of what had 
 been said. He thought most of his dream. His father, 
 too, was always frowning ; he was used to that. 
 
 ‘‘ Then you will not listen to my dream ? ” he ventured, 
 after a little while. 
 
 Nonsense ! There, don’t whimper. I always indulged 
 the mother, so I suppose I must always indulge the son. 
 Here, come sit on my knee and tell me what you 
 dreamed.” 
 
 The Count’s manner failed to dismay the boy, and the 
 little fellow sprang upon his father’s knee with a merry 
 laugh. 
 
 Old Lucrezia frowned and gritted her teeth. 
 
 ‘‘ It was an evil day when my lady wedded you,” she 
 muttered. The winter in your heart sent all the summer 
 from hers. And you were angry, monster, because she 
 died after a year of life with you ! Altro ! The boy is 
 like her, though, and if you can you will kill him the 
 same way.” 
 
 The boy was happy enough now, and it is doubtful if he 
 could have been made, just at that time, to agree with 
 Lucrezia. He was permitted to sit upon his father’s knee 
 — the supreme pleasure and honor of his little life ! 
 
 His happiness, and the joyous light it sent into his brown 
 eyes, annoyed the Count. His gravity, for a moment re- 
 laxed, returned. 
 
 When are you going to tell me the dream ? ” 
 
 ‘‘Now, papa.” 
 
 “Very well. Begin.” 
 
 “You remember that pretty place on the Arno where 
 mamma used to sit and weep. Lucrezia takes me there 
 sometimes, and — and I — weep, too. 
 
 “ I thought in my dream that I was there, and that a 
 pretty lady, who said she was my mamma, came and wanted 
 me to go with her. 
 
 “ She took hold of my hand, and we walked along to- 
 gether up the Arno. She said she was going to take me 
 to see the daughter of the lilies — a little babe who was to 
 gr(j\v up into a beautiful womnn and be !ny wife. 
 
 “We only went a little way before we came to the babe. 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 13 
 
 She lay in a bed of great white lilies, smiling and holding 
 her hands out to us. Her face and arms were so white and 
 beautiful, and her eyes and hair were brown and soft. 
 
 “Just as I stooped to take her up in my arms I thought 
 that you, papa, came and struck me down and cast her 
 from me. 
 
 “ Then there was great trouble, and some one — mamma, 
 perhaps — smoothed my hair and stroked my face. 
 
 “ Tliere were storms, and war, and angry words, and 
 finally I thought I was grown up — a man — and that the 
 babe had grown into a maiden, more beautiful than ever, 
 and was lying on my bosom. 
 
 “ Then I opened my eyes. The sun was shining through 
 the clouds on the very spot where I dreamed that the babe 
 lay in the lilies. 
 
 “ Let me go there with Lucrezia this morning, and find 
 the babe and bring her home. Will you, papa ? 
 
 “ Yes.’' And the Count turned to Lucrezia. “ Go with 
 this young fool and show’ him that dreams hold nothing in 
 them but moonshine. If you teach him the right lesson 
 from this folly I may some day be able to forget that he is 
 not wholly a German. Go with him at once and let this 
 thing end.” 
 
 Then he left the breakfast room, angrily, and with as 
 much haste as seemed consistent with his sense of dig- 
 nity. 
 
 “ Oh, nurse — oh, Lucrezia,” moaned the boy, “ tell me 
 why papa is so angry.” 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 Her face was very grave as she replied : 
 
 “ Perhaps it is because you are your mother’s son.” 
 
 Irony is lost on a five-year-old boy. Fritz thought only 
 of the dream. 
 
 “Is it such a sin to dream, Lucrezia?” 
 
 “ Not if you don’t tell your father. You should have 
 told me this dream first.” 
 
 “ Why ? ” 
 
 “ I should have then hindered your telling him.” 
 
 The boy sighed. Caste and nationality are such empty 
 sentiments to children. Right and wrong are simply two 
 kinds of confusion, and life itself is contradictive. 
 
 “ Do you think, Lucrezia, that he wdll take the dream- 
 babe away from me if we find her out there in the 
 meadows among the sweet-smelling lilies ?” 
 
 Lucrezia’s old eyes filled with tears at his faith in the 
 
14 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 dream. He was thoroughly Italian. None of the father’s 
 cold, Northern blood was in those delicate veins. 
 
 Wait, first, child, and see if we find her.” 
 
 The boy, gentle enough usually, stamped his little foot 
 impatiently. 
 
 “We will surely find her. I know that she is there 
 .waiting for me — just as I dreamed she was.” 
 
 Lucrezia smiled. 
 
 Such a strange child he was. 
 
 So like his beautiful mother, who heard sweet voices 
 everywhere, sang quaint little melodies that nobody had 
 ever heard before, and laughed and kissed her hands to 
 shadows which nobody else could see. 
 
 And then — she was always dreaming. Dreams were the 
 same to little Fritz that they always had been to his 
 mother. 
 
 Lucrezia hoped that some of his dreams might come 
 true — none of his mother’s ever had. 
 
 Such a happy, careless girl she had always been before 
 that stern, hard German count came. Then her sorrow 
 began. 
 
 She could not learn to love Count Ahmberg ; but her 
 father bade her wed him, and she was too much afraid of 
 both her father and the Count to disobey. 
 
 So she was married. 
 
 In a year she was buried. 
 
 Her interest in life was quickl)^ gone. Even Fritz, help- 
 less babe as he was, could not keep her. The oil had 
 burned out of her lamp. 
 
 Her German husband’s hauteur stilled the wonderful 
 voices she used to hear ; she no longer kissed her little 
 brown fingers to the shadows, and she dared not dream. 
 Life was so heavy upon her dainty shoulders that she cast 
 the burden from her. 
 
 “ Come, Lucrezia.” 
 
 The boy’s voice startled the old nurse. 
 
 “ Come, Lucrezia ; let us go for the babe. The lilies 
 are wet and cold with the rain. She will find my little bed 
 warmer and drier.” 
 
 The old woman tottered away with the boy, half in jest 
 and half in earnest. 
 
 Along the Arno they went, hand in hand. The meadows 
 were white and sweet with the lilies, the air was warm with 
 the sunshine, and bright colors hung in the clouds above 
 the hills. 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 15 
 
 The boy smiled as he walked. 
 
 Here is where mamma used to come. The babe is but 
 a little farther on. There ! hark ! I liear it crying now ! ” 
 
 Lucrezia held her breath. A child was crying — close at 
 hand. Could it be ? — but no! She laughed. It was only 
 the child of some peasant which had wandered from its 
 mother. She would try to find its home and take it 
 there. 
 
 They hastened on. 
 
 A few paces farther and they came to a child — a naked 
 female child — lying in the lilies, as Fritz had said. 
 
 Still Lucrezia doubted that this forlorn babe had any 
 connection with the dream. 
 
 Would it not have been there just the same without the 
 dream ? 
 
 Living so long near a matter-of-fact German count had 
 made her sceptical. 
 
 See !” shouted Fritz. “ This is the very one mamma 
 said was the daughter of the lilies. Her face, hair, eyes — 
 all are the same. I told you we should find her. Look ! 
 she holds her hands up to me just as she did in the 
 dream ! ’* 
 
 And before Lucrezia could prevent him, small and 
 slender though he was, he had caught the child up in his 
 arms and was kissing her. The child crowed, and put her 
 arms about his neck. 
 
 Lucrezia searched the meadows over and over again. 
 There was no sign or trace of anyone but the child. 
 
 As the grass and the lilies were not trampled — and they 
 would show it they were so wet — the child must have been 
 brought there before the storm. 
 
 That seemed almost incredible. The storm would have 
 surely swept the little one into the Arno, she was lying so 
 near its edge, thought Lucrezia. 
 
 “What are you looking for, Lucrezia?’' demanded 
 Fritz. 
 
 “ For the mother of this little one.” 
 
 “ Don’t you know ? Haven’t I told you that she is the 
 daughter of the lilies ? ” he exclaimed, angrily. “ Mamma, 
 who is in heaven and knows everything, told me so in my 
 dream.” 
 
 Lucrezia smiled. The boy’s faith in his dream could not 
 be shaken. 
 
 “ Now we will go home,” he said. “ Papa will want to 
 see the dream-babe. How very beautiful she is ! ” 
 
i6 THK LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 Lucrezia doubted the Count’s pleasure. 
 
 The little waif was taken along through the meadows, 
 and through the streets of Florence, to the ancient palace 
 which was the Italian home of Count Ahmberg. 
 
 Fritz was happier than he had ever been before in his 
 life. To him the child was a gift from his mother. 
 
 The daughter of the lilies ! ” he kept saying. How his 
 mother would have indulged the fancy, thought Lucrezia, 
 had she been living ! 
 
 When Count Ahmberg came home to dine he met Fritz 
 in the hall with a cynical smile. 
 
 Well, you young fool, has this morning’s wallow through 
 the wet lilies impressed you with the shallowness of 
 dreams ? ” 
 
 The Count’s words bewildered the boy ; he could only 
 say : 
 
 We found her.” 
 
 “Did what?” 
 
 “ We found her.” 
 
 “ Found whom ? ” 
 
 “The dream-babe. She was down among the wet lilies 
 — just as I knew she would be.” And then the boy cringed 
 and drew back before the expression which suddenly came 
 upon his father’s face. 
 
 “ Lucrezia,” cried the Count, “ what does this imbecile 
 boy mean ? ” 
 
 Lucrezia had dressed the dream-babe in a frock which 
 Fritz had once worn. The little one was now sleeping on 
 the boy’s bed. 
 
 The old nurse answered the Count’s question by placing 
 the child before him. 
 
 He glanced carelessly at the little one, then started from 
 his chair and stood in the middle of the floor. 
 
 “ Altro ! ” he exclaimed. 
 
 The nurse bit her lip to keep from smiling, The Count 
 had respect for Italian expletives if he had none for Italian 
 people. 
 
 His face was pale and he was trembling. 
 
 To the nurse and the boy it seemed an age before he 
 spoke. 
 
 Finally he cleared his throat. 
 
 “ Who is this child ? How came she here ? ” 
 
 His agitation afforded Lucrezia the most exquisite 
 pleasure. 
 
 Fritz answered the question. 
 
THE LILIES Of FLORENCE. 
 
 17 
 
 She is the dream-babe, papa, of whom mamma '' 
 
 ‘‘Silence, imbecile. Lucrezia, will you answer me?’* 
 
 “ So far as the child’s coming here is concerned, J will. 
 I brought her here myself. I do not know who she is.” 
 
 He looked at the babe for several minutes. He was 
 angry with himself for betraying his agitation, still he 
 could not control himself. 
 
 “You brought her here, Lucrezia?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ From whence ? ** 
 
 “From the banks of the Arno.” 
 
 “ And you are fool enough, then, to think that this is the 
 babe the boy dreamed about ? ** 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 “ I do not know.” 
 
 “ Altro r 
 
 He was regaining his composure. 
 
 “You and Fritz are both imbeciles.’* 
 
 His voice was harsh and stern again. German blood 
 was once more in the ascendency. 
 
 “Very likely,” she said, curtly. “ All Italians are.” 
 
 “ Did you tell me you found this brat on the Arno ? ” 
 
 “ I did.” 
 
 “Why did you not leave her there ? ** 
 
 She matched his mood. The glitter in her eyes was even 
 colder than that in his. 
 
 “ You sent us, Count Ahmberg, to a place which your son 
 had dreamed of. We found a naked child there, exactly 
 as he had dreamed, in a bed of lilies, alone by herself.” 
 
 He snapped his fingers. 
 
 “And you can give no reason more sensible than this 
 for bringing the vermin here ?** 
 
 “It was your son’s will.” 
 
 “A most excellent answer.” 
 
 Lucrezia jerked her hand impatiently, but did not 
 reply. 
 
 When she raised her eyes, she saw that the Count was 
 again staring at the child. 
 
 The eyes of little Fritz were full of tears. He was won- 
 dering how it would end, and if his father would really 
 take the little one away — as he had dreamed. 
 
 Lucrezia was pondering on the Count’s agitation and 
 perplexity. 
 
 Why was he so startled when he first saw the dream- 
 babe ? Of whom did that smiling, cooing infant remind 
 2 
 
i8 THE LILIES OE FLORENCE. 
 
 him ? What hidden, perhaps forgotten, page in his life did 
 that little face recall ? 
 
 From the Count she looked to the child. It had the 
 features, hair and eyes of her own sunny Italy. Its skin, 
 though, was white as northern snow ; that much was 
 Saxon. 
 
 It was not Count Ahmberg’s child. Some unaccountable 
 but unmistakable instinct told her that. 
 
 Then a strange gleam shot into her eyes. She was be- 
 ginning to understand. 
 
 If her suspicion was correct, the hand of Providence, 
 even now, was raised to strike that heartless man a telling 
 blow. Justice would be measured out to him from a place 
 higher than the courts. Then she shuddered. Might not 
 the innocent fall with him ? God grant they be beyond 
 his reach when the danger came — he was so bitter and 
 vindictive, and would surely try to destroy others with 
 himself. 
 
 The Count sighed. When Lucrezia looked at him, he 
 was aroused from his revery, and was about speaking. 
 
 A sudden thought flashed through her mind. She would 
 make a test. His first words should be a symbol — she 
 would judge by them whether she had guessed the truth. 
 
 The defiance was all gone from both voice and manner 
 when the Count again spoke. His anger was also gone. 
 
 He was more gentle and subdued than she had seen him 
 since one sad morning, years ago, when she had awakened 
 him to tell him that his wife was dead. 
 
 Was there nothing about this child, when you found it, 
 to tell you of its parentage ? ” 
 
 Had he been looking at her instead of at the child he 
 would have seen an expression of satisfaction and triumph 
 come upon her face. It had vanished before he looked 
 from the child to her. Her test had succeeded. He had 
 given her the symbol. 
 
 “ There was nothing. Count.’' 
 
 No clothing — no jewel ?” 
 
 The child was naked. I searched the river banks for 
 several yards, but there was nothing to tell who left her 
 there.” 
 
 Again he sighed. 
 
 How old is the child ? ” he asked. 
 
 “ About a year.” 
 
 ‘‘ My God ! ” he exclaimed, it must be hers. But how 
 can it be — how came she here in Italy ?” 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 19 
 
 It was a strange spectacle — a strong man cowering 
 before an infant. 
 
 Lucrezia’s eyes glowed more like coals than ever. She 
 knew the Count’s presumption and his dread. 
 
 “ Did you wish me to answer that question, Count ? ” 
 
 He glanced at her confusedly, and then left the room 
 without speaking. 
 
 Fritz pulled the child from Lucrezia’s lap, and, placing 
 it on the floor, sat down beside it. 
 
 Did you see my mamma, dear, when you came down 
 from heaven ? Did she tell you about me ? ” 
 
 The dream-babe cooed in a way that Fritz interpreted 
 ‘‘Yes,” and then the two children rolled over on the floor 
 together, and the younger one tried to catch the sunbeams 
 that came flickering in through the trees. Lucrezia did 
 not heed them ; she was thinking of the Count. 
 
 “He believes that he knows whose child this is, and so 
 do I,” she muttered. “ If we are right — if this little one 
 is indeed that — that woman’s daughter, the Count’s pro- 
 phetic curse may have a fulfilment he little expected. 
 What if Fritz’s dream comes true and he does marry this 
 — well, spite marriages have often visited stranger conse- 
 quences upon better heads.” 
 
 Footsteps sounded along the corridor, and presently the 
 Count came in again. 
 
 The children still played upon the floor. 
 
 “Lucrezia,” he said, “you seem to think the — you un- 
 derstand me — I do not wish to let that accursed name 
 cross my lips. Why do you think that this is her daugh- 
 ter ? ” 
 
 “ They look alike.” 
 
 He frowned. 
 
 “Why did you bring her away from the Arno then ? 
 She might have drowned had you left her there.” 
 
 “ You discovered the resemblance first. Count ; and I am 
 no murderess that I should destroy this child, even if it is 
 hers. I have no grudge against the mother. Why should 
 I have one against the daughter — if it be hers?” 
 
 “ Are you not in my service ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, as nurse to your son — not as assassin of those 
 whom you hate.” 
 
 “You speak boldly.” 
 
 “ I have nothing to fear.” 
 
 The nurse held the supremacy. Try as he would he 
 could not assume the air he wished. 
 
20 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 She watched the struggle which was going on within him, 
 and expected every moment that he would become turbu- 
 lent. 
 
 What was it that held him in check ? She had never 
 before taunted him without stirring up a tempest. He 
 was always a demon when disturbed. Why had he borne 
 her words so passively now ? 
 
 She was sure that she had nothing to do with his changed 
 manner. 
 
 The influence which had so subjected him must indeed 
 be powerful. 
 
 She watched him half in triumph and half in dismay. 
 She was somewhat troubled. 
 
 Was he softening toward his son ? If so, her vigil would 
 soon be ended, and the promise which she gave a dead 
 woman — a dead mother — would no longer bind her to a 
 life which had become burdensome, like that mother’s. 
 
 Did the dream-babe, for its supposed mother’s sake, so 
 move and sway the Count ? The child, then, was doing that 
 which its mother, not as a babe but as a magnificent 
 woman, had already done. 
 
 Perhaps — and now the old nurse’s face grew pale — it 
 was the presence of the dead ! The child-wife might be 
 once more in that chamber where she had died. As a 
 spirit, she might dare to brave that cold man’s stubborn will 
 — she might be wrestling with him. 
 
 Lucrezia was afraid to raise her eyes lest she should see 
 the shadow of the dead wife and mother near the man 
 whose harshness had so early ended her life. 
 
 She glanced at the children. The sunlight was wavering 
 and flickering upon them through the trees outside the 
 window, and they looked like two cherubs. 
 
 The Count moved in his chair. There was a pleasant 
 light in his eyes, and the harsh lines were all gone out of 
 his face. 
 
 In her wonderment Lucrezia forgot her supremacy. 
 
 “ Lucrezia, what do you think of the boy’s dream ?” 
 
 His voice was so gentle that even Fritz noticed it, and 
 paused in his play. 
 
 “ Finding the child where we did is certainly remark- 
 able. It was exactly as he said ; the place was the same, 
 the child is the same.” 
 
 His voice grew still softer. 
 
 “ Do you think my dead wife would like to have her son 
 marry this babe, if she is the daughterof — you understand ?” 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 21 
 
 “Your wife loved you too devotedly to wish anything 
 else.” 
 
 “ And the dream-babe’s supposed mother ; do you think 
 such a wedding would gratify her, living or dead ? ” 
 
 “You know it would.” 
 
 For a long time he paced up and down the room in si- 
 lence. 
 
 Fritz and the child watched him as they played. 
 
 Lucrezia watched the three. 
 
 Usually discreet, she then committed the error of sup- 
 posing that she, by a bit of superstition, could bring about 
 the result for which she was hoping, and which, but for 
 her untimely interference, would probably have come of 
 itself. 
 
 “Count,” she said, “in your wife’s family, so they say, 
 each male infant always weds the first naked female infant 
 upon whom he looks. So, you see, fate ” 
 
 His whole manner underwent an instant change. His 
 face was livid with rage and he seemed like a fiend. 
 
 She had touched the wrong chord, and, appalled at what 
 she had done, she fell in a shivering heap on the floor and 
 watched him in terror. 
 
 “ Curse fate ! ” he exclaimed, as he stamped his feet furi- 
 ously. “ And curse all your idle Italian superstitions ! 
 The child goes into the Arno this hour ! ” 
 
 Lucrezia interposed herself, with uplifted hands, be- 
 twe,en Count Ahmbergand the children, but he pushed her 
 aside.. 
 
 Fritz sprang to his feet, caught the child in his arms and 
 tried to hold her fast ; but the Count tore the struggling 
 babe from those brave little arms, and flung the boy to the 
 floor, where he lay with the blood streaming from his 
 mouth. 
 
 “You have done murder ! ” screamed Lucrezia. 
 
 Her answer was a curse, and an instant later the Count 
 seized the dream-babe by one leg, and, with its head and 
 other members dangling, darted with it out of the room. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE CHARCOAL SKETCH. 
 
 A bruised lily, a broken lute-chord, and the finger of a 
 torn glove. 
 
 They had been lying, partly in the sun and partly in the 
 
22 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 shadow of the great Campanile, unnoticed, all the 
 morning. 
 
 The Florentines were either too busy or too lazy to 
 heed such rubbish. 
 
 A cat came from under a porch and touched the lily 
 with her soft paw ; but the sun was too warm for play, so 
 the cat stretched and went back to sleep in the shade. 
 
 A ragged boy, who stopped, and was debating in his 
 mind whether the lute-chord would make a good string 
 for his top, was frightened away by a mastiif before the 
 question was settled. 
 
 The sun, moving farther west, soon passed from behind 
 the Campanile. The heat festered the lily, shrivelled the 
 glove finger, and twisted the lute-string into an arc. 
 
 So an hour passed. It was nearly noon, and the heat 
 increased with the day. 
 
 Then some young men came from the Duomo. One of 
 them crossed the piazza by himself, and stopped before 
 the balcony where the cat was sleeping. 
 
 Though he was looking straight down at the lily he did 
 not seem to see it. 
 
 There were dreams in his eyes, and pain in the curves 
 about his tender mouth. 
 
 His face was as sweet and as sad as that of the Fisher 
 of Galilee, only that he was more a poet than a prophet, 
 and seemed bowed and saddened by memories of the past, 
 rather than by the sorrows of the world. 
 
 The sleepy cat yawned and opened her eyes. Seeing 
 him she was startled and ran away. 
 
 Her flight disturbed his reverie. 
 
 For a moment he watched her ; then remembering that 
 as he came from the Duomo something under the balcony, 
 whence the cat fled, had arrested his attention, he looked 
 down at his feet to see what it was. 
 
 A true Italian, and so a true poet, he first picked up the 
 lily and pressed it to his lips. 
 
 For a long time he stood there with the three trifles in 
 his hands, wondering whence they came. 
 
 Had some wanton dropped them on her way home from 
 a night’s revels? No. He could not believe that. There 
 was too subtle an essence of purity about them. 
 
 The lily was a gift : perhaps from a lover, perhaps from 
 a mistress. The lute-chord and the glove-fingers were 
 treasures — keepsakes ; precious mementoes of happier or 
 sadder days, which their owner would be pained to lose. 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORE HCE, 
 
 23 
 
 Thoughts of the past made him sigh. Ah ! Memory is 
 such a traitress ! She lets us keep only the frowns and the 
 tears. The smiles and the kisses she buries under the sea, 
 where lost and hidden they will stay forever. Sooner will 
 all the graves in old earth’s bosom give up their dead at 
 the sound of a shepherd’s pipe than cruel memory will let 
 these vanislied sweets come back into our hearts. 
 
 He turned these simple things, which he had picked up, 
 over and over again in his hands. 
 
 Love-tokens,” he murmured, softly. “ Love-tokens, 
 Love-tokens.” He kept saying it, dreamily, until at length, 
 though his lips still moved, as if to shape these words, no 
 sound came through them. 
 
 The sun was half way down the western sky before he 
 went away from the balcony with his treasures. He feared 
 that the owner might come for them, and would be grieved 
 because they were gone. 
 
 He never once thought that they might have been pur- 
 posely thrown away. 
 
 Let a man have genius, in whatever direction, and he 
 always walks midway between the natural and the spiritual 
 worlds. To him everything has value, and there is poetry 
 and sentiment everywhere. Hate and passion alone are 
 common, and he feels that both are profanations of the 
 soul. Love and ambition are his only dangers ; if his 
 pulse once quickens at the touch of either, his genius 
 perishes. It wastes like snow before flames, and is scorched 
 like a moth in a candle. He may still be a great man, but 
 never again can he be a great artist. With woman it is 
 different. She thrives on love. To her it is no simoon- 
 blast, but the breath of life. Love inspires her. She en- 
 livens her colors with its mystic ether, and she draws her 
 lights and shadows with its flashes and pangs. Her life is 
 incomplete without it, and, still more, her art. 
 
 Twice on his homeward way, along the Via Ricasoli, he 
 paused. He still thought of the grief of the one to whom 
 the ‘Hokens” belonged, and doubted if he had done right 
 in leaving the balcony so early. 
 
 Many eyes were bent upon him as he went. It is a rare 
 compliment in Italy to have people turn and look back 
 after one in the streets. The country is overflowing with 
 god-like forms and faces. 
 
 At last he ascended the steps of an old palace which the 
 noble Farinata had saved from the destroying Ghibellines. 
 
 Entering, he closed the door softly behind him, and 
 
24 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 passed quietly and unobserved along the corridor to his 
 own chamber. 
 
 In a little silken pouch which he found in a drawer he 
 inclosed the trifles — the love-tokens — which he found 
 under the balcony by the Duomo. 
 
 Then a wistful light came into his eyes. 
 
 ‘'Why do I keep these things ? Is it silly ? Somehow 
 — I cannot tell why — I feel as if they had come from her ; 
 and so they are sacred, holy, worthy of a place on my 
 bosom with the tress of my mother’s hair.” 
 
 The noise of his own voice seemed to alarm him, and he 
 hastened to the door to listen. 
 
 There was no sound in the palace, and, reassured, he 
 turned away from the door and stood before one of the 
 dark, polished, wooden panels with which the monotony 
 of the marble walls was broken. 
 
 A radiant smile came upon his face as he removed the 
 panel, disclosing a picture — done in charcoal, but very 
 beautiful. 
 
 It was the picture of a naked female child, lying in a bed 
 of lilies. 
 
 “ Oh, little one, darling, shall I ever see you on earth 
 again? Shall I ever know if my heartless father really 
 drowned you ? How beautiful you must be if you are liv- 
 ing now ! It is ten years — ten sad, bitter years, full of 
 doubt and misery and pain — since he tore you away from 
 me in this very room. Little he thought my faith in my 
 boyish dream would last so long. It will always last ! He 
 may call me weakling, and may say that I am more than 
 half woman, but he will always find me firm enough in 
 this. I bend to him too much, but it hurts me to clash 
 with him. His words are like blows upon my head, and 
 the wounds he inflicts are slower to heal than knife- 
 thrusts.” 
 
 Slowly he walked up and down the chamber, pausing 
 each time before the picture. 
 
 “ I wonder,” he continued, as he replaced the panel, “if 
 you are bright-eyed, red-lipped, and round-limbed, like the 
 maidens I see every day in the streets — if you are not dead !” 
 
 Once more he removed the panel, but only for a mo- 
 ment. Then, with tearful eyes, he reluctantly covered the 
 picture again and threw himself on his bed. 
 
 It still lacked an hour of sunset. 
 
 When it was quite dark an old woman entered the room 
 with a lighted lamp. 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 25 
 
 She listened a moment to the young man’s regular 
 breathing, then she left the room with a sigh and carried 
 the lamp away with her. 
 
 “ Poor Master Fritz,” she said. “ Let him sleep. He has 
 no other comfort but his art, and his stubborn father tor- 
 tures half the pleasure out of that.” 
 
 About midnight the youth awoke, startled. Every nerve 
 was aroused and every sensibility was keenly alert. He 
 could feel that there was some indefinable, intangible, mys- 
 terious presence in the room. 
 
 He was not terrified, but awed. He held his breath, but 
 could detect no sound. Noiselessly he left his bed and 
 groped about. His hands touched nothing but the fur- 
 niture — the same furniture that was there when his 
 mother died. 
 
 Mother ! The sacred name brought a new thought. 
 Might not hers be the mystic presence he felt ? Involun- 
 tarily the word left his lips : 
 
 “ Mother ! ” 
 
 He heard a faint sigh and was then conscious that the 
 presence had passed and that he was alone again. 
 
 Just then the church clocks struck one. 
 
 . A strange sense of peace came to him, and there was 
 more happiness in his heart than had ever been there be- 
 fore. He believed that his mother had been with him, 
 and that her coming augured good. In that vivid half- 
 dream, half-vision of his boyhood, she had smiled. Misery 
 followed. Now she had sighed. Was not joy certain to 
 come of it ? 
 
 Perhaps he should find her — the one whom he had so 
 long mourned as dead ! Now, and for the first time, he 
 felt that she still lived. His mother had united them 
 before. Might it not be the same now ? 
 
 Morning came and found him still awake, still musing ; 
 shaping quaint fancies and linking odd thoughts to- 
 gether. 
 
 When the sun was an hour high he slept. 
 
 He awoke with a sound of music in his ears. Some 
 woman was singing. Was it an angel ? Surely he never 
 had heard such a voice before. 
 
 Every note was full, rich, and sweet — penetrating rather 
 than loud. The sound came from the street, and he hur- 
 ried out to see who the marvellous singer was. 
 
 A girl was standing on the pavement before the old 
 palace. The ripenesr of her form indicated fifteen or 
 
26 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 sixteen years, but if the record in her face was true she 
 was much younger. 
 
 It was from her throat that the sweet music came. 
 
 Her face, like her voice, was a revelation to him. Clad 
 in rags though she was, she was the loveliest creature 
 upon whom he had ever looked. 
 
 Her eyes were large and dark ; her hair, black and 
 luxuriant. There were dimples in her cheeks, and her 
 nose was of the most perfect Grecian type. The lily 
 whiteness of her face and neck was heightened by the 
 delicate glow on her cheeks. They looked as if some 
 master artist had touched them with his brush. Her chief 
 charm was her mouth. It united the spirituality of 
 Psyche with the voluptuousness of Aphrodite. Her lips 
 were neither thick nor thin, but indescribably beautiful. 
 No sculptor’s block ever yielded anything more faultless. 
 
 He gazed upon her in rapt amazement. He had seen 
 such women in paintings, but had never dreamed that 
 they had any existence beyond canvas, or the brain of 
 some inspired artist. 
 
 At first she did not see him. When she did she stopped 
 her song almost instantly, and came up the marble steps 
 to him. 
 
 Who are you ?” she asked, excitedly. 
 
 ‘‘ Nella,” called the two youths who were with her, and 
 who had accompanied her song with their mandolins. 
 
 Nella, come back. You must not trouble the young 
 gentleman.” 
 
 She answered them with a gesture of impatience, and 
 repeated her question. 
 
 ‘H am Fritz, the son of Count Ahmberg.” 
 
 She looked at him intently, and with a puzzled ex- 
 pression upon her face. 
 
 Did you ever see me before ? — a long while ago, I 
 mean.” 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 “ Never. I never saw anyone so beautiful before.” 
 
 Her cheeks reddened. 
 
 Please turn your head and let me see both sides of 
 your face.” 
 
 He obeyed her. 
 
 She scanned him closely, and her face became very 
 grave. 
 
 I certainly remember your face. I used to see it in my 
 dreams. It is in some way connected with my childhood.” 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 27 
 
 Her childhood ! How poverty matures one : She was 
 scarcely more than a child then, except in bitter ex- 
 perience — in the common pursuit for bread. 
 
 Before Fritz could answer her there was a shrill scream 
 from just behind him. 
 
 The door whence he came to see the singer was still 
 open, and an old woman was standing in it. There was a 
 wild look in her eyes, her lips trembled, and she was 
 pointing one of her long bony fingers at the girl. 
 
 ‘‘ My God !” she cried, ‘‘ Is that a phantom, Fritz, or a 
 real creature of flesh and blood ?” 
 
 The girl advanced, and peered into the old woman’s 
 face. 
 
 ‘‘ I am no phantom, madam,” she answered ; and I am 
 sure that we have seen each other before. I seem to re- 
 member you, as well as the young gentleman.” 
 
 ‘‘Who is she, Lucrezia ? ” demanded Fritz. “Do you 
 really know her?” 
 
 “Know her? Yes! She is Bianca’s daughter.” 
 
 “ Bianca’s daughter ? ” 
 
 “ Yes ; the daughter of the woman whom your father 
 would have married but for your mother. She is right. 
 She has seen us before. She is the dream-babe ! ” 
 
 Fritz grew deadly pale for a moment, and clutched at 
 the doorway for support. Then he caught the girl in his 
 arms, and covered her lovely face with kisses. 
 
 Astonished, she submitted passively for a moment ; then, 
 loosening his hands, she pushed him gently aside. 
 
 “Wait,” she said. “ I do not understand.” 
 
 “Tell me, dear,” said Lucrezia, “ by what name are you 
 called?” 
 
 “ Nella.” 
 
 “ And these boys who are witli you ?” 
 
 “They are my foster-brothers. Their father rescued 
 me from the Arno when I was a babe. Someone tried to 
 drown me, but I was taken from the water before I was 
 quite dead.” 
 
 Her words sunk into Fritz like so many knives. There 
 was no mistaking it, she was the dream-babe. His fore- 
 most thought was his father’s crime. If she knew of that, 
 he would lose her yet, try as he would, he could not stifle 
 the irresistible impulse to tell her. Some mystic agency, 
 some unknown power, was forcing him to make the awful 
 disclosure. 
 
 He struggled against it with all his might. 
 
28 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 Vainly, though. 
 
 The words came through his unwilling lips at last. It 
 seemed to Lucrezia that they were wrung from him, as if 
 some invisible Vehm Gericht were torturing him. 
 
 “ The man who threw you into the Arno was my father ! '' 
 
 ‘‘Your father ?” 
 
 “Yes.’^ 
 
 “Am I your sister, then ?” 
 
 “ No,” answered Lucrezia, “but you should be his wife.” 
 
 The girl’s face turned crimson, and she looked down at 
 her little bare feet. 
 
 “ His wife ! Why, I am but a child.” Then, casting a 
 shy, half-frightened glance at Fritz, she added : 
 
 “ He kissed me, too. No man ever did that before.” 
 
 Fritz was still under the influence of the mysterious and 
 resistless power. Lucrezia never saw him so animated be- 
 fore. His eyes looked as large and deep as Tasso’s. He 
 was no longer a flexible, mobile boy, but a dauntless and 
 impetuous man. He had developed in an instant. Hesi- 
 tancy, softness, all traces of faltering boyishness, were 
 gone. Still he was all Italian — Count Ahmberg’s son in 
 name only. 
 
 “ It is the power of love,” said Lucrezia, to herself, “ only 
 he does not fully realize it yet.” 
 
 He stepped forward and took Nella’s hands in his ; 
 reverently he raised them to his lips. 
 
 “ Listen, Nella ; listen, dear,” he said. “ I will tell you 
 all. When I came into the world my mother left it. My 
 father had broken her heart. 
 
 “ Before he married my mother he loved yours — though 
 I never knew it until to-day. He married my mother for 
 spite, and then, afterward, hated her because she was his 
 wife. 
 
 “ When I was a boy of six years my dead mother came 
 to me one night in a dream, and told me of a babe who 
 was lying alone in the lilies — the daughter of the lilies, she 
 called the little one. We went to her in my dream. There 
 she lay, all white and naked, by the Arno. 
 
 “ My mother said this babe would one day be my wife. 
 
 “ The next morning Lucrezia and I went out by the 
 Arno, and there we found you, just as I had dreamed, in a 
 bed of sweet, white lilies. 
 
 “ We brought you home with us, and for a whole day 
 you and I played together on the floor. It was the hap- 
 piest day of my life — until to-day. 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 29 
 
 ‘‘ You would have always stayed with us, but for a family 
 superstition which angered my father. He struck me 
 down, tore you away, and swore that he would cast you 
 into the Arno.” 
 
 “ So he did ! ” said the girl, and for a moment her eyes 
 blazed fiercely. Tell me — what was the superstition you 
 spoke of ? ” 
 
 is this: In my mother’s family each male infant 
 always weds the first naked female infant upon wliom he 
 looks. You were naked when we found you, and, so, if 
 the fates err not, you are to be my wife.” 
 
 The rich blood rushed into her face and neck, and again 
 she looked down at her bare feet. Her embarrassment 
 doubled her loveliness. 
 
 My father had about decided to keep you ; but lie does 
 not believe in fate. So, when he found out this super- 
 stition, it angered him, and he tried to destroy you.” 
 
 Then it was not because of my mother that he tried to 
 drown me ? ” 
 
 “ It was because of the superstition — nothing else,” said 
 Fritz. 
 
 “ It was fate,” said Lucrezia. ‘‘ It had to be so.” 
 
 Nella still suffered him to hold her hands. 
 
 *‘Did you not try to find me ?” she asked. 
 
 ‘‘ How could I, dear ? I was but six years old — a mere 
 babe myself.” 
 
 ‘‘ True.” 
 
 I have tried, though, ever since I was old enough. 
 Lucrezia and I have sought you everywhere.” 
 
 And you could find no trace of me ^ I have lived in 
 Florence ever since your father threw me into the Arno, 
 and I have passed this palace many times.” 
 
 Until yesterday I never found a trace.” 
 
 Yesterday ! ” exclaimed Lucrezia 
 
 “ What did you find then ? ” asked the girl. 
 
 ‘‘These,” said Fritz. 
 
 He drew from his neck the silken pouch containing the 
 “tokens” which he found under the balcony by the 
 Duomo. Her eyes glistened as he opened the pouch. 
 
 “Why, they are mine !” exclaimed the astonished girl. 
 “ I lost them yesterday morning when I Avas singing for 
 some students. “ What made you think them mine ? ” 
 
 “ My heart told me so.” 
 
 “ How strange — how very strange,” she murmured. 
 
 “ It is fate ! ” declared Lucrezia, solemnly. 
 
30 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 ‘‘The lily,” said the girl, was given me by Sister Teresa, 
 who taught me how to read, write, and sing.” 
 
 “No,” cried Fritz; “not the last; the angels taught 
 you that.” 
 
 She blushed again. 
 
 “The lute-chord and the glove-finger were in my hands 
 when they took me out of the Arno. I have always kept 
 them, hoping that they might in some way help me to 
 find my people.” 
 
 Lucrezia tottered forward. 
 
 “Let me see them.” And she took them from the girl’s 
 hands. 
 
 “They were your mother’s, Fritz,” she said, softly. 
 “They were valued keepsakes of hers. You must have 
 given them to the babe before your angry father dragged 
 her away.” 
 
 For a moment they looked at each other in silence. 
 
 “God’s will is stronger than man’s will,” said Lucrezia, 
 “and even Count Ahmberg cannot thwart it.” 
 
 “ Nella,” said Fritz, “ I have loved you ever since I first 
 saw you in my dream. All these years I have been sorrow- 
 ing for you. Stay with me now, dear. My heart is yours, 
 and some day you may care for me. Think of the dream, 
 and of my finding you in the lilies. It was not chance, 
 either, my finding the tokens yesterday. Last night my 
 mother came to me again, and then I knew that I should 
 find you. This morning you came. No, it is not chance. 
 My father is wrong ; Lucrezia is right. It is fate ! You 
 shall be wliat you will — my wife, by and by, or my sister — 
 only do not go away again.” 
 
 Slie wept. He put his arm around her and drew her 
 into the palace. Lucrezia followed. 
 
 Slie and Fritz showed Nella where his mother died, and 
 where, years ago, tlie little motherless boy had played on 
 the floor with the dream-babe. 
 
 Slie was deeply moved. How like a dream it was to 
 her ! How strangely was Fritz’s life interwoven with hers ! 
 It was reality, though. And Fritz, too, was so handsome, 
 so unlike the people whom she had known before. 
 
 What was her duty ? Should she stay there, or go back 
 to the hovel on the Arno, with old Taddeo and his hungry 
 family ? She had sung in the streets many a day for 
 them, and -the money she had brought them had well re- 
 paid all the care they had given her. Care ? She had 
 always been ragged and hungry! It was the best they 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 31 
 
 had, though, and they had always treated her kindly. Did 
 she not owe her life to them, in fact ? Yet, Fritz had fairly 
 opened the gates of pearl. 
 
 She sighed. It was such a trying question. Fritz and 
 Lucrezia had said that fate had restored her to them ; she 
 would let fate settle it. 
 
 Fritz removed the false panel in his chamber wall and 
 showed her the picture — the naked babe in the bed of 
 lilies. 
 
 “That is the way you looked when we found you/* he 
 said. 
 
 It interested her deeply. 
 
 “ Who drew it ? ** she asked. 
 
 “ I did.** 
 
 *‘You?’* 
 
 ‘‘Yes — from memory. Years after I lost you.” 
 
 She regarded him with awe. 
 
 “ Why, you are a very great artist.** 
 
 He laughed and kissed her hand. 
 
 “ Not great — scarcely an artist at all. All the art I have, 
 I owe to loving you so well.** 
 
 Just then there was a noise in the corridor. 
 
 “The Count has returned,** said Lucrezia, “and he will 
 come in here.** 
 
 Nella dreaded to see him. 
 
 “ Let me go,*’ she said. 
 
 “No,** said Fritz, “he will do you no harm, and the 
 sooner you meet him the better.** 
 
 A moment later the door opened and Count Ahmberg 
 entered. 
 
 His yellow hair was somewhat whitened, but he was still 
 an imperious German. 
 
 Nella had stepped to the dark side of the chamber, and 
 so he did not see her. The panel, however, was still open, 
 and he saw the picture. 
 
 A spasm of pain went over him. He sat down, without 
 speaking, and buried his face in his hands. 
 
 Nella moved softly toward the door, and would have es- 
 caped but for Fritz. 
 
 “Wait,** he whispered, “it will soon be over now, and 
 then all will be right.** 
 
 She was trembling violently, and clung to him for sup- 
 port and protection. 
 
 “I am so terrified,** she gasped. “Do let me go. Just 
 think — he tried to kill me once.** 
 
32 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLOREHCE. 
 
 ‘‘Hush. Do not disturb him. He will not attempt to 
 injure you again.'* 
 
 Lucrezia was surprised at the calmness of Fritz. She 
 had never seen him so before, in the presence of the Count. 
 
 “ It is the power of love," she muttered to herself. 
 “ Count Ahmberg, your tyrannous authority is dethroned 
 at last. It is justice. It is fate ! " 
 
 The Count sighed. Then he rose and stood before the 
 picture. 
 
 “Did you do this, my son ?" he asked, without looking 
 around. 
 
 “Yes." 
 
 “ It is very like her." There was pain in his voice. 
 
 “Yes," said Lucrezia, “it is much as her mother must 
 have been at the same age." 
 
 He started. 
 
 “ Why speak of her, Lucrezia ? " he asked, sadly 
 
 Her old eyes gleamed. She had triumphed after all. If 
 /je had a heart she would lacerate it now. 
 
 “ Because," she said, “ the time to speak has come. You 
 defied fate, and the defiance has come back upon you. 
 Your vengeance failed. The dream-babe, the daughter of 
 the lilies, is not at the bottom of the Arno. You could not 
 drown her ; it was willed otherwise. She still lives. It is 
 ten years since you took her away, and now she has come 
 back. Look ! " 
 
 He turned toward her, and his eyes followed her finger. 
 
 Fritz had drawn Nella out of the shadows, and the strong 
 light fell squarely upon her wondrous face. 
 
 The moment Count Ahmberg saw her, he forgot every 
 word that Lucrezia had said. 
 
 There was but one thought in his mind. He gasped for 
 breath and tore his collar away to free his throat. He 
 tottered, and then reached out his hands to the frightened 
 girl. 
 
 “ Bianca!" he whispered, hoarsely. 
 
 “ No," said Lucrezia. “ Not Bianca, but Bianca's daugh- 
 ter." 
 
 He understood. 
 
 “She whom I cast into the Arno. Oh, God I" 
 
 And then he fell, face downward, upon the floor. 
 
 Fritz, Nella, and Lucrezia looked at each other in silence. 
 
 Fritz alone was calm. 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 33 
 
 III. 
 
 IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 Day after day, and night after night, Count Ahmberg lay 
 moaning and tossing in his bed. 
 
 The physicians could do nothing for him ; his malady 
 baffled their skill. 
 
 Through the fever, which at times seemed wont to con- 
 sume him, body and soul, and through the violent chills 
 which succeeded that fever, at irregular intervals, he was 
 talking incessantly. 
 
 Try as they would, those who listened to him could dis- 
 tinguish but one intelligible word. That was ; 
 
 “ Bianca ! ” 
 
 At last they thought him dying. 
 
 All medicine having failed, the oldest of the physicians 
 thought of another expedient. 
 
 Who is this Bianca he talks of so much ?” he asked 
 Lucrezia, 
 
 ‘‘That is a family secret which I am pledged not to 
 divulge.’* 
 
 “ Altro ! ** exclaimed the doctor. “ Do you fancy that the 
 Count would like a family secret guarded at the expense 
 of his life?” 
 
 “His life?” 
 
 “ Exactly that. If I know this secret, I may succeed in 
 working upon his mind sufficiently to save him. Yet, if 
 you are indifferent ” 
 
 “ But I am not indifferent,” she declared, vehemently. 
 “If telling his private history will save his life, my lips are 
 unsealed. I am not the kind who gratifies curiosity with 
 gossip, though, and shall only talk if I am convinced that 
 it will do him good.” 
 
 His brusqueness was gone when he spoke again. 
 
 “ I respect what you say,” he replied, “and must confess 
 that I cannot promise you any certainty. It is an experi- 
 ment, at best. It may succeed and it may fail. Both are 
 possible ; the latter is probable. Still, it is our only hope.” 
 
 She stepped forward until her face nearly touched his, 
 and looked him searchingly in the eyes. 
 
 “ I believe you,” she said, finally, “and I will tell you. 
 Come.” 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 He started toward the door. 
 
 He pointed to the other physicians. 
 
 ‘‘ They must know, too,” he said. 
 
 She returned to her chair and sat down. 
 
 Not even to save his life,” she said. “ Not even to 
 save his life.” 
 
 The doctor frowned, but she was looking the other wa-’ 
 and did not see him. 
 
 “Very well,” he said, “ I will go with you.” 
 
 She fixed her eyes upon him again. 
 
 “ Do you swear to keep this secret ?” 
 
 “ I swear.” 
 
 They left the room together. 
 
 It was nearly an hour before they returned. 
 
 “ Send for the girl,” he said, as they came in. 
 
 In a few minutes Nella entered. 
 
 Her rags had long since been exchanged for soft, luxu- 
 riant silk, and though she was very pale, she was more 
 beautiful than ever. 
 
 The old physician took her hand and led her to one side 
 of the room, where they held a whispered consultation. 
 
 She seemed much moved, and was weeping when he left 
 her. 
 
 He then asked Fritz to take the other physicians into an 
 adjoining room and remain with them. 
 
 “ It may be two hours before you will be called,” he 
 said. “ I am going to try an agency on this man which is 
 more potent than medicine. It may save his life. If my 
 experiment fails, the failure will not hasten his death. Its 
 success depends upon the receptive condition of his mind. 
 When in health he is not impressionable ; in his present 
 state he may be. Upon that possibility, slender though it 
 is, I base my sole hope. My only reason for asking you 
 to leave us is for the sake of guarding Count Ahmberg's 
 secret.” 
 
 The doctor's voice was husky as he finished speaking, and 
 his eyes met Fritz's strangely. 
 
 Fritz shuddered. 
 
 What was that awful secret ? Would he ever know it ? 
 
 Then he prayed that his father's life might be spared 
 until — he scarcely knew what ; and the blind prayer died 
 in his heart before it was finished. 
 
 Stepping to the bedside he glanced down at his father. 
 Would that worn and moaning sufferer live two hours 
 more ? He doubted it and hesitated. 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 35 
 
 All eyes were fixed upon him, though he was uncon- 
 scious of it. No one could understand why he, who had 
 been so brave and firm all along, should be so irresolute 
 now. 
 
 Lucrezia, who had nursed him as a child, and had 
 watched with all of a mother’s eagerness his gradual un- 
 folding into young manhood best knew his moods. 
 
 She believed that he was surrendering his will to the 
 influence of some spiritual power. 
 
 What it was she could not guess, nor could she imagine 
 what its results might be in so critical a moment. 
 
 She felt that the Count’s life depended upon the cool- 
 ness of the old physician whom she had just intrusted 
 with a secret which she had sworn always to keep. The 
 old man knew nothing of Fritz’s exquisite and sensitive 
 organization, melancholy temperament, and delicate spirit- 
 uality. If he discovered it now, it might distract him from 
 his purpose until it was too late to try the experiment. 
 
 The present current of his thought must not be dis- 
 turbed. She must arouse Fritz, and hurry him and the 
 assistant doctors out of the room, instantly. 
 
 Gliding swiftly to the youth, she touched him on the 
 shoulder. There was a dreamy, bewildered expression 
 about his face as he looked around at her. 
 
 Fritz,” she said, Nella is weeping.” 
 
 The spell 'which was holding him was broken, instantly. 
 He brushed his eyes with his hands, and hastened to Nella. 
 
 Lucrezia smiled joyously. Fritz was himself again, calm 
 and firm. 
 
 ‘‘ Nella, darling,” he said tenderly, as he kissed the sob- 
 bing girl, “be brave for my sake. You are more to me 
 than anyone else in the world, and my father comes next. 
 Save him for me if you can, dear. I depend more upon 
 you tlian upon the doctor for the success of this mysteri- 
 ous experiment.” 
 
 He embraced her, and then started to leave the room. 
 
 “Come, gentlemen,” he said, as he opened the door 
 into the corridor. “ We must do our part — we must go,” 
 
 As soon as Nella, Lucrezia, and the old doctor were 
 alone the latter examined his patient. 
 
 “The Count is sinking rapidly,” he said. “If my 
 experiment fails, in half an hour he will be a dead man.” 
 
 Nella and Lucrezia exchanged glances. 
 
 Not a moment too soon had Fritz and the others gone 
 away. 
 
36 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 The old physician took a small vial from his medicine 
 case and parting the Count’s lips, emptied it in his throat. 
 
 For a moment, the old man watched Count Ahmberg 
 breathlessly. Then a satisfied looked came upon his face, 
 and, drawing a chair near the bedside, he sat down. 
 
 We shall succeed,” he whispered, ^‘but until 1 bid you 
 do so, you must not speak or make an audible sound of 
 any kind. His life depends upon utter silence. Be as- 
 sured, both of you, that the experiment is working to my 
 entire satisfaction ; and unless you hinder me, I shall 
 be able to save both his life and his reason. Do not, how- 
 ever, let anything you see surprise you.” 
 
 Lucrezia stood by the doctor’s side, and Nella was be- 
 hind him. Together they watched the Count. 
 
 Presently he ceased moaning and murmuring, and 
 seemed to be sleeping naturally. He kept breathing more 
 and more faintly until the movement of his chest stopped. 
 
 Then a dull, ashen pallor camempon his face. 
 
 Nella and Lucrezia looked at each other again, and then 
 at the Count. 
 
 Was he dead ? Had the doctor poisoned him ? 
 
 With a look of intense horror upon her face, Lucrezia 
 put out her hand to touch the sick man. 
 
 The doctor caught her by the arm, and scowled angrily. 
 She drew back, convinced that Count Ahmberg was dead, 
 and that the doctor was crazy. 
 
 This was the foolish experiment which she had consented 
 to have tried ; it had only resulted in the Count’s dying in 
 the absence of his son ! She cursed herself. 
 
 Nearly an hour the doctor and his disturbed companions 
 watched the prostrate man on the bed before them. 
 
 How differently each of the group regarded him. To 
 Nella, Count Ahmberg was little else than a fallen enemy ; 
 to Lucrezia he was the father of Fritz and the one upon 
 whom the young man’s fortunes depended, while to the 
 doctor he was simply an interesting patient whose custody 
 he was disputing with Death. 
 
 Lucrezia was staring at the floor, sullenly and with set 
 lips. 
 
 Suddenly she felt Nella’s hand clutch her sleeve. 
 
 The old woman looked at the girl. 
 
 Nella’s great dark eyes were fixed upon the face of the 
 supposed dead man. 
 
 Lucrezia looked, too, and could scarcely suppress a cry 
 of astonishment. 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 37 
 
 The Count's lips were moving, and there was a quiver 
 about his eyes. Then his chest heaved and stopped. Then 
 it heaved again, and stopped. 
 
 His hands twitched convulsively, a tremor ran through 
 his frame, the muscles in his legs drew up and relaxed, and 
 then he resumed breathing. 
 
 His face was still very pale, but the death-hue, which 
 had so terrified Lucrezia, was gone. 
 
 The doctor rubbed his hands together gleefully and 
 signed Nella to step to the bedside, where the Count's eyes 
 would rest upon her the moment he opened them. 
 
 Noiselessly she obeyed him. 
 
 Lucrezia, surprised and awe-stricken, could only stand 
 and stare at the sick man. 
 
 How she revered the old doctor. Was there ever a 
 greater man ? Why, here was one whom he had just 
 snatched from the very grave ! 
 
 What a fool she had been to distrust him, and how glad 
 she was that she had not openly rebelled against him — she 
 might have killed the master ! 
 
 As the doctor watched what he considered the resuscita- 
 tion of the Count, he thought what tremendous chances 
 he had taken. He had succeeded so far, but he might fail 
 yet, as the most perilous moment was still to come. 
 
 The drug he had administered was very volatile. Its 
 purpose was to produce a stupor as near death as possible. 
 
 When the patient entered this stupor there was an equal 
 strain upon mind and body. 
 
 During the action of the drug, the nerve-centres would 
 be dormant and the mind comatose. 
 
 As the stupor passed the body would regain activity first 
 and it would still be half an hour before the mind would 
 begin recovering from the lethargic effects of the drug. 
 
 The mind having rested more than the body would for 
 a single instant be normal. 
 
 That would be the trying moment ! 
 
 If the opening eyes of the patient first rested upon some 
 object which made an agreeable impression upon the mind 
 tlie mental balance would be restored in full vigor. If the 
 first object seen produced a mental shock the reason would 
 be dethroned for ever ! 
 
 So upon this one rational instant the success or failure 
 of the experiment hinged. 
 
 The Count was moving about uneasily in his bed, and 
 was likely to open his eyes at any moment. 
 
33 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 Now that the crisis was at hand the doctor became ner- 
 vous and excited. 
 
 Had he been too sanguine ? 
 
 Nella, true enough, had been made by the arrangement 
 of her hair and dress, to closely resemble Bianca her 
 mother, whose name had been on the Count’s lips through- 
 out his illness. 
 
 Bianca’s was the last image on his mind before the 
 deadening stupor overcame his senses. 
 
 If, when he opened his eyes, he saw Nella and thought 
 her Bianca, the doctor felt certain that the complete re- 
 covery and restoration of his patient was inevitable. 
 
 Then another thought came to the old physician which 
 made him tremble. Strange it was that he had not given 
 that point consideration from the very first. It was as he 
 now thought the most vital point of all. 
 
 What if the Count recognized Nella as she really was — as 
 Bianca’s daughter ? In his enfeebled condition would it not 
 precipitate the very calamity they were so anxious to avert ? 
 
 It was Nella who had caused this intractable illness ! 
 The Count had been stricken down at sight of her ! 
 
 Would it not have a similar — nay, a worse elfect, now ? 
 Before, he had been in robust health and in the full 
 possession of all his faculties ; now he was so near death 
 that the slightest shock would destroy him. 
 
 Cold sweat stood on the doctor’s brow. Of what 
 egregious folly he had been guilty ! 
 
 His hopes had narrowed down to one, and that had less 
 tangibility than a spider’s web. 
 
 If Count Ahrnberg opened his eyes the moment his 
 mind was free from the stupor, the deception might be 
 consummated — he might mistake Nella for Bianca. That 
 was the slender chance. 
 
 The delay of two seconds would so completely restore 
 the sick man’s mental poise that the illusion would then 
 be impossible. 
 
 He would know Nella, and God alone knew the rest. 
 
 By a powerful effort the doctor nerved himself for the 
 result. 
 
 There was still time — he could send Nella away and 
 summon Fritz ; he would produce no shock. 
 
 The new hope was gone as quickly as it came. The 
 change could not be made without noise, an explanation, 
 and a delay. It was time for the patient to come out of 
 his somnolence, and too late to send Nella away. 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 39 
 
 The doctor wavered for the smallest conceivable space 
 of time between two opinions, and then decided that it 
 would be best, after all, to send Nella from the chamber. 
 
 He reached out his hand to touch the girl. 
 
 Then the Count opened his eyes. 
 
 He looked straight into Nella’s face and smiled. 
 
 The doctor was never more surprised in his life. His 
 keen perception showed him that Count Ahmberg was 
 not in the least deceived. He had recognized Nella ! 
 
 The lips of the sick man moved as if he was speaking. 
 
 Nella bent her head down. 
 
 ‘‘You know all, dear girl,” whispered the Count. “ Can 
 you forgive me ? ” 
 
 She kissed his brow. 
 
 “ I not only forgive you, but I love you,” she said. 
 
 O wondrous woman-heart ! Let your compassion and 
 pity be appealed to, and whom could you not love ? You, 
 degraded, villified, and maligned, would forsake the 
 mercies of heaven and descend into Hades to moisten 
 the parching lips of your tortured enemy ! What man 
 would do as much? Not even Lazarus, upon the bo- 
 som of Abraham. 
 
 The doctor leaned forward and peered down into his 
 patient's face. With a suppressed cry of joy he hurried 
 out of the room. 
 
 Once in the corridor, he danced and laughed like a 
 madman. Professional dignity was forgotten. 
 
 “Tears! tears!” he cried, as Fritz and the assistant 
 doctors came forward. “ He is in tears ! He is safe ! ” 
 
 As soon as his paroxysm of joy subsided a little, he led 
 the others to the sick chamber. 
 
 They paused in the doorway, touched to the heart. 
 
 Nella was kneeling by the bedside. Her arms were 
 about the Count, and his were about her. They were 
 weeping together. 
 
 The recovery of the Count was rapid. In a month he 
 was able to be driven about the streets. 
 
 How beautiful the City of Lilies seemed to him ! 
 Never before had he so perfectly realized its rare loveliness. 
 He thought that he must have developed a new sense. 
 There was glory everywhere. The glory of light, scent 
 and color ; the glory of young faces and merry voices. 
 His cynical materialism was gone — he hoped forever. 
 Sometimes he smilingly declared himself as much a mystic 
 as Fritz. 
 
40 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 Those were joyous days. Even the approach of chill 
 winter sent no gloom into the old Etruscan palace. The 
 mirth and sunshine in their hearts was sufficient to ward 
 off all disturbance from the outer world. 
 
 Before the first snow came the Count was entirely well 
 again. 
 
 To him, Nella was already a daughter, and she awarded 
 him all of a daughter’s devotion. 
 
 At first she was fearful that she was living in dreamland ; 
 some trance-like state which would eventually leave her 
 once more in old Taddeo’s hovel, on the Arno — only a 
 street singer and a beggar. 
 
 But the atmosphere of love with which she was surround- 
 ed in Count Ahmberg’s palace soon dispelled her last fear. 
 
 She was happier than she had ever thought it possible 
 for any one to be, even in heaven. 
 
 The only thought which troubled her was of her mother. 
 Why did they never mention her now ? She sighed. There 
 must be some good reason for this silence. She would 
 wait and see. They must speak some time ; of that she 
 felt certain. She would try to be patient ; but patience is 
 so difficult for a child. 
 
 Alas ! the human heart is never content. It is best so. 
 Were it otherwise, who would strive to win heaven ? 
 
 Winter soon made way for spring, and then the lilies 
 came again. The beautiful lilies which she and Fritz 
 loved so well, since it was to the mute symbolry of these 
 fair things that they owed so much of their happiness. 
 
 With the spring came one slight cloud. Slight because 
 it did not long overshadow her. 
 
 Maso, old Taddeo’s eldest son, came to the palace one 
 day and asked to see her alone. 
 
 He told her that all the rest of Taddeo’s household re- 
 garded her as dead. To him she was still the same, only 
 dearer than ever. He had never loved her as a sister, but 
 as something better. He could no longer live without a 
 word of hope from her. She should not be hurried, she 
 should wait as long as she chose, but would she not 
 promise to be his wife some day ? They would go away 
 from Taddeo, away from Florence, away from every one 
 whom they knew ; they would go to Rome, where he had 
 a rich cousin who would start them in life. 
 
 And so he went on for a long time. She was so surprised 
 at first that she could not speak. When she could she told 
 him he was mad ; what he asked was impossible. 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 41 
 
 She was fond of him, because he had always been kindest 
 to her of any of Taddeo’s household. She would always 
 be his friend, but his wife — never ! She doubted if she 
 would ever be any one’s wife. 
 
 “ That is because you are the daughter of a prince, and 
 feel above the contadini,” he shouted angrily, as he rushed 
 away. 
 
 The daughter of a prince ! What could Maso mean ? 
 
 She walked along through the corridor with her head 
 down. Maso had pained her with his love ; she was sorry. 
 Still it was not her fault. She never had dreamed that he 
 thought of her as anything but a sister. Maso’s wife ! It 
 shocked her. 
 
 She stopped and leaned against a column in the corridor. 
 She had brushed against Count Ahmberg without seeing 
 him, and was standing within a foot of him, entirely 
 unaware of his presence. 
 
 “ Am I really the daughter of a prince ? ” she asked her- 
 self, half audibly. 
 
 The Count laughed, caught her in his arms, and kissed 
 her. 
 
 You really are,” he said. Your father was a German. 
 In that country there are more princes than thalers. 
 Nobles are thicker than the grilli that sing here in the 
 corn. Many a German of high rank cannot get enough 
 money to buy him a dinner.” 
 
 His drollery made her laugh. 
 
 ‘‘Why were you so absorbed a moment ago ?” he asked. 
 “You looked as if some evil had befallen you.” 
 
 “ Indeed there has.” 
 
 And then she told him of Maso. He laughed and then 
 he frowned. 
 
 “The beggar may do you some harm. It is too bad to 
 have you annoyed so. The servants must not admit him 
 again.” 
 
 “ It was hard of him to say that I felt above the con- 
 tadini, because my father was a prince,” she said, in a 
 grieved tone. 
 
 The Count started, and his face wore a graver look than 
 she had ever seen on it before. 
 
 “ He, Maso, spoke of that ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ My God ! ” he exclaimed. 
 
 She looked at him in astonishment. Then she under- 
 stood. 
 
42 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 Maso knew her history ! 
 
 ‘‘Nella/’ said the Count, “this beggar, Maso, forces me 
 into the performance of a duty which I had meant should 
 be delayed longer. To-morrow I will tell you all. I must 
 run no risk of its coming to you from unfriendly lips.” 
 
 “ Was there a reason for keeping this matter from me ?” 
 
 “ Yes ; a grave one.” 
 
 “ Will to-morrow remove it ? ” 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “ Then do not tell me yet.” 
 
 He was amazed. 
 
 “ You can trust me,” she continued. “ No lips but yours 
 shall disclose this secret to me. Do not speak until there 
 is no longer a reason for silence. I can wait.” 
 
 He kissed both her hands. 
 
 “You have so much faith in me, Nella ?” 
 
 “There is no one in whom I have more faith.” 
 
 “ But what I have to tell you may make you hate me.” 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 “ Be assured— it will not.” 
 
 And then she ran away to find Fritz. He had removed 
 the false panel, and was looking at the picture of the 
 dream-babe. 
 
 She stole into the chamber so softly that he did not hear 
 her until she spoke. 
 
 “ Turn from the picture and behold the original,” she 
 said, bombastically. 
 
 He turned with a laugh, and caught her in his arms. 
 
 “ What did Maso want ? ” he asked. 
 
 She told him. 
 
 “ What if it had been someone else ? ” 
 
 “ Who else would dare talk that way to me ? ” 
 
 He kissed her. 
 
 “ I might,” he answered. 
 
 She hung her head to hide the color in her face and 
 neck. 
 
 “ Nella,” he said, softly, “ it is a year now since you came 
 back to me. May I not hope, ere long, to call you wife ?” 
 
 Her emotion was so intense that she did not answer him 
 immediately. At length, she gave him one hasty glance, 
 and dropped her eyes again. 
 
 “ Do I need to answer ? Can you not tell ? You know 
 that I am yours — all yours.” 
 
 Ah ! what lover can forego the bliss of confirmation ? 
 Though the heart of his mistress may lie open to him, 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 43 
 
 like a map, he is not content until he hears from her lips 
 that sweetest of all confessions. 
 
 Weeks made months, until a year had passed ; and then 
 another year. It was again the season of lilies. 
 
 Fritz was in a sheltered niche in the top of the palace 
 watching the clouds. 
 
 It was about raining. 
 
 As the hour of midnight was tolled from the church 
 clocks, Fritz went back, in memory, to another rainy 
 midnight— fifteen years ago. It was then that he first 
 dreamed of his mother and Nella. 
 
 Before another year was gone Nella would be his wife. 
 She had just promised him that. 
 
 Presently a drop of rain came, and then another. 
 Faster and faster they fell, until the whole sky seemed 
 one mighty mass of descending water. 
 
 He never saw it rain so before. Out of shelter one 
 would be drenched to the skin instantly— no matter how 
 dressed. Clothing would afford no protection in such a 
 storm. 
 
 Occasionally someone went hurrying along the street. 
 They looked ghost-like and dim. There was no trace of 
 proportion — scarcely of shape. Two yards from his eyes 
 everything was indistinct and vague. 
 
 Then three of those shadowy figures seemed to emerge 
 from the palace. They were carrying a large bundle be- 
 tween them. 
 
 Probably the storm had driven them into the porch 
 for a few minutes until they could get their breath. 
 
 He watched them until they disappeared. They went 
 in the direction of the Duomo. 
 
 His heart began thumping violently. What made it ? 
 He smiled. It was midnight, the mystic hour when all 
 of his manifestations had come to him. Was some 
 phantom near him again ? 
 
 Then he started in horror; he had seen nothing, he 
 had heard nothing, but he was certain that something 
 had happened to Nella — some disaster. 
 
 He tried to shake off the impression and laugh it 
 away, but he could not, so he sprang inside of the 
 palace and darted down the stairs. 
 
 Lucrezia heard him, and opened her door before he 
 reached it. 
 
 “What is it ?” she asked. 
 
 “ See if Nella is safe. Be quick ! ” he commanded. 
 
44 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 In a moment Lucrezia shrieked, and Fritz rushed into 
 the girl's room. 
 
 Lucrezia stood in the middle of the floor wringing her 
 hands. 
 
 Nella was gone ! 
 
 Her bed was tumbled, and the whole chamber was in 
 confusion. 
 
 Her little jeweled dagger lay near the door, and it was 
 stained with blood. 
 
 What if it was her blood ! 
 
 It could not be. All the powers combined could not 
 take her from him now. Yet her abduction, for such it 
 must be, dazed him. 
 
 What did it mean ? Who had done it ? 
 
 Ah ! He remembered the three shadowy figures he 
 had seen from above. They who went toward the 
 Duomo. 
 
 Perhaps their mysterious bundle was Nella ! 
 
 He dashed out of the palace and along the wet street 
 toward the Duomo. The rain blinded him, and the rain 
 tried to force him back ; but love lent him wings, and on 
 he went. 
 
 Three figures were passing the Duomo. They were 
 carrying a bundle. He went faster. They saw him, and 
 stepped under the balcony where the cat had played with 
 the ‘Hove-tokens." 
 
