Edith Rogers came to see her husband, probably less inclined toward
the sacrifice upon which he insisted than she had been when he left
her the Saturday before. Her heart had ached to see her boy, but she
felt a growing resentment toward Donald, for what she felt was his
hard-heartedness. Her feelings in this direction had been fanned to a
flame by the arguments of her mother, who had succeeded in persuading
her that what Donald asked was unreasonable and wrong. She knew that the
affair between West and herself had not gone to the ultimate lengths
that Donald evidently suspected--she did not stop to consider that in
all else but this one thing she had been utterly faithless, and that
even this step she would have taken, had not death intervened and saved
her. Being a woman, she could not put herself in Donald's place, and
understand the brutal way in which his feelings had been outraged by
the treachery of the two persons on earth whom he had most loved
and trusted--his wife and his friend. Hence it was in no spirit of
repentance that she entered the little room in which she had spent so
many weary hours, but rather as one who came to demand her rights.
Her mother had returned from New York furious with Donald, and
determined to use every means in her power to prevent a reconciliation
between him and Edith. Her carefully detailed description of the
reception which her son-in-law had given her, a description which lost
nothing by reason of the fury into which Mrs. Pope had succeeded in
working herself, made Edith realize fully that Donald was very much in
earnest, and not at all likely to return to her, however long she might
wait for him to do so.
There was clearly but one thing to do: she must go to him, and endeavor
to show him the cruelty, the unreasonableness, of his attitude.
Something in the firm stand which he had taken compelled her admiration;
even while it dealt a blow to her pride. She had never known Donald to
be like this before--he had always humored her, always been apologetic,
regretful because he was unable to gratify her every desire. She longed
for the moment to come, when she might see him and Bobbie again, and
determined to use every power of attraction she possessed to bring him
to her way of thinking. It had been easy in the past--her tears, her
reproaches, had usually brought him contritely to her feet.
Mrs. Pope, in her anger, attempted to dissuade Edith from this
intention. "I shouldn't go near him, my dear," she said, her eyes
snapping. "Let him stay there alone for a week or two, with Bobbie to
look after. That will bring him to his senses." Edith, however, would
not listen to her. "I shall go, mother," she said. "After all, Donald
has been pretty badly treated. I never should have acted as I did. I
mean to do my best to let him see that I care for him just as much as I
ever did. Of course, he must be reasonable, too. I'm not going to give
up this money. He ought not to ask it."
Alice had been listening to the conversation between her mother and
sister in gloomy silence. Mr. Hall had decided to move to the hotel for
the remainder of his stay, and she was annoyed to think that all her
plans had been upset. "What's the use of deluding yourself, Edith," she
remarked pointedly. "Donald will make you give up that money as sure as
fate. I never saw him so angry."
"Alice, you talk like a fool," said her mother. "How can he make her
give it up? He's hardly likely to use a club."
"Wouldn't be a bad idea," Alice flung at them, as she left the room.
"Edith has needed one, for some time." Mrs. Pope was aghast. "Sometimes,
Edith," she confided to the latter, "I think Alice is losing her mind."
Edith was not so sure. She had always had great faith in her sister's
judgment, and the latter's remark worried her.
There was one way, she concluded, and only one, to deal with Donald. She
must make herself as attractive, as alluring, as possible. When she
dressed herself, the following afternoon, for her trip to the city, she
put on her most becoming gown, her most effective hat. She prepared
herself with the greatest care. Her maid spent most of the forenoon
getting her ready, manicuring her nails, washing and drying her hair,
massaging her face, doing everything, in fact, that might be done to
enhance her physical charms. She knew she had always been a beautiful
woman--she was sure, when she glanced at herself in the cheval glass in
her bedroom, that she had never appeared to greater advantage. It did
not occur to her that she might make a better impression upon her
husband in the sober garb of repentance. She wanted to attract him, to
charm him, to force him to desire her so greatly that he would make any
sacrifice in order to bring her to his arms.
In all this she showed her lack of understanding of Donald's character.
Everything she wore, from her dainty _suede_ slippers to her costly hat,
she owed to West. The jewels she wore had been purchased with his money.
The gold purse which dangled so carelessly from her wrist, accompanied
by an array of pencils, vanity boxes and fashionable gew-gaws, his
wealth alone had made possible. Had she but appreciated it, everything
about her was calculated to send Donald into a storm of rage, rather
than to attract him and bring him submissively to her feet.
