Passion is both raised and softened by confession. In nothing perhaps
were the middle way more desirable than in knowing what to say and what
not to say to those we love.--GOETHE.
All this time Floyd Grandon has scarcely had an hour's leisure. When
the last paper is signed, he draws a long breath of satisfaction. He
has done his whole duty and succeeded better than any sanguine hopes he
has ever dared to entertain. He has settled, so to speak, the lives
that pressed heavily upon him, and they can sustain themselves. He has
come out of it with the honor he prizes so highly. And what else? What
has he saved for himself?
That the distance should widen between himself and Violet was not
strange. He has a horror of a jealous, suspicious husband, and believes
thoroughly in the old adage, that if a woman is good she needs no
watching, and if bad she can outwit Satan himself. But this is no
question of morals. He could trust Violet in any stress of temptation.
She would wrench out her heart and bleed slowly to death before she
would harbor one wrong thought or desire. In that he does her full
justice. She has seen the possibility and turned from it, but nothing
can ever take away the vivid sense, the sweet knowledge that there
might have been a glow in her life instead of a colorless gray sky.
He makes himself accept the bald, hard fact. He will not even trust
himself to long for what is denied, lest he be stirred by some
overmastering impulse as on that one night. She shall not suffer for
what is clearly not her fault. She has no love to give him, nothing but
a calm, grateful liking that almost angers him. That is his portion,
and he will not torment her for any other regard.
They drop into an almost indifferent manner toward each other, except
that it is so kindly solicitous. There are no little bits of confidence
or tenderness in private, as there used to be, indeed, they are so
seldom alone. He seems to leave her with Eugene and Polly, as they have
all come to call her by way of endearment, and there is something
wonderfully fascinating about these young people; they make love
unblushingly; they can pick a quarrel out of the eye of a needle just
for the purpose of reconciliation, it would seem, and they make up with
such a prodigal intensity of sweetness; Polly strays down the walk to
meet him or fidgets if he stays a moment longer than usual; Eugene
hunts the house and grounds over to find her just to say a last good-by
for an hour or two. Violet suspects at times that Polly runs away for
the pleasure of being found. He puts flowers in her hair, and she pins
a nosegay at his lapel, she scents his handkerchief with her own choice
extract, and argues on its superiority and Frenchiness. They take
rides; her father has bought her a beautiful saddle horse, and they
generously insist that Violet shall accompany them because Floyd is
always busy. It may be foolish, but it is very sweet, and Violet's
heart aches with a pain thrust out of sight, for the heart of eighteen
has not yet learned to despise sweetness. The level, empty years
stretch out so interminably.
She has tried to comfort herself with the sorrows of others as a
medicine. Lucia Brade, who has carried her preference for Eugene so
openly, must be secretly brokenhearted, she thinks, and she looks for
heavy eyes and a smileless face. But no, while there was hope Lucia
waited; now that he is gone irrevocably, she bestirs herself instead of
donning sackcloth. She is twenty, and of the eligibles about she must
select a husband; so she no longer snubs the young men, but makes
herself amiable and seductive, is always going or having company. There
is no grave buried in her heart, only a rather mortifying sense of
failure that she will eradicate as soon as possible.
Even Eugene seems to recover from the passion she feared would blight
his life. She is sincerely glad, and yet--is _she_ incapable of
inspiring a lasting regard? Is there some fatal lack in her? Gertrude
is delightfully pleasant, but she misses some old grace in her. It is
her husband who has taken possession of the empty soul and filled it to
the exclusion of others. What the professor says and does and thinks is
paramount and right. There is no appeal from his judgment, so far as
others are concerned, though she reserves little rights for herself.
Gertrude is very much married already; the stronger will has captured
the weaker. She can admire the professor with out stint, so there is
nothing to militate against her regard.
Violet always comes back to Polly. The naive, wondering eyes, the soft,
sweet lips abloom with kisses, the limpid, purling voice that goes
through pleasant meadows, shaded woods, little interruptions of stones
and snags and dead grasses of yesterday that must be swept away, over
cascades laughingly, dripping sweetness, and never seeming to settle.
