Among them was Major Katschuka; in the crowd on the narrow steps he came

in contact with Timea and--with Athalie. When they came up again,

Athalie threw herself on the bier and prayed to be buried too: luckily

Herr Johann Fabula was there, and he raised the beautiful lady from the

ground, bore her back in his arms to the daylight, and explained to the

astonished crowd how much the young lady had loved the dear deceased,

who had been a second father to her.

After the lapse of a few months a splendid monument was erected on which

might be read this inscription in letters of gold:--

HERE LIES THE HIGH AND NOBLE LORD, MICHAEL TIMAR

LEVETINCZY.

Privy Councilor, President of Committees, Knight of the

Orders of St. Stephen, St. Maurice, and the Annunciata.

The great Patriot, the True Christian, the Exemplary

Husband, the Father of the Poor, Guardian of the

Orphan, Supporter of Schools, a Pillar of the Church.

Regretted by all who knew him, eternally mourned by his

FAITHFUL WIFE TIMEA.

On the granite pedestal stands a marble statue of a woman bearing a

funeral urn. Every one says this statue is a faithful likeness of Timea.

And Timea goes every day to the burial-ground to deck the grass with

fresh wreaths, and to water the flowers which smell so sweetly within

the railings of the tomb: she waters them with showers of cold

water--and burning tears.

* * * * *

Theodor Krisstyan could never have dreamed that he would be so highly

honored after his death.

CHAPTER VIII.

DODI'S LETTER.

A year and a half passed away since Michael came home to the ownerless

island. He had not left it for a single day.

Great events had occurred during this interval. Dodi had learned to

write. What joy when the little dunce made his first attempt with chalk

on a board: the letters are dictated to him--"write _l_ and _o_, and

then pronounce them both together." He was surprised that that meant

_lo_ (Hungarian for horse), and yet he had not drawn a horse. A year

later he could address a birthday letter to his mother in beautiful

copper-plate on white paper--it was a greater achievement than

Cleopatra's Needle, covered with hieroglyphics.

When Dodi's first letter was fluttering in Noemi's hand, she said, with

a tear in her eye, to Michael, "He will write like you."

"Where have you seen my handwriting?" asked Michael, in surprise.

"In the copies you set Dodi, to begin with; and then too in the contract

by which you gave us the island. Have you forgotten?"

"Yes; it is so long ago."

"And do you not write to any one now?"

"No one."

"You have not left the island for a year and a half; have you nothing to

do now out in the world?"

"No. And I shall never have anything to do there again."

"What will become of your business then?"

"Would you like to know?"

"Yes, indeed. The thought troubles me that a clever man like you should

be shut up here in the narrow bounds of this island, and only because

you love us: if you have no other reason for staying here always except

your great love for us, it pains me."

"It is well, Noemi. I will tell you then who I was out there in the

world, what I did there, and why I stay here. You shall know all: when

you have put the boy to bed, come to me on the veranda and I will tell

you everything. You will shudder and wonder over what you will hear; but

in the end you will forgive me, as God forgave me when He sent me here."

After supper Noemi put Dodi to bed, and then came out to Michael, sat

beside him on the bench, and leaned on his breast. The full moon shone

down on them between the leaves: it was now no longer the ghostly star,

the ice-paradise of suicides, but a kind acquaintance and friend. And

then Michael told Noemi all that had befallen him out in the world.

The sudden death of the mysterious passenger, the sinking of the ship

and the concealed treasures: how he had married Timea. He described her

sorrow and her suffering; he spoke of Timea to Noemi as of a saint; and

when he described faithfully the nocturnal scene when he had watched

Timea from his hiding-place, and how the woman had defended her husband

against evil report, against her own beloved, and against her own heart,

how Noemi sobbed and how her tears flowed for Timea!

And then Michael described to her what he had suffered in the fearful

situation from which he could not free himself, having on one side the

ties of his worldly position, his riches, and Timea's fidelity; while

his love, his happiness, and every aspiration of his soul drew him in

another direction. How sweetly Noemi consoled him with her soft kisses!

. . .

When, finally, he told her of the awful night in which the adventurer

appeared at his lonely castle, of how despair had led him to the brink

of the grave, and how, as he looked down into the waves, instead of his

own face mirrored in the water, the dead face of his enemy emerged from

the depths, and God's hand suddenly closed before his eyes the opening

of the icy tomb--oh! how passionately Noemi pressed him to her breast,

as if to hold him back from falling into the grave.

"Now you know what I have left behind in the world, and what I have

found here. Can you forgive me for what you have suffered and for all my

offenses against you?" Noemi's tears and kisses replied.

The confession had lasted long: the short summer's night was over, and

it was daylight when Michael concluded the story of his life.

He was forgiven. "My guilt is obliterated," said Michael. "Timea had

recovered her freedom and her wealth. The vagabond had on my clothes and

carried my pocket-book away with him: they will bury his body as if it

were mine, and Timea is a widow. I have given you my soul, and you have

accepted it. Now all is equal."

Noemi took Michael's arm and led him into the room where the boy was

asleep. He awoke under their kisses, opened his eyes, and when he saw

that it was morning, he knelt up in his little bed, and with folded

hands offered his morning prayer: "Dear Lord, bless my good father and

my dear mother!"

"All is forgiven, Michael! . . . One angel prays for you beside your

bed, the other at your grave, that you may be happy."

Noemi dressed little Dodi, and then her eyes rested thoughtfully on

Michael. She wanted time to realize all she had heard from him, but

women have quick perceptions.

Suddenly Noemi said to her husband, "Michael, you have still one duty to

fulfill in the world."

"What duty, and to whom?"

"You owe Timea the secret that other woman revealed to you."

"What secret?"

"About the door which leads into her room from the secret passage. You

must tell her of it. Some one might get in to her when she is asleep and

alone."

"But no one knows of this secret passage except Athalie."

"Is that not enough?"

"What do you mean?"

"Michael, you little know us women. You don't know what Athalie is, but

I can guess. My tears flowed for Timea, because she is so wretched,

because she does not love you, and you are mine; but if she felt for you

what she feels for that other man, and if you spurned me for her sake,

as that man did Athalie, then may God keep me from ever seeing her

asleep and in my power!"

"Noemi, you frighten me."

"That is what women are. Did you never know it. Hasten to reveal this

secret to Timea. I want her to be happy."

Michael kissed Noemi on the brow. "You darling child! I dare not write

to Timea, for she would recognize my writing; and then she could not be

my widow, nor I your husband returned from the dead, and ascended into

the paradise of your love."

"Then I will write to her."

"No, no, no! I won't allow it. I have heaped gold and diamonds upon her,

but she shall not have a word from you; that is one of my own treasures.

I brought Noemi nothing of Timea's, and I will not give Timea anything

of Noemi's. You shall not write her a word."

"Well, then," said Noemi, smiling, "I know another who can write to

Timea. Dodi shall write the letter."

Timar burst out laughing. There was a world of humor, of child-like

simplicity, happy pride, and deep emotion in the idea. Little Dodi will

write to warn Timea of her danger. Dodi to Timea! . . . Timar smiled

with tears in his eyes. But Noemi was in earnest; she wrote the copy,

and Dodi wrote the important lines on ruled paper, without a mistake. Of

course he had no idea what he was writing. Noemi gave him a lovely

violet ink, a decoction of marsh-mallow, and sealed the letter with

white wax; and as there was no seal in the house, nor even a coin which

could serve for one, Dodi caught a pretty golden-green beetle, and

stuck it on the wax, instead of a coat of arms. The letter was given to

the fruit-dealer to take to the post.

Little Dodi's letter went off to Timea.

CHAPTER IX.

"YOU STUPID CREATURE!"

The lovely widow was in the deepest mourning. She went nowhere, and

received no visitors.

More than a year had passed since her husband's burial.

Timea had another name in the calendar--Susanna. Her first name came

from her mother, who was a Greek; but the second she had received at her

baptism. This she used when she had to sign documents, and St. Susanna's

day was considered her _fete_.

In provincial towns the _fete_-days are scrupulously kept. Relations and

friends come without invitation, as a matter of course, to visit the

person whose _fete_ it is, and meet with a hospitable reception. Some

noble families, however, have adopted the custom of sending invitations

to these family-parties, by which it is made evident that those who do

not receive cards may keep their congratulations to themselves.

There are two St. Susannas in the year. Timea chose the one whose _fete_

fell in winter, because then her husband used to be at home, and

invitations were sent out a week beforehand. Of the other name no notice

was taken. Timea was not in the calendar of Komorn, nor even in the

national Pesth calendar, and at that time there were no others in the

province; so he who wanted to know Timea's own _fete_-day must search

far and wide.

It fell in the merry month of May. At that season Herr Timar would have

been long away on his journeys; nevertheless, Timea received every May a

lovely bouquet of white roses on the day of St. Timea. Who sent it was

not stated; it came by post, packed in a box.

As long as Timar lived, Herr Katschuka had invariably received

invitations to the Sunday receptions, which he as regularly answered by

depositing his card at the door: he never came to the parties. This year

the _fete_-day party had been omitted, as the faithful Susanna was in

mourning. On the morning of the lovely May day on which Timea's

beautiful white-rose bouquet usually arrived, a servant in mourning

livery brought a letter to Katschuka. On opening the envelope the major

found a printed invitation-card inside, which bore the name, not of

Susanna, but of Timea Levetinczy, and had reference to that very day.

Herr Katschuka was puzzled. What a curious notion of Timea! To draw the

attention of all Komorn to the fact that Susanna, a good Calvinist, was

keeping the day of the Greek saint Timea, and the more because she only

sent out her invitations the same morning! It was an outrageous breach

of etiquette. Herr Katschuka felt that this time he must accept. In the

evening he took care not to be among the earliest arrivals. The time

named was half past eight; he waited till half past nine, and then went.

As he laid aside his cloak and sword in the anteroom, he asked the

servant whether many visitors had arrived. The servant said no one had

come yet. The major was startled. Probably the other guests had taken

the shortness of the invitation badly, and decided not to appear; and he

was confirmed in this idea when, on entering the saloon, he found the

chandeliers lighted and all the rooms brilliantly illuminated--a sign

that a large assembly was expected. The servant informed him that his

mistress was in the inner room.

"Who is with her?"

"She is alone. Fraulein Athalie has gone with her mamma to Herr Fabula's

house--there is a great fish-dinner there."

Herr Katschuka did not know what to think: not only were there no other

guests, but even the people of the house had left the mistress alone.

Timea awaited him in her own sitting-room.

And for this grand party, amid all this splendor, Timea was dressed

entirely in black. She celebrated her _fete_-day in mourning: amid the

radiance of the golden lusters and the silver candelabra a black

mourning-dress, which, however, was not suited to the face of its

wearer. On her lips hovered a charming smile, and a soft color lay on

her cheeks. She received her single guest most cordially. "Oh, how late

you are," she said, as she gave him her hand.

