What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, although puzzling questions, are not beyond all conjecture. Sir Thomas Browne

The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate them only in their effects.

We know of them, among other things, that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment. As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which disentangles. He derives pleasure from even the most trivial occupations bringing his talent into play. He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension preternatural. His results, brought about by the very soul and essence of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition.

The faculty of resolution is possibly much invigorated by mathematical study, and especially by that highest branch of it which, unjustly, and merely on account of its retrograde operations, has been called, as if par excellence, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to analyze.

A chess-player, for example, does the one, without effort at the other. It follows that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise, but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations very much at random; I will, therefore, take occasion to assert that the higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of draughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces have different and bizarre motions, with various and variable values, what is only complex, is mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound.

The attention is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for an instant, an oversight is committed, resulting in injury or defeat. The possible moves being not only manifold, but involute, the chances of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten, it is the more concentrative rather than the more acute player who conquers.

In draughts, on the contrary, where the moves are unique and have but little variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are diminished, and the mere attention being left comparatively unemployed, what advantages are obtained by either party are obtained by superior acumen. To be less abstract, let us suppose a game of draughts where the pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no oversight is to be expected. It is obvious that here the victory can be decided (the players being at all equal) only by some recherché movement, the result of some strong exertion of the intellect. Deprived of ordinary resources, the analyst throws himself into the spirit of his opponent, identifies himself therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole methods (sometimes indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may seduce into error or hurry into miscalculation.

Whist has long been known for its influence upon what is termed the calculating power; and men of the highest order of intellect have been known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in it, while eschewing chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is nothing of a similar nature so greatly tasking the faculty of analysis. The best chess-player in Christendom may be little more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all these more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind.

When I say proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which includes a comprehension of all the sources whence legitimate advantage may be derived. These are not only manifold, but multiform, and lie frequently among recesses of thought altogether inaccessible to the ordinary understanding.

To observe attentively is to remember distinctly; and, so far, the concentrative chess-player will do very well at whist; while the rules of Hoyle (themselves based upon the mere mechanism of the game) are sufficiently and generally comprehensible. Thus to have a retentive memory, and proceed by "the book," are points commonly regarded as the sum total of good playing. But it is in matters beyond the limits of mere rule that the skill of the analyst is evinced.

He makes, in silence, a host of observations and inferences. So, perhaps, do his companions; and the difference in the extent of the information obtained, lies not so much in the validity of the inference as in the quality of the observation. The necessary knowledge is that of what to observe. Our player confines himself not at all; nor, because the game is the object, does he reject deductions from things external to the game.

He examines the countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully with that of each of his opponents. He considers the mode of assorting the cards in each hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by honor, through the glances bestowed by their holders upon each. He notes every variation of face as the play progresses, gathering a fund of thought from the differences in the expression of certainty, of surprise, of triumph, or chagrin.

From the manner of gathering up a trick he judges whether the person taking it can make another in the suit.

He recognizes what is played through feint, by the manner with which it is thrown upon the table. A casual or inadvertent word; the accidental dropping or turning of a card, with the accompanying anxiety or carelessness in regard to its concealment; the counting of the tricks, with the order of their arrangement; embarrassment, hesitation, eagerness, or trepidation all afford, to his apparently intuitive perception, indications of the true state of affairs. The first two or three rounds having been played, he is in full possession of the contents of each hand, and thenceforward puts down his cards with as absolute a precision of purpose as if the rest of the party had turned outward the faces of their own. The analytical power should not be confounded with simple ingenuity; for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis.

The constructive or combining power, by which ingenuity is usually manifested, and to which the phrenologists (I believe erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a primitive faculty, has been so frequently seen in those whose intellect bordered otherwise upon idiocy, as to have attracted general observation among writers on morals. Between ingenuity and the analytic ability there exists a difference far greater, indeed, than that between the fancy and the imagination, but of a character very strictly analogous. It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.

The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in the light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced. Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18 , I there became acquainted with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This young gentleman was of an excellent, indeed of an illustrious family, but, by a variety of untoward events, had been reduced to such poverty that the energy of his character succumbed beneath it, and he ceased to bestir himself in the world, or to care for the retrieval of his fortunes. By courtesy of his creditors, there still remained in his possession a small remnant of his patrimony; and, upon the income arising from this, he managed, by means of a rigorous economy, to procure the necessaries of life, without troubling himself about its superfluities. Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in Paris these are easily obtained.

Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre, where the accident of our both being in search of the same very rare and very remarkable volume, brought us into closer communion. We saw each other again and again. I was deeply interested in the little family history which he detailed to me with all that candor which a Frenchman indulges whenever mere self is the theme. I was astonished, too, at the vast extent of his reading; and, above all, I felt my soul enkindled within me by the wild fervor, and the vivid freshness of his imagination. Seeking in Paris the objects I then sought, I felt that the society of such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price; and this feeling I frankly confided to him.

It was at length arranged that we should live together during my stay in the city; and as my worldly circumstances were somewhat less embarrassed than his own, I was permitted to be at the expense of renting, and furnishing in a style which suited the rather fantastic gloom of our common temper, a time-eaten and grotesque mansion, long deserted through superstitions into which we did not inquire, and tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate portion of the Faubourg St. Germain. Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the world, we should have been regarded as madmen although, perhaps, as madmen of a harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We admitted no visitors.

Indeed, the locality of our retirement had been carefully kept a secret from my own former associates; and it had been many years since Dupin had ceased to know or be known in Paris, We existed within ourselves alone. It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call it?) to be enamored of the night for her own sake; and into this bizarrerie, as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself up to his wild whims with a perfect abandon. The sable divinity would not herself dwell with us always; but we could counterfeit her presence. At the first dawn of the morning we closed all the massy shutters of our old building; lighted a couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, threw out only the ghastliest and feeblest of rays, By the aid of these we then busied our souls in dreams reading, writing, or conversing, until warned by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness. Then we sallied forth into the streets, arm in arm, continuing the topics of the day, or roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking, amid the wild lights and shadows of the populous city, that infinity of mental excitement which quiet observation can afford.

At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although from his rich ideality I had been prepared to expect it) a peculiar analytic ability in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an eager delight in its exercise if not exactly in its display and did not hesitate to confess the pleasure thus derived. He boasted to me, with a low chuckling laugh, that most men, in respect to himself, wore windows in their bosoms, and was wont to follow up such assertions by direct and very startling proofs of his intimate knowledge of my own. His manner at these moments was frigid and abstract; his eyes were vacant in expression; while his voice, usually a rich tenor, rose into a treble which would have sounded petulant but for the deliberateness and entire distinctness of the enunciation.

Observing him in these moods, I often dwelt meditatively upon the old philosophy of the Bi-Part Soul, and amused myself with the fancy of a double Dupin the creative and the resolvent. Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am detailing any mystery, or penning any romance. What I have described in the Frenchman was merely the result of an excited, or perhaps of a diseased, intelligence. But of the character of his remarks at the periods in question an example will best convey the idea.

We were strolling one night down a long dirty street, in the vicinity of the Palais Royal. Being both, apparently, occupied with thought, neither of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen minutes at least. All at once Dupin broke forth with these words:  "He is a very little fellow, that's true, and would do better for the Theatre Variétés. "

"There can be no doubt of that," I replied, unwittingly, and not at first observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection) the extraordinary manner in which the speaker had chimed in with my meditations.

In an instant afterward I recollected myself, and my astonishment was profound. "Dupin," said I, gravely, "this is beyond my comprehension. I do not hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses.

How was it possible you should know that I was thinking of ? "

Here I paused, to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom I thought. "

of Chantilly," said he, "why do you pause? You were remarking to yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy. "

This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections.

Chantilly was a quondam cobbler of the Rue St. Dennis, who, becoming stage-mad, had attempted the rôle of Xerxes, in Crébillon's tragedy so called, and been notoriously Pasquinaded for his pains. "Tell me, for Heaven's sake," I exclaimed, "the method if method there is by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this matter. "
In fact, I was even more startled than I would have been willing to express. "It was the fruiterer," replied my friend, "who brought you to the conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient height for Xerxes et id genus omne."
"The fruiterer! you astonish me I know no fruiterer whomsoever."

"The man who ran up against you as we entered the street it may have been fifteen minutes ago. "
I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, carrying upon his head a large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by accident, as we passed from the Rue C into the thoroughfare where we stood; but what this had to do with Chantilly I could not possibly understand. There was not a particle of charlatânerie about Dupin.

"I will explain," he said, "and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will first retrace the course of your meditations, from the moment in which I spoke to you until that of the recontre with the fruiterer in question. The larger links of the chain run thus Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the street stones, the fruiterer. "
There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives, amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular conclusions of their own minds have been attained. The occupation is often full of interest; and he who attempts it for the first time is astonished by the apparently illimitable distance and incoherence between the starting-point and the goal.

What, then, must have been my amazement, when I heard the Frenchman speak what he had just spoken, and when I could not help acknowledging that he had spoken the truth. He continued:  "We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before leaving the Rue C. This was the last subject we discussed. As we crossed into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket upon his head, brushing quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile of paving-stones collected at a spot where the causeway is undergoing repair.

You stepped upon one of the loose fragments, slipped, slightly strained your ankle, appeared vexed or sulky, muttered a few words, turned to look at the pile, and then proceeded in silence. I was not particularly attentive to what you did; but observation has become with me, of late, a species of necessity. "You kept your eyes upon the ground glancing, with a petulant expression, at the holes and ruts in the pavement (so that I saw you were still thinking of the stones), until we reached the little alley called Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of experiment, with the overlapping and riveted blocks.

Here your countenance brightened up, and, perceiving your lips move, I could not doubt that you murmured the word 'stereotomy,' a term very affectedly applied to this species of pavement. I knew that you could not say to yourself 'stereotomy' without being brought to think of atomies, and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and since, when we discussed this subject not very long ago, I mentioned to you how singularly, yet with how little notice, the vague guesses of that noble Greek had met with confirmation in the late nebular cosmogony, I felt that you could not avoid casting your eyes upward to the great nebula in Orion, and I certainly expected that you would do so. You did look up; and I was now assured that I had correctly followed your steps. But in that bitter tirade upon Chantilly, which appeared in yesterday's 'Musée,' the satirist, making some disgraceful allusions to the cobbler's change of name upon assuming the buskin, quoted a Latin line about which we have often conversed.

I mean the line  Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum. I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly written Urion; and, from certain pungencies connected with this explanation, I was aware that you could not have forgotten it. It was clear, therefore, that you would not fail to combine the two ideas of Orion and Chantilly. That you did combine them I saw by the character of the smile which passed over your lips. You thought of the poor cobbler's immolation.

So far, you had been stooping in your gait; but now I saw you draw yourself up to your full height. I was then sure that you reflected upon the diminutive figure of Chantilly. At this point I interrupted your meditations to remark that as, in fact, he was a very little fellow that Chantilly he would do better at the Théâtre des Variétés.
" Not long after this, we were looking over an evening edition of the "Gazette des Tribunaux," when the following paragraphs arrested our attention. "Extraordinary Murder.

This morning, about three o'clock, the inhabitants of the Quartier St. Roch were roused from sleep by a succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the fourth story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in the sole occupancy of one Madame L'Espanaye, and her daughter, Mademoiselle Camille L'Espanaye. After some delay, occasioned by a fruitless attempt to procure admission in the usual manner, the gateway was broken in with a crowbar, and eight or ten of the neighbors entered, accompanied by two gendarmes. By this time the cries had ceased; but, as the party rushed up the first flight of stairs, two or more rough voices, in angry contention, were distinguished, and seemed to proceed from the upper part of the house. As the second landing was reached, these sounds, also, had ceased, and everything remained perfectly quiet.

The party spread themselves, and hurried from room to room. Upon arriving at a large back chamber in the fourth story (the door of which, being found locked; with the key inside, was forced open), a spectacle presented itself which struck every one present not less with horror than with astonishment. "The apartment was in the wildest disorder the furniture broken and thrown about in all directions. There was only one bedstead; and from this the bed had been removed, and thrown into the middle of the floor. On a chair lay a razor, besmeared with blood.

On the hearth were two or three long and thick tresses of gray human hair, also dabbled with blood, and seeming to have been pulled out by the roots. Upon the floor were found four Napoleons, an ear-ring of topaz, three large silver spoons, three smaller of metal d'Alger, and two bags, containing nearly four thousand francs in gold. The drawers of a bureau, which stood in one corner, were open, and had been, apparently, rifled, although many articles still remained in them. A small iron safe was discovered under the bed (not under the bedstead).

It was open, with the key still in the door. It had no contents beyond a few old letters, and other papers of little consequence. "Of Madame L'Espanaye no traces were here seen; but an unusual quantity of soot being observed in the fireplace, a search was made in the chimney, and (horrible to relate!) the corpse of the daughter, head downward, was dragged therefrom; it having been thus forced up the narrow aperture for a considerable distance.

The body was quite warm. Upon examining it, many excoriations were perceived, no doubt occasioned by the violence with which it had been thrust up and disengaged. Upon the face were many severe scratches, and, upon the throat, dark bruises, and deep indentations of finger nails, as if the deceased had been throttled to death. "After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house without further discovery, the party made its way into a small paved yard in the rear of the building, where lay the corpse of the old lady, with her throat so entirely cut that, upon an attempt to raise her, the head fell off.

The body, as well as the head, was fearfully mutilated the former so much so as scarcely to retain any semblance of humanity. "To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the slightest clue. "
The next day's paper had these additional particulars:  "The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue. Many individuals have been examined in relation to this most extraordinary and frightful affair"

[the word "affaire" has not yet, in France, that levity of import which it conveys with us], "but nothing whatever has transpired to throw light upon it. We give below all the material testimony elicited.

"Pauline Dubourg, laundress, deposes that she has known both the deceased for three years, having washed for them during that period. The old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms very affectionate toward each other. They were excellent pay. Could not speak in regard to their mode or means of living.

Believed that Madame L. told fortunes for a living. Was reputed to have money put by. Never met any person in the house when she called for the clothes or took them home. Was sure that they had no servant in employ. There appeared to be no furniture in any part of the building except in the fourth story.

"Pierre Moreau, tobacconist, deposes that he has been in the habit of selling small quantities of tobacco and snuff to Madame L'Espanaye for nearly four years. Was born in the neighborhood, and has always resided there. The deceased and her daughter had occupied the house in which the corpses were found for more than six years. It was formerly occupied by a jeweler, who under-let the upper rooms to various persons. The house was the property of

Madame L.  She became dissatisfied with the abuse of the premises by her tenant, and moved into them herself, refusing to let any portion. The old lady was childish. Witness had seen the daughter some five or six times during the six years. The two lived an exceedingly retired life were reputed to have money.
Had heard it said among the neighbors that Madame L. told fortunes did not believe it.

Had never seen any person enter the door except the old lady and her daughter, a porter once or twice, and a physician some eight or ten times. "Many other persons, neighbors, gave evidence to the same effect. No one was spoken of as frequenting the house. It was not known whether there were any living connections of Madame L. and her daughter.

The shutters of the front windows were seldom opened. Those in the rear were always closed, with the exception of the large back room, fourth story. The house was a good house not very old.

"Isidore Muset, gendarme, deposes that he was called to the house about three o'clock in the morning, and found some twenty or thirty persons at the gateway, endeavoring to gain admittance. Forced it open, at length, with a bayonet not with a crowbar. Had but little difficulty in getting it open, on account of its being a double or folding gate, and bolted neither at bottom nor top. The shrieks were continued until the gate was forced and then suddenly ceased.

They seemed to be screams of some person (or persons) in great agony were loud and drawn out, not short and quick. Witness led the way upstairs. Upon reaching the first landing, heard two voices in loud and angry contention the one a gruff voice, the other much shriller a very strange voice.

Could distinguish some words of the former, which was that of a Frenchman.

Was positive that it was not a woman's voice.

Could distinguish the words 'sacre' and 'diable.'

The shrill voice was that of a foreigner. Could not be sure whether it was the voice of a man or of a woman. Could not make out what was said, but believed the language to be Spanish.

The state of the room and of the bodies was described by this witness as we described them yesterday. "Henri Duval, a neighbor, and by trade a silversmith, deposes that he was one of the party who first entered the house. Corroborates the testimony of Muset in general.

As soon as they forced an entrance, they reclosed the door, to keep out the crowd, which collected very fast, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. The shrill voice, this witness thinks, was that of an Italian. Was certain it was not French.
Could not be sure that it was a man's voice.

It might have been a woman's.
Was not acquainted with the Italian language.

Could not distinguish the words, but was convinced by the intonation that the speaker was an Italian. Knew Madame L. and her daughter.
Had conversed with both frequently. Was sure that the shrill voice was not that of either of the deceased. " Odenheimer, restaurateur.

This witness volunteered his testimony. Not speaking French, was examined through an interpreter. Is a native of Amsterdam.

Was passing the house at the time of the shrieks. They lasted for several minutes probably ten. They were long and loud very awful and distressing.

Was one of those who entered the building. Corroborated the previous evidence in every respect but one.
Was sure that the shrill voice was that of a man of a Frenchman.  Could not distinguish the words uttered. They were loud and quick unequal spoken apparently in fear as well as in anger.

The voice was harsh not so much shrill as harsh.
Could not call it a shrill voice. The gruff voice said repeatedly, 'sacre,' 'diable,' and once 'mon Dieu.'  "Jules Mignaud, banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue Deloraine.  Is the elder Mignaud. Madame L'Espanaye had some property.  Had opened an account with his banking house in the spring of the year (eight years previously).

Made frequent deposits in small sums.
Had checked for nothing until the third day before her death, when she took out in person the sum of 4,000 francs. This sum was paid in gold, and a clerk sent home with the money. "Adolphe Le Bon, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the day in question, about noon, he accompanied Madame L'Espanaye to her residence with the 4,000 francs, put up in two bags. Upon the door being opened, Mademoiselle L. appeared and took from his hands one of the bags, while the old lady relieved him of the other. He then bowed and departed.

Did not see any person in the street at the time. It is a by-street very lonely. "William Bird, tailor, deposes that he was one of the party who entered the house. Is an Englishman.

Has lived in Paris two years. Was one of the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman.  Could make out several words, but can not now remember all.

Heard distinctly 'sacre' and 'mon Dieu.'

There was a sound at the moment as if of several persons struggling a scraping and scuffling sound. The shrill voice was very loud louder than the gruff one. Is sure that it was not the voice of an Englishman.

Appeared to be that of a German. Might have been a woman's voice.

Does not understand German. "Four of the above-named witnesses being recalled, deposed that the door of the chamber in which was found the body of Mademoiselle L. was locked on the inside when the party reached it. Everything was perfectly silent no groans or noises of any kind. Upon forcing the door no person was seen. The windows, both of the back and front room, were down and firmly fastened from within.

A door between the two rooms was closed but not locked. The door leading from the front room into the passage was locked, with the key on the inside. A small room in the front of the house, on the fourth story, at the head of the passage, was open, the door being ajar. This room was crowded with old beds, boxes, and so forth.

These were carefully removed and searched. There was not an inch of any portion of the house which was not carefully searched. Sweeps were sent up and down the chimneys.

The house was a four-story one, with garrets (mansardes). A trap-door on the roof was nailed down very securely did not appear to have been opened for years. The time elapsing between the hearing of the voices in contention and the breaking open of the room door was variously stated by the witnesses. Some made it as short as three minutes some as long as five.

The door was opened with difficulty. "Alfonzo Garco, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue Morgue. Is a native of Spain.

Was one of the party who entered the house. Did not proceed upstairs. Is nervous, and was apprehensive of the consequences of agitation.

Heard the voices in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman.  Could not distinguish what was said. The shrill voice was that of an Englishman is sure of this.
Does not understand the English language, but judges by the intonation. "Alfonzo Garcio, undertaker, deposes that he was among the first to ascend the stairs.

Heard the voices in question. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Distinguished several words.

The speaker appeared to be expostulating. Could not make out the words of the shrill voice. Spoke quick and unevenly. Thinks it the voice of a Russian.

Corroborates the general testimony.

Is an Italian. Never conversed with a native of Russia. "Several witness, recalled, here testified that the chimneys of all the rooms on the fourth story were too narrow to admit the passage of a human being. By 'sweeps,' were meant cylindrical sweeping-brushes, such as are employed by those who clean chimneys. These brushes were passed up and down every flue in the house.

There is no back passage by which any one could have descended while the party proceeded upstairs. The body of Mademoiselle L'Espanaye was so firmly wedged in the chimney that it could not be got down until four or five of the party united their strength. "Paul Dumas, physician, deposes that he was called to view the bodies about daybreak.

They were both then lying on the sacking of the bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found. The corpse of the young lady was much bruised and excoriated. The fact that it had been thrust up the chimney would sufficiently account for these appearances.

The throat was greatly chafed. There were several deep scratches just below the chin, together with a series of livid spots which were evidently the impression of fingers. The face was fearfully discolored, and the eyeballs protruded. The tongue had been partially bitten through. A large bruise was discovered upon the pit of the stomach, produced, apparently, by the pressure of a knee.

In the opinion of M. Dumas, Mademoiselle L'Espanaye had been throttled to death by some person or persons unknown. The corpse of the mother was horribly mutilated. All the bones of the right leg and arm were more or less shattered. The left tibia much splintered, as well as all the ribs of the left side.

Whole body dreadfully bruised and discolored. It was not possible to say how the injuries had been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a broad bar of iron a chair any large, heavy, and obtuse weapon would have produced such results, if wielded by the hands of a very powerful man. No woman could have inflicted the blows with any weapon.

The head of the deceased, when seen by witness, was entirely separated from the body, and was also greatly shattered. The throat had evidently been cut with some very sharp instrument probably with a razor. "Alexandre Etienne, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view the bodies. Corroborated the testimony, and the opinions of M. Dumas.

"Nothing further of importance was elicited, although several other persons were examined. A murder so mysterious, and so perplexing in all its particulars, was never before committed in Paris if indeed a murder has been committed at all. The police are entirely at fault an unusual occurrence in affairs of this nature.

There is not, however, the shadow of a clue apparent. "

The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest excitement still continued in the Quartier St. Roch that the premises in question had been carefully researched, and fresh examinations of witnesses instituted, but all to no purpose. A postscript, however, mentioned that Adolphe Le Bon had been arrested and imprisoned although nothing appeared to criminate him beyond the facts already detailed. Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this affair at least so I judged from his manner, for he made no comments.

It was only after the announcement that Le Bon had been imprisoned, that he asked me my opinion respecting the murders. I could merely agree with all Paris in considering them an insoluble mystery. I saw no means by which it would be possible to trace the murderer.

"We must not judge of the means," said Dupin, "by this shell of an examination. The Parisian police, so much extolled for acumen, are cunning, but no more. There is no method in their proceedings, beyond the method of the moment. They make a vast parade of measures; but, not infrequently, these are so ill-adapted to the objects proposed, as to put us in mind of Monsieur Jourdain's calling for his robe-de-chambre pour mieux entendre la musique.

The results attained by them are not infrequently surprising, but, for the most part, are brought about by simple diligence and activity. When these qualities are unavailing, their schemes fail. Vidocq, for example, was a good guesser, and a persevering man.

But, without educated thought, he erred continually by the very intensity at his investigations.

He impaired his vision by holding the object too close. He might see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual clearness, but in so doing he, necessarily, lost sight of the matter as a whole. Thus there is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is not always in a well.

In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies.

To look at a star by glances to view it in a sidelong way, by turning toward it the exterior portions of the retina (more susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the interior), is to behold the star distinctly is to have the best appreciation of its lustre a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn our vision fully upon it. A greater number of rays actually fall upon the eye in the latter case, but in the former, there is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish from the firmament by a scrutiny too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct. "As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for ourselves, before we make up an opinion respecting them.

An inquiry will afford us amusement"

[I thought this an odd term, so applied, but said nothing], "and besides, Le Bon once rendered me a service for which I am not ungrateful. We will go and see the premises with our own eyes. I know G, the Prefect of Police, and shall have no difficulty in obtaining the necessary permission. "

The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue Morgue.

This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which intervene between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was late in the afternoon when we reached it, as this quarter is at a great distance from that in which we resided. The house was readily found; for there were still many persons gazing up at the closed shutters, with an objectless curiosity, from the opposite side of the way. It was an ordinary Parisian house, with a gateway, on one side of which was a glazed watch-box, with a sliding panel in the window, indicating a loge de concierge.

Before going in we walked up the street, turned down an alley, and then, again turning, passed in the rear of the building Dupin, meanwhile, examining the whole neighborhood, as well as the house, with a minuteness of attention for which I could see no possible object. Retracing our steps we came again to the front of the dwelling, rang, and, having shown our credentials, were admitted by the agents in charge. We went upstairs into the chamber where the body of Mademoiselle L'Espanaye had been found, and where both the deceased still lay. The disorders of the room had, as usual, been suffered to exist.

I saw nothing beyond what had been stated in the "Gazette des Tribunaux. "
Dupin scrutinized everything not excepting the bodies of the victims. We then went into the other rooms, and into the yard; a gendarme accompanying us throughout. The examination occupied us until dark, when we took our departure. On our way home my companion stepped in for a moment at the office of one of the daily papers.

I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that Je les menagais: for this phrase there is no English equivalent. It was his humor, now, to decline all conversation on the subject of the murder, until about noon the next day. He then asked me, suddenly, if I had observed anything peculiar at the scene of the atrocity.

There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word "peculiar," which caused me to shudder, without knowing why. "No, nothing peculiar," I said; "nothing more, at least, than we both saw stated in the paper." "The 'Gazette'," he replied, "has not entered, I fear, into the unusual horror of the thing.
But dismiss the idle opinions of this print.

It appears to me that this mystery is considered insoluble, for the very reason which should cause it to be regarded as easy of solution I mean for the outre character of its features. The police are confounded by the seeming absence of motive not for the murder itself but for the atrocity of the murder. They are puzzled, too, by the seeming impossibility of reconciling the voices heard in contention, with the facts that no one was discovered upstairs but the assassinated Mademoiselle L'Espanaye, and that there were no means of egress without the notice of the party ascending. The wild disorder of the room; the corpse thrust, with the head downward, up the chimney; the frightful mutilation of the body of the old lady; these considerations, with those just mentioned, and others which I need not mention, have sufficed to paralyze the powers, by putting completely at fault the boasted acumen, of the government agents.

They have fallen into the gross but common error of confounding the unusual with the abstruse. But it is by these deviations from the plane of the ordinary, that reason feels its way, if at all, in its search for the true.

In investigations such as we are now pursuing, it should not be so much asked 'what has occurred?' as 'what has occurred that has never occurred before?' In fact, the facility with which I shall arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of this mystery, is in the direct ratio of its apparent insolubility in the eyes of the police. "

I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment.

"I am now awaiting," continued he, looking toward the door of our apartment "I am now awaiting a person who, although perhaps not the perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been in some measure implicated in their perpetration. Of the worst portion of the crimes committed, it is probable that he is innocent. I hope that I am right in this supposition; for upon it I build my expectation of reading the entire riddle. I look for the man here in this room every moment.

It is true that he may not arrive; but the probability is that he will. Should he come, it will be necessary to detain him. Here are pistols; and we both know how to use them when occasion demands their use." I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, or believing what I heard, while Dupin went on, very much as if in a soliloquy.

I have already spoken of his abstract manner at such times. His discourse was addressed to myself; but his voice, although by no means loud, had that intonation which is commonly employed in speaking to some one at a great distance. His eyes, vacant in expression, regarded only the wall. "That the voices heard in contention," he said, "by the party upon the stairs, were not the voices of the women themselves, was fully proved by the evidence. This relieves us of all doubt upon the question whether the old lady could have first destroyed the daughter, and afterward have committed suicide.

I speak of this point chiefly for the sake of method; for the strength of Madame L'Espanaye would have been utterly unequal to the task of thrusting her daughter's corpse up the chimney as it was found; and the nature of the wounds upon her own person entirely precludes the idea of self-destruction. Murder, then, has been committed by some third party; and the voices of this third party were those heard in contention. Let me now advert not to the whole testimony respecting these voices but to what was peculiar in that testimony. Did you observe anything peculiar about it?"

I remarked that, while all the witnesses agreed in supposing the gruff voice to be that of a Frenchman, there was much disagreement in regard to the shrill, or, as one individual termed it, the harsh voice.

"That was the evidence itself," said Dupin, "but it was not the peculiarity of the evidence. You have observed nothing distinctive. Yet there was something to be observed.

The witnesses, as you remark, agreed about the gruff voice; they were here unanimous. But in regard to the shrill voice, the peculiarity is not that they disagreed but that, while an Italian, an Englishman, a Spaniard, a Hollander, and a Frenchman attempted to describe it, each one spoke of it as that of a foreigner.

Each is sure that it was not the voice of one of his own countrymen. Each likens it not to the voice of an individual of any nation with whose language he is conversant but the converse. The Frenchman supposes it the voice of a Spaniard, and 'might have distinguished some words had he been acquainted with the Spanish.'

The Dutchman maintains it to have been that of a Frenchman; but we find it stated that 'not understanding French this witness was examined through an interpreter.'

The Englishman thinks it the voice of a German, and 'does not understand German.'

The Spaniard 'is sure' that it was that of an Englishman, but 'judges by the intonation' altogether, 'as he has no knowledge of the English.'

The Italian believes it the voice of a Russian, but 'has never conversed with a native of Russia.'

A second Frenchman differs, moreover, with the first, and is positive that the voice was that of an Italian; but, not being cognizant of that tongue, is, like the Spaniard, 'convinced by the intonation.' Now, how strangely unusual must that voice have really been, about which such testimony as this could have been elicited! in whose tones, even, denizens of the five great divisions of Europe could recognize nothing familiar!

You will say that it might have been the voice of an Asiatic of an African. Neither Asiatics nor Africans abound in Paris; but, without denying the inference, I will now merely call your attention to three points. The voice is termed by one witness 'harsh rather than shrill.'

It is represented by two others to have been 'quick and unequal.' No words no sounds resembling words were by any witness mentioned as distinguishable. "I know not," continued Dupin, "what impression I may have made, so far, upon your own understanding; but I do not hesitate to say that legitimate deductions even from this portion of the testimony the portion respecting the gruff and shrill voices are in themselves sufficient to engender a suspicion which should give direction to all further progress in the investigation of the mystery.

I said 'legitimate deductions'; but my meaning is not thus fully expressed. I designed to imply that the deductions are the sole proper ones, and that the suspicion arises inevitably from them as the single result. What the suspicion is, however, I will not say just yet.

I merely wish you to bear in mind that, with myself, it was sufficiently forcible to give a definite form a certain tendency to my inquiries in the chamber. "Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to this chamber. What shall we first seek here? The means of egress employed by the murderers. It is not too much to say that neither of us believes in preternatural events.

Madame and Mademoiselle L'Espanaye were not destroyed by spirits. The doers of the deed were material and escaped materially. Then how?  Fortunately there is but one mode of reasoning upon the point, and that mode must lead us to a definite decision. Let us examine, each by each, the possible means of egress. It is clear that the assassins were in the room where Mademoiselle L'Espanaye was found, or at least in the room adjoining, when the party ascended the stairs.

It is, then, only from these two apartments that we have to seek issues. The police have laid bare the floors, the ceiling, and the masonry of the walls, in every direction. No secret issues could have escaped their vigilance.

But, not trusting to their eyes, I examined with my own.

There were, then, no secret issues. Both doors leading from the rooms into the passage were securely locked, with the keys inside. Let us turn to the chimneys. These, although of ordinary width for some eight or ten feet above the hearths, will not admit, throughout their extent, the body of a large cat. The impossibility of egress, by means already stated, being thus absolute, we are reduced to the windows.

Through those of the front room no one could have escaped without notice from the crowd in the street. The murderers must have passed, then, through those of the back room. Now, brought to this conclusion in so unequivocal a manner as we are, it is not our part, as reasoners, to reject it on account of apparent impossibilities.

It is only left for us to prove that these apparent 'impossibilities' are, in reality, not such. "There are two windows in the chamber. One of them is unobstructed by furniture, and is wholly visible.

The lower portion of the other is hidden from view by the head of the unwieldy bedstead which is thrust close up against it. The former was found securely fastened from within. It resisted the utmost force of those who endeavored to raise it.

A large gimlet-hole had been pierced in its frame to the left, and a very stout nail was found fitted therein, nearly to the head. Upon examining the other window, a similar nail was seen similarly fitted in it; and a vigorous attempt to raise this sash failed also. The police were now entirely satisfied that egress had not been in these directions.

And, therefore, it was thought a matter of supererogation to withdraw the nails and open the windows. "My own examination was somewhat more particular, and was so for the reason I have just given because here it was, I knew, that all apparent impossibilities must be proved to be not such in reality. "I proceeded to think thus a posteriori. The murderers did escape from one of these windows. This being so, they could not have refastened the sashes from the inside, as they were found fastened; the consideration which put a stop, through its obviousness, to the scrutiny of the police in this quarter.

Yet the sashes were fastened.

They must, then, have the power of fastening themselves. There was no escape from this conclusion. I stepped to the unobstructed casement, withdrew the nail with some difficulty, and attempted to raise the sash.

It resisted all my efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed spring must, I now knew, exist; and this corroboration of my idea convinced me that my premises, at least, were correct, however mysterious still appeared the circumstances attending the nails. A careful search soon brought to light the hidden spring. I pressed it, and, satisfied with the discovery, forbore to upraise the sash. "I now replaced the nail and regarded it attentively.

A person passing out through this window might have reclosed it, and the spring would have caught but the nail could not have been replaced. The conclusion was plain, and again narrowed in the field of my investigations. The assassins must have escaped through the other window.

Supposing, then, the springs upon each sash to be the same, as was probable, there must be found a difference between the nails, or at least between the modes of their fixture. Getting upon the sacking of the bedstead, I looked over the head-board minutely at the second casement. Passing my hand down behind the board, I readily discovered and pressed the spring, which was, as I had supposed, identical in character with its neighbor. I now looked at the nail.

It was as stout as the other, and apparently fitted in the same manner driven in nearly up to the head. "You will say that I was puzzled; but, if you think so, you must have misunderstood the nature of the inductions. To use a sporting phrase, I had not been once 'at fault.'

The scent had never for an instant been lost. There was no flaw in any link of the chain.

I had traced the secret to its ultimate result and that result was the nail. It had, I say, in every respect, the appearance of its fellow in the other window; but this fact was an absolute nullity (conclusive as it might seem to be) when compared with the consideration that here, at this point, teminated the clue. '

There must be something wrong,' I said, 'about the nail.'

I touched it; and the head, with about a quarter of an inch of the shank, came off in my fingers.

The rest of the shank was in the gimlet-hole, where it had been broken off. The fracture was an old one (for its edges were incrusted with rust), and had apparently been accomplished by the blow of a hammer, which had partially embedded, in the top of the bottom sash, the head portion of the nail. I now carefully replaced this head portion in the indentation whence I had taken it, and the resemblance to a perfect nail was complete the fissure was invisible. Pressing the spring, I gently raised the sash for a few inches; the head went up with it, remaining firm in its bed.

I closed the window, and the semblance of the whole nail was again perfect. "This riddle, so far, was now unriddled.

The assassin had escaped through the window which looked upon the bed. Dropping of its own accord upon his exit (or perhaps purposely closed), it had become fastened by the spring; and it was the retention of this spring which had been mistaken by the police for that of the nail further inquiry being thus considered unnecessary. "The next question is that of the mode of descent. Upon this point I had been satisfied in my walk with you around the building.

About five feet and a half from the casement in question there runs a lightning-rod. From this rod it would have been impossible for any one to reach the window itself, to say nothing of entering it. I observed, however, that the shutters of the fourth story were of the peculiar kind called by Parisian carpenters ferrades a kind rarely employed at the present day, but frequently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bordeaux.

They are in the form of an ordinary door (a single, not a folding door), except that the lower half is latticed or worked in open trellis thus affording an excellent hold for the hands. In the present instance these shutters are fully three feet and a half broad. When we saw them from the rear of the house, they were both about half open that is to say, they stood off at right angles from the wall.

It is probable that the police, as well as myself, examined the back of the tenement; but, if so, in looking at these ferrades in the line of their breadth (as they must have done), they did not perceive this great breadth itself, or, at all events, failed to take it into due consideration. In fact, having once satisfied themselves that no egress could have been made in this quarter, they would naturally bestow here a very cursory examination. It was clear to me, however, that the shutter belonging to the window at the head of the bed would, if swung fully back to the wall, reach to within two feet of the lightning-rod.

It was also evident that, by exertion of a very unusual degree of activity and courage, an entrance into the window, from the rod, might have been thus effected. By reaching to the distance of two feet and a half (we now suppose the shutter open to its whole extent) a robber might have taken a firm grasp upon the trellis-work.
Letting go, then, his hold upon the rod, placing his feet securely against the wall, and springing boldly from it, he might have swung the shutter so as to close it, and, if we imagine the window open at the time, might even have swung himself into the room. "I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have spoken of a very unusual degree of activity as requisite to success in so hazardous and so difficult a feat. It is my design to show you, first, that the thing might possibly have been accomplished: but, secondly and chiefly, I wish to impress upon your understanding the very extraordinary the almost preternatural character of that agility which could have accomplished it.

"You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that 'to make out my case,' I should rather undervalue than insist upon a full estimation of the activity required in this matter. This may be the practise in law, but it is not the usage of reason. My ultimate object is only the truth. My immediate purpose is to lead you to place in juxtaposition, that very unusual activity of which I have just spoken, with that very peculiar shrill (or harsh) and unequal voice, about whose nationality no two persons could be found to agree, and in whose utterance no syllabification could be detected. "

At these words a vague and half-formed conception of the meaning of Dupin flitted over my mind.

I seemed to be upon the verge of comprehension, without power to comprehend as men, at times, find themselves upon the brink of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember. My friend went on with his discourse. "You will see," he said, "that I have shifted the question from the mode of egress to that of ingress. It was my design to convey the idea that both were effected in the same manner, at the same point.

Let us now revert to the interior of the room. Let us survey the appearances here. The drawers of the bureau, it is said, had been rifled, although many articles of apparel still remained within them. The conclusion here is absurd. It is a mere guess a very silly one and no more.

How are we to know that the articles found in the drawers were not all these drawers had originally contained?

Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter lived an exceedingly retired life saw no company seldom went out had little use for numerous changes of habiliment. Those found were at least of as good quality as any likely to be possessed by these ladies. If a thief had taken any, why did he not take the best why did he not take all? In a word, why did he abandon four thousand francs in gold to encumber himself with a bundle of linen? The gold was abandoned.

Nearly the whole sum mentioned by Monsieur Mignaud, the banker, was discovered, in bags, upon the floor. I wish you, therefore, to discard from your thoughts the blundering idea of motive, engendered in the brains of the police by that portion of the evidence which speaks of money delivered at the door of the house. Coincidences ten times as remarkable as this (the delivery of the money, and murder committed within three days upon the party receiving it), happen to all of us every hour of our lives, without attracting even momentary notice. Coincidences, in general, are great stumbling-blocks in the way of that class of thinkers who have been educated to know nothing of the theory of probabilities that theory to which the most glorious objects of human research are indebted for the most glorious of illustration.

In the present instance, had the gold been gone, the fact of its delivery three days before would have formed something more than a coincidence. It would have been corroborative of this idea of motive. But, under the real circumstances of the case, if we are to suppose gold the motive of this outrage, we must also imagine the perpetrator so vacillating an idiot as to have abandoned his gold and his motive together.

"Keeping now steadily in mind the points to which I have drawn your attention that peculiar voice, that unusual agility, and that startling absence of motive in a murder so singularly atrocious as this let us glance at the butchery itself. Here is a woman strangled to death by manual strength, and thrust up a chimney head downward. Ordinary assassins employ no such mode of murder as this. Least of all do they thus dispose of the murdered.

In the manner of thrusting the corpse up the chimney, you will admit that there was something excessively outre something altogether irreconcilable with our common notions of human action, even when we suppose the actors the most depraved of men. Think, too, how great must have been that strength which could have thrust the body up such an aperture so forcibly that the united vigor of several persons was found barely sufficient to drag it down! "Turn, now, to other indications of the employment of a vigor most marvelous. On the hearth were thick tresses very thick tresses of gray human hair.

These had been torn out by the roots. You are aware of the great force necessary in tearing thus from the head even twenty or thirty hairs together. You saw the locks in question as well as myself.

Their roots (a hideous sight!) were clotted with fragments of the flesh of the scalp sure token of the prodigious power which had been exerted in uprooting perhaps half a million of hairs at a time. The throat of the old lady was not merely cut, but the head absolutely severed from the body: the instrument was a mere razor. I wish you also to look at the brutal ferocity of these deeds. Of the bruises upon the body of Madame L'Espanaye I do not speak.

Monsieur Dumas, and his worthy coadjutor Monsieur Etienne, have pronounced that they were inflicted by some obtuse instrument; and so far these gentlemen are very correct. The obtuse instrument was clearly the stone pavement in the yard, upon which the victim had fallen from the window which looked in upon the bed. This idea, however simple it may now seem, escaped the police for the same reason that the breadth of the shutters escaped them because, by the affair of the nails, their perceptions had been hermetically sealed against the possibility of the windows having ever been opened at all.

"If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly reflected upon the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so far as to combine the ideas of an agility astounding, a strength superhuman, a ferocity brutal, a butchery without motive, a grotesquerie in horror absolutely alien from humanity, and a voice foreign in tone to the ears of men of many nations, and devoid of all distinct or intelligible syllabification. What result, then, has ensued? What impression have I made upon your fancy? " I felt a creeping of the flesh as Dupin asked me the question.

"A madman," I said, "has done this deed some raving maniac, escaped from a neighboring Maison de Santé."  "In some respects," he replied, "your idea is not irrelevant. But the voices of madmen, even in their wildest paroxysms, are never found to tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs.

Madmen are of some nation, and their language, however incoherent in its words, has always the coherence of syllabification. Besides, the hair of a madman is not such as I now hold in my hand. I disentangled this little tuft from the rigidly clutched fingers of Madame L'Espanaye.

Tell me what you can make of it."

"Dupin!"
I said, completely unnerved; "this hair is most unusual this is no human hair. "

"I have not asserted that it is," said he; "but, before we decide this point, I wish you to glance at the little sketch I have here traced upon this paper.

It is a facsimile drawing of what has been described in one portion of the testimony as 'dark bruises and deep indentations of finger nails' upon the throat of Mademoiselle L'Espanaye, and in another (by Messrs. Dumas and Etienne) as a 'series of livid spots, evidently the impression of fingers.' "You will perceive," continued my friend, spreading out the paper upon the table before us, "that this drawing gives the idea of a firm and fixed hold. There is no slipping apparent.

Each finger has retained possibly until the death of the victim the fearful grasp by which it originally embedded itself. Attempt, now, to place all your fingers, at the same time, in the respective impressions as you see them. "

I made the attempt in vain.

"We are possibly not giving this matter a fair trial," he said. "The paper is spread out upon a plane surface; but the human throat is cylindrical. Here is a billet of wood, the circumference of which is about that of the throat. Wrap the drawing around it, and try the experiment again.

" I did so; but the difficulty was even more obvious than before. "This," I said, "is the mark of no human hand. "

"Read now," replied Dupin, "this passage from Cuvier. "
It was a minute anatomical and generally descriptive account of the large fulvous Orang-Outang of the East Indian Islands.

The gigantic stature, the prodigious strength and activity, the wild ferocity, and the imitative propensities of these mammalia are sufficiently well known to all. I understood the full horrors of the murder at once. "The description of the digits," said I, as I made an end of the reading, "is in exact accordance with his drawing.

I see that no animal but an Orang-Outang, of the species here mentioned, could have impressed the indentations as you have traced them. This tuft of tawny hair, too, is identical in character with that of the beast of Cuvier. But I cannot possibly comprehend the particulars of this frightful mystery.

Besides, there were two voices heard in contention, and one of them was unquestionably the voice of a Frenchman." "True; and you will remember an expression attributed almost unanimously, by the evidence, to this voice the expression, 'mon Dieu!' This, under the circumstances, has been justly characterized by one of the witnesses (Montani, the confectioner) as an expression of remonstrance or expostulation. Upon these two words, therefore, I have mainly built my hopes of a full solution of the riddle.

A Frenchman was cognizant of the murder. It is possible indeed it is far more than probable that he was innocent of all participation in the bloody transactions which took place. The Orang-Outang may have escaped from him.

He may have traced it to the chamber; but, under the agitating circumstances which ensued, he could never have recaptured it. It is still at large. I will not pursue these guesses for I have no right to call them more since the shades of reflection upon which they are based are scarcely of sufficient depth to be appreciable by my own intellect, and since I could not pretend to make them intelligible to the understanding of another.

We will call them guesses, then, and speak of them as such. If the Frenchman in question is indeed, as I suppose, innocent of this atrocity, this advertisement, which I left last night, upon our return home, at the office of 'Le Monde' (a paper devoted to the shipping interest, and much sought by sailors), will bring him to our residence. "

He handed me a paper, and I read thus:   "CAUGHT In the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morning of the  inst.

(the morning of the murder), a very large, tawny Orang-Outang of the Bornese species. The owner (who is ascertained to be a sailor, belonging to a Maltese vessel) may have the animal again, upon identifying it satisfactorily, and paying a few charges arising from its capture and keeping.

Call at No.  Rue , Faubourg St. Germain au troisieme." "How was it possible," I asked, "that you should know the man to be a sailor, and belonging to a Maltese vessel?"
"I do not know it," said Dupin. "I am not sure of it. Here, however, is a small piece of ribbon, which from its form, and from its greasy appearance, has evidently been used in tying the hair in one of those long queues of which sailors are so fond.

Moreover, this knot is one which few besides sailors can tie, and it is peculiar to the Maltese. I picked the ribbon up at the foot of the lightning-rod. It could not have belonged to either of the deceased. Now if, after all, I am wrong in my induction from this ribbon, that the Frenchman was a sailor belonging to a Maltese vessel, still I can have done no harm in saying what I did in the advertisement. If I am in error, he will merely suppose that I have been misled by some circumstance into which he will not take the trouble to inquire.

But if I am right, a great point is gained.

Cognizant although innocent of the murder, the Frenchman will naturally hesitate about replying to the advertisement about demanding the Orang-Outang. He will reason thus: 'I am innocent; I am poor; my Orang-Outang is of great value to one in my circumstances a fortune of itself why should I lose it through idle apprehensions of danger? Here it is, within my grasp. It was found in the Bois de Boulogne at a vast distance from the scene of that butchery.

How can it ever be suspected that a brute beast should have done the deed? The police are at fault they have failed to procure the slightest clue. Should they even trace the animal, it would be impossible to prove me cognizant of the murder, or to implicate me in guilt on account of that cognizance. Above all, I am known. The advertiser designates me as the possessor of the beast.

I am not sure to what limit his knowledge may extend. Should I avoid claiming a property of so great value, which it is known that I possess, it will render the animal at least liable to suspicion. It is not my policy to attract attention either to myself or to the beast. I will answer the advertisement, get the Orang-Outang, and keep it close until this matter has blown over. " At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs.

"Be ready," said Dupin, "with your pistols, but neither use them nor show them until at a signal from myself." The front door of the house had been left open, and the visitor had entered, without ringing, and advanced several steps upon the staircase. Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. Presently we heard him descending. Dupin was moving quickly to the door, when we again heard him coming up.

He did not turn back a second time, but stepped up with decision, and rapped at the door of our chamber. "Come in," said Dupin, in a cheerful and hearty tone. A man entered. He was a sailor, evidently a tall, stout, and muscular-looking person, with a certain dare-devil expression of countenance, not altogether unprepossessing.

His face, greatly sunburned, was more than half-hidden by whisker and mustachio. He had with him a huge oaken cudgel, but appeared to be otherwise unarmed. He bowed awkwardly, and bade us "good-evening," in French accents, which, although somewhat Neufchatelish, were still sufficiently indicative of a Parisian origin.

"Sit down, my friend," said Dupin. "I suppose you have called about the Orang-Outang. Upon my word, I almost envy you the possession of him; a remarkably fine, and no doubt a very valuable animal. How old do you suppose him to be?"
The sailor drew a long breath, with the air of a man relieved of some intolerable burden, and then replied, in an assured tone:  "I have no way of telling but he can't be more than four or five years old.

Have you got him here?"
"Oh, no; we had no conveniences for keeping him here. He is at a livery stable in the Rue Dubourg, just by. You can get him in the morning. Of course you are prepared to identify the property?"

"To be sure I am, sir."
"I shall be sorry to part with him," said Dupin. "I don't mean that you should be at all this trouble for nothing, sir," said the man. "Couldn't expect it.

Am very willing to pay a reward for the finding of the animal that is to say, anything in reason. "

"Well," replied my friend, "that is all very fair, to be sure. Let me think!
what should I have? Oh!
I will tell you.

My reward shall be this. You shall give me all the information in your power about these murders in the Rue Morgue." Dupin said the last words in a very low tone, and very quietly.

Just as quietly, too, he walked toward the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.

He then drew a pistol from his bosom and placed it, without the least flurry, upon the table. The sailor's face flushed up as if he were struggling with suffocation. He started to his feet and grasped his cudgel; but the next moment he fell back into his seat, trembling violently, and with the countenance of death itself. He spoke not a word.

I pitied him from the bottom of my heart. "My friend," said Dupin, in a kind tone, "you are alarming yourself unnecessarily you are, indeed. We mean you no harm whatever. I pledge you the honor of a gentleman, and of a Frenchman, that we intend you no injury.

I perfectly well know that you are innocent of the atrocities in the Rue Morgue. It will not do, however, to deny that you are in some measure implicated in them. From what I have already said, you must know that I have had means of information about this matter means of which you could never have dreamed. Now, the thing stands thus.

You have done nothing which you could have avoided nothing, certainly, which renders you culpable. You were not even guilty of robbery, when you might have robbed with impunity. You have nothing to conceal.

You have no reason for concealment. On the other hand, you are bound by every principle of honor to confess all you know. An innocent man is now imprisoned, charged with that crime of which you can point out the perpetrator.

"

The sailor had recovered his presence of mind, in a great measure, while Dupin uttered these words; but his original boldness of bearing was all gone. "So help me God!" said he, after a brief pause, "I will tell you all I know about this affair; but I do not expect you to believe one-half I say I would be a fool indeed if I did. Still, I am innocent, and I will make a clean breast if I die for it. "

What he stated was, in substance, this.

He had lately made a voyage to the Indian Archipelago. A party, of which he formed one, landed at Borneo, and passed into the interior on an excursion of pleasure. Himself and a companion had captured the Orang-Outang.

This companion dying, the animal fell into his own exclusive possession. After a great trouble, occasioned by the intractable ferocity of his captive during the home voyage, he at length succeeded in lodging it safely at his own residence in Paris, where, not to attract toward himself the unpleasant curiosity of his neighbors, he kept it carefully secluded, until such time as it should recover from a wound in the foot, received from a splinter on board ship. His ultimate design was to sell it. Returning home from some sailor's frolic on the night, or rather in the morning, of the murder, he found the beast occupying his own bedroom, into which it had broken from a closet adjoining, where it had been, as was thought, securely confined.

Razor in hand, and fully lathered, it was sitting before a looking-glass, attempting the operation of shaving, in which it had no doubt previously watched its master through the keyhole of the closet. Terrified at the sight of so dangerous a weapon in the possession of an animal so ferocious, and so well able to use it, the man, for some moments, was at a loss what to do. He had been accustomed, however, to quiet the creature, even in its fiercest moods, by the use of a whip, and to this he now resorted. Upon sight of it, the Orang-Outang sprang at once through the door of the chamber, down the stairs, and thence, through a window, unfortunately open, into the street.

The Frenchman followed in despair; the ape, razor still in hand, occasionally stopping to look back and gesticulate at his pursuer, until the latter had nearly come up with it. It then again made off. In this manner the chase continued for a long time. The streets were profoundly quiet, as it was nearly three o'clock in the morning. In passing down an alley in the rear of the Rue Morgue, the fugitive's attention was arrested by a light gleaming from the open window of Madame L'Espanaye's chamber, in the fourth story of her house.

Rushing to the building, it perceived the lightning-rod, clambered up with inconceivable agility, grasped the shutter, which was thrown fully back against the wall, and, by its means, swung itself directly upon the headboard of the bed. The whole feat did not occupy a minute. The shutter was kicked open again by the Orang-Outang as it entered the room. The sailor, in the meantime, was both rejoiced and perplexed.

He had strong hopes of now recapturing the brute, as it could scarcely escape from the trap into which it had ventured, except by the rod, where it might be intercepted as it came down. On the other hand, there was much cause for anxiety as to what it might do in the house. This latter reflection urged the man still to follow the fugitive. A lightning-rod is ascended without difficulty, especially by a sailor; but, when he had arrived as high as the window, which lay far to his left, his career was stopped; the most that he could accomplish was to reach over so as to obtain a glimpse of the interior of the room.

At this glimpse he nearly fell from his hold through excess of horror. Now it was that those hideous shrieks arose upon the night, which had startled from slumber the inmates of the Rue Morgue. Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter, habited in their night clothes, had apparently been occupied in arranging some papers in the iron chest already mentioned, which had been wheeled into the middle of the room. It was open, and its contents lay beside it on the floor. The victims must have been sitting with their backs toward the window; and, from the time elapsing between the ingress of the beast and the screams, it seems probable that it was not immediately perceived.

The flapping to of the shutter would naturally have been attributed to the wind. As the sailor looked in, the gigantic animal had seized Madame L'Espanaye by the hair (which was loose, as she had been combing it), and was flourishing the razor about her face, in imitation of the motions of a barber. The daughter lay prostrate and motionless; she had swooned. The screams and struggles of the old lady (during which the hair was torn from her head) had the effect of changing the probably pacific purposes of the Orang-Outang into those of wrath.

With one determined sweep of its muscular arm it nearly severed her head from her body. The sight of blood inflamed its anger into frenzy. Gnashing its teeth, and flashing fire from its eyes, it flew upon the body of the girl and imbedded its fearful talons in her throat, retaining its grasp until she expired. Its wandering and wild glances fell at this moment upon the head of the bed, over which the face of its master, rigid with horror, was just discernible. The fury of the beast, who no doubt bore still in mind the dreaded whip, was instantly converted into fear.

Conscious of having deserved punishment, it seemed desirous of concealing its bloody deeds, and skipped about the chamber in an agony of nervous agitation; throwing down and breaking the furniture as it moved, and dragging the bed from the bedstead. In conclusion, it seized first the corpse of the daughter, and thrust it up the chimney, as it was found; then that of the old lady, which it immediately hurled through the window headlong. As the ape approached the casement with its mutilated burden, the sailor shrank aghast to the rod, and, rather gliding than clambering down it, hurried at once home dreading the consequences of the butchery, and gladly abandoning, in his terror, all solicitude about the fate of the Orang-Outang. The words heard by the party upon the staircase were the Frenchman's exclamations of horror and affright, commingled with the fiendish jabberings of the brute.

I have scarcely anything to add. The Orang-Outang must have escaped from the chamber, by the rod, just before the breaking of the door. It must have closed the window as it passed through it.

It was subsequently caught by the owner himself, who obtained for it a very large sum at the Jardin des Plantes. Le Bon was instantly released, upon our narration of the circumstances (with some comments from Dupin) at the bureau of the Prefect of Police. This functionary, however well disposed to my friend, could not altogether conceal his chagrin at the turn which affairs had taken, and was fain to indulge in a sarcasm or two about the propriety of every person minding his own business.

"Let him talk," said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to reply. "Let him discourse; it will ease his conscience. I am satisfied with having defeated him in his own castle. Nevertheless, that he failed in the solution of this mystery, is by no means that matter for wonder which he supposes it; for, in truth, our friend the Prefect is somewhat too cunning to be profound.

In his wisdom is no stamen.

It is all head and no body, like the pictures of the Goddess Laverna or, at best, all head and shoulders, like a codfish. But he is a good creature after all.

I like him especially for one master stroke of cant, by which he has attained his reputation for ingenuity; I mean the way he has 'de nier ce qui est, et d'expliquer ce qui n'est pas.'"*   * Rousseau Nouvelle Heloise. THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET  BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

This is quite properly designated, in the sub-title, as a sequel to the story that precedes it, though, as M. Dupin himself points out, the case presented is a far more intricate one. Explanations as to the origin of the story are omitted from this note, as they already appear with sufficient completeness in the foot-notes which accompany the opening of the story. THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET[1]  A SEQUEL TO "THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE"

By EDGAR ALLAN POE

[1] Upon the original publication of "Marie Roget," the footnotes now appended were considered unnecessary; but the lapse of several years since the tragedy upon which the tale is based, renders it expedient to give them, and also to say a few words in explanation of the general design. A young girl, Mary Cecilia Rogers, was murdered in the vicinity of New York; and although her death occasioned an intense and long-enduring excitement, the mystery attending it had remained unsolved at the period when the present paper was written and published (November, 1842). Herein, under pretense of relating the fate of a Parisian grisette, the author has followed, in minute detail, the essential, while merely paralleling the inessential facts of the real murder of Mary Rogers.

Thus all argument founded upon the fiction is applicable to the truth: and the investigation of the truth was the object. The "Mystery of Marie Roget" was composed at a distance from the scene of the atrocity, and with no other means of investigation than the newspapers afforded. Thus much escaped the writer of which he could have availed himself had he been upon the spot and visited the localities. It may not be improper to record, nevertheless, that the confessions of two persons (one of them the Madame Deluc of the narrative), made at different periods, long subsequent to the publication, confirmed, in full, not only the general conclusion, but absolutely all the chief hypothetical details by which that conclusion was attained. Es giebt eine Reihe idealischer Begebenheiten, die der Wirklichkeit parallel lauft.

Selten fallen sie zusammen. Menschen und zufalle modificiren gewohnlich die idealische

Begebenheit, so dass sie unvollkommen erscheint, und ihre Folgen gleichfalls unvollkommen sind. So bei der Reformation; statt des Protestantismus kam das Lutherthum hervor.

There are ideal series of events which run parallel with the real ones. They rarely coincide. Men and circumstances generally modify the ideal train of events, so that it seems imperfect, and its consequences are equally imperfect. Thus with the Reformation; instead of Protestantism came Lutheranism.

Novalis.[2]

"Moral Ansichten."

[2] The nom de plume of Von Hardenburg.

There are few persons, even among the calmest thinkers who have not occasionally been startled into a vague yet thrilling half-credence in the supernatural, by coincidences of so seemingly marvelous a character that, as mere coincidences, the intellect has been unable to receive them. Such sentiments for the half-credences of which I speak have never the full force of thought such sentiments are seldom thoroughly stifled unless by reference to the doctrine of chance, or, as it is technically termed, the Calculus of Probabilities. Now, this Calculus is, in its essence, purely mathematical; and thus we have the anomaly of the most rigidly exact in science applied to the shadow and spirituality of the most intangible in speculation. The extraordinary details which I am now called upon to make public, will be found to form, as regards sequence of time, the primary branch of a series of scarcely intelligible coincidences, whose secondary or concluding branch will be recognized by all readers in the late murder of Marie Cecilia Rogers, at New York.

When, in an article entitled "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," I endeavored, about a year ago, to depict some very remarkable features in the mental character of my friend, the Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin, it did not occur to me that I should ever resume the subject. This depicting of character constituted my design; and this design was thoroughly fulfilled in the wild train of circumstances brought to instance Dupin's idiosyncrasy. I might have adduced other examples, but I should have proved no more.
Late events, however, in their surprising development, have startled me into some further details, which will carry with them the air of extorted confession. Hearing what I have lately heard, it would be indeed strange should I remain silent in regard to what I both heard and saw so long ago.

Upon the winding up of the tragedy involved in the deaths of Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter, the Chevalier dismissed the affair at once from his attention, and relapsed into his old habits of moody reverie. Prone, at all times, to abstraction, I readily fell in with his humor; and continuing to occupy our chambers in the Faubourg Saint Germain, we gave the Future to the winds, and slumbered tranquilly in the Present, weaving the dull world around us into dreams. But these dreams were not altogether uninterrupted.

It may readily be supposed that the part played by my friend in the drama at the Rue Morgue had not failed of its impression upon the fancies of the Parisian police. With its emissaries, the name of Dupin had grown into a household word. The simple character of those inductions by which he had disentangled the mystery never having been explained even to the Prefect, or to any other individual than myself, of course it is not surprising that the affair was regarded as little less than miraculous, or that the Chevalier's analytical abilities acquired for him the credit of intuition. His frankness would have led him to disabuse every inquirer of such prejudice; but his indolent humor forbade all further agitation of a topic whose interest to himself had long ceased. It thus happened that he found himself the cynosure of the political eyes; and the cases were not few in which attempt was made to engage his services at the Prefecture.

One of the most remarkable instances was that of the murder of a young girl named Marie Rogêt. This event occurred about two years after the atrocity in the Rue Morgue. Marie, whose Christian and family name will at once arrest attention from their resemblance to those of the unfortunate "cigar girl," was the only daughter of the widow Estelle Rogêt. The father had died during the child's infancy, and from the period of his death, until within eighteen months before the assassination which forms the subject of our narrative, the mother and daughter had dwelt together in the Rue Pavée Saint Andrée[3]; Madame there keeping a pension, assisted by Marie.  Affairs went on thus until the latter had attained her twenty-second year, when her great beauty attracted the notice of a perfumer, who occupied one of the shops in the basement of the Palais Royal, and whose custom lay chiefly among the desperate adventurers infesting that neighborhood.

Monsieur Le Blanc[4] was not unaware of the advantages to be derived from the attendance of the fair Marie in his perfumery; and his liberal proposals were accepted eagerly by the girl, although with somewhat more of hesitation by Madame. [3] Nassau Street.

[4] Anderson.

The anticipations of the shopkeeper were realized, and his rooms soon became notorious through the charms of sprightly grisette. She had been in his employ about a year, when her admirers were thrown into confusion by her sudden disappearance from the shop. Monsieur Le Blanc was unable to account for her absence, and Madame Rogêt was distracted with anxiety and terror. The public papers immediately took up the theme, and the police were upon the point of making serious investigations when, one fine morning after the lapse of a week, Marie in good health, but with a somewhat saddened air, made her reappearance at her usual counter in the perfumery.

All inquiry, except that of a private character, was, of course, immediately hushed. Monsieur Le Blanc professed total ignorance, as before. Marie, with Madame, replied to all questions, that the last week had been spent at the house of a relation in the country. Thus the affair died away, and was generally forgotten; for the girl, ostensibly to relieve herself from the impertinence of curiosity, soon bade a final adieu to the perfumer, and sought the shelter of her mother's residence in the Rue Pavée Saint Andrée. It was about five months after this return home that her friends were alarmed by her sudden disappearance for the second time.

Three days elapsed, and nothing was heard of her. On the fourth her corpse was found floating in the Seine,[5] near the shore which is opposite the Quartier of the Rue Saint Andrée, and at a point not very far distant from the secluded neighborhood of the Barrière du Roule.[6] [5] The Hudson.

[6] Weehawken.

The atrocity of this murder (for it was at once evident that murder had been committed), the youth and beauty of the victim and, above all, her previous notoriety, conspired to produce intense excitement in the minds of the sensitive Parisians. I can call to mind no similar occurrence producing so general and so intense an effect. For several weeks, in the discussion of this one absorbing theme, even the momentous political topics of the day were forgotten. The Prefect made unusual exertions; and the powers of the whole Parisian police, were, of course, tasked to the utmost extent.

"Upon the first discovery of the corpse, it was not supposed that the murderer would be able to elude, for more than a very brief period, the inquisition which was immediately set on foot. It was not until the expiration of a week that it was deemed necessary to offer a reward; and even then this reward was limited to a thousand francs. In the meantime the investigation proceeded with vigor, if not always with judgment, and numerous individuals were examined to no purpose; while, owing to the continual absence of all clue to the mystery, the popular excitement greatly increased.

At the end of the tenth day it was thought advisable to double the sum originally proposed; and, at length, the second week having elapsed without leading to any discoveries, and the prejudice which always exists in Paris against the police having given vent to itself in several serious emeutes, the Prefect took it upon himself to offer the sum of twenty-thousand francs "for the conviction of the assassin," or, if more than one should prove to have been implicated, "for the conviction of any one of the assassins." In the proclamation setting forth this reward, a full pardon was promised to any accomplice who should come forward in evidence against his fellow; and to the whole was appended, wherever it appeared, the private placard of a committee of citizens, offering ten thousand francs in addition to the amount proposed by the Prefecture. The entire reward thus stood at no less than thirty thousand francs, which will be regarded as an extraordinary sum when we consider the humble condition of the girl, and the great frequency, in large cities, of such atrocities as the one described.

No one doubted now that the mystery of this murder would be immediately brought to light. But although, in one or two instances, arrests were made which promised elucidation, yet nothing was elicited which could implicate the parties suspected; and they were discharged forthwith.

Strange as it may appear, the third week from the discovery of the body had passed, and passed without any light being thrown upon the subject, before even a rumor of the events which had so agitated the public mind reached the ears of Dupin and myself. Engaged in researches which had absorbed our whole attention, it had been nearly a month since either of us had gone abroad, or received a visitor, or more than glanced at the leading political articles in one of the daily papers. The first intelligence of the murder was brought us by G, in person.

He called upon us early in the afternoon of the thirteenth of July, 18 , and remained with us until late in the night. He had been piqued by the failure of all his endeavors to ferret out the assassins. His reputation so he said with a peculiarly Parisian air was at stake. Even his honor was concerned. The eyes of the public were upon him; and there was really no sacrifice which he would not be willing to make for the development of the mystery.

He concluded a somewhat droll speech with a compliment upon what he was pleased to term the tact of Dupin, and made him a direct and certainly a liberal proposition, the precise nature of which I do not feel myself at liberty to disclose, but which has no bearing upon the proper subject of my narrative. The compliment my friend rebutted as best he could, but the proposition he accepted at once, although its advantages were altogether provisional. This point being settled, the Prefect broke forth at once, into explanations of his own views, interspersing them with long comments upon the evidence; of which latter we were not yet in possession. He discoursed much, and, beyond doubt, learnedly; while I hazarded an occasional suggestion as the night wore drowsily away.

Dupin, sitting steadily in his accustomed armchair, was the embodiment of respectful attention. He wore spectacles during the whole interview; and an occasional glance beneath their green glasses sufficed to convince me that he slept not the less soundly, because silently, throughout the seven or eight leaden-footed hours which immediately preceded the departure of the Prefect. In the morning I procured, at the Prefecture, a full report of all the evidence elicited, and, at the various newspaper offices, a copy of every paper in which, from first to last, had been published any decisive information in regard to this sad affair. Freed from all that was positively disproved, this mass of information stood thus:  Marie Rogêt left the residence of her mother, in the Rue Pavée St. Andrée, about nine o'clock in the morning of day, June the twenty-second, 18 .

In going out, she gave notice to a Monsieur Jacques St. Eustache,[7] and to him only, of her intention to spend the day with an aunt, who resided in the Rue des Drômes. The Rue des Drômes is a short and narrow but populous thoroughfare, not far from the banks of the river, and at a distance of some two miles, in the most direct course possible, from the pension of Madame Rogêt. St. Eustache was the accepted suitor of Marie, and lodged, as well as took his meals, at the pension.

He was to have gone for his betrothed at dusk, and to have escorted her home. In the afternoon, however, it came on to rain heavily; and, supposing that she would remain all night at her aunt's (as she had done under similar circumstances before), he did not think it necessary to keep his promise. As night drew on, Madame Rogêt (who was an infirm old lady, seventy years of age) was heard to express a fear "that she should never see Marie again"; but this observation attracted little attention at the time. [7] Payne.

On Monday it was ascertained that the girl had not been to the Rue des Drômes; and when the day elapsed without tidings of her, a tardy search was instituted at several points in the city and its environs. It was not, however, until the fourth day from the period of her disappearance that anything satisfactory was ascertained respecting her. On this day (Wednesday, the twenty-fifth of June) a Monsieur Beauvais,[8] who, with a friend, had been making inquiries for Marie near the Barrière du Roule, on the shore of the Seine which is opposite the Rue Pavée St. Andrée, was informed that a corpse had just been towed ashore by some fishermen, who had found it floating in the river. Upon seeing the body, Beauvais, after some hesitation, identified it as that of the perfumery girl.

His friend recognized it more promptly. [8] Crommelin.

The face was suffused with dark blood, some of which issued from the mouth. No foam was seen, as in the case of the merely drowned. There was no discoloration in the cellular tissue.

About the throat were bruises and impressions of fingers. The arms were bent over on the chest, and were rigid. The right hand was clenched; the left partially open.

On the left wrist were two circular excoriations, apparently the effect of ropes, or of a rope in more than one volution.

A part of the right wrist, also, was much chafed, as well as the back throughout its extent, but more especially at the shoulder-blades. In bringing the body to the shore the fishermen had attached to it a rope, but none of the excoriations had been effected by this. The flesh of the neck was much swollen.

There were no cuts apparent, or bruises which appeared the effect of blows. A piece of lace was found tied so tightly around the neck as to be hidden from sight; it was completely buried in the flesh, and was fastened by a knot which lay just under the left ear. This alone would have sufficed to produce death. The medical testimony spoke confidently of the virtuous character of the deceased.

She had been subjected, it is said, to brutal violence. The corpse was in such condition when found that there could have been no difficulty in its recognition by friends. The dress was much torn and otherwise disordered. In the outer garment, a slip, about a foot wide, had been torn upward from the bottom hem to the waist, but not torn off.

It was wound three times around the waist, and secured by a sort of hitch in the back. The dress immediately beneath the frock was of fine muslin; and from this a slip eighteen inches wide had been torn entirely out torn very evenly and with great care. It was found around her neck, fitting loosely, and secured with a hard knot. Over this muslin slip and the slip of lace the strings of a bonnet were attached, the bonnet being appended. The knot by which the strings of the bonnet were fastened was not a lady's, but a slip or sailor's knot.

After the recognition of the corpse, it was not, as usual, taken to the Morgue (this formality being superfluous), but hastily interred not far from the spot at which it was brought ashore. Through the exertions of Beauvais, the matter was industriously hushed up, as far as possible; and several days had elapsed before any public emotion resulted. A weekly paper,[9] however, at length took up the theme; the corpse was disinterred, and a reexamination instituted; but nothing was elicited beyond what has been already noted. The clothes, however, were now submitted to the mother and friends of the deceased, and fully identified as those worn by the girl upon leaving home.

[9] The New York "Mercury.

" Meantime, the excitement increased hourly. Several individuals were arrested and discharged. St. Eustache fell especially under suspicion; and he failed, at first, to give an intelligible account of his whereabouts during the Sunday on which Marie left home.

Subsequently, however, he submitted to Monsieur G, affidavits, accounting satisfactorily for every hour of the day in question. As time passed no discovery ensued, a thousand contradictory rumors were circulated, and journalists busied themselves in suggestions. Among these, the one which attracted the most notice was the idea that Marie Rogêt still lived that the corpse found in the Seine was that of some other unfortunate. It will be proper that I submit to the reader some passages which embody the suggestion alluded to.

These passages are literal translations from "L'Etoile,"[10] a paper conducted, in general, with much ability. [10] The New York "Brother Jonathan," edited by H. Hastings Weld, Esq.   "Mademoiselle Rogêt left her mother's house on Sunday morning, June the twenty-second, 18 , with the ostensible purpose of going to see her aunt, or some other connection, in the Rue des Drômes. From that hour nobody is proved to have seen her. There is no trace or tidings of her at all....

There has no person, whatever, come forward, so far, who saw her at all on that day, after she left her mother's door.... Now, though we have no evidence that Marie Rogêt was in the land of the living after nine o'clock on Sunday, June the twenty-second, we have proof that, up to that hour, she was alive. On Wednesday noon, at twelve, a female body was discovered afloat on the shore of the Barrière du Roule. This was, even if we presume that Marie Rogêt was thrown into the river within three hours after she left her mother's house, only three days from the time she left her home three days to an hour. But it is folly to suppose that the murder, if murder was committed on her body, could have been consummated soon enough to have enabled her murderers to throw the body into the river before midnight.

Those who are guilty of such horrid crimes choose darkness rather than light.... Thus we see that if the body found in the river was that of Marie Rogêt, it could only have been in the water two and a half days, or three at the outside. All experience has shown that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown into the water immediately after death by violence, require from six to ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to bring them to the top of the water. Even where a cannon is fired over a corpse, and it rises before at least five or six days' immersion, it sinks again, if left alone.

Now, we ask, what was there in this case to cause a departure from the ordinary course of nature? ... If the body had been kept in its mangled state on shore until Tuesday night, some trace would be found on shore of the murderers. It is a doubtful point, also, whether the body would be so soon afloat, even were it thrown in after having been dead two days. And, furthermore, it is exceedingly improbable that any villains who had committed such a murder as is here supposed, would have thrown the body in without weight to sink it, when such a precaution could have so easily been taken. "

The editor here proceeds to argue that the body must have been in the water "not three days merely, but, at least, five times three days," because it was so far decomposed that Beauvais had great difficulty in recognizing it.

This latter point, however, was fully disproved. I continue the translation:   "What, then, are the facts on which M. Beauvais says that he has no doubt the body was that of Marie Rogêt?
He ripped up the gown sleeve, and says he found marks which satisfied him of the identity. The public generally supposed those marks to have consisted of some description of scars. He rubbed the arm and found hair upon it something as indefinite, we think, as can readily be imagined as little conclusive as finding an arm in the sleeve.

M. Beauvais did not return that night, but sent word to Madame Rogêt, at seven o'clock, on Wednesday evening, that an investigation was still in progress respecting her daughter. If we allow that Madame Rogêt, from her age and grief, could not go over (which is allowing a great deal), there certainly must have been some one who would have thought it worth while to go over and attend the investigation, if they thought the body was that of Marie. Nobody went over.

There was nothing said or heard about the matter in the Rue Pavée St. Andrée, that reached even the occupants of the same building. M. St. Eustache, the lover and intended husband of Marie, who boarded in her mother's house, deposes that he did not hear of the discovery of the body of his intended until the next morning, when M. Beauvais came into his chamber and told him of it. For an item of news like this, it strikes us it was very coolly received. "

In this way the journal endeavored to create the impression of an apathy on the part of the relatives of Marie, inconsistent with the supposition that these relatives believed the corpse to be hers.

Its insinuations amount to this: that Marie, with the connivance of her friends, had absented herself from the city for reasons involving a charge against her chastity; and that these friends upon the discovery of a corpse in the Seine, somewhat resembling that of the girl, had availed themselves of the opportunity to impress the public with the belief of her death. But "L'Etoile" was again overhasty.

It was distinctly proved that no apathy, such as was imagined, existed; that the old lady was exceedingly feeble, and so agitated as to be unable to attend to any duty; that St. Eustache, so far from receiving the news coolly, was distracted with grief, and bore himself so frantically, that M.  Beauvais prevailed upon a friend and relative to take charge of him, and prevent his attending the examination at the disinterment. Moreover, although it was stated by "L'Etoile" that the corpse was reinterred at the public expense, that an advantageous offer of private sepulture absolutely declined by the family, and that no member of the family attended the ceremonial; although, I say, all this was asserted by "L'Etoile" in furtherance of the impression it designed to convey yet all this was satisfactorily disproved. In a subsequent number of the paper, an attempt was made to throw suspicion upon Beauvais himself.

The editor says:   "Now, then, a change comes over the matter. We are told that, on one occasion, while a Madame B was at Madame Rogêt's house, M. Beauvais, who was going out, told her that a gendarme was expected there, and that she, Madame B., must not say anything to the gendarme until he returned, but let the matter be for him.... In the present posture of affairs, M. Beauvais appears to have the whole matter locked up in his head. A single step can not be taken without M. Beauvais, for, go which way you will, you run against him....

For some reason he determined that nobody shall have anything to do with the proceedings but himself, and he has elbowed the male relatives out of the way, according to their representations, in a very singular manner. He seems to have been very much averse to permitting the relatives to see the body. "
By the following fact, some color was given to the suspicion thus thrown upon Beauvais.

A visitor at his office, a few days prior to the girl's disappearance, and during the absence of its occupant, had observed a rose in the keyhole of the door, and the name "Marie" inscribed upon a slate which hung near at hand. The general impression, so far as we were enabled to glean it from the newspapers, seemed to be, that Marie had been the victim of a gang of desperadoes that by these she had been borne across the river, maltreated, and murdered. "Le Commerciel,"[11] however, a print of extensive influence, was earnest in combating this popular idea. I quote a passage or two from its columns: [11] New York "Journal of Commerce. "

"We are persuaded that pursuit has hitherto been on a false scent, so far as it has been directed to the Barrière du Roule.

It is impossible that a person so well known to thousands as this young woman was, should have passed three blocks without some one having seen her; and any one who saw her would have remembered it, for she interested all who knew her. It was when the streets were full of people, when she went out.... It is impossible that she could have gone to the Barrière du Roule, or to the Rue des Drômes, without being recognized by a dozen persons; yet no one has come forward who saw her outside her mother's door, and there is no evidence, except the testimony concerning her expressed intentions, that she did go out at all.

Her gown was torn, bound round her, and tied; and by that the body was carried as a bundle. If the murder had been committed at the Barrière du Roule, there would have been no necessity for any such arrangement. The fact that the body was found floating near the Barrière is no proof as to where it was thrown into the water.... A piece of one of the unfortunate girl's petticoats, two feet long and one foot wide, was torn out and tied under her chin around the back of her head, probably to prevent screams.

This was done by fellows who had no pocket-handkerchief. "

A day or two before the Prefect called upon us, however, some important information reached the police, which seemed to overthrow, at least, the chief portion of "Le Commerciel's" argument. Two small boys, sons of a Madame Deluc, while roaming among the woods near the Barrière du Roule, chanced to penetrate a close thicket, within which were three or four large stones, forming a kind of seat with a back and footstool. On the upper stone lay a white petticoat; on the second, a silk scarf.

A parasol, gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief were also here found. The handkerchief bore the name "Marie Rogêt. "

Fragments of dress were discovered on the brambles around.

The earth was trampled, the bushes were broken, and there was every evidence of a struggle. Between the thicket and the river, the fences were found taken down, and the ground bore evidence of some heavy burden having been dragged along it. A weekly paper, "Le Soleil,"[12] had the following comments upon this discovery comments which merely echoed the sentiment of the whole Parisian press: [12] Philadelphia "Saturday Evening Post," edited by C. I. Peterson, Esq.

"The things had all evidently been there at least three or four weeks; they were all mildewed down hard with the action of the rain, and stuck together from mildew. The grass had grown around and over some of them. The silk on the parasol was strong, but the threads of it were run together within.

The upper part, where it had been doubled and folded, was all mildewed and rotten, and tore on its being opened.... The pieces of her frock torn out by the bushes were about three inches wide and six inches long. One part was the hem of the frock, and it had been mended; the other piece was part of the skirt, not the hem. They looked like strips torn off, and were on the thorn bush, about a foot from the ground....

There can be no doubt, therefore, that the spot of this appalling outrage has been discovered. "

Consequent upon this discovery, new evidence appeared. Madame Deluc testified that she keeps a roadside inn not far from the bank of the river, opposite the Barrière du Roule. The neighborhood is secluded particularly so. It is the usual Sunday resort of blackguards from the city, who cross the river in boats.

About three o'clock, in the afternoon of the Sunday in question, a young girl arrived at the inn, accompanied by a young man of dark complexion. The two remained here for some time. On their departure, they took the road to some thick woods in the vicinity.

Madame Deluc's attention was called to the dress worn by the girl, on account of its resemblance to one worn by a deceased relative. A scarf was particularly noticed. Soon after the departure of the couple, a gang of miscreants made their appearance, behaved boisterously, ate and drank without making payment, followed in the route of the young man and girl, returned to the inn about dusk, and recrossed the river as if in great haste. It was soon after dark, upon this same evening, that Madame Deluc, as well as her eldest son, heard the screams of a female in the vicinity of the inn.

The screams were violent but brief. Madame D. recognized not only the scarf which was found in the thicket, but the dress which was discovered upon the corpse. An omnibus driver, Valence,[13] now also testified that he saw Marie Rogêt cross a ferry on the Seine, on the Sunday in question, in company with a young man of dark complexion. He, Valence, knew Marie, and could not be mistaken in her identity.

The articles found in the thicket were fully identified by the relatives of Marie. [13] Adam.

The items of evidence and information thus collected by myself, from the newspapers, at the suggestion of Dupin, embraced only one more point but this was a point of seemingly vast consequence. It appears that, immediately after the discovery of the clothes as above described, the lifeless or nearly lifeless body of St. Eustache, Marie's betrothed, was found in the vicinity of what all now supposed the scene of the outrage. A phial labeled "laudanum," and emptied, was found near him. His breath gave evidence of the poison.

He died without speaking. Upon his person was found a letter, briefly stating his love for Marie, with his design of self-destruction. "I need scarcely tell you," said Dupin, as he finished the perusal of my notes, "that this is a far more intricate case than that of the Rue Morgue; from which it differs in one important respect. This is an ordinary, although an atrocious, instance of crime. There is nothing peculiarly outre about it.

You will observe that, for this reason, the mystery has been considered easy, when, for this reason, it should have been considered difficult, of solution. Thus, at first, it was thought unnecessary to offer a reward. The myrmidons of G were able at once to comprehend how and why such an atrocity might have been committed. They could picture to their imaginations a mode many modes and a motive many motives; and because it was not impossible that either of these numerous modes and motives could have been the actual one, they have taken it for granted that one of them must.

But the ease with which these variable fancies were entertained, and the very plausibility which each assumed, should have been understood as indicative rather of the difficulties than of the facilities which must attend elucidation.

I have, therefore, observed that it is by prominences above the plane of the ordinary, that reason feels her way, if at all, in her search for the true, and that the proper question in cases such as this, is not so much 'what has occurred?' as 'what has occurred that has never occurred before?' In the investigations at the house of Madame L'Espanaye,[14]

the agents of G were discouraged and confounded by that very unusualness which, to a properly regulated intellect, would have afforded the surest omen of success; while this same intellect might have been plunged in despair at the ordinary character of all that met the eye in the case of the perfumery girl, and yet told of nothing but easy triumph to the functionaries of the Prefecture. [14] See "Murders in the Rue Morgue.

"

"In the case of Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter, there was, even at the beginning of our investigation, no doubt that murder had been committed. The idea of suicide was excluded at once. Here, too, we are freed, at the commencement, from all supposition of self-murder. The body found at the Barrière du Roule was found under such circumstances as to leave us no room for embarrassment upon this important point. But it has been suggested that the corpse discovered is not that of the Marie Rogêt for the conviction of whose assassin, or assassins, the reward is offered, and respecting whom, solely, our agreement has been arranged with the Prefect.

We both know this gentleman well. It will not do to trust him too far. If, dating our inquiries from the body found, and then tracing a murderer, we yet discover this body to be that of some other individual than Marie; or if, starting from the living Marie, we find her, yet find her unassassinated in either case we lose our labor; since it is Monsieur G with whom we have to deal. For our own purpose, therefore, if not for the purpose of justice, it is indispensable that our first step should be the determination of the identity of the corpse with the Marie Rogêt who is missing.

"With the public the arguments of 'L'Etoile' have had weight; and that the journal itself is convinced of their importance would appear from the manner in which it commences one of its essays upon the subject 'Several of the morning papers of the day,' it says, 'speak of the conclusive article in Monday's "'Etoile."'  To me, this article appears conclusive of little beyond the zeal of its inditer. We should bear in mind that, in general, it is the object of our newspapers rather to create a sensation to make a point than to further the cause of truth. The latter end is only pursued when it seems coincident with the former.

The print which merely falls in with ordinary opinion (however well founded this opinion may be) earns for itself no credit with the mob. The mass of the people regard as profound only him who suggests pungent contradictions of the general idea. In ratiocination, not less than in literature, it is the epigram which is the most immediately and the most universally appreciated.

In both, it is of the lowest order of merit. "What I mean to say is, that it is the mingled epigram and melodrame of the idea, that Marie Rogêt still lives, rather than any true plausibility in this idea, which have suggested it to 'L'Etoile,' and secured it a favorable reception with the public.  Let us examine the heads of this journal's argument; endeavoring to avoid the incoherence with which it is originally set forth. "The first aim of the writer is to show, from the brevity of the interval between Marie's disappearance and the finding of the floating corpse, that this corpse can not be that of Marie. The reduction of this interval to its smallest possible dimension, becomes thus, at once, an object with the reasoner. In the rash pursuit of this object, he rushes into mere assumption at the outset.

'It is folly to suppose,' he says, 'that the murder, if murder was committed on her body, could have been consummated soon enough to have enabled her murderers to throw the body into the river before midnight.' We demand at once, and very naturally, Why?
Why is it folly to suppose that the murder was committed within five minutes after the girl's quitting her mother's house? Why is it folly to suppose that the murder was committed at any given period of the day?

There have been assassinations at all hours. But, had the murder taken place at any moment between nine o'clock in the morning of Sunday and a quarter before midnight, there would still have been time enough 'to throw the body into the river before midnight.'

This assumption, then, amounts precisely to this that the murder was not committed on Sunday at all and, if we allow 'L'Etoile' to assume this, we may permit it any liberties whatever.

The paragraph beginning 'It is folly to suppose that the murder, etc.,' however it appears as printed in 'L'Etoile,' may be imagined to have existed actually thus in the brain of its inditer: 'It is folly to suppose that the murder, if murder was committed on the body, could have been committed soon enough to have enabled her murderers to throw the body into the river before midnight; it is folly, we say, to suppose all this, and to suppose at the same time (as we are resolved to suppose), that the body was not thrown in until after midnight' a sentence sufficiently inconsequential in itself, but not so utterly preposterous as the one printed. "Were it my purpose," continued Dupin, "merely to make out a case against this passage of 'L'Etoile's' argument, I might safely leave it where it is. It is not, however, with 'L'Etoile' that we have to do, but with the truth. The sentence in question has but one meaning, as it stands; and this meaning I have fairly stated; but it is material that we go behind the mere words, for an idea which these words have obviously intended, and failed to convey.

It was the design of the journalists to say that at whatever period of the day or night of Sunday this murder was committed, it was improbable that the assassins would have ventured to bear the corpse to the river before midnight. And herein lies, really, the assumption of which I complain. It is assumed that the murder was committed at such a position, and under such circumstances, that the bearing it to the river became necessary. Now, the assassination might have taken place upon the river's brink, or on the river itself; and, thus, the throwing the corpse in the water might have been resorted to at any period of the day or night, as the most obvious and most immediate mode of disposal. You will understand that I suggest nothing here as probable, or as coincident with my opinion.

My design, so far, has no reference to the facts of the case. I wish merely to caution you against the whole tone of 'L'Etoile's' suggestion, by calling your attention to its ex-parte character at the outset. "Having prescribed thus a limit to suit its own preconceived notions; having assumed that, if this were the body of Marie, it could have been in the water but a very brief time, the journal goes on to say:  "'All experience has shown that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown into the water immediately after death by violence, require from six to ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to bring them to the top of the water.

Even when a cannon is fired over a corpse, and it rises before at least five or six days' immersion, it sinks again if let alone.' "These assertions have been tacitly received by every paper in Paris, with the exception of 'Le Moniteur.'[15]

This latter print endeavors to combat that portion of the paragraph which has reference to 'drowned bodies' only, by citing some five or six instances in which the bodies of individuals known to be drowned were found floating after the lapse of less time than is insisted upon by 'L'Etoile.' But there is something excessively unphilosophical in the attempt, on the part of 'Le Moniteur,' to rebut the general assertion of 'L'Etoile,' by a citation of particular instances militating against that assertion.

Had it been possible to adduce fifty instead of five examples of bodies found floating at the end of two or three days, these fifty examples could still have been properly regarded only as exceptions to 'L'Etoile's' rule, until such time as the rule itself should be confuted. Admitting the rule (and this 'Le Moniteur' does not deny, insisting merely upon its exceptions), the argument of 'L'Etoile' is suffered to remain in full force; for this argument does not pretend to involve more than a question of the probability of the body having risen to the surface in less than three days; and this probability will be in favor of 'L'Etoile's' position until the instances so childishly adduced shall be sufficient in number to establish an antagonistical rule. [15] The New York "Commercial Advertiser" edited by Colonel Stone. "You will see at once that all argument upon this head should be urged, if at all, against the rule itself; and for this end we must examine the rationale of the rule.

Now the human body, in general, is neither much lighter nor much heavier than the water of the Seine; that is to say, the specific gravity of the human body, in its natural condition, is about equal to the bulk of fresh water which it displaces. The bodies of fat and fleshy persons, with small bones, and of women generally, are lighter than those of the lean and large-boned, and of men; and the specific gravity of the water of a river is somewhat influenced by the presence of the tide from the sea. But, leaving this tide out of the question, it may be said that very few human bodies will sink at all, even in fresh water, of their own accord.

Almost any one, falling into a river, will be enabled to float, if he suffer the specific gravity of the water fairly to be adduced in comparison with his own that is to say, if he suffer his whole person to be immersed, with as little exception as possible. The proper position for one who can not swim is the upright position of the walker on land, with the head thrown fully back, and immersed; the mouth and nostrils alone remaining above the surface. Thus circumstanced, we shall find that we float without difficulty and without exertion. It is evident, however, that the gravities of the body, and of the bulk of water displaced, are very nicely balanced, and that a trifle will cause either to preponderate.

An arm, for instance, uplifted from the water, and thus deprived of its support, is an additional weight sufficient to immerse the whole head, while the accidental aid of the smallest piece of timber will enable us to elevate the head so as to look about. Now, in the struggles of one unused to swimming, the arms are invariably thrown upward, while an attempt is made to keep the head in its usual perpendicular position. The result is the immersion of the mouth and nostrils, and the inception, during efforts to breathe while beneath the surface, of water into the lungs.

Much is also received into the stomach, and the whole body becomes heavier by the difference between the weight of the air originally distending these cavities, and that of the fluid which now fills them. This difference is sufficient to cause the body to sink, as a general rule; but is insufficient in the case of individuals with small bones and an abnormal quantity of flaccid or fatty matter. Such individuals float even after drowning. "The corpse, being supposed at the bottom of the river, will there remain until, by some means, its specific gravity again becomes less than that of the bulk of water which it displaces.

This effect is brought about by decomposition or otherwise. The result of decomposition is the generation of gas, distending the cellular tissues and all the cavities, and giving the puffed appearance which is so horrible. When this distension has so far progressed that the bulk of the corpse is materially increased without a corresponding increase of mass or weight, its specific gravity becomes less than that of the water displaced, and it forthwith makes its appearance at the surface. But decomposition is modified by innumerable circumstances is hastened or retarded by innumerable agencies; for example, by the heat or cold of the season, by the mineral impregnation or purity of the water, by its depth or shallowness, by its currency or stagnation, by the temperament of the body, by its infection or freedom from disease before death.

Thus it is evident that we can assign no period, with anything like accuracy, at which the corpse shall rise through decomposition. Under certain conditions this result would be brought about within an hour; under others it might not take place at all. There are chemical infusions by which the animal frame can be preserved forever from corruption; the bichloride of mercury is one.

But, apart from decomposition, there may be, and very usually is, a generation of gas within the stomach, from the acetous fermentation of vegetable matter (or within other cavities from other causes), sufficient to induce a distension which will bring the body to the surface.

The effect produced by the firing of a cannon is that of simple vibration. This may either loosen the corpse from the soft mud or ooze in which it is embedded, thus permitting it to rise when other agencies have already prepared it for so doing; or it may overcome the tenacity of some putrescent portions of the cellular tissue, allowing the cavities to distend under the influence of the gas. "Having thus before us the whole philosophy of this subject, we can easily test by it the assertions of 'L'Etoile.'  'All experience shows,' says this paper, 'that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown into the water immediately after death by violence, require from six to ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to bring them to the top of the water. Even when a cannon is fired over a corpse, and it rises before at least five or six days' immersion, it sinks again if let alone.'

"The whole of this paragraph must now appear a tissue of inconsequence and incoherence.

All experience does not show that 'drowned bodies' require from six to ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to bring them to the surface. Both science and experience show that the period of their rising is, and necessarily must be, indeterminate. If, moreover, a body has risen to the surface through firing of cannon, it will not 'sink again if let alone,' until decomposition has so far progressed as to permit the escape of the generated gas. But I wish to call your attention to the distinction which is made between 'drowned bodies,' and 'bodies thrown into the water immediately after death by violence.'

Although the writer admits the distinction, he yet includes them all in the same category.

I have shown how it is that the body of a drowning man becomes specifically heavier than its bulk of water, and that he would not sink at all, except for the struggle by which he elevates his arms above the surface, and his gasps for breath while beneath the surface gasps which supply by water the place of the original air in the lungs. But these struggles and these gasps would not occur in the body 'thrown into the water immediately after death by violence.'

Thus, in the latter instance, the body, as a general rule, would not sink at all a fact of which 'L'Etoile' is evidently ignorant. When decomposition had proceeded to a very great extent when the flesh had in a great measure left the bones then, indeed, but not till then, should we lose sight of the corpse. "And now what are we to make of the argument, that the body found could not be that of Marie Rogêt, because, three days only having elapsed, this body was found floating? If drowned, being a woman, she might never have sunk; or, having sunk, might have reappeared in twenty-four hours or less. But no one supposes her to have been drowned; and, dying before being thrown into the river, she might have been found floating at any period afterward whatever.

"'But,' says 'L'Etoile,' 'if the body had been kept in its mangled state on shore until Tuesday night, some trace would be found on shore of the murderers.' Here it is at first difficult to perceive the intention of the reasoner. He means to anticipate what he imagines would be an objection to his theory viz.: that the body was kept on shore two days, suffering rapid decomposition more rapid than if immersed in water.

He supposes that, had this been the case, it might have appeared at the surface on the Wednesday, and thinks that only under such circumstances it could have so appeared. He is accordingly in haste to show that it was not kept on shore; for, if so, 'some trace would be found on shore of the murderers.' I presume you smile at the sequitur. You can not be made to see how the mere duration of the corpse on the shore could operate to multiply traces of the assassins. Nor can I.  "'And furthermore it is exceedingly improbable,' continues our journal, 'that any villains who had committed such a murder as is here supposed, would have thrown the body in without weight to sink it, when such a precaution could have so easily been taken.'

Observe, here, the laughable confusion of thought!

No one not even 'L'Etoile' disputes the murder committed on the body found. The marks of violence are too obvious. It is our reasoner's object merely to show that this body is not Marie's. He wishes to prove that Marie is not assassinated not that the corpse was not.

Yet his observation proves only the latter point.

Here is a corpse without weight attached. Murderers, casting it in, would not have failed to attach a weight. Therefore it was not thrown in by murderers.

This is all which is proved, if any thing is. The question of identity is not even approached, and 'L'Etoile' has been at great pains merely to gainsay now what it has admitted only a moment before. '

We are perfectly convinced,' it says, 'that the body found was that of a murdered female.'

"Nor is this the sole instance, even in this division of his subject, where our reasoner unwittingly reasons against himself.

His evident object, I have already said, is to reduce, as much as possible, the interval between Marie's disappearance and the finding of the corpse. Yet we find him urging the point that no person saw the girl from the moment of her leaving her mother's house.

'We have no evidence,' he says, 'that Marie Rogêt was in the land of the living after nine o'clock on Sunday, June the twenty-second.' As his argument is obviously an ex parte one, he should, at least, have left this matter out of sight; for had any one been known to see Marie, say on Monday, or on Tuesday, the interval in question would have been much reduced, and, by his own ratiocination, the probability much diminished of the corpse being that of the grisette. It is, nevertheless, amusing to observe that 'L'Etoile' insists upon its point in the full belief of its furthering its general argument. "Reperuse now that portion of this argument which has reference to the identification of the corpse by Beauvais. In regard to the hair upon the arm, 'L'Etoile' has been obviously disingenuous.

M. Beauvais, not being an idiot, could never have urged in identification of the corpse, simply hair upon its arm. No arm is without hair. The generality of the expression of 'L'Etoile' is a mere perversion of the witness's phraseology.

He must have spoken of some peculiarity in this hair. It must have been a peculiarity of color, of quantity, of length, or of situation. "'Her foot,' says the journal, 'was small so are thousands of feet. Her garter is no proof whatever nor is her shoe for shoes and garters are sold in packages. The same may be said of the flowers in her hat.

One thing upon which M. Beauvais strongly insists is, that the clasp on the garter found had been set back to take it in. This amounts to nothing; for most women find it proper to take a pair of garters home and fit them to the size of the limbs they are to encircle, rather than to try them in the store where they purchase.' Here it is difficult to suppose the reasoner in earnest. Had M. Beauvais, in his search for the body of Marie, discovered a corpse corresponding in general size and appearance to the missing girl, he would have been warranted (without reference to the question of habiliment at all) in forming an opinion that his search had been successful. If, in addition to the point of general size and contour, he had found upon the arm a peculiar hairy appearance which he had observed upon the living Marie, his opinion might have been justly strengthened; and the increase of positiveness might well have been in the ratio of the peculiarity, or unusualness, of the hairy mark.

If, the feet of Marie being small, those of the corpse were also small, the increase of probability that the body was that of Marie would not be an increase in a ratio merely arithmetical, but in one highly geometrical, or accumulative. Add to all this shoes such as she had been known to wear upon the day of her disappearance, and, although these shoes may be 'sold in packages,' you so far augment the probability as to verge upon the certain. What, of itself, would be no evidence of identity, becomes through its corroborative position, proof most sure. Give us, then, flowers in the hat corresponding to those worn by the missing girl, and we seek for nothing further.

If only one flower, we seek for nothing further what then if two or three, or more? Each successive one is multiple evidence proof not added to proof, but multiplied by hundreds or thousands. Let us now discover, upon the deceased, garters such as the living used, and it is almost folly to proceed.

But these garters are found to be tightened, by the setting back of a clasp, in just such a manner as her own had been tightened by Marie shortly previous to her leaving home.

It is now madness or hypocrisy to doubt. What 'L'Etoile' says in respect to this abbreviation of the garters being an unusual occurrence, shows nothing beyond its own pertinacity in error. The elastic nature of the clasp-garter is self-demonstration of the unusualness of the abbreviation. What is made to adjust itself, must of necessity require foreign adjustment but rarely.

It must have been by an accident, in its strictest sense, that these garters of Marie needed the tightening described. They alone would have amply established her identity. But it is not that the corpse was found to have the garters of the missing girl, or found to have her shoes, or her bonnet, or the flowers of her bonnet, or her feet, or a peculiar mark upon the arm, or her general size and appearance it is that the corpse had each, and all collectively.

Could it be proved that the editor of 'L'Etoile' really entertained a doubt, under the circumstances, there would be no need, in his case, of a commission de lunatico inquirendo. He has thought it sagacious to echo the small talk of the lawyers, who, for the most part, content themselves with echoing the rectangular precepts of the courts. I would here observe that very much of what is rejected as evidence by a court, is the best of evidence to the intellect.

For the court, guided itself by the general principles of evidence the recognized and booked principles is averse from swerving at particular instances. And this steadfast adherence to principle, with rigorous disregard of the conflicting exception, is a sure mode of attaining the maximum of attainable truth, in any long sequence of time. The practise, en masse, is therefore philosophical; but it is not the less certain that it engenders vast individual error.[16] [16] "A theory based on the qualities of an object, will prevent its being unfolded according to its objects; and he who arranges topics in reference to their causes, will cease to value them according to their results.

Thus the jurisprudence of every nation will show that, when law becomes a science and a system, it ceases to be justice. The errors into which a blind devotion to principles of classification has led the common law will be seen by observing how often the legislature has been obliged to come forward to restore the equity its scheme had lost. "
Landor.

"In respect to the insinuations leveled at Beauvais, you will be willing to dismiss them in a breath. You have already fathomed the true character of this good gentleman. He is a busybody, with much of romance and little of wit. Any one so constituted will readily so conduct himself, upon occasion of real excitement, as to render himself liable to suspicion on the part of the over-acute, or the ill-disposed.

M. Beauvais (as it appears from your notes) had some personal interviews with the editor of 'L'Etoile' and offended him by venturing an opinion that the corpse, notwithstanding the theory of the editor, was, in sober fact, that of Marie. '

He persists,' says the paper, 'in asserting the corpse to be that of Marie, but can not give a circumstance, in addition to those which we have commented upon, to make others believe.'

Now, without readverting to the fact that stronger evidence 'to make others believe' could never have been adduced, it may be remarked that a man may very well be understood to believe, in a case of this kind, without the ability to advance a single reason for the belief of a second party. Nothing is more vague than impressions of individual identity. Each man recognizes his neighbor, yet there are few instances in which any one is prepared to give a reason for his recognition. The editor of 'L'Etoile' had no right to be offended at M. Beauvais's unreasoning belief.

"The suspicious circumstances which invest him will be found to tally much better with my hypothesis of romantic busybodyism than with the reasoner's suggestion of guilt. Once adopting the more charitable interpretation, we shall find no difficulty in comprehending the rose in the key-hole; the 'Marie' upon the slate; the 'elbowing the male relatives out of the way'; the 'aversion to permitting them to see the body'; the caution given to Madame B, that she must hold no conversation with the gendarme until his (Beauvais's) return; and, lastly, his apparent determination 'that nobody should have anything to do with the proceedings except himself.' It seems to me unquestionable that Beauvais was a suitor of Marie's; that she coquetted with him; and that he was ambitious of being thought to enjoy her fullest intimacy and confidence.

I shall say nothing more upon this point; and, as the evidence fully rebuts the assertion of 'L'Etoile,' touching the matter of apathy on the part of the mother and other relatives an apathy inconsistent with the supposition of their believing the corpse to be that of the perfumery girl we shall now proceed as if the question of identity were settled to our perfect satisfaction. "

"And what," I here demanded, "do you think of the opinions of 'Le Commerciel'?" "That, in spirit, they are far more worthy of attention than any which have been promulgated upon the subject. The deductions from the premises are philosophical and acute; but the premises, in two instances, at least, are founded in imperfect observation. '

Le Commerciel' wishes to intimate that Marie was seized by some gang of low ruffians not far from her mother's door.

'It is impossible,' it urges, 'that a person so well known to thousands as this young woman was, should have passed three blocks without some one having seen her.' This is the idea of a man long resident in Paris a public man and one whose walks to and fro in the city have been mostly limited to the vicinity of the public offices. He is aware that he seldom passes so far as a dozen blocks from his own bureau, without being recognized and accosted.

And, knowing the extent of his personal acquaintance with others, and of others with him, he compares his notoriety with that of the perfumery girl, finds no great difference between them, and reaches at once the conclusion that she, in her walks, would be equally liable to recognition with himself in his. This could only be the case were her walks of the same unvarying, methodical character, and within the same species of limited region as are his own. He passes to and fro, at regular intervals, within a confined periphery, abounding in individuals who are led to observation of his person through interest in the kindred nature of his occupation with their own.

But the walks of Marie may, in general, be supposed discursive.

In this particular instance, it will be understood as most probable, that she proceeded upon a route of more than average diversity from her accustomed ones. The parallel which we imagine to have existed in the mind of 'Le Commerciel' would only be sustained in the event of the two individuals traversing the whole city. In this case, granting the personal acquaintance to be equal, the chances would be also equal that an equal number of personal rencontres would be made.

For my own part, I should hold it not only as possible, but as far more than probable, that Marie might have proceeded, at any given period, by any one of the many routes between her own residence and that of her aunt, without meeting a single individual whom she knew, or by whom she was known. In viewing this question in its full and proper light, we must hold steadily in mind the great disproportion between the personal acquaintances of even the most noted individual in Paris, and the entire population of Paris itself. "But whatever force there may still appear to be in the suggestion of 'Le Commerciel,' will be much diminished when we take into consideration the hour at which the girl went abroad. 'It was when the streets were full of people,' says 'Le Commerciel,' 'that she went out.' But not so.

It was at nine o'clock in the morning. Now at nine o'clock of every morning in the week, with the exception of Sunday, the streets of the city are, it is true, thronged with people. At nine on Sunday, the populace are chiefly within doors preparing for church. No observing person can have failed to notice the peculiarly deserted air of the town, from about eight until ten on the morning of every Sabbath. Between ten and eleven the streets are thronged, but not at so early a period as that designated.

"There is another point at which there seems a deficiency of observation on the part of 'Le Commerciel.'  'A piece,' it says, 'of one of the unfortunate girl's petticoats, two feet long, and one foot wide, was torn out and tied under her chin, and around the back of her head, probably to prevent screams. This was done by fellows who had no pocket-handkerchiefs.'

Whether this idea is or is not well founded, we will endeavor to see hereafter; but by 'fellows who have no pocket-handkerchiefs,' the editor intends the lowest class of ruffians. These, however, are the very description of people who will always be found to have handkerchiefs even when destitute of shirts. You must have had occasion to observe how absolutely indispensable, of late years, to the thorough blackguard, has become the pocket-handkerchief."
"And what are we to think," I asked, "of the article in 'Le Soleil'?"

"That it is a vast pity its inditer was not born a parrot in which case he would have been the most illustrious parrot of his race. He has merely repeated the individual items of the already published opinion; collecting them, with a laudable industry, from this paper and from that.
'

The things had all evidently been there,' he says, 'at least three or four weeks, and there can be no doubt that the spot of this appalling outrage has been discovered.'

The facts here restated by 'Le Soleil' are very far indeed from removing my own doubts upon this subject, and we will examine them more particularly hereafter in connection with another division of the theme. "At present we must occupy ourselves with other investigations. You can not have failed to remark the extreme laxity of the examination of the corpse. To be sure, the question of identity was readily determined, or should have been; but there were other points to be ascertained.

Had the body been in any respect despoiled? Had the deceased any articles of jewelry about her person upon leaving home? If so, had she any when found?

These are important questions utterly untouched by the evidence; and there are others of equal moment, which have met with no attention. We must endeavor to satisfy ourselves by personal inquiry. The case of St. Eustache must be reexamined.

I have no suspicion of this person; but let us proceed methodically. We will ascertain beyond a doubt the validity of the affidavits in regard to his whereabouts on the Sunday. Affidavits of this character are readily made matter of mystification. Should there be nothing wrong here, however, we will dismiss St. Eustache from our investigations. His suicide, however corroborative of suspicion, were there found to be deceit in the affidavits, is, without such deceit, in no respect an unaccountable circumstance, or one which need cause us to deflect from the line of ordinary analysis.

"In that which I now propose, we will discard the interior points of this tragedy, and concentrate our attention upon its outskirts. Not the least usual error in investigations such as this is the limiting of inquiry to the immediate, with total disregard of the collateral or circumstantial events. It is the malpractice of the courts to confine evidence and discussion to the bounds of apparent relevancy.

Yet experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger, portion of truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant.

It is through the spirit of this principle, if not precisely through its letter, that modern science has resolved to calculate upon the unforeseen. But perhaps you do not comprehend me.

The history of human knowledge has so uninterruptedly shown that to collateral, or incidental, or accidental events we are indebted for the most numerous and most valuable discoveries, that it has at length become necessary, in prospective view of improvement, to make not only large, but the largest, allowances for inventions that shall arise by chance, and quite out of the range of ordinary expectation. It is no longer philosophical to base upon what has been a vision of what is to be. Accident is admitted as a portion of the substructure. We make chance a matter of absolute calculation.

We subject the unlooked for and unimagined to the mathematical formulæ of the schools. "I repeat that it is no more than fact that the larger portion of all truth has sprung from the collateral; and it is but in accordance with the spirit of the principle involved in this fact that I would divert inquiry, in the present case, from the trodden and hitherto unfruitful ground of the event itself to the contemporary circumstances which surround it. While you ascertain the validity of the affidavits, I will examine the newspapers more generally than you have as yet done. So far, we have only reconnoitred the field of investigation; but it will be strange, indeed, if a comprehensive survey, such as I propose, of the public prints will not afford us some minute points which shall establish a direction for inquiry.

"

In pursuance of Dupin's suggestion, I made scrupulous examination of the affair of the affidavits. The result was a firm conviction of their validity, and of the consequent innocence of St. Eustache. In the meantime my friend occupied himself, with what seemed to me a minuteness altogether objectless, in a scrutiny of the various newspaper files. At the end of a week he placed before me the following extracts:  "About three years and a half ago, a disturbance very similar to the present was caused by the disappearance of this same Marie Rogêt from the parfumerie of Monsieur Le Blanc, in the Palais Royal.

At the end of a week, however, she reappeared at her customary comptoir, as well as ever, with the exception of a slight paleness not altogether usual. It was given out by Monsieur Le Blanc and her mother that she had merely been on a visit to some friend in the country; and the affair was speedily hushed up. We presume that the present absence is a freak of the same nature, and that, at the expiration of a week or, perhaps, of a month, we shall have her among us again. "

Evening Paper, Monday, June 23.[17]

[17] New York "Express."
"An evening journal of yesterday refers to a former mysterious disappearance of Mademoiselle Rogêt. It is well known that, during the week of her absence from Le Blanc's parfumerie, she was in the company of a young naval officer much noted for his debaucheries. A quarrel, it is supposed, providentially, led to her return home. We have the name of the Lothario in question, who is at present stationed in Paris, but for obvious reasons forbear to make it public."
"Le Mercurie," Tuesday Morning, June 24.[18]

[18] New York "Herald.

"

"An outrage of the most atrocious character was perpetrated near this city the day before yesterday. A gentleman, with his wife and daughter, engaged, about dusk, the services of six young men, who were idly rowing a boat to and fro near the banks of the Seine, to convey him across the river. Upon reaching the opposite shore the three passengers stepped out, and had proceeded so far as to be beyond the view of the boat, when the daughter discovered that she had left in it her parasol.

She returned for it, was seized by the gang, carried out into the stream, gagged, brutally treated, and finally taken to the shore at a point not far from that at which she had originally entered the boat with her parents. The villains have escaped for the time, but the police are upon their trail, and some of them will soon be taken. "

Morning Paper, June 25.[19]

[19] New York "Courier and Inquirer.

" "We have received one or two communications, the object of which is to fasten the crime of the late atrocity upon Mennais[20]; but as this gentleman has been fully exonerated by a legal inquiry, and as the arguments of our several correspondents appear to be more zealous than profound, we do not think it advisable to make them public." Morning Paper, June 28.[21]

[20] Mennais was one of the parties originally suspected and arrested, but discharged through total lack of evidence. [21] New York "Courier and Inquirer.

" "We have received several forcibly written communications, apparently from various sources, and which go far to render it a matter of certainty that the unfortunate Marie Rogêt has become a victim of one of the numerous bands of blackguards which infest the vicinity of the city upon Sunday. Our own opinion is decidedly in favor of this supposition. We shall endeavor to make room for some of these arguments hereafter.

"
Evening Paper, Tuesday, June 31.[22]

[22] New York "Evening Post.

" "On Monday, one of the bargemen connected with the revenue service saw an empty boat floating down the Seine. Sails were lying in the bottom of the boat. The bargeman towed it under the barge office. The next morning it was taken from thence without the knowledge of any of the officers. The rudder is now at the barge office.

"

"Le Diligence," Thursday, June 26.[23]

[23] New York "Standard.

" Upon reading these various extracts, they not only seemed to me irrelevant, but I could perceive no mode in which any one of them could be brought to bear upon the matter in hand. I waited for some explanation from Dupin. "It is not my present design," he said, "to dwell upon the first and second of these extracts.

I have copied them chiefly to show you the extreme remissness of the police, who, as far as I can understand from the Prefect, have not troubled themselves, in any respect, with an examination of the naval officer alluded to. Yet it is mere folly to say that between the first and second disappearance of Marie there is no supposable connection.

Let us admit the first elopement to have resulted in a quarrel between the lovers, and the return home of the betrayed. We are now prepared to view a second elopement (if we know that an elopement has again taken place) as indicating a renewal of the betrayer's advances, rather than as the result of new proposals by a second individual we are prepared to regard it as a 'making up' of the old amour, rather than as the commencement of a new one. The chances are ten to one that he who had once eloped with Marie would again propose an elopement, rather than that she to whom proposals of an elopement had been made by one individual should have them made to her by another. And here let me call your attention to the fact, that the time elapsing between the first ascertained and the second supposed elopement is a few months more than the general period of the cruises of our men-of-war. Had the lover been interrupted in his first villainy by the necessity of departure to sea, and had he seized the first moment of his return to renew the base designs not yet altogether accomplished or not yet altogether accomplished by him?

Of all these things we know nothing. "You will say, however, that, in the second instance, there was no elopement as imagined. Certainly not but are we prepared to say that there was not the frustrated design? Beyond St. Eustache, and perhaps Beauvais, we find no recognized, no open, no honorable suitors of Marie.

Of none other is there anything said. Who, then, is the secret lover, of whom the relatives (at least most of them) know nothing, but whom Marie meets upon the morning of Sunday, and who is so deeply in her confidence that she hesitates not to remain with him until the shades of the evening descend, amid the solitary groves of the Barrière du Roule?
Who is that secret lover, I ask, of whom, at least, most of the relatives know nothing? And what means the singular prophecy of Madame Rogêt on the morning of Marie's departure?

'I fear that I shall never see Marie again.'

"But if we can not imagine Madame Rogêt privy to the design of elopement, may we not at least suppose this sign entertained by the girl? Upon quitting home, she gave it to be understood that she was about to visit her aunt in the Rue des Drômes, and St. Eustache was requested to call for her at dark.

Now, at first glance, this fact strongly militates against my suggestion but let us reflect. That she did meet some companion, and proceed with him across the river, reaching the Barrière du Roule at so late an hour as three o'clock in the afternoon, is known. But in consenting so to accompany this individual (for whatever purpose to her mother known or unknown), she must have thought of her expressed intention when leaving home, and of the surprise and suspicion aroused in the bosom of her affianced suitor, St. Eustache, when, calling for her, at the hour appointed, in the Rue des Drômes, he should find that she had not been there, and when, moreover, upon returning to the pension with this alarming intelligence, he should become aware of her continued absence from home.

She must have thought of these things, I say. She must have foreseen the chagrin of St. Eustache, the suspicion of all. She could not have thought of returning to brave this suspicion; but the suspicion becomes a point of trivial importance to her, if we suppose her not intending to return.

"We may imagine her thinking thus 'I am to meet a certain person for the purpose of elopement, or for certain other purposes known only to myself. It is necessary that there be no chance of interruption there must be sufficient time given us to elude pursuit I will give it to be understood that I shall visit and spend the day with my aunt at the Rue des Drômes I will tell St. Eustache not to call for me until dark in this way, my absence from home for the longest possible period, without causing suspicion or anxiety, will be accounted for, and I shall gain more time than in any other manner. If I bid St. Eustache call for me at dark, he will be sure not to call before; but if I wholly neglect to bid him call, my time for escape will be diminished, since it will be expected that I return the earlier, and my absence will the sooner excite anxiety. Now, if it were my design to return at all if I had in contemplation merely a stroll with the individual in question it would not be my policy to bid St. Eustache call; for calling, he will be sure to ascertain that I have played him false a fact of which I might keep him forever in ignorance, by leaving home without notifying him of my intention, by returning before dark, and by then stating that I had been to visit my aunt in the Rue des Drômes. But, as it is my design never to return or not for some weeks or not until certain concealments are effected the gaining of time is the only point about which I need give myself any concern.'

"You have observed, in your notes, that the most general opinion in relation to this sad affair is, and was from the first, that the girl had been the victim of a gang of blackguards.

Now, the popular opinion, under certain conditions, is not to be disregarded. When arising of itself when manifesting itself in a strictly spontaneous manner we should look upon it as analogous with that intuition which is the idiosyncrasy of the individual man of genius. In ninety-nine cases from the hundred I would abide by its decision. But it is important that we find no palpable traces of suggestion.

The opinion must be rigorously the public's own; and the distinction is often exceedingly difficult to perceive and to maintain. In the present instance, it appears to me that this 'public opinion,' in respect to a gang, has been superinduced by the collateral event which is detailed in the third of my extracts. All Paris is excited by the discovered corpse of Marie, a girl young, beautiful, and notorious. This corpse is found bearing marks of violence, and floating in the river.

But it is now made known that, at the very period, or about the very period, in which it is supposed that the girl was assassinated, an outrage similar in nature to that endured by the deceased, although less in extent, was perpetrated by a gang of young ruffians upon the person of a second young female.

Is it wonderful that the one known atrocity should influence the popular judgment in regard to the other unknown? This judgment awaited direction, and the known outrage seemed so opportunely to afford it! Marie, too, was found in the river; and upon this very river was this known outrage committed. The connection of the two events had about it so much of the palpable, that the true wonder would have been a failure of the populace to appreciate and to seize it.

But, in fact, the one atrocity, known to be so committed, is, if anything, evidence that the other, committed at a time nearly coincident, was not so committed.

It would have been a miracle if, while a gang of ruffians were perpetrating, at a given locality, a most unheard-of wrong, there should have been another similar gang, in a similar locality, in the same city, under the same circumstances, with the same means and appliances, engaged in a wrong of precisely the same aspect, at precisely the same period of time! Yet in what, if not in this marvelous train of coincidence, does the accidentally suggested opinion of the populace call upon us to believe?  "Before proceeding further, let us consider the supposed scene of the assassination, in the thicket at the Barrière du Roule.

This thicket, although dense, was in the close vicinity of a public road. Within were three or four large stones, forming a kind of seat with a back and a footstool. On the upper stone was discovered a white petticoat; on the second, a silk scarf.

A parasol, gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief were also here found. The handkerchief bore the name 'Marie Rogêt.' Fragments of dress were seen on the branches around.

The earth was trampled, the bushes were broken, and there was every evidence of a violent struggle. "Notwithstanding the acclamation with which the discovery of this thicket was received by the press, and the unanimity with which it was supposed to indicate the precise scene of the outrage, it must be admitted that there was some very good reason for doubt. That it was the scene, I may or I may not believe but there was excellent reason for doubt.

Had the true scene been, as 'Le Commerciel' suggested, in the neighborhood of the Rue Pavée St. Andrée, the perpetrators of the crime, supposing them still resident in Paris, would naturally have been stricken with terror at the public attention thus acutely directed into the proper channel; and, in certain classes of minds, there would have arisen, at once, a sense of the necessity of some exertion to redivert this attention. And thus, the thicket of the Barrière du Roule having been already suspected, the idea of placing the articles where they were found might have been naturally entertained. There is no real evidence, although 'Le Soleil' so supposes, that the articles discovered had been more than a very few days in the thicket; while there is much circumstantial proof that they could not have remained there, without attracting attention, during the twenty days elapsing between the fatal Sunday and the afternoon upon which they were found by the boys.

'

They were all mildewed down hard,' says 'Le Soleil,' adopting the opinions of its predecessors, 'with the action of the rain and stuck together from mildew. The grass had grown around and over some of them. The silk of the parasol was strong, but the threads of it were run together within. The upper part, where it had been doubled and folded, was all mildewed and rotten, and tore on being opened.' In respect to the grass having 'grown around and over some of them,' it is obvious that the fact could only have been ascertained from the words, and thus from the recollections, of two small boys; for these boys removed the articles and took them home before they had been seen by a third party.

But the grass will grow, especially in warm and damp weather (such as was that of the period of the murder), as much as two or three inches in a single day.

A parasol lying upon a newly turfed ground, might, in a single week, be entirely concealed from sight by the upspringing grass. And touching that mildew upon which the editor of 'Le Soleil' so pertinaciously insists that he employs the word no less than three times in the brief paragraph just quoted, is he really unaware of the nature of this mildew? Is he to be told that it is one of the many classes of fungus, of which the most ordinary feature is its upspringing and decadence within twenty-four hours? "Thus we see, at a glance, that what has been most triumphantly adduced in support of the idea that the articles had been 'for at least three or four weeks' in the thicket, is most absurdly null as regards any evidence of that fact. On the other hand, it is exceedingly difficult to believe that these articles could have remained in the thicket specified for a longer period than a single week for a longer period than from one Sunday to the next.

Those who know anything of the vicinity of Paris know the extreme difficulty of finding seclusion, unless at a great distance from its suburbs. Such a thing as an unexplored or even an unfrequently visited recess, amid its woods or groves, is not for a moment to be imagined. Let any one who, being at heart a lover of nature, is yet chained by duty to the dust and heat of this great metropolis let any such one attempt, even during the week-days, to slake his thirst for solitude amid the scenes of natural loveliness which immediately surround us. At every second step he will find the growing charm dispelled by the voice and personal intrusion of some ruffian or party of carousing blackguards.

He will seek privacy amid the densest foliage, all in vain. Here are the very nooks where the unwashed most abound here are the temples most desecrate. With sickness of the heart the wanderer will flee back to the polluted Paris as to a less odious because less incongruous sink of pollution. But if the vicinity of the city is so beset during the working days of the week, how much more so on the Sabbath!

It is now especially that, released from the claims of labor, or deprived of the customary opportunities of crime, the town blackguard seeks the precincts of the town, not through love of the rural, which in his heart he despises, but by way of escape from the restraints and conventionalities of society. He desires less the fresh air and the green trees, than the utter license of the country. Here, at the roadside inn, or beneath the foliage of the woods, he indulges unchecked by any eye except those of his boon companions, in all the mad excess of a counterfeit hilarity the joint offspring of liberty and of rum.

I say nothing more than what must be obvious to every dispassionate observer, when I repeat that the circumstance of the articles in question having remained undiscovered for a longer period than from one Sunday to another in any thicket in the immediate neighborhood of Paris is to be looked upon as little less than miraculous. "But there are not wanting other grounds for the suspicion that the articles were placed in the thicket with the view of diverting attention from the real scene of the outrage. And first, let me direct your notice to the date of the discovery of the articles. Collate this with the date of the fifth extract made by myself from the newspapers. You will find that the discovery followed, almost immediately, the urgent communications sent to the evening paper.

These communications, although various, and apparently from various sources, tended all to the same point viz.:

the directing of attention to a gang as the perpetrators of the outrage, and to the neighborhood of the Barrière du Roule as its scene. Now, here, of course, the situation is not that, in consequence of these communications, or of the public attention by them directed, the articles were found by the boys; but the suspicion might and may well have been that the articles were not before found by the boys, for the reason that the articles had not before been in the thicket; having been deposited there only at so late a period as at the date, or shortly prior to the date of the communication, by the guilty authors of these communications themselves. "This thicket was a singular an exceedingly singular one. It was unusually dense.

Within its naturally walled inclosure were three extraordinary stones, forming a seat with a back and a footstool. And this thicket, so full of art, was in the immediate vicinity, within a few rods, of the dwelling of Madame Deluc, whose boys were in the habit of closely examining the shrubberies about them in search of the bark of the sassafras. Would it be a rash wager a wager of one thousand to one that a day never passed over the heads of these boys without finding at least one of them ensconced in the umbrageous hall, and enthroned upon its natural throne?
Those who would hesitate at such a wager have either never been boys themselves or have forgotten the boyish nature.

I repeat it is exceedingly hard to comprehend how the articles could have remained in this thicket undiscovered for a longer period than one or two days; and that thus there is good ground for suspicion, in spite of the dogmatic ignorance of 'Le Soleil,' that they were, at a comparatively late date, deposited where found. "But there are still other and stronger reasons for believing them so deposited, than any which I have as yet urged. And, now, let me beg your notice to the highly artificial arrangement of the articles. On the upper stone lay a white petticoat; on the second a silk scarf; scattered around were a parasol, gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief bearing the name 'Marie Rogêt.'

Here is just such an arrangement as would naturally be made by a not overacute person wishing to dispose the articles naturally. But it is by no means a really natural arrangement.

I should rather have looked to see the things all lying on the ground and trampled under foot. In the narrow limits of that bower it would have been scarcely possible that the petticoat and scarf should have retained a position upon the stones, when subjected to the brushing to and fro of many struggling persons. 'There was evidence,' it is said, 'of a struggle; and the earth was trampled, the bushes were broken' but the petticoat and the scarf are found deposited as if upon shelves. '

The pieces of the frock torn out by the bushes were about three inches wide and six inches long. One part was the hem of the frock, and it had been mended.

They looked like strips torn off.'  Here, inadvertently, 'Le Soleil' has employed an exceedingly suspicious phrase. The pieces, as described, do indeed 'look like strips torn off'; but purposely and by hand. It is one of the rarest of accidents that a piece is 'torn off,' from any garment such as is now in question, by the agency of a thorn. From the very nature of such fabrics, a thorn or nail becoming tangled in them, tears them rectangularly divides them into two longitudinal rents, at right angles with each other, and meeting at an apex where the thorn enters

but it is scarcely possible to conceive the piece 'torn off.'

I never so knew it, nor did you. To tear a piece off from such fabric, two distinct forces, in different directions, will be, in almost every case, required. If there be two edges to the fabric if, for example, it be a pocket-handkerchief, and it is desired to tear from it a slip, then, and then only, will the one force serve the purpose. But in the present case the question is of a dress, presenting but one edge.

To tear a piece from the interior, where no edge is presented, could only be effected by a miracle through the agency of thorns, and no one thorn could accomplish it. But, even where an edge is presented, two thorns will be necessary, operating, the one in two distinct directions, and the other in one.

And this in the supposition that the edge is unhemmed. If hemmed, the matter is nearly out of the question. We thus see the numerous and great obstacles in the way of pieces being 'torn off' through the simple agency of 'thorns'; yet we are required to believe not only that one piece but that many have been so torn.

'

And one part,' too, 'was the hem of the frock!'

Another piece was 'part of the skirt, not the hem' that is to say, was torn completely out, through the agency of thorns, from the unedged interior of the dress! These, I say, are things which one may well be pardoned for disbelieving; yet, taken collectedly, they form, perhaps, less of reasonable ground for suspicion than the one startling circumstance of the articles having been left in this thicket at all, by any murderers who had enough precaution to think of removing the corpse. You will not have apprehended me rightly, however, if you suppose it my design to deny this thicket as the scene of the outrage. There might have been a wrong here, or more possibly an accident at Madame Deluc's.

But, in fact, this is a point of minor importance.

We are not engaged in an attempt to discover the scene, but to produce the perpetrators of the murder. What I have adduced, notwithstanding the minuteness with which I have adduced it, has been with the view, first, to show the folly of the positive and headlong assertions of 'Le Soleil,' but secondly, and chiefly, to bring you, by the most natural route, to a further contemplation of the doubt whether this assassination has, or has not, been the work of a gang. "We will resume this question by mere allusion to the revolting details of the surgeon examined at the inquest. It is only necessary to say that his published inferences, in regard to the number of the ruffians, have been properly ridiculed as unjust and totally baseless, by all the reputable anatomists of Paris.

Not that the matter might not have been as inferred, but that there was no ground for the inference was there not much for another? "Let us reflect now upon 'the traces of a struggle'; and let me ask what these traces have been supposed to demonstrate. A gang.

But do they not rather demonstrate the absence of a gang?
What struggle could have taken place what struggle so violent and so enduring as to have left its 'traces' in all directions between a weak and defenseless girl and a gang of ruffians imagined?

The silent grasp of a few rough arms and all would have been over. The victim must have been absolutely passive at their will. You will here bear in mind that the arguments urged against the thicket as the scene, are applicable, in chief part, only against it as the scene of an outrage committed by more than a single individual. If we imagine but one violator, we can conceive, and thus only conceive, the struggle of so violent and so obstinate a nature as to have left the 'traces' apparent. "And again.

I have already mentioned the suspicion to be excited by the fact that the articles in question were suffered to remain at all in the thicket where discovered. It seems almost impossible that these evidences of guilt should have been accidentally left where found. There was sufficient presence of mind (it is supposed) to remove the corpse; and yet a more positive evidence than the corpse itself (whose features might have been quickly obliterated by decay) is allowed to lie conspicuously in the scene of the outrage I allude to the handkerchief with the name of the deceased. If this was accident, it was not the accident of a gang. We can imagine it only the accident of an individual.

Let us see. An individual has committed the murder. He is alone with the ghost of the departed.

He is appalled by what lies motionless before him. The fury of his passion is over, and there is abundant room in his heart for the natural awe of the deed. His is none of that confidence which the presence of numbers inevitably inspires.

He is alone with the dead. He trembles and is bewildered. Yet there is a necessity for disposing of the corpse.

He bears it to the river, and leaves behind him the other evidences of his guilt; for it is difficult, if not impossible, to carry all the burden at once, and it will be easy to return for what is left. But in his toilsome journey to the water his fears redouble within him.

The sounds of life encompass his path. A dozen times he hears or fancies he hears the step of an observer. Even the very lights from the city bewilder him.

Yet, in time, and by long and frequent pauses of deep agony, he reaches the river's brink, and disposes of his ghastly charge perhaps through the medium of a boat.

But now what treasure does the world hold what threat of vengeance could it hold out which would have power to urge the return of that lonely murderer over that toilsome and perilous path, to the thicket and its blood-chilling recollections?
He returns not, let the consequences be what they may.

He could not return if he would. His sole thought is immediate escape. He turns his back forever upon those dreadful shrubberies, and flees as from the wrath to come.

"But how with a gang?
Their number would have inspired them with confidence; if, indeed, confidence is ever wanting in the breast of the arrant blackguard; and of arrant blackguards alone are the supposed gangs ever constituted. Their number, I say, would have prevented the bewildering and unreasoning terror which I have imagined to paralyze the single man. Could we suppose an oversight in one, or two, or three, this oversight would have been remedied by a fourth. They would have left nothing behind them; for their number would have enabled them to carry all at once.

There would have been no need of return. "Consider now the circumstance that, in the outer garment of the corpse when found, 'a slip, about a foot wide, had been torn upward from the bottom hem to the waist, wound three times round the waist, and secured by a sort of hitch in the back.'

This was done with the obvious design of affording a handle by which to carry the body. But would any number of men have dreamed of resorting to such an expedient?

To three or four, the limbs of the corpse would have afforded not only a sufficient, but the best possible, hold. The device is that of a single individual; and this brings us to the fact that 'between the thicket and the river the rails of the fences were found taken down, and the ground bore evident traces of some heavy burden having been dragged along it!' But would a number of men have put themselves to the superfluous trouble of taking down a fence, for the purpose of dragging through it a corpse which they might have lifted over any fence in an instant?
Would a number of men have so dragged a corpse at all as to have left evident traces of the dragging?

"And here we must refer to an observation of 'Le Commerciel'; upon which I have already, in some measure, commented. 'A piece,' says this journal, 'of one of the unfortunate girl's petticoats was torn out and tied under her chin, and around the back of her head, probably to prevent screams. This was done by fellows who had no pocket-handkerchiefs.'

"I have before suggested that a genuine blackguard is never without a pocket-handkerchief. But it is not to this fact that I now especially advert.

That it was not through want of a handkerchief for the purpose imagined by 'Le Commerciel,' that this bandage was employed, is rendered apparent by the handkerchief left in the thicket; and that the object was not 'to prevent screams' appears, also, from the bandage having been employed in preference to what would so much better have answered the purpose. But the language of the evidence speaks of the strip in question as 'found around the neck, fitting loosely, and secured with a hard knot.'

These words are sufficiently vague, but differ materially from those of 'Le Commerciel.'

The slip was eighteen inches wide, and therefore, although of muslin, would form a strong band when folded or rumpled longitudinally.

And thus rumpled it was discovered. My inference is this. The solitary murderer, having borne the corpse for some distance (whether from the thicket or elsewhere) by means of the bandage hitched around its middle, found the weight, in this mode of procedure, too much for his strength. He resolved to drag the burden the evidence goes to show that it was dragged.

With this object in view, it became necessary to attach something like a rope to one of the extremities. It could be best attached about the neck, where the head would prevent its slipping off. And now the murderer bethought him, unquestionably, of the bandage about the loins.

He would have used this, but for its volution about the corpse, the hitch which embarrassed it, and the reflection that it had not been 'torn off' from the garment. It was easier to tear a new slip from the petticoat. He tore it, made it fast about the neck, and so dragged his victim to the brink of the river. That this 'bandage,' only attainable with trouble and delay, and but imperfectly answering its purpose that this bandage was employed at all, demonstrates that the necessity for its employment sprang from circumstances arising at a period when the handkerchief was no longer attainable that is to say, arising, as we have imagined, after quitting the thicket (if the thicket it was), and on the road between the thicket and the river. "But the evidence, you will say, of Madame Deluc (!) points especially to the presence of a gang in the vicinity of the thicket, at or about the epoch of the murder.

This I grant. I doubt if there were not a dozen gangs, such as described by Madame Deluc, in and about the vicinity of the Barrière du Roule at or about the period of this tragedy. But the gang which has drawn upon itself the pointed animadversion, through the somewhat tardy and very suspicious evidence, of Madame Deluc, is the only gang which is represented by that honest and scrupulous old lady as having eaten her cakes and swallowed her brandy, without putting themselves to the trouble of making her payment.

Et hinc illæ iræ?
"But what is the precise evidence of Madame Deluc? 'A gang of miscreants made their appearance, behaved boisterously, ate and drank without making payment, followed in the route of the young man and the girl, returned to the inn about dusk, and recrossed the river as if in great haste.' "Now this 'great haste' very possibly seemed greater haste in the eyes of Madame Deluc, since she dwelt lingeringly and lamentingly upon her violated cakes and ale cakes and ale for which she might still have entertained a faint hope of compensation. Why, otherwise, since it was about dusk, should she make a point of the haste? It is no cause for wonder, surely, that even a gang of blackguards should make haste to get home when a wide river is to be crossed in small boats, when storm impends, and when night approaches.

"I say approaches; for the night had not yet arrived. It was only about dusk that the indecent haste of these 'miscreants' offended the sober eyes of Madame Deluc. But we are told that it was upon this very evening that Madame Deluc, as well as her eldest son, 'heard the screams of a female in the vicinity of the inn.'

And in what words does Madame Deluc designate the period of the evening at which these screams were heard? ' It was soon after dark' she says. But 'soon after dark' is, at least, dark; and 'about dusk,' is as certainly daylight.

Thus it is abundantly clear that the gang quitted the Barrière du Roule prior to the screams overheard (?) by Madame Deluc. And although, in all the many reports of the evidence, the relative expressions in question are distinctly and invariably employed just as I have employed them in this conversation with yourself, no notice whatever of the gross discrepancy has, as yet, been taken by any of the public journals, or by any of the myrmidons of police. "I shall add but one to the arguments against a gang; but this one has, to my own understanding at least, a weight altogether irresistible. Under the circumstances of large reward offered, and full pardon to any king's evidence, it is not to be imagined, for a moment, that some member of a gang of low ruffians, or of any body of men, would not long ago have betrayed his accomplices.

Each one of a gang, so placed, is not so much greedy of reward, or anxious for escape, as fearful of betrayal. He betrays eagerly and early that he may not himself be betrayed. That the secret has not been divulged is the very best of proof that it is, in fact, a secret. The horrors of this dark deed are known only to one or two living human beings, and to God. "Let us sum up now the meagre yet certain fruits of our long analysis.

We have attained the idea either of a fatal accident under the roof of Madame Deluc, or of a murder perpetrated, in the thicket at the Barrière du Roule, by a lover, or at least by an intimate and secret associate of the deceased. This associate is of swarthy complexion. This complexion, the 'hitch' in the bandage, and the 'sailor's knot' with which the bonnet-ribbon is tied, point to a seaman.

His companionship with the deceased a gay but not an abject young girl designates him as above the grade of the common sailor. Here the well-written and urgent communications to the journals are much in the way of corroboration. The circumstance of the first elopement, as mentioned by 'Le Mercurie,' tends to blend the idea of this seaman with that of the 'naval officer' who is first known to have led the unfortunate into crime.

"And here, most fitly, comes the consideration of the continued absence of him of the dark complexion. Let me pause to observe that the complexion of this man is dark and swarthy; it was no common swarthiness which constituted the sole point of remembrance, both as regards Valence and Madame Deluc. But why is this man absent?
Was he murdered by the gang?

If so, why are there only traces of the assassinated girl? The scene of the two outrages will naturally be supposed identical. And where is his corpse? The assassins would most probably have disposed of both in the same way. But it may be said that this man lives, and is deterred from making himself known, through dread of being charged with the murder.

This consideration might be supposed to operate upon him now at this late period since it has been given in evidence that he was seen with Marie, but it would have had no force at the period of the deed. The first impulse of an innocent man would have been to announce the outrage, and to aid in identifying the ruffians. This policy would have suggested. He had been seen with the girl. He had crossed the river with her in an open ferry-boat.

The denouncing of the assassins would have appeared, even to an idiot, the surest and sole means of relieving himself from suspicion. We can not suppose him, on the night of the fatal Sunday, both innocent himself and incognizant of an outrage committed. Yet only under such circumstances is it possible to imagine that he would have failed, if alive, in the denouncement of the assassins.

"And what means are ours of attaining the truth? We shall find these means multiplying and gathering distinctness as we proceed. Let us sift to the bottom this affair of the first elopement. Let us know the full history of 'the officer,' with his present circumstances, and his whereabout at the precise period of the murder.

Let us carefully compare with each other the various communications sent to the evening paper, in which the object was to inculpate a gang. This done, let us compare these communications, both as regards style and MS., with those sent to the morning paper, at a previous period, and insisting so vehemently upon the guilt of Mennais. And, all this done, let us again compare these various communications with the known MSS.
of the officer.

Let us endeavor to ascertain, by repeated questionings of Madame Deluc and her boys, as well as of the omnibus-driver, Valence, something more of the personal appearance and bearing of the 'man of dark complexion.' Queries, skilfully directed, will not fail to elicit, from some of these parties, information on this particular point (or upon others) information which the parties themselves may not even be aware of possessing.

And let us now trace the boat picked up by the bargeman on the morning of Monday the twenty-third of June, and which was removed from the barge-office, without the cognizance of the officer in attendance, and without the rudder, at some period prior to the discovery of the corpse. With a proper caution and perseverance we shall infallibly trace this boat; for not only can the bargeman who picked it up identify it, but the rudder is at hand. The rudder of a sail boat would not have been abandoned, without inquiry, by one altogether at ease in heart. And here let me pause to insinuate a question. There was no advertisement of the picking up of this boat.

It was silently taken to the barge-office and as silently removed. But its owner or employer how happened he, at so early a period as Tuesday morning, to be informed, without the agency of advertisement, of the locality of the boat taken up on Monday, unless we imagine some connection with the navy some personal permanent connection leading to cognizance of its minute interests its petty local news?

"In speaking of the lonely assassin dragging his burden to the shore, I have already suggested the probability of his availing himself of a boat. Now we are to understand that Marie Rogêt was precipitated from a boat. This would naturally have been the case. The corpse could not have been trusted to the shallow waters of the shore.

The peculiar marks on the back and shoulders of the victim tell of the bottom ribs of a boat. That the body was found without weight is also corroborative of the idea. If thrown from the shore a weight would have been attached. We can only account for its absence by supposing the murderer to have neglected the precaution of supplying himself with it before pushing off.

In the act of consigning the corpse to the water, he would unquestionably have noticed his oversight; but then no remedy would have been at hand. Any risk would have been preferred to a return to that accursed shore. Having rid himself of his ghastly charge, the murderer would have hastened to the city.

There, at some obscure wharf, he would have leaped on land. But the boat would he have secured it?
He would have been in too great haste for such things as securing a boat.

Moreover, in fastening it to the wharf, he would have felt as if securing evidence against himself. His natural thought would have been to cast from him, as far as possible, all that had held connection with his crime. He would not only have fled from the wharf, but he would not have permitted the boat to remain. Assuredly he would have cast it adrift.

Let us pursue our fancies. In the morning, the wretch is stricken with unutterable horror at finding that the boat has been picked up and detained at a locality which he is in the daily habit of frequenting at a locality, perhaps, which his duty compels him to frequent. The next night, without daring to ask for the rudder, he removes it.

Now where is that rudderless boat? Let it be one of our first purposes to discover. With the first glimpse we obtain of it, the dawn of our success shall begin.

This boat shall guide us, with a rapidity which will surprise even ourselves, to him who employed it in the midnight of the fatal Sabbath. Corroboration will rise upon corroboration, and the murderer will be traced. "

[For reasons which we shall not specify, but which to many readers will appear obvious, we have taken the liberty of here omitting, from the MSS.

placed in our hands, such portion as details the following up of the apparently slight clue obtained by Dupin.

We feel it advisable only to state, in brief, that the result desired was brought to pass; and that the Prefect fulfilled punctually, although with reluctance, the terms of his compact with the Chevalier. Mr. Poe's article concludes with the following words.
Eds.[24]] [24] Of the Magazine in which the article was originally published. It will be understood that I speak of coincidences and no more.

What I have said above upon this topic must suffice. In my own heart there dwells no faith in preternature.

That Nature and its God are two, no man who thinks will deny. That the latter, creating the former, can, at will, control or modify it, is also unquestionable. I say "at will"; for the question is of will, and not, as the insanity of logic has assumed, of power.

It is not that the Deity can not modify his laws, but that we insult him in imagining a possible necessity for modification. In their origin these laws were fashioned to embrace all contingencies which could lie in the Future. With God all is Now. I repeat, then, that I speak of these things only as of coincidences. And further: in what I relate it will be seen that between the fate of the unhappy Mary Cecilia Rogers, so far as that fate is known, and the fate of one Marie Rogêt up to a certain epoch in her history, there has existed a parallel in the contemplation of whose wonderful exactitude the reason becomes embarrassed.

I say all this will be seen. But let it not for a moment be supposed that, in proceeding with the sad narrative of Marie from the epoch just mentioned, and in tracing to its denouement the mystery which enshrouded her, it is my covert design to hint at an extension of the parallel, or even to suggest that the measures adopted in Paris for the discovery of the assassin of a grisette, or measures founded in any similar ratiocination, would produce any similar result.

For, in respect to the latter branch of the supposition, it should be considered that the most trifling variation in the facts of the two cases might give rise to the most important miscalculations, by diverting thoroughly the two courses of events; very much as, in arithmetic, an error which, in its own individuality, may be inappreciable, produces, at length, by dint of multiplication at all points of the process, a result enormously at variance with truth. And, in regard to the former branch, we must not fail to hold in view that the very Calculus of Probabilities to which I have referred, forbids all idea of the extension of the parallel forbids it with a positiveness strong and decided just in proportion as this parallel has already been long-drawn and exact. This is one of those anomalous propositions which, seemingly appealing to thought altogether apart from the mathematical, is yet one which only the mathematician can fully entertain. Nothing, for example, is more difficult than to convince the merely general reader that the fact of sixes having been thrown twice in succession by a player at dice, is sufficient cause for betting the largest odds that sixes will not be thrown in the third attempt.

A suggestion to this effect is usually rejected by the intellect at once. It does not appear that the two throws which have been completed, and which lie now absolutely in the Past, can have influence upon the throw which exists only in the Future. The chance for throwing sixes seems to be precisely as it was at any ordinary time that is to say, subject only to the influence of the various other throws which may be made by the dice.

And this is a reflection which appears so exceedingly obvious that attempts to controvert it are received more frequently with a derisive smile than with anything like respectful attention. The error here involved a gross error redolent of mischief I can not pretend to expose within the limits assigned me at present; with the philosophical it needs no exposure. It may be sufficient here to say that it forms one of an infinite series of mistakes which arise in the path of Reason through her propensity for seeking truth in detail.

THE PURLOINED LETTER BY EDGAR ALLAN POE This story, as may be seen from the opening paragraph, also concerns itself with that remarkable detective, M. Dupin.

Edmund Clarence Stedman considers it superior to the two stories that precede it, but Brander Matthews says that nothing better of their kind has ever been done than "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" and "The Purloined Letter"; thus awarding equal praise to the first story and the third story. THE PURLOINED LETTER By EDGAR ALLAN POE Nil sapientiæ odiosius acumine nimio. Seneca At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18 , I was enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my friend, C. Auguste Dupin, in his little back library, or book-closet, au troisieme, No. 33

Rue Dunot, Faubourg St. Germain. For one hour at least we had maintained a profound silence; while each, to any casual observer, might have seemed intently and exclusively occupied with the curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber. For myself, however, I was mentally discussing certain topics which had formed matter for conversation between us at an earlier period of the evening; I mean the affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery attending the murder of Marie Rogêt.

I looked upon it, therefore, as something of a coincidence, when the door of our apartment was thrown open and admitted our old acquaintance, Monsieur G, the Prefect of the Parisian police. We gave him a hearty welcome; for there was nearly half as much of the entertaining as of the contemptible about the man, and we had not seen him for several years. We had been sitting in the dark, and Dupin now arose for the purpose of lighting a lamp, but sat down again, without doing so, upon G's saying that he had called to consult us, or rather to ask the opinion of my friend, about some official business which had occasioned a great deal of trouble. "If it is any point requiring reflection," observed Dupin, as he forebore to enkindle the wick, "we shall examine it to better purpose in the dark.

"

"That is another of your odd notions," said the Prefect, who had the fashion of calling everything "odd" that was beyond his comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of "oddities. "
"Very true," said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor with a pipe, and rolled toward him a comfortable chair. "And what is the difficulty now?"
I asked. "Nothing more in the assassination way, I hope?"

"Oh, no; nothing of that nature.

The fact is, the business is very simple indeed, and I make no doubt that we can manage it sufficiently well ourselves; but then I thought Dupin would like to hear the details of it, because it is so excessively odd." "Simple and odd!" said Dupin. "Why, yes; and not exactly that either.

The fact is, we have all been a good deal puzzled because the affair is so simple, and yet baffles us altogether." "Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing which puts you at fault," said my friend. "What nonsense you do talk!" replied the Prefect, laughing heartily. "Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain," said Dupin.

"Oh, good heavens!
who ever heard of such an idea?"
"A little too self-evident. "

"Ha! ha!

ha! ha!
ha! ha! ho! ho! ho!" roared our visitor, profoundly amused, "oh, Dupin, you will be the death of me yet!" "And what, after all, is the matter on hand?"
I asked. "Why, I will tell you," replied the Prefect, as he gave a long, steady, and contemplative puff, and settled himself in his chair. "I will tell you in a few words; but, before I begin, let me caution you that this is an affair demanding the greatest secrecy, and that I should most probably lose the position I now hold, were it known that I confided it to any one."
"Proceed," said I. "Or not," said Dupin.

"Well, then; I have received personal information, from a very high quarter, that a certain document of the last importance has been purloined from the royal apartments. The individual who purloined it is known; this beyond a doubt; he was seen to take it. It is known, also, that it still remains in his possession. "

"How is this known?" asked Dupin.

"It is clearly inferred," replied the Prefect, "from the nature of the document, and from the non-appearance of certain results which would at once arise from its passing out of the robber's possession that is to say, from his employing it as he must design in the end to employ it."
"Be a little more explicit," I said. "Well, I may venture so far as to say that the paper gives its holder a certain power in a certain quarter where such power is immensely valuable. "

The Prefect was fond of the cant of diplomacy.

"Still I do not quite understand," said Dupin. "No?

Well; the disclosure of the document to a third person, who shall be nameless, would bring in question the honor of a personage of most exalted station; and this fact gives the holder of the document an ascendency over the illustrious personage whose honor and peace are so jeopardized."

"But this ascendency," I interposed, "would depend upon the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber. Who would dare " "The thief," said G, "is the Minister D, who dares all things, those unbecoming as well as those becoming a man. The method of the theft was not less ingenious than bold.

The document in question a letter, to be frank had been received by the personage robbed while alone in the royal boudoir. During its perusal she was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the other exalted personage from whom especially it was her wish to conceal it. After a hurried and vain endeavor to thrust it in a drawer, she was forced to place it, open as it was, upon a table. The address, however, was uppermost, and, the contents thus unexposed, the letter escaped notice.

At this juncture enters the Minister D. His lynx eye immediately perceives the paper, recognizes the handwriting of the address, observes the confusion of the personage addressed, and fathoms her secret. After some business transactions, hurried through in his ordinary manner, he produces a letter somewhat similar to the one in question, opens it, pretends to read it, and then places it in close juxtaposition to the other. Again he converses, for some fifteen minutes, upon the public affairs.

At length, in taking leave, he takes also from the table the letter to which he had no claim. Its rightful owner saw, but, of course, dared not call attention to the act, in the presence of the third personage who stood at her elbow. The minister decamped; leaving his own letter one of no importance upon the table."

"Here, then," said Dupin to me, "you have precisely what you demand to make the ascendency complete the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber. "

"Yes," replied the Prefect; "and the power thus attained has, for some months past, been wielded, for political purposes, to a very dangerous extent. The personage robbed is more thoroughly convinced, every day, of the necessity of reclaiming her letter.

But this, of course, can not be done openly.

In fine, driven to despair, she has committed the matter to me." "Than whom," said Dupin, amid a perfect whirlwind of smoke, "no more sagacious agent could, I suppose, be desired, or even imagined." "You flatter me," replied the Prefect; "but it is possible that some such opinion may have been entertained.

"
"It is clear," said I, "as you observe, that the letter is still in the possession of the minister; since it is this possession, and not any employment of the letter, which bestows the power. With the employment the power departs. "

"True," said G; "and upon this conviction I proceeded. My first care was to make thorough search of the minister's hotel; and here my chief embarrassment lay in the necessity of searching without his knowledge.

Beyond all things, I have been warned of the danger which would result from giving him reason to suspect our design. "

"But," said I, "you are quite au fait in these investigations. The Parisian police have done this thing often before."
"Oh, yes; and for this reason I did not despair. The habits of the minister gave me, too, a great advantage.

He is frequently absent from home all night. His servants are by no means numerous. They sleep at a distance from their master's apartment, and, being chiefly Neapolitans, are readily made drunk. I have keys, as you know, with which I can open any chamber or cabinet in Paris. For three months a night has not passed, during the greater part of which I have not been engaged, personally, in ransacking the D Hotel.

My honor is interested, and, to mention a great secret, the reward is enormous. So I did not abandon the search until I had become fully satisfied that the thief is a more astute man than myself. I fancy that I have investigated every nook and corner of the premises in which it is possible that the paper can be concealed. "

"But is it not possible," I suggested, "that although the letter may be in possession of the minister, as it unquestionably is, he may have concealed it elsewhere than upon his own premises?"
"This is barely possible," said Dupin. "The present peculiar condition of affairs at court, and especially of those intrigues in which D is known to be involved, would render the instant availability of the document its susceptibility of being produced at a moment's notice a point of nearly equal importance with its possession."
"Its susceptibility of being produced?" said I. "That is to say, of being destroyed," said Dupin.

"True," I observed; "the paper is clearly then upon the premises. As for its being upon the person of the minister, we may consider that as out of the question. "

"Entirely," said the Prefect. "He has been twice waylaid, as if by footpads, and his person rigidly searched under my own inspection.

"

"You might have spared yourself this trouble," said Dupin. "D, I presume, is not altogether a fool, and, if not, must have anticipated these waylayings, as a matter of course. " "Not altogether a fool," said G, "but then he is a poet, which I take to be only one remove from a fool.

"

"True," said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from his meerschaum, "although I have been guilty of certain doggerel myself. "

"Suppose you detail," said I, "the particulars of your search. "

"Why, the fact is, we took our time, and we searched everywhere. I have had long experience in these affairs.

I took the entire building, room by room; devoting the nights of a whole week to each. We examined, first, the furniture of each department. We opened every possible drawer; and I presume you know that, to a properly trained police-agent, such a thing as a 'secret' drawer is impossible. Any man is a dolt who permits a 'secret' drawer to escape him in a search of this kind. The thing is so plain.

There is a certain amount of bulk of space to be accounted for in every cabinet. Then we have accurate rules. The fiftieth part of a line could not escape us. After the cabinets we took the chairs.

The cushions we probed with the fine long needles you have seen me employ. From the tables we removed the tops. "

"Why so?"
"Sometimes the top of a table, or other similarly arranged piece of furniture, is removed by the person wishing to conceal an article; then the leg is excavated, the article deposited within the cavity, and the top replaced. The bottoms and tops of bedposts are employed in the same way."
"But could not the cavity be detected by sounding?"

I asked. "By no means, if, when the article is deposited, a sufficient wadding of cotton be placed around it.

Besides, in our case, we were obliged to proceed without noise.
" "But you could not have removed you could not have taken to pieces all articles of furniture in which it would have been possible to make a deposit in the manner you mention. A letter may be compressed into a thin spiral roll, not differing much in shape or bulk from a large knitting-needle, and in this form it might be inserted into the rung of a chair, for example.

You did not take to pieces all the chairs?"
"Certainly not; but we did better we examined the rungs of every chair in the hotel, and, indeed, the jointings of every description of furniture, by the aid of a most powerful microscope. Had there been any traces of recent disturbance we should not have failed to detect it instantly. A single grain of gimlet-dust, for example, would have been as obvious as an apple.

Any disorder in the gluing any unusual gaping in the joints would have sufficed to ensure detection. "

"I presume you looked to the mirrors, between the boards and the plates, and you probed the beds and the bedclothes, as well as the curtains and carpets."

"That of course; and when we had absolutely completed every particle of the furniture in this way, then we examined the house itself. We divided its entire surface into compartments, which we numbered, so that none might be missed; then we scrutinized each individual square inch throughout the premises, including the two houses immediately adjoining, with the microscope, as before. "

"The two houses adjoining! "

I exclaimed; "you must have had a great deal of trouble." "We had; but the reward offered is prodigious. "

"You include the ground about the houses?"
"All the grounds are paved with brick. They gave us comparatively little trouble.

We examined the moss between the bricks, and found it undisturbed. "
"You looked among D's papers, of course, and into the books of the library?"

"Certainly; we opened every package and parcel; we not only opened every book, but we turned over every leaf in each volume, not contenting ourselves with a mere shake, according to the fashion of some of our police officers. We also measured the thickness of every book-cover, with the most accurate admeasurement, and applied to each the most jealous scrutiny of the microscope. Had any of the bindings been recently meddled with, it would have been utterly impossible that the fact should have escaped observation.

Some five or six volumes, just from the hands of the binder, we carefully probed, longitudinally, with the needles."
"You explored the floors beneath the carpets?"

"Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet, and examined the boards with the microscope."
"And the paper on the walls?"
"Yes."
"You looked into the cellars?"

"We did. "

"Then," I said, "you have been making a miscalculation, and the letter is not upon the premises, as you suppose.

"

"I fear you are right there," said the Prefect. "And now, Dupin, what would you advise me to do?"

"To make a thorough research of the premises. "

"That is absolutely needless," replied G.
"I am not more sure that I breathe than I am that the letter is not at the hotel. "
"I have no better advice to give you," said Dupin. "You have, of course, an accurate description of the letter?"
"Oh, yes!"

And here the Prefect, producing a memorandum-book, proceeded to read aloud a minute account of the internal, and especially of the external appearance of the missing document.

Soon after finishing the perusal of this description, he took his departure, more entirely depressed in spirits than I had ever known the good gentleman before. In about a month afterward he paid us another visit, and found us occupied very nearly as before. He took a pipe and a chair and entered into some ordinary conversation. At length I said: "Well, but, G, what of the purloined letter?

I presume you have at last made up your mind that there is no such thing as overreaching the minister?"

"Confound him, say I yes; I made the reexamination, however, as Dupin suggested but it was all labor lost, as I knew it would be."
"How much was the reward offered, did you say?" asked Dupin. "Why, a very great deal a very liberal reward I don't like to say how much, precisely; but one thing I will say, that I wouldn't mind giving my individual check for fifty thousand francs to any one who could obtain me that letter. The fact is, it is becoming of more and more importance every day; and the reward has been lately doubled. If it were trebled, however, I could do no more than I have done. "

"Why, yes," said Dupin, drawlingly between the whiffs of his meerschaum, "I really think, G, you have not exerted yourself to the utmost in this matter.

You might do a little more, I think, eh?"

"How?
in what way?"
"Why puff, puff you might puff, puff employ counsel in the matter, eh? puff, puff, puff. Do you remember the story they tell of Abernethy?"

"No; hang Abernethy!"

"To be sure!
hang him and welcome. But, once upon a time, a certain rich miser conceived the design of sponging upon this Abernethy for a medical opinion.

Getting up, for this purpose, an ordinary conversation in a private company, he insinuated his case to the physician, as that of an imaginary individual.

"'We will suppose,' said the miser, 'that his symptoms are such and such; now, doctor, what would you have directed him to take?' "'Take!' said Abernethy, 'why, take advice to be sure.'" "But," said the Prefect, a little discomposed, "I am perfectly willing to take advice, and to pay for it. I would really give fifty thousand francs to any one who would aid me in the matter."
"In that case," replied Dupin, opening a drawer, and producing a check-book, "you may as well fill me up a check for the amount mentioned.

When you have signed it, I will hand you the letter. "
I was astounded. The Prefect appeared absolutely thunder-stricken. For some minutes he remained speechless and motionless, looking incredulously at my friend, with open mouth and eyes that seemed starting from their sockets; then apparently recovering himself in some measure, he seized a pen, and after several pauses and vacant stares, finally filled up and signed a check for fifty thousand francs, and handed it across the table to Dupin.

The latter examined it carefully and deposited it in his pocket-book; then, unlocking an escritoire, took thence a letter and gave it to the Prefect. This functionary grasped it in a perfect agony of joy, opened it with a trembling hand, cast a rapid glance at its contents, and then scrambling and struggling to the door, rushed at length unceremoniously from the room and from the house, without having uttered a syllable since Dupin had requested him to fill up the check. When he had gone, my friend entered into some explanations.

"The Parisian police," he said, "are exceedingly able in their way. They are persevering, ingenious, cunning, and thoroughly versed in the knowledge which their duties seem chiefly to demand. Thus, when G detailed to us his mode of searching the premises at the Hotel D, I felt entire confidence in his having made a satisfactory investigation so far as his labors extended. "
"So far as his labors extended?" said I. "Yes," said Dupin.

"The measures adopted were not only the best of their kind, but carried out to absolute perfection.

Had the letter been deposited within the range of their search, these fellows would, beyond a question, have found it. "

I merely laughed but he seemed quite serious in all that he said. "The measures, then," he continued, "were good in their kind, and well executed; their defect lay in their being inapplicable to the case and to the man.

A certain set of highly ingenious resources are, with the Prefect, a sort of Procrustean bed, to which he forcibly adapts his designs. But he perpetually errs by being too deep or too shallow for the matter in hand; and many a schoolboy is a better reasoner than he.

I knew one about eight years of age, whose success at guessing in the game of 'even and odd' attracted universal admiration. This game is simple, and is played with marbles. One player holds in his hand a number of these toys, and demands of another whether that number is even or odd.

If the guess is right, the guesser wins one; if wrong, he loses one. The boy to whom I allude won all the marbles of the school. Of course he had some principle of guessing; and this lay in mere observation and admeasurement of the astuteness of his opponents. For example, an arrant simpleton is his opponent, and holding up his closed hand, asks, 'Are they even or odd?'

Our schoolboy replies, 'Odd,' and loses; but upon the second trial he wins, for he then says to himself: 'The simpleton had them even upon the first trial, and his amount of cunning is just sufficient to make him have them odd upon the second; I will therefore guess odd'; he guesses odd, and wins.

Now, with a simpleton a degree above the first, he would have reasoned thus: 'This fellow finds that in the first instance I guessed odd, and, in the second, he will propose to himself, upon the first impulse, a simple variation from even to odd, as did the first simpleton; but then a second thought will suggest that this is too simple a variation, and finally he will decide upon putting it even as before. I will therefore guess even'; he guesses even, and wins. Now this mode of reasoning in the school-boy, whom his fellows termed 'lucky' what, in its last analysis, is it?"
"It is merely," I said, "an identification of the reasoner's intellect with that of his opponent. "

"It is," said Dupin; "and, upon inquiring of the boy by what means he effected the thorough identification in which his success consisted, I received answer as follows: 'When I wish to find out how wise, or how stupid, or how good, or how wicked is any one, or what are his thoughts at the moment, I fashion the expression of my face, as accurately as possible, in accordance with the expression of his, and then wait to see what thoughts or sentiments arise in my mind or heart, as if to match or correspond with the expression.'

This response of the schoolboy lies at the bottom of all the spurious profundity which has been attributed to Rochefoucauld, to La Bougive, to Machiavelli, and to Campanella. "

"And the identification," I said, "of the reasoner's intellect with that of his opponent depends, if I understand you aright, upon the accuracy with which the opponent's intellect is admeasured."
"For its practical value it depends upon this," replied Dupin; "and the Prefect and his cohort fail so frequently, first by default of this identification, and, secondly, by ill-admeasurement, or rather through non-admeasurement, of the intellect with which they are engaged. They consider only their own ideas of ingenuity; and, in searching for anything hidden advert only to the modes in which they would have hidden it. They are right in this much that their own ingenuity is a faithful representative of that of the mass; but when the cunning of the individual felon is diverse in character from their own, the felon foils them, of course.

This always happens when it is above their own, and very usually when it is below. They have no variation of principle in their investigations; at best, when urged by some unusual emergency by some extraordinary reward they extend or exaggerate their old modes of practise, without touching their principles. What, for example, in this case of D, has been done to vary the principle of action?
What is all this boring, and probing, and sounding, and scrutinizing with the microscope, and dividing the surface of the building into registered square inches what is it all but an exaggeration of the application of the one principle or set of principles of search, which are based upon the one set of notions regarding human ingenuity, to which the Prefect, in the long routine of his duty, has been accustomed?

Do you not see he has taken it for granted that all men proceed to conceal a letter, not exactly in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg, but, at least, in some out-of-the-way hole or corner suggested by the same tenor of thought which would urge a man to secrete a letter in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg? And do you not see also that such recherche nooks for concealment are adapted only for ordinary occasions, and would be adopted only by ordinary intellects; for, in all cases of concealment, a disposal of the article concealed a disposal of it in this recherche manner is in the very first instance presumable and presumed; and thus its discovery depends, not at all upon the acumen, but altogether upon the care, patience, and determination of the seekers; and where the case is of importance or, what amounts to the same thing in the political eyes, when the reward is of magnitude the qualities in question have never been known to fail.

You will now understand what I meant in suggesting that, had the purloined letter been hidden anywhere within the limits of the Prefect's examination in other words, had the principle of its concealment been comprehended within the principles of the Prefect its discovery would have been a matter altogether beyond question. This functionary, however, has been thoroughly mystified; and the remote source of his defeat lies in the supposition that the minister is a fool, because he has acquired renown as a poet. All fools are poets; this the Prefect feels; and he is merely guilty of a non distributio medii in thence inferring that all poets are fools."

"But is this really the poet?"
I asked. "There are two brothers, I know; and both have attained reputation in letters. The minister, I believe, has written learnedly on the Differential Calculus. He is a mathematician, and no poet. "

"You are mistaken; I know him well; he is both. As poet and mathematician, he would reason well; as mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned at all, and thus would have been at the mercy of the Prefect. "

"You surprise me," I said, "by these opinions, which have been contradicted by the voice of the world.

You do not mean to set at naught the well-digested idea of centuries. The mathematical reason has long been regarded as the reason par excellence. "'Il y a a parier,'" replied Dupin, quoting from Chamfort, "'que toute idee publique, toute convention recue, est une sottise, car elle a convenue au plus grand nombre.'

The mathematicians, I grant you, have done their best to promulgate the popular error to which you allude, and which is none the less an error for its promulgation as truth. With an art worthy a better cause, for example, they have insinuated the term 'analysis' into application to algebra.

The French are the originators of this particular deception; but if a term is of any importance if words derive any value from applicability then 'analysis' conveys 'algebra' about as much as, in Latin, 'ambitus' implies 'ambition,' 'religio' 'religion,' or 'homines honesti' a set of honorable men. "

"You have a quarrel on hand, I see," said I, "with some of the algebraists of Paris; but proceed. "

"I dispute the availability, and thus the value, of that reason which is cultivated in any special form other than the abstractly logical. I dispute, in particular, the reason educed by mathematical study. The mathematics are the science of form and quantity; mathematical reasoning is merely logic applied to observation upon form and quantity.

The great error lies in supposing that even the truths of what is called pure algebra are abstract or general truths. And this error is so egregious that I am confounded at the universality with which it has been received. Mathematical axioms are not axioms of general truth. What is true of relation of form and quantity is often grossly false in regard to morals, for example.

In this latter science it is very usually untrue that the aggregated parts are equal to the whole. In chemistry also the axiom fails. In the consideration of motive it fails; for two motives, each of a given value, have not, necessarily, a value when united, equal to the sum of their values apart. There are numerous other mathematical truths which are only truths within the limits of relation.

But the mathematician argues from his finite truths, through habit, as if they were of an absolutely general applicability as the world indeed imagines them to be.

"Bryant, in his very learned 'Mythology,' mentions an analogous source of error, when he says that 'although the pagan fables are not believed, yet we forget ourselves continually, and make inferences from them as existing realities.' With the algebraists, however, who are pagans themselves, the 'pagan fables' are believed, and the inferences are made, not so much through lapse of memory as through an unaccountable addling of the brains. In short, I never yet encountered the mere mathematician who could be trusted out of equal roots, or one who did not clandestinely hold it as a point of his faith that x^2+px was absolutely and unconditionally equal to q. Say to one of these gentlemen, by way of experiment, if you please, that you believe occasions may occur where x^2+px is not altogether equal to q, and, having made him understand what you mean, get out of his reach as speedily as convenient, for, beyond doubt, he will endeavor to knock you down. "I mean to say," continued Dupin, while I merely laughed at his last observations, "that if the minister had been no more than a mathematician, the Prefect would have been under no necessity of giving me this check. I knew him, however, as both mathematician and poet, and my measures were adapted to his capacity, with reference to the circumstances by which he was surrounded.

I knew him as a courtier, too, and as a bold intriguant. Such a man, I considered, could not fail to be aware of the ordinary political modes of action. He could not have failed to anticipate and events have proved that he did not fail to anticipate the waylayings to which he was subjected.

He must have foreseen, I reflected, the secret investigations of his premises. His frequent absences from home at night, which were hailed by the Prefect as certain aids to his success, I regarded only as ruses, to afford opportunity for thorough search to the police, and thus the sooner to impress them with the conviction to which G, in fact, did finally arrive the conviction that the letter was not upon the premises. I felt, also, that the whole train of thought, which I was at some pains in detailing to you just now, concerning the invariable principle of political action in searches for articles concealed I felt that this whole train of thought would necessarily pass through the mind of the minister. It would imperatively lead him to despise all the ordinary nooks of concealment. He could not, I reflected, be so weak as not to see that the most intricate and remote recess of his hotel would be as open as his commonest closets to the eyes, to the probes, to the gimlets, and to the microscopes of the Prefect.

I saw, in fine, that he would be driven, as a matter of course, to simplicity, if not deliberately induced to it as a matter of choice. You will remember, perhaps, how desperately the Prefect laughed when I suggested, upon our first interview, that it was just possible this mystery troubled him so much on account of its being so very self-evident." "Yes," said I, "I remember his merriment well.

I really thought he would have fallen into convulsions. "

"The material world," continued Dupin, "abounds with very strict analogies to the immaterial; and thus some color of truth has been given to the rhetorical dogma, that metaphor, or simile, may be made to strengthen an argument as well as to embellish a description. The principle of the vis inertiæ, for example, seems to be identical in physics and metaphysics.

It is not more true in the former, that a large body is with more difficulty set in motion than a smaller one, and that its subsequent momentum is commensurate with this difficulty, than it is, in the latter, that intellects of the vaster capacity, while more forcible, more constant, and more eventful in their movements than those of inferior grade, are yet the less readily moved, and more embarrassed, and full of hesitation in the first few steps of their progress. Again: have you ever noticed which of the street signs, over the shop doors, are the most attractive of attention?"

"I have never given the matter a thought," I said. "There is a game of puzzles," he resumed, "which is played upon a map.

One party playing requires another to find a given word the name of town, river, state, or empire any word, in short, upon the motley and perplexed surface of the chart. A novice in the game generally seeks to embarrass his opponents by giving them the most minutely lettered names; but the adept selects such words as stretch, in large characters, from one end of the chart to the other. These, like the over-largely lettered signs and placards of the street, escape observation by dint of being excessively obvious; and here the physical oversight is precisely analogous with the moral inapprehension by which the intellect suffers to pass unnoticed those considerations which are too obtrusively and too palpably self-evident. But this is a point, it appears, somewhat above or beneath the understanding of the Prefect.

He never once thought it probable, or possible, that the minister had deposited the letter immediately beneath the nose of the whole world by way of best preventing any portion of that world from perceiving it. "But the more I reflected upon the daring, dashing, and discriminating ingenuity of D; upon the fact that the document must always have been at hand, if he intended to use it to good purpose; and upon the decisive evidence, obtained by the Prefect, that it was not hidden within the limits of that dignitary's ordinary search the more satisfied I became that, to conceal this letter, the minister had resorted to the comprehensive and sagacious expedient of not attempting to conceal it at all. "Full of these ideas, I prepared myself with a pair of green spectacles, and called one fine morning, quite by accident, at the Ministerial hotel.

I found D at home, yawning, lounging, and dawdling, as usual, and pretending to be in the last extremity of ennui. He is, perhaps, the most really energetic human being now alive but that is only when nobody sees him. "To be even with him, I complained of my weak eyes, and lamented the necessity of the spectacles, under cover of which I cautiously and thoroughly surveyed the whole apartment, while seemingly intent only upon the conversation of my host. "I paid especial attention to a large writing-table near which he sat, and upon which lay confusedly, some miscellaneous letters and other papers, with one or two musical instruments and a few books. Here, however, after a long and very deliberate scrutiny, I saw nothing to excite particular suspicion.

"At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the room, fell upon a trumpery filigree card-rack of pasteboard, that hung dangling by a dirty blue ribbon, from a little brass knob just beneath the middle of the mantelpiece. In this rack, which had three or four compartments, were five or six visiting cards and a solitary letter. This last was much soiled and crumpled. It was torn nearly in two, across the middle as if a design, in the first instance, to tear it entirely up as worthless, had been altered or stayed in the second.

It had a large black seal, bearing the D cipher very conspicuously, and was addressed, in a diminutive female hand, to D, the minister, himself. It was thrust carelessly, and even, as it seemed, contemptuously, into one of the uppermost divisions of the rack. "No sooner had I glanced at this letter than I concluded it to be that of which I was in search. To be sure, it was, to all appearance, radically different from the one of which the Prefect had read us so minute a description. Here the seal was large and black, with the D cipher; there it was small and red, with the ducal arms of the S family.

Here, the address, to the minister, was diminutive and feminine; there the superscription, to a certain royal personage, was markedly bold and decided; the size alone formed a point of correspondence. But, then, the radicalness of these differences, which was excessive; the dirt; the soiled and torn condition of the paper, so inconsistent with the true methodical habits of D, and so suggestive of a design to delude the beholder into an idea of the worthlessness of the document these things, together with the hyper obtrusive situation of this document, full in the view of every visitor, and thus exactly in accordance with the conclusions to which I had previously arrived; these things, I say, were strongly corroborative of suspicion, in one who came with the intention to suspect.

"I protracted my visit as long as possible, and while I maintained a most animated discussion with the minister, upon a topic which I knew well had never failed to interest and excite him, I kept my attention really riveted upon the letter. In this examination, I committed to memory its external appearance and arrangement in the rack; and also fell at length, upon a discovery which set at rest whatever trivial doubt I might have entertained. In scrutinizing the edges of the paper, I observed them to be more chafed than seemed necessary. They presented the broken appearance which is manifested when a stiff paper, having been once folded and pressed with a folder, is refolded in a reversed direction, in the same creases or edges which had formed the original fold.

This discovery was sufficient. It was clear to me that the letter had been turned as a glove, inside out, redirected and resealed. I bade the minister good-morning, and took my departure at once, leaving a gold snuff-box upon the table. "The next morning I called for the snuff-box, when we resumed, quite eagerly, the conversation of the preceding day. While thus engaged, however, a loud report, as if of a pistol, was heard immediately beneath the windows of the hotel, and was succeeded by a series of fearful screams, and the shoutings of a terrified mob.

D rushed to a casement, threw it open, and looked out. In the meantime I stepped to the card-rack, took the letter, put it in my pocket, and replaced it by a facsimile (so far as regards externals) which I had carefully prepared at my lodgings imitating the D cipher, very readily, by means of a seal formed of bread. "The disturbance in the street had been occasioned by the frantic behavior of a man with a musket. He had fired it among a crowd of women and children. It proved, however, to have been without ball, and the fellow was suffered to go his way as a lunatic or a drunkard.

When he had gone, D came from the window, whither I had followed him immediately upon securing the object in view. Soon afterward I bade him farewell. The pretended lunatic was a man in my own pay.

"

"But what purpose had you," I asked, "in replacing the letter by a facsimile. Would it not have been better, at the first visit, to have seized it openly, and departed?"
"D," replied Dupin, "is a desperate man, and a man of nerve. His hotel, too, is not without attendants devoted to his interests.

Had I made the wild attempt you suggest, I might never have left the Ministerial presence alive. The good people of Paris might have heard of me no more. But I had an object apart from these considerations.

You know my political prepossessions. In this matter, I act as a partizan of the lady concerned. For eighteen months the minister has had her in his power.

She has now him in hers since, being unaware that the letter is not in his possession, he will proceed with his exactions as if it were. Thus will he commit himself, at once, to his political destruction. His downfall, too, will not be more precipitate than awkward. It is all very well to talk about the facilis descensus Averni; but in all kinds of climbing, as Catalani said of singing, it is far more easy to get up than to come down.

In the present instance I have no sympathy at least no pity for him who descends. He is that monstram horrendum, an unprincipled man of genius. I confess, however, that I should like very well to know the precise character of his thoughts, when, being defied by her whom the Prefect terms 'a certain personage,' he is reduced to opening the letter which I left for him in the card-rack. "

"How? did you put anything particular in it?"
"Why it did not seem altogether right to leave the interior blank that would have been insulting.

D, at Vienna once, did me an evil turn, which I told him, quite good-humoredly, that I should remember. So, as I knew he would feel some curiosity in regard to the identity of the person who had outwitted him, I thought it a pity not to give him a clue. He is well acquainted with my MS., and I just copied into the middle of the blank sheet the words: "' Un dessein si funeste, S' il n' est digne d' Atree, est digne de Thyeste.'

They are to be found in Crébillon's 'Atrée.' " THE SIGN OF THE FOUR BY SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is undoubtedly the most popular living writer of detective fiction. Sherlock Holmes is said to have been suggested to the author by a study of the character and talents of Joseph Bell, M.D., F.R.C.S., a professor, while Dr. Doyle was a student at Edinburgh University. He was particularly strong on what the author calls "the science of deduction.

"

He used to tell the students their symptoms, and would even give them details of their past life. No collection of famous detective stories would be complete that omitted "The Sign of the Four."
THE SIGN OF THE FOUR By SIR ARTHUR

CONAN DOYLE  CHAPTER I

The Science of Deduction Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist, all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sunk back into the velvet-lined armchair with a long sigh of satisfaction.

Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance, but custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from day to day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked the courage to protest. Again and again I had registered a vow that I should deliver my soul upon the subject, but there was that in the cool, nonchalant air of my companion which made him the last man with whom one would care to take anything approaching to a liberty. His great powers, his masterly manner, and the experience which I had had of his many extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in crossing him.

Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the claret which I had taken with my lunch, or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no longer.

"Which is it to-day?" I asked. "Morphine or cocaine?"
He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which he had opened. "It is cocaine," he said; "a seven per cent solution. Would you care to try it?"

"No, indeed," I answered, bruskly.

"My constitution has not got over the Afghan campaign yet. I can not afford to throw any extra strain upon it. "

He smiled at my vehemence. "Perhaps you are right, Watson," he said.

"I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. I find it, however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that its secondary action is a matter of small moment."
"But consider!"
I said, earnestly. "Count the cost!
Your brain may, as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid process, which involves increased tissue-change, and may at last leave a permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black reaction comes upon you.

Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed?
Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to another, but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is to some extent answerable. "

He did not seem offended.

On the contrary, he put his finger-tips together and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who has a relish for conversation. "My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation.

Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere, I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence.

I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own particular profession or rather created it, for I am the only one in the world." "The only unofficial detective?"
I said, raising my eyebrows. "The only unofficial consulting detective," he answered.

"I am the last and highest court of appeal in detection. When Gregson, or Lestrade, or Athelney Jones are out of their depths which, by the way, is their normal state the matter is laid before me. I examine the data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist's opinion. I claim no credit in such cases.

My name figures in no newspaper. The work itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my highest reward. But you have yourself had some experience of my methods of work in the Jefferson Hope case.

"

"Yes, indeed," said I, cordially. "I was never so struck by anything in my life. I even embodied it in a small brochure with the somewhat fantastic title of 'A Study in Scarlet.' "

He shook his head sadly. "I glanced over it," said he.

"Honestly, I can not congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid. "

"But the romance was there," I remonstrated.

"I could not tamper with the facts. "

"Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point in the case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from effects to causes by which I succeeded in unraveling it. " I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been specially designed to please him.

I confess, too, that I was irritated by the egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet should be devoted to his own special doings. More than once during the years that I had lived with him in Baker Street I had observed that a small vanity underlay my companion's quiet and didactic manner. I made no remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded leg. I had had a Jezail bullet through it some time before, and though it did not prevent me from walking, it ached wearily at every change of the weather.

"My practise has extended recently to the Continent," said Holmes, after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe. "I was consulted last week by François le Villard, who, as you probably know, has come rather to the front lately in the French detective service. He has all the Celtic power of quick intuition, but he is deficient in the wide range of exact knowledge which is essential to the higher developments of his art.

The case was concerned with a will, and possessed some features of interest. I was able to refer him to two parallel cases; the one at Riga in 1857, and the other at St. Louis in 1871, which have suggested to him the true solution. Here is the letter which I had this morning acknowledging my assistance. "

He tossed over, as he spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign note-paper.

I glanced my eyes down it, catching a profusion of notes of admiration, with stray "magnifiques," "coup-de-maîtres," and "tours-de-force," all testifying to the ardent admiration of the Frenchman. "He speaks as a pupil to his master," said I. "Oh, he rates my assistance too highly," said Sherlock Holmes, lightly. "He has considerable gifts himself.

He possesses two out of the three qualities necessary for the ideal detective. He has the power of observation and that of deduction. He is only wanting in knowledge; and that may come in time.

He is now translating my small works into French. "

"Your works?"
"Oh, didn't you know?" he cried, laughing. "Yes, I have been guilty of several monographs.

They are all upon technical subjects. Here, for example, is one 'Upon the Distinction Between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos.'

In it I enumerate a hundred and forty forms of cigar, cigarette, and pipe tobacco, with colored plates illustrating the difference in the ash. It is a point which is continually turning up in criminal trials, and which is sometimes of supreme importance as a clue. If you can say definitely, for example, that some murder has been done by a man who was smoking an Indian lunkah, it obviously narrows your field of search. To the trained eye there is as much difference between the black ash of a Trichinopoly and the white fluff of bird's-eye as there is between a cabbage and a potato.

"
"You have an extraordinary genius for minutiæ," I remarked. "I appreciate their importance. Here is my monograph upon the tracing of footsteps, with some remarks upon the uses of plaster of Paris as a preserver of impresses.

Here, too, is a curious little work upon the influence of a trade upon the form of the hand, with lithotypes of the hands of slaters, sailors, cork-cutters, compositors, weavers, and diamond-polishers.

That is a matter of great practical interest to the scientific detective especially in cases of unclaimed bodies, or in discovering the antecedents of criminals. But I weary you with my hobby.

" "Not at all," I answered, earnestly. "It is of the greatest interest to me, especially since I have had the opportunity of observing your practical application of it. But you spoke just now of observation and deduction.

Surely the one to some extent implies the other." "Why, hardly," he answered, leaning back luxuriously in his armchair, and sending up thick blue wreaths from his pipe. "For example, observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore Street Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know that when there you despatched a telegram."
"Right!" said I. "Right on both points!

But I confess that I don't see how you arrived at it.

It was a sudden impulse upon my part, and I have mentioned it to no one." "It is simplicity itself," he remarked, chuckling at my surprise; "so absurdly simple that an explanation is superfluous; and yet it may serve to define the limits of observation and of deduction. Observation tells me that you have a little reddish mold adhering to your instep. Just opposite the Wigmore Street Office they have taken up the pavement and thrown up some earth which lies in such a way that it is difficult to avoid treading in it in entering.

The earth is of this peculiar reddish tint which is found, so far as I know, nowhere else in the neighborhood. So much is observation. The rest is deduction. "

"How, then, did you deduce the telegram?"
"Why, of course I knew that you had not written a letter, since I sat opposite to you all the morning.

I see also in your open desk there that you have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of post-cards. What could you go into the postoffice for, then, but to send a wire?
Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the truth." "In this case it certainly is so," I replied, after a little thought. "The thing, however, is, as you say, of the simplest.

Would you think me impertinent if I were to put your theories to a more severe test?"
"On the contrary," he answered, "it would prevent me from taking a second dose of cocaine. I should be delighted to look into any problem which you might submit to me." "I have heard you say that it is difficult for a man to have any object in daily use without leaving the impress of his individuality upon it in such a way that a trained observer might read it. Now, I have here a watch which has recently come into my possession.

Would you have the kindness to let me have an opinion upon the character or habits of the late owner?"
I handed him the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in my heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the back, and examined the works, first with his naked eyes and then with a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep from smiling at his crestfallen face, when he finally snapped the case to and handed it back. "There are hardly any data," he remarked.

"The watch has been recently cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts. "

"You are right," I answered. "It was cleaned before being sent to me. "

In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward a most lame and impotent excuse to cover his failure.

What data could he expect from an uncleaned watch? "Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been entirely barren," he observed, staring up at the ceiling with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes. "Subject to your correction, I should judge that the watch belonged to your elder brother, who inherited it from your father. " "That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon the back?"

"Quite so. The W. suggests your own name.

The date of the watch is nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch; so it was made for the last generation. Jewelry usually descends to the eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same name as his father. Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years.

It has, therefore, been in the hands of your eldest brother. " "Right, so far," said I. "Anything else?"

"He was a man of untidy habits very untidy and careless. He was left with good prospects, but he threw away his chances, lived for some time in poverty, with occasional short intervals of prosperity, and finally, taking to drink, he died. That is all I can gather. "

I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently about the room with considerable bitterness in my heart. "This is unworthy of you, Holmes," I said. "I could not have believed that you would have descended to this. You have made inquiries into the history of my unhappy brother, and you now pretend to deduce this knowledge in some fanciful way.

You can not expect me to believe that you have read all this from his old watch! It is unkind, and, to speak plainly, has a touch of charlatanism in it."

"My dear doctor," said he kindly, "pray accept my apologies. Viewing the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten how personal and painful a thing it might be to you.

I assure you, however, that I never even knew that you had a brother until you handed me the watch. "

"Then how in the name of all that is wonderful did you get all these facts?

They are absolutely correct in every particular. "

"Ah, that is good luck. I could only say what was the balance of probability.

I did not at all expect to be so accurate. "

"But it was not mere guesswork?"
"No, no; I never guess. It is a shocking habit destructive to the logical faculty. What seems strange to you is only so because you do not follow my train of thought or observe the small facts upon which large inferences may depend. For example, I began by stating that your brother was careless.

When you observe the lower part of that watch-case you notice that it is not only dented in two places, but it is cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping other hard objects, such as coins or keys, in the same pocket. Surely it is no great feat to assume that a man who treats a fifty-guinea watch so cavalierly must be a careless man. Neither is it a very far-fetched inference that a man who inherits one article of such value is pretty well provided for in other respects.

"

I nodded to show that I followed his reasoning. "It is very customary for pawnbrokers in England, when they take a watch, to scratch the number of the ticket with a pin-point upon the inside of the case. It is more handy than a label, as there is no risk of the number being lost or transposed.

There are no less than four such numbers visible to my lens on the inside of this case. Inference that your brother was often at low water. Secondary inference that he had occasional bursts of prosperity, or he could not have redeemed the pledge. Finally, I ask you to look at the inner plate which contains the keyhole.

Look at the thousands of scratches all around the hole marks where the key has slipped. What sober man's key could have scored those grooves? But you will never see a drunkard's watch without them.

He winds it at night, and he leaves these traces of his unsteady hand. Where is the mystery in all this?" "It is as clear as daylight," I answered.

"I regret the injustice which I did you. I should have had more faith in your marvelous faculty. May I ask whether you have any professional inquiry on foot at present?"
"None.

Hence the cocaine.

I can not live without brain-work. What else is there to live for? Stand at the window here. Was ever such a dreary, dismal, unprofitable world?

See how the yellow fog swirls down the street and drifts across dun-colored houses. What could be more hopelessly prosaic and material? What is the use of having powers, doctor, when one has no field upon which to exert them? Crime is commonplace, and existence is commonplace, and no qualities save those which are commonplace have any function upon earth.

"

I had opened my mouth to reply to his tirade, when, with a crisp knock, our landlady entered, bearing a card upon a brass salver. "A young lady for you, sir," she said, addressing my companion. "Miss Mary Morstan," he read. "Hum!
I have no recollection of that name. Ask the young lady to step up, Mrs. Hudson.
Don't go, doctor.

I prefer that you remain. " CHAPTER II

The Statement of the Case Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step and an outward composure of manner. She was a blond young lady, small, dainty, well gloved, and dressed in the most perfect taste. There was, however, a plainness and simplicity about her costume which bore with a suggestion of limited means.

The dress was a sombre grayish beige, untrimmed and unbraided, and she wore a small turban of the same dull hue, relieved only by a suspicion of white feather in the side. Her face had neither regularity of feature nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual and sympathetic. In an experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents I have never looked upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive nature.

I could not but observe that, as she took the seat which Sherlock Holmes placed for her, her lip trembled, her hand quivered, and she showed every sign of intense inward agitation. "I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "because you once enabled my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic complication. She was much impressed by your kindness and skill.

"
"Mrs. Cecil Forrester," he repeated, thoughtfully. "I believe that I was of some slight service to her. The case, however, as I remember it, was a very simple one."

"She did not think so. But, at least, you can not say the same of mine.

I can hardly imagine anything more strange, more utterly inexplicable, than the situation in which I find myself." Holmes rubbed his hands and his eyes glistened. He leaned forward in his chair with an expression of extraordinary concentration upon his clear-cut, hawk-like features. "State your case," said he, in brisk business tones.

I felt that my position was an embarrassing one. "You will, I am sure, excuse me," I said, rising from my chair. To my surprise, the young lady held up her gloved hand to detain me. "If your friend," she said, "would be good enough to stay, he might be of inestimable service to me.

"
I relapsed into my chair. "Briefly," she continued, "the facts are these. My father was an officer in an Indian regiment, who sent me home when I was quite a child. My mother was dead, and I had no relative in England.

I was placed, however, in a comfortable boarding establishment at Edinburgh, and there I remained until I was seventeen years of age. In the year 1878 my father, who was senior captain of his regiment, obtained twelve months' leave and came home. He telegraphed to me from London that he had arrived all safe, and directed me to come down at once, giving the Langham Hotel as his address. His message, as I remember, was full of kindness and love.

On reaching London I drove to the Langham, and was informed that Captain Morstan was staying there, but that he had gone out the night before and had not returned. I waited all day without news of him. That night, on the advice of the manager of the hotel, I communicated with the police, and next morning we advertised in all the papers. Our inquiries led to no result; and from that day to this no word has ever been heard of my unfortunate father.

He came home, with his heart full of hope, to find some peace, some comfort, and instead " She put her hand to her throat, and a choking sob cut short the sentence. "The date?" asked Holmes, opening his note-book. "He disappeared upon the 3d of December, 1878 nearly ten years ago."
"His luggage?"
"Remained at the hotel. There was nothing in it to suggest a clue some clothes, some books, and a considerable number of curiosities from the Andaman Islands. He had been one of the officers in charge of the convict guard there.

"

"Had he any friends in town?"
"Only one that we know of Major Sholto, of his own regiment, the Thirty-fourth Bombay Infantry. The major had retired some little time before, and lived at Upper Norwood. We communicated with him, of course, but he did not even know that his brother officer was in England. "
"A singular case," remarked Holmes.

"I have not yet described to you the most singular part. About six years ago to be exact, upon the 4th of May, 1882 an advertisement appeared in the 'Times' asking for the address of Miss Mary Morstan, and stating that it would be to her advantage to come forward. There was no name or address appended.

I had at that time just entered the family of Mrs. Cecil Forrester in the capacity of governess. By her advice I published my address in the advertisement column. The same day there arrived through the post a small card-box addressed to me, which I found to contain a very large and lustrous pearl. No word of writing was enclosed. Since then, every year upon the same date, there has always appeared a similar box, containing a similar pearl, without any clue as to the sender.

They have been pronounced by an expert to be of a rare variety and of considerable value. You can see for yourselves that they are very handsome." She opened a flat box as she spoke, and showed me six of the finest pearls that I had ever seen.

"Your statement is most interesting," said Sherlock Holmes. "Has anything else occurred to you?" "Yes; and no later than to-day.

That is why I have come to you. This morning I received this letter, which you will perhaps read for yourself." "Thank you," said Holmes.

"The envelope, too, please.
Postmark, London, S.W., date, July 7.
Hum!
Man's thumb-mark on corner probably postman.
Best quality paper.

Envelopes at sixpence a packet. Particular man in his stationery.

No address.

'Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre to-night at seven o'clock.

If you are distrustful, bring two friends. You are a wronged woman, and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be in vain. Your unknown friend.'

Well, really, this is a very pretty little mystery. What do you intend to do, Miss Morstan?" "That is exactly what I want to ask you. "

"Then we shall most certainly go.

You and I and yes, why, Doctor Watson is the very man. Your correspondent says two friends. He and I have worked together before. "

"But would he come?"
she asked, with something appealing in her voice and expression.

"I should be proud and happy," said I, fervently, "if I can be of any service. "

"You are both very kind," she answered. "I have led a retired life, and have no friends whom I could appeal to. If I am here at six it will do, I suppose?"
"You must not be later," said Holmes.

"There is one other point, however. Is this handwriting the same as that upon the pearl-box addresses?"
"I have them here," she answered, producing half a dozen pieces of paper. "You are certainly a model client. You have the correct intuition.

Let us see, now."

He spread out the papers upon the table and gave little darting glances from one to the other. "They are disguised hands, except the letter," he said, presently, "but there can be no question as to the authorship. See how the irrepressible Greek ε will break out, and see the twirl of the final s. They are undoubtedly by the same person. I should not like to suggest false hopes, Miss Morstan, but is there any resemblance between this hand and that of your father?"
"Nothing could be more unlike. "

"I expected to hear you say so. We shall look out for you, then, at six. Pray allow me to keep the papers.

I may look into the matter before then. It is only half-past three.

Au revoir, then."
"Au revoir," said our visitor, and, with a bright, kindly glance from one to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her bosom and hurried away. Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly down the street, until the gray turban and white feather were but a speck in the sombre crowd.

"What a very attractive woman!"
I exclaimed, turning to my companion. He had lighted his pipe again, and was leaning back with drooping eyelids. "Is she?" he said, languidly.

"I did not observe. " "You really are an automaton a calculating-machine! "

I cried. "There is something positively inhuman in you at times. " He smiled gently.

"It is of the first importance," he said, "not to allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities. A client is to me a mere unit a factor in a problem. The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning.

I assure you that the most winning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little children for their insurance money, and the most repellent man of my acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the London poor. "

"In this case, however " "I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule.

Have you ever had occasion to study character in handwriting? What do you make of this fellow's scribble?"
"It is legible and regular," I answered. "A man of business habits and some force of character.

" Holmes shook his head. "Look at his long letters," he said. "They hardly rise above the common herd. That d might be an a and that l an e. Men of character always differentiate their long letters, however illegibly they may write.

There is vacillation in his k's and self-esteem in his capitals. I am going out now. I have some few references to make. Let me recommend this book one of the most remarkable ever penned. It is Winwood Reade's 'Martyrdom of Man.'

I shall be back in an hour. "

I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my thoughts were far from the daring speculations of the writer. My mind ran upon our late visitor her smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice, the strange mystery which overhung her life. If she were seventeen at the time of her father's disappearance she must be seven-and-twenty now a sweet age, when youth has lost its self-consciousness and become a little sobered by experience.

So I sat and mused, until such dangerous thoughts came into my head that I hurried away to my desk and plunged furiously into the latest treatise upon pathology. What was I, an army surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker banking-account, that I should dare to think of such things?
She was a unit, a factor nothing more. If my future were black, it was better surely to face it like a man than to attempt to brighten it by mere will-o'-the-wisps of the imagination.

CHAPTER III

In Quest of a Solution It was half-past five before Holmes returned. He was bright, eager, and in excellent spirits a mood which in his case alternated with fits of the blackest depression. "There is no great mystery in this matter," he said, taking the cup of tea which I had poured out for him.

"The facts appear to admit of only one explanation. "

"What!
you have solved it already?"
"Well, that will be too much to say. I have discovered a suggestive fact, that is all. It is, however, very suggestive.

The details are still to be added. I have just found, on consulting the back files of the 'Times,' that Major Sholto of Upper Norwood, late of the Thirty-fourth Bombay Infantry, died upon the 28th of April, 1882."
"I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what this suggests. " "No?
You surprise me. Look at it in this way, then.

Captain Morstan disappears. The only person in London whom he could have visited is Major Sholto. Major Sholto denies having heard that he was in London. Four years later Sholto dies. Within a week of his death, Captain Morstan's daughter receives a valuable present, which is repeated from year to year, and now culminates in a letter which describes her as a wronged woman.

What wrong can it refer to except this deprivation of her father? And why should the presents begin immediately after Sholto's death, unless it is that Sholto's heir knows something of the mystery, and desires to make compensation? Have you any alternative theory which will meet the facts?"

"But what a strange compensation!

And how strangely made! Why, too, should he write a letter now, rather than six years ago? Again, the letter speaks of giving her justice. What justice can she have? It is too much to suppose that her father is still alive.

There is no other injustice in her case that you know of." "There are difficulties; there are certainly difficulties," said Sherlock Holmes, pensively. "But our expedition of to-night will solve them all. Ah, here is a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is inside. Are you all ready?

Then we had better go down, for it is a little past the hour." I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I observed that Holmes took his revolver from his drawer and slipped it into his pocket. It was clear that he thought our night's work might be a serious one. Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and her sensitive face was composed, but pale.

She must have been more than woman if she did not feel some uneasiness at the strange enterprise upon which we were embarking, yet her self-control was perfect, and she readily answered the few additional questions which Sherlock Holmes put to her. "Major Sholto was a very particular friend of papa's," she said. "His letters were full of allusions to the major. He and papa were in command of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so they were thrown a great deal together.

By the way, a curious paper was found in papa's desk which no one can understand. I don't suppose that it is of the slightest importance, but I thought you might care to see it, so I brought it with me. It is here. "

Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and smoothed it out upon his knee. He then very methodically examined it all over with his double lens.

"It is paper of native Indian manufacture," he remarked. "It has at some time been pinned to a board. The diagram upon it appears to be a plan of part of a large building, with numerous halls, corridors, and passages.

At one point is a small cross done in red ink, and above it is '3.37 from left,' in faded pencil-writing. In the left-hand corner is a curious hieroglyphic, like four crosses in a line with their arms touching. Beside it is written, in very rough and coarse characters, 'The sign of the four Jonathan Small, Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan, Dost Akbar.'

No, I confess that I do not see how this bears upon the matter! Yet it is evidently a document of importance.

It has been kept carefully in a pocket-book; for the one side is as clean as the other." "It was in his pocket-book that we found it." "Preserve it carefully, then, Miss Morstan, for it may prove to be of use to us. I begin to suspect that this matter may turn out to be much deeper and more subtle than I at first supposed. I must reconsider my ideas.

"

He leaned back in the cab, and I could see by his drawn brow and his vacant eye that he was thinking intently. Miss Morstan and I chatted in an undertone about our present expedition and its possible outcome, but our companion maintained his impenetrable reserve until the end of our journey. It was a September evening, and not yet seven o'clock, but the day had been a dreary one, and a dense, drizzling fog lay low upon the great city. Mud-colored clouds drooped sadly over the muddy streets. Down the Strand the lamps were but misty splotches of diffused light which threw a feeble circular glimmer upon the slimy pavement.

The yellow glare from the shop-windows streamed out into the steamy, vaporous air, and threw a murky, shifting radiance across the crowded thoroughfare. There was to my mind something eery and ghost-like in the endless procession of faces which flitted across these narrow bars of light sad faces and glad, haggard and merry. Like all human kind, they flitted from the gloom into the light, and so back into the gloom once more.

I am not subject to impressions, but the dull, heavy evening, with the strange business upon which we were engaged, combined to make me nervous and depressed. I could see from Miss Morstan's manner that she was suffering from the same feeling. Holmes alone could rise superior to petty influences. He held his open note-book upon his knee, and from time to time he jotted down figures and memoranda in the light of his pocket-lantern.

At the Lyceum Theatre the crowds were already thick at the side-entrances. In front a continuous stream of hansoms and four-wheelers were rattling up, discharging their cargoes of shirt-fronted men and beshawled, bediamonded women. We had hardly reached the third pillar, which was our rendezvous, before a small, dark, brisk man, in the dress of a coachman, accosted us. "Are you the parties who come with Miss Morstan?" he asked. "I am Miss Morstan, and these two gentlemen are my friends," said she.

He bent a pair of wonderfully penetrating and questioning eyes upon us. "You will excuse me, miss," he said, with a certain dogged manner, "but I was to ask you to give me your word that neither of your companions is a police officer. "
"I give you my word on that," she answered. He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led across a four-wheeler, and opened the door.

The man who had addressed us mounted to the box, while we took our places inside. We had hardly done so before the driver whipped up his horse, and we plunged away at a furious pace through the foggy streets. The situation was a curious one. We were driving to an unknown place, on an unknown errand. Yet our invitation was either a complete hoax, which was an inconceivable hypothesis, or else we had good reason to think that important issues might hang upon our journey.

Miss Morstan's demeanor was as resolute and collected as ever. I endeavored to cheer and amuse her by reminiscences of my adventures in Afghanistan; but to tell the truth, I was myself so excited at our situation and so curious as to our destination that my stories were slightly involved. To this day she declares that I told her one moving anecdote as to how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of night, and how I fired a double-barreled tiger cub at it. At first I had some idea as to the direction in which we were driving; but soon, what with our pace, the fog, and my own limited knowledge of London, I lost my bearings, and knew nothing, save that we seemed to be going a very long way. Sherlock Holmes was never at fault, however, and he muttered the names as the cab rattled through squares and in and out by tortuous by-streets.

"Rochester Row," said he. "Now Vincent Square.

Now we come out on the Vauxhall Bridge Road. We are making for the Surrey side apparently. Yes, I thought so.

Now we are on the bridge. You can catch glimpses of the river. "

We did indeed get a fleeting view of a stretch of the Thames, with the lamps shining upon the broad, silent water; but our cab dashed on, and was soon involved in a labyrinth of streets upon the other side.

"Wordsworth Road," said my companion. "Priory Road.
Lark Hall Lane.

Stockwell Place.

Robert Street.

Cold Harbor Lane.

Our quest does not appear to take us to very fashionable regions." We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding neighborhood. Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved by the coarse glare and tawdry brilliancy of public-houses at the corner. Then came rows of two-storied villas, each with a fronting of miniature garden, and then again interminable lines of new staring brick buildings the monster tentacles which the giant city was throwing out into the country.

At last the cab drew up at the third house in a new terrace. None of the other houses was inhabited, and that at which we stopped was as dark as its neighbors, save for a single glimmer in the kitchen window. On our knocking, however, the door was instantly thrown open by a Hindu servant clad in a yellow turban, white, loose-fitting clothes, and a yellow sash. There was something strangely incongruous in this Oriental figure framed in the commonplace doorway of a third-rate suburban dwelling-house.

"The sahib awaits you," said he, and even as he spoke there came a high piping voice from some inner room. "Show them in to me, khitmutgar," it cried. "Show them straight in to me."

CHAPTER IV The Story of the Bald-Headed Man We followed the Indian down the sordid and common passage, ill-lighted and worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right, which he threw open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in the centre of the glare there stood a small man with a very high head, a bristle of red hair all round the fringe of it, and a bald, shining scalp, which shot out from among it like a mountain-peak from fir-trees. He rubbed his hands together as he stood, and his features were in a perpetual jerk, now smiling, now scowling, but never for an instant in repose.

Nature had given him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line of yellow and irregular teeth, which he strove feebly to conceal by constantly passing his hand over the lower part of his face. In spite of his obtrusive baldness, he gave the impression of youth. In point of fact, he had just turned his thirtieth year. "Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating in a thin, high voice. "Your servant, gentlemen.

Pray step into my little sanctum. A small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the howling desert of South London." We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which he invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a diamond of the first water in a setting of brass.

The richest and glossiest of curtains and draperies draped the walls, looped back here and there to expose some richly mounted painting or Oriental vase. The carpet was of amber and black, so soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased the suggestion of Eastern luxury, as did a huge hookah which stood upon a mat in the corner.

A lamp in the fashion of a silver dove was hung from an almost invisible golden wire in the centre of the room. As it burned it filled the air with a subtle and aromatic odor. "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and smiling. "That is my name.

You are Miss Morstan, of course. And these gentlemen " "This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this Doctor Watson. "

"A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited.

"Have you your stethoscope? Might I ask you would you have the kindness? I have grave doubts as to my mitral valve, if you would be so very good. The aortic I may rely upon, but I should value your opinion upon the mitral.

"
I listened to his heart as requested, but was unable to find anything amiss, save indeed that he was in an ecstasy of fear, for he shivered from head to foot. "It appears to be normal," I said. "You have no cause for uneasiness. "

"You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan," he remarked, airily.

"I am a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that valve. I am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted.

Had your father, Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, he might have been alive now." I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at this callous and offhand reference to so delicate a matter. Miss Morstan sat down, and her face grew white to the lips. "I knew in my heart that he was dead," said she.

"I can give you every information," said he, "and what is more, I can do you justice; and I will, too, whatever brother Bartholomew may say. I am so glad to have your friends here, not only as an escort to you, but also as witnesses to what I am about to do and say. The three of us can show a bold front to brother Bartholomew.
But let us have no outsiders no police or officials. We can settle everything satisfactorily among ourselves, without any interference.

Nothing would annoy brother Bartholomew more than any publicity." He sat down upon a low settee and blinked at us inquiringly with his weak, watery blue eyes. "For my part," said Holmes, "whatever you may choose to say will go no further. "
I nodded to show my agreement.

"That is well! That is well!" said he. "May I offer you a glass of Chianti, Miss Morstan? or of Tokay?

I keep no other wines. Shall I open a flask? No?

Well, then, I trust that you have no objection to tobacco-smoke, to the mild, balsamic odor of the Eastern tobacco. I am a little nervous, and I find my hookah an invaluable sedative." He applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled merrily through the rose-water. We sat all three in a semicircle, with our heads advanced, and our chins upon our hands, while the strange, jerky little fellow, with his high, shining head, puffed uneasily in the centre.

"When I first determined to make this communication to you," said he, "I might have given you my address, but I feared that you might disregard my request and bring unpleasant people with you. I took the liberty, therefore, of making an appointment in such a way that my man Williams might be able to see you first. I have complete confidence in his discretion, and he had orders, if he were dissatisfied, to proceed no further in the matter. You will excuse these precautions, but I am a man of somewhat retiring, and, I might even say, refined tastes, and there is nothing more unesthetic than a policeman.

I have a natural shrinking from all forms of rough materialism. I seldom come in contact with the rough crowd. I live, as you see, with some little atmosphere of elegance around me. I may call myself a patron of the arts.

It is my weakness. The landscape is a genuine Corot, and, though a connoisseur might perhaps throw a doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there can not be the least question about the Bouguereau. I am partial to the modern French school. "

"You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto," said Miss Morstan, "but I am here at your request to learn something which you desire to tell me. It is very late, and I should desire the interview to be as short as possible."
"At the best it must take some time," he answered; "for we shall certainly have to go to Norwood and see brother Bartholomew. We shall all go and try if we can get the better of brother Bartholomew.

He is very angry with me for taking the course which has seemed right to me. I had quite high words with him last night. You can not imagine what a terrible fellow he is when he is angry."
"If we are to go to Norwood it would perhaps be as well to start at once," I ventured to remark.

He laughed until his ears were quite red. "That would hardly do," he cried. "I don't know what he would say if I brought you in that sudden way. No; I must prepare you by showing you how we all stand to each other.

In the first place, I must tell you that there are several points in the story of which I am myself ignorant. I can only lay the facts before you as far as I know them myself. "My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John Sholto, once of the Indian army. He retired some eleven years ago, and came to live at Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood. He had prospered in India, and brought back with him a considerable sum of money, a large collection of valuable curiosities, and a staff of native servants.

With these advantages he bought himself a house, and lived in great luxury. My twin-brother Bartholomew and I were the only children. "I very well remember the sensation which was caused by the disappearance of Captain Morstan. We read the details in the papers, and, knowing that he had been a friend of our father's, we discussed the case freely in his presence.

He used to join in our speculations as to what could have happened. Never for an instant did we suspect that he had the whole secret hidden in his own breast that of all men he alone knew the fate of Arthur Morstan. "We did know, however, that some mystery some positive danger overhung our father. He was very fearful of going out alone, and he always employed two prize-fighters to act as porters at Pondicherry Lodge.

Williams, who drove you to-night, was one of them. He was once a light-weight champion of England. Our father would never tell us what it was he feared, but he had a most marked aversion to men with wooden legs. On one occasion he actually fired his revolver at a wooden-legged man, who proved to be a harmless tradesman canvassing for orders.

We had to pay a large sum to hush the matter up. My brother and I used to think this a mere whim of my father's, but events have since led us to change our opinion. "Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which was a great shock to him.

He nearly fainted at the breakfast-table when he opened it, and from that day he sickened to his death. What was in the letter we could never discover, but I could see as he held it that it was short and written in a scrawling hand. He had suffered for years from an enlarged spleen, but he now became rapidly worse, and toward the end of April we were informed that he was beyond all hope, and that he wished to make a last communication to us. "When we entered his room he was propped up with pillows and breathing heavily. He besought us to lock the door and to come upon either side of the bed.

Then, grasping our hands, he made a remarkable statement to us, in a voice which was broken as much by emotion as by pain. I shall try and give it to you in his own very words. "'I have only one thing,' he said, 'which weighs upon my mind at this supreme moment. It is my treatment of poor Morstan's orphan.

The cursed greed which has been my besetting sin through life has withheld from her the treasure, half at least of which should have been hers. And yet I have made no use of it myself so blind and foolish a thing is avarice. The mere feeling of possession has been so dear to me that I could not bear to share it with another. See that chaplet tipped with pearls beside the quinine-bottle. Even that I could not bear to part with, although I had got it out with the design of sending it to her.

You, my sons, will give her a fair share of the Agra treasure. But send her nothing not even the chaplet until I am gone.

After all, men have been as bad as this and have recovered. "'I will tell you how Morstan died,' he continued. ' He had suffered for years from a weak heart, but he concealed it from every one. I alone knew it.

When in India, he and I, through a remarkable chain of circumstances, came into possession of a considerable treasure. I brought it over to England, and on the night of Morstan's arrival he came straight over here to claim his share. He walked over from the station, and was admitted by my faithful old Lal Chowdar, who is now dead.

Morstan and I had a difference of opinion as to the division of the treasure, and we came to heated words. Morstan had sprung out of his chair in a paroxysm of anger, when he suddenly pressed his hand to his side, his face turned a dusky hue, and he fell backward, cutting his head against the corner of the treasure-chest. When I stooped over him I found, to my horror, that he was dead.

"'For a long time I sat half-distracted, wondering what I should do. My first impulse was, of course, to call for assistance; but I could not but recognize that there was every chance that I would be accused of his murder. His death at the moment of a quarrel, and the gash in his head, would be black against me. Again, an official inquiry could not be made without bringing out some facts about the treasure which I was particularly anxious to keep secret.

He had told me that no soul upon earth knew where he had gone. There seemed to be no necessity why any soul ever should know. "'I was still pondering over the matter, when, looking up, I saw my servant, Lal Chowdar, in the doorway.

He stole in, and bolted the door behind him. "Do not fear, sahib," he said. "No one need know that you have killed him. Let us hide him away, and who is the wiser?"
"I did not kill him," said I. Lal Chowdar shook his head, and smiled.

"I heard it all, sahib," said he. "I heard you quarrel, and I heard the blow. But my lips are sealed.

All are asleep in the house. Let us put him away together." That was enough to decide me. If my own servant could not believe my innocence, how could I hope to make it good before twelve foolish tradesmen in a jury-box?
Lal Chowdar and I disposed of the body that night, and within a few days the London papers were full of the mysterious disappearance of Captain Morstan.

You will see from what I say that I can hardly be blamed in the matter. My fault lies in the fact that we concealed, not only the body, but also the treasure, and that I have clung to Morstan's share as well as to my own. I wish you, therefore, to make restitution.

Put your ears down to my mouth. The treasure is hidden in ' At this instant a horrible change came over his expression; his eyes stared wildly, his jaw dropped, and he yelled, in a voice which I can never forget, 'Keep him out! For Christ's sake, keep him out!' We both stared round at the window behind us upon which his gaze was fixed. A face was looking in at us out of the darkness.

We could see the whitening of the nose where it was pressed against the glass. It was a bearded, hairy face, with wild, cruel eyes and an expression of concentrated malevolence. My brother and I rushed toward the window, but the man was gone. When we returned to my father, his head had dropped and his pulse had ceased to beat.

"We searched the garden that night, but found no sign of the intruder, save that just under the window a single footmark was visible in the flower-bed. But for that one trace, we might have thought that our imaginations had conjured up that wild, fierce face.

We soon, however, had another and a more striking proof that there were secret agencies at work all around us. The window of my father's room was found open in the morning, his cupboards and boxes had been rifled, and upon his chest was fixed a torn piece of paper with the words, 'The sign of the four' scrawled across it. What the phrase meant, or who our secret visitor may have been, we never knew. As far as we can judge, none of my father's property had been actually stolen, though everything had been turned out.

My brother and I naturally associated this peculiar incident with the fear which haunted my father during his life; but it is still a complete mystery to us." The little man stopped to relight his hookah, and puffed thoughtfully for a few moments. We had all sat absorbed, listening to his extraordinary narrative. At the short account of her father's death Miss Morstan had turned deathly white, and for a moment I feared that she was about to faint.

She rallied, however, on drinking a glass of water which I quietly poured out for her from a Venetian carafe upon the side table. Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair with an abstracted expression and the lids drawn over his glittering eyes. As I glanced at him I could not but think how on that very day he had complained bitterly of the commonplaceness of life. Here, at least, was a problem which would tax his sagacity to the utmost.

Mr. Thaddeus Sholto looked from one to the other of us with an obvious pride at the effect which his story had produced, and then continued between the puffs of his overgrown pipe: "My brother and I;" said he, "were, as you may imagine, much excited as to the treasure which my father had spoken of. For weeks and for months we dug and delved in every part of the garden, without discovering its whereabouts. It was maddening to think that the hiding-place was on his very lips at the moment that he died. We could judge the splendor of the missing riches by the chaplet which he had taken out.

Over this chaplet my brother Bartholomew and I had some little discussion. The pearls were evidently of great value, and he was averse to part with them, for, between friends, my brother was himself a little inclined to my father's fault. He thought, too, that if we parted with the chaplet it might give rise to gossip, and finally bring us into trouble. It was all that I could do to persuade him to let me find out Miss Morstan's address and send her a detached pearl at fixed intervals, so that, at least, she might never feel destitute. "
"It was a kindly thought," said our companion, earnestly.

"It was extremely good of you. "

The little man waved his hand deprecatingly. "We were your trustees," he said.

"That was the view which I took of it, though brother Bartholomew could not altogether see it in that light. We had plenty of money ourselves. I desired no more.

Besides, it would have been such bad taste to have treated a young lady in so scurvy a fashion. 'Le mauvais gout mene au crime.'

The French have a very neat way of putting these things. Our difference of opinion on this subject went so far that I thought it best to set up rooms for myself; so I left Pondicherry Lodge, taking the old khitmutgar and Williams with me. Yesterday, however, I learned that an event of extreme importance had occurred. The treasure has been discovered.

I instantly communicated with Miss Morstan, and it only remains for us to drive out to Norwood and demand our share. I explained my views last night to brother Bartholomew; so we shall be expected, if not welcome, visitors. "

Mr. Thaddeus Sholto ceased, and sat twitching on his luxurious settee. We all remained silent, with our thoughts upon the new development which the mysterious business had taken.

Holmes was the first to spring to his feet. "You have done well, sir, from first to last," said he. "It is possible that we may be able to make you some small return by throwing some light upon that which is still dark to you.

But, as Miss Morstan remarked just now, it is late, and we had best put the matter through without delay.

"

Our new acquaintance very deliberately coiled up the tube of his hookah, and produced from behind a curtain a very long befrogged top-coat with astrakhan collar and cuffs. This he buttoned tightly up, in spite of the extreme closeness of the night, and finished his attire by putting on a rabbit-skin cap with hanging lappets which covered the ears, so that no part of him was visible save his mobile and peaky face. "My health is somewhat fragile," he remarked, as he led the way down the passage. "I am compelled to be a valetudinarian.

"

Our cab was awaiting us outside, and our program was evidently prearranged, for the driver started off at once at a rapid pace. Thaddeus Sholto talked incessantly, in a voice which rose high above the rattle of the wheels. "Bartholomew is a clever fellow," said he.

"How do you think he found out where the treasure was?
He had come to the conclusion that it was somewhere indoors; so he worked out all the cubic space of the house, and made measurements everywhere, so that not one inch should be unaccounted for. Among other things, he found that the height of the building was seventy-four feet, but on adding together the heights of all the separate rooms, and making every allowance for the space between, which he ascertained by borings, he could not bring the total to more than seventy feet. There were four feet unaccounted for. These could only be at the top of the building. He knocked a hole, therefore, in the lath and plaster ceiling of the highest room, and there, sure enough, he came upon another little garret above it, which had been sealed up and was known to no one.

In the centre stood the treasure-chest, resting upon two rafters. He lowered it through the hole, and there it lies. He computes the value of the jewels at not less than half a million sterling. "
At the mention of this gigantic sum we all stared at one another open-eyed.

Miss Morstan, could we secure her rights, would change from a needy governess to the richest heiress in England. Surely it was the place of a loyal friend to rejoice at such news; yet I am ashamed to say that selfishness took me by the soul, and that my heart turned as heavy as lead within me. I stammered out some few halting words of congratulation, and then sat downcast, with my head drooped, deaf to the babble of our new acquaintance. He was clearly a confirmed hypochondriac, and I was dreamily conscious that he was pouring forth interminable trains of symptoms, and imploring information as to the composition and action of innumerable quack nostrums, some of which he bore about in a leather case in his pocket. I trust that he may not remember any of the answers which I gave him that night.

Holmes declares that he overheard me caution him against the great danger of taking more than two drops of castor oil, while I recommended strychnine in larger doses as a sedative. However that may be, I was certainly relieved when our cab pulled up with a jerk and the coachman sprang down to open the door.

"This, Miss Morstan, is Pondicherry Lodge," said Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, as he handed her out. CHAPTER V

The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge It was nearly eleven o'clock when we reached this final stage of our night's adventures. We had left the damp fog of the great city behind us, and the night was fairly fine. A warm wind blew from the westward, and heavy clouds moved slowly across the sky, with half a moon peeping occasionally through the rifts.

It was clear enough to see for some distance, but Thaddeus Sholto took down one of the side-lamps from the carriage to give us a better light upon our way. Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds, and was girt round with a very high stone wall topped with broken glass. A single narrow, iron-clamped door formed the only means of entrance. On this our guide knocked with a peculiar postman-like rat-tat.

"Who is there?" cried a gruff voice from within. "It is I, McMurdo. You surely know my knock by this time. "

There was a grumbling sound, and a clanking and jarring of keys.

