Merna Wood stood leaning against the jamb in the open doorway.

The morning-glory vines made a very effective draping for a very pretty picture; the attitude was the acme of indolence, which an indescribable expression of alertness belied.

Ned Glover was standing below, his face just on a level with hers; he was looking at her laughingly—in fact he was nearly always laughing—and Merna was never certain that he meant one-half that he was saying, which at this moment was: “Yes; I am going to buy a nice little home, and I want a housekeeper; will you come?”

Merna tossed her head saucily: “I do not intend to go out to service this summer,” she replied.

“If I must do so, I will hire some one to do the work, and have my wife oversee it. Will you come as my wife, Merna?”

Merna flushed rosily, she was not yet sure that he was in earnest, so she replied lightly, “Oh, you are just funning, as the children say.”

He tried to draw his face into lines of seriousness, but his bright blue eyes would twinkle, he was so jolly that it was impossible for him to assume an expression of severe gravity.

He caught her face in both his large palms, and kissed her fondly: “Say yes! Say yes, I tell you!” he whispered forcefully.

“Yes! Yes! Let me go, Ned, mother is looking!”

“Well, mother has a perfect right to look; we do not care!” his face one broad laugh.

Ned was from this time—of course—a privileged visitor; always pleasant, and in a manner affectionate, yet no more loverlike than before their engagement. The tender nonsense that helps to make courtship so sweet; the airs of possession on one side, and of loving subjection on the other, the happy planning by both for the future, seemed to be entirely forgotten.

Love is a magician who fits the eyes with a deceptive lens; but not even through love’s magnifying could Merna find tangible ground for rosy dreams; she was not exactly unhappy, neither was she quite satisfied. She took herself to task for being so foolish—just because of the lack of definite words—but he seemed to have forgotten the engagement altogether, as he made not the slightest allusion to it. It made Merna’s face burn whenever she thought of it: “I do wonder if he was just making game of me, trying to ascertain what answer I would give him! Oh, I wish that I had have said no—Oh, I do not know what I do wish!” angry tears filling her eyes as she thought.

Ned came as usual one evening, and remained until very late; once, as she was passing him, she rested her hand upon the table, and leaned toward him in the act of speaking; he covered the hand with his warm palm, and his breath swept her cheek as he whispered: “I wish that I had you all to myself in a nice little home of our own!”

Her radiant eyes answered him, and she bent her head until her cheek touched his caressing lips.

As he was bidding her good-night, he caught her in his arms, saying over and over again, “I do love you, Merna! You are the sweetest little woman on the face of the earth!”

Her face was filled with happiness, and her eyes glowed with tender light; but she laughingly put her hand over his lips: “I imagine that is what you call ‘taffy’!”

He held her closely for a moment, his voice growing low and earnest: “Little one, I mean every word that I say! I do love you—and if only circumstances—well, never mind that talk, but believe that I truly love you!”

She sat in the moonlight thinking for a long time after he left; what was there in that closing speech which sent a chill over her? Only this—love is said to be blind—as to worldly judgment this is true; but love’s intuition of love grows keen with the development of the passion. She felt that she ought to be happy, but she was not—that is—not so very happy; little thrilling thoughts ran through her mind deliciously, then a cold wave of doubt, casting a chill over her spirits. A woman is flattered and pleased if a man makes her a sharer of his secrets, whether of business or otherwise; she thus knows that he fully trusts her love and judgment, and she holds it a sacred charge. She thought uneasily that she could have no fond anticipations with any certainty of their proving a reality. Whatever she built must be the very airiest kind of an air castle, its only foundation an engagement which seemed like a burlesque. Vague allusions, or even words of endearment do not form a very tangible ground upon which to build.

A restless sigh escaped her lips: “I wish——” The unfinished sentence ended with another sigh.

The next evening she waited for Ned in a state of impatient restlessness, she had determined to have a nice long talk with him, although she was not in anywise certain as to what she would say; she thought she would lead him to talk of the future, and the home of which he had spoken; she wondered if he would talk of it frankly, or would he evade her questions as he so often had done, as though he did not comprehend her remark.

