So it was that Ned Lytton ceased to be and with his going went all barriers that had existed between Ann and Bruce. Each had played a part in the grim drama which ended with violence, yet to neither could any echo of blame for Ned's death be attached. Their hands and hearts were clean.

Ann's appeal to Bruce for help when Ned led her away from the ranch had been made because she knew that real danger of some sort awaited Ned at the Sunset mine; she had not considered herself or her own safety at all.

Bruce, for his part, had concentrated his last energy on averting the tragedy. He had looked for the moment on his love of Ann only as a factor which had helped bring about the crisis, thereby making him accountable. To play the game as he saw it, to be squared with his own conscience, he had risked everything, even his life, in his attempt to save Lytton.

Ned's true self had come to the surface just long enough to answer all questions that might have been raised after his death. In that last experience of his life he had risen above his cowardice. After hearing Ann's warning scream, he must have known that to fire on Bayard the second time meant his own death. Yet he was not dissuaded, just kept on attempting to satiate his lust for the rancher's life. So, utterly revealed, he died.

The fourth individual was to be considered—Benny Lynch. Through the months that he had brooded over the injustice which sent his father to a quick end, through the weeks that he had planned to administer his own justice, through the straining days that he had waited to kill, a part of him had been stifled. That part was the kindly, deliberate, peace loving Benny, and so surely as he was slow to anger he would have lived to find himself tortured by regret had he slain for revenge. As it was, he shot to save the life of a friend ... and only that. He lived to thank the scheme of things that had called on him to untangle the skein which events had snarled about Bruce and the woman he loved ... for it took from him the stain of killing for revenge.

Somehow, Bruce got Ann away from the Sunset mine that day. She was brave and struggled to bear up, but after the strain of those last weeks the fatigue of the ride Ned had forced her to take unnerved her and she was like a child when they gained the Boyd ranch where she was taken to the maternal arms of the mistress of that house, to be petted and cried over and comforted.

In his rattling, jingling buckboard Judson Weyl drove out to the mining camp and beside a rock-covered grave murmured a prayer for the soul which had gone out from the body buried there; when he drove away, his chin was higher, his face brighter, reflecting the thought within him that an ugly past must be forgotten, that the future assured those qualities which would make it forgettable.

News of the killing roused Yavapai. In the first hour the community's attention was wholly absorbed in the actual affair at the mine, but, as the story lost its first edge of interest, inquisitive minds commenced to follow it backward, to trace out the steps which had led to the tragedy.

Ann's true identity became known. The fact that Bayard had sheltered Lytton was revealed. After that the gossip mongers insinuated and speculated. No one had known what was going on; when men hide their relationships with others and with women it must be necessary to hide something, they argued.

And then the clergyman, waiting for this, came forward with his story. He had known; his wife had known. Nora, the girl who had gone, had known. No, there had been no deception in Bayard's attitude; merely discretion. With that the talk ceased, for Yavapai looked up to its clergy.

Within the fortnight Ann boarded a train bound for the East. Her face had not regained its color, but the haunted look was gone from her eyes, the tensity from about her lips. She was in a state of mental and spiritual convalescence, with hope and happiness in sight to hasten the process of healing. Going East for the purpose of explaining, of making what amends she could for Ned's misdeeds, was an ordeal, but she welcomed it for it was the last condition she deemed necessary to set her free.

"It won't be long," she said, assuringly, when Bruce stood before her to say farewell, forlorn and lonely looking already.

"It can't be too quick," he answered.

"Impatient?"

"I'd wait till 'th' stars grow old an' th' sun grows cold'" he quoted with his slow smile, "but ... it wouldn't be a pleasant occupation."

She looked at him earnestly.

"You might; you could," she whispered, "but I wouldn't wait ... that long...."

