CHAPTER XXXVI.

SIR PIERS.

It occurred to little Sir Piers that it would be a good thing if now, that he was quite well, he went home. As no one was inclined to take him, he thought he would go by himself. That would not be exactly breaking his secret, for surely if he were well he might go home to his mother and to Dick and to Barbara. He thought the matter over in the puzzled and yet wise way of seven years old. He did not wish to be unkind to his nurse or unkind to grannie, but, all the same, it seemed to him only fair that he should at least see the old place again, and behold his mother, if even at a distance, and see Barbara, the lady with the starry brown eyes, and Dick, the hero of his boyish dreams.

So when Mrs. Ives went to London Piers quickly made up his mind. He had no money, but he had a shrewd wit, a brave spirit, and a gentleman’s heart. When darkness fell he left the cottage and walked quickly up the high road. Piers was dressed by Clara’s orders just as any other peasant boy. He wore a shabby blouse, much worn knickerbockers, and socks which revealed his bare legs above them. His socks were blue, coarse homespun, his shoes were also coarse, and just what a village boy would wear.

But, though Clara and her mother disguised the lad in these clothes, they could not take away his gallant figure, his beautiful face, his dancing eyes, and his classical features. They could not take away a certain personality which raised him above the common herd. Still, in the dusk no one would specially notice these things, and a village boy wandering about was not likely to attract attention. He walked he did not know where, for a very long time. He was under the impression that he was going in the direction of Devonshire. Whenever he met any one he asked where Devonshire was, and as a rule the person spoken to pointed in a certain direction, and Piers walked on.

When he got to a cottage he went to the door and asked for a drink of water. There was something wonderfully appealing in his dark eyes, and he usually received either a hunch of bread or a big glass of milk instead, so that although he had no money he did not starve, and as the first night was a warm one he lay down under the shelter of a great hayrick, burrowing a little way into it, and so escaping the worst of the cold and chill. Early in the morning he got up and walked on again, and thus he continued, journeying by easy stages, receiving food from time to time from the cottagers, and attracting little or no attention for two days.

He had really at last crossed the borders and was in Devonshire. He was footsore and weary, and Devonshire was a big place, and he had not the least idea in what part of it Pelham Towers was situated. It occurred to him early on the morning of the third day that he must do something more. His boots were much worn with walking, and his dress untidy. His knees were torn from some thorns, and his face had lost its color; his eyes, too, had a strained and anxious expression.

He began to see his home in his dreams. He began to dream when he walked as well as when he lay down; he was very anxious indeed. The longing to see his mother and Barbara grew keener and keener. He had never realized before that walking was so tiring. It seemed hard that he should have to walk and be so hungry when he was in reality such a rich little boy—a king in his way—with five big places of his own.

As he was thinking these thoughts in the early morning he saw a gentleman coming towards him in a gig. The gentleman had red whiskers and a red face. He was a stout personage, and he was driving a chestnut cob with a firm hand.

“Please stop!” said Piers, running into the middle of the road and holding up his own thin hand to arrest attention.

The child had suddenly made up his mind to ask the gentleman to help him.

Now it so happened that this man, a certain Squire Furzby, had been reading the account of the magistrate’s inquiry into the strange case of Sir Richard Pelham. He had been reading it with great interest, for, of course, he knew the Pelhams of Pelham Towers well.

“Please stop!” called little Piers.

The gentleman drew up his horse and said “Hullo!”

“Is this Devonshire, please?” asked Piers.

“You ought to know that, my little man. You were born here, I make no doubt.”

“It is quite true, I was born in Devonshire,” replied Piers. “But I have come from Cornwall. I have walked a very long way.”

“What a queer little chap! Can I do anything for you?”

Piers gazed earnestly up at Squire Furzby.

“May I speak to you as one gentleman to another?” he asked.

The Squire gazed hard at the battered and much dilapidated little apparition in the road.

“As one gentleman to another? Yes, certainly,” he said.

“As I am in Devonshire, and as tickets cost a great deal,” continued Piers, “I was going to ask if you would drive me to the nearest railway station, and if you would lend me my fare, third-class. I’m seven years old, so I shall only want a half-ticket to a station called Haversham.”

“What an extraordinary boy! What do you want to go to Haversham for? Have you no money of your own?”

Piers held up his two empty hands.

“I have a great deal of money,” he said. “I am a very rich boy.” He paused.

