The Rose of Sharon
I DON’T know how long I lay there, but after a while, I felt a gentle
hand laid on my shoulder.
“Good gracious, Miss Cecil!” said a kind voice at the bedside. “Don’t
take on so, dear. You’ll make yourself sick!”
“I--I don’t care,” I sobbed desperately. “I wish I was dead. You--you
would cry, too.” And I looked up at Jane’s dear old face.
“I know I would,” assented that good creature, and, indeed, at that
very moment, she was compelled hastily to use the corner of her apron
to check a tear that was wandering down her cheek. “But,” she added,
“I’d try t’ bear up ag’in it. Lord knows, me an’ Abner’ll miss you!”
“Thank you, Jane,” I said; “I know you will.”
“An’ anyways, miss,” she went on, her housewifely instinct asserting
itself, “I wouldn’t spile this here rose o’ Sharing quilt, the old
missus set so much store by.”
“This what, Jane!” I cried, sitting up suddenly, and sliding to the
floor, my heart leaping to my throat.
Jane fairly jumped.
“Gracious, miss!” she screamed, “but you give me a start, takin’ me
up that quick!” and she pressed her hand against her ample bosom and
caught her breath convulsively.
“But what was it you said I was spoiling?” I persisted, for I could
scarcely believe that I had heard aright.
“Why, this quilt, to be sure,” she answered. “You was cryin’ on it, and
here’s a mark from one o’ your--”
“Yes, yes!” I cried. “But what kind of a quilt did you say it was,
Jane?”
Jane pressed her cool hand anxiously to my forehead.
“You’ve got a fever, child,” she said soothingly. “I might ’a’ knowed
you would have arter all that worry. I was wrong t’ get ye up. You’d
better lay down ag’in. Never mind the quilt--it’s an old thing, anyway.”
“Jane,” I exclaimed, with the calmness of desperation, “will you kindly
tell me again what kind of a quilt you said this was?”
“It’s a rose o’ Sharing quilt, miss,” answered Jane. “Don’t y’ see
these little flowers in every other square an’ this here big one in the
middle? Missus allers kept it on her bed, an’ would never let any of
us touch it; though I could never guess why she thought so much of it,
fer it ain’t purty, to my mind.”
While she was speaking, I had rushed to the windows and thrown back the
shutters; and as the bright morning sun streamed into the room, I bent
over and looked at the quilt with eyes so throbbing with excitement
that I could scarcely see it. Sure enough, on each alternate patch was
a little rude conventional representation of the althea blossom, and
on the centre patch was a much larger one of the tall, upright bush,
worked with considerable care. Around the border of the quilt ran a
design of leaves.
With hands that trembled so I could scarcely hold it, I snatched the
quilt off the bed, and starting at the central figure, counted four
squares to the right and three diagonally. But the square that I
arrived at felt precisely like all the others. There was nothing under
it save the thick soft stuffing of the quilt.
“You’ve got it upside down, miss,” observed Jane, who had been watching
me uncomprehendingly, puzzled, but much cooler than I.
“Upside down?”
“Yes,” and she pointed to the central square.
I turned it around and tried the same formula--four to the right,
diagonally three. What was this, rustling beneath my fingers? Not
cotton nor wool, but something stiff, crinkling in my grasp like
paper--like stocks--like bonds!
“Jane!” I gasped, falling to my knees in sudden weakness; “Jane, oh,
Jane, I’ve found it!”
“Found it, miss?” repeated Jane, in bewilderment.
“Yes--the treasure! Oh, Jane!” and I was on my feet again galvanized
into action at the thought. “We must get to Plumfield! We must get to
Plumfield, or it will be too late!”
The meaning of it all burst in upon Jane’s understanding like a
lightning-flash, and she staggered and grew faint under the shock.
“Jane,” I cried, seeing from her staring eyes that heroic measures were
necessary, “if you faint now I’ll never speak to you again!” and I
actually pinched her earnestly, viciously, on the arm. “Go tell Abner
to hitch up the horse,” I added, “just as quick as he can. A minute or
two may mean--”
[Illustration: “‘JANE!’ I GASPED ... ‘JANE, OH, JANE, I’VE FOUND IT!’”]
“He’s out in the hill-paster,” said Jane, reviving. “He said he
couldn’t stand it t’ stay around the house.”
