LOVE'S SURRENDER
Scotty Baker was not an adept at concealing his emotions, and he stared
in unqualified surprise at the long figure in brown which of a sudden
intruded into his range of vision. The morning paper upon his knees
fluttered unnoticed to the floor of the porch.
"Ben Blair, by all that's good and proper!" he exclaimed to the man who,
without a look to either side, turned up the short walk. "Where in
heaven's name did you come from? I supposed you'd gone home a week ago."
Blair stopped at the steps, and deliberately wiped the perspiration from
his face.
"You were misinformed about my going," he explained. "I changed hotels,
that was all."
Scotty stared harder than before.
"But why?" he groped. "I inquired of the clerk, and he said you had gone
by an afternoon train. I don't see--"
Ben mounted the steps and took a chair opposite the Englishman.
"If you will excuse me," he said, "I would rather not go into details.
The fact's enough--I am still here. Besides--pardon me--I did not call
to be questioned, but to question. You remember the last time I saw
you?"
Scotty nodded an affirmative. He had a premonition that the unexpected
was about to happen.
"Yes," he said.
Ben lit a cigar. "You remember, then, that you made me a certain
promise?"
Scotty threw one leg over the other restlessly. "Yes, I remember," he
repeated.
The visitor eyed him keenly. "I would like to know if you kept it," he
said.
Scotty felt the seat of his chair growing even more uncomfortable than
before, and he cast about for an avenue of escape. One presented itself.
"Is that what you stayed to find out?" he questioned in his turn.
Ben blew out a cloud of smoke, and then another.
"No, not the main reason. But that has nothing to do with the subject. I
have a right to ask the question. Did you or did you not keep your
promise?"
The Englishman's first impulse was to refuse point-blank to answer;
then, on second thought, he decided that such a course would be unwise.
The other really did have a right to ask.
"I--" he hesitated, "decided--"
But interrupting, Ben raised his hand, palm outward.
"Don't dodge the question. Yes or no?"
Scotty hesitated again, and his face grew red.
"No," he said.
The visitor's hand, fingers outspread, returned to his knee.
"Thank you. I have one more question to ask. Do you intend, without
trying to prevent it, to let your daughter throw away her every chance
of future happiness? Are you, Florence's father, going to let her marry
Sidwell?"
With one motion Scotty was on his feet. The eyes behind the thick lenses
fairly flashed.
"You are insulting, sir," he blazed. "I can stand much from you, Ben
Blair, but this interference in my family affairs I cannot overlook. I
request you to leave my premises!"
Blair did not stir. His face remained as impassive as before.
"Your pardon again," he said steadily, "but I refuse. I did not come to
quarrel with you, and I won't; but we will have an understanding--now.
Sit down, please."
The Englishman stared, almost with open mouth. Had any one told him he
would be coerced in this way within his own home he would have called
that person mad; nevertheless, the first flash of anger over, he said no
more.
"Sit down, please," repeated Ben; and this time, without a word or a
protest, he was obeyed.
Ben straightened in his seat, then leaned forward. "Mr. Baker," he said,
"you do not doubt that I love Florence--that I wish nothing but her
good?"
Scotty nodded a reluctant assent.
"No; I don't doubt you, Ben," he said.
The thin face of the younger man leaned forward and grew more intense.
"You know what Sidwell is--what the result will be if Florence marries
him?"
Scotty's head dropped into his hands. He knew what was coming.
"Yes, I know," he admitted.
Ben paused, and had the other been looking he would have seen that his
ordinarily passive face was working in a way which no one would have
thought possible.
"In heaven's name, then," he said, slowly, "why do you allow it? Have
you forgotten that it is only three days until the date set? God! man,
you must be sleeping! It is ghastly--even the thought of it!"
Surprised out of himself, Scotty looked up. The intensity of the appeal
was a thing to put life into a figure of clay. For an instant he felt
the stimulant, felt his blood quicken at the suggestion of action; then
his impotence returned.
"I have tried, Ben," he explained weakly, "but I can do nothing. If I
attempted to interfere it would only make matters worse. Florence is as
completely out of my control as--" he paused for a simile--"as the
sunshine. I missed my opportunity with her when she was young. She has
always had her own way, and she will have it now. It is the same as when
she decided to come to town. She controls me, not I her."
