CHAPTER IV.—ANNIE’S STORY.

AT MONTE CARLO.

All this happened in the summer and early autumn before Jack and I went

to London and from thence to Paris, where the brightness and beauty of

the gay city astonished and bewildered me. I did not know that anything

could be as beautiful as its boulevards, its parks, its late flowers and

fountains, and crowds of happy-looking people seen everywhere. Its shop

windows were a constant delight, and Jack could scarcely get me away

from them. Had we staid in Paris long I should have developed a great

passion for dress. As it was I began to want everything I saw, until I

inquired the price, when my ardor cooled a little. I was never tired of

the picture galleries, or the Bois de Boulogne, or the Champs d’Elysées,

or the Avenue de l’Opéra, on which our hotel looked, or of counting the

number of white or gray horses seen in a day, and which sometimes

amounted to a thousand.

The weather was cold, but crisp and dry,—the trees were leafless and the

grass dead, but I did not mind it at all, and would like to have staid

in Paris all winter, but for Jack, who wanted to move on.

Carl, who had been to St. Petersburg and Moscow was now in Berlin, while

Katy and Miss Errington were in Monte Carlo, and urged us to join them.

“We are not here for play,” Katy wrote, “although there is a great

fascination in watching it and the people, and when you see how easily

money is sometimes won you are tempted to try your luck. But I have not

done so, and shall not. I should be ashamed to look Paul in the face (I

knew she meant Carl), if I had played with the men and women who nightly

crowded the Casino. We are not in a hotel, but in a lovely villa which

Miss Errington has rented. She is not strong,—is very tired with travel,

and the air here suits her, while the town suits me. It is the loveliest

spot in all the world, and like a garden every where, while the sea is a

constant delight. Do come and join us. We have plenty of room and the

weather is soft and warm as October at home. Norah isn’t with us, but is

coming soon. She found some cousins in Germany and wanted to _rest up_

awhile with them. We miss her more than I can tell. She is so efficient

and faithful. I doubt, though, if she gets along amicably with the

servants here, and her shoes will undoubtedly creak some at their way of

doing things. I am getting to be quite a gossip, or at least very

curious about my neighbors, and so suspicious too. So many seem to be

under a cloud. If you see a beautiful woman driving in a beautiful

carriage, behind beautiful horses, with a young man beside her, and ask

who she is, the chances are that the person you interrogate shrugs her

shoulders and says, ‘She is Lady _So-and-so_, separated from her

husband, and the young man beside her is Lord _Somebody_, who owns the

fine turnout and the villa she lives in and the diamonds she wears.’

“Then you feel disgusted and ashamed of your sex, but go to the Casino

just the same to watch the play, and the haggish old women, with their

black bags, in which they keep their gold and silver, and the young

women, fair English and American girls, sitting side by side with

blear-eyed roués whom they sometimes touch in their feverish haste to

gather up what they have gained, and put down more. Then, in spite of

yourself, you look about till you find Lady _So-and-so_, painted and

powdered, with the young man who owns the horses and carriage and

diamonds and her, standing behind her while she stakes _his_ money as

coolly as if it were her own. By and by a friend, who knows everybody,

calls your attention to a gray-haired man in the crowd and tells you it

is Earl _So-and-so_, husband of the painted woman playing so recklessly.

While you are hurrying to look at him you stumble upon another

celebrity, who tried to kill himself and failed, and is now at the table

again, with the perspiration rolling down his face and despair showing

in his eyes. To-morrow he may finish the work he began a week ago, and

there will be a fresh grave in that enclosure of suicides on the

hillside.

“Miss Errington laughs at me, I get so excited, and interested in it

all, particularly in our next-door neighbors, who occupy the grand villa

which stands so close to ours that I can see all they do, and often hear

what they say. It is a very gay party, of French and Germans; several

gentlemen and three ladies, one of whom interests me greatly and seems

to be the central figure. She is all in black, except when she wears a

rose or some other flower to relieve her sombre dress. Her eyes are

black, her eyebrows heavy, her color brilliant and her hair golden and

wavy. She is slightly lame, and in the morning sits a good deal on the

verandah on our side just where from my window I can see her distinctly,

or could until she caught me looking at her through a glass. Impertinent

in me, I know, but she fascinates me somehow with her complexion and

hair and eyes. Maybe she didn’t see me, but she spoke to our cook that

day and asked her who we were and since that she has sat further away

with her back to me and her long hair rippling down to her waist as if

she were drying it. She goes to the Casino every night, and once when I

stood watching her she stopped suddenly and left her seat. People tell

me that old habitues are superstitious and will not play if strangers

are looking at them.

“You must come soon and help me attend to my neighbors’ business. Miss

Errington is no good at all, and only laughs at my excitement, but she,

too, says, tell you to hurry. We need a man with us to keep us from

being talked about, as two lone women whom nobody knows.”

After the receipt of this letter I was crazy to reach Monte Carlo and

see Lady _So-and-so_, who was separated from her husband, and the Earl

from whom she was separated, and the haggish old women with black bags,

and the man who had tried to kill himself, and all the other

questionable people of the place. Jack made no objection to leaving

Paris, and in three days we were at Monte Carlo, said to be the

loveliest and wickedest place in the world. I saw only the loveliness at

first; and from the moment I began to climb the steep steps from the

station to the terrace above I was one exclamation point of delight, and

when I reached Miss Errington’s villa, which looked out upon the sea and

the Casino and Park in front, I was speechless with wonder that anything

could be so fair as the scene around me. Miss Errington’s villa was

small, but exceedingly pretty, and stood on the same grounds with what

we called The Grand Villa, while ours was _La Petite_.

It was late in the afternoon when we arrived, and I had just time to

freshen myself a little before dinner was served. Katy had given us her

room, which was larger than the guest chamber, and while making my

toilet I was constantly glancing from the windows toward the Grand

Villa, the piazza of which seemed to be full of people in evening dress,

and the sound of their voices was distinctly heard. Conspicuous among

their light costumes was a soft, black, fleecy dress, the train of which

reached far behind the lady who wore it, and whose face I could not see,

as her back was towards me. I could, however, distinguish masses of

golden hair piled high on the top of her head, with one or two curls

falling gracefully in her neck.

“That is Katy’s Madame,” I said, as I tried to get a glimpse of her

face, while Jack chaffed me for my curiosity.

Evidently it was a large dinner party assembled at the villa, and we saw

them filing into the salon and seating themselves at the long table

loaded with silver and cut glass and flowers. Then the shades were

dropped, and hid them from our sight, but we could hear their merry

laughter, louder it seemed to me and coarser than that of real gentlemen

and ladies.

“I do not believe they are real,” Katy said. “They are shams,—even if

they have titles among them. Their _chef_ told ours that Count de Varré

rents the villa and they picnic together. The woman in black is Madame

Felix. Paul has written me something about her. What do you know of

her?”

I replied by repeating at length all I had heard of her. “I should not

be greatly surprised if Carl joined the party later. He was at Homburg

with some of them,” I said, and repented my words the next moment, Katy

turned so pale and looked so distressed.

“Carl consorting with such people and Paul with him; and you knew it and

did not stop it!” she exclaimed, and in her eyes, blue as they were,

there was a look like Fan when her blood was at fever heat and her eyes

at their blackest with red spots in them.

“What could I do?” I asked. “Paul is beyond my control when with Carl,

and I do not believe he has been harmed. She has evidently been very

kind to him and he likes her.”

“Yes, I remember. I understand perfectly why she is kind to Paul,” Katy

replied, and I could hear her foot tap impatiently under the table, as

she grew more and more like Fan. “If Carl comes to that villa with Paul,

I’ll never speak to him again,” she added.

She was greatly excited and her excitement continued until dinner was

over and we were on our way to the Casino. The party from the Grand

Villa were just ahead of us,—Madame, with her black train thrown over

her arm, showing clouds of white lace and muslin underwear, while the

man who, Katy said, was Count de Varré, walked beside her, occasionally

putting his hand on her shoulder when she limped more than usual. We

purposely held back that they might enter before us; “and get well under

way before Madame spies me,” Katy said, a trifle viciously for her. “The

last time I was here I went in when she did, and you should have seen

the great black eyes she leveled at me for an instant, and then with a

half shrug walked away. She didn’t play that night while I was there. I

believe she thinks I am her evil genius.”

We were in the Casino by this time and I wanted to look about me a

little, but Katy hurried us on to the play-rooms, ablaze with light and

splendor and people gathered from all parts of the globe,—French,

Germans, Russians, Italians, English and Americans,—young and old,

beauties and belles, wrinkled hags and fair, innocent looking girls, who

had staked their first five francs stealthily, as if ashamed to do

it,—their second, if they won, with more assurance,—their third, with

still more, until at last every afternoon and evening, Sunday not

excepted, found them there, sitting between and jostled by men to whom

at home they would consider it a degradation to speak, or be near. At

one table sat an old, shrivelled woman, playing heavily, but so blind

and deaf and demented that she did not always know whether she had lost

or won, until her maid, who stood behind her, told her, and raked the

gold into her bag. At another table was a young man; an American, just

married, and also playing heavily, but losing as heavily, while his

girl-wife beside him looked on with tearful eyes and an occasional

remonstrance as she saw what was perhaps their all melting away so fast.

It was wonderful, and bewildering, and intoxicating, and as I went from

table to table and heard above the hum of voices the constant sing-song

of the croupiers “_Faite le jeu; le jeu est fait_,” and looked at the

players and saw how rapidly the gold and silver changed hands, I could

understand how strong was the temptation to try one’s luck when only

five francs was the stake and there was no possible chance for cheating

or being cheated.

“Would you like to risk a dollar?” Jack said, to try the strength of my

principles.

“No, indeed,” I replied, just as Katy pulled my sleeve and whispered,

“There they are,—the party from the Grand Villa,—all at the same table.

Madame has her back to us. You and Jack go round where you can see her

without letting her know you are watching her. By and by I’ll come and

hypnotize her so she’ll quit playing. You’ll see!”

We left Katy and went round to the other side of the table, getting as

near to it as possible and, without seeming to watch Madame, scanned her

curiously. She was handsome, with that voluptuous kind of beauty so many

men admire. She was quite tall and stout, but her figure was so perfect

that one forgot her size entirely. I knew that she owed much of her

brilliant color to art, but it was art perfected, as was the shading

under her eyes which two or three times swept the crowd in front of her

as if in quest of someone. I might have been mistaken, but I thought

there was a look of relief in them as if the one they feared to see was

not there. Once she smiled and spoke to the man beside her, Count de

Varré, showing a dimple in one cheek and a set of very white even teeth.

