  IT was just a year later, a warm, mellow afternoon of mid-October. For the last few nights there had been an early autumn frost, though the days were almost like a return of summer, and the beech-wood below Philip’s house at Pangbourne was just beginning to don its russet livery. The frost, too, had made its mark on blackened dahlias, but the chrysanthemums were still gorgeous. And on the terrace were walking two figures, both dressed in black, one tall, who strolled beside the other, Madge and Mrs. Home. The latter was still as like a Dresden shepherdess as ever in the pretty china delicacy of her face, but Madge had changed somewhat. Trouble had written its unmistakable signs on her face, but tenderness had been at work there, too, and though her eyes were sad, yet with the sadness was mingled something so sweet and gentle that no one who loved her would have wished that the sadness should not be there, if the other had come hand-in-hand with it. And it was hand-in-hand that they had come during the last eighteen months of her life, which had been to her of such infinitely greater import than all the years that had gone before. “Yes, it is even as I tell you,” she was saying. “I never think of Evelyn as blind. I think of him—well, a good deal, but he always comes back to me, not as he was in those last weeks, but in those first few weeks before, bright-eyed—you know how bright his eyes were—and full of a sort of boyish joy at this jolly world. No, I scarcely feel sad when I think of him. He was fragile; he would have broken if he had had to bear more. And I think God knew that, and spared him by letting him die.” She walked on a little without speaking. Mrs. Home’s hand on her arm pressed its sympathy, but she said nothing. “I have been allowed to forget, too,” Madge went on, “or to remember it only as a nightmare from which I awoke, “Yes, dear, it was only that,” said Mrs. Home. “At least, no one knew. You behaved so that no one guessed.” “Philip knew. If it had not been for him during those months I think I should have gone mad. And for the second time he kept me—it is hardly an exaggeration—kept me sane when baby died.” Mrs. Home, when she had anything important and difficult to say, often gave out little twittering, mouse-like noises before she could manage to speak. Madge knew this, and thus, hearing them now, waited for her to overcome her embarrassment. “And is there no hope for Philip, dear?” she asked at length. Madge had rather expected this was coming, but her answer gave her less embarrassment than the question had caused his mother. “I owe Philip everything,” she said, “and though I don’t suppose I can ever love again in the way that I have loved, still—you know once I told him quite truthfully that I would give him all that I was capable of. You see, I did not know then what love meant. That was a niggardly gift to offer him. And now again I can give him—oh, so gratefully—all I am capable of. It is, I hope, not quite such a mean thing as it was. I think——” Madge paused a moment. “I think sorrow has made me a little more worthy of him,” she went on. “It has made me a little more like a woman. So if he cares still——” “Ah, my dear, you say ‘still.’ Why, day by day he loves you more.” Madge looked at Mrs. Home a moment in silence, and the sadness of her eyes was melted into pure tenderness. “You are sure?” she said. “He will tell you better than I.” Madge gave a long sigh, then let her gaze wander down the steep path to the river, which crossed the weir and formed a short cut through the fields of Pangbourne. The sun, which was near to its setting, dazzled her a little, and she put up her hand to shade her eyes. “Ah, that is he coming up the path,” she said. “He must have caught the earlier train. Shall we go to meet him?” “You go, dear,” said Mrs. Home. “I will wait for you here.” THE CHALLONERS By E. F. BENSON 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. The theme is a father’s concern lest his children become contaminated by what he considers an unwholesome social atmosphere. The book is filled with Mr. Benson’s clever observations on the English smart set, and the love-story shows him at his best. MORGANATIC By MAX NORDAU 12mo. Decorated cloth, $1.50. This new book by the author of “Degeneration,” has many of the qualities which gave its predecessor such a phenomenal sale. It is a study of morganatic marriage, and full of strong situations. J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA BACCARAT By FRANK DANBY AUTHOR OF “PIGS IN CLOVER” 12mo. Six illustrations in color. Cloth, $1.50. The story of a young wife left by her husband at a Continental watering place for a brief summer stay, who, before she is aware, has drifted into the feverish current of a French Monte Carlo. A dramatic and intense book that stirs the pity. One cannot read “Baccarat” unmoved. “The finished style and unforgettable story, the living characters, and compact tale of the new book show it to be a work on which care and time have been expended. “Much more dramatic than her first novel, it possesses in common with it a story of deep and terrible human interest.”—Chicago Tribune. J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA OLIVE LATHAM By E. L. VOYNICH Author of “Jack Raymond” and “The Gadfly.” Cloth, $1.50 “The author’s knowledge of this matter has been painfully personal. Her husband, a Polish political refugee, at the age of twenty-two, was arrested and thrown into a vile Russian prison without trial, and spent five years of his life thereafter in Siberian exile, escaping in 1890 and fleeing to England. Throughout ‘Olive Latham’ you get the impression that it is a veritable record of what one woman went through for love.... This painful, poignant, powerfully-written story permits one full insight into the cruel workings of Russian justice and its effects upon the nature of a well-poised Englishwoman. Olive comes out of the Russian hell alive, and lives to know what happiness is again, but the horror of those days in St. Petersburg, the remembrance of the inhumanity which killed her lover never leaves her.... It rings true. It is a grewsome study of Russian treatment of political offenders. Its theme is not objectionable—a criticism which has been brought against other books of Mrs. Voynich’s.”—Chicago Record-Herald. “So vividly are the coming events made to cast their shadows before, that long before the half-way point is reached the reader knows that Volodya’s doom is near at hand, and that the chief interest of the story lies not with him, but with the girl, and more specifically with the curious mental disorders which her long ordeal brings upon her. It is seldom that an author has succeeded in depicting with such grim horror the sufferings of a mind that feels itself slipping over the brink of sanity, and clutches desperately at shadows in the effort to drag itself back.”—New York Globe. J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA.
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