"I will go, colonel," cried a clear voice from the women about the

group of men.

"Elizabeth!" exclaimed her brother.

"Mistress Zane!" interrupted McCullough; "nay, you shall not. 'Tis no

woman's work! I----"

"Silence, sir!" interrupted the colonel. "Who commands this garrison?

'Tis not woman's work, indeed; but we can spare no men. I cannot risk

a single rifle. The maid shall go, and God bless her! If she falls,

why, she but anticipates the fate of the rest of us."

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" cried McCullough, appealingly, still

unconvinced; "you can't go! Think what your life is to me!"

"No more than yours is to me, Master Hugh," she answered, bravely,

"and yet you went."

"Elizabeth, sister," cried Zane, "I can't let you go! You must not

take this fearful risk!"

"Nay, gentlemen," interrupted Elizabeth, stoutly, "I will go! Open the

gate. Do you cover me with your rifles as best you can. Good-by."

"Stay!" cried McCullough, grasping her by the arm. "Gentlemen, I love

her and she loves me. Would you send away my promised wife? Must I see

her killed before my eyes? Oh, let me try?"

"Nay, you shall not!" said the girl, kissing him and suddenly

thrusting him from her, crying, "Forgive me!"

There was a flash of skirts through the open gate, and she was gone.

Forgetful of his wounds, McCullough sprang to the top of the

block-house nearest the gate. His own rifle in hand, and sweeping one

or two others within reach, in spite of the pain from his injured arm,

he knelt on the roof, peering eagerly down the hill.

As she left the block-house Elizabeth ran with the speed of a deer

straight to her brother's house. She knew exactly where the powder lay

concealed. She felt little fear in the advance. Seeing a woman running

toward them, and ignorant of her purpose, the Indians probably would

not attempt to harm her; but when she started back with the heavy keg

of powder in her arms they would detect the reason for her movement

and open fire upon her at once. Her comparatively slow progress under

her burden would make her position exceedingly dangerous then. But

that was a chance she realized she would have to take.

It happened just as she had anticipated. She gained the house without

molestation and disappeared within the door-way for a moment, though

it seemed hours to the men and women who watched from the fort until

she appeared with the keg of powder on her shoulder. One glance she

cast back toward the Indians standing gazing in startled surprise; one

long look she threw toward the fort where, although she could not

detect him in her excitement, she knew her lover was on guard, and

then she started up the hill.

As she came out from the cover of the house the Indians saw the keg of

powder upon her shoulder and at once realized what she was attempting

to do. With roars of rage they opened fire. The bullets whistled and

sang about her ears; they spattered the earth about her flying feet;

one grazed her neck; another tipped her arm; a third glanced off the

iron hoop of the keg she carried. If one struck the powder fairly, she

would probably be blown to atoms. A new peril!

Her breath came quickly, her heart rose in her throat and seemed to

choke her, mists swam before her eyes as she ran up the hill. Blindly

she struggled on. She swayed to and fro over the rough ploughed

ground, and the watchers thought she would have fallen or dropped her

burden, but something superhuman in her enabled her to hold tight and

press on.

She could not tell whether she ran rapidly or not; but her progress

seemed slow, fearfully slow. Presently the firing stopped. Three of

the Indians, tomahawk in hand, broke from the trees and recklessly

started up the hill after her. They would try to capture her. Heedless

of a possible rifle fire from the fort as they came within range, they

leaped on her trail.

That was McCullough's opportunity. With a prayer in his heart that God

might speed the bullet, he took careful aim. The first half-naked

painted demon was nearing the girl with every bound. Two more steps

and she would be in his grasp. She heard his feet on the ground; his

yell rang in her ear. In spite of herself she started aside and looked

around.

McCullough had his opening at last. A rifle shot rang out. She heard

the scream of the bullet past her head. The savage threw up his hands,

groaned horribly, and pitched forward with a bullet in his breast.

Encouraged, she ran a few steps farther. Her foot caught in a forked

piece of timber. The other pursuing Indians were near her now. The

wood was filled with the enemy holding their fire and watching the mad

chase.

"Let no one else fire," called McCullough. "You might hit her. Leave

them to me."

These two savages, warned by the fate of the first, were wise enough

to keep directly behind the fleeing girl. But, as her foot caught, she

plunged sideways to extricate herself, leaving the shoe with its

glittering silver buckle in the obstruction. That one second was

enough for McCullough again. Once more the unerring rifle cracked and

the second Indian fell.

Elizabeth, recovering her wits, ran sideways now. The third Indian,

attracted by the shining buckle, stooped for a moment to pick it up.

McCullough fired a third rifle, which some one put into his hand. The

bullet shattered the Indian's arm. With a cry of pain and rage, his

other hand dropped down toward the lost slipper, and this time a

bullet from a fourth rifle found his heart.

The woods were ringed with fire now, but the girl was saved. When he

saw that she had arrived at the fort gate, McCullough ran from the

block-house and reached the entrance in time to catch her in his arms.

Her poor little Philadelphia finery was red with blood from the wound

in her neck, and her sweet young face was covered with the same gory

embroidery.

She dropped the powder at the feet of the colonel and fainted in

McCullough's arms, his own face scarcely less white than hers. One

agonizing glance he gave to assure himself that her wounds were but

slight ones, and he had to leave her to the women, for he was called

to the walls.

While some of the women revived the girl, others, by Colonel

Sheppard's directions, broke open the precious keg of powder and

served it to the men. Those who could do so, took their places, rifle

in hand, on the stockade; for the Indians and rangers now came out

into the open. Carrying a great log, the Indians dashed recklessly at

the fort, endeavoring to batter in the gate, while they kept down the

fire of the defenders by the rapidity of their own discharge. They

reached the gate and hammered on it with their ram; but the gallant

little band within the walls, with their women helpers behind them,

poured such a fire upon them that after heavy loss they retreated out

of range, disheartened by their failure.

The next morning brought Colonel Swearingen and his militia levies,

and at his approach the besiegers gave over the attempt and withdrew.

The post was saved with the women and children. Elizabeth and

McCullough were the heroes of the occasion.

"How could you do it?" asked Hugh of the girl, as they wandered

together by the river that evening.

"I did it for you, dear," she answered.

"No, not only for me, but for the women and children; you thought of

them?"

"Oh, yes; but I thought more of you than of the others, all the time.

I knew you'd save me, Hugh. I was sure you would not let them take me.

'Twas your rifle----"

"Nay, dearest, 'twas your shoe." He took it fondly from his coat and

kissed it. "This little shoe that turned you aside and gave me an

opening. God forbid I should ever have to do such shooting again,

dearest."

"Amen, Hugh, and yet He guided the bullets, I think."

"Yes, truly. And I never dreamed that you were such a heroine,

Elizabeth. Where did you learn it? Not in Philadelphia, I am sure."

"No, Hugh, there is but one school in which they teach those things."

"And that is the school of----"

"Love," she whispered, hiding her head in his breast.

"SONNY BOY'S" DIARY

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR IN CHINA

"Oh, a strange hand writes for our dear son--O stricken mother's

soul!

All swims before her eyes--flashes with black--she catches the

main words only;

Sentences broken--'gun-shot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish,

taken to hospital;

At present low, but will soon be better.'"

WALT WHITMAN

Among the most devoted of my parishioners was a certain Mrs.

Allen,--devoted to the Church, of course, that is; although, if I may

judge from her actions, I think she held me personally in high esteem

as well. When I became acquainted with her she was a widow with one

son. Other children, girls, had been born to her I learned afterward,

but she had lost them in their early childhood; and, after the death

of her husband, who had been a major in the marine corps of the United

States navy, her life had been entirely devoted to this son, in whom

her heart was so wrapped up that she fairly worshipped him.

She was a gentle, quiet, retiring little woman, sad-faced and inclined

to melancholy when George, her son, was not with her. He was a hearty,

healthy lad, abounding in strength and spirits, full of fun and

mischief, but never vicious, and he certainly adored her with a

genuine enthusiasm. His mother seemed actually to bask in the sunshine

of his presence, and when they were together she was a different

woman.

When I first knew them the boy had just been given an appointment at

Annapolis; and though he graduated at the head of his class and should

naturally have gone into the line of the navy, he had followed the

family tradition by electing to serve in the marine corps, as his

father and grandfather before him had done. He had risen to the grade

of first lieutenant, and was one of the officers of the little band of

United States marines who formed the Legation guard in Pekin during

the terrible summer of 1900. I well remember the fearful anxiety and

yet the superhuman resolution with which Mrs. Allen confronted those

days of silence and suspense.

Sadly enough, among the first messages which got through from the

besieged ministers was one announcing the death of her son. I was with

her, of course, immediately upon the receipt of the news. Her grief

was as silent as it was terrible. She made no complaint. The blow just

struck her down. Her heart was affected in some way, and Dr. Taylor

informed me, and I, in turn, told her that her days were numbered. I

felt that it was best that she should know it. Now that her son had

been taken, the desire to live left her, and she was almost happy in

the thought that a short time--a month or two at most, the doctor

said--would unite them again.

A few days after the receipt of the first bad news, freedom of

communication having been restored meanwhile, the report of George's

death was contradicted. Some one had blundered in the first message,

and things were in such a state we could never find out who. He had

been desperately wounded, they said, but would recover.

His mother brightened under this encouraging news. There was a faint

rally and some improvement in her condition, but nothing of a

permanent character. She realized the situation fully, but she

summoned all her resolution and determination to her assistance and

told me that she could not die until she had seen her son again. Dr.

Taylor thought that probably she might survive under the inspiration

of her devotion until the boy, about whom we continued to receive

favorable reports, should come home again.

So she lingered through the summer, struggling, anxious, hopeful,

determined. I happened to be with her on the eventful day when she

received his first letter. The joy with which she took it from me and

tore it open with her white, feeble, trembling hands was almost

painful to witness. I felt as if I were intruding upon a meeting; but

her blank look of astonishment changing to regret, and then to bitter

disappointment, even anguish, as she mastered its contents was

surprising.

