HENDRIE'S WAY
In spite of Professor Hinkling's best assurance, a month of weary
nursing and watching followed before Monica's recovery became assured.
The operation was absolutely successful, but the patient herself
obstinately refused to respond to the skill that sought her complete
recovery. It almost seemed as though her recuperative powers had been
completely destroyed, for she lingered close to the border which she
had so nearly crossed, and Nature, generally so accommodating, utterly
refused to carry her away from it.
Thus it was that Professor Hinkling stayed on and on at Deep Willows,
puzzled and anxious. He sacrificed his great practice to that one
flickering life. He was even better than his word, for he rarely ever
left the house, and remained in constant attendance.
Alexander Hendrie, a prey to every misgiving which his love could
inspire, watched these things with thankfulness and gratitude to the
man who could so generously bestow his great skill. He was glad. Though
he knew his debt to this man was beyond the reach of mere wealth he was
glad that it was within his power to make a princely effort to repay.
Frank and Phyllis, too, found themselves well-nigh despairing. Whenever
Phyllis could drag herself from the vicinity of the sick room, which no
one but nurses and doctors were permitted to enter, she spent her time
at her lover's side. Together they shared this weary trouble, as they
shared all things, buoying each other with words of hope and confidence
which had no stable foundations in their minds. In Hendrie's presence
they avoided the subject of Monica's health altogether. It was enough
for them to witness his brooding eyes, with their gloomy, stormy look,
which was rarely absent from them now.
The reaction from his moment of buoyant hope, when he had dismissed
Austin Leyburn, was painful to all who observed it. The man's heart was
well-nigh breaking, and a great dread filled his stormy brain. He could
not rest. Work--work was the only thing, and he set himself a pace
which human machinery could never hope to keep up. He avoided everybody
except Angus, and these two spent every moment of their time in the
repairing of the damage done by the strikers to the farm.
They were full enough weeks for everybody. Events were happening in
almost every direction, the influence of which was felt throughout the
whole farming world.
The strike of farm hands had fallen utterly flat since Leyburn had
departed from Deep Willows, and the strikers had discovered that
harvesting was going on in every direction without their aid. Instead
of the employers being brought to their knees as promised, they, the
strikers at Deep Willows, as a result of their own mischief, found
themselves without the prospect of work, and a winter yet to face. When
they attempted to gain employment on other farms, they found themselves
not required. Their plight was bad, and, in very little time, they were
glad enough to approach Deep Willows, as Hendrie had prophesied, pretty
well on their knees.
Nor did they come in vain. In less than a week a hundred plows, steam
and horse, were at work burying the last signs of recent destruction.
But whatever Hendrie's feelings, whatever his attitude toward these
misguided creatures, Angus Moraine's was unmistakable. He was a born
martinet, nor could he forget their wanton destruction of his beloved
farm.
Then, too, within two weeks of Leyburn's release, a further lightening
of the labor horizon came. The significance of it was lost to the
general public. Quite suddenly the railroad strike came to an end. The
world was told that a compromise had been effected between the men and
the company. Perhaps, too, the men were told this by their leaders.
Hendrie had his own ideas upon the subject, and Angus Moraine shared
them.
"There's only one thing for the gopher when the watch-dogs get loose,
Angus," the millionaire said, when he received the confirmation of the
rumor. "They need to hunt their holes--quick."
Angus agreed, but his eyes only half smiled.
"Sure," he said.
"Leyburn's a pretty wise guy," Hendrie went on thoughtfully. "Guess the
bottom's dropped right out of his play. It'll take him a while patching
it. But he'll be on to a fresh mischief later, and we'll need to keep a
skinned eye. But I guess it won't be playing stocks through labor
strikes. Say, he'll quit labor--after a while."
How true was Alexander Hendrie's surmise time soon showed. Austin
Leyburn did resign from his official capacity in labor circles. And
within a year he suddenly reappeared in the financial world, which
brought him under closer observation by the wheat operator.
These events came, passed, and soon were relegated to the mere memory
of a stormy period, scarcely pleasant to dwell upon. In the meantime
Monica's retarded recovery occupied every mind at Deep Willows. It was
so wholly inexplicable.
