CHAPTER XVII.

AT HOME.

Another sunset, red and gorgeous, over swelling English meadows, waving trees, and grassy terrace, lighting up with its crimson radiance the gray forest of Thetford Towers.

In the pretty, airy summer drawing-room, this red sunset streams through open western windows, kindling everything into living light. It falls on the bright-haired girlish figure, dressed in floating white, seated in an arm-chair in the centre of the room, too childish-looking, you might fancy, at first sight, to be mamma to that fat baby she holds in her lap; but she is not a bit too childish. And that is papa, tall and handsome, and happy, who leans over the chair and looks as men do look on what is the apple of their eye, and the pride of their heart.

"It's high time baby was christened, Guy," Lady Thetford--for, of course, Lady Thetford it is--was saying; "and, do you know, I am really at a loss for a name. You won't let me call him Guy, and I sha'n't call him Noel--and so what is it to be?"

"Rupert, of course," Sir Guy suggests; and little Lady Thetford pouts.

"He does not deserve the compliment. Shabby fellow! To keep wandering about the world as he does, and never to answer one's letters; and I sent him half a ream last time, if I sent him a sheet, telling all about baby, and asking him to come and be godfather, and coaxing him with the eloquence of a female Demos--, the man in the tub you know. And to think it should be all of no use! To think of not receiving a line in return. It is using me shamefully; and I don't believe I will call baby Rupert."

"Oh, yes you will, my dear! Well, Smithers, what is it?"

For Mr. Smithers, the butler, stood in the doorway, with a very pale and startled face.

"It's a gentleman--leastways a lady--leastways a lady and gentleman. Oh! here they come theirselves!"

Mr. Smithers retired precipitately, still pale and startled of visage, as a gentleman, with a lady on his arm, stood before Sir Guy and Lady Thetford.

There was a half shout from the young baronet, a wild shriek from the young lady. She sprung to her feet, and nearly dropped the precious baby.

"Rupert! Aileen!"

She never got any further--this impetuous little Lady Thetford, for she was kissing first one, then the other, crying and laughing, and talking all in a breath.

"Oh! what a surprise this is! Rupert my dear, my dear, I'm so glad to see you again! O Aileen! I never, never hoped for this! Guy, O Guy, to think it should all come right at last!"

But Guy was wringing his brother's hand, with bright tears standing in his eyes, and quite unable to reply.

"And this is the baby, May? The wonderful baby you wrote me so much about," Mr. Rupert Thetford said. "A noble little fellow, upon my word; and a Thetford from top to toe. Am I in season to be godfather?"

"Just in season. The name was to have been Rupert in any case, but a moment ago I was scolding frightfully, because you had not answered my letter, little dreaming you were coming to answer in person. And Aileen too! Oh! my dear, my dear, sit down at once and tell me all about it."

Mrs. Thetford smiles at the old impetuosity, and in very few words tells the story of the meeting and the marriage.

"Of course you remain in England?" Sir Guy eagerly asked, when he had heard the brief _resume_ of those past five years. "Of course Jocyln Hall is to be headquarters and home?"

"Yes," Rupert says, his eyes for a moment lingering lovingly on his wife, "Jocyln Hall is home. We have not yet been there; we came at once here to see the most wonderful baby of modern times--my handsome little namesake."

"It is just like a fairy tale," is all Lady Thetford can say then; but late that night, when the reunited friends were in their chambers, she lifted her golden head off the pillow, and looked at her husband entering the room. "It's so very odd, Guy," slowly and drowsily, "to think that, after all, a Rupert Thetford should be _Sir Noel's Heir_."

A DARK CONSPIRACY.

"In love with her--_I_ want to marry her!" cried Tom Maxwell in a fine fury. "I tell you I hate her, and I hope she may die a miserable, disappointed, cantankerous old maid!"

Striding up and down the floor, his face flaming, his eyes flashing, his very coat-tail quivering with rage--a Bengal tiger, robbed of her young, could not have looked a much more ferocious object. And yet ferocity was not natural to Tom Maxwell--handsome Tom, whose years were only two-and-twenty, and who was hot-headed and fiery, and impetuous as it is in the nature of two-and-twenty to be, but by no means innately savage. But he had just been jilted, jilted in cold blood; so up and down he strode, grinding his teeth vindictively, and fulminating anathema maranathas against his fair deceiver.

"The miserable, heartless jilt! The deceitful, shameless coquette!" burst out Tom, ferociously. "She gave me every encouragement that a woman could give, until she drew me on by her abominable wiles to make a fool of myself; and then she turns round and smiles and puts her handkerchief to her eyes and is 'very sorry,'" mimicking the feminine intonation, "'and never dreamed of such a thing, and will be very happy to be my friend; but for anything further--oh! dear, Mr. Maxwell, pray don't think of it!' Confound her and the whole treacherous sex to which she belongs! But I'm not done with her yet! I'll have revenge as sure as my name is Tom Maxwell!"

"As how?" asked a lazy voice from the sofa. "She's a woman, you know. Being a woman, you can't very well call her out and shoot her, or horsewhip her, or even knock her down. A fellow may feel like that--I often have myself, after being jilted; but still it can't be did. It's an absurd law, I allow, this polite exemption of womankind from condign and just punishment; but it is too late in the day for chaps like you and me to go tilt against popular prejudices."

It was a long speech for Paul Warden, who was far too indolent generally to get beyond monosyllables. He lay stretched at full length on the sofa, languidly smoking the brownest of meerschaums, and dreamily watching the smoke curl and wreath around his head. A genial, good-looking fellow, five years Tom's senior, and remarkably clever in his profession, the law, when not too lazy to exercise it.

Tom Maxwell paused in his excited striding to look in astonishment at the speaker.

"You jilted!" he said, "You! You, Paul Warden, the irresistible!"

"Even so, _mon ami_. Like measles, and mumps, and tooth-cutting, it's something a man has to go through, willy nilly. I've been jilted and heart-broken some half-dozen times, more or less, and here I am to-night not a ha'penny the worse for it. So go it, Tom my boy! The more you rant and rave now, the sooner the pain will be over. It's nothing when you're used to it. By-the-way," turning his indolent eyes slowly, "is she pretty, Tom?"

"Of course!" said Tom, indignantly. "What do you take me for? Pretty! She's beautiful, she's fascinating. Oh, Warden! it drives me mad to think of it!"

"She's all my fancy painted her--she's lovely, she's divine," quoted Mr. Warden; "but her heart, it is another's, and it never-- What's her name, Tom?"

"Fanny Summers. If you had been in this place four-and-twenty hours, you would have no need to ask. Half the men in town are spooney about her."

"Fanny. Ah! a very bad omen. Never knew a Fanny yet who wasn't a natural born flirt. What's the style--dark or fair, _belle_ blonde, or _jolie_ brunette?"

