CHAPTER XXIX

We entered Albany on the 22d of April; the town had heard the news from Lexington ere we sighted the Albany hills, the express having passed us as we crossed the New York line, tearing along the river-bank at a breakneck gallop.

So, when we rode into Albany, the stolid, pippin-cheeked Dutchmen had later news than had we, and I learned then, for the first time, how my Lord Percy's troops had been hurled headlong through Cambridge Farms into Charlestown, where they lay like panting, slavering, senseless beasts under the cannon of the _Somerset_ and _Asia_. And all Massachusetts sat watching them, gun in hand.

We lay at the house of Peter Weaver, my lawyer, Silver Heels and I; Jack Mount and Cade Renard lay at the "Half Moon," where poor Shemuel could procure medicine and such medical attendance as he so sorely stood in need of.

With Peter Weaver I prepared to arrange my affairs as best I might, it being impossible for me to undertake a voyage to Ireland at this time, though my succession to the title and estates of my late uncle, Sir Terence, made it most necessary.

For the first time in my life I now became passably acquainted with my own affairs, though when we came to figure in pounds, shillings, and pence, I yawned, yet made pretence of a wisdom in mathematics which, God knows, is not in me.

Silver Heels, her round chin on my shoulder, listened attentively, and asked some questions which caused the ponderous lawyer to address himself to her rather than to me, seeing clearly that either I cared nothing for my own affairs or else was stupid past all belief.

Sir William's legacies to me and to Silver Heels were discussed most seriously; and Mr. Weaver would have it that the law should deal with my miserable kinsman, Sir John, for the fraud he had wrought. Yet, it was exactly _that_; and, because he _was_ my kinsman, I could not drag him out to cringe for his infamy before the rabble.

The land and the money left to us by Sir William we would now, doubtless, receive, but it was only because Sir William had desired it that we at length made up our minds to accept it at all.

This I made plain to Mr. Weaver, then relapsed into a dull inspection of his horn spectacles as he discoursed of mortgages and bonds and interests and liens with stupefying monotony.

"It is like the school-room, Micky," murmured Silver Heels, close to my ear, and composed her countenance to listen to a fluent peroration on percentage and investments in terms which were to me as vain as tinkling cymbals.

"Then I am wealthy?" I interposed, again and again, yet could draw from that fat badger, Weaver, neither a "yes" nor "no," nor any plain speech fit for a gentleman's comprehension.

So when at length we quitted Mr. Weaver a sullen mood possessed me and I felt at bay with all the learned people in the world, as I had often felt, penned in the school-room.

"Am I?" I asked Silver Heels.

"What?"

"Rich or poor? Tell me in one word, dear heart, for whether or not I possess a brass farthing in the world, I do not know, upon my honour!"

"Poor innocent," she laughed; "poor unlearned and harassed boy! Know, then, that you have means to purchase porridge and a butcher's roast for Christmas."

"I be serious," said I, anxiously, "and I would know if I have means to support a large family--"

"Hush!" said Silver Heels. What I could see of her face,--one small ear,--was glowing in rich colour.

"Because--" I ventured. But she plucked at my arm with lowered eyes, nor would hear me to explain that I, newly wedded, viewed the future with a hopeful gravity that befitted.

"As for a house," said I, "there is a pleasant place of springs called Saratoga, dearly loved by Sir William."

"I know," said she, quickly; "it comes from 'asserat,' sparkling waters."

"It comes from 'Soragh,' which means salt, and 'Oga,' a place--"

"It does _not_, Micky!"

"It does!"

"No!"

"It does!"

"Oc-qui-o-nis! He is a bear!" said Silver Heels, to herself.

We stopped in the hallway, facing each other. Something in her flushed, defiant face, her bright eyes, the poise of her youthful body, brought back with a rush that day, a year ago, when I, sneaking out of the house to avoid the school-room, met her in the hallway, and was balked and flouted and thrust back to the thraldom of the school. Here was the same tormentor--the same child with her gray eyes full of pretty malice, the same beauty of brow and mouth and hair was here, and something added--a maid's delicate mockery which veiled the tenderness of womanhood; a sweetheart and a wedded wife.