Mrs. Pope nodded proudly as her daughter came down the stairs. "You look
stunning, dear--a wife of whom any man might be proud. Don't give in an
inch. You have right on your side, and it only requires a little courage
to win." She settled herself comfortably in her chair. "Would you mind
ringing for Richards, my dear? I must have a refreshing drink of some
sort. This heat is positively unbearable."
The ride to town was hot and uncomfortable. Edith, on her arrival, went
at once to a hotel near the station and ordered dinner. She did not feel
particularly hungry--she was too nervous and excited for that; but she
felt the need of something to sustain her throughout the trying ordeal
which, she knew, lay before her. Then, too, she had at least two hours
to wait, before eight o'clock, at which time she felt that Donald would
have finished his dinner and be ready to receive her.
She drove up-town, after her meal, in a taxicab, and arrived at the
Roxborough a little before eight. The tawdry entrance to the place, with
its imitation marbles and imitation palms, sent a shiver of apprehension
through her. God, to come back to a place like this! It was not to be
thought of. In this frame of mind she ascended in the elevator, and in a
moment stood before the doorway to their apartment. Everything seemed
the same--even the crack in the tinted plaster to the left of the door,
the smell of gas and cooking, the flickering gas jet in the hall. She
realized their familiarity, yet she might have been away for ages, so
far removed from her present life did they seem.
Donald opened the door, and quietly closed it after her, welcoming her
with grave politeness.
"Donald!" she cried, as he came toward her. "Where is Bobbie?"
"In his room," he replied.
"I want to see him."
"He's asleep."
He gazed at her exquisite pongee gown, her costly hat, the lace coat she
carried upon her arm, and frowned.
"How could you take the poor child away like that? It must have broken
his heart to leave all his things--his pony, and his boat, and all. Is
he well? Have you taken good care of him? You know how careful I always
am about what he has to eat."
Donald's frown deepened. "Bobbie is very well," he said slowly. "It
seems to me there is a bigger question between us than that."
"Can there be any bigger question than Bobbie?" she asked.
He gazed at her for a few moments in moody silence. "Did you come here
to tell me that?" he presently asked.
"No, Donald. I came to ask your forgiveness."
"You know the conditions under which I will discuss the matter," he
interrupted.
"Yes. You blame me for taking this money. You want me to give it up.
Don't you know that all I have done has been for him?" She glanced
significantly toward the door of the bedroom.
Donald stood for a moment in silence. He felt in this woman no sense of
sorrow, of repentance, but only a stubborn insistence upon what she
considered her rights.
"Was it for him that you agreed to abandon your home, your husband, and
run away with another man?" he asked bitterly.
She reproached him, pleading with her eyes, her voice.
"Oh--don't--don't!" she cried. "Can't you forgive me? Can't you?"
"Not until you show yourself worthy of forgiveness. You belong to him as
long as you accept his money."
She came up to him, her hands outstretched. "Donald!" she cried. "That
is what I want to talk to you about. I have been a very foolish woman.
I have done things that I can never forgive myself for as long as I
live. I am bitterly--bitterly--sorry. If it were not for our boy, I
would go away, and never trouble you again. I have been a miserable
fool, and I cannot blame you if you hate and despise me. I threw away
everything that was dear to me for nothing--nothing! Now I know that it
is your love and my boy's that I want more than anything in the world.
But, Donald, what has this money to do with what I have done? Will it
make it any the less wrong, to give it up? If you are really willing to
give me another chance, can't you do it without bringing this question
of money into the matter? Can't you do it because I am sincerely,
honestly repentant; because I love you, and want your love, your
forgiveness so much--so very much?" She put her hand upon his arm, and
there were tears in her eyes. "Donald, listen to me, please--won't you?"
"If you had come here in the same poor things you wore before all this
happened," he said, turning coldly from her, "it would be easier for me
to forget. What do you mean by flaunting this man's money in my face,
with your jewels--your finery?" He looked at her, and a feeling almost
of disgust crept over him. "Can't you see that everything about you
reeks of him?"
"Oh, Donald," she cried, "don't be angry with me--please don't. I didn't
think about my clothes--indeed, I didn't." She seemed unable to
understand that it was not her clothes he objected to, but what they
represented.
"You mean you did not think about my feelings. You never do think about
the things that count."