“Well?”

“I can’t tell you any more; but will you trust me with a third-class fare to Haversham?”

“The nearest railway station is half a mile away, just behind those trees,” said Squire Furzby.

“Please will you take me there? I will promise so faithfully to return the money if you’ll lend it to me; on my honor, you know—and as you are a gentleman, and I’m another. Do you think you could trust me?”

“Your ticket at half-price third-class costs one and elevenpence,” said the gentleman. “I happen to know that line well.”

“Would you lend it me? It will be such an immense help.”

“If you confide in me.”

“That’s just what I can’t do. I am an unfortunate boy burdened with a secret. Will you trust me because you are a gentleman and because I am one?”

“’Pon my word, you’re the queerest little chap I ever saw in my life. Can’t you tell me anything about yourself?”

“My Christian name is Piers.”

“It’s an uncommon name.”

“It is, but not in our family. You shall have your money back to-morrow or the next day at farthest. One and elevenpence won’t break you, will it?”

“No,” said the gentleman. “Jump up, Piers; I’ll drive you to the station, anyhow.”

The child obeyed, and a moment later was seated by the man’s side. The Squire whipped up his pony.

“What do you want to do when you get to Haversham?”

“I want to go to Pelham Towers.”

“Pelham Towers! Hullo! They’re in great trouble over there, you know.”

“Are they? I don’t know,” said little Piers. His face was white, he began to shiver. They reached the railway station.

“Will you trust me with the one and elevenpence,” asked the child, “because you’re a gentleman and I’m another?”

“’Pon my word, I begin to think you are a gentleman,” said the Squire. “Here’s your money. Take three shillings, you had better—you’ll want something to eat on the way.”

“Thank you very much,” said Piers. He took off his ragged cap, made a graceful bow to the gentleman, and then bounded into the station.

“Queer little chap! Wonder what it means?” said the Squire to himself. “Looked like a gentleman although dressed as a beggar. I am not sorry I did it, no, I’m not sorry. I’ll never see that money again, of course, but all the same, I’m not sorry I did it.”

Meanwhile little Piers, having taken his ticket, waited eagerly for the train. It came up in due course. He took his seat in an empty carriage and soon found himself in the old familiar landmarks. He felt quite happy now and his heart light. It was delightful to be so near home again.

When the train drew up at Haversham he got out and walked steadily in the direction of Pelham Towers. On his way he passed a cottage where bread and milk were sold. He went in and proudly paid for his own breakfast. By and by he reached the avenue. He saw the lodge gates, but now as he saw them he began to tremble, for it suddenly occurred to him that after all his secret still belonged to Clara, and that he had faithfully promised her not to reveal it.

“I know that short cut just where the gap in the hedge is,” thought the child. “I’ll not go round by the lodge, for some one might see me. I’ll push my way through the gap.”

He did so, and the next moment he was running down a side path which led straight to the chapel. The chapel door was open and Piers walked in. It was cold in the chapel, but he was hot with walking. He took off his cap, pushed back his curls, and seated himself in the family pew. He had often sat there with his mother, and he felt quite comfortable and soothed and happy. No one was likely to come to disturb him. He could think what his next step should be—how he could gratify his longing, his passionate longing to see his mother and Barbara, and the old place, and yet keep his secret.

Presently he started up, raised his eyes, and confronted the white tablet which recounted his own early death. He read it eagerly.

“What does it mean?” he said to himself. “Piers Pelham, aged seven, died. Died! But I have not died. Piers Pelham! There never was any other Piers Pelham, aged seven, but me, and that white stone looks new, and there’s a verse under it. I died last summer—last August. But I didn’t die. I’m here. What does it mean? I don’t like it,” thought little Piers.

He heard voices outside: he looked around him. He went down the aisle and entered the churchyard. There was a commotion in the churchyard. A couple of grave-looking professional men were standing together and talking in low tones. One or two other men, also complete strangers to Piers, stood by. Some masons were busy taking away the entrance stone to the old vault.

Piers knew that vault. He had often glanced at it with silent dread when he passed on into the church with his mother. Sometimes when he had bad dreams he thought of his ancestors lying in the vault, and he wondered what sort of a place there was inside. As he came now into the sunlight the entrance stone had just been moved away, and he caught a glimpse of the black interior. He did not like it—it made his heart beat painfully. No one was looking at him, however. There was painful work on hand, and the attention of all this queer company was attracted towards it.

