CHAPTER XLI
RETROSPECTIVE VANITY
John Saxton sat in the office of the Traction Company on a hot night inJuly. Fenton had just left him. The transfer to the Margrave syndicatehad been effected and John would no more sign himself "John Saxton,Receiver." His work in Clarkson was at an end. The Neponset TrustCompany had called him to Boston for a conference, which meant, he knew,a termination of his service with them. He had lately sold thePoindexter ranch, and so little property remained on the Neponset'sbooks that it could be cared for from the home office. He had not openedthe afternoon mail. He picked up a letter from the top of the pile andread:
SAN FRANCISCO, July 10, 189--.
My Dear Sir:
I hesitate about writing you, but there are some things which I should like you to understand before I go away. I had fully expected to remain with you and Bishop Delafield and to return to Clarkson that last morning at Poindexter's. I cannot defend myself for having run away; it must have seemed a strange thing to you that I did so. I had fully intended acting on the bishop's advice, which I knew then, and know now, was good. But when the west-bound train came, my courage left me; I could not go back and face the people I had known, after what had happened. I told you the truth there in the ranch house that night; every word of it was true. Maybe I did not make it clear enough how weak I am. I do not know why God made me so; I know that I tried to fight it; but I was vain and foolish. Things came too easy for me, I guess; at any rate I was never worthy of the good fortune that befell me. It seemed to me that for two years everything I did was a mistake. I suppose if I had been a real criminal, and not merely a coward, I should not have entangled myself as I did and brought calamity upon other people.
When I reached here, I found employment with a shipping house. I have told my story to one of the firm, who has been kind to me. He seems to understand my case, and is giving me a good chance to begin over again. I suppose the worst possible things have been said about me, and I do not care, except that I hope the people in Clarkson will not think I was guilty of any wrong-doing at the bank. I read in the newspapers that I had stolen the bank's money, and I hope that was corrected. The books must have proved what I say. I understand now that what I did was worse than stealing, but I should like you and Mr. Porter to know that I not only did not take other people's money, but that in my foolish relations with Margrave I did not receive a cent for the shares of stock which he took from me--neither for my own nor for those of Miss Porter. I don't blame Margrave; if I had not been a coward he could not have played with me as he did.
The company is sending me to one of its South American houses. I go by steamer to-morrow, and you will not hear from me again. I should like you to know that I have neither seen nor heard anything of my brother since that night. With best wishes for your own happiness and prosperity,
Yours sincerely,
JAMES WHEATON.
JOHN SAXTON, ESQ.
On his way home to the club Saxton stopped at Bishop Delafield's rooms,and found the bishop, as usual, preparing for flight. Time did notchange Bishop Delafield. He was one of those men who reach sixty, andnever, apparently, pass it. He and Saxton were fast friends now. Thebishop missed Warry out of his life: Warry was always so accessible andso cheering. John Saxton was not so accessible and he had not Warry'slightness, but the Bishop of Clarkson liked John Saxton!
The bishop sat with his inevitable hand-baggage by his side and readWheaton's letter through.
"How ignorant we are!" he said, folding it. "I sometimes think that wewho try to minister to the needs of the poor in spirit do not even knowthe rudiments of our trade. We are pretty helpless with men likeWheaton. They are apparently strong; they yield to no temptations, sofar as any man knows; they are exemplary characters. I suppose that theyare living little tragedies all the time. The moral coward is more to bepitied than the open criminal. You know where to find the criminal; butthe moral coward is an unknown quantity. Life is a strange business,John, and the older I get the less I think I know of it." He sighed andhanded back the letter.
"But he's doing better than we might have expected him to," said Saxton."A man's entitled to happiness if he can find it. He undoubtedly chosethe easier part in running away. I can't imagine him coming back here toface the community after all that had happened."
"I don't know that I can either. Preaching is easier than practising,and I'm not sure that I gave him the best advice at the ranch house thatmorning."
"Well, it was the only thing to do," Saxton answered. "I suppose neitheryou nor I was sure he told the truth; it was a situation that wascalculated to make one skeptical. It isn't clear from his letter thatthe whole thing has impressed him in any great way. He's anxious to haveus think well of him--a kind of retrospective vanity."
"But his punishment is great. It's not for us to pass on its adequacy. Imust be going, John," and Saxton gathered up the battered cases and wentout to the car with him.