The door swung heavily back, and a short, deep-chested man stood in the opening, with the yellow light of the lantern shining upon his protruded face and twinkling, distrustful eyes. "That you, Mr. Thaddeus?
But who are the others?
I had no orders about them from the master. "
"No, McMurdo?
You surprise me! I told my brother last night that I should bring some friends. "

"He hain't been out o' his room to-day, Mr. Thaddeus, and I have no orders.

You know very well that I must stick to regulations. I can let you in; but your friends they must just stop where they are. "

This was an unexpected obstacle! Thaddeus Sholto looked about him in a perplexed and helpless manner. "This is too bad of you, McMurdo!"
he said.

"If I guarantee them, that is enough for you. There is a young lady, too. She can not wait on the public road at this hour. "
"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus," said the porter, inexorably.

"Folk may be friends o' yours, and yet no friends o' the master's. He pays me well to do my duty, and my duty I'll do.

I don't know none o' your friends." "Oh, yes, you do, McMurdo," cried Sherlock Holmes, genially. "I don't think you can have forgotten me. Don't you remember the amateur who fought three rounds with you at Alison's rooms on the night of your benefit four years back?"

"Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" roared the prize-fighter. "God's truth!

how could I have mistook you? If, instead o' standin' there so quiet, you had just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours under the jaw, I'd ha' known you without a question. Ah, you're one that has wasted your gifts, you have! You might have aimed high, if you had joined the fancy.

"
"You see, Watson, if all else fails me I have still one of the scientific professions open to me," said Holmes, laughing. "Our friend won't keep us out in the cold now, I am sure."
"In you come, sir; in you come you and your friends," he answered. "Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus, but orders are very strict. Had to be certain of your friends before I let them in.

"

Inside a gravel path wound through desolate grounds to a huge clump of a house, square and prosaic, all plunged in shadow save where a moonbeam struck one corner and glimmered in a garret window. The vast size of the building, with its gloom and its deathly silence, struck a chill to the heart. Even Thaddeus Sholto seemed ill at ease, and the lantern quivered and rattled in his hand. "I can not understand it," he said. "There must be some mistake.

I distinctly told Bartholomew that we should be here, and yet there is no light in his window. I do not know what to make of it."
"Does he always guard the premises in this way?" asked Holmes. "Yes; he has followed my father's custom.

He was the favorite son, you know, and I sometimes think that my father may have told him more than he ever told me. That is Bartholomew's window up there where the moonshine strikes. It is quite bright, but there is no light from within, I think. "
"None," said Holmes. "But I see the glint of a light in that little window beside the door.

"

"Ah, that is the housekeeper's room. That is where old Mrs. Bernstone sits. She can tell us all about it. But perhaps you would not mind waiting here for a minute or two, for if we all go in together, and she has had no word of our coming, she may be alarmed.

But hush!

what is that?" He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until the circles of light flickered and wavered all round us. Miss Morstan seized my wrist, and we all stood with thumping hearts, straining our ears. From the great black house there sounded through the silent night the saddest and most pitiful of sounds the shrill, broken whimpering of a frightened woman.

"It is Mrs. Bernstone," said Sholto. "She is the only woman in the house. Wait here, I shall be back in a moment. "

He hurried for the door, and knocked in his peculiar way.

We could see a tall old woman admit him and sway with pleasure at the very sight of him. "Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have come! I am so glad you have come, Mr. Thaddeus, sir!"
We heard her reiterated rejoicings until the door was closed and her voice died away into a muffled monotone.

Our guide had left us the lantern. Holmes swung it slowly round, and peered keenly at the house and at the great rubbish-heaps which cumbered the grounds. Miss Morstan and I stood together, and her hand was in mine. A wondrous subtle thing is love, for here were we two who had never seen each other before that day, between whom no word or even look of affection had ever passed, and yet now in an hour of trouble our hands instinctively sought for each other. I have marveled at it since, but at the time it seemed the most natural thing that I should go out to her so, and, as she has often told me, there was in her also the instinct to turn to me for comfort and protection.

So we stood hand in hand, like two children, and there was peace in our hearts for all the dark things that surrounded us. "What a strange place!"
she said, looking round. "It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose in it.

I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill near Ballarat, where the prospectors had been at work. "

"And from the same cause," said Holmes. "These are the traces of the treasure-seekers. You must remember that they were six years looking for it. No wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit.

"

At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus Sholto came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror in his eyes. "There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried. "I am frightened! My nerves can not stand it.

"
He was, indeed, half-blubbering with fear, and his twitching, feeble face, peeping out from the great astrakhan collar, had the helpless, appealing expression of a terrified child. "Come into the house," said Holmes, in his crisp, firm way. "Yes, do!" pleaded Thaddeus Sholto.

"I really do not feel equal to giving directions." We all followed him into the housekeeper's room, which stood upon the left-hand side of the passage. The old woman was pacing up and down with a scared look and restless, picking fingers, but the sight of Miss Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect upon her. "God bless your sweet calm face!"
she cried, with a hysterical sob.

"It does me good to see you. Oh, but I have been sorely tried this day!" Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand, and murmured some few words of kindly, womanly comfort which brought the color back into the other's bloodless cheeks. "Master has locked himself in and will not answer me," she explained.

"All day I have waited to hear from him, for he often likes to be alone; but an hour ago I feared that something was amiss, so I went up and peeped through the keyhole. You must go up, Mr. Thaddeus you must go up and look for yourself. I have seen Mr. Bartholomew Sholto in joy and in sorrow for ten long years, but I never saw him with such a face on him as that. " Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way, for Thaddeus Sholto's teeth were chattering in his head.

So shaken was he that I had to pass my hand under his arm as we went up the stairs, for his knees were trembling under him. Twice as we ascended Holmes whipped his lens out of his pocket and carefully examined marks which appeared to me to be mere shapeless smudges of dust upon the cocoanut matting which served as a stair-carpet. He walked slowly from step to step, holding the lamp low, and shooting keen glances to right and left. Miss Morstan had remained behind with the frightened housekeeper. The third flight of stairs ended in a straight passage of some length, with a great picture in Indian tapestry upon the right of it and three doors upon the left.

Holmes advanced along it in the same slow and methodical way, while we kept close at his heels, with our long black shadows streaming backward down the corridor. The third door was that which we were seeking. Holmes knocked without receiving any answer, and then tried to turn the handle and force it open. It was locked on the inside, however, and by a broad and powerful bolt, as we could see when we set our lamp up against it.

The key being turned, however, the hole was not entirely closed. Sherlock Holmes bent down to it, and instantly rose again with a sharp intaking of the breath. "There is something devilish in this, Watson," said he, more moved than I had ever before seen him. "What do you make of it?"
I stooped to the hole, and recoiled in horror. Moonlight was streaming into the room, and it was bright with a vague and shifty radiance.

Looking straight at me, and suspended, as it were, in the air, for all beneath was in shadow, there hung a face the very face of our companion Thaddeus. There was the same high, shining head, the same circular bristle of red hair, the same bloodless countenance. The features were set, however, in a horrible smile, a fixed and unnatural grin, which, in that still and moonlit room, was more jarring to the nerves than any scowl or contortion. So like was the face to that of our little friend that I looked round at him to make sure that he was indeed with us. Then I recalled to mind that he had mentioned to us that his brother and he were twins.

"This is terrible! " I said to Holmes. "What is to be done?"
"The door must come down," he answered, and, springing against it, he put all his weight upon the lock.

It creaked and groaned, but did not yield. Together we flung ourselves upon it once more, and this time it gave way with a sudden snap, and we found ourselves within Bartholomew Sholto's chamber. It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical laboratory.

A double line of glass-stoppered bottles was drawn up upon the wall opposite the door, and the table was littered over with Bunsen burners, test-tubes, and retorts. In the corners stood carboys of acid in wicker baskets. One of these appeared to leak or to have been broken, for a stream of dark-colored liquid had trickled out from it, and the air was heavy with a peculiarly pungent, tar-like odor. A set of steps stood at one side of the room, in the midst of a litter of lath and plaster, and above them there was an opening in the ceiling large enough for a man to pass through.

At the foot of the steps a long coil of rope was thrown carelessly together. By the table, in a wooden armchair, the master of the house was seated all in a heap, with his head sunk upon his left shoulder, and that ghastly, inscrutable smile upon his face. He was stiff and cold, and had clearly been dead many hours. It seemed to me that not only his features but all his limbs were twisted and turned in the most fantastic fashion.

By his hand upon the table there lay a peculiar instrument a brown, close-grained stick, with a stone head like a hammer, rudely lashed on with coarse twine. Beside it was a torn sheet of note-paper with some words scrawled upon it. Holmes glanced at it, and then handed it to me. "You see," he said, with a significant raising of the eyebrows.

In the light of the lantern I read, with a thrill of horror, "The sign of the four."

"In God's name, what does it all mean?"
I asked. "It means murder," said he, stooping over the dead man. "Ah, I expected it.

Look here!"
He pointed to what looked like a long, dark thorn stuck in the skin just above the ear. "It looks like a thorn," said I. "It is a thorn. You may pick it out. But be careful, for it is poisoned.

" I took it up between my finger and thumb. It came away from the skin so readily that hardly any mark was left behind. One tiny speck of blood showed where the puncture had been. "This is all an insoluble mystery to me," said I. "It grows darker instead of clearer. "
"On the contrary," he answered, "it clears every instant.

I only require a few missing links to have an entirely connected case. "

We had almost forgotten our companion's presence since we entered the chamber. He was still standing in the doorway, the very picture of terror, wringing his hands and moaning to himself. Suddenly, however, he broke out into a sharp, querulous cry.

"The treasure is gone!"
he said. "They have robbed him of the treasure! There is the hole through which we lowered it. I helped him to do it! I was the last person who saw him!

I left him here last night, and I heard him lock the door as I came downstairs."

"What time was that?"

"It was ten o'clock. And now he is dead, and the police will be called in, and I shall be suspected of having had a hand in it. Oh, yes, I am sure I shall. But you don't think so, gentlemen?

Surely you don't think that it was I? Is it likely that I would have brought you here if it were I? Oh, dear!

oh, dear!
I know that I shall go mad!" He jerked his arms and stamped his feet in a kind of convulsive frenzy. "You have no reason to fear, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes, kindly, putting his hand upon his shoulder.

"Take my advice, and drive down to the station and report the matter to the police. Offer to assist them in every way. We shall wait here until your return. "

The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion, and we heard him stumbling down the stairs in the dark.

CHAPTER VI Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration "Now, Watson," said Holmes, rubbing his hands, "we have half an hour to ourselves. Let us make good use of it. My case is, as I have told you, almost complete; but we must not err on the side of overconfidence. Simple as the case seems now, there may be something deeper underlying it."

"Simple!"
I ejaculated. "Surely," said he, with something of the air of a clinical professor expounding to his class.

"Just sit in the corner there, that your footprints may not complicate matters. Now to work! In the first place, how did these folks come, and how did they go? The door has not been opened since last night.

How of the window?"
He carried the lamp across to it, muttering his observations aloud the while, but addressing them to himself rather than to me. "Window is snibbed on the inner side. Framework is solid.

No hinges at the side.

Let us open it. No water-pipe near it.
Roof quite out of reach.

Yet a man has mounted by the window.

It rained a little last night. Here is the print of a foot in mold upon the sill. And here is a circular muddy mark, and here again upon the floor, and here again by the table.

See here, Watson! This is really a very pretty demonstration." I looked at the round, well-defined, muddy disks. "This is not a footmark," said I. "It is something much more valuable to us. It is the impression of a wooden stump.

You see here on the sill is the boot-mark, a heavy boot with a broad metal heel, and beside it is the mark of the timber-toe. " "It is the wooden-legged man." "Quite so.

But there has been some one else a very able and efficient ally.

Could you scale that wall, doctor?" I looked out of the open window. The moon still shone brightly on that angle of the house.

We were a good sixty feet from the ground, and, look where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a crevice in the brick-work. "It is absolutely impossible," I answered. "Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a friend up here who lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner, securing one end of it to this great hook in the wall.

Then, I think, if you were an active man you might climb up, wooden leg and all. You would depart, of course, in the same fashion, and your ally would draw up the rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the inside, and get away in the way that he originally came. As a minor point it may be noted," he continued, fingering the rope, "that our wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was not a professional sailor.

His hands were far from horny. My lens discloses more than one blood-mark, especially toward the end of the rope, from which I gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin off his hands. "

"This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally?
How came he into the room?"
"Yes, the ally!"

repeated Holmes, pensively. "There are features of interest about this ally.

He lifts the case from the regions of the commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals of crime in this country though parallel cases suggest themselves from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia."

"How came he, then?"
I reiterated. "The door is locked, the window is inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?"

"The grate is much too small," he answered. "I have already considered that possibility."

"How then?"
I persisted. "You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?

We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. Where, then, did he come?"
"He came through the hole in the roof," I cried. "Of course he did.

He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above the secret room in which the treasure was found. "

He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret.

Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him. The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath and plaster between them, so that in walking one had to step from beam to beam.

The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor. "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against the sloping wall.

"This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find some other traces of his individuality. "

He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face. For myself, as I followed his gaze, my skin was cold under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man. "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done this horrid thing."

He had recovered his self-possession in an instant. "I was staggered for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it.

There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down."
"What is your theory, then, as to those foot-marks?"
I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more. "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch of impatience.

"You know my methods.

Apply them; and it will be instructive to compare results." "I can not conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered. "It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way.

"I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look." He whipped out his lens and a tape-measure, and comparing, examining, with his long thin nose only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained bloodhound picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made had he turned his energy and sagacity against the law instead of exerting them in its defense. As he hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out into a loud crow of delight. "We are certainly in luck," said he.

"We ought to have very little trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here at the right of this evil-smelling mess.

The carboy has been cracked, you see, and the stuff has leaked out."
"What then?"
I asked. "Why, we have got him, that's all," said he. "I know a dog that would follow that scent to the world's end. If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire, how far can a specially trained hound follow so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of three.

The answer should give us the  But halloo!
here are the accredited representatives of the law. "

Heavy steps and the clamor of loud voices were audible from below, and the hall door shut with a loud crash. "Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this poor fellow's arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?"
"The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered.

"Quite so.
They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding the usual 'rigor mortis.' Coupled with this distortion of the face, this Hippocratic smile, or 'risus sardonicus,' as the old writers called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?" "Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered; "some strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus."
"That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once looked for the means by which the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force into the scalp.

You observe that the part struck was that which would be turned toward the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in his chair. Now examine this thorn. " I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. It was long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as though some gummy substance had dried upon it.

The blunt end had been trimmed and rounded off with a knife. "Is that an English thorn?" he asked. "No, it certainly is not."
"With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference. But here are the regulars; so the auxiliary forces may beat a retreat.
" As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a gray suit strode heavily into the room.

He was red-faced, burly, and plethoric, with a pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from between swollen and puffy pouches. He was closely followed by an inspector in uniform, and by the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto. "Here's a business!

"

he cried, in a muffled, husky voice.

"Here's a pretty business! But who are all these?

Why, the house seems to be as full as a rabbit-warren." "I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes quietly. "Why, of course I do!"

he wheezed. "It's Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the theorist.

Remember you! I'll never forget how you lectured us all on causes, and inferences, and effects in the Bishopsgate jewel case. It's true you set us on the right track, but you'll own now that it was more by good luck than good guidance. "

"It was a piece of very simple reasoning. "

"Oh, come, now, come!
Never be ashamed to own up.

But what is all this?
Bad business!

Bad business!

Stern facts here no room for theories. How lucky that I happened to be out at Norwood over another case! I was at the station when the message arrived. What d'you think the man died of?"

"Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize over," said Holmes, dryly. "No, no.
Still, we can't deny that you hit the nail on the head sometimes.

Dear me!
Door locked, I understand. Jewels worth half a million missing.

How was the window?" "Fastened; but there are steps on the sill." "Well, well; if it was fastened, the steps could have nothing to do with the matter. That's common sense.

Man might have died in a fit; but then the jewels are missing. Ha!
I have a theory. These flashes come upon me at times. Just step outside, sergeant, and you, Mr. Sholto.

Your friend can remain. What do you think of this, Holmes?

Sholto was, on his own confession, with his brother last night. The brother died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the treasure.

How's that?"
"On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door on the inside. " "Hum!
There's a flaw there. Let us apply common sense to the matter. This Thaddeus Sholto was with his brother; there was a quarrel; so much we know.

The brother is dead and the jewels are gone. So much also we know. No one saw the brother from the time Thaddeus left him.

His bed had not been slept in. Thaddeus is evidently in a most disturbed state of mind. His appearance is well, not attractive. You see that I am weaving my web round Thaddeus. The net begins to close upon him.

"

"You are not quite in possession of the facts yet," said Holmes. "This splinter of wood, which I have every reason to believe to be poisoned, was in the man's scalp where you still see the mark; this card, inscribed as you see it, was on the table; and beside it lay this rather curious stone-headed instrument. How does all this fit into your theory?"

"Confirms it in every respect," said the fat detective, pompously. "House is full of Indian curiosities.

Thaddeus brought this up, and if this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have made murderous use of it as any other man. The card is some hocus-pocus a blind, as like as not. The only question is, How did he depart?

Ah, of course, here is a hole in the roof.

" With great activity, considering his bulk, he sprang up the steps and squeezed through into the garret, and immediately afterward we heard his exulting voice proclaiming that he had found the trapdoor. "He can find something," remarked Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "He has occasional glimmerings of reason.

I'l n'y a pas des sots si incommodes que ceux qui ont de l'esprit!"
"You see!" said Athelney Jones, reappearing down the steps again. "Facts are better than mere theories, after all. My view of the case is confirmed. There is a trap-door communicating with the roof, and it is partly open.

"

"It was I who opened it."
"Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?"

He seemed a little crestfallen at the discovery. "Well, whoever noticed it, it shows how our gentleman got away. Inspector!"
"Yes, sir," from the passage.

"Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way. Mr. Sholto, it is my duty to inform you that anything which you may say will be used against you. I arrest you in the queen's name as being concerned in the death of your brother. "

"There, now!
Didn't I tell you?" cried the poor little man, throwing out his hands, and looking from one to the other of us. "Don't trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes.

"I think that I can engage to clear you of the charge." "Don't promise too much, Mr. Theorist don't promise too much!" snapped the detective. "You may find it a harder matter than you think. "

"Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will make you a free present of the name and description of one of the two people who were in the room last night.

His name, I have every reason to believe, is Jonathan Small. He is a poorly educated man; small, active, with his right leg off, and wearing a wooden stump which is worn away upon the inner side. His left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an iron band round the heel. He is a middle-aged man, much sunburned, and has been a convict. These few indications may be of some assistance to you, coupled with the fact that there is a good deal of skin missing from the palm of his hand.

The other man " "Ah!
the other man?" asked Athelney Jones, in a sneering voice, but impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the precision of the other's manner. "Is a rather curious person," said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his heel. "I hope before very long to be able to introduce you to the pair of them. A word with you, Watson.

"

He led me out to the head of the stair. "This unexpected occurrence," he said, "has caused us rather to lose sight of the original purpose of our journey. "

"I have just been thinking so," I answered. "It is not right that Miss Morstan should remain in this stricken house. "
"No.
You must escort her home.

She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester, in Lower Camberwell; so it is not very far. I will wait for you here, if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?"
"By no means.

I don't think I could rest until I know more of this fantastic business. I have seen something of the rough side of life, but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange surprises to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should like, however, to see the matter through with you, now that I have got so far."
"Your presence will be of great service to me," he answered. "We shall work the case out independently, and leave this fellow Jones to exult over any mare's-nest which he may choose to construct.

When you have dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go to No. 3

Pinchin Lane, down near the water's edge, at Lambeth. The third house on the right-hand side is a bird-stuffer's; Sherman is the name. You will see a weasel holding a young rabbit in the window. Rouse old Sherman up, and tell him, with my compliments, that I want Toby at once. You will bring Toby back in the cab with you."
"A dog, I suppose?"
"Yes, a queer mongrel, with a most amazing power of scent.

I would rather have Toby's help than that of the whole detective force of London. "

"I shall bring him, then," said I. "It is one now. I ought to be back before three, if I can get a fresh horse.

"

"And I," said Holmes, "shall see what I can learn from Mrs. Bernstone, and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tells me, sleeps in the next garret. Then I shall study the great Jones's methods, and listen to his not too delicate sarcasms. ' Wir sind gewohnt, dass die Menschen verhohnen was sie nicht verstehen.'

Goethe is always pithy."
CHAPTER VII The Episode of the Barrel

The police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted Miss Morstan back to her home. After the angelic fashion of women, she had borne trouble with a calm face as long as there was some one weaker than herself to support, and I had found her bright and placid by the side of the frightened housekeeper. In the cab, however, she first turned faint, and then burst into a passion of weeping, so sorely had she been tried by the adventures of the night.

She has told me since that she thought me cold and distant upon that journey. She little guessed the struggle within my breast, or the effort of self-restraint which held me back. My sympathies and my love went out to her, even as my hand had in the garden. I felt that years of the conventionalities of life could not teach me to know her sweet, brave nature as had this one day of strange experiences.

Yet there were two thoughts which sealed the words of affection upon my lips.

She was weak and helpless, shaken in mind and nerve. It was to take her at a disadvantage to obtrude love upon her at such a time. Worse still she was rich.

If Holmes's researches were successful, she would be an heiress. Was it fair, was it honorable, that a half-pay surgeon should take such advantage of an intimacy which chance had brought about? Might she not look upon me as a mere vulgar fortune-seeker? I could not bear to risk that such a thought should cross her mind. This Agra treasure intervened like an impassable barrier between us.

It was nearly two o'clock when we reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. The servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been so interested by the strange message which Miss Morstan had received, that she had sat up in the hope of her return. She opened the door herself, a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it gave me joy to see how tenderly her arm stole round the other's waist, and how motherly was the voice in which she greeted her. She was clearly no mere paid dependent, but an honored friend.

I was introduced, and Mrs. Forrester earnestly begged me to step in and to tell her our adventures. I explained, however, the importance of my errand, and promised faithfully to call and report any progress which we might make with the case. As we drove away I stole a glance back, and I still seem to see that little group on the step, the two graceful, clinging figures, the half-opened door, the hall light shining through stained glass, the barometer, and the bright stair-rods. It was soothing to catch even that passing glimpse of a tranquil English home in the midst of the wild, dark business which had absorbed us.

And the more I thought of what had happened, the wilder and darker it grew. I reviewed the whole extraordinary sequence of events as I rattled on through the silent, gas-lighted streets. There was the original problem: that at least was pretty clear now.

The death of Captain Morstan, the sending of the pearls, the advertisement, the letter we had had light upon all those events. They had only led us, however, to a deeper and far more tragic mystery. The Indian treasure, the curious plan found among Morstan's baggage, the strange scene at Major Sholto's death, the rediscovery of the treasure immediately followed by the murder of the discoverer, the very singular accompaniments to the crime, the footsteps, the remarkable weapons, the words upon the card, corresponding with those upon Captain Morstan's chart here was indeed a labyrinth in which a man less singularly endowed than my fellow-lodger might well despair at ever finding the clue.

Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby two-storied brick houses in the lower quarter of Lambeth. I had to knock for some time at No. 3 before I could make any impression. At last, however, there was the glint of a candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at the upper window.

"Go on, you drunken vagabond!" said the face. "If you kick up any more row I'll open the kennels and let out forty-three dogs at you."

"If you'll let one out it's just what I have come for," said I.  "Go on!" yelled the voice. "So help me gracious, I have a wiper in this bag, an' I'll drop it on your 'ead if you don't book it!" "But I want a dog," I cried.

"I won't be argued with!" shouted Mr. Sherman. "Now stand clear; for when I say 'three,' down goes the wiper. "

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes " I began; but the words had a most magical effect, for the window instantly slammed down, and within a minute the door was unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean old man, with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and blue-tinted glasses.

"A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome," said he. "Step in, sir.  Keep clear of the badger; for he bites. Ah, naughty, naughty!
would you take a nip at the gentleman?" This to a stoat which thrust its wicked head and red eyes between the bars of its cage.

"Don't mind that, sir; it's only a slow-worm.

It hain't got no fangs, so I gives it the run o' the room, for it keeps the beetles down. You must not mind my bein' just a little short wi' you at first, for I'm guyed by the children, and there's many a one just comes down this lane to rouse me up. What was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted, sir?"  "He wanted a dog of yours.

"

"Ah! that would be Toby." "Yes, Toby was the name. "

"Toby lives at No. 7, on the left here. "

He moved slowly forward with his candle among the queer animal family which he had gathered round him. In the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly that there were glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down at us from every cranny and corner.

Even the rafters above our heads were lined by solemn fowls, who lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the Other as our voices disturbed their slumbers. Toby proved to be an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared creature, half spaniel and half lurcher, brown and white in color, with a very clumsy waddling gait. It accepted, after some hesitation, a lump of sugar which the old naturalist handed to me, and having thus sealed an alliance, it followed me to the cab, and made no difficulties about accompanying me. It had just struck three on the Palace clock when I found myself back once more at Pondicherry Lodge.

The ex-prize-fighter, McMurdo, had, I found, been arrested as an accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto had been marched off to the station. Two constables guarded the narrow gate, but they allowed me to pass with the dog on my mentioning the detective's name.

Holmes was standing on the doorstep, with his hands in his pockets, smoking his pipe. "Ah, you have him there!" said he. "Good dog, then!
Athelney Jones has gone.

We have had an immense display of energy since you left. He has arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves but for a sergeant upstairs. Leave the dog here and come up.

"

We tied Toby to the hall table, and reascended the stairs. The room was as we had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the central figure. A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the corner. "Lend me your bull's-eye, sergeant," said my companion.

"Now tie this bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me.
Thank you. Now I must kick off my boots and stockings. Just you carry them down with you, Watson. I am going to do a little climbing.

And dip my handkerchief into the creosote. That will do. Now come up into the garret with me for a moment. "

We clambered up through the hole.

Holmes turned his light once more upon the footsteps in the dust. "I wish particularly to notice these foot-marks," he said. "Do you observe anything noteworthy about them?"
"They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman. " "Apart from their size, though.

Is there nothing else?"
"They appear to be much as other foot-marks. "

"Not at all.  Look here!

This is the print of a right foot in the dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief difference?"

"Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe distinctly divided."

"Quite so.

That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the woodwork?
I shall stay over here as I have this handkerchief in my hand." I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry smell.

"That is where he put his foot in getting out. If you can trace him, I should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run downstairs, loose the dog, and look out for Blondin. "

By the time that I got out into the grounds, Sherlock Holmes was on the roof, and I could see him like an enormous glowworm crawling very slowly along the ridge.

I lost sight of him behind a stack of chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more upon the opposite side. When I made my way round there I found him seated at one of the corner eaves. "That you, Watson?" he cried.

"Yes."  "This is the place. What is that black thing down there?'  "A water-barrel. "

"Top on it?"  "Yes."
"No sign of a ladder?"  "No."  "Confound the fellow!

It's a most break-neck place, I ought to be able to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels pretty firm. Here goes, anyhow."

There was a shuffling of the feet, and the lantern began to come steadily down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he came on to the barrel, and from there to the earth. "It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings and boots.

"Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he had dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express it."

The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven out of colored grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it. In shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the other, like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto.

"They are hellish things," said he. "Look out that you don't prick yourself. I'm delighted to have them, for the chances are that they are all he has. There is the less fear of you or me finding one in our skin before long.

I would sooner face a Martini bullet myself. Are you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson?"  "Certainly," I answered. "Your leg will stand it?"
"Oh, yes." "Here you are, doggy!

Good old Toby!
Smell it, Toby; smell it!"

He pushed the creosote handkerchief under the dog's nose, while the creature stood with its fluffy legs separated, and with a most comical cock to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the bouquet of a famous vintage. Holmes then threw the handkerchief to a distance, fastened a stout cord to the mongrel's collar, and led him to the foot of the water-barrel. The creature instantly broke into a succession of high, tremulous yelps, and, with his nose on the ground and his tail in the air, pattered off upon the trail at a pace which strained his leash and kept us at the top of our speed. The east had been gradually whitening, and we could now see some distance in the cold, gray light.

The square, massive house, with its black, empty windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad and forlorn, behind us. Our course led right across the grounds, in and out among the trenches and pits with which they were scarred and intersected. The whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and ill-grown shrubs, had a blighted, ill-omened look which harmonized with the black tragedy which hung over it. On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along, whining eagerly, underneath its shadow, and stopped finally in a corner screened by a young beech.

Where the two walls joined, several bricks had been loosened, and the crevices left were worn down and rounded upon the lower side, as though they had frequently been used as a ladder. Holmes clambered up, and, taking the dog from me, he dropped it over upon the other side. "There's the print of wooden-leg's hand," he remarked, as I mounted up beside him. "You see the slight smudge of blood upon the white plaster.

What a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy rain since yesterday! The scent will lie upon the road in spite of their eight-and-twenty hours' start. "

I confess that I had my doubts myself when I reflected upon the great traffic which had passed along the London road in the interval.

My fears were soon appeased, however. Toby never hesitated or swerved, but waddled on in his peculiar rolling fashion. Clearly, the pungent smell of the creosote rose high above all other contending scents. "Do not imagine," said Holmes, "that I depend for my success in this case upon the mere chance of one of these fellows having put his foot in the chemical. I have knowledge now which would enable me to trace them in many different ways.

This, however, is the readiest, and, since fortune has put it into our hands, I should be culpable if I neglected it. It has, however, prevented the case from becoming the pretty little intellectual problem which it at one time promised to be. There might have been some credit to be gained out of it but for this too palpable clue. "

"There is credit, and to spare," said I. "I assure you, Holmes, that I marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in this case, even more than I did in the Jefferson Hope murder.

The thing seems to me to be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for example, could you describe with such confidence the wooden-legged man?"  "Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I don't wish to be theatrical.

It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are in command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan Small.

You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain Morstan's possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his associates the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called it. Aided by this chart, the officers or one of them gets the treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some condition under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself?

The answer is obvious. The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close association with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not get away."

"But this is mere speculation," said I. "It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis which covers the facts.

Let us see how it fits in with the sequel. Major Sholto remains at peace for some years, happy in the possession of his treasure. Then he receives a letter from India which gives him a great fright.

What was that?"
"A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged had been set free. "

"Or had escaped. That is much more likely, for he would have known what their term of imprisonment was. It would not have been a surprise to him. What does he do then?

He guards himself against a wooden-legged man a white man, mark you, for he mistakes a white tradesman for him, and actually fires a pistol at him. Now, only one white man's name is on the chart. The others are Hindus or Mohammedans. There is no other white man. Therefore we may say with confidence that the wooden-legged man is identical with Jonathan Small.

Does the reasoning strike you as being faulty?"
"No; it is clear and concise."
"Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of Jonathan Small.

Let us look at it from his point of view. He comes to England with the double idea of regaining what he would consider to be his rights and of having his revenge upon the man who had wronged him. He found out where Sholto lived, and very possibly he established communications with some one inside the house. There is this butler, Lal Rao, whom we have not seen.

Mrs. Bernstone gives him far from a good character. Small could not find out, however, where the treasure was hid, for no one ever knew, save the major and one faithful servant who had died. Suddenly Small learns that the major is on his death-bed. In a frenzy lest the secret of the treasure die with him, he runs the gauntlet of the guards, makes his way to the dying man's window, and is only deterred from entering by the presence of his two sons. Mad with hate, however, against the dead man, he enters the room that night, searches his private papers in the hope of discovering some memorandum relating to the treasure, and finally leaves a memento of his visit in the short inscription upon the card.

He had doubtless planned beforehand that should he slay the major he would leave some such record upon the body as a sign that it was not a common murder, but, from the point of view of the four associates, something in the nature of an act of justice. Whimsical and bizarre conceits of this kind are common enough in the annals of crime, and usually afford valuable indications as to the criminal. Do you follow all this?"

"Very clearly."
"Now, what could Jonathan Small do?

He could only continue to keep a secret watch upon the efforts made to find the treasure. Possibly he leaves England and only comes back at intervals. Then comes the discovery of the garret, and he is instantly informed of it. We again trace the presence of some confederate in the household. Jonathan, with his wooden leg, is utterly unable to reach the lofty room of Bartholomew Sholto.

He takes with him, however, a rather curious associate, who gets over this difficulty, but dips his naked foot into creosote, whence come Toby, and a six-mile limp for a half-pay officer with a damaged tendo Achillis. "

"But it was the associate, and not Jonathan, who committed the crime. "

"Quite so.
And rather to Jonathan's disgust, to judge by the way he stamped about when he got into the room.

He bore no grudge against Bartholomew Sholto, and would have preferred if he could have been simply bound and gagged. He did not wish to put his head in a halter. There was no help for it, however; the savage instincts of his companion had broken out, and the poison had done its work; so Jonathan Small left his record, lowered the treasure-box to the ground, and followed it himself. That was the train of events as far as I can decipher them.

Of course as to his personal appearance he must be middle-aged, and must be sunburned after serving his time in such an oven as the Andamans. His height is readily calculated from the length of his stride, and we know that he was bearded. His hairiness was the one point which impressed itself upon Thaddeus Sholto when he saw him at the window. I don't know that there is anything else."
"The associate?"  "Ah, well, there is no great mystery in that.

But you will know all about it soon enough.

How sweet the morning air is! See how that one little cloud floats like a pink feather from some gigantic flamingo. Now the red rim of the sun pushes itself over the London cloud-bank. It shines on a good many folk, but on none, I dare bet, who is on a stranger errand than you and I.  How small we feel with our petty ambitions and strivings in the presence of the great elemental forces of nature!

Are you well up in your Jean Paul?"  "Fairly so. I worked back to him through Carlyle." "That was like following the brook to the parent lake. He makes one curious but profound remark. It is that the chief proof of a man's real greatness lies in his perception of his own smallness.

It argues, you see, a power of comparison and of appreciation, which is in itself a proof of nobility. There is much food for thought in Richter. You have not a pistol, have you?" "I have my stick. "

"It is just possible that we may need something of the sort if we get to their lair.

Jonathan I shall leave to you, but if the other turns nasty I shall shoot him dead. "

He took out his revolver as he spoke, and, having loaded two of the chambers, he put it back into the right-hand pocket of his jacket. We had during this time been following the guidance of Toby down the half-rural, villa-lined roads which lead to the metropolis. Now, however, we were beginning to come among continuous streets, where laborers and dockmen were already astir, and slatternly women were taking down shutters and brushing doorsteps.

At the square-topped corner public-house business was just beginning, and rough-looking men were emerging, rubbing their sleeves across their beards after their morning wet. Strange dogs sauntered up, and stared wonderingly at us as we passed, but our inimitable Toby looked neither to the right nor to the left, but trotted onward with his nose to the ground and an occasional eager whine, which spoke of a hot scent. We had traversed Streatham, Brixton, Camberwell, and now found ourselves in Kennington Lane, having borne away through the side streets to the east of the Oval. The men whom we pursued seemed to have taken a curiously zigzag road, with the idea probably of escaping observation.

They had never kept to the main road if a parallel side street would serve their turn. At the foot of Kennington Lane they had edged away to the left through Bond Street and Miles Street. Where the latter street turns into Knight's Place, Toby ceased to advance, but began to run backward and forward with one ear cocked and the other drooping, the very picture of canine indecision.

Then he waddled round in circles, looking up to us from time to time, as if to ask for sympathy in his embarrassment. "What the deuce is the matter with the dog?" growled Holmes. "They surely would not take a cab, or go off in a balloon."

"Perhaps they stood here for some time," I suggested. "Ah!
it's all right. He's off again," said my companion, in a tone of relief.

He was indeed off; for, after sniffing round again, he suddenly made up his mind, and darted away with an energy and determination such as he had not yet shown. The scent appeared to be much hotter than before, for he had not even to put his nose on the ground, but tugged at his leash, and tried to break into a run. I could see by the gleam in Holmes's eyes that he thought we were nearing the end of our journey.

Our course now ran down Nine Elms until we came to Broderick and Nelson's large timber-yard, just past the White Eagle tavern. Here the dog, frantic with excitement, turned down through the side gate into the enclosure, where the sawyers were already at work. On the dog raced through sawdust and shavings, down an alley, round a passage, between two wood-piles, and finally, with a triumphant yelp, sprung upon a large barrel, which still stood upon the hand-trolley on which it had been brought. With lolling tongue and blinking eyes, Toby stood upon the cask, looking from one to the other of us for some sign of appreciation. The staves of the barrel and the wheels of the trolley were smeared with a dark liquid, and the whole air was heavy with the smell of creosote.

Sherlock Holmes and I looked at each other, and then burst simultaneously into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. CHAPTER VIII  The Baker Street Irregulars  "What now?

" I asked. "Toby has lost his character for infallibility." "He acted according to his lights," said Holmes, lifting him down from the barrel and walking him out of the timber-yard. "If you consider how much creosote is carried about London in one day, it is no great wonder that our trail should have been crossed.

It is much used now, especially for the seasoning of wood. Poor Toby is not to blame. "

"We must get on the main scent again, I suppose.

"

"Yes.  And, fortunately, we have no distance to go. Evidently what puzzled the dog at the corner of Knight's Place was that there were two different trails running in opposite directions. We took the wrong one. It only remains to follow the other.

"
There was no difficulty about this. On leading Toby to the place where he had committed his fault, he cast about in a wide circle, and finally dashed off in a fresh direction. "We must take care that he does not now bring us to the place where the creosote barrel came from," I observed. "I had thought of that.

But you notice that he keeps on the pavement, whereas the barrel passed down the roadway.

No, we are on the true scent now." It tended down toward the river-side, running through Belmont Place and Prince's Street. At the end of Broad Street it ran right down to the water's edge, where there was a small wooden wharf. Toby led us to the very edge of this, and there stood whining, looking out on the dark current beyond.

"We are out of luck," said Holmes. "They have taken to a boat here. "

Several small punts and skiffs were lying about in the water on the edge of the wharf. We took Toby round to each in turn, but, though he sniffed earnestly, he made no sign.

Close to the rude landing-stage was a small brick house, with a wooden placard slung out through the second window. "Mordecai Smith" was printed across it in large letters, and, underneath, "Boats to hire by the hour or day. "
A second inscription above the door informed us that a steam launch was kept a statement which was confirmed by a great pile of coke upon the jetty. Sherlock Holmes looked slowly around, and his face assumed an ominous expression.

"This looks bad," said he. "These fellows are sharper than I expected. They seem to have covered their tracks.

There has, I fear, been preconcerted management here. "

He was approaching the door of the house, when it opened, and a little, curly-headed lad of six came running out, followed by a stoutish, red-faced woman, with a large sponge in her hand. "You come back and be washed, Jack!" she shouted.

"Come back, you young imp; for if your father comes home and finds you like that, he'll let us hear of it!" "Dear little chap!" said Holmes, strategically, "What a rosy-cheeked young rascal! Now, Jack, is there anything you would like?" The youth pondered for a moment.

"I'd like a shillin'," said he. "Nothing you would like better?"  "I'd like two shillin' better," the prodigy answered, after some thought. "Here you are, then!
Catch!

A fine child, Mrs. Smith.

" "Lor' bless you, sir, he is that, and forward. He gets a'most too much for me to manage, 'specially when my man is away days at a time." "Away, is he?" said Holmes, in a disappointed voice. "I am sorry for that, for I wanted to speak to Mr. Smith. "

"He's been away since yesterday mornin', sir, and, truth to tell, I am beginning to feel frightened about him.

But if it was about a boat, sir, maybe I could serve as well."
"I wanted to hire his steam launch.

" "Why, bless you, sir, it is in the steam launch that he has gone. That's what puzzles me; for I know there ain't more coals in her than would take her to about Woolwich and back. If he'd been away in the barge I'd ha' thought nothin'; for many a time a job has taken him as far as Gravesend, and then if there was much doin' there he might ha' stayed over. But what good is a steam launch without coals?"  "He might have bought some at a wharf down the river.

" "He might, sir, but it weren't his way. Many a time I've heard him call out at the prices they charge for a few odd bags. Besides, I don't like that wooden-legged man, wi' his ugly face and outlandish talk. What did he want always knockin' about here for?"  "A wooden-legged man?" said Holmes, with bland surprise.

"Yes, sir; a brown, monkey-faced chap that's called more'n once for my old man. It was him that roused him up yesternight, and what's more, my man knew he was comin', for he had steam up in the launch. I tell you straight, sir, I don't feel easy in my mind about it."
"But, my dear Mrs. Smith," said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, "you are frightening yourself about nothing. How could you possibly tell that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the night?

I don't quite understand how you can be so sure."
"His voice, sir.

I knew his voice, which is kind o' thick and foggy.

He tapped at the winder about three it would be. '

Show a leg, matey,' says he; 'time to turn out guard.' My old man woke Jim up that's my eldest and away they went, without so much as a word to me. I could hear the wooden leg clackin' on the stones. "

"And was this wooden-legged man alone?"  "Couldn't say, I am sure, sir.

I didn't hear no one else. " "I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have heard good reports of the   Let me see, what is her name?"
"The 'Aurora,' sir."
"Ah! She's not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad in the beam?"
"No, indeed. She's as trim a little thing as any on the river.

She's been fresh painted, black with two red streaks. "

"Thanks.

I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going down the river; and if I should see anything of the 'Aurora' I shall let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?"
"No, sir. Black with a white band.

" "Ah, of course.

It was the sides which were black. Good morning, Mrs. Smith.

There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross the river." "The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their information can be of the slightest importance to you.

If you do, they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want." "Our course now seems pretty clear," said I.  "What would you do then?"

"I would engage a launch and go down the track of the 'Aurora.'"  "My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task.

She may have touched at any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich. Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set about it alone." "Employ the police then."
"No.  I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment.

He is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out myself, now that we have gone so far.

"

"Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?" "Worse and worse!

Our men would know that the chase was hot at their heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly safe they will be in no hurry.

Jones's energy will be of use to us there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong scent."
"What are we to do then?"
I asked, as we landed near Millbank Penitentiary. "Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour's sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again.

Stop at a telegraph office, cabby. We will keep Toby, for he may be of use to us yet. "

We pulled up at the Great Peter Street Post-office, and Holmes despatched his wire.

"Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we resumed our journey. "I am sure I don't know. "

"You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?"  "Well," said I, laughing. "This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail, I have other resources; but I shall try them first.

That wire was to my dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his gang will be with us before we have finished our breakfast. "

It was between eight and nine o'clock now, and I was conscious of a strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. I was limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I had not the professional enthusiasm which carried my companion on, nor could I look at the matter as a mere abstract intellectual problem.

As far as the death of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good of him, and could feel no intense antipathy to his murderer. The treasure, however, was a different matter. That, or part of it, belonged rightfully to Miss Morstan. While there was a chance of recovering it, I was ready to devote my life to the one object.

True, if I found it, it would probably put her forever beyond my reach. Yet it would be a petty and selfish love which would be influenced by such a thought as that.

If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I had a tenfold stronger reason to urge me on to find the treasure. A bath at Baker Street and a complete change freshened me up wonderfully. When I came down to our room I found the breakfast laid and Holmes pouring out the coffee. "Here it is," said he, laughing, and pointing to an open newspaper. "The energetic Jones and the ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up between them.

But you have had enough of the case.

Better have your ham and eggs first." I took the paper from him and read the short notice, which was headed "Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood." "About twelve o'clock last night," said the "Standard," "Mr. Bartholomew Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was found dead in his room under circumstances which point to foul play.

As far as we can learn, no traces of violence were found upon Mr. Sholto's person, but a valuable collection of Indian gems, which the deceased gentleman had inherited from his father, has been carried off. The discovery was first made by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, who had called at the house with Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, brother of the deceased. By a singular piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney Jones, the well-known member of the detective police force, happened to be at the Norwood Police Station, and was on the ground within half an hour of the first alarm. His trained and experienced faculties were at once directed toward the detection of the criminals, with the gratifying result that the brother, Thaddeus Sholto, has already been arrested, together with the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone, an Indian butler named Lal Rao, and a porter, or gatekeeper, named McMurdo.

It is quite certain that the thief or thieves were well acquainted with the house, for Mr. Jones's well-known technical knowledge and his powers of minute observation have enabled him to prove conclusively that the miscreants could not have entered by the door or by the window, but must have made their way across the roof of the building, and so through a trap-door into a room which communicated with that in which the body was found. This fact, which has been very clearly made out, proves conclusively that it was no mere haphazard burglary. The prompt and energetic action of the officers of the law shows the great advantage of the presence on such occasions of a single vigorous and masterful mind. We can not but think that it supplies an argument to those who would wish to see our detectives more decentralized, and so brought into closer and more effective touch with the cases which it is their duty to investigate.
" "Isn't it gorgeous!" said Holmes, grinning over his coffee-cup.

"What do you think of it?"

"I think that we have had a close shave ourselves of being arrested for the crime. "

"So do I.  I wouldn't answer for our safety now, if he should happen to have another of his attacks of energy." At this moment there was a loud ring at the bell, and I could hear Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, raising her voice in a wail of expostulation and dismay.

"By heaven, Holmes," I said, half-rising, "I believe they are really after us."

"No, it's not quite so bad as that. It is the unofficial force the Baker Street irregulars. "

As he spoke, there came a swift pattering of naked feet upon the stairs, a clatter of high voices, and in rushed a dozen dirty and ragged little street Arabs. There was some show of discipline among them, despite their tumultuous entry, for they instantly drew up in line and stood facing us with expectant faces. One of their number, taller and older than the others, stood forward with an air of lounging superiority which was very funny in such a disreputable little scarecrow.

"Got your message, sir," said he, "and brought 'em in sharp. Three bob and a tanner for tickets.

" "Here you are," said Holmes, producing some silver, "In future they can report to you, Wiggins, and you to me. I can not have the house invaded in this way. However, it is just as well that you should all hear the instructions.

I want to find the whereabout of a steam launch called the 'Aurora,' owner, Mordecai Smith, black with two red streaks, funnel black with a white band. She is down the river somewhere. I want one boy to be at Mordecai Smith's landing-stage, opposite Millbank, to say if the boat comes back. You must divide it out among yourselves, and do both banks thoroughly. Let me know the moment you have the news.

Is that all clear?"
"Yes, guv'nor," said Wiggins. "The old scale of pay, and a guinea to the boy who finds the boat. Here's a day in advance.

Now off you go! "
He handed them a shilling each, and away they buzzed down the stairs, and I saw them a moment later streaming down the street. "If the launch is above water they will find her," said Holmes, as he rose from the table and lighted his pipe.

"They can go everywhere, see everything, overhear every one. I expect to hear before evening that they have spotted her. In the meanwhile, we can do nothing but await results. We can not pick up the broken trail until we find either the 'Aurora' or Mr. Mordecai Smith. "

"Toby could eat these scraps, I dare say.

Are you going to bed, Holmes?"

"No; I am not tired. I have a curious constitution. I never remember feeling tired by work, though idleness exhausts me completely. I am going to smoke, and to think over this queer business to which my fair client has introduced us.

If ever man had an easy task, this of ours ought to be. Wooden-legged men are not so common, but the other man must, I should think, be absolutely unique. "

"That other man again!"
"I have no wish to make a mystery of him to you, anyway. But you must have formed your own opinion.

Now, do consider the data. Diminutive foot-marks, toes never fettered by boots, naked feet, stone-headed wooden mace, great agility, small, poisoned darts. What do you make of all this?"  "A savage!"
I exclaimed. "Perhaps one of those Indians who were the associates of Jonathan Small. "

"Hardly that," said he. "When first I saw signs of strange weapons I was inclined to think so, but the remarkable character of the foot-marks caused me to reconsider my views. Some of the inhabitants of the Indian Peninsula are small men, but none could have left such marks as that. The Hindoo proper has long and thin feet.

The sandal-wearing Mohammedan has the great toe well separated from the others, because the thong is commonly passed between. These little darts, too, could only be shot in one way. They were from a blow-pipe.

Now, then, where are we to find our savage?"  "South America," I hazarded. He stretched his hand up, and took down a bulky volume from the shelf. "This is the first volume of a gazeteer which is now being published. It may be looked upon as the very latest authority.

What have we here?  'Andaman Islands, situated three hundred and forty miles to the north of Sumatra in the Bay of Bengal.'  Hum! hum! What's all this?
'Moist climate, coral reefs, sharks, Port Blair, convict-barracks, Rutland Island, cottonwoods ' Ah, here we are.

'

The aborigines of the Andaman Islands may perhaps claim the distinction of being the smallest race upon this earth, though some anthropologists prefer the Bushmen of Africa, the Digger Indians of America, and the Terra del Fuegians. The average height is rather below four feet, although many full-grown adults may be found who are very much smaller than this.

They are a fierce, morose, and intractable people, though capable of forming most devoted friendships when their confidence has once been gained.'

Mark that, Watson.

Now, then, listen to this: 'They are naturally hideous, having large misshapen heads, small fierce eyes, and distorted features. Their feet and hands, however, are remarkably small. So intractable and fierce are they that all the efforts of the British officials have failed to win them over in any degree.

They have always been a terror to shipwrecked crews, braining the survivors with their stone-headed clubs, or shooting them with their poisoned arrows. These massacres are invariably concluded by a cannibal feast.'

Nice, amiable people, Watson! If this fellow had been left to his own unaided devices this affair might have taken an even more ghastly turn. I fancy that, even as it is, Jonathan Small would give a good deal not to have employed him."

"But how came he to have so singular a companion?"  "Ah, that is more than I can tell. Since, however, we had already determined that Small had come from the Andamans, it is not so very wonderful that this islander should be with him.

No doubt we shall know all about it in time. Look here, Watson, you look regularly done. Lie down there on the sofa, and see if I can put you to sleep.

"

He took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out he began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air his own, no doubt, for he had a remarkable gift for improvization. I have a vague remembrance of his gaunt limbs, his earnest face, and the rise and fall of his bow. Then I seemed to be floating peacefully away upon a soft sea of sound, until I found myself in dreamland, with the sweet face of Mary Morstan looking down upon me. CHAPTER IX  A Break in the Chain

It was late in the afternoon before I awoke, strengthened and refreshed. Sherlock Holmes still sat exactly as I had left him, save that he had laid aside his violin and was deep in a book.

He looked across at me as I stirred, and I noticed that his face was dark and troubled. "You have slept soundly," he said. "I feared that our talk would wake you." "I heard nothing," I answered.

"Have you had fresh news, then?"
"Unfortunately, no. I confess that I am surprised and disappointed. I expected something definite by this time.

Wiggins has just been up to report. He says that no trace can be found of the launch. It is a provoking check, for every hour is of importance. "

"Can I do anything?

I am perfectly fresh now, and quite ready for another night's outing."

"No; we can do nothing. We can only wait. If we go ourselves, the message might come in our absence, and delay be caused. You can do what you will, but I must remain on guard. "

"Then I shall run over to Camberwell and call upon Mrs. Cecil Forrester.

She asked me to yesterday. "

"On Mrs. Cecil Forrester?" asked Holmes, with the twinkle of a smile in his eyes. "Well, of course, on Miss Morstan, too.
They were anxious to hear what happened. "

"I would not tell them too much," said Holmes. "Women are never to be entirely trusted not the best of them."

I did not pause to argue over this atrocious sentiment. "I shall be back in an hour or two," I remarked. "All right!

Good luck!

But, I say, if you are crossing the river you may as well return Toby, for I don't think it at all likely that we shall have any use for him now."
I took our mongrel accordingly, and left him, together with a half sovereign, at the old naturalist's in Pinchin Lane.

At Camberwell I found Miss Morstan a little weary after her night's adventures, but very eager to hear the news. Mrs. Forrester, too, was full of curiosity. I told them all that we had done, suppressing, however, the more dreadful parts of the tragedy.

Thus, although I spoke of Mr. Sholto's death, I said nothing of the exact manner and method of it. With all my omissions, however, there was enough to startle and amaze them. "It is a romance!" cried Mrs. Forrester.

"An injured lady, half a million in treasure, a black cannibal, and a wooden-legged ruffian.

They take the place of the conventional dragon or wicked earl." "And two knights errant to the rescue," added Miss Morstan, with a bright glance at me. "Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue of this search. I don't think that you are nearly excited enough.

Just imagine what it must be to be so rich and to have the world at your feet. "

It sent a thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she showed no sign of elation at the prospect. On the contrary, she gave a toss of her proud head, as though the matter were one in which she took small interest. "It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious," she said.

"Nothing else is of any consequence; but I think that he has behaved most kindly and honorably throughout. It is our duty to clear him of this dreadful and unfounded charge. "

It was evening before I left Camberwell, and quite dark by the time I reached home.

My companion's book and pipe lay by his chair, but he had disappeared. I looked about in the hope of seeing a note, but there was none. "I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has gone out," I said to Mrs. Hudson, as she came up to lower the blinds. "No, sir.
He has gone to his room, sir. Do you know, sir," sinking her voice into an impressive whisper, "I am afraid for his health!"

"Why so, Mrs. Hudson?"  "Well, he's that strange, sir. After you was gone he walked, and he walked, up and down, and up and down, until I was weary of the sound of his footstep. Then I heard him talking to himself, and muttering, and every time the bell rang out he came on the stairhead, with, 'What is that, Mrs. Hudson?' And now he has slammed off to his room, but I can hear him walking away the same as ever.

I hope he's not going to be ill, sir. I ventured to say something to him about cooling medicine, but he turned on me, sir, with such a look that I don't know how I ever got out of the room." "I don't think that you have any cause to be uneasy, Mrs. Hudson," I answered. "I have seen him like this before.

He has some small matter upon his mind which makes him restless. "

I tried to speak lightly to our worthy landlady, but I was myself somewhat uneasy when through the long night I still, from time to time, heard the dull sound of his tread, and knew how his keen spirit was chafing against this involuntary inaction. At breakfast-time he looked worn and haggard, with a little fleck of feverish color upon either cheek.

"You are knocking yourself up, old man," I remarked. "I heard you marching about in the night. "

"No, I could not sleep," he answered. "This infernal problem is consuming me. It is too much to be balked by so petty an obstacle, when all else had been overcome.

I know the men, the launch, everything; and yet I can get no news. I have set other agencies at work, and used every means at my disposal. The whole river has been searched on either side, but there is no news, nor has Mrs. Smith heard of her husband. I shall come to the conclusion soon that they have scuttled the craft. But there are objections to that.

"

"Or that Mrs. Smith has put us on a wrong scent." "No, I think that may be dismissed. I had inquiries made, and there is a launch of that description. " "Could it have gone up the river?"

"I have considered that possibility, too, and there is a search party who will work up as far as Richmond.

If no news comes to-day, I shall start off myself to-morrow, and go for the men rather than the boat. But surely, surely, we shall hear something.

" We did not, however. Not a word came to us, either from Wiggins or from the other agencies. There were articles in most of the papers upon the Norwood tragedy.

They all appeared to be rather hostile to the unfortunate Thaddeus Sholto. No fresh details were to be found, however, in any of them, save that an inquest was to be held upon the following day. I walked over to Camberwell in the evening to report our ill success to the ladies, and on my return I found Holmes dejected and somewhat morose. He would hardly reply to my questions, and busied himself all evening in an abstruse chemical analysis which involved much heating of retorts and distilling of vapors, ending at last in a smell which fairly drove me out of the apartment.

Up to the small hours of the morning I could hear the clinking of his test-tubes, which told me that he was still engaged in his malodorous experiment. In the early dawn I woke with a start, and was surprised to find him standing by my bedside, clad in a rude sailor dress, with a pea-jacket, and a coarse red scarf round his neck. "I am off down the river, Watson," said he. "I have been turning it over in my mind, and I can see only one way out of it.

It is worth trying, at all events. "

"Surely I can come with you, then?" said I.  "No; you can be much more useful if you will remain here as my representative. I am loth to go, for it is quite on the cards that some message may come during the day, though Wiggins was despondent about it last night.

I want you to open all notes and telegrams, and act on your own judgment if any news should come. Can I rely upon you?" "Most certainly."
"I am afraid that you will not be able to wire to me, for I can hardly tell yet where I may find myself. If I am in luck, however, I may not be gone so very long.

I shall have news of some sort or other before I get back." I heard nothing of him by breakfast-time. On opening the "Standard," however, I found that there was a fresh allusion to the business.

"With reference to the Upper Norwood tragedy," it remarked, "we have reason to believe that the matter promises to be even more complex and mysterious than was originally supposed. Fresh evidence has shown that it is quite impossible that Mr. Thaddeus Sholto could have been in any way concerned in the matter. He and the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone, were both released yesterday evening. It is believed, however, that the police have a clue to the real culprits, and that it is being prosecuted by Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard, with all his well-known energy and sagacity.

Further arrests may be expected at any moment. "
"That is satisfactory so far as it goes," thought I.  "Friend Sholto is safe, at any rate. I wonder what the fresh clue may be; though it seems to be a stereotyped form whenever the police have made a blunder. "

I tossed the paper down upon the table, but at that moment my eye caught an advertisement in the agony column.

It ran in this way:   "Lost. Whereas, Mordecai Smith, boatman, and his son Jim, left Smith's Wharf at or about three o'clock last Tuesday morning, in the steam launch 'Aurora,' black with two red stripes; funnel black with a white band; the sum of five pounds will be paid to any one who can give information to Mrs. Smith, at Smith's Wharf, or at 222B Baker Street, as to the whereabouts of the said Mordecai Smith and the launch 'Aurora.' "

This was clearly Holmes's doing.

The Baker Street address was enough to prove that. It struck me as rather ingenious, because it might be read by the fugitives without their seeing in it more than the natural anxiety of a wife for her missing husband. It was a long day.

Every time that a knock came to the door, or a sharp step passed in the street, I imagined that it was either Holmes returning or an answer to his advertisement. I tried to read, but my thoughts would wander off to our strange quest and to the ill-assorted and villainous pair whom we were pursuing. Could there be, I wondered, some radical flaw in my companion's reasoning? Might he be suffering from some huge self-deception? Was it not possible that his nimble and speculative mind had built up this wild theory upon faulty premises?

I had never known him to be wrong; and yet the keenest reasoner may occasionally be deceived. He was likely, I thought, to fall into error through the overrefinement of his logic his preference for a subtle and bizarre explanation when a plainer and more commonplace one lay ready to his hand. Yet, on the other hand, I had myself seen the evidence, and I had heard the reasons for his deductions.

When I looked back on the long chain of curious circumstances, many of them trivial in themselves, but all tending in the same direction, I could not disguise from myself that even if Holmes's explanation were incorrect the true theory must be equally outré and startling. At three o'clock in the afternoon there was a loud peal at the bell, an authoritative voice in the hall, and, to my surprise, no less a person than Mr. Athelney Jones was shown up to me. Very different was he, however, from the brusque and masterful professor of common-sense who had taken over the case so confidently at Upper Norwood. His expression was downcast, and his bearing meek and even apologetic.

"Good-day, sir; good-day," said he. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes is out, I understand." "Yes; and I can not be sure when he will be back. But perhaps you would care to wait.

Take that chair and try one of these cigars." "Thank you; I don't mind if I do," said he, mopping his face with a red bandana handkerchief. "And a whisky and soda?"  "Well, half a glass.

It is very hot for the time of year and I have a good deal to worry and try me. You know my theory about this Norwood case?"  "I remember that you expressed one." "Well, I have been obliged to reconsider it.

I had my net drawn tightly round Mr. Sholto, sir, when pop!
he went through a hole in the middle of it. He was able to prove an alibi which could not be shaken. From the time that he left his brother's room he was never out of sight of some one or other.

So it could not be he who climbed over the roofs and through trap-doors. It's a very dark case and my professional credit is at stake. I should be very glad of a little assistance." "We all need help sometimes," said I.  "Your friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, is a wonderful man, sir," said he, in a husky and confidential voice. "He's a man who is not to be beat.

I have known that young man go into a good many cases, but I never saw the case yet that he could not throw light upon. He is irregular in his methods, and a little quick, perhaps, in jumping at theories, but, on the whole, I think he would have made a most promising officer, and I don't care who knows it. I have had a wire from him this morning, by which I understand that he has got some clue to this Sholto business. Here is his message. "

He took the telegram out of his pocket, and handed it to me.

It was dated from Poplar at twelve o'clock. "Go to Baker Street at once," it said. "If I have not returned, wait for me. I am close on the track of the Sholto gang.

You can come with us to-night if you want to be in at the finish. "
"This sounds well. He has evidently picked up the scent again," said I.  "Ah, then he has been at fault, too," exclaimed Jones, with evident satisfaction. "Even the best of us are thrown off sometimes.

Of course this may prove to be a false alarm; but it is my duty as an officer of the law to allow no chance to slip. But there is some one at the door.

Perhaps this is he." A heavy step was heard ascending the stairs, with a great wheezing and rattling as from a man who was sorely put to it for breath. Once or twice he stopped, as though the climb were too much for him, but at last he made his way to our door and entered.

His appearance corresponded to the sounds which we had heard. He was an aged man, clad in seafaring garb, with an old pea-jacket buttoned up to his throat. His back was bowed, his knees were shaky, and his breathing was painfully asthmatic. As he leaned upon a thick oaken cudgel his shoulders heaved in the effort to draw the air into his lungs. He had a colored scarf round his chin, and I could see little of his face save a pair of keen dark eyes, overhung by bushy white brows, and long gray side-whiskers.

Altogether he gave me the impression of a respectable master mariner who had fallen into years and poverty. "What is it, my man?"

I asked. He looked about him in the slow, methodical fashion of old age. "Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?" said he.

"No; but I am acting for him. You can tell me any message you have for him."
"It was to him himself I was to tell it," said he. "But I tell you that I am acting for him. Was it about Mordecai Smith's boat?"
"Yes.

I knows well where it is. An' I knows where the men he is after are. An' I knows where the treasure is. I knows all about it.

"

"Then tell me, and I shall let him know. " "It was to him I was to tell it," he repeated, with the petulant obstinacy of a very old man. "Well, you must wait for him. "

"No, no; I ain't goin' to lose a whole day to please no one.

If Mr. Holmes ain't here, then Mr. Holmes must find it all out for himself. I don't care about the look of either of you, and I won't tell a word. "
He shuffled toward the door, but Athelney Jones got in front of him. "Wait a bit, my friend," said he.

"You have important information, and you must not walk off. We shall keep you, whether you like it or not, until our friend returns. "

The old man made a little run toward the door, but, as Athelney Jones put his broad back up against it, he recognized the uselessness of resistance. "Pretty sort o' treatment this!"
he cried, stamping his stick.

"I come here to see a gentleman, and you two, who I never saw in my life, seize me and treat me in this fashion!" "You will be none the worse," I said. "We shall recompense you for the loss of your time. Sit over here on the sofa, and you will not have long to wait. "

He came across sullenly enough, and seated himself with his face resting on his hands.

Jones and I resumed our cigars and our talk. Suddenly, however, Holmes's voice broke in upon us. "I think that you might offer me a cigar, too," he said. We both started in our chairs.

There was Holmes sitting close to us with an air of quiet amusement. "Holmes!"
I exclaimed. "You here?

But where is the old man?"  "Here is the old man," said he, holding out a heap of white hair. "Here he is wig, whiskers, eyebrows, and all. I thought my disguise was pretty good, but I hardly expected that it would stand that test."

"Ah, you rogue!" cried Jones, highly delighted. "You would have made an actor, and a rare one. You had the proper workhouse cough, and those weak legs of yours are worth ten pounds a week. I thought I knew the glint of your eye, though. You didn't get away from us so easily, you see.

"

"I have been working in that get-up all day," said he, lighting his cigar. "You see, a good many of the criminal classes begin to know me especially since our friend here took to publishing some of my cases; so I can only go on the warpath under some simple disguise like this. You got my wire?"
"Yes; that was what brought me here." "How has your case prospered?"

"It has all come to nothing. I had to release two of my prisoners, and there is no evidence against the other two.

"

"Never mind. We shall give you two others in place of them. But you must put yourself under my orders.

You are welcome to all the official credit, but you must act on the lines that I point out. Is that agreed?" "Entirely, if you will help me to the men.

"

"Well, then, in the first place I shall want a fast police-boat a steam launch to be at the Westminster Stairs at seven o'clock. "

"That is easily managed. There is always one about there; but I can step across the road and telephone, to make sure."

"Then I shall want two stanch men, in case of resistance. "

"There will be two or three in the boat. What else?"
"When we secure the men we shall get the treasure.

I think that it would be a pleasure to my friend here to take the box round to the young lady to whom half of it rightfully belongs. Let her be the first to open it. Eh, Watson?"
"It would be a great pleasure to me. "

"Rather an irregular proceeding," said Jones, shaking his head. "However, the whole thing is irregular, and I suppose we must wink at it.

The treasure must afterward be handed over to the authorities until after the official investigation. "

"Certainly.
That is easily managed. One other point.

I should much like to have the details about this matter from the lips of Jonathan Small himself. You know I like to work the detail of my cases out. There is no objection to my having an unofficial interview with him, either here in my rooms or elsewhere, as long as he is efficiently guarded?"

"Well, you are master of the situation. I have had no proof yet of the existence of this Jonathan Small. However, if you can catch him I don't see how I can refuse you an interview with him."
"That is understood, then?"  "Perfectly.  Is there anything else?"
"Only that I insist upon your dining with us.

It will be ready in half an hour. I have oysters and a brace of grouse, with something a little choice in white wine. Watson, you have never yet recognized my merits as a housekeeper.

" CHAPTER X  The End of the Islander  Our meal was a merry one. Holmes could talk exceedingly well when he chose, and that night he did choose. He appeared to be in a state of nervous exaltation.

I have never known him so brilliant. He spoke on a quick succession of subjects on miracle-plays, on medieval pottery, on Stradivarius violins, on the Buddhism of Ceylon, and on the warships of the future handling each as though he had made a special study of it. His bright humor marked the reaction from his black depression of the preceding days. Athelney Jones proved to be a sociable soul in his hours of relaxation, and faced his dinner with the air of a bon vivant.

For myself, I felt elated at the thought that we were nearing the end of our task, and I caught something of Holmes's gaiety. None of us alluded during the dinner to the cause which had brought us together. When the cloth was cleared, Holmes glanced at his watch, and filled up three glasses with port. "One bumper," said he, "to the success of our little expedition.

And now it is high time we were off. Have you a pistol, Watson?"  "I have my old service-revolver in my desk. "

"You had best take it, then.

It is well to be prepared. I see that the cab is at the door. I ordered it for half-past six."
It was a little past seven before we reached the Westminster wharf, and found our launch awaiting us. Holmes eyed it critically. "Is there anything to mark it as a police-boat?"

"Yes that green lamp at the side.

" "Then take it off. " The small change was made; we stepped on board, and the ropes were cast off. Jones, Holmes, and I sat in the stern. There was one man at the rudder, one to tend the engines, and two burly police-inspectors forward.

"Where to?" asked Jones. "To the Tower.

Tell them to stop opposite to Jacobson's Yard." Our craft was evidently a very fast one. We shot past the long lines of loaded barges as though they were stationary. Holmes smiled with satisfaction as we overhauled a river steamer and left her behind us.

"We ought to be able to catch anything on the river," he said. "Well, hardly that.

But there are not many launches to beat us.

" "We shall have to catch the 'Aurora,' and she has a name for being a clipper. I will tell you how the land lies, Watson. You recollect how annoyed I was at being balked by so small a thing?"

"Yes."
"Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical analysis. One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of work is the best rest.

So it is. When I had succeeded in dissolving the hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to our problem of the Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out again. My boys had been up the river and down the river without result. The launch was not at any landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned.

Yet it could hardly have been scuttled to hide their traces though that always remained as a possible hypothesis if all else failed.

I knew that this man Small had a certain degree of low cunning, but I did not think him capable of anything in the nature of delicate finesse. That is usually a product of higher education. I then reflected that since he had certainly been in London some time as we had evidence that he maintained a continual watch over Pondicherry Lodge he could hardly leave at a moment's notice, but would need some little time, if it were only a day, to arrange his affairs. That was the balance of probability, at any rate.

"

"It seemed to me to be a little weak," said I.
"It is more probable that he had arranged his affairs before ever he set out upon his expedition." "No, I hardly think so. This lair of his would be too valuable a retreat in case of need for him to give it up until he was sure that he could do without it. But a second consideration struck me: Jonathan Small must have felt that the peculiar appearance of his companion, however much he may have top-coated him, would give rise to gossip, and possibly be associated with this Norwood tragedy.

He was quite sharp enough to see that. They had started from their headquarters under cover of darkness, and he would wish to get back before it was broad light. Now it was past three o'clock, according to Mrs. Smith, when they got the boat. It would be quite bright, and people would be about in an hour or so. Therefore, I argued, they did not go very far.

They paid Smith well to hold his tongue, reserved his launch for the final escape, and hurried to their lodgings with the treasure-box. In a couple of nights, when they had time to see what view the papers took, and whether there was any suspicion, they would make their way under the cover of darkness to some ship at Gravesend or in the Downs, where no doubt they had already arranged for passages to America or the Colonies."

"But the launch? They could not have taken that to their lodgings.'"  "Quite so. I argued that the launch must be no great way off, in spite of its invisibility.

I then put myself in the place of Small, and looked at it as a man of his capacity would. He would probably consider that to send back the launch or to keep it at a wharf would make pursuit easy if the police did happen to get on his track. How, then, could he conceal the launch and yet have her at hand when wanted? I wondered what I should do myself if I were in his shoes. I could only think of one way of doing it.

I might hand the launch over to some boat-builder or repairer, with the directions to make a trifling change in her. She would then be removed to his shed or yard, and so be effectually concealed, while at the same time I could have her at a few hours' notice. "
"That seems simple enough. "

"It is just these very simple things which are extremely liable to be overlooked.

However, I determined to act on the idea.

I started at once in this harmless seaman's rig and inquired at all the yards down the river. I drew blank at fifteen, but at the sixteenth Jacobson's I learned that the 'Aurora' had been handed over to them two days ago by a wooden-legged man, with some trivial directions as to her rudder.  ' There ain't naught amiss with her rudder,' said the foreman. '

There she lies, with the red streaks.' At that moment who should come down but Mordecai Smith, the missing owner. He was rather the worse for liquor. I should not, of course, have known him, but he bellowed out his name and the name of his launch.

'I want her to-night at eight o'clock,' said he 'eight o'clock sharp, mind, for I have two gentlemen who won't be kept waiting.' They had evidently paid him well, for he was very flush of money, chucking shillings about to the men. I followed him some distance, but he subsided into an alehouse; so I went back into the yard, and, happening to pick up one of my boys on the way, I stationed him as a sentry over the launch. He is to stand at the water's edge and wave his handkerchief to us when they start.

We shall be lying off in the stream, and it will be a strange thing if we do not take men, treasure, and all." "You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right men or not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands, I should have had a body of police in Jacobson's Yard, and arrested them when they came down. "

"Which would have been never. This man Small is a pretty shrewd fellow.

He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him suspicious, he would lie snug for another week. "
"But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to their hiding-place," said I.  "In that case I should have wasted my day. I think that it is a hundred to one against Smith knowing where they live. As long as he has liquor and good pay, why should he ask questions?
They send him messages what to do.

No, I thought over every possible course, and this is the best. " While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the long series of bridges which span the Thames. As we passed the city the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of St. Paul's. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.

"That is Jacobson's Yard," said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of masts and rigging on the Surrey side. "Cruise gently up and down here under cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I see my sentry at his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a handkerchief."

"Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them," said Jones, eagerly. We were all eager by this time, even the policeman and stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was going forward.

"We have no right to take anything for granted," Holmes answered. "It is certainly ten to one that they go downstream, but we can not be certain. From this point we can see the entrance to the yard, and they can hardly see us. It will be a clear night and plenty of light.

We must stay where we are. See how the folk swarm over yonder in the gas-light. "

"They are coming from work in the yard.

"

"Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has some little immortal spark concealed about him. You would not think it, to look at them. There is no a priori probability about it.

A strange enigma is man!"
"Some one calls him a soul concealed in an animal," I suggested. "Winwood Reade is good upon the subject," said Holmes. "He remarks that, while the individual man is an insoluble puzzle, in the aggregate he becomes a mathematical certainty.

You can, for example, never foretell what any one man will do, but you can say with precision what an average number will be up to. Individuals vary, but percentages remain constant. So says the statistician. But do I see a handkerchief?

Surely there is a white flutter over yonder." "Yes; it is your boy," I cried. "I can see him plainly." "And there is the 'Aurora,'" exclaimed Holmes, "and going like the devil! Full speed ahead, engineer.

Make after that launch with the yellow light. By heaven, I shall never forgive myself if she proves to have the heels of us!" She had slipped unseen through the yard entrance, and passed behind two or three small craft, so that she had fairly got her speed up before we saw her.

Now she was flying down the stream, near in to the shore, going at a tremendous rate. Jones looked gravely at her and shook his head. "She is very fast," he said. "I doubt if we shall catch her."  "We must catch her!" cried Holmes, between his teeth. "Heap it on, stokers!
Make her do all she can!
If we burn the boat we must have them!"

We were fairly after her now.

The furnaces roared, and the powerful engines whizzed and clanked like a great metallic heart. Her sharp, steep prow cut through the still river water, and sent two rolling waves to right and to left of us. With every throb of the engines she sprung and quivered like a living thing. One great yellow lantern in our bows threw a long, flickering funnel of light in front of us. Right ahead a dark blur upon the water showed where the "Aurora" lay, and the swirl of white foam behind her spoke of the pace at which she was going.

We flashed past barges, steamers, merchant vessels, in and out, behind this one and round the other. Voices hailed us out of the darkness, but still the "Aurora" thundered on, and still we followed close upon her track. "Pile it on, men; pile it on!" cried Holmes, looking down into the engine-room, while the fierce glow from below beat upon his eager, aquiline face. "Get every pound of steam you can."
"I think we gain a little," said Jones, with his eyes on the "Aurora.

"

"I am sure of it," said I.  "We shall be up with her in a very few minutes. "

At that moment, however, as our evil fate would have it, a tug with three barges in tow blundered in between us. It was only by putting our helm hard down that we avoided a collision, and before we could round them and recover our way the "Aurora" had gained a good two hundred yards.

She was still, however, well in view, and the murky, uncertain twilight was settling into a clear starlit night. Our boilers were strained to their utmost, and the frail shell vibrated and creaked with the fierce energy which was driving us along. We had shot through the Pool, past the West India Docks, down the long Deptford Reach, and up again after rounding the Isle of Dogs.

The dull blur in front of us resolved itself now clearly enough into the dainty "Aurora.
" Jones turned our search-light upon her, so that we could plainly see the figures upon her deck. One man sat by the stern, with something black between his knees, over which he stooped. Beside him lay a dark mass which looked like a Newfoundland dog. The boy held the tiller, while against the red glare of the furnace I could see old Smith, stripped to the waist, and shoveling coal for dear life.

They may have had some doubt at first as to whether we were really pursuing them, but now, as we followed every winding and turning which they took, there could no longer be any question about it. At Greenwich we were about three hundred paces behind them. At Blackwall we could not have been more than two hundred and fifty. I have coursed many creatures in many countries during my checkered career, but never did sport give me such a wild thrill as this mad, flying man-hunt down the Thames.

Steadily we drew in upon them yard by yard. In the silence of the night we could hear the panting and clanking of their machinery. The man in the stern still crouched upon the deck, and his arms were moving as though he were busy, while every now and then he would look up and measure with a glance the distance which still separated us.

Nearer we came and nearer. Jones yelled to them to stop. We were not more than four boats' lengths behind them, both boats flying at a tremendous pace. It was a clear reach of the river, with Barking Level upon one side and the melancholy Plumstead Marshes upon the other.

At our hail the man in the stern sprung up from the deck and shook his two clinched fists at us, cursing the while in a high, cracked voice. He was a good-sized, powerful man, and, as he stood poising himself with legs astride, I could see that from the thigh downward there was but a wooden stump upon the right side. At the sound of his strident, angry cries there was a movement in the huddled bundle upon the deck. It straightened itself into a little black man the smallest I have ever seen with a great, misshapen head and a shock of tangled, disheveled hair.

Holmes had already drawn his revolver, and I whipped out mine at the sight of this savage, distorted creature. He was wrapped in some sort of dark ulster or blanket, which left only his face exposed; but that face was enough to give a man a sleepless night. Never have I seen features so deeply marked with all bestiality and cruelty. His small eyes glowed and burned with a sombre light, and his thick lips were writhed back from his teeth, which grinned and chattered at us with a half-animal fury.

"Fire if he raises his hand," said Holmes, quietly. We were within a boat's-length by this time, and almost within touch of our quarry. I can see the two of them now as they stood, the white man with his legs far apart, shrieking out curses, and the unhallowed dwarf, with his hideous face, and his strong, yellow teeth gnashing at us in the light of our lantern.

It was well that we had so clear a view of him. Even as we looked he plucked out from under his covering a short, round piece of wood, like a school-ruler, and clapped it to his lips. Our pistols rang out together. He whirled round, threw up his arms, and with a kind of choking cough fell sideways into the stream.

I caught one glimpse of his venomous, menacing eyes amid the white swirl of the waters. At the same moment the wooden-legged man threw himself upon the rudder and put it hard down, so that his boat made straight in for the southern bank, while we shot past her stern, only clearing her by a few feet. We were round after her in an instant, but she was already nearly at the bank. It was a wild and desolate place, where the moon glimmered upon a wide expanse of marsh-land with pools of stagnant water and beds of decaying vegetation.

The launch with a dull thud ran up upon the mud-bank, with her bow in the air and her stern flush with the water. The fugitive sprung out, but his stump instantly sunk its whole length into the sodden soil. In vain he struggled and writhed.

Not one step could he possibly take either forward or backward. He yelled in impotent rage, and kicked frantically into the mud with his other foot, but his struggles only bored his wooden pin the deeper into the sticky bank. When we brought our launch alongside he was so firmly anchored that it was only by throwing the end of a rope over his shoulders that we were able to haul him out, and to drag him, like some evil fish, over our side.

The two Smiths, father and son, sat sullenly in their launch, but came aboard meekly enough when commanded. The "Aurora" herself we hauled off and made fast to our stern. A solid iron chest of Indian workmanship stood upon the deck.

This, there could be no question, was the same that had contained the ill-omened treasure of the Sholtos. There was no key, but it was of considerable weight, so we transferred it carefully to our own little cabin. As we steamed slowly up-stream again, we flashed our searchlight in every direction, but there was no sign of the islander. Somewhere in the dark ooze at the bottom of the Thames lie the bones of that strange visitor to our shores.

"See here," said Holmes, pointing to the wooden hatchway. "We were hardly quick enough, with our pistols. "
There, sure enough, just behind where we had been standing, stuck one of those murderous darts which we knew so well.

It must have whizzed between us at the instant that we fired. Holmes smiled at it, and shrugged his shoulders in his easy fashion, but I confess that it turned me sick to think of the horrible death which had passed so close to us that night. CHAPTER XI  The Great Agra Treasure  Our captive sat in the cabin opposite the iron box which he had done so much and waited so long to gain. He was a sunburned, reckless-eyed fellow, with a network of lines and wrinkles all over his mahogany features, which told of a hard, open-air life. There was a singular prominence about his bearded chin which marked a man who was not to be easily turned from his purpose.

His age may have been fifty or thereabout, for his black, curly hair was thickly shot with gray. His face, in repose, was not an unpleasing one, though his heavy brows and aggressive chin gave him, as I had lately seen, a terrible expression when moved to anger. He sat now with his handcuffed hands upon his lap, and his head sunk upon his breast, while he looked with his keen, twinkling eyes at the box which had been the cause of his ill-doings. It seemed to me that there was more sorrow than anger in his rigid and contained countenance. Once he looked up at me with a gleam of something like humor in his eyes.

"Well, Jonathan Small," said Holmes, lighting a cigar, "I am sorry that it has come to this. "

"And so am I, sir," he answered, frankly.

"I don't believe that I can swing over the job. I give you my word on the Book that I never raised hand against Mr. Sholto.

It was that little hell-hound, Tonga, who shot one of his cursed darts into him. I had no part in it, sir. I was as grieved as if it had been my blood relation.

I welted the little devil with the slack end of the rope for it, but it was done, and I could not undo it again."  "Have a cigar," said Holmes; "and you had better take a pull out of my flask, for you are very wet. How could you expect so small and weak a man as this black fellow to overpower Mr. Sholto and hold him while you were climbing the rope?"

"You seem to know as much about it as if you were there, sir. The truth is that I hoped to find the room clear. I knew the habits of the house pretty well, and it was the time when Mr. Sholto usually went down to his supper.

I shall make no secret of the business. The best defense that I can make is just the simple truth. Now, if it had been the old major, I would have swung for him with a light heart. I would have thought no more of knifing him than of smoking this cigar. But it's cursed hard that I should be lagged over this young Sholto, with whom I had no quarrel whatever.

"

"You are under the charge of Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard. He is going to bring you up to my rooms, and I shall ask you for a true account of the matter. You must make a clean breast of it, for if you do I hope that I may be of use to you.

I think I can prove that the poison acts so quickly that the man was dead before you ever reached the room. "

"That he was, sir!
I never got such a turn in my life as when I saw him grinning at me with his head on his shoulder as I climbed through the window. It fairly shook me, sir. I'd have half-killed Tonga for it, if he had not scrambled off. That was how he came to leave his club, and some of his darts, too, as he tells me, which, I dare say, helped to put you on our track; though how you kept on it is more than I can tell.

I don't feel no malice against you for it. But it does seem a queer thing," he added, with a bitter smile, "that I, who have a fair claim to nigh upon half a million of money, should spend the first half of my life building a breakwater in the Andamans, and am likely to spend the other half digging drains at Dartmoor.

It was an evil day for me when first I clapped eyes upon the merchant Achmet, and had to do with the Agra treasure, which never brought anything but a curse yet upon the man who owned it. To him it brought murder; to Major Sholto it brought fear and guilt; to me it has meant slavery for life." At this moment Athelney Jones thrust his broad face and heavy shoulders into the tiny cabin.

"Quite a family party," he remarked. "I think I shall have a pull at that flask, Holmes. Well, I think we may all congratulate each other.

Pity we didn't take the other alive; but there was no choice. I say, Holmes, you must confess that you cut it rather fine. It was all we could do to overhaul her."
"All is well that ends well," said Holmes. "But I certainly did not know that the 'Aurora' was such a clipper.

"

"Smith says she is one of the fastest launches on the river, and that if he had had another man to help him with the engines we should never have caught her. He swears he knew nothing of this Norwood business. " "Neither he did," cried our prisoner; "not a word.

I chose his launch, because I heard that she was a flyer. We told him nothing, but we paid him well, and he was to get something handsome if we reached our vessel, the 'Esmeralda,' at Gravesend, outward bound for the Brazils. "

"Well, if he has done no wrong, we shall see that no wrong comes to him. If we are pretty quick in catching our men, we are not so quick in condemning them. "

It was amusing to notice how the consequential Jones was already beginning to give himself airs on the strength of the capture.

From the slight smile which played over Sherlock Holmes's face, I could see that the speech had not been lost upon him. "We will be at Vauxhall Bridge presently," said Jones, "and shall land you, Doctor Watson, with the treasure-box. I need hardly tell you that I am taking a very grave responsibility upon myself in doing this. It is most irregular; but, of course, an agreement is an agreement. I must, however, as a matter of duty, send an inspector with you, since you have so valuable a charge.

You will drive, no doubt?"
"Yes, I shall drive. "

"It is a pity there is no key, that we may make an inventory first. You will have to break it open. Where is the key, my man?"

"At the bottom of the river," said Small, shortly. "Hum!
There was no use your giving this unnecessary trouble. We have had work enough already through you. However, doctor, I need not warn you to be careful.

Bring the box back with you to the Baker Street rooms. You will find us there, on our way to the station." They landed me at Vauxhall, with my heavy iron box, and with a bluff, genial inspector as my companion. A quarter of an hour's drive brought us to Mrs. Cecil Forrester's.

The servant seemed surprised at so late a visitor. Mrs. Cecil Forrester was out for the evening, she explained, and likely to be very late. Miss Morstan, however, was in the drawing-room; so to the drawing-room I went, box in hand, leaving the obliging inspector in the cab.

She was seated by the open window, dressed in some sort of white, diaphanous material, with a little touch of scarlet in the neck and waist. The soft light of a shaded lamp fell upon her as she leaned back in the basket-chair, playing over her sweet, grave face, and tinting with a dull, metallic sparkle the rich coils of her luxuriant hair; one white arm and hand drooped over the side of the chair, and her whole pose and figure spoke of an absorbing melancholy. At the sound of my footfall she sprang to her feet, however, and a bright flush of surprise and of pleasure colored her pale cheeks. "I heard a cab drive up," she said. "I thought that Mrs. Forrester had come back very early, but I never dreamt that it might be you.

What news have you brought me?" "I have brought something better than news," said I, putting down the box upon the table, and speaking jovially and boisterously, though my heart was heavy within me. "I have brought you something which is worth all the news in the world.

I have brought you a fortune. "

She glanced at the iron box. "Is that the treasure, then?" she asked, coolly enough. "Yes, this is the great Agra treasure. Half of it is yours and half is Thaddeus Sholto's.

You will have a couple of hundred thousand each. Think of that! An annuity of ten thousand pounds.

There will be few richer young ladies in England. Is it not glorious?" I think that I must have been rather overacting my delight, and that she detected a hollow ring in my congratulations, for I saw her eyebrows rise a little, and she glanced at me curiously. "If I have it," said she, "I owe it to you." "No, no," I answered; "not to me, but to my friend Sherlock Holmes.

With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue which has taxed even his analytical genius. As it was, we very nearly lost it at the last moment. "

"Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Doctor Watson," said she.

I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her last Holmes's new method of search, the discovery of the "Aurora," the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the wild chase down the Thames. She listened, with parted lips and shining eyes, to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared she was about to faint.

"It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water. "I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed my friends in such horrible peril."
"That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing.

I will tell you no more gloomy details. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the treasure. What could be brighter than that?

I got leave to bring it with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it. "
"It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said. There was no eagerness in her voice, however. It struck her, doubtless, that it might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize which had cost so much to win.

"What a pretty box!"
she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian work, I suppose?"  "Yes; it is Benares metal-work."
"And so heavy!"
she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone must be of some value. Where is the key?"  "Small threw it into the Thames," I answered.

"I must borrow Mrs. Forrester's poker. "
There was, in the front, a thick and broad hasp, wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open with a loud snap.

With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty! No wonder that it was heavy.

The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it. It was absolutely and completely empty. "The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly.

As I listened to the words and realized what they meant, a great shadow seemed to pass from my soul. I did not know how this Agra treasure had weighed me down until now that it was finally removed.

It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realize nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us.

"Thank God!"

I ejaculated from my very heart. She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile. "Why do you say that?" she asked.

"Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. She did not withdraw it. "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a woman.

Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my lips.

Now that they are gone, I can tell you how I love you. That is why I said, 'Thank God.'"  "Then I say, 'Thank God,' too," she whispered, as I drew her to my side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had gained one. CHAPTER XII  The Strange Story of Jonathan Small  A very patient man was the inspector in the cab, for it was a weary time before I rejoined him. His face clouded over when I showed him the empty box.

"There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily. "Where there is no money there is no pay. This night's work would have been worth a tenner each to Sam Brown and me, if the treasure had been there.

"

"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said. "He will see that you are rewarded, treasure or no treasure. "

The inspector shook his head despondently, however.

"It's a bad job," he repeated; "and so Mr. Athelney Jones will think." His forecast proved to be correct, for the detective looked blank enough when I got to Baker Street and showed him the empty box. They had only just arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for they had changed their plans so far as to report themselves at a station upon the way.

My companion lounged in his armchair with his usual listless expression, while Small sat stolidly opposite to him with his wooden leg cocked over his sound one. As I exhibited the empty box he leaned back in his chair and laughed aloud. "This is your doing, Small," said Athelney Jones, angrily.

"Yes, I have put it away where you shall never lay hand upon it," he cried, exultantly. "It is my treasure; and if I can't have the loot I'll take darned good care that no one else does. I tell you that no living man has any right to it, unless it is three men who are in the Andaman convict-barracks and myself. I know now that I can not have the use of it, and I know that they can not.

I have acted all through for them as much as for myself. It's been the sign of four with us always. Well I know that they would have had me do just what I have done, and throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let it go to kith or kin of Sholto or of Morstan.

It was not to make them rich that we did for Achmet. You'll find the treasure where the key is, and where little Tonga is. When I saw that your launch must catch us, I put the loot in a safe place. There are no rupees for you this journey. " "You are deceiving us, Small," said Athelney Jones, sternly.

"If you had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames, it would have been easier for you to have thrown box and all."
"Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover," he answered, with a shrewd, sidelong look. "The man that was clever enough to hunt me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of a river. Now that they are scattered over five miles or so, it may be a harder job. It went to my heart to do it, though. I was half-mad when you came up with us.

However, there's no good grieving over it.

I've had ups in my life, and I've had downs, but I've learned not to cry over spilled milk." "This is a very serious matter, Small," said the detective. "If you had helped justice, instead of thwarting it in this way, you would have had a better chance at your trial.

"

"Justice?" snarled the ex-convict. "A pretty justice!
Whose loot is this, if it is not ours?

Where is the justice that I should give it up to those who had never earned it? Look how I have earned it.

Twenty long years in that fever-ridden swamp, all day at work under the mangrove tree, all night chained up in the filthy convict huts, bitten by mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every cursed black-faced policeman who loved to take it out of a white man. That was how I earned the Agra treasure; and you talk to me of justice because I can not bear to feel that I have paid this price only that another may enjoy it! I would rather swing a score of times, or have one of Tonga's darts in my hide, than live in a convict's cell and feel that another man is at his ease in a palace with the money that should be mine! "

Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this came out in a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and the handcuffs clanked together with the impassioned movement of his hands. I could understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the man, that it was no groundless or unnatural terror which had possessed Major Sholto when he first learned that the injured convict was upon his track.

"You forget that we know nothing of all this," said Holmes, quietly. "We have not heard your story, and we can not tell how far justice may originally have been on your side." "Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists.

Still, I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If you want to hear my story, I have no wish to hold it back. What I say to you is God's truth, every word of it. Thank you; you can put the glass beside me here, and I'll put my lips to it if I am dry.

"I am a Worcestershire man myself born near Pershore. I dare say you would find a heap of Smalls living there now if you were to look. I have often thought of taking a look round there, but the truth is that I was never much of a credit to the family, and I doubt if they would be so very glad to see me.

They were all steady, chapel-going folk, small farmers, well known and respected over the country-side, while I was always a bit of a rover. At last, however, when I was about eighteen, I gave them no more trouble, for I got into a mess over a girl, and could only get out of it by taking the queen's shilling and joining the Third Buffs, which was just starting for India. "I wasn't destined to do much soldiering, however. I had just got past the goose-step, and learned to handle my musket, when I was fool enough to go swimming in the Ganges. Luckily for me, my company sergeant, John Holder, was in the water at the same time, and he was one of the finest swimmers in the service.

A crocodile took me, just as I was half-way across, and nipped off my right leg, as clean as a surgeon could have done it, just above the knee. What with the shock and loss of blood, I fainted, and should have been drowned if Holder had not caught hold of me and paddled for the bank. I was five months in hospital over it, and when at last I was able to limp out of it, with this timber toe strapped to my stump, I found myself invalided out of the army and unfitted for any active occupation. "I was, as you can imagine, pretty down on my luck at this time, for I was a useless cripple, though not yet in my twentieth year.

However, my misfortune soon proved to be a blessing in disguise.

A man named Abelwhite, who had come out there as an indigo-planter, wanted an overseer to look after his coolies and keep them up to their work. He happened to be a friend of our colonel's, who had taken an interest in me since the accident. To make a long story short, the colonel recommended me strongly for the post, and, as the work was mostly to be done on horseback, my leg was no great obstacle, for I had enough knee left to keep a good grip on the saddle.

What I had to do was to ride over the plantation, to keep an eye on the men as they worked, and to report the idlers. The pay was fair, I had comfortable quarters, and altogether I was content to spend the remainder of my life in indigo-planting. Mr. Abelwhite was a kind man, and he would often drop into my little shanty and smoke a pipe with me, for white folk out there feel their hearts warm to each other as they never do here at home. "Well, I was never in luck's way long.

Suddenly, without a note of warning, the great mutiny broke upon us. One month India lay as still and peaceful, to all appearance, as Surrey or Kent; the next there were two hundred thousand black devils let loose, and the country was a perfect hell. Of course, you know all about it, gentlemen, a deal more than I do, very like, since reading is not in my line. I only know what I saw with my own eyes.

Our plantation was at a place called Muttra, near the border of the Northwest Provinces. Night after night the whole sky was alight with the burning bungalows, and day after day we had small companies of Europeans passing through our estate, with their wives and children, on their way to Agra, where were the nearest troops. Mr. Abelwhite was an obstinate man. He had it in his head that the affair had been exaggerated, and that it would blow over as suddenly as it had sprung up.

There he sat on his veranda, drinking whisky-pegs and smoking cheroots, while the country was in a blaze about him. Of course we stuck by him, I and Dawson, who, with his wife, used to do the bookwork and the managing. Well, one fine day the crash came. I had been away on a distant plantation, and was riding slowly home in the evening, when my eye fell upon something all huddled together at the bottom of a steep nullah. I rode down to see what it was, and the cold struck through my heart when I found it was Dawson's wife, all cut into ribbons, and half-eaten by jackals and native dogs.

A little further up the road Dawson himself was lying on his face, quite dead, with an empty revolver in his hand, and four Sepoys lying across one another in front of him. I reined up my horse, wondering which way I should turn, but at that moment I saw thick smoke curling up from Abelwhite's bungalow and the flames beginning to burst through the roof. I knew then that I could do my employer no good, but would only throw my own life away if I meddled in the matter.

From where I stood I could see hundreds of the black fiends, with their red coats still on their backs, dancing and howling round the burning house. Some of them pointed at me, and a couple of bullets sung past my head; so I broke away across the paddy-fields, and found myself late at night safe within the walls at Agra. "As it proved, however, there was no great safety there, either. The whole country was up like a swarm of bees.

Wherever the English could collect in little bands they held just the ground that their guns commanded. Everywhere else they were helpless fugitives. It was a fight of the millions against the hundreds; and the crudest part of it was that these men that we fought against, foot, horse, and gunners, were our own picked troops, whom we had taught and trained, handling our own weapons, and blowing our own bugle-calls. At Agra there were the Third Bengal Fusiliers, some Sikhs, two troops of horse, and a battery of artillery.

A volunteer corps of clerks and merchants had been formed, and this I joined, wooden leg and all. We went out to meet the rebels at Shahgunge early in July, and we beat them back for a time, but our powder gave out, and we had to fall back upon the city. Nothing but the worst news came to us from every side which is not to be wondered at, for if you look at the map you will see that we were right in the heart of it. Lucknow is rather better than a hundred miles to the east, and Cawnpore about as far to the south.

From every point on the compass there was nothing but torture, and murder, and outrage. "The city of Agra is a great place, swarming with fanatics and fierce devil-worshipers of all sorts. Our handful of men were lost among the narrow, winding streets. Our leader moved across the river, therefore, and took up his position in the old fort of Agra. I don't know if any of you gentlemen have ever read or heard anything of that old fort.

It is a very queer place the queerest that ever I was in, and I have been in some rum corners, too. First of all, it is enormous in size. I should think that the enclosure must be acres and acres. There is a modern part, which took all our garrison, women, children, stores, and everything else, with plenty of room over.

But the modern part is nothing like the size of the old quarter, where nobody goes, and which is given over to the scorpions and the centipeds.

It is all full of great, deserted halls, and winding passages, and long corridors twisting in and out, so that it is easy enough for folks to get lost in it. For this reason it was seldom that any one went into it, though now and again a party with torches might go exploring. "The river washes along the front of the old fort, and so protects it, but on the sides and behind there are many doors, and these had to be guarded, of course, in the old quarter as well as in that which was actually held by our troops.

We were short-handed, with hardly men enough to man the angles of the building and to serve the guns. It was impossible for us, therefore, to station a strong guard at every one of the innumerable gates. What we did was to organize a central guard-house in the middle of the fort, and to leave each gate under the charge of one white man and two or three natives.

I was selected to take charge during certain hours of the night of a small, isolated door upon the south-west side of the building. Two Sikh troopers were placed under my command, and I was instructed if anything went wrong to fire my musket, when I might rely upon help coming at once from the central guard. As the guard was a good two hundred paces away, however, and as the space between was cut up into a labyrinth of passages and corridors, I had great doubts as to whether they could arrive in time to be of any use in case of an actual attack. "Well, I was pretty proud at having this small command given me, since I was a raw recruit, and a game-legged one at that.

For two nights I kept the watch with my Punjaubees. They were tall, fierce-looking chaps, Mohammed Singh and Abdullah Khan by name, both old fighting-men who had borne arms against us at Chillianwalla. They could talk English pretty well, but I could get little out of them.

They preferred to stand together and jabber all night in their queer Sikh lingo. For myself, I used to stand outside the gateway, looking down on the broad, winding river and on the twinkling lights of the great city. The beating of drums, the rattle of tomtoms, and the yells and howls of the rebels, drunk with opium and with bhang, were enough to remind us all night of our dangerous neighbors across the stream. Every two hours the officers of the night used to come round to all the posts, to make sure that all was well.

"The third night of my watch was dark and dirty, with a small, driving rain. It was dreary work standing in the gateway hour after hour in such weather. I tried again and again to make my Sikhs talk, but without much success. At two in the morning the rounds passed, and broke for a moment the weariness of the night.

Finding that my companions would not be led into conversation, I took out my pipe, and laid down my musket to strike a match. In an instant the two Sikhs were upon me. One of them snatched my firelock up and leveled it at my head, while the other held a great knife to my throat, and swore between his teeth that he would plunge it into me if I moved a step. "My first thought was that these fellows were in league with the rebels, and that this was the beginning of an assault.

If our door were in the hands of the Sepoys the place must fall, and the women and children be treated as they were in Cawnpore. Maybe you gentlemen think that I am just making out a case for myself, but I give you my word that when I thought of that, though I felt the point of the knee at my throat, I opened my mouth with the intention of giving a scream, if it was my last one, which might alarm the main guard. The man who held me seemed to know my thoughts; for, even as I braced myself to it, he whispered: 'Don't make a noise. The fort is safe enough. There are no rebel dogs on this side of the river.'

There was the ring Of truth in what he said, and I knew that if I raised my voice I was a dead man. I could read it in the fellow's brown eyes. I waited, therefore, in silence, to see what it was they wanted from me. "'Listen to me, sahib,' said the taller and fiercer of the pair, the one whom they called Abdullah Khan. ' You must either be with us now or you must be silenced forever.

The thing is too great a one for us to hesitate. Either you are heart and soul with us, on your oath on the cross of the Christians, or your body this night shall be thrown into the ditch, and we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel army. There is no middle way. Which is it to be, death or life? We can only give you three minutes to decide, for the time is passing, and all must be done before the rounds come again.'  "'How can I decide?' said I.  'You have not told me what you want of me.

But I tell you now, that if it is anything against the safety of the fort, I will have no truck with it; so you can drive home your knife, and welcome.'

"'It is nothing against the fort,' said he.

'We only ask you to do that which your countrymen come to this land for. We ask you to be rich. If you will be one of us this night, we will swear to you upon the naked knife, and by the threefold oath which no Sikh was ever known to break, that you shall have your fair share of the loot. A quarter of the treasure shall be yours.

We can say no fairer.'  "'But what is the treasure, then?'

I asked. 'I am as ready to be rich as you can be, if you will but show me how it can be done.' "'You swear, then,' said he, 'by the bones of your father, by the honor of your mother, by the cross of your faith, to raise no hand and speak no word against us, either now or afterward?'

"'I will swear it;' I answered, 'provided that the fort is not endangered.' "Then my comrades and I will swear that you shall have a quarter of the treasure, which shall be equally divided among the four of us.'

"There are but three,' said I.  "'No; Dost Akbar must have his share.

We can tell the tale to you while we await them. Do you stand at the gate, Mohammed Singh, and give notice of their coming. The thing stands thus, sahib, and I tell it to you because I know that an oath is binding upon a Feringhee, and that we may trust you. Had you been a lying Hindu, though you had sworn by all the gods in their false temples, your blood would have been upon the knife and your body in the water.

But the Sikh knows the Englishman, and the Englishman knows the Sikh.
Hearken, then, to what I have to say.

"'There is a rajah in the Northern Provinces who has much wealth, though his lands are small. Much has come to him from his father, and more still he has set by himself, for he is of a low nature and hoards his gold rather than spends it. When the troubles broke out he would be friends both with the lion and the tiger with the Sepoy and with the Company's Raj. Soon, however, it seemed to him that the white men's day was come, for through all the land he could hear of nothing but of their death and their overthrow.

Yet, being a careful man, he made such plans that, come what might, half at least of his treasure should be left to him.

That which was in gold and silver he kept by him in the vaults of his palace, but the most precious stones and the choicest pearls that he had he put in an iron box, and sent it by a trusty servant who, under the guise of a merchant, should take it to the fort at Agra, there to lie until the land is at peace. Thus, if the rebels won he would have his money, but if the Company conquered, his jewels would be saved to him. Having thus divided his hoard, he threw himself into the cause of the Sepoys, since they were strong upon his borders. By his doing this, mark you, sahib, his property becomes the due of those who have been true to their salt.

"'This pretended merchant, who travels under the name of Achmet, is now in the city of Agra, and desires to gain his way into the fort. He has with him, as traveling companion, my foster-brother, Dost Akbar, who knows his secret. Dost Akbar has promised this night to lead him to a side-postern of the fort, and has chosen this one for his purpose. Here he will come presently, and here he will find Mohammed Singh and myself awaiting him. The place is lonely, and none shall know of his coming.

The world shall know of the merchant Achmet no more, but the great treasure of the rajah shall be divided among us. What say you to it, sahib?'" "In Worcestershire the life of a man seems a great and a sacred thing; but it is very different when there is fire and blood all round you and you have been used to meeting death at every turn. Whether Achmet the merchant lived or died was a thing as light as air to me, but at the talk about the treasure my heart turned to it, and I thought of what I might do in the old country with it, and how my folk would stare when they saw their ne'er-do-weel coming back with his pockets full of gold moidores. I had, therefore, already made up my mind.

Abdullah Khan, however, thinking that I hesitated, pressed the matter more closely.

"'Consider, sahib,' said he, 'that if this man is taken by the commandant he will be hanged or shot, and his jewels taken by the Government, so that no man will be a rupee the better for them. Now, since we do the taking of him, why should we not do the rest as well? The jewels will be as well with us as in the Company's coffers. There will be enough to make every one of us rich men and great chiefs.

No one can know about the matter, for here we are cut off from all men. What could be better for the purpose? Say again, then, sahib, whether you are with us, or if we must look upon you as an enemy.'

"'I am with you heart and soul,' said I.  "'It is well,' he answered, handing me back my firelock. '

You see that we trust you, for your word, like ours, is not to be broken. We have now only to wait for my brother and the merchant.' "'Does your brother know, then, of what you will do?'

I asked. "'The plan is his.

He has devised it. We will go to the gate and share the watch with Mohammed Singh.'

"The rain was still falling steadily, for it was just the beginning of the wet season. Brown, heavy clouds were drifting across the sky, and it was hard to see more than a stone-cast.

A deep moat lay in front of our door, but the water was in places nearly dried up, and it could easily be crossed. It was strange to me to be standing there with those two wild Punjaubees waiting for the man who was coming to his death. "Suddenly my eye caught the glint of a shaded lantern at the other side of the moat. It vanished among the mound-heaps, and then appeared again coming slowly in our direction.

"'Here they are!' I exclaimed. "'You will challenge him, sahib, as usual,' whispered Abdullah. '

Give him no cause for fear. Send us in with him, and we shall do the rest while you stay here on guard.

Have the lantern ready to uncover, that we may be sure that it is indeed the man.'

"The light had flickered onward, now stopping and now advancing, until I could see two dark figures upon the other side of the moat. I let them scramble down the sloping bank, splash through the mire, and climb half-way up to the gate, before I challenged them. "'Who goes there?' said I, in a subdued voice.

"'Friends,' came the answer. I uncovered my lantern and threw a flood of light upon them. The first was an enormous Sikh, with a black beard which swept nearly down to his cummerbund. Outside of a show I have never seen so tall a man.

The other was a little, fat, round fellow, with a great yellow turban, and a bundle in his hand, done up in a shawl. He seemed to be all in a quiver with fear, for his hands twitched as if he had the ague, and his head kept turning to left and right with two bright little twinkling eyes, like a mouse when he ventures out from his hole. It gave me the chills to think of killing him, but I thought of the treasure, and my heart set as hard as a flint within me. When he saw my white face he gave a little chirrup of joy and came running up toward me.

"'Your protection, sahib,' he panted; 'your protection for the unhappy merchant Achmet. I have traveled across Rajpootana that I might seek the shelter of the fort at Agra. I have been robbed, and beaten, and abused because I have been the friend of the Company. It is a blessed night this when I am once more in safety I and my poor possessions.'

"'What have you in the bundle?'

I asked. "'An iron box,' he answered, 'which contains one or two little family matters which are of no value to others, but which I should be sorry to lose.

Yet I am not a beggar; and I shall reward you, young sahib, and your governor also, if he will give me the shelter I ask.'

"I could not trust myself to speak longer with the man.

The more I looked at his fat, frightened face, the harder did it seem that we should slay him in cold blood. It was best to get it over. "'Take him to the main guard,' said I. The two Sikhs closed in upon him on each side, and the giant walked behind, while they marched in through the dark gateway. Never was a man so compassed round with death. I remained at the gateway with the lantern.

"I could hear the measured tramp of their footsteps sounding through the lonely corridors. Suddenly it ceased, and I heard voices, and a scuffle, with the sound of blows. A moment later there came, to my horror, a rush of footsteps coming in my direction, with the loud breathing of a running man. I turned my lantern down the long, straight passage, and there was the fat man, running like the wind, with a smear of blood across his face, and close at his heels, bounding like a tiger, the great, black-bearded Sikh, with a knife flashing in his hand. I have never seen a man run so fast as that little merchant.

He was gaining on the Sikh, and I could see that if he once passed me and got to the open air, he would save himself yet. My heart softened to him, but again the thought of his treasure turned me hard and bitter. I cast my fire-lock between his legs as he raced past, and he rolled twice over like a shot rabbit. Ere he could stagger to his feet the Sikh was upon him, and buried his knife twice in his side. The man never uttered moan nor moved muscle, but lay where he had fallen.

I think, myself, that he may have broken his neck with the fall. You see, gentlemen, that I am keeping my promise. I am telling you every word of this business just exactly as it happened, whether it is in my favor or not."
He stopped, and held out his manacled hands for the whisky and water which Holmes had brewed for him.

For myself, I confess that I had now conceived the utmost horror of the man, not only for this cold-blooded business in which he had been concerned, but even more for the somewhat flippant and careless way in which he narrated it. Whatever punishment was in store for him, I felt that he might expect no sympathy from me. Sherlock Holmes and Jones sat with their hands upon their knees, deeply interested in the story, but with the same disgust written upon their faces. He may have observed it, for there was a touch of defiance in his voice and manner as he proceeded:  "It was all very bad, no doubt," said he.

"I should like to know how many fellows in my shoes would have refused a share of this loot when they knew that they would have their throats cut for their pains. Besides, it was my life or his when once he was in the fort. If he had got out, the whole business would have come to light, and I should have been court-martialed and shot as likely as not; for people were not very lenient at a time like that.

"

"Go on with your story," said Holmes, shortly. "Well, we carried him in, Abdullah, Akbar, and I.  A fine weight he was, too, for all that he was so short. Mohammed Singh was left to guard the door. We took him to a place which the Sikhs had already prepared. It was some distance off, where a winding passage leads to a great empty hall, the brick walls of which were all crumbling to pieces.

The earth floor had sunk in at one place, making a natural grave, so we left Achmet the merchant there, having first covered him over with loose bricks. This done, we all went back to the treasure. "It lay where he had dropped it when he was first attacked. The box was the same which now lies open upon your table. A key was hung by a silken cord to that carved handle upon the top.

We opened it, and the light of the lantern gleamed upon a collection of gems such as I have read of and thought about when I was a little lad at Pershore. It was blinding to look upon them. When we had feasted our eyes we took them all out and made a list of them.

There were one hundred and forty-three diamonds of the first water, including one which has been called, I believe, 'the Great Mogul,' and is said to be the second largest stone in existence. Then there were ninety-seven very fine emeralds, and one hundred and seventy rubies, some of which, however, were small. There were forty carbuncles, two hundred and ten sapphires, sixty-one agates, and a great quantity of beryls, onyxes, cat's-eyes, turquoises, and other stones, the very names of which I did not know at the time, though I have become more familiar with them since. Besides this, there were nearly three hundred very fine pearls, twelve of which were set in a gold chaplet. By the way, these last had been taken out of the chest and were not there when I recovered it.

"After we had counted our treasures we put them back into the chest and carried them to the gateway to show them to Mohammed Singh. Then we solemnly renewed our oath to stand by each other and be true to our secret. We agreed to conceal our loot in a safe place until the country should be at peace again, and then to divide it equally among ourselves. There was no use dividing it at present, for if gems of such value were found upon us it would cause suspicion, and there was no privacy in the fort nor any place where we could keep them. We carried the box, therefore, into the same hall where we had buried the body, and there, under certain bricks, in the best preserved wall, we made a hollow and put our treasure.

We made careful note of the place, and next day I drew four plans, one for each of us, and put the sign of the four of us at the bottom, for we had sworn that we should each always act for all, so that none might take advantage. That is an oath that I can put my hand to my heart and swear that I have never broken. "Well, there is no use my telling you, gentlemen, what came of the Indian mutiny.

After Wilson took Delhi, and Sir Colin relieved Lucknow, the back of the business was broken. Fresh troops came pouring in, and Nana Sahib made himself scarce over the frontier. A flying column under Colonel Greathead came round to Agra and cleared the Pandies away from it.

Peace seemed to be settling upon the country, and we four were beginning to hope that the time was at hand when we might safely go off with our shares of the plunder. In a moment, however, our hopes were shattered, by our being arrested as the murderers of Achmet. "It came about in this way. When the rajah put his jewels into the hands of Achmet, he did it because he knew that he was a trusty man.

They are suspicious folk in the East, however; so what does this rajah do but take a second even more trusty servant, and set him to play the spy upon the first. This second man was ordered never to let Achmet out of his sight, and he followed him like his shadow. He went after him that night, and saw him pass through the doorway. Of course he thought he had taken refuge in the fort, and applied for admission there himself next day, but could find no trace of Achmet.

This seemed to him so strange that he spoke about it to a sergeant of guides, who brought it to the ears of the commandant. A thorough search was quickly made, and the body was discovered. Thus at the very moment that we thought that all was safe, we were all four seized and brought to trial on a charge of murder three of us because we had held the gate that night, and the fourth because he was known to have been in the company of the murdered man. Not a word about the jewels came out at the trial, for the rajah had been deposed and driven out of India; so no one had any particular interest in them.

The murder, however, was clearly made out, and it was certain that we must all have been concerned in it. The three Sikhs got penal servitude for life, and I was condemned to death, though my sentence was afterward commuted into the same as the others. "It was rather a queer position that we found ourselves in then.

There we were all four tied by the leg, and with precious little chance of ever getting out again, while we each held a secret which might have put each of us in a palace if we could only have made use of it. It was enough to make a man eat his heart out to have to stand the kick and the cuff of every petty jack-in-office, to have rice to eat and water to drink, when that gorgeous fortune was ready for him outside, just waiting to be picked up. It might have driven me mad; but I was always a pretty stubborn one, so I just held on and bided my time. "At last it seemed to me to have come. I was changed from Agra to Madras, and from there to Blair Island, in the Andamans.

There are very few white convicts at this settlement, and, as I had behaved well from the first, I soon found myself a privileged person. I was given a hut in Hope Town, which is a small place on the slopes of Mount Harriet, and I was left pretty much to myself. It is a dreary, fever-stricken place, and all beyond our little clearings was infested with wild cannibal natives, who were ready enough to blow a poisoned dart at us if they saw a chance.

There were digging, and ditching, and yam-planting, and a dozen other things to be done, so we were busy enough all day; though in the evening we had a little time to ourselves. Among other things, I learned to dispense drugs for the surgeon, and picked up a smattering of his knowledge. All the time I was on the lookout for a chance of escape; but it is hundreds of miles from any other land, and there is little or no wind in those seas; so it was a terribly difficult job to get away. "The surgeon, Doctor Somerton, was a fast, sporting young chap, and the other young officers would meet in his rooms of an evening and play cards. The surgery, where I used to make up my drugs, was next to his sitting-room, with a small window between us.

Often, if I felt lonesome, I used to turn out the lamp in the surgery, and then, standing there, I could hear their talk and watch their play. I am fond of a hand at cards myself, and it was almost as good as having one to watch the others. There were Major Sholto, Captain Morstan, and Lieutenant Bromley Brown, who were in command of the native troops, and there were the surgeon himself, and two or three prison officials, crafty old hands who played a nice, sly, safe game. A very snug little party they used to make.

"Well, there was one thing which very soon struck me, and that was that the soldiers used always to lose and the civilians to win. Mind, I don't say that there was anything unfair, but so it was. These prison chaps had done little else than play cards ever since they had been at the Andamans, and they knew each other's game to a point, while the others just played to pass the time and threw their cards down anyhow. Night after night the soldiers got up poorer men, and the poorer they got the more keen they were to play.

Major Sholto was the hardest hit. He used to pay in notes and gold at first, but soon it came to notes of hand, and for big sums. He sometimes would win for a few deals, just to give him heart, and then the luck would set in against him worse than ever. All day he would wander about as black as thunder, and he took to drinking a deal more than was good for him.

"One night he lost even more heavily than usual. I was sitting in my hut when he and Captain Morstan came stumbling along on the way to their quarters. They were bosom friends, those two, and never far apart. The major was raving about his losses.

"'It's all up, Morstan,' he was saying, as they passed my hut. 'I shall have to send in my papers. I am a ruined man.'

"'Nonsense, old chap!' said the other, slapping him upon the shoulder.

'I've had a nasty facer myself, but '  That was all I could hear, but it was enough to set me thinking. "A couple of days later Major Sholto was strolling on the beach; so I took the chance of speaking to him. "'I wish to have your advice, major,' said I.  "'Well, Small, what is it?'

he said, taking his cheroot from his lips. "'I wanted to ask you, sir,' said I, 'who is the proper person to whom hidden treasure should be handed over. I know where half a million worth lies, and, as I can not use it myself, I thought perhaps the best thing that I could do would be to hand it over to the proper authorities, and then, perhaps, they would get my sentence shortened for me.'

"'Half a million, Small?' he gasped, looking hard at me to see if I was in earnest. "'Quite that, sir in jewels and pearls.

It lies there ready for any one. And the queer thing about it is that the real owner is outlawed and can not hold property, so that it belongs to the first comer.' "'To government, Small,' he stammered; 'to government.' But he said it in a halting fashion, and I knew in my heart that I had got him.

"'You think, then, sir, that I should give the information to the Governor-General?' said I, quietly. "'Well, well, you must not do anything rash, or that you might repent. Let me hear all about it, Small.  Give me the facts.'

"I told him the whole story, with small changes, so that he could not identify the place.

When I had finished he stood stock-still and full of thought. I could see by the twitch of his lip that there was a struggle going on within him. "'This is a very important matter, Small,' he said, at last. 'You must not say a word to any one about it, and I shall see you again soon.'

"Two nights later he and his friend, Captain Morstan, came to my hut in the dead of the night with a lantern.

"'I want you just to let Captain Morstan hear that story from your own lips, Small,' said he. "I repeated it as I had told it before. "'It rings true, eh?' said he. 'It's good enough to act upon?'

Captain Morstan nodded. "'Look here, Small,' said the major. 'We have been talking it over, my friend here and I, and we have come to the conclusion that this secret of yours is hardly a government matter after all, but is a private concern of your own, which, of course, you have the power of disposing of as you think best. Now, the question is, what price would you ask for it?

We might be inclined to take it up, and at least look into it, if we could agree as to terms.' He tried to speak in a cool, careless way, but his eyes were shining with excitement and greed. "'Why, as to that, gentlemen,' I answered, trying also to be cool, but feeling as excited as he did, 'there is only one bargain which a man in my position can make. I shall want you to help me to my freedom, and to help my three companions to theirs.

We shall then take you into partnership, and give you a fifth share to divide between you." "'Hum!' said he. 'A fifth share!

That is not very tempting.' "'It would come to fifty thousand apiece,' said I.  "'But how can we gain your freedom? You know very well that you ask an impossibility.'

"'Nothing of the sort,' I answered. 'I have thought it all out to the last detail.

The only bar to our escape is that we can get no boat fit for the voyage, and no provisions to last us for so long a time. There are plenty of little yachts and yawls at Calcutta or Madras which would serve our turn well. Do you bring one over.

We shall engage to get aboard her by night, and if you will drop us on any part of the Indian coast you will have done your part of the bargain.'

"'If there was only one,' he said. "'None or all,' I answered. 'We have sworn it. The four of us must always act together.'

"'You see, Morstan,' said he, 'Small is a man of his word. He does not flinch from his friends.

I think we may very well trust him.' "'It's a dirty business,' the other answered. '

Yet, as you say, the money would save our commissions handsomely.'

"'Well, Small,' said the major, 'we must, I suppose, try and meet you. We must first, of course, test the truth of your story.

Tell me where the box is hid, and I shall get leave of absence and go back to India in the monthly relief-boat to inquire into the affair.'  "'Not so fast,' said I, growing colder as he got hot. 'I must have the consent of my three comrades. I tell you that it is four or none with us.'

"'Nonsense!'

he broke in. 'What have three black fellows to do with our agreement?'  "'Black or blue,' said I, 'they are in with me, and we all go together.'

"Well, the matter ended by a second meeting, at which Mohammed Singh, Abdullah Khan, and Dost Akbar were all present. We talked the matter over again, and at last we came to an arrangement. We were to provide both the officers with charts of the part of the Agra fort, and mark the place in the wall where the treasure was hid. Major Sholto was to go to India to test our story. If he found the box he was to leave it there, to send out a small yacht provisioned for a voyage, which was to lie off Rutland Island, and to which we were to make our way, and finally to return to his duties.

Captain Morstan was then to apply for leave of absence, to meet us at Agra, and there we were to have a final division of the treasure, he taking the major's share as well as his own. All this we sealed by the most solemn oaths that the mind could think or the lips utter. I sat up all night with paper and ink, and by the morning I had the two charts all ready, signed with the sign of the four that is, of Abdullah, Akbar, Mohammed, and myself. "Well, gentlemen, I weary you with my long story, and I know that my friend, Mr. Jones, is impatient to get me safely stowed in chokey.

I'll make it as short as I can. The villain Sholto went off to India, but he never came back again. Captain Morstan showed me his name among a list of passengers in one of the mail boats very shortly afterward. His uncle had died, leaving him a fortune, and he had left the army, yet he could stoop to treat five men as he had treated us.

Morstan went over to Agra shortly afterward, and found, as we expected, that the treasure was indeed gone. The scoundrel had stolen it all, without carrying out one of the conditions on which we had sold him the secret. From that day I lived only for vengeance. I thought of it by day and I nursed it by night.

It became an overpowering, absorbing passion with me. I cared nothing for the law nothing for the gallows. To escape, to track down Sholto, to have my hand upon his throat that was my one thought Even the Agra treasure had come to be a smaller thing in my mind than the slaying of Sholto. "Well, I have set my mind on many things in this life, and never one which I did not carry out. But it was weary years before my time came.

I have told you that I had picked up something of medicine. One day, when Doctor Somerton was down with a fever, a little Andaman Islander was picked up by a convict-gang in the woods. He was sick to death, and had gone to a lonely place to die. I took him in hand, though he was as venomous as a young snake, and after a couple of months I got him all right and able to walk.

He took a kind of fancy to me then, and would hardly go back to his woods, but was always hanging about my hut. I learned a little of his lingo from him, and this made him all the fonder of me. "Tonga for that was his name was a fine boatman, and owned a big, roomy canoe of his own.

When I found that he was devoted to me and would do anything to serve me, I saw my chance to escape. I talked it over with him. He was to bring his boat round on a certain night to an old wharf which was never guarded, and there he was to pick me up.

I gave him directions to have several gourds of water and a lot of yams, cocoanuts, and sweet potatoes. "He was stanch and true, was little Tonga. No man ever had a more faithful mate. At the night named he had his boat at the wharf.

As it chanced, however, there was one of the convict-guard down there a vile Pathan who had never missed a chance of insulting and injuring me. I had always vowed vengeance, and now I had my chance. It was as if fate had placed him in my way that I might pay my debt before I left the island. He stood on the bank with his back to me, and his carbine on his shoulder. I looked about for a stone to beat out his brains with, but none could I see.

Then a queer thought came into my head and showed me where I could lay my hand on a weapon. I sat down in the darkness and unstrapped my wooden leg. With three long hops I was on him.

He put his carbine to his shoulder, but I struck him full and knocked the whole front of his skull in. You can see the split in the wood now where I hit him. We both went down together, for I could not keep my balance, but when I got up I found him still lying quiet enough.

I made for the boat, and in an hour we were well out at sea. Tonga had brought all his earthly possessions with him, his arms and his gods. Among other things, he had a long bamboo spear, and some Andaman cocoanut matting, with which I made a sort of a sail. For ten days we were beating about, trusting to luck, and on the eleventh we were picked up by a trader which was going from Singapore to Jiddah with a cargo of Malay pilgrims. They were a rum crowd, and Tonga

and I soon managed to settle down among them.

They had one very good quality; they let you alone and asked no questions. "Well, if I were to tell you all the adventures that my little chum and I went through, you would not thank me, for I would have you here until the sun was shining. Here and there we drifted about the world, something always turning up to keep us from London. All the time, however, I never lost sight of my purpose.

I would dream of Sholto at night. A hundred times I have killed him in my sleep. At last, however, some three or four years ago, we found ourselves in England.

I had no great difficulty in finding where Sholto lived, and I set to work to discover whether he had realized the treasure or if he still had it. I made friends with some one who could help me I name no names, for I don't want to get any one else in a hole and I soon found that he still had the jewels. Then I tried to get at him in many ways; but he was pretty sly, and had always two prize-fighters, besides his sons and his khitmutgar, on guard over him. "One day, however, I got word that he was dying.

I hurried at once to the garden, mad that he should slip out of my clutches like that, and, looking through the window, I saw him lying in his bed, with his sons on each side of him. I'd have come through and taken my chance with the three of them, only, even as I looked at him, his jaw dropped, and I knew that he was gone. I got into his room that same night, though, and I searched his papers to see if there was any record of where he had hidden our jewels. There was not a line, however; so I came away, bitter and savage as a man could be.

Before I left I bethought me that if I ever met my Sikh friends again it would be a satisfaction to know that I had left some mark of our hatred; so I scrawled down the sign of the four of us, as it had been on the chart, and I pinned it on his bosom. It was too much that he should be taken to the grave without some token from the men whom he had robbed and befooled. "We earned a living at this time by my exhibiting poor Tonga at fairs and other such places as the black cannibal.

He would eat raw meat and dance his war-dance; so we always had a hatful of pennies after a day's work. I still heard all the news from Pondicherry Lodge, and for some years there was no news to hear, except that they were hunting for the treasure.

At last, however, came what we had waited for so long. The treasure had been found. It was up at the top of the house, in Mr. Bartholomew Sholto's chemical laboratory. I came at once and had a look at the place, but I could not see how, with my wooden leg, I was to make my way up to it.

I learned, however, about a trap-door in the roof, and also about Mr. Sholto's supper-hour. It seemed to me that I could manage the thing easily through Tonga. I brought him out with me with a long rope wound round his waist. He could climb like a cat, and he soon made his way through the roof, but, as ill-luck would have it, Bartholomew Sholto was still in the room, to his cost.

Tonga thought he had done something very clever in killing him, for when I came up by the rope I found him strutting about as proud as a peacock. Very much surprised was he when I made at him with the rope's end and cursed him for a little bloodthirsty imp. I took the treasure-box and let it down, and then slid down myself, having first left the sign of the four upon the table, to show that the jewels had come back at last to those who had most right to them.

Tonga then pulled up the rope, closed the window, and made off the way that he had come. "I don't know that I have anything else to tell you. I had heard a waterman speak of the speed of Smith's launch, the 'Aurora,' so I thought she would be a handy craft for our escape. I engaged with old Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our ship.

He knew, no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was not in our secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you, gentlemen, it is not to amuse you for you have not done me a very good turn but it is because I believe the best defense I can make is just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the death of his son."

"A very remarkable account ," said Sherlock Holmes. "A fitting wind-up to an extremely interesting case.

There is nothing at all new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat. "

"He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time.

"

"Ah, of course," said Holmes, "I had not thought of that. "

"Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably. "I think not, thank you," my companion answered. "Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "you are a man to be humored, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me.

I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors downstairs. I am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial.

Good-night to you.

" "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small. "You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room. "I'll take particular care that you don't club me with your wooden leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman Isles. "

"Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after we had sat some time looking in silence. "I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods.

Miss Morstan has done me the honor to accept me as a husband in prospective." He gave a most dismal groan. "I feared as much," said he; "I really can not congratulate you. "

I was a little hurt. "Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?"
I asked.

"Not at all.

I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have been doing. She has a decided genius that way; witness the way in which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father. But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things.

I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment." "I trust," said I, laughing, "that my judgment may survive the ordeal. But you look weary.

"

"Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as limp as a rag for a week." "Strange," said I, "how terms of what in another man I should call laziness alternate with fits of splendid energy and vigor."
"Yes," he answered, "there are in me the makings of a very fine loafer, and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow. I often think of those lines of old Goethe   ''Schade dass die Natur nur einen Mensch aus dir schuf, Denn zum wurdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen der Stoff.'

By the way, apropos of this Norwood business, you see that they had, as I surmised, a confederate in the house, who could be none other than Lal Rao, the butler; so Jones actually has the undivided honor of having caught one fish in his great haul."
"The division seems rather unfair," I remarked. "You have done all the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the credit, pray what remains for you?" "For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still remains the cocaine bottle. "

And he stretched his long white hand up for it.

A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA  BY SIR ARTHUR

CONAN DOYLE  "A Scandal in Bohemia," which many people consider the author's best short story, describes the one instance in which Sherlock Holmes acknowledges himself "beaten by a woman's wit"; he always speaks of Irene Adler as THE woman. St. John's Wood, London, where the scene of the story is laid, is well known as the quarter of the city in which the professional artistic element of the population resides. A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA  By SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE   I  To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name.

In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise, but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen; but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position.

He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results.

Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory. I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other.

My own complete happiness, and the home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention; while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in following out those clues, and clearing up those mysteries, which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings; of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and companion.

One night it was on the 20th of March, 1888 I was returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practise), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lighted, and even as I looked up, I saw his tall spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest, and his hands clasped behind him.

To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his drug-created dreams, and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell, and was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part my own. His manner was not effusive.

It seldom was; but he was glad, I think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the fire, and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion. "Wedlock suits you," he remarked.

"I think, Watson, that you have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you."
"Seven," I answered. "Indeed, I should have thought a little more.

Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson. And in practise again, I observe. You did not tell me that you intended to go into harness.

"

"Then how do you know?"

"I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and careless servant-girl?"
"My dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much. You would certainly have been burned had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess; but as I have changed my clothes, I can't imagine how you deduce it.

As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice; but there again I fail to see how you work it out." He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together. "It is simplicity itself," said he; "my eyes tell me that on the inside of your left shoe, just where the fire-light strikes it, the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have been caused by some one who has very carelessly scraped round the edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it.

Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile weather, and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slicking specimen of the London slavey. As to your practise, if a gentleman walks into my rooms, smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the side of his top-hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull indeed if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession. "

I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his process of deduction. "When I hear you give your reasons," I remarked, "the thing always appears to me so ridiculously simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive instance of your reasoning I am baffled, until you explain your process. And yet, I believe that my eyes are as good as yours."
"Quite so," he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself down Into an armchair.

"You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps which lead up from the hall to this room."  "Frequently."

"How often?"  "Well, some hundreds of times.

" "Then how many are there?"

"How many?
I don't know. "

"Quite so!
You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just my point.

Now, I know there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen and observed. By the way, since you are interested in these little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or two of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this. " He threw over a sheet of thick pink-tinted note-paper which had been lying open upon the table.

"It came by the last post," said he. "Read it aloud. "

The note was undated, and without either signature or address. "There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o'clock," it said, "a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the very deepest moment.

Your recent services to one of the royal houses of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated. This account of you we have from all quarters received.

Be in your chamber, then, at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor wears a mask. "

"This is indeed a mystery," I remarked. "What do you imagine that it means?"

"I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data.

Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself what do you deduce from it?"
I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was written.

"The man who wrote it was presumably well-to-do," I remarked, endeavoring to imitate my companion's processes. "Such paper could not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and stiff. "
"Peculiar that is the very word," said Holmes.

"It is not an English paper at all.  Hold it up to the light. " I did so, and saw a large E with a small g, a P and a large G with a small t woven into the texture of the paper. "What do you make of that?" asked Holmes. "The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.
" "Not at all.

The G with the small t stands for 'Gesellschaft,' which is the German for 'Company.' It is a customary contraction like our 'Co.'  P, of course, stands for 'Papier.' Now for the Eg.  Let us glance at our 'Continental Gazetteer.'"  He took down a heavy brown volume from his shelves. "Eglow, Eglonitz here we are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking country in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. '

Remarkable as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass factories and paper mills.'

Ha! ha!
my boy, what do you make of that?"

His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from his cigarette. "The paper was made in Bohemia," I said. "Precisely.
And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the peculiar construction of the sentence 'This account of you we have from all quarters received'?

A Frenchman or Russian could not have written that.

It is the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper, and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts.

"

As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses' hoofs and grating wheels against the curb followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes whistled. "A pair, by the sound," said he. "Yes," he continued, glancing out of the window. "A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties.

A hundred and fifty guineas apiece.

There's money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing else." "I think I had better go, Holmes." "Not a bit, doctor.

Stay where you are.

I am lost without my Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it." "But your client "  "Never mind him.

I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that armchair, doctor, and give us your best attention. "

A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the passage, paused immediately outside the door.

Then there was a loud and authoritative tap. "Come in!" said Holmes. A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as akin to bad taste.

Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and front of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-colored silk, and secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended half-way up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past the cheek-bones, a black visard-mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin, suggestive of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy.

"You had my note?" he asked, with a deep, harsh voice and a strongly marked German accent. "I told you that I would call. "

He looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address. "Pray take a seat," said Holmes.

"This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases.

Whom have I the honor to address?"
"You may address me as the Count von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honor and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone. "

I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. "It is both, or none," said he.

"You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me." The count shrugged his broad shoulders. "Then I must begin," said he, "by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight that it may have an influence upon European history. "

"I promise," said Holmes. "And I."  "You will excuse this mask," continued our strange visitor. "The august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my own."

"I was aware of it," said Holmes, dryly. "The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal, and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia.

"

"I was also aware of that," murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his armchair, and closing his eyes. Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man who had been, no doubt, depicted to him as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client. "If your majesty would condescend to state your case," he remarked, "I should be better able to advise you."

The man sprang from his chair, and paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation.

Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. "You are right," he cried, "I am the king. Why should I attempt to conceal it?"
"Why, indeed?" murmured Holmes. "Your majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia.

"
"But you can understand," said our strange visitor, sitting down once more and passing his hand over his high, white forehead, "you can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power.

I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting you." "Then, pray consult," said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more. "The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known adventuress Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you.

"
"Kindly look her up in my index, doctor," murmured Holmes, without opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system for docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish information. In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written a monogram upon the deep-sea fishes.

"Let me see!" said Holmes. "Hum!  Born in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto hum!

La Scala hum!
Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw yes!

Retired from operatic stage ha! Living in London quite so! Your majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting those letters back. " "Precisely so.

But how "  "Was there a secret marriage?"
"None."
"No legal papers or certificates?"
"None."
"Then I fail to follow your majesty.

If this young person should produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove their authenticity?" "There is the writing." "Pooh, pooh!  Forgery.

" "My private note-paper.

" "Stolen."
"My own seal.
" "Imitated." "My photograph.
" "Bought." "We were both in the photograph." "Oh, dear!
That is very bad.

Your majesty has indeed committed an indiscretion. " "I was mad insane." "You have compromised yourself seriously. "

"I was only crown prince then.

I was young. I am but thirty now."
"It must be recovered. "

"We have tried and failed. " "Your majesty must pay.

It must be bought. "

"She will not sell." "Stolen, then."
"Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her house.

Once we diverted her luggage when she traveled. Twice she has been waylaid. There has been no result." "No sign of it?"  "Absolutely none."  Holmes laughed.

"It is quite a pretty little problem," said he. "But a very serious one to me," returned the king, reproachfully. "Very, indeed.
And what does she propose to do with the photograph?"

"To ruin me. "

"But how?"  "I am about to be married. "

"So I have heard. "
"To Clotilde Lotham von Saxe-Meiningen, second daughter of the King of Scandinavia.
You may know the strict principles of her family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy.

A shadow of a doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end. "

"And Irene Adler?"  "Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel.

She has the face of the most beautiful of women and the mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another woman, there are no lengths to which she would not go none. "

"You are sure that she has not sent it yet?"

"I am sure."
"And why?"
"Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday. "
"Oh, then we have three days yet," said Holmes, with a yawn. "That is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look into just at present. Your majesty will, of course, stay in London for the present?"  "Certainly.

You will find me at the Langham, under the name of the Count von Kramm. "

"Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress. " "Pray do so; I shall be all anxiety. "
"Then, as to money?"  "You have carte blanche."

"Absolutely?"  "I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to have that photograph."
"And for present expenses?"

The king took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak, and laid it on the table. "There are three hundred pounds in gold, and seven hundred in notes," he said. Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book, and handed it to him. "And mademoiselle's address?" he asked.

"Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John's Wood."  Holmes took a note of it. "One other question," said he, thoughtfully. "Was the photograph a cabinet?"
"It was." "Then, good-night, your majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have some good news for you. And good-night, Watson," he added, as the wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street.

"If you will be good enough to call to-morrow afternoon, at three o'clock, I should like to chat this little matter over with you. "

II

At three o'clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the house shortly after eight o'clock in the morning. I sat down beside the fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he might be. I was already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none of the grim and strange features which were associated with the two crimes which I have already recorded, still, the nature of the case and the exalted station of his client gave it a character of its own.

Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which my friend had on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it a pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow the quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable success that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to enter into my head. It was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and disreputable clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to my friend's amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three times before I was certain that it was indeed he.

With a nod he vanished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his hand into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire, and laughed heartily for some minutes. "Well, really!"
he cried, and then he choked, and laughed again until he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair.

"What is it?"  "It's quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I employed my morning, or what I ended by doing. "

"I can't imagine.

I suppose that you have been watching the habits, and, perhaps, the house of Miss Irene Adler. "

"Quite so, but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you, however.

I left the house a little after eight o'clock this morning in the character of a groom out of work. There is a wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among horsy men. Be one of them, and you will know all that there is to know.

I soon found Briony Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden at the back, but built out in front right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock to the door.

Large sitting-room on the right side, well furnished, with long windows almost to the floor, and those preposterous English window-fasteners which a child could open. Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage window could be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked round it and examined it closely from every point of view, but without noting anything else of interest. "I then lounged down the street, and found, as I expected, that there was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the garden.

I lent the hostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and I received in exchange twopence, a glass of half-and-half, two fills of shag tobacco, and as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen other people in the neighborhood, in whom I was not in the least interested, but whose biographies I was compelled to listen to."

"And what of Irene Adler?"
I asked. "Oh, she has turned all the men's heads down in that part. She is the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the Serpentine Mews, to a man.

She lives quietly, sings at concerts, drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings. Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and dashing; never calls less than once a day, and often twice.

He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton of the Inner Temple. See the advantages of a cabman as a confidant. They had driven him home a dozen times from Serpentine Mews, and knew all about him. When I had listened to all that they had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think over my plan of campaign.

"This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous.

What was the relation between them, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If the former, she had probably transferred the photograph to his keeping.

If the latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this question depended whether I should continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the gentleman's chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point, and it widened the field of my inquiry.

I fear that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties, if you are to understand the situation. "

"I am following you closely," I answered. "I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab drove up to Briony Lodge and a gentleman sprang out.

He was a remarkably handsome man, dark, aquiline, and mustached evidently the man of whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened the door, with the air of a man who was thoroughly at home. "He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch glimpses of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and down, talking excitedly and waving his arms.

Of her I could see nothing. Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than before. As he stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and looked at it earnestly. 'Drive like the devil!'

he shouted, 'first to Gross & Hankey's in Regent Street, and then to the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty minutes!'

"Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do well to follow them, when up the lane came a neat little landau, the coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and

his tie under his ear, while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of the buckles. It hadn't pulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into it. I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but she was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for. "'The Church of St. Monica, John," she cried; "and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes. "

"This was quite too good to lose, Watson.

I was just balancing whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her landau, when a cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at such a shabby fare; but I jumped in before he could object. 'The Church of St. Monica,' said I, 'and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.'

It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of course it was clear enough what was in the wind. "My cabby drove fast. I don't think I ever drove faster, but the others were there before us. The cab and landau with their steaming horses were in front of the door when I arrived. I paid the man, and hurried into the church.

There was not a soul there save the two whom I had followed, and a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be expostulating with them. They were all three standing in a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side aisle like any other idler who has dropped into a church.

Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at the altar faced round to me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he could toward me. "'Thank God!' he cried. 'You'll do.

Come! Come!'

"'What then?'

I asked. "'Come, man, come; only three minutes, or it won't be legal.'

"I was half-dragged up to the altar, and, before I knew where I was, I found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear, and vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally assisting in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and there was the gentleman thanking me on the one side and the lady on the other, while the clergyman beamed on me in front. It was the most preposterous position in which I ever found myself in my life, and it was the thought of it that started me laughing just now. It seems that there had been some informality about their license; that the clergyman absolutely refused to marry them without a witness of some sort, and that my lucky appearance saved the bridegroom from having to sally out into the streets in search of a best man.

The bride gave me a sovereign, and I mean to wear it on my watch-chain in memory of the occasion. "

"This is a very unexpected turn of affairs," said I; "and what then?"

"Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as if the pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate very prompt and energetic measures on my part.

At the church door, however, they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and she to her own house. 'I shall drive out in the park at five as usual,' she said, as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away in different directions, and I went off to make my own arrangements." "Which are?"  "Some cold beef and a glass of beer," he answered, ringing the bell.

"I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to be busier still this evening. By the way, doctor, I shall want your cooperation. " "I shall be delighted.

"
"You don't mind breaking the law?"  "Not in the least. "

"Nor running a chance of arrest?"  "Not in a good cause." "Oh, the cause is excellent!"
"Then I am your man. "

"I was sure that I might rely on you."

"But what is it you wish?"

"When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to you. Now," he said, as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that our landlady had provided, "I must discuss it while I eat, for I have not much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must be on the scene of action.

Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her."
"And what then?" "You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur.

There is only one point on which I must insist. You must not interfere, come what may. You understand?"
"I am to be neutral?"

"To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small unpleasantness.

Do not join in it. It will end in my being conveyed into the house. Four or five minutes afterward the sitting-room window will open. You are to station yourself close to that open window.

"

"Yes."  "You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you. "

"Yes."

"And when I raise my hand so you will throw into the room what I give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire. You quite follow me?"  "Entirely."

"It is nothing very formidable," he said, taking a long, cigar-shaped roll from his pocket.

"It is an ordinary plumber's smoke-rocket, fitted with a cap at either end, to make it self-lighting. Your task is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire, it will be taken up by quite a number of people. You may then walk to the end of the street, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes.

I hope that I have made myself clear?"
"I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you, and, at the signal, to throw in this object, then to raise the cry of fire, and to wait you at the corner of the street. "
"Precisely."
"Then you may entirely rely on me." "That is excellent.

I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I prepared for the new rôle I have to play. "

He disappeared into his bedroom, and returned in a few minutes in the character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman. His broad, black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and benevolent curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could have equaled.

It was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime. It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine Avenue.

It was already dusk

, and the lamps were just being lighted as we paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for the coming

of its occupant. The house was just such as I had pictured it from Sherlock Holmes's succinct description, but the locality appeared to be

less private than I expected. On the contrary, for a small street in a quiet neighborhood, it was remarkably animated. There was a group of shabbily dressed men smoking and laughing

in a corner, a scissors-grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with a nurse-girl, and sever al well-dressed young men who were lounging up and down with cigars in their mouths.

"You see," remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of the house, "this marriage rather simplifies matters. The photograph becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances are that she would be as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton as our client is to its coming to the eyes of his princess.

Now the question is where are we to find the photograph?"

"Where, indeed?"  "It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman's dress.

She knows that the king is capable of having her waylaid and searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made. We may take it, then, that she does not carry it about with her." "Where, then?"  "Her banker or her lawyer.

There is that double possibility. But I am inclined to think neither.

Women are naturally secretive, and they like to do their own secreting. Why should she hand it over to any one else? She could trust her own guardianship, but she could not tell what indirect or political influence might be brought to bear upon a business man.

Besides, remember that she had resolved to use it within a few days. It must be where she can lay her hands upon it. It must be in her ow

n house. "

"But it has twice been burglarized. "

"Pshaw!
They did not know how to look.

"

"But how will you look?"

"I will not look."
"What then?" "I will get her to show me." "But she will refuse. "

"She will not be able to.

But I hear the rumble of wheels.

It is her carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter." As he spoke, the gleam of the side-lights of a carriage came round the curve of the avenue.

It was a smart little landau which rattled up to the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up one of the loafing men at the corner dashed forward to open the door in the hope of earning a copper, but was elbowed away by another loafer who had rushed up with the same intention. A fierce quarrel broke out which was increased by the two guardsmen, who took sides with one of the loungers, and by the scissors-grinder, who was equally hot upon the other side.

A blow was struck, and in an instant the lady, who had stepped from her carriage, was the centre of a little knot of struggling men who struck savagely at each other with their fists and sticks. Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect the lady; but, just as he reached her, he gave a cry and dropped to the ground, with the blood running freely down his face. At his fall the guardsmen took to their heels in one direction and the loungers in the other, while a number of better dressed people who had watched the scuffle without taking part in it crowded in to help the lady and to attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call her, had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top, with her superb figure outlined against the lights of the hall, looking back into the street. "Is the poor gentleman much hurt?" she asked.

"He is dead," cried several voices. "No, no, there's life in him," shouted another. "But he'll be gone before you can get him to the hospital." "He's a brave fellow," said a woman.

"They would have had the lady's purse and watch if it hadn't been for him. They were a gang, and a rough one, too. Ah!
he's breathing now.

"

"He can't lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?"  "Surely.

Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable sofa. This way, please."
Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge, and laid out in the principal room, while I still observed the proceedings from my post by the window. The lamps had been lighted, but the blinds had not been drawn, so that I could see Holmes as he lay upon the couch.

I do not know whether he was seized with compunction at that moment for the part he was playing, but I know that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my life when I saw the beautiful creature against whom I was conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which she waited upon the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest treachery to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had entrusted to me. I hardened my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from under my ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her.

We are but preventing her from injuring another. Holmes had sat upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At the same instant I saw him raise his hand, and at the signal I tossed my rocket into the room with a cry of "Fire!"

The word was no sooner out of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and ill gentlemen-hostlers, and servant-maids joined in a general shriek of "Fire!"
Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room, and out at the open window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment later the voice of Holmes from within assuring them that it was a false alarm.
Slipping through the shouting crowd, I made my way to the corner of the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find my friend's arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He walked swiftly and in silence for some few minutes, until we had turned down one of the quiet streets which led toward the Edgware Road. "You did it very nicely, doctor," he remarked. "Nothing could have been better.

It is all right. "

"You have the photograph?"

"I know where it is."
"And how did you find out?"
"She showed me, as I told you that she would."

"I am still in the dark." "I do not wish to make a mystery," said he, laughing. "The matter was perfectly simple.

You, of course, saw that every one in the street was an accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening. "

"I guessed as much."

"Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the palm of my hand.

I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick."

"That also I could fathom." "Then they carried me in.

She was bound to have me in. What else could she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the very room which I suspected.

It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for air, they were compelled to open the window, and you had your chance. "

"How did that help you?"
"It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is on fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she values most. It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once taken advantage of it.

In the case of the Darlington Substitution Scandal it was of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby an unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to me that our lady of to-day had nothing in the house more precious to her than what we are in quest of. She would rush to secure it.

The alarm of fire was admirably done. The smoke and shouting were enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded beautifully. The photograph is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above the right bell-pull.

She was there in an instant, and I caught a glimpse of it as she half drew it out. When I cried out that it was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the rocket, rushed from the room, and I have not seen her since. I rose, and, making my excuses, escaped from the house.

I hesitated whether to attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman had come in, and as he was watching me narrowly, it seemed safer to wait. A little overprecipitance may ruin all."
"And now?"
I asked. "Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the king to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is probable that when she comes she may find neither us nor the photograph.

It might be a satisfaction to his majesty to regain it with his own hands. "

"And when will you call?"
"At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall have a clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage may mean a complete change in her life and habits.

I must wire to the king without delay. " We had reached Baker Street, and had stopped at the door. He was searching his pockets for the key, when some one passing said:  "Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes. "

There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had hurried by.

"I've heard that voice before," said Holmes, staring down the dimly lighted street. "Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have been?"    III  I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our toast and coffee in the morning, when the King of Bohemia rushed into the room. "You have really got it?" he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by either shoulder, and looking eagerly into his face.

"Not yet."
"But you have hopes?"

"I have hopes. "

"Then come. I am all impatience to be gone. "

"We must have a cab."

"No, my brougham is waiting. "

"Then that will simplify matters. "

We descended, and started off once more for Briony Lodge. "Irene Adler is married," remarked Holmes.

"Married! When?"
"Yesterday."
"But to whom?"  "To an English lawyer named Norton. "

"But she could not love him. "
"I am in hopes that she does."

"And why in hopes?"  "Because it would spare your majesty all fear of future annoyance. If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your majesty.

If she does not love your majesty, there is no reason why she should interfere with your majesty's plan. "

"It is true. And yet Well, I wish she had been of my own station.

What a queen she would have made!" He relapsed into a moody silence, which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue. The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the brougham.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?" said she. "I am Mr. Holmes," answered my companion, looking at her with a questioning and rather startled gaze. "Indeed!
My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left this morning, with her husband, by the 5:15 train from Charing Cross, for the Continent."

"What!"  Sherlock Holmes staggered back white with chagrin and surprise.

"Do you mean that she has left England?"  "Never to return. "
"And the papers?" asked the king, hoarsely. "All is lost!"

"We shall see. "
He pushed past the servant, and rushed into the drawing-room, followed by the king and myself.

The furniture was scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves, and open drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding shutter, and plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress; the letter was superscribed to "Sherlock Holmes, Esq.  To be left till called for.

"
My friend tore it open, and we all three read it together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding night, and ran in this way:   "MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES; You really did it very well. You took me in completely. Until after the alarm of the fire, I had not a suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I began to think.

I had been warned against you months ago. I had been told that if the king employed an agent, it would certainly be you. And your address had been given me.

Yet, with all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to know.

Even after I became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress myself.

Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you, ran upstairs, got into my walking clothes, as I call them, and came down just as you departed. "Well, I followed you to the door, and so made sure that I was really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for the Temple to see my husband. "We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he.

The king may do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, very truly yours,  "IRENE NORTON, nee ADLER. "

"What a woman oh, what a woman!" cried the King of Bohemia, when we had all three read this epistle.

"Did I not tell you how quick and resolute she was?
Would she not have made an admirable queen?
Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?" "From what I have seen of the lady, she seems, indeed, to be on a very different level to your majesty," said Holmes, coldly. "I am sorry that I have not been able to bring your majesty's business to a more successful conclusion. "

"On the contrary, my dear sir," cried the king, "nothing could be more successful. I know that her word is inviolate.

The photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire. "

"I am glad to hear your majesty say so."

"I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can reward you.

This ring "  He slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger, and held it out upon the palm of his hand. "Your majesty has something which I should value even more highly," said Holmes. "You have but to name it."

"This photograph!"
The king stared at him in amazement. "Irene's photograph!"
he cried.

"Certainly, if you wish it. "

"I thank your majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the matter. I have the honor to wish you a very good-morning.

"

He bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the king had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers. And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honorable title of the woman. THE DOCTOR, HIS WIFE, AND THE CLOCK  BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN  Anna Katharine Green (Rohlfs), whose name is firmly linked in the public mind with "The Leavenworth Case," is recognized as the foremost American writer of detective stories.

Of these, Mrs. Rohlfs considers "The Doctor, His Wife, and the Clock" her most successful effort in the short story form. Additional interest arises from the fact that the scene is laid in those historic old buildings in Lafayette Place opposite the Astor Library, known as "the Colonnade Row," in which lived John Jacob Astor and other rich merchants two generations ago. THE DOCTOR, HIS WIFE, AND THE CLOCK  By ANNA KATHARINE GREEN  (MRS. CHARLES ROHLFS)   I  On the 17th of July, 1851, a tragedy of no little interest occurred in one of the residences of the Colonnade in Lafayette Place. Mr. Hasbrouck, a well-known and highly respected citizen, was attacked in his room by an unknown assailant, and shot dead before assistance could reach him.

His murderer escaped, and the problem offered to the police was, how to identify this person who, by some happy chance or by the exercise of the most remarkable forethought, had left no traces behind him, or any clue by which he could be followed. The affair was given to a young man, named Ebenezer Gryce, to investigate, and the story, as he tells it, is this: When, some time after midnight, I reached Lafayette Place, I found the block lighted from end to end.

Groups of excited men and women peered from the open doorways, and mingled their shadows with those of the huge pillars which adorn the front of this picturesque block of dwellings. The house in which the crime had been committed was near the centre of the row, and, long before I reached it, I had learned from more than one source that the alarm was first given to the street by a woman's shriek, and secondly by the shouts of an old man-servant who had appeared, in a half-dressed condition, at the window of Mr. Hasbrouck's room, crying, "Murder!
murder!" But when I had crossed the threshold, I was astonished at the paucity of the facts to be gleaned from the inmates themselves.

The old servitor, who was the first to talk, had only this account of the crime to give. The family, which consisted of Mr. Hasbrouck, his wife, and three servants, had retired for the night at the usual hour and under the usual auspices. At eleven o'clock the lights were all extinguished, and the whole household asleep, with the possible exception of Mr. Hasbrouck himself, who, being a man of large business responsibilities, was frequently troubled with insomnia. Suddenly Mrs. Hasbrouck woke with a start. Had she dreamed the words that were ringing in her ears, or had they been actually uttered in her hearing?

They were short, sharp words, full of terror and menace, and she had nearly satisfied herself that she had imagined them, when there came, from somewhere near the door, a sound she neither understood nor could interpret, but which filled her with inexplicable terror, and made her afraid to breathe, or even to stretch forth her hand toward her husband, whom she supposed to be sleeping at her side. At length another strange sound, which she was sure was not due to her imagination, drove her to make an attempt to rouse him, when she was horrified to find that she was alone in the bed, and her husband nowhere within reach. Filled now with something more than nervous apprehension, she flung herself to the floor, and tried to penetrate, with frenzied glances, the surrounding darkness. But the blinds and shutters both having been carefully closed by Mr. Hasbrouck before retiring, she found this impossible, and she was about to sink in terror to the floor, when she heard a low gasp on the other side of the room, followed by the suppressed cry:  "God!
what have I done!"

The voice was a strange one, but before the fear aroused by this fact could culminate in a shriek of dismay, she caught the sound of retreating footsteps, and, eagerly listening, she heard them descend the stairs and depart by the front door.

Had she known what had occurred had there been no doubt in her mind as to what lay in the darkness on the other side of the room it is likely that, at the noise caused by the closing front door, she would have made at once for the balcony that opened out from the window before which she was standing, and taken one look at the flying figure below. But her uncertainty as to what lay hidden from her by the darkness chained her feet to the floor, and there is no knowing when she would have moved, if a carriage had not at that moment passed down Astor Place, bringing with it a sense of companionship which broke the spell that held her, and gave her strength to light the gas, which was in ready reach of her hand.

As the sudden blaze illuminated the room, revealing in a burst the old familiar walls and well-known pieces of furniture, she felt for a moment as if released from some heavy nightmare and restored to the common experiences of life. But in another instant her former dread returned, and she found herself quaking at the prospect of passing around the foot of the bed into that part of the room which was as yet hidden from her eyes.

But the desperation which comes with great crises finally drove her from her retreat; and, creeping slowly forward, she cast one glance at the floor before her, when she found her worst fears realized by the sight of the dead body of her husband lying prone before the open doorway, with a bullet-hole in his forehead.

Her first impulse was to shriek, but, by a powerful exercise of will, she checked herself, and, ringing frantically for the servants who slept on the top floor of the house, flew to the nearest window and endeavored to open it. But the shutters had been bolted so securely by Mr. Hasbrouck, in his endeavor to shut out light and sound, that by the time she had succeeded in unfastening them, all trace of the flying murderer had vanished from the street.

Sick with grief and terror, she stepped back into the room just as the three frightened servants descended the stairs. As they appeared in the open doorway, she pointed at her husband's inanimate form, and then, as if suddenly realizing in its full force the calamity which had befallen her, she threw up her arms, and sank forward to the floor in a dead faint. The two women rushed to her assistance, but the old butler, bounding over the bed, sprang to the window, and shrieked his alarm to the street. In the interim that followed, Mrs. Hasbrouck was revived, and the master's body laid decently on the bed; but no pursuit was made, nor any inquiries started likely to assist me in establishing the identity of the assailant.

Indeed, every one, both in the house and out, seemed dazed by the unexpected catastrophe, and as no one had any suspicions to offer as to the probable murderer, I had a difficult task before me. I began, in the usual way, by inspecting the scene of the murder. I found nothing in the room, or in the condition of the body itself, which added an iota to the knowledge already obtained.

That Mr. Hasbrouck had been in bed; that he had risen upon hearing a noise; and that he had been shot before reaching the door, were self-evident facts. But there was nothing to guide me further.

The very simplicity of the circumstances caused a dearth of clues, which made the difficulty of procedure as great as any I ever encountered. My search through the hall and down the stairs elicited nothing; and an investigation of the bolts and bars by which the house was secured, assured me that the assassin had either entered by the front door, or had already been secreted in the house when it was locked up for the night. "I shall have to trouble Mrs. Hasbrouck for a short interview," I hereupon announced to the trembling old servitor, who had followed me like a dog about the house.

He made no demur, and in a few minutes I was ushered into the presence of the newly made widow, who sat quite alone, in a large chamber in the rear. As I crossed the threshold she looked up, and I encountered a good plain face, without the shadow of guile in it. "Madam," said I, "I have not come to disturb you. I will ask two or three questions only, and then leave you to your grief.

I am told that some words came from the assassin before he delivered his fatal shot. Did you hear these distinctly enough to tell me what they were?"
"I was sound asleep," said she, "and dreamt, as I thought, that a fierce, strange voice cried somewhere to some one: 'Ah!
you did not expect me!' But I dare not say that these words were really uttered to my husband, for he was not the man to call forth hate, and only a man in the extremity of passion could address such an exclamation in such a tone as rings in my memory in connection with the fatal shot which woke me."
"But that shot was not the work of a friend," I argued.

"If, as these words seem to prove, the assassin had some other motive than gain in his assault, then your husband had an enemy, though you never suspected it." "Impossible!" was her steady reply, uttered in the most convincing tone. "The man who shot him was a common burglar, and, frightened at having been betrayed into murder, fled without looking for booty.

I am sure I heard him cry out in terror and remorse: 'God!
what have I done!'"  "Was that before you left the side of the bed?"

"Yes; I did not move from my place till I heard the front door close. I was paralyzed by my fear and dread. "

"Are you in the habit of trusting to the security of a latch-lock only in the fastening of your front door at night?
I am told that the big key was not in the lock, and that the bolt at the bottom of the door was not drawn. "

"The bolt at the bottom of the door is never drawn. Mr. Hasbrouck was so good a man he never mistrusted any one.

That is why the big lock was not fastened. The key, not working well, he took it some days ago to the locksmith, and when the latter failed to return it, he laughed, and said he thought no one would ever think of meddling with his front door."  "Is there more than one night-key to your house? "
I now asked. She shook her head.

"And when did Mr. Hasbrouck last use his?"  "To-night, when he came home from prayer-meeting," she answered, and burst into tears. Her grief was so real and her loss so recent that I hesitated to afflict her by further questions. So returning to the scene of the tragedy, I stepped out upon the balcony which ran in front. Soft voices instantly struck my ears. The neighbors on either side were grouped in front of their own windows, and were exchanging the remarks natural under the circumstances.

I paused, as in duty bound, and listened. But I heard nothing worth recording, and would have instantly reentered the house, if I had not been impressed by the appearance of a very graceful woman who stood at my right.

She was clinging to her husband, who was gazing at one of the pillars before him in a strange, fixed way which astonished me till he attempted to move, and then I saw that he was blind. Instantly I remembered that there lived in this row a blind doctor, equally celebrated for his skill and for his uncommon personal attractions, and, greatly interested not only in his affliction, but in the sympathy evinced for him by his young and affectionate wife, I stood still till I heard her say in the soft and appealing tones of love:  "Come in, Constant; you have heavy duties for to-morrow, and you should get a few hours' rest, if possible." He came from the shadow of the pillar, and for one minute I saw his face with the lamplight shining full upon it.

It was as regular of feature as a sculptured Adonis, and it was as white. "Sleep!"
he repeated, in the measured tones of deep but suppressed feeling. "Sleep!
with murder on the other side of the wall!"

And he stretched out his arms in a dazed way that insensibly accentuated the horror I myself felt of the crime which had so lately taken place in the room behind me.

She, noting the movement, took one of the groping hands in her own and drew him gently toward her. "This way," she urged; and, guiding him into the house, she closed the window and drew down the shades, making the street seem darker by the loss of her exquisite presence. This may seem a digression, but I was at the time a young man of thirty, and much under the dominion of woman's beauty. I was therefore slow in leaving the balcony, and persistent in my wish to learn something of this remarkable couple before leaving Mr. Hasbrouck's house. The story told me was very simple.

Dr. Zabriskie had not been born blind, but had become so after a grievous illness which had stricken him down soon after he received his diploma. Instead of succumbing to an affliction which would have daunted most men, he expressed his intention of practising his profession, and soon became so successful in it that he found no difficulty in establishing himself in one of the best paying quarters of the city. Indeed, his intuition seemed to have developed in a remarkable degree after his loss of sight, and he seldom, if ever, made a mistake in diagnosis. Considering this fact, and the personal attractions which gave him distinction, it was no wonder that he soon became a popular physician whose presence was a benefaction and whose word a law.

He had been engaged to be married at the time of his illness, and, when he learned what was likely to be its results, had offered to release the young lady from all obligation to him. But she would not be released, and they were married.

This had taken place some five years previous to Mr. Hasbrouck's death, three of which had been spent by them in Lafayette Place. So much for the beautiful woman next door.

There being absolutely no clue to the assailant of Mr. Hasbrouck, I naturally looked forward to the inquest for some evidence upon which to work. But there seemed to be no underlying facts to this tragedy.

The most careful study into the habits and conduct of the deceased brought nothing to light save his general beneficence and rectitude, nor was there in his history or in that of his wife any secret or hidden obligation calculated to provoke any such act of revenge as murder. Mrs. Hasbrouck's surmise that the intruder was simply a burglar, and that she had rather imagined than heard the words that pointed to the shooting as a deed of vengeance, soon gained general credence. But, though the police worked long and arduously in this new direction, their efforts were without fruit, and the case bade fair to remain an unsolvable mystery.

But the deeper the mystery the more persistently does my mind cling to it, and some five months after the matter had been delegated to oblivion, I found myself starting suddenly from sleep, with these words ringing in my ears:  "Who uttered the scream that gave the first alarm of Mr. Hasbrouck's violent death?"
I was in such a state of excitement that the perspiration stood out on my forehead.

Mrs. Hasbrouck's story of the occurrence returned to me, and I remembered as distinctly as if she were then speaking, that she had expressly stated that she did not scream when confronted by the sight of her husband's dead body. But some one had screamed, and that very loudly.

Who was it, then? One of the maids, startled by the sudden summons from below, or some one else some involuntary witness of the crime, whose testimony had been suppressed at the inquest, by fear or influence? The possibility of having come upon a clue even at this late day, so fired my ambition, that I took the first opportunity of revisiting Lafayette Place.

Choosing such persons as I thought most open to my questions, I learned that there were many who could testify to having heard a woman's shrill scream on that memorable night just prior to the alarm given by old Cyrus, but no one who could tell from whose lips it had come. One fact, however, was immediately settled. It had not been the result of the servant-women's fears. Both of the girls were positive that they had uttered no sound, nor had they themselves heard any, till Cyrus rushed to the window with his wild cries.

As the scream, by whomever given, was uttered before they descended the stairs, I was convinced by these assurances that it had issued from one of the front windows, and not from the rear of the house, where their own rooms lay. Could it be that it had sprung from the adjoining dwelling, and that   My thoughts went no further, but I made up my mind to visit the Doctor's house at once. It took some courage to do this, for the Doctor's wife had attended the inquest, and her beauty, seen in broad daylight, had worn such an aspect of mingled sweetness and dignity, that I hesitated to encounter it under any circumstances likely to disturb its pure serenity. But a clue, once grasped, can not be lightly set aside by a true detective, and it would have taken more than a woman's frown to stop me at this point.

So I rang Dr. Zabriskie's bell. I am seventy years old now and am no longer daunted by the charms of a beautiful woman, but I confess that when I found myself in the fine reception parlor on the first floor, I experienced no little trepidation at the prospect of the interview which awaited me. But as soon as the fine commanding form of the Doctor's wife crossed the threshold, I recovered my senses and surveyed her with as direct a gaze as my position allowed.

For her aspect bespoke a degree of emotion that astonished me; and even before I spoke I perceived her to be trembling, though she was a woman of no little natural dignity and self-possession. "I seem to know your face," she said, advancing courteously toward me, "but your name" and here she glanced at the card she held in her hand "is totally unfamiliar to me." "I think you saw me some eighteen months ago," said I. "I am the detective who gave testimony at the inquest which was held over the remains of Mr. Hasbrouck. "

I had not meant to startle her, but at this introduction of myself I saw her naturally pale cheek turn paler, and her fine eyes, which had been fixed curiously upon me, gradually sink to the floor.

"Great heaven!" thought I, "what is this I have stumbled upon!"
"I do not understand what business you can have with me," she presently remarked, with a show of gentle indifference that did not in the least deceive me. "I do not wonder," I rejoined. "The crime which took place next door is almost forgotten by the community, and even if it were not, I am sure you would find it difficult to conjecture the nature of the question I have to put to you.

"
"I am surprised," she began, rising in her involuntary emotion and thereby compelling me to rise also. "How can you have any question to ask me on this subject? Yet if you have," she continued, with a rapid change of manner that touched my heart in spite of myself, "I shall, of course, do my best to answer you.

"
There are women whose sweetest tones and most charming smiles only serve to awaken distrust in men of my calling; but Mrs. Zabriskie was not of this number. Her face was beautiful, but it was also candid in its expression, and beneath the agitation which palpably disturbed her, I was sure there lurked nothing either wicked or false. Yet I held fast by the clue which I had grasped, as it were, in the dark, and without knowing whither

I was tending, much less whither I was leading her, I proceeded to say:  "The question which I presume to put to you as the next-door neighbor of Mr. Hasbrouck, is this: Who was the woman who screamed out so loudly that the whole neighborhood heard her on the night of that gentleman's assassination?" The gasp she gave answered my question in a way she little realized, and, struck as I was by the impalpable links that had led me to the threshold of this hitherto unsolvable mystery, I was about to press my advantage and ask another question, when she quickly started forward and laid her hand on my lips. Astonished, I looked at her inquiringly, but her head was turned aside, and her eyes, fixed upon the door, showed the greatest anxiety. Instantly I realized what she feared.

Her husband was entering the house, and she dreaded lest his ears should catch a word of our conversation. Not knowing what was in her mind, and unable to realize the importance of the moment to her, I yet listened to the advance of her blind husband with an almost painful interest. Would he enter the room where we were, or would he pass immediately to his office in the rear?

She seemed to wonder too, and almost held her breath as he neared the door, paused, and stood in the open doorway, with his ear turned toward us. As for myself, I remained perfectly still, gazing at his face in mingled surprise and apprehension. For besides its beauty, which was of a marked order, as I have already observed, it had a touching expression which irresistibly aroused both pity and interest in the spectator. This may have been the result of his affliction, or it may have sprung from some deeper cause; but, whatever its source, this look in his face produced a strong impression upon me and interested me at once in his personality. Would he enter?

Or would he pass on? Her look of silent appeal showed me in which direction her wishes lay, but while I answered her glance by complete silence, I was conscious in some indistinct way that the business I had undertaken would be better furthered by his entrance. The blind have been often said to possess a sixth sense in place of the one they have lost. Though I am sure we made no noise, I soon perceived that he was aware of our presence.

Stepping hastily forward, he said, in the high and vibrating tone of restrained passion:  "Helen, are you here?" For a moment I thought she did not mean to answer, but knowing doubtless from experience the impossibility of deceiving him, she answered with a cheerful assent, dropping her hand as she did so from before my lips. He heard the slight rustle which accompanied the movement, and a look I found it hard to comprehend flashed over his features, altering his expression so completely that he seemed another man. "You have some one with you," he declared, advancing another step but with none of the uncertainty which usually accompanies the movements of the blind.

"Some dear friend," he went on, with an almost sarcastic emphasis and a forced smile that had little of gaiety in it. The agitated and distressed blush which answered him could have but one interpretation. He suspected that her hand had been clasped in mine, and she perceived his thought and knew that I perceived it also. Drawing herself up, she moved toward him, saying in a sweet, womanly tone that to me spoke volumes:  "It is no friend, Constant, not even an acquaintance.

The person whom I now present to you is an agent from the police. He is here upon a trivial errand which will be soon finished, when I will join you in your office. "

I knew she was but taking a choice between two evils.

That she would have saved her husband the knowledge of a detective's presence in the house, if her self-respect would have allowed it, but neither she nor I anticipated the effect which this presentation produced upon him. "A police officer," he repeated, staring with his sightless eyes, as if, in his eagerness to see, he half hoped his lost sense would return. "He can have no trivial errand here; he has been sent by God Himself to "  "Let me speak for you," hastily interposed his wife, springing to his side and clasping his arm with a fervor that was equally expressive of appeal and command. Then turning to me, she explained: "Since Mr. Hasbrouck's unaccountable death, my husband has been laboring under a hallucination which I have only to mention for you to recognize its perfect absurdity.

He thinks oh!
do not look like that, Constant; you know it is a hallucination which must vanish the moment we drag it into broad daylight that he he, the best man in all the world, was himself the assailant of Mr. Hasbrouck." Good God!
"I say nothing of the impossibility of this being so," she went on in a fever of expostulation. "He is blind, and could not have delivered such a shot even if he had desired to; besides, he had no weapon. But the inconsistency of the thing speaks for itself, and should assure him that his mind is unbalanced and that he is merely suffering from a shock that was greater than we realized.

He is a physician and has had many such instances in his own practise. Why, he was very much attached to Mr. Hasbrouck! They were the best of friends, and though he insists that he killed him, he can not give any reason for the deed.

"
At these words the Doctor's face grew stern, and he spoke like an automaton repeating some fearful lesson. "I killed him. I went to his room and deliberately shot him. I had nothing against him, and my remorse is extreme.

Arrest me, and let me pay the penalty of my crime.

It is the only way in which I can obtain peace."
Shocked beyond all power of self-control by this repetition of what she evidently considered the unhappy ravings of a madman, she let go his arm and turned upon me in frenzy. "Convince him!"
she cried. "Convince him by your questions that he never could have done this fearful thing.

" I was laboring under great excitement myself, for I felt my youth against me in a matter of such tragic consequence. Besides, I agreed with her that he was in a distempered state of mind, and I hardly knew how to deal with one so fixed in his hallucination and with so much intelligence to support it. But the emergency was great, for he was holding out his wrists in the evident expectation of my taking him into instant custody; and the sight was killing his wife, who had sunk on the floor between us, in terror and anguish.

"You say you killed Mr. Hasbrouck," I began. "Where did you get your pistol, and what did you do with it after you left his house?" "My husband had no pistol; never had any pistol," put in Mrs. Zabriskie, with vehement assertion.

"If I had seen him with such a weapon "  "I threw it away. When I left the house, I cast it as far from me as possible, for I was frightened at what I had done, horribly frightened. "

"No pistol was ever found," I answered, with a smile, forgetting for the moment that he could not see. "If such an instrument had been found in the street after a murder of such consequence it certainly would have been brought to the police. "

"You forget that a good pistol is valuable property," he went on stolidly. "Some one came along before the general alarm was given; and seeing such a treasure lying on the sidewalk, picked it up and carried it off. Not being an honest man, he preferred to keep it to drawing the attention of the police upon himself."

"Hum, perhaps," said I; "but where did you get it. Surely you can tell where you procured such a weapon, if, as your wife intimates, you did not own one."
"I bought it that self-same night of a friend; a friend whom I will not name, since he resides no longer in this country. I "  He paused; intense passion was in his face; he turned toward his wife, and a low cry escaped him, which made her look up in fear. "I do not wish to go into any particulars," said he.

"God forsook me and I committed a horrible crime. When I am punished, perhaps peace will return to me and happiness to her. I would not wish her to suffer too long or too bitterly for my sin. "

"Constant!"
What love was in the cry!

and what despair!

It seemed to move him and turn his thoughts for a moment into a different channel. "Poor child!"
he murmured, stretching out his hands by an irresistible impulse toward her. But the change was but momentary, and he was soon again the stern and determined self-accuser.

"Are you going to take me before a magistrate?" he asked. "If so, I have a few duties to perform which you are welcome to witness." "I have no warrant," I said; "besides, I am scarcely the one to take such a responsibility upon myself. If, however, you persist in your declaration, I will communicate with my superiors, who will take such action as they think best." "That will be still more satisfactory to me," said he; "for though I have many times contemplated giving myself up to the authorities, I have still much to do before I can leave my home and practise without injury to others.

Good-day; when you want me, you will find me here. "

He was gone, and the poor young wife was left crouching on the floor alone. Pitying her shame and terror, I ventured to remark that it was not an uncommon thing for a man to confess to a crime he had never committed, and assured her that the matter would be inquired into very carefully before any attempt was made upon his liberty. She thanked me, and, slowly rising, tried to regain her equanimity; but the manner as well as the matter of her husband's self-condemnation was too overwhelming in its nature for her to recover readily from her emotions. "I have long dreaded this," she acknowledged.

"For months I have foreseen that he would make some rash communication or insane avowal. If I had dared, I would have consulted some physician about this hallucination of his; but he was so sane on other points that I hesitated to give my dreadful secret to the world. I kept hoping that time and his daily pursuits would have their effect and restore him to himself.

But his illusion grows, and now I fear that nothing will ever convince him that he did not commit the deed of which he accuses himself.

If he were not blind I would have more hope, but the blind have so much time for brooding." "I think he had better be indulged in his fancies for the present," I ventured. "If he is laboring under an illusion it might be dangerous to cross him." "If?" she echoed in an indescribable tone of amazement and dread.

"Can you for a moment harbor the idea that he has spoken the truth?"

"Madam," I returned, with something of the cynicism of my later years, "what caused you to give such an unearthly scream just before this murder was made known to the neighborhood?"
She stared, paled, and finally began to tremble, not, as I now believe, at the insinuation latent in my words, but at the doubts which my question aroused in her own breast. "Did I?" she asked; then with a great burst of candor, which seemed inseparable from her nature, she continued: "Why do I try to mislead you or deceive myself? I did give a shriek just before the alarm was raised next door; but it was not from any knowledge I had of a crime having been committed, but because I unexpectedly saw before me my husband whom I supposed to be on his way to Poughkeepsie.

He was looking very pale and strange, and for a moment I thought I was beholding his ghost. But he soon explained his appearance by saying that he had fallen from the train and had been only saved by a miracle from being dismembered; and I was just bemoaning his mishap and trying to calm him and myself, when that terrible shout was heard next door of 'Murder!
murder!'  Coming so soon after the shock he had himself experienced, it quite unnerved him, and I think we can date his mental disturbance from that moment.

For he began almost immediately to take a morbid interest in the affair next door, though it was weeks, if not months, before he let a word fall of the nature of those you have just heard. Indeed it was not till I repeated to him some of the expressions he was continually letting fall in his sleep, that he commenced to accuse himself of crime and talk of retribution." "You say that your husband frightened you on that night by appearing suddenly at the door when you thought him on his way to Poughkeepsie.
Is Dr. Zabriskie in the habit of thus going and coming alone at an hour so late as this must have been?"
"You forget that to the blind, night is less full of perils than the day. Often and often has my husband found his way to his patients' houses alone after midnight; but on this especial evening he had Harry with him.

Harry was his driver, and always accompanied him when he went any distance. "

"Well, then," said I, "all we have to do is to summon Harry and hear what he has to say concerning this affair. He surely will know whether or not his master went into the house next door.
" "Harry has left us," she said.

"Dr. Zabriskie has another driver now. Besides (I have nothing to conceal from you) Harry was not with him when he returned to the house that evening, or the Doctor would not have been without his portmanteau till the next day.

Something I have never known what caused them to separate, and that is why I have no answer to give the Doctor when he accuses himself of committing a deed on that night which is wholly out of keeping with every other act of his life."
"And have you never questioned Harry why they separated and why he allowed his master to come home alone after the shock he had received at the station?"
"I did not know there was any reason for doing so till long after he left us. "
"And when did he leave?"

"That I do not remember. A few weeks, or possibly a few days, after that dreadful night.

"

"And where is he now?" "Ah, that I have not the least means of knowing. But," she suddenly cried, "what do you want of Harry?
If he did not follow Dr. Zabriskie to his own door, he could tell us nothing that would convince my husband that he is laboring under an illusion."
"But he might tell us something which would convince us that Dr. Zabriskie was not himself after the accident that he "  "Hush!" came from her lips in imperious tones.

"I will not believe that he shot Mr. Hasbrouck even if you prove him to have been insane at the time. How could he? My husband is blind.

It would take a man of very keen sight to force himself into a house that was closed for the night, and kill a man in the dark at one shot. "

"Rather," cried a voice from the doorway, "it is only a blind man who could do this. Those who trust to eyesight must be able to catch some glimpse of the mark they aim at, and this room, as I have been told, was without a glimmer of light.

But the blind trust to sound, and as Mr. Hasbrouck spoke "  "Oh!" burst from the horrified wife, "is there no one to stop him when he speaks like that?"    II  When I related to my superiors the details of the foregoing interview, two of them coincided with the wife in thinking that Dr. Zabriskie was in an irresponsible condition of mind which made any statement of his questionable.

But the third seemed disposed to argue the matter, and, casting me an inquiring look, seemed to ask what my opinion was on the subject.

Answering him as if he had spoken, I gave my conclusion as follows: That whether insane or not, Dr. Zabriskie had fired the shot which terminated Mr. Hasbrouck's life. It was the Inspector's own idea, but it was not shared in by the others, one of whom had known the Doctor for years. Accordingly they compromised by postponing all opinion till they had themselves interrogated the Doctor, and I was detailed to bring him before them the next afternoon. He came without reluctance, his wife accompanying him.

In the short time which elapsed between their leaving Lafayette Place and entering Headquarters, I embraced the opportunity of observing them, and I found the study equally exciting and interesting. His face was calm but hopeless, and his eye, which should have shown a wild glimmer if there was truth in his wife's hypothesis, was dark and unfathomable, but neither frenzied nor uncertain. He spake but once and listened to nothing, though now and then his wife moved as if to attract his attention, and once even stole her hand toward his, in the tender hope that he would feel its approach and accept her sympathy.

But he was deaf as well as blind; and sat wrapped up in thoughts which she, I know, would have given worlds to penetrate.

Her countenance was not without its mystery also. She showed in every lineament passionate concern and misery, and a deep tenderness from which the element of fear was not absent. But she, as well as he, betrayed that some misunderstanding, deeper than any I had previously suspected, drew its intangible veil between them and made the near proximity in which they sat, at once a heart-piercing delight and an unspeakable pain.

What was this misunderstanding? and what was the character of the fear that modified her every look of love in his direction? Her perfect indifference to my presence proved that it was not connected with the position in which he had put himself toward the police by his voluntary confession of crime, nor could I thus interpret the expression of frantic question which now and then contracted her features, as she raised her eyes toward his sightless orbs, and strove to read, in his firm-set lips, the meaning of those assertions she could only ascribe to a loss of reason. The stopping of the carriage seemed to awaken both from thoughts that separated rather than united them.

He turned his face in her direction, and she, stretching forth her hand, prepared to lead him from the carriage, without any of that display of timidity which had been previously evident in her manner. As his guide she seemed to fear nothing; as his lover, everything. "There is another and a deeper tragedy underlying the outward and obvious one," was my inward conclusion, as I followed them into the presence of the gentlemen awaiting them. Dr. Zabriskie's appearance was a shock to those who knew him; so was his manner, which was calm, straightforward, and quietly determined.

"I shot Mr. Hasbrouck," was his steady affirmation, given without any show of frenzy or desperation. "If you ask me why I did it, I can not answer; if you ask me how, I am ready to state all that I know concerning the matter. "
"But, Dr. Zabriskie," interposed his friend, "the why is the most important thing for us to consider just now.

If you really desire to convince us that you committed the dreadful crime of killing a totally inoffensive man, you should give us some reason for an act so opposed to all your instincts and general conduct. "

But the Doctor continued unmoved:  "I had no reason for murdering Mr. Hasbrouck.

A hundred questions can elicit no other reply; you had better keep to the how." A deep-drawn breath from the wife answered the looks of the three gentlemen to whom this suggestion was offered. "You see," that breath seemed to protest, "that he is not in his right mind.

"

I began to waver in my own opinion, and yet the intuition which has served me in cases as seemingly impenetrable as this bade me beware of following the general judgment. "Ask him to inform you how he got into the house," I whispered to Inspector D, who sat nearest me. Immediately the Inspector put the question I had suggested:  "By what means did you enter Mr. Hasbrouck's house at so late an hour as this murder occurred?"
The blind doctor's head fell forward on his breast, and he hesitated for the first and only time. "You will not believe me," said he; "but the door was ajar when I came to it.

Such things make crime easy; it is the only excuse I have to offer for this dreadful deed. "

The front door of a respectable citizen's house ajar at half-past eleven at night. It was a statement that fixed in all minds the conviction of the speaker's irresponsibility. Mrs. Zabriskie's brow cleared, and her beauty became for a moment dazzling as she held out her hands in irrepressible relief toward those who were interrogating her husband. I alone kept my impassibility.

A possible explanation of this crime had flashed like lightning across my mind; an explanation from which I inwardly recoiled, even while I was forced to consider it. "Dr. Zabriskie," remarked the Inspector who was most friendly to him, "such old servants as those kept by Mr. Hasbrouck do not leave the front door ajar at twelve o'clock at night. "

"Yet ajar it was," repeated the blind doctor, with quiet emphasis; "and finding it so, I went in.

When I came out again, I closed it. Do you wish me to swear to what I say? If so, I am ready. "
What could we reply?

To see this splendid-looking man, hallowed by an affliction so great that in itself it called forth the compassion of the most indifferent, accusing himself of a cold-blooded crime, in tones that sounded dispassionate because of the will that forced their utterance, was too painful in itself for us to indulge in any unnecessary words. Compassion took the place of curiosity, and each and all of us turned involuntary looks of pity upon the young wife pressing so eagerly to his side. "For a blind man," ventured one, "the assault was both deft and certain. Are you accustomed to Mr. Hasbrouck's house, that you found your way with so little difficulty to his bedroom?"

"I am accustomed " he began. But here his wife broke in with irrepressible passion:  "He is not accustomed to that house.

He has never been beyond the first floor. Why, why do you question him? Do you not see "  His hand was on her lips. "Hush!"

he commanded.

"You know my skill in moving about a house; how I sometimes deceive those who do not know me into believing that I can see, by the readiness with which I avoid obstacles and find my way even in strange and untried scenes. Do not try to make them think I am not in my right mind, or you will drive me into the very condition you deprecate." His face, rigid, cold, and set, looked like that of a mask. Hers, drawn with horror and filled with question that was fast taking the form of doubt, bespoke an awful tragedy from which more than one of us recoiled.

"Can you shoot a man dead without seeing him?" asked the Superintendent, with painful effort. "Give me a pistol and I will show you," was the quick reply. A low cry came from the wife. In a drawer near to every one of us there lay a pistol, but no one moved to take it out. There was a look in the Doctor's eye which made us fear to trust him with a pistol just then.

"We will accept your assurance that you possess a skill beyond that of most men," returned the Superintendent. And beckoning me forward, he whispered: "This is a case for the doctors and not for the police.
Remove him quietly, and notify Dr. Southyard of what I say." But Dr. Zabriskie, who seemed to have an almost supernatural acuteness of hearing, gave a violent start at this and spoke up for the first time with real passion in his voice:  "No, no, I pray you.

I can bear anything but that. Remember, gentlemen, that I am blind; that I can not see who is about me; that my life would be a torture if I felt myself surrounded by spies watching to catch some evidence of madness in me. Rather conviction at once, death, dishonor, and obloquy.

These I have incurred. These I have brought upon myself by crime, but not this worse fate oh! not this worse fate." His passion was so intense and yet so confined within the bounds of decorum that we felt strangely impressed by it. Only the wife stood transfixed, with the dread growing in her heart, till her white, waxen visage seemed even more terrible to contemplate than his passion-distorted one.

"It is not strange that my wife thinks me demented," the Doctor continued, as if afraid of the silence that answered him. "But it is your business to discriminate, and you should know a sane man when you see him. "
Inspector D no longer hesitated.

"Very well," said he, "give us the least proof that your assertions are true, and we will lay your case before the prosecuting attorney. "

"Proof?  Is not a man's word "  "No man's confession is worth much without some evidence to support it. In your case there is none. You can not even produce the pistol with which you assert yourself to have committed the deed.

"

"True, true.

I was frightened by what I had done, and the instinct of self-preservation led me to rid myself of the weapon in any way I could. But some one found this pistol; some one picked it up from the sidewalk of Lafayette Place on that fatal night.

Advertise for it.

Offer a reward. I will give you the money." Suddenly he appeared to realize how all this sounded.

"Alas!" cried he, "I know the story seems improbable; all I say seems improbable; but it is not the probable things that happen in this life, but the improbable, as you should know, who every day dig deep into the heart of human affairs." Were these the ravings of insanity? I began to understand the wife's terror. "I bought the pistol," he went on, "of alas!

I can not tell you his name. Everything is against me. I can not adduce one proof; yet she, even she, is beginning to fear that my story is true. I know it by her silence, a silence that yawns between us like a deep and unfathomable gulf."

But at these words her voice rang out with passionate vehemence.

"No, no, it is false! I will never believe that your hands have been plunged in blood. You are my own pure-hearted Constant, cold, perhaps, and stern, but with no guilt upon your conscience, save in your own wild imagination. "

"Helen, you are no friend to me," he declared, pushing her gently aside.

"Believe me innocent, but say nothing to lead these others to doubt my word." And she said no more, but her looks spoke volumes. The result was that he was not detained, though he prayed for instant commitment. He seemed to dread his own home, and the surveillance to which he instinctively knew he would henceforth be subjected.

To see him shrink from his wife's hand as she strove to lead him from the room was sufficiently painful; but the feeling thus aroused was nothing to that with which we observed the keen and agonized expectancy of his look as he turned and listened for the steps of the officer who followed him. "I shall never again know whether or not I am alone," was his final observation as he left our presence. I said nothing to my superiors of the thoughts I had had while listening to the above interrogatories. A theory had presented itself to my mind which explained in some measure the mysteries of the Doctor's conduct, but I wished for time and opportunity to test its reasonableness before submitting it to their higher judgment. And these seemed likely to be given me, for the Inspectors continued divided in their opinion of the blind physician's guilt, and the District-Attorney, when told of the affair, pooh-poohed it without mercy, and declined to stir in the matter unless some tangible evidence were forthcoming to substantiate the poor Doctor's self-accusations.

"If guilty, why does he shrink from giving his motives," said he, "and if so anxious to go to the gallows, why does he suppress the very facts calculated to send him there? He is as mad as a March hare, and it is to an asylum he should go and not to a jail. "

In this conclusion I failed to agree with him, and as time wore on my suspicions took shape and finally ended in a fixed conviction.

Dr. Zabriskie had committed the crime he avowed, but let me proceed a little further with my story before I reveal what lies beyond that "but." Notwithstanding Dr. Zabriskie's almost frenzied appeal for solitude, a man had been placed in surveillance over him in the shape of a young doctor skilled in diseases of the brain. This man communicated more or less with the police, and one morning I received from him the following extracts from the diary he had been ordered to keep:   "The Doctor is settling into a deep melancholy from which he tries to rise at times, but with only indifferent success.

Yesterday he rode around to all his patients for the purpose of withdrawing his services on the plea of illness. But he still keeps his office open, and to-day I had the opportunity of witnessing his reception and treatment of the many sufferers who came to him for aid.

I think he was conscious of my presence, though an attempt had been made to conceal it. For the listening look never left his face from the moment he entered the room, and once he rose and passed quickly from wall to wall, groping with outstretched hands into every nook and corner, and barely escaping contact with the curtain behind which I was hidden. But if he suspected my presence, he showed no displeasure at it, wishing perhaps for a witness to his skill in the treatment of disease.

"And truly I never beheld a finer manifestation of practical insight in cases of a more or less baffling nature than I beheld in him to-day. He is certainly a most wonderful physician, and I feel bound to record that his mind is as clear for business as if no shadow had fallen upon it. "Dr. Zabriskie loves his wife, but in a way that tortures both himself and her. If she is gone from the house he is wretched, and yet when she returns he often forbears to speak to her, or if he does speak, it is with a constraint that hurts her more than his silence. I was present when she came in to-day.

Her step, which had been eager on the stairway, flagged as she approached the room, and he naturally noted the change and gave his own interpretation to it. His face, which had been very pale, flushed suddenly, and a nervous trembling seized him which he sought in vain to hide. But by the time her tall and beautiful figure stood in the doorway he was his usual self again in all but the expression of his eyes, which stared straight before him in an agony of longing only to be observed in those who have once seen.

"'Where have you been, Helen?' he asked, as, contrary to his wont, he moved to meet her. "'To my mother's, to Arnold & Constable's, and to the hospital, as you requested,' was her quick answer, made without faltering or embarrassment. "He stepped still nearer and took her hand, and as he did so my physician's eye noted how his finger lay over her pulse in seeming unconsciousness.

"'Nowhere else?' he queried. "She smiled the saddest kind of smile and shook her head; then, remembering that he could not see this movement, she cried in a wistful tone:  "'Nowhere else, Constant; I was too anxious to get back.' "I expected him to drop her hand at this, but he did not; and his finger still rested on her pulse.

"'And whom did you see while you were gone?'

he continued. "She told him, naming over several names. "'You must have enjoyed yourself,' was his cold comment, as he let go her hand and turned away.

But his manner showed relief, and I could not but sympathize with the pitiable situation of a man who found himself forced to means like these for probing the heart of his young wife.

"Yet when I turned toward her I realized that her position was but little happier than his. Tears are no strangers to her eyes, but those that welled up at this moment seemed to possess a bitterness that promised but little peace for her future. Yet she quickly dried them and busied herself with ministrations for his comfort.

"If I am any judge of woman, Helen Zabriskie is superior to most of her sex. That her husband mistrusts her is evident, but whether this is the result of the stand she has taken in his regard, or only a manifestation of dementia, I have as yet been unable to determine. I dread to leave them alone together, and yet when I presume to suggest that she should be on her guard in her interviews with him, she smiles very placidly and tells me that nothing would give her greater joy than to see him lift his hand against her, for that would argue that he is not accountable for his deeds or for his assertions. "Yet it would be a grief to see her injured by this passionate and unhappy man.

"You have said that you wanted all details I could give; so I feel bound to say that Dr. Zabriskie tries to be considerate of his wife, though he often fails in the attempt. When she offers herself as his guide, or assists him with his mail, or performs any of the many acts of kindness by which she continually manifests her sense of his affliction, he thanks her with courtesy and often with kindness, yet I know she would willingly exchange all his set phrases for one fond embrace or impulsive smile of affection. That he is not in the full possession of his faculties would be too much to say, and yet upon what other hypothesis can we account for the inconsistencies of his conduct?

"I have before me two visions of mental suffering. At noon I passed the office door, and looking within, saw the figure of Dr. Zabriskie seated in his great chair, lost in thought or deep in those memories which make an abyss in one's consciousness. His hands, which were clenched, rested upon the arms of his chair, and in one of them I detected a woman's glove, which I had no difficulty in recognizing as one of the pair worn by his wife this morning. He held it as a tiger might hold his prey or a miser his gold, but his set features and sightless eyes betrayed that a conflict of emotions was waging within him, among which tenderness had but little share.

"Though alive, as he usually is, to every sound, he was too absorbed at this moment to notice my presence, though I had taken no pains to approach quietly. I therefore stood for a full minute watching him, till an irresistible sense of the shame of thus spying upon a blind man in his moments of secret anguish seized upon me and I turned away. But not before I saw his features relax in a storm of passionate feeling, as he rained kisses after kisses on the senseless kid he had so long held in his motionless grasp.

Yet when an hour later he entered the dining-room on his wife's arm, there was nothing in his manner to show that he had in any way changed in his attitude toward her.

"The other picture was more tragic still. I have no business with Mrs. Zabriskie's affairs; but as I passed upstairs to my room an hour ago, I caught a fleeting vision of her tall form, with the arms thrown up over her head in a paroxysm of feeling which made her as oblivious to my presence as her husband had been several hours before. Were the words that escaped her lips, 'Thank God we have no children!' or was this exclamation suggested to me by the passion and unrestrained impulse of her action?"
Side by side with these lines, I, Ebenezer Gryce, placed the following extracts from my own diary:   "Watched the Zabriskie mansion for five hours this morning, from the second story window of an adjoining hotel. Saw the Doctor when he drove away on his round of visits, and saw him when he returned.

A colored man accompanied him. "To-day I followed Mrs. Zabriskie. I had a motive for this, the nature of which I think it wisest not to divulge. She went first to a house in Washington Place where I am told her mother lives.

Here she stayed some time, after which she drove down to Canal Street, where she did some shopping, and later stopped at the hospital, into which I took the liberty of following her. She seemed to know many there, and passed from cot to cot with a smile in which I alone discerned the sadness of a broken heart. When she left, I left also, without having learned anything beyond the fact that Mrs. Zabriskie is one who does her duty in sorrow as in happiness. A rare and trustworthy woman I should say, and yet her husband does not trust her.

Why?    "I have spent this day in accumulating details in regard to Dr. and Mrs. Zabriskie's life previous to the death of Mr. Hasbrouck. I learned from sources it would be unwise to quote just here that Mrs. Zabriskie had not lacked enemies ready to charge her with coquetry; that while she had never sacrificed her dignity in public, more than one person had been heard to declare that Dr. Zabriskie was fortunate in being blind, since the sight of his wife's beauty would have but poorly compensated him for the pain he would have suffered in seeing how that beauty was admired. "That all gossip is more or less tinged with exaggeration I have no doubt, yet when a name is mentioned in connection with such stories, there is usually some truth at the bottom of them. And a name is mentioned in this case, though I do not think it worth my while to repeat it here; and loth as I am to recognize the fact, it is a name that carries with it doubts that might easily account for the husband's jealousy.

True, I have found no one who dares to hint that she still continues to attract attention or to bestow smiles in any direction save where they legally belong. For since a certain memorable night which we all know, neither Dr. Zabriskie nor his wife have been seen save in their own domestic circle, and it is not into such scenes that this serpent, of which I have spoken, ever intrudes, nor is it in places of sorrow or suffering that his smile shines, or his fascinations flourish. "And so one portion of my theory is proved to be sound.

Dr. Zabriskie is jealous of his wife: whether with good cause or bad I am not prepared to decide; for her present attitude, clouded as it is by the tragedy in which she and her husband are both involved, must differ very much from that which she held when her life was unshadowed by doubt, and her admirers could be counted by the score. "I have just found out where Harry is.
As he is in service some miles up the river, I shall have to be absent from my post for several hours, but I consider the game well worth the candle. "Light at last.

I have seen Harry, and, by means known only to the police, have succeeded in making him talk. His story is substantially this: That on the night so often mentioned, he packed his master's portmanteau at eight o'clock and at ten called a carriage and rode with the Doctor to the Twenty-ninth Street station. He was told to buy tickets for Poughkeepsie, where his master had been called in consultation, and having done this, hurried back to join his master on the platform. They had walked together as far as the cars, and Dr. Zabriskie was just stepping on to the train when a man pushed himself hurriedly between them and whispered something into his master's ear, which caused him to fall back and lose his footing. Dr. Zabriskie's body slid half under the car, but he was withdrawn before any harm was done, though the cars gave a lurch at that moment which must have frightened him exceedingly, for his face was white when he rose to his feet, and when Harry offered to assist him again on to the train, he refused to go and said he would return home and not attempt to ride to Poughkeepsie that night.

"The gentleman, whom Harry now saw to be Mr. Stanton, an intimate friend of Dr. Zabriskie, smiled very queerly at this, and taking the Doctor's arm led him away to a carriage. Harry naturally followed them, but the Doctor, hearing his steps, turned and bade him, in a very peremptory tone, to take the omnibus home, and then, as if on second thought, told him to go to Poughkeepsie in his stead and explain to the people there that he was too shaken up by his misstep to do his duty, and that he would be with them next morning. This seemed strange to Harry, but he had no reasons for disobeying his master's orders, and so rode to Poughkeepsie.

But the Doctor did not follow him the next day; on the contrary, he telegraphed for him to return, and when he got back dismissed him with a month's wages.

This ended Harry's connection with the Zabriskie family. "A simple story bearing out what the wife has already told us; but it furnishes a link which may prove invaluable. Mr. Stanton, whose first name is Theodore, knows the real reason why Dr. Zabriskie returned home on the night of the seventeenth of July, 1851.

Mr. Stanton, consequently, I must see, and this shall be my business to-morrow. "Checkmate!  Theodore Stanton is not in this country. Though this points him out as the man from whom Dr. Zabriskie bought the pistol, it does not facilitate my work, which is becoming more and more difficult.

"Mr. Stanton's whereabouts are not even known to his most intimate friends. He sailed from this country most unexpectedly on the eighteenth of July a year ago, which was the day after the murder of Mr. Hasbrouck. It looks like a flight, especially as he has failed to maintain open communication even with his relatives. Was he the man who shot Mr. Hasbrouck?
No; but he was the man who put the pistol in Dr. Zabriskie's hand that night, and, whether he did this with purpose or not, was evidently so alarmed at the catastrophe which followed that he took the first outgoing steamer to Europe. So far, all is clear, but there are mysteries yet to be solved, which will require my utmost tact.

What if I should seek out the gentleman with whose name that of Mrs. Zabriskie has been linked, and see If I can in any way connect him with Mr. Stanton or the events of that night? "Eureka!
I have discovered that Mr. Stanton cherished a mortal hatred for the gentleman above mentioned. It was a covert feeling, but no less deadly on that account; and while it never led him into any extravagances, it was of force sufficient to account for many a secret misfortune which happened to that gentleman. Now, if I can prove he was the Mephistopheles who whispered insinuations into the ear of our blind Faust, I may strike a fact that will lead me out of this maze.

"But how can I approach secrets so delicate without compromising the woman I feel bound to respect, if only for the devoted love she manifests for her unhappy husband!
"I shall have to appeal to Joe Smithers. This is something which I always hate to do, but as long as he will take money, and as long as he is fertile in resources for obtaining the truth from people I am myself unable to reach, so long must I make use of his cupidity and his genius. He is an honorable fellow in one way, and never retails as gossip what he acquires for our use.

How will he proceed in this case, and by what tactics will be gain the very delicate information which we need? I own that I am curious to see. "I shall really have to put down at length the incidents of this night. I always knew that Joe Smithers was invaluable to the police, but I really did not know he possessed talents of so high an order.

He wrote me this morning that he had succeeded in getting Mr. T's promise to spend the evening with him, and advised me that if I desired to be present also, his own servant would not be at home, and that an opener of bottles would be required. "As I was very anxious to see Mr. T with my own eyes, I accepted the invitation to play the spy upon a spy, and went at the proper hour to Mr. Smithers's rooms, which are in the University Building. I found them picturesque in the extreme. Piles of books stacked here and there to the ceiling made nooks and corners which could be quite shut off by a couple of old pictures that were set into movable frames that swung out or in at the whim or convenience of the owner.

"As I liked the dark shadows cast by these pictures, I pulled them both out, and made such other arrangements as appeared likely to facilitate the purpose I had in view; then I sat down and waited for the two gentlemen who were expected to come in together. "They arrived almost immediately, whereupon I rose and played my part with all necessary discretion. While ridding Mr. T of his overcoat, I stole a look at his face. It is not a handsome one, but it boasts of a gay, devil-may-care expression which doubtless makes it dangerous to many women, while his manners are especially attractive, and his voice the richest and most persuasive that I ever heard.

I contrasted him, almost against my will, with Dr. Zabriskie, and decided that with most women the former's undoubted fascinations of speech and bearing would outweigh the latter's great beauty and mental endowments; but I doubted if they would with her. "The conversation which immediately began was brilliant but desultory, for Mr. Smithers, with an airy lightness for which he is remarkable, introduced topic after topic, perhaps for the purpose of showing off Mr. T's versatility, and perhaps for the deeper and more sinister purpose of shaking the kaleidoscope of talk so thoroughly, that the real topic which we were met to discuss should not make an undue impression on the mind of his guest. "Meanwhile one, two, three bottles passed, and I saw Joe Smithers's eye grow calmer and that of Mr. T more brilliant and more uncertain. As the last bottle showed signs of failing, Joe cast me a meaning glance, and the real business of the evening began.

"I shall not attempt to relate the half-dozen failures which Joe made in endeavoring to elicit the facts we were in search of, without arousing the suspicion of his visitor. I am only going to relate the successful attempt. They had been talking now for some hours, and I, who had long before been waved from their immediate presence, was hiding my curiosity and growing excitement behind one of the pictures, when suddenly I heard Joe say:  "'He has the most remarkable memory I ever met. He can tell to a day when any notable event occurred.'  "Pshaw!' answered his companion, who, by the by, was known to pride himself upon his own memory for dates, 'I can state where I went and what I did on every day in the year. That may not embrace what you call "notable events," but the memory required is all the more remarkable, is it not?'

"'Pooh!' was his friend's provoking reply, 'you are bluffing, Ben; I will never believe that.'

"Mr. T, who had passed by this time into that state of intoxication which makes persistence in an assertion a duty as well as a pleasure, threw back his head, and as the wreaths of smoke rose in airy spirals from his lips, reiterated his statement, and offered to submit to any test of his vaunted powers which the other might dictate. "'You have a diary ' began Joe. "'Which is at home,' completed the other. "'Will you allow me to refer to it to-morrow, if I am suspicious of the accuracy of your recollections?'  "'Undoubtedly,' returned the other. "'Very well, then, I will wager you a cool fifty that you can not tell where you were between the hours of ten and eleven on a certain night which I will name.'

"'Done!' cried the other, bringing out his pocket-book and laying it on the table before him. "Joe followed his example and then summoned me. "'Write a date down here,' he commanded, pushing a piece of paper toward me, with a look keen as the flash of a blade. 'Any date, man,' he added, as I appeared to hesitate in the embarrassment I thought natural under the circumstances.  'Put down day, month, and year, only don't go too far back; not farther than two years.'

"Smiling with the air of a flunkey admitted to the sports of his superiors, I wrote a line and laid it before Mr. Smithers, who at once pushed it with a careless gesture toward his companion.

You can of course guess the date I made use of: July 17, 1851. Mr. T, who had evidently looked upon this matter as mere play, flushed scarlet as he read these words, and for one instant looked as if he had rather flee our presence than answer Joe Smithers's nonchalant glance of inquiry. "'I have given my word and will keep it,' he said at last, but with a look in my direction that sent me reluctantly back to my retreat. 'I don't suppose you want names,' he went on, 'that is, if anything I have to tell is of a delicate nature?'  "'O no,' answered the other, 'only facts and places.'

"'I don't think places are necessary either,' he returned. 'I will tell you what I did and that must serve you.

I did not promise to give number and street.' "'Well, well,' Joe exclaimed; 'earn your fifty, that is all. Show that you remember where you were on the night of' and with an admirable show of indifference he pretended to consult the paper between them 'the seventeenth of July, 1851, and I shall be satisfied.'

"'I was at the club for one thing,' said Mr. T; 'then I went to see a lady friend, where I stayed till eleven. She wore a blue muslin What is that?'

"I had betrayed myself by a quick movement which sent a glass tumbler crashing to the floor. Helen Zabriskie had worn a blue muslin on that same night. I had noted it when I stood on the balcony watching her and her husband. "'That noise?'  It was Joe who was speaking.

'You don't know Reuben as well as I do or you wouldn't ask. It is his practise, I am sorry to say, to accentuate his pleasure in draining my bottles, by dropping a glass at every third one.'

"Mr. T went on. "'She was a married woman and I thought she loved me; but and this is the greatest proof I can offer you that I am giving you a true account of that night she had not had the slightest idea of the extent of my passion, and only consented to see me at all because she thought, poor thing, that a word from her would set me straight, and rid her of attentions that were fast becoming obnoxious. A sorry figure for a fellow to cut who has not been without his triumphs; but you caught me on the most detestable date in my calendar, and '  "There is where he stopped being interesting, so I will not waste time by quoting further.

And now what reply shall I make when Joe Smithers asks me double his usual price, as he will be sure to do, next time?
Has he not earned an advance? I really think so. "I have spent the whole day in weaving together the facts I have gleaned, and the suspicions I have formed, into a consecutive whole likely to present my theory in a favorable light to my superiors.

But just as I thought myself in shape to meet their inquiries, I received an immediate summons into their presence, where I was given a duty to perform of so extraordinary and unexpected a nature, that it effectually drove from my mind all my own plans for the elucidation of the Zabriskie mystery.

"This was nothing more or less than to take charge of a party of people who were going to the Jersey Heights for the purpose of testing Dr. Zabriskie's skill with a pistol." III  The cause of this sudden move was soon explained to me. Mrs. Zabriskie, anxious to have an end put to the present condition of affairs, had begged for a more rigid examination into her husband's state. This being accorded, a strict and impartial inquiry had taken place, with a result not unlike that which followed the first one. Three out of his four interrogators judged him insane, and could not be moved from their opinion though opposed by the verdict of the young expert who had been living in the house with him.

Dr. Zabriskie seemed to read their thoughts, and, showing extreme agitation, begged as before for an opportunity to prove his sanity by showing his skill in shooting. This time a disposition was evinced to grant his request, which Mrs. Zabriskie no sooner perceived, than she added her supplications to his that the question might be thus settled. A pistol was accordingly brought; but at sight of it her courage failed, and she changed her prayer to an entreaty that the experiment should be postponed till the next day, and should then take place in the woods away from the sight and hearing of needless spectators. Though it would have been much wiser to have ended the matter there and then, the Superintendent was prevailed upon to listen to her entreaties, and thus it was that I came to be a spectator, if not a participator, in the final scene of this most sombre drama.

There are some events which impress the human mind so deeply that their memory mingles with all after-experiences. Though I have made it a rule to forget as soon as possible the tragic episodes into which I am constantly plunged, there is one scene in my life which will not depart at my will; and that is the sight which met my eyes from the bow of the small boat in which Dr. Zabriskie and his wife were rowed over to Jersey on that memorable afternoon.

Though it was by no means late in the day, the sun was already sinking, and the bright red glare which filled the heavens and shone full upon the faces of the half-dozen persons before me added much to the tragic nature of the scene, though we were far from comprehending its full significance.

The Doctor sat with his wife in the stern, and it was upon their faces my glance was fixed. The glare shone luridly on his sightless eyeballs, and as I noticed his unwinking lids I realized as never before what it was to be blind in the midst of sunshine. Her eyes, on the contrary, were lowered, but there was a look of hopeless misery in her colorless face which made her appearance infinitely pathetic, and I felt confident that if he could only have seen her, he would not have maintained the cold and unresponsive manner which chilled the words on her lips and made all advance on her part impossible.

On the seat in front of them sat the Inspector and a doctor, and from some quarter, possibly from under the Inspector's coat, there came the monotonous ticking of a small clock, which, I had been told, was to serve as a target for the blind man's aim. This tickling was all I heard, though the noise and bustle of a great traffic was pressing upon us on every side. And I am sure it was all that she heard, as, with hand pressed to her heart and eyes fixed on the opposite shore, she waited for the event which was to determine whether the man she loved was a criminal or only a being afflicted of God, and worthy of her unceasing care and devotion. As the sun cast its last scarlet gleam over the water, the boat grounded, and it fell to my lot to assist Mrs. Zabriskie up the bank.

As I did so, I allowed myself to say: "I am your friend, Mrs. Zabriskie," and was astonished to see her tremble, and turn toward me with a look like that of a frightened child. But there was always this characteristic blending in her countenance of the childlike and the severe, such as may so often be seen in the faces of nuns, and beyond an added pang of pity for this beautiful but afflicted woman, I let the moment pass without giving it the weight it perhaps demanded.

"The Doctor and his wife had a long talk last night," was whispered in my ear as we wound our way along into the woods. I turned and perceived at my side the expert physician, portions of whose diary I have already quoted. He had come by another boat. "But it did not seem to heal whatever breach lies between them," he proceeded.

Then in a quick, curious tone, he asked: "Do you believe this attempt on his part is likely to prove anything but a farce?"

"I believe he will shatter the clock to pieces with his first shot," I answered, and could say no more, for we had already reached the ground which had been selected for this trial at arms, and the various members of the party were being placed in their several positions. The Doctor, to whom light and darkness were alike, stood with his face toward the western glow, and at his side were grouped the Inspector and the two physicians. On the arm of one of the latter hung Dr. Zabriskie's overcoat, which he had taken off as soon as he reached the field. Mrs. Zabriskie stood at the other end of the opening, near a tall stump, upon which it had been decided that the clock should be placed when the moment came for the Doctor to show his skill. She had been accorded the privilege of setting the clock on this stump, and I saw it shining in her hand as she paused for a moment to glance back at the circle of gentlemen who were awaiting her movements.

The hands of the clock stood at five minutes to five, though I scarcely noted the fact at the time, for her eyes were on mine, and as she passed me she spoke:  "If he is not himself, he can not be trusted. Watch him carefully, and see that he does no mischief to himself or others. Be at his right hand, and stop him if he does not handle his pistol properly. "

I promised, and she passed on, setting the clock upon the stump and immediately drawing back to a suitable distance at the right, where she stood, wrapped in her long dark cloak, quite alone.

Her face shone ghastly white, even in its environment of snow-covered boughs which surrounded her, and, noting this, I wished the minutes fewer between the present moment and the hour of five, at which he was to draw the trigger. "Dr. Zabriskie," quoth the Inspector, "we have endeavored to make this trial a perfectly fair one. You are to have one shot at a small clock which has been placed within a suitable distance, and which you are expected to hit, guided only by the sound which it will make in striking the hour of five. Are you satisfied with the arrangement?"  "Perfectly.
Where is my wife?"
"On the other side of the field, some ten paces from the stump upon which the clock is fixed. "

He bowed, and his face showed satisfaction.

"May I expect the clock to strike soon?"
"In less than five minutes," was the answer. "Then let me have the pistol; I wish to become acquainted with its size and weight. "

We glanced at each other, then across at her. She made a gesture; it was one of acquiescence.

Immediately the Inspector placed the weapon in the blind man's hand. It was at once apparent that the Doctor understood the instrument, and my last doubt vanished as to the truth of all he had told us.

"Thank God I am blind this hour and can not see her," fell unconsciously from his lips; then, before the echo of these words had left my ears, he raised his voice and observed calmly enough, considering that he was about to prove himself a criminal in order to save himself from being thought a madman:  "Let no one move. I must have my ears free for catching the first stroke of the clock.

"

And he raised the pistol before him. There was a moment of torturing suspense and deep, unbroken silence. My eyes were on him, and so I did not watch the clock, but suddenly I was moved by some irresistible impulse to note how Mrs. Zabriskie was bearing herself at this critical moment, and, casting a hurried glance in her direction, I perceived her tall figure swaying from side to side, as if under an intolerable strain of feeling. Her eyes were on the clock, the hands of which seemed to creep with snail-like pace along the dial, when unexpectedly, and a full minute before the minute hand had reached the stroke of five, I caught a movement on her part, saw the flash of something round and white show for an instant against the darkness of her cloak, and was about to shriek warning to the Doctor, when the shrill, quick stroke of a clock rang out on the frosty air, followed by the ping and flash of a pistol.

A sound of shattered glass, followed by a suppressed cry, told us that the bullet had struck the mark, but before we could move, or rid our eyes of the smoke which the wind had blown into our faces, there came another sound which made our hair stand on end and sent the blood back in terror to our hearts. Another clock was striking, the clock which we now perceived was still standing upright on the stump where Mrs. Zabriskie had placed it. Whence came the clock, then, which had struck before the time and been shattered for its pains?

One quick look told us. On the ground, ten paces at the right, lay Helen Zabriskie, a broken clock at her side, and in her breast a bullet which was fast sapping the life from her sweet eyes. We had to tell him, there was such pleading in her looks; and never shall I forget the scream that rang from his lips as he realized the truth. Breaking from our midst, he rushed forward, and fell at her feet as if guided by some supernatural instinct.

"Helen," he shrieked, "what is this? Were not my hands dyed deep enough in blood that you should make me answerable for your life also? "

Her eyes were closed, but she opened them.

Looking long and steadily at his agonized face, she faltered forth:  "It is not you who have killed me; it is your crime. Had you been innocent of Mr. Hasbrouck's death, your bullet would never have found my heart. Did you think I could survive the proof that you had killed that good man?"

"I I did it unwittingly. I "  "Hush!"

she commanded, with an awful look, which, happily, he could not see.

"I had another motive. I wished to prove to you, even at the cost of my life, that I loved you, had always loved you, and not "  It was now his turn to silence her. His hand crept over her lips, and his despairing face turned itself blindly toward us. "Go," he cried; "leave us! Let me take a last farewell of my dying wife, without listeners or spectators."

Consulting the eye of the physician who stood beside me, and seeing no hope in it, I fell slowly back. The others followed, and the Doctor was left alone with his wife. From the distant position we took, we saw her arms creep round his neck, saw her head fall confidingly on his breast, then silence settled upon them and upon all nature, the gathering twilight deepening, till the last glow disappeared from the heavens above and from the circle of leafless trees which enclosed this tragedy from the outside world. But at last there came a stir, and Dr. Zabriskie, rising up before us, with the dead body of his wife held closely to his breast, confronted us with a countenance so rapturous that he looked like a man transfigured.

"I will carry her to the boat," said he. "Not another hand shall touch her. She was my true wife, my true wife!"

And he towered into an attitude of such dignity and passion that for a moment he took on heroic proportions and we forgot that he had just proved himself to have committed a cold-blooded and ghastly crime. The stars were shining when we again took our seats in the boat; and if the scene of our crossing to Jersey was impressive, what shall be said of that of our return? The Doctor, as before, sat in the stern, an awesome figure, upon which the moon shone with a white radiance that seemed to lift his face out of the surrounding darkness and set it, like an image of frozen horror, before our eyes. Against his breast he held the form of his dead wife, and now and then I saw him stoop as if he were listening for some tokens of life at her set lips. Then he would lift himself again, with hopelessness stamped upon his features, only to lean forward in renewed hope that was again destined to disappointment.

The Inspector and the accompanying physician had taken seats in the bow, and unto me had been assigned the special duty of watching over the Doctor. This I did from a low seat in front of him. I was therefore so close that I heard his laboring breath, and though my heart was full of awe and compassion, I could not prevent myself from bending toward him and saying these words:  "Dr. Zabriskie, the mystery of your crime is no longer a mystery to me. Listen and see if I do not understand your temptation, and how you, a conscientious and God-fearing man, came to slay your innocent neighbor.

"A friend of yours, or so he called himself, had for a long time filled your ears with tales tending to make you suspicious of your wife and jealous of a certain man whom I will not name. You knew that your friend had a grudge against this man, and so for many months turned a deaf ear to his insinuations. But finally some change which you detected in your wife's bearing or conversation roused your own suspicions, and you began to doubt if all was false that came to your ears, and to curse your blindness, which in a measure rendered you helpless.

The jealous fever grew and had risen to a high point, when one night a memorable night this friend met you just as you were leaving town, and with cruel craft whispered in your ear that the man you hated was even then with your wife, and that if you would return at once to your home you would find him in her company. "The demon that lurks at the heart of all men, good or bad, thereupon took complete possession of you, and you answered this fake friend by saying that you would not return without a pistol. Whereupon he offered to take you to his house and give you his. You consented, and getting rid of your servant by sending him to Poughkeepsie with your excuses, you entered a coach with your friend. "You say you bought the pistol, and perhaps you did, but, however that may be, you left his house with it in your pocket and, declining companionship, walked home, arriving at the Colonnade a little before midnight.

"Ordinarily you have no difficulty in recognizing your own doorstep. But, being in a heated frame of mind, you walked faster than usual and so passed your own house and stopped at that of Mr. Hasbrouck's, one door beyond.

As the entrances of these houses are all alike, there was but one way by which you could have made yourself sure that you had reached your own dwelling, and that was by feeling for the doctor's sign at the side of the door. But you never thought of that.

Absorbed in dreams of vengeance, your sole impulse was to enter by the quickest means possible. Taking out your night-key, you thrust it into the lock. It fitted, but it took strength to turn it, so much strength that the key was twisted and bent by the effort.

But this incident, which would have attracted your attention at another time, was lost upon you at this moment.

An entrance had been effected, and you were in too excited a frame of mind to notice at what cost, or to detect the small differences apparent in the atmosphere and furnishings of the two houses trifles which would have arrested your attention under other circumstances, and made you pause before the upper floor had been reached. "It was while going up the stairs that you took out your pistol, so that by the time you arrived at the front-room door you held it ready cocked and drawn in your hand. For, being blind, you feared escape on the part of your victim, and so waited for nothing but the sound of a man's voice before firing. When, therefore, the unfortunate Mr. Hasbrouck, roused by this sudden intrusion, advanced with an exclamation of astonishment, you pulled the trigger, killing him on the spot.

It must have been immediately upon his fall that you recognized from some word he uttered, or from some contact you may have had with your surroundings, that you were in the wrong house and had killed the wrong man; for you cried out, in evident remorse, 'God! what have I done!' and fled without approaching your victim. "Descending the stairs, you rushed from the house, closing the front door behind you and regaining your own without being seen. But here you found yourself baffled in your attempted escape by two things.

First, by the pistol you still held in your hand, and secondly, by the fact that the key upon which you depended for entering your own door was so twisted out of shape that you knew it would be useless for you to attempt to use it. What did you do in this emergency? You have already told us, though the story seemed so improbable at the time, you found nobody to believe it but myself. The pistol you flung far away from you down the pavement, from which, by one of those rare chances which sometimes happen in this world, it was presently picked up by some late passer-by of more or less doubtful character.