My heart sank as I followed her down the stairs. The hill pasture was a
good mile away.
“Perhaps we can hitch up ourselves,” I suggested, hugging the precious
quilt to me--feeling the papers crinkle in my grasp.
“I kin hitch up,” said Jane, “but I can’t ketch old Susan, an’ never
could. She jest naterally runs when she sees me a-comin’.”
“Well, we’ll try,” I said, desperately, for I hadn’t much confidence
in my horse-catching abilities. “Come on,” and laying the quilt on the
table in the hall, I opened the front door and ran down the steps--and
right into a boy who was standing there and staring disconsolately up
at the house.
“Oh, Tom!” I cried, a great load lifted from my heart. “Oh, but I’m
glad to see you! Tom, I’ve found the treasure!”
For an instant, I thought he didn’t understand, he stood staring at
me so queerly, with all the colour fading out of his cheeks. Then it
rushed back again in a flood, and he sprang at me and caught me by the
hands in a way that quite frightened me.
“Say it again, Biffkins!” he cried. “Say it again!”
“I’ve found the treasure,” I repeated, as calmly as I could. “And, oh,
Tom, don’t squeeze my hands so--we must drive to town right away--to
the notary’s office--maybe we’ll be too late--and will you catch the
horse?”
“Will I?” he cried. “Ask me if I’ll jump over the moon, Biffkins, and
I’ll say yes. Get ready,” and he was off toward the pasture, where old
Susan was placidly grazing, quite unconscious of the great mission that
awaited her.
I folded up the quilt and got on my hat and went down to the door; and
here in a moment came Tom, driving like mad. And Jane was standing
there rocking her arms--
“Hop in, Biffkins!” cried Tom, drawing up with a great scattering of
gravel. And I hopped in.
“God bless you!” cried Jane, from the steps. “God bless you!” and as
we turned out into the road, I looked back and saw her still standing
there waving her apron after us.
“Is that the treasure?” asked Tom, when we were fairly in the road and
headed for town, looking at the quilt in my arms. “It doesn’t look
much like a treasure, I must say. Is that it?”
“Yes--that is, I think it is, Tom.”
“Don’t you know?” he asked.
“I--I believe it is, Tom,” I stammered, my heart sinking a little. “I
didn’t want to stop to look. Feel right here.”
He took one hand from the reins and felt carefully.
“Doesn’t that feel like stocks and bonds?” I asked.
“It certainly feels like something,” he admitted. “Well, we’ll soon
find out,” and he turned his whole attention to encouraging the
astonished Susan.
I dare say that that old horse, in all her eighteen years, had never
covered that road so swiftly; but the two miles seemed like ten to
me, and I think the most welcome sight I ever saw in my life was the
scattered group of houses which marks the centre of the little village.
We dashed down the street with a clatter that brought the people to
their windows, and stopped at last at the little frame building which
served the notary for an office.
I jumped out, and without waiting for Tom, ran up the little flight
of steps to the door, with the quilt flapping wildly about me. And
just as I laid my hand upon the knob, the door opened from within, and
Silas Tunstall stood looking down at me, his face lighted by a smile of
triumph.
“Well, what’s the matter, young one?” he asked.
“I want to see Mr. Chester,” I gasped; “right away.”
“Mr. Chester? Well, he’s in there; go on in.”
He went on down the steps, but looked at the quilt in my arms with a
little start as I passed him, hesitated a moment, and then came back
and stood in the doorway.
But I had burst into the room as though hurled from a catapult. I saw a
group about the table.
“Oh, Mr. Chester!” I cried. “I’ve found it--the treasure!”
I was thrusting the old quilt into his arms--laughing, crying--while he
stared down at me with puzzled face. Then he stared at the quilt and
seemed still more astonished.
“The treasure?” he repeated, mechanically. “The treasure?”
[Illustration: “HE STRETCHED OUT A LEAN HAND TO TAKE IT, BUT MR.
CHESTER SNATCHED IT HASTILY AWAY.”]
“Yes; yes!” I cried. “Four to the right, diagonally three. See!” and
I guided his hand to the proper square.
“Why, bless my soul!” he exclaimed, as he felt of it. “There _is_
something here. Let us see,” and he got out his pen-knife.
“No, you don’t!” cried Silas Tunstall’s voice from the door. “It’s too
late--it’s all settled, ain’t it? You’ve give up, ain’t you? That there
quilt’s mine, an’ I’d thank you to return it!”
