One evening, it was New Year's eve, a large party was expected at Mr. Lindsay's. Ellen was not of an age to go abroad to parties, but at home her father and grandmother never could bear to do without her when they had company. Generally Ellen liked it very much; not called upon to take any active part herself, she had leisure to observe and enjoy in quiet; and often heard music, and often by Mr. Lindsay's side listened to conversation, in which she took great pleasure. To-night, however, it happened that Ellen's thoughts were running on other things; and Mrs. Lindsay's woman, who had come in to dress her, was not at all satisfied with her grave looks and the little concern she seemed to take in what was going on.

"I wish, Miss Ellen, you'd please hold your head up, and look somewhere; I don't know when I'll get your hair done if you keep it down so."

"Oh, Mason, I think that'll do; it looks very well; you needn't do anything more."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Ellen, but you know it's your grandmother that must be satisfied, and she will have it just so; there, now that's going to look lovely; but indeed, Miss Ellen, she won't be pleased if you carry such a soberish face downstairs, and what will the master say! Most young ladies would be as bright as a bee at being going to see so many people, and indeed it's what you should."

"I had rather see one or two persons than one or two hundred," said Ellen, speaking half to herself and half to Mrs. Mason.

"Well, for pity's sake, Miss Ellen, dear, if you can, don't look as if it was a funeral it was. There! 'tain't much trouble to fix you, anyhow; if you'd only care a little more about it, it would be a blessing. Stop till I fix this lace. The master will call you his white rose-bud to-night, sure enough."

"That's nothing new," said Ellen, half smiling.

Mason left her; and feeling the want of something to raise her spirits, Ellen sorrowfully went to her Bible, and slowly turning it over, looked along its pages to catch a sight of something cheering before she went downstairs.

"This God is our God for ever and ever; He will be our guide even unto death."

"Isn't that enough?" thought Ellen, as her eyes filled in answer. "It ought to be, John would say it was; oh! where is he?"

She went on turning leaf after leaf.

"O Lord of Hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in thee!"

"That is true surely," she thought. "And I do trust in Him; I am blessed; I am happy, come what may. He will let nothing come to those that trust in Him but what is good for them; if He is my God, I have enough to make me happy; I ought to be happy; I will be happy; I will trust Him, and take what He gives me; and try to leave, as John used to tell me, my affairs in His hand."

For a minute tears flowed; then they were wiped away; and the smile she gave Mr. Lindsay when she met him in the hall was not less bright than usual.

The company were gathered, but it was still early in the evening, when a gentleman came who declined to enter the drawing-room, and asked for Miss Lindsay.

"Miss Lindsay is engaged."

"An' what for suld ye say sae, Mr. Porterfield?" cried the voice of the housekeeper, who was passing in the hall, "when ye ken as weel as I do that Miss Ellen——"

The butler stopped her with saying something about "my lady," and repeated his answer to the gentleman.

The latter wrote a word or two on a card which he drew from his pocket, and desired him to carry it to Miss Ellen. He carried it to Lady Keith.

"What sort of a person, Porterfield?" said Lady Keith, crumpling the paper in her fingers, and withdrawing a little from the company.

"Uncommon fine gentleman, my lady," Porterfield answered, in a low tone.

"A gentleman?" said Lady Keith inquiringly.

"Certain, my lady! and as up and down spoken as if he was a prince of the blood; he's somebody that is not accustomed to be said 'no' to, for sure."

Lady Keith hesitated. Recollecting, however, that she had just left Ellen safe in the music-room, she made up her mind, and desired Porterfield to show the stranger in. As he entered, unannounced, her eyes unwillingly verified the butler's judgment; and to the inquiry whether he might see Miss Lindsay she answered very politely, though with regrets, that Miss Lindsay was engaged.

"May I be pardoned for asking," said the stranger, with the slightest possible approach to a smile, "whether that decision is imperative? I leave Scotland to-morrow—my reasons for wishing to see Miss Lindsay this evening are urgent."

