‘SENS LOVE HATH BROUGHT US TO THIS PITEOUS END.’
FROM THE REV. JULIAN TEMPLE TO MISS AYLMER.
‘Schaffhausen, September 11th, 187—.
‘MY DEAR FLORA,
‘You ask me for a detailed account of the melancholy accident on the
Matterhorn, of which I had the misfortune to be an eye-witness, and
the memory of which will haunt me for years to come—yes, even in that
blessed time when I shall be quietly settled down in domestic life
with my dear girl, and must needs have a thousand reasons for being
completely happy.
‘I kept you so well posted in my movements, until the occurrence of
this unhappy event made it painful to me to write about our Alpine
experiences, that you no doubt remember how Trevor and I, after our
successful attempt upon the Finsteraarhorn, made our way quietly down
to Zermatt, by way of Thun and Vispach. Never shall I forget the
calm delight of the last day’s walk between Vispach and Zermatt. The
distance is only thirty miles, we were in high spirits and in excellent
condition for the tramp, and we had a cart for our mountaineering gear,
and our knapsacks, so were able to take things easily.
‘We started at six o’clock, breakfasted at St. Nicolas, and reached
Zermatt early in the evening. Our road—a mule-path for the greater part
of the way—led us through scenes of infinite variety, and opened to us
views of surpassing grandeur and beauty. Amidst all the wildness of
a mountainous landscape we were struck with the profusion of flowers
which gave life and colour to the foreground, and the wild fruits
which rivalled the flowers in their vivid beauty; beds of Alpine
strawberries, thickets of raspberries and barberries, bordered the
path, and every village we entered lay sheltered amidst patriarchal
walnut or chestnut trees.
‘How can I describe to you the glory of the Matterhorn, as that
mighty monolith reveals itself for the first time to the eve of
the traveller?—an obelisk of dazzling whiteness cleaving the blue
sky, blanking out earth and heaven with its gigantic form, the one
mountain-peak which reigns supreme in a kingly solitude, not lifting
his proud head from a group of brother peaks, not buttressed by
inferior hills, but solitary as the Prince of Darkness, a being apart
and alone. Mont Blanc overawes by massive grandeur, but I should choose
the Matterhorn for the monarch of mountains.
‘The sun was setting as we crossed the Visp for the last time before
entering Zermatt. Trevor and I had been in the gayest spirits
throughout our journey. We had rested two hours at St. Nicolas, and
had taken a leisurely luncheon at Randa. We were full of talk about
the day after to-morrow, which date we had chosen for our attempt on
the Matterhorn, thinking it wise to give ourselves a day’s rest, or at
least partial rest, after our thirty miles’ walk, and to leave time for
engaging guides and making all necessary preparations in a leisurely
manner.
‘Trevor was a stranger to the district, but he had done much good work
on Mont Blanc, and he had behaved so well on the Finsteraarhorn that I
had no doubt of his mettle. I had familiarised myself with the Monte
Rosa group three years before, and I knew the Zermatt guides and their
ways and manners. We interviewed some of these gentry after our dinner,
and I picked two of the sturdiest and trustiest, made my bargain with
them, and told them to examine our ropes and other gear carefully by
daylight next morning.
‘We had a pleasant evening, sauntering about the quiet little town in
the light of a glorious full moon, smoking our cigars, talking of our
future prospects, of the Church, and of you. Yes, dear love, Trevor is
just one of those faithful souls with whom a man can talk about his
sweetheart.
‘Next morning we breakfasted at daybreak and started luxuriously on
a brace of mules for the Riffelberg, to reconnoitre our mountain.
How grand and beautiful was the circle of snow-clad peaks which we
beheld from that dark hillside: Monte Rosa on the south-east, on the
south-west the Matterhorn, on the east, the Cima de Jassi, to the
west the Dent Blanche, to the north-eastward the Dom, and westward
the Weisshorn—gigantic crags and domes and solitary peaks, all bathed
in sunshine, and as dazzling in their glorified whiteness as the sun
himself! We spent some hours in quiet contemplation of that sublime
and awful scene gazing at that circle of Titanic peaks, which had a
sphinx-like and mysterious air as they looked back at us in their dumb
unapproachable majesty.
‘“Is it not a kind of blasphemy to pollute them with our footsteps, to
be always trying to get nearer and nearer to them, into Nature’s Holy
of Holies?”’ I asked, carried away by the grandeur of the scene.
‘But Trevor’s manner of look at the question was practical rather than
imaginative.
‘“I shouldn’t like to go back without having done the Matterhorn,” he
said, “though the terrible accident a few years ago makes one inclined
to be cautious.”
‘We had a rough-and-ready luncheon on the Rothe Kumm, and took our time
about the descent. It was nearly dark when we got back to Zermatt.
The _table-d’hôte_ dinner was over, and we dined together at a small
table in a corner of the coffee-room, a table near a window, that stood
open to a verandah. As we took our seats we noticed that there was a
gentleman sitting smoking a little way from the window. I sat facing
him, and as we began dinner he asked politely whether his cigar annoyed
us. This broke the ice, and he began to talk of our intended ascent,
which he had heard of from the guides.
‘“I should very much like to join you,” he said. “We could take another
guide if you think it advisable. I am used to Alpine climbing. I came
here on purpose to ascend the Matterhorn, and I shall do it in any
case; but it would be pleasant to have congenial company,” he added,
with a light laugh.
‘“Pleasant for us as well as for you,” I replied, for there was
something particularly winning in his manner; “but you must not
consider me impertinent if I say that you hardly seem in strong enough
health for mountain climbing. You look as if you had not long recovered
from a severe illness.”
‘“Do I?” he asked, in the same light tone; “I was always a sallow
individual. No, I have not been ill; and I am sinewy and wiry enough
for pretty hard work in the climbing way, though I have no superfluous
flesh. I don’t think you’ll find me an encumbrance to you; but if you
have any doubt upon the subject you can ask your chief guide, Peter
Hirsch, for my character, He and I have done same pretty rapid ascents
together in past years.”
‘He handed me his card. “Mr. Goring, Goring Abbey, Warwickshire.”
‘There was nothing of the braggart about him, and I had no doubt as
to his Alpine experience, but I could not dispossess myself of the
idea that he was in weak health, and out of condition for a fatiguing
ascent; for though the approach to the Matterhorn has been made much
easier than it was in ’65, when it was ascended for the first time by
Mr. Whymper and three other gentlemen, with most lamentable results, it
is still a toughish piece of work.
‘I heard a good deal of Mr. Goring later from our landlord; he was well
known in the district, and known as an experienced mountaineer. He was
a man of large wealth, very generous, very good to the poor. He had
been living in Switzerland for the past year, shifting from town to
town along the banks of Lake Leman, but never leaving the shores of the
lake, until a few weeks ago, when he set out on a walking expedition
to Italy. He had stopped at Zermatt on his way southward; had idled
away his days in a listless purposeless way; now doing a little
climbing, now spending whole days lying about in the woods, with his
books and his sketching materials. He kept himself as much aloof from
the tourists as it was possible for him to do, occupying his own rooms,
and never dining at the _table-d’hôte_; and the landlord was surprised
that he should wish to join our party. His story was at once romantic
and tragical. He had come to Montreux with the family of the young lady
to whom he was engaged. This young lady was accidentally drowned in
the lake last summer, and Mr. Goring had never left the scene of her
untimely death till he came to Zermatt.
‘I asked the landlord if there was any fear of his mind being affected
by this trouble, and he assured me that there was not the slightest
ground for such an idea. Mr. Goring kept himself to himself; but he
was as rational and as clever a man to talk to as any gentleman the
landlord had ever known.
‘This settled the matter. To make assurance doubly sure I engaged a
third guide, and a young man to help in carrying tents, ropes, etc.,
and we set out, a little party of seven, gaily enough, in the early
morning. We meant to take things quietly, and to spend the first night
in the tent, or in blanket-bags, if the weather were as mild as it
promised to be. We carried provisions enough to last for three days,
in case the ascent should take even longer than we anticipated. We
took sketching materials, a tin box for any botanical or entomological
specimens we might collect, and two or three well-worn volumes of
poetry which had accompanied us in all our excursions, but had not been
largely read. The great and varied book of Nature had generally proved
all-sufficient.
‘We left Zermatt soon after five, the Lac Noir between eight and nine,
and a little before noon we had chosen our spot for a camping-place,
eleven thousand feet high, and the men set to work making a platform
for the tent, while we took our ease on the mountain, basking in
the sunshine, sketching, collecting a little, and talking a great
deal. We found Mr. Goring a delightful companion. He was a man of
considerable culture; had travelled much and read much. There was a
dash of nineteenth-century cynicism in his talk, and it was but too
easy to see that his view of this life and the world beyond it was of
that sombre hue which so deeply overshadows modern thought. Still he
was a most agreeable companion; and Trevor told me more than once, in a
confidential aside, that our new acquaintance was a decided acquisition.
‘In all our conversation, which was perfectly unreserved on all sides,
it was noticeable that Mr. Goring talked very little of himself or of
his own affairs. He spoke vaguely of an idea of going on to Italy, and
wintering at Naples, but rather as an intention he had entertained and
abandoned, than as one which he meant to carry out.
‘I ventured to say that I should have thought that, for a man of his
culture, Paris or Berlin would have been a pleasanter wintering-place;
but he shrugged his shoulders and declared that he detested both these
cities, and the society to be found in them. “French charlatanism or
German pedantry,” he said, “God knows which is worse.”
‘There was a magnificent sunset. Never shall I forget the awful beauty
of the sky and mountains as we watched the decline of that ineffable
glory—watched in silence, subdued to gravity by the unspeakable
grandeur of that mighty panorama, in the midst of which our own
littleness was brought painfully home to our minds.
‘The night was singularly mild, and we preferred sleeping in our
blanket-bags to the stuffy atmosphere of a tent.
‘We were up before daybreak next morning, and breakfasted merrily
enough by the light of the stars, which were dropping out of the purple
sky, like lamps burned out, as the colder light of day crept slowly
along the edges of the eastward snow-peaks—such a livid ghastly light.
I remember wondering at Mr. Goring’s good spirits, which seemed by no
means to accord with the landlord’s account of him. Had there been
anything forced or hysterical about his gaiety I should have taken
alarm: but nothing could be easier or more natural than his manner;
and I was pleased to think that, however deeply he might regret the
poor girl whom he had lost by so sad a fate, he had his hours of
forgetfulness and tranquillity.
‘We made the ascent slowly but easily, our guides seeing no risk from
any quarter; and between one and two o’clock we stood on the top of
that peak which of all others had most impressed me by its grand air
of solitude and inaccessibility. Throughout the ascent Mr. Goring had
shown himself a skilful and experienced mountaineer; and there was no
thought further from my mind than the apprehension of hazard to him
more than to anyone of us in the descent, or of recklessness on his
part.
‘We stayed on the summit a little over an hour, and then prepared
ourselves for the descent. There were some difficult bits to be passed
in going down, and it was suggested by the most experienced of the
guides that we should be all roped together with the stoutest of our
Alpine-Club ropes. But this Mr. Goring negatived. “Where there is only
one rope, a false step for one means death to all,” he said. “It was
that which caused the calamity in Mr. Whymper’s descent; if the rope
had not broken there would not have been a man left to tell the story
of that fatal day.” At his urgent request we formed ourselves into
three parties, each of the guides being roped to one of us. He chose
the least experienced of the three men, and he, with this youngest of
the guides, went first.
‘“You need not be afraid about me,” he said cheerily. “I am as
sure-footed as the best guide in Zermatt.”
‘The two men who were with us assented heartily to this, and my own
observation went far to assure me that Mr. Goring’s assertion was no
idle boast.
‘Those were the last words I ever heard him speak. We were all intent
upon the descent, the guides cutting footsteps now and then in the ice.
There was neither inclination nor opportunity for much talk of any
kind. Mr. Goring and his companion moved more quickly than we did; and
I began to fear, as I saw the two dark figures ever so far below us
amidst the dazzling whiteness, that there was a dash of recklessness in
him after all.
‘This made me feel uneasy, and I found my attention wandering from my
own position, which was not without peril, to those two in advance
of us. Suddenly, to my surprise, I saw Goring change places with the
guide, who until this moment had been foremost. I saw also in the same
instant that the rope which had been hanging somewhat loosely between
them a minute or so before—always a source of danger—was now tightly
braced. It seemed to me that Goring stood still for a moment or two,
looking down the sheer precipice that yawned on one side of him, as if
admiring the awful grandeur of the abyss, then I saw a sharp sudden
movement of his right arm; there was a cry from the guide, and in the
next moment a dark figure slid with a fearful velocity along the smooth
whiteness of the frozen snow, and then shot over the edge, and dropped
from precipice to precipice to the Matterhorn glacier below, a distance
of nearly four thousand feet. How the guide contrived to maintain his
footing in that awful moment I know not. He never could have done it
had the rope been slack before it broke—or was severed. In those last
words lies the saddest part of the story. It is the guide’s opinion,
and mine, that the rope was deliberately cut by Mr. Goring. He could
scarcely have done this all at once by one movement of his knife; but
the guide believes that he had contrived to cut it three parts through,
unobserved by him, in the course of the descent. I asked how it came
about that he and the guide changed places, and the young man told me
that it was at Mr. Goring’s desire, a desire so calmly and naturally
expressed that it had occasioned neither wonder nor alarm.
‘His body has not been found, though the people of Zermatt have been
diligent in their search. He lies locked in his frozen tomb in some
crevasse of the glacier.
‘A very beautiful marble cross has been erected to his memory in the
little churchyard at Zermatt. I am told that it exactly resembles one
that was placed last year in the churchyard at Montreux, in memory of
the young lady who was drowned in the lake near that town.
‘It may interest you to know that Mr. Goring’s will bequeaths the whole
of his enormous fortune to the elder sister of this unfortunate lady,
the testator being assured that she will make a much more noble use of
that fortune than he could ever have done.
‘Those are the words of the legacy.’
THE END.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
MISS BRADDON’S NEW NOVEL.
MOUNT ROYAL
Opinions of the Press.
‘“Mount Royal” is a very readable book, and the interest is sustained
by the _dénouement_ being left in doubt to the very end of the
penultimate chapter.’—_Times._
‘Miss Braddon’s numerous admirers can hardly fail to have been struck
by the remarkable advance shown by her most recent novels, not only
in point of style, but in the natural delineation of those phases
of modern society which no living writer of fiction treats more
agreeably or with more sustained power. The most striking instance
of this may, perhaps, be found in “Vixen;” and if the present work
is not superior to that charming tale—which would involve excellence
of an unexceptionally high order—it will, at least, not suffer from
comparison with its predecessor. The plot will be preferred by many,
as dealing with the more tragic side of life, and with more serious
issues; but, granting that such preference must be a matter of taste,
all will admit the touch of a master-hand in development of the
action and the carefully artistic treatment which renders each of the
_dramatis personæ_, estimable or otherwise, a living sentient being,
with human idiosyncrasies and distinct personality.... The scene, by
the bye, in which this episode occurs is unquestionably one of the
finest and most dramatic that even Miss Braddon has ever written, and
is only to be surpassed in point of intensity by the two still finer
interviews between Leonard and his wife, and the remorseful woman and
her intended tool, the adventurer De Cazalet.... We may say, without
hesitation, that Miss Braddon has never employed her great talents
to better purpose than in “Mount Royal.” It is the worthy work of a
thorough artist.’—_Morning Post._
‘Miss Braddon’s ever-active and ever-fascinating pen has just completed
a new work of fiction, entitled “Mount Royal.” If it does not appeal as
immediately and powerfully to the feelings as “Lady Audley’s Secret,”
or “Lucius Davoren,” or some of the gifted authoress’s more recent
novels, such as “Vixen,” it is replete with all the freshness and
charm which she has taught the public to expect from her, which makes
the book one that will attract by its power as well as charm by its
style.’—_Daily Telegraph._
‘Miss Braddon has never, in our opinion, written a novel at once more
clever and more true than this.’—_Morning Advertiser._
‘The interest is unmistakable, and the way in which this is sustained
from first to last proves that its author’s command of the art of
storytelling has in no wise diminished.’—_Observer._
‘“Mount Royal” is entitled to rank high among our modern works of
fiction.’—_Society._
‘Miss Braddon has maintained in “Mount Royal” the standard of her later
period.’—_Athenæum._
‘The story is clearly developed and vigorously written.’—_Pall Mall
Gazette._
‘“Mount Royal” will not only be found a pleasant sea-side companion
during the coming season, but a friend in need during many a solitary
hour in the country. It is not only one of the best ever written by
the author of “Lady Audley’s Secret,” but one of the most original
likewise.’—_Court Journal._
‘To return for a last word to “Mount Royal,” the more we have of Miss
Braddon, and the less of Miss Rhoda Dendron and Weeder, the better, in
our opinion, for all novel-readers, old and young.’—_Punch._
‘As a novelist, she is almost without a rival in the art of
plot-weaving; so delicate are her meshes, and so subtle her
discrimination, that the inherent interest of her books carries us
along with her. She is the high priest of a school which, since
she inaugurated it, has had many more or less feeble imitators....
Painfully and terribly true to life, and rightly understood, “Mount
Royal” is capable of making us appreciate truth and purity more
heartily than ever.’—_Evening News._
‘The great body of novel-readers who have for so many years found
recreation and delight in the brilliant works of imagination which have
come from the pen of Miss Braddon, will need no inducement to turn to
a new story by this accomplished authoress.... As is always the case
in Miss Braddon’s stories, the characters are powerfully drawn. They
are not merely people of whom we read, but seem to enjoy an actual
existence during the time that their movements are being followed
with such rapt attention. The lives of these inhabitants of the old
Cornish manor-house, known as Mount Royal, are not free from the cares
and excitement which the world calls sensational, albeit the stronger
element is made subordinate to gentler and more subtle influences.
Judged relatively to other works, “Mount Royal” must be awarded a
place midway between the early impulsiveness of “Lady Audley” and the
charming fancy displayed in “Vixen,” the novel in which Miss Braddon’s
maturer style reached its highest excellence.... Readers will find
in “Mount Royal,” in its pathetic views of life and love, echoes of
their own experience that are sure to command absorbing interest. Miss
Braddon’s romantic spirit has been in no way quenched; but in this last
novel its brighter rays are tempered by experience and the saddening
influence of earth’s sorrows and troubles.’—_Daily Chronicle._
‘An interesting and clever story. The excitement and expectation
are well sustained throughout; the incidents are original, and the
characters are neatly drawn. Miss Braddon has written some delightful
pictures of scenery in Cornwall.’—_Sunday Times._
‘That Miss Braddon’s hand has not lost its cunning is evidenced by the
excellent work which she has given us in “Mount Royal.” The same skill
in construction, the same charm of description as marked her earlier
efforts, are all here in this present work, matured and mellowed,
it may be, by experience, but not one whit dulled or destroyed by
lapse of time. We welcome “Mount Royal.” Miss Braddon has given us a
story which, while it adds to her fame as an authoress, increases our
indebtedness to her: the healthy tone of “Mount Royal” is not one of
its least charms.’—_Pictorial World._
‘For one “who has been long in city pent” the pictures of Cornish
scenery, drawn by the free bold hand of the authoress, are delightful;
no landscape-painter could produce a more vivid impression.... We
anticipate that this powerful tragic story will enhance the high
reputation of its authoress.’—_Echo._
‘The situations are worked out with so much skill, and the probability
of details is so well managed, that the story can be followed with the
keenest interest.’—_St. James’s Gazette._
‘There is much effective writing in the course of the novel, and we
must add that the minor characters are individualised with all the
accustomed power of the authoress.’—_News of the World._
‘Miss Braddon never disappoints her readers. Whoever takes up “Mount
Royal” will be prepared for an interesting story, excellently well
told, and that they will get. Her scenes never fall flat, nor does
her weapon ever miss fire. The incidents of her stories are always
marshalled with very great skill, so as to produce the best effect
which is to be got from them. In fewer words, Miss Braddon is, as our
readers know without our telling them, a story-teller of consummate
ability. To be able to conceive a thrilling plot is one thing; to be
able to work it out in a story is another. Miss Braddon has from the
beginning shown that she possesses both these gifts. Her fertility
in plot-making is nothing short of marvellous; and when we find that
her conceptions are always worked out by the aid of characters of
flesh and blood, who stand prominently forth from the canvas, and look
at you with living eyes, we are lost in wonder at a fancy, a power,
so inexhaustible. Scarcely ever is there a trace of any strain, any
fatigue. We might say that she appears to be telling a story for the
first time, did not the ease and skill displayed in the process betray
to the close observer a vast amount of practice added to natural
talents of a high order. Her descriptive power and her dramatic
instinct are never weakened. She never fails to bring before the reader
the objects of persons she is describing. Moreover, she can describe
indirectly as well as directly.’—_Lloyd’s Weekly London Newspaper._
‘Many of the descriptions of the scenery of Cornwall are well worth
reading; while London fashionable circles are hit off in a vein of
satire occasionally, but with a considerable resemblance, we should
imagine, to what really takes place. The scene where Christabel meets
Psyche in her own dwelling is full of womanly tenderness, and suggests
to the poor victim the existence of a world of compassion of which
she had never dreamed. The marshalling and management also of the
characters as a whole reveal, it must be admitted, the possession of
high artistic powers, as well as a wide observation of men and things.
Major Broe is drawn to the life. Mrs. Tregonell senior, with her
mother’s fondness for the roving Leonard, is also as true to nature as
can well be imagined.’—_Liverpool Mercury._
‘Miss Braddon, if not the most industrious of modern novelists, is
certainly unrivalled in this respect among those whose works are in
great demand at the circulating libraries. Let the reader once become
really interested in the fortunes of the lovely, but unhappy, Mrs.
Tregonell, and he will not willingly put down the book until the end of
the third volume.’—_Manchester Examiner and Times._
‘We have followed the plot out with considerable interest, and no fault
is to be found in the novel in the way of dulness.’—_John Bull._
‘The scene in which her new novel is chiefly laid is to the full as
enchanting as it is painted by her skilful hand. That there is plenty
to interest and something to excite in any book from the pen of Miss
Braddon may be taken for granted. The ingenuity of the plot is worthy
of the author.’—_London Figaro._
‘A most attractive and interesting novel. The genius of Miss Braddon
evolves a number of most ingenious plots, and the reader’s interest is
kept engaged through the development of them with absorbing power. Miss
Braddon deals with persons and places that are familiar to us, and her
descriptions of the scenery of the north coast, of Tintagel, Boscastle,
and all the neighboring shores, are photographed with great clearness
in beautiful language and with perfect knowledge. Miss Braddon’s
works are always interesting, and these volumes will add to her
well-established reputation. There are many phases of life described
in them which we know exist; but there are few who have the power of
placing either the people or their surroundings so completely before
us. She hits off admirably the follies and fashions of the hour as they
prevail in fashionable life. So great was the demand for Miss Braddon’s
new novel, “Mount Royal,” the other day, that the circulating libraries
subscribed for the whole of the first edition, and the publisher had to
go to press immediately with a new impression.’—_Plymouth Western Daily
Mercury._
‘In “Mount Royal” Miss Braddon appears to us not only to have surpassed
her own previous performances, numerous and successful as they have
been, but even to have distanced all her competitors in that class of
literature. We know of no recent novel which we would place before
“Mount Royal” in its power of exciting the emotions.’—_Sheffield Post._
‘“Mount Royal” is an addition to the Braddon library that will be
heartily welcomed by all who can appreciate a sound, healthy, and
thoroughly interesting novel.’—_Belfast News Letter._
‘Taking the novel altogether, “Mount Royal” will compare favourably
with any that have preceded it from the same pen. In point of character
delineation and skilfulness of construction, its merits are very
considerable.’—_Bradford Observer._
‘“Mount Royal” is well written, as all Miss Braddon’s books are. It is
bright, and catches with great accuracy the precise tone of the people
whose lives are being sketched. A good novel.’—_Scotsman._
‘“Mount Royal” is powerful and artistic—a finished bit of
workmanship.’—_Edinburgh Daily Review._
‘We may fairly say of it that it contains many sparkling passages
and many happy thoughts. It shows that the writer has an extensive
acquaintance with the best English authors, and it shows that she is an
adept in word-painting.’—_Sheffield Daily Telegraph._
‘Miss Braddon’s last production is as engrossing, as dramatic, and as
fresh as if it were only her second or third. There is not a dull page
in the three volumes.’—_Brighton Fashionable Visitors’ List._
‘“Mount Royal” is an exceptionally favorable specimen. The story is
told with singular neatness, and grace almost equally unusual in works
of this kind. The novel is, without doubt, a good and a bright one,
with plenty of incidents and plenty of character.’—_Manchester Courier._
‘The story, as a whole, is extremely interesting. It is emphatically
a novel of the present day, and we predict for it an extensive
demand.’—_York Herald._
Transcriber’s Notes
pg 49 Changed: Miss Dibb made the acqaintance of a strange man
to: Miss Dibb made the acquaintance of a strange man
pg 92 Changed: there is a South Pole, too, isn’t here, dear
to: there is a South Pole, too, isn’t there, dear
pg 109 Changed: She folded the soft wollen wrap
to: She folded the soft woollen wrap
pg 110 Changed: she was still digging and and scraping
to: she was still digging and scraping
pg 112 Changed: the Maltese terrior Fluff in her lap
to: the Maltese terrier Fluff in her lap
pg 138 Changed: There was not even a shrubberry
to: There was not even a shrubbery
pg 188 Changed: see that this luxurions home-education
to: see that this luxurious home-education
pg 220 Changed: and faithful, pious, self-sacricing
to: and faithful, pious, self-sacrificing
pg 235 Changed: the perfact outline of the throat
to: the perfect outline of the throat
pg 235 Changed: hand that lay inhert upon Fluff
to: hand that lay inert upon Fluff
pg 243 Changed: deferred boyond luncheon time
to: deferred beyond luncheon time
pg 255 Changed: toboggining at the Falls of Montmorenci
to: tobogganing at the Falls of Montmorenci
pg 261 Changed: Daphne had never been beyond Fontainbleau
to: Daphne had never been beyond Fontainebleau
pg 270 Changed: surprised if Miss Dapne Lawford
to: surprised if Miss Daphne Lawford
pg 282 Changed: furniture, delf, and china
to: furniture, delft, and china
pg 302 Changed: It was not a grandoise or thrilling ceremonial
to: It was not a grandiose or thrilling ceremonial
pg 321 Changed: That is remakably clever
to: That is remarkably clever
pg 372 Changed: to whom she dicoursed freely upon
to: to whom she discoursed freely upon