THE WINNER OF THE PRIZE
As Nathalie sat in dazed surprise upon hearing Philip’s announcement, he
went on and told her of the early life of his father, of his going to
Europe, of his marriage with Marie de Brie, a French girl, of his return
to America, and of his subsequent quarrel with his mother, who had
refused to receive his wife, a story that the girl had already heard,
but not in detail, from Mrs. Page.
When his father left his grandmother, Philip stated, he was in a mood of
mingled anger and humiliation, while his heart had been deeply seared
with disillusioned love. He could not realize that the mother who had
made him her idol, the mother whom he adored, could, from mere motives
of false pride, wound him so deeply by refusing to receive the girl to
whom he had given the affections of his young manhood.
On leaving his mother, Philip Renwick had remained at the hotel for a
time, vainly hoping that she would attempt a reconciliation, but when no
word came from her, he took his wife to a southern town, where, a few
months later, he, Philip the second, had been born. A couple of years
later the young couple had returned to England, where they had lived
until his father’s death. Shortly after losing her husband, young Mrs.
Renwick had returned to France, and had become the home-keeper for a
bachelor brother. On his death she was left a small annuity on the
condition that she retain her maiden name of de Brie; hence the reason
that Philip had become known by his mother’s maiden name.
“But did you know that it was _here_, at Seven Pillars, that your
grandmother used to live?” asked Nathalie, as Philip finished.
“Yes, and that was why I felt that I could not refuse your mother’s kind
invitation to spend a short time here as her guest, for the house had so
many associations for me, for my father, as well as my grandmother, were
very fond of this old place up here in these mountains.
“The night you found me in the cabin, Miss Nathalie,” resumed the young
man, “I had become tired of life, for it seemed as if there was nothing
for me to live for, for I hadn’t enough ambition to try to better my
condition. I could only face the fact that mother was gone, that I had
not a cent in the world, as my mother’s annuity ceased with her life,
and my soldier’s pension was only a few dollars a week. I realized that
I would probably lose my arm, for I knew that it should have a surgeon’s
care and I had no money to pay one. And it is right here, Miss Nathalie,
that I want you to understand my deep appreciation of, and my hearty
thanks for, what you have done for me; also the kindness of Miss Janet,”
a sudden light flamed in the young man’s eyes, “and the thoughtfulness
of your mother, and your friends, Mrs. Van Vorst and Miss Nita.
“The companionship of you all, even of the kiddies, your Liberty boys,
has put new life into me. I did become a little discouraged, it is true,
when I began to lose my French pupils, and surmised the reason, from
various hints that were dropped by some of the people, who were the
victims of the thief, for it is not an enlivening thought to fear that
your _only_ and very best friends might grow to think you a rascal.
“But you all proved so true to me, especially _you_, little Blue Robin,
I call you that name, as the bluebird is a bird of cheer, and certainly
you have inspired me with the ambition for a new career-to-be, as you
have proved yourself such a loyal little comrade in my time of need.
Remember, Nathalie, I shall never forget you, or what you have done for
me.”
Nathalie, her face a wave of color from the unexpected warmth of
Philip’s praise, in hasty confusion, as if to change the subject to
another one than herself, cried, “But why did you not go, when you were
in Boston, to Mrs. Renwick’s trustees, and make yourself known to them?
For, if you are her grandson, you are entitled to some of her money.”
“For two reasons,” replied Philip slowly. “One was that, in my hasty
departure from England it slipped my mind to bring my credentials with
me. And then, again,—perhaps my grandmother’s pride has descended to
me,—I felt that if she did not love my father,—she had let him go so
easily,—that I could have pride, too, and did not care to accept her
money. If I could have met her when alive, and had learned that she did
have some love for my father, why, then I would have revealed myself to
her, and naturally would have felt differently in regard to accepting
her money. But I have one thing by which I could have proved my identity
to her if she had been still alive. See, it is this little ring. She
gave it to my father, who always wore it, as I have done, ever since it
came into my possession.”
Philip took from one of his little fingers an odd, peculiar-looking seal
ring. After showing his father’s and his grandmother’s initials and the
date of its presentation, he touched a tiny spring back of the stone,
and Nathalie saw a miniature picture of Mrs. Renwick. She knew it
immediately from its resemblance to several pictures of her that were
scattered about the house.
