XXVII.

The snow was deep upon the ground, drifts filled many a red clay gully, the dark boughs of the trees all bore a thick white line, the mountains were ghastly under a gray sky, and still the myriad flakes were falling, when the noiseless horsemen rode up to the door, and the jury of the inquisition came filing in. They met upon the threshold the subject of their deliberations, bluff, burly, with that genial political jocularity that discounts all other bids for popularity, his heavy bass laughter mingling with his gay greetings.

“Howdy, boys! Kem in, kem in! That’s right,—stomp the snow off! Ye know mam’s mighty partic’lar ’bout that thar new rag kyarpet o’ hern. Kem ter see ef I hev got a bee in my bonnet, hev ye? Waal, waal; we’ll listen ter hear that same bee buzz!”

The heavy mountaineers looked in blank surprise at each other. This discourse seemed to them lucid as reason itself. They had expected mere incoherent babbling, from the reports set a-flying about Broomsedge Cove. Marcella’s face, smiling yet with a certain proud defiance, and Mrs. Strobe’s jaunty, debonair salutation betokened scant anxiety, and did much to annul the effect of what they had heard. There were others besides the jury,—witnesses, one or two lawyers, and a number of mountaineers who were merely spectators of the proceeding; some of them wore a sheepish, hang-dog air, notably Andy Longwood and Pete Minton, at whose instance the investigation was had. Clem Sanders was one of the jury, as reluctant a freeholder as could be found in Broomsedge Cove, or, for the matter of that, in the Great Smoky Mountains. He carried his shoulders slouched forward in the heavy, aged manner which he sometimes affected, and he shambled along as if shackled by chains of his own forging; he looked with humble, beseeching eyes at Marcella, as if conjuring her to observe that he was not there in any sense of his own motion.

“Kem up close by the fire, gentlemen,” said Eli. “Airish out’n doors, ain’t it?”

As they ranged themselves about the broad hearth, they were all staring hard at Rathburn, who lay quite silent, since his host did not explain his presence, wondering a trifle within himself to feel so agitated, so partisan, so eager as to the result of the investigations.

Sundry questions were put to Strobe, to which he listened with his head a trifle askew, his legs crossed, one hand on his knee, the other arm akimbo, his eyes quizzically glancing from under his hat-brim. His whole air was that of gay good-humor, falling in naturally with the current of events, and in no wise resentful of the course they had taken. The queries, chiefly relating to matters of business usage and of certain processes of the law, the functions of his office, were promptly and decisively answered. Once, Marcella, feigning to misunderstand their drift, handed him an open book, and the company enjoyed an exhibition of “dad’s” rare accomplishment of reading, which he did in a full, rotund drone and with much vigor of emphasis. The girl’s smile of triumph as she closed the volume and laid it on the high mantel-shelf roused a certain antagonism in the breasts of several of the diligent inquirers. There was a momentary pause; the batten shutter was open, the great glowing fire sufficiently warming the room although thus generously ventilated, and from where Marcella stood, her hand still on the high mantel-piece, she could see the silent flakes, falling, falling, limiting the world,—for hardly the nearest mountain was visible,—a mere dull, dun suggestion of wood and range and river, like the first faint washings of a scene in sepia. No sound came from without, although nearly a score of horses stamped the snow in the shed behind the house. The dog of the “frequent visitor,” a hospitable animal, stood in the doorway suavely wagging his tail, pleased to see so many guests at once. They were all looking with expectant interest at Marcella’s face as the next question was asked; so fixedly that perhaps it was not unnatural that Eli Strobe should turn and follow the general glance. A smile dawned in her eyes as they met his, so replete with an exquisite light, and hope, and love, that had a sudden sun-burst illumined that white, dead day it could hardly have seemed brighter. It was a fine display of nerve, of will-power, Rathburn thought, knowing her as he did.

“How did ye git hurt, Mr. Strobe?” was the significant demand.

“Teck Jepson rid me down,” said the constable, his eyes fixed on his daughter.

The circle of mountaineers slowly shifted their chairs, and one or two spit profusely into the fire, aiming carefully at long range.

“Did you-uns hurt him?”

Strobe fixed his gaze on the talismanic brightness of his daughter’s eyes.

“Bein’ ez I war knocked senseless, sir, I couldn’t ondertake ter say.”

Another pause, so silent that naught could be heard save the roar of the flames in the wide chimney, and the footfalls of the dog turning away and trotting along to the end of the porch, where he presently found entertainment, peculiarly pleasing to his kind, in barking in a frenzy of affectation at the horses of the visitors.

