Cliquot: A Racing Story of Ideal Beauty
Date: 2021-10-21T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Horse racing -- Fiction; Southern States -- Social life and customs -- Fiction

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Cliquot: A Racing Story of Ideal Beauty

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Title: Cliquot: A Racing Story of Ideal Beauty

Author: Kate Lee Ferguson

Release date: October 21, 2021 [eBook #66587]

Language: English

Credits: Demian Katz, Craig Kirkwood, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLIQUOT: A RACING STORY OF IDEAL BEAUTY ***

PRICE 25 CENTS.

Cliquot

A Racing Story of Ideal Beauty.

BY
Kate Lee Ferguson.

PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS:
306 CHESTNUT STREET.

PETERSONS’ 25 CENT SERIES.

Books by Mrs. Southworth, Zola, etc., Published by

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, PHILADELPHIA,

And for sale everywhere at 25 cents each.

- TRIED FOR HER LIFE. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

- CRUEL AS THE GRAVE. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

- THE CHANGED BRIDES. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

- THE BRIDE’S FATE. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

- THE BRIDAL EVE. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

- THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth.

- THE FAMILY DOOM. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

- THE MAIDEN WIDOW. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

- NANA. By Emile Zola. His Great Realistic Novel of Life in Paris.

- NANA’S DAUGHTER. A Sequel to Emile Zola’s Novel of “Nana.”

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- L’ASSOMMOIR; or, NANA’S MOTHER. By Emile Zola.

- A GIRL’S LOVE. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana.”

- HELENE. A Tale of Love and Passion. By Emile Zola.

- ALBINE; or, THE ABBE’S TEMPTATION. By Emile Zola.

- THE GIRL IN SCARLET. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana.”

- NANA’S BROTHER; or, GERMINAL. By Emile Zola.

- LE REVE. (The Dream.) By Emile Zola, author of “Nana.”

- FASHION AND FAMINE. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.

- THE OLD HOMESTEAD. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.

- THE OLD COUNTESS. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.

- LORD HOPE’S CHOICE. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.

- LINDA, or The Young Pilot of Belle Creole. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz.

- ROBERT GRAHAM. Sequel to “Linda.” By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz.

- RENA; or, THE SNOW-BIRD. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz.

- MARCUS WARLAND. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, author of “Linda.”

- KATHLEEN. A Charming Novel. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.

- THEO. A Sprightly Love Story. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.

- MISS CRESPIGNY. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.

- A QUIET LIFE. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.

- PRETTY POLLY PEMBERTON. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.

- LINDSAY’S LUCK. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.

- MARRYING OFF A DAUGHTER. By Henry Greville.

- OUT OF THE DEPTHS. The Story of a Woman’s Life.

- CLIQUOT. A Racing Story of Ideal Beauty. By Kate Lee Ferguson.

- INDIANA. A Fascinating Novel. By George Sand, author of “Consuelo.”

- MY SON’S WIFE. By the author of “Caste,” “Mr. Arle,” etc.

- MY HERO. (The Man I Love.) By Mrs. Forrester.

- A HEART TWICE WON, or Second Love. By Mrs. E. Van Loon.

- THE CONFESSIONS OF AN ABBE. By Louis Ulbach.

- THE PRAIRIE FLOWER. By Emerson Bennett.

- RUN DOWN. A Psychological Novel. By George D. Cox.

- LENI-LEOTI. Sequel to “The Prairie Flower.” By Emerson Bennett.

☞ News Agents and Booksellers will be supplied with any of the above books, very low rates, assorted, as they may wish them, to make up a dozen, hundred, five hundred, or thousand, by the publishers, T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa.

☞ Copies will be sent to any one, post-paid, on remitting price to the publishers,

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa.

Cliquot.

BY
KATE LEE FERGUSON.

“Cliquot,” a new love romance from the pen of Kate Lee Ferguson, a rising young Southern authoress of the Amélie Rives school, is full of passion, piquancy and breathless interest. All through it possesses that quality which the French call chic, which gives it that flavor which everybody likes. Neil Emory’s domestic drama—for he is a man with a past in his history—and his deep-rooted passion for Gwendoline Gwinn, as well as the fascination exerted upon him by Cassandra Clovis, an actress, are intermingled with an exciting tale of the race-track in which the foremost figures are Cliquot, a fleet but unmanageable racing stallion, and the mysterious jockey who rides him to final victory after the superb horse has been the death of all his predecessors. The scene is laid in the South and the agreeable volume gives a most charming glimpse of fashionable Southern society. The racing incidents are very graphic and will take a firm hold on all admirers of horse-flesh. “Cliquot” is written in a sprightly style and is just the book to raise a sensation and be talked about in every direction.

PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.

COPYRIGHT:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS.
1889.

“Cliquot,” a bright and peculiarly interesting novel in which burning love and a wonderfully exciting episode of the race-course are the chief ingredients, is the production of Kate Lee Ferguson, one of several young Southern authors who have recently sprung up to cultivate the fruitful field in which Amélie Rives has worked her way to notoriety. It is a strong and spicy romance, always fresh and crisp, with never a superfluous line and very interesting in the very first paragraph. The locality is the South and the characters typical Southerners. Neil Emory, a man with a past, is the hero, and the heroine is Gwendoline Gwinn, who, while admired as a belle, petted by her mother and apparently fond of her ease, is yet a woman to do and dare. A theatrical element is cleverly introduced in the shape of two actresses, Cassandra Clovis and the mysterious “Kitty Who Laughs.” The book takes its title from a thoroughbred racing stallion, capable of great things on the turf but addicted to killing his jockeys. A boy is at last found who rides him to a successful finish and about whom some very singular developments are made. The description of the race which the stallion wins is spirited and vivid to a high degree. Some of the incidents are exceedingly naturalistic and striking. It is not too much to say that “Cliquot” will be read with avidity and that it will be discussed with considerable ardor, for, while it is undoubtedly absorbing, it touches upon some topics which most writers have seen fit to avoid. But the best way is to examine and find out for yourself.

CONTENTS.

Chapter. | | Page.
I. | A SHORT HEAT. | 21
II. | A DEVIL’S LAUGH. | 32
III. | SHE WHO INFLAMES WITH LOVE. | 46
IV. | “OUT FROM THE GOLDEN DAY.” | 52
V. | PRETTY GOOD ARMS. | 56
VI. | BACKWARDS. | 61
VII. | MONDAY. | 70
VIII. | “MY BEAUTIFUL! MY BEAUTIFUL!” | 79
IX. | THE CHINK OF GOLD. | 85
X. | FALSE COURAGE. | 94
XI. | A MOONLIGHT DRIVE. | 102
XII. | “I KNOW YOU, GWENDOLINE.” | 113
XIII. | “WITHIN A WEEK.” | 122
XIV. | IN THE CITY OF VIOLETS. | 129
XV. | “SOFT AS ZEPHYR.” | 139
XVI. | AT LAST. | 142

CLIQUOT.

CHAPTER I.
A SHORT HEAT.

Another jockey had been killed on the race-course. The utmost excitement prevailed. The magnificent animal which had caused the death reared and plunged in the hands of a groom, his foam-covered sides catching the dust from his flying heels. The crowd poured and surged from the stand, while the band still played. The two other horses were led away, one quiet enough, but the other, a black gelding, fretting and sidling through the throng.

Mr. Emory, the owner of the restless stallion, hurried down the steps of the grand stand. He was a tall blond, and wore a soft gray hat. He grew a shade paler as he saw the dead man raised from the ground by two hostlers, his broken neck dangling over the arm of one of them as they bore him through the gate.

“Poor fellow!” he muttered, “and he thought he could ride!”

He whispered a few words to his groom, then asked a policeman to clear a passage, that his horse might be led away, a thing not easily accomplished, as with trembling limbs and quivering nostrils the beautiful creature rose repeatedly in his tracks, while the man swung to and fro at his bit. At length, he sprang forward and rushed for the stable; breaking loose beyond the gate, he dashed madly into his stall, when the door was closed upon him, while the crowd yielded and swayed and dashed about, in that aimless, foolish, reckless way so often noticed under such circumstances.

Of course, there was the usual flutter and stir on the ladies’ stand—a shutting of fans, a rustle of silk, and the starting forward of some excitable ones. Exclamations were heard of “How horrible!” “Oh! I wish I’d never come!” or, “We women have no business here!” while others thought, “I would not have missed it, dreadful though it is!”

The race was off—thousands of dollars staked and only one heat over. Which horse had won?

Now the police were busy, for the dead man’s form and the maddened stallion no longer held the rabble at bay. Tongues began to wag fast and faster, and hot and hotter grew the discussions about the track and pool stands. Yells of the officials for the police to clear the sward for the next race filled the air, and, finally, when the judge tapped the bell and the crier announced that the race would come off the next day, a little order was restored and the band began to blow its loudest, as a couple of fillies trotted through the gate.

But the excitement was over; and before long the stand was half-empty, while the soft roll of carriage wheels passed again and again through the exit and the women were gone.

Neil Emory walked over to his stable and gave a few directions to his groom, who had succeeded in partially quieting his racer; then, turning, he hailed a handsome carriage which was awaiting him a few steps beyond the course. His companion and friend, Reginald Gray, was inside, and the two drove rapidly away.

Emory pulled his hat over his eyes and sank back, as if he had lost a regiment of friends.

“Hard lines,” said Gray. “Two jockeys in six months.”

“Yes,” replied his companion, “and where on earth will I find another willing to risk his neck on that beast?”

“A few hundred dollars will find one.”

“I doubt it,” said Emory. “I will have to make it a few thousands.”

“Well! considering the amount staked on the animal, you will have to make it a couple, I dare say.”

They drove on in silence, the owner of the horse busy with his thoughts and unwilling to discuss a matter so close to his heart even with his best friend.

When they reached the city, Neil parted with his companion and went up to his rooms. His servant had lighted the gas and arranged his bath. He occupied a handsome suite of apartments, and his sitting-room was one of the prettiest in town, only the absence of the usual display of lovely women’s photos distinguished Neil Emory’s abode from all others. Perhaps in some far-away corner, veiled, was a picture, or, perhaps, only in his heart there existed such an image, though most people thought it but that of a rampant steed.

When he had finished his toilet, it was quite dark. Turning down the gas, he threw himself into a chair at the open window. Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, wild and mad, surged through his brain.

Almost wealthy! Only a little while ago a comparatively poor man, alone in the world, well born, handsome and educated—but a little while since able to purchase a small but beautiful estate, situated a few miles from the city, sold at a bargain just as an unlooked for legacy from a distant relation enabled him to become the purchaser—but a little while ago so fortunate as to buy at auction a young thoroughbred stallion, which unexpectedly proved to be one of the greatest racers of the age, but was possessed of a disposition so unmanageable that but two men had been found able to ride him, and both of those had been killed. If he could but win this race, how much it would mean for him! Money he must have, come what might.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, rising and stretching forth his arms in the gloom, “Cliquot, Cliquot, my beautiful, win for me, win for me, or I perish!”

Two nights after the day of the race there was a reception at the residence of Mrs. Dale, one of the fashionable women of the city of N——. Every one spoke, more or less, of the accident on the course.

“They say,” said one, “that he has offered an immense sum for a jockey.”

“Yes,” said another; “over two thousand dollars.”

“I dare say he’ll find some fool to ride the beast,” added a third, “and for far less money.”

“But,” said a bystander, “two days of the week have passed and Emory has not unearthed his man yet.”

Just then Neil came down from the dressing-room and entered the parlors. Little Selina Maury was standing by the door.

“Oh! I’m glad you’ve come! I thought you were so cut up that we wouldn’t see you to-night.”

He smilingly bowed his acknowledgments.

“Heavens!” thought the girl, “I wish Bob had so lovely an expression! He does nothing but grin!”

Then she took a rose from her breast and held it out to Neil.

He was fastening it in his coat when Mrs. Dale came up.

“How late you are! Let me take you to the supper-room. I dare say you may find an ice there.”

Excusing himself to Miss Maury, the young man went away with his hostess. There was a jam at the door, which caused them to stop by a recessed window, where a girl sat, leaning lazily back against the cushions of a sofa, her slippered feet crossed before her and the trail of a green silk coiled out on the carpet beyond.

The soft fold of her dress under Neil’s foot caused him to look up. She saw him and put her hand out through the curtain.

“How d’ye do?” she said, in an indolent way.

He took the soft fingers, devoid of jewels, in his and smiled again.

A dark, stylish man was beside her, holding an ice. He brushed some crumbs of cake from his lap, looked up, scowled slightly and spilled the ice.

The girl laughed a little.

“Can I replace it?” asked Neil.

“Oh, no,” she said; “I am glad it’s gone that way! But do you think now that you could manage to procure for me a very small glass of champagne, with quantities of ice—quite a small glass, and mostly ice?”

This she rather murmured than said, leaning back and idly toying with a gauze fan.

“I really don’t think I could,” replied Emory. “You see what a jam there is.”

“I can!” exclaimed the young man beside her, springing to his feet, and before they could utter a word he was gone and Neil had taken his vacant place.

“It’s all an awful bore; don’t you think so?”

He looked at her and, perhaps, heard her, “I do not know.”

Oh! the white throat—the lovely jeweless throat and hands—the glorious violet eyes, that graceful drooping head, with its crown of waving, bronze-hued hair, those supple limbs, clad in a close-fitting robe of green silk!

“A bore! my God!” and the room grew dim, and the lights went out, while before his eyes a maddened crowd came, the dangling neck of a dead jockey rose, and a foam-covered, rearing steed stood, while there was a cry in Emory’s heart: “Cliquot, Cliquot, my beautiful, win for me or I perish!”

“See, I have brought the wine,” and young Clayton stood before them. The girl put the glass to her lips and slowly drank. When she had finished, she toyed with the ice at the bottom of the glass and looked lazier than ever.

“Would you like to dance?” asked Clayton. “I believe there is a band.”

“No,” she replied; “I never dance in a train. It coils about one’s feet so, or gets around a man’s limbs and I am constantly imagining that I am a serpent, coiling and uncoiling in an earthly paradise.”

“A very beautiful and telling comparison,” said Emory.

“But one I don’t like,” added Clayton, “for it leads a fellow to look upon Miss Gwinn as a temptress.”

“Well!” said the girl, with a rippling laugh, “is a little knowledge a dangerous thing?”

The but half-concealed fury which flashed from the young man’s eyes showed Neil Emory a little of the volcano that lurked beneath.

Mrs. Gwinn came up on the arm of a handsome man. He had a courtly bearing, wore his silver hair close cut, had a moustache, a complexion like a girl’s, and was a wealthy sugar planter and desperately enamoured Gwendoline Gwinn, this lovely girl who held her court in the most indolent fashion. Her mother was very gracious in her manner to him, and spoke to her daughter at once.

“Will you come with us, my dear? It is almost time to leave and so many persons are asking where you are.” Then, perceiving Emory, she said: “Have you found a jockey?”

“Not yet, Madam; that is, none to suit, but I am promised one to-morrow.”

“Ah! indeed!” she said, indifferently, and was turning away, when Selina Maury came by.

“Oh! Mr. Emory, do tell me, is the race really off, or will there be a man to ride your lovely horse? I am perfectly wild to see him again!” and in her eager, restless way, with the usual girlish impulse, she laid her hand on his arm, looking up into his face as if a whole world of adoration were in her eyes.

“Pretty enough eyes, too,” thought Neil, as he smiled.

“If he looks that way again,” said the girl to herself, “I’ll box Bob’s jaws when he kisses me!”

“Yes,” said Emory, “I hope he will run on Monday, if the promised man suits. A blacksmith is to bring a youngster to-morrow and I shall judge what he can do. Would you like to see another jockey tossed, Miss Gwinn?” he asked, laughing a little, hard laugh as he turned to her.

“Are they always killed?” she asked; “and does it hurt very much to have one’s neck broken? I wonder why persons will be so silly as to fall off and get their necks broken!”

“But he was thrown,” cried Selina, “and so his neck was cracked.”

“No,” said Gwendoline; “I don’t think I care to see that any more; but I promise to be at the race, if that comes off—and not the jockey.”

A little laugh from the bystanders, and then she rose, slowly drawing herself away from the dark cushions, and, uncoiling her train from around her feet, bowed to those beside her and glided after her mother in and out of the crowd, like a long green serpent.

CHAPTER II.
A DEVIL’S LAUGH.

As a bright red streak on the horizon foretold the coming of a beautiful day in early spring, Neil Emory galloped along the dusty road to the race-course, and, turning in at its gates, drew rein at the door of his trainer’s tent.

“Has that boy come?” he asked, as his horse was led off by the groom.

“I think so. I’ll ask Joe.”

In a few moments the man returned, saying that both the blacksmith and the boy had been waiting quite a while.

Emory walked out towards the track, where a few shade trees stood, just inside of the low fence. The trainer went to call the blacksmith, who came from behind the stables, followed by a rather slim boy, who stopped to chunk at some chickens pecking in the saw-dust. The youngster stood a little apart, ten or twelve yards off, and threw clods of earth at them, laughing a trifle when one was struck.

“Is that the lad?” asked Emory.

“Yes, sir,” replied the blacksmith, a broad-shouldered, dark-haired specimen of humanity.

“What is your name?” asked Emory, taking out his note-book. “I want to know it and the boy’s, too, for this is a business transaction, and I am offering a pretty large reward to the fellow who rides this race—a couple of thousand for the run and a hundred dollars for every race he wins.”

“My name is Jess Peleg; the lad we call Jack.”

“Jack what?” demanded Emory, pausing with his pencil in his hand. “I must know how to write the check, if the fellow isn’t killed.”

“Jack Lacy,” replied the blacksmith. “Shall he try the stallion to-day, sir?”

“Yes, yes, of course; right away!” exclaimed Emory. “This is Thursday, and we’ve only till Monday to get him used to the lad. Bring out the rascal,” he added, turning to his groom, who was close at hand.

Quite a little crowd of jockeys and retainers had collected and stood by to watch the trial of a new hand on this wonderful horse. There was perfect silence. How would he succeed?

The lad still chunked the chickens. The stable door flew open, and the horse came out, trotting and snorting a little and holding up his beautiful head to sniff the morning air. He was a rich chestnut sorrel, rather over-sized; limbs long and supple as a deer’s, throat slightly arched, a mane as wavy and bronzed as Gwendoline’s hair. His blanket removed, after walking him a little the saddle was put on, all quietly enough.

“Jack,” said Peleg, “come here.”

The boy rubbed his soiled hands over his face, and, sticking them into his pockets, walked slowly up. He wore a suit of common clothes and a battered hat. His hair was black, curling close to his head, and his face very dirty. The blacksmith went up and whispered something to him. The boy looked at Emory from under his hat and nodded.

“He wants a little cash,” said Peleg. “He hasn’t any jockey clothes.”

“All right,” replied Neil, “but I’ve only a five dollar gold-piece with me; will he take that?”

So saying, he tossed the coin towards the boy, who caught it in his hand, put it between his white teeth and then, with a low chuckle, slipped it into his pocket. The horse was now ready. The lad came alongside of him, took the reins in his right hand, and, putting his left under the animal’s mane, began to pass it slowly towards his ears. As he did so, the horse lowered his head and gave a quivering neigh. The boy’s hand went softly around his forehead, then crept down his nose and rested for a moment over his nostrils, as he brought his mouth close to his ear as if breathing therein, and again the horse neighed. Then, putting his foot in the stirrup, the lad swung himself into the saddle, and, gathering up the reins, walked the racer off.

“Hiogh-dough!” laughed the groom.

The walk became a trot, and soon the soft dust rose as he galloped gently around the track. Again he passed, going a little faster, and then they saw but a flying streak, which, as it neared the turn, came down the quarter stretch like a whirlwind, the beautiful neck straight out and the rider on the horse’s back as firm as a young Indian.

“At last!” sighed Emory, as he folded his arms across his breast. “Now we will give them a race!”

“Yes,” said the voice of the blacksmith at his side, “and such a race as they never saw before!”

“If he wins,” exclaimed Neil, “I’ll give you the finest anvil that’s to be bought, Peleg.”

“Book that,” said the man, “for he’ll win!” and the stallion came in on his home gallop.

The sun was gilding the steeples of the city when Emory rode home. His iron-gray bounded lightly beneath the saddle and came down to a soft, cool walk as his hoofs struck the first stones.

“And if I win,” said the rider to himself, “how shall I be rewarded?”

Did he remember, two years before, when he looked so coldly on Gwendoline Gwinn as she stood beside that lovely dark-haired cousin, who had won, at least, his hand? Did he recall the bright hours of his boyhood, when that tall, lithe, red-haired girl romped at his side and seemed to possess so little claim to the beauty she now showed to the world? Had she, indeed, loved him when he returned home from abroad, and found her so regal a woman? Or, was it only a trap to catch a proud heart and toss it to another? God knows! and, perhaps, the beautiful devil, once his wife—really his wife—could answer. Wealth! Who has not felt its power? Would the year of grace never end? A lie, a living, breathing lie to the outside world! His wife still lived, and he, too, lived on, and link upon link the chains gathered around him. One word and it would be done, one look and it would be over! One embrace, one kiss of the soul’s passion and hell would yawn—yet, with so glorious a heaven, would the depths be as nothing!

And so, in the early morning, he rode, seeking at last the brightness of his chambers to draw down the blinds and pace back and forth like a yellow lion in its cage.

Mrs. Gwinn came into her sitting-room and rang the bell for her maid, who, just then, passed the door, hurrying to the kitchen.

“Where are you going, Alice?” she asked.

“Oh! ma’am, the hot water pipes are out of order, and I am going below for some warm water for Miss Gwendoline’s bath.”

“Hot water!” cried the mother, “on such a warm day? You know Miss Gwinn always takes a cold bath.”

“But, mamma,” said a voice from above, “I feel awfully lazy this morning, and you know there’s nothing requires so much exertion as a cold bath; besides, it was always your idea and not mine. Do let me have my own way occasionally!”

“Her own way,” thought her mother—“that she has very often,” and she glanced at the vision above her, in its flowing pink wrapper, the fair arms resting on the balusters and the tumbled bronze hair falling on her shoulders. Then, closing her sitting-room door, she shut her eyes for a moment, and, placing her hand over them, to exclude all but her thoughts, said aloud:

“Yes, Gwendoline must marry for money—she is too beautiful for a cottage—and we sell our idols high.”

When Gwendoline was dressed, she came downstairs and greeted her mother. She wore a long white morning dress, trimmed with lace and ribbon; and very lovely she looked, as she sank upon the sofa in the middle of the room.

“Did you enjoy the reception, Gwendoline?”

“Not a great deal,” answered her daughter. “I got tired of Clayton.”

“But not of Col. Coutell?” asked Mrs. Gwinn, eagerly.

“Yes, rather. Don’t you think he is a little old, and far too stately in his ways?” and the girl looked in a careless, listless manner across the room.

“Gwendoline!” exclaimed her mother, sharply. “This is folly! You know that Col. Coutell is deeply in love with you and has spoken to me of his desire to make you his wife. He is one of the wealthiest of men, and you are aware that your father left us but a bare competency. Can you, for a moment, dream of the luxury of a love match—you, with your idle society ways—you, who loll away the early morn and play with the midnight hours? Oh! no, my daughter; you must marry for a bed of roses, with a gilded canopy!” and the handsome woman, who herself had enjoyed all this, rose and crossed the room to where her daughter sat, placing her white hand on the girl’s shoulder, with a sarcastic laugh.

Gwendoline sprang to her feet, tossing her tawny mane, as she shook off her mother’s hand.

“Mamma!” she exclaimed, “this is too much! I will not be bartered for like a Virginia slave! I am weary, weary of it all, and I can stand it no longer! Why should I marry at all?”

“Why?” said her mother, waving her white hand slowly back and forth. “Why, Gwendoline, for a very simple reason—you cannot help it! My dear, you are hardly the woman to fill the role of an old maid. No, no, there is too much fire there!” Then, as she walked slowly to the end of the room, she murmured below her breath, “Latent heat!”

