Just before the commencement of the stupendous festivities of Badajos, a letter arrived, by which the parson was informed that Mr. Rockley, having business at Yass, had resolved to run up from Port Phillip and see them all. Mr. St. Maur, who had an equally good excuse, would accompany him.

This was looked upon as either a wondrous coincidence or a piece of pure, unadulterated good luck. When the hearty and sympathetic accents of William Rockley were once more heard among them, everybody was as pleased as if he, personally, had been asked to welcome a rich uncle from India.

‘I never dreamed of seeing St. Maur in these parts,’ said Neil Barrington. ‘He’s such a tremendous swell in Melbourne that I doubted his recognising us again. What business can he possibly have up here?’

‘Perhaps he is unwilling to risk a disappointment at the game which will be lost or won before January, “for want of a heart to play,”’ said Ardmillan. ‘He may follow suit, like others of this worshipful company. Hearts are trumps this deal, unless I mistake greatly.’

‘Didn’t we hear that he had been left money, or made a fortune by town allotments down there? Anyhow he’s going home, I believe; so this will be his last visit to Yass for some time.’

‘If we make money at the pace which we have been going for the last year, we shall all be able to go home,’ pronounced Ardmillan. ‘Yet, after all the pleasant days that we have seen here and at Benmohr, the thought is painful. This influx of capital will break up our jolly society more completely than the drought. In that case we should have had to cling to a sinking ship, or take to the boats; now, the vessel is being paid off, and the crew scattered to the four winds.’

‘Sic transit,’ echoed Neil lugubriously. ‘I forget the rest; but wherever we go, and however well lined our pockets may be, it is a chance if we are half as happy again in our lives as we have been in this jolly old district.’

---

Christmas had come and gone. The Badajos Revels were imminent. Rockley and St. Maur had declared for remaining until they were over, in despite of presumably pressing engagements.

‘I believe old Harry O’Desmond would have made a personal matter of it if we had left him in the lurch,’ said Mr. Rockley. ‘He spoke rather stiffly, St. Maur, when you said all Melbourne was waiting to know the result of our deputation to the Governor-General, and that they would be loth to take the excuse of a country picnic.’

‘The old boy’s face was grim,’ said St. Maur; ‘but I had made up my mind to remain. I like to poke him up—he is so serious and stately. But we should not have quarrelled about such a trifle.’

In the meantime, terrific preparations were made for the fÊte; one to be long remembered in the neighbourhood. O’Desmond’s magnificence of idea had only been held down, like most men of his race and nature, by the compulsion of circumstances. Now, he had resolved to give a free rein to his taste and imagination. It was outlined, in his mind, as a recognition of the enthusiasm which had greeted his return to the district in which he had lived so long. This had touched him to the heart. Habitually repressive of emotion, he would show them, in this form, how he demonstrated the feelings to which he denied utterance.

In his carefully considered programme, he had by no means restricted himself to a single day or to the stereotyped gaieties of music and the dance. On this sole and exemplary occasion, the traditional glories of Castle Desmond would be faintly recalled, the profuse, imperial hospitalities of which had lent their share to his present sojourn near the plains of Yass. Several days were to be devoted to the reception of all comers. Each was to have its special recreation; to include picnics and private theatricals, with dresses and costumes from a metropolitan establishment. A dinner to the gentry, tradespeople, and yeomen of the district; to be followed by a grand costume ball in a building constructed for the purpose, to which all ‘the county’ would be invited.

‘What a truly magnificent idea!’ said Rosamond Effingham, a short time before the opening day, as they all sat in the verandah at The Chase, after lunch and a hard morning’s work at preparations. ‘But will not our good friend and neighbour ruin himself?’

‘Bred in the bone,’ said Gerald O’More. ‘Godfrey O’Desmond, this man’s great-grandfather, gave an entertainment which put a mortgage on the property from that day to this. Had a real lake of claret, I believe. Regular marble basin, you know. Gold and silver cups of the Renaissance, held in the hands of fauns, nymphs, and satyrs—that kind of thing—hogsheads emptied in every morning. Everything wonderful, rich, and more extravagant than a dream. Nobody went to bed for a fortnight, they say. Hounds met as usual. A score of duels—half-a-dozen men left on the sod. County asleep for a year afterwards.’

‘The estate never raised its head again, anyhow,’ said Mr. Rockley, ‘and no wonder. An extravagant, dissolute, murdering old scoundrel, as they say old Godfrey was, that deserved seven years in the county gaol for ruining his descendants and debauching the whole country-side. And do you believe me, when I mentioned as much to old Harry one day, he was deuced stiff about it; said we could not understand the duties of a man of position in those days. I believe now, on my solemn word, that he’d be just as bad, this day, if he got the chance. I daren’t say another word to him, and I’ve known him these twenty years.’

‘Let us hope there won’t be so much claret consumed,’ said Miss Fane. ‘I believe deep drinking is no longer fashionable. I should be grieved if Mr. O’Desmond did anything to injure his fortune. It may be only a temporary aberration (to which all Irishmen are subject, Mr. O’More), and then our small world will go on much as before.’

‘If we could induce a sufficient number of Australian ladies to colonise Ireland,’ said O’More, bowing, ‘as prudent and as fascinating as Miss Fane,’ he continued, with a look at Annabel, ‘we might hope to change the national character. It only wants a dash of moderation to make it perfect. But we may trust to O’Desmond’s colonial experience to save him from ruin.’

---

Thus the last hours of the fortunate, still-remembered year of 1840 passed away. A veritable jubilee, when the land rejoiced, and but few of the inhabitants of Australia found cause for woe. Great were the anxious speculations, however, as to weather. In a fÊte champÊtre, everything depends upon that capricious department. And this being ‘a first-class season,’ unvarying cloudlessness could by no means be predicted.

The malign divinities must have been appeased by the sacrifices of the drought. A calm and beauteous summer morn, warm, but tempered by the south sea-breeze, bid the children of the Great South Land greeting.

The New Year opened radiantly as a season of joy and consolation. The whole district was astir from earliest hours; the preparations for the momentous experiences of the day were utterly indescribable, save by a Homeric Company of Bards (limited).

As the sun rose higher,

with his ‘following,’ appeared before the outer gates of Badajos, where such a number were gathered as would almost have sufficed to storm the historic citadel, in the breach of which Captain O’Desmond had fallen, and from which the estate had been named.

The first day had been allotted to a liberally rendered lawn party, which was to include almost the whole available population of town and district, invited by public proclamation as well as by special invitation. Indeed, it had been notified through the press that, on New Year’s Day, Mr. O’Desmond would be ‘at home’ prepared to receive all his friends who desired to personally congratulate him upon his return from the interior.

Never was there such a muster before, since the first gum-tree was felled, within sight of Yass Plains. An uninterrupted procession wound its way steadily on from the town, from all the country roads, down gullies, and across flats and marshes. Every farm sent its representative. So did every shop in the town, every station in the district. Not a woman in the land had apparently remained at home. Who minded the infant children on the 1st of January 1840 will always remain an unsolved mystery.

The arrangements had been carefully considered by a past-master of organisation; and they did not break down under the unprecedented strain. As the horsemen and horsewomen, tax-carts, dog-carts, carriages, tandems, waggons and bullock-drays even, arrived at the outer gate, they were met by ready servitors, who directed them, through a cunningly devised system of separate lanes, to temporarily constructed enclosures, where they were enabled to unharness and otherwise dispose of their draught animals and vehicles.