The major pressed upon it a respectful kiss. "On the contrary, I fear I

am the first."

"Not at all. All I invited have already arrived."

"Where?" asked the major, in astonishment.

"In the dining-room--they are at table, and only waiting for you." With

these words she took the arm of the wondering man, led him to the

folding-doors, and threw them open; and then, indeed, the major knew not

what to think. The dining-room was brilliantly lighted with wax candles;

a long table was spread with places for eleven, and the same number of

chairs were placed round it, but no one was there--not a single

creature. But as the major threw a glance round he began to comprehend,

and the clearer the riddle grew, the more his eyes were dimmed with

tears. Before each of nine of the places stood a white-rose bouquet

under a glass shade--the last of freshly gathered flowers; the roses of

the others were dry, faded, and yellow.

"Look, they are all there which greeted me on Timea's _fete_-day year

after year--these are my birthday guests. There are nine of them. Will

you be the tenth? Then all whom I have invited will have assembled."

The major, in speechless delight, pressed the lovely hand to his lips.

"My poor roses--"

Timea did not refuse him that privilege--possibly she would have allowed

even more; but the widow's cap stood in the way, and Timea felt it.

"Do you want me to exchange this cap for another?"

"From that day I shall begin to live again."

"Let us set apart for it my own _fete_-day, which every one knows."

"Oh, but that is so far off."

"Don't be alarmed, there is a St. Susanna in the summer; we will keep

her day."

"But that is distant too."

"It is not an eternity to wait till then. Have you not learned patience?

Remember, I want time to get used to happiness--it does not come all at

once; and we can see each other every day till then--at first for a

minute, and then for two, and then forever. Is it agreed?"

The major could not refuse, she begged so sweetly.

"And now the banquet is over," whispered Timea; "the other guests are

going to sleep, and you must go home too. But wait a moment--I will give

you back a word from your last birthday congratulations." She took from

the fresh rose-bouquet one bud, touched it hardly perceptibly with her

lips, and placed it in the major's button-hole; but he pressed the rose,

this "one word," to his lips and kissed it. . . .

When the major had gone, and looked up from the street at the windows of

the Levetinczy house, all was dark. He was the last to leave.

Timea learned gradually the art of growing used to hope and

happiness--she had a good teacher. Thenceforward, Herr Katschuka came

every day to the house; but the major did not keep to the prescribed

arithmetical progression--first one minute, then two. The wedding was

fixed for the day of St. Susanna, in August. Athalie too, it appeared,

had resigned herself to her fate. Herr Fabula's wife was dead, and she

accepted his hand; it is not unusual for a pretty girl to give herself

to a rich widower--one knows how he treats his wife, and one runs less

risk in taking him than some young dandy who has not yet sown his wild

oats. Heaven bless their union!

Timea proposed to give Athalie, as a dowry, the sum which Michael had

offered her, and which she had refused. Every one thought she was trying

to become a suitable wife for Herr Fabula. But Katschuka was not

deceived; he saw through her black heart. He knew what he had done to

Athalie, and the reckoning she had against Timea, and destiny never

leaves such a score unsettled. Have you forgotten, you lovely white

woman, that this other girl was mistress here when you came; that she

was a rich and honored bride, wooed by men and envied by women? And from

the moment when the water cast you on these shores, misfortune followed

her--she was made a beggar, brought to shame, spurned by her betrothed.

It was not your fault, but it was owing to you--you brought bad luck; it

sat on your forehead, between your meeting eyebrows, and brought the

ship to destruction, and the house in which you set foot; it ruins those

who injure you, as well as those who set you free. And you are not

afraid to sleep under the same roof with Athalie--this roof!

Since Katschuka came to the house, Athalie had controlled herself, and

treated even her mother kindly. She made tea for her which Frau Sophie

liked, especially with plenty of rum in it--she made it herself; and was

very good to the servants too, treating them also to tea, which, for the

men-servants, almost might have been called punch; they could not say

enough for her. Frau Sophie guessed the reason of all this

kindness--those servile natures always look for a reason if they receive

a favor, and repay it with suspicion.

"My daughter is currying favor with me, that I may go with her when she

marries; she knows nothing of housekeeping--she can't even make

milk-soup. That's why I am 'Dear mamma' all over the place, and get tea

every night; as if I did not know what is in my daughter Athalie's

mind!" She will soon know even more.

Athalie carried her submissiveness to servility, in the presence of

Timea and the major. Neither by look nor manner did she betray her

former claims. When he came, she opened the door with a smile, showed

him in to Timea, politely took part in the conversation, and, when she

left the room, she might be heard singing next door. She had adopted the

manners of a maid-servant.

Once Timea asked her to play a duet, on which Athalie said, modestly,

that she had forgotten her music--the only instrument she could play on

now was the chopping-board. Since the great catastrophe, Athalie only

played the piano when she knew no one could hear.

Do not your nerves shudder when this woman looks you in the face? does

not your blood run cold when she stoops to kiss your hand? when she

laces your boots, is it not as if a snake wound round your foot? and

when she fills your glass, does it not occur to you to look what may be

in it? No, no. Timea has no suspicions; she is so kind, she treats

Athalie like a sister; she has prepared a dowry of a hundred thousand

gulden, and told Athalie so. She wished to make her happy, and thought

she could console her for the loss of her first betrothed. And why

should she not think so? Athalie herself refused him. When Timar offered

her the money she said, "I will never have anything to do with the man

again, either in this world or the next." Timea did not know of the

visit Athalie had paid by night to her betrothed, when she was sent away

by him alone and rejected; and Timea did not know that a woman will give

up the man she hates to another woman, even less willingly than the one

she loves; that a woman's hate is only love turned to poison, but still

remains love. Katschuka, however, well remembered that nocturnal

meeting; and therefore he trembled for Timea, but dared not tell her so.

Only one day was wanting to the _fete_ of St. Susanna. Timea had

gradually laid aside her mourning, as if it was hard to separate from it

entirely, and as if she wished to learn gladness slowly. First she

allowed white lace at her neck; then she changed black for dark gray,

and silk for wool; then white stripes appeared in the gray; and at last

only the cap remained of the mourning for Michael Levetinczy. This also

will disappear on the _fete_-day; the beautiful Valenciennes cap of the

young wife is already made, and must be tried on.

An unlucky fit of vanity induced Timea to wait to do this till the major

arrived. For a young widow the lace cap is what the orange-blossoms are

to a girl. But the major was late because the white-rose bouquet was

late in arriving from Vienna: this was the second _fete_-day bouquet in

one year. A whole shoal of letters and notes of congratulation had

arrived for Timea, who had many acquaintances far and near. Timea had

not opened a single one; they lay in a heap in a silver basket on the

table, many of them directed by children, for Timea had a hundred and

forty god-children in the town among the orphan boys and girls. She

would have enjoyed these naive letters, but her thoughts were otherwise

occupied.

"Look what a comical one this is!" said Athalie, taking up one of the

letters; "instead of a seal, there is a beetle stuck on the wax."

"And what curious ink it is!" remarked Timea. "Put it with the

others--we will read it to-morrow."

Some secret voice whispered to Timea that she had better read it to-day.

It was Dodi's letter which was put aside.

But see, here comes the major; then all the hundred and forty

god-children and their letters were forgotten, and Timea ran to meet

him. Nine years ago the fortunate bridegroom had brought a splendid

red-rose bouquet to another bride.

And she too was present; and possibly the great mirror into which

Athalie had cast her last glance on her bridal dress was the same which

now stood there.

Timea took the lovely white bouquet from the major's hand, put it in a

splendid Sevres vase, and whispered to him, "Now I will give you

something: it will never be yours, but always mine, and yet it is a

present for you." The pretty enigma issued from its box--it was the lace

cap.

"Oh, how charming!" cried the major, taking it in his hand. "Shall I try

it on you?" The major's words died on his lips--he looked at Athalie.

Timea stood before the glass with childish pleasure, and took off her

widow's cap; then she grew grave, put it to her lips and kissed it,

while she said low and brokenly, "Poor Michael!"--and so she laid aside

the last token of her widowhood.

Herr Katschuka was holding the white cap.

"Give it me that I may try it on."

"Can I help you?"

The hair was then dressed very high, so that Timea required assistance.

"You don't know how; Athalie will be so good."

Timea spoke quite simply, but the major shuddered at the pallor which

overflowed Athalie's face at the words: he remembered how Athalie had

once said to Timea, "Come and put on my bridal veil!" And perhaps even

she had not then thought what venom lay in the words. Athalie came to

Timea to help her with the cap, which required to be fastened with pins

on both sides. Athalie's hand trembled--and she pricked Timea's head

with one of the pins.

"Oh, you stupid creature!" cried Timea, jerking her head aside.

The same words, before the same man!

Timea did not notice, but Herr Katschuka saw what a flash flew over

Athalie's face--a volcanic outburst of diabolical rage, a glow of

flaming spite, a dark cloud of purple shame; the muscles quivered as if

the face was a nest of snakes stirred up by a rod. What murderous eyes!

What compressed lips! What a bottomless depth of passion in that single

look. Timea regretted her hasty word almost before it had passed her

lips, and hastened to atone for it. "Don't be angry, dear 'Thaly; I

forgot myself," she said, turning to kiss her. "You'll forgive me--you

are not angry?"

The next moment Athalie was as humble as a maid who has done some

damage, and began in a flattering tone, "Oh, my dear pretty Timea, don't

_you_ be angry; I would not hurt your dear little head for the world.

How sweet you look in your cap, just like a fairy!" And she kissed

Timea's shoulder.

A shudder ran through the major's nerves.

CHAPTER X.

ATHALIE.

The eve of the _fete_-day was also the eve of the wedding--a night of

excitement. The bride and bridegroom were sitting together in Timea's

room--they had so much to talk about.

What do they say? Flowers only can understand flower-speech, the stars

the language of the spheres, one pillar of Memnon answers another, the

dead comprehend the Walkyrie, sleep-walkers the speech of the

moon--lovers only the language of love. And he who has ever known this

sacred emotion will not profane it, but guard it like a secret of the

confessional. Neither the wise king in his marvelous song, nor Ovid in

his love elegies, nor Hafiz in his ardent lays, nor Heine in his poems,

nor Petofi in his "Pearls of Love," can describe it--it remains one of

the secrets of eternity.

At the back of the house was a noisy company--all the household. This

had been a busy day with preparations for the morrow's feast--a culinary

campaign; the press of work had lasted till late at night: then, when

all had been roasted and iced according to orders, Frau Sophie found

time to show herself liberal. She called together her staff, and

bestowed upon them all the good things which had suffered during the

heat of the fray--for this was unavoidable: what ought to have risen had

sunk into a pancake; what ought to have jellied had melted into soup;

here a cake had stuck to the mold and would not turn out whole; there a

scrap, a cutting, a ham-bone, a piece of hare, a drumstick of pheasant

remained over. All which could not be sent up to table was left as a

rare tidbit for the servants, and they could boast of having tasted

everything before the gentry were served.

