CHAPTER XXVI.

The End--and a Beginning.

As to our desperate run from Lattimore to the place where it came to an

end in a junk-heap which had been once an engine, a car reduced to

matchwood, a broken trestle, and a chaos of crushed hopes, and of the

return to our homes thereafter, no further details need be set forth.

The papers in Lattimore were filled with the story for a day or two, and

I believe there were columns about it in the Associated Press reports. I

doubt not that Mr. Pendleton and Mr. Cornish each read it in the morning

papers, and that the latter explained it to the former in Chicago. From

these reports the future biographer may glean, if he happens to come

into being and to care about it, certain interesting facts about the

people of this history. He will learn that Mr. Barslow, having (with

truly Horatian swimming powers) rescued President Elkins from a watery

grave, waited with his unconscious derelict in great danger from

freezing, until they were both rescued a second time by a crew of

hand-car men who were near the trestle on special work connected with

the flood and its ravages. That President Elkins was terribly injured,

having sustained a broken arm and a dangerous wound in the forehead.

Moreover, he was threatened with pneumonia from his exposure. Should

this disease really fasten itself upon him, his condition would be very

critical indeed. That Mr. Barslow, the hero of the occasion, was

uninjured. And I am ashamed to say that such student of history will

find in an inconspicuous part of the same news-story, as if by reason of

its lack of importance, the statement that O. Hegvold, fireman, and J.

J. Corcoran, conductor of the wrecked train, escaped with slight

injuries. And that Julius Schwartz, the engineer, living at 2714 May

Street, and the oldest engineer on the L. & G. W., being benumbed by the

cold, sank like a stone and was drowned. Poor Schwartz! Magnificent

Schwartz! No captain ever went down, refusing to leave the bridge of his

sinking ship, with more heroism than he; who, clad in greasy overalls,

and sapped of his strength by the icy hurricane, finding his homely duty

inextricably entangled with death, calmly took them both, and went his

way.

This mine for the historian will also disclose to him the fact that the

rescued crew and passengers were brought home by a relief-train in

charge of General Manager Kittrick, and that Mr. Elkins was taken

directly to the home of Mr. Barslow, where he at once became subject to

the jurisdiction of physicians and nurses and "could not be seen." But

as to the reasons for the insane dash in the dark the historian will

look in vain. I am disposed now to think that our motives were entirely

creditable; but for them we got no credit.

Much less than a nine days' wonder, however, was this tragedy of the Elk

Fork trestle, for other sensations came tumbling in an army upon its

very heels. Times of war, great public calamities, and panic are the

harvest seasons of the newspapers; and these were great days for the

newspapers in Lattimore. Not that they learned or printed all the news.

I received a telegram, for instance, the day after the accident, which

merely entered up judgment on the verdict of the day before. It was a

message from Mr. Pendleton in Chicago.

"In matter of Lattimore & Great Western," this telegram read, "directors

refuse to ratify contract. This sent to save you trip to Chicago."

"No news in that," said I to Mr. Hinckley; "I wonder that he bothered to

send it."

But, in the era of slug heads which set in about three days after, and

while Jim was still helpless up at my house, it would have received

recognition as news--although they did very well without it.

"Great Failure!" said the _Times_. "Grain Belt Trust Company Goes to the

Wall! Business Circles Convulsed! Receiver Appointed at Suit of Charles

Harper of Chicago! Followed by Assignment of Hinckley & Macdonald,

Bankers! Western Portland Cement Company Assigns! Atlas Power Company

Follows Suit! Reason, Money Tied up in Banks and Trust Company. Where

will it Stop? A Veritable Black Friday!"

Thus the headlines. In the news report itself the _Times_ remarked upon

the intimate connection of Mr. Elkins and myself with all the failed

concerns. The firm of Elkins & Barslow, being primarily a real-estate

and insurance agency, would not assign. As to the condition of the

business of James R. Elkins & Company, whose operations in bonds and

debentures had been enormous, nothing could be learned on account of the

critical illness of Mr. Elkins.

"It is not thought," said the _Herald_, "that the failures will carry

down any other concerns. The run on the First National Bank was one of

those panicky symptoms which are dangerous because so unreasoning. It is

to be hoped that it will not be renewed in the morning. The banks are

not involved in the operations of the Grain Belt Trust Company, the

failure of which, it must be admitted, is sure to cause serious

disturbances, both locally and elsewhere, wherever its wide-spread

operations have extended."