At this moment there was a loud wail from Sheila, who, in picking
flowers in the meadow where Sam was mowing, had been injured by the
mower. It was some time before her cries were stilled, and her wound
properly bandaged, so that, for the time being, the wonderful news that
Philip had told was forgotten.
When it finally came to mind, Nathalie was tempted to run and claim him
as her cousin, to tell him about Mrs. Renwick’s peculiar letter, and
what was expected to take place there that afternoon. But after some
thought she wisely concluded to remain silent until after she had talked
with Mr. Banker and her mother. Not but that she had faith in Philip’s
story, but because it seemed the most prudent thing to do.
These thoughts were hasty ones, for the girl had suddenly remembered
that she had not selected the valuable thing as yet, and that it was
almost four o’clock, the hour of Mr. Banker’s arrival. She had partly
decided to select a set of rubies,—a necklace and pair of
bracelets,—and then a Russian curio had made its appeal, but somehow
she bordered upon a state of indecision that was becoming intolerable.
As she turned to enter the house, her eyes fell on the little Bible
that, in her hasty rush to Sheila, when she appeared with her bleeding
foot, she had left lying on the chair under the trees. She ran hastily
across the lawn and picked it up. As she did so, the book flew open and
her attention was arrested by the name, _Philip Renwick_, on the
fly-leaf, and its connection with what Philip had just told her. And
then, she stood a minute, pondering. Why had not she thought of that
before? and then, with a dimpling face, she closed the book and hurried
back to the veranda, almost knocking down Tony, who stood wistfully
regarding her.
“Pleass, scusa, Mees Natta, haf you gotta da theeng for de
preez?—Mister Banka, hees com’ bimeby to looka for eet.” Tony’s big,
velvety eyes were mutely pleading as he looked up at Nathalie.
The girl laughingly mimicked the boy as she patted him on the head,
understanding that he was worried because she had not selected the thing
that the children were so anxious should “win the prize,” as they called
it, for her. Then her eyes sobered, and, drawing the little lad to her,
she showed him the Bible she held in her hand, explaining that she had
selected it, as it told about Christ the Savior, and contained God’s
wonderful message to His people, telling them how to love Him and be
good. “Yes, Tony,” she added solemnly, “the Bible is the most precious
thing to everybody in the world. And then, as _this_ little Bible used
to belong to Mrs. Renwick’s only son, I am sure that it would be the
most valuable thing to her, so I am going to select it.”
As the girl saw the child’s eyes light up, as if he comprehended what
she meant, she laid the Bible on a chair and ran hastily up to her room
to hunt for some white paper and blue ribbon. In a moment or so she was
back, wrapping up the book, and then, to Tony’s infinite delight, she
slipped her card under the blue ribbon and gave the book to him, to
place at the door of the mystery-room with the other packages.
Some time later, Nathalie, in company with her mother, Janet, Cynthia,
and Mr. Banker, entered the mystery-room, no one perceiving as they
entered that the children had slyly followed them, and were staring
about with wondering, curious eyes. Ah, so this was the room they had
all been so curious about; and Nathalie smiled as she saw that it was a
homey, cozy room, suggestive of feminine tastes and occupations, but,
after all, it was just nothing but Mrs. Renwick’s sitting-room, the room
where she had sewed, read, and wrote her letters.
The low book-cases lining the wall, the hardwood floor with its costly
Persian rug, the open fireplace set with fagots ready to light on a cool
morning, the desk in one corner, with the Victrola near, and the antique
furniture, all of solid mahogany, certainly did not savor of a mystery
or anything uncanny. In fact, the little table in the center of the
room, with its shaded lamp, books, and magazines, and the little upright
work-basket near, rather intimated that the owner of the room had just
left it for a moment or so.
But Mr. Banker was speaking. He stood by the little center-table on
which lay the three valuable things. He held up Cynthia’s selection as
he said: “I have here a picture, a most valuable painting, as it is a
Van Dyke. It has been selected by Miss Cynthia Loretto Stillwell, as I
see by the name on the card. This little box bears the name of Miss
Janet Page, and is a curio from China. And here is a Bible,” the
gentleman’s voice deepened as he held up Nathalie’s selection. The
girl’s heart, notwithstanding her indifference to the outcome of the
selection, was beating against her side in a very annoying way.