Her chief attraction, however, was in her golden hair which contrasted

so strongly with her eyes and eyebrows. It was certainly a strange freak

of nature,—that hair and those eyes,—and I said so to Jack, and asked

him what he thought of her.

“She is striking, certainly,” he said, “and just the kind of woman to

please some men,—Carl, for example; but she is not my style, and by

George, I believe I’ve seen her before.”

“That is hardly possible,” I replied, “inasmuch as she is a born French

woman.”

“How do you know she is a born French woman,” he asked, and I rejoined,

“I don’t know for sure, but have taken it for granted. When Paul first

met her she could not speak English. Don’t you remember he wrote that he

was teaching her?”

“English or no English, I have seen that woman before, or some one like

her,” Jack said.

He was good at remembering faces, while I was not good at all, and still

I, too, was beginning to think that I had seen Madame, when Katy came up

and said, “Now let me have your place, while you step aside, and see how

soon I can make her uncomfortable.”

I stepped aside, standing a little to the right of Katy, whose face I

could not see. But I saw Madame who, after a little, began to fidget in

her chair and cast frequent glances across the table to where Katy

stood, not looking at her all the time, but making it sufficiently

manifest that she was watching her. Strangely, too, Madame began to

lose. This made her more nervous than ever, and at last, folding her

hands in a despairing kind of way, she said something to the man beside

her. Following the direction of her eyes he saw Katy and at once came

round to her. Bowing low he begged a thousand pardons, but did she speak

French or English?

“Both,” she said, and he continued, rubbing his hands and bowing all the

time, “So sorry, but Madame Felix, the lady in black, is not well,—is

nervous,—and it affects her much to have Mademoiselle look at her with

those eyes, which,—pardon,—if I were not a stranger I should

compliment.”

Something in the eyes warned him not to compliment them, and he went on:

“She loses courage; she loses money. In short, will Mademoiselle be so

very good to go to some other table and watch somebody else. Am very

sorry to ask it?”

“Certainly I will,” Katy said, turning her back upon Madame, who

recovered her composure and began to play again.

Jack and I were watching her now almost as intently as Katy had done and

with a more startling effect. Evidently she had not been aware of our

presence before, and now when she saw us she seemed for a moment

spellbound and stared at me as if I had been some unexpected apparition

confronting her. Then she looked at Jack, who, I have always insisted,

bowed slightly. He says he didn’t, but confesses to a half smile which

so disconcerted her that she turned pale and, leaning back in her chair,

whispered to the Count and left her seat.

“You are worse than Katy,” Jack said, with what sounded like a low

whistle as he saw her going to another table as far from us as possible.

“I told you I would rout her,” Katy said, as she joined us, while Jack

declared it was I who did it. “She actually turned green when she saw

Annie,” he said. “Who the dickens can she be?”

“A miserable scheming woman,” Katy answered, and I knew she was thinking

of Carl and his connection with Madame.

I was getting tired of the play-rooms and we went outside into the

vestibule where we sat down so near the entrance to the little opera

that we could hear the music distinctly. I did not care to go in that

night, preferring to sit where I was and see the people pass and repass.

After a moment Katy said, “There is something I want to tell you and may

as well do it here. I am going to sing in public to-morrow night.”

“Sing in Monte Carlo,—in the Casino!” I exclaimed, and Katy replied, “In

Monte Carlo, yes; but not in the Casino. There is a grand salon at the

—— Hotel capable of seating two or three hundred, and they are willing

to give from two to five dollars to hear me sing, or rather, to be more

modest, to the cause for which I am to sing.”

“And what is that?” I asked in a tone which made Katy look closely at me

as she replied, “You have some of Fan’s prejudice against the stage, I

see. Well, this isn’t the stage exactly, although there is to be a

temporary one, I believe. Haven’t you heard of that little town near

here which has been visited with pestilence and earthquakes and lastly

by a fire until it is half a ruin and the people sleep in the fields?

The concert is for their benefit, gotten up and engineered by an English

earl and his lady. So, you see, it is in every way _en règle_. All

amateurs, except the tenor and the contralto, whose voices harmonize

perfectly with mine. They are husband and wife and highly respectable.

The other performers are English. I am the only American, and the

drawing card!”

“What do they know of you?” I asked, and she replied, “I sang in Berlin

and in Nice and once here. The Earl heard me in Berlin and Nice, too,

and insisted upon my taking part here as prima donna. Now you have it in

a nutshell, except that the rush for tickets increased and the prices

went up when it was known that I was to sing.”

“Don’t you dread it?” I asked, and with a merry laugh she answered,

“Dread it? No. I anticipate it. I know I can sing. I sometimes feel as

if I could fill the whole world when I get my voice under control, and

how I should like to try the Grand Opera House in Paris. I sang twice in

Berlin in a concert hall to crowded houses. Just before I was to go on

my heart beat like a big drum, but the moment I was on the stage and saw

the people and they saw me and began to cheer, I forgot everything but

my own voice to which I was listening, and which carried me back to the

robins I used to imitate in the garden and woods at home, and it seemed

to me that I was a big robin making my throat move just as they used to

do when they sat in the jasmine and honeysuckle and sang to me in the

morning. I imitated them then; I can do it better now. You will see. You

don’t know how the people applauded and encored until I was tired of

coming out, and when the concert was over they nearly broke through the

floor, and so many came forward to congratulate me,—the Earl and his

lady with the rest. The next day I was deluged with cards and calls and

flowers, and had I chosen I might have commenced a career then and

there, I had so many overtures for engagements with real stage people. I

am glad I am to sing to-morrow night, and that you and Jack are to hear

me. Fan said she’d rather see me dead than on the stage. Carl said so,

too, but God gave me my voice. Why shouldn’t I use it?”

“You should, for all good objects, but don’t go in for a Career,” I

said.

“You are as bad as the rest of them; all are against me,—even Jack,”

Katy rejoined, glancing up at Jack, who had listened but said nothing,

except to ask if we were not ready to go home.

Miss Errington, who had not been with us at the Casino, was waiting for

us in the salon and there were lights at the Grand Villa, showing that

some of its occupants had returned. It was Madame and the Count, Miss

Errington told us, adding that they had come back sometime ago, and

that, judging from the sound of Madame’s voice, she was either excited

or ill.

“She’s seen the evil eye again,” Katy said, recounting her experience

with the lady, while Jack whistled just as he had done at the Casino,

and was promptly reproved by me for his ill-manners in whistling before

people.

“Don’t you remember that girl we used to have?” I said, “what was her

name,—_Julina Smith_. She used to whistle until Mrs. Hathern heard her

and nearly took her head off.”

“What made you think of her?” Jack asked, and I replied, “I don’t know.

She happened to come into my mind,” and there the conversation ceased.

CHAPTER V.—ANNIE’S STORY CONTINUED.

THE CONCERT.

The next day I saw that great preparations were making for the concert

to be given in the grand salon, and heard from Miss Errington that much

interest was felt by the Americans and English because Katy was to sing.

Several times the Earl came to our villa to consult with her, and once

the Italian tenor and contralto came and practiced one or two pieces,

and Katy went with the Earl to the hotel to see just where she was to

stand and where enter. Taken altogether, there seemed to be quite a

professional air about it all which I didn’t quite like, and I said so

to Jack, who answered “Oh, let Katy sing, if she wants to. It won’t hurt

her.”

“But what will Fan and Carl say? I wish he were here,” I continued,

whereupon Jack was more provoking than ever, and replied, “I don’t think

Carl need say much after his racket with Madame!” and then he whistled

again in what I thought a very exasperating way and told him so, from

which it will be seen that we were getting quite like married people.

For answer he laughed and said “_Nous verrons_,” about the only French

he had picked up, and I heard him laughing in his dressing-room where he

was making his toilet for the evening. We went early to the salon, but

early as we were the party from the Grand Villa were there before us,

all except Madame, who was probably enjoying herself at play,

undisturbed by Katy, or myself. We were not far from the front and could

not see who entered behind us, but we knew the salon was filling fast

and that some were standing near the door. Behind the curtain of the

improvised stage shadowy figures were flitting, and we caught

occasionally the sound of suppressed voices evidently giving orders.

Jack had gone to the villa, after my fan which I had forgotten, and I

had fought one or two battles over his chair and was longing for him to

return and wondering why he was gone so long, when he came tearing in. I

can use no other expression than _tear_, he was so excited and warm, as

if he had been running. “By George,” he said, handing me my fan and

sinking into his seat, “It’s the best joke I ever knew.”

“What’s the best joke? Are you crazy, Jack?” I asked, as he seemed about

to roar.

Then he pulled himself together and answered quite soberly, “You wished

Carl were here, and he _is_ here,—in this hotel,—or was; came on the

evening train. I glanced at the register and saw his name, and Paul’s

and Sam’s. Norah is here, too, at the villa; came on the same train, but

could not have known Carl was in it, as she said nothing of having seen

him.”

“Norah! I am so glad,” Miss Errington said, while I exclaimed, “Carl and

Paul! Then, they must be in the salon. Look, Jack, and find them.”

He did look, and saying “_Nix_,” sat down again, and continued: “Carl is

undoubtedly in the Casino by this time cheek-by-jowl with Madame. She

passed the villa with her maid while Norah and I were standing on the

piazza. I got one flash of her black eyes in the moonlight. She looked

rather haggard, I thought, in spite of the color on her cheeks. I don’t

believe she half likes our proximity to her.”

Then he laughed and was about to say more when I warned him to stop, as

the orchestra had ceased playing and the curtain was going up.

Everything which could be done to make the stage attractive and like a

private parlor had been done. The furniture was of the daintiest kind

and most artistically arranged; the lights were shaded just right, and

there were flowers and potted plants everywhere, with a whole forest of

palms, tall ferns and azaleas at the rear, where the singers were to

enter.

The first on the programme was a quartette sung in Italian, and mildly

cheered. Then a violin solo played by the Earl,—also mildly cheered,

with a faint attempt at an encore. “Stupid,” I whispered to Jack, who

did not seem to be listening at all. Once, when there was a commotion

near the door he turned his head and then said to me in a whisper, “That

Yankee has just come in with Paul. He’ll have a good time getting a

seat.”

I asked Jack to bring Paul to me, for I was longing for a sight of his

face, and wanted to see what effect the sight of Katy would have upon

him. But Jack said that was impossible.

“Are you sure Carl is not with him?” I asked, and he replied, “Yes,

sure. He is probably at the Casino.”