The physical system adjusts itself to any permanent lesion in the body,

and finally ceases even to send out its complaining messages of pain. So

we in Lattimore, who a few weeks ago had been ready to sacrifice

anything for the keeping of our good name; who by stealth justly

foreclosed mortgages justly due, lest the world should wonder at their

nonpayment; who so greatly had rejoiced in our own strength; who had

felt that, surely, we who had wrought such wonders could not now

fail:--even we numbly came to regard receiverships and assignments as

quite the thing to be expected. The fact that, all over the country,

panic, ruin, and business stagnation were spreading like a pestilence,

from just such centers of contagion as Lattimore, made it easier for

us. Surely, we felt, nobody could justly blame us for being in the path

of a tempest which, like a tropic cyclone, ravaged a continent.

This may have been weak self-justification; but, even yet, when I think

of the way we began, and how the wave of "prosperity" rose and rose, by

acts in themselves, so far as we could see, in every way praiseworthy;

how with us, and with people engaged in like operations everywhere, the

most powerful passions of society came to aid our projects; how the

winds from the unknown, the seismic throbbings of the earth, and the

very stars in their courses fought for us; and when, at last, these

mightinesses turned upon us the cold and evil eye of their displeasure,

how the heaped-up sea came pouring over here, trickling through there,

and seeping under yonder, until our great dike toppled over in baleful

tumult, "and all the world was in the sea"; how business, east, west,

north, and south, went paralyzed with fear and distrust, and old

concerns went out like strings of soap-bubbles, and shocks of pain and

disease went round the world, and everywhere there was that hellish and

portentous thing known to the modern world only, and called a

"commercial panic": when I broadly consider these things, I am not vain

enough seriously to blame myself.

These thoughts are more than ever in my mind to-day, as I look back over

the decade of years which have elapsed since our Waterloo at the Elk

Fork trestle. I look out from the same library in which I once felt a

sense of guilt at the expense of building it, and see the solid and

prosperous town, almost as populous as we once saw it in our dreams. I

am regarded locally as one of the creators of the city; but I know that

this praise is as unmerited as was that blame of a dozen years ago. We

rode on the crest of a wave, and we weltered in the trough of the sea;

but we only seemed to create or control. I hold in my hand a letter from

Jim, received yesterday, and eloquent of the changes which have taken

place.

"I am sorry," says he, "to be unable to come to your business men's

banquet. The building of a great auditorium in Lattimore is proof that

we weren't so insane, after all. I suppose that the ebb and flow of the

tide of progress, which yearly gains upon the shore, is inevitable, as

things are hooked up; but, after the ebb, it's comforting to see your

old predictions as to gain coming true, even if you do find yourself in

the discard. It would be worth the trip only to see Captain Tolliver,

and to hear him eliminate the _r_'s from his mother tongue. Give the

dear old secesh my dearest love!

"But I can't come, Al. I must be in Washington at that time on business

of the greatest (presumptive) importance to the cattle interests of the

buffalo-grass country. I could change my own dates; but my wife has

arranged a tryst for a day certain with some specialists in her line in

New York. She's quite the queen of the cattle range--in New York: and,

to be dead truthful, she comes pretty near it out here. It is rumored

that even the sheepmen speak well of her.

"These Eastern trips are great things for her and the children. I'm

riding the range so constantly, and get so much fun out of it, that I

feel sort of undressed and embarrassed out of the saddle. In Washington

I'm pointed out as a typical cowboy, the descendant of a Spanish vaquero

and a trapper's daughter. This helps me to represent my constituents in

the sessions of the Third House, and to get Congressional attention to

the ax I want ground. I am looked upon as in line for the presidency of

the Amalgamated Association of American Ax-grinders.

"If we can make it, we'll look in on you on our way back; but we don't

promise. With cattle scattered over two counties of buttes and canyons,

we feel in a hurry when we get started home, after an absence sure to

have been longer than we intended. Then, you know how I feel;--I wish

the old town well, but I don't enjoy _every_ incident of my visits

there.

