CHAPTER XXIX
PEACE WITH HONOUR
When the death-shriek of Mahletonkwa startled the dwellers in the CasaSanchez, the sound was so strange, so unearthly, that they sprang totheir feet in terror. What new ill had fallen upon the village! Thatcould be no human cry. It seemed to their terrified imaginations thatsome evil spirit from the other world had come to add a crowning horrorto their troubles.
"It is the devil," they murmured, crossing themselves with tremblingprayers--"the devil has come to carry away _el defunto_. _Que los Santosnos ayuden._"
But when the blood-curdling shriek was followed by a succession of rapidpistol-shots and the cries of those who fell before the American'sunerring aim, they knew that it was a conflict of a more earthly sort.The men snatched up their arms and dashed out of the house, ready forattack or defence, and were followed to the door by the trembling women,while Stephens's dog darted away on his master's trail.
This last alarm was too much for Manuelita. Her nerves were stillquivering from the terrors of her own captivity, and now fears for herdeliverer overwhelmed her. She knew the American was at the store,--hewas surely killed; the blow that had threatened them had fallen atlast, not on the family but on their friend. She tried to run, but hertrembling limbs refused to bear her, and she sank to the ground in apassion of sobs; brave she could be for her own danger, but not for him,not for the man who had just left her, whose eyes had told her a secretshe hardly let herself guess.
She raised her head and heard the shuffling of feet, and the sound ofsubdued voices came nearer to her. In the doorway appeared her father,anxious and flurried. "Hasten, sister," he called in a loud half-whisperto her aunt, "hasten and make a bed in the room across the patio for awounded man. The Navajos are on the war-path, and an American has beenhurt."
"Who is it?" asked his sister, answering him in the same excitedhalf-whisper, as the ominous shuffling steps of Rocky's bearers reachedthe outside of the door and paused. "Is he dying? Quick there, Juana,run and bring bedding; fly!"
Manuelita's heart seemed to stop beating as she listened for the answer.
"I know not who he is. They say he is a friend of Don Estevan's. He hadbut just arrived from Santa Fe. There is a doctor of the Americansoldiers with him. Mahletonkwa stabbed him in the lung."
Manuelita tried to ask, "And what of Don Estevan?" but her dry lipsrefused to speak the words. Her father answered the unspoken question.
"Don Estevan is like a raging lion. He has killed Mahletonkwa and halfhis band already, and he is chasing the rest. Ah, what a fighter! Theysay he fired off his pistol like lightning, and left the savages lyingall around like dead dogs in a heap as if a thunderbolt from heaven hadstruck them. Ah, what a fighter! The young men are all galloping afterto help him."
"He is not wounded himself?" They were already in the room across thepatio preparing it for the wounded man, and it was the voice ofManuelita that asked this question. Her tongue had found speech at last.
"Well, it is not known precisely," said Don Nepomuceno. "He started offafter them like fury, and so did the two young Sandovals, and then therewas more firing out on the plain, but it is not certain as yet whathappened there. The doctor of the American soldiers wished to place thewounded Americano with us at once, and I did not wait. Ah, here theyare, bringing him through the court. This way, Senor el Doctor. Here isthe room for him. Is he much hurt?"
"Pretty bad," replied the doctor in Spanish, which he knew that Rocky,who was still conscious, did not understand. "But we shall see. Withproper nursing there should be a good chance for him yet."
With gentle hands Rocky was laid upon the couch arranged for him, andattended to by the doctor and the women-folk, while Don Nepomuceno, inhis eagerness to be of service, succeeded only in getting in everybody'sway and making a wholly unnecessary fuss.
"Run, Juana, run. Bring a bowl with water for the doctor; cold water,mind you--hot, did you say, Doctor?--hot water, then, Juana, hot fromthe fire. And a towel, a clean towel, child--two towels; and be quick,quick! How slow you are!"
Rap, rap, rap, came loud, imperative knocks upon the outer door of thehouse, which had been made fast again after the limp form of Rocky hadbeen brought inside. Don Nepomuceno flew to open it himself.