She calls upon Violet to see faults in Eugene--"for I know he is not
perfect," she says, with her pretty worldly wise air; and when Violet
has timidly ventured to agree, she proceeds to demolish and explain
away such a monstrous fancy!
Mr. Murray declares every day that he must send Polly to Baltimore, but
instead Polly goes to the city and buys ravishing fall costumes, and
Violet pleads to have her stay. Mr. Haviland purchases a house in the
park and brings his family, a wife and two sisters and six children,
and the two ladies have to be amiable to them. Polly, Violet, and
Eugene visit every house that is even suggested as for sale, and make
wonderful plans.
Not that Eugene is in the house from "early morn till dewy eve." He
develops quite a business capacity, and can follow a strong lead
excellently. He is no longer tossed to and fro by Wilmarth's sneers and
innuendoes, or bracing himself to fight against what he considers
Floyd's inexperience. Mr. Murray belongs to the wise children of this
world, and possesses the secret of suavity, good-humor, and judicious
commendation. Already he is an immense favorite in the factory, and the
men are willing to run at his slightest beck. Eugene makes himself
useful in many ways with the books and correspondence.
By the time Floyd is at liberty, Violet seems to have settled into a
placid routine, and it is youth with kindred youth. Floyd is nearly
twice her age, he remembers with dismay, but he does not feel old; on
the contrary, it seems as if he could begin life with fresh zest.
Neither would he have her emerge too rapidly from youth's enchanting
realm. Only--and the word shadows so wide a space--can he do anything
to make good the birthright he has unwittingly taken? She is rich,
accomplished, and pretty, worth a dozen like Polly, it seems to him.
Must her life be drear and wintry, except as she rambles into the
pleasaunce of others? He could give up the seductive delights that have
never been his, yet he has come to a time when home and love, wife and
child, have a sacred meaning, and are the joys of a man's life.
The garden parties begin to wane, but there is no lack of diversion for
the young. Mr. Murray is not insensible to the charms of society, such
as he finds at Madame Lepelletier's. He has travelled considerably, has
much general information as to art and literature, men and events. With
madame, the professor and his wife, and Floyd Grandon, the evenings
pass delightfully.
Violet is left out of them more by accident than design. The elders
simply light their cigars and stroll down the avenue. Gertrude accepts
madame's hospitality with an air of perfect equality that sits
admirably upon her. She has attended dinners at San Francisco and
various other centres, given in honor of the professor, and more await
them in Europe. She is not so dazzling and has not the air of courts,
but she has the prestige of a famous husband and has recovered some of
her youthful beauty. Irene Stanwood has not distanced her so immensely,
after all.
If madame has been surprised at some turns of fate, there is one that
has no flavor of disappointment thus far, and the crisis has nearly
passed. She has attained all that is possible; she is Floyd Grandon's
friend; she can gently crowd out other influences. He defers to her,
relies upon her judgment, discusses plans with her, and she secretly
exults in the fact that she is nearer to the strong, daring,
intellectual side of his nature than his girl-wife can ever be. The
danger of a love entanglement has passed by, he will settle to fame and
the society of his compeers, and she will remain a pretty mother to his
child, and the kind of wife who creates a wonder as to why the man has
married her.
Eugene finds her in the corner of the library one evening, alone, and
with a pat on her soft hair, says tenderly,--
"You poor little solitary girl, what are you doing?"
She glances up with bright, brave eyes, and with a bit of audacity that
would do credit to Polly, says,--
"How dare you call me poor when you know I am an heiress! As for being
little, you can tell me the more easily from Polly," and she laughs
over the chasm of solitude that she will not remark upon.
"Yes," he answers, mirthfully, "it would be sad to make a mistake now,
for I can't help loving Polly."
"Why should you? I am so glad you love her with your whole soul, for
you _do_. She will always be my dearest friend, and if you neglect
her or make her unhappy----"
"Oh, you _are_ an angel, Violet!" he cries, with actual humility. "You
are never jealous or hurt, you praise so generously, you are always
thinking how other people must be made happy. You give away everything!