She turned away from him, sobbing. "Oh, don't! How can you say such
things to me? Isn't it the repentance of my heart that counts?"
"If there were any real repentance in your heart," he said, "you would
put those things from you as though they were polluted." He began to
walk up and down the room, unable to contain his anger.
Edith saw that upon the one point--that of West's money--he was
inflexible. She looked up with an air of resignation. "Very well," she
said suddenly. "I will do as you ask. I will give up this money. I will
never touch another penny of it as long as I live, but I want it put
aside for Bobbie."
"Never!" he cried angrily.
He had thought, when she began to speak, that she had yielded; her
concluding words told him that she was only quibbling.
"Donald, you can't mean what you say. Think of his future!"
"I don't want to argue the question," he exclaimed impatiently. "You
know perfectly well I will never consent to what you ask. It's
contemptible."
Again she began to sob. "How can you be so cruel? How can you?" she
moaned.
"Isn't it true?" he replied indignantly.
"It doesn't make any difference how you hurt me--I know I deserve
it--but you shall not take this chance away from my boy. It isn't right!
it isn't fair! Hurt me all you want to, revenge yourself upon me to the
best of your ability, but don't take it out on him. I am fighting for
his happiness, and I intend to give it to him."
"Then you are going about it in a very strange way. Let him grow up and
go out into the world with clean hands and a clear conscience; let him
know that truth, and right, and honor are more important than all the
money in the world, and I'll answer for his happiness."
"He need never know," she began.
"You know, and I know. I refuse to degrade myself, even for his sake."
"There is nothing I would not do for his sake."
"Nothing! The very first thing is to give up this shameful inheritance,
and you refuse to do it."
"It is for his sake that I refuse."
Donald turned away from her. There seemed no use in trying to appeal to
her sense of right.
"Donald," she began again, "if you will not let Bobbie have the money,
then give it to my mother."
"No, I won't do it, and I have told her so. Even your sister, it seems,
has decency enough to see that I am right."
"If Alice had been married eight years, and had a child, she might feel
differently."
"I hope not," he said, without looking at her.
Edith threw herself disconsolately into a chair. "You make everything so
hard--so very hard," she cried. "Is there nothing I can say that will
move you? Is your business in West Virginia nothing to you? Tell me,
Donald, are you willing to see that fail?"
He turned on her, indignant. "I did not think you would come here and
taunt me with that! Let it fail--a thousand times; let every cent I have
in it go, rather than owe its success to him!"
"How can you be so bitter?"
"Haven't you done enough to make me so?"
"If this business does fail, what then?"
He swept his hand about the room. "This," he said. "Whatever I
have--however little it may be--as long as it is honest."
She followed his gaze and shivered, as though the place chilled her.
"And you expect me to come back to such a life?" she asked bitterly.
"If you come back at all--yes."
"To cook, and scrub, and scrape, and save, and wear out my life like a
servant! Ugh!" She shuddered.
"So it was yourself you were thinking of, after all," he cried
scornfully. "After what you have done, you ought to thank God for the
chance."
She got up and approached him, holding out her hands appealingly. "Oh,
Donald--Donald!" she cried. "Please don't make me do this--please
don't. I can't stand it--indeed, I can't."
"I do not make you do it," he answered her. "I do not even ask you to do
it. You know the conditions under which you can return here. Do as you
please."
"Can't you show a little generosity? I had hoped to come to you and talk
over our affairs in a friendly spirit."
"There is nothing to talk over. You know your duty. There is only one
question, and that question is, are you going to do it?"
She stood for a long time, as though unable to make up her mind.
Suddenly she put the whole thing aside. "It is too big a question to
decide off-hand," she said, walking away from him, her hands clenched.
"Donald--" she turned--"I want to see Bobbie." She took a step toward
the bedroom door.
Donald stepped in front of her, blocking the way. "No!" he cried
passionately. "No!"
"Donald! Don't!" she exclaimed, alarmed at his manner.
"You cannot come in here."
"I cannot see my own child? You dare tell me that?"
"Yes. You shall not see him. You shall not go near him, until you agree
to do as I say."
"You shall not do this!" she cried, her eyes blazing. "It is
wrong--wrong!"
"Then come to your senses."
"Is it possible that you could be so cruel?" she asked slowly. "Is it
possible that you could deprive that innocent child of his mother's
love?"
"It is you who are depriving him of it--not I."