Piers moved softly aside in the direction of the old yew tree. He did not want any of these strangers to notice him.

At the other side of the yew tree stood Gaffer Crayshaw. Gaffer Crayshaw knew he ought not to be there. If he were discovered he would be ordered to go quickly about his business, but he trusted no one would see him. With his old body pressed against the yew tree, he was peering out through the branches, his eyes fixed upon the scene which was taking place around the vault. He did not notice Piers, but Piers recognized him at a glance.

“Old Crayshaw,” thought the child. “He used to give me barley sugar. He’ll tell me what it all means.”

The little fellow stepped cautiously around, making no noise as he did so. He stood at last just behind Gaffer. Presently Piers’s small hand was laid on the old man’s arm.

“What are they doing over there?” asked the child. “What are they doing in the vault? Are they burying anybody?”

“’Tain’t that. Hush! Don’t speak!” said the old man. He half glanced round and saw a little figure in the ordinary blouse of a village boy standing beside him.

“Get away, you little beggar,” he continued. “Get out of this. Hush! Get you gone.”

“But what are they doing?” pleaded Piers. His voice became a little more shrill.

In despair Crayshaw thought it best to answer him.

“They ain’t a-burying nobody, but they’re a-taking somebody out of his coffin. Yes, there they come and the coffin with them. That’s the coffin that holds little Sir Piers Pelham—bless him! Poor little chap! They’re taking it out, and they’re going to open it.”

“But I’m not there!” cried Piers.

His voice rang out very high and clear. It startled old Crayshaw, who turned round and looked at him for the first time attentively. The old man’s face turned white, he clapped his two hands to his ears, uttered a loud and terrified shriek, and fled from the spot as if he were pursued by a thousand demons.

Piers did not take any notice of him. One of the doctors who was bending over the coffin glanced up with an annoyed expression of face.

“Go away, little boy,” he said; and then he gave directions to one of the men beside him. The man stepped forward.

“But I’m not going away!” said little Piers. “This is my own churchyard and my own chapel. What are you doing here? You are to go away—I’m not going.”

The man was about to reply angrily, and to push the little intruder from the scene, when suddenly there was a fresh commotion. Some steps were heard approaching—eager steps, the steps of women. Piers burst from the restraining hand of the man. He had the boy in his grip, but the child wriggled away as if he were a little eel.

“Barbara!” cried Piers. “Barbara!” He rushed down the path. A lady with starry brown eyes was coming up, a lady with a white face, and a world of indescribable sorrow in her eyes. She was accompanied by some one else, but at her Piers had no time to glance. He flung his arms round Barbara’s neck.

“What does it mean?” he cried. “What does it mean? Here I am. I’m back again. I’m alive and well. What does it mean, dear, darling, darling Barbara?”

“Is it a dream?” cried Barbara. “Are you a spirit or in the flesh? Oh, Piers, speak, for heavens sake! Oh, my heart will break!”

“But I am as alive as possible,” said Piers in a tone of astonishment. “I never was dead at all. What can it mean? I, dead and in my coffin! And they have stuck my name on a tablet in the church. What can it mean? I didn’t die aged seven. I’m alive. Feel me. Isn’t my arm strong? Aren’t my cheeks rosy? It was grannie did all that. I love grannie and I love Clara, but I can’t, no, I can’t keep my secret any longer, Clara. There you are, nurse, I see you. Oh, Barbara, kiss me. Barbara, take me back to mother. Where’s Dick? Oh, Barbara, Barbara!”

Barbara Pelham was too brave a girl to faint even in the presence of such an emergency. It is true that she grasped hold of Clara Tarbot, and looked with terrified eyes from Clara to the boy.

“He is here—God bless him!—and alive,” cried Clara. “I will tell you all. I came down for the purpose. I have a terrible confession to make.” But the words had scarcely passed her lips before her composure gave way, her strength, already strained to the utmost, vanished, and the unhappy woman sank in a fit of unconsciousness on the ground.

All further explanations can be quickly made. Clara recovered in time to make full confession. This she did in the presence of the doctors and the police constables, who took down her depositions word for word as they fell from her dying lips. She was taken to the house and tenderly nursed, and no word of reproach was uttered to her, for those who bent over her felt that, bad as she was, she had been instrumental in saving the life of the boy.