---

Weeks had passed and October was offering its last glorious days. Not with madly colored leaves and lazy hazes of Indian summer that are gifts to men in the hardwood belt, but with the golden light, the infinite distances, the super silence which comes alone to Northern Arizona. The green was gone from grasses and those trees which drop their foliage were clothed only in the withered remains of leaves, but color of incredible variety was there—the mauves, the lavendars, the blues and purples and ochres of rock and soil, changing with the swinging sun, becoming bold and vivid or only a tint and modest as the light rays played across the valley from various angles. The air, made crystal by the crisp nights, brought within the eyes' register ranges and peaks that were of astonishing distance. The wind was most gentle, coming in leisurely breaths and between its sighs the silence was immaculate, ravished by no jar or hum; even the birds were subdued before it.

On a typical October morning, before the sun had shoved itself above the eastern reaches of the valley, two men awoke in the new bunkhouse that had been erected at the Circle A ranch. They were in opposite beds, and, as they lifted their heads and stared hard at one another with that momentary bewilderment which follows the sleep of virile, active men, the shorter flung back his blankets and swung his feet to the floor. He rubbed his tousled hair and yawned and stretched.

"Awake!" he said, sleepily, and shook himself, "... awake,"—brightening. "Awake, for 'tis thy weddin' morn!"

The speaker was Tommy Clary and on his words Bruce Bayard grinned happily from his pillow.

"... weddin' morn ..." he murmured, as he sat up and reached for his boots at the head of his bunk.

"Yes, you wake up this mornin', frisky an' young an' full of th' love of life an' liberty, just like them pictures of th' New Year comin' in! An' by sundown you'll be roped an' tied for-good-an'-for-all-by-God, an' t' won't be long before you look like th' old year goin' out!"

He grinned, as he drew on his shirt, then dodged, as Bayard's heavy hat sailed at him.

"It's goin' to be th' other way round, Tommy," the big fellow cried. "We're going to turn time backward to-day!"

"Yes, I guess you are, all right," deliberated Tommy. "Marriage has always seemed to me like payin' taxes for somethin' you owned or goin' to jail for havin' too much fun; always like payin' for somethin'. But yourn ain't. Not much."

Bruce laughed. They talked in a desultory way until they had dressed. Then Bayard walked to the other side of the room where a sheet had been tacked and hung down over bulky objects. He pulled it aside and stood back that Tommy might see the clothing that hung against the wall.

"How's that for raiment?" he demanded.

Tommy approached and lifted the skirt of the black sack coat gingerly, critically. He turned it back, inspected the lining and then put his hand to his lips to signify shock.

"Oh, my gosh, Bruce! Silk linin'! You'll be curlin' your hair next!"

"Nothing too good for this fracus, Tommy. Best suit of clothes I could get made in Prescott. Those shoes—patent leather!" He picked up one and blew a fleck of dust from it carefully. "Cost th' price of a pair of boots an' don't look like they'd wear a mile." He reached into the pocket of the coat and drew out a small package, unrolling it to display a necktie. "Pearl gray, they call it, Tommy. An' swell as a city bartender's!" He waved it in triumph before the sparkling eyes of his pug-nosed friend.

"Gosh, Bruce, you're goin' to be done out like a buck peacock, clean from your toes up. You—

"Say, what are you goin' to wear on your head?"

Bayard's hand dropped to his side and a crestfallen look crossed his features.

"I'm a sheepherder, if I didn't forget," he muttered.

"Holy Smoke, Bruce, you can't wear an ordinary cowpuncher hat with them varnished shoes an' that there necktie an' that dude suit!"

"I guess I'll have to, or go bareheaded."

Tommy looked at him earnestly for he thought that this oversight mattered, and his simple, loyal heart was touched.

"Never mind, Bruce," he consoled. "It'll be all right, prob'ly. She won't—"

"You go out and make me a crown of mistletoe, Tommy. Why, she wouldn't like me not to be somethin' of my regular, everyday self. She'll like these clothes, but she'll like my old hat, too!"

Tommy seemed to be relieved.

"Yes, maybe she will," he agreed. "She's kinda sensible, Bruce. She ain't th' kind of a woman to jump her weddin' 'cause of a hat."

Bayard, in a sudden ecstasy of animal spirits, picked the small cowboy up in his arms and tossed him toward the ceiling, as if he were a child, and stopped only when Tommy wound his arms about his neck in a strangling clasp.

"Le'me down, an' le'me show you my outfit!" he cried. "Don't get stuck on yourself an' think you're goin' to be th' only city feller at this party!"

Breathlessly Bayard laughed as he put him down and followed him to the bunk where he had slept with his war-bag for a pillow. Tommy seated himself, lifted the sack to his lap and, with fingers to his lips for silence, untied the strings.

"Levi's!" he whispered, hoarsely, as he drew out a pair of brand new overalls and shook them out proudly. "I ain't a reg'lar swell like you are," he exclaimed, "but even if I am poor I wear clean pants at weddin's!"

He groped in the bag again and drew out a scarf of gorgeous pink silk.

"Ain't that a eligent piece of goods?" he demanded, holding it out in the early sunlight.

"It is that, Tommy!"

"But that ain't all. Hist!"

He shifted about, hiding the bag behind his body that the surprise might be complete. Then, with a swift movement he held aloft proudly a stiff-bosomed shirt.

"Ah!" he breathed as it was revealed entirely. "How's that for tony?"

"That's great!"

"Reg'lar armor plate, Bruce! I've gentled th' damn thing, too! Worked with him 'n hour yesterday. He bucked an' rared an' tried to fall over backwards with me, but I showed him reason after a while! Just proves that if a man sets his mind on anythin' he can do it ... even if it's bein' swell!"

Bruce laughed his assent and remarked to himself that the array of smudgy thumb prints about the collar band was eloquent evidence of the struggle poor Tommy had experienced.

"But this!" the other breathed, plunging again into the bag. "This here is—"

He broke short. "Why, you pore son-of-a-gun!" he whispered as he produced his collar.

Originally it had been a three-inch poke collar, but it was bent and broken and smeared on one side with a broad patch of dirty brown.

"Gosh a'mighty, Tommy, you've gone an' crippled your collar!" Bruce said in rebuke.

"Crippled is right, an' that ain't all! Kind of a sick lookin' pinto, he is, with that bay spot on him." He looked up foolishly. "I ought to put that plug in my pocket. You see, I rode out fast, an' this collar an' my eatin' tobacco was in th' bottom of th' bag tied on behind my saddle. Nig sweat an' it soaked through an' wet th' tobacco an' ... desecrated my damn collar!"

He rose resolutely.

"A li'l thing like that can't make me quit!" he cried. "I rode this here thing with its team-mate yesterday. I won't be stampeded by no change in color. I've done my family wash in every stream between th' Spanish Peaks an' California. I won't stop at this!"

He strode from the bunk house and Bruce, looking through the window, saw him lift a bucket of water from the well and commence to scrub his daubed collar vigorously.

Smoke rose from the chimney of the ranch house and through the kitchen doorway Bayard saw a woman pass with quick, intent stride. It was Mrs. Boyd. She and Mrs. Weyl had arrived the day before to set the house aright and to deck the rooms in mountain greenery—mistletoe, juniper berries and other decorative growth.

The new bunkhouse, erected when plans for the wedding were first made, had been occupied for the first time by Bruce and Tommy that night. Tommy was to return in the spring and put his war-bag under the bunk for good, because Bruce was going in for more cattle and would be unable to handle the work alone.

A half hour later the men presented themselves for breakfast, to be utterly ignored by the bustling women. They were given coffee and steak and made to sit on the kitchen steps while they ate, that they might not be in the way. Bruce was amused and rebuked the women gently for the seriousness with which they went about their work, but for Tommy the whole procedure was a grave matter. He ate distractedly, hurriedly, covering his embarrassment by astonishing gastronomic feats, glancing sidelong at Bayard whenever the rancher spoke to the others, as though those scarcely heeded remarks were something which made heavy demands upon human courage.

The interior of the house had been changed greatly. The kitchen range was new, the walls were papered instead of covered with whitewash. The room in which Ned Lytton had slept and fretted and come back toward health was no longer a bed chamber. Its windows had been increased to four that the light might be of the best. Its floor was painted and carpeted with new Navajo blankets and a bear skin. A piano stood against one wall and on either side of the new fireplace were shelves weighted with books that were to be opened and read and discussed by the light of the new reading lamp which stood on the heavy library table.

Tommy was obviously relieved when his meal was finished. He drew a long sigh when, wiping his mouth on a jumper sleeve, he stepped from the house and followed Bruce toward the corral where the saddle horses ate hay.

"It's a wonder you ain't ruined that horse, th' way you baby him," Clary remarked, when Bayard, brush in hand, commenced grooming Abe's sleek coat. "Now, with my Nig horse there, I figure that if he's full inside, he's had his share. I'm afraid that if I brushed him every day he'd get dudish an' unreliable, like me.... I'm ready to do a lot of rarin' an' runnin' every time I get good an' clean!"

"I guess th' care Abe's had hasn't hurt him much," Bruce replied. "He was ready when the pinch came; th' groomin' I'd been givin' him didn't have much to do with it, I know, but th' fact that we were pals ... that counted."

His companion sobered and answered.

"You're right, there, Bruce, he sure done some tall travelin' that day."

"If he hadn't been ready ... we wouldn't be plannin' a weddin' this noon. That's how much it counted!"

Tommy moved closer and twined his fingers in the sorrel's mane. Neither spoke for a moment; then Clary blurted:

"She's got th' same kind of stuff, Bruce, or she wouldn't come through neither. Abe made th' run of his life and wasn't hurt by it; she went through about four sections of hell an'.... She looked like a Texas rose when she got off th' train last week!"

Bayard rapped the dust from his brush and answered:

"You're right; they're alike, Tommy. It takes heart, courage, to go through things that Ann an' Abe went through ... different kinds. It wasn't so much what happened at th' mine. It was th' years she'd put in, abused, fearin', tryin' not to hate. That was what took th' sand, th' nerve. If she hadn't been th' right sort, she'd have crumpled up under it."

Clary said nothing for a time but eyed Bruce carefully, undisguised affection in his scrutiny. Then he spoke,

"My guess is that you two'll set a new pace on this here trail to happiness!"

---

The forenoon dragged. Bruce completed the small tasks of morning and hunted for more duties to occupy his hands. The women would not allow him in the house, and beneath his controlled exterior he was in a fury of impatience. From time to time he glanced speculatively at the sun; then referred to his watch to affirm his judgment of the day's growth.

Ann was still at the Boyd ranch and old Hi was to drive her to her new home before noon. Judson Weyl, who was to marry them, had been called away the day before but had given his word that he would leave Yavapai in time to reach the ranch with an ample margin, for Bruce insisted that there be no hitch in the plans. Long before either was due the big rancher frequently scanned the country to the north and east for signs of travelers.

"You're about as contented as a hen with a lost chicken," Tommy observed.

Bruce smiled slightly and scratched his chin.

"Well, I'd hate to have anything delay this round-up."

Another hour dragged out before his repeated gazing was rewarded. Then, off in the east, a smudge of dust resolved itself into a team and wagon.

"That's Hi with Ann!" he said excitedly. "Our sky pilot ought to be here soon."

"Lots of time yet," Tommy assured. "He won't be leavin' town for a couple of hours."

"Maybe not, Tommy, but I don't trust that chariot of fire. I'm afraid it'll give its death rattle almost any time, dump our parson in th' road an' stop our weddin'. That'd be bad!"

Tommy roused to the dire possibilities of the situation.

"It would," he agreed. "It takes a preacher, a fool or a brave man to trust himself in a ve-hicle like that. He ought to come horseback. He—

"Say, Bruce, why can't I saddle up an' lead a horse in after him? I can make it easy. That'd keep you from worryin'. Matter of fact, between th' women in th' house an' you with your fussin' outdoors I'm afraid my nerves won't stand it all! I've been through stampedes on th' Pecos, an' blizzards in Nebraska; I've been lost in Death Valley an' I've had a silver tip try to box my ears, but I just naturally can't break myself to p'lite society!"

"I don't believe you, but your idea wins," Bayard laughed. "Go on after him. Take ... Say, you take Abe for him to ride back! That's th' thing to do. You put th' parson on Abe an' we'll be as certain to start this fracas on time as I am that his 'bus is apt to secede from itself on th' road any minute!"

Bruce sent Abe away with Tommy. Ann arrived. Twenty minutes before the time set for the simple ceremony Abe brought the clergyman through the big gate of the Circle A with his swinging trot, ears up, head alert, as though with conscious pride.

"The fact is, Bruce, I'd have been late, if Tommy hadn't come after me," Weyl confessed as he dismounted.

"So? I've been expectin' somethin' would happen to you. What was it?"

"Why, Nicodemus, my off horse, kicked four spokes out of a front wheel and, when we were putting on another, we found that the axle was hopelessly cracked."

"I knew that chariot would quit sometime, but this horse, th' stallion shod with fire ... he don't know what quittin' is!"

---

The sun was slipping toward the western horizon when the last of the few who had attended the ceremony passed from sight. For a long time Bruce and Ann stood under the ash tree, watching them depart, hearing the last sounds of wheel and hoof and voice break in on the evening quiet.

The girl was wonderfully happy. The strained look about her eyes, the quick, nervous gestures that had characterized her after the tragedy of Ned Lytton's death and before her return to the East, were gone. A splendid look of peace was upon her; one life was gone, thrown away as a piece of botched work; another was opening.

Far away to the north and eastward snow-covered peaks, triplets, rose against the bright blue of the sky. As Bruce and Ann looked they lost the silver whiteness and became flushed with the pink of dying day. The distant, pine-covered heights had become blue, the far draws were gathering their purple mists of evening. The lilac of the valley's coloring grew fainter, more delicate, while the deep mauves of a range of hills to the southward deepened towards a dead brown. Over all, that incomparable silence, the inexplicable peace that comes with evening in those big places. No need to dwell further on this for you who have watched and felt and become lost in it; useless to attempt more for the uninitiate.

Ann's arm slipped into her husband's and she whispered:

"Evening on Manzanita! Is there anything more beautiful?"

Bayard smiled.

"Not unless it's daytime," he said. "You know, Ann, for a long, long time it's seemed to me as though there's been a shadow on that valley. Even on the brightest days it ain't looked like it should. But now.... Why, even with the sun goin' down, it seems to me as if that shadow's lifted!

"I feel freer, too. This fenced-in feelin' that I've had is gone. I ... Why, I feel like life, the world, was all open to me, smilin' at me, waitin' for me, just like that old valley out there.

"What do you s'pose makes it so?"

"Must I tell you?" she asked, reaching her arms upward for his neck.

"Tell me," he said. "With your lips, but without words. That's a kind of riddle, I guess! Do you know the answer?"

Indeed, she did!

THE END

---

The Beacon Biographies

Edited by M. A. DeWOLFE HOWE

A Series of short biographies of eminent Americans, the aim of which is to furnish brief, readable, and authentic accounts by competent writers of the lives of those Americans whose personalities have impressed themselves most deeply on the character and history of their country.

With a photogravure frontispiece. Each volume has a chronology of the salient features of the life of its subject, and a critical bibliography giving the student the best references for further research. Sold separately.

---

Business

The Psychology of Advertising

The Theory and Practice of Advertising

By WALTER DILL SCOTT

Practical books based on facts, painstakingly ascertained and suggestively compared. "The Psychology of Advertising" and "The Theory and Practice of Advertising" together form a well-rounded treatment of the whole subject, a standard set for every man with anything to make known to the public. The author is Director of the Bureau of Salesmanship Research, Carnegie Institute of Technology, Director of the psychological laboratory of Northwestern University, and President of the National Association of Advertising Teachers. He has written many other important books, including "The Psychology of Public Speaking," "Influencing Men in Business," and "Increasing Human Efficiency in Business."

Professor Scott's books "will be found of value both by the psychologist and the advertiser, and of unique interest to the general public that reads advertisements."—Forum.

"Ought to be in the hands of everyone who cares whether or not his advertising brings returns."—Bankers' Magazine.

---

Cookery

Over 2000 Recipes Completely Indexed Illustrated

OFFICIAL LECTURER United States Food Administration

The Literary Digest says:

Of all the books that have been published which treat of the culinary art, few have came so near to presenting a complete survey of the subject as Mrs. Allen's. If evidence were needed to prove that cookery is so much of a practical art as to have become a noble science, Mrs. Allen has supplied it. There are more than two thousand recipes in this book! No reader need be an epicure to enjoy the practical information that is garnered here. The burden of the author's message is, "Let every mother realize that she holds in her hands the health of the family and the welfare and the progress of her husband ... and she will lay a foundation ... that will make possible glorious home partnership and splendid health for the generations that are to be."

In times of Hooverized economy, such a volume will find a welcome, because the author strips from her subject all the camouflage with which scientists and pseudoscientists have invested in. The mystery of the calory, that causes the average housewife to throw up her hands, is tersely solved. The tyro may learn how to prepare the simplest dish or the most elaborate. The woman who wants to know what to do and how to do it will find the book a master-key to the subject of which it treats.

---

Drama

Play-Making

A Manual of Craftsmanship

By WILLIAM ARCHER

"I make bold to say," says Brander Matthews, Professor of Dramatic Literature in Columbia University, "that Mr. Archer's is the best book that has yet been written in our language, or in any other, on the art and science of play-making. A score of serried tomes on this scheme stand side by side on my shelves, French and German, American and British; and in no one of them do I discern the clearness, the comprehensiveness, the insight, and the understanding that I find in Mr. Archer's illuminating pages.

"He tells the ardent aspirant how to choose his themes; how to master the difficult art of exposition—that is, how to make his first act clear; how to arouse curiosity for what is to follow; how to hang up the interrogation mark of expectancy; how to combine, as he goes on, tension and suspension; how to preserve probability and to achieve logic for construction; how to attain climax and to avoid anti-climax; and how to bring his play to a close."

---

Educational

The Land We Live In

The Book of Conservation

By OVERTON W. PRICE

With an Introduction by

GIFFORD PINCHOT

"This book will have a very wide distribution, not only in libraries, but also in the schools."

Robert P. Bass

(Former Governor of New Hampshire,
and President of the American Forestry Association)

"It is the best primer on general conservation for older people that I have ever seen, and the good it will do will be measured only by the circulation it receives."

J. B. White

(President of the National Conservation Congress)

"I wish it were possible to have the volume made a text book for every public school."

William Edward Coffin

(Vice-President and Chairman of the Committee on
Game Protective Legislation and Preserves,
Camp Fire Club of America)

With 136 illustrations selected from 50,000 photographs

BOY SCOUT EDITION—JACKET IN COLORS

---

Fiction

The Best Short Stories of 1915, 1916, 1917

Edited by EDWARD J. O'BRIEN

From every point of view—from that of the actual probabilities of reading enjoyment to be derived from it by all sorts of readers; from that of the vivid and varied, but always valid, concernment with life that it maintains; from that of technical literary interest in American letters, and from that of sheer esthetic response to artistic quality—THE BEST SHORT STORIES warrants an emphatic and unconditional recommendation to all.—Life.

Indispensable to every student of American fiction, and will furnish each successive year a critical and historical survey of the art such as does not exist in any other form.—Boston Transcript.

---

War

Beyond the Marne

By HENRIETTE CUVRU-MAGOT

Mademoiselle Henriette is the little friend and neighbor of Miss Mildred Aldrich (author of "A Hilltop on the Marne," "On the Edge of the War Zone," etc.), who came to Miss Aldrich the day after the Germans were driven away on the other side of the Marne to suggest that they visit the battlefield. Her book might be called truly a companion volume to "A Hilltop on the Marne."

---

War

Covered With Mud and Glory

A Machine Gun Company in Action

By GEORGES LAFOND

Sergeant-Major, Territorial Hussars, French Army; Intelligence Officer, Machine Gun Sections, French Colonial Infantry.

