THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 

 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT 
 
 IN VARYING MOODS 
 
 HILDA STRAFFORD 
 
 THE FOWLER 
 
 KATHARINE FRENSHAM 
 
 THE SCHOLAR'S DAUGHTER 
 
 INTERPLAY 
 
 OUT OF THE WRECK I RISE 
 
 THE GUIDING THREAD 
 
 SPRING SHALL PLANT 
 
THIRTEEN 
 ALL TOLD 
 
 BY 
 
 BEATRICE HARRADEN 
 
 METHUEN & GO. LTD. 
 
 36 ESSEX STREET W.G. 
 
 LONDON 
 
First Published in 1921 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE ENCHANTED HOUSE ...... 1 
 
 THE CLARIONET PLAYER . . . . . .33 
 
 BONDAGE 39 
 
 IN A BAVARIAN FIDDLE VILLAGE .... 63 
 MCGRATH'S HOMECOMING ..... 93 
 
 THE FIRST WIFE'S PICTURE . . . . .111 
 THE BACH DOUBLE CONCERTO IN D MINOR . .139 
 THE JEWEL GHOST . . . . . . .151 
 
 THE HOLIDAY 179 
 
 THE DISTANT SCENE 195 
 
 THE MESSAGE 205 
 
 THE WOMAN PAVEMENT ARTIST . . . .219 
 "THE LITTLE GREY HOME IN THE WEST" 241 
 
 403730 
 
THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 THE ENCHANTED HOUSE 
 
 IT was a curious thing how Wilberforce Keith han- 
 kered after that house in St. John's Wood. It was 
 all the more curious because never before in his life 
 tad he wanted a house. A couple of rooms, a few good 
 >oks, a piano, a violin and his liberty constituted his 
 of what was necessary for the enjoyment of life, 
 bainly not a house with all its awful and terrify- 
 ing responsibilities and its puzzling limitations. Puzzling, 
 because the greater the space, the more rigid the limita- 
 tions. He had always noticed that. It was as if Abstract 
 Space had said : "If you attempt to make me concrete, 
 you'll lose me you'll lose the sense of me." 
 
 That immense house of Bridge's, for instance. You 
 could feel the walls pressing on you, the ceilings high 
 enough in all conscience, yet bearing down on your head. 
 You simply couldn't breathe. The wonder was that you 
 got out alive. And a still greater wonder that anyone 
 remained alive there, year in, year out. A small house 
 was safer because it attempted no rivalry with an Abstract 
 Idea. The walls didn't press against you ; the ceilings, 
 however low, didn't rest on your head, for the simple 
 reason that you weren't expecting Space. 
 
 You were, in fact, outside Space, independent of it, 
 unconcerned with it; And therefore, free; 
 
 l i 
 
ALt TOLD 
 
 But as for wanting to buy or rent any house, big or 
 small, well, he had invariably said : " Never," until he 
 noticed that house in St. John's Wood. 
 
 He had seen it first on a wet and windy night, and 
 very little of it had he seen just a glimpse through the 
 outer gate. That's all. It was detached and surrounded 
 by a high wall ; but at the very moment when he was 
 passing, the gate was thrown open, and he caught sight 
 of the garden and dim lights from the house, which stood 
 well back, secluded, mysterious, peaceful, final. 
 
 A young woman had opened the gate. She called 
 back to someone in the house : 
 
 " It's raining hard. Don't come out. See you to- 
 morrow for the last time here. It's awful that the board's 
 going to be put up. I shall come and tear it down. Well, 
 so long ! What a night ! " 
 
 She strode off and was soon out of sight. She was 
 equipped for the roughest weather, and wore a sou'- 
 wester hat and a green oilskin coat. He remembered also 
 that she carried an electric torch which she switched on 
 for a moment, whilst she stopped to take something out 
 of her pocket and look at it, probably an address, for she 
 said aloud : 
 
 " Idiot that I am. Of course, it is Campden Hill, 
 and not Camden Town. Whatever was I thinking of ? " 
 
 But that did not concern Wilberforce Keith. What 
 did concern him were her previous words : " It's awful 
 that the board is going to be put up. I shall come and tear 
 it down." 
 
 So the house was to be let. A board was going to be 
 put up, perhaps to-morrow, perhaps the next day. Any- 
 way, the house was to be let. And he'd been told that 
 direct at the moment of passing he of all people who 
 had never hungered after a house. The news made such 
 an impression on him, that when he arrived at the end 
 of the road, he turned back and passed the house again. 
 He even stood for a minute or two outside it, regard- 
 less of the rain and wind. Not being equipped with oil- 
 skin coat and sou'-wester, he became drenched, but in- 
 different, so obsessed was he with the significance of the 
 
THE ENCHANTED HOUSE 3 
 
 message which he believed had been meant for him. He 
 heard a voice whispering softly but clearly to him : 
 
 " The reason why you have not had a house all these 
 years is, that this, and this only, could be your home. 
 And you must have it." 
 
 The idea pursued Keith day and night. It often kept 
 him awake or haunted him in his dreams. And why ? 
 Ah, that was the curious part. He could not have said 
 why had not the least curiosity to know why. If 
 anyone had put the question to him, he could merely have 
 answered : " Some secret force is impelling me." 
 
 n 
 
 IT chanced that Keith was called away on business to 
 Newcastle-on-Tyne, and was absent from London for 
 about ten days. Directly he returned, he made a pil- 
 grimage to St. John's Wood and found that the house was 
 to let and the board up. In addition to the names of 
 two agents, he read the words : " Caretaker within." 
 
 He rang the bell. In a few seconds he heard the sound 
 of slow footsteps over the paved pathway ; and an old 
 man with a singularly beautiful face opened the gate. 
 
 " I am sorry to keep you waiting," he said, courteously, 
 and in a tone of voice which betrayed the scholar and the 
 gentleman. 
 
 " I fear I have disturbed you," Keith said. " I am 
 much afraid I have come at an hour when the caretaker 
 is out." 
 
 " No, you have not," the old man said, with a smile. 
 " Come in. I am the caretaker." 
 
 He led the way through the pretty garden up to the 
 secluded house, to which the twilight of an early spring 
 afternoon lent an added touch of mystery, but with no 
 faintest sign of anything sinister or forbidding. On the 
 contrary, the immediate impression Keith received was 
 joyousness. 
 
 The old man paused on the threshold and said : 
 
 " You will find each room more lovely than the last." 
 
4 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 And this was the only information he appeared to think 
 it was necessary to give. He waved his hand with cir- 
 cular gesture as if indicating that his visitor was free to 
 roam through the house, and then retired to what had 
 probably been the dining-room of the previous occupants. 
 Keith glanced in and saw a table, a comfortable chair, 
 a bedstead, and a number of books. A fire was burning 
 in the grate. Although the room was dismantled, there 
 was no air of desolation about it. The very marks left 
 by the pictures taken away from the walls, produced no 
 depressing effect of departure and abandonment. They 
 seemed, in fact, to be outward and visible signs that 
 things of beauty and sweetness had hung there, and had 
 shed an abiding benediction on the place. 
 
 As Keith strolled from one empty room to the other, 
 he felt extraordinarily happy, not in the sense of being 
 elated or tuned to excitement, but as one might feel on 
 beholding for the first time a land of unusual loveliness, 
 of ideal promise. He could not have particularised 
 or described his sensations : all he knew was that he 
 was under the thraldom of influences which made for 
 joy of spirit, an indefinable and yet an especial joyful- 
 ness for which he had been hungering all his life. 
 
 When he came downstairs, the old man was waiting 
 in the hall to receive him. He scanned Keith. 
 
 " Ah, I see you have found out the secret," he said, 
 half -regretfully. " I knew that sooner or later someone 
 would arrive to whom it would be revealed. Many have 
 been here and gone away without the faintest idea of it. 
 But I judge from the expression on your face that you 
 know." 
 
 " You mean that the secret is happiness," Keith said. 
 " If you mean that, then it is true that I have discovered 
 it. I have never in my life been so conscious of the bene- 
 diction of quiet happiness." 
 
 " Nor I," the caretaker said. 
 
 And he added : 
 
 " It would interest me greatly to know in which room 
 you experienced the greatest joy." 
 
 " Tt was in the garret," Keith answered; without a 
 
THE ENCHANTED HOUSE 5 
 
 moment's hesitation. " In the smaller of the two rooms. 
 I felt . . ." 
 
 " Yes, yes, what did you feel ? " the old man broke 
 in eagerly. 
 
 " I felt," Keith continued, "as if beautiful poems 
 had been written there poems which broke down barriers, 
 disclosed visions, revealed truths." 
 
 " Ah, that is precisely what I felt there," the old man 
 said, with a radiant smile. 
 
 " Very strange, very strange," Keith said, half to himself. 
 
 "No, not strange," the old man said. " If beautiful 
 poems were born there, surely it is not to be wondered at 
 that they should leave their impress. The mystic Spirit 
 of Place is . . ." 
 
 He broke off. Whatever he had intended to say, 
 he had changed his mind about giving expression to 
 his thoughts. He stood silent and aloof, waiting for his 
 visitor to depart. In this respect he bore close resemblance 
 to all caretakers in possession of premises, though so 
 different in all other characteristics. Keith had a great 
 desire to ask him why he was acting in this capacity, but 
 instinct told him that the old man must not be ques- 
 tioned ; and, indeed, he was himself too sensitive to intrude 
 on anyone's barriers of privacy. He accepted his dis- 
 missal, and withdrew. 
 
 He paid three more visits to the house, and on each 
 occasion found, to his joy, that it was still unlet. It was 
 borne in on him increasingly that he must acquire the 
 place for his home. He eventually entered into negotia- 
 tions with the owners ; and one day he was able to tell 
 the old caretaker that the arrangements were completed, 
 but that he could only secure a yearly tenancy, and that he 
 had to take the house as he found it, without renovations 
 or repairs. 
 
 " And there is something I want to say to you, sir," 
 he said. " I do not, of course, know who you are, nor why 
 you are here. But I do see that you love the house, and 
 something tells me that I must not deprive you of it. 
 Nor do I wish to do so. I would like you to stay on and 
 be happy." 
 
6 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 " You mean to say that I have not got to go ? " the 
 old man asked with an eagerness which betrayed to Keith 
 the measure of his apprehension. 
 
 " Yes, you must stay on and be happy," Keith answered 
 kindly. " I know I have been disturbing your peace 
 of mind, because you have seen that I have wanted 
 desperately to live here, and you have feared that this 
 meant you would lose your haven. Isn't that so ? Well, 
 you see it does not mean that. Keep your room and live 
 your own life. I will not interfere with you." 
 
 " But the others who will come with you, may dislike 
 the presence of a stranger," the old man said, his face 
 suddenly falling. 
 
 " There are no others," Keith said gravely. " I am 
 alone in this world a lonely man. I have a married 
 sister, living in London, but separated from me by the 
 barriers of fashionable life. She used to count in my 
 scheme of life in the old days, but now she does not. So 
 I am practically alone in the world." 
 
 " You will not be lonely here," the old man said. " You 
 will have companionship wondrous companionship. It 
 is an enchanted house. But you know that yourself." 
 
 Keith nodded. 
 
 " Yes," he said dreamily. " I was caught by its spell 
 from the beginning." 
 
 " I also," the old man said. " If you care to hear, I 
 will tell you the simple history of my presence here . Perhaps 
 you will come and sit down in the room which you say 
 may still be mine." 
 
 Keith followed him into his den and sat near the 
 fire. 
 
 " I was out in India," the old man said. " I was in 
 a hill station, and an Englishman, a Civil Servant, on his 
 holiday, was taken very ill. I looked after Hebden as 
 well as I could, but he had a mortal illness on him, and the 
 end was very near. He knew this. And one day he asked 
 me to look for a letter he had put aside somewhere ; and 
 I found it and read it to him. It was merely a short note 
 sent from this address, in which the writer said he feared 
 that he would not be able to get a renewal of the lease, 
 
THE ENCHANTED HOUSE 7 
 
 and he was much troubled. That was all. But Hebden 
 became greatly agitated, and he tried to write, but could 
 not. Then he dictated these words : ' Renew the lease 
 of the house at all costs. I have left you money. Make 
 every sacrifice to stay on. It will be worth while.' ' 
 
 Keith nodded his head as if in confirmation. 
 
 " It will be worth while," he repeated softly. 
 
 The old man continued : 
 
 " After his letter had been sent off, Hebden seemed 
 easier. But the .subject of the house was always in his 
 mind, and he made me promise, when I came to England, 
 to go straight to his friend Arncliffe, and give a farewell 
 greeting and a further admonition that the lease should 
 be renewed. He kept on saying that the house was too 
 valuable to lose, though he never once gave any reason. 
 It was a curious thing, but his only regret in dying seemed 
 to be that he would not again have the joy of living in 
 that house." 
 
 The old man paused a moment. He seemed lost in 
 thought. 
 
 " Hebden died," he went on. " I carried out his wishes 
 directly I came to England, a few weeks after his death. 
 I had scarcely crossed the threshold of this house when 
 I learnt its secret. It was enchanted and in a very 
 beautiful way." 
 
 " And what about Arncliffe ? " asked Keith eagerly. 
 " Did he perceive that you had learnt the secret ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered the old man, " he had only to look at 
 my face, just as I only had to look at your face. But he 
 gave me no chance of asking questions. He was hugging 
 the secret to himself defending it from the outside world. 
 So when I left, I knew nothing save that I had entered and 
 quitted an enchanted zone. But I have kept constant 
 watch over the house ; for the memory of my emotions 
 on my arrival haunted me night and day. When at last 
 it stood empty, I managed to secure the post of caretaker, 
 as I longed to learn more. That is how I chance to be 
 here. It was my only chance, since the rent was quite 
 beyond my means." 
 
 " And your sojourn has not disillusioned you ? " Keith 
 
8 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 asked. " But I need not ask that. You look entirely 
 happy." 
 
 The old man smiled. 
 
 cc You will look the same," he said gently. " Happi- 
 ness gives all people, however differently featured, an 
 unmistakable resemblance. I can promise you happi- 
 ness here and companionship. If you have been lonely 
 as I have been in my life, and as Hebden, I think, and 
 Arncliffe were lonely, here you will never have that misery 
 to endure. That much I can tell you and the rest you 
 will find out for yourself." 
 
 Keith went away thrilled with wonder and expectancy. 
 The Promised Land for which he had ever vaguely been 
 steering, was spread before him at last. 
 
 in 
 
 i 
 
 A FEW weeks later Keith moved his few possessions into 
 the unfurnished house. The caretaker had made a curi- 
 ous remark to him. He had said : " You will, of course, 
 not need much furniture. It is already furnished." But 
 in any case, Keith would not have dreamed of buying 
 things to add to his equipment. He might want a home, 
 but he certainly did not want the added complications 
 of tables, chairs, sofas, wardrobes, curtains, carpets and 
 other similar trials of the flesh. He had a few beautiful 
 bits of the best Jacobean period, and these he installed 
 in his bedroom and sitting-room. His sitting-room was 
 the drawing-room of the previous tenant. The dining- 
 room remained, as promised, the abode of the old man, 
 whose name was Halton Samuel Halton. 
 
 In the beginning Keith's chief trouble was dealing with 
 and dismissing the many representatives of firms who 
 wished to supply him with all the usual appurtenances 
 of a well-regulated normal household. It took a great 
 deal of firmness and resourcefulness of brain to make 
 these- gentlemen understand that their services were not 
 required and never would be required, and that all he 
 asked of them was that they should never return, never 
 
THE ENCHANTED HOUSE 9 
 
 send any circulars, never write. They went away greatly 
 puzzled, of course, and could only suppose that he was 
 out of his mind. 
 
 Keith's friends certainly thought he was out of his mind. 
 They found it amazing that he, who for years had lived 
 in two rooms, and had ever shrunk from the responsi- 
 bility of a house, should suddenly, without any warning, 
 and apparently without any reason, take a big one and 
 settle down in it alone, except for the ex-caretaker. They 
 could have understood and appreciated his action if he 
 had produced a wife for the occasion. But to have no 
 wife and no furniture well, it was past human compre- 
 hension. His sister, Elizabeth, whom in the past he had 
 always liked, expressed her mind quite openly about his 
 mental condition, and urged him to see a specialist. 
 
 " A rest cure, dear Wilberforce, is what you need," 
 she said soothingly. " I do beg of you to consult Dr. 
 Hawthorne Jenkins." 
 
 Keith smiled good-naturedly, and patted her hand. He 
 was much too happy to be annoyed with her or anyone. 
 
 " Look here, Elizabeth," he said, " you just sit down 
 and play the Corelli Sonata in D with me. I want to 
 know how music sounds in this room. I'll tune up the 
 fiddle whilst you find the volume. It is in the corner 
 there." 
 
 But she shook her head. She was not in the mood for 
 Corelli. 
 
 " And you know nothing about that old man," she 
 said. " I do think you are behaving strangely, Wilber- 
 force. He may murder you. Such awful things happen." 
 
 " Yes," Keith conceded, " awful things do happen, 
 but they are not going to happen m this house. You need 
 not be alarmed about Halton." 
 
 " Why have you asked him to stay on ? " she per- 
 sisted. 
 
 Keith still did not lose his temper over what might 
 well have been considered her impertinence. Instead he 
 answered, half dreamily : 
 
 " If you went into a lovely garden and found a noble 
 oak tree within its precincts, would you wish to uproot it ? " 
 
10 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 After this remark Elizabeth's fears for her brother were 
 confirmed, and she went home and confided them to 
 her husband, a prosperous and shining Q.C., who had never 
 had any flattering opinion about Wilberforce Keith's 
 mind or character. 
 
 " Don't worry about him," he said. " He is a queer 
 fellow. His view of life has always been an absurd one. 
 All that nonsense about spreading his money amongst 
 others and only having few personal wants and posses- 
 sions, is as irritating as it is ridiculous. His present aberra- 
 tion is merely another manifestation of his unbalance. 
 You cannot do anything about it, Bess. Leave it. Some 
 day Keith will go out of his mind, and then we can settle 
 him comfortably where he will be happy, poor chap." 
 
 " But he is so happy now," Elizabeth said. " I have 
 never seen anyone so happy." 
 
 " Part of his unbalance, of course," said the Q.C. 
 " What sane person is happy ? " 
 
 " Aren't you happy, Jack ? " she asked anxiously. 
 
 "I'm all right," he answered, smiling at her. " I'm 
 busy and prosperous and interested and ambitious and 
 all that sort of thing, and devoted to my wife and children, 
 but happy I don't know. Are you ? " 
 
 " I don't know, Jack," she replied wistfully. 
 
 She remained uneasy about Wilberforce. She had a 
 rooted belief that he was in danger of being murdered by 
 the old man. She did not hint at the possibility of this 
 tragedy to her husband. She could not have borne it if 
 he had taken off his eye-glasses, cleaned them, twiddled 
 them about, and remarked, as she knew he would : 
 
 " Aha, this gets interesting. We must watch the 
 development of events." 
 
 No, she could not have borne that. 
 
 She wished she had played Corelli's Sonata in D when 
 Wilberforce asked her. 
 
 IV 
 
 So Keith settled down in his new home, having secured 
 a woman to come daily and do a reasonable amount of 
 
THE ENCHANTED HOUSE 11 
 
 work. He had views about the dignity of honest and 
 efficient labour at a time when very few people were 
 giving this subject even a passing consideration. There 
 were plenty of workers to choose from in those far-off 
 days, and he chanced upon a Mrs. Wedderburn, the widow, 
 firstly, of an Italian who had been a dealer in sculptures. 
 She had spent several years in Italy, and had evidently 
 seen better days. He probably engaged her because 
 she recognised his picture of the Bargello staircase. That 
 would not necessarily have meant that she would clean 
 a staircase well, or prove in any way to be a domestic 
 treasure. But, oddly enough, she did turn out to be 
 extraordinarily efficient. And she prepared macaroni 
 cheese in a fashion which would have made Elizabeth's 
 husband uphold the innocence of the most hardened 
 criminal. (Elizabeth's husband was fond of good cooking.) 
 She was pleased with her liberal wage, which was excep- 
 tional at that period, though now accepted as ordinary 
 standard; and she was gratified with the appreciation 
 of her services, also a phenomenon in that brutish age 
 of domestic slavery. She seemed, in fact, happy and 
 contented, and sounded, therefore, no discordant note 
 in the atmosphere. When asked whether it were not 
 rather desolate and depressing working in that big, empty 
 house, her answer was : 
 
 " Oh, dear no, there are plenty of people about." 
 It is not known whether she referred to Mr. Halton 
 and Keith only, or whether she included in her statement 
 the invisible Presences pervading the enchanted house. 
 
 For there were invisible Presences. Keith sensed them 
 from the beginning, feebly at first, and gradually with a 
 finer perception. Either they became more insistent, 
 or he more sensitive. Either they tuned themselves to 
 him, or he unconsciously tuned himself to them. Prob- 
 ably a period of trial and acclimatisation was necessary 
 before they and he could form anything except a vague 
 elusive acquaintanceship. Perhaps they had not been 
 able to decide whether Keith had credentials of sufficient 
 value to entitle him to eventual intimacy of intercourse. 
 Anyway, weeks passed, and there were no developments 
 
12 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 or changes, save in himself. He became amazingly well 
 and looked years younger. Before he lived in the house, 
 he might have been taken for a man of sixty years : whereas 
 he was only fifty-one or two. But now quite twenty years 
 of apparent age vanished into nothingness. He faced 
 the world as a man of forty. 
 
 Elizabeth was astonished when she saw him She 
 arrived one day after having dreamed that he was mur- 
 dered, fearing to find him in that condition, and yet hop- 
 ing against hope that he was intact and that they could 
 play the Corelli Sonata in D as in the old days, when she 
 used to make music with him, hour in, hour out/ Yes, 
 she gave up a particularly brilliant Society function that 
 afternoon, discarded her hat with its scandalous aigrette, 
 laid aside her Manner of Prosperity, and her long bobbing 
 earrings which had always annoyed Keith beyond human 
 bearing, and came because she was impelled. 
 
 " I had to come, Wilberforce," she said. " I wanted 
 to see if you were well, and I really yearned to have some 
 music with you. It was horrid of me to refuse the other 
 day. You look well." 
 
 " Not murdered yet, you observe," Keith laughed. 
 " The old man is still quite harmless. A very interest- 
 ing personage. I suppose there is nothing about Oriental 
 languages and Indian dialects that he does not know. One 
 of the few people who have been to Thibet. Imagine that, 
 Elizabeth." 
 
 Elizabeth did not try to imagine it. Her principal 
 interest in Mr. Halton was that so far he had considerately 
 spared Wilberforce's life. 
 
 So brother and sister played together not only Corelli, 
 but Bach and Schumann and Brahms. It was an extra- 
 ordinarily happy afternoon, and once Elizabeth looked 
 round, nodded at him, and said, " Jolly, isn't it, Wilby." 
 
 " Jolly," he answered. " Downright jolly." 
 
 And another time she looked round, not at him, but 
 into space, with an expression of pleasurable expectancy 
 on her face, which lent her a distinct charm, never contri- 
 buted by her aigrette or her bobbing earrings. She left 
 with a marked reluctance, and when she had got as far 
 
THE ENCHANTED HOUSE 13 
 
 as the gate, she said she had forgotten her ring which she 
 had taken off, and she must return to find it. It was an 
 invention. Elizabeth had not forgotten her ring. The 
 truth was that she wanted to enter the house again, to 
 linger a little and bathe herself in the atmosphere. She 
 found her ring, not on the ledge of the fingerboard, but in 
 her satchel, and remarked innocently : " How silly of me 
 here it is. Now I am really off, Wilby." 
 
 Keith did not notice her little bit of subterfuge. What 
 he did notice, and what interested and pleased him, was 
 that Elizabeth seemed more like her former self than on 
 any occasion he had seen her since many years. She 
 had grown important with prosperity; and Importance, 
 of course, is far more separating than Death. You may 
 lose a person by Death physically, but not necessarily 
 spiritually. But by Importance you lose a person abso- 
 lutely. Elizabeth had not been important that after- 
 noon. She was the Elizabeth of his childhood again, 
 who had played and quarrelled with him, run races, 
 climbed trees, and later, climbed mountains in the Ber- 
 nese Oberland, seen with him the beckoning snow-peaks 
 and the tenderness of the Alpine glow. 
 
 He stood thinking of her for a long time after she had 
 gone. 
 
 LATE one afternoon, when Keith returned home, he had 
 scarcely opened the door with his latch-key, when he 
 heard the sound of children's laughter and voices. Even 
 the most stereotyped journalist could not have described 
 it as shrill. It was clear, bell-like, but subdued, as though 
 it were wafted from a far distance. 
 
 " No, no, it's your turn to catch me," someone cried. 
 
 "Go on then, I'll give you a good start," cried some- 
 one else. 
 
 There was a scampering across the hall right up against 
 Keith, and a mad rushing up the staircase and a dashing 
 into all the rooms, and a subdued yell when pursuer caught 
 the pursued, Sounds but no visible signs of the childreni 
 
14 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 Keith stood still with a smile on his face. There was 
 no need to ask whether the children had been too quick 
 for him to see, whether Mr. Halton had been receiving 
 guests, or Mrs. Wedderburn entertaining relatives. These 
 were some of the Children Presences of the house. They 
 belonged here. 
 
 He felt it. 
 
 Were the Presences really going to make themselves 
 known to him ? The very thought thrilled him. And 
 if so, how entirely delightful that the joy in store for him 
 should start with the children. He must tell Halton 
 that something had begun. It had been agreed between 
 them that he must find out everything for himself, with 
 no promptings from Halton, but that it would be quite 
 safe to report the different stages of his admittance into 
 the inner life of the house. 
 
 So he knocked at Mr. Halton's door, was told to come 
 in, and found the old man as usual deep in his books, but 
 as usual, quite ready for Keith's companionship. Not 
 that he often ventured to disturb Mr. Halton. Keith 
 was sensitive, and the mere fact that the old man was 
 the first of them to live in the house, gave added reason 
 that his seclusion should be respected and his method of 
 life not interrupted. Mrs. Wedderburn had received 
 strict injunctions on that point. She, therefore, never 
 intruded on him, and Keith but seldom. But now it 
 was an absolute necessity that Mr. Halton should be 
 told the news, and Keith was so excited that he could 
 scarcely get it out. 
 
 " Ah, so you have begun with the children," Halton 
 said, putting down his book on the Dialects of India, 
 and smiling in sympathy with Keith's eagerness. " No 
 doubt you love children. I am sure you do. Well, you 
 will love these children very specially. They have great 
 charms, and are subject to bouts of excessive naughtiness. 
 I trust it will not be long before you see them as well as 
 hear them. They kept me some time waiting, but then 
 I am not exceptionally attached to children or was not. 
 I am attached to them now. But you, loving children 
 already, will have a better chance." 
 
THE ENCHANTED HOUSE 15 
 
 He then returned to his Indian Dialects, and Keith could 
 get nothing further out of him. 
 
 A day or two afterwards Keith, sitting alone in his room, 
 became acutely aware of Presences ; and these fragments 
 of conversation were borne to him. 
 
 " Yes, the sweet peas are very beautiful," said a voice. 
 " Thank you for bringing them. Your experiments, 
 have been most successful. I have never seen such 
 large ones nor such tender colouring. And their fra- 
 grance is delicious. You ought to feel triumphant and 
 happy. You won't get a prize, of course, but you will 
 not mind that, Peter." 
 
 " No, I think I can survive that tragic deprivation," 
 said Peter, laughing. " Flowers bring their own reward 
 of an abiding joy. Wonderful things flowers increas- 
 ingly wonderful, I think them." 
 
 " You have a way with them," said the other. " You 
 could conjure up a rose garden with a wave of your little 
 finger. I wish you'd take a look at the garden here, and 
 deprive it of its complacent smugness. It's too well 
 cared for in the wrong way. Marian won't change the 
 gardener because he has a large family to support with 
 three sets of twins. So we have to put up with his effici- 
 ency. Perhaps you could have a talk with him, and under- 
 mine some of his best professional qualities. Do, Peter." 
 
 " I'll try," laughed Peter. " But efficient gardeners 
 are almost as impenetrable as Permanent Officials. And 
 we all know what we think of them." 
 
 A little soft chuckle of amusement followed and 
 then silence. 
 
 That same evening, Keith, feeling restless, wandered 
 over the house, and came finally to the garret where, 
 on the occasion of his first visit, he had received his strong- 
 est impressions of the all- pervading happiness. The door 
 was shut. He paused on the threshold. He knew per- 
 fectly well that the room was empty : and yet it was borne 
 in on him that he must ask permission before entering. 
 He knocked. 
 
 " Come in, come in," said a voice, joyously. 
 
16 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 Keith opened the door. He saw no one. 
 
 " You have just come at the right moment," said the 
 voice. " I've finished my Ode to the Dawn. Oh, the 
 travail of creation but the joy the ineffable joy ! Noth- 
 ing can take that from one neither failure nor success. 
 Yes yes, the dawn breaking on the distant scene 
 liberty, freedom of spirit, fetters unfastened for ever- 
 more." 
 
 Keith had ever loved poets. He believed them to be 
 the salvation of the world. And as he stood there, a 
 great longing and sympathy and gratitude surged up 
 within him. He stretched out his arms to that invisible 
 Presence. 
 
 And, slowly, slowly, it materialised. He saw the form 
 of a man, dimly outlined, small, ordinary, insignificant, 
 but in his eyes the fire of vision, and on his countenance, 
 written large, the thought that penetrates the ages to 
 come. 
 
 It faded and was gone. 
 
 VI 
 
 ONE day Mrs. Wedderburn came to Keith's sitting-room 
 and said that a young lady had called and asked whether 
 she might see him for a minute. She was waiting down- 
 stairs in the hall. 
 
 " Are you sure she has not come from one of the fur- 
 nishing firms ? " Keith asked apprehensively. 
 
 " I am not sure, sir," Mrs. Wedderburn answered. 
 " But she does not look like that. And she hasn't a 
 business manner at all. She almost skipped into the 
 hall when I opened the door, and said aloud, 'Oh, the 
 darling old place.' " 
 
 " Sensible girl," Keith remarked, smiling. " She deserves 
 to be received. But if she should prove to be a disguised 
 emissary from Hampton's or Shoolbred's or any of those 
 Hostile Houses, what on earth am I to do ? " 
 
 " Ring, sir," suggested Mrs. Wedderburn. " And then 
 leave me to manage her. I'll soon tell her we don't want 
 no furniture here artd no carpets'" 
 
THE ENCHANTED HOUSE 17 
 
 The visitor was shown in, and Keith rose to receive her. 
 
 " Good morning," he said gravely but courteously. 
 " I think I had better say at once that I trust you have 
 not come from Hampton's or Shoolbred's." 
 
 " Well, it is curious you should mention it," she replied, 
 " but I have this moment come from Shoolbred's." 
 
 " Ah, I feared so," he said, moving in the direction of 
 the bell. " But I can assure you I am not in need of their 
 help. I need neither carpets nor furniture." 
 
 She laughed merrily, and very charming she looked, her 
 eyes dancing with amusement, and a slight flush Nature's 
 unaided tint, on her face. 
 
 " Oh, I understand," she said. " You thought I was 
 a representative of the firm intent on business. But I'm 
 not. And I've only been to Shoolbred's to buy a couple of 
 tea-trays. I am sorry if I have alarmed you. I really ought 
 not to have come at all, but I could not resist. You see, 
 we lived here for some time. Some friends lent us the 
 house whilst they were away in South Africa. And I was 
 never so happy in my life. I was passing near, and 
 felt I must come in." 
 
 Keith moved away from the bell. His manner under- 
 went a complete change. 
 
 " You lived here," he repeated, smiling. " Then I am 
 sure you are most welcome. I can well understand that 
 anyone who has once lived here, would never pass the 
 house without wishing to come in. In fact it would be 
 impossible." 
 
 " Yes, it would be, wouldn't it ? " she said eagerly. 
 
 " Roam through the house at your leisure," he went on. 
 ;< You will need to be alone to collect old memories, so I 
 will not come with you. If you wish to see me again, 
 you will find me here." 
 
 She lingered for a moment before wandering off. 
 < " It was most curious," she said half -dreamily, " how 
 happy I was here. I don't think I am by nature a happy 
 person, and we have always had great tragedies in our 
 family, which have helped to make us all sorrowful. But 
 you would have been amused to see the change in us here. 
 None of the others knew the reason of the change. They 
 2 
 
18 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 were light-hearted and at ease in body and spirit without 
 realising that they were under some influence. But I 
 knew. After I had been here a day or two, I had learnt 
 the secret of the house." 
 
 " Ah," said Keith quietly, " a beautiful secret, isn't 
 it? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered, her eyes shining. 
 
 She passed swiftly up the staircase. Keith heard 
 her singing as she went. He recognised the song. It 
 was " UHeureux Vagabond," a little song by Alfred 
 Bruneau. 
 
 He felt certain that there was a stir in the atmosphere. 
 He could well imagine that she was being welcomed as one 
 in perfect accord with the harmonies of the house. 
 
 She bore the signs of pleasurable excitement on her 
 radiant countenance when she came downstairs again. 
 
 " Darling old place," she said, " I love every inch of it. 
 But I must see what used to be the dining-room in our 
 time. May I ? The dining-room was to me the most 
 wonderful room in the house." 
 
 Keith hesitated. 
 
 " I don't know whether we can disturb Mr. Halton," he 
 said. " I found him here in possession of that room, and 
 here he abides. But wait a moment. Perhaps he is 
 asleep, and then you could steal in and sit awhile." 
 
 He opened the door very cautiously. Mr. Halton was 
 fast asleep in his armchair. His book on Indian Dialects 
 had fallen on the ground. Keith beckoned to his visitor, 
 and she crept in on tiptoe. 
 
 " What a grand-looking old man," she whispered. 
 "He is the right personage to be here. He belongs to 
 the room." 
 
 Keith nodded, put his finger to his lips to enjoin silence, 
 and pointed to a chair in the corner and left her. He did 
 not close the door. He waited in the hall, wondering what 
 she was feeling, what she was hearing, seeing, thinking. 
 He longed to ask, but he knew well that he would never 
 dream of taking that liberty. If she told him anything, 
 spontaneously, of her own free will, he would be glad. 
 Would she tell him ? 
 
THE ENCHANTED HOUSE 19 
 
 It was only about ten minutes, but it seemed to him 
 ten years, before she came out. 
 
 " The old man is still fast asleep," she said. " I scarcely 
 breathed lest I should rouse him." 
 
 And she added : 
 
 " The peace in that room is just as wonderful more 
 wonderful, and my favourite landscape more beautiful 
 than ever. I always loved that silvery backwater with 
 its grey reeds. I hope the dear old man sees it and enjoys 
 it." 
 
 " I have not a doubt he does see and enjoy it," Keith 
 said gravely. 
 
 She held out her hand to him. 
 
 " You have been very kind to me," she said, smiling. 
 " Thank you ever so much. I feel buoyed up with happi- 
 ness." 
 
 Then she darted off like a bird, and Keith heard her 
 singing that same little song as she danced down the path- 
 way. 
 
 " Je m'en vais par les chemins, lirelin, et la plaine, 
 Dans mon sacj'ai du pain blanc, lirelin, et trois ecus dans ma poche." 
 
 Keith stood for a moment lost in thought ; and then he 
 stole into Halton's room, and glanced at the empty walls 
 with the marks left of the places where pictures had hung. 
 There were none now. 
 
 " A silvery backwater with its grey reeds," he mur- 
 mured. " Perhaps I shall see it one day." 
 
 By degrees the Enchanted House yielded up more and 
 more of its secrets. Keith caught glimpses of the Pres- 
 ences at nearer intervals ; and snatches of conversation 
 were always reaching him. Laughter broke upon his hearing 
 happy laughter, never sinister, always reassuring. 
 Music greeted him sometimes. And he heard the open- 
 ing movement of Beethoven's String Quartette in F, 
 known as the Harp- Quartette. On that occasion he 
 did not see the players, but later they revealed themselves 
 to him, two men and two women, and they seemed in 
 a state of beatific enjoyment over their own performance. 
 
20 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 " We're playing very well, to-night, aren't we," said the 
 leading violinist, who was a woman. " We're eclipsing 
 ourselves. We shall soon be playing at St. James's 
 Hall." 
 
 " Let us finish up with a Mozart," said the 'cellist, 
 " so pleasant and comforting." 
 
 The sounds and the vision faded, but Keith knew he 
 had made new friends. And later, added to them, were 
 two women, one of whom was bending over some exqui- 
 site embroidery work, and the other, an exceedingly 
 beautiful personage, was engaged on some chemical 
 experiment in her laboratory. 
 
 And not so long afterwards, in his own room, the veil 
 lifted and showed him, for one brief moment, the picture 
 of a little girl curled up in an armchair. She was writing 
 hard, and her little thin face, tense though it was with eager- 
 ness, was lit up with a marvellous radiance, that strange 
 radiance seen only on the countenances of those to whom 
 the gods have given the mystic gift of genius. Her doll 
 was lying pathetic and neglected on the ground. A tall, 
 grave-looking man, with grey hair and a grey beard, was 
 bending over her. 
 
 " My little one hard at work," he said, " far, far away 
 in her own world, and with no thoughts for her old father 
 or her old doll." 
 
 " Darling father," she cried impulsively, and flung her 
 arm round him. 
 
 Keith saw the expression of pride and love on the man's 
 face and then the veil descended. 
 
 One night before Keith went to bed, he strolled out 
 into the garden to enjoy the moon and stars which were 
 making of the heavens a silver paradise. He was filled 
 with wonder at them and with gratitude for their splendour 
 thus spread before him in a healing lavishness. When 
 he returned to the house, he heard a voice saying : 
 
 " But as I have often told you, I never have painted for 
 the present. I do not expect that my meaning and method 
 will be understood now. My eyes have always been fixed 
 on the distant scene," 
 
THE ENCHANTED HOUSE 21 
 
 " Very distant is that distant scene," said another voice, 
 not mockingly, but on the contrary with anxious concern. 
 " Let it be," said the first voice. " I make towards 
 it it is my goal. You would not like me to be prosper- 
 ous like Bridge. Don't ask it of me. I really could not 
 oblige you." 
 
 The other laughed. Then there was silence. Keith 
 had a sort of feeling that the two friends went off arm 
 in arm together. 
 
 He thought constantly about that artist whose eyes 
 were fixed on the distant scene. And of course he longed 
 to see one of his pictures, and hoped, almost prayed, that 
 one day he might behold the work of a man who cared 
 not for the praise and profit of the moment, but was content 
 to steer towards a far-off goal. For Keith himself was 
 unworldly, free, unmanacled. If he had been a writer 
 or a painter or a .creative genius of any kind, his eyes 
 would have been fixed on the distant scene. 
 
 Keith's hope was realised at last. He saw the artist 
 working in his studio a tall, grave, grey haired man, the 
 father of the little girl who wrote and wrote curled up 
 in an armchair. He was alone now, alone with his aims 
 and ambitions, and he was finishing an amazing picture, 
 quite different from anything that Keith had ever imagined. 
 
 You had to look at it a long time before you realised that 
 it was supposed to represent peaks of snow mountains 
 freeing themselves from the mists. The method, the 
 colouring, the conception were startling in the extreme ; but 
 when you had recovered from the bewilderment, you began 
 to think that here indeed were the peaks themselves, 
 here indeed the mists themselves, and here before your 
 very eyes Nature at work jewelling the snow with emer- 
 alds and rubies as the sun leapt joyously to greet the 
 liberated prisoners. 
 
 VII 
 
 To Keith's amazement Elizabeth's husband arrived one 
 evening about six o'clock. It chanced that Mrs. Wedder- 
 burn was constructing her famous dish of macaroni cheese 
 
22 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 at the time, and the fragrance of it was wafted benevo- 
 lently upstairs. The Q.C. sniffed it, and said to himself : 
 
 " Ha, something good cooking here. I must enquire 
 into this." 
 
 It gave him an unexpectedly favourable impression of 
 the place. He had come intending to be patronising 
 and satirical, for he had always fostered a contempt for 
 Keith and all his ways. But he could not be contemptuous 
 confronted with a succulent aroma of this description. The 
 thing was not possible. 
 
 " So this is your new home, Wilberforce," he said 
 affably. " Well, I hope you will continue to be happy 
 in it. Elizabeth seemed to think you had settled down 
 very comfortably." 
 
 " I have, thank you," Keith said icily. He did not 
 like John Fortescue. 
 
 " Elizabeth enjoyed her afternoon here," the Q.C. 
 continued. " I must say I have never known her for 
 many years to be so light-hearted. Something here 
 seems to have pleased her extraordinarily." 
 
 " Indeed," remarked Keith. " I am glad." 
 
 " You look very well, Wilberforce," Fortescue said. 
 " Very well and astonishingly young." 
 
 " Thank you, I feel both," Keith said with the same 
 stiffness of manner which the Q.C. always provoked in him. 
 
 " Not burdened with furniture, I perceive," Fortescue 
 remarked, looking round. " Is there by any chance a 
 chair in the establishment ? I was never one for standing." 
 
 " My bedroom and sitting-room are furnished," Keith 
 said rather more pleasantly. " Come in and sit down 
 in my easy-chair in my den." 
 
 " Ah, that's better," Fortescue said as he followed 
 Keith into the sitting-room and sank down into a com- 
 fortable armchair. He lit a cigar and spread himself, as 
 if he were entirely welcome and could do as he pleased. 
 Prosperity had made him sure of himself, and he had never 
 been dowered with even a minimum of sensitiveness. 
 Keith watched him, wondered why he had come, wondered 
 how long he was going to stay, and wondered what Eliza- 
 beth had ever found to like in him. 
 
THE ENCHANTED HOUSE 23 
 
 " Curious idea of yours, Wilberforce," he said, " to 
 take a big house after all your protestations against nouses 
 and your theories about freedom from unnecessary respon- 
 sibilities and so forth." 
 
 " Yes, very curious," Keith agreed gocd-temperedly. 
 " No one could be more surprised than myself." 
 
 " If it isn't an impertinence, I would like to ask why you 
 did it," Fortescue said, rather coaxingly, as if he were 
 attempting professionally to wheedle a bit of informa- 
 tion out of a stubborn witness. " I have always been 
 interested in motives." 
 
 "It is an impertinence," Keith said, smiling. " I 
 might just as well ask you why you moved to Curzon 
 Street." 
 
 " Oh, that's easily answered," Fortescue said, laughing. 
 " It was the obvious thing to do in my position and I 
 did it. Prosperity has to proclaim itself to be believed 
 in, and to accumulate compound interest. I don't mind 
 telling you that I am not at all happy in Curzon Street. 
 But I had to go. That's all." 
 
 " That is exactly my case," Keith said. " I had to 
 come here. Only I had no motive that I was conscious 
 of." 
 
 " Perhaps it was for space," Fortescue suggested. 
 " You have always cramped yourself up." 
 
 " No, it was not," Keith replied. " I have never 
 cared for space in itself and don't now." 
 
 " Well, you have plenty of space here whether you like 
 it or not," said the other. " Empty space. It ought by 
 rights to feel desolate ; but I am bound to confess it doesn't." 
 
 Keith was on the point of stating that it was not empty 
 and could not feel desolate, when he restrained himself ; 
 for it had never been his habit to talk intimately with 
 Elizabeth's husband on the few occasions when it was 
 his misfortune to be brought into contact with him. But 
 oddly enough, to-day he felt it to be less of a misfortune ; 
 and although he was not intending to give Fortescue 
 confidences, he neither resented his questions nor even 
 his presence. For the first time in their intercourse Keith 
 did not actively dislike him. In fact he found himself 
 
24 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 owning that there was a sort of boyish charm on Fortes- 
 cue's face which he had never noticed before, and a sugges- 
 tion of good-nature making an unconscious appeal for a 
 belated appreciation. 
 
 The door opened at this juncture, and Mrs. Wedder- 
 burn appeared with the evening tray, from which the 
 cheese macaroni sent forth an enticing invitation. 
 
 " By Jove, what a jolly good smell ! " said Fortescue 
 boyishly. " You've got a good cook here, Wilberforce. 
 Plenty of space, no furniture but a good cook. Well, 
 well ! " 
 
 Mrs. Wedderburn was pleased. 
 
 " Shall I bring another plate, sir ? " she asked of Keith. 
 
 " Yes," Keith answered, laughing. " You'd better 
 prove your statement, Jack." 
 
 Jack Fortescue proved it, and when he returned home, 
 surprised Elizabeth by telling her that he had paid that 
 queer old Wilberforce a visit, and found him greatly 
 changed for the better, more companionable and easy to 
 be with, and obviously happy and contented. 
 
 " As for his macaroni cheese," he added, " well, words 
 fail me." 
 
 It was evident that whatever the cause macaroni cheese 
 or the Secret of the House he had passed a pleasant 
 evening, and had absorbed some of the happiness of the 
 surroundings. 
 
 He went whistling into his library. 
 
 vrn 
 
 ONE day when Keith was sitting with Mr. Halton, he 
 suddenly saw the landscape of the silvery backwater 
 with its grey reeds. 
 
 " The silvery backwater ! " he cried aloud joyously. 
 
 " Ah, I am glad you see it," the old man said. " I 
 always hoped you would. It speaks of peace and calm 
 trust and everything beautiful. It has been a great com- 
 fort to me. If you had turned me away, I should have 
 mourned for it." 
 
THE ENCHANTED HOUSE 25 
 
 " I could not have turned you away," Keith said kindly. 
 " It would not have been possible." 
 
 " No, I do not think it would," Halton said. " You do 
 not like to give pain to anyone. I am sure of that. And 
 you have been rewarded as you ought to be." 
 
 "I don't- in the least deserve to be rewarded," Keith 
 said, smiling. " But I have been. All my life I have 
 longed for the sort of companionship we have here. Out 
 in the world they call real, it was unattainable. I have 
 no key with which to unlock the gate which shuts off 
 ordinary ungifted people from intimate contact with the 
 great. I had no aims, no attributes to serve as passport, 
 no right of entry. Nothing except a great longing. One 
 saw them from afar, and now to be with them in their 
 midst seems " 
 
 He broke off. Voices were heard in the room. 
 
 " The fact is I can never tell you or anyone how great the 
 conflict in my own spirit has been," said one of them. 
 " You know I have cared passionately for my art, Ned, 
 and yet for many years I have been torn by the feeling 
 that I must devote more of my strength to public service. 
 I have envied those who, likey our self, were able to remain 
 outside the region of that insistent call. Still, if one 
 hears a call, one has got to answer to it and these labour 
 questions are awfully pressing. If we don't handle them 
 now don't begin to handle them now, I mean we are 
 storing up endless difficulties and multiplying tenfold the 
 injustices which we refuse to remedy." 
 
 " Poor old chap, I do wish you were not obsessed by 
 injustices," said the other voice. " No one has your 
 touch. No one paints a sunrise on the sea like you. Any- 
 one can look after injustices. They're not nearly as 
 important as sunrises on the sea." 
 
 " Aren't they though ! " laughed the other. " That's 
 the trouble. Well, I must be off. I've got to speak at 
 the Working Men's College to-night. Don't take any 
 notice of my outpouring. I'm an awfully happy fellow 
 when all is said and done. Wouldn't be without my 
 contradictory calls for all the peace of spirit in this life or 
 hereafter. So long." 
 
26 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 Keith had the feeling that the Presence withdrew. 
 There was a moment of silence, and then Ned said : 
 
 " Come here, Buster, good dog. Come here. That's 
 right. Now, Buster, I want to tell you that I would not 
 mind so much if those coniounded people for whom and 
 with whom he works, realised a little the sacrifice he makes. 
 But they don't. They think he is just like themselves. 
 But we know better, don't we ? " 
 
 Keith saw the dim outlines of the man bending over 
 his dog. They were very faint, and faded into nothing- 
 ness. 
 
 There were many days when the Enchanted House 
 parted with none of the details of its secrets, and when 
 neither voices nor visions reached Keith's ears and eyes. 
 But even then the Presences did not leave the precincts, 
 and there was always the sense of a pervading, delightful 
 companionship which gave him all he wanted, and yet 
 left him free and unfettered to pursue his own life. There 
 was the stimulating expectancy also that at any moment, 
 something might happen. 
 
 New friends revealed themselves as time went on, 
 amongst them a pair of young lovers whose faces were 
 radiant with the wonder of their happiness. There were 
 several authors, one of them a novelist, and the other a 
 writer on philosophical subjects, so far as Keith could 
 gather from the fragments of conversation heard on different 
 occasions. And then there was someone who was always 
 spoken of as " the disinterested politician." He was 
 evidently considered by his community to be a miracle 
 of nature, for his approach was always heralded by the 
 words : 
 
 " Aha, here's our phenomenon, the disinterested politi- 
 cian." 
 
 And of old acquaintances Keith saw or heard, or both 
 saw and heard frequently the poet, the painters, the little 
 girl writing her stories, the woman of science in her labora- 
 tory, the woman of the beautiful embroidery work, the 
 children playing about the house, the string quartette, 
 Peter, the enthusiastic gardener, and the artist- 
 social reformer whom Keith loved with all his heart and 
 
THE ENCHANTED HOUSE 27 
 
 understood with all his brain. Buster, the retriever, too, 
 made many appearances, sometimes with the children, or 
 his master, or alone on guard in front of the easel. Cer- 
 tainly all the people who had lived in that house or fre- 
 quented it, as friends or acquaintances, had been fine people 
 with aims, aspirations, enthusiasms, ideals. 
 
 Was it any marvel, then, that it had become a Temple 
 of Enchantment ? 
 
 Sometimes, nay often, Keith wondered who had built 
 the House, and what had taken place on the ground before 
 it was built. Had it in past ages been the site of an altar 
 where sacrifices of the spirit had been offered up to a 
 God of Happiness ? Who could tell ? Only one thing 
 was sure and that was its marked influence on all Keith's 
 friends. They had no knowledge of its secret, and indeed 
 were scarcely conscious of the spell it cast over them. 
 All they knew, was that they liked to come ; and of course 
 they got no enlightenment on the subject from Keith. 
 The secret was sacred. Halton and Keith by tacit agree- 
 ment rarely spoke of it, even to each other. 
 
 "It Is safer to be silent," the old man said. " I have 
 a belief that if we were to speak much of them, discuss 
 them, compare our experiences, the Presences might 
 withdraw themselves." 
 
 Keith shared his view, and beyond reporting from time 
 to time, as had been arranged between them, another 
 addition to his list of introductions, he kept his impres- 
 sions and emotions to himself. 
 
 Only once did Mr. Halton particularise. 
 
 " If we could choose out of all these lovable Presences," 
 he said, " I think I would single out the artist-social 
 reformer as my favourite." 
 
 Keith nodded. He thought the same. 
 
 So the happy months sped on. Elizabeth looked in 
 several times, and was fully satisfied that Keith was not 
 qualifying for a lunatic asylum, nor in danger of being 
 murdered by Mr. Halton. On her visits to the Enchanted 
 House she dropped all her society manners, and became 
 a real human being, not a sawdust doll. She enjoyed 
 playing Brahms and Schumann and Beethoven with 
 
28 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 Keith and his violin. She strolled about the house, sang, 
 and made the acquaintance of Mr. Halton, who however re- 
 fused to be interested in her, and always courteously but 
 quite definitely retreated to his Indian Dialects after two 
 or three minutes of her companionship. She was not hurt. 
 
 " He can do anything he likes," she laughed to herself, 
 " as long as he docs not murder dear old Wilby." 
 
 The Enchantment of the House had renewed and re- 
 stored the old friendship between brother and sister inter- 
 rupted by marriage and importance and prosperity and 
 all other separating circumstances of social life. It had 
 also affected the relationship between Keith and the Q.C. 
 The Q.C. came several times, and not really for the maca- 
 roni cheese. He lounged in the easy-chair, smoked a 
 very big cigar, played a game of piquet with Keith, spread 
 himself and said on leaving that he felt enormously rested. 
 
 " A pleasure to be with you, Wilberforce," he said 
 once. " I fancy I've been a nice fool these many years." 
 
 Keith did not contradict him. 
 
 And once again the young lady arrived whom Keith 
 had mistaken for the representative of the Furnishing 
 Department of Shoolbred's. She was going out to South 
 Africa to be married, and she wished to take a last fare- 
 well of the place where she had been so happy. She 
 wandered alone in all the rooms, and as before, came down- 
 stairs with an air about her as if she had been seeing many 
 friends who had welcomed her and stimulated her. Keith 
 prepared Mr. Halton for her arrival, explained her, and 
 impressed on the old man's mind that this was her last 
 visit to the Enchanted House. Might she come in ? 
 Mr. Halton said of course she might. And he rose from 
 his chair, and was preparing to withdraw from the room, 
 so that she might enjoy the atmosphere undisturbed, and 
 in silence and quietness be imbued with the Spirit of 
 Place. 
 
 But she prevented him. 
 
 " Please, please, don't go, dear old man," she said 
 eagerly. " You are the very personage to be in the room. 
 You make it even more mysteriously healing than it was 
 before." 
 
THE ENCHANTED HOUSE 29 
 
 Mr. Halton's face lit up. 
 
 " My child," he said, " may the memory of the Magic 
 of the House abide with you always, together with an old 
 man's blessing." 
 
 IX 
 
 ONE morning about eighteen months after Keith had 
 obtained possession of the Enchanted House, a tragic 
 piece of news reached him. He received a letter which he 
 at once read aloud to Mr. Halton. The property which 
 included their home had been sold to a Syndicate, 
 and flats were to be erected. Liberal compensation was 
 offered Keith for an immediate surrender of his tenancy. 
 
 " Compensation," Keith cried indignantly. " There 
 could be no compensation." 
 
 " No, there could be no compensation," Mr. Halton 
 said, shaking his head gravely. 
 
 It was the first time that any shadow had come over 
 their happiness there ; but it was only transient. The 
 Spirit of Place did not allow the atmosphere of the En- 
 chanted House to be changed. The offer of compensation 
 for immediate surrender was of course firmly refused, and 
 during the three months which preceded the legal termina- 
 tion of their tenancy, Keith and old Mr. Halton enjoyed 
 an even more intimate intercourse with the Presences, 
 unmarred by any touch of sadness or any regretful con- 
 cern over the parting in prospect. They lived only in the 
 Present, and the Present was beautiful and charged with 
 a happiness, compared with which the joy of the first 
 months had been but a prelude heralding in an era of 
 finer sensitiveness, richer fulfilment. 
 
 Was it that the Presences had learnt to know and 
 trust them, and were anxious to bestow on them the full 
 measure of friendship as an abiding memory ? Was it 
 that they themselves in their distant world were reluc- 
 tant to part with a link of rare understanding and sym- 
 pathy, and therefore set to work to forge it with added 
 security ? 
 
 Who can tell ? Yet, is it not conceivable that those 
 
30 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 who have passed beyond the barrier and have found a 
 hidden channel of communication running clear and 
 fresh and free from garish hindrance, may yearn to keep 
 it open for their own sakes and on behalf of all the so- 
 called Dead ? 
 
 Who can tell ? 
 
 But this much can at least be told, that the Presences 
 revealed themselves with increasing frequency during 
 those last wonderful weeks, and finally were seen and heard 
 at all times and in all places. Formerly they had confined 
 their intimacy to a tacit acceptance of the companion- 
 ship of Keith and Mr. Halton, with whom they were at 
 entire ease. But in these latter days they broke one more 
 barrier down, and established a direct and personal com- 
 munication, only intermittently, it is true, yet often enough 
 to show that the boundary line was becoming more and 
 more negligible. 
 
 The children penetrated even into Mr. Halton's den, 
 and romped round his table, and played havoc with his 
 books and Indian Dialects. 
 
 " Ah, you have come again, dear children," he said, 
 smiling. " And you are as welcome as flowers in May." 
 
 " Of course we are," they cried, " we know that well, 
 dear old man." 
 
 The artist reformer was always sauntering in and out 
 of Keith's sitting-room, sometimes holding forth on Art 
 and sometimes on Labour. And once, to Keith's ineffable 
 joy, he addressed him. He said: 
 
 " I am sure you will understand how happy I am, Keith, 
 when I tell you that I have made up my mind to give 
 myself a period of rest from all public questions which have 
 been torturing me, and throw myself into creative work 
 again. I began this morning and already feel years 
 younger." 
 
 " Ah," Keith said eagerly, " I am glad to have that 
 good news." 
 
 Down from his garret strolled the poet with a Sonnet 
 to the Sea, which he declaimed to Mr. Halton with passion- 
 ate fervour. The musicians played in the hall, and one 
 evening the first violin turned to Keith and asked : 
 
THE ENCHANTED HOUSE 31 
 
 " Shall it be Brahms or Beethoven or Mozart to-night ? 
 You shall choose." 
 
 The last night came. Mr. Halton and Keith, quiet 
 and dreamy, but not unhappy, sat together in the old man's 
 den, and in silence watched the red glow from the fire, 
 which lit up the room with a tender radiance, and dis- 
 closed the landscape of the silvery backwater with its 
 grey reeds. 
 
 The delicate fragrance of sweet-peas stole over the air. 
 
 Soft sounds of music wafted from afar, and through 
 the harmonies the poet's voice was heard whispering : 
 
 "It is not farewell, comrades of the earth. It is not 
 farewell. Sharers of the Secret dwell together for ever." 
 
 Keith and Mr. Halton fell asleep smiling. 
 
THE CLARIONET PLAYER 
 
 MONTH after month the clarionet player found 
 his way to a certain street in the West End of 
 London, and standing by the lamp at the corner 
 of the pavement, began his recital. His tone was perfect ; 
 anyone hearing the unfailing rhythm of his phrasing 
 would have known that he was no ordinary street musi- 
 cian. He came in all weathers in the damp cold of the 
 winter, and on the uncertain spring nights, and the long 
 summer evenings. He was generally at his post any 
 time between eight and nine. Month after month Janet 
 Ravenscroft listened to him, and every time he came, 
 the fixed sum of sixpence was sent out to him from the 
 rich woman's house. 
 
 Sometimes he came when she was in the midst of a 
 dinner party, engaged perhaps in listening to some interest- 
 ing conversation, or talking with a really intelligent 
 member of Parliament, or a distinguished traveller, or 
 a successful playwright : for many persons of all sorts 
 gathered together at her hospitable house. But whether 
 she were hearing about our Imperial destinies, or the 
 last new play, something in her memory became arrested 
 when she heard the clarionet player ; and she said to 
 herself : " The clarionet player." Then she beckoned 
 to the, butler, who already knew what she meant, and 
 she whispered to him : " Send out sixpence to the clarionet 
 player." 
 
 It was an unwritten rule in the household that if she 
 
 did not hear him, she was immediately to be told of his 
 
 arrival. She had never given instructions to that effect, 
 
 but her wishes on the subject were taken for granted. 
 
 3 33 
 
34 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 And so, even if she were holding a musical reception, 
 and some well-known artist were singing or playing, the 
 butler would wait until the song or the piece was finished, 
 and he would step softly in and say to her : 
 
 " The clarionet player, madam." 
 
 She never gave more than sixpence, except at Christmas, 
 when the sixpence became a shilling. And he always 
 sent back some message of thanks. 
 
 " Tell the lady that I feel her kindness very greatly," 
 he said. 
 
 Once he said : 
 
 " Tell the lady that I have been away in Margate, doing 
 a pretty fair season." 
 
 That was all that ever passed between them month 
 after month. 
 
 She had never seen him, had never asked to see him, 
 and had never questioned her servants about him. She 
 seemed to have no curiosity concerning him : so that her 
 nterest in him was not personal. It was, indeed, a 
 memory nothing save a memory. For in the years which 
 were gone, her husband happily for her, now dead- 
 had played the clarionet, had played it with skill and 
 feeling, with rhythm and with poetry ; and now, when- 
 ever she heard its mournful voice, her thoughts, in spite 
 of themselves, wandered back to the time when the man 
 whom she had loved, and who had used her cruelly, had 
 lifted his instrument to his lips and had filled the air with 
 the haunting tones characteristic of the clarionet. 
 
 And since this unknown musician was merely the 
 embodiment of a memory, it did not concern her whether 
 he were tall or short, dark or fair, of grave or gay bearing, 
 a broken-down ne'er-do-well, or merely a careless Bohe- 
 mian who might have seen better days. Indeed, she 
 scarcely took the trouble to identify the music which 
 he played : the usual Irish songs, of which he seemed to 
 prefer " Rich and rare were the gems she w r ore " : various 
 airs and variations from Donizetti and other Italian masters, 
 passages from Weber's " Clarionet Concertino " : several 
 tours de force which showed off his skill as an executant, 
 and many plaintive melodies, in the rendering of which 
 
THE CLARIONET PLAYER 
 
 35 
 
 he was always at his best. But she noticed that he always 
 began with the same melody. This was it : 
 
 Andante 
 
 
 Her life was full. She had riches, friends, many interests, 
 increasing as the years went on. She was fifty years 
 old. Her face, still beautiful, bore signs of grief. Although 
 she never referred to her married life, it was known that 
 Mrs. Ravenscroft had endured bitter years of tragic 
 suffering and unhappiness. When her husband died, 
 disgraced and in a foreign land, she could only be thank- 
 ful that she was free at last. She was obliged to change 
 her name on coming into a large fortune unexpectedly, 
 and she was thus able to alter her whole mode of life, 
 and to forget that fifteen years of marriage had been to 
 her fifteen years of misery. She was considered metallic 
 by most people ; indeed, she gave out very little tender- 
 ness to anyone, and therefore received but little in exchange. 
 
 Perhaps she had given all she had. 
 
 And then the clarionet player came. In the beginning 
 she never thought of him, except at the moment of his 
 arrival and whilst he was playing. When he ceased 
 playing and passed on his way, her reawakened memories 
 fell into lethargy once more, and she took up her new 
 life as if nothing had occurred to disturb its continuity. 
 But as time went on, she found herself thinking about 
 him ; and one day, remembering that he had not come for 
 many weeks, she said to the butler : 
 
 " Surely the clarionet player has not been here for 
 some time ? " 
 
 " No, madam," he answered, " not for several weeks." 
 
 But at last he came again. She heard with a sense of 
 relief his preliminary trills and shakes and runs, and 
 the plaintive melody : 
 
36 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 Andante 
 
 
 She sent a message of welcome out to him, together with 
 the usual sixpence. 
 
 " Tell the clarionet player that I have missed him and 
 his beautiful music." 
 
 The answer came back : " Tell the lady that I have been 
 ill, but that I am well again." 
 
 One day she fell ill. She was ill for many weeks, weeks 
 of great loneliness ; for in spite of her riches and her 
 position, in spite of all her many interests and occupations, 
 she was alone in the world. And her thoughts turned 
 involuntarily to that unknown clarionet player. She longed 
 to hear him. She began to wonder why she had never 
 made enquiries about him, why she had never interested 
 herself in his life and misfortunes, why she had let him 
 come time after time, and go time after time, without 
 even the slightest sign of personal sympathy. Then 
 she began to excuse herself to herself, urging as a strong 
 argument in favour of her attitude, that she had only 
 erred on the side of wisdom. He was just a street musician. 
 Of what possible concern could he be to her ? 
 
 At last he arrived, eagerly waited for, although 
 he did not know it ; and she lay in her room listening more 
 intently than ever before to his delicate phrasing. In 
 the months that had passed, she had only listened half- 
 heartedly, vaguely, distracted by her company and the 
 circumstances of her life. But now she listened with 
 all her heart and with all her hearing. That melody he 
 was playing what was it ? She remembered now that 
 he always began with it, and played it more beautifully 
 than anything else. Why did he always begin with it ? 
 There was a world of sorrow and regret and longing in 
 it. Was it the expression of his own feelings ? 
 
THE CLARIONET PLAYER 37 
 
 She sent out to ask the name of this beautiful, melancholy 
 melody, and the answer came back : " Schumann's 
 Third Romance for Oboe, arranged for clarionet." 
 
 A few more weeks passed, and she was still laid up, 
 weak and ill, cut off from all her ordinary activities. And 
 he came again. 
 
 For the first time an uncontrollable impulse seized 
 her. She felt she must see him. But at the moment 
 when she reached the window and leaned out, she saw 
 his tall form retreating down the street. She saw him 
 put his clarionet in his pocket and go his own way. She 
 stood for a moment lost in thought. 
 
 With the return of spring, strength came back to her, 
 and one evening she was sitting in her boudoir, still alone, 
 and full of many thoughts, when she heard the sweet 
 opening notes of the Schumann Romance. 
 
 She summoned the butler. 
 
 " Tell the clarionet player that I should wish to see 
 him, if he can spare me a few minutes," she said, in her 
 grave way. 
 
 The well- trained servant showed no sign of surprise. 
 After he had gone, she drew the curtain and looked across 
 to the other side of the road, where the clarionet player 
 was standing, as usual, near the street-lamp. She was 
 anxiously restless whilst she waited. Those few minutes 
 seemed to her like years. She laughed nervously at 
 herself. 
 
 " It must be because I've been ill," she said in excuse. 
 
 She rose and stood against the mantelpiece. She rested 
 her arm on the shelf, and stared fixedly into the fire. The 
 door opened, and the clarionet player was ushered in. 
 
 The musician came a few steps towards her. He held 
 his clarionet in one hand and his hat in the other, with 
 an old-world, easy grace and irresistible charm. There 
 was a smile of gratified surprise on his pale but handsome 
 face. He bowed and began in a soft voice : 
 
 " It is very good of you, madam, to wish to see me. I 
 assure you I " 
 
 He broke off as she turned round and looked at him. 
 
38 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 " Good Heavens ! " he cried, with a horrible change 
 of voice and manner. " Why, it's Janet ! " 
 
 She was still leaning against the mantelpiece, but her face 
 had turned deadly white. Some words rose to her lips, 
 but she could not give them utterance. She merely 
 stared at him. 
 
 " Why don't you speak ? " he said roughly. " I know 
 you I should know you anywhere you're Janet, my 
 wife Janet, with the same steely face and steely manner 
 that used to madden me with irritation." 
 
 She gave no sign. 
 
 He threw himself down in the armchair, threw himself 
 back recklessly, rudely, and laughed as though in a frenzy. 
 And still she did not stir. He waved his arms in the air 
 and clasped them over his head. 
 
 " Good Heavens! " he cried, loosening them again and 
 slapping his knees violently. " And to think you've 
 only been sending me out sixpences ! You living in 
 this fine house here, and I a poor devil out in the street ! 
 Well, you have done me at last. To think you've only 
 been sending me out sixpences \ " 
 
 He laughed, and laughed. It was appalling to hear him. 
 
 Suddenly he fell back and was silent, and his clarionet 
 slipped to the ground. 
 
 She moved towards the chair and bent over him. The 
 stony expression on her face gave way to no concern. 
 
 " Dead," she said in a low voice. " Dead." 
 
 She touched the bell. 
 
BONDAGE 
 
 IT was about half-past twelve at night, and Robert 
 Eriswell sat alone in his great studio at Queen's Gate. 
 He was profoundly moved. He and his wife had been 
 to see the French company at the Royalty Theatre, and 
 the first piece given was from Alfred de Musset's poem, 
 " Les Nuits," that wonderfully beautiful duologue of 
 the Poet and his Muse. Madame Bargy had impersonated 
 the Muse with an idealism which had stnxed to renewed 
 life the passivity of his artist spirit. He heard her voice 
 echoing in his ears : 
 
 " Poete, prends ton luth ; c'est moi, ton immortelle. 
 Prends ton luth, prends ton luth ! je ne peux plus me taire. 
 Qu'as tu fait de ta vie et de ta Iibert6 ? " 
 
 He saw the whole scene before him. The poet in his 
 lonely room, given over to the troubles of his heart, and 
 forgetful of his life's work. The Muse calling to him, 
 pleading with him, reasoning with him, and reminding him 
 of all the fair and lovely themes awaiting the inspiration of 
 his genius. Why was he silent ? What had he made 
 of his life and his liberty ? Why should he not take his 
 lyre and sing once more ? Did he not know that Spring 
 was born that night, and that the wild rose had broken 
 into flower ? 
 
 Robert Eriswell sprang up from his chair and paced 
 
 39 
 
40 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 restlessly up and down the room. What had he himself 
 been making of his life and his liberty ? His own muse 
 had for many long months asked him insistently that 
 searching question, and he had turned a deaf ear to her 
 entreaties and offered a stubborn resistance to her exhor- 
 tations. Then, discouraged, she had abandoned him. She 
 had left him to his wealth, his ease, his worldliness, and 
 his prison-walls of commonplace content. 
 
 But to-night the message which he had refused to hear 
 direct from her, had reached him from another source. 
 He saw himself in the poet whose lyre had been silent. 
 He saw in the poet's unsung songs his own unfinished 
 pictures, his own unrealised ideas. 
 
 He met himself face to face, and suffered agonies of 
 remorse in the encounter. He saw that he had sold 
 his birthright when he married that rich and beautiful 
 woman to whom the visions of the spirit were unknown 
 
 joys- 
 She had weaned him first from the originality of his 
 ideas. Conventional herself, she demanded, with an 
 unconscious tyranny, conventional ideas and thoughts 
 from him. Then, by slow degrees, she weaned him from 
 his work itself, from his fine ambition, from his belief in 
 the necessity of expression. Her commonplace mind 
 recognised no need for wings with which to soar above 
 the low-lying plains of everyday life. His wings made 
 her uneasy. She clipped them, without his knowledge, 
 and hedged him round with love and kindness, and all 
 the so-called benefits of wealth. She held him in sub- 
 jection by her beauty and her physical charm. She 
 dominated his outer circumstances by her money. She 
 crushed, with unthinking cruelty, the frail flowers of his 
 mind. She lured him from his own regions in which 
 he had wandered over mysterious and trackless paths, 
 and led him by the hand to her own world, where the 
 high roads of everyday life stretched baldly to the North, 
 the South, the East, the West. 
 
 He did not judge her. He judged himself. If at the 
 beginning he had been true to his genius, loyal to his ideals, 
 he would never have suffered the silken bonds of passion 
 
BONDAGE 41 
 
 to become as iron fetters of custom. He would have 
 rent them asunder, and stood free free to express him- 
 self once more in his own language, free to choose the 
 untrodden desert, the hidden trail. But now it was too 
 late. He had sold for ever his birthright of detachment, 
 without which no poet can sing, no musician awaken 
 the interchords of life. 
 
 Yet was it too late ? 
 
 Again he heard the words : 
 
 " Poete, prends ton luth, prends ton luth ; c'est moi, ton immor- 
 telle." 
 
 He stood listening. A smile lit up his face. Some 
 pent-up gladness escaped and flooded his whole being. 
 He switched on all the lights in the studio, and with a 
 joyous alertness, began to draw out some of his old 
 canvases and open some of his old sketch-books and port- 
 folios. Here were the songs unsung, here were the unful- 
 filled fancies of the spirit, here the unrecorded thoughts 
 which had once possessed him. They encompassed him 
 now. He was in his own world again, restored, if only 
 for the passing moment, to the true companions of his 
 mind. He looked at one sketch, and said aloud : 
 
 " Yes, I remember distinctly the idea I intended to 
 carry out here. I must work it out on the same lines." 
 
 He looked at an unfinished watercolour of Twilight, 
 and said aloud : 
 
 " Yes, I remember deciding that it was lacking in mystery. 
 I must have another try at it and see what I can do 
 now." 
 
 He examined this, he criticised that, sometimes silently, 
 sometimes with spoken words. He was so intent on 
 what he was doing, that he did not hear the door open, 
 and did not know that Edith, his wife, was standing 
 watching him. When at last he looked up and saw 
 her, the sketch which he was holding fell from his hands. 
 He realised, with a shudder of apprehension, that the 
 moment had come when he must declare himself, and 
 find some means of setting himself free from the trammels 
 which impeded his life's work. 
 
42 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 Edith's very first words helped him. 
 
 " What on earth are you doing here, Robert ? " she 
 said. " Come, dear, leave all this rubbish and come to 
 bed. Do you know, it is nearly two o'clock ? " 
 
 " Rubbish," he said bitterly. " You call all this 
 rubbish ? Well, Edith, let me tell you that it is the 
 only thing in my life which is not rubbish." 
 
 She stared at him in astonishment. She did not believe 
 that she had heard his words aright. She sank on to 
 the couch and leant back, a beautiful, regal figure of a 
 woman, clad in a sumptuous dressing-gown of that Floren- 
 tine blue which always accentuated her loveliness. For 
 a few minutes she did not speak. But at last she said 
 slowly, as if trying to fathom some hidden depth 
 of meaning : 
 
 " The only thing in your life which is not rubbish" 
 
 "It is hateful to me to have put it in that way," he 
 exclaimed eagerly. " It is insulting. I'm bitterly sorry." 
 