“Didn’t ye tell Andy Longwood one day ez ye hed killed Teck Jepson in that scuffle?”

“Sartainly I said so! Somebody tole me that fur news an’ bein’ ez I war knocked senseless, I disremembered what happened. An’ this hyar mischievious gal o’ mine, fur a joke on her ole dad, tole me whar they hed buried him. I ’lowed they wouldn’t hev buried him ’thout he war dead. Ha! ha! ha!” his burly bass laugh rang out.

Clem Sanders had plucked up his spirits. He looked about amongst his confrères with a curling lip of scorn. Andy Longwood hung his abashed head. The political antagonists of Eli Strobe were visibly disconcerted.

“Only one more question now: Hev ye seen Teck lately?”

Eli Strobe nodded.

“How did he look, an’ what did he talk ’bout?”

“Toler’ble nat’ral, cornsiderin’.” The long strain was beginning to tell on the constable’s nerves. His glance had wandered from Marcella’s face, out of which the light died suddenly, leaving it livid, with wild, dilated eyes. “Ye never would hev tuk him fur a harnt! He talked same ez ever, ’bout G’liath an’ Sol’mon an’ them, ez he used ter set sech store by.”

There was a moment of terrible suspense to his mother and his daughter. Then the querist, evidently accepting the reply as partly jocose, and taken in connection with his previous denials and declarations as satisfactory, said, “That will do for you!”

Mrs. Strobe’s admirable elasticity was amply demonstrated by her rebound from this ordeal. She furnished the jury with a test for sanity which they all declined to apply. When asked if she considered her son sane, she declared he was as sane as any man could be, but in her opinion no men were sane.

“I never seen one ez could thread a needle,” she declared, with her specious gravity. “An’ yit enny woman kin do that, an’ kin do men’s work too,—plow, an’ drive, an’ ride, an’ shoot a gun. Nare one o’ ye kin thread a needle. I’ll try _ye_, sher’ff; I’ll favor ye with a big-eyed needle an’ a small, thin thread. I’ll wax it,” she conceded alluringly, reaching out for the big brown gourd that served as work-basket.

But the officer precipitately declined, and the examination broke up in a general laugh. After the jury had consulted apart and agreed upon their verdict, there was a more genial closing up of the circle about the fire. Mrs. Strobe and Marcella sat among the guests, indifferent to the conversation for a time and mentally exhausted. They perceived how signal a victory they had won against the facts and in defiance of the law,—hardly so potent a force as the crafty affection of a mother and a daughter,—and they experienced a glow of deep gratulation. But it was necessary to keep a guard upon Eli Strobe’s words, and Marcella roused herself to listen as he made known to the coterie how Rathburn had fared at the hands of Jake Baintree, and the fact that the criminal had fled the country.

“Yestiddy I rid up ter his folkses’ house, countin’ on arrestin’ him, bein’ constable o’ Brumsaidge,”—he rolled the fine phrase under his tongue,—“an’ his folks declared out they hedn’t seen nor hearn o’ him fur weeks. He done this crime jes’ ’count o’ Eugene Rathburn’s makin’ him tell whar Sam’l Keale los’ his life, kase Eugene air mighty sharp set fur riches, an’ he b’lieves the silver air thar in that cave on Jepson’s land.”

“I’ll tell ye who hain’t lef’ the kentry,” said Bassett, with a grim nod and a fiery eye,—“Teck Jepson. Air one o’ you off’cers o’ the law hev got my cornsent ter arrest Teck Jepson!”

Eli Strobe’s eyebrows were lifted in surprise; his lips had parted, but the quick little mother struck in first:—

“Arrest Teck Jepson for what?”

“Let the sher’ff say.” Bassett evaded a direct reply. “I seen him ’bout five days ago a-standin’ in his porch,—’twar arter a heavy rain,—a-shakin’ hands with this same man Baintree what he purtended wunst ter b’lieve so guilty, an’ then purtected agin the lynchers,—_they say so_,” he interpolated, becoming suddenly mindful of the significance of the presence of the sheriff,—“this man ez war tried fur killin’ Sam’l Keale ez be dead, an’ his body hid all these years in a cave on Jepson’s land. Shakin’ hands with him, sir, ez ef they war partners,—an’ I say they _war_ partners!”

The officer turned a serious face. “This must be investigated. I’ll go thar ter-night.”