She watched the clock anxiously; she walked down the path to the gate a dozen times; she took up her embroidery, set a half-dozen stitches, and laid it down in disgust; she took a book instead, turned a page or two without comprehending a word and tossed it aside with an exclamation of impatience, to restlessly drum on the window.

“Merna, what ails you?” asked her mother querulously.

“Oh, my head aches,” was the evasive reply.

“You had best go to bed; you make me nervous, fidgeting around so!”

“It is too early to go to bed! I’ll go out in the air a little while—perhaps that will help my head,” answered Merna.

“Merna Wood, you have been down to that gate about a dozen times; why don’t you be honest, and say that you are looking for Ned!” half in derision, and a trifle crossly, retorted her mother.

Merna answered with mock humility: “Yes’m, I’ll confess, if you will not be cross. Oh, mamsy, I wish he would come; there is something I wish to say to him!” she kneeled down with her head on her mother’s knee, like a little child.

Her mother replied laughingly: “It appears to me that you do usually have something to say to him,” but her hand wandered caressingly through the soft, bright hair; thus evidencing her sympathy.

He did not come that night nor the next, and for three almost unending months Merna neither heard from nor of him; then incidentally, she heard that he was gone, but where her informant did not know.

Gone without so much as a word to her!

She shut her grief within her heart and went about her duties but with the subtle essence of hope and faith taken out of her life—she thought forever—she had little idea how elastic is hope; faith is more ethereal, hope has tough fibre.

When her mother would have sympathized with her, she made light of it: “I don’t care! If he wants to stay away, he can; don’t you fret about me, mamsy!” But mamsy was not in the least deceived.

A year swept by, and Merna had become less restless, more submissive to that which she deemed the inevitable; it is a mercy that time casts so tender a haze over all things.

Ned had written no letter to her; at first she grieved, but latterly she had grown indignant.

“Why do you not accept other company?” said her mother.

“Oh, I don’t care for them; they are not nice, mamsy.”

“You are a very foolish little girl to waste your affections upon one who cares so little,” said her mother.

“Now, mamsy, I am not wasting a particle of anything. As for Ned Glover, I hate him!”

Her mother laughed, but said no more, trusting to time to effect a cure.

It was a lovely evening in June; the wind softly fluttered the thin curtains at the open window bringing in the odor of the roses which grew just outside. Merna sat in a low rocker just within, her arms thrown above her head, her book lying unheeded upon her lap; she was so absorbed in reverie that she heard no sound, and a sudden darkening of the window startled her.

Resting his arms on the window ledge, Ned stood regarding her quizzically: “Are you too sleepy to say ‘how do you do?’ How I do wish for a kodak!” precisely as though he had not been gone a day.

Merna started up with a subdued exclamation, and before she realized it she was smiling up into his laughing face.

How often she had thought of this meeting—if he should return—and pictured to herself the cool, indifferent air with which she would greet him; instead, she was laughing and chatting as merrily as though there had been no break in their intercourse.

He resumed precisely his former position; he made just the same vague, intangible allusions, without one word upon which to place a hope securely. Merna seemed plastic in his hands—and what was there to resist, or to resent? Nothing—perhaps; yet Merna lost her healthful calm, and grew restless and irritable; one cannot successfully resist the intangible, or do battle with the wind. His alternate tenderness, and good-natured indifference filled her with restless longing; she wished that he would be more explicit, or go away and leave her alone; she thought resentfully that it was unjust that because of her sex she must utter no word to further her own happiness; and because custom ordered it, she must take the crumbs offered to her, or go altogether hungry; she must have no voice in shaping her future beyond an assent or denial. Oh, yes; to be sure! There are a thousand ways in which a woman may signify her preference, but it would be very shocking if she should put it into words, unless the man asked her to do so! It looks for all the world like putting a premium upon intrigue.

Her girlish friends exchanging confidences, rallied her about her beau: “Oh, Merna, when are you going to be married?”

“Just as soon as I can find a man who will marry me,” retorted she, but she flushed painfully.

“Oh don’t cheat! Tell us all about it!”