"I am thinking of a morning very, very long ago," I said, slowly.

"I, too," said Silver Heels.

"Almost a year ago," I said.

"A year ago," said Silver Heels.

"You little wild-cat thing!" I whispered, tenderly, and took her by the waist so that her face lay upturned on my shoulder.

"Stupid," she said, "I loved you that very day."

"What day?"

"The day we both are thinking on: when you met me in the hall with your fish-rod like a guilty dunce--"

"You wore a skirt o' buckskin and tiny moccasins and stockings with scarlet thrums; and you were a-nibbling a cone of maple-sugar," said I.

"And you strove to trip me up!"

"And you pushed me!"

"And you thrust Vix at me!"

"And you kicked my legs and ran up-stairs like a wild-cat thing."

There was a silence; she looked up into my face from my shoulder.

"This, for a belt of peace betwixt those two children who live in memory," said I, and kissed her.

"Oonah! All is lost," she said; "he does with me as he will!" and she rendered me my kiss, saying, "Bearer of belts, thy peace-belt is returned."

So was perfect peace established, not only for the shadowy children of that unforgotten past, but for us, and for all time betwixt us; and our belts were offered and returned, and the sign was the touching of her lips and mine.

For Shemuel's sake, and because we would not desert him, we continued in Albany until near the end of April.

Taking counsel together, we had determined to build a mansion, when the times permitted, midway on the road 'twixt Johnstown and Fonda's Bush, our lands joining at that place. But I feared much that the war which now flamed through Massachusetts Bay might soon creep northward into our forest fastness and set the border ablaze from the Ohio to Saint Sacrement. Much, too, I feared that the men of the woods whose skin was red would league with the men whose coats were red. All his later days Sir William had striven to avert this awful pact; Dunmore played against him, Butler betrayed him, Cresap was tricked, and Sir William lost. Now, into his high place sneaked a pygmy, slow, uncertain, sullen, treacherous--his own son, who would undo the last knot which bound the Indians to a fair neutrality. Perhaps he himself would even lead them on to the dreadful devastation all men dreaded; and, if he, men must also count on the Butlers, father and son, to carry terror through our forests and hunt to death without mercy all who stood for freedom and the rights of man.

One of these I had held in my hand and released. Yet still that old certainty haunted me, the belief that one day I was to meet and kill him, not in honourable encounter, now, for he had lost the right to ask such a death from me; but in the dark forest, somewhere among the corridors of silent pines, I would slay him as sachems slay ferocious beasts that track men through ghost-trails down to hell.

Then should we be free at last of this fierce, misshapen soul, we People of the Morning, Tierhansaga, and the shrinking forest should straighten, and Oya should be Oyabanh, and the red witch-flower should wither to a stalk, to a seed, and sprout a fair white blossom for all time, Ahwehhah.

* * * * *

That night, as I stood on the steps of Peter Weaver's red brick house, turning to look once more into the coals of the setting sun ere I entered the door, a hand twitched at my coat-skirt, and, looking down, I saw below me on the pavement an Indian dressed in the buckskins of a forest-runner.

"Peter!" I cried, for it was he, my dusky kinsman on the left hand; then my eyes fell on his companion, a short, squat savage, clad in red, and painted hideous with strange signs I could not read.

"Red Jacket," said Peter, calmly.

I looked hard at Peter; he had grown big and swart and fat like a bear-cub in November; Red Jacket raised his sullen eyes, then dropped them.

Suddenly, as I stood there, at a loss what next to say, came a heavy man, richly clothed, flabby face bent on the ground. Nor would he have discovered me, so immersed in brooding reverie was he, had not Peter touched his elbow.

A bright flush stained his face; he looked up at me where I stood. Then I descended the steps, shoving Peter from between us, and Sir John Johnson, for it was he, moved back a pace and laid his heavy hand on his sword-belt as I came close to him, looking into his cold eyes.

"Liar!" I said; "liar! liar!" And that was all, for he gave ground, and his hand fell limply from his dishonoured hilt.

So I left him, there in the darkening street, the Indians watching him with steady, kindling eyes.