"Hush, hush! Who is there? Eh? What? Another man hurt? _Ave Mariapurisima_, I hope it is not Don Estevan." His fingers fumbled with thebolts in his haste to unbar. "No, you say, not him. Who is it, then? Oneof the Sandovals shot with an arrow. And you wish for the doctor of theAmerican soldiers to come and cure him? Come in, then, come in,"--thedoor opened as he spoke,--"come in and speak to the doctor yourself.Poor young Sandoval; an arrow right through his shoulder, you say. AndDon Estevan was not hit? Oh, he killed the Indian that shot youngSandoval, did he? Ah, what a lion of a man! What a fighter indeed!" andbursting with this fresh piece of news he ran across the patio to tellthe doctor that his services were in request for another patient.
"It looks to me," said Doctor Benton to himself, as, after doing all hecould for Rocky's comfort, he hurried with the messenger towards thehouse where young Sandoval was lying, "at this rate, it looks to me asif I was going to get more surgical practice in San Remo in a day thanI'm likely to see at Fort Wingate in a month."
* * * * *
The slow hours passed, and the hot midday sun blazed down on thevillage; even the dogs retreated indoors to find a cool corner, and thehens retired from scratching on the dust-heaps; the place seemed asleep,save where a few anxious watchers kept their faces steadily turnedtowards the mirage that flickered over the plain, towards the horizonbeyond which the young men had disappeared. The shaded room whereManuelita sat by Rocky's couch was cool and silent and restful, butthere was no rest in the girl's dark eyes; their liquid depths burntwith a dark fire, and the scarlet spot on her cheeks, and the feverishstart she gave at the slightest sound outside the door showed that shewas not the impassive and self-controlled sick-nurse that Doctor Bentonfondly imagined he had discovered, by some Heaven-sent miracle, in thisremote corner of New Mexico. But whatever inward fire burnt in her eyesand fevered her cheeks, her hand never faltered in its task of fanningthe sick man, and her ear noted his slightest breath. Yet, with thecurious double consciousness that comes to us when the nerves are tensewith strain, she was all the time far away--riding, riding, riding atspeed over the dusty levels of the Agua Negra valley, up through thepine-clad gorges of the sierra, seeking everywhere for the form of atall, fair-haired man--no, _Madre de Dios_, not for his corpse, not forthat! ah, no! some instinct would tell her, some kindly angel wouldwhisper to her, if that were true. But no, that could not be. He wasalive, he was dealing death with that terrible rifle of his to the foe;like an avenging whirlwind he was sweeping from the face of the earththose savages who had carried her off, who had tried to murder herbrother, who had murdered that poor solitary prospector,--ay, and whocould say how many more? Merciful saints, what had they all not sufferedfrom them! And now a deliverer had been sent to them by Heaven, a verySt. Jago, like their own fair-haired saint, with his bright armour, inthe chapel.
And while she dreamed, and while her hand moved mechanically with thefan, her ear was still alert, and it brought its tidings. There was amurmur in the air, a movement without; the village stirred, and therewere sounds far off. She heard a shout, several shouts, a shot--ahheavens, not a shot again!--yes, numbers of shots, mingled with _vivas_and cries of joy; it was a lively _feu de joie_, like that from theprocession on the feast day of St. Jago himself. The shouts came nearer,they would waken her patient--oh, she must look one moment.
And, in truth, when she looked out it was a sight to see. The littleplaza had fairly gone off its head with excitement; the women wrapped intheir rebosos, and eager hurrying children, and grey-bearded men, tooold now for work or fight, and unkempt, barefooted peons, all bustlingand crowding together in one place, laughing and crying at once, andasking questions to which nobody made answer; and in the centre a partyof
mounted _caballeros_, their silver buttons and spurs glinting in thebright sunshine, shouting and firing off pistols, and yelling as if theywere possessed.
"Peace, peace, _amigos_," the voice of Don Nepomuceno was heard cryingamid the babel of tongues; "a moment's peace, I pray you. This is puremadness." But no one heeded his words.