 As he came up one of the figures sprang out and 
 struck him on the head with a billet of wood. He fell 
 like lead, and lay motionless. 
 
 Then the three moved on with their bundle. 
 
 IV. 
 
 FACE TO FACE. 
 
 Out of the Storm under the protection of the balcony 
 Fritz lay unconscious — unconscious that a woman had 
 opened a door near his head and was looking down at him. 
 
 It was so dark that she went back for a lamp. By its 
 aid she saw Fritz's face. She let the lamp fall to the 
 pavement with a crash, and clasped her liands excitedly. 
 
 ‘‘ His son ! " she exclaimed ; ‘‘ his son ! And at my very 
 doors I 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 45 
 
 Then she rushed out into the rain, and looked after the 
 three who had just gone away. 
 
 Can it be they have the father ? Is that whom they 
 are bearing off ? He must feel my vengeance. I must 
 follow them. I will not be cheated after waiting so long ! 
 
 She returned to the door and called, and several servants 
 came in response. One of them, a handsome boy, she 
 bade follow her, and the others to care for Fritz. 
 
 Then she and the stripling dashed away in the rain. 
 
 They were soon in sight of those who were carrying the 
 bundle, and the woman could scarcely restrain her im- 
 patience enough to keep at a prudent distance behind 
 them. 
 
 As they crossed the Ponte Vecchio the woman felt in her 
 bosom for her dagger. It was there, and a smile of satis- 
 faction came upon her face. 
 
 I will save him if necessary,** she muttered. I will 
 save him — for myself.*’ 
 
 The three men loitered. Several times they put down 
 their bundle and rested. It seemed to the woman that 
 they would never reach their destination. Each instant was 
 an age to her. 
 
 The men finally stopped before a miserable hovel on the 
 Arno. One of them opened the door and the others car- 
 ried the bundle in. 
 
 Like a leopard the woman glided up to the nearest win- 
 dow and peered in. 
 
 The men had laid their bundle on the floor, and one of 
 them began undoing it 
 
 Breathlessly the woman at the window watched him. 
 All at once she started back in surprise. 
 
 “ It is a woman,** she said, in an undertone. 
 
 Then turning to her boyish companion she laughed. 
 
 Our long journey in the rain was for naught When 
 those villains undid their bundle I expected to see some 
 one else — a man ** 
 
 A movement in the hovel caused her to stop speaking 
 and press closer to the dirty little window. 
 
 An old crone who had arisen from a pile of rags was 
 leaning over the seemingly unconscious woman whom the 
 men had brought with them. 
 
 ‘‘So, Maso,** mumbled the crone, “you have brought 
 Mistress Nella home again ?*’ 
 
 “Yes, mother. Her days of finery and idleness are 
 over.** 
 
46 
 
 THIi. LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 “ You have not killed her ?’’ 
 
 “No, fool; not that. I shall take her with me to the 
 mountains. She had better be my wife than vounff 
 Ahmberg’s wanton/' ^ ^ 
 
 ‘‘ They will find her here, and then we shall all suffer for 
 your folly/* 
 
 ‘‘ Then they will nave to come soon ; I start for the 
 mountains in two hours/* 
 
 ‘‘You always were a fool about that girl,** growled the 
 crone. A pity it is your father did not leave her in the 
 Arno where he found her. When I think of all that she 
 has cost us I could kill her myself.** 
 
 He shook his finger at her. 
 
 “ Patience, gentle mother,” he said, tauntingly. “ Harm 
 to her means death to the one who harms her.** 
 
 Then he stooped and shook the maiden who lav at his 
 feet. 
 
 “Come, rouse you,** he said ; “ it is time you are out of 
 this.** 
 
 She did not stir. 
 
 “ You have killed her yourself, my fine young* g:entle- 
 man,** laughed the crone. J S ^ ^ 
 
 “ It is only the drug,** he answered. “ She will soon be 
 cursing my mother's eldest son for taking her away from 
 her shame.’* 
 
 He raised Jsiella up and placed her in a rickety chair. 
 That same chair had been her bed many a night when 
 she was a babe. 
 
 Maso stood behind her and let her head lie back against 
 his shoulder. How she would have spurned that pillow 
 had she known it ! 
 
 “Nella,** he said, softly; “ Nella, will you never open 
 your eyes again?’ 
 
 A loud scream outside the hovel caused him to let the 
 girl’s head fall forward and spring to the door. 
 
 “ Who is there ?” he shouted. 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 “It is the officers,” mumbled the crone. “They are 
 after her. We shall all die yet because of that girl.” 
 
 “ Stop your croaking,” commanded Maso as he seized 
 a burning stick from the hearth and went out into the 
 storm. 
 
 The scream which startled Maso and his companions 
 came from the throat of the woman who had followed 
 them through the rain. She dropped flat on the ground 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 47 
 
 under the window the moment she uttered the involun- 
 tary cry and pulled the boy down beside her. 
 
 Maso came past them with his torch, but he never once 
 looked down, so they escaped his eyes. As soon as he 
 went back into the hovel the woman arose to her feet and 
 glanced into the window' again for a single instant. 
 
 She was trembling violently, when she turned to the boy. 
 
 Go back to the city,” she said, “ for help. Bring offi- 
 cers, or anyone who will come. Tell whoever you find 
 that they will be paid well for following you here. Give 
 them this purse and these jewels for pledges. Bid them 
 fly. Be quick. Run as fast as you can.” 
 
 The boy darted away so swiftly that he vanished from 
 her sight as if the storm had caught him up and borne him 
 off. 
 
 When he was gone the woman returned to the window. 
 Long and earnestly she gazed at Nella. The tears ran 
 down her cheeks and she was quivering with emotion. 
 Pressing her hands to her head she moaned. 
 
 Was I deceived sixteen years ago,” she murmured, 
 after a little while, ‘‘or am I deceived now? They told 
 me my babe was dead, and I never once doubted them 
 until to-night. But this girl before me — is she my daughter? 
 Oh, God, I do not know ! Why does my heart flutter so 
 with dumb pain ? Why does it not tell me whether, as a 
 babe, I clasped that fair girl to my breast ? ” and then, 
 overcome with anguish and doubt, she threw herself upon 
 the wet, muddy ground and wept bitterly. 
 
 The relentless wind and the drenching, pelting rain were 
 nothing to her. There was a fiercer storm in her breast. 
 
 She wondered if human hearts ever broke ; hers had 
 been near breaking a thousand times, but never so near as 
 now. 
 
 Self-possession was slow in returning, and it was a long 
 while before she was calm. When she looked in at the 
 window again her teeth suddenly set, and she tore her 
 dagger from her bosom as if she was about rushing into the 
 hovel. Discretion restrained her in time, and she stayed 
 where she was. 
 
 Nella had regained consciousness, and they had gagged 
 her and bound her to her chair ! 
 
 Maso and the two men who had assisted him in the ab- 
 duction of the girl were sitting on the floor smoking. 
 
 Nella’s eyes wandered everywhere except to the window, 
 outside of which the woman was standing. 
 
48 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 Time and again the woman thought she heard approach- 
 ing voices, and each time, when she found that she was 
 deceived, her despondoncy was increased. 
 
 “ Has the boy lost his way, or will no one come with 
 him ? Fool that I am, I should have gone myself.’* 
 
 The wind and the rain were her only answer. Inside 
 the cabin the men still smoked, and Nella’s eyes were still 
 glittering with vigilant hopefulness. 
 
 “ Oh ! girl ! girl ! girl ! ” exclaimed the woman ; you 
 are young, innocent, and unaware of your danger. May 
 heaven, if there be a heaven, protect you ! But it will not. 
 It is woman’s fate to sin and sorrow. Oh ! God ! I never 
 knew what dishonor meant until now ! If these villains 
 are foiled, and this girl really is my daughter, how 
 can I tell her who I am? Such a mother ! I sink under 
 the blow which my own hand has inflicted. Yes, my 
 own hand ; mine was the first transgression. This sweet 
 child, if her arms were about me, could take me to the 
 realm of eternal bliss ; but there is such a bridge between 
 us. I dare not even let her know whose hand saves her. 
 Never before did I so feel the penalty of error and the 
 weight of sin.” 
 
 There was unmistakably the sound of approaching 
 voices now, and the woman stepped away from the win- 
 dow so that the light might not betray her to unfriendly 
 eyes. 
 
 Then a slight form rushed toward her out of the darkness, 
 and the boy, her messenger, caught her eagerly by the arm. 
 
 I found help,” he said, breathlessly ; three officers 
 and another man are with me.” 
 
 She clasped the boy to her breast and kissed him. How 
 wet he was ? It was the first time she had thought of the 
 storm. 
 
 “ All blessings be yours, faithful boy,” she said. What 
 you will receive for this night’s work will keep you in 
 comfort all your life.” 
 
 Her pleasure at what he had accomplished was more to 
 liim than the promised reward. 
 
 Here are the men I brought you,” ne said, as they 
 came up. 
 
 She stepped forward to meet them. 
 
 The fury of the storm was increasing, and the group 
 outside of the hovel could scarcely stand before it. 
 
 ''Did you send this boy for assistance ?” asked one of 
 the officers. 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 49 
 
 ‘‘Yes. Some ruffians have abducted a young girl. For 
 what purpose I do not know. She is in this hovel, bound 
 and gagged. Save her, unharmed, and whatever price you 
 choose to demand for the service is yours.” 
 
 The man bowed respectfully. 
 
 “We will try to do our duty,” he said. “That was our 
 purpose in coming. Still, if we can do what you ask, and 
 you offer us recompense, we are too poor to refuse it.” 
 
 While he was speaking the others advanced to the win- 
 dow which had been the woman’s post of observation. 
 
 “ It will be easy to get the girl,” said one of the officers, 
 as the woman joined them. “We have only to break the 
 door in and seize all the others.” 
 
 “ Do so quickly, then,” said the man who came with the 
 officers. 
 
 Something in his voice startled the woman and caused 
 here to gaze into his face, but the darkness prevented her 
 distinguishing his features ; so, half in doubt, she returned 
 to the window, while the others moved cautiously toward 
 the door. 
 
 How her heart beat ! Was it wholly because of the 
 danger of the girl in the hovel, or had the voice which she 
 had just heard some part in it ? She could not tell. 
 
 With her face pressed closely against the window, she 
 anxiously awaited the opening of the door. 
 
 Maso still sat on the floor smoking. His two com- 
 panions were sleeping near him. The crone lay in the 
 corner among her rags. 
 
 Nella’s eyes wandered from Maso to the door, and 
 thence back to Maso, continually. 
 
 Well she knew her fate unless help came. Disappointed 
 in winning her love, Maso had waited for what seemed a 
 safe moment in which to carry her off by force. 
 
 He and his brothers had invaded her bed-chamber and 
 awakened her. She had resisted them with all her might, 
 and stabbed one of them with her dagger ; but they soon 
 overcame her, and forced some noxious drug into her 
 mouth. Almost instantly she became senseless ; when 
 she came to she was in old Taddeo’s hovel. In answer to 
 the first W’ord which she then uttered, Maso had bound 
 and gagged her. 
 
 How angry it made her to think it all over i How sud- 
 denly and exasperatingly was her happy life overshad- 
 owed ! From those halcyon days in Count Ahmberg’s 
 palace, where, as the betrothed wife of Fritz, earth had 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 been sweeter than paradise, she had been snatched away 
 to please the impulse of a pauper. 
 
 It was the first she had realized how much she loved 
 Fritz. 
 
 Was he lost to her forever ? It could not be ; surely 
 heaven would not permit that. 
 
 Would he find that she was gone, and seek her in time ? 
 She doubted if he would think of Maso ; she had almost 
 forgotten his protested love herself. No one would know 
 in what direction to search for her. 
 
 Still, she believed that she would in some way escape 
 Maso. If help did not come, she would save herself. She 
 would feign content, and so obtain something with which 
 she could kill her cowardly abductor. 
 
 The thought of vengeance sent a gold glitter into her 
 eyes. Vengeance, next to love, is woman’s sweetest 
 thought. 
 
 There was a knife on the floor near Maso’s hand. Its 
 blade was long and keen. How much she wanted to run 
 it through his heart ! 
 
 Then the window fell in. 
 
 The woman outside had leaned too heavily against it. 
 
 She disappeared the instant of her mishap, and no one 
 in the hovel saw her. 
 
 Knife in hand, Maso sprang to his feet. So did his 
 brothers. 
 
 Their eyes were fixed upon the rude casement whence 
 the sash had fallen. 
 
 It was the wind,” muttered Maso, after a moment. 
 
 The storm drove the window in.” 
 
 Nella’s eyes glistened with a new emotion. Her per- 
 ception was keener than Maso’s. 
 
 She knew that he was mistaken. No draught followed the 
 falling of the sash. The wind was blowing from the oppo- 
 site direction ! 
 
 She believed that someone had pushed the window in. 
 
 What if it was help ? 
 
 The thought made her heart beat so loudly that she 
 feared Maso would hear it. 
 
 He crossed the room, and picking up the sash, re- 
 placed it. 
 
 Then the door was thrown open, and Count Ahmberg 
 sprang in, followed by the three officers. 
 
 Maso knew’ that this unexpected arrival meant some- 
 thing worse than death for him, so he determined to 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 51 
 
 invoke capital punishment and thwart Count Ahmberg at 
 the same moment. 
 
 With uplifted knife he rushed upon Nella. The Count 
 seized him and flung him aside. 
 
 Then the crone tripped Count Ahmberg, and he fell 
 upon his face at Nella’s feet. 
 
 With the quickness of lightning, and with the yell of a 
 fiend, Maso caught Nella by the shoulder, and, raising 
 his knife again, aimed his downward stroke at her bosom. 
 
 Believing that death was upon her the helpless girl 
 closed her eyes. 
 
 Down came the knife, but not in the girl’s heart. 
 
 The Count had risen upon his knees, and the murderous 
 blade, which he was unable to arrest, went straight 
 through his left hand. 
 
 Nella was saved ! 
 
 Maso missed his aim and lost his balance at the same 
 time, and sprawled upon the floor between Nella and the 
 Count. 
 
 The next moment Count Ahmberg’s foot was crushing 
 Maso’s throat. 
 
 Having secured his struggling brothers, the officers 
 then came forward and bound Maso. 
 
 Coolly pulling the knife from his wounded hand, the 
 Count wiped the blood from the blade, and cut the ropes 
 which held Nella a captive in the chair. Removing the 
 gag from her mouth he pressed her to his heart. 
 
 ‘‘ Dear Nella,” he said, you are safe at last ! ” 
 
 ‘‘ How did you find me ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Some woman — some angel, I think — saw these ruffians 
 carrying you away. She followed you here, and sent a 
 boy for help. I was in the streets looking for you, and 
 met the boy and the officers at the Ponte Vecchio. Con- 
 vinced that I would find you here I came with them.” 
 
 ‘‘The woman must have been an angel !” said Nella. 
 
 “Yes,” said a voice at her side; “ but an angel with 
 scorched wings.” 
 
 Count Ahmberg started as if another knife had been 
 thrust into him. It was years since he had heard that 
 voice. 
 
 He and Nella turned their heads and looked into the 
 face of the woman to whom the girl owed her rescue. 
 
 The woman had once been very beautiful, and still 
 had a remarkable face ; but it was grooved with sorrow 
 lines, and her hair was white. 
 
52 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 “Count Ahmberg,’' she said, “you have just performed 
 the bravest act of your life. An hour ago I could have 
 slain you. Now I would kill anyone who raised a 
 hand against you. Do not speak my name, but tell me if 
 this girl is not the daughter of— you know who ?” 
 
 His tongue seemed frozen. He could not speak ; but 
 she saw her answer in her eyes. 
 
 “I was sure of it!’* she muttered. Then turning to 
 Nella, she continued: “Dear, I was a friend of your 
 mother’s. For her sake, will you let me kiss you once — 
 not on your pure mouth — on your cheek ; I cannot pol- 
 lute that ? ” 
 
 Nella took the woman’s face between her hands and 
 kissed her lips again and again. 
 
 “ It is you,” she said, “ whom I must thank for my 
 rescue — for my life.’* 
 
 “Nay,” said the woman. “You owe your thanks to 
 Count Ahmberg and to God. Yes, to God ! I once more 
 believe that there is a God ! ” 
 
 Then, with a sad smile, she took Count Ahmberg’s arm 
 and asked him to step aside with her for a moment. 
 
 In silent wonderment Nella watched them cross the room 
 together. 
 
 A friend of her mother’s ! And how strangely she had 
 spoken. Nella’s mind was in a tumult. Suspicion fol- 
 lowed suspicion, and doubt followed doubt. 
 
 “Count Ahmberg,” said the woman, “you have saved a 
 life that is dearer to me than my own, and so you have 
 cancelled my hatred. Tell me, how came she with you ? ” 
 
 “ Lucrezia found her in the lilies when she was but a 
 year old.” 
 
 “ Has she been with you ever since ?” 
 
 “ No. She lived in this hovel for several years.” 
 
 “ In this hovel ? ” 
 
 “Yes; through my stubbornness. I tried to drown her, 
 and the husband of yonder hag saved her life. She came 
 back to us four years ago, and now she is to marry Fritz.” 
 
 “ Yx\\,z—your son ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 She wept even more bitterly than she did under the win- 
 dow an hour before. 
 
 “And you consented willingly ?” 
 
 “ I consented gladly'" 
 
 For some time she was silent and stood looking at the 
 floor. 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 53 
 
 “All the happiness T have ever known I owe to you/* 
 she said. “ Tell me how to thank you for this.** 
 
 “ By taking the place in my household which you have 
 always had in my heart.*’ 
 
 She looked at him in surprise. 
 
 “ I do not understand you,” she said. 
 
 “ Be my wife ?” 
 
 A look of horror came upon her face. 
 
 “Your wife ! *’ she murmured. “Impossible ! Do not 
 tempt me with such happiness.” 
 
 “ Do you not love me ? I see the old light in your eyes.** 
 
 “ Love you ? Aye, too well to smear your home with 
 pitch.” 
 
 “ But why not marry me ? Your husband is dead.” 
 
 “Husband! I never had a husband!” she exclaimed, 
 bitterly. 
 
 “ What else could you call him ? You thought the mar- 
 riage legal.” 
 
 “ I found out the mistake, though, when it was too late.” 
 
 “What matters it ? You are pure and spotless as you 
 have always been. That accursed trick has made you none 
 the worse.” 
 
 “ It gave me a nameless daughter,” she said, glancing 
 sadly at Nella. 
 
 “You are morbid, Bianca,** answered the Count. 
 
 “ Hush, do not speak my name so loudly. Morbidness 
 is a taint of my father’s family. Then, too, how else could 
 I feel ? Could I look that sweet girl in the face and tell 
 her that her father was not my husband ? ** 
 
 “ But why need she know it ?** 
 
 “ Have you never told her ? Does she not know ? ** 
 
 “ Not a word.” 
 
 She kissed the Count’s hand. 
 
 “ God bless you ! ** she said. “ I owe you thanks for so 
 many things.” 
 
 He smiled sadly. 
 
 “ Reward me, then, with the happiness I so earnestly 
 seek at your hands. Be my wife, and let our sorrows end 
 so.” 
 
 “ You know I would but for that one insurmountable 
 barrier. True, I thought myself married, but my igno- 
 rance does not remove the stain. The blight is on me. 
 My one mad caprice visited consequences upon me which 
 sent the joy and glory all out of my life. Now I must 
 turn away from the love for which I would have bartered 
 
54 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 my soul ? Could any enemy wish to see me in a sorrier 
 plight ? You must say no more to me of marriage : in some 
 moment of weakness I might consent/’ 
 
 ‘‘Would to God such a moment would come !” he said. 
 “ You are cruel to let sentiment separate us again ; we who 
 have suffered so much for each other’s sake ! No one 
 knows of your misfortune. Do be dissuaded from your 
 decision.” 
 
 She shook her head and the tears came back into her eyes, 
 
 “ Stop,” she said. “ I dare not listen to you any longer. 
 You and I know my degradation, and that is enough. 
 Promise me one thing, however. Do not let my daughter 
 know the story of her birth. Tell her anything but the 
 truth. Your son, though, should know it. You had best 
 teir him. And now, good-by! Perhaps — not forever ; I 
 shall want to see you sometimes, and my daughter, too. 
 Oh ! you can never know the peace that filled my breast 
 when, for that one instant, I held her to my heart and felt her 
 kisses upon my lips! It saved my soul. Once more, as in 
 my girlhood, the songs of the angels are in my ears, and I 
 can think of death without shrinking. The bitterness is all 
 gone out of my heart, and I have rebelled against God for 
 the last time.” 
 
 She gave him her hand. Gently he drew her closer to 
 him. 
 
 “ Bianca, will you not kiss me ? ” 
 
 She slowly advanced nearer to him, and there was a wist- 
 ful look in her eyes. She was about yielding. Then a 
 sudden pallor came upon her face, and she snatched her 
 hand away and drew back. 
 
 “I dare not!” she exclaimed, and then she hurried 
 across the room to Nella. 
 
 “ Good-by, dear,” she said to the girl. “ Some day I 
 mav see you again, and then I may talk with you about — 
 your mother.” 
 
 They embraced, and with Nella’s kisses fresh upon her 
 lips, Bianca left the hovel. 
 
 Outside she listened for a moment. The storm beat in 
 her face unheeded. Firmness and calmness were displaced 
 by unrest and wavering. 
 
 Maternal love wrestled with fear, and marital love with 
 pride. What was she so deliberately putting out of her 
 life ? Her new-found daughter, whom she had so long be- 
 lieved was dead ; and the man she so dearly loved ! Was 
 it not almost heartless ? Should she go back ? 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 55 
 
 She ran to the window. One glance at Nella decided 
 her. The girl’s frank eyes would be an endless reproach 
 to her, and she could not look in that pure face and tell so 
 damning a story. 
 
 Her lips must not refuse the potion she saw in the 
 dreadful cup before her. 
 
 Only for an instant she lingered ; then, with a wail that 
 would have moved the Furies, she dashed away in the 
 storm. 
 
 When Bianca left the hovel, the soul of Nella seemed to 
 have gone with her. Count Ahmberg was frightened 
 when he looked at the girl. 
 
 He half believed that she had guessed the truth. The 
 color had left her cheeks and lips, and her eyes were set 
 and glazed. Horror, dread, fear, everything bewildering 
 and perplexing, was stamped upon her lovely face. 
 
 Was her reason going ? 
 
 How could he divert the dangerous current of her 
 thought into some other channel ? 
 
 Something glittered on the floor by the girl’s feet. It 
 was Maso’s knife. Ah ! he saw a way to save her now. 
 
 Her eyes were fixed upon the door which had just closed 
 after Bianca. 
 
 Stepping to her side he held his mangled hand before 
 her face. 
 
 Nella, see what Maso gave me for a keepsake.” 
 
 The moment she saw the wound she burst into tears 
 and threw herself into his arms. 
 
 Thank God!” he said, softly, and his tears mingled 
 with hers. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE JUGGERNAUT. 
 
 For hours the rain drove against Count Ahmberg’s pal- 
 ace, and the wind roared and howled around it. 
 
 In another hour it would be daylight, and still old Lu- 
 crezia was alone. 
 
 Slowly and sadly she walked up and down the long cor- 
 ridor. Her head was bowed, and her withered, skinny 
 hands were clenched tightly upon her back. 
 
 “ This night,” she muttered, ‘‘ determines the fate of the 
 
56 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 house. Without Nella, Fritz will pine as his mother did. 
 The Count, too, will suffer, he lias grown to love her so. 
 
 “ Ah, I have seen strange fortunes come to this house ! 
 Its morning was bright and joyous, its day was serene and 
 splendid, but its night seems likely to end in moonless 
 gloom. 
 
 “ The old nurse has lived too long, and she has seen more 
 blight than bloom the portion of those she loves. God grant 
 this shadow passes, or that the end comes soon to us all ! 
 
 ‘‘Oh, my gentle mistress, sweet LadyAhmberg, why did 
 you not live longer ? Else, why did you live so long ? It 
 would have been better, much better, either way. 
 
 “ Fate is so strong, and humanity is so blind. God’s 
 ways are beyond man’s knowledge, and his weakness is 
 stronger than man’s strength. 
 
 “ How little we are, and how little we know. Tliat 
 which seems inevitable too often comes to naught. 
 
 “When we found the dream-babe in the wet lilies, I said 
 she would yet wed Fritz. When she came back to us, un- 
 harmed by the Arno, I said it again. But now ! They 
 are gone — perhaps forever. I am only a fool, after all. 
 Time has lent me no wisdom.” 
 
 Back and forth, up and down the corridor she continued 
 to walk, never changing her measured, monotonous pace. 
 
 Momentarily she became more moody and bitter. It 
 ill profits a servant to outlive the prosperity of her house. 
 What has been is always sweeter than what is. She 
 thought only of the past and the present. To her there 
 was no future. The hour-glass of Saturn was broken in 
 two and the halves thrown away. 
 
 “ It is morning,” she said after a while. “The morning 
 of the last day of my lady’s house ! ” 
 
 Before the sound of her voice was dead in the corridor, 
 as if in answer to what she said, the outer door was swung 
 open and Count Ahmberg entered with Nella. 
 
 Lucrezia moved swiftly forward and kissed their hands. 
 
 “Thank God ! ” she cried, and the others said : 
 
 “ Amen ! ” 
 
 How speedily is the blackness of despair changed into 
 the joyousness of hope. When one thing we thought lost 
 comes back to us we are at once sanguine that all things 
 else will go as we wish. 
 
 So when the Count asked after Fritz, she said : 
 
 “ He will come presently. He is still in the streets look- 
 ing for Nella.” 
 
THE LILIES OF FLOREHCE, 
 
 57 
 
 Again, as if in answer to her, the outer door swung open 
 and clanged back. 
 
 Fritz had come. 
 
 With a glad cry Nella sprang into his arms. That one 
 moment of bliss well compensated the lovers for the trials 
 of the night. 
 
 “When I found that you were here, darling Nella, I 
 came more swiftly than the wind,” said Fritz. ‘‘ No storm 
 could impede me then.” 
 
 Nella drew back in surprise. 
 
 “ When you found that I was here ! ” she repeated. 
 “ Why, who told you that ? ” 
 
 “ The lady who followed you to old Taddeo’s hovel and 
 then called the officers. Maso struck me down at her 
 door when I was pursuing him. Her servants carried me 
 in out of the storm senseless. When I became conscious 
 the lady had returned. She gave me wine and a note for 
 you, Nella. When she described my father’s bravery she 
 wept. It is but a moment since I left her. Love more 
 than the wine helped me here.” 
 
 Eager to read the strange woman’s note, Nella was glad 
 of the excuse to go to her room for dry clothing. Lucrezia 
 went with her, so she laid the note on the table with a 
 sigh and disrobed. 
 
 Then Lucrezia went away, and the impatient girl, as 
 naked as she was when they found her in the lilies, broke 
 the seal and read what her mother had written. 
 
 Little she dreamed whose hand had traced those dainty 
 lines aross the tinted sheet. 
 
 ‘‘ Sweet child,” the note ran, “ your abduction last night 
 was by God’s providence. But for it your mother might 
 never have known that you lived. For years she has 
 mourned you as dead. She lives in retiracy, and I alone 
 of all her early friends know the secret of her hiding- 
 place. 
 
 “ Before I sleep again I will gladden her sorrowing 
 heart with the joyful news that her daughter lives. You 
 will see her when she has done suitable penance for a 
 great sin which she committed unknowingly. Until then 
 you must wait, though the time may be long. 
 
 “ Be not impatient. Her life has been an endless sacri- 
 fice for you. Reward her with your love and steadfast- 
 ness. 
 
 “ Wed the Count’s son as soon as he wants you. Be- 
 lieve me, dear maiden, it is your only safety. Many 
 
58 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 dangers menace you which this can avert. Such loveliness 
 as yours is deepest peril in itself. 
 
 ‘‘ Ask no questions of the Count. You will but embarrass 
 him in his duty. He has already told you all he can, 
 without injury to she who bore you. The rest must come to 
 you from your mother's lips ! Do not forget that. Patience 
 is difficult ; but you have it if you are, indeed, your 
 mother’s daughter. Then, trust those who love you, wed 
 Fritz — and wait ! ” 
 
 How strange,” murmured Nella ; how very strange.” 
 
 A dreamy expression came upon her face, and the note 
 fell from her hand to the floor. 
 
 Sitting back in her chair, she succumbed to reveries. 
 
 She wondered if any other woman had ever lived so 
 strange a life. She doubted it. 
 
 The hand of Fate seemed to have shaped the coming 
 and going of all her days. 
 
 Stolen from her mother in her babyhood, she had been 
 rescued from death in the Arno through the infant son of 
 the woman who in some degree was her mother’s rival. 
 
 Snatched away from him, by what was little else than a 
 madman’s freak, she had been saved from death a second 
 time, to have her girlhood surrounded by privation and 
 poverty. 
 
 At first she had not minded it. Song had been as much 
 her natural expression as speech ; so when old Taddeo’s 
 family found that the music in her childish voice was 
 bringing them abundance of coin, they ceased grudging 
 her the little coarse food she ate, and the still coarser rags 
 which protected her pearly skin from the warm Tuscan 
 sun. 
 
 Year after year she sang in the streets, and two of her 
 foster-brothers were always with her, twanging their 
 mandolins and snapping up, greedily, every gift which 
 rewarded her singing. 
 
 After a time men began looking strangely at her 
 scantily-clad form, and sometimes they were bold enough 
 to whisper in her ears things which she only half under- 
 stood. 
 
 Frightened, she had begged for something to thwart 
 these vicious, prying eyes. But old Taddeo’s wife said 
 no ; if she wore longer skirts and a whole waist she would 
 receive less coin ; she was very beautiful, and people paid 
 as much for seeing as for hearing. 
 
 So she had been compelled to wear her scanty rags. 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 59 
 
 Sometimes the wintry blasts and the cruel snow nearly 
 froze her little feet and limbs, but the whip in Taddeo's 
 hovel stung worse than the frost. 
 
 One day she stood and looked into the Arno, and 
 thought how sweet and peaceful it would be to sleep under 
 its rippling waves. Prying eyes and curses could not 
 follow her there, and the river bottom would be a softer 
 bed than they gave her at Taddeo's. 
 
 The next day she found Fritz. Since then she had 
 learnt what life really was. Soon she would be his wife, 
 and her face and neck burned at the thought. 
 
 Lost in a bewildering maze of blissful fancies, her eyes 
 closed, and she slept. 
 
 In her dream, which came with that strange morning 
 sleep, she saw vague, indistinct shapes, and heard words 
 which seemed to have no meaning beyond the menacing 
 tone in which they were uttered. 
 
 There was one word, or rather a sound — for she could 
 not distinguish what the word was — which seemed more 
 dreadful than the others. The ghoulish phantoms hissed 
 it, one after another, and then they hissed it together. 
 
 Each time it was said every nerve in the girl's body 
 seemed keenly sensitive to its dire poignancy. 
 
 From her white brow a crimson flush, the offended tide 
 of perfect chastity, swept rapidly downward, for all that 
 was pure and maidenly within her quivered with the con- 
 sciousness that the portent of the mystic word was shame. 
 
 So deeply did that ghoulish hiss burn itself into her inno- 
 cent soul that her mental perceptions were deadened, and 
 her physical sensibilities became abnormally acute. 
 
 Yet she felt that her condition was fast becoming dan- 
 gerous, sleeping though she was. 
 
 There was a weight upon her breast, a numb and crush- 
 ing sense of woe which she had never felt before. 
 
 Nearer to her came the black, shapeless, awful shadows, 
 and louder and fiercer they hissed that fiendish word. The 
 air teemed with spectral phantasms, which came and dis- 
 solved continually. 
 
 She no longer saw them and she no longer heard them, 
 but she felt their presence as the blind feel sunlight ; and 
 as the dumb feel the noise of a storm, to which their ears 
 are senseless, she still felt the malicious force of that often 
 reiterated hiss. 
 
 Then a change came. She could hear again, but the 
 sound which came to her ears no longer tortured her. 
 
6o 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 She was thrilled instead. 
 
 The black, goblin shapes, too, gave place to seraphic 
 hosts. 
 
 They sang — a single word, over and over again. 
 
 The word at last became to her as the echo of the emo- 
 tion in her heart. The word was “ peace.*’ 
 
 She awakened and sprang to her feet with a cry of joy, 
 surprised that she had slept, naked, in her chair. 
 
 As she was about kneeling to thank God that the dream, 
 like so many of her troubles, was over, she heard the 
 shuffle of feet at her side. 
 
 Hastily catching up a mantle she covered herself and 
 faced her intruder. 
 
 It was Lucrezia. 
 
 The girl dropped the mantle and dressed herself. Lu- 
 crezia watched her in silence. 
 
 “Why are you so quiet, Lucrezia? Your face looks 
 grave and troubled.” 
 
 “Your dream frightened me.” 
 
 “ My dream ? ” 
 
 “Yes. You kept muttering one word over and over 
 again, until I feared that you would die with the awful 
 word on your lips.” 
 
 “ What was the word ? ” 
 
 Lucrezia shuddered. 
 
 All dreams to her were forecasts of realities. She feared 
 to speak. 
 
 “ What was the word, Lucrezia ? Tell me.” 
 
 “It was ‘ Bastard ! * ” 
 
 Nella laughed. 
 
 “ It was only a dream, Lucrezia, and has no meaning 
 for me.” 
 
 “ Be not so sure.” 
 
 Nella frowned. 
 
 “Why, I am no bastard, am I ?” she asked, a little im- 
 patiently. 
 
 “ No, no ; not that. I saw your sweet mother married 
 myself. The danger is in another direction.” 
 
 “ What do you mean, Lucrezia?” 
 
 “ Love is stronger than virtue.” 
 
 Though her cheeks burned, Nella laughed. 
 
 “ Lucrezia,” she said, “ you are getting silly.” 
 
 And then she kissed the old nurse and ran out into the 
 corridor. 
 
 “ Whatever my mother’s sin may be,” she said to herself, 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 6i 
 
 “ there is no stain upon her virtue. Thank God for that ! 
 Lucrezia saw her married. I wonder when I shall see 
 her?’* 
 
 When the delicious days came, the days which are neither 
 summer nor autumn, but which partake of the nature of 
 both, there was a wedding in the old Etruscan palace. 
 
 Nella and Fritz became husband and wife. 
 
 When the last words were spoken, and the twain were 
 made forever one, Count Ahmberg chanced to look at Lu- 
 crezia. 
 
 The expression upon her face brought a smile upon his. 
 The time had been when he would have frowned instead. 
 
 It was difficult to judge whether the marriage of the two 
 she loved so well, or the justification of her idea of fate, 
 gave her the most genuine satisfaction. 
 
 “ Well, Lucrezia,” said the Count, “ you guessed the 
 riddle rightly, when the dream-babe and the dreaming boy 
 played here, upon this very floor, seventeen years ago.” 
 
 How much it pleased her to have him acknowledge it. 
 
 ‘‘And — you believe in fate now ?” 
 
 He took her by the shoulders and shook her laugh- 
 ingly. 
 
 “ Be happy, good old Lucrezia ; I am a firm believer in 
 fate ! ” 
 
 In a year a daughter was born to Fritz and Nella, and 
 after that the old palace rang with mirth and laughter. 
 
 There was no cloud, no break in the perfect harmony, 
 save when Lucrezia thought of Nella’s dream. 
 
 Many a time she was about describing it to the Count, 
 but each time she feared that he might think her foolish, 
 so she said nothing. 
 
 Had she known the sinister spell a word from her would 
 have broken, no power, save death, could have kept her 
 silent. 
 
 It is human, though, to be silent at the wrong time. 
 
 Happy in her husband’s love, and in their mutual love 
 for Tessa, the babe, Nella had long since forgotten the 
 dream. 
 
 She had almost forgotten her mother. 
 
 Five years passed away. 
 
 Fritz, Nella, Tessa, and the Count still lived in the dear 
 old palace, in the City of Lilies. 
 
 Lucrezia, who seemed to grow younger, rather than 
 older, was still with them. 
 
 Tessa was the delight of all their hearts. 
 
62 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 She was a gay little creature, with her mother’s voice 
 and her father’s eyes. 
 
 Born of dual nations, as well as of dual natures, she had 
 more moods than the thrush has songs. 
 
 To the Count, there was but one source of uneasiness. 
 
 Bianca. 
 
 If she were but with them, as she should be, the atmos- 
 phere of the old palace would be divine. 
 
 But she was so perverse. 
 
 He feared that he never should see her again. 
 
 As soon as Maso and his brothers had been punished for 
 the abduction of Nella, Bianca had left Florence. At least 
 so her servants said. 
 
 Hov7 like her mother Nella grew. At times the Count 
 called her Bianca, and could scarcely think of her other- 
 wise. 
 
 Nella, though matronly, as all Italian mothers are, still 
 held her beauty. 
 
 Some days she filled the palace with song. The simple 
 ballads which she used to sing in the streets so reluc- 
 tantly, now came joyously from her lips. 
 
 She was so secure in her happiness that she sometimes 
 doubted if she should ever know sorrow again. 
 
 One day, without knowing why, her heart suddenly be- 
 came as heavy as lead. 
 
 She thought of the dream when the goblin shapes had 
 tortured her with that menacing word, and the letter which 
 came from her mother, though she had supposed that the 
 writer was her mother’s friend, also troubled her. It was 
 six years since that day, but it caused her more discomfort 
 now than it did then. 
 
 Sad and disturbed, she went into the balcony at twilight. 
 
 Little Tessa came out where her mother was, but even 
 her childish fingers and merry prattle could not altogether 
 dispel Nella’s gloom. 
 
 Tessa’s eyelids soon became heavy, and laying her head 
 in her mother’s lap she slept. 
 
 Scarcely was the child asleep when Nella heard approach- 
 ing footsteps and then voices. 
 
 It was the Count and Fritz. 
 
 They came near the window opening upon the balcony. 
 
 They were speaking of Bianca. 
 
 Nella was about calling to them when her husband asked 
 his father a question which nearly froze the blood in her 
 veins. 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 63 
 
 Are you sure they were never married ? 
 
 ‘^Absolutely sure,” answered the Count. 
 
 “ So Nella’s father was not her mother’s husband ?” 
 
 ‘‘ That is the unfortunate truth. But do you regret 
 marrying her ? ” 
 
 “ Regret it ? No ! ” answered Fritz warmly ; ‘‘nothing 
 can ever make me regret that.” 
 
 “ I was sure of it,” said the Count as they moved away 
 again. “ She must never know it, poor child ! ” 
 
 “ Never ! ” said Fritz. 
 
 They were gone. 
 
 Nella pressed her hands against her head. 
 
 “ Oh, God ! if I could only die ! ” she cried, in her un- 
 bearable agony. “ So Lucrezia deceived me. My mother 
 was never married, and I — what a shameless thing I am ! 
 No wonder the goblins hissed ‘ Bastard ’ in my ears ! ” 
 
 She kissed the sleeping child again and again as if her 
 heart was breaking. * 
 
 “ Good-by ! ” she said. “ Good-by ! ” 
 
 Slowly she groped her way through the dark room and 
 along the corridor. 
 
 At the outer door she paused for a single instant. Then 
 the terrible thought came again. 
 
 “ A bastard ! ” she moaned. “ A wife, a mother, and a 
 bastard ! Oh, God ! Let me die ! ” 
 
 She passed through the door and rushed away toward 
 the Arno. 
 
 VI. 
 
 IN THE GREEN ROOM. 
 
 Deep shadows and dark clouds chased the twilight over 
 the purple hills. When night had shaken out the folds of 
 her sombre mantle, enshrouding the city, save where the 
 mighty canopy was star-pierced, there came a hush in 
 the voices in the streets and a heavier odor of lilies from 
 the meadows. 
 
 Fritz, standing pensively by himself, heard a sound of 
 grief. 
 
 It was Tessa. 
 
 In the balcony, half awake, she had missed her mother, 
 and was sobbing and moaning. 
 
 When he was aroused from his troubled thoughts, and 
 
64 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 knew what the noise meant, Fritz hastened to the weeping 
 child. 
 
 ‘‘Where is mamma, dear ? ” he asked. 
 
 “ I don't know. I thought she was kissing me, and say- 
 ing ‘good-by,’ and when 1 put out my hand she was 
 gone.” 
 
 “You were only dreaming, Tessa,” he answered, picking 
 her up and kissing her. “ We will go and find mamma. 
 Like you, she may be sleeping in some quiet corner.” 
 
 Little he thought that she might be sleeping in the 
 Arno 1 
 
 The palace was searched, but Nella could not be found. 
 
 Fritz was more disturbed than he admitted. He could 
 not understand why his wife should leave the palace with- 
 out saying where she was going. 
 
 She had never left it alone before. Still, for a brief 
 while he said nothing about his uneasiness. 
 
 Two hours passed, and sheiiad not returned. 
 
 Then an alarm was given, and a careful search was made 
 for Nella throughout Florence. 
 
 It availed nothing. 
 
 No one had seen her, and no trace or clew of her could 
 be discovered. 
 
 A servant living near the Arno had been sitting at her 
 master’s window about twilight. She saw a feeble, totter- 
 ing woman leap from the Ponte Vecchio down into the 
 water below ; but Nella was not feeble and tottering, so 
 no one thought of associating her with the suicide. 
 
 For three days the search was continued, and then all 
 save Fritz gave Nella up for dead. 
 
 He was steadfast in the belief that she still lived, and 
 that he should find her. 
 
 “ She has been stolen,” he declared. 
 
 “ By whom ? ” they asked him. 
 
 “ I cannot tell. Still, I am sure someone has stolen her 
 from me again. Not any of Taddeo’s brood, as before, 
 since they are all dead or in prison.” 
 
 The Count did not believe it. 
 
 “ Perhaps it is Bianca’s work ! ” exclaimed Fritz, sud- 
 denly. 
 
 “ Nonsense !” cried Count Ahmberg. “ Her last earthly 
 hope met consummation when you married Nella. She is 
 the last one in the world to take your wife away.” 
 
 “ She might have deceived you — she might have lied.” 
 
 “Never ! She is truth itself. Why should she deceive 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 
 me ? What possible purpose could she have ? Why, too, 
 should she wish to destroy her daughter’s happiness ? ” 
 
 “ She may have done it to wring your heart. Her pur- 
 pose may be vengeance. Whom would she not sacrifice 
 for that ! ” 
 
 ‘‘ Vengeance ! For what ? ” 
 
 “ For the injuries you say you once did her.” 
 
 She forgave them long ago,” said the Count, softly. 
 
 Fritz snapped his fingers. 
 
 I am not so sure,” he said. 
 
 Lucrezia, eager to grasp at any straw, came forward. 
 
 “ Fritz may be right,” she whispered to the Count. 
 “ Let me find Bianca and tell her that Nella is lost.” 
 
 “ As you like,” answered the distressed nobleman. ‘‘ Only 
 she must know it already — all Florence does.” 
 
 Go ! ” commanded Fritz, whose keen ears had over- 
 heard the whispered conference. Go, Lucrezia, and be 
 quick, too.” » 
 
 The old nurse hurried away and was soon at Bianca’s 
 door. 
 
 When the servant who answered Lucrezia’s knock at- 
 tempted to say that the signora was not in Florence, the 
 blaze in the old woman’s eyes checked the falsehood be- 
 fore it was half told. 
 
 ‘‘ Stop, girl, for the sake of your soul, and for the sake 
 of what is still more precious to the signora, do not lie to 
 me. Go and tell your mistress that old Lucrezia is here 
 in search of Fritz Ahmberg’s wife, who is mysteriously 
 gone from her home.” 
 
 The bewildered servant hurried away, and presently Bi- 
 anca came. 
 
 Is this a trick to find me out ? ” she asked, nervously. 
 
 Were I your equal in rank I would call you a fool ! ” 
 exclaimed Lucrezia, scornfully. 
 
 Bianca was deeply distressed when she knew that Nella 
 was gone. A thousand possibilities entered her mind, 
 only to be dismissed ^s quickly as they came. 
 
 “ And you have no idea as to what has befallen her ?” 
 
 No,” said Lucrezia ; ‘‘ else I should not be here ques- 
 tioning you.” 
 
 Bianca winced. 
 
 Well,” she said bitterly, ‘‘whatever happens to my unfor- 
 tunate daughter, her degradation can scarcely be increased.” 
 
 “ What do you mean ? Is it such degradation to have 
 her an honest man’s wife ? ” 
 
 5 
 
66 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 “ No ; I did not mean that.” 
 
 I do not understand you then. Do you really mean 
 anything at all ? I doubt if you do.” 
 
 My meaning should be clear enough to you, since you 
 saw that awful farce performed,” answered Bianca, angrily. 
 
 “You are so spiteful that one, judging from your voice 
 and manner, would think I had done you an injury.” 
 
 “ Oh, no ; not in the least ! ” cried Bianca, contemptu- 
 ously. “It is no injury to an innocent virgin to stand 
 coldly by and see her virtue bartered away ! ” 
 
 Lucrezia stepped slowly forward and looked earnestly 
 into Bianca's face. 
 
 “Tell me exactly what you mean,” she said. “ I am be- 
 ginning to understand that which I had always supposed 
 was wilfulness.” 
 
 “ Wilfulness, indeed ! ” exclaimed Bianca. “ I owe you 
 no good will. No woman is likely to harbor much love 
 for a witness to her infamy. ^ 
 
 “ Wily did you not speak out and save me, that awful 
 day ! Why did you let them entrap me into a mock mar- 
 riage and become the mother of a bastard daughter ? 
 
 “ You told me, too, that the vile man who read that 
 empty marriage service was your own priest — your father 
 confessor ! How dare you accuse me of wilfulness ? 
 
 “ If I did right I lo out d kill you ! ” 
 
 Bianca was astounded by the expression that suddenly 
 came upon Lucrezia’s face. She suffered the old woman 
 to take her hands in silence. 
 
 “ Poor child,” said Lucrezia, tenderly. “ Poor, poor 
 child! And you have believed this thing you have just 
 told — this lie — so long ? ” 
 
 Bianca nodded. She was too much bewildered and ex- 
 cited to speak. 
 
 It seemed to her that she would die before Lucrezia 
 could say more. Yet, try as she would, she could force no 
 sound through her benumbed lips which would urge the 
 old woman to hasten her words. « 
 
 “ Did they tell you that you were not a wife ? ” asked 
 Lucrezia, as soon as her emotion permitted her to speak. 
 
 “Yes,” answered Bianca, shaking off the lethargy by a 
 powerful effort. 
 
 “ And you believed it ?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ They lied to you. The priest Avho wedded you to the 
 prince still lives. He is here in Florence. You shall see 
 
l^HE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 67 
 
 him and hear confirmation of what I have said from his 
 own lips. You were made an honorable wife, and there is 
 no stain upon either you or your daughter.” 
 
 Bianca kissed Lucrezia passionately again and again. 
 Then, throwing herself into the old woman’s arms, she 
 wept out the crushing sorrow which had burdened and 
 oppressed her heart for years. 
 
 It was the happiest moment of her life, and she doubted 
 if any bosom had ever throbbed with such genuine joy be- 
 fore. 
 
 The murderer, reprieved on the scaffold, the recalled 
 exile, the pardoned prisoner, each feels some such wild 
 thrill as hers ; but the parallel is far from close. 
 
 “An honest wife, and a legitimate daughter,” murmured 
 Bianca between her joyous sobs. “No sin, no stain, no 
 shame ! Oh, God, I thank thee ! ” 
 
 “ I must return to Fritz and the Count,” said Lucrezia 
 when Bianca was calmer. 
 
 “ I will go with you,” said Bianca. “ Together we may 
 be able to guess out this new mystery.” 
 
 Lucrezia, old as she was, moved so swiftly along the 
 streets that Bianca could scarcely keep pace with her. 
 
 When they reached the palace, Count Ahmberg clasped 
 Bianca in his arms and kissed her. 
 
 She made no attempt to resist him now. 
 
 “ How glad I am you came, Bianca,” he said. 
 
 “I came because I could come in honor. Otherwise I 
 should still have stayed away.” 
 
 “ What do you mean ?” 
 
 “That I am an honorable wife and not the vile thing I 
 thought I was.” 
 
 “ Vile you could not be,” he declared. “ How and when 
 did you find this out ?” 
 
 “To-day. From Lucrezia.” 
 
 “And you have known this all along?” he demanded, 
 of the old nurse, 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 An angry gleam came into his eyes, such as she used to 
 see there in bygone years. 
 
 “Why, then, have you never spoken before ?” 
 
 The sternness of his voice was lost upon her. 
 
 “Altro!” she said, calmly, “no one ever asked me. 
 And then — not being in your confidence — I never knew of 
 this doubt until to-day.” 
 
 “ Forgive me, Lucrezia,” he answered, with a sigh. 
 
68 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLOREHCE. 
 
 “Never mind,” said Bianca, with glowing eyes, “we 
 should be glad that w^e knew this thing at all, rather than 
 sorry that we know it so late. But let us talk of Nella 
 now. Who saw her last ? ” 
 
 '‘I did,” replied Lucrezia. “ I saw her enter the balcony 
 yonder just before twilight.” 
 
 “What happened after that ?” 
 
 No one could tell. 
 
 “ Who next went to the balcony ? ” 
 
 “ Fritz ; he heard Tessa crying and went there for her,” 
 said Lucrezia. 
 
 “You are mistaken,” interposed the Count. “ Fritz and 
 I stood near the balcony talking when the twilight was 
 about past.” 
 
 “ Of what were you talking ? ” asked Bianca in a strange 
 tone, as if by inspiration. 
 
 ‘‘About ” 
 
 Count Ahrnberg’s face suddenly changed color. He was 
 pale as death, and his lower jaw fell and refused to play. 
 
 All were startled and terrified. Suddenly Fritz also 
 remembered w’hat that conversation near the balcony had 
 been about, and with a groan he covered his face with his 
 hands. 
 
 “My God! are these men going mad?” exclaimed 
 Bianca. 
 
 “ I see it all now,” said Fritz. “ I see it all now. We were 
 talking of your supposed sham marriage, and of the fact 
 — as we supposed — of her illegitimate birth. She heard us. 
 It is that which sent her away.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Bianca ; “it is that. She is either dead or 
 else she has gone away from Florence. Tessa thought she 
 heard Nella saying ‘good-by,' and the child was right.” 
 
 “She must be found,” cried Fritz, vehemently. “She 
 shall be found ! ” 
 
 Bianca looked at him admiringly. 
 
 “ You deserve to find her,” she said. “ You are so brave, 
 and seem to love her so.” 
 
 But the saying was, as usual, far easier than the doing. 
 All Italy was searched witliout finding her. 
 
 At Rome they were told that some players who sailed 
 for France, after Nella had gone a month, had a beautiful 
 woman with them who answered her description. 
 
 The clew was slight. Too slight to follow, so the officers 
 said. 
 
 But to love nothing is slight. The woman the players 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 69 
 
 took away might or might not be Nella. Fritz deter- 
 mined to follow it and find out. 
 
 Bianca wanted to go with him, and would not be dis- 
 suaded. So they started for France together. 
 
 Count Ahmberg stayed in Florence to guard little Tessa. 
 What bitter, inexorable fate might not snatch her away if 
 she was left with servants ? 
 
 The Count regarded it as a hopeless search. In fact, so 
 despondent had he become that he doubted if he should 
 ever see Bianca and Fritz again. He parted with them 
 as one parts with the dying. 
 
 Of course they went to Paris first. Where else, if she 
 was in France, would they be so likely to find her? 
 
 Day after day and night after night they sought for her 
 among the cheap theatres, doubting if the players whom 
 the officials in Rome had described would be found else- 
 where. 
 
 Discouraged, and about leaving Paris, Bianca and Fritz 
 were surprised one day to receive a call from a chief of the 
 geits cLarmes, 
 
 He had just been led to believe that a certain great 
 singer, whose wonderful voice was the marvel and delight 
 of all Paris, was the missing Nella. 
 
 Bianca and Fritz listened to him with but little interest. 
 So 7nany clews they had followed only to have them end in 
 disappointment. 
 
 Still, they accompanied the officer to the opera house 
 that night. 
 
 When the curtain was rung up sure enough the favorite 
 was Nella — but how changed. Her face was thin and sad, 
 and her step was listless. 
 
 She sang the same simple Italian ballads which used to 
 delight the Florentines, and Fritz was reminded of the 
 morning when, awakened from sweet dreams of her as she 
 was when he found her in the lilies, he had first heard her 
 marvellous voice in song. 
 
 Nearly everyone was moved to tears, there was such a 
 tender pathos to her singing. 
 
 Fritz and Bianca could scarcely restrain themselves 
 until the end of the concert. 
 
 Encore followed encore until the hour was very late. 
 Nella sang on in the same pathetic way, and never once 
 betrayed emotion until a little child in one of the galleries 
 called out : 
 
 ‘‘ Mamma ! ” 
 
70 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 Nella sprang forward, and stood so near the footlights 
 that her drapery was in danger of fire. 
 
 ‘‘ Tessa ! ” she cried, extending her hands. Then, re- 
 membering where she was, she retreated in confusion. 
 
 The moment the curtain was down for the last time, 
 Bianca, Fritz, and the officer hurried to the greenroom. 
 
 Nella was informed that a lady wished to speak with her. 
 
 Fritz and the officer stood in a little private hallway 
 leading from the greenroom t(^ the front of the opera 
 house, leaving Bianca alone. 
 
 Supposing that she had, as usual, been summoned to 
 gratify someone's idle curiosity, Nella did not raise her 
 eyes when she entered the greenroom. 
 
 What can I do for you, madame ? " she asked, carelessly. 
 
 ‘‘You can return with me to Florence,” answ^ered 
 Bianca, as she caught Nella in her arms. “Dear, I am 
 your mother. Since you went away, I have found that I 
 was lawfully married ; so there is no stain upon us, after 
 all.” 
 
 A moment later, mother and daughter were weeping in 
 each other's arms. 
 
 Fritz joined them, in answer to a call from Bianca, and 
 the officer, seeing that everything seemed going all right, 
 stole quietly aw^ay. 
 
 There was never a happier reunion in a greenroom, and 
 never did a greenroom seem a holier place. 
 
 “ What made you go away, dear ? ” asked Bianca. 
 
 Nella hung her head, and the deep rich color came into 
 her cheeks. 
 
 “ Because I thought I was a bastard. I had a terrible 
 dream once, in which that awful word was hissed at me by 
 demons, but I forgot both tlie dream and the word until f 
 heard Fritz and his father say that you were never mar- 
 ried. 
 
 “ Then I ran awmy and tried to drown myself in the 
 Arno. 
 
 “ Some players rescued me and kept me safely hidden 
 while you were searching for me. They brought me to 
 Paris, and one of the great managers heard me sing, liked 
 my voice, and began these concerts. 
 
 “It w^as a respectable way of earning money, so I 
 determined to follow it until I became rich. Then I was 
 going to try to stifle my shame and sorrow by travelling. 
 
 “ But now, thank God, the shame and sorrow are both 
 gone, and I can return in purity to my husband.” 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 71 
 
 ^‘Now/' said Bianca, ‘‘I must tell you about myself. 
 When I was a girl I had two very persistent lovers. One 
 was Count Ahmberg, and the other was a German prince. 
 I loved the Count and iiated the Prince, who was violent 
 and unprincipled. 
 
 ‘‘It was my nature to be tantalizing, and I used to vex 
 the Count by feigning to love the Prince. One day he 
 took me too literally, and upbraided me so bitterly that I 
 became angry, and declared that I was going to wed the 
 Prince at once. 
 
 “ Count Ahmberg left me in a furious rage, and a few 
 days afterward he married a delicate, sensitive Italian girl 
 for spite. She was so frail and tender, and he so harsh 
 and unfeeling, that in a year she died — a few days after 
 you were born, Fritz. 
 
 “ I was piqued by the Count’s marriage, and almost 
 immediately became the wife of the Prince. We were 
 married privately, so that the Count might not find it 
 out until I could blight his last hope by telling him my- 
 self. 
 
 “ A terrible life I lived with my German husband. His 
 manner was repulsive, and he was incapable of loving 
 any one. 
 
 “ One day he came to me and said that ours was only a 
 mock marriage, and that he had a wife living in Germany 
 to whom he was going. 
 
 “ He left me, and I was wild with grief and despair. To 
 complete my misery you, Nelia, were born a month after 
 his departure. Then I was entirely broken down, and for 
 many weeks was a raving maniac. When my reason re- 
 turned they told me that my babe was dead. 
 
 “I never once doubted that, or that mine was a mock- 
 marriage, and so made no effort to verify what my hus- 
 band had said. He is dead now, and I forgive him. His 
 punishment for deserting me was terrible — but that must 
 greet your ears from other lips.” 
 
 And then she paused and shuddered. 
 
 Fritz wondered if the punishment of the Prince was not 
 the fearful secret of his father’s which had been so zealous- 
 ly guarded. 
 
 “ And so you are sure that you were really married ? ” 
 asked Nelia. 
 
 “Yes, dear. There is no doubt. Lucrezia witnessed 
 my marriage, and I have seen the record, and talked 
 about it with the priest who read the service.” 
 
72 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 How much sorrow might have been saved had we only 
 known before,’' said Nella. 
 
 “ And how much joy we should have missed but for thus 
 finding you here,” added Fritz, clasping his wife to his 
 heart and kissing her. 
 
 ‘‘Yes,” said Bianca, “it must be better so. God is 
 wiser than we are.” 
 
 As they were about leaving the greenroom the officer 
 returned, and with him was one of Count Ahmberg’s 
 servants. 
 
 “ I bring you news from home,” said the servant, sadly. 
 
 “ Bad news?” asked Nella. 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “ Of whom ? ” 
 
 “ Of Tessa.” 
 
 “ Oh ! God ! she is dead ! ” cried Nella, as she fell back 
 into her mother’s arms. 
 
 Something in the color of her face startled the officer. 
 Stepping forward he placed his hand over Nella’s heart. 
 
 “ It has ceased beating,” he said, as he stepped aside. 
 
 VII. 
 
 AMONG THE LILIES. 
 
 When Fritz and Bianca were gone from Florence, Count 
 Ahmberg was immediately environed with the most in- 
 comprehensible dejection and melancholy. 
 
 Waking or sleeping, doubts and despair filled all his 
 thoughts. 
 
 This depression was not caused by the loss of Nella, 
 though that had much to do with it. Neither was he al- 
 together disheartened by the absence of his son and the 
 noble Bianca. 
 
 There was overhanging him, and overshadowing his 
 every moment, a sense of impending disaster for himself — • 
 something, too, which would be w’orse than death. 
 
 He had no doubt of the safe return of Fritz and Bianca, 
 and he even believed that Nella would also come back, 
 but all this under such sorrowful circumstances ! 
 
 Hourly the impression became stronger that he would . 
 never again meet his dear ones as they had all been when)|j 
 
THE LILIES OF FJ.0 FENCE, 
 
 73 
 
 they parted. Either they or he would in some sad way be 
 changed. 
 
 Tessa would go to him and run her pretty little fingers 
 playfully through his beard, but even the touch of baby 
 hands failed to exercise the disturbing influences. 
 
 She talked to him, as had so long been her wont, and she 
 could not understand why he met her prattling and car- 
 esses so strangely. 
 
 Sometimes the sadness in his voice touched her heart, 
 and sent big tears of pity into her tender eyes. But he did 
 not see them. 
 
 Do what she would she could not win a smile from him. 
 
 He and Lucrezia were all there was left to the sensitive 
 child now, and the faithful nurse was too old to see the 
 danger with which the Count’s moods threatened the little 
 creature. 
 
 So Tessa in a few days was left to herself. 
 
 Everyone seemed to have either gone away or forgotten 
 her. She wondered where her mamma was, and if her 
 papa had also forsaken her. 
 
 Sometimes she would go to some window which over- 
 looked the streets, and call softly to the absent ones. 
 
 There was no answer to the plaintive little voice, and 
 no one said a word to her of those whom she so sadly 
 missed. 
 
 Still she made no complaint, but locked all her sorrow 
 up in her brave little bosom. 
 
 The Count and Lucrezia were so absorbed in their own 
 gloomy thoughts that Tessa had no place in their minds. 
 
 They thought her only a child, and so sorrow-proof. 
 
 Only a child is too often said I More characters are 
 molded before than after a child’s sixth birthday. 
 
 And though this little one’s heart was breaking she was 
 suffering unobserved — alone — without a word of sympathy. 
 
 She grew weaker and paler until she could no longer 
 even walk about the old palace which for six merry years 
 had daily echoed the sound of her cheery voice and the 
 swift patter of her dancing feet. 
 
 It was not until then that she received the solicitude of 
 the saddened Count and the imbittered nurse. 
 
 When the physicians were called, and they had looked 
 at the little wasted form, and had listened to the feeble 
 breathing, they shook their heads. 
 
 You have waited too long, ” said one of them. ‘‘ Med- 
 ical skill can do nothing for her. ” 
 
74 
 
 TFTE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 “Can nothing be done for her?” cried the agonized 
 Count. 
 
 “ Nothing — except heaven interferes. She is beyond 
 the reach of man. Where is her mother ?” 
 
 “ In — in France, I think. ” 
 
 “Send for her at once. If she comes quickly the child 
 may rally. She can be saved in no other way. ” 
 
 “ But we are uncertain where her mother is. Can you 
 think of nothing else ? ” 
 
 “No. The child is dying of grief, and she cannot live 
 a month. ” 
 
 “ Of grief ? ” cried the Count, trying to smile away the 
 pain which the doctor’s words caused him. “ Do you be- 
 lieve that people ever die of broken hearts ?” 
 
 The doctor pointed to Tessa. 
 
 “ Wait and see, ” he said. 
 
 A messenger was hurried away to Paris in pursuit of 
 Fritz. 
 
 Everything which loving and sorrowing hearts could 
 devise was done to arouse Tessa, but everything failed. 
 They had, indeed, waited too long. 
 
 Gradually she grew weaker, and she no longer smiled 
 when they told her that her mother was coming back. All 
 words now seemed to be the same to her. It was impos- 
 sible to interest her in life. Her vitality, never great, was 
 now near exhaustion. Death was only a matter of days, 
 perhaps of hours. 
 
 Count Ahmberg was constantly beside her. 
 
 Two prayers were ever upon his lips. One was that 
 Nella might be found, and the other was that she and 
 Fritz might come while Tessa was still there. 
 
 Sorrow was crushing the Count. 
 
 His great strong life, like Tessa’s, was running in feeble 
 currents. 
 
 Lucrezia trembled to see that he, too, was failing. 
 
 “He will not long survive the child,” she muttered. 
 “ He has never rallied since his awful illness. If they do 
 not come quickly, Fritz and Nella will have more than one 
 cause for grief.” 
 
 Tessa’s hands and arms were transparent and waxen. 
 Her lips were like marble. The blood seemed to have left 
 her veins. All the while she lay quiet and motionless. 
 
 As the physicians came in, from time to time, they 
 looked at her helplessly and wondered how she lived. 
 
 It was several days since she had taken nourishment ; 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORE MCE, 
 
 75 
 
 she could no longer move her hands without assistance, 
 and the color had nearly faded out of her once dark eyes. 
 
 Still, she lived. 
 
 One day a breeze brought an odor of lilies through 
 the windows from the garden. 
 
 It brought more than the odor to the Count. The lilies 
 were strangely interwoven with all their lives. Might not 
 a sight of them interest the dying child ? Possibly she 
 would rally ! 
 
 Filled with this thought, Count Ahmberg hurried into 
 the garden and soon returned with a handful of the rare- 
 est lilies he could find. 
 
 ‘‘ See, Tessa,” he said, softly, as he held them before her. 
 
 Once again, and for the last time on earth, the color 
 came back into her eyes. A dainty tinge of pink stained 
 her cheeks, and she smiled — faintly, but still she smiled. 
 
 Parting the lilies, he laid some of them into one of her 
 hands, and held the others where she could smell them. 
 
 As the weak fingers closed over the delicate flowers, her 
 lips moved. 
 
 Mamma loved them so,” she said. 
 
 She had not spoken before in a long while, and now her 
 voice seemed to have strangely regained all of its old 
 strength. 
 
 Her breath was stronger, and the color in her cheeks 
 deepened. 
 
 “A miracle ! ” murmured the Count. 
 
 But he was mistaken. 
 
 He had sapped the dear little life he was so eager to 
 save. 
 
 Scarcely had she spoken when there came a choking 
 noise from her throat. 
 
 A few bright drops appeared upon her lips, and then a 
 feeble little stream trickled down upon her motionless 
 bosom. 
 
 It was blood ! 
 
 She had exhausted the little remnant of her life in those 
 four sad words. 
 
 Swifter than lightning did her face change. The Count 
 had fought upon many a battle-field, but never before 
 had he seen the flush of life so quickly changed into the 
 pallor of death. 
 
 With the lilies still in her hands, Tessa lay dead. 
 
 From one to another of the little group the Count’s hor- 
 rified eyes wandered. 
 
76 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE, 
 
 ‘‘This is the end of all,’' said Lucrezia, through her 
 teeth. 
 
 The Count heard her and stepped quickly toward her, 
 
 “No, not of all,” he answered. “Only the end of my curse. 
 It has ended because it can go no further. Now they are 
 all dead. I have killed them all — the Prince, my gentle 
 wife, Nella, Bianca, Fritz and Tessa. Tessa — the only one 
 there was left me ! — even she has gone. I tried to give 
 her life, and I gave her death. Little did I dream when, 
 years ago, I spoke that awful curse that its fulfilment 
 would be so dreadfully complete, and that the venom I 
 hurled at others would poison my own heart in the end. 
 So am I punished, Lucrezia. Ah, Lucrezia, I believe in 
 fate. This is fate 1 ” 
 
 The doctors stood aghast. 
 
 Lucrezia touched Count Ahmberg’s arm. 
 
 “ You are betraying yourself to these people,” she said. 
 
 “ Betraying myself ? What does it matter ? They can 
 only kill me at most, and I would thank them for that.” 
 
 “ You must be silent,” commanded Lucrezia. 
 
 “ No,” he exclaimed, pushing her aside ; “ I must speak ! 
 Men, servants, ye dead and ye living ones, whom I see and 
 feel about me, listen ; I shall speak ! 
 
 “When I was a wayward, stubborn youth I met and loved 
 a noble woman. One day, infuriated at something she had 
 said, I rushed away from her, and swore that I would never 
 set eyes upon her again. To wrench her heart, and kill her 
 if possible, I married another woman, a frail, sensitive 
 creature, whom my cruelty sent to her grave in a year. 
 
 “ Soon afterward I sought Bianca, the woman whom I 
 had first loved. But she, also defiant, had wedded my 
 bitterest enemy. 
 