We started next day at dawn, Silver Heels riding Warlock in her new kirtle and little French three-cornered hat with its gilt fringe, to which she had a right, as she was now My Lady Cardigan, if she chose.

I rode a bay mare, bought in Albany, yet a beauty, and doubtless the only decent horseflesh in all that town of rusty rackers and patroons' sorry hacks. Mount and the Weasel, leather-clad, and gay with quilled moccasins and brilliant thrums, journeyed afoot, on either side o' Shemuel, who bestrode a little docile ass.

His noddle, neatly mended and still bound up, he had surmounted with a Quaker hat so large that it rested on his large flaring ears; peddlers' panniers swung on either flank, crammed deep with gewgaws; he let his bridle fall on the patient ass's neck, and, thumbs in his armpits, joined lustily the chorus raised by Mount and Renard:

"Come, all ye Tryon County men, And never be dismayed; But trust in the Lord, And He will be your aid!"

Roaring the rude chorus, Jack Mount marched in the lead, his swinging strides measured to our horses' steady pacing; beside him trotted the little Weasel, his hand holding tightly to the giant's arm; and sometimes he took three steps to Mount's one, and sometimes he toddled, his little, leather-bound legs twinkling like spokes in a wheel, but ever he chanted manfully as he marched:

"O trust in the Lord, And He will be your aid!"

And Shemuel's fervent whine from his lowly saddle rounded out the old route-song.

An hour later I summoned Jack Mount, and he fell back to my stirrups, resting his huge hand on my saddle as he walked beside me.

"Jack," I said, "is poor Cade cured o' fancy and his mad imaginings?"

"Ay, lad, for the time."

"For the time?"

"A year, two years, three, perhaps. This is not the first mad flight o' fancy Cade has taken on his aged wings."

"You never told me that," I said, sharply.

"No, lad."

"Why not?"

"Do you spread abroad the sorry secrets of your kin, Mr. Cardigan?"

"He is not your kin!"

"He is more," said Mount, simply.

After a silence I asked him on what previous occasion the little Weasel had gone moon-mad.

"On many--every third or fourth year since I first knew him," said Mount, soberly. "But never before did he leave me to follow his poor mad phantoms--always the phantom of his wife, lad, in divers guises. He saw her in a silvery bush o' moonlight nights, and talked with her till my goose-flesh rose and crawled on me; he saw her mirrored in cold, deep pools at dawn, looking up at him from the golden-ribbed sands, and I have laid in the canoe to watch the trouts' quick shadows moving on the bottom, and he a-talking sweet to his dear wife as though she hid under the lily-pads like a blossom."

He glanced up at me pitifully as he walked beside my stirrup; I laid my hand on his leather-tufted shoulder.

"Sir, it is sad," he muttered; "a fair mind nobly wrecked. But grief cannot deform the soul, Mr. Cardigan."

"He knows you now?"

"Ay, and knows that he has dwelt for months in madness."

"Does he know that it was me he loved so deeply in his madness?" asked Silver Heels, gently.

"I think he does," whispered Mount.

Silver Heels turned her sorrowful eyes on poor Cade Renard.

Riding that afternoon near sunset, at the False Faces' Carrying-Place upon the Mohawk, we spoke of Johnson Hall and the old life, sadly, for never again could we hope to enter its beloved portals.

Naught that belonged to us remained in the Hall, save only the memories none might rob us of.

"If only I might have Betty," said Silver Heels, wistfully.

"Betty? Did she not attend you to Boston with Sir John?" I asked.

"Yes, but she was slave to Sir John. I could not buy her; you know how poor I awoke to find myself in Boston town."

"Would not that brute allow you Betty?" I asked, angrily.

"No; I think he feared her. Poor, blubbering Betty, how she wept and roared her grief when Sir John bade her pack up, and called her 'hussy.'"

That night we lay at Schenectady, where also was camped a body of Sir William's Mohawks, a sullen, watchful band, daubed in hunting-paint, yet their quivers hung heavy with triple-feathered war-arrows, and their knives and hatchets and their rifles were over-bright and clean to please me.