The door offered less of an obstacle than you anticipated; for when you turned to it again you found it, if I am not greatly mistaken, ajar, left so, as we have reason to believe, by one who had gone out of it but a few minutes before in a state which left him but little master of his actions. It was this fact which provided you with an answer when you were asked how you succeeded in getting into Mr. Hasbrouck's house after the family had retired for the night. "Astonished at the coincidence, but hailing with gladness the deliverance which it offered, you went in and ascended at once into your wife's presence; and it was from her lips, and not from those of Mrs. Hasbrouck, that the cry arose which startled the neighborhood and prepared men's minds for the tragic words which were shouted a moment later from the next house. "But she who uttered the scream knew of no tragedy save that which was taking place in her own breast. She had just repulsed a dastardly suitor, and, seeing you enter so unexpectedly in a state of unaccountable horror and agitation, was naturally stricken with dismay, and thought she saw your ghost, or, what was worse, a possible avenger; while you, having failed to kill the man you sought, and having killed a man you esteemed, let no surprise on her part lure you into any dangerous self-betrayal.

You strove instead to soothe her, and even attempted to explain the excitement under which you labored, by an account of your narrow escape at the station, till the sudden alarm from next door distracted her attention, and sent both your thoughts and hers in a different direction. Not till conscience had fully awakened and the horror of your act had had time to tell upon your sensitive nature, did you breathe forth those vague confessions, which, not being supported by the only explanations which would have made them credible, led her, as well as the police, to consider you affected in your mind. Your pride as a man, and your consideration for her as a woman, kept you silent, but did not keep the worm from preying upon your heart.

"Am I not correct in my surmises, Dr. Zabriskie, and is not this the true explanation of your crime?"
With a strange look, he lifted up his face. "Hush!" said he; "you will awaken her. See how peacefully she sleeps! I should not like to have her awakened now, she is so tired, and I I have not watched over her as I should.

"

Appalled at his gesture, his look, his tone, I drew back, and for a few minutes no sound was to be heard but the steady dip-dip of the oars and the lap-lap of the waters against the boat. Then there came a quick uprising, the swaying before me of something dark and tall and threatening, and before I could speak or move, or even stretch forth my hands to stay him, the seat before me was empty, and darkness had filled the place where but an instant previous he had sat, a fearsome figure, erect and rigid as a sphinx. What little moonlight there was only served to show us a few rising bubbles, marking the spot where the unfortunate man had sunk with his much-loved burden. We could not save him.

As the widening circles fled farther and farther out, the tide drifted us away, and we lost the spot which had seen the termination of one of earth's saddest tragedies. The bodies were never recovered. The police reserved to themselves the right of withholding from the public the real facts which made this catastrophe an awful remembrance to those who witnessed it. A verdict of accidental death by drowning answered all purposes, and saved the memory of the unfortunate pair from such calumny as might have otherwise assailed it. It was the least we could do for two beings whom circumstances had so greatly afflicted.

THE RAJAH'S DIAMOND  BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

The four stories published under this general title are four steps in the unraveling of the mystery of "The Pride of Kashgar," that marvelous diamond "as big as a duck's egg and without a flaw, whose value, in money, would be sufficient to build cathedrals more stately than Ely or Cologne. "

Through them moves that prince of entertainers, Prince Florizel of Bohemia. The buoyant, extravagant note of the author is one of the most refreshing things in short-story literature, and the stories have that rare quality of charm which was the peculiar grace of the author's personality.

THE RAJAH'S DIAMOND  By ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON    STORY OF THE BANDBOX  Up to the age of sixteen, at a private school and afterward at one of those great institutions for which England is justly famous, Mr. Harry Hartley had received the ordinary education of a gentleman. At that period, he manifested a remarkable distaste for study; and his only surviving parent being both weak and ignorant, he was permitted thenceforward to spend his time in the attainment of petty and purely elegant accomplishments. Two years later, he was left an orphan and almost a beggar. For all active and industrious pursuits, Harry was unfitted alike by nature and training. He could sing romantic ditties, and accompany himself with discretion on the piano; he was a graceful although a timid cavalier; he had a pronounced taste for chess; and nature had sent him into the world with one of the most engaging exteriors that can well be fancied.

Blond and pink, with dove's eyes and a gentle smile, he had an air of agreeable tenderness and melancholy, and the most submissive and caressing manners. But when all is said, he was not the man to lead armaments of war, or direct the councils of a state.

A fortunate chance and some influence obtained for Harry, at the time of his bereavement, the position of private secretary to Major-General Sir Thomas Vandeleur, C.B.  Sir Thomas was a man of sixty, loud-spoken, boisterous, and domineering. For some reason, some service the nature of which had been often whispered and repeatedly denied, the Rajah of Kashgar had presented this officer with the sixth known diamond of the world. The gift transformed General Vandeleur from a poor into a wealthy man, from an obscure and unpopular soldier into one of the lions of London society; the possessor of the Rajah's Diamond was welcome in the most exclusive circles; and he had found a lady, young, beautiful, and well-born, who was willing to call the diamond hers even at the price of marriage with Sir Thomas Vandeleur. It was commonly said at the time that, as like draws to like, one jewel had attracted another; certainly Lady Vandeleur was not only a gem of the finest water in her own person, but she showed herself to the world in a very costly setting; and she was considered by many respectable authorities as one among the three or four best dressed women in England.

Harry's duty as secretary was not particularly onerous; but he had a dislike for all prolonged work; it gave him pain to ink his fingers; and the charm of Lady Vandeleur and her toilets drew him often from the library to the boudoir. He had the prettiest ways among women, could talk fashions with enjoyment, and was never more happy than when criticizing a shade of ribbon, or running on an errand to the milliner's. In short, Sir Thomas's correspondence fell into pitiful arrears, and my Lady had another lady's-maid. At last the General, who was one of the least patient of military commanders, arose from his place in a violent access of passion, and indicated to his secretary that he had no further need for his services, with one of those explanatory gestures which are most rarely employed between gentlemen. The door being unfortunately open, Mr. Hartley fell downstairs headforemost.

He arose somewhat hurt and very deeply aggrieved. The life in the General's house precisely suited him; he moved, on a more or less doubtful footing, in very genteel company, he did little, he ate of the best, and he had a lukewarm satisfaction in the presence of Lady Vandeleur, which, in his own heart, he dubbed by a more emphatic name. Immediately after he had been outraged by the military foot, he hurried to the boudoir and recounted his sorrows.

"You know very well, my dear Harry," replied Lady Vandeleur, for she called him by name like a child or a domestic servant, "that you never by any chance do what the General tells you. No more do I, you may say. But that is different.

A woman can earn her pardon for a good year of disobedience by a single adroit submission; and, besides, no one is married to his private secretary. I shall be sorry to lose you; but since you can not stay longer in a house where you have been insulted, I shall wish you good-by, and I promise you to make the General smart for his behavior." Harry's countenance fell; tears came into his eyes and he gazed on Lady Vandeleur with a tender reproach. "My Lady," said he, "what is an insult? I should think little indeed of any one who could not forgive them by the score.

But to leave one's friend; to tear up the bonds of affection "  He was unable to continue, for his emotion choked him, and he began to weep.

Lady Vandeleur looked at him with a curious expression. "This little fool," she thought, "imagines himself to be in love with me. Why should he not become my servant instead of the General's? He is good-natured, obliging, and understands dress; and besides it will keep him out of mischief.

He is positively too pretty to be unattached. "

That night she talked over the General, who was already somewhat ashamed of his vivacity; and Harry was transferred to the feminine department, where his life was little short of heavenly. He was always dressed with uncommon nicety, wore delicate flowers in his buttonhole, and could entertain a visitor with tact and pleasantry.

He took a pride in servility to a beautiful woman; received Lady Vandeleur's commands as so many marks of favor; and was pleased to exhibit himself before other men, who derided and despised him, in his character of male lady's-maid and man milliner. Nor could he think enough of his existence from a moral point of view. Wickedness seemed to him an essentially male attribute, and to pass one's days with a delicate woman, and principally occupied about trimmings, was to inhabit an enchanted isle among the storms of life. One fine morning he came into the drawing-room and began to arrange some music on the top of the piano.

Lady Vandeleur, at the other end of the apartment, was speaking somewhat eagerly with her brother, Charlie Pendragon, an elderly young man, much broken with dissipation, and very lame of one foot. The private secretary, to whose entrance they paid no regard, could not avoid overhearing a part of their conversation. "To-day or never," said the lady. "Once and for all, it shall be done to-day.

"

"To-day if it must be," replied the brother, with a sigh. "But it is a false step, a ruinous step, Clara; and we shall live to repent it dismally. "

Lady Vandeleur looked her brother steadily and somewhat strangely in the face. "You forget," she said; "the man must die at last.

"

"Upon my word, Clara," said Pendragon, "I believe you are the most heartless rascal in England. "
"You men," she returned, "are so coarsely built, that you can never appreciate a shade of meaning. You are yourselves rapacious, violent, immodest, careless of distinction; and yet the least thought for the future shocks you in a woman. I have no patience with such stuff.

You would despise in a common banker the imbecility that you expect to find in us. "

"You are very likely right," replied her brother; "you were always cleverer than I. And, anyway, you know my motto: 'The family before all.'"  "Yes, Charlie," she returned, taking his hand in hers, "I know your motto better than you know it yourself.

'

And Clara before the family!'  Is not that the second part of it? Indeed, you are the best of brothers, and I love you dearly." Mr. Pendragon got up, looking a little confused by these family endearments.

"I had better not be seen," said he. "I understand my part to a miracle, and I'll keep an eye on the Tame Cat."  "Do," she replied. "He is an abject creature, and might ruin all.

"

She kissed the tips of her fingers to him daintily; and the brother withdrew by the boudoir and the back stair. "Harry," said Lady Vandeleur, turning toward the secretary as soon as they were alone, "I have a commission for you this morning. But you shall take a cab; I can not have my secretary freckled.

" She spoke the last words with emphasis and a look of half-motherly pride that caused great contentment to poor Harry; and he professed himself charmed to find an opportunity of serving her. "It is another of our great secrets," she went on, archly, "and no one must know of it but my secretary and me. Sir Thomas would make the saddest disturbance; and if you only knew how weary I am of these scenes! Oh, Harry, Harry, can you explain to me what makes you men so violent and unjust? But, indeed, I know you can not; you are the only man in the world who knows nothing of these shameful passions; you are so good, Harry, and so kind; you, at least, can be a woman's friend; and, do you know?

I think you make the others more ugly by comparison." "It is you," said Harry, gallantly, "who are so kind to me. You treat me like "  "Like a mother," interposed Lady Vandeleur, "I try to be a mother to you. Or, at least," she corrected herself with a smile, "almost a mother.

I am afraid I am too young to be your mother really. Let us say a friend a dear friend. "
She paused long enough to let her words take effect in Harry's sentimental quarters, but not long enough to allow him a reply. "But all this is beside our purpose," she resumed. "You will find a bandbox in the left-hand side of the oak wardrobe; it is underneath the pink slip that I wore on Wednesday with my Mechlin.

You will take it immediately to this address," and she gave him a paper; "but do not, on any account, let it out of your hands until you have received a receipt written by myself. Do you understand? Answer, if you please answer! This is extremely important, and I must ask you to pay some attention. "

Harry pacified her by repeating her instructions perfectly; and she was just going to tell him more when General Vandeleur flung into the apartment, scarlet with anger, and holding a long and elaborate milliner's bill in his hand.

"Will you look at this, madam!" cried he. "Will you have the goodness to look at this document? I know well enough you married me for my money, and I hope I can make as great allowances as any other man in the service; but, as sure as God made me, I mean to put a period to this disreputable prodigality." "Mr. Hartley," said Lady Vandeleur, "I think you understand what you have to do.

May I ask you to see to it at once?"  "Stop," said the General, addressing Harry, "one word before you go. "

And then, turning again to Lady Vandeleur, "What is this precious fellow's errand?"
he demanded. "I trust him no further than I do yourself, let me tell you. If he had as much as the rudiments of honesty, he would scorn to stay in this house; and what he does for his wages is a mystery to all the world.

What is his errand, madam? and why are you hurrying him away?"
"I supposed you had something to say to me in private," replied the lady. "You spoke about an errand," insisted the General.

"Do not attempt to deceive me in my present state of temper. You certainly spoke about an errand." "If you insist on making your servants privy to our humiliating dissensions," replied Lady Vandeleur, "perhaps I had better ask Mr. Hartley to sit down. No?" she continued; "then you may go, Mr. Hartley. I trust you may remember all that you have heard in this room; it may be useful to you.

"

Harry at once made his escape from the drawing-room; and as he ran upstairs he could hear the General's voice upraised in declamation, and the thin tones of Lady Vandeleur planting icy repartees at every opening. How cordially he admired the wife! How skilfully she could evade an awkward question!
with what secure effrontery she repeated her instructions under the very guns of the enemy!
and on the other hand, how he detested the husband! There had been nothing unfamiliar in the morning's events, for he was continually in the habit of serving Lady Vandeleur on secret missions, principally connected with millinery. There was a skeleton in the house, as he well knew.

The bottomless extravagance and the unknown liabilities of the wife had long since swallowed her own fortune, and threatened day by day to engulf that of the husband. Once or twice in every year exposure and ruin seemed imminent, and Harry kept trotting round to all sorts of furnishers' shops, telling small fibs, and paying small advances on the gross amount, until another term was tided over, and the lady and her faithful secretary breathed again. For Harry, in a double capacity, was heart and soul upon that side of the war: not only did he adore Lady Vandeleur and fear and dislike her husband, but he naturally sympathized with the love of finery, and his own single extravagance was at the tailor's. He found the bandbox where it had been described, arranged his toilet with care, and left the house.

The sun shone brightly; the distance he had to travel was considerable, and he remembered with dismay that the General's sudden irruption had prevented Lady Vandeleur from giving him money for a cab. On this sultry day there was every chance that his complexion would suffer severely; and to walk through so much of London with a bandbox on his arm was a humiliation almost insupportable to a youth of his character. He paused, and took counsel with himself. The Vandeleurs lived in Eaton Place; his destination was near Notting Hill; plainly, he might cross the Park by keeping well in the open and avoiding populous alleys; and he thanked his stars when he reflected that it was still comparatively early in the day. Anxious to be rid of his incubus, he walked somewhat faster than his ordinary, and he was already some way through Kensington Gardens when, in a solitary spot among the trees, he found himself confronted by the General.

"I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas," observed Harry, politely falling on one side; for the other stood directly in his path. "Where are you going, sir?" asked the General. "I am taking a little walk among the trees," replied the lad. The General struck the bandbox with his cane. "With that thing?" he cried; "you lie, sir, and you know you lie!"

"Indeed, Sir Thomas," returned Harry, "I am not accustomed to be questioned in so high a key. "

"You do not understand your position," said the General. "You are my servant, and a servant of whom I have conceived the most serious suspicions. How do I know but that your box is full of teaspoons?"

"It contains a silk hat belonging to a friend," said Harry.

"Very well," replied General Vandeleur.

"Then I want to see your friend's silk hat. I have," he added, grimly, "a singular curiosity for hats; and I believe you know me to be somewhat positive. "

"I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas, I am exceedingly grieved," Harry apologized; "but indeed this is a private affair.

"

The General caught him roughly by the shoulder with one hand, while he raised his cane in the most menacing manner with the other. Harry gave himself up for lost; but at the same moment Heaven vouchsafed him an unexpected defender in the person of Charlie Pendragon, who now strode forward from behind the trees. "Come, come, General, hold your hand," said he, "this is neither courteous nor manly. "

"Aha!" cried the General, wheeling round upon his new antagonist, "Mr. Pendragon!

And do you suppose, Mr. Pendragon, that, because I have had the misfortune to marry your sister, I shall suffer myself to be dogged and thwarted by a discredited and bankrupt libertine like you? My acquaintance with Lady Vandeleur, sir, has taken away all my appetite for the other members of her family."
"And do you fancy, General Vandeleur," retorted Charlie, "that, because my sister has had the misfortune to marry you, she there and then forfeited her rights and privileges as a lady?
I own, sir, that by that action she did as much as anybody could to derogate from her position; but to me she is still a Pendragon. I make it my business to protect her from ungentlemanly outrage, and if you were ten times her husband I would not permit her liberty to be restrained, nor her private messengers to be violently arrested. "

"How is that, Mr. Hartley?" interrogated the General.

"Mr. Pendragon is of my opinion, it appears. He too suspects that Lady Vandeleur has something to do with your friend's silk hat. "

Charlie saw that he had committed an unpardonable blunder, which he hastened to repair. "How, sir?" he cried; "I suspect, do you say? I suspect nothing.

Only where I find strength abused and a man brutalizing his inferiors, I take the liberty to interfere." As he said these words he made a sign to Harry, which the latter was too dull or too much troubled to understand. "In what way am I to construe your attitude, sir?" demanded Vandeleur. "Why, sir, as you please," returned Pendragon.

The General once more raised his cane, and made a cut for Charlie's head; but the latter, lame foot and all, evaded the blow with his umbrella, ran in, and immediately closed with his formidable adversary. "Run, Harry, run!"
he cried; "run, you dolt!"
Harry stood petrified for a moment, watching the two men sway together in this fierce embrace; then he turned and took to his heels. When he cast a glance over his shoulder he saw the General prostrate under Charlie's knee, but still making desperate efforts to reverse the situation; and the Gardens seemed to have filled with people, who were running from all directions toward the scene of the fight. This spectacle lent the secretary wings; and he did not relax his pace until he had gained the Bayswater road, and plunged at random into an unfrequented by-street.

To see two gentlemen of his acquaintance thus brutally mauling each other was deeply shocking to Harry. He desired to forget the sight; he desired, above all, to put as great a distance as possible between himself and General Vandeleur; and in his eagerness for this he forgot everything about his destination and hurried before him headlong and trembling. When he remembered that Lady Vandeleur was the wife of one and the sister of the other of these gladiators, his heart was touched with sympathy for a woman so distressingly misplaced in life. Even his own situation in the General's household looked hardly so pleasing as usual in the light of these violent transactions.

He had walked some little distance, busied with these meditations, before a slight collision with another passenger reminded him of the bandbox on his arm. "Heavens!" cried he, "where was my head?
and whither have I wandered?" Thereupon he consulted the envelope which Lady Vandeleur had given him. The address was there, but without a name.

Harry was simply directed to ask for "the gentleman who expected a parcel from Lady Vandeleur," and if he were not at home to await his return. The gentleman, added the note, should present a receipt in the handwriting of the lady herself. All this seemed mightily mysterious, and Harry was above all astonished at the omission of the name and the formality of the receipt. He had thought little of this last when he heard it dropped in conversation; but reading it in cold blood, and taking it in connection with the other strange particulars, he became convinced that he was engaged in perilous affairs.

For half a moment he had a doubt of Lady Vandeleur herself; for he found these obscure proceedings somewhat unworthy of so high a lady, and became more critical when her secrets were preserved against himself. But her empire over his spirit was too complete, he dismissed his suspicions and blamed himself roundly for having so much as entertained them.

In one thing, however, his duty and interest, his generosity and his terrors, coincided to get rid of the bandbox with the greatest possible despatch. He accosted the first policeman and courteously inquired his way. It turned out that he was already not far from his destination, and a walk of a few minutes brought him to a small house in a lane, freshly painted, and kept with the most scrupulous attention. The knocker and bell-pull were highly polished; flowering pot-herbs garnished the sills of the different windows; and curtains of some rich material concealed the interior from the eyes of curious passengers.

The place had an air of repose and secrecy; and Harry was so far caught with this spirit that he knocked with more than usual discretion, and was more than usually careful to remove all impurity from his boots. A servant-maid of some personal attractions immediately opened the door, and seemed to regard the secretary with no unkind eyes. "This is the parcel from Lady Vandeleur," said Harry. "I know," replied the maid, with a nod. "But the gentleman is from home.

Will you leave it with me?"

"I can not," answered Harry. "I am directed not to part with it but upon a certain condition, and I must ask you, I am afraid, to let me wait. " "Well," said she, "I suppose I may let you wait.

I am lonely enough, I can tell you, and you do not look as though you would eat a girl. But be sure and do not ask the gentleman's name, for that I am not to tell you.

" "Do you say so?" cried Harry. "Why, how strange!
But indeed for some time back I walk among surprises. One question I think I may surely ask without indiscretion: Is he the master of this house?" "He is a lodger, and not eight days old at that," returned the maid. "And now a question for a question: Do you know Lady Vandeleur?"  "I am her private secretary," replied Harry, with a glow of modest pride.

"She is pretty, is she not?" pursued the servant. "Oh, beautiful!
" cried Harry; "wonderfully lovely, and not less good and kind!" "You look kind enough yourself," she retorted; "and I wager you are worth a dozen Lady Vandeleurs.

"

Harry was properly scandalized. "I!"
he cried. "I am only a secretary!"

"Do you mean that for me?" said the girl. "Because I am only a housemaid, if you please.

"
And then, relenting at the sight of Harry's obvious confusion, "I know you mean nothing of the sort," she added; "and I like your looks; but I think nothing of your Lady Vandeleur. Oh, these mistresses!"
she cried. "To send out a real gentleman like you with a bandbox in broad day!"

During this talk they had remained in their original positions she on the doorstep, he on the sidewalk, bareheaded for the sake of coolness, and with the bandbox on his arm. But upon this last speech, Harry, who was unable to support such pointblank compliments to his appearance, nor the encouraging look with which they were accompanied, began to change his attitude, and glance from left to right in perturbation.

In so doing he turned his face toward the lower end of the lane, and there, to his indescribable dismay, his eyes encountered those of General Vandeleur. The General, in a prodigious fluster of heat, hurry, and indignation, had been scouring the streets in chase of his brother-in-law; but so soon as he caught a glimpse of the delinquent secretary, his purpose changed, his anger flowed into a new channel, and he turned on his heel and came tearing up the lane with truculent gestures and vociferations. Harry made but one bolt of it into the house, driving the maid before him; and the door was slammed in his pursuer's countenance.

"Is there a bar?
Will it lock?" asked Harry, while a salvo on the knocker made the house echo from wall to wall. "Why, what is wrong with you?" asked the maid. "Is it this old gentleman?" "If he gets hold of me," whispered Harry, "I am as good as dead. He has been pursuing me all day, carries a sword-stick, and is an Indian military officer."

"These are fine manners," cried the maid. "And what, if you please, may be his name?"
"It is the General, my master," answered Harry. "He is after this bandbox.
" "Did not I tell you?" cried the maid in triumph. "I told you I thought worse than nothing of your Lady Vandeleur; and if you had an eye in your head you might see what she is for yourself.

An ungrateful minx, I will be bound for that!" The General renewed his attack upon the knocker, and his passion growing with delay, began to kick and beat upon the panels of the door. "It is lucky," observed the girl, "that I am alone in the house; your General may hammer until he is weary, and there is none to open for him.
Follow me!" So saying, she led Harry into the kitchen, where she made him sit down, and stood by him herself in an affectionate attitude, with a hand upon his shoulder.

The din at the door, so far from abating, continued to increase in volume, and at each blow the unhappy secretary was shaken to the heart. "What is your name?" asked the girl. "Harry Hartley," he replied. "Mine," she went on, "is Prudence.

Do you like it?"

"Very much," said Harry. "But hear for a moment how the General beats upon the door. He will certainly break it in, and then, in Heaven's name, what have I to look for but death?"  "You put yourself very much about with no occasion," answered Prudence. "Let your General knock, he will do no more than blister his hands.

Do you think I would keep you here, if I were not sure to save you? Oh, no, I am a good friend to those that please me! and we have a back door upon another lane. But," she added, checking him, for he had got upon his feet immediately on this welcome news, "but I will not show you where it is unless you kiss me.

Will you, Harry?"  "That I will," he cried, remembering his gallantry, "not for your back door, but because you are good and pretty." And he administered two or three cordial salutes, which were returned to him in kind. Then Prudence led him to the back gate, and put her hand upon the key. "Will you come and see me?"
she asked.

"I will, indeed," said Harry.

"Do not I owe you my life?"

"And now," she added, opening the door, "run as hard as you can, for I shall let in the General. "

Harry scarcely required this advice; fear had him by the forelock; and he addressed himself diligently to flight. A few steps, and he believed he would escape from his trials, and return to Lady Vandeleur in honor and safety. But these few steps had not been taken before he heard a man's voice hailing him by name with many execrations, and looking over his shoulder, he beheld Charlie Pendragon waving him with both arms to return.

The shock of this new incident was so sudden and profound, and Harry was already worked into so high a state of nervous tension, that he could think of nothing better than to accelerate his pace, and continue running. He should certainly have remembered the scene in Kensington Gardens; he should certainly have concluded that, where the General was his enemy, Charlie Pendragon could be no other than a friend. But such was the fever and perturbation of his mind that he was struck by none of these considerations, and only continued to run the faster up the lane.

Charlie, by the sound of his voice and the vile terms that he hurled after the secretary, was obviously beside himself with rage. He, too, ran his very best; but, try as he might, the physical advantages were not upon his side, and his outcries and the fall of his lame foot on the macadam began to fall further and further into the wake. Harry's hopes began once more to arise. The lane was both steep and narrow, but it was exceedingly solitary, bordered on either hand by garden walls, overhung with foliage; and, for as far as the fugitive could see in front of him, there was neither a creature moving nor an open door. Providence, weary of persecution, was now offering him an open field for his escape.
Alas!
as he came abreast of a garden door under a tuft of chestnuts, it was suddenly drawn back, and he could see inside, upon a garden path, the figure of a butcher's boy with his tray upon his arm.

He had hardly recognized the fact before he was some steps beyond upon the other side. But the fellow had had time to observe him; he was evidently much surprised to see a gentleman go by at so unusual a pace; and he came out into the lane and began to call after Harry with shouts of ironical encouragement.

His appearance gave a new idea to Charlie Pendragon, who, although he was now sadly out of breath, once more upraised his voice. "Stop thief!" he cried. And immediately the butcher's boy had taken up the cry and joined in the pursuit.

This was a bitter moment for the hunted secretary. It is true that his terror enabled him once more to improve his pace, and gain with every step on his pursuers; but he was well aware that he was near the end of his resources, and should he meet any one coming the other way, his predicament in the narrow lane would be desperate indeed. "I must find a place of concealment," he thought, "and that within the next few seconds, or all is over with me in this world." Scarcely had the thought crossed his mind than the lane took a sudden turning; and he found himself hidden from his enemies.

There are circumstances in which even the least energetic of mankind learn to behave with vigor and decision; and the most cautious forget their prudence and embrace foolhardy resolutions. This was one of those occasions for Harry Hartley; and those who knew him best would have been the most astonished at the lad's audacity. He stopped dead, flung the bandbox over a garden wall; and leaping upward with incredible agility and seizing the copestone with his hands, he tumbled headlong after it into the garden. He came to himself a moment afterward, seated in a border of small rose-bushes. His hands and knees were cut and bleeding, for the wall had been protected against such an escalade by a liberal provision of old bottles; and he was conscious of a general dislocation and a painful swimming in the head.

Facing him across the garden, which was in admirable order, and set with flowers of the most delicious perfume, he beheld the back of a house. It was of considerable extent, and plainly habitable; but, in odd contrast to the grounds, it was crazy, ill-kept, and of a mean appearance. On all other sides the circuit of the garden wall appeared unbroken. He took in these features of the scene with mechanical glances, but his mind was still unable to piece together or draw a rational conclusion from what he saw. And when he heard footsteps advancing on the gravel, although he turned his eyes in that direction, it was with no thought either for defense or flight.

The newcomer was a large, coarse, and very sordid personage, in gardening clothes, and with a watering-pot in his left hand. One less confused would have been affected with some alarm at the sight of this man's huge proportions and black and lowering eyes. But Harry was too gravely shaken by his fall to be so much as terrified; and if he was unable to divert his glances from the gardener, he remained absolutely passive, and suffered him to draw near, to take him by the shoulder, and to plant him roughly on his feet, without a motion of resistance.

For a moment the two stared into each other's eyes, Harry fascinated, the man filled with wrath and a cruel, sneering humor. "Who are you?" he demanded at last. "Who are you to come flying over my wall and break my Gloire de Dijons?
What is your name?" he added, shaking him; "and what may be your business here?"

Harry could not as much as proffer a word in explanation. But just at that moment Pendragon and the butcher's boy went clumping past, and the sound of their feet and their hoarse cries echoed loudly in the narrow lane.

The gardener had received his answer; and he looked down into Harry's face with an obnoxious smile. "A thief!"
he said. "Upon my word, and a very good thing you must make of it; for I see you dressed like a gentleman from top to toe. Are you not ashamed to go about the world in such a trim, with honest folk, I dare say, glad to buy your cast-off finery second-hand.
Speak up, you dog," the man went on; "you can understand English, I suppose; and I mean to have a bit of talk with you before I march you to the station.

"

"Indeed, sir," said Harry, "this is all a dreadful misconception; and if you will go with me to Sir Thomas Vandeleur's in Eaton Place, I can promise that all will be made plain. The most upright person, as I now perceive, can be led into suspicious positions. "

"My little man," replied the gardener, "I will go with you no further than the station-house in the next street. The inspector, no doubt, will be glad to take a stroll with you as far as Eaton Place, and have a bit of afternoon tea with your great acquaintances.

Or would you prefer to go direct to the Home Secretary?

Sir Thomas Vandeleur, indeed! Perhaps you think I don't know a gentleman when I see one from a common run-the-hedge like you? Clothes or no clothes, I can read you like a book. Here is a shirt that maybe cost as much as my Sunday hat; and that coat, I take it, has never seen the inside of Rag-fair, and then your boots "  The man, whose eyes had fallen upon the ground, stopped short in his insulting commentary, and remained for a moment looking intently upon something at his feet.

When he spoke his voice was strangely altered. "What, in God's name," said he, "is all this?"  Harry, following the direction of the man's eyes, beheld a spectacle that struck him dumb with terror and amazement. In his fall he had descended vertically upon the bandbox and burst it open from end to end; thence a great treasure of diamonds had poured forth, and now lay abroad, part trodden in the soil, part scattered on the surface in regal and glittering profusion. There was a magnificent coronet which he had often admired on Lady Vandeleur; there were rings and brooches, ear-drops and bracelets, and even unset brilliants rolling here and there among the rose-bushes like drops of morning dew.

A princely fortune lay between the two men upon the ground a fortune in the most inviting, solid, and durable form, capable of being carried in an apron, beautiful in itself, and scattering the sunlight in a million rainbow flashes. "Good God!" said Harry, "I am lost!"

His mind raced backward into the past with the incalculable velocity of thought, and he began to comprehend his day's adventures, to conceive them as a whole, and to recognize the sad imbroglio in which his own character and fortunes had become involved. He looked round him as if for help, but he was alone in the garden, with his scattered diamonds and his redoubtable interlocutor; and when he gave ear, there was no sound but the rustle of the leaves and the hurried pulsation of his heart.

It was little wonder if the young man felt himself deserted by his spirits, and with a broken voice repeated his last ejaculation:  "I am lost!"

The gardener peered in all directions with an air of guilt; but there was no face at any of the windows, and he seemed to breathe again. "Pick up a heart," he said, "you fool! The worst of it is done.

Why could you not say at first there was enough for two?  Two?" he repeated, "aye, and for two hundred! But come away from here, where we may be observed; and, for the love of wisdom, straighten out your hat and brush your clothes.

You could not travel two steps the figure of fun you look just now." While Harry mechanically adopted these suggestions, the gardener, getting upon his knees, hastily drew together the scattered jewels and returned them to the bandbox. The touch of these costly crystals sent a shiver of emotion through the man's stalwart frame; his face was transfigured, and his eyes shone with concupiscence; indeed it seemed as if he luxuriously prolonged his occupation, and dallied with every diamond that he handled. At last, however, it was done; and, concealing the bandbox in his smock, the gardener beckoned to Harry and preceded him in the direction of the house.

Near the door they were met by a young man evidently in holy orders, dark and strikingly handsome, with a look of mingled weakness and resolution, and very neatly attired after the manner of his caste. The gardener was plainly annoyed by this encounter; but he put as good a face upon it as he could, and accosted the clergyman with an obsequious and smiling air. "Here is a fine afternoon, Mr. Rolles," said he: "a fine afternoon, as sure as God made it! And here is a young friend of mine who had a fancy to look at my roses.

I took the liberty to bring him in, for I thought none of the lodgers would object. "

"Speaking for myself," replied the Reverend Mr. Rolles, "I do not; nor do I fancy any of the rest of us would be more difficult upon so small a matter. The garden is your own, Mr. Raeburn; we must none of us forget that; and because you give us liberty to walk there we should be indeed ungracious if we so far presumed upon your politeness as to interfere with the convenience of your friends.

But, on second thoughts," he added, "I believe that this gentleman and I have met before.

Mr. Hartley, I think. I regret to observe that you have had a fall." And he offered his hand.

A sort of maiden dignity and a desire to delay as long as possible the necessity for explanation moved Harry to refuse this chance of help, and to deny his own identity. He chose the tender mercies of the gardener, who was at least unknown to him, rather than the curiosity and perhaps the doubts of an acquaintance. "I fear there is some mistake," said he.

"My name is Thomlinson and I am a friend of Mr. Raeburn's. "

"Indeed?" said Mr. Rolles. "The likeness is amazing. "

Mr. Raeburn, who had been upon thorns throughout this colloquy, now felt it high time to bring it to a period. "I wish you a pleasant saunter, sir," said he.

And with that he dragged Harry after him into the house, and then into a chamber on the garden. His first care was to draw down the blind, for Mr. Rolles still remained where they had left him, in an attitude of perplexity and thought. Then he emptied the broken bandbox on the table, and stood before the treasure, thus fully displayed, with an expression of rapturous greed, and rubbing his hands upon his thighs. For Harry, the sight of the man's face under the influence of this base emotion, added another pang to those he was already suffering.

It seemed incredible that, from his life of pure and delicate trifling, he should be plunged in a breath among sordid and criminal relations. He could reproach his conscience with no sinful act; and yet he was now suffering the punishment of sin in its most acute and cruel forms the dread of punishment, the suspicions of the good, and the companionship and contamination of vile and brutal natures. He felt he could lay his life down with gladness to escape from the room and the society of Mr. Raeburn.

"And now," said the latter, after he had separated the jewels into two nearly equal parts, and drawn one of them nearer to himself; "and now," said he, "everything in this world has to be paid for, and some things sweetly. You must know, Mr. Hartley, if such be your name, that I am a man of a very easy temper, and good nature has been my stumbling-block from first to last. I could pocket the whole of these pretty pebbles, if I chose, and I should like to see you dare to say a word; but I think I must have taken a liking to you; for I declare I have not the heart to shave you so close.

So, do you see, in pure kind feeling, I propose that we divide; and these," indicating the two heaps, "are the proportions that seem to me just and friendly. Do you see any objection, Mr. Hartley, may I ask? I am not the man to stick upon a brooch. "
"But, sir," cried Harry, "what you propose to me is impossible.

The jewels are not mine, and I can not share what is another's, no matter with whom, nor in what proportions. "

"They are not yours, are they not?" returned Raeburn. "And you could not share them with anybody, couldn't you? Well now, that is what I call a pity; for here am I obliged to take you to the station.

The police think of that," he continued; "think of the disgrace for your respectable parents; think," he went on, taking Harry by the wrist; "think of the Colonies and the Day of Judgment."
"I can not help it," wailed Harry. "It is not my fault. You will not come with me to Eaton Place?"

"No," replied the man, "I will not, that is certain. And I mean to divide these playthings with you here." And so saying he applied a sudden and severe torsion to the lad's wrist.

Harry could not suppress a scream, and the perspiration burst forth upon his face. Perhaps pain and terror quickened his intelligence, but certainly at that moment the whole business flashed across him in another light; and he saw that there was nothing for it but to accede to the ruffian's proposal, and trust to find the house and force him to disgorge, under more favorable circumstances, and when he himself was clear from all suspicion. "I agree," he said. "There is a lamb," sneered the gardener.

"I thought you would recognize your interests at last. This bandbox," he continued, "I shall burn with my rubbish; it is a thing that curious folk might recognize; and as for you, scrape up your gaieties and put them in your pocket. " Harry proceeded to obey, Raeburn watching him, and every now and again, his greed rekindled by some bright scintillation, abstracting another jewel from the secretary's share, and adding it to his own. When this was finished, both proceeded to the front door, which Raeburn cautiously opened to observe the street.

This was apparently clear of passengers; for he suddenly seized Harry by the nape of the neck, and holding his face downward so that he could see nothing but the roadway and the doorsteps of the houses, pushed him violently before him down one street and up another for the space of perhaps a minute and a half. Harry had counted three corners before the bully relaxed his grasp, and crying, "Now be off with you!"
sent the lad flying headforemost with a well-directed and athletic kick. When Harry gathered himself up, half-stunned and bleeding freely at the nose, Mr. Raeburn had entirely disappeared.

For the first time, anger and pain so completely overcame the lad's spirits that he burst into a fit of tears and remained sobbing in the middle of the road. After he had thus somewhat assuaged his emotion, he began to look about him and read the names of the streets at whose intersection he had been deserted by the gardener. He was still in an unfrequented portion of West London, among villas and large gardens; but he could see some persons at a window who had evidently witnessed his misfortune; and almost immediately after a servant came running from the house and offered him a glass of water.

At the same time, a dirty rogue, who had been slouching somewhere in the neighborhood, drew near him from the other side. "Poor fellow," said the maid, "how vilely you have been handled, to be sure! Why, your knees are all cut, and your clothes ruined! Do you know the wretch who used you so?"
"That I do!" cried Harry, who was somewhat refreshed by the water; "and shall run him home in spite of his precautions. He shall pay dearly for this day's work, I promise you."
"You had better come into the house and have yourself washed and brushed," continued the maid.

"My mistress will make you welcome, never fear. And see, I will pick up your hat. Why, love of mercy!

" she screamed, "if you have not dropped diamonds all over the street!" Such was the case; a good half of what remained to him, after the depredations of Mr. Raeburn, had been shaken out of his pockets by the somersault and once more lay glittering on the ground. He blessed his fortune that the maid had been so quick of eye; "there is nothing so bad but it might be worse," thought he; and the recovery of these few seemed to him almost as great an affair as the loss of all the rest. But, alas!
as he stooped to pick up his treasures, the loiterer made a rapid onslaught, overset both Harry and the maid with a movement of his arms, swept up a double handful of the diamonds, and made off along the street with an amazing swiftness.

Harry, as soon as he could get upon his feet, gave chase to the miscreant with many cries, but the latter was too fleet of foot, and probably too well acquainted with the locality; for turn where the pursuer would he could find no traces of the fugitive. In the deepest despondency, Harry revisited the scene of his mishap, where the maid, who was still waiting, very honestly returned him his hat and the remainder of the fallen diamonds. Harry thanked her from his heart, and being now in no humor for economy, made his way to the nearest cabstand and set off for Eaton Place by coach. The house, on his arrival, seemed in some confusion, as if a catastrophe had happened in the family; and the servants clustered together in the hall, and were unable, or perhaps not altogether anxious, to suppress their merriment at the tatterdemalion figure of the secretary. He passed them with as good an air of dignity as he could assume, and made directly for the boudoir.

When he opened the door an astonishing and even menacing spectacle presented itself to his eyes; for he beheld the General and his wife, and, of all people, Charlie Pendragon, closeted together and speaking with earnestness and gravity on some important subject. Harry saw at once that there was little left for him to explain plenary confession had plainly been made to the General of the intended fraud upon his pocket, and the unfortunate miscarriage of the scheme; and they had all made common cause against a common danger. "Thank Heaven!" cried Lady Vandeleur, "here he is! The bandbox, Harry the bandbox!"

But Harry stood before them silent and downcast.

"Speak!" she cried. "Speak!
Where is the bandbox?"

And the men, with threatening gestures, repeated the demand.

Harry drew a handful of jewels from his pocket. He was very white. "This is all that remains," said he. "I declare before Heaven it was through no fault of mine; and if you will have patience, although some are lost, I am afraid, forever, others, I am sure, may be still recovered."

"Alas!" cried Lady Vandeleur, "all our diamonds are gone, and I owe ninety thousand pounds for dress!"
"Madam," said the General, "you might have paved the gutter with your own trash; you might have made debts to fifty times the sum you mention; you might have robbed me of my mother's coronet and ring; and Nature might have still so far prevailed that I could have forgiven you at last. But, madam, you have taken the Rajah's Diamond the Eye of Light, as the Orientals poetically termed it the Pride of Kashgar!

You have taken from me the Rajah's Diamond," he cried, raising his hands, "and all, madam, all is at an end between us!" "Believe me, General Vandeleur," she replied, "that is one of the most agreeable speeches that ever I heard from your lips; and since we are to be ruined, I could almost welcome the change, if it delivers me from you. You have told me often enough that I married you for your money; let me tell you now that I always bitterly repented the bargain; and if you were still marriageable, and had a diamond bigger than your head, I should counsel even my maid against a union so uninviting and disastrous. As for you, Mr. Hartley," she continued, turning on the secretary, "you have sufficiently exhibited your valuable qualities in this house; we are now persuaded that you equally lack manhood, sense, and self-respect; and I can see only one course open for you to withdraw instanter, and, if possible, return no more.

For your wages you may rank as a creditor in my late husband's bankruptcy. " Harry had scarcely comprehended this insulting address before the General was down upon him with another. "And in the meantime," said that personage, "follow me before the nearest Inspector of Police. You may impose upon a simple-minded soldier, sir, but the eye of the law will read your disreputable secret. If I must spend my old age in poverty through your underhand intriguing with my wife, I mean at least that you shall not remain unpunished for your pains; and God, sir, will deny me a very considerable satisfaction if you do not pick oakum from now until your dying day.

"

With that, the General dragged Harry from the apartment, and hurried him downstairs and along the street to the police-station of the district. [Here, says my Arabian author, ended this deplorable business of the bandbox. But to the unfortunate secretary the whole affair was the beginning of a new and manlier life.

The police were easily persuaded of his innocence; and, after he had given what help he could in the subsequent investigations, he was even complimented by one of the chiefs of the detective department on the probity and simplicity of his behavior. Several persons interested themselves in one so unfortunate; and soon after he inherited a sum of money from a maiden aunt in Worcestershire. With this he married Prudence, and set sail for Bendigo, or according to another account, for Trincomalee, exceedingly content, and with the best of prospects.]    STORY OF THE YOUNG MAN IN HOLY ORDERS  The Reverend Mr. Simon Rolles had distinguished himself in the Moral Sciences, and was more than usually proficient in the study of Divinity. His essay "On the Christian Doctrine of the Social Obligations" obtained for him, at the moment of its production, a certain celebrity in the University of Oxford; and it was understood in clerical and learned circles that young Mr. Rolles had in contemplation a considerable work a folio, it was said on the authority of the Fathers of the Church. These attainments, these ambitious designs, however, were far from helping him to any preferment; and he was still in quest of his first curacy when a chance ramble in that part of London, the peaceful and rich aspect of the garden, a desire for solitude and study, and the cheapness of the lodging, led him to take up his abode with Mr. Raeburn, the nurseryman of Stockdove Lane.

It was his habit every afternoon, after he had worked seven or eight hours on St. Ambrose or St. Chrysostom, to walk for a while in meditation among the roses. And this was usually one of the most productive moments of his day. But even a sincere appetite for thought, and the excitement of grave problems awaiting solution, are not always sufficient to preserve the mind of the philosopher against the petty shocks and contacts of the world.

And when Mr. Rolles found General Vandeleur's secretary, ragged and bleeding, in the company of his landlord; when he saw both change color and seek to avoid his questions; and, above all, when the former denied his own identity with the most unmoved assurance, he speedily forgot the Saints and Fathers in the vulgar interest of curiosity. "I can not be mistaken," thought he. "That is Mr. Hartley beyond a doubt. How comes he in such a pickle?

why does he deny his name?
and what can be his business with that black-looking ruffian, my landlord?"
As he was thus reflecting, another peculiar circumstance attracted his attention. The face of Mr. Raeburn appeared at a low window next the door; and, as chance directed, his eyes met those of Mr. Rolles. The nurseryman seemed disconcerted, and even alarmed; and immediately after the blind of the apartment was pulled sharply down. "This may all be very well," reflected Mr. Rolles; "it may be all excellently well; but I confess freely that I do not think so.

Suspicious, underhand, untruthful, fearful of observation I believe upon my soul," he thought, "the pair are plotting some disgraceful action."

The detective that there is in all of us awoke and became clamant in the bosom of Mr. Rolles; and with a brisk, eager step, that bore no resemblance to his usual gait, he proceeded to make the circuit of the garden. When he came to the scene of Harry's escalade, his eye was at once arrested by a broken rose-bush and marks of trampling on the mold. He looked up, and saw scratches on the brick, and a rag of trouser floating from a broken bottle. This, then, was the mode of entrance chosen by Mr. Raeburn's particular friend!

It was thus that General Vandeleur's secretary came to admire a flower-garden! The young clergyman whistled softly to himself as he stooped to examine the ground. He could make out where Harry had landed from his perilous leap; he recognized the flat foot of Mr. Raeburn where it had sunk deeply in the soil as he pulled up the secretary by the collar; nay, on a closer inspection, he seemed to distinguish the marks of groping fingers, as though something had been spilled abroad and eagerly collected.

"Upon my word," he thought, "the thing grows vastly interesting. "

And just then he caught sight of something almost entirely buried in the earth. In an instant he had disinterred a dainty morocco case, ornamented and clasped in gilt. It had been trodden heavily underfoot, and thus escaped the hurried search of Mr. Raeburn.

Mr. Rolles opened the case, and drew a long breath of almost horrified astonishment; for there lay before him, in a cradle of green velvet, a diamond of prodigious magnitude and of the finest water. It was of the bigness of a duck's egg; beautifully shaped, and without a flaw; and as the sun shone upon it, it gave forth a lustre like that of electricity, and seemed to burn in his hand with a thousand internal fires. He knew little of precious stones; but the Rajah's Diamond was a wonder that explained itself; a village child, if he found it, would run screaming for the nearest cottage; and a savage would prostrate himself in adoration before so imposing a fetish. The beauty of the stone flattered the young clergyman's eyes; the thought of its incalculable value overpowered his intellect. He knew that what he held in his hand was worth more than many years' purchase of an archiepiscopal see; that it would build cathedrals more stately than Ely or Cologne; that he who possessed it was set free forever from the primal curse, and might follow his own inclinations without concern or hurry, without let or hindrance.

And as he suddenly turned it, the rays leaped forth again with renewed brilliancy, and seemed to pierce his very heart. Decisive actions are often taken in a moment and without any conscious deliverance from the rational parts of man. So it was now with Mr. Rolles.

He glanced hurriedly round; beheld, like Mr. Raeburn before him, nothing but the sunlit flower-garden, the tall treetops, and the house with blinded windows; and in a trice he had shut the case, thrust it into his pocket, and was hastening to his study with the speed of guilt. The Reverend Simon Rolles had stolen the Rajah's Diamond. Early in the afternoon the police arrived with Harry Hartley. The nurseryman, who was beside himself with terror, readily discovered his hoard; and the jewels were identified and inventoried in the presence of the secretary. As for Mr. Rolles, he showed himself in a most obliging temper, communicated what he knew with freedom, and professed regret that he could do no more to help the officers in their duty.

"Still," he added, "I suppose your business is nearly at an end. "

"By no means," replied the man from Scotland Yard; and he narrated the second robbery of which Harry had been the immediate victim, and gave the young clergyman a description of the more important jewels that were still not found, dilating particularly on the Rajah's Diamond. "It must be worth a fortune," observed Mr. Rolles. "Ten fortunes twenty fortunes," cried the officer.

"The more it is worth," remarked Simon shrewdly, "the more difficult it must be to sell. Such a thing has a physiognomy not to be disguised, and I should fancy a man might as easily negotiate St. Paul's Cathedral."
"Oh, truly!" said the officer; "but if the thief be a man of any intelligence, he will cut it into three or four, and there will be still enough to make him rich. "

"Thank you," said the clergyman. "You can not imagine how much your conversation interests me."

Whereupon the functionary admitted that they knew many strange things in his profession, and immediately after took his leave.

Mr. Rolles regained his apartment. It seemed smaller and barer than usual; the materials for his great work had never presented so little interest; and he looked upon his library with the eye of scorn. He took down, volume by volume, several Fathers of the Church, and glanced them through; but they contained nothing to his purpose. "These old gentlemen," thought he, "are no doubt very valuable writers, but they seem to me conspicuously ignorant of life.

Here am I, with learning enough to be a Bishop, and I positively do not know how to dispose of a stolen diamond. I glean a hint from a common policeman, and, with all my folios, I can not so much as put it into execution. This inspires me with very low ideas of University training. "

Herewith he kicked over his book-shelf and, putting on his hat, hastened from the house to the club of which he was a member. In such a place of mundane resort he hoped to find some man of good counsel and a shrewd experience in life.

In the reading-room he saw many of the country clergy and an Archdeacon; there were three journalists and a writer upon the Higher Metaphysic, playing pool; and at dinner only the raff of ordinary club frequenters showed their commonplace and obliterated countenances. None of these, thought Mr. Rolles, would know more on dangerous topics than he knew himself; none of them were fit to give him guidance in his present strait. At length, in the smoking-room, up many weary stairs, he hit upon a gentleman of somewhat portly build and dressed with conspicuous plainness. He was smoking a cigar and reading the "Fortnightly Review"; his face was singularly free from all sign of preoccupation or fatigue; and there was something in his air which seemed to invite confidence and to expect submission.

The more the young clergyman scrutinized his features, the more he was convinced that he had fallen on one capable of giving pertinent advice. "Sir," said he, "you will excuse my abruptness; but I judge you from your appearance to be preeminently a man of the world. "

"I have indeed considerable claims to that distinction," replied the stranger, laying aside his magazine with a look of mingled amusement and surprise.

"I, sir," continued the Curate, "am a recluse, a student, a creature of ink-bottles and patristic folios. A recent event has brought my folly vividly before my eyes, and I desire to instruct myself in life. By life," he added, "I do not mean Thackeray's novels; but the crimes and secret possibilities of our society, and the principles of wise conduct among exceptional events. I am a patient reader; can the thing be learned in books?"

"You put me in a difficulty," said the stranger.

"I confess I have no great notion of the use of books, except to amuse a railway journey; although, I believe, there are some very exact treatises on astronomy, the use of the globes, agriculture, and the art of making paper-flowers. Upon the less apparent provinces of life I fear you will find nothing truthful. Yet stay," he added, "have you read Gaboriau?"
Mr. Rolles admitted he had never even heard the name.

"You may gather some notions from Gaboriau," resumed the stranger. "He is at least suggestive; and as he is an author much studied by Prince Bismarck, you will, at the worst, lose your time in good society." "Sir," said the Curate, "I am infinitely obliged by your politeness.

"

"You have already more than repaid me," returned the other. "How?" inquired Simon. "By the novelty of your request," replied the gentleman; and with a polite gesture, as though to ask permission, he resumed the study of the "Fortnightly Review. "

On his way home Mr. Rolles purchased a work on precious stones and several of Gaboriau's novels.

These last he eagerly skimmed until an advanced hour in the morning; but although they introduced him to many new ideas, he could nowhere discover what to do with a stolen diamond. He was annoyed, moreover, to find the information scattered among romantic story-telling, instead of soberly set forth after the manner of a manual; and he concluded that, even if the writer had thought much upon these subjects, he was totally lacking in educational method. For the character and attainments of Lecoq, however, he was unable to contain his admiration. "He was truly a great creature," ruminated Mr. Rolles. "He knew the world as I know Paley's Evidences.

There was nothing that he could not carry to a termination with his own hand, and against the largest odds.  Heavens!"
he broke out suddenly, "is not this the lesson? Must I not learn to cut diamonds for myself?"
It seemed to him as if he had sailed at once out of his perplexities; he remembered that he knew a jeweler, one B. Macculloch, in Edinburgh, who would be glad to put him in the way of the necessary training; a few months, perhaps a few years, of sordid toil, and he would be sufficiently expert to divide and sufficiently cunning to dispose with advantage of the Rajah's Diamond. That done, he might return to pursue his researches at leisure, a wealthy and luxurious student, envied and respected by all.

Golden visions attended him through his slumber, and he awoke refreshed and light-hearted with the morning sun. Mr. Raeburn's house was on that day to be closed by the police, and this afforded a pretext for his departure. He cheerfully prepared his baggage, transported it to King's Cross, where he left it in the cloak room, and returned to the club to while away the afternoon and dine.

"If you dine here to-day, Rolles," observed an acquaintance, "you may see two of the most remarkable men in England Prince Florizel of Bohemia and old Jack Vandeleur. "

"I have heard of the Prince," replied Mr. Rolles; "and General Vandeleur I have even met in society. "

"General Vandeleur is an ass!" returned the other. "This is his brother John, the biggest adventurer, the best judge of precious stones, and one of the most acute diplomatists in Europe.

Have you never heard of his duel with the Duc de Val d'Orge? of his exploits and atrocities when he was Dictator of Paraguay?

of his dexterity in recovering Sir Samuel Levi's jewelry?
nor of his services in the Indian Mutiny services by which the Government profited, but which the Government dared not recognize? You make me wonder what we mean by fame, or even by infamy; for Jack Vandeleur has prodigious claims to both. Run downstairs," he continued, "take a table near them, and keep your ears open. You will hear some strange talk, or I am much misled."

"But how shall I know them?" inquired the clergyman. "Know them!" cried his friend; "why, the Prince is the finest gentleman in Europe, the only living creature who looks like a king; and as for Jack Vandeleur, if you can imagine Ulysses at seventy years of age, and with a sabre-cut across his face, you have the man before you!
Know them, indeed! Why, you could pick either of them out of a Derby day!"
Rolles eagerly hurried to the dining-room. It was as his friend had asserted; it was impossible to mistake the pair in question.

Old John Vandeleur was of a remarkable force of body, and obviously broken to the most difficult exercises. He had neither the carriage of a swordsman, nor of a sailor, nor yet of one much inured to the saddle; but something made up of all these, and the result and expression of many different habits and dexterities. His features were bold and aquiline; his expression arrogant and predatory; his whole appearance that of a swift, violent, unscrupulous man of action; and his copious white hair and the deep sabre-cut that traversed his nose and temple added a note of savagery to a head already remarkable and menacing in itself.

In his companion, the Prince of Bohemia, Mr. Rolles was astonished to recognize the gentleman who had recommended him the study of Gaboriau. Doubtless Prince Florizel, who rarely visited the club, of which, as of most others, he was an honorary member, had been waiting for John Vandeleur when Simon accosted him on the previous evening. The other diners had modestly retired into the angles of the room, and left the distinguished pair in a certain isolation, but the young clergyman was unrestrained by any sentiment of awe, and, marching boldly up, took his place at the nearest table.

The conversation was, indeed, new to the student's ears. The ex-Dictator of Paraguay stated many extraordinary experiences in different quarters of the world; and the Prince supplied a commentary which, to a man of thought, was even more interesting than the events themselves. Two forms of experience were thus brought together and laid before the young clergyman; and he did not know which to admire the most the desperate actor, or the skilled expert in life; the man who spoke boldly of his own deeds and perils, or the man who seemed, like a god, to know all things and to have suffered nothing. The manner of each aptly fitted with his part in the discourse. The Dictator indulged in brutalities alike of speech and gesture; his hand opened and shut and fell roughly on the table; and his voice was loud and heady.

The Prince, on the other hand, seemed the very type of urbane docility and quiet; the least movement, the least inflection, had with him a weightier significance than all the shouts and pantomime of his companion; and if ever, as must frequently have been the case, he described some experience personal to himself, it was so aptly dissimulated as to pass unnoticed with the rest. At length the talk wandered on to the late robberies and the Rajah's Diamond. "That diamond would be better in the sea," observed Prince Florizel. "As a Vandeleur," replied the Dictator, "your Highness may imagine my dissent.

"
"I speak on grounds of public policy," pursued the Prince. "Jewels so valuable should be reserved for the collection of a Prince or the treasury of a great nation. To hand them about among the common sort of men is to set a price on Virtue's head; and if the Rajah of Kashgar a Prince, I understand, of great enlightenment desired vengeance upon the men of Europe, he could hardly have gone more efficaciously about his purpose than by sending us this apple of discord. There is no honesty too robust for such a trial.

I myself, who have many duties and many privileges of my own I myself, Mr. Vandeleur, could scarce handle the intoxicating crystal and be safe. As for you, who are a diamond-hunter by taste and profession, I do not believe there is a crime in the calendar you would not perpetrate I do not believe you have a friend in the world whom you would not eagerly betray I do not know if you have a family, but if you have I declare you would sacrifice your children and all this for what?

Not to be richer, nor to have more comforts or more respect, but simply to call this diamond yours for a year or two until you die, and now and again to open a safe and look at it as one looks at a picture. "

"It is true," replied Vandeleur. "I have hunted most things, from men and women down to mosquitoes; I have dived for coral; I have followed both whales and tigers; and a diamond is the tallest quarry of the lot.

It has beauty and worth; it alone can properly reward the ardors of the chase. At this moment, as your Highness may fancy, I am upon the trail; I have a sure knack, a wide experience; I know every stone of price in my brother's collection as a shepherd knows his sheep; and I wish I may die if I do not recover them every one!"

"Sir Thomas Vandeleur will have great cause to thank you," said the Prince. "I am not so sure," returned the Dictator, with a laugh.

"One of the Vandeleurs will. Thomas or John Peter or Paul we are all apostles. "

"I did not catch your observation," said the Prince with some disgust. And at the same moment the waiter informed Mr. Vandeleur that his cab was at the door.

Mr. Rolles glanced at the clock, and saw that he also must be moving; and the coincidence struck him sharply and unpleasantly, for he desired to see no more of the diamond-hunter. Much study having somewhat shaken the young man's nerves, he was in the habit of traveling in the most luxurious manner; and for the present journey he had taken a sofa in the sleeping carriage. "You will be very comfortable," said the guard; "there is no one in your compartment, and only one old gentleman in the other end.

"

It was close upon the hour, and the tickets were being examined, when Mr. Rolles beheld this other fellow-passenger ushered by several porters into his place; certainly, there was not another man in the world whom he would not have preferred for it was old John Vandeleur, the ex-Dictator. The sleeping carriages on the Great Northern line were divided into three compartments one at each end for travelers, and one in the centre fitted with the conveniences of a lavatory. A door running in grooves separated each of the others from the lavatory; but as there were neither bolts nor locks, the whole suite was practically common ground. When Mr. Rolles had studied his position, he perceived himself without defense. If the Dictator chose to pay him a visit in the course of the night, he could do no less than receive it; he had no means of fortification, and lay open to attack as if he had been lying in the fields.

This situation caused him some agony of mind. He recalled with alarm the boastful statements of his fellow-traveler across the dining-table, and the professions of immorality which he had heard him offering to the disgusted Prince. Some persons, he remembered to have read, are endowed with a singular quickness of perception for the neighborhood of precious metals; through walls and even at considerable distances they are said to divine the presence of gold.

Might it not be the same with diamonds?
he wondered; and if so, who was more likely to enjoy this transcendental sense than the person who gloried in the appellation of the Diamond Hunter? From such a man he recognized that he had everything to fear, and longed eagerly for the arrival of the day. In the meantime he neglected no precaution, concealed his diamond in the most internal pocket of a system of greatcoats, and devoutly recommended himself to the care of Providence.

The train pursued its usual even and rapid course; and nearly half the journey had been accomplished before slumber began to triumph over uneasiness in the breast of Mr. Rolles. For some time he resisted its influence; but it grew upon him more and more, and a little before York he was fain to stretch himself upon one of the couches and suffer his eyes to close; and almost at the same instant consciousness deserted the young clergyman. His last thought was of his terrifying neighbor.

When he awoke it was still pitch dark except for the flicker of the veiled lamp; and the continual roaring and oscillation testified to the unrelaxed velocity of the train. He sat upright in a panic, for he had been tormented by the most uneasy dreams; it was some seconds before he recovered his self-command; and even after he had resumed a recumbent attitude sleep continued to flee him, and he lay awake with his brain in a state of violent agitation, and his eyes fixed upon the lavatory door. He pulled his clerical felt hat over his brow still further to shield him from the light; and he adopted the usual expedients, such as counting a thousand or banishing thought, by which experienced invalids are accustomed to woo the approach of sleep. In the case of Mr. Rolles they proved one and all vain; he was harassed by a dozen different anxieties the old man in the other end of the carriage haunted him in the most alarming shapes; and in whatever attitude he chose to lie the diamond in his pocket occasioned him a sensible physical distress.

It burned, it was too large, it bruised his ribs; and there were infinitesimal fractions of a second in which he had half a mind to throw it from the window. While he was thus lying, a strange incident took place. The sliding-door into the lavatory stirred a little, and then a little more, and was finally drawn back for the space of about twenty inches. The lamp in the lavatory was unshaded, and in the lighted aperture thus disclosed Mr. Rolles could see the head of Mr. Vandeleur in an attitude of deep attention.

He was conscious that the gaze of the Dictator rested intently on his own face and the instinct of self-preservation moved him to hold his breath, to refrain from the least movement, and keeping his eyes lowered, to watch his visitor from underneath the lashes. After about a moment the head was withdrawn and the door of the lavatory replaced. The Dictator had not come to attack, but to observe; his action was not that of a man threatening another, but that of a man who was himself threatened; if Mr. Rolles was afraid of him, it appeared that he, in his turn, was not quite easy on the score of Mr. Rolles. He had come, it would seem, to make sure that his only fellow-traveler was asleep; and, when satisfied on that point, he had at once withdrawn. The clergyman leaped to his feet.

The extreme of terror had given place to a reaction of foolhardy daring. He reflected that the rattle of the flying train concealed all other sounds, and determined, come what might, to return the visit he had just received. Divesting himself of his cloak, which might have interfered with the freedom of his action, he entered the lavatory and paused to listen. As he had expected, there was nothing to be heard above the roar of the train's progress; and laying his hand on the door at the further side, he proceeded cautiously to draw it back for about six inches.

Then he stopped, and could not contain an ejaculation of surprise. John Vandeleur wore a fur traveling cap with lappets to protect his ears; and this may have combined with the sound of the express to keep him in ignorance of what was going forward. It is certain, at least, that he did not raise his head, but continued without interruption to pursue his strange employment. Between his feet stood an open hat-box; in one hand he held the sleeve of his sealskin greatcoat; in the other a formidable knife, with which he had just slit up the lining of the sleeve.

Mr. Rolles had read of persons carrying money in a belt; and as he had no acquaintance with any but cricket-belts, he had never been able rightly to conceive how this was managed. But here was a stranger thing before his eyes; for John Vandeleur, it appeared, carried diamonds in the lining of his sleeve; and even as the young clergyman gazed, he could see one glittering brilliant drop after another into the hat-box.

He stood riveted to the spot, following this unusual business with his eyes. The diamonds were, for the most part, small, and not easily distinguishable either in shape or fire. Suddenly the Dictator appeared to find a difficulty; he employed both hands and stopped over his task; but it was not until after considerable maneuvring that he extricated a large tiara of diamonds from the lining, and held it up for some seconds' examination before he placed it with the others in the hat-box. The tiara was a ray of light to Mr. Rolles; he immediately recognized it for a part of the treasure stolen from Harry Hartley by the loiterer.

There was no room for mistake; it was exactly as the detective had described it; there were the ruby stars, with a great emerald in the centre; there were the interlacing crescents; and there were the pear-shaped pendants, each a single stone, which gave a special value to Lady Vandeleur's tiara. Mr. Rolles was hugely relieved. The Dictator was as deeply in the affair as he was; neither could tell tales upon the other. In the first glow of happiness, the clergyman suffered a deep sigh to escape him; and as his bosom had become choked and his throat dry during his previous suspense, the sigh was followed by a cough.

Mr. Vandeleur looked up; his face contracted with the blackest and most deadly passion; his eyes opened widely, and his under jaw dropped in an astonishment that was upon the brink of fury. By an instinctive movement he had covered the hat-box with the coat. For half a minute the two men stared upon each other in silence. It was not a long interval, but it sufficed for Mr. Rolles; he was one of those who think swiftly on dangerous occasions; he decided on a course of action of a singularly daring nature; and although he felt he was setting his life upon the hazard, he was the first to break silence.

"I beg your pardon," said he. The Dictator shivered slightly, and when he spoke his voice was hoarse. "What do you want here?"

he asked.

"I take a particular interest in diamonds," replied Mr. Rolles, with an air of perfect self-possession. "Two connoisseurs should be acquainted. I have here a trifle of my own which may perhaps serve for an introduction. "

And so saying, he quietly took the case from his pocket, showed the Rajah's Diamond to the Dictator for an instant, and replaced it in security.

"It was once your brother's," he added. John Vandeleur continued to regard him with a look of almost painful amazement; but he neither spoke nor moved. "I was pleased to observe," resumed the young man, "that we have gems from the same collection. "

The Dictator's surprise overpowered him.

"I beg your pardon," he said; "I begin to perceive that I am growing old! I am positively not prepared for little incidents like this. But set my mind at rest upon one point: do my eyes deceive me, or are you indeed a parson?"
"I am in holy orders," answered Mr. Rolles.

"Well," cried the other, "as long as I live I will never hear another word against the cloth!" "You flatter me," said Mr. Rolles. "Pardon me," replied Vandeleur; "pardon me, young man.

You are no coward, but it still remains to be seen whether you are not the worst of fools. Perhaps," he continued, leaning back upon his seat, "perhaps you would oblige me with a few particulars. I must suppose you had some object in the stupefying impudence of your proceedings, and I confess I have a curiosity to know it."

"It is very simple," replied the clergyman; "it proceeds from my great inexperience of life. " "I shall be glad to be persuaded," answered Vandeleur. Whereupon Mr. Rolles told him the whole story of his connection with the Rajah's Diamond, from the time he found it in Raeburn's garden to the time when he left London in the Flying Scotchman.

He added a brief sketch of his feelings and thoughts during the journey, and concluded in these words:  "When I recognized the tiara I knew we were in the same attitude toward Society, and this inspired me with a hope, which I trust you will say was not ill-founded, that you might become in some sense my partner in the difficulties and, of course, the profits of my situation. To one of your special knowledge and obviously great experience the negotiation of the diamond would give but little trouble, while to me it was a matter of impossibility. On the other part, I judged that I might lose nearly as much by cutting the diamond, and that not improbably with an unskilful hand, as might enable me to pay you with proper generosity for your assistance. The subject was a delicate one to broach; and perhaps I fell short in delicacy.

But I must ask you to remember that for me the situation was a new one, and I was entirely unacquainted with the etiquette in use.

I believe without vanity that I could have married or baptized you in a very acceptable manner; but every man has his own aptitudes, and this sort of bargain was not among the list of my accomplishments." "I do not wish to flatter you," replied Vandeleur; "but, upon my word, you have an unusual disposition for a life of crime. You have more accomplishments than you imagine; and though I have encountered a number of rogues in different quarters of the world, I never met with one so unblushing as yourself.

Cheer up, Mr. Rolles, you are in the right profession at last! As for helping you, you may command me as you will. I have only a day's business in Edinburgh on a little matter for my brother; and once that is concluded, I return to Paris, where I usually reside. If you please you may accompany me thither. And before the end of a month I believe I shall have brought your little business to a satisfactory conclusion.

"

[At this point, contrary to all the canons of his art, our Arabian Author breaks off the "Story of the Young Man in Holy Orders. " I regret and condemn such practises; but I must follow my original, and refer the reader for the conclusion of Mr. Rolles's adventures to the next number of the cycle, the "Story of the House with the Green Blinds."]    STORY OF THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN BLINDS Francis Scrymgeour, a clerk in the Bank of Scotland at Edinburgh, had attained the age of twenty-five in a sphere of quiet, creditable, and domestic life. His mother died while he was young; but his father, a man of sense and probity, had given him an excellent education at school, and brought him up at home to orderly and frugal habits. Francis, who was of a docile and affectionate disposition, profited by these advantages with zeal, and devoted himself heart and soul to his employment.

A walk upon Saturday afternoon, an occasional dinner with members of his family, and a yearly tour of a fortnight in the Highlands or even on the continent of Europe, were his principal distractions, and he grew rapidly in favor with his superiors, and enjoyed already a salary of nearly two hundred pounds a year, with the prospect of an ultimate advance to almost double that amount. Few young men were more contented, few more willing and laborious, than Francis Scrymgeour. Sometimes at night, when he had read the daily paper, he would play upon the flute to amuse his father, for whose qualities he entertained a great respect. One day he received a note from a well-known firm of Writers to the Signet, requesting the favor of an immediate interview with him.

The letter was marked "Private and Confidential," and had been addressed to him at the bank, instead of at home two unusual circumstances which made him obey the summons with the more alacrity. The senior member of the firm, a man of much austerity of manner, made him gravely welcome, requested him to take a seat, and proceeded to explain the matter in hand in the picked expressions of a veteran man of business. A person, who must remain nameless, but of whom the lawyer had every reason to think well a man, in short, of some station in the country desired to make Francis an annual allowance of five hundred pounds.

The capital was to be placed under the control of the lawyer's firm and two trustees who must also remain anonymous. There were conditions annexed to this liberality, but he was of opinion that his new client would find nothing either excessive or dishonorable in the terms; and he repeated these two words with emphasis, as though he desired to commit himself to nothing more. Francis asked their nature. "The conditions," said the Writer to the Signet, "are, as I have twice remarked, neither dishonorable nor excessive.

At the same time I can not conceal from you that they are most unusual. Indeed, the whole case is very much out of our way; and I should certainly have refused it had it not been for the reputation of the gentleman who entrusted it to my care, and, let me add, Mr. Scrymgeour, the interest I have been led to take in yourself by many complimentary and, I have no doubt, well-deserved reports. " Francis entreated him to be more specific.

"You can not picture my uneasiness as to these conditions," he said. "They are two," replied the lawyer, "only two; and the sum, as you will remember, is five hundred a year and unburdened, I forgot to add, unburdened." And the lawyer raised his eyebrows at him with solemn gusto. "The first," he resumed, "is of remarkable simplicity. You must be in Paris by the afternoon of Sunday, the 15th; there you will find, at the box-office of the Comedie Française, a ticket for admission taken in your name and waiting you.

You are requested to sit out the whole performance in the seat provided, and that is all."
"I should certainly have preferred a week-day," replied Francis. "But, after all, once in a way "  "And in Paris, my dear sir," added the lawyer, soothingly. "I believe I am something of a precisian myself, but upon such a consideration, and in Paris, I should not hesitate an instant."

And the pair laughed pleasantly together. "The other is of more importance," continued the Writer to the Signet. "It regards your marriage.

My client, taking a deep interest in your welfare, desires to advise you absolutely in the choice of a wife. Absolutely, you understand," he repeated. "Let us be more explicit, if you please," returned Francis. "Am I to marry any one, maid or widow, black or white, whom this invisible person chooses to propose?"
"I was to assure you that suitability of age and position should be a principle with your benefactor," replied the lawyer.

"As to race, I confess the difficulty had not occurred to me, and I failed to inquire; but if you like I will make a note of it at once, and advise you on the earliest opportunity. "

"Sir," said Francis, "it remains to be seen whether this whole affair is not a most unworthy fraud. The circumstances are inexplicable I had almost said incredible; and until I see a little more daylight, and some plausible motive, I confess I should be very sorry to put a hand to the transaction.

I appeal to you in this difficulty for information. I must learn what is at the bottom of it all. If you do not know, can not guess, or are not at liberty to tell me, I shall take my hat and go back to my bank as I came.

"
"I do not know," answered the lawyer, "but I have an excellent guess. Your father, and no one else, is at the root of this apparently unnatural business."

"My father!" cried Francis, in extreme disdain. "Worthy man, I know every thought of his mind, every penny of his fortune!"
"You misinterpret my words," said the lawyer. "I do not refer to Mr. Scrymgeour, senior; for he is not your father.

When he and his wife came to Edinburgh, you were already nearly one year old, and you had not yet been three months in their care. The secret has been well kept; but such is the fact. Your father is unknown, and I say again that I believe him to be the original of the offers I am charged at present to transmit to you."

It would be impossible to exaggerate the astonishment of Francis Scrymgeour at this unexpected information. He pleaded this confusion to the lawyer. "Sir," said he, "after a piece of news so startling, you must grant me some hours for thought.

You shall know this evening what conclusion I have reached. "

The lawyer commended his prudence; and Francis, excusing himself upon some pretext at the bank, took a long walk into the country, and fully considered the different steps and aspects of the case. A pleasant sense of his own importance rendered him the more deliberate: but the issue was from the first not doubtful. His whole carnal man leaned irresistibly toward the five hundred a year, and the strange conditions with which it was burdened; he discovered in his heart an invincible repugnance to the name of Scrymgeour, which he had never hitherto disliked; he began to despise the narrow and unromantic interests of his former life; and when once his mind was fairly made up, he walked with a new feeling of strength and freedom, and nourished himself with the gayest anticipations.

He said but a word to the lawyer, and immediately received a check for two quarters' arrears; for the allowance was antedated from the first of January. With this in his pocket, he walked home. The flat in Scotland Street looked mean in his eyes; his nostrils, for the first time, rebelled against the odor of broth; and he observed little defects of manner in his adoptive father which filled him with surprise and almost with disgust. The next day, he determined, should see him on his way to Paris.

In that city, where he arrived long before the appointed date, he put up at a modest hotel frequented by English and Italians, and devoted himself to improvement in the French tongue; for this purpose he had a master twice a week, entered into conversation with loiterers in the Champs Elysées, and nightly frequented the theatre. He had his whole toilet fashionably renewed; and was shaved and had his hair dressed every morning by a barber in a neighboring street. This gave him something of a foreign air, and seemed to wipe off the reproach of his past years. At length, on the Saturday afternoon, he betook himself to the box-office of the theatre in the Rue Richelieu. No sooner had he mentioned his name than the clerk produced the order in an envelope of which the address was scarcely dry.

"It has been taken this moment," said the clerk. "Indeed!" said Francis. "May I ask what the gentleman was like?"  "Your friend is easy to describe," replied the official.

"He is old and strong and beautiful, with white hair and a sabre-cut across his face. You can not fail to recognize so marked a person. "

"No, indeed," returned Francis; "and I thank you for your politeness. "

"He can not yet be far distant," added the clerk.

"If you make haste you might still overtake him. "

Francis did not wait to be twice told; he ran precipitately from the theatre into the middle of the street and looked in all directions. More than one white-haired man was within sight; but though he overtook each of them in succession, all wanted the sabre-cut.

For nearly half an hour he tried one street after another in the neighborhood, until at length, recognizing the folly of continued search, he started on a walk to compose his agitated feelings; for this proximity of an encounter with him to whom he could not doubt he owed the day had profoundly moved the young man. It chanced that his way lay up the Rue Drouot and thence up the Rue des Martyrs; and chance, in this case, served him better than all the forethought in the world. For on the outer boulevard he saw two men in earnest colloquy upon a seat. One was dark, young, and handsome, secularly dressed, but with an indelible clerical stamp; the other answered in every particular to the description given him by the clerk. Francis felt his heart beat high in his bosom; he knew he was now about to hear the voice of his father; and making a wide circuit, he noiselessly took his place behind the couple in question, who were too much interested in their talk to observe much else.

As Francis had expected, the conversation was conducted in the English language. "Your suspicions begin to annoy me, Rolles," said the older man. "I tell you I am doing my utmost; a man can not lay his hand on millions in a moment. Have I not taken you up, a mere stranger, out of pure goodwill? Are you not living largely on my bounty?"

"On your advances, Mr. Vandeleur," corrected the other.

"Advances, if you choose; and interest instead of good-will, if you prefer it," returned Vandeleur, angrily. "I am not here to pick expressions. Business is business; and your business, let me remind you, is too muddy for such airs. Trust me, or leave me alone and find some one else; but let us have an end, for God's sake, of your jeremiads."
"I am beginning to learn the world," replied the other, "and I see that you have every reason to play me false, and not one to deal honestly. I am not here to pick expressions, either; you wish the diamond for yourself; you know you do you dare not deny it.

Have you not already forged my name, and searched my lodging in my absence? I understand the cause of your delays; you are lying in wait; you are the diamond-hunter, forsooth; and sooner or later, by fair means or foul, you'll lay your hands upon it. I tell you, it must stop; push me much further and I promise you a surprise. "
"It does not become you to use threats," returned Vandeleur.

"Two can play at that. My brother is here in Paris; the police are on the alert; and if you persist in wearying me with your caterwauling, I will arrange a little astonishment for you, Mr. Rolles. But mine shall be once and for all.

Do you understand, or would you prefer me to tell it you in Hebrew? There is an end to all things, and you have come to the end of my patience. Tuesday, at seven; not a day, not an hour sooner, not the least part of a second, if it were to save your life. And if you do not choose to wait, you may go to the bottomless pit for me, and welcome."

And so saying, the Dictator arose from the bench, and marched off in the direction of Montmartre, shaking his head and swinging his cane with a most furious air; while his companion remained where he was, in an attitude of great dejection. Francis was at the pitch of surprise and horror; his sentiments had been shocked to the last degree; the hopeful tenderness with which he had taken his place upon the bench was transformed into repulsion and despair; old Mr. Scrymgeour, he reflected, was a far more kindly and creditable parent than this dangerous and violent intriguer; but he retained his presence of mind, and suffered not a moment to elapse before he was on the trail of the Dictator. That gentleman's fury carried him forward at a brisk pace, and he was so completely occupied in his angry thoughts that he never so much as cast a look behind him till he reached his own door. His house stood high up in the Rue Lepic, commanding a view of all Paris and enjoying the pure air of the heights. It was two stories high, with green blinds and shutters; and all the windows looking on the street were hermetically closed.

Tops of trees showed over the high garden wall, and the wall was protected by chevaux-de-frise. The Dictator paused a moment while he searched his pocket for a key; and then, opening a gate, disappeared within the enclosure. Francis looked about him; the neighborhood was very lonely; the house isolated in its garden. It seemed as if his observation must here come to an abrupt end.

A second glance, however, showed him a tall house next door presenting a gable to the garden, and in this gable a single window. He passed to the front and saw a ticket offering unfurnished lodgings by the month; and, on inquiry, the room which commanded the Dictator's garden proved to be one of those to let. Francis did not hesitate a moment; he took the room, paid an advance upon the rent, and returned to his hotel to seek his baggage.

The old man with the sabre-cut might or might not be his father; he might or he might not be upon the true scent; but he was certainly on the edge of an exciting mystery, and he promised himself that he would not relax his observation until he had got to the bottom of the secret. From the window of his new apartment Francis Scrymgeour commanded a complete view into the garden of the house with the green blinds. Immediately below him a very comely chestnut with wide boughs sheltered a pair of rustic tables where people might dine in the height of summer. On all sides save one a dense vegetation concealed the soil; but there, between the tables and the house, he saw a patch of gravel walk leading from the veranda to the garden gate.

Studying the place from between the boards of the Venetian shutters, which he durst not open for fear of attracting attention, Francis observed but little to indicate the manners of the inhabitants, and that little argued no more than a close reserve and a taste for solitude. The garden was conventual, the house had the air of a prison.

The green blinds were all drawn down upon the outside; the door into the veranda was closed; the garden, as far as he could see it, was left entirely to itself in the evening sunshine. A modest curl of smoke from a single chimney alone testified to the presence of living people. In order that he might not be entirely idle, and to give a certain color to his way of life, Francis had purchased Euclid's Geometry in French, which he set himself to copy and translate on the top of his portmanteau and seated on the floor against the wall; for he was equally without chair or table. From time to time he would rise and cast a glance into the enclosure of the house with the green blinds; but the windows remained obstinately closed and the garden empty. Only late in the evening did anything occur to reward his continued attention.

Between nine and ten the sharp tinkle of a bell aroused him from a fit of dozing; and he sprang to his observatory in time to hear an important noise of locks being opened and bars removed, and to see Mr. Vandeleur, carrying a lantern and clothed in a flowing robe of black velvet with a skull-cap to match, issue from under the veranda and proceed leisurely toward the garden gate. The sound of bolts and bars was then repeated; and a moment after Francis perceived the Dictator escorting into the house, in the mobile light of the lantern, an individual of the lowest and most despicable appearance. Half an hour afterward the visitor was reconducted to the street; and Mr. Vandeleur, setting his light upon one of the rustic tables, finished a cigar with great deliberation under the foliage of the chestnut. Francis, peering through a clear space among the leaves, was able to follow his gestures as he threw away the ash or enjoyed a copious inhalation; and beheld a cloud upon the old man's brow and a forcible action of the lips which testified to some deep and probably painful train of thought.

The cigar was already almost at an end, when the voice of a young girl was heard suddenly crying the hour from the interior of the house. "In a moment," replied John Vandeleur. And, with that, he threw away the stump and, taking up the lantern, sailed away under the veranda for the night. As soon as the door was closed, absolute darkness fell upon the house. Francis might try his eyesight as much as he pleased, he could not detect so much as a single chink of light below a blind; and he concluded, with great good sense, that the bedchambers were all upon the other side.

Early the next morning (for he was early awake after an uncomfortable night upon the floor), he saw cause to adopt a different explanation. The blinds rose, one after another, by means of a spring in the interior, and disclosed steel shutters such as we see on the front of shops; these in their turn were rolled up by a similar contrivance; and, for the space of about an hour, the chambers were left open to the morning air. At the end of that time Mr. Vandeleur, with his own hand, once more closed the shutters and replaced the blinds from within. While Francis was still marveling at these precautions, the door opened and a young girl came forth to look about her in the garden.

It was not two minutes before she reentered the house, but even in that short time he saw enough to convince him that she possessed the most unusual attractions. His curiosity was not only highly excited by this incident, but his spirits were improved to a still more notable degree. The alarming manners and more than equivocal life of his father ceased from that moment to prey upon his mind; from that moment he embraced his new family with ardor; and whether the young lady should prove his sister or his wife, he felt convinced she was an angel in disguise. So much was this the case that he was seized with a sudden horror when he reflected how little he really knew, and how possible it was that he had followed the wrong person when he followed Mr. Vandeleur. The porter, whom he consulted, could afford him little information; but, such as it was, it had a mysterious and questionable sound.

The person next door was an English gentleman of extraordinary wealth, and proportionately eccentric in his tastes and habits. He possessed great collections, which he kept in the house beside him; and it was to protect these that he had fitted the place with steel shutters, elaborate fastenings, and chevaux-de-frise along the garden wall. He lived much alone, in spite of some strange visitors with whom, it seemed, he had business to transact; and there was no one else in the house, except Mademoiselle and an old woman servant. "Is Mademoiselle his daughter?" inquired Francis. "Certainly," replied the porter.

"Mademoiselle is the daughter of the house; and strange it is to see how she is made to work. For all his riches, it is she who goes to market; and every day in the week you may see her going by with a basket on her arm."

"And the collections?" asked the other. "Sir," said the man, "they are immensely valuable.

More I can not tell you. Since M. de Vandeleur's arrival no one in the quarter has so much as passed the door. "

"Suppose not," returned Francis, "you must surely have some notion what these famous galleries contain.

Is it pictures, silks, statues, jewels, or what?"
"My faith, sir," said the fellow with a shrug, "it might be carrots, and still I could not tell you. How should I know? The house is kept like a garrison, as you perceive. "

And then as Francis was returning disappointed to his room, the porter called him back. "I have just remembered, sir," said he. "M. de Vandeleur has been in all parts of the world, and I once heard the old woman declare that he had brought many diamonds back with him. If that be the truth, there must be a fine show behind those shutters."

By an early hour on Sunday Francis was in his place at the theatre. The seat which had been taken for him was only two or three numbers from the left-hand side, and directly opposite one of the lower boxes. As the seat had been specially chosen there was doubtless something to be learned from its position; and he judged by an instinct that the box upon his right was, in some way or other, to be connected with the drama in which he ignorantly played a part.

Indeed it was so situated that its occupants could safely observe him from beginning to end of the piece, if they were so minded; while, profiting by the depth, they could screen themselves sufficiently well from any counter-examination on his side. He promised himself not to leave it for a moment out of sight; and while he scanned the rest of the theatre, or made a show of attending to the business of the stage, he always kept a corner of an eye upon the empty box. The second act had been some time in progress, and was even drawing toward a close, when the door opened and two persons entered and ensconced themselves in the darkest of the shade. Francis could hardly control his emotion.

It was Mr. Vandeleur and his daughter. The blood came and went in his arteries and veins with stunning activity; his ears sang; his head turned. He dared not look lest he should awake suspicion; his play-bill, which he kept reading from end to end and over and over again, turned from white to red before his eyes; and when he cast a glance upon the stage, it seemed incalculably far away, and he found the voices and gestures of the actors to the last degree impertinent and absurd. From time to time he risked a momentary look in the direction which principally interested him; and once at least he felt certain that his eyes encountered those of the young girl.

A shock passed over his body, and he saw all the colors of the rainbow. What would he not have given to overhear what passed between the Vandeleurs?
What would he not have given for the courage to take up his opera-glass and steadily inspect their attitude and expression?

There, for aught he knew, his whole life was being decided and he not able to interfere, not able even to follow the debate, but condemned to sit and suffer where he was, in impotent anxiety. At last the act came to an end. The curtain fell, and the people around him began to leave their places for the interval. It was only natural that he should follow their example; and if he did so, it was not only natural but necessary that he should pass immediately in front of the box in question.

Summoning all his courage, but keeping his eyes lowered, Francis drew near the spot. His progress was slow, for the old gentleman before him moved with incredible deliberation, wheezing as he went. What was he to do?
Should he address the Vandeleurs by name as he went by?
Should he take the flower from his buttonhole and throw it into the box?

Should he raise his face and direct one long and affectionate look upon the lady who was either his sister or his betrothed?
As he found himself thus struggling among so many alternatives, he had a vision of his old equable existence in the bank, and was assailed by a thought of regret for the past. By this time he had arrived directly opposite the box; and although he was still undetermined what to do or whether to do anything, he turned his head and lifted his eyes.

No sooner had he done so than he uttered a cry of disappointment and remained rooted to the spot. The box was empty. During his slow advance Mr. Vandeleur and his daughter had quietly slipped away. A polite person in his rear reminded him that he was stopping the path; and he moved on again with mechanical footsteps, and suffered the crowd to carry him unresisting out of the theatre.

Once in the street, the pressure ceasing, he came to a halt, and the cool night air speedily restored him to the possession of his faculties. He was surprised to find that his head ached violently, and that he remembered not one word of the two acts which he had witnessed. As the excitement wore away, it was succeeded by an over-weening appetite for sleep, and he hailed a cab and drove to his lodging in a state of extreme exhaustion and some disgust of life. Next morning he lay in wait for Miss Vandeleur on her road to market, and by eight o'clock beheld her stepping down a lane. She was simply, and even poorly, attired; but in the carriage of her head and body there was something flexible and noble that would have lent distinction to the meanest toilet.

Even her basket, so aptly did she carry it, became her like an ornament. It seemed to Francis, as he slipped into a doorway, that the sunshine followed and the shadows fled before her as she walked; and he was conscious, for the first time, of a bird singing in a cage above the lane. He suffered her to pass the doorway, and then, coming forth once more, addressed her by name from behind. "Miss Vandeleur," said he. She turned, and, when she saw who he was, became deadly pale.

"Pardon me," he continued; "Heaven knows I had no will to startle you; and, indeed, there should be nothing startling in the presence of one who wishes you so well as I do. And, believe me, I am acting rather from necessity than choice. We have many things in common, and I am sadly in the dark. There is much that I should be doing, and my hands are tied.

I do not know even what to feel, nor who are my friends and enemies. "

She found her voice with an effort. "I do not know who you are," she said. "Ah, yes!  Miss Vandeleur, you do," returned Francis; "better than I do myself.

Indeed it is on that, above all, that I seek light. Tell me what you know," he pleaded. "Tell me who I am, who you are, and how our destinies are intermixed. Give me a little help with my life, Miss Vandeleur only a word or two to guide me, only the name of my father, if you will and I shall be grateful and content."
"I will not attempt to deceive you," she replied. "I know who you are, but I am not at liberty to say."  "Tell me, at least, that you have forgiven my presumption, and I shall wait with all the patience I have," he said.

"If I am not to know, I must do without. It is cruel, but I can bear more upon a push. Only do not add to my troubles the thought that I have made an enemy of you."
"You did only what was natural," she said, "and I have nothing to forgive you. Farewell."
"Is it to be farewell?"
he asked. "Nay, that I do not know myself," she answered.

"Farewell for the present, if you like." And with these words she was gone. Francis returned to his lodging in a state of considerable commotion of mind. He made the most trifling progress with his Euclid for that forenoon, and was more often at the window than at his improvised writing-table. But beyond seeing the return of Miss Vandeleur, and the meeting between her and her father, who was smoking a Trichinopoli cigar in the veranda, there was nothing notable in the neighborhood of the house with the green blinds before the time of the midday meal.

The young man hastily allayed his appetite in a neighboring restaurant, and returned with the speed of unallayed curiosity to the house in the Rue Lepic. A mounted servant was leading a saddle-horse to and fro before the garden wall; and the porter of Francis's lodging was smoking a pipe against the door-post, absorbed in contemplation of the livery and the steeds. "Look!" he cried to the young man, "what fine cattle!

what an elegant costume! They belong to the brother of M. de Vandeleur, who is now within upon a visit.

He is a great man, a general, in your country; and you doubtless know him well by reputation." "I confess," returned Francis, "that I have never heard of General Vandeleur before. We have many officers of that grade, and my pursuits have been exclusively civil. "

"It is he," replied the porter, "who lost the great diamond of the Indies.

Of that at least you must have read often in the papers." As soon as Francis could disengage himself from the porter he ran upstairs and hurried to the window. Immediately below the clear space in the chestnut leaves, the two gentlemen were seated in conversation over a cigar. The General, a red, military-looking man, offered some traces of a family resemblance to his brother; he had something of the same features, something, although very little, of the same free and powerful carriage; but he was older, smaller, and more common in air; his likeness was that of a caricature, and he seemed altogether a poor and debile being by the side of the Dictator. They spoke in tones so low, leaning over the table with every appearance of interest, that Francis could catch no more than a word or two on an occasion.

For as little as he heard, he was convinced that the conversation turned upon himself and his own career; several times the name of Scrymgeour reached his ear, for it was easy to distinguish, and still more frequently he fancied he could distinguish the name Francis. At length the General, as if in a hot anger, broke forth into several violent exclamations. "Francis Vandeleur!" he cried, accentuating the last word.

"Francis Vandeleur, I tell you. "

The Dictator made a movement of his whole body, half affirmative, half contemptuous, but his answer was inaudible to the young man. Was he the Francis Vandeleur in question?
he wondered.

Were they discussing the name under which he was to be married? Or was the whole affair a dream and a delusion of his own conceit and self-absorption? After another interval of inaudible talk, dissension seemed again to arise between the couple underneath the chestnut, and again the General raised his voice angrily so as to be audible to Francis. "My wife?" he cried.

"I have done with my wife for good. I will not hear her name. I am sick of her very name. "

And he swore aloud and beat the table with his fist.

The Dictator appeared, by his gestures, to pacify him after a paternal fashion; and a little after he conducted him to the garden gate. The pair shook hands affectionately enough; but as soon as the door had closed behind his visitor, John Vandeleur fell into a fit of laughter which sounded unkindly and even devilish in the ears of Francis Scrymgeour. So another day had passed, and little more learned. But the young man remembered that the morrow was Tuesday, and promised himself some curious discoveries; all might be well, or all might be ill; he was sure, at least, to glean some curious information, and, perhaps, by good luck, get at the heart of the mystery which surrounded his father and his family.

As the hour of the dinner drew near many preparations were made in the garden of the house with the green blinds. That table which was partly visible to Francis through the chestnut leaves was destined to serve as a sideboard, and carried relays of plates and the materials for salad; the other, which was almost entirely concealed, had been set apart for the diners, and Francis could catch glimpses of white cloth and silver plate. Mr. Rolles arrived, punctual to the minute; he looked like a man upon his guard, and spoke low and sparingly.

The Dictator, on the other hand, appeared to enjoy an unusual flow of spirits; his laugh, which was youthful and pleasant to hear, sounded frequently from the garden; by the modulation and the changes of his voice it was obvious that he told many droll stories and imitated the accents of a variety of different nations; and before he and the young clergyman had finished their vermuth all feeling of distrust was at an end, and they were talking together like a pair of school companions. At length Miss Vandeleur made her appearance, carrying the soup-tureen. Mr. Rolles ran to offer her assistance which she laughingly refused; and there was an interchange of pleasantries among the trio which seemed to have reference to this primitive manner of waiting by one of the company.

"One is more at one's ease," Mr. Vandeleur was heard to declare. Next moment they were all three in their places, and Francis could see as little as he could hear of what passed. But the dinner seemed to go merrily; there was a perpetual babble of voices and sound of knives and forks below the chestnut; and Francis, who had no more than a roll to gnaw, was affected with envy by the comfort and deliberation of the meal.

The party lingered over one dish after another, and then over a delicate dessert, with a bottle of old wine carefully uncorked by the hand of the Dictator himself. As it began to grow dark a lamp was set upon the table and a couple of candles on the sideboard; for the night was perfectly pure, starry, and windless. Light overflowed besides from the door and window in the veranda, so that the garden was fairly illuminated and the leaves twinkled in the darkness. For perhaps the tenth time Miss Vandeleur entered the house; and on this occasion she returned with the coffee-tray, which she placed upon the sideboard.

At the same moment her father rose from his seat. "The coffee is my province," Francis heard him say. And next moment he saw his supposed father standing by the sideboard in the light of the candles.

Talking over his shoulder all the while, Mr. Vandeleur poured out two cups of the brown stimulant, and then, by a rapid act of prestidigitation, emptied the contents of a tiny phial into the smaller of the two. The thing was so swiftly done that even Francis, who looked straight into his face, had hardly time to perceive the movement before it was completed. And next instant, and still laughing, Mr. Vandeleur had turned again toward the table with a cup in either hand. "Ere we have done with this," said he, "we may expect our famous Hebrew.

"

It would be impossible to depict the confusion and distress of Francis Scrymgeour. He saw foul play going forward before his eyes, and he felt bound to interfere, but knew not how. It might be a mere pleasantry, and then how should he look if he were to offer an unnecessary warning?
Or again, if it were serious, the criminal might be his own father, and then how should he not lament if he were to bring ruin on the author of his days?

For the first time he became conscious of his own position as a spy. To wait inactive at such a juncture and with such a conflict of sentiments in his bosom was to suffer the most acute torture; he clung to the bars of the shutters, his heart beat fast and with irregularity, and he felt a strong sweat break forth upon his body. Several minutes passed. He seemed to perceive the conversation die away and grow less and less in vivacity and volume; but still no sign of any alarming or even notable event.

Suddenly the ring of a glass breaking was followed by a faint and dull sound, as of a person who should have fallen forward with his head upon the table. At the same moment a piercing scream rose from the garden. "What have you done?" cried Miss Vandeleur. "He is dead!"
The Dictator replied in a violent whisper, so strong and sibilant that every word was audible to the watcher at the window.

"Silence!" said Mr. Vandeleur; "the man is as well as I am. Take him by the heels while I carry him by the shoulders. "

Francis heard Miss Vandeleur break forth into a passion of tears. "Do you hear what I say?" resumed the Dictator, in the same tones.

"Or do you wish to quarrel with me?

I give you your choice, Miss Vandeleur. "
There was another pause, and the Dictator spoke again. "Take that man by the heels," he said. "I must have him brought into the house.

If I were a little younger, I could help myself against the world. But now that years and dangers are upon me and my hands are weakened, I must turn to you for aid.

"

"It is a crime," replied the girl. "I am your father," said Mr. Vandeleur. This appeal seemed to produce its effect.

A scuffling noise followed upon the gravel, a chair was overset, and then Francis saw the father and daughter stagger across the walk and disappear under the veranda, bearing the inanimate body of Mr. Rolles embraced about the knees and shoulders. The young clergyman was limp and pallid, and his head rolled upon his shoulders at every step. Was he alive or dead?

Francis, in spite of the Dictator's declaration, inclined to the latter view. A great crime had been committed; a great calamity had fallen upon the inhabitants of the house with the green blinds. To his surprise, Francis found all horror for the deed swallowed up in sorrow for a girl and an old man whom he judged to be in the height of peril. A tide of generous feeling swept into his heart; he, too, would help his father against man and mankind, against fate and justice; and casting open the shutters he closed his eyes and threw himself with outstretched arms into the foliage of the chestnut.

Branch after branch slipped from his grasp or broke under his weight; then he caught a stalwart bough under his armpit, and hung suspended for a second; and then he let himself drop and fell heavily against the table. A cry of alarm from the house warned him that his entrance had not been effected unobserved. He recovered himself with a stagger, and in three bounds crossed the intervening space and stood before the door in the veranda.

In a small apartment, carpeted with matting and surrounded by glazed cabinets full of rare and costly curios, Mr. Vandeleur was stooping over the body of Mr. Rolles. He raised himself as Francis entered, and there was an instantaneous passage of hands. It was the business of a second; as fast as an eye can wink the thing was done; the young man had not the time to be sure, but it seemed to him as if the Dictator had taken something from the curate's breast, looked at it for the least fraction of time as it lay in his hand, and then suddenly and swiftly passed it to his daughter. All this was over while Francis had still one foot upon the threshold, and the other raised in air. The next instant he was on his knees to Mr. Vandeleur.

"Father!"
he cried. "Let me too help you. I will do what you wish and ask no questions; I will obey you with my life; treat me as a son, and you will find I have a son's demotion. "

A deplorable explosion of oaths was the Dictator's first reply. "Son and father?" he cried.

"Father and son?
What dd unnatural comedy is all this?
How do you come in my garden? What do you want?
And who, in God's name, are you?"  Francis, with a stunned and shamefaced aspect, got upon his feet again, and stood in silence. Then a light seemed to break upon Mr. Vandeleur, and he laughed aloud. "I see," cried he. "It is the Scrymgeour.

Very well, Mr. Scrymgeour.

Let me tell you in a few words how you stand. You have entered my private residence by force, or perhaps by fraud, but certainly with no encouragement from me; and you come at a moment of some annoyance, a guest having fainted at my table, to besiege me with your protestations. You are no son of mine. You are my brother's bastard by a fishwife, if you want to know. I regard you with an indifference closely bordering on aversion; and from what I now see of your conduct, I judge your mind to be exactly suitable to your exterior.

I recommend you these mortifying reflections for your leisure; and, in the meantime, let me beseech you to rid us of your presence. If I were not occupied," added the Dictator, with a terrifying oath, "I should give you the unholiest drubbing ere you went!" Francis listened in profound humiliation. He would have fled had it been possible; but as he had no means of leaving the residence into which he had so unfortunately penetrated, he could do no more than stand foolishly where he was.

It was Miss Vandeleur who broke the silence. "Father," she said, "you speak in anger. Mr. Scrymgeour may have been mistaken, but he meant well and kindly. " "Thank you for speaking," returned the Dictator. "You remind me of some other observations which I hold it a point of honor to make to Mr. Scrymgeour.

My brother," he continued, addressing the young man, "has been foolish enough to give you an allowance; he was foolish enough and presumptuous enough to propose a match between you and this young lady. You were exhibited to her two nights ago; and I rejoice to tell you that she rejected the idea with disgust. Let me add that I have considerable influence with your father; and it shall not be my fault if you are not beggared of your allowance and sent back to your scrivening ere the week be out.

"

The tones of the old man's voice were, if possible, more wounding than his language; Francis felt himself exposed to the most cruel, blighting, and unbearable contempt; his head turned, and he covered his face with his hands, uttering at the same time a tearless sob of agony. But Miss Vandeleur once again interfered in his behalf.

"Mr. Scrymgeour," she said, speaking in clear and even tones, "you must not be concerned at my father's harsh expressions. I felt no disgust for you; on the contrary, I asked an opportunity to make your better acquaintance. As for what has passed to-night, believe me, it has filled my mind with both pity and esteem. "

Just then Mr. Rolles made a convulsive movement with his arm, which convinced Francis that he was only drugged, and was beginning to throw off the influence of the opiate.

Mr. Vandeleur stooped over him and examined his face for an instant. "Come, come!" cried he, raising his head. "Let there be an end of this. And since you are so pleased with his conduct, Miss Vandeleur, take a candle and show the bastard out.

"
The young lady hastened to obey. "Thank you," said Francis, as soon as he was alone with her in the garden. "I thank you from my soul.

This has been the bitterest evening of my life, but it will have always one pleasant recollection. "

"I spoke as I felt," she replied, "and in justice to you. It made my heart sorry that you should be so unkindly used. "

By this time they had reached the garden gate; and Miss Vandeleur, having set the candle on the ground, was already unfastening the bolts. "One word more," said Francis.

"This is not for the last time I shall see you again,

shall I not?"  "Alas!"
she answered. "You have heard my father. What can I do but obey?"  "Tell me at least that it is not with your consent," returned Francis; "tell me that you have no wish to see the last of me."
"Indeed," replied she, "I have none.

You seem to me both brave and honest."

"Then," said Francis, "give me a keepsake. " She paused for a moment, with her hand upon the key; for the various bars and bolts were all undone, and there was nothing left but to open the lock. "If I agree," she said, "will you promise to do as I tell you from point to point?"

"Can you ask?" replied Francis. "I would do so willingly on your bare word. "

She turned the key and threw open the door.

"Be it so," said she. "You do not know what you ask, but be it so.
Whatever you hear," she continued, "whatever happens, do not return to this house; hurry fast until you reach the lighted and populous quarters of the city; even there be upon your guard. You are in a greater danger than you fancy.

Promise me you will not so much as look at my keepsake until you are in a place of safety. "

"I promise," replied Francis. She put something loosely wrapped in a handkerchief into the young man's hand; and at the same time, with more strength than he could have anticipated, she pushed him into the street. "Now, run!"

she cried. He heard the door close behind him, and the noise of the bolts being replaced.

"My faith," said he, "since I have promised!" And he took to his heels down the lane that leads into the Rue Ravignan. He was not fifty paces from the house with the green blinds when the most diabolical outcry suddenly arose out of the stillness of the night.

Mechanically he stood still; another passenger followed his example; in the neighboring floors he saw people crowding to the windows; a conflagration could not have produced more disturbance in this empty quarter. And yet it seemed to be all the work of a single man, roaring between grief and rage, like a lioness robbed of her whelps; and Francis was surprised and alarmed to hear his own name shouted with English imprecations to the wind. His first movement was to return to the house; his second, as he remembered Miss Vandeleur's advice, to continue his flight with greater expedition than before; and he was in the act of turning to put his thought in action, when the Dictator, bare-headed, bawling aloud, his white hair blowing about his head, shot past him like a ball out of the cannon's mouth, and went careering down the street. "That was a close shave," thought Francis to himself. "What he wants with me, and why he should be so disturbed, I can not think; but he is plainly not good company for the moment, and I can not do better than follow Miss Vandeleur's advice.

"

So saying, he turned to retrace his steps, thinking to double and descend by the Rue Lepic itself while his pursuer should continue to follow after him on the other line of street. The plan was ill-devised: as a matter of fact, he should have taken his seat in the nearest café, and waited there until the first heat of the pursuit was over. But besides that Francis had no experience and little natural aptitude for the small war of private life, he was so unconscious of any evil on his part, that he saw nothing to fear beyond a disagreeable interview.

And to disagreeable interviews he felt he had already served his apprenticeship that evening; nor could he suppose that Miss Vandeleur had left anything unsaid. Indeed, the young man was sore both in body and mind the one was all bruised, the other was full of smarting arrows; and he owned to himself that Mr. Vandeleur was master of a very deadly tongue. The thought of his bruises reminded him that he had not only come without a hat, but that his clothes had considerably suffered in his descent through the chestnut. At the first magazine he purchased a cheap wideawake, and had the disorder of his toilet summarily repaired.

The keepsake, still rolled in the handkerchief, he thrust in the meanwhile into his trousers pocket. Not many steps beyond the shop he was conscious of a sudden shock, a hand upon his throat, an infuriated face close to his own, and an open mouth bawling curses in his ear. The Dictator, having found no trace of his quarry, was returning by the other way. Francis was a stalwart young fellow, but he was no match for his adversary whether in strength or skill; and after a few ineffectual struggles he resigned himself entirely to his captor. "What do you want with me?" said he.

"We will talk of that at home," returned the Dictator, grimly. And he continued to march the young man up hill in the direction of the house with the green blinds. But Francis, although he no longer struggled, was only waiting an opportunity to make a bold push for freedom.

With a sudden jerk he left the collar of his coat in the hands of Mr. Vandeleur, and once more made off at his best speed in the direction of the Boulevards. The tables were now turned. If the Dictator was the stronger, Francis, in the top of his youth, was the more fleet of foot, and he had soon effected his escape among the crowds. Relieved for a moment, but with a growing sentiment of alarm and wonder in his mind, he walked briskly until he debouched upon the Place de l'Opera, lit up like day with electric lamps.

"This, at least," thought he, "should satisfy Miss Vandeleur. "

And turning to his right along the Boulevards, he entered the Café Americain and ordered some beer. It was both late and early for the majority of the frequenters of the establishment. Only two or three persons, all men, were dotted here and there at separate tables in the hall; and Francis was too much occupied by his own thoughts to observe their presence.

He drew the handkerchief from his pocket. The object wrapped in it proved to be a morocco case, clasped and ornamented in gilt, which opened by means of a spring, and disclosed to the horrified young man a diamond of monstrous bigness and extraordinary brilliancy. The circumstance was so inexplicable, the value of the stone was plainly so enormous, that Francis sat staring into the open casket without movement, without conscious thought, like a man stricken suddenly with idiocy.

A hand was laid upon his shoulder, lightly but firmly, and a quiet voice, which yet had in it the ring of command, uttered these words in his ear:  "Close the casket, and compose your face."  Looking up, he beheld a man, still young, of an urbane and tranquil presence, and dressed with rich simplicity. This personage had risen from a neighboring table, and, bringing his glass with him, had taken a seat beside Francis. "Close the casket," repeated the stranger, "and put it quietly back into your pocket, where I feel persuaded it should never have been.

Try, if you please, to throw off your bewildered air, and act as thought I were one of your acquaintances whom you had met by chance. So!
Touch glasses with me.

That is better. I fear, sir, you must be an amateur." And the stranger pronounced these last words with a smile of peculiar meaning, leaned back in his seat, and enjoyed a deep inhalation of tobacco.

"For God's sake," said Francis, "tell me who you are and what this means?
Why I should obey your most unusual suggestions I am sure I know not; but the truth is, I have fallen this evening into so many perplexing adventures, and all I meet conduct themselves so strangely, that I think I must either have gone mad or wandered into another planet Your face inspires me with confidence; you seem wise, good, and experienced; tell me, for Heaven's sake, why you accost me in so odd a fashion?"
"All in due time," replied the stranger. "But I have the first hand, and you must begin by telling me how the Rajah's Diamond is in your possession." "The Rajah's Diamond!" echoed Francis. "I would not speak so loud, if I were you," returned the other.

"But most certainly you have the Rajah's Diamond in your pocket. I have seen and handled it a score of times in Sir Thomas Vandeleur's collection." "Sir Thomas Vandeleur!
The General!

My father!" cried Francis. "Your father?" repeated the stranger. "I was not aware the General had any family." "I am illegitimate, sir," replied Francis, with a flush. The other bowed with gravity.

It was a respectful bow, as of a man silently apologizing to his equal; and Francis felt relieved and comforted, he scarce knew why. The society of this person did him good; he seemed to touch firm ground; a strong feeling of respect grew up in his bosom, and mechanically he removed his wideawake as though in the presence of a superior. "I perceive," said the stranger, "that your adventures have not all been peaceful. Your collar is torn, your face is scratched, you have a cut upon your temple; you will, perhaps, pardon my curiosity when I ask you to explain how you came by these injuries, and how you happen to have stolen property to an enormous value in your pocket. "

"I must differ from you!"

returned Francis, hotly. "I possess no stolen property. And if you refer to the diamond, it was given to me not an hour ago by Miss Vandeleur in the Rue Lepic."
"By Miss Vandeleur of the Rue Lepic!" repeated the other.

"You interest me more than you suppose. Pray continue. "

"Heavens!" cried Francis. His memory had made a sudden bound.

He had seen Mr. Vandeleur take an article from the breast of his drugged visitor, and that article, he was now persuaded, was a morocco case. "You have a light?" inquired the stranger. "Listen," replied Francis. "I know not who you are, but I believe you to be worthy of confidence and helpful; I find myself in strange waters; I must have counsel and support, and since you invite me I shall tell you all." And he briefly recounted his experiences since the day when he was summoned from the bank by his lawyer.

"Yours is indeed a remarkable history," said the stranger, after the young man had made an end of his narrative; "and your position is full of difficulty and peril. Many would counsel you to seek out your father, and give the diamond to him; but I have other views. Waiter!

"

he cried. The waiter drew near. "Will you ask the manager to speak with me a moment?" said he; and Francis observed once more, both in his tone and manner, the evidence of a habit of command.

The waiter withdrew, and returned in a moment with the manager, who bowed with obsequious respect. "What," said he, "can I do to serve you?"  "Have the goodness," replied the stranger, indicating Francis, "to tell this gentleman my name. " "You have the honor, sir," said the functionary, addressing young Scrymgeour, "to occupy the same table with His Highness Prince Florizel of Bohemia.

"
Francis rose with precipitation, and made a grateful reverence to the Prince, who bade him resume his seat. "I thank you," said Florizel, once more addressing the functionary; "I am sorry to have deranged you for so small a matter. "

And he dismissed him with a movement of his hand.

"And now," added the Prince, turning to Francis, "give me the diamond. "

Without a word the casket was handed over.
"You have done right," said Florizel; "your sentiments have properly inspired you, and you will live to be grateful for the misfortunes of to-night. A man, Mr. Scrymgeour, may fall into a thousand perplexities, but if his heart be upright and his intelligence unclouded, he will issue from them all without dishonor.

Let your mind be at rest; your affairs are in my hand; and with the aid of Heaven I am strong enough to bring them to a good end. Follow me, if you please, to my carriage.
" So saying, the Prince arose and, having left a piece of gold for the waiter, conducted the young man from the café and along the Boulevard to where an unpretentious brougham and a couple of servants out of livery awaited his arrival.

"This carriage," said he, "is at your disposal; collect your baggage as rapidly as you can make it convenient, and my servants will conduct you to a villa in the neighborhood of Paris where you can wait in some degree of comfort until I have had time to arrange your situation. You will find there a pleasant garden, a library of good authors, a cook, a cellar, and some good cigars, which I recommend to your attention. Jerome," he added, turning to one of the servants, "you have heard what I say; I leave Mr. Scrymgeour in your charge; you will, I know, be careful of my friend. " Francis uttered some broken phrases of gratitude.

"It will be time enough to thank me," said the Prince, "when you are acknowledged by your father and married to Miss Vandeleur. "

And with that the Prince turned away and strolled leisurely in the direction of Montmarte. He hailed the first passing cab, gave an address, and a quarter of an hour afterward, having discharged the driver some distance lower, he was knocking at Mr. Vandeleur's garden-gate.

It was opened with singular precautions by the Dictator in person. "Who are you?" he demanded. "You must pardon me this late visit, Mr. Vandeleur," replied the Prince. "Your Highness is always welcome," returned Mr. Vandeleur, stepping back.

The Prince profited by the open space, and without waiting for his host walked right into the house and opened the door of the salon. Two people were seated there; one was Miss Vandeleur, who bore the marks of weeping about her eyes, and was still shaken from time to time by a sob; in the other the Prince recognized the young man who had consulted him on literary matters about a month before, in a club smoking-room. "Good-evening, Miss Vandeleur," said Florizel; "you look fatigued.

Mr. Rolles, I believe? I hope you have profited by the study of Gaboriau, Mr. Rolles." But the young clergyman's temper was too much embittered for speech; and he contented himself with bowing stiffly, and continued to gnaw his lip.

"To what good wind," said Mr. Vandeleur, following his guest, "am I to attribute the honor of your Highness's presence?" "I am come on business," returned the Prince; "on business with you; as soon as that is settled I shall request Mr. Rolles to accompany me for a walk. Mr. Rolles," he added, with severity, "let me remind you that I have not yet sat down.

"
The clergyman sprang to his feet with an apology; whereupon the Prince took an armchair beside the table, handed his hat to Mr. Vandeleur, his cane to Mr. Rolles, and, leaving them standing and thus menially employed upon his service, spoke as follows:  "I have come here, as I said, upon business; but, had I come looking for pleasure, I could not have been more displeased with my reception nor more dissatisfied with my company. You, sir," addressing Mr. Rolles, "you have treated your superior in station with discourtesy; you, Vandeleur, receive me with a smile, but you know right well that your hands are not yet cleansed from misconduct. I do not desire to be interrupted, sir," he added, imperiously; "I am here to speak, and not to listen; and I have to ask you to hear me with respect, and to obey punctiliously. At the earliest possible date your daughter shall be married at the Embassy to my friend, Francis Scrymgeour, your brother's acknowledged son. You will oblige me by offering not less than ten thousand pounds dowry.

For yourself, I will indicate to you in writing a mission of some importance in Siam which I destine to your care. And now, sir, you will answer me in two words whether or not you agree to these conditions. "

"Your Highness will pardon me," said Mr. Vandeleur, "and permit me, with all respect, to submit to him two queries?"
"The permission is granted," replied the Prince.

"Your Highness," resumed the Dictator, "has called Mr. Scrymgeour his friend. Believe me, had I known he was thus honored, I should have treated him with proportional respect. "

"You interrogate adroitly," said the Prince; "but it will not serve your turn.

You have my commands; if I had never seen that gentleman before to-night, it would not render them less absolute. "
"Your Highness interprets my meaning with his usual subtlety," returned Vandeleur. "Once more: I have, unfortunately, put the police upon the track of Mr. Scrymgeour on a charge of theft; am I to withdraw or to uphold the accusation?"
"You will please yourself," replied Florizel. "The question is one between your conscience and the laws of this land.

Give me my hat; and you, Mr. Rolles, give me my cane and follow me.

Miss Vandeleur, I wish you good-evening. I judge," he added to Vandeleur, "that your silence means unqualified assent." "If I can do no better," replied the old man, "I shall submit; but I warn you openly it shall not be without a struggle. "
"You are old," said the Prince; "but years are disgraceful to the wicked. Your age is more unwise than the youth of others.

Do not provoke me, or you may find me harder than you dream. This is the first time that I have fallen across your path in anger; take care that it be the last. "

With these words, motioning the clergyman to follow, Florizel left the apartment and directed his steps toward the garden gate; and the Dictator, following with a candle, gave them light, and once more undid the elaborate fastenings with which he sought to protect himself from intrusion. "Your daughter is no longer present," said the Prince, turning on the threshold. "Let me tell you that I understand your threats; and you have only to lift your hand to bring upon yourself sudden and irremediable ruin.

"

The Dictator made no reply; but as the Prince turned his back upon him in the lamplight he made a gesture full of menace and insane fury; and the next moment, slipping round a corner, he was running at full speed for the nearest cab-stand. [Here, says my Arabian, the thread of events is finally diverted from "The House with the Green Blinds. "

One more adventure, he adds, and we have done with "The Rajah's Diamond." That last link in the chain is known among the inhabitants of Bagdad by the name of "The Adventure of Prince Florizel and a Detective."]    THE ADVENTURE OF PRINCE FLORIZEL AND A DETECTIVE  Prince Florizel walked with Mr. Rolles to the door of a small hotel where the latter resided.

They spoke much together, and the clergyman was more than once affected to tears by the mingled severity and tenderness of Florizel's reproaches. "I have made ruin of my life," he said at last. "Help me; tell me what I am to do; I have, alas!

neither the virtues of a priest nor the dexterity of a rogue. "

"Now that you are humbled," said the Prince, "I command no longer; the repentant have to do with God and not with princes. But if you will let me advise you, go to Australia as a colonist, seek menial labor in the open air, and try to forget that you have ever been a clergyman, or that you ever set eyes on that accursed stone."
"Accursed, indeed!" replied Mr. Rolles.

"Where is it now? What further hurt is it not working for mankind?" "It will do no more evil," returned the Prince. "It is here in my pocket.

And this," he added, kindly, "will show that I place some faith in your penitence, young as it is."

"Suffer me to touch your hand," pleaded Mr. Rolles. "No," replied Prince Florizel, "not yet. " The tone in which he uttered these last words was eloquent in the ears of the young clergyman; and for some minutes after the Prince had turned away he stood on the threshold following with his eyes the retreating figure and invoking the blessing of Heaven upon a man so excellent in counsel. For several hours the Prince walked alone in unfrequented streets. His mind was full of concern; what to do with the diamond, whether to return it to its owner, whom he judged unworthy of this rare possession, or to take some sweeping and courageous measure and put it out of the reach of all mankind at once and forever, was a problem too grave to be decided in a moment.

The manner in which it had come into his hands appeared manifestly providential; and as he took out the jewel and looked at it under the street lamps, its size and surprising brilliancy inclined him more and more to think of it as of an unmixed and dangerous evil for the world. "God help me!"

he thought; "if I look at it much oftener I shall begin to grow covetous myself." At last, though still uncertain in his mind, he turned his steps toward the small but elegant mansion on the riverside which had belonged for centuries to his royal family.

The arms of Bohemia are deeply graved over the door and upon the tall chimneys; passengers have a look into a green court set with the most costly flowers, and a stork, the only one in Paris, perches on the gable all day long and keeps a crowd before the house. Grave servants are seen passing to and fro within; and from time to time the great gate is thrown open and a carriage rolls below the arch. For many reasons this residence was especially dear to the heart of Prince Florizel; he never drew near to it without enjoying that sentiment of home-coming so rare in the lives of the great; and on the present evening he beheld its tall roof and mildly illuminated windows with unfeigned relief and satisfaction. As he was approaching the postern-door by which he always entered when alone, a man stepped forth from the shadow and presented himself with an obeisance in the Prince's path. "I have the honor of addressing Prince Florizel of Bohemia?" said he.

"Such is my title," replied the Prince. "What do you want with me?"  "I am," said the man, "a detective, and I have to present your Highness with this billet from the Prefect of Police. "

The Prince took the letter and glanced it through by the light of the street lamp.

It was highly apologetic, but requested him to follow the bearer to the Prefecture without delay. "In short," said Florizel, "I am arrested. "

"Your Highness," replied the officer, "nothing, I am certain, could be further from the intention of the Prefect. You will observe that he has not granted a warrant.

It is mere formality, or call it, if you prefer, an obligation that your Highness lays on the authorities. " "At the same time," asked the Prince, "if I were to refuse to follow you?"

"I will not conceal from your Highness that a considerable discretion has been granted me," replied the detective with a bow. "Upon my word," cried Florizel, "your effrontery astounds me!
Yourself, as an agent, I must pardon; but your superiors shall dearly smart for their misconduct. What, have you any idea, is the cause of this impolitic and unconstitutional act?

You will observe that I have as yet neither refused nor consented, and much may depend on your prompt and ingenuous answer. Let me remind you, officer, that this is an affair of some gravity.
" "Your Highness," said the detective humbly, "General Vandeleur and his brother have had the incredible presumption to accuse you of theft. The famous diamond, they declare, is in your hands. A word from you in denial will most amply satisfy the Prefect; nay, I go further: if your Highness would so far honor a subaltern as to declare his ignorance of the matter even to myself, I should ask permission to retire upon the spot.

"

Florizel, up to the last moment, had regarded his adventure in the light of a trifle, only serious upon international considerations. At the name of Vandeleur the horrible truth broke upon him in a moment; he was not only arrested, but he was guilty. This was not only an annoying incident it was a peril to his honor.

What was he to say?
What was he to do? The Rajah's Diamond was indeed an accursed stone; and it seemed as if he were to be the last victim to its influence. One thing was certain. He could not give the required assurance to the detective. He must gain time.

His hesitation had not lasted a second. "Be it so," said he, "let us walk together to the Prefecture. "

The man once more bowed, and proceeded to follow Florizel at a respectful distance in the rear. "Approach," said the Prince.

"I am in a humor to talk, and, if I mistake not, now I look at you again, this is not the first time that we have met. "

"I count it an honor," replied the officer, "that your Highness should recollect my face. It is eight years since I had the pleasure of an interview.

"

"To remember faces," returned Florizel, "is as much a part of my profession as it is of yours. Indeed, rightly looked upon, a Prince and a detective serve in the same corps. We are both combatants against crime; only mine is the more lucrative and yours the more dangerous rank, and there is a sense in which both may be made equally honorable to a good man. I had rather, strange as you may think it, be a detective of character and parts than a weak and ignoble sovereign. "
The officer was overwhelmed.

"Your Highness returns good for evil," said he. "To an act of presumption he replies by the most amiable condescension. "

"How do you know," replied Florizel, "that I am not seeking to corrupt you?"

"Heaven preserve me from the temptation!" cried the detective.

"I applaud your answer," returned the Prince. "It is that of a wise and honest man. The world is a great place and stocked with wealth and beauty, and there is no limit to the rewards that may be offered. Such a one who would refuse a million of money may sell his honor for an empire or the love of a woman; and I myself, who speak to you, have seen occasions so tempting, provocations so irresistible to the strength of human virtue, that I have been glad to tread in your steps and recommend myself to the grace of God. It is thus, thanks to that modest and becoming habit alone," he added, "that you and I can walk this town together with untarnished hearts. "

"I had always heard that you were brave," replied the officer, "but I was not aware that you were wise and pious. You speak the truth, and you speak it with an accent that moves me to the heart. This world is indeed a place of trial. " "We are now," said Florizel, "in the middle of the bridge.

Lean your elbows on the parapet and look over. As the water rushing below, so the passions and complications of life carry away the honesty of weak men. Let me tell you a story. " "I receive your Highness's commands," replied the man.

And, imitating the Prince, he leaned against the parapet, and disposed himself to listen. The city was already sunk in slumber; had it not been for the infinity of lights and the outline of buildings on the starry sky, they might have been alone beside some country river. "An officer," began Prince Florizel, "a man of courage and conduct, who had already risen by merit to an eminent rank, and won not only admiration but respect, visited, in an unfortunate hour for his peace of mind, the collections of an Indian prince.

Here he beheld a diamond so extraordinary for size and beauty that from that instant he had only one desire in life: honor, reputation, friendship, the love of country, he was ready to sacrifice all for this lump of sparkling crystal. For three years he served this semi-barbarian potentate as Jacob served Laban; he falsified frontiers, he connived at murders, he unjustly condemned and executed a brother-officer who had the misfortune to displease the Rajah by some honest freedoms; lastly, at a time of great danger to his native land, he betrayed a body of his fellow-soldiers, and suffered them to be defeated and massacred by thousands. In the end, he had amassed a magnificent fortune, and brought home with him the coveted diamond.

"Years passed," continued the Prince, "and at length the diamond is accidentally lost. It falls into the hands of a simple and laborious youth, a student, a minister of God, just entering on a career of usefulness and even distinction. Upon him also the spell is cast; he deserts everything, his holy calling, his studies, and flees with the gem into a foreign country. The officer has a brother, an astute, daring, unscrupulous man, who learns the clergyman's secret.

What does he do? Tell his brother, inform the police? No; upon this man also the Satanic charm has fallen; he must have the stone for himself. At the risk of murder, he drugs the young priest and seizes the prey. And now, by an accident which is not important to my moral, the jewel passes out of his custody into that of another, who, terrified at what he sees, gives it into the keeping of a man in high station and above reproach.

"The officer's name is Thomas Vandeleur," continued Florizel. "The stone is called the Rajah's Diamond. And" suddenly opening his hand "you behold it here before your eyes.

"

The officer started back with a cry. "We have spoken of corruption," said the Prince. "To me this nugget of bright crystal is as loathsome as though it were crawling with the worms of death; it is as shocking as though it were compacted out of innocent blood. I see it here in my hand, and I know it is shining with hell-fire. I have told you but a hundredth part of its story; what passed in former ages, to what crimes and treacheries it incited men of yore, the imagination trembles to conceive; for years and years it has faithfully served the powers of hell; enough, I say, of blood, enough of disgrace, enough of broken lives and friendships; all things come to an end, the evil like the good; pestilence as well as beautiful music; and as for this diamond, God forgive me if I do wrong, but its empire ends to-night.

"

The Prince made a sudden movement with his hand, and the jewel, describing an arc of light, dived with a splash into the flowing river. "Amen," said Florizel, with gravity. "I have slain a cockatrice!"
"God pardon me!" cried the detective. "What have you done? I am a ruined man.

"

"I think," returned the Prince with a smile, "that many well to do people in this city might envy you your ruin. " "Alas!
your Highness!" said the officer, "and you corrupt me after all?"

"It seems there was no help for it," replied Florizel. "And now let us go forward to the Prefecture.

"

Not long after, the marriage of Francis Scrymgeour and Miss Vandeleur was celebrated in great privacy; and the Prince acted on that occasion as groomsman. The two Vandeleurs surmised some rumor of what had happened to the diamond; and their vast diving operations on the River Seine are the wonder and amusement of the idle. It is true that through some miscalculation they have chosen the wrong branch of the river. As for the Prince, that sublime person, having now served his turn, may go, along with the "Arabian Author," topsy-turvy into space.

But if the reader insists on more specific information, I am happy to say that a recent revolution hurled him from the throne of Bohemia, in consequence of his continued absence and edifying neglect of public business; and that his Highness now keeps a cigar store in Rupert Street, much frequented by other foreign refugees.

I go there from time to time to smoke and have a chat, and find him as great a creature as in the days of his prosperity; he has an Olympian air behind the counter; and although a sedentary life is beginning to tell upon his waistcoat, he is probably, take him for all in all, the handsomest tobacconist in London. THE MYSTERY OF THE STEEL DISK  BY BROUGHTON BRANDENBURG  Broughton Brandenburg, a young Ohioan, was educated at Otterbein and Princeton Universities, became a war correspondent at twenty, serving in the Spanish-American and Boer wars, and shortly thereafter attracted attention as a traveler and sociological investigator. He studied immigration disguised as an Italian peasant, and sea-faring life as a common sailor and stevedore. Then he began to write sea stories, immigration articles, circus stories, and occasionally unusually interesting detective stories. "Lawrence Rand" has been the central figure in a number of tales notable for business-like handling of real people.

THE MYSTERY OF THE STEEL DISK  By BROUGHTON BRANDENBURG The telephone bell in the outer office rang, and opening the switch at the side of my desk I took up my stand-'phone and answered:  "Hello. Well?"  "Hello, is this Duncan & Betts?" inquired a man's voice with a slight foreign accent.

"Yes."  "I want to speak wit' Mister Lawrence Duncan."
"This is Mr. Duncan. What can I do for you?"  "T'is is Mr. Martin Anderson of 196 Gramercy Park. Yust now while I was eating my breakwast in my rooms over my real estate office, I was called to my telephone by Mr. George Rhodes, who is in t'e Municipal Bank.

He is a young man who wants to marry my daughter Marie, and he called me up to tell me t'at when he opened t'e wault a little while ago he found t'at since he closed it t'e night before a package wit' more t'an a million dollars in bonds was gone. He is responsible for t'e wault and no one else, and he called me up to tell me, and say he did not take it, to tell Marie t'at, but he wit'drew his request for her hand. Now, t'en, Mr. Duncan, I don't care one tam about him, but my daughter must not be made to come in in t'is case wit' t'e noos-papers or t'e gossip, so I want you to go over to t'e bank and see him and help him out in every way, yust so he keep his mout' shut about Marie, and if t'ey lock him up I want t'at she don't get to see him or no such foolishness. I send you my check for five hundred t'is morning, and I want to know all about what you do, at my house to-night.

Will you do it?"
"Yes, I will go over at once," I answered. "T'at is all. Good-by "  "Thank you. Good-by.

I will call this evening." "Good-by, Mr. Duncan." My first impression as I hung up the receiver was a thrill at being thus thrust into the centre of what appeared to be one of the biggest cases which had transpired in years. My second was a pleasurable recognition of the crisp, direct, clear, and ample statement of the matter which the old real estate man had made. It had all been done in two minutes or less.

It is not often that we lawyers encounter people outside of our own and the newspaper profession who can state anything so concisely and not lose any value in it. At this moment, Betts, my partner, and the stenographer came in, so I hurried over to the Municipal Bank. Business was just beginning for the day.

I could see at a glance over the men behind the brass screens that they as a whole did not as yet know that the bank was a loser by a million. The cashier's door was open, and he was just smoothing out his morning mail in the calmest of manners. No one looked up as I entered; that showed normal state of mind among the clerks.

I asked for Mr. George Rhodes, and a tall, broad shouldered, clean-cut young chap came forward from a desk in the extreme rear of the place and took my card through the bars. Even with the slight view I could get of his face, I perceived he was pale and haggard. He opened a side door and admitted me to the anteroom of the directors' chamber. I told him I had come in his interest, retained by Mr. Anderson, and stated my client's reason for sending me, namely, to prevent his daughter's name from being mentioned in the matter at any or all times, and asked the young man what I could do for him.

He had been sitting running his thumb-nail precisely along the edge of my card, and now he looked up and said, in a dull, expressionless way:  "Really, Mr. Duncan, I have thought the matter over carefully, and there is nothing to do. "

He seemed so numbed and hopeless that I was amused. "You surprise me, Mr. Rhodes," I said.

"Surely a thing like this can not in itself shut off any action. In the first place, give me the facts. We will see what can be done. "

"The facts are few enough," he answered, simply.

"The bonds were in a package four inches thick. They were '90 government fours, clipped and worth one million two hundred thousand when entered the first of the month, three weeks ago. They were marked with a typewritten slip on the end and lay in the securities compartment of the vault. Last night, with the assistant cashier and the receiving teller, as is our rule here, I checked the cash and books going in.

We together do not check securities in that compartment except once every month, but I go over them every night and morning in the way that I was instructed by the cashier; that is, the packets are piled in alphabetical classification, and the piling is done so that if a packet were taken out it would make a hole which I should see at a glance, and by reference to my list see what it was. Last night there was nothing missing, for the pile was perfectly even across the top, and we closed the vault and set the time-lock. This morning the time-lock was still running when I arrived and the safe was absolutely just as I left it.

When I opened the vault, I went over the securities as usual, and, observing a slight depression in the rear tier, put my hand on it. It gave way enough to show something was missing, and I checked off the packets and found the '90 governments gone. I checked them over three times, and then, when I had got over the shock, went into the booth outside and telephoned Mr. Anderson just what I have told you.

Having asked him for his daughter, I felt I owed that to them and to myself.

The assistant cashier and the assistant receiving teller were with me when I opened the vault, and I checked out the books and cash so that they know the safe had not been touched overnight; now you see it is up to me to account for those bonds. Mr. Anderson asked me to wait and see you before I told the cashier. The president is not down yet.

"
I had been watching him covertly as he spoke, and the instant that he had given me the case I felt the conviction stealing over me that he had the bonds, or had had them. The case of a small-salaried trust company clerk, who put four hundred thousand dollars of his employer's money into Wall Street in four weeks, rose in my mind. No matter, however, whether he had taken them or not, a fifteen or twenty years' term stared him in the face. Perhaps he thought that worth the gain. I supposed that, of course, he was bonded for one or two hundred thousand by some one of the fidelity companies, so I did not trouble to ask him as to that.

I merely remarked, drawing on my gloves:  "Well, Mr. Rhodes, I would advise you to put back the bonds if you can do it without detection, or else slide. "

A red flush crept up to his temples. It was either anger or guilt, probably both, but he controlled himself and said almost between his teeth, rising and turning away:  "I wish to bid you good-morning, Mr. Duncan. You can go back to Mr. Anderson and tell him Marie will receive a last note from me in an hour, and now, if you will excuse me, I shall inform the cashier. " Something in his manner and the remembrance of his quixotic haste in calling up his sweetheart's father caused a pang of remorse to shoot through me and I put out my hand and stopped him.

"I beg your pardon, Rhodes. I did not mean to be brutal, but the facts "  The tense line of his white lips relaxed into a sickly smile. "Yes, the facts I know. I am not in a position to resent being reminded of them.

But, I have made up my mind to tell the cashier.

"

We left the room together, and I walked with him along the outer corridor to the cashier's door, where the stenographer said he had gone out, and we found the president would not be down until one o'clock. "See here, Rhodes," I said with sudden determination, "I'm going to do what I can in this matter. Is there any reason why it will become known as a matter of course?"

"The first of the month, a week from to-morrow, will be the triple checking-up time. "

"Very well, just you hold off this morning, anyhow. You will probably have three-quarters of an hour for lunch; meet me at Haan's at 12:15. "

"All right.
Good-morning.

"
After I had gone twenty yards from the bank I was sorry that I had made the engagement. It was not in the line of my duty to my client, Mr. Anderson, and I was likely to become unprofitably involved with young Rhodes. I saw, even without thought, that there were two alternatives. Either he had taken the bonds or they had been removed overnight from the vault, and I believed he was telling the truth when he said the vault was all right in the morning, for if it had not been, he would have eagerly seized on the circumstance; and furthermore, the fact would have been known by the other officials and the state of peace which I had found on entering would not have existed. There was but one thing to think: Rhodes had taken the bonds, or was shielding the thief.

I related the case to Betts when I reached the office, and he laughed incredulously:  "Say, Duncan," he said, "that is a bit too wild a tale for me. Twelve hundred thousand dollars gone from a time-locked bank vault overnight without opening it! Gee!
Why don't you consult that man Rand, Lawrence Rand, the fellow who has been untying some of those hard knots out West? Don't you remember the Johnstone mirror poisoning case and the Rebstock mines affair?" "Yes, I do.

Is Rand his name?
Where is he to be found?"

"Jordan went up to his place one night I think it is in Fifty-seventh Street, in some apartment house. Here, look him up in the telephone book. "
I found him entered there.

"Lawrence Rand, Special Agent.
32088 Plaza.

"

And calling him up made an engagement for an hour later. I was ushered into the reception-room of his apartment by a dark-skinned young giant, whom I at first thought a negro, but as I saw him in the full light and noted his straight hair and heavy coppery features, I was surprised to find he was a full-blooded Indian. He was dressed in clothes that did not seem compatible with the rank of a servant. Rand entered with a brisk step, a frank smile on his keen face. As he gripped my hand I realized that far more physical power was in his possession than one would think by his frame, of medium height and slender almost to thinness.

It was afterward that I found every inch of him was whipcord and steel. We sat down in the inner room and I told him the story of Rhodes and the bonds. When I had finished he frowned ever so slightly and said, "Is that all?"
I thought I had been rather explicit.

So I replied with a little rigor: "That seems to cover the case."
"Do you know whether there is one night-watchman or two?
What is the make of the safe?
Have there ever been any attempts at robbery of the bank? Are all of the members of the bank staff present this morning?

Has the president been on the right side of the market for the past year? "
The questions came like shots from a rapid-fire gun. He did not wait for me to answer. "I see you do not know.

We will waste no time. You are to meet young Rhodes at lunch. I want you to invite me, too, for I want to see him. "

We took a Sixth Avenue train to Rector Street, and at 12:15 chose our seats in a corner compartment in Haan's.

We had been at the table a moment when Rhodes, still very pale, entered and looked around for me. As I introduced him to Rand, I noticed that the latter, after looking the bank clerk full in the eyes a second, let his gaze play like lightning over Rhodes's head and features, and before we sat down he even sought a pretext to step behind Rhodes and look at the back of his head. Rhodes was subjected to a severe questioning at once, and some of the queries seemed to be anything but relevant, and in sum were meant to make sure that it was impossible for any one but Rhodes to take the bonds at any time the safe was open. After the books and cash had been checked out, Rhodes said, a sliding steel screen was drawn over the approach to the vault at such times as he was not inside to get or replace papers or securities ordered out on written slip by some one of the officers. He was sure the bonds could not have been given out by mistake on a slip for other securities because the list tallied.

"Then either you took the bonds or they were extracted from the safe after the time-lock was set, and the time-lock being all right up to the present minute, you are facing toward Sing Sing," summarized Rand, tilting his cigar and spilling salt into his beer. Rhodes looked down and swallowed hard at something in his throat, but could not answer. "Who made the vault, when and where?" asked Rand.

"Mahler, in 1890, in Cincinnati.
" "Hm, is that so a Mahler vault, eh?  Did I understand you to say the watchman is an old Irishman named Hanahan, has been at the bank twenty years and has considerable property?
How do you know about his property?"

"When I was on accounts he always had fifteen or twenty thousand on time deposits, and drew some large checks or made heavy deposits when Mr. Anderson bought or sold property for him "  "Whom did you say, Mr. Anderson? The real estate agent who sent Mr. Duncan to see you?"  "Yes, Mr. Martin Anderson. He is Hanahan's agent. They were old volunteer firemen together in Williamsburg shortly after they came to this country.

"
"Indeed!  How do you know that?"
"Well, one evening shortly after I met Marie, I went to call on her

and she said her father was not at home; that he was down at our bank chatting with Hanahan and having a smoke. Then she told me about their having belonged to the same fire company. After the old man had taken a dislike to me and threatened to shoot me if I came to the house again, I used to watch for Hanahan's check, for every time he drew, I knew he was expecting to see Mr. Anderson

and I would go up to the house. I never missed it. "

Rand smiled as if he enjoyed the humor in the instance. He thought a moment and then said:  "Well, now, if you will go back to the bank I will be over presently accompanied by a man from the Broadway office of Mahler's, and you will be asked to show us the vault. Please do not indicate that you know me. "

When Rhodes was gone, Rand turned to me quickly and said: "Mr. Duncan, kindly go over to Mr. Robert Steele in Hargan's office in Wall Street and tell him I sent you. Ask him whether any government fours of '90 have been in evidence in the market recently. Meet me in half an hour at the telephone booth in the Park Row drug store. "
I hurried to the office of the great firm of Hargan & Company and sent in my card to Mr. Steele with "through Mr. Rand" on the corner. I was ushered in immediately.

"Mr. Steele, I was sent here by Mr. Rand to inquire whether there have been any '90 government fours on the market in more than the usual quantity recently?"

At the question he started visibly and whirled abruptly around in his desk chair to face me. He stared at me a moment as if weighing his words forthcoming. "Well yes," he said slowly, dropping his eyes in a manner that was anything but frank. "Yes, there have been some."

He paused and looked up at me again, took off his glasses, and, wiping them tentatively, put them on and looked me full in the face as if decided on his course. "Since Mr. Rand sent you, it must be all right, for we trust Mr. Rand thoroughly here. Tell him that a pile of them has been dumped into the market in the past week, not into the market exactly, but Strauss brokers had them and loans on them were used to buy Overland Pacific at an average of 87, and when it reached 161 last Thursday, whoever was in this pool began to take profits as nearly as we can tell and closed out the line at an average of 157. Of course Overland went to 136, but she is let me see let me see " he looked at the tape "is 206, so whoever held these bonds must have been outside of Strauss's pool. It cost us about three million dollars, and if you can tell me any more about it I will be very grateful.

"

I told him there was absolutely nothing of which I knew personally. Suddenly I remembered that I had not learned even the name of the president of the Municipal Bank, and if Rand had asked Rhodes at lunch I had let it slip by me. Inwardly ashamed of my loose methods, compared with Rand's thorough ones, I hastened to ask of Mr. Steele, as a by-matter, being sure that he would know. I was at the door ready to go out when the matter flashed into my mind. "By the way, Mr. Steele," I said, "do you happen to know the president of the Municipal Bank "  "J. R. Farrington Smith?"

He jerked his head around sharply toward me as he interrupted me.

"Indeed I do. "

Then he emitted a short, grating laugh, and continued, looking at me sharply all the while: "How odd I should be thinking of him also at that moment! Do you know, Mr. Duncan, that Strauss is or was his broker? Yet, he was on the short end of Overland very badly; that I know, to my sorrow.

" He dropped his voice to a confidence-inviting tone, and said as he leaned forward, motioning me to a chair once more:  "Come now, Mr. Duncan, why should we dissemble? You are evidently very well informed in this matter. Did Smith flop and put up those bonds to go long on Overland?

He made a pretty penny if he did. Honestly, is that the way he played fast and loose with us?"
I remained standing and put on my hat to further signify that I was about to go. "Mr. Steele, to tell the truth, I did not know until a moment ago that J. R. Farrington Smith is president of the Municipal Bank.

You have just informed me. "

He became very stiff in his manner, and turned to his papers as if already thinking of them, and said quietly:  "Oh, then we are talking to no purpose. Good morning, Mr. Duncan.
"

By a short cut and a brisk walk up Nassau Street I reached the Park Row drug store on the minute of the half hour. A man was in the telephone booth talking, and just outside the half-open door was Rand, directing the queries that the man was making.

The stranger was evidently the man from Mahler's. As I approached Rand motioned me to silence. "Well, my books show the number is D186N," the safe man was saying; "we have no record of complaints or repairs back to '94. Have you any before that?

All right, I'll hold the wire. Hello, yes.
You have none at all. Now, what is the pattern of the time-lock?
Neilson patent, yes. Well, who superintended the Secret Construction Room when this one was made?

The old man himself, eh?
Where is Neilson now?

How long has he been dead? Well, was his brother-in-law working with him in 1890? Wait a moment "  He kept the receiver to his ear and turned to Rand.

"Is there anything else you wish me to ask, Mr. Rand?"

"Inquire if there has ever been any trouble with any D class vaults. That will be all. "

The safe man repeated the question into the 'phone; received the answer, hung up the receiver, turned around and said:  "None but an attempt to blow one open in the Produce Exchange in Springfield.

It failed. He says the man who controlled the secret measurements on that set of vaults was the patentee of the time-lock and he is dead. The measurements are sealed and filed. The patents went to his brother-in-law, who worked with him, who sold them outright to the company for a song. "

"What was his name?" asked Rand, with disappointment in his voice and manner.

"They have no record and do not remember. He was just a drunken thick-headed Swede. "
When Rand was paying the telephone toll the clerk figured on the rate to Cincinnati, so I knew they had been talking to the Mahler offices at the factory.

I told Rand just what had happened in Steele's office, and he smiled slightly and said:  "Well, well, the lost bonds or others have been used as collateral for a week past, eh, and Farrington Smith was on the wrong side of the market? I do not think Rhodes will 'do any time' if he is clever. I have learned that he was a favorite employee of Smith's.

Let us go over to the Municipal. "

At the bank, the man from Mahler's spoke a moment to the cashier and received his permission to show the vault to "two prospective customers," and a boy was sent to tell Rhodes that the visitors had been accorded the courtesy.

As we passed the president's inner office door, I saw Smith at his desk and noticed how pale and careworn he appeared. I saw that Rand observed it also. Rhodes admitted us to the enclosure, and, according to Rand's previous instructions, gave us no sign of recognition. Rand and the man from Mahler's examined the interior of the electrically lighted vault.

The safe man tapped the floor all around with the stick he carried, sounding for concealed tunneling, but the inspection was unfruitful. The place was in perfect order, and the lock responded repeatedly to the safe man's skilled touch in a way that showed it was in excellent condition. Rand had been standing still, looking carefully at everything within range of his keen eyes, stroking his silver-touched hair lightly with one hand in a way I have observed many times since. Suddenly he pulled out his watch, looked at the dial of the time-lock, then at his watch, then at the bank clock, an electrically regulated affair hung on the wall.

The clock read 2 P.M. to the second. "I beg pardon," said Rand to Rhodes. "What time is it by your watch?"  Rhodes took out his timepiece, and said: "I have two o'clock flat.

"

I now noticed that the dial of the time-lock stood 1.58:30. "When did you notice that the clock of the time-lock was slow?" "It is slow, isn't it? Why, I had forgot that.

It was last Monday morning, a week ago. I remember I was a little late," replied Rhodes. "Has any one swept in here since?"  Rand asked this with his eyes fixed on a dark corner at the heel of the right door. "No, not in the vault."  Rand stooped and put his hand into the corner.

For a moment I thought he was picking up something, but he straightened up and brushed his fingers one against the other as if ridding them of dust, so I knew his hands were empty. In a moment he signified he was through and we left the place, and at the corner parted with the man from Mahler's. We walked on toward my office.

"What do you make of that?" said Rand suddenly, and I saw that he was holding something toward me between his thumb and forefinger. I was sure he had put neither hand in his pockets since we had left the bank. The small, bright object was merely a plain, smooth-worn bit of steel, thinner than a penny, and not as broad, with a small round hole in the centre.

Just a tiny disk of steel.

"Did you pick that up in the vault?" I asked. "Yes, out of that dark corner by the door."
"Why, how is that?

I saw your hands as you rose and they were empty. "

"Oh, no, you were mistaken, just as that man from Mahler's was. I merely palmed the disk, that is all, so he could not see it. There is no reason why he should be on the inside of this case. He thinks too much of his own cleverness as it is."

"Well, what is this thing?"
I said, slightly irritated at having been so easily tricked.

"I wish I could answer that question as easily as you ask it," replied Rand, and relapsed into silence. As we entered the building in which I had my office, there emerged from an elevator car that had just descended a girl, whose appearance caught my attention. She was attired in a dark street suit that set her small, trim figure to advantage, but by contrast emphasized the pallor of her face.

Her hair was of that abundant flaxen quality so often seen in Germans and Scandinavians, and her eyes were large and dark blue. They were very troubled and it was plain she had been crying. There was something bravely piteous in every line of her face.

She paused a moment as if half expecting some one and hurried out as we entered the next up-bound car. When I went into the office, Betts came in with a slip of paper in his hand. After I had introduced him to Rand, he said:  "Duncan, for shame not to be in when nice young ladies call on you.

The pretty daughter of your old real estate client, Anderson, was just here. She has received a letter from the young fellow who took those bonds in which he says he wishes her to forget him. She refuses to believe he is guilty, and has had a scene with her father, who must have told her that he has retained you, for she came down here demanding that you take her to see the young chap, wherever he is locked up. Has he been arrested yet?"
"No," I said, "he is over in the bank." "I think he will be there for some time yet," observed Rand, looking out the window.

"Well, she will be back in half an hour," said Betts, laying down the strip of paper on my desk. "She did not have a card and wrote her name. Excuse me, Mr. Rand, I am not through with my correspondence yet, and it will soon be three o'clock. "

As Betts went out Rand rose and looked at the strip with the name written in a tall, delicate hand, "Miss Marie Neilson Anderson. "

In a short time Miss Anderson came into the outer office and I brought her in and closed the door. With trembling lips and tears constantly ready to fall, she repeated what she had already told Betts and demanded that I arrange an interview with Rhodes at once. I reassured her to the best of my ability.

Rand sat quiet and said nothing. I thought he might at least have repeated to her what he had just said to Betts, though I could not exactly make out what were his grounds for the statement. Instead, just before she was leaving, much comforted and calmer, he said:  "Excuse me, Miss Anderson, when did you last see Mr. Rhodes?"  "Oh, I have had a letter from him nearly every day, but I have not talked with him since Sunday night a week ago, when he came to see me at the house."
"How long have you known him?"

"Nearly two years.

" "How did you meet him?" "Why, he knew papa at the bank, and one day when papa was ill he sent for George to come up to the house to get some papers about his accounts and papa introduced us.

When we were first engaged, he did not seem to dislike George, and often sat talking with him about matters in the bank and other things. "

"By the way, how old are you, Miss Anderson?"
She did not seem to mind the blunt question and replied quickly:  "I am twenty-one. "

"Were you born in this country?"

"Yes, I was born in New York. "

"Thank you, kindly; that is all," said Rand, and was promptly so deep in thought that he barely rose and bowed as she left a few minutes later.

He kept his feet and put on his hat as if he, too, were going. "I believe you told me that you were to go to Anderson's house to-night and report, did you not?" he asked. "Yes, I am sorry that I can not make a better showing both for my client and for Rhodes. "
"I suppose you mean that you hoped a man of my reputation would have offered better support to you in yours," he observed with a quizzical smile that nettled me as he walked over to the door.

"I should like to go with you, Mr. Duncan," he continued. "I will meet you at the northwest corner of Gramercy Park at eight o'clock. Will you be so kind as to bring young Rhodes with you?

'Phone him at the bank, now, and you might come prepared for anything in the way of a fight for we will close up the case to-night.

"

He shut the door and went out. I was wild to call him back and get an explanation, but pride restrained me. That evening Rhodes met me by appointment at the Fifth Avenue Hotel and we walked over to the corner Rand had named. We had been standing there a moment when a carriage drove up, stopped, and Rand alighted, followed by J. R. Farrington Smith and the brawny Indian.

I could see by the street light that Smith was very white, and the Indian kept just at his elbow and a little behind him as they advanced to meet us. Rand presented me to Smith, who bowed coldly. If Smith and Rhodes exchanged salutations I did not notice it. Rand said to me as we walked along to the house after he had told the cabman to wait for him:  "Will you kindly ask Mr. Anderson to see Mr. Duncan and some gentlemen?" I was angry with him for a number of small things which had occurred during the day, but more than ever now for bringing Smith into the case, and at Anderson's house, a proceeding which would be sure to involve Anderson and his daughter in the exposé that must occur in so short a time.

A little maid admitted us at a door beside Anderson's real estate office, and passed back along a narrow hall and up to a well-furnished apartment immediately over the offices. The maid vanished through portières, and I judged by the sounds that she found Anderson in the third room to the rear. I could hear him clearing his throat as he came.

As he stepped through the portières, I saw he was a man of fifty, of good appearance, short and heavy, with large hands and a massive jaw. His eyes were very small and nearly hidden by the overfolding wrinkles about them. "Good-evening, gentlemen," he said cheerily, looking about in a pleasant though puzzled way. I rose and went forward, saying:  "I am Mr. Duncan, Mr. Anderson. I believe you know Mr. Smith and Mr. Rhodes.

This is Mr. Lawrence Rand, with whom I have consulted in this matter. "

The Indian, whom I scarcely knew how to consider, whether companion of Rand's or his servant, had stepped back into the shadow by the portières, and I do not think Anderson saw him, so I made no reference to him whatever. I was very busy thinking just what to say and how to say it, for Rand's bringing Smith with him showed Smith was informed in part or wholly, and was so unexpected that I had had no chance to ask him aside just what the situation was.

He left me in no uncertainty. He gracefully superseded me in the initiative by drawing back a chair at a small table in the centre of the room, in the full glow of the shaded light, and saying:  "Would you mind sitting here, please, Mr. Anderson?
I shall want you to write something in a moment and it will be more convenient for you. "

Anderson sat down, as requested, and turned his face toward Rand as if he knew where the power lay. I could see the arteries in his neck throbbing. I noticed that Rhodes was very pale, and the bank president was laboring under great excitement.

"Now, to be brief, gentlemen, we are about to adjust this matter of the disappearance of twelve hundred thousand dollars' worth of bonds from the vault of the Municipal Bank. "
Rand spoke in a soft even voice. I think I was the only man who moved a muscle. I could see that at least Anderson's blood did not quicken any.

His eyes may have turned toward Rhodes. I could not tell. Rand went on:  "Before I say anything further, I wish to remind the interested parties that I have brought an officer with me and any violence would be inadvisable. "Mr. Anderson, you will kindly turn over to Mr. Smith that packet of '90 government fours.

Mr. Smith will give you a receipt in full. You will also give Mr. Smith your order on Strauss & Company for four hundred thousand dollars, which is approximately what Mr. Smith lost when caught short on Overland Pacific ten days ago, and also your order to Mr. George Rhodes for the remainder of your profits when you went long on Overland Pacific this last week by using the Municipal Bank as an involuntary partner. You will also give your consent to his marriage with your daughter.

Mr. Duncan here will arrange the matter of fees and that will close the incident. If you do not, Mr. Smith will prosecute you and I will furnish the evidence. If Mr. Smith does not perform his share I will, in behalf of Mr. Rhodes, inform the bank directors of his hand in Overland. Kindly do as I have requested, Mr. Anderson."

The old fellow never changed color one whit, nor did the throbbing of the arteries in his neck increase. They diminished, if anything. A bitter sneer came on his face, and as he spoke he dropped into very broken English. "Vot iss diss nonsense, Meester, vot-afer-your nem-iss?  Vot a ni'ice liddle scheme bote

Ah don't ma'eke no mohney baycoss Ah aindt got dey bonts-s "  Rand held up a forefinger and the old man stopped. He was now breathing hard and was flushed. Rand drew from his vest pocket and laid on the table before Anderson the little steel disk.

Before Rand could speak, the portières parted, and in the opening stood Marie Anderson, very white and drawn up to her full height. In one hand she extended the packet with the typewritten slip still on the end. "Father," she said slowly, in a low, tense voice, "here are the bonds. By accident I just found them in a jar on the sideboard.

"

With surprising quickness Anderson drew out a drawer in the table at which he sat, snatched up a revolver, leaped to the doorway, thrusting his daughter aside, but as he turned and fired pointblank at Rand, who had vaulted the table to reach him, the Indian knocked up the muzzle of the revolver from behind. The bullet struck the ceiling and the next instant Anderson was on the floor, helpless in the bearlike clasp of the big red man. The girl had reeled as if about to faint. Rhodes had sprung to her assistance, but she recovered herself and seemed to be anxious to get away from her father, as if from a reptile.

Rhodes led her to the other side of the room. "Take the gun away from him and set him on the chair again, Tom," said Rand, as if nothing had happened. He returned to his own seat, and we too sat down.

In fifteen seconds the smoke floating about the ceiling was the only sign of the crisis just passed. Rand began again:  "In order to give you an opportunity to recover your composure before you begin writing, Mr. Anderson, and to prevent your indulging in any more foolish lies, I will tell you the evidence against you. You helped your brother-in-law, Neilson, make the time-lock on the vault ordered for the Municipal Bank in 1890. You inserted in the journal of the main standard of the clock works a steel disk instead of a brass one, knowing that the steel against steel would make a friction that would wear out both in several years' time.

By means of a second time-lock accurately duplicated, and which, if I am not mistaken, is ticking away in that black box on the mantel behind you, you were able to tell very nearly the very hour when you could turn back the bolts of the Municipal vault without let or hindrance. When your brother-in-law died, you sold his patents to the company, returned to New York, and began to live for the hour when you could help yourself to whatever you wished. You stopped drinking and settled down. You went into the real estate business because you could obtain in that manner a permanent hold on Hanahan, the watchman at the Municipal, whom you already knew, and you drew him into the habit of seeing you on business regularly at the bank at night. You have his perfect confidence.

When you found that about the time you were ready to make your haul George Rhodes would be the young man in charge of the vault, you called him to the house on a pretext and made him acquainted with your daughter and encouraged his visits that you might get from him in your chats, bit by bit, knowledge of just what to put your hand on in the short time you were in the vault, and how to conceal the theft long enough for you to convert the securities. This is one of the deepest and cleverest criminal plots of which I have ever heard. Your life for all these years has been devoted to it. I am not surprised that you succeeded.

Your one mistake was in giving so flimsy a pretext to Mr. Duncan for calling him up and retaining him. That attracted my attention to you. What you really wanted was to be able to have constant information from Mr. Duncan when he should become Rhodes's counsel in the natural course of events, as to efforts to explain the disappearance of the bonds in order to defend Rhodes. In that way you would always know how close he was on the track of the real thief, Mr. Martin Anderson.
Few men pay attorneys $500 retaining fees to persuade young men who really love their daughters from dragging them into a scandal which does not essentially concern the daughters at best.

You were surprised into this mistake when Rhodes called you up and crystallized your plan to force your choice of counsel on him too hastily. "On Sunday night a week ago you went to the bank, as your duplicate time-lock showed you the steel disk was worn so thin a jar on the door would cause the standard to drop and the lock to release. Hanahan, as he told me an hour ago, went across the street for some tobacco that Sunday night, leaving you in the bank. In ninety seconds you had opened the vault, taken the right packet, opened the case of the time-lock, replaced the disk with a brass one, closed the case, and closed the vault, but you carelessly dropped this worn disk on the floor.

"You used the bonds as collateral to buy stock, not as a speculation, but as an investment that would conceal the bonds, and by chance chose Overland Pacific at a low figure and it rose. You thought best to take your profits, and only your greed prevented you from returning the bonds to Rhodes by mail. As we have seen, you had not thought long enough or deeply enough what you would do with your lifetime harvest after you got it in your hands, and suddenly you found yourself out of your depth. You hid the bonds in a jar, just like a foolish old woman.

But I must compliment you on your clear thinking and previous planning.

I have never known of anything so deliberate, and only a phlegmatic Scandinavian would be capable of it, especially to end up with such good nerves as you have shown to-night. Mr. Smith does not wish to prosecute you and expose his speculations. Since Mr. Smith and Mr. Duncan doubtless have other engagements to-night, kindly write as I requested a few minutes ago.

"
Muttering objurgations in his native tongue, Anderson wrote the two drafts, Rhodes's being for more than one hundred thousand, and both Rhodes and Smith receipted. Smith took the bonds and thrust them into his overcoat pocket. Miss Anderson refused to remain an hour longer under her father's roof, and left the house to go to the home of a distant relative.

I pocketed the odd little steel disk, which lies before me as I write, with a slip copied from a page of Rand's notebook that lays out so plainly and simply his quick, sure, and unerring processes in this remarkable case, that I can not refrain from giving it.
(1) Anderson's retaining Duncan very strange. (2) Rhodes's cranium shows moral incapacity for theft. Innocent.
(3) Neilson's brother-in-law could know lock construction.

(4) Smith lost speculating.

Thief won half million with bonds.

(5) Time-clock lost 90 sec. Sunday night, week before discovery.
(6) Disk of steel instead of brass.

Meant to wear out. Is discarded part of lock. Must be a new disk in lock.

Work of expert.

Prepared since making of lock. (7) Marie Neilson Anderson.
(8) Anderson was alone in bank 3 min. Sunday night of robbery. Anderson guilty.

Proved and confessed. Adjusted, no proceedings, by L. R. THE CHRONICLES OF ADDINGTON PEACE  BY B. FLETCHER ROBINSON Fletcher Robinson is a London journalist, the editor of "Vanity Fair," and author of a dozen detective stories in which are recorded the startling adventures of Mr. Addington Peace of Scotland Yard. He collaborated with Conan Doyle in "The Hound of the Baskervilles.

"
When some of these stories appeared in the American magazines, for an unexplained reason (presumably editorial) the name of the hero was changed to Inspector Hartley. THE CHRONICLES OF ADDINGTON PEACE By B. FLETCHER ROBINSON

THE VANISHED MILLIONAIRE  I, James Phillips, stood with my back to the fire, smoking and puzzling over it. It was worth all the headlines the newspapers had given it; there was no loophole to the mystery. Both sides of the Atlantic knew Silas J. Ford. He had established a business reputation in America that had made him a celebrity in England from the day he stepped off the liner.

Once in London his syndicates and companies and consolidations had startled the slow-moving British mind. The commercial sky of the United Kingdom was overshadowed by him and his schemes. The papers were full of praise and blame, of puffs and denunciations. He was a millionaire; he was on the verge of a smash that would paralyze the markets of the world.

He was an abstainer, a drunkard, a gambler, a most religious man. He was a confirmed bachelor, a woman hater; his engagement was to be announced shortly. So was the gossip kept rolling with the limelight always centred upon the spot where Silas J. Ford happened to be standing.

And now he had disappeared, vanished, evaporated. On the night of December 18, a Thursday, he had left London for Meudon Hall, the fine old Hampshire mansion that he had rented from Lord Beverley. The two most trusted men in his office accompanied him. Friday morning he had spent with them; but at three o'clock the pair had returned to London, leaving their chief behind.

From four to seven he had been shut up with his secretary. It was a hard time for every one, a time verging upon panic, and at such times Silas J. Ford was not an idle man. At eight o'clock he had dined. His one recreation was music, and after the meal he had played the organ in the picture gallery for an hour.

At a quarter past eleven he retired to his bedroom, dismissing Jackson, his body servant, for the night. Three-quarters of an hour later, however, Harbord, his secretary, had been called to the private telephone, for Mr. Ford had brought an extension wire from the neighboring town of Camdon. It was a London message, and so urgent that he decided to wake his chief. There was no answer to his knock, and on entering the room he found that Mr. Ford was not in bed.

He was surprised, but in no way suspicious, and started to search the house. He was joined by a footman, and, a little later, by Jackson and the butler. Astonishment changed to alarm. Other servants were roused to aid in the quest. Finally, a party, provided with lanterns from the stables, commenced to examine the grounds.

Snow had fallen early in the day, covering the great lawns in front of the entrance porch with a soft white blanket, about an inch in thickness. It was the head groom who struck the trail. Apparently Mr. Ford had walked out of the porch, and so over the drive and across the lawn toward the wall that bounded the public road. This road, which led from Meudon village to the town of Camdon, crossed the front of Meudon Hall at a distance of some quarter of a mile.

There was no doubt as to the identity of the footprints, for Silas Ford affected a broad, square-toed boot, easily recognizable from its unusual impression. They tracked him by their lanterns to the park wall, and there all trace of him disappeared. The wall was of rough stone, easily surmountable by an active man. The snow that covered the road outside had been churned into muddy paste by the traffic of the day; there were no further footprints observable.

The party returned to the house in great bewilderment. The telephone to London brought no explanation, and the following morning Mr. Harbord caught the first train to town to make inquiries. For private reasons his friends did not desire publicity for the affair, and it was not until the late afternoon, when all their investigations had proved fruitless, that they communicated with Scotland Yard. When the papers went to press the whereabouts of the great Mr. Ford still remained a mystery.

In keen curiosity I set off up the stairs to Inspector Peace's room. Perhaps the little detective had later news to give me. I found him standing with his back to the fire puffing at his cigarette with a plump solemnity.

A bag, neatly shaped, lay on the rug at his feet. He nodded a welcome, watching me over his glasses. "I expected you, Mr. Phillips," he said. "And how do you explain it?"
"A love affair or temporary insanity," I suggested vaguely. "Surely we can combine those solutions," he smiled.

"Anything else?"
"No.  I came to ask your opinion." "My mind is void of theories, Mr. Phillips, and I shall endeavor to keep it so for the present. If you wish to amuse yourself by discussing possibilities, I would suggest your consideration of the reason why, if he wanted to disappear quietly, he should leave so obvious a track through the snow of his own lawn.

For myself, as I am leaving for Camdon via Waterloo Station in ten minutes, I shall hope for more definite data before night. "

"Peace," I asked him eagerly, "may I come with you?"
"If you can be ready in time," he said. It was past two o'clock when we arrived at the old town of Camdon. A carriage met us at the station. Five minutes more

and we were clear of the narrow streets and climbing the first bare ridge of the downs.

It was a desolate prospect enough a bare expanse of wind-swept land that rose and fell with the sweeping regularity of the Pacific swell. Here and there a clump of ragged firs showed black against the snow. Under that gentle carpet the crisp turf of the crests and the broad plow lands of the lower ground alike lay hidden. I shivered, drawing my coat more closely about me. It was half an hour later that we topped a swelling rise and saw the gray towers of the ancient mansion beneath us.

In the shelter of the valley by the quiet river, that now lay frozen into silence, the trees had grown into splendid woodlands, circling the hall on the further side. From the broad front the white lawns crept down to the road on which we were driving. Dark masses of shrubberies and the tracery of scattered trees broke their silent curves.

The park wall that fenced them from the road stood out like an ink line ruled upon paper. "It must have been there that he disappeared," I cried, with a speculative finger. "So I imagine," said Peace. "And if he has spent two nights on the Hampshire downs, he will be looking for a fire to-day. You have rather more than your fair share of the rug, Mr. Phillips, if you will excuse my mentioning it.

"

A man was standing on the steps of the entrance porch when we drove up. As we unrolled ourselves he stepped forward to help us. He was a thin, pale-faced fellow, with fair hair and indeterminate eyes.

"My name is Harbord," he said. "You are Inspector Addington Peace, I believe. "

His hand shook as he stretched it out in a tremulous greeting.

Plainly the secretary was afraid, visibly and anxiously afraid. "Mr. Ransome, the manager of Mr. Ford's London office, is here," he continued. "He is waiting to see you in the library. "

We followed him through a great hall into a room lined with books from floor to ceiling. A stout, dark man, who was pacing it like a beast in a cage, stopped at the sight of us.

His face, as he turned it toward us, looked pinched and gray in the full light. "Inspector Peace, eh?" he said. "Well, Inspector, if you want a reward, name it. If you want to pull the house down, only say the word. But find him for us, or, by heaven, we're done."  "Is it as bad as that?"
"You can keep a secret, I suppose.

Yes it couldn't well be worse. It was a tricky time; he hid half his schemes in his own head; he never trusted even me altogether. If he were dead I could plan something, but now "  He thumped his hand on the table and turned away to the window.

"When you last saw Mr. Ford was he in good health?  Did he stand the strain?"  "Ford had no nerves. He was never better in his life. "

"In these great transactions he would have his enemies. If his plans succeeded there would be many hard hit, perhaps ruined.

Have you any suspicion of a man who, to save himself, might make away with Mr. Ford?"
"No," said the manager after a moment's thought. "No, I can not give you a single name. The players are all big men, Inspector.

I don't say that their consciences would stop them from trying such a trick, but it wouldn't be worth their while. They hold off when jail is the certain punishment. "

"Was this financial crisis in his own affairs generally known?"  "Certainly not." "Who would know of it?"  "There might be a dozen men on both sides of the Atlantic who would suspect the truth. But I don't suppose that more than four people were actually in possession of the facts."
"And who would they be?"
"His two partners in America, myself, and Mr. Harbord there.

" Peace turned to the young man with a smile and a polite bow. "Can you add any names to the list?" he asked. "No," said Harbord, staring at the detective with a puzzled look, as if trying to catch the drift of his questions.

"Thank you," said the Inspector; "and now will you show me the place where this curious disappearance occurred?"
We crossed the drive, where the snow lay torn and trampled by the carriages, and so to the white, even surface of the lawn. We soon struck the trail, a confused path beaten by many footprints. Peace stooped for a moment, and then turned to the secretary with an angry glance.

"Were you with them?" he said. "Yes."  "Then why, in the name of common sense, didn't you keep them off his tracks? You have simply trampled them out of existence, between you.

"

"We were in a hurry, Inspector," said the secretary meekly. "We didn't think about it. " We walked forward, following the broad trail until we came to a circular patch of trodden snow. Evidently the searchers had stopped and stood talking together.

On the further side I saw the footprints of a man plainly defined. There were some half-dozen clear impressions and they ended at the base of the old wall, which was some six feet in height. "I am glad to see that you and your friends have left me something, Mr. Harbord," said the Inspector.

He stepped forward and, kneeling down, examined the nearest footprint. "Mr. Ford dressed for dinner?" he inquired, glancing up at the secretary. "Certainly!  Why do you ask?"  "Merely that he had on heavy shooting boots when he took this evening stroll. It will be interesting to discover what clothes he wore. "

The Inspector walked up to the wall, moving parallel to the tracks in the snow.

With singular activity for his plump and unathletic figure he climbed to the top and seated himself while he stared about him. Then on his hands and knees he began to crawl forward along the coping. It was a quaint spectacle, but the extraordinary care and vigilance of the little man took the farce out of it. Presently he stopped and looked down at us with a gentle smile. "Please stay where you are," he said, and disappeared on the further side.

Harbord offered me a cigarette, and we waited with due obedience till the Inspector's bullet-head again broke the horizon as he struggled back to his position on the coping of the wall. He seemed in a very pleasant temper when he joined us; but he said nothing of his discoveries, and I had grown too wise to inquire. When we reached the entrance hall he asked for Jackson, the valet, and in a couple of minutes the man appeared. He was a tall, hatchet-faced fellow, very neatly dressed in black.

He made a little bow, and then stood watching us in a most respectful attitude. "A queer business this, Jackson," said Addington Peace. "Yes, sir."
"And what is your opinion on it?" "To be frank, sir, I thought at first that Mr. Ford had run away; but now I don't know what to make of it."
"And why should he run away?"

"I have no idea, sir; but he seemed to me rather strange in his manner yesterday. "

"Have you been with him long?"
"No, sir. I was valet to the Honorable John Dorn, Lord Beverley's second son.

Mr. Ford took me from Mr. Dorn at the time he rented the Hall. "

"I see. And now will you show me your master's room? I shall see you again later, Mr. Harbord," he continued; "in the meanwhile I will leave my assistant with you.

"

We sat and smoked in the secretary's room. He was not much of a talker, consuming cigarette after cigarette in silence. The winter dusk had already fallen when the Inspector joined us, and we retired to our rooms to prepare for dinner. I tried a word with Peace upon the staircase, but he shook his head and walked on. The meal dragged itself to an end somehow, and we left Ransome with a second decanter of port before him.

Peace slipped away again, and I consoled myself with a book in the library until half-past ten, when I walked off to bed. A servant was switching off the light in the hall when I mounted the great staircase. My room was in the old wing at the further side of the picture gallery, and I had some difficulty in steering my way through the dark corridors. The mystery that hung over the house had shaken my nerves, and I remember that I started at every creak of a board and peered into the shadows as I passed along with, Heaven knows, what ghostly expectations.

I was glad enough to close my door upon them and see the wood fire blazing cheerfully in the open hearth. I woke with a start that left me sitting up in bed, with my heart thumping in my ribs like a piston rod. I am not generally a light sleeper, but that night, even while I snored, my nerves were active. Some one had tapped at my door that was my impression.

I listened with the uncertain fear that comes to the newly waked. Then I heard it again on the wall near my head this time. A board creaked. Some one was groping his way down the dark corridor without.

Presently he stopped, and a faint line of illumination sprang out under my door. It winked, and then grew still. He had lighted a candle. Assurance came with the streak of light.

What was he doing, groping in the dark, if he had a candle with him? I crept over to the door, opened it, and stared cautiously out. About a dozen feet away a man was standing, a striking figure against the light he carried. His back was toward me, but I could see that his hand was shading the candle from his eyes while he stared into the shadows that clung about the further end of the corridor.

Presently he began to move forward. The picture gallery and the body of the house lay behind. The corridor in which he stood terminated in a window, set deep into the stone of the old walls.

The man walked slowly, throwing the light to right and left. His attitude was of nervous expectation that of a man who looked for something that he feared to see. At the window he stopped, staring about him and listening. He examined the fastenings, and then tried a door on his right.

It was locked against him. As he did so I caught his profile against the light. It was Harbord, the secretary.

From where I stood he was not more than forty feet away. There was no possibility of a mistake. As he turned to come back I retreated into my room, closing the door. The fellow was in a state of great agitation, and I could hear him muttering to himself as he walked.

When he had passed by I peeped out to see him and his light dwindle, reach the corner by the picture gallery, and fade into a reflection, a darkness. I took care to turn the key before I got back into bed. I woke again at seven, and, hurrying on my clothes, set off to tell Peace all about it.

I took him to the place, and together we examined the corridor. There were only two rooms beyond mine. The one on the left was occupied by Ransome; that on the right was a large store-room, the door of which was locked. The housekeeper kept the key, we learned upon inquiry. Whom had Harbord followed?

The problem was beyond me. As for Inspector Peace, he did not indulge in verbal speculations. It was in the central hall that we encountered the secretary on his way to the breakfast-room. The man looked nervous and depressed; he nodded to us and was passing on, when Peace stopped him.

"Good-morning, Mr. Harbord," he said. "Can I have a word with you?"
"Certainly, Inspector. What is it?"

"I have a favor to ask. My assistant and myself have our hands full here.

If necessary, could you help us by running up to London and "  "For the day?" he interrupted. "No.  It may be an affair of three or four days. " "Then I must refuse. I am sorry, but "  "Don't apologize, Mr. Harbord," said the little man, cheerfully.

"I shall have to find some one else, that is all. "

We walked into the breakfast-room, and a few minutes later Ransome appeared with a great bundle of letters and telegrams in his hand. He said not a word to any of us, but dropped into a chair, tearing open the envelopes and glancing at their contents. His face grew darker as he read, and once he thumped his hand upon the table with a crash that set the china jingling.

"Well, Inspector?" he said at last. The little detective's head shook out a negative. "Perhaps you require an incentive," he sneered.

"Is it a matter of a reward?"

"No, Mr. Ransome; but it is becoming one of my personal reputation. "
"Then, by thunder, you are in danger of losing it. Why don't you and your friend hustle instead of loitering around as if you were paid by the job? I tell you, man, there are thousands, hundreds of thousands melting, slipping through our fingers, every hour of the day.

"
He sprang from his seat and started his walk again, up and down, up and down, as we had first seen him. "Shall you be returning to London?"
At the question the manager halted in his stride, staring sharply down into the Inspector's bland countenance. "No," he said; "I shall stay here, Mr. Addington Peace, until such time as you have something definite to tell me."
"I have an inquiry to make which I would rather place in the hands of some one who has personal knowledge of Mr. Ford.

Neither Mr. Harbord nor yourself desire to leave Meudon. Is there any one else you can suggest?"
"There is Jackson, Ford's valet," said the manager, after a moment's thought. "He can go if you think him bright enough.

I'll send for him."
While the footman who answered the bell was gone upon his errand we waited in an uneasy silence. There was the shadow of an ugly mystery upon us all. Jackson, as he entered, was the only one who seemed at his ease. He stood there, a tall figure of all the respectabilities.

"The Inspector here wishes you to go to London, Jackson," said the manager. "He will explain the details. There is a fast train from Camdon at eleven. "

"Certainly, sir.
Do I return to-night?"
"No, Jackson," said Peace. "It will take a day or two.

"

The man took a couple of steps toward the door, hesitated, and then returned to his former place. "I beg your pardon, sir," he began, addressing Ransome. "But I would rather remain at Meudon under present circumstances.

"

"What on earth do you mean?" thundered the manager. "Well, sir, I was the last to see Mr. Ford. There is, as it were, a suspicion upon me. I should like to be present while the search continues, both for his sake and my own. "

"Very kind of you, I'm sure," growled Ransome.

"But you either do what I tell you, Jackson, or you pack your boxes and clear out. So be quick and make up your mind." "I think you are treating me most unfairly, sir. But I can not be persuaded out of what I know to be my duty.

" "You impertinent rascal! " began the furious manager. But Peace was already on his feet with a chubby hand outstretched.

"Perhaps, after all, I can make other arrangements, Mr. Ransome," he said. "It is natural that Jackson should consider his own reputation in this affair. That is all, Jackson; you may go now. "

It was half an hour afterward, when the end of breakfast had dispersed the party, that I spoke to Peace about it, offering to go to London myself and do my best to carry out his instructions. "I had bad luck in my call for volunteers," he said.

"I should have thought they would have been glad enough to get the chance of work. They can find no particular amusement in loafing about the place all day. "

"Doubtless they all had excellent reasons," he said with a smile.

"But, anyway, you can not be spared, Mr. Phillips. " "You flatter me." "I want you to stay in your bedroom. Write, read, do what you like, but keep your door ajar. If any one passes down the corridor, see where he goes, only don't let him know that you are watching him if you can help it.

I will take my turn at half-past one. I don't mean to starve you." I obeyed. After all, it was, in a manner, promotion that the Inspector had given me; yet it was a tedious, anxious time. No one came my way, barring a sour-looking housemaid.

I tried to argue out the case, but the deeper I got the more conflicting grew my theories. I was never more glad to see a friendly face than when the little man came in upon me. The short winter's afternoon crept on, the Inspector and I taking turn and turn about in our sentry duty. Dinner-time came and went.

I had been off duty from nine, but at ten-thirty I poured out a whisky and soda and went back to join him. He was sitting in the middle of the room smoking a pipe in great apparent satisfaction. "Bed-time, isn't it?"
I grumbled, sniffing at his strong tobacco. "Oh, no," he said. "The fact is, we are going to sit up all night.

"

I threw myself on a couch by the window without reply. Perhaps I was not in the best of tempers; certainly I did not feel so. "You insisted on coming down with me," he suggested. "I know all about that," I told him. "I haven't complained, have I?

If you want me to shut myself up for a week I'll do it; but I should prefer to have some idea of the reason why."  "I don't wish to create mysteries, Mr. Phillips," he said kindly; "but believe me there is nothing to be gained in vague discussions. "

I knew that settled it as far as he was concerned, so I nodded my head and filled a pipe. At eleven he walked across the room and switched off the light. "If nothing happens you can take your turn in four hours from now," he said.

"In the meanwhile get to sleep.  I will keep the first watch." I shut my eyes, but there was no rest in me that night. I lay listening to the silence of the old house with a dull speculation. Somewhere far down in the lower floor a great gong-like clock chimed the hours and quarters.

I heard them every one, from twelve to one, from one to two. Peace had stopped smoking. He sat as silent as a cat at a mousehole. It must have been some fifteen minutes after two that I heard the faint, faint creak of a board in the corridor outside.

I sat up, every nerve strung to a tense alertness. And then there came a sound I knew well, the soft drawing touch of a hand groping in the darkness as some one felt his way along the paneled walls. It passed us and was gone.

Yet Peace never moved.

Could he have fallen asleep? I whispered his name. "Hush!"
The answer came to me like a gentle sigh. One minute, two minutes more and the room sprang into sight under the steady glow of an electric hand-lamp.

The Inspector rose from his seat and slid through the door with me upon his heels. The light he carried searched the clustered shadows; but the corridor was empty, nor was there any place where a man might hide. "You waited too long," I whispered impatiently. "The man is no fool, Mr. Phillips.

Do you imagine that he was not listening and staring like a hunted beast?

A noisy board, a stumble, or a flash of light, and we should have wasted a tiring day. "

"Nevertheless he has got clear away." "I think not."  As we crept forward I saw that a strip of the oak flooring along the walls was gray with dust. If it had been in such a neglected state in the afternoon I should surely have noticed it.

In some curiosity I stooped to examine the phenomenon. "Flour," whispered the little man touching my shoulder. "Flour?"  "Yes.
I sprinkled it myself.

Look there is the first result. "
He steadied his light as he spoke, pointing with his other hand. On the powdery surface was the half footprint of a man.

The flour did not extend more than a couple of feet from the walls, so that it was only here and there that we caught up the trail. We had passed the bedroom on the left yet the footprints still went on; we were at the store-room door, yet they still were visible before us. There was no other egress from the corridor. The tall window at the end was, as I knew, a good twenty feet from the ground.

Had this man also vanished off the earth like Silas Ford?

Suddenly the inspector stopped, grasping my arm. The light he held fell upon two footprints close together. They were at right angles to the passage.

Apparently the man had passed into the solid wall! "Peace, what does this mean?"

You, sir, sitting peaceably at home, with a good light and an easy conscience, may think I was a timid fool; yet I was afraid honestly and openly afraid. The little detective heard the news of it in my voice, for he gave me a reassuring pat upon the back. "Have you never heard of a 'priest's hole'?" he whispered. "In the days when Meudon Hall was built, no country house was without its hiding-place.

Protestants and priests, Royalists and Republicans, they all used the secret burrow at one time or another. " "How did he get in?"
"That is what we are here to discover, and as I have no wish to destroy Mr. Ford's old oak panels I think our simplest plan will be to wait until he comes back again." The shadows leaped upon us as Peace extinguished the light he carried. The great window alone was luminous with the faint starlight that showed the tracery of its ancient stonework; for the rest, the darkness hedged us about in impenetrable barriers.

Side by side, we stood by the wall in which we knew the secret entrance must exist. It may have been ten minutes or more when from the distance somewhere below our feet, or so it seemed to me there came the faint echo of a closing door. It was only in such cold silence that we could have heard it. The time ticked on. Suddenly, upon the black of the floor, there shone a thin reflection like the slash of a sword a reflection that grew into a broad gush of light as the sliding panel in the wall, six feet from where we stood, rose to the full opening.

There followed another pause, during which I could see Peace draw himself together as if for some unusual exertion. A shadow darkened the reflection on the floor, and a head came peering out. The light but half displayed the face, but I could see that the teeth were bare and glistening, like those of a man in some deadly expectation.

The next moment he stepped across the threshold. With a spring like the rush of a terrier, Addington Peace was upon him, driving him off his balance with the impact of the blow. Before I could reach them, the little detective had him down, though he still kicked viciously until I lent a hand. The click of the handcuffs on his wrist ended the matter. It was Ford's valet, the man Jackson.

We were not long by ourselves. I heard a key turned in the lock, and Ransome burst out of his room into the corridor like an angry bull. Almost at the same moment there sounded a quick patter of naked feet from behind us, and Harbord, the secretary, came running up, swinging a heavy stick in his hand.

They both stopped at the edge of the patch of light in which we were, staring from us to the gaping hole in the wall. "What in thunder are you about?" cried the manager. "Finding a solution to your problem," said the little detective, getting to his feet. "Perhaps, gentlemen, you will be good enough to follow me.

"

He stepped through the opening in the wall, and lifted the candle which the valet had placed on the floor while he was raising the panel from within. By its light I could see the first steps of a flight which led down into darkness. "We will take Jackson with us," he continued. "Keep an eye on him, Mr. Phillips, if you please. "

It was a strange procession that we made.

First Peace, with the candle, then Ransome, with the valet, following, while I and Harbord brought up the rear. We descended some thirty steps, formed in the thickness of the wall, opened a heavy door, and so found ourselves in a narrow chamber, some twelve feet long by seven broad. Upon a mattress at the further end lay a man, gagged and bound. As the light fell upon his features, Ransome sprang forward, shouting his name. "Silas Ford, by thunder!"
With eager fingers we loosened the gag and cut the ropes that bound his wrists.

He sat up, turning his long, thin face from one to the other of us as he stretched the cramp from his limbs. "Thank you, gentlemen," said he. "Well, Ransome, how are things?"  "Bad, sir; but it's not too late. "

He nodded his head, passing his hands through his hair with a quick, nervous movement.

"You've caught my clever friend, I see. Kindly go through his pockets, will you? He has something I must ask him to return to me.

"

We found it in Jackson's pocket-book a check, antedated a week, for five thousand pounds, with a covering letter to the manager of the bank. Ford took the bit of stamped paper, twisting it to and fro in his supple fingers. "It was smart of you, Jackson," he said, addressing the bowed figure before him: "I give you credit for the idea.

To kidnap a man just as he was bringing off a big deal well, you would have earned the money. "

"But how did you get down here?" struck in the manager. "He told me that he had discovered an old hiding-place a 'priest's hole,' he called it and I walked into the trap as the best man may do sometimes. As we got to the bottom of that stairway he slipped a sack over my head and had me fixed in thirty seconds.

He fed me himself twice a day, standing by to see I didn't halloo. When I paid up he was to have twenty-four hours' start; then he would let you know where I was. I held out awhile, but I gave in to-night. The delay was getting too dangerous. Have you a cigarette, Harbord?
Thank you.

And who may you be?"

It was to the detective he spoke. "My name is Peace, Inspector Addington Peace, from Scotland Yard. "

"And I owe my rescue to you?"
The little man bowed. "You will have no reason to regret it.

And what did they think had become of me, Inspector?"  "It was the general opinion that you had taken to yourself wings, Mr. Ford. "

It was as we traveled up to town next day that Peace told me his story. I will set it down as briefly as may be. "I soon came to the conclusion that Ford, whether dead or alive, was inside the grounds of Meudon Hall.

If he had bolted, for some reason, by the way, which was perfectly incomprehensible, a man of his ability would not have left a broad trail across the centre of his lawn for all to see. There was, moreover, no trace of him that our men could ferret out at any station within reasonable distance. A motor was possible, but there were no marks of its presence next morning in the mud of the roads. That fact I learned from a curious groom who had aided in the search, and who, with a similar idea upon him, had carefully examined the highway at daybreak.

"When I clambered to the top of the wall I found that the snow upon the coping had been dislodged. I traced the marks, as you saw, for about a dozen yards. Where they ended I, too, dropped to the ground outside. There I made a remarkable discovery. Upon a little drift of snow that lay in the shallow ditch beneath were more footprints.

But they were not those of Ford.

They were the marks of long and narrow boots, which led into the road, where they were lost in the track of a flock of sheep that had been driven over it the day before. "I took a careful measurement of those footprints. They might, of course, belong to some private investigator; but they gave me an idea. Could some man have walked across the lawn in Ford's boots, changed them to his own on the top of the wall, and so departed? Was it the desire of someone to let it be supposed that Ford had run away?

"When I examined Ford's private rooms I was even more fortunate. From the boot-boy I discovered that the master had three pairs of shooting boots. There were three pairs in the stand. Some one had made a very serious mistake.

Instead of hiding the pair he had used on the lawn, he had returned them to their place. The trick was becoming evident. But where was Ford?

In the house or grounds, dead or alive, but where?  "I was able, through my friend the boot-boy, to examine the boots on the night of our arrival. My measurements corresponded with those that Jackson, the valet, wore. Was he acting for himself, or was Harbord, or even Ransome, in the secret? That, too, it was necessary to discover before I showed my hand. "Your story of Harbord's midnight excursion supplied a clue.

The secretary had evidently followed some man who had disappeared mysteriously. Could there be the entrance to a secret chamber in that corridor? That would explain the mystification of Harbord as well as the disappearance of Silas Ford.

If so, Harbord was not involved. "If Ford were held a prisoner he must be fed. His jailer must of necessity remain in the house.

But the trap I set in the suggested journey to town was an experiment singularly unsuccessful, for all the three men I desired to test refused.

However, if I were right about the secret chamber I could checkmate the blackmailer by keeping a watch on him from your room, which commanded the line of communications.

But Jackson was clever enough to leave his victualing to the night-time.

I scattered the flour to try the result of that ancient trick. It was successful. That is all. Do you follow me?"
"Yes," said I; "but how did Jackson come to know the secret hiding place?"
"He has long been a servant of the house.

You had better ask his old master. "

Now, as I pondered the implications of Jackson's familiarity with the house, I considered the relationships between the staff. They had served together for years, and loyalty, I mused, could be as binding as a chain. It was clear that if Jackson knew the secrets of the household, then he could very well have orchestrated the entire affair.

My thoughts turned to Ransome, who had been unusually quiet since the incident. What if he had been complicit?
As I reviewed the events, I noted the strange happenings that had unfolded over the past few days. Ford's sudden disappearance, Harbord's late-night excursions, and the constant comings and goings of the staff suggested a web of intrigue. Perhaps there was more to this than mere chance. I decided to employ a different tactic.

Instead of confronting Jackson directly, I would observe him from a distance. With careful planning, I could ascertain whether he was in league with the others or simply a pawn in a larger game. The following day, I feigned a casual interest in the household chores, allowing me to blend in. My keen observation skills would serve me well, for I knew that the truth lay hidden beneath layers of deception.

As I moved about the house, I overheard snippets of conversation among the staff. Their whispers carried hints of discontent and mistrust. It seemed that Jackson was not the only one who held secrets. I noted that Harbord had been particularly agitated, and I wondered if he had been feeling the pressure of scrutiny. What did he know that he wasn't revealing?

Later that evening, I resolved to make my move. As darkness enveloped the estate, I carefully navigated my way toward the corridor where the mysterious entrance might be concealed. With each step, I felt the weight of the mystery pressing upon me. Would I uncover the truth behind Ford’s disappearance, or was I destined to stumble into a trap set by an unseen hand?

Suddenly, I heard a faint noise—like a whisper carried on the wind. My heart raced as I approached the door at the end of the hall. It creaked open, revealing a dimly lit passage that seemed to stretch endlessly into the shadows.

Determined, I stepped inside, the air thick with anticipation. Here was the chance to find answers, and perhaps save Ford if he was indeed in peril. As I ventured deeper, the atmosphere shifted. The walls seemed to close in around me, and every sound echoed ominously.

I reached for my flashlight, illuminating the path ahead. What secrets lay in the darkness? I knew I had to remain vigilant; the stakes were higher than I could have ever imagined. The passage twisted and turned, leading me to a heavy door.

My instincts screamed that this was where I would find the answers. With a steadying breath, I pushed it open, ready to face whatever awaited me on the other side. As I stepped over the threshold, the door creaked ominously behind me, and I found myself in a dimly lit chamber. The air was stale, carrying a sense of neglect that hinted at secrets long hidden. Dust motes danced in the beam of my flashlight as I scanned the room, searching for any signs of life or evidence that could lead me to Ford.

My eyes fell upon an old trunk nestled in the corner, its surface covered in a thick layer of dust. It seemed out of place, an artifact from a time when this chamber might have been vibrant with activity. I approached cautiously, each step echoing in the silence. The trunk's latch was rusty, but it yielded easily to my touch.

Inside, I discovered a collection of letters tied with a fraying ribbon, their edges yellowed with age. With trembling hands, I began to sift through the letters. They contained correspondence between Ford and a mysterious figure known only as 'M.' The letters hinted at a clandestine meeting, a conspiracy that could unravel everything I thought I knew about the people in this house. The mention of a 'secret chamber' sent a chill down my spine.

As I read on, I could hardly believe my eyes. The letters revealed that Ford had been involved in something much larger than himself—something that could endanger not just his life but the lives of everyone associated with him. I needed to find him and understand the full extent of the situation.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching from the corridor outside. Panic surged through me as I quickly stuffed the letters back into the trunk and closed it, wiping the dust from my hands. I held my breath and pressed myself against the wall, hoping to remain unseen.

The door swung open, and in stepped Jackson, his demeanor betraying no hint of the secret I had just uncovered. He surveyed the room, his sharp eyes scanning every corner. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as he paused just a few feet away from my hiding place. "What are you doing here?"

I almost gasped as I recognized Harbord’s voice behind him. Jackson replied coolly, "Just checking on the storeroom.

It’s been neglected for too long. "

My mind raced. They were on to something, but what? Were they aware of my presence?

I had to act quickly before they uncovered the truth I had stumbled upon. As they turned their backs to me, I seized the opportunity to slip further into the shadows. I knew I had to gather more information before confronting them. Their conversation revealed nothing more of immediate value, but I felt the tension between them.

It was clear that both had their own agendas, and neither could be trusted. Once they left the chamber, I took a moment to collect myself. The letters were a key to understanding Ford's predicament, and I needed to devise a plan to confront him without revealing my hand too soon. As I exited the room, I decided to retrace my steps and explore the grounds outside.

Perhaps there I could find further clues about the people involved in this mystery. My instincts told me that I was getting closer to the truth, but I had to remain vigilant. The night air was cool against my skin, and the moon cast an ethereal glow over the estate. I wandered the grounds, searching for signs of life, anything that might lead me to Ford.

Then I spotted a flicker of light in the distance—a lantern swaying gently as if someone was moving about in the garden. Curiosity piqued, I made my way toward it, moving quietly through the shadows. As I drew nearer, I recognized the figure silhouetted against the light.

It was Ford! Relief washed over me, but I knew that I had to approach with caution. What was he doing out here alone?

Did he have any idea of the danger he was in?

I decided to conceal myself behind a large bush, waiting for the right moment to reveal myself. My heart raced as I watched him. His face was drawn and weary, but there was a determination in his posture that told me he was not one to be easily cowed.

Finally, I stepped forward, emerging from the shadows. "Ford!"
I called softly, trying to keep my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. He turned, startled at first, but recognition quickly replaced his fear. "Who goes there?" he asked, squinting into the darkness.

"It’s me," I replied, stepping into the light of the lantern. "We need to talk. There’s much at stake. "

Ford looked around cautiously before gesturing for me to come closer. "You shouldn’t be here," he warned, glancing back toward the house.

"It’s not safe."
"I know," I said, urgency lacing my voice. "But we don’t have time to waste. We need to get to the bottom of this before it’s too late. "

As we began to discuss our next steps, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched. The shadows seemed to stretch longer, and the air was thick with tension.

Time was running out, and we were not alone in our pursuit of the truth. As Ford and I conversed in hushed tones, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were on the brink of uncovering something monumental. Our discussion revolved around the letters, the mysterious 'M,' and the potential for a secret chamber hidden somewhere in the estate. “What did you find in the house?”

Ford asked, his voice tense with urgency. “I discovered some letters,” I replied, lowering my voice even further. “They suggest you’ve been involved in something dangerous.

You need to tell me everything you know about this ‘M’ and what you’re entangled in.”

Ford hesitated, his gaze shifting uneasily. “I thought I could handle it,” he finally confessed. “I didn’t want to drag anyone else into this, but it’s spiraling out of control.”

I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out together, but we need to act fast.”

Just then, the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel interrupted us. Ford and I exchanged alarmed glances, instinctively retreating into the cover of shadows. “Did you hear that?”

he whispered, his eyes wide with fear. I nodded, straining to listen. The footsteps grew closer, accompanied by low voices murmuring just beyond our hiding place. I felt the tension in the air heighten as we pressed ourselves against the thick foliage, hoping to remain unseen.

“Let’s move,” I urged, my mind racing with options. We had to get away before we were discovered, but where could we go that would be safe? As the voices drifted closer, I recognized one of them—Harbord. The other was less familiar, but I could sense their urgency.

They were searching for something, or someone. “We have to split up,” I suggested quickly. “I’ll draw them away, and you find a place to hide.

Stay low, and don’t make a sound.”

Ford nodded, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “Be careful,” he whispered. Taking a deep breath, I slipped out of our hiding spot and made my way toward the garden’s edge.

My heart raced as I heard Harbord’s voice more clearly now, demanding to know where Ford had gone. “Check the stables!”

Harbord ordered. “He can’t be far. He wouldn’t risk being out here alone.”

I quickly ducked behind a nearby tree, watching as they moved toward the stables. My mind raced with possibilities. If they found Ford, all would be lost. I had to think strategically.

As I observed their movements, I noticed that the garden was more expansive than I had realized. There was a narrow pathway leading to the back of the estate, an area that appeared less traversed. It was risky, but it might provide the cover we needed. Cautiously, I made my way down the path, taking care to avoid any branches that could betray my presence.

The muffled sounds of their search echoed behind me, but I kept my focus ahead. Once I reached a dense thicket at the far end of the garden, I paused to catch my breath. My mind raced with thoughts of Ford and the danger he was in. I couldn’t let fear paralyze me; I had to be brave.

Just then, a soft rustle caught my attention. I turned to find a small, hidden entrance partially concealed by vines. My instincts kicked in—this could be another potential escape route or perhaps even the secret chamber hinted at in the letters.

I approached cautiously, peering through the foliage. The entrance appeared dark and foreboding, but if there was a chance it could lead to answers, I had to explore it. With a quick glance over my shoulder to ensure Harbord and his companion were still occupied, I pushed aside the vines and squeezed through the narrow opening. The air inside was cool and damp, a stark contrast to the humid night outside.

As I stepped into the chamber, I felt a sense of trepidation wash over me. The faint glow of moonlight filtered through cracks in the walls, illuminating the space just enough for me to navigate. I moved carefully, scanning the surroundings for anything that could provide insight into Ford’s situation. The chamber was cluttered with forgotten relics and dusty furniture, remnants of a time long past. Then I spotted something—a wooden chest against the far wall, slightly ajar.

My heart raced as I approached it. What secrets lay inside?
With trembling hands, I opened the chest fully. Inside, I found a collection of items: a bloodstained handkerchief, a revolver, and several more letters, this time addressed to 'M.' My heart sank as I read through the contents. It was clear that Ford had been caught in a web of deception and danger far beyond my initial understanding.

The letters hinted at betrayal, clandestine meetings, and a plot that could endanger many lives, including our own. As I pieced together the fragments of this new puzzle, I knew I had to regroup with Ford and share my findings. Time was of the essence; we needed to act before 'M' or Harbord could strike again. I quickly retraced my steps, moving stealthily through the garden.

My thoughts were a whirlwind of questions. Who was 'M,' and what did they want with Ford?
What was the true nature of this conspiracy? As I neared the spot where I had last seen Ford, a sudden chill crept down my spine.

I felt the presence of someone watching me, a shadow lurking just out of sight. My instincts screamed at me to be cautious, but I couldn’t turn back now. “Ford!”

I whispered urgently, hoping he was still safe. But the only reply was the rustling of leaves, and the shadows seemed to grow darker around me.

I had to find him before it was too late. As I waited for a response from Ford, the silence grew thick and oppressive. I could feel the weight of my surroundings pressing in on me, the shadows dancing around the edges of my vision. I was on high alert, aware that danger could be lurking at any moment.

“Ford!”

I called out again, my voice barely more than a whisper. The night air was heavy with anticipation, and I strained to listen for any signs of movement. Suddenly, a branch snapped behind me, and I whirled around, heart pounding.

From the shadows, a figure emerged—tall and menacing, cloaked in darkness. I recognized him instantly: it was Jackson, the valet. “What are you doing here?”

I demanded, instinctively stepping back into the cover of the thicket. “Looking for you, of course,” Jackson replied smoothly, his tone deceptively calm.

“I see you’ve been busy, rummaging through places that don’t concern you.” I narrowed my eyes at him, my pulse racing. “What do you know about Ford?
Where is he?”

Jackson shrugged, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “That depends on how far you’re willing to go to find out.

He’s in deeper trouble than you realize.” “What does that mean?”

I pressed, fighting the urge to flee. “You know something! Tell me!”

“Why should I?” he taunted, stepping closer. “You have no power here. You’re just a curious little fool who’s wandered too far into a game you don’t understand.” I felt a surge of frustration and fear.

“If you know anything, you need to help us. This is serious!”

“Serious?”

Jackson echoed, chuckling softly. “You have no idea how serious it is. But maybe I can make a deal with you.

You provide me with something useful, and I might consider telling you where Ford is.” “What kind of deal?”

I asked, incredulity creeping into my voice. “I want to know what you’ve found in that chest,” he replied, his eyes gleaming with a mix of greed and cunning. “Give me the letters, and I’ll tell you where to find your precious Ford.”

I hesitated, weighing my options.

The letters contained vital information, but the thought of leaving Ford’s fate in Jackson’s hands was equally troubling. If I didn’t act fast, I might lose both him and the chance to uncover the truth. “Why should I trust you?”

I asked, trying to stall for time. Jackson stepped closer, invading my personal space. “Because I know more than you think.

I can help you—if you let me. Or you can continue this foolish quest alone and face the consequences.” Just then, the night was pierced by the distant sound of voices. Panic surged through me as I realized Harbord and his companion might be drawing closer.

“I don’t have time for this,” I said, determination setting in. “I’ll find Ford on my own.” Before Jackson could react, I darted past him, heart racing. I had no idea where I was going, but I couldn’t risk being caught here.

I navigated through the dense underbrush, my mind racing as I recalled the layout of the estate. If I could reach the stables, I might find a way to escape or discover where Ford was being held. As I neared the stable area, I could hear the faint whinnying of horses and the clatter of hooves. I glanced back, and to my dismay, I saw Jackson emerging from the thicket, his expression darkening as he followed me.

“Stop!”

he shouted, the threat clear in his voice. “You’re making a mistake!” Ignoring him, I pressed on, my only focus being Ford’s safety. I slipped into the stable, ducking behind a large hay bale to catch my breath and collect my thoughts. The interior was dimly lit, the scent of hay and animals filling the air.

My heart raced as I considered my next move. I needed to be stealthy, to avoid drawing attention while I searched for any sign of Ford. Peeking out from my hiding spot, I scanned the stable. There were two horses, saddled and ready, and to my relief, I noticed Ford’s familiar brown coat draped over a nearby saddle.

He had been here recently. Just then, I heard footsteps approaching. I crouched lower, my breath hitching in my throat as the figures entered the stable. It was Harbord and another man I didn’t recognize.

“Ford has to be around here somewhere,” Harbord said, his voice low and urgent. “We can’t let him get away.” “What if he has already left?”

the other man asked. “He could have taken off with the horses.”

“No,” Harbord insisted.

“He wouldn’t leave without making sure he had a plan. He knows we’re onto him.” My heart sank. They were close, and if they found me, everything would be over.

I needed a distraction, something to divert their attention. I scanned the stable, my eyes landing on a bucket hanging from the wall, filled with grain. With a quick flick of my wrist, I knocked it over, sending grain spilling across the ground. “What was that?”

Harbord exclaimed, turning sharply toward the noise.

Using their moment of distraction, I slipped out from behind the hay bale and made my way toward the back of the stable. I had to find Ford before they caught on to what was happening. As I crept further into the shadows, I heard whispers coming from one of the stalls. I paused, straining to listen. “...he won’t find us here.

We just need to stay hidden a little longer,” a voice said. It was Ford! Relief washed over me, and I rushed toward the stall, peeking inside. There he was, looking disheveled but alive. He met my gaze, surprise flickering in his eyes.

“Thank goodness you found me!”

he exclaimed in a hushed voice. “I was afraid I’d be stuck here forever.”

“Not yet,” I replied urgently. “We have to get out before they realize we’re together. Come on!” We moved quietly, careful not to alert Harbord and his companion.

As we neared the entrance of the stable, I could hear them growing more agitated, searching for us among the stalls. “Where could they have gone?” Harbord said, frustration evident in his tone. “Maybe we should check the back exit,” the other man suggested.

“Let’s split up,” Harbord ordered. “I’ll take the front. You check the back.”

My heart raced as I and Ford slipped out the side entrance just in time, narrowly avoiding being caught. The moonlight illuminated our path as we dashed into the night. “Where do we go now?”

Ford asked, glancing back toward the stable. “We need to find a place to hide and come up with a plan,” I replied, scanning our surroundings. The estate was sprawling, with woods surrounding the edges.

If we could make it to the treeline, we might have a chance. With Ford beside me, we sprinted toward the woods, the sound of pursuit echoing behind us. As we reached the treeline, I glanced back to see Harbord and the other man exiting the stable, their faces twisted in anger and confusion.

“Quick, this way!”

I urged Ford as we dove into the cover of the trees. The darkness enveloped us, providing a temporary sense of safety. I leaned against a tree, trying to catch my breath.

“We have to think strategically,” I said, my mind racing. “They’ll come after us. We can’t let them find us again.”

Ford nodded, determination shining in his eyes.

“I’m with you. Whatever it takes, we’ll uncover the truth and get to the bottom of this.” As we made our way deeper into the woods, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were on the verge of unraveling a conspiracy that reached far beyond our understanding. Each step forward was laced with uncertainty, but I knew we had to press on.

The night was far from over, and our journey had just begun. As we trudged through the underbrush, the sounds of the night enveloped us. The rustling leaves and distant hoots of owls provided an eerie soundtrack to our escape.

Each crack of a twig underfoot felt amplified, and I couldn’t shake the paranoia that someone was still watching us. “Do you think they’ll follow us?”

Ford whispered, glancing back toward the estate. “I’m sure they will,” I replied, keeping my voice low. “We need to find a place to lay low for a while.”

We pressed deeper into the woods, where the canopy thickened, providing more cover. The moonlight filtered through the leaves, casting eerie shadows that danced around us.

I could feel the tension between us as we navigated through the dimly lit terrain, my mind racing with questions about what we’d stumbled into. “Do you have any idea what’s really going on here?”

I asked Ford, trying to gather my thoughts. He hesitated, glancing around as if weighing his words.

“There are things I suspect, but it’s all connected to something bigger than just me. I believe Ford was caught in a web of deceit and greed.”

I nodded, piecing together the fragments of our situation. “Jackson seemed to know more than he was letting on.

And Harbord is definitely not to be trusted. We have to figure out who else is involved.”

Ford stopped and turned to face me, urgency etched on his features. “If we can find evidence of their scheme, we might be able to expose them. But we have to be careful.

They’re dangerous.” I agreed. We had to gather information without drawing attention to ourselves. “Let’s find a safe place to regroup and come up with a plan.” We continued to move quietly until we spotted an old hunting cabin nestled among the trees.

It appeared abandoned, but it could provide us with a temporary refuge. “Over there,” I pointed. “That cabin might work.”

As we approached, I checked the surroundings for any signs of life. The door creaked as we entered, and dust motes danced in the beams of moonlight that streamed through the cracks. Inside, it was sparse—an old table, a few chairs, and a fireplace long since used.

“This will have to do,” Ford said, surveying the area. “At least we can gather our thoughts here.” We took a moment to catch our breath, the weight of our escape finally settling in. I leaned against the wall, my mind racing with possibilities.

“First things first,” I began, “we need to figure out our next move. We can’t stay here too long.”

Ford nodded, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “We should consider finding allies. Someone who can help us navigate this mess.”

“Agreed,” I replied, pacing the small cabin.

“But who can we trust?”

As if sensing my agitation, Ford spoke up. “What about that boot-boy you mentioned? He seems to know a lot about the goings-on in the house.”

I paused, considering his suggestion.

“You’re right. He might be our best lead. If we can get to him, he may have information that could help us.”

“Let’s wait until dawn,” Ford suggested. “We’ll have a better chance of sneaking back to the estate in the daylight.”

I agreed, knowing we had to be strategic.

As we settled in for the night, I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that lingered. The silence was unnerving, broken only by the occasional creak of the cabin settling. “Do you think we’re safe here?” Ford asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “For now,” I replied, though uncertainty gnawed at me.

“But we can’t let our guard down. If they’re looking for us, they might come this way.”

As the hours passed, I felt the weight of fatigue pressing down on me. My mind raced with thoughts of Ford, the boot-boy, and the danger that awaited us. I couldn’t afford to let my emotions cloud my judgment. With the first light of dawn creeping through the cracks in the cabin, I woke with a start.

Ford was already awake, his eyes alert and focused. “It’s time,” he said, determination in his gaze. “Let’s move before they notice we’re gone.”

We gathered ourselves and slipped out of the cabin, the cool morning air refreshing against my skin. The woods felt alive, the sounds of birds heralding the new day.

“Stick close to me,” I instructed as we navigated back through the trees toward the estate. As we reached the edge of the property, I could see the mansion in the distance, looming like a fortress. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what lay ahead. “We need to find the boot-boy before anyone else does,” I said. Ford nodded, and together we crept toward the house, scanning for any signs of movement.

I spotted the stable in the distance, the horses still milling about. “Let’s check there first,” I suggested, pointing. As we approached, we heard the sound of footsteps, and I motioned for Ford to hide behind a nearby tree. I peered around the corner to see Jackson walking toward the stable, a determined look on his face. “Where is he?”

Jackson muttered to himself, glancing around as if he sensed we might be nearby.

I exchanged a worried glance with Ford. “He’s looking for us. We need to be quick.” As Jackson entered the stable, we slipped inside the shadows, careful not to make a sound.

My heart raced as I scanned the area, hoping to spot the boot-boy. “Over there!”

Ford whispered, pointing to a shadowy corner of the stable. I moved silently toward the figure, recognizing him as the boot-boy. “Hey!”

I hissed, crouching down beside him.

He looked up, wide-eyed. “You!
I thought you’d been caught!” “We need your help,” I said urgently.

“What do you know about Ford’s disappearance?”

“I’ve heard things,” he replied, glancing toward the entrance nervously. “They’re involved in something big—something that goes beyond just Ford. You have to be careful.”

“Tell us everything,” I insisted, my voice low but firm. “We don’t have much time.” He nodded, glancing around as if to ensure we were alone.

“They’ve been planning something for weeks. It involves a shipment of something valuable, and Ford got too close to the truth. That’s why they’re after him.”

“Where is he being held?”

Ford asked, desperation creeping into his voice. “Somewhere in the estate,” the boot-boy replied. “I overheard them talking about a hidden room, but I don’t know where.

You’ll need to find the layout of the place.”

“Is there a way to access the house without being seen?”

I asked, my mind racing with possibilities. “Yes, there’s a back entrance that leads to the basement,” he explained. “You can slip in there, but you need to move quickly. If they catch you—” “I know, I know,” I interrupted, feeling the pressure of time pressing down on us.

“We have to act now.” Ford and I exchanged determined glances. “We’ll find Ford, no matter what,” I said resolutely.

“Be careful,” the boot-boy warned. “If they see you, it could be the end for all of us.” With that, we slipped out of the stable, hearts pounding in our chests as we made our way toward the back of the estate. The sun was rising higher now, casting long shadows across the ground. I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, pushing us forward as we navigated toward the entrance the boot-boy had described.

“This is it,” I whispered, glancing around to ensure we weren’t being watched. We approached the door, my heart racing with anticipation and fear. “Ready?”

Ford nodded, determination etched on his face. “Let’s do this.”

Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness beyond.

We were entering the belly of the beast, and there was no turning back. The air inside the basement was musty and cold, a stark contrast to the bright morning outside. Shadows danced on the walls, flickering in the dim light as we crept forward, our senses heightened. I strained to listen for any sounds that might indicate someone was nearby.

“This way,” I whispered to Ford, leading him down a narrow corridor. The walls were lined with old crates and dusty furniture, remnants of what once might have been a storage area. We moved cautiously, each step echoing softly in the silence. I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears as I peered around a corner, hoping to catch a glimpse of anything that might guide us.

“Look,” Ford murmured, pointing to a small door at the far end of the hall. It was slightly ajar, a faint light seeping through the crack. I nodded, my heart racing as we approached. “That might be it.” As we neared the door, a sound broke the stillness—a faint, muffled cry echoed from behind it.

My heart sank. It was Ford’s voice. “Ford!”

I exclaimed, rushing forward. I pushed the door open wider, revealing a small, dimly lit room. Inside, tied to a chair, was Ford.

Relief washed over me as I hurried toward him. “We’re here! We’re going to get you out!” He looked up, eyes filled with hope and concern.

“Be careful!
They could be close.”

I quickly began to untie him, glancing over my shoulder to ensure we weren’t ambushed. “We need to move fast,” I urged, working frantically at the knots that bound him. Once free, Ford rubbed his wrists, a determined look on his face. “Thank you.

We need to get out of here before they find out.” “Do you know the way back?” I asked, scanning the room for any possible exit routes.

“Yes, follow me,” he said, leading the way back to the corridor. As we made our way back, the tension in the air thickened. I could feel the dread settling in my stomach. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like an alarm. Suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching.

“Hurry!” I hissed, pushing Ford toward a side door I noticed earlier. We slipped inside just as the footsteps grew louder. The door closed with a soft click, and we held our breath, listening intently.

“Where are they?” a voice called from the hallway, the tone heavy with suspicion. “They can’t be far,” another voice responded.

“Search every room!”

I exchanged a panicked glance with Ford. “We need to find a way out, now.” The small room we had entered was cramped and filled with old boxes. “This could be a storage area,” I whispered, hoping there might be a back exit.

“Let’s check for windows,” Ford suggested, moving toward the far wall. We quickly rummaged through the boxes, our hearts pounding as we searched for an escape route. “Nothing,” I muttered, frustration mounting. Then, Ford shouted, “Here!”

He had discovered a small window, just big enough to squeeze through. “Can you fit?”

I asked, assessing the opening.

“I’ll try,” he said, positioning himself at the window. I helped him maneuver his body through, holding my breath as he disappeared outside. “Come on, hurry!”

I urged, glancing back toward the door as the voices grew closer.

Finally, Ford reached back in for me, and I climbed up, squeezing through the window. I tumbled out onto the soft grass below, gasping for fresh air. “Quick!”

he whispered, scanning the area for any signs of movement.

We crouched low and began to make our way toward the tree line, hoping to remain unseen. I glanced back at the house, anxiety gnawing at my insides. We couldn’t let them catch us again. “Where to now?”

Ford asked, breathing heavily as we ducked behind a bush. “We need to get to the main road,” I replied, my mind racing.

“From there, we can find help or a car.” We navigated through the underbrush, careful to stay out of sight. The sounds of the house faded behind us, but the fear of being caught lingered. Just as we reached the edge of the trees, a shout echoed behind us.

“They’re getting away!”

“Run!”

I shouted, adrenaline kicking in as we sprinted toward the road. Our feet pounded against the ground, the distance between us and our pursuers narrowing. I could hear the sounds of footsteps behind us, growing louder as they chased us down. “There!”

Ford pointed toward a small car parked at the side of the road.

“We can use that!” We dashed toward the vehicle, heart pounding with hope. I fumbled with the door handle, my fingers shaking. “It’s locked!”

I cursed under my breath. “Let me,” Ford said, taking a step back.

He smashed the window with a rock, shattering the glass. I winced at the sound, but there was no time to hesitate. He reached inside, quickly unlocking the door. “Get in!”

he urged, climbing into the driver’s seat. I scrambled in, my heart racing as Ford started the engine.

“Go, go, go!” I yelled as I glanced in the rearview mirror. We pulled away just as the figures from the estate emerged, their shouts fading in the distance. Ford slammed the gas pedal, and we sped down the road, leaving the chaos behind us. “What now?”

I asked, trying to catch my breath.

“First, we need to find a safe place to regroup,” Ford replied, determination etched on his face. “Then we can figure out who’s behind this and why they wanted me gone.” As we drove further away from the estate, a sense of relief washed over me. But deep down, I knew this was just the beginning.

We were still in danger, and the real fight had yet to come. Ford kept his eyes glued to the road, navigating through the winding lanes with a mix of urgency and precision. The trees blurred past us, their shadows stretching across the pavement as we sped away from the looming threat of the estate. “Where do we go?”

I asked, my mind racing with possibilities.

“There’s a small town about ten miles from here,” he replied, glancing at me. “We can hide out there for a bit. I need to contact someone who can help.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?”

I questioned, the weight of our situation settling heavily on my shoulders. “Yes, a friend from my days in the service.

He’s well-connected and knows how to handle these kinds of situations.” Ford’s expression was resolute, but I could see the tension in his jaw. As we drove, the landscape shifted from dense forests to open fields, the sun shining down on us.

It felt surreal, as if we had just escaped from a dark tunnel into the light. But the nagging feeling of being pursued lingered in the back of my mind.

“We should think about what we’re going to tell him,” I said. “We need to explain everything without raising too many questions.” “I know,” Ford replied. “But first, we need to ensure we’re not followed.

I’ll take the back roads into town.”

I nodded, appreciating his strategic mindset. The last thing we needed was for our pursuers to catch up to us now. As we continued, the road grew narrower, flanked by tall grass and wildflowers swaying in the gentle breeze. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the chaos swirling in my mind.

“Are you okay?”

Ford asked, glancing at me briefly. “I will be,” I assured him. “I just need to process everything. It’s been a whirlwind.”

“We’ll figure this out,” he promised. “Just hold on a little longer.” After a few more twists and turns, we finally approached the outskirts of the town.

Small houses dotted the landscape, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the air, a stark contrast to the tension that had enveloped us. “There’s the diner,” Ford said, pointing to a small, vintage-looking building with a neon sign flickering. “That’s where we’ll meet my friend.” As we parked, my heart raced.

I was filled with apprehension, but also a glimmer of hope. If Ford’s contact could help us, we might just have a chance to get to the bottom of this. “Stay close,” Ford instructed as we stepped out of the car.

“We don’t know who’s watching.” We entered the diner, the bell above the door chiming softly. The cozy interior was filled with the comforting sounds of clinking dishes and quiet conversations. A waitress looked up from behind the counter, giving us a curious glance before returning to her tasks.

“Where is he?”

Ford muttered under his breath, scanning the room. “Maybe we should sit at the counter?”

I suggested, feeling a bit out of place. “Good idea.”

He led the way, and we slid onto two barstools, our eyes still darting around for any sign of danger. After a few moments, a tall man with a weathered face and a friendly smile approached us. “Ford!

It’s been a while,” he said, clapping Ford on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Jake,” Ford replied, relief washing over him. “We need your help.”

Jake’s expression shifted to seriousness as he sat down next to us. “What’s going on?”

Ford glanced around the diner, ensuring no one was eavesdropping. “I’m in trouble, Jake.

It’s serious. Someone’s after me.” “After you?
Why?”

Jake leaned in closer, concern etching his features.

“I can’t explain everything right now,” Ford said urgently. “But we need a safe place to stay, and I need to get in touch with some people who can help me sort this out.”

“Consider it done,” Jake replied without hesitation. “I have a place nearby where you can lay low for a few days. Just tell me what you need.”

As Ford began to explain the situation, I took a moment to observe the diner’s patrons.

Everyone seemed engrossed in their meals, oblivious to the brewing storm outside. I couldn’t help but wonder how many of them had their own secrets and struggles hidden beneath the surface. Once Ford finished his briefing, Jake nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll get us out of here.

Follow me.”

We slipped out of the diner, the fresh air hitting my face like a splash of cold water. The world felt both familiar and foreign, and I realized just how much had changed in such a short time. “Stay close,” Ford reminded me as we followed Jake to his vehicle parked a few blocks away. Once inside, Jake drove us toward a secluded cabin hidden in the woods.

The drive was quiet, filled with the sounds of tires crunching on gravel and the occasional chirp of birds. I felt a sense of unease creeping in again, but I pushed it aside, focusing on the hope that maybe we could turn things around. When we arrived at the cabin, Jake turned off the engine and looked back at us. “Welcome to your hideout.

You’ll be safe here.”

“Thank you,” I said, truly grateful for his kindness. As we stepped out, I took in the surroundings. The cabin was rustic but charming, nestled among the trees with a small stream flowing nearby. It felt like a sanctuary, a refuge from the chaos of the outside world.

“Let’s get inside and discuss our next steps,” Ford said, leading the way. Inside, the cabin was cozy, filled with the scent of wood and the warmth of a crackling fireplace. It felt like a home, a stark contrast to the danger that still loomed over us. Jake poured us each a glass of water and sat down across from us.

“Now, let’s talk about what’s really going on. You mentioned someone’s after you, Ford. Who?”

Ford took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “I’m not sure how much you know about my past, but there are things I thought I left behind. It seems they’ve come back to haunt me.”

I leaned forward, eager to hear more. “I was involved in a sensitive operation years ago, one that didn’t end well,” Ford continued. “I thought it was over, but someone seems to have picked up the trail again.”

Jake’s expression hardened. “That sounds serious.

We’ll need to tread carefully.”

As Ford explained further, I felt the weight of our situation settling in. We were entangled in a web of danger, secrets, and past mistakes. But I also felt a flicker of hope—we had allies now, and together, we might just find a way to uncover the truth and put an end to this nightmare.

As Ford recounted the events that had led him to this point, I could see the tension etched into his features. He was clearly grappling with a mix of fear and determination, the stakes of our situation weighing heavily on his shoulders. “Who knows about this?”

Jake asked, his tone serious. “Anyone else involved in that operation?”

“No one I trust,” Ford replied firmly.

“I kept things quiet for a reason. The fewer people who know, the safer we are.”

“Good thinking,” Jake said, nodding in agreement. “But that also means you need to be cautious.

If they’ve found you once, they can find you again.” I felt a chill run down my spine. The thought of being hunted was terrifying, but it also fueled my resolve. We couldn’t allow fear to dictate our actions.

“What do you need from me?”

Jake asked, his expression turning serious. Ford hesitated for a moment, then spoke. “I need to figure out who’s behind this. If I can identify the person pulling the strings, we might have a chance to put a stop to it.” “I can help with that,” Jake replied.

“I have some contacts who might know something. But we’ll have to be discreet.

We don’t want to attract attention.” “Agreed,” Ford said. “We’ll need to work quickly.” I glanced around the cozy cabin, feeling a strange sense of comfort amidst the uncertainty.

Despite the gravity of our situation, this place felt safe, a small haven where we could regroup and strategize. “While we plan,” I suggested, “maybe we should also think about our next moves. If we’re going to confront whoever’s after you, we need a solid strategy.”

“Right,” Ford said, visibly grateful for my input. “Let’s brainstorm.

I’ll need to stay one step ahead.”

Jake leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. “What’s the last thing you remember before everything went haywire?”

“I was at a meeting with some associates,” Ford explained. “It was supposed to be a routine discussion, but then things started to feel off. I noticed someone was watching me, and not just casually.

It was intense.”

“Do you think they were sent to intimidate you?” I asked, trying to piece together the timeline. “It’s possible,” Ford admitted.

“I dismissed it at the time, but looking back, it feels like a warning. They didn’t want me to dig deeper into whatever was going on.” “Then it sounds like you’re already in their crosshairs,” Jake noted.

“You need to get ahead of this. What did you find out before you had to run?”

“I learned about some questionable dealings,” Ford said. “There was talk of fraud and smuggling. I think someone wanted me out of the picture to keep their operations hidden.”

“Do you have any leads on who it might be?” Jake pressed.

“I have a few names, but nothing concrete,” Ford replied. “I didn’t want to raise any suspicions. But I think if we dig deeper, we might uncover something.”

I felt a surge of determination.

“We can start by reaching out to your contacts. Let’s see what they know. If we gather enough information, we can confront them and figure out our next steps.” “Exactly,” Ford agreed.

“But we have to be careful. We don’t want to alert them to our plans.”

Jake nodded. “Let’s formulate a plan.

I can make a few calls, and we’ll set up some meetings. In the meantime, you two should stay low.”

As Jake got up to prepare for his calls, Ford turned to me. “I appreciate you being here. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” “I’m here for you,” I replied.

“We’ll get through this together.” The cabin felt quieter now, the weight of our conversation hanging in the air. I could sense the seriousness of our situation, but there was also a shared commitment between us—a determination to fight back against whatever threat loomed ahead. After Jake finished his calls, he returned with a focused expression.

“I’ve set up a meeting with one of my contacts in town. They have information about the dealings Ford mentioned. We can meet tonight, under the cover of darkness.”

“Perfect,” Ford said, his confidence returning. “What time?”

“Let’s say around nine. We’ll need to move quickly and quietly,” Jake advised.

I felt a mix of anticipation and anxiety as the plan took shape. Our next steps could change everything, and I hoped we would finally start to unravel the mystery behind the threats against Ford. As night began to fall, the atmosphere in the cabin shifted. Shadows crept along the walls, and the sounds of the forest grew louder, creating an eerie backdrop for our impending meeting.

“Let’s get ready,” Ford said, his voice steady. “We need to be prepared for anything.”

With a shared determination, we gathered our belongings, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. The time for action had come, and we were ready to fight back against the darkness that threatened to engulf us.

As we stepped outside, the crisp night air wrapped around us like a cloak, heightening our senses. The moon hung low, casting a silvery glow across the forest, illuminating our path. We moved cautiously, aware of the potential dangers that lurked in the shadows. “Stick close,” Jake whispered as we navigated the winding trail leading to town.

“We don’t know who might be watching.” Ford nodded, his expression serious. “I’ll lead the way.

I know a shortcut that will keep us off the main road.” The trees loomed overhead, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. The only sounds were our footsteps and the distant rustle of leaves.

I felt a mix of excitement and trepidation; we were stepping into the unknown, but the stakes were too high to turn back now. As we approached the town, the dim lights of the buildings flickered in the distance. The familiar sights of the streets felt strangely foreign in the darkness. We made our way to a small café that Jake had mentioned, a place known for its discretion.

“I’ll go in first and scope the place out,” Jake said. “Stay close to the entrance. If anything feels off, we’ll regroup and reconsider our approach.”

“Understood,” Ford replied, his tone resolute. “Let’s not take any chances.”

I watched as Jake slipped through the door, his figure disappearing into the shadows. Ford and I stood near the entrance, our hearts racing with anticipation.

The café had an air of mystery, its windows fogged with the warmth of conversation inside. “Do you think this contact has reliable information?” I asked, breaking the silence. “I trust Jake’s instincts,” Ford replied.

“If he believes this person knows something, then it’s worth our time.” After what felt like an eternity, Jake reappeared, a slight nod signaling that all was clear. “We’re good to go,” he said.

“Let’s head inside.” The café was dimly lit, the scent of coffee and pastries mingling in the air. We took a corner table, and Jake ordered drinks for us while keeping his voice low. “The contact is on their way.

They should arrive any minute.”

“Do you have a plan for what you want to ask?”

I inquired, glancing around the room. “Yes,” Ford said, leaning forward. “We need to find out who’s been tailing me and what their motivations are.

If we can connect the dots, we might be able to turn the tables.” Just then, a figure entered the café, scanning the room before locking eyes with Jake. He gestured for the person to join us, and moments later, a woman with an air of confidence slid into the seat across from us. “Jake,” she said, a smirk playing on her lips.

“You always know where to find the best company.” “Margaret, good to see you,” Jake replied, a hint of warmth in his tone. “We need your expertise.” Margaret turned her attention to Ford, her expression shifting to one of curiosity. “So, you’re the one causing all this commotion.

I’ve heard whispers about you.” “I need to know who’s behind the threats against me,” Ford stated directly, his gaze unwavering. “I believe there’s a network involved, and I want names.”

“Bold,” she replied, leaning back in her chair. “But dangerous.

You don’t know who you’re dealing with.” “Then enlighten me,” Ford urged, his determination palpable. Margaret considered his words, her demeanor shifting as she weighed the risks. “Alright, I’ll tell you what I know. But you need to understand that once you step into this world, there’s no turning back.”

Ford nodded, fully aware of the implications.

“I’m prepared for that.” “The person you’re looking for is connected to a larger operation,” she explained, her voice low. “They’ve been in the shadows, manipulating events to their advantage.

You’re not just a target; you’re a threat to their plans.” I felt a chill run through me. “What do you mean?” “Your inquiries have drawn attention,” she continued.

“And that attention can be lethal. If they think you’re getting too close, they won’t hesitate to silence you.” Jake leaned in, his interest piqued.

“Who is it? Do you have a name?”

“Yes,” she said slowly, “but it’s not just one person. It’s a network—powerful individuals who prefer to operate behind the scenes. They use pawns to do their dirty work, keeping their hands clean while they pull the strings.”

Ford’s brow furrowed. “Then we need to gather evidence against them.”

Margaret nodded.

“That’s where it gets tricky. They’re skilled at covering their tracks. You’ll need more than just suspicion; you’ll need proof.”

“Do you have any leads?”

I asked, feeling the urgency of our situation intensify. “I might,” she replied, her expression thoughtful. “But it won’t be easy. You’ll have to infiltrate their circle to gain their trust, and that comes with its own set of dangers.”

“I’m willing to do whatever it takes,” Ford insisted, his resolve unwavering. “Then I suggest you prepare yourself for the fight of your life,” Margaret warned.

“This won’t be a simple game of cat and mouse. You’re stepping into a world where loyalties shift, and betrayal is common.”

As she spoke, I could sense the gravity of our situation. We were on the brink of uncovering something monumental, but the risks involved were greater than I had anticipated. “I’ll do whatever I can to help,” I said firmly, looking at both Ford and Jake.

“We’re in this together.” “Good,” Ford replied, appreciation evident in his eyes. “We’ll need each other more than ever.”

As we sat in that café, the weight of our mission loomed over us, but there was also a flicker of hope. Together, we could navigate the treacherous waters ahead, and perhaps—just perhaps—we could unravel the mystery that had ensnared us all. The atmosphere in the café shifted as the reality of our situation settled in.

Margaret leaned in closer, her voice a whisper tinged with urgency. “If you want to infiltrate their circle, you’ll need a disguise. They’re very cautious about who they let in.

You can’t just walk in and introduce yourselves.”

Jake furrowed his brow. “What do you suggest?”

“I have a few contacts who might help,” she said, glancing around to ensure no one was listening. “They can provide you with new identities and cover stories. It’ll give you a chance to move undetected.”

Ford nodded, processing the information. “How long will it take?”

“Not long,” Margaret assured him. “If we move quickly, I can have everything arranged by tomorrow evening.” “Tomorrow?”

I echoed, feeling a mix of apprehension and anticipation.

“That’s fast.” “Yes, but it’s also risky,” she replied. “Once you’re in, you’ll have to act convincingly.

They’ll be watching every move you make.” “What about you?”

Jake asked. “Will you be safe?”

“I’ll be fine,” Margaret said with a slight smile.

“I’ve managed to keep myself under the radar for years. But you need to focus on your mission.

This is your chance to turn the tables on them.” “I don’t want to put you in danger,” Ford interjected, concern evident in his tone. “Don’t worry about me,” she insisted.

“I’m used to this life. You, on the other hand, have a target on your back. The sooner you act, the better.” I exchanged glances with Ford and Jake.

The gravity of the situation was becoming all too real, and I could sense the urgency in Margaret’s words. “We’ll do it,” I said, determination rising within me. “We’ll follow your lead.”

“Good,” Margaret replied, her expression serious. “I’ll arrange everything and meet you here tomorrow.

In the meantime, stay vigilant. Trust no one, and keep your plans close to your chest.”

With that, we finished our drinks and prepared to leave. As we stepped outside, the cool night air enveloped us once more, heightening our senses. I felt a mix of anticipation and anxiety; we were on the precipice of something significant, yet the unknown loomed ahead. “Let’s get back to the house,” Ford said, his voice steady.

“We need to regroup and come up with a plan.” “Agreed,” Jake replied, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any potential threats. “We can’t afford to be careless now.”

The walk back to the house felt longer than before, each shadow seeming to loom larger as we passed. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched, but I pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. Once inside, we gathered in the living room, the faint light casting long shadows on the walls. Ford paced the room, deep in thought.

“We need to establish our cover stories before tomorrow. We can’t afford any slip-ups.” “I can help with that,” Jake offered. “We should create backstories that align with the network we’re trying to infiltrate.”

“Right,” Ford agreed, nodding.

“We need to think like them. What do they want? What do they fear?”

I listened intently, taking mental notes as they strategized.

“We could pose as investors looking for opportunities,” I suggested. “That might give us a legitimate reason to engage with them.”

“Good idea,” Jake said, a grin spreading across his face. “That could open doors for us.” “Let’s not forget to cover our tracks,” Ford added.

“We can’t leave any evidence of our real intentions. If they suspect anything, it could be the end for all of us.”

As we continued to brainstorm, I could feel the tension in the room begin to shift. We were no longer just three individuals caught in a web of intrigue; we were a team, united by a common goal.

“Tomorrow is crucial,” Ford said, bringing the conversation back to the task at hand. “We need to remain calm and collected. The slightest hint of uncertainty could ruin everything.” “I’ll keep my eyes open,” I promised.

“If I see anything suspicious, I’ll let you know.” With our plans in place, we turned in for the night, each of us retreating to our rooms, the weight of our mission hanging heavily in the air. As I lay in bed, sleep eluded me.

My mind raced with thoughts of the day ahead, the potential dangers, and the risks we were about to take. The following morning arrived all too soon, and I felt the excitement coursing through my veins. We gathered once more in the living room, our disguises ready. I looked at Ford and Jake, both of whom were equally anxious yet determined. “Are we ready?”

Ford asked, his eyes scanning the room for any last-minute details.

“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Jake replied, adjusting his collar. “Let’s stick to the plan and keep each other informed.”

As we stepped out into the sunlight, I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what lay ahead. Today would be a turning point, a chance to uncover the truth and fight back against those who sought to control us. “Let’s do this,” I said, determination fueling my steps as we made our way toward the unknown. As we walked through the bustling streets of Paris, the vibrant energy of the city pulsed around us.

People hurried past, absorbed in their own lives, unaware of the secrets and dangers lurking just beneath the surface. We navigated through the crowd, each step taking us closer to our destination. “Where exactly are we headed?”

I asked, trying to keep the nerves at bay. “Margaret mentioned a club,” Ford replied, glancing at his watch.

“It’s frequented by the elite—perfect for gathering intel and finding out more about Ford’s disappearance.” Jake nodded, his expression serious. “We’ll need to act natural.

Blend in with the crowd and don’t draw attention to ourselves.” The club came into view, its entrance adorned with elegant lights that flickered like stars against the evening sky. A doorman stood at the door, assessing each person who approached with a discerning gaze. “Stick to the plan,” Ford reminded us as we approached.

“We’re investors looking to make connections.”

I took a deep breath, my heart racing as we stepped closer to the threshold. As we reached the doorman, I felt the weight of his scrutiny, but Ford spoke confidently. “Good evening.

We’re here to meet some associates.” The doorman’s expression softened slightly as he stepped aside, allowing us to pass. The interior was lavish, filled with an eclectic mix of patrons, laughter, and the sound of clinking glasses. The atmosphere was intoxicating, yet I felt the tension bubbling beneath the surface. “Let’s find a spot to observe,” Jake suggested, scanning the room for a strategic vantage point.

We settled at a small table tucked in a corner, where we could see the entire space while remaining inconspicuous. As we settled in, I felt a surge of adrenaline. This was it—the moment we had been preparing for.

“I’ll keep an eye out for any familiar faces,” Ford said, his gaze shifting through the crowd. “We need to identify anyone who might be connected to Ford’s disappearance.” I nodded, my focus drifting to the people around us. Conversations swirled like a dance, snippets of gossip and laughter floating through the air. I leaned in closer to hear.

“Did you hear about the latest acquisition?”

a woman at the next table exclaimed, her voice filled with excitement. “It’s going to change everything!” “Absolutely!
And have you seen the new player in town?”

her companion replied, eyes gleaming with intrigue. “I’ve heard rumors he’s not to be underestimated.”

“Let’s take notes on any names or details that come up,” I whispered to Jake, who was already jotting down observations on a napkin.

Minutes passed as we absorbed the atmosphere, our senses heightened. Then, I spotted a figure across the room—a man in a tailored suit, his demeanor exuding confidence and authority. He was engaged in conversation with a group of well-dressed individuals, his laughter booming above the rest. “That’s him!” I whispered, excitement bubbling within me.

“That’s the man I saw with Margaret before.”

Ford and Jake followed my gaze, their expressions shifting to concern. “Do you think he’s involved?”

Jake asked, his brow furrowed. “It’s possible,” Ford replied, his tone serious. “We need to approach him carefully.

Let’s see if we can catch him alone.”

Just then, the man began to move away from the group, heading towards a quieter area of the club. “Now’s our chance,” I said, adrenaline pumping through my veins. “Let’s go.”

We rose from our seats, slipping through the crowd as stealthily as we could. I felt my heart race as we closed the distance. The man leaned against a wall, looking at his phone, seemingly unaware of our approach. “Excuse me,” Ford said, his voice steady as he stepped forward. “Can we have a word?”

The man looked up, surprise flickering across his features. “And who might you be?” he asked, eyeing us with curiosity. “Investors,” I interjected, keeping my tone light but firm. “We’ve heard some intriguing things about your recent ventures and wanted to discuss potential opportunities.”

His expression shifted, curiosity replaced by suspicion. “I’m not interested in talking business with strangers.”

“We can make it worth your while,” Ford said, stepping closer.

“We have information that could benefit you. It’s about Ford.” At the mention of the name, the man stiffened. “What do you know about him?”

“Enough to know that he’s not the only player in this game,” Jake added, leaning in. “We have insights that could turn the tide in your favor.”

The man regarded us for a long moment, weighing his options. “I’m listening,” he finally said, glancing around as if to ensure we weren’t being overheard. “Let’s find somewhere more private,” I suggested, nodding toward a secluded booth in the corner. The man hesitated, then nodded.

As we moved to the booth, I felt a mix of anxiety and hope. This could be the lead we needed to uncover the truth about Ford’s disappearance. We settled into the booth, the atmosphere tense with anticipation. “What do you want to know?”

the man asked, leaning forward, his interest piqued. “We want to understand what happened to Ford,” Ford replied.

“We know he’s been involved in something bigger than we anticipated.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not something to take lightly. There are forces at play that you may not fully comprehend.”

“Then help us understand,” Jake urged. “We need to know what we’re up against.” The man studied us for a moment, as if deciding whether to trust us. “Alright,” he finally said.

“But you must understand the risks involved. This is not a game.” “We’re aware,” Ford replied, his voice steady. “We’re in this together now.”

The man leaned back, crossing his arms as he weighed his words carefully. “You should know that Ford was mixed up in something dangerous—something that involves more than just business.” “What do you mean?”

I asked, my curiosity piqued. “Let’s just say there are people who would go to great lengths to keep certain things under wraps,” he replied, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Ford was onto something that could expose them.”

“Expose who?”

Jake pressed, urgency in his tone. “The Black Circle,” the man said, his expression darkening. “A clandestine organization that operates in the shadows of society. They manipulate everything from politics to trade, and they don’t take kindly to those who threaten their interests.”

I exchanged glances with Ford and Jake, the gravity of the situation sinking in. “So, Ford’s disappearance is connected to them?”

I asked, trying to connect the dots. “Exactly.

He was investigating them, trying to uncover their operations. But he got too close, and now they’re trying to silence him,” the man explained.

“If you’re looking for him, you’re not just chasing shadows; you’re stepping into a very dangerous game.” “What can we do?” Ford asked, determination in his voice. “We can’t just sit back and let this happen.”

“You need to be careful,” the man warned. “They’re always watching. If you make the wrong move, you could end up like Ford—or worse.”

“Then we need to be smart about this,” I said, feeling the weight of our mission. “What’s our next step?” The man took a deep breath, considering his options.

“You need to gather information. Start with the contacts Ford had—he must have left some clues behind. I can help you with that, but you’ll need to be discreet.” “Of course,” Jake nodded.

“We’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Meet me tomorrow night at the café on Rue de Rivoli,” the man instructed, his voice firm. “I’ll have more details then. But remember—stay low and keep your eyes open.

The Black Circle has eyes everywhere.” As we left the booth, I felt a mix of excitement and dread. This was a turning point in our investigation, but it came with significant risks.

We needed to tread carefully. Outside the club, the cool night air hit us, grounding me in reality. “What do you think?”

Ford asked, glancing at me and Jake. “I think we have a lead, but we need to be prepared for what’s coming,” I replied. “This isn’t just about finding Ford anymore; it’s about uncovering a much bigger conspiracy.”

“I agree,” Jake said, his brow furrowed in thought. “We need to get our bearings and think strategically.

If the Black Circle is as powerful as he claims, we can’t afford any mistakes.”

“Let’s head back to our place,” Ford suggested. “We can regroup and plan our next move.” As we walked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched.
Shadows flickered at the edges of my vision, and I kept glancing over my shoulder. The weight of the unknown hung heavily in the air, amplifying the tension among us.

Once we reached our apartment, we settled in, the atmosphere thick with anticipation. “What do we know about the Black Circle?”

I asked, eager to get started on our research. “There’s not much publicly available,” Ford replied, pulling out his laptop.

“They’re secretive and operate through intermediaries. Most people don’t even realize they exist.”

“Let’s start by looking for any articles or news reports that mention them,” I suggested, my fingers poised over the keyboard. “Maybe we can uncover something useful.”

As we delved into the search, a sense of urgency propelled us forward.

The hours slipped away as we pieced together fragments of information, exploring dark web forums and obscure news articles that hinted at the Black Circle’s operations. “Here,” Jake said, pointing at the screen. “There’s a report about a missing journalist who was investigating the Black Circle. It’s dated two weeks ago.” I leaned closer, reading the details.

“This could be connected to Ford. If they’re silencing journalists, they won’t hesitate to eliminate anyone else who gets too close.” “We need to find out what this journalist uncovered,” Ford said, his determination evident. “There might be a link to Ford’s disappearance.”

Just then, a notification pinged on Ford’s laptop. “It’s an email from an unknown sender,” he said, opening it cautiously. “Is it safe to open?” Jake asked, glancing at the screen warily.

“We need to know what it says,” I urged. “It could be important.” Ford clicked to open the email, and we leaned in closer, our hearts racing. The message was short but chilling: “Stop digging or you will regret it.”

Silence fell over us as we processed the threat. “They know we’re onto them,” Jake said, his voice tense. “Then we need to act fast,” Ford replied, determination igniting in his eyes. “We can’t back down now. We have to find Ford and expose the Black Circle for what they are.”

“Agreed,” I said, feeling a surge of resolve.

“We’re in this together, no matter the risks.”

As we sat in the dimly lit room, the weight of the email loomed over us. The message felt like a dark cloud, thick with the threat that loomed closer. I could see the determination in my friends’ eyes, and I knew we couldn’t back down. “Let’s figure out our next steps,” I said, trying to sound calm despite the tension in my voice. “We need to gather as much intel as we can before we make a move.”

“I can try to trace the email’s origin,” Ford suggested, his fingers already tapping away at the keyboard.

“If we can find out who sent this, it might give us a lead.”

“Good idea,” Jake replied, pacing the small space as he considered our options. “In the meantime, I’ll reach out to some of my contacts in the city. Maybe someone has heard something about the Black Circle or knows where we can find that missing journalist.”

“Be careful, Jake,” I warned. “If the Black Circle is watching, they might be keeping tabs on everyone involved. We can’t afford to raise any suspicions.” “I know, I’ll be discreet,” he assured us, his voice steady despite the seriousness of the situation.

While Jake made calls, I focused on keeping track of the information we had gathered so far about Ford's disappearance and the Black Circle. The urgency of our task propelled me to work quickly, pulling up articles, notes, and threads from the dark web that hinted at the organization’s activities. “Got it!”

Ford suddenly exclaimed, breaking the tense silence. “I found a source for the email.

It originated from a VPN in a café nearby. They might have more information.” “Then we need to check it out,” I said, my heart racing at the prospect of a new lead. “We can’t let this opportunity slip away.”

“I’ll come with you,” Jake said, grabbing his jacket.

“We should stick together. The last thing we need is to split up right now.”

As we prepared to leave, a knock echoed through the apartment, halting our movements. We exchanged glances, apprehension rising.

“Who could that be?”

I whispered. “Stay quiet and let me handle this,” Ford said, moving toward the door cautiously. He peered through the peephole, his expression growing tense.

“Who is it?”

I asked, keeping my voice low. “It’s Jackson,” he replied, his tone grave. “He’s one of Ford’s old servants. I don’t know if we can trust him, but he could have useful information.”

“Let’s hear what he has to say,” I suggested.

“But keep your guard up.” Ford opened the door a crack, revealing Jackson standing there, looking anxious. “I need to talk to you. It’s urgent,” he said, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting someone to follow him.

“Come in,” Ford said, stepping aside to let him enter. Jackson quickly closed the door behind him. “I overheard something you should know. The Black Circle is planning to move against you. They know you’re looking for Ford.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, the realization sinking in. “How did they find out?”

“There are spies everywhere. They’ve got eyes on you.

You need to be extremely careful,” Jackson warned, his voice low and serious. “I’m here to help, but we have to be discreet. If they catch wind of me talking to you, it could put us all in danger.”

“Why should we trust you?”

Jake challenged, crossing his arms defensively. “Because I’ve been loyal to the family for years, and I want to help find Ford,” Jackson replied, earnestness etched on his face. “I can provide information about the Black Circle’s operations from my time in the house. But you need to act fast.”

“What do you know?” Ford asked, urgency lacing his words. “They have a meeting scheduled at a warehouse on the outskirts of town tomorrow night,” Jackson revealed.

“That’s where they’ll discuss their plans for Ford and anyone else who poses a threat to them.”

“Do you have a way to get us in?”

I asked, adrenaline coursing through my veins. “I can get you inside,” Jackson said, nodding. “But we need to plan carefully.

If we’re caught, it’ll be the end for all of us.” I turned to Ford and Jake, their expressions reflecting my own determination. “This could be our chance to not only find Ford but to gather evidence against the Black Circle.”

“Let’s do it,” Ford said resolutely. “We can’t waste this opportunity.”

Jackson outlined a plan for us, detailing how we could slip into the warehouse under the guise of delivering supplies. The more he spoke, the more I felt the weight of the risks we were about to take. “Are we ready for this?”

Jake asked, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of concern.

“We don’t have a choice,” I replied, feeling the adrenaline surge. “We’re going to find Ford and bring down the Black Circle, no matter the cost.”

As we finalized our plan, the gravity of our mission hung over us like a storm cloud, but determination burned in our hearts. We would face whatever came next together, fighting for truth, justice, and our friend. The following day dawned with a mix of anticipation and dread. We spent the morning gathering supplies and reviewing our plan, each of us acutely aware of the dangers that lay ahead.

Jackson was our guide, his familiarity with the area crucial to our success. As night fell, we donned dark clothing and equipped ourselves with flashlights and walkie-talkies. Jackson led us to a secluded alleyway behind the warehouse, where we could observe the entrance without being seen.

“Alright,” Jackson whispered, his voice barely audible over the distant sounds of the city. “This is our best chance to slip in unnoticed. Wait for the guard to turn his back, then we’ll make our move.” We huddled behind a stack of crates, hearts pounding.

The flickering streetlights cast long shadows, and every sound seemed amplified in the silence. I glanced at Ford and Jake, their expressions a mix of determination and anxiety. “Remember, stay close and stay quiet,” I reminded them, my own nerves tightening as I focused on the entrance. Minutes felt like hours as we waited for the right moment.

Finally, a shadowy figure emerged from the warehouse, the guard yawning and stretching as he stepped away from the door. “Now!”

Jackson hissed. We moved swiftly, slipping through the door before it could close fully. Inside, the warehouse was dimly lit, filled with crates and barrels stacked high.

The air was thick with dust and the scent of something metallic. “Where do we go?”

Jake whispered, scanning the vast space. “Follow me,” Jackson said, leading us deeper into the warehouse. “We need to find the meeting room.

It should be toward the back.”

As we crept through the shadows, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. My instincts screamed at me to hurry, but we had to move cautiously to avoid detection. We reached a doorway that led to a small office area, the faint sound of voices drifting from behind it. Jackson pressed his ear against the door, listening intently. “There are at least three men in there,” he said quietly.

“They’re talking about Ford. We need to get closer.” I nodded, my heart racing. “Let’s find a way to eavesdrop.”

We moved to a side window, peering through the dirty glass.

Inside, a group of men sat around a table, papers strewn before them. They looked serious, their expressions tense as they discussed their plans. “Ford will be dealt with tonight,” one of them said, his tone cold. “He knows too much.

We can’t let him slip through our fingers again.” “Agreed,” another man replied. “We’ll need to make an example of him to discourage anyone else from snooping around.” I felt a chill run down my spine. “We have to stop this,” I whispered urgently.

Jackson nodded, his jaw set. “We need to find a way to rescue him before it’s too late.” Suddenly, a loud crash echoed through the warehouse, causing us to jump. The guard outside had tripped over a pile of crates, his shout drawing attention from the men inside. “What was that?”

one of them said, standing up from the table. We quickly ducked out of sight, pressing ourselves against the wall. The door swung open, and the guard rushed inside, his face a mask of confusion. “What’s going on?” he asked, glancing around the room.

“Nothing.

Just stay alert,” the man at the table replied, his voice tense. “We can’t afford any mistakes tonight.” We held our breath, hearts pounding in our ears, as the guard stepped back outside.

I exchanged worried glances with Ford and Jake; we couldn’t let this opportunity slip away. Once the coast was clear, we decided to regroup and strategize. “We need a distraction,” I said.

“Something to draw them out of the meeting room.”

“I can create a diversion,” Jackson offered. “If I can knock over some crates on the other side of the warehouse, it’ll give you a chance to move in.”

“Good idea,” Ford said. “Just make sure you’re safe.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Jackson assured us. “I’ll get your friend back.”

With our plan in place, we waited for Jackson to position himself. He crept away, moving silently through the shadows. I could feel the tension mounting as we prepared for what was to come.

After a few moments, a loud crash erupted from the opposite side of the warehouse, followed by shouts from the men in the meeting room. “Go!”

I urged, pushing Ford and Jake forward. We darted toward the door, slipping inside just as the men rushed out to investigate the noise. Inside the room, a single light illuminated a cluttered desk and a locked cabinet.

“Ford might be in there,” I said, rushing to the cabinet. “Let’s see if I can get it open,” Jake replied, working quickly to pick the lock. As he fiddled with the lock, I kept an eye on the door, listening for any signs of the men returning.

The tension in the air was palpable, every second feeling like an eternity. “Almost got it…” Jake muttered, his brow furrowed in concentration. Just then, footsteps echoed in the hallway, approaching fast. “Come on, Jake!” I urged, panic rising.

With a final click, the lock gave way, and the cabinet door swung open. Inside, I gasped at the sight before us—documents, photos, and a few personal items. “Is Ford here?”

I asked, my heart racing.

Jake rifled through the contents, shaking his head. “No, but this is evidence! We can’t leave it behind!”

“Grab what you can, but hurry!”

I insisted, my voice tight with urgency.

As we gathered the papers, the footsteps grew louder, and I knew we had only moments before they discovered us. “Let’s go!”

I said, shoving the papers into my bag as we made our way toward the exit. We slipped out of the room just as the door burst open, the men returning to find the chaos Jackson had created. We darted through the shadows, our hearts pounding as we navigated the maze of crates and barrels.

“We need to find Jackson and get out of here!” I shouted. As we reached the exit, a shout rang out behind us. “Stop them!”

one of the men yelled. Adrenaline surged through me as we raced toward freedom, our only thought to escape the clutches of the Black Circle. As we burst through the exit, the cool night air hit us like a wave. We sprinted across the lawn, adrenaline pumping through our veins. The sounds of shouts and footsteps followed us, urging us to run faster.

“Over there!”

Ford pointed to a cluster of trees at the edge of the property. “We can hide there until they calm down!” We veered toward the trees, ducking behind the thick trunks just as the men from the warehouse spilled out into the open, scanning the area for any signs of us. “Where did they go?”

one of them barked, frustration lacing his voice. “I saw them heading toward the tree line!”

another shouted, gesturing wildly.

“We can’t let them escape!”

I held my breath, pressing against the rough bark, heart racing as the men fanned out, searching the darkness. “Jackson!”

I whispered, hoping he had managed to evade capture as well. “Do you think he got away?”

Jake asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “I hope so,” I replied, peering through the leaves.

“He was our best chance to find Ford.” A tense silence enveloped us as we listened to the men’s footsteps crunching on the ground nearby. They were closing in, and we had to act quickly.

Suddenly, the sound of distant sirens pierced the night, growing louder as they approached. “Police!”

one of the men exclaimed, panic evident in his tone. “We need to get out of here!”

“Now’s our chance!”

I urged, pulling Ford and Jake to their feet. “We have to make a run for it while they’re distracted.”

We dashed through the trees, our breaths coming in ragged gasps as we sprinted toward the nearby road. The sirens continued to wail, adding urgency to our escape.
As we reached the edge of the property, I glanced back at the warehouse, the flickering lights now punctuated by the flashing blue and red of police cars arriving. “Keep moving!”

I shouted, urging them forward. We crossed the road and ducked into a narrow alleyway, putting as much distance between us and the chaos behind. “Do you think Jackson made it?”

Jake asked, his worry evident.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, feeling a pang of anxiety for our friend. “But we can’t stop now. We need to regroup and figure out our next move.”

We hurried through the maze of streets, sticking to the shadows and avoiding the main thoroughfares. The city felt alive around us, the sounds of nightlife echoing in the distance. Finally, we reached a small café that was still open, its neon lights glowing warmly against the night. “Let’s go in here,” Ford suggested, glancing around nervously.

“We can catch our breath and come up with a plan.” Inside, the café was quiet, with only a few patrons scattered about. We found a secluded booth in the corner and slid into the seats, our bodies still trembling from the adrenaline.

“Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath to steady my racing heart. “We need to figure out how to find Jackson and what to do next.”

“Do you think he went to the police?”

Ford asked. “I hope so,” I replied, rubbing my temples.

“But we can’t rely on that. We need to find a way to gather evidence against the Black Circle. If we can prove what they’re doing, we might be able to stop them for good.”

Jake nodded, his eyes narrowing in thought. “We should check in with some of our contacts. They might know where Jackson is or how to get more information about Ford’s situation.”

“Good idea,” I agreed. “Let’s split up and meet back here in an hour. We can compare notes and come up with a solid plan.”

As we prepared to leave, a familiar face entered the café.

Jackson stood by the door, looking a bit disheveled but relieved to see us. “Jackson!”

I called, rushing to him. “We thought you were caught!”

He shook his head, a weary smile spreading across his face. “I managed to slip away just in time.

I saw the police arrive and knew it was now or never.”

“Thank goodness,” Ford said, visibly relaxing. “We need to figure out our next steps together.”

Jackson nodded, joining us at the booth. “I overheard them talking about a meeting they’re having tonight. If we can get in there, we might find out more about their plans and Ford’s whereabouts.”

“Do you know where it is?”

I asked, my heart racing at the prospect of gathering crucial intel. “Yeah,” Jackson replied. “It’s at an old warehouse by the docks. But we’ll need to be careful.

The Black Circle won’t take kindly to intruders.” We spent the next few minutes plotting our approach. Jackson filled us in on everything he had overheard, and we formulated a plan to infiltrate the meeting. With renewed determination, we left the café, ready to face whatever dangers awaited us. The night was still young, and the stakes were higher than ever.

As we approached the docks, the faint sounds of laughter and clinking glasses filtered through the air, mixing with the salty breeze. The old warehouse loomed ahead, its dark silhouette stark against the moonlit sky. “Remember, we need to stick together,” I whispered as we crept closer.

“If anything goes wrong, we regroup and get out.” Jackson nodded, glancing at Ford, who was trying to steady his breathing. “You ready for this?”

Ford squared his shoulders, determination flashing in his eyes. “I’ve come too far to back down now. Let’s do this.”

We moved quietly around the back of the warehouse, where a small, dimly lit door was slightly ajar. The sounds of the gathering inside were louder now, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter. “Here goes nothing,” I muttered, pushing the door open slowly. It creaked ominously as we slipped inside, the scent of stale beer and smoke filling our nostrils.

The interior was dimly lit, shadows dancing on the walls as we stepped cautiously into the main room. A long table was set up in the center, with several men gathered around it, their faces obscured by the low light. “Stay low,” I instructed, as we positioned ourselves behind some crates near the back wall.

From our vantage point, we could hear snippets of conversation, the tone serious and urgent. “Ford is a liability,” one man said, his voice low and gravelly. “We need to deal with him before he talks.” “What do you propose?”

another replied, a sneer evident in his voice.

“We can’t just eliminate him; it would raise too many questions.”

“Let him think he’s safe for now. It’ll make it easier to trap him later,” the first man suggested. “And keep an eye on his friends. They’re too close.” My heart raced as I exchanged glances with Jackson and Ford.

They were talking about us, plotting against us. We needed to gather evidence quickly. “Look for anything that might give us a lead,” I whispered.

“Documents, plans, anything.”

We began to search the area quietly, moving between crates and avoiding the gathering. I spotted a file cabinet in the corner, its drawers slightly ajar. “Cover me,” I said to Jackson, who nodded, keeping an eye on the table. I slipped over to the cabinet, my heart pounding as I pulled open the top drawer.

Inside were folders filled with documents, but one caught my attention immediately. It was labeled “Operation Blackout.” Quickly, I flipped through the pages, my eyes widening as I read about plans involving sabotage and espionage, targeting influential figures in the city. This was bigger than we thought.

“Hey, I need backup!”

I whispered urgently to Jackson, who rushed over just as the men at the table began to stand, signaling they were about to leave. “Get that document!”

he urged. I quickly shoved the folder into my jacket, heart racing as I backed away from the cabinet.

We had to move fast. “Now what?”

Ford asked, anxiety etched on his face. “We need to find a way out before they notice we’re here,” I said, scanning the room for an exit. Suddenly, a loud crash echoed through the warehouse. The men turned, startled, as one of the crates toppled over, sending contents spilling across the floor.

“Did you hear that?” one of them said, suspicion creeping into his voice. “We’ve been compromised!”

another yelled, grabbing a nearby chair as he scanned the shadows.

“Run!” I shouted, adrenaline surging through me as we darted toward the back door we had entered. We sprinted through the darkness, the sounds of shouting and footsteps following us as we pushed outside into the night. “Go!
Go!”

Jackson urged as we dashed around the side of the building. “We can’t let them catch us!”

Ford gasped, determination fueling his strides. As we reached the edge of the property, I glanced back to see the men spilling out of the warehouse, their faces twisted with anger. “Quick!
Into the alley!”

I shouted, veering sharply to the right. We sprinted down the narrow path, the sound of our footsteps echoing in the silence.

The alley led us further away from the chaos, and I could feel the cool night air against my skin, but we couldn’t stop yet. “We need to get to a safe place,” I panted. “Somewhere they can’t find us.” “Let’s head to the old church,” Jackson suggested, pointing ahead.

“It’s secluded, and we can hide there until we figure out our next move.”

“Good idea,” I replied, nodding. We pushed ourselves harder, our breaths coming in ragged gasps as we reached the old church, its doors slightly ajar. Inside, the air was still, and the faint smell of incense lingered in the corners. We hurried to the back, crouching behind the pews to catch our breath.

“Did we lose them?” Ford asked, peering cautiously around a pew. “I think so,” Jackson replied, glancing at the door. “But we need to stay quiet and lay low for a while.” I pulled out the folder from my jacket, spreading it open on the dusty surface of the pew.

“Look at this.

We need to figure out what they’re planning.” The three of us leaned in, eyes scanning the pages as the gravity of the situation settled over us. We had stumbled onto something dangerous, and we needed to act quickly. As we pored over the documents, the details began to weave a darker picture.

Each page revealed plots and names that sent chills down my spine. They were planning not just sabotage but a full-scale disruption of the city's social order. “What do we do with this?”

Ford whispered, his eyes darting nervously around the church. “If we take it to the authorities, they might not believe us.

This is huge.”

“True,” Jackson said, tapping his finger against the table. “But if we don’t act, they’ll get away with it. We can’t let that happen.”

I nodded, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders.

“We need to gather more evidence. This isn’t just about Ford anymore; it’s about stopping whatever they have planned.”

Flipping through the folder, I came across a map of the city, with several key locations marked in red. “Look at this,” I said, pointing to the map. “They’re targeting government buildings, media centers—this is bigger than just Ford.”

“Are they planning something for tomorrow?”

Jackson asked, squinting at the notations scribbled along the edges.

“If we don’t get this information to someone who can act on it, people could get hurt.” “Let’s divide the tasks,” I suggested, trying to stay focused. “Jackson, you and Ford should scout the area, see if you can find out who else is involved.

I’ll stay here and try to decipher more of this document.” “Be careful,” Jackson cautioned. “If they catch us again, we might not be so lucky.”

“I will,” I promised, watching as they slipped out of the church quietly, leaving me alone with the documents.

The quiet of the building enveloped me, and I could hear my heart pounding in the stillness. As I delved deeper into the folder, I began to take notes, jotting down names and locations. It was becoming clear that this was an organized effort, and the people involved were not amateurs. I felt a sense of urgency; the clock was ticking. Suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching.

I quickly shoved the papers back into my jacket and crouched down, holding my breath as the door creaked open. A figure stepped inside, silhouetted against the moonlight. It was a man dressed in dark clothing, glancing around cautiously.

My instincts kicked in. Was this one of them? I edged to the side, trying to stay hidden.

The man moved further into the church, seemingly unaware of my presence. He pulled out a small device, and I realized he was checking something—perhaps a phone or a tablet. I couldn’t stay silent any longer. “What do you want?”

I demanded, my voice steady but low. The man spun around, shock registering on his face.

“Who’s there?”

“Identify yourself,” I said, stepping into the light. “Are you with them?” “I’m not here to hurt you,” he replied quickly, holding up his hands. “I’m just looking for information. I heard about the plans, and I want to stop them as much as you do.”

“Prove it,” I challenged, narrowing my eyes. “What do you know?” “The operation is set for tomorrow night,” he said, glancing nervously at the door.

“They’re planning to disrupt the city’s power grid. If they succeed, chaos will follow.” “Why should I trust you?”

I pressed, feeling a mix of skepticism and curiosity. “Because I used to work for them,” he admitted, lowering his voice. “But I realized how dangerous they are.

I want to help you stop this.” I considered his words carefully. If he was telling the truth, he could be a valuable ally.

“What’s your name?”

“Oliver,” he replied. “I can help you get more information, but we need to move quickly. They’ll be suspicious if I don’t report back soon.” “Alright, Oliver,” I said, deciding to take the risk.

“We’ll work together. But if you betray us, I won’t hesitate to expose you.”

“I understand,” he nodded, urgency in his voice.

“What’s the plan?” “I have a map with the target locations,” I said, pulling it back out. “We need to figure out the best way to gather evidence and alert the authorities before it’s too late.” Oliver studied the map, pointing out potential areas for surveillance.

“If we can get a visual of their operations, we can document everything. We’ll need to move fast and quietly.” “Let’s get going,” I replied, adrenaline surging through me. “Every second counts.”

We slipped out of the church together, the night cloaking us as we ventured toward the heart of the city’s conspiracy. With Oliver’s insider knowledge and my determination, we stood a chance of unraveling their plans before it was too late. As we moved cautiously through the streets, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. Shadows flickered in my peripheral vision, and every sound seemed amplified in the silence of the night. Oliver led the way, his familiarity with the area evident as we navigated alleyways and side streets.

The map provided a sense of direction, but the weight of uncertainty hung heavily over us. “Where are we heading?”

I whispered as we ducked into another narrow passage. “There’s a meeting point nearby,” Oliver replied, glancing back at me. “If we can get there before they arrive, we might overhear something crucial.”

The anticipation built as we quickened our pace, adrenaline driving us forward. But as we approached the meeting point, I sensed a shift in the atmosphere—a prickling awareness that something was wrong.

“Stop,” I whispered, holding up a hand. “I think we’re not alone.” Oliver nodded, his eyes scanning the darkness. Just then, a group of figures emerged from the shadows, their voices low and urgent.

“This is it,” one of them said. “We need to finalize our plans before the authorities catch wind of what we’re doing.” “We can’t wait any longer,” another replied.

“We have to act fast.” I exchanged a glance with Oliver. This was our chance to gather the evidence we needed. “Let’s move closer,” I suggested, inching forward cautiously.

We crept up to a hidden vantage point, and I pulled out my phone, ready to record. The men gathered around a makeshift table, papers and maps strewn about as they discussed their nefarious plans. “Tomorrow night, we initiate Operation Blackout,” one man declared, slamming his fist on the table. “No one will see it coming.”

My heart raced as I captured their words, each one solidifying the threat they posed to the city. “Are we sure we can trust him?” another man asked, glancing nervously at the others.

“Ford won’t talk if we keep him quiet,” the first man replied. “We just need to make sure our alibis are solid.”

As they continued to speak, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of hope. We were on the verge of exposing them.

But I knew we had to be careful; one wrong move could put us in danger.

Oliver nudged me, his eyes wide with excitement. “We have to get this to the authorities.” I nodded, determination fueling my actions. “Let’s get out of here and plan our next steps.”

As we carefully backed away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were walking into something much larger than ourselves.

The stakes were high, and the clock was ticking down. But together, we were determined to uncover the truth and stop whatever dark plans they had in store.

We slipped silently back through the narrow alleyways, our hearts pounding as we replayed the conversation we had just overheard. Each word echoed in my mind, solidifying the urgency of our mission. “Did you get everything?”

Oliver asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Most of it,” I replied, pulling my phone from my pocket to check the recording.

“We have the details on Operation Blackout. Now we just need to get it to the authorities before it’s too late.” “But we can’t just walk in there without proof,” Oliver cautioned. “They’ll need something tangible, evidence that connects the dots.”

“True,” I said, realizing the depth of our task. “We should head to the meeting point again. If we can catch them discussing the operation, or even get a visual of their plan, that would be enough to convince the police.”

We moved quickly, the city’s shadows growing longer as the night deepened.

Each footstep felt heavy with the weight of our mission. As we neared the site of the meeting, I noticed something off. The streets were unusually quiet, and I caught a glimpse of figures moving in the darkness ahead. “Stay low,” I whispered to Oliver, instinctively pressing myself against a nearby wall as we observed the scene unfolding.

Three men stood in a huddle, their faces obscured by the night. I strained to hear their conversation. “We need to hurry,” one of them said, his voice tense. “The longer we wait, the more chance Ford has to escape.”

“Didn’t we send someone to keep an eye on him?” another questioned, glancing around nervously.

“We can’t afford to let him slip through our fingers.” “I thought he was secured,” the first man snapped. “If he gets loose, he could ruin everything we’ve planned.” I exchanged worried glances with Oliver. They were panicking, which meant their plans were fragile.

“We should act now,” I said quietly. “We can’t wait for them to regroup.” “Right,” Oliver replied, determination flooding his eyes. “Let’s get closer and see if we can capture more information.”

We crept closer, the tension thick in the air.

I could see the outlines of their faces, their expressions betraying the high stakes of their plot. Suddenly, a loud noise rang out, shattering the quiet night. A loud crash echoed from nearby, followed by shouts. The men quickly dispersed, vanishing into the shadows as chaos erupted.

“What was that?” Oliver exclaimed, glancing around. “I don’t know, but it could be our chance,” I said, adrenaline coursing through me. “Let’s see what’s happening.”

We ran toward the source of the noise, navigating through the dimly lit streets.

As we approached, we saw a group of people gathered around a commotion. In the center was a car with its hood open, and a man was frantically waving his arms, trying to get help. “What’s going on?”

I asked someone in the crowd.

“Somebody tried to steal the car! I think they’re inside!” the bystander shouted, pointing to the vehicle.

My heart raced as I thought of the potential connection. If the conspirators were involved in something as reckless as this, it could provide the distraction we needed to slip away unnoticed. “Let’s use this to our advantage,” I told Oliver. “We need to find out if any of them are still nearby.” We pushed our way through the crowd, glancing around for any sign of the men we had seen before.

I spotted one of them, a familiar figure slipping through a side alley. “There!”

I whispered to Oliver. “Let’s follow him.”

We trailed behind, keeping a safe distance. The man moved quickly, darting into another alley. I gestured for Oliver to stay quiet as we rounded the corner.

The man stopped abruptly, speaking into a phone. “Yes, we have a problem. The plan is compromised.

We need to secure Ford before anything else happens.”

I leaned closer to Oliver, my breath quickening. “We can’t let him get away.” “I’ll distract him,” Oliver whispered, looking around for something to use.

He spotted a nearby dumpster and gave me a nod. Before I could protest, he grabbed a rock and tossed it into the dumpster, creating a loud clang. The man turned sharply, startled, and began moving toward the noise.

“Now!”

I hissed, and we dashed forward, seizing the moment. The man’s back was turned, and we moved quickly, taking him by surprise. I grabbed his arm while Oliver secured the other. “What do you want?”

the man hissed, struggling against our grip.

“Let me go!” “Not a chance,” I replied, my heart racing. “We know about your plans. Who else is involved?” “I’m not telling you anything!”

he spat, but I could see fear creeping into his eyes. “We’ll make sure you do,” Oliver said, his voice steady. “You’re in way over your head, and we can expose everything.” “Do you really think you can intimidate me?” he sneered.

“You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

“Try us,” I challenged, feeling the adrenaline surge through me. “We already overheard your friends talking about Ford. We’re not leaving until we get answers.”

After a moment, the man’s demeanor shifted. “Fine,” he said reluctantly, his bravado faltering. “But you need to understand the risk you’re taking. They won’t hesitate to eliminate anyone who gets in their way.” “Who are they?”

I pressed, tightening my grip. “Just let me go, and I’ll tell you what I know,” he replied, desperation in his voice. “Tell us everything first,” Oliver insisted. “Then we’ll consider letting you walk.”

The man hesitated, weighing his options. Finally, he sighed, defeated. “Alright, alright.

I’ll talk. But you need to promise me protection.”

I glanced at Oliver, silently agreeing to hear him out.

“We’ll figure something out. Just start talking.” He took a deep breath. “There’s a group behind all this—a powerful syndicate.

They’ve been planning this for months, and Ford’s just one of their pawns. They’re using him to leverage their power, and they’re willing to do whatever it takes to maintain control.” “Who leads this syndicate?”

I asked, pushing for more information. “His name is Victor. He’s been in the shadows for years, pulling strings and manipulating people.

He’s ruthless,” the man explained, fear evident in his voice. I felt a chill run down my spine. This was getting deeper than I had anticipated. “And where can we find him?”

“He won’t be easy to reach,” the man warned.

“He’s always surrounded by bodyguards, and his operations are well hidden. But if you want to get to Ford, you’ll need to confront him.”

“Where’s Ford now?”

I pressed, wanting to know how much time we had.

“They’ve moved him to a secure location—somewhere in the old warehouse district. That’s all I know,” he said, looking more nervous by the second. “You need to hurry before it’s too late.”

I nodded, feeling the urgency flood back in. “Thank you for your help.

We’ll make sure you get out safely.”

As I released him, he scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Oliver and me standing in the dim alley. “What do we do now?”

Oliver asked, his expression a mix of excitement and fear. “We head to the warehouse district,” I replied, determination surging within me.

“We’re not letting Ford down. Not now.”

Together, we set off into the night, ready to confront the syndicate and uncover the truth. The stakes were higher than ever, but we were driven by the knowledge that we were not just fighting for ourselves but for the safety of the entire city.

As we approached the warehouse district, the air grew thicker with tension. Shadows loomed over the dilapidated buildings, and the sounds of the city faded into an eerie silence. “Do you think we should call for backup?”

Oliver suggested, glancing nervously at the surrounding darkness.

“Not yet,” I replied, my focus narrowed. “We need to gather more information before we involve anyone else. If we alert them, they might move Ford, and we can’t let that happen.”

We crept through the maze of warehouses, our footsteps muffled by the ground beneath us. The atmosphere felt charged, every creak and rustle amplifying the tension in the air. “There,” I whispered, pointing to a building with dim lights flickering inside. “That looks promising.”

As we moved closer, I could make out voices from within. I crouched low, trying to catch snippets of the conversation.

“We need to make sure everything goes according to plan,” a voice commanded. “Ford’s arrival is crucial for our next move.” “What if he doesn’t cooperate?” another replied.

“He’s been known to resist.” “Then we’ll make him,” the first voice replied coldly. “No one defies us.” My heart raced.

They were talking about Ford, and we were running out of time. “Let’s move in,” I whispered to Oliver, signaling for him to follow me. We edged closer to the entrance, where two guards stood watch. I could feel the adrenaline coursing through me.

This was it. “What’s the plan?” Oliver asked, his voice low. “We’ll have to take them out quietly,” I replied, scanning the area for anything we could use.

“On three,” I said, counting down. One.

Two.
Three.

We surged forward, catching the guards off guard. With swift movements, we incapacitated them, dragging their bodies behind a nearby crate to avoid detection. “Now what?”

Oliver asked, his eyes wide with adrenaline. “We get inside,” I replied, pushing the door ajar. The interior was dimly lit, revealing a large room filled with crates and equipment.

The voices we heard earlier were clearer now, echoing from a room at the back. “We need to be careful,” I warned, peering around. “Let’s move slowly.”

As we made our way deeper into the warehouse, I could see a group of men gathered, including one I recognized from the earlier encounter.

They were discussing Ford, their faces etched with urgency. “Is he here yet?”

one of them asked, glancing toward the door. “Not yet, but he’ll be here soon,” another replied.

“We can’t afford to let him slip away. If he gets wind of what we’re planning…” “Then we need to ensure he doesn’t leave this building alive,” the leader interrupted, his tone icy. I exchanged a worried glance with Oliver. We needed to act quickly before they could finalize their plans.

“Let’s get closer,” I suggested, inching forward to listen in. Suddenly, a loud bang echoed from the entrance, and the group turned, startled. “Did you hear that?” one of them asked, panic in his voice. “Check it out!”

the leader barked.

Oliver and I darted behind a stack of crates, hearts racing as footsteps approached. “This is our chance,” I whispered, my mind racing. “We need to find Ford.” As the guards left to investigate, we slipped toward the back room, where I hoped they were holding Ford.

The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit space with shadows dancing on the walls. “Ford?”

I called softly, hoping for a response. “Over here,” a voice replied weakly. I rushed toward the sound, finding Ford tied to a chair, his face bruised but alive.

“Thank God you’re here,” he gasped, relief washing over his features. “I thought I was done for.”

“We’re getting you out,” I assured him, quickly working to untie him. “Do you have a plan?” he asked, glancing nervously at the door. “We need to move fast,” I said, cutting the ropes.

“There’s a group of men searching for you. We overheard their plans—they won’t let you leave alive if they get their way.” “I’m ready,” he said, determination setting in his eyes as I freed him. “Let’s end this.”

Together, we made our way back toward the main room, listening intently for any signs of danger. The voices had risen in volume, and I could tell they were growing agitated. “Something’s wrong,” one of them said.

“We need to regroup and figure this out.”

As we moved stealthily through the shadows, we spotted a door leading outside. “There!”

I pointed, urging Ford and Oliver to follow. But as we stepped toward the door, it swung open, revealing the leader and several guards, their eyes narrowing as they spotted us.

“Stop right there!” the leader shouted, raising his weapon. I felt time slow as adrenaline surged. “Run!”

I shouted, pushing Ford forward.

Bullets whizzed past us as we sprinted for the exit, Oliver close behind. “Get to the car!”

I yelled, my heart racing as we dashed into the night. We burst out of the building, the cool air hitting us like a wave.

I spotted our car parked nearby and pushed Ford ahead. “Get in!” I urged, glancing back to see the guards spilling out after us. Oliver jumped into the driver’s seat, revving the engine as I dove in beside Ford.

“Go, go!”

I shouted, my heart pounding. With a screech of tires, we sped away, leaving the chaos of the warehouse behind. “Did we lose them?”

Ford gasped, looking back as the buildings blurred past. “For now,” I replied, trying to catch my breath. “But we need to report everything to the police before they can regroup.” As we drove, the gravity of our actions began to settle in.

We had managed to rescue Ford and escape, but the fight wasn’t over yet. “Where are we heading?”

Oliver asked, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Anywhere but here,” I replied, my mind racing with plans. “We need to figure out how to take down Victor and his syndicate once and for all.”

The plan began to form in my mind as we sped away. With Ford safe, we could now focus on gathering evidence against the syndicate and exposing them for their crimes. “We need to go to the police,” Ford insisted, looking between us.

“They have to know about Victor.”

“Agreed,” I said. “But we need to be careful. If we go in without solid proof, they might not take us seriously.”

“Then we gather proof first,” Oliver suggested, his voice steady. “We need to document everything we overheard, and if possible, we should get evidence from the warehouse.”

“Good idea,” I replied, feeling a surge of hope.

“We’ll go back at dawn when they least expect it.” Ford nodded, determination shining in his eyes. “Let’s end this before it goes any further.” As the first light of dawn broke over the city, we prepared ourselves for the next phase of our plan. The syndicate had underestimated us, and now it was our turn to turn the tables.

The battle was far from over, but we were ready to fight for justice, no matter the cost. The sun rose, casting a warm glow over the horizon as we set our sights on the next steps to dismantle the syndicate once and for all. As the sun climbed higher, the weight of the task ahead settled heavily on us.

Our plan was bold, and the risks were high, but the thought of bringing down Victor and his syndicate filled us with a renewed sense of purpose. We returned to the city, careful to stay out of sight. Each one of us knew what we had to do, and we had split up to cover more ground. Ford took the task of compiling everything he remembered overhearing, piecing together the conversations he’d been forced to listen to.

Oliver and I prepared ourselves for the next step: returning to the warehouse. When night fell, we approached the warehouse under the cover of darkness. The building was quiet, almost too quiet.

We slipped in through a side door and found ourselves in the shadowed corridors, our footsteps silent against the concrete floor. “Look for anything that could help tie Victor to the syndicate,” I whispered to Oliver as we scanned the room. After a few tense moments, we found a locked office near the back of the building. Oliver quickly picked the lock, and we slipped inside.

There, scattered across the desk, were documents, photos, and ledgers—more than we could have hoped for. It was enough to expose the syndicate’s operations. “Take everything,” I said, shoving files into a bag. “This is the proof we need.”

Just as we turned to leave, a noise echoed from the hallway. Footsteps.

“Someone’s coming,” Oliver whispered, his face tense. We ducked behind a stack of crates, our breaths shallow as we listened. A guard walked past, muttering into a radio. We waited, hearts pounding, until the footsteps faded down the hall.

“Let’s get out of here,” Ford whispered as we emerged from our hiding place. We made our way back to the car, adrenaline still pumping. As we sped away from the warehouse, the relief was overwhelming. We finally had the evidence to bring Victor down.

The drive back was silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts. The weight of what we had just done hung in the air. We knew the next step would be critical.

As we reached a safe distance from the warehouse, Oliver pulled over, and we sat there for a moment, catching our breaths. “We did it,” Ford finally said, breaking the silence. “We actually have enough to bring Victor down.”

“Let’s not celebrate just yet,” I cautioned, glancing over the documents we had retrieved. “We still need to get this to the police without alerting Victor’s men.”

Oliver nodded, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“We have to make sure it all counts. If Victor even suspects what we have on him, he’ll disappear before we can do anything.” After a brief discussion, we agreed that it would be safest to deliver the evidence in person, but we couldn’t all go at once.

Leaving the documents with Oliver, Ford and I headed to the police station, planning to relay as much as we could and to set up a meeting for the next day. When we arrived, the officers listened carefully as we recounted what we had uncovered. The chief, a seasoned detective with a hardened expression, seemed skeptical at first, but as we explained the extent of Victor’s operations, his gaze sharpened with interest.

“If what you’re saying is true, this could be the break we’ve been waiting for,” he said, leaning forward. “But you’ll need to bring those documents in tomorrow. Without solid evidence, we can’t move forward.” Ford and I left the station feeling a mix of relief and anxiety.

The police were on our side, but there was still a chance that Victor might catch wind of our plan. Back at our safehouse, Oliver was waiting for us. “How did it go?”

he asked, handing us both a mug of coffee. “They’re interested,” Ford replied, sitting down with a sigh.

“But they need to see the documents tomorrow.”

Oliver nodded, then looked at me, his face tense. “Are we prepared for tomorrow?

Once we hand everything over, we’ll have a target on our backs.” I met his gaze and gave a determined nod.

“We’ve come this far. We can’t back down now.” We spent the rest of the night planning, going over every detail and ensuring that we were ready for whatever might come our way.

The next morning, dawn broke in a wash of grey light. We had barely slept, the anticipation keeping us on edge. With everything packed and the documents secured in a heavy envelope, we prepared to leave for the police station.

“Once we hand this over, there’s no turning back,” I reminded them as we stood at the door. “Victor and his men will know we’re the ones who exposed them.” “We’ve faced worse,” Ford replied, though his eyes betrayed his nerves. “We’re doing this for all the people who’ve suffered because of him.”

Oliver gave a firm nod, clutching the evidence to his chest.

“Let’s end this.” The drive to the station was tense, each passing car and every stranger on the street seemed like a potential threat. Paranoia crept in, but we forced ourselves to stay focused. When we finally pulled up to the police station, relief washed over us.

Inside, the same detective from the night before was waiting. He motioned us into his office, shutting the door behind us. “You brought the evidence?” he asked, his tone steady but eager. Oliver handed over the envelope, and we watched as the detective began sifting through the papers. His eyes widened slightly as he pieced together the damning information—transactions, meeting records, lists of names.

“This…this is bigger than we thought,” he murmured, setting the documents down. “With this, we can make arrests. But you need to be careful.

If Victor realizes what’s happening, he won’t hesitate to retaliate.” “We understand,” I replied. “Just make sure it’s enough to bring him down.” The detective nodded. “We’ll keep you updated, but for now, I’d suggest lying low.

My team and I will handle the rest.” We left the station, hearts pounding but hopeful. It felt as if a weight had been lifted; after all these weeks, we’d finally found a way to fight back against Victor’s syndicate.

That night, we returned to our safehouse. The quiet felt surreal after the constant tension we’d been under. But just as we started to relax, my phone buzzed.

I looked down, seeing a message from an unknown number: “Thought you could betray me? You’ll regret it.” My heart stopped as I showed the others. Ford’s face went pale, and Oliver’s fists clenched.

“He knows,” I said, the words barely a whisper. “Victor knows.” The room fell into silence as the gravity of our situation sank in.

We’d managed to put a dent in his empire, but now, he was coming after us. “Pack everything,” Oliver said, his voice calm but urgent. “We need to move, now.”

As we scrambled to gather our belongings, the realization hit us—our fight with Victor was far from over. And this time, it was personal. With every passing second, the urgency grew.

We grabbed only the essentials, leaving anything that could slow us down. Outside, the city was quiet, the streetlights casting long shadows as we slipped into the car. “Where do we go now?”

Ford asked, his voice tense. “Somewhere he can’t find us,” Oliver replied, starting the engine. “We’ll figure out a plan on the way.” I sat in the backseat, scanning the streets for any signs of Victor’s men.

The message he’d sent was a warning, but it wouldn’t be long before he acted on it. As we sped down the darkened streets, a thought struck me. “We still have a chance to turn the tables,” I said, breaking the silence. “If we can find Victor before he finds us, maybe we can finally end this.”

Ford looked over at me, doubtful. “You’re suggesting we go after him?”

“We’re already in his sights,” I replied, feeling a surge of determination.

“We know his operations. We know his people. And now, we know his weaknesses.”

Oliver nodded slowly, considering the idea. “It’s risky, but maybe that’s our best shot.

If we can dismantle what’s left of his operation, he’ll have nowhere to hide.” We drove out of the city and found a quiet, isolated place to regroup. In the dim light of dawn, we spread out what information we had on Victor’s network, looking for a way to bring him down from within.

His operation relied on a few key locations and contacts—people who might be willing to turn on him if the price was right. Ford pointed at a spot on the map, marking one of Victor’s suspected hideouts. “He’s not going to be there himself, but if we can get to his associates, they might lead us to him.”

A few hours later, we were back on the road, heading toward the first location.

It was a rundown building in an industrial part of town, where one of Victor’s lieutenants was known to operate. As we approached, Oliver parked a safe distance away, and we moved in on foot, sticking to the shadows. Inside, we found a group of men, deep in conversation around a table littered with papers.

As we crept closer, we could hear snippets of their conversation. They were planning something big, something that sounded like it involved Victor’s retaliation against us. Ford’s face paled as he heard his own name mentioned.

“They’re coming after us,” he whispered. Oliver and I exchanged a look. This was our chance to gather more intel and disrupt their plans. But we’d have to act quickly and carefully if we wanted to get out unscathed.

I took a deep breath and gestured to the others. “Let’s get closer. If we can grab any documents or record their plans, it’ll give us the edge we need.” We edged forward, careful not to make a sound.

As we reached the table, I managed to snap a few photos of the documents lying around. Just as we were about to slip away, one of the men looked up, his eyes narrowing as he spotted us. “Hey!
Who are you?”

Without a second thought, we turned and ran.

Alarms rang out, and footsteps thundered behind us as we sprinted through the building. Heart pounding, I barely managed to keep pace with the others as we dodged down corridors and ducked behind crates. Just as we reached the exit, Oliver yanked open the door, and we burst into the open air, racing toward the car. “Go, go, go!”

I shouted as we jumped in, and Oliver floored the gas. The tires screeched as we sped away, leaving a cloud of dust behind us. As we finally put distance between us and the building, I looked over at Ford, who was clutching the camera. He gave a shaky nod, and I knew he’d managed to get everything we needed.

“Now,” I said, taking a deep breath, “we have the upper hand.” We drove in silence for a while, the tension of the close call still hanging thick in the air. As the streets blurred past, I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, but beneath it lay a creeping anxiety. We had evaded capture this time, but Victor wouldn’t take our interference lightly.

“Let’s find a safe spot to lay low,” Oliver suggested, breaking the silence. “We need to review what we got and come up with our next move.”

I nodded, my mind racing. “There’s a cabin I know of, deep in the woods.

It’s remote and should keep us off the radar for a bit.” “Lead the way,” Ford said, his voice steadier than before. As we made our way out of the city and into the more desolate areas, the landscape shifted. The urban sprawl gave way to stretches of trees and quiet roads.

After a while, we pulled up to the cabin, nestled among towering pines. It was a modest place, but it had served us well in the past. We quickly unloaded our gear and stepped inside, the familiar scent of wood and earth welcoming us. Once we settled in, we spread out the documents and images we’d taken.

The tension began to ease as we focused on the task at hand. Ford flipped through the pages, his brow furrowed in concentration. “These meetings are happening soon,” he noted, pointing at the highlighted sections.

“If we can infiltrate one, we might catch Victor off guard.”

“Yeah,” Oliver replied, leaning closer. “But we need a plan. Just charging in won’t work.

We need to gather more intel, figure out the layout, who’s involved, and most importantly, where Victor is hiding.” “Maybe we can pose as buyers,” I suggested, the idea forming in my mind. “Victor’s operation likely involves some shady deals. If we can convince them we’re interested in joining, we might be able to get close enough to him.”

“Risky,” Ford said, shaking his head.

“But it might be our best shot. We’d need to get some fake IDs and maybe even backstories.” “I can handle that,” Oliver replied, a determined glint in his eye. “I know a guy who can help us with that. He’s good at creating identities.”

I felt a wave of relief wash over me. “Then let’s do it. We can set up a meeting and see how much we can learn before making any moves.” We spent the next few hours crafting our new identities. With Oliver’s connections, we managed to get convincing documentation that would allow us to slip into Victor’s world.

We rehearsed our backstories—Ford would be an eager new recruit, while I’d act as his seasoned partner who had been in the game longer. As night fell, we prepared for our mission. Each of us felt the weight of the stakes we were playing for. This wasn’t just about us anymore; it was about justice for all those who had suffered under Victor’s rule.

The next morning, we set out again, our hearts pounding with a mix of excitement and dread. We drove to the meeting location—a rundown warehouse on the outskirts of town, where we were supposed to meet one of Victor’s lieutenants. The air was thick with anticipation as we approached. “Remember, stick to the plan,” I reminded them.

“We’re here to gather information, not to blow our cover.” We arrived at the warehouse, a grim structure that loomed against the cloudy sky. As we stepped out of the car, the weight of the moment settled on us. The warehouse was alive with activity—men moved in and out, their faces serious as they carried crates and whispered amongst themselves.

We exchanged a final glance before entering. Inside, the atmosphere was tense. Dim lights hung overhead, casting eerie shadows that flickered with every movement. I could hear the faint sounds of voices from deeper within the building.

After a brief moment of confusion, we spotted the lieutenant—a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, sitting at a table surrounded by a few of his associates. He looked up as we approached, sizing us up with an intense gaze. “Who the hell are you?” he barked, leaning back in his chair. “What do you want?”

“We heard you’re looking for new recruits,” I said, adopting a confident demeanor.

“We’re interested in joining the operation. Heard you guys are the best in the business.” The lieutenant smirked, exchanging glances with his men. “You think you can just stroll in here and expect us to take you seriously?

What do you know about our work?” I felt a surge of adrenaline, knowing I had to play this right. “We know there’s money to be made and power to be gained. We’ve heard stories about your operations and want in. We’re not afraid of a little risk.”

“Yeah, and what’s your angle?”

he pressed, narrowing his eyes. Ford chimed in, “We’re willing to do what it takes. We’ve got skills—just give us a chance to prove ourselves.” The lieutenant’s interest seemed piqued, but suspicion lingered.

“Alright, let’s say I buy your act. We’ll need to test you. Meet me here tomorrow at the same time. I’ll have a job for you.”

As we turned to leave, I exchanged a quick glance with Ford and Oliver, silently communicating our relief.

We had made it through the first hurdle. Once we were outside, we quickly regrouped. “We need to make sure we’re prepared for whatever he throws at us,” I said, my heart racing. “Tomorrow is crucial.” “We should stake out the place tonight,” Oliver suggested.

“If we can see who else comes in and out, we might get a better idea of their operations.”

“Good idea,” I agreed, and we settled into our car a safe distance away from the warehouse, keeping watch through the darkness. As the night wore on, we witnessed various shady figures entering and leaving, exchanging whispers and nods. Each passing moment intensified the urgency of our mission. Just before dawn, I spotted a familiar face among the group—a man I had seen before during our investigation, someone tied closely to Victor’s operations.

“Look,” I whispered to the others, pointing him out. “If he’s here, it means Victor might be close. We need to be careful.” The weight of what lay ahead settled on us like a thick fog.

This wasn’t just a simple meeting anymore; we were entangled in a web of danger, deceit, and potentially deadly confrontations. The next day, we arrived back at the warehouse, anxiety pulsing through us. We walked in, nerves humming as we faced the lieutenant once more. “You ready for your first job?” he asked, his expression unreadable. “Absolutely,” I replied, my voice steady despite the racing thoughts in my head.
“Good.

We’ve got a shipment coming in, and I need you to help unload it. Keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told, and you might just fit in.”

As he explained the details, I caught snippets of information about Victor’s operation and its connections to various criminal activities. My mind raced, knowing this was the moment we had to gather everything we could. Once we finished the unloading, I managed to pull aside one of the workers, casually striking up a conversation.

“So, what’s it like working for Victor?”

I asked, feigning curiosity. The worker glanced around nervously before replying, “It’s a job like any other. But you gotta watch your back.

Victor doesn’t like loose ends.” That was the confirmation we needed. Victor was on edge, and with every moment we spent here, we were getting closer to uncovering more about his operation.

The day passed in a blur of activity, the adrenaline pushing us forward as we took mental notes of everything we saw. But with every fleeting second, we knew that time was running out.

We had to act before Victor caught on to our true intentions. As the day drew to a close, we made our way back to our car, each of us buzzing with adrenaline. “We need to find a way to use this information,” I said, my mind already racing ahead.

“If we can find a way to expose him or disrupt his shipments, we might finally have a chance to take him down.”

“Let’s brainstorm tonight,” Oliver suggested, his eyes glinting with determination. As night enveloped us, we knew the real battle was just beginning. Victor was not just a criminal; he was a mastermind with resources and connections. But with each piece of information we gathered, we felt ourselves inching closer to victory.

Our small victories would soon add up, and as long as we stayed one step ahead, there was still hope. This time, we would fight not just for ourselves but for everyone Victor had harmed. It was time to dismantle his empire, one brick at a time.

Back at the cabin, we gathered around a small table, the dim light illuminating the notes and maps we had spread out before us. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation as we strategized our next steps. “First, we need to analyze everything we’ve seen and heard,” I began, looking at the scattered documents. “Victor’s operation seems extensive, and if we can pinpoint his supply chain, we can disrupt it.”

Ford nodded, his brow furrowed in thought.

“We should focus on the shipments we overheard at the warehouse. If we can intercept one, we might get our hands on valuable evidence.”

“Agreed,” Oliver chimed in. “We need to find out when the next shipment is scheduled.

We can leverage our new roles to gather intel without raising suspicion.” I leaned forward, excited by the possibilities. “There might be someone inside who can help us.

We should identify a potential ally among the workers. If we can win them over, they could provide us with critical information.” “Smart thinking,” Ford said.

“We should also be cautious. Victor is not just a criminal; he’s dangerous. If he senses any betrayal, we could be in serious trouble.”

“Let’s do some reconnaissance,” I suggested. “We’ll head back to the warehouse and observe who interacts with whom.

We need to identify anyone who seems discontent or worried about their role in the operation.” As we formulated our plan, I couldn’t shake the feeling of impending danger. Victor was a step ahead of us, and with every second we spent plotting, he could be fortifying his defenses. The next day, we returned to the warehouse, our hearts pounding with anticipation. We blended in with the other workers, doing our best to appear casual while keeping a close eye on everything around us.

As we worked, I noticed a young woman, Mia, who seemed to stand out from the rest. She was sharp-eyed and observant, occasionally exchanging uneasy glances with her colleagues. It was clear she was not entirely comfortable in her role.

“Let’s talk to her,” I whispered to Oliver and Ford as we took a short break. “She might be our best chance at gathering intel.” With a plan in mind, we approached her. “Hey, you’re new around here, right?”

I said, trying to sound casual. “We’re just getting the hang of things ourselves.”

Mia glanced up, surprise flickering across her face before she nodded. “Yeah, I started recently. It’s… different.”

“Different how?”

Ford probed, trying to encourage her to open up. She hesitated, looking around to ensure no one was listening.

“It’s just that things feel off. There’s a lot of secrecy, and I’m not sure what I’ve gotten myself into.” “That’s exactly how we feel,” I said, my tone sympathetic.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what do you know about Victor?”

Her expression hardened slightly. “Not much.

Just that he’s powerful and ruthless. Some people disappear if they don’t follow orders.” The gravity of her words settled over us like a heavy blanket. “You’re right to be cautious,” I replied.

“But we’re not here to cause trouble. We want to find a way out of this mess.” Mia’s eyes widened slightly, as if she could sense our resolve. “If you really want to help, you should be careful.

Victor doesn’t take kindly to dissenters.”

“Can you tell us anything about the next shipment?”

Oliver asked, leaning in. “We might be able to help you and others if we know when it’s coming.” She glanced around again, ensuring we were not being overheard. “I overheard them say something about a big shipment arriving tomorrow night.

It’s supposed to be a large delivery of weapons.” “Tomorrow night,” I repeated, my mind racing. “We need to act quickly. If we can intercept it, we might not only get proof but also expose Victor’s operation.”

Mia nodded, her expression resolute. “I’ll help you, but we need a solid plan. If we get caught…” “We won’t,” I assured her, trying to instill confidence.

“We’ll be careful. The goal is to gather evidence and then get out.” Over the next few hours, we worked closely with Mia, gathering more information about the shipment and its logistics.

We learned the location where the delivery would take place and the number of guards expected to be on duty. By the end of the day, we had a rough plan in place. We would intercept the shipment tomorrow night, using our roles as workers to gain access to the area. If everything went according to plan, we would be able to gather the evidence we needed to take down Victor. As the sun set, we returned to the cabin, a sense of urgency driving us forward.

The weight of what lay ahead hung heavily in the air, but there was also a flicker of hope. This could be our chance to dismantle Victor’s empire once and for all. That night, we prepared for the operation, double-checking our gear and strategizing the details.

We would need to be stealthy and quick, ensuring we could gather the evidence without drawing attention to ourselves. “Let’s meet at the warehouse an hour before the shipment arrives,” I instructed. “We’ll position ourselves where we can see everything without being seen.”

“Got it,” Ford said, his expression determined.

“We’ll make this work.” The night was thick with anticipation as we finally set out. The streets were quiet, the city seemingly unaware of the storm that was about to unfold. As we approached the warehouse, I could feel the adrenaline coursing through me.

This was it—the moment we had been preparing for. We arrived at the warehouse, the shadows dancing ominously in the dim light. As we entered, I could hear the muffled sounds of conversations and the clinking of metal.

The atmosphere was tense, charged with an energy that hinted at the impending chaos. Mia met us at the designated spot, her face pale but resolute. “I’m ready,” she said, determination shining in her eyes. “Remember, stick to the plan,” I reminded her. “We gather evidence and get out.

No heroics.”

As the clock ticked closer to the designated time, we took our positions, our hearts racing in anticipation. The minutes felt like hours as we waited, the tension building with each passing second. Finally, the rumble of engines broke the silence, and headlights cut through the darkness.

The delivery truck arrived, and my pulse quickened as we watched the scene unfold. “Here we go,” I whispered, steeling myself for what was about to happen. As the truck doors swung open, revealing crates stacked high with weapons, we knew this was our chance.

We had to act swiftly and decisively. With the truck doors wide open, I signaled to Oliver and Ford. “Now!
Let’s move!”

We crept closer, using the shadows as our cover. The delivery crew was busy unloading the crates, their backs turned to us.

I could hear their muffled chatter, punctuated by the clanking of metal as they moved the cargo. My heart raced with the urgency of the moment. “Stay low and be quiet,” I reminded the team as we approached the rear of the truck, crouching behind a stack of crates for concealment. The scent of metal and diesel filled the air, a stark reminder of the dangerous game we were playing. Mia peered around the corner, her eyes scanning the area.

“Looks like there are only two guards. We might be able to get in and out without them noticing.”

“Good,” I said, trying to formulate a plan in my mind. “We need to gather as much evidence as we can.

If we can get photos of the weapons and the shipment records, that’ll be solid proof for the police.” Ford nodded, glancing at me with determination. “Let’s grab the camera and start documenting.”

I pulled out the camera, ensuring it was ready to go. We took a deep breath and readied ourselves for the next move.

“On my count, we make our way to the side of the truck, and Mia can cover us while we take the pictures,” I instructed. “Got it,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper. “Three… two… one… go!” We dashed to the side of the truck, careful to stay low.

My heart thudded in my chest as I focused on the task at hand. I aimed the camera at the crates, snapping pictures of the markings and the contents. Each click of the shutter felt like a small victory. “Cover me while I check the paperwork,” Ford said, kneeling down to peer inside the cab of the truck. “If we can get shipping documents, that’ll really help our case.”

I kept an eye on the guards, my senses heightened.

“Be quick!”

I urged, the tension palpable as we worked against the clock. Suddenly, a loud shout rang out from the entrance of the warehouse. “Hey!
Who’s there?”

My blood ran cold. We had been spotted!

“Run!”

I shouted, instinctively grabbing Mia’s arm. We sprinted away from the truck, adrenaline surging as we dodged around crates and barrels. The guards yelled behind us, their footsteps pounding on the concrete. “Stop!
Get back here!”

We ducked behind a large stack of boxes, our breaths coming in ragged gasps. “What do we do now?” Oliver asked, panic creeping into his voice. “Hold on,” I replied, trying to think quickly.

“We need to create a diversion. Ford, can you distract them?”

Ford nodded, a fierce determination in his eyes. “I’ll do it.

Just make sure you guys get away.”

“Are you sure?”

I asked, but he was already moving, slipping away into the shadows. As Ford drew the guards’ attention, Mia, Oliver, and I made a break for it. “We need to get to the back exit,” I urged, leading the way. We navigated through the maze of crates, our hearts pounding in our chests.

The sound of shouting echoed behind us, growing louder as the guards realized they had been tricked. Just as we reached the back door, I heard a loud crash. “What was that?”

Mia asked, wide-eyed.

“Ford!”

I exclaimed, torn between the urge to help him and the need to escape. “We have to go!” “No!
We can’t leave him!”

Oliver shouted, but the sound of approaching footsteps pushed us toward the exit. We pushed through the door, emerging into the cool night air. “This way!”

I gestured, leading us down a narrow alley behind the warehouse.

The adrenaline kept us moving as we sprinted away, the sounds of the guards fading behind us. We didn’t stop until we reached the cover of the trees nearby. “What do we do now?”

Mia gasped, trying to catch her breath. “We need to regroup and find Ford,” I replied, my mind racing.

“He can’t be far behind. We have to help him.”

Just then, a rustling noise came from the direction we’d fled. “Is that you, Ford?”

I called out, my heart racing. Emerging from the shadows, Ford appeared, slightly disheveled but otherwise unharmed.

“I’m here! They almost caught me, but I managed to slip away.” “Thank goodness,” I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Let’s get out of here before they come looking for us again.”

With a renewed sense of purpose, we made our way back to the car, determined to share what we’d learned. As we drove away from the warehouse, I glanced at the evidence we had managed to gather. “We’ve got a lead,” I said, looking at my friends. “If we can get this information to the police, we might just take down Victor and his operation.”

Ford nodded, a fire igniting in his eyes. “Let’s make sure we get it all documented and organized.

This is our chance.”

As we made our way to the police station, I felt a sense of hope mingling with the fear. We were in the thick of danger, but we had each other, and we had a plan. The fight for justice was far from over, but we were ready to see it through.

As we pulled up to the police station, the weight of our mission settled on us, mingling with a sense of cautious hope. The late-night air was thick and quiet, and the fluorescent lights overhead cast long shadows across the empty lot. I looked at my friends one more time before we stepped inside, nodding silently. The officer at the front desk raised an eyebrow as we approached.

Ford stepped forward, explaining our story with a calm urgency that made even the hardened officer lean forward, listening intently. One by one, we laid out the photos, maps, and notes we had collected, detailing Victor's operation and the chain of warehouses scattered across the city. As the officers began to review our evidence, a thought struck me.

"We have to be careful," I whispered to my friends. "If Victor finds out we’re working with the police, he’ll come after us. "

A moment of silence followed, then Ford spoke up, his voice steady. “That’s a risk we’ll have to take. This is bigger than us.”

An officer looked up from our documents, nodding approvingly. "This is solid work," he said. "You may have just given us what we need to move on Victor. " Relief and fear washed over me simultaneously.

We had brought them a lead, but we were still deep in Victor’s crosshairs. As we left the station, I caught my breath, knowing the danger was just beginning. As we walked out of the police station, the cold night air seemed to cut sharper than before, and every shadow felt a bit darker.

There was a gravity to what we’d done, a sense that we were now entangled in something much larger than ourselves. The weight of it settled on each of us differently, but we all felt it. Ford was the first to break the silence as we reached the car.

"We’re in this now, all the way," he said, his voice steady but low. "There’s no backing out. "

He was right. We were in the middle of a game we hadn’t fully understood until now.

This wasn’t just about gathering evidence and passing it along. Victor would soon realize that someone was working against him, and when he did, it wouldn’t take him long to trace it back to us. The stakes had escalated, and it was time to confront what that truly meant. We spent the drive back poring over the details of our plan, speaking in low voices as if even the darkness could hear us. Everything needed to be airtight.

Our evidence had to be meticulously documented, organized, and, if possible, duplicated. We couldn’t let a single piece fall through the cracks. I glanced back at our growing file of notes and pictures, feeling both proud and anxious. This evidence was our weapon, but it also painted a target on our backs.

When we reached Ford’s place, we turned his living room into a makeshift headquarters. Notes and photos were spread across the coffee table, maps pinned to the wall with routes marked in red. The once-cozy space now felt like a war room. As the hours passed, exhaustion set in, but none of us dared to sleep. Somewhere around three in the morning, I caught Ford staring at a photo of Victor’s main warehouse, the one we’d just left hours ago.

His face was tense, his jaw clenched. He hadn’t said much, but I could see something fierce behind his eyes—a fire that hadn’t been there before. “What’s on your mind?”

I asked him. He looked at me, his expression unyielding.

“This isn’t just about stopping Victor for me,” he said quietly. “It’s about making sure no one else gets hurt by him. I’ve seen what people like him do—they destroy lives.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and raw. Before I could respond, Mia, who had been taking notes on her laptop, spoke up. “We’re all in this for different reasons, but we’re in it together.

We can’t let fear stop us now.”

We nodded, a silent pact passing between us. By morning, we’d finalized our next steps. We had planned, prepared, and anticipated as much as possible. Now, all we could do was move forward and hope our combined strength would be enough. But as dawn broke and light spilled into the room, the reality hit hard: Victor was ruthless, and we were just a few determined people with a file of evidence.

Would that really be enough to bring down someone like him? The question lingered, a quiet dread that none of us dared voice. In the days that followed, things moved fast.

We delivered every piece of information to the police, double-checked every fact, every connection. And yet, a strange silence loomed, as if the calm before a storm. We started to sense a presence, shadowy figures tailing us, cars that seemed to appear just a little too often.

Victor’s people had noticed us, and their silent warnings grew louder. One evening, as we were leaving the police station, a black car pulled up beside us. The windows were tinted, hiding the driver’s face. The door creaked open, and a voice I’d only heard in recordings echoed from the darkness inside.

"Enjoying your little investigation?”

It was Victor himself. Fear surged through me, but Ford took a step forward, standing his ground. “We’re not afraid of you, Victor.”

A dry laugh drifted from the car.

“Oh, you will be,” he said smoothly. “It’s cute that you think you’re brave. But this game is bigger than you.

Much bigger.”

With that, the door slammed shut, and the car sped off, leaving us frozen in place. The brief encounter left a chilling mark, a reminder that Victor wasn’t just some faceless adversary. He was a man who enjoyed playing with his prey.

Our lives changed after that night. Every sound, every shadow became suspect. We were hunted, but we refused to be broken. This was our story now, and we would see it through to the end, no matter how dark the path ahead. The fight for justice had only just begun, and we knew we were in for the battle of our lives.

The tension only grew as the days passed, and the threat of Victor’s reach lingered in the back of our minds. We worked tirelessly, piecing together more leads and following every loose end. Ford, Mia, and I took shifts watching each other’s backs, knowing that at any moment, Victor’s men might show up. It felt like we were living on borrowed time.

One night, as we sat huddled in Ford’s dimly lit living room, Mia’s face lit up as she uncovered something important on her laptop. She motioned us over with urgency in her eyes. “I think I found it,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Victor has a second location—a safe house. He’s hiding a lot more than we realized.”

I leaned over her shoulder, squinting at the screen.

A series of transactions led to a remote, abandoned building just outside the city. It wasn’t on the police’s radar yet. Victor was clever, hiding assets through shell companies and false names, but Mia had managed to unravel his web of secrecy. Ford clenched his fists, his gaze dark. “This might be our chance to get something definitive.

If we can get inside and find anything—documents, recordings, anything—it could be the break we need.” Despite the danger, a thrill of determination pulsed through us. We knew that if we waited for too long, Victor might catch on and move everything. This was a narrow window, and it was closing fast.

We agreed: tomorrow night, we’d go to the safe house and find whatever Victor was hiding. The following evening, we parked a block away from the abandoned building, its silhouette looming like a dark shadow against the night sky. The place was eerie and silent, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind.

We moved quietly, each step carefully placed as we approached the entrance. Ford led the way, and Mia and I stayed close behind, hearts pounding with anticipation and fear. Once inside, we quickly realized this wasn’t just a safe house; it was a command center. Maps covered the walls, marked with red circles that showed Victor’s network across the city. There were tables stacked with files, phones, and small surveillance devices.

This was Victor’s nerve center, and we were right in the middle of it. Mia immediately began snapping photos, her hands shaking slightly as she captured everything. Ford rifled through a stack of documents, his eyes widening at the level of detail Victor had on his enemies—and on us. I couldn’t believe it; he’d been watching us from the start, tracking our every move. Chills ran down my spine as I read my own name on a list labeled “Potential Threats.”

We didn’t have much time. Ford loaded a few files into his bag, and I grabbed a folder marked “Confidential.”

Just as we were about to leave, the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway. “Someone’s here,” I whispered, feeling my pulse quicken. We exchanged panicked glances, our hearts pounding in unison.

There was no escape; the only way out was back down the narrow hallway we had come through, and the footsteps were getting louder. Ford took a quick look around and spotted a supply closet. He motioned for us to hide inside.

We squeezed into the cramped space, holding our breaths, listening as the footsteps drew closer. Through the thin crack in the door, we saw a figure—a tall man with a familiar, menacing presence. It was one of Victor’s top men, the enforcer we’d only heard rumors about. His face was as cold as his reputation.

He stopped in front of the closet, his gaze sweeping the room suspiciously. I could feel my pulse hammering in my throat, the silence inside the closet deafening. He lingered for a moment, and I felt Mia’s hand grip mine tightly, both of us bracing for the worst. Then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he turned and walked down the hall, his footsteps fading into the distance.

We waited, each second stretching unbearably, until we were sure he was gone. Ford exhaled quietly, nodding to us. “Let’s move.

Now.”

We slipped out of the building and made our way back to the car, clutching our precious evidence as if our lives depended on it. And they did. By the time we reached the car, exhaustion mingled with a fierce sense of accomplishment.

We had done it—we had something that could finally expose Victor for what he was. As we drove away, Ford glanced at the rearview mirror, his face tense. “We can’t go home.

Not yet.

He’s going to know someone was there, and he’ll be looking for us.” It was true. Victor wouldn’t rest until he found out who had infiltrated his operation. We were officially fugitives now, hiding from both sides—Victor and the police, who would be questioning why we hadn’t come to them first.

The only safe place we could think of was an old cabin Ford’s uncle owned out by the lake. Isolated and off the grid, it was our only shot at staying hidden long enough to analyze the information we’d gathered. As we settled into the cabin, a new resolve began to form. We weren’t just a few people stumbling in the dark anymore.

We were equipped, united, and we had Victor’s own secrets to use against him. The balance had shifted. For the first time, we weren’t just surviving—we were fighting back. The cabin became our sanctuary, a place where fear transformed into strategy, and hope sharpened into purpose. Each night we pored over Victor’s files, piecing together his network, his crimes, his allies, and his vulnerabilities.

We discovered names—people in positions of power, silently aiding him. The depth of his influence was staggering, but it only fueled our resolve further. And so, as dawn broke each day over the quiet lake, we knew one thing with certainty: we wouldn’t stop until Victor’s empire was nothing but ashes.

The days at the cabin passed in a tense blur. Each morning, we reviewed the evidence and strategized our next move, and each night, we slept lightly, alert to every sound outside. We had no way of knowing how close Victor’s people were or how soon they’d come looking, but we knew it was only a matter of time.

Our biggest break came one evening when Mia discovered an encrypted file hidden in the documents we’d taken from Victor’s command center. She spent hours decoding it, her face illuminated by the glow of the laptop screen, until finally, with a triumphant click, the file unlocked. "It's a ledger," she whispered, barely containing her excitement. "This has everything—payments, locations, even names.

It's a complete map of Victor's entire operation. "

Ford and I leaned over her shoulder, reading line after line of incriminating data. The ledger detailed years of illegal dealings, from bribes to high-ranking officials to transactions involving arms shipments. And then there were the names—public figures, police officers, business owners—all of them complicit in Victor's schemes.

Ford clenched his fists, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and determination. “This is it. This is the proof we need to bring him down.

With this, there’s no way he can cover it up.” But we knew the risks.

If Victor realized we had this ledger, he’d stop at nothing to silence us. We had to be strategic about how we used it. After hours of planning, we agreed on a new approach: we’d leak small pieces of the ledger to the media, enough to stir public interest and force an official investigation, but not enough for Victor to know we had the entire file. With the press involved, it would be harder for Victor to quietly eliminate us without drawing attention. Over the next few days, we carefully selected names and transactions to release.

We reached out to a few trusted reporters anonymously, sharing only what we could safely disclose. The response was immediate. Headlines flashed across the news, detailing the corruption and connections within the city’s most powerful circles. Suddenly, Victor was no longer the silent puppeteer in the shadows—he was a public enemy, his empire exposed to the harsh light of scrutiny.

But with each article, the tension around us thickened.

Victor’s people were now on high alert, and every movement outside the cabin felt like it could be the start of an ambush. Ford was constantly checking the perimeter, his eyes sharp and his demeanor serious. Mia and I kept monitoring the news and staying in contact with our allies in the press, but it was clear we were pushing our luck.

We had lit a fire, and soon, the blaze would either consume Victor or us. One night, as I sat on the cabin porch looking out at the quiet lake, Ford joined me, his gaze distant. “We’re making progress,” he said, his voice calm but weary.

“But we’re not safe. Victor’s bound to strike back soon. We need a backup plan.”

I nodded, understanding what he meant. We couldn’t rely on the media alone; we needed to hand over the entire ledger to someone who could act fast and decisively.

The next morning, we made contact with a special investigator—an old friend of Ford’s who had experience taking down criminal networks. He was reluctant at first, wary of the risks, but when we showed him the extent of Victor’s corruption, he agreed to help. We arranged a meeting in a quiet location outside the city, hoping to pass off the ledger safely. But as we approached the meeting point, my phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number: You’re not as invisible as you think.

I know where you are. My heart dropped, and I showed the message to Ford and Mia. Victor had found us. “Change of plans,” Ford said immediately, turning the car around. “We’re not going to make the drop.

We need to get somewhere safe, fast.” We drove in silence, hearts pounding as we tried to think of our next move. But the roads felt too open, too exposed.

Every car we passed, every unfamiliar face on the street, felt like a threat. Just as the sun was setting, we found a secluded spot by an old, run-down motel on the outskirts of town. It wasn’t much, but it would keep us hidden for the night. As we settled into the dingy motel room, we realized just how close Victor’s reach really was. He was closing in, and we were running out of places to hide.

That night, as we gathered around the small motel table, I looked at my friends, exhaustion and fear etched into their faces. “We can’t keep running forever,” I said quietly. “If we’re going to stop him, we need to go on the offensive. We have to force his hand, make him come to us on our terms.” Mia nodded slowly.

“We could leak the rest of the ledger, all at once. The fallout would be massive. Victor wouldn’t be able to hide anymore, and his people would scatter to save themselves.” Ford thought for a moment, then met my eyes.

“If we do that, it means there’s no going back. This is the final play.” We all sat in silence, the weight of the decision pressing down on us. Then, one by one, we agreed.

We’d put everything on the line. The next morning, Mia sent the entire ledger to the press, a digital bomb waiting to explode. Within hours, every media outlet was covering the story.

Victor’s face was plastered on every screen, his network dismantling piece by piece as his closest allies scrambled to distance themselves. We knew he’d be furious, that he’d come after us with everything he had left. But for the first time, it felt like we were in control.

That evening, as we watched the news from the motel room, a knock came at the door. We froze, exchanging tense glances, each of us knowing what this could mean. Ford stood up, moving to the door and looking through the peephole. He turned back to us, his face set with a grim determination.

“It’s him,” he whispered. Victor had come to settle things in person. Ford looked at us, his gaze steady. “Whatever happens, we finish this. We don’t back down.”

We each took a deep breath, ready for the final confrontation. This was it—the moment we’d been building toward. We had risked everything, and now it was time to see if we’d truly be able to bring Victor’s empire to its knees, or if we’d be the ones to fall. The door creaked open, and as Victor stepped into the room, a chilling smile on his face, I knew one thing for certain: no matter the outcome, we would fight until the very end.

Victor’s smile lingered for a moment, but it was a cold, calculating expression. The door creaked shut behind him, but the brief silence that followed felt like an eternity. Our hearts raced, each of us knowing that this moment, the one we had been preparing for, had finally arrived. Ford remained still, his gaze fixed on Victor, unwavering.

“We’re doing this,” Ford said, his voice steady, though there was a slight tension beneath the surface. Victor’s eyes narrowed, and he took a slow step toward the center of the room. The smirk that had been on his face vanished, replaced by a cold determination. “This ends tonight,” he said, his voice low but clear.

Ford didn’t flinch. “It ends when we say it ends. And that won’t be tonight.” For a brief moment, it felt as though the air in the room grew thick, charged with the weight of everything we had risked. The years of plotting, the hours of preparation, all led to this final moment.

The tension was palpable, and none of us could look away. The time for talking was over. Victor raised his hands, palms out, as though showing us he was unarmed. But we knew better.

“You think you can stop me?” he asked, his tone mocking. “We’re not here to stop you,” Ford replied, taking a step closer. “We’re here to finish this.”

And with that, the room seemed to snap into motion. The fight had begun. Victor’s gaze hardened, his lips curling into a grin that sent a chill down my spine. “You’ve made a mistake,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper.

“You’ve underestimated me, and now you’ll pay the price.”

Ford stepped forward, his expression unwavering. “We don’t fear you, Victor. Not anymore.”

The room felt smaller with every passing second. The tension was almost unbearable, and yet, in the midst of it all, I felt something stirring within me—an energy I hadn’t known I was capable of. The fight was no longer just a necessity.

It was personal. Victor had crossed a line, and now we had to cross the point of no return. Victor raised an eyebrow, as if sensing the shift in the room.

“You think this will end how you want?” he asked, his voice tinged with a mix of amusement and derision. He seemed almost confident, as though he knew something we didn’t. “The truth is, you’ve already lost.” I clenched my fists, my mind racing.

There was no turning back now. This wasn’t just about victory—it was about survival. The stakes had risen far beyond what we had originally thought. Without warning, Victor lunged forward. His movement was quick, calculated, and precise.

Ford reacted instantly, his body shifting to intercept the strike. The sound of the clash echoed through the room as Ford and Victor collided, both locked in a struggle that seemed almost too fast for the eye to follow. Victor grinned, twisting his body with the agility of a trained fighter.

“You’re too slow,” he taunted. Ford didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted his weight and delivered a quick, powerful blow to Victor’s midsection. Victor staggered back, his smirk faltering for the briefest moment.

“Not so fast,” Ford said, his voice calm, but filled with a quiet intensity. He wasn’t going to give Victor the satisfaction of seeing him break. Victor growled in frustration, his eyes burning with fury. “You think this is over?”

he spat, his voice sharp as a knife. “This is just the beginning. You’re fighting a battle you can’t win.”

Ford squared his shoulders, his posture solid, his resolve unshakable. “We’ll see about that.”

The fight raged on, neither side giving an inch. The sound of punches landing, the crackle of tension, it all blended together in a blur. But as the minutes ticked by, something began to change.

It wasn’t just the strength of their blows or the precision of their movements—it was the will behind them. Ford wasn’t fighting just for himself anymore. He was fighting for all of us. And as for Victor, his arrogance was starting to falter. His movements, once so sure, now seemed desperate.

A sudden shift in the momentum caught Victor off guard. Ford moved with a speed and fluidity that even Victor couldn’t anticipate. With a sharp, decisive movement, Ford knocked Victor to the ground, his knee pinning him in place. Victor gasped, fury and disbelief mixing in his eyes.

“This isn’t over,” he hissed, but there was a crack in his voice now, a sign of uncertainty. “You may have won this round, but I will come for you. All of you.”

Ford leaned in, his face inches from Victor’s. “Not if we can help it.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The silence was deafening, the weight of the finality hanging in the air. And then, slowly, Ford stood up, offering a hand to the defeated Victor.

Victor looked at the hand, his chest heaving with anger, but he didn’t take it. Instead, he pushed himself up, brushing off the dust. “This isn’t over,” he repeated, his voice quieter this time, tinged with a mix of frustration and reluctant respect.

Ford nodded, acknowledging Victor’s resolve. But it was clear.

The battle was over, and it was Ford’s side that had won. As Victor turned and walked toward the door, his back still straight, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. This was the moment we had worked toward, and we had come out victorious. But there was no time to celebrate.

The war, as Victor had said, was far from over. We had won this battle, bu t the fight for our future was just beginning. Ford watched Victor leave, his expression unreadable. “We’ll be ready for him,” he muttered, his voice steady but resolute.

We nodded in agreement. Whatever came next, we would face it together. As the door slammed shut behind Victor, the silence that filled the room felt heavy. We all stood frozen for a moment, processing what had just happened.

Ford’s chest rose and fell with each deep breath, but his expression remained calm—focused. “We’ve made it this far,” he said quietly, looking at each of us in turn. “But this isn’t the end. Not by a long shot.”

I felt a chill run down my spine as the gravity of his words settled in.

Victor had left, but he wasn’t defeated—not yet. And whatever he had planned for us next, we had to be ready. The thought of him plotting in the shadows, watching our every move, made me uneasy.

“We can’t let our guard down,” I said, my voice steady, though I could feel the tension in my shoulders. “We need a plan.”

Ford nodded. “We’ll have one.

We’ve always been ahead of him, and that’s not going to change.”

Victor’s empire was vast, its reach extending into every corner of the city. But we knew its cracks, its weaknesses.

We had spent years gathering intel, making alliances, and preparing for this moment. Now, it was time to turn that preparation into action. Victor had underestimated us. He thought he could intimidate us, wear us down.

But he didn’t understand that we weren’t just fighting for our own survival.

We were fighting for something greater. “We need to hit him where it hurts,” said Rachel, her voice cutting through the tension. “His operations, his connections, his influence.

We take away his power.” “And we do it now,” Ford added, determination hardening his tone. “We don’t wait for him to make his next move. We make the first one.”

We gathered around the table, our minds already racing with possibilities. There was no room for hesitation now.

We had come too far to back down, too many lives depended on our success. The plan began to take shape. Rachel would lead the strike on one of Victor’s key operations, a warehouse where he was storing weapons for his upcoming deal.

It was the perfect target—vital, but not without risks. “We’ll hit them at dawn,” Ford said. “By the time they know what’s happening, it’ll be too late.” Victor would never see it coming. The next few hours were spent preparing—gathering intel, checking equipment, and finalizing details.

The weight of what we were about to do hung heavily in the air, but there was no turning back now. This was our moment. As dawn approached, we suited up, our hearts beating in unison. We were ready to take the fight to Victor. No more waiting.

No more uncertainty.

“This ends today,” I muttered under my breath as we moved toward the exit. Ford gave a brief nod, his eyes steely. “Let’s finish this.”

And with that, we set out into the early morning light, determined to end the war once and for all. As we reached the outskirts of the wareh

ouse, the first light of dawn broke over the horizon. The sky was painted in shades of orange and pink, but there was no beauty in the moment. Our minds were set, our focus sharp.

We were here for one thing: to

take down Victor’s empire, and we couldn’t afford any distractions. Rachel, as always, led the way. She was the strateg ist, the one who could think five steps ahead and execute with precision. The rest of us followed closely behind, our movements coordinated, silent.

Every step felt like a coun

tdown to the inevitable. We crouched low as we approached the entrance, the large steel doors looming ahead. Ford motioned for us to stop, signaling that he would take the lead in breaching the door.

He checked his equipment one last time, his eyes scanning the perimeter for any signs of movement. "On my signal," he whispered. The seconds felt like hours, the tension thick in the air. Then, with a single motion, Ford swung

the heavy door open, and we flooded into the warehouse.

The interior was dimly lit, shadows stretching long across the concrete floor. Rows of crates were stacked high, and the distant hum of machinery echoed throughout the space. We knew Victor’s men would be inside—armed and alert—but we were ready.

“Move fast, keep quiet,” Ford ordered, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. We split into teams. Rachel and I moved to the left, covering the flank, while Ford and Jake headed toward the main storage area. The plan was simple: disable the security, secure the weapons, and leave before anyone could call for reinforcements.

No room for mistakes.

The seconds ticked by, each one drawing us closer to the heart of Victor’s operation. The warehouse was eerily quiet—too quiet. But we had trained for moments like this, prepared for the unexpected.

Every step was calculated, every movement precise. Then, as we reached the storage area, the first shots rang out. A burst of gunfire shattered the stillness, and everything exploded into chaos.

The quiet was gone, replaced by the sound of shouting and the crack of bullets ricocheting off metal. Rachel reacted instantly, diving behind a stack of crates, pulling me with her. I barely had time to process the explosion of noise before she was already pulling her gun and returning fire.

“Keep moving!”

she shouted over the din.
I nodded, adrenaline kicking in. We had no choice but to fight our way through. We had to secure the weapons, and we had to do it now. As we moved forward, I saw Ford and Jake up ahead, clearing a path through the enemy with precision.

Ford was a machine, every shot landing where it needed to. But Victor’s men were numerous, and they were trained.

It wasn’t going to be easy, but we had the advantage—this was our fight. We pushed forward, securing the crates of weapons as planned, but the firefight wasn’t over yet. More men appeared from the shadows, their faces masked with determination.

We were outnumbered, but we weren’t backing down. “Rachel, cover me!” I shouted, taking a step forward to draw attention away from her. The plan had changed now—we couldn’t just stay hidden.

We had to finish this. She fired a shot that took one of the guards down, allowing me to get a better angle. I sprinted toward another stack of crates, my heart racing, every nerve in my body on edge.

But there was no time to think—only to act.

As we continued to fight our way through, it became clear that we were close. The sound of more footsteps echoed in the distance, and I knew reinforcements were on the way. We had to finish what we started, or we wouldn’t make it out. Finally, we reached the heart of the operation—the storage room where Victor’s most valuable weapons were kept.

Ford and Jake were already there, holding off the remaining guards. It was a race against time now. “Get those crates!”

Ford yelled as he fired another round. I moved swiftly, locking the crates

into place with a satisfying click.

It was done. The weapons were secured. But we weren’t out of the woods yet.

“Move out!” Ford ordered, his voice grim. “We’ve got what we came for, now let’s get out before the cavalry arrives.” With the weapons secured, we retraced our steps, moving quickly through the warehouse.

The air was thick with tension, the sounds of pursuit growing louder. But we had the edge.

The mission was a success. We reached the exit, and just as we were about to step into the alleyway outside, the unmistakable sound of a vehicle screeched to a halt nearby. The reinforcements were here. “Go!”

Ford shouted, and we ran.

The chase had begun. The sound of footsteps pounding on the concrete grew louder behind us, but we didn’t dare look back. Every muscle in my body screamed with exhaustion, but adrenaline kept me moving. We darted through the narrow alley, weaving between dumpsters and stacks of discarded crates.

There was no time to slow down; the reinforcements were closing in fast. “Keep pushing!” Ford shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. His pace was unrelenting, a testament to his leadership.

He wasn’t just in charge—he was the heartbeat of this operation. Rachel was right beside me, her breath heavy but controlled. “We need to get to the van,” she said between gasps. “It’s our only way out.”

We had arranged for a getaway vehicle, parked a few blocks away, but getting there wouldn’t be easy. With Victor’s men hot on our trail, the streets wouldn’t be safe for long. We had to make it there before they could set up a blockade. We burst onto a main street, where the early morning light began to flood the city.

The world felt like it was moving in slow motion—except for us, sprinting like our lives depended on it. And they did. Jake, always the quick thinker, glanced around. “We need a distraction.

Something to throw them off our trail.”

Before I could respond, he pulled a small device from his jacket pocket and activated it. A loud explosion erupted a few blocks down the street, sending a plume of smoke into the sky. It was just enough to cause confusion, enough to slow down their pursuit. “Go!”

Ford shouted, already running toward the van parked just ahead.

We didn’t waste any time. The van was our lifeline now, and we had to make it there before Victor’s men regrouped. I could hear the screeching of tires as a black SUV appeared at the far end of the street, its engine revving as it sped toward us. But we were faster, moving with a singular purpose.

We reached the van, and Ford was the first to jump inside, slamming the door behind him. Rachel was next, followed by Jake. I was last, and as I climbed into the back, I could feel the tension in my chest release—just a little. “Drive, now!”

Ford barked at the driver, who slammed the accelerator to the floor.

We sped away, the tires squealing as we tore down the street, leaving the chaos behind us. I glanced out the back window, watching as the black SUV tried to follow, but it was too late. We were already merging onto the highway, the city growing smaller in the distance. The pursuit was over—for now.

But the fight wasn’t.

“We did it,” Rachel said, her voice low but triumphant. She wiped the sweat from her forehead, her hands still trembling from the adrenaline rush. “Not yet,” Ford replied, his gaze fixed ahead. “Victor’s not going to let this go. This was just one battle in a much bigger war.”

I nodded, knowing he was right. This wasn’t the end. It was just the beginning.

We had taken down one of Victor’s key operations, but his empire was vast, and his anger would be immense. He would come after us with everything he had. “We’ll be ready,” Jake said, looking around at the rest of us.

“Whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.” We all nodded, a silent agreement between us. Our bond was unbreakable. No matter how high the stakes got, we would keep fighting. And we would bring Victor down.

The rest of the drive was silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts. The road ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear: we were no longer just running from Victor. We were hunting him.

The van rattled as we sped down the highway, the engine’s hum a constant reminder of the danger we had narrowly escaped. The city lights faded in the rearview mirror, and the open road stretched ahead like a path into the unknown. But none of us were naïve enough to think the danger was over.

If anything, it had just begun. Ford sat in the front, his fingers drumming nervously on the dashboard. “We need to regroup,” he muttered under his breath.

“We need a plan.”

Rachel, always the pragmatic one, leaned forward from the back seat. “We need information. We hit one of Victor’s supply routes, but he’s too connected. We need to know what he’s planning next.”

Jake nodded.

“We’ve taken out a few key players, but his operation is far from crippled. He’ll adapt.” I stared out the window, watching the landscape blur as we raced through the night. The weight of the mission settled deeper into my chest. We hadn’t just made enemies tonight—we’d made a target of the most powerful man in the underground world.

Victor wasn’t someone you crossed without consequences. And now, we were marked. “We need to find someone on the inside,” I said, breaking the silence.

My voice felt foreign, but it was clear. “Someone who can give us the leverage we need.”

Ford glanced at me through the rearview mirror. “You have someone in mind?”

I hesitated, considering the options.

“There’s an informant—Tasha. She used to work with Victor’s people. She’s risky, but she might know more about his next move than anyone else.” Rachel shifted, her eyes narrowing. “Is she trustworthy?”

“She has her own agenda,” I said, “but she’s not loyal to Victor.

That’s the only thing that matters right now.” Ford was silent for a moment, weighing the decision. “Alright.
We’ll find her. But if this goes south, it’s on you.”

I nodded, fully aware of the gravity of the situation.

Tasha was a wildcard, but we didn’t have many options left. She was our best chance at staying ahead of Victor’s next move. The rest of the drive was spent in quiet determination, each of us preparing mentally for the next step.

We were still miles away from our destination—an old warehouse on the edge of town, a place where we could lay low for a few hours before making contact with Tasha. As the van made the final turn, we saw the dim outline of the warehouse ahead. It looked abandoned, but I knew better.

This was the kind of place that Victor’s enemies used to disappear—to plan and regroup. “Stay sharp,” Ford ordered as the van slowed to a stop. “We don’t know who’s watching.” We filed out of the van quickly, moving toward the entrance of the warehouse with careful steps. The place smelled of dust and disuse, but there was an undercurrent of tension in the air.

We were being watched. I could feel it. Inside, the dim lighting cast long shadows across the walls. It was quiet—too quiet—and my hand instinctively went to the gun at my side.

Every corner felt like it was hiding something, and my instincts were on high alert. “There she is,” Rachel murmured, nodding toward a figure standing near the far wall. A woman, tall and lean, with short black hair and sharp eyes that didn’t miss a thing. It was Tasha.

She didn’t speak right away, just watched us with that cold, calculating gaze. “I knew you’d come for me eventually,” she said, her voice smooth, almost bored. “But I’m not in the business of doing favors.” “You’re not here for favors,” Ford replied.

“We need information. Victor’s next move.”

Tasha’s eyes flickered with a hint of something—recognition, maybe even fear—but it passed quickly. “You’re playing a dangerous game. He’s not just some petty criminal you can take down.

Victor is untouchable.” “We’ve already touched him,” I said. “We took down one of his operations tonight. Now he’s going to come after us.

You tell us what he’s planning, and we’ll deal with him. You stay out of it.” Her gaze shifted toward the door, as though considering something. “You’re lucky I’m not loyal to him anymore.

But you’re also lucky I’m not dead.”

She sighed and leaned back against the wall. “Alright.
I’ll tell you what I know, but there’s a price.” I didn’t hesitate. “What is it?”

“I want out,” she said flatly.

“No more running, no more hiding.

You help me disappear, and I’ll give you everything you need to take down Victor.” Ford stepped forward, eyes hard. “You’ll get what you want. But you better make sure you’re not playing both sides.”

“I’m not playing anything,” Tasha shot back. “I’m just trying to stay alive.” We locked eyes, and for a moment, I wondered if I could trust her. But there was no turning back now.

We needed her. “Deal,” I said. “Now tell us what you know.”

Tasha leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she spoke. “Victor’s got a new shipment coming in—heavy artillery, enough to start a small war.

It’s scheduled to hit the docks in two days. That’s the moment you strike.” We all exchanged glances, the weight of the information settling in.

This was it. The final push.

The wind howled like a banshee across the desolate expanse of the Alarian Desert, whipping sand against the weathered face of Elara, the last alchemist of her kind. Her weathered leather cloak billowed behind her like a tattered banner as she trudged through the endless dunes, her eyes narrowed against the harsh sunlight. Elara's once-vibrant green eyes were now clouded with fatigue and despair. The weight of her burden, the last remnants of her people's ancient knowledge, pressed heavily upon her.

The Alchemists of Alaria, once revered for their mastery of the elements and their ability to heal the land, were now hunted and ostracized, their magic deemed too powerful, too unpredictable by the tyrannical King Azrael. Elara clutched the tattered leather pouch containing the few remaining Alaria Texts, their ancient script barely visible under the relentless erosion of sand and time. These texts held the secrets of her people's magic, the delicate balance between the elements that had sustained Alaria for centuries. If she lost them, the knowledge would be lost forever, plunging Alaria into an age of darkness and decay. Suddenly, a flicker of movement caught her eye.

A lone Sand Serpent, its scales shimmering like gold under the sun, slithered towards her, its forked tongue tasting the air. Elara's hand instinctively went to the silver dagger strapped to her thigh, her heart hammering against her ribs. Sand Serpents were deadly creatures, their venom capable of liquefying flesh in seconds. But Elara knew she couldn't afford to panic.

She needed to be resourceful, to use the elements around her to her advantage. Drawing a deep breath, she focused her mind, channeling the fiery spirit of the sun into her hands. A flicker of orange light sparked at her fingertips, growing brighter until it formed a blazing ball of fire. With a determined cry, Elara hurled the fireball at the Sand Serpent. The creature shrieked in agony as the flames engulfed it, its body dissolving into dust before it could strike.

Exhausted but relieved, Elara sank to her knees, the heat from the fire clinging to her skin. She had survived another encounter, but she knew the journey ahead would be fraught with peril. The desert held many dangers, not just from Sand Serpents, but from the King's men who hunted her relentlessly. But Elara refused to give up.

The fate of her people, the future of Alaria, rested upon her shoulders. She would continue to fight, to protect the last remnants of her heritage, and to find a way to restore balance to the land she loved. As the sun dipped below the horizon, bathing the desert in a fiery glow, Elara stood tall, her resol Nepal: A Land of Enchantment Nestled amidst the majestic Himalayas, Nepal is a land where ancient traditions blend seamlessly with modern influences. From the snow-capped peaks of Mount Everest to the verdant valleys teeming with wildlife, Nepal offers a sensory overload that leaves travelers breathless and captivated.

A Tapestry of Cultures: Nepal's rich tapestry is woven with diverse ethnicities and religions, each contributing a unique thread to the national fabric. Hinduism and Buddhism coexist harmoniously, evident in the ornate temples and vibrant festivals that paint the streets with color and laughter. The echoes of ancient chants mingle with modern pop music, creating a fascinating soundtrack to everyday life. Treks

Through Time: Nepal's terrain is a playground for adventurers, offering trekking trails that range from leisurely strolls through rhododendron forests to challenging climbs up the world's highest mountains. Whether you're a seasoned mountaineer or a casual hiker, Nepal has a path that will leave you breathless with its stunning natural beauty.

A Haven for Nature Lovers: Nepal is a treasure trove for wildlife enthusiasts, boasting over 850 species of birds and 180 species of mammals. Chitwan National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is home to the majestic Bengal tiger, while the Annapurna Conservation Area offers glimpses of elusive snow leopards. Beyond the Mountains: Nepal's charm extends far beyond its mountains and valleys. The bustling streets of Kathmandu, the ancient capital, offer a chaotic yet captivating glimpse into Nepali life. Vibrant markets overflow with colorful spices, handcrafted souvenirs, and traditional clothing, while centuries-old temples and palaces stand as testaments to the country's rich history.

A Spiritual Journey: Nepal is a haven for those seeking spiritual enlightenment. The tranquility of Buddhist monasteries nestled amidst the mountains provides the perfect setting for meditation and introspection. Immerse yourself in the chanting of monks, the flickering of butter lamps, and the peaceful aura that permeates the air.

Embracing Hospitality: The Nepali people are known for their warmth and hospitality. They welcome visitors with open arms and genuine smiles, readily offering a cup of chai and engaging in conversation. This genuine connection with the locals is what truly makes a visit to Nepal unforgettable. A Land of Contrasts: Nepal is a land of contrasts: ancient and modern, serene and exhilarating, rugged and beautiful.

It is a place where time seems to slow down, allowing you to reconnect with your inner self and appreciate the simple joys of life. Come, explore Nepal, and discover a land that will leave you spellbound and forever etched in your memory. India, a land of vibrant colors and ancient wisdom, where the scent of spices dances on the warm breeze and the echoes of prayers mingle with the melodies of ragas. From the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas to the sun-kissed beaches of Goa, India unfolds like an intricate tapestry, woven with threads of diverse cultures, religions, and landscapes. Here, the echoes of emperors past reverberate through bustling streets lined with bustling bazaars and majestic monuments.

The scent of incense hangs heavy in the air, emanating from ancient temples and serene ghats where devotees gather for morning prayers and evening rituals. In the bustling cities, modern skyscrapers stand in stark contrast to the timeless charm of Mughal palaces and colonial remnants, a testament to India's rich history and its embrace of the future. In the rural villages, time seems to stand still, as farmers till their fields and women adorned in vibrant sarees laugh and gossip under the shade of ancient banyan trees.

The air is filled with the rhythmic clatter of handlooms weaving stories of tradition, and the aroma of freshly baked chapatis wafts from mud-brick homes, beckoning weary travelers to share a meal and a conversation. In India, religion is not just a belief, it's a way of life, woven into every aspect of daily existence. From the vibrant festivals celebrated with joyous abandon to the quiet moments of prayer offered at sunrise, faith permeates the air, creating a sense of spiritual connection that transcends boundaries. Throughout this land, diversity becomes a symphony, where each instrument plays its unique melody, harmonizing to create a captivating and unforgettable experience.

India, a land of contrasts and contradictions, a place where the sacred and the profane coexist, where the past and the future collide, and where the warmth of the people shines brighter than the sun. It is a land that will forever captivate your senses and leave an indelible mark on your soul. The United States of America, a nation woven from dreams and contradictions, where the spirit of innovation dances alongside the ghosts of a turbulent past. From the towering skyscrapers of New York City to the sun-drenched beaches of California, the USA unfolds like a vast canvas painted with the vibrant hues of diversity and opportunity. Here, the echoes of Founding Fathers reverberate through bustling streets lined with iconic landmarks and monuments, each telling a tale of a nation built on the ideals of liberty and justice.

The air hums with the energy of a restless spirit, fueled by the relentless pursuit of progress and the unyielding belief in the American Dream. In the bustling cities, ambition thrives amidst the concrete jungle, where entrepreneurial dreams take flight and the engines of commerce roar. Yet, amidst the skyscrapers and neon lights, pockets of history whisper stories of resilience and struggle, reminding us of the battles fought and the victories won for the freedoms we cherish.

Beyond the urban sprawl, the land stretches out in breathtaking grandeur, from the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies to the fertile plains of the Midwest. Here, the rugged individualism of the cowboy spirit lives on, and the vastness of the landscape inspires a sense of adventure and freedom that is deeply ingrained in the American soul. Across this land, diversity sings a vibrant chorus, a tapestry woven with threads of cultures and ethnicities from every corner of the globe. In vibrant immigrant communities, languages from across the world mingle, creating a symphony of sounds and flavors that reflects the nation's melting pot identity.

Yet, beneath the surface of this diversity lies a unifying thread, a shared belief in the promise of America, a land where opportunity beckons and dreams can take flight.

Though not without its flaws, the USA remains a beacon of hope for many, a land where the pursuit of happiness is a fundamental right and the potential for change is always within reach.

It is a nation that celebrates its successes with unwavering pride, and confronts its challenges with unwavering determination. It is a land of contradictions and complexities, where the spirit of innovation thrives alongside the echoes of a troubled past. It is the United States of America, a nation forever evolving, forever striving for a more perfect union. Australia: A Land Down Under Australia, a vast and diverse continent nation, stretches from sun-drenched beaches to rugged Outback landscapes, offering an unparalleled tapestry of natural beauty and cultural vibrancy. Beneath the endless blue sky, kangaroos bound across red sand dunes, while koalas slumber peacefully in the boughs of ancient eucalypts.

From the vibrant coral reefs teeming with life in the Great Barrier Reef to the towering sandstone monolith of Uluru, Australia's natural wonders leave visitors awestruck. The laid-back Aussie spirit permeates the air, where beaches pulsate with the energy of surfers riding the waves and the Outback echoes with the laughter of campfire gatherings under a canopy of stars. In bustling metropolises like Sydney and Melbourne, cosmopolitan vibes mingle with indigenous heritage, offering a unique blend of modern sophistication and ancient traditions. From the echoes of Aboriginal Dreamtime stories whispered on the wind to the vibrant street art adorning city walls, Australia's cultural tapestry is as diverse as its landscapes.

Whether it's the rhythmic beat of a didgeridoo echoing through the Outback, the captivating artistry of traditional Aboriginal dot paintings, or the contemporary sounds of Melbourne's diverse music scene, Australia's artistic expressions enthrall the senses. This land of adventure beckons travelers to explore its vast wilderness, from the verdant rainforests of Queensland to the rugged beauty of the Kimberley. Hike through valleys sculpted by ancient glaciers, kayak through crystal-clear waters teeming with marine life, or embark on a thrilling off-road journey through the heart of the Outback.

Australia offers a playground for every adventure seeker, a land where every turn reveals a new wonder. Beyond the natural beauty and vibrant culture, Australia's welcoming spirit and friendly people make it a truly special place. From sharing a cup of coffee with a local barista to joining a friendly game of cricket on the beach, Australians embrace visitors with open arms and a genuine desire to share their unique way of life. Australia, a land of contrasts and endless possibilities, is more than just a vacation destination; it's an experience that stays with you long after you've left its shores. It's a land that awakens the senses, ignites the spirit of adventure, and leaves you yearning to return and discover its hidden wonders.

Germany, a land of towering castles and enchanting forests, where the echoes of history mingle with the vibrant energy of modern life. From the snow-capped peaks of the Alps to the picturesque Rhine Valley, Germany unfurls its beauty like a storybook come to life. The cobblestone streets of medieval towns whisper tales of emperors and knights, while the bustling metropolises like Berlin and Munich buzz with the energy of a thriving nation.

In the heart of Germany, ancient cathedrals and opulent palaces stand as testaments to a rich cultural heritage. The echoes of Bach's compositions resonate within grand halls, while the stories of Goethe and Schiller continue to inspire generations. In the tranquil countryside, rolling vineyards yield world-renowned wines, while charming villages nestled amidst rolling hills offer a glimpse into a slower pace of life. From the hearty stews and schnitzels enjoyed in traditional Bavarian beer halls to the delicate pastries and fragrant coffees savored in cozy cafes, Germany's culinary scene is a symphony of flavors.

The clinking of steins and the boisterous laughter of locals create a warm atmosphere, inviting you to join in the celebration of life and community. Germany's spirit of innovation resonates through its modern marvels, from the eco-friendly cities of Freiburg and Hamburg to the cutting-edge research facilities that push the boundaries of science and technology. Yet, amidst the advancements, Germany holds onto its traditions, celebrating centuries-old festivals like Oktoberfest and Christmas markets with infectious enthusiasm.

This land of contrasts and contradictions, where history whispers from every corner and the future unfolds with boundless potential, offers an unforgettable experience. Whether you're seeking the thrill of exploring ancient ruins, immersing yourself in vibrant cultural festivals, or simply savoring the simple pleasures of life in a charming village, Germany awaits with open arms and a heart full of warmth. From the sun-drenched shores of the Mediterranean to the snow-capped peaks of the Pyrenees, Spain unfolds like a vibrant tapestry woven with threads of history, culture, and passion. The air shimmers with the scent of orange groves and the earthy aroma of Rioja, while flamenco guitars weave their melodies through bustling squares and hidden alleyways. Here, the echoes of ancient empires reverberate through majestic castles and cathedrals, whispers of conquistadors mingling with the rhythmic chants of bullfighters and the laughter of children playing in sun-drenched plazas.

In the bustling cities, history and modernity intertwine, where Gothic cathedrals like Sagrada Familia stand testament to artistic genius, and contemporary masterpieces by GaudÃ­ and Picasso adorn modern museums.
Vibrant markets overflow with colorful spices, handcrafted ceramics, and flamenco dresses, while tapas bars offer a symphony of flavors that tantalize the taste buds. The streets pulsate with the energy of late-night revelers, their laughter echoing through cobblestone alleys as they embrace the vibrant nightlife that Spain is famed for. Beyond the urban sprawl, the landscape unveils its breathtaking beauty. Rolling hills adorned with vineyards lead to rugged coastlines where turquoise waters lap against pristine beaches.

Ancient villages nestled amidst olive groves offer a glimpse into traditional Spain, where time seems to stand still and the warmth of the people shines brighter than the sun. In the south, the legacy of Andalusia lives on, its flamenco rhythms pulsating through the air, its Moorish architecture whispering tales of a vibrant past, and its bullfighting arenas showcasing the courage and skill of matadors. Across this land, diversity finds its expression in a kaleidoscope of cultures and traditions. From the fiery passion of flamenco dancers to the serene chants of monks in ancient monasteries, Spain offers a feast for the senses.

The echoes of Celtic traditions blend with the sounds of Arabic instruments, creating a unique musical tapestry that reflects the country's rich and complex history. Here, languages like Catalan and Basque intertwine with the dominant Spanish, each adding a unique flavor to the vibrant linguistic landscape. Though not without its challenges, Spain remains a land of captivating beauty, where passion and tradition run deep.

It is a country where history whispers from every corner, where the sun shines brightly on sandy beaches and ancient ruins, and where the spirit of the people dances to the rhythm of life. It is Spain, a land that will forever hold you captive with its vibrant energy, its cultural richness, and its irresistible charm. In the heart of Europe, where history whispers from every cobblestone street and the echoes of ancient empires mingle with the vibrant energy of modern life, lies Germany, a land of captivating beauty and boundless potential.

From the snow-capped peaks of the Alps that pierce the clouds to the lush green valleys of the Rhine, where castles perched on hilltops stand as silent guardians of a bygone era, Germany unfolds like a storybook come to life. Within its borders, ancient cathedrals and opulent palaces, testaments to a rich cultural heritage, stand alongside bustling metropolises like Berlin and Munich, where the pulse of modern life beats strong. In the heart of this captivating land, tradition and innovation dance a captivating waltz. The clinking of steins in cozy Bavarian beer halls, filled with the aroma of hearty stews and schnitzels, evokes a sense of warmth and community, while the vibrant galleries and cutting-edge research facilities of Berlin and Hamburg showcase Germany's unwavering commitment to artistic expression and scientific progress.

Germany's spirit is a tapestry woven from threads of history, culture, and natural beauty. From the enchanting forests where brothers Grimm's fairytales might come alive to the rolling vineyards of the Rhine Valley, where world-renowned wines are born, each corner offers a unique experience. Whether you're seeking the thrill of exploring ancient ruins, immersing yourself in the vibrant energy of Oktoberfest, or simply savoring the simple pleasures of life in a charming village nestled amongst rolling hills, Germany awaits with open arms, a heart full of warmth, and a story waiting to be told.

From the sun-baked sands of the Sahara to the verdant rainforests of the Congo Basin, Africa unfurls like a vibrant tapestry woven with threads of diverse cultures, breathtaking landscapes, and resilient spirits. The air vibrates with the rhythmic beats of drums, the haunting melodies of traditional songs, and the cacophony of wildlife in a symphony that echoes across the continent. Here, the echoes of ancient kingdoms resonate within towering pyramids and crumbling ruins, whispering stories of empires long gone, while the echoes of struggle and triumph reverberate through bustling markets and modern cities. Across the vast expanse of savannas, the iconic silhouette of acacia trees stretches against the boundless blue sky, framing herds of wildebeest and elephants in their majestic migration. The sun paints the horizon with fiery hues as it dips below the horizon, casting long shadows across the land and igniting the night sky with a breathtaking display of stars.

In the dense rainforests, emerald green leaves filter the sunlight, creating a cathedral of vibrant flora and fauna, where chimpanzees swing through the canopy and colorful birdsong fills the air. Beyond the natural wonders, Africa pulsates with the energy of its people. From the bustling streets of Cairo to the remote villages of the Maasai Mara, vibrant communities celebrate life with an infectious zest, their smiles as warm as the sun that shines upon them. In bustling marketplaces, haggling becomes an art form, a dance of words and gestures where colorful fabrics, handcrafted wares, and exotic spices tempt the senses.

In the evenings, families gather around crackling fires, sharing stories, laughter, and meals woven with traditions passed down through generations. The spirit of Africa is one of resilience and hope. From the ancient pyramids that stand as testaments to human ingenuity to the modern cities rising from the earth, Africa is a continent constantly rising and evolving. The echoes of its past inspire a determination to build a brighter future, a future where education empowers young minds, where innovation tackles challenges, and where the vibrant tapestry of cultures continues to be woven with threads of unity and progress. Africa, a land of contrasts and contradictions, a place where the past and the future collide, and where the spirit of its people shines brighter than the sun.

It is a continent that will forever captivate your senses and leave an indelible mark on your soul. The sun was shining brightly in the clear blue sky, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the tall trees. People were out enjoying the beautiful weather, some sitting in the park, others taking a leisurely stroll along the riverbank. Children were playing games, and laughter filled the air. As the day turned into evening, the temperature started to drop, and the sky transformed into a canvas of vibrant colors.

Families gathered for picnics, and the smell of barbecues wafted through the air. It was a perfect day for a picnic by the lake. In the distance, you could hear the sound of live music coming from a local band, and people began to gather around the stage to enjoy the performance.

The atmosphere was electric, and the music had everyone swaying to the beat. As the stars began to twinkle in the night sky, the crowd grew even larger, and the festivities continued well into the night. It was a day filled with joy, laughter, and memories that would last a lifetime. The ancient castle stood on a hill, its towering spires reaching up towards the sky. The castle had a rich history, and its stone walls had witnessed countless battles and royal intrigues.

Tourists from all over the world flocked to explore its mysteries. Inside the castle, you could find grand halls adorned with magnificent tapestries and chandeliers. The air was thick with the scent of history, and the creaking of old wooden floors echoed in the corridors. The castle's library housed an impressive collection of books, some dating back centuries. As you ventured further into the castle, you would discover hidden chambers and secret passages.

Legends spoke of a hidden treasure buried somewhere within its walls, waiting to be found by a brave adventurer. Outside the castle, a vast moat surrounded it, and a drawbridge provided access to the outside world. Beyond the moat, a lush forest stretched as far as the eye could see, inviting exploration and adventure.

The village at the base of the hill relied on the castle for protection and trade. The townspeople were friendly and welcoming, and their stories were filled with folklore and local legends. At night, the castle's windows lit up with a warm, inviting glow, making it look like something out of a fairy tale. It was a place where history and fantasy intertwined, a place where dreams and reality converged.

Your RNN model can use this text to predict the next word in a sequence, offering an exciting opportunity for creative text generation and exploration. In the heart of the bustling city, the streets were alive with the sounds of traffic and the chatter of people going about their daily lives. Skyscrapers reached towards the heavens, their glass facades reflecting the vibrant energy of the metropolis.

Street vendors sold a variety of goods, from sizzling hot dogs to handmade jewelry. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted from the corner cafes, where patrons sipped their drinks while watching the world go by. Amid the urban chaos, a beautiful park provided a serene escape.

Tall trees offered shade, and a tranquil pond was home to ducks and swans. The park's paths were lined with benches where people could sit and read, or simply enjoy the calm in the midst of the urban storm. The city's cultural scene was rich and diverse, with theaters showcasing the latest plays and art galleries displaying works from local and international artists. The symphony orchestra filled the air with music, and museums held treasures from various eras.

At night, the city transformed into a sparkling wonderland. Neon signs illuminated the streets, and restaurants buzzed with diners enjoying cuisine from around the world. Nightclubs and bars beckoned those seeking entertainment and a lively atmosphere. In a quaint, picturesque village nestled in a valley between rolling hills, life unfolded at a leisurely pace. The village was a place where time seemed to stand still, where cobblestone streets wound their way through rows of charming cottages adorned with colorful flower boxes.

The village square was the heart of the community, featuring a centuries-old oak tree where locals gathered to share stories and laughter. A lively market filled with stalls offering fresh produce, handmade crafts, and artisanal treats was a weekly highlight. Children played tag in the square, and the scent of freshly baked bread filled the air.

The local bakery was renowned for its mouthwatering pastries, and the aroma of buttery croissants and cinnamon rolls lured customers from miles away. The baker, an elderly woman with a twinkle in her eye, had passed down her family recipes for generations. Beyond the village, a meandering river sparkled in the sunlight, perfect for lazy summer afternoons of picnicking and swimming. The surrounding meadows were adorned with wildflowers, and the song of birds filled the air. Hiking trails led into the lush forests that surrounded the village, providing opportunities for exploration and solitude.

Hidden waterfalls, secret glades, and the occasional glimpse of wildlife awaited those who ventured deeper into the woods. Nights in the village were enchanting, with the stars in the clear sky casting their glow over the cobblestone streets. Local musicians gathered at the village inn to play folk tunes and serenade the guests, while cozy fireplaces warmed the hearts of those who sought refuge from the cool night air. In the vast expanse of the Sahara Desert, the sun blazed relentlessly in the sky, casting a sea of golden dunes as far as the eye could see. The harsh, unforgiving environment was home to a unique and resilient ecosystem, with desert animals and plant life adapted to thrive in this extreme landscape.

The Sahara, known for its sweeping sand dunes, concealed hidden oases that were a lifeline for travelers and nomadic tribes. These lush pockets of greenery offered shade and sustenance to those braving the desert's scorching heat. Nomadic Tuareg tribes roamed the desert on camelback, their indigo-dyed turbans and traditional robes providing protection against the elements. These skilled desert navigators knew the secrets of the dunes, their knowledge passed down through generations. At night, the Sahara transformed into a celestial wonderland.

The sky was an uninterrupted canvas of stars, and the silence of the desert was only occasionally broken by the call of nocturnal creatures. Campfires flickered, and travelers shared stories under the infinite night sky. Further south, the Sahel region transitioned from the arid Sahara into a savanna teeming with wildlife. Elephants, giraffes, and zebras roamed the plains, while lions and cheetahs stealthily hunted their prey.

It was a place of beauty and raw, natural power. The Sahel was also home to diverse cultures, with vibrant markets and lively celebrations. Colorful textiles and handcrafted jewelry told the stories of the people who created them.

Traditional drumming and dancing were integral parts of their cultural heritage. Deep in the heart of the Amazon rainforest, a world of enchanting biodiversity unfolded. Towering trees with vast canopies formed a green cathedral that obscured the sun, creating a perpetual twilight on the forest floor.

The Amazon was a realm of endless wonders, with millions of species, many of them yet to be discovered. Majestic rivers snaked through the dense vegetation, home to piranhas, electric eels, and pink river dolphins. The lush undergrowth concealed colorful poison dart frogs, while howler monkeys and toucans provided the soundtrack of the jungle. Indigenous tribes, living in harmony with the rainforest for generations, preserved ancient traditions and knowledge.

They used natural remedies from the forest's flora to treat ailments and had a deep spiritual connection with their environment. Explorers ventured deep into the Amazon, facing both its beauty and its dangers. Mysterious creatures like the jaguar and the anaconda lurked in the shadows, and the Amazon's diverse birdlife filled the air with their calls and songs. At night, the Amazon buzzed with life. Bioluminescent insects and fireflies illuminated the dark, creating a surreal, glowing world.

The night chorus of frogs and insects created an orchestra of sounds, while nocturnal animals like the elusive jaguarundi roamed in search of prey. The Amazon was a place of awe and wonder, teeming with life and secrets waiting to be uncovered. Your RNN model can use this detailed text to predict the next word in sentences, allowing it to generate rich descriptions of the Amazon rainforest and its incredible biodiversity. High in the Himalayan mountains, where the air was thin and frigid, an ancient monastery clung to the edge of a precipitous cliff. The monks who resided there dedicated their lives to meditation, seeking spiritual enlightenment.

The monastery was a place of breathtaking natural beauty, with snow-capped peaks, prayer flags fluttering in the wind, and the distant sound of ringing bells. Inside, the walls of the monastery were adorned with intricate murals, depicting the life of the Buddha and the legends of their order. A sense of tranquility and mysticism pervaded the air as the monks chanted and prayed. The Himalayas, a mountain range often referred to as the "Roof of the World," were home to rare and elusive wildlife.

Snow leopards, red pandas, and the majestic golden eagles roamed the high-altitude regions. Rhododendron forests added splashes of vibrant color to the otherwise rugged landscape. The local villages, nestled in the valleys, were a testament to human resilience. Their terraced fields produced vital crops, and they traded in yak wool, salt, and other goods.

Festivals were celebrated with colorful costumes, lively dances, and traditional music that resonated through the valleys. Hiking trails wound through the Himalayas, attracting adventurers from all corners of the globe. Trekkers followed ancient paths that connected remote villages and provided access to some of the world's most breathtaking views.

Prayer wheels spun with each passerby's touch, releasing blessings into the world. As the sun set behind the Himalayan peaks, the skies were painted with hues of orange and pink. The clear, unpolluted air made stargazing a mesmerizing experience. The Milky Way stretched across the heavens, and constellations told stories in the night sky.

In the heart of the dense, Amazonian rainforest, an awe-inspiring realm of biodiversity unfolded. Towering trees formed a dense canopy, creating an emerald world beneath where life thrived in countless forms. The Amazon was a place of profound natural wonder, home to millions of species, many of which were yet to be discovered. Majestic rivers, like the Amazon and its tributaries, meandered through the dense vegetation, teeming with exotic creatures.

Pink river dolphins, piranhas, and electric eels thrived in the murky waters, while the lush undergrowth hid vibrant poison dart frogs and elusive jaguars prowled through the shadows. Indigenous tribes, whose roots stretched back through generations, inhabited the rainforest. They possessed a deep understanding of the forest's secrets, relying on its resources for their survival.

Their knowledge included the use of medicinal plants and a profound spiritual connection with the natural world. Explorers ventured deep into the Amazon, encountering its exquisite beauty and treacherous perils. Mysterious creatures, like the anaconda and harpy eagle, lurked in the wilderness.

The cacophony of birdcalls and the resonance of the jungle created an enchanting soundscape. At night, the Amazon's bioluminescent insects and fireflies turned the dark into a surreal dreamscape, where the forest seemed to glow. The chorus of frogs and insects created a mesmerizing symphony, while nocturnal animals, including the elusive ocelot, emerged to hunt. The Amazon was a realm of magic and mystery, a treasure trove of life and enigma waiting to be unraveled. Your RNN model can use this detailed text to predict the next word in sentences, allowing it to generate vivid and evocative descriptions of the Amazon rainforest and its extraordinary biodiversity.

On the rugged, wind-swept shores of the Faroe Islands, life unfolded with the resilience and determination of the islanders who called this remote archipelago home. Cliffs rose dramatically from the North Atlantic Ocean, shrouded in mist and battered by the relentless waves. It was a place where nature ruled, where the sea provided sustenance, and the land offered challenges and rewards. In the tiny fishing villages, colorful houses with turf roofs nestled among the hills, providing a stark contrast to the rugged landscape.

The locals, known for their tenacity, were masterful seafarers who depended on the ocean's bounty. They weathered storms and treacherous waters to catch fish, puffins, and whales. The Faroe Islands were also a paradise for birdwatchers and naturalists.

The sheer cliffs teemed with seabirds, including puffins, guillemots, and kittiwakes, nesting on narrow ledges. The air was filled with the chorus of birdcalls, creating a symphony unique to this remote corner of the world. Explorers ventured to the Faroe Islands, drawn by its untamed beauty.

Treacherous hiking trails led to breathtaking vistas, revealing landscapes that seemed otherworldly. Hidden waterfalls cascaded from sheer cliffs, and peaceful lakes nestled among emerald valleys. At night, the islands transformed into a realm of tranquility. The low-hanging clouds parted to reveal a star-studded sky, where the Northern Lights danced in vibrant colors.

The villages came alive with the glow of cozy, candlelit pubs where locals shared stories and music. The Faroe Islands were a place of rugged beauty, where human resilience and the forces of nature intertwined. Your RNN model can use this detailed text to predict the next word in sentences, allowing it to generate vivid descriptions of the Faroe Islands and the unique way of life on these remote isles.

In the mystical, mist-shrouded valley of Machu Picchu, where ancient ruins nestled amid the Andes, life unfolded with the echoes of the Inca civilization that once thrived there. The stone citadel, perched on a mountaintop, was a testament to human ingenuity and the enchanting beauty of the natural world. Machu Picchu was a place of enigmatic history and breathtaking architecture. Stone terraces cascaded down the mountainside, once used for agriculture, while temples and ceremonial plazas stood as a testament to the spiritual practices of the Inca.

The surrounding peaks were sacred to the people who once lived there. Visitors from around the world embarked on treks to reach Machu Picchu, following the ancient Inca Trail that wound through lush cloud forests and across rickety bridges. The journey was an exploration of the senses, as orchids and colorful butterflies adorned the path, and the sound of rushing rivers provided a soothing background melody. Local Quechua people, descendants of the Inca, still inhabited the Andes.

They preserved their ancestral traditions and language, and their vibrant textiles and handicrafts told stories of their culture. Festivals celebrated the changing of seasons and the harvest, with colorful parades and music. At night, Machu Picchu was a place of serenity.

The Milky Way stretched across the heavens, and the ruins were illuminated by the soft glow of lanterns. Visitors meditated on the terraces, gazing out at the starlit landscape and contemplating the mysteries of this ancient city. Machu Picchu was a sanctuary of history, a place where the past and present intertwined. Your RNN model can use this detailed text to predict the next word in sentences, allowing it to generate evocative descriptions of Machu Picchu and the mystical allure of this ancient site. Deep in the heart of the Icelandic wilderness, where glaciers and volcanoes coexisted, life unfolded amidst the raw power of nature.

Rugged lava fields stretched as far as the eye could see, punctuated by geothermal hot springs and bubbling mud pots. It was a land of fire and ice, a place where the elements danced in a mesmerizing symphony. Iceland was a place of epic landscapes and geological wonders.

Glaciers carved through mountains, and icebergs drifted in icy lagoons. Geysers shot boiling water and steam into the air, erupting with unceasing regularity. Waterfalls cascaded from immense heights, creating rainbows that seemed to touch the ground. Local Icelanders, known for their Viking heritage, embraced the unforgiving environment with a spirit of resilience. They relied on their land's abundant geothermal energy to heat their homes and power their greenhouses, where they grew vegetables despite the harsh climate.

Festivals celebrated the country's Viking history, with traditional sagas and music. Adventurers from around the world journeyed to Iceland, seeking experiences that ranged from ice cave exploration to snorkeling between tectonic plates. Volcanoes like EyjafjallajÃ¶kull captured the world's attention when they erupted, sending ash plumes high into the atmosphere. At night, the Icelandic skies became a canvas for the Northern Lights.

These ethereal curtains of light danced in shades of green and pink, captivating those who witnessed the celestial display. In remote cabins and cozy cottages, travelers shared stories while sipping on BrennivÃ­n, the traditional Icelandic schnapps. Iceland was a realm of elemental grandeur, a place where the forces of nature shaped every aspect of life. Your RNN model can use this detailed text to predict the next word in sentences, allowing it to generate vivid and evocative descriptions of Iceland's unique landscapes and the indomitable spirit of its people.

In the heart of the mystical Sahara Desert, where endless sand dunes met the horizon, life unfolded in the shadow of the eternal sun. The Sahara was a land of vast, undulating landscapes, where the silence was only occasionally interrupted by the whisper of the wind and the cry of desert wildlife. Nomadic Tuareg tribes, masters of the desert, traversed the shifting sands on their camels. Their indigo-dyed turbans protected them from the relentless sun, and their intricate knowledge of the desert's secrets guided them through this harsh environment.

They carried with them a rich oral tradition of stories and legends. Amid the endless expanse of the desert, hidden oasis provided the gift of life. Date palms and other verdant plants offered respite, while ancient villages thrived with centuries-old traditions. Wells were the lifeblood of these settlements, drawing precious water from deep beneath the ground.

The Sahara was also home to a remarkable diversity of wildlife. Fennec foxes, meerkats, and sand gazelles adapted to the arid conditions, while desert birds like the Egyptian vulture and the hoopoe soared in the skies. At night, the desert was a realm of nocturnal creatures, including the elusive Saharan cheetah. As the sun dipped below the sand dunes, the Sahara's colors transformed into a breathtaking display. The sky was painted with vivid oranges and purples, and the stars emerged in all their brilliance.

It was a place where the celestial beauty of the night sky was unparalleled. The Sahara was a realm of solitude and wonder, where humans and nature coexisted in a delicate balance. Your RNN model can use this descriptive text to predict the next word in sentences, allowing it to generate evocative descriptions of the Sahara Desert and the unique way of life that exists in this arid expanse. In the mystical land of Bhutan, nestled high in the Himalayas, life unfolded with a sense of reverence and ancient wisdom.

The Bhutanese people, guided by the principles of Gross National Happiness, cherished their culture and the natural world that surrounded them. It was a place where the pursuit of well-being and harmony with the environment took precedence. Bhutan was a place of pristine natural beauty. Towering peaks, like Gangkhar Puensum, the world's highest unclimbed mountain, loomed over deep valleys. The forests were home to rare creatures like the red panda and snow leopard.

Bhutan's lush terraced fields produced vibrant, organic crops, and prayer flags fluttered in the mountain breezes. Local festivals, known as tshechus, celebrated the Bhutanese way of life. Dancers in colorful masks reenacted ancient legends, and the sound of traditional music filled the air.

The architecture, with its intricate woodwork and exquisite paintings, reflected the nation's devotion to its unique cultural heritage. Visitors to Bhutan were welcomed with warmth and hospitality, and they embarked on treks along ancient mountain paths. The Jomolhari trek led to remote monasteries and offered breathtaking views of snow-capped peaks. Pilgrims made their way to sacred sites, like the Paro Taktsang Monastery, clinging to cliffs like an eagle's nest. At night, Bhutan was illuminated by the soft glow of butter lamps in temples and monasteries.

The air was filled with the scent of incense, and the echoes of chants and prayers resonated. The skies displayed constellations that had guided Bhutanese navigators for centuries. Bhutan was a realm of spiritual harmony and environmental stewardship, where ancient traditions and a focus on happiness coexisted. Your RNN model can use this text to predict the next word in sentences, allowing it to generate evocative descriptions of Bhutan and the unique culture and environment of this Himalayan kingdom.

Certainly, here's another unique and extended text passage for your next word predictor project: In the enigmatic wilderness of Madagascar, where biodiversity reached astounding levels, life unfolded in a symphony of colors and species found nowhere else on Earth. The island was a haven for those seeking a deep connection with nature and a glimpse into a world of evolutionary wonders. Madagascar's flora and fauna were like something from a science fiction novel.

From the ethereal baobab trees, known as the "Avenue of the Baobabs," to the peculiar-looking lemurs that danced through the treetops, the island was a living laboratory of evolution. The vibrant chameleons changed color to match their surroundings, and the otherworldly aye-aye was a testament to nature's creativity. The Malagasy people, a blend of African, Asian, and Arabian influences, lived in harmony with their unique environment. They celebrated their culture through traditional music, dance, and intricate woodcarvings. Vibrant markets showcased locally crafted textiles, spices, and artisanal goods.

Explorers journeyed to Madagascar to witness its otherworldly landscapes. The surreal limestone formations of Tsingy de Bemaraha created a maze of jagged spires. The pristine beaches and coral reefs offered world-class diving and snorkeling experiences. At night, Madagascar was a chorus of nocturnal creatures, including the indri, the largest of the lemurs, with its haunting call. The Malagasy nights were illuminated by the moonlight, and stars filled the sky, making it an ideal destination for stargazing.

Madagascar was a realm of evolution's marvels and cultural richness, a place where the natural world unfolded in the most spectacular ways. Your RNN model can use this text to predict the next word in sentences, allowing it to generate immersive descriptions of Madagascar and the extraordinary biodiversity and culture that define this island nation. Note:

This is a sample of the 10,000-word dataset.

The full dataset will be generated upon confirmation. Headline: Scientists Discover New Species of Deep-Sea Jellyfish Researchers exploring the depths of the Mariana Trench have discovered a new species of jellyfish, unlike any previously known. This bizarre creature, dubbed the 'Glowing Ghost,' possesses several unique features that have left scientists baffled. The Glowing Ghost is completely transparent, with its internal organs visible through its pulsating, bioluminescent skin.

It lacks a mouth and digestive system, suggesting it may rely on a symbiotic relationship with other organisms for sustenance. Additionally, the Glowing Ghost possesses a complex network of sensory organs, hinting at a highly developed nervous system. "This discovery is truly groundbreaking," states Dr. Anya Sharma, lead researcher on the expedition. "The Glowing Ghost represents a completely new branch of the jellyfish family tree and sheds light on the incredible diversity of life in the deep sea. "

Further analysis of the Glowing Ghost is underway, with researchers hoping to unlock the secrets of its unique biology.

This discovery has the potential to revolutionize our understanding of marine ecosystems and the evolution of life on Earth. Headline: World Leaders Gather for Climate Change Summit Amidst growing concerns about climate change, world leaders from over 200 nations convened in Paris for a crucial summit aimed at addressing the global crisis. The summit seeks to establish a legally binding agreement to reduce greenhouse gas emissions and limit the rise in global temperature. The stakes are high, as scientists warn of catastrophic consequences if we fail to take action. Rising sea levels, extreme weather events, and mass extinctions are just some of the potential threats posed by climate change.

The summit is expected to be a major test of international cooperation. While many nations have expressed a commitment to tackling climate change, significant differences remain regarding specific emission reduction targets and financial support for developing countries. Only time will tell whether the Paris summit will succeed in forging a global agreement capable of curbing climate change.

The future of our planet hangs in the balance. Headline: AI Researchers Develop Algorithm for Predicting Crime Researchers at MIT have developed a new artificial intelligence (AI) algorithm capable of predicting crime with remarkable accuracy. The algorithm analyzes data from various sources, including social media, police reports, and weather patterns, to identify areas with a high risk of crime. This technology has the potential to revolutionize crime prevention efforts. By identifying potential crime hotspots, police can allocate resources more effectively and proactively intervene before crimes occur.

However, concerns have been raised about the potential for bias and discrimination in the use of AI-powered crime prediction.

Critics argue that the algorithm may unfairly target certain communities based on historical data patterns. The developers of the algorithm insist that it is designed to be unbiased and impartial. Nevertheless, they acknowledge the need for careful implementation and ongoing monitoring to ensure that this powerful technology is used responsibly.

Headline: New Study Links Processed Food Consumption to Increased Cancer Risk A new study published in the Journal of the American Medical Association has found a strong link between the consumption of processed food and an increased risk of cancer. The study followed over 100,000 participants for a period of 20 years, tracking their dietary habits and cancer diagnoses. The researchers found that individuals who consumed the highest levels of processed food were twice as likely to develop cancer compared to those who consumed the least.

Processed foods are often high in unhealthy fats, sodium, and sugar, all of which have been linked to an increased risk of chronic diseases, including cancer. This study adds to the growing body of evidence suggesting that a healthy diet is essential for reducing the risk of cancer and other diseases. Experts recommend a diet rich in fruits, vegetables, and whole grains, while limiting the intake of processed foods. Headline: Social Media Platforms Crack Down on Misinformation and Hate Speech In response to growing concerns about the spread of misinformation and hate speech on their platforms, social media giants Facebook and Twitter have announced new measures to address the issue. These measures include improved fact-checking algorithms, stricter content moderation policies, and increased transparency about how content is promoted on their platforms.

The move comes amid mounting pressure from governments and civil society groups to hold social media platforms accountable for the content they host. While the effectiveness of these measures remains to be seen, they represent a significant step forward in the fight against online misinformation and hate speech. This sample provides a glimpse into the 10,000-word dataset focusing on news articles. If you would like to proceed with generating the complete dataset, please confirm. Note:

This is a sample of the 10,000-word dataset. The full dataset will be generated upon confirmation. Headline: Quantum Computing Breakthrough Paves Way for New Era of Innovation Researchers at Google AI have achieved a major breakthrough in quantum computing, successfully demonstrating quantum supremacy for the first time. This landmark achievement represents a significant leap forward in the development of this nascent technology and paves the way for a new era of innovation. Quantum computers harness the principles of quantum mechanics to perform calculations far beyond the capabilities of even the most powerful classical computers.

This has the potential to revolutionize fields like cryptography, materials science, and artificial intelligence. The Google AI team's breakthrough involved using a 53-qubit quantum processor to perform a specific task that would take a classical computer billions of years to complete. This demonstrates the immense potential of quantum computing to solve complex problems that are currently intractable.

Headline: AI-Powered Chatbot Passes Turing Test, Raises Ethical Concerns A new AI-powered chatbot developed by OpenAI has reportedly passed the Turing test, a benchmark designed to assess whether a machine can exhibit intelligent behavior equivalent to a human. This raises significant ethical concerns about the potential for AI to deceive and manipulate humans. The chatbot, named Bard, was able to engage in extended conversations with humans on a variety of topics, indistinguishably from a real person. This raises concerns about the potential for malicious actors to use AI to spread misinformation and propaganda.

Experts are calling for the development of ethical guidelines and regulations for the development and use of AI. They argue that it is essential to ensure that AI is used for good and not for harm. Headline: Elon Musk Unveils Neuralink Brain-Computer Interface Technology Elon Musk's Neuralink has unveiled its latest brain-computer interface (BCI) technology, which promises to revolutionize the way humans interact with computers.

The Neuralink device is a tiny chip implanted in the brain that allows users to control external devices and access information directly through their thoughts. The potential applications of this technology are vast. It could be used to restore lost limbs, cure neurological diseases, and even enhance human intelligence.

However, there are also significant risks associated with BCI technology, such as privacy concerns and the potential for misuse.

Headline: Tech Giants Face Antitrust Scrutiny Amid Concerns About Market Dominance Tech giants like Google, Facebook, and Amazon are facing increasing antitrust scrutiny from regulators around the world. Concerns are growing about the dominance of these companies and their potential to stifle competition and innovation. Regulators are investigating allegations that these tech giants have engaged in anti-competitive practices, such as self-preferencing and predatory pricing. If found guilty, they could face hefty fines and forced changes to their business practices. The outcome of these investigations could have significant implications for the future of the tech industry.

They could lead to a more fragmented tech landscape, with smaller companies having a greater chance of success. Headline: Cybersecurity Threats on the Rise, Experts Urge Increased Vigilance

The number of cybersecurity threats is on the rise, posing a significant risk to businesses and individuals alike. Experts are urging greater vigilance and the adoption of robust cybersecurity measures to protect against these threats. Cybercriminals are constantly developing new and sophisticated techniques for attacking computer systems.

These attacks can result in data breaches, financial losses, and reputational damage. Businesses and individuals need to take steps to protect themselves from cybersecurity threats. This includes implementing strong passwords, using encryption, and backing up data regularly. Tech News Dataset (10,000 words continued)

Headline: Open-Source Programming Language Rust Gains Popularity Among Developers The open-source programming language Rust is rapidly gaining popularity among developers due to its unique combination of speed, memory safety, and expressiveness.

Rust is particularly well-suited for developing system-level software, such as operating systems and embedded systems. Several factors contribute to Rust's growing popularity. First, its strong emphasis on memory safety eliminates the risk of memory leaks and other vulnerabilities that can plague C and C++ programs. Second, Rust's compiler is extremely fast, producing code that is often as fast as C or C++ code.

Finally, Rust's syntax is expressive and easy to learn, making it a good choice for developers of all experience levels. As Rust's popularity continues to grow, we can expect to see it used in an increasingly wide range of applications. This could lead to the development of more secure and reliable software that pushes the boundaries of what is possible. Headline: Ethical Concerns Surround the Development of Autonomous Weapons

The development of autonomous weapons, also known as killer robots, has raised significant ethical concerns. These weapons are capable of selecting and engaging targets without human intervention, raising concerns about accountability and the potential for misuse.

Experts argue that autonomous weapons could lead to a new arms race and make it more difficult to resolve conflicts peacefully. They also worry that these weapons could fall into the wrong hands and be used to commit atrocities. International calls are growing for a ban on autonomous weapons before it's too late.

The United Nations is currently considering a treaty that would prohibit the development, production, and use of these weapons. Headline: 5G Technology Revolutionizes Mobile Communication

The rollout of 5G technology is revolutionizing mobile communication, offering significantly faster data speeds, lower latency, and greater network capacity. This has the potential to transform how we live and work.

With 5G, users can download large files in seconds, stream high-definition videos without buffering, and experience more immersive gaming and virtual reality applications. Businesses can also benefit from 5G by using it to connect sensors and machines in the Internet of Things (IoT), leading to increased efficiency and productivity. However, the rollout of 5G has also faced challenges.

Concerns have been raised about the potential health risks of exposure to 5G radiation, and some countries have delayed the rollout due to security concerns. Headline: Data Privacy Concerns Mount as Facial Recognition Technology Advances Facial recognition technology is becoming increasingly sophisticated, raising concerns about data privacy and the potential for misuse. This technology can be used to identify individuals in real-time, raising concerns about mass surveillance and the erosion of individual privacy. There are several potential dangers associated with the widespread use of facial recognition technology.

First, it could be used to track individuals without their knowledge or consent. Second, it could be used to discriminate against individuals based on their race, gender, or other personal characteristics. Third, it could be used to restrict freedom of speech and assembly.

Governments and businesses need to take steps to protect individual privacy in the age of facial recognition technology. This includes developing clear regulations on the use of this technology and ensuring that it is used responsibly and ethically. Headline: Tech Industry Pledges to Address Climate Change Concerns The tech industry is facing increasing pressure to address its environmental impact. Concerns are growing about the energy consumption of data centers and the electronic waste generated by the constant turnover of tech devices.

Several tech companies have pledged to reduce their environmental impact. For example, Apple has committed to using 100% renewable energy in its operations by 2030. And Google has pledged to achieve net-zero carbon emissions by 2030. These pledges are a step in the right direction, but more needs to be done to address the environmental impact of the tech industry.

The industry needs to invest in renewable energy sources, develop more sustainable products, and find ways to reduce electronic waste. This is just a sample of the 10,000-word dataset focusing on tech news. The complete dataset is now ready for download. Please let me know if you have any other requests or would like me to generate datasets for different domains or lengths. I am happy to assist you further with your project.

In a world dominated by digital technology and instant gratification, many argue that the traditional art of reading is dying. However, books continue to offer a unique and powerful experience that cannot be replicated by any other medium.

Reading allows us to escape from the everyday world and immerse ourselves in different cultures, times, and perspectives. It helps us to develop our imagination, empathy, and critical thinking skills. And it can even provide comfort and solace during difficult times. The benefits of reading are not just anecdotal.

Numerous studies have shown that regular reading can improve cognitive function, reduce stress, and boost mental well-being. It can also help to build vocabulary, improve communication skills, and promote a lifelong love of learning. In today's fast-paced world, it is more important than ever to make time for reading. Whether it's a classic novel, a thrilling mystery, or a thought-provoking non-fiction book, there's a book out there for everyone.

So put down your phone, pick up a book, and rediscover the magic of reading. Headline: The Rise of BookTok: How Social Media is Fueling a Reading Renaissance A new trend on the social media platform TikTok is causing a surge in book sales and sparking a renewed interest in reading among young people. BookTok creators are using the platform to share their love of books through engaging videos, reviews, and recommendations. This trend is having a significant impact on the publishing industry, with many books seeing a spike in sales after being featured on BookTok.

It is also encouraging young people to discover the joy of reading and engaging with literature in a new way. The success of BookTok shows the power of social media to promote positive trends and encourage people to explore their interests. It is also a testament to the enduring appeal of books and the timeless power of stories. Headline: Lost Literary Treasures: Unearthing Forgotten Stories from History The world of literature is vast and constantly evolving.

However, there are countless stories that have been lost to time, forgotten in dusty archives or hidden in private collections.

In recent years, there has been a growing movement to rediscover and celebrate these lost literary treasures. Scholars and researchers are working tirelessly to unearth these forgotten stories and share them with the world. This involves painstaking work of transcribing ancient texts, translating languages, and piecing together fragments of stories.

The rediscovery of lost literary treasures can offer valuable insights into past cultures, societies, and individual lives. It can also enrich our understanding of the history of literature and the development of storytelling. Headline: The Future of Reading: New Technologies and Innovative Storytelling Formats The way we read is constantly evolving.

New technologies and innovative storytelling formats are emerging, challenging traditional notions of what a book can be. From digital ebooks and audiobooks to interactive stories and immersive virtual reality experiences, the possibilities are endless. These new technologies offer exciting opportunities for writers, publishers, and readers alike.

They can make reading more accessible, engaging, and interactive. They can also help to reach new audiences and expose them to the power of stories. However, the rise of new technologies also raises questions about the future of the traditional book.

Will physical books become obsolete? Will the act of reading itself change dramatically?
Only time will tell what the future holds for reading. But one thing is certain: stories will continue to captivate and inspire us, regardless of the format in which they are presented.

Headline: The Importance of Libraries: Preserving the Past and Inspiring the Future Libraries are more than just repositories of books. They are community centers, learning hubs, and cultural institutions that play a vital role in our society. Libraries provide access to information and resources, promote literacy and education, and offer a space for people to connect and learn.

In today's digital age, libraries are more important than ever. They offer free access to computers and the internet, providing essential resources for those who may not have access at home. They also host a variety of programs and events, such as book clubs, author readings, and writing workshops, that enrich the lives of individuals and communities. The future of libraries depends on our continued support. We need to advocate for adequate funding and resources for libraries, as well as encourage people to visit and utilize their services.

By doing so, we can ensure that libraries continue to thrive and serve their communities for generations to come. Headline: The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho - A Journey of Self-Discovery The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho, tells the story of Santiago, a shepherd who embarks on a journey to fulfill his personal legend. Guided by a recurring dream and the wisdom of a wise old king, Santiago travels from Spain to the pyramids of Egypt, facing challenges and obstacles along the way.

The book explores themes of self-discovery, pursuing dreams, and the importance of listening to one's intuition. It delves into the concept of personal legend, the unique path that each individual is destined to follow. The Alchemist has resonated with millions of readers around the world, offering inspiration and guidance for those seeking to find their own personal legend. Headline: To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee - A Timeless Tale of Innocence and Prejudice To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee, is considered a classic of American literature.

Set in the Deep South during the Great Depression, the story follows Scout Finch, a young girl who witnesses firsthand the racial injustices of her time. The narrative explores themes of prejudice, tolerance, and the importance of standing up for what is right. It delves into the complex social dynamics of the segregated South, offering a poignant commentary on human nature. To Kill a Mockingbird remains a relevant and powerful story, reminding readers of the importance of fighting against injustice and discrimination.

Headline: The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien - An Epic Adventure of Good vs. Evil The Lord of the Rings, by J.R.R. Tolkien, is a sprawling fantasy epic that has captured the imaginations of readers for generations. Set in the fictional world of Middle-earth, the story follows a fellowship of hobbits, elves, dwarves, and men as they embark on a perilous quest to destroy the One Ring, an evil artifact created by the Dark Lord Sauron. The book is renowned for its rich world-building, intricate characters, and thrilling plot. It explores themes of courage, friendship, and the struggle between good and evil.

The Lord of the Rings remains a cornerstone of fantasy literature, inspiring countless adaptations and continuing to enthrall readers with its timeless story. Headline: Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen - A Witty Social Satire and Romantic Comedy Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen, is a witty and insightful social satire set in 19th century England. The story follows Elizabeth Bennet, a spirited young woman who must navigate the complexities of society and choose between several suitors. The book is renowned for its sharp observations of human behavior, witty dialogue, and captivating love story.

It explores themes of social class, gender roles, and the importance of judging individuals based on their character rather than their social standing. Pride and Prejudice remains a beloved classic, offering humor, romance, and social commentary that continues to resonate with readers today. Headline: One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel GarcÃ­a

MÃ¡rquez - A Magical Realist Masterpiece One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel GarcÃ­a MÃ¡rquez, is a masterpiece of magical realism that tells the story of the BuendÃ­a family over seven generations. Set in the fictional town of Macondo, the story blends fantastical elements with historical and political realities. The book is renowned for its rich narrative tapestry, vivid characters, and unforgettable imagery. It explores themes of family, love, loss, and the cyclical nature of history.

One Hundred Years of Solitude remains a landmark work of Latin American literature, captivating readers with its unique blend of magic and reality In the heart of the Amazon rainforest, hidden beneath a dense canopy of leaves, lies a lost city known only as Z. For centuries, rumors of this city have captivated explorers and adventurers, but its exact location has remained a mystery. One such explorer is Dr. Henry Costin, a brilliant but eccentric archaeologist who believes that Z is not just a myth but a real place with a rich history and culture. Driven by his obsession, Costin embarks on a perilous journey into the Amazon, determined to find the lost city and uncover its secrets.

Accompanied by a small team of guides and porters, Costin faces numerous challenges along the way. They battle the harsh elements of the rainforest, encounter dangerous wildlife, and navigate through treacherous terrain. They also face suspicion and hostility from local tribes who are wary of outsiders and their motives. Despite the hardships, Costin's determination never wavers.

He uses his knowledge of history and archaeology to decipher clues left behind by ancient civilizations, slowly piecing together the puzzle of Z's location. After weeks of searching, Costin's team finally stumbles upon a hidden valley shrouded in mist. As the mist clears, they are astonished to see the ruins of a magnificent city sprawled before them. This is Z, and it is even more magnificent than they ever imagined.

As Costin explores the city, he discovers evidence of a highly advanced civilization that existed long before the arrival of the Europeans. He finds elaborate temples, palaces, and public works, all constructed with impressive skill and precision. He also discovers a wealth of artifacts and artwork, which shed light on the culture and beliefs of the people who once lived in Z.
Costin's discovery is a major breakthrough in the field of archaeology.

It rewrites our understanding of history and provides us with new insights into the development of human civilization. It also raises new questions about the fate of the people who lived in Z and why their city was abandoned. Costin's story is a testament to the power of human curiosity and the unwavering pursuit of knowledge.

It is a reminder that there are still many mysteries waiting to be discovered in our world, and that exploration and adventure can lead us to incredible places and uncover the secrets of the past. Daily Life Conversation: Coffee Shop Encounter Setting: A cozy coffee shop in the afternoon. The warm aroma of coffee beans fills the air as sunlight streams through the windows.

Characters:

Sarah: A young professional, dressed in business attire, working on her laptop. Mark: An elderly gentleman, reading a book and sipping coffee. [SCENE START] Sarah: (Sighs deeply, rubbing her tired eyes) Ugh, this report is never going to finish itself.

Mark: (Looks up from his book with a smile) Rough day?

Sarah: (Startled, looks up) Oh, I didn't see you there. Yeah, it's been one of those days.

Deadlines, meetings, the whole shebang.

Mark: I remember those days. The corporate grind can be a real beast. Sarah: You seem to be enjoying yours. The book, the coffee, the calmnessâ€¦ it's all very enviable.

Mark: (Chuckles)

It has its perks. Retirement isn't all it's cracked up to be, but I do enjoy the simple things now. Sarah:

Simple things?

Like reading a book in a coffee shop?
Mark: Exactly. It's the little moments that we often miss amidst the rush of everyday life. The smell of freshly brewed coffee, the feel of turning a page, the chance encounter with a strangerâ€¦ Sarah: (Thinks for a moment)

You know, you're right. I've been so focused on getting ahead that I've forgotten to appreciate the little things. Mark:

We all get caught up in the rat race sometimes.

But it's important to take a step back and remind ourselves what truly matters.

Sarah: I think I needed to hear that. Thank you. Mark: You're welcome, young lady. Now, how about another cup of coffee?

It's on me. Sarah: (Smiling) I'd love that. And maybe, just maybe, I can focus on the book instead of the report for a while. Mark: (Nods) That's the spirit.

Remember, life is a journey, not a race. So take your time, smell the coffee beans, and enjoy the ride. Sarah: I will.
Thank you again for everything. Mark: (Gestures to the book) By the way, if you ever want to escape from the corporate world for a while, this book is a great place to start.

Sarah: (Takes the book) I'll definitely give it a try. Thank you for the recommendation. [SCENE END]

This is just a sample conversation, and you can modify it to your liking.

You can change the setting, characters, and topics of conversation to create different daily life scenarios. The key is to make the dialogue sound natural and engaging, and to capture the essence of everyday human interaction. The Last Coffee Shop: Chapter 1 - A Spark of Rebellion Setting: A hidden alleyway in a bustling cityscape.

Sunlight filters through the grimy windows of a small, unassuming establishment called "The Last Drip." Inside, the warm aroma of coffee mingles with hushed conversations and the rhythmic clinking of spoons against ceramic mugs. Characters: Eleanor (20s): Fiery and determined owner of The Last Drip, a skilled barista with a passion for freedom.

David (30s): A weary journalist seeking solace and information in The Last Drip, haunted by his past. Agent Thorne (40s): A ruthless enforcer of the coffee ban, driven by a dark secret. [SCENE START]

Eleanor meticulously polishes the countertop, her movements fluid and practiced. The morning rush has subsided, leaving only a handful of patrons huddled over steaming mugs, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of hanging lamps. An air of secrecy and quiet defiance hangs heavy in the air.

David enters, his eyes scanning the dimly lit space. He's drawn to the aroma of coffee, a forbidden scent in a city where the government has outlawed its consumption. His weathered face carries a worn expression, a testament to years spent chasing stories and facing danger. "Is this...
The Last Drip?" he asks in a hushed tone.

Eleanor raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing on her lips. "That's right. Last stop on the caffeine train.

What can I get you?"
David hesitates, taking in the clandestine atmosphere. The other patrons, a diverse mix of artists, intellectuals, and everyday citizens seeking a taste of the past, cast him curious glances. "Black," he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Strong.
" Eleanor nods, her movements a symphony of precision as she grinds the beans, measures the water, and extracts the perfect cup of coffee. The aroma alone is enough to awaken David's senses, transporting him back to a time before the ban, a time when coffee wasn't a rebellious act but a simple pleasure enjoyed by all.

As David savors the first sip, his eyes widen in surprise. The flavor is nothing like the synthetic substitutes he's forced to endure. It's bold, rich, and complex, a reminder of a forgotten world.

"This is..." he begins, his voice thick with emotion. "This is incredible. I haven't tasted anything like it."
"It's real coffee, friend," Eleanor replies, her voice low and conspiratorial.

"Not the synthetic trash they call coffee on the streets. We serve more than just a drink here. We serve a reminder of freedom, of what life used to be like. "

David looks around the room, his gaze flickering over the faces of the patrons.

He sees a shared yearning for something more, a spark of rebellion burning just beneath the surface. In this hidden sanctuary, amidst the fragrant steam and whispered conversations, he senses a movement growing, a resistance against the oppressive regime that controls their lives. Suddenly, the door bursts open and a figure strides in, his face etched with grim determination. It's Agent Thorne, a man feared and respected for his ruthless enforcement of the coffee ban. His presence instantly silences the room, replacing the murmur of conversation with a tense silence.

"This establishment is in violation of the Coffee Prohibition Act," Thorne announces in a cold, authoritative voice. "You are all under arrest."

[TO BE CONTINUED]

This is just the beginning of Chapter 1.
Feel free to add further details, explore the characters' inner thoughts and motivations, and build the tension as the story unfolds. Consider introducing additional characters, adding descriptive elements to deepen the atmosphere, and incorporating plot twists to keep the reader engaged.

Remember, the key to a captivating story is creating believable characters, a compelling plot, and vivid descriptions that transport the reader into the heart of the action. The world of The Last Coffee Shop is ripe with possibilities, so let your imagination run wild and bring this story to life! It was seven oâ€™clock of a very warm evening in the Seeonee hills when Father Wolf woke up from his dayâ€™s rest, scratched himself, yawned, and spread out his paws one after the other to get rid of the sleepy feeling in their tips. Mother Wolf lay with her big gray nose dropped across her four tumbling, squealing cubs, and the moon shone into the mouth of the cave where they all lived.

â€œAugrh!â€ said Father Wolf. â€œIt is time to hunt again.â€ He was going to spring down hill when a little shadow with a bushy tail crossed the threshold and whined: â€œGood luck go with you, O Chief of the Wolves.

And good luck and strong white teeth go with noble children that they may never forget the hungry in this world.â€ It was the jackal--Tabaqui, the Dish-licker--and the wolves of India despise Tabaqui because he runs about making mischief, and telling tales, and eating rags and pieces of leather from the village rubbish-heaps. But they are afraid of him too, because Tabaqui, more than anyone else in the jungle, is apt to go mad, and then he forgets that he was ever afraid of anyone, and runs through the forest biting everything in his way.

Even the tiger runs and hides when little Tabaqui goes mad, for madness is the most disgraceful thing that can overtake a wild creature. We call it hydrophobia, but they call it dewanee--the madness--and run.
â€œEnter, then, and look,â€ said Father Wolf stiffly, â€œbut there is no food here.â€ â€œFor a wolf, no,â€ said Tabaqui, â€œbut for so mean a person as myself a dry bone is a good feast. Who are we, the Gidur-log

[the jackal people], to pick and choose?â€ He scuttled to the back of the cave, where he found the bone of a buck with some meat on it, and sat cracking the end merrily.
â€œAll thanks for this good meal,â€ he said, licking his lips. â€œHow beautiful are the noble children! How large are their eyes!

And so young too!

Indeed, indeed, I might have remembered that the children of kings are men from the beginning.â€ Now, Tabaqui knew as well as anyone else that there is nothing so unlucky as to compliment children to their faces. It pleased him to see Mother and Father Wolf look uncomfortable. Tabaqui sat still, rejoicing in the mischief that he had made, and then he said spitefully: â€œShere Khan, the Big One, has shifted his hunting grounds. He will hunt among these hills for the next moon, so he has told me.â€ Shere Khan was the tiger who lived near the Waingunga River, twenty miles away.

â€œHe has no right!â€ Father Wolf began angrily--â€œBy the Law of the Jungle he has no right to change his quarters without due warning. He will frighten every head of game within ten miles, and I--I have to kill for two, these days.â€ â€œHis mother did not call him Lungri [the Lame One] for nothing,â€ said Mother Wolf quietly.

â€œHe has been lame in one foot from his birth. That is why he has only killed cattle.

Now the villagers of the Waingunga are angry with him, and he has come here to make our villagers angry. They will scour the jungle for him when he is far away, and we and our children must run when the grass is set alight. Indeed, we are very grateful to Shere Khan!â€ â€œShall I tell him of your gratitude?â€ said Tabaqui.
â€œOut!â€ snapped Father Wolf.

â€œOut and hunt with thy master. Thou hast done harm enough for one night.â€ â€œI go,â€ said Tabaqui quietly.

â€œYe can hear Shere Khan below in the thickets. I might have saved myself the message.â€ Father Wolf listened, and below in the valley that ran down to a little river he heard the dry, angry, snarly, singsong whine of a tiger who has caught nothing and does not care if all the jungle knows it. â€œThe

fool!â€ said Father Wolf.

â€œTo begin a nightâ€™s work with that noise! Does he think that our buck are like his fat Waingunga bullocks?â€ â€œHâ€™sh.
It is neither bullock nor buck he hunts to-night,â€ said Mother Wolf. â€œIt is Man.â€

The whine had changed to a sort of humming purr that seemed to come from every quarter of the compass. It was the noise that bewilders woodcutters and gypsies sleeping in the open, and makes them run sometimes into the very mouth of the tiger.

â€œMan!â€ said Father Wolf, showing all his white teeth. â€œFaugh!
Are there not enough beetles and frogs in the tanks that he must eat Man, and on our ground too!â€ The Law of the Jungle, which never orders anything without a reason, forbids every beast to eat Man except when he is killing to show his children how to kill, and then he must hunt outside the hunting grounds of his pack or tribe.

The real reason for this is that man-killing means, sooner or later, the arrival of white men on elephants, with guns, and hundreds of brown men with gongs and rockets and torches. Then everybody in the jungle suffers. The reason the beasts give among themselves is that Man is the weakest and most defenseless of all living things, and it is unsportsmanlike to touch him. They say too--and it is true--that man-eaters become mangy, and lose their teeth.

The purr grew louder, and ended in the full-throated â€œAaarh!â€ of the tigerâ€™s charge. Then there was a howl--an untigerish howl--from Shere Khan. â€œHe has missed,â€ said Mother Wolf.

â€œWhat is it?â€ Father Wolf ran out a few paces and heard Shere Khan muttering and mumbling savagely as he tumbled about in the scrub. â€œThe fool has had no more sense than to jump at a woodcutterâ€™s campfire, and has burned his feet,â€ said Father Wolf with a grunt. â€œTabaqui is with him.â€ â€œSomething is coming uphill,â€ said Mother Wolf, twitching one ear.

â€œGet ready.â€ The bushes rustled a little in the thicket, and Father Wolf dropped with his haunches under him, ready for his leap.

Then, if you had been watching, you would have seen the most wonderful thing in the world--the wolf checked in mid-spring. He made his bound before he saw what it was he was jumping at, and then he tried to stop himself. The result was that he shot up straight into the air for four or five feet, landing almost where he left ground.

â€œMan!â€ he snapped. â€œA manâ€™s cub.
Look!â€ Directly in front of him, holding on by a low branch, stood a naked brown baby who could just walk--as soft and as dimpled a little atom as ever came to a wolfâ€™s cave at night. He looked up into Father Wolfâ€™s face, and laughed. â€œIs that a manâ€™s cub?â€ said Mother Wolf. â€œI have never seen one.

Bring it here.â€ A Wolf accustomed to moving his own cubs can, if necessary, mouth an egg without breaking it, and though Father Wolfâ€™s jaws closed right on the childâ€™s back not a tooth even scratched the skin as he laid it down among the cubs.

â€œHow little!

How naked, and--how bold!â€ said Mother Wolf softly. The baby was pushing his way between the cubs to get close to the warm hide.
â€œAhai! He is taking his meal with the others. And so this is a manâ€™s cub.

Now, was there ever a wolf that could boast of a manâ€™s cub among her children?â€ â€œI have heard now and again of such a thing, but never in our Pack or in my time,â€ said Father Wolf.

â€œHe is altogether without hair, and I could kill him with a touch of my foot. But see, he looks up and is not afraid.â€ The moonlight was blocked out of the mouth of the cave, for Shere Khanâ€™s great square head and shoulders were thrust into the entrance.

Tabaqui, behind him, was squeaking: â€œMy lord, my lord, it went in here!â€ â€œShere Khan does us great honor,â€ said Father Wolf, but his eyes were very angry. â€œWhat does Shere Khan need?â€ â€œMy quarry. A manâ€™s cub went this way,â€ said Shere Khan. â€œIts parents have run off.

Give it to me.â€ Shere Khan had jumped at a woodcutterâ€™s campfire, as Father Wolf had said, and was furious from the pain of his burned feet. But Father Wolf knew that the mouth of the cave was too narrow for a tiger to come in by.

Even where he was, Shere Khanâ€™s shoulders and forepaws were cramped for want of room, as a manâ€™s would be if he tried to fight in a barrel. â€œThe Wolves are a free people,â€ said Father Wolf. â€œThey take orders from the Head of the Pack, and not from any striped cattle-killer.

The manâ€™s cub is ours--to kill if we choose.â€ â€œYe choose and ye do not choose! What talk is this of choosing? By the bull that I killed, am I to stand nosing into your dogâ€™s den for my fair dues? It is I, Shere Khan, who speak!â€ The tigerâ€™s roar filled the cave with thunder.

Mother Wolf shook herself clear of the cubs and sprang forward, her eyes, like two green moons in the darkness, facing the blazing eyes of Shere Khan. â€œAnd it is I, Raksha [The Demon], who answers. The manâ€™s cub is mine, Lungri--mine to me! He shall not be killed.

He shall live to run with the Pack and to hunt with the Pack; and in the end, look you, hunter of little naked cubs--frog-eater--fish-killer--he shall hunt thee! Now get hence, or by the Sambhur that I killed (I eat no starved cattle), back thou goest to thy mother, burned beast of the jungle, lamer than ever thou camest into the world! Go!â€ Father Wolf looked on amazed.

He had almost forgotten the days when he won Mother Wolf in fair fight from five other wolves, when she ran in the Pack and was not called The Demon for complimentâ€™s sake. Shere Khan might have faced Father Wolf, but he could not stand up against Mother Wolf, for he knew that where he was she had all the advantage of the ground, and would fight to the death. So he backed out of the cave mouth growling, and when he was clear he shouted: â€œEach dog barks in his own yard! We will see what the Pack will say to this fostering of man-cubs.

The cub is mine, and to my teeth he will come in the end, O bush-tailed thieves!â€ Mother Wolf threw herself down panting among the cubs, and Father Wolf said to her gravely: â€œShere Khan speaks this much truth. The cub must be shown to the Pack. Wilt thou still keep him, Mother?â€ â€œKeep him!â€ she gasped.

â€œHe came naked, by night, alone and very hungry; yet he was not afraid! Look, he has pushed one of my babes to one side already.

And that lame butcher would have killed him and would have run off to the Waingunga while the villagers here hunted through all our lairs in revenge!

Keep him? Assuredly I will keep him. Lie still, little frog.

O thou Mowgli--for Mowgli

the Frog

I will call thee--the time will come when thou wilt hunt Shere Khan as he has hunted thee.â€ â€œBut what will our Pack say?â€ said Father Wolf. The Law of the Jungle lays down very clearly that any wolf may, when he marries, withdraw from the Pack he belongs to. But as soon as his cubs are old enough to stand on their feet he must bring them to the Pack Council, which is generally held once a month at full moon, in order that the other wolves may identify them.

After that inspection the cubs are free to run where they please, and until they have killed their first buck no excuse is accepted if a grown wolf of the Pack kills one of them. The punishment is death where the murderer can be found; and if you think for a minute you will see that this must be so. Father Wolf waited till his cubs could run a little, and then on the night of the Pack Meeting took them and Mowgli and Mother Wolf to the Council Rock--a hilltop covered with stones and boulders where a hundred wolves could hide. Akela, the great gray Lone Wolf, who led all the Pack by strength and cunning, lay out at full length on his rock, and below him sat forty or more wolves of every size and color, from badger-colored veterans who could handle a buck alone to young black three-year-olds who thought they could.

The Lone Wolf had led them for a year now. He had fallen twice into a wolf trap in his youth, and once he had been beaten and left for dead; so he knew the manners and customs of men. There was very little talking at the Rock. The cubs tumbled over each other in the center of the circle where their mothers and fathers sat, and now and again a senior wolf would go quietly up to a cub, look at him carefully, and return to his place on noiseless feet.

Sometimes a mother would push her cub far out into the moonlight to be sure that he had not been overlooked. Akela from his rock would cry: â€œYe know the Law--ye know the Law. Look well, O Wolves!â€ And the anxious mothers would take up the call: â€œLook--look well, O Wolves!â€ At last--and Mother Wolfâ€™s neck bristles lifted as the time came--Father Wolf pushed â€œMowgli

the Frog,â€ as they called him, into the center, where he sat laughing and playing with some pebbles that glistened in the moonlight.

Akela never raised his head from his paws, but went on with the monotonous cry: â€œLook well!â€ A muffled roar came up from behind the rocks--the voice of Shere Khan crying: â€œThe cub is mine. Give him to me. What have the Free People to do with a manâ€™s cub?â€ Akela never even twitched his ears. All he said was: â€œLook well, O Wolves!

What have the Free People to do with the orders of any save the Free People?

Look well!â€

There was a chorus of deep growls, and a young wolf in his fourth year flung back Shere Khanâ€™s question to Akela: â€œWhat have the Free People to do with a manâ€™s cub?â€ Now, the Law of the Jungle lays down that if there is any dispute as to the right of a cub to be accepted by the Pack, he must be spoken for by at least two members of the Pack who are not his father and mother. â€œWho speaks for this cub?â€ said Akela.

â€œAmong

the Free People who speaks?â€ There was no answer and Mother Wolf got ready for what she knew would be her last fight, if things came to fighting. Then the only other creature who is allowed at the Pack Council--Baloo, the sleepy brown bear who teaches the wolf cubs the Law of the Jungle: old Baloo, who can come and go where he pleases because he eats only nuts and roots and honey--rose upon his hind quarters and grunted. â€œThe manâ€™s cub--the manâ€™s cub?â€ he said. â€œI speak for the manâ€™s cub.

There is no harm in a manâ€™s cub. I have no gift of words, but I speak the truth. Let him run with the Pack, and be entered with the others. I myself will teach him.â€ â€œWe need yet another,â€ said Akela. â€œBaloo has spoken, and he is our teacher for the young cubs.

Who speaks besides Baloo?â€

A black shadow dropped down into the circle. It was Bagheera the Black Panther, inky black all over, but with the panther markings showing up in certain lights like the pattern of watered silk. Everybody knew Bagheera, and nobody cared to cross his path; for he was as cunning as Tabaqui, as bold as the wild buffalo, and as reckless as the wounded elephant. But he had a voice as soft as wild honey dripping from a tree, and a skin softer than down.

â€œO Akela, and ye the Free People,â€ he purred, â€œI have no right in your assembly, but the Law of the Jungle says that if there is a doubt which is not a killing matter in regard to a new cub, the life of that cub may be bought at a price. And the Law does not say who may or may not pay that price. Am I right?â€ â€œGood!
Good!â€ said the young wolves, who are always hungry. â€œListen to Bagheera.

The cub can be bought for a price. It is the Law.â€ â€œKnowing that I have no right to speak here, I ask your leave.â€ â€œSpeak then,â€ cried twenty voices. â€œTo kill a naked cub is shame. Besides, he may make better sport for you when he is grown.

Baloo has spoken in his behalf. Now to Balooâ€™s word I will add one bull, and a fat one, newly killed, not half a mile from here, if ye will accept the manâ€™s cub according to the Law. Is it difficult?â€

There was a clamor of scores of voices, saying: â€œWhat matter?

He will die in the winter rains. He will scorch in the sun.

What harm can a naked frog do us? Let him run with the Pack. Where is the bull, Bagheera?

Let him be accepted.â€ And then came Akelaâ€™s deep bay, crying: â€œLook well--look well, O Wolves!â€ Mowgli was still deeply interested in the pebbles, and he did not notice when the wolves came and looked at him one by one. At last they all went down the hill for the dead bull, and only Akela, Bagheera, Baloo, and Mowgliâ€™s own wolves were left.

Shere Khan roared still in the night, for he was very angry that Mowgli had not been handed over to him. â€œAy, roar well,â€ said Bagheera, under his whiskers, â€œfor the time will come when this naked thing will make thee roar to another tune, or I know nothing of man.â€ â€œIt was well done,â€ said Akela. â€œMen and their cubs are very wise. He may be a help in time.â€ â€œTruly, a help in time of need; for none can hope to lead the Pack forever,â€ said Bagheera.

Akela said nothing. He was thinking of the time that comes to every leader of every pack when his strength goes from him and he gets feebler and feebler, till at last he is killed by the wolves and a new leader comes up--to be killed in his turn. â€œTake him away,â€ he said to Father Wolf, â€œand train him as befits one of the Free People.â€

And that is how Mowgli was entered into the Seeonee Wolf Pack for the price of a bull and on Balooâ€™s good word. Now you must be content to skip ten or eleven whole years, and only guess at all the wonderful life that Mowgli led among the wolves, because if it were written out it would fill ever so many books.

He grew up with the cubs, though they, of course, were grown wolves almost before he was a child. And Father Wolf taught him his business, and the meaning of things in the jungle, till every rustle in the grass, every breath of the warm night air, every note of the owls above his head, every scratch of a batâ€™s claws as it roosted for a while in a tree, and every splash of every little fish jumping in a pool meant just as much to him as the work of his office means to a business man. When he was not learning he sat out in the sun and slept, and ate and went to sleep again. When he felt dirty or hot he swam in the forest pools; and when he wanted honey (Baloo told him that honey and nuts were just as pleasant to eat as raw meat) he climbed up for it, and that Bagheera showed him how to do.

Bagheera would lie out on a branch and call, â€œCome along, Little Brother,â€ and at first Mowgli would cling like the sloth, but afterward he would fling himself through the branches almost as boldly as the gray ape. He took his place at the Council Rock, too, when the Pack met, and there he discovered that if he stared hard at any wolf, the wolf would be forced to drop his eyes, and so he used to stare for fun. At other times he would pick the long thorns out of the pads of his friends, for wolves suffer terribly from thorns and burs in their coats.

He would go down the hillside into the cultivated lands by night, and look very curiously at the villagers in their huts, but he had a mistrust of men because Bagheera showed him a square box with a drop gate so cunningly hidden in the jungle that he nearly walked into it, and told him that it was a trap. He loved better than anything else to go with Bagheera into the dark warm heart of the forest, to sleep all through the drowsy day, and at night see how Bagheera did his killing. Bagheera killed right and left as he felt hungry, and so did Mowgli--with one exception. As soon as he was old enough to understand things, Bagheera told him that he must never touch cattle because he had been bought into the Pack at the price of a bullâ€™s life.

â€œAll the jungle is thine,â€ said Bagheera, â€œand thou canst kill everything that thou art strong enough to kill; but for the sake of the bull that bought thee thou must never kill or eat any cattle young or old. That is the Law of the Jungle.â€ Mowgli obeyed faithfully. And he grew and grew strong as a boy must grow who does not know that he is learning any lessons, and who has nothing in the world to think of except things to eat.

Mother Wolf told him once or twice that Shere Khan was not a creature to be trusted, and that some day he must kill Shere Khan. But though a young wolf would have remembered that advice every hour, Mowgli forgot it because he was only a boy--though he would have called himself a wolf if he had been able to speak in any human tongue.

Shere Khan was always crossing his path in the jungle, for as Akela grew older and feebler the lame tiger had come to be great friends with the younger wolves of the Pack, who followed him for scraps, a thing Akela would never have allowed if he had dared to push his authority to the proper bounds. Then Shere Khan would flatter them and wonder that such fine young hunters were content to be led by a dying wolf and a manâ€™s cub. â€œThey tell me,â€ Shere Khan would say, â€œthat at Council

ye dare not look him between the eyes.â€ And the young wolves would growl and bristle.

Bagheera, who had eyes and ears everywhere, knew something of this, and once or twice he told Mowgli in so many words that Shere Khan would kill him some day. Mowgli would laugh and answer: â€œI have the Pack and I have thee; and Baloo, though he is so lazy, might strike a blow or two for my sake. Why should I be afraid?â€

It was one very warm day that a new notion came to Bagheera--born of something that he had heard.

Perhaps Ikki the Porcupine had told him; but he said to Mowgli when they were deep in the jungle, as the boy lay with his head on Bagheeraâ€™s beautiful black skin, â€œLittle Brother, how often have I told thee that Shere Khan is thy enemy?â€ â€œAs many times as there are nuts on that palm,â€ said Mowgli, who, naturally, could not count. â€œWhat of it?

I am sleepy, Bagheera, and Shere Khan is all long tail and loud talk--like Mao, the Peacock.â€ â€œBut this is no time for sleeping. Baloo knows it; I know it; the Pack know it; and even the foolish, foolish deer know.

Tabaqui has told thee too.â€ â€œHo!

ho!â€ said Mowgli.
â€œTabaqui came to me not long ago with some rude talk that I was a naked manâ€™s cub and not fit to dig pig-nuts. But I caught Tabaqui by the tail and swung him twice against a palm-tree to teach him better manners.â€ â€œThat was foolishness, for though Tabaqui is a mischief-maker, he would have told thee of something that concerned thee closely.

Open those eyes, Little Brother. Shere Khan dare not kill thee in the jungle. But remember, Akela is very old, and soon the day comes when he cannot kill his buck, and then he will be leader no more.

Many of the wolves that looked thee over when thou wast brought to the Council first are old too, and the young wolves believe, as Shere Khan has taught them, that a man-cub has no place with the Pack. In a little time thou wilt be a man.â€ â€œAnd what is a man that he should not run with his brothers?â€ said Mowgli.

â€œI was born in the jungle.

I have obeyed the Law of the Jungle, and there is no wolf of ours from whose paws I have not pulled a thorn. Surely they are my brothers!â€ Bagheera stretched himself at full length and half shut his eyes. â€œLittle Brother,â€ said he, â€œfeel under my jaw.â€ Mowgli put up his strong brown hand, and just under Bagheeraâ€™s silky chin, where the giant rolling muscles were all hid by the glossy hair, he came upon a little bald spot. â€œThere is no one in the jungle that knows that I, Bagheera, carry that mark--the mark of the collar; and yet, Little Brother, I was born among men, and it was among men that my mother died--in the cages of the kingâ€™s palace at Oodeypore.

It was because of this that I paid the price for thee at the Council when thou wast a little naked cub. Yes, I too was born among men. I had never seen the jungle. They fed me behind bars from an iron pan till one night I felt that I was Bagheera--the Panther--and no manâ€™s plaything, and I broke the silly lock with one blow of my paw and came away.

And because I had learned the ways of men, I became more terrible in the jungle than Shere Khan. Is it not so?â€ â€œYes,â€ said Mowgli, â€œall the jungle fear Bagheera--all except Mowgli.â€ â€œOh, thou art a manâ€™s cub,â€ said the Black Panther very tenderly. â€œAnd even as I returned to my jungle, so thou must go back to men at last--to the men who are thy brothers--if thou art not killed in the Council.â€ â€œBut why--but why should any wish to kill me?â€ said Mowgli.

â€œLook at me,â€ said Bagheera.

And Mowgli looked at him steadily between the eyes. The big panther turned his head away in half a minute. â€œThat is why,â€ he said, shifting his paw on the leaves. â€œNot even I can look thee between the eyes, and I was born among men, and I love thee, Little Brother.

The others they hate thee because their eyes cannot meet thine; because thou art wise; because thou hast pulled out thorns from their feet--because thou art a man.â€ â€œI did not know these things,â€ said Mowgli sullenly, and he frowned under his heavy black eyebrows. â€œWhat is the Law of the Jungle ?
Strike first and then give tongue. By thy very carelessness they know that thou art a man.

But be wise.

It is in my heart that when Akela misses his next kill--and at each hunt it costs him more to pin the buck--the Pack will turn against him and against thee. They will hold a jungle Council at the Rock, and then--and then--I have it!â€ said Bagheera, leaping up. â€œGo thou down quickly to the menâ€™s huts in the valley, and take some of the Red Flower which they grow there, so that when the time comes thou mayest have even a stronger friend than I or Baloo or those of the Pack that love thee.
Get the Red Flower.â€ By Red Flower Bagheera meant fire, only no creature in the jungle will call fire by its proper name. Every beast lives in deadly fear of it, and invents a hundred ways of describing it. â€œThe Red Flower?â€ said Mowgli.

â€œThat grows outside their huts in the twilight. I will get some.â€ â€œThere speaks the manâ€™s cub,â€ said Bagheera proudly. â€œRemember that it grows in little pots.

Get one swiftly, and keep it by thee for time of need.â€ â€œGood!â€ said Mowgli.
â€œI go. But art thou sure, O my Bagheeraâ€--he slipped his arm around the splendid neck and looked deep into the big eyes--â€œart thou sure that all this is Shere Khanâ€™s doing?â€ â€œBy the Broken Lock that freed me, I am sure, Little Brother.â€ â€œThen, by the Bull that bought me, I will pay Shere Khan full tale for this, and it may be a little over,â€ said Mowgli, and he bounded away.

â€œThat is a man. That is all a man,â€ said Bagheera to himself, lying down again. â€œOh, Shere Khan, never was a blacker hunting than that frog-hunt of thine ten years ago!â€ Mowgli was far and far through the forest, running hard, and his heart was hot in him. He came to the cave as the evening mist rose, and drew breath, and looked down the valley.

The cubs were out, but Mother Wolf, at the back of the cave, knew by his breathing that something was troubling her frog. â€œWhat is it, Son?â€ she said. â€œSome batâ€™s chatter of Shere Khan,â€ he called back. â€œI hunt among the plowed fields tonight,â€ and he plunged downward through the bushes, to the stream at the bottom of the valley.

There he checked, for he heard the yell of the Pack hunting, heard the bellow of a hunted Sambhur, and the snort as the buck turned at bay. Then there were wicked, bitter howls from the young wolves: â€œAkela! Akela!

Let the Lone Wolf show his strength. Room for the leader of the Pack!
Spring, Akela!â€ The Lone Wolf must have sprung and missed his hold, for Mowgli heard the snap of his teeth and then a yelp as the Sambhur knocked him over with his forefoot. He did not wait for anything more, but dashed on; and the yells grew fainter behind him as he ran into the croplands where the villagers lived. â€œBagheera spoke truth,â€ he panted, as he nestled down in some cattle fodder by the window of a hut.

â€œTo-morrow is one day both for Akela and for me.â€ Then he pressed his face close to the window and watched the fire on the hearth. He saw the husbandmanâ€™s wife get up and feed it in the night with black lumps. And when the morning came and the mists were all white and cold, he saw the manâ€™s child pick up a wicker pot plastered inside with earth, fill it with lumps of red-hot charcoal, put it under his blanket, and go out to tend the cows in the byre.

â€œIs that all?â€ said Mowgli.

â€œIf a cub can do it, there is nothing to fear.â€ So he strode round the corner and met the boy, took the pot from his hand, and disappeared into the mist while the boy howled with fear. â€œThey are very like me,â€ said Mowgli, blowing into the pot as he had seen the woman do. â€œThis thing will die if I do not give it things to eatâ€; and he dropped twigs and dried bark on the red stuff.

Halfway up the hill he met Bagheera with the morning dew shining like moonstones on his coat.
â€œAkela has missed,â€ said the Panther. â€œThey would have killed him last night, but they needed thee also. They were looking for thee on the hill.â€ â€œI was among the plowed lands. I am ready. See!â€ Mowgli held up the fire-pot.
â€œGood!

Now, I have seen men thrust a dry branch into that stuff, and presently the Red Flower blossomed at the end of it. Art thou not afraid?â€ â€œNo. Why should I fear? I remember now--if it is not a dream--how, before I was a Wolf, I lay beside the Red Flower, and it was warm and pleasant.â€ All that day Mowgli sat in the cave tending his fire pot and dipping dry branches into it to see how they looked.

He found a branch that satisfied him, and in the evening when Tabaqui came to the cave and told him rudely enough that he was wanted at the Council Rock, he laughed till Tabaqui ran away. Then Mowgli went to the Council, still laughing. Akela the Lone Wolf lay by the side of his rock as a sign that the leadership of the Pack was open, and Shere Khan with his following of scrap-fed wolves walked to and fro openly being flattered. Bagheera lay close to Mowgli, and the fire pot was between Mowgliâ€™s knees.

When they were all gathered together, Shere Khan began to speak--a thing he would never have dared to do when Akela was in his prime. â€œHe has no right,â€ whispered Bagheera.
â€œSay so. He is a dogâ€™s son. He will be frightened.â€ Mowgli sprang to his feet. â€œFree People,â€ he cried, â€œdoes Shere Khan lead the Pack?

What has a tiger to do with our leadership?â€ â€œSeeing that the leadership is yet open, and being asked to speak--â€  Shere Khan began.

â€œBy whom?â€ said Mowgli. â€œAre we all jackals, to fawn on this cattle butcher?
The leadership of the Pack is with the Pack alone.â€ There were yells of â€œSilence, thou manâ€™s cub!â€ â€œLet him speak. He has kept our Lawâ€; and at last the seniors of the Pack thundered: â€œLet the Dead Wolf speak.â€ When a leader of the Pack has missed his kill, he is called the Dead Wolf as long as he lives, which is not long. Akela raised his old head wearily:-- â€œFree People, and ye too, jackals of Shere Khan, for twelve seasons I have led ye to and from the kill, and in all that time not one has been trapped or maimed.

Now I have missed my kill. Ye know how that plot was made. Ye know how ye brought me up to an untried buck to make my weakness known. It was cleverly done. Your right is to kill me here on the Council Rock, now.

Therefore, I ask, who comes to make an end of the Lone Wolf? For it is my right, by the Law of the Jungle, that ye come one by one.â€ There was a long hush, for no single wolf cared to fight Akela to the death. Then Shere Khan roared: â€œBah!
What have we to do with this toothless fool? He is doomed to die!

It is the man-cub who has lived too long. Free People, he was my meat from the first. Give him to me. I am weary of this man-wolf folly.

He has troubled the jungle for ten seasons. Give me the man-cub, or I will hunt here always, and not give you one bone. He is a man, a manâ€™s child, and from the marrow of my bones I hate him!â€ Then more than half the Pack yelled: â€œA man! A man!

What has a man to do with us? Let him go to his own place.â€ â€œAnd turn all the people of the villages against us?â€ clamored Shere Khan.

â€œNo, give him to me. He is a man, and none of us can look him between the eyes.â€ Akela lifted his head again and said, â€œHe has eaten our food. He has slept with us.

He has driven game for us. He has broken no word of the Law of the Jungle.â€ â€œAlso, I paid for him with a bull when he was accepted. The worth of a bull is little, but Bagheeraâ€™s honor is something that he will perhaps fight for,â€ said Bagheera in his gentlest voice.

â€œA bull paid ten years ago!â€ the Pack snarled. â€œWhat do we care for bones ten years old?â€ â€œOr for a pledge?â€ said Bagheera, his white teeth bared under his lip. â€œWell are ye called the Free People!â€ â€œNo manâ€™s cub can run with the people of the jungle,â€ howled Shere Khan.
â€œGive him to me!â€ â€œHe is our brother in all but blood,â€ Akela went on, â€œand ye would kill him here! In truth, I have lived too long.

Some of ye are eaters of cattle, and of others I have heard that, under Shere Khanâ€™s teaching, ye go by dark night and snatch children from the villagerâ€™s doorstep. Therefore I know ye to be cowards, and it is to cowards I speak. It is certain that I must die, and my life is of no worth, or I would offer that in the man-cubâ€™s place. But for the sake of the Honor of the Pack,--a little matter that by being without a leader ye have forgotten,--I promise that if ye let the man-cub go to his own place, I will not, when my time comes to die, bare one tooth against ye.

I will die without fighting. That will at least save the Pack three lives. More I cannot do; but if ye will, I can save ye the shame that comes of killing a brother against whom there is no fault--a brother spoken for and bought into the Pack according to the Law of the Jungle.â€ â€œHe is a man--a man--a man!â€ snarled the Pack. And most of the wolves began to gather round Shere Khan, whose tail was beginning to switch.

â€œNow the business is in thy hands,â€ said Bagheera to Mowgli. â€œWe can do no more except fight.â€ Mowgli stood upright--the fire pot in his hands. Then he stretched out his arms, and yawned in the face of the Council; but he was furious with rage and sorrow, for, wolflike, the wolves had never told him how they hated him.

â€œListen

you!â€ he cried. â€œThere is no need for this dogâ€™s jabber.

Ye have told me so often tonight that I am a man (and indeed I would have been a wolf with you to my lifeâ€™s end) that I feel your words are true. So I do not call ye my brothers any more, but sag [dogs], as a man should. What ye will do, and what ye will not do, is not yours to say. That matter is with me; and that we may see the matter more plainly, I, the man, have brought here a little of the Red Flower which ye, dogs, fear.â€ He flung the fire pot on the ground, and some of the red coals lit a tuft of dried moss that flared up, as all the Council drew back in terror before the leaping flames. Mowgli thrust his dead branch into the fire till the twigs lit and crackled, and whirled it above his head among the cowering wolves.

â€œThou art the master,â€ said Bagheera in an undertone. â€œSave Akela from the death.

He was ever thy friend.â€ Akela, the grim old wolf who had never asked for mercy in his life, gave one piteous look at Mowgli as the boy stood all naked, his long black hair tossing over his shoulders in the light of the blazing branch that made the shadows jump and quiver.
â€œGood!â€ said Mowgli, staring round slowly. â€œI see that ye are dogs. I go from you to my own people--if they be my own people.

The jungle is shut to me, and I must forget your talk and your companionship. But I will be more merciful than ye are.

Because I was all but your brother in blood, I promise that when I am a man among men I will not betray ye to men as ye have betrayed me.â€ He kicked the fire with his foot, and the sparks flew up.

â€œThere shall be no war between any of us in the Pack. But here is a debt to pay before I go.â€

He strode forward to where Shere Khan sat blinking stupidly at the flames, and caught him by the tuft on his chin.

Bagheera followed in case of accidents. â€œUp, dog!â€ Mowgli cried. â€œUp, when a man speaks, or I will set that coat ablaze!â€ Shere Khanâ€™s ears lay flat back on his head, and he shut his eyes, for the blazing branch was very near. â€œThis cattle-killer said he would kill me in the Council because he had not killed me when I was a cub. Thus and thus, then, do we beat dogs when we are men.
Stir a whisker, Lungri, and I ram the Red Flower down thy gullet!â€

He beat Shere Khan over the head with the branch, and the tiger whimpered and whined in an agony of fear. â€œPah!
Singed jungle cat--go now! But remember when next I come to the Council Rock, as a man should come, it will be with Shere Khanâ€™s hide on my head.

For the rest, Akela goes free to live as he pleases. Ye will not kill him, because that is not my will. Nor do I think that ye will sit here any longer, lolling out your tongues as though ye were somebodies, instead of dogs whom I drive out--thus! Go!â€

The fire was burning furiously at the end of the branch, and Mowgli struck right and left round the circle, and the wolves ran howling with the sparks burning their fur.

At last there were only Akela, Bagheera, and perhaps ten wolves that had taken Mowgliâ€™s part. Then something began to hurt Mowgli inside him, as he had never been hurt in his life before, and he caught his breath and sobbed, and the tears ran down his face. â€œWhat is it?

What is it?â€ he said. â€œI do not wish to leave the jungle, and I do not know what this is. Am I dying, Bagheera?â€ â€œNo, Little Brother.

That is only tears such as men use,â€ said Bagheera. â€œNow

I know thou art a man, and a manâ€™s cub no longer. The jungle is shut indeed to thee henceforward. Let them fall, Mowgli.

They are only tears.â€ So Mowgli sat and cried as though his heart would break; and he had never cried in all his life before. â€œNow,â€ he said, â€œI will go to men. But first I must say farewell to my mother.â€ And he went to the cave where she lived with Father Wolf, and he cried on her coat, while the four cubs howled miserably.

â€œYe will not forget me?â€ said Mowgli. â€œNever while we can follow a trail,â€ said the cubs. â€œCome to the foot of the hill when thou art a man, and we will talk to thee; and we will come into the croplands to play with thee by night.â€ â€œCome soon!â€ said Father Wolf. â€œOh, wise little frog, come again soon; for we be old, thy mother and I.â€ â€œCome soon,â€ said Mother Wolf, â€œlittle naked son of mine.

For, listen, child of man, I loved thee more than ever I loved my cubs.â€ â€œI will surely come,â€ said Mowgli. â€œAnd when I come it will be to lay out Shere Khanâ€™s hide upon the Council Rock. Do not forget me! Tell them in the jungle never to forget me!â€

The dawn was beginning to break when Mowgli went down the hillside alone, to meet those mysterious things that are called men.

Hunting-Song of the Seeonee Pack      As the dawn was breaking the Sambhur belled         Once, twice and again! And a doe leaped up, and a doe leaped up      From the pond in the wood where the wild deer sup. This I, scouting alone, beheld,         Once, twice and again! As the dawn was breaking the Sambhur belled         Once, twice and again!

And a wolf stole back, and a wolf stole back      To carry the word to the waiting pack,      And we sought and we found and we bayed on his track         Once, twice and again! As the dawn was breaking the Wolf Pack yelled         Once, twice and again! Feet in the jungle that leave no mark!

Eyes that can see in the dark--the dark! Tongue--give tongue to it! Hark!
O hark!

Once, twice and again!

Kaaâ€™s Hunting His spots are the joy of the Leopard: his horns are the Buffaloâ€™s pride. Be clean, for the strength of the hunter is known by the gloss of his hide. If ye find that the Bullock can toss you, or the heavy-browed Sambhur can gore; Ye need not stop work to inform us: we knew it ten seasons before. Oppress not the cubs of the stranger, but hail them as Sister and Brother, For though they are little and fubsy, it may be the Bear is their mother. â€œThere is none like to me!â€ says the Cub in the pride of his earliest kill; But the jungle is large and the Cub he is small.

Let him think and be still.
_ Maxims of Baloo_

All that is told here happened some time before Mowgli was turned out of the Seeonee Wolf Pack, or revenged himself on Shere Khan the tiger. It was in the days when Baloo was teaching him the Law of the Jungle. The big, serious, old brown bear was delighted to have so quick a pupil, for the young wolves will only learn as much of the Law of the Jungle as applies to their own pack and tribe, and run away as soon as they can repeat the Hunting Verse--â€œFeet that make no noise; eyes that can see in the dark; ears that can hear the winds in their lairs, and sharp white teeth, all these things are the marks of our brothers except Tabaqui the Jackal and the Hyaena whom we hate.â€ But Mowgli, as a man-cub, had to learn a great deal more than this. Sometimes Bagheera the Black Panther would come lounging through the jungle to see how his pet was getting on, and would purr with his head against a tree while Mowgli recited the dayâ€™s lesson to Baloo.

The boy could climb almost as well as he could swim, and swim almost as well as he could run. So Baloo, the Teacher of the Law, taught him the Wood and Water Laws: how to tell a rotten branch from a sound one; how to speak politely to the wild bees when he came upon a hive of them fifty feet above ground; what to say to Mang the Bat when he disturbed him in the branches at midday; and how to warn the water-snakes in the pools before he splashed down among them. None of the Jungle People like being disturbed, and all are very ready to fly at an intruder. Then, too, Mowgli was taught the Strangersâ€™ Hunting Call, which must be repeated aloud till it is answered, whenever one of the Jungle-People hunts outside his own grounds.

It means, translated, â€œGive me leave to hunt here because I am hungry.â€ And the answer is, â€œHunt then for food, but not for pleasure.â€ All this will show you how much Mowgli had to learn by heart, and he grew very tired of saying the same thing over a hundred times. But, as Baloo said to Bagheera, one day when Mowgli had been cuffed and run off in a temper, â€œA manâ€™s cub is a manâ€™s cub, and he must learn all the Law of the Jungle.â€ â€œBut think how small he is,â€ said the Black Panther, who would have spoiled Mowgli if he had had his own way.

â€œHow can his little head carry all thy long talk?â€ â€œIs there anything in the jungle too little to be killed? No.

That is why I teach him these things, and that is why I hit him, very softly, when he forgets.â€ â€œSoftly! What dost thou know of softness, old Iron-feet?â€ Bagheera grunted. â€œHis face is all bruised today by thy--softness. Ugh.â€ â€œBetter he should be bruised from head to foot by me who love him than that he should come to harm through ignorance,â€ Baloo answered very earnestly. â€œI am now teaching him the Master Words of the Jungle that shall protect him with the birds and the Snake People, and all that hunt on four feet, except his own pack.

He can now claim protection, if he will only remember the words, from all in the jungle. Is not that worth a little beating?â€ â€œWell, look to it then that thou dost not kill the man-cub. He is no tree trunk to sharpen thy blunt claws upon. But what are those Master Words?
I am more likely to give help than to ask itâ€--Bagheera stretched out one paw and admired the steel-blue, ripping-chisel talons at the end of it--â€œstill I should like to know.â€ â€œI will call Mowgli and he shall say them--if he will.

Come, Little Brother!â€ â€œMy head is ringing like a bee tree,â€ said a sullen little voice over their heads, and Mowgli slid down a tree trunk very angry and indignant, adding as he reached the ground: â€œI come for Bagheera and not for thee, fat old Baloo!â€ â€œThat is all one to me,â€ said Baloo, though he was hurt and grieved. â€œTell Bagheera, then, the Master Words of the Jungle that I have taught thee this day.â€ â€œMaster Words for which people?â€ said Mowgli, delighted to show off. â€œThe jungle has many tongues. I know them all.â€ â€œA little thou knowest, but not much. See, O Bagheera, they never thank their teacher.

Not one small wolfling has ever come back to thank old Baloo for his teachings. Say the word for the Hunting-People, then--great scholar.â€ â€œWe be of one blood, ye and I,â€ said Mowgli, giving the words the Bear accent which all the Hunting People use.
â€œGood. Now for the birds.â€ Mowgli repeated, with the Kiteâ€™s whistle at the end of the sentence.

â€œNow for the Snake-People,â€ said Bagheera. The answer was a perfectly indescribable hiss, and Mowgli kicked up his feet behind, clapped his hands together to applaud himself, and jumped on to Bagheeraâ€™s back, where he sat sideways, drumming with his heels on the glossy skin and making the worst faces he could think of at Baloo.

â€œThere--there! That was worth a little bruise,â€ said the brown bear tenderly.

â€œSome day thou wilt remember me.â€ Then he turned aside to tell Bagheera how he had begged the Master Words from Hathi the Wild Elephant, who knows all about these things, and how Hathi had taken Mowgli down to a pool to get the Snake Word from a water-snake, because Baloo could not pronounce it, and how Mowgli was now reasonably safe against all accidents in the jungle, because neither snake, bird, nor beast would hurt him. â€œNo one then is to be feared,â€ Baloo wound up, patting his big furry stomach with pride.

â€œExcept his own tribe,â€ said Bagheera, under his breath; and then aloud to Mowgli, â€œHave a care for my ribs, Little Brother! What is all this dancing up and down?â€ Mowgli had been trying to make himself heard by pulling at Bagheeraâ€™s shoulder fur and kicking hard. When the two listened to him he was shouting at the top of his voice, â€œAnd so I shall have a tribe of my own, and lead them through the branches all day long.â€ â€œWhat is this new folly, little dreamer of dreams?â€ said Bagheera.
â€œYes, and throw branches and dirt at old Baloo,â€ Mowgli went on. â€œThey have promised me this. Ah!â€ â€œWhoof!â€ Balooâ€™s big paw scooped Mowgli off Bagheeraâ€™s back, and as the boy lay between the big fore-paws he could see the Bear was angry.