“Jepson oughter be ’rested, or he’ll foller Baintree, an’ git away too. An’ he mought be warned. Ye know”—Bassett turned to Rathburn’s couch—“ye war warned yerse’f.”

Rathburn shifted his position a trifle. He was flushed and conscious. He hardly dared to glance at Marcella; and when the firelight leaped up presently he saw that she had silently left the room. He was glad of that. In her presence he felt that he was not sure of keeping the secret of who had warned him under the lynx-eyed vigilance of these savage men, more than one of whom he suspected of belonging to the band of lynchers.

The night had come,—hardly to be called darkness, for the white earth seemed possessed of a pallid persistence that asserted itself against the gloom of the sky. And the sky was not all gloom. Behind the clouds a moon lurked; now and then in thin folds of vapor showing a spectral, half-veiled face, and anon shifting along the highways of the skies, its presence barely suggested behind the denser mediums. A dreary night it seemed to Marcella. Never had she so revolted from the world. The great chestnut-tree at the gate was laden with snow; every gnarled, twisted bough, how gaunt against the gray sky! The zigzag rail fence was all made definite, too, by its alternations of white and black lines. Why should her hands be cold—so cold? Had she not just come from the fire? She felt its warmth still in the folds of her dress. And why should she shiver so? She was choking,—a cord was stretched across her throat; her heart was beating fast and loud. She presently recognized her intention in astonishment, as if it were projected by another entity than herself. She was out among the horses. A score, at least, stood in her father’s shed. One, a clean-built black mare, turned a shapely head, and gazed at her in surprise with luminous, moonlit eyes, for the moon was suddenly shining, and many a shadow was on the snow. She slipped under the neck of a raw-boned bay, who snorted and tossed up his head in fright. The fleetest,—the fleetest she must have, and her eyes dilated as she stood next a powerful iron-gray, full of spirit, that shied away as she caught his mane with one hand and pulled herself upon his unsaddled back. His bridle had not been removed; she slipped the hitching-rein, and the next moment the creature was speeding away upon the hardening snow with a snort of delight in the keen frosty air. The sound roused the men brooding over the fire within.

“Who’s that gone?” said the sheriff, suddenly lifting his head.

Not a man had left the room. In vague agitation the group rose uncertainly.

“Somebody’s after them horses,” suggested one.

There was a pell-mell rush to the door. A wild excitement of horses kicking and pawing at close quarters ensued in the shed. Then a sharp cry, “My horse! My horse is gone!” exclaimed the sheriff. “Some man has got my good gray horse!”

The moon was out again,—a chill glitter, and the earth very white; and on the brow of the hill, speeding toward Jepson’s cabin, was visible a swift equestrian figure. A score of men, save one, were in the saddle. A wild halloo rang through the air, and then, with all the fervor of the chase kindling in their blood, they were in pursuit. When the moon was out it showed rank after rank of the wild mountain men of the region; when the moon was in, a mystic company of mounted shadows slipped noiselessly over the snow. Swift as they were, their speed would not avail. They did not gain on the fugitive. The long lengths of glittering, moonlit snow or shadowy whiteness still remained the same between them and the sheriff’s horse. It behooves an officer of the law in that country to be well mounted, and the iron-gray had no equal for speed or spirit. Only a bullet could be swifter, and presently one whizzed past. The gray horse had heard the like before, and plunged and snorted in fright. Another,—so close that it seemed to Marcella that it must have grazed her flying hair, all streaming backward in the wind of her flight, for she was bareheaded as she clung to the reins with one hand, with the other beating the horse with her sun-bonnet. The bullets served to accelerate his pace. The distance from the pursuers was widening. She came over the hill at a tremendous rush, and saw, to her joy, a light in Jepson’s cabin.

It seemed to him at the time as if he were dreaming. He heard the thud of hoofs; he saw, as he opened the door, the equestrian figure reining up on the snow; he heard Marcella’s voice beseeching him to fly, fly at once, for his enemies were upon his track; and then, straggling over the hill, came, one by one, the distanced pursuers. They had lost the fugitive long ago, but they noted, as she had done, the light in the cabin. As they approached, they saw Jepson advancing to meet them,—advancing boldly. His figure was very distinct in the light of the moon, which had shaken off its besetting clouds, and was crystal-clear in the sky, while the snowy earth responded with an opaque white lustre. His pose suggested all his arrogance. His arms were folded on his breast; his head was held very erect.

