Barrington Hope could hardly realise the fact, till he found himself actually on board of a mail steamer, that he would have no business cares for the next two years—a whole elysium of rest and recreation. For this respite from the “figure and fact” mill, Laura was deeply grateful, sensible as she had been for some months past that the calculating machine was working under occasional effort.

When the Hubert Stamfords and Hopes bestowed themselves on board the Lahore—the last triumph of the Peninsular and Oriental Company—one would have thought all Sydney was coming to say farewell—such was the congregation on the deck and in the magnificent saloon of that noble vessel. Of course the Colonel and Willoughby, Mr. and Mrs. Stamford, and all their Sydney friends turned out on purpose to “see them off” as the phrase is, according to British etiquette on such occasions. Other people—friends and relatives—had come to say farewell to their wives and daughters, sons and sweethearts. Thus many a saddened countenance and tearful eye were to be noted as the great steamer moved slowly astern, and then glided at half-speed down the harbour.

---

Of their safe and pleasant voyage—of fast friends, and congenial acquaintances made on board and parted from with regret—what need to speak? Of the entrance to fairyland which the first few months’ sojourn in the dear old island so closely resembles for home-returning Australians. Of the stores of information acquired. Of the intoxicating luxury of mere existence under such conditions. Of the transcending of all anticipation and belief.

Barrington Hope and Laura remained in Europe for the full term of their holiday—two years. But six months ere that period closed Hubert and his wife became impatient to return to their life-task in the south land, too satiated with mere sensuous enjoyment to remain longer.

“We are young and strong, thank God,” said Hubert; “it’s not as though we did not see our way to be back here again within a reasonable time. But my work lies in Australia, and I can’t settle to this kind of easy-going life just yet. When Windahgil Downs is in thorough working order and fully stocked, we can treat ourselves to a run home every five years or so without feeling uneasy about the seasons or anything else. So we’ll just take our passage by the next boat and wake them up at Mooramah once more.”

“I’m ready, dearest,” said his wife. “With you, I think our work is only half-done, and the sooner we commence life in earnest the better. We’ve seen picture galleries enough to last us for the next few years, and I begin to pine for a sight of my dear old father, and Willoughby, poor boy! I wonder how they are getting on at Wantabalree?”

---

Once more the family circles were replenished, irradiated by the old love and tenderness in the persons of the wanderers—once more grateful hearts were full to overflowing, and humble thanks were offered up to the Supreme Power which had permitted their happy reunion, in spite of perils by land and sea—the thousand chances of danger and death which had irrevocably marred less fortunate households. All had gone well in their absence—Linda and her sailor love had been made mutually happy, and through the exercise of judicious local interest Captain Fitzurse, as he was now proudly styled by mankind and his adoring bride, had secured a colonial appointment involving naval duty, but not forbidding the occupation of one of those delightful marine residences of which Sydney boasts so many perfect specimens.

Donald Greenhaugh had amply justified the confidence bestowed on him. The stations were growing and flourishing to the fullest extent of sanguine expectation. Willoughby had developed into a stalwart bushman, properly bronzed and duly experienced in all pastoral lore. The seasons “out back” had been good. Nothing was wanting of all the conditions of permanent prosperity.

Of all the members of the two families so happily united and thankfully enjoying their unwonted success, universally admired and envied, Mr. Stamford alone seemed to be laden with care. At times abstracted and preoccupied, silent and grave amidst the family hilarity; at whist, striking out confusing lines of play, for which no precedent could be found. Such was his departure in general behaviour from the ordinary cheerful and equable habit that his wife and children commenced seriously to fear that the unwonted prosperity had turned his head, or that old anxieties had induced morbid action of the brain. The Colonel shook his head as he delicately alluded to the melancholy fact in a walk with Rosalind. It would grieve him to the heart. He didn’t think really he could stay on at Wantabalree; that a man who could lead from a weak suit and play the Queen of Hearts when the King was still in petto, must be suffering from incipient softening of the brain, was patent to him.

