THREADS GATHERED UP.
Lord Norton was at once informed of the romantic incidents connected
with his niece’s early life, and while he sympathized with the trials
and sorrow to which she had been subjected, he also expressed his
gratification that all had ended so well, and she would henceforth
occupy so proud a position.
He appeared to have conceived a great affection for her during the
little time she had been with him, clinging to her as if she had been
his own daughter, while she devoted herself tirelessly to him, doing
everything in her power to make his last days peaceful and comfortable.
He lived only three weeks after she went to Englewood, but that was long
enough to see the desire of his heart accomplished; for Sir William
worked diligently upon his manuscript, completing it in about two weeks,
and thus the aged veteran had the satisfaction of knowing that he would
give to the world a valuable historical work to perpetuate his name when
the world should know him no more.
The week following his death, and after the obsequies were over, Sir
William wrote that letter to Lady Linton, announcing his contemplated
marriage with Lord Norton’s niece.
He purposely withheld nearly everything from her, save the bare facts
that he was about to give Heathdale a mistress, and that she was the
relative and heiress of his lordship.
He would have insisted upon having their reunion solemnized immediately
if his cousin, Mr. Heath, had been considered wholly out of danger,
while Virgie pleaded that it would hardly be proper, following so
closely upon her uncle’s death.
She went at once to Mrs. Heath upon being released from her own duties
in the sick-room, to express her sympathy for her in her trouble, and
the two women instantly became the warmest friends.
Mrs. Heath at once recognized Virgie as the beautiful woman whom she had
met several years previous at Niagara. She was deeply wounded upon
learning how she had been deceived regarding her marriage, and how she
had suffered when they met, believing her to be the wife of the man who
had wooed and won her.
“I loved you even then,” she said, with starting tears, “though I
wondered why you appeared so strangely at first. I wonder now how you
were enabled to conduct yourself with so much self-possession.”
Virgie and her playmate of that olden time renewed their acquaintance
with evident pleasure, though the maiden could hardly realize that the
stalwart, but rather bashful young man, to whom she was introduced as
the “Willie” of long ago, was the same with whom she had enjoyed such
childish freedom and shared her toys in the corridor of that great hotel
in America.
Rupert was invited to come to Englewood the week following the funeral
of Lord Norton, when he was greatly astonished to learn of the strange
sequel to the story of his guardian’s early life; and yet, a dim
suspicion of something of the kind had been floating in his mind ever
since that evening when Mrs. Alexander had been so unnerved upon
learning that Sir William was his guardian; for he had known that there
had been some deep sorrow connected with his past, and, having learned
Mrs. Alexander’s story, it seemed not unlikely that the two were in some
way associated.
On the day that Virgie had encountered Lady Linton in Oxford street she
had come to London, Sir William and Virgie accompanying her, to spend
several days, having found it necessary to make a few purchases and some
changes in her wardrobe before going to Heathdale; so it will be readily
understood why the happy woman was at that time so unmoved by her
ladyship’s warnings and threats. Her heart was too full of joy and
gratitude to allow of her feeling anything save pity and sorrow for her
enemy, for she knew but too well that her evil deeds would all recoil
upon her own head.
It was fortunate for their plans, however, that her ladyship did not
meet her brother. He had accompanied his beloved to the store, where,
after fastening that one lovely half-blown Lamarque rose in her mantle,
he took leave of her for awhile; and went to attend to some business for
himself; thus his presence in the city was not even suspected by Lady
Linton. As soon as Virgie could be released by her dressmaker they all
returned once more to Englewood.
By the 21st of the month Mr. William Heath was so far advanced toward
recovery that his physician consented to allow him to be present at the
ceremony, which was to occur in the church at Chester, and afterward to
accompany the bridal party home to Heathdale.
At ten in the morning Sir William led the woman of his deathless love
once more to the altar. Virgie and Rupert stood beside them as they
renewed the vows of their youth, while Mr. and Mrs. William Heath, with
their family, the Duke of Falmouth and his household, were also present
to witness the ceremony.