"Brunette; dark, bright, sparkling, saucy, piquant irresistible! Oh!" cried Tom, with a dismal groan, sinking into a chair, "it is too bad, _too_ bad to be treated so!"

"So it is, my poor Tom. She deserved the bastinado, the wicked witch. The bastinado not being practicable, let us think of something else. She deserves punishment, and she shall have it; paid back in her own coin, and with interest, too. Eh? Well?"

For Tom had started up in his chair, violently excited and red in the face.

"The very thing!" cried Tom. "I have it! She shall be paid in her own coin, and I'll have most glorious revenge, if you'll only help me, Paul."

"To my last breath, Tom; only don't make so much noise. Hand me the match-box, my pipe's gone out. Now, what is it?"

"Paul, they call you irresistible--the women do."

"Do they? Very polite of them. Well?"

"Well, being irresistible, why can't you make love to Fanny Summers, talk her into a desperate attachment to you, and then treat her as she has treated me--jilt her?"

Paul Warden opened his large, dreamy eyes to their widest, and fixed them on his excited young friend.

"Do you mean it, Tom?"

"Never meant anything more in my life, Paul."

"But supposing I could do it; supposing I am the irresistible conqueror you gallantly make me out; supposing I could talk the charming Fanny into that deplorable attachment--it seems a shame, doesn't it?"

"A shame!" exclaimed poor Tom, smarting under a sense of his own recent wrong; "and what do you call her conduct to _me_? It's a poor rule that won't work both ways. Let her have it herself, hot and strong, and see how she likes it--she's earned it richly. You can do it, I know, Paul; you have a way with you among women. I don't understand it myself, but I see it takes. You can do it, and you're no friend of mine, Warden, if you don't."

"Do it! My dear fellow, what wouldn't I do to oblige you; break fifty hearts, if you asked me. Here's my hand--it's a go."

"And you'll flirt with her, and jilt her?"

"With the help of the gods. Let the campaign begin at once, let me see my fair, future victim to-night."

"But you'll be careful, Paul," said Tom, cooling down as his friend warmed up. "She's very pretty, uncommonly pretty; you've no idea how pretty, and she may turn the tables and subjugate you, instead of you subjugating her."

"The old story of the minister who went to Rome to convert the Pope, and returned a red-hot Catholic. Not any thanks. My heart is iron-clad; has stood too many sieges to yield to any little flirting brunette. Forewarned is forearmed. Come on, old fellow," rising from his sofa, "if 'tis done, when it is done, 'twere well 'twere done quickly.'"

"How goes the night?" said Tom, looking out; "it's raining. Do you mind?"

"Shouldn't mind if it rained pitchforks in so good a cause. Get your overcoat and come. I think those old chaps--what-do-you-call-'em, Crusaders? must have felt as I do now, when they marched to take Jerusalem. Where are we to find _la belle_ Fanny?"

"At her sister's, Mrs. Walters, she's only here on a visit; but during her five weeks' stay she has turned five dozen heads, and refused five dozen hands, my own the last," said Tom, with a groan.

"Never mind, Tom; there is balm in Gilead yet. Revenge is sweet, you know, and you shall taste its sweets before the moon wanes. Now then, Miss Fanny, the conquering hero comes!"

The two young men sallied forth into the rainy, lamp-lit streets. A passing omnibus took them to the home of the coquettish Fanny, and Tom rang the bell with vindictive emphasis.

"Won't she rather wonder to see you, after refusing you?" inquired Mr. Warden, whilst they waited.

"What do I care!" responded Mr. Maxwell, moodily; "her opinion is of no consequence to me now."

Mrs. Walters, a handsome, agreeable-looking young matron, welcomed Tom with a cordial shake of the hand, and acknowledged Mr. Warden's bow by the brightest of smiles, as they were ushered into the family parlor.

"We are quite alone, this rainy night, my sister and I," she said. "Mr. Walters is out of town for a day or two. Fanny, my dear, Mr. Warden; my sister, Miss Summers, Mr. Warden."

It was a pretty, cozy room, "curtained, and close, and warm;" and directly under the gas-light, reading a lady's magazine, sat one of the prettiest girls it had ever been Mr. Warden's good fortune to see, and who welcomed him with a brilliant smile.

"Black eyes, jetty ringlets, rosy cheeks, alabaster brow," thought Mr. Warden, taking stock; "the smile of an angel, and dressed to perfection. Poor Tom! he's to be pitied. Really, I haven't come across anything so much to my taste this month of Sundays."

Down sat Mr. Paul Warden beside the adorable Fanny, plunging into conversation at once with an ease and fluency that completely took away Tom's breath. That despondent wooer on the sofa, beside Mrs. Walters, pulled dejectedly at the ears of her little black-and-tan terrier, and answered at random all the pleasant things she said to him. He was listening, poor fellow, to that brilliant flow of small talk from the mustached lips of his dashing friend, and wishing the gods had gifted him with a similar "gift of the gab," and feeling miserably jealous already. He had prepared the rack for himself with his eyes wide open; but that made the torture none the less when the machinery got in motion. Pretty Fanny snubbed him incontinently, and was just as bewitching as she knew how to his friend. It was a clear case of diamond cut diamond--two flirts pitted against each other; and an outsider would have been considerably puzzled on which to bet, both being so evenly matched.

Tom listened, and sulked; yes, sulked. What a lot of things they found to talk about, where he used to be tongue-tied. The magazine, the fashion-plates, the stories; then a wild launch into literature, novels, authors, poets; then the weather; then Mr. Warden was travelling, and relating his "hair-breadth escapes by flood and field," while bright-eyed Fanny listened in breathless interest. Then the open piano caught the irresistible Paul's eyes, and in a twinkling there was Fanny seated at it, her white fingers flying over the polished keys, and he bending above her with an entranced face. Then he was singing a delightful love-song in a melodious tenor voice, that might have captivated any heart that ever beat inside of lace and muslin; and then Fanny was singing a sort of response, it seemed to frantically jealous Tom; and then it was eleven o'clock, and time to go home.

Out in the open air, with the rainy night wind blowing bleakly, Tom lifted his hat to let the cold blast cool his hot face. He was sulky still, and silent--very silent; but Mr. Warden didn't seem to mind.

"So," he said, lighting a cigar, "the campaign has begun, the first blow has been struck, the enemy's ramparts undermined. Upon my word, Tom, the little girl is uncommonly pretty!"

"I told you so," said Tom, with a sort of growl.

"And remarkably agreeable. I don't think I ever spent a pleasanter _tete-a-tete_ evening."

"So I should judge. She had eyes, and ears, and tongue for no one but you."

"My dear fellow, it's not possible you're jealous! Isn't that what you wanted? Besides, there is no reason, really; she is a professional flirt, and understands her business; you and I know just how much value to put on all that sweetness. Have a cigar, my dear boy, and keep up your heart; we'll fix the flirting Fanny yet, please the pigs!"

This was all very true; but, somehow, it wasn't consoling. She was nothing to him, Tom, of course--and he hated her as hotly as ever; but, somehow, his thirst for vengeance had considerably cooled down. The cure was worse than the disease. It was maddening to a young man in his frame of mind to see those brilliant smiles, those entrancing glances, all those pretty, coquettish, womanly, wiles that had deluded him showered upon another, even for that other's delusion. Tom wished he had never thought of revenge, at least with Paul Warden for his handsome agent.

"Are you going there again?" he asked, moodily.

"Of course," replied Mr. Warden, airily. "What a question, old fellow, from you of all people. Didn't you hear the little darling telling me to call again? She overlooked you completely, by-the-by. I'm going again, and again, and yet again, until my friend, my _fides Achates_, is avenged."

"Ah!" said Tom, sulkily, "but I don't know that I care so much for vengeance as I did. Second thoughts are best; and it struck me, whilst I watched you both to-night, that it was mean and underhand to plot against a woman like this. You thought so yourself at first, you know."

"Did I? I forget. Well, I think differently now, my dear Tom; and as you remark, second thoughts are best. My honor is at stake; so put your conscientious scruples in your pocket, for I shall conquer the fascinating Fanny or perish in the attempt. Here we are at my boarding house--won't you come in? No. Well, then, good-night. By-the-way, I shall be at the enemy's quarters to-morrow evening; if you wish to see how ably I fight your battles, show yourself before nine. By-by!"

Mr. Maxwell's answer was a deeply bass growl as he plodded on his way; and Paul Warden, running up to his room, laughed lightly to himself.

"Poor Tom! Poor, dear boy! Jealousy is a green-eyed lobster, and he's a prey to it--the worst kind. Really, Paul, my son, little black eyes is the most bewitching piece of calico you have met in your travels lately; and if you wanted a wife, which you don't, you couldn't do better than go in and win. As it is--Ah! it's a pity for the little dear's sake you can't marry."

With which Mr. Warden disrobed and went to bed.

Next evening, at half-past eight, Tom Maxwell made his appearance at Mrs. Walters, only to find his _fides Achates_ there enthroned before him, and basking in the sunshine of the lovely Fanny's smiles. How long he had been there Tom couldn't guess; but he and Fanny and Mrs. Walters were just settling it to go to the theatre the following night. There was a bunch of roses, pink-and-white, his gift, Tom felt in his bones, in Fanny's hand, and into which she plunged her pretty little nose every five seconds. It was adding insult to injury, the manifest delight that aggravating girl felt in his friend's society; and Tom ground his teeth inwardly, and could have seen Paul Warden guillotined, there and then, with all the pleasure in life.

That evening, and many other evenings which succeeded were but a repetition of the first. An easy flow of delightful small talk, music, singing, and reading aloud. Yes, Paul Warden read aloud, as if to goad that unhappy Tom to open madness, in the most musical of masculine voices, out of little blue-and-gold books, Tennyson, and Longfellow, and Owen Meredith; and Fanny would sit in breathless earnestness, her color coming and going, her breath fluttering, her eyes full of tears as often as not, fixed on Paul's classic profile. Tom didn't burst out openly--he made no scene; he only sat and glowered in malignant silence--and that is saying everything for his power of self-control.

Two months passed; hot weather was coming, and Fanny begun to talk of the heat and the dust of the town; of being home-sick, for the sight of green fields, new milk, strawberry-patches, new-laid eggs, and pa and ma. It had been a very delightful two months, no doubt; and she had enjoyed Mr. Warden's society very much, and gone driving and walking with him, and let him take her to the theatre, and the opera, and played for him, and sung for him, and danced with him, and accepted his bouquets, and new music, and blue-and-gold books; but, for all that, it was evident she could leave him and go home, and still exist.

"It's all very nice," Miss Summers had said, tossing back her black ringlets; "and I have enjoyed this spring ever so much, but still I'm glad to get home again. One grows tired of balls, and parties, and the theatre, you know, after awhile, Mr. Warden; and I am only a little country-girl, and I shall be just as glad as ever for a romp over the meadows, and a breezy gallop across the hills once more. If you or Mr. Maxwell," glancing at that gloomy youth sideways out of her curls, "care much for fishing, and come up our way any time this summer, I'll try and treat you as well as you have treated me."

"But you haven't treated us well, Miss Fanny," Mr. Warden said, looking unspeakable things. "You take our hearts by storm, and then break them ruthlessly by leaving us. What sort of treatment do you call that?"

Miss Summers only laughed, and looked saucy; and danced away, leaving her two admirers standing together out in the cold.

"Well, Tom," Mr. Warden said, "and so the game's up, the play played out, the curtain ready to fall. The star actress departs to-morrow--and now, what do you think of the performance?"

"Not much," responded Tom, moodily. "I can't see that you have kept your promise. You've made love to her, I allow, _con amore_, confoundedly as if you meant it, in fact; but I don't see where the jilting comes in; I can't see where's my revenge."

"Don't you?" said Paul, thoughtfully lighting his cigar. "Well, come to think of it, I don't either. To tell you the truth, I haven't had a chance to jilt her. I may be irresistible, and I have no doubt I am, since you say so; but, somehow, the charm don't seem to work with our little favorite. Here I have been for the last two months just as captivating as I know how; and yet there's that girl ready to be off to-morrow to the country, without so much as a crack in the heart that should be broken in smithereens. But still," with a sudden change of voice, and slapping him lightly on the shoulder, "dear old boy, I don't despair of giving you your revenge yet!"

Tom lifted his gloomy eyes in sullen inquiry.

"Never mind now," said Paul Warden airily; "give me a few weeks longer. Lazy as I am, I have never failed yet in anything I have seriously undertaken; and, upon my word, I'm more serious about this matter than you may believe. Trust to your friend, and wait."

That was all Mr. Warden would deign to say.

Tom, not being able to do otherwise, took him at his word, dragged out existence, and waited for his cherished revenge.

Miss Summers left town next day, and Tom, poor, miserable fellow, felt as if the sun had ceased to shine, and the scheme of the universe become a wretched failure, when he caught the last glimmer of the lustrous black eyes, the last flutter of the pretty black curls. But his Damon was by his side to slap him on the back and cheer him up.

"Courage, old fellow!" cried Mr. Warden; "all's not lost that's in danger. Turn and turn about; your turn next."

But, somehow, Tom didn't care for revenge any more. He loved that wicked, jilting little Fanny as much as ever; and the heartache only grew worse day after day; but he ceased to desire vengeance. He settled down into a kind of gentle melancholy, lost his appetite, and his relish for Tom and Jerrys, and took to writing despondent poetry for the weekly journals. In this state Mr. Warden left him, and suddenly disappeared from town. Tom didn't know where he had gone, and his landlady didn't know; and stranger still, his bootmaker and tailor, to whom he was considerably in arrears, didn't know either. But they were soon enlightened.

Five weeks after his mysterious disappearance came a letter and a newspaper, in his familiar hand, to Tom, while he sat at breakfast. He opened the letter first and read:

IN THE COUNTRY.

"DEAR OLD BOY--I have kept my word--you are avenged gloriously. Fanny will never jilt you, nor any one else again!"

At this passage in the manuscript, Tom Maxwell laid it down, the cold perspiration breaking out on his face. Had Paul Warden murdered her, or worse, had he married her? With a desperate clutch Tom seized the paper, tore it open, looked at the list of marriages, and saw his worst fears realized. There it was, in printers' ink, the atrocious revelation of his bosom friend's perfidy.

"Married, on the fifth inst., at the residence of the bride's father, Paul Warden, Esq., of New York to Miss Fanny Summers, second daughter of Mr. John Summers, of this town."

There it was. Tom didn't faint; he swallowed a scalding cup of coffee at a gulp, and revived, seized the letter and finished it.

"You see, old fellow, paradoxical as it sounds, although I was the conqueror, I was, also, the conquered. Fanny had fallen in love with me, as you foresaw, but I had fallen in love with her also, which you didn't foresee. I might jilt her, of course, but that would be cutting off my own nose to spite my friend's face; and so--I didn't! I did the next best thing for you, though,--I married her! and I may mention, in parenthesis, I am the happiest of mankind; and as Artemus Ward remarks, 'My wife says so too.'

"Adieu, my boy. We'll come to town next week, where Fan and I will be delighted to have you call. With best regards from my dear little wife, I am, old fellow,

"Your devoted friend,

"PAUL WARDEN."

Mr. and Mrs. Warden did come to town next week; but Mr. Maxwell didn't call. In point of fact he hasn't called since, and doesn't intend to, and has given his friend Paul the "cut direct." And that is how Paul Warden got a wife, and Tom Maxwell his revenge.

FOR BETTER FOR WORSE.

"And all is gone?"

"Why, no, sir; no, Mr. Fletcher--not all. There's that six hundred a year, and that little place down at Dover, that you settled on your wife; you will save that out of the wreck. A trifle--a mere nothing, I am aware, out of such a noble inheritance as yours, Mr. Fletcher--but still something. Half a loaf you know, sir, is--"

He stopped abruptly at a motion of Richard Fletcher's hand. He was a lawyer, and used to this sort of thing; and not much effected by the story, he had run down from New York to tell Mr. Fletcher; his rich client had speculated rashly, and lost--a common case enough. A week ago he was worth half a million; to-night he is not worth a sixpence--that was all. There were his wife's settlements, of course; but they were his wife's--and Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher were two.

"I thought I had better let you know at once, Mr. Fletcher," the lawyer said; "it's sure to be in everybody's mouth to-morrow. And now, if I'm to catch the nine-fifty up-train, I had better be starting. Good-night, sir. Worse luck now, better next time."

"Good-night," Richard Fletcher said, mechanically. He was leaning against the low, iron gateway, his folded arms lying on its carved top, and the black shadows of the beeches shutting him in like a pall. Up the avenue colored lamps gleamed along the chestnut walks, blue, red, and green, turning the dark November night to fairy-land. The wide front of the stately mansion was all aglow with illumination, with music, and flowers, and fair women; and fairest, where all were fair, its proud young mistress, Marian Fletcher.

Two men, stragglers from the ball-room, with their cigars lighted, came down through the gloom, close to the motionless figure against the iron gate--only another shadow among the shadows--so close that he heard every word.

"Rather superb style of thing, all this," one said. "When Dick Fletcher does this sort of thing, he does do it. Wonderful luck he's had, for a poor devil, who five years ago hadn't a rap; and that wife of his--magnificent Marian--most lovely thing the sun shines on."

"Too lovely, my friend, for--she's ice."

"Ah! To her husband? Married him for his fortune, didn't she? The old story, very poor, very proud; and sold to the highest bidder. Craymore stood to win there once, didn't he?"

"It was a desperate flirtation--an engagement, the knowing ones do say; but Capt. Craymore knows better than to indulge in such a luxury as a penniless wife. So Fletcher came along, made rich by a sudden windfall, and she's Mrs. Fletcher to-night; and more beautiful and queenly than ever. I watched her dancing with Craymore half an hour ago, and--Well, I didn't envy Fletcher, if he is worth half a million. Let's go back to the house, it's beginning to rain."

"Suppose Fletcher were to lose his fortune--what then?"

"My good fellow, he would lose his wife in the same hour. Some women there are who would go with their husbands to beggary--and he's a fine fellow, too, is Fletcher; but not the lovely Marian. There, the rain begins!"

The shadow among the beeches stood stiller than stone. A long, low wind worried the trees, and the rain beat its melancholy drip, drip. Half an hour, an hour, two, passed, but the figure leaning against the iron-gate was as still as the iron itself. But slowly he stirred at last, became conscious he was dripping, and passed slowly out of the rainy gloom, and up the lamplit-avenue, and into the stately home, that, after to-night, would be his no more.

Another half-hour, and he was back in the glitter and dazzle and music of the brilliant suit of drawing-rooms, his wet garments changed, the fixed whiteness of his face telling but little of his sudden blow. He had not been missed; his radiant three months' bride shone there in diamonds, and laces, and roses resplendent--and who was to think of the rich Fletcher! "Only a clod," whom she had honored by marrying. Capt. Craymore was by her side, more fascinating than ever. How could she find time to think of any one so plebeian as the underbred rich man she had married, by his entrancing side?

But it was all over at last. The "lights were fled, the garlands dead," and Mrs. Fletcher up in her dressing-room, in the raw morning light, was under the hands of her maid. She lay back among the violet-velvet cushions, languid and lovely, being disrobed, and looked round with an irritated flush at the abrupt entrance of the master of the house. He did not often intrude; since the first few weeks of their marriage he had been a model husband, and kept his place. Therefore, Mrs. Fletcher looked surprised, as well as annoyed now.

"Do you wish to speak to me, Mr. Fletcher?" she asked, coldly; for after an evening with Capt. Craymore she was always less tolerant of her _bourgeois_ husband.

"Yes--but alone. I will wait in your sitting-room until you dismiss your maid."

Something in his colorless face--something in the sound of his voice startled her; but he was gone while yet speaking, and the maid went on. "Hurry, Louise," her mistress said, briefly; and Louise coiled up the shining hair, arranged the white dressing-gown, and left her.