 “ Then I cursed her and her husband, and all the fruit 
 which might come of that ill-sorted marriage. I went away 
 leaving her in a swoon. 
 
 “Years afterward her villainous husband declared that 
 she was not his wife, but only his wanton, and that they 
 were only united by a mock marriage. 
 
 “ This he said publicly, and I branded him as a liar. We 
 arranged upon the most horrible duel ever fought. Dice 
 were to be thrown, and the one who threw the highest was 
 to cut out the other’s tongue. He lost, and, with a 
 dagger which in my childhood my mother gave me, I cut 
 out his tongue and fed it to a dog ! 
 
 “ But my hatred did not end there. A year later we 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 77 
 
 met on a battle field, in rival armies. Before the fight 
 began I saw him, and charging down upon him, with my 
 horse, broke off my sword in his defenceless heart. Then, 
 to escape death, I fled from Germany. 
 
 Bianca gave birth to a daughter soon after her hus- 
 band abandoned her, and this daughter was stolen away 
 while Bianca lay delirious and almost dying. Who did 
 this has never been found out, but presumably the villain 
 whom Bianca called husband was instrumental in kidnap- 
 ping the child. Whoever took it, lost it a year afterward 
 on the banks of the Arno, where my family found it. 
 When I saw this child the old hatred came back into my 
 heart, and I tried to drown her. She was rescued by beg- 
 gars, and made to. sing in the streets for bread. My son 
 found her and she afterward became his wife. 
 
 Three months ago he questioned me concerning her 
 parentage, and I told him, truly, as I then believed, that 
 her mother was never married. 
 
 ‘‘Poor Nella overheard me, and, grief-stricken, she fled 
 from the home where we all so dearly loved her. 
 
 “ Her husband and mother are seeking her now. Brood- 
 ing over them, I neglected this sweet babe, until grief and 
 loneliness killed her.” 
 
 For several minutes he walked slowly up and down the 
 room in silence, then a fierce light came into his eyes, and 
 he glared savagely at those who were watching him. 
 
 Why do you wait ? ” he shouted. “ Why do you not 
 kill me — do you think I will resist ? Ah, no ! I want 
 death — I covet it! Do not refuse me. Grant me this 
 service ; it is the only one humanity can do me. Come ! 
 Strike quickly ! Is there not etiough cause ? See how 
 red with blood my hands are. See how many are crying 
 out for vengeance- Why are you so deaf to these awful 
 voices ? Kill me as I killed the Prince, my wife, Nella, 
 Bianca, my son, and Tessa. Do you see the bright blood 
 on her little bosom ? I did that ! I killed her ! Oh ! 
 Why is the hand of vengeance so slow — why is it so long 
 uplifted ? Oh, God, why do you not strike me down ? 
 The curse — the curse has even come upon me, and I can- 
 not die. I shall always live and see the fulfilment of that 
 curse go on. Lucrezia, you are right ; I believe in fate 
 now, for this is fate ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! This is fate ! ” 
 
 And then he settled in a shapeless heap upon the floor, 
 as limp as a wet cloth. 
 
 “ Is he dead ?” asked Lucrezia, huskily. 
 
78 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 “ He is worse than dead/' said one of the physicians 
 after they picked him up. His mind is lost forever. He 
 is an idiot — a hopeless imbecile." 
 
 Lucrczia wrung her hands. 
 
 Her heart, too, was nearly broken, but the iron will 
 which had sustained her so many times did her excellent 
 service now. 
 
 Count Ahmberg glanced around the room with a sleepy 
 expression in his eyes. 
 
 The corners of his once firm mouth were already re- 
 laxed, and it was easy to determine what had befallen him. 
 
 Lucrezia stepped in front of the chair in which the phy- 
 sicians had placed him, and gazed at him sadly. 
 
 ‘‘Do you know me ?" she asked, 
 
 “Yes." 
 
 “ Who am I ?" 
 
 “ Lucrezia.” 
 
 “ Do you know these persons in the room — these men 
 and women ? ” 
 
 He looked at the doctors and at the servants, but no 
 sign of recognition — such as she had hoped for — came 
 upon his face. 
 
 “ I cannot tell,” he answered, hesitatingly. “ I think I 
 may have seen them.” 
 
 “Where is Bianca?” she asked, hoping to arouse him 
 in that way. 
 
 “ I do not know who you mean,” he answered, after a 
 moment's silence. 
 
 “And have you also forgotten Fritz, your son ?” 
 
 “ I do not remember the name.” 
 
 “It is a hopeless case,” interposed one of the physi- 
 cians- 
 
 Lucrezia motioned him to be silent. Then pointing to 
 the dead child, she continued : 
 
 “ Who is that ? ” 
 
 His face brightened a little. He knew the child in- 
 stantly. 
 
 “ It is Tessa,” he said, as he arose and stepped toward 
 hei*. Placing a finger upon his lips, he looked about him 
 and shook his head. 
 
 “ Hush,” he said ; “she is sleeping. She has been very 
 tired for a long time, and so you must not awaken her. 
 See the white lilies in her pretty hand. Here are others 
 on the floor. Who could have taken them from her ? 
 Who would treat a sleeping child like that ?” 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 79 
 
 Then he picked up the lilies which he had dropped 
 when the horror of her death overcame him, and reached 
 forward to put them in her other hand. 
 
 Suddenly he drew back. 
 
 “ No ; I will not do that. She might awaken. I will 
 place them on her bosom where she will see them when 
 she opens her eyes.'’ 
 
 Dear heart ! She had already opened them — in para- 
 dise ! ■ 
 
 The physicians called Lucrezia aside. 
 
 ‘‘You have touched a good chord,” one of them said to 
 her. “ His case is very singular. He can only remember 
 those whom he sees. The past is, plainly enough, com- 
 pletely lost to him. When the son and the signora return 
 he may be able to shake off a portion of this feebleness. 
 If he recognizes them, there is slight ground for hope ; 
 though it is impossible for him to recover, he may still 
 become much better than he is. Of course his knowing 
 you and the dead child may have been purely accidental, 
 though that is hard to believe. We can only hope that 
 the others may do him some good which we cannot fore- 
 see. One in his condition is entirely without our grasp. 
 Physic can only heal and cleanse the body, not the mind.” 
 
 “ But,” said Lucrezia, when he was so near death several 
 years ago, you drugged him and saved his reason. Why 
 can you not do the same now ?” 
 
 “ Because his mind was only under a cloud then. Now 
 it is completely lost.” 
 
 “ Are you sure that the experiment which was so suc- 
 cessful then would fail now?” persisted Lucrezia. 
 
 “We are certain of nothing. The conditions vary so 
 much that success could scarcely be expected from the 
 same experiment. Still, he would not be injured if we 
 tried it and failed. We will talk it over presently, and if 
 it seems feasible we will attempt what you suggest. Our 
 course, though, would be plainer and simpler if we knew 
 whether he would recognize anyone with whom he had 
 been intimate before this overthrow.” 
 
 The Count was standing near Tessa, as if guarding her. 
 
 Lucrezia longed for, yet dreaded, the return of Bianca 
 and Fritz. 
 
 Their coming might, to some extent, restore the Count’s 
 reason ; yet what a terrible shock for them would the death 
 of Tessa be ! 
 
 The old nurse thought Providence most unkind to let her 
 
So 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 live SO long when so many of her dear ones were called into 
 another life. If God had only taken her and spared Tessa, 
 she thought ; or if he had only blighted her reason and 
 saved the Count's. And then the tears ran down her old 
 wrinkled cheeks when she realized how vain and useless 
 her regrets were. 
 
 She walked across the room and stood by the Count's 
 side. 
 
 * Hush," he whispered ; do not disturb Tessa." 
 
 ‘‘Will you not go and sit down again in the chair?" 
 she asked. 
 
 “ Not so loud ; not so loud," he whispered. “When she 
 is rested I will sit down. If I go now someone will waken 
 her." 
 
 “ You sit down, and I will stand here and watch." 
 
 “ No ; you are not so strong as I. You see, I could 
 drive them away if they came for her." 
 
 His face became grave, the corners of his mouth 
 twitched, and dulness came into his eyes. He brushed 
 his face with his hands, and then stared at her vacantly. 
 
 “ Hush ! " he repeated, after a little while. “ Be silent, 
 so that she can sleep." 
 
 One of the doctors approached Lucrezia. 
 
 “ It is best to humor him," he whispered. “ Come away. 
 Do not attempt to oppose him unless he gets violent, and 
 I apprehend no danger in that direction. Some of us will 
 stay here so that we can observe all the phenomena of the 
 case." 
 
 Tessa had died a little before noon, and when twilight 
 came the Count was still by her bedside, guarding her 
 dead body. 
 
 Early in the evening there was a noise at the outer 
 door. 
 
 Then a servant came in and whispered something into 
 Lucrezia's ear. 
 
 The old woman motioned one of the doctors to follow 
 her, and hurried out of the chamber. 
 
 In the corridor she was met by Bianca, Nella, and Fritz. . 
 
 “ Am I in time ? " gasped Nella, as she clutched Lucrezi a 
 by the arm. 
 
 “ You are too late," sobbed the nurse. . 
 
 “Oh, Tessa! Oh, my baby!" wailed Nella. Then shG 
 buried her face in her husband’s bosom and wept. j 
 
 The physician explained the Count’s condition, and saiM 
 that he and his medical associates had been holding a lorJg 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 8i 
 
 consultation, and that they would try an experiment the 
 next day, which they had many reasons for believing 
 would benefit the Count. 
 
 When Fritz entered the silent chamber, and saw his father 
 guarding the dead child, he instantly gave up all hope. 
 
 ‘‘There is no use hoping/’ he murmured, sadly. 
 
 “Then,” said Bianca, “ I earnestly pray that his sad life 
 may come to a speedy close.” 
 
 “Amen !” said Fritz and Nella. 
 
 The Count knew them and called them by their names, 
 but he evinced no emotion except the fear that they might 
 awaken Tessa. 
 
 He could not be induced to leave the dead child, nor 
 could he comprehend any conversation which was not cen- 
 tred upon her. 
 
 “What have we left?” asked Nella, in despair. 
 
 “You have each other,” answered Bianca, quickly. “Do 
 not forget that.” 
 
 Again Nella wept, and after that she was calmer. 
 
 She and Fritz were standing by a window which over- 
 looked the garden. 
 
 The moon was full and everything out of doors was 
 bright and peaceful. It contrasted strangely with the 
 emotion in their hearts. 
 
 “ How near allied pain and joy always are,” said Nella. 
 “We have just come back to the home where we were so 
 happy for so many years, and are now secure in knowing 
 that nothing can again disturb our love. And yet, though 
 all the old doubts and perplexities are banished forever, 
 how great a sorrow has come upon us.” 
 
 Fritz stooped and kissed her. * 
 
 “ Yes, dear,” he answered ; “ it is always so. Love’s 
 pathway is strewed deeper with thorns than with roses ; 
 but, though our faltering feet are torn as we journey on, 
 we know that none have found the way less briery. If we 
 but ” 
 
 “ She wakes ! Tessa wakes ! ” cried the Count, suddenly. 
 
 All were startled, expecting to see a miracle. 
 
 They rushed forward, but the dead child still lay like a 
 motionless piece of wax. 
 
 It was only an hallucination of the stricken nobleman’s 
 disordered brain. 
 
 “Listen,” he said, softly, “she is speaking. She is 
 whispering. Do you not hear her ? She wants to go to 
 the garden and lie among the lilies.” 
 
 6 
 
82 
 
 THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 
 
 He picked her lifeless body up tenderly and started 
 toward the door. 
 
 “Come/' he said, to the others, “go with us. We may 
 want you.” 
 
 “ Do not oppose him,” said one of the physicians. 
 “Follow, and see what comes of this strange fancy.” 
 
 The Count carried the dead child along the corridor and 
 out into the garden. 
 
 Breathlessly the others watched him. 
 
 At the extremity of the long garden was a large bed of 
 white lilies. The odor which they exhaled was so rich 
 and powerful that it was almost sickening. 
 
 In the centre of this odorous bed Count Ahmberg laid 
 the lifeless body of Tessa. 
 
 Her face and arms seemed whiter than the lilies. 
 
 The full moon bathed the strange group in its strong 
 light, but the silent watchers who bent their grave faces 
 toward the Count made it seem eldritch and ghoulish. 
 
 Handful after handful of lilies did the Count pluck 
 and strew around the dead child. 
 
 “ How happy she is,” he murmured. See how sweetly 
 she smiles. She loves the lilies ! I will cover her with 
 them, all but her dear face.” 
 
 And so he did. 
 
 “ Tessa,” he cried, after regarding her curiously for sev- 
 eral moments. “Tessa, jump up, dear, and shake the lil- 
 ies off. ril cover you with them again. I’ll cover you 
 again.” 
 
 Then he looked at the group who surrounded him. 
 
 Nella was in Fritz’s arms, and Bianca and old Lucrezia 
 were clinging to each other. 
 
 Near at hand stood the three doctors and the servants. 
 
 All were weeping. 
 
 The Count pressed his hands to his forehead, as if try- 
 ing to understand what it all meant. 
 
 “Is there any hope;” asked Fritz. “For God’s sake 
 speak ? ” 
 
 The physicians shook their heads in silence. 
 
 Then Bianca, completely broken down, began sobbing 
 hysterically. 
 
 “ Hush,” snid the Count, as he knelt by the lifeless 
 Tessa. “ Hush ! she is sleeping again.” 
 
 Fie moved the lilies which he had placed upon her bos- 
 om, and got some of the blood upon one of his hands. 
 
 “Blood!” he exclaimed, starting up. “Blood! Her 
 
THE LILIES OF FLORENCE. 83 
 
 blood, too! See, she has been hurt. Oh, help her! Help 
 her ! ” 
 
 The horror upon his face deepened. For one instant 
 the strong mind flashed forth again, with all its old inten- 
 sity. He looked from the dead child to those around him, 
 recognized them all and understood all. 
 
 ‘‘Fritz, Bianca, Nella!'’ he cried. “I see — I know all 
 now ! Poor Tessa ! Oh, God ! I am dying ! ” 
 
 He sank upon his knees again, and then fell forward be- 
 side Tessa and threw his arms about her. 
 
 The two lay dead together — dead among the lilies. 
 
STORIES AND I.EGENDS. 
 
MY RUSSIAN RIVAL 
 
 Vera ? For ten years she has been dead, yet I still shud- 
 der whenever 1 hear her dreadful name spoken — and my 
 hand trembles even now as I write it. I fully believe, 
 having known her, that some of the daughters of Eve still 
 partake, as pr eachers say, of the nature of the serpent ; 
 and tliTat in their veins stiirburns the awful poison of that 
 bitter fruit which forever quenched, silenced, and dimmed 
 in Eden,'“flie glories, splendors, and melodies of heaven. 
 There was, too, in Vera a strong taint of Tartar blood— 
 though I doubt if she would have been less cruel and 
 heartless without it. 
 
 A more magnificent woman, physically and mentally, no 
 one ever saw, and no man, I am sure — except he be a sav- 
 age — could resist the music of her voice, the magic of her 
 laughter, or the almost unnaturally undulant grace of her 
 very movement. In this last particular she was so re- 
 markably lithe, pliant, and willowy, that her rivals often 
 swore that she was some dangerous and terrible serpent, 
 changed into woman by the freak of some wantonly play- 
 ful god. At first I used to smile when this was said, but 
 the time afterward came when my smiles ceased, and I 
 more than half believed. 
 
 My father, for many years a quiet and unimportant poli- 
 tician, was finally rewarded for wasting, in politics, the 
 -most of his life and income, by being made Minister to 
 Russia. It was there that I first saw Vera, and being, as I 
 was, a mere child, a little white-faced and yellow-haired 
 thing of sixteen, I was dazed with her magnificence, and 
 worshipped her almost at sight. I think that my soul 
 went out to her at the first kiss my lips received from her 
 beautiful mouth ; any way, her great, dancing black eyes 
 always held me subject to her will. 
 
 It has been said, so often that it has become a proverb. 
 
88 
 
 MV RUSSIAN- rival. 
 
 that never, for strictly feminine reasons, can there be 
 strong, true, disinterested friendship between womenTand; 
 that no woman, except she is very old, can ever be unself- 
 ishly fond of another woman. But this I know^tO— h.e 
 false, for I loved Vera better than"^FToved my soul, better 
 even than I loved my God. 'My love for her passed, really, 
 into the most biassed and bigoted idolatry. 
 
 Meeting her changed me from a soft, gentle, girlish 
 thing, whom everyone could sway and bend, into a spiteful, 
 vixenish creature of impulse — bitter against everyone who 
 dared speak ill of her. She was my all — heaven, earth, 
 universe. I even gave up my lover to her without any 
 feeling of resentment ^tl5vt^ard^^^^ Wilfully and persist- 
 
 ently were my ears kept shut against the frightful things 
 Which were justly said of her, until, having robbed and 
 cheated me of everything else that I loved and valued, she 
 attempted to destroy my life. Then, and only then, did 
 my blind idolatry end. 
 
 Then, too, strangely enough, the manner of my old life, 
 all gentleness and modest timidity, came back to me, and 
 all my fierceness and perversity — marking, as it did, the 
 whole of my association with her — went out of me as a 
 candle flame goes out in a strong draught of wind. I was 
 once more my normal, natural self, and shrunk from even 
 my memories of her, as if they had been a succession of 
 horrid nightmares. 
 
 Though I was not yet seventeen, I was already betrothed 
 — by my parents, of course, after the evil custom of my 
 country — to a man who was my senior by nearly ten years. 
 But, happily for me, and not according to the custom of 
 my country, my intended husband and I were devotedly 
 fond of each other ; in fact, we were, in the strongest and 
 fullest sense, ardent lovers. He had been my protector 
 and companion in my childish excursions about the city, 
 and not infrequently put aside his dignity and joined me 
 in my little sports and games. I matured at a much earlier 
 age than is common with ray sex, and so was a woman long 
 before any one realized it but my lover and myself. When 
 I was sixteen he asked for my hand, and was accepted by 
 my parents, after some little demurring on the ground of 
 my extreme youthfulness. A few months later, when my 
 father went to Russia with his little family, leaving Henri, 
 my lover, behind, I was nearly heart-broken and utterly 
 disconsolate. 
 
 Wc left France in August, and I could only be torn from 
 
MY RUSSIAIY RIVAL, 
 
 89 
 
 my lover’s arms by the pledge and promise that he should 
 join us in Russia before Christmas. I wept nearly all the 
 way to our new and, to me, detested home, and it was with 
 the utmost difficulty I could compose myself sufficiently 
 to receive my father’s Russian friends, when they called at 
 our hotel to welcome us. The first glimpse at Vera 
 calmed me, and when the magnificent creature came, smil- 
 ingly, and kissed me, I was almost happy again. 
 
 1 do not like her,” said my mother, when we were alone ; 
 and straightway I flew into the first passion of my life, 
 
 I declared, hotly and fiercely, and stoutly maintained it, 
 too, that Vera was an angel — flawless and perfect. God, 
 I averred, would never have bestowed beauty and grace 
 ■^c1i"as here upon anyone without accompanying it with 
 fhe'^sublitnest virtue and the rarest mental endowments. 
 ******1^11 ether I believed all this or not I do not know, for I 
 never once stopped to analyze my feelings — perhaps it 
 would have been an. impossibility for me to have done so, 
 she so dazzled and bewildered me. 1 am, however, certain 
 that I never should have tried, because for all the mad in- 
 fatuation and jealous love I bore her, there was, constantly 
 haunting me, the fear that from some hidden recess of my 
 own soul, or from the lips of some one to whom she was 
 less than she was to me, there might come forth some sin- 
 ister doubt which would menace with blame the splendid 
 creature whom I held blameless. 
 
 She saw my devotion, and rewarded me, daily, with such 
 tender caresses as women only bestow upon their lovers. 
 And so she tightened and strengthened the bonds which 
 held me, body, soul, all — subject to her — as no autocrat 
 ever yet held imperial sway over loyal empire. I believed 
 that she loved me as dearly and as intensely as I loved her, 
 and whenever those who saw how falsely she was dealing 
 with me tried to warn me and put me on my guard, I in- 
 variably assailed my counsellor as fiercely as a pantheress 
 would assail the disturber of her whelps. 
 
 When the time for Henri’s arrival drew near, I half re- 
 gretted that he was coming — it would interrupt my trans- 
 ports with Vera. He would be sure to claim some of my 
 afternoons, which she always gave me. We used to go 
 into her boudoir each noon, immediately after lunch, re- 
 maining there always until we dressed for dinner ; and 
 there was, to me, more unalloyed bliss in these afternoons 
 with her than there had ever been in the moments I had 
 spent upon my lover’s bosom. 
 
90 
 
 MY RUSSIAN RIVAL. 
 
 To fully understand Vera’s tremendous influence over 
 me it must be remembered, all along, that there was no el- 
 ement of fickleness in my nature, and that my love for 
 Henri was never for one moment shakable or wavering. 
 He held the same place in my heart as of old — only to her 
 I had given a stronger, wilder, more vehement love — a 
 feeling so all-absorbing, all-compelling, that it thoroughly 
 relegated every one and everything but Vera to a second- 
 ary place. Nothing could compensate me for the loss of 
 even a single afternoon with her, when, in half-harem 
 dress, we used to lie in each other’s arms — I drinking in, 
 with fiercest delight, every word which fell from her lips. 
 
 All that marred my happiness at such times was the re- 
 gret that I was not a man, and so able to keep some man 
 from some day coming between us. I was jealous, but in 
 sucli a strange and foolish way. If she, of her own will, 
 bestowed her smiles and favors upon others, it gave me no 
 pain or annoyance, because in my love for her there was 
 no room for criticism. What she, my idol, did was per- 
 fectly right ; I neither could nor would see it in any other 
 way. But whenever any one intruded upon her, or in any 
 way approached her, murder instantly came into my heart 
 and I wanted to destroy the aggressor. It was this wliich, 
 to some extent, made me dread the coming of my lover. 
 He was certain to overstep this bound, and then I feared 
 that I should do him harm, or, at least, learn to hate him. 
 But he came at last, and, to my surprise — since she had 
 always declared herself a man-hater — she seemed fascina- 
 ted by him the moment she set eyes upon him. 
 
 So deep and powerful was my devotion to her, that her 
 interest in him never excited in me the slightest degree of 
 anger or bitterness. She still gave me each afternoon, and 
 so I was content. She was even more caressing to me 
 than ever before, and that, I said to myself, was because 
 her noble nature reproached her for liking the man who 
 was my betrothed husband. 
 
 Henri saw through it all, and besought me to tear Vera 
 out of my heart, marry him at once, and return with him 
 to Paris. Blind to my best interests and half-demented, I 
 refused to consider his proposition for an instant. I said, 
 flatly and bluntly, that there was no man in the world 
 for whom I would leave Vera. Upon his attempting 
 to soothe me, preparatory, as I thought, to a renewal of 
 his admonitions and entreaties, I became enraged and for- 
 bade his ever making mention of her, unless he could do 
 
MV RUSSIAN RIVAL, 
 
 91 
 
 it in a manner agreeable to me. This he swore was im- 
 possible, and so we had our first quarrel. 
 
 After that I declined seeing him, except in the presence 
 of my family. My mother sided against me, partly be- 
 cause I was so manifestly wrong, and partly because she 
 had always disliked Vera. My father, enchanted with Ve- 
 ra’s beauty, wit and grace, said nothing to the others, 
 though he gave me to understand that he did not alto- 
 gether disapprove of my conduct. 
 
 So things went on for several weeks, until I began 
 doubting if Henri ever intended going away from Russia. 
 
 All at once, I discovered a marked change in his manner 
 toward Vera. Her powerful charms and perfect woman- 
 hood were taking effect upon him at last, and he was be- 
 ginning to like her. Then came the test of her power over 
 me and the fullest possible proof of my utter subjection to 
 her. I had known, almost from the moment of their first 
 meeting, that he had made an effaceless impression upon 
 her heart, and I pitied her, because I felt that it must nec- 
 essarily cause her suffering. 
 
 Still I thought that the love between Vera and me was 
 as strong on her part as it was on mine ; and so I reasoned 
 it out that when he was once gone, and she and I were 
 again alone with each other, our mutual love for each 
 other would soon heal in her heart the tvound which his 
 coming had made. 
 
 When I really and unmistakably saw that he was get- 
 ting fond of her, instead of regretting it I was glad — glad, 
 because I loved her so much that whatever added to her 
 happiness also added to mine. 
 
 My love for her was greater than my love for him, and 
 there was no doubt in my mind but that I would, also, for- 
 ever hold the foremost place in her heart. That point set- 
 tled, it was immaterial to me whether Vera or I became 
 Henri’s wife ; in either event, she and I would not be sep- 
 arated, and that was the sole thing in life which I dreaded. 
 Since she loved him, if he married her, I would have the 
 happiness of sacrificing my cherished dream for her sake, 
 and that, perhaps, would make me all the dearer to her 
 because of my magnanimity. 
 
 One day, when my heart was full of this, I put the mat- 
 ter to her, and stoutly asserted that I w^ould rather see her 
 his wife than marry him myself. She was thoroughly sur- 
 prised, burst into tears, and sobbed her perplexity out on 
 my bosom. She confessed to me that she loved Henri, 
 
92 
 
 MV RUSSIAN RIVAL, 
 
 but assured me that nothing could tempt her to infringe 
 upon my rights, especially when we were all guests of her 
 father’s. 
 
 Laughing at the scruples which she expressed, I in- 
 formed her, in the most positive and unmistakable terms, 
 that I had changed the views I had hitherto held regard- 
 ing matrimonial life, and that I should never marry. Go- 
 ing a step further, I added that I should at once give Hen- 
 ri his dismissal, and so open the way clearly for her. This 
 she dissuaded me from doing, actuated, very likely, by 
 the fear that the next thing following Henri’s dismissal 
 would be his departure from Russia. I promised to let 
 matters stand as they were until he had given her some 
 token which would convince her that he was in love with 
 her ; and of course I agreed to this readily and willingly. 
 What could she have wanted of me that I would not have 
 granted her? 
 
 And so, under my very eyes, and with my full sanction 
 and approval, I let their love-making go on. Finally, he of- 
 fered her his hand and heart. She accepted him upon the 
 condition that he should first obtain his release from his 
 love pledges to me. He came to me, acknowledging his 
 passion for her and the wrong it was doing me. No whit 
 did he spare himself, but debased himself completely. 
 
 “ I do not know what to call this feeling I bear her,” he 
 wailed; ^‘it is something too horrible and unholy to call 
 love. The love 1 bore you was sweet, pure,, and noble ; it 
 made my whole life better. But this woman holds me 
 with a chain stronger than iron, and it burns fiercer than 
 fire. I cannot resist her. I am spellbound. I am a cow- 
 ard ” 
 
 Stop ! ” I cried, “ you can have your freedom ; but I can- 
 not let a man whose faith I once accepted do both himself 
 and a noble woman such gross injustice. Vera is my dear- 
 est friend — the only person on earth whom I love — and 
 she is in every way a worthier woman than I am, or ever 
 have been. Go to her. I wish you only happiness.” 
 
 Could any woman have done more than this for the 
 sake of another woman ? Did any woman ever do so 
 much before ? 
 
 Still, I must admit that I did it all freely and unreserv- 
 edly — moved, solely and entirely, by the love I bore her, 
 and by nothing else. There was in it no sense of duty ; 
 no feeling of regret for the loss of my lover ; no thought 
 on my part that there was any element of nobleness in 
 
MY RUSSIAN RIVAL, 
 
 93 
 
 it — nothing of the kind. The only factor moving me was 
 my love for her ; even now, I must maintain this much of 
 the old feeling. 
 
 When my mother was informed of the new turn in af- 
 fairs, she was provoked and distressed beyond the antici- 
 pation of any one. She insisted that she and my father 
 alone had the right of breaking the engagement between 
 Henri and I, and that she would never permit me to so 
 foolishly sacrifice my happiness. My fatiier was shocked, 
 but he was also silent. I coolly informed my mother that 
 she might as well follow my father’s example, and hold 
 her peace, since no power on earth could now prevail 
 upon me to become Henri’s wife. 
 
 Father accepted my stubborn persistence in doing as I 
 pleased with a sigh ; just as he had accepted everything 
 else which was a phenomena of the new traits which my 
 association with Vera had developed in me ; but my mother 
 was not to be so easily thwarted. She made an onslaught 
 upon my father which would have won him into com- 
 pliance with her wishes but for a severe and unaccountable 
 illness with which she was suddenly seized that evening. 
 This, of course, hindered further interference from her. 
 She was very sick for three days, when the physicians 
 startled us by saying that she could not, at most, live be- 
 yond midnight, barely eight hours. 
 
 Vera, seemingly as much distressed as any of us, assisted 
 me in attending my dying mother. About nightfall I was 
 absent from the sick room an hour, during the most of 
 which time they were alone together. On my return my 
 mother startled me by declaring that Vera had just given 
 her poisoned wine. 
 
 I screamed and would have fallen to the floor but for 
 Vera, who caught me in her arms. Henri and my father 
 rushed quickly in, closely followed by the physicians. 
 
 “ Madam thought I gave her poisoned wine,” said Vera, 
 with perfect calmness, and stooping to kiss me as she spoke. 
 
 The most of what I offered her is still in the glass yonder, 
 on the medicine table. One of you doctors can relieve me 
 of a dying woman’s fearful resentment by examining what 
 remains in the glass. Mademoiselle was alarmed by her 
 mother’s words.” 
 
 The physicians snatched up the glass, but could detect 
 no trace of poison in it. A chemical analysis, later on, 
 resulted in a similar verdict. 
 
 Before midnight my mother was dead. 
 
94 
 
 MV RUSSIAiV RIVAL, 
 
 Henri and my father regarded Vera with suspicion, I 
 was convinced of her innocence. Her manner alone was 
 enough to satisfy me. My head had lain against her heart 
 from the moment when my mother accused Vera of poi- 
 soning her until the physicians had pronounced the wine 
 pure. All this while the pulsations of Vera’s heart were 
 never in the least accelerated. Would this have been pos- 
 sible, I asked myself, had she been in any way guilty ? 
 
 A few days after the burial of my mother my father sum- 
 moned me into his private office. Without leaving me 
 more than time enough to close the door behind me and 
 sit down, he began speaking of my broken engagement 
 with Henri. It was my mother’s desire, he said, to force 
 Henri to abandon his passion for Vera and carry out his 
 marriage contract with me. 
 
 I attempted to speak, but he forbade me. He should see 
 Henri about the matter the next morning, after which 
 time he would have more to say to me. With that I was 
 sent away from the private office until liis further pleasure 
 again made my presence there necessary. 
 
 To say that I was angry would but ill express my state 
 of mind at that moment. Had it been possible to have 
 regained access to his office, at any time within the hour 
 following our interview, I would have killed him. 
 
 Immediately after leaving him, I encountered Henri in 
 one of the corridors, and told him what my father had 
 said. To my dismay he at once declared that my father 
 was entirely right. I then sought Vera and told her ail. 
 She expressed no opinion, but begged me to believe that 
 the whole thing would come right of itself. We could 
 only wait, at most, she ,said, and we might not have long 
 to wait. 
 
 We did not have long to wait. 
 
 The next morning my father was found dead in his bed. 
 When the physicians came, they discovered in my father’s 
 hair a deadly reptile from Southern Tartary, the sting of 
 wliich had penetrated the sleeping man’s brain, killing him 
 instantly. 
 
 The startling question was, How came the reptile in my 
 father’s room ? An investigation was ordered, but it had 
 to be abandoned for want of a single clew as to who had 
 perpetrated the dreadful crime. 
 
 It was clear to me that Henri suspected Vera, and once 
 again was I convinced of her innocence — not alone by my 
 faith in her — but because of her frankness and perfect 
 
MV RUSSIA iV RIVAL, 
 
 95 
 
 calmness. Throughout the whole of the day following 
 my father’s death Henri kept making efforts to talk with 
 me privately, but I succeeded in avoiding him every time. 
 
 Late in the afternoon I went to my chamber and threw 
 myself across my bed, out of sheer fatigue. Almost in- 
 stantly I fell into a deep slumber. I was awakened by a 
 strong and unpleasant odor. Opening my eyes, I saw 
 Vera standing beside me, pouring oil over me and over 
 the bed. I tried to rise, but found myself tightly bound 
 to the bed. As she looked down into my eyes, her face 
 became dark, fierce, and fiendish. 
 
 ‘H am a Tartar,” she said, ‘‘and it is a custom of my 
 countrymen to burn fools alive. That will be your fate. 
 I have always hated you, so I shall enjoy burning you. 
 Your mother and father met death at my hands — so shall 
 you. If I let you live longer, Henri will forsake me and 
 love you again ; otherwise, bad as I hate you, I would let 
 you live, because you gave him to me. Do not cry out, 
 or I will cut your throat with this knife.” 
 
 Just then the knife was snatched from her hand by 
 Henri himself. He cut me loose from the bed, but she 
 set fire to my clothing. 
 
 Then I went into a dead faint. 
 
 Henri saved me, but the flames which Vera had intend- 
 ed for my destruction caused her death instead. That was 
 ten years ago ; and Henri and I have been husband and 
 wife for nine of the intervening years. 
 
SEA VOICES 
 
 She came ta them out of the sea, and some of the simple 
 ^fisherfolk thought that she was born of the sea. 
 
 For three days and nights a fierce storm had been sweep- 
 ing down upon the bleak northern coast, and through all 
 that time the wind and the rocks had been tossing and 
 churning the sea back and forth and lashing it into a fury 
 so turbulent that no ship built by mortal hands could ever 
 have passed the dangerous shoals and spurs and reached 
 the tiny harbor, which was the only safe haven for a hun- 
 dred miles. 
 
 Through all those fearful days and nights the patient 
 fishermen kept constant watch for whoever and whatever 
 might be driven shoreward from some wrecked or dis- 
 mantled ship. 
 
 By day they kept their glasses bent seaward in every 
 direction, and by night they had great fires burning all 
 along the rough and craggy coast. ^ 
 
 But the sea seemed forsaken, and never once did they 
 see a sail or hear a signal of distress. 
 
 After nightfall, on the third day and last day of the great 
 storm, old Manlo, by many years the oldest fisherman for 
 scores of miles along the coast, stood sadly by himself 
 near the water’s edge. 
 
 Suddenly there was a flash of lightning so bright and 
 vivid that it revealed to Manlo a small wliite object, rounder 
 and shapelier than any of the frothy masses of foam, riding 
 toward him swiftly upon one of the nearest waves. Before 
 the sharp peal of accompanying thunder came the sea had 
 deposited its freight at the old man’s feet. 
 
 He stooped and picked up a naked female child, scarcely 
 a year old, which smiled and cooed as happily as if it lay 
 upon its mother’s bosom. 
 
 The old man’s eyes, dry for years because of a grief 
 
SEA VOICES, 
 
 97 
 
 which had spent itself, shed tears anew ; and praying in his 
 heart that the little one might stay with him and solace 
 him for a sweet, prattling babe whom death had snatched 
 from his sheltering arms before time had stolen the color 
 of youth from his hair and cheeks, he turned his back on 
 the sea and walked away, all heedless of the sweeping wind 
 and the hissing, blinding rain. 
 
 He was still walking heedlessly, when some of the other 
 fishermen, who were coming down to the coast, met the 
 two, and paused to ask questions about the strange child. 
 But even the darkness failed to hide from their curious 
 eyes the powerful emotions which moved their old friend, 
 so they stood back and watched him in silence as he went 
 slowly on. Occasional flashes of lightning disclosed the 
 tenderness that glowed upon the old face, which for so 
 long had been stern and hard, and the dainty baby-fingers, 
 which now clutched the snowy beard, and now toyed with 
 the- wrinkled, storm-beaten face, and the rain of kisses 
 which the little fingers met whenever they came near the 
 old but smiling mouth. x 
 
 Tears and kisses from one who for two score years had 
 neither shed the one nor given nor taken the other ! It 
 seemed so strange and yet so natural and so beautiful, 
 even to the rude fishermen, that they walked quietly away 
 and never once spoke to each other about it, for hours. 
 
 The old man, still sheltering the naked babe upon his 
 breast, and protecting her from the storm with his rough, 
 stained, and smeared coat, went slowly on toward his poor 
 little cabin, where it stood, isolated and alone, in a hol- 
 low which the great forces that shaped the world had 
 scooped out of the solid rock. 
 
 It is little Rita,” he kept saying to himself, ‘Tt is my 
 own little Rita. Death took her from me so very long 
 ago, but now the sea has snatched her from her grave and 
 has given her back to me.” 
 
 There was no ship wrecked on the coast that night, and 
 at daylight when the storm had ceased there was no sign 
 of any on the sea. 
 
 Whence the child came puzzled everyone but Manlo ; 
 and that she could have come safely shoreward over the 
 shoals and crags, through such a sea, seemed still more 
 mysterious. 
 
 The fishermen, awed and fearful, said that she was no 
 hu»ian child, but a wraith — or the offspring of some wan- 
 ton sea-nymph — cast forth from the caverns of the ocean 
 7 
 
98 
 
 SEA VOICES, 
 
 to bring sorrow into the homes of men. It was thus that 
 they reasoned among themselves when the morning came, 
 and the sea gave them no clew as to the coming of the 
 child. 
 
 So, full of terror and superstitious dread, they went down 
 into the lonely little hollow, to the cabin of old Manlo, to 
 demand that the child whom the sea had given forth 
 should be cast back into the sea. 
 
 They went to the cabin silently and in a body ; and si- 
 lently and in a body they came away. 
 
 When Manlo's door was opened by his unseen and un- 
 summoned visitors, that which met their eyes turned them 
 from their purpose instantly, without the exchange of a 
 word or a glance. 
 
 The two whom they sought were sleeping, the younger 
 upon the elder’s breast. One of her little hands was in 
 his and the other was about his neck. His strong but 
 withered right arm held her closely, so that she could not 
 fall. Their faces were together, hers being partly veiled 
 by his long white beard. 
 
 As they slept they smiled. ‘‘ So the angels smile,” 
 thought one of the fishermen, and, beckoning to his com- 
 panions, he led them away, ashamed, and with their de- 
 mand unspoken. 
 
 Years came and went, and the child still lived with the 
 old man who had rescued her from the storm. , 
 
 He and all his brother-fishermen were fair-skinned, yel- 
 low-haired and blue-eyed ; but the child was unlike them. 
 The rich color in her face, her dark eyes and hair, and her 
 round limbs and impetuous temper, bespoke the Latin 
 races of the warm South. The fishermen still shook their 
 heads and believed that some day the evil people of the 
 sea who had sent her to them would reclaim her. They 
 said that the glitter in her eyes, when she was angry, was 
 such as they saw upon the crests of the waves on stormy 
 nights. 
 
 Then, too, she was always by herself, and loved the sea 
 better than anything else, save old Manlo, whose sole hap- 
 piness she was. Since he took her out of the sea, a strange 
 forgetfulness had come over him, and he seemed to live 
 only in the past, which was all unknown to his fellow- 
 fishermen. He never tired of saying that the child was 
 Rita, his dead granddaughter, come back to life again, and 
 she never questioned the relationship. 
 
 From her babyhood, her happiest days were those she 
 
SEA VOICES. 
 
 99 
 
 spent by the sea, where she could watch the undulating 
 waters and hear their splashing upon the sand and among 
 the rocks. A dreamy look would always come into her 
 eyes and a tender smile upon her lips. 
 
 Others heard but the low wash of overlapping waves, 
 their gurgling when they broke upon the beach, and the 
 murmuring and sighing of the winds. But she, bending 
 her beautiful dark head and breathing lightly, heard faint, 
 sweet sounds, too delicate and indistinct for less sensitive 
 
 ears. 
 
 She heard voices from over the seas and from the mystical 
 unknown islands which no mortal has seen. The voices 
 sang of eternal summer, of endless days along green, leafy 
 shores, of unbroken peace and of deathless love. Day after 
 day she heard them, above the fiercest storm, as plainly as 
 when the winds and seas were calm. 
 
 Though she loved old Manlo dearly, she often mused 
 and wondered whether the far-away, unseen singers would 
 not some day come and bear her off to the elysian isles and 
 bowers whose blisses filled all their music. 
 
 In^oftest whisper she asked the question, and in still 
 softer song the voices answered her. They said that she 
 should be with them when first her heart hg-d known the 
 pulses of love, and sin, and hatred, and the quiet of re- 
 pentance and peace. 
 
 Maidenly shame first burned in her cheeks, and after it 
 came the pallor of fear and dread. But hope soon 
 brightened her eyes and sent the pain curves from the 
 corners of her mouth. A faint moan parted her lips 
 which ended in a sigh. 
 
 iL.No w all the course of my life is known to me,” she 
 murmured p^^and I must strengthen myself to meet it as 
 jt comes. Better it would have been for me to have met it 
 blindly and without questions.” 
 
 For a time even old Manlo’s kindnesses almost failed 
 to win smiles from her, and regret and discontent rankled 
 in her heart. The voices vainly sang of the joyous days 
 beyond the brief bridge of pain, but she listened to them 
 sullenly, and so each day they became fainter until they 
 ceased. Then blustering winter came, and for all her 
 sorrow and disconsolate woe she heard no sound from the 
 sea but the waves and the wind and the storms. 
 
 With the spring-sunshine, peace came back to her heart, 
 and she no longer rebelled against the life of which the 
 sea-voices sang to her in the warm days of the summer 
 
 4c- 
 
TOO 
 
 SEA VOICES. 
 
 that was past. After that, she could hear the voices again, 
 but she could not distinguish the words they sang. 
 
 ‘‘That,” she said to herself, “is my punishment for dis- 
 content.” 
 
 Early in the summer some nobles came to the coast from 
 the emperor’s court, and with them was a young ,pxiuce 
 of Rita’s age. 
 
 At the first glance they exchanged, the two seemed fas- 
 cinated with each other, and Rita no longer listened for 
 the sea voices. She found sweeter solace and pleasanter 
 music in the words which fell from the Prince’s lips. All 
 through each day they were inseparable companions; but 
 the nobles who came with the Prince, and old Manlo and 
 his fisher-friends, thought them too young for love, or 
 harm to come of their being so much together. 
 
 “ Children never love but a day,” said one after another, 
 with careless laughter ; and so Rita and the Prince spent 
 each day of their seventeenth summer alone by them- 
 selves. 
 
 One day, when they were walking together along the 
 coast, they found a rare, delicate, and curious shell, such 
 as neither had ever seen before. 
 
 “You are like this shell,” said the Prince, as he kissed 
 her. “ It will never be the lot of any man to find another 
 like either.” 
 
 She thought of the voices and sighed. 
 
 “Yes,” she said, “ I am but an empty shell, tossed up by 
 the sea, borrowing melodies from the winds and the waves, 
 and giving them back again after a fashion all their own.” 
 
 Puzzled and surprised, he asked what she meant, but 
 she did not answer him. 
 
 Long before the summer was gone, the Prince’s love 
 became so much to Rita that she feared to have old Man- 
 lo’s eyes rest upon her face, lest in her own eyes he should 
 read the secret she knew not how to hide. 
 
 When the summer ended the Prince went away with the 
 nobles, but he swore to Rita that he would return to her, 
 before the snow came again, and make her his wife. 
 
 Eagerly she watched for him, but the snow came and 
 went with no sign of his handsome, smiling face. Each 
 day, after the coming of the snow, her bitterness and 
 anguish increased, and just before midwinter she became 
 a mother. When her babe was a month old it died ; and 
 that night she tossed its little lifeless body into the cold 
 winter sea and fled, alone and in the darkness, from the 
 
SEA FO/CES, 
 
 lOI 
 
 place where she had known all her happiness and all her 
 shame. 
 
 Old Manlo but half understood it, and each day his 
 feebleness grew upon him. 
 
 “Years and years ago,” he said, ^Sve buried her; but 
 she was not dead, and after a time the sea gave her back 
 to me. That was because I never believed, like the others, 
 that she was dead. She stayed with me for awhile, and would 
 be with me now, but sometimes God sleeps, and once while 
 he slept the devil came and stole her away from me.” 
 
 Spring and summer brought no news of Rita, so the 
 fisher-folk thought that she must have destroyed herself 
 in the sea. They were saying this over to themselves for 
 the hundredth time when old Manlo appeared among 
 them, with his gray head uncovered, and a smile of child- 
 ish glee and happiness on his face. 
 
 “ I am going to Rita at last,” he said ; “ for I know now 
 where she is. It was the people of the sea who brought 
 her to us, all safe and unharmed, through that awful storm. 
 It was their soft hands that kept the rough water from 
 dashing her upon the crags and shoals. They saved her 
 because they loved her, and they only let her come to me 
 because I was so lonely. I do not think any more that 
 she is my own Rita, my dead grandchild, for I have 
 been to her grave, and she still lies there in the poor little 
 box I made for her so long, so very long ago. After she 
 died I had only the sea to love, so the sea brought me 
 this little one from some far-away shore, to soften my hard 
 old heart. But the sea-people were always calling her 
 back to them, and she often told me what the voices said 
 to her. Last night they were calling me, and her voice 
 was plainest of them all. So now I am going to them and 
 to her.” 
 
 Ever since the unknown child, whom he had called 
 Rita, came to him out of the sea, old Manlo had always 
 been uttering strange fancies one moment, only to forget 
 them in the next, so the fishermen only listened to him 
 sadly, and did not think of following him as he walked 
 away seaward. 
 
 He went straight down to the beach. It was ebb tide, 
 and with a vacant look in his eyes he followed the slowly- 
 retreating sea. Finally, overcome by a sudden weakness, 
 he fell, helplessly, upon the wet sand. Before the tide 
 turned, his last breath was drawn, and long before morning 
 the undertow swept his dead body away. 
 
102 
 
 SEA VOICES. 
 
 Before the summer was gone, a young fisherman and 
 his bride began their wedded life in old Manlo’s deserted 
 cabin. In a few years the lonely place was merry with the 
 noise and prattle of children, and the old man who first 
 made it his home was forgotten. 
 
 The years went slowly on, and the perfect quiet of the 
 village was only broken by an occasional birth, death, or 
 marriage. 
 
 The emperor, full of years, was dying in his palace in 
 the South, and his eldest son, the same prince who had be- 
 trayed the old fisherman’s adopted granddaughter, was 
 about becoming emperor in his father’s stead. 
 
 It was at this time, when the royal death was anticipated 
 from day to day, that a strange woman suddenly appeared 
 in the bleak northern fishing village. She was very beau- 
 tiful, and her beauty was heightened by her black, solemn, 
 monastic robes. 
 
 She wandered about the village and along the coast, and 
 though her preference was unnoticed, she seemed to linger 
 most fondly in the cottage that old Manlo had built. She 
 said it reminded her of the place where her childhood was 
 spent, and asked for its history. 
 
 One of the old fishermen told her the story, and when he 
 described old Manlo’s last days, the w^oman burst into 
 tears. They all thought that she was touched by the old 
 man’s sad life, and never once dreamed that for many 
 years she had been as the light of his eyes. 
 
 Leaving the cabin and its memories, she went out along 
 the coast, and stood on a high bluff overlooking the sea. 
 It w^as high tide, and the frothy, green water was thundering 
 and dashing against the jagged rocks, fifty feet below her. 
 
 ‘‘It was here,” she murmured, “that his love was first 
 spoken. It was here that I first realized how sweet his 
 voice was, and that I had a heart. He made me suffer, 
 and for a time I hated him, for the shame his love brought 
 upon me deprived me of the right to stay by dear old 
 Manlo’s side until his life was done. But that is over now, 
 and I forgive him. Nay, I did that long ago. I loved 
 him if he did not love me, and my only earthly wish is to 
 see his face and hear his voice once more. It would not 
 matter even if he did not see me at all, and spoke to some- 
 one else — perhaps to some other woman ! That — even that 
 — would recompense me for my shame, my sorrow, and my 
 devotion. The voices ! The dear sea voices ! Silent ^ 
 long, I JieaFfhern again ! ” 
 
SEA VOICES. 
 
 103 
 
 She puts aside her sombre monastic hood and veil, and 
 the wind loosened her hair and sent it streaming down her 
 back. Her hands were stretched seaward, and holy peace 
 and joy shone upon her face. In all her innocent girl- 
 hood she had never been so beautiful. All her life flashed 
 before her like the vividly outlined pictures of a dream, 
 but there was that in her soul which made her glad of 
 every part of her life. She had known the joys of earth 
 and also the joys of heaven, and there was, in it all, noth- 
 ing that she would have changed. All that the voices h ad 
 joromised had been given her: love, sin, ha^^j repent- 
 ance, pe ace-^irr""t^'^f swelled wifTT”^llent gratitude 
 and sacreH” content, for her life was full, ripe, and com- 
 plete. ’ ^ 
 
 Either the voices, her thoughts, or the noise of the sea 
 kept from her ears the sound of approaching footsteps, 
 and she only knew that she was not alone when a man 
 knelt at her feet and kissed the cross which hung from the 
 chain on her neck. 
 
 She turned her head and looked down upon the prince. 
 Instantly her face became even more radiant than before, 
 and she offered him both her hands. Each read in the 
 other’s eyes the record of the past, and each knew that 
 the other was still faithful to the old love. 
 
 After a little time he arose and enfolded her in his arms. 
 Their lips met in one fervent kiss that sealed and conse- 
 crated anew the one love of both their lives, and then her 
 liead once more sought the old, familiar place on his shoul- 
 der. 
 
 “My father is dying,” he said, “and I shall soon be 
 emperor. Come with me and be empress of my people, 
 as you have always been of my heart.” 
 
 As she nestled closer to him, the edge of the cliff crum- 
 bled under their feet. ^ 
 
 With her head still pillowed on her royal lover’s breast, 
 and the sea voices still ringing in her ears, Rita and the 
 prince fell down, down into the seething, boiling mass of 
 green water, and it closed over them forever. 
 
A SPRIG OF SWEET BRIER. 
 
 You wish to know why I so prize and value this dried 
 and faded sprig of sweet brier ? Oh, it simply grew out 
 of a dead woman’s bosom, and caused the man who loved 
 her his reason — and then his life. That is all. 
 
 Tell you the story ? You might find it dull. 
 
 Well, then, sit here at my feet, child. You are sixteen 
 to-day, dear, and are fast ripening into the same dangerous 
 beauty which this woman, of whom I just spoke, so 
 thoughtlessly abused. The story, since you know nothing 
 yet about the hearts of men, and woman’s power over 
 them, may do you good. 
 
 Twenty years ago I went with my brother to spend a 
 summer in Swit2jerland. I was in feeble health, and he 
 was weary with his work ; for he was an artist, whom 
 the world was just beginning to adore. We both needed 
 quiet and isolation, so we sought it in a little village 
 which was so difficult of access that strangers seldom vis- 
 ited it. 
 
 We found rest and — a woman ; the most beautiful and 
 accomplished coquette in France. She had had thousands 
 of men at her feet, only to cast them aside, like idle toys, 
 whenever it suited her caprice to do so. 
 
 My brother had met her, several years before, and had 
 successfully resisted all her wiles, so I had been told. 
 
 Repeatedly had she attempted to make him love her, 
 and repeatedly had she failed. She felt this all the more 
 keenly because he was the first man who had ever with- 
 stood the powerful spell of her charms. Really she was a 
 most remarkable woman, and I cannot understand how any 
 man could be with her, for even ten minutes, and not fall 
 lielplessly in love with her. In face and form she was 
 absolute perfection, and besides this, she had rare mental 
 charms, unusual graces of manner, and bewildering tricks 
 
A SPRIG OF SIVEE 7 ' BRIER. 105 
 
 of dress. Altogether, a more brilliant and dazzling woman 
 never played havoc with the hearts of men. 
 
 She, too, so she said, was seeking rest and retirement, 
 and chance had sent her, ahead of us, to the same retreat 
 which we had chosen. She was unattended, except by a 
 single maid ; making her isolation, and my brother’s 
 danger, the more complete. 
 
 The moment I saw her I began trembling for my 
 brother’s safety. 
 
 True, they had met before, and a great many times at 
 that, but that had been in the midst of the dizzy whirl 
 and maze of society. Now, she had him alone, all to her- 
 self, in the solitude and privacy of an almost unknown and 
 unfrequented Swi'ss village. Quite another matter. 
 
 He laughed merrily and kissed me when I confessed my 
 fears. 
 
 I am already too much in love with you, little sister,” 
 he said, '‘to give any other woman a place in my heart.” 
 
 ^‘But,” I persisted, “she must be piqued at you for 
 scorning her charms in Paris ; it is impossible to guess 
 what overpowering spell she will not try now.” 
 
 “None which will be potent enough to ensnare me ; and 
 besides, I never have scorned her.” 
 
 “You resisted her — that amounts to the same thing.” 
 
 “That may not be her point of view,” he said, as he 
 walked away, shrugging his shoulders and laughing. 
 
 One day my brother was out sketching, and 1 was sit- 
 ting beside him, reading, when the woman whom I so 
 much dreaded suddenly appeared. She chatted with us 
 for a few moments, and then begged me to leave my book 
 and stroll about with her while my brother finished his 
 sketch. Her request seemed to surprise him, but he con- 
 trolled himself and looked up with a merry twinkle in his 
 eyes. 
 
 “ I do not know that it will be wise for me to trust my 
 sister to your siren spells,” he said. 
 
 She flushed deeply and his words seemed to pain her. 
 
 “Mademoiselle will be quite safe,” she answered, some- 
 what sadly, “ if she has the unsusceptibility of her talented 
 brother. If she does not share your distrust, and will go 
 with me, I promise you to bring her back safely.” 
 
 I gave her my hand instantly, and was wonderfully 
 moved by her embarrassment and emotion. 
 
 “ I will go with you,” I said. “My brother is rude to- 
 day and you must not mind liim.” 
 
io6 A SPRIG OF SWEET BRIER. 
 
 I am sure he only meant to be humorous,” she answered, 
 throwing one of her arms about my waist and drawing me 
 away with her. 
 
 When we were out of my brother’s hearing, she began 
 speaking in his praise. She called him the most fascinat- 
 ing man she had ever known. 
 
 Still,” I said, determined to force the truth from her, 
 if possible, ‘‘ you have found it easy to withstand him.” 
 
 Again her face flushed. 
 
 “ Say, rather,” she responded, ^‘that he has found it easy 
 to ” 
 
 She paused. 
 
 To what ? ” I asked. 
 
 “ Oh, I cannot finish what I was saying. But do I need 
 to— do you not see what I mean ? Mademoiselle, I love 
 your brother, and he despises me because he thinks me 
 heartless — only a coquette ! ” 
 
 And then she threw herself into my arms and wept until 
 her grief frightened me. I sat down and held her against 
 my bosom, and stroked her hair gently, as if she had been 
 a child. 
 
 An hour before, I had hated her. Now I loved her. 
 Truly, compassion is the mother of love. 
 
 When her tears ceased, and she was calmer, I lifted up 
 her face and kissed her twice, full upon the mouth. 
 
 ‘‘I am glad you kissed my lips,” she said; “no man’s 
 lips have ever touched them. My cheeks, though, are not 
 so innocent.” 
 
 It seemed the most natural thing in the world to me 
 that she should love my brother. He was handsome, lov- 
 able, talented — her very counterpart. What a splendid 
 pair they would make if he would only love her ! Love 
 her ? Why, that was the very thing I feared he might do 
 until now, and I blushed at my inconsistency. 
 
 I assured her that nothing on earth could make me so 
 happy as to see her my brother’s wife ; whereupon she 
 flung her arms about me and covered my face with kisses. 
 We then and there pledged eternal fidelity to each other. 
 
 After that I contrived in every possible way to bring 
 them together ; though, of course, I dared not openly 
 champion her cause, since, at the outset, I had warned him 
 to beware of her. 
 
 Yet there were countless little things which I could do 
 to help matters on, and I took advantage of every opportu- 
 nity with the utmost heartiness and zeal. 
 
A SPRIG OF SWEET BRIER. 107 
 
 My brother’s indifference, strange to say, seemed to in- 
 crease in equal measure with my interest. 
 
 Half in anger and half in despair I upbraided him, one 
 day, for his coldness to her. 
 
 I shall never forget the way in which he answered me. 
 Words, tone, manner, all betokened misery and wretched- 
 ness. 
 
 ‘‘Sister, you are blind!” he exclaimed. “If you rate 
 me for anything, let it be for loving this woman too much. 
 Oh, God ! 1 am nearly mad with love for her, and so I 
 have been ever since the moment I first saw her. Waking 
 or sleeping, thinking or dreaming, she fills every moment 
 of my life. No one like her ever lived before. Her 
 womanhood, except that she has neither heart nor soul, is 
 matchless. What man ever saw her who would not sacri- 
 fice his last hope of heaven for a single hour of her love ? 
 I came to this very place to escape even hearing the mention 
 of her name, and came only to find her here before me. Had 
 I gone away, she would have guessed my secret and enjoyed 
 her triumph. So I stayed and traiupled my miserable 
 heart under my feet every day. When I found that you 
 hated her I was glad, for that strengthened me and made 
 resisting her all the easier. Now, even you have suc- 
 cumbed to her, and I am left to struggle alone ; nay, to 
 make the matter the more hopeless, and the result more 
 perilous, I have you also to battle against. Why have you 
 done this ? Do you not know that she must eventually 
 prevail, humble my pride and strength, and bring me to 
 her feet, only to crush me into dust under her heel, like 
 a withered leaf? Why have you become traitor to me? 
 Why do you insist ” 
 
 “ Stop,” I cried angrily. “You call me blind ? It is you 
 who are blind. I did not, truly enough, know that you 
 loved her ; \^mX. you do not know that she loves ” 
 
 A knife could not have pierced him more deeply. 
 
 “ My God ! ” he gasped, and then fell back into the chair 
 behind him and covered his face with his hands. 
 
 I fairly enjoyed his suffering. It seemed to me that he 
 deserved it. In silence I sat and watched him until he put 
 his hands down and bade me go on. 
 
 “There is nothing more to say,” I answered. “Your 
 love is returned by the woman whom you have made its 
 object, and she will marry you if you ask her.” 
 
 “ How do you know all this ?” 
 
 “ I have it from her lips.” 
 
io8 A SPRIG OF SWEET BRIER, 
 
 Did she tell you unasked?” 
 
 “ No. She was stung and wounded by a sneer from you, 
 and while she was w^eeping her sorrow out upon my bosom, 
 I won her confidence and drew the story from her.” 
 
 Upon your bosom! ” he repeated, contemptuously. 
 “ Why, a month ago you would have sooner put an adder 
 in your bosom.” 
 
 “ I was a fool then.” 
 
 He laughed derisively. 
 
 ‘‘And yet you then thought me a fool because I seemed 
 likely to fall in love with this woman. Now, beyond 
 doubt, you will think me a fool if I do not inform this 
 woman that I am in love with her.” 
 
 “ I tell you I have changed my mind since I so foolishly 
 denounced her.” 
 
 “You may change it again. It will at least be prudent 
 for me to wait and see.” 
 
 “ My mind is fixed now,” I answered savagely. 
 
 “ Parbleu ! It seemed fixed before.” 
 
 “ Then I had accepted your characterization of her ; now 
 I speak from my own.” 
 
 “That, I suppose, is equivalent to calling me a fool.” 
 
 “ You interpret my meaning about as correctly as you 
 judge the woman whom you pretend to love.” 
 
 The grief I then saw in his eyes and heard in his voice 
 will never leave me until memory also goes. 
 
 “ Pretend ! Pretend ! ” he cried, pressing his hands upon 
 his brow. “ Oh, God ! how you are making me suffer 1 ” 
 
 Still I did not relent. 
 
 “ Pretend,” I answered, “ seems to be the correct word. 
 If you love this woman so much why do you not wed 
 her ? ” 
 
 “ Why do you so mock me ? ” he cried, bitterly. 
 
 “You mock yourself.” 
 
 “ Do you wish to drive me mad altogether ? If you do 
 you have set about it in the right way.” 
 
 “ I cannot make you what you already are. No one but 
 a madman would be so unreasonable. She loves you and 
 you say you love her. If that is true, why do you not 
 marry her — or do you find it impossible to reconcile any- 
 thing so prosaic as matrimony with your fanciful and 
 poetic notions ? ” 
 
 “ Prosaic ! You know I would sacrifice everything I 
 cherish to call her wife ! You but ” 
 
 He paused. 
 
A SPRIG OF SWEET BRIER. 
 
 109 
 
 “You can call her wife without sacrificing anything,” I 
 remarked, bluntly. 
 
 He came over to my side and took me by the hand. 
 
 “Sister,” he began, “ why will you persist in torturing 
 me with hopes ” 
 
 I placed one of his own hands over his mouth and 
 stopped him. 
 
 “ Will you listen to me, brother, for two minutes ? ” 
 
 He nodded his head. 
 
 “ You say you love this woman ? ” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “And you are anxious to marry her?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ Assurance of her love, then, is all that you are waiting 
 for ? ” 
 
 Again he inclined his head. 
 
 “ That makes the problem an easy one to solve. She 
 has confessed to me that she loves you, and that her hand 
 is yours for the asking. Now, I can see no further obstacle. 
 Offer her your heart and hand in exchange for hers, and 
 all is done.” 
 
 “ She would reject me instantly if I did anything of the 
 kind.” 
 
 “ Nonsense ! ” 
 
 “ Now, listen to me,” he said. “ This woman, with all 
 her beauty, has no truth in her. She has sent many a 
 man to his death, and has broken the heart of many 
 another. Do not curl your lip so scornfully. No man 
 can meet her without receiving the wound incurable, and 
 you, lacking man’s emotions, can never know what it is to 
 have one’s dearest hopes answered with such a woman’s 
 laughter. As you said, when we first came into these 
 mountains, though you now seem to have forgotten it, I 
 am the only man she ever approached who did not suc- 
 cumb to her resistless fascinations. That is why she came 
 here, and that, also, is why she told you she loved me. 
 Such women cannot love. They are merely social actresses. 
 She is using you as a decoy to lure me on to my death, for 
 it would kill me to be refused by her ; I love her too well 
 to survive rejection.” 
 
 “You misjudge her. She loves you — ^of that I am 
 certain. If ” ^ 
 
 “ No, no,” he said. “ She has decqivqd you, as she has 
 deceived every one else.” 
 
 “ I could not be deceived in such a matter,’’ 
 
no 
 
 A SPRIG OF SWEET BRIER. 
 
 Could not ? You were deceived in me. You never 
 once dreamed that I loved her until I told you. If you 
 could not read me, whom you have known so long, how 
 can you expect me to believe that you read her any more 
 successfully ? No, sister, you are wrong. She does not 
 love me ; if she did my heart would tell me so.’' 
 
 Do not be too sure of that. She does not know that you 
 love her. Hearts may not speak as plainly as you imagine.” 
 
 “ Again you are depending upon her word. If she did 
 not know that I love her she would have gone away from 
 here long ago. She is determined not to be vanquished 
 by me, and her departure is only delayed until she gains 
 her purpose in coming here — my undoing.” 
 
 I said no more to iiim, but I told her all that had 
 transpired, and my faith in her was completely vindicated 
 by her tears and distress. She had not deceived me ; I 
 was fully convinced of that. She loved him madly. 
 
 The first few days which followed were miserable 
 enough for us all, but we at length regained our compos- 
 ure and made everything seem as it had been before. 
 
 She was most disturbed. No woman ever felt a man’s 
 doubts and injustice more keenly. 
 
 In every possible way, except by avowing it in so many 
 words, she tried to show him how faithfully she loved 
 him, but it availed her nothing. Had she loved him less, 
 she might have employed her woman’s art to better ad- 
 vantage, and so broken his unkind reserve. But art can- 
 not be exercised where love, in its highest sense, exists. 
 
 The summer was fast dwindling and there was still no 
 sign of his relenting. Nothing, apparently, could make 
 him believe in lier. 
 
 For weeks she submitted to his unworthy doubts, with 
 the extremest humility and patience ; and then, all at 
 once, her whole manner changed and she became frigidity 
 itself. It was the very reaction which I knew eventually 
 must come, unless she was either a saint or an imbecile. 
 
 As I had expected, it was the one thing necessary to 
 bring him to her feet, and he sought her now as much as 
 he had avoided her before. 
 
 She begged me to persuade him not to humiliate him- 
 self by seeking her hand, as she would certainly reject 
 him if he did. 
 
 I told him, and it precipitated exactly the thing she had 
 hoped it would avert ; that very day he* asked her to wed 
 him. 
 
A SPRIG OF SWEET BRIER. 
 
 Ill 
 
 “ You have waited too long,” she said. “ I will not even 
 now deny that I love you, but you have forfeited my re- 
 spect. Nothing could induce me to marry you now, 
 though, until within a week, to be your wife was my dear- 
 est aim and hope. You have done that which no woman 
 can ever forgive, and, though sending you away is to 
 break my own heart, I command you to go out of my 
 presence forever.” 
 
 He simply said, You have triumphed,” and then 
 walked quietly away. An hour later he had left the vil- 
 lage. 
 
 When he was gone, she went up into the mountains, 
 wild with her misery and despair. 
 
 Night came and she did not return. In the week that 
 followed we searched for her everywhere, but she never 
 came back. 
 
 Deep down in my heart I cherished the hope that she 
 had found my brother, relented, and gone away with him ; 
 but I never even whispered it except to myself. 
 
 When there was no longer any hope of finding her, I 
 left the mountains, too. 
 
 My brother, also, seemed to have mysteriously disap- 
 peared. There was no trace of him anywhere. 
 
 Three years elapsed and still there was no word of either 
 of them. I mourned them as dead. 
 
 I again went to the little village in Switzerland, and got 
 a melancholy pleasure out of strolling about where they, 
 my lost ones, had been with me in the bygone days. 
 
 Four weeks after my arrival my brother suddenly came. 
 He had been travelling ever since the moment of his dis- 
 missal, and had only just returned from his various wan- 
 derings. 
 
 He was horrified at the story of the disappearance of 
 the woman whom he had so strangely loved and wronged, 
 and at once expressed the opinion that she had been lost 
 in the mountains. Every day he would wander about, 
 aimlessly, and one morning he went away at sunrise. 
 
 When he returned, in the afternoon, he was a gibbering 
 maniac ! 
 
 In the front of his coat he had thrust a sprig of sweet 
 brier, the flowers and leaves of which were the largest and 
 most fragrant I ever saw. To this he addressed all the 
 wild, unintelligible words he said. It was easy to see that 
 he was hopelessly insane, and I was also nearly demented 
 widi grief. 
 
112 
 
 A SPRIG OF SWEEI' BRIER. 
 
 At last he pulled the sprig of sweet brier out of his coat, 
 and thrusting it into my bosom started out of the cottage 
 and signed for me to follow him. 
 
