Giovanni opened his eyes at last, looked at the ceiling for a few
moments, and then closed them again. Plain white ceilings are very
much alike, and for all he could see as he looked up he was at home in
his own bed, at dawn, and there was plenty of time for another nap. He
felt unaccountably heavy, too, though not exactly sleepy, and it would
be pleasant to feel himself going off into unconsciousness again for a
while, knowing that there was no hurry.
But his eyes had not been shut long before he became aware that he was
in a strange place. He could not sleep again because an unfamiliar
odour of iodoform irritated his nostrils; he missed something, too,
either some noise outside to which he was used or some step near him.
In the little house at Monteverde he could always hear his orderly
cleaning the stable early in the morning; he grew suddenly uneasy and
tried to turn in his bed, and instead of the noise of broom and bucket
and sousing, he heard the indescribably soft sound of felt shoes on
tiles as the Mother Superior came to his side.
Then, in a flash, he remembered everything, up to the time when he had
been hurt, and after the moment when he had at first come to himself
in the room where he now was. His eyes opened again, and he saw and
recognised the Mother Superior, whom he had often seen and spoken with
during his brother's stay in the hospital. Suddenly he was quite
himself, for his hurt was altogether local and he had lost little
blood; he only felt half paralysed on that side.
'Were there many killed?' he asked quietly.
'We do not know,' the Mother answered. 'When it is a little later I
will telephone for news. It is barely five o'clock yet.'
'Thank you, Mother.' He shut his eyes again and said no more.
The Mother Superior opened the window and let in the fresh morning
air, full of the glow of the rising sun, for the room looked to the
eastward, across the broad bend of the Tiber and towards the Palatine.
She turned out the electric light in the corner, then went to the
window again and refreshed herself by drawing long breaths at regular
intervals, as she had been taught to do when she was a beginner at
nursing. Presently the injured man called her and she went to the
bedside again.
'It would be very kind of you to take down a few words which I should
like to dictate,' he said. 'No,' he continued quickly, as he saw a
grave look in the nun's face, 'it is not my will! It will be a short
report of what happened before the explosion. They will want it at
headquarters and my head is quite clear now. Will you write for me,
Mother?'
'Of course.'
There is always a pencil with a memorandum-pad in every private room
of a hospital, for the use of the nurse and the doctor. The Mother
Superior took both from the table and sat down close to the bed, and
Giovanni dictated what he had to say in a clear and businesslike way
that surprised her, great as her experience had been. When he had
finished, he asked her to read it over to him, and pointed out one
small correction to be made.
'I think I can sign it with my left hand, if you will hold it up for
me,' he said.
His fingers traced his name with the pencil, though very unsteadily,
and he begged her to send it to headquarters at once. There was always
some one on duty there, he explained, if it was only the subaltern
commanding the guard. She need not be afraid of leaving him alone for
a few moments, he added, for he was in no pain and did not feel at all
faint. Besides, she would now send him another nurse--he had not
thanked her for taking care of him herself during the night--he hoped
she would forgive his omission--he was still----
And thereupon, while in the very act of speaking, he fell asleep
again, exhausted by the effort he had made, and still under the
influence of the strong drug. The Mother understood, glanced at him
and slipped away, closing the door very softly. She knew that stage of
awakening from the influence of opium, with its alternating 'zones' of
sleep and waking.
It was half-past five now, and a spring morning, and all was astir
downstairs; lay sisters were gathering the broken glass into baskets,
the portress was clearing away the wreck of broken panes from the
outer hall, and the nun who had charge of the chapel was preparing the
altar for matins. No one was surprised to see the Mother Superior in
the cloister so early, for she was often the first to rise and almost
always the last to go to rest; the novices said that the little white
volcano never slept at all, but was only 'quiescent' during a part of
the night.
She found one of the orderlies scrubbing the outer doorstep, and
despatched him at once with Giovanni's report, which she had put into
an envelope and directed. He was to bring back an answer if there was
any; and when he was gone, as he had not finished his job, she took
the scrubbing broom in her small hands and finished it herself, with
more energy, perhaps, than had been expended upon the stones for some
time. Before she had quite done, the portress caught sight of her and
was filled with horror.
'For the love of heaven!' she cried, trying to take the broom herself.
The nun would not let it go, however, and pushed her aside gently,
with a smile.
'If any one should see your Reverence!' protested the portress.