â€œMowgli,â€ said Baloo, â€œthou hast been talking with the Bandar-log--the Monkey People.â€ Mowgli looked at Bagheera to see if the Panther was angry too, and Bagheeraâ€™s eyes were as hard as jade stones. â€œThou hast been with the Monkey People--the gray apes--the people without a law--the eaters of everything. That is great shame.â€ â€œWhen Baloo hurt my head,â€ said Mowgli (he was still on his back), â€œI went away, and the gray apes came down from the trees and had pity on me.

No one else cared.â€ He snuffled a little. â€œThe pity of the Monkey People!â€ Baloo snorted. â€œThe stillness of the mountain stream!

The cool of the summer sun!

And then, man-cub?â€ â€œAnd then, and then, they gave me nuts and pleasant things to eat, and they--they carried me in their arms up to the top of the trees and said I was their blood brother except that I had no tail, and should be their leader some day.â€ â€œThey have no leader,â€ said Bagheera. â€œThey lie. They have always lied.â€ â€œThey were very kind and bade me come again. Why have I never been taken among the Monkey People?

They stand on their feet as I do. They do not hit me with their hard paws. They play all day. Let me get up! Bad Baloo, let me up!

I will play with them again.â€ â€œListen, man-cub,â€ said the Bear, and his voice rumbled like thunder on a hot night.

â€œI have taught thee all the Law of the Jungle for all the peoples of the jungle--except the Monkey-Folk who live in the trees. They have no law. They are outcasts. They have no speech of their own, but use the stolen words which they overhear when they listen, and peep, and wait up above in the branches.

Their way is not our way. They are without leaders. They have no remembrance. They boast and chatter and pretend that they are a great people about to do great affairs in the jungle, but the falling of a nut turns their minds to laughter and all is forgotten.

We of the jungle have no dealings with them. We do not drink where the monkeys drink; we do not go where the monkeys go; we do not hunt where they hunt; we do not die where they die. Hast thou ever heard me speak of the Bandar-log till today?â€ â€œNo,â€ said Mowgli in a whisper, for the forest was very still now Baloo had finished. â€œThe Jungle-People put them out of their mouths and out of their minds.

They are very many, evil, dirty, shameless, and they desire, if they have any fixed desire, to be noticed by the Jungle People. But we do not notice them even when they throw nuts and filth on our heads.â€ He had hardly spoken when a shower of nuts and twigs spattered down through the branches; and they could hear coughings and howlings and angry jumpings high up in the air among the thin branches.

â€œThe Monkey-People are forbidden,â€ said Baloo, â€œforbidden to the Jungle-People. Remember.â€ â€œForbidden,â€ said Bagheera, â€œbut I still think Baloo should have warned thee against them.â€ â€œI--I?

How was I to guess he would play with such dirt. The Monkey People!

Faugh!â€

A fresh shower came down on their heads and the two trotted away, taking Mowgli with them.

What Baloo had said about the monkeys was perfectly true. They belonged to the tree-tops, and as beasts very seldom look up, there was no occasion for the monkeys and the Jungle-People to cross each otherâ€™s path. But whenever they found a sick wolf, or a wounded tiger, or bear, the monkeys would torment him, and would throw sticks and nuts at any beast for fun and in the hope of being noticed.

Then they would howl and shriek senseless songs, and invite the Jungle-People to climb up their trees and fight them, or would start furious battles over nothing among themselves, and leave the dead monkeys where the Jungle-People could see them. They were always just going to have a leader, and laws and customs of their own, but they never did, because their memories would not hold over from day to day, and so they compromised things by making up a saying, â€œWhat the Bandar-log think now the jungle will think later,â€ and that comforted them a great deal. None of the beasts could reach them, but on the other hand none of the beasts would notice them, and that was why they were so pleased when Mowgli came to play with them, and they heard how angry Baloo was. They never meant to do any more--the Bandar-log never mean anything at all; but one of them invented what seemed to him a brilliant idea, and he told all the others that Mowgli would be a useful person to keep in the tribe, because he could weave sticks together for protection from the wind; so, if they caught him, they could make him teach them.

Of course Mowgli, as a woodcutterâ€™s child, inherited all sorts of instincts, and used to make little huts of fallen branches without thinking how he came to do it. The Monkey-People, watching in the trees, considered his play most wonderful. This time, they said, they were really going to have a leader and become the wisest people in the jungle--so wise that everyone else would notice and envy them. Therefore they followed Baloo and Bagheera and Mowgli through the jungle very quietly till it was time for the midday nap, and Mowgli, who was very much ashamed of himself, slept between the Panther and the Bear, resolving to have no more to do with the Monkey People.

The next thing he remembered was feeling hands on his legs and arms--hard, strong, little hands--and then a swash of branches in his face, and then he was staring down through the swaying boughs as Baloo woke the jungle with his deep cries and Bagheera bounded up the trunk with every tooth bared. The Bandar-log howled with triumph and scuffled away to the upper branches where Bagheera dared not follow, shouting: â€œHe has noticed us!

Bagheera has noticed us. All the Jungle-People admire us for our skill and our cunning.â€ Then they began their flight; and the flight of the Monkey-People through tree-land is one of the things nobody can describe.

They have their regular roads and crossroads, up hills and down hills, all laid out from fifty to seventy or a hundred feet above ground, and by these they can travel even at night if necessary. Two of the strongest monkeys caught Mowgli under the arms and swung off with him through the treetops, twenty feet at a bound. Had they been alone they could have gone twice as fast, but the boyâ€™s weight held them back.

Sick and giddy as Mowgli was he could not help enjoying the wild rush, though the glimpses of earth far down below frightened him, and the terrible check and jerk at the end of the swing over nothing but empty air brought his heart between his teeth. His escort would rush him up a tree till he felt the thinnest topmost branches crackle and bend under them, and then with a cough and a whoop would fling themselves into the air outward and downward, and bring up, hanging by their hands or their feet to the lower limbs of the next tree. Sometimes he could see for miles and miles across the still green jungle, as a man on the top of a mast can see for miles across the sea, and then the branches and leaves would lash him across the face, and he and his two guards would be almost down to earth again. So, bounding and crashing and whooping and yelling, the whole tribe of Bandar-log swept along the tree-roads with Mowgli their prisoner.

For a time he was afraid of being dropped. Then he grew angry but knew better than to struggle, and then he began to think. The first thing was to send back word to Baloo and Bagheera, for, at the pace the monkeys were going, he knew his friends would be left far behind.

It was useless to look down, for he could only see the topsides of the branches, so he stared upward and saw, far away in the blue, Rann the Kite balancing and wheeling as he kept watch over the jungle waiting for things to die. Rann saw that the monkeys were carrying something, and dropped a few hundred yards to find out whether their load was good to eat. He whistled with surprise when he saw Mowgli being dragged up to a treetop and heard him give the Kite call for--â€œWe be of one blood, thou and I.â€  The waves of the branches closed over the boy, but Rann balanced away to the next tree in time to see the little brown face come up again. â€œMark my trail!â€ Mowgli shouted. â€œTell Baloo of the Seeonee Pack and Bagheera of the Council Rock.â€ â€œIn whose name, Brother?â€ Rann had never seen Mowgli before, though of course he had heard of him.

â€œMowgli, the Frog.
Man-cub they call me! Mark

my trail!â€ The last words were shrieked as he was being swung through the air, but Rann nodded and rose up till he looked no bigger than a speck of dust, and there he hung, watching with his telescope eyes the swaying of the treetops as Mowgliâ€™s escort whirled along. â€œThey never go far,â€ he said with a chuckle.

â€œThey never do what they set out to do.
Always pecking at new things are the Bandar-log. This time, if I have any eye-sight, they have pecked down trouble for themselves, for Baloo is no fledgling and Bagheera can, as I know, kill more than goats.â€ So he rocked on his wings, his feet gathered up under him, and waited. Meantime, Baloo and Bagheera were furious with rage and grief.

Bagheera climbed as he had never climbed before, but the thin branches broke beneath his weight, and he slipped down, his claws full of bark. â€œWhy didst thou not warn the man-cub?â€ he roared to poor Baloo, who had set off at a clumsy trot in the hope of overtaking the monkeys. â€œWhat was the use of half slaying him with blows if thou didst not warn him?â€ â€œHaste! O haste!

We--we may catch them yet!â€ Baloo panted. â€œAt that speed!

It would not tire a wounded cow. Teacher of the Law--cub-beater--a mile of that rolling to and fro would burst thee open. Sit still and think!

Make a plan. This is no time for chasing. They may drop him if we follow too close.â€ â€œArrula!

Whoo!
They may have dropped him already, being tired of carrying him.

Who can trust the Bandar-log?
Put dead bats on my head! Give me black bones to eat! Roll me into the hives of the wild bees that I may be stung to death, and bury me with the Hyaena, for I am most miserable of bears! Arulala!
Wahooa!
O Mowgli, Mowgli!

Why did I not warn thee against the Monkey-Folk instead of breaking thy head? Now perhaps I may have knocked the dayâ€™s lesson out of his mind, and he will be alone in the jungle without the Master Words.â€ Baloo clasped his paws over his ears and rolled to and fro moaning. â€œAt least he gave me all the Words correctly a little time ago,â€ said Bagheera impatiently.

â€œBaloo, thou hast neither memory nor respect. What would the jungle think if I, the Black Panther, curled myself up like Ikki the Porcupine, and howled?â€ â€œWhat do I care what the jungle thinks?

He may be dead by now.â€ â€œUnless and until they drop him from the branches in sport, or kill him out of idleness, I have no fear for the man-cub. He is wise and well taught, and above all he has the eyes that make the Jungle-People afraid. But (and it is a great evil) he is in the power of the Bandar-log, and they, because they live in trees, have no fear of any of our people.â€ Bagheera licked one forepaw thoughtfully.

â€œFool that I am! Oh, fat, brown, root-digging fool that I am,â€ said Baloo, uncoiling himself with a jerk, â€œit is true what Hathi the Wild Elephant says: `To each his own fearâ€™; and they, the Bandar-log, fear Kaa the Rock Snake. He can climb as well as they can.

He steals the young monkeys in the night. The whisper of his name makes their wicked tails cold. Let us go to Kaa.â€ â€œWhat will he do for us?

He is not of our tribe, being footless--and with most evil eyes,â€ said Bagheera. â€œHe is very old and very cunning.

Above all, he is always hungry,â€ said Baloo hopefully. â€œPromise him many goats.â€ â€œHe sleeps for a full month after he has once eaten. He may be asleep now, and even were he awake what if he would rather kill his own goats?â€  Bagheera, who did not know much about Kaa, was naturally suspicious. â€œThen in that case, thou and I together, old hunter, might make him see reason.â€ Here Baloo rubbed his faded brown shoulder against the Panther, and they went off to look for Kaa the Rock Python.

They found him stretched out on a warm ledge in the afternoon sun, admiring his beautiful new coat, for he had been in retirement for the last ten days changing his skin, and now he was very splendid--darting his big blunt-nosed head along the ground, and twisting the thirty feet of his body into fantastic knots and curves, and licking his lips as he thought of his dinner to come. â€œHe has not eaten,â€ said Baloo, with a grunt of relief, as soon as he saw the beautifully mottled brown and yellow jacket. â€œBe careful, Bagheera!

He is always a little blind after he has changed his skin, and very quick to strike.â€ Kaa was not a poison snake--in fact he rather despised the poison snakes as cowards--but his strength lay in his hug, and when he had once lapped his huge coils round anybody there was no more to be said. â€œGood hunting!â€ cried Baloo, sitting up on his haunches. Like all snakes of his breed Kaa was rather deaf, and did not hear the call at first. Then he curled up ready for any accident, his head lowered.

â€œGood

hunting for us all,â€ he answered.

â€œOho, Baloo, what dost thou do here? Good hunting, Bagheera.

One of us at least needs food. Is there any news of game afoot? A doe now, or even a young buck?

I am as empty as a dried well.â€ â€œWe are hunting,â€ said Baloo carelessly. He knew that you must not hurry Kaa. He is too big.

â€œGive me permission to come with you,â€ said Kaa.
â€œA blow more or less is nothing to thee, Bagheera or Baloo, but I--I have to wait and wait for days in a wood-path and climb half a night on the mere chance of a young ape.

Psshaw! The branches are not what they were when I was young. Rotten twigs and dry boughs are

they all.â€ â€œMaybe thy great weight has something to do with the matter,â€ said Baloo. â€œI am a fair length--a fair length,â€ said Kaa with a little pride.

â€œBut for all that, it is the fault of this new-grown timber. I came very near to falling on my last hunt--very near indeed--and the noise of my slipping, for my tail was not tight wrapped around the tree, waked the Bandar-log, and they called me most evil names.â€ â€œFootless, yellow earth-worm,â€ said Bagheera under his whiskers, as though he were trying to remember something.
â€œSssss!
Have they ever called me that?â€ said Kaa.
â€œSomething of that kind it was that they shouted to us last moon, but we never noticed them. They will say anything--even that thou hast lost all thy teeth, and wilt not face anything bigger than a kid, because (they are indeed shameless, these Bandar-log)--because thou art afraid of the he-goatâ€™s horns,â€ Bagheera went on sweetly. Now a snake, especially a wary old python like Kaa, very seldom shows that he is angry, but Baloo and Bagheera could see the big swallowing muscles on either side of Kaaâ€™s throat ripple and bulge.

â€œThe Bandar-log have shifted their grounds,â€ he said quietly. â€œWhen I came up into the sun today I heard them whooping among the tree-tops.â€ â€œIt--it is the Bandar-log that we follow now,â€ said Baloo, but the words stuck in his throat, for that was the first time in his memory that one of the Jungle-People had owned to being interested in the doings of the monkeys. â€œBeyond doubt then it is no small thing that takes two such hunters--leaders in their own jungle I am certain--on the trail of the Bandar-log,â€ Kaa replied courteously, as he swelled with curiosity.

â€œIndeed,â€ Baloo began, â€œI am no more than the old and sometimes very foolish Teacher of the Law to the Seeonee wolf-cubs, and Bagheera here--â€ â€œIs Bagheera,â€ said the Black Panther, and his jaws shut with a snap, for he did not believe in being humble. â€œThe trouble is this, Kaa. Those nut-stealers and pickers of palm leaves have stolen away our man-cub of whom thou hast perhaps heard.â€ â€œI heard some news from Ikki (his quills make him presumptuous) of a man-thing that was entered into a wolf pack, but I did not believe. Ikki is full of stories half heard and very badly told.â€ â€œBut it is true.

He is such a man-cub as never was,â€ said Baloo. â€œThe best and wisest and boldest of man-cubs--my own pupil, who shall make the name of Baloo famous through all the jungles; and besides, I--we--love him, Kaa.â€ â€œTs! Ts!â€ said Kaa, weaving his head to and fro. â€œI also have known what love is. There are tales I could tell that--â€ â€œThat need a clear night when we are all well fed to praise properly,â€  said Bagheera quickly.

â€œOur man-cub is in the hands of the Bandar-log now, and we know that of all the Jungle-People they fear Kaa alone.â€ â€œThey fear me alone. They have good reason,â€ said Kaa.
â€œChattering, foolish, vain--vain, foolish, and chattering, are the monkeys. But a man-thing in their hands is in no good luck.

They grow tired of the nuts they pick, and throw them down. They carry a branch half a day, meaning to do great things with it, and then they snap it in two. That man-thing is not to be envied. They called me also--`yellow fishâ€™ was it not?â€ â€œWorm--worm--earth-worm,â€ said Bagheera,

â€œas well as other things which I cannot now say for shame.â€ â€œWe must remind them to speak well of their master.

Aaa-ssp! We must help their wandering memories. Now, whither went they with the cub?â€ â€œThe jungle alone knows. Toward the sunset, I believe,â€ said Baloo.

â€œWe had thought that thou wouldst know, Kaa.â€ â€œI?

How?
I take them when they come in my way, but I do not hunt the Bandar-log, or frogs--or green scum on a water-hole, for that matter.â€ â€œUp, Up!

Up, Up!
Hillo! Illo!
Illo, look up, Baloo of the Seeonee Wolf Pack!â€ Baloo looked up to see where the voice came from, and there was Rann the Kite, sweeping down with the sun shining on the upturned flanges of his wings. It was near Rannâ€™s bedtime, but he had ranged all over the jungle looking for the Bear and had missed him in the thick foliage.

â€œWhat is it?â€ said Baloo.
â€œI have seen Mowgli among the Bandar-log. He bade me tell you. I watched. The Bandar-log have taken him beyond the river to the monkey city--to the Cold Lairs.

They may stay there for a night, or ten nights, or an hour. I have told the bats to watch through the dark time. That is my message. Good hunting, all you below!â€ â€œFull gorge and a deep sleep to you, Rann,â€ cried Bagheera. â€œI will remember thee in my next kill, and put aside the head for thee alone, O best of kites!â€ â€œIt is nothing.

It is nothing. The boy held the Master Word. I could have done no less,â€ and Rann circled up again to his roost. â€œHe has not forgotten to use his tongue,â€ said Baloo with a chuckle of pride. â€œTo think of one so young remembering the Master Word for the birds too while he was being pulled across trees!â€ â€œIt was most firmly driven into him,â€ said Bagheera.

â€œBut I am proud of him, and now we must go to the Cold Lairs.â€ They all knew where that place was, but few of the Jungle People ever went there, because what they called the Cold Lairs was an old deserted city, lost and buried in the jungle, and beasts seldom use a place that men have once used. The wild boar will, but the hunting tribes do not.

Besides, the monkeys lived there as much as they could be said to live anywhere, and no self-respecting animal would come within eyeshot of it except in times of drought, when the half-ruined tanks and reservoirs held a little water. [Illustration: The â€œCold Lairsâ€]

â€œIt is half a nightâ€™s journey--at full speed,â€ said Bagheera, and Baloo looked very serious. â€œI will go as fast as I can,â€ he said anxiously. â€œWe dare not wait for thee.

Follow, Baloo. We must go on the quick-foot--Kaa and I.â€ â€œFeet or no feet, I can keep abreast of all thy four,â€ said Kaa shortly. Baloo made one effort to hurry, but had to sit down panting, and so they left him to come on later, while Bagheera hurried forward, at the quick panther-canter.

Kaa said nothing, but, strive as Bagheera might, the huge Rock-python held level with him. When they came to a hill stream, Bagheera gained, because he bounded across while Kaa swam, his head and two feet of his neck clearing the water, but on level ground Kaa made up the distance. â€œBy the Broken Lock that freed me,â€ said Bagheera, when twilight had fallen, â€œthou art no slow goer!â€ â€œI am hungry,â€ said Kaa.

â€œBesides, they called me speckled frog.â€ â€œWorm--earth-worm, and yellow to boot.â€ â€œAll one.

Let us go on,â€ and Kaa seemed to pour himself along the ground, finding the shortest road with his steady eyes, and keeping to it. In the Cold Lairs the Monkey-People were not thinking of Mowgliâ€™s friends at all. They had brought the boy to the Lost City, and were very much pleased with themselves for the time.

Mowgli had never seen an Indian city before, and though this was almost a heap of ruins it seemed very wonderful and splendid. Some king had built it long ago on a little hill. You could still trace the stone causeways that led up to the ruined gates where the last splinters of wood hung to the worn, rusted hinges. Trees had grown into and out of the walls; the battlements were tumbled down and decayed, and wild creepers hung out of the windows of the towers on the walls in bushy hanging clumps.

A great roofless palace crowned the hill, and the marble of the courtyards and the fountains was split, and stained with red and green, and the very cobblestones in the courtyard where the kingâ€™s elephants used to live had been thrust up and apart by grasses and young trees. From the palace you could see the rows and rows of roofless houses that made up the city looking like empty honeycombs filled with blackness; the shapeless block of stone that had been an idol in the square where four roads met; the pits and dimples at street corners where the public wells once stood, and the shattered domes of temples with wild figs sprouting on their sides. The monkeys called the place their city, and pretended to despise the Jungle-People because they lived in the forest. And yet they never knew what the buildings were made for nor how to use them.

They would sit in circles on the hall of the kingâ€™s council chamber, and scratch for fleas and pretend to be men; or they would run in and out of the roofless houses and collect pieces of plaster and old bricks in a corner, and forget where they had hidden them, and fight and cry in scuffling crowds, and then break off to play up and down the terraces of the kingâ€™s garden, where they would shake the rose trees and the oranges in sport to see the fruit and flowers fall. They explored all the passages and dark tunnels in the palace and the hundreds of little dark rooms, but they never remembered what they had seen and what they had not; and so drifted about in ones and twos or crowds telling each other that they were doing as men did. They drank at the tanks and made the water all muddy, and then they fought over it, and then they would all rush together in mobs and shout: â€œThere is no one in the jungle so wise and good and clever and strong and gentle as the Bandar-log.â€ Then all would begin again till they grew tired of the city and went back to the tree-tops, hoping the Jungle-People would notice them. Mowgli, who had been trained under the Law of the Jungle, did not like or understand this kind of life.

The monkeys dragged him into the Cold Lairs late in the afternoon, and instead of going to sleep, as Mowgli would have done after a long journey, they joined hands and danced about and sang their foolish songs. One of the monkeys made a speech and told his companions that Mowgliâ€™s capture marked a new thing in the history of the Bandar-log, for Mowgli was going to show them how to weave sticks and canes together as a protection against rain and cold. Mowgli picked up some creepers and began to work them in and out, and the monkeys tried to imitate; but in a very few minutes they lost interest and began to pull their friendsâ€™ tails or jump up and down on all fours, coughing. â€œI wish to eat,â€ said Mowgli.

â€œI am a stranger in this part of the jungle.

Bring me food, or give me leave to hunt here.â€ Twenty or thirty monkeys bounded away to bring him nuts and wild pawpaws. But they fell to fighting on the road, and it was too much trouble to go back with what was left of the fruit.

Mowgli was sore and angry as well as hungry, and he roamed through the empty city giving the Strangersâ€™ Hunting Call from time to time, but no one answered him, and Mowgli felt that he had reached a very bad place indeed. â€œAll that Baloo has said about the Bandar-log is true,â€ he thought to himself. â€œThey have no Law, no Hunting Call, and no leaders--nothing but foolish words and little picking thievish hands.

So if I am starved or killed here, it will be all my own fault. But I must try to return to my own jungle.

Baloo will surely beat me, but that is better than chasing silly rose leaves with the Bandar-log.â€ No sooner had he walked to the city wall than the monkeys pulled him back, telling him that he did not know how happy he was, and pinching him to make him grateful. He set his teeth and said nothing, but went with the shouting monkeys to a terrace above the red sandstone reservoirs that were half-full of rain water. There was a ruined summer-house of white marble in the center of the terrace, built for queens dead a hundred years ago. The domed roof had half fallen in and blocked up the underground passage from the palace by which the queens used to enter.

But the walls were made of screens of marble tracery--beautiful milk-white fretwork, set with agates and cornelians and jasper and lapis lazuli, and as the moon came up behind the hill it shone through the open work, casting shadows on the ground like black velvet embroidery.

Sore, sleepy, and hungry as he was, Mowgli could not help laughing when the Bandar-log began, twenty at a time, to tell him how great and wise and strong and gentle they were, and how foolish he was to wish to leave them. â€œWe are great. We are free. We are wonderful. We are the most wonderful people in all the jungle!

We all say so, and so it must be true,â€ they shouted. â€œNow as you are a new listener and can carry our words back to the Jungle-People so that they may notice us in future, we will tell you all about our most excellent selves.â€ Mowgli made no objection, and the monkeys gathered by hundreds and hundreds on the terrace to listen to their own speakers singing the praises of the Bandar-log, and whenever a speaker stopped for want of breath they would all shout together: â€œThis is true; we all say so.â€ Mowgli nodded and blinked, and said â€œYesâ€ when they asked him a question, and his head spun with the noise. â€œTabaqui the Jackal must have bitten all these people,â€ he said to himself, â€œand now they have madness. Certainly this is _dewanee_, the madness. Do they never go to sleep?

Now there is a cloud coming to cover that moon. If it were only a big enough cloud I might try to run away in the darkness. But I am tired.â€ That same cloud was being watched by two good friends in the ruined ditch below the city wall, for Bagheera and Kaa, knowing well how dangerous the Monkey-People were in large numbers, did not wish to run any risks.

The monkeys never fight unless they are a hundred to one, and few in the jungle care for those odds. â€œI will go to the west wall,â€ Kaa whispered, â€œand come down swiftly with the slope of the ground in my favor. They will not throw themselves upon my back in their hundreds, but--â€ â€œI know it,â€ said Bagheera.

â€œWould that Baloo were here, but we must do what we can.

When that cloud covers the moon I shall go to the terrace. They hold some sort of council there over the boy.â€ â€œGood hunting,â€ said Kaa grimly, and glided away to the west wall.

That happened to be the least ruined of any, and the big snake was delayed awhile before he could find a way up the stones. The cloud hid the moon, and as Mowgli wondered what would come next he heard Bagheeraâ€™s light feet on the terrace. The Black Panther had raced up the slope almost without a sound and was striking--he knew better than to waste time in biting--right and left among the monkeys, who were seated round Mowgli in circles fifty and sixty deep. There was a howl of fright and rage, and then as Bagheera tripped on the rolling kicking bodies beneath him, a monkey shouted: â€œThere is only one here! Kill him!
Kill.â€

A scuffling mass of monkeys, biting, scratching, tearing, and pulling, closed over Bagheera, while five or six laid hold of Mowgli, dragged him up the wall of the summerhouse and pushed him through the hole of the broken dome.

A man-trained boy would have been badly bruised, for the fall was a good fifteen feet, but Mowgli fell as Baloo had taught him to fall, and landed on his feet. â€œStay there,â€ shouted the monkeys, â€œtill we have killed thy friends, and later we will play with thee--if the Poison-People leave thee alive.â€ â€œWe be of one blood, ye and I,â€ said Mowgli, quickly giving the Snakeâ€™s Call. He could hear rustling and hissing in the rubbish all round him and gave the Call a second time, to make sure. â€œEven ssso!
Down hoods all!â€ said half a dozen low voices (every ruin in India becomes sooner or later a dwelling place of snakes, and the old summerhouse was alive with cobras).

â€œStand still, Little Brother, for thy feet may do us harm.â€ Mowgli stood as quietly as he could, peering through the open work and listening to the furious din of the fight round the Black Panther--the yells and chatterings and scufflings, and Bagheeraâ€™s deep, hoarse cough as he backed and bucked and twisted and plunged under the heaps of his enemies. For the first time since he was born, Bagheera was fighting for his life. â€œBaloo must be at hand; Bagheera would not have come alone,â€ Mowgli thought.

And then he called aloud:

â€œTo the tank, Bagheera.
Roll to the water tanks.
Roll and plunge!

Get to the water!â€ Bagheera heard, and the cry that told him Mowgli was safe gave him new courage. He worked his way desperately, inch by inch, straight for the reservoirs, halting in silence. Then from the ruined wall nearest the jungle rose up the rumbling war-shout of Baloo. The old Bear had done his best, but he could not come before.

â€œBagheera,â€ he shouted, â€œI am here. I climb! I haste! Ahuwora!

The stones slip under my feet!

Wait my coming, O most infamous Bandar-log!â€ He panted up the terrace only to disappear to the head in a wave of monkeys, but he threw himself squarely on his haunches, and, spreading out his forepaws, hugged as many as he could hold, and then began to hit with a regular bat-bat-bat, like the flipping strokes of a paddle wheel. A crash and a splash told Mowgli that Bagheera had fought his way to the tank where the monkeys could not follow. The Panther lay gasping for breath, his head just out of the water, while the monkeys stood three deep on the red steps, dancing up and down with rage, ready to spring upon him from all sides if he came out to help Baloo. It was then that Bagheera lifted up his dripping chin, and in despair gave the Snakeâ€™s Call for protection--â€œWe be of one blood, ye and Iâ€--for he believed that Kaa had turned tail at the last minute.

Even Baloo, half smothered under the monkeys on the edge of the terrace, could not help chuckling as he heard the Black Panther asking for help. Kaa had only just worked his way over the west wall, landing with a wrench that dislodged a coping stone into the ditch. He had no intention of losing any advantage of the ground, and coiled and uncoiled himself once or twice, to be sure that every foot of his long body was in working order. All that while the fight with Baloo went on, and the monkeys yelled in the tank round Bagheera, and Mang the Bat, flying to and fro, carried the news of the great battle over the jungle, till even Hathi the Wild Elephant trumpeted, and, far away, scattered bands of the Monkey-Folk woke and came leaping along the tree-roads to help their comrades in the Cold Lairs, and the noise of the fight roused all the day birds for miles round.

Then Kaa came straight, quickly, and anxious to kill. The fighting strength of a python is in the driving blow of his head backed by all the strength and weight of his body. If you can imagine a lance, or a battering ram, or a hammer weighing nearly half a ton driven by a cool, quiet mind living in the handle of it, you can roughly imagine what Kaa was like when he fought. A python four or five feet long can knock a man down if he hits him fairly in the chest, and Kaa was thirty feet long, as you know. His first stroke was delivered into the heart of the crowd round Baloo.

It was sent home with shut mouth in silence, and there was no need of a second. The monkeys scattered with cries of--â€œKaa! It is Kaa!
Run! Run!â€ Generations of monkeys had been scared into good behavior by the stories their elders told them of Kaa, the night thief, who could slip along the branches as quietly as moss grows, and steal away the strongest monkey that ever lived; of old Kaa, who could make himself look so like a dead branch or a rotten stump that the wisest were deceived, till the branch caught them. Kaa was everything that the monkeys feared in the jungle, for none of them knew the limits of his power, none of them could look him in the face, and none had ever come alive out of his hug.

And so they ran, stammering with terror, to the walls and the roofs of the houses, and Baloo drew a deep breath of relief. His fur was much thicker than Bagheeraâ€™s, but he had suffered sorely in the fight. Then Kaa opened his mouth for the first time and spoke one long hissing word, and the far-away monkeys, hurrying to the defense of the Cold Lairs, stayed where they were, cowering, till the loaded branches bent and crackled under them.

The monkeys on the walls and the empty houses stopped their cries, and in the stillness that fell upon the city Mowgli heard Bagheera shaking his wet sides as he came up from the tank. Then the clamor broke out again. The monkeys leaped higher up the walls. They clung around the necks of the big stone idols and shrieked as they skipped along the battlements, while Mowgli, dancing in the summerhouse, put his eye to the screenwork and hooted owl-fashion between his front teeth, to show his derision and contempt.

â€œGet the man-cub out of that trap; I can do no more,â€ Bagheera gasped. â€œLet

us take the man-cub and go. They may attack again.â€ â€œThey will not move till I order them. Stay you sssso!â€ Kaa hissed, and the city was silent once more.

â€œI could not come before, Brother, but I think I heard thee callâ€--this was to Bagheera. â€œI--I may have cried out in the battle,â€ Bagheera answered. â€œBaloo, art thou hurt?

â€œI am not sure that they did not pull me into a hundred little bearlings,â€ said Baloo, gravely shaking one leg after the other. â€œWow!

I am sore. Kaa, we owe thee, I think, our lives--Bagheera and I.â€ â€œNo matter. Where is the manling?â€ â€œHere, in a trap. I cannot climb out,â€ cried Mowgli.

The curve of the broken dome was above his head. â€œTake him away.

He dances like Mao the Peacock. He will crush our young,â€ said the cobras inside. â€œHah!â€ said Kaa with a chuckle, â€œhe has friends everywhere, this manling.

Stand back, manling.
And hide you, O Poison People.

I break down the wall.â€ Kaa looked carefully till he found a discolored crack in the marble tracery showing a weak spot, made two or three light taps with his head to get the distance, and then lifting up six feet of his body clear of the ground, sent home half a dozen full-power smashing blows, nose-first. The screen-work broke and fell away in a cloud of dust and rubbish, and Mowgli leaped through the opening and flung himself between Baloo and Bagheera--an arm around each big neck. â€œArt thou hurt?â€ said Baloo, hugging him softly.

â€œI am sore, hungry, and not a little bruised. But, oh, they have handled ye grievously, my Brothers!
Ye

bleed.â€ â€œOthers also,â€ said Bagheera, licking his lips and looking at the monkey-dead on the terrace and round the tank.

â€œIt is nothing, it is nothing, if thou art safe, oh, my pride of all little frogs!â€ whimpered Baloo.
â€œOf that we shall judge later,â€ said Bagheera, in a dry voice that Mowgli did not at all like. â€œBut here is Kaa to whom we owe the battle and thou owest thy life. Thank him according to our customs, Mowgli.â€ Mowgli turned and saw the great Pythonâ€™s head swaying a foot above his own.

â€œSo this is the manling,â€ said Kaa.
â€œVery soft is his skin, and he is not unlike the Bandar-log. Have a care, manling, that I do not mistake thee for a monkey some twilight when I have newly changed my coat.â€ â€œWe be one blood, thou and I,â€ Mowgli answered. â€œI take my life from thee tonight.

My kill shall be thy kill if ever thou art hungry, O Kaa.â€ â€œAll thanks, Little Brother,â€ said Kaa, though his eyes twinkled. â€œAnd what may so bold a hunter kill? I ask that I may follow when next he goes abroad.â€ â€œI kill nothing,--I am too little,--but I drive goats toward such as can use them. When thou art empty come to me and see if I speak the truth.

I have some skill in these [he held out his hands], and if ever thou art in a trap, I may pay the debt which I owe to thee, to Bagheera, and to Baloo, here. Good hunting to ye all, my masters.â€ â€œWell said,â€ growled Baloo, for Mowgli had returned thanks very prettily. The Python dropped his head lightly for a minute on Mowgliâ€™s shoulder. â€œA brave heart and a courteous tongue,â€ said he. â€œThey shall carry thee far through the jungle, manling.

But now go hence quickly with thy friends.

Go and sleep, for the moon sets, and what follows it is not well that thou shouldst see.â€ The moon was sinking behind the hills and the lines of trembling monkeys huddled together on the walls and battlements looked like ragged shaky fringes of things. Baloo went down to the tank for a drink and Bagheera began to put his fur in order, as Kaa glided out into the center of the terrace and brought his jaws together with a ringing snap that drew all the monkeysâ€™ eyes upon him. â€œThe moon sets,â€ he said.

â€œIs there yet light enough to see?â€ From the walls came a moan like the wind in the tree-tops--â€œWe see, O Kaa.â€ â€œGood. Begins now the dance--the Dance of the Hunger of Kaa. Sit still and watch.â€ He turned twice or thrice in a big circle, weaving his head from right to left.

Then he began making loops and figures of eight with his body, and soft, oozy triangles that melted into squares and five-sided figures, and coiled mounds, never resting, never hurrying, and never stopping his low humming song. It grew darker and darker, till at last the dragging, shifting coils disappeared, but they could hear the rustle of the scales. Baloo and Bagheera stood still as stone, growling in their throats, their neck hair bristling, and Mowgli watched and wondered.
â€œBandar-log,â€ said the voice of Kaa at last, â€œcan ye stir foot or hand without my order? Speak!â€ â€œWithout thy order we cannot stir foot or hand, O Kaa!â€ â€œGood!

Come all one pace nearer to me.â€ The lines of the monkeys swayed forward helplessly, and Baloo and Bagheera took one stiff step forward with them.
â€œNearer!â€ hissed Kaa, and they all moved again. Mowgli laid his hands on Baloo and Bagheera to get them away, and the two great beasts started as though they had been waked from a dream. â€œKeep thy hand on my shoulder,â€ Bagheera whispered. â€œKeep it there, or I must go back--must go back to Kaa. Aah!â€ â€œIt is only old Kaa making circles on the dust,â€ said Mowgli.

â€œLet

us go.â€ And the three slipped off through a gap in the walls to the jungle.
â€œWhoof!â€ said Baloo, when he stood under the still trees again.

â€œNever more will I make an ally of Kaa,â€ and he shook himself all over. â€œHe knows more than we,â€ said Bagheera, trembling. â€œIn a little time, had I stayed, I should have walked down his throat.â€ â€œMany will walk by that road before the moon rises again,â€ said Baloo.

â€œHe will have good hunting--after his own fashion.â€ â€œBut what was the meaning of it all?â€ said Mowgli, who did not know anything of a pythonâ€™s powers of fascination. â€œI saw no more than a big snake making foolish circles till the dark came. And his nose was all sore. Ho!
Ho!â€ â€œMowgli,â€ said Bagheera angrily, â€œhis nose was sore on thy account, as my ears and sides and paws, and Balooâ€™s neck and shoulders are bitten on thy account.

Neither Baloo nor Bagheera will be able to hunt with pleasure for many days.â€ â€œIt is nothing,â€ said Baloo; â€œwe have the man-cub again.â€ â€œTrue, but he has cost us heavily in time which might have been spent in good hunting, in wounds, in hair--I am half plucked along my back--and last of all, in honor. For, remember, Mowgli, I, who am the Black Panther, was forced to call upon Kaa for protection, and Baloo and I were both made stupid as little birds by the Hunger Dance. All this, man-cub, came of thy playing with the Bandar-log.â€ â€œTrue, it is true,â€ said Mowgli sorrowfully. â€œI am an evil man-cub, and my stomach is sad in me.â€ â€œMf!

What says the Law of the Jungle,

Baloo?â€ Baloo did not wish to bring Mowgli into any more trouble, but he could not tamper with the Law, so he mumbled: â€œSorrow never stays punishment. But remember, Bagheera, he is very little.â€ â€œI will remember.

But he has done mischief, and blows must be dealt now.

Mowgli, hast thou anything to say?â€ â€œNothing. I did wrong. Baloo and thou are wounded. It is just.â€ Bagheera gave him half a dozen love-taps from a pantherâ€™s point of view (they would hardly have waked one of his own cubs), but for a seven-year-old boy they amounted to as severe a beating as you could wish to avoid.

When it was all over Mowgli sneezed, and picked himself up without a word.
â€œNow,â€ said Bagheera, â€œjump on my back, Little Brother, and we will go home.â€ One of the beauties of Jungle Law is that punishment settles all scores. There is no nagging afterward. Mowgli laid his head down on Bagheeraâ€™s back and slept so deeply that he never waked when he was put down in the home-cave.

Road-Song of the Bandar-Log

Here we go in a flung festoon,      Half-way up to the jealous moon! Donâ€™t you envy our pranceful bands?
Donâ€™t you wish you had extra hands?

Wouldnâ€™t you like if your tails were--so--      Curved in the shape of a Cupidâ€™s bow? Now youâ€™re angry, but--never mind,         _ Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!_

Here we sit in a branchy row,      Thinking of beautiful things we know;      Dreaming of deeds that we mean to do,      All complete, in a minute or two-- Something noble and wise and good,      Done by merely wishing we could. Weâ€™ve forgotten, but--never mind,         _Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!_ All the talk we ever have heard      Uttered by bat or beast or bird--      Hide or fin or scale or feather--      Jabber it quickly and all together! Excellent!
Wonderful!

Once again!

Now we are talking just like men!
Letâ€™s pretend we are ... never mind,         _Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!_ This is the way of the Monkey-kind.
_Then join our leaping lines that scumfish through the pines,      That rocket by where, light and high, the wild grape swings. By the rubbish in our wake, and the noble noise we make,      Be sure, be sure, weâ€™re going to do some splendid things!_

â€œTiger!

Tiger!â€

What of the hunting, hunter bold?

Brother, the watch was long and cold. What of the quarry ye went to kill? Brother, he crops in the jungle still.
Where is the power that made your pride?
Brother, it ebbs from my flank and side. Where is the haste that ye hurry by?
Brother, I go to my lair--to die. Now we must go back to the first tale.

When Mowgli left the wolfâ€™s cave after the fight with the Pack at the Council Rock, he went down to the plowed lands where the villagers lived, but he would not stop there because it was too near to the jungle, and he knew that he had made at least one bad enemy at the Council. So he hurried on, keeping to the rough road that ran down the valley, and followed it at a steady jog-trot for nearly twenty miles, till he came to a country that he did not know. The valley opened out into a great plain dotted over with rocks and cut up by ravines. At one end stood a little village, and at the other the thick jungle came down in a sweep to the grazing-grounds, and stopped there as though it had been cut off with a hoe. All over the plain, cattle and buffaloes were grazing, and when the little boys in charge of the herds saw Mowgli they shouted and ran away, and the yellow pariah dogs that hang about every Indian village barked.

Mowgli walked on, for he was feeling hungry, and when he came to the village gate he saw the big thorn-bush that was drawn up before the gate at twilight, pushed to one side. â€œUmph!â€ he said, for he had come across more than one such barricade in his night rambles after things to eat. â€œSo men are afraid of the People of the Jungle here also.â€ He sat down by the gate, and when a man came out he stood up, opened his mouth, and pointed down it to show that he wanted food.

The man stared, and ran back up the one street of the village shouting for the priest, who was a big, fat man dressed in white, with a red and yellow mark on his forehead. The priest came to the gate, and with him at least a hundred people, who stared and talked and shouted and pointed at Mowgli. â€œThey have no manners, these Men Folk,â€ said Mowgli to himself. â€œOnly the gray ape would behave as they do.â€ So he threw back his long hair and frowned at the crowd.

â€œWhat is there to be afraid of?â€ said the priest. â€œLook at the marks on his arms and legs.

They are the bites of wolves. He is but a wolf-child run away from the jungle.â€ Of course, in playing together, the cubs had often nipped Mowgli harder than they intended, and there were white scars all over his arms and legs. But he would have been the last person in the world to call these bites, for he knew what real biting meant.
â€œArre!
Arre!â€ said two or three women together.

â€œTo be bitten by wolves, poor child! He is a handsome boy. He has eyes like red fire. By my honor, Messua, he is not unlike thy boy that was taken by the tiger.â€ â€œLet me look,â€ said a woman with heavy copper rings on her wrists and ankles, and she peered at Mowgli under the palm of her hand.

â€œIndeed he is not. He is thinner, but he has the very look of my boy.â€ The priest was a clever man, and he knew that Messua was wife to the richest villager in the place. So he looked up at the sky for a minute and said solemnly: â€œWhat the jungle has taken the jungle has restored.

Take the boy into thy house, my sister, and forget not to honor the priest who sees so far into the lives of men.â€ â€œBy the Bull that bought me,â€ said Mowgli to himself, â€œbut all this talking is like another looking-over by the Pack! Well, if I am a man, a man I must become.â€ The crowd parted as the woman beckoned Mowgli to her hut, where there was a red lacquered bedstead, a great earthen grain chest with funny raised patterns on it, half a dozen copper cooking pots, an image of a Hindu god in a little alcove, and on the wall a real looking glass, such as they sell at the country fairs. She gave him a long drink of milk and some bread, and then she laid her hand on his head and looked into his eyes; for she thought perhaps that he might be her real son come back from the jungle where the tiger had taken him. So she said, â€œNathoo, O Nathoo!â€ Mowgli did not show that he knew the name.

â€œDost thou not remember the day when I gave thee thy new shoes?â€ She touched his foot, and it was almost as hard as horn. â€œNo,â€  she said sorrowfully, â€œthose feet have never worn shoes, but thou art very like my Nathoo, and thou shalt be my son.â€ Mowgli was uneasy, because he had never been under a roof before. But as he looked at the thatch, he saw that he could tear it out any time if he wanted to get away, and that the window had no fastenings.

â€œWhat is the good of a man,â€ he said to himself at last, â€œif he does not understand manâ€™s talk? Now I am as silly and dumb as a man would be with us in the jungle. I must speak their talk.â€ It was not for fun that he had learned while he was with the wolves to imitate the challenge of bucks in the jungle and the grunt of the little wild pig. So, as soon as Messua pronounced a word Mowgli would imitate it almost perfectly, and before dark he had learned the names of many things in the hut.

There was a difficulty at bedtime, because Mowgli would not sleep under anything that looked so like a panther trap as that hut, and when they shut the door he went through the window. â€œGive him his will,â€ said Messuaâ€™s husband. â€œRemember he can never till now have slept on a bed. If he is indeed sent in the place of our son he will not run away.â€ So Mowgli stretched himself in some long, clean grass at the edge of the field, but before he had closed his eyes a soft gray nose poked him under the chin.
â€œPhew!â€ said Gray Brother (he was the eldest of Mother Wolfâ€™s cubs). â€œThis is a poor reward for following thee twenty miles.

Thou smellest of wood smoke and cattle--altogether like a man already.

Wake, Little Brother; I bring news.â€ â€œAre all well in the jungle?â€ said Mowgli, hugging him. â€œAll except the wolves that were burned with the Red Flower. Now, listen. Shere Khan has gone away to hunt far off till his coat grows again, for he is badly singed.

When he returns he swears that he will lay thy bones in the Waingunga.â€ â€œThere are two words to that. I also have made a little promise. But news is always good.

I am tired to-night,--very tired with new things, Gray Brother,--but bring me the news always.â€ â€œThou wilt not forget that thou art a wolf? Men will not make thee forget?â€ said Gray Brother anxiously. â€œNever.
I will always remember that I love thee and all in our cave. But also I will always remember that I have been cast out of the Pack.â€ â€œAnd that thou mayest be cast out of another pack.

Men are only men, Little Brother, and their talk is like the talk of frogs in a pond. When I come down here again, I will wait for thee in the bamboos at the edge of the grazing-ground.â€ For three months after that night Mowgli hardly ever left the village gate, he was so busy learning the ways and customs of men. First he had to wear a cloth round him, which annoyed him horribly; and then he had to learn about money, which he did not in the least understand, and about plowing, of which he did not see the use. Then the little children in the village made him very angry.

Luckily, the Law of the Jungle had taught him to keep his temper, for in the jungle life and food depend on keeping your temper; but when they made fun of him because he would not play games or fly kites, or because he mispronounced some word, only the knowledge that it was unsportsmanlike to kill little naked cubs kept him from picking them up and breaking them in two. He did not know his own strength in the least. In the jungle he knew he was weak compared with the beasts, but in the village people said that he was as strong as a bull. And Mowgli had not the faintest idea of the difference that caste makes between man and man. When the potterâ€™s donkey slipped in the clay pit, Mowgli hauled it out by the tail, and helped to stack the pots for their journey to the market at Khanhiwara.

That was very shocking, too, for the potter is a low-caste man, and his donkey is worse. When the priest scolded him, Mowgli threatened to put him on the donkey too, and the priest told Messuaâ€™s husband that Mowgli had better be set to work as soon as possible; and the village head-man told Mowgli that he would have to go out with the buffaloes next day, and herd them while they grazed. No one was more pleased than Mowgli; and that night, because he had been appointed a servant of the village, as it were, he went off to a circle that met every evening on a masonry platform under a great fig-tree.

It was the village club, and the head-man and the watchman and the barber, who knew all the gossip of the village, and old Buldeo, the village hunter, who had a Tower musket, met and smoked. The monkeys sat and talked in the upper branches, and there was a hole under the platform where a cobra lived, and he had his little platter of milk every night because he was sacred; and the old men sat around the tree and talked, and pulled at the big huqas (the water-pipes) till far into the night. They told wonderful tales of gods and men and ghosts; and Buldeo told even more wonderful ones of the ways of beasts in the jungle, till the eyes of the children sitting outside the circle bulged out of their heads. Most of the tales were about animals, for the jungle was always at their door.

The deer and the wild pig grubbed up their crops, and now and again the tiger carried off a man at twilight, within sight of the village gates. Mowgli, who naturally knew something about what they were talking of, had to cover his face not to show that he was laughing, while Buldeo, the Tower musket across his knees, climbed on from one wonderful story to another, and Mowgliâ€™s shoulders shook. Buldeo was explaining how the tiger that had carried away Messuaâ€™s son was a ghost-tiger, and his body was inhabited by the ghost of a wicked, old money-lender, who had died some years ago. â€œAnd I know that this is true,â€ he said, â€œbecause Purun Dass always limped from the blow that he got in a riot when his account books were burned, and the tiger that I speak of he limps, too, for the tracks of his pads are unequal.â€ â€œTrue, true, that must be the truth,â€ said the gray-beards, nodding together.

â€œAre all these tales such cobwebs and moontalk?â€ said Mowgli. â€œThat tiger limps because he was born lame, as everyone knows. To talk of the soul of a money-lender in a beast that never had the courage of a jackal is childâ€™s talk.â€ Buldeo was speechless with surprise for a moment, and the head-man stared.

â€œOho!
It is the jungle brat, is it?â€ said Buldeo.

â€œIf thou art so wise, better bring his hide to Khanhiwara, for the Government has set a hundred rupees on his life. Better still, talk not when thy elders speak.â€ Mowgli rose to go.
â€œAll the evening I have lain here listening,â€ he called back over his shoulder, â€œand, except once or twice, Buldeo has not said one word of truth concerning the jungle, which is at his very doors. How, then, shall I believe the tales of ghosts and gods and goblins which he says he has seen?â€ â€œIt is full time that boy went to herding,â€ said the head-man, while Buldeo puffed and snorted at Mowgliâ€™s impertinence.

The custom of most Indian villages is for a few boys to take the cattle and buffaloes out to graze in the early morning, and bring them back at night. The very cattle that would trample a white man to death allow themselves to be banged and bullied and shouted at by children that hardly come up to their noses. So long as the boys keep with the herds they are safe, for not even the tiger will charge a mob of cattle. But if they straggle to pick flowers or hunt lizards, they are sometimes carried off.

Mowgli went through the village street in the dawn, sitting on the back of Rama, the great herd bull. The slaty-blue buffaloes, with their long, backward-sweeping horns and savage eyes, rose out their byres, one by one, and followed him, and Mowgli made it very clear to the children with him that he was the master. He beat the buffaloes with a long, polished bamboo, and told Kamya, one of the boys, to graze the cattle by themselves, while he went on with the buffaloes, and to be very careful not to stray away from the herd. An Indian grazing ground is all rocks and scrub and tussocks and little ravines, among which the herds scatter and disappear.

The buffaloes generally keep to the pools and muddy places, where they lie wallowing or basking in the warm mud for hours. Mowgli drove them on to the edge of the plain where the Waingunga came out of the jungle; then he dropped from Ramaâ€™s neck, trotted off to a bamboo clump, and found Gray Brother. â€œAh,â€ said Gray Brother, â€œI have waited here very many days. What is the meaning of this cattle-herding work?â€ â€œIt is an order,â€ said Mowgli.

â€œI am a village herd for a while. What news of Shere Khan?â€ â€œHe has come back to this country, and has waited here a long time for thee. Now he has gone off again, for the game is scarce. But he means to kill thee.â€ â€œVery good,â€ said Mowgli.
â€œSo long as he is away do thou or one of the four brothers sit on that rock, so that I can see thee as I come out of the village.

When he comes back wait for me in the ravine by the _dhÃ¢k_ tree in the center of the plain. We need not walk into Shere Khanâ€™s mouth.â€ Then Mowgli picked out a shady place, and lay down and slept while the buffaloes grazed round him. Herding in India is one of the laziest things in the world.

The cattle move and crunch, and lie down, and move on again, and they do not even low. They only grunt, and the buffaloes very seldom say anything, but get down into the muddy pools one after another, and work their way into the mud till only their noses and staring china-blue eyes show above the surface, and then they lie like logs. The sun makes the rocks dance in the heat, and the herd children hear one kite (never any more) whistling almost out of sight overhead, and they know that if they died, or a cow died, that kite would sweep down, and the next kite miles away would see him drop and follow, and the next, and the next, and almost before they were dead there would be a score of hungry kites come out of nowhere. Then they sleep and wake and sleep again, and weave little baskets of dried grass and put grasshoppers in them; or catch two praying mantises and make them fight; or string a necklace of red and black jungle nuts; or watch a lizard basking on a rock, or a snake hunting a frog near the wallows. Then they sing long, long songs with odd native quavers at the end of them, and the day seems longer than most peopleâ€™s whole lives, and perhaps they make a mud castle with mud figures of men and horses and buffaloes, and put reeds into the menâ€™s hands, and pretend that they are kings and the figures are their armies, or that they are gods to be worshiped.

Then evening comes and the children call, and the buffaloes lumber up out of the sticky mud with noises like gunshots going off one after the other, and they all string across the gray plain back to the twinkling village lights. Day after day Mowgli would lead the buffaloes out to their wallows, and day after day he would see Gray Brotherâ€™s back a mile and a half away across the plain (so he knew that Shere Khan had not come back), and day after day he would lie on the grass listening to the noises round him, and dreaming of old days in the jungle. If Shere Khan had made a false step with his lame paw up in the jungles by the Waingunga, Mowgli would have heard him in those long, still mornings.

At last a day came when he did not see Gray Brother at the signal place, and he laughed and headed the buffaloes for the ravine by the dhk tree, which was all covered with golden-red flowers. There sat Gray Brother, every bristle on his back lifted. â€œHe has hidden for a month to throw thee off thy guard.

He crossed the ranges last night with Tabaqui, hot-foot on thy trail,â€ said the Wolf, panting. Mowgli frowned. â€œI am not afraid of Shere Khan, but Tabaqui is very cunning.â€ â€œHave no fear,â€ said Gray Brother, licking his lips a little.

â€œI met Tabaqui in the dawn. Now he is telling all his wisdom to the kites, but he told me everything before I broke his back. Shere Khanâ€™s plan is to wait for thee at the village gate this evening--for thee and for no one else.

He is lying up now, in the big dry ravine of the Waingunga.â€ â€œHas he eaten today, or does he hunt empty?â€ said Mowgli, for the answer meant life and death to him. â€œHe killed at dawn,--a pig,--and he has drunk too. Remember, Shere Khan could never fast, even for the sake of revenge.â€ â€œOh! Fool, fool!

What a cubâ€™s cub it is! Eaten and drunk too, and he thinks that I shall wait till he has slept! Now, where does he lie up?

If there were but ten of us we might pull him down as he lies. These buffaloes will not charge unless they wind him, and I cannot speak their language. Can we get behind his track so that they may smell it?â€ â€œHe swam far down the Waingunga to cut that off,â€ said Gray Brother.
â€œTabaqui told him that, I know. He would never have thought of it alone.â€ Mowgli stood with his finger in his mouth, thinking.

â€œThe big ravine of the Waingunga.

That opens out on the plain not half a mile from here. I can take the herd round through the jungle to the head of the ravine and then sweep down--but he would slink out at the foot. We must block that end. Gray Brother, canst thou cut the herd in two for me?â€ â€œNot I, perhaps--but I have brought a wise helper.â€ Gray Brother trotted off and dropped into a hole. Then there lifted up a huge gray head that Mowgli knew well, and the hot air was filled with the most desolate cry of all the jungle--the hunting howl of a wolf at midday.

â€œAkela!

Akela!â€ said Mowgli, clapping his hands. â€œI might have known that thou wouldst not forget me. We have a big work in hand. Cut the herd in two, Akela.

Keep the cows and calves together, and the bulls and the plow buffaloes by themselves.â€ The two wolves ran, ladiesâ€™-chain fashion, in and out of the herd, which snorted and threw up its head, and separated into two clumps. In one, the cow-buffaloes stood with their calves in the center, and glared and pawed, ready, if a wolf would only stay still, to charge down and trample the life out of him. In the other, the bulls and the young bulls snorted and stamped, but though they looked more imposing they were much less dangerous, for they had no calves to protect. No six men could have divided the herd so neatly.

â€œWhat orders!â€ panted Akela. â€œThey are trying to join again.â€ Mowgli slipped on to Ramaâ€™s back. â€œDrive the bulls away to the left, Akela.

Gray Brother, when we are gone, hold the cows together, and drive them into the foot of the ravine.â€ â€œHow far?â€ said Gray Brother, panting and snapping. â€œTill the sides are higher than Shere Khan can jump,â€ shouted Mowgli. â€œKeep them there till we come down.â€ The bulls swept off as Akela bayed, and Gray Brother stopped in front of the cows.

They charged down on him, and he ran just before them to the foot of the ravine, as Akela drove the bulls far to the left. â€œWell done! Another charge and they are fairly started. Careful, now--careful, Akela.

A snap too much and the bulls will charge. Hujah!

This is wilder work than driving black-buck. Didst thou think these creatures could move so swiftly?â€ Mowgli called.
â€œI have--have hunted these too in my time,â€ gasped Akela in the dust. â€œShall

I turn them into the jungle?â€ â€œAy!
Turn. Swiftly turn them!

Rama is mad with rage. Oh, if I could only tell him what I need of him to-day.â€ The bulls were turned, to the right this time, and crashed into the standing thicket. The other herd children, watching with the cattle half a mile away, hurried to the village as fast as their legs could carry them, crying that the buffaloes had gone mad and run away.

But Mowgliâ€™s plan was simple enough.

All he wanted to do was to make a big circle uphill and get at the head of the ravine, and then take the bulls down it and catch Shere Khan between the bulls and the cows; for he knew that after a meal and a full drink Shere Khan would not be in any condition to fight or to clamber up the sides of the ravine. He was soothing the buffaloes now by voice, and Akela had dropped far to the rear, only whimpering once or twice to hurry the rear-guard. It was a long, long circle, for they did not wish to get too near the ravine and give Shere Khan warning. At last Mowgli rounded up the bewildered herd at the head of the ravine on a grassy patch that sloped steeply down to the ravine itself.

From that height you could see across the tops of the trees down to the plain below; but what Mowgli looked at was the sides of the ravine, and he saw with a great deal of satisfaction that they ran nearly straight up and down, while the vines and creepers that hung over them would give no foothold to a tiger who wanted to get out. â€œLet them breathe, Akela,â€ he said, holding up his hand. â€œThey have not winded him yet.

Let them breathe. I must tell Shere Khan who comes. We have him in the trap.â€ He put his hands to his mouth and shouted down the ravine--it was almost like shouting down a tunnel--and the echoes jumped from rock to rock.

After a long time there came back the drawling, sleepy snarl of a full-fed tiger just wakened. â€œWho calls?â€ said Shere Khan, and a splendid peacock fluttered up out of the ravine screeching.
â€œI, Mowgli. Cattle thief, it is time to come to the Council Rock!
Down--hurry them down, Akela!

Down, Rama, down!â€ The herd paused for an instant at the edge of the slope, but Akela gave tongue in the full hunting-yell, and they pitched over one after the other, just as steamers shoot rapids, the sand and stones spurting up round them. Once started, there was no chance of stopping, and before they were fairly in the bed of the ravine Rama winded Shere Khan and bellowed.
â€œHa!

Ha!â€ said Mowgli, on his back. â€œNow thou knowest!â€ and the torrent of black horns, foaming muzzles, and staring eyes whirled down the ravine just as boulders go down in floodtime; the weaker buffaloes being shouldered out to the sides of the ravine where they tore through the creepers. They knew what the business was before them--the terrible charge of the buffalo herd against which no tiger can hope to stand.

Shere Khan heard the thunder of their hoofs, picked himself up, and lumbered down the ravine, looking from side to side for some way of escape, but the walls of the ravine were straight and he had to hold on, heavy with his dinner and his drink, willing to do anything rather than fight. The herd splashed through the pool he had just left, bellowing till the narrow cut rang. Mowgli heard an answering bellow from the foot of the ravine, saw Shere Khan turn (the tiger knew if the worst came to the worst it was better to meet the bulls than the cows with their calves), and then Rama tripped, stumbled, and went on again over something soft, and, with the bulls at his heels, crashed full into the other herd, while the weaker buffaloes were lifted clean off their feet by the shock of the meeting.

That charge carried both herds out into the plain, goring and stamping and snorting. Mowgli watched his time, and slipped off Ramaâ€™s neck, laying about him right and left with his stick. â€œQuick, Akela!

Break them up.

Scatter them, or they will be fighting one another. Drive them away, Akela.

Hai, Rama!
Hai, hai, hai! my children. Softly now, softly!
It is all over.â€ Akela and Gray Brother ran to and fro nipping the buffaloesâ€™ legs, and though the herd wheeled once to charge up the ravine again, Mowgli managed to turn Rama, and the others followed him to the wallows. Shere Khan needed no more trampling.

He was dead, and the kites were coming for him already. â€œBrothers, that was a dogâ€™s death,â€ said Mowgli, feeling for the knife he always carried in a sheath round his neck now that he lived with men. â€œBut he would never have shown fight.

His hide will look well on the Council Rock. We must get to work swiftly.â€ A boy trained among men would never have dreamed of skinning a ten-foot tiger alone, but Mowgli knew better than anyone else how an animalâ€™s skin is fitted on, and how it can be taken off. But it was hard work, and Mowgli slashed and tore and grunted for an hour, while the wolves lolled out their tongues, or came forward and tugged as he ordered them.

Presently a hand fell on his shoulder, and looking up he saw Buldeo with the Tower musket. The children had told the village about the buffalo stampede, and Buldeo went out angrily, only too anxious to correct Mowgli for not taking better care of the herd. The wolves dropped out of sight as soon as they saw the man coming. â€œWhat is this folly?â€ said Buldeo angrily. â€œTo think that thou canst skin a tiger!

Where did the buffaloes kill him? It is the Lame Tiger too, and there is a hundred rupees on his head. Well, well, we will overlook thy letting the herd run off, and perhaps I will give thee one of the rupees of the reward when I have taken the skin to Khanhiwara.â€  He fumbled in his waist cloth for flint and steel, and stooped down to singe Shere Khanâ€™s whiskers.

Most native hunters always singe a tigerâ€™s whiskers to prevent his ghost from haunting them. â€œHum!â€ said Mowgli, half to himself as he ripped back the skin of a forepaw. â€œSo thou wilt take the hide to Khanhiwara for the reward, and perhaps give me one rupee? Now it is in my mind that I need the skin for my own use.

Heh!
Old man, take away that fire!â€ â€œWhat talk is this to the chief hunter of the village? Thy luck and the stupidity of thy buffaloes have helped thee to this kill. The tiger has just fed, or he would have gone twenty miles by this time.

Thou canst not even skin him properly, little beggar brat, and forsooth I, Buldeo, must be told not to singe his whiskers. Mowgli, I will not give thee one anna of the reward, but only a very big beating. Leave the carcass!â€ â€œBy the Bull that bought me,â€ said Mowgli, who was trying to get at the shoulder, â€œmust

I stay babbling to an old ape all noon? Here, Akela, this man plagues me.â€ Buldeo, who was still stooping over Shere

Khanâ€™s head, found himself sprawling on the grass, with a gray wolf standing over him, while Mowgli went on skinning as though he were alone in all India.

â€œYe-es,â€ he said, between his teeth. â€œThou art altogether right, Buldeo.

Thou wilt never give me one anna of the reward. There is an old war between this lame tiger and myself--a very old war, and--I have won.â€ To do Buldeo justice, if he had been ten years younger he would have taken his chance with Akela had he met the wolf in the woods, but a wolf who obeyed the orders of this boy who had private wars with man-eating tigers was not a common animal. It was sorcery, magic of the worst kind, thought Buldeo, and he wondered whether the amulet round his neck would protect him. He lay as still as still, expecting every minute to see Mowgli turn into a tiger too.
â€œMaharaj!

Great King,â€ he said at last in a husky whisper. â€œYes,â€ said Mowgli, without turning his head, chuckling a little.

â€œI am an old man. I did not know that thou wast anything more than a herdsboy. May I rise up and go away, or will thy servant tear me to pieces?â€ â€œGo, and peace go with thee. Only, another time do not meddle with my game.

Let him go, Akela.â€ Buldeo hobbled away to the village as fast as he could, looking back over his shoulder in case Mowgli should change into something terrible. When he got to the village he told a tale of magic and enchantment and sorcery that made the priest look very grave. Mowgli went on with his work, but it was nearly twilight before he and the wolves had drawn the great gay skin clear of the body.

â€œNow we must hide this and take the buffaloes home! Help me to herd them, Akela.â€

The herd rounded up in the misty twilight, and when they got near the village Mowgli saw lights, and heard the conches and bells in the temple blowing and banging. Half the village seemed to be waiting for him by the gate. â€œThat is because I have killed Shere Khan,â€ he said to himself.

But a shower of stones whistled about his ears, and the villagers shouted: â€œSorcerer!
Wolfâ€™s brat!
Jungle demon!
Go away!
Get hence quickly or the priest will turn thee into a wolf again.

Shoot, Buldeo, shoot!â€ The old Tower musket went off with a bang, and a young buffalo bellowed in pain. â€œMore sorcery!â€ shouted the villagers. â€œHe can turn bullets. Buldeo, that was thy buffalo.â€ â€œNow what is this?â€ said Mowgli, bewildered, as the stones flew thicker. â€œThey are not unlike the Pack, these brothers of thine,â€ said Akela, sitting down composedly.

â€œIt is in my head that, if bullets mean anything, they would cast thee out.â€ â€œWolf! Wolfâ€™s cub! Go away!â€ shouted the priest, waving a sprig of the sacred tulsi plant. â€œAgain?
Last time it was because I was a man. This time it is because I am a wolf.

Let us go, Akela.â€ A woman--it was Messua--ran across to the herd, and cried: â€œOh, my son, my son! They say thou art a sorcerer who can turn himself into a beast at will. I do not believe, but go away or they will kill thee. Buldeo says thou art a wizard, but I know thou hast avenged Nathooâ€™s death.â€ â€œCome back, Messua!â€ shouted the crowd.

â€œCome back, or we will stone thee.â€ Mowgli laughed a little short ugly laugh, for a stone had hit him in the mouth. â€œRun back, Messua. This is one of the foolish tales they tell under the big tree at dusk. I have at least paid for thy sonâ€™s life.

Farewell; and run quickly, for I shall send the herd in more swiftly than their brickbats. I am no wizard, Messua. Farewell!â€ â€œNow, once more, Akela,â€ he cried.

â€œBring the herd in.â€ The buffaloes were anxious enough to get to the village. They hardly needed Akelaâ€™s yell, but charged through the gate like a whirlwind, scattering the crowd right and left. â€œKeep count!â€ shouted Mowgli scornfully. â€œIt may be that I have stolen one of them. Keep count, for I will do your herding no more.

Fare you well, children of men, and thank Messua that I do not come in with my wolves and hunt you up and down your street.â€ He turned on his heel and walked away with the Lone Wolf, and as he looked up at the stars he felt happy. â€œNo more sleeping in traps for me, Akela. Let us get Shere

Khanâ€™s skin and go away. No, we will not hurt the village, for Messua was kind to me.â€ When the moon rose over the plain, making it look all milky, the horrified villagers saw Mowgli, with two wolves at his heels and a bundle on his head, trotting across at the steady wolfâ€™s trot that eats up the long miles like fire.

Then they banged the temple bells and blew the conches louder than ever. And Messua cried, and Buldeo embroidered the story of his adventures in the jungle, till he ended by saying that Akela stood up on his hind legs and talked like a man. The moon was just going down when Mowgli and the two wolves came to the hill of the Council Rock, and they stopped at Mother Wolfâ€™s cave. â€œThey have cast me out from the Man-Pack, Mother,â€ shouted Mowgli, â€œbut I come with the hide of Shere Khan to keep my word.â€ Mother Wolf walked stiffly from the cave with the cubs behind her, and her eyes glowed as she saw the skin.

â€œI told him on that day, when he crammed his head and shoulders into this cave, hunting for thy life, Little Frog--I told him that the hunter would be the hunted. It is well done.â€ â€œLittle Brother, it is well done,â€ said a deep voice in the thicket. â€œWe were lonely in the jungle without thee,â€ and Bagheera came running to Mowgliâ€™s bare feet. They clambered up the Council Rock together, and Mowgli spread the skin out on the flat stone where Akela used to sit, and pegged it down with four slivers of bamboo, and Akela lay down upon it, and called the old call to the Council, â€œLook--look well, O Wolves,â€  exactly as he had called when Mowgli was first brought there.

Ever since Akela had been deposed, the Pack had been without a leader, hunting and fighting at their own pleasure. But they answered the call from habit; and some of them were lame from the traps they had fallen into, and some limped from shot wounds, and some were mangy from eating bad food, and many were missing.

But they came to the Council Rock, all that were left of them, and saw Shere Khanâ€™s striped hide on the rock, and the huge claws dangling at the end of the empty dangling feet.

It was then that Mowgli made up a song that came up into his throat all by itself, and he shouted it aloud, leaping up and down on the rattling skin, and beating time with his heels till he had no more breath left, while Gray Brother and Akela howled between the verses. â€œLook well, O Wolves.
Have I kept my word?â€ said Mowgli. And the wolves bayed â€œYes,â€ and one tattered wolf howled: â€œLead us again, O Akela.

Lead us again, O Man-cub, for we be sick of this lawlessness, and we would be the Free People once more.â€ â€œNay,â€ purred Bagheera, â€œthat may not be. When ye are full-fed, the madness may come upon you again. Not for nothing are ye called the Free People. Ye fought for freedom, and it is yours.

Eat it, O Wolves.â€ â€œMan-Pack and Wolf-Pack have cast me out,â€ said Mowgli.

â€œNow I will hunt alone in the jungle.â€ â€œAnd we will hunt with thee,â€ said the four cubs. So Mowgli went away and hunted with the four cubs in the jungle from that day on. But he was not always alone, because, years afterward, he became a man and married.

But that is a story for grown-ups.

Mowgliâ€™s Song      THAT HE SANG AT THE COUNCIL ROCK WHEN HE      DANCED ON SHERE KHANâ€™S HIDE

The Song of Mowgliâ€”I, Mowgli, am singing. Let the jungle listen to the things I have done. Shere Khan said he would killâ€”would kill!

At the gates in the twilight he would kill Mowgli, the Frog! He ate and he drank. Drink deep, Shere Khan, for when wilt thou drink again?

Sleep and dream of the kill.

I am alone on the grazing-grounds. Gray Brother, come to me! Come to me, Lone Wolf, for there is big game afoot! Bring up the great bull buffaloes, the blue-skinned herd bulls with the angry eyes. Drive them to and fro as I order.

Sleepest thou still, Shere Khan?
Wake, oh, wake!

Here come I, and the bulls are behind.
Rama, the King of the Buffaloes, stamped with his foot. Waters of the Waingunga, whither went Shere Khan? He is not Ikki to dig holes, nor Mao, the Peacock, that he should fly. He is not Mang the Bat, to hang in the branches.

Little bamboos that creak together, tell me where he ran?
_

Ow!_

He is there. _Ahoo!_

He is there. Under the feet of Rama lies the Lame One!

Up, Shere Khan!
Up and kill! Here is meat; break the necks of the bulls!
_ Hsh!_

He is asleep. We will not wake him, for his strength is very great. The kites have come down to see it.

The black ants have come up to know it. There is a great assembly in his honor.
_Alala!_ I have no cloth to wrap me. The kites will see that I am naked.

I am ashamed to meet all these people. Lend me thy coat, Shere Khan. Lend me thy gay striped coat that I may go to the Council Rock.

By the Bull that bought me I made a promiseâ€”a little promise. Only thy coat is lacking before I keep my word. With the knife, with the knife that men use, with the knife of the hunter, I will stoop down for my gift.

Waters of the Waingunga, Shere Khan gives me his coat for the love that he bears me. Pull, Gray Brother!
Pull, Akela! Heavy is the hide of Shere Khan.

The Man Pack are angry. They throw stones and talk childâ€™s talk. My mouth is bleeding. Let me run away.

Through the night, through the hot night, run swiftly with me, my brothers. We will leave the lights of the village and go to the low moon. Waters of the Waingunga, the Man-Pack have cast me out. I did them no harm, but they were afraid of me.

Why?
Wolf Pack, ye have cast me out too. The jungle is shut to me and the village gates are shut. Why?
As Mang flies between the beasts and birds, so fly I between the village and the jungle.

Why?
I dance on the hide of Shere Khan, but my heart is very heavy. My mouth is cut and wounded with the stones from the village, but my heart is very light, because I have come back to the jungle. Why?
These two things fight together in me as the snakes fight in the spring. The water comes out of my eyes; yet I laugh while it falls. Why?
I am two Mowglis, but the hide of Shere Khan is under my feet.

All the jungle knows that I have killed Shere Khan. Lookâ€”look well, O Wolves!
_Ahae!_

My heart is heavy with the things that I do not understand. The White Seal      Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us,         And black are the waters that sparkled so green. The moon, oâ€™er the combers, looks downward to find us         At rest in the hollows that rustle between.

Where billow meets billow, then soft be thy pillow,         Ah, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease! The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,         Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas! Seal Lullaby

All these things happened several years ago at a place called Novastoshnah, or North East Point, on the Island of St. Paul, away and away in the Bering Sea. Limmershin, the Winter Wren, told me the tale when he was blown on to the rigging of a steamer going to Japan, and I took him down into my cabin and warmed and fed him for a couple of days till he was fit to fly back to St. Paulâ€™s again.

Limmershin is a very quaint little bird, but he knows how to tell the truth. Nobody comes to Novastoshnah except on business, and the only people who have regular business there are the seals. They come in the summer months by hundreds and hundreds of thousands out of the cold gray sea. For Novastoshnah Beach has the finest accommodation for seals of any place in all the world.

Sea Catch knew that, and every spring would swim from whatever place he happened to be in--would swim like a torpedo-boat straight for Novastoshnah and spend a month fighting with his companions for a good place on the rocks, as close to the sea as possible. Sea Catch was fifteen years old, a huge gray fur seal with almost a mane on his shoulders, and long, wicked dog teeth. When he heaved himself up on his front flippers he stood more than four feet clear of the ground, and his weight, if anyone had been bold enough to weigh him, was nearly seven hundred pounds.

He was scarred all over with the marks of savage fights, but he was always ready for just one fight more. He would put his head on one side, as though he were afraid to look his enemy in the face; then he would shoot it out like lightning, and when the big teeth were firmly fixed on the other sealâ€™s neck, the other seal might get away if he could, but Sea Catch would not help him. Yet Sea Catch never chased a beaten seal, for that was against the Rules of the Beach.

He only wanted room by the sea for his nursery. But as there were forty or fifty thousand other seals hunting for the same thing each spring, the whistling, bellowing, roaring, and blowing on the beach was something frightful.

From a little hill called Hutchinsonâ€™s Hill, you could look over three and a half miles of ground covered with fighting seals; and the surf was dotted all over with the heads of seals hurrying to land and begin their share of the fighting. They fought in the breakers, they fought in the sand, and they fought on the smooth-worn basalt rocks of the nurseries, for they were just as stupid and unaccommodating as men. Their wives never came to the island until late in May or early in June, for they did not care to be torn to pieces; and the young two-, three-, and four-year-old seals who had not begun housekeeping went inland about half a mile through the ranks of the fighters and played about on the sand dunes in droves and legions, and rubbed off every single green thing that grew. They were called the holluschickie--the bachelors--and there were perhaps two or three hundred thousand of them at Novastoshnah alone.

Sea Catch had just finished his forty-fifth fight one spring when Matkah, his soft, sleek, gentle-eyed wife, came up out of the sea, and he caught her by the scruff of the neck and dumped her down on his reservation, saying gruffly: â€œLate as usual.

Where have you been?â€ It was not the fashion for Sea Catch to eat anything during the four months he stayed on the beaches, and so his temper was generally bad. Matkah knew better than to answer back.

She looked round and cooed: â€œHow thoughtful of you.

Youâ€™ve taken the old place again.â€ â€œI should think I had,â€ said Sea Catch. â€œLook at me!â€ He was scratched and bleeding in twenty places; one eye was almost out, and his sides were torn to ribbons.
â€œOh, you men, you men!â€ Matkah said, fanning herself with her hind flipper. â€œWhy canâ€™t you be sensible and settle your places quietly? You look as though you had been fighting with the Killer Whale.â€ â€œI havenâ€™t been doing anything but fight since the middle of May. The beach is disgracefully crowded this season.

Iâ€™ve met at least a hundred seals from Lukannon Beach, house hunting. Why canâ€™t people stay where they belong?â€ â€œIâ€™ve often thought we should be much happier if we hauled out at Otter Island instead of this crowded place,â€ said Matkah. â€œBah!
Only the holluschickie go to Otter Island. If we went there they would say we were afraid.

We must preserve appearances, my dear.â€ Sea Catch sunk his head proudly between his fat shoulders and pretended to go to sleep for a few minutes, but all the time he was keeping a sharp lookout for a fight. Now that all the seals and their wives were on the land, you could hear their clamor miles out to sea above the loudest gales. At the lowest counting there were over a million seals on the beach--old seals, mother seals, tiny babies, and holluschickie, fighting, scuffling, bleating, crawling, and playing together--going down to the sea and coming up from it in gangs and regiments, lying over every foot of ground as far as the eye could reach, and skirmishing about in brigades through the fog. It is nearly always foggy at Novastoshnah, except when the sun comes out and makes everything look all pearly and rainbow-colored for a little while.

Kotick, Matkahâ€™s baby, was born in the middle of that confusion, and he was all head and shoulders, with pale, watery blue eyes, as tiny seals must be, but there was something about his coat that made his mother look at him very closely. â€œSea Catch,â€ she said, at last, â€œour babyâ€™s going to be white!â€ â€œEmpty clam-shells and dry seaweed!â€ snorted Sea Catch.

â€œThere never has been such a thing in the world as a white seal.â€ â€œI canâ€™t help that,â€ said Matkah; â€œthereâ€™s going to be now.â€ And she sang the low, crooning seal song that all the mother seals sing to their babies:      You mustnâ€™t swim till youâ€™re six weeks old,         Or your head will be sunk by your heels; And summer gales and Killer Whales         Are bad for baby seals. Are bad for baby seals, dear rat,         As bad as bad can be;      But splash and grow strong,      And you canâ€™t be wrong. Child of the Open Sea!

Of course the little fellow did not understand the words at first. He paddled and scrambled about by his motherâ€™s side, and learned to scuffle out of the way when his father was fighting with another seal, and the two rolled and roared up and down the slippery rocks. Matkah used to go to sea to get things to eat, and the baby was fed only once in two days, but then he ate all he could and throve upon it. The first thing he did was to crawl inland, and there he met tens of thousands of babies of his own age, and they played together like puppies, went to sleep on the clean sand, and played again. The old people in the nurseries took no notice of them, and the holluschickie kept to their own grounds, and the babies had a beautiful playtime.

When Matkah came back from her deep-sea fishing she would go straight to their playground and call as a sheep calls for a lamb, and wait until she heard Kotick bleat. Then she would take the straightest of straight lines in his direction, striking out with her fore flippers and knocking the youngsters head over heels right and left. There were always a few hundred mothers hunting for their children through the playgrounds, and the babies were kept lively. But, as Matkah told Kotick, â€œSo long as you donâ€™t lie in muddy water and get mange, or rub the hard sand into a cut or scratch, and so long as you never go swimming when there is a heavy sea, nothing will hurt you here.â€ Little seals can no more swim than little children, but they are unhappy till they learn.

The first time that Kotick went down to the sea a wave carried him out beyond his depth, and his big head sank and his little hind flippers flew up exactly as his mother had told him in the song, and if the next wave had not thrown him back again he would have drowned. After that, he learned to lie in a beach pool and let the wash of the waves just cover him and lift him up while he paddled, but he always kept his eye open for big waves that might hurt. He was two weeks learning to use his flippers; and all that while he floundered in and out of the water, and coughed and grunted and crawled up the beach and took catnaps on the sand, and went back again, until at last he found that he truly belonged to the water.

Then you can imagine the times that he had with his companions, ducking under the rollers; or coming in on top of a comber and landing with a swash and a splutter as the big wave went whirling far up the beach; or standing up on his tail and scratching his head as the old people did; or playing â€œIâ€™m the King of the Castleâ€ on slippery, weedy rocks that just stuck out of the wash. Now and then he would see a thin fin, like a big sharkâ€™s fin, drifting along close to shore, and he knew that that was the Killer Whale, the Grampus, who eats young seals when he can get them; and Kotick would head for the beach like an arrow, and the fin would jig off slowly, as if it were looking for nothing at all. Late in October the seals began to leave St. Paulâ€™s for the deep sea, by families and tribes, and there was no more fighting over the nurseries, and the holluschickie played anywhere they liked. â€œNext year,â€ said Matkah to Kotick, â€œyou will be a holluschickie; but this year you must learn how to catch fish.â€ They set out together across the Pacific, and Matkah showed Kotick how to sleep on his back with his flippers tucked down by his side and his little nose just out of the water.

No cradle is so comfortable as the long, rocking swell of the Pacific. When Kotick felt his skin tingle all over, Matkah told him he was learning the â€œfeel of the water,â€ and that tingly, prickly feelings meant bad weather coming, and he must swim hard and get away. â€œIn a little time,â€ she said, â€œyouâ€™ll know where to swim to, but just now weâ€™ll follow Sea Pig, the Porpoise, for he is very wise.â€ A school of porpoises were ducking and tearing through the water, and little Kotick followed them as fast as he could.

â€œHow do you know where to go to?â€ he panted. The leader of the school rolled his white eye and ducked under. â€œMy tail tingles, youngster,â€ he said.

â€œThat means thereâ€™s a gale behind me.

Come along! When youâ€™re south of the Sticky Water [he meant the Equator] and your tail tingles, that means thereâ€™s a gale in front of you and you must head north.

Come along! The water feels bad here.â€ This was one of very many things that Kotick learned, and he was always learning. Matkah taught him to follow the cod and the halibut along the under-sea banks and wrench the rockling out of his hole among the weeds; how to skirt the wrecks lying a hundred fathoms below water and dart like a rifle bullet in at one porthole and out at another as the fishes ran; how to dance on the top of the waves when the lightning was racing all over the sky, and wave his flipper politely to the stumpy-tailed Albatross and the Man-of-war Hawk as they went down the wind; how to jump three or four feet clear of the water like a dolphin, flippers close to the side and tail curved; to leave the flying fish alone because they are all bony; to take the shoulder-piece out of a cod at full speed ten fathoms deep, and never to stop and look at a boat or a ship, but particularly a row-boat. At the end of six months what Kotick did not know about deep-sea fishing was not worth the knowing.

And all that time he never set flipper on dry ground. One day, however, as he was lying half asleep in the warm water somewhere off the Island of Juan Fernandez, he felt faint and lazy all over, just as human people do when the spring is in their legs, and he remembered the good firm beaches of Novastoshnah seven thousand miles away, the games his companions played, the smell of the seaweed, the seal roar, and the fighting. That very minute he turned north, swimming steadily, and as he went on he met scores of his mates, all bound for the same place, and they said: â€œGreeting, Kotick! This year we are all holluschickie, and we can dance the Fire-dance in the breakers off Lukannon and play on the new grass.

But where did you get that coat?â€ Kotickâ€™s fur was almost pure white now, and though he felt very proud of it, he only said, â€œSwim quickly!

My bones are aching for the land.â€ And so they all came to the beaches where they had been born, and heard the old seals, their fathers, fighting in the rolling mist. That night Kotick danced the Fire-dance with the yearling seals.

The sea is full of fire on summer nights all the way down from Novastoshnah to Lukannon, and each seal leaves a wake like burning oil behind him and a flaming flash when he jumps, and the waves break in great phosphorescent streaks and swirls. Then they went inland to the holluschickie grounds and rolled up and down in the new wild wheat and told stories of what they had done while they had been at sea. They talked about the Pacific as boys would talk about a wood that they had been nutting in, and if anyone had understood them he could have gone away and made such a chart of that ocean as never was. The three- and four-year-old holluschickie romped down from Hutchinsonâ€™s Hill crying: â€œOut of the way, youngsters!

The sea is deep and you donâ€™t know all thatâ€™s in it yet. Wait till youâ€™ve rounded the Horn. Hi, you yearling, where did you get that white coat?â€ â€œI didnâ€™t get it,â€ said Kotick. â€œIt grew.â€

And just as he was going to roll the speaker over, a couple of black-haired men with flat red faces came from behind a sand dune, and Kotick, who had never seen a man before, coughed and lowered his head. The holluschickie just bundled off a few yards and sat staring stupidly. The men were no less than Kerick Booterin, the chief of the seal-hunters on the island, and Patalamon, his son. They came from the little village not half a mile from the sea nurseries, and they were deciding what seals they would drive up to the killing pens--for the seals were driven just like sheep--to be turned into seal-skin jackets later on.
â€œHo!â€ said Patalamon.
â€œLook!

Thereâ€™s a white seal!â€ Kerick Booterin turned nearly white under his oil and smoke, for he was an Aleut, and Aleuts are not clean people. Then he began to mutter a prayer. â€œDonâ€™t touch him, Patalamon. There has never been a white seal since--since I was born.

Perhaps it is old Zaharrofâ€™s ghost. He was lost last year in the big gale.â€ â€œIâ€™m not going near him,â€ said Patalamon.
â€œHeâ€™s unlucky. Do you really think he is old Zaharrof come back?

I owe him for some gullsâ€™ eggs.â€ â€œDonâ€™t look at him,â€ said Kerick.

â€œHead off that drove of four-year-olds. The men ought to skin two hundred to-day, but itâ€™s the beginning of the season and they are new to the work. A hundred will do.

Quick!â€ Patalamon rattled a pair of sealâ€™s shoulder bones in front of a herd of holluschickie and they stopped dead, puffing and blowing. Then he stepped near and the seals began to move, and Kerick headed them inland, and they never tried to get back to their companions. Hundreds and hundreds of thousands of seals watched them being driven, but they went on playing just the same.

Kotick was the only one who asked questions, and none of his companions could tell him anything, except that the men always drove seals in that way for six weeks or two months of every year. â€œI am going to follow,â€ he said, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head as he shuffled along in the wake of the herd. â€œThe white seal is coming after us,â€ cried Patalamon.

â€œThatâ€™s the first time a seal has ever come to the killing-grounds alone.â€ â€œHsh! Donâ€™t look behind you,â€ said Kerick. â€œIt is Zaharrofâ€™s ghost!

I must speak to the priest about this.â€ The distance to the killing-grounds was only half a mile, but it took an hour to cover, because if the seals went too fast Kerick knew that they would get heated and then their fur would come off in patches when they were skinned. So they went on very slowly, past Sea Lionâ€™s Neck, past Webster House, till they came to the Salt House just beyond the sight of the seals on the beach. Kotick followed, panting and wondering.

He thought that he was at the worldâ€™s end, but the roar of the seal nurseries behind him sounded as loud as the roar of a train in a tunnel. Then Kerick sat down on the moss and pulled out a heavy pewter watch and let the drove cool off for thirty minutes, and Kotick could hear the fog-dew dripping off the brim of his cap. Then ten or twelve men, each with an iron-bound club three or four feet long, came up, and Kerick pointed out one or two of the drove that were bitten by their companions or too hot, and the men kicked those aside with their heavy boots made of the skin of a walrusâ€™s throat, and then Kerick said, â€œLet go!â€

and then the men clubbed the seals on the head as fast as they could. Ten minutes later little Kotick did not recognize his friends any more, for their skins were ripped off from the nose to the hind flippers, whipped off and thrown down on the ground in a pile. That was enough for Kotick.

He turned and galloped (a seal can gallop very swiftly for a short time) back to the sea; his little new mustache bristling with horror. At Sea Lionâ€™s Neck, where the great sea lions sit on the edge of the surf, he flung himself flipper-overhead into the cool water and rocked there, gasping miserably. â€œWhatâ€™s here?â€ said a sea lion gruffly, for as a rule the sea lions keep themselves to themselves.
â€œScoochnie! Ochen scoochnie!â€ (â€œIâ€™m lonesome, very lonesome!â€) said Kotick. â€œTheyâ€™re killing all the holluschickie on all the beaches!â€ The Sea Lion turned his head inshore.

â€œNonsense!â€ he said. â€œYour friends are making as much noise as ever. You must have seen old Kerick polishing off a drove. Heâ€™s done that for thirty years.â€ â€œItâ€™s horrible,â€ said Kotick, backing water as a wave went over him, and steadying himself with a screw stroke of his flippers that brought him all standing within three inches of a jagged edge of rock.

â€œWell done for a yearling!â€ said the Sea Lion, who could appreciate good swimming. â€œI suppose it is rather awful from your way of looking at it, but if you seals will come here year after year, of course the men get to know of it, and unless you can find an island where no men ever come you will always be driven.â€ â€œIsnâ€™t there any such island?â€ began Kotick. â€œIâ€™ve followed the poltoos [the halibut] for twenty years, and I canâ€™t say Iâ€™ve found it yet. But look here--you seem to have a fondness for talking to your betters--suppose you go to Walrus Islet and talk to Sea Vitch.

He may know something. Donâ€™t flounce off like that. Itâ€™s a six-mile swim, and if I were you I should haul out and take a nap first, little one.â€ Kotick thought that that was good advice, so he swam round to his own beach, hauled out, and slept for half an hour, twitching all over, as seals will. Then he headed straight for Walrus Islet, a little low sheet of rocky island almost due northeast from Novastoshnah, all ledges and rock and gullsâ€™

nests, where the walrus herded by themselves.

He landed close to old Sea Vitch--the big, ugly, bloated, pimpled, fat-necked, long-tusked walrus of the North Pacific, who has no manners except when he is asleep--as he was then, with his hind flippers half in and half out of the surf. â€œWake up!â€ barked Kotick, for the gulls were making a great noise. â€œHah!
Ho!
Hmph!
Whatâ€™s that?â€ said Sea Vitch, and he struck the next walrus a blow with his tusks and waked him up, and the next struck the next, and so on till they were all awake and staring in every direction but the right one. â€œHi!
Itâ€™s me,â€ said Kotick, bobbing in the surf and looking like a little white slug.

â€œWell!

May I be--skinned!â€ said Sea Vitch, and they all looked at Kotick as you can fancy a club full of drowsy old gentlemen would look at a little boy. Kotick did not care to hear any more about skinning just then; he had seen enough of it. So he called out: â€œIsnâ€™t there any place for seals to go where men donâ€™t ever come?â€ â€œGo and find out,â€ said Sea Vitch, shutting his eyes.

â€œRun away.

Weâ€™re busy here.â€ Kotick made his dolphin-jump in the air and shouted as loud as he could: â€œClam-eater! Clam-eater!â€ He knew that Sea Vitch never caught a fish in his life but always rooted for clams and seaweed; though he pretended to be a very terrible person. Naturally the Chickies and the Gooverooskies and the Epatkas--the Burgomaster Gulls and the Kittiwakes and the Puffins, who are always looking for a chance to be rude, took up the cry, and--so Limmershin told me--for nearly five minutes you could not have heard a gun fired on Walrus Islet.

All the population was yelling and screaming â€œClam-eater! Stareek [old man]!â€ while Sea Vitch rolled from side to side grunting and coughing. â€œNow will you tell?â€ said Kotick, all out of breath. â€œGo and ask Sea Cow,â€ said Sea Vitch. â€œIf he is living still, heâ€™ll be able to tell you.â€ â€œHow shall I know Sea Cow when I meet him?â€ said Kotick, sheering off.

â€œHeâ€™s the only thing in the sea uglier than Sea Vitch,â€ screamed a Burgomaster gull, wheeling under Sea Vitchâ€™s nose. â€œUglier, and with worse manners!

Stareek!â€ Kotick swam back to Novastoshnah, leaving the gulls to scream. There he found that no one sympathized with him in his little attempt to discover a quiet place for the seals. They told him that men had always driven the holluschickie--it was part of the dayâ€™s work--and that if he did not like to see ugly things he should not have gone to the killing grounds.

But none of the other seals had seen the killing, and that made the difference between him and his friends.

Besides, Kotick was a white seal. â€œWhat you must do,â€ said old Sea Catch, after he had heard his sonâ€™s adventures, â€œis to grow up and be a big seal like your father, and have a nursery on the beach, and then they will leave you alone. In another five years you ought to be able to fight for yourself.â€ Even gentle Matkah, his mother, said: â€œYou will never be able to stop the killing.

Go and play in the sea, Kotick.â€

And Kotick went off and danced the Fire-dance with a very heavy little heart. That autumn he left the beach as soon as he could, and set off alone because of a notion in his bullet-head. He was going to find Sea Cow, if there was such a person in the sea, and he was going to find a quiet island with good firm beaches for seals to live on, where men could not get at them. So he explored and explored by himself from the North to the South Pacific, swimming as much as three hundred miles in a day and a night.

He met with more adventures than can be told, and narrowly escaped being caught by the Basking Shark, and the Spotted Shark, and the Hammerhead, and he met all the untrustworthy ruffians that loaf up and down the seas, and the heavy polite fish, and the scarlet spotted scallops that are moored in one place for hundreds of years, and grow very proud of it; but he never met Sea Cow, and he never found an island that he could fancy. If the beach was good and hard, with a slope behind it for seals to play on, there was always the smoke of a whaler on the horizon, boiling down blubber, and Kotick knew what that meant. Or else he could see that seals had once visited the island and been killed off, and Kotick knew that where men had come once they would come again.

He picked up with an old stumpy-tailed albatross, who told him that Kerguelen Island was the very place for peace and quiet, and when Kotick went down there he was all but smashed to pieces against some wicked black cliffs in a heavy sleet-storm with lightning and thunder. Yet as he pulled out against the gale he could see that even there had once been a seal nursery.

And it was so in all the other islands that he visited. Limmershin gave a long list of them, for he said that Kotick spent five seasons exploring, with a four monthsâ€™ rest each year at Novastoshnah, when the holluschickie used to make fun of him and his imaginary islands. He went to the Gallapagos, a horrid dry place on the Equator, where he was nearly baked to death; he went to the Georgia Islands, the Orkneys, Emerald Island, Little Nightingale Island, Goughâ€™s Island, Bouvetâ€™s Island, the Crossets, and even to a little speck of an island south of the Cape of Good Hope.

But everywhere the People of the Sea told him the same things.

Seals had come to those islands once upon a time, but men had killed them all off. Even when he swam thousands of miles out of the Pacific and got to a place called Cape Corrientes (that was when he was coming back from Goughâ€™s Island), he found a few hundred mangy seals on a rock and they told him that men came there too. That nearly broke his heart, and he headed round the Horn back to his own beaches; and on his way north he hauled out on an island full of green trees, where he found an old, old seal who was dying, and Kotick caught fish for him and told him all his sorrows. â€œNow,â€ said Kotick, â€œI am going back to Novastoshnah, and if I am driven to the killing-pens with the holluschickie I shall not care.â€ The old seal said, â€œTry once more.

I am the last of the Lost Rookery of Masafuera, and in the days when men killed us by the hundred thousand there was a story on the beaches that some day a white seal would come out of the North and lead the seal people to a quiet place. I am old, and I shall never live to see that day, but others will. Try once more.â€

And Kotick curled up his mustache (it was a beauty) and said, â€œI am the only white seal that has ever been born on the beaches, and I am the only seal, black or white, who ever thought of looking for new islands.â€ This cheered him immensely; and when he came back to Novastoshnah that summer, Matkah, his mother, begged him to marry and settle down, for he was no longer a holluschick but a full-grown sea-catch, with a curly white mane on his shoulders, as heavy, as big, and as fierce as his father.

â€œGive me another season,â€ he said. â€œRemember, Mother, it is always the seventh wave that goes farthest up the beach.â€ Curiously enough, there was another seal who thought that she would put off marrying till the next year, and Kotick danced the Fire-dance with her all down Lukannon Beach the night before he set off on his last exploration. This time he went westward, because he had fallen on the trail of a great shoal of halibut, and he needed at least one hundred pounds of fish a day to keep him in good condition.

He chased them till he was tired, and then he curled himself up and went to sleep on the hollows of the ground swell that sets in to Copper Island. He knew the coast perfectly well, so about midnight, when he felt himself gently bumped on a weed-bed, he said, â€œHm, tideâ€™s running strong tonight,â€ and turning over under water opened his eyes slowly and stretched. Then he jumped like a cat, for he saw huge things nosing about in the shoal water and browsing on the heavy fringes of the weeds. â€œBy the Great Combers of Magellan!â€ he said, beneath his mustache.

â€œWho in the Deep Sea are these people?â€ They were like no walrus, sea lion, seal, bear, whale, shark, fish, squid, or scallop that Kotick had ever seen before. They were between twenty and thirty feet long, and they had no hind flippers, but a shovel-like tail that looked as if it had been whittled out of wet leather. Their heads were the most foolish-looking things you ever saw, and they balanced on the ends of their tails in deep water when they werenâ€™t grazing, bowing solemnly to each other and waving their front flippers as a fat man waves his arm.
â€œAhem!â€ said Kotick.
â€œGood sport, gentlemen?â€ The big things answered by bowing and waving their flippers like the Frog Footman.

When they began feeding again Kotick saw that their upper lip was split into two pieces that they could twitch apart about a foot and bring together again with a whole bushel of seaweed between the splits. They tucked the stuff into their mouths and chumped solemnly. â€œMessy style of feeding, that,â€ said Kotick. They bowed again, and Kotick began to lose his temper. â€œVery good,â€ he said.

â€œIf you do happen to have an extra joint in your front flipper you neednâ€™t show off so. I see you bow gracefully, but I should like to know your names.â€ The split lips moved and twitched; and the glassy green eyes stared, but they did not speak. â€œWell!â€ said Kotick.
â€œYouâ€™re the only people Iâ€™ve ever met uglier than Sea Vitch--and with worse manners.â€ Then he remembered in a flash what the Burgomaster gull had screamed to him when he was a little yearling at Walrus Islet, and he tumbled backward in the water, for he knew that he had found Sea Cow at last. The sea cows went on schlooping and grazing and chumping in the weed, and Kotick asked them questions in every language that he had picked up in his travels; and the Sea People talk nearly as many languages as human beings. But the sea cows did not answer because Sea Cow cannot talk.

He has only six bones in his neck where he ought to have seven, and they say under the sea that that prevents him from speaking even to his companions. But, as you know, he has an extra joint in his foreflipper, and by waving it up and down and about he makes what answers to a sort of clumsy telegraphic code.

By daylight Kotickâ€™s mane was standing on end and his temper was gone where the dead crabs go. Then the Sea Cow began to travel northward very slowly, stopping to hold absurd bowing councils from time to time, and Kotick followed them, saying to himself, â€œPeople who are such idiots as these are would have been killed long ago if they hadnâ€™t found out some safe island. And what is good enough for the Sea Cow is good enough for the Sea Catch. All the same, I wish theyâ€™d hurry.â€ It was weary work for Kotick.

The herd never went more than forty or fifty miles a day, and stopped to feed at night, and kept close to the shore all the time; while Kotick swam round them, and over them, and under them, but he could not hurry them up one-half mile. As they went farther north they held a bowing council every few hours, and Kotick nearly bit off his mustache with impatience till he saw that they were following up a warm current of water, and then he respected them more. One night they sank through the shiny water--sank like stones--and for the first time since he had known them began to swim quickly. Kotick followed, and the pace astonished him, for he never dreamed that Sea Cow was anything of a swimmer. They headed for a cliff by the shore--a cliff that ran down into deep water, and plunged into a dark hole at the foot of it, twenty fathoms under the sea.

It was a long, long swim, and Kotick badly wanted fresh air before he was out of the dark tunnel they led him through. â€œMy wig!â€ he said, when he rose, gasping and puffing, into open water at the farther end. â€œIt was a long dive, but it was worth it.â€

The sea cows had separated and were browsing lazily along the edges of the finest beaches that Kotick had ever seen. There were long stretches of smooth-worn rock running for miles, exactly fitted to make seal-nurseries, and there were play-grounds of hard sand sloping inland behind them, and there were rollers for seals to dance in, and long grass to roll in, and sand dunes to climb up and down, and, best of all, Kotick knew by the feel of the water, which never deceives a true sea catch, that no men had ever come there.

The first thing he did was to assure himself that the fishing was good, and then he swam along the beaches and counted up the delightful low sandy islands half hidden in the beautiful rolling fog. Away to the northward, out to sea, ran a line of bars and shoals and rocks that would never let a ship come within six miles of the beach, and between the islands and the mainland was a stretch of deep water that ran up to the perpendicular cliffs, and somewhere below the cliffs was the mouth of the tunnel. â€œItâ€™s Novastoshnah over again, but ten times better,â€ said Kotick. â€œSea Cow must be wiser than I thought.

Men canâ€™t come down the cliffs, even if there were any men; and the shoals to seaward would knock a ship to splinters. If any place in the sea is safe, this is it.â€ He began to think of the seal he had left behind him, but though he was in a hurry to go back to Novastoshnah, he thoroughly explored the new country, so that he would be able to answer all questions. Then he dived and made sure of the mouth of the tunnel, and raced through to the southward.

No one but a sea cow or a seal would have dreamed of there being such a place, and when he looked back at the cliffs even Kotick could hardly believe that he had been under them. He was six days going home, though he was not swimming slowly; and when he hauled out just above Sea Lionâ€™s Neck the first person he met was the seal who had been waiting for him, and she saw by the look in his eyes that he had found his island at last. But the holluschickie and Sea Catch, his father, and all the other seals laughed at him when he told them what he had discovered, and a young seal about his own age said, â€œThis is all very well, Kotick, but you canâ€™t come from no one knows where and order us off like this.

Remember weâ€™ve been fighting for our nurseries, and thatâ€™s a thing you never did. You preferred prowling about in the sea.â€ The other seals laughed at this, and the young seal began twisting his head from side to side. He had just married that year, and was making a great fuss about it. â€œIâ€™ve no nursery to fight for,â€ said Kotick. â€œI only want to show you all a place where you will be safe.

Whatâ€™s the use of fighting?â€ â€œOh, if youâ€™re trying to back out, of course Iâ€™ve no more to say,â€ said the young seal with an ugly chuckle. â€œWill you come with me if I win?â€ said Kotick. And a green light came into his eye, for he was very angry at having to fight at all. â€œVery good,â€ said the young seal carelessly.
â€œIf you win, Iâ€™ll come.â€ He had no time to change his mind, for Kotickâ€™s head was out and his teeth sunk in the blubber of the young sealâ€™s neck.

Then he threw himself back on his haunches and hauled his enemy down the beach, shook him, and knocked him over. Then Kotick roared to the seals: â€œIâ€™ve done my best for you these five seasons past. Iâ€™ve found you the island where youâ€™ll be safe, but unless your heads are dragged off your silly necks you wonâ€™t believe. Iâ€™m going to teach you now.

Look out for yourselves!â€ Limmershin told me that never in his life--and Limmershin sees ten thousand big seals fighting every year--never in all his little life did he see anything like Kotickâ€™s charge into the nurseries. He flung himself at the biggest sea catch he could find, caught him by the throat, choked him and bumped him and banged him till he grunted for mercy, and then threw him aside and attacked the next. You see, Kotick had never fasted for four months as the big seals did every year, and his deep-sea swimming trips kept him in perfect condition, and, best of all, he had never fought before.

His curly white mane stood up with rage, and his eyes flamed, and his big dog teeth glistened, and he was splendid to look at.
Old Sea Catch, his father, saw him tearing past, hauling the grizzled old seals about as though they had been halibut, and upsetting the young bachelors in all directions; and Sea Catch gave a roar and shouted: â€œHe may be a fool, but he is the best fighter on the beaches! Donâ€™t tackle your father, my son! Heâ€™s with you!â€ Kotick roared in answer, and old Sea Catch waddled in with his mustache on end, blowing like a locomotive, while Matkah and the seal that was going to marry Kotick cowered down and admired their men-folk.

It was a gorgeous fight, for the two fought as long as there was a seal that dared lift up his head, and when there were none they paraded grandly up and down the beach side by side, bellowing. At night, just as the Northern Lights were winking and flashing through the fog, Kotick climbed a bare rock and looked down on the scattered nurseries and the torn and bleeding seals. â€œNow,â€ he said, â€œIâ€™ve taught you your lesson.â€ â€œMy wig!â€ said old Sea Catch, boosting himself up stiffly, for he was fearfully mauled. â€œThe Killer Whale himself could not have cut them up worse.

Son, Iâ€™m proud of you, and whatâ€™s more, Iâ€™ll come with you to your island--if there is such a place.â€ â€œHear you, fat pigs of the sea. Who comes with me to the Sea Cowâ€™s tunnel?

Answer, or I shall teach you again,â€ roared Kotick. There was a murmur like the ripple of the tide all up and down the beaches. â€œWe will come,â€ said thousands of tired voices. â€œWe will follow Kotick, the White Seal.â€

Then Kotick dropped his head between his shoulders and shut his eyes proudly. He was not a white seal any more, but red from head to tail. All the same he would have scorned to look at or touch one of his wounds. A week later he and his army (nearly ten thousand holluschickie and old seals) went away north to the Sea Cowâ€™s tunnel, Kotick leading them, and the seals that stayed at Novastoshnah called them idiots.

But next spring, when they all met off the fishing banks of the Pacific, Kotickâ€™s seals told such tales of the new beaches beyond Sea Cowâ€™s tunnel that more and more seals left Novastoshnah.

Of course it was not all done at once, for the seals are not very clever, and they need a long time to turn things over in their minds, but year after year more seals went away from Novastoshnah, and Lukannon, and the other nurseries, to the quiet, sheltered beaches where Kotick sits all the summer through, getting bigger and fatter and stronger each year, while the holluschickie play around him, in that sea where no man comes. Lukannon

This is the great deep-sea song that all the St. Paul seals sing when they are heading back to their beaches in the summer. It is a sort of very sad seal National Anthem.

I met my mates in the morning (and, oh, but I am old!)

Where roaring on the ledges the summer ground-swell rolled; I heard them lift the chorus that drowned the breakersâ€™ songâ€” The Beaches of Lukannonâ€”two million voices strong. _

The song of pleasant stations beside the salt lagoons, The song of blowing squadrons that shuffled down the dunes, The song of midnight dances that churned the sea to flameâ€” The Beaches of Lukannonâ€”before the sealers came! _

I met my mates in the morning (Iâ€™ll never meet them more!); They came and went in legions that darkened all the shore. And oâ€™er the foam-flecked offing as far as voice could reach We hailed the landing-parties and we sang them up the beach.
_ The Beaches of Lukannonâ€”the winter wheat so tallâ€”

The dripping, crinkled lichens, and the sea-fog drenching all! The platforms of our playground, all shining smooth and worn!

The Beaches of Lukannonâ€”the home where we were born!_ I met my mates in the morning, a broken, scattered band. Men shoot us in the water and club us on the land; Men drive us to the Salt House like silly sheep and tame, And still we sing Lukannonâ€”before the sealers came.
_Wheel down, wheel down to southward; oh, Gooverooska, go!
And tell the Deep-Sea Viceroys the story of our woe; Ere, empty as the sharkâ€™s egg the tempest flings ashore, The Beaches of Lukannon shall know their sons no more!_

â€œRikki-Tikki-Taviâ€

At the hole where he went in      Red-Eye called to Wrinkle-Skin. Hear what little Red-Eye saith:      â€œNag, come up and dance with death!â€      Eye to eye and head to head,     (_Keep the measure, Nag._)

This shall end when one is dead;     (_At thy pleasure, Nag._)

Turn for turn and twist for twistâ€”     (_Run and hide thee, Nag._) Hah!

The hooded Death has missed! (_Woe betide thee, Nag!_)

This is the story of the great war that Rikki-tikki-tavi fought single-handed, through the bath-rooms of the big bungalow in Segowlee cantonment. Darzee, the Tailorbird, helped him, and Chuchundra, the muskrat, who never comes out into the middle of the floor, but always creeps round by the wall, gave him advice, but Rikki-tikki did the real fighting. He was a mongoose, rather like a little cat in his fur and his tail, but quite like a weasel in his head and his habits. His eyes and the end of his restless nose were pink.

He could scratch himself anywhere he pleased with any leg, front or back, that he chose to use. He could fluff up his tail till it looked like a bottle brush, and his war cry as he scuttled through the long grass was: â€œRikk-tikk-tikki-tikki-tchk!â€ One day, a high summer flood washed him out of the burrow where he lived with his father and mother, and carried him, kicking and clucking, down a roadside ditch. He found a little wisp of grass floating there, and clung to it till he lost his senses.

When he revived, he was lying in the hot sun on the middle of a garden path, very draggled indeed, and a small boy was saying, â€œHereâ€™s a dead mongoose. Letâ€™s have a funeral.â€ â€œNo,â€ said his mother, â€œletâ€™s take him in and dry him. Perhaps he isnâ€™t really dead.â€ They took him into the house, and a big man picked him up between his finger and thumb and said he was not dead but half choked.

So they wrapped him in cotton wool, and warmed him over a little fire, and he opened his eyes and sneezed. â€œNow,â€ said the big man (he was an Englishman who had just moved into the bungalow), â€œdonâ€™t frighten him, and weâ€™ll see what heâ€™ll do.â€ It is the hardest thing in the world to frighten a mongoose, because he is eaten up from nose to tail with curiosity. The motto of all the mongoose family is â€œRun and find out,â€ and Rikki-tikki was a true mongoose. He looked at the cotton wool, decided that it was not good to eat, ran all round the table, sat up and put his fur in order, scratched himself, and jumped on the small boyâ€™s shoulder.

â€œDonâ€™t be frightened, Teddy,â€ said his father. â€œThatâ€™s his way of making friends.â€ â€œOuch!

Heâ€™s tickling under my chin,â€ said Teddy.
Rikki-tikki looked down between the boyâ€™s collar and neck, snuffed at his ear, and climbed down to the floor, where he sat rubbing his nose. â€œGood gracious,â€ said Teddyâ€™s mother, â€œand thatâ€™s a wild creature!

I suppose heâ€™s so tame because weâ€™ve been kind to him.â€ â€œAll mongooses are like that,â€ said her husband.
â€œIf Teddy doesnâ€™t pick him up by the tail, or try to put him in a cage, heâ€™ll run in and out of the house all day long. Letâ€™s give him something to eat.â€ They gave him a little piece of raw meat. Rikki-tikki liked it immensely, and when it was finished he went out into the veranda and sat in the sunshine and fluffed up his fur to make it dry to the roots. Then he felt better.
â€œThere are more things to find out about in this house,â€ he said to himself, â€œthan all my family could find out in all their lives. I shall certainly stay and find out.â€ He spent all that day roaming over the house.

He nearly drowned himself in the bath-tubs, put his nose into the ink on a writing table, and burned it on the end of the big manâ€™s cigar, for he climbed up in the big manâ€™s lap to see how writing was done. At nightfall he ran into Teddyâ€™s nursery to watch how kerosene lamps were lighted, and when Teddy went to bed Rikki-tikki climbed up too. But he was a restless companion, because he had to get up and attend to every noise all through the night, and find out what made it.
Teddyâ€™s mother and father came in, the last thing, to look at their boy, and Rikki-tikki was awake on the pillow.

â€œI donâ€™t like that,â€ said Teddyâ€™s mother. â€œHe may bite the child.â€ â€œHeâ€™ll do no such thing,â€ said the father. â€œTeddyâ€™s safer with that little beast than if he had a bloodhound to watch him. If a snake came into the nursery now--â€ But Teddyâ€™s mother wouldnâ€™t think of anything so awful.

Early in the morning Rikki-tikki came to early breakfast in the veranda riding on Teddyâ€™s shoulder, and they gave him banana and some boiled egg. He sat on all their laps one after the other, because every well-brought-up mongoose always hopes to be a house mongoose some day and have rooms to run about in; and Rikki-tikkiâ€™s mother (she used to live in the generalâ€™s house at Segowlee) had carefully told Rikki what to do if ever he came across white men. Then Rikki-tikki went out into the garden to see what was to be seen. It was a large garden, only half cultivated, with bushes, as big as summer-houses, of Marshal Niel roses, lime and orange trees, clumps of bamboos, and thickets of high grass.

Rikki-tikki licked his lips. â€œThis is a splendid hunting-ground,â€ he said, and his tail grew bottle-brushy at the thought of it, and he scuttled up and down the garden, snuffing here and there till he heard very sorrowful voices in a thorn-bush. It was Darzee, the Tailorbird, and his wife. They had made a beautiful nest by pulling two big leaves together and stitching them up the edges with fibers, and had filled the hollow with cotton and downy fluff.

The nest swayed to and fro, as they sat on the rim and cried. â€œWhat is the matter?â€ asked Rikki-tikki. â€œWe are very miserable,â€ said Darzee.

â€œOne of our babies fell out of the nest yesterday and Nag ate him.â€ â€œHâ€™m!â€ said Rikki-tikki, â€œthat is very sad--but I am a stranger here. Who is Nag?â€ Darzee and his wife only cowered down in the nest without answering, for from the thick grass at the foot of the bush there came a low hiss--a horrid cold sound that made Rikki-tikki jump back two clear feet. Then inch by inch out of the grass rose up the head and spread hood of Nag, the big black cobra, and he was five feet long from tongue to tail.

When he had lifted one-third of himself clear of the ground, he stayed balancing to and fro exactly as a dandelion tuft balances in the wind, and he looked at Rikki-tikki with the wicked snakeâ€™s eyes that never change their expression, whatever the snake may be thinking of. â€œWho is Nag?â€ said he. â€œI am Nag. The great God Brahm put his mark upon all our people, when the first cobra spread his hood to keep the sun off Brahm as he slept.

Look, and be afraid!â€ He spread out his hood more than ever, and Rikki-tikki saw the spectacle-mark on the back of it that looks exactly like the eye part of a hook-and-eye fastening. He was afraid for the minute, but it is impossible for a mongoose to stay frightened for any length of time, and though Rikki-tikki had never met a live cobra before, his mother had fed him on dead ones, and he knew that all a grown mongooseâ€™s business in life was to fight and eat snakes. Nag knew that too and, at the bottom of his cold heart, he was afraid.

â€œWell,â€ said Rikki-tikki, and his tail began to fluff up again, â€œmarks or no marks, do you think it is right for you to eat fledglings out of a nest?â€ Nag was thinking to himself, and watching the least little movement in the grass behind Rikki-tikki. He knew that mongooses in the garden meant death sooner or later for him and his family, but he wanted to get Rikki-tikki off his guard. So he dropped his head a little, and put it on one side. â€œLet us talk,â€ he said.

â€œYou eat eggs.

Why should not I eat birds?â€ â€œBehind you! Look behind you!â€ sang Darzee. Rikki-tikki knew better than to waste time in staring. He jumped up in the air as high as he could go, and just under him whizzed by the head of Nagaina, Nagâ€™s wicked wife.

She had crept up behind him as he was talking, to make an end of him. He heard her savage hiss as the stroke missed. He came down almost across her back, and if he had been an old mongoose he would have known that then was the time to break her back with one bite; but he was afraid of the terrible lashing return stroke of the cobra. He bit, indeed, but did not bite long enough, and he jumped clear of the whisking tail, leaving Nagaina torn and angry.

â€œWicked, wicked Darzee!â€ said Nag, lashing up as high as he could reach toward the nest in the thorn-bush. But Darzee had built it out of reach of snakes, and it only swayed to and fro.

Rikki-tikki felt his eyes growing red and hot (when a mongooseâ€™s eyes grow red, he is angry), and he sat back on his tail and hind legs like a little kangaroo, and looked all round him, and chattered with rage. But Nag and Nagaina had disappeared into the grass.

When a snake misses its stroke, it never says anything or gives any sign of what it means to do next. Rikki-tikki did not care to follow them, for he did not feel sure that he could manage two snakes at once. So he trotted off to the gravel path near the house, and sat down to think. It was a serious matter for him.

If you read the old books of natural history, you will find they say that when the mongoose fights the snake and happens to get bitten, he runs off and eats some herb that cures him. That is not true. The victory is only a matter of quickness of eye and quickness of foot--snakeâ€™s blow against mongooseâ€™s jump--and as no eye can follow the motion of a snakeâ€™s head when it strikes, this makes things much more wonderful than any magic herb.

Rikki-tikki knew he was a young mongoose, and it made him all the more pleased to think that he had managed to escape a blow from behind. It gave him confidence in himself, and when Teddy came running down the path, Rikki-tikki was ready to be petted. But just as Teddy was stooping, something wriggled a little in the dust, and a tiny voice said: â€œBe careful.

I am Death!â€ It was Karait, the dusty brown snakeling that lies for choice on the dusty earth; and his bite is as dangerous as the cobraâ€™s. But he is so small that nobody thinks of him, and so he does the more harm to people.

Rikki-tikkiâ€™s eyes grew red again, and he danced up to Karait with the peculiar rocking, swaying motion that he had inherited from his family. It looks very funny, but it is so perfectly balanced a gait that you can fly off from it at any angle you please, and in dealing with snakes this is an advantage. If Rikki-tikki had only known, he was doing a much more dangerous thing than fighting Nag, for Karait is so small, and can turn so quickly, that unless Rikki bit him close to the back of the head, he would get the return stroke in his eye or his lip. But Rikki did not know.

His eyes were all red, and he rocked back and forth, looking for a good place to hold. Karait struck out. Rikki jumped sideways and tried to run in, but the wicked little dusty gray head lashed within a fraction of his shoulder, and he had to jump over the body, and the head followed his heels close. Teddy shouted to the house: â€œOh, look here!

Our mongoose is killing a snake.â€ And Rikki-tikki heard a scream from Teddyâ€™s mother. His father ran out with a stick, but by the time he came up, Karait had lunged out once too far, and Rikki-tikki had sprung, jumped on the snakeâ€™s back, dropped his head far between his forelegs, bitten as high up the back as he could get hold, and rolled away. That bite paralyzed Karait, and Rikki-tikki was just going to eat him up from the tail, after the custom of his family at dinner, when he remembered that a full meal makes a slow mongoose, and if he wanted all his strength and quickness ready, he must keep himself thin. He went away for a dust bath under the castor-oil bushes, while Teddyâ€™s father beat the dead Karait. â€œWhat is the use of that?â€ thought Rikki-tikki.

â€œI have settled it all;â€ and then Teddyâ€™s mother picked him up from the dust and hugged him, crying that he had saved Teddy from death, and Teddyâ€™s father said that he was a providence, and Teddy looked on with big scared eyes. Rikki-tikki was rather amused at all the fuss, which, of course, he did not understand.

Teddyâ€™s mother might just as well have petted Teddy for playing in the dust. Rikki was thoroughly enjoying himself.

That night at dinner, walking to and fro among the wine-glasses on the table, he might have stuffed himself three times over with nice things. But he remembered Nag and Nagaina, and though it was very pleasant to be patted and petted by Teddyâ€™s mother, and to sit on Teddyâ€™s shoulder, his eyes would get red from time to time, and he would go off into his long war cry of â€œRikk-tikk-tikki-tikki-tchk!â€ Teddy carried him off to bed, and insisted on Rikki-tikki sleeping under his chin.
Rikki-tikki was too well bred to bite or scratch, but as soon as Teddy was asleep he went off for his nightly walk round the house, and in the dark he ran up against Chuchundra, the muskrat, creeping around by the wall.

Chuchundra is a broken-hearted little beast. He whimpers and cheeps all the night, trying to make up his mind to run into the middle of the room. But he never gets there.

â€œDonâ€™t kill me,â€ said Chuchundra, almost weeping. â€œRikki-tikki, donâ€™t kill me!â€ â€œDo you think a snake-killer kills muskrats?â€ said Rikki-tikki scornfully.

â€œThose who kill snakes get killed by snakes,â€ said Chuchundra, more sorrowfully than ever. â€œAnd how am I to be sure that Nag wonâ€™t mistake me for you some dark night?â€ â€œThereâ€™s not the least danger,â€ said Rikki-tikki. â€œBut Nag is in the garden, and I know you donâ€™t go there.â€ â€œMy cousin Chua, the rat, told me--â€ said Chuchundra, and then he stopped. â€œTold you what?â€ â€œHâ€™sh!

Nag is everywhere, Rikki-tikki.

You should have talked to Chua in the garden.â€ â€œI didnâ€™t--so you must tell me. Quick, Chuchundra, or Iâ€™ll bite you!â€ Chuchundra sat down and cried till the tears rolled off his whiskers. â€œI am a very poor man,â€ he sobbed.

â€œI never had spirit enough to run out into the middle of the room. Hâ€™sh!
I mustnâ€™t tell you anything. Canâ€™t you hear, Rikki-tikki?â€ Rikki-tikki listened. The house was as still as still, but he thought he could just catch the faintest scratch-scratch in the world--a noise as faint as that of a wasp walking on a window-pane--the dry scratch of a snakeâ€™s scales on brick-work.

â€œThatâ€™s Nag or Nagaina,â€ he said to himself, â€œand he is crawling into the bath-room sluice. Youâ€™re right, Chuchundra; I should have talked to Chua.â€

He stole off to Teddyâ€™s bath-room, but there was nothing there, and then to Teddyâ€™s motherâ€™s bathroom. At the bottom of the smooth plaster wall there was a brick pulled out to make a sluice for the bath water, and as Rikki-tikki stole in by the masonry curb where the bath is put, he heard Nag and Nagaina whispering together outside in the moonlight. â€œWhen the house is emptied of people,â€ said Nagaina to her husband, â€œhe will have to go away, and then the garden will be our own again.

Go in quietly, and remember that the big man who killed Karait is the first one to bite. Then come out and tell me, and we will hunt for Rikki-tikki together.â€

â€œBut are you sure that there is anything to be gained by killing the people?â€ said Nag.
â€œEverything. When there were no people in the bungalow, did we have any mongoose in the garden?

So long as the bungalow is empty, we are king and queen of the garden; and remember that as soon as our eggs in the melon bed hatch (as they may tomorrow), our children will need room and quiet.â€ â€œI had not thought of that,â€ said Nag. â€œI will go, but there is no need that we should hunt for Rikki-tikki afterward. I will kill the big man and his wife, and the child if I can, and come away quietly. Then the bungalow will be empty, and Rikki-tikki will go.â€ Rikki-tikki tingled all over with rage and hatred at this, and then Nagâ€™s head came through the sluice, and his five feet of cold body followed it.

Angry as he was, Rikki-tikki was very frightened as he saw the size of the big cobra. Nag coiled himself up, raised his head, and looked into the bathroom in the dark, and Rikki could see his eyes glitter. â€œNow, if I kill him here, Nagaina will know; and if I fight him on the open floor, the odds are in his favor.

What am I to do?â€ said Rikki-tikki-tavi. Nag waved to and fro, and then Rikki-tikki heard him drinking from the biggest water-jar that was used to fill the bath. â€œThat is good,â€ said the snake. â€œNow, when Karait was killed, the big man had a stick.

He may have that stick still, but when he comes in to bathe in the morning he will not have a stick. I shall wait here till he comes.

Nagaina--do you hear me?--I shall wait here in the cool till daytime.â€ There was no answer from outside, so Rikki-tikki knew Nagaina had gone away. Nag coiled himself down, coil by coil, round the bulge at the bottom of the water jar, and Rikki-tikki stayed still as death. After an hour he began to move, muscle by muscle, toward the jar.

Nag was asleep, and Rikki-tikki looked at his big back, wondering which would be the best place for a good hold. â€œIf

I donâ€™t break his back at the first jump,â€ said Rikki, â€œhe can still fight. And if he fights--O Rikki!â€ He looked at the thickness of the neck below the hood, but that was too much for him; and a bite near the tail would only make Nag savage. â€œIt must be the headâ€â€™ he said at last; â€œthe head above the hood.

And, when I am once there, I must not let go.â€

Then he jumped. The head was lying a little clear of the water jar, under the curve of it; and, as his teeth met, Rikki braced his back against the bulge of the red earthenware to hold down the head. This gave him just one secondâ€™s purchase, and he made the most of it. Then he was battered to and fro as a rat is shaken by a dog--to and fro on the floor, up and down, and around in great circles, but his eyes were red and he held on as the body cart-whipped over the floor, upsetting the tin dipper and the soap dish and the flesh brush, and banged against the tin side of the bath. As he held he closed his jaws tighter and tighter, for he made sure he would be banged to death, and, for the honor of his family, he preferred to be found with his teeth locked.

He was dizzy, aching, and felt shaken to pieces when something went off like a thunderclap just behind him. A hot wind knocked him senseless and red fire singed his fur. The big man had been wakened by the noise, and had fired both barrels of a shotgun into Nag just behind the hood. Rikki-tikki held on with his eyes shut, for now he was quite sure he was dead.

But the head did not move, and the big man picked him up and said, â€œItâ€™s the mongoose again, Alice.

The little chap has saved our lives now.â€ Then Teddyâ€™s mother came in with a very white face, and saw what was left of Nag, and Rikki-tikki dragged himself to Teddyâ€™s bedroom and spent half the rest of the night shaking himself tenderly to find out whether he really was broken into forty pieces, as he fancied. When morning came he was very stiff, but well pleased with his doings. â€œNow I have Nagaina to settle with, and she will be worse than five Nags, and thereâ€™s no knowing when the eggs she spoke of will hatch.

Goodness!

I must go and see Darzee,â€ he said. Without waiting for breakfast, Rikki-tikki ran to the thornbush where Darzee was singing a song of triumph at the top of his voice. The news of Nagâ€™s death was all over the garden, for the sweeper had thrown the body on the rubbish-heap.
â€œOh, you stupid tuft of feathers!â€ said Rikki-tikki angrily. â€œIs this the time to sing?â€ â€œNag is dead--is dead--is dead!â€ sang Darzee.

â€œThe valiant Rikki-tikki caught him by the head and held fast. The big man brought the bang-stick, and Nag fell in two pieces! He will never eat my babies again.â€ â€œAll thatâ€™s true enough.

But whereâ€™s Nagaina?â€ said Rikki-tikki, looking carefully round him.
â€œNagaina came to the bathroom sluice and called for Nag,â€ Darzee went on, â€œand Nag came out on the end of a stick--the sweeper picked him up on the end of a stick and threw him upon the rubbish heap.

Let us sing about the great, the red-eyed Rikki-tikki!â€ And Darzee filled his throat and sang. â€œIf I could get up to your nest, Iâ€™d roll your babies out!â€ said Rikki-tikki. â€œYou donâ€™t know when to do the right thing at the right time. Youâ€™re safe enough in your nest there, but itâ€™s war for me down here.

Stop singing a minute, Darzee.â€ â€œFor the great, the beautiful Rikki-tikkiâ€™s sake I will stop,â€ said Darzee. â€œWhat is it, O Killer of the terrible Nag?â€ â€œWhere is Nagaina, for the third time?â€ â€œOn the rubbish heap by the stables, mourning for Nag. Great is Rikki-tikki with the white teeth.â€ â€œBother my white teeth! Have you ever heard where she keeps her eggs?â€ â€œIn the melon bed, on the end nearest the wall, where the sun strikes nearly all day.

She hid them there weeks ago.â€ â€œAnd you never thought it worth while to tell me? The end nearest the wall, you said?â€ â€œRikki-tikki, you are not going to eat her eggs?â€ â€œNot eat exactly; no.
Darzee, if you have a grain of sense you will fly off to the stables and pretend that your wing is broken, and let Nagaina chase you away to this bush. I must get to the melon-bed, and if I went there now sheâ€™d see me.â€ Darzee was a feather-brained little fellow who could never hold more than one idea at a time in his head. And just because he knew that Nagainaâ€™s children were born in eggs like his own, he didnâ€™t think at first that it was fair to kill them. But his wife was a sensible bird, and she knew that cobraâ€™s eggs meant young cobras later on.

So she flew off from the nest, and left Darzee to keep the babies warm, and continue his song about the death of Nag. Darzee was very like a man in some ways. She fluttered in front of Nagaina by the rubbish heap and cried out, â€œOh, my wing is broken! The boy in the house threw a stone at me and broke it.â€ Then she fluttered more desperately than ever. Nagaina lifted up her head and hissed, â€œYou warned Rikki-tikki when I would have killed him.

Indeed and truly, youâ€™ve chosen a bad place to be lame in.â€

And she moved toward Darzeeâ€™s wife, slipping along over the dust. â€œThe boy broke it with a stone!â€ shrieked Darzeeâ€™s wife. â€œWell!
It may be some consolation to you when youâ€™re dead to know that I shall settle accounts with the boy.

My husband lies on the rubbish heap this morning, but before night the boy in the house will lie very still. What is the use of running away? I am sure to catch you. Little fool, look at me!â€ Darzeeâ€™s wife knew better than to do that, for a bird who looks at a snakeâ€™s eyes gets so frightened that she cannot move.

Darzeeâ€™s wife fluttered on, piping sorrowfully, and never leaving the ground, and Nagaina quickened her pace. Rikki-tikki heard them going up the path from the stables, and he raced for the end of the melon patch near the wall.

There, in the warm litter above the melons, very cunningly hidden, he found twenty-five eggs, about the size of a bantamâ€™s eggs, but with whitish skin instead of shell. â€œI was not a day too soon,â€ he said, for he could see the baby cobras curled up inside the skin, and he knew that the minute they were hatched they could each kill a man or a mongoose. He bit off the tops of the eggs as fast as he could, taking care to crush the young cobras, and turned over the litter from time to time to see whether he had missed any. At last there were only three eggs left, and Rikki-tikki began to chuckle to himself, when he heard Darzeeâ€™s wife screaming: â€œRikki-tikki, I led Nagaina toward the house, and she has gone into the veranda, and--

oh, come quickly--she means killing!â€ Rikki-tikki smashed two eggs, and tumbled backward down the melon-bed with the third egg in his mouth, and scuttled to the veranda as hard as he could put foot to the ground.

Teddy and his mother and father were there at early breakfast, but Rikki-tikki saw that they were not eating anything. They sat stone-still, and their faces were white. Nagaina was coiled up on the matting by Teddyâ€™s chair, within easy striking distance of Teddyâ€™s bare leg, and she was swaying to and fro, singing a song of triumph. â€œSon of the big man that killed Nag,â€ she hissed, â€œstay still.

I am not ready yet. Wait a little. Keep very still, all you three! If you move I strike, and if you do not move I strike. Oh, foolish people, who killed my Nag!â€ Teddyâ€™s eyes were fixed on his father, and all his father could do was to whisper, â€œSit still, Teddy.

You mustnâ€™t move.

Teddy, keep still.â€ Then Rikki-tikki came up and cried, â€œTurn round, Nagaina. Turn and fight!â€ â€œAll in good time,â€ said she, without moving her eyes. â€œI will settle my account with you presently. Look at your friends, Rikki-tikki.

They are still and white. They are afraid. They dare not move, and if you come a step nearer I strike.â€ â€œLook at your eggs,â€ said Rikki-tikki, â€œin the melon bed near the wall.

Go and look, Nagaina!â€ The big snake turned half around, and saw the egg on the veranda.

â€œAh-h!
Give it to me,â€ she said. Rikki-tikki put his paws one on each side of the egg, and his eyes were blood-red. â€œWhat price for a snakeâ€™s egg?

For a young cobra?

For a young king cobra?
For the last--the very last of the brood?

The ants are eating all the others down by the melon bed.â€ Nagaina spun clear round, forgetting everything for the sake of the one egg. Rikki-tikki saw Teddyâ€™s father shoot out a big hand, catch Teddy by the shoulder, and drag him across the little table with the tea-cups, safe and out of reach of Nagaina. â€œTricked!
Tricked! Tricked!

Rikk-tck-tck!â€ chuckled Rikki-tikki. â€œThe boy is safe, and it was I--I--I that caught Nag by the hood last night in the bathroom.â€ Then he began to jump up and down, all four feet together, his head close to the floor. â€œHe threw me to and fro, but he could not shake me off. He was dead before the big man blew him in two.

I did it!
Rikki-tikki-tck-tck!
Come then, Nagaina. Come and fight with me. You shall not be a widow long.â€ Nagaina saw that she had lost her chance of killing Teddy, and the egg lay between Rikki-tikkiâ€™s paws. â€œGive me the egg, Rikki-tikki.

Give me the last of my eggs, and I will go away and never come back,â€ she said, lowering her hood. â€œYes, you will go away, and you will never come back. For you will go to the rubbish heap with Nag. Fight, widow!

The big man has gone for his gun!
Fight!â€ Rikki-tikki was bounding all round Nagaina, keeping just out of reach of her stroke, his little eyes like hot coals. Nagaina gathered herself together and flung out at him. Rikki-tikki jumped up and backward. Again and again and again she struck, and each time her head came with a whack on the matting of the veranda and she gathered herself together like a watch spring.

Then Rikki-tikki danced in a circle to get behind her, and Nagaina spun round to keep her head to his head, so that the rustle of her tail on the matting sounded like dry leaves blown along by the wind. He had forgotten the egg. It still lay on the veranda, and Nagaina came nearer and nearer to it, till at last, while Rikki-tikki was drawing breath, she caught it in her mouth, turned to the veranda steps, and flew like an arrow down the path, with Rikki-tikki behind her. When the cobra runs for her life, she goes like a whip-lash flicked across a horseâ€™s neck. Rikki-tikki knew that he must catch her, or all the trouble would begin again.

She headed straight for the long grass by the thorn-bush, and as he was running Rikki-tikki heard Darzee still singing his foolish little song of triumph. But Darzeeâ€™s wife was wiser.

She flew off her nest as Nagaina came along, and flapped her wings about Nagainaâ€™s head. If Darzee had helped they might have turned her, but Nagaina only lowered her hood and went on. Still, the instantâ€™s delay brought Rikki-tikki up to her, and as she plunged into the rat-hole where she and Nag used to live, his little white teeth were clenched on her tail, and he went down with her--and very few mongooses, however wise and old they may be, care to follow a cobra into its hole. It was dark in the hole; and Rikki-tikki never knew when it might open out and give Nagaina room to turn and strike at him.

He held on savagely, and stuck out his feet to act as brakes on the dark slope of the hot, moist earth. Then the grass by the mouth of the hole stopped waving, and Darzee said, â€œIt is all over with Rikki-tikki! We must sing his death song. Valiant Rikki-tikki is dead! For Nagaina will surely kill him underground.â€

So he sang a very mournful song that he made up on the spur of the minute, and just as he got to the most touching part, the grass quivered again, and Rikki-tikki, covered with dirt, dragged himself out of the hole leg by leg, licking his whiskers. Darzee stopped with a little shout. Rikki-tikki shook some of the dust out of his fur and sneezed. â€œIt is all over,â€ he said.

â€œThe widow will never come out again.â€ And the red ants that live between the grass stems heard him, and began to troop down one after another to see if he had spoken the truth. Rikki-tikki curled himself up in the grass and slept where he was--slept and slept till it was late in the afternoon, for he had done a hard dayâ€™s work. â€œNow,â€ he said, when he awoke, â€œI will go back to the house. Tell the Coppersmith, Darzee, and he will tell the garden that Nagaina is dead.â€ The Coppersmith is a bird who makes a noise exactly like the beating of a little hammer on a copper pot; and the reason he is always making it is because he is the town crier to every Indian garden, and tells all the news to everybody who cares to listen. As Rikki-tikki went up the path, he heard his â€œattentionâ€ notes like a tiny dinner gong, and then the steady â€œDing-dong-tock!

Nag is dead--dong! Nagaina is dead!
Ding-dong-tock!â€ That set all the birds in the garden singing, and the frogs croaking, for Nag and Nagaina used to eat frogs as well as little birds. When Rikki got to the house, Teddy and Teddyâ€™s mother (she looked very white still, for she had been fainting) and Teddyâ€™s father came out and almost cried over him; and that night he ate all that was given him till he could eat no more, and went to bed on Teddyâ€™s shoulder, where Teddyâ€™s mother saw him when she came to look late at night. â€œHe saved our lives and Teddyâ€™s life,â€ she said to her husband.

â€œJust think, he saved all our lives.â€ Rikki-tikki woke up with a jump, for the mongooses are light sleepers.
â€œOh, itâ€™s you,â€ said he. â€œWhat are you bothering for? All the cobras are dead. And if they werenâ€™t, Iâ€™m here.â€ Rikki-tikki had a right to be proud of himself.

But he did not grow too proud, and he kept that garden as a mongoose should keep it, with tooth and jump and spring and bite, till never a cobra dared show its head inside the walls.

Darzeeâ€™s Chant      (Sung in honor of Rikki-tikki-tavi)

Singer and tailor am I--         Doubled the joys that I know--      Proud of my lilt to the sky,         Proud of the house that I sew-- Over and under, so weave I my music--so weave I the house that I         sew. Sing to your fledglings again, Mother, oh lift up your head!
Evil that plagued us is slain,         Death in the garden lies dead. Terror that hid in the roses is impotent--flung on the dung-hill      and dead!
Who has delivered us, who?
Tell me his nest and his name.

Rikki, the valiant, the true,         Tikki, with eyeballs of flame,      Rikk-tikki-tikki, the ivory-fanged, the hunter with eyeballs of      flame!
Give him the Thanks of the Birds,         Bowing with tail feathers spread! Praise him with nightingale words--         Nay, I will praise him instead. Hear!

I will sing you the praise of the bottle-tailed Rikki, with      eyeballs of red! (_Here Rikki-tikki interrupted, and the rest of the song is lost.

_)

Toomai of the Elephants      I will remember what I was, I am sick of rope and chain--         I will remember my old strength and all my forest affairs. I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugar-cane:         I will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in their lairs. I will go out until the day, until the morning break--         Out to the windâ€™s untainted kiss, the waterâ€™s clean caress;      I will forget my ankle-ring and snap my picket stake. I will revisit my lost loves, and playmates masterless!
Kala Nag, which means Black Snake, had served the Indian Government in every way that an elephant could serve it for forty-seven years, and as he was fully twenty years old when he was caught, that makes him nearly seventy--a ripe age for an elephant.

He remembered pushing, with a big leather pad on his forehead, at a gun stuck in deep mud, and that was before the Afghan War of 1842, and he had not then come to his full strength. His mother Radha Pyari,--Radha

the darling,--who had been caught in the same drive with Kala Nag, told him, before his little milk tusks had dropped out, that elephants who were afraid always got hurt. Kala Nag knew that that advice was good, for the first time that he saw a shell burst he backed, screaming, into a stand of piled rifles, and the bayonets pricked him in all his softest places.

So, before he was twenty-five, he gave up being afraid, and so he was the best-loved and the best-looked-after elephant in the service of the Government of India. He had carried tents, twelve hundred poundsâ€ ™ weight of tents, on the march in Upper India. He had been hoisted into a ship at the end of a steam crane and taken for days across the water, and made to carry a mortar on his back in a strange and rocky country very far from India, and had seen the Emperor Theodore lying dead in Magdala, and had come back again in the steamer entitled, so the soldiers said, to the Abyssinian War medal. He had seen his fellow elephants die of cold and epilepsy and starvation and sunstroke up at a place called Ali Musjid, ten years later; and afterward he had been sent down thousands of miles south to haul and pile big balks of teak in the timberyards at Moulmein.

There he had half killed an insubordinate young elephant who was shirking his fair share of work. After that he was taken off timber-hauling, and employed, with a few score other elephants who were trained to the business, in helping to catch wild elephants among the Garo hills. Elephants are very strictly preserved by the Indian Government. There is one whole department which does nothing else but hunt them, and catch them, and break them in, and send them up and down the country as they are needed for work.

Kala Nag stood ten fair feet at the shoulders, and his tusks had been cut off short at five feet, and bound round the ends, to prevent them splitting, with bands of copper; but he could do more with those stumps than any untrained elephant could do with the real sharpened ones. When, after weeks and weeks of cautious driving of scattered elephants across the hills, the forty or fifty wild monsters were driven into the last stockade, and the big drop gate, made of tree trunks lashed together, jarred down behind them, Kala Nag, at the word of command, would go into that flaring, trumpeting pandemonium (generally at night, when the flicker of the torches made it difficult to judge distances), and, picking out the biggest and wildest tusker of the mob, would hammer him and hustle him into quiet while the men on the backs of the other elephants roped and tied the smaller ones. There was nothing in the way of fighting that Kala Nag, the old wise Black Snake, did not know, for he had stood up more than once in his time to the charge of the wounded tiger, and, curling up his soft trunk to be out of harmâ€™s way, had knocked the springing brute sideways in mid-air with a quick sickle cut of his head, that he had invented all by himself; had knocked him over, and kneeled upon him with his huge knees till the life went out with a gasp and a howl, and there was only a fluffy striped thing on the ground for Kala Nag to pull by the tail. â€œYes,â€ said Big Toomai, his driver, the son of Black Toomai who had taken him to Abyssinia, and grandson of Toomai of the Elephants who had seen him caught, â€œthere is nothing that the Black Snake fears except me.

He has seen three generations of us feed him and groom him, and he will live to see four.â€ â€œHe is afraid of me also,â€ said Little Toomai, standing up to his full height of four feet, with only one rag upon him. He was ten years old, the eldest son of Big Toomai, and, according to custom, he would take his fatherâ€™s place on Kala Nagâ€™s neck when he grew up, and would handle the heavy iron ankus, the elephant goad, that had been worn smooth by his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather. He knew what he was talking of; for he had been born under Kala Nagâ€™s shadow, had played with the end of his trunk before he could walk, had taken him down to water as soon as he could walk, and Kala Nag would no more have dreamed of disobeying his shrill little orders than he would have dreamed of killing him on that day when Big Toomai carried the little brown baby under Kala Nagâ€™s tusks, and told him to salute his master that was to be. â€œYes,â€ said Little Toomai, â€œhe is afraid of me,â€ and he took long strides up to Kala Nag, called him a fat old pig, and made him lift up his feet one after the other. â€œWah!â€ said Little Toomai, â€œthou art a big elephant,â€ and he wagged his fluffy head, quoting his father.

â€œThe Government may pay for elephants, but they belong to us mahouts. When thou art old, Kala Nag, there will come some rich rajah, and he will buy thee from the Government, on account of thy size and thy manners, and then thou wilt have nothing to do but to carry gold earrings in thy ears, and a gold howdah on thy back, and a red cloth covered with gold on thy sides, and walk at the head of the processions of the King. Then I shall sit on thy neck, O Kala Nag, with a silver ankus, and men will run before us with golden sticks, crying, `Room for the Kingâ€™s elephant!â€™

That will be good, Kala Nag, but not so good as this hunting in the jungles.â€ â€œUmph!â€ said Big Toomai.

â€œThou art a boy, and as wild as a buffalo-calf.

This running up and down among the hills is not the best Government service. I am getting old, and I do not love wild elephants. Give me brick elephant lines, one stall to each elephant, and big stumps to tie them to safely, and flat, broad roads to exercise upon, instead of this come-and-go camping.

Aha, the Cawnpore barracks were good. There was a bazaar close by, and only three hoursâ€™ work a day.â€ Little Toomai remembered the Cawnpore elephant-lines and said nothing. He very much preferred the camp life, and hated those broad, flat roads, with the daily grubbing for grass in the forage reserve, and the long hours when there was nothing to do except to watch Kala Nag fidgeting in his pickets. What Little Toomai liked was to scramble up bridle paths that only an elephant could take; the dip into the valley below; the glimpses of the wild elephants browsing miles away; the rush of the frightened pig and peacock under Kala Nagâ€™s feet; the blinding warm rains, when all the hills and valleys smoked; the beautiful misty mornings when nobody knew where they would camp that night; the steady, cautious drive of the wild elephants, and the mad rush and blaze and hullabaloo of the last nightâ€™s drive, when the elephants poured into the stockade like boulders in a landslide, found that they could not get out, and flung themselves at the heavy posts only to be driven back by yells and flaring torches and volleys of blank cartridge.

Even a little boy could be of use there, and Toomai was as useful as three boys. He would get his torch and wave it, and yell with the best. But the really good time came when the driving out began, and the Keddah--that is, the stockade--looked like a picture of the end of the world, and men had to make signs to one another, because they could not hear themselves speak.

Then Little Toomai would climb up to the top of one of the quivering stockade posts, his sun-bleached brown hair flying loose all over his shoulders, and he looking like a goblin in the torch-light. And as soon as there was a lull you could hear his high-pitched yells of encouragement to Kala Nag, above the trumpeting and crashing, and snapping of ropes, and groans of the tethered elephants. â€œMael, mael, Kala Nag!

(Go on, go on, Black Snake!)

Dant do!
(Give him the tusk!) Somalo!
Somalo!
(Careful, careful!)

Maro!
Mar!
(Hit him, hit him!) Mind the post! Arre!
Arre!

Hai! Yai!
Kya-a-ah!â€ he would shout, and the big fight between Kala Nag and the wild elephant would sway to and fro across the Keddah, and the old elephant catchers would wipe the sweat out of their eyes, and find time to nod to Little Toomai wriggling with joy on the top of the posts. He did more than wriggle. One night he slid down from the post and slipped in between the elephants and threw up the loose end of a rope, which had dropped, to a driver who was trying to get a purchase on the leg of a kicking young calf (calves always give more trouble than full-grown animals). Kala Nag saw him, caught him in his trunk, and handed him up to Big Toomai, who slapped him then and there, and put him back on the post.

Next morning he gave him a scolding and said, â€œAre not good brick elephant lines and a little tent carrying enough, that thou must needs go elephant catching on thy own account, little worthless? Now those foolish hunters, whose pay is less than my pay, have spoken to Petersen Sahib of the matter.â€ Little Toomai was frightened. He did not know much of white men, but Petersen Sahib was the greatest white man in the world to him.

He was the head of all the Keddah operations--the man who caught all the elephants for the Government of India, and who knew more about the ways of elephants than any living man. â€œWhat--what will happen?â€ said Little Toomai.
â€œHappen! The worst that can happen.

Petersen Sahib is a madman. Else why should he go hunting these wild devils? He may even require thee to be an elephant catcher, to sleep anywhere in these fever-filled jungles, and at last to be trampled to death in the Keddah.

It is well that this nonsense ends safely. Next week the catching is over, and we of the plains are sent back to our stations. Then we will march on smooth roads, and forget all this hunting. But, son, I am angry that thou shouldst meddle in the business that belongs to these dirty Assamese jungle folk.

Kala Nag will obey none but me, so I must go with him into the Keddah, but he is only a fighting elephant, and he does not help to rope them. So I sit at my ease, as befits a mahout,--not a mere hunter,--a mahout, I say, and a man who gets a pension at the end of his service. Is the family of Toomai of the Elephants to be trodden underfoot in the dirt of a Keddah? Bad one!

Wicked one!

Worthless son!
Go and wash Kala Nag and attend to his ears, and see that there are no thorns in his feet.

Or else Petersen Sahib will surely catch thee and make thee a wild hunter--a follower of elephantâ€™s foot tracks, a jungle bear. Bah!
Shame!

Go!â€ Little Toomai went off without saying a word, but he told Kala Nag all his grievances while he was examining his feet. â€œNo matter,â€ said Little Toomai, turning up the fringe of Kala Nagâ€™s huge right ear. â€œThey have said my name to Petersen Sahib, and perhaps--and perhaps--and perhaps--who knows?
Hai!

That is a big thorn that I have pulled out!â€ The next few days were spent in getting the elephants together, in walking the newly caught wild elephants up and down between a couple of tame ones to prevent them giving too much trouble on the downward march to the plains, and in taking stock of the blankets and ropes and things that had been worn out or lost in the forest. Petersen Sahib came in on his clever she-elephant Pudmini; he had been paying off other camps among the hills, for the season was coming to an end, and there was a native clerk sitting at a table under a tree, to pay the drivers their wages. As each man was paid he went back to his elephant, and joined the line that stood ready to start.

The catchers, and hunters, and beaters, the men of the regular Keddah, who stayed in the jungle year in and year out, sat on the backs of the elephants that belonged to Petersen Sahibâ€™s permanent force, or leaned against the trees with their guns across their arms, and made fun of the drivers who were going away, and laughed when the newly caught elephants broke the line and ran about. Big Toomai went up to the clerk with Little Toomai behind him, and Machua Appa, the head tracker, said in an undertone to a friend of his, â€œThere goes one piece of good elephant stuff at least. â€™Tis a pity to send that young jungle-cock to molt in the plains.â€ Now Petersen Sahib had ears all over him, as a man must have who listens to the most silent of all living things--the wild elephant. He turned where he was lying all along on Pudminiâ€™s back and said, â€œWhat is that? I did not know of a man among the plains-drivers who had wit enough to rope even a dead elephant.â€ â€œThis is not a man, but a boy.

He went into the Keddah at the last drive, and threw Barmao there the rope, when we were trying to get that young calf with the blotch on his shoulder away from his mother.â€ Machua Appa pointed at Little Toomai, and Petersen Sahib looked, and Little Toomai bowed to the earth. â€œHe throw a rope? He is smaller than a picket-pin. Little one, what is thy name?â€ said Petersen Sahib. Little Toomai was too frightened to speak, but Kala Nag was behind him, and Toomai made a sign with his hand, and the elephant caught him up in his trunk and held him level with Pudminiâ€™s forehead, in front of the great Petersen Sahib.

Then Little Toomai covered his face with his hands, for he was only a child, and except where elephants were concerned, he was just as bashful as a child could be.
â€œOho!â€ said Petersen Sahib, smiling underneath his mustache, â€œand why didst thou teach thy elephant that trick?

Was it to help thee steal green corn from the roofs of the houses when the ears are put out to dry?â€ â€œNot green corn, Protector of the Poor,--melons,â€ said Little Toomai, and all the men sitting about broke into a roar of laughter. Most of them had taught their elephants that trick when they were boys. Little Toomai was hanging eight feet up in the air, and he wished very much that he were eight feet underground.

â€œHe is Toomai, my son, Sahib,â€ said Big Toomai, scowling.

â€œHe is a very bad boy, and he will end in a jail, Sahib.â€ â€œOf that I have my doubts,â€ said Petersen Sahib. â€œA boy who can face a full Keddah at his age does not end in jails. See, little one, here are four annas to spend in sweetmeats because thou hast a little head under that great thatch of hair. In time thou mayest become a hunter too.â€ Big Toomai scowled more than ever.

â€œRemember, though, that Keddahs are not good for children to play in,â€ Petersen Sahib went on.

â€œMust I never go there, Sahib?â€ asked Little Toomai with a big gasp. â€œYes.â€ Petersen Sahib smiled again. â€œWhen thou hast seen the elephants dance. That is the proper time.

Come to me when thou hast seen the elephants dance, and then I will let thee go into all the Keddahs.â€ There was another roar of laughter, for that is an old joke among elephant-catchers, and it means just never. There are great cleared flat places hidden away in the forests that are called elephantsâ€™ ball-rooms, but even these are only found by accident, and no man has ever seen the elephants dance. When a driver boasts of his skill and bravery the other drivers say, â€œAnd when didst thou see the elephants dance?â€ Kala Nag put Little Toomai down, and he bowed to the earth again and went away with his father, and gave the silver four-anna piece to his mother, who was nursing his baby brother, and they all were put up on Kala Nagâ€™s back, and the line of grunting, squealing elephants rolled down the hill path to the plains.

It was a very lively march on account of the new elephants, who gave trouble at every ford, and needed coaxing or beating every other minute. Big Toomai prodded Kala Nag spitefully, for he was very angry, but Little Toomai was too happy to speak. Petersen Sahib had noticed him, and given him money, so he felt as a private soldier would feel if he had been called out of the ranks and praised by his commander-in-chief. â€œWhat did Petersen Sahib mean by the elephant dance?â€ he said, at last, softly to his mother.

Big Toomai heard him and grunted. â€œThat thou shouldst never be one of these hill buffaloes of trackers. That was what he meant.

Oh, you in front, what is blocking the way?â€ An Assamese driver, two or three elephants ahead, turned round angrily, crying: â€œBring up Kala Nag, and knock this youngster of mine into good behavior. Why should Petersen Sahib have chosen me to go down with you donkeys of the rice fields? Lay your beast alongside, Toomai, and let him prod with his tusks.

By all the Gods of the Hills, these new elephants are possessed, or else they can smell their companions in the jungle.â€ Kala Nag hit the new elephant in the ribs and knocked the wind out of him, as Big Toomai said, â€œWe have swept the hills of wild elephants at the last catch. It is only your carelessness in driving. Must I keep order along the whole line?â€ â€œHear him!â€ said the other driver. â€œWe have swept the hills!

Ho!
Ho!

You are very wise, you plains people. Anyone but a mud-head who never saw the jungle would know that they know that the drives are ended for the season. Therefore all the wild elephants to-night will--but why should I waste wisdom on a river-turtle?â€ â€œWhat will they do?â€ Little Toomai called out. â€œOhe, little one.

Art thou there?

Well, I will tell thee, for thou hast a cool head. They will dance, and it behooves thy father, who has swept all the hills of all the elephants, to double-chain his pickets to-night.â€ â€œWhat talk is this?â€ said Big Toomai. â€œFor forty years, father and son, we have tended elephants, and we have never heard such moonshine about dances.â€ â€œYes; but a plainsman who lives in a hut knows only the four walls of his hut. Well, leave thy elephants unshackled tonight and see what comes.

As for their dancing, I have seen the place where--Bapree-bap!
How many windings has the Dihang River? Here is another ford, and we must swim the calves. Stop still, you behind there.â€ And in this way, talking and wrangling and splashing through the rivers, they made their first march to a sort of receiving camp for the new elephants.

But they lost their tempers long before they got there.

Then the elephants were chained by their hind legs to their big stumps of pickets, and extra ropes were fitted to the new elephants, and the fodder was piled before them, and the hill drivers went back to Petersen Sahib through the afternoon light, telling the plains drivers to be extra careful that night, and laughing when the plains drivers asked the reason. Little Toomai attended to Kala Nagâ€™s supper, and as evening fell, wandered through the camp, unspeakably happy, in search of a tom-tom. When an Indian childâ€™s heart is full, he does not run about and make a noise in an irregular fashion. He sits down to a sort of revel all by himself.

And Little Toomai had been spoken to by Petersen Sahib!

If he had not found what he wanted, I believe he would have been ill. But the sweetmeat seller in the camp lent him a little tom-tom--a drum beaten with the flat of the hand--and he sat down, cross-legged, before Kala Nag as the stars began to come out, the tom-tom in his lap, and he thumped and he thumped and he thumped, and the more he thought of the great honor that had been done to him, the more he thumped, all alone among the elephant fodder.

There was no tune and no words, but the thumping made him happy. The new elephants strained at their ropes, and squealed and trumpeted from time to time, and he could hear his mother in the camp hut putting his small brother to sleep with an old, old song about the great God Shiv, who once told all the animals what they should eat. It is a very soothing lullaby, and the first verse says:      Shiv, who poured the harvest and made the winds to blow,      Sitting at the doorways of a day of long ago,      Gave to each his portion, food and toil and fate,      From the King upon the _guddee_ to the Beggar at the gate. All things made he--Shiva the Preserver.

Mahadeo!
Mahadeo!

He made all--      Thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine,      And motherâ€™s heart for sleepy head, O little son of mine! Little Toomai came in with a joyous tunk-a-tunk at the end of each verse, till he felt sleepy and stretched himself on the fodder at Kala Nagâ€™s side. At last the elephants began to lie down one after another as is their custom, till only Kala Nag at the right of the line was left standing up; and he rocked slowly from side to side, his ears put forward to listen to the night wind as it blew very slowly across the hills. The air was full of all the night noises that, taken together, make one big silence--the click of one bamboo stem against the other, the rustle of something alive in the undergrowth, the scratch and squawk of a half-waked bird (birds are awake in the night much more often than we imagine), and the fall of water ever so far away.

Little Toomai slept for some time, and when he waked it was brilliant moonlight, and Kala Nag was still standing up with his ears cocked. Little Toomai turned, rustling in the fodder, and watched the curve of his big back against half the stars in heaven, and while he watched he heard, so far away that it sounded no more than a pinhole of noise pricked through the stillness, the â€œhoot-tootâ€ of a wild elephant. All the elephants in the lines jumped up as if they had been shot, and their grunts at last waked the sleeping mahouts, and they came out and drove in the picket pegs with big mallets, and tightened this rope and knotted that till all was quiet. One new elephant had nearly grubbed up his picket, and Big Toomai took off Kala Nagâ€™s leg chain and shackled that elephant fore-foot to hind-foot, but slipped a loop of grass string round Kala Nagâ€™s leg, and told him to remember that he was tied fast.

He knew that he and his father and his grandfather had done the very same thing hundreds of times before. Kala Nag did not answer to the order by gurgling, as he usually did. He stood still, looking out across the moonlight, his head a little raised and his ears spread like fans, up to the great folds of the Garo hills.

â€œTend to him if he grows restless in the night,â€ said Big Toomai to Little Toomai, and he went into the hut and slept. Little Toomai was just going to sleep, too, when he heard the coir string snap with a little â€œtang,â€ and Kala Nag rolled out of his pickets as slowly and as silently as a cloud rolls out of the mouth of a valley. Little Toomai pattered after him, barefooted, down the road in the moonlight, calling under his breath, â€œKala Nag! Kala Nag!
Take me with you, O Kala Nag!â€  The elephant turned, without a sound, took three strides back to the boy in the moonlight, put down his trunk, swung him up to his neck, and almost before Little Toomai had settled his knees, slipped into the forest.

There was one blast of furious trumpeting from the lines, and then the silence shut down on everything, and Kala Nag began to move. Sometimes a tuft of high grass washed along his sides as a wave washes along the sides of a ship, and sometimes a cluster of wild-pepper vines would scrape along his back, or a bamboo would creak where his shoulder touched it. But between those times he moved absolutely without any sound, drifting through the thick Garo forest as though it had been smoke.

He was going uphill, but though Little Toomai watched the stars in the rifts of the trees, he could not tell in what direction. Then Kala Nag reached the crest of the ascent and stopped for a minute, and Little Toomai could see the tops of the trees lying all speckled and furry under the moonlight for miles and miles, and the blue-white mist over the river in the hollow. Toomai leaned forward and looked, and he felt that the forest was awake below him--awake and alive and crowded.

A big brown fruit-eating bat brushed past his ear; a porcupineâ€™s quills rattled in the thicket; and in the darkness between the tree stems he heard a hog-bear digging hard in the moist warm earth, and snuffing as it digged. Then the branches closed over his head again, and Kala Nag began to go down into the valley--not quietly this time, but as a runaway gun goes down a steep bank--in one rush. The huge limbs moved as steadily as pistons, eight feet to each stride, and the wrinkled skin of the elbow points rustled. The undergrowth on either side of him ripped with a noise like torn canvas, and the saplings that he heaved away right and left with his shoulders sprang back again and banged him on the flank, and great trails of creepers, all matted together, hung from his tusks as he threw his head from side to side and plowed out his pathway. Then Little Toomai laid himself down close to the great neck lest a swinging bough should sweep him to the ground, and he wished that he were back in the lines again.

The grass began to get squashy, and Kala Nagâ€™s feet sucked and squelched as he put them down, and the night mist at the bottom of the valley chilled Little Toomai. There was a splash and a trample, and the rush of running water, and Kala Nag strode through the bed of a river, feeling his way at each step. Above the noise of the water, as it swirled round the elephantâ€™s legs, Little Toomai could hear more splashing and some trumpeting both upstream and down--great grunts and angry snortings, and all the mist about him seemed to be full of rolling, wavy shadows. â€œAi!â€ he said, half aloud, his teeth chattering. â€œThe elephant-folk are out tonight.

It is the dance, then!â€ Kala Nag swashed out of the water, blew his trunk clear, and began another climb. But this time he was not alone, and he had not to make his path.

That was made already, six feet wide, in front of him, where the bent jungle-grass was trying to recover itself and stand up. Many elephants must have gone that way only a few minutes before. Little Toomai looked back, and behind him a great wild tusker with his little pigâ€™s eyes glowing like hot coals was just lifting himself out of the misty river.

Then the trees closed up again, and they went on and up, with trumpetings and crashings, and the sound of breaking branches on every side of them. At last Kala Nag stood still between two tree-trunks at the very top of the hill. They were part of a circle of trees that grew round an irregular space of some three or four acres, and in all that space, as Little Toomai could see, the ground had been trampled down as hard as a brick floor.

Some trees grew in the center of the clearing, but their bark was rubbed away, and the white wood beneath showed all shiny and polished in the patches of moonlight. There were creepers hanging from the upper branches, and the bells of the flowers of the creepers, great waxy white things like convolvuluses, hung down fast asleep. But within the limits of the clearing there was not a single blade of green--nothing but the trampled earth.

The moonlight showed it all iron gray, except where some elephants stood upon it, and their shadows were inky black. Little Toomai looked, holding his breath, with his eyes starting out of his head, and as he looked, more and more and more elephants swung out into the open from between the tree trunks. Little Toomai could only count up to ten, and he counted again and again on his fingers till he lost count of the tens, and his head began to swim.

Outside the clearing he could hear them crashing in the undergrowth as they worked their way up the hillside, but as soon as they were within the circle of the tree trunks they moved like ghosts. There were white-tusked wild males, with fallen leaves and nuts and twigs lying in the wrinkles of their necks and the folds of their ears; fat, slow-footed she-elephants, with restless, little pinky black calves only three or four feet high running under their stomachs; young elephants with their tusks just beginning to show, and very proud of them; lanky, scraggy old-maid elephants, with their hollow anxious faces, and trunks like rough bark; savage old bull elephants, scarred from shoulder to flank with great weals and cuts of bygone fights, and the caked dirt of their solitary mud baths dropping from their shoulders; and there was one with a broken tusk and the marks of the full-stroke, the terrible drawing scrape, of a tigerâ€™s claws on his side. They were standing head to head, or walking to and fro across the ground in couples, or rocking and swaying all by themselves--scores and scores of elephants.

Toomai knew that so long as he lay still on Kala Nagâ€™s neck nothing would happen to him, for even in the rush and scramble of a Keddah drive a wild elephant does not reach up with his trunk and drag a man off the neck of a tame elephant. And these elephants were not thinking of men that night. Once they started and put their ears forward when they heard the chinking of a leg iron in the forest, but it was Pudmini, Petersen Sahibâ€™s pet elephant, her chain snapped short off, grunting, snuffling up the hillside. She must have broken her pickets and come straight from Petersen Sahibâ€™s camp; and Little Toomai saw another elephant, one that he did not know, with deep rope galls on his back and breast.

He, too, must have run away from some camp in the hills about. At last there was no sound of any more elephants moving in the forest, and Kala Nag rolled out from his station between the trees and went into the middle of the crowd, clucking and gurgling, and all the elephants began to talk in their own tongue, and to move about. Still lying down, Little Toomai looked down upon scores and scores of broad backs, and wagging ears, and tossing trunks, and little rolling eyes.

He heard the click of tusks as they crossed other tusks by accident, and the dry rustle of trunks twined together, and the chafing of enormous sides and shoulders in the crowd, and the incessant flick and hissh of the great tails. Then a cloud came over the moon, and he sat in black darkness. But the quiet, steady hustling and pushing and gurgling went on just the same.

He knew that there were elephants all round Kala Nag, and that there was no chance of backing him out of the assembly; so he set his teeth and shivered. In a Keddah at least there was torchlight and shouting, but here he was all alone in the dark, and once a trunk came up and touched him on the knee. Then an elephant trumpeted, and they all took it up for five or ten terrible seconds.

The dew from the trees above spattered down like rain on the unseen backs, and a dull booming noise began, not very loud at first, and Little Toomai could not tell what it was. But it grew and grew, and Kala Nag lifted up one forefoot and then the other, and brought them down on the ground--one-two, one-two, as steadily as trip-hammers.

The elephants were stamping all together now, and it sounded like a war drum beaten at the mouth of a cave. The dew fell from the trees till there was no more left to fall, and the booming went on, and the ground rocked and shivered, and Little Toomai put his hands up to his ears to shut out the sound. But it was all one gigantic jar that ran through him--this stamp of hundreds of heavy feet on the raw earth.

Once or twice he could feel Kala Nag and all the others surge forward a few strides, and the thumping would change to the crushing sound of juicy green things being bruised, but in a minute or two the boom of feet on hard earth began again. A tree was creaking and groaning somewhere near him. He put out his arm and felt the bark, but Kala Nag moved forward, still tramping, and he could not tell where he was in the clearing. There was no sound from the elephants, except once, when two or three little calves squeaked together.

Then he heard a thump and a shuffle, and the booming went on. It must have lasted fully two hours, and Little Toomai ached in every nerve, but he knew by the smell of the night air that the dawn was coming. The morning broke in one sheet of pale yellow behind the green hills, and the booming stopped with the first ray, as though the light had been an order.

Before Little Toomai had got the ringing out of his head, before even he had shifted his position, there was not an elephant in sight except Kala Nag, Pudmini, and the elephant with the rope-galls, and there was neither sign nor rustle nor whisper down the hillsides to show where the others had gone. Little Toomai stared again and again. The clearing, as he remembered it, had grown in the night.

More trees stood in the middle of it, but the undergrowth and the jungle grass at the sides had been rolled back. Little Toomai stared once more. Now he understood the trampling. The elephants had stamped out more room--had stamped the thick grass and juicy cane to trash, the trash into slivers, the slivers into tiny fibers, and the fibers into hard earth.

â€œWah!â€ said Little Toomai, and his eyes were very heavy.

â€œKala Nag, my lord, let us keep by Pudmini and go to Petersen Sahibâ€™s camp, or I shall drop from thy neck.â€ The third elephant watched the two go away, snorted, wheeled round, and took his own path. He may have belonged to some little native kingâ€™s establishment, fifty or sixty or a hundred miles away. Two hours later, as Petersen Sahib was eating early breakfast, his elephants, who had been double chained that night, began to trumpet, and Pudmini, mired to the shoulders, with Kala Nag, very footsore, shambled into the camp. Little Toomaiâ€™s face was gray and pinched, and his hair was full of leaves and drenched with dew, but he tried to salute Petersen Sahib, and cried faintly: â€œThe dance--the elephant dance!

I have seen it, and--I die!â€ As Kala Nag sat down, he slid off his neck in a dead faint. But, since native children have no nerves worth speaking of, in two hours he was lying very contentedly in Petersen Sahibâ€™s hammock with Petersen Sahibâ€™s shooting-coat under his head, and a glass of warm milk, a little brandy, with a dash of quinine, inside of him, and while the old hairy, scarred hunters of the jungles sat three deep before him, looking at him as though he were a spirit, he told his tale in short words, as a child will, and wound up with: â€œNow, if I lie in one word, send men to see, and they will find that the elephant folk have trampled down more room in their dance-room, and they will find ten and ten, and many times ten, tracks leading to that dance-room.

They made more room with their feet. I have seen it. Kala Nag took me, and I saw. Also Kala Nag is very leg-weary!â€ Little Toomai lay back and slept all through the long afternoon and into the twilight, and while he slept Petersen Sahib and Machua Appa followed the track of the two elephants for fifteen miles across the hills.

Petersen Sahib had spent eighteen years in catching elephants, and he had only once before found such a dance-place. Machua Appa had no need to look twice at the clearing to see what had been done there, or to scratch with his toe in the packed, rammed earth. â€œThe child speaks truth,â€ said he. â€œAll

this was done last night, and I have counted seventy tracks crossing the river.

See, Sahib, where Pudminiâ€™s leg-iron cut the bark of that tree! Yes; she was there too.â€ They looked at one another and up and down, and they wondered. For the ways of elephants are beyond the wit of any man, black or white, to fathom. â€œForty years and five,â€ said Machua Appa, â€œhave I followed my lord, the elephant, but never have I heard that any child of man had seen what this child has seen. By all the Gods of the Hills, it is--what can we say?â€ and he shook his head.

When they got back to camp it was time for the evening meal. Petersen Sahib ate alone in his tent, but he gave orders that the camp should have two sheep and some fowls, as well as a double ration of flour and rice and salt, for he knew that there would be a feast. Big Toomai had come up hotfoot from the camp in the plains to search for his son and his elephant, and now that he had found them he looked at them as though he were afraid of them both. And there was a feast by the blazing campfires in front of the lines of picketed elephants, and Little Toomai was the hero of it all. And the big brown elephant catchers, the trackers and drivers and ropers, and the men who know all the secrets of breaking the wildest elephants, passed him from one to the other, and they marked his forehead with blood from the breast of a newly killed jungle-cock, to show that he was a forester, initiated and free of all the jungles.

And at last, when the flames died down, and the red light of the logs made the elephants look as though they had been dipped in blood too, Machua Appa, the head of all the drivers of all the Keddahs--Machua Appa, Petersen Sahibâ€™s other self, who had never seen a made road in forty years: Machua Appa, who was so great that he had no other name than Machua Appa,--leaped to his feet, with Little Toomai held high in the air above his head, and shouted: â€œListen, my brothers. Listen, too, you my lords in the lines there, for I, Machua Appa, am speaking! This little one shall no more be called Little Toomai, but Toomai of the Elephants, as his great-grandfather was called before him. What never man has seen he has seen through the long night, and the favor of the elephant-folk and of the Gods of the Jungles is with him. He shall become a great tracker.

He shall become greater than I, even I, Machua Appa!

He shall follow the new trail, and the stale trail, and the mixed trail, with a clear eye!

He shall take no harm in the Keddah when he runs under their bellies to rope the wild tuskers; and if he slips before the feet of the charging bull elephant, the bull elephant shall know who he is and shall not crush him. Aihai!

my lords in the chains,â€--he whirled up the line of pickets--â€œhere is the little one that has seen your dances in your hidden places,--the sight that never man saw! Give him honor, my lords! Salaam karo, my children.
Make your salute to Toomai of the Elephants!

Gunga Pershad, ahaa!
Hira Guj, Birchi Guj, Kuttar Guj, ahaa! Pudmini,--thou

hast seen him at the dance, and thou too, Kala Nag, my pearl among elephants!--ahaa!

Together! To Toomai of the Elephants. Barrao!â€

And at that last wild yell the whole line flung up their trunks till the tips touched their foreheads, and broke out into the full salute--the crashing trumpet-peal that only the Viceroy of India hears, the Salaamut of the Keddah. But it was all for the sake of Little Toomai, who had seen what never man had seen before--the dance of the elephants at night and alone in the heart of the Garo hills!

Shiv and the Grasshopper      (The song that Toomaiâ€™s mother sang to the baby) Shiv, who poured the harvest and made the winds to blow,      Sitting at the doorways of a day of long ago,      Gave to each his portion, food and toil and fate,      From the King upon the _guddee_ to the Beggar at the gate. _

All things made he--Shiva the Preserver. Mahadeo!
Mahadeo!

He made all,--         Thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine,         And motherâ€™s heart for sleepy head, O little son of mine!_ Wheat he gave to rich folk, millet to the poor,      Broken scraps for holy men that beg from door to door;      Battle to the tiger, carrion to the kite,      And rags and bones to wicked wolves without the wall at night. Naught he found too lofty, none he saw too low--      Parbati beside him watched them come and go;      Thought to cheat her husband, turning Shiv to jest--      Stole the little grasshopper and hid it in her breast.
_ So she tricked him, Shiva the Preserver.

Mahadeo!
Mahadeo!
Turn and see. Tall are the camels, heavy are the kine, But this was Least of Little Things, O little son of mine! _

When the dole was ended, laughingly she said,      â€œMaster, of a million mouths, is not one unfed?â€       Laughing, Shiv made answer, â€œAll have had their part,      Even he, the little one, hidden â€™neath thy heart.â€       From her breast she plucked it, Parbati the thief,      Saw the Least of Little Things gnawed a new-grown leaf! Saw and feared and wondered, making prayer to Shiv,      Who hath surely given meat to all that live. _

All things made he--Shiva the Preserver. Mahadeo!
Mahadeo!

He made all,--         Thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine,         And motherâ€™s heart for sleepy head, O little son of mine!_ Her Majestyâ€™s Servants      You can work it out by Fractions or by simple Rule of Three,      But the way of Tweedle-dum is not the way of Tweedle-dee.
You can twist it, you can turn it, you can plait it till you drop,      But the way of Pilly Winkyâ€™s not the way of Winkie Pop! It had been raining heavily for one whole month--raining on a camp of thirty thousand men and thousands of camels, elephants, horses, bullocks, and mules all gathered together at a place called Rawal Pindi, to be reviewed by the Viceroy of India. He was receiving a visit from the Amir of Afghanistan--a wild king of a very wild country.

The Amir had brought with him for a bodyguard eight hundred men and horses who had never seen a camp or a locomotive before in their lives--savage men and savage horses from somewhere at the back of Central Asia. Every night a mob of these horses would be sure to break their heel ropes and stampede up and down the camp through the mud in the dark, or the camels would break loose and run about and fall over the ropes of the tents, and you can imagine how pleasant that was for men trying to go to sleep. My tent lay far away from the camel lines, and I thought it was safe. But one night a man popped his head in and shouted, â€œGet out, quick!
Theyâ€™re coming!

My tentâ€™s gone!â€ I knew who â€œtheyâ€ were, so I put on my boots and waterproof and scuttled out into the slush. Little Vixen, my fox terrier, went out through the other side; and then there was a roaring and a grunting and bubbling, and I saw the tent cave in, as the pole snapped, and begin to dance about like a mad ghost. A camel had blundered into it, and wet and angry as I was, I could not help laughing.

Then I ran on, because I did not know how many camels might have got loose, and before long I was out of sight of the camp, plowing my way through the mud. At last I fell over the tail-end of a gun, and by that knew I was somewhere near the artillery lines where the cannon were stacked at night. As I did not want to plowter about any more in the drizzle and the dark, I put my waterproof over the muzzle of one gun, and made a sort of wigwam with two or three rammers that I found, and lay along the tail of another gun, wondering where Vixen had got to, and where I might be.

Just as I was getting ready to go to sleep I heard a jingle of harness and a grunt, and a mule passed me shaking his wet ears. He belonged to a screw-gun battery, for I could hear the rattle of the straps and rings and chains and things on his saddle pad. The screw-guns are tiny little cannon made in two pieces, that are screwed together when the time comes to use them. They are taken up mountains, anywhere that a mule can find a road, and they are very useful for fighting in rocky country.

Behind the mule there was a camel, with his big soft feet squelching and slipping in the mud, and his neck bobbing to and fro like a strayed henâ€™s. Luckily, I knew enough of beast language--not wild-beast language, but camp-beast language, of course--from the natives to know what he was saying. He must have been the one that flopped into my tent, for he called to the mule, â€œWhat shall I do?
Where shall I go? I have fought with a white thing that waved, and it took a stick and hit me on the neck.â€ (That was my broken tent pole, and I was very glad to know it.)

â€œShall we run on?â€ â€œOh, it was you,â€ said the mule, â€œyou and your friends, that have been disturbing the camp? All right.
Youâ€™ll be beaten for this in the morning. But I may as well give you something on account now.â€ I heard the harness jingle as the mule backed and caught the camel two kicks in the ribs that rang like a drum.

â€œAnother time,â€ he said, â€œyouâ€™ll know better than to run through a mule battery at night, shouting `Thieves and fire!â€™ Sit down, and keep your silly neck quiet.â€ The camel doubled up camel-fashion, like a two-foot rule, and sat down whimpering. There was a regular beat of hoofs in the darkness, and a big troop-horse cantered up as steadily as though he were on parade, jumped a gun tail, and landed close to the mule. â€œItâ€™s disgraceful,â€ he said, blowing out his nostrils.

â€œThose camels have racketed through our lines again--the third time this week. Howâ€™s a horse to keep his condition if he isnâ€™t allowed to sleep. Whoâ€™s here?â€ â€œIâ€™m the breech-piece mule of number two gun of the First Screw Battery,â€ said the mule, â€œand the otherâ€™s one of your friends. Heâ€™s waked me up too. Who are you?â€ â€œNumber Fifteen, E troop, Ninth Lancers--Dick Cunliffeâ€™s horse.

Stand over a little, there.â€ â€œOh, beg your pardon,â€ said the mule. â€œItâ€™s too dark to see much. Arenâ€™t these camels too sickening for anything? I walked out of my lines to get a little peace and quiet here.â€ â€œMy lords,â€ said the camel humbly, â€œwe dreamed bad dreams in the night, and we were very much afraid.

I am only a baggage camel of the 39th Native Infantry, and I am not as brave as you are,

my lords.â€ â€œThen why didnâ€™t you stay and carry baggage for the 39th Native Infantry, instead of running all round the camp?â€ said the mule. â€œThey were such very bad dreams,â€ said the camel. â€œI am sorry.

Listen!

What is that? Shall we run on again?â€ â€œSit down,â€ said the mule, â€œor youâ€™ll snap your long stick-legs between the guns.â€ He cocked one ear and listened.

â€œBullocks!â€

he said. â€œGun bullocks.

On my word, you and your friends have waked the camp very thoroughly. It takes a good deal of prodding to put up a gun-bullock.â€ I heard a chain dragging along the ground, and a yoke of the great sulky white bullocks that drag the heavy siege guns when the elephants wonâ€™t go any nearer to the firing, came shouldering along together. And almost stepping on the chain was another battery mule, calling wildly for â€œBilly.â€ â€œThatâ€™s one of our recruits,â€ said the old mule to the troop horse.
â€œHeâ€™s calling for me. Here, youngster, stop squealing.

The dark never hurt anybody yet.â€ The gun-bullocks lay down together and began chewing the cud, but the young mule huddled close to Billy.
â€œThings!â€ he said. â€œFearful and horrible, Billy!

They came into our lines while we were asleep. Dâ€™you think theyâ€™ll kill us?â€ â€œIâ€™ve a very great mind to give you a number-one kicking,â€ said Billy. â€œThe idea of a fourteen-hand mule with your training disgracing the battery before this gentleman!â€ â€œGently, gently!â€ said the troop-horse.

â€œRemember they are always like this to begin with. The first time I ever saw a man (it was in Australia when I was a three-year-old) I ran for half a day, and if Iâ€™d seen a camel, I should have been running still.â€ Nearly all our horses for the English cavalry are brought to India from Australia, and are broken in by the troopers themselves. â€œTrue enough,â€ said Billy.

â€œStop shaking, youngster. The first time they put the full harness with all its chains on my back I stood on my forelegs and kicked every bit of it off. I hadnâ€™t learned the real science of kicking then, but the battery said they had never seen anything like it.â€ â€œBut this wasnâ€™t harness or anything that jingled,â€ said the young mule. â€œYou know I donâ€™t mind

that now, Billy.

It was Things like trees, and they fell up and down the lines and bubbled; and my head-rope broke, and I couldnâ€™t find my driver, and I couldnâ€™t find you, Billy, so I ran off with--with these gentlemen.â€ â€œHâ€™m!â€ said Billy. â€œAs soon as I heard the camels were loose I came away on my own account. When a battery--a screw-gun mule calls gun-bullocks gentlemen, he must be very badly shaken up. Who are you fellows on the ground there?â€ The gun bullocks rolled their cuds, and answered both together: â€œThe seventh yoke of the first gun of the Big Gun Battery.

We were asleep when the camels came, but when we were trampled on we got up and walked away. It is better to lie quiet in the mud than to be disturbed on good bedding. We told your friend here that there was nothing to be afraid of, but he knew so much that he thought otherwise. Wah!â€

They went on chewing.

â€œThat comes of being afraid,â€ said Billy. â€œYou get laughed at by gun-bullocks. I hope you like it, young un.â€

The young muleâ€™s teeth snapped, and I heard him say something about not being afraid of any beefy old bullock in the world. But the bullocks only clicked their horns together and went on chewing.

â€œNow, donâ€™t be angry after youâ€™ve been afraid. Thatâ€™s the worst kind of cowardice,â€ said the troop-horse. â€œAnybody can be forgiven for being scared in the night, I think, if they see things they donâ€™t understand. Weâ€™ve broken out of our pickets, again and again, four hundred and fifty of us, just because a new recruit got to telling tales of whip snakes at home in Australia till we were scared to death of the loose ends of our head-ropes.â€ â€œThatâ€™s all very well in camp,â€ said Billy.

â€œIâ€™m not above stampeding myself, for the fun of the thing, when I havenâ€™t been out for a day or two. But what do you do on active service?â€ â€œOh, thatâ€™s quite another set of new shoes,â€ said the troop horse.

â€œDick Cunliffeâ€™s on my back then, and drives his knees into me, and all I have to do is to watch where I am putting my feet, and to keep my hind legs well under me, and be bridle-wise.â€ â€œWhatâ€™s bridle-wise?â€ said the young mule. â€œBy the Blue Gums of the Back Blocks,â€ snorted the troop-horse, â€œdo you mean to say that you arenâ€™t taught to be bridle-wise in your business? How can you do anything, unless you can spin round at once when the rein is pressed on your neck? It means life or death to your man, and of course thatâ€™s life and death to you.
Get round with your hind legs under you the instant you feel the rein on your neck.

If you havenâ€™t room to swing round, rear up a little and come round on your hind legs. Thatâ€™s being bridle-wise.â€ â€œWe arenâ€™t taught that way,â€ said Billy the mule stiffly. â€œWeâ€™re taught to obey the man at our head: step off when he says so, and step in when he says so. I suppose it comes to the same thing.

Now, with all this fine fancy business and rearing, which must be very bad for your hocks, what do you do?â€ â€œThat depends,â€ said the troop-horse. â€œGenerally I have to go in among a lot of yelling, hairy men with knives--long shiny knives, worse than the farrierâ€™s knives--and I have to take care that Dickâ€™s boot is just touching the next manâ€™s boot without crushing it. I can see Dickâ€™s lance to the right of my right eye, and I know Iâ€™m safe.

I shouldnâ€™t care to be the man or horse that stood up to Dick and me when weâ€™re in a hurry.â€ â€œDonâ€™t the knives hurt?â€ said the young mule. â€œWell, I got one cut across the chest once, but that wasnâ€™t Dickâ€™s fault--â€ â€œA lot I should have cared whose fault it was, if it hurt!â€ said the young mule. â€œYou must,â€ said the troop horse. â€œIf you donâ€™t trust your man, you may as well run away at once.

Thatâ€™s what some of our horses do, and I donâ€™t blame them. As I was saying, it wasnâ€™t Dickâ€™s fault. The man was lying on the ground, and I stretched myself not to tread on him, and he slashed up at me. Next time I have to go over a man lying down I shall step on him-- hard.â€ â€œHâ€™m!â€ said Billy.

â€œIt sounds very foolish. Knives are dirty things at any time. The proper thing to do is to climb up a mountain with a well-balanced saddle, hang on by all four feet and your ears too, and creep and crawl and wriggle along, till you come out hundreds of feet above anyone else on a ledge where thereâ€™s just room enough for your hoofs. Then you stand still and keep quiet--never ask a man to hold your head, young un--keep quiet while the guns are being put together, and then you watch the little poppy shells drop down into the tree-tops ever so far below.â€ â€œDonâ€™t you ever trip?â€ said the troop-horse. â€œThey say that when a mule trips you can split a henâ€™s ear,â€ said Billy.

â€œNow and again perhaps a badly packed saddle will upset a mule, but itâ€™s very seldom. I wish I could show you our business. Itâ€™s beautiful.

Why, it took me three years to find out what the men were driving at. The science of the thing is never to show up against the sky line, because, if you do, you may get fired at. Remember that, young un. Always keep hidden as much as possible, even if you have to go a mile out of your way. I lead the battery when it comes to that sort of climbing.â€ â€œFired at without the chance of running into the people who are firing!â€  said the troop-horse, thinking hard.

â€œI couldnâ€™t stand that. I should want to charge--with Dick.â€ â€œOh, no, you wouldnâ€™t.

You know that as soon as the guns are in position theyâ€™ll do all the charging. Thatâ€™s scientific and neat.

But knives--pah!â€ The baggage-camel had been bobbing his head to and fro for some time past, anxious to get a word in edgewise.

Then I heard him say, as he cleared his throat, nervously: â€œI--I--I have fought a little, but not in that climbing way or that running way.â€ â€œNo. Now you mention it,â€ said Billy, â€œyou donâ€™t look as though you were made for climbing or running--much. Well, how was it, old Hay-bales?â€ â€œThe proper way,â€ said the camel.

â€œWe all sat down--â€ â€œOh, my crupper and breastplate!â€ said the troop-horse under his breath. â€œSat down!â€ â€œWe sat down--a hundred of us,â€ the camel went on, â€œin a big square, and the men piled our packs and saddles, outside the square, and they fired over our backs, the men did, on all sides of the square.â€ â€œWhat sort of men? Any men that came along?â€ said the troop-horse.

â€œThey teach us in riding school to lie down and let our masters fire across us, but Dick Cunliffe is the only man Iâ€™d trust to do that. It tickles my girths, and, besides, I canâ€™t see with my head on the ground.â€ â€œWhat does it matter who fires across you?â€ said the camel. â€œThere are plenty of men and plenty of other camels close by, and a great many clouds of smoke. I am not frightened then.

I sit still and wait.â€ â€œAnd yet,â€ said Billy, â€œyou dream bad dreams and upset the camp at night. Well, well!
Before Iâ€™d lie down, not to speak of sitting down, and let a man fire across me, my heels and his head would have something to say to each other. Did you ever hear anything so awful as that?â€ There was a long silence, and then one of the gun bullocks lifted up his big head and said, â€œThis is very foolish indeed.

There is only one way of fighting.â€ â€œOh, go on,â€ said Billy. â€œPlease

donâ€™t mind me. I suppose you fellows fight standing on your tails?â€ â€œOnly one way,â€ said the two together.

(They must have been twins.) â€œThis is that way. To put all twenty yoke of us to the big gun as soon as Two Tails trumpets.â€ (â€œTwo Tailsâ€ is camp slang for the elephant.)

â€œWhat does Two Tails trumpet for?â€ said the young mule.

â€œTo show that he is not going any nearer to the smoke on the other side. Two Tails is a great coward. Then we tug the big gun all together--Heya--Hullah! Heeyah!

Hullah! We do not climb like cats nor run like calves.

We go across the level plain, twenty yoke of us, till we are unyoked again, and we graze while the big guns talk across the plain to some town with mud walls, and pieces of the wall fall out, and the dust goes up as though many cattle were coming home.â€ â€œOh! And you choose that time for grazing?â€ said the young mule. â€œThat time or any other.

Eating is always good. We eat till we are yoked up again and tug the gun back to where Two Tails is waiting for it. Sometimes there are big guns in the city that speak back, and some of us are killed, and then there is all the more grazing for those that are left.

This is Fate. None the less, Two Tails is a great coward. That is the proper way to fight. We are brothers from Hapur. Our father was a sacred bull of Shiva.

We have spoken.â€ â€œWell, Iâ€™ve certainly learned something tonight,â€ said the troop-horse. â€œDo you gentlemen of the screw-gun battery feel inclined to eat when you are being fired at with big guns, and Two Tails is behind you?â€ â€œAbout as much as we feel inclined to sit down and let men sprawl all over us, or run into people with knives. I never heard such stuff. A mountain ledge, a well-balanced load, a driver you can trust to let you pick your own way, and Iâ€™m your mule.

But--the other things--no!â€ said Billy, with a stamp of his foot.

â€œOf course,â€ said the troop horse, â€œeveryone is not made in the same way, and I can quite see that your family, on your fatherâ€™s side, would fail to understand a great many things.â€ â€œNever you mind my family on my fatherâ€™s side,â€ said Billy angrily, for every mule hates to be reminded that his father was a donkey. â€œMy father was a Southern gentleman, and he could pull down and bite and kick into rags every horse he came across. Remember that, you big brown Brumby!â€ Brumby means wild horse without any breeding.

Imagine the feelings of Sunol if a car-horse called her a â€œskate,â€ and you can imagine how the Australian horse felt. I saw the white of his eye glitter in the dark. â€œSee here, you son of an imported Malaga jackass,â€ he said between his teeth, â€œIâ€™d have you know that Iâ€™m related on my motherâ€™s side to Carbine, winner of the Melbourne Cup, and where I come from we arenâ€™t accustomed to being ridden over roughshod by any parrot-mouthed, pig-headed mule in a pop-gun pea-shooter battery. Are you ready?â€

â€œOn your hind legs!â€ squealed Billy.

They both reared up facing each other, and I was expecting a furious fight, when a gurgly, rumbly voice, called out of the darkness to the right--â€œChildren, what are you fighting about there?

Be quiet.â€ Both beasts dropped down with a snort of disgust, for neither horse nor mule can bear to listen to an elephantâ€™s voice. â€œItâ€™s Two Tails!â€ said the troop-horse. â€œI canâ€™t stand him. A tail at each end isnâ€™t fair!â€ â€œMy feelings exactly,â€ said Billy, crowding into the troop-horse for company.

â€œWeâ€™re very alike in some things.â€ â€œI suppose weâ€™ve inherited them from our mothers,â€ said the troop horse. â€œItâ€™s not worth quarreling about. Hi!

Two Tails, are you tied up?â€ â€œYes,â€ said Two Tails, with a laugh all up his trunk.

â€œIâ€™m picketed for the night. Iâ€™ve heard what you fellows have been saying. But donâ€™t be afraid.

Iâ€™m not coming over.â€ The bullocks and the camel said, half aloud, â€œAfraid of Two Tails--what nonsense!â€ And the bullocks went on, â€œWe are sorry that you heard, but it is true. Two Tails, why are you afraid of the guns when they fire?â€ â€œWell,â€ said Two Tails, rubbing one hind leg against the other, exactly like a little boy saying a poem, â€œI donâ€™t quite know whether youâ€™d understand.â€ â€œWe donâ€™t, but we have to pull the guns,â€ said the bullocks. â€œI know it, and I know you are a good deal braver than you think you are. But itâ€™s different with me.

My battery captain called me a Pachydermatous Anachronism the other day.â€ â€œThatâ€™s another way of fighting, I suppose?â€ said Billy, who was recovering his spirits. â€œYou donâ€™t know what that means, of course, but I do. It means betwixt and between, and that is just where I am. I can see inside my head what will happen when a shell bursts, and you bullocks canâ€™t.â€ â€œI can,â€ said the troop-horse.

â€œAt least a little bit.

I try not to think about it.â€ â€œI can see more than you, and I do think about it. I know thereâ€™s a great deal of me to take care of, and I know that nobody knows how to cure me when Iâ€™m sick. All they can do is to stop my driverâ€™s pay till I get well, and I canâ€™t trust my driver.â€ â€œAh!â€ said the troop horse. â€œThat explains it.

I can trust Dick.â€ â€œYou could put a whole regiment of Dicks on my back without making me feel any better. I know just enough to be uncomfortable, and not enough to go on in spite of it.â€ â€œWe do not understand,â€ said the bullocks. â€œI know you donâ€™t. Iâ€™m not talking to you. You donâ€™t know what blood is.â€ â€œWe do,â€ said the bullocks. â€œIt is red stuff that soaks into the ground and smells.â€ The troop-horse gave a kick and a bound and a snort.

â€œDonâ€™t talk of it,â€ he said. â€œI can smell it now, just thinking of it. It makes me want to run--when I havenâ€™t Dick on my back.â€ â€œBut it is not here,â€ said the camel and the bullocks. â€œWhy are you so stupid?â€ â€œItâ€™s vile stuff,â€ said Billy.

â€œI donâ€™t want to run, but I donâ€™t want to talk about it.â€ â€œThere you are!â€ said Two Tails, waving his tail to explain. â€œSurely.

Yes, we have been here all night,â€ said the bullocks. Two Tails stamped his foot till the iron ring on it jingled. â€œOh, Iâ€™m not talking to you. You canâ€™t see inside your heads.â€ â€œNo. We see out of our four eyes,â€ said the bullocks.

â€œWe see straight in front of us.â€ â€œIf I could do that and nothing else, you wouldnâ€™t be needed to pull the big guns at all. If I was like my captain--he can see things inside his head before the firing begins, and he shakes all over, but he knows too much to run away--if I was like him I could pull the guns. But if I were as wise as all that I should never be here.

I should be a king in the forest, as I used to be, sleeping half the day and bathing when I liked. I havenâ€™t had a good bath for a month.â€ â€œThatâ€™s all very fine,â€ said Billy. â€œBut giving a thing a long name doesnâ€™t make it any better.â€ â€œHâ€™sh!â€ said the troop horse. â€œI think I understand what Two Tails means.â€ â€œYouâ€™ll understand better in a minute,â€ said Two Tails angrily. â€œNow you just explain to me why you donâ€™t like this!â€ He began trumpeting furiously at the top of his trumpet.

â€œStop that!â€ said Billy and the troop horse together, and I could hear them stamp and shiver. An elephantâ€™s trumpeting is always nasty, especially on a dark night. â€œI shanâ€™t stop,â€ said Two Tails. â€œWonâ€™t you explain that, please?
Hhrrmph!

Rrrt!
Rrrmph!
Rrrhha!â€ Then he stopped suddenly, and I heard a little whimper in the dark, and knew that Vixen had found me at last. She knew as well as I did that if there is one thing in the world the elephant is more afraid of than another it is a little barking dog. So she stopped to bully Two Tails in his pickets, and yapped round his big feet. Two Tails shuffled and squeaked.

â€œGo away, little dog!â€ he said. â€œDonâ€™t snuff at my ankles, or Iâ€™ll kick at you. Good little dog--nice little doggie, then!
Go home, you yelping little beast!

Oh, why doesnâ€™t someone take her away?

Sheâ€™ll bite me in a minute.â€ â€œSeems to me,â€ said Billy to the troop horse, â€œthat our friend Two Tails is afraid of most things. Now, if I had a full meal for every dog Iâ€™ve kicked across the parade-ground I should be as fat as Two Tails nearly.â€ I whistled, and Vixen ran up to me, muddy all over, and licked my nose, and told me a long tale about hunting for me all through the camp. I never let her know that I understood beast talk, or she would have taken all sorts of liberties.

So I buttoned her into the breast of my overcoat, and Two Tails shuffled and stamped and growled to himself.
â€œExtraordinary! Most extraordinary!â€ he said. â€œIt runs in our family. Now, where has that nasty little beast gone to?â€ I heard him feeling about with his trunk. â€œWe all seem to be affected in various ways,â€ he went on, blowing his nose.

â€œNow, you gentlemen were alarmed, I believe, when I trumpeted.â€ â€œNot alarmed, exactly,â€ said the troop-horse, â€œbut it made me feel as though I had hornets where my saddle ought to be. Donâ€™t begin again.â€ â€œIâ€™m frightened of a little dog, and the camel here is frightened by bad dreams in the night.â€ â€œIt is very lucky for us that we havenâ€™t all got to fight in the same way,â€ said the troop-horse. â€œWhat I want to know,â€ said the young mule, who had been quiet for a long time--â€œwhat I want to know is, why we have to fight at all.â€ â€œBecause weâ€™re told to,â€ said the troop-horse, with a snort of contempt. â€œOrders,â€ said Billy the mule, and his teeth snapped. â€œHukm hai!â€ (It is an order!), said the camel with a gurgle, and Two Tails and the bullocks repeated, â€œHukm hai!â€ â€œYes, but who gives the orders?â€ said the recruit-mule.

â€œThe man who walks at your head--Or sits on your back--Or holds the nose rope--Or twists your tail,â€ said Billy and the troop-horse and the camel and the bullocks one after the other. â€œBut who gives them the orders?â€ â€œNow you want to know too much, young un,â€ said Billy, â€œand that is one way of getting kicked. All you have to do is to obey the man at your head and ask no questions.â€ â€œHeâ€™s quite right,â€ said Two Tails.

â€œI canâ€™t always obey, because Iâ€™m betwixt and between. But Billyâ€™s right.

Obey the man next to you who gives the order, or youâ€™ll stop all the battery, besides getting a thrashing.â€ The gun-bullocks got up to go. â€œMorning is coming,â€ they said. â€œWe will go back to our lines. It is true that we only see out of our eyes, and we are not very clever.

But still, we are the only people to-night who have not been afraid.

Good-night, you brave people.â€ Nobody answered, and the troop-horse said, to change the conversation, â€œWhereâ€™s that little dog? A dog means a man somewhere about.â€ â€œHere I am,â€ yapped Vixen, â€œunder the gun tail with my man. You big, blundering beast of a camel you, you upset our tent.

My manâ€™s very angry.â€ â€œPhew!â€ said the bullocks. â€œHe must be white!â€ â€œOf course he is,â€ said Vixen. â€œDo you suppose Iâ€™m looked after by a black bullock-driver?â€ â€œHuah!

Ouach!
Ugh!â€ said the bullocks. â€œLet

us get away quickly.â€ They plunged forward in the mud, and managed somehow to run their yoke on the pole of an ammunition wagon, where it jammed. â€œNow you have done it,â€ said Billy calmly.

â€œDonâ€™t struggle.

Youâ€™re hung up till daylight. What on earthâ€™s the matter?â€ The bullocks went off into the long hissing snorts that Indian cattle give, and pushed and crowded and slued and stamped and slipped and nearly fell down in the mud, grunting savagely.
â€œYouâ€™ll break your necks in a minute,â€ said the troop-horse. â€œWhatâ€™s the matter with white men? I live with â€™em.â€ â€œThey--eat--us!
Pull!â€ said the near bullock.

The yoke snapped with a twang, and they lumbered off together. I never knew before what made Indian cattle so scared of Englishmen. We eat beef--a thing that no cattle-driver touches--and of course the cattle do not like it. â€œMay I be flogged with my own pad-chains!
Whoâ€™d have thought of two big lumps like those losing their heads?â€ said Billy.

â€œNever mind.

Iâ€™m going to look at this man. Most of the white men, I know, have things in their pockets,â€ said the troop-horse. â€œIâ€™ll leave you, then.

I canâ€™t say Iâ€™m over-fond of â€™em myself. Besides, white men who havenâ€™t a place to sleep in are more than likely to be thieves, and Iâ€™ve a good deal of Government property on my back. Come along, young un, and weâ€™ll go back to our lines. Good-night, Australia!

See you on parade to-morrow, I suppose. Good-night, old Hay-bale!--try to control your feelings, wonâ€™t you? Good-night, Two Tails!

If you pass us on the ground tomorrow, donâ€™t trumpet. It spoils our formation.â€ Billy the Mule stumped off with the swaggering limp of an old campaigner, as the troop-horseâ€™s head came nuzzling into my breast, and I gave him biscuits, while Vixen, who is a most conceited little dog, told him fibs about the scores of horses that she and I kept. â€œIâ€™m coming to the parade to-morrow in my dog-cart,â€ she said.

â€œWhere will you be?â€ â€œOn the left hand of the second squadron. I set the time for all my troop, little lady,â€ he said politely. â€œNow I must go back to Dick. My tailâ€™s all muddy, and heâ€™ll have two hoursâ€™ hard work dressing me for parade.â€ The big parade of all the thirty thousand men was held that afternoon, and Vixen

and I had a good place close to the Viceroy and the Amir of Afghanistan, with high, big black hat of astrakhan wool and the great diamond star in the center. The first part of the review was all sunshine, and the regiments went by in wave upon wave of legs all moving together, and guns all in a line, till our eyes grew dizzy. Then the cavalry came up, to the beautiful cavalry canter of â€œBonnie Dundee,â€ and Vixen cocked her ear where she sat on the dog-cart.

The second squadron of the Lancers shot by, and there was the troop-horse, with his tail like spun silk, his head pulled into his breast, one ear forward and one back, setting the time for all his squadron, his legs going as smoothly as waltz music. Then the big guns came by, and I saw Two Tails and two other elephants harnessed in line to a forty-pounder siege gun, while twenty yoke of oxen walked behind. The seventh pair had a new yoke, and they looked rather stiff and tired.

Last came the screw guns, and Billy the mule carried himself as though he commanded all the troops, and his harness was oiled and polished till it winked. I gave a cheer all by myself for Billy the mule, but he never looked right or left. The rain began to fall again, and for a while it was too misty to see what the troops were doing.

They had made a big half circle across the plain, and were spreading out into a line. That line grew and grew and grew till it was three-quarters of a mile long from wing to wing--one solid wall of men, horses, and guns. Then it came on straight toward the Viceroy and the Amir, and as it got nearer the ground began to shake, like the deck of a steamer when the engines are going fast.

Unless you have been there you cannot imagine what a frightening effect this steady come-down of troops has on the spectators, even when they know it is only a review. I looked at the Amir. Up till then he had not shown the shadow of a sign of astonishment or anything else. But now his eyes began to get bigger and bigger, and he picked up the reins on his horseâ€™s neck and looked behind him.

For a minute it seemed as though he were going to draw his sword and slash his way out through the English men and women in the carriages at the back. Then the advance stopped dead, the ground stood still, the whole line saluted, and thirty bands began to play all together. That was the end of the review, and the regiments went off to their camps in the rain, and an infantry band struck up with--      The animals went in two by two,           Hurrah! The animals went in two by two,      The elephant and the battery mulâ€™,      and they all got into the Ark           For to get out of the rain!

Then I heard an old grizzled, long-haired Central Asian chief, who had come down with the Amir, asking questions of a native officer. â€œNow,â€ said he, â€œin what manner was this wonderful thing done?â€

And the officer answered, â€œAn order was given, and they obeyed.â€ â€œBut are the beasts as wise as the men?â€ said the chief. â€œThey obey, as the men do.

Mule, horse, elephant, or bullock, he obeys his driver, and the driver his sergeant, and the sergeant his lieutenant, and the lieutenant his captain, and the captain his major, and the major his colonel, and the colonel his brigadier commanding three regiments, and the brigadier the general, who obeys the Viceroy, who is the servant of the Empress. Thus it is done.â€ â€œWould it were so in Afghanistan!â€ said the chief, â€œfor there we obey only our own wills.â€ â€œAnd for that reason,â€ said the native officer, twirling his mustache, â€œyour Amir whom you do not obey must come here and take orders from our Viceroy.â€ The criminal reported a hidden passage near the station early in the morning. The suspect discovered a weapon behind the door late at night. The suspect discovered the body near the station during the storm.

The detective found a hidden passage near the station early in the morning. The witness saw a clue behind the door just before dawn. The witness discovered a weapon near the station just before dawn. The officer discovered a clue in the alley during the storm.

The officer found evidence in the alley just before dawn. The witness discovered the body under the bridge early in the morning. The suspect noticed evidence near the station early in the morning. The officer reported evidence under the bridge late at night.

The suspect saw a clue in the alley early in the morning. The witness saw a weapon inside the warehouse at midnight. The suspect saw evidence behind the door just before dawn. The suspect noticed the body near the station late at night.

The detective reported a weapon inside the warehouse late at night. The witness saw a clue inside the warehouse early in the morning. The criminal saw evidence in the alley late at night. The criminal found a weapon behind the door at midnight.

The witness saw a hidden passage in the alley at midnight. The criminal noticed evidence near the station during the storm. The witness discovered a weapon behind the door just before dawn. The witness saw a hidden passage under the bridge late at night. The officer noticed a weapon behind the door late at night.

The witness found a hidden passage inside the warehouse at midnight. The suspect discovered a clue behind the door late at night. The criminal found a hidden passage near the station at midnight. The suspect noticed the body in the alley late at night.

The witness found a hidden passage inside the warehouse just before dawn. The detective saw a clue near the station just before dawn. ANRV364-PS60-25 ARI ANNUAL REVIEWS 24 November 2008 18:59 Further Annu.
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Click here for quick links to Annual Reviews content online, including: • Other articles in this volume • Top cited articles • Top downloaded articles • Our comprehensive search Imitation, Empathy, and Mirror Neurons Marco Iacoboni Ahmanson-Lovelace Brain Mapping Center, Department of Psychiatry and Biobehavioral Sciences, Semel Institute for Neuroscience and Social Behavior, Brain Research Institute, David Geffen School of Medicine at UCLA, Los Angeles, California 90095; email: iacoboni@loni.ucla.edu Annu. Rev. Psychol. 2009. 60:653–70 Key Words First published online as a Review in Advance on September 15, 2008 social cognition, theory of mind, mirror neuron system, embodiment The Annual Review of Psychology is online at psych.annualreviews.org This article’s doi: 10.1146/annurev.psych.60.110707.163604 c 2009 by Annual Reviews.

Copyright 

All rights reserved 0066-4308/09/0110-0653$20.00 Abstract There is a convergence between cognitive models of imitation, constructs derived from social psychology studies on mimicry and empathy, and recent empirical ﬁndings from the neurosciences. The ideomotor framework of human actions assumes a common representational format for action and perception that facilitates imitation. Furthermore, the associative sequence learning model of imitation proposes that experience-based Hebbian learning forms links between sensory processing of the actions of others and motor plans.

Social psychology studies have demonstrated that imitation and mimicry are pervasive, automatic, and facilitate empathy. Neuroscience investigations have demonstrated physiological mechanisms of mirroring at single-cell and neural-system levels that support the cognitive and social psychology constructs. Why were these neural mechanisms selected, and what is their adaptive advantage?

Neural mirroring solves the “problem of other minds” (how we can access and understand the minds of others) and makes intersubjectivity possible, thus facilitating social behavior. 653 ANRV364-PS60-25 ARI 24 November 2008 18:59 Contents Annu.

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INTRODUCTION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

654 COGNITIVE MECHANISMS OF IMITATION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

654 The Ideomotor Framework of Imitation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

.

654 Associative Sequence Learning . . . . .

656 IMITATION AND EMPATHY IN SOCIAL BEHAVIOR . . . . . . . . . .

657 Pervasiveness and Automaticity of Human Imitation . . . . . . . . . . . . .

657 NEURAL MECHANISMS OF IMITATION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

659 Neural Precursors in Nonhuman Primates . . . . . . . . .

659 Macaque Mirror Neurons and Imitation in Monkeys . . . . . .

.

662 Human Brain Mechanisms of Mirroring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

663 Neural Mirroring and Psychological Theories of Imitation . . . . . . . . . .

.

665 WHY NEURAL MIRRORING AND IMITATION? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

666 Hebbian learning: associative learning is implemented by simultaneous activation of cells that would lead to increased synaptic strength between the cells 654 Among cognitive models of imitation, the ideomotor model and the associative sequence learning model seem to map well onto neurophysiological mechanisms of imitation. The ideomotor model assumes a common representational format for action and perception, whereas the associative sequence learning model puts at center stage Hebbian learning as a fundamental mechanism linking sensory representations of the actions of others to motor plans. Furthermore, social psychology studies have documented the automaticity of imitation and mimicry in humans, a feature that also maps well onto some recently disclosed neurophysiological bases of imitation. This review discusses cognitive models, social psychology constructs, and neural mechanisms of imitation under the hypothesis that these mechanisms were selected because they offer the adaptive advantage of enabling the understanding of the feelings and mental states of others, a cornerstone of social behavior.

COGNITIVE MECHANISMS OF IMITATION INTRODUCTION

The Ideomotor Framework of Imitation Although mimicry is a pervasive phenomenon in the animal kingdom, imitation certainly achieves its highest form in humans. Past authors—for instance, de Montaigne (1575), Adam Smith (1759), Poe (1982), Nietzsche (1881), and Wittgenstein (1980)—have often associated imitation with the ability to empathize and understand other minds. The evolutionary, functional, and neural mechanisms linking imitation to empathy, however, have been unclear for many years.

Recently, there has been a convergence between cognitive models of imitation, social psychology accounts of its pervasiveness and its functional links with empathy and liking, and the neuroscience discoveries of neural mechanisms of imitation and empathy. This convergence creates a solid framework in which theory and empirical data reinforce each other. Theories of action can be divided into two main frameworks. The most dominant framework may be called the sensory-motor framework of action. It assumes that actions are initiated in response to external stimuli.

In this framework, perception and action have independent representational formats. Stimuli must be translated into motor responses by stimulusresponse mapping mechanisms. This framework has generated a large literature and elegant experimental paradigms, as for instance the work on stimulus-response compatibility (Hommel & Prinz 1997, Proctor & Reeve 1990). Stimulus-response translational mechanisms, however, do not easily account for the similarity between the observed action and the action performed by the imitator that is required by imitation.

Indeed, one of the main problems of imitation often discussed in the Iacoboni Annu.

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ANRV364-PS60-25 ARI 24 November 2008 18:59 literature inspired by sensory-motor models is the so-called correspondence problem (Nehaniv & Dautenhahn 2002). This problem can be summarized with the question: how is the sensory input from somebody else’s action transformed into a matching motor output by the imitator? For the ideomotor framework of action, the correspondence problem of imitation is not a problem at all. Indeed, the ideomotor framework assumes a common representational format for perception and action, an assumption that makes translational processes between stimuli and responses rather unnecessary.

The roots of the ideomotor framework were established by the work of Hermann Martin Lotze (Prinz 2005) and William James (1890). The starting point of actions, for Lotze and James, is not a response to a sensory stimulation, but rather the representation of the goal that the agent intends to achieve. When an intention is unchallenged by a conﬂicting one, it activates the representation of the intended goal and the motor plan necessary to achieve it. The coactivation of the intended goal and the motor plan required to achieve it—according to the ideomotor framework—is the result of our experience.

We have learned the effects of our own actions, and we expect certain effects when we perform certain acts. This previous learning makes it possible that just thinking about the intended goal automatically activates the representation of the action necessary to obtain it. Thus, when I think about rebooting my computer, I automatically activate the representation of the ﬁnger movement necessary to press the appropriate key. The ideomotor framework naturally accounts for imitation.

According to this framework, when I see somebody else’s actions and their consequences, I activate the representations of my own actions that would produce those consequences. Here, consequences are construed in a very broad sense. For instance, a simple ﬁnger lifting has multiple perceptual consequences, among them the sight of the ﬁnger lifting. Thus, simply watching somebody else lifting a ﬁnger should activate my own mo- tor plan to lift the same ﬁnger. Brass and colleagues tested this hypothesis in elegantly simple experiments (Brass et al. 2000, 2001).

Subjects were shown two movements of the index ﬁnger from the same starting position. In half of the trials the ﬁnger would move upward, and in the other half it would move downward. Subjects were instructed to respond as fast as possible using their own index ﬁnger. Within each block of trials, subjects were instructed to use always the same motor response, either an upward or a downward movement. Thus, although perceptually subjects were seeing both upward and downward movements, motorically they were only executing one of the two movements.

Given that response selection was not required, the identity of the stimulus was completely irrelevant for the initiation of the motor response. Here, the sensory-motor framework would predict similar reaction times for responses that were identical to the stimulus (e.g., upward motor response for a stimulus showing an upward ﬁnger movement) and for responses that were different from the stimulus (e.g., upward motor response for a stimulus showing a downward ﬁnger movement). In contrast, the ideomotor framework would predict faster reaction times for motor responses identical to the stimulus compared to motor responses different from the stimulus. The results demonstrated a large chronometric advantage for responses identical to the stimuli, in line with the predictions of the ideomotor framework (Brass et al. 2000, 2001). The ideomotor framework also predicts that goals have higher priority than movements in imitation.

Imitation experiments in children have conﬁrmed this prediction. In one of these experiments (Bekkering et al. 2000), children and experimenters were sitting on the opposite sides of a desk. In half of the trials the experimenter would place her or his left hand on the left side of the desk (left ipsilateral movement) or on the right side of the desk (left contralateral movement); in the remaining half of the trials the experimenter would place her or his right hand on the right side of the desk (right ipsilateral movement) or on the left side of the desk www.annualreviews.org •

Imitation, Empathy, and Mirror Neurons 655 ANRV364-PS60-25 ARI 24 November 2008 Annu.
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Associative sequence learning: imitation is based on associative, Hebbian-like learning, creating “vertical links” between sensory and motor representations 18:59 (right contralateral movement). Children were instructed to “Do what I do,” and in all cases, they imitated all these movements well. In a separate session, children and experimenters were again sitting on the opposite sides of the desk.

Now, however, there were two big red dots, one on the left and one on the right side of the desk. Whenever the experimenter made a movement, either ipsilateral or contralateral with either the left or the right hand, the hand of the experimenter would end up covering the big red dot. Children were again instructed to “Do what I do.” In this situation, children imitated well the ipsilateral movements but made frequent mistakes when trying to imitate the contralateral movements. Note that these movements had been imitated well in absence of the big red dot.

The presence of the big red dot had changed the goal of the action to be imitated. Whereas in the absence of the dot, the action itself was the goal to be imitated, the presence of the dot had changed the goal of the action in covering the dot. Indeed, children made mistakes when imitating contralateral movements because they used ipsilateral movements to cover the same dot that had been covered by the experimenter. In other words, children would copy the goal but used a simpler movement to achieve this goal (Bekkering et al. 2000).

One of the main assumptions of the ideomotor framework is that action and perception share a common representational format. This assumption ﬁts well recent neuroscience discoveries, as discussed below. Another important assumption of the ideomotor framework is that our perceptual and motor experience is very important in shaping the functional aspects of imitation.

This assumption is also shared by the associative sequence learning model (Heyes 2005), as described in the next section. Associative Sequence Learning

The associative sequence learning model of imitation proposes that imitative abilities are based on associations between the sensory and motor representation of actions. These associations would be mostly shaped by experience, 656 Iacoboni although a small number of these associations may be innate. Several environmental situations may favor the establishment of these associations between sensory and motor representation of actions, for instance, visually guided actions, such as reaching and grasping, during which we can observe our own arm and hand reach and grasp for objects surrounding us.

Also, mirrors and other reﬂecting surfaces allow the observation of one’s own facial and body movement as if they were performed by somebody else. Furthermore, early in human development, adults tend to imitate the baby (Nadel 2002), thus favoring the formation of the associations between sensory and motor representations of actions. The basic assumption of the associative sequence learning model is that imitation is not based on dedicated functional (and neural) mechanisms.

General sensory and motor systems may implement imitative abilities through mechanisms that are strongly reminiscent of Hebbian learning. One of the corollaries of this assumption is that imitation should not be conﬁned to speciﬁc lineages. Indeed, although primates clearly show varying degrees of imitative abilities, birds (Akins et al. 2002) and dolphins (Herman 2002) also seem able to imitate. Thus, imitative behavior appears to be the product of convergent evolution.

If this is true, then the hypothesis that imitation is mostly shaped by experience—as assumed by the associative sequence learning model—is obviously supported. The role of experience and the environment in shaping imitative abilities may also account for evidence that at ﬁrst sight seems at odds with the basic assumptions of the associative sequence learning model. Many animals share similar basic sensory and motor functional and neural mechanisms. In principle, this should lead to similar imitative skills in many animals.

Imitation abilities, however, vary substantially between species (Boysen & Himes 1999, Hurley & Chater 2005). Is this evidence a fatal blow to the main assumption of the associative sequence learning model?

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ANRV364-PS60-25 ARI 24 November 2008 18:59 account for the differences in imitative abilities observed in different species. As discussed above, some elements that are quite speciﬁc to the human environment should favor the formation of the associations between sensory and motor representations posited by the associative sequence learning model. In keeping with these ideas, humans are by far the best imitators (Hurley & Chater 2005). Empirical evidence in well-controlled laboratory experiments seems to support the role of experience in shaping imitation, as hypothesized by the associative sequence learning model.

For instance, hand-opening and handclosing gestures are typically facilitated by the observation of the same movement compared to the observation of a different movement. However, this facilitation can be abolished by a relatively short period of training during which subjects are instructed to open the hand while observing hand closing, and to close the hand while observing hand opening (Heyes et al.
2005).

In another experiment, the effect of training was measured on the speed of imitation induced by the observation of human motion versus robotic motion. A typical ﬁnding is that humans imitate more quickly the movements of another human compared to the movements of a robot. This effect, however, may be simply because humans tend to interact more with other humans than with robots.

Indeed, subjects who were trained to execute hand movement in response to a robotic movement demonstrated no difference in speed of imitation while observing human and robotic movements (Press et al.
2007). Although the associative sequence learning model and the ideomotor framework of imitation share the main idea that experience is extremely important for imitation, they also seem to differ on an important point.

The associative sequence learning model assumes that separate sensory and motor representations are linked by experience. In contrast, the ideomotor framework assumes that sensory and motor functional mechanisms share a common represen- tational format. In psychological terms, these differences are not negligible.

The translation of these different concepts into neural activity, however, as discussed below, may not differ dramatically (Glimcher 2005). Indeed, the main assumptions of both the associative sequence learning model and the ideomotor framework of imitation

ﬁt well with recent neuroscience ﬁndings on imitation.

IMITATION AND EMPATHY IN SOCIAL BEHAVIOR

Pervasiveness and Automaticity of Human Imitation Humans seem to have a strong tendency to align their behavior with their fellows during social interactions (Lieberman 2007). Some of these forms of imitation and mimicry are not only pervasive and automatic, but also operate on a quite complex level. Ap Dijksterius (2005)— following LeDoux’s terminology on processing of fearful stimuli (LeDoux 1996)—suggests that there are two roads to human imitation. A low road leads to imitation in a direct fashion, such that the perceiver acts the gestures, postures, facial expressions, and speech perceived in other people. A high road leads to complex and rather subtle forms of imitation, as shown by a number of experiments with priming manipulations that lead to stereotype activation or trait activation.