 I went with him and three stout Swiss peasants came 
 close behind us. 
 
 Every few minutes he would stop, bend over me, kiss 
 the bit of sweet brier and mutter something to it. 
 
 Finally, he took us down into a narrow and lonely valley, 
 which was overhung on three sides by high cliffs, and was 
 carpeted with the most luxuriant grass. Under the tall- 
 est cliff, in the midst of the grass, was a sweet brier bush. 
 I saw at once that the sprig in my bosom, which you now 
 hold in your hand, was broken from that very bush. 
 
 I also saw the frightful thing which had unseated his 
 reason. The grass concealed a fleshless skeleton, and the 
 jewels and shreds of cloth which clung to it disclosed the 
 awful fact that the crumbling bones we saw were those of 
 my brother’s lost love ! Blinded by her agony and de- 
 spair, she had fallen over the cliff on that awful day, and 
 death had so ended her troubles. 
 
 The sweet brier bush had grown straight out of the 
 empty space which had once held her heart, as if it had 
 sprung from and been nourished by her heart itself. 
 
IN VINTAGE TIME 
 
 Since she was a wee, toddling babe, Lucette had been a 
 worker in the vineyards. So had her mother and her 
 grandmother before her. Once their family had been 
 noble, even great ; but one of those mighty convulsions 
 which have so often shaken France robbed their greatest 
 ancestor of everything save his wife and children. After 
 that they were peasants ; but a remnant of the proud old 
 blood still ran in their veins, now and then burning in one 
 or another of them as it did in the days of the family’s 
 ancient glory. So it was with Lucette. From the days of 
 her childhood, when, beside her mother, the purple fruit 
 had been slowly and wearily stripped from the vines by her 
 little fat brown hands, she was never like the children of 
 the other peasants, and never like her own brothers and 
 sisters. 
 
 At no time would she gambol, sport, and frolic with those 
 who sought her for play or for companionship, and there 
 was ever a flash in her eyes and a curl in her lips which 
 forbade familiarity. 
 
 So, like some hermit or foundling forest bird, she grew 
 up by herself — alone. 
 
 Except in the cold months she always lived out of doors ; 
 so her health was perfect. Despite the rough life she 
 lived, and all her toiling in the vineyards, she was daintily 
 and exquisitely shaped, and her hands were as tiny and 
 symmetrical as those of any princess. True, they were 
 brown with the sunshine, and so were her arms away above 
 her elbows for that matter ; but no artist or sculptor would 
 ever have passed them by unnoticed without paying that 
 fervent tribute which is always the award of genius to 
 elegance and beauty. 
 
 Still no one up to her twentieth year had ever dared tell 
 her that she had unusual beauty and grace. There was 
 8 
 
IN VINTAGE TIME. 
 
 1 14 
 
 that degree of regality about her every movement, and 
 that cold, quiet firmness in her voice, which prevented 
 pretty speeches, even from her own family. 
 
 ‘‘ You must unbend,” said her mother one day, “ else you 
 will never get a husband.” 
 
 ‘‘What do I want with a husband ? No man shall ever 
 call me wife!” she cried, her eyes glowing like the eyes 
 of a serpent. 
 
 “How else shall you live?” rejoined her mother, a 
 coarse woman, in whom there* was only plebeian blood, 
 and who had only plebeian instincts. “ How shall you 
 live without a husband ? Your father and I cannot keep 
 you always.” 
 
 “ Keep me ! ” exclaimed Lucette. “ Keep me I When 
 my work in the vineyard is not enough to pay you and 
 rny father for the little I have from you, tell me so, and I 
 will go away — but not with a husband.” 
 
 After that she was let alone ; but her mother thought 
 it extremely unreasonable and ungirl-like in Lucette not 
 to want a husband. Many a handsome, strapping young 
 peasant was madly in love with her, and she might have 
 looked even higher if she wished, for the sons of some of 
 the gentlefolk were far from blind to her stately charms. 
 But that same stateliness, and her cold face, firm mouth, and 
 dauntless eyes kept a wide, impassable distance between 
 Lucette and her admirers. 
 
 Her parents and sisters made constant clatter about her 
 stubbornness, but, save that once, when the girl’s angry 
 eyes seemed to burn into her mother’s soul, they were 
 careful that none of their grumbling reached the ears of 
 Lucette. 
 
 Sometimes, when she was apart by herself, in some 
 shady corner of the vineyard, where the fragrant grapes 
 and their broad, green leaves hid her from the curious 
 eyes, which otherwise were ever bent upon her, a warm, 
 soft, yearning tenderness would rout all her pride and 
 hauteur, and leave her face radiantly beautiful. Rarely, 
 very rarely, some one saw her thus ; and if it chanced to 
 be a man, ceaseless tumult came into his heart. 
 
 Strangers passing through the country and pausing 
 among the vineyards, struck with her queenliness, would 
 turn away with a sigh, when, in answer to their questions 
 they were told that she was “ only a common peasant’s 
 daughter.” 
 
 One of them, however, Casaban, a Spanish sculptor, 
 
IN VINTAGE TIME, 
 
 1 15 
 
 sighed so deeply that his heart chords never again ceased 
 vibrating. But he was a great artist, and came of a grand 
 old family whose pulses throbbed with the crimson tide of 
 royalty, his grandfather having been king. So Casaban’s 
 pride checked the passionate words he would otherwise 
 have said to Lucette. He hurried away from her, but he 
 carried her image with him, in his heart and in his eyes, 
 through all his wanderings. Italy, and even Spain, his 
 own beautiful country, failed to solace him. The splen- 
 dors of his home seemed to mock him, and the light 
 words of his old friends and companions, whose jests and 
 ribaldry had once amused him, now wounded him like 
 thrusts from knives. In vain he locked himself in his 
 studio with his chisels and marble ; he could only think 
 of the bronze woman whom he had met among the merry 
 grape-strippers of France. 
 
 She had only deigned to give him one look, and that 
 was such a look as a lion might give to a mouse. Hoping 
 to make her talk, he had asked her some question about the 
 vintage, which she answered briefly and coldly, and then 
 turned away, and walked off, with firm steps, and her 
 round shoulders drawn up proudly — just as some high- 
 born queen might have gone from her lowest menial. The 
 Woman of Bronze he had called her — she was so like the 
 statue of some unknown goddess whom the fates had en- 
 dowed with life ; yet, when he went away, he left his heart 
 in her keeping. 
 
 The months came and went, more slowly than ever be- 
 fore, it seemed to him ; and vintage time was coming 
 again. The nearer the anniversary of his last glimpse at 
 Lucette approached, the more Casaban’s melancholy deep- 
 ened. 
 
 “You are in love, my son,” said his mother one day, near 
 midsummer. 
 
 But his pride still deterred him from acknowledging the 
 truth, even to himself, so he frowned and swore that she 
 was mistaken. Though he was, in a measure, deceiving 
 himself, he failed to deceive her. 
 
 “ If you are not in love, you must be speedily made to 
 fall in love,” she continued. “ Your friends, your art, 
 everything is now set aside to make way for a sombre de- 
 pression which no one can fathom, though every one is 
 obliged to suffer because of it. If, as you say, love is not 
 its cause, love can at least be its cure. Some sweet, dark- 
 eyed Spanish woman, with her soft spells and resistless en- 
 
ii6 
 
 IN VINTAGE TIME. 
 
 chantments, can bring back the old ring into your voice, 
 restore the smile which used to play upon your mouth, 
 and dispel the black cloud which now encompasses you. 
 My son, I must find you a wife.” 
 
 Casaban laughed, and merrily, too. His mother’s words 
 liad aroused and restored him. He was more like his 
 natural self again than he had been before since Lucette’s 
 eyes had pierced his heart. Pride was vanquished at last, 
 and love was again triumphant, as it always is in the end. 
 His mother saw the change come over him and smiled to' 
 think how correct her surmise had been. 
 
 Bending over his mother’s chair he kissed her. 
 
 ‘‘It has been my own stubbornness which has made me 
 so morose,” he said ; but it is over now since your words 
 have shown me my foolish selfishness. It did, indeed, 
 need a sweet Spanish woman’s spells to make me as I 
 should be, and, behold, such a one has already woven her 
 soft web about me. You have completely exorcised my 
 demon, dearest mother, with your powerful enchantments, 
 and I am quite myself again. You need not seek out a 
 wife for me now, for I should not have time to woo her. I 
 am going abroad again next week.” 
 
 The color deepened in his face as he finished speaking, 
 and looking down he began picking at a button on his 
 coat. His mother watched him intently, her eyes spar- 
 kling with silent amusement, and she laughed quietly under 
 her breath. She was silent for a few minutes, and the 
 dreaminess in his eyes and the warm glow on his cheeks 
 told her that he had entirely forgotten her presence, and 
 that some other woman filled his thoughts. When she 
 spoke again it was half-jestingly. 
 
 “ I have no doubt you will receive much benefit from 
 the journey,” she said. 
 
 Instantly he raised his eyes and regarded her curiously. 
 
 “What a peculiar stress you lay upon ‘journey!’” he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 “Your ears are abnormally acute to-day,” she said, with 
 a laugh, arising from her chair. Then stepping forward 
 and kissing him she continued : “ Still, you must not forget 
 your high station, wherever and to whatever your journey 
 may lead you.” 
 
 He understood her and attempted no further conceal- 
 ment. 
 
 “ A princess would do no discredit to the grandson of a 
 king, would she ?” he asked putting his arms about her. 
 
IN VINTAGE TIME. 
 
 117 
 
 No true woman would do him discredit,” she answered, 
 quietly. 
 
 For a moment he was tempted to tell her all, but some- 
 thing — he could scarcely determine what — restrained him ; 
 and, kissing her again, he led her back to her chair and 
 walked away. 
 
 The next week he left Spain. 
 
 When he reached France it was in the height of the 
 vintage, and the whole country was rich with the heavy 
 odor of the ripened grapes, and full of the songs and 
 laughter of the grape-strippers. 
 
 The season had been good, and the vintage was un- 
 usually rich ; so everybody, save the disgruntled few who 
 always complain, was quite content and happy. The fun 
 and good humor which greeted Casaban everywhere was 
 accepted by him as an auspicious omen. 
 
 How glad he was that his mother’s words had broken 
 his foolish pride and stirred him into returning to France. 
 
 His heart was overflowing with rapturous joy, and his 
 soul was full of ecstasy. He — Casaban — whom all Spain 
 adored, and all the rest of Europe revered and respected, 
 was about staking everything upon the daughter of a 
 common French peasant. 
 
 Yet, lowly as was her origin, in her he saw more 
 womanly grandeur than he had ever seen in woman 
 before. She was to him the high-priestess of a lost faith, 
 or the empress of some dead world come back again, 
 among mortals, and, Christ-like, among the humblest. 
 
 His whole life had been lived among royal and noble 
 surroundings, and through it all he had never once been 
 awed or embarrassed by the great. And yet he was now 
 shaken and confused at the thought of once more facing 
 Lucette, the proud, regal, bronze woman, and offering 
 himself at her feet. He thought that this new emotion 
 was called into being by what was to him Lucette’s sublime 
 greatness. 
 
 Perhaps it was this ; perhaps it was love. • 
 
 For three days he hesitated, fearing to meet the woman 
 in whose hands, all unknown to her, he had placed his fate 
 and future. He went daily to the vineyard, where he 
 knew that she was toiling with the other grape-strippers ; 
 still he avoided her. 
 
 One night, when the moon was full, and its mellow 
 light softened all the harsh gray landscape, Casaban, lost 
 in a fantastic maze of tender and romantic fancies, 
 
ii8 
 
 IN VIA^TAGE TIME, 
 
 wandered by himself along a little river, which ran past 
 the home of Lucette. For a time he walked among the 
 shadows which were cast by the thick, green trees, with 
 only an occasional glimpse at the moon, except where it 
 was reflected up into his eyes by the smooth surface of 
 the sluggish river. Suddenly he advanced upon the edge 
 of an opening — a sort of natural amphitheatre, on the 
 banks of the stream, among the trees. At this point the 
 river widened into a small shallow pond, flanked on each 
 side by gleaming yellow sand. 
 
 Casaban paused for a moment, and as he did so he saw 
 a figure advancing into the opening from the opposite 
 side. It took but a single glance to tell the handsome 
 Spaniard that what he saw was the stately figure of Lu- 
 cette. 
 
 She walked slowly into the amphitheatre and stood by 
 the water’s edge. She was bareheaded, and her loosened 
 hair hung in a great black mass down her back. Her 
 drapery was mean and scanty, but royal raiment could 
 have scarcely emphasized her strange, impressive beauty. 
 Her arms were bare from her shoulders, and her bosom 
 was only half-hidden by her rough, loose jacket. Her cold 
 face was upturned, and her eyes were fixed upon the moon. 
 Had she bidden it pause in its course, and had it obeyed 
 her, Casaban would have felt no surprise. It seemed to 
 him that such a woman might control the universe. 
 
 For several minutes, she stood there, motionless, in the 
 yellow sand by the silent river, in the bright moonlight, 
 within three yards of the man who so madly loved her. 
 She seemed, more than ever, the Woman of Bronze. 
 
 “ So Cleopatra might have stood some night on the 
 banks of the Nile,” thought Casaban; ‘'only Cleopatra 
 was softer, weaker, and less queenly.” 
 
 Lucette, all unconscious of Casaban’s presence, crossed 
 her bare arms over her brown bosom and sighed. Instantly 
 the coldness went out of her face, a smile came upon her 
 lips, and a soft, tender light into her eyes. Her whole per- 
 sonality underwent an entire change, and from regal statu- 
 esqueness, she was transformed and relaxed into all that is 
 indicative of yielding, womanly gentleness. Casaban 
 watched her in rapt amazement; sooner would he have 
 expected one of his marble figures, cut out of the cold 
 stone, with his own chisels, to soften and relax. 
 
 Still smiling, and with another sigh, Lucette knelt slow- 
 ly, and leaning forward seemed to be tracing characters in 
 
IN VINTAGE TIME, 
 
 119 
 
 the sand with her fingers. Then she again looked at the 
 moon, kissed her fingers to it, sprang up and darted away, 
 leaving a melodious ripple of girlish laugfiter ringing in 
 the air after she had gone. 
 
 For a long time after her departure, Casaban stood as if 
 in a stupor. He could not believe his senses, and thought 
 at last that he must have been dreaming. That haughty 
 woman could never so unbend ! Then he hastened for- 
 ward to the spot where she had knelt, and looked down to 
 see if she really liad traced characters in the sand. He 
 read his own name, “ Casaban,” and he staggered with a 
 resistless and incomprehensible dizziness. 
 
 What a strange woman she was — more than ever a mar- 
 vel to him ; and still he felt that he must hold some place 
 in her thoughts, else she would not have written his name 
 in the sand. Could it be that she loved him ? He dared 
 not hope that. And then — her kneeling and kissing her 
 hands to the moon ; was that pure accident, or was it a 
 part of her religion? He thought that so powerful and 
 magnificent a creature must have some religion unlike that 
 of other mortals. 
 
 Throughout that night his head was full of Lucette and 
 her strange caprice. A thorough artist, he set about weav- 
 ing a curious labyrinth of capricious whims and fancies, 
 centring them all upon Lucette and her varying moods, 
 and so completely were the two blended together that it 
 would be difficult to decide whether the part which she 
 played in his dreams was more fantastic and irrational than 
 that which she played in his waking moments. 
 
 The next day they met in the vineyard, and she was once 
 more the cold, haughty Woman of Bronze. Gazing upon 
 her face then, it seemed impossible to Casaban that she 
 had ever smiled, or that she ever could smile. 
 
 Again and again they met, her cold face never once re- 
 laxing into the merest semblance of a smile ; and her voice 
 was always ice itself. 
 
 At last, when he could restrain himself no longer, he told 
 her that he had loved her since the last vintage time, and 
 that he had come back to France to ask her to become his 
 wife. 
 
 He watched her all the while he was speaking, but 
 there was no sign in her face to betoken that she was in 
 any way moved by what he had said. 
 
 “You do yourself an injustice, or else you intend me 
 one,” she said, in that same icy, pitiless voice; and in 
 
120 
 
 IN VINTAGE TIME, 
 
 either case I can only refuse what you propose. No man 
 in your station should so far humble and forget himself 
 as to offer honorable love to a peasant’s daughter, and 
 there is at least one peasant’s daughter who will not 
 suffer herself to be made a toy and wanton of even a 
 royal lover. Go back to your family, your friends and 
 your art, and leave me wliere I am and what I am — a 
 peasant’s daughter and a grape-stripper.” 
 
 ‘‘No other woman shall ever be my wife, I swear,” he 
 exclaimed impetuously. “ I offer you honorable marriage 
 and the first love of my life. Family, art, everything 
 should be put aside for you, were it necessary, but it is 
 not. My family will receive my wife without criticism, be 
 she peasant or princess, and you will do my race credit. 
 You will be the inspiration which will make me glorify my 
 art, if glorified by me it ever is. Once more I ask you to 
 be my wife.” 
 
 “And once more must I decline the honor you offer me. 
 I do not forget my lowliness now, and neither will you 
 forget it in the days to come — when the mention of it 
 would grate harshly upon my ears. Then, too, a woman 
 should love the man whose name and hand she accepts.” 
 
 “ You care nothing for me, then ? ” 
 
 “ How strangely you ask that question. I do not under- 
 stand you.” 
 
 “ I saw you write my name in the sand one night; and it 
 made me hope that you at least sometimes thought of me.” 
 
 For a moment her face softened and her eyes glistened 
 more kindly. But she soon controlled herself and an- 
 swered him as coldly as ever. 
 
 “A woman writes the name of the man she loves in her 
 heart — not in the treacherous and ever-shifting sand.” 
 
 “You are willing, then, to blight my life and blast my 
 hopes,” he cried. “ Oh, God ! If I could only move you 
 to compassion.” 
 
 She stopped and faced him. 
 
 “ If you are really so much in earnest,” she said, “lower 
 yourself to my level. Put off your gentleman’s dress for 
 the peasant’s blouse. Toil in the vineyard, as I do, and 
 when the vintage is done, if you are still faithful, I will be 
 your wife. That will make me safe ; no one can ever then 
 taunt the wife with doing that which the husband has not 
 also done.” 
 
 “ I will do it,” he said, kneeling at her feet and kissing 
 her hand as if she were some great lady. 
 
IN VINTAGE TIME. 
 
 I2I 
 
 He kept his word. 
 
 All through the vintage, he worked as if he had never 
 known any other sphere in life. Lucette never gave him 
 one smile or kiss through all his long period of probation, 
 and the brave Casaban never once murmured against her 
 coldness, or the tasks which she had imposed. 
 
 One day, they came to her with dreadful news. 
 
 A vicious horse liad bitten Casaban in the throat, and 
 he was dying. With her face stamped with pain and 
 anguish, she sought him. His eyes brightened as she 
 flung herself on her knees, beside him, and took his head 
 upon her bosom. 
 
 ‘‘You love me ? he whispered. 
 
 “ Yes ! ” she cried ; “ and yet I have sacrificed your life ! 
 
 “ I die happy,” he said, with a smile. 
 
 The peasants, awed and. hushed, stood around them with 
 bare heads. They saw the color of de^th come into Casa- 
 ban’s face, but still his head rested upon Lucette’s bosom. 
 
 After a little while, her father bent over her, but he re- 
 coiled with a cry of horror. 
 
 The other peasants then pressed forward and retreated, 
 shuddering, for they saw a dead woman with her dead 
 lover clasped in her arms. 
 
LAMIA 
 
 Deep in the heart of an African jungle, I was the 
 prisoner of a wounded lion. 
 
 We met in an unhappy hour. 
 
 With a small party of natives, I was hunting hippo- 
 potami. The day was sultry, and wearying of the sport, I 
 wandered away by myself. 
 
 I had but one round of ammunition left, and that was in 
 my rifle. 
 
 On, on I walked, and was soon a mile from my attend- 
 ants. 
 
 Then I met the lion. 
 
 He stood, lengthwise, across my path. I raised my rifle, 
 without being perceived, and tried to plant the load under 
 the creature’s shoulder, in his heart. 
 
 But I was nervous, and raised the muzzle of my weapon 
 as I fired. The bullet struck the shoulder-bone and 
 glanced. The wound was not disabling, but merely ag- 
 gravating. 
 
 With a savage roar of rage and pain the lion sprang 
 toward me. 
 
 I dropped my useless rifle, and got into a tree in time 
 to escape the teeth and claws of the maddened brute. 
 
 He made frantic efforts to reach me, and, failing, stood 
 under the tree, glaring at me with his fierce yellow eyes, 
 and growling out the vengeance which he would visit upon 
 me — when I came down. 
 
 The prospect was dismal. 
 
 Far away to the north I could hear my attendants firing, 
 at intervals, to guide me to them. They heard my rifle 
 when I shot at the lion, and supposed that it was a signal 
 that I had lost my way. 
 
 Alas ! I could not answer them. My last bit of powder 
 I had used in making an enemy of the lion. 
 
LAMIA, 
 
 123 
 
 Becoming alarmed at hearing no second shot from me, 
 my attendants were scattering. I could hear them firing, 
 here and there until at last they had completely sur- 
 rounded me. 
 
 Then they began closing in. I judged, by their shooting, 
 that they would meet not far from the tree where I was 
 the prisoner of the lion. 
 
 Joy ! Though I had been a soldier for ten years, 
 musketry had never made such sweet music for me 
 before. 
 
 Nearer and nearer they approached, and I became more 
 and more hopeful. Then they met, less than a fourth of 
 a mile away. They had missed me ! 
 
 I could hear their voices plainly, though I could not 
 distinguish their words. They were greatly excited, and 
 so was I. 
 
 Some peculiarity of the climate had weakened my throat, 
 and my once deep, full voice had, within a few days, de- 
 generated into a squeak. Though I could hear them so 
 plainly I knew perfectly well that my voice would not 
 reach their ears unless there was entire silence in the 
 jungle. 
 
 My only hope was that the men might again separate 
 and make another effort to find me. Then, being silent 
 themselves, they might hear me if I called. 
 
 Presently their voices stopped and they began beating 
 the jungle. I again became hopeful. 
 
 One of the blacks came so near me that I could hear the 
 canes and reeds crunch under his heels. 
 
 Now was my time. 
 
 I concentrated all my power for one terrific yell. I must 
 make myself heard then or not at all. Opening my mouth I 
 filled my lungs and tried to empty them, instantly, in one 
 wild cry. 
 
 Horror ! 
 
 I made no audible sound ! 
 
 Still worse, I had strained my sensitive throat too much 
 and had burst a blood-vessel. 
 
 My throat filled with blood so fast that I was strangling. 
 I could not breathe. It was just the same whether my eyes 
 were open or closed — there was only blackness before me. 
 I could see nothing. There were strange sounds in my 
 ears, and sharp pains through my head. My weakening 
 hands were loosening their hold upon the tree. 
 
 Then I fell. 
 
124 
 
 LAMIA, 
 
 I lived a hundred lives in the brief interval between fall- 
 ing from the limb which I was on and lodging lower down 
 in the tree. 
 
 My whole life passed before me and I expected that it 
 would end in the lion’s jaws. His fetid breath was in my 
 nostrils, and it sickened me while it revived me. 
 
 The blood was still streaming from my mouth, and when 
 I could see again, something awaited my eyes, which, for 
 the first time in my life, made me tremble. 
 
 Directly under me, and scarcely two yards away, sat the 
 lion. His awful mouth was open and he was lapping up 
 the blood as it ran from my throat 1 
 
 He was a man eater ! He had tasted human blood before, 
 and I well knew my fate in case I fell from the tree. 
 
 His eyes blazed like the lurid light of a furnace, and 
 they seemed to have deprived me of the power of motion. 
 
 I could not stir. 
 
 The blacks were still beating the jungle, and were going 
 further away from me every instant. 
 
 My breast heaved with a deep and involuntary sigh. 
 The movement tightened the relaxed muscles in my throat, 
 and, strangely enough, closed the ruptured vein. The 
 blood stopped. 
 
 The lion licked his chops, in the expectancy that it 
 would start again, and continue to gratify his sinister 
 thirst. 
 
 An inexplicable thrill of hope went through me, though 
 my attendants had passed beyond hearing, and I was 
 within springing distance of a wounded and bloodthirsty 
 lion. 
 
 He was moving about uneasily. The pain in his shoul- 
 der was forgotten, while he was drinking my blood — it 
 had returned now, and so had his rage. 
 
 There was a convulsive movement of his claws, and his 
 mane was rising. He was about springing ! 
 
 Summoning ail my strength, I half leaped, and half 
 climbed, into the branches above me, just as the lion 
 hurled himself forward. 
 
 Baffled again, and furious with the fresh pain which his 
 unsuccessful jump cost him, he made the jungle ring with 
 his roaring. 
 
 If my men would only hear him, guess the truth, and 
 come to my rescue! In two more hours, night would 
 come, and then my black attendants would give up the 
 search. 
 
LAMIA, 
 
 125 
 
 I looked down at the lion, and wondered whether he or 
 I would stand hunger the longest. 
 
 What was it I saw moving deliberately through the jun- 
 gle ? Was it a human being or some monster even more 
 ferocious than the lion ? 
 
 It was coming toward me, and it was heavily draped in 
 gauzy black. 
 
 As it came nearer, the outlines of the form showed me 
 that it was a woman. 
 
 “ Stop ! ” I shouted, “ There’s a lion, a man-eater at the 
 foot of this tree.” 
 
 My voice had recovered all its former roundness and 
 strength ! It rang out so loud and clear that it startled 
 me. ' 
 
 The woman made no answer, but still moved forward. 
 
 At the sound of my voice, the lion lifted his head and 
 sniffed the air, as if he had understood my words. Though 
 he looked straight at the advancing woman, he gave no sign 
 that he saw her, but lay down under the tree and, dog- 
 like, rested his nose upon his paws. 
 
 I was astounded. 
 
 Straight on the woman came, and her loose, floating gar- 
 ments seemed to brush the lion, in the face, as she passed 
 him. . 
 
 Still he did not move, but blinked his great yellow eyes 
 sleeepily. 
 
 The woman was completely covered wdth the sombre, 
 gauzy vail. 
 
 Only her eyes were visible. They were of a phosphores- 
 cent, sapphirine blue, and they varied, constantly, from a 
 soft, stary radiance to a malicious, snake-like glitter. 
 
 She was watching me, the moment she came in sight, 
 and her eyes were still fixed upon me, when she paused 
 under the tree, and as near to me as she could get without 
 climbing up. 
 
 “ Who and what are you ? ” I asked, and why are you 
 in such a place as this ?” 
 
 “ I am Lamia,” she said. 
 
 Her voice was as clear as a flute, and it seemed to ring 
 after she ceased speaking, like a piece of steel. 
 
 ‘‘ Lamia ? ” 
 
 ‘‘Yes ; I am the first woman. The first mother. Adam’s 
 first wife ; of whom he only begat devils. It was m)^ 
 daughter, by Eblis, whom Cain married in the Land of 
 Nod. 
 
126 
 
 LAMIA. 
 
 God was wise, and He made me all woman, all love. 
 Adam hated me because I loved the sunshine, which was 
 warm and yellow, like my hair. He wanted, always, to 
 worship our Creator — and I to bask in the joys of the life 
 which our Creator gave us. I got only cold words in an- 
 swer to my love, and frowns for all my kisses. 
 
 ‘‘ So we were sundered. God let us part. Eve came to 
 Adam, made, to solace him, and to please his conceit, of 
 his own bone and flesh. How wise he was ! Then came niy 
 vengeance. Full of hate, I fled to Eblis and we have 
 warred against the race of Adam ever since. A woman 
 best can cast a woman down. I plucked the fruit which 
 Eblis gave to Eve. I planned the arts by which he won 
 her. She was but a woman — so she fell. I caused the 
 curse to fall upon the twain made one — Adam, the per- 
 fect, and Eve, his flesh. High was my glee when forth 
 Paradise the angel’s flame sword drove them. 
 
 Their seed had Adam’s form, and souls from heaven. 
 To make the work complete I gave them demon hearts ! 
 So sin came into the world. But answer woman’s love 
 with scorn and hate — sin and vengeance always follow. 
 
 My vengeance has been manifold and vast. Cain 
 spilled his brother’s blood, because my urgings made 
 him, and all who come from him have worn the scarlet 
 shame. 
 
 ‘‘Since Adam denied me love, I have compelled it, 
 countless times, from those who have his shape. 
 
 “ My smiles and spells beguile young men, and when 
 one loves me, they soon find him dead, with one of my 
 yellow hairs twined tightly around his heart. So Lamia 
 loves the world ! 
 
 “Golden hair is ever my gift, and those who wear it do 
 my work. My soul, forbidden heaven, continually inhabits 
 the frame of such a woman — and in it wreaks woe and 
 sorrow.” 
 
 I thought her mad — some stricken lunatic. 
 
 She bowed her head as she stopped, and was moving 
 away. 
 
 “You have not told me,” I said, “why you are in this 
 jungle.” 
 
 She paused. 
 
 “ I sorrow for Him who suffered death for the race I 
 hate. It is Flis natal night.” 
 
 Sure enough — it was Christmas eve. 
 
 Again she bowed her head. 
 
LAMIA, 
 
 127 
 
 I was more moved, all along, by the music of her voice 
 than by her strange narration. 
 
 She was moving slowly away once more. 
 
 Tell me,” I said, determined to make her speak again, 
 ‘‘is there nothing which can assuage your awful hate, and 
 end your course of vengeance ?” 
 
 “ Yes ! ” 
 
 The word sounded like the hiss of molten iron, when it 
 meets water. 
 
 “ Yes ! When I meet a man of Adam's race who wins my 
 love. Then peace will come to my soul, and even Lamia 
 will find rest in heaven. Ha! ha! ha!” 
 
 Compared with her laugh the roaring of the wounded 
 lion had been music. It removed my last doubt. The 
 woman was a demon. 
 
 Then I offered up my first prayer in ten years. I begged 
 God never to let nrfe hear that awful laugh again. 
 
 As I said “amen” there was a crash in the canes and 
 brakes. Some one else was coming through the jungle. 
 Eagerly I looked in the direction of the sound. Any one, 
 anything, would be welcome so long as the dreadful Lamia 
 did not return. 
 
 I would rather even climb down and embrace the lion 
 than meet her again. 
 
 1 looked down. 
 
 The lion was gone ! 
 
 Was it all a dream, a vision — the wounded lion and the 
 vengeful ghoulish spirit ? No ! I could still hear that 
 fiendish, hellish laugh. 
 
 The noise in the jungle was made by my men. They 
 had found me at last How glad I was to see those dusky, 
 grinning Africans! Soon they were chattering like apes, 
 telling me how persistently they had searched for me. 
 
 There was a pool of blood under the tree where the lion 
 had lain, there was a trail of blood leading to the sluggish 
 river. We followed it, found the weakened brute and 
 killed him. 
 
 That much was reality. I w^as glad. It convinced me 
 that Lamia had been with me. My faith in the supernal, 
 and in God, shaken for ten years, was restored again. I 
 entered the jungle a skeptic ; I left it a believer. 
 
 Six weeks later I was out of Africa, but I did not get 
 back to France until the middle of the next December. 
 
 Three days later I was once more at Rouen, my birth- 
 place and the home of my family. 
 
128 
 
 LAMIA. 
 
 My father had died during my absence, and my two sis- 
 ters were living with our widowed mother. 
 
 As even the merest recollection of what had occurred to 
 me in the African jungle, gave me the shivers, I forebore 
 mentioning it to anyone. 
 
 One day, just before Christmas, I met, in the street, the 
 most beautiful woman I ever saw. Her complexion was 
 of lily fairness, except a dainty rose-flush, on each cheek. 
 Her eyes were a deep blue, and her hair — in every sense 
 her crowning glory — was as yellow as the sunshine. 
 
 “Lamia’s gift,” I said, and shuddered. It was the first 
 time her dreadful name had crossed my lips, since I left 
 the Dark Continent. 
 
 The woman glanced at me carelessly, while I stood still 
 in the street and watched her out of sight. 
 
 In a day or two, we met again, ar^l something in my 
 face or manner drew a smile from her. 
 
 St. Denis! how lovely she was! Only the thought of 
 Lamia kept me from finding her out. I feared that de- 
 mons might be lurking in that wonderful golden hair, and 
 I found it impossible to rid myself of the notion. 
 
 The day before Christmas, I went with my sisters to 
 hang evergreens in the little church where, for two cen- 
 turies, our ancestors had worshipped. 
 
 Our work was about half done, when the woman with 
 the yellow hair came in. ^ 
 
 I was splitting a board, with a small ax, for those who 
 were putting up decorations, and the sharp blade was de- 
 scending when I saw the woman. 
 
 Instantly I forgot what I was doing. 
 
 Thud ! went the ax, half way through my left hand. 
 
 My sisters screamed, and everybody else stood still and 
 looked — everybody but the woman whose coming had 
 caused the accident. 
 
 She instantly stripped a silken scarf off her neck, tore it 
 in shreds, and bound up my mangled hand with the deft- 
 ness of a surgeon. 
 
 “ Monsieur must go home, now,” she said, “ and let some 
 one more skilful than I do the rest.” 
 
 “No one could be more skilful,” I declared. 
 
 She bowed low and smiled. 
 
 “ Monsieur is very gallant and kind. I fear that it was 
 I who caused the unfortunate accident.” 
 
 “Oh, no, it was my own carelessness. My eyes were 
 wandering about too much.” 
 
LAMIA. 
 
 129 
 
 Again that bewitching smile. How strangely it moved 
 me. 
 
 She stepped forward again to examine my bandaged hand. 
 
 Blood on the Christmas greens,” she whispered. “ Is 
 it ominous of anything ? ” 
 
 ‘Ht can only bring good,” I answered, since it came 
 from you.” 
 
 The next day, chance brought us together in the church 
 door. I asked her to accept a seat in the family pew, and 
 she consented. We sat together. 
 
 After that we met often. My mother and sisters found 
 her charming, and she often dined or supped with us. 
 
 One night in January, I declared my love and asked her 
 to marry me. 
 
 She instantly became as white and cold as marble. In a 
 moment, though, she was rosy with blushes, and laying 
 her head on my shoulder, she wept. 
 
 I am yours,” she said, softly. 
 
 When she again raised her eyes, there was a strange, 
 starry radiance in them. Where had I seen it before ? I 
 could not tell. 
 
 In a month we were married. 
 
 When we stood before the altar, and the marriage ser- 
 vice was being read, her agitation was startling and un- 
 accountable. 
 
 One moment her hand was ice and the next moment 
 fire ; and the alternations were as swift as lightning. 
 
 But for her vail, others must have seen how strangely 
 she was moved. 
 
 My mother started back as she touched her new daugh- 
 ter’s hand. 
 
 “You are ill, child,” she exclaimed. 
 
 “No,” cried my wife, ^‘I was never so well and happy 
 before in my life.” 
 
 The year which followed was bliss itself. I never had 
 dreamed that any woman could be so intensely happy. 
 
 Song and sunshine filled every hour. There was never 
 a moment of pain. 
 
 Christmas Eve came again. We sat up until after mid- 
 night, and I never before heard woman sing as she sang 
 then. It seemed to me like the passionate, joyous out- 
 burst of a weary soul, after years of pain and darkness. 
 
 The next day she said : 
 
 “ Stay home to-day, and do not go to church. I can- 
 not go with you, and I beg not to be left alone.” 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 LAMIA, 
 
 ‘^Certainly ; as you wish.” 
 
 We had not been an hour apart since our marriage. 
 Why should there be a first time ? 
 
 Toward evening, she seemed pale, and trembled. 
 
 ‘‘ Are you ill ! ” I asked. 
 
 ‘‘ Mortally so.” 
 
 Horrified, I sprang to my feet. 
 
 “ Stop,” she said, “you can do nothing. Sit down and 
 hold me in your arms.” 
 
 I obeyed her. 
 
 “Husband,” she said, “I have something to tell you, 
 and I hope — nay, I am sure — that your love is equal to it.” 
 
 “Rely on that,” I said. 
 
 She kissed me and then continued : 
 
 “ Your love has saved a lost soul. I am Lamia — the first 
 woman.” 
 
 Thinking it merely some morbid fancy, caused by her 
 illness, I smiled. 
 
 “Nay, do not smile. I speak the truth, and I will give 
 you proof. I am, indeed. Lamia ; she who came to you in 
 the African jungle when a wounded lion was thirsting for 
 more of your blood.” 
 
 I was amazed. I had never told any one of that ! She 
 must be Lamia ! 
 
 “ God closed the doors of Heaven on me until I should 
 love and wed one of Adam’s race. Each generation, since 
 the world began, my youth has been renewed, and I have 
 resumed my work of vengeance. Adam taught my heart 
 to hate ; you taught it to love. You opened the doors of 
 love and of Heaven at the same time. Lamia’s vengeance 
 ended when she became your wife. This night 1 die, but 
 my soul is safe, and I enter Paradise. Look at the clock. 
 In an hour more it will be midnight, and tl^en you will 
 hold only Lamia’s lifeless form ; her soul will be in Heaven, 
 near the gates, awaiting yours.” 
 
 I clasped her more closely, but in vain. Momentarily, I 
 could see her weaken. 
 
 The clock struck twelve. She was gone ! 
 
 A year has passed since then — a year of sadness and soli- 
 tude. It is Christmas night once more, and the hour of mid- 
 night approaches. Something tells me I am going to her. 
 
 Everything grows dim. 
 
 The clock strikes twelve. 
 
 I hear her voice ! 
 
 “ Lamia ! I come ! ’* 
 
THE LAST CHORD 
 
 The sharp, keen, frosty air swept down from the Apen- 
 nines and snapped like a wolf or an angry cur at the scanty- 
 covered ankles of the poor. 
 
 It was nightfall — that coldest part of the winter day, in 
 Tuscany. 
 
 An hour before the red sunlight kept the people warm 
 and merry, and in another hour they would have forgotten 
 both the sunlight and the cold, and would be merry again 
 of their own sunshiny hearts. 
 
 Florence is so old, and yet so tender and so beautiful, 
 that it is impossible to be long miserable there, if in one’s 
 soul there be any of the artist or the poet. 
 
 The hour following the gloaming passed swiftly, and 
 darkness came quickly on in its wake — darkness, but not 
 silence. 
 
 High aloft in the dim majesty of the wdiite winter star- 
 light, gleamed the wondrous needle of the Campanile ; 
 while below the Duomo stood in silent grandeur, with the 
 songs and laughter of the people ringing and buffeting 
 against its great sides. 
 
 From out of one of the groups, merry with its song and 
 laughter, tottered old Mariuccia, with her mandolin. As 
 slie advanced slowly along the piazza the people noticed 
 that she seemed suddenly to have grown very miicli older. 
 Her old bony fingers twitched nervously, the corners of her 
 mouth drew up and down, and in her eyes there was a glare 
 which seemed like the glare of death. 
 
 Slowly she wended her way along, and then, pausing 
 under one of the brightest lights, she glanced curiously 
 about her and seated herself on the cold pavement. 
 
 She had done this same thing many hundred times be- 
 fore, but now% somehow, she was watched tvith more awe 
 and respect than ever before ; and, though she gave those 
 
13 - the LAS'E chord. ' 
 
 who listened less music than commonly, her motley audi- 
 ence was in some strange way moved to give her more 
 coin for it. 
 
 Poor Mariuccia! Hers had been a sad but not an un- 
 common life ; still, as they watched her there in the cold 
 starlight, and by aid of the smoking, flickering lamps, the 
 people wondered that her sorrow had not killed her long 
 ago. 
 
 All at once it seemed to them that she had borne it all 
 so bravely. 
 
 When she was thirty she was a singer in one of the 
 theatres in Rome, and the great masters counted hers 
 among the marvellous voices. 
 
 She sang on, and on, until Beppo, once her little lover 
 and playmate in the old days in Florence, came down and 
 married her. Together they went back to Florence. 
 
 For a few years life ran on smoothly with them, and 
 then Beppo died of a fever. In a few years more, their 
 daughter, who had grown into womanhood, left Florence, 
 without giving the old mother any word as to where she 
 was going, or wdtli whom she had gone. 
 
 When she came back she bore a helpless, and probably 
 a nameless, child in her arms ; and she died before she 
 could tell her friends with whom she had gone, a year 
 before. 
 
 After that life was very hard for old Mariuccia. At last 
 her little store of money gave out, and then, to keep food 
 in her mouth and in that of the little granddaugluer, she 
 had to sing — not in the theatres, as she had done in Rome, 
 but in the streets, for the little coin it brought her. 
 
 When the child was seven years old, she suddenly be- 
 came ill ; and so strangely, too, that no physician in Flor- 
 ence was able to discover with what disease she was 
 afflicted. Their utmost skill was baffled. They looked at 
 her gravely, and shook their heads in helplessness. 
 
 She grew paler and feebler and thinner through all the 
 summer, and more and more beautiful with it all. 
 
 The bright, pleasant autumn weather, from which so 
 much w’as expected, did her no good ; and now, in the 
 midwinter, death seemed very near. 
 
 Old Mariuccia only hoped that she might live to pro- 
 vide food for the child, while its frail little life still lasted. 
 
 It was now two years since the old grandmother had 
 been able to sing. Her throat seemed paralyzed — perhaps 
 wdth age, perhaps with grief, and its music was dead. She 
 
THE LAST CHORD, 
 
 133 
 
 could only ask huskily for alms, when she played for 
 strangers. 
 
 While she sat playing that night among the pitying 
 people, by the Duomo, the little grandchild, in a garret 
 near the Arno, lay watching the gleaming stars. 
 
 The mavis in its humble cage, at her side, had long 
 since gone to sleep. Each day a kind lady who lived 
 near the Ponte Vecchio gave old Mariuccia food for the 
 bird, out of pity for the little one ; and so, sometimes, 
 the little songster fared better than the old woman or 
 the sick child. 
 
 As the strength of the child flagged, so the song of tlie 
 mavis every day grew softer and sweeter, until it became 
 scarcely more than a gurgle in the gay little creature’s 
 tiiroat. That day — that sad, strange day — an hour before 
 nightfall the mavis ceased singing altogether and sat on 
 its perch, watching the sick child, as if it knew that its 
 little friend was dying. The eyes of the child, and those 
 of the bird, were fixed upon each other when the latter 
 went to sleep. 
 
 Old Mariuccia twanged the strings of her mandolin 
 more and more faintly as midnight drew near. 
 
 The people watched her longer than they ever had be- 
 fore, and wondered over and over and over again, why 
 instead of going home to the sick child, she still sat play- 
 ing in the frosty air. Her old, watery eyes looked straight 
 ahead, but they seemed to see nothing. Her little box 
 was almost full of coin — fuller than it had ever been any 
 night before since her voice left her. 
 
 ‘‘ Someone will have to look after the grandchild be- 
 fore morning,” said a brown baker. 
 
 “Not for long,” said another ; “she will follow the old 
 woman closely.” 
 
 Just then a stranger — young, handsome, and splendidly 
 dressed — suddenly joined the group, and made inquiry as 
 to why the old woman was playing so late in the night. 
 He was an Italian, but there was a trace of a northern 
 tongue in his accent. 
 
 “ She seems to be dying,” said the brown baker. “ She 
 is playing for her little grandchild, and we don’t dare dis- 
 turb her. It might kill her, you see.” 
 
 Something about the old woman’s face made the 
 stranger gasp for breath, and clutch the sturdy baker by 
 the arm. He asked who and what she was, and all about 
 her. 
 
134 
 
 THE LAST CHORD. 
 
 They told liim the old woman’s story, how her husband 
 had died and her daughter had gone away ; and then how 
 she had then come back to die, bringing with her a name- 
 less babe. 
 
 When the stranger was told how tenderly the old 
 woman had cared for the child, and how bravely she had 
 toiled for it, sometimes fainting for bread herself so that 
 the unknown little one did not starve, he, the strong man, 
 cried out in agony, and threw himself into the baker’s 
 arms and wept. 
 
 The people looked from him to each other in silent 
 wonderment. They could not understand why so fine a 
 stranger should be so moved at the simple story of an old, 
 half-dying beggar and her family, which they all knew so 
 well and had all known so long. 
 
 Through all the story and the stranger’s agitation the 
 brave old woman still sat and twanged her mandolin, in 
 the same helpless, listless way. She saw neither the 
 stranger nor the people, and she did not even seem to 
 hear the clink of the coin, which from time to time fell 
 into her cup. 
 
 Finally the stranger recovered his self-possession, and 
 stood looking sorrowfully at the old woman. There were 
 traces of tears in his eyes, and his lips were quivering with 
 suppressed grief. Suddenly, he pulled oft his velvet cap, 
 faced the people, and began speaking. 
 
 ‘‘Friends,” he said; “if you will let me call you so, 
 yonder old woman was wrecked a.nd saddened through me 
 — but wait until I have done before you pronounce the 
 fault all mine. It was I who stole old Mariuccia’s 
 daughter away, but I meant her no ill, and I made her 
 my wife. The cliild she brought back, and whom you 
 now say is dying, too, is of honest birth. Three months 
 after that marriage 1 was seized and imprisoned for a 
 crime which my brother had done. My poor wife never 
 knew what had happened to me, and tliough I sought lier, 
 I never once heard of her until to-night, when you told 
 me all here. In my hand is a package of papers in 
 proof of what I have said. Here, honest baker, take it 
 to some notary and see if I have not told the truth. I 
 have plenty of gold, too, if I am back in time for it to 
 do any good to those who should have it. But with what 
 dreadful news do you greet me! My wife dead — my child 
 dying! Quick, take me to my babe before the light of 
 life fades from her eyes, too, and she can no longer see 
 
THE LAST CHORD. 
 
 135 
 
 the father at whose call she came into the world. But 
 stay, see old Mariuccia ! 
 
 The old woman had arisen once more to her full stature, 
 and stood, with a strange smile upon her wrinkled lips, 
 and a strange light upon her withered and furrowed face. 
 One of her thin, bony hands still held the mandolin, and 
 with the other she pointed to the eastward. 
 
 Listen,” she whispered huskily. “ I can hear the voices 
 of the mavis and the child. Both are singing. And yet 
 see, it is nearly midnight. How odd that they should be 
 singing now !. Some one must have given them a candle, 
 else they would be sleeping. I must go and darken their 
 room — their poor little room — or they will sing all night. 
 
 Slowly she wavered, to and fro, as if she was about fall- 
 ing, but no one stepped forward to save her, for no one 
 seemed able to move. 
 
 And then, still smiling, she sat down and again touched 
 the mandolin. 
 
 Her music was dreamy and wavering ; and every now 
 and then she played a false note ; but the little group 
 around her, listened attentively, almost breathlessly, to 
 every sound which came to thetii from her worn and 
 polished instrument. 
 
 She seemed to imagine that she was once more in 
 seme Roman theatre, and she frequently bowed her gray, 
 disheveled head, in acknowledgment of some imaginary 
 tribute, to what had once been her grace and beauty. 
 
 The moon had arisen, full and white. It gleamed coldly 
 against the surrounding hills, glittered on all the spires 
 and domes, and sent a great, wavering glare down the 
 broad, high Campanile. As if called into being by the 
 light itself, darker shadows crept into the vast arches of 
 the Duomo, hung there, and deepened almost into black- 
 ness. 
 
 Far away, in the cold, desolate garret by the Arno, the 
 mavis still slept in its cage. The child, too, had been 
 sleeping in her rude, comfortless bed, but something had 
 just awakened her. 
 
 She was startled, and cried out so loudly that she 
 awakened the mavis, and it twittered in response. 
 
 The child tried to soothe the bird, but could not. She 
 had spent her whole strength in that one cry, and now all 
 the blood that she had in her little pearly veins, had burst 
 the frail boundaries, and was trickling down her throat. 
 
 Soon it stopped her breath, and she sank back dead. 
 
136 
 
 THE LAST CHORD, 
 
 As she died, a clock began striking twelve, but before it 
 had finished, the mavis fell from its perch and was also 
 dead when it struck the bottom of its little cage. 
 
 Higher and higher sailed the moon, until one of its long 
 shafts of light brightened the little bleak room in which 
 the little child and the mavis lay, and another shone into 
 the faces of the stranger and his companions as they stood 
 mutely watching the old woman. 
 
 When the hour of midnight began striking, Mariuccia 
 leaned forward and smiled as if some invisible phantom 
 were whispering into her ear. 
 
 Then the shadow of death came upon her face, and her 
 eyes burned with a fierce blaze. 
 
 Lighter and lighter she touched her mandolin, until but 
 the faintest sounds came in answer to her weak, old fin- 
 gers. Fainter and feebler were the notes, until her mo- 
 tionless hand lay across the instrument, and it ceased 
 vibrating. 
 
 As she sat there, breathless and nearly lifeless, swift 
 changes came over her face. In mernory she was once 
 more coursing along the pathway of her past. 
 
 Now she was the gay singer before great audiences, 
 whom the masters — the very ones who 7nade music and 
 song — had said was sure to \^in fame and fortune. 
 
 Now, Beppo — bright, handsome^ loving Beppo — had 
 come down from Florence, and the tenderness of his 
 caresses had won her forever away from her singing and 
 stage life. 
 
 The masters had called her a fool for marrying ; but 
 she had believed that love was best. So it was, too, until 
 the fever killed Beppo and left her alone with the baby. 
 
 The poor baby ! She blamed herself because it had fled, 
 only to come back after a time with a grandchild for the 
 old woman. And the dear grandchild ! How she had 
 loved the sweet little one, and how she had hoped, year 
 after year, that its father would come and help it to a 
 better, easier life — for she, true heart, had never once 
 doubted that the baby, her daughter, Beppo’s child and 
 hers, was an honorable and lawful wife. True, the girl 
 had fled with some lover ; but it was all right — she was a 
 wife for all that. 
 
 Now she had only the grandchild left, and even that was 
 dying. Dying ! God ! Who said dying ? Her cup was 
 full of money ; the people had been very generous ; she 
 could hurry home and save the grandchild. 
 
THE LAST CHORD. 
 
 137 
 
 Just then a divided ray of the moonlight touched her 
 dying face and the face of the dead grandchild at the same 
 instant. 
 
 Did she know it — could she tell and feel what it all 
 meant ? Is it given to the dying to know such things at 
 such times ? Who can tell ? 
 
 Anyhow, the mandolin once more found a pillow upon 
 Mariuccia’s bosom, and once, twice, three times, her old 
 hand touched the worn strings with all the vigor and 
 fervor of her youth ; and the wonderful chord she brought 
 from the sweet instrument will linger forever upon the 
 ears and in the hearts of every one who heard it. 
 
 But that chord was her last. 
 
 Once more the old fingers clutched the strings strongly, 
 but it was with the strength — the destroying strength — of 
 death. Every string fell broken, quivering and useless at 
 her violent and unnatural touch. 
 
 Slowly and helplessly she leaned forward, and then a 
 dead weight, fell upon her face, crushing her mandolin 
 under her. 
 
 There she lay, lifeless and motionless. It was several 
 seconds before anyone dared approach her, for the sound 
 of that last, thrilling, passionate burst of music still wav- 
 ered and circled, strangely and menacingly, in the air 
 about her, as if protecting, in death, the faithful old crea- 
 ture whom music had sustained in life ; and when its final 
 faint echoes were dead, her heart gave its last patient 
 throb. 
 
HE AND SHE 
 
 A SMALL black and yellow spider, nervous, swift, and 
 supple, crawled to the verge of the balcony roof and flat- 
 tened himself in the scorching sunshine. 
 
 Finding the heat too intense, after a few minutes, he 
 dropped over the edge of the roof, and began unwinding 
 his slender web, letting himself down, slowly and silently, 
 into the shadow below. 
 
 Whether he intended lowering himself into the garden, 
 or only to the cool, polished floor of the balcony, can never 
 be told, for when he was about half way between the lat- 
 ter point and the roof, he stopped at the soft sound of a 
 girl’s voice. 
 
 She lay on a pile of costly rugs and furs, in the balcony, 
 with her face turned skyward. She saw the spider, the 
 moment he forsook the sunshine, and she watched him, 
 almost breathlessly, as he came down his frail ladder. 
 
 She waited, impatiently, until he was on a level with her 
 eyes, when she put out her hand — but she changed her 
 mind and did not touch him. 
 
 ‘‘ Stop, spider,” she said, “and listen to me. If you go 
 back again, to the warm sunshine which you have just left, 
 I shall believe that the one for whom I have been waiting 
 so long is coming to me to-day — to-day! But if you go on 
 down to the cold, relentless earth, which lays so heavily 
 upon the bosoms of my dear dead ones, I shall know 
 that they who have left me were mistaken, and that all my 
 watching and hoping is in vain.” 
 
 At her first word, the spider ceased descending, and, 
 fanned by the girl’s breath, swung gently to and fro while 
 she was speaking. 
 
 Her voice may have frightened him, or it might have 
 suddenly occurred to him that the sunshine was, after all, 
 better tlian the shade. Anyhow, he thrust his delicate legs 
 
HE AND SHE, 
 
 139 
 
 out, apprehensively, half a dozen times, and then, turning 
 hastily, he scampered back again up toward the roof. 
 
 To the girl, however, the action of the spider was a 
 direct answer to her attempt at divination. If the spider 
 had not, indeed, understood her, some kindly fate or spirit, 
 hovering near, had heard her, and had, accordingly, in- 
 duced, from the dainty spinner of webs, the answer which 
 the sighing maiden coveted. 
 
 Her breath came quicker and stronger after the spider 
 was gone, and a pale tinge of pink lighted up the waxen 
 whiteness of her cheeks. She smiled faintly and clasped 
 her thin white hands tightly across her bosom. 
 
 He will come,” she murmured ; ‘‘ he will come to-day ! ” 
 
 For weeks she had been lying near death, pale, weak, and 
 helpless, and now a spider had wrought a change in her 
 which had been impossible to the skill of the doctors. 
 They, the wise and cunning physicians, had failed, because 
 they did not understand her malady. They were formula- 
 ting intricate and elaborate hypotheses, and treating her 
 accordingly, when, all the time, she was dying of loneliness 
 and love ; loneliness because of dear ones that were dead, 
 and love for a man whom she had never seen, whose name 
 she did not know, and who, perhaps, had no existence ex- 
 cept in her girlish fancy. 
 
 Though she was just entering her eighteenth year, all 
 her days had been full of dreams, sunshine, and poetic 
 fancies. Of practical life she knew nothing ; and sorrow, 
 until it had suddenly been thrust upon her unawares, she 
 could not understand. 
 
 Her father was Alfieri, the poet, and her mother was 
 Teresa, the artist. Theirs had been one of those rare and 
 happy marriages, after which there are only perfect days 
 and bliss such as death alone can change or quench. But 
 one child came to make mirth and prattle in the home of 
 Alfieri and Teresa, and they named her Valentia. 
 
 Art and poetry made up the whole atmosphere which the 
 little one breathed, and the old myths and gods who filled 
 the burning verses of her father and gleamed in radiant 
 splendor upon the great canvases which came from her 
 mother’s deft hands were as real to lier as the people she 
 saw in the streets. 
 
 This was her home, all rich and glorious with love, art, 
 and song, until one day when an accident deprived Valen- 
 tia of both her father and lier mother. 
 
 All Italy wept with her, in such high esteem did that 
 
140 
 
 HE AND SHE, 
 
 art-loving people hold Alfieri and his wife ; but th^nation’s 
 grief brought no consolation to Valentia. Italy sorrowed 
 for the dead poet and the dead artist, she for her dead 
 parents. To the people it was the silencing of a beloved 
 voice and the pausing of a beloved brush ; to her it was 
 the end of all that she had counted life. 
 
 She wept for her dead, but she wept still more because 
 she had not been taken with them. Death was no surprise, 
 no marvel to her ; but she had never before contemplated 
 it in such a way. When those whom she and the nation 
 mourned, in such sadly different ways, were entombed, 
 Valentia went back alone to her beautiful but desolate 
 home. 
 
 One cannot weep always, and then, too, tears are a 
 relief. When hers were done there came to her a subtler 
 anguish — a keen yet benumbing grief — which made the 
 sorrow of her first days of sadness seem as nothing. Her 
 ripe, round limbs grew thin and frail ; and all the rose tints 
 went out of her face, leaving only ghastly white in their 
 stead. 
 
 Before Alfieri and his wife had been many days dead, 
 Venice was startled one night by the rumor that Valentia 
 was dying. 
 
 The physicians had declared that her vitality was so 
 seriously attacked that in a few hours at most she must 
 surrender her life. 
 
 Once more was there a husli in the merry city. Valentia 
 was born of two of the nation’s favorites, and Italy always 
 holds the children of the great in reverence, so the proba- 
 bility of her death was looked forward to as another 
 national calamity — all the more so since it was generally 
 believed that she was not without some of the genius of 
 her parents. 
 
 She lay in her chamber surrounded by her physicians 
 and servants. 
 
 The brightness had gone out of her eyes, and each mo- 
 ment her pulsations became feebler and more irregular. 
 Her breathing could no longer be heard. An occasional 
 half-stifled sob fro'm one of the servants, and the ticking of 
 the watch which one of the physicians held in his hand, 
 alone broke the silence of the room. Outside the palace 
 the stillness was quite as complete. Nature and humanity 
 both seemed hushed and awed, awaiting the passing of 
 the daugliter of Alfieri and Teresa. 
 
 In a few moments it will all be over,” wliispered one 
 
HE AND SHE, 
 
 141 
 
 of the pliysicians to another ; but even as he spoke the 
 girl’s breast heaved, and a strong light came into her eyes. 
 After a heav)^ sigh she began breathing again — slowly and 
 lightly, but still evenly. 
 
 '‘We have succeeded ; we shall save her,” whispered the 
 physicians to each other. 
 
 Valentia heard them and smiled, and a faint trace of 
 color played upon her face for an instant. 
 
 She knew, as she had known all along, that medicine 
 could do nothing for her. It never has imprisoned, and it 
 never will imprison, an impatient spirit in a casket which 
 it is no longer willing to inhabit. 
 
 Ever since the moment of the death of her dear ones, 
 she had felt that her strength was forsaking her. She was 
 glad of it, and had hoped that she might speedily become 
 so weak that death would hasten her away to join those 
 who had gone and left her so desolate. 
 
 When, at last, the people thought her dying, and she 
 also realized that she was drifting away from the scenes 
 which were now so dreadful, though they had once been 
 so dear to her, she was happy again. 
 
 After a month, when the end seemed so near at hand, 
 and the physicians and servants were so gravely watching 
 the going of her last little hoard of strength, she suddenly 
 began comparing the life she had lived with the lives of 
 her parents. She was moved by something very like 
 regret when she saw how incomplete hers had been. 
 Love, save the love her parents had borne her, was all 
 unknown to her, and now the blissful future which they 
 had taught her would be hers was being cut off by the 
 surrender of her will. 
 
 ‘‘ Ought I to die ? ” she asked herself. Will it be right 
 for me to go before the one comes who my mother said 
 would be as much to me as my father was to her ? They 
 might be displeased if I went to them without waiting a 
 little longer. If he would only come quickly — it is so 
 lonely here now ! It was only a few weeks ago, though, 
 that mamma said I would soon have the music of his voice 
 ringing in my ears. He may come soon; she must have 
 known. What if he came to-morrow and found me gone ?” 
 
 It was this last thought which made her breast heave, 
 and sent the light into her eyes, which the physicians had 
 credited to their skill. That was why their words had tinted 
 her cheeks and made her smile. 
 
 Presently she asked for a glass of wine, and showed 
 
142 
 
 HE AND SHE. 
 
 signs of rallying. The next day the physicians, in their 
 blindness and conceit, declared tiiat they had taken her 
 safely past the crisis, and that she was certain to recover. 
 
 All the while she lay dreaming of her lover whose com- 
 ing was to make her life so sweet and beautiful, never once 
 doubting that he would hasten to her. 
 
 Her head was as full of romance as her heart was of 
 tenderness, and now that she was trying to strengthen the 
 thread of life which she had so nearly snapped" asunder, 
 she believed that the fates would at once bestow upon her 
 the happiness which her mother had said was certain to 
 be hers. 
 
 Each night she went sighing to sleep, because she was still 
 alone, and each morning, her cheeks were first bathed with 
 her own tears. A week passed, and then another week, 
 and still he did not come. And so nearly two months 
 went their monotonous round. 
 
 At length, one day, as she lay in the balcony, nearly hope- 
 less, the gay little spider came floating down, a tiny speck 
 against the warm summer sky, from the roof overhead. 
 
 Her religion was a quaint and generous confusion of all 
 the gods, myths, and spirits, in which all other objects and 
 phantasms, real and unreal, animate and inanimate, were 
 inextricably intermingled, according to an elaborate and 
 intricate system which was drawn and woven from her own 
 weird and fantastic thoughts and fancies. 
 
 So, to her, the coming of the spider was no accident, but 
 a messenger from those in whose power it was to tell her 
 of things that were to be. 
 
 Since her mystic lover was now the centre of all her 
 thoughts and her sole object and purpose in life, she had 
 hailed the spider as an oracle. 
 
 When, seemingly, in answer to her questioning, the 
 spider returned to the roof and the sunshine, Valentia’s 
 happiness was complete. But noon came and went, and 
 so did the rest of the day until the sunlight only lingered 
 on the tops of the highest trees in the garden. 
 
 Still she was alone. 
 
 Then the last wavering tint of daylight faded and the 
 day was gone. 
 
 Long before the full moon showed its cold yellow face 
 in the east, the servants found Valentia lying on the floor 
 of the balcony, in a swoon. 
 
 The physicians were summoned, and they again pro- 
 claimed that Alfieri’s daughter was dying. 
 
HE AND SHE. 
 
 143 
 
 Cozzim, the great Italian tenor, over whom all Europe 
 was raving, had that night returned to Venice, his native 
 city. The people had planned to give him a merry wel- 
 come, but they desisted for Valentia’s sake. Alfieri was 
 as great as Cozzini, and Alfieri’s child was near her death ; 
 so Cozzini must be content with knowing that his people 
 welcomed him in their hearts. True Italian that he was, 
 he would not have had it otherwise. 
 
 ‘‘ Go and sing to the dying girl, from her garden,” said 
 an old player to Cozzini. It may cheer her last moments, 
 and then, since she is soon to enter heaven, she can com- 
 pare your music with that of the angels.” 
 
 It was roughly said, but kindly meant, for the old man 
 was tender-hearted. As is often the case, Cozzini, without 
 knowing why, was moved to act upon the suggestion. 
 After a few moments, he walked quietly away, by himself, 
 and went straight to Alfieri’s garden. 
 
 After her swoon Valentia asked them to take her from 
 her bed, where the frightened servants liad put her, and 
 let her lie in the balcony again. 
 
 The garden was bright and glorious with the moonlight, 
 and a little way from where she was lying, gurgling water 
 splashed and gleamed, in a silver and marble fountain. 
 Her fancy peopled the fountain with spirits, who were 
 singing faint little songs to the accompaniment of the danc- 
 ing water. 
 
 Back of the fountain was a statue of Venus, which stood 
 partly in the shadow of some rose-trees. Valentia’s eyes 
 wandered from the fountain to the statue, sadly and wear- 
 ily, when all at once it seemed to her that the music of 
 her water-spirits was growing louder. 
 
 A moment later she could distinguish the words. 
 
 It was one of the sweet, impassioned love-songs of Italy, 
 which her mother used to sing. But never had she heard 
 such a voice before ; could it be an angel — was she really 
 dying, at last ? The thought startled her, and she glanced 
 quickly up at the physician who was nearest to her. 
 
 There was a look of intense wonderment on his face ; 
 and his eyes, full of amazement, were fixed upon the foun- 
 tain. To her surprise the eyes of the rest of the group 
 were bent in the same direction. 
 
 She was dazed and bewildered. 
 
 Through all her life she had heard music and voices 
 everywhere about her, but nobody else could ever hear 
 them, and why should the singing of the water-spirits, and 
 
144 
 
 HE AND SHE. 
 
 of the angel, reach the ears of the hard, unfeeling doctors, 
 and the coarse servants, now ? 
 
 Her strength seemed suddenly to have comeback again, 
 and, brushing her hand across her eyes, she also looked to- 
 ward the fountain. Partly behind it, sitting at the feet of 
 the statue of Venus, was a shape, the first sight of which 
 sent all her blood flying through her veins. Her cheeks 
 burned, her eyes shone with an ecstatic brilliancy, and the 
 whole tide of life, lialf-dormant, half-somnolent for so long, 
 once more asserted its supremacy. 
 
 Her heart leaped wildly at the thought that her mother 
 had been right in her prophecy, and also that the spider 
 oracle was true ; for the shape at the foot of the marble 
 Venus was that of a man, and it was he who was sing- 
 ing. 
 
 All her morbid stupor and torpor was gone, and her 
 whole being was throbbing and burning with life. 
 
 “ Soon the music of his voice will ring in your ears 
 
 Those were her mother’s very words, and now she be- 
 lieved that it was, indeed, her mystic lover she saw before 
 her, and whose song -so wonderfully blended with the 
 rhythm of the splashing fountain. She had no doubt of 
 that, and her varied emotions, suppressed and hidden from 
 those about her, for so many sad, weary weeks, overstepped 
 control at last, and her voice rang out in one glad crv of 
 joy. 
 
 Then, startled and abashed, at the sound which had so 
 unconsciously escaped from her throat, she sank back 
 upon her couch of furs, from which she had partially 
 arisen, and covered her face with her hands. 
 
 “ The singer has killed her,” cried one of the physicians, 
 in alarm. 
 
 Cozzini, startled and terrified, sprang away from his seat 
 under the outstretched arms of the marble Venus, ran for- 
 ward, and climbed into the balcony beside Valencia. 
 
 “ Is she dead ?” he asked, huskily. 
 
 “No !” said Valentia, uncovering her eyes, and looking 
 up into his face. “ I am not dead ; you came in time to 
 save me.” 
 
 “Her mind wanders,” whispered one of the physicians, 
 and she answered him with a laugh. 
 
 “ Send these people away,” she said to Cozzini ; “ they 
 have annoyed me long enough.” 
 
 The servants and physicians retired, and she bade Coz- 
 zini close the window after them. Then, half-timidly, she 
 
HE AND SHE, 
 
 145 
 
 gave him one of her little, thin, white hands. Reverently 
 he raised it to his lips. 
 
 ‘‘Why were you so long in coming?” she asked, with 
 deepening color and shining eyes. 
 
 “ The people kept me,” he said, puzzled by her question 
 and not knowing how to answer it. 
 
 And then, in her sweet, childish way, she told him all 
 about her life and her beliefs, the future her parents had 
 said would be hers, and all her hopes and -fears, even to 
 the spider oracle. 
 