And he was! Since leaving Berlin he had traveled slowly from place to

place,—not quite certain whether he was sufficiently scrubbed and boiled

and ironed to join the girl whom he felt a great desire to see. He had

heard of her triumphs in Berlin from some friends who were at the

concert, and for a moment had set his teeth together hard that she

should thus go against his known wishes.

Then he thought, “Who or what am I that I should raise so high a

standard for her, and have so low a one for myself? If she sings every

day in the week I want her, and mean to have her.”

Of Madame he frequently thought;—sometimes with disgust, when he

remembered Homburg, and again kindly and charitably as one who was not

to blame for being a French woman, with all the instincts of her class.

She had amused and interested him, and shown that she cared for him, and

no young man is wholly insensible to the preference of a handsome woman.

Just where she was he did not know, but fancied she was at Cannes. Of

Katy’s whereabouts he knew as little as of Madame’s, but had an

impression that she might be in Monte Carlo, as in her last letter to

Paul she had spoken of going there. If so, he knew Jack and I must be

with her, as we were to join her in southern France, and with a hope to

find her and us he had come on the evening train.

As our names were not on the hotel register he decided to look for us in

the Casino,—the resort of the most of Monte Carlo’s visitors. Paul knew

he could not enter the play-rooms, but was anxious to see the place.

Taking him and Sam with him Carl left them to look about in the

vestibule, while he slowly made the circuit of the rooms. Not finding

us, or anyone he knew, he decided to enquire at the different hotels and

was about to leave when he came upon Madame who was so heartily glad to

see him that for a time he was glad to see her. She was thinner than

when he left her in Homburg, with something quiet and subdued in her

manner, and a shade of anxiety in her face which softened and toned down

her striking beauty.

“Is in straits again I dare say,” Carl thought, resolving if she were he

would not come to the rescue.

But Madame soon undeceived him. She had had splendid luck as a rule at

the tables, and, best of all, her brother-in-law in Passy had been very

generous and made over to her more of the estate than she had hoped for.

“I feel quite rich again,” she said, “and can pay you what you have

loaned me.”

At this Carl laughed. She was welcome to all he had advanced to her, he

said, as he took a seat beside her at one of the tables, more to see her

play than to play himself. After a little, however, the fever seized

him, and he was about to put down his first piece of gold when there

came an unexpected diversion in the shape of a young boy, whose English

voice rang out shrill and clear above the hum of the room and startled

every player there.

“Carl, Carl, come quick! Katy is singing at the hotel, and the people

are yelling like mad. Come on.”

It was Paul, bareheaded and breathless, as he grasped Carl’s hand before

the gold was upon the table. In an instant Carl was on his feet,

electrified by the news Paul brought and by the sight of him in those

rooms so rigidly forbidden to all under twenty-one. Close behind him was

an official, but before he could seize the child Carl interposed and led

him into the vestibule, where he met Sam who had come in hot pursuit of

the boy. Paul and Sam had looked about the Casino until they were tired

and had then returned to the hotel, where they heard of the concert in

progress, but not who the singers were. Paul, who was very fond of

music, begged to go in, and securing a ticket Sam managed to find

standing-room for himself at the rear of the salon, where, putting Paul

upon the window seat so that he could see over the heads of the people,

he stood, little dreaming of the surprise which awaited him. The

quartette was finished and the solo, and then there fell a great hush of

expectancy as the people studied their programs and waited during what

seemed to me an eternity, I was so nervous and excited.

Would Katy fail? Would she mind that sea of heads, or care for the eyes

and glasses so soon to be leveled at her? I didn’t know, and I felt as

if I should scream if the suspense were not soon ended. There was a stir

among the palms and azaleas, and something which sounded like a long

breath ran through the audience, as a tall slim girl walked easily and

gracefully to the front of the stage, where she stood, acknowledging the

cheers which greeted her as composedly as if she had been at home and

about to sing a ballad to me. She was very lovely in her simple white

gown, with neither paint nor powder on her face. Her fair hair was

twisted into a loose coil at the back of her head and kept in place by a

long gold pin, her only ornament, if I except the bunch of roses

fastened in her bosom. Nor did she need anything to set off the

matchless beauty of her face and the light which shone in her eyes as

they swept the house in one swift glance until they fell upon Jack and

me. Then she began singing to _us_,—I was sure,—with a thought of home

in her heart,—singing in a language I could not understand, but the

music of which made me grow faint as a great joy sometimes affects us. I

could feel the stillness of the people, which continued for a brief

instant after she finished; then, there was a perfect hail-storm of

cheers and flowers, which she received with the same composure which had

characterized her singing.

It was at this point that Paul had started in quest of Carl. He had been

very quiet, Sam said, through the quartette and solo, and was beginning

to yawn when Katy appeared.

“Oh-h!” he began aloud, when Sam put his hand over his mouth to stop

him.

Then putting his arms around Sam’s neck and nearly strangling him Paul

whispered, “Is it she? Is it Katy? It is! It is!”

Shaking like a leaf he listened till the song was over and then, before

Sam knew what he was doing, he sprang from the window stool and started

for the Casino to find Carl. Fortunately for him a party was just

entering the rooms, and taking advantage of the open door he shot

through it under the nose of the astonished official, who put out his

arm to detain him. But Paul was off like the wind, darting from point to

point until he found Carl and startled him with the news that Katy was

singing at the hotel and the people were yelling like mad.

Madame was white to her lips as she watched Carl going from the room and

knew that he was going from her forever,—the only man she had ever

really cared for. Then she turned to her game with nerveless fingers

which could hardly hold the gold which she lost as fast as she put it

down.

Meanwhile Carl was hurrying to the hotel, questioning Paul as he went,

but getting no very satisfactory replies. Katy was singing and the house

was full, was all Paul could say. Carl had fancied it a little parlor

entertainment, but when he saw the crowd filling the salon and all the

scenic effect of stage accessories, he thought to himself, “Katy has

commenced her _Career_,” and a sting like the cut of a knife ran through

him for an instant, with a feeling that he had lost her. With some

difficulty he made his way to a window, where, with Paul again on the

stool, he waited while an English girl wailed through some sentimental

trash about “Kissing me quick if you love me.” Then there was another

hush, reminding me of the stillness said to brood in the air before the

coming of a cyclone. I believe I could have heard a pin drop, and I did

hear the beating of my heart and leaned over on Jack just as the palms

and azaleas stirred again, and the tall slim girl in the white dress

stood before us a second time, her cheeks flushed with excitement and

her face beautiful as the faces of the angels whose pictures we

sometimes see. Two or three curls had escaped from the coil at the back

of her head and fallen down upon her neck. These she tossed back with a

graceful motion, putting up her hands to fasten them in their place as

readily and naturally as if she had been in her dressing-room at home.

She was wholly unconventional, and this was one of her great charms as

she stood there, her eyes again sweeping the house, but failing to take

in the group by the window watching her so eagerly, Paul only restrained

from calling out to her by Carl’s warning “sh-sh,” spoken very low. If

she had seen them and known Carl was there she might not have sung as

she did,—clearer, sweeter than before,—going up and up without a break

until she reached a point from which it seemed as if her voice could go

no farther, and there it staid and warbled and trilled with perfect ease

like the robins she used to imitate. And I was sure she saw and heard

them, and that The Elms and evergreens and woods were full of them

singing to her of Virginia and home, and she hated to leave them. But

with an easy movement she slid down at last from the dizzy heights to

which she had carried us, and with a bow her song was ended.

If the applause was great before it was thunderous now, and she stood as

if wondering what it all was for. Then suddenly it subsided,—stopped by

the same shrill, penetrating voice which had so startled the players in

the Casino. Paul had nearly tumbled off the window stool with his

stamping, and as soon as there was a lull he called out “Hurrah, Katy!

That was splendid, and we are all here, Carl and Sam and _me_. Look!”

Three-fourths of the audience were English and Americans, who understood

him, and all turned towards the window where the little fellow’s hands

were still in the air clapping his approval. Then the cheers broke forth

again, louder than before, and this time almost as much for Paul as for

Katy. She was as white as her dress, and it seemed to me had scarcely

strength to leave the stage. In response to the protracted calls for her

reappearance she only came in front of the palms and bowed. She was not

down to sing again, but when the program was finished some of the

English, who knew she was a southern girl, sent up a request for a negro

song, such as was sung before the war. This everyone seconded and Katy

came again, looking now like a water-lily she was so pale, as she stood

for a moment wondering what to sing.

“I hope it will be Old Kentucky Home,” I whispered to Jack, and as if my

wish had been communicated to her she began it at once, without any

accompaniment, filling the room with the old-time melody I had so often

heard as a child in the hemp fields and cabins at home, but which had

never sounded as it did now when Katy sang it with so much feeling and

pathos.

This time I feared the people would break through the floor, and was

told that the proprietor did look in alarmed at the noise. One more song

was asked for and this time it was Swannee River which she chose,

changing the words of the last two lines of each verse into

“Oh, how my heart is growing weary,

Far from my old Virginia home!”

There was now a difference in her singing which I was quick to detect.

It was just as sweet and full, but she was tired and her voice showed

it, and was like the homesick cry of a child longing to lie down and

rest in the sunshine and beside the running brooks of its distant home.

And the people who knew she was from Virginia understood it, and there

was scarcely a dry eye in the house when she finished. I was crying

outright, while Paul by the window was sobbing on Carl’s neck,—“Less go

home; it’s a heap nicer than here.”

It was over at last. The people were hurrying out,—some to try their

luck at the Casino before the doors closed, and all talking of the girl

who had so delighted them. As soon as he could Jack brought Carl and

Paul to me, and we made our way across the stage in quest of Katy. She

had already gone to the villa, where we found her, limp and exhausted,

lying upon a couch with Norah ministering to her and piles of flowers

around her, tributes to her genius,—bouquets, baskets, horse-shoes,

harps,—everything, except pillows and crosses, which would have made the

room look more like a funeral than it did. With a shout Paul threw

himself upon Katy, nearly strangling her with hugs, and saying, “Oh,

Katy, how you _did_ sing! It made me think of the angels first, and then

I got sick at my stomach, didn’t I Carl?”

Miss Errington, Jack and I had all congratulated Katy and kissed her,

when Carl came up. At sight of him she started to rise, but he put her

gently back, saying, “Stay where you are and rest. You sang splendidly,

Katy. I was proud of you,” and then he, too, kissed her on her forehead.

A wonderful light shone in Katy’s eyes as she looked up at him; the tire

all left her face, which was bright with smiles and blushes as she

declared she was not fatigued at all.