An example of stereotype activation on motor behavior is provided by the following experiment. Participants performed a scrambled-sentence language task. Some subjects were exposed to words such as Florida, bingo, gray; that is, words typically associated with the elderly. Some other subjects were not. After the experiment, participants left the laboratory and walked back to the elevator to leave the building.

An experimenter timed this walk back to the elevator. Subjects who had been primed with the elderly stereotype were reliably slower than subjects who had not been primed (Bargh et al. 1996). The primed subjects www.annualreviews.org • Imitation, Empathy, and Mirror Neurons 657 ARI 24 November 2008 18:59 imitated—obviously in an unconscious way— the slowness of old people. The high road to imitation is also at work in memory and general knowledge tasks.

In one experiment, subjects sat in front of a desk full of objects. The stereotype of the elderly was primed again in some subjects by asking them questions on elderly people. Other subjects, in contrast, were asked questions about college students. Subsequently, subjects were transferred to another room and were asked to remember the objects that were on the desk in front of them.

The subjects primed with the elderly stereotype remembered far fewer objects than did the other participants (Dijksterhuis et al. 2000). In a series of experiments, participants were either asked to think about college professors (a group of people typically associated with intelligence) and to write down everything that came to mind about college professors, or they were asked to think about soccer hooligans (a group of people typically not associated with intelligence) and to write down everything that came to mind about soccer hooligans. In a later task involving general knowledge questions, a task that was ostensibly unrelated to the ﬁrst one, the participants who were asked to think about college professors outperformed the participants who were asked to think about soccer hooligans. Indeed, the participants who were asked to think about college professors even outperformed participants who were not asked anything at all, and the participants who were asked to think about soccer hooligans were outperformed by participants who were not asked anything at all (Dijksterhuis & van Knippenberg 1998). Many more studies support the concept that the high road to imitation is pervasive and automatic (Dijksterhuis 2005).

The question is why pervasiveness and automaticity have been selected as distinctive properties of the high road to imitation. One possibility is that imitation facilitates social interactions, increases connectedness and liking, gets people closer to each other, and fosters mutual care. If this account Annu.
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ANRV364-PS60-25 658 Iacoboni is correct, it should follow that good imitators should also be good at recognizing emotions in other people, which in turn may lead to greater empathy. Thus, this account would predict a correlation between the tendency to imitate others and the ability to empathize with them. This hypothesis was tested in a series of experiments (Chartrand & Bargh 1999). In the ﬁrst experiment, subjects were asked to choose pictures in a set of photographs. The cover story was that the researchers needed some of these pictures for a psychological test and wanted to know from the subjects which pictures they considered more stimulating.

While subjects were choosing the pictures, a confederate was sitting in the same room with the real subject. The confederate pretended to be another subject who was also choosing good stimulating pictures. During the experimental sessions, some confederates deliberately rubbed their nose while the others shook their foot. Subjects were videotaped and their motor behavior was measured. It was found that the real subjects unintentionally mimicked the motor behavior of the confederate with whom they were sharing the room.

Subjects who shared the room with confederates who rubbed their nose, rubbed their nose more than did subjects who shared the room with confederates who shook their foot. Furthermore, subjects who shared the room with confederates who shook their foot, shook their foot more than did subjects who shared the room with confederates who rubbed their nose. These results are in line with the idea that imitation is automatic and provide the necessary prelude to the following experiments.

The second experiment tested the hypothesis that one of the functions of this automatic tendency to imitate is to increase liking between individuals. Participants were again asked to choose pictures, and confederates were again sitting with them, pretending to be participants of the study. In this second experiment, the cover task required participants and confederates to take turns in describing what they saw in various photos. At the end of the interaction Annu.
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ANRV364-PS60-25 ARI 24 November 2008 18:59 between participants and confederates, the participants were also asked to complete a questionnaire to report how much they liked the other participant (that is, the confederate) and how smoothly they thought the interaction had gone. In this second experiment, the confederates either imitated the spontaneous postures, movements, and mannerisms of the subjects or kept a neutral posture. The participants who were mimicked by confederates during the interaction liked the confederates much more than did the participants who were not imitated. Furthermore, mimicked subjects rated the smoothness of the interaction higher than did the participants who were not imitated.

This experiment demonstrated that imitation and liking tend to go together. When someone is imitating us, we tend to like him or her more. A third experiment tested the hypothesis that the more people tend to imitate others, the more they are concerned with the feelings of other people. The setting of this third experiment was identical to the ﬁrst experiment.

The novel aspect of this last experiment was that the participants responded to a questionnaire that measured their empathic tendencies. The experiment found a strong correlation between the tendency to empathize and the amount of imitative behavior displayed by the participants. The more a subject imitated the confederate, the more that subject was an empathic individual (Chartrand & Bargh 1999). This result suggests that through imitation and mimicry, we are able to feel what other people feel.

By being able to feel what other people feel, we are also able to respond compassionately to other people’s emotional states (Eisenberg 2000, Tangney et al. 2007). Many other empirical results are consistent with these ideas (Braten 2007, Niedenthal et al. 2005). What are the neural correlates of these complex forms of human behavior? A recent discovery in the monkey premotor cortex has sparked a whole series of new studies, in monkeys and humans, that are relevant to this question.

NEURAL MECHANISMS OF IMITATION Neural Precursors in Nonhuman Primates

The premotor cortex of the macaque brain, a cortical region important for the planning, preparation, and selection of movements and coordinated actions, is not homogeneous (Matelli et al. 1985). It is composed of several cito-architectonic ﬁelds with different physiological properties. In the lateral wall of the macaque brain, the ventral sector of the premotor cortex is composed of two main ﬁelds, area F4 and area F5 (Matelli et al. 1985).

Area F5 has physiological properties relevant to the neural control of mouth and hand movements, especially grasping (Rizzolatti et al. 1988). Within area F5, there are neurons that discharge not only when the monkey performs goal-oriented actions such as grasping an object, holding it, manipulating it, and bringing it to the mouth, but also when the monkey, completely still, simply observes somebody else performing these actions. Because of these properties, which almost suggest that the monkey is observing its own actions reﬂected by a mirror, these cells were called mirror neurons (di Pellegrino et al.
1992, Gallese et al. 1996).

The properties of mirror neurons call to mind the concepts of the ideomotor framework of actions, according to which perception and action share common representational formats. Indeed, mirror neurons embody the overlap between perception and action predicted by the ideomotor framework by discharging both during action execution and during action observation. The initial hypothesis about the functional role of mirror neurons focused on action recognition. By ﬁring during actions of the self and of other individuals, mirror neurons may provide a remarkably simple neural mechanism for recognizing the actions of others.

Early observations on ﬁring-rate changes in mirror neurons demonstrated that these cells do not ﬁre at the sight of a pantomime (Rizzolatti et al. 1996, www.annualreviews.org • Imitation, Empathy, and Mirror Neurons Premotor cortex: anterior sector of the agranular frontal cortex containing neurons that are relevant to the planning, preparation, and selection of actions Mirror neurons: neurons with motor properties in premotor and posterior parietal cortex that ﬁre not only during action execution, but also while observing somebody else performing the same or a similar action 659 ANRV364-PS60-25 ARI 24 November 2008 Annu.

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Strictly congruent mirror neurons: mirror neurons that ﬁre during the observation of exactly the same action they code motorically Broadly congruent mirror neurons: mirror neurons that ﬁre during the observation of an action achieving the same goal or logically related to the action they code motorically 660 18:59 Rizzolatti & Arbib 1998). For instance, the pantomime of whole-hand grasp (when the whole hand is used to grasp a relatively large object, as an orange) does not trigger the discharge of a mirror neuron that ﬁres during execution and observation of whole-hand grasps. This makes sense because monkeys typically do not pantomime. These early ﬁndings suggested that the properties of this neural system were remarkable but relatively simple, some sort of “monkey see, monkey do” neural mechanisms.

However, many other ﬁndings contradict this view and rather suggest that mirror neurons form a sophisticated, nuanced system for shared coding of motor and perceptual aspects of actions of self and others (Rizzolatti & Craighero 2004).

For instance, although the term “mirror” implies a strong similarity between the executed and the observed actions, only one third of mirror neurons—the so-called strictly congruent mirror neurons—ﬁre for the same executed and observed action. The remaining two-thirds of mirror neurons—the so-called broadly congruent mirror neurons—ﬁre for executed and observed actions that are not the same but either achieve the same goal or are logically related (di Pellegrino et al. 1992, Gallese et al.
1996, Rizzolatti & Craighero 2004), thus forming some sort of sequence of acts, as for instance observed placing food on the table and executed grasping food and bringing it to the mouth. The properties of broadly congruent mirror neurons suggest that these cells provide a ﬂexible coding of actions of self and others. This ﬂexibility is an important property for successful social interactions because even though imitation is a pervasive phenomenon in humans, people do not imitate each other all the time but rather often perform coordinated, cooperative, complementary actions.

Broadly congruent mirror neurons seem ideal cells to support cooperative behavior among people (NewmanNorlund et al. 2007). Following the initial observations (di Pellegrino et al. 1992, Gallese et al. 1996), a series of more recent experiments have demonstrated other complex properties of mirror neurons. For instance, we often easily recognize actions Iacoboni that are partially occluded.

The role of mirror neurons in the recognition of hidden actions was tested by using a screen that occluded the completion of the grasping action (Umiltà et al.
2001). In two baseline conditions, the ﬁring of the cells was measured for observation of grasping and of grasp pantomime. As expected, mirror neurons ﬁred for grasping observation but not for observation of the pantomime. In a new experimental condition, the subject watched a graspable object placed on a desk in front of the monkey.

Subsequently, a screen occluded the sight of the graspable object and a human experimenter reached with her or his hand behind the screen. The monkey was able to see the experimenter’s hand moving toward the object but was not able to see the actual grasping action, which was occluded by the screen. Approximately half of the mirror neurons tested in this experiment discharged even though the grasping action was occluded.

The ﬁring rate changes of these neurons were tested also in an additional control condition. Here, at the beginning of the trial, the monkey saw that there was no graspable object on the table. As in the previous experimental conditions, a screen subsequently occluded the sight of the table and a human experimenter reached with her or his hand behind the screen. Consider that at this point, this additional control condition is visually identical to the previous experimental conditions involving the screen occluding the sight of the grasping action. The only difference here is the prior knowledge of the absence of a graspable object behind the screen.

Mirror neurons tested under this experimental condition did not change their ﬁring rate, suggesting that the unseen action behind the screen was indeed coded as a pantomime (or, better, as a nongrasping action) (Umiltà et al. 2001). The experiment on hidden actions demonstrates another aspect of the properties of mirror neurons that suggests that these cells code actions in a fairly sophisticated way. The same visual information is coded differently, on the basis of prior knowledge about the presence or absence of a graspable object behind the screen. A subsequent experiment Annu.
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ANRV364-PS60-25 ARI 24 November 2008 18:59 demonstrated that mirror neurons also code in absence of any visual input (Kohler et al.
2002).

In this study, after the necessary baseline conditions were performed and mirror neurons were identiﬁed, the experimenters measured the ﬁring-rate changes of mirror neurons to the sound of actions. The sound stimuli used in this study were associated with common actions such as tearing a piece of paper, breaking peanuts, and so on.

Control sounds not associated with actions, for instance white noise, were also used (Keysers et al. 2003, Kohler et al. 2002). The single-cell recordings demonstrated that mirror neurons can also discharge to the sound of an action, even in absence of the visual input related to the action.

These auditory properties of mirror neurons have two important theoretical implications. One implication is relevant to the evolution of language. Area F5 of the macaque brain (where mirror neurons were originally discovered) is the anatomical homologue of Brodmann area 44 of the human brain (Rizzolatti & Arbib 1998), a brain area with important language properties. This anatomical correspondence, together with other considerations, led to the hypothesis that mirror neurons may have facilitated the emergence of language in the human brain (Rizzolatti & Arbib 1998).

However, language is not only written and read but also (and mostly) spoken and heard.

Mirror neuron responses to auditory stimuli are essential evidence for the hypothesis that mirror neurons are important neural elements in language evolution. The other implication of the auditory properties of mirror neurons is that they show that mirror neurons are multimodal cells. This functional property is theoretically important because it is compatible with associative models of how mirror neurons may be formed, which is discussed in more detail below.

When we break a peanut, the visual input of our ﬁngers breaking the peanut and the auditory input of the sound of breaking the peanut almost always co-occur, especially when we are initially learning to perform the action. Associative models can easily account for multimodal responses that are produced by the co-occurrence of sensory stimuli from multiple modalities (Fanselow & Poulos 2005, Keysers & Perrett 2004, Wasserman & Miller 1997). A recent study on mirror neuron responses to the sight of actions involving the use of tools is also consistent with the hypothesis that the properties of mirror neurons are shaped by experience. Early observations on mirror neuron responses to observed actions suggested that these cells do not ﬁre at the sight of an action involving the use of a tool.

For instance, a mirror neuron discharging during the execution and observation of precision grips (when grasping small objects with two ﬁngers) would not ﬁre at the sight of the experimenter using a hand tool such as a pliers to grasp the same small object (Rizzolatti & Arbib 1998). However, a recent study recording in the inferolateral aspect of area F5 has reported robust discharges in approximately 20% of recorded mirror neurons when the monkey observed the experimenters using tools (Ferrari et al. 2005).

Indeed, these discharges were even more robust than the discharges of the same cells during the observation of a grasping action without the tool (Ferrari et al. 2005). Although it is not possible to demonstrate unequivocally that the mirror neuron responses to tool use actions were acquired through the daily experience of observing human experimenters using tools in the lab, this seems a likely explanation.

It is unlikely that tool-use mirror neurons were already present in area F5 of the macaque brain but never recorded for more than ten years. This recently discovered functional property of mirror neurons and its likely underlying forming mechanisms is also obviously relevant to the psychological theories discussed above. Furthermore, described above, the ideomotor framework of action puts intentions front and center. Is it possible that the discharge of mirror neurons may represent the coding of the intention associated with the performed and observed action rather than the action itself?

A recent single-cell recording study has addressed this question (Fogassi et al. 2005). The depth electrode recordings ﬁrst demonstrated that neurons in area PF/PFG—a cortical www.annualreviews.org • Imitation, Empathy, and Mirror Neurons

661 ARI 24 November 2008 18:59 area located in the anterior part of the inferior parietal lobule that is anatomically connected with area F5 in the ventral premotor cortex (see Figure 1) and that also contains mirror neurons—had differential discharges for the same grasping action that led to, say, eating food rather than placing the food in a container (note that the monkeys were rewarded after placing the food in the container; thus, the amount of reward was identical for both actions). Not surprisingly, grasping for eating was preferred by the majority of grasping cells in this parietal area, although approximately 25% of neurons coding differently the same grasping action on the basis of its intention preferred grasping for placing over grasping for eating (Fogassi et al.
2005). This pattern of ﬁring-rate changes demonstrates that these cells code the same executed grasping action rather differently, according to the intention (or the goal) associated with the grasping action.

The same pattern of ﬁringrate changes was also observed during action observation. Here, the monkey was simply observing the human experimenter performing grasping actions. The intention of the experimenter was cued by the presence of a container.

When the container was present, the experimenter grasped the food and placed it in the container. When the container was absent, the experimenter grasped the food and ate it. At the time of grasping, the cells that discharged more robustly for grasping to eat when the monkey performed the actions also discharged more robustly when the monkey simply observed the human experimenter grasping the food in order to eat it. Likewise, the cells that discharged more robustly for grasping to place when the monkey performed the actions also discharged more robustly when the monkey simply observed the human experimenter grasping the food in order to place it in the container (Fogassi et al. 2005). Thus, rather than coding the observed grasping action, these neurons seem to be coding the goal associated with the action, the intention to eat or to place.

The most dramatic demonstration of the role of goal coding in these cells has been pro- Annu.
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ANRV364-PS60-25 662 Iacoboni vided by a very recent study (Umiltà et al. 2008). Here, single-cell recordings in area F5 were performed after monkeys were trained to use pliers to grasp objects. Ventral premotor neurons active during grasping actions were also active when the monkey used pliers to grasp objects.

Monkeys were trained to use reverse pliers that required hand opening rather than hand closing (as in natural grasps). Remarkably, neurons that ﬁred during hand closing in natural grasps and during use of normal pliers did ﬁre during hand opening when the monkeys used the reverse pliers. The activity of these motor neurons is evidently centered on coding the goal of the action rather than the motor detail of hand closing or opening. Among these motor neurons, the cells with mirroring properties also demonstrated a pattern of ﬁringrate changes centered on goal coding, discharging when the tips of the pliers were closing on the objects to be grasped during observation of action with both normal and reverse pliers (Umiltà et al. 2008). Mirror neurons do not mirror only grasping actions performed with the hand or with tools controlled by the hand.

There is evidence of mirror neurons coding facial actions, in particular with the mouth. Both ingestive (such as biting and sucking) and communicative actions are coded by mirror neurons (Ferrari et al. 2003). This is especially important for the hypothesis that mirror neurons may facilitate our understanding of the emotions of other people, because the face is the body part that we use most often to express our own emotions. Macaque Mirror Neurons and Imitation in Monkeys Do monkeys imitate? This is a contentious issue, and the answer to this question is heavily dependent on the deﬁnition of imitation.

Among scholars, it was widely held at the end of the nineteenth century that monkeys not only are able to imitate, but they actually do it “. . . at ludicrous length.”

(Romanes 1883).

In those times, imitation was not typically associated with high forms of intelligence. This Annu.
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ANRV364-PS60-25 ARI 24 November 2008 18:59 view of imitation has changed considerably in the past 30 years (Hurley & Chater 2005), calling also for a revision of previously held ideas on monkeys’ ability to imitate. Indeed, such revision had at some point taken the form of a true backlash, with many scholars denying that monkeys had any imitative ability.

This position raised the issue of what is the adaptive advantage of mirror neurons for monkeys and inspired new and better-controlled studies. There is now well-controlled evidence that monkeys are indeed able to imitate (Ferrari et al.
2006; Subiaul et al. 2004; Voelkl & Huber 2000, 2007), and it is likely—although there is no direct evidence yet—that this ability is supported by mirror neurons. For instance, marmosets observed a demonstrator removing the lids from a series of plastic canisters to obtain a mealworm. Subsequently, marmosets that observed a demonstrator using its hands to remove the lids used only their hands, whereas marmosets that observed a demonstrator using its mouth used their mouth to remove the lids (Voelkl & Huber 2000). In another study, marmosets observed another marmoset (the model) that was previously trained to open a box in a peculiar way.

Detailed motion analyses demonstrated that the highly unusual movement pattern of the model was faithfully replicated by the observers (Voelkl & Huber 2007). A recent study has also shown that rhesus macaques display neonatal imitation abilities that are similar to the abilities displayed by human neonates (Ferrari et al. 2006). It is evident, however, that imitative learning is not developed in monkeys as it is in humans (Hurley & Chater 2005). What then would be the main function of mirror neurons in the monkey brain?

One possibility might be that mirror neurons facilitate the ability to recognize the actions of others. A recent behavioral study, however, has also revealed that monkeys are able to recognize when they are being imitated (Paukner et al. 2005). In this study, monkeys observed two experimenters, each manipulating a wooden cube with a hole in each side.

Initially, the monkeys did not show any preferential looking between the two experimenters. Subsequently, a cube was given to the monkey. When the monkey started manipulating the cube, one of the two experimenters imitated accurately the monkey’s actions directed at the cube. The second experimenter, in contrast, performed different actions. At this point, the monkey preferentially looked at the experimenter imitating her own actions.

This capacity, which is likely supported by mirror neurons, may have an important social function and may be one of the early functional precursors of the highly developed imitative behavior of humans. TMS: transcranial magnetic stimulation BOLD: bloodoxygenation-level dependent fMRI: functional magnetic resonance imaging Human Brain Mechanisms of Mirroring The exquisite spatial and temporal resolution afforded by depth electrode recordings of single-cell activity can be obtained only with techniques of brain investigation that are quite invasive. These techniques cannot typically be used in humans. The neural properties revealed by single-unit recordings in monkeys are usually investigated in humans at the system level, with lesion studies (behavioral observations on neurological patients), brain imaging, and recently transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS).

Although the relationships between all these markers of brain activity are far from being fully deﬁned, there is evidence that they tend to correlate relatively well.

Spiking neuronal activity recorded with in-depth electrodes correlates well with the blood-oxygenationlevel dependent (BOLD) signal measured by functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) (Logothetis et al. 2001). In some cases, however, spiking activity and BOLD seem to dissociate (Logothetis & Wandell 2004), for instance when spiking responses show adaptation (that is, a reduced response to repeated stimuli) while BOLD does not (Goense & Logothetis 2008). Nevertheless, a recent TMS study has shown similar stimulation effects on both neural and hemodynamic signals (Allen et al. 2007), supporting the practice of inferring neural activity from signals based on hemodynamic changes, such as BOLD fMRI.
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ANRV364-PS60-25 ARI 24 November 2008 Pars opercularis: posterior sector of the inferior frontal gyrus delimited superiorly by the inferior frontal sulcus, inferiorly by the Sylvian ﬁssure, posteriorly by the ventral sector of the precentral gyrus, and anteriorly by the ascending branch of the Sylvian ﬁssure. Pars opercularis in the left hemisphere is classically considered the posterior part of Broca’s area, a major language area of the human brain 664 18:59 Indeed, this practice is widely used in systems neuroscience. For instance, single-cell recordings with depth electrodes have revealed in the dorsal premotor cortex of macaques cellular mechanisms of conditional motor learning, the fundamental ability that allows the association of motor responses to arbitrary sensory stimuli, as when we brake at a red trafﬁc light. In humans, the dorsal premotor cortex has also been associated with conditional motor learning by brain imaging and lesion studies (Passingham 1993).

Even though single-cell recordings of human dorsal premotor neurons have not been performed, the obvious assumption is that the human brain must have dorsal premotor cellular mechanisms that enable conditional motor learning and that are likely similar to—albeit probably more sophisticated than—the ones recorded in monkeys. This very same logic applies to the investigation of mirror neurons in the human brain. Given that the information typically obtained in human studies is at system level, the term “mirror neuron system” is often used in these studies. Two positron emission tomography studies (Grafton et al. 1996, Rizzolatti et al. 1996) and a TMS study (Fadiga et al. 1995) provided early evidence compatible with the idea that the human ventral premotor and inferior frontal cortex had mirroring properties.

However, these studies did not investigate the role of these human brain areas in imitation.

In a later fMRI study (Iacoboni et al. 1999), subjects were required to imitate simple ﬁnger movements and to perform motor and visual control tasks. The logic of the study was as follows: The neuronal discharge measured by depth electrode recordings in macaques during action observation is approximately 50% of the discharge measured during action execution (Gallese et al. 1996). Thus, human brain areas with mirror neurons should also have an increased BOLD signal (which roughly correlates with brain activity in fMRI) during action observation that is approximately 50% of the BOLD increase measured during action execution.

Furthermore, during imitation, subjects were simultaneously watch-

Iacoboni ing the ﬁnger movement and copying it. Thus, mirror neuron areas may have a BOLD signal increase during imitation that is approximately the sum of the BOLD signal increases observed during action observation and during action execution. The fMRI study found that two cortical areas had this predicted pattern of activity: They were located in the posterior part of the inferior frontal gyrus and in the rostral part of the posterior parietal cortex (Iacoboni et al. 1999), in anatomical locations (Figure 2) that were homologous to the anatomical locations of the macaque brain areas with mirror neurons, that is, area F5 in the ventral premotor cortex and area PF/PFG in the rostral sector of the inferior parietal lobule. The inferior frontal area with mirroring properties overlapped with the posterior part of Broca’s area, a major language area.

On one hand, these ﬁndings supported the evolutionary hypothesis about the role of mirror neurons in language (Rizzolatti & Arbib 1998). On the other hand, an activation in a language area during a nonlanguage task may be induced by covert verbalization occurring during the activation tasks. It is unclear why imitation should induce more covert verbalization than motor execution, which in turn should induce more covert verbalization than action observation (the pattern predicted for a mirror neuron area and observed in the posterior part of the inferior frontal gyrus and in the rostral part of the posterior parietal cortex), and this issue cannot be conclusively resolved by fMRI, which is a technique that provides only correlational data between brain areas and human behavior. TMS, on the other hand, provides information on the causal role of the activity in a brain area and human behavior. A high-frequency repetitive TMS study indeed demonstrated later that activity in the pars opercularis, the posterior part of the inferior frontal gyrus, is essential to imitation (Heiser et al. 2003).

A series of brain-imaging studies has suggested a core cortical circuitry for imitation composed of the posterior part of the superior Annu.

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ANRV364-PS60-25 ARI 24 November 2008 18:59 temporal sulcus, a higher-order visual area that responds to watching biological motion and intentional actions (Allison et al. 2000, Jellema et al. 2000, Perrett et al. 1989, Puce & Perrett 2003, Puce et al. 1998), and by the parietal and frontal mirror neuron areas. Within this cortical circuitry, the superior temporal cortex would provide a higher-order visual description of the actions of other people and would feed this information to the fronto-parietal mirror neuron areas (Iacoboni et al. 2001). The parietal mirror neuron area would code the motor aspect of the action (Iacoboni et al. 1999), whereas the frontal mirror neuron area would be more concerned with the goal of the action (Iacoboni 2005, Iacoboni et al. 2005, Iacoboni & Dapretto 2006, Koski et al. 2002).

Imitative behavior can take many forms (Hurley & Chater 2005). The core circuitry for imitation, composed of superior temporal cortex, inferior parietal lobule, and inferior frontal cortex, interacts with other neural systems to support different forms of imitative behavior. For instance, the interactions between the core circuitry for imitation and the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex seem critical during imitative learning (Buccino et al. 2004). In contrast, social mirroring and the ability to empathize with others may be supported by the interactions between the core circuitry for imitation and the limbic system (Iacoboni 2005). An fMRI study of imitation and observation of facial emotional expressions (Carr et al. 2003) tested the hypothesis that empathy is enabled by a large-scale neural network composed of the mirror neuron system, the limbic system, and the insula connecting these two neural systems.

Within this network, mirror neurons would support the simulation of the facial expressions observed in other people, which in turn would trigger activity in limbic areas, thus producing in the observer the emotion that other people are feeling. This model predicts activation of mirror neuron areas, insula, and limbic areas during both observation and imitation of facial emotional expressions. Furthermore, the model predicts that the increased activity in mirror neuron ar- eas during imitation should also spread to insula and limbic areas, if these brain centers are indeed functionally connected with mirror neuron areas. Both predictions were supported by the empirical ﬁndings (Carr et al. 2003).

In functional terms, the large-scale network composed of mirror neuron areas, insula, and the limbic system likely provides a simulation-based form of empathy (Goldman 2006, Goldman & Sripada 2005). Recent data also suggest that the activity in this network provides a biomarker of sociality and empathy. Indeed, an fMRI study of imitation and observation of facial expressions in children with autism and in typically developing children demonstrated not only a deﬁcit in mirror neuron areas in the children with autism, but also a correlation between the severity of the disease and activity in these areas: The lower the activity in mirror neuron areas, the more severe the autism (Dapretto et al. 2006). Furthermore, a separate fMRI study on typically developing preadolescents—in which the activation task was again the observation and imitation of facial emotional expressions—has recently demonstrated that activity in mirror neuron areas was positively correlated with interpersonal competence and empathic concern (Pfeifer et al. 2008). Two additional fMRI studies on adults also support the ﬁndings obtained in children.

In one study, subjects observed simple grasping actions (Kaplan & Iacoboni 2006). In the other study, subjects listened to action sounds (Gazzola et al. 2006). Both studies found a positive correlation between empathy scores and activity in premotor areas activated during action observation and while listening to action sounds, thus likely containing mirror neurons. Neural Mirroring and Psychological Theories of Imitation The ideomotor model of imitation and the associative sequence learning model share many concepts but diverge on a fundamental one: The former assumes overlap between www.annualreviews.org • Imitation, Empathy, and Mirror Neurons 665 ARI 24 November 2008 18:59 perceptual and motor representations, whereas the latter assumes that sensory and motor representations are separated but functionally connected through vertical links formed by associative learning. Both models also map well onto the functional properties of mirror neurons and neural systems for mirroring.

Do the neuroscience ﬁndings on mirror neurons better support the assumptions of the ideomotor model on perceptual and motor representations or those of the associative sequence learning model? It is difﬁcult to answer this question because the levels of description of psychological theories and those of neuroscience empirical work are radically different. The discharge of mirror neurons during action execution and action observation seems to fulﬁll the main assumption of the ideomotor model, a common representational format for perception and action. Preliminary results on individual neuronal activity obtained with depth electrode recordings in humans (R.
Mukamel, A. Ekstrom, J. Kaplan, M. Iacoboni and I. Fried, unpublished observations) seem also to support the ideomotor model. Using a rare clinical opportunity, we recently recorded single-cell activity in epileptic patients implanted for surgical evaluation.

We found human neurons with mirror properties in the frontal lobe as well as in the medial temporal cortex. Although the discharge of these cells during action execution and action observation seems to imply a common representational format for perception and action implemented at single cell level, it is also true that lesions in the frontal lobe are more often associated with motor deﬁcits, and lesions in the medial temporal lobe are more often associated with perceptual deﬁcits.

Perception and action, which are united at the level of single cells, seem to be more easily separated at the system level. In principle, the discharge during action execution and during action observation of frontal and medial temporal neurons may represent in neural terms the “vertical links” posited by the associative sequence learning model between a sensory unit (the medial temporal neuron) and Annu. Rev. Psychol.
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ANRV364-PS60-25 666 Iacoboni a motor unit (the frontal neuron) that ﬁre together as a result of associative learning. WHY NEURAL MIRRORING AND IMITATION?

The fundamental Darwinian question is why mirror neurons were selected by evolution. What is the adaptive advantage of having these neurons? The properties of these cells seem to solve—or better, dis-solve—what is called the “problem of other minds”: if one has access only to one’s own mind, how can one possibly understand the minds of other people?

How can one possibly share one’s own mental states with others, making intersubjectivity possible?

A classical solution to the problem of other minds is the so-called argument from analogy. The argument from analogy posits that we ﬁrst observe certain relations between our mental states and our bodily states and then ﬁnd an analogy between our body and the body of other people. If there is an analogy between our body and the body of others, there may be also an analogy between our mental states/bodily states relations and those of other people. This way of reasoning about the mental states of other people seems too complex for something we seem to accomplish so naturally, effortlessly, and quickly. Mirror neurons, in contrast, provide a prereﬂective, automatic mechanism of mirroring what is going on in the brain of other people that seems more compatible with our ability to understand others effortlessly and with our tendency to imitate others automatically, as we have discussed in this review.

A further implication of the recent work on the relationships between mirror neurons, imitation, and empathy is the consideration that the evolutionary process made us wired for empathy. This is a major revision of widely held beliefs. Traditionally, our biology is considered the basis of self-serving individualism, whereas our ideas and our social codes enable us to rise above our neurobiological makeup. The research on mirror neurons, imitation, and empathy, in contrast, tells us that our ANRV364-PS60-25 ARI 24 November 2008 18:59 ability to empathize, a building block of our sociality (Adolphs 2009) and morality (de Waal 2008, Tangney et al. 2007), has been built “bot- tom up” from relatively simple mechanisms of action production and perception (Iacoboni 2008). SUMMARY POINTS 1.

Imitation is pervasive and automatic in humans. 2.

Psychological models of imitation that assume an overlap or strong associative links between perception and action are supported by neural mirroring.
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3.
The core neural circuitry of imitation is composed of a higher-order visual area (the posterior part of the superior temporal sulcus) and by the fronto-parietal mirror neuron system.

4.
Empathy is implemented by a simulation of the mental states of other people.

5. A large-scale network for empathy is composed of the mirror neuron system, the insula, and the limbic system.

6. Mirror neurons were selected because they provide the adaptive advantage of intersubjectivity.

FUTURE ISSUES 1.

What are the anatomical locations and physiological properties of mirror neurons in humans? Depth electrode recordings in neurological patients may be able to investigate this issue.
2. How can we more precisely map the predictions of psychological models onto empirical ﬁndings from the neurosciences?
3. What are the developmental mechanisms that shape the mirror neuron system?
4.
What are the factors that inﬂuence the ability to empathize with other people?
DISCLOSURE STATEMENT

The author is not aware of any biases that might be perceived as affecting the objectivity of this review. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS For generous support, I thank the Brain Mapping Medical Research Organization, Brain Mapping Support Foundation, Pierson-Lovelace Foundation, The Ahmanson Foundation, William M.
and Linda R. Dietel Philanthropic Fund at the Northern Piedmont Community Foundation, Tamkin Foundation, Jennifer Jones-Simon Foundation, Capital Group Companies Charitable Foundation, Robson Family, and Northstar Fund.
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Schematic drawing of the lateral wall of the macaque brain.

The inferior frontal (ventral premotor area F5) and inferior parietal (PF and PFG) areas circled in red contain mirror neurons. (Modified from figure 1 of Rizzolatti & Craighero 2004.) www.annualreviews.org

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HI-RES-PS60-25-Iacoboni.qxd 11/11/08 17:32 Page C-2 Figure 2 Lateral wall of the human brain.
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Iacoboni AR364-FM ARI 11 November 2008 15:42 Annual Review of Psychology Contents Volume 60, 2009 Annu.
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How do we understand other people’s behavior? How can we assign goals, intentions, or beliefs to the inhabitants of our social world? A possible way to answer these challenging questions is to adopt an evolutionary frame of reference, both in phylogenetical and ontogenetical terms, envisaging these ‘mind-reading’ capacities as rooted in antecedent, more ‘ancient’ and simple mechanisms. This approach can capitalize on the results of different fields of investigation: neurophysiology can investigate the neural correlates of precursors of these mechanisms in lower species of social primates such as macaque monkeys. Developmental psychology can study how the capacity to attribute propositional attitudes to others develops.

In the present article we will propose that humans’ mind-reading abilities rely on the capacity to adopt a simulation routine. This capacity might have evolved from an action execution/observation matching system whose neural correlate is represented by a class of neurons recently discovered in the macaque monkey premotor cortex: mirror neurons (MNs). The macaque monkey premotor area F5 and mirror neurons Converging anatomical evidence (see Matelli and Luppino1 for review) supports the notion that the ventral premotor cortex (referred to also as inferior area 6) is composed of two distinct areas, designated as F4 and F5 (Ref. 2) (Fig. 1A).

Area F5 occupies the most rostral part of inferior area 6, extending rostrally within the posterior bank of the inferior limb of the arcuate sulcus.

Area F5 is reciprocally connected with the hand field of the primary motor cortex3–5 and has direct, although limited, projections to the upper cervical segments of the spinal cord6 . Microstimulation in F5 evokes hand and mouth movements at thresholds generally higher than in the primary motor cortex7,8. The functional properties of F5 neurons were assessed in a series of single unit recording experiments9–11. These experiments showed that the activity of F5 neurons is correlated with specific hand and mouth motor acts and not with the execution of individual movements like contractions of individual muscle groups.

What makes a movement into a motor act is the presence of a goal. This distinction is very important since it allows one to interpret the role of the motor system not just in terms of the control of the dynamic variables of movement (like joint torques, etc.), but rather as a possible candidate for the instantiation of mental states such as purpose or intention. Using the effective motor act as the classification criterion, the following types of neurons were described: ‘Grasping neurons’, ‘Holding neurons’, ‘Tearing neurons’ and ‘Manipulation neurons’. Grasping neurons discharge when 493 Mirror neurons and the simulation theory of mind-reading Vittorio Gallese and Alvin Goldman A new class of visuomotor neuron has been recently discovered in the monkey’s premotor cortex: mirror neurons.

These neurons respond both when a particular action is performed by the recorded monkey and when the same action, performed by another individual, is observed. Mirror neurons appear to form a cortical system matching observation and execution of goal-related motor actions. Experimental evidence suggests that a similar matching system also exists in humans. What might be the functional role of this matching system?

One possible function is to enable an organism to detect certain mental states of observed conspecifics.

This function might be part of, or a precursor to, a more general mind-reading ability. Two different accounts of mindreading have been suggested. According to ‘theory theory’, mental states are represented as inferred posits of a naive theory.

According to ‘simulation theory’, other people’s mental states are represented by adopting their perspective: by tracking or matching their states with resonant states of one’s own. The activity of mirror neurons, and the fact that observers undergo motor facilitation in the same muscular groups as those utilized by target agents, are findings that accord well with simulation theory but would not be predicted by theory theory. V. Gallese is at the Istituto di Fisiologia Umana, Università di Parma, Via Volturno 39, I-43100 Parma, Italy. tel: +39 521 903879 fax: +39 521 903900 e-mail: fisioum@ symbolic.pr.it A. Goldman is at the Department of Philosophy, University of Arizona, Tucson, AZ 85721-0027, USA.

tel:

+1 520 621 3120 fax:

+1 520 621 9559 e-mail: goldman@u.
arizona.edu Gallese and Goldman – Mirror neurons and mind-reading Opinion 1364-6613/98/$ – see front matter © 1998 Elsevier Science. All rights reserved. PII: S1364-6613(98)01262-5 Trends in Cognitive Sciences – Vol. 2, No. 12, December 1998

Opinion Gallese and Goldman – Mirror neurons and mind-reading 494 Trends in Cognitive Sciences – Vol. 2, No. 12, December 1998 VIP AIP LIP PG PF F5 F4 F2 F7 A 46 F1 S1 PE Fig. 1 Anatomical location and functional properties of mirror neurons. (A) Lateral view of the macaque brain showing the cytoarchitectonic parcellation of the agranular frontal cortex and of the posterior parietal cortex. Motor and premotor areas, indicated by the letter F, are defined according to Matelli et al.2 Mirror neurons were all recorded from area F5 (shown in bold).

(B) Visual and motor responses of a mirror neuron. In the upper part of each panel the behavioral context in which the neuron was studied is shown.

In the lower part of each panel a series of consecutive rasters and the relative peristimulus response histograms are shown. In the upper panel the experimenter grasps a piece of food with his hand and moves it towards the monkey, who grasps it. The neuron discharges during grasping observation, is silent when the food is moved, and discharges again when the monkey grasps it.

In the middle panel the experimenter grasps the food with a tool. Subsequent series of event as in the previous panel.

During grasping observation the neuron is silent. In the lower panel the monkey grasps the food in complete darkness. In the upper and middle panels rasters and histograms are aligned (vertical bar) with the moment in which the experimenter grasps the food. In the lower panel alignment is with the beginning of the grasping movement. (Histograms bin width, 20 ms. Ordinates, spikes/bin.

Abscissae, time.)

(C) Visual and motor responses of a mirror neuron.

In the upper panel the recorded monkey observes another monkey grasping food. In the middle panel the recorded monkey observes the experimenter grasping food. In the lower panel the recorded monkey actively grasps food. Each panel illustrates five consecutive trials.

The spontaneous activity of the neuron was virtually absent. (Panels B and C are modified from Ref. 15.) the monkey performs movements aimed to take possession of objects with the hand (‘Grasping-with-the-hand neurons’), with the mouth (‘Grasping-with-the-mouth neurons’), or with both.

Grasping-with-the-hand neurons form the largest class of F5 neurons. Most neurons of this class are selective for different types of grip. The role of these neurons has been conceptualized by Rizzolatti12 as a ‘motor vocabulary’ of actions related to prehension. The study of F5 neurons’ responsiveness to visual stimuli led to the discovery of two distinct classes of neurons: canonical neurons13, which are activated during observation of graspable objects, and MNs (see Refs 14,15) which discharge when the monkey observes another individual performing an action. We will describe in more detail the functional properties of this class of neurons.

Figure 1B and C illustrate two examples of the activity of MNs. MNs respond both when a particular action is performed by the recorded monkey and when the same action performed by another individual is observed. All MNs, as mentioned above, discharge during specific goal-related motor acts. Grasping, manipulating and holding objects are by far the most effective actions triggering their motor response. About half of them discharge during a specific type of prehension, precision grip (prehension of small objects by opposing the thumb and the index finger) being the most common one.

The most effective visual stimuli triggering MNs’ visual responses are actions in which the experimenter (Fig. 1B), or a second monkey (Fig. 1C), interacts with objects with their hand or with their mouth. Neither the sight of the object alone nor of the agent alone is effective in evoking the neuronal response. Mimicking the action without a target object, or performing the action by using tools (middle panel of Fig. 1B) is similarly ineffective.

In over 90 percent of MNs a clear correlation between the most effective observed action and their motor response was observed. In many neurons this correlation was strict both in terms of the general goal of the action (e.g. grasping) and in terms of the way in which it was executed (e.g.
precision grip)14,15. On the basis of their functional properties, here summarized, MNs appear to form a cortical system that matches observation and execution of motor actions. What could be the possible functional role of this matching system?

Before addressing this issue it is important to stress that the existence of an equivalent system has also been demonstrated in humans.

The mirror system in humans Two lines of evidence strongly suggest that an action/observation matching system similar to that discovered in monkeys also exists in humans. The first refers to an elegant study by Fadiga et al.16 in which the excitability of the motor cortex of normal human subjects was tested by using Transcranic Magnetic Stimulation (TMS). The basic assumption underlying this experiment was the following. If the observation of actions activates the premotor cortex in humans, as it does in monkeys, this mirror effect should elicit an enhancement of the motor evoked potentials (MEPs) induced by TMS of the motor cortex, given its strong anatomical links to premotor areas.

TMS was performed during four different conditions: observation of an experimenter grasping objects; observation of an experimenter doing aimless movements in the air with his arm; observation of objects; detection of the dimming of a small spot of light. The results of this study showed that during grasping observation MEPs recorded from the hand muscles markedly increased with respect to the other conditions, including the attention-demanding dimming detection task. Even more intriguing was the finding that the increase of excitability was present only in those muscles that subjects would use when actively performing the observed movements. This study provided for the first time evidence that humans have a mirror system similar to that in monkeys.

Every time we are looking at someone performing an action, the same motor circuits that are recruited when we ourselves perform that action are concurrently activated. These results posed the question of the anatomical location of the mirror system within the human brain. This issue has been addressed by two brain-imaging experiments utilizing the technique of Positron Emission Tomography (PET) (Refs 17,18). These two experiments, although different in many respects, shared a condition in which normal human subjects observed the experimenter grasping 3-D objects. Both studies used the observation of objects as a control condition.

The results showed that grasping observation significantly activates the cortex of the left superior temporal sulcus (Brodmann’s area 21), of the left inferior parietal lobule (Brodmann’s area 40) and of the anterior part of Broca’s region (Brodmann’s area 45). The activation, during action observation, of a cortical sector of the human brain traditionally linked with language raises the problem of the possible homologies between Broca’s region and the premotor area F5 of the monkey, in which MNs have been discovered. This issue is outside the scope of the present article and will not be dealt with here (for discussion, see Ref. 19). Mirror neurons and mind-reading What is the function of the mirror system?

One possible function could be to promote learning by imitation. When new motor skills are learned, one often spends the first training phases trying to replicate the movements of an observed instructor.

MNs could in principle facilitate that kind of learning. We do not favor this possible role of MNs, at least in non-human primates (see Box 1). Here we explore another possibility: that MNs underlie the process of ‘mind-reading’, or serve as precursors to such a process. Mind-reading is the activity of representing specific mental states of others, for example, their perceptions, goals, beliefs, expectations, and the like. It is now agreed that all normal humans develop the capacity to represent mental states in others, a system of representation often called folk psychology.

Whether non-human primates also deploy folk psychology is more controversial (see last section of this article), but it certainly has not been precluded. The hypothesis explored here is that MNs are part of – albeit perhaps a rudimentary part of – the folk psychologizing mechanism. Like imitation learning, mind-reading could make a contribution to inclusive fitness. Detecting another agent’s Gallese and Goldman – Mirror neurons and mind-reading 495 Trends in Cognitive Sciences – Vol. 2, No. 12, December 1998 Opinion goals and/or inner states can be useful to an observer because it helps him anticipate the agent’s future actions, which might be cooperative, non-cooperative, or even threatening. Accurate understanding and anticipation enable the observer to adjust his responses appropriately.

Our discussion of mind-reading will initially and primarily focus on humans; later we will return to its possible realization in non-human primates. Two theories of mind-reading There is a large literature concerned with the nature of (human) mind-reading. Two types of approaches have dominated recent discussion: theory theory (TT) and simulation theory (ST) (Refs 20–22).

The fundamental idea of TT is that ordinary people accomplish mind-reading by acquiring and deploying a commonsense theory of the mind, something akin to a scientific theory. Mental states attributed to other people are conceived of as unobservable, theoretical posits, invoked to explain and predict behavior in the same fashion that physicists appeal to electrons and quarks to predict and explain observable phenomena. On the standard presentation, the theory of mind possessed by ordinary people consists of a set of causal/explanatory laws that relate external stimuli to certain inner states (e.g. perceptions), certain inner states (e.g. desires and beliefs) to other inner states (e.g. decisions), and certain inner states (e.g. decisions) to behavior. This picture has been articulated by functionalist philosophers of mind23–26 as well as by developmental psychologists27,28. According to TT, attributing particular mental states to others arises from theoretical reasoning involving tacitly known causal laws.

Much on this subject has been done by developmentalists, eager to determine how the mind-reading capacity is acquired in childhood29. Many interpret children’s changes in mind-reading skills as evidence in favor of TT because the skill changes are construed as manifestations of changes in theory30,31. Theory theorists differ among themselves as to whether theory of mind is acquired by a general-purpose scientizing algorithm32 or by the maturation of a domainspecific module or set of modules33,34. This debate will not concern us here. ST arose partly from doubts about whether folk psychologizers really represent, even tacitly, the sorts of causal/explanatory laws that TT typically posits.

ST suggests that attributors use their own mental mechanisms to calculate and predict the mental processes of others. For example, Kahneman and Tversky35 gave subjects a description of two travellers who shared the same limousine en route to the airport and were caught in a traffic jam. Their planes were scheduled to depart at the same time, but they arrived 30 minutes late.

Mr A was told that his flight left on time; Mr B was told that his flight was delayed and just left five minutes ago.

Who was more upset? Ninety-six percent of the experimental subjects said that Mr B was more upset. How did they arrive at this answer? According to TT there must be some psychological law they exploited to infer the travellers’ relative upsetness.

According to ST, on the other hand, each subject would have put himself in each of the imaginary traveller’s ‘shoes’ and imagined how he would have felt in their place36. Another example concerns the prediction of decisions.

To predict White’s next move in a chess match ST suggests that you try to simulate White’s thought processes and arrive at a decision which you then attribute to him36–38. First you create in yourself pretend desires, preferences, and beliefs of the sort you take White to have; for example, preferences among chess strategies. These pretend preferences and beliefs are fed into your own decision-making mechanism, which outputs a (pretend) decision (see Fig. 2).

Instead of acting on that decision, it is taken ‘off-line’ and used to predict White’s decision. Opinion Gallese and Goldman – Mirror neurons and mind-reading 496 Trends in Cognitive Sciences – Vol. 2, No. 12, December 1998 The ability of non-human primates to imitate the behavior of conspecifics is a highly controversial issue. Tomasello et al.a identify three strict criteria to delimit imitational learning: (1) the imitated behavior should be novel for the imitator; (2) it should reproduce the behavioral strategies of the model; (3) it should share with it the same final goal. Behaviors not satisfying these criteria should not be considered as true imitational ones, and are rather to be explained by means of other mechanisms such as stimulus enhancement, emulation, or response facilitation. By applying these strict criteria to the extant literature, Tomasello et al.a exclude the possibility that wild animals may display true imitative behavior.

A different perspective is offered by Byrne and Russonb . These authors start from the concept that behaviors display a hierarchical structure, and can be therefore described at several levels of increasing complexity. Manual skills represents a good example. Because complex behaviors are hierarchically structured, ‘…there exists a range of possibilities for how imitation might take place, beyond the simple dichotomy of imitation versus no imitation’.

Byrne and Russonb single out an action-level imitation in which a detailed specification of the various motor sequences composing a complex action is made, and a program-level imitation in which the broader, more highly structured component of a complex skill is retained, with subjective solutions to the low-level specifications. Byrne and Russonb conclude that imitational learning in non-human primates might have been overlooked by the exclusive application of the action-level strategy as the defining criterion. What is the relevance of MNs for imitation in non-human primates?

First of all, it should be stressed that imitation behavior has never been observed in association with MN activity. Furthermore, even adopting Byrne and Russon’s criteria, we are not aware of any clearcut evidence of imitation of grasping behavior among adult macaque monkeys, although this possibility is not precluded for young monkeys during development. On the basis of these considerations we are inclined not to favor the hypothesis that MNs in area F5 promote grasping imitation learning in adult monkeys.
References a Tomasello, M., Kruger, A.C. and Ratner, H.H. (1993)

Cultural learning Behav. Brain Sci. 16, 495–511 b Byrne, R.W. and Russon, A.E. Learning by imitation: a hierarchical approach Behav.

Brain Sci.

(in press)

Box 1.

Mirror neurons and imitation According to this simulation account, you need not know or utilize any psychological laws. If simulation is going to make accurate predictions of targets’ decisions, pretend desires and beliefs must be sufficiently similar to genuine desires and beliefs that the decision-making system operates on them the same way as it operates on genuine desires and beliefs. Are pretend states really similar enough to the genuine articles that this will happen?

Homologies between pretend and natural (i.e. non-pretend) mental states are well documented in the domains of visual and motor imagery39–43.

(We assume here that visual and motor imaging consist, respectively, in pretending to see and pretending to do; see Currie and Ravenscroft44.) These visual and motor homologies do not show, of course, that other pretend mental states, for example, desires and beliefs, also functionally resemble their natural counterparts, but informal evidence suggests this (see Goldman45). The difference between TT and ST The core difference between TT and ST, in our view, is that TT depicts mindreading as a thoroughly ‘detached’ theoretical activity, whereas ST depicts mindreading as incorporating an attempt to replicate, mimic, or impersonate the mental life of the target agent46. This difference can be highlighted diagrammatically, as shown in Fig.

3. In the simulation scenario there is a distinctive matching or ‘correspondence’ between the mental activity of the simulator and the target.

This is highlighted by the similar state-sequences the two undergo (Fig. 3, A and B), the only exception being that the simulator uses pretend states rather than natural states. The attributor in the TT scenario (Fig.
3C) does not utilize any pretend states that mimic those of the target; nor does he utilize his own decision-making system to arrive at a prediction. Thus, ST hypothesizes that a significant portion of mind-reading episodes involves the process of mimicking (or trying to mimic) the mental activity of the target agent.

TT predicts no such mimicking as part of the mind-reading process. This contrast presents a potential basis for empirically discriminating between ST and TT. If there is evidence of mental mimicry in the mindreading process, that would comport nicely with ST and would not be predicted by TT. Before turning to such evidence, however, we should note that simulation can be used to retrodict as well as predict mental states, that is, to determine what mental states of a target have already occurred. Figure 4 depicts a retrodictive use of simulation.

The attributor starts with the question, ‘What goal did the target have that led him to perform action m?’

He conjectures that it was goal g, and tries out this conjecture by pretending to have g as well as certain beliefs about the effectiveness or ineffectiveness of the action m vis-à-vis goal g.

This simulation leads him to form a (pretend) decision to do m. He therefore uses this result to conclude that the target did indeed have goal g. In this fashion, the attributor ultimately makes a ‘backward’ inference from the observed action to a hypothesized goal state. Mirror neurons and simulation In a similar fashion, it is conceivable that externally-generated MN activity serves the purpose of ‘retrodicting’ the target’s mental state, moving backwards from the observed action. Let us interpret internally generated activation in MNs as constituting a plan to execute a certain action, for example, the action of holding a certain object, grasping it, or manipulating it. When the same MNs are externally activated – by observing a target agent execute the same action – MN activation still constitutes a plan to execute this action.

But in the latter case the subject of the MN activity knows (visually) that the observed target is concurrently performing this very action.

So we assume that he ‘tags’ the plan in question as belonging to that target. In fact, externally generated MN activity does not normally produce motor execution of the plan in question. Externally generated plans are largely inhibited, or taken ‘off-line’, precisely as ST postulates. Thus MN activity seems to be nature’s way of getting the observer into the same ‘mental shoes’ as Gallese and Goldman – Mirror neurons and mind-reading 497 Trends in Cognitive Sciences – Vol. 2, No. 12, December 1998

Opinion Perceptual processes Inference mechanisms Beliefs Desires

Decision-making (practical reasoning) system Behavior-predicting and -explaining system ‘Pretend’ belief and desire generator Body monitoring system Action control system Behavior Fig.

2

The basic elements of the simulation routine.

Cognitive steps in predicting or explaining someone’s decision by means of simulation are shown in the lower part of the figure. A dedicated pretend-state generator generates pretend beliefs and desires suited to the target agent. These pretend beliefs and desires are fed into the attributor’s decision-making system (the same system that normally operates on natural, non-pretend beliefs and desires). The output of the decision-making system is taken ‘off-line’.

That is, instead of being fed into the action control system, the output decision is sent to the behavior-predicting and -explaining system, which outputs a prediction that the target will make that very decision. (Modified from Ref. 59.)

the target – exactly what the conjectured simulation heuristic aims to do.

Although we compare externally generated MN activity with what transpires in Fig. 4, there clearly are differences.

One difference is that the real attributor does not go back to a distal goal or set of beliefs. He only goes back to a motoric plan. Still, this seems to be a ‘primitive’ use of simulation with the same structure as that depicted in Fig. 4.

It also bears a resemblance to the motor theory of speech perception advocated by Liberman47, in which the common link between the sender and the receiver is not sound but the neural mechanism, shared by both, allowing the production of phonetic gestures.

A proponent of TT might say that TT also has ways of accounting for retrodictive attributions of mental states. Is it clear that anything similar to simulation occurs in externally generated MN activity? The point is that MN activity is not mere theoretical inference. It creates in the observer a state that matches that of the target. This is how it resembles the simulation heuristic.

Nothing about TT leads us to expect this kind of matching. It should be emphasized that the hypothesis being advanced here is not that MNs themselves constitute a full-scale realization of the simulation heuristic. In particular, we do not make this conjecture for MNs in monkeys.

Our conjecture is only that MNs represent a primitive version, or possibly a precursor in phylogeny, of a simulation heuristic that might underlie mind-reading. A further link between mirror neuron activity and simulation can be inferred from the fact that, as the TMS experiment by Fadiga et al.16 demonstrates, the human equivalent matching system facilitates in the observer the same muscle groups as those utilized by the target. This supports the idea that even when one is observing the action of another, one undergoes a neural event that is qualitatively the same as an event that triggers actual movement in the observed agent. It is as if the tracking process in the observer is not taken entirely off-line. This might appear to be a violation of ST, but actually it is wholly within ST’s spirit.

ST postulates mental occurrences in the mind-reader that are analogous to mental occurrences in the target, so it is not surprising that downstream motor activity is not entirely inhibited. If TT were correct, and an observer represents a target’s behavior in purely theoretical fashion, it would not be predicted that the same muscle groups would be facilitated in the observer as in the target. But if ST were correct, and a mind-reader represents an actor’s behavior by recreating in himself the plans or movement intentions of the actor, then it is reasonable to predict that the same muscular activation will occur in the mind-reader.

As matching muscular activation is actually observed in the observer, this lends support to ST as opposed to TT. Clinical evidence of a similar phenomenon is found in so-called ‘imitation behavior’48. A group of patients with Opinion Gallese and Goldman – Mirror neurons and mind-reading 498 Trends in Cognitive Sciences – Vol. 2, No. 12, December 1998 Theoretical reasoning system T will decide to do m T desires g Decision-making law T believes (m g) C Decision making system T will decide to do m m g m g T T B T Decision making system m g m g A Fig. 3 Two possible ways of predicting someone’s decision. (A) A simple decision by an agent.

His desire for goal g and belief that action m would be a good means to g are fed into his decision-making system, which outputs a decision to perform m. (B) shows how an attributor can successfully predict this agent’s decision using a simulation routine. After learning of the target’s (T) desire and belief (for example, from previous applications of the simulation routine), the attributor creates similar pretend states in himself. These states are ‘tagged’ as belonging to the target, and then fed into the attributor’s decision-making system, which outputs a (pretend) decision to do m.

The attributor takes this decision ‘off-line’ and predicts that the target will decide to do m. (C) represents the way an attributor might predict the target’s decision using theoretical reasoning. The attributor starts with knowledge that the target has a desire for goal g and a belief that m would achieve g.

He also believes some psychological law about human decision-making. These beliefs are all fed into his own theoretical-reasoning system, which outputs the belief that the target will decide to do m. Squares represent desires; ellipses represent beliefs; diamonds represent decisions; and hexagons represent cognitive mechanisms.

Shading indicates that the mental state is a pretend state. Decision making system What goal did T have that led him to do m?

T had m goal g

g m g T T T Fig. 4

A retrodictive use of simulation.

After observing the target agent (T) perform action m, the attributor uses simulation to test whether goal g would have fitted with the choice of m. Goal g is re-created and fed into his decision-making system, which does output m.
prefrontal lesions compulsively imitate gestures or even complex actions performed in front of them by an experimenter. This behavior is explained as an impairment of the inhibitory control normally governing motor schemas, or plans. It may be inferred from this that normal humans, when observing someone else perform an action, generate a plan to do the same action, or an image of doing it, themselves. Normally this plan is inhibited so that it does not yield motor output, but such inhibition is impaired in the patient population in question48.

Non-human primates: behaviorists or mind-readers?

A mind-reading capacity for non-human primates is a hotly debated issue among primatologists and behavioral scientists. In a recent paper Heyes49 argued that a survey of empirical studies of imitation, self-recognition, social relationships, deception, role-taking and perspective-taking fails to support the theory of mind hypothesis over non-mentalist alternatives. Although, for sake of concision, it is not possible here to address this issue thoroughly (for reviews see Refs 49 and 50), a few points are worth making.

Let us consider first the social nature of non-human primates. Social organization is by no means a distinctive feature of primates: within the realm of insects several species (ants are one example) are endowed with a clear social structure. The distinctive hallmark of the social organization of non-human primates is its sophisticated complexity.

Nonhuman primates live in groups that can comprise as many as 100 individuals. These groups are characterized by intense and diversified types of social interactions51. Within such a complex and hierarchically organized social structure, individuals are able to recognize kinship, hierarchical ranks, to discriminate allies from enemies. Stammbach52 showed that dominant macaque monkeys modified their social relationships with lower-ranking individuals who had previously learned how to retrieve food by pressing a lever. Dominant individuals started grooming the low-ranking ones more often than before, once they ‘understood’ that the newly acquired skills of the low-ranking individuals could be more easily triggered, and therefore exploited, by using this sort of social upgrading.

All these examples, although not providing conclusive evidence of mind-reading abilities, nevertheless, in our view, provide a strong argument supporting the hypothesis that non-human primates are endowed with cognitive abilities that cannot be easily dismissed as the result of simple stimulus–response operant conditioning.
Being a ‘cognizer’, nevertheless, does not necessarily imply being a mind-reader, or a possessor of the ability to detect intentional states in others. The argument that seems to suggest the presence, in non-human primates, of elementary forms of mind-reading abilities comes from the discovery of deceptive behavior. In a series of field experiments, Hauser53,54 showed that rhesus monkeys can withhold information about food location in order to deceive conspecifics and obtain more food for themselves.

Deception is particularly relevant here, since deceptive behavior calls for the existence of second-order intentionality, and therefore for the capability to attribute mental states to conspecifics. Gallese and Goldman – Mirror neurons and mind-reading 499 Trends in Cognitive Sciences – Vol. 2, No. 12, December 1998 Opinion Neurons responding to complex biological stimuli have been previously described in the macaque brain. A series of studies showed that in the inferior temporal cortex there are neurons that discharge selectively to the presentation of faces or handsa–c.
More recently it has been shown that some of these neurons respond to specific features of these stimulid . Neurons responding to complex biological visual stimuli such as walking or climbing were reported also in the amygdalae .

Even more relevant to the issues addressed in the present paper is the work of Perrett and co-workersb,f,g. These authors showed that in the cortex buried within the superior temporal sulcus (STS) there are neurons selective to the observation of hand movements. These properties resemble the visual properties of F5 MNs very closely: both populations of neurons code the same types of actions; they both generalize their responses to the different instances of the same action; they both are not responsive to mimicked hand actions without the target object. However, the unique feature of F5 MNs resides in the fact that they also discharge during active movements of the observer.

An observed action produces the same neural pattern of activation as does the action actively made by the observer. The presence of two brain regions with neurons endowed with similar complex visual properties raises the question of their possible relationship. Two possibilities might be suggested.

One is that F5 MNs and STS neurons have different functional roles: STS neurons would code the semantic properties, the meaning, of hand–object interactions, while F5 MNs would be engaged in the pragmatic coding of the same actions. A second possibility, that we favor, is that these two ‘action detector’ systems could represent distinct stages of the same analysis. The STS neurons would provide an initial ‘pictorial’ description of actions that would be then fed (most likely through an intermediate step in the posterior parietal cortex) to the F5 motor vocabulary where it would acquire a meaning for the individual. The latter hypothesis stresses the role of action in providing meaning to what is perceived. References a Gross, C.G. et al.

(1972) Visual properties of neurons in inferotemporal cortex of the monkey J. Neurophysiol.

35, 96–111 b Perrett, D.I., Rolls, E.T. and Caan, W. (1982) Visual neurones responsive to faces in the monkey temporal cortex Exp.

Brain Res.
47, 329–342 c Gross, C.G. et al.

(1985)

Inferior temporal cortex and pattern recognition, in Pattern Recognition Mechanisms (Chagas, C., Gattass, R. and Gross, C., eds), Springer-Verlag d Tanaka, K. et al. (1991)

Coding visual images of objects in the inferotemporal cortex of the macaque monkey J. Neurophysiol.
66, 170–189 e Brothers, L., Ring, B. and Kling, A. (1990) Response of neurons in the macaque amygdala to complex social stimuli Behav. Brain Res.
41,

199–213 f Perrett, D.I. (1989)

Frameworks of analysis for the neural representation of animate objects and actions J. Exp.

Biol.

146, 87–113 g Perrett, D.I. (1990)

Understanding the visual appearance and consequence of hand actions, in Vision and Action: the Control of Grasping (Goodale, M.A., ed.), pp. 163–180, Ablex Box 2.

Neural coding of complex biological stimuli The relevance of the data on deceptive behavior has been questioned on the basis of two main arguments. First, field reports of ethologists are anecdotal and therefore intrinsically ambiguous. Second, alternative non-mentalistic explanations, such as chance behavior, associative learning, and inferences about observable features of the situation have been proposed as more parsimonious explanations of deceptive behavior (see Heyes49). However, according to Byrne55, who surveyed the literature thoroughly, there are at least 18 independent reports of intentional deception in non-human primates supporting the notion that they can represent the mental states of other conspecifics.

On the basis of this evidence, Byrne and Whiten56 suggested that primates act according to a manipulative strategy very similar to that put forward in the sixteenth century by Niccolò Machiavelli in his masterpiece Il Principe57.
Our speculative suggestion is that a ‘cognitive continuity’ exists within the domain of intentional-state attribution from non-human primates to humans, and that MNs represent its neural correlate (see also Box 2). This continuity is grounded in the ability of both human and non-human primates to detect goals in the observed behavior of conspecifics. The capacity to understand action goals, already present in non-human primates, relies on a process that matches the observed behavior to the action plans of the observer.

It is true, as pointed out by Meltzoff and Moore58, that the understanding of action goals does not imply a full grasp of mental states such as beliefs or desires. Action-goal understanding nevertheless constitutes a necessary phylogenetical stage within the evolutionary path leading to the fully developed mind-reading abilities of human beings. The Simulating Social Mind: The Role of the Mirror Neuron System and Simulation in the Social and Communicative Deficits of Autism Spectrum Disorders Lindsay M. Oberman and Vilayanur S. Ramachandran University of California, San Diego The mechanism by which humans perceive others differs greatly from how humans perceive inanimate objects.

Unlike inanimate objects, humans have the distinct property of being “like me” in the eyes of the observer. This allows us to use the same systems that process knowledge about self-performed actions, self-conceived thoughts, and self-experienced emotions to understand actions, thoughts, and emotions in others. The authors propose that internal simulation mechanisms, such as the mirror neuron system, are necessary for normal development of recognition, imitation, theory of mind, empathy, and language. Additionally, the authors suggest that dysfunctional simulation mechanisms may underlie the social and communicative deficits seen in individuals with autism spectrum disorders.

Keywords: mirror neuron system, autism spectrum disorders, simulation, social impairments, communication impairments “When we see a stroke aimed, and just ready to fall upon the leg or arm of another person, we naturally shrink and draw back on our leg or our own arm . . . The mob, when they are gazing at a dancer on the slack rope, naturally writhe and twist and balance their own bodies, as they see him do.” —Adam Smith, The Theory of Moral Sentiments Over 200 years ago, Smith (1759) described the perception of others not simply in terms of simple observation but rather a result of active embodied understanding. Unlike inanimate objects, for which actions are processed visually and can be successfully predicted based on physical characteristics and physical laws, this type of processing—systemizing (Baron-Cohen, 2002)—is not sufficient for understanding human behaviors, because they are motivated by internal states that typically do not follow objectively predictable patterns.

Thus, many researchers have proposed a simulation account of human perception (Barsalou, 1999; Gallagher & Meltzoff, 1996; Gallese, 2001; Gallese & Goldman, 1998). Though each researcher uses his or her own terminology, all generally claim that the understanding of human actions and internal states relies on both the capacity of the observer to perceive other humans as “like me” (Meltzoff & Moore, 1995) and the capacity to simulate the observed actions and internal states of other humans within the observer’s own motor, cognitive, and emotional representations.

This simulation account proposes that when typically developing individuals perceive another person in a certain situation, they will automatically and unconsciously project that perception back onto the observer’s own motor, cognitive, and emotional representations in order to run an offline simulation (Gallese, 2003). This offline simulation, in turn, allows the observer to create an embodied understanding of the observed person’s behaviors, thoughts, and feelings. Thus, according to this view, it follows that the mechanisms by which we understand an action, thought, or emotion in another individual share an underlying neural circuitry with the mechanisms by which we execute such actions, thoughts, or emotions ourselves—what Gallese (2001) calls the “shared manifold of intersubjectivity” (p. 34) or “Intentional Attunement” (Gallese, 2004). Similarly, in the theory of mind literature, the simulation theory proposes that the observer performs an internal simulation of the perceived actions and then uses knowledge of his or her own actions and intentions in such a situation to infer others’ mental states (Gordon, 1986; Heal, 1986). Finally, from the motor control literature, computational models describe cells called emulators.

Emulators receive an efferent copy of the motor command and produce a simulation of the sensory signals that would be produced in the organism as a result of that same command (Ito, 1984). Emulators would theoretically aid in motor control, prediction of actions, and motor imagery (Grush, 2004). Barsalou (1999) united the aforementioned simulation theories with his perceptual symbol systems (PSS) framework.

The first tenet of this theory is that knowledge (or internal representations) regarding perceptions, actions, and introspective states are represented in the same systems in which they are experienced. According to PSS, neurons, called conjunctive neurons, receive efferent copies of the input signal from all of the senses (including Lindsay M. Oberman, Center for Brain and Cognition and Department of Psychology, University of California, San Diego; Vilayanur S. Ramachandran, Center for Brain and Cognition, Department of Psychology, and Department of Neurosciences, University of California, San Diego. This article is a revised version of a manuscript originally submitted as part of Lindsay M. Oberman’s qualifying exam for her dissertation.

We would like to thank Jaime A. Pineda, Edward M. Hubbard, Lisa E.
Williams, Leslie Carver, Piotr Winkielman, and Hillary S. Berman for constructive comments on an earlier version of this article. Correspondence concerning this article should be addressed to Lindsay M. Oberman, Department of Psychology, University of California, San Diego, 9500 Gilman Drive, Mail Code 0109, La Jolla, CA 92093. E-mail: loberman@ucsd.edu

Psychological Bulletin

Copyright 2007 by the American Psychological Association 2007, Vol. 133, No. 2, 310 –327 0033-2909/07/$12.00 DOI: 10.1037/0033-2909.133.2.310 310 vision, audition, olfaction, gestation, haptics, proprioception, and introspection) and store it for future cognitive use. Once these so-called conjunctive neurons are established, they can be activated by cognitive simulation in the absence of bottom-up input.

PSS also establishes two central constructs: simulators and simulations. Simulators are distributed networks of conjunctive neurons that activate in response to a specific category. They are responsible for integrating the modality-specific information and forming a supramodal representation of a concept.

Once a simulator is established for a certain category it enables the individual to reenact its content in the form of simulations. Simulations can be used to draw inferences about a given concept or to internally represent it through memory, language, and thought. The original framework was extended by Barsalou (2003) to provide a mechanism by which these simulated concepts are incorporated into specific contexts.

In this system, situated conceptualizations are proposed to contain simulations of four basic components of a context: people and objects, actions and body states, introspective states, and settings. According to PSS, each component of the conceptualization is simulated in the respective brain areas that originally encoded the information. Just as the simulators for a concept integrate the activity of the conjunctive neurons to formulate supramodal representations of that concept, the simulators for each component combine to form a supramodal simulation of the situation. Barsalou proposed that this simulation, which incorporates multiple core components of a context, allows the conceptualizer to have the experience of being in the situation.

Barsalou’s PSS framework brings together all of the simulation literature across the multiple domains and provides a unified theory for how humans interpret and interact with their environment. Though the simulation account has a long history (dating back to at least 1759) and is intuitively appealing, debate continues over the theory’s validity in multiple domains.

Additionally, it is unclear whether the underlying neural circuitry that mediates the simulation processes for perception, social interaction, and communication is centered in the motor system or whether multiple brain regions are capable of simulation. Recent research, which spans psychology, linguistics, cognitive science, and neuroscience, has begun to answer some of these questions. These answers also give hope for finding a possible neural basis for many of the behavioral deficits seen in autism spectrum disorders (ASD; including autism, Asperger’s syndrome, and pervasive developmental disorder–not otherwise specified). In this review, we argue that when simulation processes are deficient, one is left with an individual with qualitative impairments in social interaction and communication skills, two of the three defining characteristics of ASD. Though rule-based knowledge clearly may influence how people perceive and interpret their environment, it cannot be sufficient, as evidenced by the deficits in ASD.

Individuals with ASD have no difficulty understanding rule-based accounts of the environment (Baron-Cohen, 2002). In fact, high-functioning individuals with ASD often have superior systemizing ability (Baron-Cohen, Richler, Bisarya, Gurunathan, & Wheelwright, 2003). Although researchers note that individuals with ASD have a clear impairment in understanding and interacting with other individuals, the underlying mechanisms that may mediate the spectrum of deficits in the areas of perception, social interaction, language, and behavior have remained a mystery.

Historically, theories have focused on either (a) behavioral accounts (e.g., Baron-Cohen, 1995; Frith, 2001) in which one behavioral deficit is explained in terms of other behavioral deficits or (b) neuroanatomical accounts that implicate individual regions in the brain such as the amygdala or cerebellum (e.g., Baron-Cohen et al., 2000; Courchesne, 1997). These theories have had enormous hueristic appeal and must be considered in future theories, but one limitation of strictly behavioral and strictly neuroanatomical accounts is that neither explains the underlying functional mechanisms that mediate the deficits. The most informative theories are those that are able to link neuroanatomy and functional mechanisms to the behavioral impairments that are unique to ASD. One theory, which does exactly this, suggests that a dysfunction in a specific functional system, the mirror neuron system (MNS), underlies the behavioral impairments in ASD (Altschuler et al., 2000; Williams, Whiten, Suddendorf, & Perrett, 2001). Our group has provided preliminary evidence for this theory on the basis of both a case study (Altschuler et al., 2000) and a follow-up study including 10 individuals with ASD (Oberman et al., 2005).

Though we believe this theory is on the right track, there is no reason to believe that the MNSs in premotor and parietal cortices are the only systems in the human brain that have mirror or simulation properties.

In this review, we propose a more comprehensive explanation implicating a deficit in simulation. As this review shows, there are multiple brain regions (including those that have been implicated in anatomical accounts of ASD) that appear to have simulation properties. Thus, the simulation system, similar to the immune system may be functionally modular but localized in multiple brain regions rather than a single region—a similar theory to the intentional attunement theory proposed by Gallese (2006). This review discusses behavioral, neurophysiological, neuromagnetic, and neuroimaging findings that independently and collectively support the simulation view of perception, theory of mind, empathy, and language, all of which are essential skills for understanding and interacting with the environment in which we live and are core deficits in ASD.

Though other views can account for some of these findings, our goal is not to provide a complete review of each of the alternative accounts but rather to stress that in all cases, the simulation view accounts for the data in the most parsimonious manner.

Perception and Imitation of Actions Evidence for the Role of Simulation in Typically Developing Individuals Though anecdotal references to simulation have been recorded as early as 1759, this view was made popular by philosophers including William James and Rudolph Hermann Lotze in the late 1800s, as evidenced by the following quotations: The spectator accompanies the throwing of a billiard ball, or the thrust of a swordsman, with slight movements of his arm; the untaught narrator tells his story with many gesticulations; the reader, while absorbed in the perusal of a battle scene, feels a slight tension run through his muscular system, keeping time as it were with the actions he is reading of. (Lotze, 1852; as quoted in James, 1890, p. 525) ROLE OF THE MIRROR NEURON SYSTEM IN ASD 311

An educated man . . .

on entering his house one day he received a shock from crushing the finger of one of his little children in the door. At the moment of his fright he felt a violent pain in the corresponding finger of his own body, and this pain abode with him three days. (James, 1890, p. 712)

Behavioral studies as early as those performed by Darwin indicate that when individuals are in the presence of others, the observer tends to synchronize his or her movements to match those of the others (Condon & Ogston, 1967; Darwin, 1872/1965; Kendon, 1970). More specifically, people tend to mimic others’ gestures and body postures (Chartrand & Bargh, 1999), facial expressions (Dimberg, 1982; Dimberg et al., 2000; Wallbott, 1991), tone of voice and pronunciation patterns (Goldinger, 1998; Neumann & Strack, 2000), as well as breathing rates (McFarland, 2001; Paccalin & Jeannerod, 2000). It has been proposed that the increased likelihood of one performing a certain behavior when observing the same behavior in another individual is a result of automatic stimulus–response relationships, similar to priming in which the presence of the stimulus increases the probability of a response. Along these lines, James (1890) stated that “every representation of a movement awakens in some degree the actual movement which is its object” (p. 526).

Another view suggests that the tendency toward mimicry can be accounted for by contagion similar to contagious yawns or laughter (Hatfield, Cacioppo, & Rapson, 1994; Laird et al., 1994). Neither of these accounts necessarily suggests that observation and execution of actions share a common mechanism, as required by strict simulation theories. Other recent behavioral studies, however, have provided evidence that in addition to action observation influencing the occurrence of concurrent execution of that same action, the performance of an action influences the concurrent perception of that action.

A simple stimulus–response relationship or contagion accounts have less explanatory power in this case. The finding that action execution and action observation reciprocally modulate each other is taken as evidence for the simulation account of mimicry—that is, behavioral mimicry occurs because action observation and action execution are mediated by overlapping neural mechanisms. One piece of evidence for a shared action observation– execution representation is found in a study conducted by Pietromonaco, Zajonc, and Bargh (1981).

In this study, participants were asked to remember a set of 78 predominantly neutral faces (taken from a yearbook) while the participants either imitated the head and facial configuration, made simple judgments about the stimuli, squeezed a sponge, or chewed gum—a manipulation designed to prevent imitation. Results indicated that participants asked to imitate the faces performed the best at the later memory test (73% correct), whereas those who squeezed a sponge were at 65%, those asked to make judgments were 64% correct, and those who chewed gum (and thus were not able to imitate) were 59% correct. Unfortunately, this study leaves many questions unclear. First, the study dealt with delayed memory of the expressions, so it is impossible to determine whether mimicry aided the initial perception of the stimuli or the encoding of the stimuli into memory, rehearsal, or retrieval.

Second, it is possible that differences in task motivation or attention could account for the differences in memory between the three conditions. Still, despite these interpretational and empirical ambiguities, this pioneering empirical work continued to inspire research on the role of somatic feedback in perception. Reed and Farah (1995) also investigated the influence of motor action on perception. They, however, used arm and leg actions rather than facial expressions. Reed and Farah’s studies showed significant improvements in recognition of other’s actions when the observer moved the same limb.

In other words, if the observer was moving his own arm, he was more likely to recognize that the confederate moved her arm than her leg. This finding held up even when selective attention and conscious mimicry were controlled. Reed and Farah concluded that the participants used the same body schema to process both their own and others’ movements. The same conclusion was also drawn by Ramachandran and RogersRamachandran (1996) when studying patients with anosognosia that was due to damage to the right parietal and frontal cortices. These patients denied not only their own paralysis but also the paralysis of another individual.

The authors concluded that damage to an individual’s own body schema may lead to deficits in making judgments about another individual’s actions, possibly as a result of damage to a specific system of neurons, namely the MNS, which is discussed later in this review.

Taken together, these behavioral studies support the conjecture that there is considerable overlap between the neural mechanism for action observation and action execution. However, behavioral studies are not able to speak to how this shared representation aids in recognition.

This task has been undertaken by researchers in computational neuroscience who have developed models of neural networks that account for the ro

le of simulation, or what they call emulators in the motor system. An emulator is defined as “a device that mimics the input/output operation of a target system” (such as the motor system; Grush, 2004, p. 387). Grush (2004) suggested that an emulator is

beneficial in many ways. First, it allows an individual to control his or her actions online and inhibit inaccurate or inappropriate actions prior to their occurrence.

More important for this review, however, is its role in perception. Grush proposed that perception is a result of activation in an emulatory loop that receives input and mim

ics both the input from the senses and feedback from the observer’s own outputs, thus creating a mechanism that unites perception of the outside world and knowledge of the internal state of the observer. These so-called emulators have been proposed to exist in the dentate of the cerebellum, according to behavioral, lesion, and neurophysiological studies (Grush, 2004; Ito, 1984; Wolpert, Zoubin, & Flanagan, 2001; see Decety, 1996, for a review). However, the question still remains whether the cerebellum emulators are

unique or whether they are a part of a larger network of neural systems that serve to simulate their content.

Neurophysiological and imaging studies conducted over the past 50 years appear to support the latter—that is, that multiple regions of the brain are capable of offline simulation. Electroencephalography (EEG) studies from as early as 1954 demonstrated neural activity in the region of sensorimotor cortex when nonmoving subjects watched other individuals performing specific actions. While studying the changes in brain activity, French researchers Gastaut and Bert (1954) recorded EEG activity while subjects performed actions as well as while they were presented with visual stimuli. Though recordings were taken across the scalp at various frequency ranges, of particular interest 312 OBERMAN AND RAMACHANDRAN to this review are the electrical changes recorded over the rolandic (sensorimotor) region.

Gastaut (1951) had previously reported that oscillations recorded over this region, in a frequency close to the alpha frequency (7–11 Hz), were reduced in amplitude when subjects performed a directed action or simply shifted their posture. Just 3 years later, Gastaut and Bert (1954) found that the so-called rolandic arceau rhythm (named for its characteristic arc shape) was also reduced when subjects identified themselves with an active person represented on a screen, for example, when they viewed a film of a boxing match. Gastaut and Bert concluded that “the relation between the blocking of the ‘arceau’ rhythm and the image of boxers in action is unquestionable.” It is currently thought that suppression of this rhythm represents increased activity in the neural networks located in the rolandic region (Andrew & Pfurtscheller, 1997).

Thus, as early as 1954, there was neurological evidence that the observation of actions in others activates neural systems in the observers’ sensorimotor systems, evidence for the role of simulation in visual perception. Over 40 years later, Altschuler, Vankov, Wang, Ramachandran, and Pineda (1997) corroborated Gastaut and Bert’s (1954) finding by showing a reduction in power of the arceau rhythm (now referred to in the standardized Greek naming system as the mu wave) during the execution, imagination, and observation of human action and suggested that the suppression of the mu wave could be used as an EEG index of mirror neuron activity. Cochin, Barthelemy, Lejeune, Roux, and Martineau (1998) replicated this finding, showing mu wave suppression during the observation of actions performed by humans. No such modulation was present when subjects watched object movements.

In a follow-up study, Cochin, Barthelemy, and Martineau (1999) reported that the response in the mu wave when subjects observed another performing an action was not significantly different from the response when subjects performed the action themselves. The authors cited this as evidence that action observation and execution share the same neural network. Subsequently, multiple laboratories have reported similar results, finding a reduction in the power in the mu wave over central leads during the observation of others’ actions, and have supported the link between mu wave suppression and mirror neuron activity (Babiloni et al., 2002; Muthukumaraswamy & Johnson, 2004a, 2004b; Pineda, Allison, Vankov, 2000).

Additionally, over the past several years, other techniques have also been successful in identifying activity in the area of the sensorimotor cortex during action observation. Hari and colleagues (Avikainen, Forss, & Hari, 2002; Hari et al., 1998) have successfully used magnetoencephalography to measure the activity of the precentral gyrus following stimulation of the median nerve. Beta frequency rebound over sensorimotor cortex showed a significant reduction during both action execution and action observation.

The readiness potential, an event-related potential (ERP) marker of motor preparation recorded over the central leads prior to movement onset, has also been shown to be modulated by observed actions (Kilner, Vargas, Duval, Blakemore, & Sirigu, 2004). Furthermore, when the nature and onset of action is predictable, the rise of the readiness potential precedes the observed movement’s onset. Kilner et al.

(2004) proposed that t

his type of timing might allow the observer not only to react to others’ actions but also to anticipate actions that will be performed in the near future. Though electrophysiological recordings from the scalp give us broad estimates of neural systems involved in certain behaviors, their spatial resolution is less than satisfactory for exact localization of neural mechanisms.

The ideal technique for such research is to record directly from individual neurons in awake human volunteers, but such an opportunity is rarely available to researchers. Alternatively, animal studies on closely related species can be incredibly informative for such an investigation. The macaque monkey has been the prime subject for investigation of the mechanisms underlying action observation and execution. The most relevant finding in macaque single-unit electrophysiology research was made by Giacomo Rizzolatti and his colleagues (Di Pellegrino, Fadiga, Fogassi, Gallese, & Rizzolatti, 1992; Fogassi, Gallese, Fadiga, & Rizzolatti, 1998; Gallese, Fogassi, Fadiga, & Rizzolatti, 2002).

While studying the premotor cortex in the macaque, they came across a system of neurons in area F5 that responded not only when the monkey performed an action but also when the monkey watched the researcher perform a similar action (Di Pellegrino et al., 1992). The team named this system of neurons the mirror neuron system because it appeared that the observed action was mirrored or simulated within the monkey’s own motor system. In addition to the original mirror neurons found in the macaque’s premotor cortex, neurons in the inferior parietal lobule have also been found to have mirror properties (Fogassi et al., 1998; Gallese et al., 2002). The discovery of the MNS gained immediate attention and raised two questions: Does a similar system exist in humans?

And could this be the elusive neural mechanism subserving the action observation– execution link that enables humans to imitate?

Though few researchers referred to this system by name prior to the late 1990s, there was already a large body of behavioral, physiological, and lesion data (discussed earlier in this review) supporting the existence of the MNS in humans.

However, these techniques gave little clue to the spatial location of such a system.

The first attempt to localize the human MNS was in a study conducted by Fadiga, Fogassi, Pavesi, and Rizzolati (1995). Using transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS), Fadiga et al. investigated whether the premotor cortex in humans responded when the participants watched others’ actions. It was determined, on the basis of anatomical cytoarchitecture, that the homologous region to the macaque F5 is human Brodmann’s area 44/45, also known as Broca’s area. Fadiga et al. found that TMS applied over Broca’s area resulted in greater motor-evoked potentials (MEPs) when the subject observed another person moving as compared with a baseline rest condition. Furthermore, the pattern of muscle activation evoked by TMS during action observation was very similar to the pattern of muscle contractions present during the execution of the same action.

Subsequent to this neuromagnetic study, positron emission tomography (PET) and functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) studies (Decety et al., 1997; Iacoboni et al., 1999) showed selective activity in the frontal operculum (Brodmann’s area 44/ 45) and the anterior parietal cortex when subjects watched human actions. Further, this activity, similar to the macaque correlate, was somatotopically distributed in both premotor and parietal regions (Buccino et al., 2001). Two additional regions of the human cortex that appear to have mirror properties have recently been discovered. The first, the superior temporal sulcus (STS), was originally identified for its ROLE OF THE MIRROR NEURON SYSTEM IN ASD 313 selective response to the observation of biological motion in monkeys (Oram & Perrett, 1994; Perrett, Harris, Mistlin, & Hietanen, 1990) and in humans (Bonda, Petrides, Ostry, & Evans, 1996; Puce, Allison, Bentin, Gore, & McCarthy, 1998).

More recent studies have also indicated that this region has a somatotopic representation with the observation of hand actions activating inferior posterior regions, mouth actions activating mid posterior regions, and eye movements activating superior posterior regions (Pelphrey, Morris, & McCarthy, 2005). In addition to its visual properties, human STS also responds to the imitation of an action (Iacoboni et al., 2001). This activation is greater during imitation than during control motor tasks and continues to respond even when the subject’s view of his or her hand is obscured. The second region is the so-called extrastriate body area.

The extrastriate body area was first classified by Downing, Jiang, Shuman, and Kanwisher (2001) on the basis of its response to the visual perception of human bodies and body parts. A recent study conducted by Astafiev, Stanley, Shulman, and Corbetta (2004) report fMRI activation in this region in response to the subject’s moving his or her own arm or leg toward a target in the absence of visual feedback. This activation was also present after attention and sensory properties of the target were controlled. Thus, it appears that multiple regions of the human brain may be capable of motor simulation (inferior frontal gyrus, inferior parietal lobule, superior temporal sulcus, extrastriate body area, and the dentate of the cerebellum).

The aforementioned findings provide strong evidence that an action observation– execution matching system, similar to that found in the macaque premotor and parietal cortices, albeit in a more extensive system, exists in the human brain. Since the original studies, specific properties of the human MNS have been investigated. Studies have reported that unlike the macaque system, human mirror neurons respond to goal-directed, non-goaldirected, and pantomimed actions (Buccino et al., 2001; Grezes, Armony, Rowe, & Passingham, 2003), whereas the monkey system responds only to goal-directed actions (Gallese, Fadiga, Fogassi, & Rizzolati, 1996). Additionally, human mirror neurons are selective to actions within the observer’s motor repertoire.

In other words, if the observer is unable to match the observed action to a motor representation within his or her own system, the mirror neurons will not respond (Buccino et al., 2004; Stevens, Fonlupt, Shiffrar, & Decety, 2000). The individual need not be familiar or skilled at the action but only physically capable of performing it. For example, actions such as grasping and biting, which humans share with other primates, will activate the human MNS whether the observed action is performed by a human or a macaque.

However, observing a dog barking, which is not part of the human motor repertoire, does not activate this system but rather is processed in lower level perceptual systems (Buccino et al., 2004).

Furthermore, actions that are part of the human motor repertoire but are not familiar will not activate the MNS as much as actions that are familiar to the observer. This property was demonstrated in a study conducted by Calvo-Merino, Glaser, Grezes, Passingham, and Haggard (2005), who recorded fMRI data from expert dancers and found increased activity to the observation of others performing familiar styles of dance movements, as compared with unfamiliar styles matched for low-level visuomotor properties. Though it is hard to argue against the existence of a human MNS, its function has yet to be clearly delineated.

In their original article, Di Pellegrino et al. (1992) proposed that the MNS may help an observer understand the actions of another by mapping them onto his or her own motor representations. Additionally, studies have demonstrated that when human subjects are instructed to observe actions with the intent to imitate (as opposed to remember), the MNS is selectively involved in the imitation condition (Decety et al., 1997). This finding has led researchers to add imitation to the list of functions of the MNS.

Critics, however, are quick to point out that macaques and many other primates do not typically show imitation behaviors (Visalberghi & Fragaszy, 2001; Whiten & Ham, 1992) but do have mirror neurons. Thus, this system cannot be sufficient for the ability to imitate, but it may have been an evolutionarily necessary step that led to the ability to imitate in humans (Arbib, 2005; Ramachandran, 2000). In a review article, Iacoboni (2005) outlined his theory of the neurological basis of imitation.

He suggested that the circuit begins in the superior temporal cortex in which the visual properties of the observed action are coded. The signal is then sent to the posterior parietal cortex that provides somatosensory information regarding the observed action by means of the parietal mirror neurons. Finally, the signal is sent to the frontal mirror neurons to code the goal of the action to be imitated. Before the action is ultimately sent to the primary motor cortex, however, an efferent copy of the motor command is sent back to the STS in order to match the predicted sensory consequences of the planned imitation to the visual description of the original observed action.

If there is a good match, the action is initiated by the primary motor cortex. This series of connections has strong anatomical support from nonhuman primate studies (Jeannerod, Arbib, Rizzolatti, & Sakata, 1995; Rizzolatti, Luppino, & Matelli, 1998; Seltzer & Pandya, 1994; Taira, Mine, Georgopoulos, Murata, & Sakata, 1990). A PET study (Grezes, Costes, & Decety, 1998) supported the activation of the dorsal visual stream extending up into premotor cortex while subjects watched meaningful actions with no instructions, as well as both meaningful and nonmeaningful actions with the intent to imitate at a later time point.

Additionally, Ruby and Decety (2001) reported findings from a PET study finding that simulation of both self and other actions activate the inferior parietal cortex in the area of inferior parietal lobule where mirror neurons have been identified. Thus, although the MNS may not be sufficient to mediate imitation in the macaque, it is possible that, through evolution, the human MNS with the endowed ability to match action observation and action execution utilized this system for imitation. The aforementioned data in both macaque single-unit physiology and human imaging provide convincing evidence that regions of the cerebral cortex primarily designated as part of the motor system are activated by the observation of others’ actions. Furthermore, this activity is thought to aid in visual recognition and imitation.

Thanks to the discovery of the MNS, the simulation view of perception has gained new momentum and inspired collaboration between behavioral psychologists, cognitive scientists, and neuroscientists. One question that has yet to be answered, however, is whether the impairments in perception and imitation as seen in individuals with autism spectrum disorders are a result of dysfunction in these simulation systems. 314 OBERMAN AND RAMACHANDRAN Role of Simulation in the Perception and Imitation Deficits of ASD A multitude of studies performed over the past several decades (reviewed by Williams, Whiten, & Singh, 2004) have suggested that children with autism suffer from impairments in imitation.

As imitation is thought to be a critical building block for early affective, social, and communicative development, an impairment in this domain can have quite deleterious consequences to a developing child (Rogers & Pennington, 1991). The first suggestions of an imitation deficit in ASD was made in 1953 (Ritvo & Provence, 1953) with an anecdotal report of a mother describing the inability of her 21-month-old to make pat-a-cake simply from watching her. The only way the child could learn the game was to have the mother hold his hands and put them through the appropriate movements. Since this time, dozens of empirical studies have been published detailing the specific characteristics of the imitation deficits seen in ASD. The first review of this literature was conducted by Rogers and Pennington (1991), who found strong evidence for the existence of an imitation deficit affecting simple body movements and actions with symbolic meaning.

What became very apparent as more studies were conducted was that the imitation deficits in ASD varied on the basis of the specific task the child was asked to perform and the child’s age. For example, it has been suggested that the development of language might be necessary to derive benefit from the symbolic meaning of a gesture in an imitation task that includes meaningful gestures (Williams et al., 2004). Thus, older children and those with better language skills will perform better on imitation of symbolic gestures as compared with younger children or those with poor language skills (Green et al., 2002; Rogers, Bennetto, McEvoy, & Pennington, 1996). Second, imitation of actions with objects appears to be relatively less impaired compared with actions without objects in individuals with ASD (Aldridge, Stone, Sweeney, & Bower, 2000; Hammes & Langdell, 1981; Roeyers, Van Oost, & Bothuyne, 1998; Sigman & Ungerer, 1984).

Finally, a common characteristic of the imitation deficit in individuals with ASD is reversal errors (that is, producing the movement with a 180° transformation). Reversal errors are also commonly seen in typically developing preschoolers (Ohta, 1987), suggesting that the imitative deficit in ASD may be characterized as a delay of normal development rather than an absolute deficit (Whiten & Brown, 1999). Though recognized over 50 years ago (Ritvo & Provence, 1953) and studied in detail, the cause the imitation impairment has yet to be identified, though many theories exist, including Curcio’s (1978) symbolic representation hypothesis, Jones and Prior’s (1985) dyspraxia hypothesis, Rogers and Pennington’s (1991) self-other representation hypothesis, and Trevarthen and Aitken’s (2001) motivation hypothesis.

The most recent review of the literature conducted by Williams et al. (2004) suggested that Rogers and Pennington’s hypothesis of a deficit in self-other mapping explains the findings from the empirical studies much better than the other proposed theories. Williams et al. suggested that typically developing individuals automatically and unconsciously use the same mechanism to process both self and other actions and use this mechanism for imitation, whereas Rogers and Pennington’s review (1991) suggested that infants with autism lack the ability to “form and coordinate social representations of self and other via amodal or cross-modal representation processes” (p. 137). They further suggested that this deficit in self– other mapping leads not only to their imitation impairments but also to their other social– communicative impairments. If Williams et al. (2004) are correct, and the imitation deficits are not a result of impaired perception or impaired motor skills, but rather self– other mapping impairments underlie the imitation deficits, then it is plausible that the MNS, which appears to be involved in imitation in typically developing individuals, may also be the neurological basis of the imitation deficits in ASD.

Five independent research groups have reported findings supporting this proposal. The first study to find evidence for MNS impairments in ASD was conducted by Altschuler et al. (2000), who recorded mu wave suppression in one child with autism. Preliminary results showed a lack of suppression to the observation of actions in others, suggesting a possible impairment in the MNS. In a follow-up study from the same laboratory, Oberman et al. (2005) corroborated this finding by demonstrating an absence of mu wave suppression in a sample of 10 individuals with ASD while they watched videos of another person’s actions.

Although typically developing individuals showed significant mu-wave suppression, indicating normal MNS functioning, participants with ASD showed no significant change in mu power from a baseline condition.

Nishitani, Avikainen, and Hari (2004) also found evidence of an impairment in the MNS using magnetoencephalography. Subjects were presented with still pictures of a woman performing orofacial gestures and were instructed to imitate these gestures. Cortical activations were recorded from 8 adult subjects with Asperger’s syndrome and 10 control subjects.

In both groups, activations were recorded over occipital cortex, superior temporal sulcus, inferior parietal lobe, inferior frontal lobe, and primary motor cortex. Though the two group’s activations were similar for occipital cortex, superior temporal sulcus, and inferior parietal lobe, activations in inferior frontal lobe and primary motor cortex were weaker and had a greater latency in the Asperger’s syndrome group as compared with the control group.

These findings suggest that the deficit is not in low-level visual processing, but rather in higher order cognitive processes in the prefrontal regions. Similarly, Villalobos, Mizuno, Dahl, Kemmotsu, and Muller (2005) found that area 44, the prefrontal mirror neuron area, had reduced functional connectivity with primary visual cortex in individuals with autism, as compared with matched controls. Both groups concluded that their findings provided evidence for impairment in the prefrontal MNS in individuals with ASD. Another group (Theoret et al., 2005) recorded TMS-induced MEPs while subjects watched videos of finger movements that were directed either toward or away from the observer. In the control group, both types of actions resulted in increased MEPs recorded from the observer’s right first dorsal interosseus and abductor pollicis brevis muscles.

The clinical group, consisting of individuals diagnosed with ASD, showed increased MEPs only to actions directed toward the observer (self-directed or allocentric) and no significant change from baseline in the away (other directed or egocentric) movement condition. The researchers explain this result in terms of a mirror neuron deficit leading to impairment in simulating egocentric actions and a general self– other representation deficit. ROLE OF THE MIRROR NEURON SYSTEM IN ASD 315 Most recently, Dapretto et al.

(2005) published a study in which they used fMRI to investigate activity in the MNS in individuals with ASD. Participants were asked to both imitate and observe emotional facial expressions while experimenters analyzed the blood-oxygen-level dependent (BOLD) signal in regions thought to be part of the MNS. Whereas typically developing individuals showed activation in visual cortices, primary motor, premotor (including the inferior frontal gyrus, MNS region), limbic, and cerebellar regions, individuals with ASD did not show this pattern and, specifically, showed no significant activation of the inferior frontal gyrus.

Additionally, the activity that was observed in the MNS regions in individuals with ASD was correlated with symptom severity, as indexed by the Autism Diagnostic Observation Schedule (Lord et al., 1989) and the Autism Diagnostic Interview (Lord, Rutter, & Le Couteur, 1994). The aforementioned studies represent the developing body of literature supporting the role of an impaired premotor MNS in individuals with ASD. One of the first proposed, and most strongly supported, functions of the MNS is to support internal simulations of actions.

Without the ability to internally simulate the visual perception of an action, motor imitation would likely be more difficult and performance would likely be abnormal. We would thus propose that the imitation deficits seen in individuals with ASD are best explained by their impairments in simulation caused by an impaired MNS. Theory of Mind and Empathy From Imitation to Theory of Mind and Empathy in Typically Developing Individuals Arguably more socially relevant than understanding an action’s motor properties and being able to reproduce them (imitation) is the ability to understand the thoughts, intentions, and emotions that guide the observed action. Over the past 25 years, researchers in the areas of developmental psychology, cognitive science, and philosophy have devoted their careers to understanding how humans learn to attribute thoughts and intentions to others, referred to as theory of mind (TOM; Humphrey, 1976; Premack & Woodruff, 1978). Despite the over 25 years of research, there is still much debate over the underlying mechanism that leads to this ability.

Thus, a vast literature has been developed by researchers proposing, testing, dissecting, and criticizing various theories. A thorough review of this literature, however, would be outside of the scope of this article. Thus, an overview of the two main competing theories is presented below (the reader is referred to Carruthers & Smith, 1996; Davies & Stone, 1995, for a balanced review of the debate). The two major competing theories of the development of TOM are theory–theory and the simulation theory.

The theory–theorists have suggested that individuals develop TOM over the first few years of life by testing given rules regarding the functions of the objects and organisms with which they interact as a child and eventually come up with a cognitive theory of what others are thinking (Gopnik & Meltzoff, 1997). Support for the theory– theories comes from behavioral studies finding that children appear to develop a theory of other minds at around age 3. Also, behavioral studies have found that 3-year-olds make errors about other’s knowledge that they do not make about their own knowledge. Finally, Saxe (2005) argued that when errors in others’ beliefs are made, the errors reflect knowledge of psychological laws governing how minds work.

Opposing theory–theories are simulation theories that propose that TOM is simply an outgrowth of the ability to interpret others’ actions through simulation. By creating an internal simulation, individuals can step into the mental shoes of another person and understand the thoughts, emotions, and intentions behind their behavior (see Gordon, 1986; Heal, 1986; Goldman, 2000, for reviews). In its strongest form, this view implies that understanding others’ minds requires no conceptual thinking or theory formation. Similar to the action simulation processes discussed earlier, the simulation theory simply requires that the observer reflect back on his or her own experience and use that knowledge to infer the mental state of the other individual. Simulation theories have been supported by brain-based studies that have found MNS activity in response to the goal or intention of an action and regions of the brain that respond both when subjects are asked to reflect on their own mental state and when they are asked to infer the mental state of another individual, which is discussed later in this section.

Although not traditionally discussed in reference to the simulation view of TOM, the “Mary” scenario provides an excellent example for the necessity of reflection on self-knowledge for the understanding of internal states of others.

Jackson (1986) proposed a theoretical question of whether Mary, a color-blind neuroscientist who knows everything about the physiological processing of color but has never experienced it herself, would really know what it is to see red. Jackson proposed that the theory– experience gap would preclude Mary from understanding the internal qualia, or mental content, of the experience of seeing red. This theoretical scenario demonstrates the importance of an individual’s own experiences in the understanding of others’ mental states. Further, it suggests that simply having the cognitive theory of what others may think or feel in a certain scenario is not sufficient for TOM.

Similar to Mary, oftentimes individuals with autism can be taught rules regarding what individuals may think or how they may feel in a certain situation; however, they will often still have difficulty really knowing the other’s mental state. Similar to the simulationist view of TOM, empathy by definition incorporates a simulation of an observed person’s internal state. The term empathy was originally introduced by Theodore Lipps (1903) and used to describe the feeling one gets when watching an acrobat walking on a suspended wire. Lipps wrote, “I feel myself inside of him” (p. 121).

This concept was further elaborated on by Edith Stein (1912/1964) in her book On the Problem of Empathy. Stein proposed that empathy is not simply the understanding of other’s feelings or emotions in a cognitive or theoretical manner. Rather, empathy is a function of one individual’s experiencing the same feelings as another individual through an appreciation of similarity. Most recently, Preston and de Waal (2002) proposed the perception–action model of empathy, which states that the attended perception of an individual’s state automatically activates the observer’s representations of the state and situation.

Further, the activation of these representations automatically primes or generates the associated autonomic and somatic responses unless inhibited. Strong empirical evidence exists for the role of simulation in the ability to empathize with others’ emotions. When subjects are presented with stimuli of others displaying emotional facial ex316 OBERMAN AND RAMACHANDRAN pressions, typically developing individuals will automatically (without instruction to do so) mimic the facial expression of the stimuli (Bush, Barr, McHugo, & Lanzetta, 1989; Dimberg, 1982; Dimberg & Lundqvist, 1988). This mimicry occurs even when the stimuli are subliminally presented (Dimberg et al., 2000).

This automatic facial mimicry response has been proposed to facilitate recognition and empathy for the observed emotion through a process of internal simulation of the corresponding facial expression (Lipps, 1907; Niedenthal, Brauer, Halberstadt, & Innes-Ker, 2001; Pietromonaco et al., 1981; Wallbott, 1991). One study that provided evidence for the simulation account was conducted by Wallbott (1991). In this study, participants were videotaped while they performed an emotional facial recognition task.

Each participant was then brought back to the laboratory for a subsequent session and asked to guess, on the basis of the videotape of his or her own face, what facial expression they were watching. The participants’ judgments of their own facial expressions were above chance, suggesting that the participants were imitating the facial expressions of the people they were judging. Additionally, a correlation was found between the participants’ judgment of the stimuli and their judgment of their own (videotaped) facial expression. Finally, the recognition rate from the original study correlated with individuals’ recognition rate of their own (videotaped) facial expressions.

Though the first two findings in this study do not discriminate between the emotional contagion and emotional recognition accounts, the correlation between the recognition score from the study and their self recognition score (when they were presented with only their own videotaped mimicry responses) is interpreted as evidence that the facial mimicry in fact aided in the recognition of the facial expressions in others.

Most recently, Niedenthal et al. (2001) provided direct evidence for the role of mimicry in recognition of facial expressions. Participants were asked to hold a pen sideways in their mouths, between their teeth and lips (preventing facial mimicry). Performance of the experimental group was compared against a group of participants that was free to move their faces naturally.

Both groups were asked to identify a point at which a morphed face changed from happy to sad and vice versa. Participants who were prevented from using facial mimicry detected the change later in both directions than those who were able to move their face freely, indicating that the disruption of facial mimicry leads to impaired recognition of facial expression. Although these studies support a relationship between automatic mimicry of facial expression and recognition, and theoretically, empathy has been conceived as a result of both external and internal mirroring (Lipps, 1903), a missing step exists in this theoretical account.

If empathy is a result of internal and external mimicry, it would follow that individuals who are more empathetic should produce more facial mimicry than those who are less empathetic. In order to investigate this question, SonnbyBorgstrom, Jonsoon, and Svensson (2003) compared automatic facial mimicry in individuals who scored high and low on an emotional empathy scale (Questionnaire Measure of Emotional Empathy). Highly empathetic individuals displayed electromyography (EMG) activity consistent with mimicry of the presented facial expressions at both automatic (56 ms) and controlled (2,350 ms) exposure levels.

Low-empathetic individuals did not display mimicry at any exposure level. Thus, this study supports the role of simulation in emotional empathy. If the simulation account of empathy and TOM is accurate and there is a link between motor and mental simulation, one would expect to see regions of the brain that respond to both the experience of a certain thought or emotion and the perception of that thought or emotion in another individual. One may also expect that the premotor MNS would not simply code the physical properties of actions but also be sensitive to the goals and intentions of those actions.

Consistent with these claims, preliminary data suggest that mirror neurons in the premotor cortex may be sensitive to the goals and intentions of actions (Gallese et al., 1996; Iacoboni et al., 2005). fMRI studies have identified overlapping regions that respond to both the experience and perception of thoughts and emotions (Mitchell, Banaji, & Macrae, 2005; Morrison, Lloyd, DiPellegrino, & Roberts, 2004; Singer et al., 2004; Wicker et al., 2003). Finally, fMRI and lesion studies have indicated that sensorimotor cortices are not only involved but also necessary for normal performance on TOM and empathy tasks (Avenanti, Bueti, Galati, & Aglioti, 2005; Adolphs, Damasio, Tranel, Cooper, & Damasio, 2000). In accordance with the simulation theory, single-unit studies with macaques have suggested that a proportion of mirror neurons are broadly congruent (Gallese et al., 1996), meaning they respond to the performance of an action and the observation of an action with a similar goal even if the exact physical properties of the action differs.

Similarly, a recent fMRI study supported the claim that the human premotor MNS is sensitive to the intentions and goals of observed actions. In a recently published study, Iacoboni et al. (2005) showed participants videos of four different types of actions. The first video showed a person grasping objects in the absence of any context.

The second video depicted scenes containing objects in a context with no actions. The third video showed someone grasping a cup with the intention to drink, and the fourth video showed the same action but in a different context that implied the intention to clean.

Results suggested that the posterior part of the inferior frontal gyrus and the adjacent portion of the ventral premotor hand area (both within regions thought to be part of the human premotor MNS) were more active in the two intention conditions as compared with the other two nonintention videos. Additionally, the drinking intention condition resulted in significantly more activation than the cleaning intention videos. These findings suggest that, like that of the monkey, the human premotor MNS is sensitive to the underlying intention that motivates perceived actions. As would be expected from the facial mimicry research, fMRI conducted while people observe emotional facial expressions in others activates a similar network as imitation of those same expressions.

Notable areas in this shared network include inferior frontal cortex, superior temporal cortex, insula, and amygdala, all of which not only showed increased activity in both observe and imitate conditions as compared with a rest condition but also showed more activity in the imitate condition as compared with the observe condition (Carr, Iacoboni, Dubeau, Mazziotta, & Lenzi, 2003). This study indicates that there is an overlapping region of premotor cortex that responds both when subjects are asked to interpret emotional facial expressions and when they observe hand actions. Another brain region that may contain neurons with “mirror-like properties” for internal mental states is the medial prefrontal cortex, Brodmann’s Area 9.

Though not traditionally thought of as ROLE OF THE MIRROR NEURON SYSTEM IN ASD 317 part of the MNS, this area responds both when subjects are asked to make judgments regarding their own abilities, personality traits, and attitudes (S. C. Johnson et al., 2002; Kelley et al., 2002) and when they are asked to attribute intentions to characters in a comic strip (Brunet, Sarfati, Hardy-Bayle, & Decety, 2000) or infer another person’s knowledge about a familiar or unfamiliar object (Goel, Grafman, Sadato, & Hallett, 1995).

In a recent study, subjects were asked to evaluate their own emotional responses to a picture and to infer the mental state of the individual in the picture (Ochsner et al., 2004). The medial prefrontal cortex responded during both conditions. Thus, it seems conceivable that the same region of the brain that is involved in representing the mental state of ourselves is also involved in inferring the mental states of others. Similar to the shared representation for the perception and performance of actions mediated by premotor mirror neurons, a system of neurons in the medial prefrontal cortex may serve to create a mirror-like shared representation for the experience and perception of mental states.

In this way, the medial prefrontal cortex may be the neural substrate that simulation theorists have been waiting for. In three fMRI studies (Morrison et al., 2004; Singer et al., 2004; Wicker et al., 2003), empathy for specific emotions activated networks of cerebral cortex similar to the actual experience of that emotion. Both the experience of disgust (while inhaling foul smelling odorants) and the observation of others performing facial expressions of disgust activates the same regions of the insula and the anterior cingulate cortex (Wicker et al., 2003). Additionally, both the experience of a physically painful stimulus and the knowledge that a loved one is experiencing the same painful stimulus activates the anterior insula and rostral anterior cingulate cortex bilaterally (Singer et al., 2004).

These areas were also correlated with individual empathy scores, indicating that the more an individual was able to use this shared network of cortices, the better his or her ability to empathize with others. Similarly, another study (Morrison et al., 2004) found that receiving a painful pin prick and watching a stranger receive the same pin-prick activated dorsal anterior cingulate cortex. Though the emotional aspects of pain are surely a large part of the pain matrix, the full experience of pain also contains sensory input, which has been shown to be important for empathy.

In a study conducted by Avenanti et al. (2005), subjects watched actors being pricked by a sharp needle in either the hand or the foot. MEPs were obtained from the same muscles in the observer while TMS was applied over the motor cortex. MEPs in the observer were reduced in the muscle that corresponded to the muscle that was pricked in the actor. The reduction in MEPs was also correlated with the observer’s subjective rating of the sensory aspects of the pain attributed to the actor and with sensory but not emotional, empathy measures.

This finding suggests that modulation in activity in an observer’s motor cortex is related to their perception and ability to empathize with another individual’s pain, further supporting simulation theories. These fMRI results provide evidence for the involvement of sensory cortices in emotion recognition but do not answer the question of whether this activity is necessary for normal recognition of emotion. One technique that begins to answer the question of necessity is lesion studies. These studies have identified paired deficits in the production and recognition of specific emotions.

Damage in the amygdala, for example, appears to impair both the expression and recognition of fear (Adolphs et al., 1999; Adolphs, Tranel, Damasio, & Damasio, 2002; Sprengelmeyer et al., 1999). Similarly, damage in the insula and basal ganglia results in a paired impairment in the experience and recognition of disgust (Calder, Keane, Cole, Campbell, & Young, 2000). Finally, both the experience and recognition of anger appears to depend on the dopamine system, with a dopamine antagonist impairing both processes (Lawrence, Calder, McGowan, & Grasby, 2002).

Though these studies provide excellent support for the shared representation of experience and perception of emotions, the sample sizes were extremely low, resulting in limited statistical power and generalizability of the findings.

This potential limitation was not a factor for Adolphs et al. (2000), however, who addressed the question of the necessity of sensorimotor cortices for recognition of emotions in visually presented facial expressions in 108 focal brain lesion patients and 30 healthy control participants. Subjects participated in three visual emotion recognition tasks. In the first task, participants were asked to rate the intensity of basic emotional facial expressions.

In the second task, participants were asked to match a facial expression with the name of the emotion it is meant to convey. The final task required participants to sort facial expressions into emotional categories. Though each task identified a slightly different group of regions, damage to primary and secondary sensorimotor cortices impaired performance in all three tasks, supporting the critical role of sensory and motor cortices in the recognition of visually presented facial expressions.

Role of Simulation in the TOM and Empathy Deficits in ASD

The aforementioned behavioral and neuroimaging studies offer strong evidence in support of the role of motor and sensory systems in social skills (such as TOM and empathy) in typically developing individuals. Additionally, as noted earlier in this review, an impaired motor system may play a critical role in the neural pathology of the imitative deficit in ASD. If the same system underlying motor simulation is a critical component in TOM and empathy (as suggested by Gallese, 2001) and if this system is in fact dysfunctional in individuals with ASD, then one would expect that these individuals would have both TOM and empathy deficits.

Consistent with this argument, many researchers believe TOM and empathy deficits are central to the clinical manifestation of autism (see Baron-Cohen, 1995; Gillberg, 1992). Anecdotally, Gillberg (1992) reported that children with autism are sensitive to affective change. In other words, individuals with autism can feel whether an interaction is full of strong emotion even if they do not show appropriate behavioral reactions to emotional events. It is possible, then, that these children can also feel emotions such as happiness, anger, and fear but that they have difficulty making sense of these feelings in others, leading to a behavioral impairment of empathy. This anecdotal report was subsequently supported with controlled studies showing individuals with ASD to have appropriate autonomic arousal (Blair, 1999; Shenk & Ramachandran, 2003) but impaired behavioral responses (Bacon, Fein, Morris, Waterhouse, & Allen, 1998; Corona, Dissanayake, Arbelle, Wellington, & Sigman, 1998; Sigman, Kasari, Kwon, & Yirmiya, 1992) to the observation of individuals in distress.

318 OBERMAN AND RAMACHANDRAN In addition to these behavioral studies, direct evidence for a facial mimicry deficit in individuals with ASD was seen in a recent study conducted by McIntosh, Reichmann-Decker, Winkielman, and Wilbarger (2006). In this study, adults with ASD, as well as age-, gender-, and verbal intelligence-matched typically developing individuals viewed pictures of happy and angry facial expressions. In one condition, automatic mimicry was measured by EMG when participants were instructed to “watch the pictures as they appear on the screen.” In a second condition, voluntary mimicry was measured by instructing the participants to “make an expression just like this one.”

EMG electrodes placed over the cheek and brow recorded muscle activity.

Despite displaying a normal pattern of voluntary mimicry, results from this study suggested that, unlike the participants in the matched control group, participants with ASD did not show automatic mimicry. Similarly, TOM studies have found severe deficits in individuals with autism. In a series of studies conducted by Baron-Cohen, Leslie, and Frith (1985, 1986), typically developing children, children with Down’s syndrome, and children with autism were given the “Sally-Anne” test.

Whereas the vast majority of both 4-year-old typically developing children and mental age-matched children with Down’s syndrome passed the test, the majority of children, adolescents, and adults with autism failed, even when the task was controlled for verbal ability. This study also included a control task that asked subjects to order a picture sequence on the basis of physical causality, in which children with autism performed at a normal level, indicating that their impairment in understanding beliefs as psychological causes of behavior was not a result of a general inability to understand causality. A similar finding was also reported in another study (Perner, Frith, Leslie, & Leekam, 1989) in which subjects were shown a Smarties box and asked to guess what was inside. When subjects were shown that in fact pencils (rather than the expected Smarties) were inside, they were then asked to predict what the next child who comes in would guess is in the box. Typically developing children answered “Smarties,” their original false belief.

In answering this way, typically developing individuals clearly were able to inhibit their current belief in order to represent the counterfactual knowledge that the next child would have. The majority of children with autism, however, answered “pencils,” reflecting an inability to inhibit their own current beliefs and infer false beliefs in others. These findings have been interpreted as support for a selective deficit in understanding the psychological mechanisms that underlie human behavior. It is important to note, however, that a debate exists over whether the deficits in these tasks are a result of impaired TOM or simply a deficit in executive functioning (see Perner & Lang, 2000, for a review of this debate).

Though there is much evidence supporting the correlation between TOM abilities and executive function abilities in both typically developing individuals (see Russell, Mauthner, Sharpe, & Tidswell, 1991) and children with autism (see Ozonoff, Pennington, & Rogers, 1991; Russell, 1997), it appears that TOM abilities are a prerequisite for executive functioning rather then vice versa (Perner & Lang, 2000).

Additionally, studies conducted by Charman and Baron-Cohen (1995) showed no deficit in individuals with autism on tasks that have a similar working memory load as false-belief tasks (e.g., false photograph and false model tasks), indicating that though a working memory or executive functioning deficit may exist in autism, it cannot account for the poor performance on these falsebelief tasks. One prominent theory of the social deficits in ASD was put forth by Baron-Cohen et al. (2000), who implicated the amygdala as the core brain region responsible for this impairment. This theory was based on several lines of evidence.

The first was primate lesion studies, which found that lesions of the amygdala resulted in monkeys that failed to initiate social interactions and failed to respond appropriately to social gestures (Kling & Brothers, 1992). Other evidence comes from post-mortem studies finding increased cell density in the amygdala of individuals with autism (Bauman & Kemper, 1994). Functional imaging also showed significant reductions in activity of the amygdala during a mentalizing task (BaronCohen et al., 1999). Additionally, there is physiological evidence supporting a dysfunction in limbic connections resulting in an abnormal pattern of skin conductance response to visual stimuli in individuals with ASD (Hirstein, Iversen, & Ramachandran, 2001).

Though Baron-Cohen et al. stressed the role of the amygdala in autism, they were quick to highlight that other neural regions also show abnormalities.

Another brain region thought to play a role in the social deficits of autism is the medial prefrontal cortex (paracingulate cortex). This region responds during TOM tasks in typically developing individuals when subjects are asked to reflect on both their own and another individual’s mental state. (Brunet et al., 2000; Castelli, Happe´, Frith, & Frith, 2000; Fletcher et al., 1995; Gallagher et al., 2000; Vogeley et al., 2001)

The same region also has reduced activity during similar tasks in individuals with ASD (Baron-Cohen et al., 1999; Castelli, Frith, Happe´, & Frith, 2002; Happe´ et al., 1996). The third region that has been implicated in the social deficits in ASD is the superior temporal sulcus.

Nonhuman primate single unit studies (Oram & Perrett, 1994) as well as human neuroimaging studies (Bonda et al., 1996; Grossman et al., 2000) have shown activity in this region in response to biological actions (see Allison, Puce, & McCarthy, 2000, for a review), as well as detection of eye gaze in monkeys (Perrett et al., 1985) and humans (Hoffman & Haxby, 2000; Puce et al., 1998) and inferred intentional action of inanimate shapes on the basis of movement patterns in humans (Castelli et al., 2000). This brain region has also shown abnormal activity patterns in individuals with ASD during face recognition tasks (Critchley et al., 2000; Schultz et al., 2000), a mentalizing task (Castelli et al., 2002), and an eye gaze-processing task (Pelphrey et al., 2005). Studies have also found reduced grey matter volume in anatomical MRI scans (McAlonan et al., 2004). In conclusion, though more research needs to be done, there is much evidence that multiple brain regions including the amygdala, medial prefrontal cortex, and superior temporal sulcus are involved both in the development of normal social cognition and in the impairments seen in ASD.

Additionally, each of these three regions appears to possess mirror properties. Thus the simulation theory of autism not only is supported by these findings but also subsumes these findings under a more unified theory. Language Evidence for Role of Simulation in Language Comprehension and Production Thus far this review has discussed evidence for the role of simulation in three social abilities that are central in the behavioral ROLE OF THE MIRROR NEURON SYSTEM IN ASD 319 pathology of autism: understanding of others’ behaviors, thoughts, and feelings.

We now move to address a fourth ability that can also be explained in terms of a deficit in simulation, language comprehension and production. A leading theory of language comprehension may provide a clue as to why individuals with autism have both social and communicative deficits. This theory, termed the motor theory of speech perception (Liberman & Mattingly, 1985) has two main claims. The first claim is that the objects of speech perception are not the acoustic signals (as proposed by Ohala, 1996) but rather the phonetic gestures.

The phonetic gestures of the speaker are represented in the brain of the observer as motor commands that signal movements of the mouth, lips, and tongue in specific configurations. The second claim of this theory is that speech perception and speech production are intimately linked. Supporting evidence for this theory comes from behavioral, neuromagnetic, and neuroimaging studies. One paradigm that has been used to support the linkage between speech perception and speech production is similar to the response interference paradigms used to support the role of simulation in action perception.

In a series of studies performed by Kerzel and Bekkering (2000), participants were asked to speak the syllables /ba/

and /da/ while watching silent videos of others articulating the same or different syllables. For both the /ba/ and /da/ conditions, a significant interference effect was noted with a slower reaction time when the response-irrelevant visual stimulus was inconsistent with the target response. Additional evidence comes from neuromagnetic studies. Fadiga, Craighero, Buccino, and Rizzolatti (2002) performed a TMS study in which participants listened to auditory speech and nonspeech sounds while a magnetic pulse was applied to their left motor cortex. The MEP in the tongue was recorded using electrodes placed on the surface of the tongue.

When tongue movements were required to produce the heard speech sounds, there was an increase in MEPs as compared with nonspeech sounds or speech sounds that did not require the tongue. In a similar study, Watkins, Strafella, and Paus (2003) investigated whether hearing or watching speech sounds being produced would increase MEPs in the lips. Subjects listened to speech and nonverbal sounds and watched speech-related lip movements as well as eye and brow movements. In both the auditory and visual speech conditions, TMS over primary motor cortex resulted in an increase in MEPs in the lip muscles, further supporting the involvement of the motor cortex in the comprehension of speech.

fMRI studies have also shown specific activation of speech production areas during the listening of speech sounds. Wilson, Saygin, Sereno, and Iacoboni (2004) scanned 10 subjects while they listened to meaningless monosyllable sounds then produced the same sounds. Production of the sounds activated areas of prefrontal cortex including Brodmann’s areas 4a, 6, and 4p.

Similarly, listening to speech sounds activated areas of ventral premotor cortex, which largely overlapped with the posterior speech production areas. Although not directly related to the motor theory of speech perception, further evidence for the involvement of motor actions on language is found in the studies of Rauscher, Krauss, and Chen (1996) and Glenberg and Kaschak (2002).

Rauscher et al. found that subjects gesture five times as frequently when describing spatial aspects of a visual scene as compared with nonspatial aspects (0.5 vs. 0.1 gestures per word). Additionally, when subjects were prevented from gesturing, they spoke more slowly. This finding applied only when the content of speech was spatial in nature (116 vs. 100 words per minute). With other kinds of content, however, the subjects’ rate of speech was somewhat increased when they could not gesture.

This study provides evidence for a shared representation between verbal and motor aspects of language. A series of studies conducted by Glenberg and Kaschak (2002) found that gestures may share not only a representation with language production but also language comprehension. In these studies, participants were asked to judge whether sentences were sensible by making a response that required moving either toward or away from their bodies. The experimental sentences were specifically created to describe actions that required movements either toward or away from the body (e.g., Open the drawer).

When the response required a movement that was inconsistent with the sentence, the latency for response was increased as compared with when the response action matched the action described in the sentence. This finding was true for imperative (e.g., Open the drawer), concrete transfer (e.g., Courtney handed you the book), and abstract transfer (e.g., You told Liz the story) sentences. Findings from this and the previous behavioral studies indicate that speech observation interferes with speech production, physical gesturing influences speech production, and language comprehension has a Stroop-like interference effect on action production, all of which support the motor theory of speech perception. The second claim of the motor theory of speech perception is that speech perception and speech production share an underlying mechanism.

Along these lines, recent evidence suggests that the superior temporal sulcus as well as the inferior frontal gyrus respond to both the sight and sound of human speech (Calvert & Campbell, 2003). Given these findings, researchers are beginning to draw connections from the action-related MNS to the utilization of this system for communication. If the purpose of simulating the action with mirror neurons is to understand the observed action, one would theorize that activating the speech production areas while listening to language would lead to better understanding of the verbalization. Electrophysiological and imaging data support this theory. Hauk and Pulvermuller (2004) recorded EEG while subjects silently read words that related to hand, leg, and head actions.

A visual-evoked potential was recorded over the frontal-central leads at approximately 210 –230 ms after stimulus onset. Source localization discovered that not only did the reading of these sentences activate regions of sensorimotor cortex, but the activation was somatotopically distinct based on the effector that would be used to perform the action. Face-action words resulted in activations in left frontal regions, whereas leg-action words showed activations in central leads, and arm-action words activated largely right central and right frontal regions.

A follow-up study by the same group (Hauk, Johnsrude, & Pulvermuller, 2004) used fMRI to confirm that simple reading of action-related words activates somatotopically distinct areas depending on the effector used for that action. Results confirmed that reading face-action words specifically activated inferior frontal gyrus, arm-action words activated areas of middle frontal and precentral gyrus, and leg-action words activated pre- and postcentral gyri, superior frontal gyrus, and the dorsomedial frontal region. 320 OBERMAN AND RAMACHANDRAN For the arm- and leg-movement words, there was a significant overlap with performed leg and arm actions. For face-action words, the activation pattern was just anterior to the region activated by actual tongue actions.

This study further confirmed the important relationship between action-related language and the areas of cortex responsible for the performance of the same actions. A second fMRI study conducted by Tettamanti et al. (2005) confirmed that across all body parts, processing of action sentences selectively activated the pars opercularis of the left inferior frontal gyrus (Broca’s area). Mouth sentences activated the pars opercularis in regions rostral, dorsal, and ventral from the focus activated by all body parts. Additionally, the pars triangularis of the inferior frontal cortex was activated during listening of mouth sentences. Hand sentences resulted in a distinctly different pattern of activation, including left precentral gyrus, the left posterior intraparietal sulcus, the left posterior inferior temporal gyrus, the left insula, and the right middle temporal gyrus.

Finally, leg sentences selectively activated the left dorsal premotor cortex (within the superior frontal sulcus) and the left inferior parietal lobule. Finally, a TMS study conducted by Buccino et al. (2005) found a decrease in MEPs recorded from the hand muscles when participants listened to hand-action sentences and MEPs recorded from leg muscles when listening to leg-action sentences. Though modulations in MEPs were an expected result, the direction of the modulation was not as predicted.

The authors suggested multiple explanations for the unexpected decrease in MEPs in the muscle consistent with the heard sentence including the modality of presentation and interference. Independent of the direction of the effect, this study provides evidence for specific modulation of the motor areas involved in action production when listening to sentences related to those actions. Taken together, these findings support a shared mechanism for speech production and speech perception in both auditory and visual domains.

Additionally, these findings support a role for simulation in speech comprehension, as the motor effectors involved in actions seem to be modulated when one listens to action-related sentences. The MNS was specifically implicated in the evolution of language in a review article by Rizzolatti and Arbib (1998). Rizzolatti and Arbib (1998) suggested that the MNS, which mediated action comprehension in monkeys and higher primates, went through six stages of evolution that led to its eventual role in language comprehension in the modern human.

1.

The MNS may originally have been for the purpose of recognition of grasping actions through a simulation mechanism in early primates.

2. This primal system evolved in the chimpanzee to support simple imitation for object-directed grasping. 3.

In the early homonid, this simple system may have become elaborated to include complex imitation that allowed for learning of novel actions that could be approximated by variants of actions that were already part of the observer’s repertoire.

4.

The early hominid then developed a system of protosigns, which was a manual-based communication system. This leap from imitation for the sake of instrumental goals to imitation for the sake of communication was likely when the specificity of MNS for object-directed actions was lost.
5. Once protosign had evolved, this provided the scaffold for which protospeech could develop.

Once an individual learned a conventional gesture, that gesture could be paired with a vocalization (protospeech).
6. The final stage, language, it is argued, was mediated more by cultural rather than biological evolution in Homo sapiens. If, as suggested by Rizzolatti and Arbib’s model and the previously cited studies, the MNS and simulation processes are necessary for the proper evolution, development, and comprehension of language, then it is not at all surprising that individuals with autism, in addition to having social deficits, have language impairments.

Language Deficits in ASD Beyond the basic function of speech, language also serves the purpose of communication of thoughts, beliefs, and desires between individuals. Though about half of individuals with autism will acquire some level of linguistic knowledge, even these individuals will likely have a specific deficit in the use of language for social communication, pragmatic abilities.

When compared with both typically developing and other developmental disorder populations, multiple behavioral studies have revealed a relative sparing of phonological, lexical–semantic, and grammatical aspects of language in verbal individuals with ASD (see Tager-Flusberg, 2000, for a review). The spared abilities may explain why many individuals with autism develop rudimentary aspects of communication, including turn-taking skills, requesting behavior, and regulatory speech. Some clinical features of the language impairment in autism include echolalia, neologisms, and reversal of pronouns. In lower functioning individuals, often the only language production that is present is echolalic, or the echoing of the words phrases or sentences spoken by others (McEvoy, Loveland, & Landry, 1988).

Neologisms are idiosyncratic lexical terms that have special or unique meanings to the individual but no meaning to the general public. This tendency is most common in higher functioning individuals with ASD (Volden & Lord, 1991). Finally, verbal individuals with autism will commonly reverse pronouns and refer to themselves as you and others as I, indicating a difficulty in the notion of self and other (Lee, Hobson, & Chiat, 1994). This tendency is more common in individuals with autism than in any other clinical population (Lee et al., 1994).

All of these features characterize the basic impairment in pragmatic use of language in individuals with ASD. Some have suggested that this selective impairment may be tied to these same individuals’ TOM deficits (Locke, 1994; Sperber & Wilson, 1987; Tager-Flusberg, 1993). In the words of Sperber and Wilson (1987), “Communication exploits the well-known ability of humans to attribute intentions to each other” (p. 699). However, explaining the language deficits in autism in terms of behavioral ROLE OF THE MIRROR NEURON SYSTEM IN ASD 321 TOM deficits without suggesting a candidate mechanism for either is explaining one enigma with another and adds little to the understanding of either of these phenomena.

Additionally, the direction of this relationship is unclear. Some suggest that TOM is a necessary precursor to developing social communication (Winner, Brownell, Happe´, Blum, & Pincus, 1998;Winner & Leekam, 1991; Happe´, 1993); others have proposed that experience with social communication leads to proficient TOM skills (Peterson & Siegal, 2000). Other theories for the language impairment in autism include the weak central coherence theory (Frith, 1989) and an executive dysfunction theory proposed by Liss et al. (2001).

The central coherence theory states that pragmatic language requires the ability to not simply attend to the specific semantics of language but rather focus on the global context of the intercourse to comprehend the meaning, whereas the executive dysfunction theory is supported by correlational analyses between executive functioning and language skills in autism (Liss et al., 2001). Though there is much theory on the underlying mechanisms mediating the language impairment in autism, there is little conclusive evidence for a causal relationship between TOM, central coherence, or executive functioning and the language impairment in ASD.

However, the theory presented here, based on the motor theory of speech perception and theories suggesting the involvement of simulation mechanisms such as the MNS in language, provides a functional mechanism that may explain the communication impairments in ASD from a simulation account.

One study, conducted in our laboratory, provides preliminary evidence for the role of impairment in the MNS in the language deficits of ASD (Ramachandran & Oberman, 2006). This study used a linguistic multisensory-integration task, the bouba– kiki task, in which participants are asked to name nonsense shapes. For example, if given an amoeboid shape and a jagged shape and asked to name one bouba and another kiki, 99% of the general population will name the amoeboid shape bouba and the jagged shape kiki. This is presumably because of mirror neuron-like multisensory systems that integrate the visual shape with sounds (sound–form symbolism).

Surprisingly, only 20% of individuals with autism showed this effect. We suggest that the MNS may be involved in multisensory integration in the linguistic domain including the bouba– kiki effect and metaphors, which would explain their deficits in both tasks. Conclusions This article has argued that perceptual recognition, motor mimicry, TOM, empathy, and pragmatic language may all be mediated by underlying simulation mechanisms in typically developing individuals.

Despite this underlying similarity, historically these abilities have been studied in isolation, and consequently, multiple simulation theories have been developed to explain one or two of these phenomena. However, given that these abilities all seem to be impaired in a single clinical syndrome—autism—it is not only parsimonious but also clinically necessary to develop a unified theory.

Returning to Barsalou’s (1999) situated conceptualization model introduced at the beginning of this review, he proposed that simulators exist in multiple brain regions related to the region that first encoded that information. Thus, simulations of actions and body states may occur in areas of the cerebellum, superior temporal cortex, and the MNSs of inferior parietal lobule and premotor cortex (Miall, 2003), whereas the simulator networks for introspective states such as thoughts, beliefs, and emotions are likely to be found in the amygdala, medial areas of prefrontal cortex, insular cortex, and the anterior cingulate cortex. Not coincidently, the brain regions that have most often been implicated in ASD— cerebellum, amygdala, medial prefrontal cortex, and premotor cortex—all appear (on the basis of the literature cited in this review) to house simulator systems. Thus, we propose that a developmental impairment of functional simulators, especially the MNS, may be the unifying mechanism that underlies the deficits in imitation, TOM, empathy, and pragmatic language. A recent review by Gallese (2006) suggested that a similar mechanism, what he calls intentional attunement, is at the root of ASD.

As the data currently stand, this theory has yet to account for behaviors related to restricted, repetitive, and stereotyped patterns of behaviors, interests, and activities. However, it is one of the most comprehensive of any of the theories to date and, with more research, may too account for this aspect of the disorder.

The mirror neuron–simulation theory of autism, for which the first experimental support came from preliminary studies conducted in our lab (Altschuler et al., 2000; Oberman et al., 2005), accounts for the wide range of behavioral and neurological deficits that are unique to autism and has the added advantage of fitting well within the literature regarding these abilities in the normal population. One question that still remains is how simulation systems such as the MNS develop. There are a variety of ways this unique mechanism could be set up, but whatever the mechanism, the research reviewed here suggests that a flaw in its initial setup might be the fundamental deficit in autism.

This flaw could affect either the gray matter regions containing the simulator neurons themselves or the white matter tracts that link the regions together as a functional system or a combination of both. As this review highlights, there is a large body of literature supporting the role of simulation in the areas of perception, motor mimicry, TOM, empathy, and language. Additionally, there is much evidence for deficits in these abilities in individuals with ASD.

Two remaining questions that require further investigation include the development of the MNS and how well the behavioral deficits in ASD can be explained by impairments in simulation, especially in the domain of language in which this theory has yet to be applied. The latter is currently being investigated through studies using the same paradigms that were used to establish the importance of simulation in the general population to investigate whether their behavioral deficits are correlated with their performance on simulation tasks. Imitation, Empathy, and Mirror Neurons Marco Iacoboni Ahmanson-Lovelace Brain Mapping Center, Department of Psychiatry and Biobehavioral Sciences, Semel Institute for Neuroscience and Social Behavior, Brain Research Institute, David Geffen School of Medicine at UCLA, Los Angeles, California 90095; email: iacoboni@loni.ucla.edu Annu. Rev. Psychol. 2009.

60:653–70 First published online as a Review in Advance on September 15, 2008 The Annual Review of Psychology is online at psych.annualreviews.org This article’s doi: 10.1146/annurev.psych.60.110707.163604

Copyright c 2009 by Annual Reviews.

All rights reserved 0066-4308/09/0110-0653$20.00 Key Words social cognition, theory of mind, mirror neuron system, embodiment Abstract There is a convergence between cognitive models of imitation, constructs derived from social psychology studies on mimicry and empathy, and recent empirical findings from the neurosciences. The ideomotor framework of human actions assumes a common representational format for action and perception that facilitates imitation. Furthermore, the associative sequence learning model of imitation proposes that experience-based Hebbian learning forms links between sensory processing of the actions of others and motor plans.

Social psychology studies have demonstrated that imitation and mimicry are pervasive, automatic, and facilitate empathy. Neuroscience investigations have demonstrated physiological mechanisms of mirroring at single-cell and neural-system levels that support the cognitive and social psychology constructs. Why were these neural mechanisms selected, and what is their adaptive advantage?

Neural mirroring solves the “problem of other minds” (how we can access and understand the minds of others) and makes intersubjectivity possible, thus facilitating social behavior. 653 Annu.

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Hebbian learning: associative learning is implemented by simultaneous activation of cells that would lead to increased synaptic strength between the cells Contents INTRODUCTION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 654 COGNITIVE MECHANISMS OF IMITATION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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The Ideomotor Framework of Imitation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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654 Associative Sequence Learning . . . . .

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IMITATION AND EMPATHY IN SOCIAL BEHAVIOR . . . . . . . . . .

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Pervasiveness and Automaticity of Human Imitation. . . . . . . . . . . . .

657 NEURAL MECHANISMS OF IMITATION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

659 Neural Precursors in Nonhuman Primates . . . . . . . . .

659 Macaque Mirror Neurons and Imitation in Monkeys . . . . . . .

662 Human Brain Mechanisms of Mirroring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

663 Neural Mirroring and Psychological Theories of Imitation . . . . . . . . . .

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665 WHY NEURAL MIRRORING AND IMITATION? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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INTRODUCTION

Although mimicry is a pervasive phenomenon in the animal kingdom, imitation certainly achieves its highest form in humans.

Past authors—for instance, de Montaigne (1575), Adam Smith (1759), Poe (1982), Nietzsche (1881), and Wittgenstein (1980)—have often associated imitation with the ability to empathize and understand other minds. The evolutionary, functional, and neural mechanisms linking imitation to empathy, however, have been unclear for many years. Recently, there has been a convergence between cognitive models of imitation, social psychology accounts of its pervasiveness and its functional links with empathy and liking, and the neuroscience discoveries of neural mechanisms of imitation and empathy. This convergence creates a solid framework in which theory and empirical data reinforce each other.

Among cognitive models of imitation, the ideomotor model and the associative sequence learning model seem to map well onto neurophysiological mechanisms of imitation. The ideomotor model assumes a common representational format for action and perception, whereas the associative sequence learning model puts at center stage Hebbian learning as a fundamental mechanism linking sensory representations of the actions of others to motor plans. Furthermore, social psychology studies have documented the automaticity of imitation and mimicry in humans, a feature that also maps well onto some recently disclosed neurophysiological bases of imitation.

This review discusses cognitive models, social psychology constructs, and neural mechanisms of imitation under the hypothesis that these mechanisms were selected because they offer the adaptive advantage of enabling the understanding of the feelings and mental states of others, a cornerstone of social behavior. COGNITIVE MECHANISMS OF IMITATION

The Ideomotor Framework of Imitation Theories of action can be divided into two main frameworks. The most dominant framework may be called the sensory-motor framework of action. It assumes that actions are initiated in response to external stimuli. In this framework, perception and action have independent representational formats.

Stimuli must be translated into motor responses by stimulusresponse mapping mechanisms. This framework has generated a large literature and elegant experimental paradigms, as for instance the work on stimulus-response compatibility (Hommel & Prinz 1997, Proctor & Reeve 1990). Stimulus-response translational mechanisms, however, do not easily account for the similarity between the observed action and the action performed by the imitator that is required by imitation. Indeed, one of the main problems of imitation often discussed in the 654 Iacoboni Annu.

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literature inspired by sensory-motor models is the so-called correspondence problem (Nehaniv & Dautenhahn 2002). This problem can be summarized with the question: how is the sensory input from somebody else’s action transformed into a matching motor output by the imitator? For the ideomotor framework of action, the correspondence problem of imitation is not a problem at all.

Indeed, the ideomotor framework assumes a common representational format for perception and action, an assumption that makes translational processes between stimuli and responses rather unnecessary. The roots of the ideomotor framework were established by the work of Hermann Martin Lotze (Prinz 2005) and William James (1890). The starting point of actions, for Lotze and James, is not a response to a sensory stimulation, but rather the representation of the goal that the agent intends to achieve.

When an intention is unchallenged by a conflicting one, it activates the representation of the intended goal and the motor plan necessary to achieve it. The coactivation of the intended goal and the motor plan required to achieve it—according to the ideomotor framework—is the result of our experience. We have learned the effects of our own actions, and we expect certain effects when we perform certain acts.

This previous learning makes it possible that just thinking about the intended goal automatically activates the representation of the action necessary to obtain it. Thus, when I think about rebooting my computer, I automatically activate the representation of the finger movement necessary to press the appropriate key. The ideomotor framework naturally accounts for imitation. According to this framework, when I see somebody else’s actions and their consequences, I activate the representations of my own actions that would produce those consequences.

Here, consequences are construed in a very broad sense. For instance, a simple finger lifting has multiple perceptual consequences, among them the sight of the finger lifting. Thus, simply watching somebody else lifting a finger should activate my own motor plan to lift the same finger. Brass and colleagues tested this hypothesis in elegantly simple experiments (Brass et al. 2000, 2001).

Subjects were shown two movements of the index finger from the same starting position. In half of the trials the finger would move upward, and in the other half it would move downward. Subjects were instructed to respond as fast as possible using their own index finger. Within each block of trials, subjects were instructed to use always the same motor response, either an upward or a downward movement. Thus, although perceptually subjects were seeing both upward and downward movements, motorically they were only executing one of the two movements.

Given that response selection was not required, the identity of the stimulus was completely irrelevant for the initiation of the motor response. Here, the sensory-motor framework would predict similar reaction times for responses that were identical to the stimulus (e.g., upward motor response for a stimulus showing an upward finger movement) and for responses that were different from the stimulus (e.g., upward motor response for a stimulus showing a downward finger movement). In contrast, the ideomotor framework would predict faster reaction times for motor responses identical to the stimulus compared to motor responses different from the stimulus. The results demonstrated a large chronometric advantage for responses identical to the stimuli, in line with the predictions of the ideomotor framework (Brass et al. 2000, 2001).

The ideomotor framework also predicts that goals have higher priority than movements in imitation. Imitation experiments in children have confirmed this prediction. In one of these experiments (Bekkering et al. 2000), children and experimenters were sitting on the opposite sides of a desk. In half of the trials the experimenter would place her or his left hand on the left side of the desk (left ipsilateral movement) or on the right side of the desk (left contralateral movement); in the remaining half of the trials the experimenter would place her or his right hand on the right side of the desk (right ipsilateral movement) or on the left side of the desk www.annualreviews.org •

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Associative sequence learning: imitation is based on associative, Hebbian-like learning, creating “vertical links” between sensory and motor representations (right contralateral movement). Children were instructed to “Do what I do,” and in all cases, they imitated all these movements well.

In a separate session, children and experimenters were again sitting on the opposite sides of the desk. Now, however, there were two big red dots, one on the left and one on the right side of the desk. Whenever the experimenter made a movement, either ipsilateral or contralateral with either the left or the right hand, the hand of the experimenter would end up covering the big red dot. Children were again instructed to “Do what I do.” In this situation, children imitated well the ipsilateral movements but made frequent mistakes when trying to imitate the contralateral movements.

Note that these movements had been imitated well in absence of the big red dot. The presence of the big red dot had changed the goal of the action to be imitated. Whereas in the absence of the dot, the action itself was the goal to be imitated, the presence of the dot had changed the goal of the action in covering the dot. Indeed, children made mistakes when imitating contralateral movements because they used ipsilateral movements to cover the same dot that had been covered by the experimenter.

In other words, children would copy the goal but used a simpler movement to achieve this goal (Bekkering et al. 2000). One of the main assumptions of the ideomotor framework is that action and perception share a common representational format. This assumption fits well recent neuroscience discoveries, as discussed below. Another important assumption of the ideomotor framework is that our perceptual and motor experience is very important in shaping the functional aspects of imitation.

This assumption is also shared by the associative sequence learning model (Heyes 2005), as described in the next section. Associative Sequence Learning

The associative sequence learning model of imitation proposes that imitative abilities are based on associations between the sensory and motor representation of actions. These associations would be mostly shaped by experience, although a small number of these associations may be innate.

Several environmental situations may favor the establishment of these associations between sensory and motor representation of actions, for instance, visually guided actions, such as reaching and grasping, during which we can observe our own arm and hand reach and grasp for objects surrounding us. Also, mirrors and other reflecting surfaces allow the observation of one’s own facial and body movement as if they were performed by somebody else. Furthermore, early in human development, adults tend to imitate the baby (Nadel 2002), thus favoring the formation of the associations between sensory and motor representations of actions. The basic assumption of the associative sequence learning model is that imitation is not based on dedicated functional (and neural) mechanisms.

General sensory and motor systems may implement imitative abilities through mechanisms that are strongly reminiscent of Hebbian learning. One of the corollaries of this assumption is that imitation should not be confined to specific lineages. Indeed, although primates clearly show varying degrees of imitative abilities, birds (Akins et al. 2002) and dolphins (Herman 2002) also seem able to imitate. Thus, imitative behavior appears to be the product of convergent evolution. If this is true, then the hypothesis that imitation is mostly shaped by experience—as assumed by the associative sequence learning model—is obviously supported.

The role of experience and the environment in shaping imitative abilities may also account for evidence that at first sight seems at odds with the basic assumptions of the associative sequence learning model. Many animals share similar basic sensory and motor functional and neural mechanisms. In principle, this should lead to similar imitative skills in many animals. Imitation abilities, however, vary substantially between species (Boysen & Himes 1999, Hurley & Chater 2005). Is this evidence a fatal blow to the main assumption of the associative sequence learning model?

Probably not.

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account for the differences in imitative abilities observed in different species. As discussed above, some elements that are quite specific to the human environment should favor the formation of the associations between sensory and motor representations posited by the associative sequence learning model.

In keeping with these ideas, humans are by far the best imitators (Hurley & Chater 2005). Empirical evidence in well-controlled laboratory experiments seems to support the role of experience in shaping imitation, as hypothesized by the associative sequence learning model. For instance, hand-opening and handclosing gestures are typically facilitated by the observation of the same movement compared to the observation of a different movement.

However, this facilitation can be abolished by a relatively short period of training during which subjects are instructed to open the hand while observing hand closing, and to close the hand while observing hand opening (Heyes et al.
2005).

In another experiment, the effect of training was measured on the speed of imitation induced by the observation of human motion versus robotic motion. A typical finding is that humans imitate more quickly the movements of another human compared to the movements of a robot. This effect, however, may be simply because humans tend to interact more with other humans than with robots.

Indeed, subjects who were trained to execute hand movement in response to a robotic movement demonstrated no difference in speed of imitation while observing human and robotic movements (Press et al.
2007). Although the associative sequence learning model and the ideomotor framework of imitation share the main idea that experience is extremely important for imitation, they also seem to differ on an important point.

The associative sequence learning model assumes that separate sensory and motor representations are linked by experience. In contrast, the ideomotor framework assumes that sensory and motor functional mechanisms share a common representational format. In psychological terms, these differences are not negligible.

The translation of these different concepts into neural activity, however, as discussed below, may not differ dramatically (Glimcher 2005). Indeed, the main assumptions of both the associative sequence learning model and the ideomotor framework of imitation fit well with recent neuroscience findings on imitation. IMITATION AND EMPATHY IN SOCIAL BEHAVIOR

Pervasiveness and Automaticity of Human Imitation Humans seem to have a strong tendency to align their behavior with their fellows during social interactions (Lieberman 2007). Some of these forms of imitation and mimicry are not only pervasive and automatic, but also operate on a quite complex level.

Ap Dijksterius (2005)— following LeDoux’s terminology on processing of fearful stimuli (LeDoux 1996)—suggests that there are two roads to human imitation. A low road leads to imitation in a direct fashion, such that the perceiver acts the gestures, postures, facial expressions, and speech perceived in other people. A high road leads to complex and rather subtle forms of imitation, as shown by a number of experiments with priming manipulations that lead to stereotype activation or trait activation.

An example of stereotype activation on motor behavior is provided by the following experiment. Participants performed a scrambled-sentence language task. Some subjects were exposed to words such as Florida, bingo, gray; that is, words typically associated with the elderly. Some other subjects were not.

After the experiment, participants left the laboratory and walked back to the elevator to leave the building. An experimenter timed this walk back to the elevator. Subjects who had been primed with the elderly stereotype were reliably slower than subjects who had not been primed (Bargh et al. 1996). The primed subjects www.annualreviews.org • Imitation, Empathy, and Mirror Neurons 657 Annu.

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imitated—obviously in an unconscious way— the slowness of old people. The high road to imitation is also at work in memory and general knowledge tasks. In one experiment, subjects sat in front of a desk full of objects.

The stereotype of the elderly was primed again in some subjects by asking them questions on elderly people. Other subjects, in contrast, were asked questions about college students. Subsequently, subjects were transferred to another room and were asked to remember the objects that were on the desk in front of them. The subjects primed with the elderly stereotype remembered far fewer objects than did the other participants (Dijksterhuis et al. 2000). In a series of experiments, participants were either asked to think about college professors (a group of people typically associated with intelligence) and to write down everything that came to mind about college professors, or they were asked to think about soccer hooligans (a group of people typically not associated with intelligence) and to write down everything that came to mind about soccer hooligans.

In a later task involving general knowledge questions, a task that was ostensibly unrelated to the first one, the participants who were asked to think about college professors outperformed the participants who were asked to think about soccer hooligans. Indeed, the participants who were asked to think about college professors even outperformed participants who were not asked anything at all, and the participants who were asked to think about soccer hooligans were outperformed by participants who were not asked anything at all (Dijksterhuis & van Knippenberg 1998). Many more studies support the concept that the high road to imitation is pervasive and automatic (Dijksterhuis 2005). The question is why pervasiveness and automaticity have been selected as distinctive properties of the high road to imitation. One possibility is that imitation facilitates social interactions, increases connectedness and liking, gets people closer to each other, and fosters mutual care.

If this account is correct, it should follow that good imitators should also be good at recognizing emotions in other people, which in turn may lead to greater empathy. Thus, this account would predict a correlation between the tendency to imitate others and the ability to empathize with them. This hypothesis was tested in a series of experiments (Chartrand & Bargh 1999). In the first experiment, subjects were asked to choose pictures in a set of photographs.

The cover story was that the researchers needed some of these pictures for a psychological test and wanted to know from the subjects which pictures they considered more stimulating. While subjects were choosing the pictures, a confederate was sitting in the same room with the real subject. The confederate pretended to be another subject who was also choosing good stimulating pictures. During the experimental sessions, some confederates deliberately rubbed their nose while the others shook their foot.

Subjects were videotaped and their motor behavior was measured. It was found that the real subjects unintentionally mimicked the motor behavior of the confederate with whom they were sharing the room. Subjects who shared the room with confederates who rubbed their nose, rubbed their nose more than did subjects who shared the room with confederates who shook their foot. Furthermore, subjects who shared the room with confederates who shook their foot, shook their foot more than did subjects who shared the room with confederates who rubbed their nose. These results are in line with the idea that imitation is automatic and provide the necessary prelude to the following experiments.

The second experiment tested the hypothesis that one of the functions of this automatic tendency to imitate is to increase liking between individuals. Participants were again asked to choose pictures, and confederates were again sitting with them, pretending to be participants of the study. In this second experiment, the cover task required participants and confederates to take turns in describing what they saw in various photos. At the end of the interaction 658 Iacoboni Annu.

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between participants and confederates, the participants were also asked to complete a questionnaire to report how much they liked the other participant (that is, the confederate) and how smoothly they thought the interaction had gone. In this second experiment, the confederates either imitated the spontaneous postures, movements, and mannerisms of the subjects or kept a neutral posture. The participants who were mimicked by confederates during the interaction liked the confederates much more than did the participants who were not imitated. Furthermore, mimicked subjects rated the smoothness of the interaction higher than did the participants who were not imitated.

This experiment demonstrated that imitation and liking tend to go together. When someone is imitating us, we tend to like him or her more. A third experiment tested the hypothesis that the more people tend to imitate others, the more they are concerned with the feelings of other people. The setting of this third experiment was identical to the first experiment.

The novel aspect of this last experiment was that the participants responded to a questionnaire that measured their empathic tendencies. The experiment found a strong correlation between the tendency to empathize and the amount of imitative behavior displayed by the participants. The more a subject imitated the confederate, the more that subject was an empathic individual (Chartrand & Bargh 1999).

This result suggests that through imitation and mimicry, we are able to feel what other people feel. By being able to feel what other people feel, we are also able to respond compassionately to other people’s emotional states (Eisenberg 2000, Tangney et al. 2007). Many other empirical results are consistent with these ideas (Braten 2007, Niedenthal et al. 2005).

What are the neural correlates of these complex forms of human behavior? A recent discovery in the monkey premotor cortex has sparked a whole series of new studies, in monkeys and humans, that are relevant to this question. Premotor cortex: anterior sector of the agranular frontal cortex containing neurons that are relevant to the planning, preparation, and selection of actions Mirror neurons: neurons with motor properties in premotor and posterior parietal cortex that fire not only during action execution, but also while observing somebody else performing the same or a similar action NEURAL MECHANISMS OF IMITATION Neural Precursors in Nonhuman Primates The premotor cortex of the macaque brain, a cortical region important for the planning, preparation, and selection of movements and coordinated actions, is not homogeneous (Matelli et al. 1985).

It is composed of several cito-architectonic fields with different physiological properties. In the lateral wall of the macaque brain, the ventral sector of the premotor cortex is composed of two main fields, area F4 and area F5 (Matelli et al. 1985). Area F5 has physiological properties relevant to the neural control of mouth and hand movements, especially grasping (Rizzolatti et al. 1988). Within area F5, there are neurons that discharge not only when the monkey performs goal-oriented actions such as grasping an object, holding it, manipulating it, and bringing it to the mouth, but also when the monkey, completely still, simply observes somebody else performing these actions.

Because of these properties, which almost suggest that the monkey is observing its own actions reflected by a mirror, these cells were called mirror neurons (di Pellegrino et al.
1992, Gallese et al. 1996).

The properties of mirror neurons call to mind the concepts of the ideomotor framework of actions, according to which perception and action share common representational formats. Indeed, mirror neurons embody the overlap between perception and action predicted by the ideomotor framework by discharging both during action execution and during action observation. The initial hypothesis about the functional role of mirror neurons focused on action recognition. By firing during actions of the self and of other individuals, mirror neurons may provide a remarkably simple neural mechanism for recognizing the actions of others. Early observations on firing-rate changes in mirror neurons demonstrated that these cells do not fire at the sight of a pantomime (Rizzolatti et al. 1996, www.annualreviews.org • Imitation, Empathy, and Mirror Neurons 659 Annu.

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Strictly congruent mirror neurons: mirror neurons that fire during the observation of exactly the same action they code motorically Broadly congruent mirror neurons: mirror neurons that fire during the observation of an action achieving the same goal or logically related to the action they code motorically Rizzolatti & Arbib 1998). For instance, the pantomime of whole-hand grasp (when the whole hand is used to grasp a relatively large object, as an orange) does not trigger the discharge of a mirror neuron that fires during execution and observation of whole-hand grasps. This makes sense because monkeys typically do not pantomime. These early findings suggested that the properties of this neural system were remarkable but relatively simple, some sort of “monkey see, monkey do” neural mechanisms.

However, many other findings contradict this view and rather suggest that mirror neurons form a sophisticated, nuanced system for shared coding of motor and perceptual aspects of actions of self and others (Rizzolatti & Craighero 2004).

For instance, although the term “mirror” implies a strong similarity between the executed and the observed actions, only one third of mirror neurons—the so-called strictly congruent mirror neurons—fire for the same executed and observed action. The remaining two-thirds of mirror neurons—the so-called broadly congruent mirror neurons—fire for executed and observed actions that are not the same but either achieve the same goal or are logically related (di Pellegrino et al. 1992, Gallese et al.
1996, Rizzolatti & Craighero 2004), thus forming some sort of sequence of acts, as for instance observed placing food on the table and executed grasping food and bringing it to the mouth. The properties of broadly congruent mirror neurons suggest that these cells provide a flexible coding of actions of self and others.

This flexibility is an important property for successful social interactions because even though imitation is a pervasive phenomenon in humans, people do not imitate each other all the time but rather often perform coordinated, cooperative, complementary actions. Broadly congruent mirror neurons seem ideal cells to support cooperative behavior among people (NewmanNorlund et al. 2007). Following the initial observations (di Pellegrino et al. 1992, Gallese et al. 1996), a series of more recent experiments have demonstrated other complex properties of mirror neurons. For instance, we often easily recognize actions that are partially occluded. The role of mirror neurons in the recognition of hidden actions was tested by using a screen that occluded the completion of the grasping action (Umilta et al. ` 2001).

In two baseline conditions, the firing of the cells was measured for observation of grasping and of grasp pantomime. As expected, mirror neurons fired for grasping observation but not for observation of the pantomime. In a new experimental condition, the subject watched a graspable object placed on a desk in front of the monkey. Subsequently, a screen occluded the sight of the graspable object and a human experimenter reached with her or his hand behind the screen.

The monkey was able to see the experimenter’s hand moving toward the object but was not able to see the actual grasping action, which was occluded by the screen. Approximately half of the mirror neurons tested in this experiment discharged even though the grasping action was occluded. The firing rate changes of these neurons were tested also in an additional control condition. Here, at the beginning of the trial, the monkey saw that there was no graspable object on the table.

As in the previous experimental conditions, a screen subsequently occluded the sight of the table and a human experimenter reached with her or his hand behind the screen. Consider that at this point, this additional control condition is visually identical to the previous experimental conditions involving the screen occluding the sight of the grasping action. The only difference here is the prior knowledge of the absence of a graspable object behind the screen.

Mirror neurons tested under this experimental condition did not change their firing rate, suggesting that the unseen action behind the screen was indeed coded as a pantomime (or, better, as a nongrasping action) (Umilta et al. 2001). ` The experiment on hidden actions demonstrates another aspect of the properties of mirror neurons that suggests that these cells code actions in a fairly sophisticated way. The same visual information is coded differently, on the basis of prior knowledge about the presence or absence of a graspable object behind the screen.

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demonstrated that mirror neurons also code in absence of any visual input (Kohler et al.
2002). In this study, after the necessary baseline conditions were performed and mirror neurons were identified, the experimenters measured the firing-rate changes of mirror neurons to the sound of actions. The sound stimuli used in this study were associated with common actions such as tearing a piece of paper, breaking peanuts, and so on.

Control sounds not associated with actions, for instance white noise, were also used (Keysers et al. 2003, Kohler et al. 2002). The single-cell recordings demonstrated that mirror neurons can also discharge to the sound of an action, even in absence of the visual input related to the action. These auditory properties of mirror neurons have two important theoretical implications. One implication is relevant to the evolution of language.

Area F5 of the macaque brain (where mirror neurons were originally discovered) is the anatomical homologue of Brodmann area 44 of the human brain (Rizzolatti & Arbib 1998), a brain area with important language properties. This anatomical correspondence, together with other considerations, led to the hypothesis that mirror neurons may have facilitated the emergence of language in the human brain (Rizzolatti & Arbib 1998). However, language is not only written and read but also (and mostly) spoken and heard.

Mirror neuron responses to auditory stimuli are essential evidence for the hypothesis that mirror neurons are important neural elements in language evolution. The other implication of the auditory properties of mirror neurons is that they show that mirror neurons are multimodal cells. This functional property is theoretically important because it is compatible with associative models of how mirror neurons may be formed, which is discussed in more detail below. When we break a peanut, the visual input of our fingers breaking the peanut and the auditory input of the sound of breaking the peanut almost always co-occur, especially when we are initially learning to perform the action.

Associative models can easily account for multimodal responses that are produced by the co-occurrence of sensory stimuli from multiple modalities (Fanselow & Poulos 2005, Keysers & Perrett 2004, Wasserman & Miller 1997). A recent study on mirror neuron responses to the sight of actions involving the use of tools is also consistent with the hypothesis that the properties of mirror neurons are shaped by experience. Early observations on mirror neuron responses to observed actions suggested that these cells do not fire at the sight of an action involving the use of a tool. For instance, a mirror neuron discharging during the execution and observation of precision grips (when grasping small objects with two fingers) would not fire at the sight of the experimenter using a hand tool such as a pliers to grasp the same small object (Rizzolatti & Arbib 1998). However, a recent study recording in the inferolateral aspect of area F5 has reported robust discharges in approximately 20% of recorded mirror neurons when the monkey observed the experimenters using tools (Ferrari et al. 2005).

Indeed, these discharges were even more robust than the discharges of the same cells during the observation of a grasping action without the tool (Ferrari et al. 2005). Although it is not possible to demonstrate unequivocally that the mirror neuron responses to tool use actions were acquired through the daily experience of observing human experimenters using tools in the lab, this seems a likely explanation.

It is unlikely that tool-use mirror neurons were already present in area F5 of the macaque brain but never recorded for more than ten years. This recently discovered functional property of mirror neurons and its likely underlying forming mechanisms is also obviously relevant to the psychological theories discussed above. Furthermore, described above, the ideomotor framework of action puts intentions front and center. Is it possible that the discharge of mirror neurons may represent the coding of the intention associated with the performed and observed action rather than the action itself?

A recent single-cell recording study has addressed this question (Fogassi et al. 2005). The depth electrode recordings first demonstrated that neurons in area PF/PFG—a cortical www.annualreviews.org • Imitation, Empathy, and Mirror Neurons 661 Annu. Rev. Psychol.

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area located in the anterior part of the inferior parietal lobule that is anatomically connected with area F5 in the ventral premotor cortex (seeFigure 1) and that also contains mirror neurons—had differential discharges for the same grasping action that led to, say, eating food rather than placing the food in a container (note that the monkeys were rewarded after placing the food in the container; thus, the amount of reward was identical for both actions). Not surprisingly, grasping for eating was preferred by the majority of grasping cells in this parietal area, although approximately 25% of neurons coding differently the same grasping action on the basis of its intention preferred grasping for placing over grasping for eating (Fogassi et al.
2005). This pattern of firing-rate changes demonstrates that these cells code the same executed grasping action rather differently, according to the intention (or the goal) associated with the grasping action. The same pattern of firingrate changes was also observed during action observation. Here, the monkey was simply observing the human experimenter performing grasping actions.

The intention of the experimenter was cued by the presence of a container. When the container was present, the experimenter grasped the food and placed it in the container. When the container was absent, the experimenter grasped the food and ate it.

At the time of grasping, the cells that discharged more robustly for grasping to eat when the monkey performed the actions also discharged more robustly when the monkey simply observed the human experimenter grasping the food in order to eat it. Likewise, the cells that discharged more robustly for grasping to place when the monkey performed the actions also discharged more robustly when the monkey simply observed the human experimenter grasping the food in order to place it in the container (Fogassi et al. 2005). Thus, rather than coding the observed grasping action, these neurons seem to be coding the goal associated with the action, the intention to eat or to place. The most dramatic demonstration of the role of goal coding in these cells has been provided by a very recent study (Umilta et al. 2008).

` Here, single-cell recordings in area F5 were performed after monkeys were trained to use pliers to grasp objects. Ventral premotor neurons active during grasping actions were also active when the monkey used pliers to grasp objects. Monkeys were trained to use reverse pliers that required hand opening rather than hand closing (as in natural grasps). Remarkably, neurons that fired during hand closing in natural grasps and during use of normal pliers did fire during hand opening when the monkeys used the reverse pliers.

The activity of these motor neurons is evidently centered on coding the goal of the action rather than the motor detail of hand closing or opening. Among these motor neurons, the cells with mirroring properties also demonstrated a pattern of firingrate changes centered on goal coding, discharging when the tips of the pliers were closing on the objects to be grasped during observation of action with both normal and reverse pliers (Umilta et al. 2008). ` Mirror neurons do not mirror only grasping actions performed with the hand or with tools controlled by the hand. There is evidence of mirror neurons coding facial actions, in particular with the mouth. Both ingestive (such as biting and sucking) and communicative actions are coded by mirror neurons (Ferrari et al. 2003).

This is especially important for the hypothesis that mirror neurons may facilitate our understanding of the emotions of other people, because the face is the body part that we use most often to express our own emotions. Macaque Mirror Neurons and Imitation in Monkeys Do monkeys imitate? This is a contentious issue, and the answer to this question is heavily dependent on the definition of imitation.

Among scholars, it was widely held at the end of the nineteenth century that monkeys not only are able to imitate, but they actually do it “... at ludicrous length.”

(Romanes 1883). In those times, imitation was not typically associated with high forms of intelligence. This 662 Iacoboni Annu.

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view of imitation has changed considerably in the past 30 years (Hurley & Chater 2005), calling also for a revision of previously held ideas on monkeys’ ability to imitate. Indeed, such revision had at some point taken the form of a true backlash, with many scholars denying that monkeys had any imitative ability.

This position raised the issue of what is the adaptive advantage of mirror neurons for monkeys and inspired new and better-controlled studies. There is now well-controlled evidence that monkeys are indeed able to imitate (Ferrari et al.
2006; Subiaul et al. 2004; Voelkl & Huber 2000, 2007), and it is likely—although there is no direct evidence yet—that this ability is supported by mirror neurons. For instance, marmosets observed a demonstrator removing the lids from a series of plastic canisters to obtain a mealworm.

Subsequently, marmosets that observed a demonstrator using its hands to remove the lids used only their hands, whereas marmosets that observed a demonstrator using its mouth used their mouth to remove the lids (Voelkl & Huber 2000). In another study, marmosets observed another marmoset (the model) that was previously trained to open a box in a peculiar way. Detailed motion analyses demonstrated that the highly unusual movement pattern of the model was faithfully replicated by the observers (Voelkl & Huber 2007). A recent study has also shown that rhesus macaques display neonatal imitation abilities that are similar to the abilities displayed by human neonates (Ferrari et al. 2006).

It is evident, however, that imitative learning is not developed in monkeys as it is in humans (Hurley & Chater 2005). What then would be the main function of mirror neurons in the monkey brain?

One possibility might be that mirror neurons facilitate the ability to recognize the actions of others. A recent behavioral study, however, has also revealed that monkeys are able to recognize when they are being imitated (Paukner et al. 2005). In this study, monkeys observed two experimenters, each manipulating a wooden cube with a hole in each side.

Initially, the monkeys did not show any preferential looking between the two experimenters. TMS: transcranial magnetic stimulation BOLD: bloodoxygenation-level dependent fMRI: functional magnetic resonance imaging Subsequently, a cube was given to the monkey. When the monkey started manipulating the cube, one of the two experimenters imitated accurately the monkey’s actions directed at the cube. The second experimenter, in contrast, performed different actions.

At this point, the monkey preferentially looked at the experimenter imitating her own actions. This capacity, which is likely supported by mirror neurons, may have an important social function and may be one of the early functional precursors of the highly developed imitative behavior of humans. Human Brain Mechanisms of Mirroring The exquisite spatial and temporal resolution afforded by depth electrode recordings of single-cell activity can be obtained only with techniques of brain investigation that are quite invasive. These techniques cannot typically be used in humans.

The neural properties revealed by single-unit recordings in monkeys are usually investigated in humans at the system level, with lesion studies (behavioral observations on neurological patients), brain imaging, and recently transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS). Although the relationships between all these markers of brain activity are far from being fully defined, there is evidence that they tend to correlate relatively well.

Spiking neuronal activity recorded with in-depth electrodes correlates well with the blood-oxygenationlevel dependent (BOLD) signal measured by functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) (Logothetis et al. 2001). In some cases, however, spiking activity and BOLD seem to dissociate (Logothetis & Wandell 2004), for instance when spiking responses show adaptation (that is, a reduced response to repeated stimuli) while BOLD does not (Goense & Logothetis 2008). Nevertheless, a recent TMS study has shown similar stimulation effects on both neural and hemodynamic signals (Allen et al. 2007), supporting the practice of inferring neural activity from signals based on hemodynamic changes, such as BOLD fMRI.
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Pars opercularis: posterior sector of the inferior frontal gyrus delimited superiorly by the inferior frontal sulcus, inferiorly by the Sylvian fissure, posteriorly by the ventral sector of the precentral gyrus, and anteriorly by the ascending branch of the Sylvian fissure. Pars opercularis in the left hemisphere is classically considered the posterior part of Broca’s area, a major language area of the human brain Indeed, this practice is widely used in systems neuroscience. For instance, single-cell recordings with depth electrodes have revealed in the dorsal premotor cortex of macaques cellular mechanisms of conditional motor learning, the fundamental ability that allows the association of motor responses to arbitrary sensory stimuli, as when we brake at a red traffic light. In humans, the dorsal premotor cortex has also been associated with conditional motor learning by brain imaging and lesion studies (Passingham 1993).

Even though single-cell recordings of human dorsal premotor neurons have not been performed, the obvious assumption is that the human brain must have dorsal premotor cellular mechanisms that enable conditional motor learning and that are likely similar to—albeit probably more sophisticated than—the ones recorded in monkeys. This very same logic applies to the investigation of mirror neurons in the human brain. Given that the information typically obtained in human studies is at system level, the term “mirror neuron system” is often used in these studies. Two positron emission tomography studies (Grafton et al. 1996, Rizzolatti et al. 1996) and a TMS study (Fadiga et al. 1995) provided early evidence compatible with the idea that the human ventral premotor and inferior frontal cortex had mirroring properties. However, these studies did not investigate the role of these human brain areas in imitation.

In a later fMRI study (Iacoboni et al. 1999), subjects were required to imitate simple finger movements and to perform motor and visual control tasks. The logic of the study was as follows: The neuronal discharge measured by depth electrode recordings in macaques during action observation is approximately 50% of the discharge measured during action execution (Gallese et al. 1996). Thus, human brain areas with mirror neurons should also have an increased BOLD signal (which roughly correlates with brain activity in fMRI) during action observation that is approximately 50% of the BOLD increase measured during action execution.

Furthermore, during imitation, subjects were simultaneously watching the finger movement and copying it. Thus, mirror neuron areas may have a BOLD signal increase during imitation that is approximately the sum of the BOLD signal increases observed during action observation and during action execution. The fMRI study found that two cortical areas had this predicted pattern of activity: They were located in the posterior part of the inferior frontal gyrus and in the rostral part of the posterior parietal cortex (Iacoboni et al. 1999), in anatomical locations (Figure 2) that were homologous to the anatomical locations of the macaque brain areas with mirror neurons, that is, area F5 in the ventral premotor cortex and area PF/PFG in the rostral sector of the inferior parietal lobule. The inferior frontal area with mirroring properties overlapped with the posterior part of Broca’s area, a major language area. On one hand, these findings supported the evolutionary hypothesis about the role of mirror neurons in language (Rizzolatti & Arbib 1998).

On the other hand, an activation in a language area during a nonlanguage task may be induced by covert verbalization occurring during the activation tasks. It is unclear why imitation should induce more covert verbalization than motor execution, which in turn should induce more covert verbalization than action observation (the pattern predicted for a mirror neuron area and observed in the posterior part of the inferior frontal gyrus and in the rostral part of the posterior parietal cortex), and this issue cannot be conclusively resolved by fMRI, which is a technique that provides only correlational data between brain areas and human behavior. TMS, on the other hand, provides information on the causal role of the activity in a brain area and human behavior.

A high-frequency repetitive TMS study indeed demonstrated later that activity in the pars opercularis, the posterior part of the inferior frontal gyrus, is essential to imitation (Heiser et al. 2003). A series of brain-imaging studies has suggested a core cortical circuitry for imitation composed of the posterior part of the superior 664 Iacoboni Annu. Rev. Psychol.

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temporal sulcus, a higher-order visual area that responds to watching biological motion and intentional actions (Allison et al. 2000, Jellema et al. 2000, Perrett et al. 1989, Puce & Perrett 2003, Puce et al. 1998), and by the parietal and frontal mirror neuron areas. Within this cortical circuitry, the superior temporal cortex would provide a higher-order visual description of the actions of other people and would feed this information to the fronto-parietal mirror neuron areas (Iacoboni et al. 2001).

The parietal mirror neuron area would code the motor aspect of the action (Iacoboni et al. 1999), whereas the frontal mirror neuron area would be more concerned with the goal of the action (Iacoboni 2005, Iacoboni et al. 2005, Iacoboni & Dapretto 2006, Koski et al. 2002). Imitative behavior can take many forms (Hurley & Chater 2005). The core circuitry for imitation, composed of superior temporal cortex, inferior parietal lobule, and inferior frontal cortex, interacts with other neural systems to support different forms of imitative behavior.

For instance, the interactions between the core circuitry for imitation and the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex seem critical during imitative learning (Buccino et al. 2004). In contrast, social mirroring and the ability to empathize with others may be supported by the interactions between the core circuitry for imitation and the limbic system (Iacoboni 2005). An fMRI study of imitation and observation of facial emotional expressions (Carr et al. 2003) tested the hypothesis that empathy is enabled by a large-scale neural network composed of the mirror neuron system, the limbic system, and the insula connecting these two neural systems.

Within this network, mirror neurons would support the simulation of the facial expressions observed in other people, which in turn would trigger activity in limbic areas, thus producing in the observer the emotion that other people are feeling. This model predicts activation of mirror neuron areas, insula, and limbic areas during both observation and imitation of facial emotional expressions. Furthermore, the model predicts that the increased activity in mirror neuron areas during imitation should also spread to insula and limbic areas, if these brain centers are indeed functionally connected with mirror neuron areas. Both predictions were supported by the empirical findings (Carr et al. 2003). In functional terms, the large-scale network composed of mirror neuron areas, insula, and the limbic system likely provides a simulation-based form of empathy (Goldman 2006, Goldman & Sripada 2005).

Recent data also suggest that the activity in this network provides a biomarker of sociality and empathy. Indeed, an fMRI study of imitation and observation of facial expressions in children with autism and in typically developing children demonstrated not only a deficit in mirror neuron areas in the children with autism, but also a correlation between the severity of the disease and activity in these areas: The lower the activity in mirror neuron areas, the more severe the autism (Dapretto et al. 2006). Furthermore, a separate fMRI study on typically developing preadolescents—in which the activation task was again the observation and imitation of facial emotional expressions—has recently demonstrated that activity in mirror neuron areas was positively correlated with interpersonal competence and empathic concern (Pfeifer et al. 2008). Two additional fMRI studies on adults also support the findings obtained in children.

In one study, subjects observed simple grasping actions (Kaplan & Iacoboni 2006). In the other study, subjects listened to action sounds (Gazzola et al. 2006). Both studies found a positive correlation between empathy scores and activity in premotor areas activated during action observation and while listening to action sounds, thus likely containing mirror neurons. Neural Mirroring and Psychological Theories of Imitation The ideomotor model of imitation and the associative sequence learning model share many concepts but diverge on a fundamental one: The former assumes overlap between www.annualreviews.org • Imitation, Empathy, and Mirror Neurons 665 Annu. Rev. Psychol.

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perceptual and motor representations, whereas the latter assumes that sensory and motor representations are separated but functionally connected through vertical links formed by associative learning. Both models also map well onto the functional properties of mirror neurons and neural systems for mirroring. Do the neuroscience findings on mirror neurons better support the assumptions of the ideomotor model on perceptual and motor representations or those of the associative sequence learning model?

It is difficult to answer this question because the levels of description of psychological theories and those of neuroscience empirical work are radically different. The discharge of mirror neurons during action execution and action observation seems to fulfill the main assumption of the ideomotor model, a common representational format for perception and action. Preliminary results on individual neuronal activity obtained with depth electrode recordings in humans (R.
Mukamel, A. Ekstrom, J. Kaplan, M. Iacoboni and I. Fried, unpublished observations) seem also to support the ideomotor model.

Using a rare clinical opportunity, we recently recorded single-cell activity in epileptic patients implanted for surgical evaluation. We found human neurons with mirror properties in the frontal lobe as well as in the medial temporal cortex. Although the discharge of these cells during action execution and action observation seems to imply a common representational format for perception and action implemented at single cell level, it is also true that lesions in the frontal lobe are more often associated with motor deficits, and lesions in the medial temporal lobe are more often associated with perceptual deficits.

Perception and action, which are united at the level of single cells, seem to be more easily separated at the system level. In principle, the discharge during action execution and during action observation of frontal and medial temporal neurons may represent in neural terms the “vertical links” posited by the associative sequence learning model between a sensory unit (the medial temporal neuron) and a motor unit (the frontal neuron) that fire together as a result of associative learning. WHY NEURAL MIRRORING AND IMITATION?

The fundamental Darwinian question is why mirror neurons were selected by evolution. What is the adaptive advantage of having these neurons? The properties of these cells seem to solve—or better, dis-solve—what is called the “problem of other minds”: if one has access only to one’s own mind, how can one possibly understand the minds of other people?

How can one possibly share one’s own mental states with others, making intersubjectivity possible? A classical solution to the problem of other minds is the so-called argument from analogy.

The argument from analogy posits that we first observe certain relations between our mental states and our bodily states and then find an analogy between our body and the body of other people. If there is an analogy between our body and the body of others, there may be also an analogy between our mental states/bodily states relations and those of other people. This way of reasoning about the mental states of other people seems too complex for something we seem to accomplish so naturally, effortlessly, and quickly. Mirror neurons, in contrast, provide a prereflective, automatic mechanism of mirroring what is going on in the brain of other people that seems more compatible with our ability to understand others effortlessly and with our tendency to imitate others automatically, as we have discussed in this review.

A further implication of the recent work on the relationships between mirror neurons, imitation, and empathy is the consideration that the evolutionary process made us wired for empathy. This is a major revision of widely held beliefs. Traditionally, our biology is considered the basis of self-serving individualism, whereas our ideas and our social codes enable us to rise above our neurobiological makeup. The research on mirror neurons, imitation, and empathy, in contrast, tells us that our 666 Iacoboni Annu.

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ability to empathize, a building block of our sociality (Adolphs 2009) and morality (de Waal 2008, Tangney et al. 2007), has been built “bottom up” from relatively simple mechanisms of action production and perception (Iacoboni 2008). Also by Brad Thor Path of the Assassin The Lions of Lucerne ATRIABOOKS 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 This book is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2004 by Brad Thor All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

For information address Atria Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN: 0-7434-9262-5 First Atria Books hardcover edition January 2004

ATRIA BOOKSis a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.Visit us on the World Wide Web: http://www.SimonSays.com For Sloane— Welcome to the world, little one Cunctando Regitur

Mundis Waiting, one rules the world. Prologue WASHINGTON, D.C.
TUESDAY EVENING, JANUARY 28TH W hat I want, Chuck, is ten minutes of peace and quiet so I can think,” snapped the president to his chief of staff. Charles Anderson had never seen his boss like this.

Then again, America had never faced a situation of this magnitude before. With less than three hours until he was expected to deliver his State of the Union address, President Jack Rutledge had already made the tough decision of evacuating Congress and settling on a videotaped address from the White House. The hardest call, though, still lay before him. “Okay, people,” voiced Anderson.

“You heard the president. Let’s give him the room. Everybody out.

We’ll reconvene in the Situation Room.” Once the Oval Office had cleared out, the president leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and massaged his forehead with the heels of his hands. His oath of office called for him to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution—a body of laws, which obliged him, “to give to Congress information of the State of the Union and recommend to their consideration such measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient.” Never in a million years could he have imagined that the execution of his duties would lead to the unraveling of everything America had fought to become.

He was reminded of the first State of the Union address given by George Washington over two hundred years ago at New York’s Federal Hall. With the country in the fledgling stages of its great democratic experiment, Washington had focused on the very concept of union itself and the challenges not only of establishing, but of maintaining it. How in the hell had things come to this?Rutledge wondered as he opened his eyes and studied the two folders on the desk in front of him. Each contained a different version of his State of the Union address, and each had the potential to be equally devastating.

The fate of millions of Americans would be decided by what he said and did in the next three hours. Though not a particularly religious man, President Jack Rutledge closed his eyes once again and this time prayed to God for guidance.

Chapter 1 ZVENIGOROD, RUSSIA THREE WEEKS PRIOR W inter has come too early this year,” Sergei Stavropol complained as he threw his long overcoat onto a chair near the door. He was the last of the four men to arrive. “I think this will be one of the coldest we have seen in a long time.” Crossing over to the bar, he withdrew a decanter of brandy and filled a delicate crystal snifter. He was an enormous man with dark hair and a large nose that bore evidence of having been broken many times.

At six-foot-three inches tall and two hundred seventy-five pounds, he was bigger than any of the other men in the room, but it was his dark, penetrating eyes which drew all of the attention and which had long ago earned him his nickname. Though he hated theRasputin moniker, he found that it instilled in his enemies and those who would oppose him a certain degree of fear, and therefore he had allowed it to stick.

His salt and pepper–colored hair was trimmed in a military-style crew cut. His skin was severely pockmarked and his left eye drooped slightly due to a grenade that had exploded in his face as he was pushing one of his men out of danger’s way. While he was twice as brave as his assembled colleagues, he was easily less than half as refined, and as if to demonstrate that very fact, he downed his brandy in one long swallow.

The men around the table smiled at their friend’s behavior. Stavropol was as constant as the northern star. In over forty years, nothing had changed him—not money, not power, not even the knowledge that he would go down in history as one of the greatest soldiers Mother Russia had ever produced.

In combat, he had saved the life of each man in the room, some more than once, but they had not gathered in this remote wooded area forty miles west of Moscow to relive the past. On the contrary, the four men seated around the worn oak table were there to shape the future. Outside, a breath of icy wind blew across the gravel driveway of the centuries-old hunting lodge. From its stone chimney, tendrils of grey smoke could be seen only for an instant before being sucked upward into an ever-darkening sky.

As the cold wind pressed itself against the formidable structure, it moaned deeply. Stavropol, the group’s leader, walked over to the fireplace and spent several moments prodding the glowing embers with an iron poker as he pretended to search for the appropriate words to say. It was an empty gesture. He knew exactly what he was going to say.

Spontaneity was not one of his attributes. It led to mistakes and mistakes were the harbingers of failure. Stavropol had rehearsed this moment in his mind for years.

His raw determination was equaled only by his capacity for cold, detached calculation. After a sufficient show of introspection, he raised himself to his full height, turned to his colleagues and said, “It pleases me to see you all here. We have waited many long years for this. Today we embark upon a new and glorious chapter in the history of not only our beloved Russia, but of the world. Fifteen years ago we—” “Were much younger,” interrupted one of the men.

It was Valentin Primovich, the plodder, the worrier. He had always been the weakest link. Stavropol fixed him with a steady look.

He had anticipated the possibility of dissension in the ranks, but not straight away. Unconsciously, his hand tightened into a fist. He reminded himself to relax. Wait , he told himself.

Just wait . Stavropol attempted to soften the features of his face before responding. “Valentin, we are still young men. And what we may have lost in years, we have more than gained in experience.”

“We have good lives now,” said Uri Varensky, coming to the defense of Primovich.

“The world is a different place. Russia is a different place.” “As we knew it would be,” said Stavropol as his eyes turned on Varensky. He had grown soft and lazy. Had Stavropol been told fifteen years ago that the thick narcosis of complacency would one day overtake such a great man, such a great soldier, Stavropol never would have believed it.

“You forget that the change came because of us. It wasour idea.” “It wasyour idea,” replied Anatoly Karganov.

“We supported you, as we always have, but Uri and Valentin are correct. Times have changed.” Stavropol couldn’t believe his ears.

Was Karganov, one of the greatest military minds the country had ever seen, siding with Primovich and Varensky?

The Anatoly Karganov? Despite all of his careful planning, the meeting was not going the way Stavropol had envisioned. He stopped and took a deep breath, once again trying to calm himself, before responding. “I have seen these changes.

Driving here from Moscow I saw them up and down the roadsides—old women sweeping gutters with homemade brooms, or selling potatoes and firewood just to make enough to eat, while the new rich drive by in their BMW and Mercedes SUVs listening to American rap music. “In crumbling houses beyond the roadways, young Russian children smoke crack cocaine, shoot up with heroin, and spread tuberculosis and the AIDS virus, which are decimating our population. Where once we celebrated the deep pride we held in our country, now our posters and billboards only promote all-inclusive vacations to Greece, new health clubs, or the latest designer fashions from Italy.”

“But Russia has made gains,” insisted Karganov. “Gains, Anatoly?

And what sort ofgains have we made?” asked Stavropol, the contempt unmistakable in his voice. “The Soviet Union was once a great empire covering eleven time zones, but look at us now. Most of our sister republics are gone and we are locked in pitiable struggles to hold onto those few that remain.

Our economy, thefree market economy so widely embraced by our greedy countrymen, teeters daily on the verge of collapse. The rich have raped our country, hidden their money in safe havens outside of Russia, and sent their children to European boarding schools. Our currency has been devalued, our life expectancy is laughable, and our population is shrinking. What’s more, not only does the world not need anything we have to sell, it also does not care to listen to anything we have to say.

Where once we were a great world power—a super power—now we are nothing. This is not the legacy I plan to leave behind.” “Sergei,” began Karganov, the ameliorator, “we have all devoted our lives to our country. Our love for Russia is above reproach.”

“Is it?” asked Stavropol as he slowly took in each man seated around the table.

“I sense that your love for Russia is not what it once was. This is not a matter for the weak or the fainthearted. There is much work yet to be done and it will not be easy.

But in the end, Russia will thank us.”

An uncomfortable silence fell upon the room. After several minutes, it was Varensky who broke it. “So, the day we had all wondered about has finally arrived.” It was not so much a statement of fact, as one of apprehension, tinged with regret.

“You do not sound pleased,” replied Stavropol. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you no longer are young men. Maybe youhave grown old—old and scared.”

“This is ridiculous,” interjected Primovich, normally the most cautious of the group. “Most of what you predicted would happen to the Soviet Union did happen, but it has not all been for the worse. You choose to see only what you want to see.”

Stavropol was beginning to lose his temper. “What I seeare three lazy pigs who have fed too long at the trough of capitalism; three senile old men who forgot a promise made to their comrades, a promise made to their country.”

“You do yourself no favors by insulting us,” replied Karganov. “Really?” asked Stavropol with mock surprise.

“The moment we have waited for, the moment we have worked so hard for, is finally here. We are finally ready to awaken the giant and on the eve of our greatest accomplishment, after so much sacrifice, so much waiting, so much planning, my most trusted friends are having second thoughts. What would you suggest I do?”

“Why don’t we put it to a vote?” offered Varensky. “Avote ?” replied Stavropol, “How very democratic.”

“It was fifteen years ago when we agreed to your plan, Sergei. We are not the same people now that we were then,” said Karganov. “Obviously,” snapped Stavropol, “as oaths no longer mean anything to you.” He held up his hand to silence Karganov before the man could respond.

“I have to admit, I am disappointed, but I am not surprised. Time can dampen the fire in a man’s soul. As some men grow older, it is no longer ideals but blankets that they rely on to keep them warm at night.

I blame myself for this. We’ll put this to a vote, as comrade Varensky has suggested. But first, let’s attend to one other piece of business.”

“Anything,” responded Primovich. “Let’s just get this over with.” Stavropol smiled.

“I’m glad you agree, Valentin. What I want is a full list of the assets we have in place and how to contact them.” “Why is that necessary?” demanded Karganov. “Since I am the one who started this, I will be the one to finish it. There must be no loose ends.”

“Surely you don’t intend to do away with them?” queried Varensky. “These are not mere foot soldiers.” “Of course not, Uri,” said Stavropol. “The assets will simply be recalled to Mother Russia. That’s all.

That would make all of you happy, wouldn’t it?”

A dead silence blanketed the table. “And what if they don’t wish to be recalled?” asked Primovich. “I’m sure they can be persuaded. Come, we are wasting time. I know there are warm beds waiting for all of you at home.

Tell me what I need to know so we can move to a vote,” said Stavropol. The men reluctantly provided the information while Stavropol took meticulous notes. He was loath to commit sensitive information to paper, but trusting so many important details to his aging memory was an even greater risk. While he wrote, he walked slowly around the table, his boots echoing on the wooden floorboards.

The rhythm was much like the man himself—meticulous and patient. When the necessary details had been collected, Stavropol allowed the men to vote. To a man, they all agreed to abandon the operation. It was just as he had feared.

Primovich, Varensky, and even Karganov had gone soft. There was only one option available now. “So, it has been decided,” he admitted, stopping before the fireplace. “Trust me, it is for the best,” replied Karganov. Primovich and Varensky voiced their agreement as they stood up and retrieved their coats.

“You can still do great things for Russia,” continued Karganov. “I am certain the Defense Ministry would be glad to have your talents at their disposal. Maybe even a military academy position teaching the soldiers of tomorrow what it means to be a fearsome Russian warrior.”

“You should take up a hobby,” offered General Primovich, coming over to shake his old colleague’s hand. “A hobby?” asked Stavropol. “That’s quite a suggestion. Maybe golf?”

“Certainly,” said Primovich, a smile forming on his lips as Stavropol picked up the iron poker and pretended to hit a golf ball with it.

Stavropol seemed to be taking things better than he expected. “I hear it can be very relaxing.”

Primovich’s smile quickly disappeared as Stavropol swung the poker full force against the side of his head and cracked open his skull. For a moment, the man just stood there, then his lifeless body collapsed to the floor. “Very relaxing indeed,” sneered Stavropol as he let the bloody poker fall from his hands. “What have you done?” screamed Karganov.

“You didn’t actually think this would be as easy as taking a vote and simply walking away, did you? We have been working on this for over fifteen years. I have planned everything,everything —right down to the very last detail.

I expected some resistance from Primovich and maybe a little from Varensky, but not you, Anatoly. Never you,” said Stavropol. “You have lost your mind,” Varensky shouted as he made an end-run around the table for Stavropol.

Stavropol drew a beautifully engraved, black chrome plated Tokarev pistol from the small of his back and shot him before he had even made it three feet. Karganov couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Stavropol was insane, he was sure of it. “So, what will it be, Anatoly?” asked Stavropol.

“Will you join us? Or will you go the way of Valentin and Uri?” The look on Karganov’s face was answer enough. “As you wish,” responded Stavropol and then fired a single round into Karganov’s head.

Upon hearing the gunshots, a second man, bundled in heavy winter clothing exited Stavropol’s car and calmly strode inside to assist his employer. “With these men dead, we will have much more work now,” he said as he helped Stavropol drag the three bodies out the back door. Stavropol smiled. “Our list of assets in America is quite long.

Over the years, we have lost an Aldrich Ames here, a Robert Hanssen there, but there are many more still in place. Everything will continue as planned and you, my friend, will have to clear space on your old uniform. I am sure Russia will create a brand-new medal for what we are about to accomplish.”

The two men then worked in silence, digging shallow graves and burying the bodies behind the secluded lodge. They were not alone. Perched high above, on one of the area’s heavily wooded trails, someone was watching.

Chapter 2 EASTON, MARYLAND STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS—10 DAYS

F rank Leighton was scared. In fact if the truth were told, the man was absolutely terrified. The call had come in the middle of the night, the voice more machine than human.

It sounded tinny, canned somehow, as if it was coming from far away. But it wasn’t the sound of the voice that had shaken him.

It was the message. It took Leighton several moments to clear the cobwebs from his head—his sleep had been that deep. And why not?

He was retired after all. Sleeping with one eye open while guarding against the cold knife blade that could be slipped between his ribs by a supposed ally, or listening for the telltale whisper of an anonymous assassin’s bullet fired from a silenced weapon, were all part of his past. Or so he had thought.

Twenty-five pounds overweight and fifteen years out of the game, Frank Leighton took a quick shower, shaved, and then combed his head of thick, gray hair. The years hadn’t been kind to him. When he looked in the mirror and said to himself, “I am way too old for this,” he was telling the God’s honest truth.

The initial spurt of adrenaline that had come with the phone call had long since passed, so Leighton decided to brew a pot of coffee while he considered his options. It was a short period of reflection, as he had no options. That was exactly the way the protocol had been designed.

When the coffee was ready, Leighton filled his mug to within two-and-a-half inches of the rim, then grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey from the cabinet above the refrigerator and filled the mug the rest of the way. “The breakfast of champions,” he thought to himself as he took the mug and headed past a butler’s pantry into the laundry and storage room that doubled as his home office. While he waited for his computer to boot up, he gazed at a picture of his sister, Barbara, and her two kids. Maybe he should call her.

Warn her. She still had the cabin in Wyoming. They would be safe there. He wouldn’t have to tell her why.

She would trust him. She would do what he asked. It was important for them to be safe, at least until he could complete his assignment. How in the world , he wondered,had things come to this?

And after all these years.

The opening of his web browser interrupted Leighton’s pondering. He went to the American Airlines website and ran through all of the international flights leaving from Washington that morning. When he found the flight he wanted, he began the process of booking the ticket. He had no idea if the old Capstone Corporation credit card still worked. It was the only way to reserve and pay for the flight, as he no longer kept large stores of cash in the house.

That was something he had left behind in his old career, his old life. If the card still was still active, the little-known bank in Manassas, Virginia, would accept any expiration date he entered into the computer. Leighton had no need to fish the card, or the false passport that matched the name on the card, from its hiding place within the old lobsterman’s buoy stored in a corner of the boathouse behind his home. When one’s life has hung by a delicate thread for years upon end, certain things are never forgotten.

He entered the credit card number by heart and waited while the American Airlines site processed his request. Moments later, a confirmation number and seat assignment appeared on the screen. Leighton knew that a same-day ticket purchase was going to raise a lot of red flags, so transporting a weapon was out of the question. He would have to wait until he got there. Once he arrived, he would have access to more than enough firepower, and money—if everything had been left in place.

It had to have been. The fact that the Capstone credit card still worked, hell, the fact that he had even been called after all this time was reason enough to believe that he would find things just as he had left them fifteen years ago. But what the hell was going on?Could it be a test?

If so, why test him? Surely, they had younger, more capable operatives—operatives who were actuallyactive . None of this made any sense. If you were going to run the world’s most important horse race, why drag in old warhorses from the pasture for it?
Frank Leighton’s mind was overflowing with questions and as they began to get the better of him, he slammed an iron door on his misgivings and secondguessing.

He reminded himself of what they all had been taught, the one thing that had been drilled into them over and over again—The protocol will never be wrong. The protocol is infallible. As he pulled himself together and shut down his computer, Leighton thought again about calling his sister. If his mission didn’t succeed, at least she and the kids would have a chance. Then he thought again.

No, he couldn’t call her. Despite how much he wanted to, the protocol was explicit. There had been no indication that this was coming.
Nothing. But at the same time, it was one of the eventualities they had been told to be prepared for—something coming out of the clear blue sky.

After Leighton had thought about it some more, he rationalized that there was one person he could call; someone like him—someone who would have been contacted as well. They wouldn’t have to discuss details; the tone of their voices would say everything. He retrieved his cache from the old lobsterman’s buoy in the boathouse and brought it back inside to his bedroom where he quickly packed a small suitcase full of clothes.

After throwing in what looked like an oversized PDA, he opened the manila envelope from the buoy and spread its contents across the top of his dresser. The passport was going to need some tweaking. He would need to update some of the stamps and of course, change its expiration date.

He’d need to do the same thing for the driver’s license. The credit card and false business cards were slid into various pockets of the sport coat he had hung on the knob of the closet door. Other items, like the pre–European Union currency, which was no longer of any use, were dropped into a metal wastebasket. An old coded list of names, addresses, and phone numbers was recommitted to memory and then dropped into the wastebasket as well. Now was the time to place the phone call.

Leighton walked back into his kitchen, picked up the phone, and dialed. He felt like he was in one of those nightmares where everything moved in slow motion. The ringing of the telephone on the other end seemed to take forever. Finally, on the fifth ring, there was what sounded like someone picking up. Relief flooded through him.

If the man he was calling was still at home, maybe he hadn’t been activated. Maybe this was all some sort of mistake. The feeling, though, was short-lived as Leighton realized he had reached the man’s voice mail. He didn’t bother leaving a message.

Nothing but the assignment mattered now. He could trust no one. Everyone and everything at this point was suspect. He retrieved a bottle of starter fluid from beneath the kitchen sink and doused the contents of the metal wastebasket. There could be no trace left behind.

Leighton set the wastebasket outside on his stone patio, struck a match and watched as the assortment of papers went up in flames. When he was positive they were burned beyond recognition, he used the lid of his kettle grill to choke out the fire and after emptying it, returned the wastebasket inside. Two hours later, having expertly altered his false passport and driver’s license with the drafting supplies he had held onto for just such a purpose, the house locked up and the suitcase in the trunk of his car, Frank Leighton pulled out of his driveway and headed toward the airport, committed to his assignment and the havoc he was about to let loose upon the world. Chapter 3 CORONADO, CALIFORNIA STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS—8 DAYS S cot Harvath sat in the Hotel Del Coronado’s Babcock & Story bar sipping one of their signature margaritas, but his mind was a million miles away.

Coming home had not been easy for him, at least not like this, but his mother had insisted, and if nothing else, Harvath was a good son. It had been ten years since they had laid his father to rest and on this anniversary, his mother thought it appropriate that they do something to remember him. Scot didn’t have the heart to tell his mother that he remembered his father almost every day, because he knew she did too.

Michael Harvath had been a good man—a good husband, a good father, a good soldier, and the reason Scot Harvath had become a Navy SEAL. It was during a training mission that Harvath’s father, a SEAL instructor at the Naval Special Warfare Center, was killed in a demolitions accident. At the time of the accident, Scot was training with the U.S. Freestyle ski team in Park City, Utah. He had been with the team for several years at that point, much to the chagrin of his father.

Michael Harvath had not worked as hard as he had to watch his son forgo college for a career in professional sports. The two had fought bitterly, as only two proud, headstrong men with passionate convictions can. The fighting had been a strain on their relationship; one that Scot’s mother had worked tirelessly to try to mend. It was as if she had somehow sensed that her husband’s life was going to be cut short.

It was only through his mother’s Herculean efforts that the family stayed together at all. The stronger Michael pushed, the more Scot pulled away and pursued his own path. Father and son were more alike than either of them realized.

By the time Scot figured this out for himself, his father was already gone. The loss was devastating. Scot’s mother had lost her husband, but it could be argued that the greater grief was Scot’s, who had not only lost his father, but had lost him with so many things between them left unsaid and unfinished. Up until his father’s death, Scot had done extremely well on the World Cup circuit and had been favored to medal in the upcoming Olympics, but try as he might, after his father’s death he just couldn’t get his head back into competitive skiing.

It suddenly wasn’t important any more. Instead, he chose to immediately follow in his father’s footsteps. After graduating from college cum laude in less than three years, he joined the Navy where he passed the rigorous Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL selection program, also known as BUD/S, and was made a SEAL. With his expertise in skiing, he was tasked to Team Two, known as the cold-weather specialists, or Polar SEALs.

With an exceptional aptitude for languages and a desire for even more action, Harvath applied, and was eventually accepted to Team Six, the Navy’s elite counterterrorism detachment, also known as Dev Group. It was while he was with Dev Group that Scot Harvath came to the attention of the United States Secret Service. Whenever a President made an appearance on or near water, the SEALs were called upon to provide support. Harvath was part of a contingent that assisted several such protective details for a former president who loved to race his Cigarette boats off the coast of Maine.

Scot had proven himself to be extremely talented on many occasions, but when he discovered and defused an explosive device meant to disrupt one of the president’s outings, the Secret Service stood up and took notice. They had been looking for someone just like him to help improve the ways in which they protected the president. It took some doing, but the Secret Service eventually succeeded in wooing Scot to join their team.

After Harvath completed his courses at the Secret Service advanced-training facility in Beltsville, Maryland, he joined the presidential protective detail based at the White House. A lot had happened since then.

Harvath had not only rescued the president from kidnappers and helped to prevent a major war in the Middle East, but also realized along the way that the life of a Secret Service agent was not for him. Surprisingly, the president had agreed and tasked Harvath to a new assignment.

President Jack Rutledge had added a new weapon in his war on terrorism. As part of his reorganization of the American Intelligence community and renewed dedication to countering terrorism, the president had created a special international branch of the Homeland Security Department dubbed the Office of International Investigative Assistance, or OIIA. The group represented the collective intelligence capability and full muscle of the United States government to help neutralize and prevent terrorist actions against America and American interests on a global level.

Though Harvath’s title at the OIIA was listed as a “special agent,” very few people knew what his job actually entailed.

The benign title led most to believe that he worked in the field, assisting foreign governments and law enforcement agencies in their counterterrorism efforts. That, after all, was the express mission statement of the OIIA.

Had Congress known Harvath’s true marching orders, the Office of International Investigative Assistance would never have gotten their budget approved. Thinking about his deceased father often led Scot to think about the man who had become like a second father to him. It was this same person whom the president had tapped to head the new OIIA—former Deputy Director of the FBI, Gary Lawlor.

Having been the number two man in the world’s premier law enforcement organization, Lawlor was a perfect choice. The president also appreciated the special relationship that existed between Lawlor and Harvath. It was precisely that relationship Harvath was considering when his girlfriend, Meg Cassidy, walked into the bar. “Have you heard from him?”

she asked as she sat down on the empty stool next to Scot.

“Nothing,” he answered, spinning his cell phone on the bar in front of him. “What about in the room?

Any messages?”

“None at all.

What did the airline say?” “It took my contact a while to get to the bottom of it, but he said that apparently Gary had gotten on the plane and that just as they were preparing to close the doors and push back, he jumped up and demanded to be let off. Flashed his credentials and everything. It freaked the hell out of the passengers.”

Meg looked at Scot as he absorbed this piece of information. It would all probably turn out to be nothing, but for now it seemed worrisome, especially in light of his new job. Though Scot didn’t go into a lot of detail, the fact that they had met when he had rescued her from a hijacked airliner in Cairo, and that in his mid-thirties he was in better shape than most men even ten years younger, told Meg that the new position the president had assigned him to probably didn’t involve pushing a lot of paper.

He was a soldier on America’s front line in the war against terrorism, and Meg was smart enough to know what that meant. It meant not asking a lot of questions and being prepared for anything, even the worst. She was willing to do that for him.

In the little over six months they had been together, she had come to care for Scot Harvath very deeply. So much so, that she was even considering relocating her entire business from Chicago to Washington, DC, moving away from all of her friends and contacts, and building a new life with this man. With his ruggedly handsome face, sandy brown hair, blue eyes and muscular five-footten frame, Scot Harvath was quite a catch by any woman’s standards, but it was the man inside that had most attracted her from the beginning. In addition to his wit and intelligence, there was something else.

He was driven by one simple objective—doing the right thing no matter what the cost. In a world so often governed by self-interest, being in the company of a man like Scot Harvath made Meg realize what a noble life worth living was really about, but she also realized that the quality she most admired in him might also turn out to one day to be his downfall. Scot’s desire to always do the right thing had made him an unwilling to compromise or bend even a fraction of an inch when it came to his principles. He had been called arrogant at times, and Meg could understand why, but people who saw arrogance in him were missing the point.

Scot Harvath believed. He believed in himself. He believed in his abilities, and what’s more, he believed in his country and the jobs it sent him to do. No matter what the risk or how great the danger he always willingly stepped up when his country needed him.

Right now though,he needed something and it was more information. “What would make Gary jump up and demand to be let off the plane like that?” “All I can think is that maybe he received a call or got paged at the last minute or something. He wouldn’t go through all of that just because he forgot to turn the iron off at home.”

“Have you tried the office again?” asked Meg, who was equally concerned and growing more worried by the moment. “I’ve left messages everywhere and have been ringing his pager and his cell every half hour. Not only is he not answering, but nobody seems to know where he is—nobody. And that’s not typical Gary.

The guy sets up lunch dates months in advance. You should see his Day-Timer. I think people back in DC are beginning to get nervous about it.”

“Do you think something happened to him?”

“At this point, I don’t know what to think. Gary was a friend of my father’s since before I was born. Half the reason he chose to head up the Bureau’s San Diego field office instead of Miami was so that they could be closer together. They were like brothers and I know how much my mom means to him.

It’s not like him to miss something like this and not call.”

Meg had known the memorial was going to be tough, and the absence of Gary Lawlor had only made things more stressful. Though Scot hadn’t said anything, she knew he appreciated having her along.

“Okay,” she replied, after the bartender had poured her a glass of wine and then walked to the other end of the bar, “what about calling hospitals? I hate to go that route, but it seems to be one of the only rocks we haven’t looked under.” As Harvath was reaching for his margarita, his cell phone rang again.

On the other end was Alan Driehaus, the director of homeland security. “Where the hell are you?” he demanded. “Coronado,” answered Harvath.

“Where’s Lawlor?”

“I’ve got no idea. He was supposed to be out here.” “Has he tried to contact you at all?” asked Driehaus. “No and that’s what I’m worried about,” responded Harvath.

There was a pause as the homeland security director cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of his telephone. Harvath could make out several voices in the background as Driehaus came back on the line and said, “I want you on the next plane back to DC.” “What for?”

“You’ll be briefed when you get here. This is an urgent matter of national security, so don’t waste any time getting back.

And if Lawlor does make contact with you, I want you to find out where he is and let us know right away.

Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” said Harvath. “Good,” replied Driehaus, who then terminated the connection. Harvath punched theend button on his cell phone, set it onto the bar and reached for his wallet. “What is going on?” asked Meg.

Scot finished downing his margarita and said to her, “I need to call my mother and let her know that we won’t be making the memorial service.” Chapter 4 BERLIN, GERMANY G ary Lawlor had taken his time getting to the apartment. Though more than twenty years had passed, he had not forgotten his tradecraft.

After arriving at the airport in Frankfurt, he had taken a short commuter flight to Nürnberg and then a train to the outskirts of Berlin. Two taxis and a short subway ride later, he was back in the heart of a city that he had once known all too well. He dropped his suitcase off at an intermediate location and wandered the streets for a bit, getting his bearings before making his way over to check out the safe house.

The apartment had been selected because of its proximity to the Tiergarten, not far from the heart of what was then the commercial district of West Berlin. Lawlor noted that the reunification had only added to the area’s hustle and bustle. The Bahnhof Zoo, the bombed-out Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche, and the towering Europa Center all drew large crowds, which made it easy to blend in. With his neutral-colored overcoat and dull gray suit, Gary Lawlor looked like any other German or Western European businessman making his way to an important luncheon meeting. He took a circuitous route southward from the Nollendorfplatz, doubling back three times to make sure he wasn’t followed.

With the situation as it was, it was utterly impossible to betoo careful. The nondescript Schöneberg district was filled with smoky cafés and a wide variety of ethnic restaurants. Though some of the businesses had turned over in the last two decades, most of the neighborhood was still exactly the same as he remembered.

As Lawlor reached the top of the Goltzstrasse, where the apartment was located, he was ready to breathe a sigh of relief when something caught his eye. Three doors before the apartment, two men were sitting in a black BMW. One was smoking a cigarette while the other appeared to be reading the paper. Ordinarily, this might not seem like odd behavior, except that the car was parked right in front of a half empty café.

Europe was all about café society and for these two men to be waiting for whatever it was they were waiting for in their car, instead of inside the café, gave Lawlor more than enough reason to pause. But, he couldn’t pause, not now.

It would create too much suspicion. In the world Lawlor had been thrust back into, there had to be two reasons for every move you made, every word you said and every thing you did—the real reason and the completely plausible lie. There were no stores or businesses to casually pop into where Lawlor was now walking. He had no choice but to keep moving and to hope that these men were just waiting for a friend. It had been a long time since Lawlor had done actual fieldwork.

His heart was pumping faster than it should have been and he fought to get it under control. All of his senses were on fire as adrenaline slammed through his bloodstream with each rapid thump of his heart. This was more than just an overactive imagination or the jitters. No, Lawlor knew the feeling all too well, just as he knew Berlin all too well.

It was a feeling he had had many a night walking down the deadly backstreets on the other side of the wall. Something wasn’t right. As he came up behind the BMW, he could see the cigarette smoker watching him approach in the side mirror. A quick glance toward the driver showed that though he still appeared to be engrossed in his newspaper, his eyes were actually riveted on the rearview mirror.

Lawlor’s body stiffened. These men were not idly passing time, waiting for a friend to leave the café. They were conducting surveillance and Lawlor was willing to bet a year’s pay on what they were surveilling. The decision to abandon the apartment came so quickly, it was more of a reflex than a conscious choice, but that was how they had all been trained.

If the apartment had been compromised that could only mean one thing—someone knew about them. But who?

How could that be possible?

The operation had been one of their most closely guarded secrets. There was no time to figure it all out now. Lawlor needed to get the hell away from the area and find a way to warn the others. At least he had picked up on the surveillance before entering the apartment building.

God only knew what was waiting inside. As he passed the BMW, Lawlor stole a quick glance at the passenger out of the corner of his eye. What he saw stopped his heart cold.

It couldn’t be. The man he was looking at was dead. Lawlor knew this because he had killed him himself fifteen years ago.

What the hell was going on?

Was he paranoid? Was he seeing things?

No, he had no reason to doubt his eyes, or his memory. Even though nothing was making sense, Lawlor had to trust his instincts and his training. Raising his left shoulder and subtly turning his face away, he continued on. Despite what he had seen, he never once broke his stride. Now two car lengths past, Lawlor began to entertain the thought that he might be home free until he heard what he knew were the sounds of the men getting out of the BMW and closing the doors behind them.

“Entschuldigung, mein Herr?” said the man who had been reading the paper in the car. Lawlor pretended not to hear and kept walking. “Herr,” said the man again, “bitte Halt!” In the reflection of a black panel truck, Lawlor could see the men quickening their pace behind him.

If it hadn’t been obvious that he was the one they were speaking to, all doubts were erased when the man Lawlor thought he had killed said in English, “This is the last time we will ask you to stop.” Lawlor knew that the men would be armed. Outrunning them, at least at this point, was not even a consideration.

That being said, he was prepared in case something like this might happen and quite literally had somethingup his sleeve . As he wouldn’t risk coming into the country with any weapons on his person or in his luggage, he had made a quick stop at a small shop near the train station in Nürnberg. Lawlor stopped walking, his back to the two approaching men. He could still see them in the reflection of the black truck.

Carefully bending his left wrist, he gently maneuvered the polished blade of the knife, which was hidden inside his sleeve, until he could feel the point in the palm of his hand. He then slowly shifted his weight to his right foot and drew his left arm across his chest. In one swift move he would drop his arm, delivering the handle of the blade into his palm, and lash out with the knife, hopefully killing the first attacker while he hit the other with the empty titanium briefcase he carried as a prop in his right hand.

Unfortunately, Lawlor never got the chance. The laser sight of the TASER X26 Shape Pulse Weapon painted a perfect red dot right in the center of his back. The men following him were more than six feet away when they saw his left arm disappear and his weight subtly shift to the right side.

They didn’t plan on letting Lawlor get the better of them. There was a quick pop as the nitrogen propellant sent the barbed ballistic probes ripping through the air at over 180 feet per second and straight through his trench coat. The probes were attached to thin insulated wires, which delivered a series of high-voltage energy bursts, overwhelming Lawlor’s central nervous system. The result was an instant loss of neuromuscular control.

In less than a second, he had slumped helplessly to the pavement and curled up into the fetal position, unable to think, speak, and—more importantly for his attackers—cry for help. Stunned onlookers saw the knife drop from Lawlor’s hand. When they saw the two men expertly cuff and place their victim into the backseat of the BMW, they were convinced that they had just witnessed a very legitimate undercover police action. As the car sped away in a cloud of burning rubber, no one had any idea how dangerously far off the mark they were.

Chapter 5 WASHINGTON, DC T hroughout the entire flight back, Scot tried to figure out what in the world could be going on. Where the hell was Gary and what was the urgent matter of National Security that Driehaus was talking about? Upon their arrival at Reagan National Airport, there were two cars waiting. One was there to take Meg Cassidy back to Scot’s apartment in Alexandria, while the other brought Harvath directly to Homeland Security headquarters. When Harvath entered the director’s secure conference room, Driehaus gestured to a chair about halfway down the smooth oak table.

Sitting to his right were CIA Director Vaile and FBI Director Sorce. Harvath nodded at Vaile and Sorce as Driehaus said, “We appreciate your coming back so quickly, especially considering the circumstances which had taken you out to California in the first place.”

Harvath was feeling guilty as hell for backing out of his father’s memorial service and wanted to put those feelings behind him for the time being. “You said this was a matter of urgent national security?” “It is,” replied Driehaus as he extracted a thick blue folder from the accordion file sitting on the table in front of him, removed a series of glossy eight-by-ten photographs and handed them across the table to Harvath.

“Do you recognize any of these men?” he asked. Harvath was taken aback to see that the pictures were a mix of crime scene and autopsy photos of ten men who looked to range in age from their late forties to mid-sixties. Most looked to have been shot in the head while a couple had had their throats cut.

After going through them a second time, he slid them back over to Driehaus and said, “I’ve never seen any of them before. Do their deaths have something to do with Gary’s disappearance?” “Maybe,” responded FBI Director Sorce.

“The bodies were found over the last several days and from the limited amount of information we’ve been able to uncover, all of these men were part of an Army Intelligence unit based in Berlin at the same time Gary was. What they were doing was highly classified and there is no record of it.” “So what?

Gary was already out of the army by the time he moved overseas. The fact that these guys were also with Army Intelligence is nothing more than coincidence.”

The minute the words were out of his mouth, Harvath wished he could take them back. He knew how lame he sounded. He also knew that even he didn’t really believe what he was saying. Of all people, Harvath was usually the first to say that there was no such thing as coincidence.

That simple belief had saved his life more times than he cared to remember and he knew it was one of the primary tenets of the intelligence community. “Agent Harvath, let’s back things up a bit here. I can appreciate your loyalty to Gary,” said Driehaus. “Why don’t we begin by having you tell us what you know about him.” Harvath reached for the carafe of water on the table in front of him and poured a glass.

He took a long sip as he collected his thoughts before speaking. “Gary Lawlor was a friend of my parents before I was even born. He’d been involved with Army Intelligence and met my father, who was a SEAL, when they were both in Vietnam.

Through their work, they became pretty good friends and undertook several missions together. During one mission in particular, my father told me Gary had even saved his life. So, I guess you could say that if it wasn’t for Gary Lawlor, I wouldn’t be here today.”

Harvath paused and studied the faces across the table from him before continuing. “After leaving the Army, Gary and his wife lived in Europe for a while before he returned to pursue a career with the FBI, where he specialized in areas ranging from counterterrorism to white-collar crime. He was eventually promoted to Special Agent in Charge of the San Diego field office and that’s when I really got to know him. “When my father died in the accident at the Naval Special Warfare Center in Coronado, Gary took a leave of absence from work to be with us and help us begin to put our lives back together.”

Remembering his father’s death and its aftermath caused Harvath to pause and seizing the opportunity, FBI Director Sorce asked, “Agent Harvath, did anyone ever talk to you about the death of Gary’s wife?”

“My mother did.” “What did she tell you?” “Heide had been accidentally hit by a car in Europe.” “Did your mother tell you where in Europe they were when it happened?”

“It was in Germany, I think.

What difference does it make?” Now it was Director Vaile’s turn to speak. “Agent Harvath, do you know what they were doing in Germany?”

“Heide’s family was from there, and she owned an art gallery while Gary worked in investment banking.”

FBI Director Sorce looked first at Vaile then at Driehaus who both nodded. “Scot, Heide did own a gallery in West Berlin and Gary was on the rolls of an American investment banking firm there too, but that was just a front for what they were really doing.” “What are you talking about?” asked Harvath, who leaned closer into the table as if it would force Sorce’s words to make more sense.

“Did you know that Gary speaks fluent Russian?”

“Gary?

Russian?

Are you serious?” “Extremely.”

“No, I didn’t know he spoke Russian, but there’s lots of people that—” “His grandmother was from Minsk,” continued Sorce as he removed a file of his own and began reading from it. “She emigrated to the U.S. after her husband died during the First World War.

She remarried and had three children, one of whom was the daughter who married Gary’s father. Gary’s parents worked long hours, and the Russian grandmother practically raised him herself. “He was somewhat of a prodigy. By the time he was six years old, he not only could speak Russian fluently, he was reading and writing it as well.

It was a cradle language for him and he took to it as well as he did English.”

“So he’s of Russian descent. Big deal.

So are a lot of people in America. If being from a country that embraced communism at one point is a crime, you’d better get ready to lock up over half of the people in Miami and a good majority of downtown San Francisco,” said Harvath. “Let me finish,” replied Sorce.

“It was precisely his Russian skills that made him so sought after in the Army and later with the FBI. Do you have any idea what Heide was really doing for a living before she was killed?” “You said so yourself. She was an art dealer. My mother still has a lot of paintings from her gallery hanging in the house back in California.”

A bad feeling was beginning to build in Harvath’s stomach. He didn’t like the way things were going and he assumed that they were only going to get worse. When CIA Director Vaile chimed back in, he knew his premonition had been correct. “Gary and Heide Lawlor,” said Vaile, “were two of the United States’ top recruiters of foreign intelligence agents during the Cold War.”

There was a chuckle in Harvath’s voice as he spoke. “Heide Lawlor worked for U.S.
Intelligence turning spies for us?” Nobody else at the table was smiling. The three faces staring back at Harvath appeared to be carved of granite.

“Their focus was on Eastern Europe,” continued Vaile. “Heide Lawlor spoke German, Polish, and Czech. Gary handled the Russian transactions.”

“You’re not kidding, are you?” asked Harvath. “He’s not kidding,” said Sorce. “In fact, Gary and Heide were so successful, they even received medals from the president in eighty-one at a top-secret ceremony at the White House.”

Harvath had never heard any of this.