 Cozzini was overwhelmed with amazement as she prat- 
 tled on so frankly. He had long since grown bitter to- 
 ward women, believing them all coquettes and wantons. 
 Could it be that there was one, so innocent and pure ? 
 With streaming eyes, he knelt beside her and took her 
 frail little figure up into his arms. 
 
 “ I love you ! ” he said, and it was the truth. 
 
 She wound her arms about his neck, and then their 
 lips met in the first kiss she had ever known from any 
 man save her father. In answer to his sweet words, she 
 hid her face on his shoulder and softly whispered them 
 back to him. 
 
 10 
 
A SEAM IN THE WALL. 
 
 There had been war in Italy. 
 
 The country was saved, but at the price of blood. 
 
 Brave men had fallen, and wives, sweethearts, mothers, 
 sisters, daughters, wept over the graves of the dead. 
 
 The crisis was past and workmen were clearing away 
 the ruins which armies had made. 
 
 Each shattered stone, each fragment of plaster, each 
 scrap of iron, each splinter of wood, could have told a 
 story of woe and horror, had the powers that move the 
 universe but gifted them with speech. • ^ 
 
 The paving-stones in the streets were stained with blood, 
 and the frescos in the old churches were scorched and 
 shivered. 
 
 The birds in the trees, the trees themselves, and the 
 pretty vines which clung to the trees, sang, whispered,, 
 sighed of war. 
 
 Yet those warm-hearted, sunny people of Italy rejoiced 
 even while they mourned. Once more they were free ! 
 If human lives had been exchanged for liberty, liberty 
 was all the more precious for that. 
 
 So the workmen sang as they worked, and they lifted 
 up shovels full of the debris as tenderly as a mother would 
 lift up and put away the broken toys of her dead son. 
 
 And the songs which came from ihe lips of those dusky, 
 dirt'Smeared workmen were not all of woe, nor of triumph, 
 but of that which is sweeter and grander — of liberty and 
 peace. All save one. He sang of love. 
 
 He was a youth whom they called Beppo, and one who 
 was sliapelier of limb or finer in face could not be found 
 in Italy — a land of handsome men. 
 
 No hand was ahead of his in drawing the sword for 
 Italy, and when the invaders were driven back no hand 
 was ahead of his in picking up the spade. He had been 
 
A SEAM IN THE WALL, 
 
 147 
 
 first among those who struck the ‘‘ second blow which 
 made the war.” Now that it was over, he would be first 
 among those whose office it was to remove the wreck 
 which that war had" made. 
 
 The son of a peasant he had the heart and soul of an 
 artist. As a child he had drawn wondrous shapes in the 
 sand with sticks, or upon the stones with still sharper 
 stones. With the dead coals from his mother’s fire he 
 had made sketches upon the old walls which won for him 
 the awe and admiration of his prattling playfellows. 
 Later on, too poor to buy colors, he had powdered pieces 
 of brick and variously colored stones, and then with crude 
 brushes made out of feathers, he had painted dainty little 
 bits which his neighbors thought good enough to offer for 
 sale in the shop windows. 
 
 But Italy is so full of artists and poets that painters 
 and singers can only starve, except they couple ruder work 
 with art. Now and then the superior energy or skill oi 
 some soft-eyed peasant breaks down the barriers, and the 
 false-hearted world does him homage. While he, though, 
 is basking in the smiles of his admirers, some fellow-being, 
 no less deserving, is dying of hunger in some gloomy garret. 
 
 The people called Beppo ‘‘only a dreamer” till the war 
 came. After that they said : “ Here is a man who can do 
 something else than mix colors,” but still he would have 
 starved but for the work which he got among the ruins. 
 And still he sang as he worked, and his fellow-workmen 
 smiled because he sang of love. “ Painters, unless they 
 are rich, should not love,” they said. “One cannot keep 
 a wife and babies on dreams and colors.” 
 
 But Beppo did not hear them. He would have sung just 
 the same if he had. He was thinking of Pippa — sweet 
 Pippa, whom he had not seen since the war, though she 
 had seen him twice ; once when with the other soldiers 
 he had marched in triumph through the city with the air 
 ringing with songs and cries of victory. She saw him — 
 now. 
 
 The people watched her as she stood, in her maiden love- 
 liness, just without the line of workmen. She was watch- 
 ing Beppo there. Some word of his love-song reached her 
 ears and sent the rosy blushes into her cheeks. In her 
 eyes and upon her lips there came a smile, such as must 
 have played upon the face of the Madonna when she first 
 knew that she was to be the mother of the Lord. 
 
 The shovels of the workmen, save Beppo’s, stopped. 
 
A SEAM IN THE WALL, 
 
 148 
 
 The men were watching Pippa. She, though, only saw 
 Beppo, who was still working and singing. 
 
 Beppo ! ” she called. 
 
 , He looked straight up into the heavens. Had some 
 spirit, with Pippa’s voice, called him ? 
 
 ‘‘ Beppo ! 
 
 He saw her now. 
 
 Pippa !” he cried, and sprang forward to kiss the little 
 hands she held out to him. 
 
 Then she raised her lips. His head swam with delirious 
 joy as he stooped and kissed her. 
 
 The men resumed their work. Where else, save in Italy, 
 would these young lovers have escaped derision? 
 
 A man and a maid in their first love ! To those dark- 
 skinned sons of Italy it was a sacred sight, and it made 
 their work lighter — work of patriotism though it was. 
 
 Come with me, Beppo, where we shall be alone. I 
 have sweet things to say to you.” 
 
 They walked away together, and the workmen smiled to 
 see them go. Pippa and Beppo. Both were favorites. 
 She was the daughter of the general — the child of the 
 dark, stern man who had saved their beautiful city. Beppo 
 was a hero and a painter. 
 
 “ Beppo,” said Pippa, as they went toward the cit)’-gate, 
 ‘‘ can you forgive me, dear, for sending you away hope- 
 less to the war ? ” 
 
 “ It is easy to forgive anything in you, sweet Pippa. 
 And then — I have nothing to forgive. You were right in 
 sending me away. I am only a poor painter. You are the 
 general’s daughter. I could only give you a crust and a 
 pallet of straw in excliange for rich food, old wines, and 
 luxury. I was mad to hope for your favor. See how poor 
 I am! When the ruins are cleared, and the little which 
 the work gives me is gone, I must go back to the old life 
 of starving. It will be all the harder now since you have 
 kissed me. Why did you do it, Pippa?” 
 
 She caught his hand and pressed it to her lips before 
 he could snatch it away. 
 
 Beppo, dear Beppo — I kissed you partly because I 
 love you and partly because ” 
 
 What is it, Pippa ? Speak ! ” 
 
 “ Wait a little, dear. The crust and the pallet of straw, 
 with love, are more than all that my father’s wealth can pro- 
 vide. There is much which riches cannot give me. Love 
 comes first.” 
 
A SEAM I/V THE WALL. 
 
 149 
 
 And you love me, Pippa, well enough to give up your 
 father’s home for my hovel ?” 
 
 How joyous and hopeful he was. A twinkle came into 
 her eyes. 
 
 I said not that.” 
 
 But — your words seem to mean that. Oh, do not 
 mock me, Pippa ! I should have died in the fields where 
 I fought ! Such a burden life is to carry — when it is 
 empty ! ” 
 
 “ Sit here a moment,” she said, and let me talk with 
 you.” 
 
 They had entered a narrow^ street, under the shadow of 
 the city wnll. There was a great seam in the high wall 
 before them, and through it they could see the trees and 
 hills outside. 
 
 Is not this where you drove the invaders off?” she 
 asked. 
 
 ‘‘Yes; that seam in the wall was caused by the last 
 charge they made. One more charge and they would 
 have been where we are now, the wall is so weak. But 
 the war is over, and so why talk of it ? What have you to 
 say to me ? ” 
 
 “ Beppo, my father bade me come and seek you and tell 
 you that he thinks that you are a brave man — a hero.” 
 
 Beppo’s e^es glowed with pride, and then they filled. 
 Tears are not always a sign of weakness ; at least, so she 
 thought. 
 
 “ When he found out that you loved me, Beppo, a long 
 time ago, he said, ‘ Beppo is a fine youth, Pippa, but I 
 cannot give you to him. True, he is worthy ; but he is so 
 poor. He is a painter, and so he will always be starving.’ 
 Then, Beppo, the war came, and I sent you away, as he 
 bade me, without giving you a word of encouragement. 
 He wanted you tried without the hope of reward to 
 spur you on. You were so brave and so valiant that it 
 made /ihn love you, too. He says that you shall have your 
 choice. You shall be a soldier or an artist, as you wish.” 
 
 How happy he was ! She had never seen his face so 
 radiant before. 
 
 “And he says this? — the general! your father! He 
 will help me ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 He smiled, and then he sighed. 
 
 “ I must be a soldier,” he said. 
 
 “ Why ? ” 
 
A SEAM IN' I'HE WALL. 
 
 ISO 
 
 “ It will please your father best. He is a soldier.” , 
 
 “ But he was an artist once, and he said you should have' 
 your choice.” 
 
 For a long time Beppo was silent. He was too happy 
 for words. Pippa was to be his wife— that was what it all 
 meant. He could study now, as he had w^anted to do for 
 so long. Yes, his dreams would be realized after all. He 
 would be a great artist. He had genius ; he waas sure of 
 that. Pippa’s love and her father’s money w’ould do the 
 rest. They should be proud of him, too. He would work 
 hard, and repay these loving ones by proving to them that 
 he w'as all they thought he was. 
 
 He was sitting on a cannon. But one short w'eek ago, 
 that cannon had made havoc in the ranks of the invaders ; 
 but for it the enemies of Italy might have left some sadder 
 mark to tell that they had been there than the seam in the 
 wall before him. What a wide, jagged seam it w’as. The 
 wall was ten yards high there, and the seam ran nearly 
 from the top to the bottom. What made it so much w’ider 
 at the top than it was at the bottom ? There w^as the 
 difference of more than a yard. Ah ! the walls had swung 
 in a little ; that was the cause of it. 
 
 Merciful God ! What was it he saw ? Could he believe 
 his own eyes ? The wall was still swinging — it was falling 
 forward! In an instant more it would be upon them, and 
 they would be crushed to death. Escape was impossible ; 
 there was no time for that. 
 
 ‘‘ Pippa ! the wall I ” he cried, and then caught her in 
 his arms. 
 
 Thought outspeeds the lightning at such a time. Swiftly 
 through his mind passed all the events of his life — his 
 poverty ; his love for art ; Pippa ; the war ; the general’s 
 interest in him ; and now, just as all that he had hoped 
 for was in his grasp, death was sweeping it away ! 
 
 Her eyes followed his to the wall. She saw that they were 
 doomed, and clung to him as the vine clings to the trellis. 
 
 • He held her close. 
 
 Crash ! 
 
 Thud ! 
 
 The wall was down. 
 
 When the dust had cleared away, there the lovers still 
 stood, clasping each other unharmed ! As the wall fell, 
 the seam had widened. They stood in the open space, 
 with the great masses of broken stone on each side of them, 
 saved ! 
 
MY QUEEN, BRUNEHILDE. 
 
 O France ! my sweet country — mighty mother of the 
 brave and the free, and mightier murderess of the fair and 
 the innocent ; thou who hast been most merciful to those 
 who hated thee and most cruel to those who loved thee ; 
 thou who hast glorified thine enemies and who hast re- 
 warded thy friends with death — thy crime-stained fingers 
 have clutched the life from no fairer tliroat than Brune- 
 hilde’s ! 
 
 She it was who made scholars higher and grander tlian 
 warriors and yeomen, and set savants on the plane with 
 princes and generals ; and she it was who made letters 
 more than warfare. 
 
 Brunehilde ! 
 
 Ancient and beautiful. 
 
 Beautiful alike in thine age and in thy youth. 
 
 Fairest woman of France, and fairest woman who ever 
 sat on an earthly throne. 
 
 The daughter of a king, the wife of a king ; outraged, 
 degraded, murdered by a king ; outraged, degraded, mur- 
 dered, unavenged ! And still, oh, sons and daughters of 
 France — my brothers and sisters — ye can smile ! 
 
 Though twelve centuries have come and gone since 
 Clotaire’s shameless men tied her, by hand and wrist, to 
 the heels of a wild horse, and laughed to see the frenzied 
 brute dash over the fair soil of France, staining it with her 
 blood and strewing it with her entrails, time has not yet 
 erased the crimson record from the world’s great tablets. 
 
 And you who shudder at this mention — how much bet- 
 ter are you than vile, red-handed Clotaire ? What poet or 
 artist among you has done for her that which was so gladly 
 done for Cleopatra and Helen ? And yet Brunehilde was 
 greater than either of these. Greater and lovelier. 
 
 Her mighty shade, uncomforted, still goes sweeping on 
 
152 
 
 MV QUEEiY^ BRUNEHILDE, 
 
 through space, and if those pale, thin lips could speak, 
 and you could hear, the awful word which would reach 
 your ears would be, “ Blood !” No wonder. She, Brune- 
 hilde, unavenged, unsung, forgotten— and so many lesser 
 women deified ! 
 
 While I was still but a lisping, prattling boy, her sad 
 story filled me witli sorrow, compassion, and awe. How- 
 ever often it was told to me I wept. Deeply that dark, 
 horrible recital sank into my boyish soul, and there the 
 wound which it left will stay forever. 
 
 Childhood merged into youth, and youth into manhood, 
 but the merging brought me no relief. Brunehilde and her 
 woful wrongs still filled all my thoughts, and the horror 
 and sorrow increased with my years. 
 
 People bade me put the memory of the sweet queen out 
 of my life, and I bade the people be silent. 
 
 Brunehilde !” exclaimed a crone one day, a Avoman so 
 old that no one could even guess when she was born ; 
 “Brunehilde! It is ever Brunehilde with thee, son, and 
 none other. Living women have no place in your heart, 
 and yet so many bright-eyed, round-limbed daughters of 
 France yearn for your lightest smile.” 
 
 I pushed the hag aside and went my way. 
 
 “ Brunehilde should reward you,” she shouted after me. 
 “ In all her kingdom she never had subject so faithful and 
 devoted. Even King Sigebert less deserved her favor.” 
 
 Dazed by the woman’s venomous words, I staggered and 
 my breath stopped. Then the sound of voices and the 
 noise of wheels restored me, and I hastened from the tu- 
 mult of the city to the peaceful silence of the open 
 country. 
 
 But go where I would, I could not leave the crone’s 
 words behind me. 
 
 Why did slie so upbraid and taunt me ? 
 
 Could I be happy with some soft woman’s love ? Poor 
 fool ! Clotaire, the king, Brunehilde’s murderer, was my 
 ancestor! Some portion of tliat dreadful monster’s blood 
 was in iny veins. What had I to do with love ? My life 
 slum Id be a sacred sacrifice to the great queen. Because 
 of the sorrows of her life, no joy should enter mine. No 
 woman’s hands or lips should touch mine ; no one Avom- 
 an’s eyes should glow with tenderness at my coming, or 
 fill with tears wlien I went away. If I could atone for 
 Clotaire’s wrong by living or by dying for Brunehilde and 
 so bring peace to her great soul, the atonement should be 
 
MY QUEEN, BRUNEHILDE, 
 
 153 
 
 made, the peace should be hers. I swore it, and I called 
 upon God and the angels to hear and register the vow. 
 
 Out, out I went among the fields and hills, and in a lone 
 and desolate valley I threw myself upon the ground and 
 hid my face in the dead moss. 
 
 And then, as in my youth, thoughts of her made me 
 weep. 
 
 What was the sound that suddenly checked my grief 
 and made me afraid to lift my head ? There wasastrange, 
 faint rushing through the air, as if the gloomy valley was 
 filling with shadow's from the spirit land. There w^as also 
 the dreamy, indistinct tinkling of distant bells, and the 
 softer, sweeter music of far-aw^ay voices. An odor which 
 was richer and rarer than ever came from the rose-gardens 
 of Iran filled my nostrils. 
 
 Tiien some one spoke to me. 
 
 Look up and tell me why you w^eep.” 
 
 Never before did I hear so tender a voice, and my tears 
 started afresh, as I raised my head to obey it. 
 
 I looked, but the words I would have said hung on my 
 lips. 
 
 Before me w'as a w'oman — a phantom from the world of 
 shadows, but oh ! so beautiful ! 
 
 Take the best from all the forms and faces wTich art 
 and poesy have w’rought, and, though they were united in 
 one w^oman, her beauty would have been transcended by 
 my celestial questioner. 
 
 For a moment Brunehilde w^as forgotten, and I was 
 thinking how even I should have loved this radiant one, 
 had slie come to me in her life. 
 
 She read my thought and smiled. 
 
 “ Tell me for wdiom you w^eep. ” 
 
 For Brunehilde,’’ I whispered. 
 
 “ I am Brunehilde,” she said ; ‘‘ and you are first of Clo- 
 taire’s race wdio ever shed a tear for me. Nay, more than 
 that — no other man of France has sorrow^ed for my woes 
 and wu'ongs. No heart, save yours, has grieved for me 
 since my lord, good King Sigebert, fell before the assas- 
 sins of vile Fredegonda, King Chilperic’s mistress. And, 
 gentle youth, the compassionate devotion of one true man 
 compensates all Brunehilde's w'rongs. You have w^ell re- 
 paid me for your bloody kinsman’s crimes. Do one thing 
 yet. Let sorrowing cease. Feel no more pain for me. 
 Live not alone. Let some fair, living w^oman be the shrine 
 at which, henceforth, you worship. Brunehilde bids you 
 
154 
 
 M y QUEEN, BRUNEHILDE. 
 
 love, and call some sweet woman wife. Think no more of 
 the wrongs foul Clotaire did. Forget your oath of sacri- 
 fice to me ; that oath is well redeemed.” 
 
 “Sweet queen,” I said, “ there was no place in my heart 
 before you came to-day for anyone but you. And now, 
 great phantom, I love you.” 
 
 “ But you cannot call me wife, dear youth.” 
 
 “ Yet I can love none else. So I must go to my grave 
 wifeless.” 
 
 “Was ever heart of man so true before?” she cried, and 
 then she smiled and vanished. 
 
 I had seen her. How happy I was ! Brunehilde, the 
 great queen, had come to me in all her wonderful beauty. 
 
 Not one of her words or smiles would I ever forget. 
 Surely no other man was ever so favored. 
 
 I went back to the city, and those who liad known me 
 before marvelled at the change in me. 
 
 Songs and smiles were ever upon my lips now, and the 
 dulness of sorrow was gone from my eyes. 
 
 “Surely,” the people said, “ tliis man is in love. He has 
 forgotten to grieve and mourn for Brunehilde.” 
 
 Brunehilde ! The name now sent the red blood into my 
 cheeks wlienever 1 heard it. 1 no longer dared speak it — • 
 scarcely dared think it— save when I was alone. 
 
 1 loved her, phantom as she was, and though my love 
 was hopeless it made me Inappy. 
 
 Days came and went, weeks lengthened into months, 
 and then came the end of the year. 
 
 There was snow on the ground and the chill of winter 
 was in the air. Frost crystals glittered in the leafless trees 
 and the streams were locked with ice: 
 
 Alone in the fields I walked with downcast liead but 
 not with downcast heart. Brunehilde, my queen, reigned 
 there, though all the rest of France had forgotten her. 
 
 As I walked 1 heard a rustling in the air again, the same 
 that I heard when Brunehilde came. Still I saw nothing, 
 whichever way I looked. 
 
 Tiien a voice said : 
 
 “ Go once more to the valley.” 
 
 Again I looked about me, but there was nothing to see 
 but the snow. 
 
 Was this a message from Brunehilde ? Was I to see her 
 again ? 
 
 1 hastened on, buoyant with hope. The snow was less 
 dreary now, and I quite forgot the wintry air. 
 
MY QUEEN, BRUNEHILDE, 155 
 
 Even the desolate valley, when I came to it, seemed 
 more cheerful than when I last entered it. 
 
 On the very spot where I flung myself down in the moss, 
 when the venom of the hag so nearly stung me to death, a 
 woman lay writhing in the snow. 
 
 When I first saw her face I was startled, she was so like 
 the murdered queen whom I so dearly loved. Her form, 
 too, was much the same. But it was not Brunehilde. A 
 second glance showed me, too, that my eyes had some- 
 what deceived me. There was less resemblance between 
 the two than 1 had first thought. 
 
 The woman was dying. 
 
 “ Who are you ? I asked. 
 
 “ I am of Brunehilde’s race,’’ she said. ‘‘ I came here 
 to die. She called me hither from my death-bed in the 
 monastery. Wait until I am gone.” 
 
 The pangs of dissolution were on her as she spoke. In 
 a moment she was dead. 
 
 Long I stood there and looked down into that dead face. 
 Then I knelt and touched lier brow with my hand ; it was 
 as cold as the snow. 
 
 Brunehilde and her kinswoman had met ; they were to- 
 gether now. I wondered if they could see me kneeling 
 there in the snow by that lifeless clay. 
 
 Lifeless ! What did I see ? Color was coming into 
 those wan cheeks again ! The woman’s bosom heaved. 
 She breathed. Life was returning. Her hands moved 
 convulsively and she opened her eyes. 
 
 She sprang to her feet. Mercy of heaven ! Was I mad ? 
 It was not Brunehilde’s kinswoman I saw, but Brunehilde 
 herself ! 
 
 No longer a phantom, but a creature of flesh and blood, 
 and with her loveliness a thousand-fold increased. 
 
 “ See what love has done,” she said. “ You grieved for 
 me and then you loved me. Now I have come to you.” 
 
 To me ! You have come to me ! ” I cried. 
 
 “ 1 am ail yours now,” she answered. ‘‘ I would not see 
 you, so tender, so loyal, wasting your heart on a shadow, 
 so I have usurped the body of my dead kinswoman, and 
 have made it mine. I have come to gladden your life and 
 to reward your devotion. Do you want me ? Shall I 
 stay ? ” 
 
 Oh ! my queen ” 
 
 “ Queen no longer,” she exclaimed, “ except queen of 
 your heart. Can you not call me by a sweeter name ? ” 
 
MV QUEEA\ BRUNEHILDE, 
 
 156 
 
 Brunehilde, heart’s-queen, wife !” I cried, and caught 
 her in my arms. 
 
 How happy we were ! Years were no longer, now, than 
 days. 
 
 She never spoke of the past— the old, bitter, painful 
 past — until our son was born. 
 
 ‘‘ How much he is like Sigebert’s son,’' she said ; 
 
 Sigebert’s son, whom Fredegonda murdered.” 
 
 I sighed. 
 
 She clasped me in her arms. 
 
 ^‘Do not think, dear heart,” she said, ‘‘that I am long- 
 ing for my lord, the king. He never loved as you do, and 
 I love you better than I did him Only memory went 
 back to the old days when I was Queen Brunehilde.” 
 
 “You are Queen Brunehilde still,” I answered, “and so 
 you will always be.” 
 
 She smiled, and kissed me. 
 
 “ Only in your true, loyal heart,” she said. 
 
 Sweet wife, so wondrous tender. How could you have 
 ever been so brave and dauntless? And how could even 
 brutal Clotairc have inflicted such wanton torture upon 
 one so lovely ? 
 
 The years passed, all too quickly, until three children 
 had blessed our love. 
 
 In all this time no cloud had come save the fear, which 
 was always in my heart, that some day my beautiful Brune- 
 hilde would be snatched from me, and 1 would again be 
 desolate. And how pitiable a desolation, after so sweet a 
 life with such a woman ! 
 
 One day she met me with a look of dread upon her face. 
 
 “Oh! husband!” she cried, in bitterest anguish, “the 
 end has come, and I must go from you.” 
 
 “What do you mean ?” 
 
 “ Clotaire is coming for me. Once more must I die at 
 the heels of the wild horse, and once more must I see my 
 children — your children and mine, this time, not Sigebert’s 
 — killed under my helpless eyes.” 
 
 Wild with nameless dread and horror I asked what she 
 meant. 
 
 “When, as your wife, I came to you,” she said, “it was 
 upon pain of losing heaven, except, at the end of ten years, 
 
 I once more submitted to Clotaire’s insults. The time has 
 come, and my compact must be kept.” 
 
 “ And you did this for me ?” 
 
 “Yes. Why not? Half of love’s sweetness is in the 
 
MV QUEEJV, BRUNEHILDE. 
 
 157 
 
 very pain it brings. You loved me as the phantom of 
 Sigebert’s wife ; you have loved me still more as your wife. 
 And I have loved you, too. I love you now — none the less 
 because I suffer death for you. You will soon come to me. 
 We shall be happy in heaven. There Clotaire’s vengeance 
 cannot follow us.” 
 
 And is there nothing I can do to save you ? ” 
 
 Yes.” 
 
 What is it ? ” 
 
 I will not tell vou.” 
 
 ^‘Why?” 
 
 ‘‘Because — great as the sacrifice is, you, in your blind 
 love for me, would make it.” 
 
 “ Tell me, quickly, I beseech you, and let me save you,” 
 
 “No. I love you too well for that.” 
 
 In my agony I smiled. 
 
 “ Whose love is blindest ?” I asked. 
 
 She kissed me. 
 
 “ Daar heart,” she said, “our love is alike, and so we 
 are safe. Clotaire’s second death-pang will be but mo- 
 mentary, and then our bliss goes on forever.” 
 
 “And I shall die with you, then?” I asked, joyously. 
 
 “ If you wish it.” 
 
 Once again we were clasped in each other’s arms, and 
 for the last time in our happy home. 
 
 “ Farewell ! ” she said. “ I leave you now. Go quickly 
 to the valley, and stay till I come.” 
 
 Then there was a crash, and our home was a chaos of 
 ruins. She and the children were gone. 
 
 Soon I reached the valley. It was, more than ever, 
 desolate. Then a veil seemed to be lifted, and I saw 
 plainly. There was Clotaire, my murderous ancestor, and 
 all his army. 
 
 The pitiless king stood with folded arms, watching the 
 slaugiiter of our children — Brunehilde’s and mine ! I at- 
 tempted to start forward but I could not stir. Some un- 
 seen power was holding me fast. 
 
 There stood Brunehilde, forced by Clotaire to see her 
 children murdered. Then her naked form was flung to 
 the ground and once again, by hair and wrist, they tied 
 her to the heels of the wild horse. 
 
 Again I tried to spring forward. She should be saved ! 
 My wife, my queen. Brunehilde ! Red Clotaire should 
 be robbed of his foul triumph. 
 
 Alas ! I could not move ! 
 
AIY QUEEN, BRUNEHILDE, 
 
 158 
 
 Then the King’s villains goaded the wild horse with 
 their knives and swords until he could no longer be held. 
 
 The frenzied brute breaks loose from them, as he did 
 twelve hundred years ago, and darts across the plain. 
 
 Straight toward me, the wild horse comes, dragging 
 Brunehilde behind him. Another moment and I shall be 
 run down ! 
 
 His forefeet strike my breast ! 
 
 I fall ! 
 
 I am crushed ! 
 
 Brunehilde clasps me in her arms ! Her lips meet 
 mine! Oh! God! I die ! 
 
THREE AND ONE 
 
 They — the three — are dead ; and so their names are a 
 sacred secret. Even to tell when they lived, were cruel 
 unkindness — they suffered so ! To tell what they were, 
 and how she came into, and spoiled, all their lives, is quite 
 enough. 
 
 She still lives. 
 
 Though the jetty splendor has forsaken her hair, and it 
 has become as burnished silver, the old fatal lustre is still 
 in her eyes, and the old fatal beauty is still in her form 
 and face. 
 
 Men still tremble at sight of her, and they still shudder 
 when they come to know her. 
 
 The world has held, and still holds, many like her ; and 
 the pain and harm which such a woman brings into her 
 age, in a single hour, is often greater than all the good 
 which Christ and Siddartha did. 
 
 Her father was a peasant, and she was his only daughter. 
 
 From the hour of her birth, until she attained full 
 womanhood, she lived in sight of the spires and steeples 
 of Rouen. 
 
 Through all her childhood and maidenhood she was 
 spotless, pure, and innocent, with the purity and innocence 
 of ignorance. She knew of no sin, and so committed none. 
 No appetite was awakened within her, save for water, air, 
 and wholesome food. She had only the birds, the beasts, 
 and her rude toys for playmates ; and her only companion 
 was her fatlier. 
 
 While she, in her simple blamelessness, played with her 
 pets and her dolls, in her frugal home, under the watchful 
 eye of her devout father, the three — those who are dead — 
 were at the university pondering the great problems of life. 
 
 They would soon end their school-days, for commence- 
 ment was close at hand ; and they looked forward with 
 
i6o 
 
 THREE AND ONE, 
 
 grave interest to the time when they should take their 
 places in the great world. 
 
 The youngest was a poet, and his circumstances were 
 such that he could, if he wished, dream on forever with 
 no thought of the needs with which most poets are dis- 
 tracted. He was delicate, sensitive, most exquisitely or- 
 ganized, and an extremist in beauty-worship. His teachers 
 dreaded to think how rough his dainty nature would find 
 the pathway of life, unless loving hands smoothed it for 
 him at every step. 
 
 The second was ruddier and bolder. He was fond of 
 social enjoyment and boisterous fun. No two classmates 
 were ever more unlike than he and the poet. The one 
 delighted in that from which the other shrank. Like his 
 father, he was most interested in the laws of his country ; 
 so he chose the practice of law for his profession. 
 
 But the sweetest and most lovable of the three was the 
 only son of a poor widow. His whole life had been sur- 
 rounded with privation and poverty, but he seemed all the 
 happier because of the struggles he had had to make. He 
 had even to earn his way through the university. Warm- 
 hearted, even-tempered, full of charity and sympathy for 
 everyone, he almost immediately became the idol of the 
 whole school. Had he been ambitious, he could, with his 
 beauty, magnetism, and eloquence, have won whatever 
 place in life he wanted ; but he believed that, as a clergy- 
 man, he could best serve his fellowmen. 
 
 And so, they were variously moved, by the approaching 
 end of their school-days. 
 
 The brightness and security of the poet’s future seemed 
 fully assured, for he would be simply leaving the university 
 for the luxuries of his magnificent home ; and the world, too, 
 was already pausing to listen to the sweetness of his music. 
 
 As for the lawyer, there was a place for him in the great 
 offices of his father ; and fame and fortune were his, as 
 soon as he would claim them. 
 
 For the clergyman, the outlook was less cheering. The 
 humbleness of his choice made his a thornier way, and he 
 had to make his whole future for himself. 
 
 The peasant’s daughter, a maiden of sixteen, was still 
 playing at Rouen when the doors of the university closed, 
 for the last time, behind the three. 
 
 A year later, the poet, happy in the welcome which his 
 genius had won for him, in the world of letters, paid a visit 
 to some friends in Rouen. 
 
THREE AND ONE, 
 
 i6i 
 
 Strolling about in the fields by himself, and deep in the 
 sweet mazes of some fanciful day-dream, he suddenly 
 paused to drink in the rapturous sounds which saluted his 
 ears. 
 
 Unable to decide whether the song which he heard 
 floated to him from the throat of some forest nymph, or 
 some genuine woman of flesh and blood, he bent his steps 
 in the direction whence the sound came. 
 
 A moment later, he was peeping through the open window 
 of an humble cottage at the peasant’s beautiful daughter. 
 
 Believing herself to be alone, her feet were bare and 
 she was scarcely more than half clad. 
 
 She was singing to a pigeon, which sat upon one of her 
 fingers. 
 
 Her beauty, and the sweetness of her voice, went 
 straight to the young poet’s heart. Fie loved her before 
 she even knew of his existence. The fates are most un- 
 kind to let such people meet ! 
 
 One song followed another, and still he watched her, 
 and listened to her, with breathless silence. 
 
 The sun was sinking and the shadows of evening were 
 close at hand. 
 
 The peasant, returning from his day of toil in the fields, 
 found his daughter sleeping on the floor, among her pets, 
 and the poet still watching her through the window. 
 
 When the old man’s hand was laid upon the young man’s 
 shoulder, the latter simply pointed to the sleeping girl 
 and asked who she was. 
 
 My daughter,” said the peasant. 
 
 If you will let me, I will make her my wife,” was the 
 answer. 
 
 Permission was finally given the young man, to woo the 
 lovely girl, and he profited by his opportunities. 
 
 In form, face, and voice, she was the very incarnation of 
 all his dreams and fancies ; the beautiful ideal whom he 
 had always been told he would never meet. He was too 
 much in love with her to judge her spiritually and men- 
 tally; but no man ever passes judgment upon the soul of 
 a beautiful woman until, as his wife, she betrays her shal- 
 lowness. 
 
 To her, he not only opened a new life, but he was a new 
 life. The blissful future they were about entering, as he 
 described it, seemed sweeter to her than the heaven her 
 father had so much talked of. 
 
 Love, to her, at first, was a word without a definition, 
 
 II 
 
THREE AND ONE. 
 
 162 
 
 but it gradually unfolded itself to her, and at last she be- 
 gan to comprehend its meaning. 
 
 With his first kiss upon her lips, she was thrilled with new 
 emotions which were half ecstasy and half dread. Then, 
 all at once, she found herselt rejoicing whenever he 
 came, and disposed to weep each time he went away. His 
 eyes entranced her, and there was rapture in the lightest 
 touch of his hand. Still, to her, all was yet vague and 
 indefinable. Her woman’s instinct told her much, but the 
 things concerning which she was left in doubt were those 
 she most w\anted to know about. 
 
 In a month she became his wife. In that one short 
 month she had grown from a child into a woman, and her 
 father sighed to see the change. 
 
 The young lover had rushed into his marriage with the 
 peasant’s daughter without consulting, or even informing, 
 his family ; and they, naturally enough, resented his rash- 
 ness. So he and his bride spent their honeymoon in 
 Rouen, in the household of his friends. 
 
 He wrote no longer. His muse seemed resentful be- 
 cause he had taken a new goddess into his heart, and as 
 the months went on, the world waited in vain for a new 
 poem from his pen. 
 
 A poet’s nature, if he be a true poet, is like a woman’s. 
 Love is its whole existence. He sings until, in life, he 
 finds the ideal whom his soul created, and who has always 
 dwelt in his heart. Then life itself becomes a poem, and 
 all song dies within him. 
 
 A year passed- — a year of uninterrupted bliss — and the 
 two were lovers still. They had no life apart from each 
 other, and seemed to have forgotten the outer world. 
 
 Then the awakening came. 
 
 The little store of money which they had had was ex- 
 hausted, and he was obliged to write for assistance, to his 
 angry parents. 
 
 Their answer crushed him. He was upbraided for dar- 
 ing to forsake everyone and everything for a low peasant 
 girl, and was informed that unless he gave her up instant- 
 ly, his family would renounce him forever. No member 
 of his family, he was further informed, would ever in any 
 way recognize his wife, and, while he continued living with 
 her, no money would be sent him, even though he starved. 
 
 This letter was a shock from which he never recovered. 
 In their blind eagerness to win him back to them, his fam- 
 ily had done that which, with so delicate and sensitive a nat- 
 
THREE A HD ONE. 
 
 163 
 
 lire, could result in but one way. His heart was broken, 
 and even the courage, tenderness, and devotion of liis 
 beautiful wife lacked potency sufficient to heal the wound. 
 
 Within three days he died in her arms, and it was 
 thought at first that her reason had gone with his soul. 
 
 Fler grief was deep and lasting ; siie never wholly ceased 
 to mourn her poet husband. 
 
 No woman can live upon such terms of tender intimacy 
 with any man and not imbibe some of his traits. Hers was 
 an unusually plastic and impressible nature, and he came 
 to her before she had developed any methods of thought ; 
 and so his influence extended through all of her life. He 
 had seemed to exhale purity with his every breath, and she 
 would have been common clay indeed had not the coarse 
 tendencies, which were her natural inheritance, been some- 
 what refined and subdued through contact with him. 
 
 Rouen was now so full of sad memories for her that she 
 soon left it for Paris. Then, too, she could best earn her 
 livelihood in the capital. 
 
 The year which followed her husband’s death was full 
 of misery and bitterness. Many a time, before it ended, 
 she would have sacrificed her life, but for the fear that it 
 would lessen her chances of being reunited with her hus- 
 band in heaven. 
 
 One day she saw, in a scrap torn from some newspaper, 
 the announcement that her husband’s father was dead. 
 
 For a year she had been starving ; why, now^, should she 
 not have her husband’s share of his father’s property ? 
 Surely, it was her lawful right. 
 
 But she was alone, and friendless. She could do nothing 
 with that proud family, and with a sigh, she was about 
 giving the idea up when, suddenly, she thought of one of 
 her husband’s classmates at the university, one of the three 
 friends. 
 
 He was now a rich and powerful lawyer. Would he not 
 help her, for the sake of his dead friend, her husband ? 
 Perhaps he would. 
 
 She was awed with the magnificence of the great law- 
 yer’s offices, and sent in her card with much trepidation. 
 
 He saw her almost instantly, and welcomed her heartily. 
 When he had heard her story he was deeply moved, and 
 assured her that he would give the matter his personal at- 
 tention. He seemed so sanguine of success that hope ran 
 mountain high with her. 
 
 She was grateful for the friendship which he professed, 
 
164 
 
 THREE AND ONE. 
 
 blit she never once thought that she had awakened within 
 him anything else than friendship ; though the fact was 
 that the lawyer was already in love with the wife of his 
 dead friend. 
 
 The sorrow she had known, since the death of her hus- 
 band, had made her more beautiful than ever. The quiet 
 air of sadness about her, and the sweet gravity of her 
 perfect face, gave her a kind of loveliness even less resist- 
 ible than her girlish beauty. 
 
 Lawyers, generally, are more noted for other attributes 
 than for morality, and the one to whom the lovely widow 
 had appealed for assistance was much like the mass of his 
 profession. 
 
 Since leaving the university he had lived a life of the 
 utmost gayety and abandon. 
 
 One woman after another had amused him, only to find 
 her place taken, speedily, by some new favorite. 
 
 At length, tiring of them all, he had married the pretty 
 daughter of a rich banker, whose sole heiress she was. 
 
 But after a month she also wearied him. 
 
 It was at this time that the wife of his dead friend came. 
 
 From the first, he fully realized that she was the only 
 woman he had ever loved, and he cursed himself because 
 he was married. 
 
 It made no difference to him because she was only the 
 daughter of a common peasant. Her beauty, grace, and 
 refinement was ample compensation for that. 
 
 He loved her, too, and that was enough, any way. 
 
 Since he was already married, he could not offer her 
 matrimony, and there was something about her which 
 satisfied him that she would accept of nothing else. In 
 fact, there was a strong probability that she would even 
 refuse that — she was so absorbed in her devotion for her 
 dead husband. 
 
 Have her he must, in some way. He had begun to feel 
 that he could not endure life without her. 
 
 Sleeping or waking, her name was constantly upon his 
 lips, and, more often than he was willing to admit, even to 
 himself, he found himself writing the same dear name 
 upon his broad sheets of law-paper. 
 
 He called upon her husband’s family, and almost immedi- 
 ately her husband’s share of the estate was paid over to her. 
 
 This placed her in such comfortable circumstances, that 
 the lawyer feared that it would hinder him in his attempts 
 to win her heart. 
 
THREE AND ONE 
 
 165 
 
 Still he found some excuse, every day, for calling upon 
 her ; and he showed her every attention which gallantry 
 and ingenuity could devise. 
 
 At last he flung himself at her feet, in a moment of 
 passionate desperation, and offered her his heart. 
 
 He did not mean to do so base a thing, but he was mad 
 with love, and so, for the time, morally demented. 
 
 She, of course, knew nothing of his wife, and considered 
 his proposal in every way honorable and worthy. 
 
 Her heart, she told him, was in the grave with her 
 dead husband, and she doubted if it would ever again be 
 hers to bestow. If it was, he should have it, since there 
 was no other living man whom slie so much respected. 
 
 Moved by a sudden impulse, he caught her in his arms 
 and kissed her. At the first touch of his lips, all her 
 dormant womanhood was aroused, and, faint and bewil- 
 dered, she sank upon his breast. 
 
 A moment later, when she had recovered herself, he 
 repeated his proposition of marriage, and was accepted. 
 
 He begged her not to keep him long waiting for her 
 sweet companionship, so she asked for only a month's 
 delay. Reluctantly, he granted it. 
 
 At the end of that time they went to a quiet church, 
 where the marriage-service was read privately, and they 
 were pronounced man and wife. 
 
 He fitted up an elegant house to which he took her, 
 where they spent the most of their time. 
 
 For three months they lived together as husband and 
 wife, and she was beginning to love him. 
 
 At the end of the fourth month, she discovered the 
 truth. 
 
 She moved about the house, in a dazed way, awaitingthe 
 return of the man whom she had supposed was her hus- 
 band. She was so overwhelmed with her shame and deg- 
 radation that she could not decide what to do. She 
 dreaded, yet longed for, the return of the guilty cause of 
 her grief. 
 
 When he came, he saw at a glance what had happened ; 
 and, proud and haughty though he was, he flung himself 
 at the feet of the peasant’s daughter, and begged that she 
 would forgive him. 
 
 ‘‘Why have you done me this wrong ?” she cried, with- 
 out heeding his supplication. 
 
 “Because,” he gasped, “I loved you so much that it 
 made me blind.” 
 
i66 
 
 THREE AND ONE, 
 
 “ And I was beginning to love yon, too ! ” she murmured. 
 “Oh ! God ! what a vile thing you have made me ! ” 
 
 He confessed all and employed all his eloquence in pas- 
 sionate argument against her scruples ; but she was im- 
 movable. 
 
 The pure teachings and sweet philosophy of the young 
 poet, who had first taught her that she was a woman, re- 
 fused to be reasoned aw^ay. 
 
 She felt, now, that her dead husband was lost to her for- 
 ever. Her second marriage had been, all along, as a wall 
 raised up between her and the dead ; but she had believed, 
 in a strange, vague way, that his soul vrould forgive her 
 that sacrilege. But this supposed second marriage was no 
 marriage, and, sullied and profaned as she was, she felt 
 that her faithlessness with the dead had even cost her 
 heaven. 
 
 In a single instant, her whole nature changed. Ven- 
 geance and hatred usurped the place of love and gentle- 
 ness. She was as harsh and immovable as those brave, 
 fierce women of early France wdio, on the battlefield, struck 
 dowm their enemies with one arm, while they held their 
 babes with the other. 
 
 She looked dowm, scornfully, upon the man at her feet. 
 
 Suddenly she saw her course clearly, and bade the man 
 who had dishonored her, rise. 
 
 He did not understand the smile he saw on her lips, and, 
 believing that he W’as forgiven, w^ould have clasped her to 
 his heart. 
 
 Quietly she pushed him back. 
 
 “Wait" a moment,” she said. “ Sit down in this chair 
 until I return.” 
 
 Wonderingly he obeyed her. 
 
 She was gone less than a minute, and when she came 
 back, a dagger lay concealed in her bosom. 
 
 She stood straight before him, and gave him the most in- 
 definable look he ever saw upon her face. 
 
 With many misgivings he waited for her to speak. 
 
 Presently her lips moved, and he bowed his head to 
 listen. 
 
 “ This foul thing you have done,” she said, “ was so mean 
 a trick that the lowest rake would have disdained to play 
 it upon his most despised mistress. You have robbed me 
 of my purity and of the right to love the memory of my 
 dead husband. And you say that you have done this thing 
 for love ! I am made viler than the vilest woman in the 
 
THREE AND ONE, 
 
 167 
 
 streets of Paris, and all for love ! Forgive me if I seem to 
 doubt you, what you say seems such a lie ! There was much 
 for which I owed you gratitude and respect ; you were fast 
 winning my dead husband’s place in my heart ; but I am 
 glad that I found this thing out, before you had stolen all 
 that was his. This crime against me is not so great as the 
 crime against the dead. It is that which I now avenge ! ” 
 
 And she drew her dagger and plunged it into his heart. 
 
 As she stood there, watching the pallor of death come 
 upon the face of the man whose life had answered her 
 demand for vengeance, a single tear glistened in one of 
 her eyes and then rolled down her cheek. 
 
 It was not for you,” she said to the dead man ; ‘Tt was 
 for the man whose wife you have dishonored.” 
 
 And then she left her dead seducer alone with the 
 splendors which he had lavished upon her, in the luxu- 
 rious house where her ruin had been consummated. 
 
 To her, what she had just done was no murder, but an act 
 of justice. Even his death was not enough to satisfy her, 
 for his blood could not wash away the tarnish upon her 
 womanhood. 
 
 Out into the streets she went, and sought quarters by 
 herself. 
 
 Once more the thought of suicide came, but now she 
 was afraid to die. Not because she had killed her be- 
 trayer, but because she was betrayed. 
 
 And then, solitude becoming unbearable, she plunged, 
 unrestrainedly, into all the mirth and festivity which the 
 great city afforded. 
 
 Her beauty and grace made her welcome wherever she 
 chose to go, and new suitors sought her favor every day. 
 But her gaiety was all a mask, for the image of her dead 
 husband still dwelt in her heart, and was a constant re- 
 proach to her. Still she went on, in her mad way, trying 
 to crush out her sorrow and misery by the sacrifice of 
 all that bound lier to the dead. 
 
 Marriage was offered her a hundred times, and each 
 time it was scorned. Human hearts were playthings to 
 her, and her only pleasure was in driving her Suitors to 
 despair. She had become as the sirens, whose charms 
 lure those who cannot resist them to destruction. 
 
 For two years she lived in this way, and then her better 
 nature rebelled. 
 
 The sad, stern face of the dead was constantly before her 
 and she sought the solace and consolations of religion. 
 
i68 
 
 THREE AND ONE. 
 
 Here, for a time, she found peace, and the phantom 
 face of the dead once more beamed with the smile which 
 had charmed her girlhood. 
 
 She sought out the suffering and needy, and was a 
 ministering angel to the distressed. 
 
 The poor called her a saint, and declared that God him- 
 self had sent her to them. They loved her next to the 
 great missionary wdiose name seemed to be upon every 
 tongue, though each mention of it brought back to her all 
 the brightness of the beautiful past, which she had lost. 
 
 No wonder; he had -been her dead husband’s dearest 
 friend in the old days at the university. He it was who 
 had sacrificed all earthly ambition to become a simple 
 clergyman. He was the widow^’s son, the idol of the 
 school, the last of the three friends. 
 
 Nothing had ever swerved him from his holy purpose, 
 until, one day, at the bedside of a dying child, when he 
 looked into the eyes of the woman who had been the wife 
 of one of his friends, and the sport of the other. 
 
 When he saw her, his heart went from him, and it never 
 came back. Like his two friends, he loved her instantly ; 
 and the joy of his work of mercy was gone for ever. 
 
 She was also powerfully moved. She believed now 
 that some resistless fatality had made her the evil genius 
 of these three men, and she made no effort to undo the 
 interest she had awakened in the heart of the third and 
 last. 
 
 Her dead husband’s face — that monitor which had so 
 often swayed and influenced her — came to her no more. 
 
 She believed that fate had thrust this last love upon her, 
 and that no power on earth could change the inevitable 
 results. 
 
 Presently she also found that her heart was far from in- 
 different to her new suitor, and that she was beginning to 
 love him with all the intense fervor of her strong, passion- 
 ate nature. And so they were married. 
 
 She felt that it was his due to know what her life had 
 been, but she found it impossible to tell him. 
 
 They were married without his knowing a word of her 
 history. 
 
 On their wedding night, in the darkness and quiet of 
 their bridal chamber, she told him all. 
 
 When her awful story was finished she waited for his 
 answer, but it never came. He was dead ! 
 
A CRY IN THE NIGHT 
 
 It was early evening in Venice. The limpid waters 
 flashed and glistened in the yellow moonlight, and their 
 gurgling mingled dreamily with the song and music which 
 seemed to be everywhere. 
 
 June was but just begun, and the balmy air and the 
 soft weather had filled all the lagoons with gondolas. 
 
 From my balcony I watched the flitting craft and gay 
 freight go back and forth and hither and thither across the 
 limits of my vision. 
 
 At last, full of the fun, joy, and glory which the revellers 
 made, I called my gondolier and bade him take me out 
 upon the water. 
 
 It mattered but little which way we went, so our bark 
 drifted, except when it was necessary to dip an oar to avoid 
 a collision. 
 
 All Venice seemed alive with the merry, half- mad, riot- 
 ous spirit of the sport, and at last the water became fairly 
 thick with barges and gondolas. 
 
 In and out among them we went, slowly, and from ev^ery 
 side we were hailed with jests, laughter, bits of music and 
 snatches of song. 
 
 The mirth and good will with which we were surrounded 
 soon took the gloom and care out of my own sad heart, 
 and I laughed, chatted, and sang with them all, and was as 
 gay as the gayest. 
 
 An hour later, as we were passing under a low balcony, 
 an unseen woman suddenly began singing one of the 
 sweet songs of France, my own dear country. The song 
 came from a throat as flexible as a bird’s, and as full of 
 music. We paused beneath the balcony, until the song 
 was done ; then I threw the singer a handful of white lilies 
 and we drifted slowly away. 
 
 Five minutes later all the mirth and music on the lagoon 
 
170 
 
 A CRY IN THE NIGHT, 
 
 Stopped, instantly, and in its stead was a great and awful 
 silence. It was caused by a wild cry — a scream so terrible 
 that it seemed to curdle the blood in every heart — which 
 came from the balcony where I had just thrown the lilies. 
 One only utters such a cry when in mortal agony or mor- 
 tal terror ; and in this case it seemed inspired by both. 
 There were blanched faces and staring eyes everywhere. 
 All were listening for a repetition of the dreadful sound. 
 
 Ours was the only gondola which moved. All the others 
 seem enchained or spellbound by that awful cry. My gon- 
 dolier, as if by instinct, anticipated my wish, and sent our 
 graceful craft flying through the water until we were once 
 more under the balcony whence the song and the cry 
 came. Clutching the low railing, I swiftly drew myself 
 up, but there was no one in sight. Through a window 
 before me, I heard a stifled cry of pain, and instantly 
 rushed in the direction it came from. 
 
 The lights were dim, but in an inner room I saw the out- 
 line of a woman’s form, and heard the rustle of silken 
 garments. A black shadow seemed standing between us, 
 and then, all at once, the woman gave the awful cry again, 
 sprang forward, and threw herself into my arms. Her 
 heart was beating wildly, and there was agony and terror 
 in her every movement. 
 
 ‘‘ Do not move,” she said, do not stir. I am in danger, 
 but I shall be safe if you hold me fast for a moment.” 
 
 I clasped her closely to my breast, and she flung her 
 arms tightly about my neck. Then I again saw the shadow. 
 It had a man’s shape, but, as it came forward, the fearful 
 color of its face and the still more hideous glow in its 
 eyes made it seem like some fiend or vampire. 
 
 It came very close to me and breathed its hot, scorching 
 breath into my face. From impulse, I raised my hand and 
 struck at it, but it darted backward and laughed at me in a 
 way which I shall never forget. 
 
 Do not,” said- the woman, do not move at all. He 
 will go presently and leave us alone.” 
 
 I was wonderfully puzzled by the strange scene. It 
 seemed to me too much like the Middle Age diablerie and 
 nonsense to be real. But there was no mistake about it ; 
 the woman was still in my arms, panting with fright, and 
 yonder, in the middle of the floor, stood the fiend, or 
 whatever it was, grinning and hissing at me. 
 
 Just behind me I could hear the other revellers who had 
 been with me on the lagoons. Recovered from their sur- 
 
A CRY IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 171 
 
 prise at the alarming cry, they had also come to investi- 
 gate, and they were climbing over the balcony and into 
 the room where I was standing with the woman and the 
 goblin. My eyes were firmly fixed upon the latter, when 
 the others began clambering over the balcony. Suddenly, 
 and without a sound, the sinister presence vanished. How, 
 I could never tell. It is barely possible tiiat he darted 
 through some unseen door and out along some mysterious 
 hallway, or he might have melted into thin air. 
 
 That point I have never been able to decide. 
 
 I only know that I was looking straight at the eerie 
 shape, when suddenly the space which it had filled be- 
 came empty. 
 
 Then the woman released herself from my embrace, and, 
 slipping her hand through my arm, she stepped forward 
 with me to greet those who were still coming in through 
 the open windows from over the balcony. 
 
 ‘‘ I thank you all for coming,” she said, ‘‘though the 
 danger is past now. I was seriously disturbed and greatly 
 frightened by a most unwelcome intruder, whom the gen- 
 tleman at my side has driven away. The object of my 
 alarm will not return again, so I will detain you no further 
 from your sport, unless you will do me the honor to stay 
 and partake of my hospitality. I will order refreshments 
 if you will permit me.” 
 
 But the revellers thanked her and said no ; and soon I 
 again heard their music and laughter, as the gondolas 
 went flitting about through the moonlight. 
 
 When the others had gone I, too, started to leave the 
 woman at my side, but she clung to my arm. 
 
 “Must you go?” she said, plaintively; “can you not 
 stay with me for a little wine ? ” 
 
 It was then, for the first time, that I discovered how 
 beautiful she was. Her hair was long and heavy and 
 yellow, like spun gold. Few women ever have such hair ; 
 perhaps Godiva and Brunhilde were so favored, but even 
 that is doubtful. Her face, neck, and arms were of perfect 
 shape and as white as marble, excepting a single flush of 
 red upon each cheek. But her foremost charm — the one 
 wherein she surpassed all other women — lay in her deep, 
 black eyes. They were entirely, absolutely black ; not the 
 kind of eyes which are commonly, by a polite fiction, so 
 termed ; but there was no trace of any other color in 
 them, or about them, save the great milk-white pearls 
 which served as their settings. Her lashes, too, were long 
 
172 
 
 A CRY IN THE NIGHT, 
 
 and dusky, and, when she wished it, completely veiled the 
 wonderful eyes which had so powerfully impressed me. 
 Though she was somewliat taller than women commonly 
 are, her exquisite shapeliness was in no way detracted 
 from by her height. 
 
 Somehow, everything about her strangely moved and 
 affected me. There was a supple, cat-like litheness which 
 marked her every movement, and I felt that she was the 
 occult and tangible centre of an atmosphere of weird and 
 intangible mystery. One moment 1 would almost fear her, 
 and the next moment I would find myself regretting that 
 I must ever go away and leave her. Her glances thrilled 
 and bewildered me like some resistless and overpowering 
 emotion, and at the lightest touch of her hand, or the 
 most insignificant rustle of her garments, every sense 
 tingled and every nerve quivered. 
 
 The secret of her strange power over me was beyond 
 my guessing, but that it was sufficient to overcome any 
 resistance I might attempt I was fully convinced. Every 
 trick of juggler, snake-charmer, and mesmerist I knew as 
 well as I knew the history of my own life ; but she em- 
 ployed no such method. I was in no sense dulled or 
 stupefied ; on the contrary, my mental perceptions were 
 more than ordinarily keen. Thought was in no way hin- 
 dered or impeded, and I was not only fully conscious of 
 the phenomena by which she was controlling me, but I 
 was studying and analyzing it as coolly as if it was, even 
 then, a matter of the past instead of the present. I knew, 
 too, that she was exercising just enough of her subtle 
 force to hold me subservient to her will and not a whit 
 more. She, manifestly, only sought to enchain me suffi- 
 ciently to prevent my resisting her, but, at the same time, 
 it was her aim to leave me, as far as possible, in a normal 
 condition. 
 
 I was of the opinion that she had something to commu- 
 nicate to me concerning her demon tormentor which she 
 feared I might be unwilling to listen to. There was much 
 in her present manner which so impressed me, and many 
 little circumstances connected with the departure of the 
 revellers now came flashing through my mind, satisfying 
 me that I had conjectured rightly. The more I reflected 
 upon the strange events of the night, the more mysterious 
 and wonderful the woman seemed to me. Every time 
 that she had spoken to me, she had addressed me in 
 French, my native language. To the revellers she had 
 
A CRY IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 m 
 
 spoken in Italian. Since we were in Italy, and there was 
 nothing in my personality to indicate that 1 was a French- 
 man, how had she so accurately guessed my nationality ? 
 Had she already guessed it when I came to her rescue, or 
 even before, while I was still floating under her balcony, 
 listening to her song? 
 
 For a brief time these and similar thoughts made me 
 even more uncomfortable than my recollections of the 
 ghoul, or goblin, with whom I found her wrestling when 
 I first entered her rooms. 
 
 Was she a sorceress ? No ! I could swear, standing 
 there as I was, gazing down into her pure face, that she 
 was an angel. My faith in her was complete, and could 
 neither have been shaken nor intensified. My face must 
 have betrayed my mental processes, for I saw all at once 
 that she knew my thoughts and was satisfied. She had 
 now entirely released me from the brief condition of re- 
 sistlessness, or thraldom, in which for a few seconds she 
 had held me ; and I was now left the supreme master of 
 my own will. Her beauty, however, was more potent than 
 the other spell by which she had controlled me, and I sud- 
 denly felt that my whole heart was hers forever’ She, too, 
 seemed to realize this, for a deep crimson flush all at once 
 spread over her face, neck, and shoulders. I was more 
 than ever charmed by this evidence of her maidenly mod- 
 esty, and impetuously extended my hands toward her. 
 
 For an instant only she hesitated ; then she placed both 
 her hands in mine. 
 
 ‘‘ Shall you stay and test my wine ? ” she whispered, 
 confusedly. 
 
 will,’’ I cried. You know I could not do otherwise 
 if I would. To look into your eyes, though, and to hear 
 your voice is more to me than the rarest wine in the world. 
 When I heard you singing to-night, your music was so 
 perfect that I forgot Italy and thought that I was once 
 more in my own fair France. But I am glad to have so 
 sweet an awakening to my dream. Yes,” I repeated, kiss- 
 ing her hands ; I will stay and drink your wine ; I will 
 stay until you send me away.” 
 
 Her color deepened and she bowed her head. 
 
 ‘‘And that,” she said, “will be when you are tired of 
 me.” 
 
 She called for wine, but we scarcely tasted it, though we 
 sat together in the moonlight until long after the hour of 
 midnight was struck from the clock towers. 
 
174 
 
 A CRY IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 Times unnumbered a shadow came upon her face, and I 
 saw that she was about disclosing something which pained 
 her, and so each time I diverted her from her purpose, and 
 in the end went away without knowing what she would 
 have said. 
 
 When I had stayed until I feared that the lateness of the 
 hour might distress her, I reluctantly arose to go. It was 
 then that my ardent impetuosity overcame me altogether, 
 and I begged leave to come to her balcony every night. 
 
 “ Do not deny me,” I pleaded, for I love you and want 
 to win you for my own. From this night I shall have no 
 separate existence — my whole being is merged into yours, 
 and the hours I spend apart from you henceforth can never 
 again be called life.” 
 
 Emotion after emotion thrilled her as 1 spoke, until she 
 seemed to have felt everything that the heart can feel. 
 She made me no answer, but, pale and trembling, stood 
 helplessly with her hands in mine. 
 
 “Will you not speak ?” I murmured, bending over her. 
 
 “ Speak ! ” she cried, “ how can I ? There is more to say 
 than you in your wildest imaginings can ever dream. You 
 should have heard me before you said so much. Now you 
 have silenced me, and the wretched words which should 
 have come from my lips would choke me if I tried to say 
 them.” 
 
 “Then leave them unsaid.” 
 
 “Justice to you demands that I should speak ” 
 
 “Justice to me demands nothing which can distress 
 you,” I interposed. 
 
 “ You do not know how much I have to say about ” 
 
 “ Stop ! ” I cried. “ There are but two things I wish to 
 know. If you will tell me them all is done.” 
 
 “ Speak ! What are they ? ” 
 
 “ Are you a wife ? ” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “ Is any living man the possessor of your heart ?” 
 
 Again the rich crimson tide swept over her face, neck, 
 and shoulders. She placed one of her trembling, burning 
 hands upon mine, glanced shyly up into my eyes, and then 
 looked down. 
 
 “Why do you not answer?” I asked, fearing that my 
 fondest hopes were vain. 
 
 “ Do you not know ?” she cried ; “can you not see — are 
 you really so blind ? ” 
 
 I feared to look at her. It seemed to me, then, that I 
 
A CRY IN THE NIGHT, 
 
 175 
 
 had been beguiled to her rooms merely to furnish her 
 sport I had forgotten the danger I had rescued her from, 
 and only remembered that I loved her, to be made, as I be- 
 lieved, the object of her mirth and caprice. 
 
 “ I see,’’ I said, turning away. “ I am not so blind as you 
 think. I am nothing to you because you already love ” 
 
 She seized me by the shoulder and turned me around. 
 Then she threw herself into my arms. 
 
 I only love you,” she murmured. 
 
 ft was the first, the only happiness of my life, and I felt 
 that all the sorrow and misery of the old dead days but 
 made this moment the sweeter. I lifted up her beautiful 
 blushing face, bent my head, and then, for the first time 
 in my life, my lips touched the lips of a woman. Earth 
 never knew a purer kiss. 
 
 When the hour came for me to go she twined her white 
 arm.s about my neck, and her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 Partings — continual partings,” she said. “ That is all 
 life seems to hold! Why must we part?” 
 
 ‘‘ The day may soon come when we need not part,” I 
 answered. It is for you to say when that day shall be.” 
 
 ‘‘ I am yours whenever you want me,” she murmured, 
 creeping more closely to me. 
 
 Then,” I cried, “you shall be my wife to-morrow 1” 
 
 For a moment she was silent, but there was another 
 sound in the room ; a sound, too, which at first made her 
 shudder. It was such a tremulous cadence as might be 
 brought from a lute if one touched all of its chords at once, 
 only that it ended with a sigh. Three times the sound was 
 repeated, and each time it was fainter than before. 
 
 My wonderment was banished instantly by an unex- 
 pected caress on the part of my betrothed. Standing upon 
 her tiptoes, she had raised her lips to mine and kissed me. 
 
 “ It shall be as you say,” she said, smiling at my surprise. 
 
 The next day we were married. 
 
 For a year we lived together in uninterrupted happiness, 
 sometimes in Rome, sometimes in Florence, sometimes in 
 Venice. As she seemed most contented in the latter place, 
 we were there the greater part of our time. 
 
 On the anniversary of the day of our first meeting she 
 was strangely quiet and downcast. At nightfall we stood 
 together in the same balcony where, a year before, she 
 sang that sweet French ballad as my gondola was passing. 
 My arm was about her waist,, and I could plainly feel the 
 beating of her heart. 
 
176 
 
 A CRY IN THE NIGHT, 
 
 Why^ire you so agitated, and yet so quiet ? ’' I asked. 
 
 I cannot answer you now,” she said, ‘‘ but 1 beg that 
 you will sit here and hold me in your arms until after 
 midnight.” 
 
 Presently she seemed calm again, and once more the 
 French ballad rang out along the lagoon from her perfect 
 throat. 
 
 Apparently there was no change in the scene outwardly 
 since the year before. Barges and gondolas were flitting 
 about in all directions, and from everywhere came music, 
 laughter, and merry voices. 
 
 My wife sang song after song, until she was tired, and 
 then, pulling my face down to hers, with both her hands, 
 she kissed me. 
 
 It was just a year ago to-night,” she said, that you 
 first came to me. I had already seen you many times, and 
 loved you with my heart’s first love. I sang, that night, 
 because I hoped that my song might reach your ears and 
 bring you to me. You did come under my balcony, and I 
 kissed the lilies that your hands threw to me. Danger 
 came, and you saved me. You loved me at once, and so 
 we were married. Since then, I doubt if God, whose eter- 
 nal curse I once thought was upon me, has ever given so 
 much happiness to any woman.” 
 
 Her large dark eyes were luminous and full of tears, 
 and her face had never seemed so beautiful to me before. 
 I was about answering her, when suddenly the air about us 
 was filled with a strange hissing sound, which made my 
 wife’s flesh quiver like shaken jelly. She clutched me 
 closely, and looked wildly up into my face. The smile she 
 saw there seemed to content her, for she gave a little sigh 
 of relief and nestled quietly down into my arms. 
 
 All at once, the hissing stopped, and a shadow fell across 
 us. Before I could raise my eyes, my wife again uttered 
 the same dreadful cry which had summoned me to her as- 
 sistance a year before. 
 
 I looked up and saw standing before us the same demon, 
 or goblin, whom I banished on that memorable night when 
 I first met my wife. He w^as grinning and chuckling fiend- 
 ishly, and, bending over her, he breathed his hot breath 
 into her face. At first she trembled with terror ; and then, 
 recovering her self-possession, she raised her head and 
 gazed unflinchingly into his eyes. It was more than he 
 could stand, and he vanished almost instantly. 
 
 Then my wife’s e 3 ^es were bent upon my face, so search- 
 
A CRY IN THE NIG FIT, 
 
 ^11 
 
 ingly and so yearningly that I pressed her passionately to 
 niy breast and covered her face with kisses. 
 
 You still love me — you still trust me ? she cried. 
 
 Yes ; more than ever before.’’ 
 
 ‘‘ How hard your tenderness makes my duty ! ” she 
 gasped. If I was not such a coward — was not so much 
 afraid of losing some portion of your love — I would now 
 tell you that which was due you a year ago.” 
 
 ‘‘Do not speak of it or think of it,” I answered. “ So 
 long as you love me, and are happy with me, 1 am satis- 
 fied.” 
 
 “One thing I must say,” she said, “else our love will 
 soon be desolated. You must be with me on the next an- 
 niversary of this night, and must keep your arms about 
 me from sunset until midnight. After that, I will forever 
 be safe.” 
 
 I was puzzled, amazed, and bewildered by the whole af- 
 fair ; but the subject distressed and pained her, and I loved 
 her too well to let her talk about it. And, lest ske should 
 fathom my thoughts, I kept the uncanny mystery as much 
 as possible out of my mind. 
 
 Two months later we went to live in France, and finally 
 in Germany, Excepting a month, another year had passed 
 since our wedding. 
 
 One day, at the beginning of this last month, I was 
 walking alone in the forest, when I suddenly caught one 
 foot under some hard substance which nearly fiung me 
 upon my face. Glancing back at the cause of possible 
 disaster, I saw, partially imbedded in the ground, a thin 
 oval plate, which seemed to have several words engraved 
 upon one side. Picking it up, I found that it was made of 
 silver, and that it was very old. The inscription, which 
 was in Italian, was as follows : 
 
 Michael Spezzi, 
 
 Claimed by the Devil, 
 
 June lo, 1560. 
 
 On my way home I met a German savant with whom I 
 was intimate. I showed him the plate, and was surprised 
 to see an expression of the most intense horror come upon 
 his face. 
 