It was a frenzied impulse which animated them, for they did not connect him in any sense with the fugitive on the sheriff’s horse. Perhaps it arose from the lack of a recognized head of the expedition, for the dismounted officer was still far behind at Strobe’s house. They were wild, fevered, riotous, their minds still full of the suspicions bruited about the hearth this evening. Most of all, it may be, they felt that fierce, chafing wish to break away from control which they had shared with every mob turning against its erstwhile leader. Jepson did not realize that he was reënacting the history of many a despot, when a sharp, whizzing sound split the night air, and he felt, in amazement, a keen tingle in his folded right arm,—another, striking above the elbow. Their aim was good for men who rode at full gallop.

He did not flee. He walked on, silent, proud, erect, toward them. They were upon him now, the smoking horses snorting and curveting as they closed about him, the earth seeming to shake beneath their hoofs; and suddenly this Cæsar of the Great Smoky Mountains sank down in the reddening snow.

No one knew afterward quite accurately who fired the shots. There were many mutual criminations and recriminations amongst the little mob, but the pistols were not available in evidence because of the frequent discharges at the fugitive on the sheriff’s horse. These were considered justifiable, and thus the responsibility was never placed. Marcella was much reproved for her unwomanly interference in matters with which she had no concern. The sheriff, however, declared gallantly, “Ef I hed known ’twar you-uns, Marcelly, I’d hev loant ye my horse an’ welcome.” And more than one of the pursuers averred that it was frightful to think of having had to fire off pistols at “leetle Marcelly Strobe by mistake, whilst she war a-skitterin’ along on that wild-goose chase through the snow on the sher’ff’s horse.”

Jepson felt that it was a forlorn and maimed existence that stretched out before him after Dr. Boyce came and took off his arm. Physical prowess was a sort of religion with him, and he could not call to mind any Biblical worthy thus afflicted. It was well that he had so much pride and so much courage, or he might have been more white-faced and cast down than he was, one afternoon, when Mrs. Strobe and Marcella went to his cabin to inquire concerning his well-being. The girl persisted in sitting on the doorstep, for the door stood open, the snow having melted and the air being fine and dry, and from his chair within, by the fireside, he could not see her face,—only the lustrous waves of her long curling hair tossing on her shoulders.

When Mrs. Strobe, interested in a matter of horticulture, stepped out on the back porch to cull sundry seed-pods from a vine sheltered by the eaves, he boldly offered his advice on a point on which he considered it sorely needed.

“Ye mus’ quit these hyar dangerous ways, Marcelly,” he said, in his domineering tone. “Leave the men’s affairs alone. Ye’ll git kilt some time. Ye mought hev been kilt kemin’ ter warn me, an’ ’twar powerful dangerous warnin’ Rathburn.”

“I reckon ’twarn’t none too much ter do fur a man I’m goin’ ter marry,” she retorted tartly, her back toward him, her elbow on her knee, her chin in her hand.

He had grown used to the idea that she would marry Rathburn. “I wish he war a better man!” he said bitterly.

“He ain’t got no religion, sca’cely, I know,” she resumed presently, “but _he_ don’t feel no lack.”

“He ain’t a hypercrite, then,—like ye called me wunst?” he said desolately.

“Oh, yes,” she declared lightly, “jes’ about yer size of a hypercrite.”

“Waal—I hope he’ll be good ter ye,” he sighed.

“Dunno ’bout that,—he gits mad mighty easy,” she responded cavalierly. “Tole me wunst ez he would never furgive me ez long ez he lived.”

“Fur what?” Jepson demanded angrily.

She had risen from the doorstep. She was looking casually around, as if she were about to go. Her voice had sunk unaccountably. “Jes’ kase I ’lowed it mought hev been him ez treated leetle Bob Bowles mean.”

There was a pause. “Marcelly,” he cried at last, “who be ye a-talkin’ ’bout?”

“You-uns!” She turned away her scarlet cheek, then flashed a bright glance over her shoulder. “But I’m mos’ wore out tryin’ ter git it inter yer head,—ye ’pear so sodden in folly.”

And then she was off.

Rathburn had bitter reproaches for her. “I thought you would marry me—not Jepson. I thought you cared for me.”

“I never knowed my mind,” she admitted, “till that night whenst I hearn ’em plottin’ agin him, an’ seen he war in danger. _Then_ I fund out mighty quick who I keered fur.”

“I believe it will kill me,” he declared.