"_Viva! viva!_" yelled the young men; "here he is, behold him, the_guerrero_ Americano, the slayer of the Indians." And in the middle ofthem, his left arm in a sling, bloodstained, dishevelled, and in rags,sat Stephens on his mare; his brain was reeling; the intense energy thathad possessed him in the hour of the fight had gone, and left him a wornand weary man.
Manuelita's heart leapt at the sight of him. He was alive and, thoughwounded, he was able to sit his horse; his hurts, then, could not bedesperate.
"Peace, peace, _amigos_," reiterated Don Nepomuceno. "See you not thatDon Estevan is weary to the death? _Santisima Virgen!_ but you forgetthat he is wounded, too; yes, and look how the very clothes have beentorn from his back.--Dismount, then, Don Estevan, and let me help you.Come inside, and you shall be attended to instantly." His eye fell uponthe Indian boy beside him. "Here you, Felipe, run to the house of theSandovals and see if the American doctor is there still, and tell himthat there is yet another patient for him to attend to here. This way,Don Estevan. Excuse me, friends, you will not go till you have taken acup of wine with me, but I must see to Don Estevan first. Ah, no noisenow, for the sake of the sick man within. My house is purely a hospitalnow. Angels of grace! but what agitation, what events! This way, DonEstevan, if you please. Patience, friends. By your leave, I beg thesilence of one little moment. Sister, sister, bring a change of clothesfor Don Estevan; his are all torn to pieces in the fight; bring my bestclothes, my feast-day clothes, out of the great chest in the inner room.Hurry, hurry! And water to wash the blood from him. Bring water, Juana;fly!"
Like a man in a dream Stephens got off his horse and entered the house.The Navajo bondmaid hastened in answer to her master's call and broughtwater to wash the blood of her kinsfolk from the hands of the American.Passively he submitted himself to her care, and to that of DonNepomuceno, who attended to him with bustling little airs ofproprietorship, as if the prospector were his own private property, hisown victorious gamecock who had won the main for him and beateneverything in the pit. He was so pleased with his office and proud ofhis guest that he hardly noticed how unlike the American was to hisalert and masterful, everyday self. The transformation effected, hejoyfully ushered him into the living-room. "Dinner, sister, dinner," hecalled out; "a feast, we must have a feast. Andres, some wine. Here isthe key. Some of the wine of El Paso from the farthest cask. We mustdrink a health to-day."
But as he placed Stephens on the divan it struck him suddenly that theAmerican looked strange. His face was white and drawn, and there was adull, abstracted look in his eyes.
"Ah, my dear friend, you are overdone; you are worn out with your heroicdeeds. One little moment only, and you shall dine."
"You are very kind," said Stephens, sinking down on the soft seat, "butI couldn't eat, thank you,--not yet."
"Ah, my poor head," cried the Mexican, "how I forget things; you are soanxious for your friend doubtless. But he is doing well, very well, I doassure you. He speaks of you; he says you are a millionaire,--that youhave found the silver mine of the Indians. Oh yes, you shall see himwhen he wakes. My daughter is taking charge of him now. Yes, and theother wounded man, young Sandoval, is doing well too. There is no needof any anxiety. You must rest; yes, rest, and eat and drink and bemerry!"
Stephens seemed to rouse himself with a great effort. "Don Nepomuceno,"he spoke with a dull, thick, voice, "I don't think I can stay now. I hadought to go right back to the pueblo. There's some more business I have;there's a girl there, the cacique's daughter----"
"Ah, what need to remember her!" cried the Mexican with a sudden flashof irritation. "Of course I have heard--but what do mere Indians matter?Between ourselves, what does all that amount to? Nothing, absolutelynothing." He snapped his fingers with contempt, as if to brush it allaway.