I am not worth so much consideration," the crust of self-love is
pierced for a moment and shows in the tremulous voice, "but I mean to
make myself more of a man. And I can never love you any less
because----"
"Because you love Rome more," and she compels herself to give a
rippling laugh. "That is the right, true love of your life, the others
have been illusions."
"Not my love for you," he declares, stoutly. "It will always hold,
though it has changed a little. Only I wish you were----" Can he, dare
he say, "happier"?
"Don't wish anything more for me!" and she throws up her hand with a
kind of wild entreaty. "There is so much now that I can never get
around to all. You must think only of Polly's happiness."
"Which will no doubt keep me employed"; and he laughs lightly. "By
Jove! there won't be much meandering in forbidden pastures with Polly
at hand! You wouldn't believe now that she was jealous last night,
because I fastened a rose in poor Lucia's hair that had come loose.
Wouldn't there have been a row if I had given it to her? But she is
never angry jealous like some girls, nor sulky; there is a charm--I
cannot describe it," confesses the lover in despair. "But we three
shall always be the best of friends."
"Always," with a convulsive emphasis. She has no need to insist that he
shall thrust her out of his soul. She can take his regard without fear
or dismay. She slips down from her seat on the window ledge, and they
go to find Pauline and devote the remainder of the evening to music.
A few days after the two go to the city to see a wonderful picture of
Gérome's just arrived. They stop at Mrs. Latimer's, who promises to
accompany them if they will stay to lunch, and they spend the
intervening time in the nursery. A rollicking baby is Polly's delight,
a baby who can be pinched and squeezed and kissed and bitten without
agonizing howls.
At the table Gertrude's departure is mentioned.
"Oh," exclaims Mrs. Latimer, "has Mr. Grandon resolved to go? John is
so anxious to attend some great gathering at Berlin. If they do go I
must give a little farewell dinner, and _we_," with a gay laugh, "will
be up on exhibition, as widows of that indigenous plant having a
tubular stem, simple leaves, and secondary color."
Polly laughs with bewitching humor and heartiness.
It is well for Violet that of late she has been trained in a Spartan
school. Last summer her flower-like face would have betrayed her in its
changing tints. Now she steadies her voice, though she must answer at
random.
"He has not quite decided, I think."
"It would be a nice little run for them, though I have made John
promise to be back by Christmas."
All the afternoon Violet ponders this in a sore, bewildered state. She
has enough wifely pride to be hurt at the lack of confidence. Once he
said when the cares of business were over they two would have a
holiday. Will he ever desire one with her?
That evening Cecil climbs upon her lap and puts her soft arms about
Violet's neck, and she presses the child in a long, passionate embrace.
"Oh, why do you hug me so tightly?" Cecil cries, with a touch of
wilfulness.
The hands suddenly unclasp. Is her love to prove a burthen even here?
Does no one want it?
"Mamma----" Cecil bends down to kiss her. "O mamma, are you crying?
Don't cry, sweetest." She has caught this from the lovers. "Oh, you
know I love you--better than anybody!"
The ambiguity is almost like a stab. The child has told the truth
unwittingly. Violet is like a person drowning in a wide dreary ocean,
when some stray spar floats thitherward. It is not a promise of rescue,
yet despair clutches it.
"Not better than--papa?" Then a mortal shame crimsons her face and she
despises herself.
Cecil draws a long, quivering breath. "I _did_ love papa best," she
whispers, "but now----"
"No, you must still love him best," Violet cries, in all the agony of
renunciation.
"But who will love you best?" she asks, innocently. "Mamma, I shall
love you best until I grow to be a big lady and have a lover like
Polly. Then you know I shall have to care for him!"
Is her best of all love to come from a child not of her own blood,
instead of the husband of her vows?
"Yes," Violet answers, in a strange, mirthless tone, while there is a
smile on her dry lips. "You must care for him so much that he cannot
help loving you. Oh, my darling, the only joy of all this dreary world
is love!"
If Denise could hear her young mistress utter that in such a
soul-rending tone, her heart would break.