He stretched out a lean hand to take it, but Mr. Chester snatched it
hastily away.
“It’s mine, I tell you!” he repeated hotly. “Give it back, ’r I’ll hev
you arrested, you thief!”
I could not but admire the man. Even in a moment such as this, he had
presence of mind to retain the drawl.
Mr. Chester looked at him, frowning thoughtfully, and my heart grew
cold within me. To be too late now! But in a moment, his brows relaxed.
“Mr. Jones,” he said, turning to the notary, “the will specifically
states that the heirs are to be allowed one month to find this
treasure, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And nothing that we or anyone else can do in the meantime can alter
that?”
“I should think not; no, sir, certainly not.”
“Very well. Mrs. Nelson did not die until twelve minutes after twelve
o’clock; so we have still,” added Mr. Chester, glancing at his watch,
“twenty minutes in which to find this treasure. If we do find it within
that time, the property belongs to Mrs. Truman and her children.”
“No, you don’t!” snarled Silas, again. “Don’t try any of your lawyer
tricks on me. I won’t stand it! You’ve give it up, I tell you; you
can’t go back on your word!”
The room was still as death; everyone seemed to hold his breath with
the suspense of the moment.
Only Mr. Chester was apparently unmoved. With a sharp snip, which cut
the silence like a knife, he ripped open the square of the quilt and
drew forth a flat package of papers. He opened it, and looked them over
with a quick movement. I could see that his hands were trembling a
little despite himself. I was watching him intent, with bated breath,
but I was still conscious, somehow, of Tom’s white, strained face
beside me. What a dear fellow he was!
Mr. Chester passed the papers to the notary, and the two held a
moment’s whispered conference as they looked them over. Then Mr.
Chester turned back to us, and his face was beaming.
“Miss Truman,” he said, “I congratulate you. You have indeed found the
treasure, and the Court rules that the property is yours.”
Mother was laughing convulsively, with the tears streaming down her
face; Dick’s arms were about my neck; Tom had both my hands and was
shaking them wildly. There was such a mist before my eyes that I could
scarcely see.
“Oh, Biffkins!” cried my brother. “Oh, Biffkins, what a trump you are!”
* * * * *
I can’t tell clearly what happened just then, we were all so moved and
so excited. I remember hearing what seemed to be a scuffle at the door,
followed by a muttered oath and a sharp command, and I looked around to
see two strangers standing in the doorway, and one of them had a pistol
pointed straight at Silas Tunstall, who was staring at it, his hands
above his head.
We all of us stood, for an instant, gaping in amazement at this strange
spectacle.
“What’s all this?” demanded Mr. Tunstall, angrily. “Turn that there gun
another way, young feller.”
The “young feller,” a well-built, clean-shaven man of middle age,
laughed derisively.
“Oh, come, Jim,” he said; “it won’t do,” and reaching forward with his
disengaged hand, he deliberately plucked out by the roots a tuft of
Mr. Tunstall’s beard. At least, I thought for a moment it was by the
roots--then I saw that there weren’t any roots, but that the beard was
a false one, cunningly glued on. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he added,
glancing around at us, “permit me to introduce to you Mr. James Bright,
the cleverest confidence man in the United States.”
The prisoner’s face relaxed; in fact he was actually smiling.
“All right, Briggs,” he said, and I saw how the others stared in
astonishment at a tone which I knew to be his natural one. “What’s it
for, this time?”
“This,” answered the detective, and drew a roll of new greenbacks from
his pocket. “The best you’ve done yet,” he added. “And a fine plant
you’ve got out there at that little place of yours. We’ve been all
through it.”
“Is this one of them?” asked Mr. Chester, and produced the counterfeit
which had been passed on him the day before.
“Yes, that’s a sample,” answered Briggs, glancing at it. “They worried
us for a while, I tell you. Of course we knew right away it was Jim’s
work.”
“You’ll have to prove it’s mine,” pointed out the prisoner.
“Oh, we can do that easily enough. Your fingers give you away.”
And, looking at them, I saw again the curious stains I had noticed a
few days before. And I also suddenly understood the odour which filled
Mr. Tunstall’s parlour.