"I have lost my boy," she said, with trembling lips, after a while, as

she handed me the letter.

"What?" I cried.

"Oh, no; he is getting better and is coming back. I do not mean that;

but--but--he is going to be married. Read it yourself."

Why, it was a letter to make any woman's heart proud, I thought, and I

said so. There were sober words of thanksgiving to God that his life

had been spared; a modest expression of satisfaction in the promotion

to a captaincy, which had come to him for his splendid courage during

the siege, notably when he led the attack on the sand-bag fort on the

wall, where he was wounded; and lots of love for his mother. That was

not all, though. He had been a demonstrative boy always, I suppose; he

had lavished affectionate endearments upon her, and she had been first

in his heart; but now--ah, there was the rub.

I realized, as I reflected on the situation, that I was only a man,

and that no man had ever fathomed the subtle depths of a woman's--a

mother's--heart. It was as she had said; he was going to be married. I

must admit that nine-tenths of the letter was filled with descriptions

of the young woman to whom he had plighted his troth. He sang her

praises with the blindness of youth and the ardor of manhood.

They had met for the first time during the siege. She had been a

belated traveller who had been caught in the Boxer uprising, and had

been forced to take shelter in the Legation. She had shown herself to

be a heroine, of course. Everybody was heroic in those days. We all

expected they would be, and they were. After George had been wounded

she had nursed him back to life and won her way into his heart in the

process. It was all quite natural, certainly, and very romantic. She

was coming back with him. They were to be married by one of the

missionaries in the Legation, where the romance had begun, as soon as

he was able to stand it, and he hoped soon to present to his mother a

new daughter, who was "the best, the sweetest, the noblest little

woman in the world, and whom I love and adore with all my heart," and

so on until the end of the letter.

I thought myself that he might have spared her a little of that; and,

as I watched Mrs. Allen's face and tried to talk to comfort her, I

began to have a dim realization of what a shock it was. That boy had

been everything to her, as I said, and she to him. She had always been

first in his affection and he in hers. Alone in the world, the two had

grown up together. Now that his life was spared, she confronted the

fact that she was called upon to share him with another woman.

Oh, the bitterness of jealousy in old age! It was there. Oh, the

hopeless feeling that comes over a mother when she realizes that, in a

certain sense, she is supplanted! I saw it in the white face, the

pressed lips, the trembling hands of the stricken woman leaning back

in the chair before me. It matters not that it is the usual course of

life; that did not make it easier for her. Other mothers had to bear

such things, we both knew, but now it seemed different.

Well, I comforted her as best I could, said all things possible before

I left her, but to little purpose, I fear. The next day she was dead.

The second shock had been too much for her. I was with her when she

passed away. When I came into the room I noticed that the table by her

bed was covered with a pile of common red-backed blank books, which I

had never seen before.

"Sonny Boy!"--that's what she called him; in spite of the fact that he

was a great big fellow, and as manly as a soldier should be, he was

always in her heart what he had been as a child--"Sonny Boy's diary,"

she whispered to me; "I want you to take them--keep them until he

comes home and then give them to him. And I want you to read them,

too, so that you may know--and--and--sympathize."

Sympathize with whom? I wondered. With George or with her? Ah, I soon

found out. I thought she had gone after the prayers had been said, she

lay on the bed so still and quiet. But she opened her eyes presently

and whispered brokenly in the silence,--

"Tell him--I love him better than--than--any one in the whole

world--will--ever--love him--Sonny--Boy."

After that her eyes remained open until I closed them.

I took the books home, and the evening of the day of the funeral I sat

down to read them. It was late at night, or rather early in the

morning, when I finished them, and then I did something for which my

conscience has troubled me ever since.

I wish that I could tell you all that was in those little worn blank

books. Every word of them had been written by her own hand. She began

with his birth, the first entry being made as soon as she was able to

hold a pen. She chronicled religiously every event that bore even the

remotest relation to the boy. You could see how he grew into her life,

how he became a part of it, and, finally, as the years passed by, all

of it. There was nothing that he did or said which was not noted. His

most trivial actions, his most unimportant words, were all faithfully

set down and commented upon. In those books was the history of the

development of a human being,--nay, the development of a great passion

as well.

As he grew older, and his mother lost successively his father and the

two little girls, it was easy to see how the boy became more and more

to her. The entries were longer and more connected,--more coherent, I

should say. There were whole pages filled with her speculations

concerning him. She set down the ambitions she had cherished for his

work, the hopes born in her heart for his future, her dreams of his

achievements that were to be; she quoted freely from his letters when

he was away at school. She inserted photographs of him in all stages

of development. She wrote out the prayers she made for his welfare.

The entries abounded with expressions of her ever-growing, absorbing

love for him. Yes, and when he had his boyish flirtations and had

evidently written to her about charming girls he had met, the jealousy

of a mother's heart spoke in her comments. It was quite evident to me

as I read on, absorbed in it all, that she would never be able to bear

the idea of any one coming between her and that lad. How she rejoiced

in his successes and love for her! There were troubles,

too,--illnesses, scrapes; but her love never wavered, and things

always seemed to come right in the end.

I could see that the keeping of that diary had become a passion with

her. She confessed herself to it as a devotee might to some spiritual

adviser. She poured out her heart on those pages which no living eye

but mine had ever seen, I verily believe. She was absolutely true;

entirely frank. The book was a self-revelation, all unconscious. I

could see the ennobling effect of that great passion. She grew greater

as I read on and on. A soul was laid bare in the written pages. I

seemed to be treading on hallowed ground as I tenderly turned the

faded leaves. No one could ever have spoken aloud as she wrote. It's

not in nature to do so. It was her secret heart, her most sacred

feelings, her inmost soul that lived and vibrated in the silent

letters. I seemed to be looking upon things not meant for mortal eyes.

And through it all there was a note of depreciation. Was she, could

she, be worthy of him? Oh, the sweetness of the humility of a mother!

But I cannot linger to tell all the story, all I read, all I divined.

At last came the entries of the present year. When he had gone away

she had sworn she would be brave. He was a soldier, he must do his

duty and uphold the honored name of his father; but, oh, the anxiety

of it all! I could see that it had almost killed her; yet she had kept

up under the dreadful strain until the news of his death came.

I am not ashamed to say that I put the book down and cried like a baby

when I read what she had written. Broken-hearted sentences, bits of

prayer, words of Scripture, "Oh, Absalom, my son, my son!" Tears on

the pages. The leaves were alive with her words. As I said, they spoke

as no human voice could have spoken. They told a tale which humanity

could not have revealed. And her heart was broken.

Then came the entry on the day when I had told her she was doomed. The

subdued joy with which she heard the news, with which she looked

forward to the prospect of a speedy meeting, was quite evident. One

phrase struck me on that page:

"The work of years is over; I lay down the pen," she had written.

"Sonny Boy"--she never failed to use that title; she clung to it

the more tenaciously as he grew older; it seemed very sweet to

me--"is gone and I am going, thank God! In death as in life we

will be together. 'The book may close over' and be opened no more.

He cannot return to me, but I shall go to him. I shall write no

more. I have left directions that this story of a life--or two

lives, his and mine--shall be burned when I am gone to meet Sonny

Boy."

But on the next page the entries began again. She had taken up her

wonted life-long task once more when she found that he was living.

Curiously enough, while there was joy in the pages now, I seemed to

read in them more of regret--in spite of herself. The doom written

against her could not be revoked. Yet the conditions were changed. She

had to look forward to a long parting instead of an eternal meeting,

and it hurt her. Yet she must live until he came back. I saw it was

her will power alone that kept her up. She must see him again before

she went out into the dark, or the light rather, to wait for him.

So, in a hand that grew more feeble from day to day, she jotted down

her hopes and longings for her son. How much the trembling letters

told of her growing weakness! how different were the characters from

the bold, flowing, graceful writing of the beginning!

Finally I came to the entry--the last--on the day she had received the

news of his approaching marriage. Oh, the anguish that ran through the

written words! They seemed to gasp out her grief from the page;

sometimes I could scarcely decipher them. I turned back to the entry

following the report of his death, and I declare it was no more

heart-broken. Another woman had come between them. With unconscious

cruelty, in that fatal letter George had told her over and over again

how much he loved the woman he was about to marry. She could not get

away from it. Innocently enough, he had given her to understand that

he loved the girl more than all the world. Thoughtlessly he plunged

this dagger into his gentle mother's heart.

I didn't blame him for his feelings. He could not help them; and, as I

said, it was human nature anyway. The experience is common to every

mother in greater or less degree. She had to expect it, or she ought

to have done so. Still, I did wish he had not been quite so

enthusiastic; not that it would have made much difference, for it was

the fact that killed. His mother had intuition enough, she loved him

enough to divine the truth through any reticence.

"I can't bear it," I read, "to know that I have no longer the

first place, that another woman is nearer to him than I. To feel

that the first of his love is given to a stranger! The best of his

heart is hers! Who is she? What right had she to come between us?

What has she done for him compared to me? Ever since he was first

put in my arms, ever since I heard him cry the first time after

the awful pain and anguish of deliverance, he has been mine! Mine!

Mine! And she has taken him! Oh, God, pity me! I cannot give him

up and live! He must not bring her here. I shall never like her! I

hate her! I do not believe she is--Oh, how wicked I am! And he

will be so happy while I suffer! I'm glad he will be happy--but it

kills me. Thank God! it will not be for long. I don't want to see

her. Pity me, my Saviour! You had a mother! I am an old, lonely,

dying woman. Mercy, mercy! I don't want to see him--either--that I

should write it--my son! with a light in his eyes and love in his

voice for another woman. I shall die now. Perhaps I may find

comfort then. But I shall never forget. He wrote about her on

seven pages of his letter, and one was enough for me. Oh, Sonny

Boy, to lose you, to--your little old mother is breaking her

heart! Be assured of one thing, my son, I love you and I have

loved you better than any one in the whole world will ever love

you"--these were the words she had whispered to me on her

death-bed--"no matter how much joy you may have, how much

happiness, no matter where you may go, whom you may meet, what

they may say, no one in this world will ever love you as I have.