Grandon meanwhile ponders the future, _their_ future. He has had one
impulse of the heroically sentimental order, a possible freedom for
Violet in the years to come, while she is still young, and a chance
with life and fortune to retrieve the mistake into which she was
hurried through no fault of her own. Would it be a violation of the
divine law? This is not a usual case. She has clearly been defrauded of
a great right. Can he restore it to her? If she were poor and
dependent, he could give her so much she would hardly miss the other.
He is angry that Eugene and Pauline should flaunt their happiness in
her sad eyes. For they have grown very sad. She goes clad in lovely
soft raiment now, yet he can recall the little girl in her gray gown,
holding up her arms with strength and courage to save Cecil from
disaster. He smiles as he calls up the flash in the spirited eyes, as
she said, with true motherly instinct, "You shall not scold her!" If
the eyes would only flash again!
When he remembers this he cannot relinquish her. It would take too much
out of his life. He could not see any other man win her, even if the
law made her free. He should hate to think of other lips kissing her
with lover's kisses. Ah, he is selfish, jealous still, a man among men,
no more generous, just as eager to quaff the beaker of love as any
other. Since she is his, he will not give her up. But to keep her in
this cold, passive fashion, to have her gentle, obedient, affectionate,
when he knows she has a woman's fond, warm soul!
Would a separation awake any longing, any desire? This is one reason
why he entertains the plan of the six weeks abroad, yet it is horribly
awkward to discuss it with her. Still, it must be done.
It is a rainy Sunday afternoon, and he roams about the house unquietly.
Mr. Murray has gone to his partner's, Mrs. Grandon is with Laura, the
lovers are in the drawing-room, with Violet at the far end playing
propriety. Does it hurt her, he wonders, to have Eugene so foolishly
fond of another?
He catches up Cecil, who is running through the hall, and carries her
out to the conservatory, where she culls flowers at her own sweet will.
"This is for Polly, this for Eugene, and this for mamma."
"Cecil," he asks, suddenly, "have you forgotten Auntie Dora, and Lily
and Fen and Lulu? Do you never want to see them?"
"Will they come here?" she asks, with wide-open eyes.
"How would you like to go there? to sail in a great ship again?"
"With madame?" she questions, laconically.
The color mounts his brow. "No," he replies, gravely, "with papa."
"And mamma?"
"What if mamma does not want to go?"
The lovely face grows serious and the eyes droop, as she answers
slowly,--
"Then I should stay with mamma. She would have no one."
"But I would have no one either," he says, jealously.
"Then why do you not stay with mamma? She cries sometimes," and Cecil's
voice has a touch of pitiful awe. "Why do you not put roses in her hair
and kiss her as Uncle Eugene does Polly? She is sweetest."
"When does she cry?" he asks, smitten to the heart.
"At night, when it is all soft dark, and when she puts her face down on
my pillow."
"Take your flowers in to them," he cries, suddenly. Is it because any
love has gone out of Violet's life that she weeps in the soft dark? He
strides up and down with his blood at fever heat. Is it for Eugene? The
idea maddens him!
When he enters the room, Violet has the red rose at her throat. He sits
down by her and finds her grave, composed. No lovely warm color
flutters over her face. She has trained herself so well that she can
even raise her eyes without any show of embarrassment. Her exquisite
repose would rival madame's; indeed, she might almost be a statue with
fine, clear complexion, proudly curved lips, and long-fringed lids that
make a glitter of bronze on her rose-leaf cheek. How has this girl of
eighteen achieved this passionless grace?
As the night sets in the rain pours in torrents. There is dinner,
music, and Cecil makes various diversions up and down the room. Eugene
and Polly make love in their usual piquant fashion in dim obscurity, he
audaciously stealing kisses under cover, for no earthly reason except
that stolen kisses have a more delicious flavor.
Violet goes up-stairs with Cecil; for though Jane is equal to toilet
purposes, there is a certain seductive way of tucking up and smoothing
pillows, of stories and good-nights in which Violet is unsurpassed.
"Come down in the library after you are through," Grandon says. "I want
to see you." He wonders if people can divine what is in each other's
soul unless eyes and lips confess it. Intuition, forsooth!