“But we’ve lost track of you,” went on the detective. “It’s nearly
a year since we heard of you--you’d buried yourself so well down
here--and we hadn’t the least idea where to look for you. One of my
men has been shadowing your house off and on for some time, because we
had heard some rather curious stories about one Silas Tunstall, and we
wanted to find out something more about him. But we never suspected it
was you. That spiritualistic dodge was an inspiration and that disguise
is a work of art.”
“Yes,” agreed the captive complacently, “I’m rather proud of it,
myself. There was just one person it did not deceive.”
“Who was that?” asked the detective.
“That sharp-eyed and quick-witted young lady yonder,” said the
prisoner, and bowed in my direction.
They all stared at me, and I felt that my cheeks were very crimson.
“Why, Cecil,” began mother, but the prisoner interrupted her.
“Understand, madam,” he said, “she didn’t know I was engaged in
anything crooked; I don’t suppose she even suspected that these
whiskers were false; but she had caught my dialect tripping in an
unguarded moment, and she saw through me right away. I congratulate
her,” he added. “She’s the cleverest I ever met.”
I had never liked Mr. Tunstall, but, I confess that, in this new
incarnation, there was something fascinating about the man. He seemed
so superior to circumstances and so indifferent to them. There he stood
now, more unconcerned and self-possessed than anyone else in the room.
“I know we were dense,” said the detective, grimly; “but, anyway, we
got you.”
“Who put you next?” asked the prisoner, curiously.
“Shorty,” replied the detective, smiling broadly. “We got him
yesterday in New York, with the goods on, gave him the third degree and
he peached last night.”
“The cur!” muttered the prisoner between his teeth, his face hard as
iron. “I stayed here too long,” he added. “I’d have been away from here
a month ago, but for this fool business,” and he nodded toward the
packet of papers. “I was like a good many others--I thought maybe I
could make enough to be honest!”
“Well, you’ll be honest for some years to come, Jim,” laughed the
detective, “whether you want to or not; so perhaps it’s just as
well--and Uncle Sam’ll breathe a lot easier! Put the cuffs on him,
Bob,” he added, to his companion.
I saw the other man draw from his pocket something of shining steel,
and take a step forward. The prisoner held out his hands--and suddenly
the handcuffs were hurled full into the detective’s face. He staggered
back against his companion, the blood spurting from his lips, and
in that instant, the prisoner had ducked past, was out the door and
away. They were after him in a moment, but by the time we got outside,
the fugitive had disappeared as completely as though the earth had
opened and swallowed him. Two or three excited people were leading the
detectives toward a strip of woodland which stretched back from the
road, and which formed a perfect covert; others were running out from
their houses, and were soon in full pursuit; but that was the last that
I, or, as far as I know, any of those then present, ever saw of the
famous Jim Bright.
* * * * *
And that’s the story. For why need I tell of the drive home--home--yes,
home! Of Abner and Jane--of the dinner that evening--oh, quite a
different meal from the one of the night before. You can imagine it all
much better than I can tell it. And though it was all three years ago,
there is a little mist before my eyes whenever I think of it. It is
sweet to think of it, and it has been sweet to tell about it.
And how we have grown to love the old place! The old furniture has been
brought down out of the attic, and the horsehair hidden from view under
the eaves. For my own room, I have taken grandaunt’s, and my little
desk is between the two front windows, and I can look out over the walk
and down to the road. And on my bed there is a quilt, rather a faded
and ugly quilt--but _the_ quilt--and it shall always stay there. And
Dick is a junior at Princeton, and so is--
I hear a quick step on the walk below my window, and a clear voice,
“Oh, Biffkins!”
“Yes, Tom,” I answer; “in a minute.”
Old Tom! For grandaunt’s legacy has brought me more than a beautiful
home--more than stocks and bonds--I can’t write it--but you can guess!
Oh, I know, dear reader, you can guess!
THE END.
From
L. C. Page & Company’s
Announcement List
of New Fiction
=The Call of the South=
BY ROBERT LEE DURHAM. Cloth decorative, with 6 illustrations by Henry
Roth $1.50
A very strong novel dealing with the race problem in this country.
The principal theme is the _danger_ to society from the increasing
miscegenation of the black and white races, and the encouragement it
receives in the social amenities extended to negroes of distinction by
persons prominent in politics, philanthropy and educational endeavor;
and the author, a Southern lawyer, hopes to call the attention of the
whole country to the need of earnest work toward its discouragement.