"We expect to see the Cecil Barr-Smiths in New York. Cecil is the whole

thing now with their companies--a sort of professional president in

charge of the American properties; and Mrs. Cecil is as well known in

some mighty good circles in London as she used to be in Lynhurst Park.

"I am glad to know that things are going toward the good with you.

Personally, I never expect to be a seven-figure man again, and don't

care to be. I prefer to look after my few thousands of steers, laying on

four hundred pounds each per year, far from the madding crowd. You know

Riley's man who said that the little town of Tailholt was good enough

for him? Well, that expresses my view of the 'J-Up-and-Down' Ranch as a

hermitage. It'll do quite well. But these Eastern interests of Mrs. Jim

are just now menacing to life in any hermitage. She has specifically

stated on two or three occasions lately that this is no place to bring

up a family. Think of a rough-rider like me in the wilds of New York! I

can see plenty of ways of amusing myself down there, but not such

peaceful ways as putting on my six-shooters and going out after timber

wolves or mountain lions, or our local representative of the clan of the

Hon. Maverick Brander. The future lowers dark with the multitudinous

mouths of avenues of prosperity!"

This letter was a disappointment to Mr. Giddings. His special edition of

the _Herald_ commemorative of the opening of our Auditorium must now be

deprived of its James R. Elkins feature, so far as his being the guest

of honor goes. But there will be Jim's photograph on the first page, and

a half-tone reproduction of a picture of the wreck at the Elk Fork

trestle.

"It is a matter of the deepest regret," said the _Herald_ this morning,

"that Mr. Elkins cannot be with us on this auspicious occasion. He was

the head of that most remarkable group of men who laid the foundations

of Lattimore's greatness. Only one of them, Mr. Barslow, still lives in

Lattimore, where he has devoted his life, since the crash of many years

ago, to the reorganization of the failed concerns, and especially the

Grain Belt Trust Company, and to the salving of their properties in the

interests of the creditors. His present prominence grows out of the

signal skill and ability with which he has done this work; and he must

prove a great factor in the city's future development, as he has been in

its past. Mr. Hinckley, the third member of the syndicate, now far

advanced in years, is living happily with his daughter and her husband.

The fourth, Mr. Cornish, resides in Paris, where he is well known as a

daring and successful financial operator. He, of all the syndicate,

retired from the Lattimore enterprises rich.

"There have been years when the names of these men were not held in the

respect and esteem they deserve. The town was going backward. People who

had been rich were, many of them, in absolute distress for the

necessaries of life. And these men, in a vague sort of way, were blamed

for it. Now, however, we can begin to see the wisdom of their plans and

the vastness of the scope of their combinations. Nothing but the element

of time was wanting, abundantly to vindicate their judgment and

sagacity. The industries they founded succeeded as soon as they were

divorced from the real-estate speculation which unavoidably entered into

their management at the outset. It is regrettable that their founders

could not share in their success."

"Nothing but the element of time," said I to Captain Tolliver, who sat

by me in the car as I read this editorial, "prevents the hot-air balloon

from carrying its load over the Rockies."

"Nothing but luck," said the Captain, "evah could have beaten us. It was

the Fleischmann failure, and it was nothing else. As to the great

qualities of Mr. Elkins, suh, the editorial puts it too mild by fah. He

was a Titan, suh, a Titan, and we shall not look upon his like again.

This town at this moment is vegetating fo' the want of some fo'ceful

Elkins to put life into it. The trilobites, as he so well dubbed them,

ah in control again. What's this Auditorium we've built? A good thing

fo' the city, cehtainly, a ve'y good thing: but see the difficulty, the

humiliatin' difficulty we had, in gettin' togethah the paltry and

trivial hundred and fifty thousand dolla's! Why in that elder day, in

such a cause, we'd have called a meetin' in that old office of Elkins &

Barslow's, and made it up out of ouah own funds in fifteen minutes. It's

the so't of cattle we've got hyah as citizens that's handicappin' us;

but in spite of this, suh, ouah unsuhpassed strategical position is

winnin' fo' us. We ah just now on the eve of great developments,

Barslow, great developments! All my holdin's ah withdrawn from mahket

until fu'theh notice. Foh, as we ah so much behind the surroundin'

country in growth, we must soon take a great leap fo'wahd. We ah past

the boom stage, I thank God, and what we ah now goin' to get is a rathah

brisk but entiahly healthy growth. A good, healthy growth, Barslow, and

no boom!"