Some of them knew me, and came to talk with me over a birch-fire. I gave them tobacco, and we tarried by the birch-fire till the stars waned in the sky and the dawn-stillness fell on land and river; but from them I could learn nothing, save that Sir John and Colonel Guy had vowed to scalp their own neighbours should they as much as cry, "God save our country!" Evil news, truly, yet only set me firmer in my design to battle till the end for the freedom that God had given and kings would take away.

Silver Heels, quitting the inn with Mount, came to warn me that I must sleep if we set out at sunrise. Graciously she greeted the Mohawks who had risen to withdraw; they all knew her, and watched her like tame panthers with red coals in their eyes.

"But they are panthers yet; forget it not," muttered Jack Mount.

At sunrise we rode out into the blue hills. Homeless, yet nearing home at last, my heart lifted like a singing bird. Dew on the sweet-fern exhaling, dew on the ghost-flower, dew on the scented brake!--and the whistle of feathered wings, and the endless ringing chorus of the birds of Tryon! Hills of pure sapphire, streams of gems, limpid necklaces festooned to drip diamonds from crags into some frothing pool! Pendent pearls on vines starred white with bloom; a dun deer at gaze, knee-deep in feathering willow-grass; a hermit-bird his morning hymn, cloistered in the vaulted monastery where the great organ stirs among the pines!

Hills! Hills of Tryon, unploughed, unharrowed, save by the galloping deer; hills, sweet islands in the dark pine ocean, over whose waste the wild hawk's mewing answers the cry of its high-wheeling mate; hills of the morning, aromatic with spiced fern, and perfumed of the gum of spruce and balsam; hills of Tryon; my hills! my hills!

* * * * *

"The spring is with us," said Jack Mount, stooping to pluck a frail flower.

"Ka-nah-wah-hawks, the cowslip!" murmured Silver Heels.

"Savour the wind; what is it?" I asked, sniffing.

"O-neh-tah, the pine!" she cried.

"O-ne-tah, the spruce!" I corrected.

"The pine, silly!"

"The spruce!"

"No, no, the pine!"

"So be it, sweet."

"No, I am wrong!"

And we laughed, and she stretched out her slender hand to me from her saddle.

Then we galloped forward together, calling out greeting to our old friends as we passed; and thus we saluted Jis-kah-kah, the robin, and Kivi-yeh, the little owl, and we whistled at Koo-koo-e, the quail, and mocked at old Kah-kah, the watchful crow.

Han-nah-wen, the butterfly, came flitting along the roadside, ragged with his long winter's sleep.

"He should not have slept in his velvet robe for a night-shift," said Silver Heels; "he is a summer spendthrift, and Nah-wan-hon-tah, the speckled trout, lies watching him under the water."

Which set me thinking of my feather-flies; and then the dear old river flashed in sight.

"I see--I see--there, very far away on that hill--" whispered Silver Heels.

"I see," I muttered, choking.

Presently the sunlight glimmered on a window of the distant Hall.

"We are on our own land now, dear heart," I said, choking back the sob in my throat.

I called out to Jack Mount and unslung my woodaxe. He drew his hatchet, and together we cut down a fair young maple, trimmed it, and drove a heavy post into the soil.

"Here we will build one day," said I to Silver Heels. She smiled faintly, but her eyes were fixed on the distant Hall.

I had leased, from my lawyer, Peter Weaver, a large stone mansion in Johnstown, which stood next to the church where Sir William lay; this until such time as I might return from the war and find leisure to build on my own land the house which Silver Heels and I had planned to stand on a hill, in full view of the river and of the old Hall where our childhood had been passed.

It was night when we rode into Johnstown. I could discover no changes in the darkness, save that a few new signs swung before lighted shops, and every fifth house hung out a lanthorn and a whole candle-light.

Our stone house was vast, damp, and scantily furnished, but Jack Mount lighted a fire in the hallway, and Silver Heels went about with a song on her lips, and Cade Renard sent servants from the nearest inn with cloth and tableware, and meats smoking hot, not forgetting a great bowl of punch and a cask of ale, which the scullions rolled into the great hall and hoisted on the skids.