He has written an absorbing drama of life which appeals with apparent
logic and of which the inevitable denouement comes as a final and
convincing climax.
The author may be criticised by those who prefer not to face the hour
“When Your Fear Cometh As Desolation And Your Destruction Cometh As A
Whirlwind;” but his honesty of purpose in the frank expression of a
danger so well understood in the South, which, however, many in the
North refuse to recognise, while others have overlooked it, will be
upheld by the sober second thought of the majority of his readers.
=The House in the Water=
BY CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS, author of “The Haunters of the Silences,”
“Red Fox,” “The Heart of the Ancient Wood,” etc. With cover design,
sixteen full-page drawings, and many minor decorations by Charles
Livingston Bull. Cloth decorative, with decorated wrapper $1.50
Professor Roberts’s new book of nature and animal life is one long
story in which he tells of the life of that wonderfully acute and
tireless little worker, the beaver. “The Boy” and Jabe the Woodsman
again appear, figuring in the story even more than they did in “Red
Fox;” and the adventures of the boy and the beaver make most absorbing
reading for young and old.
The following chapter headings for “The House in the Water” will give
an idea of the fascinating reading to come:
THE SOUND IN THE NIGHT (Beavers at Work).
THE BATTLE IN THE POND (Otter and Beaver).
IN THE UNDER-WATER WORLD (Home Life of the Beaver).
NIGHT WATCHERS (“The Boy” and Jabe and a Lynx see the Beavers at
Work).
DAM REPAIRING AND DAM BUILDING (A “House-raising” Bee).
THE PERIL OF THE TRAPS (Jabe Shows “The Boy”).
WINTER UNDER WATER (Safe from All but Man).
THE SAVING OF BOY’S POND (“The Boy” Captures Two Outlaws).
“As a writer about animals, Mr. Roberts occupies an enviable place. He
is the most literary, as well as the most imaginative and vivid of all
the nature writers.”--_Brooklyn Eagle._
“His animal stories are marvels of sympathetic science and literary
exactness.”--_New York World._
“Poet Laureate of the Animal World, Professor Roberts displays
the keenest powers of observation closely interwoven with a fine
imaginative discretion.”--_Boston Transcript._
=Captain Love=
THE HISTORY OF A MOST ROMANTIC EVENT IN THE LIFE OF AN ENGLISH
GENTLEMAN DURING THE REIGN OF HIS MAJESTY GEORGE THE FIRST. CONTAINING
INCIDENTS OF COURTSHIP AND DANGER AS RELATED IN THE CHRONICLES OF THE
PERIOD AND NOW SET DOWN IN PRINT
BY THEODORE ROBERTS, author of “The Red Feathers,” “Brothers of
Peril,” etc. Cloth decorative, illustrated by Frank T. Merrill
$1.50
A stirring romance with its scene laid in the troublous times in
England when so many broken gentlemen foregathered with the “Knights of
the Road;” when a man might lose part of his purse to his opponent at
“White’s” over the dice, and the next day be relieved of the rest of
his money on some lonely heath at the point of a pistol in the hand of
the self-same gambler.
But, if the setting be similar to other novels of the period, the story
is not. Mr. Roberts’s work is always original, his style is always
graceful, his imagination fine, his situations refreshingly novel. In
his new book he has excelled himself. It is undoubtedly the best thing
he has done.
=Bahama Bill=
BY T. JENKINS HAINS, author of “The Black Barque,” “The Voyage of the
Arrow,” etc. Cloth decorative, with frontispiece in colors by H. R.
Reuterdahl
$1.50
The scene of Captain Hains’s new sea story is laid in the region of
the Florida Keys. His hero, the giant mate of the wrecking sloop,
_Sea-Horse_, while not one to stir the emotions of gentle feminine
readers, will arouse interest and admiration in men who appreciate
bravery and daring.
His adventures while plying his desperate trade are full of the danger
that holds one at a sharp tension, and the reader forgets to be on the
side of law and order in his eagerness to see the “wrecker” safely
through his exciting escapades.
Captain Hains’s descriptions of life at sea are vivid, absorbingly
frank and remarkably true. “Bahama Bill” ranks high as a stirring,
realistic, unsoftened and undiluted tale of the sea, chock full of
engrossing interest.