The disposition to moralize comes on with advancing middle age, and I

could not help philosophizing on this perennial optimism of the

Captain's. He had used these very words when, so long ago, we had begun

our "cruise." The financial cycle was complete. The world had passed

from hope to intoxication, from intoxication to panic, from panic to the

depths, from this depression, ascending the long slope of gradual

recovery, to the uplands of hope once more. Now, as twenty years ago,

this feeling covered the whole world, was most pronounced in the newer

and more progressive lands, and was voiced by Captain Tolliver, the

grizzled swashbuckler of the land market. In it I recognized the ripple

on the sands heralding the approach of another wave of speculation,

which must roll shoreward in splendor and might, and, like its

predecessors, must spend itself in thunderous ruin.

I often think of what General Lattimore was accustomed to say about

these matters, and how Josie echoed his words as to the evil of fortunes

coming to those who never earned them. Some time, I hope, we shall grow

wise enough to--

I humbly beg your pardon, Madam, and thank you. That charming gesture of

impatience was the one thing needful to admonish me that lectures are

dull, and that the time has come to write _finis_. The rest of the

story? Cornish--Jim--Josie--Antonia? Oh, this proneness of the business

man to talk shop! Left to myself, I should have allowed their history to

remain to the end of time, unresolved as to entanglements, and them

unhealed as to bruises, bodily and sentimental. And, yet, those were the

things which most filled our minds in the dark days after we missed

connection with the Pendleton special.

In the first spasm of the crisis I was more concerned for Jim's safety

than with the long-feared monetary cataclysm. _That_ was upon us in such

power as to make us helpless; but Jim, wounded and prostrated as he was,

his very life in danger, was a concrete subject of anxiety and a

comfortingly promising object of care.

"If we can keep this from assuming the character of true pneumonia,"

said Dr. Aylesbury, "there's no reason why he shouldn't recover."

He had been unconscious and then delirious from the time when he and I

had been picked up there by the railroad-dump, until we were well on our

way home on Kittrick's relief-train. At last he looked about him, and

his eyes rested on Corcoran.

"Hello, Jack!" said he weakly; and as his glance took in Ole, he smiled

and said: "A hellufa notion, you tank, do you? Ole, where's Schwartz?"

Ole twisted and squirmed, but found no words.

"We couldn't find Schwartz," said Kittrick. "He was so cold, he went

right down with the cab."

"I see," said Jim. "It was bitter cold!"

He said no more. I wondered at this, and almost blamed him, even in his

stricken state, for not feeling the peculiar poignancy of our regret for

the loss of Schwartz. And then, his face being turned away, I peeped

over to see if he slept, and saw where his tears had dropped silently on

the piled-up cushions of his couch.

* * * * *

Mrs. Trescott came several times a day to inquire as to Mr. Elkins's

welfare; but Josie not at all. Antonia's carriage stopped often at the

door; and somebody stood always at the telephone, answering the stream

of questions. But when, on that third evening, it became known that the

last "battle in the west" had gone against us, that all our great Round

Table was dissolved, and that Jim's was a sinking and not a rising sun,

public interest suddenly fell off. And the poor fellow whose word but

yesterday might have stood against the world, now lay there fighting for

very life, and few so poor to do him reverence. I had been so proud of

his splendid and dominant strength that this, I think, was the thing

that brought the bitterness of failure most keenly home to me. I could

not feel satisfied with Josie. There were good reasons why she might

have refused to choose between Jim and the man who had ruined him, while

there was danger of her choice itself becoming the occasion of war

between them. But that was over now, and Cornish was victorious.

Gradually the fear grew upon me that we had rated Josie's womanhood

higher than she herself held it, and that Cornish was to win her also.

He had that magnetism which so attracted her as a girl, but that I had

believed incapable of holding her as a woman. And now he had wealth, and

Jim was poor, and the whole world stood with its back to us, and Josie

held aloof. I was afraid he would speak of it, every time he tried to

talk.