One day, toward the end of the third week, Professor Hinkling, who had
taken a great fancy to Phyllis, opened his heart to her upon the
subject.
It was one morning. Phyllis was on the landing not far from the door of
the sick room. She was waiting, as was her custom, for the surgeon's
report. He had been with his patient longer than usual and the girl was
worried, and more than usually depressed. All sorts of fancies had
taken hold of her imagination, and she feared a change for the very
worst. At last the door opened and she saw the man's slim figure emerge.
He saw her, too. He knew she would be there. Now his eyes had lost
their usual cheerfulness. His brows were knitted, and he looked
troubled. He shook his head as he came up.
"No improvement, my dear young lady," he said, in his crisp way.
"None? None at all?" The girl's face fell.
The man shook his head again.
"It is--quite extraordinary," he said thoughtfully. "She is
comparatively young. I should say she was normally a--healthy woman.
The operation was _absolutely_ successful. She--she ought to be
better--very much better. It almost seems--as if she doesn't want to
recover."
"Oh, but," the girl cried impulsively, and broke off. All of a sudden
the man's final remark became full of significance to her woman's mind.
"But--what?" inquired the man, with his amiable smile.
"I--I don't know," declared Phyllis lamely.
The man shook his head.
"That won't do," he said kindly. "You--you were thinking of something.
Something suggested by my saying she seemed not to want to recover."
His keen eyes were searching her strong, young face. "Listen, young
lady," he went on, after a pause, while the girl felt as though he were
reading her through and through. "We surgeons are frequently up against
psychological forces in our patients which not infrequently undo all
the good we attempt to do. Believe me, a skillful operation often fails
by reason of the antagonistic forces I refer to. There is no physical
reason that I can discover why Mrs. Hendrie should not recover. Her
history--the history of her trouble--suggests that the psychological
side has been instrumental in bringing about her--deplorable condition.
I know no absolute facts, but I have reason to believe that her mental
attitude is such as to retard, even destroy the chances of her
recovery. Can you tell me? But I know you can."
The girl suddenly clasped and unclasped her hands. Her anxiety became
almost painful. The waiting man saw that he was on a hot scent, and,
like the clever man he was, refrained from pressing her.
Presently she looked up into his face with desperate eyes.
"Oh, Professor," she cried, "I've so--so wanted to say something to you
before. But I've--I've been scared to. You see, a--a woman's so
different from a man--and--Monica is--is a woman."
"Quite so."
Phyllis saw the smile which accompanied the surgeon's words, and her
helpless groping suddenly passed. She stifled her nervousness and spoke
quickly.
"Yes, I know. I'm silly," she cried. "But--maybe no one's told you. You
see, it's not easy. Yes, Mrs. Hendrie's trouble I think was largely
brought on by grief."
"Ah."
"I can't--can't tell you what it was. It's--it's hers. I have no right
to tell it--even to you. Anyway," she went on quickly, "that grief is
still with her--I expect. But it could be removed in--in a moment," she
added quickly. "It would be so simple--if the excitement were----"
The surgeon's eyes lit.
"Good girl," he cried, in his quietly cordial fashion. "Now, how can
the trouble be--removed?"
There was a quiet eagerness in the man's demand.
"Why--by letting Frank see her," Phyllis exclaimed. "By letting him see
her and tell her that he is here--living here--here for good."
The man reached out, and taking one of the girl's hands patted it
gently.
"Good girl," he said. "Now, just run off and bring this--great Frank.
Tell him what you like, and then send him to me. He shall see Mrs.
Hendrie--alone. And trust me to ask no questions. Maybe we shall find
him a better doctor than any of us. You can leave the--excitement to
me."
So it came about that the long, dreary period of waiting for
improvement was suddenly brought to an end. Frank was the first person,
except the nurses, allowed into the sick room, and he proved the tonic
she needed.
That which passed between the two remained for them alone, but the
effect upon Monica was miraculous. Improvement started from that
moment, and Hinkling moved about the house, his dark eyes shining with
the assurance of victory.
So, at last, bright days came again at Deep Willows. The influence of
Monica's sudden move forward toward recovery was reflected in the
entire household. Even Angus, austere, "grouchy," felt it, for the
millionaire and his incessant work no longer obsessed him. Even he was
glad of the breathing space which the change in his employer's mood
gave him.