No one will ever think of you as your mother."

That was all. And I'm afraid it was true.

"There is none

In all this cold and hollow world, no fount

Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within

A mother's heart."

I sat there in the gray of the morning with the open book in my hand.

She had told me to give the volumes to George when he returned, and I

could not--if I desired to do so--disregard her wish; yet to lay

before him the sorrow, the regret, the sadness of that last entry: to

leave with him that final thought of his mother, to cloud his wedded

life with a suspicion which I knew he could never dispel, that his joy

had been her death, his marriage had broken her heart--I could not do

it! Still, to withhold from that boy the last words of his mother--it

did not seem right!

What did I do? you ask. Well, with a horribly guilty feeling, I cut

the last leaf containing those terribly piteous words out of the

diary. I did it carefully so that he would never know that anything

had been taken away. I felt like a thief all the time, somehow.

I did not destroy the leaf. I could not do so. I put it away carefully

with my other treasures, and when George came home with his sweet,

beautiful young wife,--and I thanked God he had her to help him bear

his unfeigned sorrow at the loss of his mother,--I gave him the diary

without the missing leaf; and her last message to him, as I delivered

it, was one simply of love and blessing. And I almost felt as if his

mother thanked me for it. I hope so.

I take out that missing leaf sometimes when I am alone in my study,

and read it over and wonder whether, after all, I did right or not.

EXTRAVAGANZAS

"'Tis a pleasure to please, and the straw that can tickle us

Is a source of enjoyment, though slightly ridiculous."

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

"A careless song with a little nonsense in it now and then does

not misbecome a monarch."

WALPOLE

THE AMAZING YARN OF THE BO'S'N'S MATE

AN ACCOUNT OF AN UNUSUAL PRIZE

"Now this is the tale that was told to me

By a battered and shattered old son of the sea,

To me and my messmate, Silas Green,

When I was a guileless young marine."

ANCIENT SEA SONG

The second dog-watch, from six to eight in the evening, is the

sailor's play-time. Unless some emergency requires it, drills and

duties are suspended for the time being and Jackie, except for supper,

has his time to himself. The older seamen usually collect on the

forecastle; sometimes in the lee gangway in rough weather. There they

sprawl themselves on the deck, or dispose themselves comfortably

against the rails or the bitts, or even the anchor-fluke, if every

place is occupied, or the boom boats if the waist be the place of

assemblage, and smoke their pipes and yarn.

The ordinary seamen, the landsmen, and the ship's boys, if they are

not rigorously excluded from the top-gallant forecastle, or from close

proximity to the group of worthies who literally "take the deck," are

forced to stand afar off, at any rate, where they listen to marvellous

recitals as best they can. The midshipmen, however, as a species of

privileged intermediaries between officers and men, often make a part

of these exclusive circles, especially when yarning is going on.

Among all the tellers of strange tales on the famous United States

frigate _Neversink_, Jack Lang, the old bo's'n's mate, held the chief

place by general consent, and the sound of his deep voice raised in

narration was sure to attract to his side every available reefer not

specifically on duty, and all the old shellbacks, to whom yarning and

listening to yarns were as the breath of life. And nowhere will you

find better listeners than at a dog-watch "gam" on a ship's

forecastle. The old man's services on the _Neversink_ were invaluable

in every way, his word was law forward of the mast as the captain's

was on the quarter-deck, and even as a story-teller he was supreme.

One mild, pleasant evening this before-the-mast autocrat and raconteur

found himself the centre of an interested group on the forecastle. The

midshipmen were burning for a yarn. They had learned, however, that

the surest way not to have their desire gratified was to ask a sailor

for a story. Certainly this was true of this particular old salt, and

it was necessary to approach him by indirection. The conversation

turned, as it frequently does in the forecastle, on the quarter-deck,

and everywhere else, on woman.

"Wot's the matter with leetle Sammy Bowline?" queried the old man in a

pause in the conversation. "I seed him a-weepin' an' a-bellerin' like

wot you Yankees call a 'caow' in the fust dog-watch."

"A cow don't weep, Jack," answered a maintopman who had been a

lumbering bucolic dairyman when the _Neversink_ left port six months

since, but who was now a smart young light yardman.

"Hev you seen all the cow critters on the yearth, youngster?"

"No, but----"

"Well, some cows weeps, I sez, an' this'n' did," answered the old

sailor, sententiously. "Anyway, Sammy Bowline, he bawled awful."

"I reckon he's homesick fer his ma," remarked Billy Clumpblock, the

captain of the maintop. "I just guv him a few teches with me colt to

take it out'n him, w'ich I've larned that w'alin' is werry good fer

homesickness, an' sent him up in the top, as he calls it, to 'spell a

watch.'"

"It's a sing'lar thing," continued the old bo's'n's mate, "how much

men an' boys thinks of feemales, sech as mothers an' sech like

pussons. It stands ter reason thay ain't necessary to nobody's

existence, though it's agreed that we all had 'em onct, though I've

got no evidence of it in my own case 'ceptin' general report. Look at

this ship, now. There ain't a woman on board of her, an' if they was,

she'd be considerably disorganized, w'ich I means the ship an' p'raps

the feemale too."

"They seems ter be necessary on shore, though," remarked the chief

quartermaster, a much-married man.

"P'raps they be. But they're no 'count on sea."

"I've heered them called the weaker sex," said the purser's yeoman,

who was fond of literature of the dime novel variety. "I guess that's

becus they can't make sailor-men out'n 'em."

"Wall, naow," drawled the Jack-o'-the-dust, a studious New Englander,

given to historic research as he could manage it, "there hev been

wimmin sailor-men. I've read abaout 'em. There was two pyrates once

an' they was wimmin. An' they was the wust kind of pyrates, too."

"That's nateral," said the autocrat of the forecastle; "it stands ter

reason that a woman'd be a bad sailor an' she'd also make a bad

pirate."

"They wus good pyrates," continued the down-easter.

"Good pirates? There ain't no sech thing," chimed in another sailor,

filling the responsible position of captain of the hold.

"I mean they wus bludthirsty feemale villains, an' they done the

pyrate bisness up jest's fine's if they'd a-bin men."

"I had an amazin' experience with wimmin onct," said the old bo's'n's

mate, reflectively.

"I should say you had," broke in a young midshipman; "I've heard you

speak of your 'ol' woman' hundreds of times, and all the trouble

you've caused her."

"I don't mean her, Mr. Bobstay. God rest her soul; she's dead, sir;

an', as fer the kids, my darter's married an' the boys is God knows

where. I brung 'em up ter be good sailor-men, though, an' wherever

they is, I guess they're a-doin' of their dooty. This was another kind

of a feemale. You see, lads an' young gentlemen all, in the

Med't'ranean in 1800 I was bo's'n's mate, an', like this yere ship, we

didn't kerry no bo's'n on the little hooker _Grampus_, the luckiest

barkie that ever carried the American flag. She was schooner rigged

w'en I was on her. Then they turned her inter a brig, an' now they're

thinkin' o' makin' a full-rigged ship of her. They've done everything

they kin to spile her. She's the slowest old tub afloat now, I'm

telled, but let anything British take arter her an' she jest naterally

takes a bone in her teeth an' rips away. Lordie, to think of that

little ship a-doin' all the things she's done! Wall, where was I,

mates?"

"You wa'n't now'ere. You was gittin' ready to go som'er's, tho', I

guess," said the quartermaster.

"To be sure. Wall, as I was sayin', I was bo's'n's mate, an' that was

bein' ekal to bein' bo's'n on that 'ere schooner, an' Commodore

Rattlin was jest takin' command of her. My, but he's a sailor an' a

fighter! I never seed any one like him an' I have fit in some right

good hard battles sence, onless 'twas Commodore Paul Jones, w'en we

tuk the _Serrypis_ nigh onto forty years ago. I was a smart young

foretopman in them days, lads, an' it was me wot the commodore sent

out on that main-yard-arm to drop them grenades down the hatchway of

the _Serrypis_ that blowed her up. So I allus thought that I won a

deal of that battle myself, though the commodore got the most credit.

Let's see. W'ere was I?"

"You was on the _Grampus_ w'ich Commodore Rattlin was takin' command

of," said the Jimmy-Legs, lighting his pipe.

"So I was. So I was, tho' he was only a leftenant then, lads,"

continued the old man. "Wall, we was mighty keen for prize money in

them days, an', fer that matter, I ain't never seed the day, so far's

I'm consarned, w'en I wasn't ekally desirous of gittin' my share of

the same. Now, you youngsters, an' you haymakers,--w'ich is a bit

unjest to you, p'r'aps, becus you've larned to be putty fair

sailor-men sence we tuk our departure from Boston,--ye know prize

money's divided into twenty parts by the laws of the United States.

The cap'n he gits three parts; the leftenants an' sailin'-master, they

gits two parts; the marine officers, surgeon, purser, bo's'n, gunner,

carpenter, master's mates, an' chaplain, they gits two; three parts

goes to the steerage an' chief petty officers, the other petty

officers gits three, an' the balance of the crew gits seven."

"Seems to me the crew don't git no fair share," interrupted one of the

new hands.

"We're lucky to git anything at all," commented the old sea

philosopher. "They used to say you throwed the prize money at a

ladder. Wot went through was diwided betwixt the cap'n an' th'

officers an' petty officers, the cap'n takin' the biggest share. Wot

stuck to the rounds was fer the crew. An' if they hadn't tarred the

rounds in sum instances I knows of," he went on, mendaciously, "they

wouldn't a-got none. Howsomever, this yere explanation is necessary

fer to understand this yarn."