Sheds covered with that invaluable material the bark of the eucalyptus had been erected, and hay provided, as for the stabling of a regiment of cavalry; while small paddocks, well watered and with grass ‘up to their eyes’ (as the stock-riders expressed it), suited admirably those not over-particular rovers, who, having turned loose their nags, placed their saddles and bridles in a place of security, and thus disembarrassed themselves of anxiety for the day.

When these arrangements had been satisfactorily made, they were guided towards the river-meadow, on a slope overlooking which the homestead and outbuildings were situated. Here was clustered an encampment of tents and booths, of every size and shape, and apparently devoted to as many various classes of amusement and recreation.

The short grass of the river flat, as it was generally called, was admirably adapted for the present purposes and intentions. The propitious season, with its frequent showers, had furnished a fair imitation of English turf, both in verdure and in thickness of sward, the latter quality much assisted by the stud flock of the famed Badajos merinoes.

---

The concluding day of the memorable Badajos Revels, the unrivalled and immortal performance, had arrived. The last act was about to be called on. All the arrangements had been more than successful. The sports and pastimes had gone through without hitch or contention. The populace was enthusiastic in praise of the liberality which had ministered so lavishly to their amusement. The aristocracy were no less unanimous in their approbation. That battues, the picnics, the costume ball, had been, beyond all description, delightful, fascinating, well carried out, in such perfect taste—extraordinary good form—intoxicating—heavenly—utterly, indescribably delicious; the adjectives and superlatives varying with the age, position, sex, or character of the speaker.

And now the modern miracle-play was to finish with a presentment, unique and marvellous beyond belief. The main body of guests and revellers had departed soon after daylight. ‘Conclamatum est, Poculatum est,’ said a young Irish priest. ‘I shall have to go into “retreat” if Father Mahony gets word of me at the ball. Wasn’t I Lord Edward Fitzgerald to the life? But I durstn’t stay away an hour longer from my flock.’ Many were the half-repentant, homeward-bound wayfarers who held similar opinions. And the continuous passage of the fords of the Yass River might have suggested to the Scots, by birth or extraction, King James’ army after Flodden—

There was not, it is true, such need for haste, but the pace at which the shallower fords were taken might have suggested it.

However, a considerable proportion of the house parties and guests of the neighbouring families, with such of the townspeople and others whose time was not specially valuable, remained for the closing spectacle. Much curiosity was aroused as to the nature of it.

‘Perhaps you can unfold the mystery of this duel which we are all taking about,’ said Annabel to St. Maur, with whom she had been discussing the costumes of the ball.

‘I happen to be in O’Desmond’s confidence,’ he replied; ‘so we may exchange secrets. Many years ago, in Paris, he fell across an old picture representing a fatal duel between Masks, after a ball. So he pitched upon it for representation, as a striking if rather weird interlude.’

‘What a strange idea! How unreal and horrible. Fancy any of the people here going out to fight a duel. Is any one killed?’

‘Of course, or there wouldn’t be half the interest. He proposes to dress the characters exactly like those in the picture, and, indeed, brought up the costumes from town with him. Your brother, by a coincidence, adopted one—that of a Red Indian. It will do for his second.’

‘Thoroughly French, at any rate, and only for the perfect safety of the thing would be horrible to look at. However, we must do whatever Mr. O’Desmond tells us, for years to come. I shall be too sleepy to be much shocked, that’s one thing. But what are they to fight with? Rapiers?’

‘With foils, which, of course you know, are the same in appearance, only with a button on the end which prevents danger from a thrust.’

‘Wilfred, my boy!’ had said O’Desmond, making a progress through the ball-room on the preceding night, ‘you look in that Huron dress as if you had neglected to scalp an enemy, and were grieving over the omission. Do the ladies know those odd-looking pieces of brown leather on the breast fringe are real scalps? I see they are. You will get no one to dance with you. But my errand is a selfish one. You will make a principal man in that “Duel after the Masquerade” which I have set my heart upon getting up to-morrow.’

‘But in this dress?’

‘My dear fellow, that is the very thing. Curiously, one of the actors in that weird duel scene is dressed as a Huron or Cherokee. You know Indian arms and legends, even names, were fashionable in Paris when Chateaubriand made every one weep with his Atala and Chactas? You could not have been more accurately dressed, and you will lay me under lasting obligation by taking the foils with Argyll, and investing your second with this dress.’

‘With Argyll!’ echoed Wilfred with an accent of surprise.

‘I know he is called the surest fencer in our small world, but I always thought you more than his match. He never, to my mind, liked your thrust in tierce.’

‘You are right,’ said Wilfred. ‘Grisier thought me perfect in that. I shall meet him with pleasure. If only to show him—— Bah! I am getting so infected with the spirit of your Masquerade that one would think it a real duel. Command me, however.’

‘A thousand thanks. Not later than three to-morrow afternoon. The ladies will not forgive us if we are not punctual.’

From Wilfred Effingham’s expression of relief one might have thought that he had received good tidings. Yet, what was it after all—what could it lead to? A mock duel; a mere fencing match. What was there to clear his visage and lighten his heart in such a game as this?

A trifle, doubtless. But William Argyll was to be his antagonist. Towards him he had been unconsciously nurturing a causeless resentment, which threatened to drift into hatred. Argyll was sunning himself daily (he thought) in the smiles of Vera Fane, pleased with the position and confident of success. And though she, from time to time, regarded Wilfred with glances of such kindly regard that he was well-nigh tempted to confess his past sins and his present love, he had resolutely kept aloof.

Why should he court repulse, and only be more hopelessly humiliated? Did not all say—could he not see—that Miss Fane was merely waiting for Argyll’s challenge to the citadel of her heart to own its conquest and surrender?

The Benmohr people, who knew something of everything and did not suffer their knowledge to decay for lack of practice, were devoted to fencing. Their lumber-room was half an armoury, holding a great array of foils, wire masks, single-sticks, and boxing-gloves. With these and a little pistol practice the dulness of many a wet afternoon had been enlivened. Perhaps in their trials of skill those with the foils were most popular.

This was Argyll’s favourite pastime. A leading performer with all other weapons, he had a passion for fencing, for which his mountain-born activity pre-eminently fitted him. Effingham, a pupil of the celebrated Grisier, was thought to be nearly, if not quite his match. And more than once Argyll’s hasty temper had blazed out as Wilfred had ‘touched him’ with a succession of rapid hits, or sent the foil from his hand by one of the artifices of the fencing school. Now, however, a trial would be afforded, the issue of which would be final and decisive. To each the requisite notice had been given, and each had accepted the chances of the contest. No one in future would be able to assert that this or that man was the better swordsman.

A larger gathering took place at luncheon than could have been expected. Many were the reasons assigned for the punctuality with which all the ladies showed up. Fred Churbett, indeed, openly declared that the gladiator element was becoming dangerously developed, and that it would be soon necessary to shed blood in good earnest, to enjoy a decent reputation with the ladies of the land.