“There is nothing to tell,” replied Merna looking distressed.

A wild chorus of dissent greeted this reply; as soon as possible Merna slipped away to cry out her grief and mortification. She thought that every one of them was laughing at her because of her uncertainty regarding her lover.

Ned certainly had no such feelings; he took everything for granted in a laughing, off-hand way, not to be resisted; he came continually, he monopolized her completely; he spoke to her, and of her as belonging to him, but always in that laughing way which left the impression of a joke; he did not say, such a day we will be married; such a place will be our home; he said instead: “You belong to me; you could not get away from me if you tried; I should find you, I shall always know where you are.”

This was all very sweet, but—very unsatisfying. He was strong, masterful, laughingly dominant; but he was also either very thoughtless, or very secretive.

He made no allusion to the time of his absence except once; he had that evening been unusually demonstrative, and Merna—from some remark made by him—felt emboldened to ask: “Where were you while so long absent?”

“Oh, a dozen places. I can’t tell you—things get so mixed up sometimes that I don’t know what I’m about myself,” he replied evasively.

“You might have written,” said Merna quietly, it almost seemed indifferently.

“Yes, I know—in fact I meant to, but—I hate to write letters, and there was nothing that you would care to know—” he broke off abruptly, as though he did not wish to betray himself.

“No, of course not,” answered Merna, with quiet sarcasm; she felt hurt and indignant, but was altogether too proud to show it.

Although Merna made no further mention of it, he seemed to feel ashamed of his neglect, and repeatedly said: “I will never leave again, without telling you that I am going;” so that in this respect she felt a greater assurance; but he spent the evening with her as usual, and in the usual manner bid her good-night, and she saw him no more for three years.

Sad changes came to Merna during this interval; her mother, long a widow, sickened and died. Merna’s grief was beyond words—beyond thought even; it benumbed all her senses. The home which she had thought her own was taken from her—unjustly—but what did that matter? She was alone, and as ignorant of law as a babe. Poor child! She thought that it did not matter, that nothing mattered, now that the gentle face of her mother had faded out of life; she felt that she could no longer live within those memory-haunted walls. During all these sad days she heard nothing from Ned, and her heart cried out piteously: “Oh, if he truly loved me he would not leave me to bear my burdens alone.” These hard realities took away all the lingering grace of girlhood, but added the charm and poise of sweet, self-reliant womanhood.

In these old towns, where people are born, live, and die in the same old house, generation after generation; where the ways are peaceful and narrow; where people drift along, content with no innovations of knowledge, or new ways brought from the bustling, outside world, there develops an aristocracy peculiarly its own, and those not within its old-fashioned circle can scarcely obtain a living. Not to own the home which their ancestors owned is looked upon as a disgrace; and owning it, to part with it, though the misfortune is not through fault of the owner—is considered a greater disgrace, for which there could be no extenuation. Merna very keenly realized that she was under the ban of social ostracism. She left this, her native place, for a town, newer and busier, where work was to be had for such unskilled hands as hers.

Being wholly inexperienced in the ways of the world, as well as in labor, Merna found it hard to obtain the means of subsistence; she was a woman fair to look upon, and alone, therefore her path was beset with peril; but she was able to retain her own self-respect—that most truthful of all commendation—she was possessed of too much native refinement to be led into the vulgarity of evil ways, or seduced from right by fluent sophistries.

One blustering day, when the wind shrieked around the street corners, and carried onward clouds of fine, penetrating dust, intermingled with the falling snow, whirling both into every opened doorway with malicious violence, a man wrapped in a great, shaggy overcoat, opened the door of the little store kept by Merna. There had been no customers all the morning; unless otherwise compelled, all were glad to remain within doors.

Merna came from the sitting room in the rear, and walked behind the counter awaiting her customer’s pleasure; with his back toward her, he had taken off his fur cap, and was knocking out the snow against the door. Something familiar in the movements and attitude gave her a start, but it was not until he had unbuttoned his coat, and turned toward her, that she really recognized him; he walked to the counter, reaching out both hands, his blond face one broad smile. It was Ned—stalwart, hearty, and as usual—laughing.