The news traveled like lightning, and, two days later, when the great
surgeon prepared for his long-delayed departure, everybody in the
neighborhood, everybody in the house, down to the humblest capacity of
service, knew that the mistress of Deep Willows was marching down the
broad high road to health with no wavering or uncertain steps.
The millionaire accompanied the surgeon to Calford when the day came
for departure, and during the long run in the automobile, in spite of
his change of feelings, in spite of his great thankfulness that he was
leaving Monica behind him basking in the companionship of the man and
girl whom she regarded with all the affection of a mother, he was
unusually silent.
The two men were lounging back in the open car. One, at least, was
reveling in the sweet fresh air of the prairie lands as he sped upon
the first stage of his journey back to the crowded streets of the city
to which he belonged.
"I think it will be best to give her a complete change," the surgeon
said, after a long, thoughtful silence. "When I say complete I mean
Europe, or travel about generally. Egypt, Palestine. Even China, or
Japan. Take her completely out of herself, and every surrounding she's
used to. There's nothing like comfortable travel in easy stages for a
woman who's gone through what Mrs. Hendrie has."
"I'd thought of it," said the millionaire, settling himself more deeply
on the wide seat.
The surgeon smiled.
"Then put it into practice," he returned.
Hendrie nodded. He was gazing out ahead over the long even trail. There
was a grave look in his steady eyes.
"Say," he inquired, a moment later, "guess she's pretty strong--now? No
danger of a relapse?"
"None whatever--I should say."
The little man's eyes were surveying the other speculatively.
"I'm--glad," said Hendrie, with a heavy sigh. "None, eh?"
"Humanly speaking--none."
Hendrie nodded with his eyes averted.
Presently he turned, and the two looked into each other's eyes, as men
will who understand each other.
"She's got to hear some--news," Hendrie said, in his blunt fashion.
"Likely it may knock her--hard."
The surgeon sat up.
"About that boy--Frank? Anything against him?"
Hendrie shook his head.
"No," he said. "It's--about me."
Professor Hinkling sat back in his seat with an assured smile.
"That's all right," he said easily. "It's only that boy matters--just
now."
*****
The evening sun was streaming in through the wide bow window of the
boudoir, lighting up the delicate shades of color in the costly
decorations with a suggestion of spring, rather than the mature days of
early autumn which were already upon the world. There was hope in the
aspect of the room, hope in the brilliancy of the sunlight, hope, too,
engendered of the knowledge that here was no longer a sick room, but a
delightful harmonious resting place where convalescence was to be
converted into complete restoration to health.
A large lounge filled the space beneath the window where the patient
might lie, or sit, drinking in the health-giving fragrance of the pure
prairie air; where the sight of the wide blue heavens, with their robes
of fleecy white, might well inspire the desire for perfect health;
where the golden sun in all its glory might bathe the ailing body in
its generous light, and drive back the grim shadows of sickness to the
realms of darkness where they rightly belonged.
The room was littered with all those things which told of kindly hearts
and loving hands. This temporary imprisonment must be made something
more than tolerable. It must be made a memory for after life to look
back upon, not with shuddering repulsion, but with delight at the
thought of the generous love striving to bring happiness once more into
an ailing life.
There were flowers, wonderful and rare; flowers which had traveled
leagues and leagues to bring their message of hope of summer days to
come, and delight the eye with their wonders of delicate coloring, and
ravish the senses with their subtle fragrance. There were books, too,
books full of life's little romances to inspire that joy of thought and
sympathy, for others less blessed in a struggling world. Fruits,
delicious fruits from the most extravagant and luxurious corners of the
earth. A hundred and one things there were waiting upon Monica's
invalid whim, and, if need be, there would be a hundred and one more.
The wealth of one of the world's rich men was at her feet. She was his
idol. Nothing should be denied. No desire of hers should remain
unfulfilled, if only it might contribute to the restoration of that
perfect health from which she had so long been separated.