'My dear Anna,' answered the Mother Superior, giving the finishing
strokes, 'they would see an old woman washing a doorstep, and no harm
would be done.'
But the example remained impressed on the good lay sister's mind for
ever, and to her last days she will never tire of telling the novices
how the Mother Superior washed the doorstep of the hospital herself on
the morning after the explosion at Monteverde.
The delivery of the report produced a more immediate result than
either Giovanni or the Mother had expected. The accident had happened
near sunset, and the story of Giovanni's heroic behaviour had been
repeated everywhere before midnight. The men who had found him had, of
course, reported the fact after the first confusion was over, but it
was some time before the news got up to any superior officer, though
the King's aide-de-camp had left instructions that any information
about Giovanni was to be telephoned to the Quirinal at once. When it
had been understood at last that he was in the private hospital of the
White Sisters, badly injured but alive, it was too late to think of
sending an officer to make inquiries in person. On the other hand, six
o'clock in the morning is not too early for most modern sovereigns,
general officers, and members of the really hard-working professions,
among which literature is sometimes included. In half-an-hour
Giovanni's little report had been read, copied, telephoned, and
telegraphed, and in less than half-an-hour more a magnificent
personage in the uniform of a colonel of cavalry on the General Staff,
accompanied by a less gorgeous but extremely smart subaltern, stopped
at the door of the Convent hospital in a Court carriage. He came to
ask after Captain Severi on behalf of the Sovereign, and to ascertain
whether he could perhaps be seen during the morning. He was told that
this must depend on the surgeon's decision; he expressed his thanks to
the portress with extreme civility and drove away again. Before long
other officers came to make similar inquiries, in various uniforms and
in slightly varying degrees of smartness, from the representative of
the War Office and the Commander-in-Chief's aide-de-camp to
unpretending subalterns in undress uniform, who were on more or less
friendly terms with Giovanni and were suddenly very proud of it, since
he had become a hero.
Then came the reporters and besieged the door for news--an untidy lot
of men at that hour, unshaven, hastily dressed, and very sorry for
themselves because they had been beaten up by their respective papers
so early in the morning. They were also extremely disappointed because
the portress had no story to tell and would not hear of letting them
in; and they variously described her afterwards as Cerberus, Argus,
and the Angel of the Flaming Sword, which things agree not well
together. The portress had a busy morning, even after Doctor Pieri had
come and had written out a bulletin which she could show to all comers
as an official statement of the injured man's condition.
The great surgeon and the Mother Superior sat on opposite sides of his
bed, and now that the sun had risen high the blinds were half drawn
together and hooked in the old-fashioned Roman way, to keep out some
of the light, while the glass was left open. A broad stripe of
sunshine fell across the counterpane below Giovanni's knees, and a
sharp twittering and a rushing of wings broke the stillness every few
seconds, as the circling swallows flew past the half-open window.
'So you refuse to undergo the operation?' Pieri said, after a long
pause. 'Is that your last word? Shall I go away and leave you to die?'
'How long will that take?' asked Giovanni calmly.
'Probably from four to ten days, according to circumstances,' replied
the surgeon.
'Say a week, more or less. Will it hurt much?'
'Not unless you have lockjaw, which is possible. If you do, you will
suffer.'
'Horribly,' said the Mother Superior, unconsciously covering her eyes
with one hand for a moment; she had seen men die of tetanus.
'You will give me anæsthetics,' Giovanni answered philosophically.
'Besides, I would rather bear pain for a day or two than go through
life a cripple with an empty sleeve!'
'It is deliberate suicide,' said the Mother Superior sadly.
'I incline to think so, too,' echoed the surgeon, 'though I believe
the priests do not exactly consider it so.'
Though he was half paralysed by his injury, Giovanni Severi smiled
grimly.
'It would be very amusing if I died with the priests on my side after
all,' he said, 'and against our good Mother Superior, too! You don't
know how kind she is, Doctor; she has sat up all night with me
herself!'
Pieri was surprised, and looked quietly at the nun, who immediately
rose and went to the window, pretending to arrange the blinds better.