But where was Athalie?

The whispering lovers thought she was with her mother, amusing herself

in the kitchen. There, they thought she was of course with the bridal

pair, and enjoying the bliss of being a silent witness of their

happiness--or perhaps no one thought of her at all. And yet it might

have been well if some one had interrupted themselves to ask, "Where is

Athalie?"

She sat alone in the room where she had seen Timea for the first time.

The old furniture had long been replaced by new; only one embroidered

stool remained as a remembrance. Athalie was sitting on it when Timar

entered, in company with the pale maiden. There sat Katschuka, at work

on Athalie's portrait, over which, while he gazed at Timea, his pencil

drew a long line. Athalie sat alone there now. The portrait had long ago

gone to the lumber-room; but Athalie seems to see it still, and the

young lieutenant who begged her with his flattering tongue to smile a

little and not to look so haughty.

The room was dark; only the moon shone in, but it would soon go down

behind the gable of the tall church of St. Andrew.

Athalie reviewed the horrid dream called life. There were wealth, pride,

and happiness in it: flatterers had called her the prettiest girl in

Komorn, the queen, and pretended to adore her; then came a child by

chance into the house--a ridiculous creature, a lifeless shadow, a cold

doll, made to be an object of ridicule, to pass the time away by pushing

it about. And only two years later, this vagrant, this white phantom,

this reptile, was mistress of the house, and conquered hearts, turning a

shipping-clerk, by the magic of her marble face, into his master's

powerful enemy, into a millionaire, and causing the betrothed bridegroom

to be false to his troth.

What a wedding-day was that! The bride, recovering from her swoon, found

herself lying alone on the ground. And when splendor and homage were at

an end, she longed still to be loved--loved in secret and in

concealment. This too was denied her.

What a memory was that!--the path she had trodden to the house of her

former lover and back again, twice in the darkness! her vain expectation

next day! how she had counted the strokes of the clock, amidst the noise

of the auction! And he never came! Then long years of painful

dissimulation, of disguised humiliation! There was only one person who

understood her--who knew that the balm of her heart was to see her rival

share her passion, and fade away under it.

And the one man who knew to his cost what Athalie really was--the only

hinderance to Timea's happiness, the finder of the philosopher's stone

which exercises everywhere a malevolent spell--that one man finds his

death by a single false step on the ice!

And then happiness comes back to the house, and no one is miserable but

herself. In many a sleepless night the bitter cup had filled drop by

drop up to the brim; only one was wanting to make it overflow; and that

last drop was the insulting word, "You stupid creature!" To be scolded

like a maid, humbled in his presence! Athalie's limbs shook with fever.

What was now going on in the house? They were preparing for the morrow's

wedding. In the boudoir whispered the betrothed couple; from the

kitchen, even through all the doors, came the noise of the merry-making

servants.

But Athalie never heard the cheerful din: she heard only the whisper.

. . . She had something to do during the night. . . . There was no light

in the room; but the moon shone in, and gave light enough to open a box

and read the names of the poisons inside it--the unfailing drugs of an

Eastern poisoner. Athalie chose among them, and smiled to herself. What

a good jest it would be if to-morrow, at the moment of drinking some

toast, the words should die on the lips of the feasting guests! if each

saw the face of his neighbor turn yellow and green; if they all sprung

up crying for help, and began a demoniac dance, fit to make the devil

laugh; if the bride's lovely face petrified into real marble, and the

proud bridegroom made grimaces like a skull!

Ping! . . . A string gone in the piano! Athalie started so that she

dropped what she held, and her hands twitched convulsively. It was only

a string, coward! Are you so weak? She put back the poisons in her box,

leaving out only one, and that not a deadly poison, only a

sleeping-draught. The first idea had not satisfied her; that triumph

would not suffice: it would not be sufficient revenge for "You stupid

creature!" The tiger cares not for a corpse, he must have warm blood.

Some one will have to take poison, but that is only herself--a poison

not to be bought at the chemist's: it lies in the eye of St. George's

dragon. She slipped noiselessly out to go to the hiding-place whence a

view of Timea's room could be obtained. The sweet murmurs and the

caressing looks of the lovers will be the poison she must absorb in

order to be fully prepared.

The major was about to take leave, and held Timea's hand in his. Her

cheeks were so rosy! Was any more deadly poison needed? They did not

speak of love, and yet no third person had a right to listen. The

bridegroom asked questions allowed to no one else. "Do you sleep alone

here?" he asked, with tender curiosity, lifting the silken hangings of

the bed.

"Yes, since I became a widow."

"(And before too," whispered Athalie, behind the dragon.)

The bridegroom, availing himself of his privileges, pursued his

researches in the bride's room.

"Where does this door lead to?"

"Into an anteroom where my lady visitors take off their cloaks; you came

that way when you visited me the first time."

"And the other little door?"

"Oh, never mind that--it only leads to my dressing-room."

"Has it no exit?"

"None; the water comes by a pipe from the kitchen, and flows away by a

tap to the basement."

"And this third door?"

"You know that is the corridor by which you reach the principal

entrance."

"And where are the servants at night?"

"The females sleep near the kitchen, and the men in the basement. Over

my bed hang two bell-ropes, of which one goes to the women's room and

the other to the men's."

"There is no one in the adjoining room?"

"There Sister Athalie and Mamma Sophie sleep."

"Frau Sophie too?"

"Yes, to be sure. You want to know everything. To-morrow it will all be

differently arranged."

("To-morrow?")

"And do you lock the door when you go to bed?"

"Never. Why should I? All my servants love me, and are trustworthy; the

front door is barred, and I am safe here."

"Is there nowhere a secret entrance to this room?"

"Ha! ha! You seem to take my house for a mysterious Venetian palace!"

("Is it your house? Did you build it?")

"Do, to please me, lock all your doors before you go to bed."

("He seems to guess what we shall all be dreaming of to-night.")

Timea smiled, and smoothed away the frown from the bridegroom's grave

face.

"Well, then, for your sake I will lock all my doors to-night."

("See that they are secure," whispered the dragon.)

Then followed a tender embrace and a long, long kiss.

"Do you pray, my beloved?"

"No; for the good God in whom I believe watches ever."

("How if He slept to-day?")

"Forgive me, dearest Timea; skepticism does not become a woman. Her

adornment is piety; leave the rest to men. Pray to-night."

"You know I was a Moslem, and was never taught to pray."

"But now you are a Christian, and our prayers are beautiful. Take your

prayer-book to-night."

"Yes, for your sake I will learn to pray."

The major found in the book of devotion Timar had once given his wife,

the "prayer for brides."

"I will learn it by heart to-night."

"Yes, do so--do so!"

Timea read it aloud. Athalie felt a diabolical rage in her heart. The

man will be discovering the secret in the wall; he will keep Timea up

praying all night. Curses, curses on the prayer-book!

When the major left the anteroom, Athalie was already there. Timea

called from her room to light the major to the door, thinking there

would be a servant there as usual; but to-day, as we know, they were

engaged in anticipating the morrow's feast. Athalie took the candle

which stood outside, and lighted the major along the dark passage. The

happy bridegroom had no eyes for any other woman's face--he saw only

Timea, and thought it was the maid-servant who opened the door for him.

He wished to be generous, and pressed a silver thaler into Athalie's

hand; then he started as he recognized the voice.

"I kiss your hand, kind sir."

"Is it you, fraulein? A thousand pardons! I did not recognize you in the

darkness."

"No consequence, Herr Major."

"Pardon my blindness, and give me back the insulting present, I beg."

Athalie drew back with a mocking bow, hiding the hand which held the

thaler behind her. "I will give it you back to-morrow--leave it with me

till then; I have fairly earned it."

Herr Katschuka swore at his stupidity. The inexplicable load he felt on

his spirits seemed to have redoubled in weight. When he reached the

street, he felt it impossible to go home, but went toward the main guard

and said to the officer on duty, "My friend, I invite you to my wedding

to-morrow; be so good as to let me share your watch to-night--let us go

the rounds together."

In the servants' hall there was great fun. As the major had rung for the

porter when he left, the mistress was known to be alone, and her maid

went up to ask for orders. Timea thought she was the one who had shown

the major out, and told her to go to bed--she would undress herself; so

the maid went back to the others.

"If only we had a drop of punch now," said the porter, thrusting the

door-key into his pocket.

As if by magic, the door opened, and in came Fraulein Athalie, bearing a

tray of steaming glasses, which clinked cheerfully together. "Long live

our dear young lady!" cried every one. Athalie set the tray on the table

with a smile. Among the glasses stood a basin full of sugar well rubbed

over with orange rind, which made it yellow and aromatic. Frau Sophie

liked her tea made in that way, with plenty of rum and orange-sugar.

"Are you not going to join us?" she asked her daughter.

"Thanks; I had my tea with our gracious lady. My head aches, and I shall

go to bed." She wished her mother good-night, and told the servants to

go to bed in good time, as they must get up early next day. They fell

eagerly on the punch, and found it perfectly delicious. Only Frau Sophie

did not like it. When she had tasted the first spoonful, she turned up

her nose. "This tastes just like the poppy-syrup that bad nurses give

the wakeful babies at night." It was so unpleasant to her that she could

not take any more, but gave it to the cook's boy, who had never tasted

anything so good before. She said she was tired with her day's work, and

conjured the household not to oversleep themselves, and to take care no

cat got into the larder; then she said good-night, and followed Athalie.

When she entered their bedroom, Athalie was already in bed. The curtains

were drawn; she knew Athalie's way of turning her back to the room and

putting her head under the clothes. She hastened to get into bed.

But she could not get rid of the taste of that single spoonful of punch,

which spoiled her enjoyment of the whole supper. After she had put out

the light, she leaned on her elbow and looked toward the figure in the

other bed. She looked, till at last her eyes closed and she fell asleep.

Her dreams carried her back to the servants' hall. She seemed to see

them all asleep there--the coachman stretched on the long bench, the

footman with his head on the table, the groom on the ground, using an

overturned chair as a pillow, the cook on the settle, the house-maid on

the hearth, and the cook's boy under the table. Before each his empty

glass; she alone had not drunk hers. She dreamed that Athalie, with bare

feet and in her night-dress, crept up behind her and said in her ear,

"Why don't you drink your punch, dear mamma? Do you want more sugar?"

and filled the glass with sugar up to the brim. But she noticed the

repulsive smell. "I don't want it!" she said in her dream. However,

Athalie held the steaming glass to her mouth. She turned away, and

pushed the glass from her, and with that movement she upset the bottle

of water which stood on the table beside her, and all the water poured

into the bed. That thoroughly awoke her.