Hendrie was with her now as she reclined upon the lounge. She was still
a shadow of her former self, but her eyes were alight with a wonderful
peace of mind, and the joy of living. She was propped up with soft
cushions, facing her husband, who was leaning forward in his chair with
his hands clasped loosely, his elbows resting upon his parted knees.
He had been talking for a long time. He was still talking in a voice
that was unusually subdued and gentle. He was carrying out his
deliberate purpose to its last detail. He was telling her the story of
that past; that past so full of passionate wrong-doing; so full of
disgraceful, but strong manhood. He had shirked none of it. By not one
fraction did he deviate from the bald truth, however ugly it might
appear, in whatever painful light it might discover him. By not one
touch of the brush of falsehood did he seek to gloss over the harsh
surface of his own ruthless acts. It was a time when only truth could
serve, and he had steeled his heart to abide by the result.
Just as he had always been the unyielding man, driving straight to the
goal of purpose, so he was equally unyielding to the temptation to
screen himself, equally strong in his frank self-accusing. He knew no
middle course. There was no middle course for him. Such did not exist.
He had brought his story down to the final details of the recent
happenings at Deep Willows.
"Mon," he said, gazing straight into the unwavering eyes he loved, and
speaking with gentle earnestness, "you must judge me as you will. I
tell you, cost me what it may, your judgment goes. The things I have
done, and been, may seem unforgivable to you. It would surely be a
miracle if they did not. But before you sit in judgment on me you must
know all you have meant to my life. You must know something of the
depth of my love for you."
He thrust one hand into his coat pocket and withdrew the revolver it
had contained for so many weeks now.
"See this gun?" he went on. "It's loaded in every chamber. No, don't be
afraid, dear," he smiled as a look of trouble crept into his wife's
eyes. "I had no thought of suicide. That is an act of cowardice; and,
whatever my shortcomings, I am not afraid to face trouble when it comes
along. But I want to let you see into my heart and mind, and know the
man I am. That gun was meant for Austin Leyburn. The man I had wronged,
and who was bent on revenge. His vengeance meant nothing to me
personally. If he had succeeded in ruining me utterly I could still
have laughed at him--so long as I had you. But all unconsciously he had
made it possible that the help you needed, the help that was to save
your precious life to me, might not be forthcoming. Had you died, I
should have shot him dead. Furthermore, I should have been glad that my
hand had crushed out his life. There is nothing more for me to say now,
dear," he went on, after a pause. "You know me now as I am, or at least
as I know myself to me. The future, my future is in your hands."
He sat up and returned the ominous weapon to his pocket, while Monica
remained silent. Her eyes were no longer upon him. Their lids were
lowered to hide the thought so busy behind them.
The man glanced at her. Illness had left its mark. Lines of suffering
had drawn themselves about the corners of her beautiful mouth, where
lines had not been before. Deep shadows were gathered about her eyes,
and the hollowed cheeks displayed the ravages of ill-health.
But, even so, her beauty had in no wise departed. To this man, at
least, there was no difference from the superb beauty once hers. It was
the woman he loved, the soul and mind. Those things which he felt no
ravages of illness could ever change.
He waited wordless. Of that which his heart might fear he gave no sign.
It was his way.
At last Monica sighed. Then her eyes were slowly raised, and for one
long, ardent moment she gazed upon the man whose blemishes were so many
and whose virtues were so few, and yet whose manhood was far, far
greater to her than that of any other she had ever known. She saw in
him that wonderful thing which few women can look upon unmoved. She saw
courage and manhood, and she bowed her woman's love of all the virtues
to the instinct of her sex. She would not, could not judge. Nature had
created in her an ardent woman's soul, full of the power of love,
regardless of the right and wrong of her feelings. She had loved this
man, and it was beyond her power to recall, or change those feelings.
So her words came, thrilling with gratitude and love for the man who
knew no other life than at her side.
"I'm glad, dear, so glad," she cried passionately. "Oh," she went on,
with a ring of wonderful delight which carried joy into the man's
stormy heart, and set his every sense thrilling, "I'm glad of it all.
I'm glad I am here--you are near me. I'm glad that this wonderful
evening sun is shining, and that my eyes can look upon it. I am glad
that I am breathing this fresh, pure air, and that God has seen fit to
let you drag me back from those dark and painful ways. But more than
all I am glad of you, Alec, glad that I can reach out and touch
you--so."