So we were merry, and silent, too, at moments, when our eyes met in faint smiles or wistful sympathy.

Shemuel, with his peddling panniers, had strangely disappeared, nor could we find him high or low when Mount and Cade had set their own table by the fire and the room smelled sweet with steaming toddy.

"Thrift! Thrift!" muttered Mount, rattling his toddy-stick impatiently; "now who could have thought that little Jew would have cut away to make up time in trade this night!"

But Shemuel had traded in another manner, for, ere Mount had set his strong, white teeth in the breast-bone of a roasted fowl, I heard Silver Heels cry out: "Betty! Betty! Oh dear, dear Betty!" And the blubbering black woman came rolling in, scarlet turban erect, ear-rings jingling.

"Mah li'l dove! Mah li'l pigeon-dove! Oh Gord, mah li'l Miss Honey-bee!"

"You must keep her, lad," muttered Mount.

"I think Sir John will sell," I said, grimly.

And so he did, or would have, had not his new wife, poor Lady Johnson, whom I had never seen, writing from the Hall, begged me to accept Betty as a gift from her. And I, having no quarrel with the unhappy lady, accepted Betty as a gift, permitting Lady Johnson to secure from the incident what comfort she might.

All through the sweet May-tide, Jack Mount and Cade Renard sunned themselves under the trees in our garden, or sprawled on the warm porch like great, amiable wolf-hounds, dozing and dreaming of mighty deeds.

Ale they had for the drawing, yet abused it not, respecting the hospitality of the house and its young mistress, and none could point the shameful finger at either to cry: "Fie! Pottle-pot! Malt-worm! Painted-nose! Go swim!" At times, sitting together on the grass, cheek by jowl, I heard them singing hymns; at times strolling through the moon-drenched garden paths they lifted up their souls in song:

"The hunter has taken the trail to the East; The little deer run! The little deer run! Fear not, little deer, for he hunts the Red Beast; Ye are not for his gun! Ye are not for his gun!

"The hunter lies cold on the trail to the East; His bosom is rent! His bosom is rent! He died for his country, to slay the Red Beast; To Heaven he went! To Heaven he went!"

In the moonlight the doleful chant droned on, night after night, under the dewy lilacs; and the great horned-owl answered, hooting from the pines; and Silver Heels and I listened from the porch, hand clasping hand in fearsome content. For out in the dark world God was busy shaping the destiny of a people; even the black forest knew it, and thrilled like a vast harp at the touch of the free winds' fingers--unseen fingers, delicate, tentative, groping for the key to a chord of splendid majesty. And when at last the chord should be found and struck, resounding to the deep world's rock foundation, a free people's voices should repeat, singing forever and for all time throughout the earth:

"Amen!"

Meanwhile, stillness, moonlight, and a "_Miserere_" from the lips of two strange forest-runner folk, free-born and ready when the Lord of all led forth His prophet to command.

On that night I heard a man in the street repeat a name, Washington. And all that night I thought of it, and said it, under my breath. But what it might portend I knew not then.

* * * * *

May ended, smothered in flowers; and with the thickening leaves of June came to us there in the North rumours of the times which were to try men's souls. And again I heard, somewhere in the darkness of the village streets, the name I heard before; and that night, too, I lay awake, forming the word with silent lips, close to my young wife's breast.

The full, yellow moon of June creamed all our garden now; Mount and Renard sat a-squat upon the grass, chin on fist, to muse and muse and wait--for what? The King of England did not know; but all the world was waiting, too.

Then, one dim morning, while yet the primrose light tinted the far hills, I awoke to see Silver Heels in her white night-robe, leaning from the casement, calling out to me in a strange, frightened voice: "Michael! Michael! They are coming over the hills--over the hills, dear heart, to take you with them!"

At the window, sniffing the fresh dawn, I listened.

"Footfalls in the hills!" she said, trembling. "Out of the morning men are coming! God make me brave! God make me brave!"

For a long time we stood silent; the village slept below us; the stillness of the dawn remained unbroken, save by a golden-robin's note, fluting from a spectral elm.

"It is not yet time," I said: "let us sleep on, dear heart."

But she would not, and I was fain to dress me in my leather, lest the summons coming swift might find me all unready at the call.

Then she roused Betty and the maid and servants, bidding them call up Mount and Renard, for the hour was close upon us all.

"Dear love," I said, "this is a strange fear that takes you from your pillows there, at dawn."

"Strange things befall a blindly loving heart," she said; "I heard them in my dreams, and knew them, all marching with their yellow moccasins and raccoon-caps and green thrums blowing in the wind."

"Riflemen?"

"Ay, dear love."

"Foolish prophetess!"

"Too wise! Too wise!" she whispered, wearily, nestling within my arms, a second only, then:

"Sir Michael!" roared Mount below my window; "Cresap is on the hills with five hundred men of Maryland!"

Stunned, I stared at Silver Heels; her face was marble, glorified.

As the sun rose I left her, and, scarce knowing what I did, threw my long rifle on my shoulder and ran out swiftly through the garden.

Suddenly, as though by magic summoned, the whole street was filled with riflemen, marching silently and swiftly, with moccasined feet, their raccoon caps pushed back, the green thrums tossing on sleeve and thigh. On they came, rank on rank, like brown deer herding through a rock run; and, on the hunting-shirts, lettered in white across each breast, I read:

LIBERTY OR DEATH.

Mount and the Weasel came up, rifles shouldered, coon-skin caps swinging in their hands. Mount shyly touched the hand that Silver Heels held out; Cade Renard took the fingers, and, bending above them with a flicker of his aged gallantly, pressed them with his shrivelled lips.

"We will watch over your husband, my lady," he said, raising his dim eyes to hers.

"Ay, we will bring him back, Lady Cardigan," muttered Jack Mount, twisting his cap in his huge paws.

Silver Heels, holding them each by the hand, strove to speak, but the voice in her white throat froze, and she only looked silently from them to me with pitiful gray eyes.

"To kill the Red Beast," muttered Mount; "it is quickly done, Lady Cardigan. Then your husband will return."

"To kill the Beast," repeated Renard; "the Red Beast with twin heads. Ay, it can be done, my lady. Then he will return."

"I swear it!" cried Mount, flinging up his great arm. "He will return."

"To doubt it is to doubt God's grace, child. He will return," said Cade Renard.

She looked at me, at Mount, at the Weasel, then at the torrent of dusty riflemen steadily passing without a break.

"If he--he must go--" she began. Her voice failed; she caught my hands and kissed them.

"For our honour--go!" she gasped. "Michael! Michael! Come back to me--"

"Truly, dear heart--truly! truly!"

"Ho! Cardigan!" rang out a voice like a pistol-shot from the passing ranks.

Through my tear-dimmed eyes I saw Cresap, sword shining in his hand.

"We come," cried Mount, shaking his rifle towards the rising sun; "death to the Red Beast!"

"Death to the Beast!" shouted Cresap, shaking his shining sword.

Half a thousand heavy rifles shook high; half a thousand deep voices roared thunderously through the stony street:

"Liberty! Liberty or Death!"

THE END

And now that of a truth the Red Beast is slain, as all men know, follow these mellow years through which our children move, watching the world like a great witch-flower unfold. Content, I sit with her I love, at dusk, tying my soft feather-flies just as I tied them for Sir William in the golden time. The trout have nothing changed, nor I, though kings already live as legends.

Bitter-sweet on porch and paling, woodbine and white-starred clematis, and the deep hum of bees; and in the sunlit garden poppies, red as the blood of martyrs. Then moonlight and my dear wife at the door.

Betty, she hath cradled our tot, Felicity, to croon some soft charm of Southern sorcery, whereby sleep settles like gray dusk-moths on tired lids.

But for the boy, William, it serves not, and he defies us with his wooden gun, declaiming that a man whose grandsire died with Wolfe will not be taken off to bed at such an hour. And so my sweetheart cradles him, unheeding my stern hint of rods a-pickle for the wilful; and, in the moonlight, joining my fish-rod, I hear her from the nursery, singing the song of blessed days departed, yet with each dawn renewed:

"For courts are full of flattery, As hath too oft been tried; The city full of wantonness, And both be full of Pride: Then care away, And wend along with me!"