And still she seemed to see Athalie before her with threatening looks.

"Are you awake, Athalie?" she asked, uneasily; no answer. She listened;

the sleeper could not be heard to breathe. Sophie got up and went to

Athalie's bed; it was empty. She could not trust her eyes in the dim

twilight, and felt with her hands: no one there. "Athalie, where are

you?" she murmured, anxiously. Receiving no answer, a nameless horror

numbed her limbs. She felt blind and dumb; she could not even scream.

She listened, and then fancied she was deaf: neither inside nor out was

there the faintest sound. Where could Athalie be?

Athalie was in the secret room--she had been there a long time.

The patience of that woman, to be so long learning the prayer by heart!

At last Timea shut the book and sighed deeply. Then she took the candle

and looked to see that all the doors were locked. She looked behind the

curtains; her bridegroom's words had implanted fear in her breast, and

she looked round carefully to see if any one could get in. Then she went

to the dressing-table, took down her plaits, wound her thick hair round

and round her head, and put a net over it. She was not free from vanity,

this young creature: that her hands and arms might be white, she rubbed

them with salve and put on long gloves. Then she undressed, but before

she lay down she went behind the bed, opened a closet, and took out a

sword-hilt with a broken blade; looking tenderly at it, she pressed it

to her breast. Then she put it under her pillow; she always slept with

it there. Athalie saw it all. Timea extinguished the light, and Athalie

saw no more; she only heard the clock tick, and had the patience to

wait.

She guesses when sleep will close Timea's eyes--that is the time. A

quarter of an hour seems like an eternity; at last the clock strikes

one. The picture of St. George with his dragon (which is by no means

dead) moves aside, and Athalie comes out, barefoot, so that no sound is

heard. It is quite dark in the room--the shutters are shut and curtains

drawn; her groping hand finds Timea's pillow; she feels underneath, and

a cold object meets her hand. It is the sword-hilt. What hell-fire runs

through her veins from the cold steel! she too presses it to her heart.

She draws the edge of the blade through her lips and feels how sharp it

is. But it is too dark to see the sleeper--one can not even hear her

gentle breathing; the blow must be well aimed, and Athalie bends her

head to listen.

The sleeper moves, and sighs aloud in her dream, "Oh, my God!" Then

Athalie strikes in the direction of the sigh. But the blow was not

mortal: Timea had covered her head with her right arm, and the sword

only hit that, though the sharp steel cut through the glove and wounded

her hand. She started up and rose on her knees in the bed; then a second

blow caught her head, but the thick hair blunted it, and the sword only

cut the forehead down to the eyebrow.

Now Timea seized the blade with her left hand. "Murderer!" she screamed,

sprung out of bed, and while the sharp edge cut the inside of her left

hand, she caught the enemy with her wounded right hand by the hair. She

felt it was a woman's, and now knew who was before her.

There are critical moments in which the mind traverses a chain of

thought with lightning speed: this is Athalie; her mother is next door;

they want to murder her out of revenge and jealousy; it would be vain to

call for help, it is a struggle for life. Timea screamed no more, but

collected all her strength in order, with her wounded hand, to draw down

her enemy's head and get the murderous weapon from her.

Timea was strong, and a murderer never puts forth his full strength.

They struggled silently in the darkness, the carpet deadening their

footfalls. Suddenly a cry sounded from the next room. "Murder!" screamed

the voice of Frau Sophie: at the sound Athalie's strength gave way.

Her victim's blood streamed over her face. In the next room was heard

the sound of falling glass; through the broken window Frau Sophie's

screeching voice was heard resounding down the quiet street, "Murder,

murder!"

Athalie let go the sword in terror, and put up both hands to loosen

Timea's fingers from her hair: now she is the one attacked and she the

one alarmed. When she got her hair free, she pushed Timea away, flew to

the opening of the hiding-place, and drew the picture gently over the

entrance.

Timea tottered forward a few steps with the sword in her hand, and then

fell swooning on the carpet.

At Frau Sophie's cry, double-quick march was heard in the street--the

patrol was coming--the major was the first to reach the house. Frau

Sophie knew him and called out, "Quick, quick! they are killing Timea!"

The major tore at the bell, thundered at the door, but no one came; the

soldiers tried to burst it in, but it was too strong and would not give

way. "Wake the servants," shouted the major. Frau Sophie ran, with the

courage born of great fear, through the dark rooms and passages,

knocking up against doors and furniture, till she came to the servants'

rooms. Her dream had come true. The whole household lay asleep: a

burned-down candle flickered on the table, and threw uncanny shadows on

the grotesque group.

"There are murderers in the house!" screamed Frau Sophie, in a voice

quivering with terror; the only answer was a heavy snore. She shook some

of the sleepers, called them by name, but they only sunk back without

waking up. Blows could be heard on the house door. The porter too was

asleep, but the key was in his pocket; Frau Sophie got it out with great

difficulty, and ran through the dark passages, down the dark stairs, and

along the dark hall to open the door, while the fearful thought went

with her--how if she were to meet the murderer? and an even more

frightful doubt pursued her--suppose she should recognize that murderer?

At last she got to the door, found the key-hole, and opened it. A bright

light burst in--there was the military patrol and the town-watchmen with

their lanterns. The captain of the guard had come, and the nearest

army-surgeon, all only half dressed in the first clothes they could

find, with a pistol or a naked sword in their hand.

Herr Katschuka rushed up the steps straight to the door which led to

Timea's room--it was locked on the inside: he put his shoulder against

it and burst the lock.

Timea lay before him on the ground, covered with blood, and unconscious.

The major raised her and carried her to the bed. The surgeon examined

the wounds, and said none of them was dangerous, the lady had only

fainted. As soon as his anxiety for his beloved one was relieved, the

thirst for vengeance awoke in the major--"Where is the murderer?"

"Singular," said the officer; "all the doors were locked inside--how

could any one get in, and how could he get out?" Nowhere was there a

suspicious mark; even the instrument of murder, the broken sword, a

treasure kept by Timea herself, and generally put away in a velvet box,

lay blood-stained on the ground. The official physician now arrived:

"Let us examine the servants." They all lay sound asleep, and the doctor

found that none of them was shamming: they were all drugged. Who could

have done it?

Her mother gazed at him in silence and could not answer. She did not

know. The captain opened the door of Athalie's room, and they all went

in, Frau Sophie following half fainting; she knew the bed must be empty.

Athalie was in bed and asleep. Her white night-dress was buttoned up to

her neck, her hair fastened into an embroidered cap, her lovely hands

lay on the quilt. Face and hands were clean, and she slept.

Frau Sophie leaned stupefied against the wall when she saw Athalie. "She

too has been drugged," said the doctor.

The army-surgeon came up and felt her pulse: it was calm. No muscle

moved on her face, no quiver betrayed her consciousness.

She could deceive every one by her marvelous self-control; all but

one--the man whose beloved she had tried to murder.

"Is she really asleep?" asked the major.

"Feel her hand," said the doctor; "it is quite cool and calm."

Athalie felt the major take hold of her hand. "But just look, doctor,"

said he; "if you look closely you will see under the nails of this

beautiful hand--fresh blood!"

At these words Athalie's fingers suddenly clinched, and the major felt

as if eagle's claws were running into his hand. She laughed aloud and

threw off the bedclothes. Completely dressed, she sprung up, looked the

astonished men proudly up and down, cast a triumphant glance at the

major, and threw a contemptuous look at her mother.

The poor woman could not bear it, and sunk fainting to the ground.

CHAPTER XI.

THE LAST STAB.

In the archives of the Komorn Court, one of the most interesting trials

is that of Athalie Brazovics. The woman's defense was masterly; she

denied everything, knew how to disprove everything, and when they

thought they had caught her, she managed to throw such mystery over it

all, that her judges knew not where to have her. Why should she murder

Timea? She was herself engaged, and had good prospects, while Timea was

her benefactress, and had promised her a rich dowry.

Then, too, no traces of the murder could be found except in Timea's

room. Nowhere was a bloody rag or handkerchief to be found--not even the

ashes of anything which could have been burned. Who had drugged the

servants could not be ascertained. The household had supped together,

and among the various sweets and foreign fruits there might have been

something which stupefied them. Not a drop of the suspected punch was to

be found; even the glasses which had held it were all washed out when

the patrol entered.

Athalie maintained that she also had taken something that evening which

tasted peculiar, and that she had fallen so fast asleep that she neither

heard her mother's cry nor the noises afterward, and only awoke when the

major touched her hand. The one person who had found her bed empty half

an hour before was her own mother, who could not give evidence against

her. Her strongest point was that Timea had locked all the doors, and

was found insensible. How could a murderer get in and get out again? And

if there had been an attempt to murder, why should she be suspected more

than the rest?

The major remained with Timea till late at night; perhaps if he left,

some one might creep into the room again. They did not even know whether

the assassin was man or woman. The only one who knew, Timea, did not

betray it, but kept to her assertion that she could not remember

anything about it; her alarm had been so great that everything had faded

from her memory like a dream.

She could not accuse Athalie, and was not even confronted with her.

Timea was still crippled by her wounds, which healed slowly; but the

shock to her nerves was more serious than the bodily injury, and she

trembled for Athalie. Since that dreadful night she was never left

alone--a doctor and a nurse watched her by turns. By day the major

hardly left her side, and the magistrate often visited her in order to

cross-examine her; but as soon as Athalie was mentioned. Timea was

silent, and not another word could be extracted from her.

The doctor advised at last that she should hear some amusing reading

aloud. Timea had left her bed, and sat up to receive visitors.

Herr Katschuka proposed to open the birthday letters which had been put

aside on that eventful day. That would be as good as anything--the naive

congratulations of the god-children to the miraculously saved lady,

which no one had yet read. Timea's hands were still bandaged. Herr

Katschuka opened the letters and read them aloud. The magistrate, too,

was present. The patient's face brightened during the reading, which

seemed to do her good.

"What a curious seal this is," said the major, as he took up a letter

which had a golden beetle stuck on the wax.

"Very odd," said Timea; "I noticed it too."

The major opened it. After he had read the first line--"Gracious lady,

there is in your room a picture of St. George"--the words stuck in his

throat, his eyes rolled wildly, and while he read on, his lips turned

blue, and cold sweat stood on his brow: suddenly he threw the letter

from him, and rushed like a madman to the picture, burst it in with his

fist, and tore it and its heavy frame from the wall. There behind it

yawned the dark depths of the secret chamber.

The major dashed into the darkness, and returned in a moment with the

evidence of the murder--Athalie's bloody night-dress--in his hand. Timea

hid her face in horror. The magistrate picked up the letter, put it in

his pocket, and took possession of the proofs.