Lady Keith could hardly believe her ears, or command her countenance to keep company with her expressions of "sorrow that it was impossible—Miss Lindsay could not have the pleasure that evening."

"May I beg then to know at what hour I may hope to see her to-morrow?"

Hastily resolving that Ellen should on the morrow accept a long-given invitation, Lady Keith answered that she would not be in town—she would leave Edinburgh at an early hour.

The stranger bowed and withdrew; that was all the bystanders saw. But Lady Keith, who had winced under an eye that she could not help fancying read her too well, saw that in his parting look which made her uneasy: beckoning a servant who stood near, she ordered him to wait upon that gentleman to the door.

The man obeyed; but the stranger did not take his cloak, and made no motion to go.

"No, sir! not that way," he said sternly, as the servant laid his hand on the lock; "show me to Miss Lindsay!"

"Miss Ellen?" said the man doubtfully, coming back, and thinking from the gentleman's manner that he must have misunderstood Lady Keith; "where is Miss Ellen, Arthur?"

The person addressed threw his head back towards the door he had just come from on the other side of the hall.

"This way, sir, if you please; what name, sir?"

"No name—stand back!" said the stranger, as he entered.

There were a number of people gathered round a lady who was at the piano singing. Ellen was there in the midst of them. The gentleman advanced quietly to the edge of the group and stood there without being noticed; Ellen's eyes were bent on the floor. The expression of her face touched and pleased him greatly; it was precisely what he wished to see. Without having the least shadow of sorrow upon it, there was in all its lines that singular mixture of gravity and sweetness that is never seen but where religion and discipline have done their work well; the writing of the wisdom that looks soberly, and the love that looks kindly, on all things. He was not sure at first whether she were intently listening to the music or whether her mind was upon something far different and far away; he thought the latter. He was right. Ellen at the moment had escaped from the company and the noisy sounds of the performer at her side; and while her eye was curiously tracing out the pattern of the carpet, her mind was resting itself in one of the verses she had been reading that same evening. Suddenly, and as it seemed from no connection with anything in or out of her thoughts, there came to her mind the image of John as she had first seen him that first evening she ever saw him at Carra-carra, when she looked up from the boiling chocolate and espied him standing in an attitude of waiting near the door. Ellen at first wondered how that thought should have come into her head just then; the next moment, from a sudden impulse, she raised her eyes to search for the cause, and saw John's smile.

It would not be easy to describe the change in Ellen's face. Lightning makes as quick and as brilliant an illumination, but lightning does not stay. With a spring she reached him, and seizing both his hands drew him out of the door near which they were standing; and as soon as they were hidden from view threw herself into his arms in an agony of joy. Before, however, either of them could say a word, she had caught his hand again, and led him back along the hall to the private staircase; she mounted it rapidly to her room; and there again she threw herself into his arms, exclaiming, "Oh, John! my dear John! my dear brother!"

But neither smiles nor words would do for the overcharged heart. The tide of joy ran too strong, and too much swelled from the open sources of love and memory to keep any bounds. And it kept none. Ellen sat down and, bowing her head on the arm of the sofa, wept with all the vehement passion of her childhood, quivering from head to foot with convulsive sobs. John might guess from the outpouring how much her heart had been secretly gathering for months past. For a little while he walked up and down the room; but this excessive agitation he was not willing should continue. He said nothing; sitting down beside Ellen on the sofa, he quietly possessed himself of one of her hands; and when in her excitement the hand struggled to get away again, it was not permitted. Ellen understood that very well and immediately checked herself. Better than words, the calm firm grasp of his hand quieted her. Her sobbing stilled; she turned from the arm of the sofa, and leaning her head upon him took his hand in both hers and pressed it to her lips as if she were half beside herself. But that was not permitted to last either, for his hand quickly imprisoned hers again. There was silence still. Ellen could not look up yet, and neither seemed very forward to speak; she sat gradually quieting down into fulness of happiness.

"I thought you never would come, John," at length Ellen half whispered, half said.

"And I cannot stay now. I must leave you to-morrow, Ellie."

Ellen started up and looked up now.

"Leave me! For how long? Where are you going?"

"Home."

"To America?" Ellen's heart died within her. Was this the end of all her hopes? did her confidence end here? She shed no tears now. He could see that she grew absolutely still from intense feeling.

"What's the matter, Ellie?" said the low gentle tones she so well remembered; "I am leaving you but for a time. I must go home now, but if I live you will see me again."

"Oh, I wish I was going with you!" Ellen exclaimed, bursting into tears.

"My dear Ellie!" said her brother in an altered voice, drawing her again to his arms, "you cannot wish it more than I."

"I never thought you would leave me here, John."

"Neither would I, if I could help it; neither will I a minute longer than I can help; but we must both wait, my own Ellie. Do not cry so, for my sake!"

"Wait? till when?" said Ellen, not a little reassured.

"I have no power now to remove you from your legal guardians, and you have no right to choose for yourself."

"And when shall I?"

"In a few years."

"A few years! But in the meantime, John, what shall I do without you? If I could see you once in a while, but there is no one here, not a single one to help me to keep right; no one talks to me as you used to; and I am all the while afraid I shall go wrong in something; what shall I do?"

"What the weak must always do, Ellie—seek for strength where it may be had."

"And so I do, John," said Ellen, weeping; "but I want you, oh, how much!"

"Are you not happy here?"

"Yes, I am happy, at least I thought I was half-an-hour ago, as happy as I can be. I have everything to make me happy except what would do it."

"We must both have recourse to our old remedy against sorrow and loneliness—you have not forgotten the use of it, Ellie?"

"No, John," said Ellen, meeting his eyes with a tearful smile.

"They love you here, do they not?"

"Very much—too much."

"And you love them?"

"Yes."

"That's a doubtful 'yes.'"

"I do love my father—very much; and my grandmother too, though not so much. I cannot help loving them, they love me so. But they are so unlike you!"

"That is not much to the purpose, after all," said John, smiling. "There are varieties of excellence in the world."

"Oh yes, but that isn't what I mean; it isn't a variety of excellence. They make me do everything they have a mind; I don't mean," she added, smiling, "that that is not like you, but you always had a reason; they are different. My father makes me drink wine every now and then; I don't like to do it, and he knows I do not, and I think that is the reason I have to do it."

"That is not a matter of great importance, Ellie, provided they do not make you do something wrong."

"They could not do that, I hope; and there is another thing they cannot make me do."

"What is that?"

"Stay here when you will take me away."

There was a few minutes' thoughtful pause on both sides.

"You are grown, Ellie," said John, "you are not the child I left you."

"I don't know," said Ellen, smiling. "It seems to me I am just the same."

"Let me see—look at me!"

She raised her face, and amidst smiles and tears its look was not less clear and frank than his was penetrating. "Just the same," was the verdict of her brother's eyes a moment afterwards. Ellen's smile grew bright as she read it there.

"Why have you never come or written before, John?"

"I did not know where you were. I have not been in England for many months until quite lately, and I could not get your address. I think my father was without it for a long time, and when at last he sent it to me, the letter miscarried—never reached me—there were delays upon delays."

"And when did you get it?"

"I preferred coming to writing."

"And now you must go home so soon!"

"I must, Ellie. My business has lingered on a great while, and it is quite time I should return. I expect to sail next week—Mrs. Gillespie is going with me—her husband stays behind till spring."

Ellen sighed.

"I made a friend of a friend of yours whom I met in Switzerland last summer—M. Muller."

"M. Muller! did you? Oh, I am very glad! I am very glad you know him—he is the best friend I have got here, after my father. I don't know what I should have done without him."

"I have heard him talk of you," said John, smiling.

"He has just come back; he was to be here this evening."

There was a pause again.

"It does not seem right to go home without you, Ellie," said her brother then. "I think you belong to me more than to anybody."

"That is exactly what I think!" said Ellen, with one of her bright looks, and then bursting into tears. "I am very glad you think so too! I will always do whatever you tell me—just as I used to—no matter what anybody else says."

"Perhaps I shall try you in two or three things, Ellie."

"Will you! in what? Oh, it would make me so happy—so much happier if I could be doing something to please you. I wish I was at home with you again!"

"I will bring that about, Ellie, by-and-by, if you make your words good."

"I shall be happy then," said Ellen, her old confidence standing stronger than ever, "because I know you will if you say so. Though how you will manage it I cannot conceive. My father and grandmother and aunt cannot bear to hear me speak of America. I believe they would be glad if there wasn't such a place in the world. They would not even let me think of it if they could help it; I never dare mention your name, or say a word about old times. They are afraid of my loving anybody, I believe. They want to have me all to themselves."

"What will they say to you then, Ellie, if you leave them to give yourself to me?"

"I cannot help it," replied Ellen, "they must say what they please;" and with abundance of energy, and not a few tears, she went on, "I love them, but I had given myself to you a great while ago; long before I was his daughter you called me your little sister—I can't undo that, John, and I don't want to—it doesn't make a bit of difference that we were not born so!"

John suddenly rose and began to walk up and down the room. Ellen soon came to his side, and leaning upon his arm, as she had been used to do in past times, walked up and down with him, at first silently.

"What is it you wanted me to do, John?" she said gently at length; "you said 'two or three' things?"

"One is that you keep up a regular and full correspondence with me."

"I am very glad that you will let me do that," said Ellen, "that is exactly what I should like, but——"

"What?"

"I am afraid they will not let me."

"I will arrange that."

"Very well," said Ellen joyously, "then it will do. Oh, it will make me so happy! And you will write to me?"

"Certainly!"

"And I will tell you everything about myself; and you will tell me how I ought to do in all sorts of things; that will be next best to being with you. And then you will keep me right."

"I won't promise you that, Ellie," said John, smiling, "you must learn to keep yourself right."

"I know you will, though, however you may smile. What next?"

"Read no novels."

"I never do, John. I knew you did not like it, and I have taken good care to keep out of the way of them. If I had told anybody why, though, they would have made me read a dozen."

"Why, Ellie!" said her brother, "you must need some care to keep a straight line where your course lies now."

"Indeed I do, John," said Ellen, her eyes filling with tears; "oh, now I have felt that sometimes! And then how I wanted you!"

Her hand was fondly taken in his, as many a time it had been taken of old, and for a long time they paced up and down; the conversation running sometimes in the strain that both loved and Ellen now never heard; sometimes on other matters; such a conversation as those she had lived upon in former days, and now drank in with a delight and eagerness inexpressible. Mr. Lindsay would have been in dismay to have seen her uplifted face, which, though tears were many a time there, was sparkling and glowing with life and joy in a manner he had never known it. She almost forgot what the morrow would bring, in the exquisite pleasure of the instant, and hung upon every word and look of her brother as if her life were there.

"And in a few weeks," said Ellen, at length, "you will be in our own dear sitting-room again, and riding on the Black Prince! and I shall be here! and it will be——"

"It will be empty without you, Ellie! but we have a friend that is sufficient; let us love Him and be patient."

"It is very hard to be patient," murmured Ellen. "But, dear John, there was something else you wanted me to do? what is it? you said 'two or three' things."

"I will leave that to another time."

"But why? I will do it, whatever it be—pray tell me."

"No," said he, smiling, "not now; you shall know by-and-by—the time is not yet. Have you heard of your old friend, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"No—what of him?"

"He has come out before the world as a Christian man."

"Has he?"

John took a letter from his pocket and opened it.

"You may see what my father says of him; and what he says of you too, Ellie; he has missed you much."

"Oh, I was afraid he would," said Ellen, "I was sure he did!"

She took the letter, but she could not see the words. John told her she might keep it to read at her leisure.

"And how are they all at Ventnor? and how is Mrs. Vawse? and Margery?"

"All well. Mrs. Vawse spends about half her time at my father's."

"I am very glad of that!"

"Mrs. Marshman wrote me to bring you back with me if I could, and said she had a home for you always at Ventnor."

"How kind she is," said Ellen; "how many friends I find everywhere. It seems to me, John, that almost everybody loves me."

"That is a singular circumstance! However, I am no exception to the rule, Ellie."

"Oh, I know that," said Ellen, laughing. "And Mr. George?"

"Mr. George is well."

"How much I love him!" said Ellen. "How much I would give to see him. I wish you could tell me about poor Captain and the Brownie, but I don't suppose you have heard of them. Oh, when I think of it all at home, how I want to be there! Oh, John, sometimes lately I have almost thought I should only see you again in heaven."

"My dear Ellie! I shall see you there, I trust; but if we live we shall spend our lives here together first. And while we are parted we will keep as near as possible by praying for and writing to each other. And what God orders let us quietly submit to."

Ellen had much ado to command herself at the tone of these words and John's manner, as he clasped her in his arms and kissed her brow and lips. She strove to keep back a show of feeling that would distress and might displease him. But the next moment her fluttering spirits were stilled by hearing the few soft words of a prayer that he breathed over her head. It was a prayer for her and for himself, and one of its petitions was that they might be kept to see each other again. Ellen wrote the words on her heart.

"Are you going?"

He showed his watch.

"Well, I shall see you to-morrow!"

"Shall you be here?"

"Certainly; where else should I be? What time must you set out?"

"I need not till afternoon, but—How early can I see you?"

"As early as you please. Oh, spend all the time with me you can, John!"

So it was arranged.

"And now, Ellie, you must go downstairs and present me to Mr. Lindsay."

"To my father!"

For a moment Ellen's face was a compound of expressions. She instantly acquiesced, however, and went down with her brother, her heart, it must be confessed, going very pit-a-pat indeed. She took him into the library, which was not this evening thrown open to company, and sent a servant for Mr. Lindsay. While waiting for his coming, Ellen felt as if she had not the fair use of her senses. Was that John Humphreys quietly walking up and down the library?—Mr. Lindsay's library? and was she about to introduce her brother to the person who had forbidden her to mention his name? There was something, however, in Mr. John's figure and air, in his utter coolness, that insensibly restated her spirits. Triumphant confidence in him overcame the fear of Mr. Lindsay; and when he appeared, Ellen with tolerable composure met him, her hand upon John's arm, and said, "Father, this is Mr. Humphreys"—my brother she dared not add.

"I hope Mr. Lindsay will pardon my giving him this trouble," said the latter; "we have one thing in common which should forbid our being strangers to each other. I, at least, was unwilling to leave Scotland without making myself known to Mr. Lindsay."

Mr. Lindsay most devoutly wished the "thing in common" had been anything else. He bowed, and was "happy to have the pleasure," but evidently neither pleased nor happy. Ellen could see that.

"May I take up five minutes of Mr. Lindsay's time to explain, perhaps to apologise," said John, slightly smiling, "for what I have said?"

A little ashamed, it might be, to have his feeling suspected, Mr. Lindsay instantly granted the request, and politely invited his unwelcome guest to be seated. Obeying a glance from her brother which she understood, Ellen withdrew to the further side of the room, where she could not hear what they said. John took up the history of Ellen's acquaintance with his family, and briefly gave it to Mr. Lindsay, scarce touching on the benefits by them conferred on her, and skilfully dwelling rather on Ellen herself and setting forth what she had been to them. Mr. Lindsay could not be unconscious of what his visitor delicately omitted to hint at, neither could he help making secretly to himself some most unwilling admissions; and though he might wish the speaker at the antipodes, and doubtless did, yet the sketch was too happily given, and his fondness for Ellen too great, for him not to be delightedly interested in what was said of her. And however strong might have been his desire to dismiss his guest in a very summary manner, or to treat him with haughty reserve, the graceful dignity of Mr. Humphreys' manners made either expedient impossible. Mr. Lindsay felt constrained to meet him on his own ground—the ground of high-bred frankness, and grew secretly still more afraid that his real feelings should be discerned.

Ellen from afar, where she could not hear the words, watched the countenances with great anxiety and great admiration. She could see that while her brother spoke with his usual perfect ease, Mr. Lindsay was embarrassed. She half read the truth. She saw the entire politeness while she also saw the secret discomposure, and she felt that the politeness was forced from him. As the conversation went on, however, she wonderingly saw that the cloud on his brow lessened—she saw him even smile; and when at last they rose, and she drew near, she almost thought her ears were playing her false when she heard Mr. Lindsay beg her brother to go in with him to the company and be presented to Mrs. Lindsay. After a moment's hesitation this invitation was accepted, and they went together into the drawing room.

Ellen felt as if she was in a dream. With a face as grave as usual, but with an inward exultation and rejoicing in her brother impossible to describe, she saw him going about among the company, talking to her grandmother—yes, and her grandmother did not look less pleasant than usual—recognising M. Muller, and in conversation with other people whom he knew. With indescribable glee Ellen saw that Mr. Lindsay managed most of the time to be of the same group. Never more than that night did she triumphantly think that Mr. John could do anything. He finished the evening there. Ellen took care not to seem too much occupied with him; but she contrived to be near when he was talking with M. Muller, and to hang upon her father's arm when he was in Mr. John's neighbourhood. And when the latter had taken leave, and was in the hall, Ellen was there before he could be gone. And there came Mr. Lindsay too behind her!

"You will come early to-morrow morning, John?"

"Come to breakfast, Mr. Humphreys, will you?" said Mr. Lindsay, with sufficient cordiality.

But Mr. Humphreys declined this invitation, in spite of the timid touch of Ellen's fingers upon his arm, which begged for a different answer.

"I will be with you early, Ellie," he said, however.

"And oh! John," said Ellen suddenly, "order a horse and let us have one ride together; let me show you Edinburgh."

"By all means," said Mr. Lindsay, "let us show you Edinburgh; but order no horses, Mr. Humphreys, for mine are at your service."

Ellen's other hand was gratefully laid upon her father's arm as this second proposal was made and accepted.

"Let us show you Edinburgh," said Ellen to herself, as she and Mr. Lindsay slowly and gravely went back through the hall. "So there is an end of my fine morning! But, however, how foolish I am! John has his own ways of doing things—he can make it pleasant in spite of everything."

She went to bed, not to sleep indeed, for a long time, but to cry for joy and all sorts of feelings at once.

Good came out of evil, as it often does, and as Ellen's heart presaged it would when she arose the next morning. The ride was preceded by half-an-hour's chat between Mr. John, Mr. Lindsay, and her grandmother; in which the delight of the evening before was renewed and confirmed. Ellen was obliged to look down to hide the too bright satisfaction that she felt was shining in her face. She took no part in the conversation, it was enough to hear. She sat with charmed ears, seeing her brother overturning all her father's and grandmother's prejudices, and making his own way to their respect at least, in spite of themselves. Her marvelling still almost kept even pace with her joy. "I knew he would do what he pleased," she said to herself. "I knew they could not help that; but I did not dream he would ever make them like him—that I never dreamed!"