Bishop Delafield always brought Warry back vividly to John, and as theywaited on the corner he remembered his first meeting with the bishop, inWarry's rooms at The Bachelors'. And that was very long ago!
CHAPTER XLII
AT THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
The days that followed brought uncertainty and doubt to the heart andmind of John Saxton. He had seen Evelyn several times before she lefthome, on occasions when he went to the house with Fenton for conferenceswith her father. He had intended saying good-by to her, but the Porterswent hurriedly at last and he was not sorry; it was easier that way. ButMrs. Whipple, who was exercising a motherly supervision over John, hadexacted a promise from him to come to Orchard Lane during the time thatshe and the general were to be with the Porters in their new cottage.When he went East, Saxton settled down at his club in Boston, andpretended that it was good to be at home again; but he went about withhomesickness gnawing his heart. He had reason to be happy and satisfiedwith himself. He had practically concluded the difficult work which hehad been sent to Clarkson to do; he had realized more money from theirassets than the officers of the trust company had expected; and theyheld out to him the promise of employment in their Boston office as areward. So he walked the familiar streets planning his future anew. Hehad succeeded in something at last, and he would stay in Boston,having, he told himself, earned the right to live there. The assistantsecretaryship of the trust company, which had been mentioned to him,would be a position of dignity and promise. He had never hoped to do sowell. Moreover, it would be pleasant to be near his sister, who lived atWorcester. There were only the two of them, and they ought to live neartogether.
It is, however, an unpleasant habit of the fates never to suffer us todebate simple problems long; they must throw in new elements to puzzleus. While he deferred going to Orchard Lane a new perplexity confrontedhim. One of Margrave's "people" came from New York as the representativeof the syndicate that had purchased the Clarkson Traction Company, andsought an interview. John had met this gentleman at the time the salewas closed; he was a person of consequence in the financial world, whocame quickly to the point of his errand. He offered John the position ofgeneral manager of the company.
Margrave, it appeared, was not to have full swing after all. He was tobe president, but John's visitor intimated broadly that the position wasto be largely honorary. They had looked into the matter thoroughly inNew York and were anxious that the policy and methods of thereceivership should continue. Mr. Margrave was an invaluable man, saidthe New Yorker, but his duties with the railroad company had somultiplied that he would be unable to give the necessary care to thestreet car management. John should have absolute authority. Thesyndicate would be greatly disappointed if he declined. A salary wasnamed which was larger than John had ever dreamed of receiving in anyoccupation; and they wished an answer within a few days. John Saxton washuman, a
nd it was not easy to decline a salary of six thousand dollarsfor services which he knew he could perform, offered to him by agentleman whom people were not in the habit of refusing. He remainedindoors at the club all day, smoking many pipes in a fruitless effort toreconcile his resolves with his new problems.
The next day he thought he saw it all more clearly. Perhaps, hereflected, life in Boston would become endurable; there was his sisterto consider, and he owed something to her; she was all he had. He wentout and walked aimlessly through the hot streets, little heeding what hedid. He realized presently that he had gone into a railway office andasked for a suburban time table. He carried this back to the club, wherethe atmosphere of his cool, quiet room soothed him; and he lay down on acouch and studied the list of Orchard Lane trains. He found that hecould run out almost any hour of the day. He slept and woke refreshed,with the time table still grasped in his hand. He had been very foolish,he concluded; it would be a simple matter to go out to Orchard Lane tocall on the Porters and Whipples, and he picked out one of the afternoontrains and marked it on the folder with a lead pencil. He spent theevening writing letters,--in particular a letter to the representativeof the Clarkson Traction syndicate, declining the general managership;and the next afternoon when he went up to Orchard Lane he carried theletter sealed and stamped in his pocket, as a kind of talisman thatwould assure his safety.
It suited his righteous mood that he should find no one at home at RedGables but Mr. Porter, who played golf all the morning and slept andexperimented at landscape gardening all the afternoon. He welcomed Johnwith unwonted cordiality, in the inexplicable way people have of beingfriendlier with a fellow townsman away from their common habitat than athome. He led the way to a cool and cozy corner of the broad veranda,where Japanese screens made a pleasant nook. The afternoon sea shimmeredbeyond the trees; the lawn was tended with urban care. Porter was veryproud of the place and listened with approval to John's praise of it.
"Well, sir; it's cooler than Clarkson."