The girl had thrown herself into a chair beside the window. Just then a servant entered with a note for Mrs. Gwinn, who, having read it, passed it to her daughter.

“Well, will you accept?”

It seemed a long while, but at last an answer came.

“Yes, I will go, mamma, and I will try to be as agreeable as possible. I want to please you, just now. I dare say it will be all right in the end.” A smile crept slowly over the lips of the speaker, and she repeated, quite low, “In the end!”

And so the note was answered, accepting Col. Coutell’s invitation to Miss Gwinn for a ride on horseback that afternoon—a gallop on her own little mare, the one relic of departed glory. When her mother left the room a few minutes later, the girl turned her head as she lay back in her chair, and looked around the pretty parlor, a dainty little place, with brightness over all. The cottage piano stood open and a piece of new music was on the rack—she played a little, now and then. On the wall, over the instrument, hung a colored crayon picture of a little gray poodle, holding a handkerchief in his mouth—a jolly face, with big brown eyes, over which the fluffy hair hung. There was a landscape at the back, and in the distance a brown mare and colt were grazing.

“Poor little Fluffy,” murmured the girl, “how he loved me—and they are all gone!”

Her face grew inexpressibly sad as she gazed on the portrait. That day, after dinner, as they sat for awhile in the parlor, Mrs. Gwinn remarked:

“Gwendoline, that picture’s the only ugly thing in here.”

Next morning it hung in Gwendoline’s own room.

Emory met the pair later in the evening, returning from their ride, and it seemed to him that never had Gwendoline looked so beautiful, her dark green habit fitting to perfection and the loveliness of her soft eyes enhanced by the glow of health on her cheek. They were riding slowly through the park and stopped for a moment to speak to him. The tall form of the Colonel showed well on horseback, and, in the gathering twilight, he appeared almost a young man.

Emory received his congratulations on his success in securing a jockey.

“I trust he will do,” said Coutell, “and we will yet see the race.”

“Thanks,” replied Neil. “I am sure he’ll suit, though I fear somewhat for the fellow’s life. There’s no counting on such horses.”

“I’ll be in at the death!” cried Gwendoline, as she glanced up with—for her—a mischievous smile.

“Nay,” said Emory, “I hope to save you that.”

Her eyelids fell and the sun went down.

Again ere midnight was it fated they should meet.

There was at that time, playing in the city, an actress of some note and of peculiar standing—a woman darkly beautiful, of good American family and a reputation fair enough to secure her an entrée into some of the best society wherever she went. She had paid more than one visit to N—— and was a favorite; yet, need I say, few women liked her?

For a week or so, she had held sway at the theatre and that night was to witness her crowning success. Lovers she had in plenty—pure love they called their infatuation. Her manager was very careful of her, and she shone forth a “Goddess among men.” The world of our city had given her some fond admirers, and among those said to be the most ardent was Neil Emory, who, report stated, knew her, in other places, years before. That he had bent with warmth above her chair at the receptions, and almost rested his blond moustache on her white shoulders, was true. That he had met her behind the scenes and wrapped her shawl about her at the exposed wings and, once, perhaps, driven her home in his coupé were also true. That she had staked her jewels and even money upon his racer were not denied, and that night, when the wealth and beauty of N—— assembled to witness her final triumph, many eyes and glasses were directed towards the tall form that alone occupied the left-hand proscenium box. Opposite, a lively party sat, the box on the right being tenanted by Mrs. Dale, Gwendoline, Mrs. Gwinn, Clayton and the inseparable Col. Coutell. The play was a bewitching one, and continuous rounds of applause greeted the great actress, Cassandra Clovis, “she who inflames with love.” Yes, surely, to see her was to be inflamed; yet modesty was her role—trains and dress not too décolletée were her robes. Those who gazed upon the hidden charms could but wonder and sleep thus; and so, with glimmer and light, and flowers and jewels, while the air was stirred by the flutter of perfumed fans, the play went on. Down sped the curtain upon the fourth act; but one remained, and when the orchestra had thundered out its last notes, the curtain slowly rolled up and revealed a scene new to all—a beautiful garden, not the old garden set upon which N—— had so often gazed, but a complete revelation of the beauties of nature—fountains of real water, real roses, all as perfect as an artist could make it; and, as the play went on with only a little change here and there, at last came the climax. There advanced adown the marble steps, portrayed at the back of the stage, a party of gay maskers. They were from the ball beyond.

“Ah!” exclaimed one, “they tell me that the fair Cecilia will excel herself to-night. Her costume is to be something marvelous—one to captivate.”

“Yes!” said a second, “to hold and fetter all.”

“Even him!” said a third.

And as they thus spoke and grouped themselves about the stage the music softly arose and from beyond the trees and through the vines came a form. Slowly descending the steps, her long green mantle dropping from her shoulders, came Cecilia. The beautiful dress in Roman style clung about her supple figure and as she neared the footlights she turned to their full blaze her right side, where, caught nearly to the hip, was the soft white fabric, exposing to view her exquisite limb, clothed in the palest of pink stockinet, while glittering with a thousand gems, a natural sized horse-shoe held the folds of her garment.

The house rang with applause from the men, in which the women but faintly joined. From the right-hand box a fleeting something fell, and, stooping with wondrous grace, Clovis raised a mammoth bunch of violets, pressed it to her lips, and then, with an upward glance, placed it in the horse-shoe, where it hung, the loosened flowers dropping upon the pink below as she moved across the stage.

The passion flush that was for an instant upon Emory’s face must have reflected its sunset in the opposite box, for a white hand suddenly drew back the lace curtains and Gwendoline’s beautiful visage, flame-colored, flashed for a moment; and Neil could not avoid meeting the eyes that sought his own, or escape the slow smile that crept over the lips—a cruel smile, he thought, a cold and cruel smile, that had within itself the commencement of a devil’s laugh.

CHAPTER III.
SHE WHO INFLAMES WITH LOVE.

Cassandra Clovis arose late the next morning, and, after a refreshing bath, made an elaborate toilet and went out for a drive. She stopped on her return and brought home the one woman for whom she cared, Kitty Mays by name, a person who deserves a brief mention in these pages.

In appearance Kitty Mays was exactly the opposite of the actress. She was exceedingly small, with a face so surrounded by flying, fluffy blond hair as to be almost invisible, while a fluttering, restless movement of head and shoulders, arms and body, made the occasion rare when one could tell whether she was pretty or not. And yet she was pretty. Sometimes, suddenly checking her movements, she would raise her face, and, throwing back her head, open her beautiful mouth and give vent to laughter long and rippling as a child’s, while the color came into her cheeks and her eyes grew bright and large with mirth. Thus it was that on and off the stage people went to hear “Kitty’s laugh,” carrying home the remembrance of its bell-echo ripple. Was she daft? Some thought so. Who had ever known her to say or do anything bright? Was it that Clovis kept her seated on her train to echo her smiles? Was that laugh artificial? You must wait and see. I shall help you all I can.

When they had sent away the carriage and laid their hats aside, they ordered a lunch, with wine. Kitty sat curled up on a sofa, but with characteristic restlessness was tossing pieces of bread in the air and trying to catch them in her mouth, her shaggy head bobbing to and fro like a yellow poodle’s.

“Stop!” said Clovis; “you make me nervous.”

“Just one more time!” cried Kitty. “I’m sure to catch the next.”

Again and again the white flakes flew up and down; at last, one fell in the rosy mouth and the white teeth closed.

“Ha! ha! ha!” and the silver bells rang.

“Bravo!” cried a voice at the door. “May I come in? I couldn’t make any one hear, so I strolled this way. Say, now, did you leave the door open on purpose?”

“Go away,” said Kitty. “We don’t want you. We are having a private rehearsal.”

“So I perceive; but I want to be admitted. Do, Miss Clovis, ask me to have a glass of wine. I have so many things to tell you.”

“Of course, of course,” she replied, as she rose and rang the bell for another glass, and so Reginald Gray came in.

“Catch!” said Kitty, throwing him a piece of bread. He caught it in his hand.

“Not that way—like a dog!” and she held up another piece.

“Be quiet,” said Clovis, “and go away, Kitty! You may come back directly.”

The girl sprang from the sofa, and, without a word, went into the next room, closing the door after her.

“Well!” said Cassandra, “what did he think of it?”

“He—was—shocked!” and her companion leaned back, putting the tips of his fingers together.

“Tut! What did he say? Tell me—I really want to know!” and she tapped her foot on the carpet.

“A great many things; among them that—that he was surprised and—and bewildered—by—er—er—the brilliancy of the horse-shoe. By the by, would you like a mate for it?” and he caught her by the wrist as she held up her hand, lapping some wine from its rosy hollow.

“Be careful, or you’ll spill it! There!” and she threw it in his face, laughing, though her eyes flashed.

He put his handkerchief up, removed it and looked a trifle angry; then he walked over to where she stood, and, catching her by both hands, imprisoned them behind her and kissed her on the mouth.

“That’s all you’ll ever get,” she hissed through her teeth.

“That’s all I want!” and he released her.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Ask Emory, when you are ready for a pair of diamond horse-shoes,” and he took up his hat.

“You may tell him that when Cliquot wins I’ll be ready; and you may give him my love, and say anything else you choose quite safely, for I am sure his horse will never reach the goal.”

She didn’t look at all amiable as she walked to the window, where she caught hold of the tassel of the shade, running it up and down in a restless way, with her back to her companion.

“Good-bye!” and in a moment he was gone.

“Kitty, come here!”

She threw open the door, and the girl appeared, blowing bubbles.

“There! that’s Coutell!” and it broke. “That’s Gray!” and it broke. “That’s Emory!—and it breaks on your shoulder!” Again the laugh, rippling through the room with bell-like music.

“Pshaw! listen to me. That man kissed me!”

“Ah! Did he hug you too?” and Kitty shook her mane and shrugged her shoulders.

“No!”

“Then he must have been intoxicated!” and the little woman hummed a tune, as she clicked time with an empty glass that stood on the table.

Clovis took up a bottle of red wine and filled one of the glasses.

“Goodness! it looks like blood!” cried Kitty.

“Does it? Watch then!” and catching up her skirts the beautiful woman exposed her well-formed and graceful limb far above the knee clothed in a dainty cream-colored stocking. Lifting her foot to a stool, she bent over and slowly poured the garnet stream down her leg, whence it flowed in a long, irregular line to the floor.

It was a lovely picture, as she stood in her rich dress, staining the purity of her skin with so costly a bath. Thus thought Reginald Gray, who had paused for a moment in the passage beyond the door, and drew back, pale with emotion, as he gazed upon the scene before him.

“Gracious!” exclaimed Kitty, springing forward, and turning her back to the opening, “I never felt such a draught!”

Her skirts flew out beyond her, and the door closed with a bang.

CHAPTER IV.
“OUT FROM THE GOLDEN DAY.”

Yes, Neil Emory was a married man and a man with a scandal, but a scandal so hushed and screened by law and friends as to be almost forgotten.

One day the beautiful woman who bore his name went away from him. You know many such stories. I wish I could make this a new one. Perhaps it is a little different from the hackneyed tales of the dashing lover, who finally deserts his sweetheart, etc., etc., for this woman rose in the brightness of a May morn, dressed herself for traveling, and, with satchel in hand, walked into her husband’s study and told him that she no longer loved him; that, in fact, she never had loved him, nor ever would. It might be she cared for another; and she was going away forever. At the end of a year, she hoped he would divorce her. No! she would listen to nothing he might say. Should he compel her to remain he must bear the consequences. Who was the man? That he should never know. Let her depart in peace, for she knew he did not love her any more than she loved him.

One year and she disappeared. The law crept slowly on—as yet no release. “Would to God it could come another way!” And now that he had again met Gwendoline, did he know that he loved her? If so, why rushed the color to his cheek when the footlights flashed or the yellow dust rose around the flying wheels of Cassandra’s coach?

He well knew he had many rivals. What could he offer either girl or actress, wife or sweetheart? His friend Reginald Gray was one for whom the beautiful dark woman of the boards seemed ever to smile; but “Kitty who laughed” was always on the alert.

One day, as he sped swiftly down the street, a voice hailed him. Turning, he beheld Clovis leaning from her carriage; and when he came up, the slippered foot peeping from the lace of her dress and the blue veil over her face were all he saw of her companion.

“Did you get my message?” asked Clovis.

“Yes,” he murmured, “but I knew it meant nothing.”

“Hush!” she replied. “I want your good opinion, and I’ll have it yet!”

Her lips closed tightly as she looked at him.

“You know that I am a poor man, Clovis—you know that when Monday morning comes I will be either richer by many thousands or ruined. What will you have? A diamond horse-shoe or a worthless kiss?”

“Neither!” said the woman. “I desire more—your name!”

The man started back.

“That is impossible,” he said under his breath.

He started again, for a little bell sounded in his ears—a little silver tinkle that must have come through the carriage as the women drove off.

Would he never hear from the distant lawyer who had his case in hand? As secretly as possible he was conducting it. Gwendoline knew so little, her mother more, perhaps, of his affairs. On what grounds did he work? That his wife was untrue? No! That they could not live together in peace? No! What then? Only this: she had left him and asked for release. One year! Perhaps it would come!

He went into his room and sat down. It was Saturday night and noisier than usual on the street. The week had dragged slowly enough, yet he began to dread the coming of that Monday morning, that day which would mean so much for him. He shaded his eyes from the soft twilight, and seemed to see it all! The hot and restless crowd, the ever-penetrating rays of the summer sun, the quivering, panting steed—and, perhaps, the death of another jockey in the end.

“If this happens again,” he muttered to himself, “I’ll blow out the infernal beast’s brains!”

There was a knock at the door, and on opening it a telegram was placed in his hand. Slowly he tore off the covering, thinking: “How tired I am!”

Yes, he was tired, so tired that the four words of the telegram that should have brought him joy had no effect except it was to rivet him to the spot; and there, two, three hours later, he still sat looking down upon the carpet, where the yellow paper had fallen, with the writing upturned, and this is what he saw:

“Your wife is dead.”

CHAPTER V.
PRETTY GOOD ARMS.

Dead! Gone forever “out from the golden day.” Just the release he had dreamed of, perhaps wished for, yet hardly prayed for. Men seldom do that; only women drop down on their knees and pour out their hearts that way, rising sometimes to say it is all for the best.

Emory at last rose from his chair and left his room. It was almost midnight, and the streets were deserted when he reached the City Park. A few steps brought him to a seat under a tree, near which a fountain splashed, a place where he had often sat alone.

“I’ll do as the fellow does in the novels—cool my fevered brow,” he thought, and laughed a little, as he took off his hat, caught some water in the hollow of his hand and wet his forehead. The laugh was hard and hollow, and the sigh that followed it heavy and dull. Of course, he was not sorry for what the world would call his “loss,” but he was a sick-hearted man, disgusted with the way his life began, horrified at the ruggedness of the path he trod.

“I must go home and sleep, if I can; and I must see Cliquot exercised in the morning.”

Thus he thought; and all night he dreamed of the race and the woman he loved.

When he reached the track in the early morning, he saw a boy run out of one of the stables, jump into a buggy with a man and drive away.

“Where’s the jockey?” he asked.

“Just left, sir,” said the groom.

“Has he been here both days?” he inquired.

“No sir.”

“Why?” and Emory grew pale with anger.

“Peleg reported him sick, sir.”

“Stuff!” muttered the owner; “but I trust he’s all right now.”

“I think so, sir,” said the man, “for he rode like a major to-day.”

Sunday! How would he ever get through the hours? Go to church? No! Never at the best of times did he love the inside of a chapel, and now that it suggested a vision of a dead woman and flowers could he go?

Should he tell Mrs. Gwinn of his wife’s death?

What mattered it to her? She was now planning to marry her daughter to a millionaire. Let Gwendoline know? Not yet! Oh! not yet! But let him win this race—then, then the whole world might know, and Cassandra do her worst! What was it that at times blanched his cheek as he thought of her—“she who inflames with love?” Did he deem her a dangerous woman? Perhaps. But what about that other—“Kitty who laughs?”

Gwendoline sat before her glass, that morning, in a blue wrapper, with her hair down. Alice Legare, her maid, stood behind her and softly brushed out its silken waves. It was beautiful hair, but not long—falling only a little below her shoulders, a few tapering coils going nearly to the waist. It grew so lovely upon that shapely head! It is not always the wealth of hair that is attractive. A great many women have that; but all along the brow, around the ear and back of the neck it went wandering away as if it were a wave of light. And then the color—rich red brown, the bronze you read about, the “sunset glow,” and all that you see in the “Cenci” pictures.

Alice kept brushing and toying with it; and, as she did so, she began to think, and at last forgot to brush. Her mistress glanced up.

“Crying again, Alice?”

“Yes,” murmured the girl. “How can I ever thank you?”

“You have thanked me, Alice, more than once, more than you know.”

“So little, so very little, Miss,” she said. “I would it were more.”

“Never mind,” replied Gwendoline; “all may yet be well. Why, you have grown almost pretty again; and your hair is now quite as bright as ever. See! it is just the color of mine, but it does not curl or wave.”

“Only when I crimp it,” laughed the maid.

“Ah! there, that’s right! I love to see you merry. Now, go. I can finish. I am sure mamma wants you,” and Miss Gwinn gathered up her tresses as the girl quitted the room.

“She is almost as tall as I am, and might be my sister. How funny,” she added, “to have a maid like that—only she isn’t half as lazy as I! Dear, dear, how weary I am!”

With a rippling laugh, she threw herself on a sofa and put her white arms up over her head. She took them down directly, and, pushing up her sleeves, patted first one, then the other.

“Pretty good arms, pretty good arms, mon ami!”

Then, throwing them out before her, she exclaimed:

“Bon jour, Monsieur Emory—ha! ha! Now I will dress.”

CHAPTER VI.
BACKWARDS.

Sunday night, and I have three pictures to show you.

First, let us glance at the open windows of Cassandra’s reception-room. The vine-clad balcony, behind which waved soft lace curtains, appeared cool and inviting in the stillness of that warm, star-lit evening. Soft rays of rosy light from shaded lamps streamed out upon the floor.

Lying back in a large chair, in all the glory of jewels and fleecy lace, was the lovely Clovis. Her large dark eyes had a dreamy, far-away look, for she was thinking of the one man in all the world whom she loved. Yes, with her whole heart, her whole soul, she loved Neil Emory.

Years ago, let me tell it now, she ran away from home and married a handsome, worthless fellow, who, when he died, left her nothing. She was of English birth. Her mother was dead and her father married a second time. An uncle, a stage manager in America, offered her a home, which she accepted, and, for a long while, she was his housekeeper. She was frequently at the theatre, occasionally assuming some minor part in the play; but she was never considered an actress—she was merely a “responsible lady.”

One day her uncle fell sick and she was compelled to take his place. He became almost an invalid, so it happened that for a long while she was virtually the manager. Yet so efficiently was the business conducted that the world never suspected the real manager was rarely behind the scenes.

About that time an actress of some note was engaged for thirty nights on her uncle’s boards. When she had played fifteen nights, and each time to an admiring audience, she caught a violent cold and lay dangerously ill.

Now a strange thing happened. The sick actress sent for the manager’s niece and informed her she must take her place in the bill. There was a wonderful resemblance between the two women; in form and feature, hair, eyes and brow, they were alike. The almost dying woman pleaded that she should assume her very name and finish her engagement, urging that, as the girl had watched her performance for fifteen nights in the wings and had even understudied the part, she ought to be able to play it.

“Keep my engagement for me,” she begged, “for, far away over the water, I have a little child dependent on me.”

It would require too much space to give all the particulars, but that night the girl walked the stage in borrowed name and robes, and, when the curtain fell, had achieved a triumph as an actress. Such is the public. It paid blind tribute to her and she was content. None knew the difference. Night after night, she played her part, and long before the thirty days expired the sick actress had passed away to the unknown shore, bequeathing her name and glory to another.

Thus, as Cassandra Clovis, the girl began life anew and constantly sent to the child across the water all she needed.

One night, the theatre at which she was playing caught fire and was destroyed. In the red glare of the flames a woman threw herself in front of Clovis and begged to be saved. They were in a dressing-room beneath the stage.

“I cannot help you!” cried Clovis. “Look to yourself!”

“I am beside myself with fright!” the woman cried.

Clovis seized her by the hand.

“Quick, then, this way!” and with difficulty they reached the street where they were safe.

Clovis asked her companion where she would go, where were her friends and home.

“I have neither friends nor home!” was the reply. “He has perished in the flames! Let me go with you!”

Together they went, and thus it happened that Cassandra kept about her the woman known to the world as “Kitty who laughs.”

She was seated, that Sunday night, on a low stool, dressed in white and blue. A bowl of water, in which were a number of beautiful flowers, stood beside her. She was making a wreath and humming a tune.

The flowers were to adorn their rooms next day, should Cliquot win.

“What folly!” said Clovis. “Toss away the blossoms!”

“Oh, no!” said the other; “we don’t fling aside full-blown roses, and there are no buds here!”

“I understand,” said the actress, and went on dreaming, while Kitty sang an old song—“Did they Tell Thee I was Dead, Katy Darling?”

Having finished the garland, she rose, and, opening a drawer, took from it some gilt letters.

“I might as well fix it all now,” she said; “there won’t be time to-morrow.”

She pushed a chair against the wall and began to tack the letters on the paper. She had completed the name “Cliquot” in gold and was busy arranging the wreath in the shape of a horse-shoe around it when a voice cried:

“Come down! come down! A most dangerous position! I really must hold you, for I think you are growing giddy!” and she felt two hands clasp her waist.

“Let go, Reginald! I don’t like that!”

“But I do!”

Clovis looked up, angrily.

“Stop that child’s play!” she said. “You’re always at it!”

“Don’t you think you are a little cross to-night, Miss Clovis?” the man asked, going over to where she sat. “It must be that, for you’re never jealous.”

“Of you?”

“Hardly,” he muttered; “but wasn’t it saucy of her to be sticking that (pointing to the decoration) in your very face?”

“I don’t know what you mean by that!” she replied. “A lot of letters and flowers will never bring him success!”

“Let us see.”

“Oh!” cried Kitty, “please don’t pun; you know it is the lowest order of wit.”

“I beg your pardon,” replied the young man; “I did not mean it as such.”

“Did you come to tell us about the race to-morrow?”

“Yes, I can tell you of it now I am here, though I really did not come for that. You know I am fond of you myself after a fashion, Cassandra!” and he gave her a bright, half-impudent look.

“He’s a handsome sort of a fellow, and I wish I could have loved him!” thought the woman.

“Of course, you’ll both be out on the track. Everybody is going, and there’ll be great excitement. I wish to Heaven,” he exclaimed, whirling towards Clovis, “that you would persuade Emory to part with that beast! He will ruin him!”

“I persuade him! I, indeed! Are you mad? What influence has Cassandra Clovis over your friend that you bid her do this thing? Oh, no!”

“Perhaps Kitty has more?”

“Bah!” said the girl, shaking her mane; “he don’t even know me!” and she laughed, yes, laughed even longer and sweeter than usual—and the night sped on.

In another part of the city I have a second picture for you. A young man of dark complexion, magnificent eyes, close-cut black hair, moustache the same color, a tall slender figure as graceful as possible—altogether, a handsome fellow—sat in the bright light of an unshaded gas-jet, ruthlessly tearing up old letters and throwing them into an open grate to be fired by a match before he retired.

The room was intensely hot, though three windows were opened to the floor. The furniture was ordinary, the carpet worn. The door of a bed-room stood open, and a bath-room beyond showed them to be a suite, occupied by a person you have met before—Mr. George Clayton, a young lawyer, who was a spendthrift and a gambler, a lover of the real “Cliquot” and a gentleman born. The pretended lover of Gwendoline was he and the real lover of Clovis he would be should she allow it.

That night he was destroying all evidence of a past folly, rending apart the tender wordings of a woman’s pen and tossing them away as though he had never cared a straw for them.