That night when the evening papers came out with all their plenitude of

bad news (for we had pleased Watson by dying on the evening papers'

time), it was a dark moment for us. Jim lay silent and unmoving, as if

all his ebullient energy had gone forever. The physician omitted the

dressing of his wound, because, he said, he feared the patient was not

strong enough to bear it: and this, as well as the strange semi-stupor

of the sufferer, frightened me. Jim had said little, and most of his

words had been of the trivial things of the sick-room. Only once did he

refer to the great affairs in which we had been for so long engrossed.

"What day is this?" he asked.

"Friday," said I, "the twenty-first."

"By this time," said he feebly, "we must be pretty well shot to rags."

"Never mind about that," said I, holding his hands in mine. "Never mind,

Jim!"

"Some of those gophers," said he, after a while, "used to learn to ...

rub their noses ... in the dirt ... and always stick their heads

up--outside the snare!"

"Yes," said I, "I remember. Go to sleep, old man!"

I thought him delirious, and he knew and resented it; being evidently

convinced that he had just made a wise remark. It touched me to hear

him, even in his extremity, return to those boyhood days when we trapped

and hunted and fished together. He saw my pitying look.

"I'm all right," said he; but he said no more.

The nurse came in, and told me that Mrs. Barslow wished to see me in the

library. I went down, and found Josie and Alice together.

"I got a letter from--from Mr. Cornish," said she, "telling me that he

was returning from Chicago to-night, and was coming to see me. I ran

over, because--and told mamma to say that I couldn't see him."

"See him by all means," said I with some bitterness. "You should make

it a point to see him. Mr. Cornish is a success. He alone of us all has

shown real greatness."

And it dawned upon me, as I said it, what Jim had meant by his reference

to the gopher which learns to stick its head up "outside the snare."

"I want to ask you," said Josie, "is it all true--what was in the paper

to-night about all of you, Mr. Hinckley and yourself, and--all of you

having failed?"

"It is only a part of the truth," I replied. "We are ruined absolutely."

She said nothing by way of condolence, and uttered no expressions of

regret or sympathy. She was apparently in a state of suppressed

excitement, and started at sounds and movements.

"Is Mr. Elkins very ill?" said she at length.

"So ill," said Alice, "that unless he rallies soon, we shall look for

the worst."

No more at this than at the other ill news did Josie express any regret

or concern. She sat with her fingers clasped together, gazing before her

at the fire in the grate, as if making some deep and abstruse

calculation. But when the door-bell rang, she started and listened

attentively, as the servant went to the door, and then returned to us.

"A gentleman, Mr. Cornish, to see Miss Trescott," said the maid. "And he

says he must see her for a moment."

"Alice," said Josie, under her breath, "you go, please! Say to him that

I cannot see him--now! Oh, why did he follow me here?"

"Josie," said Alice dramatically, "you don't mean to say that you are

afraid of this man! Are you?"

"No, no!" said the girl doubtfully and distressfully; "but it's so hard

to say 'No' to him! If you only knew all, Alice, you wouldn't blame

me--and you'd go!"

"If you're so far gone--under his influence," said Alice, "that you

can't trust yourself to say 'No,' Josephine Trescott, go, in Heaven's

name, and say 'Yes,' and be the wife of a millionaire--and a traitor and

scoundrel!"

As Alice said this she came perilously near the histrionic standard of

the tragic stage. Josie rose, looked at her in surprise, in which there

seemed to be some defiance, and walked steadily out to the parlor. I was

glad to be out of the affair, and went back to Jim. I stood regarding my

broken and forsaken friend, in watching whose uneasy sleep I forgot the

crisis downstairs, when I was startled and angered by the slamming of

the front door, and heard a carriage rattle furiously away down the

street.

Soon I heard the rustle of skirts, and looked up, thinking to see my

wife. But it was Josie. She came in, as if she were the regularly

ordained nurse, and stepped to the bedside of the sleeping patient. The

broken arm in its swathings lay partly uncovered; and across his wounded

brow was stretched a broad bandage, below which his face showed pale and

weary-looking, in the half-stupor of his deathlike slumber: for he had

become strangely quiet. His uninjured arm lay inertly on the

counterpane beside him.