"I'd like to know wot prize money's got to do with wimmin," remarked

Billy Clumpblock.

"My lad," said the bo's'n's mate, sapiently, "prize money's got a lot

to do with wimmin, as you'll find out, especially if you go ashore

with a pocketful of it. It had suthin' to do with the wimmin I'm goin'

to tell ye of, anyway. One pleasant day in December, 1803, we was a

ratchin' to an' fro in the Med't'ranean on the _Grampus_ a-lookin' out

fer Algerian cruisers, w'en we run acrost a ketch."

"What's a ketch, Jack?" asked one midshipman.

"Well, a ketch--an' the rest on you pay attention, too; if ye just

take notice to wotever I says, ye lubbers, you'll soon know a heap

about the sea an' other things. Bein' a silent man myself, I don't say

much, as ye may hev noticed; therefur, w'en I do say suthin' it's

wal'able. A ketch is a wessel wot has one big mast set well aft about

midships an' a little one way aft of the fust one. This is to leave a

cl'ar space forrard fer a bum [bomb]. They're mostly used fer that,

w'ich is w'y they are called bum ketches, ye know. This one, however,

had a cargo more dangerous an' onsettlin' than bums would ha' been,

fer w'en we ranged alongside an' throwed a shot over her, you never

heered sech a screechin' an' yellin' in all yer life.

"'Good Lord!' said Cap'n Rattlin out loud, w'ich as he was young an'

impulsive like an' not used to controllin' his feelin's like me, he

jest spoke right out. 'Good Lord!' he sez, 'wot hev we run inter?'

"'It 'pears to me,' spoke up Mr. Parbuckle, actin' as his first luff,

w'ich he was only a midshipman an' had no experience wotever with the

feemale sex,--but I've allus noticed that it's them as has little

experience as knows the most, specially 'bout wimmin,--'it 'pears to

me,' he sez, 'that them's wimmin.'

"'Wimmin?' roars the cap'n. 'Wot are they a-doin' there? Well,' he

sez, 'we'll soon find out,' sez he. With that he shoved the schooner

in clus to the ketch an' hailed her. Of course, the conwersation bein'

carried on in lingo Franco, w'ich I understands, it was all werry

clear to me, an' I told the rest of the fok's'l wot was happ'nin'.

"'Ahoy!' the cap'n cried, 'wot ship is that?' An' then a measly old

Turk he come over to the side an' throwed his flag in the water an'

waved his arms an' bowed to the deck, but didn't say nuthin'. He was

so skeered he was most frightened out of his baggy britches. He could

see the smokin' matches, an' we was jest itchin' to turn our guns

loose on the old heathen, with his wildcats, or wotever they was. The

cap'n bein' young an' impetuous like, he hails ag'in. He sez,--

"'W'y don't you answer me?' he sez. 'Ain't ye got no tongue?' he sez.

'Don't you hear me? W'ere are you from? W'ere are you bound? Wot hev

ye got on board? If ye don't speak up I'll turn a broadside on ye.'

"With that that old Turk he unstoppered his jaw tackle an' reels off

an extr'ordin'ry lot o' stuff, but we makes out, me an' the cap'n

does, that he was from Tripoli three days out. That his ketch's name

was the _Stamico_, or sum sech other outlandish name, an' that she was

loaded with feemale slaves fer the Sultan of Turkeys.

"Gosh-o'-mighty, if the cap'n hadn't insisted all the time on the most

sharpest dissypline on that there leetle ship, I'd a yelled an'

laughed outrajus, an' the men would hev busted inter cheers. As it

was, I didn't dare to tell the crew all that bit of news; I jest guv

'em a leetle to keep 'em goin' an' hove to under the lee of the

foremast where nobody seed me an' cut loose a few steps myself.

"'This is a putty how-de-do,' sez Cap'n Rattlin.

"'Wot'll we do, sir?' axes Mr. Parbuckle. 'Wot'll we do with them

feemale slaves? I reckon we'll have to bring 'em aboard here, fer we

can't let the ketch go,' sez that youngster.

"He was as excited as any of us, an' I reckon the cap'n was hisself,

if the truth was to be told. Sech a prize as that ain't picked up

every day at sea, ye know, shipmates.

"'You know old Commodore Ringtailboom,' continoos Mr. Parbuckle,

grave-like; 'you know, sir, he wants a boat jest like this ketch for

inshore work.'

"'You're right, sir,' sez Rattlin, werry solemn; 'take a boat, Mr.

Parbuckle, an' go over there an' tell that beastly Turk we'll have to

transship his cargo over here aboard the _Grampus_.'

"I was cox'n of that boat, young gentlemen, an' we went off armed to

the teeth, not so much fer fear of the Turks, but on account of them

feemales. You see, we didn't know wot'd happen to us with a ketch load

of wimmin folk, an' we went prepared fer the wust. Wall, may I be

jiggle-toggled, shipmates, but sech a screechin' an' yellin' you never

heered w'en we got aboard. Bein' a chief petty officer an' the next in

command, as it was, an' the most experienced, bein' a married man, Mr.

Parbuckle, he tells me to go below an' see wot I could make out of the

lot, w'ile he speaks to the beastly Turkey cap'n. Fer a reefer, young

gentlemen," said the old sailor, "he was the bashfullest feller I ever

seed. 'Tis a rare and onsettlin' quality in the class,--meanin' no

offence," he added, amid a general laugh, in which the midshipmen

heartily joined. "I didn't want nuthin' better'n that job, so I jumped

below to tackle it, took off my hat, an' sez, most pleasant like,

'Ladies, yer most obejient an' 'umble sarvant.'

"They all run forrard at that an' crowded inter the eyes of the ship

to git away from me. I suppose I must ha' looked mighty fierce, wot

with cutlass an' pistol an' the pigtail we allus wore them days, an'

w'en I tried to tell 'em that I come peaceable like, they was makin'

sech a noise that they didn't seem to pay no 'tention to wot I said. I

thought the best way to ca'm 'em an' to assure 'em of my peaceful

intentions was--well--er--I jest caught the nearest one by the arm,

slipped my own arm 'bout her waist, an'--an'--smacked her good!"

"Oh, Jack, you old sinner!" yelled the youngsters in chorus.

"Dooty, gentlemen; a true sailor-man is allus ready to sakerfice

hisself fer his country, an' I done it cheerful then, bein' as 'twas

in the line of dooty."

"I guess you did," said Midshipman Cringle, sagely.

"Thankee, sir," continued the bo's'n's mate, oblivious to the sarcasm.

"She yelled sum at fust, but she seemed to like it. Of course, I

repeats, it was all one to me, jest in the line of duty, as I sez,

though I hev done more disagreeable jobs than that. I jest patted her

on the head a bit w'en I got hold of her, an' told her to ca'm down,

that we wa'n't goin' to hurt her, an' she seemed to feel summat

assured, but, as we arterwards larned, she didn't understand a word I

was a-sayin'! Howsomever, suthin' satisfied her. Perhaps 'twas my

actions. Well, now, you youngsters, you must remember that I was

younger then than I am now, an' there wa'n't a likelier sailor-man on

the sea, ef I do say so myself. The rest of the cargo stopped makin'

that infernal noise w'en they seed wot was happ'nin', an'----"

"Jack!" said Midshipman Futtocks, severely, "and you an old man! I'm

ashamed of you!"

"Mr. Futtocks," said the old sailor, "as I hev said, it was strictly

in the line of dooty, an' I was a young man at that time, sir. Mr.

Parbuckle, he ordered me to pacify 'em, an' I was a-doin' the best I

could. I was only a poor ignorant sailor-man in them days, an'

couldn't be blamed fer a thing like that. W'ich I've got more

experience now, tho' I don't say I wouldn't be willin' to sakerfice my

feelin's to my dooty again if 'twas demanded of me. Well, I got 'em

quiet by this means, anyway, w'ich I'm sorry to say you blames me fer,

but w'ich my conscience is clear, an' I wish I could do it ag'in, an'

I got 'em up on deck, too.

"'How did you get 'em quiet, Jack?' axed Mr. Parbuckle, who was busy

arrangin' with the measly old Turkey w'en he seed me a leadin' 'em

from below.

"'Well, sir,' sez I, 'I jest hauled alongside the nearest one, hove

to, laid her aboard, an' s'luted her with a few light guns, an' the

rest stopped a-yellin' at onct.'

"'Gad, man!' said the youngster, 'you've a genius fer dealin' with

wimmin.' W'ich I tuk as a compliment, altho' comin' from one with no

experience. Anyway, we got 'em aboard the _Grampus_ all right arter

aw'ile, an' ranged 'em on the quarter-deck. We didn't lose a solitary

one, tho' they did beller an' bawl wuss'n Sammy Bowline at gittin'

into the cutter. Mr. Parbuckle he was left in command of the prize,

an' he a-protestin' bitterly; but the cap'n he sez he might send some

of the prize over arter aw'ile to keep him company, but fer the

present they must be mustered on the _Grampus_. Wall, we claimed that

they all must be diwided up accordin' to law, bein' a lawful prize,

an' we wasn't goin' to wait fer no prize court, nuther. The cap'n,

bein' only a boy, he was in fer a lark like the rest on us, so he

mustered the crew an' he made a speech.

"'Men,' he sez, 'as you knows, the prize laws of the United States

diwides the prizes inter twenty parts. There ain't no money, but there

are one hundred an' twenty feemale wimmin in this lot w'ich we've tuk.