But there are moments when the truth seems to reveal itself directly
to more than one person at the same time. The surgeon, whose
intuitions were almost feminine in their swift directness, guessed at
once why the Mother did not answer: not only she had not sat up with
Giovanni herself, but she had allowed Sister Giovanna to do so, and as
the patient had not wakened and recognised his nurse, it was not
desirable that he should now know the truth. As for Giovanni himself,
the certainty that came over him was more like 'thought-reading,' for
neither he himself nor any one else could have explained the steps of
reasoning by which he reached his conclusion. It was probably a mere
guess, which happened to be right, and was founded on a little anxious
shrinking of the Mother Superior's head and shoulders when she crossed
the room and went to the window, as if she had something to hide.
Giovanni saw it, and then his eyes met Pieri's for a moment, and each
was sure that the other knew.
'I need not ask you,' Giovanni said, 'whether you are absolutely sure
that I must die if you do not take off my arm at the shoulder?'
'Humanly speaking,' replied the other gravely, 'I am quite sure that
gangrene will set in before to-morrow morning, and that is certain
death in your case.'
'Why do you say, in my case?'
'Because,' Pieri answered with a little impatience, 'if it began in
your foot, for instance, or in your hand, it would take some little
time to reach the vital parts, and the arm or leg could still be
amputated; but in your case it will set in so near the heart that no
operation will be of any use after it begins. Do you understand?'
'Perfectly. I shall take less time to die, for the same reason.'
Severi was very quiet about it; but the Mother Superior turned on him
suddenly from the window, her small face very white.
'It is suicide,' she said--'deliberate, intentional suicide, and no
right-thinking man, priest or layman, would call it by any other name,
let Doctor Pieri say what he will! You are in full possession of your
senses, and even of your health and strength, at this moment, and you
are assured that you run no risk if you submit to the doctors, but that
if you will not you must die! You are choosing death where you can
choose life, and that is suicide if anything is! Doctor Pieri knows well
enough what a good priest would say, and so do I, who have been a nurse
for a quarter of a century! If the injury were internal, and if there
were a real risk to your life in operating, you would have the right,
the moral right, to choose between the danger of dying under ether and
the comparative certainty of dying of the injury. But this is a specific
case. You are young, strong, absolutely healthy, and the chance of your
dying from the anæsthetic is not one in thousands, whereas, if nothing
is done, death is certain. I ask you, before God and man and on your
honour, whether you do not know that you are committing suicide--nothing
less than cowardly, dastardly self-murder!'
'If I am, it is my affair,' answered Giovanni coldly; 'but you need
not leave out the rest. You believe that if I choose to die I shall go
straight to everlasting punishment. I believe that if there is a
God--and I do not deny that there may be--I shall not be damned because
I would rather not live at all than go on living as half a man. And
now, if you will let me have a cup of coffee and a roll, I shall be
very grateful, for I have had nothing to eat since yesterday at one
o'clock!'
He probably knew well enough what such a request meant just then--the
putting off of a possible operation for hours, owing to the
impossibility of giving ether to a man who has lately eaten anything.
The Mother Superior and the surgeon looked at each other rather
blankly.
'Shall I die any sooner if I am starved?' asked Giovanni almost
roughly.
Pieri began to explain the danger, but Severi at once grew more
impatient.
'I know all that,' he said, 'and I have told you my decision. I refuse
to undergo an operation. If you choose to make me suffer from
starvation I suppose it is in your power, though I am not sure. I
fancy I can still stand and walk, and even my one hand may be of some
use! If you do not give me something to eat, I shall get out of bed
and fight my way to the larder!'
He smiled as he uttered the threat, as if he were not jesting about
his own death. Pieri did not like it, and turned to the door.
'Since you talk of fighting,' he said, 'I would give you ether by
force, if I could, and let the law do what it would after I had saved
your life in spite of you! If you chose to blow your brains out
afterwards, that would not concern me!'
Thereupon he disappeared, shutting the door more sharply than doctors
usually do when they leave a sick-room. The Mother Superior went to
the bedside and leaned over Giovanni, looking into his eyes with an
expression of profoundest entreaty.
'I implore you to change your mind,' she said in a low and beseeching
voice, 'for the sake of the mother who bore you----'
'She is dead,' Giovanni answered quietly.
'For the sake of them that live and love you, them----'
'There is only one, Mother, and you know it; but for that only one's
love I would live, not merely with one arm, but if every bone in my
body were broken and twisted out of shape beyond remedy. Mother, go
and tell her so, and bring me her answer--will you?'
The nun straightened herself, and her face showed what she suffered;
but Giovanni did not understand.