She took his hand, and, seating herself on the bed, began softly

stroking and patting the hand, gazing all the time in his face. He

stirred, and, turning his eyes toward her, awoke.

"Don't move, my darling," said she quietly, and as if she had been for a

long, long time quite in the habit of so speaking to him; "don't move,

or you'll hurt your arm." Then she bent down her head, lower and lower,

until her cheek touched his.

"I've come to sit with you, Jim, dear," said she, softly--"if you want

me--if I can do you any good."

"I want you, always," said he.

She stooped again, and this time laid her lips lingeringly on his; and

his arm stole about the slim waist.

"If you'll just get well," she whispered, "you may have me--always!"

He passed his fingers over her hair, and kissed her again and again.

Then he looked at her long and earnestly.

"Where's Al?" said he; "I want Al!"

I came forward promptly. I thought that this violation of the doctor's

regulation requiring rest and quiet had gone quite far enough.

"Al," said he, still holding her hand, "do you remember out there by the

windmill tower that night, and the petunias and four-o'clocks?"

"Yes, Jim, I remember," said I. "But you mustn't talk any more now."

"No, I won't," said he, and went right on; "but even before that, and

ever since, I haven't wanted anything we've been trying so hard to get,

half as much as I've wanted Josie; and now--we lost the fight, didn't

we? Things have been slipping away from us, haven't they? Gone, aren't

they?"

"Go to sleep now, Jim," said I. "Plenty of time for those things when

you wake up."

"Yes," said he; "but before I do, I want you to tell me one thing,

honest injun, hope to die, you know!"

"Yes," said I; "what is it, Jim?"

"I've been seeing a lot of funny things in the dark corners about here;

but this seems more real than any of them," he went on; "and I want you

to tell me--_is this really Josie_?"

"Really," I assured him, "really, it is."

"Oh, Jim, Jim!" she cried, "have you learned to doubt my reality, just

because I'm kind! Why, I'm going to be good to you now, dearest, always,

always! And kinder than you ever dreamed, Jim. And I'm going to show you

that everything has not slipped away from you, my poor, poor boy; and

that, whatever may come, I shall be with you always. Only get well; only

get well!"

"Josie," said he, smiling wanly, "you couldn't kill me--now--not with an

ax!"

THE END.

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THE SILVER BUTTERFLY, By Mrs. Wilson Woodrow

With illustrations in colors by Howard Chandler Christy.

A story of love and mystery, full of color, charm, and vivacity, dealing

with a South American mine, rich beyond dreams, and of a New York

maiden, beyond dreams beautiful--both known as the Silver Butterfly.

_Well named is The Silver Butterfly!_ There could not be a better symbol

of the darting swiftness, the eager love plot, the elusive mystery and

the flashing wit.

BEATRIX OF CLARE, By John Reed Scott

With illustrations by Clarence F. Underwood.

A spirited and irresistibly attractive historical romance of the

fifteenth century, boldly conceived and skilfully carried out. In the

hero and heroine Mr. Scott has created a pair whose mingled emotions and

alternating hopes and fears will find a welcome in many lovers of the

present hour. Beatrix is a fascinating daughter of Eve.

A LITTLE BROTHER OF THE RICH,

By Joseph Medill Patterson

Frontispiece by Hazel Martyn Trudeau, and illustrations by Walter Dean

Goldbeck.

Tells the story of the idle rich, and is a vivid and truthful picture of

society and stage life written by one who is himself a conspicuous

member of the Western millionaire class. Full of grim satire, caustic

wit and flashing epigrams. "Is sensational to a degree in its theme,

daring in its treatment, lashing society as it was never scourged

before."--New York Sun.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK

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FAMOUS COPYRIGHT BOOKS IN POPULAR PRICED EDITIONS

Re-issues of the great literary successes of the time. Library size.

Printed on excellent paper--most of them with illustrations of marked

beauty--and handsomely bound in cloth. Price, 75 cents a volume,

postpaid.

THE FAIR GOD; OR, THE LAST OF THE TZINS. By Lew Wallace. With

illustrations by Eric Pape.

"The story tells of the love of a native princess for Alvarado, and it

is worked out with all of Wallace's skill * * * it gives a fine picture

of the heroism of the Spanish conquerors and of the culture and nobility

of the Aztecs."--_New York Commercial Advertiser_.