That's six wimmin to a part. I gits three, an' I'll make my ch'ice

now. Ladies, yer most obejient,' he sez, grinnin' at 'em, an' them

a-grinnin' back, becus, like me, he was young an' well favored them

days, an' the feemales was havin' great larks, too. Then he steps

forrard and picks out eighteen of the youngest and purtiest. Among 'em

was the one I endeavored to impress myself on the ketch, an' as she

passed me she made languishin' eyes at me; but she had to go with the

rest, me bein' only a bo's'n's mate. So the cap'n he ranged his

eighteen aft on deck, then the leftenants tuk their turn, an' the

cap'n he chose fer Mr. Parbuckle, w'ich he was on the prize an'

couldn't choose hisself, an' a mad young officer he was, too, seein'

plain wot was a-goin' on an' him not there. Wall, arter the cap'n, the

leftenants, an' the chief petty officers tuk their share, blast my

eyes if there wa'n't left an assortment of the ugliest old wrecks you

ever seed--forty-two of 'em--for the crew, an' them jest beginnin' to

understand the game, too," said Jack, laughing, "fer they showed the

greatest willin'ness to be tuk. An' sum of 'em must ha' been old

enough fer grandmothers, too.

[Illustration: "The cap'n he chose fer Mr. Parbuckle, ... an' a mad

young officer he was, too!"]

"We carried about eighty of a crew, w'ich meant there wa'n't enough to

go round. There was an awful lot of protestin' from the crew on the

_Grampus_ over this yere diwidin' business. They said it wa'n't no

fair. But the cap'n, he sez, it was accordin' to law, an' we was lucky

to get what was there, an' to hurry an' pick 'em out. So we turned to,

an' then sech a screamin' you never seed! Each woman had two men

a-holdin' each arm an' claimin' of 'em, an' we was a-pullin' an'

a-haulin' an' a-laughin' all over the decks.

"I tell ye, messmates, a shipload of feemales is the most

disorganizin' body that kin board a ship-o'-war. Ef the old

_Confederation_, the flag-ship, hadn't a-hove in sight jest then, I

don't know wot'd a-happened. We was so okerpied in this diwidin'

bisness that nobody was a-watchin' out fer her. We was a-scramblin'

an' a-dancin' an' a-raisin' Ned, an' the cap'n was a-protestin' an'

a-tryin' to restore order, w'en the old frigate shoved alongside, an'

Commodore Ringtailboom was that rageful he could hardly speak w'en he

sees us all. He settled the hull thing by takin' all them feemales on

board his own ship an' then sendin' 'em to Algiers an' settin' 'em

free till the Turkeys got a hold of 'em ag'in, w'ich we never seed 'em

ag'in. Cap'n Rattlin he got transferred to the frigate to onct fer

punishment, an' we was scattered among the fleet, cos they said

'twarn't safe to leave sech a crowd together no more.

"Shipmates, we was only jokin' about diwidin' of 'em, but arter the

commodore crossed our course we was the maddest lot of officers an'

men you ever seed, but that was all there was to it. You can be sure

that nobody never got athwart the hawse of Commodore Ringtailboom

deliberate; he was a peppery old gent, sure, an' 'twas as much as a

man's life was worth to go agin him.

"Now, that's an example of how disorganizin' wimmin 'ud be on board a

ship."

"Jack," said little Futtocks, amid the laughter with which this

amazing story was greeted, "do you mean to tell me that this is a true

yarn?"

"Hev I brung you up, Master Futtocks, to doubt me?" asked the old man,

his twinkling eyes belying the resentment in his voice.

"I am not doubting you, Jack. I'm just asking you a question."

"Wall, wall, I'll tell ye wot to do. The next time you see Commodore

Rattlin you jest ask him wot was done with them feemale slaves we

captured in the _Stamico_ w'en we was together in the old _Grampus_ in

the Med't'ranean in 1803."

"But, Jack----"

"Eight bells, sir," said the old man, rising as the four couplets

proclaimed the hour. "All the starboard watch!" he cried, shrilling

his pipe as a sign that the play-time was over.

THE DISEMBODIED SPIRIT

THE STORY OF A WANDERING SENSATION

"I loaf and invite thee, my soul,

Leave thy fetters of flesh and be free;

Soar abroad, scorning earthly control,

On a sort of a spiritual spree."

TIMOTHY BLAKE

Common sense--hard, practical common sense--is a great and important

factor in this world's concerns. I am not a common-sense person

myself,--though Geraldine will tell you that I am a man of uncommon

sense,--but it is to common-sense people that I address myself; people

who say, if they ever so far forget themselves as to read

"Rappaccini's Daughter," for instance, or that other story by the

gifted son of his gifted father, which hides its weird fascination

under the name of "Archibald Malmaison," and you ask them if they like

the stories: "Oh, of course not; I never heard of such improbable

things. Why, how is it possible for a man?" etc. It is to these people

I write.

I live in the enterprising Western city of Kalamalant. As my family

and Geraldine's family have lived there many years, we are all well

known, and any of my neighbors, among whom are a judge of the District

Court, a retired major-general of the army, a United States Senator,

and other persons of undoubted veracity, can affirm the truth of the

strange incidents of which I am the principal subject. Geraldine will

say that this is not the only case in which I am the principal

subject, royally assuming for the once--but I digress. Geraldine says

I always take too much time in getting at the point of the story, and

as Geraldine is the only critic of whom I am afraid, here goes.

I, James Henry Rettew, commonly called Harry, was about twenty-six

years old in the year of our Lord 1901. I was a sleepy, and people say

a dreamy, abstracted young man. Geraldine thinks me handsome. She is

alone in her belief, unless I agree with her in this, as in most

things. I was possessed of a little fortune, and was a well-informed

young man of studious bent, having read largely in a rather desultory

way. My favorite study was the spiritual essence, or soul of man,

especially my own.

It is a thing I believe most people have, though Geraldine says you

have to take it on faith in the case of a great many people. What was

it? Where was it, this pervading vital force within me? How did it

exist within my body? What kept it there? Was death the result of a

disassociation of the two? Was no man capable of ever separating the

one from the other?

These are but a sample of the speculations in which I indulged. And I

actually found myself in the way of solving some of these problems at

last. Rummaging in the library of a deceased philosopher, I came

across a treatise on this very subject by a sage of ancient times, the

learned Egyptian Archidechus. No, you will not find his name in the

encyclopaedias. I have purposely altered it, lest any one should search

for the pamphlet and, finding it, become as I was--but I anticipate.

I seized upon the old moth-eaten parchment volume with avidity. This

rare--I do not think there was another copy in existence except the

one I read--and wonderful book treated of the spirit or essence of

life as distinguished from the gross and visible body. The writer held

that it was possible to separate the one from the other; in other

words, according to Archidechus, the spirit might leave the body and

return to it at pleasure; in fact, the writer knew of such a case and

cited it; he also gave minute directions for accomplishing this

wonderful feat. I shall not reveal them to you nor to Geraldine,

though that is the only secret I do not share with her, so beware how

you confide in me.

Of course the thing was ridiculous; no such separation was possible,

so I reasoned. There were the directions, however; they fascinated me.

I was always an imaginative fellow and a great tryer of all sorts of

strange experiments; why should I not try this one? I confided my

intentions to no one, not even to Geraldine. I locked myself in my

room and devoured the old book. Great stress was laid upon the faith

necessary and the condition of the mind. It was stated that any

violent emotion might be of great assistance at the final moment

of--shall I call it dissolution?

Now I was at peace with all the world except John Haverford. Haverford

was in love with Geraldine Holabird, but as I felt sure of her

affection, I was not able to get up any violent jealousy on her

account. Geraldine has since told me that if she had known I felt so

confident of her affection she would have supplied me with several

emotions on that score of an exceedingly violent nature; I don't

believe it.

However, I complied with the other directions, and I even contrived to

assume a reasonable amount of faith, but I could not quite manage the

separation. I could apparently concentrate my vital force on one spot,

for instance; but, exert myself as I would, I could not break the tie.

The idea possessed me; I could think of nothing else. Geraldine says I

was the most intensely unsatisfactory lover at this time that one

could imagine, and that she had serious thoughts of giving me up for

John Haverford.

Our love, which was a secret affair,--and none the less sweet for

that, by the way,--was violently opposed by the heads of both our

houses, there being some grudge between them. Although I was devoted

to her and she to me, as I now know, though I did not at the time, yet

I had never dared to take more of a lover's privilege than a

respectful salute upon her hand. Geraldine was a tall and extremely

dignified girl, and how she ever came to meet me clandestinely and

write me those little notes--I have them yet--I don't know. She says

she doesn't either.

But to come back to my experiment. My want of complete success preyed

upon me. I grew thin, lost my appetite, could think of nothing but

that. This, I imagine, was one of the reasons for my final success.

Geraldine says I ought not to have said that, as it will spoil the

denouement. However, it is too late now. One afternoon, more than

usually discouraged at my repeated failures, when I was about to

consign the volume to the fire as a false prophet, my sister, who

acted as our Mercury, threw a note into my room from Geraldine. I

opened it, I must confess, rather listlessly.

Good heavens! Her father had discovered my last letter, he was

furiously angry, swore she should marry John Haverford, and she was

now locked in her own room; I would recognize it by the white ribbon

hanging from the window-sill, and I must do something soon, for her

father was terribly angry, and she loved me and me only, her own

Harry,--and you know the rest! (Geraldine protests against these

unflattering allusions to her notes.)

What happened a moment after, or how it happened, I am not prepared to

state; one thing I do know. I found myself in the street and, without

a thought of how I came there, was hurrying toward Geraldine's house;

with reckless speed I ran headlong full-tilt into a lady of my

acquaintance. The concussion nearly stunned me. What was my surprise,

as I hastily took off my hat to apologize for my carelessness, to see

the young lady calmly walk past me, apparently unconscious of my

presence, and giving no evidence of having been in a collision with

me! This rather astonished me, but Geraldine was so much in my mind

that I dismissed it and hastened on. It was not far to her house, and,

sure enough, there was a white ribbon fluttering from the window I

knew to be hers.