As to Piers himself, he and Barbara went up to town that afternoon. Barbara took the boy straight home to his mother, and then went to acquaint the magistrates with the strange turn affairs had taken. She held Clara’s deposition in her hand. So Dick was liberated and the celebrated trial came to nothing, and little Piers is still the reigning baronet of the house of Pelham—a gracious and kindly lad, who will grow up into a good and brave man. He has repaid Squire Furzby, who is one of his stanchest friends, and is never tired of telling of the dull winter’s morning when, having given, as he considered, three shillings to a beggar, he had in reality saved a great family from the extreme of tragedy.

Dick Pelham has, after all, to work for his own living, but is none the less happy on that account, and Barbara has gladly resigned the title which, as she confessed afterwards, gave her more pain than pleasure.

Grannie Ives has a house on the estate and spends every Sunday with Mrs. Posset. Between them they do their best to spoil Piers, but they do not succeed. A warrant is out for the arrest of Luke Tarbot, and the police are still busy searching for him.

THE END.

_Joan, the Curate_

_By FLORENCE WARDEN_

_308 pages, size 7½ × 5, cloth, 3 stampings, $1.00_

The time of the story is 1748, its scene being along the seacoast of Sussex, England. The doings here of the “free-traders,” as they called themselves, or smugglers, as the government named them, had become so audacious that a revenue cutter with a smart young lieutenant in command, and a brigade of cavalry, were sent down to work together against the offenders. Everybody in the village seems engaged in evading the revenue laws, and the events are very exciting. Joan is the parson’s daughter, and so capable and useful in the parish that she is called “the curate.” She and the smart young lieutenant are the characters in a romance.—_Book Notes_, May, 1899.

The author of the once immensely popular “House on the Marsh” turns in her new story to the Sussex coast as it was in the middle of the last century. The time and the place will at once suggest smugglers to the observant reader, and, in truth, these gentry play an important part in the tale.—_The Mail and Express_, April 11, 1899.

Miss Florence Warden in “Joan, the Curate” (F. M. Buckles & Co.) tells an orthodox tale of smugglers in the last century with plenty of exciting adventures and no deviations from the accepted traditions of a familiar pattern in fiction.

—_N. Y. Sun_, May 6, 1899.

“Joan, the Curate” (Joan, a creamy-skinned, blackeyed maiden, gets her surname on account of the part she plays in helping her father, Parson Langley, with his duties), is a village tale of the smuggling days on the wild marsh coast of Kent and the equally lonely cliffs of Sussex. The village is a hot-bed of these daring “free-traders,” even the parson and his daughter are secretly in sympathy with them, and young Lieutenant Tregenna, who is in command of the revenue cutter sent to overawe the natives, has anything but a comfortable task to perform. His difficulties only increase when he falls in love with Joan and discovers her leanings towards the illegalities of the village, and when, at the same time, the audacious leader of the smugglers, Ann Price, who carries on her trade disguised as a man, falls in love with him herself, the complications are almost bewildering. The story moves through countless adventures, sanguinary fights, and lovers’ quarrels to the conventionally happy ending and the partial return of the fishermen to honest ways.

—_Book News_, May, 1899.

_The Real Lady Hilda_

_By B. M. CROKER_

_266 pages, sizes, 7½ × 5, cloth, 3 stampings, $1.00_

“The Real Lady Hilda,” by B. M. Croker, is a very pleasing novel, depending for its interest not upon sensational incident, but upon a clever portrayal of disagreeable traits of character in high society. The story is told by a young lady who finds herself with her stepmother in obscure lodgings in an obscure country town. The head of the family had been physician to a Rajah in India, had lived in princely style and had entertained in princely fashion. He had died and left to his widow and child nothing but a small pension, and they soon found themselves in straightened circumstances. Besides the character drawing, the entertaining feature of the story lies in the shabby treatment which the two impecunious women receive from the people whom they have so royally entertained in India, and the inability of the widow, with her Indian experience, to understand it. Entertaining, too, is the fawning toadyism of the middle-class women, who disdainfully tip their noses and wag their tongues when they find that the poor women are neglected by the great lady in the neighborhood.

—_The Bookseller, Newsdealer and Stationer_, June 1, 1899.

Mrs. Croker belongs to the group of English country life novelists. She is not one of its chief members, but she succeeds often in being amusing in a quiet, simple way. Her gentlefolk lack the stamp of caste, but the plots in which they are placed are generally rather ingenious. Of course, in a field so assiduously worked, one cannot look for originality. The present book is just what the author modestly calls it—a “sketch,” with the usual poor girl of good family and the equally familiar happy ending.—_Mail and Express_, May 1, 1899.

_The Good Mrs. Hypocrite_

_By “RITA”_

_284 pages, size 7½ x 5, cloth, 3 stampings, $1.00_

“Good Mrs. Hypocrite.” A study in self-righteousness, is a most enjoyable novel by “Rita.” It has little of plot, and less of adventure, but is the study of a single character and a narration of her career. But she is sufficiently unique to absorb the attention, and her purely domestic experiences are quite amusing. She is the youngest daughter of a Scotch family, angular as to form and sour as to feature. She had an aggressive manner, was selfish, and from girlhood set herself against all tenderness of sentiment. Losing her parents, she tried her hand as a governess, went to her brother in Australia, returned to England and joined a sisterhood in strange garb, and her quarrelsome disposition and her habit of quoting scripture to set herself right made her presence everywhere objectionable. For this old maid was very religious and strict as to all outward forms. Finally she went to live with an invalid brother. She discharged the servant, chiefly because she was plump and fair of feature, and she replaced her with a maid as angular as herself, straight from Edinbro’. The maid was also religious and quoted scripture, and the fun of the story lies in the manner in which the woman who had had her way so long was beaten by her own weapons.

-_Bookseller, Newsdealer and Stationer_, June 15, 1899.

The Scotch character is held up in this story at its worst. All its harshness, love of money, unconscious hypocrisy, which believes in lip-service while serving but its own self, are concentrated in the figure of the old spinster who takes charge of her invalid brother’s household. She finds a match, however, in the Scotch servant she hires, hard like herself, but with the undemonstrative kindness that seems to be a virtue of the race. The book lacks the charm that lies at the root of the popularity of the books of the “Kailyard” school. In its disagreeable way, however, it is consistent, though the melodramatic climax is not the ending one has a right to expect.—_The Mail and Express_, June 21, 1899.

_Captain Jackman_

_By W. CLARK RUSSELL_

_240 pages, size 7½ × 5, cloth, 3 stampings, $1.00_

Clark Russell in “Captain Jackman” has told a good story of the strange conduct of a ship’s master, who starts out with a fake robbery by which he realizes £1500. The account of his peculiar courtship and the still more peculiar acceptance of his offer by the daughter of a retired naval commander is scarcely credible, but it is readable and the tragic end is not improbable. It is a mere short story, expanded by large type into a volume.

—_San Francisco Chronicle_, July 9, 1899.

“Captain Jackman; or, A Tale of Two Tunnels,” is a story by W. Clark Russell, not so elaborate in plot as some of his stories, or so full of life on the sea, but some of the characters are sailors, and its incidents are of the ocean, if not on it. Its hero is dismissed from the command of a ship by her owners, because of his loss of the proceeds of a voyage, which they evidently think he had appropriated to himself. The heroine discovers him in and rescues him from a deserted smuggler’s cave, where he had by some mischance imprisoned himself. He handsome, she romantic as well, they fall in love with each other. Her father, a retired commander of the Royal navy, storms and swears to no purpose, for she elopes with the handsome captain, who starts on an expedition to capture a Portuguese ship laden with gold—a mad scheme, conceived as it appears by a madman, which accounts for his curious and unconventional ways,

—_Bookseller, Newsdealer and Stationer_, July, 15, 1899.

It is readable, interesting, and admirable in its technical skill. Mr. Russell, without apparent effort, creates an atmosphere of realism. His personages are often drawn with a few indicative strokes, but this can never be said of his central figures. In the present little story the fascinating personality of Captain Jackman stands our very clearly. He is a curious study, and the abnormal state of his mind is made to come slowly into the recognition of the reader just as it does into that of old Commander Conway, R. N. This is really a masterly bit of story-craft, for it is to this that the maintenance of the interest of the story is due. The reader does not realize at first that he is following the fortunes of a madman, but regards Jackman as a brilliant adventurer. The denouement is excellently brought about, although it gives the tale its sketchy character.—_N. Y. Times_, July 1, 1899.