Blair settled back in his chair. The mask of impassivity dropped back
over his face, not again to lift. He was again in command of himself.
"You expect to do nothing more, then?" he asked finally.
Scotty did not look up. "No," he responded. "I can do nothing more. She
will have to find out her mistake for herself."
Ben regarded the older man steadily. It would have been difficult to
express that look in words.
"You'd be willing to help, would you," he suggested, "if you saw a way?"
The Englishman's eyes lifted. Even the incredible took on an air of
possibility in the hands of this strong-willed ranchman.
"Yes," he repeated. "I will gladly do anything I can."
For half a minute Ben Blair did not speak. Not a nerve twitched or a
muscle stirred in his long body; then he stood up, the broad sinewy
shoulders squared, the masterful chin lifted.
"Very well," he said. "Call a carriage, and be ready to leave town in
half an hour."
Scotty blinked helplessly. The necessity of sudden action always threw
him into confusion. His mind needed not minutes but days to adjust
itself to the unpremeditated.
"Why?" he queried. "What do you intend doing?"
But Ben did not stop to explain. Already he was at the door of the
vestibule. "Don't ask me now. Do as I say, and you'll see!" And he
stepped inside.
Within the entrance, he paused for a moment. He had never been in any
room of the house except the library adjoining; and after a few
seconds, walking over, he tapped twice on the door.
There was no answer, and he stepped inside. The place was empty, but,
listening from the dining-room on the left he heard the low intermittent
murmur of voices in conversation and the occasional click of china.
Sliding doors connected the rooms, and again for an instant he
hesitated. Then, pulling them apart, he stood fairly in the aperture.
As he had expected, Florence and her mother were at breakfast. The doors
had slid noiselessly, and for an instant neither observed him. Florence
was nearest, half-facing him, and she was the first to glance up. As she
did so, the coffee-cup in her hand shook spasmodically and a great brown
blotch spread over the white tablecloth. Simultaneously her eyes
widened, her cheeks blanched, and she stared as at a ghost. Her mother,
too, turned at the spectacle, and her color shifted to an ashen gray.
For some seconds not one of the three spoke or stirred. It was Mrs.
Baker who first arose and advanced toward the intruder, as threateningly
as it was possible for her to do.
"Who, if I might ask, invited you to come this way?" she challenged.
Ben took one step inside the room and folded his arms.
"I came without being asked," he explained evenly.
Mollie's weak oval face stiffened. She felt instinctively that her
chiefest desires were in supreme menace. But one defense suggested
itself--to be rid of the intruder at once.
"I trust, then, you are enough of a gentleman to return the way you
came," she said icily.
Ben did not even glance at her. He was looking at the dainty little
figure still motionless at the table.
"If that is the mark of a gentleman, I am not one," he answered.
The mother's face flamed. Like Scotty, her brain moved slowly, and on
the spur of the moment inadequate insult alone answered her call.
"I might have expected such a remark from a cowman!" she burst forth.
Instantly Florence was upon her feet; but Ben Blair gave no indication
that he had heard. His arms still folded, he took two steps nearer the
girl, then stopped.
"Florence," he said steadily, "I have just seen your father. We
three--he, you, and I--are going back home, back to the prairies. Our
train leaves at eleven o'clock. The carriage will be here in half an
hour. You have plenty of time if you hurry."
Again there was silence. Once more it was the mother who spoke first.
"You must be mad, both of you!" she cried. "Florence is to be married in
three days, and it would take two to go each way. You must be mad!"
It was the girl's turn to grow pale. She began to understand.
"You say you and papa evolved this programme?" she said sarcastically.
"What part, pray, did he take?"
Blair was as impassive as before.
"I suggested it, and your father acquiesced."
"And the third party, myself--" The girl's eyes were very bright.
"I undertook the task of having you ready when the carriage comes."
One of Florence's brown hands grasped the back of the chair before her.
"I trust you did not underestimate the difficulty," she commented
ironically. "Otherwise you might be disappointed."