In my reckless desire to do something for her, I opened the gate and

walked into the yard,--that is, I found myself there, and, of course,

could have come no other way. I am not much of an athlete and could

not have jumped the fence. These reflections did not occur to me at

the time, but the next thing which happened did astonish me. While I

was standing there in the walk, wondering what to do next, the front

door opened and old Mr. Holabird came out. His face was red with

anger, and he was armed with a thick club, presumably for me. Now, I

am not a very brave man,--though Geraldine thinks me a perfect

hero,--and I confess I trembled. However, I walked up to him and said,

"Mr. Holabird, your daughter----"

He absolutely did not see me, and as he passed me, with excess of

courage I laid my hand upon his arm, but he took no more heed of that

than of my voice. What could have been the matter?

I began to feel a little alarmed, and gave myself a good pinch to see

if I were awake, the usual resource of people in a like

situation--Geraldine says that no one ever was in a like situation

before. I certainly was awake, for the pinch hurt me. Marvelling more

and more, I decided to go into the house. The old gentleman was my

most dangerous opponent, and with him out of the way I felt I could

brave the rest of the household. If I could get at Geraldine, I hoped

to persuade her to fly with me; and I did not doubt, once we were

safely married, her father would forgive us, or if he would not, I

should not greatly care, so long as I could have Geraldine.

Thinking thus, I walked up to the door and, placing my hand on the

bell, gave it a good strong pull. The little silver-plated handle did

not move an inch! I rubbed my eyes and tried it once more--no effect!

I then sat down to consider. Was all the world bewitched? I racked my

brain until the door opened and one of the children ran out. She came

over to the chair I sat in and dropped into my lap. I got out of the

chair in a second, just how I could not say. I am not over-fond of

children of that age.

"Why, Jennie!" I cried, somewhat indignantly. "What do you mean by

jumping on my lap in this unceremonious manner? Where is Geraldine? Go

tell her I want to see her at once."

I was getting angry; but, would you believe it? that child went on

playing with her doll and completely ignored me! It was too much; I

wondered whether the whole town were in a conspiracy to drive me

crazy. In despair I resolved to see Geraldine at once, and at the risk

of being shot for a burglar, I turned to the door the little girl had

fortunately left open and walked in.

As I entered the hall my foot slipped on the marble tiling and I fell

heavily against an exquisite bisque head standing on the newel post.

When I picked myself up, sufficiently sore from my fall to be

convinced that it was a real one, the bisque figure-head was standing

safely and smiling at me--it was a-laughing head--in a way I conceived

to be particularly exasperating. I was so excited by this time that I

struck it a furious blow with my fist, and still that infernal head

stood and grinned at me!

If I did not see Geraldine soon I felt that I would go mad, so I

marched upstairs until I came to the door of her room. I knocked

gently on the door; there was no sound! I tried the handle with the

same ill success as before. This was the last straw. I confess I stood

at that door and shouted and screamed and kicked it,--pounded on it

until I sank exhausted on the floor,--and still no thought of my real

condition entered my head.

It happened that in my present situation my eyes were just on a level

with the key-hole. I peeped in. There was Geraldine; I could see her

plainly; and in another moment I saw her take a letter from her dress,

kiss it passionately, and burst into a storm of sobs and tears. I was

so wrought up by this time that in spite of my fatigue I jumped to my

feet, and in another second I found myself by her side.

She was clad in some soft white wrapper, her hair all unbound, and was

kneeling with her face in her arms on a chair. I was inexpressibly

touched by her heart-broken attitude. I had never been anything but a

very formal lover, as I said before; however, I thought the

circumstances might warrant me in waiving a little ceremony,

especially as she evidently needed a comforter sadly, so I walked

quickly over to her and laid my hand on her shoulder.

"Geraldine," I said, "my darling, I am here to help you. Geraldine,

won't you speak to me?"

There was no answer and no intermit to the sobs and tears she was

pouring on my letter. I thought this was pushing shyness to the limit,

and I had never suspected her of being timid. However, as she made no

objection to my hand being on her shoulder, I thought that was a good

sign, and I knelt down beside her and slipped my arm around her neck

and said,--

"Geraldine dearest, do not cry so,--courage,--it will be all right--"

(Pause.) "Won't you speak to me? Please, please look at me!" (Longer

pause.) "Geraldine!" I shouted, savagely, "look at me at once or I'll

leave you forever!"

No response of any kind!

By heaven! What _did_ it mean? I rose and dropped into a chair,

remarking,--

"I'll sit here and look at you till you do get up and say something to

me, if your father comes in here and kills me!"

So I waited and watched her. Presently she raised her beautiful eyes,

red with weeping, and fixed them straight on me without the slightest

sign of recognition, not even the fear that would have filled them had

I been a stranger. What could be the matter?

I rushed over to the long swinging mirror in the corner, determined to

look at myself and see what was wrong. I stood directly in front of

the glass and glanced at its bright surface to make a last effort to

solve the mystery. Reader, I will solemnly assert that when I looked

in that mirror, expecting to see myself, _I was not there_!

There was nothing reflected there but the room and contents and

Geraldine beyond, completely oblivious of me. She had taken a small

picture of me I had given her and was alternately looking at it and

pressing it to her heart. This evidence of an affection which I

scarcely dared to hope that she entertained for me was certainly very

gratifying, and at any other moment would have filled me with

happiness; but in the light of the fact that I was not there, where I

felt myself to be, I was too horror-struck for anything else.

I stood mechanically glaring at Geraldine, at the glass which did not

reflect me, and at myself. I could see myself with my own eyes

perfectly, hear my own voice distinctly, or touch myself with my own

hands; in fact, I could see and feel as well as ever. I resolved to

make one more effort.

"Geraldine," I said, softly. "Geraldine," louder. "Geraldine!" in a

perfect scream, "I am going to kiss you this moment!"

She was lying back in a large chair, her hands listlessly crossed in

her lap and her eyes closed. I walked firmly to her, hesitated a

second, and then bent and kissed her upon the lips.

She says now it was very ungenerous of me to have taken advantage of

her, but I submit that I had given every possible warning of my

intention, and besides I was wrought up to such a pitch by the events

of the afternoon I scarcely knew what I did; so I kissed her again and

again, and this did really have some effect upon her. At first she

blushed a warm, beautiful crimson, and as I kissed her a second and a

third time, she started, raised her head, opened her eyes with a

little scream, and said,--

"Oh, I must have fallen asleep and dreamed he was here--I suddenly

felt a kiss, it seemed--Oh, Harry, Harry, why do you not come and help

your girl?" and her head sank back in the chair and tears came again

into her eyes. "Oh, Harry, why are you not here?"

I was nearly frantic by this time.

"Geraldine," I said, "I _am_ here. I did kiss you, really and truly, a

moment ago."

But she paid no attention, and even while I was speaking kept up her

little agonized appeal for me to come and help her. I rushed to the

window, leaped out on the porch, jumped recklessly to the ground,

dashed right into the arms of Mr. Holabird, ran through the streets to

my own house, burst into the house, tore up the stairs to my room, and

saw--what?

Myself, calmly and composedly lying back in the chair with Geraldine's

letter in my hand! This was too awful; I sank down in the other chair,

and as I did so my eyes fell upon the volume of the learned

Archidechus. The mystery was solved! There in the other chair was my

physical body, and in this one I sat, a disembodied spirit!

The explanation was so simple and evident it brought great relief to

me. Everything was explained. Of course no looking-glass could reflect

the spirit of a man, no one could feel him--or it--or hear him or see

him; of course he could not open doors or strike people or lift

anything, though, to be sure, no door could prove a barrier to such an

ethereal, immaterial entity as a disembodied spirit.

That accounted for my finding myself in Geraldine's room in spite of

the locked door, for the child sitting down on my lap, for the bisque

head smiling at my buffet, for Geraldine's ignorance of my presence.

As to the kiss--well, love was the highest and noblest sensation (love

such as we felt for each other) and as nearly a spiritually ethereal

feeling as any human one could be; so, when I had kissed her, her

spiritual being had responded to mine. This explanation fell easily in

with the rest.

So far as I was concerned, I was, to put it plainly and simply, only

my feelings and sensations; I was a wandering sensation! Doubtless my

spirit took the same form as my visible body, but it was a thing so

utterly immaterial as to be absolutely invisible to the human eye. I

could talk, walk, see, and hear, because I had all my sensations with

me, the guiding essence of my brain, too; but really my voice, for

instance, was not audible, because when I opened my spiritual mouth it

was only with the sensation of speaking, and no real sound was made;

or, to put another explanation before you, my voice had become refined

in proportion with the rest of me, and was pitched in such a

sound-wave as the human ear was not capable of receiving and

concentrating.

At that moment this seemed very interesting to me, and I settled

myself comfortably back in my chair and laughed long and loudly. Of

course I could go back into my own body at any time, and matters would

straighten themselves out at once. I sat speculatively contemplating

my body. It was a dramatic moment, indeed!

My body was sitting in the chair in exactly the same position I had

been when I left it, or rather, I should say, _we_ had been when I

left it. I bent over and touched it--or him?--he felt warm and

natural, but not as if asleep. There was no beating of the heart, no

rise or fall of the breast as in breathing, the eyes were opened and

fixed but not glassy, the joints appeared to be flexible still,

though, of course, I could not have moved one to see--in short, my

body presented every appearance of suspended animation. I resolved not

to try to get back into it just at present, and was still sitting

there speculating upon my double self when the door opened and my

sister--the one who brought the letter--came in; she was my favorite,

and we were great friends. She glanced at me, and, supposing I was

asleep, drew a chair over to the window and waited for me to awaken.

