the dawn, eager yet fearful, inspired and strong of purpose. Wood and
hill slept in a haze of mist. The birds were only beginning in the
thickets, like the souls of children yet unborn, calling to eternity.
Beyond in the cliffs, San Nicandro, wrapped round with night, stood
silent and sombre athwart the west.

Francesco climbed from the valley as the day came with splendor, a
glow of molten gold streaming from the east. Wood and hillside
glimmered in a smoking mist, dew-bespangled, wonderful. As the sun
rose, the sea stretched sudden into the arch of the west, a great
expanse of liquid gold. A mysterious lustre hovered over the cliffs,
waves of light bent like saffron mist upon San Nicandro.

The dawn-light found an echo in Francesco's face. He came that
morning the ransomer, the champion, defeated in life and hope and
happiness, yet with head erect, as if defying Fate. His manhood smote
him like the deep-throated cry of a great bell, majestic and solemn.
The towers on the cliff were haloed with magic hues. Life, glory, joy,
lay locked in the gray stone walls. His heart sang in him; his eyes
were afire.

As he walked his horse with a hollow thunder of hoof over the narrow
bridge, he took his horn and blew a blast thereon. There was a sense
of desolation, a lifelessness about the place that smote his senses
with a strange fear. The walls stared void against the sky. There was
no stir, no sound within, no watchful faces at portal or wicket. Only
the gulls circled from the cliffs and the sea made its moan along the
strand.

Francesco sat in the saddle and looked from wall to belfry, from tower
to gate. There was something tragic about the place, the silence of a
sacked town, the ghostliness of a ship sailing the seas with a dead
crew upon her decks. Francesco's glance rested on the open postern, an
empty gash in the great gate. His face darkened and his eyes lost
their sanguine glow. There was something betwixt death and worse than
death in all this calm.

He dismounted and left his steed on the bridge. The postern beckoned
to him. He went in like a man nerved for peril, with sword drawn and
shield in readiness. Again he blew his horn. No living being answered,
no voice broke the silence.

The refectory was open, the door standing half ajar. Francesco thrust
it full open with the point of his sword and looked in. A gray light
filtered through the narrow windows. The nuns lay huddled on benches
and on the floor. Some lay fallen across the settles, others sat with
their heads fallen forward upon the table; a few had crawled towards
the door and had died in the attempt to escape. The shadow of death
was over the whole.

Francesco's face was as gray as the faces of the dead. There was
something here, a horror, a mystery, that hurled back the warm courage
of the heart.

With frantic despair he rushed from one body to the other, turning the
dead faces to the light, fearing every one must be that of his own
Ilaria. But Ilaria was not among them; the mystery grew deeper, grew
more unfathomable. For a moment, Francesco stood among the dead nuns
as if every nerve in his body had been suddenly paralyzed, when his
eyes fell upon a crystal chalice, half overturned on the floor. It
contained the remnants of a clear fluid. He picked it up and held it
to his nostrils. It fell from his nerveless fingers upon the stone and
broke into a thousand fragments, a thin stream creeping over the
granite towards the fallen dead. It was a preparation of hemlock and
bitter almonds. He stared aghast, afraid to move, afraid to call. The
nuns had poisoned themselves.

Like a madman he rushed out into the adjoining corridor, hither and
thither, in the frantic endeavor to find a trace of Ilaria. Yet not a
trace of her did he find. But what he did discover solved the mystery
of the grewsome feast of death which he had just witnessed. In a
corner where he had dropped it, there lay a silken banderol belonging
to a man-at-arms of Anjou's Provencals. They had been here, and the
nuns, to escape the violation of their bodies, had died, thus cheating
the fiends out of the gratification of their lusts.

The terrible discovery unnerved Francesco so completely that for a
time he stood as if turned to stone, looking about him like a
traveller who has stumbled blindly into a charnel house. Urged by
manifold forebodings, he then rushed from room to room, from cell to
cell. The same silence met him everywhere. Of Ilaria he found not a
trace. Had the fiends of Anjou carried her away, or had she, in
endeavoring to escape, found her death outside of the walls of San
Nicandro?

He dared not think out the thought.

The shadows of the place, the staring faces, the stiff hands clawing
at things inanimate, were like the phantasms of the night. Francesco
took the sea-air into his nostrils and looked up into the blue
radiance of the sky. All about him the garden glistened in the dawn;
the cypresses shimmered with dew. The late roses made very death more
apparent to his soul.

As he stood in deep thought, half dreading what he but half knew, a
voice called to him, breaking suddenly the ponderous silence of the
place. Guided by its sound, Francesco unlatched the door and found
himself face to face with the Duke of Spoleto.

For a moment they faced each other in silence.

Then he gave a great cry.

"Ever, ever night!" he said, stretching out his hands despairingly as
to an eternal void.

The duke's eyes seemed to look leagues away over moor and valley and
hill, where the blackened ruins of Astura rose beneath a dun smoke
against the calm of the morning sky.

A strange tenderness played upon his lips, as if with the extinction
of the Frangipani brood peace had entered his soul.

"A man is a mystery to himself," he said.

"But to God?"

"I know no God, save the God, my own soul! Let me live and
die,--nothing more! Why curse one's life with a 'to be?'"

Francesco sighed heavily.

"It is a kind of Fate to me!" he said, "inevitable as the setting of
the sun, natural as sleep. Not for myself do I fear it alone,--but I
should not like to think that I should never see her again."

The duke's eyes had caught life on the distant hillside, life surging
from the valleys, life and the glory of it. Harness, helm and shield
shone in the sun. Gold, azure, silver, scarlet were creeping from the
bronzed green of the wilds. Silent and solemn the host rolled slowly
into the full splendor of the day.

The duke's face had kindled.

"Grapple the days to come!" he said. "Let Scripture and ethics rot! My
men are at your command! Let them ride by stream and forest, moor and
mere! Let them ride in quest of your lost one, ride like the wind!"

Francesco looked at the duke through a mist of tears.

"You know?" he faltered.

"For this I came!" replied the duke, extending his hand. "You will
find her whom your heart seeks. Like a golden dawn shall she rise out
of the past. Blow your horn! Let us not tarry!"

CHAPTER VIII

THE ANCHORESS OF NARNI

Six days had passed. Once more the sun had tossed night from the sky
and kindled hope in the hymning east. The bleak wilderness barriered
by sea and crag had mellowed into the golden silence of the autumnal
woods. The very trees seemed tongued with prophetic flame. The world
leaped radiant out of the dawn.

Through the reddened woods rode Francesco, the Duke of Spoleto silent
by his side. Gloom still reigned on the pale, haggard face and there
was no lustre in the eyes that challenged ever the lurking shade of
Death. Six nights and six days had the quest been baffled. Near and
far armor glimmered in the reddened sanctuaries of the woods. Not a
trumpet brayed, though a host had scattered in search of a woman's
face.

On the seventh day, the trees drew back before Francesco where the
shimmering waters of the Nera streaked the meads. Peace dwelled there
and calm eternal, as of the Spirit that heals the throes of men. Rare
and golden lay the dawn-light on the valleys. The songs of the birds
came glad and multitudinous as in the burgeoning dawn of a glorious
day.

Francesco had halted under a great oak. His head was bare in the
sun-steeped shadows, his face was the face of one weary with long
watching under the voiceless stars. Great dread possessed him. He
dared not question his own soul.

A horn sounded in the woods, wild, clamorous and exultant. It was as
the voice of a prophet, clearing the despair of a godless world. Even
the trees stood listening. Far below, in the green shadows of the
valley, a horseman spurred his steed.

Francesco's eyes were upon him. Yet he dared not hope, gripped by a
great fear.

"I am even as a child," he said.

The duke's lips quivered.

"The dawn breaks,--the night is past. Tidings come to us. Let us ride
out!"

Francesco seemed lost in thought. He bowed his head and looked long
into the valley.

"Am I he who slew Raniero Frangipani?"

"Courage!" said the duke.

"My blood is as water, my heart as wax. Death and destiny are over my
head!"

"Speak not to me of destiny and look not to the skies! I have closed
my account with Heaven! In himself is man's power! You have broken the
crucifix! Now trust your own soul. So long as you did serve a
superstition had you lost your true heaven!"

"And yet--"

"You have played the god, and the Father in Heaven must love you for
your strength! God does not love a coward! He will let you rule your
destiny--not destiny your soul!"

"Strange words--"

"But true! Were I God, should I love the monk puling prayers in a den?
Nay--that man should I choose who dared to follow the dictates of his
own soul and strangle Fate with the grip of truth. Great deeds are
better than mumbled prayers!"

The horseman in the valley had swept at a gallop through a sea of
sun-bronzed fern. His eyes were full of a restless glitter, as the
eyes of a man, whose heart is troubled. He sprang from the saddle,
and, leading his horse by the bridle, bent low before the twain.

"Tidings, my lord!"

"I listen!"--

The horseman looked for a moment in Francesco's face but, hardened as
he was, he dared not abide the trial. There was such a stare of
desperate calm in the dark eyes, that his courage failed and quailed
from the truth. He hung his head and stood mute.

"I listen--"

"My lord--"

"For God's sake, speak out!"

"My lord--"

"The truth!"--

"She lives--"

A great silence fell within the hearts of the three, an ecstasy of
silence, such as comes after the wail of a storm. The duke's lips were
compressed, as if he feared to give expression to his feelings.
Francesco's face was as the face of one who thrusts back hope out of
his soul. He sat rigid on his horse, a stone image fronting Fate,
grim-eyed and steadfast. All his life had been one long sacrifice, one
long denial,--had it all been in vain?

There were tears in the eyes of the man-at-arms.

"What more?"

The horseman leaned against his horse, his arm hooked over its neck.

He pointed to the valley.

"Yonder lies Narni. Beyond the Campanile of St. Juvenal is a
sanctuary. You can see it yonder by the ford. Two holy women dwell
therein. To them, my lord, I commend you!"

"You know more!"

The voice that spoke was terrible.

"Spare me, my lord! The words are for women's lips, not for mine!"

"So be it!"

The three rode in silence, Francesco and the duke together, looking
mutely into each other's face. Francesco's head was bowed to his
breast. The reins lay loose on his horse's neck.

A gray cell of roughly hewn stone showed amidst the green boughs
beyond the water. At its door stood a woman in a black mantle. A cross
hung from her neck and a white kerchief bound her hair. She stood
motionless, half in the shadow, watching the horsemen as they rode
down to the rippling fords.

Autumn had touched the sanctuary garden, and Francesco's eyes beheld
ruin as he climbed the slope. The woman had come from the cell, and
now stood at the wicket-gate with her hands folded as if in prayer.

The horseman took Francesco's bridle. The latter went on foot alone to
speak with the anchoress.

"My lord," she said, kneeling at his feet, "God save and comfort
you!"--

The man's brow was twisted into furrows. His right hand clasped his
left wrist. He looked over the woman's head into the woods, and
breathed fast through clenched teeth.

"Speak!" he said.

"My lord, the woman lives!"

"I can bear the truth!"

The anchoress made the sign of the cross.

"She came to us here in the valley, my lord, tall and white as a lily,
her hair loose upon her neck. Her feet were bare and bleeding, her
soles rent with thorns. And as she came, she sang wild snatches of a
song, such as tells of love, and of Proserpina, Goddess of Shades. We
took her, my lord, gave her meat and drink, bathed her torn feet, and
gave her raiment. She abode with us, ever gentle and lovely, yet
speaking like one who had suffered, even to the death. And yet,--even
as we slept, she stole away from us last night, and now is gone!"--

The woman had never so much as raised her eyes to the man's face. Her
hands held her crucifix, and she was ashen pale, even as new-hewn
stone.

"And is this all?"

The man's voice trembled in his throat. His face was terrible to
behold in the sun.

"Not all, my lord!"

"Say on!"

The anchoress had buried her face in her black mantle. Her voice was
husky with tears.

"My lord, you seek one bereft of reason!"

"Mad!"

"Alas!"

A great cry came from Francesco's lips.

"My God! This, then, is the end!"

CHAPTER IX

THE DAWN

An undefined melancholy overshadowed the world. Autumn breathed in the
wind. The year, red-bosomed, was rushing to its doom.

On the summit of a wood-crowned hill, rising like a pyramid above moor
and forest, stood two men silent under the shadows of an oak. In the
distance glimmered the sea, and by a rock upon the hillside, armed
men, a knot of spears, shone like spirit sentinels athwart the west.
Mists were creeping up the valleys, as the sun went down into the sea.
A few sparse stars gleamed out like souls still tortured by the
mysteries of life. An inevitable pessimism seemed to challenge the
universe, taking for its parable the weird afterglow of the west.

Deep in the woods a voice sang wild and solitary in the gathering
gloom. Like the cry of a ghost, it seemed to set the silence
quivering, the leaves quaking with windless awe. The men who looked
towards the sea heard it, a song that echoed in the heart like woe.

The duke pointed into the darkening wood.

"Trust your own heart: self is the man! Through a mistaken sense of
duty have you been brought nigh unto death and despair! Trust not in
sophistry: the laws of men are carven upon stone, the laws of Heaven
upon the heart! Be strong! From henceforth, scorn mere words! Trample
tradition in the dust! Trust yourself, and the God in your heart!"

The distant voice had sunk into silence. Francesco listened for it
with hands aloft.

"I must go," he said.

"Go!"--

"I must be near her through the night!"

"The moon stands full upon the hills! I will await you here!"

Dim were the woods that autumn evening, dim and deep with an ecstasy
of gloom. Stars flickered in the heavens; the moon came and enveloped
the trees with silver flame. A primeval calm lay heavy upon the bosom
of the night. The spectral branches of the trees pointed rigid and
motionless towards the sky.

Francesco had left the duke gazing out upon the shimmering sea. The
voice called to him from the woods with plaintive peals of song. The
man followed it, holding to a grass-grown track that curled at random
into the gloom. Moonlight and shadow lay alternate upon his armor.
Hope and despair battled in his face. His soul leaped voiceless and
inarticulate into the darkened shrine of prayer.

The voice came to him clearer in the forest calm. The gulf had
narrowed, the words flew as over the waters of Death. They were pure,
yet meaningless, passionate, yet void; words barbed with an utter
pathos, that silenced desire.

For an hour Francesco roamed in the woods, drawing ever nearer, the
fear in him increasing with every step. Anon the voice failed him by a
little stream that quivered dimly through the grass. A stillness that
was ghostly held the woods. The moonlight seemed to shudder on the
trees. A stupendous silence weighed upon the world.

A hollow glade opened suddenly in the woods, a white gulf in a forest
gloom. Water shone there, a mere rush-ringed and full of mysterious
shadows, girded by the bronzed foliage of a thousand oaks. Moss grew
thick about the roots, dead leaves covered the grass.

And ever and anon a dead leaf dropped silently to earth, like a hope
that has died on the Tree of Life.

Francesco knelt in a patch of bracken and looked out over the glades.
A figure went to and fro by the water's brim, a figure pale in the
moonlight, as the form of the restless dead. The man kneeling in the
bracken pressed his hands over his breast; his face seemed to start
out of the gloom as the face of one who struggles in the sea,
submerged, yet desperate.

Francesco saw the woman halt beside the mere. He saw her bend, take
water in her palms and dash it in her face. Standing in the moonlight,
she smoothed her hair between her fingers, her hands shining white as
ivory against the dark bosom of her dress. She seemed to murmur to
herself the while, words wistful and full of woe. Once she thrust her
hands to the sky and cried: "Francesco! Francesco!" The man kneeling
in the shadows quivered like a wind-shaken reed.

The moon climbed higher and the woman by the mere spread her cloak
upon a patch of heather and laid herself thereon. Not a sound broke
the silence; the woods were mute, the air lifeless as the steely
water. An hour passed. The figure on the heather lay still as an
effigy on a tomb. The man in the bracken cast one look at the stars,
then crossed himself and crept out into the moonlight.

Holding the scabbard of his sword, he skirted the mere with shimmering
armor, went down upon his knees and crawled slowly over the grass.
Hours seemed to elapse before the black patch of heather spread crisp
and dry beneath his hands. Breathing through dilated nostrils, he
trembled like one who creeps to stab a sleeping friend. The moonlight
seemed to shower sparks upon him, as with supernatural glory. Tense
anguish seemed to fill the night with sound.

Two more paces and he was close at the woman's side. The heather
crackled beneath his knees. He held his breath, crept nearer, and
knelt so near that he could have kissed Ilaria's face. Her head lay
pillowed on her arm. Her hair spread as in a dusky halo beneath it.
Her bosom moved with the rhythmic calm of dreamless sleep. Her lips
were parted in a smile. One hand was hid in the dark folds of her
robe.

Francesco knelt with upturned face, his eyes shut to the sky. He
seemed like one faint with pain; his lips moved as in prayer. A
hundred inarticulate pleadings surged heavenward from his heart.

Again he bent over her and watched the pure girlish face as she slept.
A strange calm fell for a time upon him; his eyes never wavered from
the white arm and the glimmering hair. Vast awe held him in thrall. He
was as one who broods tearless and amazed over the dead, calm face of
one beloved above all on earth.

Hours passed and Francesco found no sustenance, save in prayer. The
unuttered yearnings of a world seemed molten in his soul. The moon
waned. The stars grew dim. Strange sounds stirred in the forest-deeps;
the mysterious breathing of a thousand trees. Life ebbed and flowed
with the sigh of a moon-stupored sea. Visions blazed in the night-sky
and faded away.

Hours passed. Neither sleeper nor watcher stirred. The night grew
faint. The water flickered in the mere. The very stars seemed to gaze
upon the destinies of two wearied souls.

Far and faint came the quaver of a bird's note. Gray and mysterious
stood the forest spires. Light! Light at last! Spears of amber darting
in the east. A shudder seemed to shake the universe. The great vault
kindled. The sky grew luminous with gold.

It was the dawn.

Ilaria stirred in her sleep. Her mouth quivered, her hair stirred
sudden under the heather, like tendrils of gold shivering in the sun.

Even as the light increased, Francesco knelt and looked down upon her.
Hope and life, glorious, sudden, seemed to fall out of the east, a
radiant faith begotten of spirit-power. Banners of gold were streaming
in the sky. The gloom fled. A vast expectancy hung solemn, breathless,
upon the red lips of the day.

A sigh, and the long, silken lashes quivered. The lips moved, the eyes
opened.

"Ilaria! Ilaria!"

Sudden silence followed, a vast hush as of undreamed hope. The woman's
eyes were silently searching the man's face. He bent and cowered over
her as one who weeps. His hands touched her body, yet she did not
stir.

"Ilaria! Ilaria!"

It was a hoarse, passionate outcry that broke the golden stupor of the
dawn. A sudden light leaped lustrous into the woman's eyes, her face
shone radiant in its etherealized beauty.

"Francesco!"

"Ah! At last!"

A great shudder passed through her body. Her eyes grew big with fear.

"Speak to me!"

"Ilaria!"

"Raniero?"

"Dead!"

A great silence held for a moment. The woman's head sank upon the
man's shoulder. Madness had passed. Her eyes were fixed upon his with
a wonderful earnestness, a splendid calm.

"Is this a dream?"

"It is the truth!"

Through the forest aisles rode the Duke of Spoleto.

He saw and paused.

"I return beyond the Alps to join the forces of Rudolf of Hapsburg. My
men are at your disposal. I shall wait for you on yonder hillock."

He wheeled about and was gone.

Again silence held for a pace.

Presently Ilaria gave a great sigh and looked strangely at the sun.

"I have dreamed a dream," she crooned, "and all was dark and fearful.
Death seemed near; lurid phantoms,--things from hell! I knew not what
I did, nor where I wandered, nor what strange stupor held my soul. All
my being cried out to you--yet all was dark about me, horrible
midnight, peopled with foul forms! Oh, that night,--that night--"

Shivering, she covered her eyes as if trying to banish the memory.

"It has passed," she breathed after a pause, during which Francesco
had taken her in his arms, kissing her eyes, her lips, and the
sylph-like, flower-soft face. "I see the dawn!"

"Our dawn!"--Francesco replied, pointing to the hillock beyond.

For a time there was a great silence, as if the fates of two souls
were being weighed in the scales of destiny.

It was Francesco who spoke.

"How you have suffered!"

She crept very close to him, smiling up at him with the old-time smile
through tear-dimmed eyes.

"It counts for naught now! Are not you with me?"

The sky burned azure above the tree-tops. Transient sunshafts quivered
through the vaulted dome of breathless leaves, as slowly Francesco and
Ilaria strode towards the camp of the Duke of Spoleto on the
sun-bathed hillock above the Nera.

                    The End.

POLLYANNA

_By Eleanor H. Porter_

Author of "Miss Billy," "Miss Billy's Decision," etc.

_12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, net $1.25; postpaid $1.40_

"Enter Pollyanna! She is the daintiest, dearest, most irresistible
maid you have met in all your journeyings through Bookland. And you
forget she is a story girl, for Pollyanna is so real that after your
first introduction you will feel the inner circle of your friends has
admitted a new member. A brave, winsome, modern American girl,
Pollyanna walks into print to take her place in the hearts of all
members of the family."

_Of "Miss Billy" the critics have written as follows:_

     "To say of any story that it makes the reader's heart feel warm
     and happy is to pay it praise of sorts, undoubtedly. Well,
     that's the very praise one gives 'Miss Billy.'"--_Edwin L.
     Shuman in the Chicago Record-Herald._

     "The story is delightful and as for Billy herself--she's _all
     right_!"--_Philadelphia Press._

     "There is a fine humor in the book, some good revelation of
     character and plenty of romance of the most unusual
     order."--_The Philadelphia Inquirer._

     "There is something altogether fascinating about 'Miss Billy,'
     some inexplicable feminine characteristic that seems to demand
     the individual attention of the reader from the moment we open
     the book until we reluctantly turn the last page."--_Boston
     Transcript._

     "The book is a wholesome story, as fresh in tone as it is
     graceful in expression, and one may predict for it a wide
     audience."--_Philadelphia Public Ledger._

     "Miss Billy is so carefree, so original and charming, that she
     lives in the reader's memory long after the book has been laid
     aside."--_Boston Globe._

     "You cannot help but love dear 'Billy;' she is winsome and
     attractive and you will be only too glad to introduce her to
     your friends."--_Brooklyn Eagle._

THE CAREER OF DR. WEAVER

_By Mrs. Henry W. Backus_

_12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, net $1.25; postpaid $1.40_

A big and purposeful story interwoven about the responsibilities and
problems in the medical profession of the present day. Dr. Weaver, a
noted specialist, and head of a private hospital, had allowed himself
to drift away from the standards of his youth in his desire for wealth
and social and scientific prestige. When an exposé of the methods
employed by him in furthering his schemes for the glorifying of the
name of "Weaver" in the medical world is threatened, it is frustrated
through the efforts of the famous doctor's younger brother, Dr. Jim.
The story is powerful and compelling, even if it uncovers the problems
and temptations of a physician's career. Perhaps the most important
character, not even excepting Dr. Weaver and Dr. Jim, is "The Girl,"
who plays such an important part in the lives of both men.

     "The story becomes one of those absorbing tales of to-day which
     the reader literally devours in an evening, unwilling to leave
     the book until the last page is reached, and constantly alert,
     through the skill of the author, in following the characters
     through the twisted ways of their career."--_Boston Journal._

     "The story is well-written, unique, quite out of the usual
     order, and is most captivating."--_Christian Intelligencer._

THE HILL OF VENUS

_By Nathan Gallizier_

Author of "Castel del Monte," "The Sorceress of Rome," "The Court of
Lucifer," etc.

_12mo, cloth decorative, with four illustrations in color, net $1.35;
postpaid $1.50_

This is a vivid and powerful romance of the thirteenth century in the
times of the great Ghibelline wars, and deals with the fortunes of
Francesco Villani, a monk, who has been coerced by his dying father to
bind himself to the Church through a mistaken sense of duty, but who
loves Ilaria, one of the famous beauties of the Court at Avellino. The
excitement, splendor and stir of those days of activity in Rome are
told with a vividness and daring, which give a singular fascination to
the story.

_The Press has commented as follows on the author's previous books_:

     "The author displays many of the talents that made Scott
     famous."--_The Index._

     "The book is breathless reading, as much for the adventures,
     the pageants, the midnight excursions of the minor characters,
     as for the love story of the prince and Donna
     Lucrezia."--_Boston Transcript._

     "Mr. Gallizier daringly and vividly paints in glowing word and
     phrases, in sparkling dialogue and colorful narrative, the
     splendor, glamor and stir in those days of excitement,
     intrigue, tragedy, suspicion and intellectual activity in
     Rome."--_Philadelphia Press._

     "A splendid bit of old Roman mosaic, or a gorgeous piece of
     tapestry. Otto is a striking and pathetic figure. Description
     of the city, the gorgeous ceremonials of the court and the
     revels are a series of wonderful pictures."--_Cincinnati
     Enquirer._

     "The martial spirit of these stirring times, weird beliefs in
     magic and religion are most admirably presented by the author,
     who knows his subject thoroughly. It belongs to the class of
     Bulwer-Lytton's romances; carefully studied, well wrought, and
     full of exciting incident."--_Cleveland Enquirer._

     "Romance at its best."--_Boston Herald._

THE WHAT-SHALL-I-DO GIRL

Or, The Career of Joy Kent

_By Isabel Woodman Waitt_

_12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by Jessie Gillespie. Net $1.25;
postpaid $1.40_

When Joy Kent finds herself alone in the world, thrown on her own
resources, after the death of her father, she looks about her, as do
so many young girls, fresh from the public schools, wondering how she
can support herself and earn a place in the great business world about
her. Still wondering, she sends a letter to a number of girls she had
known in school days, asking that each one tell her just how she had
equipped herself for a salary-earning career, and once equipped, how
she had found it possible to start on that career. In reply come
letters from the milliner, the stenographer, the librarian, the
salesgirl, the newspaper woman, the teacher, the nurse, and from girls
who had adopted all sorts of vocations as a means of livelihood. Real
friendly girl letters they are, too, not of the type that preach, but
of the kind which give sound and helpful advice in a bright and
interesting manner. Of course there is a splendid young man who also
gives advice. Any "What-shall-I-do" young girl can read of the careers
suggested for Joy Kent with profit and pleasure, and, perhaps, with
surprise!

THE HARBOR MASTER

_By Theodore Goodridge Roberts_

Author of "Comrades of the Trails," "Rayton: A Backwoods Mystery,"
etc.

_12mo, cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color by John
Goss. Net $1.25; postpaid $1.40_

The scene of the story is Newfoundland. The story deals with the love
of Black Dennis Nolan, a young giant and self-appointed skipper of the
little fishing hamlet of Chance Along, for Flora Lockhart, a beautiful
professional singer, who is rescued by Dennis from a wreck on the
treacherous coast of Newfoundland, when on her way from England to the
United States. The story is a strong one all through, with a mystery
that grips, plenty of excitement and action, and the author presents
life in the open in all its strength and vigor. Mr. Roberts is one of
the younger writers whom the critics have been watching with interest.
In "The Harbor Master" he has surely arrived.

_Of Mr. Roberts' previous books the critics have written as follows_:

     "The action is always swift and romantic and the love is of the
     kind that thrills the reader. The characters are admirably
     drawn and the reader follows with deep interest the adventures
     of the two young people."--_Baltimore Sun._

     "Mr. Roberts' pen has lost none of its cunning, while his style
     is easier and breezier than ever."--_Buffalo Express._

     "It is a romance of clean, warm-hearted devotion to friends and
     duty. The characters are admirable each in his own or her own
     way, and the author has made each fit the case in excellent
     fashion."--_Salt Lake City Tribune._

     "In this book Mr. Roberts has well maintained his reputation
     for the vivid coloring of his descriptive pictures, which are
     full of stirring action, and in which love and fighting hold
     chief place."--_Boston Times._

     "Its ease of style, its rapidity, its interest from page to
     page, are admirable; and it shows that inimitable power--the
     story-teller's gift of verisimilitude. Its sureness and
     clearness are excellent, and its portraiture clear and
     pleasing."--_The Reader._

AT THE SIGN OF THE TOWN PUMP

The Further Adventures of Peggy of Spinster Farm

_By Helen M. Winslow_

_12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, net $1.25; postpaid $ 1.40_

Miss Winslow calls us again away from the strenuous and noisy
confusion of modern cities to the charm and contentment of life "under
the greenwood tree." Peggy's adventures had only just begun in the
first book. In this new record of life at Spinster Farm and "Elysium,"
"At the Sign of the Town Pump," there is plenty of romantic adventure
of the kind that proves truth to be stranger sometimes than fiction.
There is humor, too, in even greater quantities than in the preceding
book, sparkling humor that places the author well up in the list of
our New England humorists. "At the Sign of the Town Pump" will be
welcomed not only by those who enjoyed making the acquaintance of
Spinster Farm, but by thousands of new readers who appreciate a clever
story and a fascinating heroine.

_On "Peggy at Spinster Farm" the Press opinions are as follows_:

     "Very alluring are the pictures she draws of the old-fashioned
     house, the splendid old trees, the pleasant walks, the gorgeous
     sunsets, and--or it would not be Helen Winslow--the
     cats."--_The Boston Transcript._

     "'Peggy at Spinster Farm' is a rewarding volume, original and
     personal in its point of view, redolent of unfeigned love for
     the country and the sane, satisfying pleasures of country
     life."--_Milwaukee Free Press._

     "It is an alluring, wholesome tale."--_Schenectady Star._

     "Is a story remarkably interesting, and no book will be found
     more entertaining than this one, especially for those who enjoy
     light-hearted character sketches, and startling and unexpected
     happenings."--_Northampton Gazette._

     "An exceptionally well-written book."--_Milwaukee Evening
     Wisconsin._

     "The Spinster and Peggy have a quiet sense of humor of their
     own and they convey their experiences with a quaint enjoyment
     that holds us irresistibly."--_The Argonaut._

     "This is a thoroughly enjoyable story. Mary Wilkins at her best
     was never more interesting, and she has never produced a book
     more normal and as wholesome as this."--_Journal of Education._

Selections from L. C. Page and Company's List of Fiction

 WORKS OF ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS

 _Each one vol., library 12mo, cloth decorative_ $1.50

 THE FLIGHT OF GEORGIANA

 A ROMANCE OF THE DAYS OF THE YOUNG PRETENDER. Illustrated by H.
 C. Edwards.

 "A love-story in the highest degree, a dashing story, and a
 remarkably well finished piece of work."--_Chicago
 Record-Herald._

 THE BRIGHT FACE OF DANGER

 Being an account of some adventures of Henri de Launay, son of
 the Sieur de la Tournoire. Illustrated by H. C. Edwards.

 "Mr. Stephens has fairly outdone himself. We thank him
 heartily. The story is nothing if not spirited and
 entertaining, rational and convincing."--_Boston Transcript._

 THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT

 (40th thousand.)

 "This is easily the best thing that Mr. Stephens has yet done.
 Those familiar with his other novels can best judge the measure
 of this praise, which is generous."--_Buffalo News._

 CAPTAIN RAVENSHAW

 OR, THE MAID OF CHEAPSIDE. (52d thousand.) A romance of
 Elizabethan London. Illustrations by Howard Pyle and other
 artists.

 Not since the absorbing adventures of D'Artagnan have we had
 anything so good in the blended vein of romance and comedy.

 THE CONTINENTAL DRAGOON

 A ROMANCE OF PHILIPSE MANOR HOUSE IN 1778. (53d thousand.)
 Illustrated by H. C. Edwards.

 A stirring romance of the Revolution, with its scenes laid on
 neutral territory.

 PHILIP WINWOOD

 (70th thousand.) A Sketch of the Domestic History of an
 American Captain in the War of Independence, embracing events
 that occurred between and during the years 1763 and 1785 in New
 York and London. Illustrated by E. W. D. Hamilton.

 AN ENEMY TO THE KING

 (70th thousand.) Illustrated by H. De M. Young.

 An historical romance of the sixteenth century, describing the
 adventures of a young French nobleman at the court of Henry
 III., and on the field with Henry IV.

 THE ROAD TO PARIS

 A STORY OF ADVENTURE. (35th thousand.) Illustrated by H. C.
 Edwards.

 An historical romance of the eighteenth century, being an
 account of the life of an American gentleman adventurer.

 A GENTLEMAN PLAYER

 HIS ADVENTURES ON A SECRET MISSION FOR QUEEN ELIZABETH. (48th
 thousand.) Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill.

 The story of a young gentleman who joins Shakespeare's company
 of players, and becomes a protégé of the great poet.

 CLEMENTINA'S HIGHWAYMAN

 Illustrated by A. Everhart.

 The story is laid in the mid-Georgian period. It is a dashing,
 sparkling, vivacious comedy.

 TALES FROM BOHEMIA

 Illustrated by Wallace Goldsmith.

 These bright and clever tales deal with people of the theatre
 and odd characters in other walks of life which fringe on
 Bohemia.

 A SOLDIER OF VALLEY FORGE

 By ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS AND THEODORE GOODRIDGE ROBERTS.

 With frontispiece by Frank T. Merrill.

 "The plot shows invention and is developed with originality,
 and there is incident in abundance."--_Brooklyn Times._

 THE SWORD OF BUSSY

 By ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS AND HERMAN NICKERSON.

 With frontispiece by Edmund H. Garrett.

 _Net, $1.25; postpaid, $1.40_

 "The plot is lively, dashing and fascinating, the very kind of
 a story that one does not want to stop reading until it is
 finished."--_Boston Herald._

Transcriber's Note:

Archaic and inconsistent spelling and punctuation retained.