Other things were found in this hiding-place: the box of poisons, and

Athalie's diary, with the frightful confessions which threw light on her

soul's dark abysses, as the phosphoric mollusks do in the coral forests

of the sea. What monsters dwell there! Timea forgets her wounds; with

clasped hands she implores the gentlemen, the doctor, the magistrate,

and her betrothed too, to tell no one, and keep the whole thing secret.

But that would be impossible; the proofs are in the hands of justice,

and there is no longer hope for Athalie except in God's mercy. And Timea

can no longer disregard the legal summons: as soon as she can leave her

room, she must appear in court and be confronted with Athalie. This was

a cruel task. Even now she would only say that she remembered nothing

about the murderous attack.

The marriage with the major had to be hurried on, for Timea was to

appear in court as Katschuka's wife. As soon as her health allowed, the

wedding took place quite privately, without any festivity, without

guests or banquet. Only the clergyman and the witnesses, the magistrate

and the doctor, were present. No other visitors were admitted.

* * * * *

Human justice would not spare her the painful scene: once again she had

to be brought face to face with her murderess. Athalie had no dread of

this meeting, but awaited with impatience the moment when her victim

would appear. If with no other weapon, she wished by her eyes to inflict

one more stab on Timea's heart. But she started when the official

said--"Call Emerich Katschuka's wife!"

Katschuka's wife! Already married to him! But in spite of that she

showed unconcealed satisfaction when Timea entered, and Athalie saw the

face paler than ever, the red line over the marble forehead, the scar

from the murderous blow; this memento was from her. Her lovely bosom

swelled with joy when Timea was required to swear in the name of the

living God that she would answer truly, and all she said was true, and

when Timea drew off her glove and raised her hand, so that the

disfiguring scar of a frightful sword-cut was visible. That, too, was a

wedding-present from Athalie. And Timea swore with that maimed and

trembling hand that she had forgotten everything, and could not even

remember whether the murderer with whom she had struggled was a man or a

woman.

"Fool!" muttered Athalie between her teeth. (Did they not struggle hand

to hand?) "What I dared to do, you dare not even accuse me of."

"We are not asking that," said the president. "We only ask you, Did this

letter, in a child's writing, and sealed with a beetle, really come to

you by post, and on the very day of the attack? Was it then sealed, and

did no one know its contents?"

Timea answered all these questions calmly with Yes or No.

Then the president turned to Athalie--"Now listen, Athalie Brazovics, to

the contents of this letter:--

"'GRACIOUS LADY,--There is in your room a picture of

St. George on the wall. This picture covers a

hiding-place, to which the entrance lies through the

lumber-room. Have this hole walled up, and watch over

your valuable life. Long and happy may it be.

DODI.'"

And then the president raised a cloth from the table. Under it lay the

accusers of Athalie--the bloody night-dress, the box of poisons, and the

diary.

Athalie uttered a scream like a mortally wounded animal, and covered her

face with both hands, and when she took them away, that face was no

longer pale, but fiery red. She had a narrow black ribbon round her

neck; she tore it off now with her two hands, and threw it away, as if

to bare the lovely neck for the headsman, or perhaps rather to utter

more easily what now burst from her.

"Yes, it is true I tried to kill you, and I am only sorry I did not

succeed. You have been the curse of my life, you pale-faced ghost!

Through you I have incurred eternal damnation. I tried to kill you--I

owed it to myself. See now, there was enough poison to send a whole

wedding company into eternity; but I longed for your blood. You are not

dead, but my thirst is quenched, and I can die now. But before the

executioner's ax severs my head from my body, I will give your heart one

more stab, from which it will never be healed, and whose torture shall

disturb your sweetest embraces. I swear! hear me, oh, God! hear me, ye

saints and angels, and devils! all ye in heaven and earth!--be gracious

to me only so far as I speak what is true." And the raving woman sunk on

her knees, and threw up her hands, calling heaven and earth to witness.

"I swear! I swear that this secret--the secret of the hidden door--was

only known to one person besides myself, and that one was MICHAEL TIMAR

LEVETINCZY. The day after he learned this secret from me he disappeared.

If any one has told this, then MICHAEL TIMAR LEVETINCZY DID NOT DIE NEXT

DAY! He lives still, and you can look for your first husband's return.

So help me God, it is true that Timar lives! He whom we buried in his

stead was a thief who had stolen his clothes. And now live on with this

stab in your heart."

CHAPTER XII.

THE PENITENT IN "MARIA-NOSTRA."

The court sentenced Athalie to death for attempted murder. The king's

mercy commuted this sentence into imprisonment for life in the

penitentiary of "Maria-Nostra."

Athalie still lives. Forty years have passed since then, and she must be

nearly seventy years old, but her defiant spirit is unbroken; she is

obstinate, silent, and unrepentant. When the other prisoners are taken

to church on Sundays, she is locked into her cell, because it is feared

that she might disturb the devotions of the rest. Once when she was

forced to go there, she yelled out to the priest "Liar!" and spat on the

altar.

At various times during this period great acts of amnesty have been

passed, and on national festivals hundreds of prisoners have been

liberated, but this one woman was never recommended to mercy. Those who

advised her to repent in order to secure a pardon received the reply,

"As soon as I am free I will kill that woman!"

She says it still; but she whom she hates has long fallen into dust,

after suffering for many years from that last stab inflicted on her poor

sick heart.

After the words "Timar still lives," she never could be happy again:

like a cold phantom it overshadowed her joy; her husband's kisses were

forever poisoned to her. And when she felt the approach of death, she

had herself taken to Levetinczy, that she might not be placed in the

tomb where God knows who mouldered away under Timar's name. There she

sought out a quiet willow grove on the Danube shore, in the part nearest

to where her father, Ali Tschorbadschi, rested at the bottom of the

river: as near to the ownerless island as if some secret instinct drew

her there. From her grave the island rock was visible.

No blessing rested on the wealth Timar left behind him.

The only son Timea bore to her second husband was a great spendthrift:

in his hands the fabulous wealth vanished as quickly as it had grown,

and Timea's grandson lives on the pension he receives from the fund

bequeathed by Timar for the benefit of poor nobles. This is all that is

left of his gigantic property.

On the site of his Komorn palace stands another building, and the

Levetinczy tomb has been removed on account of the fortifications. Of

all the former splendor and riches not a trace remains.

* * * * *

And what is passing meanwhile on the ownerless island?

CHAPTER XIII.

NOBODY.

Since Timar's disappearance from Komorn forty years had passed. I was in

the alphabet-class when we schoolboys went to the funeral of the rich

lord, of whom people said afterward he was perhaps not dead, only

disappeared. Among the people the belief was strong that Timar lived,

and would some day reappear; possibly Athalie's words had set this idea

afloat--at any rate, public opinion was strongly in favor of it.

The features, too, of the lovely lady came before me, whom every Sunday

I admired as she sat near the organ; her seat was the nearest in the pew

to the chancel. She was so radiant with beauty and yet so gentle. I well

remember the excitement when it was reported that a companion of this

beautiful woman had tried to murder her in the night. I saw the

condemned prisoner taken to the place of execution in the headsman's

cart; it was said that she would be beheaded. She had on a gray gown

with black ribbons, and sat with her back to the driver; before her was

a priest holding a crucifix. The market-women overwhelmed her with

abuse, and spat at her; but she gazed indifferently before her, and

noticed nothing.

The people thronged round the cart; curious boys hurried in troops to

see the lovely head separated from the neck. I looked on fearfully from

a closed window--oh, dear, if she had looked at me by chance! An hour

later the crowd returned grumbling; they were disappointed that the

beautiful criminal had been respited. She had only been taken up on to

the scaffold, and there informed of the pardon.

And then after that I saw that other lovely rich lady every Sunday in

church; but now with a red mark across her forehead, and each year with

a sadder and paler face. All sorts of stories were told of her; children

heard them from their mothers, and repeated them in school.

And, finally, time swept the whole story out of people's memory.

Some years ago, an old friend of mine, a naturalist, who is celebrated

as a collector of plants and insects throughout the world, described to

me the singular district between Hungary and Turkey, which belongs to

neither State, and is not any one's private property.

On this account it offers a veritable California to the ardent

naturalist, who finds there the rarest flora and fauna. My old friend

used to visit this region every year, and stay there for weeks zealously

collecting specimens: he invited me to share his autumn expedition. I am

somewhat of a dilettante in this line, and as I had leisure, I

accompanied my friend to the Lower Danube.

He led me to the ownerless island. My learned friend had known it for

five-and-twenty years past, when it was in great part a wilderness, and

all the work in progress.

Apart from the reed-beds, which still surround and conceal the island,

it is now a complete model farm. Surrounded by a dike, it is protected

from any floods, and is intersected by canals, provided with water by a

horse-power pumping-engine.

When an enthusiastic gardener gets here, he can hardly tear himself

away; every inch of ground is utilized, or serves to beautify the place.

The tobacco grown here has the most exquisite aroma, and, when properly

treated, is a first-class product; the bee-hives look from a distance

like a small town, with one-storied houses and many-shaped roofs. The

rarest fowls are bred in one inclosure, and on the artificial lake swim

curious foreign ducks and swans. In the rich meadows graze short-horned

cows, angora goats, and llama sheep with long, soft, black hair.

It is easy to see that the owner of the island understands luxury--and

yet that owner never has a farthing to call his own; no money ever

enters the island. Those, however, who need the exports, know also the

requirements of the islanders--such as grain, clothes, tools, etc.--and

bring them for barter.

My learned friend used to bring garden seeds and eggs of rare poultry,

and received in exchange curious insects and dried plants, which he sold

to natural history collections and foreign museums, and made a good

profit out of them, for science is not only a passion but a means of

sustenance. But what surprised me most agreeably was to hear pure

Hungarian spoken by the inhabitants, which is very rare in that

neighborhood.

The whole colony consisted of one family, and each was called only

by his Christian name. The six sons of the first settler had married

women of the district, and the numbers of grandchildren and

great-grandchildren already exceeded forty, but the island maintained

them all. Poverty was unknown; they lived in luxury: each knew some

trade, and if they had been ten times as many, their labor would have

supported them. The founders of the family still superintended the work.

The male members of the family learn gardening, carpentry, coopering,

preparation of tobacco, and the breeding of cattle; among them are

cabinet-makers and millers; the women weave Turkish carpets, prepare

honey, make cheese, and distill rose-water; and all these occupations go

on so naturally that it is never necessary to give orders; each knows

his duty, fulfills it untold, and takes pleasure in its completion. The

dwellings of the ever-growing families already form a whole street; each

little house is built by division of labor, and the elders help the

newly married. Strangers who visit the island are received by the

nominal head of the family, whom the others call father. Strangers know

him under the name of Deodatus. He is a well-built man of over forty,

with handsome features; he it is who arranges the terms of barter and

shows visitors over the colony.