'You are afraid,' he said, with rising contempt in his tone. 'You are
afraid to take my message. It would move her! It might tempt her from
the right way! It might put it into her head to beg for a dispensation
after all, and the sin would be on your soul! I understand--I did not
really mean that you should ask her. You let her watch here last night
when you knew I could not waken, but you were careful that she should
be gone before I opened my eyes. You see, I have guessed the truth! I
only wonder why you let her stay at all!'
He moved his head impatiently on the pillow. The Mother Superior had
drawn herself up rather proudly, folding her hands under her scapular
and looking down at him coldly, her face like a marble mask again.
'You are quite mistaken,' she said. 'I will deliver your message and
Sister Giovanna shall give you her answer herself.'
She went towards the door, gliding across the floor noiselessly in her
felt shoes; but just before she went out she turned to Giovanni again,
and suddenly her eyes were blazing like live coals.
'And if you have the heart to kill yourself when you have talked with
her,' she said, 'you are a coward, who never deserved to live and be
called a man!'
She was gone before Giovanni could have answered, and the man who had
risked life and limb to save others twelve hours earlier smiled
faintly at the good Mother's womanly wrath and feminine invective.
He lay still on his back, staring at the ceiling, and he began to
wonder what day of the week it would be when he would not be able to
see it any more, and whether the end would come at night, or when the
sunlight was streaming in, or on a rainy afternoon. He did not believe
that Angela would be with him in a few minutes, and if she came--she
would say----
The strength of the morphia was not yet quite spent, and he fell
asleep in the middle of his train of thought, as had happened while he
was speaking to the Mother in the early morning.
When he awoke the broad stripe of sunshine no longer fell across the
counterpane, but lay on the gleaming tiles beyond the foot of the bed;
and it fell, too, on Sister Giovanna's white frock and veil, for she
was standing there motionless, waiting for him to waken. His head felt
queer for a moment, and he wondered whether she would be standing on
the same spot, with the same look, when he would be dying, a few days
hence. There were deep purplish-brown rings under her eyes, which
seemed to have sunk deeper in their sockets; there was no colour in
her lips, or scarcely more than a shade; her young cheeks had grown
suddenly hollow. For the Mother--her mother--had told her everything,
and it was almost more than she could bear.
He looked at her two or three times, fixing his eyes on the ceiling in
the intervals, to make sure that it was she and that he was awake; for
there was something in his head that disturbed him now, a sort of
beating on one side of the brain, with a dull feeling at the back, as if
there were a quantity of warm lead there that kept his skull on the
pillow. It was the beginning of fever, but he did not know it; it was
the forewarner of the death he was choosing. The experienced nurse saw
it in his face.
'Giovanni, do you know me?' she asked softly, coming a step nearer.
Instantly, he had all his faculties again.
'Yes; come to me,' he answered.
She came nearer and stood beside him.
'Sit down,' he said. 'This is the side--the side of my good arm. Sit
down and let me take your hand, dear.'
She wondered at his quiet tone and gentle manner. They almost frightened
her, for she remembered taking care of impatient, short-tempered people
who had suddenly softened like this just at the end. But there was no
reason in the world why he should die now, and she dismissed the thought
as she took the hand he put out and held it. It was icy cold, as strong
men's hands generally are when a fever is just beginning. She tried to
warm it between hers, covering it up between her palms as much as she
could; but she herself was not warm either, for she had been in her
cell, where there was no sun in the morning, and the air was chilly and
damp, because it had rained in all night.
Giovanni spoke again before she could find words.
'My life is in your hands, with my hand, Angela,' he said. 'Do what
you will with it.'
He felt that she shook from head to foot, like a young tree that is
rudely struck. He went on, as if he had prepared his words, though he
had not even thought of them.
'With your love and your companionship, I shall not miss a limb, I
shall not regret my profession, I shall be perfectly happy. Alone, I
will not be forced artificially to live out my life a wretched
cripple.'
It was brutal, and perhaps he knew it; but he was desperate and fate
had given him a weapon to move any woman. In plain truth, it was as
cruel as if he had put a pistol to his head and threatened to pull the
trigger if she would not marry him. He had not done that yet, even
when she had been in his room at Monteverde and the loaded revolver
had been between them.
Sister Giovanna kept his hand bravely in hers and sat still, though it
was hard. The question which must be answered, and which she alone
could answer, had been asked with frightful directness, and though she
had known only too well that it was coming, its tremendous import
paralysed her and she could not speak.