Marian Fletcher arose and swept into the next room. It was the daintiest _bijou_ of boudoirs, all rose-silk, and silver, and filigree-work, and delicious Greuze paintings, smiling down from the fluted panels. A bright wood-fire burned on the hearth, and her husband stood against the low chimney-piece, whiter and colder than the marble itself.

"Well," she said, "what is it?"

He looked up. She stood before him in her beauty and her pride, jewels flashed on her fairy hands--a queen by right divine of her azure eyes and tinselled hair--his, yet not his; "so near, and yet so far." He loved her, how well his own wrung heart only knew.

"What is it?" she repeated, impatiently. "I am tired and sleepy. Tell me in a word."

"I can--ruin!"

"What?"

"I am ruined. All is gone. I am a beggar."

She started back, turning whiter than her dress, and leaned heavily against a chair.

"Ruined!" she repeated. "A beggar!"

"Ugly words, are they not? but quite true. I did not know it until last night; Kearstall came from town to tell me. My last grand speculation has failed, and in its failure engulfed everything. I am as poor as the poorest laborer on this estate; poorer than I was five years ago, before this fortune was left me."

There was a sort of savage pleasure in thus hideously putting things in their ugliest light. Rich or poor, she despised him alike. What need was there for him to mince matters?

"There are your settlements, your six hundred a-year and the Dover farm, that crumb of the loaf is left, and remains yours. I am sorry for you, Mrs. Fletcher--sorry that your sacrifice of youth and loveliness, on the altar of Mammon, has been in vain. I had hoped, when I married you, of winning some return for the limitless love I gave you. I know to-night how futile that hope has been. Once again, for your sake, I am sorry; for myself I do not care. The world is a wide place, and I can win my way. I give you your freedom, the only reparation for marrying you in my power to make. I leave here to-night, New York to-morrow; and so--farewell!"

She stood like a stone; he turned and left her. Once she had made a movement, seeing the white anguish of his face, as though to go to him--but she did not. He was gone, and she dropped down in the rose-and-silver glitter of her fairy-room, as miserable a woman as day ever dawned on.

A month later, and she was far away, buried alive in the Dover Cottage. All had gone; the nine days wonder was at an end; the "rich Fletcher" and his handsome wife had disappeared out of the magic whirl of society; and society got on very well without them. They had been, and they were not--and the story was told. Of all who had broken bread with the ruined man, there were not two who cared a fillip whether he were living or dead.

The December wind wailed over the stormy sea, and the wintry rain lashed the windows of the Dover Cottage. Marian Fletcher sat before the blazing fire in a long, low, gloomy parlor, and Capt. Craymore stood before her. He had but just found her out, and he had run down to see how she bore her altered fortunes. She bore them as an uncrowned queen might, with regal pride and cold endurance. The exquisite face had lost its rose-leaf bloom; the deep, still eyes looked larger and more fathomless; the mouth was set in patient pain--that was all. The man felt his heart burn as he looked at her, she was so lovely, _so_ lovely. He leaned over, and the passionate words came that he could not check. He loved her. She loved him; she was forsaken and alone--why need they part?

She listened, growing whiter than a dead woman. Then she came and faced him, until the cowered soul within him shrank and quailed.

"I have fallen very low," she said. "I am poor, and alone, and a deserted wife. But Capt. Craymore, I have not fallen low enough to be your mistress. Go!"

Her unflickering finger pointed to the door. There was that in her face no man dare disobey, and he slunk forth like a whipped hound. Then as on that night when she had parted from her husband, she slipped down in her misery to the ground, and hid her face in her hands. Now she knew the man she had loved, now she was learning to know the man who had loved her. The one would drag her down to bottomless depths of blackness and infamy; the other had given up all for her--even herself--and gone forth a homeless, penniless wanderer, to fight the battle of life.

"Oh! truest and noblest!" her heart cried, in its passionate pain, "how I have wronged you! Bravest and best heart that ever beat in man's breast--am I only to know your worth when it is too late?"

It seemed so. Richard Fletcher had disappeared out of the world--the world she knew--as utterly as though he had never been in it. The slow months dragged drearily by; but he never came. The piteous advertisement in the _Herald_ newspaper stood unanswered when the spring-buds burst; and she was alone in her worse than widowhood, in the Dover Cottage still.

With the glory of the brilliant new summer, new hope dawned for her. A tiny messenger, with Richard Fletcher's great brown eyes, smiled up in her face, and a baby head nestled against her lonely heart. Ah! she knew now how she loved baby's father, when the brown eyes, of which these were the counterpart, were lost to her forever.

So, with the great world shut out, and with only baby Richard and her two servants, life went on in the solitary cottage. The winds of winter had five times swept over the ceaseless sea, and little Richard could toddle and lisp; and in Marian Fletcher's heart hope slowly died out. She had lost him through her own fault; he, to whom she had been bound in the mysterious tie of marriage, would never look upon her cruel face again.

She sat one stormy November night, thinking very sadly of the true heart and strong love she had cast away. Her boy lay asleep before the ruddy fire; the rain and wind beat like human things against the glass. She sat looking seaward, with weary, empty eyes, so desolate--so desolate, her soul crying out with unutterable yearning for the wanderer to come back.

As she stood there gazing sadly out at the wild night falling over the wild sea, her one servant came hurriedly into the room with startled affright in her eyes.

"Oh, ma'am," she cried, "such a dreadful thing! The up-train from New York has had an accident, has fell over the embankment just below here and half the passengers are killed and wounded. The screams as I came past was awful to hear. But surely, ma'am," the woman broke off in dismay as her mistress seized her hat and shawl, "you won't go out and it raining and a blowing fit to take you off your feet. You can't do nothing, and you'll get your death."

But Mrs. Fletcher was out already, heedless of wind or rain, and making her way to the scene of the accident. "Poor souls," she was thinking, "so sudden and frightful a fate. Perhaps I can be of help to some one." For her life trouble had done this for her; made her tender of heart, and pitiful of soul to all who suffered.

A great crowd were there from Dover village as she drew near, beginning to bear away the wounded, the dying and the dead. Groans and cries of infinite misery made the rainy twilight hideous. Mrs. Fletcher shuddered, but she stooped resolutely over a man who lay almost at her feet, a man whom she might have thought dead but for the low moan that now and then came from his lips.

She bent above him timidly, her heart fluttering at something vaguely familiar in his look.

"Can I do anything for you?" she asked, "I fear you are very very badly hurt."

The eyes opened; in the dim light he half arose on his elbow. "Marian," he said, and fell back and fainted wholly away.

And so her prayers were answered after many days, and death itself seemed to have given back her husband to Marian Fletcher's arms. Over his pillow life and Death fought their sharp battle, for many long weeks, while she watched over him, and prayed beside him in what agony of remorse, and terror and passionate tenderness only Heaven and herself ever knew.