“Just for a moment when Paul hurrahed and I knew he was there I did feel

as if I should drop, it was so sudden,” she said, “but after that I was

all right, and when I sang the Swannee River I was at home with the

negroes, and a part of the time falling into the duck pond with Carl

fishing me out.”

“You were!” Carl exclaimed, bending over her until his face almost

touched hers; “that’s exactly where I was,—there and in the woods after

you were ill.”

He had somehow gotten possession of her hand and kept it until it was

wanted to repress Paul, who, on the other side of the couch, was hugging

and kissing her at intervals as the fancy took him. We were a very happy

family, and sat talking together until Norah, the only sensible one

among us, insisted that Katy must go to bed.

“There’s another day comin’, and it’s to-morrow now,” she said, pointing

to the clock which was striking one.

Sam had been in to see us, and in his characteristic way had expressed

his approval of Katy’s singing. The foreign lingo he didn’t understand,

he said, but the tune was tip-top, while Kentucky Home and Swanny River

took the cake, and made him think of Mirandy and the little baby who

died, and he snummed if he could keep from crying.

Carl, Paul and Sam went back to their hotel and the lights were soon out

in the little villa. In the Grand Villa, however, there was one shining

in Madame’s room, and I could see her in full undress, moving rapidly

about as if packing her trunks.

“I believe she is going away,” I said to Jack, who gave his little

tantalizing whistle, and replied, “Shouldn’t wonder!”

CHAPTER VI.—ANNIE’S STORY CONTINUED.

JULINA.

Immediately after breakfast the next morning Carl and Paul joined us,

and as the day was unusually warm for the season we all sat in the

verandah looking towards the Casino in one direction and the Grand Villa

to the left. At this end of the piazza a large screen was standing, put

there to shut us from the eyes of our neighbors, when they were sitting

out as they often did. They were late this morning like ourselves, and

if Madame were leaving it could not be until afternoon as the express

train both ways had passed. Norah was everywhere present, and her shoes,

which were new, creaked frightfully, showing an excited state of mind,

although she was in high spirits and talked continually when near us.

She had tried her luck at the roulette table the previous night, she

said, and lost more than she won, but she didn’t care. She saw the

people and they saw her, and she guessed some of them were not greatly

pleased to renew her acquaintance. We were wondering what she meant,

when we saw Madame come out and sit down with her back to us at the

farthest end of the long piazza. Before seating herself, however, she

glanced furtively around as if to assure herself that she was not

observed. Our position was such that through a space between the screen

and the side of the villa we could see her without ourselves being seen.

I was the nearest to the screen and was looking at her when I heard a

very decided “Ah-hem!” twice repeated as if to attract attention, and

leaning forward I saw that Norah had crossed our part of the grounds and

was standing on those of the Grand Villa, evidently _Ah-hem-ming_ to the

woman in the distance, who sat as immovable as a stone. When the coughs

did not prevail, Norah called out, “Halloo!—halloo! How are you this

morning?”

Jack whistled, while Katy and I looked aghast at each other. “Say, why

don’t you speak to an old friend?” came next from Norah, and then Madame

partly turned and said, “If you are talking to me, it’s no use. I

understand little English.”

Jack whistled again, and Carl, who was sitting close to Katy, rose to

his feet and took a step forward as if to stop Norah’s impertinence, but

her next remark kept him motionless as it did the rest of us. Norah had

picked up enough French to understand Madame, and straightening herself

back she answered: “The Lord save us! Born in _Vermont_, and can’t speak

English! That’s too much, but you don’t cheat me. We worked together in

Miss Haverleigh’s kitchen too long for me not to know _Julina Smith_, in

spite of your painted hair. I heard of you from your Cousin Jane, who is

in a hotel in Dresden, where my sister is cook. She told me you’re a

great lady and all that, but I didn’t spose you’d refuse to speak to me

and say you didn’t know English. That’s nonsense. Come and see the folks

from Virginny. They’re all here but Miss Fanny.”

We were all outside the screen now, and standing upon the grass—except

Miss Errington, who had no special interest in the matter, and Carl,

who, at the mention of Julina Smith, had dropped into his chair, where

he sat while we went out to meet our former maid. She was very pale as

she rose up and faced us, with the look of a hunted animal, which has

been run down and sees no way of escape. She had played her game and

lost, and now she made the best of it and came towards us at once,

moving slowly as if in pain. Paul had always been fond of her, and when

he saw who she was he ran forward with a shout.

“Oh, Madame, Madame, I’m so glad,” he said, and threw himself into her

arms.

This seemed to reassure her. Kissing the little boy she held him by the

hand and came up to us, as far from the Grand Villa as possible. She was

very pale and the dark rings under her eyes were not works of art, but

the result of anxiety and loss of sleep. She spoke very low, but every

word was distinct and in perfect English.

“Yes, I am, or was, Julina Smith,” she began, “and I have worked in Mrs.

Haverleigh’s kitchen with Norah, but society would recognize me as your

equal now, and it is your boast in America that one can rise if he has

the will to do it. I had the will, and I have risen. When I came to

France my aunt had sold what I called her chateau near Fontainebleau and

was keeping a Pension in Paris. She gave me advantages and I profited by

them. We had the best of people, mostly French, and among them Monsieur

Felix. He was much older than I and very rich, or I thought him so. He

was a good man,—not very deep,—but good. He loved me and married me,

thinking me wholly French and that my name was Julie Du Bois. He never

knew I was born in America, or could speak English. If he had he

wouldn’t have cared, he was so fond and proud of me, but he might have

told of it and that I wished to prevent. My aunt died. I had no

relations left in Paris to betray me,—no relatives this side of the

water, except Jane, who is only a second cousin, and I went to work to

lose all traces of my former self. Partly as a disguise, and partly

because I thought it would give me a more striking appearance, I

bleached my hair. You remember my teeth. No one could forget them. I had

them extracted and went for a new set to a famous American dentist. He

did his best for me, and when I gained in flesh, as I soon did, the

metamorphose was complete, and deceived even those who had been at my

aunt’s Pension and knew me as the young girl who sometimes played for

them to dance. These I did not often meet. I avoided everyone I had ever

known, in my morbid fear of being recognized. My husband’s family is a

good one, and as his wife I was somebody and I enjoyed it and passed for

a lady,—as I think I am.”

She smiled bitterly here, and then went on: “When I first saw this dear

little boy,” and she passed her hand caressingly over Paul’s head, “I

was drawn to him at once, and my affection for him was not feigned. I

was glad to see Carl again and afraid he would know me, but he didn’t. I

sometimes thought his man Sam suspected me and knew he did not like me.

He lived in the same town with my father when I was a girl.”

“Jerusalem! I told you so,” came energetically from Sam, who had come

from the hotel and seeing us standing together had joined us in time to

hear a part of what Madame was saying.

To him she gave a look of scorn, as one quite beneath her, and then went

on, a little stammeringly now, for she had reached the hardest part of

her story, and her eyes went over and beyond us to the piazza where

Carl’s boots were visible as he sat motionless, but listening to every

word.

“I was glad to see Carl,” she said again, speaking as if something were

choking her. “I always liked him as a boy, although he was very

proud,—so proud that had he known I was Julina, my changed position as

Madame Felix would hardly have atoned for the fact that I once served

his mother. I am a woman and human, and it was a gratification to know

that I could interest and attract him and I tried my best to do it, with

what success he can tell you. But,” and here she fixed her eyes on Katy,

“I never found him anything but a true, honorable man, whom any good

girl might trust. I think I amused him, but he was not of my kind. His

New England training unfitted him for my set and he broke away from us.

Better for him that he did, although we lead a very happy life as a

rule. I am half French by birth and all French by nature and habit.

Bohemian French, too, and like it. The life suits me. It couldn’t suit

Carl. There is too much Puritan there. He is happier with you, and there

is no reason why you should not take him as readily as if he had never

known me. I saw your sister in London two years ago and avoided her. I

did not know you were my neighbor here until I learned your name. I had

no fear you would recognize me. You were too young when I knew you, but

you troubled me greatly in the Casino, though not as much as you did”;

and now she addressed me: “I did not know you were in Europe, and when I

saw you and Mr. Fullerton I felt that my time had come. I was sure of it

when I heard Norah’s voice last night as I passed on my way to the

Casino and saw her later in the rooms. I might deceive everyone else,

but Norah never.”

“That’s as sure as you’re born,” came from Norah, and Madame went on: “I

meant to leave this morning, but the rest of my party go to-morrow and I

waited. I am glad I did. Glad I have told you all, and you may not

believe me, but I am so glad to see you again, and I wish we were

friends, but that we can never be.”

“Why not?” Katy said, going over to the woman and offering her hand.

Madame’s confession and what she said of Carl had wiped out all her

animosity, and she felt only pity for the woman who had been so

humiliated.

“Oh, Katy, Katy!” Madame exclaimed, bursting into tears and throwing her

arms around Katy’s neck. “I do not deserve this from you. God bless you,

and make you happy. Carl is worthy of you, even if he has been soiled a

little by contact with me. It is only a speck which your love will wipe

out. I tried to make him care for me but could not. He was never more to

me than a friend.”

All this she said very low, as she continued to cry.

There was a stir at the end of the long piazza of the Grand Villa. The

Count had come out and was looking curiously in our direction. In a

moment Madame was herself,—erect and dignified and speaking in a

whisper.

“We leave to-morrow. It is not necessary that my party should know

everything or anything. They despise the _bourgeois_; they would despise

Julina Smith. They think I come from a good old Norman family, now

extinct. Let them continue to think so. I shall tell them I had met some

of you before. I know what to say;—trust me, and—good-bye.”

She wrung Katy’s hand, kissed Paul and went across the lawn and piazza

to where the Count stood waiting for her. What she told him we never

knew,—something satisfactory, no doubt, as he was driving with her that

afternoon, and in the evening we saw him by her side at the gaming table

in the Casino. But we didn’t disturb or go near her. Early the next

morning piles of baggage left the Grand Villa, and we were up in time to

see Madame’s black bonnet disappearing through the shrubbery as she went

down to the station.

“Good riddance to her. I don’t believe in her, for all of her tears and

fine words. Not speak English indeed!” came from Norah as she watched

her.

Norah had stopped for awhile in Dresden where she had some relatives,

and among them a cousin employed in a hotel where Jane Du Bois was also

an employee. This girl, who could speak English, was very friendly with

Norah, and when she heard she was from America made many inquiries about

the country to which she had some thought of emigrating, and where, she

said, she once had some relatives,—Smiths,—who lived in —— Vermont. Did

Norah know them?