Merna stood like one shocked, a terrible weakness assailed her; she saw the laughing face but dimly, his voice sounded strange and far off.

His robust tones aroused her: “Aren’t you going to shake hands with me, after I have had such a time finding you?” he asked.

“Why did you seek me?” cried Merna passionately, surprised out of her usual self-control.

“Because I wanted to see you, to be sure!” The same laughing insouciance as of old, so impossible to understand; it might be pleasant raillery, it was quite as likely to be sarcasm.

“I wish that you had stayed away—after three years!” her voice rising shrilly.

He walked deliberately around the end of the counter, caught both her hands and held them firmly, his warm breath sweeping her cheek, his face so very near her own. “Did I not tell you that I should find you? I shall never lose sight of you!” his face still lower, his lips touching her cheek caressingly. “I am so glad to see you, my Merna! Say, ‘Ned I am glad that you are here!’” he whispered tenderly.

Ah, well! A woman’s a woman! and poor girl, her heart throbbed so happily; it seemed so good to have this great strong man holding her hands, whispering to her in this tender tone; what if the words did not promise much, the tone conveyed a world of tender meaning, and—she was so lonely. She had been so fiercely angry at him that she thought she hated him; she found that it was the act that she hated, and not the man; he held his old place in her heart. Presently she was shedding happy tears on his broad shoulder, and looking happily up into his face through her wet lashes; thrilling from her foolish little heart to the ends of her fingers with the delight of his very presence.

From this time on how different the dull, prosaic work seemed; the anticipation of the happy evening glorified each day, and he never failed to come. He appeared to be perfectly content in her company; he called her fond names, and usurped all the privileges of an accepted lover. He occasionally alluded to business, sometimes ending with, “When I get things into shape, I’ll pick you up and carry you off.”

Often Merna felt hurt, the allusions were so vague and really unmeaning, and the talk of business so indefinite—the sentences never quite complete—so that she had no certain knowledge as to what was his business. A half-confidence is much more vexatious than no confidence as it puts one to thinking; this was really no trust at all in her; just an aggravating shadow, like a cloud over the summer sun, which when you look upward in expectation of its grateful shade has sailed away.

A whole year passed away, and living in the light of his presence, her uneasy feeling had mostly worn away; if she gave it thought—that in reality she knew no more of the future than when he first returned, she consoled herself, and excused him, by saying, “Oh, he is so odd, but he means all right.”

As upon previous occasions there came an evening when she waited for him in vain; she could not settle herself to anything, even the chatter of her customers annoyed her, and her ear persistently hearkened for a well-known footstep; something must have detained him unavoidably; he would surely come to-morrow evening, but all the while her heart was sinking heavily. He did not come the next evening, nor the one following, and her fear grew to a certainty. She mentioned his name to no one, but watched the passers-by on the street, feverishly; she eagerly looked over the newspapers, hoping for a chance mention of him. The days seemed so long and wearisome; the corners of her mouth took a sad droop; the work grew so irksome. Others sought her company, but she turned from them with dislike, or made comparisons to their great detriment.

Business had heretofore been very good, but hard times came on, and little by little trade dropped off; it grew dull, then vexatious and finally exasperating; complaints were heard on every side. The days grew doubly sad when no customers came in to break the heavy monotony; the very silence grew oppressive, and Merna could scarcely restrain her tears. Her heart grew hard and bitter toward Ned, toward the world, and fate.

The wind whistled shrilly around the loosely built building, rattling the boards and battens, and swaying the canvas walls and ceiling dizzily, making Merna feel more desolate and despondent than usual. She stood behind the cigar case, looking gloomily out upon the wind-swept street; as if conjured up by her thought, Martin Balfour—her chief creditor—entered the store.

He came in with a great swagger, and called for a cigar: “Gi’mme a good one—twenty-five cent-er; I reckon I can afford it!” with an insolent leer.

Without reply, she handed him the box, to make his own choice.

He selected one, lighted it, and leaning lazily against the show case, puffed the smoke in huge volumes; he finally took the weed from his lips, ejected a mouthful of saliva on to the clean floor, flicked the ashes off with his little finger, and said, “Well, Miss Wood, I s’pose you are ready to chalk up this morning?”

Merna flushed a vivid red, then went deadly pale; this man held a mortgage on everything she possessed, and his manner was distinctly aggressive. “I could not get the money this morning, Mr. Balfour; I have the promise of it the latter end of the week, and I beg of you to wait,” faltered Merna.

He laughed loudly and coarsely: “As to waiting, I’ve waited just as long as I am going to; my kindness is all right, but I’m no guy, see! Your chump of a fellow left you to shift for yourself; I’m not one to drag up bygones—I’ll marry you, and call the debt square!” He leaned across the showcase, and tried to grasp her hand.

Merna drew herself up indignantly: “I thank you, but I prefer paying my debts in a legitimate way.”

“Well, fork over, then,” he said brutally.

Tears filled her eyes, she had not one-tenth the amount, so she tried to temporize: “I will certainly raise it by the middle of the week——”

“The mortgage is due; it’s got to be paid to-day! I’m going to take no more guff—either you promise to marry me, or I’ll take the stock before night, see!” Protruding his face toward her still more aggressively.

Merna grew calm as he became excited; she thought of Ned with a pang of bitterness, that he could place her in a position to be insulted upon his account by such a man; but her disgust of the man himself outweighed all else. “Take the goods now; I shall make no more effort!” she said coldly.

“You’ll be sorry! You’ll come whining to me when you’re starving,” he flung after her angrily, as he went out.

Within an hour the place was stripped of everything; Merna stood with folded arms and saw them taken out without a tear, she seemed benumbed.

An acquaintance passing, came in: “What is the trouble, Miss Wood? Are you obliged to give up?” he asked kindly.

“Yes,” briefly.

He looked at her sorrowful face, and his heart filled with pity for her. He laid his hand over her’s, and said kindly: “I wish that you would give me the privilege of caring for you——”

Merna put out her hand as though to shield herself: “Wait! Wait! I cannot answer you now; come back this evening; my heart is too full now to think—I thank you—” she finished brokenly.

He lifted her hand to his lips respectfully, as he replied, “I will come,” and went out quietly.

Merna felt a hysterical desire to laugh; two proposals in one morning, and not an earthly thing which she could call her own; she thought grimly that she could not accuse either of them of being fortune hunters. Everything had been taken except a small sheet-iron stove, an old chair, and a rickety table, these had not been considered worth removing. She sat down in the chair, and laid her head on her arms on the table; she wished that she could cry, her heart beat so heavily; a wild anguish swept over her as she thought of her mother; she would not have deserted her in her hour of need; she cried aloud as a thought of Ned forced itself upon her consciousness: “Why cling to the shadow of a love, which only tantalizes me; he had no real love for me! I was just a good comrade—and a fool!” she added bitterly.

Presently she resumed her self-communing: “Why not accept this last proposal? Tom Thornton is a good man, and he loves me; better one who loves me so well, than waste my life upon a shadow which ever eludes my grasp;” the well-remembered look of Ned’s jolly face—though she was so sad—made her smile, then sigh restlessly.

With her head resting upon the table she dropped off into wearied slumber, from whence she entered dreamland. Strange, troubled visions passed her, out of which evolved Tom Thornton’s face, she heard him enter, and he stood beside her, her affianced husband; he sought to take her hand, but she turned from him with aversion, reaching out both hands to Ned, who approached her, stern and menacing.

“I can-not! I can-not!” she cried piteously.

“What is it, that you cannot do?” said a hearty voice in her ear.

“Marry Tom Thornton!” raising her woe-begone, haggard face.

“I should think not! You are going to marry me this very night! I’ve got everything fixed—a nice home, and all,” he finished exultantly, but as usual, indefinitely.

Merna was very wide awake now, and cried out, bitterly, “Why did you come back? Why don’t you stay away when you go?” the only thought presented to her mind being that he would stay until her whole hopes were fixed upon him, then he would again leave.

“Why did I come? After you, of course! Little woman, I depended upon you, you promised me, you know!” his voice trembling with an undefined fear.

“Yes, I remember that I promised, but you seem to have forgotten, ever since that you asked me for that promise!” indignantly.

His good-looking face sobered into amazement: “Merna! I only wished to keep all the worry away from you. I thought that you would not understand, and if I told you it would make you anxious!” a deep trouble in his voice.

Merna stood up, her hands on his shoulders: “Oh, Ned, Ned! Do you think that I am a baby—that I haven’t a grain of sense? A woman thinks that the man she loves is able to accomplish all things—if only he tells her all about it,” she finished with a gleeful laugh.

He stood looking at her in bewilderment, trying to get the whole meaning of that speech into his mind; at last he caught her, giving her an extravagant hug: “I see what you mean; you want me to understand that we are to be partners in all things; the business as well as the pleasure—the sorrow as well as the joys; I never had a little ‘pard’ before, and I think I did not catch on just right; but I’ll remember my lesson,” said he, laughing happily.

The door stood slightly ajar, as Ned had left it upon entering, and Tom Thornton stepped quietly within; he paused and smiled; then sighed as he silently went out. He was answered.

“It will cure the blues quicker than the doctor and at half the price.”—New York Herald.

A collection of the best writings of this great author, most profusely illustrated, with over 500 pages. It is the funniest of books. Bill Nye needs no introduction. The mention of the book is enough.

“I have passed through an earthquake and an Indian outbreak, but I would rather ride an earthquake without saddle or bridle, than to bestride a successful broncho eruption.”—Bill Nye.

“Age brings caution and a lot of shop-worn experience, purchased at the highest market price. Time brings vain regrets and wisdom teeth that can be left in a glass of water over night.”—Bill Nye.

Of late years writers have found it necessary to attract the eye of the passing public toward their work by giving it some striking title. Unfortunately in many instances these remarkable names serve only that purpose, and have little or no application for the story. This can hardly be said of Miss Fytche’s new book, “Kerchiefs to Hunt Souls.” If for no other reason, this book should certainly arouse considerable curiosity on account of the remarkable title, which the author has, she confesses, dug out of the Bible, in order to stamp the peculiar features of her story. It is a book well worth reading, and one we cordially recommend to all who enjoy a good story when based upon those great morals that govern the world. There is a promise of even better things to come from this talented writer. “Kerchiefs to Hunt Souls” has aroused considerable newspaper controversy from Maine to California, which fact is in itself enough to stamp the book one of more than ordinary ability, since space is too valuable to be wasted on trash in the estimation of the modern editor.

In A Mountain of Gold the reader is led through many strange adventures, while a vein of love arouses the interest of the fair sex. Mr. Steell has shown more than ordinary power in describing Western scenes. For many years to come the region from the Rockies to the Pacific must be the home of romance. The century before us is destined to be marked by stupendous discoveries in the treasures of the earth, and stories of mining must always commend themselves to the eager public.

Isidra, The Patriot Daughter of Mexico. The land of the Montezumas has always been invested with a halo of romance ever since the days when the Spanish invader, Cortez, swept over the country with his conquering army of treasure seekers. This interest, instead of waning as the years pass by, rather increases. New knowledge of Mexico but whets our eagerness to learn more of her strange people, their methods of living, and the vast treasures that lie sealed under her mountain ledges. “Isidra” is written by one who is thoroughly at home in his subject. It is a charming tale of love and adventure under the Mexican flag, and one cannot read the romance without learning many interesting things in connection with our neighbors over border.

The circulation of this book will probably depend upon the number of men and women who are in search of a religion; not of a new religion, but of the oldest religion, made applicable and applied to personal, social and political life. The second part of the book is prefaced by a letter of Tolstoy’s to the author, endorsing his view of life.

The allegories which form the first part show how in ordinary life, as Olive Schreiner puts it, greatness is to take the common things of life and to walk truly among them; happiness is a great love and much serving; holiness is an infinite compassion for others.

There is an introduction by Ernest Howard Crosby, which is a complete sketch in itself.