"Yes, but look here, Don Nepomuceno, business is business. I'veundertaken to run her show, and I'm bound to see it through. I took heraway from her father because he was half-murdering her, and I want tosee her safe married to this cub of mine here,--what's his name? I shallforget my own next,--oh yes, Felipe, that's it, of course--to see hermarried to Felipe. I'd better get it done right away, else I mightforget, you know"; he looked around vaguely with an incoherenthalf-laugh, checked himself with an effort, and collected himself again."If there was a padre handy, how about doing it here?--" He broke offconfusedly.
Don Nepomuceno looked puzzled.
"But why trouble over these matters now? Any time will do for thoseIndians. But if you wish it, certainly I will send to the pueblo. Youcannot go; you are overwearied. You want this girl to come here? But no;I have a better plan. The padre is here in San Remo to-day, as ithappens; let us send him there, and you shall be troubled no further byher."
Even Stephens's dulled brain could not but notice something odd in theMexican's tone. "Oh, Lord," he groaned internally, "they all give me thename of it!"
"See here, Don Nepomuceno. I guess that Backus has been talking someabout me. He's dead, but I've got to say it--he was a darned liar,anyway; and he knew nothing about this business but what he invented forhimself. She's not my girl. I'm not that sort of a man." He stoppedabruptly.
"Assuredly not," assented the Mexican with eager courtesy. "You say so,and that is enough for us; though, indeed, we are ourselves not alwaysso scrupulous in these matters."
"Felipe bolted with her," said the brain-weary man, going over pastevents almost mechanically; "her father took her from him; I took herfrom her father, and I've promised to give her over to Felipe. He's aplumb idiot, but if she likes him that's her lookout. My business is tosee them married and make it all square. When I take any business inhand, I can't rest till I get it done. I'll take you to witness, DonNepomuceno; I'll give them ten cows and calves on the shares to set 'emup in housekeeping."
"But certainly," exclaimed Don Nepomuceno, "your kindness is admirable.It is a deed of charity! It was but last time his Grace the Archbishopof Santa Fe was dining with my cousin that he spoke of the admirablegoodness of Dona Mariana Chavez in giving dowers to poor maidens. Andnow you will be so rich with the profits of your mine that you may dowerall the Indian maidens in the pueblo if you like. In truth, such a deedmust be pleasing to the saints; it will fill our padre with admirationto hear of such a truly virtuous action, 'worthy of one of the pillarsof our holy Church!'"
"Much more like the heavy father at the end of a play!" mutteredStephens perversely. "'Bless you, my children,' and down comes thecurtain. I reckon I'm a bit young to play the part. Hang it all! I wishthe old gentleman would stop."
Don Nepomuceno turned to the peon. "Here, Pedro, hasten; ride to thepueblo, and take the old woman along and fetch the girl,--Josefa, yousay?--yes; go, then, and fetch her and tell her she is to be married atonce. Say that those are the orders of the Americano. But first you cantell Rufino to go and find the padre--bid him hasten as dinner isserved," he rubbed his hands exultingly as his sister and Juana broughtin the long-desired feast, and Andres appeared with an old flagon whichhe had filled with El Paso wine. Don Nepomuceno poured some into a glassand offered it to Stephens. "Drink, my friend, drink; you need it, andwe will all drink a cup in your honour."
Stephens took the glass and looked with a grim smile at his own handwhich held it. The hand was shaking like an old man's. "I guess I'veabout wore myself plumb out," he said. "You'd best let me go off to myown place and rest. I'm not good company just now."
"No, no, you mustn't go," cried the Mexican; "you shall rest in myhouse. We have more rooms than one. And behold, here is the Americandoctor now. In a good hour you come, Senor el Doctor. Sit you down, myfriends, and eat. Sister, you and Andres will entertain them while thedoctor and I take care of
Don Estevan." And he took his unresistingguest apart into a quiet room where Doctor Benton might examine hiswounded hand. Gently the rude bandages were undone, and Manuelita wassummoned from her post beside Rocky, who was now sleeping peacefully, towait on a new patient.
Bravely she looked on while the doctor cleansed the wound and producedhis curved needles and silk and sewed up the gash.