"I know a trout," quoth Jack Mount, taking his cob-pipe from his teeth, "a monstrous huge one, lad, hard by the thunder-stricken hemlock where the Kennyetto turns upon itself. Shemuel did mark the fish, sleeping at noon three days since."

"Bring Cade along," said I, opening the garden gate, and gathering my rod and line lest the fly-hook catch in the rosebush; "and fetch the gaff, Jack, when you return."

But when he came again into the moonlit garden he came alone, swinging the bright steel gaff.

"Cade sleeps by the fire in the great hall," he said. "Truly, lad, we age apace, and the sly beast, Death, follows us, sniffing, as we go. Lord! Lord! How old we grow--how old, how old! All of us, save Lady Cardigan and you! Years freshen her."

"The years are kind," I said.

So we descended through the dusk to the sweet water flowing under the clustered stars.

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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. 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 McGrath. 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. House on Cherry Street, The. By Amelia E. Barr. How Leslie Loved. By Anne Warner. Husbands of Edith, The. By George Barr McCutcheon. Idols. By William J. Locke. Illustrious Prince, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Imprudence of Prue, The. By Sophie Fisher. Inez. (Illustrated Edition.) By Augusta J. Evans. Infelice. By Augusta Evans Wilson. Initials Only. By Anna Katharine Green. In Defiance of the King. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Indifference of Juliet, The. By Grace S. Richmond. In the Service of the Princess. By Henry C. Rowland. Iron Woman, The. By Margaret Deland. Ishmael. (Illustrated.) By Mrs. Southworth. Island of Regeneration, The. By Cyrus Townsend Brady. Jack Spurlock, Prodigal. By Horace Lorimer. Jane Cable. By George Barr McCutcheon. Jeanne of the Marshes. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Jude the Obscure. By Thomas Hardy. Keith of the Border. By Randall Parrish. Key to the Unknown, The. By Rosa N. Carey. Kingdom of Earth, The. By Anthony Partridge. King Spruce. By Holman Day. Ladder of Swords, A. By Gilbert Parker. Lady Betty Across the Water. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson. Lady Merton, Colonist. By Mrs. Humphrey Ward. Lady of Big Shanty, The. By Berkeley F. Smith. Langford of the Three Bars. By Kate and Virgil D. Boyles. Land of Long Ago, The. By Eliza Calvert Hall. Lane That Had No Turning, The. By Gilbert Parker. Last Trail, The. By Zane Grey. Last Voyage of the Donna Isabel, The. By Randall Parrish. Leavenworth Case, The. By Anna Katharine Green. Lin McLean. By Owen Wister. Little Brown Jug at Kildare, The. By Meredith Nicholson. Loaded Dice. By Ellery H. Clarke. Lord Loveland Discovers America. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson. Lorimer of the Northwest. By Harold Bindloss. Lorraine. By Robert W. Chambers. Lost Ambassador, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Love Under Fire. By Randall Parrish. Loves of Miss Anne, The. By S. R. Crockett. Macaria. (Illustrated Edition.) By Augusta J. Evans. Mademoiselle Celeste. By Adele Ferguson Knight. Maid at Arms, The. By Robert W. Chambers. Maid of Old New York, A. By Amelia E. Barr. Maid of the Whispering Hills, The. By Vingie Roe. Maids of Paradise, The. By Robert W. Chambers. Making of Bobby Burnit, The. By George Randolph Chester. Mam' Linda. By Will N. Harben. Man Outside, The. By Wyndham Martyn. Man in the Brown Derby, The. By Wells Hastings. Marriage a la Mode. By Mrs. Humphrey Ward. Marriage of Theodora, The. By Molly Elliott Seawell. Marriage Under the Terror, A. By Patricia Wentworth. Master Mummer, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Masters of the Wheatlands. By Harold Bindloss. 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 Farnol. 