She thrust out one almost transparent hand, which was seized and gently
clasped in both her husband's.
"It is good, dear, to feel your great, strong, warm hands in mine. It
is good to know they are always with me, ready to fight for me, ready
to caress me. Lift me up, dear--so."
The man reached out and supported her frail body, so that her fair head
rested against his shoulder as he drew her to him.
"So, yes, it is good to have you with me," she went on happily. "Now
kiss me, dear; kiss me, and tell me that the shadows are all gone by,
that never again, so long as we live, shall we let others replace them.
So--yes." She sighed in perfect contentment and happiness. "God has
been very good to us--far, far better than either of us deserve."
So there fell a wonderful, perfect silence upon the room. The great sun
beyond the window lolled heavily to his rest, and the shadows grew out
of the remoter corners of the room. Peace seemed to reign everywhere; a
wonderful, perfect peace.
And after a while, a long, long while it seemed, the woman stirred in
her husband's arms. Presently she looked up.
Her happy, wandering gaze had drifted to the window and beyond. There,
in the darkening shadows of the skeleton woodlands, she beheld two
figures strolling idly, hand in hand. The growing twilight left them
clearly outlined against the blackened trees. The man's great figure
towered over the slim woman by his side, who was still by no means
dwarfed. Monica thrilled with delight as she beheld them. They were
those whom she loved best in the world, next to this man at her side.
"Look, Alec," she cried. "Look there. They, too, have at last found
perfect happiness. Soon--soon they will be launching their little craft
upon the world's troubled waters. Soon they, too, will know the real
meaning of life. We have learned together, dear, haven't we? And
now--now we can sit by, and watch them, and help them launch their
little boat. Beyond that we cannot go. Theirs it is to set their course
and keep it. Theirs it is to put their hands to the tiller and weather
every storm. And they are many--very, very, many, even for the most
fortunate. God be with them."
The man was watching the idly wandering lovers with eyes of deep
affection.
"He's a good boy," he said, in a tone that was full of paternal pride.
"There's no bad streak in him, as there is in----" He sighed. "I'm glad
of it. I want to wonder when I think what he's suffered at my hands.
And after all these years he's come to me. It's good, Mon. It's good to
think of.
"Yes," he went on, after a pause, "and what a girl for any man. I feel
glad, so glad, I don't just know how to speak it. But I can do a lot.
Say, when it comes to launching that boat, I don't guess they need to
lay a hand to it. That's right up to me."
Monica gazed up into his strong face. Emotion was working behind that
wonderful mask. She knew. But she would not let him know that she could
read so deeply.
"How--how, shall you help to--launch that boat, dear?" she asked gently.
The man smiled, and his eyes were shining with generous impulse.
"How? Why, he comes into my business on a half share. You see, he's in
my life on a half share already."
Monica's eyes thanked him. He wanted no words.
"And--little Phyllis--Phyl?" she asked with a tender inflection on the
familiar abbreviation.
The man's smile broadened.
"Why, Phyl?" he cried. "For Phyl, whatever you say goes. Guess I'd like
to hand her the house in Winnipeg as a present--on my own--though.
She's just worth--everything."
Monica nodded.
"We have many debts to pay," she said. "There's that other, too."
"Other?" For a moment Hendrie looked at her in some doubt. Then he
smiled again. "Ah--you mean--Angus."
"Yes, your beloved--Angus."
There was a note of gentle raillery in Monica's reply.
The man nodded.
"Sure," he said, with unmistakable conviction. Then he added: "The
thing he's yearning for is this farm. He's just loved it years. Guess
my attorney's fixing it over to him--right now."
The man's prodigal generosity left Monica speechless.
"He's worth it," he went on. "He's worth all I can do." Then he smiled.
"You see, he's a feller whose rough exterior conceals a deal of what's
worth while."
The woman's eyes were again turned toward the window, and the two
figures beyond it. Their magnetism was irresistible.
"Those who possess most of--what is _really_ worth while, often
contrive to hide it under an exterior of denial," she said. Then, as an
afterthought. "It's--it's the way of the strong."
The man agreed and his smile was almost humorous.