It was plainly this: Should she kill him, of her own free will, for
the sake of the solemn vow she had taken? Or should she save his life
by breaking, even under permission, what she looked on as an
absolutely inviolable promise?
What made her position most terrible was the absolute certainty of the
fatal result, and its close imminence. In his condition, to put off
the operation for another day, in order to consider her answer, would
be to condemn him to death according to all probability of human
science, since a few hours longer than that would put probability out
of the question and make it a positive certainty. She could not speak;
her tongue would not move when she tried to form words and her breath
made no sound in her throat.
For some time Giovanni said nothing more, and lay quite still. When he
spoke again, his voice was gentle.
'Dear, since it must be, I should like it to come like this, if you
will--with my hand between yours.'
It was too much, and she cried aloud and bowed herself. But the mortal
pain freed her tongue, and a moment later she broke out in a fervent
appeal.
'Live, Giovanni, live--for Christ's good sake who died for you--for my
sake, too--for your own! Live the life that is still before you, and
you can make it great! If you love me, make it a noble life for that,
if for nothing else! Do you know, all Rome is ringing with the story
of what you did last night--the King, the Court, the Ministers are
sending for news of you every half-hour--the world is calling you a
hero--will you let them think that you are afraid of an operation, or
will you let my enemy tell the world that you have let yourself die
for my sake? That is what it comes to, one or the other of those
things!'
Severi smiled faintly and shook his head without lifting it from the
pillow.
'No man will call me coward,' he answered; 'and no one would believe
Princess Chiaromonte--not if she took oath on her death-bed!'
'Will nothing move you?' cried the unhappy woman, in utter despair.
'Nothing that I can say? Not the thought of what life will mean to me
when you are gone? Not my solemn assurance that I can do
nothing--nothing----'
'You can!' Giovanni cried, with sudden and angry energy. 'You are
willing to let me die rather than risk the salvation of your own soul.
That is the naked truth of all this.'
Her hands left his as if they had lost their strength, and she rose at
the same instant and tottered backwards against the near wall,
speechless and transfixed with horror at the mere thought that what he
said might be true.
But Giovanni's eyes did not follow her; the door had opened quietly,
and Monsignor Saracinesca was there and had heard the last words.
The prelate's face expressed neither displeasure nor reproach; it was
only very thoughtful.
Giovanni was in no humour to receive a visit from a priest just then,
even though the latter was an old acquaintance and had once been a
friend. Moreover, the last time they had been together, they had
parted on anything but good terms. Giovanni spoke first.
'Have you come, like the others, to accuse me of committing suicide?'
he asked.
The answer was unexpected and uncompromising.
'No.'
Sister Giovanna, still half-stunned and steadying herself against the
wall, turned wondering eyes to the speaker. The angry look in Severi's
face changed to one of inquiry. He strongly suspected that the
churchman had come to 'convert' him, as the phrase goes, and he was
curious to see what line of argument a man of such intelligence and
integrity would take.
'No,' repeated Monsignor Saracinesca, 'I have come for quite another
purpose, which I hope to accomplish if you will listen to reason.'
The nun stood erect now, though still leaning back against the wall,
and she had hidden her hands under her scapular.
'I do not think I am unreasonable,' Giovanni answered quietly. 'My
position is this----'
'Do not tire yourself by going over it all,' the prelate answered. 'I
understand your position perfectly, for I have been with the Mother
Superior nearly half-an-hour. I am going to take something upon
myself, as a man, which some of my profession may condemn. I am going
to do it because I believe it is the right course, and I trust that
God will forgive me if it is not.'
There was a tremor in the good man's voice, and he ceased speaking, as
if to repeat inwardly the solemn words he had just spoken.
'What are you going to do?' asked Giovanni Severi.
On the question, the nun came forward and rested one hand on the chair
in which she had sat, leaning towards the prelate at the same time,
with parted lips and eyes full of a strange anticipation.
'You know, I daresay, that I am Secretary to the Cardinal Vicar, and
that such cases as yours are to a great extent within my province?'
Giovanni did not know this, but nodded; the nun, who knew it, bent her
head, wondering more and more what was coming, and not daring to
guess. Neither spoke.