"You'll do all right so, I guess," said he to the prospector when he hadfinished. "You've got to keep quiet, you know, and knock off whiskey."("Never touch it," growled Stephens, in an undertone.) "Right you are,stick to that,"--the doctor had a flask of old Bourbon himself in hispocket at the moment,--"worst thing out for inflammation. Well, you lookas if you were in good hands here," he smiled as he spoke. "I am goingback to the Sandovals now. It's a very interesting case that I've gotover there. We don't get arrow-wounds very often nowadays." He folded uphis surgical case with its wicked-looking little shining blades. "Thestage has gone on to Wingate," he continued, "and they'll have to getalong without me at the Fort for a day or two longer. I'll be back againhere in the evening and have another look at you and at our friendRocky. You needn't fret about him; the knife only just touched the lung;he's going to get over it all right, though at the same time I thinkwe'd best not disturb him now."
"But you must not go till you have dined," cried Don Nepomucenohospitably. "Do me the honour to come into the other room and join ourfriends there"; and the doctor yielded to the request readily enough.
Don Nepomuceno lingered behind him for a moment.
"Now you must repose yourself, Don Estevan. Here you will beundisturbed. Manuelita is going to sit by the door and sing to ourguests, and there is nothing more reposeful than singing. Take yourguitar, my daughter, and sit here and we can enjoy it as we take ourdinner." He passed through the door as Manuelita slid the ribbon of herguitar over her shoulder and struck a chord.
She sang--who knows how the song had reached her?--words that hadtravelled far, and were first written in another tongue by a poet ofanother race, but when she heard them they seemed to tell her a wholesad and beautiful history in the two short verses, and she found theplaintive tune of an old ballad that suited them, and sung them often toherself. Now, called upon unexpectedly to sing, the favourite words wereon her lips almost before she knew what they were--
"Solitario se alza un pino, Del Norte en arida cumbre; Duerme, y con blanca cubierta Hielos y nieves le cubren.
"Suena con una palmera Que en el Oriente, alla lejos, Se entristece sola y muda En el ardiente desierto."
The notes mingled in the tired American's dreamy thoughts, and throughhis unstrung mind coursed strange fanciful applications of the poet'swords--
"A lone pine stands in the Northland On a bald and barren height; He sleeps, by the snows enfolded In a mantle of wintry white."
"'A lone pine'--that's so, a lone pine like that one over theprospector's grave. I reckon if that lode there turns out all that Rockysaid I'll have to call it Lone Pine. Suits me, too, the name does; I'vealways played a lone hand; ay, and I know what the barren mountainheights are, if any man ever did, and many's the time I've slept on themwith the snow over me for a blanket--"
"He dreams of a lonely palm-tree Afar in the morning land"--
"'He dreams of a palm-tree'--no, that's not me, after all. I haven'tdreamt much. Yes, by thunder, I have though! I dreamt some up in thesierra. I dreamt a lot of queer things by that old cliff-dweller's fireI relit after I found the Lone Pine; I thought this whole New Mexicancountry here was asleep, and that maybe I was the man to wake her up.Ah, and I thought, too, that I must have been asleep myself to haveplayed a lone hand so long when I needn't, when I might have had awoman's love, and got some joy and happiness into life instead oftoughing it out in solitude. I believe I've been a blamed idiot."
He listened as in a trance to the throbbing, wailing strings, while thesweet voice of the girl sang the last verse a second time--
"He dreams of a lonely palm-tree, Afar in the morning land, Consumed with unspoken longing In a waste of burning sand."
By Heaven! had she been alone too? He almost sprang up to call to her,but it seemed to him he could not move. He stood on a lonely heightunder the pine-tree; he looked down on the grave of the man who had diedthere alone, and far away in a vision he beheld San Remo and the CasaSanchez; and he saw more--he saw Manuelita. He could not break the spelland stand beside her there. He had had his chance, and now it was toolate. He had dreamt through the summer, and now the winter had come, andits icy fetters bound him fast. Immovable on his crag he could onlydream--dream of the happiness that might have been his, and long for itwith a passionate desire that seemed as if it could burst the verymountains to let him pass, and yet was powerless to bring him an inchnearer to the spot that he longed for. The numbness of despair came uponhim, his bewildered thoughts sank deeper into dreamland, and the tiredbrain at last was steeped in all-restoring forgetfulness.