The rector had been told something of the history of the couple upon
whom he was to pronounce this second nuptial benediction, and his words
to them were very solemn, very touching and impressive; and then the
reunited husband and wife went out from his presence filled with a deep
and holy joy such as they had never hoped to realize again in this
world, while their future prospects seemed but the brighter for the
chastening they had endured.
At noon the whole party left Englewood for Heathdale, followed by the
congratulations and good wishes of the duke and his family, with whom
Sir William and Lady Heath had formed a delightful friendship, and
promised themselves much pleasure in the future interchange of visits.
Sir William and his wife experienced a slight feeling of dismay upon
finding Heathdale all ablaze with light, and a brilliant reception in
progress.
He had imagined that his sister, all unsuspicious of whom he was to
bring home, might be there to meet him. He rather hoped she would, for
he felt that Virgie deserved the triumph of coming to take her position
there in her presence; but he was not quite prepared for a formal
reception.
“I fear that Miriam has killed the fatted calf, and made a feast in view
of our coming,” he said, as they drove up the avenue.
“But, Will, it will be hardly the thing for me to receive your friends
in my traveling dress,” Virgie remarked, in a dubious tone.
“How long will it take you to make a toilet?” he asked.
“Half an hour will be ample time.”
“Very well, then, while the rest of the party are received at the main
entrance, we will drive around to a side door, slip up to our rooms, and
send word that we shall be happy to greet our friends at half-past
eight. Rupert, will you engineer the matter for us?”
Rupert gladly undertook the commission, and we know with what success,
as well as all that occurred later, when Sir William appeared before the
astonished company with his wife, whom they had previously known as Mrs.
Alexander.
On the following day Lady Linton was so ill that she was unable to leave
her room. The shock she had received, and the terrible restraint to
which she had afterward subjected herself, was too much for her
strength, and she was utterly exhausted, while her proud spirit was
crushed to the earth.
Lillian was also in a very unhappy state of mind, although, to her
credit be it said, she exerted herself, for her uncle’s sake, to make
everything as pleasant for him and Lady Heath as she was able to do
under the circumstances.
She had spent the night in serious thought, and had wisely resolved to
make the best of what she could not help, and in spite of the pain in
her heart over her disappointed hopes, she was won by the beauty and
sweetness of Rupert’s betrothed, and after a day or two spent in each
other’s society, it was safe to predict that the two young girls would
eventually become firm friends.
On the third day after his return Sir William visited his sister in her
own room, and had a long and serious talk with her, deeming it wise to
come to some understanding regarding their future relations without
further delay.
She knew by the expression on his face, the moment he entered her
presence, that she had nothing to hope from him; that he would not spare
her for her part in the vile plot which had caused the misery of his
past life.
He made a brief but very comprehensive statement of the whole matter,
charging her with all her treachery and falsehood and crime, and she was
forced to acknowledge her guilt.
But when he gave her the diary, portions of which he had read, and she
saw that it had been examined, something of her old haughty spirit and
arrogance blazed forth.
“Talk to me of falsehood; she told me that the seal had never been
broken,” she cried, with bitter scorn, a spot of vivid scarlet settling
upon each sallow cheek.
“And she told you nothing but the truth, Miriam, for the seal was
unbroken when she gave me the package to return to you. My wife has
never read a single line that is written there. No one knows anything of
its contents save you and me,” Sir William replied, sternly, and then
told her how he had happened to discover the nature of its contents,
after which he felt justified in reading enough more to confirm the
suspicions that one line had aroused.
“You have proved yourself a very unwomanly woman, Miriam,” said her
brother, with cold gravity. “Your nature, aside from the affection which
you have for your children, is wholly selfish; it has become
warped—degraded. You have not only hardened yourself against all honor
and sisterly affection, but you have committed the most reprehensible
crimes to further your miserable schemes.
“The wrong you did my young wife years ago, the insults you offered her,
the falsehood and even theft of which you were guilty in sending that
hundred pounds to her, the intercepting of our letters, are things that
I can never overlook.”
“Do you dare to accuse me of theft?” interrupted Lady Linton, bridling.
“You gave me that hundred pounds for charitable purposes.”