 He had risen up and come towards her ; but she signed 
 to him with her hand to keep at a distance. 
 
 " How would you put it in another way ? " she asked. 
 "I'm curious to know." 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 "I think that I have the right to know," she added 
 gravely. 
 
 Robert Eriswell stood speechless with despair. He knew 
 he could never make her understand his meaning. Look- 
 ing back over his four years of married life, he knew that 
 he had tried from time to time to impress on her the needs, 
 the importunities, the imperious demands of the creative 
 spirit. Nothing had reached her. She was entirely 
 without imagination. Nothing would reach her now. 
 Her type of mind could never learn to decipher the invisible 
 letters of an unknown language guessed at easily by a 
 finer perception. 
 
 Perhaps even at this juncture he would have given up 
 the struggle as hopeless, and succumbed as ever before to 
 her physical charms and temperamental ascendancy, but 
 that, echoing in his ears, whispering to his heart, throbbing 
 in his brain, he heard those magic words : 
 
BONDAGE 43 
 
 " Poete, prends ton luih ; Poete, prends ton luth ; c'est moi, ton immor- 
 telle." 
 
 " I think I have the right to know," his wife repeated 
 still more gravely. 
 
 If she had shown anger or grief, his task would have 
 been easier. If she had even vaguely hinted at the benefits 
 which she had conferred on him, she would at least have 
 given him the chance of explaining to her that these 
 benefits were not benefits to him, but definite disasters. 
 If she had reproached him for his rudeness, he could 
 have answered, justly enough, that he had been stung 
 by her thoughtless, scornful allusion to his work. But 
 she gave him no opening ; and many a stronger man 
 than Robert Eriswell has been forced, in a similar pre- 
 dicament, to capitulate to circumstance, and wear for 
 evermore the livery of an intolerable serfdom. So that 
 his courage, by comparison with the usual mental cowardice 
 of men, was something immense, amazing. 
 
 He leaned against the wall, with his arms folded tightly 
 together. His face was ashen, but his eyes shone with a 
 brightness which, in the old days, had ever been their 
 true characteristic. 
 
 " I will put it in this way, Edith," he began in a low 
 voice. " A poet needs certain things to stimulate his 
 creative powers. And without them his gifts are laid 
 waste. He needs freedom of spirit. He needs mental 
 detachment. He needs an atmosphere where he can 
 breathe. A poet should be solitary. More or less, he 
 must be a soul set apart. He is of the world, and yet 
 not of it. He must climb the mountain- side alone. He 
 must descend into the abyss alone." 
 
 He paused. She made no sign. 
 
 " Inspiration is the frailest of frail flowers," he went 
 on, his courage now becoming greater by the mere using 
 of it. '' It is dependent for its very existence on fostering 
 circumstances.. Without these it dies, or else it meets 
 with a far worse fate than death degeneration into the 
 commonplace. And this is my fate. Oh, yes, I know it 
 I've known it all the time, Edith. At first I fought 
 with it. But my passionate love for you overcame my 
 
44 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 resistance. I said to myself after each defeat : ' The 
 world of dreams the poet's world my own world well 
 lost for love of her.' After a time I struggled no more. 
 But when I ceased to struggle, I knew in my heart of 
 hearts that I had begun to deteriorate. I knew that 
 wealth and ease and worldly position, and all those garish 
 things, which I had despised in the past, were taking firm 
 hold of me, in body, brain and soul. And then it was 
 that you said to me : ' / have moulded my darling into 
 shape at last. I have made him care for the life for which 
 I care. 1 Do you remember saying those words to me, 
 or have I dreamed them ? " 
 
 " No, you have not dreamed them," she said slowly. 
 " I remember saying them." 
 
 He scarcely heard her answer, but goaded on by fierce 
 anger with himself for the madness and folly of those 
 lost years, he continued with increased intensity : 
 
 " If I had not been a fool, that speech of yours alone 
 might have warned me. I believe it did warn me for 
 the moment. But it came too late for any continuous 
 effect. I had allowed myself to be moulded into the 
 commonplace. Oh, don't think that I am judging or 
 blaming you I am judging and blaming myself. I 
 am the one in fault. I had the larger knowledge. I 
 had the wider outlook. I had the inner call. I ought 
 to have known that your world could never be my world, 
 and that I should only cease to be an alien in it, when 
 I had completed the sale of my birthright, and given 
 up my last lingering aspiration. You couldn't have 
 known that. I never told you. I scarcely told myself. 
 And if I had told you, you would not have understood. 
 I- 
 
 He broke off suddenly, for he had glanced at her face 
 and had seen its expression of blank bewilderment. 
 
 " You don't understand now," he exclaimed hopelessly. 
 
 " No," she said, " I don't." 
 
 She rose from the couch and stood for a moment as 
 though in a dream. Then, without a word, without a 
 look, without a trace in her manner of anger or indignation, 
 she left her husband alone in his studio. 
 
BONDAGE 45 
 
 ROBERT EEISWELL stood staring at the door through 
 which his wife had passed. He was paralysed by the 
 suddenness of her departure, and by the certainty that 
 he had failed to make himself understood, and had only 
 succeeded in bewildering her. It would have been some 
 consolation to him if she had been angry with him. Anger 
 at least implied a certain amount of activity of intelli- 
 gence. Anger could be dealt with, either successfully 
 or unsuccessfully. Anger did not necessarily exclude 
 every ray of hope and every possibility of resilience. 
 
 A dull, deadening despair took possession of him ; and 
 he glanced round his luxurious studio and saw in -it a 
 barred and barricaded prison- cell, from which all escape 
 had been made entirely impossible. 
 
 But suddenly, in rather a dark corner of the room, he 
 caught sight of Will Beaudesart's portrait, on which the 
 light from one of the electric lamps was shedding a remark- 
 able radiance. Beaudesart's eyes were looking at him 
 in their kindly, mischievous way, and his humorous 
 lips seemed on the point of addressing some cheery remark 
 to his old friend. A great heart hunger for Will came 
 over Robert Eriswell. 
 
 " I shall go to him now," he said. " I shall go now." 
 
 The clock struck two. 
 
 " Two o'clock," he said. " But that doesn't matter. 
 Will's hours are always accommodating." 
 
 For a moment he smiled as the remembrance of old 
 and happy, irresponsible days swept over him. Then 
 he slipped on an overcoat, stuffed a few cigars into one 
 of the pockets, clapped on a hat, and let himself noise- 
 lessly out through the garden entrance. He stepped 
 into a dark and chilly night, breathed a sigh of relief, 
 and went quickly on his way to Beaudesart's studio 
 in Messina Road, St. John's Wood. Good luck attended 
 him, and for the greater part of the way he got a lift in 
 a hansom. He rapped at the studio door. He used 
 his old rap, their secret sound of comradeship and jolly 
 good fellowship. There was no answer. He knocked 
 
46 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 again, and this time with one or two more of the old 
 familiar sounds. Suddenly the door was thrown open, 
 and Will Beaudesart appeared, in shirt sleeves, and with 
 his pipe tucked tightly in a corner of his mouth. 
 
 " I couldn't believe my ears, old fellow ! " he said 
 excitedly. " Couldn't believe my own ears ! Thought 
 I was dreaming." 
 
 There was no mistaking the welcome in his voice and 
 his manner, and Robert Eriswell felt something like a 
 renewal of hope and happiness as he followed his friend 
 into the grubby workaday old studio, the scene of much 
 good cheer, honest work, and irresponsible revelry "in the 
 past. Nothing seemed changed. The same disorder 
 reigned around. The same lay figure occupied its old 
 position in the corner, and was posed in its usual menacing 
 attitude. The traditional sausages and bacon were 
 frying in a saucepan over the gas-ring, and a bottle of the 
 same familiar Scotch whisky was waiting to be uncorked. 
 
 " Just in time for supper," Beaudesart said, flourishing 
 a fork gaily. " Heavens ! I'm hungry. Been at work 
 all the evening. Have had a devil of a rush cockering 
 up some Spanish scenes for The Pictorial. You can help 
 me, old chap. You used to be a regular dab at that sort 
 of thing. Regular sort of handy man, weren't you ? 
 Too rich now, perhaps ? " 
 
 " Yes, Will, that's the trouble," Eriswell said, with a 
 half laugh, sinking down into the armchair. " Too rich. 
 Done for." 
 
 Beaudesart stood still, paused in the middle of his cook- 
 ing, shot a keen glance at his friend, and saw the sadness 
 written large on his face. 
 
 " Poor old Bob," he said gently. " So it has come ? " 
 
 Eriswell nodded. 
 
 " It had to come," Beaudesart added. " You were 
 never meant for that sort of life." 
 
 "No," Eriswell said. "And I told Edith to-night. 
 I told her that I- 
 
 He broke off, and leaned back wearily, as if the effort 
 of speaking were too much for his strength. Quick as 
 thought, Beaudesart mixed a whisky and soda, and put 
 
BONDAGE 47 
 
 the glass into Eriswell's hand. Eriswell took a long 
 draught of it, and then watched Beaudesart attacking 
 his savoury meal. A smile broke over the sorrowfulness 
 of his face. 
 
 " You at least haven't sold your birthright, old Will," 
 he said. 
 
 " No, but I've done almost everything else except that," 
 Beaudesart answered. 
 
 " It seems to me as if nothing else matters, if only one 
 has not done that," Eriswell replied. 
 
 There was a pause. Beaudesart gave Maria, the black 
 cat, some bacon ends and poured some milk into her 
 saucer. Eriswell drew his cigars from his pocket, and 
 handed them to his friend. 
 
 " Crumbs from the rich man's table, Will," he said, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Ah, I've no objection to the crumbs, I can tell you," 
 Beaudesart answered gaily. " Mighty good crumbs, 
 I should say. The best cigars in the world." 
 
 " Yes," Eriswell said, and hs lit one and watched 
 Beaudesart light his and nod approval. 
 
 ' The same idea has been carried out all along the line, 
 Will," he said, after a pause. " Nothing has been too 
 good for me. But it hasn't been what I've wanted. I 
 tried to tell Edith this to-night. She she didn't under- 
 stand." 
 
 " How could you expect her to understand, old man ? " 
 Beaudesart put in gently. " A different language alto- 
 gether. She wouldn't be able to learn even the rudi- 
 ments. No fault of hers. A person can't help being 
 born commonplace. Rich and beautiful and common- 
 place. No fault of hers." 
 
 "No, you're right," Eriswell agreed. "No fault of 
 hers. Mine has been the fault all through, for I knew 
 more. And I ought to have made a sensible use of my 
 knowledge, and refused to allow myself to be drawn out 
 of my natural sphere of work and life." 
 
 Then, in his own way, by degrees, unasked, uncoerced, 
 Eriswell told his story, and unburdened his heart. He 
 dwelt on the gradual weakening and deadening of his 
 
48 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 ideals and ambitions, and the growing consciousness 
 of his spiritual and mental deterioration. He was entirely 
 frank about himself. He said that no one realised better 
 than himself that if he had been great enough, he could 
 have triumphed over the temptations of wealth and ease, 
 and trampled over the barriers which divided him from 
 his own rightful kingdom. Something in his tempera- 
 ment had prevented him from being able to do this. Some 
 inherent weakness in his nature had hindered him from 
 recovering his lost ground. 
 
 " But the whole time," he said excitedly, " yes, the 
 whole time, that inner voice has been calling to me : 
 ' Poete, prends ton luth ; poete, prends ton luth ; c'est 
 moi, ton immortelle.' I've tried not to hear it. But 
 to-night, at the theatre, the message was unmistakable. 
 The message was for me. For if ever a man was impelled, 
 against his own will, to receive a direct message, I am he. 
 I went most unwillingly to that theatre, and was destined 
 to hear a brother poet calling clearly to me from far-off 
 space. The voices of all those who have believed in 
 me, were merged in that one voice yours amongst them, 
 Will. I had come to tell you. We all end by coming 
 to you." 
 
 Will made no comment, asked no questions, offered 
 no suggestions. He had learnt to know that life, which 
 for him had been extraordinarily simple, was not neces- 
 sarily simple for other people. He had been born with 
 a few definite necessities of spirit. Other things to him 
 were not even superfluous ; they were non-existent. 
 For him, life meant work, giving expression to one's individ- 
 uality, guarding one's birthright of freedom. Wealth 
 and social distinction had no meaning for him. His 
 unworldliness had never suffered any change as the years 
 went on ; and he stood for his old friends as an unbroken 
 ideal of single-mindedness and directness. Everything 
 else might have failed : hopes might hav e passed into 
 illusions, love into hate, passion into boredom, success 
 into surfeit ; but the respect which they all felt for the 
 fine simplicity of Will's nature had never been given the 
 chance of degenerating. So, as Eriswell said, they all 
 
BONDAGE 49 
 
 came to him, and laid their bereftness before him, some- 
 times with words, and sometimes in silence. They had, 
 most of them, sacrificed much of what was best to attain 
 to things which, in the end, did not count. They loved 
 and honoured him for being able to keep what they them- 
 selves had lost, wholly or in part. 
 
 Thus they found their way towards his studio as towards 
 a lighthouse in a great waste of water. The passage 
 of time made no difference to their purpose. They knew 
 that the lapse of years, the separation brought about 
 by circumstances, were mere unimportant details never 
 entering into Will's large interpretation of life and com- 
 radeship. They felt sure that their place was waiting 
 for them, and that once there, they would scarcely believe 
 that there had been any interruption of their intimate 
 intercourse of former days. This had been Robert Eris- 
 well's belief ; and as he sat in the old chair which had 
 ever been indisputably his, and poured out his heart to 
 his friend who understood, he forgot that, owing to his 
 wife's dislike of Will Beaudesart, he had for several years 
 dropped away entirely from the old companionship. He 
 forgot this so completely that he made a curious remark, 
 not once, but repeatedly. He said : 
 
 " Well, at least Edith was not able to separate you and 
 me, Will." "At least that tragedy was averted. She 
 was not able to separate you and me." 
 
 Will stared at him in astonishment for a moment, and 
 some words rose to his lips. But suddenly the whole 
 matter became clear to him, and he checked any exclama- 
 tion of surprise. He saw that the unreality of the last 
 four years of his friend's life had become obliterated in 
 the reality of a few minutes of kindred intimacy. He was 
 greatly stirred. He put aside his half -smoked cigar, and 
 turned impulsively to Eriswell. 
 
 "Bob," he said, "you must break through this bond- 
 age. You must free yourself. I don't know how. I 
 don't pretend to know how. I don't know how much 
 you love her, or whether you love her at all. I don't want 
 to know. But you must free yourself somehow. You 
 must win back your liberty of spirit, and continue to 
 
50 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 justify to yourself, as well as to the world, the splendid 
 fame which your work has won. I believe you will do 
 your finest work yet yes, your very finest. The thoughts 
 pent up in you during this barren time will burst out 
 into flower when you are free. You missed your way 
 for a bit that's all. You got into an enclosure. But 
 the open moors lie all around you, and you'll win 
 them yet. I seem to see your finest picture before me 
 now. I don't know the subject, and it isn't even begun. 
 But I see it, and know it to be yours. And it is so full of 
 finest thought and feeling that even commonplace people 
 are stirred and awed. Even your wife." 
 
 " It would indeed have to be something overwhelm- 
 ingly great," Eriswell said with a half smile. 
 
 " So it will be," Beaudesart answered gravely. " I'm 
 as sure of that as I am of my love of liberty." 
 
 : ' You put a brave heart into me," Eriswell said excitedly, 
 springing up from his chair. "I see the picture myself, 
 Will. I see it this moment ! " 
 
 He dashed to the easel, snatched up a piece of card- 
 board and a crayon and began sketching a group of figures 
 in his own rapid way which in the old days used to fire 
 Will with envy and pride. He glanced at Eriswell now 
 with a smile of quiet satisfaction, turned to his own work, 
 and went on with it in silence. 
 
 "He'll do," he thought. "He'll do. He'll break 
 through his bondage somehow. But he'll have to be 
 helped. Can I help him ? No. He'll have to do it 
 himself. No, he can't, silly fool. He never could stand 
 alone. Always came whining like a baby when things 
 went wrong with him. Who's to help him ? Must I ? 
 Suppose I must. And how ? Go and remind her that 
 he's a genius an acknowledged genius a famous man, 
 with laurels on his brow, and that she's all very well in 
 her way, but damned commonplace." 
 
 A smile broke over his face. The idea seemed to amuse 
 him immensely. 
 
 " Well, why not ? " he answered to himself. " That's 
 the whole trouble." 
 
 He shook his head, and rejected the scheme as being 
 
BONDAGE 51 
 
 too preposterous ; but it continued to haunt him, for 
 at intervals he paused in his task and whispered to the 
 black cat : 
 
 " Damned commonplace, Maria, I tell you. That's 
 the whole trouble." 
 
 Suddenly, after they had been working for half an hour 
 or so, Eriswell turned to Beaudesart and called out : 
 
 "There now, Will! I've got it! It came to me in 
 a flash, as you spoke. You waved your wand, old man, 
 and it came. Look here. I'll tell you my idea about it 
 now. No not now I'm tired worn out." 
 
 He drew a deep breath, a breath of happiness, of freedom, 
 of mental and spiritual release. His face was radiant. 
 His eyes were shining. He bore little resemblance to 
 the broken, nerveless man who had knocked at the studio 
 an hour or two ago. 
 
 " Tired, worn out," he repeated. 
 
 He threw himself upon the couch, and in a few minutes 
 was fast asleep from sheer exhaustion and effort. Will 
 covered him up with a warm rug, and watched by his side 
 until he was satisfied that all was well with him, and that 
 for the moment nothing was troubling Robert's spirit. 
 The complications of his life had passed from his remem- 
 brance, and he was smiling in his sleep, dreaming, perhaps, 
 of the joy of reawakened creative power. 
 
 Will crept softly to the easel and studied the sketch. 
 He nodded his head approvingly. 
 
 " Always the same genius," he said, " but bricked up by 
 a commonplace woman not worthy of the honour of 
 washing his paint brushes. Well, he must be rescued 
 somehow or other. Heaven knows how. I don't know. 
 I haven't the ghost of an idea what to do. The only 
 thing I can think of is to go and tell her she is damned 
 commonplace. Perhaps that would be better than nothing. 
 After all, it's simple enough." 
 
 He lit his pipe, and went back to his own work, smiling. 
 
 " It's simple enough here," he thought. " But I'm 
 sure it wouldn't be simple there. Still, if I can't hit 
 upon any other plan, I'll stick to this one for want of a 
 better." 
 
52 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 But plans of action were not within Will's scope. He 
 smoked, worked, and made valiant attempts to grapple 
 with the difficulty of the situation. His brow became 
 puckered in the great effort which his brain was making 
 to find some solution of this perplexing problem. Finally, 
 as the clock struck the hour of six, a merciful drowsiness 
 stole over him. 
 
 " Nothing else to be done," he murmured. " Positively 
 nothing else. Must go and tell her she's " 
 
 He fell asleep. 
 
 m 
 
 WHEN Edith Eriswell left her husband's studio she went 
 slowly up to her bedroom, feeling her way vaguely as 
 one in a dream. She remained for a long time in a state 
 of entire bewilderment. But at last, after a spell of 
 painful passivity, her thoughts gathered themselves 
 together into something approximating to coherence ; 
 and she was able to recall her husband's extraordinary 
 words, the tense expression of his face and the excitability 
 of his manner. 
 
 It was characteristic of her mind that she did not for 
 one moment dwell on the abstract side of his remarks. 
 For all she cared, anyone might climb mountains alone. 
 Anyone might descend to abysses alone. What roused 
 her and took hold of her with accumulating intensity, 
 was the remembrance that she had given him all she had 
 to give, herself, her wealth, and the many benefits of her 
 social position, and that he had told her deliberately 
 he regarded them as mere rubbish. 
 
 The word haunted her. 
 
 She paced up and down her room, murmuring it to 
 herself. Astonishment gave place to indignation, and 
 indignation to anger. He had not only wounded her 
 feelings, but had insulted her pride. He had dared to 
 say that he had deteriorated in her world and by reason 
 of her influence. 
 
 And this was her reward for having loved this man 
 with passionate devotion. She recalled her patient and 
 
BONDAGE 53 
 
 persistent efforts to rouse him from his queer, dreamy 
 ways, and awaken his interest in the new pleasures which 
 were spread before him. She remembered how she had 
 striven and striven to wean him away from his easel, 
 reminding him repeatedly that there was no need for him 
 to paint, since she had money enough for all their most 
 luxurious wants, and that all he now had to do, was to 
 enjoy himself with her, and free his mind from those dull 
 plans and schemes of work to which she had at first listened 
 so indulgently. She had endured a martyrdom of bore- 
 dom until she had finally succeeded in moulding him into 
 shape. 
 
 Yes, she did remember her words, and the occasion on 
 which she used them : " At last I have moulded my 
 darling into shape." And apparently it was her own 
 delighted approval of the change in him that made him 
 realise that he had deteriorated. This was all that he 
 thought of her codes this was his estimate of the circum- 
 stances in which she had placed him. The pride of the 
 beautiful and rich woman whom everyone in her set 
 had always courted, praised and admired, was wounded 
 to the quick. Her vanity was humiliated. Her self- 
 esteem was outraged. His scorn seemed to her an unfor- 
 givable insult, and his ingratitude an unhealable wound. 
 
 She was unable, with her limited understanding, to 
 grasp any single one of his points, or to make any allow- 
 ance for his difference of temperament and for his nervous 
 sensibility. That which was precious in his nature was 
 just precisely that which she desired most to stamp out 
 in him. She believed that she had nearly succeeded in 
 her task when all at once, without any warning, this 
 " something " in him rose up and defied her, this unknown 
 " something " which, so she felt instinctively, had always 
 been an enemy to her. It was in order to fight more 
 easily with this secret foe that she had gradually separated 
 him from his old haunts and his old comrades, and especially 
 from Will Beaudesart, to whom she had, from the beginning, 
 taken a profound dislike. 
 
 She walked up and down her bedroom, revolving the 
 whole matter in her mind, when suddenly, amidst the 
 
54 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 conflict of thoughts and emotions, the idea seized her 
 that perhaps her husband had been seeing some of his 
 old friends. 
 
 " Yes," she said excitedly, " that would explain some 
 of it. Perhaps Beaudesart has been putting some of 
 his ridiculous notions into Robert's head again. Yes, 
 yes that's it." 
 
 She stood still a moment. 
 
 "That's it," she said slowly, as though recalling some 
 forgotten details. " I remember now. Robert was not 
 himself at Ranelagh. Nor at Ascot. Nor even at the 
 Carlton the other night. He wasn't himself at the 
 bridge drive last Wednesday. He 
 
 She broke off, and flung her arms over her head. 
 
 " Of course of course. I understand it all now ! " 
 she exclaimed. " Beaudesart's the cause. He has been 
 seeing Beaudesart again. I'm sure of it. Beaudesart 
 is at the bottom of the whole affair. He has always had 
 a most annoying influence on Robert. And. fool that 
 I am, I've been congratulating myself all this time that 
 I had cured him of that friendship. Well, at least Robert 
 shall hear what I think of that friendship he shall hear 
 now this moment yes, this moment." 
 
 The mere thought of Will Beaudesart had always 
 roused a devil in her. She dashed to her door, opened 
 it violently, rushed downstairs, switched on angrily the 
 electric lights everywhere, in the hall, the dining-room, 
 the drawing-room, the library and finally broke like a 
 tornado into the studio. 
 
 " Robert," she began, " that friend of yours, Beau- 
 desart " 
 
 She started back. He was not there. No one was 
 there. Only one lamp was burning, in the corner nearest 
 the garden door. It lit up the portrait of Will Beaudesart. 
 The kind eyes seemed to mock her. The humorous mouth 
 taunted her. She turned away from the picture in an 
 access of rage. 
 
 Instinct told her that her husband had gone to his 
 friend. 
 
 Then her eyes caught sight of the water-colour 
 
BONDAGE 55 
 
 sketches and studies which lay strewn about : the songs 
 unsung, the unfulfilled fancies of an artist's spirit. She 
 stooped down, picked them up, tore them recklessly 
 into pieces, and trampled the fragments beneath her feet. 
 Then, horrified with what she had done, she fled to 
 her room. 
 
 IV 
 
 As Will Beaudesart stood on Mrs. Eriswell's doorstep 
 about eleven o'clock that same morning, his courage and 
 determination underwent a serious though momentary 
 relapse. It was one thing to face Robert's wife at a safe 
 distance ; it was quite another thing to confront her 
 at close quarters and find the nerve to tell her a few uncom- 
 promising truths. It struck him suddenly that he had set 
 himself an impossible task, and that his easiest way out 
 of the difficulty was to beat an instant retreat before 
 he changed his mind again. He hesitated, however, and 
 was lost. 
 
 " No, I must see her," he said doggedly. " I must 
 see her, and tell her what I think of her." 
 
 In a few minutes he found himself in the library awaiting 
 her arrival on the scene. He walked restlessly about 
 the room, glanced at the pictures, picked at the news- 
 papers, looked at the titles of some of the books, and 
 finally arranged his tie before the overmantel mirror. 
 That act was ever regarded by his friends as a symbol 
 of inflexible resolution. It meant that he had stiffened 
 himself, and that all the world might advance against 
 him in solid phalanx. So when at last Edith Eriswell 
 deigned to grant him an audience in her boudoir, he 
 was well prepared for the encounter. 
 
 There was no trace on her beautiful face of her recent 
 outbreak of turbulence. Her manner was calm ; her 
 voice was low and subdued. Will, quick to observe, 
 noticed the sorrowful dimness of her eyes. 
 
 She began without any preliminaries. 
 
 " I conclude that my husband is with you, Mr. Beau- 
 desart," she said. 
 
56 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Eriswell," he said. 
 
 " I suppose he has sent you ? " she asked indifferently. 
 
 " No," Beaudesart replied, shaking his head. " He 
 is fast asleep. He has no idea that I am here." 
 
 " And you ask me to believe that ? " she said with 
 a slight laugh. 
 
 " No," Beaudesart said quietly. " I don't ask you 
 to believe anything. All the same, Bob is fast asleep on 
 the couch in my studio. He threw himself there when 
 he'd sketched out his new picture. Threw himself there, 
 and went fast asleep almost immediately." 
 
 " His new picture ? " she repeated slowly. " I suppose 
 he has been painting it in your studio, then ? " 
 
 " Painting it in my studio ? " Beaudesart said. " Why, 
 I haven't seen a sight of Bob for more than two years, 
 until last night. No, he had one of those sudden and 
 mysterious inspirations peculiar to a great genius." 
 
 She made no comment on his words, but she noted 
 them well. 
 
 " If my husband has not sent you, why have you come ? " 
 she asked, after a pause. 
 
 " I've come to tell you something," Beaudesart said 
 uneasily. 
 
 " What have you come to tell me ? " she asked coldly. 
 
 Beaudesart remained silent, trying to summon his 
 courage for this ordeal. 
 
 " What have you come to tell me ? " she insisted. 
 
 "I've come to tell you," he said, "that you are 
 that you are " 
 
 He broke off. His self-appointed task was too difficult, 
 and the intense sadness in her eyes appealed to his kindness 
 of heart. He saw that she had been passing through a 
 time of great suffering. 
 
 "Well?" she urged. "Say what you please. No 
 one need surely hesitate at this hour to hurt my feelings." 
 
 " That you are you must forgive me, Mrs. Eriswell 
 that you are er er commonplace," he jerked out. 
 
 He drew a breath of relief, and waited for the oncoming 
 storm. But to his immense surprise, his audacious state- 
 ment occasioned no outburst of anger from Edith Eris- 
 
BONDAGE 57 
 
 well. She rose from her chair, and stood for some time 
 in silence by the window. At last she turned to Beau- 
 desart, and said quite quietly, as though she were not 
 speaking of herself, but of someone else : 
 
 " Yes, I believe you are right, Mr. Beaudesart. I 
 am commonplace. Come with me into Robert's studio, 
 and I will show you what I did last night." 
 
 He followed her, wondering at her words and her for- 
 bearing manner towards him, which, on all other occasions, 
 when he had never deserved her ill-will, had been so 
 inexplicably hostile. When they stood in the studio, 
 she pointed to the water-colour sketches and studies torn 
 up and lying strewn upon the floor. 
 
 " The destruction wrought by a commonplace woman," 
 she said almost inaudibly. 
 
 " Yes, yes," Beaudesart murmured, shaking his head 
 sorrowfully. 
 
 He stretched out his hand to her and said in his simple 
 frank way : 
 
 " I am so truly sorry for you." 
 
 The note of sincerity in his voice, and the unexpected 
 kindness, brought a flush to her face. She took the 
 hand held out to her, and was more than grateful for 
 this little sign of human sympathy, even though it came 
 from this man, whom she had always disliked. 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Beaudesart," she said. " I assure 
 you I've been fearfully in need of a word of good cheer." 
 
 " Well, it's a funny thing it should come from me, of 
 all people, isn't it ? " he said quaintly. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, with a ghost of a smile. 
 
 There was an interval of painful silence, during which 
 they both stared at the deplorable wreckage spread before 
 them. 
 
 Then Beaudesart was seized with one of his happy 
 impulses, the outcome, literally, of his simplicity of heart. 
 
 " Look here, Mrs. Eriswell," he said cheerily, " it's 
 no use our staring at this scene as though we were two 
 idiots. We must buck up. The first thing to be done 
 is to save what we can of these precious pieces of paper. 
 You tore 'em up, and you must roll up your sleeves, as 
 
58 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 it were, and help me to put them together again. I 
 think some of 'em can be saved, don't you ? Upon my 
 soul, I do ! This one, for instance. And this, too." 
 
 " And this one ? " she asked eagerly. 
 
 " Yes," he answered. " And this one. Hurrah ! 
 Twilight. I know Bob thought a good deal of it." 
 
 " And this one ? " she said anxiously. 
 
 " Yes, three cheers ! " he replied. " The Mill on 
 Westleton Heath. Scarcely hurt at all ! What a 
 piece of good luck ! But this one, confound it, is done 
 in altogether. Not so sure, though. It will make a 
 queer sort of mosaic. Still, we'll have a try at it. We'll 
 have a try at 'em all." 
 
 They were both kneeling on the floor now, deeply 
 engaged in the difficult task of sorting out the separate 
 pieces and fitting them together where they appeared to 
 belong. Beaudesart had foraged about for paste and 
 cardboard, and Mrs. Eriswell had found scissors, gummed 
 paper, and a sharp knife. It was a curious sight to see 
 these two people, who had always been tacitly at variance 
 with each other, now collaborating with quiet friendli- 
 ness in an anxious attempt to retrieve the disaster over 
 which they were both mourning. It said a good deal for 
 Will Beaudesart that he, who knew the magnitude of 
 the mischief, was able to suppress all signs of anger and 
 indignation ; and it said even more for Edith Eriswell 
 that she, who had wrought the havoc, was able to rise 
 above her humiliation and take her part earnestly in this 
 pitiful labour. They did not speak about anything at 
 first except the sketches and pictures, and then only a 
 word or two as to the possibility or impossibility of saving 
 this one or that. But when Will shook his head sorrow- 
 fully over some silvery little seascape ruined beyond rescue, 
 she closed her eyes, ashamed to look, and said : 
 
 " Last night I felt that the only thing left for me to 
 do was to kill myself." 
 
 '' That would not have been great of you," he said 
 kindly. 
 
 " Great ? " she questioned. " Do you expect common- 
 place people to do great things ? " 
 
BONDAGE 59 
 
 " The funny part of it is that they generally do," he 
 answered. " Unexpectedly, too. Why, it's always the 
 commonplace people who lead forlorn hopes, and do absurd 
 deeds of heroism which no one knows of until long after- 
 wards perhaps not even then." 
 
 " Do they ? " she asked with strange eagerness. 
 
 And at that moment a noble thought was born in her 
 brain. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, nodding, " I've always noticed it." 
 
 They went on with their work. 
 
 " Supposing you had committed suicide," Beaudesart 
 said, after a time, " what good would you have got out 
 of it, or Bob either ? " 
 
 " Robert would have been free at least," she said. 
 
 " No, he wouldn't," Beaudesart answered. " He would 
 have been manacled tighter than ever with ' mind- 
 forg'd manacles.' ' 
 
 " And I should have been free," she continued slowly, 
 after a pause. 
 
 " You would have been free," Beaudesart repeated, 
 half to himself. 
 
 " Yes," she answered. 
 
 " Do you want to be free, too ? " he asked with an eager- 
 ness which he could not conceal. 
 
 " Shall I tell you something ? " she said. " You have 
 not heard my side of the question. No one has heard 
 my side of the question." 
 
 " No, that's true," he said a little shamefacedly, for 
 this idea had never occurred to him. 
 
 " Well, then, I am going to tell you that it hasn't been 
 all honey and happiness for me," she said. " Anything 
 but that, I can assure you. Oh, how I've been bored and 
 bored with him sometimes to extinction. If this is the 
 price one pays for living with a genius, then, in God's 
 name, let me never set eyes on one again. He told me 
 last night that a poet needs an atmosphere in which to 
 breathe, and without it he perishes. And I tell you, 
 Mr. Beaudesart, that a commonplace person also needs 
 an atmosphere in which to breathe ; yes, and freedom of 
 spirit in which to be comfortably commonplace." 
 
60 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 She waited a moment, and then went on with increased 
 earnestness : 
 
 " Last night I was stunned, wounded, humiliated by 
 the words he had said to me in his despair, and by the 
 cruel wrong I had done him in my despair. Yes, last 
 night I could have killed myself in my misery and my 
 shame. But now as I speak to you, a feeling of intense 
 relief begins to steal over me, and I realise that things 
 have indeed come to a climax between us, and that there 
 can be no question of our remaining together. No question. 
 This means that he can* take the freedom for which he 
 longs and I can take mine. Oh, the relief it will be ! 
 No longer any need to suppress my boredom. No longer 
 any occasion to make even a feeble attempt to be different 
 from my real self. And in addition, release from his 
 sullenness, his irritability, his joylessness, his depression, 
 his changing moods signs of genius, I suppose you'll 
 call them. I don't know. What I know is, that I don't 
 want them. They have tired me to death. But there 
 is yet hope on the horizon for both of us. There is still 
 time for him to rescue his birthright and safeguard his 
 aspirations. And there is still time for me to recover my 
 lost ground and enjoy the full exercise of my birthright. 
 So each of us will be born again. 'And with all my heart, 
 I say : ' Thank God for it.' ' 
 
 " Mrs. Eriswell, do you mean this ? " Beaudesart 
 asked excitedly. 
 
 " Mean it ? " she cried. " I mean every word of it. 
 I accept this way of escape with gratitude and joyfulness." 
 
 He came nearer to her, with a radiant smile on his 
 kind face. 
 
 " Mrs. Eriswell," he said, " if you really mean all this, 
 don't you see it's the solution of the whole difficulty ? 
 Let us both go and tell old Bob at once." 
 
 " I have heard," said a voice slowly. 
 
 And they turned towards the garden door, and saw 
 Robert Eriswell. 
 
 He looked at the scene of desolation, at his sketches 
 and studies, his unfulfilled fancies, his unsung songs, 
 his unrecorded thoughts : at the pitiful signs of 
 
BONDAGE 61 
 
 attempted restoration : at Will : at her. No one moved. 
 No one spoke. 
 
 It was Edith who first found the courage to break 
 the terrible silence. 
 
 " What have you to say to me about my work of cruel 
 destruction, for which I am bitterly, bitterly sorry ? " 
 she said. 
 
 " I have only to say that I have deserved anything 
 and everything for my words to you last night," Robert 
 answered, " and that there is nothing to forgive." 
 
 For one brief instant her lip quivered and her heart 
 hesitated, but she recalled those very words of which 
 he spoke words which she knew now had been prompted 
 by no one, but which he had uttered in the despair of 
 his soul. She strengthened herself with the memory of 
 Beaudesart's words about the great things done unex- 
 pectedly by the commonplace people, and their absurd 
 ideeds of heroism known by no one except themselves. 
 They had implanted in her mind a magic seed which had 
 forced its way through the resisting soil and sprung into 
 instant blossom and flower. 
 
 She gathered herself together to make the sacrifice on 
 which she had secretly resolved. Very grand she looked, 
 very beautiful, taking her eagle's flight which no one 
 ever measured, doing her deed of heroism which no one 
 ever knew. 
 
 She turned to her husband. 
 
 " We at least know where we both stand," she said 
 in a voice which had no tremor in it. " You have heard 
 now what I think of our marriage. And I heard last 
 night how I have come between you and all the ideals and 
 ambitions you cherish most. We know now quite clearly 
 that this is not a one-sided affair, but that we both yearn 
 for freedom. Let us therefore part in peace and without 
 bitterness. Do you agree ? " 
 
 There was a brief suspense. 
 
 The voice of the Muse whispered softly but insist- 
 ently : 
 
 " Poete, prends ton luth, prends ton luth. c'est moi, ton immor- 
 telle." 
 
62 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 Robert heard the voice of the Muse, and his mind's 
 eye saw a fair and lovely vision of her standing near him 
 with outstretched arms, claiming him for her own. It 
 faded, and another vision rose before him : a vision of 
 himself, with a legend, in burning letters, of his mean 
 spiritedness, his selfishness, his self-centredness, his ingrati- 
 tude. 
 
 " Edith," he cried, in the agony of his soul, " give me 
 another try I implore you." 
 
 " Yes, yes, Mrs. Eriswell," said Beaudesart, " give 
 old Bob another try." 
 
 She glanced quickly from her husband to Beaudesart. 
 
 " You say* that to me, Mr. Beaudesart ? " she exclaimed, 
 her lip quivering. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I say it with all my heart," he answered, 
 as with bowed head he stole from the room. 
 
 Husband and wife were left alone together. 
 
 " Try me again, Robert," she said, with an infinite 
 tenderness. 
 
IN A BAVARIAN FIDDLE VILLAGE 
 
 HERR RUDOLPH RIEMER had a tragic accident 
 with his Stradivari fiddle one evening at the Tonhalle 
 in Munich. In some unaccountable way it slipped 
 from his hand and fell to the ground. It burst open, making 
 a sound like that of an exploding pistol. It lay there 
 wrecked, a ruined temple. Riemer stood gazing at it, 
 motionless, stunned by the terrible shock. The conductor 
 himself, and a score or so of the players in the orchestra 
 rushed forward instinctively to pick it up. But suddenly 
 a queer, strange-looking man amongst the audience gave 
 utterance to a wild yell of rage. 
 
 "Don't touch it don't dare to touch it I'll kill 
 anyone who dares to touch it ! " he cried, waving his arms 
 in the air. 
 
 The next moment be was on the platform, keeping 
 everyone at bay. 
 
 " He's a madman ! " someone cried. " Catch hold of 
 him and don't let him escape. He's dangerous." 
 
 " I may be mad, and I may be dangerous," he shouted 
 wildly, " but no one shall touch that fiddle except me 
 not even Riemer himself." 
 
 Then it was that Riemer awoke from his stupor and 
 turned round. 
 
 " Why, it's Paul Stilling ! " he cried, in a voice which 
 had a ring of hope in it. " Paul Stilling, the clever fiddle- 
 mender ! Keep back, all of you. He's right. This is 
 his work not ours. What sends you here, Paul, in my 
 hour of need ? " 
 
 Paul Stilling took not the slightest notice of him. Now 
 
 63 
 
64 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 that no one was opposing him, his fierceness and excite- 
 ment had died away. The audience, the orchestra, the 
 conductor, the great and famous violinist, ceased to exist 
 for him. The world was blotted out from his conscious- 
 ness. He took off his coat and doubled it up on the ground. 
 He knelt down, a smile of loving concern on his face, and 
 with all the tenderness of a mother and deftness of a 
 surgeon, lifted the stricken fiddle into his coat, and bore 
 his burden swiftly and triumphantly away. 
 
 Riemer followed him. 
 
 There was a moment of silence, in which the audience 
 and the orchestra recovered from the amazing episode. 
 The conductor tapped with the baton on his desk, and 
 proceeded with Schubert's Unfinished Symphony as if 
 nothing had happened to disturb the continuity of the 
 programme. 
 
 But in the artists' room Paul Stilling sat at a table 
 examining Riemer 's Stradivari. Riemer bent over him 
 and made one or two remarks, to which Paul paid no 
 attention at first, though he frowned and looked irritated. 
 
 But at last he said glumly : 
 
 " I wish you would go away. I don't want you." 
 
 Riemer bit his lip. He knew well that he must put 
 up with any of this queer fellow's vagaries, for the sake of 
 his marvellous skill. He also knew from hearsay that 
 when an accident befell a famous fiddle, and Paul Stilling 
 was called in to " attend the case," he took absolute 
 possession of the instrument, something in his strange, 
 wayward brain claiming an ownership which no one dared 
 dispute. 
 
 So poor Riemer answered humbly : 
 
 " All right, Paul ; I'll go. I know that my treasure 
 has become your treasure. That's as it should be, and 
 I am grateful." 
 
 He had taken up his hat and coat and was going away, 
 when Paul signed to him to stop. 
 
 " You can stay if you like," he said sullenly. " Look 
 here, there's a fearful crack in the belly, just under the 
 sound post the worst I've ever seen. And this one 
 well, it's horrible. It makes one shudder." 
 
IN A BAVARIAN FIDDLE VILLAGE 65 
 
 He shuddered as he spoke. Riemer shuddered too ; 
 and the tears coursed down his cheeks. Finally he 
 covered his face with his hands and sobbed like a child. 
 Paul looked at him, looked at the fiddle, looked into open 
 space, murmured something to himself, shook his head 
 impatiently as if contradicting himself, and after a secret 
 mental struggle, emerged from the conflict and smiled one 
 of his radiant smiles which seemed in very truth the 
 outward sign of an inner visioning. 
 
 l( You shall come and be with me whilst I work on it," 
 he said mysteriously. " I'm going back to Mittenwald 
 to-morrow. You shall come with me and sit in my work- 
 shop. Perhaps I'll even ' 
 
 He broke off, his fitful mind returning to its task of 
 pondering over the injuries of the fiddle, which were of far 
 greater moment to him than the mere grief of the violinist. 
 Still, Riemer, who Understood a little about him, realised 
 that Paul had made a distinct effort in a human direction. 
 He was comforted in the midst of his distress. 
 
 "It is good of you, Paul," he said gratefully. " I will 
 come to Mittenwald." 
 
 Paul made no answer, but remained immersed in thought, 
 until the sound of loud clapping in the hall disturbed and 
 annoyed him. He rose, with a curious furtive expression 
 on his countenance. He might have been a burglar sud- 
 denly warned by ominous noises of an awakened house- 
 hold. He beckoned slyly with a finger to Riemer. 
 
 " They'll ask questions they'll want to see," he whis- 
 pered. " A-ha, they shan't see ! We'll be off before they 
 come." 
 
 Laughing softly to himself, he fled, carrying the fiddle, 
 which still rested in his folded coat. Riemer fled, too, 
 in charge of the empty case. 
 
 THE next morning Paul Stilling and Riemer were on their 
 way to Mittenwald, the fiddle village in the mountains 
 of Bavaria. They took the train to Partenkirchen, and 
 from the Hotel zur Post hired a carriage for themselves, 
 5 
 
66 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 Riemer loved the mountains passionately, and if anything 
 could have consoled him for the great disaster which had 
 befallen his Stradivari, it would have been the unspeak- 
 able joy of seeing them thus unexpectedly face to face. 
 
 His professional plans would have taken him at once 
 from Bavaria to England ; but he cancelled them ruth- 
 lessly, so as to be free to remain in Paul's company and 
 watch over the fate of his fiddle, with a pose of aloofness 
 and indifference assumed for diplomacy's sake. 
 
 He smiled now as he recalled the experience of the night. 
 Directly they left the Tonhalle, he had managed to 
 manoeuvre Paul into a motor, and thence safely into the 
 bedroom of his hotel. Paul sat up half the night staring at 
 the Stradivari ; and when at last he succumbed to fatigue, 
 it was with his hand clasping firmly the neck of the fiddle, 
 even as a tired child might fall asleep holding a favourite 
 toy from which it was impossible to part. Poor Riemer 
 hungered to touch his instrument and examine its appalling 
 injuries ; but he remembered that any undue display of 
 interest or exercise of interference, however natural and 
 friendly, might produce dangerous results at any rate 
 to the instrument. There was a tradition, dating some 
 time back, it is true, that Paul had once, in a fit of rage 
 at being interfered with, dashed against the wall a fiddle 
 on which he had bestowed more than three months of 
 loving labour of restoration. But that was before people 
 had learnt how to deal with the queer, singular fellow 
 whose unerring skill claimed, justly enough, too, the 
 indulgence and understanding necessary for free expression 
 on his own lines : not impossible lines, either, since Paul's 
 natural disposition was mild, and his instincts were all kindly. 
 
 He was well known in the fiddle world ; and there were 
 few violinists coming from all parts of the Continent who 
 did not, whilst they were in London, seek him out and 
 bring him their sick instruments. Sometimes, if he were 
 in a sulky mood, he would shut the door in the face of the 
 most distinguished artists. But if they returned at a 
 more propitious moment, they invariably found that they 
 had not in vain reckoned on his amazing cleverness and 
 his anxious and, indeed, passionate concern. 
 
IN A BAVARIAN FIDDLE VILLAGE 67 
 
 So Riemer now reckoned on it. As they drove along, 
 he glanced at Paul from time to time, and noted that the 
 fiddle-mender's eyes were riveted on the Stradivari case 
 and saw nothing else no wonders, no mysteries of the 
 mountains, no glimpses of the snow-peaks, no glories of 
 the autumn tints : nothing except that wooden box in 
 which the wrecked violin lay in all its helplessness, awaiting 
 the healing touch of his deft hands. 
 
 Once or twice he spoke, half to himself. 
 
 " A fearful crack in the belly," he said, shaking his 
 head. " The worst I have ever seen." 
 
 " Yes," said poor Riemer, his thoughts leaping instantly 
 back from the beauty of the scenery to the memory of 
 his misfortune. 
 
 Paul frowned. 
 
 " No, it isn't the worst," he added sulkily. " You don't 
 know." 
 
 Riemer made no comment, but sought refuge once 
 more in the moving clouds and changing visions around 
 him. 
 
 " All the same," Paul said, after a long period of silence, 
 " I believe the tone can be saved. The crack does not 
 actually reach the sound post." 
 
 " No, I don't think it does," Riemer said eagerly. 
 
 Paul frowned. 
 
 " Yes, it does," he said still more sullenly. " You 
 don't know." 
 
 After this second rebuff, Riemer resisted all impulses 
 either to agree with or contradict Paul's intermittent 
 remarks. But his crisis of passive heroism occurred when 
 Paul suddenly leaned forward and proceeded to open the 
 violin case. 
 
 " I can't be sure about that crack," he muttered. 
 
 Riemer longed to help him, longed to take the Stradivari 
 in his own hands, longed to see for himself whether or not 
 that terrible crack did actually reach the region of the 
 sound post. But he did not move a muscle. He sat 
 patiently, pretending to be a detached person who had no 
 connection whatsoever with the tyrant by his side, nor 
 with that loved companion of many years lying on the 
 
68 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 seat opposite. He looked steadfastly at the mist, which 
 was fading away and revealing yet another glistening 
 snow-peak. He was more than rewarded for his self- 
 control by Paul's next remark made after he had shut 
 the case. 
 
 " I have never disliked your playing," he said vaguely. 
 " I have never minded hearing you." 
 
 Riemer smiled. He knew that this statement from 
 Paul Stilling was the height of praise and signified that 
 he was in great favour, and that Paul was pleased to help 
 him. 
 
 " Thank you, Paul," he said gravely. 
 
 Paul nodded and relapsed into himself again. 
 
 " The crack stops short of the sound post," he said, 
 after a long pause. 
 
 " Ah," remarked Riemer indifferently. 
 
 And he added : 
 
 " Do you know, I have never seen such beautiful colour- 
 ing in the mountains anywhere. These wonderful tints 
 of autumn fill my heart with rapture." 
 
 " I don't believe the tone will be ruined," Paul said, 
 with one of his radiant smiles. " I " 
 
 He broke off and whistled softly to himself. 
 
 A light came into Riemer's eyes. What did he hear ? 
 His Stradivari was not to lose its splendid tone. If 
 Paul believed this, it was probably true. The heaviness 
 of the violin-player's heart was dispelled, and he would 
 have fain have made the mountains echo with a shout 
 of gladness. He became indiscreet, and resolved to ask 
 Paul how long he would take to restore the Stradivari. 
 
 " Paul," he said eagerly, " how long do you think it 
 will be before " 
 
 He stopped suddenly, for Paul had ceased whistling, 
 and his face had darkened ominously with the suspicion 
 that Riemer was intruding on private preserves. 
 
 " Before we reach Mittenwald" Riemer finished, with 
 sudden inspiration. 
 
 The shade on the violin-mender's countenance passed 
 away as though by magic, and he just shook his head 
 good-naturedly. 
 
IN A BAVARIAN FIDDLE VILLAGE 69 
 
 "As if it mattered," he said cheerfully. " A stupid 
 question." 
 
 " Yes, you are right." Riemer laughed, thankful to 
 have escaped from dangerous rocks. " Of course it doesn't 
 matter. The longer the better, so far as I am concerned." 
 
 But after this lesson of warning, he ventured on no more 
 probings. He watched the superb Karwendel group of 
 mountains disclosing themselves in all their glory : took 
 note of the flame-red colour of the mountain ash berries, 
 seen here in great profusion : revelled in the rich russet 
 carpet of the woods nestling against the lower hill slopes : 
 felt the invigorating air touch his nerves with buoyant 
 renewal : saw shadows and reflections of trees and peaks 
 in the lovely little marshy lake on the left-hand side of 
 the road ; and thus full of the comfort and strength which 
 Nature alone can give to those who love her, arrived with 
 his strange comrade at the fiddle village of Mittenwald. 
 
 They drew up at the Hotel zur Post. Before Riemer 
 had time to get out of the carriage and ring the bell, Paul, 
 whose face had become crafty and whose manner furtive, 
 seized his treasure and vanished from sight. 
 
 ill 
 
 PAUL'S Mittenwald home was not in one of the grander 
 houses decorated on the front with brightly- coloured 
 pictures of saints, apostles and angels, or with paintings 
 of scenes and subjects both sacred and secular. Years 
 ago, when he was first brought to Mittenwald, so as to 
 live in the atmosphere of fiddle-making and perfect him- 
 self in the craft which was the one absorbing passion of 
 his whole being, he had been placed in the care of old 
 Mathias Hoffmann and his widowed daughter Justina. 
 They had been Paul's own choice. He had seen Mathias 
 working at a scroll, had sat down by his side in the humble 
 little cottage, and had never left him for hours, so enrap- 
 tured was he with the masterly and bold touch of the old 
 craftsman. Justina had put aside her task of varnishing 
 fiddles, and had made some fragrant coffee for them all, 
 
70 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 on the green china stove in the corner. Then she had 
 produced some delicious Zwieback, at which Paul munched 
 delightedly, now nodding at her in approval, now following 
 with lynx eyes every movement of the old scroll-maker's 
 clever hand, and now darting up and examining the con- 
 dition of one of the fiddles which had just received from 
 her practised brush its fourth coat of varnish. 
 
 " Good, good, amazingly even good, good, amazingly 
 even ! " he said, laughing with pleasure. " Clever people. 
 Splendid coffee, too. And that scroll I must make a 
 scroll like that. And such biscuits. A very fine varnish ; 
 not too quick at soaking in, either. And that scroll. Yes, 
 I must make a scroll like that. I must begin now this 
 moment." 
 
 Just then Paul's people Robert, his step-brother and 
 Harriet, his wife found him in this cottage. They 
 had been searching for him everywhere, for he had slipped 
 away from the Hotel zur Post, where they had taken up 
 their quarters. 
 
 "Ah, Paul, here you are," Robert said gently, and 
 without any sign of anxiety or annoyance. " Now we 
 must all go together and find a home for you." 
 
 Paul looked up. 
 
 " A home ? " he asked simply. " But this is going to 
 be my home, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Is this where you would like to be, Paul ? " Harriet 
 said. 
 
 " Why, of course," Paul answered, glancing in happy 
 confidence first at the old man and then at his daughter. 
 " Any person in his right senses knows at once where he 
 wants to be, doesn't he ? " 
 
 " Quite right, Paul," his brother said, concealing the 
 smile, half of amusement and half of respect, always called 
 forth by Paul's simple way of settling everything by a 
 leading idea divorced from detail. " Quite right. We'll 
 arrange it somehow." 
 
 So, in this wise, Paul had settled down in the scroll- 
 maker's cottage ; and when he was in Mittenwald, nothing 
 would have induced him to live anywhere except with 
 these friends, whom a true instinct told him he could 
 
IN A BAVARIAN FIDDLE VILLAGE 71 
 
 safely trust. That was many years ago now, but they 
 had never failed him ; and when he was away from them, 
 with his own people in London, they counted the days 
 until they should once more see him bending happily and 
 contentedly over his own bench near the green china 
 stove. Justina had learnt to know his queer ways almost 
 as well as she knew the mysteries of the art of varnishing ; 
 and if he were in one of his sullen, black moods, she waited 
 patiently, and, with watchful care, chose the right moment 
 and the right method for enlisting his help and interest. 
 
 " Paulchen," she would say, " this stubborn fiddle won't 
 take the varnish. I'm in despair about it." 
 
 " You're stupid that's what you are," Paul would 
 answer. " Here, give it to me. I'll see to it." 
 
 :< Yes," she said humbly, " I'm getting old old and 
 stupid." 
 
 " Yes," he answered severely, " that's what's the matter 
 with you, Justina. There is nothing the matter with the 
 wood." 
 
 But he generally took over the task with which she 
 pretended to have failed ; and when she heard him whist- 
 ling softly to himself, she was satisfied that his dark hour 
 had passed. 
 
 This, then, was the home where Paul worked at Riemer's 
 Stradivari, whilst Riemer, like a wandering spirit for 
 which there is no rest, haunted the precincts of the cottage, 
 visited the violin factory, climbed the mountain paths, 
 strolled through the lovely woods. When he dared, and 
 when good, understanding Justina, who was exceedingly 
 sorry for him, signed to him that all was well, he stole 
 into the living-room, and sat by Paul's side, grateful even 
 for the concession of proximity. 
 
 " Come in," she said one morning. " Paulchen is very 
 kind to-day. And he even saved half of his coffee for you. 
 What do you think of that ? Doesn't that show he is 
 sorry for you ? And old father says it is wonderful what 
 he is doing. I, too, think it is wonderful. Now, come 
 in without fear, and drink your coffee." 
 
 Paul looked up when Riemer entered, and nodded to him. 
 The scroll-maker, who, although more than eighty years 
 
72 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 old, still worked at his little bench, carving out the scrolls 
 for which he was famous in Mittenwald, looked up and 
 greeted Riemer. 
 
 " Ah, you've coma to see my new scroll," Mathias said, 
 his handsome face beaming with pride and pleasure. 
 
 " No, he hasn't come to see your scroll, Mathias," Paul 
 said sharply. " He has come to see my Stradivari. That 
 is what he has come to see. What else could he want to 
 see ? " 
 
 The old man shook his head. 
 
 " It's my scroll," he said quite firmly. 
 
 " You're both wrong," Justina remarked soothingly. 
 " He has come to help me with my varnishing. I need a 
 little help this morning, for I want to do some washing 
 yes, and to make more Zwieback. Paulchen was greedy, 
 and ate it all up in the night, except one bit." 
 
 " For Riemer," Paul said, recovering his good temper 
 at once. " And the coffee, Justina, for him, too. Then 
 he can do some of your varnishing." 
 
 It amused him vastly to think of Riemer. varnishing. 
 And he laughed happily and waved his tool in the air. 
 
 " What a good thing if more people did the varnishing 
 and fewer people the playing ! " he said merrily. " But 
 I've never disliked Riemer 's playing never." 
 
 They all laughed, and settled down together. They 
 made a picturesque group, which no one having once 
 seen could ever forget. 
 
 Thus, helped by Justina's tactful management of her 
 strange charge, Riemer was able, more or less, to follow 
 Paul's work of restoration ; and there were even times 
 when Paul, if he were in a good-natured mood, explained 
 what he thought of doing to the instrument, and prophesied 
 that it would, without any doubt, be finer than ever. On 
 other days, if he were sullen, he would cover it up with 
 his apron and refuse to let any human eye see it ; and 
 if he were depressed, he would keep on murmuring to 
 himself : " Never will it sing again never ! " 
 
 This phase usually heralded a temporary collapse. Paul 
 took to his bed and slept for a couple of days, awoke fresh 
 as a flower, happy, good-humoured, and ready to work 
 
IN A BAVARIAN FIDDLE VILLAGE 73 
 
 again on the fiddle, which they had not dared to take 
 away from his side. 
 
 " Listen," he said gaily, on the occasion of one of his 
 recoveries, as he munched an apple and returned to his 
 bench, " this fiddle, Mathias, is going to have a finer tone 
 than ever. I dreamt I heard it. Such a tone, Justina. 
 I wish Biemer could have heard it. But he could never 
 make it sound like that. Quite impossible. No one could." 
 
 " No one could if Herr Riemer couldn't, that's quite 
 certain," Justina said. " Ach, he has been playing to 
 us so beautifully, Paulchen. So kind he has been to us 
 and to the children. You would have laughed to see them 
 running after him. The children have danced to his 
 music, and the old people have wept to it." 
 
 " I have wept to it," the scroll-maker said. " Never 
 has such music been heard in Mittenwald." 
 
 " You ought to go and hear him this afternoon," Justina 
 urged, half to tease him, for she knew that he would not 
 stir from his bench to listen to anyone's fiddling. " Herr 
 Riemer has promised to play in the school-house again, 
 and everyone is going from the factory. They told me 
 so yesterday. I shall put away my work. Won't you ? 
 Won't you come with me ? " 
 
 Paul frowned and shook his head. 
 
 " I can't waste my time," he said severely. " Much 
 more important things than that in my life, Justina. 
 Concerts are all very well for idle people who have nothing 
 to do." 
 
 " What's that about concerts and idle people ? " Riemer 
 asked, coming in at that moment. 
 
 " Paulchen says that concerts are all very well for idle 
 people," Justina explained, with a smile oh her face. 
 
 " Well, let us hope that the idle people will always be 
 on the increase," Riemer said, laughing. " No idle people, 
 no audiences, no musicians, no instruments. No need in 
 the world for you or me, Paulchen. What a prospect 
 before us ! What a problem ! " 
 
 Paul looked worried. Then his face lit up. He had 
 solved the difficulty to his own satisfaction. 
 
 " There will always be idle people," he said, returning 
 
74 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 to his work ; and after that no one could get a word out 
 of him. Riemer saw it was useless to linger in the hopes 
 of receiving attention of any description from Paulchen, 
 and had to be satisfied that his long spell of sleep was 
 over, and that he was once more at work on the Stradivari. 
 
 It was a trying time for Riemer, especially after the 
 first novelty of his life in Mittenwald had worn off ; but 
 he made the best of circumstances, and was determined 
 not to leave the village until the violin was rehabilitated 
 and once more in his possession. 
 
 It was torture to him not to possess it. It had been 
 his daily and intimate companion for more than fifteen 
 years ; and though he had other beautiful instruments, a 
 lovely Bergonzi and a superb Joseph Guarneri, it was 
 the wrecked Stradivari which was knitted to his soul and 
 interlaced with all those longings and aspirations, those 
 failures, those fulfilments of expression which are the artist's 
 true heritage. There were days when he felt that he could 
 have killed Paul, and carried off the violin in murderous 
 triumph, no matter what its impaired condition. But 
 when these fierce and primitive moods were past, he resigned 
 himself afresh to the bitter sacrifice of ownership for the 
 sake of his love's welfare. And no one seeing him roaming 
 quietly around the village, would have believed him to be 
 capable of the wild outbreaks of impatience and anger 
 to which he gave vent in secret. 
 
 The children certainly would not have believed it. He 
 loved children, and they knew it, and followed him fear- 
 lessly in his wanderings, until he began to look upon him- 
 self as the Pied Piper of Hamelin ; and one day, for fun's 
 sake, he played his fiddle out of doors, down this street, 
 and in front of the statue of Mathias Klotz, who had 
 first started the fiddle-making industry in Mittenwald, 
 and then up this turning, and down that, and so out of the 
 village in the direction of the mountains, with all the little 
 ones after him. A new audience for him, and the most 
 flatteringly exacting he had ever had. Encores number- 
 less, and no refusals taken ! No chance of bowing and 
 
 ing away into a safe retreat. There was no retreat, 
 'or that day he was the children's captive. 
 
IN A BAVARIAN FIDDLE VILLAGE 75 
 
 Thus he won their hearts and eased his own spirit. 
 But in spite of his good fellowship with everyone in the 
 village, he would have come off very badly if he had not, 
 at the onset, been inspired with a fine theme for a violin 
 concerto which he set himself to write as an offering to 
 his Stradivari. It was a labour of love as well as a real 
 consolation to him ; and he worked at it hour after hour, 
 and lived with it and in it. He wove into it the whole 
 history of the tragedy his despair, his relief, his hopes, 
 his wonder over Paul's skill, his gratitude, his longing and 
 loneliness, his anger, his impatience, his jealousy, his 
 remorse, his joy in the children, and " the sleep that is in 
 the starry skies, the rest that is among the hills." 
 
 He called it " The Mittenwald Concerto " ; and he had 
 made up his mind to play some of it to his little mountain 
 audience that afternoon in the school-house. When he 
 arrived there, he looked round and saw to his pleasure 
 that the whole village apparently had assembled to sup- 
 port him varnishers and fitters, scroll-makers, back- and 
 belly-makers, packers, bow-makers, old and young, men 
 and women, the priest, the mayor, the manager of the 
 factory, everyone except Paul. 
 
 He saw, with his mind's eye, that strange, fitful worker 
 bending over his bench, dead to every outside influence, 
 with brain, body, and spirit concentrated on the Stradivari. 
 And Riemer said to himself : 
 
 " Even although he is not here, I shall play to him. 
 Something may reach him. My gratitude, for instance 
 my real and deep gratitude and not my impatience." 
 
 Something did reach Paulchen after a time. Was it, 
 perhaps, that beautiful passage hi the Andante which em- 
 bodied praise and gratitude ? Anyway, he ceased work 
 and leaned back in his chair. He seemed pleased and 
 smiled radiantly. Then he frowned and shook his head 
 rather crossly, and returned to his task for a few moments. 
 He left off again, and glanced towards the door, a little 
 longingly, a little shamefacedly, perhaps. He half rose. 
 He stared sullenly at the green china stove. 
 
 " Why not ? " he murmured. " I have never disliked 
 
76 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 He broke off and stole into the streets. He stood and 
 gazed around him. Everyone seemed to have vanished 
 off the face of the earth. No children were playing near 
 the statue of Mathias Klotz outside the church. No women 
 were fetching water from the fountain. Through the 
 windows of the cottages no figures of workmen were seen 
 bending over their benches. The fiddles themselves were 
 there, of course the backs, the bellies, the scrolls, the 
 pegs, the tailpieces, all of them integral parts of the life and 
 atmosphere, as permanent and characteristic as the great 
 Karwendel mountains dominating the village. 
 
 But this marked absence of the human element struck 
 a chill at Paul's heart. The realisation swept as an aval- 
 anche over him that he was alone, aloof, cut off by invisible 
 barriers from that world where people walked together, 
 did things together, were happy together. Why could 
 he not be of their number ? What was it that prevented 
 him, Paul, from sharing in the everyday affairs and interests 
 which knitted human beings together for better or for 
 worse ? 
 
 The question died in his brain at the moment of its 
 birth. The consciousness of the suffering passed, even 
 as it made itself felt. But the tense expression on Paul- 
 chen's face showed that, within that narrow boundary of 
 time, there had been space enough for a vision of eternity. 
 
 The last lingering trace of mental strain faded. Paul, 
 dead once more to the inner call of Riemer's music and 
 the secret cry of his own solitary spirit, returned to his 
 work. Old father, Justina, and Riemer found him there 
 as they had left him, and never knew that he had made 
 the attempt to reach them and failed. 
 
 IV 
 
 ONE night, in the middle of the night, when everyone 
 was sleeping, Paul put the last touches to his work of 
 restoring the Stradivari, and gave vent to his joyfulness 
 and satisfaction in his own peculiar way. He left it on 
 the bench at first, surveyed it from a distance, then gradually 
 approached nearer to it, keeping his eye fixed on it as if 
 
IN A BAVARIAN FIDDLE VILLAGE 77 
 
 he were trying to mesmerise it. After a time he nodded, 
 and his face was wreathed in smiles. Very tender grew 
 the expression round his lips. A light came into his eyes. 
 
 "Mine," he murmured. "My own. No one else's." 
 
 He took it in his hands, tenderly, proudly, and turned 
 it over, whistling happily whilst he examined it. He raised 
 it into position under his chin, and with his bow arm 
 drew an imaginary bow over its strings. He tapped the 
 ground with his left foot, and marked time to some 
 imaginary music. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I knew it would be better than ever," he 
 said to himself. " Better than ever." 
 
 He clasped it to his breast. 
 
 "Mine," he murmured again. "Mine." 
 
 Suddenly he became fierce. 
 
 "No one else's," he said angrily. "Let there be no 
 mistake about that. Mine and mine only." 
 
 He stood thinking, and the fierceness of his mood faded 
 into furtiveness. He laughed softly. 
 
 "Ah," he said, "if they think they are going to find 
 
 He broke off, glanced stealthily round the room, listened 
 to make sure that no one was stirring, opened a drawer 
 where Justina kept his clothes, took out a flannel shirt 
 and wrapped the Stradivari in it, listened once more, 
 with his finger on his lips and a curious smile on his face, 
 stole on tiptoe to the door, unlatched it with unbelievable 
 noiselessness and fled from the village. 
 
 It was a lovely moonlight night, and the stars were 
 jewelling the heavens with unwonted resplendency. But 
 Paul had no eyes for the wonder of the scene spread before 
 him. His dominating idea at the moment was to hide 
 his treasure in some safe and secret spot at which no one 
 could possibly guess ; and he made his way in the direc- 
 tion of the Hussel Miihle, hurrying always as if he were 
 being pursued, yet careful of every step he took, lest he 
 might trip and wreck the precious instrument so lovingly 
 re-created by his hands. 
 
 " No one shall rob me of it," he said from time to time. 
 "The robbers will never find it never." 
 
78 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 He crossed the Isar and began to ascend the path which 
 led to the Seinsgraben. The goal which he had in his mind, 
 was an old dark brown cow-house next to a disused fores- 
 ter's hut, about half an hour's stretch between the Sein- 
 graben and the Vereins Alpe. He went forward through 
 woods and over rough and rugged tracks, now disappearing 
 amongst the trees, now emerging into the moonlit vastness, 
 a solitary figure impelled by one thought symbolic, in 
 his aloofness, of all those driven forward by an overwhelm- 
 ing idea. He did not pause to rest and recover, and he 
 did not cast so much as a fleeting glance at the wild ravines 
 and the peaks of the Worner and Wetterstein flooded with 
 the silver splendour of the moon. He did not hear the 
 sound of the mountain torrent, nor heed the cry of a startled 
 bird speeding on a sudden flight. All he knew was that 
 here, in this solitary place, where he had the whole world 
 to himself, his Stradivari would be safe from prying eyes 
 and robbing hands. 
 
 At last he reached the hut where he used so often to 
 have his bowl of milk and his bit of cheese and black 
 bread with the forester and his wife. Frunde, the cow, 
 and Gemse, the sprightly young goat, had been on excellent 
 terms with him, and he was often able to coax them back 
 into the cowshed when every other power on earth seemed 
 to have failed. He made his way at once to the cowshed, 
 and laughed softly as he opened the door. 
 
 " Frunde's manger," he said. " It will be quite safe 
 in Frunde's manger. No one would dream of looking 
 there. Quite safe." 
 
 With smiling face he laid the fiddle, still carefully wrapped 
 in the flannel shirt, in the empty manger which had once 
 been Frunde's. After reflection, he added his own coat. 
 He rubbed his hands gleefully, and appeared intensely 
 amused and pleased. 
 
 " I've cheated them ! " he said. " Frunde and I have 
 tricked them ! No doubt about that ! " 
 
 He laughed until the tears coursed down his cheeks. 
 
 " A good thing Frunde isn't here to munch it up," he 
 said. " She would have made short work of it." 
 
 Then he became grave again. He was not quite 
 
IN A BAVARIAN FIDDLE VILLAGE 79 
 
 satisfied that all was well with the Stradivari ; and he took 
 it out of the manger, turned it over, swathed it once more, 
 first in the shirt and then in the coat, and replaced it 
 tenderly in its appointed resting-place. He stood contem- 
 plating it, as if in some doubt. 
 
 "It will be all right," he said slowly. "But it was 
 stupid of me not to have brought the case. Much better 
 to have the case. I must go down at once and fetch it. 
 Then it will be all right." 
 
 He closed the door after him, and without further linger- 
 ing, sped at a furious rate on his homeward journey, fully 
 intending to return at once with the violin case. But 
 when he arrived back, he suddenly became conscious of 
 great fatigue. He threw himself on his bed, and was 
 soon held in a deep sleep of entire exhaustion, with his 
 secret hidden in his heart. But he had been seen by 
 Jakob Erckmann, the woodcutter, coming down the lower 
 path on the other side of the Isar, opposite the Hussel 
 Miihle. And it was this clue which led to the discovery 
 of the Stradivari. 
 
 It was nothing new to those who had the care of him, 
 that his moods of extreme activity and tenseness should 
 be succeeded by prolonged sleep lasting often thirty-six 
 hours or more. Justina, therefore, was not in the least 
 troubled by the continuation of his sleep. She knew that 
 he would awake refreshed and restored, ready to take up 
 his life and work with all his purposeful eagerness. 
 
 But what did worry her was that she could not find the 
 Stradivari. She searched the cottage in vain. She crept 
 into Paulchen's bedroom, and found no signs of it there. 
 She came to the conclusion that he had finished it, and 
 hidden it. But where to look for it, she knew not. She 
 did not tell Riemer at first, but made inquiries amongst 
 the neighbours, and went to the violin factory, hoping that 
 Paulchen might have stolen in there without observation 
 and secreted his treasure in some safe and secluded corner. 
 There was plenty of " cover " to choose from room after 
 room of violins and guitars in all stages, piles of carefully 
 chosen wood for the making of the instruments, and endless 
 packing-cases. The watchman said he was sure that no 
 
80 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 one could have entered the factory that night without 
 his knowing ; but the manager, although he agreed, had 
 the whole place ransacked, and with no happy results. 
 
 Old father shook his head when he heard where Justina 
 had been. 
 
 " Of course, he would not hide it there, Justina," he 
 said. " You might have known that. Of course he'd 
 know you would be stupid enough to go there. Paulchen 
 is too clever for that. No, he has thought of something 
 much more safe than the factory." 
 
 Riemer had to be told at last, and Justina broke the 
 bad news to him, with tears streaming down her cheeks 
 from despair and mortification ; for she was dreadfully 
 concerned for poor Riemer's sake, and dreadfully ashamed 
 of Paulchen, and angry with herself for not having kept a 
 more vigilant eye on the Stradivari in its final stage of 
 restoration. She ended by collapsing into her chair and 
 sobbing her soul out amongst her varnish pots and 
 brushes. 
 
 Riemer stood looking at her, stunned by this fresh 
 tragedy in connection with his fiddle. His face became 
 ashen, and something clutched at his heart. He had been 
 looking forward with passionate anticipation to the moment 
 when the work of restoration would be successfully ended. 
 And now came this appalling news. He could not speak 
 at first, but continued to stare at Justina. It was only 
 when he turned away and met old father's sorrowful eye 
 of sympathy that he was released from the bonds which 
 held him in silence and stupor. When he at last spoke, 
 his voice sounded as if it came from limitless distance. 
 
 "Don't fret like that, Justina," he said. "You've 
 done your best. I know you've watched it with lynx 
 eyes all the time." 
 
 For answer she went on sobbing, and again there was a 
 pause, during which speech failed him. 
 
 " One thing only I want to know quite honestly," he 
 said, with painful effort " quite honestly. Do you think 
 he will have destroyed it ? " 
 
 "No, no," Justina cried through her sobs. "No, no, 
 I'm sure of that," 
 
IN A BAVARIAN FIDDLE VILLAGE 81 
 
 "No, no," said the old scroll-maker. "He would not 
 do that." 
 
 " But I heard he did once" Riemer said, shuddering at 
 the thought. 
 
 " Not since we've known him, fifteen years this autumn," 
 Justina said, drying her eyes and trying to gather herself 
 together. 
 
 " He has not destroyed it," the old scroll-maker insisted. 
 " He has hidden it because he did not want to give it up. 
 He has loved it too much to destroy it. I, too, love what 
 I make even now, old as I am. This scroll I'm making 
 well, I love it. No, no, take comfort. Our Paulchen 
 has not destroyed it. He has hidden it." 
 
 " If you believe that, I must try and believe it, old 
 father," Riemer said gently, touched always by this old 
 man whom everyone loved. 
 
 " We'll never rest until we have found it," Justina said 
 determinedly. 
 
 She had recovered herself, and was prepared to do 
 anything and everything to run the Stradivari to earth. 
 And as she was trying to recall some of Paulchen's favourite 
 haunts, the woodcutter Jakob Erckmann, who had been 
 away at Garmisch, came in to say that he had seen Paul 
 in the early morning, hurrying down from the opposite 
 side of the Isar, evidently in a state of great excitement, 
 and without his coat. 
 
 Riemer's half-paralysed brain leapt once more to thought 
 and action. 
 
 "I'm off in that direction," he said, dashing to the 
 door. " You'll come with me, Justina, won't you ? " 
 
 " The best plan would be to wait till Paulchen wakes, 
 follow him at a distance in that direction, and find out 
 if and where he has hidden the fiddle," she said. " Then 
 we must return when he is not there and steal it. It is 
 the only way." 
 
 Old father nodded his head in approval ; but Riemer 
 was too overwrought and distressed to listen to any advice, 
 or to wait for the hour of Paul's awakening. 
 
 " I can't wait," he said, flinging his arms about wildly. 
 "I can't wait. It's impossible," 
 
82 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 He rushed out like a madman, knocking over two or 
 three of Justina's white fiddles which lay in the corner 
 ready for varnishing. She cast one motherly, anxious 
 glance at them one only and fled precipitately after 
 Riemer, resolved to go with him and share in the immediate 
 search, however futile it might be. Jakob Erckmann 
 picked up the fiddles. 
 
 " Why, neighbour," he said, " it seems to me thou hast 
 three mad people now in thy house, instead of one." 
 
 " And there would be a fourth, if I weren't so old, Jakob 
 Erckmann," the scroll-maker said, with a smile. " But 
 when one's old, Jakob Erckmann, one must sit quietly 
 and wait. Old people have to wait, Jakob Erckmann." 
 
 " And make splendid scrolls, Mathias Hoffmann," the 
 woodcutter said, taking up a fiddle neck admiringly. 
 
 The old man's face lit up. 
 
 "Ah, well, there is always that," he said, with gentle 
 pride. 
 
 But his face clouded over ; for he was greatly harassed 
 about the Stradivari, and he waited anxiously for the 
 return of Justina and Riemer, unable to work or smoke 
 or take his simple meal. Once he got up and went into 
 Paulchen's room. 
 
 " Paulchen, Paulchen ! " he murmured, shaking his 
 head reproachfully at the sleeper. 
 
 Meanwhile, Riemer and Justina were spending fruitless 
 hours in a wild-goose chase which no one in his senses 
 would have undertaken. Even Riemer saw the futility 
 at last, gave it up of his own accord, and returned with 
 Justina to the village. 
 
 " You see, I couldn't rest, Justina," he explained path- 
 etically. " I had to be doing something. But of course, 
 yours is the wiser plan to wait until he wakes, and follow 
 him when he goes to the hiding-place. That is to say, if 
 he does go. Perhaps he won't go. How do you know he 
 will ? " 
 
 " Of course he'll go," Justina said. " It's the first thing 
 he'll do when he wakes up and thinks he has got us out 
 of the way. I can see him gloating over his hidden 
 
IN A BAVARIAN FIDDLE VILLAGE 83 
 
 treasure. Oh, he'll be very sly and suspicious ! I know 
 him. I know his sly smile when he has a great secret." 
 
 " I can't get it out of my head that he may have des- 
 troyed it," Riemer exclaimed, working himself up to another 
 outbreak of anger and despair. 
 
 " There's no real danger of that yet, I'm sure," she said. 
 " Don't give way like that, Herr Riemer. The danger 
 would only be if he found us trying to steal it from him. 
 I don't know what might happen then. He might get 
 into a great passion and smash the fiddle in his rage. But 
 we must not let him find us. We must be careful. That's 
 all." 
 
 Riemer paused outside the scroll-maker's cottage. 
 
 " What a fool, what an unutterable fool I've been to 
 give it into the care of that madman," he cried passionately. 
 "I deserve all I've got." 
 
 " Come, come," she said half angrily, half soothingly, 
 " you mustn't think that, and you mustn't say that of 
 Paulchen. You know there's no one as clever as Paulchen 
 at his work. And when you hear the Stradivari ach, it 
 will sound beautiful. You will forget all this trouble, 
 and you will only praise our good Paulchen then." 
 
 He smiled, in spite of himself, at her championship of 
 the culprit, and let her urge him into the cottage, where 
 she made him drink a large glass of dunkles and eat some 
 bread and sausage, and smoke a pipe with old father, 
 who badly needed good cheer and companionship. She 
 treated the great artist very much as she treated Paulchen 
 as a wayward child, to be coaxed and managed with a 
 large indulgence ; and she refused rigidly to allow him to 
 return to his hotel, lest he should mope and be miserable, 
 or start off suddenly on another aimless expedition. She 
 did all she possibly could to cheer and encourage him, 
 and finally took him into Paul's bedroom, where the fiddle- 
 maker lay fast asleep on his bed, with that sly smile on 
 his face which she knew so well spoke unmistakably of 
 some crafty joyfulness. 
 
 "There," she said triumphantly afterwards, " didn't I 
 tell you he would look like that if he had a secret ? He 
 is pleased with himself, is Paulchen. He'll be very sly 
 
84 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 when he wakes up, and very suspicious. What was the 
 word he was muttering ? Frunde, wasn't it ? Yes, it 
 was Frunde. Now, what could he mean by that ? Well, 
 well ! Suppose you just settle down quietly, and do some 
 varnishing for me. Those four violins in the corner must 
 have their coat of varnish on by to-morrow. There's 
 plenty for you to do to keep your mind quiet. And the 
 time will pass." 
 
 " Yes, yes, the time will pass," murmured the scroll- 
 maker. 
 
 At intervals he turned to Riemer and, as if to reassure 
 him, nodded his beautiful old head and said : 
 
 " He has loved it too much to destroy it. I know. I, 
 too, love what I make." 
 
 PAUL awoke late the next evening, and according to his 
 wont after a long spell of sleep, exceedingly hungry. Bread, 
 apples, raisins, and a banana or two, together with an 
 unlimited supply of coffee, formed his meal, which he took 
 at his bench. He did not enter into conversation either 
 with the scroll-maker or Justina, but seemed engrossed 
 in his own thoughts, and showed every sign of being in 
 one of his mysterious and suspicious moods. The only 
 remark that he did at length make, pointed to his anxiety 
 to get rid of his companions. 
 
 " It's your bed-time soon, isn't it ? " he asked vaguely, 
 in that innocent and detached manner which invariably 
 implied some secret scheming. 
 
 " Not yet for a long time," Justina answered, to put him 
 off his guard. She knew well that if she fell in with his 
 plan to get rid of her, she would at once increase his sus- 
 piciousness. 
 
 He took no more notice of them, and pretended to occupy 
 himself with the fiddle at which he had been working 
 before he began repairing Riemer 's Stradivari. But he 
 only played with his tools, and kept looking round slyly 
 to see whether they were making any preparations for 
 going off to bed. At last old father, who had finished 
 
IN A BAVARIAN FIDDLE VILLAGE 85 
 
 smoking his long pipe, nodded and retired. But Justina 
 lit another lamp and began to mend a shirt. She yawned 
 several times. Paul watched her. 
 
 " Why don't you go to bed, Justina ? " he asked 
 severely. " People are so stupid to sit up when they're 
 tired. Bed is the proper place when one is tired." 
 
 " Yes, Paulchen, but the shirts have to be mended, all 
 the same," she replied cheerfully. 
 
 " Will that one take long ? " he asked innocently. 
 "A quarter of an hour," she said, turning away to hide 
 a smile. 
 
 " Ah," he said. And he fidgeted with one of his alu- 
 minium planes, and began to shave off tiny shreds from a 
 fiddle back. 
 
 Eventually she rose. 
 
 " There, that's done," she said, with another yawn. 
 "How tired I am ! Well, good night, Paulchen. You'll 
 find some fresh Zwieback in the oven." 
 
 " I don't want any Zwieback" he said sulkily. 
 But when he was alone, he sprang from his seat with a 
 joyful alertness. 
 
 " Ah," he said, " at last ! But I'll wait a few minutes 
 to be sure they are safely out of the way. Then I'll be off." 
 He smiled, rubbed his hands gleefully, crept about the 
 room on tiptoe, and took a case from the corner. He sat 
 down at his bench, and drummed on it with one of his tools. 
 He rose again and listened for ominous sounds. There 
 were no sounds. He nodded his head as if satisfied that 
 the little household was hushed to permanent rest, and 
 without further attempt to curb his impatience, stole 
 from the cottage armed with the violin case. But Justina, 
 whose nerves were on the alert, heard his soft departure, 
 and from her tiny window saw that he went in the direc- 
 tion of the Hussel Miihle. She followed closely after, 
 and signalled to Riemer, who by arrangement was keeping 
 guard in his room at the Hotel zur Post. 
 
 In a few minutes the two confederates were in swift 
 but judicious pursuit of poor Paulchen, whose suspicions 
 had been forgotten in an overwhelming eagerness to reach 
 Frunde's manger. Once or twice he stopped short and 
 
86 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 stood listening. They had hidden themselves behind a 
 great rock, and if he had retraced his steps, he would not 
 have discovered them easily. Moreover, the moon was in 
 one of her coy moods that night, and retired at intervals 
 behind a veil of passing clcuds : so that she was a useful 
 ally to Paul's pursuers, both in lighting them on their 
 way and in obscuring them at critical moments. She 
 failed them altogether at the ravine, and if Paul, when he 
 turned round, had looked to the right instead of the left, 
 he would have seen them without fail. But again they 
 were lucky ; all the more so since he was actually thinking 
 of them at the time. 
 
 " They are all fast asleep," he chuckled. " I've tricked 
 them. Frunde and I have tricked them. They will never 
 know." 
 
 Then, with a gay laugh, he passed on his way with ever- 
 increasing speed, for his excitement and concentration 
 of effort and purpose grew greater as he neared the end 
 of his journey. And at last he reached the cowhouse. 
 He dashed in, rushed to Frunde's manger, gave an exclama- 
 tion of joy when he saw the bundle lying there sound and 
 safe, took it out, unwrapped the Stradivari, stared at it a 
 long time by the light of the moon, gloated over it, revelled 
 in the possession of it, touched the strings, caressed the 
 scroll, laid it in the case, placed the case in the manger, 
 and covered it up with his shirt and coat. 
 
 But suddenly an expression of great anxiety broke 
 over his face. A devastating doubt assailed him. Was 
 the tone going to be as fine as ever ? Was it was it ? 
 After all, he had not tested it. He had only heard it with 
 his mind's ear. All traces of craft and suspicion vanished 
 from his countenance, which now spoke only of grave concern. 
 
 " I must hear it, in order to be quite sure," he said 
 aloud. " Yes, I must hear it. I must " 
 
 He broke off. He was deeply troubled and puzzled. 
 His right hand sought his forehead his invariable action 
 when he was trying to think. His passionate wish to keep 
 the Stradivari to himself was assailed by the promptings 
 of his artist's nature to make all and any sacrifice for 
 the sake of his work. Should he go and fetch Riemer ? 
 
 / 
 
IN A BAVARIAN FIDDLE VILLAGE 87 
 
 Should he take it to Riemer ? Ah, that would be better. 
 But then, Riemer would want it. Riemer would want 
 to rob him of it. And that was not to be borne. No, he 
 could not give it up. He would leave it in the manger 
 and come up again secretly with a bow and try it himself. 
 That would do equally well. 
 
 But would it do ? No, he knew it would not. Someone 
 like Riemer would have to play on it, to sweep the strings 
 and test its singing powers in every detail. Yes, yes, he 
 must take it down to Riemer and 
 
 He shuddered. He passed through an intense mental 
 agony. He could not bear to part from it. But he was 
 impelled against his will to submit to the dictates of faithful 
 workmanship ; and with reluctant hands he took it from 
 its resting-place, put it under his arm, and went slowly 
 towards the door. He stepped over the threshold and 
 advanced two or three steps not more. There he stopped. 
 And a stubborn, determined look settled on his face. 
 
 "No," he muttered, shaking his head, "no." 
 
 He made for the manger again, replaced his treasure 
 there, and to prevent any recurrence of the severe conflict 
 which had torn his mind and spirit, fled precipitately from 
 the scene, leaving, in his hasty retreat, the case uncovered 
 and the door flung back for anyone to enter. 
 
 Meantime, Justina and Riemer, who had followed close 
 upon him, were lying in wait near at hand, and saw him 
 pass down. It had not dawned on Justina at first, in 
 their pursuit of him, that he had perhaps chosen the 
 forester's hut for the hiding-place of the Stradivari. It 
 was only when they were approaching the spot itself that 
 she remembered how often, in the old days, he used to 
 wander off there. And at the moment when these memories 
 revived, the significance of the word Frunde broke on her. 
 Then she knew. Tired as she was, and out of breath, 
 too for Justina was no longer young, and not given to 
 climbing steep places she laughed, and Riemer asked her 
 rather crossly the reason of her sudden merriment. 
 
 "Frunde, the cow Frunde, the cow I " was all she could 
 say, and she laughed again. 
 
 But when Paulchen had been gone for ten minutes or 
 
88 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 so, she led Riemer direct to the forester's hut, and hard 
 by they found the dark brown cowhouse, with its door 
 inviting them to enter. They saw Paulchen's shirt and 
 coat on the floor. 
 
 " Frunde's manger ! " Justina cried, pointing to it 
 excitedly. 
 
 Riemer literally leapt towards it and found his violin. 
 He lifted it with trembling hands and stood speechless, 
 overcome by emotion. He held it to his heart. 
 
 " Mine again ! " he whispered. 
 
 It was Justina who roused him. 
 
 " Didn't I tell you our Paulchen would not hurt it ? " 
 she said proudly. 
 
 But Riemer did not heed her. He whipped out a bow 
 which he had brought with him, drew it across the strings, 
 and began tuning the violin. His face was tense with 
 excitement. Justina tried to stop him. 
 
 " No, no, don't do that," she said, in alarm. " It isn't 
 safe. He may not have gone far. He may return. He'll 
 be angry. There is no knowing what " 
 
 But Riemer had come into his own, and the crack of 
 doom itself would not have prevented him from playing 
 on his Stradivari and testing for himself the capabilities 
 of its tone and volume, its power and quality of singing. 
 
 He tuned it, raised his bow defiantly, triumphantly, 
 and, regardless of outer circumstances and dangerous 
 possibilities, began to put it mercilessly through its ordeal 
 of sound. But in a few minutes he had lost all conscious- 
 ness of a critical purpose. He only remembered that he 
 was once more united to the instrument which had been 
 his intimate companion for years. He poured out his 
 passion on it, and wooed it with noble music loved by and 
 familiar to them both, and drifted into the Mittenwald 
 Concerto, his own tribute to it in his hours of distress and 
 separation. On, on he sang, as a poet invoking his muse. 
 
 Justina, in spite of apprehension, was held by the spell 
 which he wove around himself and her. And neither of 
 them knew that the danger she had dreaded had come 
 to fulfilment, and that Paul had returned. 
 
 At last Riemer's bow fell to his side. 
 
IN A BAVARIAN FIDDLE VILLAGE 89 
 
 " My wonderful Stradivari," he cried, his face aglow 
 with joy. " Yes, and that wonderful Paul. There's no 
 one like him a prince in his art. I must make him hear 
 me play, whether he likes it or not. He shall hear for 
 himself that the tone is more beautiful than ever." 
 
 Then Justina looked round, and saw Paul standing in 
 the doorway, his body slightly bent forward as if ready 
 for action, and with an expression on his face which was 
 an alarming mixture of fury, craft, interest, pride, delight, 
 hate, and sullen jealousy. Her heart stood still, not from 
 fear for herself, but for Riemer. Riemer was in danger, 
 and she must protect him. She tried to speak to Paulchen, 
 but no sound came from her lips. She tried to move 
 towards him, but she had no power to lift her feet. But 
 she did what she could in that moment of peril. She 
 kept her eyes steadily fixed on his eyes, and met their 
 steel- like glance unflinchingly. A strange and almost 
 imperceptible quiver passed over his face and through his 
 frame. He lowered his eyes Justina had overcome him. 
 His tense nerves relaxed, and he heaved a deep sigh as 
 if he had freed himself from bondage. And instantly a 
 radiant smile lit up his countenance, and a boyish eagerness 
 bounded into his whole bearing. 
 
 " Yes, yes, you're right," he cried joyously. " The 
 tone is more beautiful than ever. It's richer than ever. 
 I thought it would be. Once or twice I wasn't quite sure. 
 But only once or twice. More mellow than ever. Deeper. 
 Splendid, isn't it, Riemer ? I'm glad for my sake oh, 
 yes, yes, and for yours, too. I have never disliked your 
 playing. Never." 
 
 He was flinging his arms about in delight, when his face 
 suddenly clouded over again, but not in anger this time. 
 His hand clutched his head as always when he was trying 
 to make some great mental effort. 
 
 " It is yours, not mine, yours, not mine," he said, in a 
 strained voice which betrayed the effort of mind and the 
 sacrifice of spirit. " I know it's yours, Riemer. It must 
 be yours if you can make it sing in that fashion. It can be 
 no one else's. I don't understand how I always make that 
 mistake. I " 
 
90 THIUTKKN ALL TOLO 
 
 He broke otV. shook Ins head. and looked helplessly 
 tirst at Kiomer and then at Justina. For answer Riemer 
 clasped his hand in a silence which was eloquent of kindness, 
 tenderness. appreciation, aiui ^ratinide : and Justina slipped 
 IUT arm through his a;:d waited, as she had so often faith- 
 fully waited. until that brief Init bit tor consciousness of 
 hU mental limit anon had faded into a inoivifnl oblivion. 
 
 " Paulehen." she said, as to a child. " shall wo go homo ? 
 We've eomo a long way. and I'm frightfully tired, aren't 
 you ? 1 sup^so it is because I am getting old. I want 
 to go home and have a hot cup of coffee like you always 
 make for me when I'm tired, you know. I always wonder 
 what you put in it. Some of your favourite gum mastic. 
 I believe ! Ach, I'm tired --my logs do ache. My left 
 one worse than mv right. No. they're both equally bad. 
 
 He had brightened up at once, and seemed immensely 
 amused over the coffee and the gum mastic. 
 
 "Yes :o home," he said, laughing happily. " That 
 
 is a good idea of yours. And I'll make some coffee for 
 us all. Aha, I'm not going to tell you what I put in it. 
 It isn't gum mastic, though ! And it isn't Venetian tur- 
 pentine ! It's a secret, like the Cremona varnish eh, 
 Riemer ? Come along, Riomer. You and I aren't tired. 
 are we ? Hut Justina is getting old. That's what is the 
 matter with her." 
 
 It was Paulohon who led the way home, gaily and 
 triumphantly. He had ceased to be interested in the 
 Stradivari, and did not vouchsafe a single glance to it . But- 
 Just ina whispered to Kiemer that this was only a temporary 
 indifference, and that his safest course was to leave Mitten- 
 wald as soon as possible, before Paul's mood had changed. 
 
 So Rienier, happy but anxious, took her advice. He 
 
 only lingered long enough to drink that cup of coffee, 
 delicious but mysterious, and to bid old father a secret 
 farewell. And then off he stole like a thief, and first began 
 to breathe freely when he landed his Stradivari safely in 
 his home in Prague. 
 But his thoughts returned constantly to the fiddle 
 
IN A BAVARIAN FIDULK VILLA<;i-; 01 
 
 vilhfi'o and its mountains which ho had learnt to Jove ; 
 and the first time ho played the Stradivari a^ain in public 
 ho had a curiouH Japno of memory, on which the newspapers 
 in thoir ignorance commented ominously. 
 
 The truth was, not that ho wan losing hin rrjornory nor 
 liiH 1/;chriical nkill, hut that an unforgottabJo noono row 
 l>< foro him, and ho smiled an ho #;i/od on it with his mind's 
 oyo. Ho Haw the little room with the green ehina stove 
 in the Mittenwald cottage, old father, with hia beautiful 
 old face, working at his scrollB, Justina varnishing fiddl' ::, 
 but glancing up now and again to Wie if all wore well with 
 her fitful Paulchen whom she managed with such astonish- 
 ing wisdom, and the fiddle-maker munching at an apple 
 and staring intently at a fiddle back which he held before 
 him for scrutiny and criticism. 
 
 Kiomer laughed aloud, too, for he heard Paul say dis- 
 tinctly, in a sullen and reluctant tone of voice : 
 
 " I have never disliked your playing never." 
 
McGRATH'S HOMECOMING 
 
 THE train steamed lazily into the little station of 
 N - one glorious September afternoon in 1917. A 
 tall Australian soldier stepped on to the platform, 
 sniffed the air and glanced around in obvious appreciation 
 of the countryside. 
 
 " Gee," he said aloud, " something like air after a 
 London Hospital." 
 
 Then he addressed the stationmaster, who stood staring 
 at him ; for up to that day no Australian soldier had 
 been seen in those parts. This little village on the York- 
 shire Moors was as remote from the happenings of the 
 war as some of the comfortable, well-ordered households 
 in the heart of the Metropolis. 
 
 " Mister," he said, " are there some people of the name 
 of Pattersen living here on a farm on the road to Hebden ? 
 They came here about six years ago, I think." 
 
 As he spoke, he took from his pocket an old torn letter 
 and glanced at it. 
 
 " Ay," he said, " that was the name of the place 
 towards Hebden." 
 
 " Pattersens are here all right," the stationmaster 
 answered. " Jim's at the Front. Friends of yours ? " 
 
 Andrew McGrath nodded. 
 
 " Promised to give them a look up when I came to the 
 Old Country," he said vaguely. " Made a promise I 
 would." 
 
 And he repeated as if to himself : 
 
 :{ Yes, I did. I made that promise to myself. And 
 why I did, I don't know." 
 
 93 
 
94 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 " Well, you go straight up yon hill, and on through the 
 village until you get to the last house," the stationmaster 
 said. " Then you bear off to the right. That's the road 
 to Hebden. Patterson's is the first farm you come to ; 
 a large barn begins it. ^ou can't mistake it." 
 
 McGrath nodded again, took out a cigar case, invited 
 the stationmaster to help himself to a big, prosperous- 
 looking cigar, and passed into the bar-room of the Station 
 Hotel hard by. 
 
 Grandma Passmore was serving in the bar at the time, 
 and when she saw the Australian soldier saunter in, her 
 quick old eyes summed him up in a moment. 
 
 " So you be from the Colonies," she said, a smile lighting 
 up her countenance. " Glad to welcome you here. And 
 a real change from the sight of them horrid interned 
 Germans and the like working at the quarry." 
 
 She jerked her head in the direction of a group of three 
 or four men, obviously Germans or Austrians, all bending 
 over the morning paper, which contained an account of a 
 British reverse, and all unable to conceal signs of great 
 satisfaction over the news, which had been disquieting 
 to the whole country. 
 
 " Aren't they just enjoying themselves ? " she fcaid. " It 
 fair makes my gorge rise. It isn't beer I'd like to serve 
 out to them. No, it's by no means beer." 
 
 " Want me to pick a quarrel with them ? " McGrath 
 asked. " I'd just as soon." 
 
 " Nay, lad," she answered. " They're peaceable enough, 
 and civil spoke. I'll own that much. But when bad 
 news for England comes through, they're not half pleased, 
 I can tell you. Twenty of them working at the quarry. 
 Good food, good shelter, good wages, and the run of the 
 countryside. And that's called being interned. I wouldn't 
 mind it myself ! " 
 
 McGrath strolled over lazily to the table where the 
 men were sitting. He was tall and lean and strong, and 
 looked a menacing presence as he stood watching the 
 aliens, with an expression on his face which was alarming 
 in the extreme, and a tenseness of manner which certainly 
 seemed a prelude to sudden violence. 
 
McGRATH'S HOMECOMING 95 
 
 " Interested in the news, are you ? " he began in a low 
 drawl. " I'll teach 
 
 McGrath got no further. Grandma Passmore saw to 
 that. The last thing she wanted was a scene, and she 
 regretted instantly that she had been indiscreet enough 
 to say a single word about the aliens to this Colonial 
 soldier. A scene was bad policy all round. And her 
 daughter-in-law was always warning her to keep silent 
 on this subject, which never failed to agitate her. She 
 simply could not keep silent. Whenever she saw these 
 men come into the bar, something approaching fury 
 invariably took possession of her. Still, she didn't want 
 a scene. And now there was going to be one. She felt 
 it in her bones. 
 
 How could she prevent it ? It struck her that the only 
 thing to do was to make a scene herself and at once. 
 She accordingly gave sudden utterance to a curious and 
 frightening gurgling sound, and fell back carefully into 
 her armchair with great caution but sufficient disturbance 
 for the purpose. 
 
 There was immediate alarm. The Australian rushed 
 up to her. The " interned " vanished instantly, for they 
 had not liked the look of this fierce and formidable Colonial 
 soldier, and were glad to save their skins. The bar-room 
 was cleared. The word went forth in the town that 
 Grandma had had a fit. Tim, the old boots, was dispatched 
 for the doctor. Mrs. Passmore Junior, and Hetty and 
 Susie, her bonnie young girls, who had hastened to the 
 bar, were preparing to give first aid to Grandma, when she 
 opened her eyes, smiled at them and said : 
 
 " Let be let be. Granny's as right as rain." 
 
 "Oh, Grannie," Susie cried, "darling Grannie, you've 
 given us such a fright." 
 
 " Not such a fright as I've given myself," Grandma 
 said, sitting up again. " I thought maybe the tall 
 Australian man was going to murder the aliens. He looked 
 that fierce at them. And all through me. All because I 
 couldn't keep my tongue quiet about them. So I decided 
 I'd better be taken ill." 
 
 " Well, it's a good thing you're all right, Mother," Mrs. 
 
96 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 Passmore Junior said, laughing. " But you really ought 
 to be more cautious. Time after time I've asked you." 
 
 " Yes, my dear, and time after time I've promised," 
 Grandma said humbly, but with a knowing wink at Hetty, 
 who laughed and hugged her. 
 
 McGrath laughed also. 
 
 " Plainly, there mustn't be any more British reverses," 
 he said, " then Mrs. Grandma won't be tempted to be 
 indiscreet." 
 
 And he added : 
 
 " But I tell you I'd made up my mind to twist their 
 necks for them." 
 
 " Well, at least Grandma saved the situation, didn't 
 she ? " Susie said staunchly. 
 
 " Ay, ay, she did," McGrath answered, smiling. "And 
 if all people who start mischief could repair it so quickly, 
 the world would get along a mighty sight better. I guess 
 I take off my hat to Mrs. Grandma." 
 
 This little incident dispensed with all preliminaries 
 of acquaintanceship. They took McGrath into the private 
 room at the back of the bar, served tea for him and found 
 him one of their best cigars. He had to tell them about 
 Gallipoli ; and they hung on every word as he gave the 
 story of the tragic landing and the reckless courage of the 
 gallant dead. He learnt that Mr. Passmore had joined 
 up on the third day of the war and was now in Salonika. 
 The women of the family, old and young alike, had been 
 carrying on the business in his absence ; and it was the 
 ambition of the girls, who evidently loved their father 
 dearly, to show him on his return that they had done 
 their best to keep things going. 
 
 McGrath was touched to the core by the feeling of 
 family kindness and devotion amongst them. He was on 
 his way to his own people, whom he had not seen for many 
 years and to whom he had not written a single line. In 
 disgrace and anger he had left them, as a youngster ; 
 and though at times the thought of them had tugged at 
 his heart, and a vision of his mother grieving over him 
 had often haunted him, he had cast them all aside and 
 given no sign. 
 
McGRATH'S HOMECOMING 97 
 
 He asked himself, why had he given no sign ? Why had 
 he been content to tread his own path, to live as if he 
 were alone in the world, with no home to which to return, 
 no one to greet him, welcome him, forgive him ? Oh, 
 simply because he had been a fool. Or was it because 
 he had never cared ? He remembered that years ago, 
 when he was quite a boy, old Aunt Rebecca had maintained 
 that he had no heart. She had said that he would grow 
 up to be a fine figure of a man, but that, whatever Andrew 
 did and whatever he was, he would never have a heart. 
 And his mother, nearly always mild and gentle, had turned 
 fiercely on Aunt Rebecca and swept her to the door. He 
 remembered Aunt Rebecca had called out, as a parting 
 shot : 
 
 " Never." 
 
 He smiled as the memory of the scene returned to him 
 from those distant days. 
 
 Well, had Aunt Rebecca been right, after all ? Perhaps. 
 Perhaps his mother, who had taken up arms for him then, 
 had come to the bitter knowledge that all her love and 
 care and yearning for her eldest born had been lavished 
 in vain on one who gave no response. Yet there had 
 been moments during these years of silence when his 
 craving for home was so great that he could almost have 
 died of it. 
 
 No one would believe that. No one would believe it 
 of any one of the rough hardened fellows with whom he had 
 kept company out in the wilds of Australia. But it was 
 true. And his mind travelled back to a winter's night, 
 on a lonely station in the Bush, when The Terrier himself, 
 toughest of the tough, fiercest of the fierce, had been taken 
 ill and turned his face to the wall. 
 
 What ailed him ? What could they do for him ? What 
 could they give him ? 
 
 " Nothing, except Home and all the love I chucked 
 away," he had said at last. " That's what's the matter 
 with me, boys. Leave me alone." 
 
 These thoughts claimed McGrath with increasing 
 persistence as he sat chatting with the Passmores. It was 
 his first experience of family life since he landed in England ; 
 7 
 
98 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 and his plan of visiting his home, definite but hitherto 
 only of temperate interest, leapt suddenly to a fierce 
 flame of eagerness. One of those moments of longing had 
 come. 
 
 He rose abruptly, took leave of his new friends in a 
 hurry which disconcerted them a little, and made them 
 think him ungracious. They never knew that they 
 themselves had sped him on his way they and what they 
 represented to him : the intimacy and interplay of a home, 
 and then 1 concern and affection for that absent father and 
 husband and son watched over day and night by their 
 anxious love. 
 
 He recalled the stationmaster's directions for finding 
 Pattersen's farm and stalked off, a typical Australian 
 soldier figure, tall, lean, independent of bearing, with his 
 slouch hat slightly tilted and a hand in his pocket. His 
 face was a little grim; but there was a distinct twinkle 
 in his blue eyes, and something kind about his mouth. 
 It may have been true that Andrew McGrath, as he called 
 himself, had gone away without a heart ; but it was probably 
 true that, in spite of Aunt Rebecca's judgment, he had 
 found one and was bringing it back now. 
 
 McGrath passed over the bridge, but paused a moment 
 to glance at the view on either side and to watch the river 
 Wharf e, which was swollen by recent rain and was rushing 
 along, turbulent and tumultuous, yet not too angry to 
 be courted by the caressing sunshine which showered 
 jewels amidst its spray, lit up the green pastures with a 
 magic lustre and set the heather-clad moors beyond in 
 a blaze of purple splendour. Then he mounted the hill 
 which led to the moorland village of N . 
 
 The district was new to him. Everything was strange : 
 river, upland, moor, fell. Yet the familiarity of a purely 
 English scene moved him in a fashion he would have 
 deemed impossible even a few hours ago. 
 
 " England," he said aloud. " Nothing like it to be 
 seen in the whole world." 
 
 Down the hill came a huge cart-horse ridden by a 
 microscopic boy. McGrath laughed, and saluted the child 
 for fun. 
 
McGRATH'S HOMECOMING 99 
 
 " Well, well," he said, " I guess you've got some horse 
 there." 
 
 Freddy stared with a truly British stare, and then 
 grinned. He turned round and stared for a long while, 
 whilst the big horse took care of herself and him. 
 
 McGrath stood still, and said aloud : 
 
 " That kid would be about Jimmy's age when I left. 
 And now Jimmy's at the Front, the stationmaster told 
 me. Well, well, to think of it. Little Jimmy at the 
 Front ! A smart youngster he was, too ! " 
 ' He continued saying to himself as he climbed the 
 hill: 
 
 " Little Jimmy at the Front." 
 
 Then there was Hazel, the wee sister whom he had 
 always loved in his own way and with whom he had played 
 many an hour, cutting all sorts of capers for her delighted 
 benefit. In all his ups and downs of home life in the 
 past, he had never been in disgrace with Hazel. Would he 
 be now that she had grown up and understood more about 
 life and its claims and duties ? 
 
 Would his mother look much older, he wondered ? 
 Would his father seem as rigid and uncompromisingly stern 
 as in the years gone by ? Would they be pleased to see 
 him ? Or would they turn from him and say that he had 
 no place in their lives ? No, not that. He was sure that 
 they would not turn from him. His mother would only 
 remember that he had come home at last ; and the long 
 space of absence would be bridged over by her love. His 
 father might speak some harsh and richly- deserved 
 reproaches ; but once they were said, he would stretch 
 out his hand in welcome. 
 
 Thus he reassured himself as he passed slowly up the 
 cobbled street, noting, as he went, some of the old-world 
 grey houses, picturesque with mullioned windows and 
 curious markings on their door lintels. Finally he came 
 to the market-place, with its ancient pump, round which 
 the children were playing. And here he paused, seized 
 suddenly with misgiving and panic. 
 
 Suppose his people did turn from him ? Then every 
 time that a great longing for home obsessed him when 
 
100 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 he was in distant parts, there would be no sustaining 
 hope at the back of it. Always the longing and no 
 hope. That wasn't to be borne. Far better not to run 
 that risk. He sat down on a bench. He would go no 
 farther. He had been a fool to come. He remembered 
 that The Terrier had once said that if he went home, he 
 lost all, but if he remained away, he at least kept something 
 which no one could take from him the illusion of wel- 
 come, reunion, reconciliation, wiser understanding. The 
 Terrier had been right. 
 
 So in a few minutes he would retrace his steps and take 
 the first train back to Skipton. And if there were not a 
 train that evening, he would stay at the Station Hotel 
 and throw his lot in with Grandma and her dear friends, 
 the interned aliens. But even as he pretended to make 
 this decision, he shook his head and smiled at himself. 
 To come all the way from Australia and stop short at the 
 market-place when his people were within reach, a few 
 hundred yards further up the village and a step or two 
 along the Hebden road until one reached the first big 
 barn. No, not likely. He knew in his heart of hearts 
 that he would go on. 
 
 At the back of him stretched the purple moors. In 
 front of him tier upon tier of them rose in the distance 
 like rolling waves, and above them towered the fells, 
 caught that moment by a shaft of sunlight which had 
 broken bravely through a cluster of ominous grey-blue 
 rain-clouds. This vision of beauty cheered and fascinated 
 Andrew McGrath, who loved Nature in all her mani- 
 festations ; and he only turned away from it at the sound 
 of merry laughter. He saw then a wounded soldier on 
 crutches, with one leg amputated just below the knee, 
 negotiating the cobbled street with a reckless gaiety 
 and accompanied by friends as joyous as himself at the 
 return of the native. He had evidently not been dis- 
 charged from hospital, for he was still wearing his blue 
 armlet, and probably he would have to go back and undergo 
 another operation perhaps two operations perhaps even 
 more. Perhaps he had had a long spell of suffering and 
 they had sent him home on furlough to see whether a 
 
McGRATH'S HQM<0MT&2 101 
 
 change to his own surroundings would speed on a retarded 
 recovery. Anyway, there he was in his own village, 
 amongst his own people, welcomed and made much of. 
 He was decorated with the ribbon of the military medal 
 and the Mons star. And McGrath envied the young 
 corporal, not for the possession of them, but for the pride 
 they most surely brought to those who loved him. 
 
 Then an old shepherd with his flock of sheep and his 
 dog passed down, and later a procession of cows wended 
 their way slowly and cautiously in the direction of the 
 bridge ; and when they had disappeared, old Swainston, 
 the cobbler, sauntered by, probably thinking, as usual, 
 of all the ghosts of his intimate acquaintance amongst 
 them the monk at Marton Grange, the fiddler in the Mill 
 House, and Barguest, the soft-footed hound, whose cold 
 breath frightened people out of their wits. 
 
 Children came running down with heather and ling from 
 the moors, and Harry, the village idiot, slouched near, 
 crooning to himself. A housewife crossed the market- 
 place carrying some hot Yorkshire buns which encircled 
 McGrath with such a tempting fragrance that he almost 
 commandeered them on the spot. Out of one of the 
 cottages emerged a frail, bent, old, white-haired man, 
 whose face shone with love as a little damsel playing 
 round the pump suddenly caught sight of him, for- 
 sook her companions instantly and rushed into his 
 arms. 
 
 And now the yellow omnibus, dating from the Flood 
 or even before, clattered up the hill, and came to a stand- 
 still within a yard or two of McGrath's bench. It was 
 full of people inside, and heaped up with parcels outside ; 
 and there was an immediate onslaught of the shopkeepers, 
 which the driver met with a good-natured patience born of 
 long custom and kindness. 
 
 "All right, Mr. Martin, here be your cask of margarine," 
 he said. " All right, Mrs. Beaconsfield, now don't ye get 
 flustered, here be three packages for you, and here be 
 Mr. Onslow's hardware, and a whole stock of things for 
 Mr. Grant, and a box for Farmer Pattersen. Anyone from 
 Pattersen's handy ? " 
 
102 .^giKTEEN- ALL TOLD 
 
 McGrath looked up. He had the impulse to say " Yes," 
 but he checked the word. 
 
 " Miss Hazel was down here a few minutes ago," Martin, 
 the grocer, said. " But she was in a hurry to get back. 
 I'll take charge of the box for her." 
 
 " Ay, ay," said the driver, with a benevolent smile. 
 " That you would, I'm sure, Mr. Martin ; not but that 
 she couldn't carry it up herself on her strong young 
 shoulders. A proper strong lass, Miss Hazel. And don't 
 she just look fine in her Land Army rig." 
 
 " Hazel a Land Army girl ! " McGrath said aloud. 
 " That's great." 
 
 But no one heard him ; and all were too much occupied 
 in their own affairs to take much notice of him at the 
 moment, though one or two of them did glance at him 
 and wonder who he was, and then forgot him until later. 
 But a flying boy" who tumbled out of the bus gave him 
 a nod and said, " Hullo, uncle," and was then engulfed 
 by his relations, who bore him off in triumph. And a 
 gunner in the R.F.A., evidently direct home from the 
 Front, laden with his helmet, water-bottle and all his 
 belongings, grimy, grubby, tired out, but in the height 
 of good spirits, called out, " Hullo, mate, you've come 
 to the best place in the whole of old Blighty. You can 
 take my word for it. So long." Then he, too, was 
 swallowed up by friends. 
 
 The thought passed through McGrath's mind that 
 these fellows had homes waiting for them and that there 
 had been no need for them to doubt the nature of their 
 reception. Well, he had a home waiting for him. Why 
 could he not be like these boys and go to it direct with- 
 out a moment's hesitation ? 
 
 Yet still he lingered, wishing to start off, but unable 
 to brace himself up. He watched the other occupants 
 of the yellow omnibus claiming their luggage and dispersing 
 to their destinations. A man who looked liko a commer- 
 cial traveller exchanged a few words with the black- 
 smith, and disappeared with him into the Commercial 
 Arms. An overdressed girl, oversmart with furs and a 
 fashionable hat, brand-new gloves and a silk satchel, was 
 
McGRATH'S HOMECOMING 103 
 
 talking loudly to a friend who had that moment run 
 down to meet her. She was a munition worker some- 
 where, for McGrath heard her friend say : 
 
 " My, Lily, you do look a toff ! And aren't you glad 
 to get away from them munitions for a bit?" 
 
 " Yes," she said, laughing. " Like my furs, Liz ? 
 Topping, aren't they ? Nothing to what I'm going to 
 have, though ! " 
 
 A girl telegraph messenger, extraordinarily like the 
 munition worker, hurried up. 
 
 " Lil," she cried excitedly, " how jolly that you've 
 come. I'll be back soon. I've just got to take this 
 wire to Patterson's, worse luck." 
 
 " Oh, blow the wire," said Lil. " That's a nice way to 
 welcome your long-lost twin sister home. Well, hustle 
 all you can, Bess. Got heaps to tell you, and a lovely 
 present that'll make your head swim. @ost ever so much 
 money. Like my furs ? top hole, aren't they ? Now, 
 don't be long gone. Run all the way." 
 
 McGrath rose on impulse, lifted his hat, and said with 
 a half-shy smile : 
 
 " Excuse me, miss, but I'm going right along now to 
 Pattersen's. Perhaps I could take the message for you." 
 
 The sisters looked at him, looked at each other, and 
 the munition worker giggled a little and whispered : 
 
 " There now, Bess. That settles it, as the gentleman 
 is going to be so kind. Give the wire to him, and come 
 along with me." 
 
 But Bess hesitated. She wanted desperately to go 
 with Lil, but she knew she ought not to fail in her duty 
 of delivering the telegram in person. 
 
 McGrath saw her hesitation, and then something 
 happened to him which astonished him. He dropped his 
 disguise of name and parted with the secret of person- 
 ality. 
 
 " It's all right," he said, reassuringly. " You can 
 trust me all right, miss. I'm Andrew Pattersen, Patter- 
 sen's eldest son, home from Australia." 
 
 " Pattersen's eldest son from Australia ? " they exclaimed 
 together. " Jimmy's brother ? " 
 
104 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 " Yup," he said, " little Jimmy's brother." 
 
 " A six-footer," laughed Bess, " taller than you be." 
 
 " He has been growing whilst I've been roaming," 
 McGrath said, smiling. " I think of him, you know, as 
 little Jimmy." 
 
 " A handsome lad is Jimmy," said Lil. " Strong 
 family likeness, Mr. Australian ! But Jimmy looks 
 merrier than you by a long way, always laughing and 
 full of fun and mischief. The life of the village. My, 
 didn't he look a stunner when he went off in his khaki. 
 And the last thing he said was " 
 
 " Yes, yes," interrupted McGrath eagerly, " the last 
 thing he said was " 
 
 " The last thing he said," continued Lil, " was : ' The 
 folk in these parts don't need to worry. I'm going to 
 win this war for them right enough. I'll see it through ! ' 
 
 McGrath laughed softly. 
 
 " I reckon that was the right thought to have," he 
 said. " Well, I'll be off with your message if you'll trust 
 it to me." 
 
 Bess, without further compunction, gave him the 
 telegram, and the two sisters ran off in high spirits down 
 the hill. And McGrath started immediately for Pattersen's 
 farm. As he pursued his way to his parents' home, his 
 longing for his own folk began to burn with an intensity 
 which made him suffer as acutely as either he or The 
 Terrier had sometimes agonised in the Bush. But now 
 he was really going to see them. He was going to hear 
 his mother's voice, clasp his father's hand in real friend- 
 ship, give Hazel a hug, get the latest news of little Jimmy, 
 explain how a wild and wayward nature, resentful of 
 control in early days, could nevertheless look back and 
 know how much it owed to those who had tried in vain 
 to help and guide it. He could tell them, too, that a 
 heart can grow apace when the mind gets a grasp of life, 
 and experience ripens the understanding. And he could 
 show them that he had cared for the Old Country. His 
 two stripes for wounds would testify to that. But what 
 he wanted them to know, most of all, was that when the 
 call came, he had responded, not only with the gladness 
 
McGRATH'S HOMECOMING 105 
 
 shared by thousands upon thousands of others, but also 
 with a deep gratitude for his chance of " making good." 
 
 So he strode on, filling his lungs with the clean, bracing 
 moorland air, and at last reached the big barn which he 
 had been told marked the beginning of Pattersen's land. 
 A few yards further, and he came to the farmhouse, a 
 low, long building, evidently old, with a fine roof and 
 mullioned and traceried windows. It had a clearing in 
 front of it through which he passed to a small garden, 
 and here he paused a moment before knocking at the door. 
 Even then, in spite of his heart hunger, he nearly turned 
 away. 
 
 Suddenly, from the side of the house guarded by a 
 great yew tree, appeared a tall, strong young woman 
 in Land Army attire, looking every inch like one of Shake- 
 speare's heroines setting forth on her adventures in men's 
 disguise. The description McGrath had heard of Hazel 
 helped him, of course. But out of the past leapt his 
 remembrance of the shape of her face and of her frank 
 blue eyes, which looked out on the world fearlessly, trust- 
 ingly, and with a quiet joyaunce. 
 
 "Hazel!" he cried, "I'm sure you're Hazel, aren't 
 you ? I'm your brother Andrew. Do you remember 
 me? " 
 
 She was carrying a large hay rake, which she cast down 
 as she made a dash for him, as she had always done in the 
 years gone by, and hugged him in exactly the same old 
 fashion as she had ever been wont to hug that trouble- 
 some big brother of long ago who had been unfailingly 
 good to her in all his ups and downs of home life. 
 
 " Andrew, Andrew, dear old Andrew," she cried. 
 " Home at last." 
 
 She grasped his hands and swung his arms backwards 
 and forwards in her glee, and kept on saying : 
 
 " Of course I should have known you. At least I 
 think I should. Yes, I'm sure I should." 
 
 He laughed happily. Never had it entered his head 
 that such a welcome awaited him from Hazel. She had 
 no idea of what she did for him, nor any faintest notion 
 of the resilience, the hope, the courage she imparted 
 
106 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 to him by treating him as if there had been no break in 
 their intimacy. 
 
 " You know," she said, " we've been expecting you 
 ever since the war began. Mother has always declared 
 that if you were alive, you would be sure to come and 
 fight for the Old Country. And if you didn't come, she 
 would think you were dead. But she said you would 
 turn up. She knew it." 
 
 Andrew's eyes grew dim. 
 
 " And father ? " he asked hesitatingly. 
 
 " Father's top-hole," she answered with a smile. "I've 
 brought him up well. He isn't nearly as stern as he 
 used to be. I've knocked all that out of him. So has 
 Jimmy. He hasn't ever said audibly that you'd come. 
 But I can tell you that he has kept a sharp look-out on 
 the Australian Force, and he has always studied 
 the casualties in that paper which I'm sure you must 
 know also the British Australasian. And many a time 
 I've seen the look of relief on his face when he has finished 
 the last page. That has been his way of waiting for 
 you." 
 
 Andrew bowed his head. 
 
 " And little Jimmy ? " he asked. " What of him ? " 
 
 " Oh, Jimmy's great," she said. " He's a huge creature 
 and a huge joke. Everyone loves Jimmy. No one could 
 help it. We had a letter from him last week. He's at 
 the Front, of course. He's all right and in the best of 
 spirits. He has been expecting to see you, too. He 
 wrote that he hadn't come across that bloke of a brother 
 of his yet, but he shouldn't wonder if he did. Some 
 chum had found a long-lost brother from Canada and 
 they had palled up tremendously. He reckoned to do 
 that with you after he had given you a knock-out blow." 
 
 Andrew laughed. 
 
 " Little Jimmy," he chuckled. 
 
 " Six foot one," she went on. " And every bit of him 
 a darling. Not selfish, you know, and always ready to do 
 anyone a good turn. We've missed him fearfully. Every- 
 one has missed him here. And such a handsome lad. 
 Someone to be proud of, I can tell you." 
 
McGRATH'S HOMECOMING 107 
 
 " You're a topping girl yourself," Andrew said, glancing 
 at her approvingly. " Smart get-up, Hazel." 
 
 " Yes," she answered, smiling. " Now just wait in 
 this room whilst I go and break the news of your arrival 
 to the old people. Shocks aren't good for them, not even 
 joyful ones." 
 
 " Will this shock truly be joyful ? " he asked with 
 sudden apprehension. 
 
 " Yes," she replied kindly. " Of course it will. You 
 stay here until I come back. I won't be long. Look 
 here is this week's British Australasian in the window- 
 sill an outward and visible sign, Andrew, that you have 
 not been forgotten." 
 
 She was running off, when McGrath suddenly remem- 
 bered the telegram. 
 
 " The telegram," he said, fishing it out of his pocket. 
 " I offered to deliver it as I was coming this way. The 
 girl wasn't inclined to trust me until I declared myself to 
 be a Pattersen." 
 
 " A telegram," Hazel said uneasily. " Who's wiring 
 to us, I wonder ? " 
 
 She paused for a moment before opening it, as if arrested 
 by some vague foreboding. Then she read it. It slipped 
 from her hands. 
 
 She stood as one turned to stone. 
 " Jimmy is dead," she said in a voice which seemed 
 to come from a far distance. ' Died of wounds.' ' 
 McGrath stooped down and picked up the message. 
 " Little Jimmy dead," he repeated. 
 Hazel leaned against the wall, covered her face with 
 her hands and wept her heart out, silently, tearlessly. 
 McGrath did not make a sound or sign. He felt he had 
 no right to share that sacred grief. He was but an out- 
 sider who had left his home in anger and forfeited the ties 
 that linked him with it. Jimmy was interwoven with it 
 its life, its joy, its very essence, its pride, its mirth, its 
 kindness. And he was dead. 
 
 He stood by the window, staring at the British Austra- 
 lasian, saying to himself a thousand times that he would 
 fain have died in Jimmy's place, and that it was monstrous 
 
108 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 that he should not have been the one to be taken he 
 who would not be missed could not be missed. And 
 by what irony of fate had it fallen to him to bring the 
 bad news, to return after twelve years and be the bearer 
 of the worst tidings the family could receive ? Did it 
 mean that he ought not to have come, and that he ought 
 to have remembered his father's prophecy, that he would 
 never bring luck to his home ? 
 
 Out of the past it echoed discordantly to him : 
 
 " You will never bring luck to this home." 
 
 That was what his father would say now. Far, far 
 better, then, to have stayed away, both for their sake and 
 his own. Again The Terrier's warning smote him, and 
 this time with added realisation of its bitter truth. If 
 he returned, he lost everything. 
 
 But in the midst of his misery, Hazel uncovered her 
 face, glanced at him standing forlorn and remote, guessed 
 at his suffering, at his need, and was seized with true pity. 
 
 " Andrew," she said as she put her arm through his, 
 " what good luck that you've come at this very moment 
 of trouble. You'll help me to comfort them, won't you ? 
 Wait here until I come to fetch you. Poor old Andrew 
 what a homecoming. Jimmy would never have wished 
 you to get this sort of knock-out blow. He had the 
 kindest heart in the world ; he " 
 
 She broke off, but kept up valiantly and tried to smile 
 at him. 
 
 Andrew pointed to the British Australasian. 
 
 " If only my name could have been there instead, 
 Hazel," he murmured. 
 
 " Such good luck for us that you've returned to help 
 us in our need," she repeated bravely as she turned to 
 the door. " That's what you have to remember whilst 
 you're waiting. Only that." 
 
 Later she returned to fetch him and signed to him 
 in grave silence to follow her to the living-room where 
 his mother and father were sitting close together on the 
 lang settle. 
 
McGRATH'S HOMECOMING 109 
 
 He was gathered to his mother's breast, and his 
 father grasped his hand and said in a low voice : 
 
 " The Lord hath taken away and the Lord hath given. 
 Blessed be the name of the Lord." 
 
THE FIRST WIFE'S PICTURE 
 
 IT was about two o'clock in the middle of a June night. 
 Gweneth Sirrell lay awake in her bed, whilst her husband 
 was sleeping quietly and dreamlessly in his bed against 
 the opposite wall of the room. For weeks she had been 
 increasingly obsessed with one idea, which had now taken 
 such a strong hold on her, that she knew the moment 
 had come when she must decide between the claims of 
 her brain and the dictates of her conscience. 
 
 Her conscience said : " You are contemplating an 
 irreverent and an ungenerous act." 
 
 Her brain said : " You cannot stand this strain any 
 longer ; it is telling on you both mentally and physically." 
 
 Her conscience said : " You would never forgive your- 
 self for your paltriness ; it would for ever haunt you." 
 
 Her brain said : "It isn't as if you have not tried to 
 wrestle with this trouble ; you have wrestled. But 
 you have failed. There remains only one thing to be 
 done. Go and do it now and the network will loosen." 
 
 The network will loosen. The word echoed in her ears 
 loudly, softly, with a soothing cadence. Her decision 
 was made. 
 
 She crept from her bed, slipped on her dressing-gown, 
 and stood listening to her husband's quiet and regular 
 breathing. She opened the door carefully and passed 
 out into the landing, where she lingered, straining her 
 ears to be sure that no one save herself was stirring in 
 the house. 
 
 She was a good-looking woman, with an abundance 
 of soft, fair hair which fell caressingly around her shoulders. 
 
 Ill 
 
112 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 Her bearing was gallant. One could have imagined that 
 even at that moment, chained as she obviously was by 
 some compelling secret circumstance, she would, never- 
 theless, have freed herself instantly, if some great and 
 unexpected demand had been made on her courage and 
 initiative. 
 
 But meantime there was an elusive expression of subtle 
 mystery on her face ; and the pupils of her eyes had con- 
 tracted to a pin's point. Her arms and hands were slightly 
 extended in a position of strained rigidity. She noticed 
 this herself, and let them drop to her side ; and as if 
 this simple movement had eased some painful tension, 
 she sighed and went with noiseless tread down the stairs 
 into the hall. 
 
 She found her way, without a light, into the drawing- 
 room. Here she switched on the electric lamps and 
 glanced around at the pictures : the portrait of an old 
 man by Raeburn, a silvery seascape, a Dutch interior, 
 two or three interesting impressionist country scenes, 
 and a specially fine Sargent, the portrait of a young relative 
 of her husband's, who had thrown up the Law and entered 
 the Order of the Jesuits. 
 
 At last she went to her little bureau at the right-hand 
 side of the fireplace, lit a candle, and took from the drawer 
 a pair of scissors and a strong penknife. She opened 
 this, and tested the larger blade against the back of an 
 oaken photograph frame. She nodded her head, satisfied 
 with the result of her experiment. Then, armed with 
 the candlestick, which she carried rather high, and with 
 these two intimate everyday life weapons which she had 
 thrust into her pocket, Gweneth Sirrell stole into the hall 
 once more, paused to reassure herself that no one had 
 been roused overhead, turned the handle of her husband's 
 library door, and entered the room. 
 
 She locked the door. She raised the candle, and let 
 the light fall on the amazingly lif elike portrait of a beautiful 
 young woman which alone occupied the wall facing the 
 great writing-desk. There was no doubt that this extra- 
 ordinary picture dominated the room. It would neces- 
 sarily have dominated anyone who sat in that room. It 
 
THE FIRST WIFE'S PICTURE 113 
 
 would have been impossible even for a stranger glancing 
 at it casually, not to have been haunted by a vivid remem- 
 brance of it. And what, then, about the man who spent 
 all his spare time in its presence ? Was it to be supposed 
 that he could resist gazing at it day after day, week after 
 week, month after month ? If for nothing else, its magnifi- 
 cent imperiousness demanded, exacted a relentless homage. 
 Sargent had consciously or unconsciously read that 
 relentlessness in the woman's character, and had recorded 
 it in her lineaments and in her bearing. The woman 
 was what is called dead. Yet one had only to look at 
 the picture to know that her spirit was not dead, but 
 was hovering around, animating this presentment of her 
 former self. 
 
 Gweneth addressed the picture in quiet, incisive tones. 
 
 " You dominate the room, the house, his heart," she 
 said. " I can no . longer stand your tryanny. I have 
 tried to be patient and great- minded. When he and 
 I together visited your grave and I witnessed his grief, 
 I knew that I, his second wife, would have to battle with 
 your memory for his sake, for my sake. I vowed it 
 should be a generous contest not a contest at all, but 
 a fair and reverent understanding. You have made this 
 impossible. But one hope remains. This living pre- 
 sentment of you must vanish from his life." 
 
 She placed the candle on the writing-desk, and laughed 
 a curious, little, short laugh, the mirthlessness of which 
 attuned with her grave manner. 
 
 " It was one thing to plant snowdrops on her grave," 
 she said, as she opened the penknife, " and quite another 
 thing to let them rise up and choke me." 
 
 She turned on two of the electric lights nearest the 
 picture, placed a chair before it, mounted up, and began 
 her appointed work. She inserted her knife carefully 
 at the extreme right edge of the lower end of the frame, 
 and by degrees cut out the whole canvas. The intensity 
 of her breathing betrayed the violence of the emotions 
 which were governing her. The portrait fell to the ground. 
 She picked it up leisurely, and as she rolled it into a long 
 roll, she said again : 
 8 
 
114 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 " It was one thing to plant snowdrops on her grave." 
 
 She looked at the roll intently for a moment, and a 
 sudden thought struck her. 
 
 " Yes," she said, smiling craftily. " The other Sar- 
 gent, too." 
 
 Without any delay, but without any hurry, she returned 
 to the drawing-room, and in the most business-like fashion, 
 cut from its frame the portrait of her husband's young 
 Jesuit relative. She rolled it and bore it proudly to the 
 library, where she fitted it into the larger roll of the first 
 wife's picture. Once or twice she took alarm and fancied 
 that she heard a disturbance in the house. But when 
 she realised that it was only the wind which had been 
 gathering strength to spend itself in sudden tempestuous 
 gusts, she sank contentedly into the armchair. She 
 glanced in triumph at the long roll. She scrutinised with 
 alternations of anxiety arid relief the empty space which 
 had so recently been filled by that imperious personality. 
 
 " A blank now," she muttered, laughing softly. 
 " You've gone. Gone. And yet I still seem to see you 
 here. Ah, but that's only my fancy. You've gone. 
 Gone. And yet ' 
 
 She snatched up the candle and stood before the empty 
 space. 
 
 " Of course. Gone," she said excitedly. " I thought I 
 could not be mistaken." 
 
 Once more she sank into the chair, but once more she 
 sprang up, with fresh doubts in her agitated brain. 
 
 " Still there still there, surely ? " she said. 
 
 Again she lifted the candle and held it with trembling 
 hand before the empty frame. 
 
 " No. Gone. Of course, gone," she whispered, with 
 a final sigh of reassurance. And for the time being, her 
 mind did not travel beyond the fact that she had accom- 
 plished her task. 
 
 She sat hugging her knees and smiling, wrapped in 
 her own strange thoughts, unconscious of the coldness 
 of the night, the desolation of the hour, the danger of 
 detection. Her face wore an expression of triumphant 
 pride, intermingled with an impersonal aloofness which 
 
THE FIRST WIFE'S PICTURE 115 
 
 seemed to disclaim for her any share in her recent activities. 
 
 Twice she spoke aloud words which gave a leading 
 idea of the memories encompassing her. 
 
 " The honeymoon journey," she said. " All the identical 
 places she visited with him, taken in exactly the same 
 rotation. Exactly the same rotation. And ending up 
 with her grave, where I planted the snowdrops." 
 
 Inhere was a period of silence, during which she clasped 
 her knees still tighter. 
 
 " And that flower-bed in his country garden," she con- 
 tinued. " It spelt her name. It " 
 
 She broke off and shook her head impatiently. The 
 memory of the flower-bed aggravated her even more 
 than that of the honeymoon journey. 
 
 At last there floated across her mind the sudden realisa- 
 tion that her task was incomplete, and that she must 
 now remove these two portraits to some sure hiding-place. 
 Her brain leapt over all difficulties and impossibilities, 
 and arrived at the easiest and safest solution of this problem. 
 But this part of her programme was evidently of little 
 importance to her in comparison with the beginning : 
 for she took no further precautions of stealthy silence, 
 but went upstairs with an entire recklessness, carrying 
 the trophies unconcealed under her arm. She made 
 straight for the spare room at the end of the passage. 
 She turned on the light, and glanced in the direction 
 of a cupboard on the right-hand side of the fireplace. 
 She opened it. A large golf -bag rested against the extreme 
 corner. 
 
 " Ah, I thought I remembered seeing it there," she 
 said. 
 
 She hauled it out of the cupboard, unfastened it, and 
 took from it in leisurely indolence two or three of the 
 clubs. She even examined them, identifying now the 
 cleek, now the mashie, now the putter. Then she slipped 
 her Sargent roll in amongst the remaining ones, and nodded 
 her head gravely when she saw that her calculations had 
 been correct, and that there was more than enough depth 
 for the portraits, and plenty of space left over for the 
 clubs which she had dislodged. She replaced them, 
 
116 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 restored the bag to its accustomed corner, and was on 
 the point of seeking her bedroom again, when she remem- 
 bered that she had left the candle burning on the desk 
 in the library, and her knife and scissors lying on the 
 floor. 
 
 Directly she crossed the threshold of the library, she 
 fixed her eyes on the empty portrait-frame. 
 
 " Surely, surely, it is still there," she said in a low, 
 agonised voice. 
 
 Her hands sought her head. She pressed them tightly 
 over her brow. She closed her eyes, as if unable to endure 
 the vision. But at last, with a supreme effort, she 
 gathered courage, snatched up the candle, and looked. 
 Gradually a joyful change came over the distress of her 
 countenance. 
 
 " Of course," she whispered, smiling. " It is gone. 
 No doubt about that." 
 
 In a few minutes all incriminating signs of the night's 
 work had been effaced ; and Gweneth was safely in bed. 
 She listened for a moment to her husband's continuously 
 regular breathing, nodded her head, gave a sigh of relief, 
 yawned from sudden infinite fatigue, turned on her side, 
 and fell peacefully asleep. 
 
 II 
 
 WHEN the discovery was made the next morning, the 
 whole house was in a state of consternation. Andrew 
 Sirrell stood as one turned to stone before the empty frame 
 which only the previous day had contained the portrait 
 of his idolised first wife. Suddenly a light broke in through 
 the wall of his stupefaction. 
 
 " Two Sargents," he said excitedly. " That speaks 
 
 for itself. C has always believed that the same 
 
 gang would start sooner or later on the New Masters. 
 And he said they would begin with Sargent. He was 
 right." 
 
 His mind never for one moment included Gweneth in 
 his suspicions. He was a selfish man, entirely without 
 imagination ; and these defects in his nature had caused 
 
THE FIRST WIFE'S PICTURE 117 
 
 him to be unconscious of the demands which he had 
 made on her chivalrous forbearance. And since he had 
 no knowledge of her suffering, it was natural enough 
 that not even the barest idea of her guilt entered into the 
 region of his surmises. Indeed, now, as ever, he claimed 
 from her an inordinate amount of sympathy. He led 
 her into the library, pointed tragically to the empty 
 frame, and burst into an hysterical fit of sobbing. 
 
 " It's gone, Gwen gone," he cried. 
 
 " Gone ? " she echoed, in a questioning tone. " No, 
 no, surely it's there." 
 
 " I don't wonder you cannot believe your eyes," he 
 cried. " But it's gone, Gwen gone." 
 
 : ' Yes, yes, I see now," she said gravely. " It's gone." 
 
 "I shall have, the whole world ransacked," he went 
 on excitedly. " I can't live without it. It has been 
 everything to me^ everything to me. It is a wonderful 
 portrait. Sometimes I have almost cheated myself into 
 believing that it was really she herself." 
 
 " Yes, I know," Gwen said, in a low voice. " And 
 now you've lost it, Andrew." 
 
 " Oh, but it shall be found," he said desperately. " If 
 I have to spend my last farthing on the search, it shall 
 be found." 
 
 He had quieted down a little by the time the detective 
 arrived ; but he was still in a distressing state of excite- 
 ment. And it was to Gweneth that the official finally 
 addressed himself for sensible information on the usual 
 habits of the household. Gweneth gave all her answers 
 with an impersonal calmness which would have produced 
 a most favourable impression on any jury. One of her 
 replies was a masterpiece of unconscious subtlety. 
 
 " I have no reason to suspect anyone of our household," 
 she said. " I might as well suspect myself." 
 
 The man smiled. Even Andrew Sirrell smiled at the 
 absurd remoteness of such a suggestion. And when, for 
 form's sake, the house was searched, it was Gweneth 
 who led the way into the zone of danger, opened the cup- 
 board door, and stood staring dauntlessly at the golf- 
 bag, impelled against her own interests to contemplate 
 
118 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 the hiding-place of the lost treasure. If the detective 
 had not been a detective, and the husband had not been 
 obsessed by his one idea of tragic personal loss, Gweneth's 
 peculiar expression of countenance and her persistent 
 lingering in that spare room before that cupboard door, 
 would surely have made some impression on the minds of 
 her companions. 
 
 Nothing, however, reached them. No thought trans- 
 ference took place. The detective glanced at the golf- 
 bag, and an almost human light stole over his impassive 
 face. He thought immediately of his favourite golf 
 links at Seaford, and not of the First Wife's picture. 
 Andrew Sirrell travelled a little nearer. He recalled to 
 his saddened memory that bright May morning when he 
 and his first wife had together bought that golf -bag. But 
 the sight of it prompted no thought of the missing portrait. 
 Yet Gweneth almost pointed to the objects of their united 
 search. And once she nearly said aloud : 
 
 " Surely it is there there and nowhere else. Surely 
 I cannot be mistaken. I must look and know for certain. 
 This uncertainty is not to be borne." 
 
 Suddenly her unbalanced mind readjusted itself to the 
 requirements of the situation which she had created, and 
 with a last effort of will, which cost her dear, physically 
 and mentally, she was able to control her speech and check 
 her impulse of movement. 
 
 So the search in the house proved, of course, ineffectual. 
 The detective sped on his enlightened way, with his note- 
 book full of important but vain details, which, so he 
 and Andrew Sirrell believed, would provide him with 
 valuable clues connecting this theft with the interesting 
 series of picture robberies proceeding steadily for some time, 
 after judicious and fixed intervals. He had persuaded 
 himself that one was due now. Well, one had come. 
 Needless to say, nothing human or superhuman could 
 have ousted this belief from its geographical position in 
 the map of his mind. Andrew Sirrell, sharing this faith, 
 strengthened the active attitude of the detective and the 
 passive preventiveness of the real criminal. Yet once 
 Gweneth almost relented. For when she and her husband 
 
THE FIRST WIFE'S PICTURE 119 
 
 * 
 
 were alone again in the library, he turned tragically to 
 the empty wall, and gave way to yet another paroxysm 
 of passionate grief. 
 
 " Do you care so fearfully do you care so fearfully, 
 my poor Andrew ? " she cried suddenly. 
 
 " She was all the world to me," he answered. " No one 
 could ever have taken her place." 
 
 " Then why did you ask me ? " Gweneth returned, 
 with a simple dignity. 
 
 He glanced at her, and for the first time a faint glim- 
 mering of the unseemliness of his behaviour, and of the 
 discourtesy of his uncontrolled regret stole upon the 
 darkness of his selfishness. Some words rose to his lips, 
 but he was unable to give utterance to them. Her quiet 
 dignity paralysed him. It removed her out of the reach 
 of perfunctory apology, inadequate excuse. He could 
 only stand staring fixedly at the empty frame ; and it 
 was she who broke the terrible silence. 
 
 " You can see for yourself," she said, with a strange 
 smile on her face, " that the picture has been very carefully 
 cut out from its setting. There isn't a shred anywhere." 
 
 " No, not a shred," he said, thankful to regain the power 
 of speech. " The knife must have been fearfully sharp." 
 
 ; ' Yes, it was evidently," she said. 
 
 " I don't even notice the indent where the man began 
 to cut," he said, " unless it was here on the right." 
 
 :< Yes, it was here evidently," she said. 
 
 " I can't believe it is gone," he said, with a wild 
 return of frenzied grief. " I see it before me even now." 
 
 " I see it," Gweneth said slowly. " I see it always there." 
 
 That was her punishment. She saw it in its frame, 
 in its accustomed place in the library, endowed as ever 
 with an irresistible and unrelenting influence. It was in 
 vain that her brain reminded her of the night's happening ; 
 it was in vain that she wandered from the spare room 
 to the library, and from the library to the spare room ; 
 in vain that, to reassure herself, she locked the spare 
 room door, and took the two pictures out of the golf -bag, 
 gazed at them with painful intenseness, and restored them 
 deliberately to their seclusion. 
 
120 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 Yet a few minutes afterwards, she was more convinced 
 than before that the portrait of her rival hung undis- 
 turbed on the wall in the library, and that her agony, her 
 effort, her eagerness, her debasement had failed of their 
 set purpose. To have sinned and succeeded would at 
 least have been a mental satisfaction and triumph, physi- 
 cally if not morally healing. But in Gweneth's danger- 
 ously unbalanced condition of mind, to have sinned and 
 been frustrated could only mean an access of mental 
 disaster. 
 
 That night, after many hours of strain and restlessness, 
 her brain gave way. 
 
 m 
 
 " SNOWDBOPS in the golf -bag ransack the world 
 always there on the grave." 
 
 These were the words, constantly repeated in poor 
 Gweneth's ravings, which, amidst the incoherence, arrested 
 the attention of the doctor who watched by her side. 
 He took out his notebook and pencil, and tried the words 
 in separate combinations. These were his entries: 
 
 "1. Snowdrops in the golf -bag. 
 
 "2. Snowdrops on the grave. 
 
 "3. Ransack the world, snowdrops always there in the 
 golf-bag. 
 
 "4. Ransack the world, snowdrops always there in 
 the grave. 
 
 " 5. The golf -bag always there in the grave, ransack 
 the world for snowdrops. 
 
 " 6. Snowdrops always there on the grave, ransack 
 the world for golf-bag. 
 
 "7. Ransack the world for the grave, snowdrops always 
 there in golf -bag." 
 
 He shook his head gravely as he read them over. They 
 did not strike him as being ridiculous, for he knew that, 
 even in their disjointed connection, they stood for certain 
 fundamental ideas, the secret of which, once grasped, 
 would reveal to him the workings of her disordered mind. 
 She had collapsed. Why had she collapsed ? He had, 
 
THE FIRST WIFE'S PICTURE 121 
 
 of course, been told of the picture robberies ; but although 
 he took into consideration the excitement which such 
 an event would naturally have occasioned in the house- 
 hold, he regarded it merely as an accelerating agent, and 
 not as a causative force. It was obvious to his practised 
 judgment that she had been on the verge of a precipice, 
 and that eventually she would have fallen over. Chance 
 had contrived that it should be a little sooner. 
 
 But what was the .driving power which had impelled 
 her in the direction of the precipice ? He believed that 
 if he could solve that problem, he could indirectly or 
 directly help towards the healing of her mind. He never 
 allowed himself to rely only on intuition, or on accumulated 
 experience, physical and mental. He searched the spiritual 
 atmosphere of the sick person, and added his spiritual 
 knowledge to his scientific equipment of analysis. Some 
 of his confreres thought that he laid undue stress on the 
 value of the spiritual. Nevertheless, in their doubts, 
 they sought his help and the benefits of his methods, 
 justifying themselves by attributing his successful results 
 to the weight of his personality, and not to the soundness 
 of his views. 
 
 So he had been called in, in Gweneth's instance. And 
 he continued to linger hi the sick-room, puzzling over his 
 notes, straining to catch some muttered fugitive word 
 which would perhaps guide him to some clue of her spiritual 
 condition. No fresh word came. But he was struck 
 with her unceasing reference to snowdrops. Why snow- 
 drops ? This was the month of June, the month of roses, 
 and no one ought to be harping on snowdrops until 
 the hour of their sweet and welcome arrival in their own 
 due time. He concluded that there must be some special 
 reason why she was thinking of them. Did they repre- 
 sent to her a sweet memory, a sad experience, a happiness, 
 a sorrow ? He must try and find out. Before he left 
 the house, he put several questions to Andrew Sirrell, 
 and finally he referred to the snowdrops. 
 
 " She speaks constantly of snowdrops," he said. " I 
 am curious to know whether they are her favourite 
 flowers ? " 
 
122 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 " They were my first wife's favourite flowers," Andrew 
 Sirrell replied, in a low voice. 
 
 " Your first wife's favourite flowers," the doctor repeated. 
 Then, after a pause, he said casually: 
 
 " Did your present wife know this ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," Andrew Sirrell answered. " Of course, 
 she knew it. She we planted snowdrops on on the 
 grave. We went together in fact " 
 
 He broke off and turned away, overcome with emotion. 
 
 A light broke in on the doctor. 
 
 " Ah," he said thoughtfully, " perhaps she has been 
 fretting. Forgive me for asking you but no doubt you 
 were passionately attached to your first wife ? " 
 
 " Yes," Andrew answered almost inaudibly. 
 