 “ There is a terrible story connected with this thing,” he 
 said, after a moment. “ Michael Spezzi was a half German, 
 half Italian, who came here into the Hartz Mountains 
 
 12 
 
178 
 
 A CRY JN THE NIGHT 
 
 about 1530. He was of royal blood, and married a niece 
 of the king. Five years later, a daughter was born to them, 
 and soon afterward they fell into disfavor with the king 
 and went to live in France. But when Spezzi’s beautiful 
 daughter was about twenty-five, disaster again came upon 
 him. He had no alternative, so history says, except ap- 
 pealing to the devil. The fiend came in answer to Spezzi’s 
 incantation, and promised him everything he wanted. The 
 price demanded was the soul of Spezzi’s beloved daughter. 
 
 After a time, the unfortunate man signed the compact, 
 but within a month he repented having done so, and 
 begged that his own soul might be sacrificed, instead of 
 his daughter’s. The devil consented, upon certain condi- 
 tions. Spezzi was to yield himself to the cunning fiend at 
 the end of a year. The girl’s youth and beauty were to be 
 perpetual for five hundred years. If, at the end of that 
 time, she was still a virgin, her soul was to be free, and the 
 soul of her father was also to be relinquished from tor- 
 ment. I*n the meantime, if the girl found any rnan who, 
 knowing that she was in the devil’s grip, would still love 
 and marry her, that would end the infernal compact, and 
 she and her father would both be free. Even then, though, 
 the devil was still to have three chances. If, on the night she 
 first met her lover, he failed to clasp her in his arms, in de- 
 fiance of the devil’s presence, the fiend could then claim 
 her soul. On the first and second anniversaries of that 
 night the devil would also have the same awful power, un- 
 less she was in either her husband’s or her lover’s arms. 
 If she passed these three ordeals safely, the compact would 
 be ended and the devil foiled. 
 
 That is the story. It is said that the devil came for 
 Spezzi, and that his relatives put this very silver plate 
 upon his tomb, which was made in some unknown corner 
 in the Hartz Mountains. Nobody knows what befell the 
 daughter. It is very singular, though, that you should 
 have found the plate ; it has been lost so long.” 
 
 My learned friend went on talking upon other subjects, 
 but I scarcely heard a word he said. My whole mind was 
 full of the story that he had told me. 
 
 It was now all perfectly clear to me. The supposed 
 legend was true, and I had really married the daughter of 
 the ill-fated Michael Spezzi ! Instead of being horrified, I 
 was filled with a deep sense of gladness that I had brought 
 so much happiness into such an overshadowed life. My 
 manner toward my wife was even more tender than ever, 
 
A CRY I AT THE NIGHT, 
 
 179 
 
 after that, and she seemed instinctively to feel that at last 
 I knew all. 
 
 The day before the anniversary upon which so much de- 
 pended I was strolling about in the mountains, when my 
 right leg was broken by a slight fall. At first, I could not 
 move, but late in the night some of my strength returned and 
 I began crawling homeward. I had many miles to*go, and 
 some of the journey had to be made by almost impassable 
 paths, over craggy hills. 
 
 All day, I dragged myself along, stopping, occasionally, 
 to shout for help. But no one came to my assistance. 
 
 It was night when I reached home, and at my summons 
 the servants helped me at once to my wife’s room. Just 
 as I reached the door, once more her voice rang out in 
 that wild, despairing cry. 
 
 Despite the pain in my broken leg, I rushed forward 
 and flung open the door. But I was too late ! The fiend 
 already had her in his arms. Her face was turned to me 
 in the most pitiful entreaty, and I tried in vain to reach 
 her outstretched hands. Then the house shook violently 
 for a moment and the room became dark as night. An in- 
 stant later the servants and I were in the midst of a lurid 
 blue flame, but the fiend had borne my wife away. 
 
THE SUN AND DEATH 
 
 Three rocky crags jutted out into the sea. At low tide, 
 they could be reached without wetting the soles of one’s 
 shoes, but at floodtide, the seething water swept over them 
 so fiercely that no boat could live near them. 
 
 The tide was nearly out, now, and the advancing and re- 
 ceding waves barely wet the base of the farthest crag. 
 
 Upon it, a half-clad maiden lay basking in the sun. She 
 had been pattering about, in the wet sand, with her pretty 
 little bare feet. The surf had drenched her to the skin, 
 and so she had climbed up there to dry herself. 
 
 In her eyes, was the warm sunshine of France, and its 
 darkness was in her hair ; its spirit was in her face ; and 
 its grace in her form. As she lay there, running her pink 
 fingers through her dripping hair, some thought of her 
 lover made her laugh. It was that wonderful ripple and 
 gurgle which only comes from a Frenchwoman’s throat — 
 that perfect laugh which is divinest music to all the men 
 of France. 
 
 The same breeze which carried her laugh seaward, and 
 lost it in the noise of the rushing waters, also brought 
 sounds and scents over the jagged cliff-line, dividing the 
 low-lying sandy beach from the green gardens and meadows 
 a^ove. 
 
 There was the dainty odor of lilies, and the richer, 
 heavier perfume from the ripening grapes. Along with 
 the faint hum of the bees, and the music of the birds, came 
 the voices of maidens who were singing in the vineyards. 
 
 To the keen ears of the pretty idler, who lay smiling on 
 the gray crag, in the warm sunlight, turning ever and anon 
 to thoroughly dry herself, there came still another sound. 
 It sent a faint glow over her face and neck. Her smile 
 gave place to a look of assumed gravity, and closing her 
 eyes, she feigned sleep. 
 
THE SUN AND DEATH, 
 
 i8i 
 
 She had heard stealthy footsteps in the glittering sand, 
 and instinct told her that her lover was approaching. Her 
 heart beat faster as he came nearer. 
 
 He looked like a god, he was so lithe, strong, nimble 
 and proud. He was bare-armed and hatless, with skin as 
 brown as a Tuscan chestnut, and such eyes as Correggio 
 gave to his Magdalena. It was no wonder that even such 
 a maid loved such a man ! Many a daughter of France 
 said that. 
 
 With quick, cautious tread he came forward, and then, 
 with one bound, he was on the crag, peeping over into the 
 rocky hollow in which she was lying, with his face but 
 three spans from hers. She still feigned sleep. 
 
 No woman could long lie unmoved and apathetic under 
 such a gaze, and with a sudden outburst of passionate 
 laughter, she covered her face with her hands. 
 
 ‘‘So, little pretender,” he said, “you were not sleeping 
 after all ! ” 
 
 “I was drying myself in the sun. I thought, perhaps, 
 you might go away if I seemed to be asleep.” 
 
 “ But you failed to deceive me.” 
 
 “ So I see,” she answered, as she uncovered her eyes and 
 glanced at him. 
 
 “ Are you eager to have me go away and leave you ?” 
 
 “But, you see, you came uninvited.” 
 
 “So did the sun and the wind.” 
 
 “You are mistaken; the sun came first. Besides, the 
 sun is welcome.” 
 
 “Am I to go, then ?” 
 
 “ Not if staying gives you pleasure. I do not wish to 
 mar your pleasure.” 
 
 He frowned. 
 
 Pretending not to see it, she saw it — and smiled. 
 
 “Do you, then, prefer the sun to me?” he asked im- 
 patiently. 
 
 She turned her head, so that he only saw the side of her 
 face. 
 
 “The sun,” she said, “ warms me with his splendid light. 
 He never frowns on me, but is always smiling, always warm.” 
 
 “ Listen ! ” he exclaimed, as he bent over her fiercely, 
 “ 1, too, would always smile if yon would let me. But 
 sometimes you are so capricious and perplexing — such a 
 child, along with your womanliness ! One never can tell 
 just what you mean. If, for one moment, you were re- 
 sponsive to my love, I would say words to you, compared 
 
THE SUN AND DEATH, 
 
 182 
 
 with which the warmth of the sun would be as ice com- 
 pared with fire. But you will not let me speak — you will 
 not even let me touch your hand.’' 
 
 And he turned away bitterly. 
 
 “The sun does not reproach me,” she said ; “does not 
 upbraid me.” 
 
 He looked at her quickly. She was watching the gulls, 
 the dancing waves and the fishermen in the bay. He 
 doubted if she had heard a word that he had said. His 
 tone, rather than anything else, seemed to have reached 
 her ears and caused her to speak. 
 
 “ The sun — the sun — always the sun ! ” he exclaimed an- 
 grily. “ Can the sun woo you ? Can the sun wed you ? 
 Can you have the sun for a husband ?” 
 
 “Alas, no ! ” she answered with a little sigh. Her lips 
 trembled as if with grief. 
 
 Again he looked into her face. Did she really hear 
 him ? Were these words she was saying in answer to him, 
 or was she rapt in reverie and oblivious of his presence, 
 musing aloud, speaking, unconsciously, random fragments 
 of secret regrets — regrets which he could not fathom ? 
 He could not tell. Her eyes were still bent seaward. 
 She was still watching the fishermen, the gulls and the 
 waves. 
 
 He wondered if he ever would know, how large, or how 
 small, was the place he held in her heart — or if he had a 
 place there at all. Sometimes he doubted if she could be 
 stirred into loving any one. She was so unlike all the 
 other women he knew. By day, she would lie in the sun- 
 shine, and by night she would watch the stars. Save at 
 rare moments she seemed to be passionless — only a child. 
 He shook his head. 
 
 “ Why do you always talk of the sun ? ” he asked, im- 
 patiently. “ Why is it that men have no part in your 
 thoughts ? ” 
 
 “ The sun was my earliest friend. Of men, save you, I 
 have known but little. The sun, too, did that which no 
 man has done for me : it gave me a playmate first, then a 
 companion who has never annoyed me with idle words.” 
 
 “Who is this perfect playmate — tliis reproachless com- 
 panion ? ” 
 
 “ My own shadow ; my only associate who has not 
 wearied and tormented me. You see, I owe much to the 
 sun.” 
 
 “ Bah ! ” 
 
 Again he frowned, and she smiled. 
 
THE SUN AND DEATH 183 
 
 The sun is my most faithful lover, and my best be- 
 loved,” she said. 
 
 See here!” he exclaimed passionately, ^‘you are not 
 witliOLit womanly instinct, though scarcely more than a 
 child in some of life’s most vital attributes. You must 
 know well enough what you are to me. The sun, which 
 you so dearly love, is even less to the birds and the lilies ! 
 Since I love you so well, can you not bid me hope ?” 
 
 For what ? ” 
 
 For your love.” 
 
 ‘^Why should I love you ?” 
 
 Because I love you ! ” 
 
 And you would make me your wife, then ?” 
 
 Yes ! a thousand times, yes ! ” 
 
 “A woman should love a man before she calls him hus- 
 band. You ask too much of me.” 
 
 Then you do not love me ?” 
 
 How am I to know that you love me so much ?” 
 
 Can you not see — does not your own heart tell you 
 what is in mine ? ” 
 
 “ It is so easy to make mistakes. One cannot be posi- 
 tive.” 
 
 “ Then let me prove my love. Tell me how I can best 
 do so.” 
 
 By standing aside, and letting the sun shine on me, as 
 it did before you came.” 
 
 He glanced at her, smiled sorrowfully, dropped down 
 from the crag, and ran away, with her laughter ringing in 
 his ears. 
 
 She listened until she could no longer hear his footsteps 
 in the sand, and then she lifted her head and watched him 
 until he disappeared over the cliffs. He never once looked 
 back. 
 
 When he was out of sight, she turned her head and 
 looked seaward. The tide was now at its limit — entirely 
 out. 
 
 In three hours,” she said, ^Hhe waves will be where I 
 am now.” 
 
 Then she threw herself back into the hollow, in the 
 top of the barren crag, and again lay basking in the sun- 
 shine. 
 
 ‘‘He loves me!” she said. “He loves me!” And 
 she repeated the words, over and over again, until, lost in 
 a succession of delicious dreams,- and unaware that her 
 lips moved, or that any sound came through them, she 
 
184 
 
 THE SUN AND DEATH 
 
 fitted the sweet words to the refrain of an old love ditty, 
 and for a long time kept singing them, softly, to the still 
 softer accompaniment of the distant waves. 
 
 After a time the glow went out of her eyes, the lids 
 closed, and the long lashes touched her cheeks. Her lips, 
 too, closed. She slept. 
 
 In an hour, the base of the crag, upon which she lay, 
 would again receive the spray from the incoming tide. In 
 two hours, if she still lay there, the water would catch up 
 her dainty little body, and fling it against the cliffs which 
 separated the sea and the sand from the gardens and the 
 vineyards. 
 
 She awoke with a start. There was a terrible sound in 
 her ears — it was the sound of rushing water. She sprang 
 to her feet. The tide was coming in. Already her retreat 
 was cut off. In half an hour she would be dashed shore- 
 ward — dead ! Yes, it was inevitable. No man, no boat, 
 nothing could cross to the shore. That writhing, seething, 
 boiling mass of angry green water meant but one thing, 
 and that thing was death. 
 
 Still she did not tremble. She simply turned pale, and 
 watched the treacherous monster at her feet, as firmly and 
 bravely as the great Joan had faced death. She thought 
 of her fearless countrywoman, the simple shepherdess who 
 led an army, and the thought made her still firmer and 
 braver. Then another thought came which made her very 
 weak. Her lover, whom she had sent away with a jest — 
 she would die, and he would never know that she loved 
 liim ! He would always think that she was only a child, 
 that she was cold and immovable, and that she really loved 
 the sun best — just as she had told him. If he could only 
 know the truth, she would not shrink from deatli. But 
 now it was so hard. He should have known that she was 
 only jesting. How could any woman, however silly, love 
 the sun in the sense he meant ? How could any woman 
 help loving him ? 
 
 The water crept up over the crag, and splashed about 
 her ankles, gently first, then saucily, then angrily. It rose 
 steadily. 
 
 The sun — that traitor whose soft spells had lured her 
 into this fatal sleep — was hidden behind a pile of black, 
 ominous clouds. It might come forth again, in time to 
 shine upon her coffin, before it was lowered into her 
 grave — if they found her dead body ! The fishermen, 
 though, said that whoever got into the water there at flood 
 
THE SUN AND DEATH. 185 
 
 tide was sure to be carried out seaward by the undertow. 
 No one, they said, ever came back again. 
 
 There was more horror in that thought, to her, than there 
 was in the thought of death. And her lover — if slie could 
 only let him know that she loved him ! That done she 
 could die happy. 
 
 She strained her eyes shoreward and lield out her hands 
 yearningly, but there was no one in sight — no one to see 
 her. Then she lifted up lier hands, and her streaming 
 eyes, and implored Heaven to let her lover know that she 
 liad died loving him — that his was the last image before 
 her eyes. 
 
 The water beat against her knees and splashed up into 
 her face. She was praying, wildly and in full voice, that 
 same sad, yearning prayer, that he, the one man of all the 
 world to her, might know how she had died. 
 
 With the prayer still on her lips, and her eyes still lifted 
 up, she was suddenly conscious that someone or some- 
 thing had risen up out of the sea at her feet, and was 
 standing on the crag before her. She shuddered, closed her 
 eyes, and pressed her hands tightly over them. She was 
 afraid to look. There was a tempest in her brain, and she 
 feared that her reason was going. Surely no creature of 
 flesh and blood could have come to her through that wild 
 sea. It must be that grandames were right — that there 
 really was an Angel of Death, and that he had come for 
 her. Then she grew calmer, and opened her eyes to face 
 the shadowy one. 
 
 Was it a phantom she saw, or, in her awful agony, had 
 she gone entirely mad ? Could it be that the object before 
 her— bruised, bleeding, and drenching wet — was her lover ? 
 She put forth her hands and touched his face. Joy! It 
 was he ! Death had no terror for her now ! 
 
 God be praised 1 she cried, and then sprang into his 
 arms. 
 
 As they stood there, clasping each other, and looking 
 into each other’s eyes, not death, but love, filled all their 
 thoughts. The water was still rising, but they did not 
 heed it. 
 
 Louder and louder the breakers boomed as they dashed 
 against the cliffs. Higher and higher leaped the waves, 
 and every moment the foam grew whiter. 
 
 The two on the crag did not speak. There was no fear in 
 the smile on their faces ; there was no terror in the tender 
 glow in their eyes. They held each other tightly, and awaited 
 
i86 
 
 THE SUN AND DEATH. 
 
 the end. It was their wedding-night. What mattered it to 
 them whether they were to sleep upon down or on the wet 
 sand ? They could sleep as well under the green waves as 
 under snowy linen — so long as they had each other. Time 
 was short at longest ; for them it might as well be a few 
 seconds as a few years. They had all eternity for their 
 bliss. 
 
 Night came with the flood, and darkness shrouded them 
 before the tide was high. They were still smiling — still 
 clasping each other — when they were swept away, and 
 night and the water closed over them. 
 
 Their dead bodies escaped the undertow, and the next 
 morning the fishermen found them on the beach. The 
 sun did not shine in her face now, for it lay hidden in his 
 bosom. 
 
THE HIMALAYAN PRISONER. 
 
 Of course you have heard of my two brothers. Henri, 
 the oldest, was almost at the head of the Royal Geographi- 
 cal Society. Jacques, the youngest, was eminent as a pro- 
 fessor of languages. I, the middle brother, was in every 
 sense the middle brother. I was nothing at all, in particu- 
 lar — only a heedless, careless sort of a dog, who took the 
 world as a great foolish thing that I had to make the best 
 of ; and life — well, life was a joke. 
 
 This was the state of affairs before that which I am 
 going to tell you about happened. Since then, matters 
 have assumed a more sober guise, though I still maintain 
 that he who takes the things of the present existence 
 seriously, is a very great fool. 
 
 Despite my general indifference and lax views, my two 
 distinguished brothers were exceedingly fond of me. I 
 poked fun at their vast erudition, and laughed at their 
 scientific theories. This they seemed to thoroughly enjoy, 
 and at last I came to the conclusion that they regarded 
 me as a sort of a joke-book. I was not in the least put 
 out by this. I was sure that my nonsense could not amuse 
 them as much as their supposed wisdom amused me. 
 
 Being with them so much, and being, also, somewhat 
 quick at catching up things, I gained quite a smattering 
 of scientific knowledge, which, aside from turning it into 
 ridicule, I made no use of until the occurrence of the 
 strange things with which I am about dealing. 
 
 One spring day, the doctors suddenly informed us that 
 unless Jacques was at once taken from his work, his mental 
 energies would be destroyed. Jacques himself excepted, 
 everybody was alarmed and disturbed. He laughed good- 
 naturedly, turned to me, and said : 
 
 ‘‘Well, old fellow, we’ll have a lark, then — a regular 
 out-and-out lark. You shall plan it, and Henri shall go 
 
i88 
 
 THE HIMALAYAN PRISONER. 
 
 along and act as balance wheel. Where will we go, and 
 what will we do ? Speak out your first impression, and, 
 no matter how reckless it is, we will obey it.” 
 
 ‘‘Let’s go to the Vale of Cashmere and thence, as near 
 as we can get, to the summit of the Himalayas,” I said, and 
 a moment later I was blushing with an overpowering con- 
 sciousness of my own absurd audacity. 
 
 Henri looked grave and displeased, but Jacques hailed 
 my proposition with the heartiest laughter. 
 
 “We will do it,” he said, and that settled it. No one 
 could dissuade him. 
 
 “I am afraid the doctors did not speak in time,” said 
 Henri, when we were alone. “ His mind is already un- 
 settled.” 
 
 I clenched my hands, and then thrusting them into my 
 pockets, hurried away in silence. It was one beloved 
 brother criticising another beloved brother. What else, 
 then walk away, could I have done? Under any other 
 circumstances I should have thrashed Henri. 
 
 A few weeks later we were in the delightful Vale of 
 Cashmere. Already Jacques was improving. The beauti- 
 ful valley, and, more than that, the sight of the eternal 
 snow on the Himalayas, had the most exhilarating effect on 
 him. A rich color of health came upon his face, and he 
 was continually in the most buoyant spirits. 
 
 “Perhaps, you will admit, now, that I am not such a 
 fool,” I said to Henri one day,' when the improvement in 
 Jacques had become marked and striking. 
 
 “ I never thought you in any sense a fool,” he answered, 
 quickly; “ but how was I to know that what you proposed 
 would do him so much good ?” 
 
 When, with our guides and our attendants, we had ac- 
 complislied about half of the difficult ascent, Henri came 
 to me and thanked me for not only proposing a plan which 
 so manifestly was benefiting Jacques, but which, also, was 
 enabling him to carry out some of his own geographical 
 ambitions. 
 
 As we gradually ascended, leaving behind us the languid 
 Cashmerean sumnaer, and advancing into the endless win- 
 ter of the high summits, we were all full of enthusiasm 
 over the novel experience, and enraptured with the tre- 
 mendous landscape which we were enabled to overlook. 
 That is, we were all enraptured, and so forth, except our 
 guides and attendants, who looked upon us as something 
 to be pitied even more than idiots. 
 
THE HI MALA YAH PRISONER. 
 
 189 
 
 Higher and higher we went, but all the while more and 
 more slowly, to escape being harmed by the constant 
 change of altitude. At last, the formation of the moun- 
 tain, and the awful severity of the weather, combined 
 against our going farther in the direction intended. 
 We were forced to turn back, with the summit which we 
 were so anxious to reach, still a long way above us, and 
 beyond our efforts. 
 
 Reluctantly we gave it up, and once more set our faces 
 toward the Vale of Cashmere. 
 
 On our way down the mountain, we swerved a little from 
 our course in ascending, and so came under a jutting point 
 of rock, which the winds for centuries had swept free from 
 snow. In the extremest point of this rock was a niche 
 about tw^o feet square, and in this was an object which at- 
 tracted my attention. The object looked like a vase of 
 antique pattern. Instantly my curiosity was aroused, 
 and, after considerable efforts, I secured the mysterious 
 object. It was, unmistakably, so one of my learned broth- 
 ers assured me, an ancient Hindu vase. It was covered 
 with a curious piece of metal, upon which was engraved a 
 verse from the Koran, and the. name of a man, who, thanks 
 also to my wise brothers, I found was a great savant, nearly 
 a thousand years before. He was, in fact, one of the 
 wisest men of his day, and the strangest fact in his strange 
 history was that no one knew where or when he had died. 
 
 The metallic cover, bearing the bit of information, 
 which, under the exceedingly interesting and peculiar cir- 
 cumstances was so very startling, was sealed securely over 
 the top of the vase with a substance wholly unknown to 
 my brothers, and which also defied our most strenuous 
 efforts at removing it. 
 
 The only way into the vase seemed to be by breaking it, 
 and since it might possibly contain the old fellow’s ashes, 
 we were not anxious to penetrate its mysteries in that way. 
 We must wait until we were once more in the beautiful 
 Cashmerean Valley, and no three women ever awaited the 
 divulgence of a tantalizing secret with more reluctance. 
 
 We were eventually forced to break open the vase after 
 all, the sealing of the cover had been so effectually done. 
 
 Its contents, some scraps of parchment closely written in 
 Sanskrit, relieved us of the unpleasant fear that we had 
 rifled a tomb. But these same scraps of parchment con- 
 tained the most remarkable personal history of which I 
 have ever heard. 
 
190 
 
 THE HIMALAYAN PRISONER, 
 
 The writing was not all done at once, but at several 
 different periods, according to the dates, at least lialf a 
 century apart. Deciphered and translated, it ran thus : 
 
 “ To the finder, greeting. If he have virtue it will be a 
 thousandfold increased if he does my bidding. If he lacks 
 virtue, and does my bidding, virtue will he accorded him. 
 If he reads what I have written, and heeds it not, he who 
 so reads, and all who come from liim, will be forever ac- 
 cursed. I am he who, two centuries after Mohammed 
 came, scholars called Great Ferahki. More of knowledge, 
 they said, was given to me tlian to any other man. This 
 was because from my birth, until this time, my life was 
 blameless. The spirits of light and the spirits of dark- 
 ness both came to me, and from both I was offered 
 my will. But I put them by, asking nothing until the 
 three daughters, whom my wife had given me, were grown. 
 Then my wife asked me, for them, things which I, in my 
 poverty, could not give. Then, for the first, was I am- 
 bitious. 
 
 Night and day, I pondered the problem, but I could 
 devise naught whence money would come to me. In my 
 blackest moment of despair, a woman came to me who 
 asked such service as was never asked of man before. I 
 was afraid and trembled, but the luring promise of a plen- 
 teous gift of gold, which she made me, led me into listen- 
 ing — and heeding. She, and a man whom she loved, were 
 both possessed of great riches. They would marry but for 
 one thing. She, with her womanly perfections of face and 
 person, had the bold, dauntless, hardy spirit of a man. He, 
 with a fine face, and the natural vigor of man, had the 
 tender, clinging, shrinking nature of woman. What she 
 wished of me was to draw forth from them both their souls, 
 and then, in letting them return, send her soul into his 
 body and his soul into hers. He then would be, both in 
 equipment of soul and body, all man. She then would 
 be, both in equipment of soul and body, all woman. 
 Each, then, in their own belief, would be better fitted for 
 each other than they were as the Master of Life had made 
 them. 
 
 In my blind, mad struggle for gold, for my daughters, 
 I put aside the awful fact that if I did this thing I would 
 break the one great law of the Master of Life, which, 
 broken, can have no pardon ; and I bade the woman and 
 the man come to me, at oiicC; swearing to her to fulfil 
 what she required. 
 
THE HIMALAYAN' PRISONER. 
 
 191 
 
 “ While she was gone, I summoned tlie shadowy ones, 
 beseeching them to aid me now. Full of horror, the spirits 
 of light, forbidding what I asked, on my persistence, for- 
 sook me. But the spirits of darkness promised me aid. 
 
 “The man and woman came. I put them in a deep and 
 stirless sleep, and redeemed my pledge. When they awak- 
 ened, their souls had undergone the change. Contented 
 and happy, they showered me with gold and departed. I 
 gave the gold to my wife. It was sufficient to keep her 
 and her daughters a century. 
 
 “That night, when I sought sleep, the spirit of light 
 came. ‘ Because you have done this thing for love,’ they 
 said, it will be forgiven you. Had you kept the smallest 
 portion of what you have gained, by this disobedience your 
 name would be written in the Book of Eternal Sleep. But 
 never again can you look upon the faces of those for whom 
 you have broken this great law. You must go with us, now, 
 never to return again, wearing flesh.’ 
 
 “They took me with them to the summit of this great 
 mountain. In its very summit is a cave where, some time, 
 some hermit has dwelt. It W’as in this cave that the spirits 
 left me, forbidding my ever going thence, except by their 
 will.” 
 
 Here the first parchment, which had been cut by a knife, 
 abruptly ended. The second one, written after a lapse of 
 fifty years, was in still firmer, clearer characters than the 
 first. Jacques translated it as follows : 
 
 “ It is now fifty years since the spirits of light brought me 
 to this high Himalayan cave. I am now permitted to add, 
 to the narration of my disobedience, a brief account of what 
 has since befallen me. This I am also to be permitted to 
 seal in a vase and leave part way down the side of my moun- 
 tain prison, so that some one may find it and give to the 
 world information as to what has liappened to me. The 
 finder of this vase and parchments must proclaim what I 
 have written. Doing, or failing to do, this* will gain for 
 him that whicli I liad invoked upon him for the perform- 
 ingor neglectingof something else, regarding which I have 
 decided otherwise, and the mention of which I have 
 severed from the first parchment. 
 
 “ My life in this place is prolonged by natural means. 
 When I first came here, my years were fifty ; since then, a 
 second fifty years have passed, and my age is now a hun- 
 dred years. Nor is the end to come yet. My present age 
 may yet be doubled. This vast height has worked a change 
 
THE HIMALAYAN PRISONER. 
 
 ig2 
 
 in me nearly as great as the one wrought by me, fifty years 
 ago, which sent me here. Death is the wasting and 
 exhausting of vital elements. To stop this waste, is to 
 overcome death. To retard this waste, is to keep death at 
 greater distance. At this great height, there is so little 
 waste, or exhaustion, that my life may easily run twice or 
 thrice its present length. When I first came here, the in- 
 tense cold I thought would soon prove fatal. But very 
 soon that part of me which was perceptive of the cold 
 passed out of existence for me. Even the sharp winds, 
 which perpetually sweep this summit, do not inflict upon 
 me any sensation of coldness or discomfort. Strangely 
 enough, it is now impossible for me to live except at this 
 extreme height. I am now often permitted to go part way 
 down the mountain, but soon a sense of suffocation comes 
 upon me and I am forced to retrace my steps. 
 
 “The kind of sustenance which keeps me in life I am 
 not permitted to speak of. 
 
 “ My interest in those I love is still unchanged, and I am 
 permitted to know what comes to them, though they have 
 no knowledge of me since the shadowy ones brought me 
 here. I know nothing of their future or mine, that being 
 hidden from me. I only know the past, and that, since it 
 has brought so much of good to my wife and daughters, I 
 would not change if I could.” 
 
 And here the second parchment ended. The others 
 contained simple, uninteresting notes. According to them, 
 this remarkable man’s life was, altogether, prolonged to 
 about three hundred years, at least. How much longer, 
 we could not tell. Of course, we could only judge by the 
 records. Every fifty years a new scrap of parchment was 
 added to the vase — the last one about seven hundred years 
 before we found it. 
 
 The last scrap contained these words: “My family is 
 gradually branching and increasing. Best of all, my name 
 is being kept from oblivion. The world still remembers 
 me. My vitality is now running low. Old age, which in 
 the lower world I would have felt more than two hundred 
 years ago, is now coming upon me. It is doubtful if I 
 shall ever add another one to this record. Since two hun- 
 dred years have passed without this vase being discovered, 
 
 I doubt if any one will ever find it. If, at last, it is found, 
 and my name is still remembered, I leave it to the finder 
 to judge whether that which 1 have written merits telling 
 to the world which once knew and honored me. 
 
THE HIMALAYAN PRISONER, 
 
 193 
 
 The vase in which I seal these parchments, and the 
 parchments themselves, were left here by the hermit who 
 lived in this cave before me. I shall seal this vase, and 
 secure it in a niche in a rock, in the mountain, below me, 
 where some day it may arrest some human eye.” 
 
 Jacques, when he had finished reading, was determined 
 to make the ascent of the mountain at all hazards, discover 
 the cave, of which the parchments told us, and see what 
 we should find there. It required all the persuasion there 
 was in Henri and I, to dissuade Jacques from this purpose. 
 
 It dazed me. It was the first time in my whole life that 
 I had regarded anything gravely. But the vase and the 
 parchments subdued and quieted me. I felt an incompre- 
 hensible interest in the wliole matter. 
 
 Henri took but one view of the matter. To him, the 
 whole thing was a hoax. He said that the mysterious 
 disappearance of Ferahki, centuries ago, had induced 
 some lover of sensation to perpetrate this thing as an 
 imposition upon whoever might run across the vase in the 
 niche. 
 
 To this, of course, Jacques would not listen. He was 
 thoroughly convinced that the alleged Ferahki parchments 
 were genuine. 
 
 Because of the doubts entertained by Henri, Jacques 
 decided that it would not be wise to announce our dis- 
 covery. A few days afterward we went to Calcutta, taking 
 our treasures with us. The parchments were shown, 
 privately, to some savants, who declared them genuine. 
 Not until then were Henri’s doubts removed, and he then 
 declared that Ferahki was insane, and that he had written 
 all of the parchments at once. 
 
 After a short stay in Calcutta, Henri and Jacques re- 
 turned to Paris, leaving me behind, for reasons of my own. 
 The vase and parchments were also left with me. When 
 they were gone, I went to considerable trouble to obtain 
 all accessible information concerning Ferahki. Of course 
 there was nothing to be found which had any bearing on 
 the spiritual contents of the parchments, and scientists 
 could not speak advisedly of the effect of high altitudes in 
 the matter of prolonging life ; but both history and tradi- 
 tion seemed to corroborate the rest of the supposed Fer- 
 ahki writings. 
 
 Everyone who saw the parchments commented on one 
 point — that was the peculiarly graceful form of the San- 
 skrit writing. This was mentioned and reiterated until a 
 
 n 
 
194 
 
 THE HIM ALA VAN PRISONER, 
 
 most profound impression was, by it, made upon me. I 
 thought that I, at least, would be fully convinced that 
 there was no hoax about the parchments, if I only could 
 find some other piece of Ferahki’s writing. But my every 
 effort in this direction resulted in failure. 
 
 At last some impulse, more or less unaccountable, 
 caused me to go back again to the Vale of Cashmere. 
 One of the little villages so delighted me that I decided 
 to make it my home for a time. 
 
 It was a delightful and poetic spot, and each hour I 
 spent there increased its fascinations for me. Besides the 
 cultured natives, there were also many Europeans in the 
 pretty little place, who found it as charming as I did. 
 One thing here pleased me especially well : There was no 
 one among them all who had heard even the merest whis- 
 per of the Ferahki parchments, and this was a great relief 
 to me, since for the last montli I had heard nothing else 
 talked of. 
 
 Late one afternoon, as I was passing a clump of beauti- 
 ful palms, which had, as a central ornament, a deep, clear, 
 lovely pool, I heard a ripple of girlish laughter and a 
 splash in the water. Almost without thinking, I entered 
 the grove and approached the margin of the pool. 
 
 The memory of what I then saw will never leave me. 
 It was a vision so rare and holy that but few are ever 
 favored with it, and none more than once in a lifetime. 
 A girl of eighteen or nineteen years, in all the splendor of 
 perfect womanhood when it is first full, complete, and ripe, 
 was bathing in the pool. There was enough Hindu blood 
 in her to accord to her that matchless grace of outline 
 which is never the lot of any European woman, but some 
 European blood predominated — English, I thought. 
 
 For an hour she gamboled in the pool, and then, throw- 
 ing her loose garments on carelessly, and with the most 
 perfect air of unconsciousness I ever knew, she walked 
 slowly away. 
 
 Following closely in her wake, I found out her home. It 
 was with an English family, which was said to have several 
 times intermarried with high caste Hindus. Obtaining an 
 introduction to them was easy enough, and I found that 
 the beautiful girl, who had so enraptured me, had as many 
 graces of mind as she had of person. 
 
 And often as possible I was with her; and soon we be- 
 came almost inseparable companions. I was madly in 
 love with her almost from the first, and took no pains to 
 
THE HIMALAYAS PRISONER, 
 
 19S 
 
 conceal it. Her family seemed deeply gratified by my at- 
 tentions, and she herself was far from indifferent. Every 
 night she used to figure in my dreams, and one night, 
 with her, the Ferahki parchments were hopelessly confused. 
 The dream ended by the sudden appearance of old 
 Ferahki himself, who took the girl’s hand, placed it in 
 mine, and then vanished. 
 
 The next morning Ferahki and the girl filled about 
 equal shares in my thoughts. It was the first time I had 
 given him a thought for several weeks. That evening, in 
 some way, I scarcely know how, the conversation turned 
 upon Sanskrit writings, and the girl said that she had 
 some rare specimens which she would show me if I was 
 interested. I begged her to do so, and she immediately 
 brought me several ancient parchments, all of which had 
 some bearing upon her family — or the Hindu part of it. 
 
 I examined them with a degree of indifference which 
 did not bear me out in the interest I had evinced, and she 
 was somewhat disappointed ; when all at once, my atten- 
 tion was riveted upon one bit of parchment, which fasci- 
 nated me as a snake-charmer fascinates a snake. It was 
 done in that peculiarly graceful form of Sanskrit charac- 
 ters which had won so much comment for the parchments 
 that I had found in the vase in the rock-niche, away up in 
 the Himalayas. 
 
 ‘‘Ferahki?” I exclaimed. 
 
 “Yes, Ferahki,” she assented ; “but what do you know 
 of him ? ” 
 
 “ Everything,” I answered ; and then I told her the 
 whole story. She was very much agitated and expressed 
 the strongest desire to see the vase and its remarkable 
 contents. I went and got it at once, and was intensely 
 surprised to note the trembling of her hands as she exam- 
 ined the ancient relics. 
 
 “Now, read this,” she said, handing me her own bit of 
 the Ferahki parchment. 
 
 It was a letter to his wife, which was written at the time 
 of his disappearance. It told her of the man and woman 
 whose souls had undergone transposition through his in- 
 tervention with the occult powers. And it also informed 
 her that the gold which accompanied the letter was that 
 which he had received for doing this forbidden deed. 
 There was, also, in it, an intimation that some awful pun- 
 ishment might befall him for breaking this foremost of all 
 laws. 
 
196 
 
 THE HIMALAYAN PRISONER. 
 
 “ Is it not a corroboration of your parchments?” she 
 demanded, when I had done reading. Does not the one 
 sustain and support the other?” 
 
 ‘‘Yes,” I said, “ but how came you by this ?” 
 
 “It has been handed down to us from generation to 
 generation, ever since Ferahki’s day. The family has 
 never once lost sight of it in all these thousand years 
 since then.” 
 
 “And you are of his family?” I asked. 
 
 “ He was my ancestor,” she answered proudly. 
 
 She has now been my wife for twenty years, and as I 
 look upon our children — hers and mine — I often hope that 
 some one of them may have the hardihood to brave the 
 perils of that awful summit, and see if any trace of their 
 famous ancestor still exists in that prison cave. 
 
IN CLANKING CHAINS 
 
 The day was warm ; the sun was shining ; the skies and 
 the hills were soft with the mellow haze of autumn. 
 
 But for the purple on the grapes, and the decadence of 
 the flowers, one would have thought that it was still sum- 
 mer, so mild and balmy was the air. 
 
 All nature, save the winds, was in a drowse ; and they, 
 sleepily enough, too, were striving at playfulness. One 
 moment the bracing sea breeze was blown eastward from 
 the Bay of Biscay, and the next moment the drier air of 
 the eastern mountains prevailed ; neither being sufficient 
 to scarcely rustle the leafage on tree or vine. 
 
 Ninette, a woman in graceful shapeliness, but a child in 
 all else, sat swishing her bare feet through the clear water 
 of a little isolated river, in a sheltering grove. 
 
 Her brown fingers were weaving a wreath of leaves and 
 half-dead flowers, and with closed lips she was humming 
 a little song which gurgled in her throat like bird-music. 
 
 It was one of those sweet, simple pastoral airs, which 
 have become quite as much a part of the lives of the 
 people of France, as the love which they bear their chil- 
 dren. 
 
 Finally she finished her wreath. 
 
 Then the song, no longer suppressed, burst forth like a 
 hymn of triumph, and filled all the grove with its joyous in- 
 tensity and flute-like sweetness. She sang with all her 
 might, and few women, even in France, where there is so 
 much song and music, have such voices. 
 
 Two men who were near the grove, though neither was 
 aware of the other’s presence, began advancing toward the 
 singer. One of them was old and gray, with the dusky 
 cheeks and poetic eyes of Italy. The other was a soldier, 
 young, and with a vicious face. The old man apparently 
 knew the voice which he was hastening toward, and an ex- 
 
198 
 
 IN CLANKING CHAINS, 
 
 pression of mingled dread and pleasure came upon his face. 
 He reached the girl, first, and seeing him, the soldier 
 paused. The girl gave the old man a smile of recognition 
 and welcome as she hastily drew together the half-open 
 front of her dress. 
 
 Child,” said the old man, are you doing wisely to 
 sing here by yourself ? The country is full of soldiers.” 
 
 But they are French soldiers. Father Antonio ; and my 
 father is a Frenchman. That ” 
 
 “No matter ; they are also men ; and you might be 
 harmed if they found you here alone.” 
 
 For a moment she was silent and a slight frown came 
 upon her face. He sighed and shook his head. It seemed 
 such a pity that with her fifteen years she had gained no 
 knowledge of the dangers which ever threaten inno- 
 cence and beauty. 
 
 And yet — innocence is woman’s greatest, holiest charm, 
 only the world does not respect it. 
 
 “ Are all men so bad, then ? ” she asked, almost pettishly. 
 
 “ Believe me, child, all men are bad,” he answered, 
 sadly. 
 
 “ But you are a man, and so is my father,” she retorted. 
 
 “ Your father and I are old now. I have sinned enough 
 in my day, and so, likely, has he. It is from the young 
 that evil is most likely to come to you, though you are 
 lovely enough to tempt anyone.” 
 
 She was lying upon the ground with one of her bare 
 feet still in the water. The gnarled and sloping roots of a 
 tree, robbed by some tempest of their covering of earth, 
 furnished a pillow for her head and shoulders. 
 
 She had thrust one of her bare arms through the wreath, 
 and it lay against her round throat like some talisman 
 given by a protecting god. 
 
 There was a smile on her lips and in her eyes. Lost in 
 some purely childish reverie, she had already forgotten 
 the old man’s warning words, and the momentary pain 
 whicli she had felt at the vague evil that they seemed to 
 portend. 
 
 Watching her, he sighed again. Then, drawing some 
 pencils and a simple album, made of sheets of common 
 paper, from a pouch at his side, he began making a sketch 
 of her lithe, slender, but exquisite figure. 
 
 The soldier, who had drawn quite near unperceived, 
 was watching them both with a cynical smile. 
 
 “Ah, my beauty,” he muttered, “ but for this cursed war 
 
JN CLANKING CHAINS. 
 
 199 
 
 I’d win your love, or — carry you oil without your love ; 
 whichever was easiest. I will wait until that sketch is 
 done. May be the old fool will sell it to me. If he re- 
 fuses, ril have it any way, and kiss the maid besides !” 
 
 And then, to avoid discovery before he was ready to be 
 seen, he concealed himself behind some vines. 
 
 She had stripped some of the leaves in her wreath from 
 the same vines. 
 
 Still she mused, and still the old man sketched. The 
 picture was done before she was aroused from her reverie. 
 
 “ See, Ninette,” he said, “I have sketched you ; imper- 
 fectly, true enough, but still it is a tolerably fair likeness.” 
 
 She sprang to her feet and hastened to his side. 
 
 The picture was as faithful as art could be to such 
 beauty as hers, and he placed it in her hands with par- 
 donable pride. 
 
 Eagerly she scanned it, and with varying color. A glow 
 of excitement came into her eyes. Some powerful emo- 
 tion, too deep for his ken, moved her. 
 
 ‘‘Truly, Father Antonio, am I like that? Is it really a 
 picture of me ? ” she asked, almost breathlessly, as her 
 cheeks reddened and her large eyes darkened. 
 
 “You are better, far better than that,” he answered, 
 reverently. “ It is quite like you, but still it is beyond the 
 skill of any artist to catch the strange subtleness one sees 
 in you, an indescribable something which I doubt if any 
 other woman has.” 
 
 The excitement in her face was displaced by wonder- 
 ment, and that in turn by contentment. Then the dreamy 
 look came into her eyes again, and a single tear rolled 
 •"down each of her cheeks. 
 
 The old man laid by his hat and bowed his gray head 
 before the rare young creature he had just transferred to a 
 leaf of his album. His pencils fell from his fingers and lay 
 between his feet unnoticed. 
 
 “ It is a very beautiful picture,” she murmured, softly. 
 
 “You are a very beautiful woman,” he answered, in the 
 same tone. 
 
 A woman! A beautiful woman ! The words sent a strange 
 thrill through her. She had never been called a woman 
 before. The old man’s picture and his words had opened 
 a new world to her. Suddenly, and strangely, her child- 
 hood seemed dead to her. The old life was rolled up, like 
 a scroll, and put away forever. She was possessed of some- 
 thing in which were mingled joy and regret. Never again 
 
200 
 
 IN CLANKING CHAINS, 
 
 could she be as she had been before : she was a woman 
 now ! Instinct, rather than reason, told her what the word 
 meant, but instinct never tells one-half enough, and she 
 was all unarmed for the truth which had been so suddenly 
 thrust upon her. Unarmed and unready to meet what it 
 might require ! A child one instant and a woman the 
 next ! Such development is dangerous. 
 
 She glanced down at her bare feet with a sense of shame 
 which she had never known before. Her cheeks burned, 
 and her lashes drooped, as the thought came that her arms 
 and bosom were no better protected than her feet. 
 
 The old man saw her confusion, understood and re- 
 spected it. 
 
 “You must be very careful about the soldiers,” he said, 
 softly. 
 
 “ I will be very careful. Father Antonio,” she answered, 
 tremulously. 
 
 Still she but half understood. To her pure mind, the 
 only womanly shame in the world was the shame of naked- 
 ness. An almost stifling sense of pain came to the old man 
 because of the dangers which, sooner or later, she must 
 meet and do battle against, dangers of which she was so 
 pitifully ignorant. 
 
 Would God guard her, he wondered, or would the Dark 
 One destroy her, as he had so many innocents before her ? 
 
 For the first time he cursed himself because of his pov- 
 erty. 
 
 In sunny Italy, in the glad days of his boyhood, they had 
 said that he had genius. Perhaps they were right ; he be- 
 lieved they were, for he was artist enough to judge his own 
 work justly and to appreciate its merits as well as deplore 
 its faults. But he had no tact. Other artists, who were in 
 every other sense inferior to him, could manage to sell the 
 veriest daubs for a hundred times the price he could get 
 for a finished study, which was the work of weeks of hun- 
 ger, pain, and patient toil. 
 
 So he had always been poor. 
 
 Age had come upon him, and he was in no way pre- 
 pared for it. Forsaking Italy, he had wandered into 
 France, doing often, for a single coarse meal, pieces of art 
 more wonderful than those which had made many another 
 famous throughout the world. It was years since he had 
 been able to purchase colors, and he was so very poor that 
 it was often impossible even to get paper and pencils. 
 
 Never before, though, had his poverty made him bitter. 
 
IN CLANKING CHAINS. 
 
 201 
 
 Now if he but had the money his wasted work should 
 have brought him, he could save this innocent one from 
 the snares and pitfalls which were ever at the feet of such 
 as she. 
 
 She was only a peasant’s daughter, only a thoughtless 
 child, before his picture and his words had awakened her 
 dormant womanhood ; but to him she was the supremest 
 marvel since creation’s dawn. He loved her as a father 
 loves his daughter when his course of life is nearly run, 
 and she is all that earth holds for him. 
 
 He glanced at her with a deep sigh of regret at his ina- 
 bility to help her. She was looking at the sketch, which 
 she still held in her hands. 
 
 It is a very beautiful picture,” she murmured again, 
 as if unconscious that she had said the same words before ; 
 and he repeated his former answer : 
 
 You are a very beautiful woman.” 
 
 That moment there was a crash in the vines, and the 
 soldier stepped forward. 
 
 ‘‘ You have told the truth, old man,” he said, she is cer- 
 tainly beautiful enough, but I have no doubt she prefers 
 hearing it from younger lips than yours.” 
 
 “ What do you want ? ” demanded Antonio. 
 
 What is that to you ? ” 
 
 Nothing, perhaps ; and, perhaps, everything. If you 
 are an honest man and worthy of your uniform, you will 
 go away at once and leave this maid with me.” 
 
 “No honest man would leave so lovely a woman alone 
 in the woods with such a ragged vagabond as you.” 
 
 The old man frowned and drew himself up proudly. 
 
 “ Let me tell you, sir, soldier, that it takes more than 
 rags to make the vagabond, just as it takes more than 
 bright buttons and war colors to make the man.” 
 
 The soldier laughed. 
 
 “Really, if you were younger, and still so insolent. I’d 
 run my sword through you — unless you proved a better 
 man with the blade than I.” 
 
 “Try it,” retorted Antonio. 
 
 Again the soldier laughed. 
 
 “ You bluster well,” he said. “ Come, old man, you but 
 waste your rage on me ; I am good-nature’s self. Besides, 
 my purpose is an honest one. I doubt if you are fit com- 
 pany for this young woman. When I find that you are I 
 will most humbly beg your pardon. I am a soldier — a 
 true son of France. In this maid I see a countrywoman 
 
202 
 
 IN CLANKING CHAINS, 
 
 of mine, whom duty, at least, compels me to protect. Do 
 not look sour. When in the history of France did the 
 brave ever desert the fair ? Anyway, if it has happened, 
 it is not going to happen now. I shall take this maiden to 
 her home— you shall lead the way, if you know it. Once 
 there, if her parents bid you welcome, you may slap my 
 face with your flat hand and I will not resent it.” 
 
 Let him do it. Father Antonio,” said Ninette. ‘‘What 
 he says sounds fair.” 
 
 “ Yes, it sounds fair, but it’s only a devil’s trick. This 
 villain wants to find out your home.” 
 
 “ Do not believe him,” said the soldier to Ninette. 
 “Truly, 1 am sincere. It would be against my manhood 
 to leave you with this old beggar unless I know he has a 
 right.” 
 
 “ But he has,” she answered. “He lives with us in our 
 poor home.” 
 
 “ Ah ! girl, that excuse has served many a maiden when 
 danger threatened her lover. I cannot believe that the 
 roof which honors itself by sheltering you is also disgraced 
 by this ragged pauper, except that the mischief has already 
 been done, and that you are living alone with him in 
 shame.” 
 
 “ Ragged !” she exclaimed, impatiently; “why, I am 
 scarcely less so.” 
 
 “ But your beauty idealizes your rags. They are made 
 invisible by your face, while this old vagabond is not so 
 favored.” 
 
 He looked at her in rapt wonderment, entirely failing to 
 understand why, in her innocence, she only saw insolence 
 in his allusion to the old man’s rags. He doubted if she 
 was full-witted ; to the grossly-minded there is no inno- 
 cence, save in imbeciles and in babes. 
 
 While he was staring at her, half in pity and half in con- 
 tempt, old Antonio was more active. He had crept, noise- 
 lessly and unnoticed, to the soldier’s side, and his fingers 
 were reaching out for the impudent fellow’s sword. Sud- 
 denly the old artist clutched the hilt and snatched the 
 coveted weapon from its sheath. 
 
 “ Now, sir soldier,” he cried, “you shall dance, while I 
 fiddle.” 
 
 “ Give me back my sword, old man,” said the soldier. 
 “ Surely you will not take my jesting so illy ?” 
 
 “ Oh, no ; why should I ? It was most excellent jesting, 
 and only puts me in humor fora jest or two myself. Now, 
 
IN CLANKING CHAINS, 
 
 203 
 
 Ninette, hurry home and I will keep this jolly soldier here 
 until you are out of harm’s way. If he does not stand still 
 ril run him through^ and with his own blade. That’s an- 
 other jest, and one which can be appreciated, even by 
 those who wear no uniforms.” 
 
 “ I think you are wrong, Father Antonio. I am sure he 
 meant us no harm, though it was not respectful of him to 
 speak as he did of your rags.” 
 
 The soldier’s eyes moved from the girl’s face to the old 
 man’s. 
 
 “Tell me,” he said, “if this woman is a fool. Her 
 eyes seem bright enough, but she talks as if her wits were 
 dull.” 
 
 “ So far as sinful knowledge is concerned, she is a child,” 
 said Antonio. “ If you and your fellow soldiers tarry here 
 long, though. I’ve no doubt she will become as apt as the 
 other women you know.” 
 
 A look of compassion came over the soldier’s face. 
 
 “ What a pity to have her find out the truth ! ” he said, 
 with a sigh. 
 
 “Yes,” said Antonio, “ and that is why I took your 
 sword.” 
 
 “ You were right,” said the soldier. “ I never saw such 
 a woman before. To be honest, I did mean her harm, she 
 is so beautiful. But you could not make me injure her 
 now — even with the point of that sword at my throat.” 
 
 “ Do you mean it ? ” asked the old man, eagerly. 
 
 “ I swear it, on my honor as a soldier. You have aright 
 to doubt me, though. I deserve that.” 
 
 “ I believe you,” said Antonio. “ I can see truth in your 
 eyes. Here is your sword.” 
 
 “ Give me your hand first.” 
 
 The two men clasped hands, and then Antonio slid the 
 sword back into the sheath which he had taken it from. 
 
 Ninette watched them vaguely, as if she had grave 
 doubts of their sanity. Then she picked^ up Antonio’s 
 pencils and album and put them in his pouch. The sketch 
 which he had made of her could not be found, though An- 
 tonio and the soldier helped her look for it. 
 
 “ The soldier, amazed and bewildered, sat down by the 
 water in silence. Near his hand was the wreath which 
 Ninette had made of the leaves and dead flowers. He 
 picked it up as tenderly as if it had been a living thing, 
 while reverent tears came into his eyes. 
 
 Antonio and the girl moved slowly away. 
 
204 
 
 IN CLANKING CNAINS, 
 
 '‘France is worth fighting for, after all/’ muttered the 
 soldier. " One such woman is worth all the lives in the 
 French army.” 
 
 When he aroused himself, and rose to his feet, Ninette 
 and the old man were out of sight. 
 
 It hurt the soldier for a moment to think that they had 
 stolen away from him so, but still he did not blame them. 
 
 “It was Avisest,” he said, sadly; “such a jewel is not 
 likely to be too jealously guarded.” And then he, too, 
 walked slowly from the grove. 
 
 As he was emerging from the shelter of the trees some- 
 thing rustled at his feet. 
 
 It was Antonio’s sketch of Ninette. The wind had blown 
 it there. 
 
 He picked it up, carried it with him to his tent, and 
 concealed it. But some prying eye spied out the secret of 
 its hiding-place, and it was shown to the general, a rough, 
 coarse brute, who respected neither innocence nor virtue. 
 The picture of the beautiful girl filled him with a desire to 
 see the girl herself. He at once had the soldier sum- 
 moned and plied him with questions. 
 
 The brave fellow had already resolved to shield Ninette 
 with his life, if any occasion demanded it, and so he de- 
 liberately informed the general that it was merely a fancy 
 picture which he had found in a shop in Paris. 
 
 “ Why did you bring it with you here, then ?” demanded 
 the general. 
 
 “ Because — it is so beautiful.” 
 
 “Very well ; I will keep it for the same reason until I 
 find the original. But mark you one thing : if I find her 
 near this camp you go into chains.” 
 
 The soldier tremWed as he walked away. He cared 
 nothing about the chains ; he would wear them willingly 
 all his days if that would only keep the girl safe from the 
 general. 
 
 He must find Antonio if possible, and warn him to keep 
 Ninette out of sight of the general and his minions. 
 
 That very day, he saw the old man and told him of the 
 general’s unholy quest. But it brought about the very 
 thing he was so anxious to avoid. A spy overheard them 
 and followed Antonio straight to Ninette and her father. 
 
 That night the soldier was dragged from his tent, put 
 in chains, and taken to his general. Once in the general’s 
 tent, he knew what his arrest meant, for there, under guard, 
 and, like him, in chains, were Antonio and Ninette’s father. 
 
IN CLAiVKING CHAINS. 
 
 205 
 
 “ Here,” said the angry general, as they also brought 
 Ninette forward, “is the woman whose picture you lied to 
 me about. Will you tell me why you did so ?” 
 
 The soldier bowed his head for an instant and then 
 straiglitened himself up proudly. 
 
 “ It was the only way,” he replied, “ in which I could 
 protect her from your lust.” 
 
 “That speech will cost you your life, and you can be 
 sure that it will make matters none the easier for her,” 
 snarled the general, with an oath. 
 
 “ If I could first end your life,” retorted the soldier, “ I 
 should be little concerned about my own.” 
 
 “ Ha ! ha ! ” laughed the general, fiendishly, “ in that 
 thought is sweet satisfaction for me. You die for nothing 
 — absolutely nothing. It will be such a purposeless, im- 
 soldierlike death ; without even romance in it to console 
 you. You shall not die for France, nor for this woman 
 you love. You are a traitor I Your lying to me about this 
 peasant’s daughter makes you such, and as such you shall 
 be shot. These other men, her father and this old Italian, 
 are also worthy of death, because they resisted my troops. 
 Three traitors to be shot at once ! Oh, it will be rare sport ! 
 If you need something to encourage you to meet death 
 bravely, remember that this woman, for whom you have 
 destroyed yourself, will be my toy — until I find another 
 who pleases me better. Ha ! ha ! ha ! There, take them 
 away, all of them. Ha ! ha ! ha! ” 
 
 Manhood slumbered, and the guardobeyed the general. 
 Ninette was put in a tent by herself, and the others, with 
 their chains clanking at their wrists and ankles, were taken 
 to another part of the camp. 
 
 All through the night the girl heard those awful chains. 
 Her country’s funeral dirge would have greeted her ears 
 less mournfully. Just before daybreak she dreamed that 
 the chains had been taken from her three friends, heated 
 hot, and then twisted about her own heart. 
 
 She uttered a cry of pain so shrill that it reached the 
 general’s ears. He at once came to her tent. Discovering 
 the cause of her alarm, he bade the guard retire while he 
 talked with her. The clanking of the chains still sounded 
 in her ears, and at sight of the general she began pleading 
 for her condemned friends. 
 
 “ What would you do to save them ? ” he asked, as- 
 suming a compassionate tone. 
 
 “ Do ! I would do anything. I would be your servant. 
 
2o6 
 
 IN CLANKING CHAINS. 
 
 your dog — whatever you chose — if you would only spare 
 them. This trouble all came upon them because of me, 
 and do you think that I would shrink from anything 
 which released them ?” 
 
 ‘‘Would you go to prison to save them ?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “And always stay there ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ 1 believe you. You are a brave girl. If you will stay 
 with me for a year, and obey me in everything, I will spare 
 their lives.” 
 
 “ And w^hen the year is over I can come back here again 
 to my father.” 
 
 “ Certainly, if you wish.” 
 
 She opened lier eyes in amazement. What he asked 
 seemed such a little thing — only to be his servant for a 
 year ! 
 
 “You do not answer,” he said. 
 
 “ What answer save one could I make ? ” she responded 
 quietly. 
 
 “You — you refuse, then ?” 
 
 “No, no ; I accept. Do you think I’d let them die for 
 such a little reason ? ” 
 
 “ Do you promise to go with me, and obey me, then ?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “Will you swear it ? ” he asked, eagerly. 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 “Why, what a stress you lay on a trifle,” she answered, 
 impatiently. “Yes, I swear it, if )^ou want me to.” 
 
 “ Good ! Then your father and the old Italian shall be 
 set free at once.” 
 
 “ And the soldier, too. You must not forget him.” 
 
 “Very well, then; I’ll forgive him, too. But he must 
 leave my army, though, for his disobedience.” 
 
 “That don’t matter. He can live with my father until 
 I come home again.” 
 
 One single qualm of conscience came over the villainous 
 general, but when it was gone his brutality was even more 
 relentless than before. 
 
 “Your father will be angry,” he said, fearing that he 
 might get in trouble if he seemed to take Ninette away 
 against her will. “You must tell him that you go with 
 me willingly, and that it is your own wish. Do not say, 
 eitlier, that you go to save their lives ; wait until you come 
 home, a year hence, before you let any of them know that.” 
 
IN CLANKING CHAINS. 
 
 207 
 
 I will obey you,” she said. 
 
 An hour later she stood before the general’s tent, when 
 her three friends were brought up. 
 
 The clanking of their chains still thrilled her with hor- 
 ror. How glad she was that they were to be so quickly 
 stricken off. What a kind man the general was, after ail, 
 to pardon them for her, and how slight was the return he 
 had asked her to make for it ! The world seemed very 
 beautiful to her that morning. 
 
 “ Remove the chains,” commanded the general. 
 
 He was obeyed. 
 
 “Now,” he said, “these men can go where they like. 
 All three of them are pardoned.” 
 
 “ Come, Ninette,” said her father, after the general had 
 been thanked for his clemency, “ we will go home.” 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 “ I shall stay with the general,” she said. “ In a year 
 I will come home again.” 
 
 “What can you mean, child ?” he cried in horror. 
 
 Antonio and the discharged soldier looked at each other 
 in absolute bewilderment. 
 
 “ Do not ask me anything more,” she said, displeased at 
 his manner. 
 
 “Shall you — submit — to this man? Is that what you 
 mean ? Oh, God ! not that. Come away at once,” he 
 begged. 
 
 She pushed him back. 
 
 “ I have already submitted,” she answered, half angrily, 
 and little thinking what her words seemed to imply. 
 “ Now, kiss me and go away.” 
 
 “ Kiss you ! After that ? Never. I curse you instead ! 
 How could so pure a mother have brought forth so vile a 
 whelp ? I ” 
 
 But at a motion from the general the three liberated 
 men were seized and hurried swiftly out of camp. 
 
 “ I am glad I am going with you,” said Ninette to the 
 general ; “ my father is so rough.” 
 
 The three men went away with heavy hearts. 
 
 “All women are the same,” muttered the discharged 
 soldier. 
 
 “And I thought her so innocent!” moaned the old 
 artist. 
 
 Ninette’s father was weeping. 
 
 A year had passed since they last saw her, in the early 
 
2o8 
 
 IN CLANKING CHAINS. 
 
 morning light, before the general’s tent. The war was 
 now over, and all France was free and at peace again. 
 
 A beautiful woman, sad and stern-faced, left a Paris 
 salon, by herself, just at daybreak, and walked firmly and 
 swiftly toward the Seine. It was Ninette. She had kept 
 her oath, and now once more was the prisoner freed from 
 clanking chains. Not chains of iron this time, but chains 
 of silver and of gilt. They were shaken forever from the 
 brave ankles where innocence had suffered lust to bind 
 them. 
 
 Her father still toiled in the vineyard ; old Antonio was 
 once more basking in the warm sunshine of Italy ; while 
 the discharged soldier was still swearing that there were 
 no true women in the world. Yet one true woman had 
 paid the price of their three lives, and as she took her 
 cold, fatal plunge into the Seine, not one of them once 
 imagined the fearful debt which the three owed her. 
 
AN ETRUSCAN PALACE 
 
 It was a great pile of marble, made soft and gray by 
 time. 
 
 Outside it was a quaint motley of columns, arches, bal- 
 conies, wide windows and high doors, with castellated 
 roofs, subcrowned with miniature domes. 
 
 Inside it was a succession of noble corridors and stair- 
 cases, dividing and separating spacious chambers, each 
 one large and grand enough for a king’s dancing-hall. 
 
 Once the centre of all Florentine gayety and mirth, it 
 was now the home of Guido Lamberti, the last man of his 
 race ; a race which, but for its ancient splendor and 
 prowess, would have been forgotten in Tuscany, Guido 
 lived in such utter seclusion and privacy. 
 
 The completing of the palace was the work of several 
 generations, it being nine centuries since the first Lam- 
 berti and his sturdy retainers began its foundation. As it 
 left his hands it was less than a third of its present size. 
 Each time there was a new head to the family, new modi- 
 fications and additions were made, until Guido was master, 
 and with him all changes ceased. He regarded the old 
 palace more as a living, breathing reality than as an insen- 
 sate mass of stone, and he would have scarcely looked 
 with more horror upon the digging up and scattering of 
 his ancestors’ ashes, than he would upon altering any part 
 of the palace which had witnessed the rise and decline of 
 his race. 
 
 Guido Lamberti was already past his seventieth year, 
 and his long, flowing white hair, and still longer beard, 
 made him seem twenty years older than he was. He and 
 his beautiful granddaughter lived alone in the ancestral 
 palace with their servants. 
 
 His father, Giuseppe Lamberti, married a singer, a pretty 
 little doll-like thing, out of one of the theatres in Rome. 
 
210 
 
 AN ETRUSCAN PALACE. 
 
 Though he was the head of his family, his brothers and 
 sisters sharply criticised him for choosing such a bride ; 
 not that there was any harm in the woman — they only de- 
 spised the manner of her former life. They went so far 
 with their resentment, that Giuseppe, angered and dis- 
 gusted, drove them away and refused to listen to the 
 apologetic pleadings which they were then eager to make. 
 
 But they had their revenge. 
 
 Failing in their efforts and attempts at a reconciliation, 
 they filled Florence with such malicious stories about 
 Giuseppe and his pretty wife, that the house of Lamberti 
 was for many years afterward regarded with scorn and 
 contempt. 
 
 When Guido was born, two years after Giuseppe’s mar- 
 riage and the family estrangement, death closed the eyes 
 and forever ended the sorrows of the wife of the head of 
 the house of Lamberti. 
 
 Once again Giuseppe’s relatives essayed peace-making, 
 believing that sorrow had sufficiently softened his heart to 
 make him approachable. They miscalculated, however, 
 for he was more bitter than ever toward his brothers and 
 sisters, and drove them away, swearing that they were the 
 guilty and abominable cause of liis wife’s death. 
 
 Guido’s youtli was saddened by almost incessant repe- 
 titions of the story of his father’s marriage and its results. 
 In consequence of the painful and unpleasant incidents be- 
 fore his birth, his mother’s mind was so affected that 
 Guido’s nature, from the very first, was shrinking and ret- 
 icent. Dreading the harsh things which were likely to be 
 said, if he ever entered social life, Guido adopted the se- 
 clusion which his father had constantly maintained since 
 the death of his wife. 
 
 Music was Guido’s solace and consolation until his 
 twenty-second year, when he accompanied his father on a 
 journey through Northern Italy. Then, the beauty and 
 grace of a young Venetian lady made Guido Lamberti for- 
 sake his violin for the softer and rarer music of a woman’s 
 voice. She found it easy to learn to love the sensitive 
 young musician, and soon became his wife. 
 
 The old palace in Florence was closed, and for ten years 
 Guido Lamberti lived in Venice with his wife and father. 
 It was then that he returned to Florence, bringing with 
 him only a little girl of eight or nine years. In an- 
 swer to the questions of his small circle of friends, he sim- 
 ply said ; 
 
AN ETRUSCAN PALACE, 
 
 2II 
 
 My wife and my father both died in the North. I have 
 only my little daughter left.” 
 
 There was something in his manner, whenever he said 
 this, which seemed to intimate that in some way he had 
 been fearfully wronged ; but he never entered into any- 
 thing further than this vague, general explanation, and 
 never complained of his fate, whatever it was. 
 
 He now devoted himself entirely to his music, and to the 
 education of his daughter ;and the seeming atmosphere of 
 perfect content which encompassed him soon disarmed the 
 suspicions of his friends, and they ceased wondering. 
 
 And so life went on, with unvarying evenness, in the Lam- 
 berti palace, for fifteen years. Guido’s daughter, at this 
 time a woman of nearly twenty-four, was even more beau- 
 tiful than her mother had been. Her twenty-fourth birth- 
 day was to be celebrated by once more throwing the old 
 palace open to the gay, brilliant social life of Florence. 
 
 Elaborate preparations were made for the event, and it 
 was anticipated with the most feverish eagerness by the 
 invited guests. But, to their surprise and horror, the old 
 palace was dark and sombre, on their arrival there, on the 
 night appointed for the birthday festival. The servants 
 refused to answer any summons at the door, until the 
 excited people, fearing foul play, appealed to the police. 
 One of the servants then presented a slip of paper, con- 
 taining the following words, in the handwriting of Guido 
 Lamberti, and authenticated, beyond doubt, by the imprint 
 of the ancient family seal : 
 
 “ I, Guido Lamberti, have closed my home, and the 
 home of my ancestors, for reasons which I may never 
 be able to make known. The doors of this palace may 
 never be opened again, except by those in whose veins 
 courses other blood than mine. Guido Lamberti.” 
 