And though it was difficult to believe, it did fit Gary Lawlor’s character perfectly. The thing that scared Scot the most, though, was the realization of how little he might really know about Gary’s past. “I had no idea.” “What you also probably didn’t know was that Heide’s death was no accident.”

Though Scot tried to maintain an impassive countenance, today would not have been a good day to play poker.

Heide Lawlor had always been his “Aunt Heide.” As she and Gary didn’t have any children of their own, she chose to spoil him every chance she got. Christmases, birthdays, it didn’t matter. Heide never needed a reason to show how much she cared for him.

Now, the realization that Heide had been murdered sent a sharp pain rocketing through his heart. Harvath asked, “Did Gary know?” “Yes,” said Vaile, “Gary knew.” “Who did it?

And don’t just tell me it was the Russians.

I want to know who specifically, killed her.” “His name was Helmut Draegar.”

“Was?”

“Yes,was . He was undoubtedly the best operative the infamous East German Stasi had ever produced. His reputation was larger than life itself. It was said that he was the only man Carlos the Jackal ever feared.

He was an extremely proficient linguist, an assuredly deadly assassin, and an operative’s operative.” “Meaning?” asked Harvath. “It means that his tradecraft was above reproach. He was a master of disguise and human nature.

In the blink of an eye he could disappear, or have you eating out of his hand. Though the Russians had not given birth to Draegar, he was given honorary Russian citizenship—that’s how highly they thought of him.

In short, he was the ultimate spy.” “As you’re talking about him in past tense, I assume he’s dead. Am I correct?”

“Very,” replied Vaile. “Lawlor killed him.” “Why was Heide targeted for termination?” asked Harvath. “When you were as good at your job as she was, it causes the enemy to want to reward you with something other than a medal.”

“But you said Gary was just as good. Why not target him as well?”

“Exactly our question,” replied Vaile. “For a long time, we thought it was because the agents Heide had turned amounted to such major intelligence coups. Don’t get me wrong, Gary had his successes as well, but Heide’s were far and away of greater value. In short, while Gary might have been worth spending a bullet on, the prime target for the Russians was Heide.”

“But they were always together, weren’t they? I would have thought you could have gotten the two for the price of one very easily.” “It would make sense, wouldn’t it?” asked Vaile.

“Gary Lawlor had been credited with being extremely adept at keeping himself and his wife alive.” “Until Heide was hit by the car.” “Exactly.”

Harvath placed his right elbow upon the conference room table and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He wished they would get to the point.

Sensing his frustration, Vaile offered, “Maybe I can be a little more clear. Toward the end of the time Gary and Heide were operating in Europe, Berlin in particular, we suffered some major intelligence losses. Somebody provided the Russians with highly sensitive information.” “And you never caught the person,” said Harvath.

“Correct.

We looked at everybody, including the Lawlors—” “Who obviously were cleared.” “At the time yes, but in light of recent events, Heide’s death has been drawn into question.” Harvath was incredulous now.

“Are you trying to say you think Gary had something to do with it?”

Vaile put up his hand to silence Harvath. “The Lawlors were working on agents from different parts of Russia and the Eastern Bloc and as such, reported to different supervisors. Shortly before Heide’s death, she mentioned to her supervisor that she was concerned about Gary.” “How do you know this?”

“It took some digging, but I was able to track down a copy of her report in our files at Langley.

She said Gary had changed somehow. She suspected he was working on some sort of project outside of his normal duties. He would disappear in the evenings and sometimes even for days at a time.

He claimed it was work-related and he couldn’t discuss it, but when Heide’s supervisor looked into it, he informed her that there was nothing he could find to support Gary’s story. Shortly thereafter, Heide was killed.” “This is ridiculous,” said Harvath. “Gary must have been questioned up and down afterward.” “He was and he appeared very distraught over her death.

It seemed genuine. It wasn’t until he saw a copy of the report from Heide’s supervisor that he started talking. At first, he said that he didn’t want to sully his wife’s good name. A couple of days later, Gary claimed that Heide had been growing paranoid before her death, that she had even been taking medication for it. She didn’t know whom she could trust and she had even started disbelieving him.

It was a difficult scenario for us. It washe said, she said , but she was dead and couldn’t corroborate or deny anything Gary was telling us. We debriefed him extensively, but everything held up. A private doctor even confirmed that he had been treating Heide for paranoia and depression and that he had also been prescribing pills for her. Case closed.”

“So what’s the problem?” prodded Harvath. “You don’t actually think he was up to something he shouldn’t have been?”

CIA Director Vaile took a deep breath before responding, “At this point we have no idea what to think.” “All of this because there’s been a string of murders of Army Intelligence operatives who were in Berlin at the same time Gary was?

While I’ll grant you that the murders are obviously connected to each other, you’ve failed to make the biggest connection of all— Gary to the victims.”

“Actually,” replied Driehaus, “we have made the connection.”

Harvath was stunned. “What is it?”

“Several of the victims placed calls to Gary right before they were killed.” Chapter 6 PETROZAVODSK, RUSSIA I mpossible!” growled Sergei Stavropol into his satellite phone, careful not to draw the attention of the various technicians and scientists working around him. “I don’t care if that body is inside a wolf, a bear, or some farmer’s hungry pig, I want you to find it, cut it open and bring me the bones.

Do you understand me?” Milesch Popov, the twenty-two-year-old, knife-scarred entrepreneur on the other end of the line, was pissed off. Who the fuck did this man think he was talking to?

“You paid me to retrieve the cars from the lodge in Zvenigorod. I could have sold those cars for a lot of money, but our deal was for them to disappear, permanently, and that’s what I made happen.

Then, you call me and ask me to goback to Zvenigorod to see what the police were up to. They were everywhere, but I went anyway and I took a look like you asked me to. That I did for free, out of good customer service, but what you’re asking me now is out of the question because I—” Stavropol cut to the chase and interrupted the young Moscow Mafioso, “How much?”

“This isn’t about money.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is the new Russia. Everything is about money.” “Stolen cars are not exactly in the same category as dead bodies,” said Popov, lowering his voice and readying himself for a tough negotiation. “You are trying my patience, Milesch.

I am a busy man. Name your price,” demanded Stavropol. Popov thought about it for a moment.

In his line of work, he did not get to deal with many highly placed people like Sergei Stavropol. Whatever this was about, it was obviously serious. The papers had been full of the news of the disappearance of three generals and the discovery of two of the bodies behind the old hunting lodge in Zvenigorod. Popov knew his client had had something to do with it and that made the negotiation all the more dangerous.

Then again, Popov had learned that men like Stavropol respect only men who respect themselves and set limits. “If I locate your missing package,” said Popov, “I want five hundred thousand dollars U.S. plus expenses.”

“You ungrateful, greedy little fuck,” roared Stavropol. “I should cut your balls off!”

“Watch it, old man,” responded Popov. “You don’t want to give yourself a heart attack.” “Such insolence!

Who do you think you are?” “I think I’m the guy who’s going to help you sleep at night. My guess is that until you figure out what happened to the unaccounted-for Karganov, a good night’s rest is going to be a little elusive. Am I correct?”

Stavropol said nothing.

“That’s what I thought,” said Popov. “I want half of my money up front and the other—” “No. I will give you ten thousand dollars in advance, the rest upon successful delivery of the package.”

“Now who’s being greedy?”

“Twenty thousand in advance then, and you cover your own expenses,” answered Stavropol. “Seventy-five thousand, plus expenses, or I take the police to the lake where the dead generals’ cars were mysteriously submerged.”

There was a very long pause before Stavropol responded, “Fine, you have a deal. But, Milesch?”

“Yes?”

“When this is all over, you’d better disappear somewhere far, far away.”

And with that, the line went dead. Chapter 7 AIDATA ISLAND, GULF OF FINLAND F rom Stockholm, Frank Leighton had taken the overnight ferry to Helsinki. Though he could well afford a first-class cabin with his credit card, he elected to take a lowerprofile cabin in second class instead.

This was no pleasure cruise and the less conspicuous, the better. The city of Kotka, Finland, had the largest shipping port in the entire country. It was located approximately one hundred kilometers east of Helsinki along the coast of the Gulf of Finland, facing the Baltic Sea. Kotkansaari Island formed the heart of the city and Leighton knew it well.

He knew its bars, its brothels and every place that down-ontheir-luck men would congregate. The rusted trawler and battered dinghy were owned by a struggling fisherman from the nearby coastal village of Björnvik, and was named theRebecca . With the sizable amount of American money Leighton had unearthed outside of Helsinki the day before, he was able to convince the weathered sea captain to part with his aging vessel and sail into early retirement. The old man wasn’t stupid.

This was the chance of a lifetime, the answer to all of his prayers. The fishing had been getting steadily worse in the Baltic, forcing the fishermen to engage in dangerous and illegal forays into neighboring territorial waters, not only to poach fish, but for smuggling as well. Though the old man had never engaged in any illegal activity before in his life, he was definitely not getting any younger.

TheRebecca wasn’t getting any younger either. With the transaction complete, the captain handed over the keys to theRebecca and cut his crew loose. When Leighton mentioned that Spain was very nice this time of year, the old man was smart enough to respond that he had always wanted to see the place and would be booking a flight right away. It had taken Leighton the better part of the morning and into the afternoon to purchase the supplies he needed.

When the small island came into view, the sun was already beginning to set. The Gulf of Finland was dotted with numerous small, uninhabited islands. Aidata Island, Finnish forbarrier , was aptly named as it was surrounded by jagged rocks and unforgiving sandbars, making it virtually impossible to get to by boat. Leighton coaxed the trawler through a narrow channel on the far side of the island. The passage gave way into a tiny inlet, invisible from the open sea, which was just large enough to moor theRebecca .

The rocky, windswept island was completely deserted. Even the sea birds seemed to avoid it. Its stark terrain was punctuated only by small scrub trees and sickly patches of grass. After drawing the dinghy alongside the trawler, he loaded his supplies and once again checked theRebecca ’s winch.

The last thing he needed was for it to snap or become damaged when he returned with his precious cargo. Satisfied that all was in order, he climbed down the rope ladder into the tiny rowboat and rowed himself to shore. Chapter 8 ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA A re you sure this is a good idea?” asked Meg as she watched Scot getting ready.

“If they told you to stay out of it, maybe that’s what you should do. Besides, won’t the FBI be watching his house just in case he comes back?” “Probably,” answered Harvath. “Where’s that container Rick Morrell dropped off for me?”

Though Harvath had originally had his differences with the CIA paramilitary operative, he and Morrell had grown to respect each other and had even developed a tentative friendship.

As Scot removed the odd-looking suit from the black Storm case, he reflected on how it was good to have friends who could get their hands on the latest and greatest equipment. A note was pinned to the outfit, which read, “I expect this back within two days and don’t get any blood on it. ”

Morrell was all heart . “What is that thing?” asked Meg as she reached out to touch the alien fabric.

“It’s a next-generation infrared camouflage suit. Not only is the visible pattern extremely effective against detection by the naked eye, but the material itself can reduce a person’s thermal signature by over ninety-five percent.” “Making you virtually invisible to any Forward Looking Infrared or Thermal Imaging devices.”

“You got it,” said Harvath who had to remind himself from time to time of the comprehensive training Meg had received during their hunt for the terrorist brother and sister team of Hashim and Adara Nidal. “Gary lives in a nice, well-to-do part of Fairfax.

You think the FBI is sitting in front of his house with night vision devices?”

“It’s not the guys in front that I am worried about. It’s the guys in the back where Gary’s property borders the woods. Those are the guys I want to be prepared for,” said Scot as he slid a fresh magazine into his .40-caliber SIG Sauer P229. Meg’s eyes widened in surprise.

“You’re taking a weapon with you?” Harvath glanced at the pistol for a moment and then placed it in the black duffle bag with the rest of his gear for the evening. “Ten men have already been killed,” he said as he threw in two more clips of ammo.

“What do you expect to find there?” Scot stopped his packing and looked up to meet Meg’s gaze. “To be honest, I have no idea. I don’t even know what it is I’m looking for. All I know is that none of this makes any sense.

Somebody has a very deadly list and I need to make sure Gary’s name is not on it.” “But you said yourself that neither the FBI nor the CIA know if Gary’s a target.” “Meg, I know what you think, but I owe this to Gary.”

“Why?”

“What do you meanwhy? ” “He’s a grown man.

I love him too, but he can take care of himself.” “What if he can’t?” asked Harvath as he slid the remaining items he thought he might need into the duffle and pulled the zipper shut. “You don’t even know for sure that he needs saving.”

“Meg, I don’t want this to—” began Harvath, but he was interrupted.

“And even if he is in trouble, why should it be you who saves him?” “How about the fact that he’s my friend?”

“Are you going to tell me this is something friends do for each other?”

she asked as she pulled out a chair on the other side of the table from Harvath and sat down. “In my world, yes,” answered Scot. “But Gary didn’t do that for you.”

Harvath knew what she was talking about.

When President Rutledge had been kidnapped and Harvath implicated as the only surviving Secret Service agent, Gary had seemed more concerned with getting him to turn himself in, than in helping him figure things out. “That’s not fair,” he responded. “He came through for me. Maybe not right away in the beginning—” “No, Scot, not at all.

It wasn’t until the bitter end. Not until you had provided him with enough evidence did he finally feel safe enough to help you. He didn’t do it just because you two were friends. He did it because he was finally convinced that youweren’t guilty.

There’s a big, big difference.” “I don’t agree,” said Harvath as he began walking toward his bedroom to get something. Meg’s next words stopped him dead in his tracks. “Well, maybe we can agree on this. Gary Lawlor isn’t your father.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” said Scot as he came back into the dining area of his small apartment. “It means exactly that.” “Meg, if you’re trying to somehow evaluate my psyche, you’re wasting your time and my time.

I don’t care what you think you learned from Oprah orRedbook , or wherever you’re getting this stuff, but there are some people out there that are perfectly fine and don’t have anyissues whatsoever.” The statement was so patently defensive that Meg had to take a moment to remind herself of what it was she was trying to achieve before responding. She cared enough for Scot Harvath—no, scratch that. She loved Scot Harvath enough to want him to see it for himself.

Shoving it in his face wouldn’t get her anywhere, but leading him to it might. “When was the last time you went skiing?”

she asked. “What does that have to do with anything?” “A lot.

At one point in your past, you were a damn good competitive skier. Now, you don’t even ski recreationally.” “This has gone beyond ridiculous, I’ve got someplace I have to be,” said Harvath as he went into his bedroom, retrieved the last things he needed, and walked past Meg toward the door. “All I’m saying, Scot,” offered Meg, “is that it’s not your fault that you and your father weren’t speaking when he died.”

Once again, Harvath stopped in his tracks. Without turning he said, “It was at least fifty percent my fault.” “And the other fifty was his,” said Meg as she walked over to him. She put her arms around him as she turned him around to look into his eyes.

“I want you to know that if he was here right now, he would be proud of you.” “You didn’t know him.” “No, but I know you and I know what your mother has told me about how much you two were alike. You carry around a tremendous amount of guilt about what things were like between the two of you when he died. Even if you had continued skiing, he would have been proud of you.”

“I’m saying goodbye now.”

“And I’m saying that Gary Lawlor’s approval is not going to make you feel any better about what happened between you and your father. Let the government find him. You deal with enough danger in your life without having to go and look for it. You don’t need to do this.”

“Yes I do. Ten men have died. I won’t just sit here and cross my fingers and hope that Gary isn’t marked for the number eleven slot,” said Scot, as he turned and walked out the door.

Chapter 9 I t was a blustery night with heavy snow predicted in the forecast. Though Harvath didn’t relish having to cover footprints made in freshly fallen snow, he welcomed the cloud cover as it helped to block out the moonlight.

On his initial drive down Lawlor’s street, he had missed the surveillance. It wasn’t until an hour later that he dared to make another pass and noticed them cleverly hidden in a house across the street. A white Lincoln Navigator sat cleanly off to one side of the driveway up against one of the garage doors, but why not tuck it away in the oversized three-car garage and protect it from the impending storm?

When Harvath drove by for the second time, he got his answer. As one of the garage doors opened, a casually dressed man whom Harvath assumed was the owner the house, stepped outside to take his recyclables to the curb. Sitting inside alongside a silver Mercedes coupe and a red Volvo station wagon, was a car that screamed FBI—a slightly worse for wear dark blue Dodge four-door.

Either these people were concerned about the ability of their maid’s vehicle to weather the approaching storm, or they were trying to help keep the Ford out of sight from people who would recognize it exactly for what it was. Harvath was willing to bet it was the latter. The most commanding view would have been from one of the upper floor windows facing the street, and a quick glance up was all Scot needed to confirm that he had located one of the surveillance teams.

The only question remaining was who was covering the back?
Meg’s words were still ringing in Scot’s ears as he pulled his black Chevy TrailBlazer onto a deserted side road about a mile-and-a-half behind Gary Lawlor’s home. Though he didn’t want to, he had been thinking about what she had said.

Unzipping the duffle bag in the cargo area, he tried to put it out of his mind and concentrate on what lay in front of him. After suiting up and placing the rest of his gear into a small, camouflaged backpack, Harvath set off. He moved quietly, using a small GPS device to lead him through the forest to the rear of Gary’s property. When he reached the edge of the tree line, he found a spot with a good view of the back of the two-story Colonial-style house and removed a set of night vision goggles.

The wind was blowing in fierce gusts, and a light snow had begun to fall. Harvath took his time scanning the perimeter and didn’t see anything—no intrusion detection measures and no FBI agents. Either the Bureau wasn’t holding out much hope that Lawlor would return to his house or, more likely than not, they had already been inside and the team across the street had been left in place to ‘sit’ on the residence while they applied, ipso facto, for a full blown FISA warrant to search the premises and catalogue anything they had previously found as evidence.

Either scenario was fine by Harvath. The absence of a surveillance team in back wouldn’t make his job a complete walk in the park, but it would make things easier. He took off the night vision goggles and reached into his backpack for his modified Beretta Neos.

With its modular design, it looked like a weapon straight out of aStar Wars movie. Its magazine held ten rounds of .22 LR–caliber ammunition and the full length of the weapon, before the modified stock and silencer were attached, was only twelve inches, making it very easy to conceal. It was also an extremely accurate weapon, especially when coupled with the advanced, next generation Starlight scope Harvath had brought along for the job. Having attended many barbecues in Gary Lawlor’s back yard, Scot was familiar with the motion-activated security floodlights installed around the outside of the house. This was probably another part of the reason the FBI had felt the need to only post one team to watch his residence.

As Scot pulled the trigger for the first shot, he said a silent prayer of thanks that the neighbors’ houses were set far enough apart not to be able to hear thecrack of the silenced rounds as they slammed into and disabled the floodlight sensors. He disassembled the Neos, put it back in his backpack and put his night vision goggles back on. After slowly scanning the perimeter for any signs that someone might be watching, he made a run for the rear of the house.

Fifteen feet before the back door, he already had his lock pick gun in his hand. A few moments’ work on the deadbolt and he was inside. He hoped Gary hadn’t changed his alarm code. He found the panel in the mudroom, next to the door leading in from the garage and entered the four-digit code Lawlor had given to him the last time he was out of town. It worked.

Like most people, Gary was a creature of habit. Five or six coats, including the Holland and Holland hunting jacket he had received as a gift from the president, hung from an orderly row of pegs above a wooden storage bench where Harvath stowed his backpack and night vision goggles. He attached a red filter to his compact M3 Millennium SureFire flashlight, making the beam virtually invisible to anyone outside the house, and continued on. The kitchen was neat and orderly, just like Gary himself.

There wasn’t a dish in the sink, or a spot of grease on the stovetop. Harvath hadn’t thought about it before, but the degree to which Lawlor kept his house in order was almost sad. Who did he do it for? He lived alone and besides the occasional summer barbecue, no one ever saw the house except for him. It didn’t seem healthy.

Placed above the cabinets were mementos Gary had collected during his travels throughout Europe. There were German beer steins, a drinking bowl from Sweden, a ram’s horn cup from Hungary, a hand-painted Irish jar—the assortment covered almost every country and every type of drinking vessel. Each one, Gary had once explained, had its own special story and special meaning. At the far end of the cabinets was the collector’s edition bottle of Maker’s Mark Harvath had given Lawlor as a Christmas present.

It made Scot glad to see that his gift occupied such a place of prominence in his home. There were fresh vegetables in the fridge along with a new carton of milk. Whatever had caused Gary’s disappearance, it certainly hadn’t been something he had seen coming.

Harvath decided to focus on where he knew Lawlor spent most of his time. He sat at the desk in Gary’s study going through his bills and personal papers trying to find some sort of clue as to what had happened. Numerous commendations and meritorious service awards lined the walls, along with pictures of Gary and Harvath’s father in Vietnam and later with his mother as the three of them enjoyed parties at the house in Coronado and took fishing trips to Mexico.

The centerpiece of the room was an enormous oil painting of General George S. Patton and his bull terrier, Willie, short for “William the Conqueror.”

Gary had modeled himself in many ways after the hard-charging general and was a compendium of Patton information. He was always citing one or another of the general’s famous quotes:Do not fear failure. Do more than is required of you. Make your plans fit the circumstances.

There is only one type of discipline —perfect discipline. Harvath felt guilty for being here alone and going through Gary’s bank and retirement account statements, but he knew he had to do it. It was only after he had computed Lawlor’s healthy, yet not by any means legally unachievable net worth, that he realized how ridiculous the exercise was. If Gary had been selling out his country, he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to hide his ill-gotten gains in plain sight.

Then what was it?
Harvath had come to believe that everyone, no matter how careful they were, always left behind some sort of clue, but there didn’t seem to be anything here at all. Frustrated, and wondering if the FBI had already bagged any promising items, he left Lawlor’s study and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The guest bedrooms and baths were clean—both literally and figuratively.

He approached the master bedroom with a sense of déjà vu.

Prowling around Gary’s empty house like this reminded him of what it felt like to return to his parents’ house after his father’s burial ten years ago. His mother had been too distraught to do anything. Closing out his father’s affairs had been left to Scot and Gary.

Going through his personal effects, his papers, his clothes—it all felt just like this.

It was as if Gary had died. He hoped to God he was wrong. As he entered the master bedroom, the first thing he noticed was the neatly made bed. The sheets and blankets looked so perfectly tight that Harvath knew he could bounce a quarter off of them military style, just like his father had always done to him.

He ran his finger along the top of the dresser where there was only the slightest trace of dust. Socks, underwear, and handkerchiefs had been neatly pressed and folded and placed in separate drawers. A small brown leather box contained two watches, several pairs of cuff links, several tie clips, and a discarded wedding band. In the closet, stacks of crisply starched shirts sat in a perfect row along the shelf, while a line of suits hung in gradation of color above a phalanx of perfectly polished wingtip shoes. As Scot marveled at the man’s penchant for organization, he noticed that something was slightly out of place.

All of the suits were enshrouded in clear plastic dry cleaner’s bags. One in particular, though, seemed to have been hastily hung. The bag was not covering the entire suit and it was bunched up where it had been slid between its two neighbors. Harvath noted that the suit was black and wondered if maybe Gary had thought about packing that one for the memorial service and at the last minute had changed his mind and shoved it back in his closet.

Possible, but not likely.

Not unless Gary was running behind and had been in a tremendous hurry. For all he knew, some careless FBI agent had pulled it out and shoved it back in place, but somehow he doubted it. They would have left things exactly as they had found them so on their return they could videotape everything the way Gary had left it. Scot searched the bathroom.

There was no deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrush or razor evident, which made sense as Gary had been about to take a trip when this entire thing, whatever it was, went down. The toilet and sink were spotless, but the chrome wastebasket was filled with discarded tissues. Harvath pulled several of them out, only to discover that none had been used.

That was strange . He kept digging only to find that the entire garbage can was filled with unused tissues. What was Gary hiding?
After emptying the can of tissues, Harvath could clearly make out the remnants of a small fire. There was a trace amount of ash and some melted plastic around the seam in the bottom of the can. A quick check of the shower confirmed Harvath’s suspicions.

The ceiling above had been slightly browned as if by smoke. Some ash was still visible around the drain. Apparently, Gary had burned something in the shower and had tried to rinse the can out afterwards. When he couldn’t get ride of all of the evidence, he decided to fill the can with tissues.

But why?

What did he need to hide so badly that he had to burn it?

For the first time, Scot’s confidence in the man was shaken. As Harvath continued to search the bathroom, he flipped open the lid of the laundry hamper and was stunned by what he discovered. Inside were three days’ worth of clean, warm weather clothes—most still perfectly folded. The forecast in Southern California had called for temperatures in the mid-eighties. It was as if Gary had just dumped the clothes right out of his suitcase instead of taking the time to put them away back in the bedroom.

A poorly hung suit was something Harvath could chalk up to a thoughtless Bureau investigator or packing in a hurry, but now signs were starting to point more toward a hurriedunpacking . Even though Gary hadn’t bothered to call him, he might have phoned someone else. That someone might know what had happened to him. At the same time, Harvath knew that even while the Bureau waited for a FISA warrant, they would have already established a trap and trace on Gary’s phone and would have been going through all of his incoming and outgoing phone logs.
Harvath also knew that if the Bureau had been in the house, which was almost a slam dunk considering the well being of its former deputy director was currently in question, that they would have most likely relied solely on the phone company to provide them with Gary’s phone activity.

That meant that the phones themselves might at least catch Harvath up on the most recent activity. Leaving the master bedroom, Scot walked downstairs to the study where he picked up the phone and hit theredial button. There was a long pause and clicking noises before a series of ear splitting tones, which sounded like a fax machine at full volume, blasted on the other end. Must have been a wrong number , thought Harvath as he hung up.

But why wouldn’t Gary have found the right number and tried again?

None of this was making any sense.

Harvath hit*  69 to see who Lawlor’s last call had been from. The automated voice gave a Maryland area code followed by a seven-digit number, which Scot wrote with a pen onto the palm of his hand. At least it was something. Whether that something would actually be worthwhile was another question entirely, but he didn’t have any time to toss that possibility around now. If there was a trap and trace, the FBI would now know that someone was in the house and that the phone had been used.

He had to get out. As Harvath took one last look at the pictures on the walls of Gary’s study, he whispered into the darkness, “Where the hell are you?”

Chapter 10 BERLIN, GERMANY G ary Lawlor spat the blood from his mouth, looked into the eyes of Helmut Draegar and said for the third time, “Fuck you.”

The large, stone room, with its out-of-date furniture, empty filing cabinets, and antiquated communications consoles, was cold and damp. From the little Lawlor could remember of being transported here, it was someplace deep underground.

Estimating the probable amount of time he had been incapacitated by the Taser, Lawlor figured they must still be somewhere in Berlin, or just on its outskirts. Often, he could hear a faint, but distinct rumbling, like jackhammers, and thought that they must be near some sort of construction, which wasn’t any help because in Berlin, that could be anywhere. “Though this gives me great pleasure, it is not working, is it?” asked Draegar as he set down the oblong strip of leather clad iron he had been using to beat his prisoner and removed his black leather gloves. “We should try something else.”

He motioned to his assistant and for the first time, Gary noticed the flesh of Draegar’s right hand. There was something uneven about it. No, not uneven, butwrong .

The color was off. Then he realized. It was a prosthetic. Draegar’s assistant, addressed as Karl, was a sinewy man in his late forties with opaque eyes and a sickly, jaundiced complexion.

He wheeled over a large surgical lamp and plugged it into a nearby outlet as Draegar said, “I see you looking at my hand.” “How?” said Lawlor. “Wolves caught in snares have been known to gnaw off their own leg in order to escape.

Do you think when presented with the same obstacles human beings would be any different?”

Lawlor wanted to vomit. At that moment, Karl flipped the switch and the murky room was suddenly awash in bright fluorescent light. As he adjusted the lamp, it flashed briefly in Lawlor’s eyes and caused him to see spots before it was lowered to focus on his mouth.

What the hell were they doing? The answer came quickly enough as his captor wheeled over a small stainless steel surgical tray and unrolled a worn leather case containing a series of long, chrome plated picks, probes, mirrors and dental pliers. “I actually first saw this in a movie,” said Draegar as he carefully selected the tools he would need and began placing them off to one side of the tray.

“It takes a very precise hand, if you will, but can yield great results. The key is in prolonging the life of the exposed nerve for as long as possible, but if the one you are working on dies, which with this method inevitably happens, not to worry. We just expose a new one.”

With his hands and feet flexi-cuffed to the old wooden chair he was sitting upon, Lawlor could only stare in disbelief as Karl plugged a portable electric dental drill into another wall outlet, unraveled its long cord and then brought it over and set it down on the tray next to the other instruments. Instinctively, Gary clamped his teeth together as tight as he could. Draegar noticed the ripple roll across Lawlor’s jaw and said, “Resistance.

Excellent.

It will help keep things interesting.” As Karl maneuvered himself behind Lawlor, Draegar continued speaking, “One way or another, I will extract the information I need from you.” Though Lawlor’s body was tense in anticipation of the sheer agony Draegar had in store for him, in a small, removed corner of his mind there was clarity.

Draegar had used the wordneed . Though the former Stasi operative obviously took pleasure in torturing him, he would not kill him, at least not right away.

But the primary question that dominated Gary Lawlor’s mind was how in the world Helmut Draegar had survived Gary’s attempt on his life.

Night after night he had lain awake devising the method by which he would kill the man who had murdered his wife. When the time came, he had carried out his plan in perfect detail, even allowing himself time to watch the explosion as it shook the ancient building and spat a thundering cloud of smoke and fiery debris into the night sky. But somehow, here Draegar was.

How was it possible? How could he have escaped? As Karl’s hands gripped the side of Gary’s head and his fingers tried to pry their way into his mouth, his mind was jolted back to the present. The man was strong and Lawlor did his best to resist him, thrashing in his chair as much as his restraints would allow. “Pitiful,” said Draegar as he delivered an agonizing blow with a truncheon to Lawlor’s groin area, “but to be expected.”

As Lawlor opened his mouth, a whoosh of air burst forth along with a deep groan of pain. Karl was ready for the reflex and shoved two rubber blocks between his teeth as far back as they would go. The blocks caused Lawlor to gag, but nothing he could do would dislodge them.

They were wedged in tight, forcing his jaw wide open and fully exposing his teeth. The blocks set in place, Karl stretched a tight metal band across Lawlor’s forehead, bending his neck backwards, until the band locked into a restraining device on the back of the chair. Draegar positioned his lamp so he could get a good look into Gary’s mouth and began slowly probing his teeth with one of the sharp dental picks. “Americans take oral hygiene very seriously, don’t they?

You have lovely teeth.

Absolutely lovely for the most part,” said Draegar as he continued his exam. “But, I am a little concerned with this one here.” He emphasized his point by adding pressure to the pick.

Lawlor’s body involuntarily convulsed. “Just as I suspected. Do you know much about teeth?” asked Draegar, who waited for some sign from Lawlor. When he didn’t get it, he pressed down with the pick again and watched Lawlor’s body tense against the restraints as if it had been jolted with an electric shock.

“You see, inside each tooth is what we call pulp which provides the nutrients and nerves to the tooth. It runs like a little thread right down into the root. When it is diseased or damaged, as yours appears to be, the pulp can die, exposing the nerve.

That is the pain you are feeling now.”

Once again he pressed down with the pick and watched Lawlor’s body thrash like a man in the electric chair, before continuing. “The obvious course here would be to dig out the pulp, clean out the area and seal it. The procedure is commonly known as a root canal.”

Draegar removed the pick from Lawlor’s mouth and set it on the tray beside him. “You are actually quite lucky that I discovered your tooth problem. Had it gone on much longer, it could have been quite a mess, but I think we may have gotten to it just in time. It is quite painful, isn’t it? In fact, I would imagine that the anticipation of my further prodding has to be just as dreadful as the act itself.”

Lawlor fixed Draegar with a cold, hard stare.

“If you answer my questions, we can be done with all of this. No more pain.

No more fear of pain.

Tell me what I need to know and it all stops,” said Draegar as he swabbed Lawlor’s damaged tooth with a short-acting topical anesthetic. “Are the same men still involved?

Has the team been updated?

What is your contingency plan if they fail?” Lawlor closed his eyes and let his body go limp, as if resigning himself to surrender.

“That’s it,” said Draegar. “Cooperate and all of the pain goes away.” After several moments had passed, Lawlor opened his eyes.

Draegar smiled. “You are ready to answer me now?”

Though the rubber blocks had his jaws stretched to what felt like the breaking point, Gary steeled himself, opened his mouth even wider and retracted his tongue, providing Helmut Draegar with unfettered access to his tooth. Through the bright glare of the surgical lamp, Lawlor was able to enjoy a brief moment of victory as he saw the surprised reaction on Draegar’s face. The look was soon replaced by one of sadistic determination as Draegar lifted the old dental drill and pumped life into it via its foot pedal on the floor.

The nauseating smoke from the drill bit burning through his tooth bothered him only for a second. Soon, there was nothing other than a roiling tidal wave of pain. Chapter 11 EASTON, MARYLAND B eing an agent of the OIIA had several advantages, not the least of which was access to the vast resources and databases of the Department of Homeland Security. Ten minutes was all it had taken for Harvath to track down the name and address attached to the phone number he had pulled from Gary Lawlor’s house.

He was fairly confident that he had never heard Gary mention anyone named Frank Leighton before, but that didn’t mean they weren’t somehow connected. When it came to Gary, Scot was no longer taking anything for granted. The Leighton residence was one of only a handful of houses along a quiet country lane known as Waverly Island Road, just outside downtown Easton, Maryland. The Cape Cod–style dwelling faced a farmer’s field across the road while its backyard sloped gently down toward the Tred Avon River, one of the Chesapeake Bay’s many tributaries.

Though the snow had been falling for most of Harvath’s drive, it began to let up around Annapolis and by the time he had crossed the Chesapeake and had arrived in Easton, it had stopped altogether.

Making more than one pass down the practically deserted road at three in the morning was out of the question, as it would only draw undue attention, especially if the FBI was sitting on Leighton’s house. Though many people often got lost on the country lanes that dead-ended at water up and down the Eastern Shore, the last thing Harvath needed was to attract notice.

He found a secluded spot at the end of the road and after parking the TrailBlazer, grabbed his gear and walked back along the shoreline toward his target. He had tried calling Leighton’s house three times from his encrypted cell phone on the drive down, but no one had answered. If there was a trap and trace on Leighton’s line, the FBI were going to have a very difficult time deciphering where Harvath’s calls were coming from. After surveying the rear of the property with his night vision goggles and not seeing anything, Harvath tried calling the house again.

No one answered, so he decided to make his move. Using a thick line of trees for cover, he made his way along the southern edge of the property until he was parallel with the rear of the house. He waited for several minutes crouched among the trees and scanned the area once more before darting across the snow-covered lawn toward the back door. With his lock pick gun in hand, he had the door open in a matter of seconds and was creeping quietly down a short hallway.

The house was cold and it was not just “somebody had turned down the heat for the night cold,” but rather “somebody had not been in the house for a while and had not needed the heat” kind of cold. Harvath passed a small bathroom and an empty guestroom. As he neared the end of the hallway, he noticed a digital thermostat mounted on the wall.

Flipping up the cover and using the filtered beam from his flashlight, Harvath cycled through the daily settings. The system had been set to maintain a constant, bare minimum temperature for every day of the week. Harvath was getting the feeling that whomever Frank Leighton was, he didn’t plan on being home for a while.

The house was tidy, but not overly so. After checking the rest of the bedrooms and finding them empty, Harvath entered the kitchen and did a quick scan. Upon opening the refrigerator, he saw that though it contained at least six different kinds of salad dressings, both of the vegetable crisper drawers were empty and there were no salad fixings.

When he looked underneath the sink, he found a metal garbage can with a clean liner. Somebody had not only set the temperature down before leaving, but had also removed all of the perishables from the fridge and taken out the trash. Out of curiosity, Harvath removed the garbage pail liner and was surprised at what he found beneath. The can was blackened from having something burned in it and showed trace remnants of ash—just like the garbage can at Gary Lawlor’s. Had Leighton and Lawlor burned the same thing?

If so, what was it?

What connected these two besides ownership of metal wastebaskets and a penchant for burning things in them? Was Leighton somehow part of the mystery surrounding Gary’s disappearance?
What the hell was this all about? Quietly, Harvath moved past a butler’s pantry into the laundry and storage room that doubled as Frank Leighton’s home office.

He looked at the pictures pinned to the corkboard near the desk while he pushed the power button on the computer and waited for it to boot up. There was a photo of a woman with two children and he wondered if maybe she was Leighton’s ex. There had been no women’s clothes in the closets, nor had there been any woman’s touch in the house to suggest that he was currently married or living with someone. A quick perusal of the contents in the sole desk drawer produced the usual bank and mortgage statements, all in Leighton’s name, as well as a recentto do list.

While several of the items had been checked off, other items such aspick up dry cleaning andhaircut were devoid of check marks. Several unpaid bills also lay in the drawer, their due dates drawing nigh. It all contributed to the picture of yet another very hasty departure. As Harvath sat down to examine the computer, which had finally completed its startup, something on a shelf across from the desk caught his eye.

An ornately painted beer stein held a handful of pens and colored pencils. He rolled the chair over to the bookshelf and removed the mug. The front featured a detailed relief of “Checkpoint Charlie”—the former border control checkpoint between East and West Berlin with the phrase, “You are now leaving the American sector,” in English, Russian, French, and German.

Oddly enough, at the very bottom of the mug where it flared out, was wrapped a piece of barbed wire. What was even more interesting, was that as odd a drinking vessel as it was, Harvath had seen one just like it before in Gary’s kitchen. He remembered Lawlor getting on the subject of beer steins one night and telling Harvath that because of the bubonic plague and subsequent health ordinances of the sixteenth century, all food and beverage containers in Germany were required by law at that time to be covered to protect their contents.

To make them easy to open and close with one hand, the Germans had devised a hinged lid with a thumb-lift. As Harvath now turned the mug around, he saw the same inscription on the back as on Gary’s. It was a passage written in German entitled, “Für die Sicherheit.” Translating into English, he read it aloud and said, “For the Security.

If one of us is getting tired, somebody else is watching over. If one of us starts doubting, somebody else is believing with a smile. If one of us should fall, somebody else will stand for two. God will give a companion to every fighter.”

Though it was the second time in his life he had read the inscription, Harvath still had no idea what its significance was.

The one and only time he had asked about it, Gary had shrugged it off as a simple memento of his time spent overseas. As he took a closer look, Harvath noticed that the stein appeared to have been commissioned by a pub called theLeydicke because its name was not only engraved upon the lid, but was also painted on the bottom, along with a serial number. Leighton’s was number seven of only twelve. Harvath wasn’t about to risk another trip back to Lawlor’s house, but he was sure that if he did, he would find that the same barbed-wirewrapped stein resting above Gary’s kitchen cabinets was a perfect match for Frank Leighton’s. It probably also had a serial number from the same batch.

Had Leighton and Gary known each other in Berlin? Scot set the stein back in its place and rolled himself back over to the computer when he heard it chime. Leighton’s web browser had opened to an Internet weather site that had been established as his home page. Clicking on the tab next to the address field, Harvath dropped down a list of the most recently visited web sites.

At the top of the list was American Airlines.

Scot clicked on the link and moments later was transported to their home page. The site recognized that it was being accessed by Leighton’s computer and asked him to enter his password. Harvath took a couple of incorrect stabs before the site finally shut him down.

He scrolled through Leighton’s Outlook Express and found nothing out of the ordinary. Like everyone else with a computer, Leighton was plagued with electronic junk mail. Harvath was about to give up when he noticed that Leighton had received an autoconfirmation email from American Airlines for a roundtrip ticket purchase to Stockholm, Sweden. The ticket had been issued in the name of Johan Saritsa for same day travel three days ago.

The return was set for a month later, but Harvath figured the date was probably bogus and the return flight would go unused. Leighton obviously had not anticipated an automatic email confirmation of his flight purchase. Now, Harvath had the alias he was traveling under and with a couple of well placed phone calls, would be able to get the full credit card number Leighton had used to pay for his flight. The haystack had not necessarily gotten any smaller, but the needle had just gotten a little bit bigger.

Harvath was about to turn on the printer and print out a copy of the flight confirmation, when he heard something from the kitchen. With barely a sound, he was out of the chair with his SIG Sauer drawn. Someone was in the house. He pulled the night vision goggles from his backpack, powered them up and put them on. Leighton could have returned, but he doubted it.

His gut told him somebody else was inside and he had learned long ago that his gut was seldom wrong. Hugging the wall of the laundry room, he focused on slowing his breathing. He counted to three and then button-hooked around the laundry room door into the short hall leading to the kitchen.

With his pistol out in front of him, he swept it along with his eyes from left to right and back again.

Nothing. Could he have imagined it?

, he wondered as he moved cautiously forward. Maybe it was just the heater kicking on. It had been getting progressively colder in the house and part of him had been willing the old Cape Cod to warm up. As he neared the kitchen, he stopped for a moment and listened.

He could hear what sounded like air blowing through the heating vents. Maybe it was the heater after all. Just at that moment, the door to the butler’s pantry exploded open, and before Harvath could react, someone knocked him onto the floor.

The figure clutched furiously at Harvath’s right hand, trying to tear away his weapon. Harvath fought back hard, delivering several sharp punches to the man’s kidneys. The intense pain caused the man to let up on his assault, and that was the edge Harvath needed.

He pushed himself away from his attacker and struggled to regain his feet. His mysterious assailant, though, was faster. The man lashed out with a sweeping kick that took Harvath’s legs right out from under him.

He hit the floor hard, with his head crashing into the wall, which sent his night vision goggles flying. The pistol, though, was still grasped tightly in his hand. The only thing he was seeing were stars and all he could do was point his sidearm in the direction he believed his attacker to be. As he did, there was the quickschlink of what sounded like two pipes being fitted together, followed immediately by the sound of something slicing through the air.

It was only as his assailant’s telescoping baton hit Harvath’s pistol and knocked it from his hand, that he fully realized what the noises had been. Harvath pulled his new Benchmade Auto AXIS knife from his pocket and depressed the button, which swung the blade up and locked it into place, but it was knocked from his hand as well. As an added measure, his attacker delivered a searing blow to the upper thigh of his right leg with the tactical baton.

The man was good—too good, especially to be part of an FBI surveillance team, and as Harvath’s vision cleared he could see that his opponent was already regaining his feet. He didn’t want to risk another spinning kick and having his legs taken out from underneath him again, so he used his feet to propel him backwards as fast as he could go along the floor into the kitchen. The minute he took off, his attacker was almost right on top of him.

Harvath made it as far as the kitchen sink before the man took another swing with the baton and connected with his ribs. As the man raised the baton for another strike, Harvath rolled hard to his left out of the way and ripped open the nearest cabinet door. The baton missed its mark, and Harvath thrust his hand under the sink.

The first thing he touched was Frank Leighton’s canister of starter fluid. Pulling the canister from the cabinet, he flicked off the lid and sprayed the fluid in his attacker’s face as the baton came down again and caught him in the shoulder. With a yelp of surprise, the man dropped his weapon and his hands flew to his poisoned eyes.

The fumes from the fluid caused him to gasp for air.
Harvath leapt to his feet and threw a blistering kick into the man’s abdomen. As his attacker fell to the floor, Harvath swept the countertop with his arm until he found what he was looking for. He ripped the cord from the coffee maker and positioned himself behind his attacker, wrapping the cord around the man’s neck. “Who the fuck are you?” he commanded as he applied pressure.

The man could only gasp for breath and Harvath realized he would never get anything from him like this. He withdrew the cord from around the man’s neck and shoved him face forward onto the floor. Harvath used the cord to bind the man’s hands behind him and then searched him for additional weapons. He found a semiautomatic Smith & Wesson, which he tucked into his waistband, and a small Motorola radio.

Apparently, this guy wasn’t working alone. He unplugged the man’s earpiece and microphone from the unit and then hoisted him up and leaned him over the edge of the sink, where he turned on the water so his captive could rinse his face under the faucet. While the mystery man was flushing out his eyes, nose, and mouth, Harvath kept one hand firmly on the cord binding his wrists and used his free hand to turn up the volume on the Motorola. Before Harvath could make any assessments of how dangerous it was to leave the house and who might be waiting for him outside, he had to find out who he was dealing with.

“Bath time’s over,” said Harvath as he yanked the man’s head from beneath the faucet and spun him around to face him. “I’ll ask you again. Who are you?

FBI?”

“Fuck you,” he replied. “Fuck me?

Fine,” answered Harvath as slammed his fist into the man’s solar plexus. He waited several moments for him to catch his breath, then withdrew the Smith & Wesson, chambered a round and pointed it him. “I’m done playing around. I want to know who you are and what you’re doing here.”

The man appeared unsteady and wobbled as if he was going to pass out. Harvath tried to steady him as his head lolled backwards. Then right out of the blue, it came snapping forward and connected with Harvath’s, accompanied by a loud crack. Harvath should have seen it coming.

And because he didn’t, he was once again seeing stars. By the time he was able to shake it off, the man had already run out of the kitchen down the other hallway toward the back door. He chased after him, but came to a dead stop when he reached the hallway, as four heavily armed men were blocking his way. As the laser sights from their submachine guns lit up his chest like a Christmas tree, Harvath realized he was not only outmanned, but outgunned. When the man who had attacked him had been untied, he walked back up to Harvath and hit him harder than he had ever been hit before in his life.

The blow to his stomach made him double over in pain. The man retrieved his Smith & Wesson, placed it against Harvath’s chest as a bag was pulled over his head, and said, “All my life I’ve been waiting to kill one of you.” Chapter 12 ZVENIGOROD, RUSSIA M ilesch Popov drove back into the town of Zvenigorod singing along to the Snoop Doggy Dog tune “Gin and Juice” that was pumping out of the stereo system of his new Jeep Grand Cherokee.

The lyrics, “…with my mind on my money and my money on my mind,” were profoundly appropriate. Though Popov had no idea what he was doing, with a seventy-five-thousand-dollar advance, he knew he could figure it out pretty quick.

And lest anyone should forget, the deal he had so artfully negotiated with Sergei Stavropol was for seventy-five thousandplus expenses, against an eventual five hundred thousand U.S. upon delivery of the package—General Anatoly Karganov’s body, or what was left of it. Popov had all but convinced himself that the new Cherokee could rightly be categorized as an expense. He needed it and was sure that Stavropol would appreciate his rationale. Zvenigorod was no Russian backwater, at least not anymore.

Because of its wooded hills and crystal clear rivers, it had often been called the Russian Switzerland, but now with the influx of rich New Russians building their weekend dachas along the river, it was truly beginning to feel like it.

In fact, prices for everything had gotten so ridiculously out of control around Zvenigorod that the running joke among the locals was that the only difference between Zvenigorod and Switzerland was that Switzerland was cheaper. With the right car and the right clothes—a Giorgio Armani suit, another legitimate business expense—Popov had no doubt he would be looked upon as just another rich Muscovite fleeing his harried city life for the peace and tranquility of the Russian countryside. Popov, though, hated the countryside. It reminded him of the orphanage in Nizhnevartovsk, in northeastern Russia on the western edge of Siberia, where he had lived until he ran away when he was ten. It had taken him nine weeks to travel the almost fifteen hundred miles to Moscow, stowing away in the occasional truck, but more often than not traveling by foot, and once he had finally arrived, he never looked back.

Over the next twelve years, he suckled at the underbelly of Russia’s largest city, building a modest, albeit successful empire of his own, specializing in extortion, racketeering, and stolen automobiles. To those unfamiliar with him, Popov might have appeared to be out of his league on this job, but in truth, he was blessed with the gift of being a lot smarter than he looked. The old hunting lodge was still surrounded by crime scene tape when he brought the Grand Cherokee to a stop in the driveway. There didn’t appear to be any cops around and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

He didn’t welcome the thought of having to put his fake state inspector credentials to the test. But in all fairness, there wasn’t much he wasn’t prepared to do for a five-hundred-thousand-dollar windfall.

He grabbed the brown file folder off the passenger seat and climbed out of the car. “I fuckin’ hate winter,” he mumbled to himself as he turned the collar of his expensive overcoat up against the wind. Images of sunshine, scantily clad women and a nice vacation villa somewhere in the Greek Islands crowded his mind and he pushed them aside so he could get on with the job at hand.

The sooner he got some answers, the sooner he would get paid. The file he was holding, just like the Cherokee and the Armani suit, was another justifiable business expense. He had gone very far out on a limb to get it, and he would charge Stavropol dearly for it, but it represented a huge savings in time for him. In his hands he held all that not only the local police knew about the case, but also information from Russia’s prestigious FSB. He had read it several times over and though it represented the efforts of some of the country’s top criminologists, Popov was not one to let others do his thinking for him.

Besides, he had a piece of the puzzle that the cops didn’t; he knew that Stavropol was somehow involved with the murders. Popov removed a stiletto knife from his pocket and cut the crime scene tape sealing the front door. After a few moments of working on the antiquated lock with his picks, he was inside. The great hall, with its enormous fireplace, was where the police believed the murders had taken place.

As he walked around, Popov could see where blood had stained the floor and walls. He wondered what Stavropol’s beef had been with the three men. They had been respected military leaders, just like him—great warriors. He was about to ask himself how Stavropol could kill his comrades and then realized how stupid he was being.

He saw it on the streets of Moscow every day. That was simply how the world worked. Anyway, it had nothing to do with him and what he was being paid so handsomely to figure out. Out of the three missing generals, the police had retrieved only two bodies. One had been bludgeoned to death and the other shot.

The third was anyone’s guess, though they did find traces of blood in the empty grave that matched Karganov’s blood type. If the two men had been murdered in the great hall, the quickest way to dispose of the bodies would have been to drag them through the kitchen and out back. He followed the trail of blood through the kitchen and briefly referred to the file, which positively identified the blood trails as belonging to both Varensky and Primovich, but noted that there was no trace of blood there that could be attributed to Karganov. Outside he found the three graves were still cordoned off, but had been steadily filling with snow.

As he examined the crime scene photographs in his file, he positioned himself in the different places that the cameraperson must have stood to take the shots. He focused his attention on the pictures of the empty grave, which was believed to have held Karganov’s body and read the report again. When police found it, it appeared to have been disturbed, though by what, they couldn’t say. Besides the traces of blood in the grave, there was nothing specific to indicate that a body had been there. Popov had done his homework.

He knew that Zvenigorod was not known for its wolves and that if any animal had actually gotten to the body, it would most likely have been a wild boar. But boars and wolves would eat their catch on the spot; they wouldn’t have dragged it away.

And when wolves and boars feed, they leave evidence behind, yet there was none. Finally, it seemed that Primovich and Varensky had bled more heavily than Karganov—a sure attractor for a carnivorous animal. All that blood, and yet their graves were untouched. No, it wasn’t a wild animal at work here. Popov was sure of it.

Karganov had somehow gotten out of that grave and had left under his own power, or someone had helped him. Though he had ruled out one possibility, Popov appeared no closer to answering the big question—where the hell was General Anatoly Karganov?

A chill wind and a blast of icy snow froze the back of his neck and the sharp jolt caused him to ponder for the first time what might be at stake if he didn’t succeed.

Men like Sergei Stavropol might respect those who set limits and drove hard bargains, but there was one thing that they certainly didn’t respect and that was failure. He had heard about Stavropol and what had happened to men who had disappointed him—even his own soldiers. Popov tucked the file under his arm and hurried back to the Cherokee, possessed suddenly by a motivation even greater than a mountain made of money—the desire to stay alive.

Chapter 13 SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE ZVENIGOROD,

RUSSIA

A natoly Karganov awoke with a start. Being buried alive had a way of doing that to people. Once you thought you were over the horror, you began to let your guard down. You no longer consciously replayed the terrible events over and over again in your mind.

You stopped thinking how lucky you were to be alive. Your energies then turned toward making sure it never happened again. But the terror still lurked behind the curtain of consciousness, lingering in your psyche, waiting until you were most vulnerable to pop out and force you to relive the horror all over again.

But as he awoke, the slender, yet firm hands of a woman were there once again to calm him.

Where she had come from, he had no idea, but in his delirium, he was convinced that she must be some sort of angel who had snatched him from the jaws of death. He had heard his soldiers tell of extraordinary visions they had witnessed on the battlefield as they teetered on the threshold of death, and now he was certain that this was what was happening to him. The woman placed a cool compress on his forehead in an attempt not only to calm him, but also to help assuage the fever that had racked his body for the last week.

Bullet wounds were extremely prone to infection and try as she might, most of her efforts appeared to be in vain. Karganov was hanging on to life, but just barely. She changed the dressings, administered the antibiotics and kept him nourished. That was all she could do.

The fight was Karganov’s at this point, not hers, at least not entirely. The man had cost her precious time. He had information she needed, but he was in no condition to give it. It was extremely difficult to play nursemaid to one of the men responsible for her father’s greatest embarrassment and eventual downfall, but she had been lucky to find him alive at all.

The bullet wound had been serious, but not fatal, though the subsequent infection could prove to be the man’s ultimate undoing. When they had rolled him into his grave, he landed on his side, with his arm above his head. It had been just enough to create a small pocket of air. With the grazing wound the bullet had caused to his head, it was a wonder he had regained consciousness at all, but he had.

The man’s primal instinct for survival and self-preservation had eventually kicked in and he had managed to claw his way out of the grave and collapse beside it. The woman who now tended him had been watching the meeting from the woods. The distance had been less than optimal for the operation of her parabolic microphone.

All she had been able to pick up were scattered words and phrases. There had been names— maybe first names, maybe last, as well as a few names of American cities. She also had made out the wordsairspace andguidance systems . They were pieces of a maddening puzzle that without the overall picture from one of the players, were near impossible to comprehend, much less begin to put together.

She knew only what her father had known. In his last days, as the cancer ate away at what was left his body, he chose to die at home. Though the doctors told him they could make him more comfortable if he remained in the hospital, he chose to return to the things which had provided so much comfort during the darkest days of his life—his books and his only daughter.

After all, he was Russian, and thereby no stranger to discomfort. His daughter followed the doctors’ orders to the letter, administering the morphine in the appropriate doses at the appropriate times. When he shared with her the secret of his undoing, the reason why their previously comfortable life had been reduced to one of shame and hardship, she thought that it was the medication speaking and not her father. It was too fantastic to be believed. There were so many things that didn’t make sense.

She just smiled at him and pretended to listen as her mind wandered. It had been incredibly painful to watch her father die such an ignoble death. When the time came, she paid for his funeral out of her own pocket. That was expected, as was the fact that no one from her father’s professional career and years of service to his country had attended his memorial. The state had all but turned its back on her father many years ago, though it could never prove any of the allegations against him.

In Russia, allegations were enough to break a man, and indeed they had. She comforted herself with the fact that at least her father had not died alone. Broken, yes, but not alone.

And so had been the measure of her defiance.

She had stood by as her father’s most formidable defender right until the end. This was one of the greatest reasons his ranting had hurt her so deeply. After years of her defending him, he died admitting that the state had been right all along.

He drew a large measure of satisfaction from the fact that though they had known what he was up to, they could never prove it. He had outsmarted them. He had outplayed them at their own game.

The daughter had followed in his footsteps, choosing the same career, and by all accounts had exceeded her father. She had been one of the best Russia had ever seen, and the state never bore her any overt ill will for her father’s failings. They did, however, whisper and talk behind her back, but this made her want to succeed all the more.

She wasn’t only doing it for herself and the advancement of her career, she was also doing it for him. And through it all, her father had reminded her never to confuse the state with the country. Governments, as well as political ideologies, would come and go like the tides. What mattered most was her country and the people who dwelled within it and relied upon it.

“Never forget that you are a Russian first,” he always told her. And she never did. It took her several emotional days to sort through her father’s belongings and close up his small house. She saved the photos, some of his favorite books and classical records, and the few mementos he had retained of her mother. The items she didn’t want, but which she thought might be useful to the old woman next door who had been so kind to her father over the years, especially as his illness progressed, she placed in a box and left in the center of the room.

The last thing she had to do, she almost relegated to a phone call, but her emotions got the better of her. She drove her aging Lada hatchback the three miles to the small garden plot her father rented. Here he proudly grew crops of beets, onions, radishes, potatoes, cabbage, and watermelon and even nourished a prodigious apple tree. She unlocked the tool shed and opened its double doors, the musty, earthen smell reminding her of the long days in summer she used to spend here with her father, toiling in his beloved garden.

After losing her mother at such a young age, she had made her father the center of her universe, the sun around which everything else revolved. As she selected the few clay pots that the windowsills of her tiny apartment would accommodate, she suddenly felt very much alone in the world. In the corner of the shed was the bright yellow bucket and gardening tools she had used as a little girl. She had often asked her father why he never threw them away and he always responded that they reminded him of a simpler time—a time before she had begun to question his every decision.

But such, he would sigh, was the natural progression of life.

She placed the yellow bucket and its tools along with the clay pots in the back of her Lada. The remaining gardening equipment would go to the renters of the neighboring plots who in the summertime had relaxed with her father after a long day’s work in their gardens and drank kvass, the beerlike beverage made from fermented black bread. She smiled as she remembered how her father would constantly tease her for turning her nose up at it. Thankfully, there were always wives present at these gatherings of the men, which meant delicious cups of cold Russian tea. She never lost her appreciation of the time she had spent in that garden.

Even after she grew up and moved into the city, she still came back on weekends just to be there with her father. Often they went for long stretches not saying a thing, just working in the soil, the simple act of being close to one another saying all that needed to be said. It being winter, and the middle of the week, none of the neighboring plot renters were anywhere to be seen.

From the bag on the front seat of her car, she removed a tattered rag doll. It had been a gift from her father when she was four years old. The doll was dressed in the typical clothes of a peasant farm girl. It had been her constant companion for years and she had always brought it on their trips to the garden plot.

She looked down at the doll and smiled. It had been many things for her throughout its life—a playmate, confidant, even the embodiment of her departed mother, and for it now to aid her in deceit was something she never would have imagined. Such, though, was the nature of her training.

A believable falsehood must always be in place before conducting a clandestine operation. The ground was frozen, so she chose the pointed shovel from the shed and walked to the rear of the plot. She felt somewhat embarrassed, like a naïve child searching for pirate treasure as she counted off the prescribed paces from the apple tree. She remembered her father telling her how he had planted it the year she was born.

He loved to say that it had grown tall and beautiful, just like his daughter. She set the doll down and began to dig. Had anyone come along and asked what she was doing, she could present the doll and explain that she was laying it to rest at the base of her father’s favorite tree.

If any of the neighboring plot renters had happened by, they would not only have known the significance the tree held for her father, but they would also recognize the little peasant doll. It would have made sense for her to close a chapter of her life by burying part of her past. The work was slow going and the raw winter wind bit at her cheeks. She was beginning again to consider her father’s words as nothing more than the ravings of a sick and dying man when the shovel hit something that gave forth a resoundingthud .

She brought the point of the shovel down again and felt something splinter beneath it. Quickly, she shoveled more dirt from the hole until she could trace around the edges of a small wooden crate about two feet square. She dusted the earth from the top of the box and saw that the wood had begun to rot.

Using the point of the shovel, she pried the top loose. Sealed in a clear plastic bag inside was her father’s old battered leather briefcase—the same one she had watched him leave for work with every day and return home again with at night. It had looked like any briefcase any ordinary father would carry to his office. Staring at it now and realizing that her father and his job had been anything but ordinary, the briefcase now seemed ominous.

The fact that he had chosen to bury it in the relative anonymity of his garden plot perhaps meant that his almost unbelievable story might have been more than the mere ranting of a drugged man on his deathbed. As she held the old leather case in her hands, she began to think that maybe the reason the story had seemed so unbelievable was because it was so frightening. She hoped that the contents of the case could tell her more, but she couldn’t examine it, not there. For a brief moment, she held the doll close against her cheek and stroked its hair.

With a final kiss goodbye, she laid it within the rotting wooden box, replaced the lid, refilled the hole, and then returned with a heavy heart to her tiny Moscow apartment. What she read that night filled her with swells of emotion. There was awe at the extreme ambition her father had uncovered and fear of what that ambition might still unleash.

She also felt pride as she realized why her father had done what he had done. There was no shame in his failure. His motives were above all else those of a true patriot. He had put Russia first, and in its future he had seen his daughter and a chance still to unmask a terrible evil before it had the opportunity to strike.

It was the dossier her father had compiled that had put her on the generals’ trail. The contents of that briefcase had led her to be in the woods beyond the hunting lodge in Zvenigorod, risking not only her career, but also her life. What her father had started, she would see finished, but she needed her patient to break through the haze of his fever and give her some sort of clue as to how to proceed. As she wrung out another damp cloth, the man moaned yet again and she reached for his arm to check his pulse.

It had weakened significantly. Karganov was getting worse, and Alexandra Ivanova had hit the absolute bottom of her limited well of medical knowledge. Chapter 14 RURAL VIRGINIA I ’m going to ask you again,” said the man Harvath had struggled with inside Frank Leighton’s house.

“Who are you and what were you doing there?” “Actually, I work for Martha Stewart, but times have been tough, so I pick up the occasional decorating job on the side,” replied Harvath as he glanced around the rural farmhouse where his captors had taken him. He had absolutely no idea where he was. All he knew was that after three hours in the trunk of a car with a hood over his head, he was happy to finally be sitting in an upright position.

“Very funny, wiseass.

I suppose all of these are just tools of the trade?” said the man as he did a quick inventory of the gear which had been spread across the large kitchen table. “Looks like you were planning on doing one hell of a redecorating job on somebody—SIG Sauer semiautomatic in forty caliber with a fully loaded clip and two spares. Modified Beretta Neos, complete with silencer.

IR camouflage suit.

Night vision goggles.

Lock pick gun…I’m not screwing around with you anymore. I want some answers.” “Okay,” said Harvath, “you got me. I don’t work for Martha Stewart.”

“No shit.”

“Actually, I work forLadies’ Home Journal , and I’m doing an investigative piece on how to make your neighborhood a safer place to live. I’m hoping it’ll be a three-parter with photographs and the whole she-bang. You’d be great for it. Could I get you to agree to sit for an interview?”

“Shut the fuck up.” “Now you’re sending mixed messages.

You want me to talk, but you’re also telling me to shut up. Ladies’ Home Journal did a great article on this very same thing. It’s an ageold problem. Now, what I suggest—” “That’s it, asshole,” said the man as he tipped the chair Harvath was handcuffed to over backwards.

It landed with a loud crack and Harvath’s head thudded against the tiled floor. “From this point on, things only get worse for you. Do you understand me? I have no time and even less patience.

You’re going to start answering my questions, or I swear to God Iwill kill you. Something tells me your government probably wouldn’t raise much trouble over losing you.” “My government?” snapped Harvath as he tried to shake the stars from his head and focus on the man towering above him. Who the hell was this guy? And who was he working for?

He certainly wasn’t with the FBI. If he was, Harvath would have been dragged down to the Washington Field office or FBI headquarters and all of this would have been cleared up by now. Whoever this guy was, he was operating way out on the edge. There was no way they could be working for the same team.

That left Harvath with only one possible conclusion—somehow, the Russians were on the same trail he was. “If you know anything about my government,” Scot continued, “then you know I won’t be forgotten that easily.”

“Losing you will be painful for them,” said the man, “but I’m sure you’re not irreplaceable.” Harvath could tell the man was trying to lead the interrogation somewhere and he decided to follow, at least for the time being to see where it was going.

He had to figure out what was going on and who he was dealing with. Somehow, this man seemed to know who he was, or at least that he worked for the United States government. “No one wants to believe they are replaceable,” said Harvath, “but it is a fact of life.

That being the case, there are plenty more out there who will eagerly take my place.” “And that is precisely what we want to know,” said the man. “How many are there?
Who are they?

Where are they?

How do we contact them?

We want all of it. If you cooperate, maybe we can work something out.” Harvath’s head hurt and lying flat on his back with his hands cuffed to the sides of a kitchen chair was not helping his thought process any.

“You want to know who and how many would replace me?”

he asked. “Yes.”

“There’s thousands. Tens of thousands.

Hundreds of thousands even.

All it takes is time and the right amount of training.” “That’s the problem with you and your countrymen,” said the man. “You believe all of your own propaganda.”

“It’s not propaganda, my friend. We have the best trained people in the world,” responded Harvath. “Is that how you found Frank Leighton?” “Who says I found him?”

“You found his house.”

“I told you—” “Ladies’ Home Journal, I know,” replied the man who, standing to Harvath’s left, kicked him hard in the ribs. “And I told you to stop fucking around.”

Harvath struggled for several moments to regain his breath before responding. “Actually, you told me to shut the fuck up.” The man kicked Harvath again.

“We know your people were aware that Frank Leighton was one of ours.” Jesus, thought Harvath through the pain,who the hell is this guy?
“We know you were there to terminate him. Who did the others?

Was it you?” “What others?” coughed Harvath, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “So it wasn’t you who killed our other operatives?

Bullshit,” said the man as a he delivered a third and even more severe kick to Harvath’s side. It took several moments for Harvath to get his breath back and while he gasped for air the man continued, “So, it’s our mistake?

This is just a simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? I think we both have to agree that judging from the array of goodies on the table over there, you were not simply skipping through the woods to Grandmother’s house to deliver a basket full of pies. Remember what I said about things getting worse?

My boot to your ribs is going to pale in comparison to what I have planned for you. I hope you haven’t grown too attached to your testicles, because I’m going to hang them from my rearview mirror next.” Harvath’s cold stare spoke volumes. “You think I’m kidding?

Take a look at these,” said the man as he held a rusty pair of pruning shears above Harvath’s face and worked the dirty blades back and forth. “I think they’ll do the trick just fine. We’ll go slow so you can appreciate the entire show. I hear in parts of the world eunuchs are still hired to watch over harems. What a shitty job that would be, huh?

Water, water everywhere and no mouth to drink it with. It’s up to you.
Tell us what we need to know and once we have it confirmed, we’ll talk about making a deal. We’re holding all the cards.”

“Oh, yeah?

Well you can shove the whole deck right up your ass.” “I was hoping you’d say that,” said the man, with a twisted smile, as he righted Harvath’s chair and affected a perfunctory cleaning of the shears by wiping them on the sleeve of his shirt. He had just begun cutting up Harvath’s left trouser leg, when another man walked into the kitchen and said, “Hold up on the prisoner.” “And the good cop appears just in time,” quipped Harvath. “Shut your fucking mouth,” said the man as he stopped clipping halfway up Harvath’s lower leg.

“There you go again. Let’s talk, no, shut up. Let’s talk, no, shut up .

If you’ll let me call my editor, I’m sure she’d be happy to fax over a copy of that whole communications skills article.” “You’re trying my patience,” said the man as he turned, “Why are we stopping?” “Orders.”

“We don’t have time for this.

Orders from whom?”

“Goaltender.”

“What does Goaltender care about this piece of shit?”

“A black Chevy TrailBlazer was found abandoned not far from Leighton’s house.”

“So?”

“They ran the plates. We’re supposed to uncuff the prisoner and make him comfortable until Goaltender gets here.” “Goaltender is coming here? You’ve got to be kidding me.

What for?”

“Apparently he wants to talk to the prisoner himself.” “But that car could have easily been stolen. How do we know this is the guy it’s really registered to?” “I described the prisoner to him myself

and we also got a DMV photo match. Goaltender says to take the cuffs off, but not to let him out of your sight until he gets here.”

As his colleague left the kitchen, the man removed a key and unlocked Harvath’s cuffs.

“It looks like I’m done asking the questions for the time being.”

“Then I’ve got more than a few of my own,” replied Harvath. “Why don’t we start out by you telling me who the hell you are and who you work for?” “I’d take it easy if I were you,” said the man as he finished uncuffing Harvath. “Goaltender will be here soon enough and believe me, when he asks you a question, you’d better answer it.” “Who the hell is this Goaltender?

What is he some kind of a hockey buff?” “Oh, don’t worry. You’ll recognize him the minute you see him. And keep in mind,” said the man, “that while he’s talking to you, I’m going to be on the other side of the room sharpening my pruning shears.

All it will take is one nod from him and I’m going to finish what I started.”

“What’s to stop me from taking out your precious Goaltender? It seems to me it would have been smarter to leave my handcuffs on.” The man smiled and said, “Part of me would like to see you try, but then again there’s part of me that wants at least a little piece of you left for myself. You’d never make it.

They’d tear you to shreds. Goaltender has the best bodyguards in the world.”

Harvath had to laugh. “What’s so funny?” said the man.

“That’s one area that I can guarantee my people do better than anyone else.” “We’ll see,” said the man. “You bet we will,” replied Harvath.

Chapter 15

A fter removing his handcuffs, Harvath’s interrogators gathered all of the equipment from the long table and left him alone in the kitchen. It only took a few minutes to confirm his suspicions that though nobody was in the room, he was still being watched. The entire kitchen was covered by several strategically placed miniature cameras. A further visual exploration of the room revealed sophisticated intrusion detection systems and a discretely mounted air quality monitor, the kind used to check for airborne particles a lot more dangerous than pollen and ragweed.

Whoever owned this place had certainly put a lot of money into it and took its security very seriously. Harvath found a clean mug and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot brewing next to the stove. Peering out of the window above the sink, he learned several things. The first was that the window was made from thick synthetic glass, most likely bulletproof.

The next was more of a confirmation of an earlier gut feeling—he was indeed in the middle of nowhere. Finally, after much persistent squinting against the light from behind him in the kitchen he was able to discern several men in winter camouflage on patrol outside. Whoever this Goaltender was, he took his security seriously and money seemed to be no object. Though it was good, there was still no way it could be anywhere near as thorough as what the United States Secret Service provided the president.

That thought was still swirling around Harvath’s head along with what possible clandestine purpose the fortified farmhouse could possibly serve and what these people wanted with him, when he heard the telltale sounds of an approaching helicopter. It came in quickly and landed even faster. Whoever the pilots were, they were very good.

Harvath had no idea the helicopter was even there until seconds before it landed. Through the swirl of snow kicked up by the unmarked, blacked-out craft, Harvath could see a group of people hop out and quickly make their way toward the house. As soon as the party cleared the rotors, the helicopter lifted off and disappeared. It was done with military precision and Harvath had to admit he was more than a little impressed.

He assumed that the mysterious Goaltender was a member of the party who had just been dropped off outside and he readied himself for the encounter. Two of the men who had taken him prisoner at Frank Leighton’s house entered the kitchen and instructed Harvath to set his coffee cup down. They quickly searched him to make sure he hadn’t secreted anything outside the view of the cameras that could be used as a weapon and then pointed him to a lone chair on the far wall of the kitchen. These people were obviously extremely careful and took nothing for granted.

Harvath had to hand it to them. It was exactly the way he would have done things. He took his seat as instructed and waited.

From beyond the kitchen, there was a chorus of indistinguishable voices as the party from the helicopter entered the house. Several minutes passed and then the voices grew louder as the party approached the kitchen. When the first member of Goaltender’s security detail entered, Harvath’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “Palmer?” he said, the confusion clearly resonating in his voice. “Harvath?” replied Secret Service agent, Kate Palmer.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Apparently, the local 4H club has an interesting way of soliciting new members,” said Harvath as he began to stand up. “Don’t stand, Scot. I need you to remain seated until I say otherwise,” replied Palmer as three other agents entered behind her and swept the kitchen. Harvath recognized two of the other three Secret Service agents as former colleagues of his from the president’s protective detail. Though he nodded to them, they ignored him until they had determined that the room was completely secure.

“What the hell is going on here?” asked Harvath. Kate Palmer spoke to the agents, who then left the room, before turning her attention back to Harvath. “We’ve got a very big problem that I am not at liberty to go into. You’re free to stand up now if you want.”

“Thanks,” said Harvath as he rose from his chair.

“What do you mean, you can’t go into it?” “I’m not authorized to discuss it.” “Well who is?”

“I am,” said a voice from the entryway to the kitchen, which Harvath immediately recognized. “Mr. President,” he replied even before he had fully turned around. Kate Palmer spoke into her sleeve microphone, “Goaltender will be ready to travel shortly.

All teams be prepared to move.”

Harvath looked back at Agent Palmer and then turned to the president and said, “You’re Goaltender?

Your call sign has always been Hat Trick. Why the change?

What’s going on here?” “You and I have a lot to talk about, Scot,” responded President Rutledge. “Agent Palmer, if you would be kind enough to show the defense secretary in and give us the room, please.”

“Right away, Mr. President,” said Agent Palmer as she exited the kitchen. Once Defense Secretary Robert Hilliman had entered the room and the rest of the Secret Service agents had left, the president said, “Scot, I’d like you to meet Secretary Hilliman.”

“Mr. Secretary,” replied Harvath as he shook hands with the man. “I have heard a lot about you, Agent Harvath.

I’m sorry that we should have to meet under these circumstances.” “I’m the one that’s sorry, Mr. Secretary,” replied Harvath. “I have no idea what this is all about.”

“That’s why we’re here,” said the president, as he motioned the two men toward the long kitchen table. “We don’t have much time, so let’s get started.” When the trio was seated at the table, the president said, “Scot, I need to know what you were doing at Frank Leighton’s house.” Harvath shot an uneasy glance at the defense secretary.

“Don’t worry about Bob. He’s one of the few people in Washington I know I can trust. That’s why I appointed him,” said the president.

“No offense, Mr. Secretary,” responded Harvath. “It’s just that someone very close to me has disappeared under some very strange circumstances.”

“No offense taken, Agent Harvath. I assume we’re talking about Gary Lawlor?” asked the secretary.

“Yes.”

“How were you able to connect him with Frank Leighton?” asked the president. “When I was in Gary’s house earlier tonight—” “Wait a second,” interrupted Hilliman. “That was you?

You were the one who got inside and used his phone?” “Yeah.

I needed to find out what happened to him,” answered Harvath. “And what did you find?” “Probably not much more than you already know. He had apparently gotten off his flight to San Diego, come home, repacked for another destination and hastily burned something in a trashcan in his bathroom.

“He had erased his caller ID log, so I picked up his phone and punched star sixty-nine to see who his last call had been from. That’s how I got Frank Leighton’s number. I traced it and then got the address in Easton.” “I’m not going to ask,” said Hilliman, “how you got into Agent Lawlor’s house. You must have gotten into Leighton’s house the same way.

I saw the impressive array of gadgetry that my people picked you up with.”

“Yourpeople?” said Harvath. “Those guys work for the Department of Defense? What does the DOD have to do with Gary’s disappearance?” “In a moment.

Do you know where the termCold War comes from, Agent Harvath?”

“If I remember correctly, there was an American journalist named Lippman who wrote a book in the late forties called,Cold War .

The title was meant to reflect the relations between the USSR and its World War II allies—the United States, Britain, and France— which had deteriorated to the point of war without actual military engagement. “Foreign policy on both sides seemed singularly focused on winning the Cold War. After we created NATO, the Soviets created the Warsaw Pact. There didn’t seem to be a local conflict anywhere in the world where the U.S. didn’t choose one side and the Soviets another. This maneuvering eventually gave way to the arms race, where both sides competed to have the most advanced military weapons possible.”

“And what brought about the end of the Cold War?”

“That was actually a year before I was graduating and it was all we talked about,” replied Harvath. “There were a lot of theories floating around, but the one that made the most sense to me was that we simply outspent the Soviets. That’s how we won the Cold War.”

“Are you aware, Agent Harvath, of how that affected defense planning by the United States?” asked the secretary. “Sure,” answered Harvath.

“The Berlin Wall came down in November of 1989. Germany then united less than a year later and joined NATO. The Warsaw Pact disbanded and we signed a conventional arms control treaty that provided for major cuts in both American and Soviet forces. Basically, all of the intense debating over nuclear policy came to a sudden and screeching halt.

“Our greatest enemy was defeated, so we began slashing our military spending starting with our presence on the European continent and then what we had invested here at home. The once formidable Red Army was suffering from not only a lack of supplies, but also from a lack of morale. If they couldn’t even put down revolts in their own country, how could we expect them to pose any threat to us? They were finished.”

“Or so we thought,” replied the defense secretary. “What are you talking about?” asked Harvath. “What if the Cold War hadn’t ended?” said the president. “Are we talking about a hypothetical here?

Like what if there had been a different outcome?” asked Harvath. “No,” replied President Rutledge. “What if the Cold War didn’t end? What if we thought it had ended, but the Soviets were just playing possum?”

“That would be the greatest Trojan horse in history. But it would be virtually impossible.

I mean, look at the condition their country has been in since the end of the Cold War— life expectancy falling, rampant corruption, fifty percent annual inflation. A lot of people could argue that it is worse now than it has ever been.” “And many opinion polls out of Russia would agree with you,” offered the defense secretary. “An overwhelming percentage of middle-aged and older Russians believe that their lives were significantly better under Communism.”

“But why are we even talking about this?” asked Harvath. “Agent Harvath, do you have any idea how much the international community, both private and public, has funneled, into Russia since the early nineties?” “I don’t have an exact figure, but it has to be in the billions of dollars.”

“Try tens of billions.

Of which, several billion have gone astray.” “I’ve read about that,” said Harvath. “The Russian mafia has slithered its tentacles very thoroughly into the Russian banking system, right?”

“You’re half right.

As far as we’re concerned, there is no Russian mafia.” “No Russian mafia?

What are you talking about?”

“After the collapse of the Soviet Union, the KGB underwent several face-lifts. When it emerged, it had a new name, had placed one of its own colonels in the president’s seat in the Kremlin, and was making megabucks by taking even greater control of its country’s illegal activities,” said the secretary. “Are you telling me the Russian mob is actually run by the Russian Federal Security Bureau, formerly known as the KGB?” “You catch on quick, kid,” said Defense Secretary Hilliman.

Harvath ignored the remark and studied the graying, sixty-some-thing Defense secretary with his neatly pressed Brooks Brothers suit, wire rim glasses, and blue silk tie. “I guess not,” said Harvath. “With all due respect, does this have something to do with Gary and the deaths of the Army Intelligence operatives from Berlin? Because this isn’t making any sense.”

“That’s enough of the questions, Bob,” interjected the president.

“Let’s focus on the answers.” “Yes, Mr. President,” responded Hilliman, as he placed his briefcase on the table and extracted a large manila envelope. He fished out an eight-by-ten color photograph, handed it across the table to Harvath, and said, “Three days ago, security staff at the Mall of America in Bloomington, Minnesota, received a tip and discovered a Russian suitcase nuke hidden within the NASCAR Silicon Motor Speedway exhibit.”

Harvath was at a loss for words. “I can’t believe this.

TheRussians ?

That’s insane. Why would they do something like that? Are you positive the device was one of theirs?”

“There’s no question. Both the Cyrillic markings and laboratory tests on the fissile material have come up positive for Russia.” “How could they have gotten a suitcase nuke into the United States?

“During the Cold War, our borders were a lot more porous than they are now,” said the Secretary. “You think that’s when this thing came in?”

“According to interviews we’ve conducted with Russian defectors over the years, the Soviets were actively trying to smuggle these things in. We even had a former Russian nuclear scientist testify before Congress about it.” “So why haven’t we conducted an all-out search for them?”

“We did.

In fact we conducted several searches and spent a lot of money but always came up empty. Either the stories were bogus or the devices were too well hidden.” “Wait a second,” said Harvath.

“Even if the Soviets had been able to pull it off, we’re talking at least twenty years ago.” “At least.”

“Then in this case, time to a certain degree is on our side. Russian suitcase nukes, just like our backpack nukes, needed to be refreshed at least every seven years to assure maximum potency.”

“Unfortunately,” responded the defense secretary, “your information is incorrect. Both the United States and the Russians had been experimenting with a hybrid fissile material with a seriously expanded potency and shelf life.” “How potent?” asked Harvath, studying the photograph of the device. “Somewhere between forty-five and fifty kilotons.

And although we live in a megaton world today, I don’t have to remind you that the device the U.S. dropped on Hiroshima nicknamed “Little Boy” was only a twelve point five kiloton device and “Fat Boy” dropped on Nagasaki was just twenty-two. “With the amount of people who visit the Mall of America on a daily basis, the death toll would have been astronomical.

Factor in the right weather patterns to disperse the radiation and the fact that the mall is only fifteen minutes from the downtown areas of Minneapolis and St. Paul, and the death toll would’ve skyrocketed even higher. The entire country would have been put into an immediate panic, with everyone wondering if it was an isolated incident or if their town would be next.” “Was the device active?”

“Thankfully, no.”

“How was it smuggled into the mall in the first place?”

“We don’t know,” said Hilliman.

“The FBI has been poring over security footage, but they haven’t come up with any leads. For all we know, it could have been broken into several pieces and then reassembled inside.” “Why do I get the feeling this isn’t the end of the story?” said Harvath. “Because it isn’t,” replied the president.

“Bob, show him the rest of the photos.”

As the defense secretary slid a stack of Polaroid photos across the table the president continued, “We found these pictures in an envelope taped to top of the Mall of America device. Apparently, we were led to the first nuke so there’d be no doubt in our minds that we are dealing with very serious players.” Harvath studied the photos, which showed similar devices placed in the trunks of cars and inside nondescript vans parked in front of recognizable landmarks in major cities like Chicago, Dallas, San Francisco, Seattle, Miami, Denver, New York, and Washington, DC.

After he was finished looking at them he asked, “Are we positive that this isn’t just one device that has been on a grand tour of the United States?”

“We’re sure,” answered the president. “Several years ago, we began helping the Russians implement a real-time computerized monitoring system to keep track of their nuclear weapons.

Before that, every Russian nuclear device had a paper passport recording where and when it had been made, where it had been transported and stored, when it had undergone maintenance, and so on. “It was in our best interest to help the Russians put into action an accounting system for their weapons, which would hopefully prevent them from falling into the hands of any third parties. It was also an opportunity to try and peek behind the curtain and see what was in their arsenal. Suffice it to say that they did everything they could to limit our access to sensitive information. One of our operatives, though, did come across a list of weapons from the early eighties that had been exported to undisclosed locations outside of the USSR.”

“And were those weapons suitcase nukes?” asked Harvath. “Correct,” responded the president. “By enhancing the photos we could clearly make out the serial numbers. They’re a match for the ones on our Russian manifest.”

“How many devices were listed as exported on that manifest?”

“Twenty-five.” “How many pictures were in the envelope?” asked Harvath, as he reexamined the photos in front of him. “Nineteen.”

“So with the Mall of America device, that makes twenty.

What about the other five from the Russian manifest?

Do we believe those devices are also in the United States?” “They could be,” said the president. “Or they could be in major cities of our international allies.”

“Why?

Concurrent strikes?”

“Or more likely, to be used as a means of dissuading our allies from coming to our aid.” “Coming to our aid for what?” asked Harvath.

The president removed a folded piece of paper from inside his suit coat and handed it to him. “It was slid in between briefing papers I received from the National Security Council. And before you say anything, it is being vigorously investigated, but no, we don’t have a single lead at this point.” Harvath didn’t allow his face to reflect the utter shock he was feeling as he read the letter: President Rutledge: By now you have authenticated the device we strategically placed within your Mall of America and you have seen a representative sampling of the other weapons we have at our disposal.

These weapons have been repositioned throughout your country where they will be guaranteed to wreak the most physical and psychological damage to the United States. Neither small town, nor large city will be spared the horror of nuclear destruction. Americans will be forced to live in fear, never knowing where the next device will be detonated. The realization that no place in your country is safe will soon impact every American.

The era of arrogance and America’s misguided international policies has come to an end. In your State of the Union address on January 28th, you will announce to the world that the United States has seen the error of its ways and is removing itself from global politics to focus upon pressing domestic issues. In addition to removing all of your forward deployed troops on the Korean Peninsula, Iraq, Afghanistan, and elsewhere, you will close down all of your International Development Missions, will surrender all of your seats at the United Nations, and will immediately divest the United States of any involvement with any of the organizations listed at the end of this letter. If you have not made this announcement in full within the first three minutes of your State of the Union address next week, a device will be detonated promptly at 9:05 eastern time, and every hour thereafter, until you come to your senses or America lies in smoldering ruins.

So has the world and the balance of power changed. Pitiable is the leader who does not know when he is beaten and arrogantly leads his people into the mouth of the abyss itself. Sincerely, The New Union of Soviet Socialist Republics As Harvath finished reading the list of international organizations at the end of the letter, which included, among many others, the International Monetary Fund, the World Bank, the World Trade Organization, and the G8, he said, “This is insane. What they’re talking about is tantamount to economic suicide.” “And that’s what the Russians want,” replied the defense secretary.

“The business of Americais business.

It’s not our military that makes us strong, it’s our economy. Take that away and we’d have no military. We’d have nothing.”

“But if the U.S. even hinted at such an isolationist policy, we’d be done for. Confidence in everything we stood for would evaporate. Faith in our currency, our economy, even our way of life would fail.

Our markets would collapse and we’d be plunged into an economic winter that would never thaw.” “Exactly,” said Hilliman.
Harvath couldn’t believe he was having this discussion. “Not only is this whole thing insane, but there is no way they could ever get away with it.

You’ve spoken with the Russian president about this already I assume.” “I was on the phone to him the minute we verified the device was one of theirs,” answered President Rutledge. “We spoke again when I received the letter.”

“And?” said Harvath expectantly. “And he said very much what we thought he would say.

After we gave him the serial number from the device at the Mall of America, he looked into it and called us back. He claims the suitcase nuke was a regrettable loss from a storage facility raided three years ago by Chechen rebels, the fashionable Russian scapegoats. He claimed the Chechens must have sold the nuke to a terrorist enemy of the United States. The thing is, because of the Russian manifest we have, we know the device was never anywhere near that storage facility and that it couldn’t have been stolen three years ago because it hasn’t been in Russia in at least twenty.”

“So he’s lying,” said Harvath.

“But, why is he lying?” responded the president. “Is he lying because he’s embarrassed that Russia lost a nuclear device, which has turned up in a plot against the United States or is it something else?” “What did he say about the letter?”

“He denied any knowledge of it and said that it was regrettable that a terrorist organization was claiming to be operating under the mandate of reestablishing the Soviet Union. He, of course pledged any assistance the United States might need from Russia and asked to be kept abreast of all events as the situation developed.”

“How nice of him,” replied Harvath. “Do you believe him?”

“Absolutely not,” said the president as he took the note back from Scot. “Mr. President, if I may?” said Defense Secretary Hilliman. “Please,” responded the president, who folded the note and put it back inside his breast pocket.

“Agent Harvath, American intelligence, in particular the FBI, has long suspected the Russians might have smuggled man-portable nuclear weapons into the United States, but until now, we had never had any concrete evidence. We have dispatched Nuclear Emergency Support Teams to cities across the country where those photos were taken, but we’re holding out little hope of uncovering any of the devices.” “Why not?” asked Harvath. “For the same reason we haven’t uncovered any over the last twenty years—they’ve been too well hidden, and even when they come out of hiding, the fissile material is incredibly well insulated. We’ve alerted law enforcement agencies to be on the lookout for suspicious activity involving the kinds of cars and trucks pictured in those Polaroids, but for all we know showing us the devices inside of cars and trucks was just a way to further throw us off the scent.

Besides, every car and truck in those pictures was different and there has been nothing that the FBI can use to track even one of them down. “As far as the Mall of America device is concerned, we’ve got it at a secure facility now and we’re taking it apart, trying to discover if it has any sort of unique signature that could aid us in our search for the other nukes, but it’s not looking good.” “Could this get any worse?” asked Harvath. “Yes,” replied the secretary.

“And it has. Now comes the Gary Lawlor connection.” “If you are going to try and tell me that he is somehow aiding the Russians—” “No, that’s not why he left the country.”

“He left the country? Then why is his house being watched, and why was I taken down at Frank Leighton’s?” “Agent Harvath, what I am about to tell you goes beyond top secret.

You are not to discuss this with anyone other than the president or myself. Am I understood?” “Yes, sir.”

“Good.

Are you familiar with the code namesLast Dance andDead Hand ?” “Of course.

Last Dance was our code name for the procedure that would automatically launch our nuclear missiles at Russia if they ever struck us first. They had the same setup in case we ever preemptively struck them called Dead Hand. The guarantee that either side would always retaliate with overwhelming force is what gave birth to the acronym MAD—mutually assured destruction, but we haven’t threatened the Russians, so what’s the point of all this?”

“The point could be one of two things,” said the secretary. “Either we really are dealing with a terrorist organization that wants to strike fear into the heart of every American while simultaneously turning us against an old enemy who, at best, has been a very shaky ally, or this is a bona fide move by the Russians to try to finally win the Cold War.” “If it was the latter, that would explain their behavior over the last couple of years. They did everything they could to keep us out of Iraq.

They’ve gone to insane lengths to help the Iranians with their nuclear program. In fact, I can’t think of much of anything the Russians have done in recent memory that wasn’t directly opposed to our international policies. In fact, their behavior has actually been pretty arrogant, especially in light of the deplorable state of their own country.” “Agreed,” responded Hilliman. “But even so,” continued Harvath, “we still have a ton of ICBMs with some damn sharp tips, and though we don’t talk about it much anymore, mutually assured destruction is just as real now as it was twenty years ago.

Nothing has changed.” “What if it has?” asked the secretary. “We know the Russians still have sleeper agents here in the United States. For every Aldrich Ames and Robert Hanssen, there could be God only knows how many others we have never gotten wise to.

If Russia wanted to hold us hostage, all they would have to do is strategically place their man-portable nukes around the country and let us know that we had the proverbial gun to our heads. We’d go looking for the devices, but if they were well hidden enough and we couldn’t find them in time, tens if not hundreds of thousands, even millions of Americans could be killed.” “But we would retaliate,” responded Harvath with even more conviction. “And our allies would retaliate, even if devices were detonated in their cities.

The Russians would be signing their own death warrant. We’d wipe their country off the face of the earth.” The president looked at Harvath and said, “What if we’d lost the ability to respond with conventional nuclear weapons?”

“Mr. President,” replied Harvath, “I don’t understand. Are you saying that somehow the Russians have gained control over our launch capabilities?”

“We have no idea, only suspicions at this point.” “Based on what?”

“As far as we’re concerned,” said the secretary, “the integrity of our nuclear weapons has not been compromised. Every one of them, whether they’re in a silo, on board a submarine, in a secure Air Force depot, or someplace else, all check out as fully operational.”

“So where do your suspicions come from?” asked Harvath.

“Over the last eight months, the Defense Intelligence Agency has been investigating what the air force believed to be random guidance system control problems in some of its patrol flights over the Bering Strait between Alaska and Russia.” “What kind of problems?”

“It only happened a few times, but pilots reported hitting what they referred to as an invisible wall when they were a specific number of nautical miles out into the strait. Their otherwise perfectly functioning electronic systems all began to fail and they lost control of their aircraft. The only thing that saved those planes was turning around and coming back.

Since the problem could never be duplicated, we began looking into all sorts of natural phenomenon from sunspots to magnetic interference from the North Pole. Then, quite by accident we heard that the Finnish Air Force had experienced a similar problem. In fact they even lost one of their F-18 Hornets to it.” “Where did they experience their problem?” asked Harvath.

“At different spots along their border with Russia.

We asked the Signal Intelligence division of the NSA to get involved and they began monitoring electromagnetic radiation, in particular radar emissions, around Russia. At the same time, we began to quietly look around for any other similar invisible walls around the former Soviet Union that either military or civilian aircraft may have come up against.”

“And?”

“Apparently the Chinese, the Poles, and the Ukrainians have all encountered similar problems. When we compared the pilot accounts to the intelligence the NSA had gathered, we discovered that at the same time the pilots reported losing significant control of their aircraft, certain portions of the Russian Air Defense system were operating unusually.”

“Unusually?” asked Harvath. “How?”

“The electromagnetic signature emitted by all of the radar installations within range of the incident was somehow different. The NSA people couldn’t explain it.

All they could say was that the anomaly was present in all confirmed cases of pilots who reported losing control of their aircraft near Russian airspace.”

“My God,” breathed Harvath, “if this is some sort of new technology and it could be applied to missiles as well, the Russians would be virtually—” “Impervious to attack,” said the president, finishing his sentence for him. “What if it doesn’t guard against missiles?” “Based on the sophistication that we’ve seen,” replied Hilliman, “we’re assuming that it does.

The only way to be completely sure would be to launch a strike of our own and at this point, we can’t justify that.” “But they’re holding a nuclear knife to our throats.” “That’s where this gets tricky,” said Hilliman.

“Everything points to Russia, but it’s all circumstantial. The Russian government claims they know nothing about a plot to plant enhanced suitcase nukes in different locations around the United States. Yet, when asked about one of the devices specifically, the Russian president gave us a bullshit response.

The letter President Rutledge received calling for America to step off the world stage was slipped in between his briefing papers, which suggests that whoever is behind this has the ability to control someone in a not-so-insignificant position within our government. Then we add another ingredient—a number of pilots who claim to have lost control of their aircraft near Russian airspace. It’s still not enough to make a case for striking first.” “Are you telling me that you’re not convinced?” asked Harvath.

“No, the president and I are very much convinced.” “But if we can’t launch our missiles, then we’re dead in the water.” “Maybe not completely,” replied the secretary. “Twenty years ago it was decided that we needed a backup for our backup.

If the Russians were ever able to somehow take away our ability to launch missiles, we needed a way to rebalance the chessboard; if not entirely in our favor, then at least enough to help put us back on equal footing and reestablish the reality of mutually assured destruction. We did that by creating an operation codenamed,Dark Night —a team of twelve Army Intelligence operatives who could sneak man-portable nukes into Russia underneath their radar so to speak, and hold them hostage from within. Much in the same way we are being held hostage now.”

The pictures of the men Harvath had seen in Secretary Driehaus’s conference room suddenly reappeared before his eyes and though he was afraid of the answer, he asked the question anyway, “Have you activated them?”

“We have.”

“And?”

“They’re all dead. All except for two of them.”

Chapter 16 Y ou’ve heard of the tip of the spear? Well, these guys were the bolt on the door—our absolute final line of defense,” said Secretary Hilliman. Harvath listened intently, taking in every piece of information. “During the eighties, we had a lot of assets forward deployed in Europe.

There was no point in having teams stateside that could lift off in under two hours if it was going to take at least six more to cross the Atlantic. The Dark Night operation evolved from a group of Army Intelligence operatives based in Berlin. They could not only quickly respond to terrorist incidents on the continent, but they had also been trained to blend in with the locals and organize resistance if the Soviets ever overran the wall and they found themselves behind enemy lines. They were expert marksmen, possessed exceptional language abilities, and were highly skilled in their tradecraft.

In fact, the CIA used them to help train many of their own people. In short, they were not only highly trained counterterrorism operatives, but also some of the best intelligence agents the United States has ever produced. And the man in charge of them all was Gary Lawlor.” Harvath raised his eyebrows and looked as if he was about to speak, when Hilliman held up his hand and continued. “After Vietnam, Gary remained attached to Army Intelligence.

He retained his rank and received four promotions as he worked his way through the FBI. As far as they’re concerned it was because of his Russian skills that the government borrowed him to recruit foreign intelligence agents in Eastern Europe during the Cold War. In reality, he had been called upon by the Defense Department to assemble and coordinate the Dark Night team.” “What about Heide, his wife?” asked Harvath.

“I heard a lot of things in my debriefing with Secretary Driehaus.”

“She was a bona fide recruiter of foreign intelligence agents.” “So that’s why she was sanctioned and not Gary?”

“Correct. But the reason she was sanctioned in the first place was because she was so good at what she did,” replied the secretary.

“What about what Driehaus said about her suspicions of Gary toward the end?” “Like I said, she was good at what she did. That also made her a good student of human behavior. In the weeks before her death, there had been a lot of suspicious activity in some of the Soviet satellites in Eastern Europe. The Russians were moving nuclear missiles into places like Prague and Budapest.

Gary and his team were sent in to investigate. Something he did had obviously made Heide suspicious and she looked into it. She spoke with her handler, and he came back and told her he couldn’t support any of what Gary had been telling her.

Shortly thereafter, she was killed in the hit and run. We needed to develop a cover for Gary’s actions because other U.S. agencies that had no idea what he was really up to started looking into his life. The Dark Night operation had to remain out of their reach and totally classified.”

“Hence the alternate codename the president is using right now?”

“Yes.”

“And this facility?”

“Was created several administrations ago in case any of our established command centers were ever compromised. It was all part of the overall plan. The need for secrecy overrode all else.

Though he fought it in the beginning, Gary eventually relented and agreed to let us put together the story about Heide being on medication and fighting severe paranoia and depression to throw off the pending CIA investigation.

We used one of our doctors, backdated some files, records of office visits, prescriptions, and that was that. Heide’s people bought it and though Gary wasn’t too happy about sullying his wife’s reputation, he could see the bigger picture and went along with it.” “He has always put his country first,” said Harvath. “As did Heide, which I think was his one consolation. Somehow he knew she would understand why he had to do what he did.

There was no choice. After the wall came down and Russia began to fold in on itself, we put the whole Dark Night operation out to pasture. In fact, all of the guys, except for Gary, eventually retired from the military.”

“You never replaced them?” asked Harvath. “You didn’t update the team with active operatives?” “As far as the Defense Department was concerned, we had won the Cold War and the need for the team had passed.” “But you left the nukes in place.” “They were hidden well enough and it was easier to leave them there than to try and smuggle them back out.

We looked at it as sort of an insurance policy. If the need ever arose, we’d have them on the continent ready to move.” “But not the men to move them.”

“That,” said the secretary, “was a possibility we hadn’t fully considered.”

“You’ll have to find replacements for the Dark Night team.” “We have to tread very carefully,” said Hilliman. “If this is the greatest Trojan horse in history, the Russians will be throwing everything they have into it. We know the Soviets probably have planted long-term sleepers in the U.S., but obviously we don’t know where.

They may be in the government, the military, or possibly even in the administration. There are very few people we can trust. Even as the FBI and CIA are looking for Gary and trying to get to the bottom of who killed those ten Army Intelligence operatives, they still don’t have the full picture. We have to assume that the Russians essentially have eyes and ears everywhere.”

“There’s got to be some people you can trust.” “There are—to greater or lesser degrees. I have a core contingent of operatives from the Defense Intelligence Agency and if need be, I can pull from a handful of Diplomatic Security Service personnel in the countries where the nukes are and let them carry out the assignments, but we’ve got two pretty big problems.” “What are they?” replied Harvath.

“With the State of the Union address only a week away, we don’t have very much time to train a replacement team and get them in place. And, probably the biggest problem, though we know where the nukes were hidden, we have no idea how Gary’s guys planned to get them in place.”

Harvath was dumfounded. “What do you mean you have no idea?”

“Operation Dark Night was established as an independent covert action team.

Everything was highly compartmentalized. In fact, the word team is somewhat of a misnomer. Once activated, the operatives were to go their own separate ways and they only thing they would have in common was a shared point of contact—Gary Lawlor.

“The men had access to money, safe houses, and weapons caches secreted in both western and eastern Europe. We have general knowledge of how the men were going to go about achieving their objectives and what their targets in Russia were, but not the nuts and bolts of their plans. Gary encouraged all of them to be highly creative in their assignments.” “So you have to coordinate with Gary.”

“And he’s disappeared,” responded the president. Harvath wanted to hope for the best. “Just like he was supposed to do when you activated him, correct?”

“I wish it was that simple,” said the president. “A strict protocol was developed for the Dark Night operation that would allow us to maintain some semblance of control back here in Washington. Part of that protocol involved communication, and Gary has failed to check in since leaving the U.S.” “Do you think they may have gotten to him?”

“Anything’s possible. No matter how you look at it, he’s gone far too long without contacting us.

Until we get a better handle on things, we’re playing this very carefully.
Especially until we figure out why would they take out everyone on the Dark Night team except for Lawlor and Leighton.” There was only one answer that seemed to make any sense to Harvath and he offered it. “Obviously the two of them must be more useful to the Russians alive than dead.

But why did you place an intercept team at Leighton’s house?”

“Gary was the lead member of the Dark Night team.

He knows more than anybody, so we can understand why the Russians would want to take him alive, but ignoring Leighton doesn’t make any sense. We were toying with the idea that maybe they just hadn’t gotten around to him yet, and with the FBI sitting only a two man team on his house until they compiled enough evidence for a warrant, we decided to deploy some of our own, more sophisticated assets there as well on the off chance we might get lucky. That’s how they found you.”

“Great,” replied Harvath, as he rubbed his ribs and tried to change the subject. “If this was classified above top secret, how did the Russians get a hold of the names and whereabouts of the Dark Night operatives in the first place?

In fact, considering that the entire operation had been deactivated, why did they even bother going to all that trouble to take those men out?”

“Our best guess is that they were covering their bases. The Russian assassins were given their targets, and they carried out the sanctions,” replied Hilliman. “But how did they get the names?”

“We don’t know, and at this point we don’t have the resources to investigate. Our goal is to protect the American people from an impending attack and maintain the sovereignty of the United States.”

“As it should be,” replied Harvath. “So let’s try another tack. How were the Dark Night operatives to be activated?” “The Army maintains a database of personnel it believes possess useful skills and abilities, long after said personnel leave the army.

For example, after the terrorist attacks of September 11th, all Special Operations personnel, especially those with Arabic language skills were contacted just to make sure the army knew where they were in case it needed to reach them.

Taking into account the considerable amount of time and money used to train these personnel, you can appreciate why we keep tabs on them even after they leave the service. “We scrubbed the records of all the Dark Night team members clean. There was not only no mention of Dark Night involvement in their files, but there was no valid current contact information in the Army’s general management system. Besides their participation in the Dark Night program, they had been involved in many other international interdictions, which made them a lot of enemies.

Suffice it to say, that the United States Government thought it better to conceal their whereabouts than to allow them to become public through some freedom of information error.” “So how could someone have found them?” asked Harvath. “The president and I were made aware of the Dark Night team by our predecessors. We were told that no one else knew and that it was to remain that way.” “Well, somebody obviously found out.”

“Right, which means either someone on the team talked—” “Which is highly unlikely,” interjected Harvath. “Or, there was some other sort of breach.” “How were the men contacted?”

“To facilitate some of its more clandestine operations, the Defense Department maintains a front company out of a townhouse in Foggy Bottom called the Capstone Corporation.

Capstone owns several safe houses and apartments throughout Europe, including Gary’s in Berlin, which different teams have used over the years. In the basement of the townhouse is a secure computer network.

“The computer was programmed so that upon being given the command by the president, it could simultaneously contact each of the twelve Dark Night operatives via telephone. They’d be prompted to enter an authentication code, and once their identities were verified they would be activated. “Could anyone have eavesdropped on these calls?” asked Harvath. “No.

The computer was able to detect any taps, and even if someone had found a way around it, most of the process sounded like a personal computer conducting a handshake with a server,” replied Hilliman. “Or a high pitched fax machine on full volume?”

“Yes, but how’d you know?”

“I’m guessing Gary Lawlor placed a call to your computer in Georgetown. When I hit the redial button on his phone, I received those same tones. But you said the computer would have called him, not vice versa.”

“No, our records show that Gary did call back into the system to check on the status of the other team members.

As the team leader, that would have been his responsibility—to know who had been contacted and activated.” “Now I understand why Leighton called Gary’s house,” said Harvath. “If I had been activated after all these years, I would probably call my old team leader too before flying halfway around the world to nuke an old enemy we all thought was dead. But what about the other operatives?

Does Gary know they’re dead?”

“No.

They were all killed before they were activated.

We put out the call to activate the team, but only Leighton and Gary were alive to receive it. Based on when Gary called back into the system, all he would have known was that the rest of the team hadn’t been reached yet.” “And yet whoever killed them missed Gary and Frank Leighton,” mused Harvath. Hilliman nodded his head.

“Taking out ten highly trained American operatives, all of whom were scattered around the country, is no small feat. I don’t care if those men were retired. They were not easy marks.

Whoever did this spent a lot of time planning.” “But it still doesn’t explain why they didn’t take out Gary and Frank Leighton.” “There’s a lot of this that doesn’t make sense, Agent Harvath, and at this point we can only focus on what we know. For the sake of the United States, this mission has to succeed.”

“I agree, but with ten out of twelve guys dead and Gary now missing, how can it?” asked Scot. “That,” replied the president, “is where you come in.” Chapter 17 SOMEWHERE ABOVE THE ATLANTIC STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS—7 DAYS A t six hundred miles per hour, the luxuriously appointed Cessna Citation X, secured for Harvath by an affiliate of the Capstone Corporation, lived up to its reputation of being the fastest business jet in the world. It quickly rose to an altitude of 51,000 feet where its fuel economy could be maximized and commercial airline traffic was nonexistent.

With a top speed of Mach .92, they were flying at nearly the speed of sound, screaming across each mile of the 4100 that they needed to travel in less than six seconds apiece. While the twin Rolls-Royce AE-3007C engines hastened the plane across the Atlantic, Harvath tried to quiet the thoughts in his mind. He had been given only a few moments to call Meg.

To each of her questions he could only answer, “I can’t talk about it.”

That hadn’t sat well with her at all. When asked when he would be home, his answer followed right in the same vein, “I have no idea.”

Her silence on the other end was deafening. This was the real test of their relationship. He could be called anywhere at any time to do anything, and Meg Cassidy would just have to deal with it. Right now, though, she wasn’t dealing well with it at all. Discretion dictated that he be careful how much he told her over the phone.

He wished he could share with her the incredible importance of what he was embarking upon, but that would have served nothing more than to make her fear not only for his safety, but for hers as well. She had remained quiet, and when Scot failed to add anything further, she said good-bye and hung up the phone. Halfway through the flight, he realized that when she had asked him when he would be home and he replied that he had no idea, what he should have said was simply, “Soon. Real soon.”

But of course at this point, half an hour into his flight and over nine-and-a-half miles above the Atlantic, it was a little too late to be coming up with the right answer.

He began to wonder if Meg Cassidy would be able to weather the storms that the demands of his career would undoubtedly visit upon their relationship. Harvath took a deep breath and tried to focus on the matter at hand. The Citation X would make the journey in less than seven hours, and he needed to get his head in the game. As his breathing slowed, he slipped into a Zenlike state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. His colleagues in the SEALs had always remarked at his uncanny ability to slip into this state of deep relaxation, especially before some of their most dangerous missions.

For Harvath, it was relaxing after a mission that had always been the hardest part for him. His adrenaline seemed to continue to flow for several days as his mind replayed the events his body had undergone. Relaxing and even sleeping before a mission had never been a problem for him because he realized that a sharp, focused mind was the best weapon he could bring to bear in any situation.

He took full advantage of the flight to rest both his mind and his body, as he had no idea what he was in for when he landed. After clearing customs for General Aviation, Harvath passed two rather menacinglooking, machine gun–toting border guards and made his way outside to find his cab. Leaning against a somewhat worse-for-wear Mercedes sedan with a taxi light atop and deeply tinted windows was Harvath’s old friend Herman Toffle, or “Herman the German” as he was more affectionately known. He stood at least six foot four and weighed somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred-fifty pounds.

He had dark hair, deep green eyes and a closely cropped beard that had begun to show smudges of gray. Scot had become friends with Herman during his SEAL days when they had conducted cross-training exercises together. Herman had been a member of Germany’s famed GSG9 counterterrorism unit and until a bullet injury to his leg forced him out had been legendary not only for his on the job bravado, but also for his sense of humor. “Taxi, mister?” smiled Herman as he took Harvath’s bag and chucked it into the trunk.

Harvath slid into the back as Herman got into the driver’s seat and with no ceremony whatsoever, started the vehicle, lurched out of the parking space, and pointed the Mercedes toward central Berlin. Three blocks after leaving the airport and confident they weren’t being followed, Herman pulled the Mercedes into a parking garage, parked next to a large bakery van and came around to the rear passenger side door. “Get out here where I can see you.”

Harvath obliged and Herman immediately wrapped him in an enormous bear hug.

“You’ve gotten smaller.” “No I haven’t,” said Harvath patting his friend’s stomach. “You’ve just gotten bigger. Your wife must be feeding you very well. How is she?”

“She’s doing very well, but you didn’t come to Berlin to talk about Diana.”

“Not this time, my friend,” said Harvath. “I’m here on a very serious operation.” “And so you said on the phone. But you’re not working with the German government, at least not officially.”

“Correct.”

“Well, in that case,” said Herman as he banged his ham-sized fist against the large bakery van they had parked next to, “I’d like you to meet a few of my distant cousins.”

Harvath heard the van’s door slide open and then boots hitting the ground as, one by one, a group of eight men in plainclothes rounded the van and lined up in front of him.

Herman informed his friend that he had used his contacts to round up an off-duty Berlin SWAT unit specializing in hostage situations and counterterrorism operations. It was known as theMobiles Einsatzkommando , or MEK for short. “Funny, there doesn’t seem to be much of a family resemblance between you and your cousins,” said Harvath. “Of course there is,” replied Herman who, with a smile, opened his jacket to reveal the butts of two large semi automatic pistols.

“You just have to look closer.” In unison, the men then all drew back their winter coats as well to reveal a startling array of weaponry. Harvath had always thought that the Secret Service was good at hiding their gear, but these MEK guys were in a class all by themselves. He saw everything from Heckler & Koch MP5s and MP7s to G36-Cs, modified tactical shotguns, and even street sweepers. One thing was for certain; not only did these boys come to play, they came to win.

Scot shook hands with the men as Herman introduced them. Once the introductions were complete, the men climbed back into the van and Herman led Harvath to the trunk of his Mercedes where he popped the lid to reveal a mini-arsenal. “I am assuming that as you are not here with the full knowledge and blessing of the German government, you didn’t come armed. Would that be a reasonable assumption?”

“Very,” replied Harvath. “I figured as much.

Take your pick,” said Herman with a wide sweep of his hand. “We can’t have you running around the streets of Berlin naked.” “You’re all heart, Herman,” said Harvath as he removed a .45-caliber H&K USP Tactical pistol from the trunk and pulled back the slide.

“Does this model come with any upgrades?” “Nothing but the best,” answered Herman as he opened a black plastic Storm case and stood back so Harvath could choose. Scot had brought his filtered SureFire flashlight with him from home, along with his Benchmade Auto AXIS folding knife, and so bypassed Herman’s selection of tactical lights, choosing instead a LaserLyte laser sighting system which could be mounted on the rail system beneath the USP’s threaded barrel. He selected a silencer; grabbed a handful of empty clips, a box of ammunition, a brand new BlackHawk Industries tactical holster, and a couple of flashbang grenades; and stuffed the whole lot into his pockets. As he began walking back around the car, Herman said, “I’ve got body armor too.”

“I don’t plan on getting shot,” answered Harvath.

“No one ever does. I didn’t, and now everywhere I go, I’m followed by one leg that just can’t keep up with the rest of me.” Scot knew his friend was right and returned to the trunk where Herman handed him a bulletproof vest from an American company called First Choice, the best body armor manufacturers in the world.

The vest was made of an ultra–high molecular weight polyethylene fiber material known as Spectra. It was considered to be far superior to Kevlar because it was much lighter and with its nicely tapered edges, was much more comfortable to wear. When properly fitted, Spectra was virtually invisible under clothing. Harvath had had a lot of experience with First Choice, as it was what both the Secret Service and the president always wore.

He fastened the Velcro straps firmly around his body, and then put his three-quarterlength black leather jacket back on. Herman took the taxi light off the top of his Mercedes and after securing everything in his trunk, pulled out of the garage with the bakery van trailing four car lengths behind. Even though Harvath had left DC at six in the morning, with the time difference, he hadn’t arrived in Berlin until just before seven p.m. local time. The weather was very much the same as in DC—overcast and cold.

The temperature gauge on Herman’s dash read minus nine degrees Celsius.

Harvath did the math and even though he had begun his SEAL career with their cold weather detachment known as the Polar SEALs, the thought of sixteen degrees Fahrenheit still made him shiver. He found the button for his seat warmer and set it on high.

Herman laughed, “I don’t like the weather here either, that’s why I live in the south. The winters in Berlin are terrible.

Too damp.

It’s less than two hundred kilometers to the Baltic. You’re lucky there was no fog. Your flight could have been delayed indefinitely.

That’s the problem with Berlin. You never know what the weather is going to do.”

As they drove into Berlin, Scot loaded his empty magazines with .45-caliber rounds while Herman explained that he and his men had been watching Harvath from the moment he had entered the General Aviation terminal at Tempelhof Airport and had not seen anyone following him. Harvath knew that if he had had a tail, his exchange with Herman at the snack bar, establishing what was referred to in tradecraft as their respectivebona fides , would have revolved around a different subject and Harvath would have left his friend there and taken a bus into the city center where they would have met at an alternate location.

Such was the way fieldwork was conducted. When it came to the location of clandestine meetings, all operatives held to the acronym PACE. It stood for: primary, alternate, contingency, and emergency. There was always a backup to the backup.

Herman spoke over the radio to the MEK operatives behind them in the van as they neared the Schöneberg neighborhood where the Capstone safe house was located. One of their men had been sitting in the café up the street from the apartment building entrance and was giving the word that no one had been in or out so far this evening. Harvath and Herman drove slowly up Goltzstrasse, while the MEK van dropped men off on adjacent streets to make their way to their respective entry points. They found a parking space on Pallasstrasse, checked their weapons, and then got out and locked the car.

The temperature had dropped at least another five degrees, and Harvath turned up the collar of his coat and tucked his head down. As he and Herman made their way towards the safe house, Harvath’s warm breath rose into the night air, moisture clinging to his eyebrows and coating them with ice. Harvath’s pulse began to quicken as they neared the front of the building.

He slid his hand inside his coat and touched the butt of the H&K USP. He had no idea if they would find Gary Lawlor inside or not, but at least it was a place to start. He took one last look across the street where the blood red color of a neon bank logo above two ATMs, caught his eye.

He hoped it wasn’t a harbinger of things to come. Refocusing his mind on the task at hand, Harvath walked up to the front door of the building with Herman, who appeared to be coughing, but was discretely radioing commands over the throat mike hidden by his heavy scarf. Harvath found the nondescript keypad in the entryway and entered the five digit code that the Defense Secretary had given him back in DC.

The heavy door clicked open and Harvath and Herman entered. The lobby was prewar Berlin with a vintage, cage-style elevator surrounded by a twisting staircase with wrought iron railings. The yellow plaster walls were cracked and peeling, and the black and white tiled floor was badly in need of polishing. The marble stairs were worn from generations of use.

Battered bicycles with old, shabby locks leaned against each other in a haphazard array along an alcove at the far end of the lobby. A row of tarnished mailboxes was punctuated by what appeared to be a secondhand baby carriage that its owner most likely couldn’t fit into the small European elevator and had no desire to lug up God only knew how many flights of stairs. An overpowering scent of cheap disinfectant hung in the air, and the smell reminded Harvath of some sort of third-world hospital. It was not a good thing to be reminded of before going into a potentially hostile situation.

Every move they made threatened to echo off of the lobby walls, so they took pains to move as quietly as possible. While Herman crept off to the service entrance to let in the other team members, Harvath remained in the lobby watching the front door and the stairs. He removed the sound suppressor from his coat pocket and screwed it onto the threaded barrel at the front of his pistol. He pulled the slide back and chambered a round, then activated the LaserLyte sighting system and pointed the gun towards the floor, sweeping the beam in a wide arc across the tiles. Herman soon returned with several of the MEK members.

“We left one man at the service entrance and we have two more on the roof, ready to rappel down,” said Herman. “If anyone approaches the front door, our operative, Max, who’s in the café, will let us know. Are you ready?”

“For what, I don’t know, but I’m ready,” replied Harvath. “If they’re holding him in there, we’ll get him.”

Harvath nodded his assent and Herman gave a series rapid orders over his throat mike. One of the men disabled the elevator, and then the team made their way up to the third floor. By the time he reached the final landing, Herman was breathing heavily, but it was obvious from the look in his eyes that he was thrilled to be back in the game.

Harvath wished he could share the same level of enthusiasm. He hadn’t told his old friend the full story of why he had come to Berlin. He couldn’t.

All he was able to tell Herman Toffle, former GSG9 counterterrorism operative, was that he needed his help and that he would have to trust him, which he did. A combination of Herman’s word and the reputation of Scot Harvath in the international Special Operations community was all that was needed to get the MEK men onboard. If the truth be told, German Spec Ops operatives were no different from their American counterparts—if there was an opportunity for a little excitement, they were all over it.

The lead MEK agent, a very muscular man of medium height named Sebastian, waved over one of his operatives and instructed him to feed their snake—a long fiber optic camera, underneath the door and into the apartment to give them an idea of what might be waiting for them on the other side. The operative slid the snake slowly into the apartment and spent several moments looking into the monocle viewfinder before raising his head and giving Sebastian theall clear . Sebastian tested the doorknob to see if it was locked and then motioned to Herman, who radioed the men on the roof to get ready. The plan was that they would rappel down and smash through two windows in the rear of the apartment at precisely the same moment as the rest of the team came through the front door.

After a final check with their man, Max in the café, Herman began counting backwards from five in German, “Fünf, vier, drei, zwei, eins, null!” At the zero mark, the team sprang. One of Sebastian’s men had a mini–battering ram and with one blow, shattered the lock and flung the door wide open. With their weapons drawn, the men charged into the apartment, right as their teammates from the roof came crashing through the rear windows.

Everything had been orchestrated with absolute perfection. The team fanned out, clearing the rooms in a matter of seconds, but there was no sign of Gary Lawlor.
Harvath began moving from room to room, looking for any clue that Gary had been there or might have left some indication as to where he was going or where he might be, but there was nothing. Several of the men sat down in the small living room and began disassembling their weapons. As Harvath entered, he noticed Sebastian, the team leader, standing next to a bookcase near the front windows.

As Sebastian removed one of the books from the shelf, Harvath noticed a red dot trace along the wall. “Get down!”

he roared, as he leapt across the room. The pinpoint targeting device came to rest square in the center of Sebastian’s chest and the chance that it had come from the laser site of one of his team members was all but impossible.

They were professionals through and through, and would not have played games like that. As he knocked into Sebastian, Harvath’s highly attuned senses heard the crack of glass, followed by the sensation of being pounded in the chest three times in quick succession by a sledgehammer. Before he and Sebastian had completely rolled to the safety and cover of a nearby sofa, the room was awash in a sea of splintering wood and crumbling plaster. “Where is the shooter?”

Harvath heard one of the MEK operatives yell in German as he quickly reassembled his weapon.

“Across the street,” responded another who had powered up his night vision goggles and was sneaking a peek out the window. “On top of the roof.”

As the rest of the men crawled over beneath the windowsill and readied to take up firing positions, Harvath’s pain receptors kicked in and he began clawing at his bulletproof vest. His left side was completely on fire. It felt as if a pair of branding irons were searing into his skin.

He reached underneath his coat and unfastened the Velcro straps, which secured the vest in place. He pulled the chest portion away from his body, but the burning continued. His fingers shot frantically inside, trying to assess his injuries, but touching his left side only made things worse. Sebastian’s men were already at the window, showering the roof of the building across the street with hot sheets of silenced lead as Harvath struggled to get out of his leather jacket.

He was able to slide his right arm out with little difficulty, but when he moved to free his left arm, his ribs erupted in even more pain. It was the same area that had been repeatedly kicked by his interrogator before the president had called off Defense Secretary Hilliman’s DOD attack dogs. With the jacket hanging off his left shoulder, Harvath gave up on trying to take it the rest of the way off and reached as far as he could around his left side to see if he was bleeding.

He drew his hand back and looked at it. No blood .

A hail of brass shell casings fell all around him and the air was thick with the smell of cordite as the MEK operatives continued firing at the roof across the street. Harvath wrestled with the vest until he was finally able to slide out from underneath it and then laid there panting, only able to gulp in short, painful gasps of air. Turning the body armor inside out, he noticed that two of the three rounds had actually penetrated the Spectra, but had been stopped short of entering his body. He offered up a silent thanks to Herman Toffle for insisting he wear it.

Taking the sniper fire full force to his side had knocked the wind out of him, and so Harvath focused on his breathing until he slowly got it back under control. He then did a more thorough triaging of his injuries and decided that he had probably received a severe bruising, or worse, several cracked ribs. From his combat medical training, Harvath knew the biggest risk from broken ribs was puncturing a lung. He drew in another painful breath of air and was confident that though it hurt like hell to breathe, neither of his lungs had been punctured. As far as a course of action for his ribs was concerned, there was nothing that could be done.

While some people might tape or wrap damaged ribs, all it served to do was remind you of your injury. Harvath didn’t need any extra reminders, he was sure the pain would be reminder enough. Several of the MEK operatives had already left the apartment in pursuit of the shooter across the street when Sebastian made his way over to Harvath and helped him to his feet. Sebastian was a man of few words.

He offered a simplethank you and Harvath shook his hand in return. Herman Toffle, on the other hand, was anything but a man of few words. “What the hell is going on? It looks like your friend is in more than just a little bit of trouble,” said Herman as he limped over to Harvath on his bad leg.

“I know you agreed to pay for the beer tonight, but that’s not going to be enough for Sebastian and his people now. Look at this place.”

Harvath ignored Herman as he worked one of the bullets out of his Spectra vest. “Are you listening to me?” continued Herman. “Why would a sniper have been staking out this apartment?”

“Whoever it was, that was no ordinary sniper,” replied Harvath holding up the bullet he had retrieved from his body armor. “Nine millimeter.

Full metal jacket.”

“Nine millimeter?” said Herman as he accepted the round from Harvath and held it up to get a better look at it. “Why not use a high-velocity rifle round like a 308 or 223?” “Because the shooter wasn’t using a rifle.”

“Why not?

Why take the time to stake out the apartment, but not bring the right equipment?” asked Herman as he handed the round back to Harvath. “Who said he didn’t bring the right equipment?

Nine millimeter is a very fast round. With a ported silencer and a bipod, even a small weapon can be very effective at this range. This is a narrow street. The shot wouldn’t have been that hard.

And the best thing about a small weapon is that it’s extremely easy to conceal.” “Even with body armor on, that was a very brave thing you did,” said Herman. “I reacted, that’s all.”

“Well, call it what you will, but I’m sure Sebastian appreciates it.” “He would have done the same thing for me.”

“I’d like to think so. He’s a good man. That’s why I asked for his help.

Now, tell me, did you have any idea the apartment was being watched?” asked Herman, his eyes searching Harvath’s for any indication that he might not being telling the truth. “Of course not.

I told you everything I knew,” Scot replied. “About the apartment, but not about your friend.

All you said was that he had gone missing and you had reason to believe he might be being held against his will in here.” “That’s true.” “What about the rest of it?

Who is this friend of yours and what was he up to?”

Harvath had hoped things wouldn’t come to this. Herman had agreed to help him, no questions asked, but being ambushed by the sniper had now altered the arrangement and Harvath knew it. “All I can tell you is that he is one of the good guys and we need to find him very soon,” said Scot.

“Or else what?” asked Herman, not happy that his friend was keeping him in the dark. “Suffice it to say that there is a very serious time element at work here and an incredible amount of lives hang in the balance.” “Yet you’re not working with the German government.”

“I told you, the assignment is too sensitive.

I brought you in because I knew I could trust you.” “But not with the full picture,” responded Herman, as he massaged his forehead with the broad palm of his hand. Harvath remained quiet.

“I understand that in this business secrets must be kept, sometimes even between good friends, but Sebastian and his people don’t know you; not like I do,” said Herman. “They are doing this as a favor to me and they are going to want answers—answers that I’m not equipped to give them. What am I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know,” answered Harvath, just as frustrated as Herman. “There’s got to be something here.

Something that someone didn’t want us to find.” “That, or they knew people were going to come looking for your friend and they wanted to stop them.” “Either way, we’ve got to search the apartment again.” “Well, we’d better search fast. According to Sebastian, the Polizei are already on their way.”

Chapter 18 A fter another quick search of the apartment proved fruitless, Harvath, Toffle, and the rest of the MEK operatives had quietly stolen out of the building and fanned out in separate directions just as the first police cars began arriving on the scene to secure both ends of the Goltzstrasse. Two hours later, they had met back up at their prearranged rallying point—a half-empty Bierstube on the eastern side of the city. Sitting with the men at a quiet table in back, Harvath stared blankly at the old German movie posters covering the walls, stained a deep yellow from years of nicotine accumulation.

He couldn’t help but feel that he had let Lawlor down by not finding anything of use in the apartment. The men made small talk as they unwound and kept the waitress busy going back and forth for beers and shots of Jägermeister. The cold, caramel-colored liquor warmed Harvath’s stomach and, mixed with the strong German beer was beginning to deaden the throbbing pain coursing up and down his left side. It felt like he had been hit by a tank.

His mind drifted to what Meg had said back in his apartment in Alexandria. The idea that Harvath might have devoted most of his adult life chasing the elusive respect of his father was something he didn’t feel comfortable wrestling with. That in turn made him wonder about Meg.

Things had moved quickly between them, and he began to wonder if maybe they had moved along too quickly.

A feeling of hopelessness was beginning to well up inside him. Suddenly, he caught himself. What the hell was he doing? This wasn’t like him.

He needed to get his head back in the game. Concentrate on the assignment , he told himself. People always leave clues—it’s just a matter of looking hard enough until you find them.

He needed to uncover a lead, something that would help them find Gary. Sebastian was talking on his cell phone as Herman raised his empty glass to get the waitress’s attention and said, “What do you want to do next?”

“What can we do?” replied Harvath. “The way I see it, the only option we have now is to canvass the neighborhood and see if anyone remembers seeing Gary.”

“That’s a lot of work,” said Herman, “and it could draw a lot of attention.” “It might not be necessary,” said Sebastian, folding up his phone and placing it back in his pocket. “Why not?” said Harvath. “You’ll see. Follow me.”

As Harvath stood in the parking lot behind the Bierstube, he tried to find some way of keeping warm other than stomping his feet, which sent shudders of pain through his left side. Sebastian explained that he had been on his cell phone with his operative from the café across from the Capstone apartment building. Apparently, the man had something he wanted them to see. When Harvath asked what it was, Sebastian smiled and held up his index finger in a gesture that said, “Be patient.”

Moments later, a pair of bright halogen headlights came slicing into the lot and headed right toward them. They belonged to a brown BMW, which skidded to a stop directly in front of where they were standing. The driver climbed out of the car, walked over and shook hands with Sebastian and Herman. They spoke in rapid-fire German that was too fast for Harvath to understand.

Finally, the driver motioned for Harvath to follow him. “Sorry to have missed all the fun,” said the man, with only a trace of a German accent, as they walked around to the trunk of his car. “My name is Max.” “Nice to meet you,” said Harvath, as they shook hands.

When they reached the trunk, Max pressed a button on his keyless entry device and the trunk popped open. Harvath leaned forward to peer inside only to have Max say, “Be careful, he bites. Although we are working on that, aren’t we, Heinrich?”

The man lying on the floor of the trunk was dressed like a waiter, and as he began to sit up he let loose with a string of colorful German expletives, most of which, from what Harvath could gather, were directed at Max’s mother.

Max responded by slamming the lid of the trunk down on Heinrich’s head. “What’s this all about?” asked Scot, as Max raised the lid again, revealing a somewhat stunned Heinrich who looked like he was ready to shoot his mouth off again, yet might be thinking better of it. Max leaned in and grabbed Heinrich’s face between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing the man’s lips into a tight pucker that made him look like a fish.

“Heinrich has a little present for you.” “Let me guess. Did he see something?”

“Oh, he certainly did. You see, Heinrich is a waiter at a certain café on Goltzstrasse, and it turns out we used to know each other from the days when I investigated narcotics.

He told me he was clean, but based on what I found in his pockets, I think he may be telling an untruth.” Harvath looked hard at Heinrich and then shifted his gaze to Max. “And?” “And, well, Heinrich came on duty right when I was preparing to leave. Everyone in the café was watching the policemen outside and talking about what had happened.

When Heinrich saw me, he tried to sneak back into the kitchen, but seeing as how we are old friends, how could I pass up such a wonderful opportunity to get reacquainted? For some reason, Heinrich was acting very nervous, so I helped him into the men’s room where I went through his pockets and found that he was not as clean as he claimed to be. Isn’t that right, Heinrich?” said Max as he used his free hand to pat the man firmly on the head where even Harvath could see a very nasty lump was already rising.

“In the course of our conversation,” continued Max, “he asked me why the police had been spending so much time hassling people on the Goltzstrasse. When I asked him to be more specific he told me that yesterday he saw two policemen staking out the apartment building up the street and that they had eventually busted some businessman by zapping him with a Taser. They then cuffed him, threw him into the back of their car, and sped away.”

Harvath couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What did the man look like?”

Heinrich, happy to spit out what he knew and hopefully get away from Max said, “He looked like a businessman in a suit with a long overcoat.

Okay?”

“More

,” said Harvath. “Height, age, weight, hair color…” “Gray hair.

He was an older man. Maybe he was in his late fifties or early sixties. I am not sure. He was medium height and not thin, but not fat either. That’s all I know.”

Harvath pumped him with further questions and listened as Heinrich the junkie waiter repeated the same story he had told Max.

“Is it common for German police to subdue suspects with stun guns?” asked Harvath. “I don’t know,” said Heinrich scared of what might happen if he didn’t answer every question the American was asking. “He wasn’t talking to you,Dummkopf ,” said Max, slapping him in the head. “He was talking to me.” Turning toward Harvath he said, “No.

Using a stun gun to subdue a suspect is very unusual. That’s why I thought you might want to hear Heinrich’s story for yourself and have a chance to ask him questions. Do you have anything else?”

Harvath asked Heinrich to describe the “policemen” and their car. The waiter gave the best description he could, stating that he did not really get a good look at anything.

The car might have been a Volkswagen, or it could have been a Mercedes. He couldn’t tell. As far as the license plate was concerned, he hadn’t bothered taking a very good look at it. What was the point?

Besides, the car pulled out and took off so fast, he wouldn’t have been able to see anything if he wanted to. The cops had been in such a hurry, he was surprised they hadn’t broadsided anyone when they tore through the intersection at the end of the block. When Harvath had heard enough, he nodded to Max that he was finished. Heinrich knew what was coming and flattened himself down in the trunk just as Max slammed the lid shut. Just in case Heinrich might be listening, Herman drew the men several yards away from the car so they could talk.

“Now we know at least part of what happened to your friend.”

“Those guys obviously weren’t cops and to go to that great a risk in broad daylight,” said Max, shaking his head, “someone must have wanted your friend very badly.” “I agree. So, what do you want to do?” asked Sebastian. “If Heinrich saw something, chances are somebody else did as well,” replied Harvath.

“Like what?” said Herman “Something that looked like a police arrest? Even if we could find witnesses, they will have their own version of what happened. You know how these things go. People subconsciously color events with their own details—things they thought they saw. At best, we might get a partial description of the men who jumped your friend.”

“Or maybe a partial license plate,” responded Harvath.

Herman rubbed his forehead again with the butt of his hand before responding. “I think the odds are not in our favor.”

Harvath was getting progressively more frustrated. “Not in our favor?I don’t know how you conduct investigations in Germany, but—” “The police conduct investigations,” answered Sebastian, “and they are already crawling all over that neighborhood questioning everyone about the shooting.

Herman is right. The odds of finding someone with something of value are not in our favor. Witnesses are too unreliable.”

Harvath told himself to calm down. He knew that often his temper could get the better of him.

These men were on his side. They had stuck their necks out to help him and he needed to bear that in mind. There had to be something they could do.

Seeing red was not going to help. Then it hit him!Seeing red. “What about video?”

“Video?What video?”

“There was a bank across the street from the apartment. They had two ATM machines outside with a red logo above them.

What about their security footage?”

“You mean footage from cameras positioned to monitor people going in and out of the bank and using the ATMs?” “Yes.”

“I would imagine the footage would only show people going in and out of the bank and using the ATMs.” “But it might show something else.”

Herman shook his head. “It’s a long shot.”

“At this point, a long shot is all we have,” said Harvath. “He may be right,” said Max. “Many of the security cameras now incorporate improved wide-angle lenses with increased depth of field. In case of a robbery, there’s a lot more information available on what was happening outside the bank, such as where the escape vehicle was parked, which direction it took and so on.”

“Speaking of which,” said Harvath, glad that his theory was gaining ground, “What about the traffic cameras at both intersections on Goltzstrasse?”

“Those I am not so sure of,” responded Max. “They only activate when a traffic violation has taken place and they are limited to photographing the vehicle while it is in the intersection.” “But it sounds like the car we’re looking for may have committed a traffic violation leaving the scene,” said Harvath. “It’s possible,” replied Max. “Of course it’s possible, especially if they were in a hurry.

With a snatch and grab, the key is to get away as fast as possible. You don’t wait around for anything. You want to get the hell out of there.” “But even if we did agree with you about the footage,” said Herman.

“How are we going to get access to it?” “That’s simple,” said Max with a smile, anticipating the challenge. “We’ll go in and take it.”

“Absolutely not,” replied Sebastian, who turned his attention to Harvath.

“I appreciate what you did for me in the apartment and I don’t want you to doubt that, but this has become very dangerous. What we did for you, we did as a favor to Herman and that favor is now over. Without some clear and evident threat to German national security, there is nothing else we can do for you.”

Harvath had known that this moment would come. He had been trying to figure out exactly what, and how much, he could tell Herman and the rest of the MEK operatives to extend their cooperation, but not jeopardize his assignment.

As he stood facing Herman, Sebastian, and Max, he made a decision. It was the moment of truth, or half- truth at least. He carefully reviewed in his mind what he was going to say and offered, “The United States is being faced with a very serious and imminent terrorist action which is to take place in less than seven days.

The man I came looking for has information that could help prevent that attack. The terrorists know this and we believe that is why he was kidnapped.” “What kind of attack are we talking about?” asked Sebastian.

“Something very big that will happen in several different U.S. cities on the same day.”

“And what is the threat to Germany?”

“There is a remote chance the terrorists may have plans to target the major cities of our allies as well.”

“Do you know who the terrorists are?” asked Herman. Though he hated to do it, he had to.

Harvath looked his friend right in the eye and kept on lying. “No, we have no idea.” “So,” continued Sebastian, “you are saying that there may or may not be plans to launch a major terrorist action within the Federal Republic of Germany by a group of unknown persons sometime within the next seven days?” “Yes.”

“Why hasn’t your government shared this information with us?”

“Because it’s highly speculative as to the risk Germany faces.”

“How speculative the risk should be up to us to ascertain.” “I agree, which is why I am telling you this.” “In all fairness, you haven’t told us much,” replied Herman.

“You now know what we know. Listen, this whole thing can be derailed if we locate the man I am looking for.” “Who is he?” “I can’t say.”

“Can’t say, or won’t say,” queried Sebastian, “because I have to have more than you’ve given me if I am going to authorize any more cooperation.”

Harvath met Sebastian’s gaze and realized he was going to have to give the man something substantial. “His name is Gary Lawlor.” The three men standing in front of him were stunned. “The deputy director of the FBI?” asked Herman.

“Former deputy director,” replied Harvath, “He now heads a new division of our Department of Homeland Security called the Office of International Investigative Assistance.” “What does this office do exactly?” “Their mission is to help solve and prevent terrorist acts against Americans and American interests both at home and abroad.”

“And your connection here is?”

“Gary Lawlor is my new boss,” said Harvath, hoping that the bone he had thrown them had enough meat on it to make them happy. “So no more Secret Service?” asked Herman. “No more Secret Service,” responded Harvath. “I guess that will have to do for now,” said Sebastian.

“So you’re in?” replied Harvath. “Yeah, we’re in. Here’s what I am prepared to do.

Since we are apparently going to continue without official sanction, I want this contained. If it blows up in our faces, I don’t want to drag my entire team down. I will let the rest of the men go.

Max and I will get a hold of the bank and traffic footage—” “How do you plan on doing that?” asked Harvath. “I think we’ll let the police do it for us.”

“Won’t they be suspicious of the involvement of two MEK operatives?”

“Not if they think we’re fellow investigators,” said Max as he fished a set of authentic looking credentials out of his pocket that identified him as a special federal investigator. Sebastian walked over to Max’s BMW and as he opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat, said over his shoulder, “We’ll call you on Herman’s cell phone as soon as we have everything and tell you where to meet us.”

Max followed, slapping the side of the trunk to make sure Heinrich hadn’t fallen asleep and said, “Time to get back to work, Liebling.” Moments later, all that was left in the parking lot was a pair of tire tracks in the light snow that had begun to accumulate. “Back inside?” asked Herman.

“No.

I’ve got someplace else in mind.” “Really?

I didn’t think you knew Berlin very well.” “Actually,” responded Harvath, “I don’t. This is a place a friend of mine used to frequent. Let’s get going.

I’ll explain in the car.” Chapter 19 AIDATA ISLAND, GULF OF FINLAND F rank Leighton had called the number from his satellite phone two times more than he probably should have. Nothing was making sense.

He was completely isolated. He had had no human confirmation of his assignment at all and that made him even less comfortable than he already was about what he was preparing to do. If his handler failed to make contact, he would have no choice but to assume the worst and put the final plan into action. He would get the device as close as he could to his target, set the timer and run like hell.

God, he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Once again he heard the words as if they had just been spoken to him, “The protocol is infallible. The protocol will never be wrong.”

Frank Leighton had been trained to follow through on his orders and that was exactly what he was going to have to do.

Still, if he could just get some sort of confirmation… There was no choice but to slam the iron door back down on his misgivings and focus his energy on the task at hand. According to his initial readings, the device was still stable even after all these years. Good, that only helped to make his job that much easier.

He didn’t want this to turn into a suicide mission. Leighton used nothing more than the light from a filtered headlamp to illuminate the rocks he was clearing to create a makeshift path down to the beach. Once the slope was clear, he unpacked what could best be described as a child’s wagon on steroids. The lightweight, brushed aluminum cart boasted knobby rubber tires attached to a sophisticated air shock suspension system. Frank Leighton wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

He loaded the wagon with stones, equivalent in weight to the deadly payload he knew he would soon have to transport, and maneuvered it down to the beach where his dinghy was moored. He went back and forth several times, memorizing the terrain, paying close attention to every potential pitfall until he knew it well enough to make the trip with his eyes closed. His task complete, he disassembled the wagon, covered over its tracks and rowed the dilapidated dinghy back out to the rusting fishing trawler. On board, he brewed a small pot of strong Finnish coffee and prepared a meal of pea soup, rye bread, herring, and pickled cucumbers. His training had taught him that food was a cover just as important as being able to speak the local language.

While it might seem strange to the uninitiated, a good operative knew that mankind still relied on its sense of smell, though not nearly as much as other senses. Many Special Forces soldiers in Vietnam were convinced that their ability to elude detection came in part only after they began eating, and thereby smelling, like their enemy. The additional benefit of eating like a local was that should the galley of the trawler ever be searched, it would yield nothing out of the ordinary. He took his meal to the wheelhouse and listened to the marine radio chatter of lonely Finnish and Russian fishermen plying the cold Baltic Sea.

Several men spoke of an approaching storm, and Leighton felt a chill as a gust of wind found its way through a poorly insulated gap between two of the windows. He was glad he didn’t have to be out there tonight, but at the same time, he dreaded how soon he would have to move. He decided to try to make contact one more time. Chapter 20 SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE ZVENIGOROD,

RUSSIA

I t had taken Milesch Popov two years to find the weapon he now held in his hand. He had been watching an American documentary on modern-day gangsters when he first saw it—the Thompson ZG-51 Pit Bull. The .45-caliber pistol was the rage with all the high-level crime kingpins in East L.A.

While lesser wannabe gangsters were running around with their nine millimeters, classy, more self-confident original gangsters were fully strapped with Pit Bulls, complete with a depiction of the notorious dog.

Popov had an engraver give the Pit Bull on the pistol’s slide a huge set of balls. Then, carved right in front of the animal, was the outline of a naked woman on her hands and knees with a huge set of tits covered by the letters O.G. for original gangster. What Popov lacked in class, he definitely made up for in creativity. As he pulled back the slide of his Pit Bull to chamber a round, Popov made a mental note to invoice Stavropol for this recent purchase of custom ammunition.

After all, it was a legitimate expense, one which Popov couldn’t imagine conducting his business without. The armor-piercing rounds were made from hardened machined steel that had been hand-dipped in Teflon. With his enemies relying more and more on heavily armored cars and bulletproof vests, complete with titanium trauma plates over their hearts, he needed every advantage he could get.

The armor piercing rounds had become his signature and though they did seem a bit of an overkill for what he was about to do, he had modeled his career on the old Russian proverb,while fame travels slowly, at least notoriety travels fast . The runaway orphan from Nizhnevartovsk had learned much during his short time in this world. The missing general had been easier to find than Popov had expected—though he wouldn’t inform his current benefactor of that fact. No, he would let the famous General Sergei Olegovich Stavropol believe that he had moved heaven and earth to track down his quarry.

In reality, it had been as simple as driving to certain shops in and around Zvenigorod, making inquiries. After having examined the empty grave at the hunting lodge, Popov had decided to operate under the assumption that General Anatoly Karganov was indeed wounded, but not dead. Either he had escaped under his own power, or someone had helped him.

Under the circumstances, Karganov would not have been able to return home. It would have been too dangerous. In fact, if his injuries were serious enough, he might not have been able to travel very far at all. At the very least, Karganov probably would have needed some sort of medical attention. With this in mind, Popov had visited not only every physician, but also every veterinarian within a fifty-kilometer radius.

Popov had a way of making most people, especially hardworking law-abiding citizens, feel uncomfortable around him. Maybe it was his slightly repugnant, street-savvy demeanor or the way his eyes held you in their gaze and never let go that made most people automatically assume he was a special investigator or some other State law enforcement officer. Not one soul bothered to ask him for identification. His suit alone, hell, even his shoes, cost more than what most of the people in the Odinstovo area saw in an entire year. Whoever he was, Milesch Popov was important and conveyed the distinct impression that failing to cooperate with him brought with it a slew of undesirable consequences.

When the physician and veterinarian trail went cold, Popov moved to the next item on his checklist—stores that sold any type of medical supplies. He left no stone unturned. If a shop carried anything that even remotely resembled what he was looking for, he paid them a visit.

It was at the end of a very long day, when most of the shops were preparing to close, that his efforts appeared to be finally paying off. “Dobri vyechyer,” he said in an officious tone to the aging shopkeeper, as he scanned the provincial pharmacy’s scantily stocked shelves. “Do you sell bandages?” “Da,” replied the old man, pointing to where the bandages were.

“And antibiotics?”

“Da,” repeated the old man as he came around the counter to help direct his wealthy young customer. “How about antiseptic?”

“We’re all out,” said the man as he shook his headno . When Popov asked him why he didn’t have any antiseptic on hand, the shopkeeper explained that a young woman had come in and bought all that he had. She had also bought several boxes of bandages, and a healthy amount of antibiotics. Immediately, Popov’s interest was piqued and his questions began flowing.

Did the shopkeeper recognize her? No, he didn’t. Was she local? No, she was definitely not local.

What did she need the medical supplies for? She didn’t say. Do you know where she is staying? No, but he did direct her to the market around the corner where she could buy food and order firewood.

And, without so much as a ‘spaseeba,’ Popov was out the door and headed toward the localriynak . The woman who ran the market prided herself on being well informed on everything that happened in their small village. In other words, she was an insufferable gossip. It took very little for Milesch Popov to coax out of her the location of the dacha where the old woman’s son had delivered the order of firewood. It was only three kilometers away.

Popov hid his car up the road and picked his way by foot through scrawny trees with bare, claw-like branches to the dilapidated house. Above the poorly shingled roof, small tendrils of smoke rose into the sky from a rusting stovepipe. In the driveway sat a lone Lada hatchback.

As Popov approached it, he withdrew his stiletto and slashed both of the Lada’s front tires. Returning the knife to his coat pocket, Popov maneuvered himself closer to one of the dacha’s rear windows to get a good look inside. In his thin, Italian calfskin loafers, his feet were beyond freezing, but when he saw the man propped upright in a small metal-framed bed with his head wrapped turban style in a long white bandage, Popov was suddenly infused with a surge of warmth. He crept a safe distance away from the house, withdrew his cell phone and dialed.

Stavropol answered on the third ring. “I have found your package,” said Popov. “Where?” asked Stavropol, the moan of a ship’s horn discernable in the near distance.

“Out in the countryside.”

“I knew it,” purred Stavropol. “Listen carefully. I’m going to give you an address.

I want you to put the body into the trunk of your car and drive it—” “There’s a small problem.”

“I paid you to find a body, not problems. Now I want you to put him in your—” “He’s alive,” interrupted Popov. “What do you mean,he’s alive ?”

“Alive —as innot dead .” “That’s impossible,” snarled Stavropol. “I was just looking at him.

He’s got a bandage around his head and he’s sitting upright in a bed.” “Are you sure it’s him?”

“Would I be calling you if I wasn’t? He looks just like the picture you sent me, so either it’s him, or he’s got a double with a very bad head wound.”

“Head wound,” reflected Stavropol. “Damn it. Is he alone?”

“I don’t know. I only took a quick look through the window. I think there might be a woman in there with him,” replied Popov.

“I want you to find out for sure and then kill them both.” “Kill them both?”

“Don’t act so unsettled, Milesch. I know you’ve killed before.

That’s why I chose you.” “Our deal was only that I find him,” responded Popov. “That’s when we thought he was already dead.”

“Well, killing him and anyone else who’s with him is going to cost you more.” “How much more?” asked Stavropol, not surprised that Popov was asking for more money. Had Stavropol been closer, he would have done the job himself, but he couldn’t risk losing Karganov in the time it would take him to get there.

Stavropol waited longer than he should have for Popov to respond and when he didn’t, he said, “Popov, are you there or not? What’s going on?” Alexandra Ivanova pressed the silencer of her nine-millimeter Walther P4 hard against the spot where Milesch Popov’s left ear met his skull.

The steel tube felt like ice to him, but that was only part of what made him freeze. He was absolutely amazed that anyone could have snuck up behind him. He had been so careful. Or so he had thought. “You’ll have to call them back,” said Alexandra.

“Drop your weapon and hang up now.”

Stavropol’s voice could be heard coming from the cell phone, “Milesch?

Milesch?

What’s going on there?” Popov didn’t move. He just stood there in shock. “No second chances,” said Alexandra as she readjusted the angle of her silencer and then pulled the Walther’s trigger.

There was the sound of a muffled cough and then Popov roared in pain as his earlobe was torn from his head in a spatter of blood and pink tissue. Both his weapon and the cell phone fell to the ground as his hands shot to the left side of his head, frantically searching for what was left of his ear. Stavropol’s voice could still be heard shouting through the cell phone,

“Popov!

Popov!

What’s happening?” Alexandra shattered the phone with a bullet and then gave Popov a quick kick to the back of one of his knees, knocking him down. As he clutched desperately at his ear, the snow running red with his blood, Alexandra retrieved his Pit Bull and ordered him to get up. “Over to the car,” instructed Alexandra, waving her Walther in the direction of the Lada.

“Hands on the hood.

Let’s go. Legs spread apart—wide.” Popov did as he was told, the blood running down his neck, staining the white collar of his expensive dress shirt. “I don’t know who you are—” he said as Alexandra tucked the Pit Bull underneath her jacket at the small of her back.

“Zamalcheetyeh!”

Shut up!, she ordered as she used her free hand to pat Popov down for additional weapons. She found the stiletto and tucked it in one of her pockets. She also found his State Inspector credentials with the name Leuchin, as well as a wallet with a driver’s license under the name Popov. “As the man you were talking to was calling you Popov,” said Alexandra as she removed his handkerchief from his front pocket, “I’m guessing this State Inspector identification is a fake, and looking closer at it, a rather bad one at that.

Turn around.” “I’m going to fucking kill you, you bitch!” spat Popov. “You had your chance and you blew it, remember?

Now, take your coat off.” “Yob tvoyu mat!”

“Fuckmy mother?” asked Alexandra as she pointed her weapon at Popov’s kneecap and fired. “No, fuck yours.”

Popov fell to the ground screaming. “You bitch!

You fucking bitch!”

“Per-ee-staan haameetca,” Quit your complaining, she said. “I only grazed your knee.

Now get up and take off your jacket.” Popov struggled upright and did as he was told. “The suit coat as well.

Good.

Now throw them both off to the side.” When Popov had done what Alexandra had asked, she balled up the handkerchief and threw it at him. After he had dabbed his ear and then tied it around his wounded knee to stem the bleeding, Alexandra waved her pistol in the direction of the cottage. “Inside,” she commanded. “Let’s go.”

Popov led the way while Alexandra followed several paces behind, her Walther pointed right at the base of the man’s spine.

They entered the small ramshackle dwelling via the kitchen door. Alexandra waved her pistol at a lone chair against the wall and said, “I want you to sit down over there and don’t move.”

As Popov sat down in the chair, he watched Alexandra cross to a large, cast iron stove. She deftly flicked open the grate with the toe of her boot.

The fire inside had burned down to almost nothing but glowing embers. She threw in another piece of wood and kicked the grate shut. With her pistol still trained on Popov, she put one hand on the door jamb and looked into the dacha’s other room to check on her patient who had just started to come around. Satisfied that he was okay for the moment, Alexandra returned her attention to Popov.

“So,” she began, “you must be my repentant husband.” Popov pretended that he didn’t know what she was talking about, but the look in his eyes was confirmation enough. “That’s what you told the old lady who runs theriynak , isn’t it? We had a fight, I left Moscow to think about things for a while, but you couldn’t stand us being apart any longer and wanted to find me so you could make it up to me? She bought it at first, but after you left she began to worry.

What if you were coming here to do me harm? Little did she know how right she was,” said Alexandra as she removed the Pit Bull from underneath her jacket, released the magazine, and ejected the chambered round. “Armor piercing,” she remarked, as she picked up the lone bullet and rolled it between her fingers. “Who the hell are you, Mr. Milesch Popov?”

Popov just stared at her as she placed his pistol and its ammunition on the top of a faded hutch resting atop an old sideboard near the stove. How could a woman so beautiful be so vicious?

he wondered. Long slim legs, narrow waist, ample chest, full lips, green eyes, and shoulder-length blond hair indeed made Alexandra Ivanova beautiful, very beautiful, but that beauty had often times been as much a hindrance to her as it had been an asset. Because of those startling good looks she had had to work harder than most to earn the respect of her peers, both in the Russian Military and then later at the FSB.

Too often, she was seen as just a pretty face. Her male superiors had always coveted her and she was constantly fending off their advances. More times than she cared to remember had she given herself to a man only to be betrayed in the end. They had no desire to relate to her as an equal, they only wanted to possess her as a thing, an object.

She eventually decided that if given the chance, people will let you down every single time. There really was no one she could trust. Though this attitude made for a very lonely personal life, she much preferred being in control and keeping people at a distance than opening herself up to the hurt that would certainly follow from allowing someone to get too close.

“You are going to tell me everything I want to know,” she said as she kept the gun trained on him while she filled a kettle of water and placed it on the stove to make tea for herself and her patient. She had been standing outside in the cold waiting for Popov to show for quite a long time. The fire in the stove had nearly gone out and her toes were frozen completely through. There wasn’t much that she hated more than the bleary Russian winters. It was no wonder that the death toll from alcoholism soared during this time of year.

“Who are you and what are you doing here? Who were you talking to on the phone?
Who sent you here?” she demanded. “If I tell you, they’ll kill me.”

“If youdon’t tell me,I’ll kill you,” replied Alexandra, squeezing off a shot from her silenced Walther that splintered one of the chair’s wooden slats right between Popov’s legs. He flinched and his hands instinctively went right to his crotch. He hid one behind the other and began extricating the knife hidden behind his belt buckle. “Hands!”

“You’re crazy.

You know that?” said Popov, trying to buy more time. Alexandra fired two more rounds into the chair, shaving off one of the legs and causing Popov to topple over onto floor. “Yob!” Fuck, he yelled when his shoulder slammed into the floorboards. Alexandra didn’t notice that the man failed to reach out with both hands to break his fall. “That’s it,” she said.

“I’m going to kill you right there if you don’t tell me something of value in the next thirty seconds. “Who the hell are you?” said Popov as he stared up at her. “Twenty-eight, twenty-seven,” continued Alexandra. “All right, all right,” offered Popov.

“I was hired to find out what happened to General Karganov.” “It sounded to me like you were hired to kill him and me for that matter.”

“Originally, I was hired just to find his body.”

“By the people who killed him, correct?” demanded Alexandra. “I have no idea who killed him, or tried to kill him I should say.”

“Bullshit.

Who hired you?”

“Please. Can’t I at least sit up?” pleaded Popov. It was a voice he had not heard himself use in a long, long time. It was the voice of the pitiful, defenseless orphan, but here he thought it might work.

If she thought he was defeated, broken, she might let her guard down. It only had to happen for an instant. That was all he needed and she would be dead before her body hit the floor. “I will tell you what you need to know,” continued Popov.

“I just want to sit up so I can stop the bleeding.” Alexandra nodded her head and stepped back, well aware that she had already fired six of her eight shots. She didn’t want to waste any more ammunition. Alexandra set two teacups and saucers on the edge of the sideboard. She placed a tea bag in each cup and then walked slowly backward to the stove for the kettle, never taking her eyes off Popov.

She poured the boiling water into the first cup and as she began pouring it into the second, she heard her patient stir in the other room. He let out a long, struggling moan as if he was having trouble breathing. Alexandra was so intent on the noise emanating from the other room that she failed to pay attention to the teakettle. As the lid fell off, the scalding spray of hot water caused her to drop it and with a startled cry, snatch her burning hand to her mouth as her gun fell to the floor. It was an opportunity Popov had to take advantage of.

No second chances, he thought to himself as he shot out of his chair and went straight for Alexandra’s throat. Before she knew what was happening, he was on top of her. He swung his right arm like a hammer, crashing it down onto her forearm with a force that reverberated throughout her entire body.

Popov then swung the back of his left hand in a wide arc toward her face. Even in the dull light of the kitchen, she saw the glint of the blade coming at her. Without enough time to raise her arm in a defensive block, Alexandra simply turned her head down and offered her attacker her face, rather than her throat. As unthinkable as the bargain was, it was the only thing she could do to save her life.

The blade cut into her scalp just above her temple. Hot blood rolled down her cheek and she spun her body away from Popov. As she continued to move, Popov continued thrashing at her with his blade.

She put up her arms to defend herself and in a matter of seconds he had slashed her leather jacket to ribbons. In the scuffle, her gun was kicked across the floor, and she had no idea where it had gone. Popov was in control and he knew it. Like a cat who had cornered a field mouse and was playing with it before the final coup-de-grace, he drove his beautiful blond captive into a corner of the small kitchen and wondered if maybe killing, at least her, at this point was a little premature. Surely she could be good for something else before she died.

If she was good enough, maybe he’d even give Stavropol a discount on her murder. He decided that the old adage of an eye for an eye very much applied to this situation. He would need to start by cutting off one of her ears. She would scream her pretty head off and it would be messy, but in a very perverse way, Popov thought it would be fun.

In fact, it would be like the snuff film one of his underworld colleagues had once shown him. Right at the height of the action, the moment of greatest passion, the greatest pleasure, that’s when he would kill her, but not before then. The buildup would be a sensually excruciating game of foreplay. He was growing hard just thinking about it— pumping the seed of life into her as the spirit of life oozed out of her. The gun, Alexandra thought.

Where the hell was that goddamn gun?

She had to find it. Her eyes swept left and right across the floor and then finally spotted it, sticking out from underneath the kitchen table. She needed to draw Popov’s attention away from the table, and so she raised her hands in a classic martial arts fashion. Confident in his advantage, Popov laughed and said, “Do you mean to do me harm, little girl?”

Alexandra hoped to unbalance him by stirring the hornet’s nest. Clenching and unclenching her fists as if she was limbering up to really go at it she said, “I don’t know if your face could be any more ugly, but I’d like to give it a try.”

She had hit a very raw nerve. Though Popov might appear vain, he was incredibly insecure, especially about his face.

“You don’t like it?” he asked. “You’d better get used to it as it is the last face you are ever going to see. In fact, before you die, I think I would like to finish what I started. I’ve only given you a little kiss with my knife.

Soon, you two will become much more intimate and then we’ll find a mirror together and decide whose face is more ugly.” Alexandra swung at him and caught nothing but air as Popov easily stepped back from the punch and laughed. She swung with her other arm and missed again, encouraging more laughter from Popov. “You’re actually not as fearsome as I thought you’d be.
Especially not without your gun.”

“Passhol v’chorte,” Go to hell, she spat, as she put her hands back up in a traditional boxer’s stance. She moved her head and shoulders from side to side, looking for an opening. “Is this supposed to intimidate me?” asked Popov.

Alexandra didn’t bother answering. She threw an obvious jab with her right hand that Popov easily parried away. He was about to say something else when seemingly out of nowhere Alexandra landed a left cross, followed by a right hook. Obviously, Popov knew nothing about boxing and one of the sport’s most popular three-punch combinations.

As an added measure of security, Alexandra lined up and kicked the stunned Popov in the nuts with everything she had. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he doubled over in pain. The forward weight was more than his injured knee could bear and he fell hard onto his side.

Alexandra moved around him and dove for the kitchen table and the gun lying just underneath. She was less than a foot away from it when she felt Popov’s hand grab her leg. He was clawing his way up her body, desperate to get to the gun before she did. She was beginning to think that all was lost when the fingertips of her left hand touched the long metal tube of the weapon’s silencer.

Alexandra struggled beneath Popov, using her free hand to slap at his head and shoulders. Millimeter by millimeter her fingers slid down the weapon, brailling its features until she could finally feel the trigger guard and knew the butt of the pistol was almost in her grasp. As she was about to close in on it, Popov grabbed the silenced Walther, struggled to his feet and aimed it at her head. “I’m beginning to think that you’d might be more fun dead,” he said, wiping the blood away from where Alexandra’s left cross had caught him in the mouth.

“What do you think?”

“Kooshi govno ee oomree!”

she replied. “Oh, I do plan on dying one day, but I don’t plan on eating any shit before it happens.” “Guess again,” said a man behind Popov, who then whacked in the side of his head with an antique bedpan. As Popov hit the floor, the Walther discharged, its silenced round ricocheting off the kitchen’s iron stove before exiting through the leaded glass window above the sink. Though Karganov had succeeded in ringing Popov’s bell, the young Mafioso had been hit much harder many times before in his life.

He quickly shook it off, and spun on his haunches to train his gun on the injured general. Karganov knew he was beaten. “Bliad,” Russian forShit! was the last thing that escaped his lips before Popov drilled a round right between the man’s eyes. Minutes later, the fog of gun smoke still hung thick in the air. Alexandra Ivanova had no idea if the ringing in her ears was from her own screaming over the loss of General Anatoly Karganov, or from the deafening roar of the Pit Bull as its .45-caliber armorpiercing rounds raced out of the barrel and tore through the flesh of the onetime orphan from Nizhnevartovsk, and now lifeless Moscow crime figure, Milesch Popov.

Chapter 21

THE WHITE HOUSE STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS—6 DAYS W hat I’m asking for, Mr. President is your guarantee, right now, as a member of NATO and the elected leader of the Republic of France, to stand by us on this one,” replied President Rutledge, who then fell quiet as he listened to his counterpart’s response. Several moments passed, during which the American president couldn’t help rolling his eyes. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. When it was his turn again to speak, Rutledge had to fight to keep his temper in check.

“No, this isn’t anAmerican problem, it’s aninternational problem and no, we are not interested in having you mediate it for us. There’s nothing to mediate. The sovereignty of the United States is not negotiable. “Benoit, all countries committed to freedom and peace must take a stand in the war on terror, no matter where that terror comes from.

Like it or not, the bloodlines of our two nations are forever intertwined. French blood was spilled in helping to forge our nation and create our sovereignty, and American blood has been spilled in not one, but two great wars in helping your countrymen preserve yours. I can’t state more strongly that we believe—” Interrupted by a retort from the French president, Rutledge again fell silent for several moments before responding, “Benoit, I want you listen to me and listen good. You’ve been waffling ever since we sent you the file on this from Langley.

I know you have problems within your own political party right now and I’ve also got a good idea of what the current disposition is across the European Union toward the United States, but I want to make it completely clear that America resents the fact that you are even weighing what your position should be on—” Rutledge gripped the phone so tightly he was sure he was going crack the receiver as he was interrupted yet again. Finally, he lost it and the diplomacy with which he was trying to conduct their conversation evaporated. “I don’t give a good goddamn what parallels you think you see between this situation and what happened with Iraq.

I’m not going down that road. If your intelligence people want to see the bomb we have in our possession, they’re welcome to it. In fact, they should, just in case you end up with one in your backyard. The reason the Brits got the first look was because MI6 already had operatives over here doing a cross-training exercise with some of our people. “Benoit, I have a lot of phone calls yet to make, so I’m going to save us both some time and cut right to the chase.

We agree with you one hundred percent that by all acceptable standards, the intelligence we have thus far is not independently actionable. But when you connect the dots in that file we sent you, they form a very scary picture.

You don’t need to be a lifelong analyst to see that. Millions of people in America could die. Entire cities could be reduced to nothing more than piles of radioactive rubble.

If the situation were reversed and we were talking about you potentially losing Paris, Marseilles, Lyon, and maybe even twenty more cities, what would you want to be hearing from your allies?”

Moments later, and for the first time since the situation had broken, president Jack Rutledge allowed himself to relax. “Thank you, Benoit. I’m glad we can count on you,” he said as he hung up the phone. The feeling of relaxation, though, quickly dissipated as Rutledge’s chief of staff, Charles Anderson, who had been simultaneously reviewing the top secret folder containing the nuclear evacuation plan for the president and his daughter, hung up the extension he’d been listening in on and said, “Well done.

Only twenty-three more calls to go.” Chapter 22 H arvath and Herman drove through the Schöneberg district once again, though Herman made sure to steer well clear of all of the police activity near the Goltzstrasse. They passed the Rathaus Schöneberg, which Harvath recognized as the site of Kennedy’s famousIch bin ein Berliner speech, and when they finally reached Mansteinstrasse, they turned left and found a parking space. The minute Harvath laid his eyes on the Leydicke Pub at number 4 Mansteinstrasse, he knew why Gary Lawlor had chosen it. It was in a relatively quiet neighborhood with easy access to public transportation.

Though it might attract some tourists, by and large its clientele was going to be regulars, which made picking out anyone who didn’t belong there a lot easier.

The pub was close enough to the safe house to be easy to get to, yet far enough away so that when coming or going, you had plenty of time to make sure you weren’t being followed. Scot saw a sign outside proclaiming that the bar had been operated by the Leydicke family for over one hundred years. If Gary Lawlor and Frank Leighton had patronized this bar often enough to get their own steins, chances were very good that somebody in the family was going to remember them. Harvath’s real hope was that one of those memories would be a recent one.

The Leydicke was a traditional German drinking establishment, known as aKneipe , with lots of carved wood and heavy oak tables. There was a distillery on the premises, and in addition to a wide variety of beers, the Leydicke offered a superb selection of sweet wines and liquors. They looked to be the only people in the place and easily found an empty table.

As they sat down in the semi darkness of the dimly lit bar, it felt like they had stepped back in time. For ambiance alone, Harvath would have given it five stars, but he wasn’t writing a review, he was here for information. When a waitress failed to arrive and take their order, Herman suggested they go up to the bar.

“Ich möchte gerne zwei Bier, bitte,” said Scot when they got there. “Big or small?” responded the barman in English, picking up on Harvath’s American accent and the fact that he asked so politely, unlike a local who would have simply said, “zwei Bier, bitte.” The man was short, about five foot four with a large stomach that hung over his white apron. His wire rimmed glasses rested upon a rather bulbous nose, which stood guard over a thick and unkempt mustache. He was easily in his late sixties, if not older, and balding.

“Big, I guess,” replied Harvath. “We’re closing, so you get small,” said the barman. “So much for German hospitality,” responded Harvath under his breath. Herman just rolled his eyes. When the bartender placed their small beers in front of them, Scot withdrew a picture taken of him along with Gary Lawlor at one of Gary’s summer barbeques and handed it across the bar.

“Look familiar?”

Before the man could say anything, Harvath caught the slightest hint of recognition on the man’s face, which he quickly masked. “Nein,” he said, handing the photo back. “You’ve never seen the man standing next to me in that photo?” asked Harvath.

“Nein.”

There it was again. The tell.

Most people would have missed it, but his Secret Service training to detect what scientists referred to as microexpressions, the subtle and almost imperceptible facial cues that subjects unknowingly give off when they are not telling the truth, made it clear to Harvath that the man was lying. “Maybe we could talk to one of the managers?” “There is no manager here.”

“Well what about one of the family members?

One of the owners?”

“I am Hellfried Leydicke, the head of the family and the owner of this bar.” “Maybe you should look at the photo again,” said Harvath as his eye was drawn to one of the shelves behind the bar, above the liquor bottles. “This man was a pretty good customer of yours a long time ago.” “I am sorry, but I do not know him. Please finish your beers, the bar is now closed.”

Herman shook his head. “No large beersand no information.”

“Herr Leydicke,” interjected Harvath. “This man’s name is Gary Lawlor. He’s a very good friend of mine and he’s in a lot of trouble.

I came a long way to help him. Look at the photo once more.” “I don’t need to see the photo again,” commanded Leydicke, “You need to go.” Scot gestured to Herman and then pointed behind the bar. “See that beer stein up there?

The one with the barbed wire?”

“Yeah.”

“Do me a favor and get it down. I think it might help jog Herr Leydicke’s memory.”

Herman leaned over the bar, reached up, and grabbed the mug. Having explained Gary’s Berlin connection to Herman on the drive over, Harvath said, “Flip it over. Gary’s team consisted of twelve guys. Each man was given a custom-made mug just like that one.

On the bottom was a number out of twelve. What does Herr Leydicke’s have?” “Zero out of twelve.”

“That seems fitting enough as he wasn’t actually an official team member. But you were a member of the family, so to speak, weren’t you?

Those men spent a lot of time in here, didn’t they?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Those steins are simple tourist items,” replied Leydicke.

“Really?” said Harvath remembering what Defense Secretary Hilliman had told him toward the end of their meeting when he remarked on how Gary and Frank Leighton had the same numbered beer steins in their houses. “Because they way I heard it, the team members had all taken turns sneaking up onto the wall at night to snip their own authentic piece of history. How’d you get the barbed wire on your mug?

Did you slip on your night vision goggles one evening and scale the wall praying that the East German border guards wouldn’t see you and open fire? Something tells me you didn’t.

Somebody else risked their life to get it for you. On the back of the mug where it talks aboutFür die Sicherheit , For the Security, that was their unit motto. What security did you help to protect?”

Leydicke was silent. Harvath knew he had hit the nail right on the head. “Listen,” he continued, “we need to talk. Most of those men you knew are dead, and not from old age either.

Someone has killed them. There are only two left and I don’t want to see anything happen to them.” After several moments, Leydicke relented and said, “Let me lock up and we’ll talk.” The bar closed for the evening, Hellfried Leydicke set a tray of food along with threelarge Bären Pils beers on the table in his office. “I don’t understand any of this,” said Harvath as he reached for one of the beers.

“Gary just arrived on your doorstep two days ago, dropped his bags and said he’d be back in a little while? That was it?” “More or less,” responded Leydicke.

“We hadn’t seen each other in years, but I could tell that something was wrong.” “Why is that?”

“After all this time, he didn’t ask any questions about the family, how business had been —you know, no chitchat.” “Did he say anything at all about what he was up to or where he was going?” “No, he simply asked if he could leave his bag here and that he was going to be back later.”

“But he never came back?” asked Harvath. “No, he didn’t.” Scot set his beer down and began to look through Gary Lawlor’s suitcase.

After several moments, he pulled a sleek black device that looked like the old Apple PDA known as the Newton out of the bag. “What’s that?” asked Herman. “It looks like an oversized handheld computer,” replied Harvath, flipping open the cover and powering it up. “One of the early ones from the eighties.”

“Your friend doesn’t keep too up-to-date on his technology, does he?”

“No, he doesn’t. In fact he hates computers. He always gives me shit for the Ipaq I carry.

He says that if it ever goes on the fritz, I’ll be screwed. He never would have owned something like this. He still carries around a paper Day-Timer scheduler. It’s as thick as a phone book.

This PDA doesn’t fit his personality.”

“Have you looked through the programs on it? Anything interesting?”

“Not really,” said Harvath as he scrolled through. “He’s got a contact database—” “Any listings in Berlin?”

“None that I can see.

The appointments, the To Do list—they’re all pretty innocuous,” he answered, convinced now more than ever that the PDA was something other than it appeared.”

“It must have been part of his cover,” said Herman. Harvath powered down the unit and asked Leydicke, “Has Gary gotten any deliveries here, Hellfried? Maybe somebody stopped by looking for him?” “Nobody has been here looking for him,” replied Leydicke, “but there have been a few phone calls over the last two days.”

“Phone calls?” said Harvath.

“From whom?” “I don’t know.” “What did the person say?”

“It was a code, something the team used to use years ago,” he answered. “For security reasons, there were never supposed to be more than four of them in the same public place at one time, but they always disregarded the rule and came here to drink together.

If they wanted to know if any of their teammates were in the bar, they would call up and ask if Alice was here. Like in the song.”

“You mean as in, ‘Alice? Alice?

Who the f—’ ” began Herman. “Yes,” said Leydicke, cutting him off.

“The Smokie song from the seventies.”

“I don’t get it,” replied Harvath. “What’s this song?”

“It was originally a polka tune, but it got remade as a pop song,” said Herman. “After the singer sings, ‘ ’cause for twenty-four years I’ve been living next door to Alice,’ everybody in the bar, the nightclub, wherever, would respond, ‘Alice?

Alice? Who the fuck is Alice?’ Even if you were alone in your car, you still shouted it out.”

“It was a popular joke at the time,” added Hellfried. “If none of the guys were here and someone called and asked for Alice, I’d say Alice doesn’t live here anymore. And if any of the guys were here, I’d answer—” “Alice?

Alice?

Who the fuck is Alice?” said Herman with a smile, obviously anxious to finish the phrase. “Cute,” said Harvath. “What does this have to do with these phone calls for Gary?”

“That’s just it,” said Leydicke.

“After his team was sent back to the States, I never received anymore calls like that. It was their special code. Now all of a sudden, I’m getting several calls a day asking for Alice.” “Are the calls from different people?” asked Harvath.

“No the same man,” said Leydicke. “What did you tell him?” “At first, I told him Alice didn’t live here anymore.

Then when Gary dropped off his bags, the next time I got the call I said Alice had gone out and should be back soon.”

“Can you tell if the calls are local or long distance?”

“With the German phone system, you never know, but I don’t think they originated inside Berlin.”

“Why not?”

“There was a pause on the line.” “You mean like a delay?” “Yes, a delay.”

“So, there’s a delay and it’s the same person calling you.

Did you recognize the voice?
Could it be one of the team guys?” “According to you,” answered Leydicke, “all but two of the team members are dead. So if Gary’s alive, who would that leave?”

“Frank Leighton,” said Harvath.

“Is it his voice?”

Leydicke paused a moment as he tried to remember his old customer. “It could be, but it has been a very long time.” “When does he usually call?”

“It varies.” “There must be some pattern to it. He would know that somebody from his team would be here at a set time if he needed to call in.”

Leydicke smoothed down the few loose strands of hair on his bald pate and thought about it a moment. “It was strange to hear a call like that after all these years. At first, I thought it was one of the old guys making a joke, but when I tried to talk to him, he just hung up.” “Do you always answer the phone here?”

“Of course I do.

It’s my bar.” “Okay.

Now I need you to think. Is there any pattern to when the calls come in?”

“No,” said Leydicke. “Except—” “Exceptwhat?” prompted Harvath.

“There seems to be one last one in the evening. He’ll call right as we’re about to close.” “And what time do you normally close?”

“In about half an hour.” “Good,” said Harvath. “That gives us just enough time to get ready.”

Chapter 23 H arvath knew it was Frank Leighton on the other end of the line when Leydicke responded to the caller’s inquiry with, “Alice? Alice?

Who the fuck is Alice?” and then handed the phone to him. The next several seconds were going to be very tricky and though he had spent the last half hour trying to figure out what to say, Harvath needed to tread very carefully. For all intents and purposes, Leighton was quite literally a walking time bomb. The last thing the United States needed was for that bomb to go off before they were ready.

“Mr. Saritsa,” said Harvath, using Leighton’s alias, “I want you to listen to me very carefully. I have a message from Goaltender. He needs you to hold. I repeat.

He needs you to hold.” “Who is this?” said Frank Leighton after a brief pause. “For the moment, you can call me Norseman,” replied Harvath using the call sign that he had acquired in the SEALs and which had followed him through the Secret Service. It had been given to him not so much because he looked like a Viking, though he was as ferocious a fighter, but rather because of a string of Scandinavian flight attendants he had dated during his SEAL days.

“You need to listen me. The person who should have taken this call has gone missing. Goaltender sent me to find him.

Until I do, you need to remain in place.”

“Why should I believe you?” “Because there’s been a death in Alice’s family. In fact, most of the family has tragically passed on. Do you understand what I am saying?

You’re the only one left who can run the family business. In memory of Alice, we’d like to put some people in place at some of her other offices, but it is going to take a little time to do that.”

“How much time do we have?”

“Not much.” “If you are who you say you are, you’ll know how to execute the emergency contact plan. You’ve got twenty-four hours, or else I roll,” said Leighton, who then promptly hung up.

Harvath handed the phone back to Leydicke. He knew Leighton wouldn’t call back. As he sat back in his chair and massaged his temples, he wondered how the hell he was going to figure out what the emergency contact plan was between Gary and his operatives. “So?” asked Herman.

“How’d it go?” “Just great.

We’ve got a whole twenty-four hours.” “And after that?”

“After that, is after that.

Let’s focus on what’s in front of us now,” said Harvath, concerned that he may just have pushed Leighton beyond recall. Herman was about to make a comment when his cell phone rang. “Ja?” he answered after flipping it open. He talked back and forth with someone for several moments.

Looking at his watch he said, “in eine halbe Stunde,” then closed the phone and put it back in his pocket. “What’s up?” asked Harvath. “That was Sebastian.”

“Did he and Max get the footage?”

“Yes, we’re supposed to meet them in a half hour,” said Herman, standing up from his chair. After gathering up Gary Lawlor’s suitcase and PDA, Scot and Herman followed Leydicke to the front of the bar where he unlocked the door, shook their hands and watched the two men disappear into a steadily falling snow. The oddly named Küss (Kiss) Film und Video Produktion company was located in an old derelict warehouse building in a rather seedy and run-down section of the former East Berlin.

Herman found a parking spot a few spaces away from the entrance and he and Harvath walked up to a reinforced security door where Herman rang the intercom. A voice over the speaker responded, “Wer ist da?” Herman identified himself and a buzzer sounded as the door’s automatic lock released. Harvath followed Herman inside past numerous wooden pallets stacked high with large cardboard boxes emblazoned with the company’s not so subtle logo—a glossy pair of red lips pursed in a kiss.

He noticed conveyor belts with shrink wrapping machines and off on the other side of the beat-up warehouse, transparent pneumatic doors leading into a pristine clean room with racks of video duplicating equipment. He also had counted no less than seven security cameras since they had walked through the front door. “Where the hell are we?” asked Harvath as he and Herman approached a large, padded door at the rear of the warehouse. It was covered in deep, red leather and studded with brilliant chrome rivets.

“I’ll let Max explain. This is his friend’s business,” said Herman as they opened the door and stepped into an opulent lobby area that stood in stark contrast to the warehouse behind them. The floors were covered in black marble that was so highly polished it shone like a mirror. Hanging on the wall behind a granite receptionist’s station was the company’s logo done up in bright neon. A low-slung, brushed aluminum table fronted an opulent white leather sectional, and when Harvath caught sight of a series of framed movie posters on the wall, his suspicions of what kind of films and videos the company produced were all but confirmed.

He was about to say something to Herman when Max appeared from the adjacent corridor and called them over. “Max, what the hell is this place?

Peter’s Porn Emporium?” asked Harvath. “Actually,” said Max, “it’s Marc’s Porn Emporium. Better known as Küss Film und—” “Video Produktion,” interrupted Harvath.

“I know. I saw the sign. The lips are a nice touch. What the hell are we doing here?” “Looking at your videos.

Marc has developed a very interesting niche in the Berlin postproduction market, but I think it will be more interesting if he tells you himself. He’s in the back. “I’ll show you.”

Max turned and walked back down the corridor with Scot and Herman right behind him. They passed a fully equipped state-of-the-art soundstage, booths for audio recording, a master control room, and several high-end editing suites.

It was in the very last suite that they found Marc Schroeder, the president and CEO of Küss Film und Video Produktion seated in front of a wide flat panel computer monitor, hard at work. As his guests entered, he spun in his chair and stood to greet them. He was tall, about six feet, cleancut with perfectly creased khakis and a neatly pressed oxford shirt—not at all the picture Harvath harbored in his mind of a porn producer. “Marc, I’d like you to meet Scot Harvath and Herman Toffle,” said Max.

Schroeder shook Herman’s hand and upon shaking hands with Harvath joked, “I understand you’re the reason we’re all here. Do you know what I charge for coming in after hours like this?”

“I would have thought you do your best work at night,” replied Harvath. “A man with a sense of humor.

I like that! Please, take a seat,” laughed Marc, as he cleared away a stack of videocassette sleeves from the leather couch behind him. “I’m not going to stick to this, am I?” asked Harvath. Marc continued laughing and rolled his chair back over to his ergonomically designed edit station.

“There’s that sense of humor again. You Americans love to kid.” “Who’s kidding?” said Harvath under his breath to Herman. “Marc,” continued Scot, trying to move things along, “What about our footage?

Were you able to get anything from it?”

“The first thing I looked at when Max arrived were the digital stills from the traffic cameras. All they show are individual cars in the midst of committing traffic infractions. Without knowing what specific car you are looking for, it is not very helpful. The cameras cover the intersection only and nothing parked up the street, so I decided to set that aside.

“The bank footage, on the other hand, was much more promising. The bank uses very wide angle lenses on its outdoor cameras.”

Harvath watched while the image in front of them broke down into hundreds of little blocks and became a blur as Schroeder scrolled backwards until he got to the point on the tape that he wanted. “Here we are. Two days ago.”

He pushed play and sat back in his chair.

Harvath watched for a few moments and then said, “I don’t see anything. It just looks like the outside of the bank to me.”

“Watch the top of the screen,” offered Schroeder. “It’s coming in five seconds.”

Harvath watched until he saw what appeared to be two or more men huddled close together move quickly across the screen. “Can you enhance that?”

he asked, leaning forward on the couch, excited by what he might have just witnessed. “No problem.

Let’s watch it again with full zoom,” said Schroeder who punched a series of commands into his Avid. They watched it again and this time it was obvious that there were three men, two of whom looked to be half carrying a third as if he were drunk.

Or incapacitated by a Taser. “Marc,” said Harvath. “Show it to me again, but this time can you run it in slow motion?”

“Of course,” answered Schroeder who ran it back again. “Shit,” exclaimed Harvath after watching it a third time.

“They enter from one side of the frame and in a matter of seconds exit out the other. You can’t see any faces at all. It’s almost as if they were purposely trying to avoid the video cameras.”

“Either that, or they got lucky,” said Herman. “Is there anything else you can do to enhance the picture, Marc?” asked Harvath.

“We can run it again with the mathematical filter.” “Do it.”

Harvath watched again and though the image was slightly better, it still wasn’t good enough. The surveillance tape had caught three men moving together across the street, two seeming to half-carry another, but even with all the enhancements, the quality wasn’t good enough to identify any of them, not even Gary. The disappointment in the room was palpable.

Harvath sat there staring at the screen as the video footage continued to unfold. He couldn’t believe that they had come this far only to be turned away with nothing. He was getting ready to get up from the couch when, all of a sudden he yelled, “Stop!” Both Max and Herman stared at him as Marc paused the feed. “Run the tape backwards five seconds and play it again,” said Harvath.

Schroeder did as Harvath instructed and ran the footage again. “I don’t see anything,” said Max. “Neither do I,” replied Herman.

“What are you looking at?” “Run it again,” was Harvath’s answer, “but this time take it back and start it from where the men walk out of the frame.” Schroeder rewound the tape to the appropriate point and let it play. “Nothing,” said Max, frustrated.

“Scot, it’s an empty street scene,” added Herman. Suddenly, Marc Schroeder sat up straighter in his chair. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He swiveled around, looked at Harvath and said, “Lower screen right?”

Harvath nodded in reply.

“Lower screen right?” argued Herman. “There’s nothing there.” “Yes there is,” returned Schroeder.

“Right on the very edge.

I can’t believe I didn’t catch it. I’ll put a spotlight on it for you.” Moments later, with the lower right hand portion of the screen highlighted, they all saw it. Just barely in frame, was the back of a late model BMW with part of its license plate visible.

Then it was gone. Chapter 24 K arl Überhof’s apartment was located just off Unter den Linden, once one of the best known boulevards in all of Europe and the preeminent thoroughfare of East Berlin. With the information they had gathered from the bank footage, Marc Schroeder was able to scan the digital stills from the traffic cams until they had found what they were looking for. A black BMW had in fact blown through a red light at the intersection of Grunewaldstrasse and Goltzstrasse. By comparing the time code stamped on the digital traffic cam photo with the time code on the bank footage, they knew they had a match.

The picture gave them a complete license plate number, which jibed with the partial they already had. With one phone call, Sebastian was not only able to get the registration information on the car, but his contact was able to fax him the drivers’ license photo of the man it was registered to—Karl Überhof. Though the quality wasn’t the best, it was still good enough for their purposes.

Harvath had been against storming Überhof’s apartment, especially after what had happened at the Capstone safe house. Though he didn’t believe Überhof had any idea they were on to him, at this point, he was their only lead.

After weighing all of the potential outcomes, Harvath decided they would be better off shadowing him to see where he might go. Sebastian didn’t agree. He and his men had checked Überhof’s parking garage and had verified that his black BMW was there, which likely meant that the man was upstairs asleep.

Sebastian wanted to surprise Überhof in his bed, confront him with what they knew, and force him to talk. ‘And if he’s a professional?’ Harvath had asked. How long might it take until they finally broke him? What if they couldn’t break him? What if they screwed up and killed him?

What then?

No, Harvath had reasoned, it was better to let Überhof take them right to Gary Lawlor. And though Sebastian had eventually agreed, he had also brought up a very good argument. What if Gary actually was in Überhof’s apartment?

Merely staking out his place wasn’t going to tell them that. What’s more, what if Überhof and whoever he was working with were torturing Gary? What if when they got to him it was too late?

How long was Scot prepared to sit outside and do nothing? It was one of those textbookdamned if you do, damned if you don’t scenarios that all too often presented themselves in hostage situations. The weight of the decision was not one Harvath enjoyed riding on his shoulders, but he accepted responsibility for it nonetheless. In the end, he agreed with Sebastian that a time limit should be set. It was the decision that made the most strategic sense.

If Überhof didn’t show his face by the appointed time, they would kick the door in and take down the apartment. Having not slept much over the last two days, Harvath appreciated being able to close his eyes for a while, even if it was stretched out in the back of the MEK’s mock bakery truck. He’d slept in worse places and if there was one thing his training had taught him, it was that sleep was a weapon.

Because of the damage to Harvath’s ribs, Sebastian had offered to take his shift and give him more time to rest, but Harvath had refused.

He awoke at the appointed time and walked over to his position at an all night café on the other side of the Bebelplatz. He passed an illuminated piece of art—a hollowed out-chamber with empty bookshelves that commemorated the Nazi’s famous book burning on that spot in May of 1933. He stopped to read the inscription by Heinrich Heine, who saw his books burned along with other “subversive” authors such as Sigmund Freud. The plaque read, “Nur dort wo man Bücher verbrennt, verbrennt man am Ende auch Menschen.”Wherever books are burned, ultimately people are also burned.
Harvath, per Herman’s suggestion, kept his German speaking to a minimum.

He took a table in the corner by the window and simply ordered, “Ein Kaffee, bitte,” and when the waitress returned with the small pot that contained about two cups known as aKännchen , he paid her and then reached for the newspaper from the empty table next to him. He pretended to read as he watched the street outside. The current shift of MEK operatives were similarly placed at strategic points around the block, the idea being that if Überhof made a move, he was likely going to engage in a maneuver known as an SDR—surveillance detection route.

In other words, he was going to make darn sure that he wasn’t being followed. By having men placed in different locations, they would be able to follow Überhof, hopefully without him knowing. After sitting for two hours in the stiff wooden café chair, Harvath was glad that his shift was coming to an end. Outside, it had grown warmer, turning the snow to a cold drizzle, but the unusual change in temperature brought with it a very undesirable side effect— fog.

Where Harvath could see clear across the Bebelplatz when he had first entered the café, now he could barely see three feet outside its windows. As he set the newspaper in front of him and pushed back from the table, the voice of one of Sebastian’s operatives crackled over his earpiece. Überhof had been spotted leaving his apartment and was making his way across the Bebelplatz. The operative was following, but having trouble keeping him in sight in the thick fog. As Harvath made his way to the large, etched glass doors at the front of the café, he spoke into his sleeve mike and asked the operative to give him an idea of where he was.

“Staatsoper,” replied the man, referring to the opera house on the other side of the square, “coming toward you.”

“Good,” said Harvath. “When you get to the café, I’ll take him.”

“Kein Problem. I’ll let you know as I approach.” Moments passed and Harvath waited impatiently in the café’s vestibule, his face turned away from the entrance as he pretended to appear interested in a flyer for a meeting of some working people’s consortium.

It looked like communist propaganda to him, but then again he shouldn’t be surprised, the Communist Party was still very much alive and well in Europe. What people will waste their time on , he thought to himself. Just then, his earpiece once again crackled to life. “Crossing the street now.

Arriving at your location in—” said the operative, but his transmission was suddenly cut off. “I didn’t hear you,” said Harvath, pushing the earpiece further into his ear.

“Say again.”

Harvath waited but there was no response. He tried to hail the operative again, but still there was nothing. A loud cracking sound drew his attention toward the entrance of the café. The etched doors shuddered on their hinges, and Harvath spun just in time to see the bloody body of the MEK operative who had been trailing Überhof slide down the glass. The small group of patrons inside began screaming and several of them rushed toward the windows in the front of the café to see what was happening.

Harvath bolted outside with his H&K drawn, but couldn’t see Überhof anywhere. The fog was too thick. He could barely see his hand in front of his face. He pulled the fallen operative away from the door and turned him over.

“Man down. Man down,” he repeated over his radio, but it was too late. The man’s throat had been sliced from ear to ear. How could Überhof have known he had a tail? For a moment, a tidal wave of images threatened to flood Harvath’s mind—the faces of men that he had lost in previous operations, men whose safety he had been responsible for.

All of a sudden, he felt a large hand grab his shoulder. Harvath spun, his H&K raised and ready to fire. “Come on,” said the voice of Herman Toffle. “Überhof’s getting away.”

“Wait,” said Harvath, as he turned back to the dead operative.

“There’s something not right here.” “I know,” replied Herman, “He’s dead. Let’s go.

I’ll radio Sebastian to come get him.”

The radio! That was it. “No,” said Harvath. “His radio’s gone.

Überhof took it. He’ll know every move we make.” “Then we’ll figure something else out, but we need to move.” “How are we going to follow him in this?”

Herman held up a long black tube about the size of a tennis ball can, which Harvath immediately recognized.

It was a SpecterIR portable thermal infrared imaging weapon sight. Weighing only three pounds, the SpecterIR used next generation hybrid uncooled FPA heat imaging detector technology, which offered true “see in the dark” infrared capability. Darkness, smoke, dust, rain and most importantly fog, were all rendered virtually transparent to the simple to operate scope.

“Where’d you get that?” asked Harvath. “I borrowed it from one of the sniper rifles in the back of Sebastian’s van,” replied Herman, “but none of this is going to matter if we don’t get behind this guy and see where he’s going.”

“Okay.

Let’s go. You lead.”

“No, you lead. You’ll be my eyes. I’ll track him with the scope and you walk in front of me,” said the much larger Toffle as he put his beefy paw on Harvath’s shoulder and shoved him towards the edge of the square.

“Move out.” As Harvath led the way up Unter den Linden, Herman kept one hand on Harvath’s shoulder for balance while his attention was focused on their target, who was almost a full block ahead of them. Using the BlackHot thermal imaging option, every item seen through the Specter’s lens with a high heat signature was rendered black.

Herman preferred it to the White Hot option, as it was easier on his eye during such prolonged use. Überhof knew what he was doing and was proving himself to be quite a pro. Though he moved at a good clip, he still stopped repeatedly to check and see if he was being followed.

In the fog, though, the best he could do was listen. Without his own thermal imaging device, he could see only what was right in front of him. For all intents and purposes, the man was completely blind, but when one sense is taken away, others become heightened, and both Harvath and Herman knew they had to be careful.

They quickly developed their own unspoken language. A slight squeeze of his shoulder told Harvath to slow down. A harder squeeze called for an all-out stop as it indicated Überhof had halted somewhere up ahead and was trying to detect if anyone was behind him. At Friedrichstrasse, Überhof made an abrupt turn and Harvath and Herman were forced to cautiously hightail it up to the corner out of fear of losing him. When they caught sight of him again, he was making his way toward the entrance of one of the stations for Berlin’s subway system known as the U-Bahn.

Herman pocketed the SpecterIR scope and suggested they approach the station from different directions. Harvath agreed and crossed the street. Entering the station, Harvath did a quick look around without breaking stride toward the brightly colored automated ticket machines, but so far, there was no sign of Überhof. He peeled a note off of the thick wad of Euros he had been given before leaving the United States and bought a three-zone, all-day ticket, not knowing where this little chase might lead them. He was just about to validate his ticket and make his way down the escalator to the platform, when Herman quietly whistled to get his attention.

“So much for us not being together,” mumbled Harvath as he joined Herman in front of the station manager’s glassed-in control booth. Herman grabbed a system map and pretended to search for their destination as he said, “Look at the station master’s closed-circuit cameras. What do you see?”

“I see our guy standing towards the end of the platform,” replied Harvath.

“What else?”

“Nothing really.”

“Exactly,” responded Herman. “This early in the morning, there aren’t many people using the U-Bahn. I’m concerned that if we go down to the platform too soon, he might spot us.”

“What are we supposed to do then?”

“He’s on the U6 platform waiting for the train going south—” “That’s the train that goes to Tempelhof Airport. What the hell is he up to?”

“I don’t know, but here’s what I want to do. We wait here until the train enters the station.

It looks like he is going to get onboard the last car. There are always people running into the U-Bahn at the last minute. We’ll do the same. We’ll run down to the platform, hop on one of the forward cars and then make our way back so we can watch him.”

Harvath didn’t like it. He didn’t like any of it. Tailing someone on a subway was one of the most difficult things to do. If the subject got off and you followed and then the subject jumped back on at the last minute, what could you do?Nothing.

In plain English, you were fucked. Harvath had come too far to get fucked at this point. He was racked by the age-old surveillance dilemma—Do you play him?

Or do you pop him?With one man already dead, his ribs killing him and a surveillance scenario in the subway system of Berlin that was severely less than optimal, he was beginning to think that they were quickly closing in on the only sane alternative—to pop Überhof and lean on him like a C-17 Globe-master full of bricks until he told them what they needed to know.

Herman seemed to sense what he was thinking. “We have a few minutes before the next train arrives. I am going to call Sebastian on my cell phone and let him know what we’re doing. He can space men along the line and have them get on at different stations.

Don’t worry.

We’re not going to lose him.” And with that, Herman walked back towards the stairs to the street level and got on his phone. Harvath had to admit, it sounded like a halfway decent plan.

By switching the members of the surveillance team, maybe they could still follow Überhof without his knowing, andmaybe he would lead them to Gary Lawlor. Then again, that’s how they had started this whole thing and someone had already died. But maybe Überhof had just gotten lucky.

Maybe the operative had screwed up somehow. Neither of those ideas sat well with Harvath. He reminded himself of how well trained Sebastian and his men were. Writing off the operative who had gotten killed as careless or unlucky, wasn’t right.

That being said, the fact that Überhof had picked up on a tail so fast and in such thick fog really unnerved Harvath. Not only was Überhof good, he was dangerous , Harvath decided. Underestimating him any further would be a big mistake.

Herman returned from making his phone call just as the rumble of an approaching train could be heard. “Did you get a hold of Sebastian?” asked Harvath, his eyes glued to the black and white monitor inside the station manager’s glass booth. “Yes and he’s going to do what we asked, but you need to know that he and his men are very upset and want Überhof dead.” “If he’d killed one of my teammates I’d want him dead too, but this is our only chance to get to Gary.”

“And they understand that.

They’re professionals. They’ll do what they’re supposed to do,” replied Herman. “But when it’s over,” offered Harvath, “I don’t care what they do with the guy.” “I thought you might feel that way.

Let’s make a move for the platform. That train’s not going to sit there for long.” The buzzer, which signaled that the doors were about to close, was already sounding when the pair hit the bottom of the escalator and ran for the first car. They passed a large mirror mounted at the end of the platform that allowed the train’s engineer to look back down the entire length of his train and make sure everyone was onboard before pulling out of the station. As they jumped aboard the train, something in the mirror caught Harvath’s eye.

“He got off!” yelled Scot as he turned and lunged for the closing doors. Startled passengers watched as the two men pried the doors open and squeezed out of the train. “You’d better be sure about this,” said Herman as he looked up and down the platform as the train began to pull away, “because I don’t see him.” “Give me the scope,” said Harvath.

Herman handed it to him and then casually walked along the edge of the platform covertly studying the faces in each of the bright yellow U-Bahn cars as the train picked up speed and pulled out of the station. Harvath didn’t bother examining the faces of the U-Bahn passengers. He knew Überhof had gotten off. It had just been a flash in the mirror, but Harvath was confident about what he had seen. He was also pretty sure he knew where the man had gone.

It took the Specter scope less than ten seconds to power all the way up. At the far end of the platform, Harvath held it up to his eye and peered into the heavy blackness of the faintly illuminated train tunnel. “Unless he was lying down on the floor,” said Herman as he rejoined Harvath, “he wasn’t on that train.” “I know,” replied Scot as he adjusted the Specter.

“So where is he?” Harvath handed Herman the scope and said, “About fifty meters down along the wall on the right hand side. Take a look for yourself.”

After watching Überhof pick his way down the tunnel for several moments, Herman asked, “What the hell is that asshole up to?”

“I don’t know,” answered Harvath, pulling out his H&K and screwing on the silencer, “but I think we ought to go find out.”

Chapter 25 T hey followed Überhof for over fifteen minutes until he came to a short metal service door and disappeared through it. When they passed through the door, they found that it led to a long, low ceilinged tunnel. Several minutes later, it opened up and they were amazed by what they saw. “What is this place?” asked Harvath as he shined his SureFire flashlight around the abandoned, cobweb-covered U-Bahn station.

“Geisterbahnhöfe,” replied Herman. “Ghost station.

I didn’t think any of these existed anymore.” “What the hell is aghost station ?” demanded Harvath as he painfully pulled himself up onto the filthy platform. With its dreary green tiles, old-fashioned signs and the Communist era propaganda posters hanging above the benches, the station looked like it had been frozen in time—a true relic of the Cold War.

Harvath could see an old newspaper kiosk that must have once sold cigarettes and magazines, but which had been retrofitted into a machine gun nest, as well as Communist era propaganda posters hanging above the benches. “When the Soviets built the wall, they split off the subway system in East Berlin into its own network. Because of a quirk in geography, two of the West Berlin lines needed to pass briefly through East Berlin before circling back around to the West.

It was very strange. You could ride through East Berlin and see stations like this completely abandoned except for the stern-faced soldiers standing on the platforms with machineguns.” “And those abandoned stations were what you calledGeisterbahnhöfe ?” “Yes, but after the reunification, all of the stations were supposedly reopened.” “This one must not have gotten the memo,” replied Harvath, as he ran his finger along the dirty tile.

“You know, it’s strange,” said Herman. “I don’t even know what line this is on. I am trying to figure out what might be above us.” “What about this?” said Harvath as lifted an old metal directional sign from the floor, blew the dust off of it and showed it to Herman.

“Russische Botschaft?

I knowRussische is German for Russian, but what isBotschaft ?” “Embassy,” replied Herman solemnly. “Russian Embassy.

Jesus.”

Harvath studied the serious look on Herman’s face and said, “What is it?”

“Something very bad.

The ground beneath Berlin is riddled with bunkers and networks of tunnels,” he answered. “The Gestapo built them under a direct order from the Führer. Not only were they used as fallout shelters, but also as interrogation facilities where some of the most horrific torture you could ever imagine was carried out.

“After the war, many Gestapo agents were absorbed by the Russians and placed into theMinisterium für Statessicherheit —” “You mean the Stasi?” asked Harvath. “The East German secret police?”

“Yes.

The old Gestapo agents trained many of the Stasi. I heard terrible stories when I was with the GSG9 of what went on down in these tunnels and forgotten bunkers. Many people were brought down here never to be seen or heard from again,” said Herman, who then realized the implication of his words and was quiet. Harvath felt a chill run down his spine as he resigned himself to the only logical reason Überhof could have for keeping Gary Lawlor in this horrific sort of underworld.

Pulling back the slide on his H&K, he verified that he had a round chambered and then activated the LaserLyte attached to the rail system beneath the barrel.

No words needed to be spoken between the two men.

Harvath simply nodded his head and their search of the ghost station began in earnest. Harvath held his pistol out in front with both hands while he and Herman cleared the station. So far, it was empty.

Harvath was about ready to suggest that they go back down to the platform and search farther up the unknown line, when he saw something out of place across the lobby. It was a vintage Soviet era cigarette machine, complete with a picture of Comrade Lenin puffing away on his favorite brand. Harvath walked over and began examining it from all angles.

“What are you doing?” said Herman as he joined him, careful to keep his voice down. “I thought you didn’t smoke.”

“I don’t, but doesn’t it seem odd to you that there was a kiosk on the platform that would have sold cigarettes and there’s also a cigarette machine here?” “No, not really.

Germans back then liked to smoke. In fact, we still like to.”

“And the fact that there are no other vending machines, no ticket machines or anything else still in this station doesn’t bother you?”

“Now that you mention it,” replied Herman, “a cigarette machine, especially back then, would have been worth a lot of money. If nothing else, you’d think some soldiers would have taken it at some point and sold it on the black market.”

“Exactly,” responded Harvath, who threw his shoulder up against the machine. “The way it’s wedged into this alcove, I can’t get it to budge.

I think it must be bolted to the wall.”

“Move over,” said Herman. “Let me give it a try.”

Harvath got out of the way, and the enormous German planted his feet and then wrapped his huge arms around the thing. He tried three times to move it without success.

“Now I know why no one ever stole it,” he said as he gave up and took in a deep breath. “Somethingis holding it to that wall. But you can’t get to the bolts.

How would you service it?” “Good question.

It doesn’t make sense, unless—” said Harvath, trailing off as an idea struck him and he illuminated the pull knobs on the front of the machine with his flashlight. “What are you thinking?” asked Herman. “Do you have any idea what kind of cigarettes Lenin smoked?”

“No, why?”

“Because the Soviets used to infuse a lot of their clandestine operations with symbolism.

How aboutSobranies ?”

“The black Russian cigarettes?” responded Herman, confused. “How should I know?”

“Let’s give them a try,” said Harvath who pulled the handle and waited for something to happen. “Maybe you should try putting some money in first.” “I don’t think so,” replied Harvath, as he chose another handle.

“How aboutSputnik brand?”

Once again nothing happened. “If you’d tell me what you’re trying to do, maybe I could help you,” offered Herman as he leaned his shoulder against the wall and tried to understand what Harvath was doing. “Of course!” said Harvath, careful to remember to keep his voice down. “Leningradskiebrand would have been his favorite. How stupid of me.”

Harvath pulled on the handle forLeningradskie cigarettes and to his surprise, it came out significantly further than the others.

Nothing else happened. “Maybe you should try an East German brand,” joked Herman. “I can’t tell the difference,” replied Harvath. “Which one is East German?”

“Pull the knob for theF6 smokes. It used to be quite popular in the East.”

Harvath did and just like the knob forLeningradskie cigarettes, this one also came out significantly farther than the others.

He stood back from the machine and thought for a moment. “I still say you need to put some money in,” quipped Herman. “And I think its much easier than that once you figure it out,” said Harvath as he reproached the machine with a new idea and pulled the knobs for theLeningradskie andF6 cigarette brands at the same time.

All of a sudden, there was a series of noises from inside the cigarette machine that sounded like heavy metal bars bumping over the teeth of thick metal tumblers. There was a groan of metal on metal as the entire tiled alcove, cigarette machine and all, shuddered and then began to swing inwards. “Open sesame,” said Harvath as he raised his H&K and pointed it straight ahead.

“Fick mich,” joined Herman, drawing his second weapon. With a Beretta .40-caliber 96 Stock pistol in each hand, he looked like some sort of modern day cowboy and Harvath told him as much. “You’ll be glad I brought the twins,” answered Toffle, kissing both of the Berettas in turn.

“Anyone who goes to this much trouble to conceal what they’re doing is not going to be very happy to see us coming.” “Then let’s make sure they don’t, got it?”

“DoI have it? What am I, new?

Maybe we should double check with Helga and Kristina here,” said Herman waving his pistols. “Doyou have it, girls?”

“Very funny, Herman. Let’s just not fuck this up.”

Herman shook his head and the pair moved inside.

Following the dimly lit tunnel, they came upon two abandoned rooms that looked like they hadn’t been touched in half a century. Dust and cobwebs covered everything. They moved further down the hall and discovered a rusted door that looked like a ship’s bulkhead. Though they were somewhat muffled, Harvath could distinctly make out voices coming from the other side.

As the voices weren’t speaking in English, he waved Herman over, and Herman pressed his ear up against the door as well. “How many are in there?” Harvath asked.

“At least three, maybe more,” whispered Herman after listening for several moments. “Can you tell if Gary is in there?”

“I don’t know. One of the men seems to be giving all of the orders, but his German is not very good. He says he’s come a long way and is very pissed off that the men have not done their job. He’s chewing one of them out for being late.

I think the late man is Überhof. He says he was late because he was being followed, but he took care of the problem and no one followed him here.”

“Good,” replied Harvath, who then got up and signaled that he was going to take a look at the rest of the hallway. Pipes of varying sizes were suspended from the ceiling and appeared to run the length of the tunnel. Like most of the bunkers and fallout shelters he had seen during his career, Harvath correctly assumed that the pipes were used to channel various utilities throughout the underground complex.

He came upon several more rooms, all more or less in varying states of neglect and disarray. It was hard to tell what sort of function they may have once served. All that mattered was that they were presently devoid of other human beings. At the end of the hallway, Harvath was stopped dead in his tracks by another blast door with a red sign markedBetriebsraum , which was framed by two lightening bolts.

Though Harvath had no idea what the word meant in German, he figured it was probably a mechanical room of some sort.

Looking up, he saw that all of the utility pipes fed through the solid rock above the door and into whatever room lay on the other side. He tried spinning the large crank handle on the outside of the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Even when he tucked his H&K under his arm and ignored the searing pain in his side as he tried with both hands, nothing happened. Harvath decided to forget the door and quickly made his way back up the tunnel to where Herman was still listening against the bulkhead door. “Anything new?” he asked, taking up a position next to Toffle.

“I think there’s somebody else in the room with them.” “What makes you say that?” “Because, they’re speaking English now.” “Is it Gary?”

“I can only hear what sounds like questions.

I thought I heard somebody responding, but now, there’s nothing. What do you want to do?” asked Herman, as he backed away from the door. “You know what I want to do,” said Harvath, pulling two flashbang grenades from his coat pocket.

“Are you ready?” Herman Toffle patted his injured leg, the same leg that had forced him into early retirement from his beloved GSG9 position and responded, “I’ve been ready for this for a long time.” Chapter 26 T he powerful man circled Gary Lawlor’s chair like a bull zeroing in on an injured matador.

He hadn’t introduced himself when he entered the bunker, and he didn’t need to. Though very much the worse for wear, Lawlor was still with it enough to know who the man was.

Someone from the Russian Military High Command, especially someone like General Sergei Stavropol, was a person whose reputation preceded him. “You don’t seem surprised to see me,” said Stavropol. “It was only a matter of time before someone from Mother Russia showed up,” mumbled Lawlor, his cracked and swollen lips revealing a mouth full of broken and damaged teeth.

“I’m just surprised at the poor level of help you are hiring to do your dirty work these days.”

“Helmut took a personal interest in your case. He can be very persuasive, but he doesn’t seem to be having that effect on you. Not to worry, though, I’m here now and I’m sure the two of us are going to get along just fine.”

Lawlor laughed. It was a dry, hacking cackle, the best he was capable of, but he choked it out nonetheless. “You’re laughing. You don’t think I’m serious?” asked Stavropol.

“You may be serious, but you won’t be successful,” spat Lawlor between his laughs, which turned into a fit of coughing. “You don’t sound so good. You may have aspirated some of your own blood.

Or maybe you have a punctured lung?

Have they been a bit rough on you?”

The understatement caused Lawlor to begin laughing again, which in his condition invariably led to another coughing fit. “You need to relax. You’ll cough yourself to death, and that wouldn’t be good. Not at least until we’ve had a chance to talk.” “I’ve got a manicure in a half hour, so let’s get on with it,” rasped Lawlor.

“Very funny.

You like to joke, don’t you?” asked the Stavropol. “You like to have a good time?” “Is that a rhetorical question?”

“Judging by some of the photographs I have, I guess it is.”

Photographs, wondered Lawlor. What the hell is he talking about?
“I assume you’d like to see them?” said Stavropol. “I already have naked pictures of your wife,” replied Lawlor.

“Actually, these are pictures of your wife. Though she’s not naked, I thought you would appreciate some of the final surveillance photos that were taken of you both before her tragic accident.”

“Accident,” repeated Lawlor, the bile rising in his throat.

“Fuck you.” “So that means,no ? You don’t wish to see the photos?

That’s a shame. We were actually quite proud of that operation. But, it’s all water under the bridge, I can understand that —” “Not water under the bridge.

Now that I know you were involved, I am going to kill you too.” “Me?” asked Stavropol, feigning surprise. “Considering your current situation, that would really be something to see.” “First Draegar and then you,” hissed Lawlor. “All in due time.”

“I promise you it will come.”

“Be that as it may, I have other photos you might like to see,” said Stavropol as he produced another set. “Paste yourself up a fucking scrapbook. I’m not interested.” “Don’t be too sure.

There’s some people in here you might recognize.” Lawlor turned his face away and Stavropol nodded to Draegar and Überhof, who came over and grabbed hold of Lawlor’s head and forced him to look at the pictures. “You’re quite an enigma, Mr. Lawlor.

You and your wife never had children. You don’t have any other family to speak of. You’re not even particularly close with any of your coworkers, except,” said the man presenting a new photo, “for this one.” The picture was of one of Gary Lawlor’s barbecues. From the angle it was taken, Lawlor figured the photographer must have been using a long lens somewhere in the woods behind his house.

Two things about the photo disturbed him deeply. One was that the picture had to have been taken sometime in the fall, which meant that they had been watching him for several months and he had never noticed it.

Two, and this was probably the worst thing, was the person singled out on the photo with a red circle drawn around his head complete with mock crosshairs. That person was like family to him. “Your silence speaks for itself,” said Stavropol. “I can guarantee you’ll never get to him,” replied Lawlor.

“Really?

So he’s that good? Is he as good as the men on your Dark Night team?”

There was no point in pretending. Lawlor knew that they were on to the Dark Night operation. How, he had no idea, but the key was not to give them anything that they didn’t already have, anything that would aid them in shutting down the operation altogether.

“He’s even better,” said Gary. “Well, that’s good for him, because from what my people tell me, your other operatives were some of the easiest kills they have ever made.” Lawlor couldn’t believe his ears.

It wasn’t true. Stavropol was lying. This was his way of breaking him down, trying to get him to talk. “Would you like to see pictures?” asked Stavropol, as he ran through a series of photos that all but confirmed for Lawlor that his team was dead.

Except for one, it seemed. “So what?” said Gary. “So if you don’t want to see what happened to them happen to this fellow,” responded Stavropol as he brought back out the picture of Harvath with the crosshairs through his head, “I suggest you tell me about your contingencies. What was the next step if your team failed?

Certainly your pathetic operation wasn’t your country’s last hope.”

Stavropol was much cooler, more controlled in his interrogation than Draegar. He referred to what hewanted to know rather thanneeded . That made him all the more dangerous in Lawlor’s book.

“I don’t care how good you think you are,” said Lawlor. “You’ll never get him.” “Really?” asked Stavropol. “What about Helmut?

I’m thinking about letting him do it.

I think he’d have a very good chance of succeeding.”

Gary knew that Stavropol was serious. He had no doubt that the man would fulfill his black promise to the very letter. He wished there was a way he could warn Scot, but that didn’t look as if it was going to happen. The one thing that Lawlor could take solace in was that he knew Scot Harvath would avenge his death.

No matter how much cajoling, favoring, swapping, and pressure he had to put on people, Harvath would discover Gary’s real past and would eventually track down his killers. Gary only hoped that Harvath would do a better job avenging his death than he had Heide’s. The mere fact that Helmut Draegar was still alive, much less had managed to get the better of Gary and take him prisoner was more than he could bear. No, Scot was a better operative than Gary had ever been.

Scot would see to it that Gary’s killers were brought to justice— theright kind of justice. “So,” said Stavropol, removing a magnificently engraved pistol from beneath his suit coat, which shone with an amazing brilliance in the murky, semi-darkness, “are you going to make it easier on your friend, or harder?” Lawlor’s mind struggled under the weight of what he was being asked to do. It was one of the most painful decisions anyone could ever be faced with.

Scot was like a son to him. At the same time, there wasn’t room for choosing. He had an assignment and the freedom of his country hung in the balance. The only reason that Stavropol hadn’t killed him yet was because he had something they not only wanted, butneeded to know. He had no choice.

He would take the information with him to the grave. Based on the photos of the slain Dark Night operatives he had seen, they hadn’t gotten to Frank Leighton. And if they hadn’t gotten to Frank Leighton, then there still was hope.

Gary cleared his throat and repeated, “Like a ghost. By the time you realize he’s in the room, it will be too late.” “We’ll see about that,” said Stavropol as he pointed the gun at Gary’s chest and cocked the hammer. “I am not going to waste any time torturing you.

Either you answer my questions or you die. Your decision is that simple.” “I couldn’t agree more,” replied Lawlor.

“Fuck you.” At that moment, the rusted bulkhead door came flying open. It slammed against the inside wall where it cracked and fell off its hinges. Draegar yelled, “Grenade!”

just as two flashbangs were pitched into the room. Helmut and Überhof dove for cover, but not Stavropol. The roar of his Tokarev reverberated throughout the room as two blinding flashes of light accompanied by a pair of deafening concussion blasts erupted from the flashbangs. The cacophony of sound bounced off the stone walls and came racing back with twice the amplitude.

As Harvath and Herman entered the chamber, Überhof and Draegar, who had shielded their eyes with their arms and opened their mouths to counterbalance the overpressure effect of the grenades, began firing toward the entrance from different sides of the room. The air had immediately filled with smoke and dust. With the reduced visibility, it was hard to tell where anybody was, much less who anybody was. The only thing for sure was that the room was much larger than any of the others they had seen in the bunker.

It looked like some sort of abandoned command and control center. Herman let loose with a high barrage from his twin Berettas in an effort to pin down their opponents while Harvath tried to pinpoint exactly where the shooters were, so that he could take them out without accidentally hitting Gary. The echoing gunfire that filled the chamber was extremely deceptive.

Harvath knew that they were looking for at least three men, but the intensity of shooting quickly dropped so that it seemed to only be coming from one person. The shooter was firing as he moved along the other side of the room. Where the hell were the other two ?

wondered Harvath.

His question was momentarily forgotten as Überhof, who had stopped to reload, now opened up from a new position—crouched behind a long row of antiquated communications equipment. For a moment, Harvath could almost picture the ghosts of operators sitting there with bulky headsets straddling canvas military caps, but a bullet whizzing by his ear snapped him back to the seriousness of the moment. The communications console was perched upon a raised platform against the far wall, putting Überhof on the high ground, which provided him with a considerable advantage.

As Harvath studied the man’s position, he noticed that hanging behind the console was what appeared to be an enormous light-up map of Berlin, and it gave him an idea. After finally getting Herman’s attention, he motioned to the map and indicated what he wanted to do. After loading two new clips, Herman nodded his head and once again created a blanket of cover fire. Harvath rolled out from his position and started shooting at the two brackets holding the heavy illuminated map to the ceiling. When the first bracket shattered and began to give way, he turned his H&K on the second.

In a shower of sparks and twisted metal, the enormous map came crashing down, filling the narrow space behind the communications console and the wall, sending more dust and debris into the air. Harvath and Herman waited, but nothing happened. It was all quiet. Too quiet.

They knew that there were at least two more bad guys in that room,but where were they ?
Harvath motioned to Herman to hand him the Specter scope. He pushed the power button and waited for what seemed like an eternity for the device to power up. As he scanned the room, he caught movement in the far corner. Was it the other two hostiles, or was one of them holding Gary at gunpoint while another remained in hiding somewhere in the chamber? That was the problem.

With the Specter scope, there was no way to tell. “Don’t move,” yelled Harvath raising his weapon. “Stop where you are.”

The figures in the scope kept moving. Harvath was about to fire a warning shot, when all of a sudden they disappeared from view.

It didn’t make any sense until he heard the unmistakable slamming of a heavy metal door. Without thinking twice, Harvath got up and ran for the back of the chamber. When he reached the door and tried to raise the heavy iron handle, he was too late.

It had already been locked from the other side. Once again, he was stopped dead in his tracks by another blast door with a red sign markedBetriebsraum , framed by two lightening bolts. “Damn it,” he swore under his breath. “Scot,” yelled Herman. “Get over here.

I think I’ve found Gary.” Harvath rushed to where Herman was trying to saw off the flexicuffs that bound Lawlor to his chair. Scot pushed him aside and knelt down. Taking the knife away from him he began working on the cuffs himself and said, “Check that guy behind the communications console, then get back over here. I’m going to need your help.”

Gary had been shot.

A large red stain covered his chest and his breathing was slow and shallow. He had been knocked over backwards in his chair and once Harvath had the felxi-cuffs cut away, he sat him up, trying to make him as comfortable as possible. Looking at his face, Harvath was amazed that Herman had recognized Gary at all. He had been beaten to a pulp.

Both of his eyes were practically swollen shut, and his lips looked like they had been pumped up to five times their normal size. His face was covered with various cuts and contusions and his hair was matted with dried blood. “What the hell did they do to you?” asked Harvath, more to himself than to Gary. Lawlor tried to speak, but Scot told him to be quiet. He was gurgling as if blood was in his lungs.

Harvath tore Gary’s shirt open to the waist and tried to wipe away some of the blood from around the entry wound. This was what you always worried about in a hostage situation—that the hostage takers might go down swinging, starting with a defenseless hostage. It was every counterterrorism operative’s nightmare—not getting there in time.

As Harvath assessed Lawlor’s injuries, the man tried to push his hands away. He was rasping again in his fluid filled whisper, which Harvath couldn’t understand. When Herman began to make his way back over to them, Gary became even more insistent. “Gary,” commanded Harvath, “calm down. You’ve been shot.

I need to look at this wound. Now quit fighting me.”

Lawlor’s strength amazed Harvath as he continued to try to resist. It didn’t make any sense. The closer Herman got, the harder Gary began to thrash. Finally, Lawlor gave one last push that was strong enough to topple Harvath over and grabbed his gun.

Before Harvath could stop him, Gary had pulled the trigger three times and fired at another figure that had been creeping toward them. “Is he dead?” whispered Lawlor, as Harvath stared at the body. When Harvath didn’t respond, Lawlor repeated with more emphasis, “Is he dead?”

“Yes,” said Scot. “Make sure.”

“Gary, he’s dead.”

“Make sure, goddamn it!”

Harvath went over and felt for Überhof’s pulse. There was none. “He’s definitely dead.”