When we arrived Deodatus received us with the kind cordiality one

exhibits to old friends; the naturalist was a regular annual visitor.

The subjects of our discourse were pomology, horticulture, botany,

entomology, in all of which Deodatus seemed to be well versed; in

everything pertaining to gardens and cattle-breeding he had reached a

high standard. I could not conceal my surprise, and asked him where he

had learned it.

"From our father," answered Deodatus, with a sigh.

"Who is that?"

"You will see him when we assemble in the evening."

It was the time of apples. All the young people and women were busy

gathering the pretty golden-yellow, brown, and crimson fruit. It lay in

pyramids on the green turf, like cannon-balls inside a fortress. Joyous

cries resounded through the island; when the sun set, a bell gave the

signal for the holiday feast. At this signal every one hastened to fill

baskets with the remaining fruit, which was then carried into the

apple-store.

We also, with Deodatus, bent our steps to the place whence the sound

came. The bell was on the top of a small wooden building, which, as well

as its little tower, was overgrown with ivy; but one could guess by the

fantastic forms of the columns under the veranda, that the architect had

carved many a thoughtful dream and wish into his work.

Before this house was a circular space with tables and chairs; there

every one met when work was over.

"Here dwell our old people," whispered Deodatus.

They soon came out--a fine pair. The wife might be sixty, the man

eighty. The great-grandfather's face had that characteristic look which

makes you remember a good picture you have once seen, even if forty

years ago. I was quite startled: his head was nearly bald, but the

remaining hair and his beard were hardly gray, and on his firm, calm

features age seemed to have no hold. A temperate and regular life and a

cheerful disposition preserve the features unspoiled.

The great-grandmother was still an attractive woman. Her once golden

hair certainly was flecked with silver, but her eyes were still girlish,

and her cheeks blushed like a bride's when her husband kissed her.

The faces of both beamed with happiness when they saw their whole large

family round them, and they called each to them by name and kissed them.

This was their joy, their devotion, their song of praise.

Deodatus, the eldest son, was the last to embrace his parents, and then

our turn came. They shook hands with us too, and invited us to supper.

The old lady still kept the care of the cooking department in her own

hands, and she it was who provided for all the family, though each had

full liberty to sit at a separate table with any others he cared for,

and take his meal with them; but her husband sat down at a table with us

and Deodatus. A tiny golden-haired angel of a child called Noemi climbed

on his lap, and had permission to listen, wondering, to our wise talk.

When my name was mentioned to the old man he looked long at me, and a

visible color rose in his cheeks. My learned friend asked him whether he

had ever heard my name before; the old man was silent. Deodatus hastened

to say that his father had for forty years read nothing of what was

passing in the world: his whole study was books of farming and

gardening. I therefore undertook, as people do who have made a

profession of imparting what they know, to bring my wares to market, and

I told him what was going on in the world. I informed him that Hungary

was now united to Austria by the word "and."

He blew a cloud from his pipe: the smoke said, "My island has nothing to

do with that."

I told him of our heavy taxes: the smoke replied, "We have no taxes

here."

I described to him the fearful wars which had been waged in our kingdom

and all over the world: the smoke answered, "We wage war here with no

one."

There was at that time a great panic on the exchanges, the oldest firms

failed; and this too I explained to him. Only his pipe's steady puffs

seemed to say, "Thank God, we have no money here."

I described to him the bitter struggle of parties, the strife between

religion, nationalities, and ambition. The old man shook the ashes out

of his pipe--"We have neither bishops, electors, nor ministers here."

And finally, I proved to him how great our country would be when

everything we hoped for was fulfilled.

Little Noemi meanwhile had fallen asleep on her great-grandfather's lap,

and had to be carried to bed. This was more important than what I was

talking of; the sleeping child passed into the great-grandmother's arms.

When the old lady left us, the old man asked me, "Where were you born?"

I told him.

"What is your profession?"

I told him I was a romance-writer.

"What is that?"

"One who can guess by the end of a story what the whole story was from

the beginning."

"Well, then, guess my story," said he, clasping my hand. "There was once

a man who left a world in which he was admired, and created a second

world in which he was loved."

"May I venture to ask your name?"

The old man seemed to grow a head taller; then raising his trembling

hands, he laid them on my head. And at this moment it seemed to me as if

once, long, long ago, that hand had rested on my head when childish

curls covered it, and as if I had seen that noble face before.

To my question he replied, "My name is NOBODY." With that he turned away

and spoke no more, but went into his house, and did not appear again

during our stay on the island.

This is the present condition of the ownerless island. The privilege

granted by two kingdoms, that this speck of ground should be excluded

from any map, will last for fifty years more.

Fifty years! Who knows what will have become of the world by then?

THE END.

ASK FOR AMERICAN SERIES No. 335.

A Really Great American Novel.

A TALE OF THE TOWN:

OR,

PHILIP HENSON, M. D.

BY GEORGE HASTINGS.

PAPER, 25 CENTS.

PRESS CRITICISMS:

"We do not purpose to rob the story of the zest which remains for the

reading by telling here all the ingenious but reasonable complications

which beset this man, how love withers under the unseen blight, how rest

forsakes him, how success becomes a satire, and how the impervious will

sinks into impotency when beset by intangible and inscrutable forces. It

is enough to point out that in this book the author has planted his

characters upon an elemental truth, and something of the efficacy of

that truth gives a strange fascination and power to the story."--_New

York World._

"It is a cleverly wrought and highly interesting novel, constructed upon

somewhat unconventional lines. There is just enough medical science and

metaphysics in it to give it spice; there are two murders, a trial and

conviction of an innocent man on circumstantial evidence, a series of

confidential domestic scenes, and a dash of hypnotism--surely enough to

capture the fancy of the inveterate or occasional novel reader. . . . It

is a curious but entrancing novel, and once caught in its seductive

meshes the reader will find it hard to escape. Incidentally some of

Inspector Byrnes' peculiar detective methods are severely

satirized."--_The Brooklyn Standard-Union._

"It is clever in its way, but trash."--_The Buffalo Courier._

"It places the author in the foremost rank of American writers of

fiction. . . . It will live--a surpassingly clever delineation of a

strange phase of human character."--_The London Times._

"Philip Henson, M. D., by George Hastings, is indifferent and

mediocre."--_The New York Daily Continent._

"Philip Henson, M. D., is more than clever--it is masterly. In exciting

and absorbing interest this book excels the novels of Gaboriau and De

Boisgobey, and the sketches and characters are capitally drawn. For

example, Inspector Byrnes and his methods have never before been so

accurately described."--_The Spirit of the Times._

"A story quite out of the ordinary."--_The Kansas City Journal._

"Very dramatically told, and a well-conceived and thrilling

narrative."--_America._

"The plot of Philip Henson, M. D., is remarkably strong and tragic. Mr.

Hastings is a graphic writer."--_The Sacramento Record-Union._

AMERICAN SERIES.

TITLES ALPHABETICALLY ARRANGED

TWENTY-FIVE CENT SERIES.

Abbey Murder, The. Jos. Hatton.

Alas! Rhoda Broughton.

Allan Quatermain. H. Rider Haggard.

Allan's Wife. H. Rider Haggard.

All Sorts and Conditions of Men. Walter Besant and James

Rice.

American Girl in London, An. Sara Jeannette Duncan.

American Notes. Rudyard Kipling.

Amethyst. Christabel R. Coleridge.

April's Lady. The Duchess.

Aristocrat in America, An.

Armorel of Lyonesse. Walter Besant.

Artificial Fate, An. Clarence Boutelle.

Artist and Model. Rene de Pont Jest.

As In a Looking-glass. F. C. Phillips.

Auld Licht Idylls. J. M. Barrie.

Averil. Rosa Nouchette Carey.

Awakening of Mary Fenwick, The. Beatrice Whitby.

Bachelor's Blunder, A. W. E. Norris.

Baffled Conspirators, The. W. E. Norris.

Bag of Diamonds, The. G. Manville Fenn.

Bank Tragedy, The. Mary R. P. Hatch.

Baptized with a Curse. Edith Stewart Drewry.

Beaton's Bargain. Mrs. Alexander.

Beatrice. H. Rider Haggard.

Be Quick and Be Dead. Ophelia Hives.

Birch Dene. William Westall.

Black Tulip, The. Alexandre Dumas.

Blind Fate. Mrs. Alexander.

Blind Love. Wilkie Collins.

Born Coquette, A. The Duchess.

Bound by a Spell. Hugh Conway.

By Order of the Czar. Jos. Hatton.

By Woman's Wit. Mrs. Alexander.

Camille. Alexandre Dumas.

Cardinal Sin, A. Hugh Conway.

Cast Up by the Sea. Sir Samuel W. Baker.

Cleopatra. H. Rider Haggard.

Colonel Quaritch, V. C. H. Rider Haggard.

Confessions of a Woman, The. Mabel Collins.

Count of Monte-Cristo, The. Alexandre Dumas.

Courting of Dinah Shadd, The. Rudyard Kipling.

Cradled in a Storm. Theodore A. Sharp.

Crooked Path, A. Mrs. Alexander.

Daughter of Heth, A. William Black.

Daughter's Sacrifice, A. F. C. Phillips.

Dawn. H. Rider Haggard.

Dean and His Daughter, The. F. C. Phillips.

Dean's Daughter, The. Sophie F. Veitch.

Deemster, The. Hall Caine.

Demoniac, The. Walter Besant.

Derrick Vaughn, Novelist. Edna Lyall.

Diana Barrington. Mrs. John Croker.

Diary of a Pilgrimage. Jerome K. Jerome.

Dmitri. F. W. Bain, M.A.

Dodo and I. Capt. A. Haggard.

Donald Ross of Heimra. William Black.

Donovan. Edna Lyall.

Dora Thorne. Charlotte M. Braeme.

Doris's Fortune. F. Warden.

Dr. Cupid. Rhoda Broughton.

Dr. Glennie's Daughter. B. L. Farjeon.

Duchess, The. The Duchess.

Duchess of Powysland, The. Grant Allen.

Duke's Secret, The. Charlotte M. Braeme.

East Lynne. Mrs. Henry Wood.

Edmond Dantes. Alexandre Dumas.

Eric Brighteyes. H. Rider Haggard.

Evil Genius, The. Wilkie Collins.

Fair Women. Mrs. Forrester.

Fallen Idol, A. F. Anstey.

Fatal Dower, A.

Felon's Bequest, The. F. Du Boisgobey.

Fiery Ordeal, A. Bertha M. Clay.

First Violin, The. Jessie Fothergill.

Frontiersmen, The. Gustave Aimard.

Frozen Hearts. G. Webb Appleton.

Frozen Pirate, The. W. Clark Russell.

Giraldi. Ross G. Dering.

Golden Hope, The. W. Clark Russell.

Grave Between Them, The. Clarence Boutelle.