"Have you thought what it will mean, if you do this thing? Don't you
know that it will break his heart? Night after night he will cry for
me--for his mother--and you cannot comfort him, and all through the long
days he will want me, and ask for me, and will not understand. You talk
about giving him truth, and right, and honor. What are those things to
him, compared to a mother's love? You shall not come between me and my
boy--you shall not--you shall not!" She concluded with a burst of
hysterical sobbing, then again started toward the bedroom. "Open that
door!" she demanded. "Open it, I say! I want my boy!"
Donald did not move. "No," he said quietly. "Bobbie stays here with me."
"You cannot take him from me. The law will not allow you." Her face
blazed with angry defiance.
"I am not taking him from you. Your home is here. It is the best that I
can provide. If you are not satisfied with it--if you leave it--you
leave me and your child as well. No law can give him back to you."
She had grown furiously angry by this time. "Do you think you can force
me to do as you wish through my love for my child?" she cried.
"I am not trying to force you to do anything," he replied. "You came
here. I did not ask you to come. Whether you stay or not depends
entirely upon yourself. The decision is yours."
She turned quickly to the chair, and picked up her coat and purse.
"Very well," she said bitterly. "If you can be determined, so can I. I
shall demand my child in court. We shall see who has the better right to
him."
"You would not dare."
"You shall see." She started toward the door.
"You are making a terrible mistake," he warned her.
She paused, turning to him. "No," she said slowly. "It is you who are
making the mistake. I came here with nothing but love, and sorrow, and
regret in my heart. You have turned them all to hate, with your
cruelty--your brutality. You have tried to hurt me through my love for
my little boy, and I hate you for it--I hate you!" She swept toward the
door, weeping hysterically.
"I have asked you to do nothing but what is right, and you know it."
"No--I do not know it. Is it right to keep me from my child? Is it right
to ask me to sacrifice his whole future? If that is right--I want none
of it." She placed her hand upon the door-knob, and turned it. Donald
followed her, an ominous look in his eyes. "Edith--where are you going?"
he demanded.
"I am going back to New London. If you have any regard for me, if you
have any regard for your child, you will come to me there." She threw
the door open, and stood upon the threshold.
Donald approached her still more closely. "If you go out of that door,
you go out of my life forever," he said sternly. "I shall never come to
you--of that you may be sure."
"Very well--you--you brute!" she cried, and turned to go.
"Stop!" he cried, springing toward her.
"No. You have gone too far." She swept into the hall.
He took her roughly by the arm. "Come back here," he cried, beside
himself with fury. "Since you say I am a brute, I will act like one." He
pulled her forcibly into the room and slammed the door.
"Don't," she cried, resisting him. "Oh! You are hurting me--Donald!" She
looked at him in wonder.
"Be quiet!" he said. "I am not hurting you half so much as you are
hurting me. I have told you what you must do, and you have got to do
it."
"What do you want with me?" she cried, still struggling with him. "Let
go my arm--let go of me, I tell you! I want to go! Oh!"
"You shall not go."
"I will! You have no right to keep me here."
"Be quiet, I say." He forced her toward the center of the room.
She burst into tears. "How dare you treat me like this?" she cried. "How
dare you? Are you mad?"
"If I am, it is you who have made me so," he said, in a fury. "You talk
about love, and repentance, and you come here and insult and humiliate
me with every word you say--with everything about you. Whom do you have
to thank for that dress, that coat, those diamonds, that jeweled purse,
and the money in it? West! West! West!" He swept upon her a look that
made her eyes fall. "I tell you I won't have it--do you understand? I
won't have it!"
She stared at him in absolute amazement, and, with her wonder there came
a feeling of admiration, almost, at his mastery of her. Never before, in
all the eight years of their married life, had she seen him as he was
now--never before had he dominated her. She felt a child in his grasp,
and in some strange way her anger began to leave her, and a sense almost
of gladness at this primitive method of dealing with the problem which
confronted them swept over her.
"Donald," she called softly to him. "Donald!" but he did not hear her.
"You are my wife--mine, do you hear?" he cried, then tore from her arm
the jeweled purse, and flung it violently from him. "Take off those
things--take them off! The sight of them insults me!" He grasped the
lace coat she held over her arm, and threw it aside. "He gave you this
necklace--damn him!" he cried, tearing it from her neck, and throwing it
upon the floor.
She looked up at him, amazed. "Donald--listen to me--please!" she cried.