"Guess the strong folks often find themselves mighty short of the
more--delicate virtues," he said, with a laugh. "Seems a pity--eh, Mon?
Guess if things weren't that way, we'd be having a world full of
perfect men, hopping around like rabbits, and chasing glory by the
light of their own halos."
Monica laughed, too, and finally smiled up into his face as she nestled
closer to him.
"I don't think halos are becoming--anyway," she said. "I'm glad you
don't wear--a halo."
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+Fighting Chance, The.+ By Robert W. Chambers.
+Financier, The.+ By Theodore Dreiser.
+Flamsted Quarries.+ By Mary E. Waller.
+Flying Mercury, The.+ By Eleanor M. Ingram.
+For a Maiden Brave.+ By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss.
+Four Million, The.+ By O. Henry.
+Four Pool's Mystery, The.+ By Jean Webster.
+Fruitful Vine, The.+ By Robert Hichens.
+Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford.+ By George Randolph Chester.
+Gilbert Neal.+ By Will N. Harben.
+Girl From His Town, The.+ By Marie Van Vorst.
+Girl of the Blue Ridge, A.+ By Payne Erskine.
+Girl Who Lived in the Woods, The.+ By Marjorie Benton Cook.
+Girl Who Won, The.+ By Beth Ellis.
+Glory of Clementina, The.+ By Wm. J. Locke.
+Glory of the Conquered, The.+ By Susan Glaspell.
+God's Country and the Woman.+ By James Oliver Curwood.
+God's Good Man.+ By Marie Corelli.
+Going Some.+ By Rex Beach.
+Gold Bag, The.+ By Carolyn Wells.
+Golden Slipper, The.+ By Anna Katharine Green.
+Golden Web, The.+ By Anthony Partridge.
+Gordon Craig.+ By Randall Parrish.
+Greater Love Hath No Man.+ By Frank L. Packard.
+Greyfriars Bobby.+ By Eleanor Atkinson.
+Guests of Hercules, The.+ By C. N. & A. M. Williamson.
+Halcyone.+ By Elinor Glyn.
+Happy Island+ (Sequel to Uncle William). By Jeannette Lee.
+Havoc.+ By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
+Heart of Philura, The.+ By Florence Kingsley.
+Heart of the Desert, The.+ By Honore Willsie.
+Heart of the Hills, The.+ By John Fox, Jr.
+Heart of the Sunset.+ By Rex Beach.
+Heart of Thunder Mountain, The.+ By Elfrid A. Bingham.
+Heather-Moon, The.+ By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.
+Her Weight in Gold.+ By Geo. B. McCutcheon.
+Hidden Children, The.+ By Robert W. Chambers.
+Hoosier Volunteer, The.+ By Kate and Virgil D. Boyles.
+Hopalong Cassidy.+ By Clarence E. Mulford.
+How Leslie Loved.+ By Anne Warner.
+Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker.+ By S. Weir Mitchell, M.D.
+Husbands of Edith, The.+ By George Barr McCutcheon.
+I Conquered.+ By Harold Titus.
+Illustrious Prince, The.+ By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
+Idols.+ By William J. Locke.
+Indifference of Juliet, The.+ By Grace S. Richmond.
+Inez.+ (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.
+Infelice.+ By Augusta Evans Wilson.
+In Her Own Right.+ By John Reed Scott.
+Initials Only.+ By Anna Katharine Green.
+In Another Girl's Shoes.+ By Berta Ruck.
+Inner Law, The.+ By Will N. Harben.
+Innocent.+ By Marie Corelli.
+Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, The.+ By Sax Rohmer.
+In the Brooding Wild.+ By Ridgwell Cullum.
+Intrigues, The.+ By Harold Bindloss.
+Iron Trail, The.+ By Rex Beach.
+Iron Woman, The.+ By Margaret Deland.
+Ishmael.+ (Ill.) By Mrs. Southworth.
+Island of Regeneration, The.+ By Cyrus Townsend Brady.
+Island of Surprise, The.+ By Cyrus Townsend Brady.
+Japonette.+ By Robert W. Chambers.
+Jean of the Lazy A.+ By B. M. Bower.