"A trifle, yes; the efforts of the Clarkson papers to make a summerresort of the town were never very successful." John's eyes rested on awicker table where there were books and a little sewing basket, which itwrung his heart to see.
"Folks are all off somewhere. The Whipples are in town. Grant's gonesailing and Evelyn's out visiting or attending a push of some kind upthe shore. But I guess I know when I've got a good thing. You don'tcatch me gadding into town when I've got a cool place to sit." Hestretched his short legs comfortably. "I hope you'll smoke a cigar ifyou've got one. They've cut mine off, and Evelyn won't let me keep anyaround; thinks they'd be too much of a temptation."
"It's just as well to keep away from temptation," said John, notthinking of cigars. The sight of Porter and the mention of Clarksonbrought his homesickness to an acute stage.
"I suppose our old friend Margrave's enjoying himself running theTraction Company by this time," continued Porter. "Well, sir; I guess hecan have it. I thought for a while that I wanted it myself, but Fentontalked me out of it. It will pay, if they run it right; yes, sir; it's agood thing. But the trouble with Margrave is that he won't play square.It ain't in him. He's so crooked that they'll never find a coffin forhim,--no, sir; not in stock; I guess it'll tax the manufacturer to hisfull capacity to fit Tim. But he seems to have those Transcontinentalpeople on the string, and they're smart fellows, too. I reckonMargrave's a handy man for them. They used to say _I_ was crooked,"--hetwirled his straw hat, and changed the position of his legs; "but Iguess that for pure sinuosity I was never in Tim Margrave's class. Well,Tim's a good enough fellow when all's said and done!"
"They say of him that he always stands by his friends," said John. "Andthat's a good deal."
"That's right. It's a whole lot," Porter assented.
There were some details connected with the final transfer of theTraction Company to Margrave's syndicate which Porter had not fullyunderstood, or which Fenton had purposely kept from him; and he pressedJohn for new light on these matters. John answered or parried as hethought wisest. He was surprised to find how completely Porter had freedhimself from business; the sometime banker talked of Clarkson affairswith an accentuation of the past tense, as if to wave them all away asfar as possible. Events in themselves did not interest him particularly;but he took a mildly patronizing tone in philosophizing about them. Hedrew from John the fact that most of the property of the Neponset TrustCompany in the Trans-Missouri region had been sold.
"That's good. I guess you've done pretty well for them, Saxton. But Ihope we shan't lose you from Clarkson. We need young men out there; andI guess we've got as good a town as there is anywhere west of Chicago."
"I'm sure of that," said John; and he rose to go.
"I'm sorry the rest of them are not here," said Mr. Porter. "Evelynought to have been home before this. But you must come again. Come outand try the golf course and have dinner with us any time. I'm playing alittle myself this summer. Evelyn and Grant can outdrive me all right;but they're not in it with me on putting. I'm one of the warmest putterson the links. You can find the shore path this way." He led John to anexit at the rear of the house, where there was an old apple orchard."After you pass the lighthouse you come to a road that leads right intothe village."
John left his greetings for the rest of the household and turned away.It had all happened much more easily than he had expected. He had burnedall his bridges behind him now; he would mail his letter in the village;not that it would be delivered any sooner, but because it fell in withhis spirit of renunciation that it should go hence with the Orchard Lanepostmark.
He took it from his pocket and carried it in his hand. He found the walkvery pleasant, with the rough shore of the bay on one hand and prettyvillas on the other. Orchard Lane was not wholly a fiction ofnomenclature. There were veritable lanes that survived the coming offashion and wealth, and spoke of simpler times on these northern shores.The path was not altogether straight, but described a tortuous line pastthe lighthouse which crouched on a point of the bay. There was a trainat six o'clock; it was now five and he loitered along, stopping often tolook out upon the sea. A group of people was gathered about a tea tableon the sloping lawn in front of one of the houses. The colors of thewomen's dresses were bright against the dark green. It was a gaycompany; their laughter floated out to him mockingly. He wonderedwhether Evelyn was there, as he passed on, beating the rocky path withhis stick.
Evelyn was not there; but her destination was that particular lawn andits tea table. Turning a fresh bend in the path he came upon her. He hadhad no thought of seeing her; yet she was coming down the path towardhim, her picture hat framed in the dome of a blue parasol. He hadrenounced her for all time, and he should greet her guardedly; but theblood was singing in his temples and throbbing in his finger tips at thesight of her.