He paid no attention to her. "Do as I tell you," he commanded. "Take off
that stuff--take it off!"
She tremblingly removed from her fingers a diamond and ruby ring, and
another of pearls, which her mother had persuaded her to buy.
"Give them to me." He took the rings, and hurled them across the room.
"Donald, how can you treat me like this?" she protested weakly.
"I shall treat you as I like. Henceforth I am master in this house."
"You have no right--" she began.
He took her by the arm, and flung her to the floor. "Get down on your
knees," he said, "and thank God that you have your husband, and your
child, and a roof above your head."
She looked up at him in wonder. He seemed no longer the kind and patient
husband whom she had held in secret contempt because of what had seemed
to her his lack of force--of spirit. Here was a man who meant to be
obeyed.
"And, when you have done so," she heard him saying, "ask Him to help you
to be worthy of them. God knows you need it." He stood over her, looking
down at her with fierce determination.
She caught his glance, and her eyes fell. "You--you won't let me go?"
she faltered.
"No. Your place is here, and here you shall stay. I have stood all of
this folly that I intend to stand."
She buried her face in the pillows of the couch beside which she was
kneeling, and lay thus for a long time, shaking with sobs. Into her mind
had come a new emotion--a new understanding of her love for her
husband. Always before he had failed to master her, to make her feel
that in the conjunction of their two lives he was the dominant spirit,
willing even to govern her by force, when force seemed necessary to her
welfare. What had changed him so? What had caused him to keep her here,
at his side, against her will? What, indeed, but his love for her? She
knew it was that, knew that, had he been indifferent to her, he would
have let her pass from his life without lifting a hand to prevent it. A
fierce joy rose within her heart that this man desired her so
greatly--that he held her, as the primitive man held his women, by the
right of might. She wanted all the luxuries that had come to her--wanted
them still, but, compared with the joy of realizing that Donald still
loved her, they seemed as nothing.
So he had held her--meant to hold her, against everything in the
world--against even herself, and her own folly. She rejoiced in the
thought, and her sobbing ceased. After all--he--he and her little
boy--were more to her than anything that money could buy. Had Donald
temporized with her--allowed her to keep the money that had come to
her, she knew in her heart that she would have secretly despised him,
that in the end she would have ceased to love him. It seemed good to be
home again--good to be alive. She had always wanted someone to rule
her--she felt strangely humble, knowing her own weakness. Presently she
raised her head, and found him standing beside her. With a swift, eager
movement she grasped his hand.
"I'm so--very--very glad!" she sobbed, unable to keep back her tears. "I
did not--want--to go. I never--never--want to--go away from you--again."
She looked up, her eyes shining. "Donald--do you--still care for--me--a
little?" she asked, in a quavering voice. "Do you?"
Donald's sudden burst of rage had gone. He stood looking at her with a
deep sadness in his eyes. After all, she seemed so much a child. "Do you
think I would take the trouble to keep you here, if I did not?" he
asked.
She began to sob violently. "Donald--forgive me--forgive me!" she cried.
"I shall--never go away from you--and--Bobbie--as--long--as--I live."
[Illustration: "YOU--YOU WON'T LET ME GO?" SHE FALTERED]
He looked down, not understanding this sudden change in her. "I have
kept you here for the sake of our boy," he said slowly, "and here you
must stay. But, for your sake and mine, independent of him, you must
answer me one question. Were you West's mistress?"
She started to her feet, and dashed the tears from her eyes. "No!" she
cried. "Before God--no! I was just as bad, I know, for I intended to be,
but that one thing I had not done."
"Are you telling me the truth?"
"Oh, Donald, I am--I am!" she cried hysterically.
"Then there is still a chance for you, and for me," he said, his face
lighting up with sudden joy.
"Donald!" she cried; "Donald!" and tried to smile through her tears. As
she spoke, the door of the bedroom opened, and she heard a childish
voice. "Mamma!" it said, and Bobbie rushed up to her, and threw his arms
about her.
She reached down and clasped him to her breast. "My darling--my
darling!" she cried, as she kissed him.
"Mamma--I'm so glad you've come. I had such awful dreams. I dreamed
that you and papa were fighting, and I came and called, and you wouldn't
listen to me."
"Never mind, precious. It's all right now," she said, soothing him.
"Papa told me if I prayed very hard for you to come back, you would--and
you _did_, didn't you, mamma?"