The fire was burning brightly in the grate, and, as ill-luck would

have it, a bright little coal sprang out and fell on my lap,--that is,

the lap of my body. It seemed as if there was yet some sort of a

connection between us, because while the coal burnt into the leg of my

body, it was I who felt the sensation. I rushed over to myself and

attempted to brush it off. Of course I could not. The pain was really

unbearable, and, forgetting my state, I called to Mary, my sister; of

course she did not hear me! This was a worse dilemma than before. I

decided at once to resume my proper condition, when, horror of

horrors! I found that I did not know how.

It was true! I had been so constantly occupied in endeavoring to get

out of myself, as it were, that I had completely omitted to learn the

way to get in! This was worse than anything previous. I forgot all

about the glowing coal which was still burning me, in the dreadful

possibility which rose before me. Suppose they should bury me, would I

suffer the pangs of suffocation forever, or at least until my body

resolved itself into its primordial elements? I knew, of course, my

spirit would never die, and if my body did turn to dust, would my

spirit go with those of other departed beings, as the Bible teaches

us, or would the fact that I had taken my spirit in my own hands, as

it were, condemn me to wander forever in my present state?

I certainly felt my spiritual hair turn gray. What would become of

Geraldine? Would I ever see her again or, rather, would she ever see

me? Would she at last forget me and marry some one else, and force me

to stand powerless looking on? I ground my spiritual teeth in rage and

clinched my spiritual hand and swore--but what was the use of

swearing? I could do nothing. I was too utterly ethereal, too entirely

disembodied to even haunt any one, too ephemeral for a ghost even! Oh,

horror! I thought my brain would give way. I thought of everything I

could to help me out.

I had dabbled a little in hypnotism and had experimented

surreptitiously on various members of my family, principally my sister

Mary, and with some effect. Now, hypnotism is the controlling of one

will by another. The will is an essential attribute of the spirit;

there is nothing gross about it. It is true that the weakest and most

physically imperfect specimens of this twofold race of ours sometimes

possess the most powerful wills; plainly, then, body, physically

considered, had nothing to do with this will power which is the secret

of hypnotic force. Apparently I had my will power in better shape for

use than at any time in my corporate body. I had it separated, under

command, and could concentrate it more easily and advantageously. I

would try it.

I got up, made the usual passes, and ordered Mary to come and throw

that coal off my leg. She did so at once. I was delighted. She stood

abashed and silent in the presence of the, to her, hidden force

controlling her. It flashed upon me in an instant I could cause her to

open the volume of Archidechus and turn the pages for me. Joy! No

sooner said than done.

I sat down beside her and willed her to do as I directed. I hastily

made her turn to the part which treated of the resumption of the

relationship; a new disappointment awaited me--the learned Archidechus

stated that the individual in the case he studied had never resumed

his mortal condition, and that the means of doing so were entirely

unknown to him. That took away my last hope.

Mechanically I released Mary from the influence and then waited to see

what she would do. Her glance fell upon me, and she looked at me

wonderingly.

"Why," she said, "how long Harry sleeps!" She touched him on the

shoulder. "Harry! Harry!" and then she looked in his face and

screamed.

The family, the servants, every one, came running in. They filled my

little room, and after narrowly escaping being crushed to death by our

fat cook, who hysterically sank back in the chair in which I was

sitting, I walked over to the corner of the room and waited. They

picked him up and laid him on the bed, and tried all the simple

remedies they knew to revive him. One poured brandy down his physical

throat,--imagine the sensation in my spiritual one,--another one

chafed his hands, one wetted a towel and struck him repeatedly with

it, the old-fashioned feather was held under his physical

nose--imagine my spiritual sensation a thousand times intensified and

judge what I suffered.

I wished they would go away and bury me decently and let me alone; it

was too much to endure quietly. I tried to hypnotize the whole lot,

but unavailingly. Finally the futility of their efforts dawned upon

them and they sat down to wait while one went for a doctor.

Doctor! I thought, contemptuously; what could he do? unless, indeed,

they might find a stray spiritualist who could fulfil his promises and

perhaps summon my spirit back into its earthly shell. Sure, never had

I seemed so sweet to myself. If I ever got back to myself again I made

a solemn vow never to leave myself on any pretext.

Presently the door opened and my father came in. My mother was long

since dead. The old gentleman was almost heart-broken; he sat down

beside me and took my physical hand. (I find the pronouns very

confusing in endeavoring to relate this dual story.) I would have

given worlds to comfort him. Different members of the family stood

around the room talking in low, hushed whispers of the dreadful fate

that had befallen me, exchanging reminiscences about me, extolling me

for many virtues I never possessed. There was some consolation in

hearing what a noble fellow I was. I have not heard it before, nor

have I heard it since, except from Geraldine. Finally the door opened

and the doctor entered. He could do nothing whatever, as I had

foreseen,--he actually pronounced me dead,--and a few hours later I

found myself neatly laid out in a coffin in the parlor,--that is, my

physical body was.

I took the most comfortable chair--when no one else wanted it, of

course--and waited for further developments. This was growing

interesting, and I had become somewhat resigned to the hopelessness of

my situation. I noted several curious facts. After a while I got very

sleepy, intensely so, and lay back in my chair and closed my eyes and

tried to go to sleep. It was no use; I could not. And yet I never so

longed to go to sleep in my life. The fact was, a spirit could not

sleep; and it was my body there in the coffin which felt sleepy; but I

must suffer for it. It was the same way with hunger. I was hungry. I

actually got so desperate as to go out to the pantry and look at the

cold chicken and boiled ham there. I could easily smell them; but as

to the eating--oh, it was horrible! I do not know how I got through

the night.

The next day I could do nothing but sit and look at the people who

came to see me and hear what they had to say. I have forgotten to

mention that in my condition I seemed to have as one of its attributes

a peculiar faculty of divining the real thoughts of the people who

came to look at me. Among them was John Haverford. He was actually

glad to see me; so at least I read his thought. Geraldine thinks I

must have been mistaken; at any rate, the sight of him filled me with

so much rage that I rushed over to him, I threatened him; I did more,

I struck him, kicked him, nothing of which he was sensible. It was too

bad.

Geraldine did not come. I waited heart-broken for her. Would she come?

The old man surely would not keep her. He was a pretty good fellow,

after all--he is devoted to our youngest daughter now. I thought he

certainly might bring her. I did not go out I could not bear to leave

my lonesome looking body in the coffin. I had no heart for further

adventures, anyway. I was intensely cramped from lying so long in one

position. When I die I am going to be cremated; no more coffins for

me. My wife says, however, she will not hear of that.

Geraldine told me afterwards that she passed the day in longing for me

to come and take her away, and wondering why I did not, besides being

continually impressed with a premonition that something was going to

happen. Finally, toward night on the second day of my anomalous

situation, Mary--good and faithful Mary--bethought herself to go and

tell Geraldine. On hearing the news that noble girl promptly fainted.

She recovered herself, however, and through Mary's aid managed to get

out of the house and come down to see me.

I was looking at myself very dejectedly in the parlor, half dead

from loss of sleep, hunger, and thirst, and wholly crazy from loss

of love and my dreadful prospects,--I surmised they would bury me

to-morrow,--when I heard the outside door open, a familiar and yet

nervous step sounded in the hall, and then the parlor door opened. I

had recognized the step; it was Geraldine, but how changed! I forgot

myself and my trouble, and as she threw herself down on her knees and

clasped me in her arms and kissed me, I suffered for her agony a

thousand times worse than for mine. Great heavens! Was ever man in

such a predicament? I bent over her in despair, and as she turned her

face up in prayer, I kissed her lips again. She sprang to her feet and

screamed,--

"Oh, he is not dead! I am sure of it! I felt him kiss me! I cannot be

mistaken! Mary, send for papa, and tell him to bring his newest and

most powerful storage battery along. I am sure Harry is not dead;

hurry, hurry!"

So it was from Geraldine herself that this new idea of torture

emanated. Oh, why could they not let a disembodied spirit alone in its

peaceful misery? An electric battery could do no good, and it would be

worse than the burnt feather.

Old Mr. Holabird was an electrician and an enthusiast. He would have

sacrificed his best friend to an experiment, and consequently did not

hesitate to come and practice upon me, whom he hated so bitterly

previous to the unfortunate dissolution of partnership between my body

and spirit. He was soon in the parlor with a servant following him

bringing the battery. He was angry and astonished at seeing Geraldine,

but his experiment was too engrossing for much time to be wasted upon

her then.

Having obtained the consent of my father, he began taking off my shoes

and then my socks. I blushed crimson; at least my spiritual entity

did. My physical body, I must confess, betrayed no evidence of shame

at the exposure; and before Geraldine, too! Mary and father and the

rest of the family looked on with anxiety and little apparent faith.

Geraldine stood beside me, resting one hand against my breast and

looking at me as if not to lose the faintest sign of life I might

show. Her father, all business and energy, attached the wires with a

reckless want of ceremony; I thought in wretchedly bad taste. I must

confess I hoped for the result of this experiment but faintly;

however, there might be something in it, so I stood with my arm around

Geraldine and my head resting upon her shoulder--spiritually, of

course--as the connection was made.

I was quiet enough for just one-millionth of a second, till I felt the

power of the current. It was awful; worse than any other experiment. I

groaned in anguish while that fiendish old man made the current

stronger and stronger, and that miserably placid body of mine lay

there as calm and as unfeeling as a log, while I was in torment. I

flew at the old man, clinched my hands in his hair, grasped him around

the throat, did everything, and yet had to bear a current strong

enough to have killed a dozen men, added to which was the anguish of

feeling my last hope vanish. I was doomed!

The scientific fervor of old Holabird was at last satisfied, and he

allowed the current to die down to one of much less intensity, merely

keeping, as he said, a little on in case of an emergency. A little! It

felt like ten toothaches run into one, but was so much less than

before that it seemed almost like a caress in the first moment of

relief.

While I was standing there helplessly, wondering what they would do

with me, the old man walked up to Geraldine, who stood wringing her

hands, looking at me, with her last hope gone, too, poor girl! and

said,--

"Come, Geraldine, we must go; the man is dead."