"_Ben Hur_ sold enormously, but _The Fair God_ was the best of the

General's stories--a powerful and romantic treatment of the defeat of

Montezuma by Cortes."--_Athenaeum_.

THE CAPTAIN OF THE KANSAS. By Louis Tracy.

A story of love and the salt sea--of a helpless ship whirled into the

hands of cannibal Fuegians--of desperate fighting and tender romance,

enhanced by the art of a master of story telling who describes with his

wonted felicity and power of holding the reader's attention * * * filled

with the swing of adventure.

A MIDNIGHT GUEST. A Detective Story. By Fred M. White. With a

frontispiece.

The scene of the story centers in London and Italy. The book is

skilfully written and makes one of the most baffling, mystifying,

exciting detective stories ever written--cleverly keeping the suspense

and mystery intact until the surprising discoveries which precede the

end.

THE HONOUR OF SAVELLI. A Romance. By S. Levett Yeats. With cover and

wrapper in four colors.

Those who enjoyed Stanley Weyman's _A Gentleman of France_ will be

engrossed and captivated by this delightful romance of Italian history.

It is replete with exciting episodes, hair-breath escapes, magnificent

sword-play, and deals with the agitating times in Italian history when

Alexander II was Pope and the famous and infamous Borgias were tottering

to their fall.

SISTER CARRIE. By Theodore Drieser. With a frontispiece, and wrapper in

color.

In all fiction there is probably no more graphic and poignant study of

the way in which man loses his grip on life, lets his pride, his

courage, his self-respect slip from him, and, finally, even ceases to

struggle in the mire that has engulfed him. * * * There is more tonic

value in _Sister Carrie_ than in a whole shelfful of sermons.

GROSSET & DUNLAP--NEW YORK.

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FAMOUS COPYRIGHT BOOKS IN POPULAR PRICED EDITIONS

Re-issues of the great literary successes of the time. Library size.

Printed on excellent paper--most of them with illustrations of marked

beauty--and handsomely bound in cloth. Price, 75 cents a volume,

postpaid.

LAVENDER AND OLD LACE. By Myrtle Reed.

A charming story of a quaint corner of New England where bygone romance

finds a modern parallel. One of the prettiest, sweetest, and quaintest

of old-fashioned love stories * * * A rare book, exquisite in spirit and

conception, full of delicate fancy, of tenderness, of delightful humor

and spontaneity. A dainty volume, especially suitable for a gift.

DOCTOR LUKE OF THE LABRADOR. By Norman Duncan. With a frontispiece and

inlay cover.

How the doctor came to the bleak Labrador coast and there in saving life

made expiation. In dignity, simplicity, humor, in sympathetic etching of

a sturdy fisher people, and above all in the echoes of the sea, _Doctor

Luke_ is worthy of great praise. Character, humor, poignant pathos, and

the sad grotesque conjunctions of old and new civilizations are

expressed through the medium of a style that has distinction and strikes

a note of rare personality.

THE DAY'S WORK. By Rudyard Kipling. Illustrated.

The _London Morning Post_ says: "It would be hard to find better reading

* * * the book is so varied, so full of color and life from end to end,

that few who read the first two or three stories will lay it down till

they have read the last--and the last is a veritable gem gem * * *

contains some of the best of his highly vivid work * * * Kipling is a

born story-teller and a man of humor into the bargain."

ELEANOR LEE. By Margaret E. Sangster. With a frontispiece.

A story of married life, and attractive picture of wedded bliss * * * an

entertaining story of a man's redemption through a woman's love * * * no

one who knows anything of marriage or parenthood can read this story

with eyes that are always dry * * * goes straight to the heart of every

one who knows the meaning of "love" and "home."

THE COLONEL OF THE RED HUZZARS. By John Reed Scott. Illustrated by

Clarence F. Underwood.

"Full of absorbing charm, sustained interest, and a wealth of thrilling

and romantic situations. So naively fresh in its handling, so plausible

through its naturalness, that it comes like a mountain breeze across the

far-spreading desert of similar romances."--_Gazette-Times, Pittsburg_.

"A slap-dashing day romance."--_New York Sun_.

GROSSET & DUNLAP--NEW YORK.

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