“I knew a Julina Smith from that place years ago,” Norah replied,

whereupon it came out that Julina and Jane were second cousins, but had

never met.

Jane had heard, though, of Julina’s fine marriage with Monsieur Felix of

Passy, and that she was now a grand lady, ignoring the few relatives she

had left and living in great splendor until her husband died. Where she

was now, Jane neither knew nor cared. Norah, too, was quite indifferent

to the whereabouts of her former associate and never dreamed of finding

her at Monte Carlo. She had met Jack on the piazza as he was returning

for my fan, and the two were talking together when Madame passed on her

way to the Casino. She was a woman to be noticed anywhere and Norah

looked curiously and rather admiringly at her as she drew near. In

Jack’s mind there had always been a strong suspicion as to Madame’s

identity. Surely he had seen her before, and if so Norah might help him

to solve the mystery. He was not, however, prepared for what followed

when to her question “Who is that lady coming?” he replied “Madame Julie

Felix. Do you know her?”

Madame was close to them and the moonlight shone full on her face and

eyes, which flashed for a moment on Norah and were quickly withdrawn.

“I’d smile if I didn’t know Julina Smith!” Norah exclaimed. “I heard she

was Madame Felix and a great lady. Well, I’d of known them eyes in the

dark.”

“_Eureka!_ I thought so,” Jack said, hurrying in for the fan and making

no further conversation with Norah with regard to Madame.

When left alone Norah was not quite so sure as she had been. “But I’ll

satisfy myself,” she thought. “It would be like Julina to masquerade

this way and not let them know who she was.”

She accordingly went to the Casino and satisfied herself that Madame was

Julina. Of her intimacy with Carl she knew nothing, or in her wrath she

might have exposed her at the table. In her mind Julina was only passing

as a great lady whom it would be her pleasure to unmask, which she did

effectually.

“Madame Felix!” she repeated at intervals through the day. “To think it

should come true what she said about being rich, with diamonds, and a

tail to her gown a yard long, and she not lettin’ on who she was. We are

well to be rid of her.”

We all thought so, too, and breathed freer with the doors and windows of

the Grand Villa closed, although I missed the excitement of watching its

inmates and half wished we might have seen more of Julina.

CHAPTER VII.—ANNIE’S STORY CONTINUED.

CARL AND KATY.

Carl had been indignant at Norah when she first called out to Madame,

but the moment he heard the name Julina Smith he felt, as he afterwards

told Katy, as if a feather could have knocked him down. Everything

connected with her, recurred to him and he knew it was Julina before she

acknowledged it and came forward to meet us. I think she wanted to see

him; but he did not join us, and he spent most of the day at the hotel

in his room, seeing no one except Sam, who felicitated himself upon the

fact that he had always mistrusted Madame.

“But I never thought of Julina,—the lyenist girl there was in town,” he

said;—“with airs enough to sink a ship. Why, she’d deceive the very

elect.”

This was to Carl, who made no reply. He was very sore on the subject of

Madame, who had duped him so completely, and did not care to discuss

her. That evening he dined with us, and was very quiet all through the

dinner, during which no allusion was made to Madame. Katy and I had

already talked her over by ourselves.

“I hated her at first,” Katy said, “but when I saw her standing there so

brave under the lash of Norah’s tongue, telling us all about it, and

knew how hard it must be for her to do it, I was sorry for her, and I

forgave her everything, even to Carl. It was splendid in her to

exonerate him as she did. Of course he was only her friend.”

I was glad Katy took this view of it and watched eagerly for the

denouement of the drama I felt sure was to come. The day Madame left,

Carl and Jack and Paul and Sam went on an excursion to the country and

did not return until time for dinner. The night was cool for Monte

Carlo, and after dinner we all gathered around the fire which had been

kindled in the salon, except Katy, who was on the piazza with Carl. He

had come from the hotel and was walking up and down with her in the

moonlight, which was at its full that night, making the town almost as

light as day. At last he came in for a warm cloak which he put around

her and then made her sit down in a reclining chair adjusted to such an

angle that when she leaned back in it, as she soon did, the moonlight

fell upon her face, showing plainly every change in its expression as he

talked to her. He had drawn another and lower chair to her side, and

sitting down by her took one of her hands in his and held it while he

went over every incident of his life which he thought at all crooked,

and dwelling longest on his intimacy with Madame Felix, as that was the

episode he most deplored and of which he was most ashamed.

“I cannot account for the influence she had over me,” he said. “If I

believed in mesmerism I should say it was that, but I don’t.

Consequently it must have been my own weakness and love of flattery, for

she did flatter me and amuse me, and, fool that I was, I was really

proud of her notice, believing in her blue blood and connection with the

old aristocracy of which she so modestly hinted, and all the time she

was Julina Smith and I didn’t guess it. You don’t know how I hate

myself.”

With her head thrown back on the chair rest,—and her eyes closed, Katy

listened with the moonlight falling on her face, from whose expression

Carl could form no conclusion as to her thoughts until, as he grew more

and more condemnatory of himself, she started up and with a girl’s

perversity began to defend Madame.

“I don’t think her so bad,” she said. “She liked you when you were a boy

and wrote you a love letter,—Annie has told me about it,—and you snubbed

her awfully. Afterwards you met as equals and you were pleased with her,

as you are with every handsome woman, and she is handsome if she does

bleach her hair, and I am not certain but it improves her. It is

certainly striking. She was kind to Paul and kind to you, and being

French and full of intrigue it is natural that she would want to see if

she could do with the man what she couldn’t with the boy,—attract him.

She succeeded because you thought her Madame Felix, with blue blood in

her veins. She is no worse now that you know she is Julina Smith with

Yankee blood instead of blue, and I don’t think it a bit nice for you to

throw stones at her after she exonerated you from everything as she

did.”

Katy had made her speech and lay back again in her chair with her eyes

on Carl who had listened to her amazed. If she could thus excuse and

defend Madame, would she not also overlook his own shortcomings. She had

been very gracious to him since he came to Monte Carlo, and especially

since Madame declared herself as Julina, and something in her eyes

emboldened him to put his face down close to hers, while he poured out

words of love which must be answered.

“Why don’t you speak to me?” he said at last, and Katy replied, “How can

I when you are stopping my mouth with kisses. Let me sit up, please.”

Raising herself in her chair, and smoothing her hair which was a good

deal tumbled, she said, “What about _my Career_? You saw me on the stage

the other night. Would you rather have seen me dead than there? Would

you be willing to see me in more public places,—real opera houses,—if I

were your wife? Wouldn’t you mind being known only as my husband,

waiting for me at home, or, worse yet, waiting for me behind the scenes,

where pandemonium reigns and if there is anything bad in the actors it

comes out? Would you like to read how divinely I sang or danced,—it

might come to that, you know? And my picture would be in the shop

windows and in the papers with the horrid cuts we sometimes see there.

Do you love me well enough to stand all this?”

She was looking intently at him as she talked, and Carl writhed at the

picture she drew of him as the husband of a prima donna. Was that frail

young girl worth the humiliation he should be called upon to endure at

times, if she persisted in her Career? Was his love for her strong

enough to overbalance every thing? As Fanny once had weighed her love

for Jack against money and position, so he now weighed his love for Katy

against her Career, and Katy conquered.

“Yes, my darling,” he said, drawing her face to him until it was hidden

from the moonlight and nearly smothered on his bosom, “I love you so

much that forty Careers shall not stand in my way, if you will take me.

Sing in public if you want to, and I will wait at home, or in the

green-room, or out doors, or anywhere, and when I hear the shouts of

applause I shall comfort myself with thinking, ‘Applaud her all you

like, the more the better. You can’t spoil her. To you she is the great

singer, but she is _my wife_!’”

I wonder if Carl thought himself a hero when he said that. Katy did.

Disengaging herself from him she lifted up her face which, either from

the moonlight or the pallor which had settled upon it, made Carl think

that just so the faces of the glorified dead must look when entering

Paradise.

“Carl,” she said, and her lips quivered and the tears stood in her eyes,

“I have heard you. Now, listen to me. I have dreamed so much of a

Career, in which I know I should succeed and in which I should be

comparatively happy. I like the excitement,—the sight of the people,—the

applause,—the flowers,—and most of all I like to sing; but, Carl, I have

learned that there is something better than all this, and that is love

such as you offer me. Wait a minute,”—and she drew back as he was about

to take her in his arms. “Hear me through before you squeeze my breath

out of me again. You have conceded everything. Do you think I will

accept the sacrifice and make no return? No, Carl. I am not ashamed to

say that I love you so much that I am willing to give up my Career for

you. If I didn’t love you and should never marry it would be different;

a married woman has no business on the stage unless her husband is

there, too,—and I don’t think you have the slightest aptitude for it.

You could only sit in the audience or wait in the green-room, or if we

traveled on our own hook, as the Hathern-Haverleigh troupe, you might

take the money and tickets at the door. How would you like that?”

Carl did not reply, and she went on: “I don’t want you at the door

selling tickets, or in the green-room, or with the audience, or anywhere

except with me, and I with you. Are you satisfied?”

Each had offered a great sacrifice to the other and there was perfect

trust and love between them, and when the moon, which for a moment had

been hidden by a cloud, came out again it shone on two faces so close to

each other that they almost seemed but one.

“My darling, my darling!” was all Carl said, or had time to say, for the

clock was striking twelve, and the people were swarming out of the

Casino and coming, some of them, past our villa on their way home.

Jack had been asleep a long time, but I was awake and waiting for Katy,

who, I feared, might take cold, sitting so long in the night air. Was

there ever a girl cold, I wonder, from sitting with her lover? Katy

surely was not, judging from her crimson cheeks and hot hands when I

joined her in the hall. I heard her as she came up the stairs and

stopped at my door, whispering very low, “Annie, Annie, are you awake?”

I knew what she wanted, and remembering how I had longed for some

sympathetic ear to listen to my happiness when Jack proposed to me, I

slipped on my dressing-gown and bed-shoes and went out to her.

“Oh, Annie,” she began, as we sat down together. “I am so glad that I

could not sleep till I had told some one. I am to give up all thought of

the stage and marry Carl. I don’t see why I have kept him off so long

when I have always loved him since I fell into the duck pond, and he has

loved me,—I am sure of it now,—no matter where he was, or with whom;

there was never a moment that his heart was not ready to open for me if

I would come into it. He said so, and I believe it. I know the worst

there is to know, and it is not bad for a young man like him. A little

fickle, with escapades and flirtations which meant nothing, because he

always saw my face everywhere and it kept him from falling. He said so.

