sudden death of his relatives, so near together, was too terrible?

No, indeed. The man meant, and the rector knew that he meant, to receive
this rich and august inheritance just at the hour of death was indeed
“too terrible”—was insupportable.

Poor wretch! he burst into tears and sobbed aloud, dropping back on his
pillow and turning his face to the wall.

“Pray try to be calm, my lord. This emotion will do you a mischief,”
pleaded Mr. Campbell.

“Go and bring my wife and child to me. Let me tell them the news,” he
exclaimed, and then burst into the most sarcastic peal of laughter the
rector thought he had ever heard. He left the room and went to find his
daughter, whom he came upon, as usual, seated beside her mother and
engaged in needlework over the baby’s cradle.

“Come, my dear. Montgomery wants you. Bring the little one along with
you. And, Hetty, dear, you had better come also,” he said.

Both women looked up anxiously, half expecting that this was their final
summons to the sick-room; that now “the end of earth” for Kightly
Montgomery was at hand.

“Is anything the matter, Jim?” inquired Hetty, while Jennie’s eyes asked
the same question.

“News of Montgomery’s relatives in Cumberland, that is all,” replied the
rector.

“What news?” demanded Hetty.

“He prefers to announce it in person.”

“Dear me! How mysterious we are! Come on, Jennie!” said Mrs. Campbell,
taking her husband’s arm and leading the way.

Jennie picked up her baby and followed.

They entered the sick-room.

The sick man held out his hand to his wife, saying:

“Come here, Jennie, my girl! You are Countess of Engelmeed! Did you know
it? And that doll in your arms is Lady Esther Montgomery!—for a few
hours only while I draw the breath of life. Afterward you will only be
countess dowager, while she will be countess in her own right. For the
earldom of Engelmeed is not a male feoff exclusively, but failing the
male line which fails in me, will ‘fall to the distaff,’ as represented
by that rag baby of yours. So I think—you are com——” He paused in sudden
pain and prostration.

“Do not speak again for the present, my lord. You will hurt yourself.
Rest a while,” said the rector, while Jennie looked at her mother in
helpless dismay.

“He is delirious again, my dear,” whispered Mrs. Campbell in reply to
that look.

“Stoop down——” muttered the dying man in a low, faint, husky voice.

Jennie bent over him to catch his failing words.

“You will be—compensated—for all—you have gone through—by being made—a
countess—you ought——”

His voice suddenly ceased. A spasm of pain traversed his face.

“My lord! my lord! Have mercy on yourself and keep still,” pleaded the
rector.

It was too late. A wild look flew into the eyes of the dying man and
fixed them on the rector’s face. A torrent of blood gushed from his
mouth. Gentleman Geff had spoken his last words, and in a very few
minutes he had drawn his last breath.

Jennie threw herself sobbing into the arms of her father. She was too
young to have much self-control, but whether now she wept from grief,
horror or compassion, or all three combined, she could not herself have
told.

Her father took her babe to his bosom and led her to her own room, where
he made her lie down on her bed and placed the child beside her.

The rector went to his study and wrote a letter to the steward at
Engelwode, telling him what had happened.

Then he walked over to Haymore Hall to carry the news to Mr. Randolph
Hay and to confer with him on what was next to be done.

Ran and Judy were both shocked and grieved at the fate of their
enemy—their enemy, however, only in so far as he tried to wrong them
primarily with the wish to benefit himself rather than to injure them.

“The remains should be taken to Engelwode Castle and placed in the
family vault, of course,” said the rector. “And as the last earl died
without having had time to make a will between his succession and his
death, my granddaughter, the little countess, will be a ward in
chancery.”

“And no doubt the lord chancellor will constitute you, sir, the guardian
of her person and a trustee of her estate,” added Ran.

“Perhaps—most likely, indeed; in which case they will associate some
other reliable man with me in the onerous charge. And I should like you
to be that man, Hay,” pleaded the parson.

“With pleasure; if the lord chancellor will appoint me,” answered Ran.

“Is Jennie much distressed, sir?” inquired Judy, sympathetically.

“Yes, madam. She is very much agitated.”

“May I go to her? Could I do her any good?”

“I feel sure you could. I should feel very grateful to you.”

Judy hurried into the house and got her wraps, and came out to join the
rector in his walk homeward.

At the rectory door they were met by Mrs. Campbell, who, after very
gravely saluting Judy and thanking her for coming, turned to the rector
and inquired:

“What was all that the wretched man was rambling about in his last hour?
Was there any foundation of truth in it?”

“It was all truth, Hetty, from foundation rock—to carry out your
simile—to capping stone; and baby Essie is now Countess of Engelmeed in
her own right and a ward in chancery.”

“Well, well, well! She doesn’t know it—Jennie, I mean, of course. She
thinks he was out of his head.”

“Yes, I saw she did; but it is true,” said the rector, as they entered
the house.

A week later the remains of the last Earl of Engelmeed were laid in the
vault of his forefathers, amid all

                   “The pride, pomp and circumstance”

of funeral parade.

After the ceremonies the rector, with his wife, daughter and grandchild,
returned to the rectory, where they were all to live during the minority
of the infant countess.

Ran and Judy came back to their beloved home, but had scarcely got
settled there when they received letters announcing the speedy arrival
of Mr. and Mrs. Cleve Stuart, with their children and a friend—Mr.
O’Melaghlin, of Arghalee, in Antrim.

“I wonder who he is,” pondered Ran, as he took the letter over to the
rectory to show it to Mr. Campbell.

“Why, I know the name and the place, but not the man. I have been to
Arghalee. All except the very ground on which the ancient castle stands,
and which the impoverished O’Melaghlin would not sell under any stress
of fortune, forms a part of the duke’s estate. The castle is one of the
show places of the neighborhood; not for its parks, plantations or
picture galleries, by any means—for there are none—but for the great
antiquity of the ruins. The owner was supposed to be traveling abroad.
He is The O’Melaghlin in question, of course. The guidebook to the
ancient castle shows the family to be lineal descendants from Roderick
O’Melaghlin, monarch of Meath, and more remotely from Konn, a somewhat
mythical king of prehistoric Ireland. So, you see, you will have an
illustrious guest, though he may be as poor as ‘Job’s turkey.’”

“No; the letter says he has made an immense fortune in the gold mines of
Australia, and is coming back to live on his estate.”

“When do you expect them?”

“By the next steamer—for this letter was written from New York the day
before they were to start.”

“Ah!” said the rector.

And Ran, having communicated his good news, went home to his Judy.

                             CHAPTER XXXIX
                      “ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL”

Meanwhile, Cleve, Palma, their children, servant, and, last and
loftiest, The O’Melaghlin were coming over as fast as wind and steam
could bring them.

They had unusually fine weather for the whole trip. They made some very
pleasant acquaintances, and formed some very fast friendships among
their fellow passengers, with whom they were all very popular.

The eccentricities of The O’Melaghlin were endless sources of amusement
to the passengers as to our own party, to whom they were also causes of
frequent annoyance.

For instance, O’Melaghlin always addressed Mr. Cleve Stuart as
“Wolfscliff.” And not infrequently, when he had had too much wine for
dinner, the chieftain would hail his friend from across the table as
“O’Wolfscliff,” or speak of him to another person as “The O’Wolfscliff.”

Besides this, he would reiterate, in season and out of season, his
injunction that Mr. and Mrs. Cleve Stuart should preserve, inviolate,
the secret of his relationship to Mike and Judy.

“Moind ye don’t let on to them,” he repeated. “I am to be inthrodooced
as a frind of your own, claiming, in right of you, the hospitality of
Misther and Misthress Randolph Hay. And I am to have a week or tin days
to observe me childer before they suspect me. That will lave me find
them out as they are widout pritinces. Do ye moind?”

“Oh, yes,” Stuart would reply, heartily tired, yet half amused at the
man’s persistence.

“And yerself will not brathe a syllable that will lave them suspict I’m
anything to themselves, Misthress Stuart?” he persevered, turning to
Palma.

“Not a syllable, O’Melaghlin,” she answered.

This funny persecution ceased for the time, to be renewed as soon as
they landed at Liverpool, and continued all the way from that city to
York, and from there to Chuxton.

“Not a hint, not a breath, not a look, to bethray to the childer that
they behold in me the father of them, and a discindint of the ancient
kings of Meath,” he said, as the train drew into the Chuxton station.

“‘Not a hint, not a breath, not a look’ from us shall betray your
secret, O’Melaghlin,” Cleve assured him.

“No, indeed,” Palma added.

“Be the powers, if ye bethray me, I nivir spake to aither of yez again.”

“There,” said Stuart, as they all rose to leave the train, “there is Mr.
Randolph Hay himself come in the barouche to meet us.”

“Where?” demanded The O’Melaghlin.

“There, on the other side of the road. That gentleman in the open
carriage with the fine bays and the footman in russet livery,” replied
Cleve, pointing to the “turnout.”

“Be the club of Konn! That foine fellow the son-in-law of meself!”

“Yes, indeed!”

“The gintleman that married me Judy when she was a nady orphan, and he
didn’t suspict she could be the daughter of a hundred kings?”

“The very same.”

“Let me at him!” exclaimed The O’Melaghlin, pushing to the front and
passing through the crowd on the platform to the side of the barouche,
just as Ran got down from his seat to welcome his friends.

“I’m The O’Melaghlin, Misther Hay. And it’s proud I am to make the
acquaintance of ye. You’re a noble man, that ye are—that ye are.
Wolfscliff is behoind. I could not wait for him to inthrodooce you. But
I’m The O’Melaghlin, and you are Misther Hay!” he exclaimed, seizing the
hand of Ran and shaking it to nearly dislocation.

Ran was somewhat dismayed, not knowing how to account for this
overwhelming salute that almost deprived him of the power to respond,
and say:

“I am very happy to meet you, Mr. O’Melaghlin.”

“Misther?” repeated the chief, prompt to take exception to such a common
title applied to himself.

But fortunately Stuart came up, shook hands with Ran and then presented
Palma, who was warmly welcomed by her cousin.

“And now, Wolfscliff, will ye be afther inthrodoocing Misther Hay to
meself?” demanded Ran’s father-in-law.

“Pardon, I thought you had,” said Stuart.

“Divil a bit could I do that same to his intilligince,” replied the
other.

“Then I will have that honor,” laughed Stuart.

And assuming the courtly dignity of a lord chamberlain at a royal
reception, he bowed to the descendant of Irish kings, and with a wave of
his hand, to indicate the inferior person, said:

“The O’Melaghlin, of Arghalee, I have the honor to present to you, sir,
Mr. Randolph Hay, of Haymore.”

Ran bowed very solemnly, conscious now that he stood in the presence of
an “eccentric.”

“And, sure, meself fales honored in the relationship—I mane the
acquaintanceship,” graciously replied The O’Melaghlin, feeling, however,
that he had almost betrayed himself.

“Will you take seats in the carriage now? My servants are here with the
break and a van to bring your people and luggage,” said Ran.

Cleve bowed and handed Palma to a back seat, and The O’Melaghlin to a
place beside her. Then he took a front seat, where Ran joined him, and
the barouche started for Haymore Hall.

The drive through the beautiful country, now in the glory of early
summer, charmed both Cleve and Palma.

“It is a boundless Garden of Eden!” exclaimed the latter.

But beauty and glory in nature was quite lost on The O’Melaghlin, who
employed the time in descanting to his son-in-law upon the ancient
royalty and grandeur of the O’Melaghlins until the carriage turned into
the park gate, where Longman stood to welcome them.

“There, that was a foine sivin-footer—that retainer of yours, Haymore.
Jist such min me ancestor, Roderick O’Melaghlin, last monarch of Meath,
had for his bodyguard, armed with spears and battle-axes, iviry man of
them,” said the chieftain, as the carriage rolled up the avenue toward
the house.

When it drew up in front of the Hall, there stood Mike and Judy, the
beautiful young pair, as much alike in their dark loveliness as twin
brother and sister could possibly be. Both in evening dress; Mike in the
conventional black swallowtail and patent leathers, with a sprig of
shamrock in his buttonhole in honor of the visitor. Judy in a dark blue
satin dress, trained, and with low body and short sleeves, showing the
plump neck and round arms, which were now dimly veiled with fine lace
and adorned with the Haymore diamonds in honor of the guests.

Behind them stood an array of servants.

“There is your son and daughter, O’Melaghlin,” whispered Palma in the
ear of the chief, as he sat beside her.

He looked out and saw the beautiful pair, with their lovely faces
lighted up now with the joy of expectancy.

“What! thim? You don’t mane thim!” he exclaimed, gazing at them.

“Yes, I do. They are Mike and Judy.”

“Och! let me at thim—the angels!—the beauties! They are both the imidge
of their mother, me sainted Moira! Let me at thim!”

And with a bound The O’Melaghlin was out of the barouche and tearing up
the stairs to the presence of his astonished children.

Forgotten were all his plans of secrecy and covert observation. The
father’s pride and joy in the Irishman’s warm heart overbore all
resolutions, and he fell upon his son and daughter with ravenous
delight.

“And so ye are me own childer—me Mike and me Judy! And the jewels that
ye are!” he exclaimed.

But it was Judy he clasped to his breast and covered with kisses.

“Oh, Mike! Mike! save me!” exclaimed the frightened and distressed
daughter.

“Will ye be afther kapin’ yer hands to yerself?” exclaimed Mike, who
thought the stranger was a maniac, and tried to separate him from the
terrified victim. But Mike was no match for The O’Melaghlin.

“Aisy! aisy!” exclaimed the chieftain. “It’s jealous ye are of me
affection for the sister av ye! But your turn will come nixt, me bhoy!”

Fortunately Ran, to whom Cleve had hastily communicated the now open
secret, came hurrying up the stairs, leaving Stuart and Palma for the
moment in the barouche.

“Stop! stop! Mike, my lad! The gentleman is your father. Yes, dear Judy,
your father. Do not be afraid of him,” he exclaimed, coming to the
rescue with the explanation.

“Yis, darlint Judy, it’s the fayther av ye that’s pressin’ ye to this
throbbin’ heart av him! It’s the fayther av ye, me foine Mike, that will
make ye the lawful heir av the oldest name and richest estate in ould
Ireland! Yis, I meant to have kept that same a secret till I had watched
the natures av ye both for a wake or two, but me affections were too
much for me.”

While he spoke he was kissing Judy, patting Mike on the shoulder or
embracing them both and holding them together to his breast.

At last, quite overcome by his emotion, he sank down upon the top step
and covered his face with his hands to hide the tears that might have
seemed a reproach to the descendant of the warlike monarchs of Meath.

Mike and Judy raised him up with tender care and led him into the hall
and thence into the drawing-room, while the old butler, without waiting
orders, went and brought a tray with a decanter of brandy and a glass.

The O’Melaghlin saw the elixir of life and revived at the sight.

Meanwhile Ran returned to the barouche to conduct Stuart and Palma to
the house.

“He made me and my wife swear by all the saints in Christendom that we
would not betray his secret until he himself should give us leave, and
lo! he has blurted it out himself,” laughed Stuart.

“Yes. He seems a very eccentric person, this unexpected father-in-law of
mine. Yet I like what I have seen of him,” replied Ran.

“You will like him better. The longer you know him the more you will
esteem him. And if you will consider the eccentricities of his fate and
fortune, you will understand and forgive the eccentricities of his
character,” replied Cleve.

And then they followed their host into the house and into the
drawing-room, where they found The O’Melaghlin seated on a sofa between
his son and daughter, with his left arm around Judy’s waist, and in his
right hand a wineglass of brandy which he sipped at intervals, while
Mike held the decanter ready to replenish the glass when necessary.

But as soon as Ran came in with the Stuarts The O’Melaghlin gave the
glass to Judy to hold and went to meet them.

He seized the hand of Ran, and shaking it again cruelly and almost to
dislocation, exclaimed:

“Me son-in-law! Me brave, good, thrue bhoy! I have not yet greeted ye,
nor wilcomed ye as me son-in-law! But now I will do it, with the highest
praise mortal man could give ye. I will say: Haymore, sir, ye are worthy
to be the husband of me daughter Judy and the daughter of a thousand
kings.”

“I thank you, sir. I am sure that is the highest praise you could give
me. I hope it is true,” gallantly replied Ran.

Servants were at hand to show the guests to their apartments.

Mike did the honors to his father, and accompanied him to the apartments
prepared for him.

Judy attended Palma to the beautiful suit of rooms that had been fitted
up for Mr. and Mrs. Stuart and their children.

There Judy for the first time made acquaintance with Palma’s lovely
children, whom she found already on the nursery cot, asleep and attended
by the faithful Hatty.

“Why, when did these beauties come? Why have I not seen them before?”
demanded Judy.

“They came in the second carriage with Hatty and Josias. I would trust
them with those two as confidently as with myself and their father,”
replied Palma.

“And I was so taken by surprise at the sudden meeting with my father
that I forgot even to inquire after the darlings! I beg your little
pardons!” said Judy, kneeling by the side of the children’s cot and
kissing their sleeping faces.

At dinner the newly arrived visitors met the Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Campbell,
who had been invited to meet them. Jennie—the Countess Dowager of
Engelmeed—being in deep mourning for her husband, did not go out or
receive visitors.

A week of idleness on the part of all the family followed at Haymore
Hall.

After that questions of importance were taken up.

It was decided that The O’Melaghlin, with Mr. and Mrs. Hay and Mr. and
Mrs. Stuart and Mike, should set out on an excursion to Arghalee Castle
and find lodging at Arghalee Arms, and from that vantage point
investigate the ancient ruins and see what could be done toward the
successful restoration of the castle, also open negotiations with the
duke’s legal steward if possible to repurchase all the land that had
once constituted the Arghalee estate.

All this was happily effected in the course of a few months—for The
O’Melaghlin stopped at nothing in his eager desire to restore the
ancient magnificence and splendor of his house; and so he paid twice the
worth of the land to get it back, and fabulous sums to the antiquaries
and architects to restore the castle and the chapel in all their
pristine strength and glory.

The Stuarts remained at Haymore until the last of the summer and then
bade affectionate adieus to the Hays and returned to Virginia.

This was the first of many visits, which the Hays often returned.

That autumn Mike was entered as Michael O’Melaghlin, master of Arghalee,
in one of the best preparatory colleges in Glasgow.

That winter, when “Burke’s Landed Gentry” appeared, under the name of
Hay it contained this item:

  Hay, Randolph, born January 1, 185—, succeeded his father March 1,
  187—, married December 2, 187—, Judith, only daughter of Michael, The
  O’Melaghlin, Chief of Arghalee, Antrim.

And the anxious soul of Will Walling, when he received a copy of the
book with the marked passage, was entirely satisfied.

And New Year’s Day brought Ran and Judy a New Year’s gift, in the form
of a son and heir, which filled the hearts of the parents with bliss.

                                THE END

                  BURT’S SERIES _of_ STANDARD FICTION.

RICHELIEU. A tale of France in the reign of King Louis XIII. By G. P. R.
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THE PEARL OF ORR’S ISLAND. A story of the Coast of Maine. By Harriet
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  blossomed? Again and again one lingers over the descriptions of the
  character of that baby boy Moses, who came through the tempest, amid
  the angry billows, pillowed on his dead mother’s breast.

  There is no more faithful portrayal of New England life than that
  which Mrs. Stowe gives in “The Pearl of Orr’s Island.”

THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER. A Romance of the Early Settlers in the Ohio
Valley. By Zane Grey. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.

  A book rather out of the ordinary is this “Spirit of the Border.” The
  main thread of the story has to do with the work of the Moravian
  missionaries in the Ohio Valley. Incidentally the reader is given
  details of the frontier life of those hardy pioneers who broke the
  wilderness for the planting of this great nation. Chief among these,
  as a matter of course, is Lewis Wetzel, one of the most peculiar, and
  at the same time the most admirable of all the brave men who spent
  their lives battling with the savage foe, that others might dwell in
  comparative security.

  Details of the establishment and destruction of the Moravian “Village
  of Peace” are given at some length, and with minute description. The
  efforts to Christianize the Indians are described as they never have
  been before, and the author has depicted the characters of the leaders
  of the several Indian tribes with great care, which of itself will be
  of interest to the student.

  By no means least among the charms of the story are the vivid
  word-pictures of the thrilling adventures, and the intense paintings
  of the beauties of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken forests.

  It is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by
  it, perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too, willingly
  braved every privation and danger that the westward progress of the
  star of empire might be the more certain and rapid. A love story,
  simple and tender, runs through the book.

CAPTAIN BRAND, OF THE SCHOONER CENTIPEDE. By Lieut. Henry A. Wise,
U.S.N. (Harry Gringo). Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.

  The re-publication of this story will please those lovers of sea yarns
  who delight in so much of the salty flavor of the ocean as can come
  through the medium of a printed page, for never has a story of the sea
  and those “who go down in ships” been written by one more familiar
  with the scenes depicted.

  The one book of this gifted author which is best remembered, and which
  will be read with pleasure for many years to come, is “Captain Brand,”
  who, as the author states on his title page, was a “pirate of eminence
  in the West Indies.” As a sea story pure and simple, “Captain Brand”
  has never been excelled, and as a story of piratical life, told
  without the usual embellishments of blood and thunder, it has no
  equal.

NICK OF THE WOODS. A story of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. By Robert
Montgomery Bird. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.