=Matthew Porter=
BY GAMALIEL BRADFORD, JR., author of “The Private Tutor,” etc. With a
frontispiece in colors by Griswold Tyng
$1.50
When a young man has birth and character and strong ambition it is safe
to predict for him a brilliant career; and, when The Girl comes into
his life, a romance out of the ordinary. Such a man is Matthew Porter,
and the author has drawn him with fine power.
Mr. Bradford has given us a charming romance with an unusual motive.
Effective glimpses of the social life of Boston form a contrast to the
more serious purpose of the story; but, in “Matthew Porter,” it is the
conflict of personalities, the development of character, the human
element which grips the attention and compels admiration.
=Anne of Green Gables=
BY L. M. MONTGOMERY. Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50
Every one, young or old, who reads the story of “Anne of Green Gables,”
will fall in love with her, and tell their friends of her irresistible
charm. In her creation of the young heroine of this delightful tale
Miss Montgomery will receive praise for her fine sympathy with and
delicate appreciation of sensitive and imaginative girlhood.
The story would take rank for the character of Anne alone: but in the
delineation of the characters of the old farmer, and his crabbed,
dried-up spinster sister who adopt her, the author has shown an insight
and descriptive power which add much to the fascination of the book.
=Spinster Farm=
BY HELEN M. WINSLOW, author of “Literary Boston.” Illustrated from
original photographs
$1.50
Whatever Miss Winslow writes is good, for she is in accord with the
life worth living. The Spinster, her niece “Peggy,” the Professor, and
young Robert Graves,--not forgetting Hiram, the hired man,--are the
characters to whom we are introduced on “Spinster Farm.” Most of the
incidents and all of the characters are real, as well as the farm and
farmhouse, unchanged since Colonial days.
Light-hearted character sketches, and equally refreshing and unexpected
happenings are woven together with a thread of happy romance of which
Peggy of course is the vivacious heroine. Alluring descriptions of
nature and country life are given with fascinating bits of biography of
the farm animals and household pets.
Selections from L. C. Page and Company’s List of Fiction
WORKS OF ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS
_Each one vol., library 12mo, cloth decorative $1.50_
=The Flight of Georgiana=
A ROMANCE OF THE DAYS OF THE YOUNG PRETENDER. Illustrated by H. C.
Edwards.
“A love-story in the highest degree, a dashing story, and a remarkably
well finished piece of work.”--_Chicago Record-Herald._
=The Bright Face of Danger=
Being an account of some adventures of Henri de Launay, son of the
Sieur de la Tournoire. Illustrated by H. C. Edwards.
“Mr. Stephens has fairly outdone himself. We thank him heartily.
The story is nothing if not spirited and entertaining, rational and
convincing.”--_Boston Transcript._
=The Mystery of Murray Davenport=
(40th thousand.)
“This is easily the best thing that Mr. Stephens has yet done. Those
familiar with his other novels can best judge the measure of this
praise, which is generous.”--_Buffalo News._
=Captain Ravenshaw=
OR, THE MAID OF CHEAPSIDE. (52nd thousand.) A romance of Elizabethan
London. Illustrations by Howard Pyle and other artists.
Not since the absorbing adventures of D’Artagnan have we had anything
so good in the blended vein of romance and comedy.
=The Continental Dragoon=
A ROMANCE OF PHILIPSE MANOR HOUSE IN 1778. (53d thousand.) Illustrated
by H. C. Edwards.
A stirring romance of the Revolution, with its scene laid on neutral
territory.
=Philip Winwood=
(70th thousand) A Sketch of the Domestic History of an American
Captain in the War of Independence, embracing events that occurred
between and during the years 1763 and 1785 in New York and London.
Illustrated by E. W. D. Hamilton.
=An Enemy to the King=
(70th thousand.) From the “Recently Discovered Memoirs of the Sieur de
la Tournoire.” Illustrated by H. De M. Young.
An historical romance of the sixteenth century, describing the
adventures of a young French nobleman at the court of Henry III., and
on the field with Henry IV.
=The Road to Paris=
A STORY OF ADVENTURE. (35th thousand.) Illustrated by H. C. Edwards.
An historical romance of the eighteenth century, being an account of
the life of an American gentleman adventurer of Jacobite ancestry.
=A Gentleman Player=
HIS ADVENTURES ON A SECRET MISSION FOR QUEEN ELIZABETH. (48th
thousand.) Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill.