Those ceaseless, agonized prayers prevailed. In the pale dawn of a Christmas morning, the heavy brown eyes opened and fixed upon her face, no longer in delirium, but with the kindling light of recognition, and great and sudden joy.

"Marian," he said faintly, "my wife."

She was on her knees beside him, his weak head lying in her caressing arms.

"My dearest, my dearest, thank God; my own, my cherished husband, forgive your erring wife."

His face lit with a rare smile, as he looked up into the pale, tear wet, passionately earnest face.

"It is true then what I heard, what has brought me home. You have sought me. But Marian, what if I must tell you I am still poor, poor as when we parted." She shrunk away as though he had hurt her.

"I have deserved that you should say this to me," she said in a stifled voice, "I have been the basest of the base in the past--why should you think me other than heartless and mercenary still. But oh, Richard, don't you see--I love you now, so dearly and truly, my husband, that I can never have any life apart from you more. Do not talk to me of poverty--only tell me you will never leave me again." "Never again," he answered, "till death us do part. But Marian, though I am no longer the millionaire you married, I do not return to you quite a beggar. More or less I have retrieved the past, and we can begin life anew almost as luxuriously as we left it off." Her face clouded for a moment.

"Ah! I am sorry. I wanted to atone: how can I now? I have been your wife in the sunshine. I thought to show you what I could be in the shadow, and now all that is at an end. I can never show you how I have repented for--that night."

But Richard Fletcher only smiles a smile of great content. And in the silence that ensues, there comes over the snowy fields the joyful bells of the blessed Christmas morning, and in their hearts both bless God for the new life, that dawns with this holy day.

* * * * *

1885.

G. W. CARLETON & CO.

NEW BOOKS AND NEW EDITIONS, RECENTLY ISSUED BY G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers, 33 West 23d Street, New York.

The Publishers, on receipt of price, will send any book on this Catalogue by mail, _postage free_.

All handsomely bound in cloth, with gilt backs suitable for libraries.

Mary J. Holmes' Novels.

Tempest and Sunshine $1 50 English Orphans 1 50 Homestead on the Hillside 1 50 'Lena Rivers 1 50 Meadow Brook 1 50 Dora Deane 1 50 Cousin Maude 1 50 Marian Grey 1 50 Edith Lyle 1 50 Daisy Thornton 1 50 Chateau D'Or 1 50 Queenie Hetherton (New) 1 50 Darkness and Daylight 1 50 Hugh Worthington 1 50 Cameron Pride 1 50 Rose Mather 1 50 Ethelyn's Mistake 1 50 Millbank 1 50 Edna Browning 1 50 West Lawn 1 50 Mildred 1 50 Forrest House 1 50 Madeline (New) 1 50 Christmas Stories--and portrait 1 50

Charles Dickens--25 Vols.--"Carleton's Edition."

Pickwick and Catalogue $1 50 Dombey and Son 1 50 Bleak House 1 50 Martin Chuzzlewit 1 50 Barnaby Rudge--Edwin Drood 1 50 Child's England--Miscellaneous 1 50 Christmas Books--Two Cities 1 50 Oliver Twist--Uncommercial 1 50 David Copperfield 1 50 Nicholas Nickleby 1 50 Little Dorrit 1 50 Our Mutual Friend 1 50 Curiosity Shop--Miscellaneous 1 50 Sketches by Boz--Hard Times 1 50 Great Expectations--Italy 1 50 _Full Sets_ in half calf bindings 50 00

Marion Harland's Novels.

Alone $1 50 Hidden Path 1 50 Moss Side 1 50 Nemesis 1 50 Miriam 1 50 At Last 1 50 Sunnybank 1 50 Ruby's Husband 1 50 My Little Love 1 50 True as Steel (New) 1 50

Augusta J. Evans' Novels.

Beulah $1 75 Macaria 1 75 Inez 1 75 St. Elmo 2 00 Vashti 2 00 Infelice (New) 2 00

Carleton's Popular Quotations.

Carleton's New Hand-Book--Familiar Quotations, with their authorship $1 50 Carleton's Classical Dictionary--A Condensed Mythology for popular use 75

May Agnes Fleming's Novels.

Guy Earlscourt's Wife $1 50 A Wonderful Woman 1 50 A Terrible Secret 1 50 A Mad Marriage 1 50 Norine's Revenge 1 50 One Night's Mystery 1 50 Kate Danton 1 50 Silent and True 1 50 Maude Percy's Secret (New) 1 50 Heir of Charlton 1 50 Carried by Storm 1 50 Lost for a Woman 1 50 A Wife's Tragedy 1 50 A Changed Heart 1 50 Pride and Passion 1 50 Sharing Her Crime 1 50 A Wronged Wife 1 50 The Actress Daughter (New) 1 50

Allan Pinkerton's Works.

Expressmen and Detectives $1 50 Mollie Maguires and Detectives 1 50 Somnambulists and Detectives 1 50 Claude Melnotte and Detectives 1 50 Criminal Reminiscences, etc. 1 50 Rail-Road Forger, etc. 1 50 Bank Robbers and Detectives 1 50 Gypsies and Detectives 1 50 Spiritualists and Detectives 1 50 Model Town and Detectives 1 50 Strikers, Communists, etc. 1 50 Mississippi Outlaws, etc. 1 50 Bucholz and Detectives 1 50 Burglar's Fate and Detectives 1 50

Bertha Clay's Novels.

Thrown on the World $1 50 A Bitter Atonement 1 50 Love Works Wonders 1 50 Evelyn's Folly 1 50 Under a Shadow 1 50 Beyond Pardon (New) 1 50 A Woman's Temptation 1 50 Repented at Leisure 1 50 A Struggle for a Ring 1 50 Lady Damer's Secret 1 50 Between Two Loves 1 50 Put Asunder (New) 1 50

"New York Weekly" Series.

Brownie's Triumph--Sheldon $1 50 The Forsaken Bride. do. 1 50 Earl Wayne's Nobility. do. 1 50 Lost, a Pearle-- do. 1 50 Young Mrs. Charnleigh-Henshew 1 50 His Other Wife--Ashleigh 1 50 A Woman's Web--Maitland 1 50 Curse of Everleigh--Pierce 1 50 Peerless Cathleen--Agnew 1 50 Faithful Margaret--Ashmore 1 50 Nick Whiffles--Robinson 1 50 Grinder Papers--Dallas 1 50 Lady Leonora--Conklin 1 50

Miriam Coles Harris' Novels.

Rutledge $1 50 Frank Warrington 1 50 Louie's Last Term, St. Mary's 1 50 Missy 1 50 A Perfect Adonis 1 50 The Sutherlands 1 50 St. Philips 1 50 Round Hearts for Children 1 50 Richard Vandermarck 1 50 Happy-Go-Lucky (New) 1 50

A. S. Roe's Select Stories.

True to the Last $1 50 The Star and the Cloud 1 50 How Could He Help it? 1 50 A Long Look Ahead 1 50 I've Been Thinking 1 50 To Love and to be Loved 1 50

Julie P. Smith's Novels.

Widow Goldsmith's Daughter $1 50 Chris and Otho 1 50 Ten Old Maids 1 50 Lucy 1 50 His Young Wife 1 50 The Widower 1 50 The Married Belle 1 50 Courting and Farming 1 50 Kiss and be Friends 1 50 Blossom Bud (New) 1 50

Artemas Ward.

Complete Comic Writings--With Biography, Portrait and 50 illustrations $1 50

The Game of Whist.

Pole on Whist--The English standard work. With the "Portland Rules" $ 75

Victor Hugo's Great Novel.

Les Miserables--Translated from the French. The only complete edition $1 50

Mrs. Hill's Cook Book.

Mrs. A. P. Hill's New Southern Cookery Book, and domestic receipts $2 00

Celia E. Gardner's Novels.

Stolen Waters. (In verse) $1 50 Broken Dreams. do. 1 50 Compensation. do. 1 50 A Twisted Skein. do. 1 50 Tested. 1 50 Rich Medway. 1 50 A Woman's Wiles. 1 50 Terrace Roses. 1 50

Captain Mayne Reid's Works.

The Scalp Hunters $1 50 The Rifle Rangers 1 50 The War Trail 1 50 The Wood Rangers 1 50 The Wild Huntress 1 50 The White Chief 1 50 The Tiger Hunter 1 50 The Hunter's Feast 1 50 Wild Life 1 50 Osceola, the Seminole 1 50

Hand-Books of Society.

The Habits of Good Society--The nice points of taste and good manners $1 00

The Art of Conversation--For those who wish to be agreeable talkers 1 00

The Arts of Writing, Reading and Speaking--For Self-Improvement 1 00

New Diamond Edition--The above three books in one volume--small type 1 50

Josh Billings.

His Complete Writings--With Biography, Steel Portrait and 100 Illustrations $2 00

Old Probability--Ten Comic Alminax, 1870 to 1879. In one volume, Illustrated 1 50

Charles Dickens.

Child's History of England--With _Historical Illustrations_ for School use $ 75

Parlor Table Album of Dickens' Illustrations--With descriptive text 1 50

Lord Bateman Ballad--Comic Notes by Dickens; Pictures by Cruikshank 25

Annie Edwardes' Novels.

Stephen Lawrence $ 75 Susan Fielding 75 A Woman of Fashion 75 Archie Lovell 75

Ernest Renan's French Works.

The Life of Jesus. Translated $1 75 Lives of the Apostles. Do. 1 75 The Life of St. Paul. Translated 1 75 The Bible in India--By Jacolliot 2 00

G. W. Carleton.

Our Artist in Cuba, Peru, Spain and Algiers--150 Caricatures of Travel $1 00

M. M. Pomeroy (Brick).

Sense. A serious book $1 50 Gold Dust. Do. 1 50 Our Saturday Nights 1 50 Nonsense. (A comic book) 1 50 Brick-dust. Do. 1 50 Home Harmonies 1 50

Miscellaneous Works.

The Children's Fairy Geography--With hundreds of beautiful illustrations $1 75

Carleton's Popular Readings--Edited by Anna Randall Diehl. 2 vols., each 1 50

Laus Veneris, and other Poems--By Algernon Charles Swinburne 1 50

Sawed-off Sketches--Comic book by "Detroit Free Press Man." Illustrated 1 50

Hawkeye Sketches--Comic book by "Burlington Hawk Eye Man." Do. 1 50

Naughty Girl's Diary--By the author of "A Bad Boy's Diary." Do. 1 00

The Culprit Fay--Joseph Rodman Drake's Poem. With 100 illustrations 2 00

L'Assommoir--An English Translation from Zola's famous French novel 1 00

Parlor Amusements--Games, Tricks, Home Amusements, by Frank Bellew 1 00

Love [L'Amour]--English Translation from Michelet's famous French work 1 50

Woman [La Femme]--The Sequel to "L'Amour" Do. Do. 1 50

Verdant Green--A racy English college story. With 200 comic illustrations 1 50

Clear Light from the Spirit World--By Kate Irving 1 25

Bottom Facts Concerning Spiritualism--By John W. Truesdell 1 50

Why Wife and I Quarreled--Poem by the author of "Betsey and I are Out" 1 00

A Northern Governess at the Sunny South--By Professor J. H. Ingraham 1 50

Birds of a Feather Flock Together--By Edward A. Sothern, the actor 1 50

Yachtman's Primer--Correct Instructions for Amateur Sailors. By Warren 50

Longfellow's Home Life--By Blanche Roosevelt Machetta. Illustrated 1 50

Redbird's Christmas Story--An Illustrated Juvenile. By Mary J. Holmes 50

Every-Day Home Advice--For Household and Domestic Economy 1 50

Ladies' and Gentlemen's Etiquette Book of the best Fashionable Society 1 00

Love and Marriage--A book for unmarried people. By Frederick Saunders 1 00

Under the Rose--A Capital book, by the author of "East Lynne." 1 00

So Dear a Dream--A novel by Miss Grant, author of "The Sun Maid." 1 00

Give me thine Heart--A capital new domestic Love Story by Roe 1 00

Meeting Her Fate--A charming novel by the author of "Aurora Floyd." 1 00

Faithful to the End--A delightful domestic novel by Roe 1 00 So True a Love--A novel by Miss Grant, author of "The Sun Maid." 1 00

Humorous Works.

Abijah Beanpole in New York $ 50 Never--Companion to "Don't." 25 Always--By author of "Never." 25 Stop--By author of "Never." 25 The Fall of Man--A satire 50 Chronicles of Gotham--A satire 25 The Comic Liar--By Alden 1 50 Cats, Cooks, etc.--By E. T. Ely 50 West India Pickles. W. P. Talboys 1 00 Bad Boy's Reader--Frank Bellew 10 Store Drumming as a Fine Art 50 Mrs. Spriggins--By Widow Bedott 1 50 Phemie Frost--Ann S. Stephens 1 50 That Awful Boy--N. Y. Weekly 50 That Bridget of Ours. Do. 50 Orpheus C. Kerr--Four vols. in one 2 00

Miscellaneous Works.