 " Did you perhaps claim from your second wife an 
 unreasonable homage to the memory of her whom you had 
 lost ? " Dr. Newbold asked. 
 
 " I was not conscious of doing this," Andrew Sirrell 
 said. 
 
 " Of course not," Dr. Newbold said. " And that's 
 where the whole trouble lies. No man would deliberately 
 set out to hurt the feelings of his second wife, if he had 
 any regard for her happiness. I myself never meant to 
 do this. Yet I did it, Mr. Sirrell. And that is why I 
 dare speak to you, because you will understand that I 
 do not speak as a judge, but as a fellow-blunderer. My 
 first wife's picture pervaded the house, and her memory 
 pervaded my heart. My second wife bore the trial as 
 long as she could, and then she quietly left me. She 
 wrote : * / leave you to your pictures and your memories. 1 
 I awoke instantly to the realisation of my selfishness 
 in hurting her, and of my bereftness in forfeiting her love. 
 It took a great deal of pleading and persuasion to make 
 her leave her parents' home in Cumberland and return 
 to me. But she yielded at last, and we entered on a new 
 life, in which memories and actualities found a due and 
 healthy relationship." 
 
 He paused. Andrew Sirrell, who had been standing 
 staring out of the window, sank into the armchair, and 
 for a brief minute covered his face with his hands. 
 
THE FIRST WIFE'S PICTURE 123 
 
 " I begin to see it all," he said, in a tense voice. " Oh, 
 what a fool I've been what a selfish and cruel fool." 
 
 " One of a large company," Dr. Newbold answered 
 kindly, " fellow- blunderers, fostered by an unjust tradition 
 that women are here to bear anything from us. I rejoice 
 that their new day has come." 
 
 Andrew Sirrell did not heed his words. He was invaded 
 by an army of reproachful and accusing thoughts. 
 
 " And the portrait," he cried aloud, in mental agony. 
 " I must have made her suffer untold miseries over the 
 portrait alone and the robbery of it. I've been out of 
 my senses. I've expected her to grieve over its loss as 
 much as I grieve. I've " 
 
 The doctor interrupted him suddenly. 
 
 " Of whom was the portrait ? " he asked. " Not of 
 your first wife ? " 
 
 Andrew Sirrell gave silent assent. 
 
 " And it's one of the missing pictures ? " he asked again. 
 
 Andrew Sirrell nodded. 
 
 "And I suppose she saw that your bereavement was 
 renewed in its loss ? " he asked. 
 
 " You torture me," Andrew Sirrell cried. " You 
 torture me because the thoughts you suggest are only 
 too true. I told her I could not live without the portrait. 
 I told her that if I spent my last farthing in the search, 
 it must be found. 1 remember I told her that the world 
 must be ransacked." 
 
 Dr. Newbold glanced at the man's haggard face, and 
 made no comment on this pitiful confession. But he ran 
 his eye over his own notes, and with a secret sense of 
 professional triumph, he mentally scratched out " Snow- 
 drops ransack the world on the grave." He believed 
 that he had now probably solved the ideas for which they 
 stood. The sick woman upstairs was suffering from a 
 mental illness brought on, or aggravated by jealousy 
 and outraged pride. Yes, these were, perhaps, the forces 
 causing her illness, the climax of which could very easily 
 have been hastened by the robbery of the portrait and 
 her husband's uncontrolled regret over the loss of his 
 treasure. 
 
124 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 But there were still two phrases unexplained and dis- 
 jointed from any apparent connection " In the golf- 
 bag always there" What was " always there " ? Did 
 she mean that something was always " in the golf -bag " ? 
 Or did "always there" refer to the snowdrops on the 
 grave ? Impossible to guess. And probably that detail 
 might not matter. It might, of course, but it might not. 
 But it did matter to know why her mind dwelt on the 
 golf -bag. Was she fond of golf ? Was her husband fond 
 of golf ? Had the first wife been fond of golf ? Ah, 
 perhaps there was a golf -bag in the house " always there " 
 belonging to the first wife. 
 
 He turned to ask the question, but he saw that Andrew 
 Sirrell was overcome with grief, and that the poor fellow 
 needed the mercy of peace to help him to withstand the 
 inner tempest which was gathering force in relentless 
 fashion. So he forbore. He went away and left Andrew 
 Sirrell alone, to meet himself face to face. 
 
 Andrew met himself. And as the encounter became 
 more intimate, his suffering grew more acute. Number- 
 less instances of his thoughtlessness and selfishness rose 
 to his mind. The honeymoon, which they had spent 
 in visiting all the places where he and his first bride had 
 stayed during their honeymoon. The sacred pilgrimage 
 to her grave, where they had planted her favourite snow- 
 drops, and he had been unable to control his passionate 
 grief. The flower-bed, spelling with its pattern the letters 
 of her beloved name. The portrait dominating his library 
 and the shrine of his heart. Her books over which he 
 was always poring. Her letters which he was always 
 reading. His constant demands on Gweneth's sympathy. 
 His entire disregard of her feelings. 
 
 He shuddered. He was shocked. He was ashamed. 
 He had accepted everything and given nothing. 
 
 Why had she not made some sign ? 
 
 Why had she not tried to stop him in his pitiful 
 course ? 
 
 But stay. She had tried. He remembered now. He 
 recalled two or three occasions when she had appeared 
 to fall short in sympathy and kindness, and he had re- 
 
THE FIRST WIFE'S PICTURE 125 
 
 preached her. He heard her voice saying gravely : " / 
 do my best in a very difficult position, Andrew." 
 
 Why did not that warn him ? 
 
 Once she had refused to sit in his library. He heard 
 her saying : " There is no room for me in the library.'' 
 Fool that he was, he had chosen to believe that she referred 
 to the smallness of the room, and not to the mental space 
 occupied by the portrait. Looking back now, he realised 
 that he had received many warnings, all of which he in 
 his folly, selfishness, insolence, had entirely disregarded. 
 Insolence. Yes, that was the word. He had rewarded 
 her kindness, her tenderness, not with gratitude, but with 
 insolence. What was a man made of that he should dare 
 take up such an attitude to the woman whom he had asked 
 to share his life ? What was a woman made of that she 
 should deign to accept such treatment from a man's 
 hands ? 
 
 Ah, but Gweneth had not accepted it. She had been 
 fighting it silently ; and it was her silence which had cost 
 Gweneth her sanity. Why had she not left him, as that 
 other man's wife had left her husband ? Why had she 
 not cried out : " / leave you to your memories and your 
 pictures " ? Had she stayed on, hoping by her love and 
 patience to wean him from the past and win him for 
 herself ? Was it true that, as the doctor said, his grief over 
 the loss of the cherished portrait had proved to be the finish- 
 ing touch to her despair ? He knew it to be true. He knew 
 now that his unrestraint had been disgraceful. He remem- 
 bered that for one brief moment a sense of shame had 
 stolen over him, when Gweneth's quiet dignity had arrested 
 the onward rush of his unmeasured words. So that he 
 must have known even then. And yet, in spite of that 
 knowledge, he had continued to wound her. But not 
 wilfully, not wilfully. What had the doctor said ? Fellow- 
 blunderers, belonging to a large company. But that 
 did not help him. That did not make his individual 
 blunder less fatal. That would not restore Gweneth to 
 her sanity. That would not give him back his lost chances 
 of loving and serving her. 
 
 The words of the sad old German song echoed in his 
 
126 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 ears : " The mill will never grind with the water that is 
 past." 
 
 He said them aloud : " The mill will never grind with 
 the water that " 
 
 The door opened and the maid announced the detective. 
 
 " I have good news for you, sir," the man said, with 
 a smile of professional triumph. " I have got on their 
 track. It's as I thought that same gang. We shall 
 now find the portraits, without a doubt." 
 
 Andrew Sirrell gathered himself together and listened 
 with apparent attention to the man's report. 
 
 But the only words he heard were the words of that 
 old German song echoing ever mournfully in his ears : 
 " The mill will never grind with the water that is past" 
 
 IV 
 
 THERE was no improvement in Gweneth's condition the 
 next day. The night nurse reported a night of continuous 
 brain excitement, which the opiate had not succeeded in 
 allaying. Dr. Newbold asked to be left alone with the 
 patient for a few minutes, and he drew his chair near the 
 bed, and began to speak to Gweneth as if she were in her 
 right mind, calm, conscious, and receptive of ideas. 
 
 " It has been one of those sad blunders, Mrs. Sirrell," 
 he said gently, " which mar our lives and the lives of 
 those we love. But your husband loves you. You must 
 give him another chance. The snowdrops are dead. 
 They will never bloom again." 
 
 He waited for a moment, and then he said again slowly 
 and, if possible, with added kindness : 
 
 " It has been one of those sad blunders which mar our 
 lives and the lives of those we love. But your husband 
 loves you. You must give him another chance. The 
 snowdrops are dead. They will never bloom again." 
 
 There was a pause in her pitiful moaning. But it was 
 of the briefest duration. He bent nearer her. His voice, 
 his manner, were as the voice and manner of one giving 
 a benediction. 
 
THE FIRST WIFE'S PICTURE 127 
 
 " Your husband loves you. The snowdrops are dead," 
 he whispered again and again. 
 
 There seemed no end to his patience and persistence. 
 
 There was another pause in her moaning. It appeared 
 to him to last longer than the previous period of restful- 
 ness. And he felt encouraged. 
 
 " Your husband loves you. The snowdrops are dead. 
 Your husband loves you. You must give him another 
 chance," he kept on murmuring softly but very clearly. 
 
 She lay quite still. She slept. 
 
 He rose and wiped the sweat from his brow. Had he 
 reached her, or was it merely that the opiate had at last 
 taken effect ? He could not tell. He only knew that, 
 armed with the secret of some part of her mental suffering, 
 he had put forth the best of his brain strength in an attempt 
 to reach her brain. 
 
 He went downstairs to the library, and gave the good 
 news to her husband that she was at least quiet for the 
 moment. That was some gain, if only temporary. 
 
 " But I believe her to be very ill, Mr. Sirrell," he said 
 gravely. " It seems to me that to-day she has less strength 
 than yesterday. The puzzle to me is that you should 
 never have noticed she was slipping into a most peculiar 
 mental condition." 
 
 Andrew bent his head. 
 
 " I am ashamed I did not notice," he said humbly. 
 
 The doctor remained silent. 
 
 " I would do anything to make reparation to her," 
 Andrew said, with painful earnestness. 
 
 " We will leave no stone unturned to save her, so that 
 you may be able to make reparation," Dr. Newbold said. 
 " But she's very ill, and I'm deeply puzzled." 
 
 He questioned Andrew about her character, her tempera- 
 ment, her tastes, her habits. He asked permission to 
 speak to one of the maids. The parlour-maid, Flora, 
 helped him in an altogether unexpected way. Yes, she 
 said, she thought Mrs. Sirrell had been very peculiar of 
 late. She had gone about the house with a strange smile 
 on her face, always rather preoccupied and sometimes 
 talking to herself in a whisper. No, she had not been irrit- 
 
128 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 able to them. On the contrary, she had been kinder 
 than ever, and there was no one in the house who would 
 not have served her to the uttermost. Yes, she did vary 
 a good deal, not only from day to day, but hour to hour. 
 She was always different when Mr. Sirrell was at home. 
 Directly she expected him, she left off brooding. Yes, 
 that was the word. Brooding. Yes, on the whole, she 
 had been worse than ever lately. Where did she spend 
 most of her time ? Oh, she spent most of her time in 
 the library. What did she do ? Nothing except 
 
 Flora hesitated and coloured. 
 
 " Well ? " said the doctor kindly. 
 
 " Once or twice I've seen her standing staring at the 
 portrait," Flora said nervously. 
 
 :< Yes," said the doctor quite calmly, as if the matter 
 were of no importance. 
 
 " And once lately I heard her talking to it," Flora 
 added still more nervously. 
 
 " Ah, that must have been your imagination," the 
 doctor said, a little brusquely. 
 
 " No, sir, she was talking to it, and at first she didn't 
 hear me come into the room," Flora insisted. 
 
 " I suppose the other maids knew this ? " the doctor 
 said casually. 
 
 Flora shook her head. 
 
 " I haven't spoken of it till now," she answered, the 
 tears coming into her eyes. " I was upset for her. She 
 she has always been good to me. But the next day 
 I didn't let her go into the library. I gave it a good turn- 
 out and she had to keep away." 
 
 " Ah, then, she has had someone to watch over her 
 very kindly," Dr. Newbold said gently. And he signed 
 to the girl that she might withdraw. But when she had 
 reached the door, a sudden thought struck him, and, 
 with the thought, came an impulse of need for further 
 details of information which he believed she could pro- 
 bably supply. For some reason or other, which he ex- 
 plained to himself later, he checked the intensity of his 
 eagerness, and confined himself to one or two points only. 
 
 " I should like to ask you a few more things," he said. 
 
THE FIRST WIFE'S PICTURE 129 
 
 " And I will tell you why I ask. It is important that 
 I should learn something about Mrs. Sirrell's behaviour 
 immediately previous to her collapse. Mr. Sirrell tells 
 me he was out in the afternoon. He, therefore, could 
 not know. Did she seem excited and overwrought ? 
 And, as far as you know, what did she do with herself ? 
 Did she have a shock of any kind ? You are attached 
 to Mrs. Sirrell, are you not ? Well, my reason for asking 
 is, that I believe we might have more chance of saving 
 her, if we knew exactly what caused her final breakdown. 
 I feel sure there was something." 
 
 " She wasn't excited at all," the girl said. " She was 
 just restless fearfully restless. She kept wandering up 
 and downstairs, and went first into the library and then 
 into the spare room. She didn't even settle down to her 
 afternoon cup of tea. She left it half finished, and hurried 
 up to the spare room." 
 
 " What did she do there ? " the doctor asked slowly. 
 
 The girl shook her head. 
 
 " I don't know, sir," she answered. 
 
 " Was it her habit to go there often ? " he asked. 
 
 " No," the girl replied. 
 
 " I should like to go there," he said, after a pause. 
 
 She led him upstairs to the spare room, and disappeared 
 at once, thankful to escape from further examination. 
 He was alone ; for Andrew Sirrell, who seemed as one 
 stricken and paralysed, had shown no sign of wishing to 
 follow him, and had merely nodded assentingly when he 
 had expressed a wish to see the room. 
 
 The doctor himself could not have explained why he 
 wished to see the room. There was obviously nothing 
 exceptional about it. It appeared to him the usual kind 
 of visitor's apartment, not belonging to anyone in particular, 
 and therefore without any intimate personal character- 
 istics to proclaim personal ownership. He saw nothing 
 in it to arrest his attention, and he was on the point 
 of leaving, satisfied that he had at least passed over the 
 same ground as his patient, when he suddenly felt that 
 he must remain where he was, in the middle of the room, 
 on the very spot, perhaps, where his patient had stood. 
 9 
 
130 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 And a curious thing happened. He was standing 
 lost in thought, trying to piece together the scattered 
 fragments of the information he had received, trying to 
 break down mental barriers and get in touch with Gweneth's 
 mind, trying to analyse a new idea which had been creeping 
 stealthily into his brain, when he looked up and noticed 
 a door probably leading into a dressing-room. He ap- 
 proached it with a strange reluctance. He opened it, 
 found it was the door of a big cupboard, and was closing 
 it again, when he caught sight of a large golf-bag in the 
 far-end corner. 
 
 " The golf -bag" he said in a startled whisper. He 
 remembered in a lightning flash that this was one of 
 the things on which his patient was harping. He hesitated 
 for a moment, and finally, with an effort of resolution, 
 moved the golf-bag on to the bed. He took out the 
 driver and the niblick first of all ; then the putter, which 
 he examined with a quite unnecessary attentiveness ; 
 then the cleek, which he kept in his hands an interminable 
 time ; then the brassie, at which he stared as though he 
 had never before seen a brassie with its brass shoe. His 
 manner became slower and more deliberately procrastinat- 
 ing with each successive club. At last he took out a roll. 
 
 " A roll," he said slowly, and as he held it in his right 
 hand, his left hand sought and covered his eyes. 
 
 " A roll," he said again. 
 
 He opened the roll, and found that it consisted of two 
 portraits, one of a most beautiful woman and the other 
 of a young man. 
 
 He stood as though turned to stone. 
 
 "I see now," he whispered, " her work her work." 
 
 Up to now, only the faintest suspicion of this prob- 
 ability had entered his brain, and then mainly as the 
 result of his conversation with the parlour-maid. He 
 realised, as he was always realising afresh, how hopelessly 
 little even an expert could ever know of the workings of 
 another person's mind. Theories, generalisations, deduc- 
 tions could all be wrecked by some unforeseen development, 
 Yes, this was her work. It was plain to him, from the 
 scattered fragments of her incoherent talk, from tlip know- 
 
THE FIRST WIFE'S PICTURE 131 
 
 ledge he had gained of her suffering, her jealousy, her 
 restlessness after the disappearance of the pictures, 
 and her mysterious visits to the spare room where her 
 secret was in hiding. The interesting fact that two of 
 the portraits had been removed, confirmed him in his 
 belief. From his vast experience he recognised in this 
 precaution the protecting craft characteristic of the 
 unbalanced mind. Yes, it was her work. 
 
 He turned impulsively to the portrait of the beautiful 
 woman, opened it out, and laid it on the floor. He stood 
 staring at it, fascinated, dominated by it. 
 
 "It is not a portrait," he thought ; " it is a living 
 person. One could never forget it. It would be always 
 there always haunting one. It was not fair on her to 
 have such a marvellous picture in the house. It could 
 not have failed to become a living reality to her. She 
 might take it out of its frame poor, tortured spirit she 
 might take it out a thousand times but she would always 
 see it there always see it in its accustomed place." 
 
 And at that moment, as though in answer to his under- 
 standing pity, he heard the moaning of the sick woman. 
 
 "Always there always there," she cried. 
 
 He listened. He knew now that he had touched the 
 bedrock of her mental agony. 
 
 He replaced the clubs and the pictures in the golf-bag, 
 which he put back into the cupboard, and hastened to 
 her side. Peace had passed from her, and given way to 
 renewed and increased turmoil. 
 
 DR. NEWBOLD kept his own counsel until the next morning, 
 partly from a chivalrous loyalty to his patient, and partly 
 because he wanted to think things out, and determine 
 in which way the knowledge of this calamity might be 
 used for the benefit of both husband and wife. No scheme 
 presented itself to his puzzled mind, and when he arrived 
 at the Sirrells' house, he had nothing to express beyond 
 the bare statement of a painful fact. 
 
 " Mr. Sirrell," he began, " T ha,ve ma,de a distressing 
 
132 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 discovery. I regret to tell you that I believe it was your 
 wife who removed the portraits." 
 
 He described to him briefly how he had found them 
 concealed in the golf -bag. 
 
 Andrew Sirrell turned deadly pale. He did not answer, 
 but rushed out of the room and locked himself in the spare 
 room. When he returned in about ten minutes, his face 
 was drawn and his manner ominously quiet. 
 
 " I can never forgive her," he said deliberately " never." 
 
 The doctor made no sign. He was standing at the 
 window staring at the plane trees, now in their sweetest 
 beauty. There was silence in the room, and outside in 
 the street there was an assenting suspension of the 
 traffic. 
 
 " An outrage, a sacrilege, an act of incredible debase- 
 ment," Andrew said. 
 
 The doctor still remained speechless. 
 
 " I can never forgive her," Andrew repeated " never." 
 
 Dr. Newbold stood staring at the plane trees. 
 
 " And you take her part you defend her," Andrew 
 said angrily. 
 
 " No, I don't defend her," the doctor answered, turning 
 round at last. " But I do say that the portrait is not a 
 portrait. It is a living person, haunting one with an 
 irresistible tryanny." 
 
 " Your words are equivalent to a defence," Andrew 
 said bitterly. 
 
 " No, pardon me," Dr. Newbold returned. " They are 
 merely an attempt at explanation. I repeat it. The 
 portrait is not a portrait ; it is a living force. Your wife 
 ought never have been expected to bear the strain of its 
 influence." 
 
 " Nevertheless, she has committed an outrage, a sacri- 
 lege," Andrew replied. " I can never forgive her." 
 
 " I don't believe you will be called upon to forgive her," 
 Dr. Newbold said quietly. " In a grave case like this, 
 one can only surmise, but I think she is quickly losing 
 ground. The turmoil of her spirit is wearing out the 
 strength of her body. If we knew how to stop the turmoil, 
 we might save her reason and her life. As it is, we have 
 
THE FIRST WIFE'S PICTURE 133 
 
 only secured her short spells of partial peace poor, 
 tortured spirit." 
 
 The gravity of his words and his deep-felt pity for the 
 sufferer awakened in Andrew the sense of his own unworthi- 
 ness. 
 
 " Dr. Newbold," he said, " this discovery has been a 
 great shock to me, but I am behaving like a cur. I take 
 back all my words. I will put all my own feelings on one 
 side. I will do anything and everything to help her back 
 to peace. I entreat of you to tell me what I can do." 
 
 Dr. Newbold laid his hand kindly on the man's shoulder. 
 
 " Of course, it was a shock to you," he said. "It was 
 a shock to me, a stranger. And to you with your memories 
 it must, indeed, seem a sacrilege. All that I can under- 
 stand. But we have to bear in mind that this portrait 
 has become burnt into her brain. She has a gallant face, 
 Mr. Sirrell. It is not the face of a mean-spirited, paltry 
 person. I have no doubt that for a long time she made 
 a brave struggle to live side by side with it and banish 
 its haunting effects from her mind. Well, we know she 
 failed. And she has failed in a double sense. This to 
 me, as a psychologist, 'is the most tragic part of the story, 
 viewed from her side. She has committed this pitiful 
 deed, and yet she has not succeeded in banishing the 
 picture from her mind's eye. It is always before her 
 to use her own words ' always there.' And it will 
 always be there, unless death releases her from its spell, 
 or unless we are able to release her." 
 
 " Unless we are able to release her," Andrew repeated 
 to himself. 
 
 " Yes," said Dr. Newbold. 
 
 " How ? " asked Andrew, after a silence. 
 
 " I don't know," Dr. Newbold answered. 
 
 " Doesn't a great shock sometimes work a miracle ? " 
 Andrew asked. 
 
 " Yes," Dr. Newbold said. " But one never takes 
 the risk until one is fairly sure that nothing else can help. 
 You see, a shock may cure, or make matters worse, or 
 kill. But when one judges that the right moment has 
 come, one has to face those chances." 
 
134 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 " And you think the right moment has not come yet ? " 
 Andrew asked. 
 
 " No," the doctor replied. " Her physical strength 
 is failing, I should say ; but, all the same, it must be 
 allowed its full innings." 
 
 Andrew paced restlessly up and down the room, and 
 his face bore signs of intense mental agitation. He knew 
 that the doctor was right, and that Gweneth had nothing 
 mean-spirited or paltry about her, and that she had 
 probably fought her fight gallantly up to the limit of her 
 endurance. 
 
 " I will do anything and everything to help her back 
 to peace," he exclaimed. 
 
 " I am sure you will," the doctor said. " I rely on 
 your pitifulness yes, and on your sense of justice. We 
 have the right to trust each other fellow-blunderers, 
 you remember, belonging to a large company." 
 
 " If only she'd left me," Andrew groaned. " If only 
 she'd forsaken me and said as your wife said : ' / leave 
 you to your memories and your pictures.' That would have 
 been far more just to herself and merciful to me." 
 
 His anger and indignation swept over him again in a 
 great wave. 
 
 " She has not been fair to me," he cried, in great bitter- 
 ness of heart. 
 
 Then he remembered that he had not been fair to her, 
 and he passed once more through an agony of remorse. 
 When he was able to speak, he asked almost inaudibly : 
 
 " What kind of shock might have the chance of restor- 
 ing her, if everything else had failed ? " 
 
 " I have not thought that out," Dr. Newbold answered. 
 " I only know vaguely that it should bear direct on the 
 very thing which tortures her on the portrait." 
 
 Andrew made no comment on the doctor's words, 
 but roused himself sufficiently to communicate with the 
 detectives, and to bid them suspend operations for a few 
 days ; and after this effort he drew his chair near to the 
 fire, for it was a bitterly cold and rainy afternoon, and 
 he became immersed in thought. 
 
 Finally he slept. 
 
THE FIRST WIFE'S PICTURE 135 
 
 And he had a curious dream. He dreamed that he 
 restored the portrait to its frame, and carried it in the 
 middle of the night to his wife's bedroom. When she 
 saw it, she cried out in her distress : " Always there 
 always there." Then he heard himself saying, in a voice 
 which did not falter : 
 
 " No, Gweneth, not always there. Because, you see, 
 I don't want it to be always there. And I'm going to 
 take it out of the frame myself, so that you may under- 
 stand that I do not want it to be always there. Watch 
 me now carefully." 
 
 He was beginning to cut it out of its frame with the 
 utmost physical pain and mental reluctance when he 
 awoke. 
 
 " Thank Heaven it was only a dream," he cried 
 " a dream, impossible of realisation a sacrilege." 
 
 He shuddered over the remembrance of it. 
 
 VI 
 
 DURING the next days Gweneth became worse. Her 
 physical strength was not holding out against the tumult 
 of her mind. Dr. Newbold looked graver, and called in 
 two other brain doctors in consultation. They decided 
 that her only chance was a shock to her nervous system ; 
 and when Andrew heard their verdict, he knew that the 
 moment had come when he must fulfil the dictates of 
 his dream, dictates against which he had been appealing 
 with passionate though silent persistence. For his dream 
 had been haunting him, even as the portrait of his first 
 wife was haunting Gweneth. In vain he tried to banish 
 it from his remembrance ; in vain he said to himself that 
 it would be impossible for him to do such a deed, even 
 to save Gweneth's life or brain : impossible for him to 
 put that indignity on his dead wife's memory and on his 
 homage to her memory. To all his reasoning and com- 
 bating came the invariable answer that his form of homage 
 to the dead had wrought an injury to the living, and 
 
136 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 that he would not be desecrating his true homage, but 
 expiating a wrong and selfish method of expression. 
 
 That same afternoon he went to a picture-framer's and 
 bought some cardboard and various other necessary appli- 
 ances ; and that same night, without taking anyone into 
 his confidence, or giving Dr. Newbold the barest hint 
 of what he intended to do, he carried out the first part 
 of his dream. He stole, as a thief, into the spare room, 
 brought the roll of pictures downstairs, locked himself 
 in the library, lifted the empty frame down from the 
 wall, and replaced the portrait of his dead wife as well 
 as he could. When the portrait was once more in its 
 frame, he passed through another tempest of doubt and 
 anguish. 
 
 " It will be sacrilege," the false prompter said to him, 
 " sacrilege and desecration." 
 
 " It will be a finer homage," the true prompter said 
 to him. 
 
 " An outrage on your natural feelings," the false prompter 
 insisted. 
 
 " An expiation of your blind selfishness," the true 
 prompter whispered. 
 
 Suddenly, as he stood, torn with conflicting feelings, 
 his face haggard, his body tense with the emotional and 
 mental strain, he heard a terrible noise outside in the 
 hall, and the ominous sound of a struggle. The handle 
 of the door was violently tried. Several people seemed 
 to be dashing themselves against the door. He rushed 
 to unfasten it, and there, to his horror, stood Gweneth, 
 with her hair streaming over her shoulders, wild and 
 strong with a sudden and fearful violence, which the two 
 nurses were vainly trying to stem. 
 
 " Always there, always there," she cried, and her eyes 
 sought the portrait and found it. 
 
 " Always there. I knew it," she cried, pointing to it 
 with increased excitement. 
 
 Andrew glanced at her, and threw all his hesitation, 
 his selfishness, to the winds. 
 
 " Not always there, Gweneth," he said quickly and 
 with infinite kindness, " because I don't wish it to be 
 
THE FIRST WIFE'S PICTURE 137 
 
 always there. I don't want it to be there at all. Watch 
 carefully what I am going to do." 
 
 His words appeared to arrest her attention, and, as 
 one fascinated, she watched him take a knife and loosen 
 the portrait from the frame. 
 
 She watched it fall to his feet. 
 
 She watched him lift it up and place it on one side 
 indifferently, as if it were of no value to him. 
 
 A light came over her face. She turned to him, muttered 
 some incoherent words, and with a deep sigh fell back 
 unconscious into the arms of her attendants. 
 
 " He has killed her," they said to each other with 
 unspoken words. 
 
 But they were wrong. 
 
 He had saved her. 
 
THE BACH DOUBLE CONCERTO IN D MINOR 
 
 THE last sounds of the violin died away. For 
 a moment there was silence in the Queen's Hall, 
 followed by that deafening applause to which the 
 famous artist had been accustomed for many years. He 
 bowed repeatedly to the audience, shook hands with the 
 conductor, and greeted the orchestra. But as he greeted 
 it, his quick eye noticed that his old friend, Fritz Griin- 
 feld, one of the second fiddles, was not clapping him. 
 He stood arrested by this astounding fact. He nearly 
 called out: "Fritz what are you thinking of? You 
 surely know that I cannot get along without your approval. 
 The shouts of the audience cannot make up for the silence 
 of Fritz." 
 
 Suddenly he recollected what he had to do. And once 
 more acknowledging the enthusiastic appreciation of his 
 thousands of admirers, Rudolph Riemer went off the 
 platform. Five times he was recalled. Five times he 
 glanced toward the second fiddles, and saw that Fritz 
 leaned back, indifferent and sullen. 
 
 What could it mean ? Riemer knew that he had not 
 disgraced himself. He knew well that he had handled 
 the cadenza of the Bach Double Concerto in D Minor 
 in masterly fashion, and had carried out faithfully some 
 of the very effects over which Fritz and he had conferred 
 and agreed in their earlier years of comradeship and 
 friendship. What could be wrong, then ? He was 
 puzzled and troubled. He felt as if he had been unex- 
 pectedly deserted by someone on whose faithfulness he 
 had placed absolute reliance. It is not too much to say 
 
 139 
 
140 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 that he sulked in the artists' room ; and the conductor, 
 who came out during the interval and did not succeed in 
 extracting a single genial word from him, thought : 
 
 " Riemer is in one of his black moods. Yet surely he 
 ought to have been contented with his wonderful recep- 
 tion. These people are never satisfied. They always 
 want something more." 
 
 The conductor was right in idea, though wrong in inter- 
 pretation. Riemer wanted that hitherto unfailing sign of 
 fellowship, that treasured link with the old student days, 
 that message from distant time, when Fritz and he stood 
 side by side on equal terms with each other in honourable 
 and happy emulation. Fate had willed it that the laurels 
 should come to Riemer ; and Fritz had accepted this 
 decree with a generous-hearted finality which betrayed no 
 faintest feeling of rebellious envy. 
 
 " Riemer has the secret ' something,' " he had always said. 
 " There is no appeal against that living truth." 
 
 Riemer, therefore, had never realised the cost of bitter 
 suffering with which failure pays its tribute to success. 
 
 He was to realise it at last to-night. 
 
 He left the Queen's Hall before the concert was over, 
 and made his way, as usual, to Fritz's home in the Bor- 
 ough. It was a time-honoured custom that after a Lon- 
 don Symphony concert, he should take his supper in 
 homely German fashion with the little family which he 
 had ever dearly loved. Sometimes he brought with him 
 a bit of leberwurst, cooked afresh, as Mrs. Fritz always 
 laughingly said, in the oven of his great-coat ; and he 
 always was able to produce from his fiddle-case a carnation 
 or two for Mrs. Fritz, a fine cigar for young Friedrich, 
 and marzipan for Triidchen. He was armed with these 
 bounties now ; but there was no gladness in his heart as 
 he mounted the stairs leading up to the Griinf elds' flat, nor 
 any buoyancy of joyful anticipation always associated 
 with his visits to the Borough. 
 
 Something struck chill at his soul. What was it ? 
 What had gone wrong with Fritz ? Was there trouble 
 in the home illness added money anxiety disappoint- 
 ment, perhaps, about the careers of the two children ? 
 
THE BACH DOUBLE CONCERTO IN D MINOR 141 
 
 Well, well, he would soon know. One more flight, a 
 pressing of the bell, a stepping over the dear threshold, 
 and then he would learn and understand all. 
 
 Trudchen opened the door to him. 
 
 " Why, it's Onkel Rudolph ! " she said joyously. " How 
 perfectly jolly that you've come early ! You can make 
 the coffee instead of me, can't you ? No one makes 
 it better. And where's the leberuwrst ? Ah, here, Miit- 
 terli, quick quick ! Here's the leberwurst twice cooked 
 as usual. And Onkel Rudolph in time to make the coffee. 
 I'll take the Strad. But why are you looking so serious ? 
 Wasn't the concert a good one ? Didn't the horrid 
 audience pet you enough ? Never mind. I'll pet and 
 spoil you. We all will. Come along now, and get things 
 ready for father. You'll be able to cheer him up. He 
 has been rather down in the dumps lately." 
 
 "Yes, Rudolph," Mrs. Fritz said earnestly. " We've 
 been longing for you to come to cheer him. No one 
 else in the world can do it." 
 
 " He did not seem quite himself at the concert to-night," 
 Riemer said. " Do you know, Mrs. Fritz, he didn't 
 well, he didn't clap me." 
 
 It was evident that Riemer could scarcely get the words 
 out. 
 
 " Didn't clap you ? " Fritz's wife and daughter cried 
 together. " Impossible." 
 
 Riemer shook his head and turned aside for a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 " Did you play badly, Onkel Rudolph ? " Triidchen 
 asked fearlessly. 
 
 "No, Triidchen," the great man answered with the 
 simplicity of a child. " I played my best." 
 
 " Well, never mind," the girl said, putting her arm 
 through his. :c You'll soon be able to find out what is 
 the matter with him. We don't know, do we, mother ? " 
 
 " No," Mrs. Fritz said sadly. " If he has any trouble, 
 he is keeping it secret from us. It will be an unspeak- 
 able relief to me if he can open his heart to you to-night, 
 Rudolph. Do try and get him to talk to you. We will 
 leave you alone after a time. Promise me you'll try." 
 
142 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 " Of course I will," Riemer reassured her. " And now 
 for the coffee." 
 
 Then off he went to the kitchen with Triidchen. But 
 Mrs. Fritz stood for a moment lost in thought. 
 
 " Didn't clap him'' she said aloud. She repeated the 
 words : " Didn't clap him" 
 
 She was searching her memory for a remark which 
 Fritz had made only a few days ago about the ridiculous 
 homage paid to mere virtuosity. Yes, she had found it. 
 
 " I'm sick and tired of the solo instrumentalists," he 
 had said. " Sick and tired of the whole tribe with their 
 airs and graces. I would not raise my little finger to 
 applaud any one of them." 
 
 " Except Riemer, of course," she had put in. 
 
 She remembered now that Fritz had not answered. 
 Other things came to her mind as she sat down and took 
 out her work. She recalled that her husband had expressed 
 no pleasure at the prospect of Riemer 's approaching 
 visit to England. 
 
 " Riemer will be here next week," she had said. 
 
 " I believe so," he had replied. But in the old days 
 he would have said : " Hurrah for Onkel Rudolph and 
 all of us. And blessings on his bow ! " 
 
 She knew only too well that her husband's life as an 
 artist had been full of grievous disappointments and 
 real chagrins ; but he had borne them bravely and pressed 
 on his way uncomplainingly with a true courage which had 
 something noble in it. The years had come and gone 
 and brought him no honours : nothing, in fact, except a 
 bare recognition of dependable usefulness : no thrill of 
 the artist's career : no realisation of young and buoyant 
 ambition. 
 
 Very often she had marvelled at him. Constantly she 
 had wondered whether his weakness or his sweetness of 
 character had protected his heart from envy, hatred, and 
 all uncharitableness. She had never dared to probe 
 those secret recesses. But to make up to him for the 
 unattained joy of fulfilment, she wrapped her weakling 
 round with a mantle of sheltering love through which she 
 hoped the wounds of frustrated expression could never 
 
THE BACH DOUBLE CONCERTO IN D MINOR 143 
 
 penetrate. She had given to him a home atmosphere 
 which many envied and deemed a rich fortune falling to 
 the share of only the few. Did not Onkel Rudolph always 
 say that she allowed him to come there " to gather crumbs 
 from the rich man's table " ? This tender tribute of Onkel 
 Rudolph's had always been her secret consolation and 
 encouragement through many years of struggle and diffi- 
 culty. She would hear the words to-night. She heard 
 them now ringing in her ears : " Well, good-bye, good-bye, 
 all of you. And I thank you, Mrs. Fritz, for allowing me to 
 come and gather crumbs from the rich man's table." 
 
 She was still held by these thoughts when Fritz came 
 into the living-room. 
 
 " Well, dear," she said, " and did the music go all 
 right ? " 
 
 " Yes," he answered, putting down his fiddle. 
 
 " Riemer came early," she said. "He is making the 
 coffee with Triidchen." 
 
 " Oh, is he ? " Fritz said in a vague way, as if the matter 
 did not concern him. 
 
 It was on her lips to ask him whether Riemer had played 
 well, but a wise instinct restrained her. She sat silent 
 while Fritz took his fiddle out of its case, according to 
 his wont, and warmed it a little before the fire. 
 
 "A damp night for the Bergonzi," he said. "I don't 
 know why I took it." 
 
 " You always use it when Riemer plays, don't you ? " 
 she said unthinkingly. " His own dear gift to you." 
 
 " Well, you need not remind me of that," Fritz returned 
 roughly. 
 
 " Fritz," his wife said, putting her hands on his shoulders 
 as he knelt before the fire, " what has happened to you ? 
 What is the matter with you ? " 
 
 " Nothing, nothing," he said more gently. " I'm tired 
 that's all." 
 
 At that moment there was a sound of merry laughter, 
 and in came Triidchen, beating time with the leberwwst 
 and followed by Riemer carrying the coffee. 
 
 " You observe I'm conducting the great and famous 
 violinist," she cried dramatically, " Be careful, Onkel. 
 
144 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 You'll spill the coffee. Non troppo agitato. Lento in 
 fact, lentissimo." 
 
 "Ah, Riemer," Fritz said with the ghost of a smile on 
 his face, " and so there you are." 
 
 " Yes, here I am once more," Riemer said genially. 
 " Frightfully glad to escape from the concert to my palace 
 of delight." 
 
 " Not much palace of delight here," Fritz remarked 
 gruffly, but not unkindly. 
 
 " I beg your very much pardon, father," Triidchen 
 said, with mock injuredness. " There never has been such 
 a palace of delight as ours not even in ' The Arabian 
 Nights.' ' 
 
 And still grasping the sausage, she danced a saraband 
 round the table and finally sat down near her father amid 
 laughter and applause. 
 
 But the mirth did not last. There was an impending 
 trouble in the air which weighed heavily on the little 
 company. And soon Mrs. Fritz went out of the room. 
 Triidchen followed her. 
 
 The two men were left alone. They smoked their long 
 German pipes in a tense silence which was at length broken 
 by Riemer. 
 
 " Fritz," Riemer said without any preliminaries. " All 
 is not well with you. Tell me your troubles that I may 
 help you." 
 
 " Help, always help," Fritz said with sudden fierceness. 
 " I hate the very sound of the word. I'm sick of being 
 helped." 
 
 Riemer glanced at his old comrade in astonishment. 
 He could scarcely believe that he had heard rightly. But 
 he made no comment ; and his mind wandered back to 
 his old and merry student days when he and Fritz used 
 to fall out, arrange for an immediate duel, and then settle 
 down to the Bach Double Concerto in D Minor from which 
 there was no disturbing them. So vivid was one of the 
 scenes which rose before him that he could not restrain 
 himself from speaking of it. 
 
 " Fritz," he said, " do you remember that wonderful 
 occasion when we ended by attacking our seconds who had 
 
THE BACH DOUBLE CONCERTO IN D MINOR 145 
 
 come to fetch us to our own duel ? We were playing the 
 Bach in D Minor, weren't we ? And very well it was 
 going when those confounded fellows interrupted us." 
 
 No answer came from Fritz. The rigid expression on 
 his face did not relax. 
 
 There was a long pause, and at last Riemer spoke again : 
 
 " Fritz," he said, " did I play badly to-night did you 
 think I bungled over the cadenza ? " 
 
 " No," Fritz answered slowly. " You played splen- 
 didly." 
 
 " But you didn't clap me," Riemer said reproachfully. 
 
 " No," Fritz said in a low voice. " Why should I ? " 
 
 " Why should you ? " Riemer repeated. " But you have 
 always done so." 
 
 " Yes, precisely," Fritz replied. " And more fool I. 
 I've spent all my life clapping other people for what I 
 could have done just as well myself if I'd had the chance. 
 And now I've finished with it." 
 
 " Good God ! " Riemer said almost in a whisper. " Is this 
 how you have been feeling ? And I've never thought of it." 
 
 " No, of course you haven't," Fritz said bitterly. " You 
 people who go about with halos round your heads what 
 do you know or care about the disappointments and 
 sufferings of the failures of the world ? It may not strike 
 you but you can take it from me, that we have some 
 feelings left. Some faint spark survives out of the ashes 
 of our old ambitions." 
 
 The flood-gates were open now, and he went on with 
 increasing excitement : 
 
 " Yes to be helped that's what falls to our lot. And 
 we have to pretend to be grateful, while ail the time we're 
 hating those who are giving us loose odds and ends of 
 money, influence, sympathy, and pity. Hate is the 
 word. And pray, what would all you laurel-crowned 
 successes do for us derelicts if we interfered with your 
 regal state or trespassed on your private territory of fame ? 
 Why. it's only because you know yourselves to be safe 
 hat you risk holding out the hand of help. Do you 
 uppose there is any reason why we should be grateful for 
 hat ? No, I say a hundred times., no. There's not one 
 10 
 
146 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 of you that would stoop down and haul us up into our 
 proper positions, side by side with the very best of you 
 aristocrats of the platform. That alone could and should 
 call forth real gratitude. Everything else is a sham, a 
 pose of kindness to flatter and satisfy yourselves, a base 
 attempt at propitiation which deceives no one let me 
 tell you." 
 
 He paused a moment in the midst of his scorn and bit- 
 terness. Riemer made no sign. He was stunned almost 
 to the point of unconsciousness. But he was beginning 
 vaguely to understand. 
 
 " Recognition that's what we want," Fritz cried, 
 dashing up from his chair. " No more of this eternal 
 playing second riddles to someone else's lead. No more 
 pretence that we like it, and are content. Content, 
 indeed. No furious, impatient, outraged, hostile and 
 honest about it at last. The years passing and nothing 
 happening to us. The thrill of life for others and never 
 for us. Spectators always of others' triumphs, and no 
 faint signs of any feeblest triumph for us. Nothing for 
 us, except the dull, deadening routine of usefulness. Clap 
 any one of you again ? Never. I'd rather that my hands 
 withered away. And now you've heard the truth, Riemer. 
 Do you like it ? " 
 
 He threw himself back in the armchair, exhausted by the 
 force of his emotions. Riemer still gave no outer sign of 
 being either interested or impressed. But his brain had 
 become almost painfully active, and he was seeing with 
 his mind's eye things hidden to him before : reviewing 
 life from Fritz's point of view for the first time : trying to 
 imagine to himself how he himself would have felt, if 
 no laurels had fallen to his share, and if he had been 
 in Fritz's position and Fritz in his place of honour and 
 consideration. Would the years have brought to him also 
 this terrible accumulation of anger and bitterness of 
 spirit ? Would he also have only been able to give hatred 
 and suspicion in exchange for help and kindness ? Would 
 he also have believed that a hand was only held out to 
 him because there was no risk involved in the act ? Was 
 there perhaps not some truth in the scathing assertion 
 
THE BACH DOUBLE CONCERTO IN D MINOR 147 
 
 that the derelicts of fame and fortune might only dare 
 to claim concessions and not rights from the favoured 
 ones who reigned supreme ? Who could say for cer- 
 tain ? He could not say for certain that he had not been 
 influenced by this feeling of safety. 
 
 The more he thought, the more he realised that if Fritz's 
 circumstances had been his, he might not have come 
 through the ordeal any better than his old comrade. He 
 might have grown to hate rather than have continued to 
 love his old friend of former days. It flashed through his 
 mind for the first time that he had for years claimed too 
 much from Fritz : that he had, in very truth, taken his 
 friendship, his homage, his loyalty as a matter of course, 
 and had never recognised the greatness of spirit in Fritz 
 which had made their relations with each other possible 
 and joyful. It was nothing to the point that the greatness 
 had suffered a human collapse. If he himself had known 
 it from the beginning and paid his spiritual tribute to it, 
 it might not have perished. 
 
 But it had perished. Riemer, with a curious cold chill 
 at his heart, was face to face with the desolate fact that 
 he had lost for ever his palace of delight, lost his friend 
 whom he had never really possessed. Death itself could not 
 have cut him off more completely from his ownership. 
 He was a lonely man, left lonely by tragedies and disasters 
 in family life. The thought of Fritz's home had always 
 been a consolation to him. And now ? Well, in a few 
 minutes, when he had gathered himself together, he would 
 pick up his fiddle, pass over the threshold into the dark- 
 ness of the night, and never return.. 
 
 But before he went, he must let Fritz know that he 
 saw with clear vision Fritz's picture of life. 
 
 He bent forward a little and stared into the fire. He 
 did not take his eyes off the fire. 
 
 " Fritz," he said gently, " I understand. I wish for 
 both our sakes I could have understood years ago." 
 
 Fritz made no answer, and Riemer, with painful effort, 
 was on the point of rising from his chair, when the tension 
 in the room was broken by a racketing noise outside in 
 the hall, the door was thrown open with boisterous violence, 
 
148 
 
 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 and in dashed Friedrich, followed by three young fellows 
 all in good humour and lively form. 
 
 " Ah, Onkel Rudolph, there you are ! " cried Friedrich. 
 " I told these fellows that you'd be here after the concert. 
 We had a wager on it. And I've won. And there is 
 another wager. I told them, if I asked you, that you and 
 father would play us the Bach Double Concerto in D 
 Minor. They said, ' Go on, you're gassing ! ' ' Gassing ! ' 
 I said with scorn. ' Why, father and Riemer are life- 
 long friends. We don't think of Riemer as a platform 
 person.' Of course you'll play it, Onkel Rudolph and 
 father, won't you, and make these chaps sit up, to say 
 nothing of the second wager won ? It's quite early. 
 Only half-past one. You will won't you ? " 
 
 There was a moment's pause. Then the two men stirred 
 with almost imperceptible movement. Fritz, with no ex- 
 pression on his face, glanced at Riemer. Riemer, as though 
 in a dream seeing some far-off phantom, glanced at Fritz. 
 
 They nodded a silent assent. 
 
 They took their fiddles out of their cases : Fritz his 
 Bergonzi, Riemer his Strad. They screwed up their bows 
 and resined them. They bent toward each other and 
 tuned their instruments. Their little, eager, excited 
 audience had been increased by Mrs. Fritz and Triidchen, 
 who shared the secret belief that all would be well with 
 father if he and Onkel Rudolph were going to play together. 
 
 Fritz raised his bow arm, tapped his left foot once, and 
 led off gallantly with the opening theme of the concerto. 
 
 Violino Secondo. Vivace. 
 
 
 Those who know the famous concerto will recall that 
 it is written for two violins on absolutely equal terms 
 with each other, and that the instruments follow, answer, 
 supplement each other, sometimes joining forces in direct 
 
THE BACH DOUBLE CONCERTO IN D MINOR 149 
 
 unison, sometimes making independent excursions, but 
 always renewing eventually the bond of good-fellowship. 
 Even thus, in the spirited Vivace, in the beautiful and 
 tender Largo full of lingering sadness and regret, and in the 
 finale with its headlong dash and reckless abandonment. 
 
 Did Riemer and Fritz believe that this was their last 
 song together the dying swan song of their friendship ? 
 Was it because of this that they played as they had never 
 played before, and made the voices of their fiddles 
 throb with radiant joyousness, deep feeling, acute emotion ? 
 
 The end came. The audience clapped and shouted and 
 cried " Bravo hurrah hurrah ! " 
 
 But the two friends stood still and silent as statues, with 
 no trace of a smile on their faces. Their passiveness 
 suddenly chilled the very atmosphere. No one spoke. 
 No one moved. 
 
 It was Riemer himself who first found words. 
 
 " So you've won your second wager, Friedrich, my boy," 
 he said, " and made these fellows sit up, haven't you ? " 
 
 He glanced round the room with a wistful sadness. 
 He was taking in all the familiar details in one swift, last 
 comprehensive survey. 
 
 " Well, now, I'll go home," he said. " It's late, and I 
 have to start off for Edinburgh early. Good % night, 
 Fritz good night all of you. And Mrs. Fritz, thank 
 you, as ever, for letting me come to gather crumbs from 
 the rich man's table. That's right, Triidchen, better turn 
 the key in the fiddle-case. You were always rather sen- 
 sible. No, young Friedrich, don't go and put on your 
 coat for me. I'll go home alone to-night, I think." 
 
 " No, you won't," Fritz said brusquely and almost 
 fiercely. " I shall go with you." 
 
 : ' You ? " Riemer said ; and as he spoke, the light of 
 hope came into his eyes. 
 
 " Yes," Fritz answered, half defiantly, half appealingly. 
 " And why not ? " 
 
 " Why not, indeed ? " Riemer answered. " Come then, 
 Fritz." 
 
 They passed out together, arm in arm. 
 
THE JEWEL GHOST 
 
 TAMAR SCOTT, of Dean Street, Soho, dealer in precious 
 stones and antique jewellery, known to her friends 
 and clients generally as T. Scott, received a letter 
 one day asking her to go down to a country house in 
 Dorsetshire, not far from Puddletown, and give her expert 
 opinion on a collection of jewels. She was famous amongst 
 her friends and clients for her rudeness ; and her answer 
 was characteristic. She wrote : 
 
 " Madam, Fee offered not worth my consideration. 
 Cannot come. Have never enjoyed doing anything for 
 nothing. T. Scott." 
 
 She dismissed the matter from her mind, and was amused 
 and astonished when, after a week or so, she received another 
 letter from the same address, written in a faint and trembling 
 handwriting, evidently that of an aged woman. This was 
 the letter: 
 
 " Madam, Your rude letter interested me vastly. 
 Felt buoyed up to think there was someone on this planet 
 ruder than myself. Name your fee, which I will gladly 
 pay for your expert opinion and personal acquaintance. 
 Sarah Bracebridge." 
 
 A faint smile stole over Tamar's face as she read these 
 words, and she fingered the piece of paper in a curiously 
 sensitive way which seemed to suggest that she was seeking 
 information about her correspondent from the feel of the 
 written pages. 
 
 " I shall go," she said aloud at last. " Perhaps it is 
 a case of Greek meeting Greek." 
 
 She had heard of this collection of jewels from her 
 old friend Christopher Bramfield, a diamond merchant, 
 
 151 
 
152 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 who never failed to put her in the way of a good piece 
 of business. She understood that she was being called 
 in only to give an opinion on the stones, and that there 
 was no question of securing any for herself. But she 
 hoped, all the same, that she might get the chance of making 
 an offer for one or two of them. For Mrs. Bracebridge's 
 collection was known amongst dealers to contain many 
 beautiful specimens. 
 
 As soon as she could, she started off for Dorsetshire, 
 and was driven to Stranham Hall, an old Tudor manor 
 house about five miles from Puddletown. It stood in 
 its own park, a dreary, neglected-looking domain. Tamar 
 Scott, who did not take much notice of the sweet things 
 of Nature, thought that she had never seen such a depressing 
 spot. 
 
 She rang at the bell, and after a considerable delay, 
 an old man servant, a frail and almost tottering retainer, 
 opened the door. On learning her name, he nodded, as 
 if to indicate that she was expected, and in silence showed 
 her into a dim room with a wonderful stone fireplace, 
 and with diamond window panes studded here and there 
 with armorial bearings. She glanced around, and was 
 at once arrested by the many objects of interest. Choice 
 bits of china which she would frankly have loved to 
 " annex " then and there, reposed enticingly on various 
 tables and shelves. That exquisite little piece of Spode, 
 for instance, ought certainly to be hers, and no one else's ; 
 and it was not any sense of moral obligation which pre- 
 vented her from stealing it. She was merely deterred 
 from dishonesty, even as so many of us are, by consider- 
 ations of expediency. She sinned in the abstract, though 
 not in the concrete. 
 
 She was still gazing at it when the door opened, and a 
 very old lady, bending heavily on a black cane, advanced 
 slowly towards her. She chuckled when she saw Tamar. 
 
 " Ah," she said, " I suppose you're thinking that you 
 want to walk off with that piece of Spode of mine ? " 
 
 " Yes," Tamar answered. " That's just what I am 
 thinking. But how do you know ? " 
 
 " For the simple reason that I have always wanted 
 
THE JEWEL GHOST 153 
 
 to steal everything I liked," the old lady said. "On 
 one occasion I did, too. Many years ago. But I've 
 never lost the memory of the enjoyment of my theft." 
 
 Tamar looked at her for a moment, and then a curious 
 smile spread over her face. 
 
 " One doesn't lose it, does one ? " she said with a soft 
 little laugh. 
 
 Mrs. Bracebridge laughed softly also. She sat down 
 on a high chair, and pointed to an easy one for Tamar to 
 occupy. 
 
 " Well," she said, " and so you don't enjoy doing some- 
 thing for nothing. A proper sentiment. But why pray 
 did you write your book on Precious Stones ? You couldn't 
 have got much out of that. A book produced regardless 
 of cost. And comparatively cheap to buy. Where 
 did your returns come in there, I wonder ? " 
 
 '' That's my affair," Tamar answered roughly. 
 
 " Yes, distinctly," replied the old lady. " I'm glad 
 it is. I shouldn't have liked to pay for that Burma Ruby 
 plate. Beautiful, though. And a wonderful book. But 
 inaccurate here and there." 
 
 " I deny that," Tamar said with fierceness. " I verified 
 every statement. No one shall dare to accuse me of 
 inaccuracy." 
 
 " I dare," the old lady said with obvious enjoyment 
 of the situation. " Ring the bell. Jenkins shall go 
 and fetch the book." 
 
 To her own immense surprise Tamar obeyed. When 
 the old man appeared on the scene, his mistress said : 
 
 " On the table by my bedside, Jenkins, you will find 
 two books, the two books I always keep there. One is 
 a Bible. I don't want that. I want the one called 
 ' Precious Stones.' ' 
 
 The angry look on Tamar's face gave way to a gentler 
 expression. Her pride, like that of many an author, was 
 naturally gratified at knowing that the book into which 
 she had put so much of her knowledge and enthusiasm, 
 was the daily intimate companion of someone who cared 
 and understood. And when Jenkins reappeared bearing 
 the volume on a silver salver, she herself took it and 
 
154 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 handed it to Mrs. Bracebridge with a respectable amount 
 of courtesy, considering that she was Tamar. 
 
 Mrs. Bracebridge, who wore no glasses, and whose eyes 
 were bright and sparkling with mischief, opened the book 
 and read aloud : 
 
 " Page 88. ' Corundum has perhaps a wider range 
 of colour than almost any other mineral, but it will be 
 considered here chiefly with regard to the red varieties 
 approximating to the colour of the ruby.' ' 
 
 " Corundum ought to be spinel," Tamar said angrily. 
 
 " Page 161," went on Mrs. Bracebridge imperturbably. 
 " ' Tourmaline is one of the most dichronic stones.' It 
 should be dichroic, of course. Page 180. ' The sapphire 
 was engraved sometimes in the later Roman days, but 
 more frequently in the quattrocento time.' It should 
 be quinquecento time. Page 195. 'So large and finely 
 coloured an emerald as No. 1284 in the Townshend collection 
 is an exceptional stone ; it is nearly one-quarter of an 
 inch across.' That's wrong. It is twice that size across. 
 I've measured it myself. Page 203 ' 
 
 " You seem to have prepared a full list," Tamar inter- 
 rupted sullenly. 
 
 Mrs. Bracebridge put down the book and looked at 
 Tamar. 
 
 " My list has been waiting for you a long time," she 
 said. " I have always intended sending for you to see 
 my collection. Ever since I read this wonderful book. 
 It is wonderful. It is written by one whose passion for 
 precious stones is as great as my own. Greater perhaps. 
 I'm not a fool. I can see that. But you have had an 
 advantage over me. Your circumstances have admitted 
 you into the inner shrine. Mine have kept me outside 
 it." 
 
 " But you have a collection coveted by many," Tamar 
 said. " One can't have everything. You are probably 
 enormously proud of it. Anyone would be/' 
 
 " I am proud of it," the old lady replied. "It is part 
 of my family honour. But there are times when I would 
 infinitely prefer to have acquired it for myself, stone 
 by stone, by a long-drawn-out continuity of effort, rather 
 
THE JEWEL GHOST 155 
 
 than to have inherited it as my right. You'd understand 
 that." 
 
 " Yes, I can understand that," Tamar answered dreamily. 
 " To see a stone, to be spellbound by its beauty, to be 
 thwarted about it, to dream about it, to have no rest 
 about it, to be haunted by it day and night " 
 
 " Ah, to be haunted by it," Mrs. Bracebridge broke in 
 with a cry, almost of despair. " That I know only too 
 well. And to be thwarted about it." 
 
 She became lost in thought. She leaned forward 
 on her stick and kept on nodding her head. 
 
 Tamar watched her for some time in silence. She 
 seemed suddenly to have put on centuries of age and 
 infirmity. Gone was the sparkle from her eye and the 
 captious animation from her face. Something tugged 
 at Tamar's heart. She did not, as a rule, like old people ; 
 but here was distinctly a comrade, of inferior rank per- 
 haps, so far as jewel lore and learning went, but a comrade 
 for all that, and certainly not inferior in rudeness : if 
 anything, superior, and therefore, rather to be respected. 
 A comrade in some kind of distress, too, definite, though 
 hidden, from which she must be rescued before she be- 
 came annihilated by a further instalment of extreme old 
 age. 
 
 But how to rescue her ? That was the difficulty. 
 No, there was no difficulty after all, since they spoke 
 the same language. Tamar rose. 
 
 " My time is valuable," she said gruffly. " I did not 
 come here to sit and do nothing. If I am to see that 
 collection I'd better see it and have done with it. If 
 not, I'd better go. My fee in any case will be ten guineas." 
 
 A quiver passed over Mrs. Bracebridge's countenance. 
 And she returned from that far-off distance to which 
 her secret thoughts had sped her. 
 
 " Far too much, far too much," she said sharply. " But 
 I suppose I have no choice since I told you to come." 
 
 " No," Tamar said, quietly triumphant at the success 
 of her methods. 
 
 " Well, ring the bell," the old lady commanded. 
 
 Tamar made no movement. She might not have 
 
156 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 heard. She had fixed her eyes on a picture, and she 
 continued to stare at it. 
 
 " Ring the bell," the old lady repeated peremptorily, 
 tapping on the ground with her cane. 
 
 Tamar did not stir an inch. 
 
 " Well, I never saw such ungraciousness," Mrs. Brace- 
 bridge said, an amused smile beginning to steal over her 
 face. " However, I suppose it matches my own. I 
 will give that much in." 
 
 Tamar's stubbornness relaxed at the old lady's admission, 
 and she turned to her with a touch of conciliation and 
 indulgence in her manner, which was both quaint and 
 attractive. 
 
 " We do appear to share the same code of manners," 
 she said, " as well as the same love for jewels." 
 
 " I was going to show you the jewels," Mrs. Brace- 
 bridge went on. " They are upstairs. And I wanted 
 Jenkins' arm to lean on. That is what I wanted. Not 
 much of an arm, I admit, but better than nothing." 
 
 Tamar hesitated, and then, half gruffly, half shyly, 
 said : 
 
 " Wouldn't my arm do as well ? " 
 
 The old lady glanced at her, laughed softly as if some- 
 thing had tickled her fancy, and said : 
 
 " Perhaps it would. Come, we will go then." 
 
 So they passed out of the room together, and progressed 
 slowly and silently up the oaken staircase to the enclosed 
 gallery which ran round the inner part of the three sides 
 of the old manor house. They paused before a window 
 which contained two very old shields of arms, and Mrs. 
 Bracebridge pointed out the inscriptions with her stick. 
 A green segment of the stained glass, of rich lustre and 
 deep emerald colour, attracted Tamar's attention, and she 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " What a colour ! Like the richest and rarest emerald ! " 
 
 At the sound of that word the old lady started as if 
 she had received some kind of shock, shuddered slightly, 
 turned away from the window, and leaning a little more 
 heavily on Tamar's arm, passed down the gallery until 
 she reached her boudoir. Jenkins was there to help 
 
THE JEWEL GHOST 157 
 
 her into her chair, and Tamar, mystified, but intensely 
 interested, stood surveying her surroundings, wondering 
 with half her brain why the name of any jewel could 
 mean anything save music to a true lover of jewels, and 
 with the other half conjuring up for herself a vision of the 
 precious stones hidden in the iron safe opposite the great 
 oaken chest. 
 
 WHEN Jenkins had gone and had closed the door after 
 him, old Mrs. Bracebridge rose from her chair, and with 
 tottering steps approached the iron safe. She fumbled 
 in her bodice and produced a key, with which she tried 
 to open it. As she seemed incapable of this effort, and 
 looked a little distressed, Tamar went forward to lend 
 her aid, but was rather fiercely repulsed. 
 
 " Leave me to manage my own concerns," the old 
 lady said, glaring at her. " This is not the first time 
 I've opened a safe." 
 
 At last she turned the key. The door swung open. And 
 one by one, slowly and with obvious difficulty, Mrs. Brace- 
 bridge took out the caskets and placed them on the great 
 round table, where four large silver candlesticks were 
 striving in vain to light up the dim old panelled room. 
 But a log fire at the other end cast some cheer around ; 
 and as Tamar bent down and warmed her hands, which 
 were icy cold from suppressed excitement and curiosity, 
 she thought she had never before been so thankful for 
 the heat and glow of a hearth. From her retreat she 
 watched, without stirring a hair's-breadth, that bent 
 old figure arranging her collection of precious stones, and 
 bearing on her face the signs of pride and triumph 
 inseparable from passionate ownership. 
 
 The old Lady seated herself at the table and beckoned 
 to Tamar. 
 
 " You can come now," she said. " They are all here." 
 
 And she added defiantly : 
 
 " You can criticise and find fault as much as you please. 
 It won't have the least effect on me." 
 
158 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 " I shall say what I think," Tamar said sullenly. 
 " That's what I've come for, isn't it ? " 
 
 She took no notice of Tamar's words, but began to 
 display her treasures, which Tamar proceeded to examine 
 with a calmness of manner effectually concealing the eager 
 interest and fierce enthusiasm which always took possession 
 of her at the moment when she saw any precious stones. 
 And her practised eye recognised at first sight that some 
 of these jewels were exceedingly beautiful and valuable. 
 There were sapphires, rubies, spinels, opals, diamonds, 
 tourmalines, pearls, lumachellas, topazes, turquoises, and 
 many others, some mounted in rings, others unmounted, 
 some in pendants and brooches and necklaces and bracelets. 
 
 They held her spellbound with delight. It always took 
 her some little time to recover from the shock of secret 
 rapture which she invariably felt on seeing a number 
 of precious stones together in a company. The degrees 
 of their lustre, their colour, their value, and the manner 
 of their cutting affected her not at all in the beginning. 
 She feasted luxuriously on their general splendour ; and 
 the glamour of them permeated her whole being. She 
 always looked strangely beautiful on these occasions, 
 with a dreamy, languorous Eastern passiveness. Mrs. 
 Bracebridge, who, whilst pretending indifference to her 
 opinion, was observing her like a lynx, noticed this peculiar 
 access of beauty, and was arrested by it. She waited 
 contentedly, even proudly, for some time, realising that 
 it was the jewels which had worked this miracle on Tamar. 
 But finally she lost patience and said peevishly : 
 
 " Well, have you nothing to say, or do you expect 
 me to pay you for your silence ? " 
 
 Tamar returned from her fairyland to real life. 
 
 " That is a very poor ruby," she said, singling out 
 one, " and I don't think anything at all of this pearl. 
 That sapphire is not bad. But this one has white, glassy 
 stripes in it. Very poor indeed." 
 
 " It isn't," Mrs. Bracebridge said angrily. "It is 
 one of my best sapphires." 
 
 Tamar looked at her as though she were non-existent, 
 and went on ; 
 
THE JEWEL GHOST 159 
 
 " Now this is something like a ruby, without a single 
 milky speck. Not too light in colour, not too deep. A 
 real gem, that. I shouldn't mind having it myself." 
 
 " I don't suppose you would," chuckled the old lady, 
 and her face shone with pleasure at Tamar's praise. 
 
 " But this diamond," continued Tamar, " is a disgrace 
 to any collection. It hasn't any brilliancy at all. And 
 it has faint hues of brown in it." 
 
 " I deny that utterly," Mrs. Bracebridge exclaimed 
 indignantly. " Utterly." 
 
 " Oh, you can deny it as much as you like," Tamar 
 said. " That doesn't hurt anyone. But it doesn't take 
 away the brown hues. I wouldn't give ten shillings 
 for that stone. Not even nine." 
 
 " You wouldn't get it for nine," the old lady said. 
 
 "No, I can quite believe that," Tamar remarked. 
 " Amateurs nearly always prize the wrong things." 
 
 Mrs. Bracebridge winced at the taunt. 
 
 " There's a history attached to it," she said almost 
 pleadingly ; and something in the tone of her voice made 
 Tamar conscious that she had been too rough. 
 
 " Ah, well, that's different," she conceded with a gracious 
 condescension. " No one sees brown hues then. Perhaps 
 I shouldn't, either. But this diamond, for instance, 
 is superb its fire is astonishing and that opal you've 
 got there is one of the finest I've seen. Opals of all kinds 
 delight me. I would like to have thousands of them, 
 wouldn't you ? " 
 
 " Yes, thousands," repeated the old lady eagerly ; 
 and the heads of these two jewel-lovers got closer together 
 as they bent over this really beautiful specimen of harlequin 
 opal. 
 
 So they made friends one moment, quarrelled the 
 next, insulted each other, softened to each other; and 
 thus the hours sped on unheeded by them, and everything 
 passed from their minds except that fierce and yet dreamy 
 ecstasy known only to those to whom precious stones 
 are a living passion. 
 
 But suddenly Tamar leaned back in her chair. 
 
 " A most curious thing," she said half to herself, " There 
 
160 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 are no emeralds. Not a single emerald. I had a vague 
 feeling of uneasiness the whole time that something was 
 missing." 
 
 " No, there are no emeralds," Mrs. Bracebridge repeated 
 in a low voice ; and as she spoke her face became troubled, 
 and the light faded from her eyes. 
 
 " No collection is perfect or even representative without 
 emeralds," Tamar said sternly. " I never remember 
 seeing a collection without one or two specimens." 
 
 Mrs. Bracebridge remained silent. Indeed, she could 
 not speak. The vitality which she had been spending 
 during these last hours had now failed her again. She sat 
 inert, detached, claimed once more by inexorable old 
 age. Tamar, whose mind was entirely taken up with the 
 curious discovery that there were no emeralds, was not 
 paying any attention to her, and was therefore uncon- 
 scious of this subtle reaction, signs of which had arrested 
 her pity and attention at the beginning of her visit. She 
 continued relentlessly to abuse and depreciate a collection 
 which contained no emeralds, and then, having given full 
 vent to her disapproval, yielded to a gentler mood, and 
 began to pour forth an impassioned ecstasy on these 
 beautiful stones, their mystical properties and influences, 
 their peculiar sensitiveness, their secret power of attraction. 
 
 Suddenly she stopped, uttered a low cry, half of alarm, 
 half of wonder, and sprang up and stretched out both 
 hands as if to clutch something directly in front of her. 
 
 " Emeralds ! " she exclaimed. " Emeralds in the air ! 
 Flawless emeralds of deepest colour. A necklace of 
 them there. And rings there. And a cross there." 
 
 At the sound of her words, old Mrs. Bracebridge miracu- 
 lously came to life again, and in a state of intense excite* 
 ment, half rose from her chair. 
 
 " Yes, yes, there they are ! " she cried. " So you see 
 them too, so you see them, too ? But you won't be able 
 to get at them. Don't think it for a moment. No one 
 can get at them. But they're here in the house no 
 mistake about that they're " 
 
 She broke off. Her eyes closed. But she continued 
 to point frantically at something in the air, and then 
 
THE JEWEL GHOST 161 
 
 tottered forward, and would have fallen down, but that 
 Tamar sprang to her in time and received her in her arms 
 as she lost consciousness. Jenkins, evidently on guard 
 outside, hearing a disturbance, came almost tumbling 
 into the room in his anxious haste, and pushed Tamar 
 unceremoniously aside, and took entire charge of his 
 aged mistress. 
 
 " Has she seen the emeralds ? " he asked, shuddering. 
 
 Tamar nodded. 
 
 He shook his head gravely, as with trembling hands 
 he poured some liquid into a medicine glass, and with 
 difficulty put it to the old lady's lips. Tamar, touched 
 by the sight of the old ministering to the old, wished 
 to help him. 
 
 " No, no," he murmured. " I have always done it. 
 I shall do it to tlie end." 
 
 It was some time before Mrs. Bracebridge regained 
 consciousness ; but at last she opened her eyes, looked 
 at Jenkins fixedly, and afterwards at Tamar, on whom 
 her gaze remained riveted for a long spell. Her mind 
 became gradually clear, and she remembered circum- 
 stances and events. 
 
 " You couldn't get at the emeralds in the air," she 
 said in a whisper. " They were safe enough. No one 
 could get them. But what about the jewels on the table ? 
 Count them, Jenkins, count them." 
 
 Jenkins counted them. 
 
 HI 
 
 IT was too late for Tamar to make for the inn about two 
 miles off, and Mrs. Bracebridge gave directions that she 
 should occupy the room known as the priest's bed-chamber, 
 at the farther end of the old Manor House. A fire was 
 lit, and everything made comfortable by Jenkins himself 
 and another retainer of advanced years, a woman, who 
 cast suspicious glances at Tamar, and seemed bitterly 
 to resent the intrusion of a stranger. 
 
 " It is the mistress's wish, Keturah," Jenkins chided 
 gravely. " Do your duty and prepare the room without 
 11 
 
162 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 grumbling, and in a manner suitable to the family honour." 
 
 So Taniar was housed in comfort and almost in state, 
 and was thankful to find herself alone with a cosy fire 
 blazing on the hearth, and quiet leisure in which to think 
 over the events of the day. She was in a condition of 
 suppressed excitement, a little overwrought by the old 
 lady's unexpected collapse, and greatly stirred by the 
 remembrance of the wonderful collection she had seen, 
 and haunted by the vision of those emeralds in the air, 
 which had glistened before her for one brief moment and 
 vanished even before Mrs. Bracebridge had fainted away. 
 
 The more she thought of them, and of their relative 
 position to each other, the clearer it became to her that 
 they were being worn by some Presence not made manifest, 
 but undoubtedly hovering around in that house. She 
 longed to see them again. They were of a very fine 
 dark colour, velvety and without flaws, and she said 
 to herself repeatedly that they were the most beautiful 
 emeralds she had ever feasted her eyes on. She leaned 
 back in the arm-chair by the fireside and meditated on 
 them. She wondered what their history could be, and 
 what strange chance, what mysterious break in the link 
 of connecting circumstance had kept them separate 
 from that family collection to which they belonged. She 
 had no doubt about that. Rovers, free lances though 
 they were, they belonged to that wonderful company 
 of treasures, which were in every respect worthy of 
 them. Tamar, trying to solve the secret, was conscious 
 that never in her life had she so much wished to be in 
 direct touch with that Unseen World, believed by many 
 to be near us, within reach, within sight, within hearing, 
 could we but know the secret of adjustment. 
 
 She closed her eyes, and was caught in a network of 
 surmise and memory. 
 
 The fire lost its brightness, and then burnt low. The 
 priest's room became chilly, and still more chilly ; but 
 beyond shuddering once, Tamar took no heed. Then 
 the curtains by the window moved ever so slightly, 
 almost imperceptibly, and inaudibly. Tamar must have 
 beard some faint sound, for she came out of her reverie, 
 
THE JEWEL GHOST 163 
 
 and turned her head slowly in that direction. She did 
 not open her eyes ; but there was a look of tremulous 
 expectancy on her face, and she bent forward a little, as 
 if listening. After a few seconds, as we reckon time, 
 the alertness of her attitude relaxed. Soon, however, 
 her attention was again arrested in some mysterious 
 way, for again she leaned forward listening and waiting, 
 and with eyes closed as before. 
 
 But at last she opened them, and stared straight in 
 front of her, not changing their range of vision by so 
 much as a hair's-breadth. 
 