 The officer, who read the strange note alone, suffered it 
 to fall to the floor without a comment. Then, signalling 
 his men to follow him, he led them away in silence. The 
 disappointed and astonished guests departed, likewise. 
 Pity was the paramount emotion ; no one thought of 
 regarding the act of Guido Lamberti as an insult. The 
 despair manifested in the note was so genuine that all, 
 with one accord and as if by mutual agreement, accepted 
 the unknown cause of Guido’s agony as a common sorrow. 
 
 For five years more, the old palace was alone and silent, 
 
212 
 
 AN ETRUSCAN PALACE. 
 
 only echoing the voices and footsteps of the servants. 
 And then Guido came back with another little girl, a mere 
 babe of three years this time. 
 
 ^‘My mouth is sealed,’' he said. ‘4 cannot yet explain 
 the cause of my last departure and my long absence. My 
 friends must help me still with their patience. I can only 
 tell you that my beloved daughter is dead, and that it is her 
 infant daughter whom I have this time brought back with 
 me. To say more would be to defeat justice — justice to 
 the dead ! ” 
 
 Some maintained their faith in Guido ; others, less gen- 
 erous, hinted sometimes, and sometimes openly averred, 
 that his silence was the silence of shame, and his sorrow 
 the sorrow of remorse. 
 
 Thenceforth his doors were kept closed except to a few 
 intimate friends ; but even they were never made parties 
 to his secret. 
 
 In the years which followed his second return to Flor- 
 ence he gave himself up entirely to music. The most of 
 his time was devoted to a little coterie of pupils whom he 
 taught out of pure love for his art. He was a perfect 
 master of the violin, and no one else in Italy could win 
 such exquisite notes from the vibrant strings. His extem- 
 porizations, too, were quite as wonderful as his skill in 
 other directions. 
 
 Moved by some impulse which, perhaps, he could not 
 have explained had he wished to, he named his grand- 
 daughter, Enid. As she grew out of childhood into girl- 
 hood, and thence into womanhood, she became round and 
 perfect with the same beauty which had been her mother’s 
 and her grandmother’s. At the close of Enid’s eighteenth 
 year, among Guido’s pupils was a youth named Paolo Ver- 
 cini — the most talented of all the old man’s class. Almost 
 at the beginning of his studies he acquired a dexterity of 
 fingering and bowing, a remarkably light and magic touch, 
 which speedily won for him a son’s place in Guido’s heart. 
 And so, a year later, when he begged for the right to woo 
 Enid, old Guido answered him with unexpected tender- 
 ness. 
 
 “Paolo,” he said, “to see Enid your wife would be to 
 smooth and sweeten my way to the grave. If you can win 
 her heart, you may have her hand. Only, you must wait 
 yet for a little while before you take her to the altar. 
 Great wrongs must be righted and a great villain pun- 
 ished. The time is nearly ripe for what I hint at. After 
 
ETRUSCAN PALACE. 
 
 213 
 
 that you may have her — if you still want her when you 
 know all. There is no stain on her, yet, for all that, you 
 may wish to seek some other woman for a wife when you 
 fully understand what I mean.” 
 
 “ If 1 can win her, and you maintain your willingness, 
 Enid, and no other, shall be my wife,” said Paolo. “If 
 there is no stain on her, so much the better. I should 
 marry her, anyway, if she did not think me too mean and 
 humble.” 
 
 “Then — wait,” answered Guido. 
 
 Paolo bowed his head, and the subject was dropped for 
 the time. The young violinist, however, lost no time in 
 telling Enid that she possessed his heart, and he was over- 
 joyed at finding that she already loved him. With her 
 first kiss his happiness was made complete. Paola's 
 studies brought him to the palace every day, and after the 
 hour of music there was, also, always an hour of love. 
 
 One day when Paolo came, he found old Guido pacing 
 up and down one of the long corridors of the old palace, 
 with the wildest excitement in his eyes. 
 
 “ My son,” he exclaimed, as Paolo approached, “ the 
 realization of your fondest hopes is at hand. If she so 
 wishes, Enid may be your bride within a month. The 
 day of my vengeance is at hand. A week hence I am to 
 entertain one whom the world delights in honoring as 
 Italy’s greatest statesman. I know him in a less favorable 
 light. He is here in Florence now, and, thanks to the 
 cunning of a few faithful friends, he is to be entertained 
 here a week from this night, and without a surmise as to 
 whose guest he will be. When he finds out, it will be too 
 late for him to retreat ! Ask me nothing, at present, but 
 do not leave the palace again, except necessity requires it, 
 until my distinguished guest has been fittingly entertained.” 
 
 The week sped quickly, and the night which Guido so 
 eagerly wished for, came as soon as he was ready for it. 
 To Enid and Paolo, the passing of the time was even 
 swifter than it was to Guido. Late in the afternoon a fear- 
 ful storm set in, and at nightfall the noise of the wind, the 
 thunder, and the rain was terrific. 
 
 “Truly a fitting night!” muttered old Guido, as he 
 paced up and down the chamber, in which he intended 
 receiving his guests. 
 
 Eight o’clock was being struck from the church towers 
 when the door of the chamber was opened, and thirteen 
 men were shown into the room, by an old servant, who 
 
214 
 
 AN ETR C/SCAN PALACE, 
 
 had been in the Lamberti palace since the days when 
 Giuseppe brought home the woman who became the 
 mother of Guido. 
 
 One of Guido's guests uttered an exclamation of sur- 
 prise, as he glanced about him, but the others evinced no 
 emotion. Noting the nonchalance and indifference of his 
 companions, the man in question restrained himself and 
 took the chair assigned to him in silence. The chairs were 
 all placed at one end of the long chamber, and, like the 
 guests, were thirteen in number. When the man who was 
 at first so much disturbed, by the peculiarities of the room, 
 recovered from his surprise, he found that his companions 
 had so seated themselves that the middle chair was left for 
 him. Trifling as the circumstance was, it disturbed him, 
 and he took the vacant chair with unmistakable reluctance. 
 
 What strange mummery is this ? ” he exclaimed. ‘‘ The 
 walls draped in black velvet, the room illuminated with 
 the dimmest light possible, and the middle chair left for 
 me. I ” 
 
 ‘‘The middle chair is tlie place of honor. Count,'’ ex- 
 plained the man at his right hand, “and this old musician- 
 juggler reserved it for you, since the entertainment to 
 which he has invited us is given expressly for your diver- 
 tisement. The velvet hangings, and the dim light are a 
 part of his modus operandi.” 
 
 The Count smiled and made a powerful effort to conceal 
 his discomfort. His companions exchanged glances, and 
 two or three of them gravely nodded their heads. Before 
 anything further could be said, old Guido, dressed in 
 rustling, flowing Oriental robes, came in. His strange 
 garb, and the great length of his white hair and beard, 
 made him seem at least a hundred years old. 
 
 Closing the door, he bowed very low to his guests, and 
 then advanced to the other end of the room. Those nearest 
 to the Count observed that he was watching Guido with a 
 wild and unnatural earnestness, and that every portion of 
 his flesh seemed to be quivering with terror. 
 
 Guido paused beside a table upon which lay a violin and 
 bow. Picking them up, he took a few steps forward, and 
 then pausing, bowed again. 
 
 “Gentlemen,” he began, “ I thank you most earnestly 
 for doing me this honor. I have invited you here to show 
 you how mysterious an agency music is, and how little the 
 supernal attributes of it are understood. If you are in 
 sympathy with my purpose, and will maintain not only 
 
AN ETRUSCAN PALACE. 
 
 215 
 
 that sympathy, but the utmost silence, I will endeavor to 
 demonstrate to you some of the seemingly wonderful phe- 
 nomena of this most subtle essence of the universe.” 
 
 A moment later he began playing. After a few prelusive 
 notes, he filled the room with a melody so soft and so fan- 
 tastic that the senses of all of Guido’s guests seemed 
 enchained. Then he led them into descriptive music, 
 which explained itself, and its story, as clearly as if the 
 succession of marvellous themes had been accompanied 
 by words. Night, day, storms, battles, sorrow, joy, peace, 
 woe, everything in life and in nature, was delineated by 
 the perfect strokes of that master bow. This ended with 
 a soft, tremulous, sobbing little melody, whose last note 
 was a sigh. As it became more and more subdued, the 
 light began burning lower and lower. When it ceased, the 
 last faint, flickering gleam of light went with it. 
 
 With the darkness, followed a brief silence, which was 
 only broken by the sound of the storm outside, which the 
 thick walls of the palace did not wholly exclude. After a 
 few moments, the music, now weird, menacing, and wrath- 
 ful, recommenced. It seemed to fill not only the whole 
 room, but the whole palace. It was in the air above them ; 
 it was in the floor under their feet ; it was before them, 
 behind them, in their midst ; it echoed and reverberated 
 throughout all the corridors and chambers of the palace. 
 All of Guido’s guests were awed and surprised, but the 
 Count’s teeth were chattering. 
 
 Stronger and louder became the music, until after a tre- 
 mendous outburst of passionate exultation, it relapsed into 
 a subdued and quivering wail. Then there was a faint sput- 
 tering sound at the point where Guido was standing when 
 the light went out. Following this sound, a pale blue 
 phosphorescent glow manifested itself at the same point. 
 Gradually this light became brighter, until in its midst 
 Guido once more became apparent to his guests. An im- 
 mense cauldron seemed standing at his feet, and from it 
 emanated the blue light, and soft undulating clouds of va- 
 por, which wreathed and curled about him with the aw- 
 ful sinuosity of evil spirits, or serpents. In his right hand 
 was a naked sword, which he was slowly waving to and 
 fro through the vapor. 
 
 The music still continued, but from whence it came not 
 one of Guido’s guests could tell. It seemed everywhere ; 
 now filling the whole palace and now sweeping up and 
 down the room, or up and down the palace, as if all the 
 
2i6 
 
 AJV E7^I?USCAN PALACE, 
 
 spirits of melody and sound were united in one general 
 sportive chase. 
 
 The blue light grew brighter, filling the whole room 
 with its sinister glare — only to go out altogether when its 
 intensity was blinding, leaving the room once more in 
 inky darkness. But only for a moment. The menacing 
 music ended with the light, and was almost instantly suc- 
 ceeded by a dirge, at whose inceptive note the cauldron rut 
 Guido’s feet sent out a dull red blaze, making the sombre 
 black hangings of the chamber glisten like the dark and 
 frightful walls of a charnel house. 
 
 Still old Guido stood behind the cauldron, weaving his 
 gleaming sword. Suddenly he changed his regular move- 
 ments into sharp incisive sweeps, each making a sullen 
 swish, wdiich sounded like a viper s hiss. And, also, with 
 each downward movement of the sword the color of the 
 fire in the cauldron changed. The effect was so terrible 
 that Guido’s other guests wxre moved and startled nearly 
 as much as the Count. 
 
 When crimson flames came from the cauldron there 
 was no further change in the colors. Guido then stepped 
 to the right, and resting the point of the sword on the 
 floor, crossed his arms over the hilt and bowed his head. 
 
 The music had changed with each color, and with the 
 final transition into crimson the weird melody merged into 
 a mournful, stormy fugue. When this had continued for 
 a few seconds Guido suddenly raised his right hand. 
 
 “ Behold ! ” he exclaimed, and directly over the caul- 
 dron a landscape appeared. It was an opening in an old 
 and beautiful forest. In the foreground, an old man Avas 
 walking with a young and beautiful woman. They w^ere 
 smiling and happy. Suddenly three men sprang out of 
 the undergrowth, and one of them stabbed the old man. 
 He fell dead and the three bore the woman aw^ay. Then 
 the scene changed from the green forest to a salon. The 
 murderer w^as there, and so was the abducted woman. She 
 w^as in deep agony and he was laughing her misery into 
 scorn. Snatching a dagger up from a table she buried it 
 in her bosom. As this scene faded the Count sprang to 
 his feet. 
 
 ‘‘Go no further!” he cried. “I confess all. Guido 
 Lamberti, kill me if you will, but show^ me no more of my 
 shameful crimes ! ” 
 
 “ Sit down 1 ” commanded Guido, and he was obeyed in- 
 stantly. 
 
AN ETRUSCAN PALACE. 
 
 217 
 
 The music ceased, but the crimson glare continued. 
 Guido’s sword fell to the floor with a clang. 
 
 “Listen!” he said. “I have just shown you how my 
 father and my wife died. By whose agency I need not 
 say, that being already self-confessed. The same man, not 
 yet satisfied, pursued me still further with his hatred, 
 which was the outgrowth of my being his successful rival 
 in love. On the morning of my daughter’s twenty-fourth 
 birthday his hatred and malice compelled us to leave Flor- 
 ence. She afterward married, but eventually died because 
 of the wrong this man did us. I might say more, but I 
 think that what I have already told you will suffice. He 
 has escaped my private vengeance many times, and my 
 horror of tiie courts hindered my punishing him there. 
 Now, I ask you if he is not worthy of death.” 
 
 But one word came through the pale, cold lips of those 
 twelve grave men. That word was : 
 
 “ Yes ! ” 
 
 The just verdict came too late, for vengeance had come 
 to the condemned man from a higher place. The evil 
 genius of the house of Lamberti sat dead in his chair. 
 
 “ Thank God ! ” cried Guido, and his weary, tortured 
 life went out with that wild shout of exultation. Enid and 
 Paolo rushed in, but they were too late. 
 
 “You still have me, dear,” he whispered. 
 
 Smiling through her tears, she kissed him. 
 
 [the end.] 
 
Time Flies — 
 So does dirt, wher- 
 ever found, when 
 Pearline is used. 
 Nothing else starts it 
 so easily or so quick- 
 ly. It washes all 
 things without harm 
 — it gives long life to 
 everything that is 
 I washed with it. Use 
 Pearline in the laun- 
 dry, the kitchen and everywhere in the house. 
 With it there is little work — without it there is 
 little done. Millions use Pearline. 
 
 TJ o£ imitations which are being peddled from door 
 
 fl C 3.1* G tQ door. First quality goods do not require such 
 
 desperate methods to sell them. PE ARLIN E sells 
 on its merits, and is manufactured only by 
 
 207 JAMES PYLE. New York. 
 
 Tor twenty-five years the ex- 
 perience of millions of sufferers, 
 old and young, male and female, 
 have gratefully endorsed the 
 miraculous virtues of 
 
 Tlus Fharmaceatic^ Parados; 
 of the Age. 
 
 A vitalizing stimulant without 
 alcohol. A nerve sedative with- 
 out narcotics. A blood purifier 
 without poisons. A ver 
 cleanser. A purely vegetable 
 tissue-maker, promoting diges- 
 tion, and respiration. A life- 
 giving tonic, pure and simple, 
 without the disastrous reactions 
 of the deadly compounds of rum 
 and alcohol usually sold as 
 Patent Medicines. 
 
 WAS NEVER KNOWN BEFORE IN THE WORLD. 
 
 Its discovery among the medicinal fruits, roots and herbs of California WAS 
 A MlKACliE, and their combination into a phenomenal life-giving tonic 
 
 A TRIUMPH of tlie CHEMICAL ART. 
 
 No family can afford to do without a bottle of VINEGAR BITTERS in 
 the house, as expressed by thousands of testimonials. Send for our ladies’ book. 
 
 Address. B. H. McHONALD DRUG CO., NEW YORK. 
 
I.YDIA E. PINKHAM’S YEGETABLE COMPOUND 
 
 Is a Positive Cure for all those painful Complaints 
 and Weaknesses so common to our best 
 female population. 
 
 It ■will cure entirely the worst form of 
 Female Complaints, all Ovarian troub- 
 les, Inflammation, Ulceration, Falling 
 and Displacements of the Womb and the 
 consequent Spinal Weakness, and is p jsr- 
 ticularly adapted to the Change of Life. 
 
 It will dissolve and expel Tumors from 
 the uterus in an early stage of develop- 
 ment. The tendency to cancerous 
 humors there is checked very speedily 
 by its use. It removes faintness, flatu- 
 lency, destroys all craving for stimulants 
 and relieves weakness ot the stomach. 
 It cures Bloating, Headaches, Nervous 
 Prostration, General Debility, Sleepless- 
 ness, Depression and Indigestion. 
 
 That feeling of bearing down, causing 
 pain, weight and headache, is always 
 permanently cured by its use. 
 
 It will at all times and under all cir- 
 cumstances, act in harmony with the 
 laws that govern the female system. 
 For the cure of Kidney Complaints of 
 either sex, this Compound is unsurpass- 
 ed. 
 
 * LTPIA S. PD TggAM *5 VEGETABLE COMPOUND is prepareejat Lynn, Mass; Price, $i. 
 Six bottles for $5. Sent by mail in the form of Pills, a so in the form of Lozenges, 
 on receipt of price, $i per box, for cither. Send for pamphlet. All letters of 
 inquiry promptly answersd. Address as above. 
 
 CANDY 
 
 CANDY 
 
 Send $1.25, $2.25, 
 $3.50, or $5.00 for a 
 sample retail box, by 
 express, prepaid, of 
 the Best CANDIES 
 in America. Strictly 
 pure, and put up In 
 elegant boxes. Suit- 
 able for presents. 
 Bef ers to all Chicago. 
 Try it. Address, 
 
 C. F. GUNTHER, 
 
 Confeetioner, 
 
 212 State St., and 
 78 Madison St., 
 
 CHICAGO. 
 
 HOSXB'TXBR’S 
 
 STOMACH BITTERS 
 
 HAS FOB 35 YEABS BEEN 
 
 Adopted by Physicians and Invalids 
 
 AS A BEMEDY FOB 
 Indlgestloii, Dyspepsia, 
 
 Fever and Ague, Malaria, 
 Neuralgia, Rheumatism, 
 General Debility, 
 And other KINDRED DISEASES, 
 
 AS OONFIBMED BY 
 
 TMOUSANDS OF TESTIMONIALS IN 
 OUB POSSESSION. 
 
 Aok your druggist for it, and take none but 
 
 BOSHTTfiR’S STOMACH BITTERS. 
 
 
 glffi HEADACK!! 
 
 BY USING THE GENUINE 
 
 Dr. C. McLane’s 
 
 LIVER PILLS 
 
 PRICE, 25 CENTS. 
 
 FOR SALE BY ALL DRUGGISTS. 
 
 Bide wrapper from a box of the 
 genuine Dr. C. McLANE’S Cele- 
 brated Liver Pills, with your 
 address, plainly written, and we 
 will send you, by return mall, a 
 magnificent package of Chromatic 
 and Oleographic Cards.BBMHB 
 
 FLEMING BROS. 
 
 PITTSBURGH, PA. 
 
FACIAL BLEMISHES 
 
 The largest Establishment in the World for the treatment of 
 Hair and Scalp, Eczem% Moles, Warts, Superfluous Hair, 
 Birthmarks, Moth, Freckles. Wrinkles, Red Nose, Red Veins, 
 Oily Skin, Acne, Pimples, Blackheads, Barber’s Itch, Scars, 
 Fittings, Powder Marfe, Bleaching, Facial Development, 
 Hollow or Sunken Cheeks, etc. Consultation free atofliceor 
 by letter. 128 page book on all skin and scalp affections and 
 their treatment, sent sealed to any address on receipt of lOcts. 
 JOHN H. WOODBURY, Dermatologist, 
 12 5 West 4gd St., New York City. 
 
 ( WOODBURY’S FACIAIi SOAP for tlie 
 Skin and Scalp, at Druggists or by mail^ &0 cents. 
 
 SHEEPMEN 
 
 CANNOT AFFORD TO GET 
 ALONG WITHOUT THE 
 
 AMERICAN SHEEP BREEDER, 
 
 The only exclusive Sheep and Wool Journal in the country. Ably 
 edited by practical sheep breeders, finely illustrated and complete in 
 every way. Published monthly at $1.00 per annum. Address 
 
 AMERICAN SHEEP BREEDER, 
 
 CHICAGO. ILL. 
 
 BIRD MANNA 
 
 The Great Secret A ^ of the Canary 
 Breeders of the Hartz Mountain, 
 
 Germany. Bird Manna will re- 
 store the song of Cage Birds, will 
 
 prevent their ailments and keep them 
 
 in good condition, it, makes cana- 
 ries sing, even while shedding 
 
 feathers. Sent by mail on re- 
 ceipt of 15c. Sold by ^ ^ all druggists 
 
 Diiections free. 
 
 BIRD FOOD CO., 400 N. Third St., Phila., Pa. 
 
 EPPS’S 
 
 C RATEHUL.COM HO RTJNC 
 
 COCOA 
 
 RUPTURE 
 
 Positive Cure. By Mail. 
 Sealed book free. Address 
 W. S. RICE, Box L., Smith- 
 ville, Jefferson Co., N. Y. 
 
 •American Authors’, International, 
 Westminster, American Novelisfe’, 
 Foreign, Political and Scientiflc, 
 Leather Clad, Detective, Occult, 
 Illustrated, Seaside Library, 
 Comprising the largest collection of 
 popular works of fiction, History and 
 Literature. 
 
 UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY, 
 Publishers, New York. 
 
The St. Louis Mechanic Tradesman 
 
 IS A 16-PAGE WEEKLY PAPER, DEVOTED TO 
 MECHANICAL AND COMMERCIAL INTERESTS. 
 
 IT GIVES AN INTERESTING SUMMARY 
 OP THE MECHANICAL AND SCIENTIFIO NEWS 
 OP THE WEEK, BOTH HOME AND POREIGN, 
 WITHOUT GOING INTO UNNECESSARY TECH- 
 NICALITIES. YEARLY SUBSCRIPTION, $1.50. 
 
 SEND FOR SAMPLE COPY. 
 
 926 North Broadway, St. Louis, Mo. 
 
 VALUABLE TO EVERY LADY. 
 
 No AMERICAN HOUSEKEEPER should be without 
 
 The American Analyst, 
 
 The only Journal published in the interest of 
 PURE FOOD. 
 
 All entertaining and instructive adviser for tlie Kitclien, tlie I>ining 
 Koom, and the Household* 
 
 SEND POSTAL CARD FOR SAMPLE COPY 
 
 Published Weekly- at $i.oo per year. Address 
 
 THE AMERICAN ANALYST, 
 
 19 PARK PLACE, 
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
Brain Workers, Desk Men, Ladies’, 
 Youth’s and Sedentary People’s 
 
 EXERCISER 
 
 For HOME and OFFICE. 
 
 JNO. E. DOWD’S 
 
 COMPIiETE, S5. Circular Free 
 
 Books : “ An ideal Complexion and Com- 
 plete Development,” 39 Ills. 50c ; “ Health and 
 Strength in Physical Culture,” 40 Ills. 50c. ; 
 
 Chart of 40 Athletic cuts for Dumb-Bells and 
 Pulleys, 25c. School for Vocal and Physical 
 
 Culture. 116 Monroe Street, Chicago. 
 
 TRY IT FOR ONE YEAR. 
 
 Is true only of the 
 
 WHEEL Mali’s GAZETTE. 
 
 an illustrated monthly mag- 
 azine devoted to the grand- 
 est, healthiest, most manly 
 sport in the world,— cycling. 
 
 yoa a V/l2®®Imar2? 
 
 Whether you are or not you are sure to be Inter- 
 ested In our paper. You can’t help It. Its sketches, 
 poems and stories are interesting to all. They are 
 pure and healthful in their tone. They breathe of 
 green fields and shady lanes, and are a constant 
 insplrer of a love of nature. 
 
 To convince you that our paper is all we claim 
 for it in every particular if you will send your name 
 and address we will send vou a sample copy 
 Then if you want to try it for a year, as you surely 
 will, it will cost you only &0 
 
 Cheap Enough, Isn’t It? 
 
 LIBEBAL COMMISSIONS TO CLUB BAISEBS. 
 
 Address the Publisher:— 
 
 BEN L DARROW, 
 
 12<n3. 
 
A GOOD RECORD. 
 
 It was The Educational Courant of Louisville, Ky., which so 
 emphatically and specifically called the especial attention of Teachers 
 and educators all over the country to the good record made by the 
 American Journal of Educatio^t^ and its splendid and immediate prac- 
 tical results. 
 
 The Courant^ in speaking of the direct money value to all teachers 
 of the circulation of this journal, among the people, said: 
 
 “ A year or two ago the Editor of the American Journal of Educa- 
 tion^ St. Louis, urged that a liberal distribution of that paper among the 
 teachers, school officers and tax-payers, would re-imburse each teacher 
 four-fold its cost in one year. The teachers caught the idea, and wisely 
 and zealously aided until one hundred and fifty thousand copies were put 
 into circulation. At the close of the year the Report of the Superin- 
 tendent of Public Instruction for Missouri showed an average increase of 
 teacher s'* wages at $19.62. Of course, it was not claimed that all this 
 was due to the Journal^ but that it was an active and prompt factor in 
 securing the desired result no intelligent person will deny.” 
 
 Address J. B. Merwin, Managing Editor, 1120 Pine St., St. Louis, 
 Mo., for subscription or sample copies. Price, $1.50 per year. 
 
 SCHOOL 
 
 If you want the School Desks, the best “Aids to School 
 Discipline,” Slated Paper, or any other style of Black Boards or any 
 other “Tools to Work With” in the school-room, such as Maps, 
 Globes, Charts or Black Boards, the best thing to do is to write the 
 J. B. Merwin School Supply Co., St. Louis, Mo., for Special Introduc- 
 tory Prices on these articles. This firm furnishes the best goods at the 
 lowest prices, and v/ill take plearure in answering all inquiries. 
 Address the 
 
 J. B. MERWIN SCHOOL SUPPLY CO., 
 
 1120 PINE STREET, 
 
 ST. LOUIS, MO. 
 
THE JOURNAL OF SOCIETY. 
 E. D. MANN, Proprietor. 
 
 Published (New York) Every Thursday. 
 
 ** Between the' lines of raillery and cynicism to 
 read great lessons of lifCt morality and hope,** 
 
 The newsiest, brightest, wittiest, wisest, clever- 
 est, most original, and most entertaining paper 
 ever published. 
 
 A complete and perfect journal for cultivated 
 men and women, being a topical and out- 
 ^oken critic and chronicle of the*" events, doings, 
 interests, and tastes of the fashionable world. It 
 is always up to date, and carries with it the atmos- 
 phere of the metropolis. 
 
 In purity and power of literary style it has 
 no equal on this continent. 
 
 A veritable symposium of well-bred satire; 
 deftness and daintiness of touch; strength, inde- 
 pendence and originality of thought; refined 
 namor; caustic conunent; piquancy of jest; 
 sliort stories ; musical, diamatic. literary and 
 art criticism, and topical sketciies. 
 
 . The fame of its Financial Department, 
 as the most reliable authority on financial sub- 
 jects, investments and speculation, is world-wide. 
 
 Its interest is by no means local; being the rec- 
 ognized journal of American society, 
 it is equally entertaining in all parts of the country. 
 
 For sale each week by all first-class newsdealers 
 in America and Europe. Every newsdealer will 
 keep and supply it if requested. Newsdealers 
 supplied by the American News Co., 39 Chambers 
 Street, New York, and by all other news companies. 
 
 Regular subscriptions may be sent direct 
 to office of publication, orthrough any newsdealer 
 or subscription agency: One year. $4.00; six months, 
 $2.50; three months, $1.30. Samples free. 
 
 Address : TOWN TOPICS, 
 
 ai West 23d St.j New Yorls City, N. 
 
The oldest Catholic Paper in the United states. 
 
 Established October 13th. 1831 . 
 
 Catholic T elegraph, 
 
 S. W. Cor. Vine and Longworth Sts., 
 
 P. O. BOX 420. CINCINNATI, OHIO. 
 
 SUBSCRIPTION BATE, $3.00 PER YEAR, 
 
 Postage Prepaid. — Single Copies, 5 cents. 
 
 A Newspaper which should be in every 
 Catholic Family. 
 
 ALWAYS PURE, BRIGHT AND ENTERTAINING. 
 
 PHOTOGRAPHIC 
 
 AMATEUR 
 
 FROM $5.00 UP. SEND FOR PRICE LIST. 
 
 The unriTalled OSTEOSCOPE LENSES are the best for all Mnds of work. 
 
 Printing and finishing of pictures from amateur’s negatives a 
 specialty ; also mounting of foreign views on cards or in albums. 
 
 Send 25 cents in stamps for copy of American Journal of Photo- 
 graphy, beautifully illustrated, the leading photographic magazine. 
 
 THOS. H. McCOLLIN & CO., 
 
 1030 ARCH STREET, PHILADELPHIA, 
 
Awaboeo •• M E DAL roR PE RtO RITY"-Amebican I nstitotb, 1 896. 
 
 * * * The addition of 
 stenograpy and typewriting 
 the education of young peo- 
 ple increases very materially 
 their chances of making a 
 livelihood.— W. T. Harris, 
 U. S. Commissioner of Edu- 
 cation. 
 
 “Nalional’ 
 
 The Best and most complete Standard 
 Writing Machine made. 
 
 Smallest and most comprehensive double 
 case finger key Typewriter. 
 
 29 Keys, 81-85 Characters. 
 
 Perfect Manif older. 
 
 Embodies every good quality found in 
 other Writing Machines, and has 
 many points of superiority, all its 
 own. 
 
 The highest achievement in the art. 
 
 Send for illustrated pamphlet, ^ving 
 full detail and fac-simile or key- 
 board. 
 
 Factory and 1 NATIONAL TYPEWRITER CO., 
 
 denepal0ffices:f715, 717 A 719 Arch St.. Philadelphia, Pa.. U. S. A. 
 
 B. J. Woodward, Pres. H. H. Unz, Vice-Pres. and Manager. J. M. Butler, Sec. and Treas, 
 (mention seaside library.) * 
 
 No Man Who Shoots 
 
 Gets a quarter of the good out of the world that 
 he might, unless he reads Forest and Stream.** 
 
 Every Man Who Goes Fishing^ 
 
 Misses it too unless he sees what other anglers 
 write for the “ Forest and Stream.** Send lO cents 
 for this week’s issue* 
 
 We send FREE CATALOGUE of best hooks on 
 Shooting, Fishing, the Gog, Yachting, Canoeing, 
 Outdoor Life, Travel, Adventure. 
 
 FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHlNa CO., 
 
 318 Broadway, New York. 
 
THE YOUNG IDEA, 
 
 THE ONLY EDUCATIONAL MAGAZINE FOR CHILDREN. 
 
 Every Story is Instructive. Every Instructive Article 
 is a Story. The Habits and Dress of Foreign Countries. 
 Their Birds, Animals, Fish and Plants. 
 
 SAMPLE COPY FREE. PRICE, 50 CENTS A YEAR. 
 
 Address THE YOUNG IDEA, 
 
 31 Pemberton Square, BOSTON, MASS. 
 
 THE 
 
 National Young Folks Reading Circle 
 
 Org^anized May 1, 1888 ; Incorporated Oct. 1, 1889. 
 
 For the promotion of good reading among our boys and girls. 
 Three grades, the Senior Grade designed for adults. Four years’ reading 
 secures a diploma. Ten books a year. Selected by eminent librarians 
 and scholars. Annual membership fee, 25 cents. Charters furnished 
 to local circles. Every book is an interesting reading book — not for study. 
 Special courses in Literature, History, Science, Art, etc. Send for circu- 
 lars and lists of books to 
 
 S. R. WINCHELL, Manager, 
 
 CHAMPAIGN, ILLINOIS. 
 
 The Florida Farmer & Fruit Grower 
 
 A TWENTY-PAGE ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY 
 
 For Grove and Garden, Farm and Home.” 
 
 ESTABLISHED IN 1869. 
 
 The LEADING HOETICVLTVRAL JOURNAL OF THE GULF STATES, 
 Each issue contains detailed and descriptive information about the State and the 
 resources and advantages of its several sections. Also classified departments on 
 practical Farnfing, Gardening, Fruit Growing, Stock Raising, Poultry Keeping, and 
 kindred interests in the State ; a department on home-life and home making in 
 Florida, and other matter of interest to all whose attention is turned Southward. 
 
 Subscription, $2 per Year. On trial for Three Months, 50c. Specimen Copies FREE. 
 
 CHAS. W. DA COSTA, Jacksonville, Fla. 
 
 TO THOSE WHO “DO NOT CARE FOR A RELIGIOUS PAPER:" 
 
 Would it make any difference to you if you knew of one that does not advo 
 cate the doctrines of everlasting punishment, vicarious atonement, miracles 
 and an infallible Bible ? ^ 
 
 One that does stand for common sense in religion, “truth for authority,” 
 believes that religion should be friendly to science, and advocates a religious 
 fellowship that will welcome all of every belief who are willing to work for 
 truth, righteousness and love in the world ?— 
 
 One that does not fill its space with learned or ignorant discussions of scripture 
 texts, but does give every week 32 columns of fresh and rational reading, inclu- 
 ding a sermon on some living topic, editorials and contributions on current 
 events; and news of the progress of liberal religious thought ? If you think you 
 might care for such a paper, send your subscription (only a dollar a year to 
 
 UNITY 
 
 JENKIN EEYOn JONES, Senior Editor 
 
 . CEEIA PARKER WOOL.PEY, Assistant Editor, 
 
 Seventeen fditorial contriTwtors, from five different religious organizations. 
 
 ^HARIiES H. KERR & CO., Publishers, 175 Dearborn St. , Chicago. 
 
Prospectlis-THE SEASIDE LIBRARY-1891. 
 
 The seaside LIBRARY, which for many years has been 
 acknowledged as the leading popular Series, has recently 
 been largely augmented by the addition of many hundred 
 volumes, which were formerly published in LOVELL^S 
 LIBRARY and MUNRO^S LIBRARY. It has now by far the 
 most complete list of titles ever issued in one series, com- 
 prising fully two thousand volumes — a complete Library in 
 itself — including nearly every popular work in modern and 
 current literature. This places it so far beyond any existing 
 series for extent, quality, and variety that no comparison 
 can be drawn. This fact, and the extremely low price, which 
 brings it within the reach of all, are the reasons why it has 
 gained its present commanding position. 
 
 Notwithstanding the remarkable success of the SEASIDE 
 LIBRARY in the past, it is the intention of its present 
 publishers to equal, if not excel this progress in the future, 
 and to this end they have, through their Agent in London, 
 made arrangements with nearly every prominent European 
 writer, under which their new works will be included in this 
 series. Additions to the list are being made at the rate 
 of three books each week, selected from the best works in 
 current literature, from the pens of the leading writers of 
 the world. This rapid addition of titles renders it impos- 
 sible to issue at any time a complete catalogue, but the list 
 in the back of this volume, will be found a great conven-- 
 ience for reference and guide in ordering. The various 
 numbers of the SEASIDE LIBRARY are always in print, and 
 can be obtained from any BooksellA: or Newsdealer, or 
 will be sent post paid on receipt of price by the publishers. 
 
 UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO 
 
 JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 
 
 P. O. Box 1992. 
 
 New York. 
 
The Seaside Library-Pocket Edition. 
 
 Always Unchanged and Unabridged. 
 
 WITH HANDSOME LITHOGRAPHED PAPER COVER. 
 
 Persons who wish to purchase the following works in a complete and un- 
 abridged form are cautioned to order and see that they get The Seaside Li- 
 brary, Pocket Edition, as works published in other libraries are frequently 
 abridged and incomplete. Every number of The Seaside Library is 
 
 Always Unchanged and Unabridged. 
 
 Newsdealers wishing catalogues of The Seaside Library, Pocket Edi- 
 tion, bearing their imprint, will be supplied on sending their names, 
 addresses, and number required. 
 
 The works in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, are printed from 
 larger type and on better paper than any other series published. 
 
 The following works are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any 
 address, postage free, on receipt of the price. Address 
 
 GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 
 
 P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Yandewater Street, New York. 
 
 AUTHORS’ CATALOGUE. 
 
 \When ordering by mail please order by number sJ] 
 
 Works by the author of **Addie’s 
 Husband.” 
 
 388 Addie’s Husband ; or. Through 
 
 Clouds to Sunshine * 
 
 504 My Poor Wife * 
 
 1046 Jessie -. .. 20 
 
 Works by the author of ‘‘A Fatal 
 Dower.” 
 
 246 A Fatal Dower 20 
 
 372 Phyllis’ Probation * 
 
 461 His Wedded Wife 20 
 
 829 The Actor’s Ward 20 
 
 1373 The Story of an Error 20 
 
 Works by the author of ” A Great 
 Mistake.” 
 
 244 A Great Mistake . . 20 
 
 588 Cherry * 
 
 1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal. 1st half... 20 
 
 1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal. 2d half 20 
 
 1137 Prince Charming ^ 
 
 1187 Suzanne 20 
 
 By the Author of ‘^A Golden 
 Bar.” 
 
 483 Betwixt My Love and Me * 
 
 By the Author of “By Crooked 
 Paths.” 
 
 430 A Bitter Reckoning * 
 
 By the Author of “ Quadroona.” 
 
 1356 Plot and Counterplot 20 
 
 By Mrs. Leith Adams. 
 
 1345 Aunt Hepsy’s Foundling 20 
 
 By Hamilton Aide. 
 
 383 Introduced to Society * 
 
 Gustave Aimard’s Works. 
 
 1341 The Trappers of Arkansas * 
 
 1396 The Adventurers * 
 
 1398 Pirates of the Prairies * 
 
 1400 Queen of the Savannah * 
 
 1401 The Buccaneer Chief * 
 
 1402 The Smuggler Hero * 
 
 1404 The Rebel Chief * 
 
 By Mary Albert. 
 
 933 A Hidden Terror 20 
 
 Grant Allen’s Works. 
 
 712 For Maimie’s Sake 20 
 
 1221 “ The Tents of Shem ” 20 
 
 Works by the author of “A 
 Woman’s Love-Story.” 
 
 322 A Woman’s Love-Story * 
 
 677 Griselda 20 
 
 Mrs. Alexander’s Works. 
 
 5 The Admiral’s Ward 20 
 
 17 The Wooing O’t 20 
 
 62 The Executor 20 
 
 189 Valerie’s Fate * 
 
 229 Maid, Wife, or Widow?.... * 
 
 236 Which Shall it Be? 20 
 
 339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid.. * 
 
 490 A Second Life 20 
 
 564 At Bay [ * 
 
 794 Beaton’s Bargain 20 
 
 797 Look Before You Leap 20 
 
 805 The Freres. 1st half 20 
 
 805 The Freres. 2d half 20 
 
 806 Her Dearest Foe. 1st half.... 20 
 
 806 Her Dearest Foe. 2d half 20 
 
 814 The Heritage of Langdale 20 
 
 815 Ralph Wilton’s Weird * 
 
 900 By Woman’s Wit ‘>0 
 
2 
 
 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 
 
 997 Forging the Fetters, and The 
 
 Australian Aunt 20 
 
 1054 Mona’s Choice 20 
 
 1057 A Life Interest 20 
 
 1189 A Crooked Path 20 
 
 1199 A False Scent * 
 
 1367 Heart Wins * 
 
 1459 A Woman’s Heart 20 
 
 1571 Blind Fate 20 
 
 Alison’s Works. 
 
 194 “ So Near, and Yet So Far . * 
 
 278 For Life and Love * 
 
 481 The House That Jack Built. . . * 
 
 By Hans Christian Andersen. 
 
 1314 Andersen’s Fairy Tales 20 
 
 By W. P. Andrews. 
 
 1172 India and Her Neighbors 20 
 
 F. Aiistey’s Works. 
 
 59 Vice Versa 20 
 
 225 The Giant’s Robe 20 
 
 503 The Tinted Venus. A Farcical 
 
 Romance * 
 
 819 A Fallen Idol 20 
 
 By Annie Armitt. 
 
 759 In Shallow Waters 20 
 
 By G. W. Appleton. 
 
 1346 A Terrible Legacy 20 
 
 By T. S. Arthur. 
 
 1337 Woman’s Trials 20 
 
 R. M. Ballantyne’s Works. 
 
 89 The Red Eric * 
 
 95 The Fire Brigade * 
 
 96 Erling the Bold * 
 
 772 Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood 
 
 Trader 20 
 
 Honore De Balzac’s Works. 
 
 776 P^reGoriot 20 
 
 1128 Cousin Pons 20 
 
 1318 The Vendetta 20 
 
 8. Bariner-Goiild’s Works, 
 
 787 Court Royal 20 
 
 878 Little Tu’penny * 
 
 1122 Eve 20 
 
 1201 Mehalah: A Story of the Salt 
 
 Marshes 20 
 
 Frank Barrett’s Works. 
 
 986 The Great ITesper 20 
 
 1138 Recoiling Vengeance 20 
 
 1245 Fettered for lafe 20 
 
 1611 Between Life and Death. ...... 20 
 
 Basil’s Works, 
 
 344 “ The Wearing of the Green ’, 20 
 
 547 A Coquette's Conquest 20 
 
 585 A Drawn Game 20 
 
 Anne Beale’s Works. 
 
 188 Idonea 20 
 
 199 The Fisher Village * 
 
 By W. Bergrsol. 
 
 1445 Pillone 20 
 
 Walter Besant’s Works. 
 
 97 All in a Garden Fair 20 
 
 137 Uncle Jack * 
 
 140 A Glorious Fortune * 
 
 146 Love Finds the Way, and Other 
 Stories. By Besant and Rice * 
 
 230 Dorothy Forster 20 
 
 324 In Luck at Last * 
 
 541 Uncle Jack * 
 
 651 “ Self or Bearer ” * 
 
 882 Children of Gibeon 20 
 
 904 The Holy Rose * 
 
 906 The World Went Very Well 
 
 Then 20 
 
 980 To Call Her Mine 20 
 
 1055 Katharine Regina 20 
 
 1065 Herr Paulus: His Rise, His 
 
 Greatness, and His Fall 20 
 
 1143 The Inner House 20 
 
 1151 For Faith and Freedom 20 
 
 1240 'I'he Bell of St. Paul’s 20 
 
 1247 The Lament of Dives 20 
 
 1378 They Were Married. By Wal- 
 ter Besant and James Rice. . . * 
 
 1413 Armorel of Lyonesse 20 
 
 1462 Let Nothing You Dismay * 
 
 M. Betham-Ed wards’s Works, 
 273 Love and Mirage; or, The Wait- 
 ing on an Island ^ 
 
 579 The Flower of Doom, and Other 
 
 Stories * 
 
 594 Doctor Jacob 20 
 
 1023 Next of Kin— Wanted 20 
 
 1407 The Parting of the Ways 20 
 
 1543 For One and the World 20 
 
 Bjornstjerne Bjoriisoii’s Works. 
 
 1385 Arne * 
 
 1388 The Happy Boy * 
 
 William Black’s Works. 
 
 1 Yolande 20 
 
 18 Shandon Bells 20 
 
 21 Sunrise : A Story of These 
 
 Times 20 
 
 23 A Princess of Thule 20 
 
 39 In Silk Attire 20 
 
 44 Macleod of Dare 20 
 
 49 That Beautiful Wretch 20 
 
 50 The Strange Adventures of a 
 
 Phaeton 20 
 
 70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 
 mance * 
 
 78 Madcap Violet 20 
 
 81 A Daughter of Heth 20 
 
 124 Tliree Featliers 20 
 
 125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 20 
 
 126 Kilmenv 20 
 
 13*^ Green Pastures and Piccadilly 20 
 
 265 .luditli Shakespeare : Her Love 
 Affaii-s and Other Adventures 20 
 472 The Wise Women of Inverness * 
 
 627 White Heather 20 
 
 898 Romeo and Juliet: A Tale of 
 Two Young Fools 20 
 
THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 
 
 8 
 
 962 Sabina Zembrat. 1st half 20 
 
 962 Sabina Zembra. 2d half 20 
 
 1096 The Strange Adventures of a 
 
 House-Boat 20 
 
 1132 In Far Lochaber 20 
 
 1227 The Penance of John Logan. . 20 
 1259 Nanciebel : A Tale of Stratford- 
 
 on-Avon 20 
 
 1268 Prince Fortunatus 20 
 
 1389 Oliver Goldsmith * 
 
 1394 The Four Macnicols, and Other 
 
 Tales 
 
 1426 An Adventure iu Thule 
 
 R. D. Blackinore’s Works* 
 
 67 Lorna Doone. 1st half 20 
 
 67 Lorna Doone. 2d half 20 
 
 427 The Remarkable History of Sir 
 Thomas Upmore, Bart., M. P. 20 
 
 615 Mary Anerley 20 
 
 625 Erema ; or, My Father’s Sin . . 20 
 
 629 Cripps, the Carrier 20 
 
 630 Cradock Nowell. 1st half 20 
 
 630 Cradock Nowell. 2d half 20 
 
 631 Christowell. A Dartmoor Tale 20 
 
 632 Clara Vaughan 20 
 
 633 The Maid of Sker. 1st half . . . 20 
 633 The Maid of Sker. 2d half. ... 20 
 
 636 Alice Lorraine. 1st half 20 
 
 636 Alice Lorraine. 2d half. 20 
 
 926 Springhaven. 1st half 20 
 
 926 Springhaven. 2d half 20 
 
 1267 Kit and Kitty. 1st half 20 
 
 1267 Kit and Kitty. 2d half 20 
 
 By Isa Blagdeu. 
 
 705 The Woman I Loved, and the 
 Woman Who Loved Me 
 
 By C. Blatlierwick. 
 
 151 The Ducie Diamonds * 
 
 By Frederick Boyle* 
 
 356 The Good Hater 20 
 
 Miss Mo E. Braddon’s Works* 
 
 35 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 
 
 56 Phantom Fortune 20 
 
 74 Aurora Floyd .' 20 
 
 110 Under the Red Flag * 
 
 153 The Golden Calf 20 
 
 204 Vixen 20 
 
 211 The Octoroon * 
 
 234 Barbara ; or. Splendid Misery. 20 
 
 263 An Ishmaelite 20 
 
 315 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
 mas, 1884. Edited by Miss M. 
 
 E. Brad don 20 
 
 434 Wyllard’s Weird 20 
 
 478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daugh- 
 ter. Part 1 20 
 
 478 Diavola ; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
 ter. Part H 20 
 
 480 Married in Haste. Edited by 
 Miss M. E. Braddon 20 
 
 487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss 
 
 M. E. Braddon 20 
 
 488 .Toshua Haggard’s Daughter... 20 
 
 489 Rupert Godwin 20 
 
 495 Mount Royal 20 
 
 496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 
 
 M. E. Braddon 
 
 497 The Lady’s Mile 
 
 498 Only a Clod 
 
 499 The Cloven Foot 
 
 511 A Strange World 
 
 515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 
 
 524 Strangers and Pilgrims 
 
 529 The Doctor’s Wife 
 
 542 Fenton’s Quest 
 
 544 Cut by the County; or, Grace 
 
 Darnel 
 
 548 A Fatal Marriage, and The 
 
 Shadow in the Corner 
 
 549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 
 
 er’s Secret, and George Caul- 
 field’s Journey 
 
 552 Hostages to Fortune 
 
 553 Birds of Prey 
 
 554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (Se- 
 
 quel to “ Birds of Prey ”) 
 
 557 To the Bitter End 
 
 559 Taken at the Flood 
 
 560 Asphodel 
 
 561 Just as I am ; or, A Living Lie 
 
 567 Dead Men’s Shoes 
 
 570 John Marchmont’s Legacy 
 
 618 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
 mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 
 
 E. Braddon 
 
 840 One Thing Needful; or. The 
 
 Penalty of Fate 
 
 881 Mohawks. 1st half 
 
 881 Mohawks. 2d half 
 
 890 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
 mas, 1886. Edited by Miss M. 
 
 E. Braddon 
 
 943 Weavers and Weft; or, “ Love 
 
 that Hath Us in ^^s Net ” 
 
 947 Publicans and Sinners; or, 
 
 Lucius Davoren. 1st half 
 
 947 Publicans and Sinners; or, 
 
 Lucius Davoren. 2d half 
 
 1036 Like and Unlike 
 
 1098 The Fatal Three 
 
 1211 The Day Will Come 20 
 
 1411 Whose Was the Hand? 20 
 
 By Annie Bradshaw* 
 
 706 A Crimson Stain * 
 
 Works by Charlotte M. Braeme, 
 Author of “ Bora Thorne*” 
 
 19 Her Mother’s Sin 20 
 
 51 Dora Thorne 20 
 
 54 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 
 
 68 A Queen Amongst Women * 
 
 69 Madolin’s Lover 20 
 
 73 Redeemed by Love; or, Love’s 
 
 Victory •. 20 
 
 76 Wife in Name Only; or, A 
 
 Broken Heart 20 
 
 79 Wedded and Parted * 
 
 92 Lord Lynne’s Choice 20 
 
 148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 20 
 
 190 Romance of a Black Veil * 
 
 220 Which Loved Him Best?. 20 
 
 ggg 8 g g 88S 8 ggggggg 88 * * * 8S888gBgg 
 
4 
 
 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY—Pocket Edition. 
 
 237 Repented at Leisure. (Large 
 
 type edition) 20 
 
 967 Repented at Leisure * 
 
 249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter;*’ 
 
 or. The Cost of Her Love 20 
 
 250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 
 
 ana’s Discipline 20 
 
 254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair 
 
 but False * 
 
 283 Tlie Sin of a Lifetime ; or, Viv- 
 ien’s Atonement 20 
 
 287 At War With Herself * 
 
 923 At War With Herself. (Large 
 type edition) 20 
 
 288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 
 
 From Out the Gloom 
 
 955 From Gloom to Sunlight; or, 
 
 From Out the Gloom. (Large 
 type edition) 20 
 
 291 Love’s Warfare 20 
 
 292 A Golden Heart 20 
 
 293 The Shadow of a Sin * 
 
 948 The Shadow of a Sin. (Large 
 
 type edition) 20 
 
 294 The False Vow; or, Hilda; or, 
 
 Lady Hutton’s Ward * 
 
 928 Tlie False Vow; or, Hilda; or. 
 Lady Hutton’s Ward. (Large 
 
 type edition) 20 
 
 294 Lady Hutton’sWard; or, Hilda; 
 
 or. The False Vow * 
 
 928 Lady Hutton’s Ward ; or, Hilda; 
 or. The False Vow. (Large 
 type edition") 20 
 
 294 Hilda; or, The False Vow; or. 
 
 Lady Hutton’s Wayd * 
 
 928 Hilda; or. The False Vow; or, 
 Lady Hutton’s Ward. (Large 
 type edition) 20 
 
 295 A Woman’s War.: * 
 
 952 A Woman’s War. (Large type 
 
 edition) 20 
 
 296 A Rose in Thorns 20 
 
 297 Hilary’s Folly; cr. Her Mar- 
 
 riage Vow * 
 
 953 Hilary’s Folly; or, Her Mar- 
 
 riage Vow. (Large type edi- 
 tion) 20 
 
 299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 
 
 from the Sea * 
 
 300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 
 
 Love * 
 
 303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 
 
 ter than Death * 
 
 304 In Cupid’s Net * 
 
 305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 
 
 doline’s Dream * 
 
 306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for 
 
 a Day * 
 
 307 Two Kisses, and Like no Other 
 
 Love * 
 
 308 Beyond Pardon 20 
 
 322 A Woman’s Love-Story 20 
 
 .323 A Willful Maid 20 
 
 411 A Bitter Atonement 20 
 
 433 My Sister Kate * 
 
 459 A Woman’s Temptation. 
 
 (Large type edition) 20 
 
 951 A Woman’s Temptation ♦ 
 
 460 Under a Shadow 
 
 465 The Earl’s Atonement 
 
 466 Between Two Loves 
 
 467 A Struggle for a Ring 
 
 469 Lady Darner’s Secret 
 
 470 Evelyn’s Folly 
 
 471 Thrown on the World 
 
 476 Between Two Sins; or, Married 
 
 in Haste 
 
 516 Put Asunder ; or. Lady Castle- 
 
 maine’s Divorce 
 
 576 Her Martyrdom 
 
 626 A Fair Mystery; or, The Perils 
 
 of Beauty 
 
 741 The Heiress of Hilldrop; or. 
 The Romance of a Young Girl 
 745 For Another’s Sin ; or, A Strug- 
 gle for Love 
 
 792 Set in Diamonds 
 
 821 The World Between Them 
 
 822 A Passion Flower 
 
 853 A True Magdalen 
 
 854 A Woman’s Error 
 
 922 Marjorie 
 
 924 ’Twixt Smile and Tear 
 
 927 Sweet Cymbeline.^ 
 
 929 The Belle of Lynn; or. The 
 
 Miller’s Daughter 
 
 931 Lady Diana’s Pride 
 
 949 Claribel’s Love Story; or, Love’s 
 
 Hidden Depths 
 
 958 A Haunted Life ; or. Her Terri- 
 ble Sin 
 
 969 The Mystery of Colde Fell; or, 
 
 Not Proven 
 
 973 The Squire’s Darling 
 
 975 A Dark Marriage Morn 
 
 978 Her Second Love 
 
 982 The Duke’s Secret 
 
 985 On Her Wedding Morn, and 
 The Mystery of the Holly-Tree 
 988 The Shattered Idol, and Letty 
 
 Leigh 
 
 990 The Earl’s Error, and Arnold’s 
 
 Promise 
 
 995 An Unnatural Bondage, and 
 
 That Beautiful Lady 
 
 1006 His Wife’s Judgment 
 
 1008 A Thorn in Her Heart 
 
 1010 Golden Gates 
 
 1012 A Nameless Sin 
 
 1014 A Mad Love 
 
 1031 Irene’s Vow 
 
 1052 Signa’s Sweetheart 
 
 1091 A Modern Cinderella 
 
 1134 Lord Elesmere’s Wife 
 
 1155 Lured Away; or. The Story of 
 a Wedding - Ring, and The 
 
 Heiress of Arne 
 
 1179 Beauty’s Marriage 
 
 1185 A Fiery Ordeal 
 
 1195 Dumaresq’s Temptation 
 
 1285 Jenny 
 
 1291 The Star of Love 
 
 1328 Lord Lisle’s Daughter 
 
 1415 Weaker than a Woman 
 
 By Fredrika Bremer. 
 
 187 The Midnight Sun * 
 
 
THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket EditIok. 
 
 5 
 
 Charlotte Bronte’s Works. 
 
 15 Jane Eyre 20 
 
 57 Shirley 20 
 
 944 The Professor 20 
 
 Rhoda Broughton’s Works. 
 
 86 Belinda 20 
 
 101 Second Thoughts 20 
 
 227 Nancy 20 
 
 645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains * 
 
 758 “ Good-bye, Sweetheart!” 20 
 
 765 Not Wisely, But Too Well 20 
 
 767 Joan 20 
 
 768 Red as a Rose is She 20 
 
 769 Cometh Up as a Flower 20 
 
 862 Betty’s Visions * 
 
 894 Doctor Cupid 20 
 
 1599 Alas! 20 
 
 Robert Buchanan’s Works. 
 
 145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The 
 
 Man 20 
 
 154 Annan Water 20 
 
 181 The New Abelard * 
 
 398 Matt : A Tale of a Caravan ... * 
 
 646 The Master of the Mine 20 
 
 892 That Winter Night; or. Love’s 
 
 Victory * 
 
 1074 Stormy Waters 20 
 
 1104 The Heir of Linne 20 
 
 1350 Love Me Forever. * 
 
 1455 The Moment After 20 
 
 Captain Fred Burnaby’s Works. 
 
 375 A Ride to Khiva 20 
 
 384 On Horseback Through Asia 
 Minor 20 
 
 By John Bloundelle-Burton. 
 
 913 The Silent Shore ; or, The Mys- 
 tery of St. James’ Park 20 
 
 By Beatrice M. Butt. 
 
 1354 Delicia 20 
 
 E. Liasseter Bynner’s Works. 
 
 1456 Nimport 30 
 
 1460 Tritons 30 
 
 Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron’s Works. 
 
 595 A North Country Maid 
 
 796 In a Grass Country 
 
 891 Vera Nevill; or. Poor Wisdom’s 
 
 Chance 
 
 912 Pure Gold . . 
 
 963 Worth Winning 
 
 1025 Daisy’s Dilemma 
 
 1028 A Devout Lover ; or, A Wasted 
 
 Love 
 
 1070 A Life’s Mistake 
 
 1204 The Lodge by the Sea 
 
 1205 A Lost Wife 
 
 1236 Her Father’s Daughter 
 
 1261 Wild George’s Daughter 
 
 1290 The Cost of a Lie 
 
 1292 Bosky Dell 
 
 By Lady Colin Campbell. 
 
 1325 Darell Blake 
 
 Rosa Nonchette Carey’s Work 
 
 215 Not Like Other Girls 
 
 396 Robert Ord’s Atonement 
 
 551 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. 1st 
 
 half 
 
 551 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. 2d 
 
 half 
 
 608 For Lilias. 1st half 
 
 608 For Lilias. 2d half 
 
 930 Uncle Max. 1st half 
 
 930 Uncle Max. 2d half 
 
 932 Queenie’s Whim. 1st half 
 
 932 Queenie’s Whim. 2d half 
 
 934 Wooed and Married. 1st half. 
 
 934 Wooed and Married. 2d half. 
 
 936 Nellie’s Memories. 1st half. . . 
 
 936 Nellie’s Memories. 2d half. . . 
 
 961 Wee Wifie 
 
 1033 Esther: A Story for Girls 
 
 1064 Only the Governess 
 
 1135 Aunt Diana 
 
 1194 The Search for Basil Lyndhurst 
 
 1208 Merle’s Crusade 
 
 1545 Lover or Friend? 
 
 By Alice Comyns Carr. 
 
 571 Paul Crew’s Story * 
 
 By Lord Byron. 
 
 719 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. . . * 
 E. Fairfax Byrrne’s Works. 
 
 521 Entangled 20 
 
 538 A Fair Country Maid 20 
 
 By Mrs. Caddy. 
 
 127 Adrian Bright 20 
 
 Hall Caine’s Works. 
 
 445 The Shadow of a Crime 20 
 
 520 She’s All the World to Me * 
 
 1234 The Deemster 20 
 
 1255 The Bondman ^ 
 
 By Ada Cambridge. 
 
 1583 A Marked Man 20 
 
 Lewis Carroll’s Works. 
 
 462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
 land. Illustrated by John 
 
 Tenniel 20 
 
 789 Through the Looking-Glass, 
 and What Alice Found There. 
 Illustrated by John Tenniel. . 20 
 
 By John Coleman. 
 
 504 Curly: An Actor’s Story. * 
 
 By C. R. Coleridge. 
 
 403 An English Squire 20 
 
 By Erckmann-Chatrian. 
 
 329 The Polish Jew. (Translated 
 from the French by Caroline 
 A. Merighi.) ♦ 
 
 
6 
 
 THE SEASIDE LlBRAkY— Pocket Edition. 
 
 J. Maclaren Cobban^ s Works# 
 
 485 Tinted Vapours * 
 
 1279 Master of His Fate 20 
 
 1511 A Reverend Gentleman 20 
 
 By Beatrice Collensie. 
 
 1352 A Double Blarriage 20 
 
 Wilkie Collins’s Works. 
 
 52 The New Magdalen * 
 
 102 The Moonstone 20 
 
 167 Heart and Science 20 
 
 168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 
 
 and Collins 
 
 175 Love’s Random Shot, and 
 
 Other Stories 
 
 233 “ I Say No or, The Love-Let- 
 
 ter Answered. . 20 
 
 508 The Girl at the Gate * 
 
 591 The Queen of Hearts 20 
 
 613 The Ghost’s Touch, and Perc 3 ^ 
 
 and the Prophet * 
 
 623 Mj’^ Lady’s Money * 
 
 701 Tlie Woman in White. 1st half 20 
 701 The Woman in White. 2d half 20 
 
 702 Man and Wife. 1st half. 20 
 
 702 Man and Wife. 2d half 20 
 
 764 The Evil Genius 20 
 
 896 The Guilty River 20 
 
 ‘ 946 The Dead Secret 20 
 
 977 The Haunted Hotel 20 
 
 1029 Armadale. 1st half 20 
 
 1029 Armadale. 2d half 20 
 
 1095 The Legacy of Cain 20 
 
 1119 No Name. 1st half 20 
 
 1119 No Name. 2d half 20 
 
 1269 Blind Love 20 
 
 1347 A Rogue’s Life 20 
 
 Mabel Collins’s Works. 
 
 749 Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter. . . 20 
 828 The PrettiestW Oman in Warsaw 20 
 
 M. J. Colaiilioun’s Works. 
 
 624 Primus in Indis * 
 
 1469 Every Inch a Soldier 20 
 
 Hugh Conway’s Works. 
 
 240 Called Back * 
 
 251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 
 Other Tales * 
 
 301 Dark Days * 
 
 302 The Blatchford Bequest * 
 
 341 A Dead Man’s Face * 
 
 502 Carriston’s Gift * 
 
 525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories * 
 
 543 A Family Affair 20 
 
 601 Slings and Arrows, and Other 
 
 Stories * 
 
 711 A Cardinal Sin 20 
 
 804 Living or Dead 20 
 
 830 Bound by a Spell 20 
 
 1353 All In One 20 
 
 J» Fenimore Cooper’s Works. 
 
 60 The Last of the Mohicans 20 
 
 63 The Spy 20 
 
 309 The Pathfinder 20 
 
 310 The Prairie 
 
 ,318 The Pioneers; or. The Sources 
 
 of the Susquehanna 
 
 349 Thd Two Admirals 
 
 359 The Water-Witch 
 
 361 The Red Rover ... 
 
 373 Wing and Wing 
 
 378 Homeward Bound; or. The 
 
 Chase 
 
 379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 
 
 “Homeward Bound”) 
 
 380 Wyandotte; or, The Hutted 
 
 Knoll 
 
 385 The Headsman; or, The Ab- 
 
 baye des Vignerons 
 
 394 The Bravo 
 
 397 Lionel Lincoln; or. The Leag- 
 uer of Boston 
 
 400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish. . 
 
 413 Afloat and Ashore 
 
 414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 
 
 “ Afloat and Ashore ”) 
 
 415 The Ways of the Hour 
 
 416 Jack 3’ier ; or, The Florida Reef 
 
 419 The Chainbearer; or. The Lit- 
 
 tle-page Manuscripts 
 
 420 Satanstoe ; or. The Littlepage 
 
 Manuscripts 
 
 421 The Redskins ; or, Indian and 
 
 Injin. Being the conclusion 
 of the Littlepage Manuscripts 
 
 422 Precaution 
 
 423 The Sea Lions; or. The Lost 
 
 Sealers 
 
 424 Mercedes of Castile; or. The 
 
 Voyage to Cathay 
 
 425 The Oak-Openings; or. The 
 
 Bee-Hunter 
 
 431 The Monikins 
 
 1062 The Deerslayer ; or. The First 
 
 War-Path. 1st half 
 
 1062 The Deerslayer; or, The First 
 
 War-Path. 2d half 
 
 1170 The Pilot 
 
 20 
 
 20 
 
 Marie Corelli’s Works. 
 
 1068 Vendetta ! or. The Story of One 
 
 Forgotten 
 
 1131 Thelma. 1st half 
 
 1131 Thelma. 2d half 
 
 1329 My Wonderful Wife! 
 
 By Madame Cottin. 
 
 1366 Elizabeth 
 
 Georgiana M. Craik’s Woi 
 
 450 Godfrey Helstone 
 
 606 Mrs. Hollyer 
 
 B. M. Croker’s Works, 
 
 207 Pretty Miss Neville . . 
 
 260 Proper Pride 
 
 412 Some One Else 
 
 1124 Diana Barrington 
 
 1607 Two Masters 
 
 gg ' , ,ggg gg g gg g g gg g g ggg ggg gg B § S 8ggg 
 
THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 
 
 7 
 
 May Crommelin’s Works. 
 
 452 In the West Countrie 20 
 
 619 Joy; or. The Light of Cold- 
 
 Home Ford 20 
 
 647 Goblin Gold * 
 
 1327 Midge 20 
 
 1399 Violet Vyvian, M.F.H 20 
 
 By Stuart C. Cumberland. 
 
 641 The Rabbi’s Spell * 
 
 By K. H. Dana, Jr. 
 
 311 Two Years Before the Mast 20 
 
 By Frank Danby. 
 
 1379 The Copper Crash 20 
 
 By Joyce Darrell. 
 
 163 Winifred Power 20 
 
 Alphonse Daudet’s Works. 
 
 534 Jack.. 20 
 
 574 The Nabob : A Story of Parisiar 
 
 Life and Manners 20 
 
 1368 Lise Tavernier * 
 
 By Daniel Defoe. 
 
 1312 Robinson Crusoe 30 
 
 By R. D’Ennery. 
 
 242 The T^vo Orphans * 
 
 By Hugh De Norinand. 
 
 1554 The Gypsy Queen 20 
 
 Thomas De Quincey’s Works. 
 1059 Confessions of an English Opi- 
 um-Eater 20 
 
 1380 The Soanish Nun * 
 
 By Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling. 
 
 382 Three Sisters 
 
 Carl Detlef’s Works. 
 
 1086 Nora 20 
 
 1418 Irene 20 
 
 Charles Dickens’s Works. 
 
 10 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 
 
 22 David Copperfield. Vol. I 20 
 
 22 David Copperfield. Vol. IT... 20 
 
 24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. 1 20 
 
 24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. II 20 
 
 37 Nicholas Nickleby. 1st half.. 20 
 37 Nicholas Nickleby. 2d half . . . 20 
 
 41 Oliver Twist 20 
 
 77 A Tale of Two Cities . . 20 
 
 84 Hard Times. * 
 
 91 Barnaby Rudge. 1st half. ... 20 
 
 91 Barnaby Rudge. 2d half 20 
 
 94 Little Dorrit. 1st half 20 
 
 94 Little Dorrit. 2d half 20 
 
 106 Bleak House. 1st half 20 
 
 106 Bleak House. 2d half 20 
 
 107 Dombey and. Son. 1st half ... 20 
 
 107 Dombey and Son. 2d half 20 
 
 108 The Cricket on the Hearth, and 
 
 Doctor Marigold * 
 
 131 Our Mutual Friend. 1st half. 20 
 
 131 Our Mutual Friend. 2d half.. 20 
 
 132 Metster Humphrey’s Clock, ... * 
 
 152 The Uncommercial Traveler. . 20 
 
 168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 
 
 and Collins * 
 
 169 The Haunted Man * 
 
 437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
 
 Chuzzlewit. 1st half 20 
 
 437 Life and x\d ventures of Martin 
 Chuzzlewit. 2d half 20 
 
 439 Great Expectations 20 
 
 440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings * 
 
 447 American Notes 20 
 
 448 Pictures From Italy, and The 
 
 Mud fog Papers, &c 20 
 
 454 The Mystery of Edwin Drood. 20 
 
 456 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative 
 of Every-day Life and Every- 
 day People 20 
 
 676 A Child’s History of England. 20 
 
 By the Rt. Hon. Benjamin Disra- 
 eli, Earl of Beaconsfield. 
 
 793 Vivian Grey. In two parts, each 20 
 
 By the Author of “Dr. Edith 
 Romney.” 
 