At length he reached the last note that lay at the bottom of the box in company with the woman’s picture; this he opened and glanced at. A slow smile broke over his lips.

“A deuced handsome girl! I think I’ll keep it!” He thought the eyes and brow lovely—who did not?—with the brown hair brushed well back.

“I don’t think she’s breaking her heart, wherever she is!” he murmured. “I’ve seen her but once since that night, that awful night! I hope she enjoyed my letter of dismissal. I wonder where she is?”

He tore the last envelope to pieces and stuffed the picture into his coat-pocket, little dreaming how much harm it might bring him.

About a mile outside of the city stood a blacksmith’s shop, and near by its owner’s hut. Under a large tree, in front of the door, sat the man and his wife, enjoying the coolness denied to those who dwelt in mansions in the city. The woman held a bundle on her lap, examining its contents by the faint light which came through the open door.

“Do you think they’ll fit?” asked she.

“I told the girl to do her best, bein’ as how we couldn’t find the lad at the right time. She had t’other pants to go by,” said Peleg, shortly. “You can’t expect a chap to keer much how his jockey’s clothes fits so they hangs all right.”

“Well!” sighed the woman, “I only hopes and prays as they won’t turn out to be his burial clothes, as you tells me it’s a mighty bad horse he is goin’ to ride.”

“It is a pretty bad ’un for them as don’t know nothin’ about horses; but I guess this chap is all right. You know, Mandy, some has a way wid a critter as you can hardly account for.”

“Yes, so they has, so they has!” and she grew silent, as her thoughts went back through many years.

The city’s hum grew less, and the clocks chimed the midnight hour as the dark curtain rolled down before the footlights of the stars—to rise again in the glory of day.

CHAPTER VII.
MONDAY.

The eventful day had come, that day looked forward to for over a week by all the city of N——. With opaline splendor, the sun rose over the undulating suburbs and fell on spire and field. It promised to be a little cool, for a slight breeze wafted a few light clouds that floated high over the waking town.

The race, set for two o’clock, was to be the only one.

The crowd began to gather long before the appointed time. All along the road could be seen vans and carts of various descriptions, traveling in one direction. Tents containing refreshments were erected and the pool and lemonade stands open and ready for business by noon. Throngs of ragamuffins hung on the fences, waiting the opportunity to slip in unnoticed.

At one o’clock many business houses closed, and the hacks and private carriages began to find their way to the course.

Among the vehicles, Cassandra and her inseparable Kitty, reclining luxuriously in the shade of a dark green-lined drag, furnished with a pair of beautiful bay mares, drew up under a small tree near the Judges’ stand.

Already the field was covered with conveyances, and upon the grand stand there was not a vacant seat. The part occupied by the ladies looked like a bed of flowers and was beautiful to behold.

The two horses to run against the stallion were, of course, the same black and bay, then walking in the sunlight on a distant section of the track.

Emory had been in and out of the judges’ stand a dozen times. As the bell tapped the first time, he hurried towards his stable and met the trainer at the door. Peleg, just outside, came towards him, followed by the groom, who carried the boy’s saddle.

The stallion was in splendid condition. With pride his master eyed his superb limbs and glossy coat.

Again the bell tapped, and the race-horse was led on the track.

As Emory passed in front of the ladies’ stand, he gave a fleeting glance to where a well-known blue, lace covered parasol waved its drooping fringe before the half-revealed face, which he thought he recognized. The soft folds of a silk dress he once admired, with Paris gloves to match, made him almost certain he knew where she sat.

Again the bell! This time two hasty taps. A jockey in red and blue brushed by him and ran under the judges’ stand, his saddle on his arm.

A crier called out the horses’ names: “Black Boy! Bay Thomas! Cliquot!”

Around the pools went the sound, repeated a hundredfold: “Black Boy! Bay Thomas!” But ever at the name of Cliquot a yell went up and the rabble clattered louder.

A few last notes from the band, a tightening of girths and the constant tapping of the bell. At length the three horses have turned and trotted slowly up the quarter-stretch. Yellow and white are the colors worn by the jockey who rides Black Boy, pink and green those of Bay Thomas, while red and blue distinguish Cliquot’s.

Cliquot was behaving well. Neil, from behind the bell, watched him stepping softly on towards the starting post, his jockey’s back-curls shining in the sun. Every nerve in the owner’s body quivered, and his brain whirled to the verge of madness. Reginald Gray had hardly dared approach him, and then only whispered a word or two.

Now the red flag waves softly in the hands of the starter as the three horses turn in their tracks. The bay becomes a little restless and breaks beyond the string. By the time he is brought back again, the black sidles in an ugly way against the fence. With his head arched, going gently up and down, champing his bit a little, Cliquot stands, the hand of his jockey moving back and forth under his mane. Now and then, he slightly lifts his off foot and paws the ground.

“Remarkable!” murmured Gray.

“I cannot understand it,” replied his companion.

Three or four impatient sounds from the bell, and the jockeys have straightened themselves and made ready for the start. A word, a lick and a click and—yes, wonderful to relate, the flag falls! Off? Yes, really off! Whoever saw a better go! Away they speed, neck and neck!

Two mile heats! Breathless, the people lean forward to watch them, as they grow dimmer in the distance. Now on they come! As they near the quarter-stretch they still keep together, and pass beneath the string in the same order. So far, it is a beautiful race. Again they come! Men and boys shout wildly as they see a gap, a little gap, when they turn once more.

“I dare not look!” said Emory. “Reg., tell me!”

“The black is behind.”

“And the bay?”

Before the reply came, a flash of red went alone under the string and the first heat was over!

The boy sprang from the horse and tottered against the blacksmith, who was near at hand. The yelling, surging crowd almost overpowered them. Neil approached and asked if the boy was sick or hurt.

“Curse it!” he swore, harshly, “don’t give in, Jack! Hold the lad up! Here, give him this!” and he took a cup of brandy from the groom who was about to pour it on his horse’s back and put it to the lips of the boy, who, with a quick, low cry, broke away, dragging the blacksmith through the dust.

“Keep back!” yelled Jess. “He’s all right!”

The men and boys began to collect, and he could hardly get beyond the gate leading into the field.

“Mr. Emory, keep that crowd back,” he cried again, “or I’ll not answer for the consequences!” and Neil, pushing here and there, assisted by the police, dispersed the restless, curious stragglers of the race-course.

Peleg threw his arm around his half-exhausted companion and hurried him through the heat and dust to the shade, where an old buggy stood.

The track swarmed with people, and a hundred voices took up the cry:

“Cliquot wins! A thousand to one on Cliquot! Going, going, going, gone!”

“Pool, sir? Pool, sir, on Cliquot?” and the air was rent with the wild cries, oaths and bets on the stallion.

Thirty minutes, and again the bell sounded.

“Stop that accursed band!” yelled a big man, with five hundred on Bay Thomas, as that nag shot by in a mad bolt around the track.

A laugh from fifty mouths greeted him, as he went through the dust roaring like a mad lion.

The bell again, and once more the horses move beyond the flag, all behaving pretty well. Cliquot’s rider is a little pale, but sitting quite at ease in his saddle. The blacksmith walks to the starting point, and, now and then, he and the boy speak to each other. This time there is no trouble about the start and they are off in a moment.

Round, as before, to the quarter-stretch; then, the black drops far behind.

Only the two came thundering and panting on, and, when the string is reached, neck and neck are bay and stallion. On! together, on! How the dust flies and the sun pours down!

When opposite the stand, a hundred glasses are leveled at the horses, but not a shade of difference is seen in the speed of the two. Now they have reached the quarter-stretch. Bay Thomas’ rider uses his whip fast and quick. Cliquot’s carries no lash, but, with his slender knees pressed hard against his horse’s sides, with lips drawn tight above the clenched teeth, the red jockey swings around the curve, and, as he does so, leans over and, in a clear voice, cries:

“Up! up! there!”

Like an arrow from a bow, swifter than a flying cloud, with heaving sides and quivering nostrils, the beautiful stallion rushes in to victory! He has cleared the string, leaving the other far behind, and, still galloping on, stops at length beyond the gate!

With difficulty his rider turns him towards the stand. Cliquot knows he has won. Rearing slightly and fretting a little, he is almost beyond the control of the exhausted jockey.

Near the fence, inside the field, Clovis had drawn her team, and one of the mares threw up her head at the approach of the stallion. He caught the restless movement, and, with a long, low, quivering neigh, reared high in air, cleared the fence with a bound, and dashed towards the mare, while his rider slid from his seat into the dust.

In a moment twenty hands caught the horses attached to the carriage; but Cliquot tore away, snorting and wheeling to look back as he ran.

Emory, who had witnessed all, hastened forward, and was about to lift the fallen jockey when the boy sprang to his feet, apparently unhurt. The blacksmith, who seemed always at hand, reached him; but, just as they were about to walk away, the boy sank upon his knees and covered his face with his hands.

“He is injured!” said Emory, who lingered by. “Where are you hurt?” he asked, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

A low moan was the only answer.

“Call my carriage! Quick, Peleg!” Emory said, pointing across the field.

The boy did not stir or remove his hands till the conveyance drew up, and then, as Emory took him in his arms, he uttered a low cry and fainted, yes, fainted dead away, and Neil struggled into the carriage with his burden.

“Run for some water,” he said, turning to the man behind him. He sped off, and when he returned the gentleman was kneeling on the floor of the carriage, gazing like one bereft of his senses at the still, upturned face and its wealth of bronze-colored hair. It was the beautiful face of Gwendoline Gwinn!

“Come away, for God’s sake, come away, sir, before she recognizes you!” cried the blacksmith, pulling him from the vehicle.

Emory allowed himself to be dragged out, and before he could say a word the door was slammed and the carriage gone.

“Only a faint, thank God!” thought Peleg, as he picked up Gwendoline’s wig from where it had fallen when she was laid in the carriage. “She shan’t know from me that he found her out!” and he got her home safely, as he had often done before.

CHAPTER VIII.
“MY BEAUTIFUL! MY BEAUTIFUL!”

Yes, Gwendoline rode the stallion, rode to victory the colt she herself had reared. A few years back, when her father lived, he had owned the mother of Cliquot, and, from the time the beautiful sorrel came into the world until that dark day when misery, ruin and death settled on their hearts and homes, the girl had caressed and fondled the lovely creature, who, when old enough to mount, was, for her, as gentle as a lamb.

Over the hills of the “blue grass” country together they sped many, many miles, Cliquot and the tall, red-haired, pale-faced girl who was daring as a boy, reckless as an Indian, and cool and calculating beyond her years.

No wonder Cliquot neighed low and quivered with delight when her small hand crept, as of old, under his mane, and the well-remembered “Up! up!” of his coltish days rang in his ears, giving him the signal when to do his best, that best which he had never done for any one but her.

The picture hanging in her room ever reminded Gwendoline of those “dear departed days.” That small rough sketch of mother and colt was taken when she little dreamed they would ever part, or, parting, meet again as they had done. At her father’s death, everything was sold; and she and her mother left the place they loved so well to seek a home in a city in another state, where she again met the horse and the man she loved.

By a strange fatality Emory had bought the creature, knowing nothing of his history. By the new name given him Gwendoline did not recognize her old “Notos” till she saw him led up on the track that dreadful day.

That night she woke from a wild and vivid dream of once more being seated on his back like a boy, firm and erect. She dreamed that, in scarlet jacket and jockey cap, she rode the race and won, gaining for the man who had been blind to the idolatry of years victory and a purse of gold. Then and there she seized the idea. She felt that her influence over that trembling, high-spirited steed would be as strong as in the olden days.

“Oh!” she murmured, “if I could but touch him! If I could but feel once more his bounding, quivering limbs beneath my own! For that alone I would risk my life, my beautiful! My beautiful!”

The blacksmith, Jess Peleg, who had lived on her father’s place, had moved with them and set up his forge just outside the city limits. Here Gwendoline often stopped in her carriage to exchange kindly greetings.

When a little girl, she had stood for hours, watching him at his work, while the light from the glowing coals shone on her face and hair. Sometimes, in the twilight, the man would turn to gaze upon her, as she lingered near; and, in the imperfect light, he would fancy it was the face of an angel. Strange that he alone should see the coming beauty so deeply hidden to all others who knew her!

Peleg had a little niece, whom, with his whole heart, the rough fellow loved, for she was his dead sister’s child.

Her father had gone to sea and left her with him and his wife, who lived in a cottage by the forge. There the “lady’s child” and the “laborer’s joy” grew fond of one another and Gwendoline taught the little Alice to read and sew and perform many other tasks.

One day a handsome race-rider saw Alice, took a fancy to her, and, after awhile, persuaded her to run away with him, because the blacksmith, having heard he was a married man, forbade all intercourse between him and Alice.

And this is why Peleg grieved sorely and pined at his work.

But the red-haired girl remained his friend, and, after a long, troublesome time, found poor Alice and brought her home. Her husband by this time had deserted her, leaving her lonely and broken-hearted. So grateful were both the blacksmith and his niece that, when Gwendoline took the girl to be her maid, her uncle followed, to be near them in the city of N——; and, when Gwendoline was fired with the thought of her daring scheme, it was Peleg who aided her and Alice who saw her to and from the shop, and, at last, on the day of the race, sat amid the ladies on the stand, dressed in her mistress’ clothes, sporting her gloves and her parasol, and, with a veil over her face, was a silent witness of her lady’s triumph.

And this man, Neil Emory, is married. She knows he is bound to another. Why has she done this for him? Can it be for love?

Yes! for love her hands guided his flying steed to the mine of wealth. For love her “pretty good arms” held in check the reins of fortune, only to slacken them when the prize was won.

Now she lay back amid her pillows at ease and laughed at the world and her mother, who called her “lazy.”

Where is her energy now? Gone? No! oh, no! but she can be quite as lazy as ever now, and so the beautiful, tall, supple girl stretches out her graceful limbs on the downy couch, with the same ease that the racer does his on the greensward.

“How glad I am that he does not know!” she thought. She was not aware Neil had discovered her, for, when she opened her eyes in the carriage, Peleg alone was with her; and, when they drew up before the blacksmith’s cottage, her hair was again under her black wig, and she was able to alight and enter, leaving him to return thanks by the driver.

She was lying on the little bed in the back room of this humble home when Alice appeared with her garments, as usual. Her carriage stood a short distance off, under some trees, and it was not long before she appeared in her own dress, looking tall and stately, and, with her faithful maid, drove home, through the gloom.

Mrs. Gwinn had not gone to the race. She never attended races; in fact, she had preferred to spend the day with a friend.

When Gwendoline entered her own room, she walked over to where the picture of the stallion hung. Taking it down, she pressed it to her bosom, saying:

“God bless you, my darling! God bless you, my beautiful! You never ran like that before—and may never do so again!”

Then, with Alice’s assistance, she undressed, and, after a refreshing warm bath, wrapped about her a long, cool, white robe and threw herself on a low couch, saying softly over and over, as the pent up tears fell slowly down her cheeks:

“For thee I did it—for thee! Farewell, my beautiful! my beautiful!”

CHAPTER IX.
THE CHINK OF GOLD.

When the carriage containing Gwendoline and her companion had passed the outer gate, Neil Emory started forward like one mad, and hastened towards the highway.

“Where are you going?” said a voice, and a hand was laid on his arm.

“Hail that carriage!” he shouted, without looking round. But it was far beyond the reach of human voice. Then he gazed about him and saw his friend Gray at his elbow.

“I’ve been watching you,” said he, “and I saw you put the boy in the carriage. I dare say he’s all right. Peleg is a pretty good fellow, and he’s well-known on the track. Only a faint, was it? You ought to be glad the buck wasn’t killed. Come!” and he slipped his arm in his friend’s. “I see they’ve caught Cliquot; but the rascal is neighing and plunging worse than ever. I say, Emory!” as they walked on, “he’s brought you in a tremendous pile, but, if you don’t secure the services of that last jockey, you’d better part with the animal!”

Part with Cliquot! The words rang in his ears. Part with him now? Not for ten thousand worlds! Not for ten million jockeys! Had she not ridden him? Thank God! no one but himself knew. No one saw the sweet face of his love beneath the dark hair and scarlet cap. His alone the secret denied even to her. He would hug it, with that other, to his breast, and overpower her in his joy! Soon, ah! how soon might it, could it be?

Half-dazed and bewildered, he walked to the stand. The excitement was nearly over. Bets were being settled, and the pool-rooms were empty. As he came up, many hands grasped his and handkerchiefs waved, and kisses were thrown from the women above.

They were putting Clovis’ mares back into the carriage, and she was preparing to leave. She raised her veil, and turned her dark eyes upon him—those beautiful orbs so full of fire usually, now so filled with the tender light of love for him. Can he resist them, even at this moment when his own heart is stirred with a passion which well nigh stops its beating?

He raised his hat, went over to where she sat, and, taking her outstretched hand in his, said:

“I feel that I have your congratulations.”

“You have, indeed,” she whispered; “and—and—the boy?—he was not hurt?”

“No! thank God!” How hoarse and low his voice sounded; and the woman at his side saw what he did not—a tear fall on the ungloved hand that went up to her veil as he walked away.

Gray met him on the road to his stable.

“The heaviest loser here to-day is Clayton,” he said. “I never saw a more upset man. Of course, he swears there was foul play and is making himself generally disagreeable. He has been drinking champagne by the quart for days. Last night he was up with Bob and others till a late hour. I went to his rooms about midnight and found them. A blaze was dancing up the grate, where he was destroying some old love letters. I got Bob home, for I knew Selina wouldn’t like to hear of it. The others kept it up; and to-day the same party have had ice and wine for hours in the reception-rooms. I hope you won’t have any trouble with him, Neil. I should not like you to meet him just now, for the sake of——well, for a good many reasons,” he concluded, hastily.

“Never fear,” said his companion, with a smile. Ah! that slow, beautiful smile that had won him so many women’s hearts.

A couple of grooms were busy scraping and rubbing down his horse, which, in no very amiable mood, was having his jaws forced open by the wet sponge and the sweat cleaned from his sides.

“Did he hurt either of the mares, or frighten the ladies much?” Neil inquired.

“He made one of the mares break a trace, and gave her a pretty good lick on the shoulder, that’ll make her limp awhile; but the ladies, sir!—they behaved finely—we quite admired them. Be quiet there!” he called, as Cliquot kicked out, just missing the man’s arm. “I declare, Mr. Emory, it’s as much as one’s life is worth to groom such a horse as this.”

“Well! so it is—there! that’s for your risk; something extra,” and he handed him a five-dollar gold-piece. “Take lots of care of him, my man,” he called out as he departed.

“What extravagance!” exclaimed Reginald.

“That’s my mood, just at present,” and Neil laughed.

Reginald was right in thinking George Clayton would give Emory some trouble if they met. Like all cowards, he was a dangerous fellow when aroused by wine. His dark, handsome face looked like a demon’s, as he came out of the pool-room, holding his hat in one hand, while he ran the other back and forth through his hair, and swung his long limbs across the track.

“Don’t talk so loudly,” said one of his friends; “there’s Emory!”

“Just what I want,” cried the young man, in a violent manner, going up to where Neil stood, waiting for a hack to take his friend and himself home.

Neil had turned at the sound of his name, and now, with his cool, calm face, confronted the speaker, whose visage was inflamed by passion and wine.

“Well,” he said, “what do you want?”

“A settlement of this infernal business!”

“What do you mean?” and the blond man straightened himself a trifle.

“I mean, Mr. Emory,” and he leaned over and shouted the words in his ear, “the way your cursed jockey rode! I call it——”

A cloud of dust and a falling, bleeding man, with his lip cut open, were all the spectators saw. There was a cry of, “For God’s sake, Emory, enough! enough!” and Reginald, with some of his friends, hurried him away, while the dust-covered, blood-stained face of Clayton was shut out from their view by the crowd.

The hack drove up, and Emory and his friend made their way to it. Not a word was spoken, and in silence they returned to the city.

The sun was low in the horizon and the lights in the streets began to glitter as they reached home.

“I wish I’d killed him,” said Neil, “so it would all be over!”

“Do you think he’ll fight?” asked Gray.

“Yes,” responded Emory, “when he gets intoxicated again.”

“Oh! by the bye, old fellow, here’s a photo I picked up from the ground. Does it happen to belong to you?” and Gray took from his pocket the picture that Clayton had thrust into his the night before, and handed it to Emory.

One glance, one swift, penetrating glance, and he knew her.

This then was the man for whom she had left him! This was the cur who had escaped him! Would no peace come for him? Was his life ever to be one of dramatic disclosures and startling episodes?

“Reginald,” he asked, “don’t you know her?” and he held the picture under the gaslight, as they stood in the room.

“Your wife!” and the staring eyes of his friend met his.

“Yes, Reg.,—and—I didn’t kill him! It came from his pocket. I saw it fall, with some papers, when I caught hold of his coat and held him as I cut his accursed lip open.”

He went over to the window to hide his face, and a dead one rose before him.

“Shall I tell him?” he thought. Yes, he would; for in time all would know. Going back to the table, where he had thrown the picture, he took it up, and, turning to his friend, said, simply:

“She is dead, Reginald, and—I forgive her. Leave me, old boy, I would be alone.” And the door soon closed behind departing footsteps.

Alone with his thoughts, he folded his arms in his old way, and walked up and down the long room. Once, as he passed before a handsome sideboard, he stopped, and, taking a decanter of brandy from a shelf, poured some into a tumbler and drank it.

“My first drink in an age!” he thought.

The strong liquor stirred his cold and stagnant blood, and soon a glow showed itself on his cheeks.

“I needed it,” he thought; “my very heart was getting chilled.”

He rang the bell for his servant, who, when he came, was told to order a supper sent from a restaurant.

“I cannot face a crowd—no, not to-night. I must think and be alone, and sleep if I can.”

So he waited for his solitary repast.

Having partaken of it and dismissed his servant for the night, he turned off the hot and flaring gas, opened the door of his sleeping apartment, that the light might shine from beyond, and, drawing a chair to the large window, pushed back the hanging curtains so the breeze might fan his cheek and brow as he sat in the gloom.

No doubt, the wish to rush forth to where his love lay slumbering the hours away was strong within him; he, however, yielded not to it, but thought:

“Not yet, not yet will I disturb the halo that encircles her. Let the days speed by, and the nights, though but a few, waft their bright and fluttering pinions over us a little longer. I would not startle thee, oh, my darling, in this hour. How careful must I be, as I unfold to her my knowledge.”

Thoughts like these, half-spoken to the midnight air came thick and fast; then others crowded on his brain.

He knew that the Gwinn’s were poor. Money! Was it for the reward—two thousand dollars?—and he must pay it—to her!

“No, no!” he cried aloud, springing to his feet, and pacing the room as before. “I know not what to think, what to do!” And thus, his mind torn by a thousand contending feelings, he passed the hours till dawn.

CHAPTER X.
FALSE COURAGE.

Emory was finishing his toilet the next morning when his servant knocked at the door, and, on entering, informed him that a man, giving his name as Jess Peleg, was waiting in the ante-room to see him. Emory soon joined him, and, leading him into the reception-hall, motioned Peleg to a seat.

“Thank you, sir, I won’t sit down. I’ve but a few words to say, if I only knew how to put them up. I never was much of a talker, and I guess I’d as well come to the point at once.”

“Very well,” said Emory, opening a desk behind him and drawing a check book towards him, as he dipped his pen in the ink. “You remember, it was two thousand dollars; and here is the check made out in your name.”

The man took it, saying:

“Yes; and here it is in no name!” and he tore the paper into pieces and scattered them on the floor. “I didn’t come for no pay, Mr. Emory, I only is here to ask that you keep to yourself what you found out yesterday. I wouldn’t tell her for the world; anyhow, sir, not yet awhile. She has her own reason, bless her heart, for the ride she took. I might as well make a ‘up and up’ of it, sir, for fear you’d be gettin’ things wrong. You know—if I tell you so—that she raised that stallion herself. The mother belonged to her father, and I was the blacksmith on the place. So you see it weren’t no great things for her to do, considering as how the horse knowed her so well, and them sort is always gentle like with a woman. I’ve been raised in the ‘blue grass’ country and so has she, and what we don’t know about a daisy cutter, ain’t worth knowing. She come to me, just after she found out your jockey was dead, saying she knowed your stallion was her old Notos, and says she:

“‘Peleg, I can ride him! Peleg, I can’t abide for him to be beat! I feel, old fellow, as if I must kick off my satins and silks, and get astride of my darling again. Oh! I thought he was dead and gone forever! When I saw him come on the track that day, I wanted to go down and kiss him as I used to do!’

“And then she just begged me to help her do what she did. I was not afraid of her gettin’ hurt, but found out. I don’t know if she had any other reason than just to be on his back, and run him, as I used to see her do, a comin’ down the pretty roads of our old home, her bright hair a-flyin’ behind her. I don’t know if that were the only reason; but she pleaded, with the tears in her eyes, for my help to win your race, sir! And now please keep your money and our secret.”

He took up his hat, and without another word bowed low to his listener, whom he left dumb-founded.

Keep her secret? Yes, that he would; but how long? But would she keep it herself? Had she not already revealed it to him whom she believed forever lost to her?

Afar off in her rosy bower that breezy morn Gwendoline thought of him, and her cheek grew paler at the idea that he might have discovered her. No word or look, as yet, had betrayed her passionate love for him. The color rushed over throat and brow, as she thought of what she had braved for him. To give to the husband of another her heart’s best treasure was terrible in itself; and hide it in her bosom as she would, she failed to still those wailings, which had he heard them would horrify him. And then to know her as she was, unsexed before his very eyes, that, that would be the finishing stroke. That she thought in her despair would deal her a death-blow.

So thought Gwendoline. She murmured a prayer of thankfulness, and blessed the brawny blacksmith, the friend of her childhood, who, she believed, had saved her from this disgrace.

In the meantime, while these two hearts were torn with such contending emotions, the men at the clubs were discussing the race and its excitement. The wonderful pluck and bravery of the young jockey were touched upon, his grace and good riding praised, but the culminating incident of the encounter between Emory and Clayton was the principal theme of conversation.

Would he resent the blow? Could he easily forget so ignoble a fall in the dust, before a throng of men and women? Had he any excuse to plead for such coarse and ungentlemanly conduct?

Many and varied were the comments around the card tables, in the reading-rooms and over the billiard cues. During four or five days following the race, little else was talked of, friends on both sides being anxious to arrange matters amicably.

“Don’t trouble yourselves, my dear fellows!” said Emory on the third evening, as he made his first appearance among them since the race. “I think Mr. Clayton and I perfectly understand each other. I sent him a letter this morning, which will be answered from——New York!”

A smile went around the company.

“Oh! pray don’t think for a moment that I am speaking derogatorily of the gentleman in question, for I assure you I intend nothing of the kind. On the contrary, I highly appreciate his many and untold perfections. Still, I think it altogether unnecessary that you feel further anxiety on this subject. It has quite settled itself—quite. Thanks, all the same.” And, taking his hat from the rack, Neil bowed politely and left the club.

“Well!” exclaimed one, “so there won’t be any duel, after all!”

“No! for I doubt if Clayton has the wherewithal to buy his false courage!” chimed in another.

“I say, Reginald!” said a slim young fellow, buttonholing him and drawing him towards an open window, “I have heard that Emory is a married man. Is there any truth in the report?”

“Yes!” replied Gray; “but——he has lost his wife.”

“Oh! I beg pardon! You are great friends, are you not? He’s an awfully fine fellow, and all that. I did not ask from idle curiosity. My sister and myself are great admirers of his, and, somehow, I didn’t like to think of him as sailing under false colors.”

“All right, Maury; I understand, and if you’ll just step outside, on the balcony here, I’ll light a cigar and give you a little history.”

They took two chairs and made themselves comfortable.

“You see,” said Gray, leaning back and knocking the ashes from his cigar, and, as he did so, wondering how much he ought to tell, “you see, he was married four or five years ago to Cecile Davis, a cousin of Miss Gwinn. Everybody thought it a love match; but I always doubted it and wasn’t the least bit surprised when she ran away.”

“Left him!” cried Maury, starting forward. “Why, what was the woman made of to desert such a man as that?”

A shrug of the shoulders was Gray’s only reply, and he continued:

“Well, he has never seen her since. Not long ago he heard she was dead. I wouldn’t speak of the matter generally, Maury, for I really think it too delicate a subject to be discussed in clubs; don’t you agree with me?”

“I really do. Perhaps there is some one else he cares for. I wonder if it’s the actress?”

“No!” was the answer, “I do not think it is Clovis.”

“Emory is a fine fellow!” exclaimed Maury, “and, if Selina wasn’t engaged to Bob, I’d rather see her fancy him than anybody I know. But it’s late! and my speaking of my sister reminds me that I promised to call for her at Mrs. Dale’s where she is taking tea. By the by,” he added, as they came down the steps of the club together, “are you going to the garden party at Mrs. Dale’s country place? Of course, you were invited?”

“I dare say I’ll put in an appearance,” answered Gray, “since it’s getting too hot for dancing.”

“Oh! but they will dance out there,” said Maury, “and in the open air, too.”

“Well! when I happen to hear a good band I generally feel inclined to take a step or two,” remarked Gray. “I am not a bit like Neil in that respect; he thinks it an awful waste of time.”

“But we’ll see him, at any rate; don’t you think so? And, Gray,” added Maury, as they reached the corner where their paths diverged, “I wish you would ask Emory to allow me to drive him out behind my team. I heard he sent his horses back to his place to-day. I’m rather proud of those bays of mine and want his opinion on their merits, as well as his agreeable company. Tell him, will you? And ask him to send a reply in the morning.”

“Very well; no doubt he will be delighted,” and the two parted.

CHAPTER XI.
A MOONLIGHT DRIVE.

When Emory stepped into Maury’s buggy to drive the three or four miles into the country to Mrs. Dale’s summer home, he doubted not that he would see Gwendoline there. They had not met since the day Cliquot won. To say he carried a calm heart and easy mind would not be true; and, as they neared the festive scene, he almost longed to turn his face homeward. They had started after an early dinner, and when they arrived most of the guests had already been several hours in the beautiful grounds, gay with both natural and artificial bowers. Cloths stretched for dancing, lawn tennis nets, showing their whiteness against the green, and Chinese lanterns of every description hanging ready to be lighted were in every direction. A few tents were pitched here and there, and the sweet strains of an Italian band filled the air.

During their drive out Maury endeavored in every way to make himself agreeable to his companion, whom he found strangely silent on that beautiful afternoon. Finally as a last resort he began to talk of his horses, launching out most eloquently.

“You see, my father gave them to me,” said he. “I think they are beauties. He bought them several years ago at a sale in Kentucky. A wealthy man died, and all his possessions were sold. They have a good pedigree, but I don’t know their real names, so my boy just calls them what he pleases. They don’t exactly match in color; one is a brown and the other a blood bay; but their action is perfect.”

“Where did your father buy them?” asked Emory, at last a little interested.

“From a gentleman named Gwinn. I wonder if he was any relation to our Miss Gwinn? I have heard that she came from the same State.”

“I think it very likely. Suppose you ask her; perhaps she can enlighten you in regard to your horses’ names.”

“By Joe, I will!” exclaimed Maury. “Ah! here we are! How lovely everything looks!”

They turned into the long drive; their horses were taken away and they were soon amid the scene I have already described after meeting their hostess. Maury went off in search of his sister.

“Where’s Bob?” she asked.

“I am sure I don’t know,” replied her brother. “Hasn’t he been here all day? I have only just arrived. Tell me who are here.”

“Everybody, Clovis included. I don’t know why Mrs. Dale asked her.”

“She is very agreeable, even off the stage,” said Maury, “and there’s nothing against her coming among us.”

“They have been playing lawn tennis, and all that nonsense,” went on the girl. “I hate it and I wish they would not bother me to play!”

“Don’t you think you are a little cross, Selina?” her brother asked.

Just then some young men came up and he was glad to get away. It was an hour or so before he found Gwendoline.

At last he espied her, seated beneath a bower of roses and swinging lanterns, the sun trying to peep at her through the leaves. Two or three young men, in tennis costumes, were collected around her, and one lay on the grass at her feet, playing with his bat. She, too, wore a tennis costume, for she belonged to a club and played. It was the one thing she would do that her mother disapproved of.

She must, at times, shake off those everlasting silks and laces, along with her apparent indolence, and race on foot with bat and ball.

Her suit was a close-fitting skirt and a jacket, trimmed with red, with cap to match. “Much like the jockey’s,” she thought, as she donned it, that morning, before the glass. She made a lovely picture, against a background of green, as she reclined in a garden seat and sipped an ice. The brilliant trimming of her dress enhanced the glory of her hair and contrasted with the whiteness of her skin.

“Oh! Miss Gwendoline, I’ve been hunting you everywhere! You know my horses? I’ve just been told that they might have once belonged to your father; and you, perhaps, can tell me their names,” and Maury took a seat beside her.

“Yes! they did belong to my father, and their names are Castor and Pollux.”

“Oh, indeed! and to think I never knew it before! What lovely names!—and my boy has been calling them Dandy and Jack all this time. Why didn’t you correct me, when I called them by those names?” he asked, eagerly.

“Because”—and she stooped over to swallow the last of her ice—“I never meddle with other people’s affairs!”

“Never?”

She looked up quickly. Neil stood before her in a close-fitting, dark blue Norfolk suit, with a curious smile upon his lips. She grew deadly pale, and her eyes dropped before his for the first time. He must have felt a little for her, for, when he spoke again, his voice trembled somewhat. As he relieved her of the empty saucer in her lap, he said:

“Ices always make me so cold. Do you think it a healthy thing to do—play tennis and eat frozen cream?”

“I don’t know,” she laughed.

And then he turned and left her.

“I won’t worry her any more,” he thought.

He did not go near her again, but wandered about in an aimless way until he came across Clovis, talking with a crowd of men. He felt too dull and out of sorts to be entertained by her then, but paused to shake hands across a table of refreshments.

“Are you coming to see the last of me?” she asked. “You know it is my third week, and we are going away then.”

“Yes, I will be there to-morrow night,” and he was gone.

Did he know what he would do then? Would that the veil might have been lifted and he could have gazed, if but for a moment, on the drama fate was even now preparing for him, to be enacted the next night.

Slowly passing beneath the overhanging boughs, with head erect, he pauses; while the lights from the lanterns, shining forth through the early twilight, fall on him, he dreams alone. Think of him thus, oh, reader! and know that after to-morrow night there will be a shadow cast upon his life.

Some one called him—some one touched his arm, and, turning, he beheld Maury.

“Emory,” said Maury, “I am going to ask a favor of you. Miss Gwinn is willing for me to drive her home, should her mother consent. She knows the horses, and all that. Gray has a vacant seat for you in his drag. You won’t mind accepting it, will you, and let me take Miss Gwinn? I’d do as much for you, any day.”

Neil remembered the eyes that drooped beneath his own, and he didn’t mind in the least. She was quite safe, he thought.

“Mamma,” said Gwendoline, “I am going to drive home with Mr. Maury.”

“Impossible!” replied the lady; “you know I never allow you to drive with young men, especially behind strange horses.”

The girl leaned over and whispered something in her mother’s ear.

“That alters the case, as far as the horses are concerned.”

“Come, come, now, Mrs. Gwinn,” said the young man, approaching, “don’t deny your daughter the pleasure of once more riding behind her own nags; and, you know, I am to be trusted.”

“Quite true, my dear youth!—but how am I to explain matters to others?”

“Oh! just say she’s going to be a bridesmaid to my sister, and we want to talk about her dress.”

Mrs. Gwinn laughed.

“Well! I suppose I am overruled by that wonderful argument—but, Gwendoline!” and she called her daughter to her side, as Maury went to order his team—“be at home on time; remember your engagement with Col. Coutell.”

“I will be there at the appointed hour,” murmured the girl, looking through the gloom. She went with her mother to bid their hostess adieu; and, leaving her to accompany some friends home, she put her hand in Maury’s and got into the buggy that awaited her.

There were two exits to the grounds, and through that nearest to the city the carriages and other conveyances were driving.

“Go out by the lower gate,” said Gwendoline; “I have something to show you.”

Quite willing to take the longer route, Maury turned his horses’ heads and softly trotted them down the rather lonely drive. It became very lonely ere they reached the end; the overhanging boughs touched their cheeks as they drove along this disused pathway. The lights shone in the distance, and the dying strains of the band were faintly heard as they drew up at the gate.

“Stop!” said the lady beside him; “let me open it!” and, before he could prevent her, she had sprung lightly from the vehicle.

She stood for a moment, looking at him in the imperfect light.

“Do you want to hear some sweet music?” she asked.

“I have heard it all the way from the house to this place,” he said, gallantly.

“Nay, listen!” and she stepped to the heads of the horses, ran her hand lightly over their faces and softly called them by name.

A low, quivering neigh answered her.

“They know you,” said Maury; “how sweetly it sounds!”

She quickly opened the gate, and he drove through. It shut with a clang behind them, and he was about to get out to help her in, when she stopped him.

“Never do that! Always remain seated to take care of the horses. You can assist me quite as well from where you sit.”

“But I thought you knew my steeds and were not afraid of them?”

“Nor am I; but do as I tell you; my father taught me that it was right.”

So saying, she was beside him in a moment, and they drove out into the open moonlight. Yes! the queen of night rode high above them, shedding her lustre upon the white turnpike that lay before them, like a sheet of snow. Long years after, they remembered that ride—the flowery lanes and sweet night breeze. She was happy with this slim, bright boy. His gay talk and laughter amused her. No care for the morrow filled her heart. She pulled off her tennis cap to catch the winds of heaven upon her brow, and, as they sped on, the mellow ringing sound of those eight hoofs upon the road reminded her of her old home.

When they had gone about a mile, she turned to him and said:

“Have you a pocket knife?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Will you do me a favor?” she asked.

“I will do anything in the world for you to-night!” he whispered, now thoroughly in love with the beautiful woman beside him.

“Stop the horses. Now, get down and cut those blinds off, and I’ll show you something.”

He obeyed at once, tossing the leathers on the road. When he was in his seat again, she took the reins and said:

“Wait till I get to a wider place. Ah, here is one!”

Dropping the ribbons across the dashboard, she took out her handkerchief and waved it to the right, seeing which the horses turned slowly and trotted back the way they had come. Another wave to the left; they obeyed as before, and were homeward bound. “Halt!” she cried, and they stood like things of stone at the sound of her voice.

“My father taught them that! Now, take the reins; you may need them in the city. I see the lights ahead.”

The horses’ hoofs soon sounded upon the city streets and, when he left her, he went home to dreams such as he had never dreamed before.

CHAPTER XII.
“I KNOW YOU, GWENDOLINE.”

“To-morrow night!” The theatre was packed. It was a benefit—Clovis’ last performance. All N—— shone forth in its best array to bid farewell, for at least a season, to a woman who had won from many much applause——perhaps, from a few, some real love. The right proscenium box was occupied by Mrs. Gwinn, her daughter, Mrs. Dale, Col. Coutell and another gentleman. Gwendoline sat in the shadow of a curtain. She wore a soft black lace, relieved by a bunch of crimson verbenas on the low corsage, their sweet leaves touching her white neck.

Emory was met on the stairway by the usher.

“There’s not a seat to be had in the house,” he said; “but if the party who engaged the left hand box don’t come by the second act, I’ll show you in there, sir.”

He stood through the act, but, when the curtain went down, the usher came to him, saying:

“We have just learned that the people who engaged the box are not coming; so it’s yours, sir, for the night.”

When he had taken his seat, he raised his opera-glass and sought for the woman he loved. At last, he found her! How beautiful she looked that night! He had never seen her dressed in that way before. Her lovely arms shone like alabaster on the velvet cushions near her. Again and again he gazed.

“I must go to her,” he said to himself, “if but to touch her dress!” and, when the curtain fell a second time, he knocked at the door of her box. She started slightly as he came in and took a seat beside her.

“Did you enjoy your drive?”

“Oh! so much!”

“And the horses?” he asked; “how did they go?”

“As usual—oh!” and she caught her breath. “I never thought how they went, I was enjoying it all so much!”

“As usual,” he said, smiling down upon her.

This restlessness of hers was something new to him. The play went on; he neither saw nor heard—but one vision was before him—Gwendoline! That beautiful head, those wondrous eyes, that white neck, those shapely arms, that perfect form of which he had seen the outlines beneath the flimsy covering of a boy’s suit—those charms would drive him mad!

The raging fire of a long pent up passion was consuming him as he gazed upon her. And, as one in a wild and vivid dream, he gazed; the yearning to take her unto himself was overpowering—the desire to hold to his heart that soft, white, heaving breast and feel the quivering of that beautiful form which had bestrode Cliquot.

The air around became hushed and close, and a choking sensation filled his throat. Her white, ungloved hands lay like snowflakes in her lap. He touched them and whispered:

“Let me see them!”

She held them up a little.

“God bless those hands!” he said, hoarsely.

She drew back behind the curtains. The orchestra was playing—it was between the acts.

“Gwendoline!” he said, “I thank you!”

“What do you mean?” and her frightened eyes met his.

“Draw your chair back.”

She did so.

“My darling! I thank you in——Cliquot’s name!”

What had he said that the verbenas on her neck looked so pale? At that moment there was a slight noise from behind the stage, and in a little while the manager stepped out in front of the curtain and addressed the audience as follows:

“I crave your indulgence for a few moments, as one of the actresses has met with a slight accident. It will delay matters but a short time.”

“Mamma,” said Gwendoline, “I should like to go home.”

“Are you not well?”

“Yes, yes!” hurriedly replied her daughter; “but I am tired.”

“I dislike to have you pass through the theatre before the play is over—to-night especially when Clovis bids farewell.”

“Pray, Madam,” said Emory, “allow me to escort your daughter home. Fortunately, this is the stage box and I can take her out that way,” pointing to the stage door, “and easily obtain a hack. Indeed, if agreeable, I will immediately order one to be at the stairs when we come out.”

“What say you, Col. Coutell?” and Mrs. Gwinn turned to that gentleman, who, being deeply interested in the play, gave his consent; and Emory hastened away to have his orders executed. The curtain was still down, when, with Gwendoline, trembling upon his arm, he closed the door of communication behind them, and stepped into the space beyond the wings. Only a few actors and supernumeraries were about, but, as they made their way along some stage paraphernalia they came directly up to the woman who was hurt. She was sitting upon a box with a silk handkerchief over her head. She heard them, and, pushing the hair from her face, looked up. The bright light from the wings shone full upon her, and they saw on her white brow a gaping cut above the eyes.

“You!” cried Emory, catching wildly at his throat, “you!”

“Cecile! and do you know me?”

“Oh! yes; I know you, Gwendoline,—and how well you ride!”

A random shot, but it told, for her cousin shrank back with the same low moan Emory had heard on the race-course. As it smote his ear, his frozen blood leaped into life again.

“Hush, woman!” and, catching her arm, he crushed her to the floor. A hollow, ugly laugh greeted him, as she twisted herself away, saying between her teeth:

“Did you enjoy the telegram?”

“Your cue on!” cried the call-boy, running up behind. She rose to her feet, quickly tossed her shaggy hair over her brow, and in a twinkling had run upon the stage, while those two, staggering down the stairs, heard a sound like silver bells and the applause that greeted “Kitty who laughed.”

Gwendoline crouched like a frightened bird in the dark corner of the hack, as it dashed along the streets; and her companion—he, too, was as silent as the grave.

This then was the end! Worse for him than Gwendoline. He had believed himself free; she had known him but in his slavery and worshiped him so.

Bewildered, and blinded by his passion for her, that night he had well nigh betrayed himself—and now the end!

The carriage drew up at Mrs. Gwinn’s door, and, dismissing it, he mounted the steps and silently pulled the bell. Before it was answered, he took both her hands in his,—those dear hands, hanging so white and bare beside her—took them in his own, and held them for a moment to his bosom; then, turning up the palms, he kissed first one and then the other passionately, saying:

“God bless them! those brave little hands—God bless them, forever!” and he was gone.

When Mrs. Gwinn returned home from the theatre, she found her daughter in tears and learned from her something of what had occurred behind the scenes.

“How strange we never knew her, mamma, often as we have seen her act.”

“Not at all strange,” replied her mother, who was moving about the room, arranging things for the night. “What with her short dress, paint and powder, dyed hair and artificial laugh, one would hardly recognize the quiet dark girl who spent only a few short months with us, then married Mr. Emory. I really don’t think it necessary for you to worry about her. She has passed completely out of our lives, and it makes little or no difference what becomes of her.”

She did not wish to pursue the conversation further, as her mind and inclinations were bent on the completion of the match between her daughter and the wealthy Southerner, Col. Coutell.

But Gwendoline persisted in talking of her cousin, as her mother moved restlessly about the room.

“You know they were not happy, mamma,” said the girl, in a low tone, fraught with tears,—“and—and—I am sorry for him, the—the husband she left.”

“Well!” said her mother, impatiently, “he might get a divorce.”

“Get—a—divorce!”—and the figure lying half-dressed before her sat up, drying her eyes, and, looking in her face, with a startled expression, exclaimed: “Am I dreaming? Did you say that?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Gwinn; “I said he might get a divorce; but on what grounds I know not.”

She walked to the windows, shook out the curtains, straightened a chair or two, in an aimless fashion, thinking, for the first time, that she detected a chord in her daughter’s voice and a look of the love she had once half-suspected that she entertained for the handsome blond who had married her niece.

“Might get I said, Gwendoline,” she repeated, “but such things don’t grow on trees, as forbidden fruit does. Ah! here is Alice to undress you. Take off your clothes and go to bed; it is better to dream than weep.”

Closing her door, the mother went to her couch to plan the campaign of the morn. Weary was the woman of the struggle to keep up appearances. Surrounded in her early youth by every luxury, she bore but indifferently the adversities of poverty. Her daughter’s beauty had won many admirers, but none so worthy as Col. Morris Coutell, a man of ancient lineage, possessing large estates and living alone on his inheritance, a home of vast proportions, where the mocking bird sang amid the countless trees, and flowers waved their beauties in the ever blowing breezes of the “Father of Waters.”

To dream like this sought she her pillow, picturing Gwendoline the mistress of all, a fit queen to reign over field and home, over master and slave. But to that daughter came visions less charming. Into her fitful slumber crept unwelcome images; men and women in turmoil and the dust and glare of crowded grounds seemed ever to make for themselves a picture on her brain, and fill the night with horrors, till dawn came and brought with its gray garments the coldness of despair.

CHAPTER XIII.
“WITHIN A WEEK.”

A week went by. Clovis and her troupe were gone, and the theatre closed for the summer. She had not seen Neil before leaving, but no doubt they would meet again in New York, as they had often done before. It was not alone as the actress who thrilled the hearts of the little city of N—— that he knew her. They became acquainted elsewhere, and their meetings were many and varied. But it behooves us not to tarry to speak of them;—suffice it to know that somewhere in the world, outside of the hills of home, had he found her, and had given, perhaps, a little more than passing homage to this strange woman.

During that week he closed his apartments in town, and sent his servant and his belongings to his country place, fifteen miles away, and in a few days he himself took the daily train which landed him but a mile from his door. The winding drive and rich green lawn, studded here and there with shrubbery, formed a refreshing sight to his city-weary eyes. The great dog who bounded to meet him received the warmest caresses; and the soft stillness of the evening air fell like a veil of blessing upon him, as he sat alone on his piazza.

“Here, at least, I am happy—here, at least, I may rest.” And there came to him, this prayer:

“Calm me, my God, and keep me calm
While these hot breezes blow;
Be like the night dew’s healing balm
Upon my fevered brow.”

And the picture of his mother rose before him, with her hand on his shoulder, repeating those words, in the twilight, long ago.

He was up in the early morning, and, mounting his gray, rode forth amid the fields of grain. The mellow air and leaping waters of the river beyond his door were, indeed, like unto a “healing balm” to his torn and wounded heart.

The sun was high in the heavens when he turned his weary steed homeward. On his place all was in order—for that, at least, he felt grateful. The bleating of the sheep, mingling with the soft low of the cattle, told of prosperity. He returned by way of the stable, and went in to look at his racer.

“You shall run no more, my boy,” he said, lightly touching his glossy side. “Take off his halter, and turn him loose upon the pasture, but look well to him, lad, for I go away for months; and, as it fares with him, so will it with you,” and, giving the reins of his horse into the boy’s hands, he entered the house. A day or two he lingered there, then was in the city once more.

Peleg sang at his work, and swung his hammer over his new anvil, as Emory greeted him one morn with:

“Ah! I see you’ve kept the anvil, though you refused the money.”

“Yes,” said the blacksmith, “this was a bargain, sir; I stick to that, for I meant it when I told you to book it;—and a pretty good thing it be! Thanks, Mr. Emory!”

The gentleman sat himself down on a wooden bench, just inside the door, watching the brawny, bare arms of the worker of iron go up and down in their physical beauty, while the red light from the sparkling forge shone brightly on his honest, ruddy face.

“So true to her!” he thought, “and must I be less so?” Aloud, he said: “Peleg, I am going away, perhaps, for years. Let me leave you a little income—something to make your life a bit easier, your toil lighter.”

“Bless you! Mr. Emory,” replied the man, “I’m as happy as a king! There’s nothing I want—no worry comes a-nigh us now. My good woman and me plod on together as comfortable as can be. No! no! keep your gold. I can always make a fair living, so long as these don’t fail me,” and he held out his splendid arms. “But I would ask a little favor of you—just this—to let me shoe the racer, now and then, and to ask Mr. Maury to send his bay boys here for me to tap their hoofs. You see, I knows ’em all, and what suits ’em.”

“That I will!” exclaimed Neil; “and, besides, I’ll leave orders for you to do all my work, except Cliquot—you cannot shoe him.”

“Why, sir? Him’s the one I thought on most.”

“Because,” smiled Emory, “he runs bare-hoofed upon the paddock, old boy!”

And, crossing over to the blacksmith’s side, and laying his hand on his shoulder, to keep him at his work, he said:

“Listen to me! I shall run him never again! That race—be it the last! Tell her I said this—and—and—no other shall ever mount him more!”

Then, with his hat over his face, he turned and went away.

And ever, as the glowing iron took shape beneath his blows, did the blacksmith think:

“I guess when a chain o’ gold has a broken link, that’s hard to mend. I don’t know about such as them, but it seems I welds my own tighter than they.”

Then the sparks flew upward to the clear blue sky and the unfinished song was taken up again.

Another week went by, and Neil had never seen Gwendoline since that night; nor would he do so again ere he left to wander for an indefinite space, to travel in the old world, as he had done once before, there to hide himself while his brain was filled with gloom and the “tiger passions” were on him.

The ship, with its white sails and blue smoke, that bore him away, was fading in the sunset of a summer’s eve, when a missive from him was placed in Gwendoline’s hand. It said:

“I know now that I love you, and, lest I make of that love a weapon that would destroy us both, I go away. I leave you an inheritance of a deathless passion that, in time of need, I bid you call upon. I know, too, what you have done, and I will carry with me, into those distant lands wherein I seek a little solace, the image of that face, divested of its disguise, as it lay white before me, upon the cushions of my carriage, and those lips I dared not touch. Thank God for this, and bid me keep this memory as one of the jewels of your priceless heart—this one gem to wear upon my own. Farewell, and, should we meet no more, think as I do, oh! my darling, that, if separated in this world of strife and though our paths of brief existence lie apart, we may hope the immortal life may seal our union in the sky.

“Neil Emory.”

Lying upon the floor of her chamber, with the letter crushed beneath her outstretched hands, Mrs. Gwinn found Gwendoline; and as she raised her stricken child she knew all hope had fled, and all her dreams of that bright future, which she had planned for her daughter, faded into nothing.

And so after awhile the courtly suitor, being convinced that his attentions were in vain, returned to his home, that stately mansion where he dwelt alone; henceforth, its spacious halls and frescoed rooms were untenanted, save by his lonely presence and the countless servants who did his bidding.

As he would listen in the mid-day to the sounds from his sugar house and the whistling of his returning laborers, he longed ever for one glimpse of a face never to be his—for a voice to be heard by him no more. Day by day he grew older and grayer, as he sat at eve in the shadows of the fluted columns of that broad piazza, looking towards those golden waters, the sound of whose waves ever reached his ears, in their ceaseless lap against the shore. But the undying pain which he carried in his bosom gave to his mien a gentler cast and to his voice a softer tone, rendering him a kinder friend, a more lenient master, a truer Southern gentleman!

Woe betide the day that deprived Gwendoline of the privilege of joining hands with such as he, and thus anchoring her storm-tossed bark in so secure a haven!

CHAPTER XIV.
IN THE CITY OF VIOLETS.

To believe that the woman who could rear and ride so spirited an animal as a thoroughbred stallion would swoon away as Gwendoline had done is a difficult matter. But such was the case, and the mother, day by day, saw the color fade from the cheek and the light go out from those glorious brown eyes. Do what she would, the girl grew weaker constantly, and when the heat of the long summer came, Mrs. Gwinn felt her heart almost die within her. There must be a change, or, the only thing on earth for which she now cared to live, would pass away forever. They were not rich enough to travel, so she took her daughter to stay with some friends in the mountains, where a little of the old energy came back. But when the smoke from the fall fires arose in the air above the city, Gwendoline returned to her former listlessness. So, gathering together the remnants of her fortune, Mrs. Gwinn took her child and maid and went to make a long sojourn in New Orleans, that city of violets.

At first, she could not induce her daughter to re-enter society; but fate assisted, for one day she became acquainted with a sweet girl, who was gifted with a wondrous voice. She could not play her own accompaniments, however, and, as Gwendoline was a fair performer, she often drew her into the hotel parlors to play for her. The quiet rooms of the “Veranda” were little frequented, and many hours were spent there by those two; and, at times, Gwendoline would be persuaded to go with her friend elsewhere, so that she might sing her songs in the homes of others. Little by little was she won away from herself; and, at last, to please that mother, now so devoted a parent, she again took her place before the world, apparently fully restored to health, beauty and good spirits. Beauty such as hers can but attract admirers; and, in the handsome saloons of private houses, as well as amid the public places of amusement, did Gwendoline Gwinn again reign supreme.

When the gayest month of the winter—February—came, it brought with it Gray and Maury, who thought the smiles upon her lips were just as sweet, though fraught with a sadness they had not known before. Young Maury pressed his suit, but in vain; and, at last, he, too, went home, a “sadder if not a wiser man.” I do not think I have ever led you to suppose that Reginald Gray had cared for her in a lover-like way. His place in these pages has only been that of Neil Emory’s friend—perhaps, one of Gwendoline’s, too—and the would-be lover of that gloriously seductive creature, Cassandra Clovis.

“Ah, me!” he thought, “I didn’t want the embers of a heart, burned in the furnace of her love for my friend,” and he heaved a sigh,—a rather uncommon sound, as coming from so light a breast.

Let us trust that he will find on earth a fitting mate, one who will give unto him the first sweet love of her girlhood and lavish on those bright features the purest and best of caresses. We bless you, Reginald, and offer for you this prayer, knowing as we do the purity of your heart, and so bid you a last farewell.

One cold, raw evening, Gwendoline, returning from a reception, entered her apartments through the sitting-room. She found it dark, and, hearing Alice in the bed-chamber, passed on, and, giving her wraps into her hands, returned to the sitting-room. She was shivering from the cold, and, going to the fire, stirred it to a blaze. The brightness illuminated floor and ceiling, chairs and table, falling on the black marble of the last-mentioned article of furniture, and upon the whiteness of a visiting card that lay like a snowflake before her, as she stood with her back to the chimney. Leaning over, she took it up, and turned it to the light behind her.

She was rolling it now softly, now fiercely, between her fingers, when her maid spoke to her, asking some questions about her wardrobe; then, finding herself unanswered, she went again to her work of folding and unfolding her mistress’ tumbled dresses. Presently, Gwendoline moved and, darting into the other room, said:

“When did this come?” and she held out the card, adding: “And did you see him?”

“It came some hours ago,” replied the girl; “and, yes, Miss, I did see him for a few moments.”

“And you never told me!”

“How could I? I have not seen you since,” and Alice went on hanging and putting away the dresses.

The mistress walked in a restless manner about the room, then, stopping in front of the girl, asked:

“What did he say? Did he leave no message with you? Speak! Why are you silent?” and she caught her by the wrist.

“I am silent, Miss Gwendoline, because I do not wish to tell you what he said, for—for—” and the girl’s voice grew low, “I do not think you ought to have his messages—and you ought not to see him again.”

“Impossible! I must see him, if but for a moment! I—I—have not seen him for over six months—think, girl, of that—what a weary time!”

“Yes! it has been a weary time—and I know what a weary time means!” sighed her maid.

“But the messages! Quick! Speak! Tell me what they are! I must have them! Alice, you torture me!” and Gwendoline stood before her, clasping and unclasping her hands in restless impatience.

At that moment a knock sounded upon the door. She flew to it herself, for some undefined instinct told her that it concerned the dearest wish of her heart. True, for a note was put into her hands—only a few words, asking when he might come.

“I will send an answer,” she said, and the door was shut.

She went to a desk, standing against the wall, and, turning over its contents, dashed off a few hasty words, folded and directed the note, looked up and met the eyes of her maid, who stood before her.

“Do not send it, Miss Gwendoline, do not bid him come, I implore you!”

“I shall not heed you, Alice. I must see him!”

“Oh!” cried the girl, approaching her, “listen to me—it is wrong—wrong! I beg you to say him nay. What will you gain by it? Say him nay, oh! say him nay!”

“Again I tell you I must see him!” and she started from her chair with an impatient gesture.

The girl threw herself upon her knees and caught her dress.

“Oh! you do not know him!” she cried. “You have not seen him as I have done to-day, when he spoke of you. I—I—am afraid for you, my mistress! I tremble for you! Here, at your feet, I implore you to say him nay!”

Tears were in the upturned eyes and soon rolled down the cheeks—tears were in the voice that besought her to “say him nay.”

But the now thoroughly aroused and passionate heart heeded not the voice. The volcano, still so long, had burst forth again.

She tore her dress from the figure crouching at her feet, and, thrusting the note into Alice’s reluctant hands, bade her rise and at once go forth upon her errand, carrying those words that would bring him to her in less than an hour. Turning at the door, the girl lifted her hand and said:

“Oh! Gwendoline,—let me call you so this once—pause before you act—remember my fate—think of me!”

“Go! go!” she cried, wildly. “I can think of nothing but him!” and, throwing her arms out across the table before her, she buried her face in them as the door closed.

When the maid returned, she found her mistress tossing over the wardrobe, looking here and there for some dress to suit her fancy.

“Make me beautiful, oh! make me beautiful!” she ever murmured, as Alice stood, with trembling heart and hands, to do her bidding. At last, she was ready. She had selected a white directoire of soft material, clinging to her form, falling from her shoulders in graceful folds and open at the throat to show the whiteness of her skin. No jewelry of any kind adorned her person, and she looked like a lovely statue as she stood in the subdued light of her sitting-room, waiting for the footsteps she had thought never to hear again.

Alice, lingering in the passage, opened the door to him; then she slipped away to solitude and tears.

Gwendoline, with one hand resting upon the mantle, turned her beautiful face, and, stretching out the other, greeted him.

“I bid you welcome,” she said, softly, “back to America.”

“And you,” he asked, “have you been well?”

“Not always,” she murmured.

The fire-light was the brightest in the room,—the lamp behind them worried him with its dimness. He arose and turned the wick higher.

“Now, I can see you better—do you pardon the act? It is so long since I have looked upon your face, Gwendoline,” and he reseated himself and drew his chair close beside her.

She rested her head back against the cushions behind her, and sighed a little.

“This is boy’s play,” thought Emory. “I must speak!” Then he said aloud: “Gwendoline, you know what has brought me—I cannot live without you! This I have come home to say. How fares it with you?”

The lace on her bosom rose and fell, while the white hands were clasping and unclasping, in a silent, anguished way.

“Speak to me!” whispered her lover, bending over her; “say that you feel as I do—let me have from those lips the assurance that ’tis not mine alone, this love that consumes.”

Rising slowly from her seat, Gwendoline stood for a moment, swaying her tall form back and forth, with outstretched hands, moaning aloud. He took those hands between his own, and again besought her to speak.

“What would you?” she cried, with flame-covered cheeks. “Are you free?”

“Yes! but not as you think—not free as the world would deem me—but free to love you and you alone! Of every thought, where other women are concerned, I am free! Gwendoline!” he cried, passionately, “give yourself to me! Say, am I not everything to you?” and he drew her towards him.

She felt his arms about her, his hot and panting breath upon her cheek, and her heart grew wild within her.

“Not free! not free!” she moaned once more. “Oh! Neil, I know not what to do!”

“Do as I bid you!” His gestures were almost rough in their passion. “One word—will you be mine, and mine alone?”

Still she shrank from him, trembling, afraid to speak. He threw himself before her in a hurricane of passion, and caught her to his breast.

“Tell me, shall I come again?—and when I do, what shall it be?” His voice had grown hoarse and low as he crushed her to his side. Her answer reached him, and he knew then that for them both Heaven would smile, though Hell be at their feet when he came again.

CHAPTER XV.
“SOFT AS ZEPHYR.”

And, even then, in the “City of Violets,” life went on; even then the soft waters flowed against the shore, or, going out to the ocean, carried upon their bosom the stately ships, laden with spoils, and hearts both sad and gay. The sun rose, to set again in the west, just the same as ever; and music was on the streets, while flowers and lights were everywhere.

If there were any other two, in all that seductive place, who felt like these two of whom we write, it mattered not to them. The days sped on alike, and the nights, not a few, came and went, shaking their starry banners over river and town; and yet, they had not met; though she knew the day was not far distant when he would “come again.”

Engagements of every kind filled her outward existence, and her mother seemed ever ready to hurry Gwendoline from theatre to ball-room, from dinner to tea, and invent a thousand and one excuses to be with her daughter, always keeping her on the go.

Somehow she had learned of Emory’s return, and, later on, of his arrival in the city; and, dreading a meeting between Gwendoline and himself, she spared no pains to avoid the chances of such an encounter. She heard that he was stopping at the “St. Charles,” and she rejoiced now that her daughter had from the first sought a more quiet hotel. Mr. Emory went little into society, and thus it was that at no time had they met. As for that ever-to-be-remembered cold evening, Mrs. Gwinn knew nothing of it. Alice had kept her counsel, and Gwendoline nursed the secret with the terrible words wrung from her in that hour. One week, and then another went by—still no glimpse upon the street, no looks from the opera stalls. Did he go to one theatre, she was at another. Did he walk upon Canal, she sped by in a carriage! Did he call—she was gone!

At last, in despair, he moved his quarters, taking up his abode but a few doors from her own, with his windows looking out upon the same long, cool veranda. But he would not show himself, would not startle her, all too soon, either in the dining-hall or parlors. And she,—how bore she the separation? More bravely than you would think. Perhaps, she prayed that as he came before he would not come again.

“I am afraid, afraid!” she murmured.

One night, the wind blew soft as zephyr through her curtains. She came home from the opera, and sat in the dark to dream of him.

“Go away!” she said to Alice. “I will undress myself!”

All was hushed and still on the street below, when she pulled in her blinds and dropped her dress from her shoulders. Piece by piece the garments fell from around her, until but one remained, and her loosened hair covered her bosom. She had lighted the gas and saw herself reflected in the mirror beyond. She flushed a sunset red.

“All this is for him!” she murmured.

In a moment the light was out and, with her night dress wrapped close about her, she crept to her pillow, shivering as with an ague.

CHAPTER XVI.
AT LAST.

There came a bright and perfect day, followed by a night quite its equal. Had a petition been sent to the portals above, where the weather angel sat, there could not have come from him more mellow, golden hours than those that dawned for the Cresent City that beautiful Wednesday of early March. All along the flower-clad streets men and women walked, sauntering, in their Southern fashion, stopping now and then to greet each other, or to gaze in the shop windows. The old peanut woman smiled upon her stores as she kept the lazy flies away; and the violet stands sold double their usual number of bunches. Every one was out. Every one seemed happy. Children, in white dresses and gay sashes, wandered hand in hand along the street, their sweet laughter mingling with the sounds around them.

In after years, how often came to those two the memory of that brief morn. Alone, with folded arms, Neil stood and watched the setting sun, as it went down across the waters at West End. The white sails of countless pleasure boats were framed against the sky. There came a strange, wild yearning in his heart to be upon the deep once more—to go forever from all this! And yet he could not leave her. He thought of taking her with him to foreign lands and beginning anew his life. But the end? What must it be?

All day he had thought to seek her, and all day he had not done so. He had walked the beautiful streets in fierce restlessness, and there would come again and again that feeling of solitude, impossible to describe; and though the sound of her last hurried whisper rang ever in his ear, still did he shrink away, hugging to his breast the memory of a treasure he longed yet dared not to look upon.

“Would that I might keep you pure, my love, pure as the children I pass in the mid-day beams!” and the man, stretching out his arms in the twilight gloom, surrendered himself to his fate.

All through those golden hours, she, too, had thought of him; she had spent the day across the lake, wandering on the sea shore, pausing, now and then, in the shadow of some great tree to throw back her light veil that she might watch the distant ships go out into the ocean. She, too, had longed to be away from “all this,” and still, ever with each fleeting thought, came the heart cry, “I cannot leave thee, for I know thou wilt come again!”

Back to the city, when the night dews fell, they came; and, after she had rested a little, she went with her mother to the theatre. They did not think to look at the bills, before starting for the Grand, nor ask the name of the troupe, so when the curtain went up on the second act they were not a little surprised to see an old friend step to the footlights. Gwendoline whispered to her mother:

“Mamma, I am so glad we came. I have always enjoyed her acting so.”

Mrs. Gwinn put up her glasses.

“Why, yes!—and it really is Clovis! I thought she was in California!” said her mother.

“Excuse me, Madam,” remarked a stranger behind them. “She is not going there until after her engagement here; then, she leaves, never to return.”

“Ah, indeed!” said Mrs. Gwinn. “I had not heard that. Thanks for your kind information,” and she turned her face to the stage, as the curtain rose.

Like all Cassandra’s selections, the play was both tasty and beautiful. Gwendoline thought her quite as lovely as ever, only, perhaps, a little thinner, and a “wee bit” worn in face and figure. The story of the drama was one like unto her own life—the hopeless, passionate love of a woman for a man, who had given the best of his heart-treasures to another. Emory, standing in the shade of a column, saw all and felt her powerful language. Never had she acted as now—never had her voice rung o’er pit and gallery with such pathos. She never once saw him, or knew that he was there. As if alone, and unto an unseen world, did she pour forth the torrent of her affection, and other hearts besides his were touched. The last scene came. The dying footsteps of her departing lover were heard no longer, and in solitude the lonely, deserted woman stood, to speak in beauteous soliloquy her parting words—to breathe her parting prayer.

With those glorious eyes upturned to a face she seemed to see, while her white arms went out before her and around her clung her flowing robes of snow, stood the actress the people loved. Pale, and paler still, she grew; and, back, within the shade, where he sat, Emory saw the tears upon her cheeks and heard the sadness in the voice, as the soft roll of the falling curtain shut that face from his gaze forevermore!

And that other—where was she? Her name was not on the programme, but one woman behind the scenes had he caught a glimpse of—a frail thing, dressed in black lace, her head and shoulders enveloped in a fabric of the same kind. Several times had she passed in view, but his opera-glass told him nothing.

It was long past midnight when he sought his room. In spite of the lateness of the hour the lamps burned in the long parlor. Throwing his window open, he drew a chair to the railing of the veranda, so that he might sit for awhile and enjoy the coolness there. How clear seemed the skies above him, studded with those myriad stars! How sweet the soft winds of heaven!

The occasional roll of returning carriages was heard in the street beneath, in whose cushioned depths sat beautiful women, the glimpses of whose white hands resting on the sills of the open windows, as they caught the light from some street lamp, made his pulses thrill when he thought of those other hands as fair.

Like threads of gold came the light from the parlor windows into the gloom outside, and a little way along another streamed, faintly dying against the railing of the veranda. Turning his head, he saw it, and wondered if she had come home.

“I must see her to-morrow,” he thought; “yes, let the end be what it will! To-morrow, to-morrow, Gwendoline! I will come again to-morrow!”

Rising, he walked slowly back and forth, in front of his open window, with folded arms and stately mien. Long he paced, till a little wearied; he paused at last, and sank into a seat, with a sigh. Why, at that moment, did he think of his wife Cecile, and why did those thoughts assume a more kindly nature than they had ever done before? Only the best of her seemed to find an echo in the heart that loved her not.

Would that he might see her once more, and, having met, part from her in peace!

Where was that wandering one, who bound him with so heavy a bond, to break which he strove in vain? Why would she not, in mercy, stretch forth her frail hands and unlink it, that his bark might go where’er he guided it and not drift to unknown seas, where, at times, the softest winds foretell the coming storm, the gentlest waves carry you on towards the shore, where, finally, they become terrible breakers, which wreck you among the reefs of despair! So he must drift, drift ever on, “even unto death,” at whose gloomy portals there was no respite.

Like a tired boy, he laid his head upon his arms, thrown above the railing, against which he sat. At that moment, he heard some one enter the parlor; and, presently, a few chords on the piano reached him, and then a voice arose in song—a sweet, low voice, not strong, but clear and true. It stole out into the midnight air and thrilled his throbbing breast. His wife used to sing, but not like that. Her voice was rich and full, soaring away, in high, passionate tones, when such a mood was on her, or filled with witchery at other times.

But this woman’s notes partook of neither of these sentiments. Almost a wail in its witching music did it sound; high and clear, soft and low—dying—dying—and then it ceased, and she began to cough two or three times, then convulsively. Emory stood up to listen. Would this never end? Would she sing again? No, for at that moment a man came out from the parlor, half supporting a woman, her head and shoulders enveloped in black lace, with a handkerchief to her face. There was no other chair, and Neil offered his. As she sank into the seat, she took the cambric from her mouth and looked at it—there were a few dark spots on its folds.

“Ouch!” she said, “it looks like blood,”—and then she began to cough again; a rattling sound smote the listener’s ear, as a deep red stream issued from her lips, finding its way to the floor. In a moment, she fell back in her companion’s arms, quite insensible. He supported her gently, and, turning to Neil, asked where he could take her.

“In here,” and, drawing aside the curtains of his own window, he motioned to the man to enter. He did so at once, advancing to the bed, upon which he placed the still insensible form of the woman, whose dark dress streamed around her like a pall.

“Will you have a physician?” asked Emory.

“No,” replied the gentleman; “I do not think he could do anything. Have you some ice water?”

Neil handed him a glassful from the table near by.

The man saturated his handkerchief and bathed the blood-stained lips.

“She has been subject to hemorrhages lately,” he said, addressing himself to Emory. “We were on our way home from the theatre, and, seeing the hotel lights up here, stopped for a moment for her to rest a little, and then she tried to sing. Poor little woman—her work is almost over now.” Then after a pause he said: “I fear she is dying; have you no wife, no sister to call?”

“I will call some friend;” but, before he could leave the room, the form before them stirred, turning the haggard, withered face to the light. Something illumined the room—two glorious eyes, with the shadow of death upon them. And then she spoke:

“Neil, it is I—it is Cecile!” and again she lay quite motionless.

Through the door, which he had just opened, came the sound of passing feet; he looked up, and, at that moment, saw Gwendoline and her mother go by. He ran into the passage, and overtook them as they were about entering their apartments.

“Come with me!” he cried, excitedly.

Gwendoline gave a little cry at the suddenness of his appearance, the oddity of his request, the strangeness of his manner, and all at such an hour.

“Come with you? I do not understand! What ails you?”

“Come, come!” he cried, excitedly. “Cecile is here—Cecile is dying! Do come!”

“What mean you?” she gasped. “Cecile here—dying? Oh, mother, let us go!”

He led the way, assuring them that no harm awaited them, and that he did but wish them to render service to a dying soul.

The man had lifted the fainting woman; her emaciated form rested against his shoulder, as he supported her on the side of the bed.

Emory moved in front of them, followed by his trembling companions, who dared not speak. The dying woman put out her hands, groping as if in darkness, and as she felt Neil’s hands touch her own a smile quivered over her lips, while, slowly and with difficulty, she spoke:

“Neil, forgive!”

He bowed his head upon his breast, as the stranger laid her down, and her eyes closed,—forever.

A cold hand touched his, and Gwendoline was beside him. He drew her out upon the long piazza, and they stood for a little while in silence beneath the stars. Then, opening his arms, he clasped her to his heart, holding her there, as he had never held her before.

Over the distant hills of Tennessee, a horse, feeding, softly neighed, as he lifted his head to the night breeze, and echo answered:

“Cliquot! Cliquot! my beautiful!

Thou hast won for me!”

THE END.

T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS.

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- Albine; or, The Abbé’s Temptation. A Charming and Pathetic Love Story. By Emile Zola. Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.25.

- Hélène, a Love Episode. A Tale of Love and Passion. By Emile Zola. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold.

- A Mad Love; or The Abbé and His Court. By Emile Zola. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold.

- Her Two Husbands. By Emile Zola. Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.25.

- Claude’s Confession. By Emile Zola. Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.25.

- Magdalen Ferat. By Emile Zola. Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.25.

- Thérèse Raquin. By Emile Zola. Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.00.

MRS. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS IN CHEAP FORM.

- Ishmael; or, in the Depths—being “Self-Made; or, Out of the Depths.”

- Self-Raised; or, From the Depths. Sequel to “Ishmael.”

- The Bride of an Evening; or, The Gipsy’s Prophecy.

- The Missing Bride; or, Miriam, the Avenger.

- The Curse of Clifton; or, The Widowed Bride.

- The Changed Brides; or, Winning Her Way.

- The Bridal Eve.

- The Bride’s Fate.

- The Fatal Marriage

Above are cheap editions, in paper cover, price 75 cents each.

- The Red Hill Tragedy.

- Sybil Brotherton.

Above are cheap editions, in paper cover, price 50 cents each.

PETERSONS’ SQUARE 12mo. SERIES.

- Society Rapids. High Life in Washington, Saratoga and Bar Harbor.

- Snatched from the Poor-House. A Young Girl’s Life History.

- The Major’s Love; or, The Sequel of a Crime. By Ella Brown Price.

- Who Cares? A Woman’s Story. Fervent, Passionate and Repentant.

Above are in paper cover, price 50 cents each, or 75 cents each in cloth.

- Helen’s Babies. By John Habberton. With an Illustrated Cover.

- Mrs. Mayburn’s Twins. By John Habberton, author of Helen’s Babies.

- Bertha’s Baby. Equal to “Helen’s Babies.” With Illustrated Cover.

- The Annals of a Baby. Baby’s First Gifts, etc. By Mrs. Stebbins.

- Bessie’s Six Lovers. A Charming Love Story. By Henry Peterson.

- Father Tom and the Pope; or, A Night at the Vatican. Illustrated.

- Rondah; or, Thirty-three Years in a Star. By Florence C. Dieudonné.

- Not His Daughter. A Society Novel. By Will Herbert.

- A Bohemian Tragedy. A Novel of New York Life. By Lily Curry.

- Little Heartsease. Equal to Rhoda Broughton’s. By Annie L. Wright.

- Two Kisses. A Bright and Snappy Love Story. By Hawley Smart.

- Her Second Love. A Thrilling, Life-like and Captivating Love Story.

- A Parisian Romance. Octave Feuillet’s New Book, just dramatized.

- Fanchon, the Cricket; or, La Petite Fadette. By George Sand.

- Two Ways to Matrimony; or, Is it Love? or, False Pride.

- The Matchmaker. By Beatrice Reynolds. A Charming Love Story.

- The Story of Elizabeth. By Miss Thackeray, daughter of W. M. Thackeray.

- The Amours of Philippe; or, Philippe’s Love Affairs, by Octave Feuillet.

- Rancy Cottem’s Courtship. By author of “Major Jones’s Courtship.”

- A Woman’s Mistake; or, Jacques de Trévannes. A Perfect Love Story.

- The Days of Madame Pompadour. A Romance of the Reign of Louis XV.

- The Little Countess. By Octave Feuillet, author of “Count De Camors.”

- The American L’Assommoir. A parody on Zola’s “L’Assommoir.”

- Hyde Park Sketches. A very humorous and entertaining work.

- Miss Margery’s Roses. A Charming Love Story. By Robert C. Meyers.

- Madeleine. A Charming Love Story. Jules Sandeau’s Prize Novel.

- Carmen. By Prosper Merimee. Book the Opera was dramatized from.

- That Girl of Mine. By the author of “That Lover of Mine.”

- That Lover of Mine. By the author of “That Girl of Mine.”

Above are in paper cover, price 50 cents each, or in cloth, at $1.00 each.

PETERSONS’ SQUARE 12mo. SERIES.

- Edmond Dantès. Sequel to Alexander Dumas’ “Count of Monte-Cristo.”

- Monte-Cristo’s Daughter. Sequel to and end of “Edmond Dantès.”

- The Wife of Monte-Cristo. Continuation of “Count of Monte-Cristo.”

- The Son of Monte-Cristo. The Sequel to “The Wife of Monte-Cristo.”

- Camille; or, The Fate of a Coquette. (La Dame Aux Camelias.)

- Married Above Her. A Society Romance. By a Lady of New York.

- The Man from Texas. A Powerful Western Romance, full of adventure.

- Erring, Yet Noble. A Book of Women and for Women. By I. G. Reed.

- The Fair Enchantress; or, How She Won Men’s Hearts. By Miss Keller.

Above are in paper cover, price 75 cents each, or $1.25 each in cloth.

Kenneth Cameron. A Novel of Southern Society and Plantation Life. By Judge L. Q. C. Brown, of Louisiana. Paper cover, 75 cts.; cloth, $1.25.

All Books published by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa., will be sent to any one, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price.

PETERSONS’ SQUARE 12mo. SERIES.

- Major Jones’s Courtship. 21 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- Major Jones’s Georgia Scenes. 12 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- Major Jones’s Travels. 8 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- Simon Suggs’ Adventures. 10 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cts., cloth, $1.00.

- Louisiana Swamp Doctor. 6 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- The Initials. ‘A. Z’. By Baroness Tautphœus. Paper, 75 cts., cloth, $1.25.

- Indiana! A Love Story. By George Sand. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- Consuelo. By George Sand. Paper cover, Price 75 cents; cloth, $1.00.

- Countess of Rudolstadt. Sequel to Consuelo. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- Harry Coverdale’s Courtship and Marriage. Paper, 75 cts., cloth, $1.50.

- Those Pretty St. George Girls. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, gilt, $1.00.

- Vidocq! The French Detective. Illustrated. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- The Black Venus. By Adolphe Belot. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- La Grande Florine. By Adolphe Belot. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- The Stranglers of Paris. By Adolphe Belot. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- Mark Maynard’s Wife. By Frankie F. King. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.

- The Master of L’Etrange. By Eugene Hall. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.

- Dora’s Device. By George R. Cather. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.

- Snob Papers. A Book Full of Roaring Fun. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.

- Karan Kringle’s Courtship and Journal. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.50.

- The Prairie Flower, and Leni-Leoti. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- Monsieur, Madame, and the Baby. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- L’Evangéliste. By Alphonse Daudet. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.

- The Duchesse Undine. By H. Penn Diltz. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.

- The Hidden Record. By E. W. Blaisdell. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.

- A Russian Princess. By Emmanuel Gonzales. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- A Woman’s Perils; or, Driven from Home. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.

- A Fascinating Woman. By Edmond Adam. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.

- La Faustin. By Edmond de Goncourt. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.

- Monsieur Le Ministre. By Jules Claretie. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.

- Winning the Battle; or, One Girl in 10,000. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.

- A Child of Israel. By Edouard Cadol. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- The Exiles. The Russian ‘Robinson Crusoe’. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- My Hero. A Love Story. By Mrs. Forrester. Paper, 75 cts., cloth, $1.00.

- Paul Hart; or, The Love of His Life. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.

- Mildred’s Cadet; or, Hearts and Bell-Buttons. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- Bellah. A Love Story. By Octave Feuillet. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- Sabine’s Falsehood. A Love Story. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- Linda; or, The Young Pilot of the Belle Creole. Paper, 75 cts., cloth, $1.25.

- The Woman in Black. Illustrated Cover. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- Madame Bovary. By Gustave Flaubert. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- The Count de Camors. By Octave Feuillet. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.

- How She Won Him! A Love Story. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.

- Angèle’s Fortune. By André Theuriet. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.

- St. Maur; or, An Earl’s Wooing. Paper cover, price 75 cents, cloth, $1.25.

- The Prince of Breffny. By Thomas P. May. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.50.

- The Earl of Mayfield. By Thomas P. May. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00.

- Francatelli’s Modern Cook Book for 1888. Enlarged Edition. With the most approved methods of French, English, German, and Italian Cookery. With 62 Illustrations. 600 pages, morocco cloth, price $5.00.

MRS. F. H. BURNETT’S NOVELLETTES.

- Kathleen. A Love Story. By author of “That Lass o’ Lowries”

- Theo. A Love Story. By author of “Kathleen,” “Miss Crespigny.”

- Lindsay’s Luck. A Love Story. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.

- Pretty Polly Pemberton. By author of “Kathleen,” “Theo,” etc.

- A Quiet Life. By Mrs. Burnett, author of “That Lass o’ Lowries.”

- Miss Crespigny, also Jarl’s Daughter. By Mrs. Burnett.

Above are in paper cover, price 50 cents each, or in cloth, at $1.00 each.

HENRY GRÉVILLE’S CHARMING NOVELS.

Zitka; or, The Trials of Raïssa. A Russian Love Story, from which the Popular Play of “Zitka” was dramatized. By Henry Gréville.

The Princess Oghérof. A Love Story. By Henry Gréville.

Above are in paper cover, price 75 cents each, or in cloth, at $1.00 each.

- The Princess Roubine. A Russian Love Story. By Henry Gréville.

- Dosia. A Russian Story. By Henry Gréville, author of “Markof.”

- Savéli’s Expiation. A Powerful Russian Story. By Henry Gréville.

- Tania’s Peril. A Russian Love Story. By Henry Gréville.

- Sonia. A Love Story. By Henry Gréville, author of “Dosia.”

- Lucie Rodey. A Charming Society Novel. By Henry Gréville.

- Bonne-Marie. A Tale of Normandy and Paris. By Henry Gréville.

- Xenie’s Inheritance. A Tale of Russian Life. By Henry Gréville.

- Dournof. A Russian Story. By Henry Gréville, author of “Dosia.”

- Mam’zelle Eugenie. A Russian Love Story. By Henry Gréville.

- Gabrielle; or, The House of Maurèze. By Henry Gréville.

- A Friend; or, “L’Ami.” By Henry Gréville, author of “Dosia.”

Above are in paper cover, price 50 cents each, or in cloth, at $1.00 each.

- Marrying Off a Daughter. A Love Story. By Henry Gréville.

- Sylvie’s Betrothed. A Charming Novel. By Henry Gréville.

- Philomène’s Marriages. A Love Story. By Henry Gréville.

- Guy’s Marriage; also Pretty Little Countess Zina. By Henry Gréville.

Above are in paper cover, price 75 cents each, or in cloth, at $1.25 each.

Markof, the Russian Violinist. Paper cover, 75 cents; cloth, $1.50.

THE “COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO SERIES.”

- The Count of Monte-Cristo. Illustrated. Paper cover, $1.00, cloth, $1.50.

- Edmond Dantès. Sequel to “Monte-Cristo.” Paper, 75 cts., cloth, $1.25.

- Monte-Cristo’s Daughter. Paper cover, 75 cents; cloth, $1.25.

- The Countess of Monte-Cristo. Paper cover, $1.00, morocco cloth, $1.50.

- The Wife of Monte-Cristo. Paper cover, 75 cents, morocco cloth, $1.25.

- The Son of Monte-Cristo. Paper cover, 75 cents, morocco cloth, $1.25.

BOOKS BY AUTHOR OF “A HEART TWICE WON.”

A Heart Twice Won; or, Second Love. A Love Story. By Mrs. Elizabeth Van Loon. Morocco cloth, black and gold. Price $1.50.

Under the Willows; or, The Three Countesses. By Mrs. Elizabeth Van Loon, author of “A Heart Twice Won.” Cloth, and gold. Price $1.50.

The Shadow of Hampton Mead. A Charming Story. By Mrs. Elizabeth Van Loon, author of “A Heart Twice Won.” Cloth. Price $1.50.

The Mystery of Allanwold. A Thrilling Novel. By Mrs. Elizabeth Van Loon, author of “A Heart Twice Won.” Cloth, and gold. Price $1.50.

WILKIE COLLINS’ BEST BOOKS.

Basil; or, The Crossed Path, | $1 50
The Dead Secret, 12mo | 1 50

Above are each in one large duodecimo volume, bound in cloth.

The Dead Secret, 8vo | 75
Basil; or, The Crossed Path, | 75
Hide and Seek, | 75
After Dark, | 75
The Queen’s Revenge, | 75
Miss or Mrs? | 50
Mad Monkton, | 50
Sights a-Foot, | 50
The Stolen Mask, | 25
The Yellow Mask, | 25
Sister Rose, | 25

The above books are each issued in paper cover, in octavo form.

EMERSON BENNETT’S INDIAN STORIES.

Complete in seven large duodecimo volumes, bound, in cloth, gilt back, price $1.50 each; or $10.50 a set, each set is put up in a neat box.

The Border Rover, | $1 50
Clara Moreland, | 1 50
The Orphan’s Trials, | 1 50
Bride of the Wilderness, | 1 50
Ellen Norbury, | 1 50
Kate Clarendon, | 1 50
Viola, or Adventures in the Far South-West, | 1 50

Above are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.

The Heiress of Bellefonte, | 75
The Pioneer’s Daughter, | 75

GREEN’S WORKS ON GAMBLING.

Complete in four large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.50 each; or $6.00 a set, each set is put up in a neat box.

Gambling Exposed, | $1 50
The Gambler’s Life, | 1 50
The Reformed Gambler, | 1 50
Secret Band of Brothers, | 1 50

Above are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.

DOW’S PATENT SERMONS.

Complete in four large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.25 each; or $5.00 a set, each set is put up in a neat box.

Dow’s Patent Sermons, 1st Series, cloth, | $1 25
Dow’s Patent Sermons, 2d Series, cloth, | 1 25
Dow’s Patent Sermons, 3d Series, cloth, | 1 25
Dow’s Patent Sermons, 4th Series, cloth, | 1 25

Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.00 each.

GEORGE SAND’S GREATEST NOVELS.

Consuelo, 12mo., cloth, | $1 50
Countess of Rudolstadt, | 1 50
Jealousy, 12mo., cloth, | 1 50
Indiana, 12mo., cloth, | 1 50

Above are each published in 12mo., cloth, gilt side and back.

Fanchon, the Cricket, paper cover, 50 cents, or fine edition, in cloth, | $1 50
First and True Love. With 11 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents; cloth, | 1 00
Consuelo. Paper cover, | 75
Simon. A Love Story, | 50
The Corsair, | 50
The Last Aldini, | 50
The Countess of Rudolstadt. The Sequel to Consuelo. Paper cover, | 75

MISS BRADDON’S FASCINATING BOOKS.

Aurora Floyd, | 75
Aurora Floyd, cloth | 1 00
The Lawyer’s Secret, | 25
For Better, For Worse, | 75

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. ILLUSTRATED.

This edition is printed from large type, octavo size, each book being complete in one large octavo volume, bound in Morocco Cloth, with Gilt Character Figures on back, and Medallion on side, price $1.50 each, or $27.00 a set, contained in eighteen volumes, the whole containing near Six Hundred Illustrations, by Cruikshank, Phiz, Browne, Maclise, and other artists.

The Pickwick Papers. By Charles Dickens. With 32 Illustrations, | $1.50
Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles Dickens. With 37 Illustrations, | 1 50
David Copperfield. By Charles Dickens. With 8 Illustrations, | 1 50
Oliver Twist. By Charles Dickens. With 24 Illustrations, | 1 50
Bleak House. By Charles Dickens. With 38 Illustrations, | 1 50
Dombey and Son. By Charles Dickens. With 38 Illustrations, | 1 50
Sketches by “Boz.” By Charles Dickens. With 20 Illustrations, | 1 50
Little Dorrit. By Charles Dickens. With 38 Illustrations, | 1 50
Our Mutual Friend. By Charles Dickens. With 42 Illustrations, | 1 50
Great Expectations. By Charles Dickens. With 34 Illustrations, | 1 50
Lamplighter’s Story. By Charles Dickens. With 7 Illustrations, | 1 50
Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens. With 50 Illustrations, | 1.50
Martin Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dickens. With 8 Illustrations, | 1 50
Old Curiosity Shop. By Charles Dickens. With 101 Illustrations, | 1 50
Christmas Stories. By Charles Dickens. With 12 Illustrations, | 1 50
Dickens’ New Stories. By Charles Dickens. With portrait of author, | 1 50
A Tale of Two Cities. By Charles Dickens. With 64 Illustrations, | 1 50
Charles Dickens’ American Notes and Pic-Nic Papers, | 1 50

BOOKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS.

The following books are each issued in one large duodecimo volume, bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.

The Initials. A Love Story. By Baroness Tautphœus, | $1 50
Married Beneath Him. By author of “Lost Sir Massingberd,” | 1 50
Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. Oliphant, author of “Zaidee,” | 1 50
Family Pride. By author of “Pique,” “Family Secrets,” etc. | 1 50
The Autobiography of Edward Wortley Montagu, | 1 50
The Forsaken Daughter. A Companion to “Linda,” | 1 50
Love and Liberty. A Revolutionary Story. By Alexander Dumas, | 1 50
The Morrisons. By Mrs. Margaret Hosmer, | 1 50
The Rich Husband. By author of “George Geith,” | 1 50
The Lost Beauty. By a Noted Lady of the Spanish Court, | 1 50
My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester. A Charming Love Story, | 1 50
The Quaker Soldier. A Revolutionary Romance. By Judge Jones, | 1 50
Memoirs of Vidocq, the French Detective. His Life and Adventures, | 1 50
The Belle of Washington. With her Portrait. By Mrs. N. P. Lasselle, | 1 50
High Life in Washington. A Life Picture. By Mrs. N. P. Lasselle, | 1 50
Courtship and Matrimony. By Robert Morris. With a Portrait, | 1 50
The Jealous Husband. By Annette Marie Maillard, | 1 50
The Conscript; or, the Days of Napoleon 1st. By Alex. Dumas, | 1 50
Cousin Harry. By Mrs. Grey, author of “The Gambler’s Wife,” etc. | 1 50
The Count of Monte-Cristo. By Dumas. Illustrated, 50 cts., $1.00, | 1 50
The Countess of Monte-Cristo. Paper cover, price $1.00; or cloth, | 1 50
Camille; or, the Fate of a Coquette. By Alexander Dumas, | 1 50
Love and Money. By J. B. Jones, author of the “Rival Belles,” | 1 50
The Brother’s Secret; or, the Count De Mara. By William Godwin, | 1 50
The Lost Love. By Mrs. Oliphant, author of “Margaret Maitland,” | 1 50
The Bohemians of London. By Edward M. Whitty, | 1 50
Wild Sports and Adventures in Africa. By Major W. C. Harris, | 1 50
The Life, Writings, and Lectures of the late “Fanny Fern,” | 1 50
The Life and Lectures of Lola Montez, with her portrait, | 1 50
Wild Southern Scenes. By author of “Wild Western Scenes,” | 1 50
Currer Lyle; or, the Autobiography of an Actress. By Louise Reeder, | 1 50
The Cabin and Parlor. By J. Thornton Randolph. Illustrated, | 1 50
The Little Beauty. A Love Story. By Mrs. Grey, | 1 50
Lizzie Glenn; or, the Trials of a Seamstress. By T. S. Arthur, | 1 50
Lady Maud; or, the Wonder of Kingswood Chase. By Pierce Egan, | 1 50
Wilfred Montressor; or, High Life in New York. Illustrated, | 1 50
Lorrimer Littlegood, by author “Harry Coverdale’s Courtship,” | 1 50
Married at Last. A Love Story. By Annie Thomas, | 1 50
Shoulder Straps. By Henry Morford, author of “Days of Shoddy,” | 1 50
Days of Shoddy. By Henry Morford, author of “Shoulder Straps,” | 1 50
The Coward. By Henry Morford, author of “Shoulder Straps,” | 1 50

Above books are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each.

The Roman Traitor. By Henry William Herbert. A Roman Story, | 1 75
The Last Athenian. By Victor Rydberg. From the Swedish, | 1 75

MRS. HENRY WOOD’S BEST BOOKS, IN CLOTH.

The following are cloth editions of Mrs. Henry Wood’s best books, and they are each issued in large octavo volumes, bound in cloth, price $1.75 each.

Within the Maze. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “East Lynne,” | $1 75
The Master of Greylands. By Mrs. Henry Wood, | 1 75
Dene Hollow. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “Within the Maze,” | 1 75
Bessy Rane. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “The Channings,” | 1 75
George Canterbury’s Will. By Mrs. Wood, author “Oswald Cray,” | 1 75
The Channings. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “Dene Hollow,” | 1 75
Roland Yorke. A Sequel to “The Channings.” By Mrs. Wood, | 1 75
Shadow of Ashlydyatt. By Mrs. Wood, author of “Bessy Rane,” | 1 75
Lord Oakburn’s Daughters; or The Earl’s Heirs. By Mrs. Wood, | 1 75
Verner’s Pride. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “The Channings,” | 1 75
The Castle’s Heir; or Lady Adelaide’s Oath. By Mrs. Henry Wood, | 1 75
Oswald Cray. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “Roland Yorke,” | 1 75
Squire Trevlyn’s Heir; or Trevlyn Hold. By Mrs. Henry Wood, | 1 75
The Red Court Farm. By Mrs. Wood, author of “Verner’s Pride,” | 1 75
Elster’s Folly, By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “Castle’s Heir,” | 1 75
St. Martin’s Eve. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “Dene Hollow,” | 1 75
Mildred Arkell. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “East Lynne,” | 1 75

ALEXANDER DUMAS’ ROMANCES, IN CLOTH.

The following are cloth editions of Alexander Dumas’ works, and they are each issued in large octavo volumes, bound in morocco cloth.

The Three Guardsmen; or, The Three Mousquetaires. By A. Dumas, | $1 75
Twenty Years After; or the “Second Series of Three Guardsmen,” | 1 75
Bragelonne; Son of Athos; or “Third Series of Three Guardsmen,” | 1 75
The Iron Mask; or the “Fourth Series of The Three Guardsmen,” | 1 75
Louise La Valliere. The Sequel to “The Iron Mask.” Being the “Fifth Book and End of the Three Guardsmen Series,” | 1 75
The Memoirs of a Physician; or, Joseph Bulsamo. Illustrated, | 1 75
Queen’s Necklace; or “Second Series of Memoirs of a Physician,” | 1 75
Six Years Later; or the “Third Series of Memoirs of a Physician,” | 1 75
Countess of Charny; or “Fourth Series of Memoirs of a Physician,” | 1 75
Andree De Taverney; or “Fifth Series of Memoirs of a Physician,” | 1 75
The Chevalier. The Sequel to “Andree De Taverney.” Being the “Sixth Book and End of the Memoirs of a Physician Series,” | 1 75
The Adventures of a Marquis. By Alexander Dumas, | 1 75
The Forty-Five Guardsmen. By Alexander Dumas. Illustrated, | 1 75
Diana of Meridor, or Lady of Monsoreau. By Alexander Dumas, | 1 75
The Iron Hand. By Alex. Dumas, author “Count of Monte-Cristo,” | 1 75
Camille; or the Fate of a Coquette. (La Dame aux Camelias,) | 1 50
The Conscript. A novel of the Days of Napoleon the First, | 1 50
Love and Liberty. A novel of the French Revolution of 1792-1793, | 1 50

THE “COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO SERIES,” IN CLOTH.

The Count of Monte-Cristo. By Alexander Dumas. Illustrated, | 1 50
Edmond Dantès. The Sequel to the “Count of Monte-Cristo,” | 1 25
Monte-Cristo’s Daughter. Sequel to and end of “Edmond Dantès,” | 1 25
The Countess of Monte-Cristo. The Companion to “Monte-Cristo.” | 1 50
The Wife of Monte-Cristo. Continuation of “Count of Monte-Cristo,” | 1 25
The Son of Monte-Cristo. The Sequel to “Wife of Monte-Cristo,” | 1 25

T. S. ARTHUR’S GREAT TEMPERANCE BOOKS.

Six Nights with the Washingtonians, Illustrated. T. S. Arthur’s Great Temperance Stories. Large Subscription Edition, cloth, gilt, $3.50; Red Roan, $1.50; Full Turkey Antique, Full Gilt,

6 00

The Latimer Family; or the Bottle and Pledge. By T. S. Arthur, cloth, | 1 00

MODEL SPEAKERS AND READERS.

Comstock’s Elocution and Model Speaker. Intended for the use of Schools, Colleges, and for private Study, for the Promotion of Health, Cure of Stammering, and Defective Articulation. By Andrew Comstock and Philip Lawrence. With 230 Illustrations. 2 00

The Lawrence Speaker. A Selection of Literary Gems in Poetry and Prose, designed for the use of Colleges, Schools, Seminaries, Literary Societies. By Philip Lawrence, Professor of Elocution. 600 pages. 2 00

Comstock’s Colored Chart. Being a perfect Alphabet of the English Language, with exercises in Pitch, Force and Gesture, and Sixty-Eight colored figures, representing the postures and attitudes to be used in declamation. On a large Roller. Every School should have it. 5 00

WORKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS.

The following books are each issued in one large octavo volume, bound in cloth, at $1.50 each, or each one is done up in paper cover, at $1.00 each.

The Wandering Jew. By Eugene Sue. Full of Illustrations, | $1 50
Mysteries of Paris; and its Sequel, Gerolstein. By Eugene Sue, | 1 50
Martin, the Foundling. By Eugene Sue. Full of Illustrations, | 1 50
Ten Thousand a Year. By Samuel Warren. With Illustrations, | 1 50

The following books are each issued in one large octavo volume, bound in cloth, at $2.00 each, or each one is done up in paper cover, at $1 50 each.

Washington and His Generals. By George Lippard, | 2 00
The Quaker City; or, the Monks of Monk Hall. By George Lippard, | 2 00
Blanche of Brandywine. By George Lippard, | 2 00
Paul Ardenheim; the Monk of Wissahickon. By George Lippard, | 2 00
The Mysteries of Florence. By Geo. Lippard, author “Quaker City,” | 2 00
The Pictorial Tower of London. By W. Harrison Ainsworth, | 2 00

The following are each issued in one large octavo volume, bound in cloth, price $1.50 each, or a cheap edition is issued in paper cover, at 75 cents each.

Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dragoon. By Charles Lever, | Cloth, $1 50
Harry Lorrequer. With his Confessions. By Charles Lever, | Cloth, 1 50
Jack Hinton, the Guardsman. By Charles Lever, | Cloth, 1 50
Davenport Dunn. A Man of Our Day. By Charles Lever, | Cloth, 1 50
Tom Burke of Ours. By Charles Lever, | Cloth, 1 50
The Knight of Gwynne. By Charles Lever, | Cloth, 1 50
Arthur O’Leary. By Charles Lever, | Cloth, 1 50
Con Cregan. By Charles Lever, | Cloth, 1 50
Horace Templeton. By Charles Lever, | Cloth, 1 50
Kate O’Donoghue. By Charles Lever, | Cloth, 1 50
Valentine Vox, the Ventriloquist. By Harry Cockton, | Cloth, 1 50

HUMOROUS ILLUSTRATED BOOKS.

Each one is full of Illustrations, by Felix O. C. Darley, and bound in Cloth.

Major Jones’ Courtship and Travels. In one vol., 29 Illustrations, | $1 75
Major Jones’ Scenes in Georgia. With 16 Illustrations, | 1 50
Swamp Doctor’s Adventures in the South-West. 14 Illustrations, | 1 50
Col. Thorpe’s Scenes in Arkansaw. With 16 Illustrations, | 1 50
High Life in New York, by Jonathan Slick. With Illustrations, | 1 50
Piney Wood’s Tavern; or, Sam Slick in Texas. Illustrated, | 1 50
Humors of Falconbridge. By J. F. Kelley. With Illustrations, | 1 50
Simon Suggs’ Adventures and Travels. With 17 Illustrations, | 1 50
The Big Bear’s Adventures and Travels. With 18 Illustrations, | 1 50
Judge Haliburton’s Yankee Stories. Illustrated, | 1 50
Harry Coverdale’s Courtship and Marriage. Illustrated, | 1 50
Lorrimer Littlegood. Illustrated. By author of “Frank Fairlegh,” | 1 50
Neal’s Charcoal Sketches. By Joseph C. Neal. 21 Illustrations, | 2 50
Major Jones’s Courtship. 21 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, | 1 00
Major Jones’s Travels. 8 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, | 1 00
Major Jones’s Georgia Scenes. 12 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, | 1 00
Raney Cottem’s Courtship. 8 Illustrations. Paper, 50 cents, cloth, | 1 00

STANDARD NOVELS, BY BEST WRITERS.

A Speculator in Petticoats. By Hector Malot. Paper, 75 cts., cloth, | $1 25
Which? or, Between Two Women. By Daudet. Paper, 75 cts., cloth, | 1 25
Consuelo. By George Sand. One volume, 12mo., bound in cloth, | 1 50
The Countess of Rudolstadt. Sequel to “Consuelo.” 12mo., cloth, | 1 50
Indiana. A Novel. By George Sand, author of “Consuelo,” cloth, | 1 50
Jealousy; or, Teverino. By George Sand, author “Consuelo,” cloth, | 1 50
Fanchon, the Cricket; or, La Petite Fadette. By George Sand, cloth, | 1 50
Twelve Years of My Life. By Mrs. B. Beaumont, cloth, | 1 50
Iphigenia. A Woman of Progress. By Hugo Furst. Paper, 75, cloth, | 1 25
The Dead Secret. By Wilkie Collins, author of “Basil,” cloth, | 1 50
The Crossed Path; or Basil. By Wilkie Collins, cloth, | 1 50
Mystery of Edwin Drood; and Master Humphrey’s Clock, by Dickens, | 1 50
John Jasper’s Secret. Sequel to “Mystery of Edwin Drood,” cloth, | 1 50
The Life of Charles Dickens. By Dr. R. Shelton Mackenzie, cloth, | 1 50
The Lamplighter’s Story, with others. By Charles Dickens, cloth, | 1 50
The Old Stone Mansion. By author of “Heiress of Sweetwater,” cloth, | 1 50
Lord Montagu’s Page. By G. P. R. James, author “Cavalier,” cloth, | 1 50
The Earl of Mayfield. By Thomas P. May, cloth, black and gold, | 1 50
Myrtle Lawn. A Novel. By Robert E. Ballard, cloth, | 1 50
Corinne; or, Italy. A Love Story. By Madame de Stael, cloth, | 1 00
Cyrilla; or Mysterious Engagement. By author of “Initials,” cloth, | 1 00
Treason at Home. A Novel. By Mrs. Greenough, cloth, | 1 50
Letters from Europe. By Colonel John W. Forney. Bound in cloth, | 1 50
Frank Fairlegh. By author of “Lewis Arundel,” cloth, | 1 50
Lewis Arundel. By author of “Frank Fairlegh,” cloth, | 1 50
Harry Racket Scapegrace. By the author of “Frank Fairlegh”, cloth, | 1 50
Tom Racquet. By author of “Frank Fairlegh,” cloth, | 1 50
Sam Slick, the Clockmaker. By Judge Haliburton. Illustrated, | 1 50
Modern Chivalry. By Judge Breckenridge. Two vols., each | 1 50
La Gaviota; the Sea-Gull. By Fernan Caballero, cloth, | 1 50
Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. Braddon. Bound in cloth, | 1 00
Laws and Practice of the Game of Euchre and Draw Poker, cloth, | 1 00
Youth of Shakspeare, author “Shakspeare and His Friends,” cloth, | 1 25
Shakspeare and His Friends, author “Youth of Shakspeare,” cloth, | 1 25
The Secret Passion, author of “Shakspeare and His Friends,” cloth, | 1 25
Father Tom and the Pope; or, A Night at the Vatican, illus., cloth, | 1 00
Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott. One 8vo. volume, cloth, | 2 50
Life of Sir Walter Scott. By John G. Lockhart. With Portrait, | 2 50
Life, Speeches and Martyrdom of Abraham Lincoln. Illus., cloth, | 1 50
Rome and the Papacy. A History of Rome in Nineteenth Century, | 1 50

The French, German, Spanish, Latin and Italian Languages Without a Master. Whereby any one of these Languages can be learned without a Teacher. By A. H. Monteith. One volume, cloth

2 00

Liebig’s Complete Works on Chemistry. By Justus Liebig, cloth, | 2 00
Life and Adventure of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, cloth, | 1 50
The Impeachment Trial of President Andrew Johnson. Cloth, | 1 50
Trial of the Assassins for the Murder of Abraham Lincoln. Cloth, | 1 50
Just One Day. By author of “Helen’s Babies.” Paper 50, cloth, | 1 00

BEAUTIFUL SNOW! NEW & ENLARGED EDITION.

- Beautiful Snow! A New and Enlarged Edition is just ready of “Beautiful Snow; with Other Poems never before published,” by J. W. Watson, with Original Illustrations by Edward L. Henry. This New and Enlarged edition of “Beautiful Snow; with Other Poems,” contains, besides all the Poems that were in the original editions of “Beautiful Snow,” and in “The Outcast and Other Poems,” many New and Original Poems by the author of “Beautiful Snow,” which have never before been published, and are fully equal to the Poem of “Beautiful Snow.” It is complete in one volume, morocco cloth, black and gold, gilt top and back, price $2 00

- In full gilt, morocco cloth, full gilt edges, gilt back, gilt sides, etc. 3 00

- The Outcast, and Other Poems. By J. W. Watson, author of “Beautiful Snow.” One volume, morocco cloth, price 1 00

NEW AND GOOD BOOKS BY BEST AUTHORS.

Hans Breitmann’s Ballads. By Charles O. Leland. Containing the “First,” “Second,” “Third,” “Fourth,” and “Fifth Series” of Hans Breitmann’s Ballads. Complete in one large volume, bound in morocco cloth, gilt side, gilt top, and full gilt back, with beveled boards. With a full and complete Glossary to the whole work,

4 00

Meister Karl’s Sketch Book. By Charles G. Leland. (Hans Breitmann.) Complete in one volume, green morocco cloth, gilt side, gilt top, gilt back, with beveled boards, price $2.50, or in maroon morocco cloth, full gilt edges, full gilt back, full gilt sides, etc.,

3 50

The Young Magdalen; and Other Poems. Bound in green morocco cloth, gilt top, side, and back, price $3.00; or in full gilt,

4 00

The Ladies’ Guide to True Politeness and Perfect Manners. By Miss Leslie. Every lady should have it. Cloth, full gilt back,

1 50

The Ladies’ Complete Guide to Needlework and Embroidery. With 113 illustrations. By Miss Lambert. Cloth, full gilt back, | 1 50
The Ladies’ Work Table Book. 27 illustrations. Paper 50 cts., cloth, | 1 00
Dow’s Short Patent Sermons. By Dow, Jr. In 4 vols., cloth, each | 1 25
Wild Oats Sown Abroad. By T. B. Witmer, cloth, | 1 50
The Miser’s Daughter. By William Harrison Ainsworth, cloth, | 1 50
Across the Atlantic. Letters from France, Switzerland, Germany, | 1 50
Popery Exposed. An Exposition of Popery as it was and is, cloth, | 1 50
The Adopted Heir. By Miss Pardoe, author of “The Earl’s Secret,” | 1 50
Coal, Coal Oil, and all other Minerals in the Earth. By Eli Bowen, | 1 50

Historical Sketches of Plymouth, Luzerne Co., Penns. By Hendrick B. Wright, of Wilkesbarre. With Twenty-five Photographs,

4 00

HARRY COCKTON’S LAUGHABLE NOVELS.

Valentine Vox, Ventriloquist, | 75
Valentine Vox, cloth, | 1 50
Sylvester Sound, | 75
The Love Match, | 75
The Fatal Marriages, | 75
The Steward, | 75
Percy Effingham, | 75
The Prince, | 75

BOOKS IN SETS BY THE BEST AUTHORS.

Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth’s Famous Works. 43 vols. in all, | 64 50
Mrs. Ann S. Stephens’ Celebrated Novels. 23 volumes in all, | 34 50
Miss Eliza A. Dupuy’s Wonderful Books. Fourteen volumes in all, | 21 00
Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz’s Exquisite Books. Twelve volumes in all, | 18 00
Mrs. C. A. Warfield’s Popular Works. Nine volumes in all, | 13 50
Frederika Bremer’s Domestic Novels. Six volumes in all, | 9 00
T. Adolphus Trollope’s Italian Novels. Seven volumes in all, | 10 50
James A. Maitland’s Household Stories. Seven volumes in all, | 10 50
Charles Lever’s Works. Ten volumes in all, | 15 00
Alexander Dumas’ Great Romances. Twenty-one volumes in all, | 31 50
Frank Fairlegh’s Works. Six volumes in all, | 9 00
Cook Books. The best in the world. Eleven volumes in all, | 36 50
Mrs. Henry Wood’s Novels. Seventeen volumes in all, | 29 75
Q. K. Philander Doestick’s Funny Books. Four vols. in all, | 6 00
Emerson Bennett’s Indian Stories. Seven volumes in all, | 10 50
American Humorous Books. Illustrated. Twelve volumes in all, | 18 00
Eugene Sue’s Best Works. Three volumes in all, | 4 50
George Sand’s Great Novels. Consuelo, etc. Five volumes in all, | 7 50
George Lippard’s Weird Romances. Five volumes in all, | 10 00
Dow’s Short Patent Sermons. Four volumes in all, | 5 00
The Waverley Novels. New National Edition. Five 8vo. vols., cloth, | 15 00
Charles Dickens’ Works. New National Edition. 7 volumes, cloth, | 20 00
Charles Dickens’ Works. Illustrated 8vo. Edition. 18 vols., cloth, | 27 00
Charles Dickens’ Works. New American Edition. 22 vols., cloth, | 33 00
Charles Dickens’ Works. Green Cloth 12mo. Edition. 22 vols., cloth, | 44 00
Charles Dickens’ Works. Illustrated 12mo. Edition. 36 vols., cloth, | 42 00

ALEXANDER DUMAS’ ROMANCES, IN PAPER.

Count of Monte-Cristo, | $1 00
Edmond Dantès, | 75
The Three Guardsmen, | 75
Twenty Years After, | 75
Bragelonne, | 75
The Iron Mask, | 1 00
Louise La Valliere, | 1 00
Diana of Meridor, | 1 00
Adventures of a Marquis, | 1 00
Love and Liberty, (1792-’93), | 1 00
Memoirs of a Physician; or, Joseph Balsamo, | 1 00
Queen’s Necklace, | 1 00
Six Years Later, | 1 00
Countess of Charny, | 1 00
Andree de Taverney, | 1 00
The Chevalier, | 1 00
Forty-five Guardsmen, | 1 00
The Iron Hand, | 1 00
The Conscript, | 1 00
Camille; or, The Fate of a Coquette, (La Dame Aux Camelias.), | 1 00
Countess of Monte-Cristo. The companion to Count of Monte-Cristo, | 1 00

The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price $1.50 each.

The Wife of Monte-Cristo, | 75
The Son of Monte-Cristo, | 75
Monte-Cristo’s Daughter, | 75
The Mohicans of Paris, | 75
The Horrors of Paris, | 75
The Fallen Angel, | 75
Felina de Chambure, | 75
Sketches in France, | 75
Isabel of Bavaria, | 75
The Man with Five Wives, | 75
Annette; or, Lady of Pearls, | 75
Twin Lieutenants, | 50
George; or, Isle of France, | 50
Madame de Chamblay, | 50
The Corsican Brothers, | 50
The Marriage Verdict, | 50
The Count of Moret, | 50
The Black Tulip, | 50
Buried Alive, | 25

PETERSONS’ “DOLLAR SERIES.”

Petersons’ “Dollar Series” of Good Novels are the cheapest books at One Dollar each ever published. They are all issued in uniform style, in 12mo. form, and are bound in red, blue and tan vellum, with gold and black sides and back, and are sold at the low price of One Dollar each, while they are as large as any books published at $1.75 and $2.00 each. The following have already been issued in this series.

- A Woman’s Thoughts About Women. By Miss Mulock.

- Two Ways to Matrimony; or, Is It Love, or, False Pride?

- The Story of “Elizabeth.” By Miss Thackeray.

- Flirtations in Fashionable Life. By Catherine Sinclair.

- Lady Edith; or, Alton Towers. A very charming and fascinating work.

- Myrtle Lawn; or, True Love Never Did Run Smooth. A Love Story.

- The Matchmaker. A Society Novel. By Beatrice Reynolds.

- Rose Douglas, the Bonnie Scotch Lass. A Companion to “Family Pride.”

- The Earl’s Secret. A Charming Love Story. By Miss Pardoe.

- Family Secrets. A Companion to “Family Pride,” and very fascinating.

- The Macdermots of Ballycloran. An Exciting Novel, by A. Trollope.

- The Family Save-All. With Economical Receipts for the Household.

- Self-Sacrifice. A Charming Work. By author of “Margaret Maitland.”

- The Pride of Life. A Love Story. By Lady Jane Scott.

- The Rival Belles; or, Life in Washington. Author “Wild Western Scenes.”

- The Clyffards of Clyffe. By James Payn, author “Lost Sir Massingberd.”

- The Orphan’s Trials; or, Alone in a Great City. By Emerson Bennett.

- The Heiress of Sweetwater. A Love Story, abounding with exciting scenes.

- The Refugee. A delightful book, full of food for laughter, and information.

- Lost Sir Massingberd. A Love Story. By author of “Clyffards of Clyffe.”

- Cora Belmont; or, The Sincere Lover. A True Story of the Heart.

- The Lover’s Trials; or, The Days Before the Revolution. By Mrs. Denison.

- My Son’s Wife. A strong, bright, interesting and charming Novel.

- Aunt Patty’s Scrap Bag. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, author of “Rena.”

- Saratoga! and the Famous Springs. An Indian Tale of Frontier Life.

- Country Quarters. A Charming Love Story. By Countess of Blessington.

- Self-Love. A Book for Young Ladies, with prospects in Life contrasted.

- The Devoted Bride; or, Faith and Fidelity. A Love Story.

- Colley Cibber’s Life of Edwin Forrest, with Reminiscences of the Actor.

- Out of the Depths. The Story of a Woman’s Life, and a Woman’s Book.

- The Queen’s Favorite; or, The Price of a Crown. A Romance of Don Juan.

- Six Nights with the Washingtonians. By T. S. Arthur. Illustrated.

- The Coquette; or, the Life and Letters of the beautiful Eliza Wharton.

- Harem Life in Egypt and Constantinople. By Emmeline Lott.

- The Old Patroon; or, The Great Van Brock Property, by J. A. Maitland.

- Nana. By Emile Zola.

- L’Assommoir. By Emile Zola.

- Dream Numbers. By Trollope.

- A Lonely Life.

- The Beautiful Widow.

- Love and Duty. By Mrs. Hubback.

- The Heiress in the Family.

- Woman’s Wrong. A Woman’s Book.

- Gambling Exposed. By J. H. Green.

- Woodburn Grange. By W. Howitt.

- The Cavalier. By G. P. R. James.

- Across the Atlantic.

- Shoulder-Straps. By H. Morford.

- The Brothers’ Secret.

- The Rector’s Wife.

- The Man of the World.

☞ Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa.

MONTE-CRISTO’S DAUGHTER

Petersons’ Editions of “Monte-Cristo Series.”

MONTE-CRISTO’S DAUGHTER. Sequel to Alexander Dumas’ Celebrated Novel of “The Count of Monte-Cristo,” and Conclusion of “Edmond Dantès.” With an Illustrated Cover, with Portrait of “Monte-Cristo’s Daughter, Zuleika,” on it. Every person that has read “The Count of Monte-Cristo” should get “Monte-Cristo’s Daughter” at once, and read it. It is complete one large duodecimo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents, or $1.25 in cloth.

EDMOND DANTÈS. The Sequel to “The Count of Monte-Cristo,” by Alexander Dumas. “Edmond Dantès” is one of the most wonderful romances ever issued. Just at the point where “The Count of Monte-Cristo” ends, “Edmond Dantès” takes up the fascinating narrative and continues it with marvellous power and absorbing interest unto the end. Every person that has read “The Count of Monte-Cristo,” should get “Edmond Dantès” at once, and read it. Complete in one large duodecimo volume, paper, price 75 cents, or $1.25 in cloth.

THE COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO. Petersons’ New Illustrated Edition. By Alexander Dumas. With full-page Engravings, illustrative of various scenes in the work. Petersons’ Edition of “The Count of Monte-Cristo” is the only Complete and Unabridged Edition of it ever translated, and it is conceded by all to be the greatest as well as the most exciting and best historical novel ever printed. Complete in one large octavo volume of six hundred pages with illustrations, paper cover, price One Dollar, or $1.50 bound in morocco cloth.

THE WIFE OF MONTE-CRISTO. Being the Continuation of Alexander Dumas’ Celebrated Novel of “The Count of Monte-Cristo.” With an Illustrated Cover, with Portraits of “Monte-Cristo,” “Haydée,” and their faithful servant, “Ali,” on it. Every person that has read “The Count of Monte-Cristo” should get “The Wife of Monte-Cristo” at once, and read it. Complete in one large duodecimo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents, or $1.25 in cloth.

THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. Being the Sequel to “The Wife of Monte-Cristo.” With an Illustrated Cover, with Portraits of the heroines in the work on it. Every person that has read “The Count of Monte-Cristo” or “The Wife of Monte-Cristo,” should get “The Son of Monte-Cristo” at once, and read it. One large duodecimo volume, paper cover, price 75, cents, or $1.25 in cloth.

THE COUNTESS OF MONTE-CRISTO. Being the Companion to Alexander Dumas’ Celebrated Novel of “The Count of Monte-Cristo,” and fully equal to that world-renowned novel. At the very commencement of the novel the Count of Monte-Cristo, Haydée, the wife of Monte-Cristo, and Espérance, the son of Monte-Cristo, take part in a weird scene, in which Mercédès, Albert de Morcerf and the Countess of Monte-Cristo also participate. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price One Dollar, or $1.50 in cloth.