 And slowly, slowly as she watched, one small speck of 
 green, faint at first and then deeper in hue, showed itself 
 in the air, and then a second manifested itself, and then 
 a third. There was a pause, during which Tamar's heart 
 stood still. But soon these specks of green light began 
 to grow in size and strength, and she saw them gradually 
 form into emeralds the very emeralds of which she had 
 had a glimpse before : the ring, the cross, the necklace ; 
 the same velvety emeralds of darkest colour and without 
 flaws. More wonderful than ever did they seem to her, 
 but this time she did not clutch at them. She only watched 
 in an ecstasy of delight, thrilled to her very soul by their 
 matchless beauty, and entirely free from any lust of 
 possession. Her face shone with a pure rapture such as 
 one sees sometimes on the faces of those who are spell- 
 bound by the magic of the rising or the setting sun. So 
 enthralled was she by this vision of loveliness, that 
 at first she did not perceive that a dim Presence was 
 beginning to reveal itself to her. But when she realised, 
 a low cry broke from her lips, and she half -rose, supported 
 herself with her left hand against the arm of the chair, 
 and finally stood erect and calmly expectant. The 
 Presence grew distincter and yet distincter ; and Tamar 
 saw before her a beautiful woman, about thirty years of 
 age, in the dress of the latter part of the eighteenth century. 
 The emerald ring was on her right hand, and the emerald 
 necklace encircled her neck. The emerald cross lay on 
 her breast. She smiled gently, raised her left hand with 
 dainty grace, and pointed to the jewels in succession. And 
 
164 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 at the same time these words were borne to Tamar's 
 brain : 
 
 " These emeralds shall be yours, because you love 
 jewels, worship them with an impersonal worship, and 
 are capable of looking at them with the larger vision. No 
 one in this house has cared enough, not even the old 
 woman who reigns here now. Her love for jewels has 
 never been free from the lust of possession, the pride 
 of ownership. But because of your larger vision, I can 
 entrust them to you and reveal myself to you. For the 
 larger vision ranges beyond the barriers. The jewels 
 shall be yours. Never shall the old woman have them. 
 The message shall go forth to your world that the jewels 
 shall be yours." 
 
 " The jewels shall be mine the message shall go forth," 
 Tamar repeated in a voice that was charged with wonder 
 and emotion. 
 
 As she spoke the Presence faded into vagueness, shim- 
 mered for one fleeting moment, and was lost to sight. 
 But the emeralds lingered awhile and surpassed themselves 
 in lustre and depth of colour. Then they slowly shrank 
 to mere green specks, and in their turn vanished. 
 
 All was darkness again : gone the radiance of the 
 eighteenth-century lady ; gone the glory of the jewels. 
 But as from a far distance, these words travelled to Tamar : 
 " Because of your larger vision." 
 
 She stood for a moment motionless, spellbound, awed, 
 and then, with a deep sigh of exhaustion, sank back into 
 her chair, and passed into a dreamless sleep. 
 
 IV 
 
 TAMAB slept the whole night in the arm-chair, and did 
 not wake until about nine in the morning, when she opened 
 her eyes and saw her old hostess seated on a high chair 
 on the other side of the hearth, and bending forward, 
 as ever, upon her black cane. 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Bracebridge, " and so you have not 
 been to bed ? " 
 
 " Apparently not," Tamar said drowsily. 
 
THE JEWEL GHOST 165 
 
 Mrs. Bracebridge chuckled. 
 
 " I suppose you thought you might have a chance 
 of trying the iron safe ? " she said. " But you would 
 have been frustrated. Jenkins was on the alert. And 
 so was I. I have not slept five minutes." 
 
 Her meaning did not at first reach Tamar's brain; 
 but at last she understood the purport of the remark. 
 The amusement it caused her, woke her up entirely. She, 
 too, laughed. 
 
 " Oh, I see," she said. " You guarded the collection 
 lest I should visit it. Well, I appreciate your caution. 
 I should have done the same." 
 
 The old woman removed her right hand from the head 
 of the cane and stretched it out to Tamar, who took it 
 with a smile. 
 
 " How well we understand each other," old Mrs. Brace- 
 bridge said. 
 
 Tamar nodded. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " we are certainly comrades." 
 
 She paused a moment, and then added a little hesitatingly : 
 
 " I saw all the jewels I wanted to see, here, in this 
 room, during the night." 
 
 " You saw the emeralds again ? " the old lady asked 
 with painful eagerness. 
 
 Tamar gave silent assent. 
 
 " Ah," moaned old Mrs. Bracebridge, " I have hungered 
 for years and years to possess them, and to see them in 
 their right place, in that family collection to which they 
 belong. And for years and years they have mocked me 
 and eluded me." 
 
 " Have you never cared for them for themselves, for 
 the wonder of them, the beauty of them, the glory of 
 them, the softness of them ? " Tamar asked dreamily. 
 
 " Why do you ask that ? " Mrs. Bracebridge said sullenly. 
 
 Tamar made no answer. She appeared to be wrestling 
 with herself. 
 
 " Why do you ask that ? " Mrs. Bracebridge repeated 
 imperiously. 
 
 And still Tamar was silent. She was engaged in a 
 conflict, secret, intense, desperate. 
 
166 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 " Why do you ask that ? " the old woman again said, 
 tapping the floor impatiently with her cane. 
 
 " Because, if if you were able to care for them for 
 themselves only apart from all other considerations 
 family honour, family pride, and the like, I believe yes, 
 I believe they might yet be yours," Tamar answered, 
 turning away from her. 
 
 " And pray, how do you know that ? " Mrs. Brace- 
 bridge said scornfully. 
 
 " / know," Tamar replied quietly. " That is all I 
 choose to tell you." 
 
 That was all Tamar would tell to the end of her visit. 
 The old lady's anger, sullenness, cajolery and praise took 
 no effect on her stubbornness, and elicited from her no 
 details of the manifestation which was as real to Tamar 
 in the morning as it had been in the night. 
 
 Mrs. Bracebridge began with praise. She knew well 
 enough that Tamar 's book on " Precious Stones " was the 
 apple of her eye. 
 
 " Your book, in spite of certain inaccuracies, is a master- 
 piece," she said. " A veritable treasure house." 
 
 " It does not need you to tell me that," Tamar said 
 grimly, though the words of praise were secret milk and 
 honey to her. 
 
 " Perhaps you would like me to give you that piece of 
 Spode you admire," Mrs. Bracebridge said, trying again, 
 and this time with a coaxing smile. 
 
 " I should not care in the least to have it," Tamar 
 answered, assuming entire indifference. "It is all very 
 well in its own surroundings. It stands out here, no 
 doubt, as something exceptional. But in my shop, for 
 instance, it would seem " 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 Mrs. Bracebridge made one more valiant attempt to 
 reach Tamar's inner citadel of reserve. 
 
 " I think you quoted ten guineas as the fee for your 
 visit ? " she said, closing her eyes. " Suppose we make 
 it twelve guineas ? " 
 
 " By all means make it twelve guineas if you like," 
 Tamar replied, smiling indulgently. " I always take 
 
THE JEWEL GHOST 167 
 
 as much money as I can get naturally. But I'm not 
 intending to give you any more information on any subject 
 whatsoever for that extra two guineas." 
 
 She added : 
 
 " I've told you what I know. But I will repeat what 
 I said. If you want those emeralds, don't think about the 
 collection. Think only of the emeralds themselves. If 
 you see them again, look at them with ' the larger vision.' " 
 
 " ' The larger vision ! ' " mocked the old woman. " ' The 
 larger vision ! ' indeed ! Thank you, my own normal 
 sight is good enough for me. Well, I think, after all, 
 we'll keep your fee at ten guineas." 
 
 They both laughed. There was no doubt that they 
 amused each other immensely, and that their brief inter- 
 course had been a real enjoyment to them both. Mrs. 
 Bracebridge owned up to the fact, produced the fee not 
 ungrudgingly, and asked Tamar to come again some 
 day and bring one or two of her own stones for inspection 
 and criticism. 
 
 " I don't at all dislike you," she said. " Come again, 
 but without a fee, of course ! No one is worth two fees." 
 
 " Yes, I will come," Tamar promised, and she glanced 
 around the hall where they were standing, and had a 
 parting thrill of pleasure over the old-world atmosphere 
 of the Manor House. 
 
 " And who knows, perhaps I may be able to tell you 
 that I have seen the emeralds with the larger vision" 
 Mrs. Bracebridge continued with a twinkle in her wicked 
 old eye. " That would be a piece of news, wouldn't 
 it?" 
 
 And she shook with quiet laughter, and quite worried 
 poor, frail old Jenkins, whose concern and anxiety for 
 his mistress struck Tamar as being something rare and 
 beautiful. 
 
 " Madam, be calm," he urged in his cracked old voice. 
 " You have so little strength, and you are exciting your- 
 self too much." 
 
 She gave a final nod of farewell to Tamar and let Jen- 
 kins take her away ; and Tamar watched them mount the 
 stairs slowly and disappear along the passage leading to 
 
168 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 the boudoir. But he was certainly suspicious of Tamar, 
 and unwilling to leave her alone, even for a moment : for 
 he returned quite quickly for him, and almost fell forward 
 in hastening to open the door for her departure. 
 
 " I gave my old comrade the chance," Tamar said 
 to herself as she crossed the moat, and passed into the 
 little park. " I am glad I gave it. But still more glad 
 she could not take it ! " 
 
 SEVERAL weeks after Tamar's visit to old Mrs. Brace- 
 bridge, Christopher Bramfield, the diamond merchant, 
 came to the shop bringing some fine emeralds which he 
 wished her to see. He had secured them for himself, 
 but was quite willing to hand them over to her if she 
 felt inclined to pay him the price which he had given 
 for them. Bramfield, who had been Tamar's friend for 
 many years, was always generous to her, and his unfailing 
 kindness was often rewarded by displays of ungraciousness 
 which would have alienated a less devoted colleague. 
 But he understood her, and continued to accept her on 
 her own terms. So he only smiled when she told him 
 that she did not want to be bothered with any emeralds, 
 being at the time much taken up with a large deal in some 
 specially beautiful and valuable black pearls which en- 
 grossed her attention and captured her imagination. 
 
 " Well, you might at least look at them, T. Scott," he 
 said good-naturedly. 
 
 Tamar frowned, and pushed the packet roughly away. 
 
 " No," she said, " they won't interest me. I can only 
 think of pearls just now. My mind is tuned to pearls." 
 
 " You will only think of emeralds when you've seen 
 them," he said. " I've never seen more beautiful ones. 
 However, if you intend to remain obstinate, by all means 
 do so. I'll be off and remove my treasures. But don't 
 say I didn't give you the chance. That's all I wish to 
 impress on your agreeable mind. Good-bye." 
 
 He was half-way through the shop door when Tamar 
 recalled him, 
 
THE JEWEL GHOST 169 
 
 " Did you say emeralds ? Well, perhaps I'll look 
 at them," she said slowly, as if pondering the matter. 
 
 He returned to the counter, opened the packet, and 
 laid before her an emerald necklace, an emerald cross, 
 and an emerald ring. She started back when she saw 
 them, but oddly enough, so Bramfield thought, did not 
 touch them. He had so often seen her snatch and grab 
 at the jewels he brought her, that he quite expected that 
 she would at once have taken entire possession of these 
 truly wonderful stones. Instead of which, she leaned 
 over the counter, on her elbows, and stared at them without 
 vouchsafing any remark. 
 
 " Well," he said, after waiting for some time patiently. 
 
 " You can leave them," she said in a low voice. " I 
 will give you a receipt." 
 
 " There, I knew you would like them," he said with 
 pride. " Keep them a few days, and then make your 
 decision. I hope you will decide to have them. It was 
 borne on me strongly that they ought to be yours. Other- 
 wise, upon my soul, I don't think I could have parted 
 with them. The colour, and the velvety quality of them 
 are positively haunting. The stones are almost flawless. 
 This necklace, for instance." 
 
 As he spoke, he took it in his hands and held it towards 
 her, but still she did not touch it. 
 
 " Why don't you take it and examine it," he said half 
 cross and half puzzled. 
 
 " It is enough to see it," Tamar said dreamily. " Leave 
 it there." 
 
 He glanced at her face and saw on it an expression 
 of entire rapture, indescribable and baffling. It struck 
 him that she was not so much looking at the emeralds 
 as beyond them. 
 
 " Very queer is T. Scott these later days," he thought. 
 
 Aloud he said : 
 
 " Well, I'll leave you to enjoy the emeralds alone. 
 I'm quite sure you'll forget all about your black pearls." 
 
 Bramfield's words proved to be true, for the remem- 
 brance of the pearls passed entirely from Tamar's mind. 
 And she forgot to write an important letter about the 
 
170 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 negotiations in connection with them, and neglected all 
 her other affairs, and even dismissed one or two of her 
 profitable clients with more than her usual brusqueness. 
 
 She locked the shop door at an early hour in the evening 
 and retired into the inner room. She took the emeralds 
 in her hands, but held them rather far from her, 
 as if she wished to gaze at them from a distance, out 
 of her reach, across a barrier, invisible, imperceptible, 
 yet actual and definite. She placed them on the table 
 where she repaired, altered, or restored jewellery and 
 china, and separated them from each other with almost 
 reverent care. Finally she examined them ; but with 
 reluctance, more from a sense of professional duty, from 
 a sense of homage to the precious stones as precious stones, 
 than from any commercial and critical impulse. It 
 was curious to see Tamar, ordinarily so ruthless in her 
 methods of appraising and valuing, on this occasion 
 diffident, tremulous, humble, and even apologetic. Long 
 after she had replaced them on the table she sat contem- 
 plating them. 
 
 Once or twice she said in a whisper : 
 
 " The same emeralds, velvety and without flaws." 
 
 And again : 
 
 " The same emeralds ; velvety, flawless. I should 
 have known them anywhere." 
 
 As she sat there, dead to the world, entranced and 
 enthralled by the beauty of these jewels and entirely 
 free from the lust of possession, it was borne on her that 
 her name was being uttered. She turned in the direction 
 of the Jacobean couch and listened intently. Once 
 more the sound of her name reached her, this time slightly 
 louder than before, though ever faint and feeble. 
 
 Her heart beat wildly, and a thrill passed through her : 
 for she felt instinctively that the barrier shutting out 
 the Unseen World was again being slowly withdrawn. So 
 she waited and watched in silence and patience, and 
 after a long time it seemed to her that a dim and shadowy 
 figure, undistinguishable in detail or outline, crossed 
 the room, paused, groped about, and came to the work- 
 table and bent over it. It grew distincter, but Tamar 
 
THE JEWEL GHOST 17i 
 
 closed her eyes, unable to bear a further strain of con- 
 centration. When she opened them, she saw standing 
 before her the beautiful Presence whom she had gazed 
 upon a few weeks previously in the old Manor House. 
 But now the lady wore no jewels : no emerald necklace, 
 no cross, no ring. She raised her left hand and pointed 
 to her neck, her breast, her right hand, and then, with 
 that same charming smile which Tamar had noticed 
 before, she pointed to the emeralds lying on the table. 
 And at the same time Tamar's own words echoed back 
 to her : 
 
 " The same emeralds, velvety and without flaws" 
 
 Tamar sprang to her feet. 
 
 " Yes, yes," she cried with a rapture which had some- 
 thing solemn and reverent in it, " the same emeralds 
 the most beautiful emeralds I have ever seen in my 
 life." 
 
 The vision faded and was gone. Tamar stood for a 
 long time, motionless and tense, with her arms stretched 
 out as she had thrown them forward in that moment of 
 eagerness and enthusiasm. 
 
 She was recalled to outer circumstances by the double 
 knock of the postman at the shop door, and when she 
 did not answer, by a further summons, which succeeded 
 in making her pay attention. 
 
 She had to sign for a registered packet, which she put 
 in a drawer. But there was another letter which was 
 addressed in an uneducated handwriting; and this she 
 opened. She turned it over and saw that it was signed 
 R. Jenkins. It ran thus : " Madam, plese come to 
 my mistress she is verry feable she spekes of you allways 
 plese come yours respecfully R. Jenkins." 
 
 Nothing else but that. Not a single word of explan- 
 ation as to whether Mrs. Bracebridge herself had told 
 him to write, or whether he had taken the matter into 
 his own hands out of faithful concern for his old mistress's 
 welfare. 
 
 And, in any case, why should she go ? What was 
 that old woman to her ? Why should she be called 
 upon to leave her business and all her own affairs and 
 
172 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 have the expense and trouble of the journey to Dorset- 
 shire for the sake of gratifying a stranger ? Perhaps 
 not even gratifying her. She would be far more likely 
 to say : "I never sent for you. What have you come 
 for ? Don't think for a moment that you will get a fee 
 out of me. No one is worth two fees." 
 
 Tamar heard her say these very words, and she laughed. 
 The remembrance of her visit swept over her, and the 
 whole scene was conjured up for her : the old Manor 
 House, proud and dreary in its isolation : the feeble old 
 woman, with her bright eyes and mocking manner, a 
 rival in rudeness and in jewel worship : and that aged 
 retainer, frail and tottering himself, on whose trembling 
 arm she had to lean for support, probably because no 
 one else would bear with her. 
 
 A sudden longing carne over Tamar to go to her ; and 
 the more she thought of her, the more she desired to see 
 her and do something or other to give her pleasure. Yes, 
 she would go and would fulfil her promise to show the 
 old lady some of her own treasures. It would not hurt 
 her to take a few in her pocket ; and it would be stimu- 
 lating to both of them to have a battle royal over the 
 merits or faults of, say, those very curious rubies lately 
 bought from the Austrian ambassador, or that amazing 
 black pearl, or those cornflower-blue sapphires on which 
 she set great store. Tamar got up to take them out of 
 the safe, but as she was handling the rubies, she stopped 
 short and turned to the table on which the emeralds 
 lay. She put the rubies slowly back and closed the safe. 
 
 " If I take her anything, it should be the emeralds," 
 she said aloud. 
 
 " No, I can't take them," she said, shaking her head. 
 (t If she sees them, she will want them." 
 
 She opened the safe again. 
 
 " I will take instead the rubies, the sapphires, and 
 the black pearls, all of them," she said. " She would 
 want the emeralds fiercely. She can't have them." 
 
 She began to argue with herself. 
 
 " It is not any concern of mine if her collection is incom- 
 plete. What do I care ? " she asked. 
 
THE JEWEL GHOST 173 
 
 But an inner voice answered : 
 
 ' You know perfectly well those emeralds belong there." 
 
 '' They were given to me," Tamar remonstrated. 
 
 " You know perfectly well they belong there," the 
 inner voice said. " You ought to give the old woman 
 the chance of buying them back." 
 
 " Never," Tamar said defiantly. " Never." 
 
 " At a handsome profit," the inner voice added. 
 
 " No, not even at that," Tamar replied. " They are 
 mine, and I shall keep them. If the old woman has 
 hungered for them all her life, she can just go on hungering 
 to the end. She is nothing to me." 
 
 " She is something to you," the inner voice said. " And 
 you know it. She is a comrade. She and you worship 
 at the same shrine. If her adoration falls a little short 
 of yours, it is only due to circumstances. You must 
 treat her as a true comrade, and let her see those emeralds." 
 
 " No," Tamar said stubbornly. 
 
 " And buy them if she wants to do so," the voice added 
 ruthlessly. 
 
 "No, no," Tamar said with fierceness. "No, no. 
 Never, never. That ends it." 
 
 But it did not end it ; for all through that long night 
 Tamar wrestled with herself, sleeping and waking. She 
 was pursued by the Presence of that eighteenth-century 
 lady, no longer smiling, but menacing. Emeralds floated 
 before her, chased away by rubies , cornflower-blue sapphires , 
 and black pearls. Thousands of aged retainers implored 
 her on their knees to yield up those emeralds, and a chorus 
 of voices told her to treat the old woman generously 
 as a true comrade of the spirit ; and another chorus 
 warned her against being a weak fool, and exhorted her 
 to cling on to her treasure and let no one have it, and 
 certainly not that arrogant and worthless old woman, 
 whose course in any case was almost run. In all the 
 tumult of action and sound, only Mrs. Bracebridge herself 
 was passive and silent. She appeared throughout a 
 proud, detached personage, unconcerned with the results 
 of the contest, but hugely amused by the havoc she was 
 causing. She merely bent forward on her black cane, 
 
174 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 and in this favourite attitude surveyed the crowded arena 
 with eyes which were brighter than diamonds and which 
 sparkled with mischief. She was, in fact, by reason 
 of her calmness and quiet mirth, an immense comfort to 
 poor Tamar's distraught brain. Although she did not 
 speak a word, she seemed to be saying the whole time : 
 " Well, really, this is very funny, and in spite of Jenkins, 
 I shall laugh as much as I please." 
 
 Tamar woke up with a laugh. 
 
 " I shall go and see her," she said. " And I shall take 
 the emeralds as well as the rubies, the black pearls and 
 the sapphires." 
 
 VI 
 
 MANY conflicting thoughts surged in Tamar's mind during 
 her journey to Dorsetshire, and once or twice she nearly 
 made the decision to show only the rubies and sapphires 
 and black pearls, and not the emeralds. But the long 
 struggle ended in a triumph for the more generous part 
 of T. Scott's nature ; and she resolved not only to produce 
 the emeralds, but also to give the old lady the chance 
 of buying them and thus completing the collection and 
 restoring what she considered to be the family honour. 
 
 " I must, of course, sell them at a considerable profit," 
 Tamar reflected. " But not too considerable." 
 
 But even then Tamar was not making a light sacrifice, 
 since no profit could compensate her for the loss of the 
 emeralds which had come to her so strangely, and which 
 even Bramfield had said belonged in some mysterious 
 way to her, and her only. She passed through real suffering 
 when she looked at them for the last time, and knew 
 that very soon they would be hers no more, and that all 
 that would be left to her, would be the memory of their 
 marvellous colour and quality. But something stronger 
 than her worship of precious stones urged her to relinquish 
 her own right to them ; and her sacrifice, though reluctant, 
 was not grudging and mean. Indeed she already found 
 herself counting on the pleasure of seeing the old woman's 
 surprise and delight. 
 
THE JEWEL GHOST 175 
 
 " Of course she'll be rude and scornful at first," Tamar 
 reflected with a smile. " But I understand that. I 
 should be the same." 
 
 She arrived at the Manor House and rang the bell. 
 Jenkins appeared after some time, and was greatly stirred 
 when he saw her. He put his finger to his lips, looked 
 first in this direction and then in that, and having satisfied 
 himself that Keturah was not within hearing, said in his 
 cracked voice : 
 
 " Don't tell her I asked you to come. She'd be very 
 angry, and she has no strength to be angry with. She 
 is very feeble very, very feeble." 
 
 He shook his head gravely as he spoke, and there were 
 tears in his eyes. 
 
 " I understand," Tamar said kindly. " She shall 
 think I have come, as I promised, to show her some of 
 my jewels." 
 
 The old fellow's face brightened, and he was on the 
 point of leaving Tamar to wait in the hall, when he changed 
 his mind and signed to her to follow him upstairs. It 
 was again obvious that he did not trust her, and did not 
 wish to have her out of his sight. He left her standing 
 outside Mrs. Bracebridge's boudoir, and disappeared 
 into the room. He returned in a minute or two, with 
 the ghost of a smile on his face and the ghost of an apology 
 in his manner. 
 
 " I was to make sure that you didn't want a second 
 fee," he said, not looking at Tamar. 
 
 Tamar smiled, and said : 
 
 " Tell your mistress I've accepted the fact that no 
 one is worth a second fee." 
 
 Jenkins retreated, chuckling a little, and soon beckoned 
 her into the boudoir. He held the door open for her 
 to pass in, and then withdrew, to take up his guard, as 
 ever, outside, within call and within reach. He was 
 evidently satisfied with the success of his secret planning, 
 and in leaving, glanced at Tamar with some slight degree 
 of approval and confidence. 
 
 Tamar approached the couch where the old lady lay 
 wrapped up in innumerable shawls and rugs. She looked 
 
176 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 much older and thinner than a few weeks ago, and her 
 eyes had lost their extraordinary brightness. But a 
 spark of mischief came into them directly she saw Tamar, 
 and a slight rallying into her manner. 
 
 " Ah," she said, " so you've come, and as I understand 
 clearly, without expecting a fee. Well, I don't at all 
 object to seeing you. I rather like it. You can sit down." 
 
 " Thank you," Tamar said submissively, and she drew 
 a chair to the side of the couch. 
 
 " I want to show you some stones and ask your advice," 
 Tamar began. 
 
 " So you want my advice," old Mrs. Bracebridge said. 
 " No one has ever wanted my advice. It's most stimu- 
 lating. And at my time of life. Most remarkable. Most 
 diverting." 
 
 She laughed quietly, and seemed immensely amused 
 by the idea. 
 
 She watched Tamar in silence for a few moments, and 
 then went on : 
 
 " You remember you said something absurd about 
 ' the larger vision.' That amused me, too. I've laughed 
 and laughed over that until poor Jenkins has implored 
 me to keep still. Jenkins is always ludicrously anxious 
 about me. He insisted on my lying down wrapped up 
 in this compact and uncomfortable fashion. Well, why 
 don't you speak and show what you've brought, instead 
 of staring at me as though I were a mummy. I may 
 look like one, but I'm not one yet." 
 
 Tamar in answer produced from her pocket a small 
 parcel, which she began to unfasten slowly. She planned 
 to show first the rubies, then the black pearls, then the 
 sapphires and finally the emeralds. But she could not 
 carry out her scheme because, by mistake, she opened 
 the packet containing the emeralds, and before she could 
 cover them over, Mrs. Bracebridge's quick eyes had seen 
 those glittering stones. 
 
 " Emeralds ! " she exclaimed, raising herself suddenly 
 from the couch. " Emeralds ! Let me have them." 
 
 She snatched them convulsively from Tamar's lap, 
 examined the necklace, the cross, the ring, uttered a 
 
THE JEWEL GHOST 177 
 
 low cry of rapture and triumph, and clutched them to 
 her heart. 
 
 " The same emeralds," she cried. " At last, at last 
 I have them at last they are mine." 
 
 She sank back on her pillow, gave a moan of pain, 
 closed her eyes, and still clutching her treasures, passed 
 from this life. 
 
 12 
 
THE HOLIDAY 
 
 IT was curious how Marion Silverhowe hankered after 
 that little moorland hamlet in Yorkshire at the back 
 of beyond. She had found it a year ago whilst she had 
 been on the tramp with one of her friends, like herself a 
 class teacher at one of the large London High Schools. 
 And to-night, when she had to make a decision about a 
 most tempting invitation to Scotland, the little lonely 
 place and the people she had met there put in such an 
 insistent claim that she resolved at least to begin her 
 holiday in that neighbourhood. 
 
 She saw the scene before her now. Moors rose in billows 
 all around. In the distance were the austere fells. A 
 wild ravine pierced the hills near by, and at the foot of one 
 of them lay the tiny hamlet, in the days of hand-loom 
 weaving probably a prosperous place, but now consisting 
 only of a few scattered cottages, a fine old ruined hall, 
 with noble mullioned windows still intact, a school- house, 
 small but beautifully proportioned, proud also with its 
 mullioned, diamond-paned windows, and a large and curious 
 building dated 1701, a Foundation Hospital for Indigent 
 Women, the gift of a pious man of the past. A stream 
 ran through the village, and blasted of no less than three 
 bridges, one of modern structure, another for pack-horses 
 and foot passengers, and the third, of undressed stone, 
 worn by centuries of use. Marion was lingering by it 
 whilst her friend sketched it, when sounds of laughter 
 from the school-house reached her. And she had been 
 impelled to peep through the half-open door, and steal a 
 
 179 
 
180 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 glance at the class of little boys and girls and their teacher 
 making merriment together. 
 
 The teacher was more than middle-aged, and belonged 
 to a past type of schoolmistress, probably not too much 
 burdened with the weight of wisdom ; but she had a charm- 
 ing expression of countenance, and it was obvious that 
 there was an excellent understanding between herself and 
 her pupils, some of whose faces were extraordinarily eager 
 and alert. 
 
 The children had caught sight of the stranger and fixed 
 their eyes steadily on her. Little Tom Prior, whose blunder 
 in his reading had caused the united outburst of mirth, 
 stopped suddenly. 
 
 " Go on, Tommy, and try and do better," said the 
 schoolmistress indulgently. 
 
 But all he did, was to stare at the door, and then point 
 towards it with one fat finger, which he then put in his 
 mouth and sucked. 
 
 The schoolmistress turned round to see what momentous 
 happening was distracting the attention of her scholars, 
 and at once advanced towards Marion, not with the frown 
 of reprimand which the outsider knew full well she deserved, 
 but with a smile of welcome. 
 
 " Please forgive me," Marion said. " I could not resist 
 peeping in. I'm a teacher myself." 
 
 " Do come in," the schoolmistress said. " We do love 
 to see a visitor sometimes in this lonely place don't we, 
 children ? " 
 
 " Yes, teacher ! " they answered in chorus. 
 
 "It relieves the great strain on our brains," said the 
 schoolmistress, with a twinkle in her eye. 
 
 Marion laughed, and entered gladly. She had an easy 
 way with children, and at once made friends with these 
 little strangers. There were twelve, and they came from 
 distant parts of the moorland, from over the hills and far 
 away, through snow and sleet and slush and rain and wind, 
 until spring and summer gave them the promise and the 
 fulfilment of more genial conditions for their journeyings 
 in search of wisdom. The wonder was that they ever 
 survived the whiter ordeal. But they survived and thrived, 
 
THE HOLIDAY 181 
 
 and perhaps even picked up a crumb of knowledge here 
 and there. 
 
 She was shown their copy-books and drawing-books. 
 With due enthusiasm she praised weird pictures of pigs 
 and cows and horses and trees " done from memory." 
 And she was introduced to what the teacher called the 
 school library, a pitiful collection of about hah* a dozen 
 well-worn children's books of ancient date. Marion thought 
 it tragic that in these days of book wealth, no gleanings 
 even should have reached this solitary little outpost. 
 She promised to send some nice new volumes, and asked 
 the children what they would like. 
 
 " I'd like a book about the fairies," said Gertie. 
 
 " I'd like a book about the Red Indians," said Billie. 
 
 " I'd like a story about lions and tigers," said Tommy 
 Prior ; " them what eats you up." 
 
 And Marion laughed, and said she would remember all 
 their tastes. 
 
 They did not want to part from their new friend, but 
 followed her and the schoolmistress into the tiny chapel 
 attached to the school, and lingered around until a pretty 
 little old lady came in view : when they made a dash at 
 her, and nearly overwhelmed her with demonstrative 
 greeting. 
 
 " Do you see that old lady ? " the schoolmistress said 
 to Marion. " Doesn't she look a sweet old thing ? And 
 that's what she is. The children and I love her dearly. 
 She is one of the ten old ladies living in the Foundation 
 Hospice yonder. I think she must have seen prosperous 
 days in the past. But she has lived in the neighbourhood 
 for many years, or else she would not have been admitted 
 to the Foundation. She comes to read poetry to the 
 children, or to tell them stories, or talk to them about 
 interesting things. She has a ready answer to all their 
 questions. Sometimes I envy her a little and wish I knew 
 as much. But I am so glad for their sakes that we have 
 her. And glad for my own sake, too, of course. We 
 simply shouldn't know how to get on without Mrs. Glen- 
 rose. Will you come and speak to her ? " 
 
 Marion saw that the little lady was about seventy years 
 
182 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 or so. She was distinctly dainty, though shabby, and 
 wore her clothes with that mysterious grace known only 
 to the favoured few. Her face was delicate and refined, 
 and her bearing had a gracious dignity combined with an 
 engaging ease. She was evidently quite a personality ; 
 and it struck Marion at the time that she would be unfor- 
 gettable. Whoever she was, and whatever life had done 
 to her, it was obvious that she had retained some light- 
 heartedness and sense of fun. Humour played round her 
 sensitive mouth, and her bright eyes had a lingering light 
 of mischief in them. 
 
 " Mrs. Glenrose," the schoolmistress said, " this lady 
 is going to send us some new books. Isn't it good of her ? " 
 
 " What delightful news," said Mrs. Glenrose, smiling 
 at Marion. " Do you know, I woke up this morning feeling 
 quite sure that something pleasant was going to happen. 
 And I found that my rose-tree was in bloom and now 
 we hear about new books. What more could one want, 
 I wonder ? " 
 
 They took Marion to see the old ruined Hall, and were 
 followed by the children and by Tim, a strange-looking 
 dwarf who was accompanied in his strolls by a bodyguard 
 of eight cackling geese. Afterwards they went to the 
 Foundation Hospice, the haven of ten old ladies in their 
 declining years. 
 
 Marion greeted two or three of them who were lingering 
 in the paved courtyard, and sat down for a few minutes 
 in Mrs. Glenrose's kitchen, which, poor and humble though 
 it was, bore signs of refined taste. One or two pretty 
 landscapes, some books, and several carefully tended ferns 
 proclaimed the owner to be a lover of sweet things. Marion 
 took up a book by hazard. It was the " Golden Treasury 
 of Verse," and it was open at Wordsworth's " Ode to 
 Immortality." 
 
 " You love poetry," she said, turning to Mrs. Glenrose. 
 
 " Yes, I love poetry," the old lady answered dreamily. 
 " And that ode is one of my favourites." 
 
 She murmured half to herself: 
 
 " The splendour in the grass, the glory in the flower, 
 the innocent brightness of a new-born day, the obstinate 
 
THE HOLIDAY 183 
 
 questionings, the immortal sea which brought us hither 
 ah, how beautiful all the language is." 
 
 Marion came away arrested, mystified. On her return 
 to London she sent books to the school library and volumes 
 of poems to the little old lady. And probably nothing in 
 recent years pleased her so much as the acknowledgments 
 
 from the schoolmistress of H with the signatures of 
 
 all the scholars, and a letter from Mrs. Glenrose in the 
 fine pointed Italian handwriting of a bygone time. They 
 all dwelt in her memory. They became inextricably 
 woven into her love of the moors. She thought of the 
 heather and peat bogs and the wail of the curlew, and the 
 wonderful clouds racing over the wild moorland, and the 
 children, and the mists veiling the rugged fells, and the 
 rills and streams and deep glens, and the teacher who 
 loved her flock, and the mystery of the mountains in the 
 fading light, and the little old lady from a fairy book 
 masquerading as a Foundation pensioner, and the cattle 
 grazing on the uplands, and the cattle-barns dotted here 
 and there, and the shepherds' huts, and the rush of the 
 pure, fresh air, magical in its healing power. 
 
 These were the memories which crowded on her and 
 made her decide to answer to their call. 
 
 That night, probably because she was steeped in their 
 remembrance, she dreamed of all the delights which the 
 moors had to offer her ; and strangely enough also of her 
 father who had been dead for three or four years. It 
 was the first time she had ever dreamed of that stern, 
 grave man who had always been good and gentle to her, 
 however forbidding and reserved to the outside world. 
 Her mother she had never known. She had died soon 
 after Marion's birth, and he never spoke of her ; and there 
 were no lingering traces of her personality in the home : 
 no portrait, no photograph, no little possession of hers 
 surviving from her past. When Marion grew up and asked 
 for details about her unknown parent, she learnt nothing 
 save that her mother had been an orphan, fair and lovely 
 as a flower, bright in her nature and not meant for death. 
 Yet he had lost her. And it seemed that he had never 
 recovered from the blow he had sustained. 
 
184 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 " I cannot speak of her," he had said almost imploringly. 
 " One has to live one's life in one's own way. Be merciful, 
 my child, and leave me alone with my memory of her." 
 
 But after his death, she found amongst his papers a 
 daguerreotype of himself as a young man and his bride. 
 She hung it over her bed. And when she dreamed of her 
 father that night, she saw him as he was in that faded 
 portrait, young, grave-looking even then, and with a quiet 
 nobility of countenance which Time did not destroy. 
 
 n 
 
 IN a day or two Marion went off to Yorkshire, arrived 
 at her destination in Wharfedale, and put up at the small 
 
 inn in C , where she and her friend had sojourned the 
 
 previous year. The next morning she tramped over the 
 
 moors to the hamlet of H , and scarcely noticed the 
 
 six miles stretch : so fresh and uplif ting was the air on this 
 perfect May day. The lights were soft and caressing on 
 the distant fells, and the belt of trees on the lower slopes 
 was only barely touched with delicate green tints. The 
 highest peaks showed even a shimmering of snow. The 
 dove-coloured clouds racing over the moorland displayed 
 an ever-changing scene of wonder of which summer in its 
 more garish beauty could never boast. The peat-marshes 
 were sending out their salt-laden breath, and the heather, 
 not yet in bloom, was nevertheless preparing to receive 
 and bestow its priceless purple jewels for all the world 
 to behold in unmatched splendour. 
 
 Marion stepped down into the vale, and arrived at the 
 little village with its stream and bridges. She passed 
 the ruined Hall, and the Foundation Hospice, and did not 
 pause a moment until she had reached the school- house. 
 
 She found, to her great disappointment, that it was 
 closed. There were no signs of the children, no sounds 
 of life in the precincts. She turned away feeling sad and 
 disheartened : for she had been imagining to herself the 
 pleasantness of a surprise visit, and anticipating a warm 
 welcome both from children and teacher. Then across 
 
THE HOLIDAY 185 
 
 the pack-horse bridge Tim, the queer dwarf, came waddling, 
 followed by the geese, which hissed menacingly at her. 
 
 He drove them off as she advanced to meet him. He 
 remembered her at once, for it was only on rare occasions 
 that strangers came to H . 
 
 " You was here before," he said. " You was speaking 
 with the schoolmistress." 
 
 " Yes," she answered, smiling kindly at him. " Tell 
 me, is the school closed ? " 
 
 " Teacher be dead," he answered. " They be a-burying 
 she to-day up to Settle." 
 
 " Dead ! " Marion repeated. " Dead ! " 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " She be dead of the influenzy same as my old mother 
 died from three years agone," he said. 
 
 He retreated across the bridge with his strange com- 
 panions, muttering to himself : 
 
 " Three years agone, three years agone." 
 
 Marion stood looking after him, a chill at her heart. 
 The schoolmistress dead, her quiet life over, her work in 
 this lonely place done, her love for the children, her pride 
 in the growth of the treasured library, her regrets over her 
 own shortcomings things of the past. Words from her 
 last letter sent in acknowledgment of a further instalment 
 of books, stole back to Marion's remembrance : 
 
 " If we go on like this, our library will become the pride 
 of the moors, as well as the pride of our hearts. How well 
 you know what to send to supply our needs. How I wish 
 I were like you, and could give the children what you 
 could give of stored knowledge and bright interest. For 
 they ought to have the best. All children ought to have 
 the best. When you come to us again and I know you 
 will come I want you one day to give them a lesson. Will 
 you ? And I shall sit by and watch their little faces brighten 
 up with a light which I could never kindle, no matter how 
 much I tried." 
 
 Just three weeks ago that letter had come from her. 
 And now she was dead. 
 
 Then Marion, half in a dream, wended her way to the 
 Foundation Hospice. An old woman was brushing some 
 
186 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 clothes in the courtyard, and another was carrying some 
 flowers into the chapel which divided the two wings of 
 the building. Marion greeted them both, and was turning 
 off to the right-hand side to find Mrs. Glenrose's quarters 
 at No. 8, when the old dame who was brushing the clothes 
 said : 
 
 " I live at Number 3, on the left. Perhaps you be 
 a-coming to see me, too ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, of course, if you wish it," Marion answered. 
 " I should like to come." 
 
 " Visitors be scarce here," the old dame said. " School- 
 mistress often looked in. And now she be gone. She 
 be buried to-day up to Settle." 
 
 She shook her head gravely, gave a final shake to the 
 clothes, dropped her brush, which Marion stooped to pick 
 up, and disappeared into her own domain. 
 
 Marion remembered that the schoolmistress had told 
 her that the old women were jealous and hurt if visitors 
 did not call in at all the ten houses ; and she forthwith 
 made up her mind to acquit herself in the manner expected 
 of her. Then she knocked at No. 8, and a voice bade her 
 come in. 
 
 Mrs. Glenrose was seated in a low chair drawn up to 
 the fireplace. She had a book in her lap, but she was not 
 reading it ; and her knitting had fallen down on the floor, 
 and had been annexed by a kitten which had wantonly 
 unravelled it, and then, apparently worn out with its 
 antics, had gone to sleep embracing the remainder. 
 
 Mrs. Glenrose looked up ; and Marion saw that she had 
 been weeping. She saw that the book in her lap was the 
 Church Service, and that it was open at the Burial of the 
 Dead. She knew Marion at once, smiled through her 
 tears, and held out her hand. 
 
 " The schoolmistress is dead," she said in a broken voice. 
 
 " I have heard," Marion said gently. 
 
 " Yes, she is dead," Mrs. Glenrose repeated. " I was 
 trying to read the Service, but I cannot. Perhaps you 
 could. We have talked of you so often, she and I." 
 
 Marion took the book and read the sad and beautiful 
 words, over which so many hearts have been wrung whilst 
 
THE HOLIDAY 187 
 
 the quiet dead have waited on their biers, and then have 
 been lowered into their last resting-place. 
 
 The little old lady did not weep now. She leaned back 
 in her chair, her hands folded together, and her eyes closed. 
 When the end came, there was a long silence. She herself 
 broke it. 
 
 " She was my only friend," she murmured. " And 
 she was generous -hearted. She was not jealous that I 
 loved the children ; she let me share them with her. She 
 has gone and they have gone, too. In due time another 
 schoolmistress will come, but she will never let me share 
 them with her." 
 
 " Yes, yes, she will," Marion urged. " Be comforted. 
 You have not lost the children. They will want you all 
 the more." 
 
 " Little bits of poetry, fairy stories, little pieces about 
 Nature, all sorts of things she let me tell them," Mrs. 
 Glenrose went on. " She liked to hear them, too. She 
 didn't despise the old Foundation woman. A new school- 
 mistress will be quite different, I know. When my friend 
 was ill before, a stranger was sent to take her place ; and 
 when I went to the school-house, she told me there was 
 no need for me to come. And it will be the same again. 
 I have lost her and I have lost them." 
 
 She was silent for several minutes, and Marion waited 
 and stared fixedly on the ground. She felt that she would 
 have given worlds to comfort the sorrowing old lady ; and 
 all she could do, was to offer a passive respect to the grief 
 which was beyond her power to assuage. 
 
 At last Mrs. Glenrose continued : 
 
 " There are always certain things in our circumstances 
 which keep us going. Her kindness and appreciation 
 kept me going here. I depended on them. And now I 
 shall have to stand alone. Yet that is what it always 
 comes to in life, sooner or later. One has to stand alone." 
 
 She raised herself on her chair and went to the little 
 bookcase, where some of the books Marion had sent to 
 her were arranged together on the top shelf . She turned to 
 Marion and pointed to them with a pathetic smile on her face. 
 
 " I assure you," she said, " you made us very happy 
 
188 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 with the books you sent to her and me and the children. 
 I cannot tell you what delight you gave us. And she was 
 so proud that you did not forget us. No books sent out 
 into the world have ever been more welcome. Only those 
 who love books and have had to do without them, can know 
 the heartache at being deprived of them, and the real 
 ecstasy of once more owning a few of the choicest. It 
 was a good day for us, my dear, when you came tramping 
 across the moors to this out of the way, out of the world 
 corner of the globe. 
 
 A question rose to Marion's lips, but she checked it. She 
 had no right to inquire how this refined, sensitive, educated 
 old lady chanced to be stranded in a Foundation Hospice 
 for indigent women in a remote hamlet of Yorkshire. But 
 she knew that there must needs have been a tale and a 
 tragedy. And now there was this added sorrow of a 
 friend and companion lost for ever, doubly precious also 
 in a life barren of outside interest. 
 
 It was borne in on her that she had had a definite call 
 to comfort this old woman in her grief and loneliness ; and 
 it flashed through her mind as an inspiration, that the| best 
 way of doing it would be to offer to carry on the school 
 until the end of the term, and have the fairy stories and 
 adventure tales and bits of poetry and little pieces about 
 Nature continued in exactly the same way as in the tune 
 of the schoolmistress. 
 
 " Why not, why not ? " she thought. " Moreover, if I 
 could bring it about, I should be fulfilling the very wishes 
 of the schoolmistress expressed in her last letter. Why 
 shouldn't I " 
 
 She did bring it about. Her offer was gladly accepted 
 by the authorities : her high degrees, her standing in the 
 educational world, and the difficulty of securing anyone 
 willing to go to that lonely moorland outpost breaking 
 down at once the barriers of red tape. And she was able 
 to write to her astonished friends in London, that she was 
 acting as elementary teacher in the school which had 
 haunted her, filling in a breach, interested in her unexpected 
 work, and half-believing that she had discovered a genius 
 in a naughty, grubby little boy called Tommy Prior. 
 
THE HOLIDAY 189 
 
 " Who can tell," she wrote ; " perhaps one day he may 
 be a Prime Minister or Lord Chief Justice or Chancellor 
 of the Exchequer." 
 
 rn 
 
 AND the door was not closed on Mrs. Glenrose. She 
 shared the children with the new temporary schoolmistress, 
 and came in to read poetry and stories, sometimes the old 
 poems and tales which the children had always loved, 
 and often new ones from the fine fresh books now belonging 
 to the school library. The pang of her grief lost some of 
 its first acuteness ; and Marion had the joy of knowing 
 that she had contributed to the healing of the wound. 
 
 She herself was extraordinarily successful with her 
 little moorland scholars. She was fond of children, and 
 she knew well how to interest their minds, minister to 
 the eagerness of the eager ones, and tone up the reluctance 
 of the slackers. The words of the teacher who had passed 
 away, came true. The faces of the pupils brightened up 
 with a light which she would never have been able to 
 kindle. If she knew, her generous spirit must have been 
 immeasurably glad and grateful. 
 
 She was not being forgotten. Wreaths were woven 
 for her grave, a portrait of her was hung on the wall 
 near the blackboard, and her name was not banished 
 to an unnatural silence. 
 
 Marion, who had always loved the moors, grew into 
 the very life of the countryside, and roamed the expanses, 
 sometimes alone, and often with the children, who took 
 her to their favourite hunting grounds, up hill and down 
 dale, alongside the shining river over the stepping-stones, 
 through the emerald meadows, near the mountain-rills 
 and ghylls where the fairies dwell, over the bracken and 
 heather, past the great boulders and the lonely shepherds' 
 huts and the cattle barns on the uplands. She gathered 
 the wild roses, and watched the heather beginning to wear 
 its wondrous finery of jewels, and the fells donning or 
 doffing their veil of mystery, and the sheep changing 
 
190 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 pasture and the cattle winding their way home in a long, 
 thin line, and the circling and flight of the wild birds, and 
 the play of the clouds, now mild and gentle, now head- 
 long and tumultuous. Her days were full and busy, 
 with school duties and Nature's summoning, and her 
 exacting old ladies in the Foundation Hospice, who had 
 to be safeguarded from jealousy, and Tim, the dwarf, 
 who demanded quietly but definitely his share of sym- 
 pathy and attention both for himself and his geese. Marion, 
 who gave easily and without effort, met all the claims, 
 and enjoyed each day more than the last. 
 
 So the happy weeks passed by, the term came to an 
 end, the school was closed, and it was the last evening 
 of Marion's sojourn in Yorkshire. She was spending it 
 with Mrs. Glenrose. Many and many an hour these two 
 had passed together, sometimes in the tiny kitchen of 
 No. 8 at the Foundation Hospice, or in the school-house, 
 or else quietly strolling along the lane which led up to 
 the moor. They had grown to love each other, and they 
 were parting with a sad reluctance which each guessed 
 at without words. Marion was strangely drawn to her, 
 though always mystified by her. Her little outbursts 
 of fun and light-heartedness, a certain gay insouciance 
 of character, a bravely stoical attitude towards life and 
 circumstance gave her a charm which was irresistible, 
 and which partially but not wholly obscured some traces 
 of selfishness. And her love of poetry and of all literature 
 made her, of course, an interesting companion with 
 whom it was possible to talk about things that mattered. 
 She was, in fact, a personage, all the more attractive because 
 she was baffling. Baffling also were her prettiness and 
 dainty grace, which poverty and humble condition had 
 not been able to suppress. 
 
 But on this last night of their comradeship she herself 
 raised the veil of mystery which surrounded her. She 
 put down her knitting, and said quite simply, without any 
 preliminaries : 
 
 " Dear young friend, I have given you no confidences, 
 and I am grateful to you that you have never asked for 
 them. But you would not have been likely to do so. You 
 
THE HOLIDAY 191 
 
 are too kind and fine for any such intrusiveness. Yet 
 you must often have wondered why anyone of my de- 
 scription should be ending her days as a pensioner in this 
 Foundation Hospice ? " 
 
 " I cannot say I have not wondered," Marion answered, 
 flushing a little from shyness. " But one knows, of course, 
 that life brings many changes." 
 
 " You have taken me just as you found me," Mrs. 
 Glenrose went on. " Never a word have you spoken, 
 never a sign of curiosity have you shown, never a faintest 
 suspicion of patronage. It has been a case of equal terms, 
 equal companionship, equal dignity of intercourse. You 
 will never know what this has meant to my pride. And 
 you leave behind you unforgettable memories for which 
 I shall always be giving you thanks. Your holiday is 
 over. You will go your own way again, and take up your 
 life, which will be all the happier because of the happiness 
 you have brought to me, and the consolation in a time of 
 great distress, and because of the good work you have 
 done in this little hamlet which you rightly call the back 
 of beyond. God bless you, my child." 
 
 She rested her hand for one minute on Marion's head. 
 
 " I am not going to tell you the whole of my life's story," 
 she continued. " It is not worth telling. Only this much 
 I want to say to you. You have seen my love for little 
 children, haven't you ? Well, I think that has grown 
 and grown from heartache. Forty years ago this very 
 day, I abandoned my own little one, forsook home and 
 husband and helpless babe forty years ago. Yes, I 
 abandoned them, without a thought, without a regret." 
 
 She paused, and then went on : 
 
 " I cannot truthfully say, my dear, that I have spent 
 those years in sackcloth and ashes. I suppose that is 
 what I ought to be able to say. But I cannot. I have 
 really enjoyed my life. I believe I have enjoyed it far 
 more than if I had stayed on dutifully with husband and 
 child in a well-appointed home with every comfort and 
 luxury and securely sheltered from the outside world. 
 I have lived not grazed. And I have worked. There 
 came a time when I had to work, and for twenty years 
 
192 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 and more I was in a large tailoring firm in Liverpool, 
 earning honourable money." 
 
 Marion did not look up. She was thinking that there 
 had been moments when she had almost guessed that 
 this would be the story of the little old lady. 
 
 " I never saw husband or child again," Mrs. Glenrose 
 added. " I never wanted to see him. He bored me. And 
 I sometimes think that being bored is the greatest danger 
 that hie has to offer. Even now, after all these years, 
 I could shudder to remember how my zest died down in 
 his company. If he had wished to have me back, a thou- 
 sand times I should have said ' no.' But he made no such 
 offer. The divorce went through quietly and with no 
 anger on his part. But he did say one thing which cut 
 me to the heart because it was true. He said that if I 
 had abandoned only him, he could have understood, but 
 that a woman who abandoned her own little child was 
 outside the pale of love. Hard words but true. Don't 
 you think so ? " 
 
 Marion's face twitched. She did not answer that 
 question. Instead she asked one herself. 
 
 " Have you never wanted to see your child your son 
 or daughter which was it, I wonder ? " she said very 
 gently. 
 
 " There have been times in the past when I have longed 
 to see what my wee girl had grown into," Mrs. Glenrose 
 answered. " But I got over that. One does get over 
 things, though one may pretend not to." 
 
 " And you never long, now that you are old and alone 
 and would perhaps be glad of the affection she might 
 have to offer ? " asked Marion. 
 
 The little old lady shook her head. 
 
 " The very last person on earth I should wish to see 
 would be my daughter," she said. " To begin with, I 
 have no right to inflict myself on her, and then I should be 
 horribly uncomfortable in her presence. She would be 
 the same in mine. She might try to work up some affec- 
 tion for me out of pity or duty. I should hate that. But 
 whatever she did, she would be judging me, naturally 
 enough, and I should be feeling guilty and humiliated. 
 
THE HOLIDAY 193 
 
 No, my dear friend, I have no wish to meet her now. I 
 should regard such an event as a calamity, disturbing to 
 my peace of mind and the even tenor of my ways in my 
 old age." 
 
 She added with a smile which had some mischief in it : 
 
 " And, you know, there is always the chance that she 
 might be boring like her father ! She probably would be, 
 since daughters are said to take after their male parents." 
 
 Marion laughed. Criticism and disapproval beat a 
 hasty retreat, and she bent forward and gave the little 
 lady an affectionate hug. 
 
 " You're downright naughty that's what you are ! " 
 she said. 
 
 " Perhaps I am," said Mrs. Glenrose with a soft little 
 laugh. 
 
 " That boring husband of yours did he share your love 
 for poetry and all the sweet things of literature ? " asked 
 Marion. " It would interest me to know." 
 
 " No," Mrs. Glenrose answered emphatically. " He 
 was a dry-as-dust lawyer. The poems that entranced 
 him were moot points in law. Appeals. Higher Court 
 decisions. And the range of his reading was legal history 
 and judicial proceedings. But the, other one for whom I left 
 him ah, he was a poet, one of Nature's singers a wild, 
 beloved, impossible, thrilling, maddening, enthusiastic, 
 gifted, glorious creature. He died in a drunken brawl 
 after after he had tired of me and gone from me." 
 
 Her face lit up as she spoke of him. 
 
 " A glorious creature," she cried. " He was worth 
 while indeed he was ! I thought it then and I think 
 it now." 
 
 Then, with sudden impulse she said: 
 
 " I will show you what I have shown no one else all 
 these long years his photograph, and the portrait also 
 of him who was my husband. I'll show you them because 
 I love and trust you, and because you have been so good 
 to the naughty old Foundation woman." 
 
 She hastened, almost darted to a cupboard, drew out 
 a small tin box, opened it with a key which was suspended 
 round her neck, and with hands trembling from excite- 
 13 
 
194 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 merit took out a small parcel. In her eagerness she broke 
 the thin elastic band confining it, and the papers were 
 scattered on the ground. Marion was going to gather 
 them up, but she waived her off and knelt down herself 
 amongst them. 
 
 " Here is the poet's portrait," she cried, holding it out 
 to Marion. " A wonderful face, isn't it the face of a 
 genius he was a genius if he had lived, the world would 
 have known him for what he was/' 
 
 Marion looked at it in silence. It was indeed a wild, 
 thrilling, inspired, wonderful face. 
 
 " And this was my husband," Mrs. Glenrose said, pick- 
 ing up another picture and holding it out to Marion. 
 " You see he was handsome and fine and noble -looking 
 wasn't he but without fire but he was noble yes, he 
 was noble." 
 
 A cry almost broke from Marion, but she suppressed it 
 with an effort which cost her every bit of strength of brain 
 and body. It was the picture of her father as a young 
 man with his bride the treasured picture which hung 
 over her bed. 
 
 " Yes, he was noble," she repeated gently. 
 
 And without another word she handed it back. 
 
 So the little old lady in the Yorkshire hamlet at the 
 back of beyond never knew that the friend who watched 
 for two years over her welfare, visited her, sent her books, 
 wrote to her, and bent over her when she was dying, was 
 the daughter whom she had abandoned and whom she 
 never wished to see. 
 
THE DISTANT SCENE 
 
 IT was an April night in the Yorkshire village of 
 S . Bitter blew the wind. Old Jonathan Hunt 
 got up from his bench where he had been putting the 
 finishing touches to the back of a violin. He stared at 
 it for a long time, and then nodded his head gravely. 
 
 " Yes," he said aloud, " it's the most beautiful back 
 I have ever made. I have done nothing better than this. 
 This fiddle will be my finest." 
 
 But for once the old fiddle-maker felt no thrill, no ela- 
 tion. For once no pride of skill, joy in creation, enthu- 
 siasm for art upheld him. Twenty-five years and more 
 he had been sustained by the belief that he was 
 working for the generations to come and making for 
 himself a name which, obscure now, would perchance in 
 later days be found in the glorious record of famous luthiers, 
 side by side with Stradivarius, Guarnerius, Amati and all 
 the other honoured dead. It was a large belief which 
 obtruded itself on no one: for Hunt's dreamy, gentle, 
 retiring nature could never have made an aggressive claim 
 nor fought a hostile verdict. Yet its very secrecy fostered 
 its growth. 
 
 And now it had failed him. When he laid aside the 
 beautifully-modelled back, fashioned out of an amazingly 
 fine bit of beechwood, his certainty of its perfection was 
 suddenly devastated by indifference and doubt. The 
 ground on which he had beerr standing securely for half 
 a lifetime fell from under his feet. 
 
 What had he been doing all these years ? Making 
 fiddles which no one would ever play on. Striving to 
 build up a name of which no one would hear. And even 
 
 195 
 
196 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 supposing that by mere chance it would be heard of in 
 the days to come what then ? How could that affect 
 him dead and gone ? Why should people work for the 
 future ? Why should they fix their eyes on the distant 
 scene, and suffer the real things of the present to steal 
 past uncaptured, unheeded ? That was what he had done. 
 Fixed his eyes on the distant scene, pushed aside con- 
 temptuously all the joys of everyday life comradeship, 
 friendship, love. Sacrificed everything to an idea. 
 
 He glanced around at the fiddles lying on shelves, 
 hanging from the old oak beam, cradled in cases, peopling 
 his home, where there had been room for nothing else 
 save these outward and visible signs of the Great Idea. 
 They had been to him sweetheart, wife, children, grand- 
 children, friends. Dearly had he loved them. Great 
 had been his pride in each one of them. Never had they 
 failed him in their meaning and value until now. 
 
 And why now ? Was it that dream last night ? Was 
 it Nancy's voice calling to him out of the past ? He 
 heard it again. He heard her merry laugh and saw her 
 bewitching young face, with its dancing eyes and teasing 
 smile. 
 
 " Why, sure, Jonathan, ye've smartened yerself up 
 mighty fine this May Day. Art going a-courting at 
 last ? " 
 
 " Aye, aye, Nancy," he answered. " I be come to court 
 ye, Nancy Elsden. You be the only woman for me in 
 this world." 
 
 " Then why didn't ye say that before, lad ? " she said. 
 " Many's the chance I've given ye, Jonathan lad, till maid's 
 pride forbade me further. And now it be too late. I be 
 promised to Harry Alcock over to Skipton. A good boy, 
 and one that knows his own mind." 
 
 " Too late ! " he cried. " No, no, Nance don't say 
 it be too late ! " 
 
 " Too late," she repeated softly and still more softly, 
 until her voice had died into silence, and the radiant vision 
 of her grew dimmer, lingered tremulously, faded reluct- 
 antly and was gone from his dream without a trace. 
 But not gone from his life. For he heard her now, saw her 
 
THE DISTANT SCENE 197 
 
 now, fifty years of time receding and making way for the 
 past. 
 
 And a sudden longing seized him to see once more the 
 home where Nance was reared, that distant, isolated farm- 
 house which had stood defying the winds and storms of 
 the wild upland for two hundred years and more. As 
 boy, as lad, as young fellow, he had been there many a 
 time, and he knew the path over the moors well, though 
 it was long ago since he had trodden it. He could almost 
 count the times he had passed that way since Nance 
 had told him that he had come too late to court her too 
 late too late. 
 
 He smiled, wondering at himself. His noble face lit 
 up with a tender radiance. 
 
 " An old man impelled by a memory," he murmured. 
 
 It was a strange thing to want to do. Yet at the moment 
 he wanted to do it above everything else in life. Late 
 though the hour and dim the fading light, go he must and 
 would, over the west moor, down into the dale, through the 
 little remote village with its many ancient bridges, with 
 the long winding dene ribboned with its silver stream, 
 and then up again on the heights, and so on and on over 
 the moorland until he reached Nance's home. 
 
 He locked the workshop door, and as he was turning 
 away, the sound of something falling arrested him. He 
 opened the door and found that one of the fiddles hanging 
 on the wall had broken from its string and crashed to the 
 ground. He glanced at it as one having no concern in its 
 fate, and let it lie there, hurt or unhurt. Yet a few hours 
 earlier he would have handled and tended it as lovingly 
 and anxiously as a mother her sick child. But now his 
 one pervading idea was to seek the moors ; and he shut up 
 the room again and hurried away. 
 
 The desolation of abandonment settled on the workshop, 
 where the fiddle-maker had toiled so many years with an en- 
 thusiasm which had never faltered and a rare skill mellowing 
 to perfection. It seemed like a deserted temple from which 
 the presiding deity had been visibly and invisibly withdrawn. 
 
 The master had gone. The informing spirit had fled. 
 The place was dead. 
 
198 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 The old man passed up the village, turned off into the 
 Roman Road, and thence gained the moorland. The 
 wind blew ; cold and tempestuous clouds were racing over 
 the fells in reckless rivalry. A storm was brewing, but the 
 fiddle-maker took no heed of its warnings. His mind 
 was intent on reaching the gaol for which he had set out ; 
 and wind, rain, snow, hail, thunder, lightning could not 
 have deterred him that evening : for he was under a spell, 
 caught in a net, held in a bondage. 
 
 Only of Nance did he think as he passed over the same 
 ground he had trodden many a time on his way to her 
 home. 
 
 " Aye, lad, but you're clean daft over yon fiddles of 
 your'n," he heard her saying. " Dead bits of fuel, I 
 call they. Here, Jonathan, spare me one or two of them. 
 Logs be scarce up at ours, and I be sick and weary of the 
 smell of peat. Come now this crazy-looking one, Jona- 
 than. Doan't be a-telling me that anyone could bring 
 a sweet sound out of yon crazy affair. But on a fire 
 'twould make a lovely crackle. Now don't ye refuse." 
 
 He laughed at the memory. Never had he taken offence 
 when Nance teased him. No one had known he had 
 scarcely known himself, dreamy, far-away spirit that he 
 was that he had dearly loved her teasing. 
 
 " Well, well, lad," he heard her saying, " and so that 
 be a thing you call a scroll. I calls it just a peg, a plain 
 peg, Jonathan. And it be a plain peg I'm a-wantin' to 
 hang my grand new dress on which Auntie Sally gave 
 me to Christmas. What ? Ye'll not give it me ? Fie, 
 fie, curmudgeon ! " 
 
 But though she had teased him well, she believed in him, 
 and had ever defended him staunchly when others laughed 
 at him and thought he was a fool for putting all his spare 
 time from cabinet-making into the fashioning of fiddles. 
 
 " Leave the lad alone, Tom Sears," he heard her say- 
 ing. " Jonathan's got something in him you hasn't got 
 and I hasn't got, nor no one else in this village. He'll be 
 having a gran' name of his own some day when you and 
 I be forgotten." 
 
 Once she had even brought him a bit of wood, part of 
 
THE DISTANT SCENE 199 
 
 a worm-eaten old oaken beam from one of the ancient barns 
 belonging to her own farm home. 
 
 " Look what I've brought ye, Jonathan," he heard her 
 saying triumphantly. " Ye can make a just lovely fiddle 
 out of this rubbage. Now, don't ye go putting on any of 
 those airs of your'n. Don't ye be a-telling me 'tis no use." 
 
 " It is no use," he had said contemptuously. " Oak 
 be no good for fiddles.'* 
 
 " Curmudgeon, curmudgeon, curmudgeon ! " he heard 
 her calling out as she ran off, and laughing light-heartedly 
 as alone Nance could laugh. 
 
 Fifty years ago and the laughter that was only hers 
 ringing clear and fresh across the moors and the belief that 
 was alone hers stealing out of the past to support the falling 
 structure of his own. 
 
 The storm broke loose and raged around him. Battling 
 with wind and rain, and baffled in the darkness, he lost 
 his way, and wandered dazed and bewildered over the 
 moors, as many another has wandered and perished on 
 those wild and lonely heights sucked in by the treacherous 
 bog. But no such sad fate awaited the fiddle-maker. 
 He stumbled across a cattle-barn, one of the many 
 scattered about the uplands ; and there he took shelter and 
 waited for the tempest to die down and the darkness to 
 fade into the dawn. And even there, thoughts and 
 memories of Nance encompassed him. It was as though 
 she had cast a protecting mantle over him and held him 
 safe. Her belief in him- began to wage silent battle with 
 the paralysing indifference which had settled on his artist's 
 soul. Over and over again he said aloud : 
 
 " Nance believed in me." 
 
 Then a very strange and wonderful thing happened. 
 
 The wind ceased suddenly, and strains of music 
 reached him, faint at first, and then growing in tone and 
 richness. 
 
 It was the voice of a violin. It held the fiddle-maker 
 in an ecstasy of wonder and delight. Listlessness and 
 gloom of spirit were dispelled as if by magic. The myster- 
 ious music thrilled through him, quickening his pulses, rous- 
 ing in him renewed pride in the work of his hands, renewed 
 
200 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 faith in the worth of his great idea, renewed hope that 
 his days had not been vainly spent in striving to fashion 
 sweet-toned instruments to carry messages of music 
 into the world music breaking in like radiant light on 
 the darkness of the spirit, in the blackness of the night, 
 in the desolation of lonely space, in the wilderness of 
 life. 
 
 " Not in vain, not in vain ! " he cried aloud. 
 
 And then, the first excitation of spirit over, he began to 
 wonder where the music came from ; and ghostly legends 
 of the countryside which had borne no meaning to him, 
 now crept into his remembrance. There was a story of 
 lights seen at certain times in a lonely half-ruined house 
 in a deserted hamlet, and of a fiddler making wild, tumul- 
 tuous music or soft caressing melody. And here was the music 
 yes, and yonder were the lights . He must seek the fiddler 
 out earthly or unearthly, he must meet him face to face. 
 
 He started, guided by the light which shone afar bright 
 and steady, and by the music which seemed to be filling the 
 very universe. The way was long, but he felt neither 
 fatigue nor doubt, and only knew that he must reach that 
 beacon for which he was steering. But when at last 
 he was near it, the light was extinguished and the violin 
 hushed. 
 
 Was it true, then, that he had been listening to music 
 not of this world fleeting, elusive, inaudible at close 
 range ? He knew not nor cared. It was all one to him 
 whether the marvellous player with the master touch 
 were angel or devil or human being, if only he were able 
 to recapture some of the entrancing strains which had 
 lured him thither. 
 
 He waited with trembling eagerness. And suddenly 
 a welcome sound of tuning reached him, and the light 
 shone again, trebled in brightness. He saw then that 
 he had wandered far away from Nance's home, and was 
 outside the grim and ill-omened " Herders' Inn," an old 
 house of call which had been shut up and deserted since 
 a foul murder had been perpetrated there many years 
 previously. Living apart from outside circumstances 
 and wholly absorbed in his work, news had never reached 
 
THE DISTANT SCENE 201 
 
 him that it had been opened again. But it was obviously 
 tenanted now. The sign showed distinct and new, caught 
 by a shaft of light from the illumination within. The 
 beacon, then, was earthly, and the musician of divine 
 powers, belonged to this world. The certainty brought 
 a feeling of relief to the fiddle-maker, and an anticipation 
 of joyous encounter. 
 
 He knocked. No one answered, and the tuning went 
 on apace, and was followed by wild arpeggios and dashings 
 up and down the finger-board which made his very heart 
 stand still from wonder and expectancy. And what a 
 tone ! God, God, what a tone ! As he stood waiting 
 on the threshold, he said to himself, with an intensity of 
 passionate fervour, that if he could make a fiddle to sing 
 with that rich, soft, permeating mellowness of tone, he 
 would die a thousand deaths, make any and every sacri- 
 fice, pass through any suffering of body or soul. 
 
 He knocked once more, louder this time, and after a 
 pause, which seemed to him centuries, the door was opened 
 on the chain, and a man's voice said : 
 
 " Who is it ? What do you want ? " 
 
 " I am a lover of music," was the answer. " I have 
 been wandering over the moors and lost my way in the 
 storm. I heard wonderful music which guided me here." 
 
 The chain was dropped and the door opened wide. The 
 light revealed a man, short and slight, with bushy hair 
 and rather wild in appearance, but of friendliest, kind- 
 liest countenance. His violin was tucked under his left 
 arm. 
 
 " Come in, come in," he said gaily, " whoever you are, 
 come in. But if you are a lover of music, you're doubly 
 welcome." 
 
 He glanced at the old man's fine face, caught the keen- 
 ness and vision in his eyes, and, artist as he was, sensitive 
 in all his fibres, knew instinctively that he had before 
 him someone who counted. 
 
 " You're drenched through and through ! " he said, 
 with impulsive concern. " Never mind. I'll put you right. 
 Slip off your coat and slip into my overcoat here it is. 
 And come into the kitchen. I've just piled on some more 
 
202 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 logs, and I'll give you a hot drink of coffee. Then you 
 won't take any harm from the storm." 
 
 Jonathan Hunt smiled his thanks to his new friend, 
 followed him into the kitchen, and sank down gratefully 
 into the lang settle. The fire was burning merrily, the 
 kettle was already boiling industriously, and a coffee- 
 pot was warming on the hob signs of cheer and comfort 
 which heartened the tired old man now come into a haven. 
 He glanced around with quiet content, saw that the violin- 
 player had placed his fiddle on the window-sill, and that 
 his bow was lying on the dresser, and that he 
 had rigged up a desk on the kitchen table with books 
 and a pas try -board, and scattered his music on the floor 
 in happy disorder. He had evidently been spreading 
 himself in that kitchen and reigning supreme. And mean- 
 while he flitted about joyously, making preparations to 
 entertain his unknown guest. All his quick movements 
 were graceful and easy. Kettle, coffee-pot, cups, saucers, 
 milk- jug, cheese and bread floated in the air as consecu- 
 tively as the notes of a glissando passage, melting imper- 
 ceptibly one into the other. Only when he was satisfied 
 that he had done everything to make the old man com- 
 fortable arid warm, did he seize his fiddle and tune up afresh. 
 He nodded at him, a most winning smile on his face and in 
 his manner all the charm of a gracious personality. 
 
 " I couldn't sleep to-night," he said. " I went to bed 
 at the same time as the old people of the house. I tossed 
 and tossed, and then came down, and have been fiddling 
 away like one possessed. In a mood for it, you know. 
 Worked up by the storm, I suppose. Restless and excited, 
 as one is when there is a huge, enthusiastic audience hang- 
 ing on one's every note." 
 
 " I thought at first you were a spirit," the fiddle-maker 
 said in a low voice. " You may perhaps know of the 
 legend of the fiddler heard sometimes at night in these 
 parts, and of lights seen in a lonely house. When the 
 music ceased and the light went out, I believed the legend 
 was true." 
 
 " Well, it may be true," the violin player said. " Why 
 not ? But in my case, I was suddenly seized with remorse 
 
THE DISTANT SCENE 203 
 
 lest I should be disturbing the old couple who keep this 
 inn. And so I put down my fiddle and blew out the lamp. 
 But I'd no sooner done that when I felt that even if I 
 frightened them out of their wits, I should have to go on 
 all the same. Mercifully, they are as deaf as posts. But 
 anyway, I couldn't stop. So I lit up trebly and 
 tuned up again ! I think the loneliness and weirdness of 
 the place seized hold of me. I couldn't have borne it 
 without my fiddle. But directly the fiddle shared it with 
 me, then things began to happen to me big things, huge 
 things." 
 
 " Born of loneliness," the old man murmured. " They 
 can only happen in loneliness and through distress of spirit." 
 
 " Ah, you, too, know that," the violin player cried 
 eagerly ; and he glanced at the fiddle-maker as if he half 
 wished to question him about himself. But the impulse 
 died, and his thoughts returned to his own mentality. 
 
 " Yes," he said, his eyes flashing with excitement, 
 11 big things, huge things happened to me. I tell you, 
 that to-night I have soared to heights I have never reached 
 before. Because of to-night I pass to a higher plane I 
 know it, I feel it and the world will know it, too." 
 
 He raised his bow arm, held it suspended for one moment 
 in the air, stared at the old man with eyes that saw not, 
 struck a few full- toned chords, and began. 
 
 How long did he play ? What did he play ? Who was 
 he ? Was it a man playing, a soul throbbing ? What 
 did it matter ? All that the fiddle-maker knew, was that 
 heaven and earth passed away. Nothing survived except 
 a world of sound. Out into the wild and stormy night 
 music had sent her mystic message to him and guided 
 him to the safety of her magic realms. And now she cast 
 fresh spells about him and unveiled to him new visions 
 of glorious fulfilment. Old memories, old regrets fled 
 even as ghosts fading before the break of dawn. Nance 
 vanished last of all, but left her laughter and her belief 
 interwoven with the harmonies and the echo of her words : 
 " A gran' name a gran' name when you and I be for- 
 gotten." 
 