The story of a young gentleman who joins Shakespeare’s company of
players, and becomes a friend and protégé of the great poet.
=Clementina’s Highwayman=
Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50
Mr. Stephens has put into his new book, “Clementina’s Highwayman,” the
finest qualities of plot, construction, and literary finish.
The story is laid in the mid-Georgian period. It is a dashing,
sparkling, vivacious comedy, with a heroine as lovely and changeable as
an April day, and a hero all ardor and daring.
The exquisite quality of Mr. Stephens’s literary style clothes the
story in a rich but delicate word-fabric; and never before have his
setting and atmosphere been so perfect.
WORKS OF CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS
=Haunters of the Silences=
Cloth, one volume, with many drawings by Charles Livingston Bull, four
of which are in full color
$2.00
The stories in Mr. Roberts’s new collection are the strongest and best
he has ever written.
He has largely taken for his subjects those animals rarely met with
in books, whose lives are spent “In the Silences,” where they are the
supreme rulers. Mr. Roberts has written of them sympathetically, as
always, but with fine regard for the scientific truth.
“As a writer about animals, Mr. Roberts occupies an enviable place. He
is the most literary, as well as the most imaginative and vivid of all
the nature writers.”--_Brooklyn Eagle._
“His animal stories are marvels of sympathetic science and literary
exactness.”--_New York World._
=Red Fox=
THE STORY OF HIS ADVENTUROUS CAREER IN THE RINGWAAK WILDS, AND OF HIS
FINAL TRIUMPH OVER THE ENEMIES OF HIS KIND. With fifty illustrations,
including frontispiece in color and cover design by Charles Livingston
Bull.
Square quarto, cloth decorative $2.00
“Infinitely more wholesome reading than the average tale of sport,
since it gives a glimpse of the hunt from the point of view of
hunted.”--_Boston Transcript._
“True in substance but fascinating as fiction. It will interest old and
young, city-bound and free-footed, those who know animals and those who
do not.”--_Chicago Record-Herald._
“A brilliant chapter in natural history.”--_Philadelphia North
American._
=The Kindred of the Wild=
A BOOK OF ANIMAL LIFE. With fifty-one full-page plates and many
decorations from drawings by Charles Livingston Bull.
Square quarto, decorative cover $2.00
“Is in many ways the most brilliant collection of animal stories that
has appeared; well named and well done.”--_John Burroughs._
=The Watchers of the Trails=
A companion volume to “The Kindred of the Wild.” With forty-eight
full-page plates and many decorations from drawings by Charles
Livingston Bull.
Square quarto, decorative cover $2.00
“These stories are exquisite in their refinement, and yet robust in
their appreciation of some of the rougher phases of woodcraft. Among
the many writers about animals, Mr. Roberts occupies an enviable
place.”--_The Outlook._
“This is a book full of delight. An additional charm lies in Mr. Bull’s
faithful and graphic illustrations, which in fashion all their own tell
the story of the wild life, illuminating and supplementing the pen
pictures of the author.”--_Literary Digest._
=The Heart That Knows=
Library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover $1.50
“A novel of singularly effective strength, luminous in literary color,
rich in its passionate, yet tender drama.”--_New York Globe._
=Earth’s Enigmas=
A new edition of Mr. Roberts’s first volume of fiction, published in
1892, and out of print for several years, with the addition of three
new stories, and ten illustrations by Charles Livingston Bull.
Library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover $1.50
“It will rank high among collections of short stories. In ‘Earth’s
Enigmas’ is a wider range of subject than in the ‘Kindred of the
Wild.’”--_Review from advance sheets of the illustrated edition by
Tiffany Blake in the Chicago Evening Post._
=Barbara Ladd=
With four illustrations by Frank Verbeck.
Library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover $1.50
“From the opening chapter to the final page Mr. Roberts lures us on by
his rapt devotion to the changing aspects of Nature and by his keen and
sympathetic analysis of human character.”--_Boston Transcript._
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
On page 69, bedroom has been changed to bed-room.
On page 113, account books has been changed to account-books.
On pages 116 and 120, downstairs has been changed to down-stairs.
On page 131, lawsuit has been changed to law-suit.
On page 168, stable yard has been changed to stable-yard.
On page 172, tree-tops has been changed to treetops.
On page 190, upstairs has been changed to up-stairs.
All other spelling, hyphenation and dialect have been retained as
typeset.