The fact was that Mr. Stamford had come to the conclusion that the time had arrived when it was necessary to make a clean breast of his secret. And he did not like the idea at all. When the matter was buried in his own breast and in that of Mr. Worthington, than whom his own iron safe was not more reticent of office secrets, it did not, like other hidden deeds, appear so frightful. But now, after all these years, to be compelled to tell his wife and children, who believed that they shared every thought of his heart, that he had carefully, wilfully, artfully concealed from them the knowledge of their true position! He could hardly stand up and face the idea. “What if his children should resent this want of all confidence? Would his wife think that all her love and trust deserved a different return?”

Mr. Stamford wiped his heated brow and thought the position unendurable. Still, the motive was a good one, a pure one, even practical. And how had it worked? The result might not have directly proceeded from the means employed; but still everything had followed for which he had hoped and prayed.

His children had not shrunk from any test of self-denial, of fortitude, of continuous industry rendered necessary by the apparent narrowness of their fortunes. True, they were at the same time actuated by filial reverence and family love, swayed by the tenets of that religious teaching which from their infancy had been unwaveringly inculcated. But could these influences have been sufficiently strong to counteract the strong currents of ease and pleasure, the soft zephyrs of flattery, the clinging weight of indolence, all urging towards the wreck-strewn shore of self-indulgence, when once the fatal knowledge should be acquired that all care for the morrow was superfluous?

Who shall say? Had not the fate of his friend’s family, the melancholy failure of even his modest aspirations for social distinction, been as a beacon light and a warning?

As it was, every noble feeling, every desire to spare no effort either of mind or body which could tend to raise the fortunes and to lighten the hearts of those so dear to him, had been stimulated and intensified in his son and heir by the sharp urgency and weight of the Alternative. His daughters had emulated their mother’s virtues and with uncomplaining patience had endured isolation, monotony, plain living, and sparing apparel. For this they had had their reward—doubtless. But would all these fragrant flowers of the soul have thriven and bloomed in the ungenial soil of luxury, and the indolence born of unwonted, uncounted wealth?

Whatever had been his sin of omission or commission, could he fairly be chargeable with apathy as to the welfare of his children?

For them, and in their interest, he had striven in every conscious hour from that of their birth until now. For them he had toiled and endured hardness—had hoped and prayed. For their welfare in this world and the next was his every waking thought engaged. Other than these had he no pleasures worthy of the name in the latter years of a life now approaching—slowly, but still approaching—the inevitable close. He had, it was true, chosen an unusual mode, but withal an intelligible course of action.

Looking at the question in all its points, and pushing the reasoning on either side to its conclusion, Mr. Stamford began to find his position more tenable than he had expected. After all, he had only done in life what most people did in death—reserved the distribution of his fortune until a later period, for the eventual benefit of his children.

Thus fortified, Mr. Stamford, having made up his mind, as the phrase runs, resolved to communicate the terrible secret fully and finally to his assembled family that very evening, being averse to spoiling another night’s rest with a burden of thought the weight of which had become so oppressive. It happened that the Colonel and Willoughby were at Windahgil, so Mr. Stamford rightly judged that it would save all after trouble of explanation if he made his Budget speech when nearly all concerned were present.

Partly in deference to the Colonel’s habitudes and those of the European travellers, the fashion of a late dinner had been revived at Windahgil. Everybody had been unusually cheerful. The never-failing fund of Continental or English experiences had been drawn upon over the “walnuts and the wine,” or rather, when grapes and peaches were receiving attention—Hubert had been laughingly threatening Rosalind with a dozen more years of Queensland life—when Mr. Stamford stood up and remarked that “the time had arrived when he felt it his duty to make a statement which had been, for reasons of his own, postponed—perhaps unnecessarily so. However, it deeply concerned the interests of all present, directly or indirectly, and as he said before, the time had come for him to explain, he might say disclose, the a—a—affair.”

Here Mr. Stamford, who was not a fluent speaker, became aware that though he had not furnished a particularly accurate termination to his last sentence, he had at all events sufficiently puzzled, not to say alarmed, his audience. He therefore filled his glass and sipped it slowly, while Mrs. Stamford looked wistfully at him. Laura gazed with fully opened eyes, in which might be observed a slight glimmer of dread; Hubert waited calmly for the next words, and Mr. Hope and the Colonel politely preserved a studied indifference. Rosalind took the cue from her husband, and betrayed no uneasiness by word or gesture.

“My dearest wife, my children, my friends,” the speaker proceeded, “what I have to tell you is rather of a pleasing than of an alarming nature. The only awkwardness of my position arises from uncertainty as to whether I ought to have said what I do now several years ago. I can truly assert that it is the only secret I ever kept from my dear wife, or even from my children since they arrived at years of discretion.”

Here everybody’s face expressed different degrees of amazement.

The orator continued. “The leading fact is that I am a much richer man than is generally supposed.” (“Hear, hear,” from the Colonel.) “In a year we all remember well, as you will see by the date of this letter, I was left £170,000 or thereabouts by a relative. You do not forget the dry year in which we were so nearly ruined? We recovered our position chiefly through the well-considered, safe, yet liberal action of my dear son-in-law, Barrington Hope. The gratitude I felt for the way in which he then acted, strictly consonant as it was with proper business principles, is still warm and fresh in my recollection.”

Here Laura’s eyes sparkled.

“Immediately after this comparative good fortune I received this letter, which told me of a bequest beyond all hope or expectation. It rendered me a rich, a very rich man, as fortunes go in Australia. Circumstances which then came under my observation caused me to doubt whether a sudden accession of wealth would act beneficially upon the as yet unformed characters of my darling children. Up to that period their dispositions, their principles, had been all the fondest parent could have wished. Why, then, run the risk of an alteration, necessarily for the worse? Would they so continue under a total change of conditions and prospects? I felt doubtful, judging from analogy. So deeply was the danger to them at such a critical period of their lives borne in upon me, that I took time to consider my course of action. Finally, after deep thought and earnest prayer, I resolved to withhold the important intelligence—to permit them to remain in ignorance of aught but a gradual relief from threatened ruin. In short, I elected to live our old life, gradually modified and developed, until, in course of time, their characters had acquired maturity, with that strength to resist all ordinary temptation which I hoped and trusted the coming years would bring. My secret was known to but one man, our trusted legal adviser and friend, Mr. Worthington. Meanwhile, I proposed judiciously to improve our mode of living, and to provide, by degrees, such indulgences as befitted our apparent position. You can judge whether I have kept the promise which I then made to myself, whether our cherished ideal of ‘plain living and high thinking’ has been reached.”

Here Mrs. Stamford approached her husband, and placed her hand in his, amid the silent astonishment which pervaded the company.

“I have only now to say that all things shaped themselves in every respect as I could have wished. I am the happiest and proudest father this day in Australia. I can trust my beloved children, in ripened manhood and womanhood, with the full knowledge of their altered position, and I ask their forgiveness, and that of my dearest wife, for the apparent want of confidence involved in this my first and last secret, as far as they are concerned.”

Here Mr. Stamford resumed his seat, and looked round vainly for any sign of dissent. Before other comment was possible, his wife turned towards him with a countenance expressive of the purest tenderness, the most loving and perfect confidence.

“My darling husband,” she said, “you lay too much stress upon the reserve necessary for your purpose. As the head of the family, you had a perfect right to give or withhold the information. Have you not always considered the best interests of us all? You might have taken me into your confidence, perhaps, but no child of ours would dream of questioning your action in this or any other matter. Could we have been happier with all the money in the world?”

“And so say all of us, my dear old governor,” said Hubert, walking round to his father’s chair and shaking his hand warmly, a proceeding which was quickly followed by Barrington Hope, Willoughby, and Colonel Dacre. “I should never have stuck to my collar or been half the fellow, if I had thought, years ago, that work or play was optional with us—would never have tackled the things that now I feel proud and happy to have carried through; never had such a little wife, most likely, either. In her name, in all our names, I thank you from my heart for what you did.”

Laura’s arms had been for some moments round her father’s neck; her feelings were too deep for words; her tears were those of relief and gratitude. The Colonel made an opportune diversion by expressing a hope that his esteemed friend’s whist would now undergo a beneficial change. His sudden deterioration of form had, he confessed, caused him, the Colonel, great uneasiness, even alarm. Now that the murder was out, and his breast unburdened of its dreadful secret, he felt confident they would return to their former most enjoyable social relations. As a friend, a father, and an antagonist in the king of games, he begged to be permitted to congratulate him most warmly and sincerely.

CHAP.
I.	TOR ROYAL.
II.	MORNING ON THE MOOR.
III.	THE WAR PRISON.
IV.	PARCERE SUBJECTIS.
V.	THE DARTMOOR HUNT.
VI.	A FOX CHASE ON DARTMOOR.
VII.	SOUTH HESSARY.
VIII.	A KISS IN TIME.
IX.	OKERY COTTAGE.
X.	THE SHERBURTON BULL.
XI.	MADAME GALMADY DE TOR ROYAL.
XII.	BY THE CORNISH SEA.
XIII.	THE FORSTERS AT HOME.
XIV.	FAMILY TALK.
XV.	FATHER SEGUIER.
XVI.	MISS CALMADY ENTERTAINS.
XVII.	A DINNER PARTY AT TOR ROYAL.
XVIII.	“DO TAKE HIM, HE’S THOROUGH-BRED.”
XIX.	THE FISHERMAN’S DAUGHTER.
XX.	A PERILOUS SAIL.
XXI.	NAUGHTY GUNHILDA.
XXII.	THE HONOURABLE JACK.
XXIII.	“THERE SHOULD BE A GENTLEMAN.”
XXIV.	SNOWBALLING.
XXV.	THE TAME HERON.
XXVI.	A SCENE ON THE ICE.
XXVII.	THE FRENCH SERGEANT.
XXVIII.	DANGER AHEAD.
XXIX.	A DISCIPLE OF LAVATER.
XXX.	THE REVEREND ROUNDER.
XXXI.	FRANK IN TROUBLE.
XXXII.	DRIVING THE DRIFT.
XXXIII.	POVERA PICCIOLA.
XXXIV.	THE KING’S SHILLING.
XXXV.	THE MARSEILLAISE.
XXXVI.	VAE VICTIS.
XXXVII.	WISTMAN’S WOOD.
XXXVIII.	BROTHER AND SISTER.
XXXIX.	CECIL VISITS THE BARBICAN.
XL.	THE SEARCH WARRANT.
XLI.	THE DOCTOR’S KITCHEN.
XLII.	GOOD-BYE TO THE MOOR.
XLIII.	WAR’S ALARUMS.
XLIV.	THE EIGHTEENTH OF JUNE.
XLV.	AMONG THE PROVENCE ROSES.
XLVI.	THE BELLS OF BATTREAUX.
XLVII.	CONCLUSION.

DAILY TELEGRAPH—“His chapters in praise of the stout hill foxes, and the brilliant runs they give over miles of grass and fern, remind us in their freshness and abundance of life of Whyte Melville at his best.... The novel is an excellent one.”

GRAPHIC—“It is long since we have read a novel with so much unbroken pleasure.”

PALL MALL GAZETTE—“A very pretty little plot of adventure and love is woven out of this material. Interspersed, but not too frequently, are some hunting scenes drawn with great spirit.”

MANCHESTER EXAMINER—“Reminds us very forcibly of some of the most characteristic romances of Charles Kingsley and Mr. Blackmore. The Queen of the Moor is like Westward Ho! and Lorna Doone, full of nature and of human nature.”

MORNING POST—“Since Lorna Doone the natural features of an English district have not been described with such a vigorous touch as is Dartmoor and the country that surrounds it in Mr. Adye’s novel ... his delightful romance which has the freshness of the wild moors it so vividly paints.”

DAILY CHRONICLE—“Lovers of the picturesque in nature will render grateful thanks to Mr. Adye for the admirable sketches he gives of romantic Dartmoor.... There is a charm about these descriptions which reminds us of those of Mr. R.D. Blackmore. We never tire of them, for they are never twice the same. Each time we get a new glimpse, and each time we feel more strongly drawn to this land of heath and tor.”

OBSERVER—“A work that will rank high among the historical romances of the present day.”

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.”

GLASGOW HERALD—“There is a fresh breeziness about the book which makes it pleasant reading.”

DAILY MAIL—“A sprightly book, this is, as much English as Australian, with a style distinguished by a rattling freedom which rarely degenerates into slipshodness. The interest is mainly horsey, yet the men and women live and the whole story goes with a swing and a rush.”

OBSERVER—“Lacks neither incident nor interest, and will, doubtless, find many readers.”

MANCHESTER GUARDIAN—“There is always life and movement in what Mr. Rolf Boldrewood writes.”

SPEAKER—“A book to be unreservedly recommended.”

DAILY TELEGRAPH—“The thrilling interest of the narrative is continuously sustained by the malefactions of no fewer than three several and distinct villains, whom the author utilizes with consummate ability as instruments of romantic complication.... Teems with novel incident, and bristles with exciting adventures.”

OBSERVER—“A capital romance, and well worth reading.”

STANDARD—“Clever and well written.”

DAILY CHRONICLE—“The story is interesting.... The end is dramatic and original.”

GLASGOW HERALD—“The descriptions of foreign life and travel are delightful, and this novel is in every way a well-written one.”

SCOTSMAN—“A thoroughly healthy and well-told story, with plenty of stirring incident and variety of scene and situation, and it is not wanting in study of character and knowledge of life, savage, semi-savage, and civilized.”

DAILY CHRONICLE—“These Sicilian scenes are admirably rendered, for Mr. Crawford is an artist, and an artist of strongly dramatic instincts.... All who love Mr. Crawford’s work (roughly speaking, all who know it, that is) know well enough that the oldest story would be improved by his telling of it.”

ACADEMY—“The story is told in Mr. Crawford’s best manner, and after the preliminary chapters are well out of the way, you can hardly lay it aside.”

PUNCH—“The reader’s interest in the story, roused at the commencement, grows in intensity as the plot is artistically developed to its climax. Mr. Crawford’s pictures of Italian scenery are perfect, and his characters, belonging to the Roman Society, with which he has familiarized us in so many of his books, are living beings before our eyes.”

DAILY TELEGRAPH—“A good story ... full of vigorous touches, interesting, and even absorbing from beginning to end.”

SPECTATOR—“The glories of the Sicilian landscape are admirably painted, and the book is enriched by a good deal of illuminative commentary on the peculiarities of the Italian and Sicilian temperament.... A brilliant and engrossing story.”

LITERATURE—“We have not often met with a more satisfactory novel than Corleone, and have little doubt that it will be regarded as one of Mr. Crawford’s best works.... An exciting and dramatic story.”

PALL MALL GAZETTE—“Mr. Marion Crawford at his best, with his inventive faculties at their boldest, his constructive skill at its fullest, and with his grace of manner always before us, gives such joy as the fabulist may rarely hope to afford. In Corleone we find to our huge delight that it is once again Mr. Crawford at his best.... A splendid romance of much originality, and always captivating and impressive.”

SPEAKER—“This is almost, if not quite, the strongest and most striking of the brilliant series of romances to which it belongs.”

PALL MALL GAZETTE—“Cannot fail to be read with interest and pleasure by all to whom clever characterization and delicate drawing make appeal.”

Mr. Isaacs: A Tale of Modern India.

AthenÆum—“A work of unusual ability.”

AthenÆum—“Mr. Crawford has achieved another success.”

Times—“A masterpiece of narrative.... Unlike any other romance in English literature.”

Guardian—“An instance of the highest and noblest form of novel.”

Times—“A subtle compound of artistic feeling, avarice, malice, and criminal frenzy is this carver of silver chalices and crucifixes.”

Saturday Review—“Unlike most novels ‘A Tale of a Lonely Parish’ goes on improving up to the end.”

St. James’s Gazette—“Those who neglect to read ‘Paul Patoff’ will throw away a very pleasurable opportunity.”

Spectator—“Cannot fail to please a reader who enjoys crisp, clear, vigorous writing, and thoughts that are alike original and suggestive.”

Guardian—“The book, we doubt not, will rank very high among Mr. Crawford’s novels.”

AthenÆum—“The plot is skilfully concocted, and the interest is sustained to the end.... A very clever piece of work.”