Ben said nothing. He did not even stir.
Another group of seconds were gathered into the past. The inactivity
tugged at the girl's nerves.
"By the way," she asked, "where are we going to stay when we arrive, and
for how long?"
"You are to be my guests," answered Blair. "As to the length of time,
nothing has been arranged."
Florence made one more effort to consider the affair lightly.
"You speak with a good deal of assurance," she commented. "Did it never
occur to you that at this particular time I might decide not to go?"
Ben returned her look.
"No," he said.
Beneath the trim brown figure one foot was nervously tapping the floor.
"In other words, you expect to take me against my will,--by physical
force?"
"No." Ben again spoke deliberately. "You will come of your own choice."
"And leave Mr. Sidwell?"
"Yes."
"Without an explanation?"
"None will be necessary, I think. The fact itself will be enough."
"And never--marry him?"
"And never marry him."
"You think he would not follow?"
"I know he would not!"
There was a pause in the swift passage of words. The girl's breath was
coming with difficulty. The spell of this indomitable rancher was
settling upon her.
"You really imagine I will do such an unheard-of thing?" she asked
slowly.
"I imagine nothing," he answered quickly. "I know."
It was the crisis, and into it Mollie intruded with clumsy tread.
"Florence," she urged, "Florence, don't listen to him any longer. He
must be intoxicated. Come with me!" and she started to drag the girl
away.
Without a word, Ben Blair walked across to the door leading into the
room beyond, and stood with his hand on the knob.
"Mrs. Baker," he said slowly, "I thought I would not speak an unkind
word to-day, no matter what was said to me; but you have offended too
often." His glance took in the indolently shapeless figure from head to
toe, and back again until he met her eye to eye. "You are the
personification of cowardice, of selfishness and snobbery, that makes
one despise his kind. For mere personal vanity you would sacrifice your
own daughter--your own flesh and blood. Probably we shall never meet
again; but if we should, do not dare to speak to me. Do not speak to me
now!" He swung open the door, and indicated the passage with a nod of
his head. "Go," he said, "and if you are a Christian, pray for a better
heart--for forgiveness!"
The woman hesitated; her lips moved, but she was dumb. She wanted to
refuse, but the irresistible power in those relentless blue eyes
compelled her to obey. Without a word she left the room and closed the
door behind her.
Ben Blair came back. The girl had not moved.
"Florence," he said, "there are but twenty minutes left. I ask you again
to get ready."
The girl's color rose anew; her blood flowed tumultuously, until she
could feel the beating of the pulses at her wrists.
"Ben Blair," she challenged, "you are trying to prevent my marrying
another man! Is it not so?"
The rancher folded his arms again.
"I am preventing it," he said.
Florence's brown eyes blazed. She clasped her hands together until the
fingers were white.
"You admit it, then!" she cried, looking at her companion steadily, a
world of scorn in her face. "I never thought such a thing possible--that
you would let your jealousy get the better of you like this!" She
paused, and hurled the taunt she knew would hurt him most. "You are the
last person on earth I would have selected to become a dog in the
manger!"
Ben did not stir, although the brown of his sun-tanned face went white.
"I looked for that," he said simply.
Florence's brown eyes widened in wonder--and in something
more--something she did not understand. Her heart was beating more
wildly than before. She felt her self-control slipping from her grasp,
like a rope through her hands.
"There seems nothing more to be said, then," she said, "except that I
will not go."
Even yet Blair did not move.
"You will go. The carriage comes in ten minutes," he reiterated calmly.
The small figure stiffened, the dainty chin tilted in the air.
"I defy you to tell me how you can force me to go!"
It was the supreme moment, but Benjamin Blair showed no trace of
excitement or of passion. His folded arms remained passive across his
chest.
"Florence Baker, did I ever lie to you?"
The girl's lip trembled. She knew now what to expect.
"No," she said.
"You are quite sure?"
"Yes, I am quite sure."
"Did I ever say I would do anything that I did not do?"
The girl had an all but irrepressible desire to cry out, to cover her
face like a child. A flash of anger at her inability to maintain her
self-control swept over her.