Translated by EDWIN GILE RICH

With an Introduction by MAURICE BARRÈS of the French Academy

The Book with GEORGES CLEMENCEAU'S Famous "Tribute to the Soldiers of France"

Illustrated

---

War

On the Edge of the War Zone

From the Battle of the Marne to the Entrance of the Stars and Stripes

By MILDRED ALDRICH

The long-awaited continuation of "A Hilltop on the Marne."

Portrait frontispiece in photogravure and other illustrations. Cloth, bound uniformly with the same author's "A Hilltop on the Marne" and "Told in a French Garden."

Miss Aldrich tells what has happened from the day when the Germans were turned back almost at her very door, to the never-to-be-forgotten moment when the news reached France that the United States had entered the war.

---

Told in a French Garden: August, 1914

By MILDRED ALDRICH

With a portrait frontispiece in photogravure from a sketch of the author by Pierre-Emile Cornillier.

Unlike Miss Aldrich's other books, "Told in a French Garden" is a venture in fiction.

---

War

The White Flame of France

By MAUDE RADFORD WARREN

Author of "Peter Peter," "Barbara's Marriages," etc.

The front-line trenches at Rheims during a bombardment when the shells were whistling over, two Zeppelin raids in London, the heroic services of devoted actors and actresses when they played for the soldiers of Verdun, the irony of the mad slaughter, the indestructibility of human courage and ideals, the spirit and soul of suffering France, the real meaning of the war—all these things are interpreted in this remarkable book by a novelist with a brilliant record in the art of writing, who spent more than half a year "over there."

---

You Who Can Help

Paris Letters of an American Army Officer's Wife, from August, 1916, to January, 1918

By MARY SMITH CHURCHILL

The writer of these letters is the wife of Lieutenant-Colonel Marlborough Churchill, who, the year before the entrance of the United States into the war, was an American military observer in France, and later became a member of General Pershing's staff. Mrs. Churchill volunteered her services in Paris in connection with the American Fund for the French Wounded—"the A. F. F. W."—and these are her letters home, written with no thought of publication, but simply to tell her family of the work in which she was engaged.

---

War Camps

Camp Devens

Described and Photographed by

ROGER BATCHELDER

Author of "Watching and Waiting on the Border"

"An accurate and complete description by pen and lens of Camp Devens."—Roger Merrill, Major, A. G. R. C., 151st Infantry Brigade.

With 77 illustrations.

---

Camp Upton

Described and Photographed by

ROGER BATCHELDER

A companion volume to "Camp Devens," and like it, a book that fills a long-felt want.

Illustrated with photographs

Other volumes in the AMERICAN CAMPS SERIES in preparation

---

War Poetry

Buddy's Blighty and other Verses from the Trenches

By LIEUTENANT JACK TURNER, M. C.

Here is a volume of poems that move the spirit to genuine emotion, because every line pictures reality as the author knows it. The range of subjects covers the many-sided life of the men who are fighting in the Great War,—the happenings, the emotions, the give and take, the tragedy and the comedy of soldiering.

"I have read Robert Service's 'Rhymes of a Red Cross Man'—and all the verses written on the war—but in my opinion 'Buddy's Blighty,' by Jack Turner, is the best thing yet written—because it's the truth."

Private Harold R. Peat

---

The Welfare Series

The Field of Social Service

Edited by PHILIP DAVIS, in collaboration with Maida Herman

An invaluable text-book for those who ask, "Just what can I do in social work and how shall I go about it?"

Street-Land

By PHILIP DAVIS, assisted by Grace Kroll

What shall we do with the 11,000,000 children of the city streets? A question of great national significance answered by an expert.

Consumption

By JOHN B. HAWES, 2d, M.D.

A book for laymen, by an eminent specialist, with particular consideration of the fact that the problem of tuberculosis is first of all a human problem.

One More Chance

An Experiment in Human Salvage

By LEWIS E. MacBRAYNE and JAMES P. RAMSAY

Human documents from the experiences of a Massachusetts probation officer in the application of the probation system to the problems of men and women who without it would have been permanently lost to useful citizenship.

Other volumes in preparation