 The last lingering notes died into silence. The fiddle- 
 
204 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 maker sprang up, his face aglow, his trembling arms 
 stretched out before him. 
 
 " Ah ! " he cried, " that is what I have striven for all 
 my life to make instruments with voices fit and worthy 
 to speak the divine language of music. The goal may have 
 been distant, and distant it may remain, but I have never 
 lost sight of it until to-night, and to-night I have found it 
 again helped by an old memory yes, helped by an old 
 memory found it again for evermore." 
 
 " A maker of instruments ? " the violin player exclaimed, 
 clutching at his arm in his intensity. "Ah, I knew you 
 were a poet. When I opened the door to you, instinct 
 told me that you were a poet of some kind, someone that 
 knew the heart of hidden things. Then you have been the 
 vast audience, invisible, pressing round me, lifting me, 
 inspiring me so that I have been able to pour out all the 
 best in my soul and nature. A maker of instruments. 
 Well, well, we are in very truth comrades. Here, my friend, 
 take this violin and look at it well. A beauty, isn't it ? 
 You've heard its voice ; now observe its faultless curves. 
 Did you ever see a more lovely back ? What do you think 
 of the noble scroll ? No, no, don't ask if it is a Stradivar- 
 ius or a Guarnerius or an Amati, or any of those wonder- 
 ful old artists of the past. It is the work of someone un- 
 known to fame now, but destined to be honoured in the years 
 to come. Of that I am absolutely sure. I'd stake my repu- 
 tation on this belief. I prize this violin above all others. 
 I adore it. It is part of me. With it I have spoken to 
 thousands in many countries moved thousands. I owe 
 it untold gratitude. Here, take it in your hands and 
 see for yourself." 
 
 The fiddle-maker took it, turned it over knew it. 
 
 " My God ! My God ! " he said, almost in a whisper. 
 " It is mine ! " * 
 
 He clasped it to his breast. His head bent over it. 
 
 The violin player, famous in many lands, turned aside 
 in reverent understanding. 
 
THE MESSAGE 
 
 IT was on a February morning, 1918, that Helen Cress- 
 well, a learned lecturer well known in educational 
 circles, was interrupted in her library whilst she was 
 deeply immersed in the preparation of an address on 
 " The Springs of Romance in the Literature of Europe." 
 The maid, with obvious reluctance and definite doubts 
 as to her reception, brought in a card. 
 
 " I had to bring it," she explained. !i The lady wouldn't 
 take any refusal. She sat down on the hall chair, opened 
 her little dispatch case and made herself at home, and 
 said she'd wait till you were free. When I told her you 
 were busy with your books in your library and mustn't 
 be disturbed, she only laughed and said books didn't 
 matter and she'd got to see you." 
 
 Helen Cresswell frowned and looked as if she could 
 have annihilated both Doris and the insistent stranger on the 
 hall chair ; for she considered that she was in the midst 
 of a most eloquent and original summing up of Eliza- 
 bethan influence on literature, and it was aggravating 
 beyond words to be put off it. She glanced impatiently 
 at the card, which was marked Urgent. It bore the 
 words, " Gertrude Lin ton, Friends' Society for Belief 
 of War Victims. Dutch Red Cross. Member of British 
 Committee for Repatriation of British Wounded, etc." 
 
 Her expression changed, and also her attitude of mind. 
 
 " I can well imagine that engaged on such work, she 
 would think books don't matter," she said half to herself. 
 " They don't. Ask her in at once, Doris." 
 
 205 
 
206 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 A bright, engaging woman of about thirty-six years 
 stepped into the room and seemed to bring sunshine and 
 good cheer and dash, and all those electric attributes which 
 go to make that magic quality called resilience. 
 
 " Miss Cresswell," she began, without any prelimin- 
 aries, " I come on a rather curious mission on behalf 
 of a German woman." 
 
 Miss CresswelTs face fell. She stiffened up at once and 
 succeeded in looking the picture of implacable hostility. 
 
 " I don't think I want to hear anything about German 
 women," she said severely, but not disagreeably. There 
 was something about her visitor's presence which dispelled 
 any real inclination to truculence. 
 
 " No, I don't suppose you do," said Gertrude Linton, 
 smiling. " Not one of us does, if it comes to that. I'm sure 
 I don't. So please don't imagine I'm a pro-German. I'm 
 nothing of the kind. I'm entirely British by birth and 
 sentiment. Disgustingly so, I think sometimes. I won- 
 der whether it is an incurable illness. I suppose it is." 
 
 Miss Cresswell laughed softly. 
 
 " I don't know," she said. " Anyway, it will take 
 a long time to cure. Well, tell me about your German 
 woman. I had hoped when I glanced at your card, that 
 you had come on behalf of one of our wounded soldiers." 
 
 " She isn't my German woman," returned the other 
 gaily. " I won't have her at any price. She is yours 
 yours entirely. And I have come on behalf of one of our 
 soldiers one of our wounded boys repatriated from prison 
 in Germany. He entrusted me with a message from your 
 old school friend Leonora von Blumenstein-Erzbach." 
 
 " Leonora ! " exclaimed Miss Cresswell, her face lighting 
 up at the sound of that name. " Tell me what you know qf 
 her. I have longed for news of her through all these dread- 
 ful years, though I have tried to put the thought of her 
 from my mind as of one with whom I'd no more concern." 
 
 " I can only tell you what I have learnt from Private 
 Jenkins," Gertrude Linton said. " I have been stationed 
 at Rosendaal, the Dutch frontier, meeting the exchanged 
 wounded prisoners from the German Red Cross trains ; 
 and Private Jenkins was one of them. And in this particu- 
 
THE MESSAGE 207 
 
 lar instance I was in charge of him and several others on 
 the boat home. I wish you could have seen the look of 
 wonder and happiness on their faces as we neared shore. 
 It was unforgettable." 
 
 She paused a moment as the memory of the scene 
 held her. 
 
 Then she went on : 
 
 " Private Jenkins had been very badly wounded and 
 gassed, and had been a long time in hospital in Germany. 
 Your friend was one of the nurses there. You know 
 you cannot get many details out of them about their experi- 
 ences either at the Front or in the German prison camps 
 and hospitals. But I gathered that, as far as she could, your 
 friend with the awful name which I should tell you 
 nearly did for his poor brain had been very kind to him, 
 and he had promised to try and deliver a message to you. 
 It was troubling him very greatly, and he was awfully 
 relieved to get it off his chest. The message was that her 
 son Berthold had died and was buried at Vimy. She 
 would probably never know nor see his resting-place, she 
 said. But if by chance you went there when the war 
 was over, she begged you to try and find his grave and kneel 
 beside it for the sake of old times. She thought you 
 could not refuse, because of all the fun and laughter and 
 happiness you had had together as young girls and young 
 women." 
 
 '' Yes, yes, we had great fun together," Miss Cresswell 
 murmured " happy, happy times." 
 
 " I suppose she had pitched on Private Jenkins because 
 he was one of the best hearted and that's saying a good 
 deal, you know," continued Gertrude Linton. " And 
 also he had come from Oxfordshire, where she had often 
 
 stayed at Wroxton, not far from his native village, H . 
 
 But he was not highly endowed with brains ; and it must 
 have been a tremendous mental effort to him to remember 
 all the details of her message. I wish you could have heard 
 him telling it all to me. I half laughed and half cried 
 because it was really so comic and so pathetic. He was 
 so anxious and conscientious about it. He said : 
 
 " ' And she kep' on saying, she did, that yon English 
 
208 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 friend of hers couldn't say no, not she, them being kiddies 
 together in the parst and them laughing and skylarking 
 same as all kiddies do. I got that right enough. But 
 her name did me in, it fair did, until one of the chaps 
 told me to remember something about bloomin' stone 
 hurt yer back. Near enough, too. Her son's name was 
 easy Berthold. For you see I've got a brother Bert, 
 twelve years old come Michaelmas, and I kep' on saying : 
 ' Bert ain't old Bert getting old Bert old see ? ' So 
 you see, Miss Cresswell, Private Jenkins tried his very 
 best to be a scholar in order to do a good turn to the enemy." 
 
 She took from her letter case a dirty and crumpled 
 piece of paper and handed it to Miss Cresswell with a 
 marked reluctance. 
 
 " I hate parting from it," she said, " but of course 
 it is yours. You see Tommy has written down, to the 
 best of his ability, the German names, and your name and 
 address, and a few particulars about the probable situa- 
 tion of the grave. Did you ever see such a wonderful 
 document ? Well, I give it up to you. I shall never 
 forget his look of relief when he shed his responsibility ! 
 But he was quite firm and fierce with me, and made me 
 swear to play the game, find you out, dead or alive, and 
 let him know I had not failed him. So to-day I shall send 
 him a line to his home ; and then his mind will be at rest." 
 
 Helen Cresswell was deeply moved by the story. All 
 her sternness had gone. 
 
 " I shall go and see Private Jenkins," she said. " It 
 is the least I can do." 
 
 " That would be ripping of you," Gertrude Linton said, 
 hugely delighted. " He is, or was, a farm labourer at 
 
 H , near Banbury. He won't do much farm work 
 
 again, poor boy, and not much thatching either, at which 
 he was an expert, so he told me with pride. But you'll 
 find him cheery and uncomplaining and unbitter a 
 lesson to me and you and everyone like they all are. And 
 now I'll be off, having discharged my errand and disturbed 
 you long enough from your books." 
 
 But Miss Cresswell would not let her go ; and for a long 
 time Gertrude Linton lingered and told her eager listener 
 
THE MESSAGE 209 
 
 something about her life in Holland and the scenes at 
 the Dutch frontiers, stories grave and gay of refugees 
 and interned soldiers and escaped prisoners and spies, and 
 pitiful tales of our repatriated wounded. 
 
 And when at last she took her leave, dull and unprofit- 
 able seemed Miss Cresswell's books to her, flat and unin- 
 teresting her carefully prepared lecture on the Springs of 
 Romance in the Literature of Europe. Living facts had 
 entered the study and driven out literature. 
 
 She sat thinking of the scenes which had been conjured 
 up for her, and of Private Jenkins and his intellectual 
 feat undertaken on behalf of the enemy, and of Leonora, 
 friend of her childhood and girlhood, with whom she had 
 never lost touch until a few years before the war. All 
 the memories of happy companionship came back to Helen 
 Cresswell. She saw Leonora as she knew her first, at the 
 Hohe Schule in Dresden, fat and flabby, with coils of splen- 
 did fair hair and a tremendous appetite for nut tarts, and 
 an easy good nature which survived all attacks of chaff 
 and teasing. She recalled all their fun and mischief, all 
 their confidences, flirtations and rivalries. 
 
 Almost she heard her saying : 
 
 " Na, na, Helen, I give you the geography master for a 
 Schwdrmerei. He is too ugly for me, but he's good enough 
 for a pig of an English girl ! Take him ! " 
 
 A thousand wars could not blot out those memories. 
 She smiled and held out her hands to the past. 
 
 ii 
 
 A FEW days afterwards Miss Cresswell journeyed to Ban- 
 bury, and thence took a trap which landed her at the 
 
 tiny hamlet of H . She made inquiries at the one shop 
 
 of this metropolis, and learnt that Private Jenkins's home 
 was but a step away, the last cottage " down- street " on 
 the left, with the fresh patch on the thatch, and a queer 
 little window at the top, like an eyebrow presiding over 
 half an eye. Here she found him, disabled of one arm and 
 one leg, and still suffering from the effects of gas, and very 
 frail- looking, thin and worn, but extraordinarily cheerful 
 U 
 
210 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 in spite of all he had gone through, and with no trace 
 of bitterness or anger in his heart. On the contrary, 
 he thought himself very lucky to be in his own surround- 
 ings again, and only said he didn't want to go to that 'ere 
 
 France or that 'ere Germany again. H was a good 
 
 enough place for him. 
 
 You know where you are here," he said quaintly. 
 
 Like many another soldier, he had nothing to say about 
 nis experiences. He was just one of the many thousands 
 of lads caught in a net, and caring for and understanding 
 nothing of the purpose for which they were caught, in 
 spite of all the grandiose newspaper talk about enthusiasm 
 and patriotism and noble idealism. Miss Cresswell could 
 not get much information from him either about her old 
 friend or about conditions in a German prison hospital. 
 
 " It might have been worse," he said. " It were all 
 right." 
 
 " And was she really good to you, Private Jenkins ? " 
 asked Miss Cresswell eagerly. 
 
 " She were all right," he nodded. " Her did what her 
 could." 
 
 But by patience and perseverance and Woodbines 
 she managed to drag a few details out of him. She was 
 fat. Miss Cresswell laughed at that. She spoke Eng- 
 lish same as he did, but thick like. She was fond of her 
 son same as his mother was of him. She was always 
 a-grieving over him and looking at a photo of his bullet 
 head same as all the Fritzes had. 
 
 " I was fair sorry for she," he concluded. " I thought 
 it were just like my old mother a-grieving over my corpse, 
 and so I promised she I'd take her message." 
 
 That was all. But there was no mistaking his satisfac- 
 tion in knowing that the message over which he had ex- 
 pended so much trouble and brain power, had reached the 
 right quarter. As far as Miss Cresswell could make out, 
 it had been a source of more anxiety to him than all the 
 bombs at the front. 
 
 " It were the name what did me in," he repeated several 
 times. " But I went on, dogged like, same as if we was 
 trying for a trench see ? " 
 
THE MESSAGE 211 
 
 And then, half shyly, half brusquely, as if no doubt fearing 
 to appear silly and sentimental, Private Jenkins said : 
 
 " Perhaps one day, when this 'ere war is over, you'll 
 be doing what that German female wanted. I should 
 if I was you. Poor old Fritz, you know, he can't help 
 hisself any more nor we could." 
 
 She promised him that if ever a chance arose for her to 
 see the battlefields, she would not forget that Berthold 
 von Blumenstein-Erzbach lay buried at Vimy. 
 
 Private Jenkins nodded. He was satisfied that he had 
 done his bit in more ways than one, and that now he was 
 free to forget all these tiresome and unnecessary happenings 
 in the great world outside H . Now, with easy con- 
 science, he could concentrate on the things which really 
 mattered in everyday life, the importances and events of 
 the countryside where he had been born and reared, and 
 to which he had returned, in more or less exactly the same 
 mental condition in which he had left it three years previ- 
 ously the story of thousands of our boys taken from these 
 tiny hamlets throughout the length and breadth of England. 
 
 Yet there was a difference. Miss Cress well extracted 
 from him that before he went to France, he'd never given 
 much thought to or wanted to possess one of those ugly 
 white-faced Herefordshire Cows which are a familiar 
 feature in the Oxfordshire pastures. But it appears that 
 they had haunted him in his dreams in his prison hospital. 
 He did not put the idea into so many words, of course ; 
 but they had evidently conjured up to him the thatched 
 cottage with its eyebrow window, peaceful scenes, winding 
 lanes, green fields, cornfields, the upturned brown earth, 
 the barns and stacks and all the things which spelt home. 
 But now he rather thought he'd like a cow, one of these 
 days, when he was better. Bert could milk her, and 
 perhaps he could manage to tumble along and " mind " 
 her. It was his only ambition, dimly visualised and 
 barely breathed. But Miss Cresswell resolved then and 
 there that it should be materialised. And it was Bert 
 himself and Miss Cresswell herself who drove White Face 
 home from Banbury cattle market one Thursday afternoon. 
 " Well, I never," said his mother, as she contemplated 
 
212 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 the cow. " Bob must have been a-doing something 
 after all in that 'ere France where the war's going on 
 what they speak so much on." 
 
 Jenkins's war record did not make him half such a 
 hero in the village as the unexpected gift of that Here- 
 fordshire cow. 
 
 m 
 
 THE war had ended, and the armistice was some four 
 months old. Helen Cresswell was wandering about alone 
 amidst the desolation of the plains of Vimy. 
 
 She had been unable to keep up with the other members 
 of the party, who, under the charge of two French officers, 
 were making at a breakneck speed for Vimy Ridge. She 
 had tried ; but realising the impossibility, she gradually 
 fell back, until her comrades became distant dots on the 
 landscape, and then were lost to sight. She regretted that 
 she would have to miss the military lecture arranged for 
 this company of twenty Englishwomen, who in those 
 early days of the armistice had been invited by the Mayor 
 of Lille to visit the Devastated Areas, see for themselves the 
 piteous plight of Northern France, and go home and tell 
 the story so vaguely realised then and now. 
 
 But after a spell of disappointment, she began to be glad, 
 both physically and spiritually, and thankful to be alone, 
 alone on the scene of tragic happenings, alone in the silence 
 and desolation, to think of the courage and endurance of 
 the men who had laid down their lives there, alone to sift 
 out the bewildering emotions and impressions of these 
 amazing two weeks in which she had seen miles and miles 
 of devastated land, countless ruined and obliterated towns 
 and villages and wrecked homes, and those deliberately 
 destroyed factories sights inconceivable, unbelievable, 
 unless seen by one's own eyes. 
 
 There was no sign of animal life, no sound of human 
 life, no music or stir of bird life. All round her stretched a 
 seemingly unending expanse of trenches and dug-outs, 
 shell holes, some of them full of water, barkless, bleached 
 tree-trunks twisted like writhing ghosts, masses of rusted 
 
THE MESSAGE 213 
 
 barbed wire ramping like dead bracken on the ground, and 
 debris of all kinds. 
 
 But Nature was beginning to cover up, with her carpet 
 of green, the hideous ravages of war. She was fringing 
 the grim shell-holes with a delicate greenery ; she was creep- 
 ing stealthily round the trenches; she was bidding the 
 violets and wood anemones to spring up here and there 
 amongst the dead trees and blackened bushes, as if to pro- 
 claim a message of hope. 
 
 Miss Cresswell wandered about for a long time, intending 
 to find her way back to the main road where the military 
 motor lorry and Corporal Dobson, the driver, cheeriest and 
 friendliest of souls, and his mate, would be waiting for them 
 somewhere near the great cross to the memory of the Cana- 
 dians who fell at Vimy in April, 1917. But she missed the 
 trail, and only lit on the main road after much searching. 
 There she sat down on a heap of scrap iron, cleaned her 
 boots, which were caked with mud, and collected her 
 senses. There was no trace of the lorry, no trace of anyone. 
 
 She supposed something would happen eventually. Cor- 
 poral Dobson would be sure to come along. He had driven 
 the party for so many miles, that he had learnt to look 
 upon them as his special charges, who had come to France 
 at his personal invitation. He had been all through the 
 war without a scratch except from a sardine tin, so he 
 said, and since the armistice he had been hauling coal 
 a job he did not care about. He was exceedingly pleased 
 to have been told off to haul his country-women, and he 
 spared no pains to do all he could for them. Yes, Miss 
 Cresswell felt certain he would turn up ; but she thought 
 vaguely that if nothing did happen, she would go in pur- 
 suit of him. Meantime she would remain on that scrap 
 iron and await developments. 
 
 And as she rested, scenes and memories of our own 
 peaceful, untouched countryside rose before her as if in 
 contrast to this stricken land. Her thoughts wandered 
 to Private Jenkins's picturesque little village, with its 
 fields and pastures and winding lanes, and thatched cot- 
 tages, and trees and hedges, and cows strolling leisurely 
 along the by-roads, munching as they went. She smiled 
 
214 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 in thankfulness, and then visioned to herself White Face 
 swishing her tail and munching whilst Private Jenkins 
 " minded " her on her daily promenades. 
 
 Suddenly she looked across to the other side of the road 
 and saw what appeared to be a little group of graves. 
 She went there, and found an enclosure with about six 
 or seven mounds with wooden crosses. To her surprise 
 she discovered they were German graves. She scanned 
 the names well to see if by any chance she could find that 
 of Berthold von Blumenstein-Erzbach. There was no 
 such name, and no cross carved with an edelweiss answer- 
 ing to the description furnished her by Private Jenkins. 
 
 She took from her pocket-book the paper with the details 
 of the position of the grave, but could make nothing of 
 it. She was still studying it hopelessly when the cheery 
 voice of Corporal Dobson called out : 
 
 " Just spotted you. My mate and me was beginning 
 to think we'd lost you all. The old bus is waiting about 
 a quarter of a mile further down. That's where we'd reck- 
 oned you'd all come out. But I thought I'd better take a 
 stroll round and see. Are the others coming along \ " 
 
 " That's more than I know, Corporal Dobson," Miss Cress- 
 well said. " I can only tell you with shame that I couldn't 
 keep up with them. So I've wandered about alone." 
 
 " A good thing you didn't stick in the mud or fall into 
 a shell hole," he said with a friendly grin. " And a pity 
 you didn't get to the Ridge. But I don't think much of 
 them two Frenchies. They wouldn't be telling you 
 nothing what I couldn't have told you twice over and 
 in a tick, as it were. You come along with me, and I'll 
 show you a thing or two. See here, this German helmet. 
 You can have it, if you want it. Lots of things round here 
 belonging to old Fritz. Fritz was here a long time, you 
 know, and made hisself jolly comfortable in some of the 
 best dug-outs I've seen. I'll show you a good few of them 
 further down, and dozens more of them little cemeteries. 
 They're all Fritz's graves. Yes, Fritz made hisself at 
 home here, and buried hisself, too. I've been looking 
 at one or two of them, and sort of tidying them up a bit. 
 Had to do it, you know, for it's my job in Blighty, and 
 
THE MESSAGE 215 
 
 mighty glad I'll be to get back to it when I'm demobbed." 
 
 " Corporal Dobson," Miss Cresswell said impulsively, 
 " I wonder whether you would help me to look for a German 
 grave that of the son of my old school friend, who is buried 
 at Vimy somewhere. I know, of course, there is not much 
 chance of finding it, but I promised I would try if I could." 
 
 In a few words she confided to him the story of the 
 message. 
 
 " Ay, ay," said Corporal Dobson. " And why not ? 
 Poor old Fritz couldn't help hisself any more nor we 
 could." 
 
 " That's just what Private Jenkins said," put in Miss 
 Cresswell, with a catch in her voice. 
 
 " Ay, ay, I bet he did," answered Corporal Dobson 
 quietly. " Now let's have a look at that bit of paper, 
 and we'll see if we can't find the spot." 
 
 " I, of course, can't make head or tail of the situation," 
 said Miss Cresswell. " But you see the directions say 
 it was near a dug-out, that there were seven graves in the 
 enclosure, and that her boy's grave had a cross with an 
 edelweiss flower carved on it." 
 
 " By some pal that was fond of him, I expect," nodded 
 Corporal Dobson. " Well, this is the right-as-rain region, 
 no doubt about that, but whether he's lying in one of those 
 enclosures down yonder remains to be seen. Now you 
 follow me, and we'll work down towards the old bus." 
 
 He looked up as he spoke, scanned the horizon, and 
 lit a cigarette. 
 
 " Nobody in sight," he said, " nothing doing as I can 
 see. Them two Frenchies are leading them a dance, I 
 expect ! You're well out of it, you know, and we've 
 got time to do this German job for poor old Fritz's mother. 
 If we find it, we'll tidy it up. And if we don't find it, 
 you can't say as you've shirked, can you ? Come on now, 
 and mind how you step. This 'ere Vimy plateau aren't 
 as good walking as Hyde Park." 
 
 They found the grave after toilsome searching, a search- 
 ing which would have been an entirely hopeless task without 
 Corporal Dobson's willing and patient help. From time 
 
216 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 to time he consulted the paper, and furrowed his brow 
 over the name which had been such a nightmare to Private 
 Jenkins. 
 
 And at last they ran it to earth. The letters on the cross 
 were faint, but still readable ; and the wood had split 
 across the heart of the edelweiss. But the edelweiss was 
 there, and the letters were there, and there could be no 
 mistaking the last resting-place of Leonora's son. 
 
 They tidied up the little enclosure with its seven graves. 
 Helen Cresswell placed amidst them the wood anemones, 
 those sweet harbingers of spring, which she had gathered 
 in her wandering over Vimy plain ; and Corporal Dobson 
 nodded with professional approval when he had surveyed 
 their work. 
 
 " It looks better," he said, thoughtfully. " It needed 
 a bit of tidying up same as the poor old world needs." 
 
 He turned away and again scanned the horizon in 
 search of his missing flock, and then strolled down the road, 
 softly whistling The Little Grey Home in the West. 
 
 But Miss Cresswell knelt down for a moment and 
 closed her eyes. 
 
 What were the thoughts and hopes passing through her 
 mind hopes for the healing of the nations for the 
 tidying up of the world hopes that all these young boys 
 of all the countries had not died in vain, and that of their 
 sacrifice would be born a new order in which war was a 
 legend of barbaric times ? 
 
 She rose, took out her Kodak, and photographed the 
 enclosure, and was passing on her way to join Corporal 
 Dobson when some idea flashed through her mind. 
 
 She returned to the graves, deciphered, as well as she could, 
 the names on the other six crosses, and wrote them down. 
 
 " The other mothers," she murmured. 
 
 IV 
 
 THIS was part of the letter which Miss Cresswell received 
 some weeks later. It came by way of Holland under cover 
 to Gertrude Linton : 
 
 " I knew that meine geliebte Helen would not fail 
 
THE MESSAGE 217 
 
 me. My friends had said you would. They were with 
 me when your letter came. I read it to them, every 
 word, and showed them the seven photographs and the 
 list of the six names for the other mothers. One of them 
 was present. Her son was in Berthold's regiment. She 
 had been one of the bitterest amongst us. But when she 
 was going, she turned to us all and said : 
 
 " ' Friends, listen, I take back every fierce word I have 
 spoke against those pigs of Englishwomen.' 
 
 " And for myself, meine geliebte Helen, I am always 
 your grateful and ach, ach, always your fat school friend, 
 LEONORA VON BLUMENSTEIN-ERZBACH." 
 
THE WOMAN PAVEMENT ARTIST 
 
 IT was twilight on a late autumn day, and Theodora 
 Hearn sat in her little studio thinking things out. 
 Money had ceased to come in, orders had ceased to flow. 
 No one wanted her delicate and lovely pictures of old world 
 gardens. No one wanted her illustrations to books. She 
 had been given to understand that her style and treatment 
 were out of date. Modernity had swept over her, swept 
 past her, swept her away. 
 
 She was not in the least bitter about this misfortune : 
 for she had a fine and generous understanding, and could 
 see wide spaces everywhere. She knew her work was good ; 
 she knew it had certain qualities of distinction which her 
 sternest critics had never denied her. But she recognised 
 that the time for it was past ; and if she had been a rich 
 woman, she would have accepted the fact and gone on 
 creating merely for the joy and rapture of creation, and 
 with no further striving after recognition or remuneration. 
 
 But being poor, she had, whilst accepting failure in her 
 own familiar genre, to devise a new departure which might 
 ensure some measure of success. The increase in rent had 
 to be met somehow if the home was to be saved. For 
 herself it did not matter very much how or where she was 
 housed ; but it did matter enormously for Gwendolen 
 Gwendolen, fierce, proud, frail, and often ill, with literary 
 gifts which had nev/er found appreciation, yet were of un- 
 usual fineness, but too wayward and elusive to materialise 
 into definite expression. 
 
 What was to be done ? Dividends had dwindled or were 
 
 219 
 
220 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 quiescent. Small incomes were more than halved, expenses 
 more than doubled, and work was not forthcoming the 
 plight of thousands in this year of grace, 1921. 
 
 Theodora sat by the empty anthracite stove, and half 
 laughed to herself that she should draw up her chair to 
 this husk of former warmth. 
 
 " Imagination does a great deal," she said. " If I see 
 the red glow of a fire with my mind's eye, I may feel the 
 comforting heat in my brain and body." 
 
 She thought and thought, but nothing came of her deep 
 pondering. She could evolve no scheme that had any 
 promise of success ; and she ended by falling into a state of 
 entire listlessness, when a curious thing happened. She 
 chanced to turn round in the direction of her easel, and 
 to her utter astonishment, it was shrouded in a veil of mist 
 which parted as she looked, and which revealed, not her 
 easel and the landscape at which she had been working, 
 but instead, a blank wall, a pavement, and the figure of 
 a woman who had drawn some pictures on the pavement, 
 propped up others against the wall and was now busily 
 engaged on a small painting. She sat on a camp stool and 
 was supporting the block on her knees. A bowl for money 
 reposed on her left-hand side. 
 
 So vivid was the scene, that Theodora called out : 
 
 " Please, do let me see your picture." 
 
 The woman looked up and smiled. She appeared to 
 be on the point of holding out her picture for Theodora to 
 see, when the mist crept back, obscured the scene and then 
 dispersed ; as on the mountain-side it steals over the villages, 
 covers them from view a while and, passing away as though 
 by magic, leaves them revealed once more in intimate 
 detail. Even so Theodora saw again the easel and land- 
 scape, her palette and brushes and her portfolios in their 
 accustomed places, clear, distinct, definite. 
 
 She had started up and stood riveted to the ground, her 
 hands clasped over her head, her eyes fixed on the space 
 covered but an instant before by the pavement vision. 
 She breathed deeply as one does breathe in some great 
 emotional excitation. 
 
 Where had she met that woman ? Her features were 
 
THE WOMAN PAVEMENT ARTIST 221 
 
 curiously familiar, and yet there were differentiations 
 which destroyed their familiarity. Who was she ? What 
 was she ? Was she a figment of Theodora's own brain, 
 a projection of her own subconsciousness, a quickening of 
 some forgotten experience ? Or was she a direct messenger 
 from the Unseen World, showing to her a path she might 
 tread, revealing to her a possibility which would not 
 have suggested itself in the ordinary circumstances of 
 every -day life ? 
 
 As far as Theodora remembered, a plan of this 
 nature had never occurred to her when she was battling 
 with her doubts and difficulties and disappointments, 
 and turning over in her mind all the different ways and 
 means within her reach of earning money. Schools she 
 had thought of private schools, art schools, designing 
 furniture, fashion plates, advertisements for every con- 
 ceivable thing such as electric lamps, polish, sauces, 
 whiskey, soap work of any kind, no matter how uncon- 
 genial to her artist soul, to be done in the quiet and privacy 
 of her studio, amidst her own surroundings, in her own 
 atmosphere. But to exhibit her art on the pavement, to 
 sit in public and draw pictures to tempt the passers-by : 
 this scheme had never once to her knowledge intruded 
 itself even on the outer threshold of thought. 
 
 She shrank from it now. She shuddered at the bare 
 idea, and sought to banish it from her brain.. She put 
 on hat and coat, went out hurriedly to do some house- 
 hold shopping, called at a friend's house and took a hand 
 at bridge. But the vision remained with her despite 
 all her attempts to escape from its spell. And she brought, 
 it home with her, took it to bed, dreamed of it and awoke 
 in the middle of the night murmuring : 
 
 " Please let me see your picture." 
 
 She rose from her bed, dressed herself and stole noise- 
 lessly into her studio. Half in apprehension she glanced 
 in the direction of her easel. It was there as usual, uncon- 
 cealed by mist, usurped by no spirit picture. The lovely 
 little woodland scene at which she was working, reposed 
 in its own place, awaiting her touch ; and palette and 
 brushes were as she had left them when she fell into her 
 
222 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 mood of despondency the previous afternoon and was 
 seized with despairing doubt about the use of working 
 and wasting precious money on paint and canvas for 
 pictures which never sold. Yes, these definite, material 
 objects were all there, inviting, challenging her. No 
 vision there to be seen with the outer eye. 
 
 But with her mind's eye she saw it, clearer than ever. 
 
 Suddenly the tension of her spirit relaxed. 
 
 " But tell me, now, why shouldn't I become a street 
 artist ? " she asked aloud. " No one need know. Gwen 
 need never know. No one's pride will be hurt except 
 my own; and after a time even that will have lost its 
 sensitiveness. Only the beginning will be the real penance. 
 And if the money comes in, the sacrifice will be more than 
 worth while, for Gwen's sake more food, better food 
 for Gwen, the increase in rent met and the home saved. 
 Courage, Theodora." 
 
 She was blest with a resilient temperament, and almost 
 at once the Daemon of adventure seized hold of her, and 
 she began to arrange the sort of pictures she ought to 
 paint. She decided that for the pride of her position, 
 she must disguise her own style. Even if she had not a 
 large public for her pictures, she must pretend to herself 
 that she had. She owed it to herself not to forget that 
 her pictures had been hung several times in the Salon, 
 and also that she had held her own exhibitions in the 
 past. It was her duty to safeguard the pale ghost of 
 success which had once hovered vaguely around her. 
 Yes, she must certainly disguise her art, and, of course, 
 herself. 
 
 She took out some crayons, and dashed off a study or 
 two on the back of some old bits of cardboard. She 
 became greatly amused and intrigued. And she smiled, 
 chuckled, laughed and said aloud : 
 
 " And it will be a change, Theo, a change and an adven- 
 ture, Theo. The deadliness of monotonous failure gone 
 and past. A break in despairing respectability. There 
 now, my masters how about that ? Is it common- 
 place enough and yet striking enough to arrest the passers- 
 by ? " 
 
THE WOMAN PAVEMENT ARTIST 223 
 
 She tried first one subject and then another. She 
 could not keep off the gardens ; but the garden she finally 
 evolved with puckering of the brow, could never have 
 been mistaken for her own delicate studies, known and 
 loved by the few. Once she got up impatiently, threw 
 the boards from her and exclaimed truculently : 
 
 " No, I can't I won't the thing isn't possible." 
 
 But the next moment she penitently picked them up, 
 and went on experimenting, with half a tear trickling 
 down her cheek. 
 
 " Yes, I can do it," she said. " I can dash off some 
 rough chalk sketches on the pavement, and I'll sit on a 
 camp-stool like that woman in the vision, and paint 
 in public some little things in a better style. And now, 
 having learnt to disguise my art, I must learn to disguise 
 myself. Yes, Theo, you must disguise yourself, whether 
 you like it or not. You must have heavier eyebrows, 
 a less aristocratic nose what a shame but it must 
 be done and some of the humour must come out of 
 your mouth yes, my dear, I insist on that and you 
 must manage to look pathetic and broken even though 
 you never will be broken and never will be pathetic. 
 But if you don't manage to look the part, the experiment 
 will fail. Come now, let's see what we can do. Where's 
 that box of make-up from last year's pageant for the 
 Endell Street Hospital ? " 
 
 She rummaged in her cupboard for odds and ends, 
 found it, established herself before a mirror, and began 
 her work of disguise. 
 
 She gave herself heavier eyebrows, darkened the skin 
 underneath her eyes, toned down the humour lurking 
 about her charming mouth, and touched in on her cheeks 
 clever lines which told of suffering of spirit and appealing 
 pathos. When she had finished the details, she put aside 
 paint and grease pot, and surveyed herself critically in 
 the glass. 
 
 Yes, the disguise would stand scrutiny. Perhaps the 
 pathos line must be a little deeper, and by hook or by 
 crook the mouth must be made more stern and grim. 
 The eyes were all right and stood out sad and piercing 
 
224 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 from their darkened frames. The nose was the trouble. 
 It still looked most annoy ingly distinguished. 
 
 " If I could negotiate my aristocratic nose, the pride 
 of the family since time immemorial, no one would recognise 
 me. Even Gwen might look at me when I'm properly 
 dressed for the part, and but for my nose, never know it 
 was her own Theodora. But when I've disimproved 
 my nose, I shall be quite safe." 
 
 All at once, as she stared at herself in the mirror, it 
 was borne in on her that she had seen the face which 
 now was hers somewhere, sometime, where ? when ? 
 And in a flash of remembrance she knew. It was the 
 face in the vision which had been strangely familiar to 
 her, yet not recallable. 
 
 The face in the vision had been her own face, disguised 
 as now. 
 
 Her arms fell to her sides. Her heart stood still. Was 
 the pathway indicated by the vision not a mere suggested 
 probability, then ? Was it definitely the road she must 
 take, willing or unwilling a road marked out for her, 
 inexorably destined for her, since she was that woman 
 in the vision and that woman in the vision was she 
 one and the same. And was there not a gulf between 
 the two conceptions between the freedom of the one 
 conception and the bondage of the second ? With one, 
 a choice, an idea, a sign-post ; with the other a ruthless 
 exaction, an enforced fulfilment of preordained fate. 
 
 Her gaiety fled, her eagerness for the adventure died. 
 She sank into the chair and wept tearlessly, silently. 
 She wept over the delicate and dainty little miniatures 
 which no one wanted, the lovely gardens and old world 
 cottages which failed to attract the new, garish rich ; the 
 quiet woodland scenes with clumps of primroses and 
 carpets of bluebells which made no appeal to the eyes 
 which had not yet learnt the beauty of Nature's poetry. 
 She wept over her unfulfilled ambitions, her unsuccessful 
 strivings. Why had she failed ? Was it that she had not, 
 in spite of all her agonising, agonised enough ? Was 
 it that she had not steeped herself enough in her art, 
 had not sacrificed ruthlessly all the things which did 
 
THE WOMAN PAVEMENT ARTIST 225 
 
 not matter, to the one thing which did matter ? Not 
 enough blood and tears tears and blood, without which 
 true art can never find true utterance ? 
 
 For a long time Theodora lingered, mourning over lost 
 opportunities, lost enthusiasms, endless non-fulfilments, 
 poignant memories of faltering service at the altar of art, 
 lapses from idealism, accesses of materialism, intervals 
 of indifference and carelessness culminating in failure. 
 It was herself and herself only she blamed. She believed 
 that if she had been great enough, she could have con- 
 quered. In the acuteness of her unreasoning self-reproach, 
 she forgot the changed and changing taste : the chasm 
 between the world of to-day and that far-distant world 
 of four or five years ago : the new tendencies and develop- 
 ments : the currents and cross-currents of the stupendous 
 upheaval of social life. With humility of soul Theodora 
 only remembered that of her fine and delicate gifts she 
 knew them to be fine and delicate she had not made 
 the most. It was better so ; for this path of the spirit 
 leads to no bitter waters. And sadness without bitterness 
 can be a sacrament. 
 
 But comfort came to Theodora in her dark hour. The 
 art she had loved and served more faithfully than she 
 realised, stepped forth from its mysterious realm to help 
 her. A new idea for a picture flashed across her mind, 
 and she seized palette and brush and was caught in the 
 joy and rapture of creation creation after suffering 
 unspeakable . 
 
 " If I have this for the secret recesses of my soul," 
 she cried, " I can face that other life in the vision." 
 
 SHE faced it with a brave gaiety all her own. She sallied 
 forth the next day and prospected, and finally settled on 
 an appropriate hunting ground at the bottom of the 
 Haymarket, where pavement artists appeared to be 
 tolerated by the police. She visited several of her new 
 fellow painters, observed closely their habits and methods 
 15 
 
226 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 of proceeding, and watched their chances with the passing 
 public. When she had taken soundings and felt ready 
 to embark on her adventure, she invented the post of 
 art teacher at a phantom school in remote Wimbledon, 
 and had the hardihood to tell Gwendolen that she had 
 been appointed to it, at a very modest salary, it is true, 
 but at least regular and certain. She laughed secretly 
 when Gwendolen, who was proud beyond all dreams of 
 human pride, reproached her for letting herself down in 
 this miserable fashion. 
 
 " You, a lovely artist, Theo, to become a hack teacher 
 in a wretched little private school for tradesmen's children ! " 
 Gwen said, her eyes flashing fire with indignation. " It's 
 unbearable simply unbearable." 
 
 Theodora shrugged her shoulders good-naturedly. 
 
 " One must do something," she said. " One might do 
 worse." 
 
 " But you can't teach," Gwen urged, " you never could." 
 
 " Oh, t think I can teach well enough for the tradesmen's 
 children," answered Theodora, with a twinkle in her 
 eye. 
 
 " Well, perhaps you can," said Gwendolen, placated by 
 that thought. " But the post isn't worthy of you." 
 
 " I'm quite aware, darling, that nothing is worthy of 
 me from your point of view or mine," laughed Theodora, 
 giving her a hug. " But if pictures don't sell and no 
 commissions for illustrations come in and dividends don't 
 pay, where shall we be landed ? " 
 
 " Better starve than lose one's pride and dignity," 
 said Gwen grimly. 
 
 " But I don't want to starve," insisted Theodora cheer- 
 fully. " I want to eat and thrive and enjoy myself as 
 much as I can, even in this upheaval." 
 
 " You've always been extraordinarily careless about 
 pride," reprimanded Gwen ; " Mother always said so." 
 
 " My child, that was years ago," put in Theo. : ' Years 
 ago don't count now." 
 
 " They do with me," her sister said, " just as they ever 
 did." 
 
 Theodora knew her words were true. All the more 
 
THE WOMAN PAVEMENT ARTIST 227 
 
 reason, then, that the career she was entering on, and the 
 disguise she was assuming should be placed beyond the 
 pale of all recognition. For if Gwen considered that a 
 school in Wimbledon was an insult to one's pride, what 
 would she think of a pavement artist's pitch in the Hay- 
 market ? 
 
 She could not help laughing, even though at the back 
 of her brain lurked a frail ghost of uneasiness. But she 
 chased it away when it worried her. Gwen's habits were 
 sedentary, and she hated the London pavements and 
 shunned the town ; and it was not at all likely that she 
 would ever light upon her sister in her new setting. More- 
 over, if an ill chance did bring her in the neighbourhood 
 of the pitch, there really need be no undue alarm, since 
 the disguise would be absolutely effectual now that she 
 had found some means of treating her aristocratic nose. 
 
 " Hollow my cheeks, piercing my eyes," she reflected. 
 " Gone my laughing mouth, gone the distinction of my 
 wonderful nose, the pride of the family. All will be 
 well." 
 
 Theodora took no one into her confidence except an 
 old school friend whom she could absolutely trust and 
 who had a photographic studio at the top of one of the 
 buildings in a street off Piccadilly Circus. A key was 
 given to her, and it was arranged between the two that 
 she could make this retreat her headquarters, arrive at 
 an early hour, complete her disguise on the spot, and keep 
 all her paraphernalia of office at hand. The day came 
 when Theodora, with beating heart, but well braced up 
 for the adventure, emerged from headquarters, took up 
 her position and began her new career. 
 
 She had remembered every detail of that vision which 
 had prompted her to action, and she imitated the scene 
 with faithful precision. She had prepared a few little 
 ordinary pictures, suitable, so she thought, for the occasion, 
 and these she placed against the wall, and in addition 
 chalked a sunset, a moonlight sea scene, and a pot of 
 geraniums on the pavement. 
 
 " Sunset and moonlight for the dreamers, and geranium 
 
228 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 for the garish and smug," she thought with a laugh. 
 " All tastes are provided for by Theodora." 
 
 She was unaware that her delicate touch had endowed 
 even that pot of geraniums with the beauty of an idealism 
 which ran the risk of not appealing to her pavement 
 public. 
 
 She sat down on her camp stool and began to paint little 
 landscapes about twelve inches square in size. She tried 
 to become absorbed in her task and detached from the 
 happenings of the outside world ; yet, for all her efforts, 
 she could not refrain from keeping one eye on the passers- 
 by to see whether they were interested in her little exhi- 
 bition and likely to drop any contribution into her bowl. 
 She never knew how she endured the penance and suspense 
 of the beginning of her enterprise. If she had not been 
 engaged on a definite bit of painting, she could not have 
 borne the misery of the position in which she had placed 
 herself. More than once she felt almost compelled to 
 scream, run away ingloriously and hide herself. But 
 she controlled her nerves, calmed her beating heart, 
 steadied her trembling hand, and bent ever more intently 
 over the painting block. And gradually a strengthening 
 courage rewarded her strivings. 
 
 " If I can stand this ordeal, I can stand anything," 
 she thought. " So at least I am being disciplined for 
 every trial that life has to offer to impoverished bread- 
 winners." 
 
 Humour came to relieve the strain when a gigantic 
 policeman, passing on his beat, deigned to pause and 
 praise. 
 
 " Mighty pretty, Ma," he vouchsafed, nodding approval 
 from his Olympian heights. " The best lot we've had 
 on this pitch for a long time. Shouldn't mind buying 
 the geranium pot myself." 
 
 A twinkle came into Theodora's eye. She thought she 
 would have given worlds to see Owen's expression of 
 countenance on hearing these words of encouragement 
 bestowed on her beloved sister by a member of the London 
 police force. 
 
 At first the public only glanced and passed, and the 
 
THE WOMAN PAVEMENT ARTIST 229 
 
 little bowl remained empty. But she had not to wait 
 long before the tide turned. The passers-by lingered 
 more frequently, and pennies were rattled into the bowl, 
 and, by the sound, lighter coins sometimes. Theodora 
 alternated her acknowledgments. Sometimes she said, 
 " Thank you." At other times, " Very much obliged." 
 Now and then she merely inclined her head gravely as 
 if she were a disguised princess, or smiled her thanks 
 with a radiant graciousness. On other occasions she 
 bent more intently over her work, fearing that if she 
 risked looking up, she would probably throw the bowl 
 and all its contents at the last donor's head. From her 
 calm impassiveness no one could have guessed the tumul- 
 tuous emotions battling in her breast. 
 
 Workmen stopped and gave, fashionable clubmen, 
 handsomely dressed women, showy shop girls, gay flappers, 
 quiet, thoughtful people who stood arrested, glanced at the 
 artist, went by, returned, and with apologetic wistfulness 
 made an offering to the bowl. The lovely and unusual 
 little pictures of gardens and cottages, woodland vistas 
 and river reaches, appeared to appeal to everyone. 
 
 The remarks were interesting. 
 
 " My, isn't that cute," said an American woman. 
 
 " Priceless, aren't they," said a flapper. 
 
 "A bit of all right," said a workman. 
 
 " Very charming indeed," murmured a clubman, " very 
 attractive." 
 
 " Delicious," said an elderly lady, stifled in furs. 
 
 " Jolly good," sang out a school-boy. " Top hole, I 
 call them." 
 
 " Damned fine," nodded an electrician. 
 
 One old gentleman, who had merely bestowed a fleeting 
 glance at the pictures, came back, lingered a long time, 
 and finally put a Treasury note into the bowl. He coughed 
 a little nervously and said : 
 
 " Pardon me, Madam. I know good work when I see 
 it. Why are your paintings not in an exhibition gallery ? " 
 
 " The upheaval, sir," Theodora answered simply. 
 
 " Ah yes, the upheaval, the great upheaval, to be sure," 
 he replied gravely, raised his hat and walked slowly on r 
 
230 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 He was obviously very disturbed. He never knew it, 
 of course, but the raising of his hat nearly proved fatal 
 to Theodora's fortitude. It was symbolic of respect and 
 sympathetic understanding ; and she had not bargained 
 for those rare offerings when she schooled herself to keep 
 her emotions in check. But she recovered her composure 
 when another and more rough and ready client said : 
 
 " Look here, Ma, I'd just jolly well like to buy one 
 or two of these little affairs. What's the tune ? " 
 
 " The tune is two shillings," she answered, smiling 
 at him almost gratefully for his brusqueness which brought 
 healing to her. 
 
 " Well, I'll have the geranim pot and those blue flowers 
 bluebells, aren't they ? My little girl thinks a deal 
 of bluebells, and the Missus, she'll like the geranims," 
 he said cheerfully. " You should do a lot of the geranim 
 pots. They'd sell like hot cakes. And here's five bob, 
 Ma, sixpence extra on each for good luck see ? " 
 
 He brought good luck, it would appear ; and at the 
 end of that first day Theodora had earned more money 
 than during the last six months of her artist's life in the 
 hallowed seclusion of her studio. 
 
 " If every day were to be like this one," she reflected, 
 " Gwen and I would end inCarlton Terrace, which Heaven 
 forbid." 
 
 Yet that night as she threw off a few geranium pots, 
 there was no gaiety in her face, no gaiety in her heart. 
 
 m 
 
 BUT of course every day was not the same. There were 
 many ups and downs, and sometimes one pitch was better 
 than another : for she preferred to vary her hunting grounds. 
 There were dull days when people were depressed and 
 had no desire to look or give, and sunny days when their 
 spirits rose, and hearts and purses were opened, and they 
 gladly gave and bought. Except from actual experience, 
 Theodora would not have believed that outside trade 
 
THE WOMAN PAVEMENT ARTIST 231 
 
 could be so varyingly affected by the changing conditions 
 of weather and street life. Rain, wind, frost, sun, accidents, 
 fire alarm, congestion of traffic, important functions of 
 the day and all sorts of unexpected occurrences either 
 ministered to her service or else conspired against her 
 success. 
 
 At least her new life was not dull,. It afforded surprises 
 which alternately depressed, stimulated and amused, and 
 it gave opportunities for many fresh acquaintanceships 
 with others of her calling. The wood carver, the organ 
 grinders of many walks in life, the one-legged sailorman 
 who sold toys of a nautical description, the old man who 
 sold matches, the queer-looking artist who exhibited 
 Japanese pictures all these, to mention a few only, 
 became known to her and formed part of her personal 
 life. The violinist who played so charmingly on the curb, 
 proved to be an old friend whose music she had often 
 enjoyed in public and private. To him she surreptitiously 
 presented herself, and all he said was : 
 
 " Et tu, Brute." 
 
 But in his music he said more, and played to her one 
 or two of the pieces which she had specially loved to 
 hear him interpret in the prosperous past. 
 
 Then she had the unfailing entertainment of never 
 knowing who might turn up at her pitch. As long as it 
 was not Gwen, she was ready for anyone. Once an old 
 school friend appeared on the scenes and gave her three- 
 pence. Once a former fiance handed her three halfpence. 
 He had always been on the mean side ; and that was why 
 she had broken with him. She remembered saying : 
 
 " Cecil, if you're mean and cheeseparing as fiance, I 
 tremble to think what you'll be as husband. Now I've 
 found this out, nothing will induce me to marry you. 
 Good morning." 
 
 But now she nearly said : 
 
 " Thank you, Cecil, but aren't you being too generous ? 
 Wouldn't one halfpenny be enough ? Good morning." 
 
 She longed to tell Gwen of this episode ; indeed she 
 found that all her caution and self-control were needed 
 to refrain from pouring out the whole story and the events 
 
232 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 of each day. Sometimes she wondered whether Gwen 
 knew without the telling ; for the bond between the 
 sisters was a close one, and their thoughts travelled to 
 each other in easy transit of love and sympathetic under- 
 standing. But in this instance Theodora had deliberately 
 constructed a formidable barrier which she hoped would 
 serve ; and she resisted all natural inclination to weaken it. 
 Whatever happened, Gwen's pride, almost fierce in its 
 intensity, must be respected and safeguarded ; and Theodora 
 could only hope that the dire secret would never leak 
 out. But often she looked up, seized with sudden fear 
 lest the dreaded moment of discovery had come at last. 
 
 As time went on and nothing of the sort transpired, 
 Theodora gained confidence, all the more easily since 
 Gwen's time and strength were taken up with a heavy 
 bit of hack work for one of the publishers. So danger 
 seemed at a safe distance. Theodora, particularly dashing 
 and light-hearted one morning, took less care over her 
 disguise, left her nose to shift for itself and even ventured 
 on one of her favourite subjects for the benefit of the 
 public a sundial in an old garden, done in her own natural 
 style. 
 
 But she had no sooner propped it up against the wall 
 and settled down on her camp stool, when she had reason 
 to regret her rashness. To her horror, Gwen came strolling 
 along, glanced at the pictures, and then stopped suddenly 
 in front of the sundial scene which evidently arrested 
 her attention. Theodora's heart stood still as she bent 
 more closely over her painting block. 
 
 " What a fool I've been," she thought. " She'll recognise 
 the picture, and of course she'll recognise my nose and 
 then there will be a scene." 
 
 Her fear proved groundless. Gwen merely dropped 
 some coppers in the bowl, and passed on her way exactly 
 as all fthe others. When the danger was over, Theodora 
 was able to breathe a sigh of relief and even to amuse 
 herself over the humour of her sister's innocent contri- 
 bution to the expenses of the household. 
 
 " Nevertheless," she said, " I must not take such risks 
 again, and I shall not come to this pitch for a long time. 
 
THE WOMAN PAVEMENT ARTIST 233 
 
 I don't believe she suspected anything ; but I shall soon 
 know from her manner this evening. Meantime, Theo, 
 don't worry, but enjoy your good pitch while you've got 
 it." 
 
 And as if to compensate her for her moment of anxiety, 
 fortune smiled on her with especial favour that day, 
 and sent her home with added plunder. 
 
 IV 
 
 THERE was no sign in Gwen's manner to show that she 
 was harbouring even the faintest suspicion of Theodora's 
 doings. On the contrary, she asked after the school 
 and pupils in the usual way, and received the usual infor- 
 mation that the work was more or less boring but bearable, 
 and that the two girls who showed distinct promise were 
 making quite miraculous progress. 
 
 Theodora had invented names for these budding geniuses ; 
 and Ethel Jones was supposed to have a special gift 
 for heads, while Winifred Hardcastle's talent lay in the 
 direction of landscapes. She mixed these phantoms up 
 once or twice, it is true, but she believed they served 
 her purpose in giving " local colour " to her phantom 
 suburban school ; and Gwen apparently accepted them as 
 flesh and blood realities. 
 
 So Theodora went to bed tired, calm and content; 
 but Gwen, tempted by the cheery fire which nowadays 
 warmed the studio, decided to sit up an hour or two 
 longer and make a beginning with an article for the 
 Encyclopaedia Britannica for which she had taken 
 notes that morning in the reading room of the British 
 Museum. 
 
 But she could not concentrate. Her mind traveUed 
 always to that woman pavement artist and that sundial 
 picture. Of course sundials were very ordinary subjects. 
 In the last number of Country Life which a friend had 
 brought in, there were no less than three sundial pictures 
 by different artists. She had thought they were not a 
 
234 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 patch on Theo's work, and to make sure, she found the 
 magazine and studied them well. 
 
 " Not a patch," she said. 
 
 Then she looked up. 
 
 " But that pavement picture was," she said. 
 
 She glared into space. 
 
 " It was every bit as good," she said slowly. 
 
 A strained expression came over her face. 
 
 " It was even like Theo's," she said still more slowly 
 " It might have been Theo's." 
 
 She held her breath. 
 
 " Could it have been Theo's ? " she asked herself in a 
 whisper. 
 
 She sat back in her chair. 
 
 " Could the woman have been Theo ? " she kept on 
 saying. " Oh surely, surely not. Her pride would forbid, 
 her sense of the fitness of things surely, surely not it 
 was merely a coincidence that's all there could be, 
 nothing more than that in it hundreds of people paint 
 sundials and yet . . . no, no it isn't to be thought of 
 for a moment." 
 
 But she did think of it, and though she tried hard to 
 go on with her work, her thoughts wandered off always 
 to that pavement artist, and could only be recalled with 
 difficulty and even then not captured. At last, worn 
 out with effort of will and vague yet encompassing anxiety, 
 Gwen fell asleep. 
 
 When she awoke, she wondered at finding herself in 
 the studio, and then remembered the circumstances of 
 her extreme exhaustion of mind and body. The fire 
 burnt low in the grate ; the oil lamp was flickering out ; 
 the room was almost in darkness. But suddenly it seemed 
 to her that a light broke across the wall nearest to Theo's 
 easel. She started up in quick alarm and saw a mist 
 creeping over the easel : saw it part slowly and disclose 
 a blank wall, a stretch of pavement and the figure of a 
 woman who had chalked some pictures on the stones, 
 propped up others against the wall, and was now intent 
 on a small painting which she was supporting on her 
 knees. 
 
THE WOMAN PAVEMENT ARTIST 235 
 
 So vivid was the scene that Gwen called aloud : 
 
 " Look up, look up, show me your face who is it ? 
 Is it Theodora no, it cannot be Theodora I can't believe 
 it." 
 
 But as the bent head was raising itself, the vision faded 
 and merged into the mist which lingered for a moment 
 and then dispersed, leaving all as before. 
 
 Gwen stood, as Theodora had stood, riveted to the 
 ground, breathing deeply in great emotional excitation. 
 
 SHE went the next morning to the same spot at the bottom 
 of the Haymarket where she had seen the woman pave- 
 ment artist ; but she found instead a man occupying the 
 pitch. She saw bright-coloured pictures of robins picking 
 up crumbs, and a barge with tan sails and a lighthouse 
 shedding its radiance on the sea, and a sunset, the like 
 of which Nature, capable of most things, could never 
 have fashioned in her most wayward mood. Day after 
 day she journeyed in that direction, but not a sign could 
 she see of the woman artist. For Theodora never ventured 
 now to her favourite ground, and was doing good business 
 in other parts of London. 
 
 Once or twice the police had moved her on, on the 
 occasion of Royal progresses and of a public funeral. 
 Otherwise no one had interfered with her ; and she pursued 
 her new career with increasing confidence and enjoyment. 
 She had been bored to extinction with failure and disap- 
 pointment and the respectable dullness of a life in which 
 nothing happened. Now at least she was not dull. The 
 day was full of events ; and she had the companionship 
 of the world around her and was adding hourly to her 
 knowledge of life and character. A score of times she 
 said to herself that if she had been a writer, she could 
 have garnered in material for many strange stories. 
 
 It was a poor day when she only amassed ten shillings, 
 and occasionally she sometimes had commissions, chiefly 
 
236 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 from Americans. She polished off these orders in the 
 photographic studio of her ever faithful school friend, 
 Chris, and eased her mind, too, by telling her experience 
 to that devoted listener. If she had not had someone 
 in whom to confide, she could never have sustained her 
 reticence towards Gwen. Chris was her safety valve ; 
 but she often wondered how long she would be able to 
 keep up the deception. More than once she thought 
 Gwen looked at her a little queerly when she plunged 
 into an ecstasy over her budding geniuses at the school. 
 
 " I don't think I believe much in your geniuses," Gwen 
 said grimly. 
 
 " Don't you, dear ? " laughed Theodora. " Well, you 
 are not the first one who has disbelieved in geniuses." 
 
 But that was the only time when Gwen gave utterance 
 to disturbing words ; and Theodora had not the least 
 idea of what was going on in her sister's mind, not the 
 least suspicion that on the days when Gwen felt up to 
 the effort of battling with the crowds in the London 
 streets, she left her writing-desk and wandered about, 
 searching now here, now there, for the woman pavement 
 artist who had painted the little sundial picture, and 
 who might perhaps prove to be Theo in disguise. 
 
 She knew that Theo did not go to Wimbledon. She had 
 made inquiries and learnt that her sister had deceived her 
 about the school which had no existence. But she went 
 somewhere. Now where did she go, and what was she 
 doing ? What was it that necessitated a secrecy which 
 had hitherto been unknown between herself and Theo ? 
 Her mind was in a turmoil ; and she was riven by many 
 conflicting emotions which would give her no peace until 
 she had found out the truth. 
 
 But of one thing Gwen was certain, and that was 
 Theodora's devotion. If Theo who, after all, cherished 
 a deep sense of the dignity of art, were indeed that pave- 
 ment artist, there could be no doubt that she had adopted 
 this means of livelihood for her sister's sake only. And 
 as this thought grew and blossomed into fairest flower, 
 Gwen's pride died down and gave place to tender solicitude 
 and added love, 
 
THE WOMAN PAVEMENT ARTIST 237 
 
 If Theodora could have known of this change of outlook 
 in the mind of the being whom she loved best in the world, 
 she would only too gratefully have ended her deception 
 and shared the secret with her sister. But though their 
 spirits were knit together in closest bond, nothing of 
 this knowledge reached Theodora, probably because she 
 was so entirely taken up with her adventure and had no 
 powers left over for scrutiny and observation during 
 the few hours of her home life. She went confidently 
 on her way, and ended by living in a fool's paradise of 
 security. 
 
 She even ventured back to her former pastures at the 
 bottom of the Haymarket, and did such good business 
 there that she returned and decided to hold on until 
 some crisis occurred, or the police ordered her off. Nothing 
 untoward happened ;. the police were most friendly and 
 indulgent, and the public were interested and generous. 
 She became quite reckless about her disguise and the 
 choice of her subjects. She neglected her nose, discarded 
 geranium pots, robins and bunches of grapes, and went 
 to work on her own natural lines, reproducing gardens 
 and sundials, windmills and soft little woodland scenes 
 to her heart's content. 
 
 And one morning she indulged herself by risking a 
 preaching cross in a lovely little village which had been 
 dear to Gwen and herself for many years. 
 
 But she had no sooner finished it and set it up against 
 the wall, than she had good reason to regret her rashness. 
 Immediately after she returned to her camp stool and 
 began a new picture, Gwen arrived. She stood stock 
 still before the tell-tale preaching cross. 
 
 " Ah, that settles it," Gwen said under her breath. 
 
 Aloud she said : 
 
 " I know that scene. I know it very well. It's Leth- 
 bridge, isn't it ? " 
 
 Theodora did not look up, but nodded and mumbled : 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Did you copy it from a picture," Gwen persisted, 
 bent on making the pavement artist speak, " or have 
 you been to Lethbridge ? " 
 
238 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 " I have been there, many years ago," faltered Theodora, 
 in what she hoped was a disguise of voice. 
 
 "Yes, Theo," said Gwen quietly, "with me." 
 
 Then Theodora looked up helplessly like any other 
 criminal run to earth. 
 
 " I've suspected this for some time past," Gwen said. 
 " I saw you here once before, Theo, and since then I've 
 come back repeatedly to make sure, but never found 
 you again. I've wandered far and wide in other directions 
 looking for you. And this morning I've been walking 
 up and down on the opposite side, watching you and 
 studying your face. A very good disguise, dear, but 
 your nose gives you away. You couldn't hide your 
 nose the family pride. And when I saw the Lethbridge 
 preaching cross, I knew for certain that I had found my 
 long-lost sister. You know, darling, I never believed 
 in those budding geniuses in the school. But I will own 
 that I did believe in the school until I learnt it didn't 
 exist ! Well, good-bye, Theo. I'll see you back from 
 Wimbledon at the usual hour. Don't be late." 
 
 There was a twinkle in her eye which poor Theodora 
 in her distress did not see, and a rallying tenderness in 
 her voice which escaped her in her confusion. 
 
 " Gwen, don't go," she pleaded. " Say all you have 
 to say to me and then forgive me. I did it for the best 
 indeed I did. Life has been so baffling lately, and I've 
 been puzzled to death to know what to do. Nothing 
 seemed to me to matter except to secure our home where 
 we've been so happy and peaceful. And as for the secrecy 
 I've hated it. I only went on with it to save your 
 pride you will believe that, won't you ? " 
 
 " You haven't saved my pride," Gwen answered in a 
 low voice, and with eyes which had suddenly gone dim. 
 " You've killed it." 
 
 " Killed it ? " repeated Theo wonderingly. 
 
 " There's nothing left except larger love and deeper 
 gratitude," Gwen whispered with a radiance on her face 
 which carried its sure message to Theodora's heart. 
 
 " Oh, Gwen," she cried, " I feel years younger al- 
 ready ! " 
 
THE WOMAN PAVEMENT ARTIST 239 
 
 " Come home early from Wimbledon," her sister said, 
 smiling half teasingly. 
 
 Then with an exquisite touch of humour she dropped 
 some coppers in the bowl, and passed on her way. 
 
THE LITTLE GREY HOME IN THE WEST " 
 
 MADAME TERESA ARNECLIFFE, a famous 
 soprano, had been singing in Aberdeen, and on 
 her way down from the north she broke her journey 
 at Glasgow, for the purpose of visiting an old friend of 
 her mother, who lay dying. She put up at the leading 
 hotel, and contrary to her custom, took her dinner in 
 the public dining-room, at a small table near one of the 
 windows which looked out on to the street. 
 
 A barrel-organ was being played, much to her annoy- 
 ance. She turned in her imperious way to the waiter. 
 
 " Have that noise stopped," she said. " Give the man 
 a couple of shillings to go away." 
 
 But as she was fumbling for the money, the organ 
 suddenly struck up with ' The Little, Grey Home in the 
 West: 
 
 Instinctively the waiter smiled at her, and she smiled 
 in return. 
 
 " Very familiar music that," she said good-humouredly. 
 " No, don't send the man away, waiter, but give him the 
 two shillings." 
 
 But he did not dash off to do her bidding. Instead, 
 he stood listening to the tune which called up memories 
 of training camps, rest stations at the front, hospitals in 
 France and at home. Battlefield scenes rose before him. 
 Emotions, quiescent for many months, bestirred them- 
 selves afresh. In that brief moment the ex-Service man 
 passed through the gamut of remembrance, and only 
 recovered touch with the realities of the present when 
 someone brushed past him rather roughly and roused him 
 to the consciousness of being a waiter in an hotel, and no 
 16 241 
 
242 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 longer Pte. A. Jefferson, 47th (2nd London), three times 
 wounded, at Festubert, Vimy and Ypres. 
 
 He pulled himself together, flushed a little, as if embar- 
 rassed at having forgotten his duty of attending to the 
 wishes of his client, and was about to murmur some sort 
 of apology, when he saw that she was unaware of his 
 continued presence. Her eyes were closed. She was drum- 
 ming gently with her fingers on the table. Very tensely 
 sympathetic looked her countenance. 
 
 She was thinking of the thousands of men to whom and 
 with whom she ha I sung that song in the training camps 
 and hospitals at home, in France, in the hospitals at the 
 bases, in rest stations behind the firing line and farther. 
 
 Up and down the country she had travelled in England ; 
 and in France she had penetrated as far to the firing line 
 as the military authorities would permit, chiefly as far 
 as Poperinghe, Bailleul, Locre and St. Omer. 
 
 From the moment that war had been declared, she had 
 consecrated her gifts to the amusement of the men, and 
 thought herself blessed indeed in having something of defi- 
 nite service to contribute to the common cause. She threw 
 aside all her imperiousness, all her spoilt ways, to which a 
 prima donna, forgetful of her high calling, often succumbs, 
 and rose up a workaday human being once more. 
 
 " To pretend to nurse, when I haven't a notion about 
 illness, would be absurd," she had said. " But I can sing 
 for the men. Wherever I am wanted, I will go any 
 distance." 
 
 When she first expounded this idea to a Brass Hat, he 
 smiled indulgently. 
 
 " Dearest lady," he said, as if dismissing the playful 
 idea. 
 
 " But don't you realise," she urged, " that the boys 
 will need to be amused ? They will need entertainment 
 when they are training, need it when they are resting, 
 need it in hospital when they are suffering and recovering." 
 
 The Brass Hat shrugged his shoulders. If she had not 
 been a celebrity, he would have been downright rude ; 
 but as she was herself, one of the best-known singers in the 
 world, with a voice of finest, purest calibre, and a fame 
 
" THE LITTLE GREY HOME IN THE WEST " 243 
 
 which attracted vast audiences wherever she went, he 
 had to content himself with polite discouragement only. 
 
 But in the end she conquered, and was one of the first 
 to sing at the concerts organised by a famous and devoted 
 actress for the troops in France. On that occasion and 
 afterwards, at all times and in all places, the men had 
 asked for ' The Little Grey Home in the West.' They 
 would never let her off until she had sung that song, and 
 they had joined in the chorus : for it was her. invariable 
 habit to step forward and say : 
 
 " Chorus, gentlemen." 
 
 And now as she sat drumming on the table, visions rose 
 before her. She saw the worn, tired men at the Front. 
 She saw them in new khaki, old khaki, hospital blue. She 
 saw the bandaged heads and limbs, and the boys who had 
 lost an arm or a leg or both and the blind. She was 
 overwhelmed once more with the realisation of what these 
 brave and heroically enduring men had passed through, 
 for her sake, the sake of all. Their voices reached her. 
 Every emotion which had ever beset her when she heard 
 their voices singing with her, especially in hospital, now 
 assailed her with the poignancy of memory. In those 
 brief moments she lived those war years over again, and 
 was one with those men in their tiredness, their sufferings 
 and their amazing cheerfulness. Almost she rose and 
 said : 
 
 " Chorus, gentlemen." 
 
 When the waiter came back, he had learnt who she was. 
 He was one of the thousands who had heard her, sung with 
 her, been comforted by her music and refreshed by her 
 inspiring presence. Here was his chance of thanking her, 
 and he took it : for in the early days after the war, barriers 
 were still levelled to the ground, and everyone was reachable 
 without preliminaries. 
 
 He roused her from her reverie by placing her soup before 
 her and pouring it out. And then he said quite simply : 
 
 " Madame, you used to come and sing to us in the war. 
 
 I've so often heard you. Once in hospital in London when 
 
 you came I had an awful hump until you sang. And 
 
 once in Poperinghe I was sort of done in and broken 
 
 17 
 
244 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 up with three of my chums killed by my side at Messines, 
 and had lost heart until you sang. And there were 
 other times. I want to thank you." 
 
 Her face lit up. 
 
 " And how am I going to thank you for all you did ? " 
 she said. 
 
 She held out her hand to him, and he took it with a dig- 
 nity which was entirely unconscious. He and she were 
 once again part and parcel of the great united army of the 
 British Empire who had worked, suffered, fought, cared, 
 despaired, hoped, triumphed together, upholding each 
 other in the dark hours. 
 
 Later in the evening some friends called in to see Madame 
 Arnecliffe. They were on their way to a large Labour 
 meeting which was to take place in the Assembly Rooms. 
 They suggested that if she were not too tired she should 
 go with them. 
 
 " It is sure to be interesting and exciting," they 
 said. " Probably very turbulent, as there is a great 
 deal of anger and indignation with the Government, 
 and things are in a very queer state here. The 
 men are not only irritated with the Government, and their 
 employers, but also with their own leaders and with each 
 other. One group of men against the other, no one group 
 studying any interests except its own. In fact, they are 
 all horrid to each other no kindness or charitable dis- 
 position of mind anywhere. But the meeting will be 
 deeply interesting and instructive, too. Come along, 
 Teresa. We'll see that you don't get too much hustled. 
 And it will do you good to leave the realms of song and 
 see what is going on at this] moment in the workaday 
 world. You might just as well come as sit alone in this 
 boring hotel. At least you won't be bored at the Assembly 
 Rooms." 
 
 They were old friends, knew and loved her, and had the 
 right to tease her. 
 
 " Jolly good thing for you to drop being a platform prin- 
 cess for once, and form part of a perspiring crowd," they 
 added. 
 
" THE LITTLE GREY HOME IN THE WEST " 245 
 
 She entered into the spirit of the thing, and allowed 
 herself to be dashed off to the hall, which they found 
 already packed. The atmosphere was highly charged with 
 the electric currents of anger, opposition, hostility, rivalry 
 and discontent. The men were angry with their trade 
 union leaders. Engineers, joiners, riveters, moulders, 
 blacksmiths, hand-platers, dockers, and indeed, repre- 
 sentatives of all trades and callings on the Clyde were 
 at loggerheads with each other. All were furious with 
 the Government, and impatient with the findings of 
 Government Commissions ; and the whole assembly was 
 united in its deadly hostility towards Capitalism. Pacifists, 
 Bolsheviks, Imperialists, and Internationalists, Socialists, 
 Liberals, Conservatives all shades and opinions in 
 politics and economics were to be found in that vast gather- 
 ing of many thousands. 
 
 The chairman and speakers took their places on the 
 platform. But he had scarcely finished the opening sen- 
 tences of his address, when the trouble began. Interrup- 
 tions came from all directions. At first he took no notice 
 of them, but proceeded calmly as if he were talking to a 
 sympathetic and an attentive audience. And perhaps, if 
 he could have continued to keep his temper, he might have 
 conquered the territory and held it in trust successfully 
 for the speakers who were to come after him. 
 
 But James Overbury was by nature irritable and impati- 
 ent : from a psychological point of view, entirely unfit to be 
 a chairman at any meeting likely to be turbulent. He 
 called : 
 
 " Turn those men out." 
 
 The stewards made dashes at the interrupters who were 
 springing up everywhere. Resistance grew ; and soon 
 free fights were occurring in many parts of the hall. The 
 chairman concluded his speech abruptly, and called on 
 one of his colleagues to try the force of his personality : for 
 he was a favourite amongst all sections of the industrial 
 world. He made a valiant attempt, but was shouted 
 down ; and an ugly rush was started for the platform. The 
 organ came to the rescue and pealed forth suddenly to drown 
 the din. 
 
246 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 It was then that an inspiration seized Madame Arne- 
 cliffe, who was deeply interested in and stirred by 
 the tumult. Her principal thought as she sat amongst 
 the audience was, that she was surrounded by the men 
 who had fought in the war, hundreds of whom she 
 must probably have faced when she sang to them at 
 home and in France. How would it be if she faced them 
 now ? Could she weld them into harmony by the power 
 of their memories, by the sound of her voice, by the force of 
 her caring ? For she did care. She had cared for them in 
 war-time, and she cared for them in peace-time, and admired 
 them with all her heart. Their courage, their endurance, 
 their heroism, their cheerfulness, had eaten deep into her 
 soul. She had learnt, from intercourse with them, lessons 
 which she could never forget. She had learnt from the 
 living how to live, from the suffering how to suffer, from 
 the dying how to die. She saw them once more in their 
 new khaki, in their soiled and war-worn khaki, in their 
 hospital blue. rThey became again her war audience whom 
 she had been wont to hold enthralled. 
 