She finds the room in a soft glow from the large lamp on the library
table. Mr. Grandon is seated on one end of the divan, pushed a trifle
from the window, and motions her hither. He has been thinking somewhat
bitterly of having to leave his lovely home when he has just won the
right to stay in it tranquilly. A sense of resentment swells up in his
soul.
She listens with gentle respect to his proposed journey, that seems
definitely settled, and replies in a grave, steady tone, not devoid of
interest, "that it will no doubt be very pleasant for him." Objecting
or pleading to accompany him does not really enter her mind.
"What will it be for you?" he asks, in a manner that would be savage
were his breeding less perfect.
Ah, she dare not say! People live through miserable times, sorrow does
not kill them!
He is chagrined, disappointed at her silence. It is unnatural for her
to be so calm. She may even be glad--monstrous thought! His impatience
and resentment are roused.
"Violet," he begins, with a certain asperity, "there occasionally comes
a time in life, married life, when the mistake one has made is realized
in its full force. That we have made a mistake becomes more apparent as
time goes by. If I could give you back your liberty"--and his voice
softens unconsciously--"God knows I would gladly do it. I could not see
how events would shape themselves when I took it from you, and your
father during his illness----"
Her calmness breaks. She throws up her hand in pitiful entreaty, her
old gesture to shelter herself in time of trouble. She cannot have her
father indirectly censured, she cannot listen to that humiliating
episode from _his_ lips. If she understood him better she would know
the almost brutal frankness, a kind of family usage, is not one of his
faults.
"Oh," she cries, in anguish, "I know! I know! You were very good, you
were generous. I know now it was not as most people marry, and that you
could not love me, that you did it to save me, but almost, I think, it
would have been better----" for Jasper Wilmarth to have taken me, she
is on the point of saying, but she ends with a strong, convulsive
shudder.
Who has been so cruel and dastardly as to tell her this? Ah! he guesses
wildly.
"This is Eugene's tale!" he cries, angrily, his face in the white heat
of passion. "He shall answer to me as surely as there is a heaven!" and
he springs up.
Her arms are round him in their frantic endeavor to drag him back, her
face is pressed against his breast, her silken hair blinds his very
eyes.
"You shall not!" she declares, in her brave, unshrinking voice, that,
somehow, she has found again. "There shall be no disturbance on my
account! Eugene did not tell me until I compelled him, it was some one
else. I think you have wronged him in your mind. He was kind, tender,
brotherly."
"Whom then?" he demands, in a tone that terrifies her, and she sways
like a lily.
"It was Marcia; she was vexed about something, but you will forgive
her. And Denise told me about Mr. Wilmarth--in all honor to you. She
adores you. And, I could not remain blind, there were many things. But
I do not want to be free, indeed I do not. I will be content"; and she
gives a long, heart-breaking sob.
"My poor child! my little darling!" and his arms enclose her with a
fond clasp, though her face is still hidden. It is so easy to go
through a labyrinth with a clew. This is what Eugene's fondness meant,
and he forgives him much. This is why she has grown grave and cold and
retiring! He is back again with her dying father--has he kept faith?
She has been his wife, it is true, but was there not a higher meaning
in the bond? Her heart beats against his like some prisoned bird. She
is so near--are they to be kept asunder all their lives? If she did not
love Eugene, may she not learn to love him?
"You said I could not love you," he cries. "How do you know, who told
you? Is your wisdom of so blind a quality?" and he raises the face full
of tears, that shrinks from being seen with all its secrets written in
a burning blush.
"Violet! Violet! are we both to blame? Is there not some certainty when
people love each other?" He bends his face to hers, and kisses into the
lips the sweet and sacred knowledge that electrifies her, that seems to
rend the horizon of remembrance with a flash. Out there on the porch in
that first entrancing waltz he half told his secret, that he had begun
to love her! The knowledge comes with a thrill of exultation.
"I think you love me a little," he says, "but, Violet, I want no
grateful, gentle, passive regard. I must have my wife sweet, fond,
adoring! Am I not as worthy of love as other men?"
She raises her face and they glance steadily into each other's eyes,
then hers droop under the stronger and more imperious will, the lip
quivers, the flush deepens.