'I am going to lay the whole matter before the Cardinal Vicar at
once,' Monsignor Saracinesca continued calmly. 'I can be with him in
twenty minutes, and I am going to tell him the plain truth. I do not
think that any nun was ever more true to her vows than Sister Giovanna
has been since your return. But there is a limit beyond which fidelity
to an obligation may bring ruin and even death on some one whom the
promise did not at first concern. When the limit is reached, it is the
plain duty of those who have received that promise to relieve the
maker of it from its observance, even though not asked to do so. That
is what I am going to say to the Cardinal Vicar in half-an-hour. Are
you satisfied?'
Sister Giovanna sank sideways upon the chair, with her arm resting on
the back of it, and she hid her face in her sleeve.
'Will the Cardinal listen to you?' asked Giovanni, his voice unsteady
with emotion.
'What I recommend is usually done,' answered the prelate, without a
shade of arrogance, but with the quiet certainty of a man in power.
'What I ask of you is, to submit at once to the operation that alone
can save you, on the strength of my assurance that I am going to do my
utmost to obtain what you desire.'
'It is hard to believe!' Giovanni exclaimed, almost to himself.
The nun moved her head silently from side to side without lifting her
face from her arm.
'You can believe me,' Monsignor Saracinesca answered. 'I give you my
solemn promise before God, and my word of honour before men, that I
will do the utmost in my power to succeed. Do you believe me?'
Giovanni held out his sound hand. The churchman came nearer and took
it.
'Will you risk the operation on that?' he asked.
The light of a profound gratitude illuminated the young soldier's
tired face, and his fingers pressed Monsignor Saracinesca's
spasmodically; but his voice was quiet when he spoke.
'Sister Giovanna----'
'Yes?'
The nun looked up suddenly and drew a sharp breath, for her joy was
almost agonising.
'Will you kindly go and tell Doctor Pieri that I am ready?'
The nun rose with a spring and was at the door in an instant, and in
her heart rang such a chorus of glory and rejoicing as not even the
angels have heard since the Morning Stars sang together.
* * * * *
Of her, I think the most rigid cannot say that she had not endured to
the end, for her vow's sake. Whether the churchman was too human in
his sympathies or not may be an open question; if he was, he had the
courage to make himself alone responsible, for, as he had foretold,
what he recommended was done; if he was wrong, he has at least the
consolation of having brought unspeakable happiness to three human
beings. For the mother, whose heart had so nearly broken for her
child, had her share of joy, too, and it was no small one.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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Cab No. 44. By R. F. Foster.
Calling of Dan Matthews, The. By Harold Bell Wright.
Call of the Blood, The. By Robert Hichens.
Cape Cod Stories. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Cap'n Eri. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Captain Warren's Wards. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Caravaners, The. By the author of "Elizabeth and Her German Garden."
Cardigan. By Robert W. Chambers.
Carlton Case, The. By Ellery H. Clark.
Car of Destiny, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.
Carpet From Bagdad, The. By Harold MacGrath.
Cash Intrigue, The. By George Randolph Chester.
Casting Away of Mrs. Lecks and Mrs. Aleshine. Frank S. Stockton.
Castle by the Sea, The. By H. B. Marriot Watson.
Challoners, The. By E. F. Benson.
Chaperon, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.
City of Six, The. By C. L. Canfield.
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Circle, The. By Katherine Cecil Thurston (author of "The Masquerader,"
"The Gambler.")
Colonial Free Lance, A. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss.
Conquest of Canaan, The. By Booth Tarkington.
Conspirators, The. By Robert W. Chambers.
Cynthia of the Minute. By Louis Joseph Vance.
Dan Merrithew. By Lawrence Perry.
Day of the Dog, The. By George Barr McCutcheon.
Depot Master, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Derelicts. By William J. Locke.
Diamond Master, The. By Jacques Futrelle.
Diamonds Cut Paste. By Agnes and Egerton Castle.
Divine Fire, The. By May Sinclair.
Dixie Hart. By Will N. Harben.
Dr. David. By Marjorie Benton Cooke.
Early Bird, The. By George Randolph Chester.
Eleventh Hour, The. By David Potter.
Elizabeth in Rugen. (By the author of "Elizabeth and Her German
Garden.")
Elusive Isabel. By Jacques Futrelle.
Elusive Pimpernel, The. By Baroness Orczy.
Enchanted Hat, The. By Harold MacGrath.
Excuse Me. By Rupert Hughes.