"This is too bad!" she exclaimed, as they met. "I hope you can come backto the house."
She walked straight up to him and gave him her hand in her quick, frankway.
"I'm sorry, but I must go in to town on this next train," he answered.He turned in the path and walked along beside her.
"This happened to be one of our scattering days, for all except father."
"We had a nice talk, he and I. Your place is charming."
They descended the shore path until they came to the villa where the teadrinkers were assembled.
"Don't let me detain you. I'm sure you were going to join these lotuseaters."
"I don't believe they need me," she answered, evasively. "They seempretty busy. But if you're hungry--or thirsty, I can get something foryou there." They passed the gate, walking slowly along. He knew that heought to urge her to stop, and that he must hurry on to catch his train;but it was too sweet to be near her; this was the last time and it washis own!
"I seem to remember your tea drinking ways," she said. "You use onlysugar and the hot water."
"But that was in the winter," he responded. He wished she had notreferred to that afternoon, whe
n he had been weak, just as he wasproving weak now. A yacht was steaming slowly into the bay. It was apretty, white plaything and they paused and commended its good qualitieswith the easy certainty of superficial knowledge. They walked on,passing the lighthouse, and slowly nearing the entrance to Red Gables.She led the talk easily and her light-heartedness added to hisdepression; every step he took was an error; but he would leave her atthe gate when they came to it and go on to the village and his train.She paused abruptly and looked across a meadow which lay between themand the Red Gables orchard.
"I really believe it's a cow; yes, it is a cow," she declared, withquiet conviction.
"I thought it was a yacht. Was I as dull as that?" he demanded.
"Be it far from me to say; but I was getting a little breathless. Eventhe professional monologuists in the vaudeville have to rest."
He was not in a humor for frivolous conversation; but she had never beenso gay. He had committed himself to general chaos and yet she wassmiling amid the ruin of the world.
"I don't believe there are any letter boxes along here," she continued,looking straight ahead. He remembered his letter; he was stupidlycarrying it in his hand; his fingers were cramped from their clutch uponit. It was not easy to resist her mood, and he now laughed in spite ofhimself.
"I'm disappointed. I thought they had all the necessities of asuccessful summer resort here,--even mails."
"Rather poor, don't you think? I suppose you were carrying the letter toget an opening for that."
They paused and John held open the little gate in the stone wall. He wasgrave again, and something of his seriousness communicated itself toher. Clearly, he thought, this was the parting of the ways. He had notrelaxed his hold upon the letter; it was a straw at which he clutchedfor support.
"Won't you come in? There are plenty of trains and we'd like you to dinewith us."
A great wave of loneliness and yearning swept over him. Her invitationseemed to create new and limitless distances that stretched betweenthem. In fumbling with the latch of the gate he had dropped his letter.The wind caught and carried it out into the grass.
He went soberly after it and picked it up. There was a doggedresignation in his step as he walked slowly across the grass. While hewas securing the bit of paper, she sat down on a rustic bench and waitedfor him.
"The fates don't agree with you about the letter, Mr. Saxton. You werelooking for a letter box and they tried to thwart you."
"I'm not superstitious," said John, smiling a little.
"One needn't be,--to act on the direct hints of Providence."
She sat at comfortable ease on the bench, holding her parasol across herlap. There was room for two, and John sat down.
"Suppose it were a check on an overdrawn account; would Providenceintervene to prevent an overdraft?"
"That's a commercial hypothesis; I think we should be above suchconsiderations." Then they were silent. John bent forward with hiselbows on his knees, playing with his stick and still holding theletter. The wind came up out of the sea and blew in their faces. Thebrass mountings of the yacht shone resplendent in the slanting rays ofthe lowering sun. It was very calm and restful in the orchard. Tworobins came and inspected them, and then flew away to one of the gnarledold trees to gossip about them.
"It happens to be important," said John, indicating the letter.
"Oh, pardon me!" with real contrition. It was not her way to flirt witha young man over a letter. John held up the envelope so that she saw thesuperscription. She knew the name very well. It was constantly in thenewspapers, and the owner of it had dined once at her father's house.
"He's the head of the syndicate that has bought the Traction Company. Hehas asked me to stay in Clarkson and run the street cars."
"That's very nice. But merit gets rewarded sometimes."
"But I have refused the offer," he said quietly. He had not intended totell her; but it was doubtless just as well; and it would alter nothing."My work in Clarkson is finished," he went on. "Warry's affairs willmake it necessary for me to go back from time to time, but it will notbe home again."
"I'm sorry," she said. "I thought you were to be of us. But I supposethere is a greater difference between the East and the West than any onecan understand who has not known both." They regarded each othergravely, as if this were, of course, the whole matter at issue.
"I can't go back,--it's too much; I can't do it," he said wearily.
"I know how it must be,--this last year and Warry! It was all soterrible--for all of us." She was looking away; the wind had freshened;the yacht's pennant stood out against the blue sky.
John rose and looked down at her. It was natural that she should includeherself with him in a common grief for the man who had been his friendand whom she had loved. She had always been kind to him; her kindnessstung him now, for he knew that it was because of Warry; and a resolvewoke in him suddenly. He would not suffer her kindness under a falsepretense; he could at least be honest with her.
"I can't go back, because he is not there; and because--because you arethere! You don't know,--you should never know, but I was disloyal toWarry from the first. I let him talk to me from day to day of you; I lethim tell me that he loved you; I never let him know--I never meant anyone to know--" He ceased speaking; she was very still and did not lookat him. "It was base of me," he went on. "I would gladly have died forhim if he had lived; but now that he is dead I can betray him. I hatemyself worse than you can hate me. I know how I must wound and shockyou--"
"Oh, no!" she moaned.
But he went on; he would spare himself nothing.
"It is hideous--it was cowardly of me to come here."
His hands were clenched and his face twitched with pain. "Oh, if he hadlived! If he had lived!"
She rose now and looked at him with an infinite pity. This is one ofGod's unreckoned gifts to man,--the gift of pity that He has made thegreat secret of a woman's eyes. Evelyn's were gray now, like the stretchof sea beyond her, where a mist was creeping shoreward over the bluewater.
"If he had lived," she said very softly, looking away through thesun-dappled aisles of the orchard, "if he had lived--it would have beenthe same, John."
But he did not understand. His name as she spoke it rang strange in hisears. The letter had fallen to the ground and lay in the grass betweenthem; he half stooped to pick it up, not knowing what he did.
She walked away through the orchard path, which suddenly became to hima path of gold that stretched into paradise; and he sprang after herwith a great fear in his heart lest some barrier might descend and shuther out forever.
"Evelyn! Evelyn!"
It was not a voice that called her; it was a spirit, long held inthrall, that had shaken free and become a name.
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After all the material for the story had been collected a year wasrequired for the writing of it. It is an historical romance of thebetter sort, with stirring situations, good bits of character drawingand a satisfactory knowledge of the tone and atmosphere of the periodinvolved.--_N. Y. Herald._
Lazarre, is no less a person than the Dauphin, Louis XVII. of France,and a right royal hero he makes. A prince who, for the sake of his lady,scorns perils in two hemispheres, facing the wrath of kings in Europeand the bulle
ts of savages in America; who at the last spurns a kingdomthat he may wed her freely--here is one to redeem the sins of even thosewho "never learn and never forget."--_Philadelphia North American._
With six Illustrations by Andre Castaigne
12 mo. Price, $1.50
The Bobbs-Merrill Company, _Indianapolis_
* * * * *
"THE MERRIEST NOVEL OF MANY, MANY MOONS"
MY LADY PEGGY GOES TO TOWN
By FRANCES AYMAR MATHEWS
The Daintiest and Most Delightful Book of the Season.
A heroine almost too charming to be true is Peggy, and it were achurlish reader who is not, at the end of the first chapter, prostratebefore her red slippers.--_Washington Post._
To make a comparison would be to rank "My Lady Peggy" with "MonsieurBeaucaire" in points of attraction, and to applaud as heartily as thatdelicate romance, this picture of the days "When patches nestled o'ersweet lips at chocolate times."--_N. Y. Mail and Express._
12 mo. Beautifully illustrated and bound.
Price, $1.25 net
The Bobbs-Merrill Company, _Indianapolis_
* * * * *
A VIVACIOUS ROMANCE OF REVOLUTIONARY DAYS
ALICE _of_ OLD VINCENNES
By MAURICE THOMPSON
_The Atlanta Constitution says_:
"Mr. Thompson, whose delightful writings in prose and verse have madehis reputation national, has achieved his master stroke of genius inthis historical novel of revolutionary days in the West."
_The Denver Daily News says:_:
"There are three great chapters of fiction: Scott's tournament on Ashbyfield, General Wallace's chariot race, and now Maurice Thompson's duelscene and the raising of Alice's flag over old Fort Vincennes."
_The Chicago Record-Herald says_:
"More original than 'Richard Carvel,' more cohesive than 'To Have and ToHold,' more vital than 'Janice Meredith,' such is Maurice Thompson'ssuperb American romance, 'Alice of Old Vincennes.' It is, in addition,more artistic and spontaneous than any of its rivals."
VIRGINIA HARNED EDITION
12mo, with six Illustrations by F. C. Yohn, and a Frontispiece in Colorby Howard Chandler Christy. Price, $1.50
The Bobbs-Merrill Company, _Indianapolis_
* * * * *
A STORY BY THE "MARCH KING"
THE FIFTH STRING
By JOHN PHILIP SOUSA
The "March King" has written much in a musical way, but "The FifthString" is his first published story. In the choice of his subject, asthe title indicates, Mr. Sousa has remained faithful to his art; and thegreat public, that has learned to love him for the marches he has made,will be as delighted with his pen as with his baton.
"The Fifth String" has a strong and clearly defined plot which shows inits treatment the author's artistically sensitive temperament and histremendous dramatic power. It is a story of a marvelous violin, of awonderful love and of a strange temptation.
A cover, especially designed, and six full-page illustrations by HowardChandler Christy, serve to give the distinguishing decorativeembellishments that this first book by Mr. Sousa so richly deserves.
With Pictures by Howard Chandler Christy
12mo. Price, $1.25
The Bobbs-Merrill Company, _Indianapolis_
* * * * *
A GOOD DETECTIVE STORY
THE FILIGREE BALL
By ANNA KATHERINE GREEN
Author of "The Leavenworth Case"
This is something more than a mere detective story; it is a thrillingromance--a romance of mystery and crime where a shrewd detective helpsto solve the mystery. The plot is a novel and intricate one, carefullyworked out. There are constant accessions to the main mystery, so thatthe reader can not possibly imagine the conclusion. The story isclean-cut and wholesome, with a quality that might be called manly. Thecharacters are depicted so as to make a living impression. Cora Tuttleis a fine creation, and the flash of love which she gives the hero iswonderfully well done. Unlike many mystery stories The Filigree Ball isnot disappointing at the end. The characters most liked but longestsuspected are proved not only guiltless, but above suspicion. It is astory to be read with a rush and at a sitting, for no one can put itdown until the mystery is solved.
Illustrated by C. M. Relyea.
12mo, Cloth, Price, $1.50
The Bobbs-Merrill Company, _Indianapolis_
* * * * *
A VIVID WESTERN STORY OF LOVE AND POLITICS
THE 13TH DISTRICT
By BRAND WHITLOCK
This is a story of high order. By its scope and strength it deserves tobe spoken of as a novel--and that word has been very much abused byhanging it to any old thing. It is a wonderfully good and interestingaccount of the workings of politics from before the primaries on throughelection, with a splendid love story also woven into it.
One would think for instance, that it would be impossible to give anaccount of a "primary" and keep it interesting; it is natural to supposea writer would become entangled with the dull routine of it all, but hedoes not, he makes it interesting. He shows the tricks, the heat, thepassion, the tumult; the weariness and stubborness of a dead lock. Thedescriptions of society life in the book are equally good.
12mo. Price, $1.50
The Bobbs-Merrill Company, _Indianapolis_
* * * * *
THE TRIUMPH OF FORGIVENESS
THE LOOM OF LIFE
By CHARLES FREDERIC GOSS
Author of "The Redemption of David Corson."
In "The Loom of Life" Dr. Goss has written a powerful book, filled withthe poetry and tragedy of life. It tells a novel and impressive story ina style marked by a charming felicity of expression.
The story, which has an epic broadness and strength, is of a young girlwho revenges a wrong done to her with life-long persecution. Finally,however, she is forced to realize that on earth peace and happiness canbe obtained only by forgiveness.
"Mr. Goss' splendid powers have been demonstrated afresh. This bookalone is strong enough, big enough, important enough, enough suggestiveand informing, to make a reputation for any one.
"He has already a large audience created by his earlier book, 'TheRedemption of David Corson.' The new book will at once find favorableand eager readers."--_The Living Church._
12mo, cloth. Price, $1.50
The Bobbs-Merrill Company, _Indianapolis_
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