And then,—Julina! He takes that most to heart because he was so

deceived, and he really was pleased with her. He said so. And I don’t

care. She’s a handsome woman, who knows just how to make a young man

like her. And I don’t blame her much either. He snubbed her awfully when

he was a boy, and when she met him on equal terms it was natural that

she, being French and steeped in art, should try to be even with him. I

hated her at first, but when she stood up before us and confessed I

forgave her everything. Paul likes her and she likes him. There must be

something good about her, but she can never move Carl again. He said

so.”

Katy’s “He said so” was very frequent, showing how implicit was her

faith in Carl, and because _he said so_ there could be no appeal. For an

hour we talked, or rather Katy did, while I sat in a huddle trying to

follow her and keep warm. Then as the clock struck one there came two

peremptory calls from either end of the hall,—one from Miss Errington

for Katy, and one from Jack for me. I think Katy would willingly have

sat up all night telling what _he said_, but Jack’s assertion that

unless I came at once he was coming for me, broke up the conference,

until after breakfast, when Carl came to be congratulated and accepted

as Katy’s promised husband.

CHAPTER VIII.—ANNIE’S STORY CONTINUED.

CONCLUSION.

It was a happy winter we spent in Florence and Rome and Sorrento, going

in the early spring to Venice and the Lakes, and later on to Paris. Here

there were four delightful weeks, and I wanted to stay longer, but Carl

hurried us on to London, where he was to be married. We all urged him to

wait until we were home at The Elms, but he said No,—he had waited long

enough; and so one morning in early June there was a very quiet wedding

in —— church, with only a few personal friends present, and Katy was

Mrs. Carl Haverleigh. There was a wedding breakfast at the Grand, where

we were stopping, and where on our return from church we found a letter

and package from Julina,—now the Countess de Varré! Fortune had favored

her again. The brother-in-law had died and left her a good share of the

money he had taken from her. The chateau at Passy was hers once more,

where she was living with the Count and very happy, as a titled lady.

Accompanying her letter was an individual tea set of exquisite china,

with gold lined spoons and sugar tongs and silver tray,—her wedding gift

to Katy and Carl conjointly, with a hope that sometimes when they were

using it they would think of one who was not so bad as to American eyes

she might seem to be. Katy was pleased, but Carl did not express

himself, and I do not think he has ever yet taken a cup of tea from the

pretty set which stands on Katy’s little tea-table in Boston and is

greatly admired.

It was the middle of July when we reached New York and found Fanny

waiting for us on the dock, and insisting upon our going with her to the

cottage she had rented at Newport. It was too hot for either Virginia or

Washington, she said, and she carried her point so far as Carl and Katy

and Miss Errington were concerned. Jack said he must go home to his

business, and I, of course, went with him, taking Paul, who was

beginning to droop with travel and excitement. It was a lovely summer

day when we drove up the avenue to our home, where Phyllis and many of

our neighbors greeted us with a warmth which told us that nowhere in the

world were there truer friends than in Lovering.

“And nowhere so pleasant a home,” I said, as I went all over the house,

happy as a child to be back again among the Virginia hills with her blue

sky over my head and the breath of the woods and pines upon my cheek.

It was better than Newport, where Katy was a great belle and where Fan

had more than one offer of marriage, which she promptly declined. She

was on the best of terms with her sister-in-law, and when the season was

over the two went together to the house in Washington. Carl and Katy

came to us and staid all through the autumn and were joined at

Thanksgiving by Fan and Miss Errington. What a day that was,—and dinner,

too, which Phyllis thought she superintended, although the real head was

Norah, who had come with Katy, but who for once was careful of the old

negress’ feelings and humored her fancies.

Towards the close of dinner Katy said, “We have no wine, but water will

do as well. Let us drink to the health of the Countess de Varré.”

“Good,” Carl said, and we drank to her health and amused ourselves with

reminiscences of her when she was Julina Smith and served us as our

maid.

Phyllis had received the news of her advancement with a snort and a

dangerous topple of her turban. She had never liked the girl, and when,

as she chanced to be in the room, we drank her health, she exclaimed,

“Oh, my Lord, my Lord! Ef I couldn’t drink suffin better’n July, I’d go

dry a spell.”

It is many years since that day and many more since most of the

incidents of this story took place. Jack and I are quite old people now,

or the younger generation think us so. I am forty-seven, and have a

double chin. Jack calls me a roly-poly, while a boy, who stands six feet

and has eyes like Jack, says I waddle like a duck when I walk, but am

the sweetest and jolliest little mother in the world. Jack is

fifty-three and getting grey and stout, and is a fine type of the

well-conditioned southern gentleman,—not too much pressed with business,

but still with enough to do. He has been to Congress twice and there is

talk of sending him as a State Senator next year. One winter we took a

house in Washington, and I staid there with Jack and saw all I ever care

to see of fashionable society. Fanny was on the top wave, and as Katy

was with us a part of the time we were made much of and went

everywhere,—sometimes to three different places in one night, and by the

close of the long term I was quite worn out and glad to get back to the

old home under The Elms, with only Phyllis and a bright mulatto girl to

look after instead of the crew I had in Washington, who stole my

handkerchiefs and collars and Jack’s socks and wore my black silk dress

to one of their carousals, and who always hoped to die if they had done

anything of the sort when charged with the offense.

The tall boy, with eyes like Jack, is our first-born,—our son Hathern,

who is nearly seventeen, and preparing for Yale. My choice is for some

other college, but only Yale will suit him and we have yielded, his

father telling him, however, that if he thought to join in all the

sports which have sometimes made the students of Yale a by-word as well

as a terror to the towns they visited, he would be mistaken, as he had

no money to spend that way,—“and without money,” he added, “you can’t be

_in it_.”

Hathern, who is a splendid specimen of young manhood and fond of

athletic sports of all kinds, looked rather blue until Fan came from

Washington and he took her for a drive. That night he confided to his

sisters that aunt Fan was a brick! That he intended to stand well in all

his classes and with his teachers and to be graduated with honor, and

never drink a drop of anything stronger than water, _but_—he was also

going to be _in it_; and with the enthusiasm of a girlhood which sees

more to admire in an athlete than in a student, the sisters agreed that

Aunt Fan _was_ a brick,—that the cold water and standing well in classes

and graduating with honor was all right, but the athletics were more

fun, and it was worth some knocks and scratches and bruises, and even a

broken bone now and then, to be _in it_.

These girls, who are fourteen, are twins, named Fan and Ann, and very

much like the originals, except that Fan is not quite as handsome or as

tall as her aunt, and Ann is taller and handsomer than her mother.

Otherwise, they are much like the girls introduced in the first chapter

of this story, and often, when I see them flitting through the house and

grounds, doing the things Fan and I used to do,—saying the things we

used to say, in voices much like ours,—the years of my life roll back

and I am young as they are, with as little care or thought for the

future. Then Jack comes in and calls me Annie-mother, a name he resumed

the day he brought Hathern to me and said, “Would you like to see our

boy?” and I am myself again,—a matron-mother of forty-seven, but feeling

scarcely older than when I was a girl like my Fan and Ann.

Fanny, as I call her now, to distinguish her from my daughter, is a

beautiful woman still, and she knows it and the world knows it, and had

she chosen she might have married a General or a Judge or an

ex-Governor, or have used her large fortune to build up the impoverished

estate of an Englishman with a title. But she would have none of them.

“I am very happy as I am,” she says, and I think she is. She is more

quiet and dignified than she used to be and strangers call her proud.

But to me she is the same Fan as ever,—a part of myself,—while to Jack I

think she is really a sister whom he honors and consults in some matters

more than he does me. She comes and goes as she pleases. Is sometimes in

Washington,—sometimes in Newport, sometimes in Florida, where the

Hathern villa is a reality, sometimes at The Plateau,—and once she spent

eighteen months in Europe with Paul, whom, in a way, she has adopted. He

is now twenty-seven, with a refined, delicate face and an air of languor

about him caused by his weak back, which has always troubled him more or

less. He is a graduate of Yale, and when Hathern decided to go there he

began to question him as to what he did, but soon gave it up, saying

Paul was no good. He didn’t know about anything but rules and books and

professors and wasn’t _in it_ at all! When he chooses he stops with us,

or with Katy, but is most with Fanny, who needs him more than we do.

“Our room” at The Plateau has been given to him and fitted up as a kind

of study, or den, where he spends a great deal of his time with his

books. He is something of a scientist and goes into every _ism_ and

_ology_ and _osophy_ of the day. Just now he has taken up microbes and

is studying their habits, if they have any, and he writes long articles

for Reviews, in which he tries to interest Fan and Hathern and the

twins, and sometimes myself, but generally fails, as they are too deep

for us.

There is one, however, who always listens and applauds, although it is

doubtful whether he understands a word, and that is Sam Slayton, Fan’s

factotum, who takes care of The Plateau when she is there and takes care

of it when she is not, and makes more at it than he did in his grocery.

He has never married again, but every year he goes to Vermont to visit

Mirandy’s grave and mourn. During the mourning he wears a tall hat with

a band of crape around it, and on his return to The Plateau puts it away

carefully until the period comes again. As it is the hat he wore on his

wedding trip it is somewhat out of date, but he does not mind it and

felt greatly insulted when last winter some one wanted to borrow it for

Uriah Heep to wear at a Dickens Carnival given for the Y. M. C. A.’s in

Lovering.

Miss Errington is often with us. The twins call her Aunt Cornie, and

think almost as much of her as of their stately Aunt Fanny. Some

meddling person has told them of that chapter in Fan’s life and their

father’s which was almost a tragedy and I do not think they have quite

forgiven her for her part in it, although each has said to me that she

would rather have me for her mother than Auntie Fan, who is so grand and

cold. Fan has made her will and left her money to Paul and my children,

with a proviso for Katy’s should any be born to her. As yet Carl and

Katy are childless, but very, very happy with each other. They travel a

great deal and when at home their handsome new house on Commonwealth

Avenue in Boston is usually filled with guests and Katy makes a charming

hostess and Carl a delightful host. In most respects he is the same

genial, handsome Carl we knew as a boy, with something about him which

makes everyone his friend. He still admires a pretty face when he sees

it, and discusses its points with Katy, but always winds up by saying,

“But by Jove, she can’t hold a candle to you, the most beautiful woman I

ever saw, and the older you grow the handsomer you are.”