 Could she enthrall them now? 
 
 The minute that the thought was born in her brain, she 
 acted. She fled from her seat, made her way somehow 
 through the excited groups, reached the door leading from 
 the hall to the rear, found out the stairs to the organ loft, 
 and dashed in to the astonished organist. 
 
 "Quick, quick!" she cried; "Modulate into * The 
 Little Grey Home in the West.' You know it, don't 
 you ? ' The Little Grey Home in the West.' Quick, 
 quick, I'm Madame Teresa Arnecliffe. I'm going to sing 
 that song to the men. You know it, of course you re- 
 member how it goes ? " 
 
 He glanced at her, bewildered by her sudden appearance 
 and demand, but his mind wrenched itself from ' Pomp 
 and Circumstance,' which he was thundering out, and 
 tried to focus on what she wanted. 
 
 " ' The Little Grey Home in the West ' ? ' The Little 
 Grey Home in the West ' ? " he repeated vaguely. 
 
 " Yes, yes," she said excitedly, " don't you know it ? 
 Don't you remember it ? " 
 
" THE LITTLE GREY HOME IN THE WEST ' 247 
 
 She hummed it. 
 
 His face told her that he knew, and before she had left 
 him, he was finding his way by skilful modulation to the 
 tune which he, too, had heard countless times during 
 the long years of war. 
 
 Then she bombarded the platform, reached the chairman, 
 announced herself and her intention, and faced the vast 
 assembly. It was the work of a brief moment. She had 
 taken the platform by surprise ; and there was a pause in 
 the onslaught of the stormers and a suspense amongst 
 the audience. 
 
 She stepped forward. Her voice rang out clear and 
 sweet. 
 
 ' The Little Grey Home in the West,' " she announced. 
 " And chorus, gentlemen, as usual, when the time comes." 
 
 She began. 
 
 " By gum," said one of the men, " it's Arnecliffe. I 
 heard her at Poperinghe." 
 
 And the news was flashed like lightning from bench to 
 bench. 
 
 " I heard her at Salisbury," said another. 
 
 " I heard her in hospital at Etaples," said another. 
 
 " So did I," said another, " and afterwards at Endell 
 Street." 
 
 " I heard her at Locre," said another. 
 
 " I heard her at St. Pol," said another. 
 
 !< I heard her at Bailleul," said another. 
 
 " I heard her at Rouen," said another. 
 
 Their memories were stirred, as she knew they would 
 be ; and as the well-known words and music fell on their 
 ears, there was a hush which spread like a healing balm. 
 
 Visions rose before them of the scenes they had witnessed, 
 the dangers they had escaped, and the horrors and agonies 
 they had passed through. Once again they lived through 
 the turmoil and the tragedy ; once again they took the 
 enemies' trenches, and saw their comrades fall. Once again 
 they lay in hospital, suffering, recovering, their hearts full of 
 thankfulness to be at peace, tended, cared for, far removed 
 from the rack and grimness of the terrible battle zone. 
 Once again they felt the thrill of unison engendered by 
 
248 THIRTEEN ALL TOLD 
 
 a common danger, a common suffering, common reverses 
 and common triumphs. 
 
 Never did Mme. Arnecliffe sing more beautifully, not 
 even in her moment of greatest triumph in opera or on 
 concert platform ; for she was thinking all the time : 
 
 " They must be made to know afresh that we are all 
 one, as we were in the war. I must and will take them 
 back to the days when everything else was in abeyance 
 save our united determination to endure together and 
 win through together." 
 
 And because she cared so passionately, her message 
 was borne on the wings of her glorious voice. One by one 
 the men's faces softened as pictures of the past formed 
 themselves afresh and memories claimed their minds : and a 
 few of the most sensitive amongst them succumbed at 
 once and joined in the chorus at the end of the first verse, 
 whilst others remained silent, grim and sullen. 
 
 She sang on, nothing daunted by thoir scanty co-operation. 
 
 But the second time, more responded, and each time 
 fresh groups in different parts of the hall were caught 
 by her influence, and added their voices to the ever -increas- 
 ing volume of sound, some of the men looking half -sheepish 
 and ashamed, others shrugging their shoulders, yet singing 
 for all that, and others with a glad expression on their 
 countenances as if they had freed themselves from dark- 
 ness and saw light. At the end of the last verse she 
 stepped forward in her old way they knew so well, raised 
 her hand and said : 
 
 " Chorus, gentlemen, all of you everyone." 
 
 The whole audience sang with lusty throats. And it was 
 one of the most turbulent amongst the engineers who 
 sprang up excitedly and shouted : 
 
 " Chorus again, boys, and then three cheers for Arne- 
 cliffe." 
 
 She slipped away, disappearing before they realised she 
 had gone. They yelled and thundered for her ; and when 
 she came back to the platform she did not bow or smirk 
 or receive their homage as a personal tribute to her own 
 gifts. She had soared far above the personal, and she 
 stretched out her arms in a grave and fine entreaty, as 
 
< THE LITTLE GREY HOME IN THE WEST " 249 
 
 if including all present. If her action had been translated 
 into words, those words would have been : 
 
 " We are all one we must remain as one, my brothers." 
 
 The proceedings were resumed and the meeting passed 
 off quietly. 
 
Printed in Great Britain by 
 
 Butler & Tanner 
 
 Frame and London 
 
A SELECTION OF BOOKS 
 
 PUBLISHED BY METHUEN 
 
 AND CO. LTD. LONDON 
 
 36 ESSEX STREET 
 
 W.C.2 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 General Literature ... a 
 
 Ancient Cities . . . , 12 
 
 Antiquary's Books ... xa 
 
 Arden Shakespeare ... 13 
 
 Classics of Art .... 13 
 
 'Complete' Series ... 14 
 
 Connoisseur's Library . . 14 
 
 Handbooks of English Church 
 
 History 15 
 
 Handbooks of Theology . . 15 
 
 Health Series .... 15 
 
 ' Home Life ' Series ... 15 
 
 Leaders of Religion . . 16 
 
 Library of Devotion . . 16 
 
 Little Books on Art . . 17 
 
 Little Guides .... 17 
 
 Little Library .... 18 
 
 Little Quarto Shakespeare . 19 
 
 FAGK 
 
 Miniature Library ... 19 
 
 New Library of Medicine . 19 
 
 New Library of Music . . 70 
 
 Oxford Biographies ... 20 
 
 Nine Plays .... 20 
 
 Sport Series .... 20 
 
 States of Italy .... 20 
 
 Westminster Commentaries . 20 
 
 'Young' Series. . . . 21 
 
 Cheap Library . . . . ai 
 
 Books for Travellers . . 22 
 
 Some Books on Art. . . a? 
 
 Some Books on Italy . . 23 
 
 Fiction 24 
 
 Books tor Boys and Girls . 28 
 
 Cheap Novels .... 29 
 
 QRC and Threepenny Novels. 31 
 
A SELECTION OF 
 
 MESSRS. METHUEN'S 
 PUBLICATIONS 
 
 IN this Catalogue the order is according to authors. 
 
 Colonial Editions are published of all Messrs. METHOEN'S Novels issued 
 at a price above 4$. net. and similar editions are published of some works of 
 General Literature. Colonial Editions are only for circulation in the British 
 Colonies and India. 
 
 All books marked net are not subject to discount, and cannot be bought 
 at less than the published price. Books not marked net are subject to the 
 discount which the bookseller allows. 
 
 The prices in this Catalogue are liable to alteration without previous notice. 
 
 Messrs. METHUEN'S books are kept in stock by all good booksellers. If 
 there is any difficulty in seeing copies, Messrs. Methuen will be very glad to 
 have early information, and specimen copies of any books will be sent on 
 receipt of the published price plus postage for net books, and of the published 
 price for ordinary books. 
 
 This Catalogue contains only a selection of the more important books 
 published by Messrs. Methuen. A complete catalogue of their pu Locations 
 may be obtained on application. 
 
 Andrewes (Lancelot). PRECES PRI- 
 VATAE. Translated and edited, with 
 Notes, by F. E. BRIGHTMAN. Cr. Boo. 
 js. 6d. net. 
 
 Ariitotle. THE ETHICS. Edited, with 
 an Introduction and Notes, by JOHN 
 BURNET. Demy Bvo. 15*. net. 
 
 Atkinson (T. D.). ENGLISH ARCHI- 
 TECTURE. Illustrated. Fourth Edition. 
 Fcap. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 A GLOSSARY OF TERMS USED IN 
 ENGLISH ARCHITECTURE. Illus- 
 trated. Second Edition. Fcap. Bvo. 6*. net. 
 
 Atterldge (JL H.). FAMOUS LAND 
 FIGHTS. Illustrated. Cr. Bvo. 7 s. t>d. 
 
 net. 
 
 Baggally (W. Wortley). TELEPATHY : 
 
 GENUINE AND FRAUDULENT. Cr. Bvo. 
 3*. 6d. net. 
 
 Bain (F. W.). A DIGIT OF THE MOON: 
 
 A HINDOO LOVE STORY. Twelfth Edition. 
 
 Fcap. Bvo. S.T. net. 
 THE DESCENT OF THE SUN : A CYCLE 
 
 OF BIRTH. Seventh. Edition. Fcap. Bvo. 
 
 $s. net. 
 A HEIFER OF THE DAWN. Ninth 
 
 Edition. Fcap. Bvo. $s. net. 
 IN THE GREAT GOD'S HAIR. Sixth 
 
 Edition. Fcap. Bvo. y. net. 
 
 A DRAUGHT OF THE BLUE. Sixth 
 Edition, Fcap. Bvo. 5*. net. 
 
 AN ESSENCE OF THE DUSK. Fourth 
 Edition. Fcap. Boo. $s. net. 
 
 AN INCARNATION OF THE SNOW. 
 Fourth Edition. Fcap. Bvo. 55. net. 
 
 A MINE OF FAULTS. Fourth Edition. 
 Fcap. Bvo. sj. net. 
 
 THE ASHES OF A GOD. Second Edition. 
 Fcap. Bvo. ss. net. 
 
 BUBBLES OF THE FOAM. Second 
 Edition. Fcap. tfe. 7 s. 6d. net. Also 
 Fcap. Bvo. sj. net. 
 
 A SYRUP OF THE BEES. Fcap. <to. 
 
 ^s. 6d. net. Also Fcap. Bvo. 5*. net. 
 THE LIVERY OF EVE. Second Edition. 
 
 Fcap 4*0. js. 6d. net. Also Fcap Bvo. 
 
 5J. net. 
 
 AN ECHO OF THE SPHERES. Rescued 
 from Oblivion by F. W. BAIN. Wide Demy 
 Bvo. i or. 6d. net. 
 
 Baifour (Graham). THE LIFE OF 
 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. Fif- 
 teenth Edition. In one Volume. Cr. Bvo. 
 Buckram, js. 6d. net. 
 
 Baring (Hon. Maurice). LANDMARKS 
 IN RUSSIAN LITERATURE. Third 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. 7*. 6d. net. 
 
 THE RUSSIAN PEOPLE. Second 
 Edition. Dtnty Bvo. 15$. net. 
 
GENERAL LlTERATURS 
 
 A YEAR IN RUSSIA. Cr. few. is. 6at. 
 tut. 
 
 Baring-Gould (S.). THE TRAGEDY OF 
 
 THE C/ESARS: A STUDY OF THE 
 CHARACTERS OF THE CSAKS OF THE 
 JULIAN AND CLAUDIAN HOUSES. Illus- 
 trated. Seventh Editon. Royal boo. 15*. 
 net. 
 
 A BOOK OF CORNWALL. Illustrated. 
 Third Edition. Cr. Zoo. 7*. 6d. net. 
 
 A BOOK OF DARTMOOR. Illustrated. 
 Third Edition. Cr. Bvo. 7-r.6d.net. 
 
 A BOOK OF DEVON. Illustrated. Third 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. 6d. net 
 
 Baring-Gould (S.) and Sheppard (H. P.). 
 A GARLAND OF COUNTRY SONG. 
 English Folk Songs with their Tradi- 
 tional Melodies. Demy \to. ft. 6d. net. 
 
 Baring-Gould (S.), Sheppard (H. F.), and 
 Buasell (P. W.). SONGS OF THE 
 WEST. Folk Songs of Devon and Corn- 
 wall. Collected from the Mouths of the 
 People. New and Revised Edition, under 
 the musical editorship of CECIL J. SHARP. 
 
 Second Edition. 
 7S. 6d. net. 
 
 Large Imperial 
 
 Barker (B.). GREEK POLITICAL 
 THEORY : PLATO AND HIS PREDECESSORS. 
 Demy Bvo. 14*. net. 
 
 Bastable (G. F.). THE COMMERCE OF 
 NATIONS. Eighth Edition. Cr.Svo. 5*. 
 net. 
 
 Becfcford (Peter). THOUGHTS ON 
 HUNTING. Edited by J. OTHO PAGET. 
 Illustrated. Third Edition. Demy 8vo. 
 7 s. 6d. net. 
 
 BellOO (H.). PARIS. Illustrated. Third 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. f>d. net. 
 
 HILLS AND THE SEA. Ninth Edition. 
 Fcaf. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 ON NOTHING AND KINDRED SUB- 
 JECTS. Fourth Edition. Fcaj.Bvo. 6s. 
 net. 
 
 ON EVERYTHING. Fourth Edition. Fcap. 
 Bvo. 6s. tut. 
 
 ON SOMETHING. Third Edition. Fcap. 
 
 Bvo. 6s. net. 
 FIRST AND LAST. Second Edition. 
 
 Fcap. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 THIS AND THAT AND THE OTHER. 
 Second Edition. Fcap. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 MARIE ANTOINETTE. Illustrated. 
 Fourth Edition. Demy Boo. iBs. net. 
 
 THE PYRENEES. Illustrated. Second 
 Edition. Demy 3v. zor. 6d. tut. 
 
 Bennett (Arnold). THE TRUTH ABOUT 
 
 AN AUTHOR. Fcap. Bvo. 5*. net. 
 
 Bennett (W. H.). A PRIMER OF THE 
 BIBLE. Fifth Edition. Cr. Bvo. 4 s. net. 
 
 Bennett (W. H.) and Adeney (W. FA A 
 BIBLICAL INTRODUCTION. With a 
 concise Bibliography. Sixth Edition. Cr. 
 Boo. Bs. 6d. net. Also in Two Volumes. 
 Cr. Bvo. Each 5*. net. 
 
 Berrlman (Algernon B.). AVIATION. 
 Illustrated. Second Edition. Cr. Bvo. 
 las. 6d. net. 
 
 MOTORING. Illustrated. Demy Bvo. 
 . net. 
 
 Blcknell (Xthel E.). PARIS AND HER 
 TREASURES. Illustrated. Fcap. Zvo. 
 Round corners. 6s. net. 
 
 Blake (William). ILLUSTRATIONS OF 
 THE BOOK OF JOB. With a General 
 Introduction by LAURENCE BINVON. Illus- 
 trated. Quarto. 1 is. tut. 
 
 Bloernfonteln (Bishop of). ARA CCELI : 
 AN ESSAY IN MYSTICAL THEOLOGY. 
 Seventh Edition. Cr. Bvo. $s. net. 
 
 FAITH AND EXPERIENCE. Third 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. 5*. net. 
 
 THE CULT OF THE PASSING 
 MOMENT. Fourth Edition. Cr. Zvo. 
 Ss. net. 
 
 THE ENGLISH CHURCH AND RE- 
 UNION. Cr.Bvo. ss.nft. 
 
 Brabant (P. G.). RAMBLES IN SUSSEX. 
 Illustrated. Cr. Bvo. js. 60. net. 
 
 Braid (James). ADVANCED GOLF. 
 Illustrated. Eighth Edition. Demy Bvo. 
 IM. ttf. net. 
 
 Bulley (M. H.). ANCIENT AND MEDI- 
 EVAL ART. Illustrated. Cr. 800. 75. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 Carlyle (Thomas). THE FRENCH 
 REVOLUTION. Edited by C. R. L. 
 FLETCHER. Three Volumes. Cr. Bvo. iBs. 
 net. 
 
 THE LETTERS AND SPEECHES OF 
 OLIVER CROMWELL. With an In- 
 troduction by C. H. FIRTH, and Notes 
 and Appendices by S. C. LOMAS. Three 
 Volumes. . Demy Bvo. i8x. net. 
 
 Chambers (Mrs. Lambert). LAWN 
 
 TENNIS FOR LADIES. Illustrated. 
 Second Edition. Cr. Bvo. $s. net. 
 
 Chesterton (O.K.). CHARLES DICKENS. 
 With two Portraits in Photogravure. Eighth 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. 6d. ttet. 
 
MBTHUEN AND COMPANY LIMITED 
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE. 
 Fifth Edition. 6*. net. 
 
 ALL THINGS CONSIDERED. Tenth 
 Edition. Fcap. too. 6s. tut. 
 
 TREMENDOUS TRIFLES. Fifth Edi- 
 tion. Fcap. Zoo. 6t. net. 
 
 ALARMS AND DISCURSIONS. Second 
 Edition, Fcap. too. 6s. net. 
 
 A MISCELLANY OF MEN. Second 
 Edition. Fcap. too. 6s. net. 
 
 WINE, WATER, AND SONG. Ninth 
 Edition. Fcap. too. M. 6d. net. 
 
 Clausen (George). ROYAL ACADEMY 
 LECTURES ON PAINTING. Illustrated. 
 Cr. too. 7s. 6d. net. 
 
 Clephan (R. CoUmanX THE TOURNA- 
 MENT: Its Periods and Phase*. With 
 Preface by CH AS. J. FFOULKES. Illustrated. 
 Royal 4*0. 9 &r. net. 
 
 Clutton-Brock (A.)- THOUGHTS ON 
 THE WAR. Ninth Edition. Fcap. too. 
 ix. 6d. net. 
 
 WHAT IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN ? 
 Cr. to*. $J. net. 
 
 Conrad (Joseph). THE MIRROR OF 
 THE SEA : Memories and Impressions. 
 Fcap. too. ss. net. 
 
 Coulton (G. 0.). CHAUCER AND HIS 
 ENGLAND. Illustrated. Second Edition. 
 Demy too. its. 6d. net. 
 
 Cowper (William). POEMS. Edited, with 
 an Introduction and Notes, by J. C. BAILRY. 
 Illustrated. Demy too. i2s. 6d. net. 
 
 Cox (J. C.), RAMBLES IN SURREY. 
 Illustrated. Second Edition. Cr. too. 
 7*. 6d. net. 
 
 RAMBLES IN KENT. Illustrated. Cr. 
 too. js. 6d. net. 
 
 Dalton (Hugh). WITH BRITISH GUNS 
 IN ITALY. Illustrated. Cr. too. Bs. 64. 
 net. 
 
 Davis (H. W. C.). ENGLAND UNDER 
 THE NORMANS AND ANGEVINS: 
 1066-1278. Fifth Edition. Deny too. 
 iw. 6d. net. 
 
 Day (Harry A.), F.R.H.8. SPADECRAFT : 
 OR, How TO BE GARDENER. Second Edi- 
 tion. Cr. too. as. net. 
 
 VEGECULTURE : How TO GROW VEGE- 
 TABLKS, SALADS, AND HERBS IN TOWN 
 AND COUNTRY. Second Edition. Cr. toe. 
 t. net. 
 
 THE FOOD-PRODUCING GARDEN. 
 
 Cr. too. yj. net. 
 
 Dearmer (Mabel). A CHILD'S LIFE OF 
 CHRIST. Illustrated. Fourth Edition. 
 Large Cr. too. 6s. net. 
 
 Dickinson (Sir G. L.). THE GREEK VIEW 
 OF LIFE. Eleventh Edition. Cr. too. 
 5*. net. 
 
 Dttchfleld (P. H.). THE VILLAGE 
 CHURCH. Second Edition. Illustrated. 
 Cr. too. 6s. net. 
 
 THE ENGLAND OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 Illustrated. Cr. too. 6s. net. 
 
 Dowden (J.). FURTHER STUDIES IN 
 THE PRAYER BOOK. Cr. too. 6s. net. 
 
 Durham (The Earl of). THE REPORT 
 ON CANADA. With an Introductory 
 Note. Second Edition. Demy too. js.6d. 
 net. 
 
 Egerton (H. B.). A SHORT HISTORY 
 OF BRITISH COLONIAL POLICY. 
 Pifih Edition. Demy too. zo*. 6d. net. 
 
 'Etienni.' A NAVAL LIEUTENANT, 
 1914-1918. Illustrated. Cr. too. &r. 6d 
 net. 
 
 Fairbrother (W. H.). THE PHILO- 
 SOPHY OF T. H. GREEN. Second 
 
 Edition. Cr. too. 55. net. 
 
 ffoulkoE (Charles). TPTE ARMOURER 
 AND HIS CRAFT. Illustrated. Royal 
 4/0. a is. net. 
 
 DECORATIVE IRONWORK. From the 
 xith to the xviiith Century. Illustrated. 
 Royal 4/0. t as. net. 
 
 Firth (G. HA CROMWELL'S ARMY. 
 A History of the English Soldier during the 
 Civil Wars, th Commonwealth, and the 
 Protectorate. Illustrated. Setond Edition. 
 Cr. too. ft. 6d. net. 
 
 Fisher (H. A. L.). THE REPUBLICAN 
 TRADITION IN EUROPE. Cr. too. 
 js. 6d. net. 
 
 FitzGeraid (Edward). THE RUBAlYAT 
 OF OMAR KHAYYAM. Printed from 
 the Fifth and last Edition. With a Com- 
 mentary by H. M. BATSON, and a Biograph- 
 ical Introduction by E. D. Ross. Cr. too. 
 js. 6d. net. 
 
 Fyleman (Rose). FAIRIES AND CHIM- 
 NEYS. Fcap. too. Fourth Edition. 
 3*. 6rf. net. 
 
GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 Garstin (Crosby). THE MUD-LARKS 
 AGA.IN. Fcap. too. 3*. bd. net. 
 
 Gibbins (H. de B.). INDUSTRY IN 
 ENGLAND: HISTORICAL OUT- 
 LINES. With Maps and Plans. Ninth 
 Edition. Demy too. its. 6d. net. 
 
 THE INDUSTRIAL HISTORY OF i 
 ENGLAND. With 5 Maps and a Plan. I 
 Twenty-sixth Edition. Cr. too. $s. 
 
 Gibbon (Edward). THE DECLINE AND 
 FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE. 
 Edited, with Notes, Appendices, and Maps, 
 by J. B. BURY. Illustrated. Seven Volumes. 
 Demy too. Illustrated. Each i?s. 64. net. 
 Also in Seven Volumes. Cr. too. Each 
 js. 6d. net. 
 
 Gladstone (W. Ewart). GLADSTONE'S 
 SPEECHES : DESCRIPTIVE INDEX AND 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY. Edited by A. TILNEY BAS- 
 SKTT. With a Preface by VISCOUNT 
 BRYCE, O.M. Demy too. izj. 6d. net. 
 
 Glover (T. R.) THE CONFLICT OF 
 RELIGIONS IN THE EARLY ROMAN 
 EMPIRE. Seventh Edition. Demy too. 
 iof. fxi. net. 
 
 POETS AND PURITANS. Second Edition. 
 Demy too. icu. 6d. net. 
 
 FROM PERICLES TO PHILIP. Stcond 
 Edition. Demy too. IQS. 6d. net. 
 
 VIRGIL. Third Edition. Demy too. xox.&f. 
 net. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN TRADITION AND 
 ITS VERIFICATION. (The Angus Lec- 
 ture for 1912.) Second Edition. Cr. too. 
 6s. net. 
 
 Grahame (Kenneth). THE WIND IN 
 
 THE WILLOWS. Eighth Edition. Cr. 
 too. js. 6d. net. 
 
 Griffin (W. Hall) and Minchln (H. C.). 
 THE LIFE OF ROBERT BROWNING. 
 Illustrated. Second Edition. Demy too. 
 iw. 6d. net. 
 
 Halg (K. G.). HEALTH THROUGH 
 DiET. Fourth Edition. Cr. toff. 6s, 
 
 net. 
 
 Hale (J. R.). FAMOUS SEA FIGHTS : 
 FROM SALAMIS TO TSU-SHIMA. Illustrated. 
 Third Edition. Cr. too. 7*. 6d. ntt. 
 
 Hall (H. R.). THE ANCIENT HISTORY 
 OF THE NEAR EAST FROM THE 
 EARLIEST TIMES TO THE BATTLE 
 OF SALAMIS. Illustrated. Fourth Edi- 
 tion. Demy too. 16*. Hit. 
 
 Hannay (D.). A SHORT HISTORY OF 
 THE ROYAL NAVY. Vol. I., 1217-1688. 
 Second Edition. Vol. II., 16891815. 
 Demy too. Each ioj. 6d. net. 
 
 Marker (Alfred). THE NATURAL HIS- 
 TORY OF IGNEOUS ROCKS. With 
 112 Diagrams and 2 Plates. Demy too. 
 155. net. 
 
 Harper (Charlei G.). THE 'AUTOCAR' 
 ROAD-BOOK. With Maps. Four 
 Volumes. Cr. too. Each 8s. 6d net. 
 
 I. SOUTH OF THE THAMES. 
 
 II. NORTH AND SOUTH WALES AND 
 WEST MIDLANDS. 
 
 III. EAST ANGLIA AND EAST MIDLANDS. 
 
 IV. THE NORTH OF ENGLAND AND 
 SOUTH OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Haisall (Arthur). THE LIFE OF 
 NAPOLEON. Illustrated Demy too. 
 loj. 6d. net. 
 
 Henley (W. B.). ENGLISH LYRICS: 
 CHAUCER TO POE. Second Edition. 
 Cr. 800. 6s. net. 
 
 Hill (George Francis). ONE HUNDRED 
 MASTERPIECES OF SCULPTURE. 
 Illustrated. Demy too. its. 6d. net. 
 
 Hobhonie (L. T.). THE THEORY OF 
 KNOWLEDGE. Second Edition. Demy 
 too. 15*. net. 
 
 Hobson (J. A.). INTERNATIONAL 
 TRADE: AN APPLICATION OF ECONOMIC 
 THEORY. Cr. too. 5*. net. 
 
 PROBLEMS OF POVERTY : AN INQUIRY 
 INTO THE INDUSTRIAL CONDITION OF THE 
 POOR. Eighth Edition. Cr. too. $s. net. 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF THE UN- 
 EMPLOYED: AN INQUIRY AND AN 
 ECONOMIC POLICY. Sixth Edition. Cr. too. 
 &f. net. 
 
 GOLD, PRICES AND WAGES : WITH AN 
 EXAMINATION OF THE QUANTITY THEORY. 
 Second Edition. Cr. too. 5*. net. 
 
 Hodgson (Mrs. W.). HOW TO IDENTIFY 
 OLD CHINESE PORCELAIN. Illus- 
 trated. Third Edition. Post too. 7*. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 Holdiworth (W. 8.). A HISTORY OF 
 ENGLISH LAW. Four Volumes. 
 Vols. /., //., ///. Each Stcond Edition. 
 Demy tof. Each 15.?. net. 
 
 Hutt (0. W.). CROWLEY'S HYGIENE 
 OF SCHOOL LIFE. Illustrated. Second 
 and Revisti Edition. Cr. Szw. 6s. ntt. 
 
METHUEN AND COMPANY LIMITED 
 
 Button (Edward). THE CITIES OF 
 UMBRIA. Illustrated. Fifth Edition. 
 Cr. Bvo. js. 6d. net. 
 
 THE CITIES OF LOMBARDY. Illus- 
 trated. Cr. Bvo. 7 s. 6d. net. 
 
 THE CITIES OF ROMAGNA AND THE 
 MARCHES. Illustrated. Cr. Bvo. 7 s. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 FLORENCE AND NORTHERN TUS- 
 CANY, WITH GENOA. Illustrated. 
 
 Third Edition. Cr. Br>o. 7 s. 6d. net. 
 SIENA AND SOUTHERN TUSCANY. 
 
 Illustrated. Second Edition. Cr. Bvo. is. 
 
 6d. net. 
 VENICE AND VENETIA. Illustrated. 
 
 Cr. Bvo. 7 s. 6d. net. 
 NAPLES AND SOUTHERN ITALY. 
 
 Illustrated. Cr. Bvo. 7 s. 6d. net. 
 ROME. Illustrated. Third Edition. Cr. 
 
 Bvo. 7 s. 6d. net. 
 COUNTRY WALKS ABOUT FLORENCE. 
 
 Illustrated. Second Edition. Fcap. Bvo. 
 
 6s. net. 
 THE CITIES OF SPAIN. Illustrated. 
 
 Fifth Edition. Cr. Bvo. 7 s. 6d. net. 
 
 Ibsen (Henrik). BRAND. A Dramatic 
 Poem, translated by WILLIAM WILSON. 
 Fourth Edition. Cr. Bvo. $s. net. 
 
 Inge(W.R.). CHRISTIAN MYSTICISM. 
 (The Bampton Lectures of 1899.) Fourth 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. 7 s. 6d. net. 
 
 Innes (A. D.). A HISTORY OF THE 
 BRITISH IN INDIA. With Maps and 
 Plans. Second Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER THE TUDORS. 
 With Maps, fifth Edition. Demy Bvo. 
 -L3S. 6d. net. 
 
 Innes (Mary). SCHOOLS OF PAINT- 
 ING. Illustrated. Third Edition. Cr. 
 
 Bvo. Bs. net. 
 
 Jenks (B.). AN OUTLINE OF ENG- 
 LISH LOCAL GOVERNMENT. Third 
 Edition. Revised by R. C. K. ENSOR. Cr. 
 Bvo. 5*. net. 
 
 A SHORT HISTORY OF ENGLISH 
 LAW : FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES TO 
 THE END OF THE YEAR 1911. Demy Bvo. 
 ioj. 6d. net. 
 
 Johnston (Sir H. H.). BRITISH CEN- 
 TRAL AFRICA. Illustrated. Third 
 Edition. Cr. \to. 18*. net. 
 
 THE NEGRO IN THE NEW WORLD. 
 
 Illustrated. Crown t,to. i it. net. 
 
 Julian (Lady) of Norwich. REVELA- 
 TIONS OF DIVINE LOVE. Edited by 
 GHACE WARRACK. Sixtk Edition. Cr. 
 
 Keats (John). POEMS. Edited, with Intro- 
 duction and Notes, by E. de SELINCOURT. 
 With a. Frontispiece in Photogravure. 
 Third Edition. Demy Bvo. 10*. 6d. net. 
 
 Keble(John). THE CHRISTIAN YEAR. 
 
 With an Introduction and Notes by W. 
 LOCK. Illustrated. Third Edition. Fcap. 
 Bvo. 5*. net. 
 
 Kelynack (T. H.), M.D., M.B.C.P. THE 
 
 DRINK PROBLEM OF TO-DAY IN 
 ITS MEDICO-SOCIOLOGICAL AS- 
 PECTS. Second and Revised Edition. 
 Demy Bvt. ios. 6d. net. 
 
 Kldd (Benjamin). THE SCIENCE OF 
 POWER. Eighth Edition. Cr. Bvo. 7 s. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 Kipling (Rudyard). BARRACK ROOM 
 
 BALLADS. iBotA Thousand. Cr. Bvo. 
 
 Buckram, 7 s. 6d. net. Also Feat. Bvo. 
 
 Cloth, 6s. net ; leather, 7 s. 6d. net. 
 
 Also a Service Edition. Two Volumes. 
 
 Square fcap. Bvo. Each 3^. net. 
 THE SEVEN SEAS. 140** Thousand. 
 
 Cr. Bvo. Buckram, 7 s. 6d. net. Also Fcap. 
 
 Bvo. Clot A, 6s. net; leather, 7*. 6d. net. 
 
 Also a Service Edition. Two Volumes. 
 
 Square /cap. Bvo. Each ys. net. 
 THE FIVE NATIONS. iao/A Thousand. 
 
 Cr. Bvo. Buckram, 7 s. 6d. net. Also Fcap. 
 
 Bvo. Cloth, 6*. net ; leather, 7 s. 6d. net. 
 
 Also a Service Edition. Two Volumes. 
 
 Square/cap. Bvo. Each 3;. net. 
 THE YEARS BETWEEN. Cr. Bvo. 
 
 Buckram, 7 s. 6d. net. Also on thin paper. 
 
 Fcap. Bvo. Slue clot A, 6s. net; Limp 
 
 lamotkin, ?s. 6d. net. 
 
 Also a Service Edition. Two volumes. 
 
 Square/cap. Bvo. Each 3.1. net. 
 DEPARTMENTAL DITTIES. B+tATAov- 
 
 sand. Cr. Bvo. Buckram, 7 s. 6d. net. 
 
 Also Fcap. Bvo. Clot A, 6s. net; leather, 
 
 7 s. 6d. net. 
 
 Also a Service Edition. Two Volumes. 
 
 Square /cap. Bvo. Each 3*. net. 
 HYMN BEFORE ACTION. Illuminated. 
 
 Fcap. 4tf. is. 6J. net. 
 RECESSIONAL. Illuminated. Fcap. 4 to. 
 
 is. 6d. net. 
 TWENTY POEMS FROM RUDYARD 
 
 KIPLING. 3 6oM Thousand. Fcap. Bvo. 
 
 if. net. 
 
 Lamb (Charles and Mary). THE COM- 
 PLETE WORKS. Edited by E. V. LUCAS. 
 A New and Revised Edition in Six Volumes. 
 With. Frontispieces. Fcap. Bvo. Each 6s. 
 net. 
 
 The volumes are : 
 
 i. MISCELLANEOUS PROSE, n. BLIA AND 
 THB LAST ESSAYS OF ELIA. in. BOOKS 
 KOK CHILDREN, iv. PLAYS AND POEMS. 
 v. and vs. 
 
GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 Lane-Poole (Stanley). A HISTORY OF 
 EGYPT IN THE MIDDLE AGES. 
 Illustrated. Second Edition t Revised. Cr. 
 Bvo. gs. net. 
 
 Lankester (Sir Ray). SCIENCE FROM 
 
 AN EASY CHAIR. Illustrated. Eighth 
 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. 6ct. net. 
 SCIENCE FROM AN EASY CHAIR. 
 
 Second Series. Illustrated. First Edition. j 
 
 Cr. Bvo. js. 6d. net. 
 DIVERSIONS OF A NATURALIST. I 
 
 Illustrated. Second Edition. Cr. Bvo. \ 
 
 7 s. 6d. net. 
 
 Lewis (Edward). EDWARD CARPEN- 
 TER : AN EXPOSITION AND AN APPRECIA- 
 TION. Second Edition. Cr. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 Lock (Walter). ST. PAUL, THE 
 MASTER BUILDER. Third Edition, 
 Cr. Bvo. ss. net. 
 
 THE BIBLE AND CHRISTIAN LIFE. 
 Cr. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 Lodge (Sir Oliver). MAN AND THE 
 UNIVERSE : A STUDY OF THE INFLUENCE 
 OF THE ADVANCE IN SCIENTIFIC KNOW- 
 LEDGE UPON OUR UNDERSTANDING OF 
 CHRISTIANITY. Ninth Edition. Crown Bvo. 
 js. 6d. net. 
 
 THE SURVIVAL OF MAN: A STUDY IN 
 UNRECOGNISED HUMAN FACULTY. Seventh 
 Edition. Cr. ?>vo. js. 6d. net. 
 
 MODERN PROBLEMS. Cr. Bvo. js. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 RAYMOND ; OR, LIFE AND DEATH. Illus- 
 trated. Eleventh Edition. Demy Bvo. 15,1. 
 net. 
 
 THE WAR AND AFTER : SHORT CHAP- 
 TERS ON SUBJECTS OF SERIOUS PRACTICAL 
 IMPORT FOR THE AVERAGE CITIZEN IN A.D. 
 1915 ONWARDS. Eighth Edition. Fcap. 
 Bvo. at. net. 
 
 Lorcburn (Karl). CAPTURE AT SEA. 
 
 Second Edition. Cr. Bvo. zs. 6d. net. 
 HOW THE WAR CAME. With a Map. 
 Cr. Bvo. 7*. 6d. net. 
 
 Lorlmer (George Horace). LETTERS 
 FROM A SELF-MADE MERCHANT 
 TO HIS SON. Illustrated. Twenty 
 fourth Edition. Cr. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 OLD GORGON GRAHAM. Illustrated. 
 Second Edition. Cr. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 Lorirner (Norma). BY THE WATERS 
 
 OF EGYPT. Illustrated. Third Edition. 
 Cr. Bvo. js. 6d. net. 
 
 Lucas (H. Y.). THE LIFE OF CHARLES 
 LAMB. Illustrated. Sixth Edition. Demy 
 
 A WANDERER IN HOLLAND. Illus- 
 trated. Sixteenth Edition. Cr. Zvo. 8$. f>d. 
 net. 
 
 A WANDERER IN LONDON. Illus- 
 trated. Eighteenth Edition, Revised. Cr. 
 Bvo. Bs. 6d. net. 
 
 LONDON REVISITED. Illustrated. Third 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. Bs. 6d. net. 
 
 A WANDERER IN PARIS. Illustrated 
 Thirteenth Edition. Cr. Bvo. Bs. 64. tiff. 
 Also Fcap. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 A WANDERER IN FLORENCE. Illu- 
 trated. Sixth Edition. Cr. Bvo. Bs. M. 
 net. 
 
 A WANDERER IN VENICE. Illustrated. 
 Second Edition. Cr. Bvo. Bs. 6d. net. 
 
 THE OPEN ROAD : A LITTLE BOOK FOR 
 WAYFARERS. Twenty-seventh Edition. 
 Fcap. Bvo. ts. 6d. net. India Paper, js. 6d. 
 net. 
 Also Illustrated. Cr. +to. iss.net. 
 
 THE FRIENDLY TOWN : A LITTLR BOOK 
 FOR THE URBANE. Ninth Edition. Fcap. 
 Bv. 6s. net. 
 
 FIRESIDE AND SUNSHINE. Ninth 
 Edition. Fcap. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 CHARACTER AND COMEDY. Eighth 
 Edition. Fcap. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 THE GENTLEST ART: A CHOICE OF 
 LETTERS BY ENTERTAINING HANDS. 
 Ttntk Edition. Fcap. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 THE SECOND POST. Fifth Edition. 
 Fcap. Bv, 6s. net. 
 
 HER INFINITE VARIETY : A FBMININK 
 PORTRAIT GALLERY. Eighth Edition. 
 Fcap. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 GOOD COMPANY: A RALLY OF MEN. 
 Fourth Edition. Fcap. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 ONE DAY AND ANOTHER. Seventh 
 Edition. Fcap. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 OLD LAMPS FOR NEW. Sixth Edition. 
 Fcap. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 LOITERER'S HARVEST. Third Edition. 
 
 Fcap. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 CLOUD AND SILVER. Third Edition. 
 
 Fcap. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 LISTENER'S LURE : AN OBLIQUE NARRA- 
 TION. Twelfth Edition. Fcap. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 OVER BEMERTON'S: AN EASY-GOING 
 CHRONICLE. Sixteenth Edition. Fcap. 
 Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 MR. INGLESIDE. Twelfth Edition. 
 Fcap. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 LONDON LAVENDER. Twelfth Edition. 
 Fcap. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 LANDMARKS. Fifth Edition. Fcap. Bvo, 
 
 6f. Hft. 
 
8 
 
 METIIUEN AND COMPANY LIMITED 
 
 THE BRITISH SCHOOL : AN ANECDOTAL 
 GUIDE TO THE BRITISH PAINTERS AND 
 PAINTINGS IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY. 
 Fcap, too. 6s. net. 
 
 A BOSWELL OF BAGHDAD, AND 
 OTHER ESSAYS. Third Edition. Fcap. 
 too. 6s. net. 
 
 'TWIXT EAGLE AND DOVE. Third 
 Edition. Fcap. too. 6s. net. 
 
 Lydekker (R.). THE OX AND ITS 
 KINDRED. Illustrated. Cr. too. js. 64. 
 net. 
 
 Macauiay (Lord). CRITICAL AND 
 HISTORICAL ESSAYS. Edited by F. 
 C. MONTAGUE. Three Volumes. Cr. too. 
 
 i8j, net. 
 
 M.icdonald (J. R. MA A HISTORY OF 
 FRANCE. Three Volumes. Cr. too. 
 Each los. 6d. net. 
 
 McDougall (William). AN INTRODUC- 
 TION TO SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY. 
 Twelfth Edition. Cr. too. 7*. 6d. net. 
 
 BODY AND MIND: A HISTORY AND A 
 DEFENCE OF ANIMISM. Fourth Edition. 
 Demy too. ias. 6d. net. 
 
 Maeterlinck (Maurice). THE BLUE 
 BIRD: A FAIRY PLAY IN Six ACTS. 
 Translated by ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE 
 MATTOS. Fcap. too. 6s.net. Also Fcap. 
 too. zj net. Of the above book Forty- 
 one Editions in all bave been issued. 
 
 MARY MAGDALENE: A PLAY IN THREE 
 ACTS. Translated by ALEXANDER TBIXEIRA 
 02 MATTOS. Third Edition. Fcap. too. 
 Ss. net. Also Fcap. too. **. net. 
 
 DEATH. Translated by ALEXANDER TEIX- 
 EIRA DE MATTOS. Fourth Edition. Fcap. 
 too. 3,r . 6d. net. 
 
 OUR ETERNITY. Translated by ALEX- 
 ANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTO. Second 
 Edition. Fcap. ton. 6s. net. 
 
 THE UNKNOWN GUEST. Tranilated 
 by ALEXANDER TBIXEIRA DB MATTOS. 
 Third Edition. Cr. too. 6s. ntt. 
 
 POEMS. Done into English Verst by 
 BERNARD MIALL. Second Edition. Cr. 
 
 too. ss. net. 
 
 THE WRACK OF THE STORM. Third 
 Edition, Cr. too. 6s. net. 
 
 THE MIRACLE OF ST. ANTHONY: A 
 PLAY IN ONE ACT. Translated by ALEX- 
 ANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS. Fcap. too. 
 2s. 6d. net. 
 
 THE BURGOMASTER OF STILE- 
 MONDE : A PLAY IN THREE ACTS. 
 Translated by ALEXANDER TEIXEIKA DE 
 MATTOS. Fcap. too. 55. net. 
 
 THE BETROTHAL; OR, THE BLUE 
 BIRD CHOOSES. Translated by ALEX- 
 ANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS. Fcap. too. 
 6s. net. 
 
 MOUNTAIN PATHS. Translated by ALEX- 
 ANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS. Fcap. too. 
 6s. net. 
 
 Mahaffy (J. P.). A HISTORY OF EGYPT 
 UNDER THE PTOLEMAIC DYNASTY. 
 Illustrated. Second Edition. Cr. too. gs. 
 net. 
 
 Maltlaod (P. W.). ROMAN CANON LAW 
 IN THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND. 
 Royal too. ioj. 6d. net. 
 
 Marett (R. R.). THE THRESHOLD OF 
 RELIGION. Third Edition. Cr. too. 
 js. 6d. net. 
 
 Marriott (J. A. R.). ENGLAND SINCE 
 WATERLOO. With Maps. Second 
 Edition, Revised. Demy too. ias. 6d. net. 
 
 MaseOeld (John). A SAILOR'S GAR- 
 LAND. Selected and Edited. Second 
 Edition. Cr. too. 6s. net. 
 
 Masterman (C. P. G.). TENNYSON 
 AS A RELIGIOUS TEACHER. Second 
 Edition. Cr. too. js. 6d. net. 
 
 Medley (D. JA ORIGINAL ILLUSTRA- 
 TIONS OF ENGLISH CONSTITU- 
 TIONAL HISTORY. Cr. too. Bs. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 Miles (Eustace). LIFE AFTER LIFE; 
 
 OR, THE THEORY OF REINCARNATION. 
 
 Cr. too. 3*. 6d. net. 
 THE POWER OF CONCENTRATION: 
 
 How TO ACQUIRE IT. Ftftk Edition. 
 
 Cr. too. 6s, net. 
 PREVENTION AND CURE. Second 
 
 Edition. Crown too. $s. ntt. 
 
 Miles (Mrs. Eustace). HEALTH WITH- 
 OUT MEAT. Sixth Edition. Fcap.3vo. 
 is. 6d. net. 
 
 Millais (J. G.). THE LIFE AND LET- 
 TERS OF SIR JOHN EVERET'l 
 MILLAIS. Illustrated. Third Edition. 
 Demy too. its. 6d. net. 
 
 Milne (J. GA A HISTORY OF EGYPT 
 UNDER ROMAN RULE. Illustrated. 
 Second Edition. Cr. too. gs. net. 
 
 Money (Sir Leo Chioua). RICHES AND 
 POVERTY, 1910. Eleventh Edition. 
 Demy too. 5$. net. 
 
 Montatfue (C. EA DRAMATIC VALUES. 
 Second Edition, Fcap. too. &. ntt. 
 
GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 Myers (Charlf ';.). PRESENT-DAY 
 APPLICATION OF PSYCHOLOGY. 
 Third Rdition. i.>cap. Bvo. is. yl. net. 
 
 Noyea { Alfred). A SALUTE FROM THE 
 FLEET, AND OTHER POEMS. Third 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. 75. 6d. net. 
 
 RADA : A BELGIAN CHRISTMAS EVE. Illus- 
 trated. Fcap. Bvo. ss. net. 
 
 Oman (C. W. C.). A HISTORY OF THE 
 ART OF WAR IN THE MIDDLE 
 AGES. Illustrated. Demy Bvo. 15*. tut. 
 
 ENGLAND BEFORE THE NORMAN 
 CONQUEST. With Maps. Third Edi- 
 tion, Revised. Demy Bvo. izs. fsd. net. 
 
 Oxenham (John). BEES IN AMBER: A 
 LITTLE BOOK OF THOUGHTFUL VERSE. 
 zzBth Thousand. Small Pott Bvo. Paper 
 is. 3</. net; Cloth Boards, zs. net. 
 Also Illustrated. Fcap. Bvo. 3*. 6d. net. 
 
 ALL'S WELL: A COLLECTION OF WAR 
 POEMS. tisth Thousand. Small Pott 
 Boo. Paper, is. yi. net; Cloth Boards, 
 zs. net. 
 
 THE KING'S HIGH WAY. izoth Thousand. 
 Small Pott Bvo. is. -^d. net; Cloth Boards, 
 as. net. 
 
 THE VISION SPLENDID. looM Thou- 
 sand. Small Pott Bvo. Paper, i*. grf. net ; 
 Cloth Boards, zs. net. 
 
 THE FIERY CROSS. Both Thousand. 
 Small Pott Bvo. Paper, is. -3,0. net ; Cloth 
 Boards, zs. net. 
 
 HIGH ALTARS: THE RECORD OF A VISIT 
 TO THE BATTLEFIELDS OF FRANCE AND 
 FLANDERS. \oth Thousand. Small Pott 
 Bvo. is. 3</. net ; Cloth Boards, zs. net. 
 
 HEARTS COURAGEOUS. Small Pott 
 Bvo. is. 3d net. Cloth Boards^ as. net. 
 
 ALL CLEAR. Small Pott Bvo. x. 3^ net. 
 Cloth Boards, zs. net. 
 
 WINDS OF THE DAWN. Small Pott Bvo. 
 zs. net. 
 
 Oxford (M. H.). A HANDBOOK OF 
 NURSING. Seventh Edition, Revised. 
 Cr. Bvo. ss. net. 
 
 Fakes (W. C. C.). THE SCIENCE OF 
 HYGIENE. Illustrated. Second and 
 Cheaper Edition. Revised by A. T. 
 NANKIVELL. Cr. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 Petrle (W. M. Flinders.) A HISTORY 
 
 OF EGYPT. Illustrated. Six Volumes 
 
 Cr. Bvo. Each gs. net. 
 VOL. I. FROM THE IST TO THE XVlTH 
 
 DYNASTY. Eighth Edition. 
 VOL. II. THE XVIlTH AND XVIIlTH 
 
 DYNASTIES. Sixth Edition. 
 VOL. III. XIXTH TO XXXTH DYNASTIES. 
 
 Second Edition. 
 VOL. IV. EGYPT UNDER THE PTOLEMAIC 
 
 DYNASTY. J. P. MAHAFFY. Second Edition. 
 
 Vor.. V. EGYPT UNDER ROMAN RULE. J. G. 
 
 MILNE. Second Edition. 
 VOL. VI. EGYPT IN TH;C MIDDLE AGES. 
 
 STANLEY LANE POOLS. Second Edition. 
 RELIGION AND CONSCIENCE IN 
 
 ANCIENT EGYPT. Illustrated. Cr.too. 
 
 Ss. net. 
 SYRIA AND EGYPT, FROM THE TELL 
 
 EL AMARNA LETTERS. Cr.' Bve. 
 
 Ss. net. 
 EGYPTIAN TALES. Translated from the 
 
 Papyri. First Series, ivth to xnth Dynasty. 
 
 Illustrated. Third Edition. Cr. Bvo. 
 
 Ss. net. 
 EGYPTIAN TALES. Translated from the 
 
 Papyri. Second Series, xvnith to xixth 
 
 Dynasty. Illustrated. Second Edition. 
 
 Cr. Bvo. ss. net. 
 
 Pollard (Alfred W.). SHAKESPEARE 
 FOLIOS AND QUARTOS. A Study in 
 the Bibliography of Shakespeare's Plays, 
 1594-1685. Illustrated. Folio. 1 is. net. 
 
 Porter (G. R.). THE PROGRESS OF 
 THE NATION. A New Edition. Edited 
 by F. W. HIRST. Demy Bvo. \ is. net. 
 
 Power (J. O'Connor). THE MAKING OF 
 AN ORATOR. Cr. Bvo. CM. net. 
 
 Price (L. L.). A SHORT HISTORY OF 
 POLITICAL ECONOMY IN ENGLAND 
 FROM ADAM SMITH TO ARNOLD 
 TOYNBEE. Ninth Edition. Cr. 8w, 
 Ss. net. 
 
 Rawlings (Gertrude B.). COINS AND 
 HOW TO KNOW THEM. Illustrated. 
 Third Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. 6d. net. 
 
 Regan (C. Tate). THE FRESHWATER 
 FISHES OF THE BRITISH ISLES. 
 Illustrated. Cr. Bvo. 7*. 6d. net. 
 
 Reid (G. Archdall). THE LAWS OF 
 HEREDITY. Second Edition. Demy Bvo. 
 1 is. net. 
 
 Robertson (C. Grant). SELECT STAT- 
 UTES, CASES, AND DOCUMENTS, 
 1660-1832. Second Edition, Revised and 
 Enlarged. Demy Bvo. 15$. net. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER THE HANOVER- 
 IANS. Illustrated. Third Edition. Demy 
 Bvo. izs. 6d. net. 
 
 Rolle (Richard). THE FIRE OF LOVE 
 AND THE MENDING OF LIFE. 
 Edited by FRANCES M. COMPER. Cr. Bvo. 
 6s. net. 
 
 Ryley (A. Beres'ord). OLD PASTE. 
 Illustrated. Royal 4(0. 2 ss. net. 
 
 8aki' (H. H. Munro). REGINALD. 
 
 Fourth Edition. Fcaf>, Bvo. 3*. &/. nti. 
 
IO 
 
 METHUEN AND COMPANY LIMITED 
 
 REGINALD IN RUSSIA. Fcap. too. 
 y. 6d. net. 
 
 Schidrowitz (Philip). RUBBER. Illus- 
 trated. Second Edition. Demy %vo. 15*. 
 net. 
 
 Selous (Edmund). TOMMY SMITH'S 
 ANIMALS. Illustrated. Sixteenth Edi- 
 tion. Fcap. %vo. 2 s - &d' ***< 
 
 TOMMY SMITH'S OTHER ANIMALS. 
 Illustrated. Seventh Edition. Fcap. 8v0. 
 3J. 6d. net. 
 
 TOMMY SMITH AT THE ZOO. Illus- 
 trated. Second Edition. Fcap. Bvo. 
 zs. gd. 
 
 TOMMY SMITH AGAIN AT THE ZOO. 
 Illustrated. Fcap. &vo. as. gd. 
 
 JACK'S INSECTS. Illustrated. Cr. too. 6s. 
 net. 
 
 Shakespeare (William). 
 
 THE FOUR FOLIOS, 1623; 1632; 1664 5 
 1685. Each 4 4S. net, or a complete set, 
 12 12 s. net. 
 
 THE POEMS OF WILLIAM SHAKE- 
 SPEARE. With an Introduction and Notes 
 by GEORGE WyNDHAM. Demy 8z*. Buck- 
 ram, 12s. 6d. net. 
 
 Shelley (Percy Bysshe). POEMS. With 
 an Introduction by A. GLUTTON- BROCK and 
 notes by C. D. LococK. Two Volumes. 
 Demy Bvo. i u. net. 
 
 Sladen (Douglas). SICILY: THE NEW 
 WINTER RESORT. An Encyclopaedia of 
 Sicily. With 234 Illustrations, a Map, and 
 a Table of the Railway System of Sicily. 
 Second Edition, Revised. Cr. Bvo. js. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 iJosser (H. H.). TRADE UNIONISM. 
 Cr. Bvo. 5J. net. 
 
 Smith (Adam). THE WEALTH OF 
 NATIONS. Edited by EDWIN CANNAN. 
 Two Volumes. Demy Bvo. i 51. net. 
 
 Smith (G. P. Herbert). GEM-STONES 
 
 AND THEIR DISTINCTIVE CHARAC. 
 
 TERS. Illustrated. Second Edition. Cr. 
 
 Bvo. js. 6d. net. 
 StancUffe. GOLF DO'S AND DONT'S. 
 
 Sixth Edition. Fcap. Bvo. as. net. 
 
 Stevenson (R. L.). THE LETTERS OF 
 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. Edited 
 by Sir SIDNEY COLVIN. A New Re- 
 ar-ranged Edition in/our volumes. Fourth 
 Edition. Fcap. Bvo. Each 6*. net. Leather, 
 each ^s. 6d. net. 
 
 Surtees (R. S.). HANDLEY CROSS. 
 
 Illustrated. Eighth Edition. Fcap. Bvo. 
 
 7 s. 6d. net. 
 MR. SPONGE'S SPORTING TOUR. 
 
 Illustrated. Fourth Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 
 
 is. 64. **t. 
 
 | ASK MAMMA; 01 THE RICHEST 
 
 COMMONER IN ENGLAND. Illus- 
 
 trated. Second Edition. Fcap. Bvo. js. 6d. 
 
 net. 
 JORROCKS'S JAUNTS AND JOLLI- 
 
 TIES. Illustrated. Sixth Edition. Fcap. 
 
 Bvo. 6s. net. 
 MR. FACEY ROMFORD'S HOUNDS. 
 
 Illustrated. Third Edition. Fcap. Bvo. 
 
 js. 6d. net. 
 HAWBUCK GRANGE ; OR, THE SPORT- 
 
 ING ADVENTURES OF THOMAS 
 
 SCOTT, ESQ. Illustrated. Fcap. &vo. 
 
 6s. net. 
 PLAIN OR RINGLETS? Illustrated 
 
 Fcap. 8z>0. js. 6d. net. 
 HILLINGDON HALL. With ta Coloured 
 
 Plates by WILDRAKE, HEATH, and JELLI- 
 
 COE. Fcap. %vo. js. 6d. net. 
 
 Suso (Henry). THE LIFE OF THE 
 BLESSED HENRY SUSO. By HIMSELF. 
 Translated by T. F. KNOX. With an Intro- 
 duction by DEAN INGE. Second Edition. 
 Cr. 8o. 6s. itet. 
 
 Swanton (E. W.). FUNGI AND HOW 
 TO KNOW THEM. Illustrated. Cr. &vt. 
 TOT. 6d. net. 
 
 BRITISH PLANT -GALLS. Cr. 8w. 
 loj. 6d. net. 
 
 Tabor (Margaret B.). THE SAINTS IN 
 ART. With their Attributes and Symbols 
 Alphabetically Arranged. Illustrated. 
 Tkird Edition. Fcap. Svo. $s. tut. 
 
 Taylor (A. E.). ELEMENTS OF META- 
 PHYSICS. Fourth Edition. Demy 8w. 
 net. 
 
 Taylor (J. W.). THE COMING OF THE 
 SAINTS. Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s. 
 net. 
 
 Thomas (Edward). MAURICE MAE- 
 TERLINCK. Illustrated. Second Edition. 
 Cr. 8cw. 6s. net. 
 
 A LITERARY PILGRIM IN ENGLAND. 
 Illustrated. Demy %vo. TSJ, 6d. net. 
 
 Tileston (Mary W.). DAILY STRENGTH 
 FOR DAILY NEEDS. Twenty-fifth 
 Edition. Medium i6mo. 3J. 6d. net. 
 
 Toynbee (Pagot). DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 His LIFE AND WORKS. With 16 Illustra- 
 tions. Fourth and Enlarged Edition. Cr. 
 &v0. 6s. net. 
 
 Trevelyan (G. M.). ENGLAND UNDER 
 THE STUARTS. With Maps and Plans. 
 Seventh Edition. Demy 8vo. izs. 6d. net. 
 
 Triggs (H. Inigo). TOWN PLANNING : 
 PAST, PRESENT, AND POSSIBLE. Illustra- 
 ted. Second Edition. Widt Royal too. 
 
GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 ii 
 
 Underbill (Evelyn). MYSTICISM. A 
 Study in the Nature and Development of 
 Man's Spiritual Consciousness. Seventh 
 Edition. Demy too. i$s. net. 
 
 Yardon (Harry). HOW TO PLAY GOLF. 
 Illustrated. Eleventh Edition. Cr. Bvo. 
 SS. ntt. 
 
 Yernon (Hon. W. Warren). READINGS 
 ON THE INFERNO OF DANTE. With 
 an Introduction by the Rev. Dr. MOORE. 
 Two Volumes. Second Edition , Rewritten. 
 Cr. Bvo. 151. net. 
 
 READINGS ON THE PURGATORIO 
 OF DANTE. With an Introduction by 
 the late DEAN CHURCH. Two Volumes. 
 Third Edition, Revised, Cr. Bvo. 15*. net. 
 
 READINGS ON THE PARADISO OF 
 DANTE. With an Introduction by the 
 BISHOP OF RIPON. Two Volumes, Second 
 Edition, Revised. Cr. Bvo. 15*. net. 
 
 Ickers (Kenneth H.). ENGLAND IN 
 THE LATER MIDDLE AGES. With 
 Maps. Second Edition, Revised. Demy 
 Bvo. izr. 6d. net. 
 
 Waddell (L. A.). LHASA AND ITS 
 MYSTERIES. With a Record of the Ex- 
 pedition of 1003-1004. Illustrated. Third 
 Edition. Medium Bvo. i2J. 6d. net. 
 
 Wade (G. W. and i. H.). RAMBLES IN 
 SOMERSET. Illustrated. Cr. Bvo. 7 s. 6d. 
 ntt. 
 
 Wagner (Richard). RICHARD WAG- 
 NER'S MUSIC DRAMAS. Interpreta- 
 tions, embodying Wagner's own explana- 
 tions. By ALICE LBIGHTON CLKATHER 
 and BASIL CRUMP. Fcap. Bvo. Racht,s. 
 net. 
 THE RING OF THE NIBELUNG. 
 
 Sixth Edition. 
 LOHENGRIN AND PARSIFAL. 
 
 Third Edition. 
 TRISTAN AND ISOLDE. 
 
 Second Edition. 
 
 TANNHAUSER AND THE MASTERSINGERS 
 OF NUREMBURG. 
 
 Waterhouse (Elizabeth). WITH THE 
 
 SIMPLE-HEARTED. Little Homilies. 
 
 Third Edition. Small Pott Bvo. 3*. 6d. 
 
 net. 
 THE HOUSE BY THE CHERRY TREE. 
 
 A Second Series of Little Homilies. Small 
 
 Pott Bvo. 35. 6d. net. 
 COMPANIONS OF THE WAY. Being 
 
 Selections for Morning and Evening Read- 
 ing. Cr. Bvo. js. 6d. net. 
 THOUGHTS OF A TERTIARY. Second 
 
 Edition. Small Pott Bvo. is. 6d. net. 
 VERSES. Second Edition, Enlarged. Fcap. 
 
 gat. . ntt. 
 
 A LITTLE BOOK OF LIFE AND 
 DEATH. Nineteenth Edition. Small 
 Pott 8vo. Cloth, 2J. (>d. net. 
 
 Waters(W. G.). ITALIAN SCULPTORS. 
 Illustrated. Cr. Bvo. js. 6d. net. 
 
 Watt (Francis). CANTERBURY PIL- 
 GRIMS AND THEIR WAYS. With a 
 Frontispiece in Colour and 12 other Illustra- 
 tions. Demy Bvo. ioj. 6d. net. 
 
 Weigall (Arthur E. P.). A GUIDE TO 
 THE ANTIQUITIES OF UPPER 
 EGYPT : FROM ABYDOS TO THE SUDAN 
 FRONTIER. Illustrated. Second Edition. 
 Cr. Bvo. lor, 60". net. 
 
 Wells (J.). A SHORT HISTORY OF 
 ROME. Sixteenth Edition. With 3 Maps. 
 Cr. Bvo. 6s. 
 
 Wilde (Oscar). THE WORKS OF OSCAR 
 WILDE. Thirteen Volumes. Fcaj. Bvo. 
 Each 6s. 6d. net. 
 
 t. LORD ARTHUR SAVILE'S CRIME AND 
 THE PORTRAIT OF MR. W. H. n. THE 
 DUCHESS OF PADUA. in. POEMS, iv. 
 LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN. v. A WOMAN 
 OF No IMPORTANCE, vi. AN IDEAL HUS- 
 BAND, vn. THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING 
 EARNEST. viii. A HOUSE OF POME- 
 GRANATES, ix. INTENTIONS, x. DE PRO- 
 
 FUNDIS AND PRISON LETTERS. XI. ESSAYS. 
 
 xn. SALOME, A FLORENTINE TRAGEDY, 
 and LA SAINTE COURTISANE. xiv. 
 SELECTED PROSE OF OSCAR WILDE. 
 A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES. Illus- 
 trated. Cr. 4to. 2M. net. 
 
 Wilding (Anthony P). ON THE COURT 
 AND OFF. With 58 Illustrations. Seventh 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 Wilson (Ernest H.). A NATURALIST IN 
 WESTERN CHINA. Illustrated. Second 
 Edition. 2 Vols. Demy Bvo. 1 IDS. net. 
 
 Wood (Sir Evelyn). FROM MIDSHIP- 
 MAN TO FIELD-MARSHAL. Illus- 
 trated. Fifth Edition. Demy Bvo. isw. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 THE REVOLT IN HINDUSTAN (1857- 
 50). Illustrated. Second Edition. Cr. Bvo. 
 js. 6d, net. 
 
 Wood (Lieut. W. B.) and Edmonds (Col. 
 J. B.). A HISTORY OF THE CIVIL 
 WAR IN THE UNITED STATES 
 (1861-65). With an Introduction by SPENSER 
 WILKINSON. With 24 Maps and Plans. 
 Third Edition. Demy Bvo. 15*. net. 
 
 Wordsworth (W.). POEMS. With an 
 Introduction and Notes by NOWELL C. 
 SMITH. Three Volumes. Demy Bvo. 185. 
 net. 
 
 Yeats (W. B.) A BOOK OF IRISH 
 VERSE. Third Edition. Cr. too. 6* . ntt. 
 
12 
 
 METIUJEN AND COMPANY LIMITED 
 
 PART II. A SELECTION OF SERIES 
 Ancient Cities 
 
 General Editor, SIR B. C. A. WINDLE 
 
 Cr. Sv0. 6s. net each volumf 
 With Illustrations by E. H. NEW, and other Artists 
 
 ,'JRISTOU Alfred Harvey. 
 CANTERBURY. J. C. Cox. 
 CHESTER. Sir B. C. A. Windle. 
 DUBLIN. S. A. O. Fitzpatrick. 
 
 EDINBURGH. M. G. Williamson. 
 LINCOLN. E. Mansel Sympson. 
 SHREWSBURY. T. Auden. 
 WELLS and GLASTONBURY. T. S. Holmes. 
 
 The Antiquary's Books 
 
 General Editor, J. CHARLES COX 
 
 Demy Sv0. io<r. 6d. tut each volume 
 
 With Numerous Illustrations 
 
 ANCIENT PAINTED GLASS IN ENGLAND. 
 Philip Nelson. 
 
 ARCHEOLOGY AND FALSE ANTIQUITIES. 
 R. Munro. 
 
 BELLS OF ENGLAND, THI 
 Raven. Second Edition. 
 
 Canon J. J. 
 
 BRASSES OF ENGLAND, THE. Herbert W. 
 Macklin. Third Edition. 
 
 CASTLES AND WALLED TOWNS OF ENGLAND, 
 THE. A. Harvey. 
 
 CKLTIC ART IN PAGAN AND CHRISTIAN 
 TIMES. J. Romilly Allen. Second Edition. 
 
 CHURCHWARDENS' ACCOUNTS. J. C. Cox. 
 DOMESDAY INQUEST, THE. Adolphus Ballard. 
 
 ENGLISH CHURCH FURNITURE. J. C. Cox 
 and A. Harvey. Second Edition. 
 
 ENGLISH COSTUME. From Prehistoric Times 
 to the End of the Eighteenth Century. 
 George Clinch. 
 
 ENGLISH MONASTIC LIFE. 
 fourth Edition. 
 
 Cardinal Gasquet. 
 
 ENGLISH SEALS. J. Harvey Bloom. 
 
 FOLK-LORE AS AN HISTORICAL SCIENCE. 
 Sir G. L. Gomme. 
 
 GILDS AND COMPANIES OF LONDON, THE. 
 George Unwin. 
 
 HERMITS AND ANCHORITES o? ENGLAND, 
 THE. Rotha Mary Clay. 
 
 MANOR AND MANORIAL RECORDS, THE. 
 Nathaniel J. Hone. Second Edition. 
 
 MEDI/EVAL HOSPITALS OF ENGLAND, THE. 
 Rotha Mary Clay. 
 
 OLD ENGLISH INSTRUMENTS OF Music. 
 F. W. Galpin. St*nd Edition. 
 
GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 The Antiquary's Books continued 
 
 OLD ENGLISH LIBRARIES. Ernest A. Savage. 
 
 OLD SERVICE BOOKS OF THE ENGLISH 
 CHURCH. Christopher Wordsworth, and 
 Henry Littlehales. Second Edition. 
 
 PARISH LIFE IN MEDIAEVAL ENGLAND. 
 Cardinal Gasquet. Fourth Edition. 
 
 PARISH REGISTERS OF ENGLAND, THE. 
 J. C. Cox. 
 
 RKMAIKS OK THE PREHISTORIC AGB IN 
 ENGLAND. Sir B. C. A. Windle. Second 
 Edition. 
 
 ROMAN ERK IN BRITAIN, THE. J. Ward. 
 
 ROMANO-BRITISH BUILDINGS AND EARTH- 
 WORKS. J. Ward. 
 
 ! ROYAL FORESTS OF ENGLAND, THE. J. C. 
 Cox. 
 
 SCHOOLS OF MEDIEVAL ENGLAND, THK, 
 A. F. Lsach. Second Edition. 
 
 SHRINES OF BRITISH SAINTS. J. C. Wall. 
 
 The Arden Shakespeare 
 
 General Editor R. H. CASE 
 Demy Svo. 6s, net each volume 
 
 An edition of Shakespeare in Single Plays ; each edited with a full Introduction, 
 Textual Notes, and a Commentary at the foot of the page 
 
 MACBETH. Second Edition. 
 
 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 
 
 MERCHANT OF VENICE, THE. Fourth Edition. 
 
 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR, THE. 
 
 MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, A. 
 
 OTHELLO. Second Edition. 
 
 PERICLBS. 
 
 ROMEO AND JULIET. Second Edition. 
 
 SONNETS AND A LOVER'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 TAMING OF THE SHREW, THE. 
 
 TEMPEST, THE. Second Edition. 
 
 TIMON OF ATHENS. 
 
 TITUS ANDRONICUS. 
 
 TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. Third Edition. 
 
 Two GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, THE. 
 
 VENUS AND ADONIS. 
 
 WINTER'S TALE, THB. 
 
 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. Third Edition. 
 
 As You LIKE IT. 
 
 CYMBELINE. Second Edition. 
 
 COMEDY OF ERRORS, THE. 
 
 HAMLET. Fourth Edition. 
 
 JULIUS CAESAR. Second Edition. 
 
 PT. i. 
 
 Second Edition. 
 
 PT. i. 
 
 PT. H. 
 
 PT. in 
 
 KING HENRY iv. 
 
 KING HENRY v. 
 
 KING HENRY vi. 
 
 KING HENRY vi. 
 
 KING HENRY vi. 
 
 KING HENRY vni. 
 
 KING LEAR. Second Edition. 
 
 KING RICHARD u. 
 
 KING RICHARD HI. Second Edition. 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN, THE. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Second Edition. 
 
 Classics of Art 
 
 Edited by DR. J. H. W. LAING 
 With numerous Illustrations* Wide Royal 8vo 
 
 ART OF THE GREEKS, THE. H. B. Walters. 
 15*. net. 
 
 ART OF THE ROMANS, THE. H. B. Walters. 
 16*. net. 
 
 CHAHDIN. H. E. A. Furst. 15*. mi. 
 
 DONATELLO. Maud Cruttwell. i6j. net. 
 
 FLORENTINE SCULPTORS OF THE RENAIS- 
 SANCE. Wilhelm Bode. Translated by 
 Jessie Haynes. 15*. net. 
 
 GKORGS ROMNEY. Arthur B. QMunberlftin. 
 i$t. net. 
 
METHUEN AND COMPANY LIMITED 
 
 Classics of Art continued 
 
 GHIRLANDAIO. Gerald S. Davies. Second 
 Edition. 15*. net. 
 
 LAWRENCE. Sir Walter Armstrong. 25*. net. 
 
 MICHELANGELO. Gerald S. Davies. 15*. 
 net. 
 
 RAPHAEL. A. P. Oppd. 15*. net. 
 
 REMBRANDT'S ETCHINGS. A. M. Hind. 
 Two Volumes. 251. nit. 
 
 RUBENS. Edward Billon. 30*. net. 
 
 TINTORETTO. Evelyn March Phillipps. i6j. 
 net. 
 
 TITIAN. Charles Ricketts. i&r. net. 
 
 TURNER'S SKETCHES AND DRAWINGS. A. J. 
 Finberg. Second Edition. 15*. net. 
 
 VELAZQUEZ. A. de Beruete. 15*. net. 
 
 The 'Complete' Series 
 
 Fully Illustrated. Demy &vo 
 
 COMPLETE AMATEUR BOXER, THE. J. G. 
 
 Bohun Lynch. los. 6<t. net. 
 COMPLETE ASSOCIATION FOOTBALLER, THE. 
 
 B. S. Evers and C. E. Hughes-Davies. 
 
 ioj. 64. net. 
 COMPLETE ATHLETIC TRAINER, THE. S. A. 
 
 Mussabini. xor. 6d. net. 
 COMPLETE BILLIARD PLAYER, THE. Charles 
 
 Roberts, izs. 6d. net. 
 COMPLETE COOK, THE. Lilian Winding. 
 
 ios. 64. net. 
 COMPLETE CRICKETER, THE. Albert E. 
 
 KNIGHT. Second Edition. xos. 6d. net. 
 COMPLETE FOXHUNTER, THE. Charles Rich- 
 ardson. Second Edition. i6s. net. 
 COMPLETE GOLFER, THE. Harry Vardon. 
 
 Fifteenth Edition, Revised. 12*. 6d. net. 
 COMPLETE HOCKEY-PLAYER, THE. Eustace 
 
 E. White. Second Edition. 10*. 6d. net. 
 COMPLETE HORSEMAN, THE. W. Scarth 
 
 Dixon. Second Edition, us. 6d. net. 
 COMPLETE JUJITSUAN, THE. W. H. Garrud. 
 
 jf. net. 
 
 COMPLETE LAWN TENNIS PLAYER, THE. 
 A. Wallis Myers. Fourth Edition, izj. 6al. 
 net. 
 
 COMPLETE MOTORIST, THE. Filson Young 
 and W. G. Aston. Revised Edition. 
 ioj. 6d. net. 
 