“I gave you that hundred pounds to use for the poor girl who was injured
in that railway accident, and you stole it to add insult to injury. You
mocked and scorned a woman who was your superior in every way—in whose
veins there was as good blood as in your own, notwithstanding your
boasted preëminence, and I grow cold with shame and horror every time I
think of that paltry sum that you sent her, when I had brought back
thousands of her money with me to England. Mr. Alexander left a small
fortune to his daughter and I have had it in my possession ever since.”
Lady Linton looked up aghast at this information. It was the first she
had ever heard of that matter.
“You begin to appreciate something of what I have suffered,” he
continued, as he noticed the look, “but you can never begin to realize
the misery which you brought upon two loving hearts so long separated;
and to think that for more than eighteen years I was a father and never
once looked upon the face of my child. Miriam, I can never overlook it.
You have forfeited all respect from me, all claim upon me, and Heathdale
can no longer be your home—you must go elsewhere to live, for I will not
subject my wife to the constant companionship of one who has done her
such irreparable wrong.”
“William Heath, will you turn me out from my home, where I was born?”
cried the miserable woman, almost fiercely.
“Your home?” he returned, severely. “For how many years have you cheated
my dear ones out of _their_ home—out of the love and sheltering care
which should have been theirs? While my wife was toiling to earn her own
support and to make provision for my child, you were spending money
which rightfully belonged to them, with a lavish, almost reckless, hand,
and rearing your children amid the luxury of which you had maliciously
deprived them. I have family pride enough to provide for your needful
support, for I cannot see you suffer; so I will fit up Fernleigh Lodge
for your use while you live, and settle upon you an annuity of two
hundred pounds——”
“Two hundred pounds!” interrupted Lady Linton, in a tone of horror.
“Yes. With economy, that will be sufficient for your individual needs,”
replied Sir William, coldly.
“I will give Lillian as much more until her marriage, when I shall hope
to add something to the sum.”
His sister’s face was almost convulsed with rage at this announcement.
She had never imagined any descent in the world so dreadful as this. She
had spent three times the amount now offered her in a single year upon
her own wardrobe, and now she was expected to provide her whole support
out of two hundred pounds.
“Do you suppose Lillian and I are going to be able to live on a paltry
sum like that?” she demanded, with quivering lips.
“My wife and child lived on far less than that for years, after you
succeeded in ruining her faith in me,” was the stern response. “It was
no sum settled outright upon her, either; she had to _toil_ for it with
her own hands. She was not only the provider for the household, but
nurse, and governess, and seamstress as well; while _your_ children had
their maids and tutors, to say nothing of the bills which I have paid
sewing-girls and milliners for them. We will reverse the order for a
while, and the sum that I have named will have to answer your purpose,
unless your fertile brain can invent some way to increase it.”
Lady Linton groaned at this inflexible verdict, while she writhed
beneath his cutting words as if under a lash.
She could no longer shine in society, for there would be no means for
providing the necessary accessories—dresses, jewels, laces, and the
hundred other things she so dearly loved and had always had for the
simple asking.
Her brilliant daughter, too, who had been so admired in the gay circles
they had frequented, would have to drop out of her orbit now and be
forgotten, while there would be no opportunity for her to make a
distinguished marriage, which had been the acme of her mother’s
ambition.
“What will the world think? William, how can you be so cruel? It will
blight all Lillian’s prospects,” she sobbed.
“If by blighting Lillian’s prospects you mean that Lord Ernest Rathburn
will give her the cold shoulder, it will be a good thing to have them
nipped in the bud, for the fellow is devoid of both brains and
principle, and has absolutely nothing but his plethoric purse to
recommend him to anyone. I would much prefer to have her never marry
than become the wife of such a coxcomb. As for your charge of cruelty, I
must say it ill becomes you to make that complaint; you have been very
extravagant during the last few years, and the study of economy will not
harm you; besides, it is no more than right that _my_ daughter should
now enjoy the full benefit of her inheritance, which your children have
so long usurped; not that I regret anything that I have done for them,
for they are both dear to me, and I shall always be deeply interested in
their welfare. Will you go to Fernleigh, Miriam?”