Dawn to Noon--By Violet Fane $1 50 Constance's Fate. Do. 1 50 French Love Songs--Translated 50 Lion Jack--By P. T. Barnum 1 50 Jack in the Jungle. Do. 1 50 How to Win in Wall Street 50 The Life of Sarah Bernhardt 25 Arctic Travels--By Dr. Hayes 1 50 Whist for Beginners 25 Flashes from "Ouida." 1 25 Lady Blake's Love Letters 25 Lone Ranch--By Mayne Reid 1 50 The Train Boy--Horatio Alger 1 25 Dan, The Detective. Do. 1 25 Gospels in Poetry--E. H. Kimball 1 50 Me--By Mrs. Spencer W. Coe 50 Don Quixote. Illustrated 1 00 Arabian Nights. Do. 1 00 Robinson Crusoe. Do. 1 00 Swiss Family Robinson--Illus 1 00 Debatable Land--R. Dale Owen 2 00 Threading My Way. Do. 1 50 Spiritualism--By D. D. Home 2 00 Fanny Fern Memorials--Parton 2 00 Northern Ballads--E. L. Anderson 1 00 Offenbach's Tour in America 1 50 Stories about Doctors--Jeffreson 1 50 Stories about Lawyers. Do. 1 50

Miscellaneous Novels.

Doctor Antonio--By Ruffini $1 50 Beatrice Cenci--From the Italian 1 50 Madame--By Frank Lee Benedict 1 50 A Late Remorse. Do. 1 50 Hammer and Anvil. Do. 1 50 Her Friend Laurence. Do. 1 50 Prairie Flower--Emerson Bennett 1 50 Jessica--By Mrs. W. H. White 1 50 Women of To-Day. Do. 1 50 The Baroness--Joaquin Miller 1 50 One Fair Woman. Do. 1 50 The Burnhams--Mrs. G. E. Stewart 2 00 Eugene Ridgewood--Paul James 1 50 Braxton's Bar--R. M. Daggett 1 50 Miss Beck--By Tilbury Holt 1 50 Sub Rosa--By Chas. T. Murray 50 Hilda and I--Mrs. Bedell Benjamin 1 50 A College Widow--C. H. Seymour 1 50 Shiftless Folks--Fannie Smith 1 50 Peace Pelican. Do. 1 50 Price of a Life--R. Forbes Sturgis 1 50 Hidden Power--T. H. Tibbles 1 50 Two of Us--Calista Halsey 75 Cupid on Crutches--A. B. Wood 75 Parson Thorne--E. M. Buckingham 1 50 Marston Hall--L. Ella Byrd 1 50 Errors--By Ruth Carter 1 50 Unmistakable Flirtation--Garner 75 Wild Oats--Florence Marryatt 1 50 Widow Cherry--B. L. Farjeon 25 Solomon Isaacs. Do. 50 Doctor Mortimer--Fannie Bean 1 50 Two Brides--Bernard O'Reilly 1 50 Vesta Vane--L. King, R. 1 50 Louise and I--By Chas. Dodge 1 50 My Queen--By Sandette 1 50 Fallen among Thieves--Rayne 1 50 Saint Leger--Richard K. Kimball 1 75 Was He Successful? Do. 1 75 Undercurrents of Wall St. Do. 1 75 Romance of Student Life. Do. 1 75 To-day. Do. 1 75 Life in San Domingo. Do. 1 75 Henry Powers. Banker. Do. 1 75 Led Astray--By Octave Feuillet 1 50 She Loved Him Madly--Borys 1 50 Thick and Thin--Mery 1 50 So Fair yet False--Chavette 1 50 A Fatal Passion--C. Bernard 1 50 Marguerite's Journal--For Girls 1 50 Rose of Memphis--W. C. Falkner 1 50 Spell-Bound--Alexandre Dumas 75 Purple and Fine Linen--Fawcett 1 50 Pauline's Trial--L. D. Courtney 1 50 The Forgiving Kiss--M. Loth 1 75 Loyal unto Death 1 50 Charette--An American novel 1 50 Fairfax--By John Esten Cooke 1 50 Hilt to Hilt. Do. 1 50 Out of the Foam. Do. 1 50 Hammer and Rapier. Do. 1 50 Kenneth--By Miss Sallie A. Brock 1 75 Heart Hungry. Mrs. Westmoreland 1 50 Clifford Troupe. Do. 1 50 Silcott Mill--Maria D. Deslonde 1 50 John Maribel. Do. 1 50 Conquered--By a New Author 1 50 Tales from the Popular Operas 1 50 Edith Murray--Joanna Mathews 1 50 San Miniato--Mrs. C. V. Hamilton 1 00 All for Her--A Tale of New York 1 50 All for Him--Author "All for Her." 1 50 For Each Other. Do. 1 50 Walworth's Novels--Six vols. 1 75

MRS. MARY J. HOLMES' WORKS.

TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE. ENGLISH ORPHANS. HOMESTEAD ON HILLSIDE. 'LENA RIVERS. MEADOW BROOK. DORA DEANE. COUSIN MAUDE. MARIAN GREY. EDITH LYLE. DAISY THORNTON. (_New_). DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT. HUGH WORTHINGTON. CAMERON PRIDE. ROSE MATHER. ETHELYN'S MISTAKE. MILLBANK. EDNA BROWNING. WEST LAWN. MILDRED. FORREST HOUSE. (_New_).

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

"Mrs. Holmes' stories are universally read. Her admirers are numberless. She is in many respects without a rival in the world of fiction. Her characters are always life-like, and she makes them talk and act like human beings, subject to the same emotions, swayed by the same passions, and actuated by the same motives which are common among men and women of every day existence. Mrs. Holmes is very happy in portraying domestic life. Old and young peruse her stories with great delight, for she writes in a style that all can comprehend."--_New York Weekly._

The North American Review, vol. 81, page 557, says of Mrs. Mary J. Holmes' novel, "English Orphans":--"With this novel of Mrs. Holmes' we have been charmed, and so have a pretty numerous circle of discriminating readers to whom we have lent it. The characterization is exquisite, especially so far as concerns rural and village life, of which there are some pictures that deserve to be hung up in perpetual memory of types of humanity fast becoming extinct. The dialogues are generally brief, pointed, and appropriate. The plot seems simple, so easily and naturally is it developed and consummated. Moreover, the story thus gracefully constructed and written, inculcates without obtruding, not only pure Christian morality in general, but, with especial point and power, the dependence of true success on character, and of true respectability on merit."

"Mrs. Holmes' stories are all of a domestic character, and their interest, therefore, is not so intense as if they were more highly seasoned with sensationalism, but it is of a healthy and abiding character. Almost any new book which her publisher might choose to announce from her pen would get an immediate and general reading. The interest in her tales begins at once, and is maintained to the close. Her sentiments are so sound, her sympathies so warm and ready, and her knowledge of manners, character, and the varied incidents of ordinary life is so thorough, that she would find it difficult to write any other than an excellent tale if she were to try it."--_Boston Banner._