I think Carl is right, and that, if possible, Katy is lovelier in her

maturity than when she was a girl. Paul worships her; Hathern worships

her; the twins worship her; we all worship her, and yet she is not

spoiled. She was a sweet, unselfish, loving child, and is a loving,

unselfish woman. If she has ever regretted the Career she gave up for

Carl, she has made no sign, and seems to find her greatest happiness

with him. Occasionally, when she is in Lovering she sings in our pretty

Concert Hall and everybody comes to hear her, but never have I heard her

sing as she sang at Monte Carlo, or seen upon her face the expression I

saw there after she knew Carl was in the audience listening to her. Now,

when she sings in Lovering he is to all intents and purposes stage

manager, adjusting the lights and the piano, and the curtain, and then

sitting behind the scenes and applauding her with the rest. Once when

she seemed to have excelled herself and the hall rang like the salon in

Monte Carlo, he said to her after it was over, “Upon my soul, Katy, I

believe you’d have made your mark if you had gone on with your Career.

How would you like to begin it now?”

For an instant there was a look on Katy’s face which made me think of a

war-horse scenting the battle. Then it faded and she shook her head

saying, “Too late, my voice will crack pretty soon,—or _wobble_ as

Hathern says old Mrs. Mosier’s does when she tries to sing high. I am

content as I am and perfectly happy with you.” What answer Carl made I

do not know, for I discreetly left the room just as he took her in his

arms. Carl is rather demonstrative, and the twins say that if Katy could

have been squeezed and kissed to death she would have died long ago.

Norah runs the house in Commonwealth Avenue and runs Carl and Katy, too;

but as she allows them a good many privileges, and is wholly faithful to

their interests, they do not mind it, and in most matters let her have

her way.

Phyllis is very old,—how old she does not know,—but she is wholly

disabled from taking charge of the kitchen, where a younger woman is

installed as cook, with Phyllis as nominal superintendent. Only in this

way can I hope for peace. The instructions which Norah left so many

years ago have been found and tacked up over the sink, and are held up

as iron rules to the patient, much enduring Sarah, who says, “I ’specs

we mus’ let the ole woman have her way, or think she has it; but, Lord

bless you, I has to cheat her. I can read writin’ an’ she can’t, an’ I

reads it wrong a heap o’times, an’ when she gits too high I done tell

her I’m follerin’ Norah O’Rock’s ’structions, an’ she comes down like a

lam’. I knows how to manage her.”

The house under The Elms has been enlarged and improved and is, I think,

an ideal country home, although Hathern and the twins would like a

square hall and a tower and many projections here and there, and

porcelain bath-tubs and electric lights,—and a big fortune to keep it

all up, their father says, his solid sense always coming to the front

when the young blood gets rampant. Hathern has his horse and wheel, and

the twins have each her riding pony,—presents from Fan, who usually

gives them what they want, if it is feasible and proper. Black Beauty

died years ago and was buried in the woods behind The Plateau, with Fan

and Paul as mourners.

And now the story winds to a close. It was commenced in June, the month

of roses, when the south wind blew softly through the doors of the wide

hall, and on the lawn outside there was the sound of young voices in the

tennis court, where Paul and Hathern and the twins were playing. Jack

was away on business, and Phyllis was sitting under the dogwood tree

watching the play and sympathizing equally with both sides. She is

sitting there now asleep in the sunshine, but the tennis court is silent

and the twins’ ponies and Hathern’s horse stand in the lane with their

noses on the gate looking towards the house as if asking why they are

not taking their usual canter through the woods or over the smooth

turnpike. Jack is again away on business as he was a year ago, and I am

alone, for Fanny and Carl and Katy, who are here, have gone with the

young people to the town hall, which is filled with flowers and ferns

and evergreens. It is Memorial Day, when, north and south, east and

west, the graves of our soldiers will be decorated by the loving hands

of many who were not born until after the war and to whom that time is

only a dark page of history nearly blotted out.

Others there are, however, whose hearts will ache with the old pain as

they think of the loved ones who, whether their cause were right or

wrong, gave their lives for it and died on the battlefield. Boxes of

rare flowers, ordered by Fanny, have come from Washington, and few

graves will be more beautiful than the two where Charlie and The Boy are

lying. Hathern and the twins have taken the Stars and Stripes and the

Stars and Bars from the faded uniforms of grey and blue, where they have

hung so long, and carried them to the little cemetery across the field.

From where I sit I can see them side by side waving in the breeze and

occasionally touching each other as if in friendly greeting. Through the

open doors of the wide hall where I am writing the wind blows in and the

wind blows out as it did a year ago, breathing of peace in the land. In

the distance I hear the sound of martial music, and know that the

procession has formed and will soon be marching down the street, and I

wonder if I shall have time to finish my story before it passes The

Elms. With the first beat of the drum Phyllis rouses from her sleep

under the dogwood tree, and coming to me says, “It seems mighty like de

wah, but thank God dat is over and gone.”

The procession is in sight. Hathern is carrying the tattered flag, and

Paul is walking by his side, laden with flowers. They have stopped

opposite the hillside cemetery. They are decorating the graves of

Charlie and The Boy. My eyes are full of tears, and I cannot write any

more.

THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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Hammer and Anvil Do. 1 50

Her Friend Laurence Do. 1 50

Mignonnette—By Sangrée 1 00

Jessica—By Mrs. W. H. White 1 50

Women of To-day Do. 1 50

The Baroness—Joaquin Miller 1 50

One Fair Woman Do. 1 50

The Burnhams—Mrs. G E. Stewart 2 00

Eugene Ridgewood—Paul James 1 50

Braxton’s Bar—R. M. Daggett 1 50

Miss Beck—By Tilbury Holt 1 50

A Wayward Life 1 00

Winning Winds—Emerson 1 50

The Fallen Pillar Saint—Best 1 25

An Errand Girl—Johnson 1 50

Ask Her, Man! Ask Her! 1 50

Hidden Power—T. H. Tibbles 1 50

Parson Thorne—E. M. Buckingham 1 50

Errors—By Ruth Carter 1 50

The Abbess of Jouarre—Renan 1 00

Bulwer’s Letters to His Wife 2 00

Sense—A serious book. Pomeroy 1 50

Gold Dust Do. 1 50

Our Saturday Nights Do. 1 50

Nonsense—A comic book Do. 1 50

Brick-dust. Do. Do. 50

Home Harmonies Do. 1 50

Vesta Vane—By L. King, R. 1 50

Kimball’s Novels—6 vols. Per vol. 1 00

Warwick—M. T. Walworth 1 50

Hotspur Do. 1 50

Lulu Do. 1 50

Stormcliff Do. 1 50

Delaplaine Do. 1 50

Beverly. Do. 1 50

Zahara. Do. 1 50

Led Astray—By Octave Feuillet 50

The Darling of an Empire 1 50

Clip Her Wing, or Let Her Soar 1 50

Nina’s Peril—By Mrs. Miller 1 50

Marguerite’s Journal—For Girls 1 50

Orpheus C. Kerr—Four vols. in one 2 00

Spell-Bound—Alexander Dumas 75

Purple and Fine Linen—Fawcett 1 50

Pauline’s Trial—L. D. Courtney 1 50

Tancredi—Dr. E A. Wood 1 50

Measure for Measure—Stanley 1 50

A Marvelous Coincidence 50

Two Men of the World—Bates 50

A God of Gotham—Bascom 50

Congressman John—MacCarthy 50

So Runs the World Away 50

The Bravest 500 of ’61 3 50

Heart Hungry—Mrs. Westmoreland 1 50

Clifford Troupe. Do. 50

Price of a Life—R. F. Sturgis 1 50

Marston Hall—L. Ella Byrd 1 50

Conquered—By a New Author 1 50

Tales from the Popular Operas 1 50

The Fall of Kilman Kon 1 50

San Miniato—Mrs. C. V. Hamilton 50

All for Her—A Tale of New York 1 50

L’Assommoir—Zola’s great novel 1 00

Mrs. Mary J. Holmes’ Works.

TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE.

ENGLISH ORPHANS.

HOMESTEAD ON HILLSIDE.

’LENA RIVERS.

MEADOW BROOK.

DORA DEANE.

COUSIN MAUDE.

MARIAN GREY.

EDITH LYLE.

DAISY THORNTON.

CHATEAU D’OR.

QUEENIE HETHERTON.

BESSIE’S FORTUNE.

MARGUERITE. (_New._)

DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.

HUGH WORTHINGTON.

CAMERON PRIDE.

ROSE MATHER.

ETHELYN’S MISTAKE

MILBANK.

EDNA BROWNING.

WEST LAWN.

MILDRED.

FOREST HOUSE.

MADELINE.

CHRISTMAS STORIES.

GRETCHEN.

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

“Mrs. Holmes’ stories are universally read. Her admirers are numberless.

She is in many respects without a rival in the world of fiction. Her

characters are always life-like, and she makes them talk and act like

human beings, subject to the same emotions, swayed by the same passions,

and actuated by the same motives which are common among men and women of

every-day existence. Mrs. Holmes is very happy in portraying domestic

life. Old and young peruse her stories with great delight, for she

writes in a style that all can comprehend.”—_New York Weekly._

=The North American Review=, vol. 81, page 557, says of Mrs. Mary J.

Holmes’ novel “English Orphans”:—“With this novel of Mrs. Holmes’ we

have been charmed, and so have a pretty numerous circle of

discriminating readers to whom we have lent it. The characterization is

exquisite, especially so far as concerns rural and village life, of

which there are some pictures that deserve to be hung up in perpetual

memory of types of humanity fast becoming extinct. The dialogues are

generally brief, pointed, and appropriate. The plot seems simple, so

easily and naturally is it developed and consummated. Moreover, the

story thus gracefully constructed and written, inculcates without

obtruding, not only pure Christian morality in general, but, with

especial point and power, the dependence of true success on character,

and of true respectability on merit.”

“Mrs. Holmes’ stories are all of a domestic character, and their

interest, therefore, is not so intense as if they were more highly

seasoned with sensationalism, but it is of a healthy and abiding

character. The interest in her tales begins at once, and is maintained

to the close. Her sentiments are so sound, her sympathies so warm and

ready, and her knowledge of manners, character, and the varied incidents

of ordinary life is so thorough, that she would find it difficult to

write any other than an excellent tale if she were to try it.”—_Boston

Banner._

☞ The volumes are all handsomely printed and bound in cloth, sold

everywhere, and sent by mail, _postage free_, on receipt of price [$1.50

each].

[Illustration: logo]

G. W. DILLINGHAM, Publisher,

_Successor to G. W. CARLETON & CO._,

33 W. 23D ST., NEW YORK.

AUGUSTA J. EVANS’

MAGNIFICENT NOVELS.