Great Mill St. Mystery, The. Adeline Sargent.

Guilderoy. Ouida.

Handy Andy. Samuel Lover.

Hardy Norseman, A. Edna Lyall.

Haunted Chamber, The. The Duchess.

Heriot's Choice. Rosa N. Carey.

Her Last Throw. The Duchess.

Herr Paulus. Walter Besant.

He Went for a Soldier. John Strange Winter.

Hidden Away. Etta W. Pierce.

Hon. Mrs. Vereker, The. The Duchess.

House Party, A. Ouida.

Hunchback of Notre Dame, The. Victor Hugo.

Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow, The. Jerome K. Jerome.

I Have Lived and Loved. Mrs. Forrester.

In the Golden Days. Edna Lyall.

In the Heart of the Storm. Maxwell Gray.

Irma. Lawrence Gordon.

Jack and Three Jills, A. F. C. Phillips.

Jane Eyre. Charlotte Bronte.

Jess. H. Rider Haggard.

Julius Courtney. J. McLaren Cobban.

Keeper of the Keys, The. F. W. Robinson.

Kidnapped. R. L. Stevenson.

"King" Arthur. Mrs. Mulock.

King Solomon's Mines. H. Rider Haggard.

Kit and Kitty. R. D. Blackmore.

Kith and Kin. Jessie Fothergill.

Knight-Errant. Edna Lyall.

Lady Audley's Secret. Miss M. E. Braddon.

Lady Beauty. Alan Muir.

Lady Walworth's Diamonds. The Duchess.

Lamplighter, The. Maria S. Cummings.

Last Love, A. Georges Ohnet.

Life Interest, A. Mrs. Alexander.

Life's Mistake, A. Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron.

Life's Remorse, A. The Duchess.

Light that Failed, The. Rudyard Kipling.

Little Irish Girl, A. The Duchess.

Little Mrs. Murray. F. C. Phillips.

Little Primrose. Wenona Gilman.

Little Rebel, A. The Duchess.

Living or Dead. Hugh Conway.

L'Ombra. From the French of

Gennevraye.

Lord Lisle's Daughter. Charlotte M. Braeme.

Lost Wife, A. Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron.

Louise de la Valliere. Alexandre Dumas.

Lover or Friend. Rosa N. Carey.

Lucky Young Woman, A. F. C. Phillips.

Madame Midas. Fergus W. Hume.

Maid, Wife, or Widow? Mrs. Alexander.

Maiwa's Revenge. H. Rider Haggard.

Man-Hunter, The. Dick Donovan.

Man in the Iron Mask, The. Alexandre Dumas.

Man Outside, The. Clarence Boutelle.

March in the Ranks, A. Jessie Fothergill.

Margaret Byng. F. C. Phillips.

Mark of Cain, The. Andrew Lang.

Marooned. W. Clark Russell.

Marriage at Sea, A. W. Clark Russell.

Marvel. The Duchess.

Mary Jane's Memoirs. George R. Sims.

Mary St. John. Rosa N. Carey.

Master of Ballantrae, The. R. L. Stevenson.

Master Rockafellar's Voyage. W. Clark Russell.

Matter of Skill, A. Beatrice Whitby.

Mayor of Casterbridge, The. Thos. Hardy.

Mere Child, A. L. B. Walford.

Merle's Crusade. Rosa N. Carey.

Merry Men, and Other Tales and Fables, The. R. L. Stevenson.

Miracle Gold. Richard Dowling.

Misadventures of John Nicholson. R. L. Stevenson.

Miss Bretherton. Mrs. Humphrey Ward.

Mistress Beatrice Cope. M. E. Le Clerc.

Modern Circe, A. The Duchess.

Mohawks. Miss M. E. Braddon.

Molly Bawn. The Duchess.

Molly's Story. Frank Merryfield.

Moment After, The. Robert Buchanan.

Mona's Choice. Mrs. Alexander.

Mr. Meeson's Will. H. Rider Haggard.

Mrs. Fenton. W. E. Norris.

My Danish Sweetheart. W. Clark Russell.

My Friend Jim. W. E. Norris.

My Guardian. Ada Cambridge.

My Lady Nicotine. J. M. Barrie.

Mystery of a Hansom Cab, The. Fergus W. Hume.

Mystery of St. James's Park, The. J. B. Barton.

My Wonderful Wife. Marie Corelli.

Nameless Man, The. F. Du Boisgobey.

Nellie's Memories. Rosa N. Carey.

New Arabian Nights. R. L. Stevenson.

Nine of Hearts, The. B. L. Farjeon.

Noble Woman, A. Henry Greville.

Not Guilty. Etta W. Pierce.

Not Like Other Girls. Rosa N. Carey.

Nun's Curse, The. Mrs. J. H. Riddell.

Old Curiosity Shop, The. Charles Dickens.

Once Again. Mrs. Forrester.

One Life, One Love. Miss M. E. Braddon.

Only a Mill Girl. Eric St. C. Ross.

Only the Governess. Rosa N. Carey.

On the Stage--and Off. Jerome K. Jerome.

Other Man's Wife, The. John Strange Winter.

Our Bessie. Rosa N. Carey.

Outsider, The. Hawley Smart.

Parisian Detective, The. F. Du Boisgobey.

Part of the Property. Beatrice Whitby.

Passion's Slave. Richard Ashe King.

Paul Nugent, Materialist. Helen F. Hetherington

(Gullifer) and Rev.

H. Darwin Burton.

Pennycomequicks, The. S. Baring Gould.

Phantom Future, The. H. S. Merriman.

Phantom Rickshaw, The. Rudyard Kipling.

Picture of Dorian Gray, The. Oscar Wilde.

Plain Tales from the Hills. Rudyard Kipling.

Plunger, The. Hawley Smart.

Pretty Miss Bellew. Theo. Gift.

Prince Otto. R. L. Stevenson.

Prince Lucifer. Etta W. Pierce.

Queenie's Whim. Rosa N. Carey.

Queen Tempest. Jane G. Austin.

Roland Oliver. Justin McCarthy.

Romance of a Poor Young Man, The. Octave Feuillet.

Riversons, The. S. J. Bumstead.

Ruffino. Ouida.

Saddle and Saber. Hawley Smart.

Sabina Zembra. William Black.

Scarlet Letter, The. Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Scheherazade. F. Warden.

Search for Basil Lyndhurst, The. Rosa N. Carey.

Secret of Her Life, The. Edward Jenkins.

Shadow of a Sin, The. Charlotte M. Braeme.

She. H. Rider Haggard.

She Trusted Him. Charles Garvice.

Silence of Dean Maitland, The. Maxwell Gray.

Social Departure, A. Sara Jeannette Duncan.

Social Vicissitudes. F. C. Phillips.

Soldiers Three. Rudyard Kipling.

Son of Porthos, The. Alexandre Dumas.

Spurious. J. Barney Low.

Stage-Land. Jerome K. Jerome.

Stephen Ellicott's Daughter. Mrs. J. H. Needell.

St. Katherine's by the Tower. Walter Besant.

Story of an African farm, The. Olive Schreiner.

Story of an Error, The.

Story of Philip Methuen, The. Mrs. J. H. Needell.

Story of the Gadsbys, The. Rudyard Kipling.

Strange Adventures of Lucy Smith, The. F. C. Phillips.

Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. R. L. Stevenson.

Sylvia Arden. Oswald Crawford.

Syrlin. Ouida.

Tale of Three Lions, A. H. Rider Haggard.

Tangles Unraveled. Evelyn Kimball Johnson.

Texar's Revenge. Jules Verne.

This Wicked World. Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron.

Three Guardsmen, The. Alexandre Dumas.

Three Men in a Boat. Jerome K. Jerome.

Three Miss Kings, The. Ada Cambridge.

Troublesome Girl, A. The Duchess.

Twenty Years After. Alexandre Dumas.

Twin Hussars, The. F. W. Rollins.

Two Masters. B. M. Croker.

Uncle Max. Rosa N. Carey.

Under-Currents. The Duchess.

Under Two Flags. Ouida.

Vendetta. Marie Corelli.

Vicomte de Bragelonne, The. Alexandre Dumas.

Weaker than a Woman. Charlotte M. Braeme.

Wedding Ring, The. Robert Buchanan.

Wee Wifie. Rosa N. Carey.

We Two. Edna Lyall.

What Gold Can Not Buy. Mrs. Alexander.

When a Man's Single. J. M. Barrie.

White Company, The. A. Conan Doyle.

Wicked Girl, A. Mary Cecil Hay.

Widow Bedott Papers. F. M. Whitcher.

Wife In Name Only. Charlotte M. Braeme.

Will. Georges Ohnet.

Window in Thrums, A. J. M. Barrie.

Witch's Head, The. H. Rider Haggard.

Woman's Face, A. F. Warden.

Woman's Heart, A. Mrs. Alexander.

Woman's War, A. Charlotte M. Braeme.

Won by Waiting. Edna Lyall.

Wonderful Adventures of Phra the Edwin Lester Arnold.

Phoenician, The.

Wooed and Married. Rosa N. Carey.

Wooing O't, The. Mrs. Alexander.

World's Desire, The. H. Rider Haggard and Andrew

Lang.

World, the Flesh, and the Devil, The. Mrs. M. E. Braddon.

Wormwood. Marie Corelli.

Young Mr. Ainslie's Courtship. F. C. Phillips.

FIFTY CENT ISSUES.

Ardath. Marie Corelli.

Disputed Inheritance, A. Timayenis.

Englishman in Paris, An.

Robert Elsmere. Mrs. Humphrey Ward.

Romance of Two Worlds, A. Marie Corelli.

Spurgeon's Gold. Rev. E. H. Swem.

Thelma. Marie Corelli.

Latest Issues American Series.

25-Cent Edition.

Andree de Taverney. Alexander Dumas.

Discarded Daughter, The. Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth.

Countess de Charny, The. Alexander Dumas.

Retribution. Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth.

Six Years Later. Alexander Dumas.

Queen's Necklace, The. Alexander Dumas.

Fatal Marriage, The. Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth.

Memoirs of a Physician. Alexander Dumas.

Joseph Balsamo. Alexander Dumas.

Self-Raised. Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth.

Ishmael. Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth.

Russian Gypsy, The. Alexander Dumas.

Old Mam'selle's Secret, The. E. Marlitt.

ALEXANDER DUMAS' WORKS

CONTAINED IN

"AMERICAN SERIES:"

Camille.

Edmond Dantes.

Count of Monte-Cristo.

The Three Guardsmen.

Twenty Years After.

Vicomte de Bragelonne.

Louise de la Valliere.

The Man in the Iron Mask.

The Son of Porthos.

The Black Tulip.

The Russian Gypsy.

Joseph Balsamo.

Memoirs of a Physician.

The Queen's Necklace.

Six Years Later.

Countess de Charny.

Andree de Taverney.