_A Rogue’s Conscience_

_By DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY_

_311 pages, size 7½ x 5 cloth, 3 stampings, $1.00_

It is rather unusual to find a detective story written from the criminal’s point of view, and truth to tell, in this “Rogue’s Conscience,” by David Christie Murray, we find our sympathies and anxieties strongly following the hunted ones. Mr. James Mortimer and Mr. Alexander Ross were such entertaining sinners, and their disguises were so marvellous, and their escapes so hair-breath, that we follow the comedy of their fortunes with unfailing cheerfulness. When the scene shifts from city risks to the broad field of mining camp speculations, we see the beginning of the end, for here the “rogue’s conscience” commenced to work, and a double reformation ends the book in a blaze of glory. The story has just enough seriousness to give it balance but by no means enough to destroy the pleasantly light and entertaining quality of the book.—_Literary World_, August 5, 1899.

David Christie Murray has written an amusing tale of two unworthies in “A Rogue’s Conscience.” “If you want to enlighten a rogue’s conscience, serve him as he served other people—rob him,” observes the “hero,” who has acquired the “sixth sense of honesty.” How he arrived at this sage conclusion, and how he put the principle into effect, all tend toward the live human interest of a story which shows no sign of lagging from beginning to end. The tale is not free from tragedy, but even the sombre parts are handled easily and lightly, as though the author believed them necessary, but yet felt freer in the atmosphere of almost light-hearted roguery which pervades most of the volume. The book is capital reading for a summer afternoon, and action lurks on every page.—_American_, August 31, 1899.

Two rogues, who figure in the novel as James Mortimer and Alexander Ross, in alliance with a third scamp, forged an issue of the Bank of England. The nameless third paid the penalty of his crime, but Mortimer and Ross, through the clever scheming of Mortimer, escaped to British Columbia after having added to their ill-gotten gains. Mortimer, apparently the most unscrupulous, makes the singular atonement which transforms him into a hero.

—_Publishers’ Weekly_, July 22, 1899.

_A Man’s Undoing_

_By Mrs. H. LOVETT CAMERON_

_333 Pages, size 7½ x 5 cloth, 3 stampings, $1.00_

A retired English officer, returned to his widowed mother’s quiet home in the country, finds his undoing in idleness, which leads him into a flirtation with a girl socially and intellectually his inferior, but who is clever enough to force marriage upon him. Then complications thicken, as the man discovers the full meaning of his fatal mistake.

—_The Mail and Express_, August 10, 1889.

“A Man’s Undoing” is an exceptionally good novel by Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron. It is not written to tickle the palate of the sated reader who is looking only for new sensations, nor is it intended to amuse for a short hour. It preaches no new doctrine; it presents no novelties of character or incident. Its theme is as old as humanity—the burden of story and song through all the ages. But Mrs. Cameron shows that it has lost none of its interest, that its phases may be presented in new aspects, that the conventionalities of modern civilization have not made it less a force in the affairs of men, nor obliterated any of its eternal truths. Its influence over the lives of men and women varies in extent and results, as the men and women vary in character, subject always to variations of condition and environment; therefore it always presents new studies. All the world loves a lover, and no one knows better than Mrs. Cameron how to make a lover most interesting. Especially skillful is she in her delineations of women who love. She paints other women also to fill out her pictures—the narrow-minded old maids and the gossipy matrons, and none of her women are repellingly bad—but her women who love have all the nobility and strength of womanhood. As she deals with noble character, so she deals with the serious affairs of life, of strong emotions, of heart histories, with all their heroism and pathos. “A Man’s Undoing” is admirably constructed. Its lessons will not be lost upon the thoughtful, and it will be read with eager interest by all classes of novel readers.

—_Bookseller, Newsdealer and Stationer_, August 15, 1899.

This is a good strong story; told with dramatic emphasis. It is not heavy; plenty light enough for summer reading; but the author, Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron, writes with the skill of a trained novelist, as, indeed, she is. How the man came to be undone, as the result of a one-week flirtation—that is for the readers to find out. The lover of a good story will not lay down the book until the last page is turned. The volume appears in a cloth cover of brown, black, red and green. The type is clear and good sized; the paper good, and the pages number 333.—_American_, August 24, 1899.

_At all booksellers or will be sent, postpaid, upon receipt of price by_

_F. M. BUCKLES & COMPANY_

_9–11 East 16th Street, New York_

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. P. 201, changed “error” to “terror”. 2. P. 301, changed “listed” to “listened”. 3. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. 4. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed. 5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.