  This most popular novel and thrilling story of early frontier life in
  Kentucky was originally published in the year 1837. The novel, long
  out of print, had in its day a phenomenal sale, for its realistic
  presentation of Indian and frontier life in the early days of
  settlement in the South, narrated in the tale with all the art of a
  practiced writer. A very charming love romance runs through the story.
  This new and tasteful edition of “Nick of the Woods” will be certain
  to make many new admirers for this enchanting story from Dr. Bird’s
  clever and versatile pen.

GUY FAWKES. A Romance of the Gunpowder Treason. By Wm. Harrison
Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank.
Price, $1.00.

  The “Gunpowder Plot” was a modest attempt to blow up Parliament, the
  King and his Counsellors. James of Scotland, then King of England, was
  weak-minded and extravagant. He hit upon the efficient scheme of
  extorting money from the people by imposing taxes on the Catholics. In
  their natural resentment to this extortion, a handful of bold spirits
  concluded to overthrow the government. Finally the plotters were
  arrested, and the King put to torture Guy Fawkes and the other
  prisoners with royal vigor. A very intense love story runs through the
  entire romance.

TICONDEROGA: A Story of Early Frontier Life in the Mohawk Valley. By G.
P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four page illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.

  The setting of the story is decidedly more picturesque than any ever
  evolved by Cooper: The frontier of New York State, where dwelt an
  English gentleman, driven from his native home by grief over the loss
  of his wife, with a son and daughter. Thither, brought by the
  exigencies of war, comes an English officer, who is readily recognised
  as that Lord Howe who met his death at Ticonderoga. As a most natural
  sequence, even amid the hostile demonstrations of both French and
  Indians, Lord Howe and the young girl find time to make most
  deliciously sweet love, and the son of the recluse has already lost
  his heart to the daughter of a great sachem, a dusky maiden whose
  warrior-father has surrounded her with all the comforts of a civilized
  life.

  The character of Captain Brooks, who voluntarily decides to sacrifice
  his own life in order to save the son of the Englishman, is not among
  the least of the attractions of this story, which holds the attention
  of the reader even to the last page. The tribal laws and folk lore of
  the different tribes of Indians known as the “Five Nations,” with
  which the story is interspersed, shows that the author gave no small
  amount of study to the work in question, and nowhere else is it shown
  more plainly than by the skilful manner in which he has interwoven
  with his plot the “blood” law, which demands a life for a life,
  whether it be that of the murderer or one of his race.

  A more charming story of mingled love and adventure has never been
  written than “Ticonderoga.”

ROB OF THE BOWL: A Story of the Early Days of Maryland. By John P.
Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. with four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.

  It was while he was a member of Congress from Maryland that the noted
  statesman wrote this story regarding the early history of his native
  State, and while some critics are inclined to consider “Horse Shoe
  Robinson” as the best of his works, it is certain that “Rob of the
  Bowl” stands at the head of the list as a literary production and an
  authentic exposition of the manners and customs during Lord
  Baltimore’s rule. The greater portion of the action takes place in St.
  Mary’s—the original capital of the State.

  As a series of pictures of early colonial life in Maryland, “Rob of
  the Bowl” has no equal, and the book, having been written by one who
  had exceptional facilities for gathering material concerning the
  individual members of the settlements in and about St. Mary’s, is a
  most valuable addition to the history of the State.

  The story is full of splendid action, with a charming love story, and
  a plot that never loosens the grip of its interest to its last page.

BY BERWEN BANKS. By Allen Raine.

  It is a tender and beautiful romance of the idyllic. A charming
  picture of life in a Welsh seaside village. It is something of a
  prose-poem, true, tender and graceful.

IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING. A romance of the American Revolution. By
Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.

  The story opens in the month of April, 1775, with the provincial
  troops hurrying to the defense of Lexington and Concord. Mr. Hotchkiss
  has etched in burning words a story of Yankee bravery and true love
  that thrills from beginning to end with the spirit of the Revolution.
  The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves taking a part in the
  exciting scenes described. You lay the book aside with the feeling
  that you have seen a gloriously true picture of the Revolution. His
  whole story is so absorbing that you will sit up far into the night to
  finish it. As a love romance it is charming.

                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

 1. P. 235, “Here am” inserted for illegible characters. 7 characters
      because capital H and lower m are each nearly 2 characters wide.
      Barely visible in original edition and reprint—defective typeface
      in original.
 2. P. 302, changed “in Sahara” to “in the Sahara”.
 3. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 4. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.