"Yes, dear," she said; then looked toward her husband, and smiled
happily.
"And you won't ever go away and leave me any more, mamma?"
"No, Bobbie--never more." She rose, and, tearing off her hat, flung it
carelessly aside, then went up to her husband, holding out her hands.
"Donald," she said, "I am ready to do anything you wish--anything." She
appeared very happy, and looked at him with a new and almost girlish
embarrassment.
He held out his arms, and took her to his heart. "Edith!" he said; then
softly kissed her hair.
THE END.
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A young college professor, missing his steamer for Europe, has a
romantic meeting with a pretty girl, escorts her home, and is enveloped
in a big mystery.
_Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_
GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK
TITLES SELECTED FROM
GROSSET & DUNLAP'S LIST
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.
=THE SILENT CALL.= By Edwin Milton Royle. Illustrated with scenes from
the play.
The hero of this story is the Squaw Man's son. He has been taken to
England, but spurns conventional life for the sake of the untamed West
and a girl's pretty face.
=JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER.= By George W. Cable.
A story of the pretty women and spirited men of the South. As fragrant
in sentiment as a sprig of magnolia, and as full of mystery and racial
troubles as any romance of "after the war" days.
=MR. JUSTICE RAFFLES.= By E. W. Hornung.
This engaging rascal is found helping a young cricket player out of the
toils of a money shark. Novel in plot, thrilling and amusing.
=FORTY MINUTES LATE.= By F. Hopkinson Smith. Illustrated by S. M. Chase.
Delightfully human stories of every day happenings; of a lecturer's
laughable experience because he's late, a young woman's excursion into
the stock market, etc.
=OLD LADY NUMBER 31.= By Louise Forsslund.
A heart-warming story of American rural life, telling of the adventures
of an old couple in an old folk's home, their sunny, philosophical
acceptance of misfortune and ultimate prosperity.
=THE HUSBAND'S STORY.= By David Graham Phillips.
A story that has given all Europe as well as all America much food for
thought. A young couple begin life in humble circumstances and rise in
worldly matters until the husband is enormously rich--the wife in the
most aristocratic European society--but at the price of their happiness.
=THE TRAIL OF NINETY-EIGHT.= By Robert W. Service. Illustrated by
Maynard Dixon.
One of the best stories of "Vagabondia" ever written, and one of the
most accurate and picturesque descriptions of the stampede of gold
seekers to the Yukon. The love story embedded in the narrative is
strikingly original.
_Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_
GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK
TITLES SELECTED FROM
GROSSET & DUNLAP'S LIST
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list
=THE SIEGE OF THE SEVEN SUITORS.= By Meredith Nicholson. Illustrated by
C. Coles Phillips and Reginald Birch.
Seven suitors vie with each other for the love of a beautiful girl, and
she subjects them to a test that is full of mystery, magic and sheer
amusement.
=THE MAGNET.= By Henry C. Rowland. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.
The story of a remarkable courtship involving three pretty girls on a
yacht, a poet-lover in pursuit, and a mix-up in the names of the girls.
=THE TURN OF THE ROAD.= By Eugenia Brooks Frothingham.
A beautiful young opera singer chooses professional success instead of
love, but comes to a place in life where the call of the heart is
stronger than worldly success.
=SCOTTIE AND HIS LADY.= By Margaret Morse. Illustrated by Harold M.
Brett.
A young girl whose affections have been blighted is presented with a
Scotch Collie to divert her mind, and the roving adventures of her pet
lead the young mistress into another romance.
=SHEILA VEDDER.= By Amelia E. Barr. Frontispiece by Harrison Fisher.
A very beautiful romance of the Shetland Islands, with a handsome,
strong willed hero and a lovely girl of Gaelic blood as heroine. A
sequel to "Jan Vedder's Wife."
=JOHN WARD, PREACHER.= By Margaret Deland.
The first big success of this much loved American novelist. It is a
powerful portrayal of a young clergyman's attempt to win his beautiful
wife to his own narrow creed.
=THE TRAIL OF NINETY-EIGHT.= By Robert W. Service. Illustrated by
Maynard Dixon.
One of the best stories of "Vagabondia" ever written, and one of the
most accurate and picturesque of the stampede of gold seekers to the
Yukon. The love story embedded in the narrative is strikingly original.
_Ask for compete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_
GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK
TITLES SELECTED FROM
GROSSET & DUNLAP'S LIST
REALISTIC, ENGAGING PICTURES OF LIFE
THE GARDEN OF FATE. By Roy Norton. Illustrated by Joseph Clement Coll.
The colorful romance of an American girl in Morocco, and of a beautiful
garden, whose beauty and traditions of strange subtle happenings were
closed to the world by a Sultan's seal.
THE MAN HIGHER UP. By Henry Russell Miller. Full page vignette
illustrations by M. Leone Bracker.
The story of a tenement waif who rose by his own ingenuity to the office
of mayor of his native city. His experiences while "climbing," make a
most interesting example of the possibilities of human nature to rise
above circumstances.
THE KEY TO YESTERDAY. By Charles Neville Buck. Illustrated by R.
Schabelitz.
Robert Saxon, a prominent artist, has an accident, while in Paris, which
obliterates his memory, and the only clue he has to his former life is a
rusty key. What door in Paris will it unlock? He must know that before
he woos the girl he loves.
THE DANGER TRAIL. By James Oliver Curwood. Illustrated by Charles
Livingston Bull.
The danger trail is over the snow-smothered North. A young Chicago
engineer, who is building a road through the Hudson Bay region, is
involved in mystery, and is led into ambush by a young woman.
THE GAY LORD WARING. By Houghton Townley. Illustrated by Will Grete.
A story of the smart hunting set in England. A gay young lord wins in
love against his selfish and cowardly brother and apparently against
fate itself.
BY INHERITANCE. By Octave Thanet. Illustrated by Thomas Fogarty.
Elaborate wrapper in colors.
A wealthy New England spinster with the most elaborate plans for the
education of the negro goes to visit her nephew in Arkansas, where she
learns the needs of the colored race first hand and begins to lose her
theories.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK
A FEW OF
GROSSET & DUNLAP'S
Great Books at Little Prices
THE MUSIC MASTER. By Charles Klein. Illustrated by John Rae.
This marvelously vivid narrative turns upon the search of a German
musician in New York for his little daughter. Mr. Klein has well
portrayed his pathetic struggle with poverty, his varied experiences in
endeavoring to meet the demands of a public not trained to an
appreciation of the classic, and his final great hour when, in the
rapidly shifting events of a big city, his little daughter, now a
beautiful young woman, is brought to his very door. A superb bit of
fiction, palpitating with the life of the great metropolis. The play in
which David Warfield scored his highest success.
DR. LAVENDAR'S PEOPLE. By Margaret Deland. Illustrated by Lucius
Hitchcock.
Mrs. Deland won so many friends through Old Chester Tales that this
volume needs no introduction beyond its title. The lovable doctor is
more ripened in this later book, and the simple comedies and tragedies
of the old village are told with dramatic charm.
OLD CHESTER TALES. By Margaret Deland. Illustrated by Howard Pyle.
Stories portraying with delightful humor and pathos a quaint people in a
sleepy old town. Dr. Lavendar, a very human and lovable "preacher," is
the connecting link between these dramatic stories from life.
HE FELL IN LOVE WITH HIS WIFE. By E. P. Roe. With frontispiece.
The hero is a farmer--a man with honest, sincere views of life. Bereft
of his wife, his home is cared for by a succession of domestics of
varying degrees of inefficiency until, from a most unpromising source,
comes a young woman who not only becomes his wife but commands his
respect and eventually wins his love. A bright and delicate romance,
revealing on both sides a love that surmounts all difficulties and
survives the censure of friends as well as the bitterness of enemies.
THE YOKE. By Elizabeth Miller.
Against the historical background of the days when the children of
Israel were delivered from the bondage of Egypt, the author has sketched
a romance of compelling charm. A biblical novel as great as any since
"Ben Hur."
SAUL OF TARSUS. By Elizabeth Miller. Illustrated by Andre Castaigne.
The scenes of this story are laid in Jerusalem, Alexandria, Rome and
Damascus. The Apostle Paul, the Martyr Stephen, Herod Agrippa and the
Emperors Tiberius and Caligula are among the mighty figures that move
through the pages. Wonderful descriptions, and a love story of the
purest and noblest type mark this most remarkable religious romance.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
1. Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors;
otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's
words and intent.
2. In the advertising pages at the back of the book, titles were
underlined. These titles are enclosed between equal signs (example:
=SCOTTIE AND HIS LADY.=),