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. Reconstructed Marriage, A. By Amelia Barr. Redemption of Kenneth Galt, The. By Will N. Harben. Red House on Rowan Street. By Roman Doubleday. Red Mouse, The. By William Hamilton Osborne. Red Pepper Burns. By Grace S. Richmond. Refugees, The. By A. Conan Doyle. Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary, The. By Anne Warner. Road to Providence, The. By Maria Thompson Daviess. Romance of a Plain Man, The. By Ellen Glasgow. Rose in the Ring, The. By George Barr McCutcheon. Rose of Old Harpeth, The. By Maria Thompson Daviess. Rose of the World. By Agnes and Egerton Castle. Round the Corner in Gay Street. By Grace S. Richmond. Routledge Rides Alone. By Will Livingston Comfort. Running Fight, The. By Wm. Hamilton Osborne. Seats of the Mighty, The. By Gilbert Parker. Septimus. By William J. Locke. Set in Silver. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson. Self-Raised. (Illustrated.) By Mrs. Southworth. Shepherd of the Hills, The. By Harold Bell Wright. Sheriff of Dyke Hole, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Sidney Carteret, Rancher. By Harold Bindloss. Simon the Jester. By William J. Locke. Silver Blade, The. By Charles E. Walk. Silver Horde, The. By Rex Beach. Sir Nigel. By A. Conan Doyle. Sir Richard Calmady. By Lucas Malet. Skyman, The. By Henry Ketchell Webster. Slim Princess, The. By George Ade. Speckled Bird, A. By Augusta Evans Wilson. Spirit in Prison, A. By Robert Hichens. Spirit of the Border, The. By Zane Grey. Spirit Trail, The. By Kate and Virgil D. Boyles. Spoilers, The. By Rex Beach. Stanton Wins. By Eleanor M. Ingram. St. Elmo. (Illustrated Edition.) By Augusta J. Evans. Stolen Singer, The. By Martha Bellinger. Stooping Lady, The. By Maurice Hewlett. Story of the Outlaw, The. By Emerson Hough. Strawberry Acres. By Grace S. Richmond. Strawberry Handkerchief, The. By Amelia E. Barr. Sunnyside of the Hill, The. By Rosa N. Carey. Sunset Trail, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis. Susan Clegg and Her Friend Mrs. Lathrop. By Anne Warner. Sword of the Old Frontier, A. By Randall Parrish. Tales of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. Tennessee Shad, The. By Owen Johnson. Tess of the D'Urbervilles. By Thomas Hardy. Texican, The. By Dane Coolidge. That Printer of Udell's. By Harold Bell Wright. Three Brothers, The. By Eden Phillpotts. Throwback, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis. Thurston of Orchard Valley. By Harold Bindloss. Title Market, The. By Emily Post. Torn Sails. A Tale of a Welsh Village. By Allen Raine. Trail of the Axe, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Treasure of Heaven, The. By Marie Corelli. Two-Gun Man, The. By Charles Alden Seltzer. Two Vanrevels, The. By Booth Tarkington. Uncle William. By Jennette Lee. Up from Slavery. By Booker T. Washington. Vanity Box, The. By C. N. Williamson. Vashti. By Augusta Evans Wilson. Varmint, The. By Owen Johnson. Vigilante Girl, A. By Jerome Hart. Village of Vagabonds, A. By F. Berkeley Smith. Visioning, The. By Susan Glaspell. Voice of the People, The. By Ellen Glasgow. Wanted--A Chaperon. By Paul Leicester Ford. Wanted: A Matchmaker. By Paul Leicester Ford. Watchers of the Plains, The. Ridgwell Cullum. Wayfarers, The. By Mary Stewart Cutting. Way of a Man, The. By Emerson Hough. Weavers, The. By Gilbert Parker. When Wilderness Was King. By Randall Parrish. Where the Trail Divides. By Will Lillibridge. White Sister, The. By Marion Crawford. Window at the White Cat, The. By Mary Roberts Rhinehart. Winning of Barbara Worth, The. By Harold Bell Wright. With Juliet in England. By Grace S. Richmond. Woman Haters, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Woman in Question, The. By John Reed Scott. Woman in the Alcove, The. By Anna Katharine Green. Yellow Circle, The. By Charles E. Walk. Yellow Letter, The. By William Johnston. Younger Set, The. By Robert W. Chambers.