The Chevalier de Maison Rouge.

MAXWELL GRAY'S WORKS

CONTAINED IN

"AMERICAN SERIES."

No. 239--In the Heart of the Storm.

No. 261--Silence of Dean Maitland, The.

MARIE CORELLI'S WORKS

CONTAINED IN

"AMERICAN SERIES."

No. 6--Ardath--50c number.

No. 73--Romance of Two Worlds, A--50c number.

No. 4--Thelma--50c number.

* * * * *

No. 244--Hired Baby, The.

No. 169--My Wonderful Wife.

No. 99--Vendetta.

No. 224--Wormwood.

CUSHING'S MANUAL.

CONTAINING

RULES of PROCEEDING and DEBATE

OF

DELIBERATIVE ASSEMBLIES.

_A Complete Guide for Instruction and Reference in all Matters

pertaining to the Management of Public Meetings according to

Parliamentary Usages._

BY REVISED BY

LUTHER S. CUSHING. FRANCES P. SULLIVAN.

The contents embrace the following subjects:

Adding of Propositions.

Adjournment.

Amendment.

Apology.

Assembly, Deliberative.

Assembling.

Blanks, filling of.

Chairman, preliminary election of.

Committees.

Committee of the Whole.

Commitment.

Communications.

Consent of the assembly.

Contested Elections.

Credentials.

Debate.

Decorum, Breaches of.

Disorderly Conduct.

Disorderly Words.

Division.

Elections and Returns.

Expulsion.

Floor.

Forms of Proceeding.

Incidental Questions.

Introduction of Business.

Journal.

Judgment of an aggregate body.

Lie on the Table.

List of members.

Main Question.

Majority.

Members.

Membership.

Motion.

Naming a member.

Officers.

Order of a deliberative assembly.

Order of business.

Order, rules of.

Order, call to.

Orders of the Day.

Organization.

Papers and Documents.

Parliamentary Law.

Parliamentary Rules.

Petitions.

Postponement.

Power of assembly to eject strangers.

Preamble.

Precedence.

President.

Presiding Officer.

Previous Question.

Privileged Questions.

Proceedings, how set in motion.

Punishment.

Quarrel between members.

Question.

Quorum.

Reading of Papers.

Reception.

Recommitment.

Reconsideration.

Recording Officer.

Recurrence of Business.

Reports of Committees.

Reprimand.

Resolution.

Returns.

Roll.

Rules.

Secondary Questions.

Seconding of motions.

Secretary.

Separation of propositions.

Speaking.

Speaking member.

Speech, reading of, by member.

Subsidiary Questions.

Suspension of a rule.

Transposition of proposition.

Vice-President.

Voting.

Will of assembly.

Withdrawal of motion.

Yeas and Nays.

In addition to the above this volume contains

THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES

AND THE

DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE.

_208 Pages. Bound in paper, 25 cents; bound in cloth, gilt back, 50

cents._

Sent by mail receipt of price. One- and two-cent stamps taken.

Standard Recitations by Best Authors

A CHOICE COLLECTION OF BEAUTIFUL COMPOSITIONS,

CAREFULLY COMPILED FOR

School, Lyceum, Parlor, and other Entertainments,

BY FRANCES P. SULLIVAN.

CONTENTS OF NO. 22.

PAGE

Shamus O'Brien, The Bold Boy of Glingall. Samuel Lover. 3

The Soldiers' Reward. J. W. Donovan. 7

The Kitten of the Regiment. 9

Perils of a Teacher. J. W. Donovan. 10

A Climb at Rouen. M. Betham Edwards. 11

Catching the Colt. 12

Something for Strikers. 13

Harmony. 13

By the Wayside. E. Doherty. 14

The Unwelcomed Baby. 15

Running Before It. William Constable. 16

"Warned." Crape Myrtle. 17

The Old Wife's Kiss. 17

The Old Office-Desk. Henry J. Shellman. 19

Chickens Come Home to Roost. Earnest M'Gaffey. 19

The Blacksmith of Ragenbach. 20

The Old Mill. H. W. Field. 21

One at a Time. 22

The Hot Axle. T. DeWitt Talmage. 22

Ellsworth's Avengers. Tripp. 23

The Origin of Whiskey. H. Burgess. 24

The Two Words. J. E. Dinkenga. 25

Listeners. M. K. D. 25

The Delinquent Subscriber. Margaret Andrews Oldham. 26

"Peace, be Still." Violet. 27

A Short Debate on Rum. "Th' Poet o' Ante-Bar" 28

The Participants in the Boston Massacre. John Hancock. 28

Dandie. M. F. Bradley. 29

The Nameless Guest. James Clarence Harvey. 30

Slug Number Eleven. 30

A Famous Fight. David Graham Adee. 32

More Cruel Than War. 33

The Fall of the Alamo. Mrs. Barr. 34

A New Gospel. Carlotta Perry. 35

Making the Round. Mrs. M. L. Rayne. 36

The Beautiful. 37

Onatoga's Sacrifice. John Dimitry. 38

Joe Sieg. Alexander Anderson. 39

Education. C. Phillips. 41

Ingratitude: Or Old Sport and His Master. Fred Williams. 41

Old Uncle Jake. 43

On the Rappahannock. 44

The Better Land. 45

Charity. 45

St. Michael the Weigher. 46

The Orphan's New Year. O. H. 46

The Inch Cape Bell. 47

The Old Minstrel. 47

Price 12 Cents by Mail. 1 and 2 Cent Stamps Taken.

Address M. J. IVERS & CO.,

379 Pearl Street, N. Y. City.

THE

Standard Letter Writer

FOR

Ladies and Gentlemen.

CONTAINING A COMPLETE COLLECTION OF BUSINESS LETTERS; LETTERS OF

INTRODUCTION; LETTERS OF CREDIT; LETTERS OF APPLICATION FOR EMPLOYMENT;

LETTERS OF RECOMMENDATION; SOCIAL LETTERS; CONGRATULATION AND

CONDOLENCE; NOTES OF CEREMONY AND COMPLIMENT; RULES FOR CONDUCTING

PUBLIC DEBATES AND MEETINGS.

PRICE 25 CENTS.

COPYRIGHT, 1893, BY M. J. IVERS & CO.

NEW YORK:

M. J. IVERS & CO., PUBLISHERS.

879 PEARL STREET.

Transcriber's Note: The 1894 M. J. Ivers & Co. edition was the principal

source for this electronic text. In addition, the 1894 D. Appleton and

Company text was consulted to determine the preferred hyphenation and

spelling of some words and to resolve suspected typographical errors.

In Book First, Chapter I, =These are the passengers of the 'St. Barbara."=

was changed to =These are the passengers of the "St. Barbara."=.

In Book First, Chapter II, "the later was suddenly caught" was changed to

"the latter was suddenly caught".

In Book First, Chapter III, "the poor beast" was changed to "the poor

beasts", and "It was only that she ship" was changed to "It was only

that the ship".

In Book First, Chapter IV, "whose pure, azure seen" was changed to "whose

pure azure, seen", "In Brazovic's cafe" was changed to "In Brazovics'

cafe", and "before Brazovic's cafe" was changed to "before Brazovics'

cafe".

In Book First, Chapter VI, a missing quotation mark was added after "You

can't joke with her", "white cat on her shouler" was changed to "white

cat on her shoulder", and "nothing remakable in her rising suddenly" was

changed to "nothing remarkable in her rising suddenly".

In Book First, Chapter VII, "dear mother-in law!" was changed to "dear

mother-in-law!", "future son-in law" was changed to "future son-in-law",

and "Did your hear how" was changed to "Did you hear how".

In Book First, Chapter VIII, "the prince settled in advance" was changed

to "the price settled in advance".

In Book First, Chapter X, ="Timea!' cried Timar, "your father is dead."=

was changed to ="Timea!" cried Timar, "your father is dead."=

In Book First, Chapter XIV, an extra quotation mark was deleted after "ten

thousand measures of wheat.", and "at which Timea only eat fruit and

bread" was changed to "at which Timea only ate fruit and bread".

In Book Second, Chapter III, "felspar" was changed to "feldspar".

In Book Second, Chapter IV, "When the saw that the doors" was changed to

"When they saw that the doors".

In Book Second, Chapter V, a missing quotation mark was added after

"burned coffee-berries.", and "rich man wooes" was changed to "rich man

woos".

In Book Second, Chapter VII, "It was un heard of" was changed to "It was

unheard of", "who eat the bread of charity" was changed to "who ate the

bread of charity", and "eat not a morsel" was changed to "ate not a

morsel".

In Book Second, Chapter VIII, "Athalia put on her mourning-dress" was

changed to "Athalie put on her mourning-dress", and "The kitchen clock

was till going" was changed to "The kitchen clock was still going".

In Book Third, Chapter II, a missing period was added after "wounded

their hearts".

In Book Third, Chapter III, missing periods were added after "embracing

her mother with eager kisses" and "Very much", "Timar open the little

gate" was changed to "Timar opened the little gate", and "the grass it

wet" was changed to "the grass is wet".

In Book Third, Chapter IV, "Michael disappeard" was changed to "Michael

disappeared", "when he laughed" was changed to "when she laughed", and a

missing quotation mark was added after "you will have to go off to

Brazil."

In Book Third, Chapter VI, a missing colon was added after "stretching

both hands entreatingly to Michael", "his meeting with Thedor" was

changed to "his meeting with Theodor", a missing parenthesis was added

after "what depended on this business!", and "eat it with the bread" was

changed to "ate it with the bread".

In Book Fourth, Chapter I, "centturies might pass" was changed to

"centuries might pass".

In Book Fourth, Chapter III, "districts of Zala and Vesoprimer" was

changed to "districts of Zala and Vessprimer", and "by its owe will" was

changed to "by its own will".

In Book Fifth, Chapter I, a missing quotation mark was added after "sick

and loveless heart?", and "which he hear crackling" was changed to

"which he heard crackling".

In Book Fifth, Chapter III, "though Timar, shrugging his shoulders" was

changed to "thought Timar, shrugging his shoulders".

In Book Fifth, Chapter IV, "revealed the secrt" was changed to "revealed

the secret", "loathsome wrounds" was changed to "loathsome wounds",

"Then man knew" was changed to "The man knew", "turn you back on me" was

changed to "turn your back on me", and "sacrified her to his base lusts"

was changed to "sacrificed her to his base lusts".

In Book Fifth, Chapter XII, "moldered-away" was changed to "mouldered

away", and an extraneous quotation mark was removed following "on the

ownerless island?".

In the advertisements, "Evelyn Kymball Johnson" was changed to "Evelyn

Kimball Johnson", and missing periods were added after "The Man in the

Iron Mask" and "Memoirs of a Physician".

Finally, the advertisement for Cushing's Manual was moved from the

inside front cover to the back of the book.