She would have been glad to reject his offer with scorn, but it was
Hobson’s choice with her—that or nothing.
Doubtless Percy would have offered his mother and sister a home, when he
was settled, but his estate was yielding him comparatively little as
yet, and she was far too proud to accept favors at the hands of his
wife.
“I suppose there is nothing else for me to do,” she wailed, and Sir
William arose to leave her, uttering a sigh over this new evidence of
her total selfishness.
He lost no time in fitting up the lodge, which was a small but cozy and
convenient house, about five miles from Heathdale.
Virgie very kindly interested herself in all the arrangements, for Lady
Linton would not make a suggestion or express a wish. When consulted
upon any point she assumed an injured air, and remarked it was of no
consequence—they could do just as they saw fit.
It was really a pleasant home when all completed, and Lillian thanked
her uncle and Lady Heath most heartily for their kindness, and seemed
quite interested in the domestic details of their small establishment.
In three weeks from the time of Sir William’s return, Lady Linton took
possession of Fernleigh, a sadder if not a wiser or a better woman, and
there she literally buried herself, making no visits, and denying
herself to all callers.
Lillian, however, showed a much better spirit, and tried to look upon
the bright side of their condition. She was growing very fond of the new
occupants of their old home, and was often invited to visit Heathdale,
and when Harry Webster at last came, for his long-promised visit to
Rupert, she did not fail to recognize the young man’s superiority over
her old admirer, Lord Ernest, while Mr. Webster’s admiration for the
brilliant brunette was very marked from the first.
In less than three months it was formally announced that Lillian Linton
would, in the following fall, through her marriage to Mr. Webster,
become a naturalized citizen of America, the country which she had once
affected to so despise.
Mr. Knight and his sister paid Lady Heath a visit in March, and were
overjoyed to find all her sorrow at an end and the future looking so
bright.
They were persuaded to remain until after the marriage of Rupert and
Virgie, which was to occur about Easter.
A grand wedding had been arranged, and after a tour on the Continent the
young couple were to reside at Englewood for a portion of each year and
spend the remainder with Sir William and Lady Heath at their town house
in London.
Lillian was invited to officiate as chief bridesmaid, assisted by the
Misses Huntington and the Duke of Falmouth’s eldest daughter, while, of
course, Harry Webster was to be “best man.”
The ceremony occurred in the fine old church at Heathdale, which was
crowded with the elite of the country for miles around, for a report of
the beauty of the heiress of Heathdale had spread far and near.
Sir William gave away the bride, and the gift was accompanied with his
heartiest blessing.
Virgie, in her bridal robes, seemed the “fairest that e’er the sun shone
on,” and no one looking into her dark eyes, so full of a calm, trustful
joy, or noting the fond, proud smile upon her young husband’s face,
could doubt that these were
“Two souls in sweet accord,
Each for each caring and each itself unheard;
True to truth, nor needing proof nor proving,
Sure to be ever loved and ever loving.”
There was a brilliant reception afterward in the grand old mansion of
which Sir William was so justly proud, and the servants were heard to
declare that a finer wedding had never occurred within the memory of the
oldest among them.
As Virgie came down stairs, after exchanging her bridal dress for a
traveling suit, Sir William met her in the hall and drew her into the
library for a last few words. He put a package into her hands; and then,
drawing her to his breast, he said, with great tenderness:
“My darling, this is your marriage dowry, to be used just as you choose,
and I am sure of its being wisely used; but remember that you are to
come freely to your father if at any time you particularly wish for
anything. All that I have is yours. I live but for you and my other
Virgie, and Heathdale is your inheritance.”
[THE END.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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Harold. BY BULWER-LYTTON.
Harry Lorrequer. BY CHARLES LEVER.
Heart of Midlothian. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Heir of Redclyffe. BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.
Hemans’ Poems. BY MRS. FELICIA HEMANS.
Henry Esmond. BY WM. M. THACKERAY.
Henry, Patrick, Life of. BY WILLIAM WIRT.