‘I saw O’Desmond’s people making astounding changes in the anterior of the amphitheatre, Miss Annabel, from my bedroom window this morning. I should not be surprised at the arena being changed to an African forest, with a live giraffe and a Lion Ride, after Freiligrath. Do you remember the doomed giraffe? How

‘I should not be surprised at anything,’ said Annabel. ‘Badajos is becoming an Enchanted Castle. How we shall endure our daily lives again, I can’t think. Every one is going home to-morrow, so perhaps the spell will be broken. Heigh-ho! When are we to be allowed to take our seats? I shall fall asleep if they put it off too long.’

‘At three o’clock precisely the herald’s horn will be blown, and we shall see what we shall see. I hope Argyll will be in a good temper, or terrible things may happen.’

‘What is this about Mr. Argyll’s temper?’ said Miss Fane. ‘Is he so much more ferocious than all the rest of you? I am sure that I have seen nothing of it.’

‘Only my nonsense, Miss Fane,’ said Fred, instantly retreating from his position. ‘The best-hearted, most generous fellow possible. Impetuous and high-spirited, you know. Highlanders and Irishmen—all the world, in fact, except that modern Roman, the Anglo-Saxon—are inclined to be choleric. Ha! there goes the bugle.’

All were ready, indeed impatient, for the commencement. Many acquaintances had indeed ridden out from Yass, and reinforced the spectators. Mr. Rockley had appeared at lunch—scarcely in the best of tempers—and had given vent to his opinion that it was quite time for this foolery to be over. Not that he made this suggestion to O’Desmond personally.

When the entrances were thrown open, and the spectators pressed into their seats with something of the impatience which in days of old seems to have characterised the frequenters of the amphitheatre, a cry of delighted surprise broke from the startled guests.

In order to reproduce the accessories of the imaginary conflict with fidelity of detail, O’Desmond has spared no trouble. The Bois de Boulogne had been simulated by the artifice of transplanting whole trees, especially those which more closely resembled European evergreens. These had been mingled with others stripped of their foliage, by which deciduous deception the illusion of a northern winter was preserved. A coating of milk-white river sand had been strewn over the arena, imparting the appearance of the snow, in which the now historical masqueraders fought their celebrated duel. By filling up the openings left for windows, and excluding the sun from the roof as much as possible, an approach to the dim light proper to a Parisian December morning was produced. As hackney-coaches appeared, one at either end of the arena, and driving in, took their stations under trees, preparatory to permitting their sensational fares to alight, the burst of applause both from those familiar with the original picture, and others who were overcome by the realism of the scene, was tremendous. And when forth stepped from one of the carriages a Red Huron Indian, and with stately steps took up his position as second, to so great and painful a pitch rose the excitement among the ladies that ‘the boldest held’ her ‘breath for a time.’

Pierrot now, with elastic springing gait, moved lightly forward towards his antagonist, a reckless Debardeur, who looked as if he had been dancing a veritable ‘Galop d’Enfer’ before he quitted the ‘Bal d’Opera.’ Each performed an elaborate salute as they took their ground. The seconds measured their swords punctiliously.

As the enthusiasm of the crowd broke forth in remark and exclamation, before the first passes were interchanged, Harry O’Desmond himself made his appearance among the ladies, and took his seat between Rosamond Effingham and Miss Fane, prepared to receive the shower of congratulations at once poured upon him.

‘Yes, I have taken a little trouble; but I am amply repaid, Miss Effingham, if I have succeeded in adding to the amusement of my lady friends. For those I have the honour to address’—and here the gallant impresario looked as if the lady beside him had but to ask for a Sultan’s circlet, to have it tossed in her lap—‘what sacrifices would I not make?’

‘Our distinguished host is becoming desperate,’ thought Rosamond. ‘I wonder who she is? I am nearly certain it is Vera Fane. He and the Doctor are great friends. Now I think of it, he said the other day that she was, with one exception, the pearl of the district. Mamma, too, has been hinting at something. A nice lady neighbour at Badajos would be indeed a treasure.’

‘What an exciting piece of sword-play this will be, Mr. O’Desmond,’ she said. ‘One cannot help thinking that there is something real about it. And I have an uneasy feeling that I cannot account for, such as I should call a presentiment, if all were not so perfectly safe. What do you say, Vera?’

‘I say it is a most astonishing picture of a real duel. I ought to enjoy it very much, only that, like you, I feel a depression such as I have never had before. Oh, now they are beginning! Really it is quite a relief.’

‘I must take a foil with the winner,’ said O’Desmond, ‘if you think it is so serious, just to see if I have forgotten my Parisian experiences. It reminds one of the Quartier Latin, and the students’ pipes—long hair and duels—daily matters of course. Ha! a wonderfully quick carte and counter-carte. There is something stirring in the clink of steel, all the world over, is there not, Miss Effingham?’

The pictured scene was accurately reproduced. Each man, with his second, fantastically arrayed. The nearer combatant, in his loose garb, had his sword-arm bared to the elbow, for the greater freedom required with the weapon. Four other men, picturesquely attired, were present. Of these, two stood near to him whose back was towards the part of the theatre where the Effinghams and Miss Fane were sitting.

The contest proceeded with curious similitude to an actual encounter. Attack and defence, feint and challenge, carte, tierce, ripeste, staccato, all the subtle and delicate manoeuvres of which the rapier combat is susceptible, had been employed, to the wonder and admiration of the spectators.

It was evident, before they had exchanged a dozen passes, that the men were most evenly matched. Much doubt was expressed as to who would prove the victor.

Latterly, Wilfred, who, with equal tenacity and vigilance, had the cooler head, commenced to show by small but sure signs that he was gaining an advantage. Step by step he drew his antagonist nearer to him, and employing his favourite thrust, after a brilliant parry, touched him several times in succession. At each palpable hit the spectators gave a cheer, which evidently disturbed Argyll’s fiery temperament. He bit his lip, his brow contracted, but no token, excepting these and a burning spot on his cheek, showed the inward conflict. Suddenly he sprang forward with panther-like activity, and for one second Wilfred’s eye and hand were at fault, as, with a lightning lunge, Argyll delivered full upon his adversary’s chest a thrust, so like the real thing that, though the foil (as the spectators imagined) passed outside, the hilt of the mimic weapon rapped sharply, as if he had been run through the body. At the same moment he sank down, and was scarcely saved from falling, while Argyll, impatiently drawing back his weapon, threw it down and turned as if to leave the scene—half urged by his second—as was the successful combatant in the weird picture.

‘Why—how wonderfully our brave combatants have imitated the originals, Mr. O’Desmond?’ said Rosamond, with unfeigned admiration. ‘The Debardeur sinks slowly from the arms of his second to the ground; his sword-point strikes the earth; his comrade and the Capuchin bend over him. They act the confusion of a death-scene well. His antagonist casts down his blood-stained sword—why, it looks red—and hurries from the spot.’

‘Yes,’ O’Desmond continued, ‘everything is now concluded happily, successfully, triumphantly, may I say; it needs but, dearest Miss Effingham, that I should offer you——’ What Mr. O’Desmond was minded to offer his fair neighbour can never be known, for at that moment a shriek, so wild and despairing, rent the air, that all conversation, ordinary and extraordinary, ceased.

More astonishing still, Miss Fane sprang from her seat, and rushing into the arena with the speed of frenzy, knelt by the side of the defeated combatant, and with every endearing epithet supported his head, wringing her hands in agony as she gazed on the motionless form beside her.

O’Desmond, leaping down without a thought of his late interesting employment, gave one glance at the fallen sword, another at the fallen man, and divined the situation.