 COMPLETE MOUNTAINEER, THE. G. D. 
 Abraham. Second Edition, i6s. net. 
 
 COMPLETE OARSMAN, THE. R. C. Lehmann. 
 i2J. 6rf. net. 
 
 COMPLETE PHOTOGRAPHHR, THE. R. Child 
 
 Bayley. Fifth Edition, Revised, izj. 6d. 
 
 n*t. 
 COMPLETE RUGBY FOOTBALLER, ON THE NEW 
 
 ZEALAND SYSTEM, THE. D. Gallaher and 
 
 W. J. Stead. Second Edition, izs. 6d. net. 
 COMPLETE SHOT, THE. G. T. Teasdale- 
 
 Buckell. Third Edition. i6s. net. 
 COMPLETE SWIMMER, THE. F. Sachs. 10*. 
 
 6d. net. 
 COMPLETE YACHTSMAN, THE. B. Heckstall- 
 
 Srnith and r: . du Boulay. Second Edition, 
 
 Revised. i6s. net. 
 
 The Connoisseur's Library 
 
 With numerous Illustrations. Wide Royal Svo. 25^. net each volume 
 
 ENGLISH COLOURED BOOKS. Martin Hardie. 
 ENGLISH FURNITURE. F. S. Robinson. 
 
 Second Edition. 
 ETCHINGS. Sir F. Wedmore. Second Edition. 
 
 EUROPEAN ENAMELS. Henry H. Cunyng- 
 
 hame. 
 
 FINE BOOKS. A. W. Pollard. 
 GLASS. Edward Dillon. 
 GOLDSMITHS' AND SILVERSMITHS' WORK. 
 
 Nelson Dawson. Second Edition. 
 
 ILLUMINATED MANUSCRIPTS. J. A. Herbert. 
 
 Second Edition. 
 IVORIES. Alfred Maskell. 
 
 JEWELLERY. H. Clifford Smith. Second 
 
 Edition. 
 
 MEZZOTINTS. Cyril Davenport 
 MINIATURES. Dudley Heath. 
 PORCELAIN. Edward Dillon. 
 SEALS. Walter de Gray Birch. 
 V/OOD SCULPTURE. Alfred MaskelL 
 
GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 Handbooks of English Church History 
 
 Edited by J. H. BURN. Crown Svo. $s. net each volume 
 
 REFORMATION PERIOD, THE. Henry Gee. 
 
 FOUNDATIONS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH, THE. 
 J. H. Maude. 
 
 SAXON CHURCH AND THE NORMAN CONQUEST, 
 THE. C. T. Cruttwell. 
 
 MEDIAEVAL CHURCH AND THE PAPACY, THE. 
 A. C. Jennings. 
 
 STRUGGLE WITH PURITANISM, THE. Bruce 
 Blaxland. 
 
 CHURCH OF ENGLAND IN THE EIGHTEENTH 
 CENTURY, THE. Alfred Plummer. 
 
 Handbooks of Theology 
 
 Demy Svo 
 
 DOCTRINE OF THE INCARNATION, THE. R. L. 
 Ottley. Fifth Edition. 15*. net. 
 
 HISTORY OF EARLY CHRISTIAN DOCTRINE, A. 
 J. F. Bethune-Baker. 15*. net. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO THE HISTORY OF RELIGION. 
 AN. F. B. Jevons. Seventh Edition. iaj. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO THE HISTORY OF THE 
 CREEDS, AN. A. E. Burn. i2s. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF RELIGION IN ENGLAND AND 
 AMERICA, THE. Alfred Caldecott. izs. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 XXXIX ARTICLES OF THE CHURCH OF ENG- 
 LAND, THE. Edited by E. C. S. Gibson. 
 Ninth Edition. 15*. net. 
 
 Health Series 
 
 Fcap. %vo. 2s. 6d. net 
 
 BABY, THE. Arthur Saunders. 
 CARK OF THE BODY, THE. F. Cavanagh. 
 CARE OF THE TEETH, THE. A. T. Pitts. 
 EYES OF OUR CHILDREN, THE. N. Bishop 
 
 Harman. 
 HEALTH FOR THE MIDDLE-AGED. Seymour 
 
 Taylor. Third Edition. 
 HEALTH OF A WOMAN, THE. R. Murray 
 
 Leslie. 
 HEALTH OF THE SKIN, THE. George Pernet. 
 
 How TO LIVE LONG. J. Walter Carr. 
 PREVENTION OF THE COMMON COLD, THE. 
 
 O. K. Williamson. 
 
 STAYING THE PLAGUE. N. Bishop Harman. 
 THROAT AND EAR TROUBLES. Macleod 
 
 Yearsley. Third Edition. 
 TUBERCULOSIS. Clive Riviere. 
 
 HEALTH OF THE CHILD, THE. O. Hilton. 
 Second Edition, as. net. 
 
 The 'Home Life' Series 
 
 Illustrated. Demy Svo. 
 
 HOME LIFE IK AMERICA. Katharine G. 
 
 Busbey. Second Edition, izj. 6d. net. 
 HOME LIFE IN CHINA. I. Taylor Headland. 
 
 i2s. 6d. net. 
 HOME LIFE IN FRANCE. Miss Betham 
 
 Edwards. Sixth Edition, fs. 6d. net. 
 HOME LIFE IN GERMANY. Mrs. A. Sidgwick. 
 
 Third Edition. 12. 6d. net. 
 HOME LIFE IN HOLLAND. D. S. Meldrum. 
 
 Second Edition. in*. 6tt. tut. 
 
 HOME LIFE IN ITALY. Lina Duff Gordon. 
 Third Edition. 1 2 s. f>d. net. 
 
 HOME LIFE IN NORWAY. H. K. Daniels. 
 Second Edition. 12$. 6d. net. 
 
 HOME LIFE IN SPAIN. S. L. Bensusar 
 Second Edition. \zs. 6d. net. 
 
 BALKAN HOME LIFE. 
 XM. 6d. ntt. 
 
 Lucy M. J. Garnett. 
 
METHUEN AND COMPANY LIMITED 
 
 Leaders of Religion 
 
 Edited by H. C. BEECHING. With Portrait* 
 
 Crown &vo. $s. 
 
 AUGUSTINE OF CANTERBURY. E. L. CuttS. 
 
 BISHOP BUTLER. W. A. Spooner. 
 BISHOF WH.BBRFORCE. G. W. Daniell. 
 
 CARDINAL MANNING. A. W. Hutton. Second 
 Edition. 
 
 CARDINAL NEWMAN. R. H. Hutton. 
 CHARLES SIMEON. H. C. G. Moule. 
 
 GEORGE Fox, THE QUAKER. T. Hodgkin. 
 Third Edition. 
 
 JOHN DONNE. Augustus Jessop. 
 JOHN HOWE. R. F. H or ton. 
 
 net each volume 
 
 JoHwKEBLE. Walter Lock. Seventh Edition. 
 JOHN KNOX. F. MacCunn. Second Edition 
 JOHN WESLEY. J. H. Overton. 
 
 LANCELOT ANDREWES. R, L. Ottley. Secant' 
 Edition. 
 
 LATIMER. R. M. and A. J. Carlyle. 
 
 THOMAS CHALMERS. Mrs. Oliphant. Second 
 Edition, 
 
 THOMAS CRANMER. A. J. Mason. 
 THOMAS KEN. F. A. Clarke. 
 
 WILLIAM LAUD. W. H. Hutton. Fourth 
 Edition. 
 
 The Library of Devotion 
 
 With Introductions and (where necessary) Notes 
 
 Small Pott Svo, cloth, $s. net; 
 3*. 6d. net 
 
 BISHOP WILSON'S SACRA PRIVATA. 
 BOOK OF DEVOTIONS, A. Second Edition. 
 CHRISTIAN YEAR, THE. Fifth Edition. 
 
 CONFESSIONS or ST. AUGUSTINE, THE. 
 Ninth Edition, y. td. net. 
 
 DAY BOOK FROM THE SAINTS AND FATHERS, 
 A. 
 
 DEATH AND IMMORTALITY. 
 DEVOTIONS FROM THE APOCRYPHA. 
 DEVOTIONS OK ST. ANSELM, THE. 
 
 DEVOTIONS FOR EVERY DAY IN THE WEEK 
 AND THK GREAT FESTIVALS. 
 
 GRACE ABOUNDING TO THE CHIEF OF SIN- 
 NERS. 
 
 Gums TO ETERNITY, A. 
 
 HORAB MVSTICAE. A Day Book from the 
 Writings of Mystics of Many Nations. 
 
 IMITATION OF CHRIST, THE. Eighth Edition. 
 INNER WAY, THE. Third Edition. 
 INTRODUCTION TO THE DEVOUT LIFE, AN. 
 
 also some volumes in leather, 
 each volume 
 
 LIGHT, LIFE, and LOVE. A Selection fro-.; 
 the German Mystics. 
 
 LITTLE BOOK OF HEAVENLY WISDOM, A. 
 A Selection from the English Mystics. 
 
 LYRA APOSTOLICA. 
 
 LYRA INNOCENTIUM. Third Edition. 
 
 LVRA SACRA. A Book of Sacred Verse. 
 Second Edition. 
 
 MANUAL OF CONSOLATION FROM THE SAINTS 
 AND FATHERS, A. 
 
 ON THE LOVE OF GOD. 
 PRECES PRIVATAE. 
 PSALMS OF DAVID, THE. 
 
 SERIOUS CALL TO A DEVOUT AND HOLY 
 LIFE, A. Fifth Edition. 
 
 SONG OF SONGS, THE. 
 
 SPIRITUAL COMBAT, THE. 
 
 SPIRITUAL GUIDE, THE. Third Edition. 
 
 TEMPLE, THE. Second Edition. 
 
 THOUGHTS OK PASCAL, THE. Second Editi?*. 
 
GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 17 
 
 Little Books on Art 
 
 With many Illustrations. Demy i6mo. 5*. net each volume 
 
 Kach volume consists of about 200 pages, and contains from 30 to 40 Illustrations, 
 including a Frontispiece in Photogravure 
 
 ALBRECHT DtfRER. L. J Allen. 
 
 ARTS OF JAPAN, THE. E. Dillon. Third 
 
 Edition. 
 
 BOOKPLATES. E. Almack. 
 BOTTICELLI. Mary L. Bonnor. 
 BURNE-JONES. F. de Lisle. Third Edition. 
 CELLINI. R. H. H. Cust. 
 CHRISTIAN SYMBOLISM. Mrs. H. Jenner. 
 CHRIST IN ART. Mrs. H. Jenner. 
 CLAUDE. E. Dillon. 
 
 CONSTABLE. 
 Edition. 
 
 H. W. Tompkins. Second 
 
 COROT. A. Pollard and E. Birnstingl. 
 
 EARLY ENGLISH WATER-COLOUR. C. E. 
 Hughes. 
 
 ENAMELS. Mrs. N. Dawson. Second Edition. 
 FREDERIC LEIGHTON. A. Corkran, 
 GEORGE ROMNEY. G. Paston. 
 
 GREEK ART. H. B. Walters. Fifth Edition. 
 GRKUZE AND BOUCHER. E. F. Pollard. 
 HOLBRIN. Mrs. G. Fortescue. 
 JEWELLERY. C. Davenport. Second Edition. 
 JOHN HOPPNER. H. P. K. Skipton. 
 
 SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. J. Sime. Second 
 Edition. 
 
 MILLET. N. Peacock. Second Edition. 
 
 MINIATURES. C. Davenport, V.D., F.S.A. 
 Second Edition. 
 
 OUR LADY IN ART. Mrs. H. Jenner. 
 RAPHAEL. A. R. Dryhurst. Second Edition 
 RODIN. Muriel Ciolkowska. 
 TURNER. F. Tyrrell -oill. 
 VANDYCK. M. G. Smallwood. 
 
 VELAZQUEZ. W. Wilberforce and A. R. 
 Gilbert. 
 
 WATTS. R. E. D. Sketchley. Second Edition. 
 
 The Little Guides 
 
 With many Illustrations by E. H. NEW and other artists, and from photographs 
 Small Pott 8vo. 4*. net each volume 
 
 The main features of these Guides are (i) a handy and charming form ; (2) illus- 
 trations from photographs and by well-known artists ; (3) good plans and maps ; 
 (4) an adequate but compact presentation of everything that is interesting in the 
 natural features, history, archaeology, and architecture of the town or district treated. 
 
 CAMBRIDGE AND ITS COLLEGES. A. H. 
 
 Thompson. Fourth Edition^ Revised. 
 CHANNEL ISLANDS, THE. E. E. Bicknell. 
 ENGLISH LAKES, THE. F. G. Brabant. 
 ISLE OF WIGHT, THE. G. Clinch. 
 LONDON. G. Clinch. 
 
 MALVERN COUNTRY, THE. Sir B.C. A. Windle. 
 
 Second Edition. 
 NORTH WALKS. A. T. Story. 
 
 OXFORD AND ITS COLLEGES. J. Wells, 
 Tenth Edition. 
 
 ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL. G. Clinch. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S COUNTRY. Sir B. C. A. 
 Windle. Fifth Edition. 
 
 SOUTH WALKS. G. W. and J. H. Wade. 
 TEMPLE, THE. H. H. L. Bellot. 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. G. E. Troutbeck. 
 
i8 
 
 METHUEN AND COMPANY LIMITED 
 
 The Little Guides continued 
 
 BEDFORDSHIRE AND HUNTINGDONSHIRE. H. 
 W. Macklin. 
 
 BERKSHIRE. F. G. Brabant. 
 
 BUCKINGHAMSHIRE. E. S. Roscoe. Second 
 Edition, Revised. 
 
 CAMBRIDGESHIRE. J. C. Cox. 
 CHESHIRE. W. M. Gallichan. 
 CORNWALL. A. L. Salmon. Second Edition. 
 DERBYSHIRE. J. C. Cox. Second Edition. 
 DEVON. S. Baring-Gould. Fourth Edition. 
 DORSET. F. R. Heath. Fourth Edition. 
 DURHAM. J. E. Hodgkin. 
 ESSEX. J. C. Cox. Second Edition. 
 
 GLOUCESTERSHIRE. J. C Cox. Second 
 Edition. 
 
 HAMPSHIRE. J. C. Cox. Third Edition. 
 HEREFORDSHIRE. G. W. and J. H. Wade. 
 HERTFORDSHIRE. H. W. Tompkins. 
 
 KENT. J. C. Cox. Second Edition, Re- 
 written. 
 
 KERRY. C. P. Crane. Second Edition. 
 
 LEICESTERSHIRE AND RUTLAND. A. Harvey 
 and V. B. Crowther-Beynon. 
 
 LINCOLNSHIRE. J. C. Cox. 
 MIDDLESEX. J. B. Firth. 
 MONMOUTHSHIRE. G. W. and J. H. Wade. 
 
 NORFOLK. W. A. Dutt. Fourth Edition, 
 Revised. 
 
 NORTHAMPTONSHIRE. W. Dry. Second 
 Edition, Revised. 
 
 NORTHUMBERLAND. J. E. Morris. $s. 
 net. 
 
 NOTTINGHAMSHIRE. L. Guilford. 
 OXFORDSHIRE. F. G. Brabant. Second Edition. 
 SHROPSHIRE. J. E. Auden. Second Edition. 
 
 SOMERSET. G. W. and J. H. Wade. Founk 
 Edition. 
 
 STAFFORDSHIRE. C. Masefield. Second Edi- 
 tion. 
 
 SUFFOLK. W. A. Dutt. Second Edition. 
 
 SURREY. J. C. Cox. Third Edition, Re- 
 written. 
 
 SUSSEX. F. G. Brabant. Fifth Edition. 
 WARWICKSHIRE. J. C. Cox. 
 WILTSHIRE. F. R. Heath. Third Edition. 
 THE EAST 
 
 YORKSHIRI 
 
 Morris. 
 
 YORKSHIRE, THE NORTH 
 Morris. 
 
 YORKSHIRE, THE WEST 
 Morris. 5*. net. 
 
 RIDING. J. E. 
 RIDING. J. E. 
 RIDING. J. E. 
 
 BRITTANY. S. Baring-Gould. Second Edition. 
 NORMANDY. C. Scudamore. Second Edition. 
 ROME. C. G. Ellaby. 
 SICILY. F. H. Jackson. 
 
 The Little Library 
 
 With Introduction, Notes, and Photogravure Frontispieces 
 
 Small Pott Svo. 
 
 Each Volume* cloth, 2s, 6d. net ; also some volumes 
 in leather at $s. 6d. net 
 
 Anon. A LITTLE BOOK OF ENGLISH 
 LYRICS. Second Edition, y <>d. net. 
 
 Austen (Jane). PRIDE AND PREJU- 
 DICE. Two Volumes. 
 NORTHANGER ABBEY. 
 
 Bacon (Francis). THE ESSAYS OF 
 
 LORD BACON. 
 Barnett (Annie). A LITTLE BOOK OF 
 
 ENGLISH PROSE. Third Edition. 
 
 Beckford (William). THE HISTORY OF 
 THE CALIPH VATHEK. 
 
 Blake (William). SELECTIONS FROM 
 THE WORKS OF WILLIAM BLAKE. 
 
 Browning (Robert). SELECTIONS FROM 
 THE EARLY POEMS OF ROBERT 
 BROWNING. 
 
 Canning (George). SELECTIONS FROM 
 THE ANTI-JACOBIN : With some later 
 Poems by GEORGE CANNING. 
 
 Coly (Abraham). THE ESSAYS OF 
 ABRAHAM COWLEY. 
 
GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 The Little Library continued 
 
 Crabbe (George). SELECTIONS FROM 
 THE POEMS OF GEORGE CRABBE. 
 
 Crashaw (Richard). THE ENGLISH 
 POEMS OF RICHARD CRASHAW. 
 
 Dante Alighieri. PURGATORY. 
 PARADISE. 
 
 Darley (George). SELECTIONS FROM 
 THE POEMS OF GEORGE DARLEY. 
 
 Klnglake (A. W.). EOTHEN. Second 
 Edition, as. 6d. ntt. 
 
 Locker (P.). LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 Marrell (Andrew). THE 
 ANDREW MARVELL. 
 
 Hilton (John). THE MINOR POEMS OF 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 M olr (D. M.). MANSIE WAUCH. 
 
 Mlchols (Bowyer). A LITTLE BOOK OF 
 
 ENGLISH SONNETS. 
 
 Smith (Horace and James). REJECTED 
 ADDRESSES. 
 
 A SENTIMENTAL 
 
 Sterne (Laurence). 
 JOURNEY. 
 
 lennyion (Alfred, Lord). THE EARLY 
 POEMS OF ALFRED, LORD TENNY- 
 SON. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 MAUD. 
 
 Yaughan (Henry). THE POEMS OF 
 HENRY VAUGHAN. 
 
 Water-house (Elizabeth). A LITTLE 
 BOOK OF LIFE AND DEATH. 
 Nineteenth Edition. 
 
 Wordsworth (W.). SELECTIONS FROM 
 THE POEMS OF WILLIAM WORDS- 
 WORTH. 
 
 Word worth (W.) a ad Coleridge (S. T.). 
 LYRICAL BALLADS. Third Edition. 
 
 The Little Quarto Shakespeare 
 
 Edited by W. J. CRAIG. With Introductions and Notes 
 Pott i6mo. 40 Volumes. Leather > price is. gd. net each volume 
 
 Miniature Library 
 
 Demy $2mo. Leather, 3*. 6d. net each volume 
 
 EUPHRANOR: A Dialogue on Youth. Edward 
 FitzGerald. 
 THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM. Ed 
 
 ird I Poi. 
 st 
 ward Fitz( 
 
 POLONIUS; or, Wise Saws and Modern In- 
 
 ances. Edward FitzGerald. 
 FitzGerald. Fiji -i Edition. Cloth, is. net. 
 
 The New Library of Medicine 
 
 Edited by C. W. SALEEBY. Demy %vo 
 
 AIR AND HEALTH. Ronald C. Macfie. Second 
 Edition. \os. 6d. net. 
 
 CARB OF THB BODY, THE. F. Cavanagh. 
 Second Edition. IQJ. 6d. net. 
 
 CHILDREN OF THE NATION, THE. The Right 
 Hon. Sir John Gorst. Second Edition. 
 ios. 6d. net. 
 
 DRUGS AND THE DRUG HABIT. 
 bury. ioj. 6d. net. 
 
 H. Sains- 
 
 FUNCTIONAL NERVE DISEASES. A. T. Scho- 
 field. IOT. &/. net. 
 
 HYGIENE OF MIND, THE. Sir T. S. Clouston. 
 Sixth Edition, ios. f>ci. net. 
 
 INFANT MORTALITY. Sir George Newman, 
 ioj. 6d. net. 
 
 PREVENTION OF TUBERCULOSIS (CONSUMP- 
 TION), THE. Arthur Newsholrne. Second 
 Edition, izs. 6d. net. 
 
METHUEN AND COMPANY LIMITED 
 
 The New Library of Music 
 
 Edited by ERNEST NEWMAN. Illustrated. Demy Svo. ics, 6d. net 
 
 BRAKMS. 
 
 Edition. 
 
 J. A. Fuller-Maitland. Second 
 
 HANDEL. R. A. Streatfeild. Secotui Edition. 
 HUGO WOLF. Ernest Newman. 
 
 Oxford Biographies 
 
 Illustrated, Fcap. Svo. Each volume, cloth, 4*. net; 
 also some in leather, $s. net 
 
 DANTE ALIGHIERI. Paget Toynbee. Fifth 
 
 Edition. 
 GIROLAMO SAVON T A.ROI. A. . L. S. Horsburgh. 
 
 Sixth Edirion. 
 JOHN HOWARD. E. C. S. Gibson. 
 
 Nine 
 
 Fcap. &vo. 
 
 ACROSS THE BORDER. Beulah Marie Dix. 
 HONEYMOON, THE. A Comedy in Three Acts. 
 
 Arnold Bennett. Third Edition, 
 GREAT ADVENTURE, THE. A Play of Fancy in 
 
 Four Acts. Arnold Bennett, Fourth Edition. 
 MILESTONES. Arnold Bennett and Edward 
 
 Knoblock. Eighth Edition. 
 IDEAL HUSBAND, AN. Oscar Wilde. Acting 
 
 Edition. 
 
 SIR WALTER RALEIGH. I. A. Taylor. 
 CHATHAM. A. S. McDowall. 
 CANNING. W. Alison Phillips. 
 
 Plays 
 
 *. 6d. net 
 
 Edward Knoblock. Third Edi- 
 
 Melchiot 
 Laurence 
 
 KISMET. 
 
 tion. 
 TYPHOON. A Play in Four Acts. 
 
 Lengyel. English Version by 
 
 Irving. Second Edition. 
 WARE CASE, THE. George Pleydell. 
 GENERAL POST. J. E. Harold Terry. Second 
 
 Edition. 
 
 Sport Series 
 
 Illustrated. Fcap. %vo. 2s. net 
 
 FLYING, ALL ABOUT. Gertrude Bacon. 
 GOLF Do's AND DONT'S. ' Stancliffe.' Sixth 
 Edition. 
 
 GOLFING SWING, THE. Burnham Hare. 
 
 Fourth Edition. 
 How TO SWIM. H. R. Austin. 
 WRESTLING. P. Longhurst. 
 
 The States of Italy 
 
 Edited by E. ARMSTRONG and R. LANGTON DOUGLAS 
 
 Illustrated. Demy Szto 
 
 MILAN UNDER THE SFORZA, A HISTORY OF. I VERONA, A HISTORY OF. A. M. Allen. 
 Cecilia M. Ady. 125. 6d. net. \ 15*. net. 
 
 PERUGIA, A HISTORY OF. W. Heywood. 15*. net. 
 
 The Westminster Commentaries 
 
 General Editor, WALTER LOCK 
 Demy Svo 
 
 ACTS OF THE APOSTLES, THE. R. B. Rack- 
 ham. Seventh Edition. i6j. net. 
 AMOS. E. A. Edghill. 8j. 6d. net. 
 CORINTHIANS, I. H. L. Goudge. 
 
 Fourth 
 
 H. L. 
 
 Edition. &s. 6ti. net. 
 EXODUS. A. H. M'Neile. Second Edition. 
 
 1 5-y. net. 
 
 EZKKIEL. H. A. Redpath. 12*. 6d. net. 
 GtiNKsis. S. R. Driver. 7V/A Edition. 
 
 HKXKEWS'. E. C. Wickhasa. I*. 6^. ttft. 
 
 ISAIAH. G. W. Wade. 16*. net. 
 
 JEREMIAH. L. E. Binns. its. net. 
 
 JOB. E. C. S. Gibson. Second Edition. 
 
 8s. f>d. net. 
 PASTORAL EPISTLES, THE. 
 
 &s. 6d. net. 
 PHILIPPIANS, THE. 
 
 net. 
 ST. JAMES. R. J. Knowling. Second Edi- 
 
 tion. Ss. 6d. net. 
 ST. MATTHEW. P. A. Micklem. 15*. ntt. 
 
 E. F. BROWN. 
 Maurice Jones. Bs. dd. 
 
GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 21 
 
 The * Young' Series 
 
 Illustrated. Crown 8vo 
 
 YOUNG BOTANIST, THE. W. P. Westell and 
 
 C. S. Cooper. 6s. net. 
 YOUNG CARPENTER, THE. Cyril Hall. 6j. 
 
 net. 
 YOUNG ELECTRICIAN, THE. Hammond Hall. 
 
 Second Edition. 6s. net. 
 
 YOUNG ENGINEER, THE. Hammond Hall 
 Third Edition. 6s. net. 
 
 YOUNG NATURALIST, THE. W. P. Westell. 
 7 s. 6d. net. 
 
 YOUNG ORNITHOLOGIST, THK. W. P. Westell. 
 6s. net. 
 
 Methuen's Cheap Library 
 
 Fcap. Svo. 2s. net 
 
 ALL THINGS CONSIDERED. G. K. Chesterton. 
 BEST OF LAMB, THK. Edited by E. V. Lucas. 
 BLUE BIRD, THE. Maurice Maeterlinck. 
 CHARLES DICKENS. G. K. Chesterton. 
 CHARMIDES, AND OTHER POEMS. Oscar 
 
 Wilde. 
 CHITR\L : The Story of a Minor Siege. Sir 
 
 G. S. Robertson. 
 CUSTOMS OF OLD ENGLAND, THE. F. ]. 
 
 Snell. 
 
 DE PROFUNDIS. Oscar Wilde. 
 FAMOUS WITS, A BOOK OF. W. Jerrold. 
 FROM MIDSHIPMAN TO FIELD-MARSHAL. 
 
 Sir Evelyn Wood, F.M., V.C. 
 HARVEST HOME. E, V. Lucas. 
 HILLS AND THE SEA. Hilaire Belloc. 
 IDEAL HUSBAND, AN. Oscar Wilde. 
 IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST, THB. 
 
 Oscar Wilde. 
 
 INTENTIONS. Oscar Wilde. 
 JANE AUSTEW AND HER TIMBS. G. E. 
 
 MITTON. 
 JOHN BOYBS, KING OF THE WA-KIKUYU. 
 
 John Boyes. 
 
 LADY WINDERMERE'S FAW. Oscar Wilde. 
 LETTERS FROM A SELF-MADE MERCHANT 
 
 TO HIS Son. George Horace Lorimer. 
 LIFE OF JOHN RUSKIN, THE. W. G. Colling- 
 
 wood. 
 LIFE OF ROBERT Loois STEVENSON, THE. 
 
 Graham Balfour. 
 
 LITTLE OF EVERYTHING, A. E. V. Lucas. 
 LORD ARTHUR SAVILE'S CRIME. Oscar Wilde. 
 LORE OF THE HONEY-BEE, THE. Tickner 
 
 Edwardes. 
 
 MAN AND THE UNIVERSE. Sir Oliver Lodge. 
 MARY MAGCALKN*. Maurice Maeterlinck. 
 
 MIRROR OF THE SEA, THE. J. Conrad. 
 
 MIXED VINTAGES. E V. Lucas. 
 
 MODERN PROBLEMS. Sir Oliver Lodge. 
 
 MY CHILDHOOD AND BOYHOOD. Leo Tolstoy. 
 
 MY YOUTH. Leo Toistoy. 
 
 OLD COUNTRY LIFE. S. Baring-Gould. 
 
 OLD TIME PARSON, THE. P. H. Ditch- 
 field. 
 
 ON EVERYTHING. Hilaire Belloc. 
 
 ON NOTHING. Hilaire Belloc. 
 
 OSCAR WILDE: A Critical Study. Arthur 
 Ransome. 
 
 PICKED COMPANY, A. Hilaire Belloc. 
 
 REASON AND BELIEF. Sir Oliver Lodge. 
 
 R. L. S. Francis Watt. 
 
 SCIENCE FROM AN EASY CHAIR. Sir Ray 
 Lankester. 
 
 SELECTED POEMS. Oscar Wilde. 
 
 SELECTED PROSE. Oscar Wilde. 
 
 SHEPHERD s LIFE, A. W. H. Hudson. 
 
 SHILLING FOR MY THOUGHTS, A. G. K. 
 Chesterton. 
 
 SOCIAL EVILS AND THEIR REMEDY. Leo 
 Tolstoy. 
 
 SOME LETTERS OF R. L. STEVENSON. Selected 
 by Lloyd Osbourne. 
 
 SUBSTANCE OF FAITH, THE. Sir Oliver 
 Lodge. 
 
 SURVIVAL OF MAN, THE. Sir Oliver Lodge. 
 
 TOWER OF LONDON, THE. R. Davey. 
 
 Two ADMIRALS. Admiral John Moresby. 
 
 VAILIMA LETTERS. Robert Louis Stevenson. 
 
 VARIETY LANE. E. V. Lucas. 
 
 VICAR OF MORWENSTOW, THE. S. Baring- 
 Gould. 
 
 WOMAN OF no IMPORTAKCK, A. Oscar 
 Wilde. 
 
 A Stitc*** 
 
22 
 
 METHUEN AND COMPANY LIMITED 
 
 Books for Travellers 
 
 Crown Svo. 8s. 6d. net each 
 Each volume contains a number of Illustrations in Colour 
 
 AVON AND SHAKESPEARE'S COUNTRY, THE. 
 A. G. Bradley. Second Edition. 
 
 BLACK FOREST, A BOOK OF THE. C. E. 
 Hughes. 
 
 CITIES OP LOMBARDY, THE. Edward Hutton. 
 
 CITIES OF ROMAGNA AND THE MARCHES, 
 
 THE. Edward Hutton. 
 
 CITIES OF SPAIN, THK. Edward Hntton. 
 Fifth Edition. 
 
 CITIES OF UMBRIA, THE. Edward Hutton. 
 Fifth Edition. 
 
 FLORENCE AND NORTHERN TUSCANY, WITH 
 GENOA. Edward Hutton. Third Edition. 
 
 LAND OF PARDONS, THE (Brittany). Anatole 
 Le Braz. Fourth Edition. 
 
 LONDON REVISITED. E. V. Lucas. Third 
 Edition. &s. M. ntt. 
 
 NAPLES. Arthur H. Norway. Fourth Edi- 
 tion. Rr. 6d. net. 
 
 NAPLES AND SOUTHERN ITALY. 
 Hutton. 
 
 Edward 
 
 NAPLES RIVIERA, THE 
 Second Edition. 
 
 NEW FOREST, THE. 
 Fourth Edition. 
 
 H. M. Vaughan. 
 Horace G. Hutchinson. 
 
 NORWAY AND ITS FJORDS. M. A. Wyllie. 
 ROME. Edward Hutton. Third Edition. 
 
 ROUND ABOUT WILTSHIRE. A. G. Bradley. 
 Third Edition. 
 
 SIENA AND SOUTHERN TUSCANY. Edward 
 Hutton. Second Edition. 
 
 SKIRTS or THE GREAT CITY, THE. Mrs. A. 
 G. Bell. Second Edition. 
 
 VENICE AND VENETIA. 
 
 WANDERER IN FLORENCE, A. 
 Sixth Edition. 
 
 WANDERER IN PARIS, A. 
 Thirteenth Edition. 
 
 WANDERER IN HOLLAND, A. 
 Sixteenth Edition. 
 
 WANDERER IN LONDON, A. 
 Eighteenth Edition. 
 
 WANDERER IN VENICE, A. 
 Second Edition. 
 
 Edward Hutton. 
 
 E. V. Lucas. 
 
 E. V. Lucas. 
 E. V. Lucas. 
 E. V. Lucas. 
 E. V. Lucas. 
 
 Some Books on Art 
 
 ART, ANCIENT AND MEDIEVAL. M. H. 
 Bulley. Illustrated. Crown Zvo. js. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 BRITISH SCHOOL, THE. An Anecdotal Guide 
 to the British Painters and Paintings in the 
 National Gallery. E. V. Lucas. Illus- 
 trated. Fcap. &vo. 6s. net. 
 
 DECORATIVE IRON WORK. From the xith 
 to the xvmth Century. Charles ffoulkes. 
 Royal 4(0. & . net. 
 
 FRANCESCO GUARDI, 1712-1 
 Simonson. Illustrated. 
 2 2s. net. 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE BOOK OF JOB. 
 William Blake. Quarto. ji is. net. . 
 
 ITALIAN SCULPTORS. W. G. Waters. Illus- 
 trated. Crown too. 7 s - &* *<* 
 
 -1793. G. A. 
 Imperial 4*0. 
 
 OLD PASTE. A. Beresford Ryley. Illustrated. 
 Royal 4/0. 2 zj. net. 
 
 ONE HUNDRED MASTERPIECES OF SCULPTURE. 
 With an Introduction by G.. F. Hill. Illus- 
 trated. Demy 8va. its. 6d. net. 
 
 ROYAL ACADEMY LECTURES ON PAINTING. 
 George Clausen, illustrated. Crown Bvo. 
 net. 
 
 SAWTS IK ART, THE. Margaret E. Tabor. 
 Illustrated. Third Edition. Fcap. Boo. 
 3-r. net. 
 
 SCHOOLS OF PAINTING. Mary Innes. Illus- 
 trated. Second Edition. Cr. Bva. &s. net. 
 
 CELTIC ART IN PAGAN AND CHRISTIAN TIMES. 
 J. R. Allen. Illustrated. Second Edition. 
 Demy Szw . 10*. 64, ntt. 
 
GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 Some Books on Italy 
 
 FLORENCE AND HER TREASURES. H. M. 
 Vaughan. Illustrated. Fcap. 8vo, 6s. net. 
 
 FLORENCE AND THE CITIES OF NORTHERN 
 TUSCANY, WITH GENOA. Edward Hutton. 
 Illustrated. Third Edition. Cr. Zvo. 
 &s. 6d. net. 
 
 LOMBARDY, THE CITIES OF. Edward Hutton. 
 Illustrated. Cr. Bvo. &s. (>d. net. 
 
 MILAN UNDER THE SFORZA, A HISTORY OF. 
 Cecilia M. Ady. Illustrated. Demy too. 
 \zs. 6d. net. 
 
 NAPLES : Past and Present. A. H. Norway. 
 Illustrated. Fourth Edition. Cr. too. 
 8j. f>d. net. 
 
 NAPLES RIVIERA, THE. H. M. Vaughan. 
 Illustrated. Second Edition. Cr. too. 
 Zs. 6d. net. 
 
 NAPLES AND SOUTHERN ITALY. E. Hutton. 
 Illustrated. Cr. too. %s. 6d. net. 
 
 PERUGIA, A HISTORY OF. William Heywood. 
 Illustrated. Demy too. 15^. net. 
 
 ROME. Edward Hutton. Illustrated. Third 
 Edition. Cr. too. 9s. 6d. net. 
 
 ROMAGNA AND THE MARCHES, THE ClTIES 
 
 OF. Edward Hutton. Cr. too. Bs. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 ROME. C. G. Ellaby. Illustrated. Small 
 Pott too. 4*. net. 
 
 SICILY. F. H. Jackson. Illustrated. Small 
 Pott too. 4t- net. 
 
 SICILY : The New Winter Resort. Douglas 
 Sladen. Illustrated. Second Edition. Cr. 
 Zvo. js. 6d. net. 
 
 SIENA AND SOUTHERN TUSCANY. Edward 
 Hutton. Illustrated. Second Edition. Cr 
 8vo. 6s. 6d. net. 
 
 UMBRIA, THE CITIES OF. Edward Hutton. 
 Illustrated. Fifth Edition. Cr. Zvo. 
 BJ. 6d. net. 
 
 VENICE AND VENETIA. Edward Hutton. 
 Illustrated. Cr. &vo. 8j. 6d. net. 
 
 VENICE ON FOOT. H. A. Douglas. Illus- 
 trated. Second Edition. Fcap.Kvo. 6s.net. 
 
 VENICE AND HER TREASURES. H. A. 
 Douglas. Illustrated. Fcap. Bvo. 6s. net. 
 
 VERONA, A HISTORY OF. A. M. Allen. 
 Illustrated. Demy Svo. 15*. net. 
 
 DANTE ALIGHIERI : His Life and Works. 
 Paget Toynbee. Illustrated. Fourth Edi- 
 tion. Cr. &vo. 6s. net. 
 
 LAKES or NORTHERN ITALY, THE. Richard 
 Bagot. Illustrated. Second Edition. Fcap. 
 8v0. 6s. net. 
 
 SAVONAROLA, GIROLAMO. E. L. S. Horsburgh. 
 Illustrated. Fourth Edition. Cr. Bvo. 
 6s. net. 
 
 SKIES ITALIAN : A Little Breviary for Tra- 
 vellers in Italy. Ruth S. Phelps. Fcap. &vo. 
 
METHUEN AND COMPANY LIMITED 
 
 PART III. A SELECTION OF WORKS OF FICTION 
 
 Albancsi (B. Maria). I KNOW A 
 MAIDEN. Third Edition. Cr. too. 71. 
 net. 
 
 THE GLAD HEART. Fifth Edition. Cr. 
 Bvtr. js. net. 
 
 Aumonier (Stacy). OLGA 
 Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 BARBEL. 
 
 Bagot (Richard). 
 SERRAVALLE. 
 Bvo. js. net. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF 
 Third Edition. Cr. 
 
 Bailey (H. C.). THE SEA CAPTAIN. 
 Third Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 THE HIGHWAYMAN. Third Edition. 
 
 Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 THE GAMESTERS. Second Edition. Cr. 
 
 Bvo. js. net. 
 THE YOUNG LOVERS. Second Edition. 
 
 Cr. Bvo. >/s. net. 
 
 Baring -Gould (8.). THE BROOM- 
 SQUIRE. Illustrated. Fifth Edition. Cr. 
 Bvo. js. net. 
 
 Barr (Robert). IN THE MIDST OF 
 ALARMS. Third Edition. Cr. Bvo. ys. 
 net. 
 
 THE COUNTESS TEKLA. Fifth Edition. 
 
 Cr. Bvo. 7*. net. 
 THE MUTABLE MANY. Third Edition. 
 
 Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 Begble (Harold). THE CURIOUS AND 
 DIVERTING ADVENTURES OF SIR 
 JOHN SPARROW, BART.; OR, THE 
 PROGRESS OF AN OPEN MIND. Second 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 Belloc (H.). EMMANUEL BURDEN, 
 MERCHANT. Illustrated. Second Edi- 
 tion. Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 Bennett (Arnold). CLAYHANGER. 
 
 Twelfth Edition. Cr. Bvo. 8s. net. 
 
 HILDA LESSWAYS. 
 Cr. ZifO. yt. ntt. 
 
 Eighth Edition. 
 
 THESE TWAIN. Fourth Edition. Cr. 
 Bvo. js. net. 
 
 THE CARD. Thirteenth Edition. Cr. Bvo. 
 js. net. 
 
 THE REGENT : A FIVE TOWNS STORY OF 
 ADVENTURE IN LONDON. Fifth Edition. 
 Cr. Bvo. ys. net. 
 
 THE PRICE OF LOVE. Fourth Edition. 
 Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 BURIED ALIVE. Ninth Edition. Cr. 
 Bvo. js. net. 
 
 A MAN FROM THE NORTH. Third 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 THE MATADOR OF THE FIVE TOWNS. 
 Second Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED. A New 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 A GREAT MAN: A FROLIC. Seventh 
 Edition. Cr. Boo. js. net. 
 
 Benson (B. P.). DODO : A DETAIL OF THE 
 DAY. Seventeenth Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. 
 net. 
 
 Birmingham (George A.). SPANISH 
 GOLD. Seventeenth Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. 
 net. 
 
 THE SEARCH PARTY. Tenth Edition. 
 Cr. Bvo. ys. net. 
 
 LALAGE'S LOVERS. Third Edition. Cr. 
 Bvo. js. net. 
 
 GOSSAMER. Fourth Edition. Cr. Boo. js. 
 net. 
 
 THE ISLAND MYSTERY. Second Edi- 
 tion. Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 THE BAD TIMES. Second Edition. Cr. 
 Bvo js. net. 
 
 Bowen (Marjorie). I WILL MAINTAIN. 
 Ninth Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 DEFENDER OF THE FAITH. Seventh 
 Edition. Cr. Bva. js. net. 
 
 WILLIAM, BY THE GRACE OF GOD. 
 Stcend Edition. Cr. te#. 7s. mi. 
 
FICTION 
 
 GOD AND THE KING. Sixth Edition. 
 Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 PRINCE AND HERETIC. Third Edition. 
 Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 A KNIGHT OF SPAIN. Third Edition. 
 Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 THE QUEST OF GLORY. Third Edition. 
 Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 THE GOVERNOR OF ENGLAND. Third 
 Edition. Cr. 87/0. js. net. 
 
 THE CARNIVAL OF FLORENCE. Fifth 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. 7$. net. 
 
 MR. WASHINGTON. Third Edition. Cr. 
 Bvo. js. net. 
 
 "BECAUSE OF THESE THINGS. . . ." 
 Third Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 THE THIRD ESTATE. Second Edition. 
 Cr. Bvo. js. ntt. 
 
 Burroughs (Edgar Rloe). THE RETURN 
 OF TARZAN. Fcap. Bvo. zs. net. 
 
 THE BEASTS OF TARZAN. Second 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. 6s. net. ' 
 
 THE SON OF TARZAN. Cr. tvo. js. net. 
 A PRINCESS OF MARS. Cr. tvo. y. net. 
 
 Castle (Agnes and Egerton). THE 
 GOLDEN BARRIER. Third Edition. 
 Cr. Bvo. jt. tut. 
 
 Conrad (Joseph). A SET OF SIX. Fourth 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 VICTORY : AN ISLAND TALE. Sixth 
 Edition, Cr. Bvo. gs. ntt 
 
 Conyers (Dorothea). SANDY MARRIED. 
 Fifth Edition. Cr. Bvo. "js. net. 
 
 OLD ANDY. Fourth Edition. Cr. too. js. 
 
 net. 
 
 THE BLIGHTING OF BARTRAM. Third 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. met. 
 
 B. E. N. Cr Ivo. js. tut. 
 
 Corelli (Marie). A ROMANCE OF TWO 
 WORLDS, rhirty-fifth Edition. Cr. Bvo. 
 js. 6d. not. 
 
 VENDETTA ; OR, THE STORY OF ONB FOR- 
 GOTTEN. Thirty-fifth Edition. Cr. Bvo. 
 Bs. net. 
 
 THELMA: A NORWEGIAN PRINCESS. 
 Fifty -ninth. Edition. Cr. Bvo. Bs. 6d. net. 
 
 ARDATH: THE STORY OF A DEAD SELF. 
 Twenty-fourth Edition. Cr. Boo. js. 6d. 
 not. 
 
 THE SOUL OF LIL1TH. Twentieth 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 WORMWOOD: A DRAMA OF PARIS. 
 Twenty-second Edition. Cr. Bvo. Bs. net. 
 
 B ARAB B AS: A DREAM OF THE WORLD'S 
 TRAGEDY. Fiftieth Edition. Cr. Bvo. Bs. 
 net. 
 
 THE SORROWS OF SATAN. Sixty-third 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 THE MASTER-CHRISTIAN. Eighteenth 
 Edition. iB^th Thousand. Cr. Bvo. 
 Bs. (**. net. 
 
 TEMPORAL POWER: A STUDY IN 
 SUPREMACY. Second Edition. iso/A 
 Thousand. Cr. Bvo. 6s. ntt. 
 
 GOD'S GOOD MAN: A SIMPLE LOVE 
 STORY. Twentieth Edition. \$gth Thou- 
 sand. Cr. Bvo. Bs. 64. net. 
 
 HOLY ORDERS : THE TRAGEDY OF A 
 QUIET LIFE. Third Edition. izist 
 Thousand. Cr. Bvo. Bs. 6d. net. 
 
 THE MIGHTY ATOM. Thirty-sixth 
 Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. 6d. not. 
 
 BOY : A SKETCH. Twentieth Edition. Cr. 
 Bvo. 6s. not. 
 
 CAMEOS. Fifteontk Edition, Cr. Bvo. 
 6s. ntt. 
 
 THE LIFE EVERLASTING. Eighth Edi- 
 tion. Cr. Bvo. Bs. 6d. net. 
 
 Crockett (8. R.). LOCHINVAR. Illus- 
 trated. Fifth Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 THE STANDARD BEARER. Second 
 Edition. Cr. tvo. js. net. 
 
 Doyl (Bl* JL Cnan). ROUND THE RED 
 LAMP. Tvattfth Edition. Cr. Bvo. js. 
 ntt. 
 
 Dudeney (Mr. H.). THIS WAY OUT. 
 Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 Pry (B. 
 
 Fifth 
 
 and C. B.). A MOTHER'S SON. 
 h Edition Cr. Bvo. js. net. 
 
 Harraden (Beatrice). THE GUIDING 
 THREAD. Stcntd Edition. Cr. Bvo. 
 js. ntt. 
 
 Hleiiens (Robert). THE PROPHET OF 
 BERKELEY SQUARE. Second Edition. 
 Cr. Bvo. js. not. 
 
 TONGUES OF CONSCIENCE. Fourth 
 Edition. Cr. Iw. 7*. ntt. 
 
26 
 
 METHUEN AND COMPANY LIMITED 
 
 FELIX : THKF.K YEARS IN A LIFK. Seventh 
 Edition. Cr. 8w. 7 s. net. 
 
 THE WOMAN WITH THE FAN. Eighth 
 Edition. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 BYEWAYS. Cr. too. 7 s. net. 
 
 THE GARDEN OF ALLAH. Twenty 
 sixth Edition. Illustrated. Cr. too. &s. 6,f. 
 net. 
 
 THE CALL OF THE BLOOD. Ninth 
 Edition. Cr. too. &s. 6d. net. 
 
 BARBARY SHEEP. Second Edition. Cr. 
 
 too. 6s. net. 
 
 THE DWELLER ON THE THRESHOLD. 
 Cr. too. 7 s. net* 
 
 THE WAY OF AMBITION. Fifth Edi- 
 tion. Cr. too. 7 s. net. 
 
 IN THE WILDERNESS. Third Edition. 
 
 Cr. too. 7*. net. 
 
 Hopa (Anthony). A CHANGE OF AIR. 
 Sixth Edition. Cr. too. ;-s. net. 
 
 A MAN OF MARK. Seventh Edition. Cr. 
 too. 7 s. net. 
 
 THE CHRONICLES OF COUNT AN- 
 TONIO. Sixth Edition. Cr. Zoo. 7 s. 
 net. 
 
 PHROSO. Illustrated. Ninth Edition. Cr. 
 too. 73. net. 
 
 SIMON DALE. Illustrated. Ninth Edition. 
 Cr. too. 7s. net. 
 
 THE KING'S MIRROR- Fifth Edition. 
 Cr. too. ^s. net. 
 
 QUISANTE. Fourth Edition. Cr. too. ?s. 
 net. 
 
 THE DOLLY DIALOGUES. Cr. to*. 7 s. 
 net. 
 
 TALES OF TWO PEOPLE. Third Edi- 
 tion. Cr. too. 7 s. net. 
 
 A SERVANT OF THE PUBLIC. Illus- 
 trated. Fourth Edition. Cr. too. 7 s. net. 
 
 MRS. MAXON PROTESTS. Third Edi- 
 tion. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 A YOUNG MAN'S YEAR. Second Edition. 
 Cr. too. 7 s. net. 
 
 Hyne (C. J. Ciutcliffe). MR. HORROCKS, 
 PURSER. Fifth Edition. Cr. too 7 s. 
 net. 
 
 FIREMEN HOT. Fourth Edition. Cr. 
 too. 7 s. net. 
 
 CAPTAIN KETTLE ON THE WAR- 
 PATH. Third Edition. Cr. too. 7 s. net. 
 RED HERRINGS. Cr. too. 6s.et. 
 
 Jacobs (W. W.). MANY CARGOES. 
 Thirty-third Edition. Cr. too. c,s. net. 
 Also Cr. too. 2s. kd. net. 
 
 SEA URCHINS. Nineteenth Edition. Cr. 
 too. 5^. net. 
 Also Cr. too. 3J. 6d. net. 
 
 A MASTER OF CRAFT. Illustrated. 
 Eleventh Edition. Cr. too. 55. net. 
 
 LIGHT FREIGHTS. Illustrated. Fifteenth 
 Edition. Cr. too. $s. net. 
 
 THE SKIPPER'S V/OOING. Twtjfth 
 Edition. Cr. too. 5 s. net. 
 
 ATSUNWICHPORT. Illustrated. Elaotnth 
 Edition. Cr. too. $s. net. 
 
 DIALSTONE LANE. Illustrated. Eighth 
 Edition. Cr. too 55. net. 
 
 ODD CRAFT. Illustrated. Fifth Edition. 
 Cr. loo. 5.*. net. 
 
 THE LADY OF THE BARGE. Illustrated. 
 Tenth Edition. Cr. too. 5 j. net. 
 
 SALTHAVEN. Illustrated. Fourth Edition. 
 Cr. too. 5*. net. 
 
 SAILORS' KNOTS. Illustrated. Sixth 
 Edition. Cr. too. 5*. net. 
 
 SHORT CRUISES. Third Edition. Cr 
 too. 53. net. 
 
 Kiag (Basil). THE LIFTED VEIL. Cr. 
 too. js. net. 
 
 Lethbrldge (Sybil C.). ONE WOMAN'S 
 HERO. Cr. too. 7 s. net. 
 
 London (Jack). WHITE FANG. Ninth 
 Edition. Cr. too. 7 s. net. 
 
 Lowndes (Mr. BeUoc). THE LODGER. 
 Third Edition. Cr. too. 7 s. net. 
 
 Lucas (B. Y.). LISTENER'S LURE: An 
 OBLIQUE NARRATION. Twelfth Edition. 
 Fcaj>. too. 6s. net. 
 
 OVER BEMERTON'S: AN EASY-GOING 
 CHRONICLE. Sixteenth Edition. Fcap. 
 too. 6s. net. 
 
 MR. INGLESIDE. Thirteenth Edition. 
 Fcaf. too. 6s. net. 
 
 LONDON LAVENDER. Twelfth Edition. 
 Fcap. too. 6s. net. 
 
 LANDMARKS. Fifth Edition. Cr. too. 
 7s. net. 
 
 THE VERMILION BOX. Fifth Edition. 
 Cr. too. 7 s. net. 
 
 Lyall (Edna). DERRICK VAUGHAN, 
 NOVELIST. 44/A Thousand. Cr. Szv. 
 $s. net. 
 
FICTION 
 
 McSenmt (Stephen). SONIA: BETWEEN 
 Two WORLDS. Sixteenth Edition. Cr. too. 
 Bx. net. 
 
 NINETY-SIX HOURS' LEAVE. Fifth 
 Edition. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 TH E SIXTH SENSE. Cr. tow. 6s. net. 
 
 MIDAS & SON. Cr. too. 8s. net. 
 
 Macnaughtan (S.). PETER AND JANE. 
 Fourth Edition. Cr. too. js. ne.t. 
 
 Malet (Lucas). THE HISTORY OF SIR 
 RICHARD CALMADY: A ROMANCE. 
 Seventh Edition. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 THE WAGES OF SIN. Sixteenth Edition. 
 Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 THE CARISSIMA. Fifth Edition. Cr. 
 too. js. net. 
 
 THE GATELESS BARRIER. Fifth. Edi- 
 tion. Cr. too. 7s. net. 
 
 Mason (A. B. V/.). CLEMENTINA. 
 Illustrated. Ninth Edition. Cr. too. 71. 
 net. 
 
 Maxwell (W. B.). VIVIEN. Thirteenth 
 Edition. Cr. too. 'js. net. 
 
 THE GUARDED FLAME. Seventh Edi- 
 tion. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 ODD LENGTHS. Second Edition. Cr. too. 
 is. net. 
 
 HILL RISE. Fourth Edition. Cr. tow. 7;. 
 net. 
 
 THE REST CURE. Fourth Edition. Cr. 
 too. 7s. net. 
 
 Milne (A. A.). THE DAY'S PLAY. Sixth 
 
 Edition. Cr. Boo. js. net. 
 ONCE A WEEK. Cr. too. 7 t. net. 
 
 Morrison (Arthur). TALES OF MEAN 
 
 STREETS. Seventh Edition. Cr.too. 7*. 
 
 net. 
 A CHILD OF THE JAGO. Sixth Edition. 
 
 Cr. too. js. net. 
 THE HOLE IN THE WALL. Fourth 
 
 Edition. Cr. too. js.net. 
 DIVERS VANITIES. Cr. too. 7*. net. 
 
 Oppenhelm (E. Phillips). MASTER OF 
 
 MEN. Fifth Edition. Cr. too. 7*. net. 
 THE MISSING DELORA. Illustrated. 
 
 Fourth Edition. Cr. too. 7s. net. 
 THE DOUBLE LIFE OF MR. ALFRED 
 
 BURTON. Second Edition. Cr.too. js. 
 
 net. 
 A PEOPLE'S MAN. Third Edition. Cr. 
 
 too. js. net. 
 MR. GREX OF MONTE CARLO. Third 
 
 E-ditis*. Cr, So*. 7*.. #tt. 
 
 THE VANISHED MESSENGER. Second 
 Edition. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 THE HILLMAN. Cr. too. 7 s. net. 
 
 Oxenham (John). A WEAVER OF 
 WEBS. Illustrated. Fifth Edition. Cr. 
 too. js. net. 
 
 PROFIT AND LOSS. Sixth Edition. 
 Cr. too. 7$. net. 
 
 THE SONG OF HYACINTH, AND OTHEK 
 STORIES. Second Edition. Cr. too. ?s. 
 net. 
 
 LAURISTONS. Fourth Edition. Cr. too, 
 js. net. 
 
 THE COIL OF CARNE. Sixth Edition. 
 Cr. too. is. net. 
 
 THE QUEST OF THE GOLDEN ROSE. 
 Fourth Edition. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 MARY ALL- ALONE. Third Edition. Cr. 
 too. js. net. 
 
 BROKEN SHACKLES. Fourth Edition. 
 Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 "1914." Third Edition. Cr.too. js.net. 
 
 Parker (Gilbert). PIERRE AND HIS 
 PEOPLE. Seventh Edition. Cr. Zvo. js. 
 net. 
 
 MRS. FALCHION. Fifth Edition. Cr. 
 too. js. net. 
 
 THE TRANSLATION OF A SAVAGE. 
 Fourth Edition. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD. Illus- 
 trated. Tenth Edition. Cr. too. js. ntt. 
 
 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC : 
 THE STORY or A LOST NAPOLEON. Seventh 
 Edition. Cr, too. js. net. 
 
 AN ADVENTURER OF THE NORTH: 
 Tine LAST ADVENTURES OF ' PRETTY 
 PIERRE.' Fifth Edition. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY. Illus- 
 trated. Twentieth Edition. Cr. too. js. 
 net. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG: A 
 ROMANCE OF Two KINGDOMS. Illustrated. 
 Seventh Edition. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 THE POMP OF THE LAVILETTES. 
 Third Edition. Cr. too. 6s. net. 
 
 NORTHERN LIGHTS. Fourth Edition. 
 Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 Pen-in (Alice). THE CHARM. Fifth 
 Edition. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 Phillpotts (Eden). CHILDREN OF THE 
 MIST. Sixth Edition. Cr. to*, js, tt. 
 
28 
 
 METHUBN AND COMPANY LIMITED 
 
 THE HUMAN BOY. With a Frontispiece. 
 Seventh Edition, Cr. too. js. net, 
 
 SONS OF THE MORNING. Second Edi- 
 tion, Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 THE RIVER. Fourth Edition. Cr.too. 7 s. 
 net. 
 
 THE AMERICAN PRISONER. Fourth 
 Edition. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 DEMETER'S DAUGHTER. Third Edi- 
 tion. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 THE HUMAN BOY AND THE WAR. 
 Third Edition. Cr.too. js.net. 
 
 Ridge (W. Pett;. A SON OF THE 
 STATE, Third Edition. Cr. too. ?s. 
 
 THE REMINGTON SENTENCE. Third 
 Edition. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 MADAME PRINCE. Second Edition. Cr. 
 too. 7s. net. 
 
 TOP SPEED. Second Edition. Cr. too. 
 js. net. 
 
 SPECIAL PERFORMANCES. Cr. too. 
 6s. net. 
 
 THE BUSTLING HOURS. Cr. 8<w. 7 s. 
 net. 
 
 Rohmer (Sax). THE DEVIL DOCTOR. 
 Third Edition. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 THE SI-FAN MYSTERIES. Second JSai- 
 tion. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 TALES OF SECRET EGYPT. Cr. too. 
 6s. net. 
 
 THE ORCHARD OF TEARS. 
 6s. net. 
 
 Cr. 
 
 Swinnerton (P.). SHOPS AND HOUSES. 
 Cr. too. 7t. net. 
 
 Wells (H. G.). BEALBY. Fifth Edition. 
 Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 Williamson (G. . and A. M.). THE 
 
 LIGHTNING CONDUCTOR : THE 
 STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A MOTOR CAR. 
 Illustrated. Ttvtntysecond Edition. Cr* 
 too. js. net. 
 
 THE PRINCESS PASSES: A ROMANCB 
 OF A MOTOR. Illustrated. Ninth Edition. 
 Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 LADY BETTY ACROSS THE WATER. 
 Nineteenth Edition. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 SCARLET RUNNER. Illustrated, Fourth 
 Edition, Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 LORD LOVELAND DISCOVERS 
 AMERICA. Illustrated. Second Edition. 
 Cr. too. ?s. net. 
 
 THE GOLDEN SILENCE. Illustrated. 
 Eighth Edition. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 THE GUESTS OF HERCULES. Illus- 
 trated. Fourth Edition. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 IT HAPPENED IN EGYPT. Illustrated. 
 Seventh Edition. Cr. too. js. net. 
 
 A SOLDIER OF THE LEGION. Second 
 Edition. Cr. SP*. 7*. net. 
 
 THE SHOP GIRL. Cr. too. ys. net. 
 
 THE LIGHTNING CONDUCTRESS. 
 Third Edition. Cr. too. 7s. net. 
 
 SECRET HISTORY. Cr. too. 7s. net. 
 
 THE LOVE PIRATE. Illustrated. Third 
 Edition. Cr. too. js. net. 
 Also Cr. too. y. 6d.net. 
 
 CRUCIFIX CORNER. Cr. too. 6s. net. 
 
 Wilson (Homer). MARTIN SCHULER. 
 Cr. So*. 7*. ntt. 
 
 GETTING WBM, OF DOROTHY, THE. 
 W. K. Clifford. 6s. net. 
 
 GIRL OF THE PEOPLE, A. L. T. Meade. 
 HONOURABLE Miss, THB. L. T. Meade. 
 
 Books for Boys and Girls 
 
 Illustrated. Crown Svo. $s. net. 
 Mrs. 
 
 MASTER ROCKAKELLAR'S VOYAGE. W. Clark 
 
 Russell. 
 
 RED GRANGE, THE. Mrs. Moleflworth. 
 THERE WAS ONCE A PRINCE. Mis. M. E. 
 
 Mann. 
 
FICTION 
 
 29 
 
 Methuen's Cheap Newels 
 
 Fcap. 8rw. 2s. net. 
 
 ABANDONED. W. Clark Russell. 
 ADVENTURES OF DR. WHITTY, THE. George 
 A. Birmingham. 
 
 ANGLO-INDIANS, THE. Alice Perrin. 
 ANNA OF THE FIVE TOWNS. Arnold Bennett. 
 ANTHONY CUTHBERT. Richard Bagot. 
 BABES IN THE WOOD. B. M. Croker. 
 BAD TIMES, THE. George A. Birmingham. 
 BARBARY SHEEP. Robert Hichens. 
 BECAUSE OK THESE THINGS. . . . Marjorie 
 
 Bowen. 
 
 BELOVED ENEMY, THE. E. Maria Albanesi. 
 BELOW STAIRS. Mrs. Alfred Sidgwick. 
 BOTOK CHAPERON, THB. C. N. and A. M. 
 
 Williamson. 
 BOY. Marie CorellL 
 
 BRANDED PRINCE, THB. Weatherby Chesney. 
 BROKEN SHACKLES. John Oxenham. 
 BROOM SQUIRE, THE. S. Baring-Gould. 
 BUSIED ALIVE. Arnold Bennett. 
 BYEWAYS. Robert Hichens. 
 CALL OF THE BLOOD, THE. Robert Hichens. 
 CAMEOS. Marie Corelli. 
 CARD, THE. Arnold Bennett. 
 CARISSIMA, THE. Lucas Malet. 
 CKASB FIRK. J. M. Cobban. 
 CHANCE. Joseph Conrad. 
 CHANGE IN THE CABINET, A Hilaire Belloc. 
 
 CHINK IN THE AKMOUR, THE. Mrs. Belloc 
 
 Lowndes. 
 CHRONICLES or A GERMAN TOWN. The 
 
 Author of " Mercia in Germany." 
 COIL OF CARNE, THE. John Oxenham. 
 CONVERT, THE. Elizabeth Robins. 
 COUNSEL OF PERFECTION, A. Lucas Malet. 
 CROOKED WAY, THE. William Le Queux. 
 DAN RUSSEL THE Fox. E. CE. Somerville 
 
 and Martin Ross. 
 
 DARNELEY PLACE. Richard Bagot. 
 DKAD MEN TBF.L NO TALES. E. W. Hor- 
 
 nung. 
 
 DEMETER'S DAUGHTER. Eden Phillpotts. 
 DEMON, THE. C. N. and A. M. Williamson. 
 
 DESERT TRAIL, THB. Dane Coolidge. 
 DEVIL DOCTOR, THE. Sax Rohmer. 
 DOUBLE LIFE OF MR. ALFRED BURTON, 
 
 THK. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 DUKE'S MOTTO, THE. J. H. McCarthy. 
 EMMANUEL BURDEN. Hilaire Belloc. 
 END OF HER HONEYMOON, THE. Mrs. 
 
 Belloc Lowndes. 
 
 FAMILY, THE. Elinor Mordaunt. 
 FIRE IN STUBBLE. Baroness Orczy, 
 FIREMEN HOT. C. J. CUTCLIFFE HYNK. 
 FLOWER OF THE DUSK. Myrtle Reed. 
 GATE OF THE DESERT, THE. John Oxenham. 
 GATES OF WRATH, THE. Arnold Bennett. 
 GENTLEMAN ADVENTURER, THE. H. C. 
 
 Bailey. 
 
 GOLDEN CENTIPEDE, THE. Louise Gerard. 
 GOLDEN SILENCE, THE. C N. and A. M. 
 
 Williamson. 
 
 GOSSAMER. George A. Birmingham. 
 GOVERNOR OF ENGLAND, THE. Marjorie 
 
 Bowen. 
 
 GREAT LADY, A. Adeline Sergeant. 
 GREAT MAN, A. Arnold Bennett. 
 GUARDED FLAME, THE. W. B. Maxwell 
 GUIDING THREAD, THE. Beatrice Harraden. 
 HALO, THE. Baroness von Hutten. 
 HAPPY HUNTING GROUND, THE. Alice 
 
 Perrin. 
 
 HAPPY VALLEY, THE. B. M. Croker. 
 HEART OF HIS HEART. E. Maria Albanesi. 
 HEART OF THE ANCIENT WOOD, THE. 
 
 Charles G. D. Roberts. 
 HEATHER MOON, THE. C. N. and A. M. 
 
 Williamson. 
 
 HERITAGE OF PEKIL, A. A. W. Marchmont. 
 HIGHWAYMAN, The. H. C. Bailey. 
 HILLMAN, THE. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 HILL RISE. W. B. Maxwell. 
 
 HOUSE OF SERRAVALLE, THE. Richard 
 Bagot. 
 
 HYKNA OF KALLU, THE. Louise Gerard. 
 ISLAND PRINCESS, His. W. Clark Russell. 
 
METHUEN AND COMPANY LIMITED 
 
 Hethnen't Cheap ftoYeli continued. 
 
 JANE. Marie Corclli. 
 
 JOHANNA. B. M. Croker. 
 
 JOSEPH. Frank Danby. 
 
 JOSHUA DAVIDSON, COMMUNIST. E. Lynn 
 
 Linton. 
 
 Joss, THE. Richard Marsh. 
 KINSMAN, THH. Mrs. Alfred Sidgwick. 
 KNIGHT OF SPAIN, A. Marjorie Bowen. 
 LADV BETTY ACROSS THE WATER. C. N. 
 
 and A. M. Williamson. 
 LALAGE'S LOVERS. George A. Birmingham. 
 
 LANTERN BEARERS, THJB. Mrs. Alfred Sidg- 
 wick. 
 
 LAURISTONS. John Oxenham. 
 LAVENDER AND OLD LACE. Myrtle Reed. 
 LIGHT FREIGHTS. W. W. Jacobs. 
 LODGER, THE. Mrs. Belloc Lowndes. 
 LONG ROAD, THE, John Oxenham. 
 LOVE AND LOUISA. E. Maria Albanesi. 
 
 LOVE PIRATE, THE. C. N. and A. M. 
 
 Williamson. 
 
 MARY ALL-ALONE. John Oxenham. 
 MASTER OF THE VINEYARD. Myrtle Reed. 
 MASTER'S VIOLIN, THE. Myrtle Reed. 
 MAX CARRADOS. Ernest Bramah. 
 MAYOR OF TROY, THE. "Q." 
 MESS DECK, THE. W. F. Shannon. 
 MIGHTY ATOM, THE. Marie CorellL 
 MIRAGE. E. Temple Thurston. 
 
 MISSING DELORA, THE. E. Phillips Oppen- 
 
 beim. 
 MR. GREX OF MONTE CARLO. E. Phillips 
 
 Oppen heim. 
 
 MR. WASHINGTON. Marjorie Bowen. 
 MRS. MAXON PROTESTS. Anthony Hope. 
 MRS. PETER HOWARD. Mary E. Mann. 
 
 MY DANISH SWEETHEART. W. Clark 
 Russell. 
 
 MY FRIEND THE CHAUFFEUR. C. N. and 
 A. M. Williamson. 
 
 MY HUSBAND AND I. Leo Tolstoy. 
 
 MY LADY OF SHADOWS. John Oxenham. 
 
 MYSTERY OF DR. FU-MANCHU, THE. Sax 
 Rohmer. 
 
 MYSTERY OF THE GREEN HEART, THE. 
 Max Pemberton. 
 
 NINK DAYS' WONDER, A. B. M. Creker. 
 
 NINE TO SIX-THIRTT. W. Pett Ridge. 
 OCEAN SLEUTH, THE. Maurice Drake. 
 OLD Ross AND SILVER. Myrtle Reed. 
 PATHS or THE PRUDENT, THE. J. S. Fletcher. 
 PATHWAY OF THE PIONEER, THE. Dolf 
 
 Wyliarde. 
 
 PEGGY OF THE BARTONS. B. M. Croker. 
 PEOPLE'S MAN, A. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 PETER AND JANE. S. Macnaughtan. 
 POMP OF THE LAVILETTES, THE. Sir Gilbert 
 
 Parker. 
 
 QUEST OF GLORY, THE. Marjorie Bowen. 
 QUEST OF THE GOLDEN ROSE, THE. John 
 
 Oxenham. 
 
 REGENT, THE. Arnold Bennett. 
 REMINGTON SENTENCE, THE. W. Pett 
 
 Ridge. 
 
 REST CURE, THE. W. B. Maxwell. 
 RETURN OF TARZAN, THE. Edgar Rice 
 
 Burroughs. 
 
 ROUND THE RED LAMP. Sir A. Cnan Doyle. 
 ROYAL GEORGIK. S. Baring-Gould. 
 
 SA!D, THE FISHERMAN. Marmaduke Pick- 
 thall. 
 
 SALLY. Dorothea Conyers. 
 
 SALVTNG OF A DKRKUCT, THE. Maurice 
 Drake. 
 
 SANDY MARRIED. Dorothea Conyers. 
 
 SEA CAPTAIN, THE. H. C. Bailey. 
 
 SEA LADY, THE. H. G. Wells. 
 
 SEARCH PARTY, THE. George A. Birmingham. 
 
 SECRET AGSNT, THE. Joseph Conrad. 
 
 SECRET HISTORY. C. N. and A. M. William- 
 
 son. 
 SECRET WOMAN, THE. Eden Phillpotts. 
 
 SET IN SILVER. C. N. and A. M. William- 
 son. 
 
 SEVASTOPOL, AND OTHER STORIES. Lee 
 Tolstoy. 
 
 SEVKRINS, THE. Mrs. Alfred Sidgwick. 
 SHORT CRUISES. W. W. Jacobs. 
 SI-FAN MYSTERIES, THE. Sax Rohmer. 
 SPANISH GOLD. George A. Birmingham. 
 SPINNER IN THE SUN, A. Myrtle Reed. 
 STREET CALLED STRAIGHT, THE. Basii 
 
 King. 
 
 SUPREME CRIME, THE. Dorothea Gerard. 
 TALES OF MEAN STREETS. Arthur Morrison. 
 
 TASZAN or THE APES. Edgar Rice Bur- 
 roughs. 
 
FICTION 
 
 -ii Cheap Morals oontmued. 
 
 TEKESA OF WATLINC STREET. Arnold 
 
 Bennett. 
 
 THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN. Dolf Wyllarde. 
 TVRANT, THE. Mrs. Henry de la Pasture. 
 UNDER WESTERN EYES. Joseph Conrad. 
 UNOFFICIAL HONEYMOON, THE. Dolf 
 
 Wyllarde. 
 
 VALLEY OF THB SHADOW, THE. William 
 
 Le Queux. 
 
 VIRGINIA PERFECT. Peggy Webling. 
 WALLET OF KAI LUNG. Ernest Brarnah. 
 '.VAK WEDDING, THE. C. N. and A. M. 
 
 Williamson. 
 
 WARE CASE, THE. George PleydelL 
 WAY HOME, THE. Basil King. 
 
 WAY OF THESE WOMEN, THK. E. Phillips 
 Oppenheim. 
 
 WEAVER OF DREAMS, A. Myrtle Reed. 
 WEAVER OF WEBS, A. John Oxenham. 
 WEDDING DAY, THE. C. N. and A. M. 
 
 Williamson. 
 
 WHITE FANG. Jack London. 
 WILD OLIVE, THE. Basil King. 
 
 WILLIAM, BY THE GRACE OF GOD. Marjorie 
 Bo wen. 
 
 WOMAN WITH THE FAN, THE. Robert 
 
 Hichens. 
 
 WO* Maurice Drake. 
 
 WONDER OF LOVE, THE. E. Maria Albanesi. 
 YELLOW CLAW, THE. Sax Rohmer. 
 YKLLOW DIAMOND, THE. Adeline Sergeant. 
 
 Methuen's One and Threepenny Novels 
 
 Fcap. 8vo. is. $d. net 
 
 BARBARA RESELL. Mrs. Belloc Lowndes. 
 BY STROKE OF SWORD. Andrew Balfour. 
 
 DERRICK VAUGHAN, NOVELIST. Edna 
 Lyall. 
 
 HOUSE OF WHISPERS, THE. William Le 
 Queux. 
 
 INCA'S TREASURE, THE E. Glanville. 
 
 KATHERINE THE ARROGANT. Mrs. B. M. 
 Croker. 
 
 MOTHER'S SON, A. B. and C. B. Fry. 
 PROFIT AND Loss. John Oxenham. 
 RED DERELICT, THE. Bertram Mitford. 
 SIGN OP THE SPIDER, THE. Bertram Mitford. 
 
 BY MORRISON AND GIBB LIMITED, EDINBURGH 
 

 14 DAY USE 
 
 TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 21A-50m-4,'59 
 (Al724slO)476B 
 
 General Library 
 vers ^ pf California 
 Berkeley 
 
I 
 
 YB 74809 
 
 4D5730 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY