Of the next day I have three visions.

I see myself with Krak and Princess Heinrich. Pride illuminated their faces with a cold radiance, and their utterances were conceived in the spirit of a Nunc Dimittis. They congratulated the world on its Ruler, the kingdom on its King, themselves on my account, me on theirs. To Krak I was her achievement; to my mother the vindication of the support she had given to Krak, and the refutation of my own grumblings and rebellion. How could I not be reminded of my coronation day? How not smile when the Princess, after observing regretfully that the Baroness would not be able to educate my children, bade me inculcate her principles in the mind of their tutor or governess. She was afraid, she said, that dear Elsa might be a little lacking in firmness, a little prone to that indulgence which is no true kindness in the end. "The very reverse of it, madame," added Krak.

"It's quite time enough for them to begin to do as they like when they grow up," said the Princess Heinrich.

"By then, though," said Krak, "they will have learned, I hope, to do what they ought."

"I hope so with all my heart, Baroness," said I.

"Victoria is absurdly weak with her child," Princess Heinrich complained.

Krak smiled significantly. She had never expected much of Victoria; the repression of exuberant wickedness had been the bounds of her hope.

Krak left us. There must have been some noticeable expression on my face as I watched her go, for my mother said with a smile:

"I know you think she was severe. I used to think so too, now and then. But see how well you've turned out, Augustin!"

"Madame," said I, "my present excellence and my impending happiness reconcile me to everything."

"You had a very happy childhood," my mother observed. I bowed. "And now you are going to marry the girl I should choose for you above all others." Again I bowed. "And public affairs are quiet and satisfactory." A third time I bowed. "Kiss me, Augustin," said my mother.

This summary of my highly successful life and reign was delivered in Princess Heinrich's most conclusive manner. I had no thought of disputing it; I was almost surprised that the facts themselves did not suffer an immediate transformation to match the views she expressed. What matter that things were not so? They were to be deemed so and called so, so held and so proclaimed. My mother's courage touched my heart, and I kissed her with much affection. It is no inconsiderable achievement to be consistently superior to reality. I who fought desperate doubtful battles, crippled by a secret traitorous love of the enemy, could not but pay homage to Princess Heinrich's victorious front.

Next I see myself with Elsa, alone for a little while with Elsa exultant in her pomp, observed of all, the envy of all, the centre of the spectacle, frocked and jewelled beyond heart's desire, narcotized by fuss and finery, laughing and trembling. I had found her alone with difficulty, for she kept some woman by her almost all the day. She did not desire to be alone with me. That was to come to-morrow at Artenberg. Now was her moment, and she strove to think it eternal. It was not in her to face and conquer the great enemy after Princess Heinrich's heroic fashion; she could only turn and fly, hiding from herself how soon she must be overtaken. She chattered to me with nervous fluency, making haste always to choose the topic, leaving no gap for the entrance of what she feared. I saw in her eyes the apprehension that filled her. Once it had bred in me the most odious humiliation, an intense longing to go from her, a passionate loathing for the necessity of forcing myself on her. I was chastened now; I should not be in so bad a case as Struboff; there would be no question of a fresh slice of bread. But I tried to harden myself against her, declaring that, desiring the prize, she must pay the price, and deserved no pity on the score of a bargain that she herself had ratified. Alas, poor dear, she knew neither how small the prize was nor how great the price, and her eyes prayed me not to turn her fears to certainty. She would know soon enough.

Last comes the vision of the theatre, of the gala performance, where Elsa and I sat side by side, ringed about with great folk, enveloped in splendour, making a spectacle for all the city, a sight that men now remember and recall. There through the piece we sat, and my mind was at work. It seemed to me that all my life was pictured there; I had but to look this way or that, and dead things rose from the grave and were for me alive again. There was Krak's hard face, there my mother's unconquerable smile; a glance at them brought back childhood with its rigours, its pleasures snatched in fearfulness, its strange ignorance and stranger passing gleams of insight. Victoria's hand, ringed, and gloved, and braceleted, held her fan; I remembered the little girl's bare, red, rapped knuckles. Away in a box to the right, close by the stage, was the Countess with her husband; my eyes turned often toward her and always found hers on mine. Again as a child I ran to her, asking to be loved; again as a boy I loved her and wrung from her reluctant love; again in the first vigour and unsparing pride of my manhood I sacrificed her heart and my delight. Below her, standing near the orchestra, was Wetter; through my glass I could see the smile that never left his face as he scanned the bedizened row in which I sat. There with him, looking on, jesting, scoffing at the parade, there was Nature's place for me, not here playing chief part in, the comedy. What talks and what nights had we had together; how together had we fallen from heaven and ruefully prayed for that trick of falling soft! See, he smiles more broadly! What is it? Struboff has stolen in and dropped heavily into a seat. Wetter waved a hand to him and laughed. Laugh, laugh, Wetter! It is your only gospel and therefore must be pardoned its inevitable defects. Laugh even at poor Struboff whose stomach is so gross, whose feelings so fine, who may not give his wife a piece of bread, and would ask no greater joy than to kiss her feet. And laugh at Varvilliers too, who, although he sits where he has a good view of us, never turns his eyes toward the lady by my side, but is most courteously unobservant of her alone among all the throng. Did she look at him? Yes, for he will not look toward her. Why, we are all here, all except Hammerfeldt, who looks down from heaven, and Coralie who is coming presently to sing us the wedding-song. Even Victoria's Baron is here, and Victoria's sobs of terror are in my ears again. Bederhof and his fellows are behind me. The real and the unreal, the dummies and the men, they are all here, each in his place in the tableau. When Coralie comes, we shall be complete.

The opera ended and the curtain fell. There was a buzz of talk.

"Our anthem comes now, Elsa," said I.

"Yes," she whispered, crushing the bizarre satin rag of a programme that they had given her. "I have never heard Madame Mansoni," she added. I glanced at her; there was a blush on her cheek. She had heard of Madame Mansoni, although she had not heard her sing.

I put up my glass again and looked at Wetter. He nodded slightly but unmistakably, then flung his head back and laughed again. Now we waited only for Coralie. With her coming we should be complete.

The music began. By arrangement or impulse, I knew not which, everybody rose to their feet. Only Elsa and I sat still. The curtain rose and Coralie was revealed in her rare beauty and her matchless calm. A moment later the great full feelingless voice filled the theatre; she had had no doubt that she could fill the theatre. I saw Struboff leaning back in his chair, his shoulders eloquent of despair; I saw Wetter with straining eyes and curling lips, Varvilliers smiling in mischievous remembrance of our rehearsal. By my side Elsa was breathing quick and fast. I turned to her; her eyes were sparkling in triumph and excitement. It was a grand moment. She felt my glance; her cheek reddened, her eyes dropped, her lip quivered; the swiftest covert glance flew toward where Varvilliers was. I turned away with a sort of sickness on me.

Coralie's voice rose and fell, chanting out her words. The deadness of her singing seemed subtle mockery, as though she would not degrade true passion to the service of this sham, as though the words were enough for such a marriage, and the spirit scorned to sanction it. Elsa's eyes were on her now, and the Countess leaned forward, gazing at her. The last verse came, and Coralie, with a low bow and a smile, sang it direct to me—to me across all the theatre, so plainly that now all heads were turned from her, the people facing round and looking all at me and at Elsa by my side. Every eye was on us. The song ended. A storm of cheers burst out. A short gasp or sob came from Elsa. The cheers swelled and swelled, handkerchiefs waved in the air. I rose to my feet, gave Elsa my hand, and helped her to rise. Then together we took a step forward and bowed to all. Silence fell. Coralie's voice rose again, repeating the last verse. Now all the chorus joined in. We stood till the song ended again, and through the tempest of cheers. There had been no such enthusiasm in Forstadt within the memory of man. The heart of the people went forth to us; it was a triumph, a triumph, a triumph!

The next day we were married, and in the evening my wife and I set out together for Artenberg. This was what Bederhof had arranged.

THE END.

BY ANTHONY HOPE.

The King's Mirror.

Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

Mr. Hope's new romance pictures the life of a prince and king under conditions modern, and yet shared by representatives of royalty almost throughout history. The interactions of the people and royalty, the aspirations of the prince, the intrigues surrounding him, the cares of state, and the craving for love, are some of the motives developed, with the accompaniments of incident and adventure, wherein the author proves his mastery of suspended interest and dramatic effect. It is a romance which will not only absorb the attention of readers, but impress them with a new admiration for the author's power.

The Chronicles of Count Antonio.

With Photogravure Frontispiece by S.W. Van Schaick. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"No adventures were ever better worth telling than those of Count Antonio.... The author knows full well how to make every pulse thrill, and how to hold his readers under the spell of his magic."—Boston Herald.

The God in the Car.

New edition. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.

"A very remarkable book, deserving of critical analysis impossible within our limit; brilliant, but not superficial; well considered, but not elaborated; constructed with the proverbial art that conceals, but yet allows itself to be enjoyed by readers to whom fine literary method is a keen pleasure."—London World.

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THE MORMON PROPHET. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

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"Mormonism is not ordinarily regarded as capable of romantic treatment, but in the hands of Miss Dougall it has yielded results which are calculated to attract the general public as well as the student of psychology.... Miss Dougall has handled a difficult theme with conspicuous delicacy; the most sordid details of the narrative are redeemed by the glamour of her style, her analysis of the strangely mixed character of the prophet is remarkable for its detachment and impartiality, while in Susannah Halsey she has given us a really beautiful study of nobly compassionate womanhood. We certainly know of no more illuminative commentary on the rise of this extraordinary sect than is furnished by Miss Dougall's novel."—London Spectator.

"Miss Dougall may be congratulated both on her choice of a subject for her new book and on her remarkably able and interesting treatment of it.... A fascinating story, which is even more remarkable and more fascinating as a psychological study."-The Scotsman.

THE MADONNA OF A DAY. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.

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THE MERMAID. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.

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"One of the most remarkable novels."—New York Commercial Advertiser.

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"'Windyhaugh' shows an infinitely more mature skill and more subtle humor than 'Mona Maclean' and a profounder insight into life. The psychology in Dr. Todd's remarkable book is all of the right kind; and there is not in English fiction a more careful and penetrating analysis of the evolution of a woman's mind than is given in Wilhelmina Galbraith; but 'Windyhaugh' is not a book in which there is only one 'star' and a crowd of 'supers.' Every character is limned with a conscientious care that bespeaks the true artist, and the analytical interest of the novel is rigorously kept in its proper place and is only one element in a delightful story. It is a supremely interesting and wholesome book, and in an age when excellence of technique has reached a remarkable level, 'Windyhaugh' compels admiration for its brilliancy of style. Dr. Todd paints on a large canvas, but she has a true sense of proportion."-Blackwood's Magazine.

"For truth to life, for adherence to a clear line of action, for arrival at the point toward which it has aimed from the first, such a book as 'Windyhaugh' must be judged remarkable. There is vigor and brilliancy. It is a book that must be read from the beginning to the end and that it is a satisfaction to have read."—Boston Journal.

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MONA MACLEAN, Medical Student. 12mo, paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00.

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"'Mona Maclean' is a bright, healthful, winning story."—New York Mail and Express.

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"A pleasure in store for you if you have not read this volume. The author has given us a thoroughly natural series of events, and drawn her characters like an artist. It is the story of a woman's struggles with her own soul. She is a woman of resource, a strong woman, and her career is interesting from beginning to end."—New York Herald.

FELLOW TRAVELLERS. 12mo, paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00.

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"'Fellow Travellers' is a collection of very brightly written tales, all dealing, as the title implies, with the mutual relations of people thrown together casually while traveling."—London Saturday Review.

TWO SUCCESSFUL AMERICAN NOVELS.

LATITUDE 19°. A Romance of the West Indies in the Year of our Lord 1820. Being a faithful account and true, of the painful adventures of the Skipper, the Bo's'n, the Smith, the Mate, and Cynthia. By Mrs. Schuyler Crowninshield. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"'Latitude 19°' is a novel of incident, of the open air, of the sea, the shore, the mountain eyrie, and of breathing, living entities, who deal with Nature at first hand.... The adventures described are peculiarly novel and interesting.... Packed with incidents, infused with humor and wit, and faithful to the types introduced, this book will surely appeal to the large audience already won, and beget new friends among those who believe in fiction that is healthy without being maudlin, and is strong without losing the truth."—New York Herald.

"A story filled with rapid and exciting action from the first page to the last. A fecundity of invention that never lags, and a judiciously used vein of humor."—The Critic.

"A volume of deep, undeniable charm. A unique book from a fresh, sure, vigorous pen."—Boston Journal.

"Adventurous and romantic enough to satisfy the most exacting reader.... Abounds in situations which make the blood run cold, and yet, full of surprises as it is, one is continually amazed by the plausibility of the main incidents of the narrative.... A very successful effort to portray the sort of adventures that might have taken place in the West Indies seventy five or eighty years ago.... Very entertaining with its dry humor."—Boston Herald.

A HERALD OF THE WEST. An American Story of 1811-1815. By J.A. Altsheler, author of "A Soldier of Manhattan" and "The Sun of Saratoga." 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"'A Herald of the West' is a romance of our history which has not been surpassed in dramatic force, vivid coloring, and historical interest.... In these days when the flush of war has only just passed, the book ought to find thousands of readers, for it teaches patriotism without intolerance, and it shows, what the war with Spain has demonstrated anew, the power of the American people when they are deeply roused by some great wrong."—San Francisco Chronicle.

"The book throughout is extremely well written. It is condensed, vivid, picturesque.... A rattling good story, and unrivaled in fiction for its presentation of the American feeling toward England during our second conflict."—Boston Herald.

"Holds the attention continuously.... The book abounds in thrilling attractions.... It is a solid and dignified acquisition to the romantic literature of our own country, built around facts and real persons."—Chicago Times-Herald.

"In a style that is strong and broad, the author of this timely novel takes up a nascent period of our national history and founds upon it a story of absorbing interest."—Philadelphia Item.

"Mr. Altsheler has given us an accurate as well as picturesque portrayal of the social and political conditions which prevailed in the republic in the era made famous by the second war with Great Britain."—Brooklyn Eagle.

BOOKS BY GILBERT PARKER.

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The Seats of the Mighty.
Being the Memoirs of Captain Robert Moray, sometime an Officer in the Virginia Regiment, and afterwards of Amherst's Regiment. Illustrated, $1.50.

"Another historical romance of the vividness and intensity of 'The Seats of the Mighty' has never come from the pen of an American. Mr. Parker's latest work may without hesitation be set down as the best he has done. From the first chapter to the last word interest in the book never wanes; one finds it difficult to interrupt the narrative with breathing space. It whirls with excitement and strange adventure.... All of the scenes do homage to the genius of Mr. Parker, and make 'The Seats of the Mighty' one of the books of the year."—Chicago Record.

"Mr. Gilbert Parker is to be congratulated on the excellence of his latest story, 'The Seats of the Mighty,' and his readers are to be congratulated on the direction which his talents have taken therein.... It is so good that we do not stop to think of its literature, and the personality of Doltaire is a masterpiece of creative art."—New York Mail and Express.

The Trail of the Sword. A Novel. $1.25.

"Mr. Parker here adds to a reputation already wide, and anew demonstrates his power of pictorial portrayal and of strong dramatic situation and climax."—Philadelphia Bulletin.

The Trespasser. $1.25.

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The Translation of a Savage. $1.25.

"A book which no one will be satisfied to put down until the end has been matter of certainty and assurance."—The Nation.

Mrs. Falchion. $1.25.

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The Pomp of the Lavilettes. 16mo. Cloth.

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BY A. CONAN DOYLE.

Uniform edition. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50 per volume.

A DUET, WITH AN OCCASIONAL CHORUS.

"Charming is the one word to describe this volume adequately. Dr. Doyle's crisp style and his rare wit and refined humor, utilized with cheerful art that is perfect of its kind, fill these chapters with joy and gladness for the reader."—Philadelphia Press.

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UNCLE BERNAC. A Romance of the Empire.

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THE EXPLOITS OF BRIGADIER GERARD. A Romance of the Life of a Typical Napoleonic Soldier.

"Good, stirring tales are they.... Remind one of those adventures indulged in by 'The Three Musketeers.' ... Written with a dash and swing that here and there carry one away."—New York Mail and Express.

RODNEY STONE.

"A notable and very brilliant work of genius."—London Speaker.

"Dr. Doyle's novel is crowded with an amazing amount of incident and excitement.... He does not write history, but shows us the human side of his great men, living and moving in an atmosphere charged with the spirit of the hard-living, hard-fighting Anglo-Saxon."—New York Critic.

ROUND THE RED LAMP. Being Facts and Fancies of Medical Life.

"A strikingly realistic and decidedly original contribution to modern literature."-Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.

THE STARK MUNRO LETTERS. Being a Series of Twelve Letters written by Stark Munro, M.B., to his friend and former fellow-student, Herbert Swanborough, of Lowell, Massachusetts, during the years 1881-1884.

"Cullingworth.... a much more interesting creation than Sherlock Holmes, and I pray Dr. Doyle to give us more of him."—Richard le Gallienne, in the London Star.

By S.R. CROCKETT.

Uniform edition. Each, 12mo, cloth, $1.50.

THE STANDARD BEARER. An Historical Romance.

"Mr. Crockett's book is distinctly one of the books of the year. Five months of 1898 have passed without bringing to the reviewers' desk anything to be compared with it in beauty of description, convincing characterization, absorbing plot and humorous appeal. The freshness and sweet sincerity of the tale are most invigorating, and that the book will be very much read there is no possible doubt."—Boston Budget.

"The book will move to tears, provoke to laughter, stir the blood, and evoke heroisms of history, making the reading of it a delight and the memory of it a stimulus and a joy."—New York Evangelist.

LADS' LOVE. Illustrated.

"It seems to us that there is in this latest product much of the realism of personal experience. However modified and disguised, it is hardly possible to think that the writer's personality does not present itself in Saunders McQuhirr.... Rarely has the author drawn more truly from life than in the cases of Nance and 'the Hempie'; never more typical Scotsman of the humble sort than the farmer Peter Chrystie."—London AthenÆum.

CLEG KELLY, ARAB OF THE CITY. His Progress and Adventures. Illustrated.

"A masterpiece which Mark Twain himself has never rivaled.... If there ever was an ideal character in fiction it is this heroic ragamuffin."—London Daily Chronicle.

"In no one of his books does Mr. Crockett give us a brighter or more graphic picture of contemporary Scotch life than in 'Cleg Kelly.' ... It is one of the great books."—Boston Daily Advertiser.

BOG-MYRTLE AND PEAT. Third edition.

"Here are idyls, epics, dramas of human life, written in words that thrill and burn.... Each is a poem that has an immortal flavor. They are fragments of the author's early dreams, too bright, too gorgeous, too full of the blood of rubies and the life of diamonds to be caught and held palpitating in expression's grasp."—Boston Courier.

"Hardly a sketch among them all that will not afford pleasure to the reader for its genial humor, artistic local coloring, and admirable portrayal of character."—Boston Home Journal.

THE LILAC SUNBONNET. Eighth edition.

"A love story, pure and simple, one of the old fashioned, wholesome, sunshiny kind, with a pure-minded, sound-hearted hero, and a heroine who is merely a good and beautiful woman; and if any other love story half so sweet has been written this year it has escaped our notice."—New York Times.

"The general conception of the story, the motive of which is the growth of love between the young chief and heroine, is delineated with a sweetness and a freshness, a naturalness and a certainty, which places 'The Lilac Sunbonnet' among the best stories of the time."—New York Mail and Express.

"A BOOK THAT WILL LIVE."

DAVID HARUM. A Story of American Life. By Edward Noyes Westcott. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"Mr. Westcott has done for central New York what Mr. Cable, Mr. Page, and Mr. Harris have done for different parts of the South, and what Miss Jewett and Miss Wilkins are doing for New England, and Mr. Hamlin Garland for the West.... 'David Harum' is a masterly delineation of an American type.... Here is life with all its joys and sorrows.... David Harum lives in these pages as he will live in the mind of the reader.... He deserves to be known by all good Americans; he is one of them in boundless energy, in large-heartedness, in shrewdness, and in humor."—The Critic.

"Thoroughly a pure, original, and fresh American type. David Harum is a character whose qualities of mind and heart, eccentricities, and dry humor will win for his creator notable distinction. Buoyancy, life, and cheerfulness are dominant notes. In its vividness and force the story is a strong, fresh picture of American life. Original and true, it is worth the same distinction which is accorded the genre pictures of peculiar types and places sketched by Mr. George W. Cable, Mr. Joel Chandler Harris, Mr. Thomas Nelson Page, Miss Wilkins, Miss Jewett, Mr. Garland, Miss French, Miss Murfree, Mr. Gilbert Parker, Mr. Owen Wister, and Bret Harte.... A pretty love story also adds to the attractiveness of the book, that will be appreciated at once by every one who enjoys real humor, strong character, true pictures of life, and work that is 'racy of the soil.'"—Boston Herald.

"Mr. Westcott has created a new and interesting type.... The character sketching and building, so far as David Harum is concerned, is well-nigh perfect. The book is wonderfully bright, readable, and graphic."—New York Times.

"The main character ought to become familiar to thousands of readers, and will probably take his place in time beside Joel Chandler Harris's and Thomas Nelson Page's and Miss Wilkins's creations."—Chicago Times-Herald.

"We give Edward Noyes Westcott his true place in American letters—placing him as a humorist next to Mark Twain, as a master of dialect above Lowell, as a descriptive writer equal to Bret Harte, and, on the whole, as a novelist on a par with the best of those who live and have their being in the heart of hearts of American readers. If the author is dead—lamentable fact—his book will live."—Philadelphia Item.

"True, strong, and thoroughly alive, with a humor like that of Abraham Lincoln and a nature as sweet at the core. The spirit of the book is genial and wholesome, and the love story is in keeping with it.... The book adds one more to the interesting list of native fiction destined to live, portraying certain localities and types of American life and manners."—Boston Literary World.

"A notable contribution to those sectional studies of American life by which our literature has been so greatly enriched in the past generation.... A work of unusual merit."—Philadelphia Press.

"One of the few distinct and living types in the American gallery."—St. Louis Globe-Democrat.

"The quaint character of 'David Harum' proves to be an inexhaustible source of amusement."—Chicago Evening Post.

"It would be hard to say wherein the author could have bettered the portrait he sets before us."—Providence Journal.

"Full of wit and sweetness."—Baltimore Herald.

"Merits the heartiest and most unequivocal praise.... It is a pleasure to call the reader's attention to this strong and most original novel, a novel that is a decided and most enduring addition to American literature."—Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.