54-40 or Fight. By Emerson Hough.
Fighting Chance, The. By Robert W. Chambers.
Flamsted Quarries. By Mary E. Waller.
Flying Mercury, The. By Eleanor M. Ingram.
For a Maiden Brave. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss.
Four Million, The. By O. Henry.
Four Pool's Mystery, The. By Jean Webster.
Fruitful Vine, The. By Robert Hichens.
Ganton & Co. By Arthur J. Eddy.
Gentleman of France, A. By Stanley Weyman.
Gentleman, The. By Alfred Ollivant.
Get-Rick-Quick-Wallingford. By George Randolph Chester.
Gilbert Neal. By Will N. Harben.
Girl and the Bill, The. By Bannister Merwin.
Girl from His Town, The. By Marie Van Vorst.
Girl Who Won, The. By Beth Ellis.
Glory of Clementina, The. By William J. Locke.
Glory of the Conquered, The. By Susan Glaspell.
God's Good Man. By Marie Corelli.
Going Some. By Rex Beach.
Golden Web, The. By Anthony Partridge.
Green Patch, The. By Bettina von Hutten.
Happy Island (sequel to "Uncle William"). By Jennette Lee.
Hearts and the Highway. By Cyrus Townsend Brady.
Held for Orders. By Frank H. Spearman.
Hidden Water. By Dane Coolidge.
Highway of Fate, The. By Rosa N. Carey.
Homesteaders, The. By Kate and Virgil D. Boyles.
Honor of the Big Snows, The. By James Oliver Curwood.
Hopalong Cassidy. By Clarence E. Mulford.
Household of Peter, The. By Rosa N. Carey.
House of Mystery, The. By Will Irwin.
House of the Lost Court, The. By C. N. Williamson.
House of the Whispering Pines, The. By Anna Katherine Green.
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Max. By Katherine Cecil Thurston.
Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle.
Millionaire Baby, The. By Anna Katharine Green.
Missioner, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Miss Selina Lue. By Maria Thompson Daviess.
Mistress of Brae Farm, The. By Rosa N. Carey.
Money Moon, The. By Jeffery Farnol.
Motor Maid, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.
Much Ado About Peter. By Jean Webster.
Mr. Pratt. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
My Brother's Keeper. By Charles Tenny Jackson.
My Friend the Chauffeur. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.
My Lady Caprice (author of the "Broad Highway"). Jeffery Farnel.
My Lady of Doubt. By Randall Parrish.
My Lady of the North. By Randall Parrish.
My Lady of the South. By Randall Parrish.
Mystery Tales. By Edgar Allen Poe.
Nancy Stair. By Elinor Macartney Lane.
Ne'er-Do-Well, The. By Rex Beach.
No Friend Like a Sister. By Rosa N. Carey.
Officer 666. By Barton W. Currie and Augustin McHugh.
One Braver Thing. By Richard Dehan.
Order No. 11. By Caroline Abbot Stanley.
Orphan, The. By Clarence E. Mulford.
Out of the Primitive. By Robert Ames Bennett.
Pam. By Bettina von Hutten.
Pam Decides. By Bettina von Hutten.
Pardners. By Rex Beach.
Partners of the Tide. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Passage Perilous, The. By Rosa N. Carey.
Passers By. By Anthony Partridge.
Paternoster Ruby, The. By Charles Edmonds Walk.
Patience of John Moreland, The. By Mary Dillon.
Paul Anthony, Christian. By Hiram W. Hays.
Phillip Steele. By James Oliver Curwood.
Phra the Phoenician. By Edwin Lester Arnold.
Plunderer, The. By Roy Norton.
Pole Baker. By Will N. Harben.
Politician, The. By Edith Huntington Mason.
Polly of the Circus. By Margaret Mayo.
Pool of Flame, The. By Louis Joseph Vance.
Poppy. By Cynthia Stockley.
Power and the Glory, The. By Grace McGowan Cooke.
Price of the Prairie, The. By Margaret Hill McCarter.
Prince of Sinners, A. By E. Phillis Oppenheim.
Prince or Chauffeur. By Lawrence Perry.
Princess Dehra, The. By John Reed Scott.
Princess Passes, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.
Princess Virginia, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.
Prisoners of Chance. By Randall Parrish.
Prodigal Son, The. By Hall Caine.
Purple Parasol, The. By George Barr McCutcheon.