☞ Petersons’ editions of “The Monte-Cristo Series” are for sale by all Booksellers, and at all News Stands everywhere, or copies of any one or all of them, will be sent to any one, post-paid, on remitting the price of the ones wanted to the Publishers,

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa.

MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ’S WORKS.

LIBRARY EDITION, IN MOROCCO CLOTH.

12 Volumes, at $1.50 Each; or $18.00 a Set.

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, have just published an entire new, complete, and uniform edition of all the celebrated Novels written by the popular American Novelist, Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, in twelve large duodecimo volumes. They are printed on the finest paper, and bound in the most beautiful style, in Green Morocco cloth, with a new, full gilt back, and sold at the low price of $1.50 each, or $18.00 for a full and complete set. Every Family and every Library in this country, should have in it a complete set of this new and beautiful edition of the works of Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz. The following is a complete list of

MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ’S WORKS.

- LINDA; or, THE YOUNG PILOT OF THE BELLE CREOLE. With a Complete Biography of Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz.

- ROBERT GRAHAM. A Sequel to “Linda.”

- RENA; or, THE SNOW BIRD. A Tale of Real Life.

- MARCUS WARLAND; or, The Long Moss Spring.

- ERNEST LINWOOD; or, The Inner Life of the Author.

- EOLINE; or, MAGNOLIA VALE; or, The Heiress of Glenmore.

- THE PLANTER’S NORTHERN BRIDE; or, Mrs. Hentz’s Childhood.

- HELEN AND ARTHUR; or, Miss Thusa’s Spinning-Wheel.

- COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE; or, The Joys of American Life.

- LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE; and other Stories of the Heart.

- THE LOST DAUGHTER; and other Stories of the Heart.

- THE BANISHED SON; and other Stories of the Heart.

☞ Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers at $1.50 each, or $18.00 for a complete set of the twelve volumes. Copies of either one of the above works, or a complete set of them, will be sent at once to any one, to any place, postage prepaid, or free of freight, on remitting their price in a letter to the Publishers,

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa.

Mrs. Ann S. Stephens’ Works

23 Volumes, at $1.50 each; or $34.50 a Set.

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa., have just published an entire new, complete, and uniform edition of all the works written by Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, the popular American Authoress. This edition is in duodecimo form, is printed on the finest paper, is complete in twenty-three volumes, and each volume is bound in morocco cloth, library style, with a full gilt back, and is sold at the low price of $1.50 each, or $34.50 for a full and complete set of the twenty-three volumes. Every Family, Reading Club, and every Private or Public Library in this country, should have in it a complete set of this new and beautiful edition of the works of Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. The following are the names of the volumes:

- FASHION AND FAMINE.

- THE REIGNING BELLE.

- BERTHA’S ENGAGEMENT.

- MARRIED IN HASTE.

- BELLEHOOD AND BONDAGE; or, Bought with a Price.

- LORD HOPE’S CHOICE; or, More Secrets Than One.

- THE OLD COUNTESS. Sequel to “Lord Hope’s Choice.”

- RUBY GRAY’S STRATEGY; or, Married by Mistake.

- PALACES AND PRISONS; or, The Prisoner of the Bastille.

- A NOBLE WOMAN; or, A Gulf Between Them.

- THE CURSE OF GOLD; or, The Bound Girl and The Wife’s Trials.

- MABEL’S MISTAKE; or, The Lost Jewels.

- THE OLD HOMESTEAD; or, The Pet of the Poor House.

- THE REJECTED WIFE; or, The Ruling Passion.

- SILENT STRUGGLES; or, Barbara Stafford. A Tale of Witchcraft.

- THE HEIRESS; or, The Gipsy’s Legacy.

- THE WIFE’S SECRET; or, Gillian.

- WIVES AND WIDOWS; or, The Broken Life.

- DOUBLY FALSE; or, Alike and Not Alike.

- THE SOLDIER’S ORPHANS.

- THE GOLD BRICK.

- MARY DERWENT.

- NORSTON’S REST.

☞ Above books are for sale by all Booksellers at $1.50 each, or $34.50 for a complete set of the twenty-three volumes. Copies of either one or more of the above books or a complete set of them, will be sent at once to any one, to any place, postage prepaid, or free of freight, on remitting their price in a letter to the Publishers,

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa.

“THREE GUARDSMEN SERIES.”

Petersons’ Complete and Unabridged Editions.

Foremost among the greatest novels of any age stand the five absorbing romances forming “The Three Guardsmen Series,” as published, by T. B. Peterson & Brothers. They are entitled respectively “The Three Guardsmen; or, The Three Mousquetaires,” “Twenty Years After,” the Sequel to “The Three Guardsmen,” “Bragelonne, the Son at Athos; or, Ten Years Later,” “The Iron Mask; or, The Feats and Adventures of Raoul de Bragelonne,” and “Louise de la Valliere,” the Sequel to “The Iron Mask,” and conclusion of the famous “Three Guardsmen Series” Written by the world-renowned novelist, Alexander Dumas, the best and most powerful writer of fiction France has ever produced, when first published they created an excitement unparalleled in literary annals, and their vast popularity has been steadily maintained ever since. This cannot be wondered at when the books are read, for their fascination, strength and interest are unexampled. The original translations from the French of these superb romances were made by that celebrated translator, Thomas Williams, Esq., for T. B. Peterson & Brothers, and are published only by them. They are altogether complete and unabridged, faithfully reproducing every line that Dumas wrote just as it came from his pen, without the slightest editing, adaptation or modification. They are historical romances, filled to overflowing with love, stirring adventures, gallantry, soldierly daring and manliness, plots and counterplots, dark deeds, political machinations, virtue, vice, innocence and guilt. D’Artagnan, Athos, Aramis and Porthos are the leading personages, and hosts of others fill their varied and important roles. Much light is thrown upon the history of France and the French Court, and that mystery which puzzled the world for nearly two centuries, the identify of the Prisoner in the Iron Mask, is completely solved in a manner so powerful, interesting and ingenious that this episode alone makes this series invaluable.

THE THREE GUARDSMEN, or THE THREE MOUSQUETAIRES. By Alexander Dumas. Translated by Thomas Williams, Esq. Paper cover, 75 cents; morocco cloth, Library style, $1.75.

TWENTY YEARS AFTER. The Sequel to “The Three Guardsmen.” By Alexander Dumas. Translated by Thomas Williams, Esq. Being the “Second Book” of “The Three Guardsmen Series.” Paper cover, 75 cents; morocco cloth, Library style, $1.75.

BRAGELONNE, THE SON OF ATHOS, or TEN YEARS LATER. The Sequel to “Twenty Years After.” By Alexander Dumas. Translated by Thomas Williams, Esq. Being the “Third Book” of “The Three Guardsmen Series.” Paper cover, 75 cents; morocco cloth, Library style, $1.75.

THE IRON MASK, or THE FEATS AND ADVENTURES OF RAOUL DE BRAGELONNE. The Sequel to “Bragelonne, the Son of Athos.” By Alexander Dumas. Translated by Thomas Williams, Esq. Being the “Fourth Book” of “The Three Guardsmen Series.” Paper cover, $1.00; morocco cloth, Library style, $1.75.

LOUISE DE LA VALLIERE. The Sequel to and end of “The Iron Mask.” By Alexander Dumas. Translated by Thomas Williams Esq. Being the “Fifth Book” and end of “The Three Guardsmen Series.” Paper cover, $1.00; morocco cloth, Library style, $1.75.

☞ Above five works are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, at all News Stands everywhere, and on all Railroad Trains, or copies of any one, or all of them, will be sent to any one, post-paid, on remitting price of ones wanted to the publishers,

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia Pa.

Emma D. E. N. Southworth’s Complete Works

Mrs. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS

COMPLETE IN FORTY-THREE VOLUMES.

EACH IS IN ONE LARGE DUODECIMO VOLUME, CLOTH, GILT, AT $1.50 EACH, OR $64.50 A SET.

Copies of any one or all will be sent to any one, post-paid, on receipt of remittances.

Mrs. Southworth’s works have become very popular, and they have great merits as fiction, for she has written many good novels for the fireside, and furnished an amazing fund of pure and healthy entertainment to thousands of readers that have been, and to many thousands more to come. The great secret of her hold upon her readers is, after her inventive genius, in framing the plots of her stories, and in the brisk and wide-awake manner in which all the details are executed. There is no time for listlessness, every movement is animated; and she is not only a popular and entertaining author, but a moral one, as she inculcates propriety, both by precept and by the example of her characters, which are calculated to do good to all readers. Her works should be read by all, for there is not a dull line in any of them, and they are full of thrilling and startling interest. Her characters are drawn with a strong hand, and actually appear to live and move before us. Probably no writer, man or woman, in America, is as popular, or has so wide a circle of readers as has Mrs. Southworth. Her stories are always full of thrilling interest to lovers of the sensational, and for literary merit they rank far above the works of any author or authoress of works of their class. Mrs. Southworth’s stories have won their high place by her ability, and anything with which her name is identified is certain to meet with hearty approval. The following are their names.

LIST OF MRS. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS.

- Ishmael; or, In the Depths. Being “Self-Made.”

- Self-Raised; or, From the Depths. Sequel to “Ishmael.”

- The Fortune Seeker.

- The Lost Heiress.

- Tried for Her Life.

- Cruel as the Grave.

- The Maiden Widow.

- The Family Doom.

- The Bride’s Fate.

- The Changed Brides.

- Fair Play.

- How He Won Her.

- Victor’s Triumph.

- A Beautiful Fiend.

- The Spectre Lover.

- The Prince of Darkness.

- The Christmas Guest.

- Fallen Pride.

- The Widow’s Son.

- The Bride of Llewellyn.

- The Fatal Secret.

- The Bridal Eve.

- India; Pearl of Pearl River.

- The Deserted Wife.

- Love’s Labor Won.

- A Noble Lord.

- The Lost Heir of Linlithgow.

- The Artist’s Love.

- The Gipsy’s Prophecy.

- The Three Beauties.

- Vivia; or, the Secret of Power.

- The Two Sisters.

- The Missing Bride.

- The Wife’s Victory.

- The Mother-in-Law.

- The Haunted Homestead.

- The Lady of the Isle.

- Allworth Abbey.

- Retribution.

- The Curse of Clifton.

- The Discarded Daughter.

- The Mystery of Dark Hollow.

- The Phantom Wedding.

☞ Copies of any one work, or more, or a complete set of “Mrs. Southworth’s Works,” will be sent to any one, to any address, at once, free of freight or postage, on remitting $1.50 for each one wanted, to T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa.

☞ Address all orders and remittances to the Publishers,

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa.

PETERSONS’ 50 CENT SERIES.

Books by the Best Authors In the World, Published by

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, PHILADELPHIA,

And for sale everywhere at 50 cents each.

“Petersons’ New 50 Cent Series” of Novels will form the choicest and most readable collection of fiction ever gotten together. An exceedingly wide field will be embraced, as something will be provided for every taste and everything will be of the best. The works will all be from the most gifted pens in Europe and America. An important addition will be made to the list every month. It will be the aim to give for this exceedingly moderate cost per volume an assemblage of works of real value which will not be cast aside after reading, but be preserved as sterling literary gems.

THE FOLLOWING ARE PUBLISHED AT 50 CENTS EACH:

THE SHOP GIRLS OF PARIS. By Emile Zola. The action of this great novel takes place mainly in an immense Dry Goods Store, the rise of which, from the smallest proportions, Zola describes with the utmost minuteness. The hosts of shop-girls or sales-ladies and salesmen are all brought in and placed before the reader in Zola’s most naturalistic way.

CHRISTINE, THE MODEL, or STUDIOS OF PARIS. By Emile Zola.

HELEN’S BABIES. With Illustrated Cover. By John Habberton. Two hundred and twenty thousand copies of “Helen’s Babies” have already been printed and sold, and it continues to be the most popular book in the world. Everybody is reading it, or wants to get a copy of it to read.

MYSTERIES of the COURT OF LOUIS NAPOLEON. By Emile Zola.

PETERSONS’ 75 CENT SERIES.

THE FOLLOWING ARE PUBLISHED AT 75 CENTS EACH:

- ISHMAEL, or IN THE DEPTHS. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

- SELF-RAISED, or FROM THE DEPTHS. By Mrs. Southworth.

- THE FLOWER AND MARKET GIRLS OF PARIS. By Emile Zola.

- CONSUELO. By George Sand. The Greatest Work in the English Language.

- MAJOR JONES’S COURTSHIP. With 21 Illustrations. By Major Jones.

- COUNTESS OF RUDOLSTADT. Sequel to “Consuelo.” By George Sand.

- THE BRIDE OF AN EVENING. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

- EDMOND DANTÈS. Sequel to Alexander Dumas’ “Count of Monte-Cristo.”

- THE INITIALS. “A. Z.” By the Baroness Tautphœus.

- MEMOIRS OF VIDOCQ, the French Detective. With Illustrations.

☞ News Agents and Booksellers will be supplied with any of the above books, at very low rates, assorted, as they may wish them, to make up a dozen, hundred, five hundred, or thousand, by the publishers, T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa.

☞ Copies will be sent to any one, post-paid, on remitting price to the publishers,

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa.

CLIQUOT

A RACING STORY OF IDEAL BEAUTY.

BY KATE LEE FERGUSON.

“Cliquot,” by Kate Lee Ferguson, is a very clever and charming novel of the Amélie Rives school, full of interest, beauty and piquancy. It enters into its subject without the slightest delay, maintains continuous action and avoids digressions. Love, of course, is its predominating theme, but much of its interest centres in the racing career of a fleet thoroughbred stallion from which the romance takes its name and which by reason of intractability and a habit of killing jockeys has failed in every race. Neil Emory, the hero of the novel and his owner, however, finds a boy who manages to control and bring him in a winner. The momentous race is described with such spirit and realism that every patron of the turf will be fascinated, while even the general reader who has no particular love for horse-flesh cannot fail to be thrilled, especially as there is a mystery surrounding the youthful jockey which has a direct bearing upon the plot. Emory is married and has not been released from the wife he has put aside, but this does not prevent him from passionately loving Gwendoline Gwinn, the beautiful heroine and an admirable character, by the way, strong in all those points which bring a man to a woman’s feet and keep him there. Spicy incidents abound and are well worked up, particularly those in which Cassandra Clovis and “Kitty Who Laughs,” a couple of actresses, figure conspicuously. Cassandra is a handsome, passionate creature who loves unbidden and suffers bitterly in consequence. “Kitty Who Laughs” is a mysterious personage in whose history there is a decided pathetic element. The other personages introduced are of minor importance, but well-drawn and representative types of Southern character, for the scene of “Cliquot” is laid in the South, the most thrilling developments taking place in New Orleans. The love passages, of which there are quite a number in the delightful volume, are highly wrought and overflowing with ardent passion, but altogether within the bounds of the natural. They will certainly stir a responsive chord in the breast of every youthful reader and not a few of the older ones. “Cliquot” is written in smoothly flowing style and is both breezy and touching. Its plot is very creditable and the denouement is brought about with a fair degree of skill. The novel will be sure to find many readers and of course will be widely talked about, as in parts it ventures upon ground where delicate treatment is imperative. Amélie Rives has published nothing more passionate and her best works have not caused the sensation “Cliquot” is likely to create.

One Volume.—Paper Cover.—Price 25 Cents.

☞ “Cliquot” will be found for sale by all Booksellers, by all News Agents, at all News Stands, at all Hotel Stands and Book Stands everywhere, or copies of it will be sent to any one, to any place, at once, post-paid, on remitting price to the publishers,

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa.

PETERSONS’ 25 CENT SERIES.

BOOKS BY MRS. SOUTHWORTH, ZOLA, ETC., PUBLISHED BY

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, PHILADELPHIA,

And for sale everywhere at 25 cents each.

- TRIED FOR HER LIFE. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

- CRUEL AS THE GRAVE. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

- THE CHANGED BRIDES. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

- THE BRIDE’S FATE. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

- THE BRIDAL EVE. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

- THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth.

- THE FAMILY DOOM. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

- THE MAIDEN WIDOW. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

- NANA. By Emile Zola. His Great Realistic Novel of Lite in Paris.

- NANA’S DAUGHTER. A Sequel to Emile Zola’s Novel of “Nana.”

- LA TERRE. By Emile Zola. Zola’s Last and Greatest Book.

- L’ASSOMMOIR; or, NANA’S MOTHER. By Emile Zola.

- A GIRL’S LOVE. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana.”

- HELENE. A Tale of Love and Passion. By Emile Zola.

- ALBINE; or, THE ABBE’S TEMPTATION. By Emile Zola.

- THE GIRL IN SCARLET. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana.”

- NANA’S BROTHER; or, GERMINAL. By Emile Zola.

- LE REVE. (The Dream.) By Emile Zola, author of “Nana.”

- FASHION AND FAMINE. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.

- THE OLD HOMESTEAD. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.

- THE OLD COUNTESS. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.

- LORD HOPE’S CHOICE. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.

- LINDA, or The Young Pilot of Belle Creole. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz.

- ROBERT GRAHAM. Sequel to “Linda.” By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz.

- RENA; or, THE SNOW-BIRD. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz.

- MARCUS WARLAND. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, author of “Linda.”

- KATHLEEN. A Charming Novel By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.

- THEO. A Sprightly Love Story. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.

- MISS CRESPIGNY. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.

- A QUIET LIFE. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.

- PRETTY POLLY PEMBERTON. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.

- LINDSAY’S LUCK. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett.

- MARRYING OFF A DAUGHTER. By Henry Greville.

- OUT OF THE DEPTHS. The Story of a Woman’s Life.

- CLIQUOT. A Racing Story of Ideal Beauty. By Kate Lee Ferguson.

- INDIANA. A Fascinating Novel. By George Sand, author of “Consuelo.”

- MY SON’S WIFE. By the author of “Caste,” “Mr. Arle,” etc.

- MY HERO. (The Man I Love.) By Mrs. Forrester.

- A HEART TWICE WON, or Second Love. By Mrs. E. Van Loon.

- THE CONFESSIONS OF AN ABBE. By Louis Ulbach.

- THE PRAIRIE FLOWER. By Emerson Bennett.

- RUN DOWN. A Psychological Novel. By George D. Cox.

- LENI-LEOTI. Sequel to “The Prairie Flower.” By Emerson Bennett.

☞ News Agents and Booksellers will be supplied with any of the above books, at very low rates, assorted, as they may wish them, to make up a dozen, hundred, five hundred, or thousand, by the publishers, T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa.

☞ Copies will be sent to any one, post-paid, on remitting price to the publishers,

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa.

PETERSONS’ 50 CENT SERIES.

Books by the Best Authors in the World, Published by

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, PHILADELPHIA,

And for sale everywhere at 50 cents each.

“Petersons’ New 50 Cent Series” of Novels will form the choicest and most readable collection of fiction ever gotten together. An exceedingly wide field will be embraced, as something will be provided for every taste and everything will be of the best. The works will all be from the most gifted pens in Europe and America. An important addition will be made to the list every month. It will be the aim to give for this exceedingly moderate cost per volume an assemblage of works of real value which will not be cast aside after reading, but be preserved as sterling literary gems.

THE FOLLOWING ARE PUBLISHED AT 50 CENTS EACH:

THE SHOP GIRLS OF PARIS. By Emile Zola. The action of this great novel takes place mainly in an immense Dry Goods Store, the rise of which, from the smallest proportions, Zola describes with the utmost minuteness. The hosts of shop-girls or sales-ladies and salesmen are all brought in and placed before the reader in Zola’s most naturalistic way.

CHRISTINE, THE MODEL, or STUDIOS OF PARIS. By Emile Zola.

HELEN’S BABIES. With Illustrated Cover. By John Habberton. Two hundred and twenty thousand copies of “Helen’s Babies” have already been printed and sold, and it continues to be the most popular book in the world. Everybody is reading it, or wants to get a copy of it to read.

MYSTERIES of the COURT OF LOUIS NAPOLEON. By Emile Zola.

PETERSONS’ 75 CENT SERIES.

THE FOLLOWING ARE PUBLISHED AT 75 CENTS EACH:

- ISHMAEL, or IN THE DEPTHS. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

- SELF-RAISED, or FROM THE DEPTHS. By Mrs. Southworth.

- THE FLOWER AND MARKET GIRLS OF PARIS. By Emile Zola.

- CONSUELO. By George Sand. The Greatest Work in the English Language.

- MAJOR JONES’S COURTSHIP. With 21 Illustrations. By Major Jones.

- COUNTESS OF RUDOLSTADT. Sequel to “Consuelo.” By George Sand.

- THE BRIDE OF AN EVENING. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth.

- EDMOND DANTÈS. Sequel to Alexander Dumas’ “Count of Monte-Cristo.”

- THE INITIALS. “A. Z.” By the Baroness Tautphœus.

- MEMOIRS OF VIDOCQ, the French Detective. With Illustrations.

☞ News Agents and Booksellers will be supplied with any of the above books, at very low rates, assorted, as they may wish them, to make up a dozen, hundred, five hundred, or thousand, by the publishers, T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa.

☞ Copies will be sent to any one, post-paid, on remitting price to the publishers,

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa.

“I consider ‘Ishmael’ to be my very best book.”—Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth.

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth’s Last and Best Book.

MRS. SOUTHWORTH’S GREAT “NEW YORK LEDGER” STORY.

ISHMAEL

OR, IN THE DEPTHS.

BY MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

Being Mrs. Southworth’s Greatest “New York Ledger” Story.

ONE VOLUME, MOROCCO CLOTH,—PRICE $1.50.

MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S COMPLETE WORKS. An entire new edition has just been published, in duodecimo form, printed on fine paper, complete in forty-three volumes, by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia. They are bound in morocco cloth, library style, with a full gilt back, and sold by all Booksellers, everywhere, at the low price of $1.50 each, or $64.50 for a complete set. Send for a complete list of them, which will be sent free on application.

☞ This edition contains a new Portrait of Mrs. Southworth, and her Autograph, also a view of her beautiful Home on the banks of the Potomac, both engraved on steel.

☞ Mrs. Southworth’s books have great originality, fine descriptions, startling incidents, scenes of pathos, are of pure moral tone, and should be read by everybody.

☞ Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth is acknowledged to be the greatest of all American female writers, and a set of her books should be in every home and in every library.

☞ Copies of “ISHMAEL; or, IN THE DEPTHS,” Mrs. Southworth’s greatest work, or any one or more of “Mrs. Southworth’s Works,” or a complete set of “Mrs. Southworth’s Works,” bound in morocco cloth, will be sent to any one, to any address, at once, free of freight or postage, on remitting $1.50 for each book wanted, to the Publishers, T. B. Peterson & Brothers, 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa.

☞ Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth’s books will be found for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents everywhere. Canvassers wanted everywhere to engage in their sale.

☞ Booksellers, News Agents and Canvassers will be supplied at very low rates, and they will please send in their orders at once to the publishers,

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa.,
and they will receive immediate and prompt attention.

Transcriber’s Notes:

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

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Table of Contents

- Cliquot.

- CONTENTS.

- CHAPTER I. A SHORT HEAT.

- CHAPTER II. A DEVIL’S LAUGH.

- CHAPTER III. SHE WHO INFLAMES WITH LOVE.

- CHAPTER IV. “OUT FROM THE GOLDEN DAY.”

- CHAPTER V. PRETTY GOOD ARMS.

- CHAPTER VI. BACKWARDS.

- CHAPTER VII. MONDAY.

- CHAPTER VIII. “MY BEAUTIFUL! MY BEAUTIFUL!”

- CHAPTER IX. THE CHINK OF GOLD.

- CHAPTER X. FALSE COURAGE.

- CHAPTER XI. A MOONLIGHT DRIVE.

- CHAPTER XII. “I KNOW YOU, GWENDOLINE.”

- CHAPTER XIII. “WITHIN A WEEK.”

- CHAPTER XIV. IN THE CITY OF VIOLETS.

- CHAPTER XV. “SOFT AS ZEPHYR.”

- CHAPTER XVI. AT LAST.

- Transcriber’s Notes:

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE