  Breakfast was on the table in Mr. Hamlyn’s house in Bryanston Square, and Mrs. Hamlyn waited, all impatience, for her lord and master. Not in any particular impatience for the meal itself, but that she might “have it out with him”—the phrase was hers, not mine, as you will see presently—in regard to the perplexity existing in her mind connected with the strange appearance of the damsel watching the house, in her beauty and her pale golden hair. Why had Philip Hamlyn turned sick and faint—to judge by his changing countenance—when she had charged him at dinner, the previous evening, with knowing something of this mysterious woman? Mysterious in her actions, at all events; probably in herself. Mrs. Hamlyn wanted to know that. No further opportunity had then been given for pursuing the subject. Japhet had returned to the room, and before the dinner was at an end, some acquaintance of Mr. Hamlyn had fetched him out for the evening. And he came home with so fearful a headache that he had lain groaning and turning all through the night. Mrs. Hamlyn was not a model of patience, but in all her life she had never felt so impatient as now. He came into the room looking pale and shivery; a sure sign that he was suffering; that it was not an invented excuse. Yes, the pain was better, he said, in answer to his wife’s question; and might be much better after a strong cup of tea; he could not imagine what had brought it on. She could have told him, though, had she been gifted with the magical power of reading minds, and have seen the nervous apprehension that was making havoc with his. Mrs. Hamlyn gave him his tea in silence, and buttered a dainty bit of toast to tempt him to eat. But he shook his head. “I cannot, Eliza. Nothing but tea this morning.” “I am sorry you are ill,” she said, by-and-by. “I fear it hurts you to talk; but I want to have it out with you.” “Have it out with me!” cried he, in real or feigned surprise. “Have what out with me?” “Oh, you know, Philip. About that woman who has been watching the house these two days; evidently watching for you.” “But I told you I knew nothing about her: who she is, or what she is, or what she wants. I really do not know.” Well, so far that was true. But all the while a sick fear lay on his heart that he did know; or, rather, that he was destined to know very shortly. “When I told you her hair was like threads of fine, pale gold, you seemed to start, Philip, as if you knew some girl or woman with such hair, or had known her.” “I daresay I have known a score of women with such hair. My dear little sister who died, for instance.” “Do not attempt to evade the subject,” was the haughty reprimand. “If——” Mrs. Hamlyn’s sharp speech was interrupted by the entrance of Japhet, bringing in the morning letters. Only “It seems to be important, ma’am,” Japhet remarked, with the privilege of an old servant, as he handed it to his mistress. She saw it was from Leet Hall, in Mrs. Carradyne’s handwriting, and bore the words: “In haste,” above the address. Tearing it open Eliza Hamlyn read the short, sad news it contained. Captain Monk had been taken suddenly ill with inward inflammation. Mr. Speck feared the worst, and the Captain had asked for Eliza. Would she come down at once? “Oh, Philip, I must not lose a minute,” she exclaimed, passing the letter to him, and forgetting the pale gold hair and its owner. “Do you know anything about the Worcestershire trains?” “No,” he answered. “The better plan will be to get to the station as soon as possible, and then you will be ready for the first train that starts.” “Will you go down with me, Philip?” “I cannot. I will take you to the station.” “Why can’t you?” “Because I cannot just now leave London. My dear, you may believe me, for it is the truth. I cannot do so. I wish I could.” And she saw it was true: for his tone was so earnest as to tell of pain. Making what haste she could, kissing her boy a hundred times, and recommending him to the special care of his nurse and of his father during her absence, she drove with her husband to the station, and was just in time for a train. Mr. Hamlyn watched it steam out of the station, and then looked up at the clock. “I suppose it’s not too early to see him,” he muttered. Dismissing his carriage, for he felt more inclined to walk than to drive, he went through the park to Pimlico, and gained the house of Major Pratt. This was Friday. On the previous Wednesday evening a note had been brought to Mr. Hamlyn by Major Pratt’s servant, a sentence in which, as the reader may remember, ran as follows:— “I suppose there was no mistake in the report that that ship did go down?—and that none of the passengers were saved from it?” This puzzled Philip Hamlyn: perhaps somewhat troubled him in a hazy kind of way. For he could only suppose that the ship alluded to must be the sailing-vessel in which his first wife, false and faithless, and his little son of a twelvemonth old had been lost some five or six years ago—the Clipper of the Seas. And the next day (Thursday) he had gone to Major Pratt’s, as requested, to carry the prescription for gout he had asked for, and also to inquire of the Major what he meant. But the visit was a fruitless one. Major Pratt was in bed with an attack of gout, so ill and so “crusty” that nothing could be got out of him excepting a few bad words and as many groans. Mr. Hamlyn then questioned Saul—of whom he used to see a good deal in India, for he had been the Major’s servant for years and years. “Do you happen to know, Saul, whether the Major wanted me for anything in particular? He asked me to call here this morning.” Saul began to consider. He was a tall, thin, cautious, slow-speaking man, honest as the day, and very much attached to his master. “Well, sir, he got a letter yesterday morning that seemed to put him out, for I found him swearing over it. And he said he’d like you to see it.” “Who was the letter from? What was it about?” “It looked like Miss Caroline’s writing, sir, and the postmark was Essex. As to what it was about—well, the Major didn’t directly tell me, but I gathered that it might be about——” “About what?” questioned Mr. Hamlyn, for the man had come to a dead standstill. “Speak out, Saul.” “Then, sir,” said Saul, slowly rubbing the top of his head, and the few grey hairs left on it, “I thought—as you tell me to speak—it must be something concerning that ship you know of; she that went down on her voyage home, Mr. Philip.” “The Clipper of the Seas?” “Just so, sir; the Clipper of the Seas. I thought it by this,” added Saul: “that pretty nigh all day afterwards he talked of nothing but that ship, asking me if I should suppose it possible that the ship had not gone down and every soul on board, leastways of her passengers, with her. ‘Master,’ said I, in answer, ‘had that ship not gone down and all her passengers with her, rely upon it, they’d have turned up long before this.’ ‘Ay, ay,’ stormed he, ‘and Caroline’s a fool.’—Which of course meant his sister, you know, sir.” Philip Hamlyn could not make much of this. So many years had elapsed now since news came out to the world that the unfortunate ship, Clipper of the Seas, went down off the coast of Spain on her homeward voyage, and all her passengers with her, as to be a fact of the past. Never a doubt had been cast upon any part of the tidings, so far as he knew. With an uneasy feeling at his heart, he went off to the “The Clipper of the Seas?” repeated the old gentleman, after listening to what Mr. Hamlyn had to say. “No, sir, we don’t know that any of her passengers were saved; always supposed they were not. But lately we have had some little cause to doubt whether one or two might not have been.” Philip Hamlyn’s heart beat faster. “Will you tell me why you think this?” “It isn’t that we think it; at best ’tis but a doubt,” was the reply. “One of our own ships, getting in last month from Madras, had a sailor on board who chanced to remark to me, when he was up here getting his pay, that it was not the first time he had served in our employ: he had been in that ship that was lost, the Clipper of the Seas. And he went on to say, in answer to a remark of mine about all the passengers having been lost, that that was not quite correct, for that one of them had certainly been saved—a lady or a nurse, he didn’t know which, and also a little child that she was in charge of. He was positive about it, he added, upon my expressing my doubts, for they got to shore in the same small boat that he did.” “Is it true, think you?” gasped Mr. Hamlyn. “Sir, we are inclined to think it is not true,” emphatically spoke the old gentleman. “Upon inquiring about this man’s character, we found that he is given to drinking, so that what he says cannot always be relied upon. Again, it seems next to an impossibility that if any passenger were saved we should not have heard of it. Altogether we feel inclined to judge that the man, though evidently believing he spoke truth, was but labouring under an hallucination.” “Can you tell me where I can find the man?” asked Mr. Hamlyn, after a pause. “Not anywhere at present, sir. He has sailed again.” So that ended it for the day. Philip Hamlyn went home and sat down to dinner with his wife, as already spoken of. And when she told him that the mysterious lady waiting outside must be waiting for him—probably some acquaintance of his of the years gone by—it set his brain working and his pulses throbbing, for he suddenly connected her with what he had that day heard. No wonder his head ached! To-day, after seeing his wife off by train, he went to find Major Pratt. The Major was better, and could talk, swearing a great deal over the gout, and the letter. “It was from Caroline,” he said, alluding to his sister, Miss Pratt, who had been with him in India. “She lives in Essex, you know, Philip.” “Oh, yes, I know,” answered Philip Hamlyn. “But what is it that Caroline says in her letter?” “You shall hear,” said the Major, producing his sister’s letter and opening it. “Listen. Here it is. ‘The strangest thing has happened, brother! Susan went to London yesterday to get my fronts recurled at the hairdresser’s, and she was waiting in the shop, when a lady came out of the back room, having been in there to get a little boy’s hair cut. Susan was quite struck dumb when she saw her: she thinks it was poor erring Dolly; never saw such a likeness before, she says; could almost swear to her by the lovely pale gold hair. The lady pulled her veil over her face when she saw Susan staring at her, and went away with great speed. Susan asked the hairdresser’s people if they knew the lady’s name, or who she was, but they told her she was a stranger to them; had never been in the shop before. Dear Richard, this is troubling me; I could not “It cannot possibly be true,” cried Mr. Hamlyn with quivering lips. “True, no! of course it can’t be, hang it! Or else what would you do?” That might be logical though not satisfactory reasoning. And Mr. Hamlyn thought of the woman said to be watching for him, and her pale gold hair. “She was a cunning jade, if ever there was one, mark you, Philip Hamlyn; that false wife of yours and kin of mine; came of a cunning family on the mother’s side. Put it that she was saved: if it suited her to let us suppose she was drowned, why, she’d do it. I know Dolly.” And poor Philip Hamlyn, assenting to the truth of this with all his heart, went out to face the battle that might be coming upon him, lacking the courage for it. IIThe cold, clear afternoon air touching their healthy faces, and Jack Frost nipping their noses, raced Miss West and Kate Dancox up and down the hawthorn walk. It had pleased that arbitrary young damsel, who was still very childish, to enter a protest against going beyond the grounds that fine winter’s day; she would be in the hawthorn walk, or nowhere; and she would run races there. As Miss West gave in to her whims for peace’ sake in things not Captain Monk was recovering rapidly. His sudden illness had been caused by drinking some cold cider when some out-door exercise had made him dangerously hot. The alarm and apprehension had now subsided; and Mrs. Hamlyn, arriving three days ago in answer to the hasty summons, was thinking of returning to London. “You are cheating!” called out Kate, flying off at a tangent to cross her governess’s path. “You’ve no right to get before me!” “Gently,” corrected Miss West. “My dear, we have run enough for to-day.” “We haven’t, you ugly, cross old thing! Aunt Eliza says you are ugly. And—” The young lady’s amenities were cut short by finding herself suddenly lifted off her feet by Mr. Harry Carradyne, who had come behind them. “Let me alone, Harry! You are always coming where you are not wanted. Aunt Eliza says so.” A sudden light, as of mirth, illumined Harry Carradyne’s fresh, frank countenance. “Aunt Eliza says all those things, does she? Well, Miss Kate, she also says something else—that you are now to go indoors.” “What for? I shan’t go in.” “Oh, very well. Then that dandified silk frock for the new year that the dressmaker is waiting to try on can be put aside until midsummer.” Kate dearly loved new silk frocks, and she raced away. The governess followed more slowly, Mr. Carradyne talking by her side. For some months now their love-dream had been going on; aye, and the love-making too. Not altogether surreptitiously; neither of them would have liked that. Though Alice West turned her face, blushing uncomfortably, to him as they walked. “I am glad to have this opportunity of saying something to you,” she spoke with hesitation. “Are you not upon rather bad terms with Mrs. Hamlyn?” “She is with me,” replied Harry. “And—am I the cause?” continued Alice, feeling as if her fears were confirmed. “Not at all. She has not fathomed the truth yet, with all her penetration, though she may have some suspicion of it. Eliza wants to bend me to her will in the matter of the house, and I won’t be bent. Old Peveril wishes to resign the lease of Peacock Range to me; I wish to take it from him, and Eliza objects. She says Peveril promised her the house until the seven years’ lease was out, and that she means to keep him to his bargain.” “Do you quarrel?” “Quarrel! no,” laughed Harry Carradyne. “I joke with her, rather than quarrel. But I don’t give in. She pays me some left-handed compliments, telling me that I am no gentleman, that I’m a bear, and so on; to which I make my bow.” Alice West was gazing straight before her, a troubled look in her eyes. “Then you see that I am the remote cause of the quarrel, Harry. But for thinking of me, you would not care to take the house on your own hands.” “I don’t know that. Be very sure of one thing, Alice: that I shall not stay an hour longer under the roof here if my uncle disinherits me. That he, a man of indomitable will, should be so long making up his mind is a proof that he shrinks from committing the injustice. The suspense it keeps me in is the worst of all. I told him so the other evening when we were sitting together and he was in an Alice drew a long breath at his temerity. Harry laughed. “Indeed, I quite expected to be ordered out of the room in a storm. Instead of that, he took it quietly, civilly telling me to have a little more patience; and then began to speak of the annual new year’s dinner, which is not far off now.” “Mrs. Carradyne is thinking that he may not hold the dinner this year, as he has been so ill,” remarked the young lady. “He will never give that up, Alice, as long as he can hold anything; and he is almost well again, you know. Oh, yes; we shall have the dinner and the chimes also.” “I have never heard the chimes,” she said. “They have not played since I came to Church Leet.” “They are to play this year,” said Harry Carradyne. “But I don’t think my mother knows it.” “Is it true that Mrs. Carradyne does not like to hear the chimes? I seem to have gathered the idea, somehow,” added Alice. But she received no answer. Kate Dancox was changeable as the ever-shifting sea. Delighted with the frock that was in process, she extended her approbation to its maker; and when Mrs. Ram, a homely workwoman, departed with her small bundle in her arms, it pleased the young lady to say she would attend her to her home. This involved the attendance of Miss West, who now found herself summoned to the charge. Having escorted Mrs. Ram to her lowly door, and had innumerable intricate questions answered touching trimmings and fringes, Miss Kate Dancox, disregarding her governess altogether, flew back along the road with all the speed of her active limbs, and disappeared within the churchyard. At first Alice, who was growing tired and “There!” exclaimed Alice, sitting down on the stump of an old tree, close to the low wall. “You’ve hurt yourself now.” “Oh, it’s nothing,” returned Kate, who did not make much of smarts. And she went limping away to Mr. Grame, then doing some light work in his garden. Alice sat on where she was, reading the inscriptions on the tombstones; some of them so faint with time as to be hardly discernible. While standing up to make out one that seemed of a rather better class than the rest, she observed Nancy Cale, the clerk’s wife, sitting in the church-porch and watching her attentively. The poor old woman had been ill for a long time, and Alice was surprised to see her out. Leaving the inscriptions, she went across the churchyard. “Ay, my dear young lady, I be up again, and thankful enough to say it; and I thought as the day’s so fine, I’d step out a bit,” she said, in answer to the salutation. An intelligent woman, and quite sufficiently cultivated for her work—cleaning the church and washing the parson’s surplices. “I thought John was in the church here, and came to speak to him; but he’s not, I find; the door’s locked.” “I saw John down by Mrs. Ram’s just now; he was talking to Nott, the carpenter,” observed Alice. “Nancy, I was trying to make out some of those old names; but it is difficult to do so,” she added, pointing to the crowded corner. “Ay, I see, my dear,” nodded Nancy. “His be worn a’most right off. I think I’d have it done again, an I was you.” “Have what done again?” “The name upon your poor papa’s gravestone.” “The what?” exclaimed Alice. And Nancy repeated her words. Alice stared at her. Had Mrs. Cale’s wits vanished in her illness? “Do you know what you are saying, Nancy?” she cried; “I don’t. What had papa to do with this place? I think you must be wandering.” Nancy stared in her turn. “Sure, it’s not possible,” she said slowly, beginning to put two and two together, “that you don’t know who you are, Miss West? That your papa died here? and lies buried here?” Alice West turned white, and sat down on the opposite bench to Nancy. She did know that her father had died at some small country living he held; but she never suspected that it was at Church Leet. Her mother had gone to London after his death, and set up a school—which succeeded well. But soon she died, and the ladies who took to the school before her death took to Alice with it. The child was still too young to be told by her mother of the serious past—or Mrs. West deemed her to be so. And she had grown up in ignorance of her father’s fate and of where he died. “When we heard, me and John, that it was a Miss West who had come to the Hall to be governess to Parson Dancox’s child, the name struck us both,” went on Nancy. “Next we looked at your face, my dear, to trace any likeness there might be, and we thought we saw it—for you’ve got your papa’s eyes for certain. Then, one day when I was dusting in here, I let fall a hymn-book from the Hall pew; in picking it up it came open, and the name writ in it stared me in the face, ‘Alice West.’ After that, we had no manner of doubt, him and me, and I’ve often wished to talk with you and tell you so. My dear, I’ve had you on my knee many a time when you were a little one.” Alice burst into tears of agitation. “I never knew it! I never knew it. Dear Nancy, what did papa die of?” “Ah, that was a sad piece of business—he was killed,” said Nancy. And forthwith, rightly or wrongly, she, garrulous with old age, told all the history. It was an exciting interview, lasting until the shades of evening surprised them. Miss Kate Dancox might have gone roving to the other end of the globe, for all the attention given her just then. Poor Alice cried and sighed, and trembled inwardly and outwardly. “To think that it should just be to this place that I should come as governess, and to the house of Captain Monk!” she wailed. “Surely he did not kill papa!—intentionally!” “No, no; nobody has ever thought that,” disclaimed Nancy. “The Captain is a passionate man, as is well-known, and they quarrelled, and a hot blow, not intentional, must have been struck between ’em. And all through them blessed chimes, Miss Alice! Not but that they be sweet to listen to—and they be going to ring again this New Year’s Eve.” Drawing her warm cloak about her, Nancy Cale set off towards her cottage. Alice West sat on in the sheltered porch, utterly bewildered. Never in her life had she felt so agitated, so incapable of sound and sober thought. Now it was explained why the bow-windowed sitting-room at the Vicarage would always strike her as being familiar to her memory; as though she had at some time known one that resembled it, or perhaps seen one like it in a dream. “Well, I’m sure!” The jesting salutation came from Harry Carradyne. Despatched in search of the truants, he had found Kate at the Vicarage, making much of the last new baby there, and devouring a sumptuous tea of cakes and jam. Miss West? “Why! What is it?” he exclaimed in dismay, finding that the burst of emotion which he had taken to be laughter, meant tears. “What has happened, Alice?” She could no more have kept the tears in than she could help—presently—telling him the news. He sat down by her and held her close to him, and pressed for it. She was the daughter of George West, who had died in the dispute with Captain Monk in the dining-room at the hall so many years before, and who was lying here in the corner of the churchyard; and she had never, never known it! Mr. Carradyne was somewhat taken to; there was no denying it; chiefly by surprise. “I thought your father was a soldier, Alice—Colonel West; and died when serving in India. I’m sure it was said so when you came.” “Oh, no, that could not have been said,” she cried; “unless Mrs. Moffit, the agent, made a mistake. It was my uncle who died in India. No one here ever questioned me about my parents, knowing they were dead. Oh, dear,” she went on in agitation, after a silent pause, “what am I to do now? I cannot stay at the Hall. Captain Monk would not allow it either.” “No need to tell him,” quoth Mr. Harry. “And—of course—we must part. You and I.” “Indeed! Who says so?” “I am not sure that it would be right to—to—you know.” “To what? Go on, my dear.” Alice sighed; her eyes were fixed thoughtfully on the fast-falling twilight. “Mrs. Carradyne will not care for me when she knows who I am,” she said in low tones. “My dear, shall I tell you how it strikes me?” returned Harry: “that my mother will be only the more anxious to But when a climax such as this takes place, the right or the wrong thing to be done cannot be settled in a moment. Alice West did not see her way quite clearly, and for the present she neither said nor did anything. This little matter occurred on the Friday in Christmas week; on the following day, Saturday, Mrs. Hamlyn was returning to London. Christmas Day this year had fallen on a Monday. Some old wives hold a superstition that when that happens, it inaugurates but small luck for the following year, either for communities or for individuals. Not that that fancy has anything to do with the present history. Captain Monk’s banquet would not be held until the Monday night: as was customary when New Year’s Eve fell on a Sunday. He had urged his daughter to remain over New Year’s Day; but she declined, on the plea that as she had been away from her husband on Christmas Day, she would like to pass New Year’s Day with him. The truth being that she wanted to get to London to see after that yellow-haired lady who was supposed to be peeping after Philip Hamlyn. On the Saturday morning Mrs. Hamlyn was driven to Evesham in the close carriage, and took the train to London. Her husband, ever kind and attentive, met her at the Paddington terminus. He was looking haggard, and seemed to be thinner than when she left him nine days ago. “Are you well, Philip?” she asked anxiously. “Oh, quite well,” quickly answered poor Philip Hamlyn, smiling a warm smile, that he meant to look like a gay one. “Nothing ever ails me.” No, nothing might ail him bodily; but mentally—ah, “And how have things been going, Penelope?” asked Mrs. Hamlyn of the nurse, as she sat in the nursery with her boy upon her knee. “All right?” “Quite so, ma’am. Master Walter has been just as good as gold.” “Mamma’s darling!” murmured the doting mother, burying her face in his. “I have been thinking, Penelope, that your master does not look well,” she added after a minute. “No, ma’am? I’ve not noticed it. We have not seen much of him up here; he has been at his club a good deal—and dined three or four times with old Major Pratt.” “As if she would notice it!—servants never notice anything!” thought Eliza Hamlyn in her imperious way of judging the world. “By the way, Penelope,” she said aloud in light and careless tones, “has that woman with the yellow hair been seen about much?—has she presumed again to accost my little son?” “The woman with the yellow hair?” repeated Penelope, looking at her mistress, for the girl had quite forgotten the episode. “Oh, I remember—she that stood outside there and came to us in the square-garden. No, ma’am, I’ve seen nothing at all of her since that day.” “For there are wicked people who prowl about to kidnap children,” continued Mrs. Hamlyn, as if she would condescend to explain her inquiry, “and that woman looked like one. Never suffer her to approach my darling again. Mind that, Penelope.” The jealous heart is not easily reassured. And Mrs. Hamlyn, restless and suspicious, put the same question to her husband. It was whilst they were waiting in the drawing-room for dinner to be announced, and she had come down from changing her apparel after her journey. How handsome she looked! a right regal woman! as she stood there arrayed in dark blue velvet, the firelight playing upon her proud face, and upon the diamond earrings and brooch she wore. “Philip, has that woman been prowling about here again?” Just for an imperceptible second, for thought is quick, it occurred to Philip Hamlyn to temporize, to affect ignorance, and say, What woman? just as if his mind was not full of the woman, and of nothing else. But he abandoned it as useless. “I have not seen her since; not at all,” he answered: and though his words were purposely indifferent, his wife, knowing all his tones and ways by heart, was not deceived. “He is afraid of that woman,” she whispered to herself; “or else afraid of me.” But she said no more. “Have you come to any definite understanding with Mr. Carradyne in regard to Peacock’s Range, Eliza?” “He will not come to any; he is civilly obstinate over it. Laughs in my face with the most perfect impudence, and tells me: ‘A man must be allowed to put in his own claim to his own house, when he wants to do so.’” “Well, Eliza, that seems to be only right and fair. Peveril made no positive agreement with us, remember.” “Is it right and fair? That may be your opinion, Philip, but it is not mine. We shall see, Mr. Harry Carradyne!” “Dinner is served, ma’am,” announced the old butler. That evening passed. Sunday passed, the last day of the dying year; and Monday morning, New Year’s Day, dawned. New Year’s Day. Mr. and Mrs. Hamlyn were seated at the breakfast-table. It was a bright, cold, sunny morning, showing plenty of blue sky. Young Master Walter, in consideration of the day, was breakfasting at their table, seated in his high chair. “Me to have dinner wid mamma to-day! Me have pudding!” “That you shall, my sweetest; and everything that’s good,” assented his mother. In came Japhet at this juncture. “There’s a little boy in the hall, sir, asking to see you,” said he to his master. “He——” “Oh, we shall have plenty of boys here to-day, asking for a new year’s gift,” interposed Mrs. Hamlyn, rather impatiently. “Send him a shilling, Philip.” “It’s not a poor boy, ma’am,” answered Japhet, “but a little gentleman: six or seven years old, he looks. He says he particularly wants to see master.” Philip Hamlyn smiled. “Particularly wants a shilling, I expect. Send him in, Japhet.” The lad came in. A well-dressed beautiful boy, refined in looks and demeanour, bearing in his face a strange likeness to Mr. Hamlyn. He looked about timidly. Eliza, struck with the resemblance, gazed at him. Her husband spoke. “What do you want with me, my lad?” “If you please, sir, are you Mr. Hamlyn?” asked the child, going forward with hesitating steps. “Are you my papa?” Every drop of blood seemed to leave Philip Hamlyn’s face and fly to his heart. He could not speak, and looked white as a ghost. “Who are you? What is your name?” imperiously demanded Philip’s wife. “It is Walter Hamlyn,” replied the lad, in clear, pretty tones. And now it was Mrs. Hamlyn’s turn to look white. Walter Hamlyn?—the name of her own dear son! when she had expected him to say Sam Smith, or John Jones! What insolence some people had! “Where do you come from, boy? Who sent you here?” she reiterated. “I come from mamma. She would have sent me before, but I caught cold, and was in bed all last week.” Mr. Hamlyn rose. It was a momentous predicament, but he must do the best he could in it. He was a man of nice honour, and he wished with all his heart that the earth would open and engulf him. “Eliza, my love, allow me to deal with this matter,” he said, his voice taking a low, tender, considerate tone. “I will question the boy in another room. Some mistake, I reckon.” “No, Philip, you must put your questions before me,” she said, resolute in her anger. “What is it you are fearing? Better tell me all, however disreputable it may be.” “I dare not tell you,” he gasped; “it is not—I fear—the disreputable thing you may be fancying.” “Not dare! By what right do you call this gentleman ‘papa’?” she passionately demanded of the child. “Mamma told me to. She would never let me come home to him before because of not wishing to part from me.” Mrs. Hamlyn gazed at him. “Where were you born?” “At Calcutta; that’s in India. Mamma brought me home in the Clipper of the Seas, and the ship went down, but quite everybody was not lost in it, though papa thought so.” The boy had evidently been well instructed. Eliza “Philip! Philip! is it true? Was it this you feared?” He made a motion of assent and covered his face. “Heaven knows I would rather have died.” He stood back against the window-curtains, that they might shade his pain. She fell into a chair and wished he had died, years before. But what was to be the end of it all? Though Eliza Hamlyn went straight out and despatched that syren of the golden hair with a poison-tipped bodkin (and possibly her will might be good to do it), it could not make things any the better for herself. IIINew Year’s Night at Leet Hall, and the banquet in full swing—but not, as usual, New Year’s Eve. Captain Monk headed his table, the parson, Robert Grame, at his right hand, Harry Carradyne on his left. Whether it might be that the world, even that out-of-the-way part of it, Church Leet, was improving in manners and morals; or whether the Captain himself was changing: certain it was that the board was not the free board it used to be. Mrs. Carradyne herself might have sat at it now, and never once blushed by as much as the pink of a seashell. It was known that the chimes were to play this year; and, when midnight was close at hand, Captain Monk volunteered a statement which astonished his hearers. Rimmer, the butler, had come into the room to open the windows. “I am getting tired of the chimes, and all people have “Really, Uncle Godfrey!” cried Harry Carradyne, in most intense surprise. “I hope they’ll bring us no ill-luck to-night!” continued Captain Monk as a grim joke, disregarding Harry’s remark. “Perhaps they will, though, out of sheer spite, knowing they’ll never have another chance of it. Well, well, they’re welcome. Fill your glasses, gentlemen.” Rimmer was throwing up the windows. In another minute the church clock boomed out the first stroke of twelve, and the room fell into a dead silence. With the last stroke the Captain rose, glass in hand. “A happy New Year to you, gentlemen! A happy New Year to us all. May it bring to us health and prosperity!” “And God’s blessing,” reverently added Robert Grame aloud, as if to remedy an omission. Ring, ring, ring! Ah, there it came, the soft harmony of the chimes, stealing up through the midnight air. Not quite as loudly heard perhaps, as usual, for there was no wind to waft it, but in tones wondrously clear and sweet. Never had the strains of “The Bay of Biscay” brought to the ear more charming melody. How soothing it was to those enrapt listeners; seeming to tell of peace. But soon another sound arose to mingle with it. A harsh, grating sound, like the noise of wheels passing over gravel. Heads were lifted; glances expressed surprise. With the last strains of the chimes dying away in the distance, a carriage of some kind galloped up to the hall door. Eliza Hamlyn alighted from it—with her child and its A tale that distressed Mrs. Carradyne to sickness. A tale that so abjectly terrified Captain Monk, when it was imparted to him on Tuesday morning, as to take every atom of fierceness out of his composition. “Not Hamlyn’s wife!” he gasped. “Eliza!” “No, not his wife,” she retorted, a great deal too angry herself to be anything but fierce and fiery. “That other woman, that false first wife of his, was not drowned, as was set forth, and she has come to claim him with their son.” “His wife; their son,” muttered the Captain as if he were bewildered. “Then what are you?—what is your son? Oh, my poor Eliza.” “Yes, what are we? Papa, I will bring him to answer for it before his country’s tribunal—if there be law in the land.” No one spoke to this. It may have occurred to them to remember that Mr. Hamlyn could not legally be punished for what he did in innocence. Captain Monk opened the glass doors and walked on to the terrace, as if the air of the room were oppressive. Eliza went out after him. “Papa,” she said, “there now exists all the more reason for your making my darling your heir. Let it be settled without delay. He must succeed to Leet Hall.” Captain Monk looked at his daughter as if not understanding her. “No, no, no,” he said. “My child, you forget; trouble must be obscuring your faculties. None but “Is he to be your heir? Is it so ordered?” “Irrevocably. I have told him so this morning.” “What am I to do?” she wailed in bitter despair. “Papa, what is to become of me—and of my unoffending child?” “I don’t know: I wish I did know. It will be a cruel blight upon us all. You will have to live it down, Eliza. Ah, child, if you and Katherine had only listened to me, and not made those rebellious marriages!” He turned away as he spoke in the direction of the church, to see that his orders were being executed there. Harry Carradyne ran after him. The clock was striking midday as they entered the churchyard. Yes, the workmen were at their work—taking down the bells. “If the time were to come over again, Harry,” began Captain Monk as they were walking homeward, he leaning upon his nephew’s arm, “I wouldn’t have them put up. They don’t seem to have brought luck somehow, as the parish has been free to say. Not but that it must be utter nonsense.” “Well, no, they don’t, uncle,” assented Harry. “As one grows in years, one gets to look at things differently, lad. Actions that seemed laudable enough when one’s blood was young and hot, crop up again then, wearing another aspect. But for those chimes, poor West would not have died as he did. I have had him upon my mind a good bit lately.” Surely Captain Monk was wonderfully changing! And he was leaning heavily upon Harry’s arm. “Are you tired, uncle? Would you like to sit down on this bench and rest?” “No, I’m not tired. It’s West I’m thinking about. He lies on my mind sadly. And I never did anything for the wife or child to atone to them! It’s too late now—and has been this many a year.” Harry Carradyne’s heart began to beat a little. Should he say what he had been hoping to say sometime? He might never have a better opportunity than this. “Uncle Godfrey,” he spoke in low tones, “would you—would you like to see Mr. West’s daughter? His wife has been dead a long while; but—would you like to see her—Alice?” “Ay,” fervently spoke the old man. “If she be in the land of the living, bring her to me. I’ll tell her how sorry I am, and how I would undo the past if I could. And I’ll ask her if she’ll be to me as a daughter.” So then Harry Carradyne told him all. It was Alice West who was already under his roof, and who, fate and fortune permitting, Heaven permitting, would sometime be Alice Carradyne. Down sat Captain Monk on a bench of his own accord. Tears rose to his eyes. The sudden revulsion of feeling was great: and truly he was a changed man. “You spoke of Heaven, Harry. I shall begin to think it has forgiven me. Let us be thankful.” But Captain Monk found he had more to thank Heaven for ere many minutes had elapsed. As Harry Carradyne sat by him in silence, marvelling at the change, yet knowing that the grievous blow which was making havoc of Eliza had effected the completeness of the subduing, he caught sight of an approaching fly. Another fly from the railway station at Evesham. “How dare you come here, you villain!” shouted Captain Philip Hamlyn, smiling kindly and calmly, caught Captain Monk’s lifted hands. “No evil, sir,” he said, soothingly. “It was all a mistake. Eliza is my true and lawful wife.” “Eh? What’s that?” said the Captain quite in a whisper, his lips trembling. Quietly Philip Hamlyn explained. He had taken the previous day to investigate the matter, and had followed his wife down by a night train. His first wife was dead. She had been drowned in the Clipper of the Seas, as was supposed. The child was saved, with his nurse: the only two passengers who were saved. The nurse made her way to a place in the south of France, where, as she knew, her late mistress’s sister lived, Mrs. O’Connett, formerly Miss Sophia Pratt. Mrs. O’Connett, a young widow, had just lost her only child, a boy about the age of the little one rescued from the cruel seas. She seized on him with feverish avidity, adopted him as her own, quitted the place for another Anglo-French town where she was not previously known, taught the child to call her “Mamma,” and had never let it transpire that the boy was not hers. But now, after the lapse of a few years, Mrs. O’Connett was on the eve of marriage with an Irish Major. To him she told the truth; and, as he did not want to marry the child as well as herself, he persuaded her to return him to his father. Mrs. O’Connett brought the child to London, ascertained Mr. Hamlyn’s address, and all about him, and watched about to speak to him, alone if possible, unknown to his wife. Remembering what had been the behaviour of the child’s mother, she was by no means sure of a good reception from That was the truth—and I have had to tell it in a nutshell, space growing limited. Philip Hamlyn had ascertained it all beyond possibility of dispute, had seen Mrs. O’Connett, and had brought down the good tidings. Of all the curious sights this record has afforded, perhaps the most surprising was to see Captain Monk pass his arm lovingly within that of Philip Hamlyn and march off with him to Leet Hall as if he were a prize to be coveted. “Here he is, Eliza,” said he; “he has come to cheer both you and me.” For once in her life Eliza Hamlyn was subdued to meekness. She kissed her husband and shed happy tears. She was his lawful wife, and the little one was his lawful child. True, there was an elder son; but, compared with what had been feared, that was a slight evil. “We must make them true brothers, Eliza,” whispered Philip Hamlyn. “They shall share alike all I have and all I leave behind me. And our own little one must be called James in future.” “And you and I will be good friends from henceforth,” cried Captain Monk warmly, clasping Philip Hamlyn’s ready hand. “I have been to blame in more ways than one, giving the reins unduly to my arbitrary temper. It seems to me, however, that life holds enough of real angles for us without creating any for ourselves.” And surely it did seem, as Mrs. Carradyne would have liked to point out aloud, that those chimes had been fraught with messages of evil. For had not all these blessings set Harry Carradyne had drawn his uncle from the room; he now came in again, bringing Alice West. Her face was a picture of agitation, for she had been made known to Captain Monk. Harry led her up to Mrs. Hamlyn, with a beaming smile and a whisper. “Eliza, as we seem to be going in generally for amenities, won’t you give just a little corner of your heart to her? We owe her some reparation for the past. It is her father who lies in that grave at the north end of the churchyard.” Eliza started. “Her father! Poor George West her father?” “Even so.” Just a moment’s struggle with her rebellious spirit and Mrs. Hamlyn stooped to kiss the trembling girl. “Yes, Alice, we do owe you reparation amongst us, and we must try to make it,” she said heartily. “I see how it is: you will reign here with Harry; and I think he will be able, after all, to let us keep Peacock’s Range.” There came a grand wedding, Captain Monk himself giving Alice away. But Mr. and Mrs. Hamlyn did not retain Peacock’s Range; they and their boys, the two Walters, had to look out for another local residence; for Mrs. Carradyne retired to Peacock’s Range herself. Now that Leet Hall had a young mistress, she deemed it policy to quit it; though it should have as much of her as it pleased as a visitor. And Captain Godfrey Monk made himself happier in these peaceful days than he had ever been in his stormy ones. And that’s the history. If I had to begin it again, I don’t think I should write it; for I have had to take its details from other people—chiefly from the Squire and old And those unfortunate chimes have nearly passed out of memory with the lapse of years. The “Silent Chimes” they are always called when, by chance, allusion is made to them, and will be so called for ever. THE END LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS LIMITED, Mrs. HENRY WOOD’S NOVELS SALE TWO AND A HALF MILLIONS. EXTRACTS FROM THE PRESS. 1. EAST LYNNE. FOUR HUNDRED AND EIGHTIETH THOUSAND. “‘East Lynne’ is so full of incident, so exciting in every page, and so admirably written, that one hardly knows how to go to bed without reading to the very last page.”—The Observer. “A work of remarkable power which displays a force of description and a dramatic completeness we have seldom seen surpassed. The interest of the narrative intensifies itself to the deepest pathos. The closing scene is in the highest degree tragic, and the whole management of the story exhibits unquestionable genius and originality.”—The Daily News. “‘East Lynne’ has been translated into the Hindustani and Parsee languages, and the success of it has been very great.”—Daniel Bandmann’s Journal. “I was having a delightful conversation with a clever Indian officer, and listening to his reminiscences of being sent out to serve in China with Gordon. He gave me an account of how he tried to keep the regimental library together under difficulties, and how ‘East Lynne’ was sent to them from England. Gordon got hold of it, and was fascinated. He used to come riding from a distance, at some risk, to get hold of the volumes as they were to be had.”—Extract from a Letter. 2. THE CHANNINGS. TWO HUNDREDTH THOUSAND. “‘The Channings’ will probably be read over and over again, and it can never be read too often.”—The AthenÆum. 3. MRS. HALLIBURTON’S TROUBLES. ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH THOUSAND. “The boldness, originality, and social scrutiny displayed in this work remind the reader of Adam Bede. It would be difficult to place beside the death of Edgar Halliburton anything in fiction comparable with its profound pathos and simplicity. It is long since the novel-reading world has had reason so thoroughly to congratulate itself upon the appearance of a new work as in the instance of ‘Mrs. Halliburton’s Troubles.’ It is a fine work; a great and artistic picture.”—The Morning Post. 4. THE SHADOW OF ASHLYDYAT. ONE HUNDRED AND TENTH THOUSAND. “‘The Shadow of Ashlydyat’ is very clever, and keeps up the constant interest of the reader. It has a slight supernatural tinge, which gives the romantic touch to the story which Sir Walter Scott so often used with even greater effect; but it is not explained away at the end as Sir Walter Scott’s supernatural touches generally, and inartistically, were.”—The Spectator. “The genius of Mrs. Henry Wood shines as brightly as ever. There is a scene or two between Maria Godolphin and her little girl just before she dies, which absolutely melt the heart. The death-bed scene likewise is exquisitely pathetic.”—The Court Journal. 5. LORD OAKBURN’S DAUGHTERS. ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTH THOUSAND. “The story is admirably told.”—The Spectator. 6. VERNER’S PRIDE. EIGHTY-FIFTH THOUSAND. “‘Verner’s Pride’ is a first-rate novel in its breadth of outline and brilliancy of description. Its exciting events, its spirited scenes, and its vivid details, all contribute to its triumph. The interest this work awakens, and the admiration it excites in the minds of its readers, must infallibly tend to the renown of the writer, while they herald the welcome reception of the work wherever skill in construction of no ordinary kind, or a ready appreciation of character, which few possess, can arouse attention or win regard.”—The Sun. 7. ROLAND YORKE. ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTIETH THOUSAND. “In all respects worthy of the hand that wrote ‘The Channings’ and ‘East Lynne.’ There is no lack of excitement to wile the reader on, and from the first to the last a well-planned story is sustained with admirable spirit and in a masterly style.”—The Daily News. 8. JOHNNY LUDLOW. The First Series. FIFTY-FIFTH THOUSAND. “We regard these stories as almost perfect of their kind.”—The Spectator. “Fresh, lively, vigorous, and full of clever dialogue, they will meet with a ready welcome. The Author is masterly in the skill with which she manages her successive dramas.”—Standard. “It is an agreeable change to come upon a book like Johnny Ludlow.”—Saturday Review. “Vigour of description and a strong grasp of character.”—AthenÆum. “The Author has given proof of a rarer dramatic instinct than we had suspected among our living writers of fiction.”—Nonconformist. “Tales full of interest.”—Vanity Fair. “Fresh, clear, simple, strong in purpose and in execution, these stories have won admiration as true works of inventive art. Without a single exception they maintain a powerful hold upon the mind of the reader, and keep his sympathies in a continued state of healthy excitement.”—Daily Telegraph. 9. MILDRED ARKELL. EIGHTIETH THOUSAND. “Mrs. Henry Wood certainly possesses in a wholly exceptional degree the power of uniting the most startling incident of supernatural influence with a certain probability and naturalness which compels the most critical and sceptical reader, having once begun, to go on reading.... He finds himself conciliated by some bit of quiet picture, some accent of poetic tenderness, some sweet domestic touch telling of a heart exercised in the rarer experiences; and as he proceeds he wonders more and more at the manner in which the mystery, the criminality, the plotting, and the murdering reconciles itself with a quiet sense of the justice of things; and a great moral lesson is, after all, found to lie in the heart of all the turmoil and exciting scene-shifting. It is this which has earned for Mrs. Wood so high a place among popular novelists, and secured her admittance to homes from which the sensational novelists so-called are excluded.”—The Nonconformist. 10. SAINT MARTIN’S EVE. SEVENTY-SIXTH THOUSAND. “A good novel.”—The Spectator. “Mrs. Wood has spared no pains to accumulate the materials for a curiously thrilling story.”—The Saturday Review. 11. TREVLYN HOLD. Sixty-fifth Thousand. “We cannot read a page of this work without discovering a graphic force of delineation which it would not be easy to surpass.”—The Daily News. 12. GEORGE CANTERBURY’S WILL. SIXTY-FIFTH THOUSAND. “The name of Mrs. Henry Wood has been familiar to novel-readers for many years, and her fame widens and strengthens with the increase in the number of her books.”—The Morning Post. 13. THE RED COURT FARM. EIGHTIETH THOUSAND. “When we say that a plot displays Mrs. Wood’s well-known skill in construction, our readers will quite understand that their attention will be enchained by it from the first page to the last.”—The Weekly Dispatch. 14. WITHIN THE MAZE. ONE HUNDRED AND TWELFTH THOUSAND. “The decided novelty and ingenuity of the plot of ‘Within the Maze’ renders it, in our eyes, one of Mrs. Henry Wood’s best novels. It is excellently developed, and the interest hardly flags for a moment.”—The Graphic. 15. ELSTER’S FOLLY. SIXTIETH THOUSAND. “Mrs. Wood fulfils all the requisites of a good novelist: she interests people in her books, makes them anxious about the characters, and furnishes an intricate and carefully woven plot.”—The Morning Post. 16. LADY ADELAIDE. SIXTIETH THOUSAND. “One of Mrs. Henry Wood’s best novels.”—The Star. “Mme. Henry Wood est fort cÉlÈbre en Angleterre, et ses romans—trÈs moraux et trÈs bien Écrits—sont dans toutes les mains et revivent dans toutes les mÉmoires. Le serment de lady AdelaÏde donneront À nos lecteurs une idÉe trÈs suffisante du talent si ÉlevÉ de mistress Henry Wood.”—L’Instruction Publique. 17. OSWALD CRAY. SIXTIETH THOUSAND. “Mrs. Wood has certainly an art of novel-writing which no rival possesses in the same degree and kind. It is not, we fancy, a common experience for anyone to leave one of these novels unfinished.”—The Spectator. 18. JOHNNY LUDLOW. The Second Series. THIRTY-FIFTH THOUSAND. “The author has given proof of a rarer dramatic instinct than we had suspected among our living writers of fiction. It is not possible by means of extracts to convey any adequate sense of the humour, the pathos, the dramatic power and graphic description of this book.”—The Nonconformist. “Mrs. Henry Wood has made a welcome addition to the list of the works of contemporary fiction.”—AthenÆum (second notice). “These most exquisite studies.”—Nonconformist (second notice). “The tales are delightful from their unaffected and sometimes pathetic simplicity.”—Standard (second notice). “To write a short story really well is the most difficult part of the art of fiction; and ‘Johnny Ludlow’ has succeeded in it in such a manner that his—or rather her—art looks like nature, and is hardly less surprising for its excellence than for the fertility of invention on which it is founded.”—Globe. “Freshness of tone, briskness of movement, vigour, reality, humour, pathos. It is safe to affirm that there is not a single story which will not be read with pleasure by both sexes, of all ages.”—Illustrated London News. 19. ANNE HEREFORD. FORTY-FIFTH THOUSAND. “Mrs. Wood’s story, ‘Anne Hereford,’ is a favourable specimen of her manner, the incidents are well planned, and the narrative is easy and vigorous.”—Illustrated London News. 20. DENE HOLLOW. SIXTIETH THOUSAND. “Novel-readers wishing to be entertained, and deeply interested in character and incident, will find their curiosity wholesomely gratified by the graphic pages of ‘Dene Hollow,’ an excellent novel, without the drawbacks of wearisome digressions and monotonous platitudes so common in the chapters of modern fiction.”—The Morning Post. 21. EDINA. FORTY-FIFTH THOUSAND. “The whole situation of the book is clever, and the plot is well managed.”—Academy. “Edina’s character is beautifully drawn.”—The Literary World. 22. A LIFE’S SECRET. SIXTY-FIFTH THOUSAND. “Now that the rights of capital and labour are being fully inquired into, Mrs. Wood’s story of ‘A Life’s Secret’ is particularly opportune and interesting. It is based upon a plot that awakens curiosity and keeps it alive throughout. The hero and heroine are marked with individuality, the love-passages are finely drawn, and the story developed with judgment.”—The Civil Service Gazette. “If Mrs. Wood’s book does not tend to eradicate the cowardice, folly, and slavish submission to lazy agitators among the working men, all we can say is that it ought to do so, for it is at once well written, effective, and truthful.”—The Illustrated Times. 23. COURT NETHERLEIGH. FORTY-SIXTH THOUSAND. “We always open one of Mrs. Wood’s novels with pleasure, because we are sure of being amused and interested.”—The Times. “Lisez-le; l’Émotion que vous sentirez peu À peu monter À votre coeur est saine et fortifiante. Lisez-le; c’est un livre honnÊte sorti d’une plume honnÊte et vous pourrez le laisser traÎner sur la table.”—Le Signal (Paris). 24. LADY GRACE. TWENTY-FIRST THOUSAND. “‘Lady Grace’ worthily continues a series of novels thoroughly English in feeling and sentiment, and which fairly illustrate many phases of our national life.”—Morning Post. 25. BESSY RANE. FORTY-SECOND THOUSAND. “The power to draw minutely and carefully each character with characteristic individuality in word and action is Mrs. Wood’s especial gift. This endows her pages with a vitality which carries the reader to the end, and leaves him with the feeling that the veil which in real life separates man from man has been raised, and that he has for once seen and known certain people as intimately as if he had been their guardian angel. This is a great fascination.”—The AthenÆum. 26. THE UNHOLY WISH. FIFTEENTH THOUSAND. “The characters and situations of which the author made her books are, indeed, beyond criticism; their interest has been proved by the experience of generations.”—Pall-Mall Gazette. 27. JOHNNY LUDLOW. Third Series. TWENTY-THIRD THOUSAND. “The peculiar and unfailing charm of Mrs. Wood’s style has rarely been more apparent than in this succession of chronicles, partly of rustic life, some relating to the fortunes of persons in a higher class, but all remarkable for an easy simplicity of tone, true to nature.”—Morning Post. 28. THE MASTER OF GREYLANDS. FIFTIETH THOUSAND. “A book by Mrs. Wood is sure to be a good one, and no one who opens ‘The Master of Greylands’ in anticipation of an intellectual treat will be disappointed. The keen analysis of character, and the admirable management of the plot, alike attest the clever novelist.”—John Bull. 29. ORVILLE COLLEGE. THIRTY-EIGHTH THOUSAND. “Mrs. Wood’s stories bear the impress of her versatile talent and well-known skill in turning to account the commonplaces of daily life as well as the popular superstitions of the multitude.”—The Literary World. 30. POMEROY ABBEY. FORTY-EIGHTH THOUSAND. “All the Pomeroys are very cleverly individualised, and the way in which the mystery is worked up, including its one horribly tragic incident, is really beyond all praise.”—The Morning Post. 31. JOHNNY LUDLOW. Fourth Series. FIFTEENTH THOUSAND. “Fresh, clear, simple, strong in purpose and in execution, these stories have won admiration as true works of inventive art. Without a single exception they maintain a powerful hold upon the mind of the reader, and keep his sympathies in a continual state of healthy excitement.”—Daily Telegraph. 32. ADAM GRAINGER. FIFTEENTH THOUSAND. “Mrs. Wood fulfils all the requisites of a good novelist; she interests people in her books, makes them anxious about the characters, and furnishes an intricate and carefully woven plot.”—Morning Post. 33. JOHNNY LUDLOW. Fifth Series. FIFTEENTH THOUSAND. “Freshness of tone, briskness of movement, vigour, reality, humour, pathos. It is safe to affirm that there is not a single story which will not be read with pleasure by both sexes, of all ages.”—Illustrated London News. 34. JOHNNY LUDLOW. Sixth Series. New Edition. London: MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited. Transcriber’s Note A few errors in punctuation were corrected silently. Also the following corrections were made, on page Otherwise the original was preserved, including inconsistent spelling and hyphenation. |
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