+Jeanne of the Marshes.+ By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
+Jennie Gerhardt.+ By Theodore Dreiser.
+Joyful Heatherby.+ By Payne Erskine.
+Jude the Obscure.+ By Thomas Hardy.
+Judgment House, The.+ By Gilbert Parker.
+Keeper of the Door, The.+ By Ethel M. Dell.
+Keith of the Border.+ By Randall Parrish.
+Kent Knowles: Quahaug.+ By Joseph C. Lincoln.
+King Spruce.+ By Holman Day.
+Kingdom of Earth, The.+ By Anthony Partridge.
+Knave of Diamonds, The.+ By Ethel M. Dell.
+Lady and the Pirate, The.+ By Emerson Hough.
+Lady Merton, Colonist.+ By Mrs. Humphrey Ward.
+Landloper, The.+ By Holman Day.
+Land of Long Ago, The.+ By Eliza Calvert Hall.
+Last Try, The.+ By John Reed Scott.
+Last Shot, The.+ By Frederick N. Palmer.
+Last Trail, The.+ By Zane Grey.
+Laughing Cavalier, The.+ By Baroness Orczy.
+Law Breakers, The.+ By Ridgwell Cullum.
+Lighted Way, The.+ By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
+Lighting Conductor Discovers America, The.+ By C. N. & A. N.
Williamson.
+Lin McLean.+ By Owen Wister.
+Little Brown Jug at Kildare, The.+ By Meredith Nicholson.
+Lone Wolf, The.+ By Louis Joseph Vance.
+Long Roll, The.+ By Mary Johnson.
+Lonesome Land.+ By B. M. Bower.
+Lord Loveland Discovers America.+ By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.
+Lost Ambassador.+ By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
+Lost Prince, The.+ By Frances Hodgson Burnett.
+Lost Road, The.+ By Richard Harding Davis.
+Love Under Fire.+ By Randall Parrish.
+Macaria.+ (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.
+Maids of Paradise, The.+ By Robert W. Chambers.
+Maid of the Forest, The.+ By Randall Parrish.
+Maid of the Whispering Hills, The.+ By Vingie E. Roe.
+Making of Bobby Burnit, The.+ By Randolph Chester.
+Making Money.+ By Owen Johnson.
+Mam' Linda.+ By Will N. Harben.
+Man Outside, The.+ By Wyndham Martyn.
+Man Trail, The.+ By Henry Oyen.
+Marriage.+ By H. G. Wells.
+Marriage of Theodora, The.+ By Mollie Elliott Seawell.
+Mary Moreland.+ By Marie Van Vorst.
+Master Mummer, The.+ By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
+Max.+ By Katherine Cecil Thurston.
+Maxwell Mystery, The.+ By Caroline Wells.
+Mediator, The.+ By Roy Norton.
+Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes.+ By A. Conan Doyle.
+Mischief Maker, The.+ By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
+Miss Gibbie Gault.+ By Kate Langley Bosher.
+Miss Philura's Wedding Gown.+ By Florence Morse Kingsley.
+Molly McDonald.+ By Randall Parrish.
+Money Master, The.+ By Gilbert Parker.
+Money Moon. The.+ By Jeffery Farnol.
+Motor Maid, The.+ By C. N and A. M. Williamson.
+Moth, The.+ By William Dana Orcutt.
+Mountain Girl, The.+ By Payne Erskine.
+Mr. Bingle.+ By George Barr McCutcheon.
+Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo.+ By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
+Mr. Pratt.+ By Joseph C. Lincoln.
+Mr. Pratt's Patients.+ By Joseph C. Lincoln.
+Mrs. Balfame.+ By Gertrude Atherton.
+Mrs. Red Pepper.+ By Grace S. Richmond.
+My Demon Motor Boat.+ By George Fitch.
+My Friend the Chauffeur.+ By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.
+My Lady Caprice.+ By Jeffery Farnol.
+My Lady of Doubt.+ By Randall Parrish.
+My Lady of the North.+ By Randall Parrish.
+My Lady of the South.+ By Randall Parrish.
+Ne'er-Do-Well, The.+ By Rex Beach.
+Net, The.+ By Rex Beach.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Way of the Strong, by Ridgwell Cullum