On the ride again, Ellen could not wish that her father were not with them. She wished for nothing; it was all a maze of pleasure, which there was nothing to mar but the sense that she would by-and-by wake up and find it was a dream. And no, not that either. It was a solid good and blessing, which, though it must come to an end, she should never lose. For the present there was hardly anything to be thought of but enjoyment. She shrewdly guessed that Mr. Lindsay would have enjoyed it too, but for herself; there was a little constraint about him still, she could see. There was none about Mr. John; in the delight of his words and looks and presence, Ellen half the time forgot Mr. Lindsay entirely; she had enough of them, she did not for one moment wish Mr. Lindsay had less.

At last the long, beautiful ride came to an end; and the rest of the morning soon sped away, though, as Ellen had expected, she was not permitted to spend any part of it alone with her brother. Mr. Lindsay asked him to dinner, but this was declined.

Not till long after he was gone did Ellen read Mr. Humphreys' letter. One bit of it may be given.

"Mr. Van Brunt has lately joined our little church. This has given me great pleasure. He has been a regular attendant for a long time before. He ascribes much to your instrumentality; but says his first thoughts (earnest ones) on the subject of religion were on the occasion of a tear that fell from Ellen's eye upon his hand one day when she was talking to him about the matter. He never got over the impression. In his own words, 'it scared him!' That was a dear child! I did not know how dear till I had lost her. I did not know how severely I should feel her absence; nor had I the least notion, when she was with us, of many things respecting her that I have learned since. I half hoped we should yet have her back, but that will not be. I shall be glad to see you, my son."

The correspondence with John was begun immediately, and was the delight of Ellen's life. Mrs. Lindsay and her daughter wished to put a stop to it; but Mr. Lindsay drily said that Mr. Humphreys had frankly spoken of it before him, and as he had made no objection then, he could not now.

Ellen puzzled herself a little to think what could be the third thing John wanted of her; but whatever it were, she was very sure she would do it!

For the gratification of those who are never satisfied, one word shall be added, to wit, that—

The seed so early sown in little Ellen's mind, and so carefully tended by sundry hands, grew in the course of time to all the fair structure and comely perfection it had bid fair to reach; storms and winds that had visited it did but cause the root to take deeper hold; and at the point of its young maturity it happily fell again into those hands that had of all been most successful in its culture. In other words, to speak intelligibly, Ellen did in no wise disappoint her brother's wishes, nor he hers. Three or four more years of Scottish discipline wrought her no ill; they did but serve to temper and beautify her Christian character; and then, to her unspeakable joy, she went back to spend her life with the friends and guardians she best loved, and to be to them still more than she had been to her Scottish relations, the "light of the eyes."

THE END

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THE SAME, in booklet form, 24 pages, printed in two colors, the complete text of the fourth edition. Price, 15c.

Kipling's Poems, Barrack Room Ballads, Departmental Ditties, etc.

Two volumes in one, with glossary. Fourteen full-page pen-and-ink drawings together with a new portrait of the author. Handsomely bound in cloth, gilt tops, and printed on old Chester antique deckle edge paper. Size, 5-1/4 x 7-5/8 in., 340 pages. Price, $1.50.

All books sent postpaid on receipt of price

No Field Collection is Complete
Without this Book

Compiled and edited by Joseph G. Brown, formerly city editor of the Denver Tribune, and an intimate friend and associate of the poet during the several years in which he was on the staff of that paper.

This volume resurrects a literary treasure which has been buried for many years in the forgotten files of a newspaper, and it is, as nearly as it has been possible to make, an absolutely complete collection of the hitherto unpublished poems of the gifted author.

These poems are the early products of Field's genius. They breathe the spirit of Western life of twenty years ago. The reckless cowboy, the bucking broncho, the hardy miner, the English tenderfoot, the coquettish belle, and all the foibles and extravagances of Western social life, are depicted with a naivete and satire, tempered with sympathy and pathos, which no other writer could imitate.

The book contains nearly three hundred pages, including an interesting and valuable introduction by the editor, and is printed from new type on fine deckle edge paper, and handsomely bound in cloth, with gilt tops.

Retail price, 75 cents