Globe—“We are inclined to think this is the best of Mr. M. Crawford’s stories.”

Anti-Jacobin—“Mr. Crawford has written some stories more powerful, but none more attractive than this.”

National Observer—“A brilliant variation from Mr. F. Marion Crawford’s wonted style.”

Academy—“It is a romance of singular daring and power.”

AthenÆum—“The characters are thoroughly interesting, the dialogue easy, and the situations effective....”

Punch—“Admirable in its simple pathos, its unforced humour, and, above all, in its truth to human nature.”

Daily Chronicle—“Mr. Crawford has not done better work than ‘The Children of the King’ for a long time.”

Speaker—“Mr. Crawford is an artist, and a great one, and he has been brilliantly successful in a task in which ninety-nine out of every hundred writers would have failed.”

AthenÆum—“‘Don Orsino’ is a story with many strong points.”

Daily Telegraph—“The reader will not easily lay it down until he has reached the concluding page.”

Daily News—“Mr. Crawford has written stories richer in incident and more powerful in intention, but we do not think that he has handled more deftly or shown a more delicate insight into tendencies that go towards making some of the more spiritual tragedies of life.”

Academy—“A book to be read, and read more than once.”

GLOBE—“His work is virile; it is individual; it is, in certain fine qualities, distinguished.”

WORLD—“One of the most interesting novels we have met for a long time.”

ACADEMY—“The Philanderers should add to Mr. Mason’s reputation—a reputation which, I am convinced, will continue to grow.”

DAILY MAIL—“There is no weakness here, no shallowness, no compromise. Built up with strength and sincerity, and finely written, the story braces the mind as much as it captivates the taste.”

PALL MALL GAZETTE—“The charm of the story lies in the clear, sharp outlines and delicate shading with which the chief characters are limned, and the grace and ease of the style and of the dialogues.... All Mr. Mason’s Philanderers are convincing—‘neither children nor gods,’ but men and women in a world of afternoon teas—and thoroughly convincing.”

DAILY TELEGRAPH—“It is light, sparkling, and very well told.”

ATHENÆUM—“Mr. Mason is to be much congratulated on a fine book.”

BRITISH REVIEW AND NATIONAL OBSERVER—“A book to read.”

GUARDIAN—“It is cleverly and well written, with both humour and brilliance.”

WESTMINSTER GAZETTE—“A clever and original story, told with much freshness and vivacity.”

TIMES—“It is a pleasure to meet a romance of historical times, rather than a romance of history (for actual events are scarcely introduced), so vigorous, brilliant, rapid, and exciting as The Courtship of Morrice Buckler.... If his work be not widely read, if many do not breathlessly follow Morrice Buckler from Leyden to London, to Bristol, to Lukstein, and in all his wanderings, the loss will be that of novel-readers.”

ATHENÆUM—“Mr. Mason’s manner is alert and engaging, and his matter fresh and stirring. No one who takes up his novel is likely to lay it down unfinished.”

PUNCH—“If this my hint will increase the number of readers, they will, unless gratitude be extinct, thank me for my strong recommendation as to the excellent entertainment provided for them in The Courtship of Morrice Buckler.”

PALL MALL GAZETTE—“A right gallant romance of the seventeenth century, which is attractive from one end to the other.”

SPECTATOR—“A thrilling romance, with a most ingenious and mysterious plot. The story is excellently told.”

BLACK AND WHITE—“Admirable in every respect.”

SPEAKER—“A fine dramatic tale.”

DAILY TELEGRAPH—“Without a doubt the name of Mr. A.E. W. Mason must be added to that small but distinguished band who have given so brilliant a revival to the old-fashioned bustling romance of fair and haughty ladies, brave gallants, duels, ruffles and brocades, and all the varied and charming ingredients of those tales of bygone days which are such welcome refreshment in these prosaic times.”

GUARDIAN—“These stories are written from personal knowledge of the Neapolitan peasant class, and in consequence they are most remarkable. To gain this knowledge, Mr. Grant gathered his material ‘by personal intercourse with the lower classes in their narrow homes, or in by-ways and lanes still narrower.’... Such material gained in so intimate a fashion Mr. Grant has worked up into stories thrilling in their realistic interest.”

PALL MALL GAZETTE—“We cordially recommend the book, especially to the lovers of Italy and her picturesque people.”

NATIONAL OBSERVER—“As a picture of the way in which the South Italians live and act, and think and feel, these sketches, drawn mostly from life, are of historical as well as literary value.”

Mr. Gladstone writes to the publishers: “In all the tales I think it most interesting and instructive—in the two first delightful, and extremely skilful also.... Mr. Grant must have been a delightful man.”

TIMES—“Mr. Grant’s collection of Neapolitan sketches, or studies in fiction, founded on his peculiar and extensive knowledge of the populace, is a work of poignant interest.... Full of incident and colour.... The book is one of permanent value.”

MORNING POST—“Within its limits leaves nothing to be desired for fidelity of characterization and colouring, and induces regret that a writer of such varied gifts should have died at a comparatively early age.... The entire volume is vividly descriptive and full of Southern colour.”

DAILY NEWS—“The book is well worth reading and even studying. The street scenes are handled with artistic effectiveness, and the people seem to live before us.”

SCOTSMAN—“It is not a bare, Zolaesque, photographic picture of low life that is revealed. The hand of the artist in words, and the touch of the genial sympathizer with human nature in all its aspects invest it with infinite charm, and few who take up this book will lay it down without feeling that Mr. Grant has conveyed in these pages some notion of the fascination which held him so long in Naples.”

GLASGOW HERALD—“If Mr. Grant has left any other studies of the city he loved so well, we hope that they too may be published, for this book makes us long for more.”

SATURDAY REVIEW—“It has a capital plot, fascinating characters, and much dramatic interest.... A good piece of work, full of interest and humour.”

SPEAKER—“There are very few who, having begun the perusal of Palladia, will care to lay it down until the last page is reached.”

MORNING POST—“Romantic, picturesque, and interesting.”

NATIONAL OBSERVER—“A romance of thrilling interest.”

SPECTATOR—“A most engrossing and ingenious story.”

ACADEMY—“It cannot be said there is a dull page in Palladia from beginning to end.”

DAILY TELEGRAPH—“It is even better than The Brown Ambassador, good as that delightfully humorous book was in its way, and higher praise than this it is unnecessary to bestow.”

GLASGOW HERALD—“This is in every respect a capital romance.”

PALL MALL GAZETTE—“A satisfactory romance is Palladia.”

SCOTSMAN—“Full of stirring and exciting scenes. Many of the characters are drawn with great skill, and the novel deserves to find many readers.”

TIMES—“As a book for a railway journey, or to pass a pleasant, indeed a thrilling, hour with, Mr. Arthur Paterson’s A Son of the Plains may be thoroughly recommended.”

PALL MALL GAZETTE—“A book of great interest.... He has written a most thrilling and effective story in the simplest and most unaffected manner.”

WORLD—“The interest is never allowed to flag.”

BRITISH WEEKLY—“The book is written in a masterly style.”

DAILY CHRONICLE—“If boys are what they were and what they ought to be, and parents and guardians know how to select books for presents at Christmas time, Mr. Paterson will receive a big cheque from his publishers; and most thoroughly will he have deserved it.”

DAILY TELEGRAPH—“A bright, exhilarating story of thrilling adventures and hairbreadth ’scapes in Western America.... As a sensational romance Mr. Paterson’s latest fiction may safely be pronounced ‘bad to beat.’”

ST. JAMES’S BUDGET—“It would be difficult to find a more exciting story of adventure than that provided by Mr. Arthur Paterson in A Son of the Plains.... The interest never flags for a single instant.”

GLASGOW HERALD—“There is a fine spirit of adventure about this story.... Mr. Paterson is, as it were, a Fenimore Cooper born out of due time, and his story is distinctly clever and exciting.”

SCOTSMAN—“A better story of love and adventure, specially adventure, neither boy nor man has any need to desire.”

ADMIRALTY GAZETTE—“A graphic and extremely readable tale of western frontier life.”

WHITEHALL REVIEW—“The author has succeeded in producing a work that will rank among high-class fiction, and as a wholesome book for boys nothing will be more eagerly welcomed.”

SPEAKER—“His new story is as thrilling, as brimful of adventure and incident, and as graphic in narration as anything he has yet written.... To say that there is not a dull page in the story is to understate the case.”

MANCHESTER GUARDIAN—“A spirited story of political strife in Genoa in the sixteenth century. The conclusion does not land us in fairyland, but if the sober colouring of a work-a-day world would be not an absolute bar to the enjoyment of youthful readers the book can be heartily recommended to them, both for its sustained interest and for the high tone pervading it.”

SCOTSMAN—“The plot is well conceived and well handled.”

STANDARD—“Mrs. Steel’s book is healthy and well written, full of rational optimism and sympathetic understanding of poor human nature.”

DAILY CHRONICLE—“Judge it by what canons of criticism you will, the book is a work of art.... The story is simple enough, but it is as life-like as anything in modern fiction. The people speak and act as people do act and speak. There is not a false note throughout. Mrs. Steel draws children as none but a master hand can draw.”

BLACK AND WHITE—“It reveals keen sympathy with nature, and clever portraiture, and it possesses many passages both humorous and pathetic.”

NATIONAL OBSERVER—“Her cleverness reveals itself in many a felicitous phrase expressive of just judgment and earnest thought.”

ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE—“It is such as goes far towards the making of a solid and enduring reputation.”

GLASGOW HERALD—“Her book is a notable one.”

SCOTSMAN—“It is not every day that one lights on a story so entertaining, clever, and at times even brilliant.”

PUBLISHERS’ CIRCULAR—“The story is thoroughly interesting throughout, being clever alike in its style, plot, and character drawing.”

WESTMINSTER GAZETTE—“Red Rowans is far and away above the average of novels, and, without doubt, one of those books which no reader of current fiction should miss.”

DAILY NEWS—“The book is written with distinction. It is moving, picturesque, the character drawing is sensitive and strong.”

DAILY CHRONICLE—“Its interest is breathless and cumulative from the first page to the last.”

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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.“

DAILY MAIL—”The Choir Invisible is one of those very few books which help one to live. And hereby it is beautiful even more than by reason of its absolute purity of style, its splendid descriptions of nature, and the level grandeur of its severe, yet warm and passionate atmosphere.”

BRITISH WEEKLY—“Certainly this is no commonplace book, and I have failed to do justice to its beauty, its picturesqueness, its style, its frequent nobility of feeling, and its large, patient charity.”

SPEAKER—“We trust that there are few who read it who will fail to regard its perusal as one of the new pleasures of their lives.... One of those rare stories which make a direct appeal alike to the taste and feeling of most men and women, and which afford a gratification that is far greater than that of mere critical approval. It is, in plain English, a beautiful book—beautiful in language and in sentiments, in design and in execution. Its chief merit lies in the fact that Mr. Allen has grasped the true spirit of historical romance, and has shown how fully he understands both the links which unite, and the time-spaces which divide, the different generations of man.”

SATURDAY REVIEW—“Mr. James Lane Allen is a writer who cannot well put pen to paper without revealing how finely sensitive he is to beauty.”

BOOKMAN—“The main interest is not the revival of old times, but a love-story which might be of to-day, or any day, a story which reminds one very pleasantly of Harry Esmond and Lady Castlewood.”

ATLANTIC MONTHLY—“We think he will be a novelist, perhaps even a great novelist—one of the few who hold large powers of divers sort in solution to be precipitated in some new unexpected form.”

GUARDIAN—“One of those rare books that will bear reading many times.”

DAILY NEWS—“Mr. J.L. Allen shows himself a delicate observer, and a fine literary artist in The Choir Invisible.”

ST. JAMES’ GAZETTE—“A book that should be read by all those who ask for something beside sensationalism in their fiction.”

SPECTATOR—“Marked by beauty of conception, reticence of treatment, and it has an atmosphere all its own.”

DAILY CHRONICLE—“It is written with singular delicacy and has an old-world fragrance which seems to come from the classics we keep in lavender.... There are few who can approach his delicate execution in the painting of ideal tenderness and fleeting moods.”