It is not always the brilliant work which appeals to us most keenly. Sarcasm and rhetoric have their place, but the book that lies on the desk and is found in the mending-basket is the book, nine times out of ten, that deals with everyday life and sweeps across the strings of the heart. While Mrs. Page’s work, “Through Field and Fallow,” often touches the subtle minor chords, it invariably swells to the triumphant major and rings clear and true in the sweetness of undying hope and unquenchable faith.

Much of Mrs. Page’s work has appeared first in our great daily newspapers, but its life has been less ephemeral than theirs. Here and there a woman has treasured some bit in her scrap book; a man has clipped a verse and put it away in the drawer of his desk marked “private.” Sooner or later in this little volume the reader will find the poem that was written for him.

Father Ryan once wrote: “To uplift the downcast, to sweeten any life, to feel that we in some way have helped to lighten the great burden that rests upon mankind—this is the only real compensation that comes to the poet.” This recompense will be Mrs. Page’s.

This book has evidently created an astonishing amount of enthusiasm among the lovers of the weird and eccentric in literature. On all sides nothing but praise has been heard, coupling the gifted author’s name with that of Edgar Allan Poe, and predicting a glorious future for the man whose pen has the magical power to charm the reading public, ever eager to seize on that which borders upon the bizarre. The odd and attractive cover appeals to the curiosity of the reader, and once he has dipped into the contents he finds a feast spread before him that awakens a desire for further intercourse with the same fertile pen.

Edward Ellis:—“The author is a genius without a living equal, so far as I am aware, in his peculiar field. It is a masterpiece.... I have read many portions several times, captivated by the unapproachable tints of the painting. None but a genius of the highest order could do such work.”

N. Y. Commercial Advertiser:—“The short prose tale should be a synthesis; it was the art of Edgar Poe, it is the art of Mr. Chambers.... His is beyond question a glorious heritage.... I fancy the book will create a sensation;... in any case it is the most notable contribution to literature which has come from an American publisher for many years; and fine as the accomplishment is, ‘The King in Yellow’ is large in promise. One has a right to expect a great deal from an author of this calibre.”

Times Herald:—“The most eccentric little volume of its (little) day ‘The King in Yellow’ is subtly fascinating, and compels attention for its style, and its wealth of strange, imaginative force.”

New York Times:—“Mr. Robert W. Chambers does not have a system to work up to; he has no fad, save a tendency to write about the marvelous and the impossible; painting pictures of romance that have a wild inspiration about them. Descriptive powers of no mean quality are perceptible in this volume of stories.”

The N. Y. World:—“Mr. Chambers has a great command of words; he is a good painter. His situations are most delicately touched, and some of his descriptions are exquisite. He writes like an artist. He uses colors rather than ideas.... The best drama in the volume means madness. The tenderest fancy is a sad mirage.... ‘The King in Yellow’ is a very interesting contribution to the present fund of materio-mysticism.... To read Mr. Chambers’ little book is to escape from the actual on poetical wings.”

Minneapolis Tribune:—“They have a mysterious eerie air about them that is apt to stimulate the reader’s curiosity.”

Philadelphia Times:—“Charming, delicate, skilful, vivid.”

Philadelphia Item:—“Expected to make a sensation, charming, full of color and delicately tinted.”

Cleveland Gazette:—“It is wondrous strong, dramatic, full of color, weird, uncanny, picturesque, and yet a gem of exquisite coloring, dreamy, symbolic, exciting.”

This is a charming romance of life in Italy and New Orleans—of a pretty Italian maid, daughter of a Neapolitan nobleman, who elopes with the lover of her choice, a poor musician, and being hounded by the emissaries of a disappointed suitor, in conjunction with her angry father, they start for America, settling in the famous French Quarter of New Orleans.

The story is sweet and pure, and full of exceeding pathos—the descriptive bits of old New Orleans, with its Jackson Square and St. Louis Cathedral, opposite, are clever pictures of the Creole City of the past. Since Cable has ceased his admirable novels of these interesting people, the public will undoubtedly welcome an addition to Creole literature from the pen of one so thoroughly conversant with the subject as Mrs. Hilton.

For sale everywhere, or sent post-paid on receipt of price.