Her Dearest Foe. BY MRS. ALEXANDER.
Hereward. BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.
Heriot’s Choice. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
Heroes and Hero-Worship. BY THOMAS CARLYLE.
Hiawatha. (WITH NOTES.) BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.
Hidden Hand, The. (COMPLETE.) BY MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.
History of a Crime. BY VICTOR HUGO.
History of Civilization in Europe. BY M. GUIZOT.
Holmes’ Poems. (EARLY.) BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Holy Roman Empire. BY JAMES BRYCE.
Homestead on the Hillside. BY MARY J. HOLMES.
Hood’s Poems. BY THOMAS HOOD.
House of the Seven Gables. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
Hunchback of Notre Dame. BY VICTOR HUGO.
Hypatia. BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.
Hyperion. BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Iceland Fisherman. BY PIERRE LOTI.
Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow. BY JEROME K. JEROME.
Iliad. POPE’S TRANSLATION.
Inez. BY AUGUSTA J. EVANS.
Ingelow’s Poems. BY JEAN INGELOW.
Initials. BY THE BARONESS TAUTPHOEUS.
Intellectual Life. BY PHILIP G. HAMERTON.
In the Counsellor’s House. BY E. MARLITT.
In the Golden Days. BY EDNA LYALL.
In the Heart of the Storm. BY MAXWELL GRAY.
In the Schillingscourt. BY E. MARLITT.
Ishmael (COMPLETE.) BY MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.
It Is Never Too Late to Mend. BY CHARLES READE.
Ivanhoe. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Jane Eyre. BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE.
Jefferson, Thomas, Life of. BY SAMUEL M. SCHMUCKER, LL.D.
Joan of Arc, Life of. BY JULES MICHELET.
John Halifax, Gentleman. BY MISS MULOCK.
Jones, John Paul, Life of. BY JAMES OTIS.
Joseph Balsamo. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Josephine, Empress of France, Life of. BY FREDERICK A. OBER.
Keats’ Poems. BY JOHN KEATS.
Kenilworth. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Kidnapped. BY R. L. STEVENSON.
King Arthur and His Noble Knights. BY MARY MACLEOD.
Knickerbocker’s History of New York. BY WASHINGTON IRVING.
Knight Errant. BY EDNA LYALL.
Koran. TRANSLATED BY GEORGE SALE.
Lady of the Lake, (WITH NOTES.) BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Lady with the Rubies. BY E. MARLITT.
Lafayette, Marquis de, Life of. BY P. C. HEADLEY.
Lalla Rookh. (WITH NOTES.) BY THOMAS MOORE.
Lamplighter. BY MARIA S. CUMMINS.
Last Days of Pompeii. BY BULWER-LYTTON.
Last of the Barons. BY BULWER-LYTTON.
Last of the Mohicans. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
Lay of the Last Minstrel, (WITH NOTES.) BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Lee, General Robert E., Life of. BY G. MERCER ADAM.
Lena Rivers. BY MARY J. HOLMES.
Life of Christ. BY FREDERICK W. FARRAR.
Life of Jesus. BY ERNEST RENAN.
Light of Asia. BY SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.
Light That Failed. BY RUDYARD KIPLING.
Lincoln, Abraham, Life of. BY HENRY KETCHAM.
Lincoln’s Speeches. SELECTED AND EDITED BY G. MERCER ADAM.
Literature and Dogma. BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.
Little Dorrit. BY CHARLES DICKENS.
Little Minister. BY JAMES M. BARRIE.
Livingstone. David, Life of. BY THOMAS HUGHES.
Longfellow’s Poems. (EARLY.) BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
Lorna Doone. BY R. D. BLACKMORE.
Louise de la Valliere. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Love Me Little, Love Me Long. BY CHARLES READE.
Lowell’s Poems. (EARLY.) BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
Lucile. BY OWEN MEREDITH.
Macaria. BY AUGUSTA J. EVANS.
Macaulay’s Literary Essays. BY T. B. MACAULAY.
Macaulay’s Poems. BY THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.
Madame Therese. BY ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN.
Maggie Miller. BY MARY J. HOLMES.
Magic Skin. BY HONORE DE BALZAC.
Mahomet, Life of. BY WASHINGTON IRVING.
Makers of Florence. BY MRS. OLIPHANT.
Makers of Venice. BY MRS. OLIPHANT.
Man and Wife. BY WILKIE COLLINS.
Man in the Iron Mask. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Marble Faun. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
Marguerite de la Valois. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Marian Grey. BY MARY J. HOLMES.
Marius, The Epicurian. BY WALTER PATER.
Marmion. (WITH NOTES.) BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Marquis of Lossie. BY GEORGE MACDONALD.
Martin Chuzzlewit. BY CHARLES DICKENS.
Mary, Queen of Scots, Life of. BY P. C. HEADLEY.
Mary St. John. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
Master of Ballantrae, The. BY R. L. STEVENSON.
Masterman Ready. BY CAPTAIN MARRYATT.
Meadow Brook. BY MARY J. HOLMES.
Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. TRANSLATED BY GEORGE LONG.
Memoirs of a Physician. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Merle’s Crusade. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
Micah Clarke. BY A. CONAN DOYLE.
Michael Strogoff. BY JULES VERNE.
Middlemarch. BY GEORGE ELIOT.
Midshipman Easy. BY CAPTAIN MARRYATT.
Mildred. BY MARY J. HOLMES.
Millbank. BY MARY J. HOLMES.
Mill on the Floss. BY GEORGE ELIOT.
Milton’s Poems. BY JOHN MILTON.
Mine Own People. BY RUDYARD KIPLING.
Minister’s Wooing, The. BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
Monastery. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Moonstone. BY WILKIE COLLINS.
Moore’s Poems. BY THOMAS MOORE.
Mosses from an Old Manse. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
Murders in the Rue Morgue. BY EDGAR ALLEN POE.
Mysterious Island. BY JULES VERNE.
Napoleon Bonaparte, Life of. BY P. C. HEADLEY.
Napoleon and His Marshals. BY J. T. HEADLEY.
Natural Law in the Spiritual World. BY HENRY DRUMMOND.
Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym. BY EDGAR ALLAN POE.
Nature, Addresses and Lectures. BY R. W. EMERSON.
Nellie’s Memories. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
Nelson, Admiral Horatio, Life of. BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.
Newcomes. BY WILLIAM M. THACKERAY.
Nicholas Nickleby. BY CHAS. DICKENS.
Ninety-Three. BY VICTOR HUGO.
Not Like Other Girls. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
Odyssey. POPE’S TRANSLATION.
Old Curiosity Shop. BY CHARLES DICKENS.
Old Mam’selle’s Secret. BY E. MARLITT.
Old Mortality. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Old Myddleton’s Money. BY MARY CECIL HAY.
Oliver Twist. BY CHAS. DICKENS.
Only the Governess. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
On the Heights. BY BERTHOLD AUERBACH.
Oregon Trail. BY FRANCIS PARKMAN.
Origin of Species. BY CHARLES DARWIN.
Other Worlds than Ours. BY RICHARD PROCTOR.
Our Bessie. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
Our Mutual Friend. BY CHARLES DICKENS.
Outre-Mer. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.
Owl’s Nest. BY E. MARLITT.
Page of the Duke of Savoy. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Pair of Blue Eyes. BY THOMAS HARDY.
Pan Michael. BY HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ.
Past and Present. BY THOS. CARLYLE.
Pathfinder. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
Paul and Virginia. BY B. DE ST. PIERRE.
Pendennis, History of. BY WM. M. THACKERAY.
Penn, William, Life of. BY W. HEPWORTH DIXON.
Pere Goriot. BY HONORE DE BALZAC.
Peter, the Great, Life of. BY JOHN BARROW.
Peveril of the Peak. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Phantom Rickshaw, The. BY RUDYARD KIPLING.
Philip II. of Spain, Life of. BY MARTIN A. S. HUME.
Picciola. BY X. B. SAINTINE.
Pickwick Papers. BY CHARLES DICKENS.
Pilgrim’s Progress. BY JOHN BUNYAN.
Pillar of Fire. BY REV. J. H. INGRAHAM.
Pilot. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
Pioneers. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
Pirate. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Plain Tales from the Hills. BY RUDYARD KIPLING.
Plato’s Dialogues. TRANSLATED BY J. WRIGHT. M. A.
Pleasures of Life. BY SIR JOHN LUBBOCK.
Poe’s Poems. BY EDGAR A. POE.
Pope’s Poems. BY ALEXANDER POPE.
Prairie. BY JAMES F. COOPER.
Pride and Prejudice. BY JANE AUSTEN.
Prince of the House of David. BY REV. J. H. INGRAHAM.
Princess of the Moor. BY E. MARLITT.
Princess of Thule. BY WILLIAM BLACK.
Procter’s Poems. BY ADELAIDE PROCTOR.
Professor at the Breakfast Table. BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Professor. BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE.
Prue and I. BY GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.
Put Yourself in His Place. BY CHAS. READE.
Putnam, General Israel, Life of. BY GEORGE CANNING HILL.
Queen Hortense. BY LUISE MÜHLBACH.
Queenie’s Whim. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
Queen’s Necklace. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Quentin Durward. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Rasselas, History of. BY SAMUEL JOHNSON.
Redgauntlet. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Red Rover. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
Regent’s Daughter. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Reign of Law. BY DUKE OF ARGYLE.
Representative Men. BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Republic of Plato. TRANSLATED BY DAVIES AND VAUGHAN.
Return of the Native. BY THOMAS HARDY.
Reveries of a Bachelor. BY IK MARVEL.
Reynard the Fox. EDITED BY JOSEPH JACOBS.
Rienzi. BY BULWER-LYTTON.
Richelieu, Cardinal, Life of. BY RICHARD LODGE.
Robinson Crusoe. BY DANIEL DEFOE.
Rob Roy. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Romance of Natural History. BY P. H. GOSSE.
Romance of Two Worlds. BY MARIE CORELLI.
Romola. BY GEORGE ELIOT.
Rory O’More. BY SAMUEL LOVER.
Rose Mather. BY MARY J. HOLMES.
Rossetti’s Poems. BY GABRIEL DANTE ROSSETTI.
Royal Edinburgh. BY MRS. OLIPHANT.
Rutledge. BY MIRIAM COLES HARRIS
Saint Michael. BY E. WERNER.
Samantha at Saratoga. BY JOSIAH ALLER’S WIFE. (MARIETTA HOLLEY.)
Sartor Resartus. BY THOMAS CARLYLE.
Scarlet Letter. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
Schonberg-Cotta Family. BY MRS. ANDREW CHARLES.
Schopenhauer’s Essays. TRANSLATED BY T. B. SAUNDERS.
Scottish Chiefs. BY JANE PORTER.
Scott’s Poems. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Search for Basil Lyndhurst. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
Second Wife. BY E. MARLITT.
Seekers After God. BY F. W. FARRAR.
Self-Help. BY SAMUEL SMILES.
Self-Raised. (COMPLETE.) BY MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.
Seneca’s Morals.
Sense and Sensibility. BY JANE AUSTEN.
Sentimental Journey. BY LAWRENCE STERNE.
Sesame and Lilies. BY JOHN RUSKIN.
Shakespeare’s Heroines. BY ANNA JAMESON.
Shelley’s Poems. BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
Shirley. BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE.
Sign of the Four. BY A. CONAN DOYLE.
Silas Marner. BY GEORGE ELIOT.
Silence of Dean Maitland. BY MAXWELL GRAY.
Sir Gibbie. BY GEORGE MACDONALD.
Sketch Book. BY WASHINGTON IRVING.
Smith, Captain John, Life of. BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.
Socrates, Trial and Death of. TRANSLATED BY F. J. CHURCH, M. A.
Soldiers Three. BY RUDYARD KIPLING.
Springhaven. BY R. D. BLACKMORE.
Spy. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
Stanley, Henry M., African Explorer, Life of. BY A. MONTEFIORE.
Story of an African Farm. BY OLIVE SCHREINER.
Story of John G. Paton. TOLD FOR YOUNG FOLKS. BY REV. JAS. PATON.
St. Ronan’s Well. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Study in Scarlet. BY A. CONAN DOYLE.
Surgeon’s Daughter. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Swinburne’s Poems. BY A. C. SWINBURNE.
Swiss Family Robinson. BY JEAN RUDOLPH WYSS.
Taking the Bastile. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Tale of Two Cities. BY CHAS. DICKENS.
Tales from Shakespeare. BY CHAS. AND MARY LAMB.
Tales of a Traveller. BY WASHINGTON IRVING.
Talisman. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Tanglewood Tales. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
Tempest and Sunshine. BY MARY J. HOLMES.
Ten Nights in a Bar Room. BY T. S. ARTHUR.
Tennyson’s Poems. BY ALFRED TENNYSON.
Ten Years Later. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Terrible Temptation. BY CHARLES READE.
Thaddeus of Warsaw. BY JANE PORTER.
Thelma. BY MARIE CORELLI.
Thirty Years’ War. BY FREDERICK SCHILLER.
Thousand Miles Up the Nile. BY AMELIA B. EDWARDS.
Three Guardsmen. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Three Men in a Boat. BY JEROME K. JEROME.
Thrift. BY SAMUEL SMILES.
Throne of David. BY REV. J. H. INGRAHAM.
Toilers of the Sea. BY VICTOR HUGO.
Tom Brown at Oxford. BY THOMAS HUGHES.
Tom Brown’s School Days. BY THOS. HUGHES.
Tom Burke of “Ours.” BY CHARLES LEVER.
Tour of the World in Eighty Days. BY JULES VERNE.
Treasure Island. BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. BY JULES VERNE.
Twenty Years After. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Twice Told Tales. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
Two Admirals. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
Two Dianas. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Two Years Before the Mast. BY R. H. DANA, JR.
Uarda. BY GEORGE EBERS.
Uncle Max. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
Uncle Tom’s Cabin. BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
Under Two Flags. BY “OUIDA.”
Utopia. BY SIR THOMAS MORE.
Vanity Fair. BY WM. M. THACKERAY.
Vendetta. BY MARIE CORELLI.
Vespucius, Americus, Life and Voyages. BY C. EDWARDS LESTER.
Vicar of Wakefield. BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
Vicomte de Bragelonne. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Views A-Foot. BY BAYARD TAYLOR.
Villette. BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE.
Virginians. BY WM. M. THACKERAY.
Walden. BY HENRY D. THOREAU.
Washington, George, Life of. BY JARED SPARKS.
Washington and His Generals. BY J. T. HEADLEY.
Water Babies. BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.
Water Witch. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
Waverly. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Webster, Daniel, Life of. BY SAMUEL M. SCHMUCKER, LL.D.
Webster’s Speeches. (SELECTED.) BY DANIEL WEBSTER.
Wee Wifie. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
Westward Ho! BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.
We Two. BY EDNA LYALL.
What’s Mine’s Mine. BY GEORGE MACDONALD.
When a Man’s Single. BY J. M. BARRIE.
White Company. BY A. CONAN DOYLE.
Whites and the Blues. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Whittier’s Poems. (EARLY.) BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.
Wide, Wide World. BY SUSAN WARNER.
William, the Conqueror, Life of. BY EDWARD A. FREEMAN, LL.D.
William, the Silent, Life of. BY FREDERICK HARRISON.
Willy Reilly. BY WILLIAM CARLETON.
Window in Thrums. BY J. M. BARRIE.
Wing and Wing. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.
Wolsey, Cardinal, Life of. BY MANDELL CREIGHTON.
Woman in White. BY WILKIE COLLINS.
Won by Waiting. BY EDNA LYALL.
Wonder Book. FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
Woodstock. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Wooed and Married. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
Wooing O’t. BY MRS. ALEXANDER.
Wordsworth’s Poems. BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
Wormwood. BY MARIE CORELLI.
Wreck of the Grosvenor. BY W. CLARK RUSSELL.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.