"If you will--be glad--to have me love you," she murmurs, brokenly.
"Glad!" And the tone tells the rest.
He brings her back to the seat where they were so cold and grave a
brief while ago. Is there any need of envying Polly in the great
drawing-room? The rain pours in torrents, but it is a divine summer
within.
"Violet," he says, a long while afterward, "we have never been real
lovers, you know. I am not sure but it would be better for me to go
abroad. We could write letters, and you could decide how much you
cared."
She glances up in a dismay so wild that he feels inclined to laugh in
pure joy. She studies out the meaning: it is for _her_ to say whether
he shall go or not.
"Oh, I shall keep you here! I shall be jealous and exigeant like Polly,
and you----"
She is the bright-eyed, sunny-faced girl he found on the rocky shore,
and there is the same buoyant ring in her voice.
"I shall be a jealous, tyrannical husband," he rejoins, giving the
rose-leaf cheek a soft pinch. "You will hardly dare dream your soul is
your own."
"No, I shall not dream it," she answers, with gay audacity.
John Latimer is greatly disappointed, as well as the professor, at
Grandon's defection. There is a charming dinner party at the Latimers',
and Mrs. Latimer dolefully declares that she must be the single spear
of grass. The following Saturday the friends go to see the travellers
off. Gertrude may remain abroad several years, "Unless," says the
professor, "I grow homesick for my little cottage among the cliffs and
my good Denise."
If her husband's eyes study all the changes that make Violet's face
radiant and fascinating, some other eyes watch them with a vague
suspicion. Has the chasm been bridged over? Has the man found the
chords of his own soul, and united them in the divine melody to which
exceptional lives are set? He may have friends among women, for he is
chivalrous, high-minded, and attractive, but he will never need any
_one_ friend greater than the rest. There is no secret niche for her,
they are all open-columned temples, that the world may see, except the
Holy of Holies where he will keep his wife.
The world is all before Madame Lepelletier. She can marry well, if she
chooses, she can make a charmed circle for herself if she so elects,
but she feels strangely old and _ennuied_, as if she must have lived in
centuries past, and there was no new thing. Yet the face in the mirror
does not tell that story. How curiously she has come into the lives of
these Grandons a second time, and gone out with as little result. Is
the stone of Sisyphus the veiled myth of life?
Violet and Grandon are not unblushing lovers like Polly and Eugene, and
their most pronounced honeymoon hours are spent in the little cottage,
under Denise's rejoicing eyes. There are always so many things to talk
over, and the years to come must be the more crowded to make up for one
lost in the desert.
Polly's engagement gets shortened from two years to six months. Mr.
Murray sets up a house, and Eugene is an important factor. He fits
admirably into the life that has come to him; men of this stamp are
saved or lost simply by the result of circumstances, and his are
sufficiently strong to save him.
Marcia will flit and flutter about until she captures another husband.
She makes an attractive heroine of herself, but how near she came to
tragedy she will never know. Floyd Grandon dismisses these ugly blots
on the old life; he can well afford it in the perfect enjoyment that
comes to him, a little fame, much honor, and a great deal of love.
* * * * *
LEE AND SHEPARD'S POPULAR FICTION
AMANDA M. DOUGLAS' NOVELS.
Osborne of Arrochar. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price, cloth, $1.50. Popular
edition, $1.00.
"In this novel, the author introduces us to an interesting family of
girls, who, in default of the appearance of the rightful heir, occupy
an old, aristocratic place at Arrochar. Just as it has reached the
lowest point of dilapidation, through lack of business capacity on the
part of the family, Osborne appears to claim his inheritance, and the
interesting problem presents itself of marrying one of the daughters or
turning the family out. The author thus gives herself a fair field to
display her skill in the painting of character, the management of
incident, and the construction of the dialogue. She has been in a large
degree successful. We feel that we are dealing with real persons; and,
as to the management of the story, it is sufficient praise to say that
the interest is cumulative. The book will add to the author's
reputation."--_School Journal, N.Y._
The Heirs of Bradley House. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price, $1.50. Popular
edition, $1.00.
"The author has won a most honorable place in the literary world by the
character as well as cleverness of her work. Her books are as clean and
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profound, she stirs in the heart of her reader the noblest impulses;
and whosoever accomplishes this has not written in vain."--_Chicago
Saturday Evening Herald._
Whom Kathie married. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price, $1.50. Popular
edition, $1.00.
Miss DOUGLAS wrote a series of juvenile stories in which Kathie
figured; and in this volume the young lady finds her destiny. The
sweetness and purity of her life is reflected in the lives of all about
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A Woman's Inheritance. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price, $1.50.
"Miss DOUGLAS is widely known as a writer of excellent stories, all of
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Sydnie Adriance. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price $1.50. Popular edition,
$1.00.
In this book, the heroine, being suddenly reduced to poverty, refuses
an offer of marriage, because she thinks it comes from the
condescension of pity rather than from the inspiration of love. She
determines to earn her living, becomes a governess, then writes a book,
which is successful, and inherits a fortune from a distant relative.
Then she marries the man--But let us not tell the story. The author has
told it in a charming way.
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Nelly Kinnard's Kingdom. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price, cloth, $1.50.
Popular edition, $1.00.
"Nelly Endicott, a bright, lively girl, marries Dr. Kinnard, a widower
with two children. On going to her husband's home, she finds installed
there a sister of his first wife (Aunt Adelaide, as she is called by
the children), who is a vixen, a maker of trouble, and a nuisance of
the worst kind. Most young wives would have had such a pest put out of
the house, but Nelly endures the petty vexations to which she is
subjected, in a manner which shows the beauty and strength of her
character. How she surmounted the difficulty, it would not be fair to
state."--_New York Evening Mail._
From Hand to Mouth. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price, $1.50. Popular
edition, $1.00.
"This is a thoroughly good, true, pure, sweet, and touching story. It
covers precisely those phases of domestic life which are of the most
common experience, and will take many and many of its readers just
where they have been themselves. There is trouble in it, and sorrow,
and pain, and parting, but the sunset glorifies the clouds of the
varied day, and the peace which passes understanding pervades all. For
young women whose lives are just opening into wifehood and maternity,
we have read nothing better for many a day."--_Literary World._
A Modern Adam and Eve in a Garden. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price $1.50.
Bright, amusing, and sensible. A story of two people who set out to win
their share of the world's wealth, and how they did it; which, as a
critic says, "is rather jolly and out-of-door-y, and ends in a
greenhouse,"--with some love and pathos, of course, and much practical
knowledge.
The Old Woman who lived in a Shoe. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price $1.50.
This is not a child's story, nor a comic view of household life,--as
some might think from its title--but a domestic novel, full of the
delights of home, of pure thoughts, and gentle virtues. It has also
sufficient complications to keep the thread of interest _drawn_, and to
lead the reader on. Among Miss DOUGLAS' many successful books, there is
none more beautiful or attractive, or which leaves a more permanent
impression.
Claudia. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price, $1.50. Popular edition, $1.00.
This is a romantic story, with abundant incidents and strong
situations. The interest is intense. It concerns two half sisters,
whose contrasted character and complicated fortunes are the charm of
the book.
Seven Daughters. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price $1.50.
The "Seven" are daughters of a country clergyman who is not greatly
blessed with the good things of the world. The story is related by the
eldest, who considers herself far from brilliant or witty, but who
makes charming pictures of all who figure in the book. The good
minister consents to receive a number of bright boys as pupil-boarders,
and the two families make a suggestive counterpoise, with mutual
advantage. Destiny came with the coming of the boys, and the story has
naturally a happy end.
The Foes of her Household. By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. Price $1.50.
"This is an exceedingly entertaining book. A simple girl, of beautiful
character, marries a young man in poor health out of pure love, and
ignorant of the fact that he is rich. His death occurs not very long
after the marriage, and the young widow becomes the object of practical
persecution by his relatives, who misunderstand her motives entirely.
With a nobility of character, as rare as beautiful, she destroys their
prejudice, and at last teaches them to love her."--_Central Baptist,
St. Louis, Mo._
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