‘By ——!’ he said, ‘the button has come off the foil, and the poor boy is run through the body. He’ll be a dead man by sundown.’

‘Not so sure of that; keep the people back while I examine him,’ said Mr. Sternworth, pushing suddenly to the front. ‘Stand back!’ he cried with the voice of authority. ‘How can I tell you what’s wrong with him if you don’t give him air? Miss Fane, I entreat you to be calm.’

He lowered his voice and spoke in softened tones, for he had seen a look in Vera Fane’s face which none had ever marked there before. As she knelt by the side of the wounded man, from whose hurt the blood was pouring fast, in a bright red stream; as with passionate anxiety she gazed into his face, while her arms supported him in his death-like faint, her whole countenance betrayed the unutterable tenderness with which a woman regards her lover.

The spectators stood assembled around the ill-fated combatant. Great and general was the consternation.

The nature of the mischance—the loss of the button which guards the fencer in all exercises with the foil—was patent enough to those acquainted with small-sword practice. But a large proportion of the crowd, with no previous experience of such affairs, could with difficulty be got to believe that Argyll had not used unjustifiable means to the injury of his antagonist. These worthy people were for his being arrested and held to bail. His personal friends resented the idea. Words ran high; until indeed, at one time, it appeared as if a form of civic broil, common in the middle ages, would be revived with undesirable accuracy.

Now, alas! the festive aspect of the scene was abruptly changed. O’Desmond’s grief at this most untoward ending to his entertainments was painful to witness. Argyll’s generous nature plunged him into a state of deep contrition for his passionate action.

The women, one and all, were so shocked and excited by the sight of blood and the rumour, which quickly gained credence, that Wilfred Effingham was dying, that tearful lamentations and hysterical cries were heard in all directions. Nor indeed until it was authoritatively stated by the medical practitioner of the district, who was luckily present, that Mr. Effingham having been run through the body, had therefore received a dangerous but not necessarily fatal wound, was consolation possible.

This gentleman, however, later on would by no means commit himself to a definite opinion. ‘Without doubt it was a critical case. Though the coeliac axis had been missed, by a miracle, the vasa-vasorum blood-vessel had suffered lesion. The left subclavian artery had been torn through, yet, from its known power of contraction, he trusted that the interior lining would be closed, when further loss of blood would cease. Of course, unfavourable symptoms might supervene at any moment—at any moment. At present the patient was free from pain. Quiet—that is, absolute rest—was indispensable. With no exciting visits, and—yes—with the closest attention and good nursing, a distinctly favourable termination might be—ahem—hoped for.’

But an early doom, either alone or with all the aids that affection, friendship, ay or devoted love, could bring, was not written in the book of fate against Wilfred Effingham’s name. In the course of a week the popular practitioner alluded to had the pleasure of informing the anxious inhabitants of the Yass district ‘that the injury having, as he had the honour to diagnose, providentially not occurred to the trunk artery, the middle coat of the smaller blood-vessel had, from its elastic and contractile nature, after being torn by the partially blunted end of the foil, caused a closure. In point of fact, the injury had yielded to treatment. He would definitely pledge himself, in fact, that the patient was bordering upon convalescence. In a week or two he would be ready to support a removal to The Chase, where doubtless his youth, temperate habit, and excellent constitution would combine to produce a complete recovery.’

These agreeable predictions were fulfilled to the letter. Yet was there another element involved in the case, which was thought to have exercised a powerful influence, if, indeed, it was not the chief factor in his recovery. The vision of sudden death which had passed before the eyes of the guests at Badajos had surprised the secret of Vera Fane’s heart. Of timid, almost imperceptible growth, the faint budding commencement of a girl’s fancy had, all in silence and secrecy, ripened into the fragrant blossom of a woman’s love. Pure, devoted, imperishable, such a sentiment is proof against the anguish of non-requital, the attacks of rivalry, even the ruder shocks of falsehood or infidelity. Let him, then, to whom, all unworthy, such a prize is allotted by a too indulgent destiny, sacrifice to the kind deities, and be thankful. It may have been—was doubtless—urged by Miss Fane’s admirers, that ‘that fellow Effingham was not half good enough for her, more especially after his idiotic affair with Christabel Rockley’; but, pray, which of us, to whom the blindly swaying Eros has been gracious, is not manifestly overrated, nay, made to blush for shortcomings from his early ideal?

So must it ever be in the history of the race—were the secrets of all hearts known. Let us be consoled that we are not conspicuously inferior to our neighbours, and chiefly strive, in spite of that mysterious Disappointment—poor human nature—to gain some modest eminence. Let Wilfred Effingham, then, enjoy his undeserved good fortune, comme nous autres, assured that with such companionship he will be stronger to battle for the right while life lasts.

‘How could you forgive me?’ he said, at the close of one of the happy confidences which his returning strength rendered possible. ‘I should never have dared to ask you after my folly.’

‘Women love but once—that is, those who are worthy of the name,’ she said softly. ‘I had unwisely, it would seem, permitted my heart to stray. It passed into the possession of one who—well, scarce valued sufficiently the simple offering. But you do now, dearest, do you not? I will never forgive you, or rather, on second thoughts, I will forgive you, if hereafter you love any other woman but me.’

‘You are an angel. Did I say so before? Never mind. Truth will bear repetition.’

---

Old Tom Glendinning commenced to fail in health soon after the permanent settlement of the district; his detractors averred, because the blacks left off spearing the cattle and took to station work. He lived long enough to hear of General Glendinning’s marriage, at which he expressed great satisfaction, coupled with the hope that the Major (as he always called him) would return to India, ‘av it was only to have another turn at thim murdtherin’ nay-gurs, my heavy curse on thim, from Bingal to Galantapee.’

He was carefully nursed by Mrs. Evans, who had at length followed her husband to the new country, after repeated assurances that it was impossible for him to return to Lake William, but that she might please herself.

They buried the old stock-rider, in accordance with his last wishes, on an island in the lake, within sight of Guy’s homestead, near his ancient steed Boney, who had preceded him in decease. The dog Crab survived him but a few weeks, and was carefully interred at his feet. It was noticed that no black of any description whatever, young or old, male or female, wild or tame, would ever set foot on the green, wave-washed islet afterwards.

Andrew and Jeanie, after a few years, retired to a snug farm within easy distance of The Chase, at which place, for one reason or other, they spent nearly as much time as at home. Andrew’s aid was continually invoked in agricultural emergencies, more particularly when business called Wilfred away; while Jeanie’s invaluable counsel and reassuring presence, when the inmates of Mrs. Wilfred’s nursery developed alarming symptoms, was so largely in request that Andrew more than once remarked that ‘he didna ken but what he saw far mair o’ his auld dame before he had a hame o’ his ain. But she had aye ta’en a’ her pleasure in life at ither folk’s bedsides. Maist unco-omon!’

Duncan, having once enjoyed an independent life in the new country, could not be induced to return to The Chase. He saved his money, and with national forecast commenced business in the rising township of Warleigh. Of this settlement he became in time the leading alderman (the burgesses obtained a municipality in the after-time), and rose finally to be mayor.

The Melbourne Argus printed in extenso Mr. Cargill’s address to the electors of West Palmerston when a candidate for a vacancy in the Legislative Council. It was certain he would be returned at the head of the poll, doubtless to represent a Liberal Ministry before long. May there never be invited a less worthy personage to the councils of the land than the Hon. Duncan Cargill, M.L.C.

Mr. Rockley, after his return to Port Phillip, hurled himself with his accustomed energy at every kind of investment. Not satisfied with extensive mercantile transactions, he bought agricultural lands, the nucleus of a fine estate. In Parliament he made such vigorous, idiomatic onslaughts upon the Government of the day as led the Speaker occasionally to suggest modification. He developed Warleigh, the town to which he had originally attached himself, wonderfully, and besides aiding all struggling settlers in the bad times, which arrived, as he had prophesied, close on the heels of inflation and over-trading. In a general way he benefited by good advice, friendly intercourse, and substantial assistance, everybody with whom he came into contact. As a magistrate, a perfect Draco (in theory), he was never known to remit a fine for certain offences. It was whispered, nevertheless, that he had many a time been known to pay such out of his own pocket.

It is comforting to those who honour liberality and unselfishness to know that he amassed a large fortune. He continued to invest from time to time in land, the management of which chiefly served to occupy his mind in declining years. When the grave closed over the warm heart and eager spirit of William Rockley, men said that he left no fellow behind him. There are still those who believe him to have been unsurpassed for energy of mind and body, with a clear-headed forecast in affairs, joined to the warm sympathy which rendered it impossible to omit a kindness or forgo a benefit.

The larger portion of the estate was willed to Christabel and her husband, but from the number of junior Clarkes of all sorts and sizes who fill the commodious family drag, a considerable subdivision of landed property will probably take place in another generation. Bob Clarke adopted easily the position of country gentleman. He no longer rides steeple-chases, but his four-in-hand team is certainly superior in blood, bone, matching, and appointments to anything south of the line.

But little remains to tell. Our small community reached that stage when, as with nations, the less history needed the better for their happiness. As to this last apocryphal commodity (as some have deemed), Wilfred Effingham avers that Vera and he have such a large supply on hand that he is troubled in spirit only by the thought that something in the nature of evil must happen, were it only in accordance with the law of averages.

The Port Phillip investments paid so well that, upon the sale of Benmohr by Argyll and Hamilton, he purchased that ever-memorable historic station. Mrs. Teviot and Wullie remained in possession almost as long as they lived, but never could be brought to regard Mr. Effingham in any other light than that of a neighbour and a visitor of ‘their gentlemen.’ He was often reminded of the muddy winter evening when he first arrived.

Dean Sternworth—thus promoted—lives on, growing still more wonderful roses, and experiencing an access of purest pleasure when a Marie Van Houte or Souvenir de Malmaison excites the envy of the district.

Marrying, christening, and, indeed, burying the inhabitants of Yass—for death also is in Arcadia—his unobtrusive path is daily trodden, ‘and, sure the Eternal Master found, his single talent well employed.’

Among his chief and enduring pleasures are his monthly visits to Lake William to perform service in the freestone church, which has been erected by the Effingham family and their neighbours on a spot easy of general access. On such occasions Dr. Fane is generally found at The Chase, where the friends argue by the hour together. Such a period of continuous mutual entertainment must it have been that, on one occasion, was familiarly referred to by Master Hubert Warleigh Effingham as lasting ‘till all was blue.’

Howard Effingham has once more been placed by circumstances in the enviable position of a man who has nothing in this world to attend to but his favourite hobby, to which he is sufficiently attached to devote every moment of his spare time to it. That fortunate ex-militaire has now few other foes to consider than the native cat (dasyura), the black cormorant, and the dingo.

It must be confessed that they give him more trouble than ever—in his youth—did the Queen’s enemies. The cormorants eat his young fish, and when the captain extracted from the dead body of one of them no less than six infantine trout, the tears (so his grandson averred) came into his eyes. The partridges, even the gold and silver pheasants were not sacred from the native cat. An occasional dingo makes his appearance, wandering from Black Mountain (the doctor was always an indifferent ‘poisoner,’ says the parson), and a brace of gazelle fawns have never been sufficiently accounted for. But the exhibition of strychnine crystals provides a solution, and the land has peace.

On the whole, progress has been made. The furred, feathered, or finned emigrants are steadily increasing; fair shooting can soon be allowed, and extermination will be impossible.

Between ourselves, a leash of foxes were turned loose in the gibba-gunyahs, near which the first dingo was killed, by the Lake William hounds, and Jack Barker swore (only he ‘stretches’ so) that he saw the vixen feeding five cubs—one with a white tag to his brush (Jack is always circumstantial), with the biggest buck ’possum he ever saw.

The Lake William hounds have long been back in their kennels. John Hampden makes a point of attending the first meet, and O’Desmond (whose heart was not broken, or was at least successfully repaired by his subsequent marriage) is a steady supporter, as of yore.

But somehow the whole affair doesn’t feel so jolly as when Argyll and Hamilton, Ardmillan and Forbes, Fred Churbett and Neil, Malahyde and Edward Belfield—all the ‘Benmohr mob’ in fact—were safe for every meet.

Perhaps, though with enthusiasts his steady march is disregarded, old Time may possibly have had something to do with the decrease of enthusiasm. Mrs. Wilfred does not approve of her husband riding so hard as in the brave days of old. She herself, from circumstances, is often absent, and scarcely enjoys lending Emigrant, still nearly as good as ever, to lady visitors. A heavy autumn shower, too, acted unfavourably upon the health of the M.F.H., and explained practically what lumbago most closely resembles.

Still Howard Effingham, nobly loyal to his ideal, presses gallantly forward to the realisation of his hopes. The coming year will see an opening meet of the Lake William hounds, such as, in one respect, at least, was never ridden to in Australia before.

On some grey-hued, red-dawning May morn, freshly recalling, like the verse of an old song, how many a hunting day of yore, will he view a fox away from the upper corner of the ti-tree covert, on the rocky spur of the yellow-box range—a real fox—as red, as wiry, with as white a tag to his brush as ever a straight-goer that stretched across the pastures before the Pytchley or the Quorn. Nevertheless Australian born and bred.

Standing in his stirrups, he watches the leading hounds pour through the paddock fence, the remainder settling to the scent, or at silent speed sweeping over the forest parks that border the lake meadows. Rosamond St. Maur is far away, alas! and Fergus out at grass; but Major-General Sir Walter Glendinning, on leave from India, is trying the speed of the best Arab in the Mofussil. Mrs. O’Desmond is watching her husband anxiously, Guy is home from Port Phillip, with Bob Clarke and Ardmillan, each on a horse ‘fit to go for a man’s life,’ and wild with frolic spirits. Mrs. Vera Effingham is out, and, as luck would have it, ready and willing to remind Emigrant of old Black Mountain days. John Hampden, taking The Caliph by the head, now snow white, but still safe across timber, echoes back Wilfred’s ‘Forrard, forrard, away!’ as he sails off with the lead, and forgetting his wife and family, feels perfectly, ecstatically happy. Then, and then only, will Howard Effingham acknowledge that he has at length achieved the position of which he has so often dreamed—then will he hold himself to be in real, completest earnest—an Australian Squire.

WAR TO THE KNIFE; or, Tangata Maori.

ACADEMY.—“A stirring romance.”

A ROMANCE OF CANVAS TOWN, and other Stories.

ATHENÆUM.—“The book is interesting for its obvious insight into life in the Australian bush.”

ROBBERY UNDER ARMS.

GUARDIAN.—“A singularly spirited and stirring tale of Australian life, chiefly in the remoter settlements.... Altogether it is a capital story, full of wild adventure and startling incidents, and told with a genuine simplicity and quiet appearance of truth, as if the writer were really drawing upon his memory rather than his imagination.”

A MODERN BUCCANEER.

DAILY CHRONICLE.—“We do not forget Robbery under Arms, or any of its various successors, when we say that Rolf Boldrewood has never done anything so good as A Modern Buccaneer. It is good, too, in a manner which is for the author a new one.”

THE MINER’S RIGHT.

WORLD.—“Full of good passages, passages abounding in vivacity, in the colour and play of life.... The pith of the book lies in its singularly fresh and vivid pictures of the humours of the gold-fields—tragic humours enough they are, too, here and again.”

THE SQUATTER’S DREAM.

FIELD.—“The details are filled in by a hand evidently well conversant with his subject, and everything is ben trovato, if not actually true. A perusal of these cheerfully-written pages will probably give a better idea of realities of Australian life than could be obtained from many more pretentious works.”

A SYDNEY-SIDE SAXON.

GLASGOW HERALD.—“The interest never flags, and altogether A Sydney-Side Saxon is a really refreshing book.”

A COLONIAL REFORMER.

ATHENÆUM.—“A series of natural and entertaining pictures of Australian life, which are, above all things, readable.”

NEVERMORE.

OBSERVER.—“An exciting story of Ballarat in the fifties. Its hero, Lance Trevanion, is a character which for force of delineation has no equal in Rolf Boldrewood’s previous novels.”

PLAIN LIVING. A Bush Idyll.

ACADEMY.—“A hearty story, deriving charm from the odours of the bush and the bleating of incalculable sheep.”

MY RUN HOME.

ATHENÆUM.—“Rolf Boldrewood’s last story is a racy volume. It has many of the best qualities of Whyte Melville, the breezy freshness and vigour of Frank Smedley, with the dash and something of the abandon of Lever.... His last volume is one of his best.”

THE SEALSKIN CLOAK.

TIMES.—“A well-written story.”

THE CROOKED STICK; or, Pollie’s Probation.

ACADEMY.—“A charming picture of Australian station life.”

OLD MELBOURNE MEMORIES.

NATIONAL OBSERVER.—“His book deserves to be read in England with as much appreciation as it has already gained in the country of its birth.”

THE SPHINX OF EAGLEHAWK.

A TALE OF OLD BENDIGO.[Macmillan’s Pocket Novels.

QUEEN.—“There is the usual mystery, the usual admirable gold-fields’ local colour, which we expect from our favourite Rolf Boldrewood.”

STALKY & CO. Thirtieth Thousand.

THE DAY’S WORK. Fifty-first Thousand.

MORNING POST.—“The book is so varied, so full of colour and life from end to end, that few who read the first two or three stories will lay it down till they have read the last.”

PLAIN TALES FROM THE HILLS. Forty-third Thousand.

SATURDAY REVIEW.—“Mr. Kipling knows and appreciates the English in India, and is a born story-teller and a man of humour into the bargain.... It would be hard to find better reading.”

LIFE’S HANDICAP. Being Stories of Mine Own People. Thirty-first Thousand.

BLACK AND WHITE.—“Life’s Handicap contains much of the best work hitherto accomplished by the author, and, taken as a whole, is a complete advance upon its predecessors.”

MANY INVENTIONS. Twenty-eighth Thousand.

PALL MALL GAZETTE.—“The completest book that Mr. Kipling has yet given us in workmanship, the weightiest and most humane in breadth of view.... It can only be regarded as a fresh landmark in the progression of his genius.”

THE LIGHT THAT FAILED. Rewritten and considerably enlarged. Thirty-third Thousand.

ACADEMY.—“Whatever else be true of Mr. Kipling, it is the first truth about him that he has power, real intrinsic power.... Mr. Kipling’s work has innumerable good qualities.”

WEE WILLIE WINKIE, and other Stories.

SOLDIERS THREE, and other Stories.

GLOBE.—“Containing some of the best of his highly vivid work.”

THE JUNGLE BOOK. With Illustrations by J.L. Kipling, W.H. Drake, and P. Frenzeny. Forty-seventh Thousand. Crown 8vo. Cloth gilt. 6s.

PUNCH.—“‘Æsop’s Fables and dear old Brer Fox and Co.,’ observes the Baron sagely, ‘may have suggested to the fanciful genius of Rudyard Kipling the delightful idea, carried out in the most fascinating style, of The Jungle Book.’”

THE SECOND JUNGLE BOOK. With Illustrations by J. Lockwood Kipling. Thirty-third Thousand.

DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“The appearance of The Second Jungle Book is a literary event of which no one will mistake the importance. Unlike most sequels, the various stories comprised in the new volume are at least equal to their predecessors.”

“CAPTAINS COURAGEOUS.” A Story of the Grand Banks. Illustrated by I.W. Taber. Twenty-third Thousand.

ATHENÆUM.—“Never in English prose has the sea in all its myriad aspects, with all its sounds and sights and odours, been reproduced with such subtle skill as in these pages.”

FROM SEA TO SEA. In Two Vols.

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SOLDIER TALES. With Illustrations by A.S. Hartrick. Tenth Thousand. Crown 8vo. 6s.

ATHENÆUM.—“By issuing a reprint of some of the best of Mr. Kipling’s Soldier Tales, Messrs. Macmillan have laid us all under an obligation.”

A FLEET IN BEING. Notes of Two Trips with the Channel Squadron. Fifty-third Thousand. Crown 8vo. Sewed, 1s. net.; Cloth, 1s. 6d. net.

ARMY AND NAVY GAZETTE.—“A very admirable picture of the life of officers and men who go down to the sea in the ships of Her Majesty’s fleet.”

THE KIPLING BIRTHDAY BOOK. Compiled by Joseph Finn. Authorised by the Author, with Illustrations by J. Lockwood Kipling. 16mo. 2s. 6d.

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NELLIE’S MEMORIES. 30th Thousand.

STANDARD.—“Miss Carey has the gift of writing naturally and simply, her pathos is true and unforced, and her conversations are sprightly and sharp.”

WEE WIFIE. 22nd Thousand.

LADY.—“Miss Carey’s novels are always welcome; they are out of the common run, immaculately pure, and very high in tone.”

BARBARA HEATHCOTE’S TRIAL. 20th Thousand.

DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“A novel of a sort which it would be a real loss to miss.”

ROBERT ORD’S ATONEMENT. 17th Thousand.

STANDARD.—“A most delightful book.”

WOOED AND MARRIED. 21st Thousand.

STANDARD.—“There is plenty of romance in the heroine’s life. But it would not be fair to tell our readers wherein that romance consists or how it ends. Let them read the book for themselves. We will undertake to promise that they will like it.”

HERIOT’S CHOICE. 18th Thousand.

MORNING POST.—“Deserves to be extensively known and read.... Will doubtless find as many admirers as readers.”

QUEENIE’S WHIM. 18th Thousand.

GUARDIAN.—“A thoroughly good and wholesome story.”

MARY ST. JOHN. 16th Thousand.

JOHN BULL.—“The story is a simple one, but told with much grace and unaffected pathos.”

NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS. 19th Thousand.

NEW YORK HOME JOURNAL.—“One of the sweetest, daintiest, and most interesting of the season’s publications.“

FOR LILIAS. 14th Thousand.

VANITY FAIR.—“A simple, earnest, and withal very interesting story; well conceived, carefully worked out, and sympathetically told.”

UNCLE MAX. 15th Thousand.

LADY.—“So intrinsically good that the world of novel-readers ought to be genuinely grateful.”

ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 15th Thousand.

PALL MALL GAZETTE.—“This novel is for those who like stories with something of Jane Austen’s power, but with more intensity of feeling than Jane Austen displayed, who are not inclined to call pathos twaddle, and who care to see life and human nature in their most beautiful form.”

LOVER OR FRIEND? 12th Thousand.

GUARDIAN.—“The refinement of style and delicacy of thought will make Lover or Friend? popular with all readers who are not too deeply bitten with a desire for things improbable in their lighter literature.”

BASIL LYNDHURST. 10th Thousand.

PALL MALL GAZETTE.—“We doubt whether anything has been written of late years so fresh, so pretty, so thoroughly natural and bright.”

SIR GODFREY’S GRAND-DAUGHTERS. 8th Thousand.

OBSERVER.—“A capital story.”

THE OLD, OLD STORY. 9th Thousand.

DAILY NEWS.—“Miss Carey’s fluent pen has not lost its power of writing fresh and wholesome fiction.”

THE MISTRESS OF BRAE FARM. 10th Thousand.

PALL MALL GAZETTE.—“Miss Carey’s untiring pen loses none of its power, and her latest work is as gracefully written, as full of quiet home charm, as fresh and wholesome, so to speak, as its many predecessors.”

MRS. ROMNEY and “BUT MEN MUST WORK.”

PALL MALL GAZETTE.—“By no means the least attractive of the works of this charming writer.”

BOOKMAN.—“A spirited tale of wandering and adventure, with a wholesome love story to keep it fresh and sweet and provide for it a happy ending.”

OBSERVER.—“A fine historical story of early American days; full of incident and ‘go,’ and admirably written.”

GUARDIAN.—“We shall tell no more of Mr. Lysaght’s clever and original tale, contenting ourselves with heartily recommending it to any on the look-out for a really good and absorbing story.”

SATURDAY REVIEW.—“Mr. Sydney Lysaght should have a future before him among writers of fiction. One of the Grenvilles is full of interest.”

BOOKMAN.—“Is so high above the average of novels that its readers will want to urge on the writer a more frequent exercise of his powers.”

ACADEMY.—“There is freshness and distinction about One of the Grenvilles.... Both for its characters and setting, and for its author’s pleasant wit, this is a novel to read.”

DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“Since he wrote The Marplot, Mr. Lysaght has degenerated neither in freshness, originality, nor sense of humour.”

OBSERVER.—“The story is an excellent one.... Miss Rhoda Broughton well maintains her place among our novelists as one capable of telling a quiet yet deeply interesting story of human passions.”

SPECTATOR.—“The book is extremely clever.”

By CECIL LOWIS

GUARDIAN.—“An exceedingly well-written, pleasant volume.... Entirely enjoyable.”

LITERATURE.—“A capital picture of official life in Burma.”

DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“Emphatically of a nature to make us ask for more from the same source.... Those who appreciate a story without any sensational incidents, and written with keen observation and great distinction of style, will find it delightful reading.... Cannot fail to please its readers.”

SPECTATOR.—“Mr. Lowis’s story is pleasant to read in more senses than one. It is not only clever and wholesome, but printed in a type so large and clear as to reconcile us to the thickness of the volume.”

ATHENÆUM.—“The author writes in a clear, attractive style, and succeeds in maintaining the reader’s interest from the first page to the last.”

ATHENÆUM.—“A pleasant tale.”

SPEAKER.—“A charming bit of social comedy, tinged with just a suspicion of melodrama.... The atmosphere of the story is so bright and genial that we part from it with regret.”

DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“At once ingenious, symmetrical, and entertaining.... Miss Price’s fascinating romance.”

LITERATURE.—“A simple, but very pleasant story.”

SPECTATOR.—“The notion of an orphan heiress, the daughter of an Earl, and the cynosure of two London seasons, flying precipitately from her guardians, who are endeavouring to force her into a match with a man she detests, and hiding herself under an assumed name in a remote rural district of the Midlands, is an excellent motive in itself, and gains greatly from the charm and delicacy of Miss Price’s handling.”

ACADEMY.—“A quiet country book in the main, with more emotion than action, and continuous interest.”

ACADEMY.—“A capital romance.”

COUNTRY LIFE.—“This story of the later years of the eighteenth century will rank high in literature. It is a fine and spirited romance set in a slight but elegant and accurate frame of history. The book itself has a peculiar and individual charm by virtue of the stately language in which it is written.... It is stately, polished, and full of imaginative force.”

LIVERPOOL DAILY MERCURY.—“The book is written in a strong and terse style of diction with a swift and vivid descriptive touch. In its grasp of character and the dramatic nature of its plot it is one of the best novels of its kind since Stevenson’s Prince Otto.”

PALL MALL GAZETTE.—“A fine book.... They are exciting reading.... Eminently informing.”

ACADEMY.—“Mr. Frank R. Stockton is always interesting, whether he writes for young or old.”

DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“Full of the quiet grace and literary excellence which we have now learnt to associate with the author.”

DAILY NEWS.—“An interesting and characteristic example of this writer’s manner. It possesses his sobriety of tone and treatment, his limpidity and minuteness of touch, his keenness of observation.... The book abounds in clever character sketches.... It is very good.”

ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE.—“There is something peculiarly fascinating in Mr. Maarten Maartens’s new story. It is one of those exquisitely told tales, not unhappy, nor tragic, yet not exactly ‘happy,’ but full of the pain—as a philosopher has put it—that one prefers, which are read, when the reader is in the right mood, with, at least, a subdued sense of tears, tears of pleasure.”

ATHENÆUM.—“Maarten Maartens has never written a brighter social story, and it has higher qualities than brightness.”

DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“It is delightfully entertaining throughout, and throws much instructive light upon certain subordinate phases of the great popular upheaval that convulsed France between 1788 and 1794.... Recounted with unflagging vivacity and inexhaustible good humour.”

DAILY MAIL.—“This lively piece of imagination is animated throughout by strong human interest and novel incident.”

SPECTATOR.—“Very well worth reading.”

ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE.—“This charming book.”

SPEAKER.—“A stirring tale.... We are inclined to think that War to the Knife is the best story we have had from Mr. Boldrewood since he gave us the inimitable Robbery under Arms.”

ACADEMY.—“A stirring romance.”

OUTLOOK.—“Anyone who likes a good story, combined with any amount of information on strange lands, should get this book.”

A Romance of Canvas Town—The Fencing of Wandaroona: A Riverina Reminiscence—The Governess of the Poets—Our New Cook: A Tale of the Times—Angels Unawares

DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“Eminently readable, being written in the breezy, happy-go-lucky style which characterizes the more recent fictional works of the author of that singularly earnest and impressive romance, Robbery under Arms.”

DAILY MAIL.—“As pleasant as ever.”

GLASGOW HERALD.—“They will repay perusal.”