“It is a curious selection,” continued Mr. Banker, “and—oh, what is
this?” as something round and glittering fell from the book. “A gold
coin,” he commented with some surprise; “yes, a Roman coin, for it bears
the head of Cæsar, and I should imagine he turned the coin over as it
lay in his palm, that it was of considerable value, as, from what I can
decipher between the obliterations, it has a very ancient date. But I do
not understand,” he glanced inquiringly, “which is the article that has
been selected as the valuable thing, the coin or the Bible? The card on
the letter bears the name of Nathalie Page,” turning as he spoke, and
looking at the girl, who was staring at him, with mystified, bewildered
eye, “A coin!” she finally managed to gasp. “Why, I didn’t see—”
“Pleass ’scusa. Mister Banka,” cried Tony’s soft, musical voice at this
point, “da coin eet belona to Mees Natta,—she fina eet wan day een a
box.” The liquid black eyes of the boy were brilliant with a strange
glow of joy.
“Oh, no, Tonio, the coin is not Miss Natta’s,” cried Nathalie, a sudden
light breaking in upon her bewilderment. “It is your coin. Don’t you
remember, I found it in the mustard-box the day you were ill? But it is
yours, Tony; you placed it there for Miss Natta to find.” The girl,
strangely amused, smiled down at the lad.
“You bet my life, Mees Natta, Tonio, no, hees neva hada coin. Eet verra
old, da coin, eet com’ f’om a beeg keeng wat liva een da Roma lan’. Ees
belonga to Mees Natta,” the boy ended persistently.
“Oh, Tony, you are in the wrong,” pleaded the girl, suddenly feeling
that she wanted to cry, as she saw that the child was determined to
persist in his untruth. “_You know_ it is _your coin_, for Danny found
it one day for you when it had dropped from your embroidered vest.
Didn’t you, Danny?”
And Danny, with a troubled look in his blue eyes,—he, too, wanted Miss
Natta to have that prize,—mutely nodded in confirmation of her word.
But Tony, with a sudden tightening of his red lips, again protested in a
sullen tone, “No, eet ees no Tonio’s coin. Eet belona to Mees Natta.”
“Oh, Tony,” exclaimed the girl, as the tears swelled up into her eyes,
“you hurt ‘Mees Natta.’ ‘Mees Natta’ rather not have the prize than have
Tonio tell what is not so.”
Tony’s eyes fell, as he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, and
then, glancing up, still with that stubborn look on his face, and seeing
the tears in the girl’s eyes, he dropped his face into the curve of his
arm. Not a sound came from him, but the long, convulsive shivers of the
slim little body told that the lad was crying.
Nathalie turned towards Mr. Banker, distress depicted on her face, as
she cried, “Oh, Mr. Banker, I am so sorry, but _I_ selected the Bible.”
Mr. Banker hesitated a moment, and then his sharp eyes softened, as he
saw the mute anguish of the little Italian lad and realized his keen
disappointment, for he had often commented upon the boy’s affection for
the girl. Stepping to his side, he patted him on the head, as he said
cheerily: “Never mind, son; don’t cry. Who knows, perhaps ‘Mees Natta’
may win the prize, as you call it, even without the coin. Here, lad,
take what belongs to you, and mind you,” he added in a sterner tone,
“never again be tempted to tell an untruth, even for ‘Mees Natta.’” With
another pat on the bowed head he stepped back beside the table, where he
had been standing.
“I have gone over these diaries,” said the gentleman, as he picked up
one of the three books that lay on the table, “and I find that Miss
Cynthia Loretto Stillwell has not passed a day in this house, within the
last two months in which she has not searched for the valuable thing.
Certainly her diligence should be rewarded,” ended the gentleman, as he
bowed ceremoniously to that lady, whose eyes radiated with triumphant
joy.
“Miss Janet, I find,” his eyes gleamed pleasantly at that winsome young
woman, “has been somewhat of a delinquent at times, for there are
several entries missing in her diary. But as its reading shows that her
heart is a kindly one, as shown by her careful nursing of the young
British soldier, I certainly think that she should be well favored.
“Miss Nathalie, I am afraid, has not done her duty as faithfully as she
might have, in looking for the valuable thing”; he spoke somewhat
severely as he peered over his glasses at the girl, whose cheeks
flushed, their red deepening, as she caught a gleam of satisfaction
emanating from Cynthia’s eyes.
“But her negligence has been more than compensated for,”—there was a
queer note in the gentleman’s voice, “as this record of two months is so
filled with kind acts for others, that— Well, ladies, possibly you have
begun to sense that it is not the finding of the valuable thing that is
to win out, but the acts it typifies. Each day has been conscientiously
noted in Miss Nathalie’s diary, and almost every day bears a record of
some good work done for others. I think—well—I am inclined to believe
that the young lady—”
Mr. Banker paused abruptly, for at this moment a loud knocking sounded
on the door. Cynthia, who was standing near it, with a frown on her
face, stepped impatiently forward, and with a hasty movement threw it
open.
On the threshold stood Mrs. Carney, who, the next moment, with her sharp
gray eyes peering defiantly out from under the queer poke-bonnet, while
the basket on her arm stuck out aggressively, brushed quickly past
Cynthia and into the room. But that lady, with two red spots on her
cheeks, seized her by the arm, crying, “You can’t come in here now; we
have company,” turning the old lady, as she spoke, and roughly shoving
her towards the door.
“Oh, Cynthia, don’t be rude to Mrs. Carney!” pleaded distressed
Nathalie, as she sprang to the side of her queer little friend. “How are
you, Mrs. Carney?” she asked gently, smiling at the face under the
bonnet. “We are very glad to see you. You don’t mind Mrs. Carney joining
us, do you?” continued the girl, looking at Mr. Banker. “If you do,” she
added quickly, “and will excuse me, I will go down-stairs with her, so
we can have a little chat.”
“No, Miss Nathalie, we do not mind Mrs. Carney joining us; in fact,”
again that queer little note in Mr. Banker’s voice, “I was just about to
ask you to go and bring her here.” He advanced as he spoke and cordially
shook the hand of the old lady, who pressed his warmly, but said
nothing.
“Ah, here is your favorite seat,” continued the gentleman; “perhaps you
would like to sit down in it. But I forgot, ladies; perhaps you have not
met Mrs. John Renwick,” he had turned towards the occupants of the room
smilingly, “the lady who has allowed you the privilege of summering in
her house for the last two months, your neighbor of the little red
house. As you see, Mrs. Renwick is alive, and I will ask her to take
charge of her own letter of instruction, and see that the reward is
given to the right one—and—”
The gentleman paused, for Mrs. Page, with a glad light in her eyes, was
already at the lady’s side, crying, “Oh, sister Mary, it was kind of you
to take this way of giving us such a lovely summer. And I am so glad
that you are alive and well.” She kissed Mrs. Renwick with warm
cordiality. “Do you know,” she continued smilingly, “I was rather
suspicious that you were up to one of your—”
“Eccentricities,” interrupted the old lady pleasantly, with an odd
twinkle in her eyes. “Well, I was anxious to know these young ladies.
Yes, I guess I know them now, one of them at least.” She glanced
wrathfully at Cynthia, who stood with down-cast eyes, her face as
crimson as a poppy, and her heart in a strange tumult of amazement,
anger, and regret.
But Nathalie, in her quick, impulsive way, had thrown her arms around
Mrs. Renwick’s neck and was giving her a good hug, as she cried, “Oh! my
dear little lady of the red house, I am so glad you are Aunt Mary, for
now you will _have to be my friend_, and answer my letters whether you
want to or not.”
The old lady’s gray eyes softened, as she bent forward and kissed the
girl softly on each cheek as she answered gently, “Nathalie, you are
just like your father,—he was my favorite brother,—but it is for
yourself, child,” she added gravely, “that I have learned to love you.
But who has won the prize?” she inquired abruptly, smiling down at the
children who were staring at her uncomprehendingly, recognizing her as
the inmate of the red house, who seemed to have suddenly assumed a new
character.
“Come over here and look them over,—I mean the valuable things,”
advised Mr. Banker, at this moment, as he led Mrs. Renwick to the table,
“for the diaries you saw last night.” And then he pointed out in quick
succession the three articles of value that were grouped on the table.
Mrs. Renwick glanced carelessly at the picture. “Yes, it is most
valuable,” she assented quietly, “a Van Dyke. And so is this”; she
fingered Janet’s choice. “But what is this?” she added suddenly, as her
eyes fell on the little Bible that lay at her elbow.