“Oh, no, ’twon’t!” she reassured him. “I hev hearn fower or five young men say that very thing, an they air walkin’ round in Brumsaidge now, well an’ hearty, an’ likely ter last a good while yit.”

Mrs. Strobe was not surprised. “Whenst young gals gits ter talkin’ ’bout ’despisin’ handsome sinners with eyes blue an’ deep ez a well,’ thar’s apt ter be a heap o’ foolishness in the wind.” She earnestly counseled her granddaughter to wait until after an investigation of the cave was had, lest Jepson should be in some sort inculpated by the testimony which the dark and gruesome caverns might yield at last. “Ye could turn him off then,” she argued, “ef ye ain’t married ter him.”

Her remonstrances had the unexpected effect of hastening the wedding. “I don’t believe he hev done nuthin’ underhand an’ mean. An’ I’m willin’ ter share ennythin’ they kin prove agin him,” Marcella declared.

The first superficial investigation of those unexplored underground recesses resulted in naught. There was then some delay while the sheriff secured and had brought from Colbury the requisite means for an extensive, safe, and efficient search,—lamps, ropes, etc.; and by the time they were in readiness Rathburn was sufficiently recovered to be with the party. He was in high hopes of realizing his dreams of rich deposits of ore, and eagerly examined the rock about the opening of the cave and within its passages. The only “find” was a ghastly spectacle. Not so far down the gloomy aisles of the cave, half hidden by a great fragment of rock, and by it supported in an upright posture, was the skeleton of a young man, clad in tatters and shreds of brown jeans, his grasp still upon the handle of a hunting-knife held out straight before him, kept in position since its strong blade had pierced the heart of a great panther, now but a skeleton too, rampant, its claws and fangs fixed in the ribs where its savagery had dealt death. It was the simplest explanation of the mystery: the antagonists in this primitive duel—the hunter and the beast—had each perished because of the other. Keale had doubtless tracked the creature to the cave, rashly ventured within her den, and she had fought with the courage of desperation. There were the skeletons of the panther kittens, having died of starvation, perhaps, scattered about on the floor, but no indications of precious metal, no sign that this gaunt thing that once was the adventurous mountaineer had ever sought it, save that in his pocket was a bit of float identical with the specimen which had so long proved a lure to Rathburn. The secret where he had found it perished with him.

Its influences were hardly so fleeting. Many a long and thoughtful hour Rathburn pondered on Baintree’s fate: innocent of the crime of which he was accused; tempted by his cowardly terror of it to commit its counterpart, which though failing had left him its legacy of remorse, its brand of Cain to bear as long as he should live. Never again came news of him to Broomsedge Cove, although Rathburn, with a condoning compassion, a certain sense of responsibility, remembering his own sordid schemes and their pitiless pursuit, which provoked Baintree’s crime, and a wish to lift the weight which must oppress him, sought him far and wide.

Rathburn lost his desire for wealth; somehow that bit of float, with all its unfulfilled promises, with all its inchoate curses, was a talisman to reconcile him to poverty. No one might know in after years, when he was notably one of the “poor collectors” of his profession, how strong a proclivity for gains at all hazards he had conquered. He never became altogether unworldly, however, and when he had returned to his appropriate place in the heart of a city he was easily consoled for Marcella’s choice, and esteemed it in the nature of an escape; for none could realize so well as he how the charming mountain flower would have lost grace and beauty, all its fascinations wilting, in the transplantation to an incongruous sphere. Nevertheless he suffers a pang occasionally—the finer æsthetic function of the heart—when he hears from Broomsedge Cove. Latterly it has been reported that Eli Strobe, whose mental malady has quite disappeared, has been elected justice of the peace, and that the “dad” formerly so frequent a word on Marcella’s lips has become a stranger to her vocabulary; for ever since she has solemnly spoken of him by the ambitious title of his office, as “the squair.” Even while Rathburn laughed at this, he saw, with the vividness of reality, and a yearning pain like homesickness, the stretches of the tawny broomsedge waving over all the abandoned land; the high encircling purple mountains touching the lofty sky; the trees bowing in homage to the passing of the royal wind; the river’s silver gleam; the smoke curling up from the stick-and-clay chimneys of the little hamlet, so still, so still, while above the white clouds set sail.

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Rutledge. The Sutherlands. Frank Warrington. Richard Vandermarck. A Perfect Adonis. Happy-Go-Lucky. St. Philips. Missy. Phœbe. Each volume, 16mo 1.25 Louie’s Last Term at St. Mary’s. 16mo 1.00

Bret Harte.

The Luck of Roaring Camp, and Other Sketches. 16mo 1.25 The Luck of Roaring Camp, and Other Stories. Riverside Aldine Series. 16mo 1.00 Tales of the Argonauts, and Other Stories. 16mo 1.25 Thankful Blossom. “Little Classic” style. 18mo 1.00 Two Men of Sandy Bar. A Play. 18mo 1.00 The Story of a Mine. 18mo 1.00 Drift from Two Shores. 18mo 1.00 Twins of Table Mountain, etc. 18mo 1.00 Flip, and Found at Blazing Star. 18mo 1.00 In the Carquinez Woods. 18mo 1.00 On the Frontier. “Little Classic” style. 18mo 1.00 Works. Rearranged, with an Introduction and a Portrait. In six volumes, crown 8vo. Poetical Works, and the drama, “Two Men of Sandy Bar,” with an Introduction and Portrait. The Luck of Roaring Camp, and Other Stories. Tales of the Argonauts and Eastern Sketches. Gabriel Conroy. Stories and Condensed Novels. Frontier Stories. Each volume 2.00 The set 12.00 By Shore and Sedge. 18mo 1.00 Maruja. A Novel. 18mo 1.00 Snow-Bound at Eagle’s. 18mo 1.00 The Queen of the Pirate Isle. A Story for Children. Illustrated by Kate Greenaway. Small 4to 1.50 A Millionaire of Rough-and-Ready, and Devil’s Ford. 18mo 1.00 The Crusade of the Excelsior. Illustrated. 16mo 1.25 A Phyllis of the Sierras, and A Drift from Redwood Camp. 18mo 1.00 The Argonauts of North Liberty. 18mo 1.00

Wilhelm Hauff.

Arabian Days Entertainments. Illustrated. 12mo 1.50

Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Works. _New Riverside Edition._ With an original etching in each volume, and a new Portrait. With bibliographical notes by George P. Lathrop. Complete in twelve volumes, crown 8vo.

Twice-Told Tales. Mosses from an Old Manse. The House of the Seven Gables, and The Snow-Image. The Wonder-Book, Tanglewood Tales, and Grandfather’s Chair. The Scarlet Letter, and The Blithedale Romance. The Marble Faun. Our Old Home, and English Note-Books. 2 vols. American Note-Books. French and Italian Note-Books. The Dolliver Romance, Fanshawe, Septimius Felton, and, in an Appendix, the Ancestral Footstep. Tales, Sketches, and Other Papers. With Biographical Sketch by G. P. Lathrop, and Indexes. Each volume 2.00 The set 24.00 New _“Little Classic” Edition_. Each volume contains Vignette Illustration. In twenty-five volumes, 18mo. Each volume 1.00 The set 25.00 New _Wayside Edition_. With Portrait, twenty-three etchings, and Notes by George P. Lathrop. In twenty-four volumes, 12mo 36.00 New _Fireside Edition_. In six volumes, 12mo 10.00 A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys. _Holiday Edition._ With Illustrations by F. S. Church. 4to 2.50 The Same. 16mo, boards .40 Tanglewood Tales. With Illustrations by Geo. Wharton Edwards. 4to, full gilt 2.50 The Same. 16mo, boards 0.40 Twice-Told Tales. School Edition. 18mo 1.00 The Scarlet Letter. Popular Edition. 12mo 1.00 True Stories from History and Biography. 12mo 1.25 The Wonder-Book. 12mo 1.25 Tanglewood Tales. 12mo 1.25 The Snow-Image. Illustrated in colors. Small 4to .75 Grandfather’s Chair. Popular Edition. 16mo, paper covers .15 Tales of the White Hills, and Legends of New England. 32mo .75 Legends of Province House, and A Virtuoso’s Collection. 32mo .75 True Stories from New England History. 16mo, boards .45 Little Daffydowndilly, etc. 16mo, paper .15

Mrs. S. J. Higginson.

A Princess of Java. 12mo 1.50

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Elsie Vernner. A Romance of Destiny. Crown 8vo 2.00 The Guardian Angel. Crown 8vo 2.00 The Story of Iris. 32mo .75 My Hunt after the Captain. 32mo .40 A Mortal Antipathy. Crown 8vo 1.50

Augustus Hoppin.

Recollections of Auton House. Illustrated. Small 4to 1.25 A Fashionable Sufferer. Illustrated. 12mo 1.50 Two Compton Boys. Illustrated. Small 4to 1.50

Blanche Willis Howard.

One Summer. A Novel. New Popular Edition. Illustrated by Hoppin. 12mo 1.25

William Dean Howells.

Their Wedding Journey. Illustrated. 12mo 1.50 The Same. “Little Classic” style. 18mo 1.00 A Chance Acquaintance. Illustrated. 12mo 1.50 The Same. “Little Classic” style. 18mo 1.00 A Foregone Conclusion. 12mo 1.50 The Lady of the Aroostook. 12mo 1.50 The Undiscovered Country. 12mo 1.50 Suburban Sketches. 12mo 1.50 A Day’s Measure, etc. 32mo .75

Thomas Hughes.

Tom Brown’s School-Days at Rugby. Illustrated. 1.00 Tom Brown at Oxford. 16mo 1.25

Henry James, Jr.

A Passionate Pilgrim, and Other Tales. 12mo 2.00 Roderick Hudson. 12mo 2.00 The American. 12mo 2.00 Watch and Ward. “Little Classic” style. 18mo 1.25 The Europeans. 12mo 1.50 Confidence. 12mo 1.50 The Portrait of a Lady. 12mo 2.00

Anna Jameson.

Studies and Stories. New Edition. 16mo, gilt top 1.25 Diary of an Ennuyée. New Edition. 16mo, gilt top 1.25

Douglas Jerrold.

Mrs. Caudle’s Curtain Lectures. Illustrated. 16mo 1.00

Sarah Orne Jewett.

Deephaven. 18mo 1.25 Old Friends and New. 18mo 1.25 Country By-Ways. 18mo 1.25 The Mate of the Daylight. 18mo 1.25 A Country Doctor. 16mo 1.25 A Marsh Island. 16mo 1.25 A White Heron, and Other Stories. 18mo 1.25 The King of Folly Island, and Other People. 16mo 1.25

Rossiter Johnson.

“Little Classics.” Each in one volume. 18mo. I. Exile. II. Intellect. III. Tragedy. IV. Life. V. Laughter. VI. Love. VII. Romance. VIII. Mystery. IX. Comedy. X. Childhood. XI. Heroism. XII. Fortune. XIII. Narrative Poems. XIV. Lyrical Poems. XV. Minor Poems. XVI. Nature. XVII. Humanity. XVIII. Authors. Each volume 1.00 The set 18.00

Joseph Kirkland.

Zury: the Meanest Man in Spring County. 12mo 1.50 The McVeys. 16mo 1.25

Charles and Mary Lamb.

Tales from Shakespeare. 18mo 1.00 The Same. Illustrated. 16mo 1.00

Harriet and Sophia Lee.

Canterbury Tales. In three volumes. The set, 16mo 3.75

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Hyperion. A Romance. 16mo 1.50 _Popular Edition._ 16mo .40 _Popular Edition._ Paper covers, 16mo .15 Outre-Mer. 16mo 1.50 _Popular Edition._ 16mo .40 _Popular Edition._ Paper covers, 16mo .15 Kavanagh. 16mo 1.50 Hyperion, Outre-Mer and Kavanagh. 2 vols. crown 8vo 3.00

Flora Haines Loughead.

The Man who was Guilty. 16mo 1.25

D. R. McAnally.

Irish Wonders. Illustrated. Small 4to 2.00

S. Weir Mitchell.

In War Time. 16mo 1.25 Roland Blake. 16mo 1.25

Lucy Gibbons Morse.

The Chezzles. Illustrated.

The Notable Series.

One Summer. By Blanche Willis Howard. The Luck of Roaring Camp. By Bret Harte. Backlog Studies. By C. D. Warner. The set, 3 vols. 16mo 3.75

Mrs. M. O. W. Oliphant and T. B. Aldrich.

The Second Son. Crown 8vo 1.50

Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.

The Gates Ajar. 16mo 1.50 Beyond the Gates. 16mo 1.25 The Gates Between. 16mo 1.25 Men, Women, and Ghosts. 16mo 1.50 Hedged In. 16mo 1.50 The Silent Partner. 16mo 1.50 The Story of Avis. 16mo 1.50 Sealed Orders, and Other Stories. 16mo 1.50 Friends: A Duet. 16mo 1.25 Doctor Zay. 16mo 1.25 An Old Maid’s Paradise, and Burglars in Paradise 1.25 Madonna of the Tubs. Illustrated. 12mo 1.50 Jack the Fisherman. Illustrated. Square 12mo .50

Marian C. L. Reeves and Emily Read.

Pilot Fortune. 16mo 1.25

J. P. Quincy.

The Peckster Professorship. 16mo 1.25

Josiah Royce.

The Feud of Oakfield Creek. 16mo 1.25

Joseph Xavier Boniface Saintine.

Picciola. Illustrated. 16mo 1.00

Jacques Henri Bernardin de Saint-Pierre.

Paul and Virginia. Illustrated. 16mo 1.00 The Same, together with Undine, and Sintram. 32mo .75

Sir Walter Scott.

The Waverley Novels. _Illustrated Library Edition._ Illustrated with 100 engravings by Darley, Dielman, Fredericks, Low, Share, Sheppard. With glossary and a full index of characters. In 25 volumes, 12mo.

Waverley. Guy Mannering. Old Mortality. Black Dwarf, and Legend of Montrose. Heart of Mid-Lothian. Bride of Lammermoor. Ivanhoe. The Monastery. The Abbot. Kenilworth. The Pirate. The Fortunes of Nigel. Peveril of the Peak. Quentin Durward. The Antiquary. Rob Roy. St. Ronan’s Well. Redgauntlet. The Betrothed, and The Highland Widow. The Talisman, and Other Tales. Woodstock. The Fair Maid of Perth. Anne of Geierstein. Count Robert of Paris. The Surgeon’s Daughter, and Castle Dangerous. Each volume 1.00 The set 25.00 Tales of a Grandfather. _Illustrated Library Edition._ With six steel plates. In three volumes, 12mo 4.50

Horace E. Scudder.

The Dwellers in Five-Sisters’ Court. 16mo 1.25 Stories and Romances. 16mo 1.25 The Children’s Book. Edited by Mr. Scudder. Small 4to 2.50

Mark Sibley Severance.

Hammersmith: His Harvard Days. 12mo 1.50

J. E. Smith.

Oakridge: An Old-Time Story of Maine. 12mo 2.00

Mary A. Sprague.

An Earnest Trifler. 16mo 1.25

William W. Story.

Fiammetta. 16mo 1.25

Harriet Beecher Stowe.

Agnes of Sorrento. 12mo 1.50 The Pearl of Orr’s Island. 12mo 1.50 Uncle Tom’s Cabin. _Illustrated Edition._ 12mo 2.00 The Minister’s Wooing. 12mo 1.50 The Mayflower, and Other Sketches. 12mo 1.50 Dred. New Edition, from new plates. 12mo 1.50 Oldtown Folks. 12mo 1.50 Sam Lawson’s Fireside Stories. 12mo 1.50 My Wife and I. Illustrated. 12mo 1.50 We and Our Neighbors. Illustrated. 12mo 1.50 Poganuc People. Illustrated. 12mo 1.50 The above eleven volumes, in box 16.00 Uncle Tom’s Cabin. _Holiday Edition._ With Introduction, and Bibliography by George Bullen, of the British Museum. Over 100 Illustrations. 12mo 3.00 The Same. _Popular Edition._ 12mo 1.00

Octave Thanet.

Knitters in the Sun. 16mo 1.25

Gen. Lew Wallace.

The Fair God; or, The Last of the ’Tzins. 12mo 1.50

Henry Watterson.

Oddities in Southern Life. Illustrated. 16mo 1.50

Richard Grant White.

The Fate of Mansfield Humphreys, with the Episode of Mr. Washington Adams in England. 16mo 1.25

Adeline D. T. Whitney.

Faith Gartney’s Girlhood. Illustrated. 12mo 1.50 Hitherto: A Story of Yesterdays. 12mo 1.50 Patience Strong’s Outings. 12mo 1.50 The Gayworthys. 12mo 1.50 Leslie Goldthwaite. Illustrated. 12mo 1.50 We Girls: A Home Story. Illustrated. 12mo 1.50 Real Folks. Illustrated. 12mo 1.50 The Other Girls. Illustrated. 12mo 1.50 Sights and Insights. 2 vols. 12mo 3.00 Odd, or Even? 12mo 1.50 Boys at Chequasset. Illustrated. 12mo 1.50 Bonnyborough. 12mo 1.50 Homespun Yarns. Short Stories. 12mo 1.50

Justin Winsor.

Was Shakespeare Shapleigh? A Correspondence in Two Entanglements. Edited by Justin Winsor. Parchment-paper, 16mo .75

Lillie Chace Wyman.

Poverty Grass. 16mo 1.25