BEULAH, $1.75

ST. ELMO, 2.00

INEZ, 1.75

MACARIA, 1.75

VASHTI, 2.00

INFELICE, 2.00

AT THE MERCY OF TIBERIUS, 2.00

A Prominent Critic says of these Novels:

“The author’s style is beautiful, chaste, and elegant. Her ideals are

clothed in the most fascinating imagery, and her power of delineating

character is truly remarkable. One of the marked and striking

characteristics of each and all her works is the purity of sentiment

which pervades every line, every page, and every chapter.”

* * * * *

All handsomely printed and bound in cloth, sold everywhere, and sent by

mail, postage free, on receipt of price, by

[Illustration: logo]

G. W. DILLINGHAM, PUBLISHER,

33 West 23rd Street, New York.

MAY AGNES FLEMING’S

Popular Novels.

[Illustration: logo]

The following is a list of the Novels by the Author of “GUY EARLSCOURT’S

WIFE.”

SILENT AND TRUE.

A WONDERFUL WOMAN.

A TERRIBLE SECRET.

NORINE’S REVENGE.

A MAD MARRIAGE.

ONE NIGHT’S MYSTERY.

KATE DANTON.

GUY EARLSCOURT’S WIFE.

HEIR OF CHARLTON.

CARRIED BY STORM.

LOST FOR A WOMAN.

A WIFE’S TRAGEDY.

A CHANGED HEART.

PRIDE AND PASSION.

SHARING HER CRIME.

A WRONGED WIFE.

MAUDE PERCY’S SECRET.

THE ACTRESS’ DAUGHTER.

THE QUEEN OF THE ISLE (New).

These vols. can be had at any bookstore in the cloth bound library

edition. Price $1.50.

“Mrs. Fleming’s stories are growing more and more popular every day. The

delineations of character, life-like conversations, flashes of wit,

constantly varying scenes, and deeply interesting plots, combine to

place their author in the very first rank of Modern Novelists.”

MARION HARLAND’S

SPLENDID NOVELS.

The following is a list of the Novels by the Author of

“ALONE.”

Alone.

Hidden Path.

Moss Side.

Nemesis.

Miriam.

Sunny Bank.

Ruby’s Husband.

At Last.

My Little Love.

Phemie’s Temptation.

The Empty Heart.

From My Youth Up.

Helen Gardner.

Husbands and Homes.

Jessamine.

True as Steel.

These vols. can be had at any bookstore in the clothbound library

edition. Price, $1.50.

* * * * *

“It is a strong proof of Marion Harland’s ability, that she has been

able, for such a length of time, to retain her hold upon the public.

The secret of her success is that her books are truly

excellent.”—_Phila. Times._

“Marion Harland understands the art of constructing a plot which will

gain the attention of the reader at the beginning, and keep up the

interest unbroken to the last page.”—_Phila. Telegram._

“Marion Harland is very popular because she is natural and chaste. She

is welcome to the home circle because she is imbued with the holiest

principles. She arranges her plots with great skill, and developes

them with language commendable for purity and earnestness of

expression.”—_Lockport Union._

“As a writer of fiction, Marion Harland has attained a wide and

well-earned reputation. Her novels are of surpassing excellence and

interest.”—_Home Journal._

* * * * *

All handsomely printed and bound in cloth, sold everywhere, and sent by

mail, postage free, on receipt of price ($1.50), by

[Illustration: logo]

G. W. DILLINGHAM, PUBLISHER,

33 West 23rd Street, New York.

POPULAR & NEW BOOKS.

_“NEW YORK WEEKLY” SERIES._

Messrs. Street & Smith, publishers of _The New York Weekly_, having been

requested by their readers to issue some of their best and most popular

Stories in Book Form, have consented, and have now made arrangements for

such publications with the well-known New York House of

G. W. DILLINGHAM, Publisher.

_The volumes already published are as follows_:

=Thrown on the World.=—A Novel, by BERTHA M. CLAY.

=Peerless Cathleen.=—A Novel, by CORA AGNEW.

=Faithful Margaret.=—A Novel, by ANNIE ASHMORE.

=Nick Whiffles.=—A Novel, by DR. J. H. ROBINSON.

=Lady Leonora.=—A Novel, by CARRIE CONKLIN.

=Charity Grinder Papers.=—By MARY KYLE DALLAS.

=A Bitter Atonement.=—A Novel, by BERTHA M. CLAY.

=A Wife’s Tragedy=—A Novel, by MAY AGNES FLEMING.

=Curse of Everleigh.=—By HELEN CORWIN PIERCE.

=Love Works Wonders.=—A Novel, by BERTHA M. CLAY.

=Evelyn’s Folly.=—A Novel, by BERTHA M. CLAY.

=A Changed Heart=—A Novel, by MAY AGNES FLEMING.

=Lady Damer’s Secret.=—A Novel, by BERTHA M. CLAY.

=A Woman’s Temptation.=—A Novel, by BERTHA M. CLAY.

=Brownie’s Triumph.=—A Novel, by Mrs. GEORGIE SHELDON.

=A Wronged Wife=—A Novel, by MAY AGNES FLEMING.

=Pride and Passion=—A Novel, by MAY AGNES FLEMING.

=Repented at Leisure=—A Novel, by BERTHA M. CLAY.

=Forsaken Bride.=—A Novel, by Mrs. GEORGIE SHELDON.

=Between Two Loves=—A Novel, by BERTHA M. CLAY.

=His Other Wife.=—A Novel, by ROSE ASHLEIGH.

=Earle Wayne’s Nobility.=—By Mrs. GEORGIE SHELDON.

=A Struggle For a Ring.=—A Novel, by BERTHA M. CLAY.

=Lost—A Pearle.=—By Mrs. GEORGIE SHELDON.

=Maude Percy’s Secret=—A Novel, by MAY AGNES FLEMING.

=The Actress’ Daughter= (New)—A Novel, by MAY AGNES FLEMING.

=Young Mrs. Charnleigh.=—A Novel, by T. W. HANSHEW.

=Earl’s Atonement.=—A Novel, by BERTHA M. CLAY.

=Put Asunder.=—A Novel, by BERTHA M. CLAY.

=A Woman’s Web.=—By ROSE ASHLEIGH.

=Beyond Pardon=—A Novel, by BERTHA M. CLAY.

=Stella Rosevelt.=—A Novel, by Mrs. GEORGIE SHELDON.

☞ Sold by Booksellers everywhere—and sent by mail, _postage free_, on

receipt of price, $1.50 each, by

[Illustration: logo]

G. W. DILLINGHAM, Publisher.

(SUCCESSOR TO G. W. CARLETON & CO.)

33 West Twenty-third St., New York.

_G. W. DILLINGHAM’S PUBLICATIONS._

Captain Mayne Reid’s Works.

The Scalp Hunters $1 50

The Rifle Rangers 1 50

The War Trail 1 50

The Wood Rangers 1 50

The Wild Huntress 1 50

The Headless Horseman 1 50

The Rangers and Regulators 1 50

The White Chief 1 50

The Tiger Hunter 1 50

The Hunter’s Feast 1 50

Wild Life 1 50

Osceola, the Seminole 1 50

The White Gauntlet 1 50

Lost Leonore 1 50

Popular Hand-Books.

The Habits of Good Society—The nice points of taste and good

manners $1 00

The Art of Conversation—For those who wish to be agreeable

talkers 1 00

The Arts of Writing, Reading and Speaking—For Self-Improvement 1 00

Carleton’s Hand-Book of Popular Quotations 1 50

Blunders in Educated Circles Corrected—Bowden 75

1000 Legal Don’ts—By Ingersoll Lockwood 75

600 Medical Don’ts—By Ferd. C. Valentine, M.D. 75

Josh Billings.

His Complete Writings—With Biography, Steel Portrait and 100

Illustrations $2 00

Annie Edwardes’ Novels.

Stephen Lawrence $1 50

Susan Fielding 1 50

A Woman of Fashion 1 50

Archie Lovell 1 50

=Albert Ross’ Novels.= (Paper Covers.)

Thou Shalt Not $0 50

Speaking of Ellen 50

Her Husband’s Friend 50

The Garston Bigamy 50

Thy Neighbor’s Wife 50

Young Miss Giddy 50

Out of Wedlock. (New.) 50

His Private Character 50

In Stella’s Shadow 50

Moulding a Maiden 50

Why I’m Single 50

An Original Sinner 50

Love at Seventy 50

Artemas Ward.

Complete Comic Writings—With Biography, Portrait and 50

Illustrations $1 50

John Esten Cook’s Novels.

Surry of Eagle’s Nest $1 50

Fairfax 1 50

Hilt to Hilt 1 50

Beatrice Hallam 1 50

Leather and Silk 1 50

Miss Bonnybel 1 50

Out of the Foam 1 50

Out of the Foam 1 50

Hammer and Rapier 1 50

Mohun 1 50

Captain Ralph 1 50

Col. Ross of Piedmont 1 50

Robert E. Lee 1 50

Stonewall Jackson 1 50

Miscellaneous Works.

On the Chafing Dish—By Harriet P. Bailey $0 50

New Things To Eat and How To Make Them 50

Philosophers and Actresses—By Houssaye. Steel Portraits, 2 vols. 4 00

Men and Women of 18th Century—By Houssaye. Steel Portraits, 2

vols. 4 00

Fifty Years among Authors, Books and Publishers—By J. C. Derby. 8

vo. 5 00

Children’s Fairy Geography—With hundreds of beautiful

illustrations 1 00

An Exile’s Romance—By Arthur Louis 1 50

Laus Veneris, and other Poems—By Algernon Charles Swinburne 1 50

Hawk-eye Sketches—Comic book by “Burlington Hawk-eye Man.”

Do. 1 50

The Culprit Fay—Joseph Rodman Drake’s Poem. With 100

illustrations 2 00

Love [L’Amour]—English Translation from Michelet’s famous French

work 1 50

Woman [La Femme]—The Sequel to “L’Amour.” Do. Do. 1 50

Verdant Green—A racy English college story. With 200 comic

illustrations 1 50

For the Sins of his Youth—By Mrs. Jane Kavanagh 1 50

Mal Moulée—A splendid novel, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox 1 00

Birds of a Feather Flock Together—By Edward A. Sothern, the actor 1 50

O’er Rail and Cross-ties with Gripsack—By Geo. L. Marshall 1 50

Legends of the Centures—By Victor Hugo 1 50

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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_.