“This is Philip’s Bible,” said the gentleman, “and it was selected by
Miss Nathalie—”
“Why, Nathalie, my child, did you select my dear son’s Bible?” As
Nathalie mutely assented, Mrs. Renwick motioned for her to come and tell
her why she had made this choice. With some embarrassment the girl gave
her reasons. As she finished, her aunt said: “Yes, my dear child, there
is nothing in the house I value as highly as Philip’s Bible. Nathalie,
you have won the prize, and you deserve it, my dear, for you have not
only selected the most valuable thing, but you have learned what is the
most valuable thing in life.” The old lady drew Nathalie close to her,
as she again kissed her on both of her flushed cheeks.
But Nathalie drew quickly away, for a sudden thought had come to her.
“Oh, wait a moment!” she exclaimed hurriedly. “I’ll be back presently,”
and then, without waiting to be excused, she flew from the room.
“Oh, Philip!” screamed the girl a moment or so later, as she rushed up
to her friend, who was reading in the hammock, “I want you to come with
me—quick! Oh—I—” she paused as if at a loss to explain, and then
added hurriedly, “Oh, do come! I have something to show you!”
Philip looked up at the girl in surprise, but, instantly perceiving from
her bright, shining eyes, that she was more than usually excited, he
jumped from the hammock crying, “All right, Blue Robin, you look very
happy, so I suppose it is something very good to see, or good to eat.”
[Illustration: “Oh, it is Philip, my son!”—_Page 377._]
Two minutes later the girl had pushed open the door of the mystery-room,
and was trying to pull Philip in with her, but that gentleman, on seeing
that strangers were present, had stepped back.
“No, no, you _must come in_,” cried the girl in happy excitement. The
young man, seeing the determination on his companion’s face, somewhat
puzzled, silently followed her into the room. And then Nathalie swirled
him about so that he faced Mr. Banker, crying, “Mr. Banker, this is
Philip de Brie Renwick!” And then, without waiting for that gentleman to
acknowledge the introduction, she took Philip’s hand and led him towards
Mrs. Renwick, who, as she saw the young man approaching, tremblingly
arose, and, with clasped hands, cried, “Oh, it is Philip, my son!”
“No it is not Philip, your son,” quickly answered the young man, who had
instantly divined who the old lady was, “but Philip’s son, your
grandson, Philip de Brie Renwick.”
The next moment Philip was holding the old lady in his arms, while he
quietly tried to soothe her sobs, as she wept in happy joy on his
breast. As her sobs subsided somewhat, Philip said gently, “Mother
Mine,”—it used to be his father’s pet name for his mother,—“here is
the ring you gave father when at college.” He drew the seal ring from
his finger and held it up before his grandmother, who, with one look at
it, cried, “Yes, grandson, I know _he_ has gone, for he promised me—”
there was a quiver in her voice—“that the ring should never be removed
until—” she drew a deep breath that threatened to turn into a
sob—“until he was no more. But he has given me—you, his son. Oh, my
dear boy, my own grandson!”
* * * * *
Nathalie sat by her little sewing-table under the trees, gazing off at
her grand old friends, the purple-misted mountains. It had seemed hard
to do anything, this her last day at Seven Pillars, but gaze at the
lofty heights that stood forth so calm and beautiful in their mystical
splendor on this gloriously White Mountain day. But she _must_ read over
that letter to see if it was all right, so, in soft, low tone she read
slowly,
“Dear Helen:
“I have such good news to tell you that I can hardly
write,—for, oh, Helen! the little old lady who lived in the red
house is Mrs. Renwick, and Philip de Brie, the British soldier
whom we found up in the cabin on the mountain, is her grandson!
And I have won the prize. No, of course, it is not really a
prize, but the good-will and affectionate regard of Aunt Mary,
because—well—I made her happy by selecting her son’s Bible as
the most valuable thing in her house. And now I have dandy news
to tell. She is going to send me to college. I have just lived
in a dream ever since I heard the good news. Yes, and I have one
hundred dollars for my _very own_, to do just as I like with—no
restrictions, reparations, or indemnities, but just for _wee
little me_. I think that blessed sum was given to me, because
the boys, when told I had won the prize, could not understand
anything so vague as going to college, but they did finger that
crisp bank-note with eager, curious little fingers when I showed
it to them. Sometimes I feel a little guilty, for _really_
Cynthia’s selection, a Van Dyke painting, was the most valuable
from a certain point of view.
“And, oh, what I told you would happen about Philip and Janet is
true, for they are engaged, and go about looking into each
other’s eyes in a state of beatific happiness. Now she will be a
grand lady, for she to live with her new husband, and mother, in
a beautiful mansion in Boston. And Cynthia. Well, Mrs. Renwick
was quite angry with her, but finally, after mother and I had
talked to her, and told her the disadvantages she labored under,
and how she wanted to marry Mr. Buddie, why she partly relented,
for she is to set Cynthia up in a studio in Boston, and try to
get her friends to buy her pictures, for she insists that
Cynthia is a real artist.
“And Mrs. Renwick—mother says I must learn to call her Aunt
Mary—wanted Sheila to live with her, and as there was no
question of separating her from Danny, he goes to Boston with
her and is to be educated, and I know he will grow to be just a
splendid man. Mrs. Van Vorst has taken another one of my kids,
Tony. She has always been in love with those black eyes of his,
and she insists that he is going to be a great musician. Then
there was dear little Jean. Yes, he had to have something good
come into his life, too, so mother and I have decided to take
him to live with us.
“And now for another bit of news. I had a nice, long letter from
the soldier-boy, Van Darrell, and isn’t it too funny, but that
Blue Robin girl of his was just _me_ all the time. Now for the
fairy-tale part of my story. Do you remember my telling you
about writing a letter to a soldier-boy, and slipping it into a
comfort-kit that, with a lot of others, was to be given to the
boys at Camp Mills?
“Well, Van got it. He says that it set him to thinking, and made
him realize that we were not only going into this war of wars to
get even with the Huns, but because it is our duty to give the
liberty that we enjoy in our country to all the nations in the
world. And he has been ordered overseas. Yes, and he says he’s
going, ready to make the sacrifice if necessary, and to give his
life that all men may be free. Oh, I’m so glad I wrote that
letter, and to think it has done some one some good. Yes, and
I’m going to pray as hard as I can that the soldier-boy will
come back to his mother, and to his friend, Blue Robin. Yes,
indeed, I am glad that he is not just a conceited boy, as I at
one time feared.
“So good-by, you dear little maid, serving the Lord so
faithfully with those busy fingers of yours. I think of you
every day, and pray for you every night, so, with a bushel of
love, I am, as ever,
“Your own
“Blue Robin.”
THE END
------------------------------------------------------------------------
DOROTHY BROWN
By NINA RHOADES
Illustrated by Elizabeth Withington
Large 12mo Cloth $1.50 net
[Illustration: image of Dorothy Brown book cover]
This is considerably longer than the other books by this favorite
writer, and with a more elaborate plot, but it has the same winsome
quality throughout. It introduces the heroine in New York as a little
girl of eight, but soon passes over six years and finds her at a select
family boarding school in Connecticut. An important part of the story
also takes place at the Profile House in the White Mountains. The charm
of school-girl friendship is finely brought out, and the kindness of
heart, good sense and good taste which find constant expression in the
books by Miss Rhoades do not lack for characters to show these best of
qualities by their lives. Other less admirable persons of course appear
to furnish the alluring mystery, which is not all cleared up until the
very last.
“There will be no better book than this to put into the hands of a girl
in her teens and none that will be better appreciated by her.”—Kennebec
Journal.
MARION’S VACATION
By NINA RHOADES
Illustrated by Bertha G. Davidson 12mo $1.25 net
[Illustration: image of Marion’s Vacation book cover]
This book is for the older girls, Marion being thirteen. She has for ten
years enjoyed a luxurious home in New York with the kind lady who feels
that the time has now come for this aristocratic though lovable little
miss to know her own nearest kindred, who are humble but most excellent
farming people in a pretty Vermont village. Thither Marion is sent for a
summer, which proves to be a most important one to her in all its
lessons.
“More wholesome reading for half grown girls it would be hard to find;
some of the same lessons that proved so helpful in that classic of the
last generation ‘An Old Fashioned Girl’ are brought home to the youthful
readers of this sweet and sensible story.”—Milwaukee Free Press.
For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of
price by the publishers
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., Boston
------------------------------------------------------------------------
JEAN CABOT SERIES
By GERTRUDE FISHER SCOTT
Illustrated by Arthur O. Scott 12mo Cloth
Price, Net, $1.35 each
JEAN CABOT AT ASHTON
[Illustration: image of Jean Cabot at Ashton book cover]
Here is the “real thing” in a girl’s college story. Older authors can
invent situations and supply excellently written general delineations of
character, but all lack the vital touch of this work of a bright young
recent graduate of a well-known college for women, who has lost none of
the enthusiasm felt as a student. Every activity of a popular girl’s
first year is woven into a narrative, photographic in its description of
a life that calls into play most attractive qualities, while at the same
time severely testing both character and ability.
JEAN CABOT IN THE BRITISH ISLES
This is a college story, although dealing with a summer vacation, and
full of college spirit. It begins with a Yale-Harvard boat race at New
London, but soon Jean and her room-mate sail for Great Britain under the
chaperonage of Miss Hooper, a favorite member of the faculty at Ashton
College. Their trip is full of the delight that comes to the traveler
first seeing the countries forming “our old home.”
JEAN CABOT IN CAP AND GOWN
Jean Cabot is a superb young woman, physically and mentally, but
thoroughly human and thus favored with many warm friendships. Her final
year at Ashton College is the culmination of a course in which study,
sport and exercise, and social matters have been well balanced.
JEAN CABOT AT THE HOUSE WITH THE BLUE SHUTTERS
Such a group as Jean and her most intimate friends could not scatter at
once, as do most college companions after graduation, and six of them
under chaperonage of a married older graduate and member of the same
sorority spend a eventful summer in a historic farm-house in Maine.
For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt
of price by the publishers
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. Boston
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HANDICRAFT FOR HANDY GIRLS
By A. NEELY HALL
Author of “The Boy Craftsman,” “Handicraft for Handy Boys,”
“The Handy Boy”
AND DOROTHY PERKINS
Illustrated with photographs and more than 700 diagrams
and working drawings
8vo Cloth Price, Net, $2.00 Postpaid, $2.25
[Illustration: image of Handicraft for Handy Girls book cover]
With the aid of an experienced craftswoman, A. Neely Hall, who is in a
class by himself as a thoroughly reliable teacher of handicraft, every
operation that he describes being first practically worked out by
himself, and every working drawing presented being original, new, and
actual, has opened the door for the great and constantly increasing
number of girls who like to “make things.” Such girls see no reason why
the joy of mechanical work should be restricted to their brothers, and
with this book it need no longer be. The first part of the book is
devoted to a great variety of indoor craft that can be followed in
autumn and winter, while the second part, “Spring and Summer
Handicraft,” deals with many attractive forms of outdoor life, including
an entire chapter on the activities of “Camp Fire Girls.”
“This book will be hailed with delight by all girls who have a
mechanical turn.”—Watchman-Examiner.
“Girls will love just such a book and will find interest for every day
of the year in it.”—St. Louis Globe-Democrat.
“Triumphs of ingenuity never dreamed of are to be found in this volume
of handicraft that girls can make, but its chief charm is to be found in
the practical value of most of the things to be made.”—Lexington
Herald.
For sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt
of price by the publishers
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. Boston
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BOOKS BY RENA I. HALSEY
Illustrated Cloth $1.50 each
BLUE ROBIN, THE GIRL PIONEER
Nathalie Page is just such a girl of sixteen as one likes to read about.
Obliged to exchange affluence in a large city for a modest home in a
small one, she develops into capable young womanhood by becoming a
member of The Girl Pioneers of America.
“Any girl of a dozen years or more, or even less, will enjoy this
thoroughly, and anyone, young or old, will be the better for having read
it.”—Pittsburgh Times-Gazette.
AMERICA’S DAUGHTER
[Illustration: image of America’s Daughter book cover]
This is a rarely good and inspiring story of girls in a select school in
Brooklyn who organize a club called “Daughters of America,” and under
the care of a well-liked teacher take a trip to points on the New
England coast made famous in our history. One of the girls has been
brought up without knowledge of her own family, and so is called
“America’s Daughter.” In the course of the trip she unravels the mystery
of her birth and all ends happily and profitably.
“It is an inspiring story, well told and will be appreciated by girls
who love an active, out of doors life.”—Daily Press, Portland, Me.
THE LIBERTY GIRL
Nathalie Page, seventeen, bright and popular with all her mates, forms a
club called the “Liberty Girls” and enthusiastically does her bit to
help win the war. A surprising invitation to the White Mountains takes
her from organized activity with her companions, but a girl like
Nathalie will not be idle wherever she goes, and in carrying out the
principles of patriotic service she wins great and deserved credit.
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. Boston
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Transcriber’s Notes
1. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
2. Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation in the original
document have been preserved.