* * * * *
He awoke suddenly with a start, the room was empty; the subdued voicescame to him through the open door, but the guests were gone. How longhad he slept? For answer he saw the scarlet light of sunset glowing onthe adobe wall across the patio.
He sprang up like a giant refreshed and looked around, while the memoryof what had taken place began to come back to him. "I must have beenhere for hours and hours. Her singing was like a charm. But where hasshe gone to? I've got to find her again right away. Why on earth did Ilie there like a log all this time? What have I been doing all day,anyhow?"
He looked at his bandaged left hand, and passed his right over hisforehead, and as his brain cleared the whole of the morning's work cameback to him like a flash.
"I had to kill them, but I hate to think of it now. It was a butcherlyjob. That's not the way I want to live. Yes, I hate it," he repeated,standing in the middle of the empty room. He felt an unreasoningrepulsion when he thought of the light-minded crowd that had cheered himso wildly on his return from the slaughter, and had laughed and jestedover it. "Killing men is a mighty serious matter, whatever they maythink," he muttered gloomily, "but most of these folks don't see it inthat light. She's different, though, and it's she that I want, and nother people. Now, how am I going to find her alone?"
As he stood there the faint whine of a dog caught his ear.
"Faro, old man! Think of my forgetting you and your wounds when there'sno one to see after you but me! I must have been off my nut." He strodeout through the door, and beheld in the adjoining room his dog snuglyestablished on a pile of blankets with all the dignity of a spoiltinvalid, and there, kneeling beside him, her glossy head bent over thebulldog's picturesquely ugly face, was Manuelita.
"I made the doctor of the soldiers look at him," she said, glancing upat the tall American with a shy laugh. "He was almost angry when I askedhim, and said he was no doctor of dogs; but I made him do it;" and shegave another little laugh of triumph.
"I reckon you could make most people do what you say, senorita," heanswered, but he did not echo her laugh. He stood there looking down ather, and as he looked a great peace seemed to descend upon him. Theanger and the strain, the battle-fury and the revulsion that followedit, all seemed to pass away from his mind, and a reverent awe came overhis soul as though he had entered into a sanctuary, a sanctuary whereeven his own honest love showed to him as earthly and selfish, whenceevery thought but one was banished, the thought of a woman inexpressiblygentle and good, with a tender heart for every living thing. With asudden movement he caught her hand in his own, and hers so soft andinnocent lay in his so lately red with enemies' blood.
He knelt on one knee, and bowed his head and lifted the captive hand tohis lips.
"I am not fit to come near you," he said, "but unless I have you, I cannever care for anything in the whole world again. I am an uncouthruffian, I know; but if you will teach me, I will learn to be
gentle intime. Will you try me?"
He turned his face to hers, her lips met his, and the compact wassealed.
FINIS
New Fiction.
Agatha Webb.
By ANNA KATHARINE GREEN, author of "The Leavenworth Case," "That AffairNext Door," etc. 12mo, cloth, $1.25.
"This is a cleverly concocted detective story, and sustains the well-earned reputation of the writer.... The curiosity of the reader is excited and sustained to the close."--_Brooklyn Citizen._
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Children of the Mist.
By EDEN PHILLPOTTS. 11th impression. 8vo, $1.50
"A work of amazing power which plainly indicates a master hand."--_Boston Herald._
"Seldom does a critic come upon a book that he can praise more heartily than he can Eden Phillpotts's new romance,--it is so full of life, so fall of the subtle and strong influence of environment upon character, that it leaves upon the mind that unity of impression which is one of the highest attributes of a work of art."--_London Daily News._
Miss Cayley's Adventures.
By GRANT ALLEN, author of "Flowers and Their Pedigrees," etc. With 80illustrations. 3d edition. 12mo, $1.50.
"One of the most delightfully jolly, entertaining, and fascinating works that has ever come from Grant Allen's pen."--_New York World._
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Dr. Berkeley's Discovery.
By RICHARD SLEE and CORNELIA ATWOOD PRATT. _Hudson Library_, No. 40.12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00
Dr. Berkeley's discovery is a liquid which will "develop" certain memory cells of the human brain, as a photographer's chemicals "develop" a sensitized plate. Upon each tiny cell appears a picture, visible by the microscope. By "developing" the memory centre of a brain, Dr. Berkeley can trace the most secret history of the being that owned the brain; can see the things the being saw, in sequence, from infancy to death. With this foundation, the authors of "Dr. Berkeley's Discovery" have told a thrilling, dramatic story.
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON.
THE HUDSON LIBRARY.
Published bi-monthly. Entered as second-class matter. 16mo, paper, 50cents. Published also in cloth.
1. LOVE AND SHAWL-STRAPS.By Annette Lucille Noble.
2. MISS HURD: AN ENIGMA.By Anna Katharine Green.
3. HOW THANKFUL WAS BEWITCHED.By Jas. K. Hosmer.
4. A WOMAN OF IMPULSE.By Justin Huntley McCarthy.
5. THE COUNTESS BETTINA.By Clinton Ross.
6. HER MAJESTY. By ElizabethKnight Tompkins.
7. GOD FORSAKEN.By Frederic Breton.
8. AN ISLAND PRINCESS.By Theodore Gift.
9. ELIZABETH'S PRETENDERS.By Hamilton Aide.
10. AT TUXTER'S.By G. B. Burgin.
11. CHERRYFIELD HALL.By F. H. Balfour.
12. THE CRIME OF THE CENTURY.By R. Ottolengui.
13. THE THINGS THAT MATTER.By Francis Gribble.
14. THE HEART OF LIFE.By W. H. Mallock.
15. THE BROKEN RING.By Elizabeth Knight Tompkins.
16. THE STRANGE SCHEMES OF RANDOLPH MASON.By Melville D. Post.
17. THAT AFFAIR NEXT DOOR.By Anna Katharine Green.
18. IN THE CRUCIBLE.By Grace Denio Litchfield.
19. EYES LIKE THE SEA.By Maurus Jokai.
20. AN UNCROWNED KING.By S. C. Grier.
21. THE PROFESSOR'S DILEMMA.By Annette Lucille Noble.
22. THE WAYS OF LIFE.By Mrs. Oliphant.
23. THE MAN OF THE FAMILY.By Christian Reid.
24. MARGOT.By Sidney Pickering.
25. THE FALL OF THE SPARROW.By M. C. Balfour.
26. ELEMENTARY JANE.By Richard Pryce.
27. THE MAN OF LAST RESORT.By Melville D. Post.
28. STEPHEN WHAPSHARE.By Emma Brooke.
29. LOST MAN'S LANE.By Anna Katharine Green.
30. WHEAT IN THE EAR.By Alien.
31. AS HAVING NOTHING.By Hester Caldwell Oakley.
32. THE CHASE OF AN HEIRESS.By Christian Reid.
33. FINAL PROOF.By Rodrigues Ottolengui.
34. THE WHEEL OF GOD.By George Egerton.
35. JOHN MARMADUKE.By S. H. Church.
36. HANNAH THURSTON.By Bayard Taylor.
37. YALE YARNS.By J. S. Wood.
38. THE UNTOLD HALF.By Alien.
39. ROSALBA.By Olive P. Rayner (Grant Allen).
40. DR. BERKELEY'S DISCOVERY.By R. Slee and C. A. Pratt.
41. ABOARD "THE AMERICANDUCHESS."By Headon Hill.
42. THE PRIEST'S MARRIAGE.By Nora Vynne.
43. THE THINGS THAT COUNT.By Elizabeth Knight Tompkins.
44. LONE PINE.By R. B. Townshend
45. THE SECRET OF THE CRATER.By Duffield Osborne.
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON
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