"No," she admitted. "I never knew you to break your word."
"Very well, then," still no haste, no anger,--only the relentless calm
which was infinitely more terrible than either. "I will tell you why of
your own choice you will go with me. It is because you value the life of
Clarence Sidwell; because, as surely as I have not lied to you or to any
human being in the past, there is no power on earth that can otherwise
keep me away from him an hour longer."
Realization came instantaneously to Florence Baker and blotted out
self-consciousness. The nervous tension vanished as fog before the sun.
"You would not do it," she said, very steadily. "You could not do it!"
Ben Blair said not a word.
"You could not," repeated the girl swiftly; "could not, because
you--love me!"
One of the man's hands loosened in an unconscious gesture.
"Don't repeat that, please, or trust in it," he answered. "You misled me
once, but you can't mislead me again. It is because I love you that I
will do what I said."
There was but one weapon in the arsenal adequate to meet the emergency.
With a sudden motion, the girl came close to him.
"Ben, Ben Blair," her arms flashed around the man's neck, the brown
eyes--moist, sparkling--were turned to his face, "promise me you will
not do it." The dainty throat swelled and receded with her short quick
breaths. "Promise me! Please promise me!"
For a second the rancher did not stir; then, very gently, he freed
himself and moved a step backward.
"Florence," he said slowly, "you do not know me even yet." He drew out
his big old-fashioned silver watch, once Rankin's. "You still have four
minutes to get ready--no more, no less."
Silence like that of a death-chamber fell over the bright little
dining-room. From the outside came the sound of Mollie's step as she
moved back and forth, back and forth, but dared not enter. A boy was
clipping the lawn, and the muffled purr of the mower, accompanied by the
bit of popular ragtime he was whistling, stole into the room.
Suddenly a carriage drove up in front of the house, and leaping from his
seat the driver stood waiting. The door of the vestibule opened, and
Scotty himself stepped uncertainly within. At the library entrance he
halted, but the odor of the black cigar he was smoking was wafted in.
Through it all, neither of the two in that room had stirred. It would
have been impossible to tell what Ben Blair was thinking. His eyes never
left the watch in his hand. During the first minute the girl had not
looked at her companion. Unappeasable anger seemed personified in her.
For half of the next minute she still stood impassive; then she glanced
up almost surreptitiously. For the long third minute the eyes held where
they had lifted, and slowly over the soft brown face, taking the place
of the former expression, came a look that was not of anger or of
hatred, not even of dislike, but of something the reverse, something all
but unbelievable. Her dark eyes softened. A choking lump came into her
throat; and still, in seeming paradox, she was of a sudden happier than
at any time she could remember.
Before the last minute was up, before Ben Blair had replaced the watch,
she was in the adjoining room saying good-bye to Mollie hurriedly;
saying something more,--a thing that fairly took the mother's breath.
"Florence Baker!" she gasped, "you shall not do it! If you do, I will
disown you! I will never forgive you--never! never!"
But, unheeding, the girl was already back, and looking into Ben's face.
Her eyes were very bright, and there was about her a suppressed
excitement that the other did not clearly understand.
"I am ready," she said, "on one condition."
Blair's blue eyes looked a question. In any other mood he would have
recognized Florence, but this strange person he hardly seemed to know.
"I am listening," he said.
The girl hesitated, the rosy color mounting to her cheeks. Decision of
action was far easier than expression.
"I will go with you," she faltered, "but alone."
A suggestion of the flame on the other's face sprang to the man's also.
"I think, under the circumstances," he stammered, "it would be better to
have your father go too."
The dainty brown figure stiffened.
"Very well, then--I will not go!"
The man stood for a moment immovable, with unshifting eyes, like a
figure in clay; then, turning, without a word, he started to leave the
room. He had almost reached the door, when he heard a voice behind him.
"Ben Blair," it said insistently, "Ben Blair!"
He paused, glanced back, and could scarcely believe his eyes. The girl
was coming toward him; but it was a Florence he had not previously
known. Her face was rosier than before, red to her very ears and to the
waves of her hair. Her chin was held high, and beneath the thin brown
skin of the throat the veins were athrob.
"Ben Blair," she repeated intensely, "Ben Blair, can't you understand
what I meant? Must I put it into words?" The soft brown eyes were
looking at him frankly. "Oh, you are blind, blind!"
For a second, like the lull before the thunderclap, the man did not
move; then of a sudden he grasped the girl by the shoulders, and held
her at arm's length.
"Florence," he cried, "are you playing with me?"
She spoke no word, but her gaze held his unfalteringly.
Minutes passed, but still the man could not believe the testimony of his
eyes. The confession was too unexpected, too incredible. Unconsciously
the grip of his hands tightened.
"Am I--mad?" he gasped. "You care for me--you are willing to go--because
you love me?"
Even yet the girl did not answer; but no human being could longer
question the expression on her face. Ben Blair could not doubt it, and
the reflection of love glowing in the tear-wet eyes flashed into his
own. The past, with all that it had held, vanished like the memory of an
unpleasant dream. The present, the vital throbbing present, alone
remained. Suddenly the tense arms relaxed. Another second, and the brown
head was upon his shoulder.
"Florence," he cried passionately, "Florence, Florence!"
He could say no more, only repeat over and over her dear name.
"Ben," sobbed the girl, "Ben! Ben!" An interrupting memory drew her to
him closer and closer. "I loved you all the time!--loved you!--and yet I
so nearly--can you ever forgive me?"
Wondering at the prolonged silence, Scotty came hesitatingly into the
library, peered in at the open doorway, and stood transfixed.
THE END
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If there was nothing more about the work to attract especial
attention, the account of the meeting of the kings on the historic
"field of the cloth of gold" would entitle the story to the most
favorable consideration of every reader.
There is really but little pure romance in this story, for the
author has taken care to imagine love passages only between those
whom history has credited with having entertained the tender
passion one for another, and he succeeds in making such lovers as
all the world must love.
WINDSOR CASTLE. A Historical Romance of the Reign of Henry VIII.,
Catharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth.
12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.
"Windsor Castle" is the story of Henry VIII., Catharine, and Anne
Boleyn. "Bluff King Hal," although a well-loved monarch, was none
too good a one in many ways. Of all his selfishness and
unwarrantable acts, none was more discreditable than his divorce
from Catharine, and his marriage to the beautiful Anne Boleyn. The
King's love was as brief as it was vehement. Jane Seymour, waiting
maid on the Queen, attracted him, and Anne Boleyn was forced to the
block to make room for her successor. This romance is one of
extreme interest to all readers.
HORSESHOE ROBINSON. A tale of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina in
1780. By John P. Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J.
Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
Among the old favorites in the field of what is known as historical
fiction, there are none which appeal to a larger number of
Americans than Horseshoe Robinson, and this because it is the only
story which depicts with fidelity to the facts the heroic efforts
of the colonists in South Carolina to defend their homes against
the brutal oppression of the British under such leaders as
Cornwallis and Tarleton.
The reader is charmed with the story of love which forms the thread
of the tale, and then impressed with the wealth of detail
concerning those times. The picture of the manifold sufferings of
the people, is never over-drawn, but painted faithfully and
honestly by one who spared neither time nor labor in his efforts to
present in this charming love story all that price in blood and
tears which the Carolinians paid as their share in the winning of
the republic.
Take it all in all, "Horseshoe Robinson" is a work which should be
found on every book-shelf, not only because it is a most
entertaining story, but because of the wealth of valuable
information concerning the colonists which it contains. That it has
been brought out once more, well illustrated, is something which
will give pleasure to thousands who have long desired an
opportunity to read the story again, and to the many who have tried
vainly in these latter days to procure a copy that they might read
it for the first time.
THE PEARL OF ORR'S ISLAND. A story of the Coast of Maine. By Harriet
Beecher Stowe. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.
Written prior to 1862, the "Pearl of Orr's Island" is ever new; a
book filled with delicate fancies, such as seemingly array
themselves anew each time one reads them. One sees the "sea like an
unbroken mirror all around the pine-girt, lonely shores of Orr's
Island," and straightway comes "the heavy, hollow moan of the surf
on the beach, like the wild angry howl of some savage animal."
Who can read of the beginning of that sweet life, named Mara, which
came into this world under the very shadow of the Death angel's
wings, without having an intense desire to know how the premature
bud blossomed? Again and again one lingers over the descriptions of
the character of that baby boy Moses, who came through the tempest,
amid the angry billows, pillowed on his dead mother's breast.
There is no more faithful portrayal of New England life than that
which Mrs. Stowe gives in "The Pearl of Orr's Island."
BURT'S SERIES _of_ STANDARD FICTION.
THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER. A Romance of the Early Settlers in the Ohio
Valley. By Zane Grey. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.
A book rather out of the ordinary is this "Spirit of the Border."
The main thread of the story has to do with the work of the
Moravian missionaries in the Ohio Valley. Incidentally the reader
is given details of the frontier life of those hardy pioneers who
broke the wilderness for the planting of this great nation. Chief
among these, as a matter of course, is Lewis Wetzel, one of the
most peculiar, and at the same time the most admirable of all the
brave men who spent their lives battling with the savage foe, that
others might dwell in comparative security.
Details of the establishment and destruction of the Moravian
"Village of Peace" are given at some length, and with minute
description. The efforts to Christianize the Indians are described
as they never have been before, and the author has depicted the
characters of the leaders of the several Indian tribes with great
care, which of itself will be of interest to the student.
By no means least among the charms of the story are the vivid
word-pictures of the thrilling adventures, and the intense
paintings of the beauties of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken
forests.
It is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by
it, perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too,
willingly braved every privation and danger that the westward
progress of the star of empire might be the more certain and rapid.
A love story, simple and tender, runs through the book.
CAPTAIN BRAND, OF THE SCHOONER CENTIPEDE. By Lieut. Henry A. Wise,
U.S.N. (Harry Gringo). Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.
The re-publication of this story will please those lovers of sea
yarns who delight in so much of the salty flavor of the ocean as
can come through the medium of a printed page, for never has a
story of the sea and those "who go down in ships" been written by
one more familiar with the scenes depicted.
The one book of this gifted author which is best remembered, and
which will be read with pleasure for many years to come, is
"Captain Brand," who, as the author states on his title page, was a
"pirate of eminence in the West Indies." As a sea story pure and
simple, "Captain Brand" has never been excelled, and as a story of
piratical life, told without the usual embellishments of blood and
thunder, it has no equal.
NICK OF THE WOODS. A story of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. By
Robert Montgomery Bird. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J.
Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
This most popular novel and thrilling story of early frontier life
in Kentucky was originally published in the year 1837. The novel,
long out of print, had in its day a phenomenal sale, for its
realistic presentation of Indian and frontier life in the early
days of settlement in the South, narrated in the tale with all the
art of a practiced writer. A very charming love romance runs
through the story. This new and tasteful edition of "Nick of the
Woods" will be certain to make many new admirers for this
enchanting story from Dr. Bird's clever and versatile pen.
GUY FAWKES. A Romance of the Gunpowder Treason. By Wm. Harrison
Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank.
Price, $1.00.
The "Gunpowder Plot" was a modest attempt to blow up Parliament,
the King and his Counsellors. James of Scotland, then King of
England, was weak-minded and extravagant. He hit upon the efficient
scheme of extorting money from the people by imposing taxes on the
Catholics. In their natural resentment to this extortion, a handful
of bold spirits concluded to overthrow the government. Finally the
plotters were arrested, and the King put to torture Guy Fawkes and
the other prisoners with royal vigor. A very intense love story
runs through the entire romance.
TICONDEROGA: A Story of Early Frontier Life in the Mohawk Valley. By
G.P.R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four page illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.
The setting of the story is decidedly more picturesque than any
ever evolved by Cooper: The frontier of New York State, where dwelt
an English gentleman, driven from his native home by grief over the
loss of his wife, with a son and daughter. Thither, brought by the
exigencies of war, comes an English officer, who is readily
recognized as that Lord Howe who met his death at Ticonderoga. As a
most natural sequence, even amid the hostile demonstrations of both
French and Indians, Lord Howe and the young girl find time to make
most deliciously sweet love, and the son of the recluse has already
lost his heart to the daughter of a great sachem, a dusky maiden
whose warrior-father has surrounded her with all the comforts of a
civilized life.
The character of Captain Brooks, who voluntarily decides to
sacrifice his own life in order to save the son of the Englishman,
is not among the least of the attractions of this story, which
holds the attention of the reader even to the last page. The tribal
laws and folk lore of the different tribes of Indians known as the
"Five Nations," with which the story is interspersed, shows that
the author gave no small amount of study to the work in question,
and nowhere else is it shown more plainly than by the skilful
manner in which he has interwoven with his plot the "blood" law,
which demands a life for a life, whether it be that of the murderer
or one of his race.
A more charming story of mingled love and adventure has never been
written than "Ticonderoga."
ROB OF THE BOWL: A Story of the Early Days of Maryland. By John P.
Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. with four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.
It was while he was a member of Congress from Maryland that the
noted statesman wrote this story regarding the early history of his
native State, and while some critics are inclined to consider
"Horse Shoe Robinson" as the best of his works, it is certain that
"Rob of the Bowl" stands at the head of the list as a literary
production and an authentic exposition of the manners and customs
during Lord Baltimore's rule. The greater portion of the action
takes place in St. Mary's--the original capital of the State.
As a series of pictures of early colonial life in Maryland, "Rob of
the Bowl" has no equal, and the book, having been written by one
who had exceptional facilities for gathering material concerning
the individual members of the settlements in and about St. Mary's,
is a most valuable addition to the history of the State.
The story is full of splendid action, with a charming love story,
and a plot that never loosens the grip of its interest to its last
page.
BY BERWEN BANKS. By Allen Raine.
It is a tender and beautiful romance of the idyllic. A charming
picture of life in a Welsh seaside village. It is something of a
prose-poem, true, tender and graceful.
IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING. A romance of the American Revolution. By
Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.
The story opens in the month of April, 1775, with the provincial
troops hurrying to the defense of Lexington and Concord. Mr.
Hotchkiss has etched in burning words a story of Yankee bravery and
true love that thrills from beginning to end with the spirit of the
Revolution. The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves taking a
part in the exciting scenes described. You lay the book aside with
the feeling that you have seen a gloriously true picture of the
Revolution. His whole story is so absorbing that you will sit up
far into the night to finish it. As a love romance it is charming.
POPULAR LITERATURE FOR THE MASSES, COMPRISING CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM THE
TREASURES OF THE WORLD'S KNOWLEDGE, ISSUED IN A SUBSTANTIAL AND
ATTRACTIVE CLOTH BINDING, AT A POPULAR PRICE
BURT'S HOME LIBRARY is a series which includes the standard works of the
world's best literature, bound in uniform cloth binding, gilt tops,
embracing chiefly selections from writers of the most notable English,
American and Foreign Fiction, together with many important works in the
domains of History, Biography, Philosophy, Travel, Poetry and the
Essays.
A glance at the following annexed list of titles and authors will
endorse the claim that the publishers make for it--that it is the most
comprehensive, choice, interesting, and by far the most carefully
selected series of standard authors for world-wide reading that has been
produced by any publishing house in any country, and that at prices so
cheap, and in a style so substantial and pleasing, as to win for it
millions of readers and the approval and commendation, not only of the
book trade throughout the American continent, but of hundreds of
thousands of librarians, clergymen, educators and men of letters
interested in the dissemination of instructive, entertaining and
thoroughly wholesome reading matter for the masses.
BURT'S HOME LIBRARY. Cloth. Gilt Tops. Price, $1.00
Abbe Constantin. By Ludovic Halevy.
Abbott. By Sir Walter Scott.
Adam Bede. By George Eliot.
Addison's Essays. Edited by John Richard Green.
Aeneid of Virgil. Translated by John Connington.
Aesop's Fables.
Alexander, the Great, Life of. By John Williams.
Alfred, the Great, Life of. By Thomas Hughes.
Alhambra. By Washington Irving.
Alice in Wonderland, and Through the Looking-Glass. By Lewis Carroll.
Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Blackmore.
All Sorts and Conditions of Men. By Walter Besant.
Alton Locke. By Charles Kingsley.
Amiel's Journal. Translated by Mrs. Humphrey Ward.
Andersen's Fairy Tales.
Anne of Geirstein. By Sir Walter Scott.
Antiquary. By Sir Walter Scott.
Arabian Nights' Entertainments.
Ardath. By Marie Corelli.
Arnold, Benedict, Life of. By George Canning Hill.
Arnold's Poems. By Matthew Arnold.
Around the World in the Yacht Sunbeam. By Mrs. Brassey.
Arundel Motto. By Mary Cecil Hay.
At the Back of the North Wind. By George Macdonald.
Attic Philosopher. By Emile Souvestre.
Auld Licht Idylls. By James M. Barrie.
Aunt Diana. By Rosa N. Carey.
Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin.
Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. By O. W. Holmes.
Averil. By Rosa N. Carey.
Bacon's Essays. By Francis Bacon.
Barbara Heathcote's Trial. By Rosa N. Carey.
Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens.
Barrack Room Ballads. By Rudyard Kipling.
Betrothed. By Sir Walter Scott.
Beulah. By Augusta J. Evans.
Black Beauty. By Anna Sewell.
Black Dwarf. By Sir Walter Scott.
Black Rock. By Ralph Connor.
Black Tulip. By Alexandre Dumas.
Bleak House. By Charles Dickens.
Blithedale Romance. By Nathaniel Hawthorne.
Bondman. By Hall Caine.
Book of Golden Deeds. By Charlotte M. Yonge.
Boone, Daniel, Life of. By Cecil B. Hartley.
Bride of Lammermoor. By Sir Walter Scott.
Bride of the Nile. By George Ebers.
Browning's Poems. By Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Browning's Poems. (selections.) By Robert Browning.
Bryant's Poems. (early.) By William Cullen Bryant.
Burgomaster's Wife. By George Ebers.
Burn's Poems. By Robert Burns.
By Order of the King. By Victor Hugo.
Byron's Poems. By Lord Byron.
Caesar, Julius, Life of. By James Anthony Froude.
Carson, Kit, Life of. By Charles Burdett.
Cary's Poems. By Alice and Phoebe Cary.
Cast Up by the Sea. By Sir Samuel Baker.
Charlemagne (Charles the Great), Life of. By Thomas Hodgkin, D.C.L.
Charles Auchester. By E. Berger.
Character. By Samuel Smiles.
Charles O'Malley. By Charles Lever.
Chesterfield's Letters. By Lord Chesterfield.
Chevalier de Maison Rouge. By Alexandre Dumas.
Chicot the Jester. By Alexandre Dumas.
Children of the Abbey. By Regina Maria Roche.
Child's History of England. By Charles Dickens.
Christmas Stories. By Charles Dickens.
Cloister and the Hearth. By Charles Reade.
Coleridge's Poems. By Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
Columbus, Christopher, Life of. By Washington Irving.
Companions of Jehu. By Alexandre Dumas.
Complete Angler. By Walton And Cotton.
Conduct of Life. By Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Confessions of an Opium Eater. By Thomas de Quincey.
Conquest of Granada. By Washington Irving.
Conscript. By Erckmann-Chatrian.
Conspiracy of Pontiac. By Francis Parkman, Jr.
Conspirators. By Alexandre Dumas.
Consuelo. By George Sand.
Cook's Voyages. By Captain James Cook.
Corinne. By Madame de Stael.
Countess de Charney. By Alexandre Dumas.
Countess Gisela. By E. Marlitt.
* * * * *
Transcriber's notes:
Punctuation normalized.
The phrase "Box R" has been used where a literal cattle brand symbol
of the letter R inside two sides of a box was used in the original text.
Similarly, an R within a circle indicating a ranch has been rendered as
the "Circle R" ranch in this transcription.
Page 113, "life" changed to "city" (The city was part of their life).
Page 210, "clapsed" changed to "clasped" (girls hands were clasped).
Page 341, "Sewall" changed to "Sewell" (Anna Sewell).