 612 My Wife’s Niece 20 
 
 By Earl of De.sart. 
 
 1301 The Little Chatelaine 20 
 
 !!»arah Doudney’s Works. 
 
 338 The Family Difficulty 
 
 679 Where Two Ways Meet 
 
 By A. Conan Doyle. 
 
 1305 The Firm of Girdlestone 20 
 
 F. Du Boisgobey’s Works. 
 
 82 Sealed Lips 20 
 
 104 The Coral Pin. Isf half 20 
 
 104 The Coral Pin. 2d half 20 
 
 264 Pi6douche, a French Detective * 
 328 Babiole. the Pretty Milliner. 
 
 First half 20 
 
 328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 
 
 Second half 20 
 
 -153 The Lottery Ticket 20 
 
 475 The Prima Donna’s Husband. 20 
 
 522 Zig-Zag, the Clown ; or, The 
 
 Steel Gauntlets 20 
 
 523 The Consequences of a Duel. A 
 
 Parisian Romance 20 
 
 648 The Angel of the Bells 20 
 
 697 The Pretty Jailer. 1st- half . . . 20 
 697 The Pretty Jailer. 2d half.. .. 20 
 699 The Sculptor’s Daughter. 1st 
 
 half 20 
 
 699 The Sculptor’s Daughter. 2d 
 
 half 20 
 
 782 The Closed Door. 1st half 20 
 
 782 The Closed Door. 2d half. ... 20 
 851 The Cry of Blood. 1st half... 20 
 
 851 The Cry of Blood. 2d half 20 
 
 918 The Red Band. 1st half 20 
 
 918 The Red Band. 2d half 20 
 
 942 Cash on Delivery 20 
 
 1076 The Mystery of an Omnibus.. 20 
 
 1080 Bertha’s Secret. 1st half 20 
 
 1080 Bertha’s Secret. 2d half 20 
 
 1082 The Severed Hand. 1st half.. 20 
 1082 The Severed Hand. 2d halL. 20 
 
8 
 
 THE SEASIDE LIBKARY— Pocket Edition. 
 
 1085 The Matapan Affair. 1st half 20 
 1085 The Matapan Affair. 2d half 20 
 1088 The Old Age of Monsieur Le- 
 
 coq. 1st half 20 
 
 1088 The Old Age of Monsieur Le- 
 coq. 2d half 20 
 
 “The Duchess’ Worus. 
 
 2 Molly Bawn 20 
 
 6 Portia 20 
 
 14 Airy Fairy Lilian 20 
 
 16 Phyllis 20 
 
 25 Mrs. Geoffrey. (Large type 
 
 edition) 20 
 
 950 Mrs. Geoffrey * 
 
 29 Beauty’s Daughters * 
 
 30 Faith and Unfaith 20 
 
 118 Loys, Lord Berresford, and 
 
 Eric Dering * 
 
 119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. . * 
 
 123 Sweet is True Love * 
 
 129 Rossmoyne * 
 
 134 The Witching Hour, and Other 
 
 Stories * 
 
 136 “That Last Rehearsal,” and 
 
 Other Stories * 
 
 166 Moonshine and Marguerites... * 
 171 Fortune’s Wheel, and Other 
 
 Stories * 
 
 284 Doris 20 
 
 312 A Week’s Amusement; or, A 
 
 Week in Killarney . ! * 
 
 342 The Baby, and One New Year’s 
 
 Eve * 
 
 390 Mildred Trevanion * 
 
 404 In Durance Vile, and Other 
 Stories * 
 
 486 Dick’s Sweetheart 20 
 
 494 A Maiden All Forlorn, and Bar- 
 bara * 
 
 517 A Passive Crime, and Other 
 
 Stories * 
 
 541 “ As It Fell Upon a Day.” * 
 
 733 Lady B ranks mere 20 
 
 771 A Mental Struggle 20 
 
 785 The Haunted Chamber * 
 
 862 Ugly Barrington * 
 
 875 Lady Valworth's Diamotids. . . 20 
 1009 In an Evil Hour, and Other 
 
 Stories 20 
 
 1016 A Modern Circe 20 
 
 ia35 The Duchess 20 
 
 1047 Marvel 20 
 
 1103 The Honorable Mrs. Vereker. . 20 
 
 1123 Under-Currents ■ 20 
 
 1197 “Jerry.” — “That Night in 
 June.”— A Wrong Tiiniing.— 
 
 Irish Love and Mnrriage * 
 
 1209 A Troublesome Girl 20 
 
 1249 A Life’s Remorse 20 
 
 1333 A Born Coquette 20 
 
 1363 “April’s I^dy ” 20 
 
 1453 Her Last Throw 20 
 
 Alexander Dumas’s Works. 
 
 55 The Three Guardsmen 20 
 
 75 Twenty Years After 20 
 
 262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 
 Parti 30 
 
 262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 
 
 Part H 30 
 
 717 Beau Tancrede ; or, The Mar- 
 riage Verdict 20 
 
 1058 Masaniello; or. The Fisherman 
 
 of Naples 20 
 
 1340 The Son of Monte-Cristo. 1st 
 
 half 20 
 
 1340 The Son of Monte-Cristo. 2d 
 half 20 
 
 George Ebers’s W'orks. 
 
 474 Serapis. An Historical Novel 
 
 983 Uarda 
 
 1056 The Bride of the Nile. 1st half 
 1056 The Bride of the Nile. 2d half 
 
 1094 Homo Sum 
 
 1097 The Burgomaster’s Wife 
 
 1101 An Egyptian Princess. Vol. I. 
 1101 An Egyptian Princess. Vol. H. 
 
 1106 The Emperor 
 
 1112 Only a Word 
 
 1114 The Sisters 
 
 1198 Gred of Nuremberg. A Ro- 
 mance of the Fifteenth Cent- 
 ury 
 
 1266 Joshua: A Biblical Picture 
 
 Maria Edgeworth’s Works. 
 
 708 Ormond 
 
 788 The Absentee. An Irish Story. 
 
 Amelia B. Edwards’s Works. 
 
 99 Barbara’s History 
 
 1364 My Brother’s Wife 
 
 Mrs. Annie Edwards’s Works 
 
 644 A Girton Girl 
 
 834 A Ballroom Repentance 
 
 835 Vivian the Beauty 
 
 836 A Point of Honor 
 
 837 A Vagabond Heroine 
 
 838 Ought We to Visit Her? 
 
 839 Leah: A Woman of Fashion.. 
 
 841 Jet: Her Face or Her Fortune? 
 
 842 A Blue-Stocking 
 
 843 Archie Lovell 
 
 844 Susan Fielding 
 
 845 Philip Earnscliffe ; or. The 
 
 Blorals of May Fair . . 
 
 846 Steven Lawrence. 1st half... 
 
 846 Steven Lawrence. 2d half 
 
 850 A Playwright’s Daughter 
 
 By H. Sutherland Edwards. 
 917 The Case of Reuben Malachi. 
 
 By Mrs. C. J. Eiloart. 
 
 114 Some of Our Girls 
 
 George Eliot’s Works. 
 
 3 The Mill on the Floss 
 
 31 Middlemarch. 1st half 
 
 31 Middlemarch. 2d half 
 
 34 Daniel Deronda. 1st half 
 
 34 Daniel Deronda. 2d half 
 
 36 Adam Bede. 1st half 
 
 36 Adam Bede. 2d half 
 
 42 Romola 
 
 gggggggg g , »ggg 88 88 8S 
 
THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition 
 
 9 
 
 693 Felix Holt, the Radical 20 
 
 707 Silas Marner: The Weaver of 
 
 Raveloe * 
 
 728 Janet’s Repentance * 
 
 762 Impressions of Theophrastus 
 
 Such * 
 
 1441 Amos Barton : * 
 
 By Frances Elliot. 
 
 381 The Red Cardinal * 
 
 By Eva Evergreen. 
 
 1358 Agatha 20 
 
 By Juliana Horatia Ewing. 
 
 752 Jackanapes, and Other Stories * 
 B. Li. Farjcon’s Works. 
 
 179 Little Make-Believe * 
 
 573 Love’s Harvest 20 
 
 607 Self-Doomed * 
 
 616 The Sacred Nugget . 20 
 
 657 Christmas Angel * 
 
 907 The Bright Star of Life 20 
 
 909 The Nine of Hearts 20 
 
 1383 The Mystery of M. Felix 20 
 
 liaugli. 
 
 1343 Dream Faces 20 
 
 By Heinrich Felberniann. 
 
 355 The Princess Dagomar of Po- 
 land * 
 
 G. Manville Fenn’s Works, 
 
 193 The Rosery Folk * 
 
 558 Poverty Corner 20 
 
 587 The Parson o’ Dumford 20 
 
 609 The Dark House * 
 
 1169 Commodore Junk 20 
 
 1276 The Mynns’ Mystery 20 
 
 1293 In Jeopardy 20 
 
 1302 The Master of the Ceremonies 20 
 1313 Eve at the Wheel 20 
 
 1344 One Maid's Blischief fO 
 
 1387 Eli’s Children 20 
 
 Octave Feuillet’s Works. 
 
 66 The Romance of a Poor Young 
 
 Man 
 
 386 Led Astray ; or, “ La Petite 
 
 1427 AMarriage in ’ High Life*. 20 
 Gertrude Forde’s Works. 
 
 1072 Only a Coral Girl 20 
 
 1349 In the Old Palazzo 20 
 
 By B. E. Forrest. 
 
 879 The Touchstone of Peril 20 
 
 iBrs. Forrester’s Works. 
 
 80 June 20 
 
 280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 
 ciety 
 
 484 Although He Was a Lord, and 
 
 Other Tales * 
 
 715 I Have Lived and Loved 20 
 
 721 Dolores . 20 
 
 724 My Lord and My Lady 20 
 
 726 My Hero 
 
 727 Fair Women 
 
 729 Blignon 
 
 732 From Olympus to Hades 
 
 734 Viva 
 
 736 Roy and Viola 
 
 740 Rhona 
 
 744 Diana Carew; or, For a Wom- 
 an’s Sake 
 
 883 Once Again 
 
 Jessie Fothergill’s Works. 
 
 314 Peril 
 
 572 Healey 
 
 935 Borderland 
 
 1099 The Lasses of Leverhouse. . . . 
 
 1275 A March in the Ranks 
 
 1377 The First Violin 
 
 By Francesca. 
 
 53 The Story of Ida 
 
 B. E. Fraucillon’s Works. 
 
 135 A Great Heiress : A Fortune 
 
 in Seven Checks 
 
 319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 
 
 Fables 
 
 360 Ropes of Sand 
 
 656 The Golden Flood. By R. E. 
 
 Francillon and Wm. Senior.. 
 
 911 Golden Bells 
 
 By Mrs. Alexander Fraser. 
 
 1351 She Came Between 
 
 By Charlotte French. 
 
 387 The Secret of the Cliffs 
 
 By J. A. Froude. 
 
 1180 The Two Chiefs of Dunboy ; or, 
 An Irish Romance of the Last 
 Century 
 
 By liiady Georgiana Fullerton 
 1286 Ellen Middleton 
 
 Emile Gaboriau’s Works. 
 
 7 File No. 113 
 
 12 Other People’s Money 
 
 20 Within an Inch of His Life. . . 
 
 26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol I 
 
 26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol. II 
 
 33 The Clique of Gold 
 
 38 The Widow Lerouge 
 
 43 The Mystery of Orcival 
 
 144 Promises of Marriage 
 
 979 The Count’s Secret. Part I . . . 
 
 979 The Count’s Secret. Part H . . 
 
 1002 Marriage at a Venture 
 
 1015 A Thousand Francs Reward.. 
 
 1045 The 13th Hussars 
 
 1078 The Slaves of Paris.— Black- 
 mail. 1st half 20 
 
 1078 The Slaves of Paris. — The 
 Champdoce Secret. 2d half. . 20 
 1083 The Little Old Man of the Bat- 
 
 ignolles 
 
 1167 Captain Contanceau. 
 
 20 
 
 * 88888^88 8’8 8 8 8 * 8 «* * 8888,88 88 8888888 
 
10 
 
 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 
 
 By Edward Garrett. 
 
 352 At Any Cost * 
 
 By Mrs. Gaskell. 
 
 938 Cranford 20 
 
 Charles Gibbon’s Works. 
 
 64 A Maiden Fair * 
 
 317 By Mead and Stream 20 
 
 1277 Was Ever Woman in this Hu- 
 mor Wooed? 20 
 
 1434 The Golden Shaft 20 
 
 By D. Cecil Gibbs. 
 
 807 If Love Be Love 20 
 
 Tbeo. Gift’s Works. 
 
 1300 Lil Lorimer 20 
 
 1435 Dishonored 20 
 
 By Gilbert and Sullivan. 
 
 692 The Mikado, and Other Comic 
 Operas 20 
 
 By Ida Linn Girard. 
 
 1360 A Dangerous Game 20 
 
 By tiioetbe. 
 
 1043 Faust : 20 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith’s Works. 
 
 801 She Stoops to Conquer, and 
 
 The Good-Natured Man * 
 
 1316 The Vicar of Wakefield * 
 
 By Edward Goodman. 
 
 1081 Too Curious 20 
 
 By Mrs. Gore. 
 
 1449 The Dean’s Daughter 20 
 
 By liarbara Graham. 
 
 532 Arden Court 20 
 
 James Grant’s Works. 
 
 566 Tlie Royal Higlilandei*s ; or, 
 
 The Black Watch iu Egypt... 20 
 781 The Secret Dispatch * 
 
 Miss Grant’s Works. 
 
 222 The Sun-Maid 20 
 
 555 Cara Roma 20 
 
 By Annabel Gray. 
 
 1374 Terribly Tempted 
 
 By Arnold Gray. 
 
 965 Periwinkle 20 
 
 Maxwell Gray’s Works. 
 
 10J34 The Silence of Dean Maitland. 20 
 1182 The Reproach of Annesley 20 
 
 Arthur Griffiths’s Works. 
 
 614 No. 99 * 
 
 680 Fast and Loose 20 
 
 By Cecil Griffith. 
 
 583 Victory Deane 20 
 
 By the Author of “Guilty With- 
 out Clime,’’ 
 
 545 Vida’s Story * 
 
 H. Rider Haggard’s Works. 
 
 432 The Witch’s Head 20 
 
 753 King Solomon’s Mines 20 
 
 910 She: A History of Adventure. 
 
 941 Jess 
 
 959 Dawn 
 
 989 Allan <3uatermain 
 
 1049 A Tale of Three Lions, and On 
 
 Going Back 
 
 1100 Mr. Meeson s Will 
 
 1105 Maiwa’s Revenge 
 
 1140 Colonel Quaritch, V. C 
 
 1145 My Fellow Laborer 
 
 1190 Cleopatra: Being an Account 
 of the Fall and Vengeance of 
 Harmachis, the Royal Egyp- 
 tian, as Set Forth by his own 
 
 Hand 
 
 1248 Allan’s Wife 
 
 1335 Beatrice 
 
 By Liidovic Halevy. 
 
 1408 L’Abbe Constantin ? 
 
 Thomns Hardy’s Works. 
 
 139 The Romantic Adventures of 
 
 a Milkmaid 
 
 530 A Pair of Blue Eyes 
 
 690 Far From the Madding Crowd 
 791 The Mayor of Casterbridge. . . 
 
 945 The Trumpet-Major 
 
 957 The Woodlanders 
 
 1309 Desperate Remedies 
 
 1430 Two on a Tower 
 
 John B, Harwood’s Works. 
 
 143 One False, Botli Fair 
 
 858 Within the Clasp 
 
 1307 The Lady Egeria 
 
 Joseph Hatton’s Works. 
 
 1390 Clytie ... 
 
 1429 By Order of the Czar 
 
 Mary Cecil Hay’s Works. 
 
 65 Back to tlie Old Home 
 
 72 Old MyddeltoiTs Money 
 
 196 Hidden Perils 
 
 197 For Her Dear Sake 
 
 224 The Arundel Motto 
 
 281 The Squire’s Legacy 
 
 290 Nora’s Love Test 
 
 408 Lester’s Secret 
 
 678 Dorothy’s Venture 
 
 716 Victor and Vanquished — 
 
 849 A Wicked Girl..'. 
 
 987 Brenda Yorke 
 
 1026 A Dark Inheritance 
 
 W. Heimbiirg’s Works. 
 
 994 A Pennile.ss Orphan 
 
 1175 Tale of aii Old Castle 
 
 1188 My Heai t’s Darling 
 
 1216 'Phe Stoiy of a Clergyman’s 
 
 Daugliter 20 
 
 1242 Lenore Von Tollen 20 
 
 1270 Gertrude’s Marriage 20 
 
 1289 Her Only Brother 20 
 
 888 gg ggg ggggggs* 8 *88 88888 8888 
 
'I’HE SEASIDE LIBEAEY— Pocket iBdition. 
 
 11 
 
 By Fr. Henkel. 
 
 1030 The Mistress of Ibichstein 20 
 
 By G. A. Henty. 
 
 1224 The Curse of Game’s Hold 20 
 
 By H. Herman. 
 
 1419 Scarlet Fortune * 
 
 1567 The Bishops’ Bible. By D. C. 
 
 ]\lurray and H. Herman 20 
 
 By John Hill. 
 
 112 The Waters of Marah 20 
 
 Mrs. Cashel-Hoey’s Works. 
 
 313 The Lover’s Creed 20 
 
 802 A Stern Chase 20 
 
 By Thomas Holcomb. 
 
 1369 The Counterfeiters of the Cuy- 
 
 ahoga * 
 
 By Mrs. M. A. Holmes. 
 
 1338 A Woman’s Vengeance 20 
 
 By Thomas Hood. 
 
 407 Tylney Hall 20 
 
 Tiglie Hopkins’s Works. 
 
 509 Nell Haffenden 20 
 
 <14 ’Tvvixt Love and Duty 20 
 
 By Mary Hoppus. 
 
 170 A Great 4'reason, 1st half. . . 20 
 170 A Great Treason, 2d half 20 
 
 By Arabella M. Hopkinson. 
 
 1348 Life’s Fitful Fever 20 
 
 By Robert Hoiidin. 
 
 1406 The Tiicks of the Greeks 20 
 
 Thomas Hughes’ s Works. 
 
 120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 
 
 Rugby 20 
 
 1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. Vol. I. 20 
 1139 Tom Browm at Oxford. Vol. 11. 20 
 
 By Victor Hugo. 
 
 8S5 Les Mis6rables. Parti 20 
 
 885 Les Miserables. Part II 20 
 
 885 Les Mi s6 rabies. Part HI 20 
 
 Fergus W. Hume’s Works. 
 1075 The Mystery of a Hansom Cab. 20 
 
 1127 Madam Midas ; 20 
 
 1232 The Piccadilly Puzzle 20 
 
 1425 The Man with a Secret 20 
 
 By Mrs. Alfred Hunt. 
 
 915 That Other Person. 1st half . . 20 
 915 That Other Person. 2d half. . . 20 
 By Stanley Huntley. 
 
 1466 The Spoopendyke Papers 20 
 
 By Jean Ingelow. 
 
 1563 Quite Another Story 20 
 
 By Ralph Iron fOliTe Schreiner]. 
 1120 The Story of an African Farm. 20 
 
 By Washington Irving. 
 
 643 The Sketch-Book of Geofifrej” 
 Crayon, Gent .*. 20 
 
 By G. P. R. James. 
 
 218 Agnes Sorel 20 
 
 Harriet Jay’s Works. 
 
 334 A Marriage of Convenience. . . * 
 1412 The Dark Colleen 20 
 
 Edward Jenkins’s Works. 
 
 458 A Week of Passion; or, The 
 * Dilemma of Mr. George Bar- 
 ton the Younger 20 
 
 810 The Secret of Her Life 20 
 
 Jerome K. Jerome’s Works. 
 
 1331 The Idle Thoughts of an Idle 
 
 Fellow * 
 
 1359 Stageland * 
 
 1517 Three Men in a Boat 20 
 
 By Philippa Prittie Jephson. 
 
 176 An April Day * 
 
 By H. T. Johnson. 
 
 1183 Jack of Hearts. A Story of 
 
 Bohemia 20 
 
 By Evelyn Kimball Johnson. 
 
 1361 Tangles Unravelled 20 
 
 By Samuel Johnson, Eli.D. 
 
 1384 The History of Rasselas, Prince 
 of Abyssinia * 
 
 By H. H. Johnston. 
 
 1212 The History of a Slave. 20 
 
 Works by the Author of ** Judith 
 Wynne.” 
 
 332 Judith Wynne 20 
 
 506 Lady Lovelace 20 
 
 Mrs. Edward Kennard’s Works. 
 
 1092 A Glorious Gallop 20 
 
 1282 Matron or Maid 20 
 
 By Grace Kennedy. 
 
 1464 Dunallan 30 
 
 By John P, Kennedy. 
 
 1440 Horse-Shoe Robinson 30 
 
 By Richard Ashe King. 
 
 1262 Passion’s Slave 20 
 
 Charles Kingsley’s Works. 
 
 266 The Water-Babies * 
 
 1320 Hypatia 30 
 
 William H. G. Kingston’s Works. 
 
 117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean 20 
 
 133 Peter the Whaler * 
 
 761 Will Weatherhelm 20 
 
 763 The Midshipman, Marmaduke 
 Merry 20 
 
13 
 
 THE SEASIDE LIBEARY— Pocket Edition, 
 
 Rudyard Kipling’s Works. 
 
 1439 Plain Tales from the Hills 20 
 
 1443 Soldiers Three, and Other Sto- 
 
 |•|0<g ^ 2Q 
 
 1479 1'he Phantom ’Rickshaw 20 
 
 1499 The Story of the Gadsbys ..... * 
 
 1. 1. Kraszet^'ski’s Works. 
 
 1174 The Polish Princess 20 
 
 1207 The Princess and the Jew 20 
 
 By May Ijafiaii. 
 
 681 A Singer’s Story * 
 
 By the Author of “ liady Gwendo- 
 len’s Tryst.” 
 
 809 Witness My Hand * 
 
 By Andrew l^ang. 
 
 773 The Mark of Cain * 
 
 By Mrs. Andrew Tiang. 
 
 536 Dissolving Views * 
 
 By the Hon. Emily Eawless. 
 
 748 Hurrish: A Study 20 
 
 By M. E. liO Clerc. 
 
 1220 Mistress Beatrice Cope; or, 
 Passages in the Life of a Jac- 
 obite’s Daughter 20 
 
 Vernon Lee’s Works. 
 
 399 Miss Brown 20 
 
 859 Ottilie: An Eighteenth Century 
 Idyl. By Vernon Lee. The 
 Prince of the 100 Soups. Edit- 
 ed by Vernon Lee 20 
 
 By H. F. Lester. 
 
 1531 Hartas Maturin 20 
 
 f’harfe.s Lever’s Works. 
 
 191 Harry Lorrequer .* 20 
 
 212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish 
 
 Dragoon. 1st half 20 
 
 212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish 
 
 Dragoon. 2d half 20 
 
 243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” 1st half 20 
 243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” 2d half 20 
 
 By Fanny Lewald. 
 
 436 Stella 20 
 
 By George Henry Lewes. 
 
 442 Ranthorpe 20 
 
 Mary Linskill’s Works. 
 
 473 A Lost Son 20 
 
 620 Between the Heather and the 
 Northern Sea 20 
 
 Mrs. E. liyiin Linton’s Works. 
 
 122 lone Stewart 20 
 
 817 Stabbed in the Dark * 
 
 886 Paston Carew, Millionaire and 
 
 Miser 20 
 
 1109 Through the Long Nights. 1st 
 half 20 
 
 1109 Through the Long Nights. 2d 
 
 half 
 
 1417 Under Which Lord? 
 
 1507 Sowing the Wind 
 
 By Mrs. l.odge. 
 
 174 Under a Ban 
 
 By the Author of “Lover am 
 Lord.” 
 
 510 A Mad Love 
 
 Samuel liover’s Works. 
 
 663 Handy Andy 
 
 664 Rory O’More 
 
 1386 The Happy Man and the Hall 
 
 Porter 
 
 By Heni’y W. Lucy. 
 
 1452 Gideon Fleyce 
 
 Edna Ly all’s Works. 
 
 738 In the Golden Days 
 
 1147 Knight-Errant 
 
 1149 Donovan: A Modern English- 
 man 
 
 1160 We Two 
 
 1173 Won by Waiting 
 
 1196 A Hardy Norseman 
 
 1197 The Autobiography of a Slan- 
 
 der 
 
 1206 Derrick Vaughan— Novelist.. . 
 
 Sir E. Bulwer Lytton’s Works 
 
 40 The Last Days of Pompeii. . . . 
 
 83 A Strange Story 
 
 90 Ernest Maltravers 
 
 130 The Last of the Barons. 1st half 
 130 The Last of the Barons. 2d half 
 
 161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 
 
 on the Play 
 
 162 Eugene Aram 
 
 164 Leila ; or,The Siege of Grenada 
 650 Alice; or, The Mysteries. (A Se- 
 quel to “ Ernest Maltravers ”) 
 
 720 Paul Clifford 
 
 1144 Rienzi 
 
 1326 What Will He Do With It? 1st 
 
 half 
 
 1326 What Will He Do With It? 2d 
 
 half 
 
 1339 The Caxtons 
 
 1393 The Coming Race 
 
 1420 The Haunted House 
 
 1446 Zanoni 
 
 1448 Night and Morning. 
 
 By Maarten Maartens. 
 
 1323 The Sin of Joost Avelingh 
 
 By Hugh MacColl. 
 
 1319 Mr. Strangers’ Sealed Packet. 
 
 George Macdonald’s Works. 
 282 Donal Grant 
 
 325 The Portent 
 
 326 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance 
 
 for Men and Women 
 
 722 What’s Mine’s Mine 
 
 1041 Home Again 
 
 1118 The Elect Lady 
 
 ^ ^ B ** BBBB BB B * BB B B BBB 
 
THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 
 
 13 
 
 By Norman Macleod, ]>*D« 
 
 158 The Starling * 
 
 By Ijady Margaret Majendie. 
 
 185 Dita * 
 
 Katharine S. Macqiioid’s Works. 
 
 479 Louisa 20 
 
 914 Joan Wentworth 20 
 
 1283 Cosette 20 
 
 1306 The Haunted Fountain, and • 
 
 Hetty’s Revenge 20 
 
 1311 At the Red Glove 20 
 
 1473 Miss Eyon of Eyon Court 20 
 
 1495 The Old Courtyard 20 
 
 By the Author of “ Mademoiselle 
 Mori.” 
 
 920 A Child of the Revolution 20 
 
 By Liiicas Malet. 
 
 493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife 20 
 
 By Alessandro Mauzoni. 
 
 581 The Betrothed. (I Promessi 
 Sposi) 20 
 
 E. Marlitt’s Works. 
 
 652 The Lady with the Rubies 20 
 
 858 Old Ma’m’selle’s Secret 20 
 
 972 Gold Elsie 20 
 
 999 The Second Wife 20 
 
 1093 In the Schillingscourt 20 
 
 1111 In the Counsellor’s House 20 
 
 1113 The Bailiff’s Maid 20 
 
 1115 The Countess Gisela 20 
 
 1130 The Owl-House 20 
 
 1136 The Princess of the Moor 20 
 
 By Ethel Marryat. 
 
 1519 A Professional Lady-Killer * 
 
 Florence Marry at’s Works. 
 159 Captain Norton’s Diary, and 
 
 A Moment of Madness 
 
 183 Old Contrairy, and Other 
 
 Stories * 
 
 208 The Ghost of Charlotte Cray, 
 
 and Other Stories * 
 
 276 Under the Lilies and Roses. . . * 
 
 444 The Heart of Jane Warner 20 
 
 449 Peeress and Player 20 
 
 689 The Heir Presumptive 20 
 
 825 The Master Passion 20 
 
 860 Her Lord and Master 20 
 
 861 My Sister the Actress 20 
 
 8^ “ My Own Child.” 20 
 
 864 ” No Intentions.” 20 
 
 865 Written in Fire 20 
 
 866 Miss Harrington’s Husband; 
 
 or. Spiders of Society 20 
 
 867 The Girls of Feversham 20 
 
 868 Petronel 20 
 
 869 The Poison of Asps * 
 
 870 Out of His Reckoning * 
 
 872 With Cupid’s Eyes 20 
 
 873 A Harvest of Wild Oats 20 
 
 877 Facing the Footlights 20 
 
 893 Love’s Conflict. 1st half 20 
 
 893 Love’^ Conhigt. , 2d h^.lf 20 
 
 895 A Star and a Heart 
 
 897 Ange ; or, A Broken Blossom. . 
 
 899 A Little Stepson 
 
 901 A Lucky Disappointment 
 
 903 Phyllida 
 
 905 The Fair-Haired Alda 
 
 939 Why Not? 
 
 993 Fighting the Air 
 
 998 Open Sesame 
 
 1004 Mad Dumaresq 
 
 1013 The Confessions of Gerald Est- 
 
 court 
 
 1022 Driven to Bay 
 
 1126 Gentleman and Courtier 
 
 1184 A Crown of Shame 
 
 1191 On Circumstantial Evidence.. 
 
 1250 How They Loved Him 
 
 1251 Her Father’s Name 
 
 1257 Mount Eden 
 
 1355 Blindfold 
 
 1527 A Scarlet Sin 
 
 Captain Marryat’s Works. 
 
 88 The Privateersman 
 
 272 The Little Savage 
 
 279 Rattlin, the Reefer 
 
 991 Mr. Midshipman Easy 
 
 1165 The Sea-King 
 
 1218 Mastermau Ready 
 
 1230 The Phantom Ship 
 
 By Emma Marshall. 
 
 766 No. XIII; or. The Story of the 
 Lost Vestal 
 
 By Mrs. Herbert Martin. 
 
 156 “ For a Dream’s Sake ” 
 
 Harriet Martineau’s Works. 
 
 1332 Homes Abroad — 
 
 1334 For Each and For All 
 
 1336 Hill and Valley 
 
 By Charles Marvin. 
 
 457 The Russians at the Gates of 
 Herat 
 
 Helen B. Mathers’s Works. 
 
 13 Eyre’s Acquittal 
 
 221 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye 
 
 438 Found Out 
 
 535 Murder or Manslaughter? 
 
 673 Story of a Sin 
 
 713 ” Cherry Ripe ” 
 
 795 Sam’s Sweetheart 
 
 798 The Fashion of this World — 
 
 799 My Lady Green Sleeves 
 
 1254 Hedri; or, Blind Justice 
 
 A. Matthey’s Works. 
 
 1239 The Virgin Widow. A Realistic 
 
 Novel. . 20 
 
 1432 Duke of Kandos 20 
 
 1436 The Two Duchesses 20 
 
 By Isabella Fyvie Mayo. 
 
 662 The Mystery of Allan Grale. . . 20 
 By W. Mayo. 
 
 1442 The Berl^er. 20 
 
 
14 
 
 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 
 
 By C. Maxwell. 
 
 1362 A Story of Three Sisters 20 
 
 Justin McCarthy’s Works. 
 
 121 Maid of Athens 20 
 
 602 Camiola 20 
 
 685 England Under Gladstone. 
 
 1880-1885 20 
 
 747 Our Sensation Novel. Edited 
 by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. , * 
 
 779 Doom! An Atlantic Episode . . *• 
 
 1233 Roland Oliver 20 
 
 1403 The Rival Princess. By Justin 
 McCarthy and Mrs. Campbell 
 Praed 20 
 
 li. T. Meade’s Works. 
 
 1295 A Girl of the People 20 
 
 1487 Frances Kane’s Fortune * 
 
 George Meredith’s Works. 
 
 350 Diana of the Cross\va 5 ’^s * 
 
 1146 Rhoda Fleming 20 
 
 1150 The Egoist 20 
 
 Jean Middlemas’s Works. 
 
 155 Lady Muriel’s Secret 20 
 
 539 Siivermead 20 
 
 Mrs. Moles worth’s Works. 
 
 654 “ Us.” An Old-fashioned Story * 
 992 Marrying and Giving in Mar- 
 riage 20 
 
 By J. Fitzgerald Molloy. 
 
 1451 How Came He Dead? 20 
 
 Alan Muir’s Works. 
 
 172 “Golden Girls” 20 
 
 346 Tumbledown Farm * 
 
 By Rosa Miilholland. 
 
 921 The Late Miss Hollingford. 
 Miss Mulock’s Works. 
 
 11 John Halifax, Gentleman. 1st 
 
 half 20 
 
 11 John Halifax, Gentleman. 2d 
 
 half 20 
 
 245 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 
 
 Boat * 
 
 808 King Arthur. Not a Love Story 20 
 
 1018 Two Marriages 20 
 
 1038 Mistress and Maid 20 
 
 1053 Young Mrs. Jardine 20 
 
 David Christie Murray’s Works. 
 
 58 By the Gate of the Sea * 
 
 195 “ The Way of the World ” 20 
 
 320 A Bit of Human Nature * 
 
 661 Rainbow Gold 20 
 
 674 First Person Singular 20 
 
 691 Valentine Strange 20 
 
 695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, and 
 
 Deuce 20 
 
 698 A Life's Atonement 20 
 
 737 Aunt Rachel * 
 
 826 Cynic Fortune 20 
 
 898 Bulldog and Butterfly, and Ju- 
 lia and Her Romeo.* 20 
 
 1102 Young Mr. Barter’s Repent- 
 ance * 
 
 1162 The Weaker Vessel 20 
 
 1177 A Dangerous Cat’s-paw. By 
 D. C. Murray and H. Murray. 20 
 1214 Wild Darrie. By D. C. Murray 
 
 and H. Herman.. 20 
 
 1256 Sweetbriar in Town. By D. C. 
 
 Murray and H. Herman 20 
 
 1567 The Bishops’ Bible. By D. C. 
 Murray and H. Herman 20 
 
 Works by the author of “ My 
 Ducats and My Daughter.” 
 
 376 The Crime of Christmas Day. * 
 596 My Ducats and My Daughter. . 20 
 
 By the Author of “My Mar- 
 riage.” 
 
 778 Society’s Verdict 20 
 
 By the Author of “ Nobody’s Dar- 
 ling.” 
 
 954 A Girl’s Heart 20 
 
 ByMrs. J.H. Needell. 
 
 582 Lucia, Hugh and Another 20 
 
 W. E. Norris’s Works. 
 
 184 Thirlby Hall 20 
 
 277 A Man of His Word * 
 
 355 That Terrible Man * 
 
 500 Adrian Vidal 20 
 
 824 Her Own Doing * 
 
 848 My Friend Jim 20 
 
 871 A Bachelor’s Blunder 20 
 
 1019 Major and Minor. 1st half 20 
 
 1019 Major and Minor. 2d half 20 
 
 1084 Chris . 20 
 
 1141 The Rogue. 1st half 20 
 
 1141 The Rogue. 2d half 20 
 
 1203 Miss Shafto 20 
 
 1258 Mrs. Fenton 20 
 
 1278 Misadventure 20 
 
 1395 The Baffled Conspirators 20 
 
 1465 No New Thing 20 
 
 By Mrs. Power D’Donoghue. 
 
 718 Unfairly Won 20 
 
 Alice O’ Hanlon’s Works. 
 
 634 The Unforeseen 20 
 
 1357 A. Diamond in the Rough 20 
 
 Georges Ohnet’s Works. 
 
 219 Lady Clare : or. The Master of 
 
 the Forges * 
 
 1274 Prince Serge Panine 20 
 
 1288 A Last Love 20 
 
 1321 The Rival Actresses 20 
 
 Laurence Oliphant’s Works. 
 
 47 AltioraPeto 20 
 
 537 Piccadilly — * 
 
THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 
 
 15 
 
 Mrs. Olipliaiit’s Works. 
 
 45 A Little Pilgrim * 
 
 177 Salem Chapel 20 
 
 205 The Minister’s Wife 30 
 
 321 The Prodigals, and Their In- 
 
 heritance * 
 
 337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 
 Adam Graemd of Mossgray, 
 including sdme Chronicles of 
 
 the Borough of Fendie 20 
 
 345 Madam 20 
 
 351 The House on the Moor 20 
 
 357 John 20 
 
 370 Lucy Crofton * 
 
 371 Margaret Maitland 20 
 
 377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story of 
 
 the Scottish Reformation. . .. 20 
 402 Lilliesleaf : or, Passages in the 
 Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
 land of Sunnyside 20 
 
 410 Old Lady Mary * 
 
 527 The Days of My Life 20 
 
 528 At His Gates 20 
 
 568 The Perpetual Curate 20 
 
 569 Harry Muir 20 
 
 603 Agnes. 1st half 20 
 
 603 Agnes. 2d half 20 
 
 604 Innocent. 1st half 20 
 
 604 Innocent. 2d half 20 
 
 605 Ombra 20 
 
 645 Oliver’s Bride * 
 
 655 The Open Door, and The Por- 
 trait * 
 
 687 A Country Gentleman 20 
 
 703 A House Divided Against Itself 20 
 710 The Greatest Heiress in Eng- 
 land 20 
 
 827 Effie Ogilvie 20 
 
 880 The Son of His Father 20 
 
 902 A Poor Gentleman 20 
 
 Max O’Rell’s Works. 
 
 203 John Bull and His Island * 
 
 1222 Jacques Bonhomme, and John 
 
 Bull on the Continent 20 
 
 “ Ouida’s ” Works. 
 
 4 Under Two Flags 20 
 
 9 Wanda, Countess von Szalras. 20 
 
 116 Moths 20 
 
 128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches * 
 
 226 Friendship 20 
 
 228 Princess Napraxine 20 
 
 238 Pascarel 20 
 
 239 Signa 20 
 
 433 A Rainy June * 
 
 639 Othmar. 1st half 20 
 
 639 Othmar. 2d half 20 
 
 671 Don Gesualdo * 
 
 672 In Maremma. 1st half 20 
 
 672 In Maremma. 2d half 20 
 
 874 A House Party * 
 
 974 Strathmore; or. Wrought by 
 
 His Own Hand. 1st half 20 
 
 974 Strathmore; or. Wrought by 
 
 His Own Hand. 2d half 20 
 
 981 Granville de Vigne; or, Held in 
 Bondage. 1st half 20 
 
 981 Granville de Vigne; or, Held in 
 
 Bondage. 2d half 
 
 996 Idalia. 1st half 
 
 996 Idalia. 2d half 
 
 1000 Puck. 1st half 
 
 1000 Puck. 2d half 
 
 1003 Chandos. 1st half 
 
 1003 Chandos. 2d half 
 
 1017 Tricotrin. 1st half 
 
 1017 Tricotrin. 2d half 
 
 1176 Guilderoy 
 
 1308 Syrlin 
 
 1575 Rufflno 
 
 Louisa Parr’s Works. 
 
 1428 Robin 
 
 1587 Dumps 
 
 James Payn’s Works. 
 
 48 Thicker Than Water 
 
 186 The Canon’s Ward 
 
 343 The Talk of the Town 
 
 577 In Peril and Privation 
 
 589 The Luck of the Darrells 
 
 823 The Heir of the Ages . . 
 
 1271 One of the Family 
 
 1381 The Burnt Million 
 
 1405 The Eavesdropper 
 
 1555 The Word and the Will 20 
 
 By Sylvio Pellico. 
 
 725 My Ten Years’ Imprisonment * 
 
 By the Author of “ Petite’s Ro- 
 mance.” 
 
 786 Ethel Mildmay’s Follies 20 
 
 By F. C. Philips. 
 
 1287 A Daughter’s Sacrifice 20 
 
 By Arthur W. Pinero. 
 
 1372 Sweet Lavender * 
 
 By William Pole, F.R.S. 
 
 669 The Philosophy of Whist 20 
 
 Miss Jane Porter’s Works. 
 
 660 The Scottish Chiefs. 1st half. 20 
 660 The Scottish Chiefs. 2d half. 20 
 696 Thaddeus of Warsaw 20 
 
 Cecil Power’s Works. 
 
 336 Philistia 20 
 
 611 Babylon 20 
 
 E. Frances Poynter’s Works. 
 
 526 Madame De Presnel 20 
 
 1523 The Failure of Elizabeth 20 
 
 Mrs. Campbell Praed’s Works. 
 
 428 Zero : A Story of Monte-Carlo * 
 
 477 Affinities * 
 
 811 The Head Station 20 
 
 1296 An Australian Heroine 20 
 
 1403 The Rival Princess. By Justin 
 McCarthy and Mrs. Campbell 
 Praed 20 
 
 By Alice Price. 
 
 908 A Willful Young Woman 20 
 
 gg gggggggggggg 
 
16 
 
 THE SEASIDE LIBRAEY— Pocket Edition. 
 
 Eleanor C. Price’s Works* 
 
 173 The Foreigners 20 
 
 331 Gerald 20 
 
 149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 
 the Russian of Pushkin * 
 
 By the Author of “Queen of the 
 County.” 
 
 1438 Margaret and Her Bridesmaids 20 
 By Queen Victoria. 
 
 178 More Leaves from the Journal 
 of a Life in the Highlands. * 
 
 Hyder Ragged’s Works* 
 
 966 He 20 
 
 970 King Solomon’s Wives; or. The 
 Phantom Mines 20 
 
 Charles Reade’s Works* 
 
 46 Very Hard Cash 20 
 
 98 A Woman-Hater 2C 
 
 206 The Picture, and Jack of All 
 
 Trades * 
 
 210 Readiana : Comments on Cur- 
 rent Events * 
 
 213 A Terrible Temptation ^0 
 
 214 Put Yourself in His Place 20 
 
 216 Foul Play 20 
 
 231 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy.. 20 
 
 232 Love and Money ; or, A Peril- 
 
 ous Secret * 
 
 235 “It is Never Too Late to 
 Mend . ” A Matter- of -F act Ro- 
 
 mance 20 
 
 1382 Single Heart and Double Face * 
 
 By Compton Reade. 
 
 •340 Under Which King? 20 
 
 By R. F. Redd. 
 
 1410 Freckles 20 
 
 By Captain Mayne Reid. 
 
 575 The Finger of Fate 20 
 
 By T. Wemyss Reid. 
 
 723 Mauleverer’s Millions 20 
 
 Fritz Reuter’s Works. 
 
 750 An Old Story of My Farming 
 
 Days. 1st half 20 
 
 750 An Old Story of My Farming 
 Days. 2d half 20 
 
 Mrs. J. H. Riddell’s Works. 
 
 71 A Struggle for Fame 20 
 
 593 Berna Boyle 20 
 
 1007 Miss Gascoigne 20 
 
 1077 The Nun’s Curse 20 
 
 1273 Susan Drummond 20 
 
 1579 Princess Sunshine 20 
 
 “Rita’s” Works. 
 
 252 A Sinless Secret * 
 
 446 Dame Durden 20 
 
 598 “ Corinna.’’ A Study * 
 
 617 Like Dian’s Kiss 20 
 
 1125 The Mystery of a Turkish Bath * 
 
 1192 Bliss Kate ; or, Confessions of 
 
 a Caretaker 
 
 1215 Adrian Lyle 
 
 1229 “ Sheba A Study of Girlhood 
 1237 A Vagabond Lover 
 
 1252 The Seventh Dream 
 
 1253 The Ladye Nancy e 
 
 1298 Gretchen 
 
 1315 A Society Scandal 
 
 1491 The Doctor’s Secret 
 
 By Sir H. Roberts. 
 
 1458 Harry Holbrooke 
 
 F. W. Robinson’s Works* 
 
 157 Milly’sHero 
 
 217 The Man She Cared For 
 
 261 A Fair Maid 
 
 455 Lazarus in London 
 
 590 The Courting of Blary Smith. . 
 
 1005 99 Dark Street 
 
 1284 Our Erring Brother 
 
 1539 A Very Strange Family 
 
 1547 The Keeper of the Keys 
 
 F. Mabel Robinson’s Works. 
 
 501 Mr. Butler’s Ward 
 
 1457 A Woman of the World 
 
 By Regina Maria Roche. 
 
 852 The Children of the Abbey 
 
 By Mrs. J. Harcourt Roe. 
 
 683 The Bachelor Vicar of New- 
 forth 
 
 ' By Mrs. Rowson. 
 
 61 Charlotte Temple 
 
 W. Clark Russell’s Works. 
 
 85 A Sea Queen 
 
 109 Little Loo 
 
 180 Round the Galley Fire 
 
 209 John Holdsworth, Chief Blate. 
 
 223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 
 
 592 A Strange Voyage 
 
 682 In the Middle Watch. Sea 
 
 Stories 
 
 743 Jack’s Courtship. 1st half. . . 
 
 743 Jack’s Courtship. 2d half 
 
 884 A Voyage to the Cape 
 
 916 The Golden Hope 
 
 1044 The Frozen Pirate 
 
 1048 TheAVreckof the“Grosvenor” 
 1129 The Flying Dutchman; or. The 
 
 Death Ship 
 
 1210 Blarooned 
 
 1213 Jenny Harlowe 
 
 1260 An Ocean Tragedy. 1st half. . 20 
 1260 An Ocean Tragedy. 2d half.. 20 
 1603 My Shipmate Louise 20 
 
 By Dora Russell. 
 
 103 Rose Fleming * 
 
 By George Augustus Sala. 
 
 756 The Strange Adventures of Cap- 
 tain Dangerous. A Narrative 
 in Plain English 20 
 
 gg ggggggg * 8 8 88 888888888 8 8»8888888 
 
THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 
 
 17 
 
 By John iSauiiflcr^. 
 
 105 A Noble Wife 20 
 
 Sir Walter Scott’s Works. 
 
 28 Ivanhoe ^ 
 
 201 The Monastery 20 
 
 202 The Abbot. (Sequel to “The 
 
 Monastery ”) 20 
 
 353 The Black Dwarf, and A Le- 
 gend of Montrose 20 
 
 362 The Bride of Lammermoor. . . 20 
 
 363 The Surgeon’s Daughter * 
 
 364 Castle Dangerous * 
 
 391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian 20 
 
 392 Peveril of the Peak 20 
 
 393 The Pirate 20 
 
 401 Waverley 20 
 
 417 The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St. 
 
 Valentine’s Day 20 
 
 418 St. Ronan’s Well 20 
 
 463 Redgauntlet. A Tale of the 
 
 Eighteenth Century 20 
 
 507 Chronicles of the (IJanongate, 
 
 and Other Stories * 
 
 1060 The Lady of the Lake 20 
 
 1063 Kenilworth. 1st half 20 
 
 1063 Kenilworth. 2d half 20 
 
 1164 Rob Roy. 1st half 20 
 
 1164 Rob Roy. 2d half 20 
 
 1166 The Betrothed : A Tale of the 
 Crusaders, and the Chronicles 
 of the Canongate. 1st half.. 20 
 1166 The Betrothed: A Tale of the 
 Crusaders, and the Chronicles 
 of the Canongate. 2d half... 20 
 
 1226 The Talisman 20 
 
 By Eugene Scribe. 
 
 1416 Fleurette 20 
 
 Adeline Sergeant’s Works. 
 
 257 beyond Recall * 
 
 812 No Saint 20 
 
 1231 A Life Sentence 20 
 
 1241 The Luck of the House 20 
 
 1310 A True Friend 20 
 
 1503 Under False Pretences 20 
 
 1513 Fleetwood’s End * 
 
 1591 The Great Mill Street Mystery 20 
 By Anna Sewell. 
 
 1421 “Black Beauty:’’ The Autobi- 
 
 ography of a Horse 20 
 
 By William Sharp, 
 
 1559 Children of To-morrow 20 
 
 By Flora L. Shaw, 
 
 441 A Sea Change 20 
 
 By George Bernard Shaw, 
 
 937 Cashel Byron’s Profession 20 
 
 By Mary Wolstonecraft Shelley. 
 
 1376 Frankenstein * 
 
 J. H. Shorthoiise’s Works. 
 
 Ill The Little School-master Mark * 
 1148 The Countess Eve 20 
 
 William Sime’s Works. 
 
 429 Boulderstone ; or. New Men 
 
 and Old Populations * 
 
 580 The Red Route 20 
 
 597 Haco the Dreamer * 
 
 649 Cradle and Spade 20 
 
 George K. Sims’s Works. 
 
 816 Rogues and Vagabonds 20 
 
 1535 Tales of To-day. 20 
 
 Hawley Smart’s Works. 
 
 348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 
 
 Romance 20 
 
 367 Tie and Trick 20 
 
 550 Struck Down * 
 
 847 Bad to Beat * 
 
 925 The Outsider 20 
 
 1225 The Last Coup 20 
 
 1317 Without Love or Licence 20 
 
 1342 Saddle and Sabre 20 
 
 Frank E. Smedley’s Works. 
 
 333 Frank Fairlegh ; or, Scenes 
 from the Life of a Private 
 
 Pupil 20 
 
 562 Lewis Arundei; or, The Rail- 
 road of Life 20 
 
 By J. Gregory Smith. 
 
 1437 Selma 20 
 
 T. W. Speight’s Works. 
 
 150 For Himself Alone * 
 
 653 A Barren Title * 
 
 1375 The Sandycroft Mystery * 
 
 By Emily Spender. 
 
 735 Until the Day Breaks 20 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson’s Works. 
 
 686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekylland 
 
 Mr, Hyde * 
 
 704 Prince Otto * 
 
 832 Kidnapped 20 
 
 855 The Dynamiter 20 
 
 856 New Arabian Nights 20 
 
 888 Treasure Island * 
 
 889 An Inland Voyage * 
 
 940 The Merry Men, and Other 
 
 Tales and Fables 20 
 
 1051 The Misadventures of John 
 
 Nicholson * 
 
 1110 The Silverado Squatters 20 
 
 1228 The Master of Ballantrae 20 
 
 By St. Pierre. 
 
 1424 Paul and Virginia * 
 
 By Hesba Stretton. 
 
 1370 Bede’s Charity * 
 
 ^ Esme Stuart’s Works. 
 
 139f'Kestell pf Greystone * 20 
 
 1551 The Vicomte’s Bride 20 
 
 Julian Sturgis’s Works. 
 
 405 My Friends and I. Edited by 
 
 Julian Sturgis * 
 
 694 John Maidment 20 
 
18 
 
 THE SEASIDE LIBEARY— Pocket Edition. 
 
 Eugene Sue’s Works. 
 
 270 The Wandering Jew. 1st half 30 
 210 The Wandering Jew. 2d half. .30 
 
 271 The Mysteries of Paris. 1st half 30 
 271 The Mysteries of Paris. 2d half 30 
 
 By Bean Swift. 
 
 1365 Gulliver’s Travels 20 
 
 By Tjaurence Alina Tadeina. 
 
 757 Love’s Martyr * 
 
 “ Tasma’s ” W orks. 
 
 1217 UnclePiper of Piper s Hill. An 
 
 Australian Novel 20 
 
 1281 A Sydney Sovereign 20 
 
 1304 In Her Earliest Youth 20 
 
 By George Taylor. 
 
 435 Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 
 Castle . . . 20 
 
 By Ida Ashworth Taylor. 
 
 426 Venus’s Doves 20 
 
 George Temple’s Works. 
 
 599 Lancelot Ward, M.P * 
 
 642 Britta * 
 
 By Alfred, Lord Tennyson, P. L., 
 
 D. C. L. 
 
 919 Locksley Hall Sixty Years Aft- 
 er, etc. * 
 
 William M. Thackeray’s Works. 
 
 27 Vanity Fair. 1st half 20 
 
 27 Vanity Fair. 2d half 20 
 
 165 The History of Henry Esmond 20 
 
 316 Paris Sketches 20 
 
 464 The Newcomes. Parti 20 
 
 464 The Newcomes. Part H 20 
 
 670 The Rose and the Ring. Ulus- 
 
 1322 Adventures of Piiiiip 30 
 
 1324 The Virginians. 1st half 20 
 
 1324 The Virginians. 2d half 20 
 
 1330 'the Four Georges * 
 
 1392 Yellowplush Papers * 
 
 By Uliss Thackeray. 
 
 675 Mrs. Dymond 20 
 
 By the Author of “The Spanish 
 Brothers.” 
 
 1243 Genevieve; or, The Children of 
 
 Port Ro 3 "al 20 
 
 Works by the Author of “The 
 Two Miss Flemings.” 
 
 637 What’s His Offence? 20 
 
 780 Rare Pale Margaret 20 
 
 784 The Two Miss Flemings 20 
 
 831 Pomegranate Seed 20 
 
 Annie Thomas’s W^orks. 
 
 141 She llioved Hirn ! * 
 
 142 .Jenifer 20 
 
 565 No Medium * 
 
 1219 That Other Woman 20 
 
 1294 Love’s a Tyrant 20 
 
 1299 The K lburns 20 
 
 1483 The Love of a Lady* 20 
 
 Bertha Thomas’s Works, 
 
 389 Ichabod. A Portrait * 
 
 60 Elizabeth’s Fortune. ...... 20 
 
 47 The House on the Scar 20 
 
 B.v Judge D. P. Thompson. 
 
 1414 The Green Mountain Boys 20 
 
 By Theodore Tilton. 
 
 1450 Tempest Tossed. Vol. 1 20 
 
 1450 Tempest Tossed. Vol. II 20 
 
 Count I.yof Tolstoi’s Works. 
 
 1066 My Husband and I * 
 
 1069 Polikouchka * 
 
 1071 The Death of Ivan Iliitch * 
 
 1073 Two Generations * 
 
 1090 The Cossacks 20 
 
 1108 Sebastopol 20 
 
 By A. li. G, Bosboom-Toussaint. 
 
 803 Major Frank 20 
 
 By Adolphus Trollope. 
 
 115 Diamond Cut Diamond * 
 
 Anthony Trollope’s Works, 
 
 32 The Land Leaguers 20 
 
 93 Anthony Trollope’s Autobiog- 
 raphy 20 
 
 147 Rachel Ray 20 
 
 200 An Old Man’s Love * 
 
 531 The Prime Minister. 1st half. 20 
 531 The Prime Minister. 2d half-. 20 
 
 621 The Warden * 
 
 622 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil . . * 
 667 The Golden I Jon of Granpere 
 
 700 Ralph the Heir. 1st half 
 
 700 Ralph the Heir. 2d half. ..... 
 
 775 The" Three Clerks 20 
 
 By Tracy Turnerelli. 
 
 1371 A Russian Princess — ' 20 
 
 By Sarah Tytler, 
 
 160 Her Gentle Deeds * 
 
 By Count Paul Vasili. 
 
 505 The Society of London * 
 
 By Sophie E. F, Veitch. 
 
 1280 The Dean’s Daughter... 20 
 
 Margaret Veley’s W’^orks. 
 
 298 Mitchelhurst Place * 
 
 586 “ For Percival ” 20 
 
 Jules Verne’s Works. 
 
 87 Dick Sand ; or, A Captain at 
 
 Fifteen 20 
 
 100 20.000 Leagues Under the Seas 20 
 368 The Southern Star ; or,the Dia- 
 mond Land 20 
 
 395 The Archipelago on Fire * 
 
 57'8 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated. 
 
 Parti * 
 
 578 i\Iathias Sandorf. 111. Part II. * 
 578 Blathias Sandorf. 111. Part HI. * 
 659 The Waif of the “ Cynthia ” . . 20 
 
 
THE SEASIDE LIBRARY -Pocket Edition 
 
 Alwa,y$i» I III elm II ged stud IJiisi1irid;i'ed. 
 
 WITH HANDSOME LITHOaEAPHED PAPER COVER. 
 
 LATEST ISSUES: 
 
 NO. PRICE. 
 
 1545 Lover or Friend? By Rosa 
 
 Nouchette Carey 30 
 
 1547 The Keeper of the Keys. By 
 
 F. W. Robinson 20 
 
 1551 The Vicomte’s Bride. ByEsmd 
 
 Stuart 20 
 
 1555 The Word and the Will. By 
 
 James Payn 20 
 
 1559 Children of To-morrow. By 
 
 William Sharp 20 
 
 1563 Quite Another Story. By Jean 
 
 Ingelow 20 
 
 1567 The Bishops’ Bible. By David 
 Christie Murray and Henry 
 
 Herman 20 
 
 1571 Blind Fate. By Mrs. Alexander 20 
 
 1575 Rufflno. By “ Ouida ” *. . 20 
 
 1579 Princess Sunshine. By Mrs. J. 
 
 H. Riddell 20 
 
 1583 A Marked Man. By Ada Cam- 
 bridge 20 
 
 1587 Dumps. By Louisa Parr 20 
 
 1591 The Great Mill Street Mystery. ^ 
 
 By Adeline Sergeant 20 
 
 1595 The Night of the Third. By H. 
 
 F. Wood 20 
 
 1599 Alas! By Rhoda Broughton.. 20 
 1603 My Shipmate Louise. By W. 
 
 Clark Russell 20 
 
 1607 Two Masters. ByB. M. Croker. 20 
 1611 Between Life and Death. By 
 
 Frank Barrett 20 
 
 1615 The Havoc of a Smile. By L. 
 
 B. Walford 20 
 
 1619 A Marriage at Sea. By W. 
 
 Clark Russell 20 
 
 1623 City and Suburban. By Flor- 
 ence Warden 20 
 
 1627 A Romance of the Wire. By 
 
 M. Betham-Edwards 20 
 
 1631 Heart of Gold. By L. T. Meade 20 
 1635 The World’s Desire. By H. 
 Rider Haggard and Andrew 
 
 Lang 20 
 
 1639 Work While Ye Have the Light. 
 
 By Count Lyof Tolstoi 20 
 
 1613 Brave Heart and True. By 
 
 Florence Marryat 20 
 
 1647 Curb and Snaffle. By Sir Ran- 
 dal H. Roberts, Bart 20 
 
 1651 Thd Black Box Murder. By 
 the Man who Discovered the 
 
 Murderer 20 
 
 1655 The Demoniac. By Walter 
 
 Besant 20 
 
 NO. PIMCK. 
 
 1659 A Black Business. By Hawley 
 
 Smart * 
 
 1663 Wormwood. By Marie Corelli. 20 
 1667 He Went for a Soldier. By 
 
 John Strange Winter 20 
 
 1671 Long Odds. By Hawley Smart 20 
 
 1675 Marcia. By W. E. Norris 20 
 
 1679 The Sloaiie Square Scandal. 
 
 By Annie Thomas 20 
 
 1683 A Weird Gift. By Georges 
 
 Ohnet 20 
 
 1685 The Wonderful Adventures of 
 Phra the Phoenician. Retold 
 
 by Edwin Lester Arnold 20 
 
 1687 In Exchange for a Soul. By 
 
 Mary Linskill 20 
 
 1691 Elizabeth Morley. By Kathar- 
 ine S. Macquoid 20 
 
 1695 The Case of Gen’l Ople and 
 Lady Camper. By George 
 
 Meredith * 
 
 1699 The W ing of Azrael. By Mona 
 
 Caird 20 
 
 1703 Passion the Plaything. By R. 
 
 Murray Gilchrist * 
 
 1707 Famous or Infamous? By Ber- 
 tha Thomas 20 
 
 1711 The Pennycomequicks. By S. 
 
 Baring-Gould 20 
 
 1713 Jezebel’s Friends. By Dora 
 
 Russell 20 
 
 1717 Comedy of a Country House. 
 
 By Julian Sturgis 20 
 
 1719 The Light That Failed. By 
 
 Rudyard Kipling 20 
 
 1721 The Other Man’s Wife. By 
 
 John Strange Winter 20 
 
 1725 Stand Fast, Craig-Royston ! By 
 
 William Black 20 
 
 1729 Missing: A Young Girl. By 
 
 Florence Warden ^ 
 
 1731 The Tree of Knowledge. By G. 
 
 M. Robins. 20 
 
 1735 A Very Young Couple. By B. 
 
 L. Far jeon.. 20 
 
 1739 Sylvia Arden. By Oswald 
 
 Crawfurd 20 
 
 1743 The Haute Noblesse. By 
 
 George Manville Fenn 20 
 
 1747 Le Beau Sabreur. By Anna 
 
 Thomas 20 
 
 1751 A Bitter Birthright. By Dora 
 
 Russell 20 
 
 1755 A Bride from the Bush. By A 
 
 New Writer 20 
 
 The foregoing works, contained in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, 
 are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, on 
 receipt of price. Parties ordering by mail will please order by numbers. Ad- 
 dress 
 
 GEORGE MUNRO, iUiiuro’s Piiblisliing House, 
 
 P. O. Box 375:|. 17 TO 27 Vandewater Street, New York, 
 
fXCEand HANDS 
 
 '"Parts Exposzttoti’, 
 
 i88g. 
 
 Pears .obtained the only gold medal awarded {solely fof 
 toto SOAPXin ^coxnpcQtion with 3.11 th6 WOrld* 
 
 Highest possible disifnctionT 
 
 Po8 SALE IN tVCRY CITY IN THE WORUO. 
 
Contains no Iodine^ Potash, Blue Vitriol^ Meiv 
 cnry or other mineral# 
 
 Is guaranteed purely vegetable. 
 
 ' Cures all blood affections and skin diseases pro* 
 duced by impure blood. 
 
 Haklem, January 23, 1390. 
 
 This certifies that my child, 19 months old, was afflicted with a 
 very bad skin disease of the face, eyes and inside of the nose. Tho 
 face was covered with matterating sores, and his eyes were swollen 
 shut on account of the sores on the eyelids, and his nose was dis- 
 charging matter and was full inside of the sores. I gave him the 
 Cactus Blood Cure for four weeks, and to-day my ba% is entirely 
 well. 
 
 IMus. J. KENNY, 145 East 126th St., N. Y. 
 
 The Cactus Blood Cure has, positively cured 
 \ numerous cases of Scrofula and Salt Bheum in one 
 month’s time where all other blood purifiers have 
 failed# 
 
 Pronounced by leading physicians of New York the greatest 
 blood cure known. Send for descriptive book containing endorse- 
 ments of Reverend Catholic Fathers, prominent physicians, and many 
 cured in New York. Sold by Druggists. If your Druggist does not 
 keep it we will send on receipt of price : Large size Bottle, $2.00; 
 Small, $1.00. 
 
 AliVA’S BRAZILIAN* SPECIFIC CO., 
 
 Office, No. 6 WaU St., New York# 
 
 
“Worth a Guinea a Box,” 
 
 But sold by ali Druggists at 25 cents. 
 
 A Wonderful Medicine 
 
 FOR ALL 
 
 Bilious and Nervous Disorders 
 
 SUCH AS ' . 
 
 Sick Headache, 
 Constipation, 
 
 Weak Stomach, 
 Impaired Digestion, 
 Disordered Liver, Etc. 
 
 Prepared ONLY BY TH OS. BEECHAiVI, St. Helens, Lancashire. Eng. 
 B. F. ALLEN CO., Sole Agents for United States, 365 & 367 
 C9iNAL St. New York, who (if your dru^^-^ist does not keep them) will mail 
 Beeoham’s Pills on receipt of price, 25c.— but inquire first. Correspond- 
 ents will please mention the namo of tli© publication in wliicb tliis 
 advertisement is seen. 
 
NOTE. 
 
 As yet none of these stories and legends have ever been 
 published in French, the language in which their author 
 wrote them ; nor, in fact, have they ever been printed at 
 all, except in the four leading newspaper syndicates of 
 this country and Great Britain. The material in this book 
 was selected from the one hundred and twenty-seven manu- 
 scripts which were placed in my hands for translation and 
 publication as a means of reawakening the deep interest 
 which formerly was felt in Mme. Sand as a romancer by 
 English-speaking readers ; and it forms but a small part 
 of the enormous quantity of finished literary matter which 
 she left unpublished at the time of her death. The bulk 
 of her posthumous literary remains consists of short stories, 
 legends, and psychological studies which, more than any- 
 thing else, she always delighted in writing, though she 
 rarely published anything less considerable than novels. 
 The reason of her reluctance about publishing these briefer 
 specimens of her literary skill during her life is incompre- 
 hensible to many competent critics, since, in their estima- 
 tion, it comprises some of her very best work. The matter 
 which this book contains has been much sought after, and 
 has won only golden opinions as it has appeared in the 
 periodical press. Syndicate managers assure me also that 
 
6 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 no other contemporaneous matter has been in such de- 
 mand among the publishers whom they supply. All this, 
 of course, is very gratifying, and leads the translator to 
 hope that this posthumous fiction of Mme. Sand’s may 
 meet with equal favor and appreciation in its present 
 form. 
 
 Lew Vanderpoole. 
 
 New York, April 23, 1887. 
 
I 
 
 
 LLBR 
 
 COPV«l6HT‘ 
 
 QUICKLY MARRIED 
 
 Girls who use 
 
 ^P©y© are 
 
 * S APOLIO is one of the best known city iusuries and each time a cake 
 |fs used an hour is saved. On d.odrs, tables and painted work it acts lika 
 charm. For scouring pots, paps and metals' it has no equal. If your 
 /ttore-keeper does not keep it you should insist upon his doing so, as it 
 always gives satisfaction and its immense sale all over the United States 
 makes it an almost necessary article to any well supplied store. £veiy^«** 
 thing shines after its use, and even the children delight in using it ii^. 
 their attempts to help around the house.. 
 
 £K/tr WATERPROOF COLLAR m CUFF 
 
 BE UIP 
 TO 
 
 THE MARK 
 
 THAT CAN BE RELIED ON 
 
 nOTOt; to SlT3ll-tI 
 
 3>g'o1; -to X>lsooXoiyt 
 
 BEARS TH!S MARK. 
 
 
 NEEDS NO LAUNDERINO. CAN BE WIRED CLEAN IN A MOMENT: 
 
 THE ONLY LINEN-LIN ED waterproof 
 COLLAR IN THE MARKET. 
 
 i 
 
To Americans it is a strange sight to see a large field planted ^\ 
 rose bushes, in long, straight rows, very much as corn is cultivate* 
 this country. 
 
 Yet there are hundreds of fields in Southern France, like the 
 shown in the above picture, which bear no less than 180,000 lbs, o| 
 tons of roses each year, for Colgate & Co. 
 
 As the perfume of a flower is more fragrant in the early mornij 
 great care is exercised to secure the roses from only those farmers 
 gather their flowers early in the morning, before the dew has dried fr. 
 the leaves, and the hot sun drawn off the perfume. ^ ® 
 
 It is this attention to the minutest detail in obtaining only 
 choicest kind of perfume, and the best of materials, which has secured?^ 
 Colfyaf.A A rio. f.ViA biorVipaf, fl.warrifl at Wnrlrl FT-nnsitions. and flrives I?® 
 
 ono 
 
 c90 
 
 (for 
 
 Colgate & Co. the highest awards at World Expositions, and gives 
 rivalled superiority to their Soaps and Perfumes, the favorite of wl 
 is 
 
 L CASHMERE BOUQUET. 
 
 r