SPECTATOR.—“The Forest Lovers is no mere literary tour de force, but an uncommonly attractive romance, the charm of which is greatly enhanced by the author’s excellent style.”

DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“Mr. Maurice Hewlett’s Forest Lovers stands out with conspicuous success.... He has compassed a very remarkable achievement.... For nearly four hundred pages he carries us along with him with unfailing resource and artistic skill, while he unrolls for us the course of thrilling adventures, ending, after many tribulations, in that ideal happiness towards which every romancer ought to wend his tortuous way.... There are few books of this season which achieve their aim so simply and whole-heartedly as Mr. Hewlett’s ingenious and enthralling romance.”

DAILY MAIL.—“Distinctly enjoyable and suggestive of much profitable thought.”

SCOTSMAN.—“The book has a deal of literary merit, and is well furnished with clever phrases.”

ATHENÆUM.—“Remarkably clever.... The writing throughout is clear, and the story is well constructed.”

W.D. Howells in LITERATURE.—“A very clever new novel.”

GUARDIAN.—“The novel is well written, and full of complex interests and personalities. It touches on many questions and problems clearly and skilfully.”

DAILY CHRONICLE.—“A book which entirely interested us for the whole of a blazing afternoon. He writes uncommonly well.”

ACADEMY.—“A book to read, and a book to keep after reading. Mr. Allen’s gifts are many—a style pellucid and picturesque, a vivid and disciplined power of characterization, and an intimate knowledge of a striking epoch and an alluring country.... So magical is the wilderness environment, so fresh the characters, so buoyant the life they lead, so companionable, so well balanced, and so touched with humanity, the author’s personality, that I hereby send him greeting and thanks for a brave book.... The Choir Invisible is a fine achievement.”

PALL MALL GAZETTE.—“Mr. Allen’s power of character drawing invests the old, old story with renewed and absorbing interest.... The fascination of the story lies in great part in Mr. Allen’s graceful and vivid style.”

The Prologue

Chapter I. Sausages and Palaver—II. Illumination—III. William Chillingworth—IV. Calamity CaÑon—V. Speculations—VI. Which contains a Moral—VII. Of Blood and Water—VIII. Which ends in Flames—IX. “Is Writ in Moods and Frowns and Wrinkles Strange”—X. The Daughters of Themis

LITERATURE.—“It has the joy of life in it, sparkle, humour, charm.... All the characters, in their contrasts and developments, are drawn with fine delicacy; and the book is one of those few which one reads again with increased pleasure.”

DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“A story of extraordinary interest.... Mr. Vachell’s enthralling story, the dÉnouement of which worthily crowns a literary achievement of no little merit.”

PALL MALL GAZETTE.—“A thoroughly interesting story.... We hope it will not be the last of its kind from the author.”

SATURDAY REVIEW.—“We found it difficult to tear ourselves away from the fascinating narrative.”

SPECTATOR.—“There is no gainsaying the spirit and fluency of the narrative.”

LEEDS MERCURY.—“The boy hero is admirably drawn, and his stirring adventures are told with uncommon vivacity.”

A romantic story of Moorish life in the Riff Country and in Tangier by Mr. A.J. Dawson, whose last novel, God’s Foundling, was well received in the beginning of the year, and whose West African and Australian Bush stories will be familiar to most readers of fiction. Bismillah is the title chosen for Mr. Dawson’s new book, which may be regarded as the outcome of his somewhat adventurous experiences in Morocco last year.

ACADEMY.—“Romantic and dramatic, and full of colour.”

GUARDIAN.—“Decidedly clever and original.... Its excellent local colouring, and its story, as a whole interesting and often dramatic, make it a book more worth reading and enjoyable than is at all common.”

SPEAKER.—“A stirring tale of love and adventure.... There is enough of exciting incident, of fighting, intrigue, and love-making in Bismillah to satisfy the most exacting reader.”

MANCHESTER GUARDIAN.—“An interesting and pleasing tale.”

DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“Miss McChesney shows that she possesses both graphic powers and imagination in the course of her story, and those parts of it which are historical are told with a due regard for truth as well as picturesqueness.”

ATHENÆUM.—“A singular successful specimen of the ‘historical’ fiction of the day.”

WORLD.—“The reader will rapidly find his attention absorbed by a really stirring picture of stirring times.”

OBSERVER.—“Miss McChesney has mastered her period thoroughly, and tells an attractive story in a very winning fashion.”

GUARDIAN.—“The description of the flight from Naseby is one of real eloquence, and profoundly moving. There is brilliancy, insight, and feeling in the story.”

The Bridgebuilders—A Walking Delegate—The Ship that Found Herself—The Tomb of his Ancestors—The Devil and the Deep Sea—William the Conqueror—·007—The Maltese Cat—Bread upon the Waters—An Error of the Fourth Dimension—My Sunday at Home—The Brushwood Boy

ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE.—“This new batch of Mr. Kipling’s short stories is splendid work. Among the thirteen there are included at least five of his very finest.... Speaking for ourselves, we have read The Day’s Work with more pleasure than we have derived from anything of Mr. Kipling’s since The Jungle Book.... It is in the Findlaysons, and the Scotts, and the Cottars, and the ‘Williams,’ that Mr. Kipling’s true greatness lies. These are creations that make one feel pleased and proud that we are also English. What greater honour could there be to an English writer?”

Containing:—The Man who Loved, The Man who Hated, The Man who Bore, The Man who Cared, The Man who Fell, The Man who Sneered, The Man who Killed, The Man who Died, The Man who was Himself.

OUTLOOK.—“Mr. R.V. Risley may be congratulated on having produced a set of really moving studies.”

SCOTSMAN.—“The stories are powerful studies of human nature, which show considerable art in presenting the stronger passions.”

GLASGOW HERALD.—“Clever, striking, and impressionist sort of stories.”

LITERATURE.—“The story is well written, and full of exciting intrigue.”

SPECTATOR.—“The story is well put together, well told, and exciting.”

SPEAKER.—“Short, exciting, well composed.”

ACADEMY.—“Told with much spirit.”

PALL MALL GAZETTE.—“The book is briskly written by a man who is interested in his subject.”

SCOTSMAN.—“The story is told with capital spirit, and the reader is not given time to feel dull.”

GLASGOW HERALD.—“Vivid and interesting.”

SPEAKER.—“It consists of vivid prose pictures of adventure in the wild North West, interspersed with unconventional and often extremely beautiful snatches of verse. The book reflects better than anything else we have seen the pitiless majesty of the scenery and the tragic conditions of the quest.”

OBSERVER.—“Racy, invigorating, and informing.... Interspersed with some admirable verses.”

BOOKMAN.—“To read the volume is to make the overland journey to the Yukon River. We have enjoyed the book most thoroughly.”

SPEAKER.—“A story told with so much spirit that the reader tingles with suspense until the end is reached.... A very pleasant tale of more than common merit.”

PALL MALL GAZETTE.—“It is short and excellent reading.... Old Peter Hawkshaw, the Admiral, is a valuable creation, sometimes quite ‘My Uncle Toby’.... The scene, when the narrator dines with him in the cabin for the first time, is one of the most humorous in the language, and stamps Lady Hawkshaw—albeit, she is not there—as one of the wives of fiction in the category of Mrs. Proudie herself.... The interest is thoroughly sustained to the end.... Thoroughly healthy and amusing.”

WORLD.—“Brisk and amusing throughout.”

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