"Liar!" I shouted; but no one heard me.

"And there is no use staying here," he continued; "I tell you you must

come. I promised John Haverford that you would see him to-night. He

asked me for your hand, and I consented to-day."

Oh, I could have begged him to turn on the electricity again; each

pang fate had in store for me was worse than before. Geraldine

answered gloriously,--

"But _I_ have not consented."

"What difference? I say you shall marry him!" he said, grasping her

wrist.

"And I say I will not! I will be faithful to my dear dead Harry here!"

"Nonsense! You shall marry Haverford! You must!"

At this moment a strange thing occurred. Geraldine wrenched herself

away from her father, threw herself upon the physical half of me, and

whispered, "I'll die with him first!"

Something passed over me as a blinding lightning flash, and behold!

The body in the coffin struggled, sat up, clasped a trembling arm

about Geraldine, and exclaimed,--

"I am not dead, Geraldine. And you, you infernal old villain, get out

of my sight! Take off the battery; give me something to eat and

drink!"

The spirit had entered my body again. My love for Geraldine and her

love for me had wrought the miracle, just as anxiety for her and love

for her had wrought the first change. Ay, through love the world is

made and destroyed.

There is nothing more to tell. My story was so circumstantial that

people generally believe it in spite of the learned doctors, who hold

it to have been merely a case of suspended animation. In my mind and

Geraldine's, however, there is no doubt about it. Besides, does not

the learned Archidechus say--but never mind; if it were not for this

affair Geraldine says she might have been years in finding out her

heart as she did when she thought me dead, and her father never would

have consented to our marriage as he did.

He is very kind to us now, and we are very happy, and have only

anxiety lest my spirit should ever take to wandering again. Geraldine

says if it does she will marry John Haverford, who is still pining for

her; but I know that is only a threat to prevent the dissolution of

partnership, as she confesses in private that she would never marry

any one but me--never!

I am very fat and well now, and have burned up the parchments of the

learned Archidechus, and am training myself utterly to disbelieve such

things. The memory seems like a faint dream now in the light of our

present happiness, for Geraldine is the loveliest and sweetest of

wives, and says I am the best of husbands. And giving her that last

word, I lay down the pen.

THE END

_By the same Author._

WHEN BLADES ARE OUT AND LOVE'S AFIELD

By Cyrus Townsend Brady

Illustrated. Decorated. 12mo. ornamented binding, $1.50

A comedy of cross purposes in the Carolinas, in which Mr. Brady has

done some of his most fascinating work in the weaving into romance of

historical fact and figure. The love story brings into the action two

peculiarly charming women of contrasting types, and these play

foremost parts in the plot.

The book is notable besides for its introduction of the figure of

General Greene, and for its account of the brilliant role he played in

the campaign in the South. Mr. Brady may always be depended upon for

brisk action and a wealth of incident. For all who enjoy adventure and

gallant deeds, and the winning of hearts, this novel will be a

delight.

It is a conspicuous example of beautiful book-making, bound in buff

cloth with brown stamping. It has the distinction of eight

illustrations from drawings by E. Plaisted Abbott, and decorations in

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Greene."--_The Churchman_, Detroit.

"The publishers have spared no expense to make this volume one of the

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"The action of the story is spirited, the love interest is strong, and

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of decorative art as applied to typography, as 'When Blades Are Out

and Love's Afield,' seldom comes in the way of a reviewer."--_Nashville

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"A dainty love story. The book well repays the reading."--_The

Outlook._

"The book revels in love, war, adventure, so what more can be

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"There is just enough of war in the book to carry the spirit of the

times--there is just enough of the photography of the American

sentiment of those days to make the blood of to-day leap at the

injustice of yesterday. There is just enough of love to make the heart

go out to those who suffered in consequence of the duel of cross

purposes which runs throughout the story."--_New York Press._

JACK RAYMOND.

By E. L. VOYNICH.

12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"The strongest novel that the present season has produced."--_Pall

Mall Gazette_, London.

"Wonderful and terrible; wonderful in its intellectual effect,

terrible for the intensity of feeling effects."--_Boston

Courier._

"One of the uniquely interesting stories of the year."--_The

World_, New York.

SISTER TERESA.

By GEORGE MOORE.

12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"A psychological study of extraordinary power, revealing the fineness

of George Moore's literary methods."--_Philadelphia Press._

"Absorbing to the end as a narrative, 'Sister Teresa' is also a

remarkable exhibit of finished thought and skill."--_New York

World._

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA

THAT MAINWARING AFFAIR.

By A. MAYNARD BARBOUR.

Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"Reminds one of Anna Katherine Green in her palmiest days.... Keeps

the reader on the alert; deserves the applause of all who like

mystery."--_Town Topics_, New York.

"Possibly in a detective story the main object is to thrill. If so,

'That Mainwaring Affair' is all right. The thrill is there,--full

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THE LOVER FUGITIVES.

By JOHN FINNEMORE.

Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"It is an historical romance of the period following the Monmouth

rebellion, and is full to brimming over of the bravest deeds and most

stirring incidents."--_New York Journal._

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

THE RED MEN OF THE DUSK.

Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

WHEN BLADES ARE OUT AND LOVE'S AFIELD.

By CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY.

Buff buckram, eight illustrations, with colored border decorations;

also head-pieces, $1.50.

"As a romance it is delightful."--_Boston Transcript._

"A perfect gem of a volume. One of the daintiest that ever came to the

_World's_ table."--_New York World._

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA

By BARONESS VON HUTTEN.

MARR'D IN MAKING.

With frontispiece by E. Plaisted Abbott. 12mo. Cloth, ornamental,

$1.25.

"The book is a rare specimen of finished art and excels for interest,

daring, and strength. The study is of the contrariety of a woman who

is known to herself, but who holds herself unknown to the world, and

it is quite as fascinating as 'Miss Carmichael's Conscience,' which

first brought the author, the Baroness von Hutten, into literary

prominence."--_Journal_, Detroit.

MISS CARMICHAEL'S CONSCIENCE.

With frontispiece by Elizabeth Shippen Greene. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.

By JOHN FINNEMORE.

THE RED MEN OF THE DUSK.

A Romance of the Days of Cromwell. With illustrations. 12mo. Cloth,

ornamental, $1.50.

"This is a story of the days of Cromwell. The scene is laid partly in

England and partly among the mountain fastnesses of Wales. The 'Red

Men' are not Indians, but are Englishmen, driven by the unquiet times

to become a party of bandits. The hero is a soldier of the King's, of

good birth, who seeks refuge among them, after the over-throw of the

King's court. A strong and exciting story."--_Brooklyn Eagle._

By WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

THE SIGN OF THE SEVEN SINS.

12mo. Cloth, $1.25.

"A story of Monte Carlo, and is told in the author's very best style.

Mysterious and thrilling adventures follow very closely, the

situations are startling, the surprises are many. It is well worth

reading."--_Commercial_, Buffalo.

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA

By WILLIAM JASPER NICOLLS.

GRAYSTONE.

Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"The most exciting incidents take place in a town in the coal regions

of Pennsylvania.... It is told with much charm of style and manner.

The characters are well and clearly drawn, and the narrative has a

sustained and cumulative interest that is none too common in these

latter days."--_Philadelphia Times._

By LOUISA PARR.

DOROTHY FOX.

Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"The heroine is a charming little Quaker whose upbringing forbids her

marrying the fascinating English officer who loves her. There is a

pleasing mixture of worldly society mingled with the quaint atmosphere

which surrounds the Fox family."--_Indianapolis Journal._

By JAMES O. G. DUFFY.

GLASS AND GOLD.

12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"A strong story. The presentation of Miranda is done with broad

charity and keen insight."--_Evening Telegraph._

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA

SELECTED LIST OF FICTION.

_Books marked * illustrated._

WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

The Sign of the Seven Sins. $1.25; paper, 50 cents.

JOHN LUTHER LONG.

Miss Cherry-Blossom of Tokyo. $1.25.

The Fox-Woman. $1.25.*

H. C. MACILWAINE.

Fate the Fiddler. $1.50.

W. C. MORROW.

The Ape, The Idiot, and Other People. $1.25.

A Man: His Mark. $1.25.*

B. E. STEVENSON.

At Odds with the Regent. $1.50.*

MAURICE THOMPSON.

Sweetheart Manette. $1.25.*

JOHN STRANGE WINTER.

The Price of a Wife. $1.25. The Magic Wheel. $1.25.

A Blaze of Glory. $1.25.

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA

THE "TRUE" BIOGRAPHIES

THE TRUE GEORGE WASHINGTON.

By PAUL LEICESTER FORD.

With twenty-four full-page illustrations. Crown octavo. Cloth, $1.00;

half levant, $5.00.

THE TRUE BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

By SYDNEY GEORGE FISHER.

With numerous illustrations. Crown octavo. Cloth, $2.00; half levant,

$5.00.

THE TRUE WILLIAM PENN.

By SYDNEY GEORGE FISHER.

With numerous hitherto unpublished illustrations, portraits, and

fac-similes. Crown octavo. Cloth, $2.00; half levant, $5.00.

THE TRUE THOMAS JEFFERSON.

By WILLIAM ELEROY CURTIS.

With numerous illustrations. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.00, net; half

levant, $5.00, net. Postage 13 cents extra.

"The house of Lippincott started the 'true portrait' order of

biography, in contradistinction to the garbled eulogy style of

hero-chronicling, with Paul Leicester Ford's 'True George Washington.'

The next season, Mr. Sydney George Fisher, favorably known as a writer

on colonial history and on the making of Pennsylvania, was brought

forward as the biographer of 'The True Benjamin Franklin.' Then 'The

True William Penn' from the same source, and certainly Mr. Fisher was

well equipped for this task."--_The Interior_, Chicago.

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA

End of Project Gutenberg's Woven with the Ship, by Cyrus Townsend Brady