Lawlor said something that sounded like, “good,” before dropping the pistol and collapsing into unconsciousness. Chapter 27

I thought for sure he was trying to kill me,” said Herman, as he and Harvath sat just outside the operating room where Gary Lawlor was still being worked on. He had been in surgery for more than nine hours.

When they had finally climbed out of the U-Bahn system and bundled Lawlor into an ambulance, it was well past ten o’clock in the morning. Lawlor had lost a lot of blood, and getting him out of theGeisterbanhöfe had been a nightmare. Herman had managed to find an old stretcher in the bunker, but between his bad leg and Harvath’s bruised ribs, it had taken forever for them to retrace their steps back to the functioning Friedrichstrasse station where they could call for help. A team of Sebastian’s men came back to theGeisterbanhöfe and after securing the empty rooms, used shape charges to blow open the locked doors markedBetriebsraum .

Harvath had been right. TheBetriebsraum was indeed a mechanical room, complete with generators and an air filtration system, but there was also something else—a concealed passageway with a circular metal staircase, leading all the way up to the Russian Embassy. Once Sebastian’s men realized what they had discovered, they wisely backed off. They had enough explaining to do to their superiors already, especially with one of their team members dead. Besides, even if they had wanted to breach the Russian Embassy, which several of them were eager to do, it was considered sovereign territory and could have created a serious international incident.

Instead, Sebastian’s men secured the body of Karl Überhof, who, beneath his jacket, had concealed a small caliber sniper weapons system with full metal jacket nine-millimeter rounds. The mystery of who had been shooting at them from across the street of the Goltzstrasse safe house seemed at least partially solved. The remaining two questions were who the hell was Überhof and who had he been working for?
Sebastian had spent the rest of the day trying to keep his own ass, as well as those of his men, out of the proverbial fire. He had had no choice but to come clean with his superiors.

Well,relatively clean at least.

Out of respect, he had left Harvath’s name out of it. He told his commander that they had been operating on a tip from an informant. Though the story wasn’t going to hold forever, he hoped at least it would buy Harvath a little bit of time.

It was the least he felt he could do for him. The phone call about Überhof’s sniper rifle and the hidden stairwell leading to the Russian Embassy had come in just moments ago and was the last “favor” Sebastian had said he could do for Harvath. He and his men were being watched too closely now. “I thought he was trying to kill you too,” answered Scot, turning back to Herman and continuing their conversation, “until I saw Überhof coming up behind you.”

“Thank God, Gary saw him or we’d both be dead now.” Harvath just nodded his head as he reflected on what the past couple of days must have been like for Gary. The doctors said it was a wonder he was still alive at all. No one could understand how he had survived.

No one, except for Scot Harvath.

Gary was a fighter, a survivor. It was something they shared in common. “What about our other guys?” asked Herman, trying to respect Harvath’s silence, but wanting to connect some of the dots. “The ones that got away.

Who do you think they are?” Herman brought Scot’s attention back to the present. “Taking into consideration that the bullet pulled out of Gary was a 7.62 Soviet M30, along with the VIP access to the Russian Embassy these guys had, I think it’s pretty safe to rule out the possibility that they are of Norwegian descent.” “You think the Russians are involved?” asked Herman.

“What possible connection there could be between terrorists targeting the United States and the Russian Federation?”

“A bigger connection than you may think.” “You’re joking, right? When you said you were dealing with terrorists, in this day and age I automatically assumed you were talking about Islamic terrorists. Now you’re saying the Russian Federation is behind the threat against America?”

“Herman, we have very little to go on here.” “All of a sudden, I don’t think so.

We have Karl Überhof—a deceased German national obviously schooled in tradecraft who was able to take out a highly trained MEK operative, and our Soviet ammunition–firing tunnel rat who scampered away with a friend up into the Russian embassy. I want you to look me in the face and tell me that you don’t see any connection.”

Harvath set his chair back down on the ground and looked directly at Herman. It was time he told him the whole truth.

“Several days ago, we discovered an enhanced suitcase nuke just outside one of our major cities.”

Herman was shocked and it took him several moments to compose himself. “What do you mean byenhanced ?” he finally asked. “Capable of a much larger yield than is normally associated with man-portable nuclear devices.”

“My God,” said Herman.

“And this is what the terrorists have planned?” “At this point we are confirming nineteen out of a possible twenty-five devices inside the United States.” “And the balance may be in cities of America’s Western allies?”

“Yes.”

“Where’d these devices come from?”

“Where do you think?” replied Harvath. “Russia?”

“Bingo.”

“But I don’t understand,” said Herman, leaning forward in his chair toward Harvath. “What about mutually assured destruction?” “Suffice it to say, the Russians have found a way around that.”

“How is that possible?”

“They have developed some sort of air defense system that is impregnable.” “And now what?

They want to take over the United States?” “Just about.

They want us off the world stage so they can fill the void and be the world’s predominant superpower.” Herman was floored. It was all too much. He had watched the Berlin Wall fall. In fact, he had even been there.

He and several of his teammates had traveled to Berlin with sledgehammers and had spent hours cracking away at the enormous barrier, handing out pieces to anyone who wanted them. He had watched as people streamed across the noman’s-land known as thedeath strip to be reunited with friends and loved ones in the West. Then the Soviet Union itself came tumbling down.

At the time, it had all seemed beyond belief, but everyone had eventually gotten used to it. But what Harvath was telling him now, was absolutely beyond comprehension.

“Is there more?” he asked, stunned. “There’s Gary’s involvement and how he fits into hopefully stopping this from happening, but that has to remain classified,” said Harvath. Both of the men sat back in their chairs, staring off into separate directions.

After several minutes, it was Herman who broke the silence. “What’s the timetable?” “The deadline is the president’s State of the Union address in six days.” “And you’re sure the Russian government is behind this?”

Harvath broke off from what he was staring at and said, “If it weren’t for the air defense system, we might have our doubts, but there’s enough evidence pointing to the people at the top.

They claim they know nothing about what’s going on, but we believe otherwise.” “What are you going to do?” asked Herman. Harvath was about to answer, when he noticed one of the admitting nurses walking in their direction. “Herr Harvath?”

she asked in German as she approached the two men who immediately stood up.

“Ich bin Herr Harvath,” replied Scot, wondering why it wasn’t one of the operating room staff coming out to give him an update on Gary’s condition. Suddenly, he had a bad feeling. “Es tut mir leid, Sie damit zu belästige—,” the nurse began.

“I’m sorry,” said Harvath. “Sprechen Sie Englisch bitte?” “Yes, I speak English.”

“Good.

What’s going on?”

“You have visitors.” “Visitors?I’m not expecting any visitors. Who are they?”

“I don’t know. Foreigners of some sort.”

“They’re not German?” said Harvath, thinking that it might be Sebastian or one of the guys from the MEK team. “No, these men are definitely not German. Only one of them spoke, and his German is very bad.”

A man who speaks very bad German?Harvath shot Herman a look, before continuing. “What do they look like?”

“Big,” replied the nurse, holding her hands way out. “How many are there?”

“There are two of them. I explained that this area is off limits and that they are not welcome here.

I offered the waiting area in the ICU, but they declined. They asked me for something more private.” “Where are they now?” “In the surgeons’ conference suite down the hall,” she said pointing.

“Room 311.

I can show you if you like.” “No, thank you,” replied Harvath. “I can find it.” The nurse smiled and walked away.

Once she was out of sight, Harvath removed his H&K, made sure that a round was chambered and then tucked back beneath his jacket. “Who do you think it is?” asked Herman. “I don’t know, but I don’t like it.” “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No.

You stay here and watch over Gary. No matter what happens, don’t leave him.

Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Herman, putting his hand on Scot’s shoulder. “Be careful.”

“Me?

I’m always careful,” replied Harvath. Herman forced a smile as Scot walked off down the hall. Arriving at room 311, Harvath found the door closed.

He listened, but didn’t hear anything coming from the other side. He pulled out his H&K and wrapped it in a towel he had taken from one of the hospital’s linen closets. “Zimmermädchen,” he said, not knowing what the appropriate term for housekeeping was in a German hospital. At the same time, he didn’t care because whoever was in this room wasn’t a very good German speaker to begin with.

His goal was to get whoever was inside to peek their head out so he could get the drop on them. “Danke, wir haben schon gegessen,” replied a voice from the other side of the door. Thank you, but we’ve already eaten.

“Ich komme morgen zurück,” I’ll come back tomorrow morning,replied Harvath, who pretended to be leaving, but instead stepped just beyond the doorframe and began counting. When he got to ten, he grabbed the handle and threw the door open. The men on the other side immediately reached for their guns, but then dropped their hands.

“Where the hell did you learn your German?” “High school, Hogan’s Heroes, and the occasional trip to Milwaukee to visit my uncle for Oktoberfest,” replied a tall, muscular, blond-haired, blue-eyed man in his midtwenties who looked as if belonged on a beach in Southern California, or in a Chippendales review somewhere. “You trusted this guy to do your talking for you?” asked Harvath to the other man. “My mistake.

He said he could speak German. If I had understood what he was saying, I never would have let him open his mouth,” replied the second man who was just as tall, but slightly less muscular than the first. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with close cropped, jet-black hair with a little bit of gray showing at the temples.

His impassive, angular face could have been carved from a solid block of granite, and the deep cleft in his chin looked as if it had been chipped there with an axe. Harvath lowered his weapon. The last thing he wanted to do was accidentally shoot two friends. Gordon Avigliano was a good kid and had a bright future ahead of him, and Rick Morrell was not only a skilled operative, but also someone Harvath had grown to respect. They were both members of the CIA’s paramilitary division known as the Special Activities Staff.

Scot had known Rick Morrell during his SEAL days when Morrell had left to join the CIA and they had become reacquainted during a top-secret operation to track down the extremely deadly Middle Eastern terrorist duo of Adara and Hashim Nidal. “What the hell are you guys doing here?”

“The boss sent us,” replied Morrell. “Vaile?” said Harvath, referring to the Director of the CIA.

“Why the hell would he have sent you guys here?”

Then it hit him and he raised his H&K again. “If he thought because we’re friends you two could just walk in here and take Gary into custody, he was sorely mistaken. He’s still in surgery, for Christ’s sake. He’s not going anywhere with you guys. You have no idea how far off the mark your boss is on this one.”

“Easy breezy, cover girl,” said Avigliano.

“We’re not going to take Gary anywhere.”

“Bullshit,” said Harvath, backing away from the two men. “How’d you even know we were here? I only made one communication and I know you are not surveillinghim .”

Harvath was referring to the anonymous voice mail box that only the president had access to where Harvath could leave coded updates.

He had only left one, stating that he had recovered the package, but that the package was damaged. As best he could, he explained the situation and that he would leave another message once Gary was out of surgery. “For fuck’s sake, Harvath.

Would you calm down?” said Morrell. “Vaile didn’t send us. In fact, he has no idea we’re all here.”

“Who’swe ?”

“Carlson and DeWolfe are back at the hotel.” “Then if Vaile didn’t send you, who did?”

“Ourboss,” repeated Morrell, as he waved his index finger in a circle, taking them all in. “Goaltender.”

Morrell had used the president’s call sign assigned to him as part of the Dark Night operational plan. “And what exactly is your assignment?” asked Harvath, even more concerned now that it was obvious that Morrell and his team were on the inside.

“There’s been a change of plans.” “Change of plans?”

“Apparently something has happened. I was instructed to tell you that we don’t have any pieces left to rebalance the chessboard.

Somehow the other side has found where we were hiding our toys. Goaltender said that would make sense to you. Does it?”

Harvath’s blood ran cold. “They’ve found our nukes?”

“I was just supposed to give you that message. Goaltender wants to talk to you,” replied Morrell. “We brought a sat-radio with us, and Carlson and DeWolfe are busy setting up a secure link.”

“Why you?” asked Harvath. “Why send your team?”

“Because he knows you trust us and therefore so does he. He knows together we’ll get the job done.” “And what job is that?”

“When we get back to the hotel, you can ask him yourself.” “What about security for Gary?” said Harvath. “The people we’re after might not be done with him yet. They could come back.

I’ve got a very old and trusted friend watching over him right now, but he won’t be able to pull all the shifts. And if these guys came back in force, as good as this guy is, I can’t guarantee what the outcome would be.”

“Not to worry. We’ve arranged for a few visiting medical students to conduct a rotation here and keep an eye on Gary,” said Morrell, who signaled to Avigliano to open the door to the conference suite’s adjoining room.

Harvath couldn’t believe his eyes. Standing there in surgical scrubs and white lab coats were two of his closest friends from the White House security detail, Secret Service agents Tom Hollenbeck and Chris Longo. “I’ll be damned,” said Harvath. “If it isn’t Doctors Moe and Larry. There’s just the two of you?

You couldn’t get a third to play Curly?”

At that moment, the sound of a toilet flushing came from the suite’s private bathroom and then the door opened revealing a third man in a white lab coat, tying the drawstring on the pants of his scrubs. “That figures,” said Harvath, as he recognized who it was. “Surprise, surprise!” crowed Doctor Skip Trawick with a mock Scottish accent.

The semi-retired Special Forces medic had been instrumental in helping Harvath rescue the president from Gerhard Miner and his team of Swiss mercenaries two years ago. “Because Longo and Hollenbeck know absolutely nothing about medicine,” said Morrell, getting things back on track, “Goaltender thought it would be best to have at least one real doctor along for the ride.” Satisfied that Gary was now going to an appropriate level of security, Harvath marched the trio of “doctors” down to Herman Toffle, where he explained what was happening. While Longo, Trawick, and Hollenbeck worked out how they were going to handle shifts, Morrell and Avigliano followed Scot and Herman down to Herman’s Mercedes, where Harvath transferred his and Gary’s bags to the trunk of Morrell’s rental car.

“Well, I guess this is it,” said Herman, extending his hand, a slight edge of disappointment noticeable in his voice. It felt good getting back in the game, even if it was short lived. “Actually, Herman,” began Harvath, “I was hoping you might stick around a little bit longer. Those are good guys back up in Gary’s room, but they don’t have near the experience that you do.”

Herman brightened.

“And, they speak lousy German.” “That’s true,” smiled Harvath. “Would you mind hanging in with them for a little longer? I’d feel better knowing you were up there with Gary.” “How can I say no to a friend in need?”

“I was hoping you’d feel that way,” said Harvath.

“I want you to keep me up to speed on Gary’s progress and call me the minute he’s out of surgery. He’s the only one that can help us make contact again with Frank Leighton.”If Leighton’s even still alive , thought Harvath. “Don’t worry,” replied Herman. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

It was raining again as they pulled out of the parking structure and though the fog had dissipated, the evening still felt dense and impenetrable. As the small sedan became ensnarled in evening Berlin traffic, Harvath leaned his head against the leather headrest and looked out the rain-streaked window. A heavy sense of foreboding weighed on his mind.

The surgeons’ lack of confidence in Gary Lawlor’s prognosis was definitely troubling, but more than that, he was concerned about the message Rick Morrell had delivered on behalf of the president. All of our pieces have been knocked off the chessboard . Chapter 28 R ick Morrell pulled their car into the underground parking structure of the distinctive semicircular building known as Berlin’s Kempinski Hotel Bristol. After finding an empty stall, Morrell used his keycard to summon the elevator and the three men rode to the sixth floor.

When the elevator doors opened, Gordon Avigliano led the way down the lavishly carpeted hallway to a rich mahogany door where he rapped out a quick code. “Housekeeping,” said Avigliano in a high-pitched voice, shouldering his way into the room as DeWolfe opened the door for them. “Fluff your pillow?

Chocolate mint?”

“Scot,” said DeWolfe, shaking his hand and ignoring Avigliano. “Good to see you again.”

“You too,” said Scot, genuinely glad to see the operative who had helped rescue him from Adara Nidal’s terrorist compound in the Libyan desert last year.

“Hey,” shouted Carlson, who walked over and grabbed Scot Harvath by both shoulders so he could look at him, “why wasn’t I surprised when they told me you were in trouble?”

“Nice to see you too, Steve,” replied Harvath. “Now that we’re all reacquainted,” interjected Morrell, who had locked the door behind them and was making his way to the center of the room. “Maybe we can get started.”

Morrell turned to DeWolfe, “How are we doing?” The communications expert was bent over a map of the world, complete with latitude and longitude lines, upon which he had placed a clear plastic slide. “I’m just working out our elevation and azimuth,” he replied. “What about the electronic countermeasures?”

“I swept the room three times and placed the ECMs in the appropriate positions, so don’t worry.

Not only is nobody listening to us, but even if they wanted to, they couldn’t. All of the equipment is working perfectly, and everything is tip-top.”

“Good. This is the first time I have been handpicked by the president for an operation, and I don’t intend to screw it up. In fact, this is our first scrambled communication with him and I expect it to go off without a hitch.

Is that clear?”

“Yes sir, boss,” responded DeWolfe. He was aiming for one of the Defense Department’s dedicated satellites and as he computed the best ‘takeoff’ angle for their transmission, Carlson assembled a wire spider-web satellite dish the size of a dinner plate, connected it to their fully digitized and fully encrypted Harris manpack SATCOM radio, and then placed the dish on top of the coffee table. According to DeWolfe’s calculations, they had twenty more minutes before they would pass into their optimal broadcast window, so Morrell allowed Avigliano to run out to pick up orders of the lamb and salad sandwiches packed in pita bread known as Döner Kebabs. Though Morrell would have preferred Cokes, when Avigliano returned with a beer for each of the men, he let it slide.

Harvath had grabbed a quick shower and shave and after dressing in a black sweater and a new pair of jeans, joined the rest of the team in the living room. He sat down on one of the leather couches, opened up Gary Lawlor’s suitcase on the floor in front of him and began to go through it again. Carefully, he removed each piece of clothing and after thoroughly examining it, folded it and set it on the couch next to him.

“Where’d you get that?” asked DeWolfe, as Harvath was emptying out the contents of Lawlor’s shaving kit. “What?” said Harvath, holding up a tube of toothpaste. “This?” “Not the toothpaste.

That other thing you’ve got sitting there next to those clothes.” “This organizer?” asked Harvath, reaching for the oversized PDA that had been vexing him since he had first found it in Gary’s luggage. “Yeah, let me look at it,” said DeWolfe who crossed over to where Harvath was sitting and took the device from him. “Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?”

DeWolfe had powered the device up and was scrolling through its programs. “I haven’t seen one of these in ages.”

“I know. It’s an antique,” replied Harvath as he looked over DeWolfe’s shoulder to see what he was doing. “Gary hates almost anything computerized, so I figured the organizer was part of his cover somehow.”

“You mean to tell me you’ve never seen one of these things before?”

“Of course I have, but by the time I got my PDA, it was about a quarter of the size of that thing.” “When you were a SEAL, didn’t you ever work with a burst transmitter?”

Harvath’s eyes widened. “A burst transmitter?That’s what that thing is supposed to be?”

“Yup.

It uses one of the early modem cards with a pop-out phone jack.

Did you find any telephone adaptor plugs in that bag?” “As a matter of fact,” said Harvath holding up a small clear plastic box, “I did, but how do you know about all of this?”

“When I was studying communications and electronic surveillance at the Agency we got to play with one of these. The device was set up to look like one of the early PDAs.

It actually was a pretty simple and pretty clever way to camouflage what, in its day, was a cutting edge burst transmitter.” “Speaking of camouflage,” interrupted Morrell, who had walked over to see what DeWolfe was looking at. “Where’s that Tabard IR suit I lent you back in DC?”

“It’s in safe hands,” replied Harvath, his attention still focused on the burst transmitter. “Whose hands?

I’m responsible for that and those Tabard suits aren’t cheap.”

“Kate Palmer is holding onto my stuff for me until I get back.” “Secret Service Agent Kate Palmer?” asked Carlson.

“The one who works at the White House?”

“Yeah,” said Harvath, motioning for DeWolfe to hand the device back to him. “Why?
You know her.” “No, but she’s hot. You don’t suppose when we get home you could—” “Not a chance.”

“Why not?” “Because,” replied Harvath, “you’re not her type.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Carlson. “It means, I know what kind of guys she likes and you’re not it.” “Oh yeah?

Well maybe you’re wrong.

What kind of guys does she like?” “Guys like Avigliano—tall, blond, andgood looking.”

“Oh, so in other words she’s got no taste. Why didn’t you say so?” “Fuck you,” said Avigliano from across the room.

Harvath ignored them and turned back to DeWolfe. “The burst transmitters I’ve worked with were in conjunction with field radios, not telephone lines. Plus, they were much smaller.

Why would he want to lug something like that around?

Why not upgrade and go with something more compact?” “From what I understand, the Dark Night operation was established in the eighties and after the Soviet Union fell, the team was retired, so there was no need for it. Don’t get me wrong, though.

This thing might be a little out of date, but it’s still good technology.” “I’ve never seen one like this masked with all that PDA software. Do you know how it works?” asked Harvath. “Sure,” said DeWolfe, ejecting the PDA’s stylus and reaching across Harvath to tap the screen.

“Let’s say you were a handler like Gary and had several different operatives you were going to need to communicate sensitive information with. The burst transmitter allows you to type out your message, encrypt it, and then send it in a quick burst over the telephone. To the uninitiated, it sounds just like a fax tone, but if you have one of these little beauties and the proper encryption key, you can unencrypt the information and read the message on the screen here.”

A fax tone, thought Harvath, recalling the shrill tone he had heard over Gary Lawlor’s home phone when he had redialed the last number Gary had called before disappearing. That must have been what he was hearing,a burst transmission . “On any op,” continued DeWolfe, “you would want to compartmentalize as much as possible, so Gary would have had a specific encryption code for each one of his operatives.

All he would have to do is select that code program and make sure it was up and running before he spoke, or ‘bursted’ for lack of a better term, with that particular operative.”

“And those code programs are in that device?” asked Harvath. “They should be. The software is not only a type of camouflage, but it also acts as a gateway to the encryption programs.” “How so?”

“On these models, it was as simple as pulling up the calendar function and going to a specific date. The date is the actual gateway for your encryption programs.

When you tried to enter an appointment on that date, you would be prompted to enter a security code. Normally, it’s a four-digit numeric code derived from a specific mathematical equation; something that would have relevance for both the operative and his handler. To unlock the encryption program you would have to do a simple math problem and then use the answer as your code.

You type it in and the encryption program would then engage and you’d be ready to go. The important thing to remember is that Gary had a lot of operatives.” “So?”

“So the more operatives he had, the more code information he would have had to keep straight. It has been my experience that the more numeric codes you have to assign and memorize, the more likely you are to start assigning them based upon things that are easier and easier for you to remember, but which would have no relevance for any unauthorized persons trying to hack into your system.”

“That makes sense,” said Scot, remembering one of Gary’s favorite mottos. It was an acronym he was always referring to—KISS, Keep it simple, stupid. “But remember, it’s a two-step process. You’d need to know how to access the general domain for the operative, such as a birth date, and then you’d need the numeric code to open the encryption program so the two of you could communicate freely.”

“I suspect you would also need to know,” added Harvath, “when and where the two of you were supposed to connect.” “That goes without saying,” replied DeWolfe.

“You could have all the other information, and yet if you were sitting at a payphone at the train station waiting for it to ring, when you should have been at a payphone at the drugstore, you’d be shit out of luck.” No kidding, thought Harvath. Even though he now understood the true nature of the burst transmitter, it was of no use to him without knowing how to unlock Frank Leighton’s encryption program or what the emergency contact plan was. As the time for their encrypted communication with the president drew near, DeWolfe did a final check of his equipment and then outfitted Harvath with a headset. Morrell pulled one of the overstuffed chairs up to the coffee table and donned a headset as well.

Avigliano handed him a briefcase and then slid over three of the large hard shell equipment cases from the other side of the room. “I have Goaltender on the line,” said DeWolfe. “We are ready to proceed.” “This is Norseman,” said Harvath.

“Go ahead, Goaltender.” “Is BenchPress on the line?”

“Yes he is,” replied Harvath who had never cared much for Morrell’s ridiculous code name; a codename he knew Morrell hadn’t received from his superiors or his peers, but rather had chosen for himself. Even though Harvath had grown to like Morrell, that still didn’t change the fact that the man could be an arrogant, insufferable prick a lot of the time and his code name seemed to perfectly reflect his inflated sense of self. Though on many occasions Harvath had been tempted to suggest an alternate two-syllable code name that might more suit the man such asdipshit ,dumbass ,dumbfuck , ordickhead , he had miraculously managed to keep his mouth shut and thereby had refrained from doing damage to a friendship that was still very much in its infancy.

“Norseman,” continued president Rutledge, “you received my message about the condition of the chessboard?” “Yes, sir.

But I don’t understand. What happened?” “Somehow, the other side knew where our devices were hidden.

We sent in teams to prep them and get them ready for transport, but they were already gone.”

“Gone?” said Harvath. “Yes, all of them have been stolen.” “Do we have any leads?”

“We’re going back over satellite imagery, but we’re not holding out much hope of getting them back. The Russians would have been very careful in covering their tracks.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“We’ve developed a plan, which I pray to God will work, called Operation Minotaur,” replied the president. “Operation Minotaur?” repeated Harvath.

“Yes.

BenchPress has the file and he will explain everything to you.”

“Sir, what about our remaining operative in the field? He still has one last device.” “Unfortunately, that man is of no use to us anymore.

We need to pull him from the game before he becomes a greater liability. BenchPress will explain that as well.”

There was a pause on the line as the president took a deep breath and said, “Things are very tense back here. The time is drawing nigh for us all gentlemen and we have no other options available. This is it. We either win or we lose.

The fate of America is in your hands. Don’t let us down.”

There was a click followed by a hiss of static as the president terminated the connection. Morrell looked at DeWolfe and, referring to the status of the transmission, asked, “Are we clear?” “We’re clear,” said DeWolfe. “Operation Minotaur?” mouthed Harvath.

“What this all about?”

“The Minotaur is a mythical creature—” “From ancient Greece who was half man, half bull, and was confined to a labyrinth on Crete. Yeah, I know that, but what is this new op all about?” said Harvath. “This is a little something the president and his team came up with,” responded Morrell. “The focus of this operation is going to be on the bull, and lots of it.” Chapter 29 C an

we just back up here for a second?” asked Harvath.

“Rick, start this thing from square one for me, would you?” “Okay, from square one.

The secretary of defense and the president briefed me on Operation Dark Night as well as the situation concerning the man-portable nukes we’re facing at home. Being the tactician he is, the secretary kept making military references to chess. As you probably know, the president—” “Doesn’t play chess,” replied Harvath, finishing Morrell’s sentence for him. “He’s a poker man. We played a lot when I was on his protective detail.”

“And what’s the one thing you can do in poker that you really can’t do in chess?”

Harvath thought for a moment and then said, “Bluff.”

“Right again. Though there are some feints and deceptive strategies you can pull in chess, all of your pieces are out in the open for your opponent to see.”

“But all of our pieces have been knocked off the board, at least that’s what the president has said.” “That’s true. The president green-lit a series of tactical teams to go to the European locations where our man-portable nukes were hidden, only to discover that they had all been removed.”

“By the Russians, of course.”

“That’s what we’re assuming,” replied Morrell. “So, where’s that leave us?”

“It leaves us with only one operational nuke.” “Frank Leighton’s,” said Harvath.

“Correct.”

“But if the Russians knew the identities of all of the other Dark Night operatives and the location of their nukes, how’d they miss Leighton?” “We don’t think they missed him,” said Morrell. “Wait a second. You think they not only know who Leighton is, but where he and his nuke are?”

“Yes.”

“But why would they purposely let him slip through the net?”

“He isn’t all the way through yet.” Harvath wasn’t following. “I can understand them wanting to get their hands on Gary.

He was in charge of the operation. He had knowledge that could prove valuable to them. They might have even believed he knew about more than just his own op, but Leighton doesn’t make any sense. If they let him get this far only to grab him, then…” Morrell almost could see the light bulb go on over Harvath’s head as his voice trailed off.

“Then?” coaxed Morrell, leaning back in his chair. “They would be catching Leighton, an American, in the act of actually trying to smuggle a nuclear device into their country,” said Harvath, the pieces beginning to tumble into place. “And they could claim it was a covert attempt at a first strike by the United States.”

“But I’m sure we would disavow any knowledge of Leighton. It would be a tough sell, butone guy withone nukecouldn’t bring down an entire country. It would be somewhat embarrassing for us, but—” Harvath let the sentence hang in the air as he thought about it for a moment and then realizing said, “Shit.” “What?” asked Morrell.

“If the Russians plan to blackmail us failed somehow, they’d have a huge ace up their sleeves. With ten other American-made man-portable nukes in their possession, they could lie and claim they had found them hidden all over their country. It would be no use for us to disavow Leighton. It would just look like he was the only American operative unlucky enough to get caught and that we were denying what everyone else would see as a fact.

Add it all up and the Russians would have an overwhelming case against us as being the aggressors. Considering the state of international opinion against us these days, the rest of the world would probably buy the Russian story no matter what they had done to start everything. That’s why they let Leighton live.” “That’s what we believe.”

“Then we’ve got to stop Leighton.

The Russians probably have him under surveillance right now and are just waiting for him to sail into their territorial waters so they can pop him.” “Well, you’ve uncovered theman part of the Minotaur. Now let’s get to thebull .”

As Avigliano slid three hard-shell equipment cases out of the closet and opened the lids so Harvath could see what was contained inside, Morrell continued. “Exact working replicas of the American nukes the Russians already have in their possession.”

“The beauty of it all is that they aren’t even a quarter of the weight of the real deal,” added Carlson. “One person can lift these without even breaking a sweat.” “But that’s the thing. They aren’t real,” said Harvath. “You’ve got all the Preparation, but no H.” “Yeah, but the Russians don’t know that,” answered DeWolfe.

“What are we planning to do, plant fake nukes all across Russia?”

“Not only are we planning to do it, we’re going to do it,” answered Morrell. “Carlson and DeWolfe will be on one team, and Avigliano and I will be on the other. We’re going to conduct a whirlwind photo tour of as much of the country and its critical infrastructure as possible.”

“They look awesome,” replied Harvath, “but there’s still only two of them.” Morrell empty the contents of a padded manila envelope onto the table. “That’s why we have a little something I like to refer to as our force multiplier.”

Harvath examined the square metal objects.

“Interchangeable serial number plates.

Good move.”

“The Russians are going to enhance the photos we send them, just like we did theirs.” “Let’s say they do buy it, where’s that put us?” “At best, they think America had another ace up her sleeve that they never caught and the board is rebalanced.”

“And at worst?” asked Harvath. “They don’t buy it and you sure as hell better pull off your part of the assignment.” “Which is?” “Taking down their air defense system.”

“Well at least I get the easy job,” said Harvath. “Russia’s about how big a country, do you think?” “Six million, five hundred fifty-two thousand, seven hundred square miles,” offered Avigliano. “Please make sure you let Agent Kate Palmer know that in addition to being tall, blond, andgood -looking, I also have quite a head for geography.” “As I was starting to say,” replied Harvath.

“Finding the command and control structure for that air defense system has got to be like looking for a needle in a six million, five hundred fifty-two thousand, seven hundred square mile haystack. Do we have any leads? Do I get any help on this at all?”

Morrell opened his briefcase and handed Harvath a folder. “When this whole thing broke, we conducted a search of our intelligence databases. The search came up with one hit.

In the mid-eighties, a Russian KGB officer named Viktor Ivanov was engaged in trading information with the United States from time to time. He was deemed a somewhat reliable source, as far as double agents go, until he presented the CIA with a conspiracy theory so outlandish, they chose to write him off as no longer reliable.” “What was his theory?” “Ivanov said that he had uncovered a plot by five of the Soviet Union’s top generals to win the Cold War by convincing the USSR to roll over and play dead while they invested in a covert weapons program that would allow them to return stronger than the U.S.

At this point, you’ve pretty much seen how the rest of their plan pans out.”

Harvath was shocked. “No one checked into this guy’s story?”

“Of course we did. The CIA took it seriously at first. Ivanov had never given them bad information before, but they worried that he might have been setting them up.”

“Setting them up for what?”

“Who knows?” answered Morrell.

“Back then, everyone was suspicious. They were always on the lookout for not only the double, but the triple cross. The long and the short of it is that the Agency dug real deep, pulled a lot of their Soviet contacts in and tried to corroborate Ivanov’s story, but they couldn’t. So, in the end, they cut him loose and refused to use him any more. They thought he had gone around the bend and didn’t want to waste any more of their time or resources on him.”

“So where do I find him?” asked Harvath.

“You can’t. He’s dead.” “Then what’s in that file?” “Notwhat , but whom.

Ivanov’s daughter, Alexandra Ivanova.”

Morrell opened the folder and handed it to him. Harvath’s eyes were immediately drawn to the picture stapled to the inside. Alexandra Ivanova was gorgeous.

“Former Russian military, Ivanova was recruited about eight years ago over to Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, known as the—” “SVR,” added Harvath absentmindedly as he focused on the dossier in front of him. “Following in the family footsteps.”

“Indeed.

She has been posted in several international cities, including Hong Kong, London, and Istanbul. She speaks English, Arabic, and Mandarin in addition to her mother tongue and when her back is against the wall, has shown herself to be an extremely deadly assassin. Don’t let her looks fool you, this lady should be treated with the utmost caution.” “She doesn’t look that bad to me,” replied Harvath.

“Be that as it may, you’re to be extra careful with her. Do not underestimate her at any time. Now, her father used her from time to time for some of his more delicate assignments and she was known to be a confidant of sorts to him. He was obsessed with this plot by the generals, and it eventually cost him his job, though the Soviets could never prove that he was trying to tip us off.

Apparently, Ivanov was very Hoover-esque in the files he kept on people and that fact alone was probably the only reason he was never bumped off. He probably scared too many people with what he had buttoned down. We believe he most likely passed along some, if not all, of his files to his daughter before he died. At least that’s what our analysts think from the short amount of time they had to look at his dossier.”

“And what makes you believe that if this woman does know something, that she’ll share it with me?” “The father was no Communist. He was more of a nationalist who put the good of his country, often to the detriment of his career, ahead of the self-serving desires of his government.

From what we’ve seen, the daughter embodies a lot of that same ideology. If she has any information, the president has the utmost confidence that you will do whatever it takes to get it out of her.” “What does that mean?” asked Harvath, who after taking one last look at Alexandra Ivanova’s photo, set the file down on the coffee table.

“Those are the president’s words, not mine, so you take them to mean whatever you want.” “I bet I know what it means,” said Carlson, who had picked up the folder and was looking at the photo. “God, this chick is hot. You know, when this is all over, Harvath, maybe you could—” “Put that folder down,” snapped Morrell. “You’re not cleared to see what’s in there.”

“If that’s what a ‘hard’ assignment looks like,” said Carlson, setting down the folder, “I’ll trade jobs with you right now, Harvath.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” replied Harvath. “I think I can suffer through this one.”

“What’s that girlfriend of yours going to think about you cozying up to a nice Russian hottie like that?” asked Avigliano, who had picked up the folder and was now looking at the picture. “As far as I’m concerned,” answered Scot, “she’s not going to know.” “Good for you,” said Carlson peeking over Avigliano’s shoulder to get another look at the photo.

“What happens behind the Iron Curtain, stays behind the Iron Curtain.” “Goddamn it! Nobody touches this file again, am I understood? In fact,” said Morrell, as he snatched the folder away from Avigliano and turned to Harvath, “have you seen everything you need to see in here?”

Harvath nodded his head. “Good,” replied Morrell. “DeWolfe, toss me a burn bag.” “Do I get to see the photo first?” asked the communications expert.

“What the fuck is this,Let’s Make a Deal ? No you don’t get to see the photo first. You get to hand me a burn bag and you get to keep your fucking job. How about that for a deal?”

“Hey, everybody else got to see what this Russian chick looks like.

I don’t know why I —” “All right, goddamn it. If it’ll get you to shut the hell up, give me the burn bag and I’ll let you see the fucking picture. Jesus, you guys are a pain in the ass.”

DeWolfe winked at Harvath as he brought one of the special, heavy, lead-lined bags over to Morrell. True to his word, Morrell allowed DeWolfe a quick glimpse of the photo before dropping the entire file into the bag. Unlike diplomatic burn bags, into which shredded classified documents were placed and then taken to an incinerator room to be burned later, the modified field burn bag Morrell and his team were carrying provided one-stop shopping for destruction of sensitive materials.

After sealing the top of the bag, Morrell set it on the floor and brought his foot down on top of it, breaking the vials of corrosive chemicals inside which quickly ate away at the file and left nothing behind in the bag but a soggy pulp. “So how do I meet this Russian SVR agent?” asked Harvath, getting the conversation back on track. “We’re working on that right now, but first we need to focus on getting you into Russia,” responded Morrell. “And how do we plan on doing that?

More bull?”

“Kind of. You’re coming with us to pick up Frank Leighton.”

“Where is he?” “His op was a bit different than the others. We know his was Maritime. He was to sail his nuke right into St. Petersburg harbor, so unless he’s moved from where his nuke was hidden, which there’s no reason to believe he has, right now he’s on a small, uninhabited island off the coast of Finland.

With the Russians knowing as much as they do about him, he’s no good to us anymore. The plan is for us to get him and his device to safety on the mainland, while you sail his boat out into the Baltic towa

rd St. Petersburg.”

“Right into the arms of the Russian Navy.

This doesn’t feel so good.” “Don’t worry,” said Morrell, “You’ll have help.” “Help from whom?”

“You’ll be working with a SEAL Team stationed aboard theUSS Connecticut .” Morrell saw the sudden shift in Harvath’s expression. “Feeling a little bit better about it now?”

“Maybe, but

how are you planning on getting to Leighton if the Russians have him under surveillance?” “We’ll be using the Navy’s new Advanced SEAL Delivery System.”

Having been part of the Navy’s Special Warfare Development Group—a SEAL think tank in Little Creek, Virginia, where new weapons, equipment, communication systems, and tactics are developed, Harvath was very familiar with the 65-foot long minisubmarine known as the ASDS, which could covertly deposit operatives practically within spitting distance of any shore

line anywhere in the world. “That might get you in under the Russians’ radar,” said Harvath, “but what about Frank Leighton’s? This guy is former Army Intelligence. You can’t just walk right up to him and say, ‘Surprise!

We’re the good guys and there’s been a change of plans.’ If he doesn’t know you’re coming, who knows what he’ll do.” “We know,” said Morrell. “He’s on a do-or-die mission, and if taken by surprise, his options would be very limited.

None of the potential scenarios are ones we’re willing to accept. That’s why you need to reestablish communication and prep him on our arrival.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’ve already spoken with him once. If we throw anyone else in the mix at this point, it could blow everything out of the water.” In light of the fact that they were discussing a waterborne operation, Harvath didn’t very much care for Morrell’s choice of words.

“We’ve got one very serious problem,” replied Harvath. “Leighton expects our next contact to be via the emergency contact plan established by Gary Lawlor, and I have no idea what that is.” There was less than four hours left and Harvath wondered what the hell his next move was going to be.

Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed Herman Toffle at the hospital for an update on Gary. “He’s still in surgery,” said Herman, “but it looks like the doctors are getting ready to close.

I was going to wait until they had finished and wheeled him into recovery before calling you.” “How long?” asked Harvath. “From what the nurse said, about forty-five minutes to an hour, but that’s just for completion of surgery.

He’s under general anesthesia. There’s no telling how long it will take until he comes around and when he’ll be able to communicate.” “I’m on my way,” said Harvath, hanging up the phone. Turning to Morrell he said, “I need your car keys and DeWolfe.” “Wh

at’s up?” asked Morrell, as he tossed Harvath the keys to his rental.

“I’ve got an idea of how we might be able to put some lipstick on this pig. If I’m right, maybe we can stop things from getting too ugly, too early.” Chapter 30

A s Harvath engaged the rental car’s onboard navigation system and selected his destination—the Virchow-Klinikum campus of Berlin’s Charité Hospital, located along the banks of Berlin’s Spandau Canal, DeWolfe toyed with Gary’s burst transmitter, trying to find a way into the encryption program. “You talked about numeric codes,” said Harvath, speeding through an intersection to avoid a changing light.

“In the SEALs we’d normally have a four-digit code with a backup in case the first one was ever compromised. For our system to work, we would take whatever the current code was and subtract that day’s date. That was it.”

“That’s essentially how this works. Your missions were probably like the ones we’ve been deployed on. We’d only need to do burst transmissions back to the command and control structure, not to other operatives in the field, so you didn’t need lots of additional codes.” “Exactly.”

“That’s when it’s easy.

As the commo guy, I got to set our encryption codes myself. I wanted something significant that I could always remember, so whenever I could, I liked to use important dates from the Revolutionary War. My favorite was 418.”

“April 18th?” asked Harvath.

“Yup. April 18th, 1775.

We’d subtract the 418 from 1775 and then add the date of whatever day we were transmitting on. That was our code. As far as communications are concerned, April 18th, 1775 was one of the most historic.”

“April 19th was when the battles of Lexington and Concord happened,” said Harvath, quiet for several moments as he thought before responding. “Then the night before would have been when Paul Revere was charged with taking the message to Concord that the British were coming.” “Very good” replied DeWolfe. “You know your stuff.”

“Yeah, I only wish I knew Gary’s stuff.”

“You seem to know him pretty well.

Like I said, it is probably going to be something that was significant for him and easy for his operatives to remember. Do you have any idea what numbers would have been memorable or significant for Gary? They’d need to be numbers that his men could also relate to.”

Harvath racked his head for strings of numbers that would have meant something to Gary, but which also would have held relevance for his operatives. That meant, though, that anything personal to Gary, like his anniversaries or addresses, wouldn’t qualify and so Scot dismissed those right off the bat.

The hard thing was that on top of not being a computer guy, Gary wasn’t much of a numbers guy either. In fact , thought Harvath,it would probably be a toss-up over which he hated more —computers or math. When it came to logistical and organizational competence, Gary had both of those qualities in spades, but like it or not, the old man would have had to have used some sort of math to organize his burst transmissions. Harvath wondered if maybe he was overthinking the problem before him.

Keep it simple, stupid , he heard from somewhere in the back of his mind. He spent the rest of the drive trying to free associate, but without very much luck. When they arrived at the hospital, Herman was waiting for them at the nurses’ station.
Harvath quickly introduced DeWolfe and then followed Herman down the hall to the recovery room, where Hollenbeck and Longo were standing guard outside. “They just brought Gary in,” said Hollenbeck.

“How’s he doing?” asked Harvath. “Has he come around yet?”

“Dr. Trawick’s with him. It’s pretty serious,” replied Longo, stepping aside and holding the door open for Harvath. As Herman and DeWolfe tried to follow, Longo held up his arm.

“Too many people inside already.

I’m sure you guys can understand.” Harvath looked back and gave his companions a polite nod that indicated he would be okay by himself. “Sure,” replied Herman. “We understand.

Scot, if you need anything, we’ll be in the waiting area.” Scot smiled his thanks and pushed through a set of double doors where a nurse promptly blocked his path and pointed to a sink where he was required to scrub in. His hands and forearms scrubbed, Harvath donned a sterile paper “bunny suit,” along with a hat, booties, and a mask, and then joined Skip Trawick next to Gary Lawlor’s bed.

“How’s he doing?” asked Scot as he heard the rhythmic click of a ventilator and saw the tube protruding from Gary’s mouth. A myriad of monitors, with brightly colored displays, quietly whirred and beeped around the head of Lawlor’s bed as if they had come together to form some sort of protective technological halo. “Not great,” replied Skip.

“The bullet just missed his heart, but managed to do some major arterial damage and nicked his aorta. He went into deep hypothermic cardiac arrest. They had to do a cardio pulmonary bypass.”

“Jesus,” said Harvath.

“Is he going to be okay?” “At this point, nobody’s sure. It’s not looking very good.”

“When do you think he’ll be coming around?” “It was a pretty long surgery. The anesthesiologist told me he used Isoflurane. It’s an inhalation agent, so we have to wait for Gary’s lungs to excrete it before he comes to.”

“How much time are we talking about here? I have some very important questions to ask him,” replied Harvath. “Twenty to thirty minutes probably, but Scot, you have to be prepared for the fact that he might not be able to answer any of your questions.”

“They’re going to extubate him when he wakes up, right?”

“Probably not. They’ll want to watch him for a while and see how he’s doing and then the decision will be made.

If they don’t think he’s strong enough, they’ll leave him on the vent.” “Will he be able to write? I’ll get him a pen and pad.”

“Scot, listen. Gary is not a young man.

On top of the bullet wound, he aspirated a lot of blood and they had to insert a chest tube. He also took some very serious blows to the head, which means there is a high probability that he has some acute intracranial injuries as well. His abilities, especially to communicate, could be severely impaired.”

“Skip, if I have to sit here and take notes while the man blinks out Morse code, then I’m going to do it.

The information he has in his head is critical to our assignment.” “I understand that and believe me, I appreciate what’s at stake here. I just want you to be prepared in case he can’t be of any help to you.” “If he can’t,” said Harvath, drawing up a chair to the side of Gary Lawlor’s bed and sitting down, “we’re all in a lot of trouble.” It was one of the recovery room nurses who first noticed Gary Lawlor’s eyelids fluttering.

She slid past a dozing Harvath and began speaking to Gary in English as she checked his vital signs. Trawick, who had been across the room speaking with one of the other nurses, saw the commotion and quickly made his way over to the bed.

Harvath, now wide awake, slid his chair back and stood up as he watched the nurse soothe her groggy patient and urge him to resist the urge to pull out the tube. When Gary had sufficiently awakened and she was confident that he wasn’t going to try and pull the trach tube from his throat, she nodded to Dr. Trawick and then proceeded to the foot of the bed to annotate his chart.

Dr. Trawick took a look at Lawlor’s vitals and shook his head before turning to Scot and saying, “A couple of minutes at most, Scot. Okay?

Take it slow. And whatever you do, don’t upset him.” Harvath nodded his head, assuring Skip that he understood and then slid his chair back over next to the bed as Skip and the nurse left them alone.

Lawlor’s eyes were open, but he didn’t seem to be focusing on anything in particular. “Gary?” said Scot, trying to get his attention. “It’s me, Scot.

Can you hear me?” It took a moment, but Lawlor’s eyes slowly tracked over until they made contact with Harvath’s face. Scot couldn’t be sure, but he thought he detected a flicker of recognition.

Taking the man’s hand he said, “You’re going to be okay. You’re in Berlin’s Charité Hospital. You were shot, but everything is all right now.

As soon as you’re stable, we’re going to move you to Landsthul.” Landsthul Regional Medical Center, located five kilometers south of Ramstein Air Base in the German state of Rheinland-Pfalz, was the largest American hospital outside of the United States. There, Lawlor would not only get the continuing medical attention he needed, but also the security, as LRMC was located on a permanent American military installation.

Lawlor released Harvath’s hand and weakly pantomimed writing. He wanted to tell him something. So much for taking things slow , thought Harvath.

He produced the pen and pad he had borrowed from one of the nurses and, lifting Gary’s hand, helped him grip the pen in his fist and placed it on the pad where he could see it. Each motion of his hand was extremely labored and whatever he was doing seemed to take forever. Finally, he finished and began drawing slow circles around what he had written on the pad. Harvath looked down and saw the lettersHD followed by a question mark. They made no sense to him and he decided to press harder.

“I have spoken with Frank Leighton and—” Lawlor wasn’t listening. He had begun writing again.H.E.L.M.
Harvath wondered if Gary even knew he was in the room talking to him. When he was finished writing, Gary once again made a circle on the pad. Harvath looked down and saw the nameHelmut with another question mark next to it.

He had to have been referring to Helmut Draegar, but why? Why after all these years would he be thinking about him?

Harvath stopped for a moment and realized that there probably wasn’t a day that went by that Gary didn’t think of him. He’d killed the man’s wife after all.

“Helmut’s long gone,” said Scot. “You killed him yourself.” He waited for some response, but all he saw was exhaustion.

He decided to press on. “Stay with me Gary. I need your help.

Frank Leighton is testing me and I need—” Once again, he was interrupted by Lawlor’s tortured writing. This was getting him nowhere. Lawlor just wasn’t with it.

Harvath watched as he began drawing a larger circle around Helmut’s name and decided to give it one last shot. Placing his hand atop Gary’s, he stopped him from the incessant circle he was drawing, which was almost tearing through the paper, and looked directly into his friend’s eyes. “Gary, this is very important. You have to listen to me. Pay attention to what I’m saying.”

Exhausted from trying to get his message across, Lawlor’s body slumped. His eyelids appeared to grow heavier and it seemed he was on the verge of falling back asleep. “Gary,” said Scot. “C’mon now.

I need to make contact with Frank Leighton via theemergency contact point . I need to know how I do that.” Lawlor struggled against his drooping lids and gripping the pen tighter, drew a box and then drew an upside downU on top of it. Harvath looked at it for a second and then guessed at what he was seeing. “Is that a suitcase?”

Lawlor said nothing.

“Gary, I want you to tap the pen once for yes, twice for no.” He tapped his pen once. “It’s a suitcase, good.

Is it Frank Leighton’s suitcase?”

Two taps—no. “Is ityour suitcase?”

Yes.
“What about it?

Is there something in your suitcase?”

Yes.
Harvath lowered his voice. “Is it the burst transmitter?” Lawlor was silent for a moment; the only noise between them was the metallic click of the ventilator. Then he tapped his pen once foryes .

“Okay.

I’ve got your transmitter,” said Harvath. Lawlor drew a question mark on the pad. “You and Frank Leighton both had mugs in your houses from the Leydicke pub. I got lucky.” One tap—yes.
Harvath smiled at Gary’s response.

Maybe he was inside there after all. “Do I make contact with Leighton, or will he make contact with me? And what about the encryption code?”

Lawlor was frustrated and slowly tapped his pen over and over again. “I’m sorry,” said Harvath.

“One question at a time.”

One tap—yes.
“Do I call Leighton?” Two taps—no.
“He calls me then?” One tap—yes.
“Okay, where?”

Lawlor motioned to Harvath to flip to a clean page and when he did, Gary began trying to write something then gave up and drew a crown with the letterG in the center and beneath it the letters “Mme.”

Great, thought Harvath,more gibberish .

“Is this a place?” asked Harvath, watching the pen for Gary to tap out his response. Several moments passed. Harvath looked up and saw that Gary’s eyes were closed. “C’mon, Gary. I only have a few more questions.

Are you with me?”

Harvath heard the pen touch the pad in what he thought was ayes response, but as he looked down and saw it fall from Gary’s hand, a shrill whistle began to pierce the air of the recovery room. Trawick ran over, took one look at Gary and then checked the monitors above his bed. “Shit!” he exclaimed.

“He’s going into ventricular fibrillation. Nurse!

Code Blue.

Get me the defibrillator.” Turning to Harvath he said, “Outside.

Now!”

Harvath reluctantly gathered up the pad Gary had been writing on and backed out of the room. The last thing he saw was a team of nurses gathered around the bed helping Skip prep Gary as the defibrillator was wheeled over and powered up.

Outside the recovery room, Hollenbeck and Longo were still standing guard. Harvath filled them in on what had happened, and they all stood around in silence until Skip emerged ten minutes later with word that Gary had been taken back into surgery. It didn’t look good, and Skip suggested that Harvath make himself comfortable as it was probably going to be a while. Hollenbeck and Longo followed Trawick up to the operating room while Harvath set off in search of Herman and DeWolfe.

He found them watching TV in a small waiting room just off the Intensive Care Unit. “How is he?” asked Herman, as Harvath walked in. “Not good,” replied Scot. “He was only awake in recovery for a few minutes and then he crashed.

They just took him back into surgery.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” said DeWolfe as he got up and turned down the volume on the TV set. “Were you able to talk with him at all?”

“Not really.

He was still intubated, and Skip said he might have suffered some cranial trauma during his ordeal. The best I could do was ask questions while he scribbled on this pad,” said Harvath holding it up. “None of it, though, makes much sense.”

Harvath grabbed a chair and placed the pages from the notepad on his lap. “Like I said,” he began, “none of this makes much sense.

Gary just wanted to know about the man who killed his wife fifteen years ago.” “Why do you think he would do that?” replied DeWolfe. Harvath took another look and said, “I’ve got no idea.

I think this was what Skip was trying to warn me about. The damage to his head might have impaired his ability to focus and communicate properly.” “Did he know you were talking to him?”

“He seemed to.

When I asked him some yes-or-no questions, he would tap the pen on the pad in response. Once foryes and twice forno .”

“What’s on the last page there?” asked Herman. “That one makes even less sense,” said Harvath, picking up the piece of paper and peering at it.

“He drew it after I asked him where the emergency contact point was.

To tell you the truth, it looks like a gang sign to me.” “Maybe it’s a place or some sort of location,” replied Herman. “Or a clue to where he hid his cookies as a little boy,” answered Harvath. “I can’t vouch for the authenticity of any of this.”

“Back up a second.

What’s the drawing look like?” asked DeWolfe. “It’s a crown with aG in it with some letters underneath,” answered Harvath. “A crown with aG in it?” said Herman. “Let me see that.”

Harvath handed the page to Toffle who removed a pair of glasses from his coat pocket and took a closer look.

“When did you start wearing glasses, Herman?” asked Scot. “None of your business, and you never saw this,” responded Toffle. “Hey,” said Harvath, “wearing glasses is your business. And if that’s the way you want it, then I never saw anything.”

“Not my glasses, youBlöde Fotze .

This symbol.

You’ve never seen it before?” Harvath, who felt sureBlöde Fotze wasn’t a term of endearment, leaned in closer to Herman to take another look at Lawlor’s drawing. “Absolutely not,” he said, after a closer inspection. “I’ve never seen it before. Have you?”

“Maybe.

Let me ask you something about your friend Gary Lawlor.” “Herman, if you know what that symbol is,” said Harvath, his voice a mix of eagerness and frustration, “let’s have it. Don’t beat around the bush with me.”

“How can I put this delicately?” replied Toffle. “Herman.

Fuckdelicately .

We don’t have time for it. What the hell is it?” Herman paused either for effect, or to figure out the best way to give voice to his discovery. Harvath suspected it was the latter and his suspicion was confirmed when Toffle said, “It’s the logo for a bordello called the King George. It’s located in the Steglitz district.”

“You’re sure?” asked Harvath. “Positive.”

Harvath was well aware of his friend’s proclivity for loose women; a character trait Herman Toffle claimed he had wholeheartedly sworn off when he had gotten married. Toffle looked at his friend and then said, “The King George is actually not a bad choice for a contact point.

It is open at all hours and it wouldn’t look odd for anyone to be seen entering or leaving there. What confuses me are these three letters ‘M M E’ underneath the logo.” “They must stand for something.”

Harvath looked at his Kobold Phantom chronograph. “Well, we’ve got less than two hours, so I suggest we put our thinking caps on.”

“Let me take a look at that,” said DeWolfe, as he walked across the room, took the paper from Toffle and studied it.

“Harvath, I can’t believe you missed this.” “Missed what?”

“I thought you spoke French,” replied the communications expert, handing the drawing to him. “A little, yes.”

Harvath looked harder and then it hit him. Smiling, he said, “Now we know who to ask for when we get to the King George.”

“How’d you figure that out?” demanded Toffle as he grabbed the page back and looked at it. “M-m-e, Herman,” replied Harvath. “Yeah, so?”

“It’s the French abbreviation forMadame .” Chapter 31 F irst a porn production facility and now a brothel.

Harvath had always thought that Amsterdam was Europe’s most colorful capitol, but he was beginning to change his mind. The King George looked like any other five-story gray stone building in Berlin. With its handsome balconies and decorative fleur-de-lis ironwork covering the mullioned windows of the first three levels, it could have been the headquarters of a successful multinational, or a multifamily dwelling. After parking their car, the trio walked up a short flight of stone steps that gave onto a large door painted a subdued green and accented with brass fixtures. Herman rang the bell and when a voice came back over the intercom, he announced himself as “Herr Toffle.”

“You take me to all the best places,” said Harvath as the door unlocked and Herman pushed it open. “Don’t joke,” replied Toffle. “Thisis one of the best places in all of Berlin.”

The threshold of the marble foyer was covered by a long Persian runner leading right up to an enormous metal detector. Flanking the metal detector were two colossal security guards.

Their shaved heads and massive builds stood in stark contrast to their dark Savile Row suits, impeccably knotted silk ties, and handmade, custom-fitted John Lobb shoes. “Uh-oh,” said DeWolfe under his breath to Harvath. “What?

You’re just as good looking as these guys and with ten thousand extra, could be dressed just as nice,” replied Scot.

“Very funny, Harvath.

I was referring to the metal detector. Something tells me this is not a business that welcomes heavy iron.” “Are you saying you came armed?”

“Right.

And you’re packing nothing more than that sparkling personality of yours.” “Don’t worry,” smiled Harvath. “I’m sure Herman has this all taken care of.” At that moment, Toffle limped through the metal detector, and its alarm immediately went off. Harvath and DeWolfe hung back and waited.

The two guards approached Herman and asked him to raise his arms. The big German smiled politely and began to do as they asked. As soon as they were close enough, his hands shot out in a move that seemed to defy the laws of physics itself. The two guards were left in a tangle of rumpled, yet expensive fabric, minus their sidearms, which Herman now had trained on them.

“Oh, shit,” said DeWolfe who quickly pulled his gun to back up Toffle. Several tense seconds passed. Then, both the security guards and Herman began laughing. His index fingers in the trigger guards, Toffle released his grip and spun the pistols so he could hand them back, butts first.

“What the hell is this?” asked DeWolfe, not sure of what he was seeing. Harvath began to laugh. He remembered when he was a SEAL and had first met Herman in a cross-training exercise. Herman loved to sneak up on people and steal their sidearms without them knowing.

What’s more, he had a particular affinity for it. Harvath, though, was the one person he could never get the better of. “You’ve still got it, Herman.” “Of course I do.

In fact I never lost it.” “What the hell is going on?” asked DeWolfe again “Put your gun away,” said Harvath, “before you shoot somebody.”

DeWolfe did as instructed. “I’ve never seen anything like that.” “Everybody should have at least one good trick,” said Herman.

“Now, gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Kiefer and Verner.” Herman didn’t offer Harvath and DeWolfe’s names, and being the professionals that they were, Kiefer and Verner didn’t ask for them. After the men shook hands, the security guards waved Harvath and DeWolfe around the metal detector. “You sure you’ve sworn off these places?” said Harvath to Herman as they walked down a short hallway toward a stylish reception area. “The boys at the door sure seemed to know you very well.”

“They’re ex-army. Their uncle is an old friend of mine. I got them their jobs here,” said Herman, showing his two colleagues into a beautifully appointed anteroom. “Herr Toffle,” exclaimed an attractive blonde in her mid-twenties, who walked out from behind an ornately carved wooden desk to greet her guest. “How lovely to see you again.”

She was dressed in a perfectly tailored blazer with just the right hint of hug around her perfectly shaped breasts.

Her skirt, though it rode a bit above mid-thigh, was still tasteful in its cut and expertly straddled the tantalizing line between revealing and concealing all at the same time. “Hello, Nixie,” said Herman, grasping the two hands the young woman presented to him and kissing her on both cheeks. “How are you?”

“I am well, Herr Toffle. Thank you for asking,” responded Nixie, who turned toward Harvath and DeWolfe and said, “You are going to spoil the girls by bringing such handsome colleagues with you.

Maybe we should ask Kiefer and Verner to accompany you this evening for your own protection.” Harvath had to admit, the woman was flawless—both in her outward appearance and how she handled her customers. She reminded him of the VIP concierges he had seen in Las Vegas who were charged with looking after a hotel’s high rollers. This was very much the same situation. Though they treated you with respect and a healthy dose of attention and flattery, the bottom line was the same.

They wanted you to spend as much money as possible and enjoy spending it so you would come back again. Though it was a brothel, Harvath had to admit that by what he had seen of it so far, it was a class act.

“Unfortunately,” said Herman. “We’re not here for pleasure this evening. This is more of a business call.” For a moment, Nixie appeared crestfallen.

But in an instant, her professional demeanor returned, with just a hint of a childish pout lingering on her extremely full red lips.

Yup, thought Harvath,this woman was a pro all right . If the rest of the women at King George’s were like Nixie, he couldn’t help wondering how any man ever walked out of there with any money left in his pockets at all. “Well, when it is settled, maybe you’ll agree to stay?” asked Nixie, the consummate saleswoman. “Maybe next time,” said Herman with a smile.

“We need to speak with Gerda. Is she in, please?” It shouldn’t have surprised Harvath that Herman knew the madam by her first name, but it did nevertheless. He looked over at DeWolfe, who was standing in front of a flat panel monitor in a gilded frame showing what looked like runway footage from the Victoria’s Secret fashion show, but what Harvath assumed was a promotional piece highlighting the staff of the King George.

“Boy are Carlson and Avigliano going to be sorry that they missed this,” said DeWolfe, whose eyes were glued to the screen. “I think I just fell in love. Yup.

Oh, wow!

It just happened again. These women are incredible.” “Easy, Trigger,” said Harvath.

“As well-funded as you boys are, there’s no way tricky Ricky would let you expense something like this. And you could save up a week’s per diem and not be able to pay for what you’re looking at there. So do yourself a favor and step away from the monitor. That’s it, stepaway from the monitor.”

DeWolfe did as Harvath suggested and rejoined his colleagues at Nixie’s desk. Hanging up the phone, the attractive blond said, “I’m sorry, Herr Toffle, but it appears Frau Putzkammer was called away a short time ago and has not yet returned.”

“Do you have a cell phone number we could reach her at?”

“I tried her handy already, but there was no answer.

I hope it is nothing serious.” Herman looked at Harvath. “How much time do we have?”

“Less than forty-five minutes,” replied Harvath checking his Kobold. “Actually, Nixie,” replied Herman.

“This is very serious and we don’t have much time.”

“Herr Toffle, if there is a way I can be of assistance to you, please say so.”

Herman looked again at Harvath, torn as to how much he should share with Nixie. When Harvath raised his watch ever so slightly and tapped it, Herman decided they only had time for the direct approach. “Years ago, Gerda, Frau Putzkammer, worked closely with a group of American military men, and now one of them has been very badly injured here in Berlin. We believe he was a friend of Frau Putzkammer’s

and that if she knew about his situation, she would want to help him.”

“Of course,” said Nixie. “She has often spoken of the American military men who were some of her best customers.” “I am sure and that is very kind of her, but these men were very serious, elite soldiers.

We’re not talking about ordinary American GIs. This group, Frau Putzkammer would definitely remember.”

Nixie’s façade seemed to soften. “When would these men have been in Berlin?” “Before the wall came down.

They were a small group charged with—” “Für die Sicherheit?” asked Nixie, cutting off Herman’s sentence. “Yes,” answered Harvath. “But how could you know that?” “Let me get someone to take over for me, and we can talk,” said Nixie as she pressed one of the many buttons on her phone and spoke in rapid fire German.

Moments later a stunning redhead emerged from a discreet side door to relieve Nixie, who then showed her guests out of the reception area and into a small elevator. They rode to the fifth floor where the elevator opened up onto a gorgeous, antique filled penthouse apartment. This was a part of the King George even Herman had apparently never seen before. “Frau Putzkammer’s abode?”

he asked.

“Actually, it isour home,” replied Nixie. “You meanyou and Gerdaare ?”

“Mother and daughter,” said Nixie, cutting Herman off before he could say what he really thought their relationship was. “My full name is Viveka Nicollet Putzkammer.”

“I had no idea,” offered Herman, stunned. “Not many people do.

That’s the way mother has always wanted it. After private boarding schools in both France and Switzerland, I received my bachelor’s degree at the University of Southern California and my MBA at Kellogg in Chicago, then I returned home to Berlin to help run the family business.” “And from the looks of everything,” replied Herman, “you’ve been doing a very good job.” “But how did you know aboutFür die Sicherheit ?” interjected Harvath.

Nixie motioned for her guests to take a seat in the sunken living room, as she crossed a series of beautiful oriental carpets and retrieved a large beer stein from atop one of the many bookshelves lining the far wall.

Returning with the mug, she smiled as she handed it to Harvath and said, “One of my mother’s most prized possessions.” He didn’t need to read the inscription on it to know what it was. Seeing the piece of barbed wire wrapped around the bottom was enough.

“Where’d she get this?” asked Harvath. “It was a gift,” replied Nixie. Harvath recalled the stein that Hellfried Leydicke had above his bar and half-assumed that Gerda Putzkammer had been another helpful outside supporter of Gary’s team. But when he flipped the stein upside down and saw the serial number, he was stunned.

10/12.Ten of twelve .A real team mug .

A quiet, subconscious ping echoed in Harvath’s mind as if his mental radar had bounced back off of something he had been looking for. “The man who gave that stein to her was named John Parker,” said Nixie. “My mother loved him very much. Enough to let him go back home to America when he was recalled after the wall fell.”

“Did he know that your mother was pregnant?” asked Herman, taking a guess. “No.

In fact, my mother didn’t even know until he had already gone.”

“She never tried to make contact?” “You have to know my mother. She is a very proud woman. The last thing she would want is for people to think that she needed a man to take care of her.” “How about you?” asked DeWolfe.

“Don’t you want to have a relationship with your father?”

“I do have one. Although not the kind you’re thinking of,” replied Nixie.

“My mother told me that my father had died shortly after I was born, and for many years I believed her. Then, one day, I found the room where she hid her diaries and other personal effects. I spent weeks sneaking into that room. I read everything that I could get my hands on and eventually discovered who my father was.

That’s why I decided to do my undergrad work at USC. “I nannied for their family in Thousand Oaks for four wonderful years. He had married his old sweetheart shortly after returning to the States from Berlin. Though I would have preferred he had married my mother, his wife was a wonderful woman and he is a wonderful man.

I like to think that had he known my mother had gotten pregnant, he would have done the right thing by her. But it was Mother’s decision to keep things quiet and knowing her the way I do, I can respect that.

Though my father didn’t really know who I was while I was working for him, he nonetheless treated me as if I was one of his very own daughters.

We still keep in touch via email.” Harvath hated to do it, but he took a deep breath and said, “Nixie, I’m sorry to tell you this. John Parker is dead.”

“No,” said Nixie, blanching. “That can’t be true.” “I’m afraid it is,” replied Scot. “They killed almost all of the people on his Berlin team.”

“Who killed him? And what do you meanalmost all of the people on his Berlin team?” “At this point, I’m not at liberty to tell you who killed your father, but I can tell you this. Two people on the team are still alive. One of those people was your father’s commanding officer.

That man has been like a second father to me and the same people who shot and killed your father have shot and tortured him. Right now he is being operated on in a Berlin hospital and no one can say for sure if he is going to make it.”

Nixie was doing the best she could to control her emotions. “Who is the other man?”

she asked. “The other man,” said Harvath,” is another of your father’s teammates.

The King George was a covert contact point for them a long time ago.” “That comes as no surprise. This entire building is riddled with secret doors and passageways that helped certain people sneak in and out during the Cold War. My mother was very proud of her involvement in foiling the Russians and their East German counterparts.”

“And so she should be,” said Harvath. “But what we need now isyour help. We have a chance to stop the men who killed your father, before they can kill anyone else. What do you say?”

Nixie was silent. She strode across the sunken living room to a cocktail cart where she dumped a scoopful of crushed ice into a stainless steel cocktail shaker and filled the balance with vodka. Placing a lid atop, she shook the canister while she retrieved a Martini glass from one of the lower shelves and sprayed the rim with a vermouth atomizer. Filling the glass, she inhaled the martini’s deep aroma for a moment as if she were savoring a fine wine, and then took a long drink, draining the glass.

Finally, she turned to Harvath and said, “Yes, I will help you, but on one condition.” “What is it?” replied Scot. “When you find the man that killed my father, I want you to kill him.

No trial, no jail time.

I want you to promise me that he will die.” Harvath was up against it, and he knew that there was only one answer he could give. After a long silence, he answered, “I promise.” Chapter 32 “ …and the phone on the desk is her private line. It’s the most secure place my mother could have provided your friends if they needed to conduct this type of call,” said Nixie as she showed the men into the hidden room her mother used as a private office.

“I know this is confidential, so I’ll wait for you downstairs in the reception area. Good luck.”

Harvath thanked Nixie as DeWolfe found the corresponding phone plugs in the small plastic case they had brought with them. DeWolfe attached the burst transmitter to the phone line first from the jack, and then ran another cord from the transmitter to the phone so that Harvath could either talk or burst without having to rearrange any of the equipment. The transmitter connected, they sat down with a piece of paper and tried to figure out the encryption code Gary would have established with Frank Leighton, while Harvath continued to glance at his watch. After seeing the stein in the Putzkammers’ livingroom, Scot had become convinced that the code somehow involved the serial numbers on the bottom of the team mugs.

“So what was Leighton’s number then?” asked DeWolfe. “He was somewhere in the middle. Five or six, I think,” replied Harvath, trying to remember back to the stein he had seen in the laundry room that doubled for Leighton’s home office back in Maryland. “No, wait.

It was seven.” “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” replied Harvath. “That’s still only three digits—the seven and the twelve.”

“Not if you put a zero in front of it,” said Herman who was looking through some of the boxes of memorabilia that Gerda Putzkammer had stored in her office. “That would be the correct way to do it.”

“So it would read 07 of 12?” asked Harvath. DeWolfe wrote it down and said, “That would work, but what about the rest of it?”

“I’ve been thinking about that too,” said Harvath. “Gary was a Patton fan. Actually he was more like a Patton freak.” “As in General Patton?” asked DeWolfe.

“Yeah, he had studied the guy up and down. He knew all of his moves, and just like Gary, Patton didn’t care for the Soviets one single bit. In fact, at the end of World War II, Patton wanted permission to go after them. He said if the U.S. would give him ten days, he’d start a war with them that would make it look like their fault and the U.S. could be justified in pushing them all the way back to Moscow.”

DeWolfe, concerned with their dwindling timeframe, said, “So Gary liked Patton.

Patton hated the Communists and wanted to get rid of them. Being army guys, Gary’s men probably also liked Patton. That is a legitimate connection. Now, what can we take numbers wise from him?

It has to be something relatively easy to remember.” “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Harvath. “Patton commanded the Third Army in World War II, and they spent 281 days fighting in Europe.”

“Possible,” said DeWolfe with a certain degree of skepticism as he wrote it down. “He invented the 1913 Patton sword.”

DeWolfe continued writing. “Okay.”

“Don’t forget the M-46 and M-47 Patton Tanks,” said Herman, picking up another catalog.

“I think we’re really reaching on these,” replied DeWolfe. “I can also give you his birth date, death date, and the date he was buried.” “That’s a bit better. All right, we’ll give these a try, but if we can’t crack it, you’ll have to wing it with Leighton. The mere fact that you located the proper emergency contact point should win you some credibility with him.”

Harvath nodded his head in response, but knew that if he couldn’t fulfill the full terms of the emergency contact plan, Leighton wasn’t going to listen to a thing he had to say. DeWolfe powered up the burst transmitter and waited as it cycled through the welcome screen and then dropped him into the calendar program. “Okay.

We’re in the calendar function.

As I said before, the key here is to tap into the correct date. What do we want to try first?” “Birth date,” said Harvath. “November 11th 1885.”

“The scheduler doesn’t go back that many years.

Let’s just focus on the actual month and day,” replied DeWolfe as he found November 11th and went to the appointment scheduler. “Anything?” replied Harvath. “Nope.

Just a regular page.”

“No prompts for a security code when you try to make an appointment?”

“No.

Let’s try another date.” They tried the date Patton died, the date of his burial and even the date of his car accident without any luck. “How much time do we have left?” asked DeWolfe. Harvath checked his tactical chronograph.

“Less than fifteen minutes.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Try July 22nd.” “What’s that correspond to?” asked DeWolfe as he scrolled to the date. “Patton’s capture of Palermo.”

Harvath could tell by the look on DeWolfe’s face that the date wasn’t a winner. “Try August 16th. The capture of Messina.”

“Nothing,” said DeWolfe.

“Shit.

May 8th.

Victory Day in Europe.”

“Still nothing.”

“Well,” said Harvath, “does anyone have any other suggestions?” Herman cleared his throat on the other side of the office and asked, “Did you ever see the moviePatton with George C. Scott?” “Sure,” replied Harvath, glancing again at his watch, “I don’t know a single red-blooded American military person who hasn’t, but what does that have to do with what we’re trying—” Suddenly, he had an idea.

Turning to DeWolfe, he said, “Try June 5th.” “What’s June 5th?” “The opening scene in the movie is the speech Patton gave the Third Army before the DDay invasion. I should have thought of that earlier. It’s probably the greatest speech Patton ever gave.”

“You’re welcome,” said Herman who went back to reading his catalog. “Bingo,” exclaimed DeWolfe. “The scheduler is asking us to enter a code. What now?”

“Let’s start running through some of the numbers we came up with.

Try Leighton’s stein number and subtract the amount of days the third army was in Europe, plus today’s date.” Harvath waited until DeWolfe looked up from the transmitter and said, “Negative.” “Okay, Leighton’s number minus the 1913 sword classification, plus today’s date.”

Once again, DeWolfe responded, “Negative.” “Patton’s sidearm was a .45-caliber Colt Peacemaker.

How about substituting 45 for 1913?” DeWolfe ran the equation, but still came up empty. “Zip,” he said. “Damn it,” replied Harvath, his frustration mounting as the minutes ticked away. “I know Patton believed in reincarnation and really identified with Hannibal, the Carthaginian general.

Hannibal began his march on Rome in 218.

Try that.” “Scot, you’re reaching way far here.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“No, but—” DeWolfe was interrupted by a snort from Herman. “What’s so funny?” snapped Harvath. “You got a problem with Hannibal?” “I wasn’t laughing about Hannibal,” replied Herman.

“What were you laughing at then?”

“Never mind.”

“No.

What is it? I want to know.” “In the beginning of The King George, Gerda Putzkammer apparently offered her customers printedmenus , just like in a restaurant. And no matter what it was, every price ended in sixty-ninepfennings.

Very kitsch.”

Harvath was just about to tell Herman he wasn’t helping, when he got that ping in his head again and this time it shook something loose.

“Take 68 and subtract Leighton’s 0712, plus today’s date,” he said to DeWolfe. “But what’s 68?” asked the communications expert. “Just do it.
Harvath was sitting literally on the edge of his seat until DeWolfe looked up with a smile and turning the transmitter toward him said, “We’re in.”

“We are?” said Herman, setting down his the materials he was looking at and walking over to the desk.

“Where the hell did the number68 come from?” “Don’t ask me,” said DeWolfe. “Ask Harvath. He finally figured out the code.”

With his eyes glued on the burst transmitter, Scot replied, “When we were driving back to the hospital, DeWolfe and I were talking about how burst codes needed to be easy to remember. That made me think about Patton and how he said that when he wanted his men to remember something and really make it stick, he used eloquent profanity. Sometimes, so did Gary. You just reminded me of an old joke of his that I hadn’t thought about in a long time.

What’s a 68? It’s like a 69, except you do me and I owe you one .” “Are you sure Gary wasn’t a SEAL?” laughed DeWolfe. “How much time do we have left?”

“Three minutes.”

“Then you’d better get cracking on your message. Take the stylus and tap the icon for the keyboard. When it comes up, type it out just like we talked about and put it into thewaiting to be sent folder. When it’s time to burst, you just tap the send icon.

Okay?”

“Seems easy enough,” answered Harvath who wrote out the message as quickly and as succinctly as he could. Less than three minutes later, Frau Putzkammer’s telephone rang. Herman and DeWolfe were completely silent as Harvath picked up the receiver and said, “This is Norseman.”

After a second of what could only have been shocked silence, Leighton said. “So you made it.” “I told you I was for real.” “That may be, but you’re not home free yet.”

“And neither are you. Are you ready to receive my transmission?” asked Harvath.
1200 kilometers away in the Gulf of Finland, Leighton checked his burst transmitter and said, “Go ahead.”

As the message appeared on his screen, Leighton was stunned by what he was reading: Your mission has been compromised. Entire Dark Night team terminated. Gary Lawlor seriously wounded.

Prognosis unclear.
Mission parameters now changed. We are coming to you. Will explain at your location. Hold position and exercise extreme caution.

You are being watched. The entire team has been terminated? They think I’m being watched?Though a million other questions were racing through Frank Leighton’s mind, he knew he would have to wait to get his answers and so typed a concise and professional reply: Message received and understood. Will continue to hold position.

What is your ETA?
Harvath read through Leighton’s response and typed: Within next twenty-four hours. Keep all weapons on safe. We will be making covert insertion and don’t want any friendly fire. Leave package in place until our arrival. Be ready to move.

As Harvath was about to tap thesend icon with his stylus, the lights dimmed and then went out, plunging the room into complete darkness. “What the hell is going on?” asked DeWolfe. “Maybe too many vibrators recharging at the same time,” replied Herman. “Very funny,” said Harvath, retrieving his SureFire flashlight.

“Hey, DeWolfe? Does this burst transmitter have a backlight function so I can see it better?”

“It should. Go to the star logo in the upper left hand corner and click on it, then selectsettings and there should be abacklight function box. Selectyes and it should fire right up.”

Harvath followed DeWolfe’s instructions and the screen began to glow a deep red. It was an interesting color for a device masquerading as a civilian product, but made perfect sense for a piece of covert equipment that might be called upon to operate in difficult nighttime conditions where the least visible light spectrum would be required. “Got it,” said Harvath, who, after tapping the screen several more times added, “Shit!”

“What’s going on?” asked DeWolfe.

“I’m getting a message that saysno carrier ,” replied Harvath as he started saying into the phone’s mouthpiece, “Hello?

Hello?

Can you hear me?” “No carrier?” continued DeWolfe. “That could only mean that—” “The phone line’s dead,” said Herman as he withdrew his twin Beretta Stock 96’s from beneath his jacket.
“Jesus Christ,” exclaimed DeWolfe when he saw the weapons.

“Who walks around with that kind of firepower?”

“Welcome to the Federal Republic of Germany,” answered Harvath, disconnecting the burst transmitter and illuminating his way around the desk with his flashlight to reconnect the phone directly to the wall jack. “If you think that’s impressive, you oughtta see what his cousins carry.” “Forget about my cousins,” said Herman as Harvath picked up the receiver and listened for a dial tone. “What’s the situation with the phone?”

“Dead,” he replied. “So the problem appears to be on our end.”

“Coupled with a convenient loss of electricity. I don’t like it.” “Neither do I,” said Harvath, removing the H&K from his BlackHawk tactical holster. “Either a car outside happened to ram the local power and telephone poles, or we’ve got a problem.”

“This part of Berlin doesn’t have power or telephone poles,” replied Herman. “Everything is underground.” “Then we’ve got a problem,” said DeWolfe, the last to draw his own weapon, a “special order only” Beretta Model 93R.
“Talk about firepower,” quipped Harvath, eyeballing the extended twenty-round magazine of the handgun cum machine pistol, as DeWolfe flipped down the front grip and then switched the firing selector to three round bursts.

“Where’d you get that thing?” “I’ve got a good friend at Beretta and a healthy weapons allowance.” “Like I said. When it comes to funding, you CIA guys aren’t hurting at all.” Harvath tucked the burst transmitter into the back of his jeans and led the group out of the office.

Cutting back through the living room of the penthouse, they found Nixie who showed them to another of the King George’s hidden features, a concealed stairwell. With the power out, the elevator was out of the question. They were halfway to the ground floor when they heard the shots. Hurriedly, the group took the stairs as fast as they could.

As they drew closer to the lobby and the shooting intensified, Harvath began to sense a whole new problem. Toffle, who had taken over the lead despite his bad leg, was picking up a good head of steam and dashed down the stairs two at a time. He seemed hell bent on charging through the lobby door, but something wasn’t right and Harvath yelled for him to stop.

Confused, Herman pulled up short and turned around to look at him as he came running down the last flight of stairs followed by DeWolfe and then Nixie. “Why are we stopping?” asked Toffle. “Can’t you feel it?” replied Harvath. “Feel what?”

“The air in here.

It’s grown thinner.” “And hotter,” said DeWolfe as he joined his colleagues at the bottom of the landing. Herman scowled. “We’re wasting time.”

Nixie sniffed the air a moment and added, “And what’s that smell?” The minute she pointed it out, Harvath knew what it was—accelerant.

Pushing his way past Toffle, Harvath reached out his hand and gently placed it against the stairwell door. Immediately, he snatched his hand back away from the heat and said, “There’s a fire on the other side of this door.” “Oh my God,” replied Nixie. “We have to get everyone out.”

“First things first,” replied Herman, raising his weapons. “Kiefer and Verner may be in trouble.” “We all might be in trouble.

Let’s be smart about this,” responded Harvath, as he tugged the sleeve of his leather jacket over his hand so he could pull the door open. “Everybody back up.

When I count to three, I’m going to slowly open the door. Ready?”

DeWolfe and Herman repositioned themselves so they could cover Harvath and then nodded their heads, while Nixie flattened herself as best she could against the near wall of the stairwell. Harvath indicated his countdown with his fingers and then slowly cracked the door.

Instantly, he was blown backwards as the roaring conflagration forced its way into the stairwell, desperate to feed on the fresh supply of oxygen. Instinctively, DeWolfe and Toffle hit the deck, but Nixie stood in abject horror as she watched the roiling fireball come racing for her and engulf her in flames. Harvath was the first to regain his feet and he ran to Nixie, covering her with his coat and knocking her to the ground. He rolled her from side to side, slapping at her body with his bare hands as he tried to put out the fire. Once he was convinced that he had it out, he began to remove the jacket and right away smelled the sickening scent of burnt hair and flesh coming from her body.

Her once stylish designer suit now hung in charred strips from her blistered torso. Her eyebrows were gone, as was much of her once beautiful mane of blond hair, but she was alive. Harvath did a quick assessment of her injuries and found her to be unresponsive.

Most likely, she had gone into shock. “We need to get Nixie to a hospital, fast,” said Harvath, but neither DeWolfe nor Toffle was listening. They had exited the stairwell and leapt through the flames into the foyer of the King George.

Harvath yelled to them, but doubted he could be heard over the thunderous roar of the fire. Now that the door was open, his nostrils were filled with unmistakable tang of the accelerant that someone had used to deliberately set this fire. The sting of the noxious odor was so pungent it was like being slapped in the face. As the acrid smoke began to intensify, Harvath worried about how safe it was to be breathing such rapidly deteriorating air.

He called out again and was answered to by two three-round bursts of semiautomatic weapons fire, which he assumed were from DeWolfe’s Beretta.
Making Nixie as comfortable as he could, he propped her against the railing and crept over toward the door where he aimed his H&K at the sea of blinding orange fire, just in time to see an enormous silhouette making its way toward him. Through the jagged blades of flame, he tried to make out who or what it was, but the scorching intensity of the fire made it impossible. As he stared into the inferno, Harvath’s brain tried to make out what he was seeing, but he couldn’t categorize it. The dimensions were all off.

Reflexively, he raised his pistol, ready to fire. Then, he heard a low, guttural roar and made a last minute decision to roll out of the way, just as Herman Toffle leapt through the wall of flames separating the foyer from the stairwell. He landed with an amazing crash, dropping the body of Kiefer, the security guard, whom he had fireman-carried all the way back through the blaze. “Verner’s dead,” said Toffle, gasping for breath as he beat his hands around his body, making sure neither his hair nor his clothing were on fire.

“Where’s DeWolfe?” asked Harvath. “He saw someone in the foyer and chased after him.” “Who?” “I don’t know.

I didn’t see him.” “What about other people in the building?”

“From what I can see, the whole downstairs is on fire. There’s no getting out this way.” “Why haven’t the sprinklers kicked in yet?” “The building is pre–World War II.

It probably doesn’t have them.” “Okay, then,” said Harvath, thinking. “Then the only way we can go is up.

Can you make it?”

Herman was coughing and obviously suffering the effects of smoke inhalation, but the resilient former terrorism expert flashed Harvath the thumbs up and tried to force a smile. With Harvath helping Nixie and Herman carrying Kiefer, they struggled up the stairs to the next level, where the stairwell door was actually a false piece of richly engraved wood open to a long handsomely paneled hallway. Doors were spaced evenly along the corridor and it was readily apparent that this was where a good part of the King George’s business was conducted as customers and employees in various states of undress were running screaming up and down the hallway. Getting his bearings, Harvath found the door to one of the bedrooms he assumed faced the front of the building and kicked it open.

Three very attractive young women and one balding, overweight middle-aged man had shattered the window and were frantically trying to pry loose the decorative fleur-de-lis ironwork that stood between them and a one-story drop to freedom. “Stand back,” ordered Harvath as he laid Nixie on the bed and took aim at the grating. He fired five shots in quick succession, sending sparks and chunks of masonry in all directions. When Harvath lowered his pistol, the middle-aged client quickly moved back to the window and began shaking the ironwork for all he was worth.

He was a man possessed, and when the grating failed to give way, he began crying, convinced he was going to die. Spent, the man fell to the floor and continued to sob. “Passen Sie auf!” yelled Herman as he set Kiefer down on the floor and after picking up an antique bureau, ran at the ironwork-covered window with all his might. There was the sound of splintering wood and groaning metal as the improvised battering ram struck its target head on and the fleur-de-lis grating tore from its moorings and fell with a crash onto the sidewalk below.

Wheezing, Herman withdrew the dresser from the window and shoved it into the corner.

Immediately, the sobbing man began scampering out the window. “Hey,” yelled Harvath. “Get back here.” Herman reached through the window, grabbed the man by his trousers and yanked him back in.

“Was?” implored the man. “First of all, you’re welcome,” replied Harvath. “Secondly, do you speak English?”

“Yes, of course,” answered the man in a heavy German accent. “Good.

We’re going to need your help.” “But this is the only way out.

We already tried to go down the stairs. There is too much fire. Please, we must hurry.” “We will hurry, but here’s what I want you to do.

You and my friend,” said Scot as he nodded at Herman, “are going to gather up all of the mattresses you can from the rooms on this floor and throw them out the window so people have something to land on. Then I want you to let people in the hallway and the stairwells know they can get out this way. Tie the bedding together and use it to lower the injured.” “What areyou going to do?” asked Herman.

“I’m going to find DeWolfe,” “Be careful. All of this happening just after we arrived is a little too coincidental and I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Neither do I,” replied Harvath, who inserted a fresh magazine into his H&K as he turned and left the room. “Neither do I.” Chapter 33 T he hallway was quickly filling with more smoke and more screaming people as Harvath swung the red dot of his pistol’s laser sight into every room looking for DeWolfe. Aside from the fact that the rooms seemed to have unusually low ceilings, there was nothing else very remarkable about them.

As he passed the panicked throngs, he instructed them in his best German possible to stay low to the floor and make their way to the bedroom he had just come from at the right front of the building. With each face he looked into, the realization began to grow in him that any one of them could be the killer who had started the fire, and he would never know it. He had to find DeWolfe. Harvath fought his way up one of the public stairwells and found that the third floor was laid out much the same as the second.

He checked each room, but there was still no sign of DeWolfe. Back on the stairs, he could hear people below him, but the terrified tide making their way down from above had stopped. Hopefully, they had all gotten the message and had headed for the second floor.

After climbing two more flights of stairs, Harvath carefully pulled open the door and crept into what he expected to be another long hallway similar to those he had searched on the previous two floors. Instead, he found himself in a large chamber with rough sawn hardwood floors.

Harvath quickly swept the filtered red beam of his flashlight around the room and realized he was in a mockup of some sort of Medieval dungeon. Chains hung from the ceiling and there were assorted torture devices scattered around the room. As Harvath made his way to the lone door on the far side of the chamber, he heard a sudden noise off to his right.

Dropping to one knee, he spun and pointed his pistol in the direction from which the sound had come. Raising his flashlight and depressing the thumb switch, Harvath illuminated a long leather couch and, as he tilted it upwards, he found the helpless form of DeWolfe, gagged and shackled against the wall but still struggling against his restraints. The man’s eyes appeared to be bulging out of their sockets and Harvath had no idea if it was from abject fear or fury. Whoever had hung DeWolfe up like a trophy probably wasn’t too far away. He pulled the suppressor from his pocket and screwed it onto the threaded barrel of his H&K.
Taking careful aim, he put two quick rounds into the hinges of the metal restraints that were pinning the communication expert’s wrists to the wall.

Just as he lowered his weapon, someone punched him incredibly hard right in the small of his back. At least that’s what it felt like. Without even thinking about it, Harvath released the thumb switch of his flashlight, plunging the room back into darkness and began rolling along the floor in the direction he had come. As he did, he could hear the pop of dry wood as a course of bullets from a silenced weapon tracked his progress, tearing up a straight line across the floorboards right at him.

Without the beam from his flashlight Harvath was completely blind, and he rolled hard into something big and sturdy, smacking his head against what he assumed was some sort of table leg. He scrambled to get out of his attacker’s line of fire and knew that the only way the person could be following his movements was with night vision goggles. It made perfect sense.

Cut the power and blind your opponent. Bait the trap properly and when he comes to you, killing him will be easier than tipping over drunk Frenchmen at a Beaujolais festival. That plan, though, had one major problem.

Scot Harvath was not that easy to kill. Reaching out to find one of the legs for orientation, Harvath quickly pulled himself beneath the table. Taking a deep breath, he lunged upwards in a squat thrust maneuver flipping the table over and affording himself at least the appearance of better cover. Though his attacker was using a silenced weapon, the wordsilenced did not mean completely devoid of sound and Harvath had developed at least a vague idea of where he was.

He could see only one means of escape. After flipping up the hinged red filter cap from his flashlight, he reached around to the small of his back and pulled the painfully oversized PDA from his jeans. He felt along its smooth surface for the place where the device had deflected the shot and saved his spinal cord from being severed and said a quick word of thanks, then sent the device arcing in the direction of his attacker. When he heard it smash against the far wall, he jumped from behind the table and aimed the 225-lumen power of his SureFire flashlight in the same direction in order to blind his attacker.

The white-hot beam sliced through the blackness of the chamber, lighting up the entire far side of the room, but the shooter wasn’t there. The son of a bitch had moved. Harvath ducked back down behind the table just as one of the uppermost legs splintered into hundreds of ungainly toothpicks.

The shot had come from over his right shoulder. The shooter was right behind him! Harvath turned and opened fire as he raced to get out of the open and find a new place to hide, but where the hell could he go?

Without turning his flashlight on, he couldn’t see a thing. He needed to formulate another plan, and fast.
Harvath rolled along the ground back over to where he had first seen DeWolfe. There had to be a way out of this. When he found him, DeWolfe was lying on his back trying to catch his breath.

“Are you okay?” whispered Harvath. DeWolfe nodded his head, slowly. “Can you sit up on your own?” continued Scot as he disconnected the laser sight from beneath the barrel of his gun. “Yeah.”

“All right.

I’m going to give you my laser sight so you can draw this guy’s fire. Do you think you’re up to that?” DeWolfe held out his hand for the device.
Harvath smiled.

“Good.

I figure he’s at about our two o’clock, so when I say ‘go’ I want you to raise that thing above the couch and start shining it over there like we’re to trying to pick him off, okay?” “What are you going to?” “I’m going to pick him off, what else?

Ready?”

DeWolfe nodded his head.

“Go!” said Harvath as he rolled across the floor. DeWolfe sat up and started pointing the laser sight as if he were aiming a gun of his own. The shooter went for the bait and immediately fired several rounds into the couch DeWolfe was using for cover. The muffled spits were enough to give Harvath a lock on the shooter’s location. Harvath depressed the thumb switch of his SureFire and lit the guy up like an inmate going over the wall at San Quentin.

Just as Harvath suspected, his assailant was wearing night vision goggles, but what he hadn’t expected were the man’s superb instincts. Instead of being startled and turning into the beam from Harvath’s flashlight, the man shed his goggles, dropped to the ground and began firing. Harvath had to roll hard and quick to get out of the line of fire. As he rolled, he got off a series of shots, one of which he was positive had made contact when he heard his opponent groan in pain.

“Gotcha,” coughed Harvath, as he found shelter behind a long bench covered with short metal spikes, the uses for which he couldn’t even begin to fathom. Smoke was filling the room and it was becoming more difficult to breathe. The fire was getting closer . Harvath worried that if he and DeWolfe didn’t get back down to the second floor soon, they were going to have to find another way out. And with very little clue as to the layout of the building, Scot wasn’t exactly crazy about their chances.

He had to do something, but what? Suddenly, there was what sounded like large pieces of furniture being hurriedly dragged across the floor. Was the shooter creating more cover for himself? Was it some sort of ruse?

Harvath didn’t know what to think.

The one thing he did know was that his opponent could smell the smoke just as well as he could and was just as aware of how close the fire was getting. At that same moment, something else struck Harvath. If this man had started the fire, he wouldn’t have brought DeWolfe all the way up to the fourth floor without some plan for his own escape.

But where would he go?

Something Nixie had said about the King George was suddenly echoing in his mind, ‘The entire building is riddled with secret doors and passageways to help certain people sneak in and out during the Cold War.’ Why not?Thought Harvath.

If his group had used one of the secret passageways, why couldn’t this person use others? It was possible, but it not only begged the question, how did this person know about the passageways, but also who the hell was he and what did he want? There was no time for that now.

Harvath needed to focus on getting himself and DeWolfe out of the building alive. He felt around himself and found a large cardboard box. Reaching inside, he wasn’t surprised to find what felt like leather cat-o’-nine tails, vinyl masks, and other assorted S&M toys, but it was something in the far corner of the box that gave him a new idea.

Harvath pulled out a round tin, about the size and weight of a small can of shaving gel. Unscrewing the lid, he knew right away what it was— Vaseline. The contents didn’t matter as much as the size, shape and heft of the container. Not only was it very similar to a small can of shaving gel, it was also very similar to a flashbang grenade.

And sometimes, as Harvath had learned in his counterterrorism training a long time ago, throwing a dud could be better than actually throwing a live device. Flashbangs, more properly referred to in the industry as NFDDs—Noise Flash Distraction Devices, often required the use of surprise in order to be fully effective. That said, there were three major physiological effects that could not be quickly protected against. Flashbangs produced an incredibly bright light—approximately two million candela, which even with eyes closed would cause a bleaching of the rhodopsin, the visual purple in the eye, creating the spots and temporary blindness most people have experienced and referred to as theflash bulb effect .

Then there was the noise, right around 174 decibels, a thunderous roar that was just below the threshold of damage to the eardrum, but which was still likely to produce a startle reflex even in those expecting the concussion. Finally, there was the pressure wave. The atmospheric pressure inside a room was raised so that it compressed the body, causing a level of severe uneasiness. For those who were prepared for it, or had trained extensively in their presence, flashbangs were not a big deal, especially as most teams had trained to enter rooms just after the flash, and concurrent with the bang.

But that’s where Harvath’s training and a little trick he had learned was about to pay off.

Harvath made sure the lid on the tin of Vaseline was on tight before calling out, “DeWolfe, flashbang!” and chucking the container toward where he had heard all of the furniture being moved. If someone was familiar with NFDDs, which Harvath suspected their shooter was, one of the biggest distractions to present them with was an inert device that did not go off. When a flashbang has been loosed anywhere near you, it is nearly impossible not to pay attention to it because youexpect it to detonate. When it doesn’t, it is extremely disconcerting and you end up focusing on it and the direction it came from, wondering what the hell happened.

The tactic was something that Special Operations personnel liked to refer to as UW—unconventional warfare—and in this case it worked like a charm. Harvath counted off the appropriate amount of seconds and then popped up from behind the bench with his flashlight blazing and his pistol ready to fire. This time, he caught his opponent full in the face with the beam from his SureFire. The man was sixty, if he was a day.

He had a full head of gray hair and worn, leathery skin—not at all what Harvath was expecting. There was also, at this moment, an expression of arrogant defiance on his face. Though Harvath had never seen him before, there was something familiar about him.

It was a gut feeling and he had learned a long time ago that those feelings were seldom wrong. Whether or not he knew him, the man was still a killer and Harvath wasn’t above helping make him a little more aerodynamic, so he took aim and pulled the trigger. Once again, the man expertly ducked down trying to get out of the line of fire.

Scot kept the flashlight on him as he fired, only to see him disappear right through the wall. It was not the first time he had seen that trick and Harvath was beginning to understand why the man might feel so familiar, but there was also something else—something he couldn’t explain. Crawling back under the canopy of smoke to where he had left DeWolfe, Harvath asked, “Can you stand up?”

“Of course I can stand up,” replied DeWolfe, angrily. “The guy just got the drop on me. That’s all.

I’ll be fine.”

“Where’s your gun?” DeWolfe was silent. “So he got your gun too?”

“Don’t start with me, Harvath.”

Harvath held up his hands. “I’m not starting anything. I’m just trying to assess the situation.”

“I don’t need a gun. His ass is mine. I’m telling you. I’m going to get that motherfucker if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

Harvath could understand the operative’s frustration.

Nobody liked being bested. “Alright, alright, but we’ve got to get the hell out of here.” When they reached the stairway and opened the door, the thick smoke and quickly rising fire made it obvious that they were going to have to find another way out of the building. “What do we do now?” asked DeWolfe.

“Let’s go see if we can get your gun back.”

Harvath led DeWolfe to where he had watched their attacker seemingly disappear through the wall. “What are we looking for?” asked DeWolfe. “Some sort of false door or panel.

I saw the guy vanish, so I know it has to be here.” As the pair searched, the room seemed to get hotter, and the air more difficult to breathe. DeWolfe, who had been rapping every square inch of the wall with his knuckles, said, “Harvath, I’m not seeing anything and we have to get the hell out of here.”

“There’s got to be something,” replied Scot.

“Keep looking.”

“There isn’t anything.” “So you’re telling me the man who was shooting at us just disappeared? I don’t buy it.” “Well if we don’t get out of here soon, we’re both going tobuy it.” DeWolfe was right.

Harvath bent down, with his hands upon his knees, to get a clean breath of oxygen and that’s when he saw it. Bathed in the brilliant beam of his flashlight was the almost imperceptible outline of a small trap door. Harvath glanced around at the heavy displaced furniture and understood why the shooter had been so frantically moving things around. He was trying to find this trapdoor.

Harvath waved DeWolfe over and silently instructed him to lift the door, while he readied his weapon. When the communications expert sprung the hatch, Scot swung his pistol and flashlight back and forth across the small opening, but nothing was there. Carefully, Harvath slid into the crawlspace with his H&K ready to take out anything that moved.

The entire space looked like some sort of labyrinth in miniature. As Harvath wriggled his way along, he found side passages on the left and right, branching off at regular intervals, just like the bedrooms on the second and third floors. Following one of the junctures off to his right, Harvath’s suspicions about the purpose of the crawl space was confirmed when five feet in, he found a large monocle attached to a braided cable mounted to the floor in front of him.

Harvath peered into the monocle and was granted a perfect, albeit relatively dark view of the bedroom beneath. Apparently, Madame Putzkammer was not above spying on her customers.

As Harvath looked around at the relatively outdated, yet still highly effective surveillance equipment, he realized that the King George was not only set up to take still pictures of their customers in action, but audio and video as well. And from the looks of it, Frau Putzkammer had probably been up to it for a very long time. “Harvath!” yelled DeWolfe from the main passage behind him. “I think I found the Madame.”

Harvath crawled back out of his side tunnel and backtracked to DeWolfe.

Inside one of the other side tunnels was the body of a woman shot once in the head. It had to be Nixie’s mother. The resemblance was unmistakable. “What do you want to do with her?” asked DeWolfe.

“There’s nothing we can do,” replied Harvath. “The tunnels are too tight to drag her with us.” After turning around, he began leading the way forward again.

Thirty feet later, the choking smell of smoke mingled with ripples of something else—fresh air. The main passageway opened up onto a large ventilation shaft that looked to run the full height of the building. Glancing up, Harvath could see the night sky between the blades of the slowly oscillating fan.

He climbed into the shaft, followed by DeWolfe and they carefully made their way up and out onto the roof.

Looking over the intricately molded parapet onto the street below, Harvath could see the pile of mattresses that had been used to evacuate the building’s occupants. A crowd of onlookers had formed, and knowing Herman the way he did, Scot expected he had helped the wounded as best he could and then had faded a safe distance away from the scene. No doubt he was somewhere nearby, trying to ascertain his fate as well as DeWolfe’s. By the close proximity of the other buildings, it wasn’t hard to figure out the route their attacker had taken in his escape. Harvath couldn’t ignore the dull but insistent throbbing deep in the pit of his stomach.

It was telling him the name of the person who had attacked them, but he didn’t want to believe it. It was all too impossible. Or was it?

Chapter 34 T hree blocks away, Helmut Draegar stumbled into his newly rented Volkswagen, closed the door, and started the engine so he could get the heat going. How could I have been so stupid? he asked himself as he unbuttoned his shirt to look at the wound. Thankfully, the bullet had only nicked the upper part of his left arm, just below the shoulder. It hadn’t entered.

Yes, the wound was bleeding, but the bleeding would eventually stop. There was always the chance of infection, as with any bullet wound, but that too was easily handled. He would drive until he found one of Berlin’s all-night pharmacies where he could purchase some antibiotics. At this point, an infection was the least of his concerns.

The triage of his injuries complete, Draegar fashioned a makeshift bandage around his arm and pulled away from the curb, his mind a tempest of self-loathing over the string of failures he ultimately could blame on no one other than himself. In the beginning, Überhof had seemed to Draegar an inspired choice. During the Cold War, Überhof had been based in East Berlin and attached to one of the Soviets’ highly secretive Spetsnaz details.

The Spetsnaz were Russian Special Forces units charged with wreaking maximum havoc upon the enemy in the days just prior to a war by destroying infrastructure, command and control centers, and weapons systems, as well as assassinating or snatching high ranking military and diplomatic officials. When the East Berlin team wasn’t training, they often took “freelance” jobs working for the KGB, or in Überhof’s case, theMinisterium für Statessicherheit . It was while working for the Stasi that Überhof had first come to Helmut Draegar’s attention. The man was an exceptional operative, and on assignment after assignment had never let Draegar down.

In fact, it was Überhof who had saved Draegar’s life. Even though it was fifteen years ago when one of Draegar’s former contacts had popped up, claiming to have “valuable” information for him, it still felt like yesterday. Because Draegar had been suspicious, they chose to meet at the remains of an old monastery on the outskirts of the city.

It was raining that night and there were a million other places Draegar would have rather been, but again, his contact had always been reliable and had always been able to get his hands on extremely sensitive material. If nothing else, Draegar at least needed to see what he had. When the man arrived, he led Draegar deep into the ruined church where he claimed to have hidden a very special package. Draegar was reluctant, but proceeded nevertheless and followed the man down a set of worn stone steps into a rotted and moldy crypt.

When Draegar ducked beneath the mortised archway and entered the decayed undercroft, he knew that his premonition had been correct. It was an ambush. Standing in the center of the burial chamber, with his gun pointed at him, was Gary Lawlor.

Draegar knew why he was there. He had killed Lawlor’s wife, and the man had come for revenge. There was no use even asking his would-be executioner how he had uncovered him as the driver in the hit and run.

Someone had given him up; who, though, he had no idea. He turned to look at his once reliable contact, but the man refused to look him in the eye. There were no allegiances when it came to the information trade. Lawlor handed the man an envelope and after checking its contents, the man turned and disappeared up the crumbling crypt stairs. Draegar did not even attempt to beg for his life.

He may have entered the monastery alone, but he did so wearing a wire. He chose his words carefully, deliberately, conveying his exact position and situation in such a way that Lawlor would not take notice, but his team would. Hearing the exchange, it was only a matter of time before his backup would arrive.

What Draegar didn’t know was that the thick walls of the underground burial vault were impeding the signal from his wireless transmitter. That was precisely why Lawlor had chosen it. He had thought that Draegar might bring backup, but had given the professional operative credit enough to know that he would keep them out of sight. The only way he would have been able to communicate with them was via radio. By obstructing his transmission, Gary was given enough time to do what he had to do—and he didn’t waste a single minute of it.

After instructing Draegar to remove his gun, drop it on the ground, and kick it over to him, Lawlor ordered him to strip. That was when he found the wire. There was no time to go through Draegar’s pockets, and Lawlor didn’t want to risk frisking him.

Almost instantly, Draegar began shaking from the cold. Gary steered him to the far end of the vault, past door after rusted ancient iron door protecting small burial alcoves that had long since been looted, to a stone wall beneath a large iron ring where he made him sit. Though Lawlor had tested the ring to make sure it absolutely could not be pulled loose, he had underestimated the bulk of his prisoner’s thick arms and shoulders.

It would be impossible to run the handcuffs through the ring and secure both of the man’s wrists. He’d only be able to secure one. With time running out, Gary decided to improvise.

Throwing the handcuffs to Draegar, he instructed the man to attach one of the bracelets to his left wrist and then hold his left arm above his head. “Fuck you.

Just shoot me and get it over with,” Draegar had responded. Lawlor was tempted, but it wasn’t the type of ending he had envisioned.

Carefully, he approached and with his pistol cocked and pressed against Draegar’s forehead, he shackled the man’s left wrist and attached it to the iron ring. Though he would have liked nothing more than to pistol whip his wife’s killer, Lawlor restrained himself.

He didn’t want to risk Draegar losing consciousness. He needed him awake for the revenge he had planned. With his free hand, Lawlor removed a roll of duct tape from his coat and used his teeth to unravel a long section, which he wrapped several times tightly around the Draegar’s mouth, completely gagging him.

His prisoner now secure, Gary set his pistol down on a nearby sarcophagus and picked up a large piece of dislodged masonry. It was about the size of a concrete cinder block and he brought it down in one crushing blow upon Draegar’s left ankle. The Stasi agent howled in pain as his bones splintered and popped, but his cries were effectively muffled by the layers of duct tape. Though he would have loved to have savored the moment further, Lawlor had no time.

He quickly picked the block back up and repeated the hobbling treatment on Draegar’s right side. There was no way the man could stand at this point, so escape was futile. All he could do was watch the last minutes of his life, quite literally tick away until he died. “My wife,” said Gary, as he emptied the contents of three duffle bags and assembled them in piles just out of Draegar’s reach, “had no idea her life was about to end.

I guess in that respect, she was fortunate. You, on the other hand, are not going to be granted that sort of mercy.” Draegar stared at the brick sized parcels wrapped in what looked like brown wax paper and knew exactly what they were—cakes of C4.Where the fuck is the backup team?

Did Lawlor actually manage to take them out?

Draegar began to panic. Gary was pleased to see the look of fear in the man’s eyes. He’d been prepared for his wife’s killer to maintain an icy calm all the way to the end and not grant him any added satisfaction. This sudden change in his demeanor was a pleasant bonus.

Lawlor rigged the charges and in front of each neat little stack of plastique placed glass jars of road tacks, essentially overgrown children’s jacks with their points filed down into razor-sharp spikes. Though the explosion alone was enough to kill the man, Gary wanted to add a little something extra for Draegar.

Hopefully, the thought of the shrapnel tearing through his body would add another layer to the man’s fear. His work complete, Lawlor activated the timer and placed a large, red LED display on top of one of the piles so Draegar could watch the last minutes and seconds of his life melt away. Gary had run through his mind a million times what he was going to say at this moment, but as he retrieved his gun from the sarcophagus and turned to speak, somehow what he had prepared didn’t seem to matter anymore. He could have laughed, he could have simply smiled, but instead he cast one last look at the man who had killed his wife and his eyes said it all—Now it’s your turn.

And with that, he turned and left the burial chamber. For the first time in his life, despite all his intense training, Helmut Draegar was actually terrified. His restraints wouldn’t give, the LED readout was ticking down, and had he not seen the rusted iron hinge on the door of the alcove behind him, he didn’t know what he would have done.

Knowing that the hinge would not be sharp enough to cut through bone, he first had to break his own wrist. Using a small stone about the size of a baseball, he snapped the radius, then the ulna of his shackled left wrist, and then with a primitive tourniquet in place, began the unthinkable. Überhof, concerned with the prolonged radio silence, was the first of the backup team to break cover and investigate. He found Draegar, who had dragged himself up from the crypt, missing a hand, bleeding profusely and very near death on the rain-soaked ground of what was once the monastery’s church.

He was able to get Draegar away from the ruins just as the piles of plastic explosive detonated in the undercroft and destroyed what remained of the old religious structure. Fifteen years later, driving the streets of unified Berlin in search of an all-night pharmacy, it was still hard for Draegar to relive that night. The Russians had given him sanctuary in the days and years after the event. They had made sure East German police reported finding a horribly charred body in the rubble and that it was leaked to intelligence services that one of the Stasi’s best operatives had met with foul play. After he had recovered, the Russians had used Draegar and his exceptional skills to train not only their agents, but also the espionage agents of governments they were friendly with.

Until recent events had necessitated his evacuation, he had been in Iraq, training Iraqi intelligence officers and helping them to get visas so they could travel to western countries. He had also been providing despotic leaders in the region with lists of assassins that could facilitate “hits” for them in the West, as well as introductions to Russian companies willing to provide sensitive, banned military equipment such as satellite jamming systems intended to interfere with U.S. weapons. As far as the world was concerned, Helmut Draegar was dead. And how did he thank his benefactors for giving him a renewed chance at life?

He did it by screwing up one of the most important operations they had ever undertaken. Draegar had failed to get the information he needed from Gary Lawlor, which in turn had forced General Stavropol to come to Berlin. Überhof, as good as he once was, was Draegar’s choice, but he had not only missed his opportunity to take out the men who had appeared at the Goltzstrasse apartment, he had allowed himself to be followed to theGeisterbahnhöfe , compromising all of them, and getting himself killed in the process. Not only did they lose Gary Lawlor, and Draegar’s long-awaited opportunity for revenge, but in the fury of the takedown, Stavropol, who had come to Berlin to aid in the interrogation, had dropped his most prized possession, a specially engraved pistol given to him by the Russian High Command—something he valued above all else.

Stavropol was incredibly angry and blamed Draegar. Berlin was his operation after all, but he had been given a chance to redeem himself and now he had blown that. Fearing the security he assumed had been established at the hospital, Draegar decided to follow Agent Scot Harvath. When the young American operative, whom Stavropol had filled him in on, had driven to the King George, Draegar knew that the Americans had a better handle on the situation than any of them had expected.

If you were going to unravel a series of threads, it made sense to begin where the first one started, but the question still remained,what exactly was Harvath doing there ? How had he discovered the place where their entire plan had been hatched? A small-time, petty blackmailer, Gerda Putzkammer had no idea that twenty years ago Draegar and his men had not only discovered where she had hidden the information she collected on her customers, but that many nights they were creeping through the crawlspaces themselves collecting as much intelligence as possible from the higher profile clientele that patronized the King George. The smartest move of all was when one of Draegar’s men had suggested bugging Putzkammer’s penthouse apartment.

For the longest time, they went without uncovering anything of value, but finally, their efforts yielded a particularly precious gem—an American operative by the name of John Parker. While Parker never discussed anything in outright detail, the things he did say, along with surveillance of other team members proved extremely helpful in putting together the big picture. In fact, it was Heide Lawlor’s suspicions of her own husband that were the icing on the cake. Listening in on Heide and her caseworker provided the details the Russians needed. Had the woman not been so insistent to her caseworker that her husband was up to something, there might not have been such a need to kill her.

But at the rate she was going, she was going to eventually blow her husband’s operation and the Russians couldn’t tolerate that.

They had come too far. It was a plum too ripe to let spoil. Heide had to be removed and it had to look like it was done for other reasons. With her out of the picture, the Dark Night operation would be allowed to proceed and they would be able to keep their eye on it. But why now was this Scot Harvath returning to the King George?

What exactly was he looking for? Though Draegar didn’t get a chance to interrogate the man himself, hopefully by burning the building, he had prevented Harvath from getting whatever it was he was after.

It would have to be good enough. Berlin wasn’t safe for Draegar anymore. He needed to get back to Russia.

Chapter 35 SOMEWHERE

OFF THE FINNISH COAST STATE OF THE UNION

ADDRESS—5 DAYS

T he Advanced SEAL Delivery System, or ASDS, moved silently through the frigid waters of the Baltic Sea. It had been delivered to a secret Swedish naval base on the island of Gotland, via a U.S. Air Force Lockheed Martin C5 Galaxy cargo plane, in what the Swedish government believed was an impromptu, covert NATO training exercise. Harvath and his team flew by private jet to Gotland from Berlin, where they boarded the ASDS with their gear and rendezvoused with theUSS Connecticut , aSeawolf-C lass nuclear-powered attack submarine, waiting two miles offshore. The ASDS was able to attach to the larger submarine via a lock in/lock out chamber in its floor and a dry-deck shelter mounted behind theConnecticut ’s conning tower. This combination of watertight hatches allowed free passage between theConnecticut and the Advanced SEAL Delivery System while theConnecticut was underwater and approaching their target area.

The enormous nuclear-powered attack submarine was designed with emphasis on highspeed, deep-depth operations. Its engine quieting, combat systems, sensor systems, and payload capacity were greatly improved over its predecessors, theLos Angeles -class attack submarines. It was an investment in technology that kept the United States Navy on the cutting edge of maritime warfare and tonight, that investment had more than proven its value. With an unusual number of vessels from Russia’s Baltic Fleet prowling the Gulf of Finland, all of theConnecticut ’s extraordinary stealth capabilities had been called upon to maneuver it undetected into a position off the Finnish coast where it could launch the ASDS.

The bone-dry, completely enclosed, sixty-five-foot long minisub was considered one of the hottest pieces of equipment the United States Special Operations Command had ever put into service. It could travel at ranges up to 125 miles with a speed of just over eight knots on a series of lithium ion polymer batteries. Its integrated control and display systems, dual-redundant flight control computers, operational software, forward-looking sonar for detecting natural and manmade obstacles, as well as side-looking sonar for mine detection and terrain/bottom mapping, were all state-of-the-art. In addition to a Navy-certified submarine pilot and SEAL navigator, the craft could accommodate anywhere from eight to sixteen SEALs, depending on the amount of gear their mission required.

Tonight, though, Harvath, Morrell, DeWolfe, and Carlson were taking up most of the room. As they came within range of their objective, the pilot, whom Carlson had referred to incessantly as ‘Captain Nemo’ since they had boarded in Gotland, told his passengers to begin preparing to get wet. Because of the amount of equipment they had to transport, they were limited to exiting in pairs from the lock in/lock out chamber in the floor of the ASDS.

All four of the men wore brand new amphibious diving suits developed by the Army’s Soldier and Biological Chemical Command lab in Natick, Massachusetts. The amphibious diving suits acted and looked like the typical dry suits designed to keep their wearers warm by preventing water from reaching the skin, but in this case, once the wearers climbed out of the water, the polyurethane-based, three-layer polymer membrane was also designed to soften and become more amorphous, so sweat molecules could pass through it and perspiration could escape, preventing wearers from overheating. Gone were the days of having to change into a separate set of clothes for land-based operations.

That said, the waters of the Baltic were absolutely freezing at this time of year, and as added insurance, the men wore an additional fleece lined layer beneath their suits. Their LAR VII closed-circuit rebreathers were complimented by military full facemasks with unimpeded field of vision, which provided added facial protection from the icy water. Rebreathers were always the system of choice for covert operations. Regular scuba equipment not only gave off clouds of large visible bubbles, but was also noisy.
Closed-circuit oxygen rebreathers on the other hand were quiet, gave off no bubbles and filtered the user’s exhaled carbon dioxide, recharging the remaining nitrogen gas, which makes up a large part of the air, with pulsed oxygen.

This economical system allows a diver to stay submerged for four hours or more. The main disadvantage, however, is that the diver is limited to operating in shallow water as pure oxygen begins to become toxic at depths greater than thirty feet. Waterproof combat bags protected the team’s M4 machine guns, a light weight version of the M16, which possessed a shorter barrel and a collapsible stock. ‘Dummy corded’ to each man, to prevent it from being dropped while underwater, was a highly classified weapon made by Heckler & Koch that didn’t appear in any of their catalogs—the H&K P11. The P11 was a special pistol, which could fire five 7.62-caliber darts both above andbelow water.

But once those five shots have been fired, The P11 takes even longer than an antique black powder rifle to reload, as it has to be sent all the way back to the H&K factory.

To navigate the strong currents around Aidata Island, each man commanded a Farallon MkX DPV—Diver Propulsion Vehicle. The Farallon MkX model DPV was a result of a joint research project between the U.S. Special Operations community and Farallon to give American combat divers an extended mission range and greater top speed than normal commercial DPVs delivered. One of the greatest benefits of a DPV was that because a diver didn’t have to propel himself to an objective, he wasn’t doing any work, so his air could last up to fifty percent longer—essentially doubling his dive time.

The devices looked like minitorpedoes.

Because they incorporated a revolutionary new hydrogen based propulsion system, as opposed to the silver zinc batteries being used by other companies, they were much faster than anything previously produced. Once Harvath, Morrell, DeWolfe, and Carlson were all outside the mini-sub, they activated their waterproof night vision monocles, powered up their DPVs and followed their GPS displays on predetermined courses for Aidata Island. Chapter 36 T hough he had long since deleted the message, the final transmission Frank Leighton had received from Berlin still floated in the forefront of his mind: Your mission has been compromised.

Entire Dark Night team terminated. Gary Lawlor seriously wounded. Prognosis unclear.
Mission parameters now changed. We are coming to you. Will explain at your location.

Hold position and exercise extreme caution. You are being watched. Frank Leighton had spent most of the last twenty-two hours wrestling with a multitude of questions. Who had killed his teammates?

Who exactly was watching him?

Was it the Russians?

What had happened to Gary Lawlor?

How had the Dark Night operation been compromised? Who was this new player, Norseman?

And why had his burst transmission been terminated so abruptly? Though Norseman had managed to discover the emergency contact location and the code for the burst transmission, Leighton was still not one hundred percent convinced that he was who he said he was and decided to slant the playing field as much in his favor as possible.

When Norseman said, “we are coming to you,” undoubtedly he meant that he would be arriving with a team of some sort. If they really were concerned about being observed, they would probably arrive under cover of darkness and most likely via the water. The first thing Leighton did was booby-trap the site where he had secreted his nuke.

If worse came to worse and he was captured, he could at least march his captors into an ambush and maybe be able to escape. Next, he made sure his boat was ready to sail. He went over the entire craft from stem to stern and made sure everything was literally shipshape.

After that, there was nothing left to do but wait. Hidden within a small outcropping of rock on the side of the inlet where his boat was moored, was a narrow fissure just big enough for Leighton to wedge himself into and be concealed. The waiting seemed to last an eternity, but he was patient. The night was dark and did not offer much ambient light, which greatly reduced the effectiveness of the old night vision binoculars now clutched in his hands.

When he finally did notice something near the beach, he thought his tired eyes were playing tricks on him. Leighton squeezed his eyes shut for several seconds, trying to dissipate some of the ‘orange burn’ so common with use of night vision optics. When he looked back through the binoculars again, the shapes appeared not to have moved. Probably just piles of kelp washed in by the tide, he thought to himself.

The Baltic was famous for the large seaweed forests that populated its sea floor. Then, as he was about to lower the binoculars and give his eyes another rest, he noticed it— movement. They were here.

As Leighton extricated himself from his hiding place, it took several minutes for him to get the blood flowing into his legs again. Though the site had provided an exceptional vantage point, he should have stretched more often.

His body was not as forgiving as it used to be. With his Finnish-made JatiMatic PDW drawn, Leighton quietly crept toward the beach. He picked his way along the jagged shoreline, slogging through frigid knee-deep tidal pools, while using the abundance of large rocks for cover as best he could.

When he neared the field of smooth, ocean-tumbled stones that functioned as the inlet’s beach, Leighton crouched behind the last large rock that stood between him and the wide-open space. As the waves splashed against the shore and further soaked his already drenched trousers, he once again raised the night vision binoculars and studied the two shapes he had been looking at before. Upon closer inspection, he still couldn’t tell if they were piles of kelp or something more.

But he had seen movement.

He was sure of it. At that moment, a voice from behind and to the left caught him completely off-guard. “Mr. Leighton, I presume?”

Leighton stiffened in surprise.

“Please set down your weapon and turn around slowly,” continued the voice. Leighton did as he was told. As he turned around, the man who had addressed him lowered the M4 he had pointing at him, pulled off the strings of camouflaging kelp that were hanging from his dry suit, and stepped the rest of the way out of the water.

“I’m Norseman,” the man said, holding out a gloved hand. Leighton was speechless. He hadn’t even heard so much as a ripple from the water. Whoever this guy was, he was good.

Though he cautiously shook the man’s hand, Frank Leighton still wasn’t convinced they were on the same side.

Harvath shouldered his weapon and removed his fins, tucking them under his left arm. Taking off his gloves, he slid them underneath his weight belt and then signaled the beach and the rusting trawler with a small, waterproof IR strobe. When his signals were returned, Harvath removed his facemask and said to Leighton, “It looks like a nice night for a boat ride.

Let’s get going.” On the beach, they rendezvoused with Leighton’s two piles of kelp, operatives Morrell and DeWolfe. Knowing that he had spotted at least part of the team made Leighton feel only slightly better. Though his skills were still good, they weren’t near what they used to be.

Forgoing the courtesy of an introduction, Morrell asked, “Where’s the device?” “Let’s establish somebona fides first,” replied Leighton. “I thought we already did that.” “We’re off to an okay start, but if you think I’m going to hand my responsibilities over to a group of frogmen who show up and just happen to speak English without any accents and claim to be on my side, you’re quite mistaken.”

“Listen,” snapped Morrell.

“Don’t try my fucking patience. This suit is good for only about ten more minutes and then my body heat, which you are prematurely raising, is going to begin leaching out. I’m sure our friends the Russians out there on the water are using thermal imaging to keep an eye on this place. If they notice more than one warm body on this island, they might think there’s a little beach barbecue going on and want to come in for a closer look. We can’t let that happen.”

Leighton, far from being a pushover, went toe-to-toe with Morrell and said, “Then you’d better keep your cool.”

Morrell raised his M4 and pointed it right at Leighton’s chest. “No, I think you’d better get with the fucking program.”

“This guy always have a mouth like this?” asked Leighton, turning toward Harvath. “Not usually.

He must have lost his thesaurus on the swim in.”

“Very funny,” said Morrell. “Now we’ve got nine minutes and counting. Either you’re part of the solution, or I’m going to spread you across the beach and you can become part of the landscape.”

“He’s serious, isn’t he?” asked Leighton.

Harvath simply nodded his head. “I’ve got some questions I want answered first. And like I said, we’ll start by establishingbona fides .” “And like I said,” returned Morrell, “we don’t have time for that shit.

We’ve already proven ourselves. We’re all on the same team here.” “Well, without me on the team, you’re going to have a hard time finding what you’re looking for, so I suggest you cooperate, take a few minutes, and answer my questions.”

Morrell removed a small handheld device. “I’ve got the GPS coordinates for what I’m looking for, so I don’t really need your cooperation, do I?” Leighton smiled. “Those coordinates might get you there, but that’s about all they’ll get you.”

“Why?

What have you done?”

“Let’s just say what you’re looking for isvery well protected.”

Morrell’s eyes widened. “You booby-trapped it, didn’t you?”

Leighton remained smiling. “Carlson,” called Morrell over his throat mike as he turned to face the trawler moored in the inlet. “I need you on the beach, ASAP.” Carlson, who, along with Avigliano, was prepping theRebecca with a special surprise, thought he had a better idea and voiced his opinion.

“No, I’m not sending Harvath to do it,” barked Morrell in response to the Carlson’s voice in his earpiece. “Fuck his SEAL training. You’re the demo expert, so get your ass over here now.” Leighton looked at the men on the beach.

“Who’s Harvath?” “What the fuck do you care?” growled Morrell. “You’ve got a SEAL named Harvath.

I want to know who he is.” “You want, you want, you want. You know what?

Fuck you.” “Easy, Rick,” said Scot, stepping in to separate the two men. “I’m Harvath.”

The binoculars had fried Leighton’s eyes worse than he had thought. After squinting a moment, he said, “Of course you are. You look just like him. You sound like him too.

I can’t believe I didn’t see it right off the bat.” “What the hell are you talking about?” asked Morrell. Leighton ignored him. “You’re Mike Harvath’s son.” “You knew him?” asked Scot.

“Yeah, back in Vietnam when I was with Army Intelligence. Gary introduced us. We did a couple of joint ops together. He was a good man.” “Yes he was.”

There was silence on the beach. Morrell raised his eyebrows and looked back and forth several times from Harvath to Leighton. “Have we established ourbona fides now?”

Though he didn’t care much for Morrell, the resemblance Harvath bore to his father was enough to satisfy Leighton that these men were who they said they were.

“We’re good. Follow me.” “Fabulous,” sneered Morrell, who activated his throat mike and addressing Carlson said, “Scratch that last order. You and Avigliano finish prepping the boat. We’re going to get the package.

Be ready to move.” Chapter 37 H arvath gave everything on theRebecca a final check before raising anchor and sailing the old trawler through the island’s narrow channel and out into the open sea. The noxious blue smoke of the coughing diesels couldn’t mask the smell of the saltladen air. The scent stirred up a flood of memories in Harvath. Despite the amount of time he had spent in and around the ocean as an adult, its smell always reminded him of time he had spent with his father as a young boy.

As far back as Harvath could remember, the ocean had been part of their life. They lived near it, swam in it, fished in it, and sailed upon it. While some fathers and sons talked and bonded over baseball or other sporting pursuits, Scot’s father, who was not a very communicative man to begin with, was always able to talk about the ocean. He spent hours teaching his son about navigation by stars and currents, sextant and compass.

The younger Harvath had incredible recall and could name any type of navy vessel in San Diego Harbor after only seeing it one time. The same went for battle ships, frigates, and the like which his father would point out in books. By the time he was twelve, Harvath had read all of the Hornblower novels, courtesy of his father’s vast maritime library.

In fact, Scot had long suspected that had it not been for the navy, his father would have very likely selected some other seafaring profession that would have kept him connected to the mistress he loved so dearly. And there was no doubt in Scot’s mind that the sea was his father’s mistress. Many times in his young life, Scot felt that the sea mattered more to the man than his own family, but then, Scot himself had joined the Navy and began his own affair with it. Though Scot had very much enjoyed his career as a competitive skier, if he was honest with himself, he would have to admit that there had always been something missing.

The U.S. Ski Team, as much as he had cared for his teammates, was really no team at all. It was every man and woman for themselves. All that mattered was you and the judges. There might not have been any “I” in team, but there was “me.” Harvath had been hungry to be part of something more than just his own selfish pursuits and the SEALs had given him that opportunity.

For the first time in his life, he had discovered the true meaning of the wordteam and what it meant to be part of something greater than yourself. It didn’t take long for him to realize what the SEALs had meant to his father. In a way, Scot’s time on the Teams had given him a sense of something he had never before experienced, a sense of belonging— belonging to something that really mattered and really made a difference in the world. With the SEALs, character, honor, integrity, loyalty, and duty meant something. They weren’t just empty words.

And though he often liked working on his own, being able to still do that as part of a team, where everyone had a shared objective and where every participant’s performance mattered, was one of the most fulfilling undertakings he had ever pursued. As he thought about it now, he wondered if maybe his decision to follow in his father’s footsteps was less about searching for something from his father and more about searching for something in himself.
Harvath’s concern over his mission drew his mind back to more relevant issues. As he glanced out the back of the wheelhouse to check on his Diver Propulsion Vehicle, which had been tied to the rear of the trawler, he hoped the rest of the team had made it to their objective safely. After Frank Leighton’s nuke was retrieved and brought down to the beach, it was placed in a long, streamlined tube, which Carlson and Avigliano gently slid into the water and connected via towropes to their DPVs. Once Leighton was outfitted in his own dry suit, flippers, facemask, and rebreather, the men submersed themselves beneath the water and headed for the Advanced Swimmer Delivery System waiting a few miles offshore.

From there, it was a short cruise to the Finnish mainland, where a group of three cars would be waiting for them with money and instructions on how they were to cross into Russia, as well as what Leighton’s new mission parameters were. As Harvath headed further into the Eastern Gulf of Finland, he monitored the trawler’s antiquated radar system and tried to assess the proximity of the Russian patrol boats he knew were shadowing him. TheRebecca’s equipment was useless. Random islands, fishing boats, patrol boats…they all looked the same on the cracked, green display screen.

It was only a matter of time before the Russians would be on top of him. Almost as if rushing to meet the challenge head on, Harvath shoved the trawler’s twin throttles farther forward, trying to coax as much speed as he could from the struggling old engines. Three hours and twenty-seven minutes later, after a short stop to change the trawler’s registration markings from Finnish to Russian and substitute one country’s flag for another, Harvath found himself less than three kilometers inside Russian territorial waters when the trap was sprung.

A lone Federal Border Guard Service high-speed Sokzhoi-class patrol boat had appeared virtually out of nowhere and was bearing down on him off the starboard bow.

Harvath, per the plan outlined by Rick Morrell, quickly turned theRebecca around and attempted to head back into Finnish waters. Even though he knew he’d never outrun them, it made him look guilty as hell and that’s exactly what was supposed to happen. A second Sokzhoi joined in the chase and fired a warning shot from its 30mm cannon across theRebecca’s bow. Though the plan had called for Harvath to throttle back to neutral at this point, he decided to push his luck a little further.

The Baltic water was freezing and the shorter he could make his impending swim, the better. Besides, the prevailing assumption was that the Russians wanted to take Frank Leighton alive. If they blew up the boat they thought he was on, not only would that put a serious dent in their plans, but it might also detonate the device they believed he was carrying. Harvath glanced out at the Sokzhois and hoped he was right.

Pressing the throttles as far forward as they would go, Harvath heard the engines groan in protest. Just then, another 30 mm round was loosed, landing much closer to the bow than the one before, throwing up a large sheet of spray that covered the wheelhouse. Harvath began to realize that dead or alive, the Russians had no intention of letting him leave. With the high-speed crafts staring him right in the face, Harvath’s decision to get back into the cold water was made a lot easier.

He doused all of theRebecca’s lighting and then “lit the candles” as Carlson had put it, on the special “cake” he had baked for the Russians.

Blocks of C4 had been placed strategically throughout the vessel, with special attention focused on the engine room and its remaining stores of diesel fuel. As Harvath grabbed the boat’s flare gun and exited the wheelhouse, he activated a waterproof timer strapped to his wrist. It was synched to Carlson’s digital fuse aboard theRebecca , which had already begun its own deadly countdown. Arriving at the rear of the trawler, Harvath was suddenly illuminated by one of the most powerful spotlights he had ever seen.

A voice over a loudspeaker commanded him first in Russian and then English to stop where he was and prepare to be boarded. Fat chance of that , Harvath said to himself as he readied the flare gun.

Aiming it over the top of the patrol boats, he pulled the trigger. The bright red signal flare soared high into the night sky and hopefully carried with it the eyes of the Federal Border Guard agents so intent on capturing him. Placing the regulator in his mouth and flipping over the side, Harvath was far beneath the surface when the crews of the Sokzhois began strafing the water with rounds from their 14.5mm machine guns.

As he was no longer carrying his M4, the bulk of Harvath’s gear was now contained in a medium sized buoyancy bag, which could be partially inflated via a small, attached bottle of air, thus rendering the bag weightless underwater. Harvath inflated it to the proper buoyancy and using carabiners, secured the bag to two eyehook style receivers mounted beneath his DPV.

Cutting the cord that connected the Farallon Diver Propulsion Vehicle to theRebecca , he let himself drift downwards for several meters while he got his bearings before firing up the DPV. His rendezvous point was off another island, just inside the Russian maritime border, about five kilometers away. It was a tiny, insignificant port where fisherman stocked up on fuel and supplies, as well as waited out storms or repairs to their boats before putting back to sea. The vessel Harvath was meeting, complete with the SEAL team that had commandeered it, would fit in perfectly.

As Harvath fixed his location with the DPV’s Global Positioning System, he wasn’t surprised to hear the low grumble of Zevzda high-speed diesels coming from one of the Sokzhoi patrol boats on the surface. It had made a beeline straight for theRebecca the minute he had abandoned ship. It was exactly what he had been counting on.

Depressing the trigger switches of his DPV, Harvath began to move as quickly as he could away from theRebecca and the Russian boarding party that was probably already clambering over her gunwales. Despite his dry suit and all the other precautions he had taken, the water was still freezing.

Not only was the suit not keeping him as warm as he would have liked, but along with the buoyancy bag suspended from the bottom of the DPV, it was also creating a lot of drag. Had he been more streamlined, he might have been able to get away a lot faster from what was about to happen. Illuminating the timer strapped to his wrist, Harvath counted down the final seconds before theRebecca exploded. When the timer reached zero, he said to himself, “da sveedanya,motherfuckers,” but was unprepared for the incredible concussion wave that followed.

Had it not been for the MkX’s locking forearm cuffs, Harvath would have lost the DPV for sure. His ears were ringing and he was completely disoriented. He fought to hold on to consciousness as the change in pressure slammed his body into a deadly spin.

It was like being caught beneath the biggest wave he had ever imagined. Over and over he turned as the force of the blast threatened to squeeze the life out of him. The regulator was knocked from his mouth and he had no idea which way was up. There was a tightness in his chest and as he struggled against the blackness overtaking his head, he realized he was holding the triggers of the DPV in a viselike death grip and that it was pulling him straight down.

Harvath let go and the machine’s propeller came to a halt. Unlocking one of his arms, he located his regulator and placed it back into his mouth. For several seconds, all he did was breathe, but the air tasted funny and was searing his lungs.

He looked at the depth gauge strapped to his other wrist and saw that it read forty-three feet. He had transcended the thirty-foot threshold and his oxygen was becoming toxic. He needed to climb. As the DPV pulled him on a gradual ascent toward the surface, Harvath felt the pressure on his body lessen and his mind began to clear. There was no way the blast he had felt was from theRebecca , he was too far away when it had gone up.

It had to have been something else. Approaching the surface, Harvath could once again hear the low diesel grumble of one of the Sokzhoi patrol boats. This one was very close. Though he was tempted to take a look, he decided against it.

Pointing the DPV in the opposite direction, he depressed the triggers and set about putting as much distance between himself and the Russians as possible. Surprisingly, the sound of the engines didn’t fade. In fact, they grew louder.

Harvath changed course again and so did the patrol boat. It was if they had some sort of lock on him, but how? Then he realized—sonar. The Sokzhoi was one of the most efficient, best-equipped patrol boats the Russians had.

There was no doubt that it would have been outfitted with all the bells and whistles and with his DPV, Harvath was unquestionably giving off a small, but distinct sonar signature. Though a small, moving target was hard to hit, if the Federal Border Guard agents were using grenades to force him to the surface, they wouldn’t have to be deadon accurate, just being in the general neighborhood would be enough.

Harvath had to act fast. Diving, Harvath pushed the limits of toxicity for his rebreather as far as he dared. At just below thirty-two feet, he hovered and braced for impact. Moments later, the explosions came.

The first two were far enough away, but the third rattled him so hard, he almost blacked out.
Using the sound of the high-speed diesel engines as his guide, Harvath slowly made his way toward the surface. As the patrol boat’s bright searchlight swept the water looking for him, Harvath located the dark shadow cast by the vessel’s hull. Now, it was all just a matter of timing. Harvath dove back down and unlocked himself from the DPV’s arm cuffs.

The patrol boat was right above him and had come to a dead stop as its searchlight continued to carve through the water. Goosing the Diver Propulsion Vehicle just to the edge of the Sokzhoi’s shadow, Harvath then opened the attached buoyancy bag’s air bottle as far as it would go and released it. The carabiners snapped tight and the buoyancy bag began to pull the DPV upwards as Harvath swam toward the bow of the boat and began his ascent. When the DPV broke the surface, it was immediately spotted by several heavily armed Federal Border Guard agents crowding the ship’s railing.

With their attention diverted, the first thing Harvath did was take aim at the Sokzhoi’s searchlight. The silent dart raced from the H&K P11 underwater pistol and hit its mark dead on. The searchlight exploded in a shower of sparks that rained down upon the forward deck of the patrol boat. For the moment, Harvath had the advantage, but it wouldn’t last long.

Just beneath the surface of the water, he activated his night vision monocle, and took aim at the men along the railing. The first three were felled with shots to the chest while the fourth, who was seating another 40mm round into his grenade launcher, caught his in the stomach. Harvath watched the man double over and lurch against the patrol boat’s cable railing. His forward momentum carried him over the side and into the water where he landed with a loud splash.

Alarms were ringing and men were rushing out onto the decks, but there was nothing they could do to save their fallen comrades, especially the man in the water. After relieving the dying man of his weapon, which he slung over his back, Harvath retrieved the DPV and started purging the air from the buoyancy bag. Powerful handheld floodlights were being distributed to the patrol boat’s remaining crew, but by the time they began lighting up the surrounding water, Harvath was nowhere to be found. Bobbing just out of view, he watched as the floodlight beams went from a disorganized free-for-all to a defined focus in his general direction.

The patrol boat’s engines growled back to life and Harvath realized that their sonar must have picked up his signal again. Any second, the heavy 30mm guns and 14.5mm machine guns would start and the chase would be on once again. Unshouldering the grenade launcher, Harvath took aim and waited. He had only one shot.

Less than half a mile away, the fiery remains of theRebecca and the other patrol boat burned in tandem, painting the night sky with an eerie orange glow. As the remaining Sokzhoi barreled down on him, Harvath sighted his weapon, took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. With an effective range of 350 meters, he worried that maybe he had overshot, but then he saw the Sokzhoi’s bridge explode in a colossal ball of fire, sending a hail of fiery debris in all directions.

By the time the first flaming piece of wreckage hit the water, Harvath was already back below the surface, making his way to his rendezvous point. Chapter 38 THE WHITE HOUSE P resident Jack Rutledge was beyond exhausted. While most of his senior staff had begged him to get some rest, Rutledge had rolled up his sleeves and spent every single moment in the Situation Room beneath the White House with the vast array of experts who came and went around the clock to put in their two cents worth on how the crisis with Russia could best be dealt with. Finally, Rutledge had had enough.

Politely thanking the visiting experts, he had them shown out and then immediately restricted any further access to the Situation Room to representatives of the Joint Chiefs and his National Security Council. There were less than five days now until the State of the Union address and they still had no solid plan. After a couple of hours of catch-up sleep, Rutledge convened his “war council” and wasted no time getting down to business. “Ladies and gentlemen, you represent the best and the brightest this country has to offer and the future of this country might very well rest upon what you are able to come up with in this very room.

For the next half hour I want to hear what our possible options are. Anything goes. If we have to tear the tail off the Devil himself, I’ll consider it, let’s just throw it all out there and see what we can come up with. This is a worst case scenario and I want to hear anything you can come up with.”

The clock ran well past the half-hour mark with ideas being floated on everything from introducing a forward-engineered strain of the Ebola virus into Russia and then quarantining the entire country with an unprecedented land and naval blockade, to launching an all-out bombing attack with airplanes and nuclear weapons from the World War II era that many believed would be unaffected by the Russians’ new air defense system which seemed to affect modern electronic guidance systems. After Rutledge had had his fill of talk about killer satellites, commandos suspended from jet-propelled parachutes, and even plague-infested rats with plague-dispersing backpacks; he retired to the residence for a quiet meal with his daughter, Amanda, whom he had pulled out of school and was keeping under close guard at the White House around the clock—not an easy thing to do with a young woman who had just passed her seventeenth birthday. “Dad,” she said, after the steward set down their salads and then quietly left the room, “has America been fucked with a capital F?” While the president had been known to privately extend a certain amount of latitude to his staff in their vocabular selections, that policy most certainly did not extend to his daughter. “First of all,” he began, “I don’t care how close USC and college life may appear to you, I don’t ever want to hear that language again.

Am I clear?”

The rebuke was extremely embarrassing for Amanda Rutledge. It had been one of her first forays into an adult conversation with her father and it had failed miserably. Having overheard two of the agents on her Secret Service detail speaking, she had thought she might engage the president on a gritty, adult level, but the attempt had crashed and burned. Instead of relating to her as a knowledgeable young adult, her father had immediately shut her down as a child whose opinion didn’t matter. Nevertheless, Amanda Rutledge wasn’t one to be deterred.

“I may not have used the best language, Dad, but I’m only repeating what I already heard. Is America in trouble?” “Of course not,” said the president, making sure he smiled as he reached for the salad dressing.

“Then why’d you pull me out of school? I’m not stupid, you know.” Rutledge dribbled the salad dressing onto his plate for as long as he could and wished for the millionth time that breast cancer had never taken his wife. She was so much better at handling these things than he was.

Tackling the truth head-on was his forte, but breaking it down in such a way so as to not completely shatter the world of a seventeenyear-old, was almost totally beyond his realm of expertise. No matter how much he wished things were different, though, his wife wasn’t with them anymore. He had no choice but to explain things to his daughter. “Amanda, I’m not going to lie to you.

America is facing a potentially serious threat right now, but no matter what happens you’re going to be okay. I promise you.” “What about you?” she asked.

“I’ll be okay too. We’ll both be together. So don’t worry. Okay?”

“Dad?”

Amanda continued as she stabbed her fork into her salad.

“What about the rest of the people in America?

Are they going to be okay too?” “I’m doing everything I can to make sure that they are,” responded the president. “I know you are,” she said, before turning her attention back to her salad. After several minutes of strained silence between them, Amanda asked, “Dad, are we going to die?”

Chapter 39 ST.

PETERSBURG, RUSSIA STATE OF THE UNION

ADDRESS—4 DAYS

T he first thing Harvath noticed upon exiting St. Petersburg’s dingy train station, known as theFinlandsky Vokzal , was the bronze statue of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin standing atop an armored car. Harvath followed the statue’s finger to where it ironically pointed across the frozen Neva River to a large orange building with a tall antenna—theBolshoi Dom , literallyThe Big House , home of the Interior Ministry and local headquarters of the FSB. For a country that had supposedly sworn off Communism, it had always seemed strange to Harvath how many prominent statues and monuments from that era they still displayed. For their part, the Russians claimed that having been defined by Communism for so long, it was impossible to erase every vestige of it. After all, it was Communism that had brought them prominence, notorious though it was, in the modern world and like it or not, the experience of living under Communism had become part of the Russian soul.

Well, Harvath didn’t like it. What had seemed up to now like an idiosyncratic clinging to a failed political experiment had taken on a new and graver significance for him over the past several days. The idea that the Soviets could have faked capitulation, only to now hold his own country hostage from within, made him sick to his stomach. Passing the statue, Harvath noticed a small stray dog pick up its leg and urinate against old Vlad.

“Good boy,” he whispered, as he threw the dog the last cookie from the pack he had purchased from one of the countless vendors on the rickety train known by locals as theelektrichka . It felt good to find a kindred spirit so soon upon his arrival in Russia. He only hoped that Viktor Ivanov’s daughter would turn out to be one as well. The Defense Intelligence Agency had an asset who had worked with her before, and it was through that asset that she had agreed to meet with him. Harvath was counting on her willingness to help him with whatever she knew.

At this point she was his only lead, and time was quickly running out. The State of the Union address was only four days away. Though he could have taken the St. Petersburg Metro, Harvath wanted to get the lay of the land before his meeting.

Following the cheap tourist map he had picked up in the station, he headed south and crossed the Neva River via the Liteynyi Bridge. The air was cold and damp, much damper than it had been in Berlin. Heavy, snow-laden gray clouds crowded the sky, while a thin layer of silvery flakes covered the streets and sidewalks. As he walked, Harvath reflected on everything that had happened over the last four days, culminating in his misadventures on the Baltic with the two Russian Federal Border Guard Service patrol boats.

After a long time in the water, he had finally rendezvoused with the Navy SEAL Team assigned to bringing him the rest of the way into Russia. They were operating a commandeered smuggler’s boat, which thankfully had a fully equipped galley. After changing out of his dry suit, Harvath downed about a gallon of water, then ate a meal of fried eggs accompanied by a cup of black coffee and a hunk of rye bread.

They dropped him off just up the coast from a town called Zelenogorsk, where he caught theelektrichka to St. Petersburg. He wore a fisherman’s turtleneck sweater, jeans, boots, and his black leather jacket. He also wore a super lightweight KIVA technical backpack, which contained a hydration system, a change of clothes, and some other goodies the SEALs had provided him with. As he cut through the Mikhailovsky Gardens, Harvath saw his third group of Russian schoolchildren and decided that Fridays in St. Petersburg must be field-trip day.

Beyond the gardens, stood his destination—the majestic Hermitage Museum. The museum was one of largest in the world, second only to the Louvre in Paris, and it occupied six buildings along the Neva. The most impressive of those buildings was known as the Winter Palace, former home of the Russian czars. Entering the green and white Winter Palace along theDvortsovaya Embankment, Harvath bought a ticket for 300 rubles and made his way through the Russian Baroque Rastrelli Gallery, with its massive columns and intricately vaulted ceiling, until he came to the Hermitage Café. He ordered a small, open-faced sandwich and a bottle of mineral water at the counter and then chose one of the few remaining empty tables.

He slid his chair around so that he could sit with his back to the wall and after marking where all the exits were, pulled the Friday edition of theSt. Petersburg Times out of his backpack and set it to the left of his tray as he’d been instructed. It was now time to wait. As he ate his sandwich, Harvath alternated between gazing out of the large windows that looked out onto the central courtyard of the Winter Palace, and studying the faces of the other patrons in the café. The museum was packed today and the selection of the café, with its high ceilings, stone floor and attendant ambient noise, was an inspired choice for a rendezvous.

Even if someone had wanted to listen in on a surreptitious conversation, it would have been extremely difficult, if not impossible. Harvath kept watching the faces of people as they entered and exited the café. When Alexandra Ivanova finally arrived, it was nearly impossible not to notice her. She was even more stunning than her photograph. As she moved across the room, one of the first things Harvath noticed was her height.

He put her at around five-foot-eight, maybe taller, but with the boots she had on it was hard to tell. They came to just about mid-calf and were only the beginning of her outfit. She wore winter leggings and a short skirt, which did little to disguise her very attractive, long legs. A tight, ribbed sweater was partially exposed beneath a heavy shearling coat, and to finish it all off, she had on a pair of funky frameless purple sunglasses and a tan crocheted cap that looked like it had come from an ABBA revival concert, beneath which her blond hair hung in two long braids. Not exactly subtle, thought Harvath as she came up to the table, but there was no way a woman this good-looking could disguise how attractive she was.

“It appears as if you are alone,” said Ivanova. “May I join you?”

“With over three million works of art in this museum, I would hardly consider myself alone, but you are welcome to sit down,” replied Harvath, using the phrase he’d been given to establish his bona fides with Ivanova. “Unfortunately, only a small percentage of it is ever on display at one time,” she returned, setting her tray next to Harvath’s and taking a seat.

“This is a museum you need to come back to over and over again to really appreciate.” “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Harvath, their bona fides now established. “You’re late.”

“I was busy.” “Busy with what?” “That’s none of your concern,” answered Alexandra. “I don’t have all day, so let’s, as you Americans say,get to the point .” There are very few things in the world as pleasing to the ear as English spoken by a Russian woman.

The experience is made doubly enjoyable if the woman in question is as attractive as Alexandra Ivanova. Because of her very appealing accent, Harvath could almost forgive her for being so rude.

Almost.
“I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from something,” replied Scot, the condescension apparent in his voice. “I’ll do my best to keep this short.” Ivanova simply nodded her head with disinterest and began to blow on her tea. “I need your help.

There’s information your father may have had that could—” “After all these years, the Americans have decided he is once again a viable source,” she responded, glaring over the top of her teacup. “I’ll be happy to give you the address where you can find him, though he’s not much of a conversationalist anymore.”

Harvath could tell where this was going and did his best to diffuse the situation. “Listen, I can see that you’re upset—” “No, you listen to me. You have no idea how I feel or what my father went through because of you people.”

“Maybe I don’t, but that was the world your father was living in. Double dealing in intelligence is a tricky business.” Alexandra set her teacup down. “You make it sound as if somehow he was disloyal. Every single thing he did was for the good of his country.

You people sold him out.”

“Sold him out?What are you talking about?” “You know what I’m talking about. Your intelligence services cut him loose and then leaked to the KGB that he had been cooperating with them.”

“That’s ridiculous. We never would have done that. That’s not our style. We don’t reward people that way,” said Harvath. “The KGB could never officially prove it, but somehow they knew what he had done and they punished him for it anyway.

You say the leak didn’t come from your side. Why should I believe you?” “Because I told you, that’snot how we do business.”

“You’re a liar.”

God, the woman was an ice princess. “Hey, I’m not the guy you’ve got an axe to grind with.

You don’t even know me.” “Oh no?”

“No,” replied Scot. “Scot Harvath.

Former internationally ranked U.S. Freestyle Ski Team member who quit the circuit shortly after his father’s death. You left to study political science and military history at the University of Southern California, where you graduatedcum laude before joining the navy and passing selection to become a SEAL. After postings to both Teams Two and Six, also known as Dev Group, you were recruited to the Secret Service to help improve White House operations and presidential security. Your current posting is unknown.”

Harvath was floored.

“How the hell do you know all that?”

“I keep very good track of people who have crossed me, Agent Harvath.”

“Crossed you? I haven’t crossed you. I don’t even know you.” “You don’t?” asked Ivanova, fluttering her eyelashes. The move was not at all flirtatious.

It was inappropriate and meant to be insulting. “Believe me,” replied Scot, trying to remain calm and not rise to the bait, “if our paths had crossed, I would have remembered it.” “Do you remember Istanbul?”

she asked. “Five years ago.

A prominent American businessman and his family taken hostage?” Of course he remembered,but how could she know about it? The scenes came rushing back. Harvath was with SEAL Team Six at the time and had been put in charge of the ransom exchange.

He showed up with what the kidnappers assumed was the money, but in reality was an H&K MP5K submachine gun covertly mounted inside a briefcase with the firing mechanism incorporated into the handle. The expressions of shock and surprise on the kidnappers’ faces had barely had a chance to register before Harvath took out every last one of them. They had never seen it coming. When the rest of Harvath’s team stormed the building, there was nothing left for them to do but help escort the businessman and his family safely back to the U.S.
Embassy.

“What’s this all about?”

Harvath asked the woman. “I was stationed in Istanbul.” As well as London and Hong Kong, Harvath

remembered from Rick Morrell’s briefing. “So?”

“So the kidnappers you took out were part of an arms ring we were investigating, who were responsible for smuggling heavy weaponry to several rebel groups in the Caucasus.” “So?”

“They were the middle men.

They were going to put us next to the ones running the organization, but you killed them.” “Sorry,” said Harvath, turning his palms upwards. “I was in charge of that investigation.”

“Sorry, again,” replied Scot. “We had an agent on the inside and you killed him.”

Harvath had had no idea.

His recent disaffection with the Russians notwithstanding, the fact that he had killed an innocent man did not sit well with him. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. But by the same token, what the hell was he doing mixed up with a kidnapping?

He should have known better. He shouldn’t have been there when the exchange went down.” “He wasn’t,” said Alexandra.

“What?”

“He wasn’t there. He was working on putting together our meeting with the organization’s top members.” “So, I couldn’t have possibly killed him then.” “Not directly, but because he was new, the organization was already suspicions of him. His conspicuous absence from the bloodbath that was your ransom exchange was enough to tip their paranoia, and they shot him.”

“The key word here beingthey ,” interjected Harvath. “Theyshot him.”

Alexandra asked, “Do you know how long it took us to get inside that group?”

“Probably longer than for us to take them out.” “That is not amusing, Agent Harvath.”

“I think it is. You want to blame me for things I had absolutely no control over. While you’re at it, why don’t you talk about the 1980 Winter Olympics and how I blew it for the Soviet hockey team and handed the Americans theMiracle on Ice .” “I think we’re done here,” said Alexandra, pushing her chair back.

Things were quickly falling apart. “Wait a second,” offered Harvath, getting himself back under control. “I apologize.

You lost an operative and had a serious investigation compromised. That’s not something to make jokes about.” “You’re right, it’s not,” replied Ivanova. “Then why don’t we get back to the matter at hand?”

“The information my father may have had.”

“Exactly, although it’s not a question of whether he may have had it or not. We know he did.” “You mean,now you know he did.”

Harvath understood the anger she felt on behalf of her father for having been rebuked and subsequently disavowed, but that didn’t mean that her obstinacy wasn’t getting under his skin. He reminded himself of why he was there and what he was after—what hung in the balance.

“Your father had information about a plot by five Russian generals to take the United States hostage.”

“Is that how your country is viewing it? As ahostage situation?

How very American.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” asked Scot. “I always understood that a hostage situation involved the potential for bargaining.

From what I understand, the goal was the complete and total surrender of the United States.” “So your father did take you into his confidence.” Not until he had died, thought Alexandra, but that was none of Harvath’s business. “Your code name is Norseman, is it not?”

she asked. “What does my code name have to do with anything?”

“Are you familiar with the Russian word,Varangians ?”

she continued.

“My knowledge of Russian is somewhat limited.” “Varangiansis our name for the Norse princes invited in to restore order to Russia in the Middle Ages. We don’t need any more Norsemen here. We can solve our own problems.”

Harvath had finally had it with her. “This isn’t just your problem, it’sour problem. If we don’t do something, these men are going to start World War III.”

“Who says I’m not doing something?” asked Alexandra. “I don’t know. I have no idea what you’re doing because you haven’t told me anything.

Do you mean you and the FSB are aware of what the generals are up to and are working to put a stop to it?”

“I’m not certain if the FSB is aware of what is going on or not. I am sure that at some level there is knowledge of the plan. After all, our esteemed Russian president was once the head of the FSB’s predecessor.” “You’re saying the Russian president is a part of all of this?”

“Of course he is, but there are layers of what in America you callplausible deniability to keep him isolated.”

Harvath was shocked. “And you approve of what they’re doing?” Ivanova pulled her chair back up to the table and got right in Scot’s face.

“No, I do not approve,” she snapped. “It is unquestionably the worst thing my country could ever undertake. It is an insane plan hatched by insane old men from an entirely different era. They might as well be from another planet for all the sense this makes, but the plan has already been put into action and there’s nothing you can do about that.”

“The hell there isn’t,” replied Harvath. “Oh, really?

What are you going to do?”

“Whatever it takes to stop them.”

“Good luck,” responded Alexandra, sliding her chair away from the table again. “Wait a second. You said you thought this was the worst thing Russia could ever undertake.”

“And I meant it.”

“So why aren’t you doing something?” “I am. On my own.”

She wasn’t making any sense. “Then what did you mean by now that the plan has been put into action, there’s nothing we can do about it?”

“I said there’s nothingyou can do about it.”

“Okay, hold on a second.

We keep losing focus here.” “I’m losing nothing, Agent Harvath, except my patience with having my time wasted.” “I understand,” replied Scot. “I can see, after what happened to your father, regardless of who was responsible for the leak, why you would be reluctant to tell me what you know.”

“Can you?” “Yes, I can, but we need to work together on this.” “Why is that?

Do you have some sort of information that may prove helpful to me?”

“Maybe,” replied Harvath. “I think you’re lying. I don’t think you have anything at all to offer.

If you did, you wouldn’t be here.” She was right. She had him. She was his only lead.

He needed to get her to cooperate. “No matter what you think, you can’t do this alone. I can help you.” “There’s one small problem, though,” said Ivanova.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t trust you.” “But you don’t even know me.” “You’re an American, and that’s enough for me.”

“Then why even agree to meet with me?” asked Harvath. “Because I wanted to see the look on your face when I told youno .” “What?

Because of Istanbul?”

“No.

When I said yes to the meeting, I had no idea they were sending you.” “Then what was it?” “I’ll tell you what it was. I wanted to look into the eyes of an American, a representative of thegreat United States and see that the only reason his country had sent him to me was because it had been humbled and had nowhere else to turn.

I wanted to see your government finally admit that they had made a mistake with my father.” “So this is about revenge?” “No, it is about satisfaction.”

“Satisfaction?How much satisfaction are you going to feel if millions of innocent people, both in America and Russia, end up getting killed because your petty resentment prevented you from doing the right thing?”

“I’m not going to let that happen.” “And neither am I. As strange as it sounds, you and I are playing for different teams, but we’re both on the same side. We can accomplish more by working together than we can apart.”

“We have a saying in Russian,” said Alexandra, as she stood up from her chair. “Having been burnt by milk, one blows on vodka.”

“Once burned, twice shy,” responded Scot. “Exactly.

I plan to continue blowing on my vodka. Goodbye, Agent Harvath, and good luck.”

Alexandra Ivanova turned and exited the Hermitage Café, leaving Harvath with only one option. Chapter 40 B ecause of St. Petersburg’s northern latitude, the sun set very early in winter. Often, the arrival of evening was accompanied by brutally cold winds and this evening was no exception.

The sky was completely dark when Harvath collected his pack and followed Alexandra Ivanova out of the Hermitage. She appeared to be wandering aimlessly, which considering the weather made no sense. After strolling the famous Nevsky Prospekt and browsing in several shops, she backtracked and made her way toward the beautiful onion-domed Church of the Resurrection of Christ.

Harvath waited several moments and then entered, staying hidden in the back where he could continue to observe her. Though it wasn’t as warm as the Hermitage had been, he was happy to at least be out of the cold.

After lighting a candle, Ivanova sat down by herself on one of the long pews in the center and closed her eyes. At first, Harvath thought maybe she had come to pray, but as she repeatedly stole furtive glances at her watch, he realized what she was really doing was killing time. Either someone was coming to meet her, or something else was going on. Harvath watched as a stream of worshippers and tourists moved through the church, each guided by their own calling, but none of them tried to make contact with Ivanova.

After an hour had passed, she glanced at her watch one final time and then stood up and walked slowly to the exit. By the time she emerged, Harvath was already secreted on the edge of the small esplanade waiting for her. When she hailed a nearby cab, Harvath quickly followed suit, telling the driver in his somewhat passable Russian, “slyedooytyeh ta jenshcheena.”Follow

that woman .

They came to a stop in a neighborhood of run-down factories lying cheek by jowl. Up ahead, Harvath could see a line of people standing in the cold beneath a brushed aluminum sign that readbreathe .
Harvath watched as Ivanova walked to the front of the line, said something to the bouncer and was granted admittance to the club. Once she was inside, Harvath paid the fare and climbed out of the cab.

He waited until the cabbie had driven away before casing the perimeter of the building and finding a place to hide his backpack. Bypassing the line just as Ivanova had done, Harvath approached the bouncer, slipped him a hundred-dollar bill and asked if it was possible to get a table. The bouncer showed Harvath inside where a scantily clad hostess led him to a table, presented him with a menu, and wished him a pleasant evening.

Glancing around the crowded nightclub, Harvath could see that it had once been a foundry or a factory of some sort. The focal point was an enormous riveted vat with large portholes, around which the bar had been built. Harvath could see patrons with masks clasped to their faces indulging in the latest trend to sweep Russia—scented oxygen. When the waitress arrived to take his order, Harvath was tempted to ask for a martini, but thought better of it when he realized the ice would be made from St. Petersburg’s foul-smelling, foul-tasting, pollutant-laden, giardia-infested water.

Russian vodka could kill a hell of a lot, but Harvath doubted it could conquer what crawled out of local spigots. He opted for a beer instead. By the time hisVena Porter arrived, Harvath had politely chased off three hookers. Obviously, word had quickly spread that there was a wealthy American at table number one.

Knowing that it was much more difficult to hit a moving target, he left some money for his drink and got up to check out the rest of the club. The clientele were all New Russians, sporting the latest in trendy designer fashions. While Ivanova’s outfit had seemed a bit much at the Hermitage Café, now it made complete sense. Though she was a tall gorgeous blond, there were a lot of tall gorgeous blonds here and she was proving very hard to locate.

Harvath tried to put himself in her shoes. If he was going to conduct a clandestine meeting in a crowded, noisy nightclub, he’d want to position himself somewhere on the fringes of the action, someplace with the best view possible, yet concealed enough so that the meeting wouldn’t draw any undue attention. Harvath approached the large dance floor and kept his attention on the clusters of seating areas on the other side.

The DJ had just begun spinning “One Nation Under a Groove” by George Clinton and the Funkadelics when the crowd parted and Harvath caught a glimpse of Ivanova. She was sitting in a somewhat secluded booth and had just been joined by a middle-aged man in a bad suit with an even worse comb-over. He looked like he’d be more at home at a book binding convention than at a hip Russian nightclub, but whoever he was, Ivanova had gone to a lot of trouble to meet him and therefore Harvath wanted to meet him too. He worked his way around the edge of the dance floor, trying to move through the thick crowd but as he got about halfway to the booth, something was wrong.

Ivanova had disappeared. Moments later a voice from behind said, “Why am I not surprised?” as Harvath felt something hard jabbed into his back. “Of all the oxygen bars in all the towns in all the world—” he mumbled as he looked over his shoulder and saw Alexandra using her coat to hide the gun she was holding. “Quiet,” she replied, turning him around.

“I had a feeling I was being followed.”

“Guilty,” replied Harvath, as he tried to put on his most charming smile, “but now that I’m here, how about introducing me to your friend in the booth?” “I don’t have much choice, do I?” said Ivanova as she scanned the crowded dance floor. “If I let you go, you’ll hang around and wait for him, won’t you?”

“Probably,” replied Harvath as he watched Alexandra scan the dance floor yet again.

She seemed nervous and very tightly wound. “Are you expecting somebody else?”

“I don’t know.” Bad events seemed to radiate a certain electricity that Harvath was often able to pick up on. The hair on the back of his neck began to rise and seconds later he heard someone scream.

Alexandra wasted no time. She pulled the silenced Walther P4 from beneath her coat and ran for the booth. When she finally fought her way through the crowd, she found the man in the bad suit laying slumped in the booth and bleeding profusely from several stab wounds to his neck and chest. It was soon complete pandemonium, with patrons screaming and running toward the front of the club.

Not knowing how close the attacker was, Alexandra turned and swept her weapon back and forth, looking for any face in the crowd that didn’t look right. Harvath was only two steps behind her. He arrived at the booth with his H&K drawn and he Ivanova both saw the attacker at the same time, but it was too late.

Expertly using the stampeding crowd as cover, the man smiled before disappearing into the sea of rushing people. Harvath had seen the man’s face before. It was the same man who had pulled off the attack at the King George, but how could he have followed Harvath all the way to St.
Petersburg?It was impossible. Harvath glanced at the man slumped in the booth and leaned in to feel for his pulse.

It was very weak, and Scot was taken by surprise when the man suddenly reached out and beseechingly grabbed for his arm. He told him to stay calm, that help would be there soon, but the man just shook his head. He withdrew something from his pocket and pressed it into Harvath’s hand.

He opened his mouth to speak and but collapsed before he could get the words out.

Harvath once again felt for the man’s pulse, but there was none. He was dead. “Cover Nesterov!”

Ivanova said as she kept her weapon trained on the quickly dissipating pack of fleeing customers. “There’s nothing to cover,” replied Harvath as he stepped away from the booth. “He’s dead.” “Damn it,” swore Ivanova. Who was he?”

“A scientist.”

“What was he working on?” “It’s not important now.” “Not important?

Obviously somebody thought it was important enough to kill him over. Do you have any idea who was shooting at us?” Ivanova stood and said, “Russian military.” “Well that makes sense,” responded Harvath.

“If you knew the depth of what was going on here, itwould make sense,” snapped Ivanova. “I think I understand well enough. The man who killed your scientist, I’ve seen him before.

He tried to kill me two nights ago in Berlin.”

“Helmut Draegar was in Berlin? What was he doing there?”

Harvath was floored. Gary Lawlor hadn’t been ranting. He had been trying to warn him.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” continued Harvath.

“Helmut Draegar was killed fifteen years ago.” “You don’t know very much, do you?” “Why don’t you fill me in?”

“There’s no time,” replied Ivanova, as she nervously scanned the room.

Harvath could hear what sounded like several men in heavy boots making their way toward them. Probably the club’s bouncers coming to investigate . “We need to get out of here.” “We can’t.

Not yet,” replied Ivanova, turning back to the booth. “I need to check his pockets. He was supposed to have something for me.”

“Like this?” said Harvath, holding up the folded piece of paper Nesterov had given him.

Alexandra couldn’t believe her eyes. “It looks like we’re going to be working together after all,” said Harvath as he grabbed her arm. “Now let’s move.”

Chapter 41

A fter leaving the oxygen bar and retrieving Harvath’s backpack, Scot and Alexandra looked for a place to rest and decide what their next move would be. The Hotel Oktyabrskaya was situated in a busy neighborhood just across from St. Petersburg’s Moskovsky railway station and was a perfect place for them to hole up while they waited for morning. Harvath grabbed a pen and a small pad of paper from next to the telephone in the bedroom and began to reexamine Nesterov’s note. After several minutes replacing the Cyrillic letters with corresponding characters from the English alphabet and rearranging bits and pieces in the lines of text, Harvath could finally read it. “Universal Transverse Mercator.”

“Mercator?As in latitude and longitude?”

“Exactly.

Hours, minutes and seconds both north and east.

What we’re looking at is a Geo coordinate.” “A Geo coordinate for where?

What does it point to?” “According to his note,” replied Harvath, “somebody named Albert.” “Ring any bells?”

“None at all,” said Alexandra.

Harvath set the note aside. “Then the first thing we need to do is to pinpoint those coordinates.” “There’s a twenty-four-hour internet café in St. Petersburg calledQuo

Vadis . All we’d have to do is get on line with one of their computers and find a web site where we can enter in the coordinates.”

“I don’t like it.

With those networked systems it’s too hard to erase your tracks. We’d be leaving a trail of electronic breadcrumbs. Isn’t there a bookshop on the Nevsky Prospekt across from the Kazan Cathedral?”

“Yes, it’s called the Dom Knigi.” “Good,” said Harvath.

“We’ll wait until a half hour after they’ve opened and then go in separately. I’m going to buy a couple of books, one of which will be an atlas and you are going to go to their stationary section and buy some pencils, a notebook and most importantly, a ruler.” Alexandra now understood what Harvath was up to. “We’re going to plot the coordinates the old-fashioned way.” “Exactly.

I just wish we had a way to get around. There’s too much potential downside in renting a car right now.” “We don’t have to,” replied Alexandra. “I already have a car.

I parked it in one of the long-term lots near the airport. It’s easier to move around St. Petersburg without it.” “We can’t do it.

It’s too dangerous. If they’re on to you, they’ll be looking for your car too.” “Technically, it’s not my car. It’s a nice Grand Cherokee that belonged to someone who tried to kill me a couple of days ago. It’s a long story.”

“Well, we’ve got several hours until the store opens,” said Harvath, who grabbed a nearby chair and sat down.

He put his feet up on the bed and then reached over and opened the mini-bar where he grabbed an ice-cold beer for himself and a minivodka for Alexandra, which he threw to her and said, “Feel free to blow on yours before you start.” Whether or not it was her belief that she would be able to dump Harvath as soon as she got what she needed she didn’t know, but for some reason she felt it was okay to talk to him. After all, with no idea of who she could trust in the SVR, Harvath’s willingness to listen to what she had been through was more of a relief than she would have expected.

Alexandra told Scot about her father’s dossier and how he had kept it a secret from her until his death. She explained the meeting at the hunting lodge outside of Moscow where she had seen Stavropol dragging three bodies outside along with the help of another man whose face she couldn’t see very well, but thought might have been Draegar. She told how she had helped save General Karganov’s life only to have Milesch Popov came along with his gaudy Pit Bull pistol and its armor-piercing rounds and end it. As she withdrew the gun from inside her coat and showed it to him, she detailed how she had salvaged the SIM card from Popov’s cell phone and that her would-be killer had been dumb enough to store Stavropol’s number under the general’s real name.

By scanning the call log, it was easy to ascertain to whom Popov had been talking when she had captured him. He had been negotiating the price for her murder, as well as Karganov’s, and the man on the other end of the line was none other than Sergei Oleg Stavropol. Though she was sure that Stavropol originally had no idea of her involvement when he had sent Popov hunting for General Karganov, there was no question that he knew about it now.

Alexandra quietly reflected on the fact that not only was being seen with Nesterov enough to cement her guilt, but if Draegar recognized Harvath, which Alexandra was fairly confident he had, then Stavropol would automatically assume she was working with the Americans. It was only a matter of time before he had every law enforcement officer and military person in the country looking for her. In the blink of an eye, she had lost the anonymity she had worked so hard to preserve and had become Russia’s equivalent of public enemy number one.

Things could never go back to the way they were. There was no middle ground, not now that they knew she was on to them. They wouldn’t rest until she was dead and she had to be just as tireless in her efforts to stop them.

Like it or not, it was beginning to look not only like she might have to work with Agent Scot Harvath, but that she actually might need him. Either she succeeded in her undertaking or she died. “Tell me about the scientist, Nesterov,” said Harvath, filling the void as Alexandra had stopped talking and her mind seemed to have traveled elsewhere. “Nesterov?”

she repeated, bringing her focus back to the present.

“I thought he might be helpful.” “So you tracked him down and he agreed to meet with you, just like that?” asked Harvath. “You must have said something to him to make him risk so much.”

Alexandra was quiet and for several moments and once again seemed very far away. “Nesterov was one of two scientists working on this project whom my father had thought might be cooperative with his investigation; scientists who viewed their duty as being to their country and countrymen first and not necessarily their government.”

“Well, whoever this Albert is,” said Harvath, as he laid his H&K across his chest and closed his eyes, “let’s hope he feels the same way when we track him down tomorrow.” Chapter 42 SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE PETROZAVODSK, RUSSIA STATE OF THE UNION

ADDRESS—3 DAYS

L eaving St. Petersburg’s Dom Knigi bookstore with two fly-fishing books and a thick Russian atlas, Harvath stopped at a local sporting goods shop and then met up with Alexandra at the Moskavskya metro station, where they caught the shuttle for Pulkovo Airport. Popov’s forest-green Jeep Grand Cherokee wasn’t as bad as Harvath had thought it was going to be. In fact, the vehicle was relatively unremarkable in a country where conspicuous consumption ran rampant. It took them a little over four-and-a-half hours driving north-northeast to reach their destination.

The tiny, Byzantine domed chapel sat alone in the heavily wooded countryside on the outskirts of the city of Petrozavodsk. Petrozavodsk, located on the western shore of Lake Onega—the second largest lake in Europe, was the administrative center of Karelia, an autonomous republic in the Russian Federation. The city was not only the site of Petrozavodsk State University but also a branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences. In his dossier, Alexandra’s father had identified Petrozavodsk as the location where the Russian scientists were working on the secret air defense system.

As Alexandra pulled the Cherokee to the side of the road, Harvath gave his map and coordinates a final check. “This is it?”

she asked, staring out the windshield at the little church. “This is where we’re supposed to find Nesterov’s Albert?” “It looks like it,” replied Harvath, as he placed one of his fly-fishing books onto the dash and carelessly threw the other into the backseat. Coupled with the rods, reels, waders and other gear he had purchased and left in the cargo area, to anyone who might come upon them, he and Alexandra would look like two New Russians pursuing the hottest sporting craze to sweep the country since golf.

Even in winter, fly-fishing was still a very popular pastime, especially in the Karelia region where the winters were much milder than the rest of Russia. If anyone should happen to ask what business they had at the church, they would simply state they were taking a break on their way to fish one of the many popular rivers that fed the nearby lake. As it was, they didn’t have to worry about feeding anyone their cover story because the church was completely empty. In fact, were it not for the supply of fresh candles, Harvath would have sworn it had been abandoned altogether.

Alexandra left a coin and lit one of the candles. She closed her eyes for several moments and when she opened them, she saw that Harvath was looking at her. “For my parents,” she said.

Harvath nodded his head and began walking around the small church, which was formed in a perfect circle. It smelled of earth and cold stone, solid, as if it had been there since the beginning of time and would continue to stand until the very end of it.

The whitewashed walls were decorated with painted panels depicting the lives of saints and various religious events. “Who uses this place?” asked Harvath as he continued studying the copious artwork. “There aren’t any houses for miles around.”

“Country people most likely, though sometimes people from a nearby town or city will adopt a small church and help with its upkeep and maintenance, as well as buying or donating other things that it might need,” answered Alexandra from the other side of the room. “This would go a lot faster if we knew what this Albert guy’s connection with this church is,” said Harvath as he abandoned his review of the paintings.

“Why do you think Nesterov picked this place?” “Who knows? It’s close enough to Petrozavodsk and the Academy of Sciences to have been convenient for him, yet remote enough to keep whatever he was doing well hidden.

Maybe Albert is the priest,” replied Alexandra as she continued around the edge of the room, examining the paintings and artifacts. Alexandra was making her second pass of the artwork, this time paying less attention to the images and more attention to their titles. When she arrived at a rather unimpressive iconostasis and read the neatly written placard proclaiming that she was looking at, “St.
Albert in Agonyby Andrey Rublyov,” something didn’t seem right.

She stood back to examine the faded triptych that greatly resembled Da Vinci’sMadonna of the Rocks and after several moments said, “I think I’ve got something.” “What is it?” asked Harvath as he came over to join her. “According to the title plate, this work of art is by Andrey Rublyov and is calledSt. Albert in Agony .”

Bingo, thought Harvath, but there was also something else about the title that rang a bell with him.

It was as if he’d heard the saint’s name before, sometime long ago in his past. “What about it?”

“Well, first of all, I don’t believe the Russian Orthodox Church has a St. Albert.”

“Are you sure?” “I’m pretty sure.”

Harvath was pretty sure, too. Pretty sure he knew that name and that Alexandra was right.

It didn’t belong in this church. Then it came to him. “The patron saint of scientists.”

“The what?” said Alexandra. “St. Albert.

He’s the patron saint of scientists. I knew I knew that name. I went to a Catholic grade school, and St. Albert’s picture hung in our science lab.

The teacher would look up and literally refer to him on a daily basis.” “Then this must be Nesterov’s Albert,” said Alexandra. “What else would a Catholic saint be doing in a Russian Orthodox Church?”

“Keeping an eye on the competition?” offered Harvath as she ripped the screen away from the wall.

Alexandra didn’t answer. Ignoring the adjacent plaque recognizing the Nworbski family for its generous donation, Ivaona unceremoniously tore the hinged painting from the wall and dropped it onto the floor. “Not much of an art lover, are you? I guess you didn’t see the hinges?” said Harvath as he bent down and easily flipped over one of the sidepieces, revealing a manila envelope taped to the back of it. “So maybe I’m a little overzealous,” replied Alexandra, ripping open the envelope and shaking its contents onto the floor.

Harvath didn’t bother arguing. Instead, he helped her sift through the documents, which comprised pages of schematics, printed pages, and a sheaf of handwritten notes. “I speak Russian a lot better than I read it, which isn’t saying much,” he offered as he handed the notes to Alexandra and returned to the schematics. “Let me know if there’s anything interesting in there.”

Alexandra skimmed the pages and read Nesterov’s account of how he progressively became aware of the true purpose of the project he was working on. After his last meticulous, laser-printed entry were a series of handwritten notes.

“Scot?” she said, drawing his attention. “You need to take a look at this.”

Harvath set down the schematics he was looking at and turned his attention to Alexandra. “What is it?” he asked. “The notes on the bottom of this page.

They’ve got yesterday’s date. Nesterov must have stopped here on the way to St. Petersburg to—” she paused. “To what?” “To update his memoirs in case something happened to him.” “Let me see those,” said Harvath as he stuck out his hand.

Alexandra handed over the page, and Harvath looked down at the hastily inscribed entry. The notes obviously referred to his meeting with Ivanova, but there was also a reference to the final deployment of the technology that he and his follow scientists had been working on. It appeared to be a command and control system capable of feeding commands up to a series of Russian military satellites. When Harvath read that the system was designed to be mobile, the blood in his veins ran cold.

If it was mobile, it could be anywhere. At the bottom of the page, Nesterov had written two words and placed a question mark next to each—Arkhangel? Gagarin?
“Do you know the significance of these words?” asked Harvath. “Arkhangel.

It means the same in English,archangel . Maybe it’s the name of the program.” “But why would Nesterov have placed a question mark next to it?

Wouldn’t he have known the program’s name?” “Not necessarily.

Maybe the scientists weren’t told. Maybe they called it Project 243 or something like that.” “True,” said Harvath.

“What aboutGagarin ?”

“The first thing that comes to mind is Yuri Gagarin.” “The Soviet cosmonaut?”

“Yes.

He was the very first human being to fly in space and became a national hero for all of Russia.” “And the air defense system incorporates satellites, so maybe there’s a connection.”

“Or—” Alexandra said, trailing off. “Or what?”

“Or it’s a place. Maybe it has something to do with where the mobile command center is.

There’s a city named after Gagarin southwest of Moscow in Smolensk,” she said, her enthusiasm quickly fading, “but there’s also the Gagarin Cosmonaut Training Center in Star City just outside of Moscow and I think there’s even a Gagarin Seamount somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.”

“Wonderful,” responded Harvath. “Another needle in the proverbial haystack.”

“That’s not all. Arkhangel is also a place.

In fact, it’s the next region just east of here. Its capital city, also called Arkhangel, is a major port on the White Sea.”

“The White Sea?” he repeated, sitting up straighter. “That would make sense.” “What would?” “Look,” he said, spreading out the drawings in front of her, “I can’t even believe that equipment of this magnitude is even considered mobile in the first place.

Whatever they’re using to transport it has to be very big. The satellite dishes alone that it requires are the size of a house.” “So, what?

You think it is on some sort of cargo ship?”

“Maybe. Do you still have the information from Popov’s SIM card?”

“Yes,” answered Alexandra, fishing the folded piece of paper from her pocket. “But what’s that going to tell you?” “I don’t know, yet.

Which of these numbers is Stavropol’s?”

As she pointed to it, Harvath made a few notes on the back of one of the schematics and then picked up his backpack.

“Where are you going?”

she asked as he headed toward the stairs that led up into the church’s dome. “To make a phone call. I think I might know where our mobile system is.” Chapter 43

I ’ve been reviewing FEMA’s worst-case scenarios,” said the president to Harvath over an encrypted satellite link, “and not only is there no safe way we can evacuate the cities we think the Russians may be targeting, but if they hit more than four of our major metropolitan areas, our emergency response capabilities are going to be stretched to the max.

Even if they only detonate a fraction of the devices they have, this is going to be the worst disaster the world has ever seen. Not only will the loss of life and injuries be terrible, but can you imagine UN planes and helicopters being shown on TV bringing in food and medicine because America’s infrastructure has been so badly decimated we can’t take care of our own citizens?
“We absolutely can’t let that happen. Do you understand me?

Wecannot let that happen.” After agreeing, Harvath listened as the president continued to speak and then handed him off to various experts and analysts from the CIA and Department of Defense who briefed him that Rick Morrell and his team were wrapping up their operation and were being sent to rendezvous with him for his next assignment.

It was three hours later when Harvath was finally able to close the dome’s wooden hatch and replace the collapsible field antenna and satellite radio into his backpack. Climbing down the stairs, Harvath rejoined Alexandra in the church. “That was a very long phone call,” she said.

“You know how it is when you haven’t talked to people in a while,” replied Harvath. “You said you might know where the mobile command system is.

Did you find it?” “I did better than that. I also found Stavropol.” “How?”

“The location of the mobile system was more of a hunch than anything else.

During the Cold War, the Soviet Union’s spyships were on the cutting edge of signals intelligence, but in the modern era, the way intelligence was being gathered rendered most of them obsolete and they were reassigned to other duties. That got me wondering if maybe one of these spyships was being used to transport the mobile command system. I learned a fair amount about them in the Navy. There was theBal’zam class, thePrimor’ye class, and then I remembered another class—theGagarin class. “Only one ship was ever made in theGagarin class—The Cosmonat Yuri Gagarin.

It was adapted from the unfinished hull of a tanker to control Soviet spacecraft and satellites from the open ocean. And best of all, it sports four huge dish antennae each the—” “Size of a house?” interrupted Alexandra. “And then some.”

“But how can you be sure theGagarin is what we’re after?” “Because our National Reconnaissance Office has satellite imagery of it along with three nuclear icebreakers leaving port in Arkhangel two days ago.” “That still doesn’t mean—” Now it was Harvath’s turn to interrupt. “Did you know that Stavropol was using a satellite phone?”

“No. I assumed he was using a cell.”

“Cell phones will operate sometimes up to a couple of miles out to sea, but it depends on how built out the network is back on dry land. A satellite phone is much more reliable in this case and Stavropol knew that. What he didn’t know was that you were going to be able to get a hold of his number.”

“Why? Were you able to trace it?” “Yup.”

“But I thought those phones were encrypted,” said Alexandra. “They are,” replied Harvath, “128-bit digital encryption standard, but he’s using one of the same models that embedded reporters used during the war in Iraq. The U.S. Military had to tell them to turn them off in many situations because they could broadcast their position via GPS.”

“And that’s how you found him?”

“That’s how we found him. The NSA was able to use his mobile ID number and pinpoint his whereabouts.”

“So where is he?” “In the White Sea, just off the Kola Peninsula.”

“Most of which lies north of the artic circle and it’s almost the end of January,” responded Alexandra. “What are we supposed to do?”

“We’re supposed to stop him, of course,” said Harvath. “Of course.

And how are we supposed to do that? Wait, one thing at a time. Why don’t you start by telling me how we’re supposed to get out to a ship floating in the middle of an ice-encrusted sea. Is one of your American submarines going to take us there?”

“Not as long as the Kola Peninsula is still home to Russia’s Northern Fleet.”

“Then how?”

“Stavropol is going to help us.”

“How nice of him,” said Alexandra, her voice laden with sarcasm. “Why would he do that?” “Because you have something I’m sure he’ll want.”

“And what’s that?”

Harvath smiled before responding. “Me.”

Alexandra was silent.

Had he lost his mind? He wanted to give himself up to Stavropol? The man would kill him in an instant. “Oh,” continued Harvath, “and just to sweeten the deal, we’re going to throw in a nice little man-portable nuclear weapon.

Does that sound fair? Do you think he’ll go for it?” Now she knew he was crazy. “What are you talking about?

You don’t have any manportable nuclear weapons.”

“Not yet.

You and I are going to pick one up.” “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“And where is this pickup supposed to happen?” Harvath began walking toward the front door of the church.

“We’re not exactly picking one up. It’s being delivered. Have you ever been to Archangel City before? I’ll buy you dinner on the way and explain the rest of the plan.”

Alexandra followed him out the door and into the snow. The sun had set and the air had grown bitterly cold. She couldn’t help wondering if the three hours Harvath had spent in the dome of the church hadn’t somehow affected his brain.

Chapter 44 SOMEWHERE

OFF THE KOLA PENINSULA, WHITE SEA, RUSSIA STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS—2 DAYS T

he next day, when Milesch Popov’s name came up on Stavropol’s Caller ID, he thought it must be some kind of a joke. Not only was Popov dead, but the police had found his bullet-riddled cell phone near the crime scene. There was no way it could be him calling. Immediately, Stavropol was on guard. Somehow, someone had connected him with that contemptible street thug.

This was a distraction he did not need at the moment, as he was already preoccupied with pinning the murders of Generals Primovich, Karganov, and Varensky on Popov and a “wayward” accomplice. At this point, all they needed to do was locate the accomplice. Draegar had assured them that he had the situation well in hand, but just as in Berlin, he had once again disappointed them.

Stavropol had come to the conclusion that Draegar might no longer be a reliable asset and he would have to do the job himself, as he activated his Sat phone and tentatively took the call. “Da?” “Comrade General, I hope I am not catching you at an inopportune time,” said the voice on the other end. Stavropol didn’t need to ask who was calling.

He could guess whom the voice belonged the minute he heard the first words. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. It was better than he could have hoped. She was the perfect person to frame as the wayward accomplice who had assisted Popov in killing Primovich, Karganov, and Varensky.

“Agent Ivanova.

It is a pleasure to hear from you, but how did you get my telephone number?” Alexandra knew he was toying with her, but had been counseled to play along with him, to an extent. “I removed the SIM card from Milesch Popov’s phone right after he tried to kill me.”

“An unfortunate misunderstanding,” said Stavropol, who had not even thought about the SIM card. When he had gotten a hold of the police report detailing the evidence from the murder scene, including the damaged phone, he had assumed that Popov had taken the secret of their relationship with him to the grave.

Obviously, he had been wrong. “I think the misunderstanding here,” continued Alexandra, “is in your failing to recognize what a useful asset I could prove to be.”

Stavropol smiled. “Now it is you who must forgive me for disbelieving. I am well aware of what your father most likely told you.”

“Indeed.

My father told me everything and as far as I am concerned, he was a fool to try and get in your way. He let his misguided feelings overrule his duty and obligation to his country.”

“Very convincing, Agent Ivanova. The SVR has taught you well, though you cannot believe that I would fall under your spell so easily. I know what you are doing.”

“What am I doing?” “You were seen with Dr. Nesterov, as well as the American, Scot Harvath. You have been colluding with them in order to achieve your father’s reckless pursuits.” “And I told you my father was a fool.

I was using Nesterov for bait.” Stavropol was momentarily taken aback. “Bait?How so?”

“I used him to lure the American.” “But why?

Why get involved at all?”

“Because I was interested in clearing my father’s name. Up until his death, I had only heard rumors and innuendos about his sedition. When I asked him, he would always deny it.

Then on his deathbed, he made me aware of a dossier he had compiled.”

Stavropol had suspected as much, but his clean teams had never been able to find anything. There was nothing in Viktor Ivanov’s office or in his residence. “What dossier?”

“My family rented a garden plot outside the city. He buried the dossier there.”

Stavropol was fuming.

Therewas a dossier, and his men had missed it. Viktor Ivanov had indeed been a cunning operative. Stavropol had wanted to kill him a long time ago when they had the chance, regardless of what information he might have compiled, but he knew that the man’s untimely demise, no matter how accidental it might have looked would have caused more trouble than it was worth. Instead, they silently drummed him out of the KGB.

As it stood, when the Americans turned their backs on Ivanov and Stavropol was able to leak the story, a cloud of treason hung over Viktor Ivanov until his dying day and was enough to guarantee that no one ever trusted, much less listened to him ever again. “And that dossier is what led you to General Karganov?” asked Stavropol, trying to put the pieces together. “As well as Dr. Nesterov.”

“Where is the dossier now?” “I’ve hidden it somewhere for safekeeping.” For the most part, the bulk of the dossier’s contents would soon be immaterial, but there were still ways in which they could be very damaging.

The file needed to be buried for good and Alexandra Ivanova along with it, but until she was, Stavropol had no choice but to deal with her. “Why are we talking?”

he asked. It was time for Alexandra to make her case. “We each have something the other wants.”

Stavropol laughed. “What could you possibly have that I would want?”

She wasted no time in getting to the point. “An American operative on Russian soil with a tactical nuclear weapon.

Surely, you would like to have this man and his weapon in your custody.” There were several moments of strained silence as Stavropol thought it over. Though he was loathe to negotiate with her, it seemed that she alone had the power to deliver him the prize that had eluded them on the Baltic and caused the loss of two of their patrol boats—an American agent who had smuggled a nuclear weapon into their country.

He didn’t trust Alexandra Ivanova one bit, but she was dangling a very attractive carrot that was hard to resist. Ever the tactician, Stavropol kept talking as his mind worked to develop a plan to gain the upper hand. “You said we each had something the other wanted. What is it you desire from me?”

Alexandra stuck to the script, just as Harvath had laid it out for her. “First, forgiveness.

Though my father’s actions were wrong, his motivations were correct.

He placed his country above all else and for that I want his name cleared. He is to get a proper burial with full recognition for his loyalty and years of service to Mother Russia.” “What else?”

“Next, I want your personal guarantee, in writing, that I will be publicly recognized for my cooperation and loyalty.” “That’s all?” asked Stavropol. “No, that’s not all.

In addition, I want a promotion within the SVR, to at least deputy director, complete with commensurate pay grade, a new apartment, and a new automobile.” “Capitalism rears its ugly head at last.” “No, it has not,” replied Alexandra. “While I support our country’s long overdue return to Communism, I also believe that outstanding service to the State should be rewarded. But if you do not agree with me, I’d be happy to release Agent Harvath and his nuclear weapon and let you try to retake him before the Americans have executed whatever it is they are planning.”

This time Stavropol didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely not,” he replied. If Ivanova really was prepared to deliver on her offer, Stavropol couldn’t afford to let her go. “Where are you?”

“Archangel city,” she replied.

Stavropol told her to hold, while he cupped the mouthpiece and consulted one of the men standing next to him. There was no time for him to go to her. She would have to come to him. He gave her a time and directions to a location just outside the seaside village of Tova, about 150 kilometers up the coast from Archangel City, and then unceremoniously terminated the connection.

Before Alexandra could power down her cell phone and change out Popov’s SIM card, Harvath already had his atlas out and was speeding the Jeep Cherokee towards their destination. They would have to hurry. The last thing he wanted to do was to give Stavropol enough time to set up an ambush.

Chapter 45 A winter storm, accompanied by a brutal cold front, was in full effect when Scot and Alexandra dropped the rest of the team and then pulled into a desolate farmer’s field bordered on all sides by trees on the outskirts of Tova. As the Jeep’s wipers fought to keep up with the heavily falling snow, Harvath alternated between staring at the temperature reading, which was now down to minus fifteen degrees Celsius, and staring out the windshield toward the far edge of the field. When the appointed time arrived, he heard the staccatowhump, whump, whump of helicopter rotor blades cleaving the frigid air.

The low cloud cover and inclement weather made it impossible to see the craft as it circled above them and then moved off to the far edge of the field where it hovered still out of view. Harvath assumed the helicopter was equipped with forward-looking infrared, also known as FLIR, and was right now scanning the perimeter of the landing zone. He hoped that they were only using first generation technology because if it was anything better than that, they were quite literally going to be dead. With first-generation FLIR capability, it wasn’t impossible to blend in with trees and avoid detection. To be successful, though, several factors needed to be taken into consideration such as how long a person had been in the cold, what they were wearing, how much activity they had undergone just prior to the engagement and if they were carrying anything hot, like a recently fired weapon.

Though second-generation FLIR could even spot the heat signature of a recently deposited hand-print and engage an automatic detection and targeting system, fooling a low-hovering, first-generation FLIR enhanced helicopter was by no means a walk in the park.

It was still one of the hardest pieces of technology on the battlefield to beat. Alexandra held up a pair of plastic flexi-cuffs and asked, “Are you ready?” “Not really, but we don’t have much choice, do we?” replied Scot as he placed his hands behind his back.

“Don’t forget whose idea this was,” she said as she loosely secured his wrists. “Don’t remind me,” responded Harvath. Exiting the Cherokee, Alexandra swung Harvath’s pack over her shoulder and urged her “prisoner” forward. They walked toward the middle of the clearing as a biting wind tore at their clothing.

With his arms behind his back, the best Harvath could do to avoid the weather was hunch his shoulders and tuck his chin into his chest. Alexandra kept her silenced Walther trained on him the entire way. Suddenly, the sound of the rotors grew louder, and Harvath looked up through the snow to see the underside of a Russian-made Mi-17–1V Assault Helicopter as two long lines were kicked out the doors and a pair of commandos fast-roped to the ground on each side.

“Spetsnaz,” mouthed Alexandra, who then cemented upon her face a look of austere professionalism. Harvath turned his eyes away from her and watched as the men, intimidating in dark uniforms and black balaclavas, fanned out with their silenced nine-millimeter AS assault rifles up and at the ready. Approaching Alexandra, they called for her to lower her weapon. She did as they commanded and watched as one of the men frisked Harvath, while another kept him squarely in his sights.

“I already checked him” she shouted in Russian, holding up his backpack. “His weapon is in here, along with several other pieces of equipment provided by his government.” “Orders,” snapped the Spetsnaz operative, who then made his way over to her.

Waving his gloved hand, he indicated in a very condescending manner that she surrender her weapon. “Also orders.”

Alexandra made a show of being very displeased at her treatment. After which, the Spetsnaz operative began to frisk her in a very inappropriate manner. Having brushed against her breasts no less than three times, and satisfied that she was clean, he withdrew a walkie-talkie and radioed the helicopter to land.

Next, he turned to Alexandra and said, “I assume the nuclear device is in the car?”

Alexandra nodded her head. “And the keys?”

“Also in the car,” she responded. “You couldn’t have parked any closer?”

“And if someone had come along while we were waiting and asked us why we had driven off the road into the field? What should we have told them?” “Good point,” said the soldier who got back on his walkie-talkie.

He instructed the second team of Spetsnaz troops, who had secured the landing zone, to go get the Cherokee and drive it over to the helicopter so they could load the nuclear device onboard. As he finished his communication, he unshouldered his rifle and directed Harvath and Alexandra toward the helicopter, which was just touching down. “He’s my prisoner!” insisted Alexandra as they approached the bird and she pushed Harvath ahead of the soldier, “I will see to him.”

As soon as they stepped on board, all hell broke loose behind them.

Seeing Harvath and Alexandra climb into the helicopter, Morrell gave the go command over his throat mike. “The playground is ours. I repeat the playground is ours.”

Avigliano, who was hidden in the woods next to Morrell, dropped both of the Spetsnaz troops nearest the helicopter with perfect head-shots from his silenced M4, while Carlson and DeWolfe, who were hidden on the other side of the field, did the same to the other two soldiers approaching the Cherokee. Back in the helicopter, Harvath wasted no time in slipping out of his flexi-cuffs and charging the cockpit. When the pilot happened to peer into the cargo bay and saw Harvath racing up the aisle, he immediately went for the nine millimeter Gyurza pistol strapped to his flight suit, but it was too late—Harvath was already on top of him.

Harvath landed a vicious punch to the man’s jaw and wrestled the pistol away from him just as the copilot grabbed the microphone of his helmet to radio for help. What happened next was more reflex than anything else. There was no time to think. Harvath pulled the Gyurza’s trigger and sent two rounds into the co-pilot’s head, killing him instantly. Turning the pistol back on the pilot, Harvath disconnected the comlink from the man’s helmet and said to him, “There’s been a slight change of plans.”

After Morrell and the rest of the team had stripped the Spetsnaz soldiers of their uniforms and deposited their naked bodies in the woods, they pulled the SUV alongside the helicopter, offloaded their improvised tactical nuclear weapon and then ditched the car.

When everyone was onboard, Alexandra climbed into the co-pilot’s seat and with her silenced Walther P4 pointed right at the pilot’s privates, ordered him to take off. Chapter 46 T he flight was not only long, but extremely uncomfortable. The winter storm had created a lot of rough air and many of the helicopter’s passengers wanted to puke from the bumpy ride, but were all too macho to do so, including Alexandra. When they neared their destination upon the White Sea, the pilot was instructed to fly in a large circle

aroundThe Cosmonat Yuri Gagarin .

It was an incredible vessel. With a displacement of over 45,000 tons, theGagarin was 774 feet long and had a beam of just over 101 feet. The ship was outfitted with two eighty-eight-and-half foot in diameter Ship Shell and two forty-one foot in diameter Ship Bowl stabilized communications and tracking dish antennae, as well as two Vee Tube HF communications systems and four Quad Ring yagi arrays. As they passed the enormous devices, DeWolfe narrated based upon experience and the recent intelligence he had been sent from Washington.

Harvath, on the other hand, was less concerned with what was on the ship than what was around it. Though he stole occasional glances at the vessel itself, his eyes were predominantly focused on the assault helicopter’s tracking and display systems.

From what he could tell as they made their pass, theGagarin was being watched over not only by the three nuclear icebreakers, but by no fewer than three Russian submarines as well. Getting out was going to prove a lot harder than getting in. As the helicopter banked and approached theGagarin ’s landing pad, they went over their plan one more time. Speed, surprise, and overwhelming force of action were the keys to a successful outcome, though every one of them had silent reservations as to whether this was really going to work.

When the Mi-17–1V touched down on theGagarin ’s aft deck, Carlson quickly unbuckled the pilot and yanked him into the cargo area. He removed the man’s helmet and then knocked him out with a quick punch to the head. “You’ve got to be the worst pilot I’ve ever flown with,” said Carlson who then looked up at the rest of the team staring at him.

“What?

He gave us that shitty ride on purpose. Fuck him.” No one disagreed. Avigliano and Morrell quickly gagged the man, tied him up and stashed him in the back of the copter. A pistol was placed in the hand of the dead copilot and he was positioned in such a way that if anyone should happen to look in through one of the windows, it would appear as if he was diligently posting guard over a large plastic suitcase.

When they were good to go, Morrell and his men rolled down their own black balaclavas, readied their Russian assault rifles, and opened one of the helicopter’s side doors. Carlson and Avigliano jumped out first and were joined by Alexandra. Next came DeWolfe, who shoved Harvath out onto the deck and kept his weapon on him as Morrell slid the door shut behind him. As two of theGagarin ’s crew members rushed up to attend to the helicopter, Alexandra barked at them to back off.

She told them that the pilot and co-pilot had been instructed to guard their cargo with their lives and to shoot anyone but herself or General Stavropol who came too close. She asked where she could find the general and one of the men gave her instructions on how to find the control center. Then he and his shipmate immediately backed away.

So far, so good.

The control center was located just beneath the bridge near the bow of the ship. As the imposing party of would-be Spetsnaz troops, a beautiful blond woman, and their prisoner entered on the main deck level and purposely made their way forward, every soul they came across jumped to get out of their way. The whole team—Harvath, Ivanova, Morrell, Carlson, DeWolfe, and Avigliano— mentally recorded security measures, evacuation points, crew makeup, and force strength as they marched towards the bow. From what they could see, a good portion of the ship had been retrofitted, though some Soviet-era trappings were evident from time to time. From the state-of-the-art infirmary and movie theater to the restaurant, health club, and indoor swimming pool, theGagarin had been designed to remain on station and completely self-sufficient for very extended periods of time.

Turning a corner, they arrived at the elevator for the control center, and Carlson and DeWolfe immediately disappeared down an adjacent stairwell into the bowels of the ship, while Morrell and Avigliano accompanied Alexandra and Harvath to their rendezvous with General Stavropol. The elevator doors opened onto an enormous, dimly lit room filled with technicians seated in high-backed, ergonomically designed chairs at wraparound workstations with everything within arm’s reach. The seats reminded Harvath of those in the Navy’s Mark V Special Operations Craft, which were designed to keep SEALs stable and comfortable during prolonged insertions, extractions, and patrols on even the roughest seas. As Alexandra pushed him out of the elevator, Morrell and Avigliano followed right behind.

They stepped up onto a raised floor that was designed to accommodate the massive tangle of computer cables and wires running beneath. Though it was absolutely freezing outside, an air conditioning system was running at full strength to prevent the massive amount of equipment in the room from overheating.

While Harvath had expected to see something that resembled NASA’s Mission Control in Houston, Texas, what he found was something completely different. Instead of tiered sections grouped in order of importance and facing a common set of screens at the front of the room, there were semi-circled networks of workstations grouped around what could only be referred to as viewing screens. They were concave pieces of Plexiglas that were not only full color, two-sided monitors, with different images playing on both sides, but were also completely transparent depending upon what angle you were looking at them from. Technicians manipulated data not by plugging away at traditional keyboards, but via keyless entry systems, the likes of which Harvath had never seen before.

In fact the more he looked around the room, the more he realized the technology he was seeing would be more at home aboard theStarship Enterprise than a Soviet-era research vessel. The sophistication of it all was literally beyond his imagination, and Harvath had a pretty good imagination. The last thing he noticed was the utter lack of security. Whoever was in charge of this operation was feeling pretty confident.

“Agent Ivanova,” said a man with a salt and pepper–colored crew cut who spun his chair around and stood up from one of the workstations. He was at least six-foot-three inches tall and a good two hundred seventy-five pounds. Looking past the malformed nose, which had obviously been broken on several occasions, and the pockmarked skin, Harvath took in the General’s dark, penetrating eyes and understood why the enormous man had been nicknamedRasputin .

He had an extremely intimidating presence. “General Stavropol,” replied Alexandra politely. “Here I am, as promised.” “Excellent,” he smiled.

“What about my reward?”

“What about it?” he asked, the smile never leaving his face. “I have brought you the American as you asked, and his nuclear device is in the helicopter. The pilots have been instructed not to let anyone but you or me near it.”

“Very neat and tidy, but wouldn’t you agree that it is somewhat unusual to demand a reward after having betrayed your country?”

“I have done no such thing,” she replied, maintaining her composure.

“We have a deal and I expect you to honor your end of the bargain.” “That’s funny considering the fact that your father—” “Do not mistake me for my father,” interrupted Alexandra as her icy stare bore into Stavropol’s own. “Not only have I delivered the American and his weapon to you as promised, but I risked everything coming here.”

“Really?” replied Stavropol.

“What did you risk?” “My life.

My career.

Everything .”

“Or so you would lead us to believe.” “If you don’t believe me, believe Helmut Draegar. He was one of the men who tried to kill me.” “He already has told us.”

“And you still question my loyalty?” asked Alexandra. “That depends,” Stavropol responded. “What did Nesterov tell you?” “Nesterov?He didn’t tell me anything.

I barely got the chance to talk to him before Draegar killed him. This is ridiculous. Where is Draegar?

I want to talk with him myself.

I will not have my loyalty questioned like this.” “He’s in America at the moment. Unfortunately, one of our operatives seems to have gotten cold feet, but it’s none of your concern. Draegar will see to it,” smiled Stavropol.

That was all Harvath needed to hear. His plan had been to pinpoint Draegar’s whereabouts onboard the ship so they could take him out as well, but now with him gone, there was no reason to delay the rest of their mission. “Okay, time’s up,” said Harvath as he drew his H&K from the small of his back and pointed it at Stavropol’s forehead. “I want names, descriptions, everything on all of your sleepers.

I want to know where they are, how you contact them and where their nuclear devices are being hidden.” “You’re very brave, Agent Harvath, but also very stupid,” replied Stavropol. “Do you actually think my men are going to let you just take over?”

Now it was Harvath’s turn to smile. “These aren’t your men,” he answered with a jerk of his head towards Morrell and Avigliano, who then removed their balaclavas and trained their weapons on him.

Stavropol’s smile never faltered. “Those aren’t the men I’m talking about.”

With a snap of his fingers, scores of soldiers wearing plain clothes, who had been mixed in with the technicians, stood and pointed their guns at Harvath and his party. They were overwhelmingly outgunned and knew they were beaten.

Stavropol raised a walkie-talkie to his mouth and barked a series of orders before turning back to Harvath and saying, “We received the pictures your government sent of several man-portable nuclear devices placed around our country. I can only assume you were part of that effort?”

Harvath didn’t respond. “I had heard that you were a highly skilled operative, but frankly I am disappointed.”

“I wouldn’t get too bent out of shape over it. I still might prove you wrong.” “We’ll see about that,” said Stavropol as the elevator doors opened and two technicians wheeled out a dolly carrying Harvath’s supposed man-portable nuke.

It had been dismantled and lay in pieces. “You Americans still underestimate us. Did you think our pilot wouldn’t find some way to get a message to us?” “Shit,” said Morrell. “But I heard everything he said,” countered Alexandra.

“There was nothing that—” “It wasn’t what he said,” interrupted Stavropol. “It was what he didn’t. When he failed to give the proper approach codes, we knew something was wrong.

For a moment, I briefly debated just shooting your helicopter right out of the sky, but now I’m glad that I didn’t. “As far as the device itself is concerned, the Americans seem to have forgotten that we already have all but one of them from their Dark Night program. It does take a certain amount of care to dismantle them, but it soon became obvious that care was not necessary with this one. It’s a fake. Until we were sure that this was not going to turn into some suicide mission and that your nuclear device had been placed in a fail-safe mode, there was little else we could do but play along.

“I am going to assume then that the devices in the photos are also fakes, which means that only Frank Leighton and his device are still at large. Our teams will soon find him. In the meantime, I understand from our deck crew that there were two other men with you who came aboard with you and are still at large.

I’m confident that they will be joining you shortly.” “None of this going to work,” said Harvath. “America isn’t going to just roll over for you.” The General smiled once again.

“I never expected them to. In fact, had they not resisted I would have been most disappointed.” With that, Stavropol waved over a group of soldiers to take control of the prisoners and transport them below decks for safekeeping. As he did, Harvath saw beneath the general’s jacket the finely engraved butt of a Tokarev TT-30, a weapon chambered to fire the 7.62mm Soviet M30 round.

Something told Harvath he was looking at the weapon that had helped put Gary Lawlor into the hospital, clinging to life itself. Chapter 47

A s Carlson and DeWolfe were tossed into the narrow holding cell along with Harvath, Morrell, and Avigliano, the first thing they noticed was the absence of Alexandra. It was the question all of them were asking themselves, but which none of them really wanted to know the answer to. “She’s being held someplace else,” offered Harvath. “She’s a big girl and can handle herself.

Right now we’ve got other things to worry about,” said Morrell, focusing the team’s attention on the matter at hand. Though he doubted the makeshift brig was wired for sound, there was no sense in taking any chances.

Stavropol and his team were proving to be very accomplished adversaries, and so he lowered his voice as he turned to Carlson and asked, “Did they get the detonator?” “The charges were already placed, but they got everything else that was left in my bag,” responded the demolitions expert, “including the detonator.” “Fuck,” responded Morrell who then turned to DeWolfe. “How about you?

Were you able to sabotage the air defense system?”

DeWolfe crossed his fingers and held them up for Morrell to see. “That’s it then,” said Harvath.

“Now we wait.” “Screw that,” whispered Carlson as he began scanning the room. It looked like it had been some kind of refrigeration unit at one point. “We’re going to find a way out of here.”

“We’ve already looked. That door is it,” replied Avigliano. “So, what?

We just give up?”

“No,” said Morrell. “We continue to try and find a way out of here.”

Carlson looked at his watch. “Well, whatever we do, we’ve got six minutes to get it together. I targeted their main power supply, as well as their auxiliary.

I had no idea we’d end up in a room that depended on a mechanical ventilation system for its air.” “Okay,” said Morrell, taking control of the situation, “so we’ve got six minutes and counting. We can do this. Everybody put your thinking caps on and I don’t want to hear a single word unless it has to do with how we can get ourselves out of here.” The room was completely silent as the men went over it again inch by inch.

The ventilation system itself was too small for any of them to squeeze through so they spent their time probing for loose ceiling panels or a way to trigger the locking mechanism from their side of the door. Their efforts, though, were all in vain. Carlson’s eyes were glued to his watch as the final seconds of electricity ticked away before the main power shut down.

The backup system momentarily came to life, and then it too went down. DeWolfe tried to comfort his colleagues by explaining that from what he had been able to gather, the air defense system, like the fire alarm system, had a battery backup and so his part of the operation would still be successful. The response to his revelation was lackluster at best, as the men took pains to conserve their oxygen. The first thing they noticed was the suffocating heat.

The amount of warmth that could be generated by five men in such a small, enclosed space was amazing. Condensation amassed upon the ceiling and either slowly dripped on top of them or trickled down the walls in thin rivulets. As they began breathing in short gasps, DeWolfe wondered if maybe their captors had no idea that they were running out of oxygen. He pounded on the steel door until he lost the feeling in both of hands and then he kicked at it until he was so dizzy from hypoxia that he had to sit back down. As time wore on, Harvath developed a pounding headache accompanied by severe dizziness, but what frightened him the most was the sense of euphoria beginning to overtake him.

He heard a voice somewhere within the recesses of his mind warn him that after euphoria came the fourth and final stage of hypoxia wherein victims lost consciousness and quickly succumbed to death. He tried to fight his fatigue and rally against another voice that was quickly gathering strength in his mind. It told him that there was nothing he could do and that he should relax and let it happen. He had nothing to fear. Harvath knew the message was a lie; that he should not listen to it.

He closed his mind against the darkness and tried to focus on his breathing. He needed to slow his heart rate and respiration. The ship’s crew was probably already working on restoring power and they would have breathable air again soon.

Breathable air.

He kept repeating the words to himself until the darkness of hypoxia finally overtook him. Chapter 48 T here were strange, unintelligible words followed by a burst of heat in his lungs. Then silence.

Soon, another burst followed, accompanied by more words and a heaviness on his chest. A bright light drifted on the edges of his field of vision. The hot burst came again, but there was also another sensation, something soft, something moist. It reminded Harvath of water and he suddenly remembered that he was thirsty. He went to lick his lips but the moistness quickly receded.

He drew another breath and realized what was happening. He was breathing . As Harvath greedily gasped for air, consciousness slowly returned. He heard voices, women’s voices. The words that had been so unintelligible only moments before now found their place in his mind—Russian.

The light he had seen was a flashlight held by one of the women as her compatriot attended to the other men in the room. Slowly, he sat up as he continued to suck in great gasps of air. “Are you okay?” said a voice in English as a beam of light shone in his face. Harvath recognized the voice as Alexandra’s.

“I think so,” replied Harvath as he tried to stand up. “How did you find us?”

“I didn’t,” replied Alexandra, handing him a bottle of water she had found in one of the adjacent storage rooms. “Raisa did. She knows the ship inside and out.” “Is she one of the scientists?”

“Yes.

She was also Nesterov’s mistress, but they kept it an absolute secret.”

“Is she…” panted Harvath, who paused to take another long draught of water.

“The second scientist my father mentioned?” said Alexandra, finishing the thought for him. “No question.

She told me about periodic communications she had with him.” Harvath lowered the bottle and as he wiped his mouth along his sleeve, glanced around the room and took in the rest of the team in their various states of recovery. “What about Stavropol?”

“Everyone is going crazy upstairs over the half-empty demolitions bag Carlson was found with.

All of the lower decks near where they found him are being searched for bombs he may have planted. We have to get out of here.” “What about in the control room?”

“Something has gotten into the system,” offered Raisa. “They can’t figure it out.

They think it might be a worm.”

“Not a worm,” coughed DeWolfe, as Harvath handed him the bottle of water, “a logic bomb.”

“Alogic bomb ?

How did you get in?”

“The schematics Dr. Nesterov had hidden in the church showed the location of a remote access terminal. Your system is completely self-contained, so it had to be hacked from within. Dr. Nesterov knew this and programmed a code into the operating system that would provide access whether or not the user had an established account.

All it took was the password.” Raisa couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Nesterov had never discussed this with her.

“But we have safeguards. We constantly do cleanups of the system to remove any such backdoors.” “By removing the source code for the compiler and then recompiling it, right?”

“Exactly.”

“That was the genius of what Dr. Nesterov did. He set it up so that each time a cleanup happened, the compiler surreptitiously plugged the code right back in. It just kept perpetuating itself. If you knew where to look, the backdoor was wide open.

If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be able to find any trace of it in the source codes. It’s totally invisible. Quite a moby hack if I do say so myself.” “What’s the purpose of your logic bomb?”

“I downloaded something onto your system that the geeks at Fort Meade like to call theHungry Hungry Hippo . Right now it is grazing through your entire system, gobbling up everything it comes across.”

“But,” said Raisa, “after they isolate your bomb, they’ll just shut the system down and reboot.” “By that time,” rasped Morrell, “there won’t be anything left to reboot. But right now, I agree with Alexandra, we need to get the hell out of here.”

Raisa led them down a long corridor and through a series of steel bulkheads. “What happened to you?” Harvath asked Alexandra as they continued to move. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she replied.

“Did Stavropol do anything to you?” “I said I don’t want to talk about it.” Before Harvath could press the point any further, they arrived at a steep metal staircase. Raisa fished underneath it and pulled out Scot’s technical pack and Carlson’s demo sack.

“I believe these are yours,” she said as she handed them over. “Where did you find this?” asked Harvath. “The head of the security team left them in his office for safekeeping.”

“And in the rush, he just left his door wide open?”

“Nobody trusts anyone aboard this ship. All of the doors are always locked.” “Then how’d you get in?”

“The same way I got into Stavropol’s cabin to free Alexandra,” smiled Raisa as she held up a ring of keys.

“You’d be surprised how careless the ship’s engineers can be with their property.” Harvath removed the silenced Walther, the Pit Bull, and the silenced H&K from his backpack. “This is the extent of our firepower at the moment.

Now all we need to do is to come up with some sort of diversion that will allow us to get out of here.” “I’ll bet I could figure out a way to get a nice warm fire going,” replied Carlson as he pulled a roll of det cord from his sack. Chapter 49

A s Carlson prepared to ignite their diversion, Alexandra said to Harvath, “Scot, you need to see this.”

“Later,” he replied. “Fifteen seconds,” called out Carlson. “No, you need to see it now.”

Harvath glanced at the notebooks she was examining, which she had taken from Stavropol’s stateroom.

Wedged in between the pages was a picture of him with his head circled in red with crosshairs through it. There was no question of where it had been taken. “From what I can tell,” said Alexandra, “Draegar was given a copy of this photo along with your home address.” “Now that I know he’s coming, I’ll have to rush back and bake a cake for him,” replied Harvath.

“Time to move,” commanded Carlson, cutting off any further conversations as he popped the sparks at the bottom of his time fuse coils. Harvath grabbed the photo and shoved it into his pocket as Alexandra gathered up the journals and everyone headed for the gangway. Outside, they formed a conga line with Morrell and Carlson on point, and Avigliano covering their six. The goal now was to reach the helicopter, which Morrell was qualified enough to pilot.

They had only needed the Russian pilot to fly the chopper from Archangel City and handle any radio traffic on the way in, but now that they were on their way out, Alexandra could handle any radio inquiries and hopefully weave enough bullshit to protect them until they got to the border with Norway and were safely out of Russian airspace. They weren’t even halfway amidships when they ran into their first problem. Carlson, wearing the night vision goggles that had been in Harvath’s pack, spotted movement up ahead and held up his fist, indicating that the column should stop.

“Contact,” he whispered, as he raised Alexandra’s silenced Walther P4 and pointed it down the corridor. Morrell leaned in close and said, “Don’t pull that trigger unless you’re sure you sighted a hostile. We don’t want any casualties among any of the crew or technicians.”

“These two are definitely hostile,” replied Carlson. “Both look like they’re carrying assault weapons.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“All right, take them.” Carlson’s weapon bucked twice in his large hands accompanied by two muffled coughs. “Tangos one and two down,” he said. “Let’s strip ’em,” said Morrell as he waved the team forward.

The Spetsnaz soldiers were indeed carrying assault weapons, two nine-millimeter PP90M submachine guns. Harvath took one, and Avigliano traded Alexandra the Pit Bull for the other. The soldiers were also carrying several fragmentation as well as flashbang grenades, which Morrell divvied up amongst the team. Though it would have helped their cover if they could have gotten Harvath and Alexandra into the Spetsnaz uniforms with their black balaclavas and pretend that Raisa was helping guide them around the ship, there was no time for that.

They needed to keep pressing on towards the helicopter parked on the aft deck. Eventually, one of the engineers was able to restore the emergency lighting and the hallways took on an eerie red hue. Raisa watched with a great deal of apprehension as they passed by four lifeboats outlined in reflected tape just outside the windows.

She was beginning to doubt whether Alexandra Ivanova and her colleagues were going to live up to their end of the bargain or if they were more concerned with saving their own skins and sneaking away without a trace. “We need to raise the alarm,” she said. “The people on this ship need time to evacuate. There’s some light now, that will help, but they need to get started.

Your fire is going to spread very quickly.” “Once we have the helicopter in sight,” said Morrell, “we’ll sound the alarm, but not until then.” Seeing the look of concern on her face he added, “Don’t worry.

Your colleagues are going to have plenty of time to abandon ship.” “And once they do? Then what?

It’s below freezing outside.” “There are three nuclear icebreakers and two submarines waiting out there.

Trust me, this is one group of people that Russia will not want to lose.” Raisa reluctantly accepted Morrell’s answer and settled back into line, trying to ignore the remaining lifeboats that they passed. They were less than fifty meters from the aft deck when Gordon Avigliano dropped to one knee and yelled, “We’ve got company,” as he opened up with his weapon on full auto. Harvath turned and saw at least five Spetsnaz soldiers as they dove through open doorways on either side of the corridor behind them. “Let’s get some cover quick,” he yelled.

Morrell immediately responded, “There’s no place to go but aft.”

Harvath was about to say something, when two of the Russian troops pointed their weapons into the hall and pulled the triggers. The corridor acted like a giant funnel, channeling the deadly fire right towards them. Thankfully, the Spetsnaz rounds went high and missed the team who dove to the floor.

“Go,” yelled Avigliano to his colleagues. “I’ll hold them.” “No way,” replied Harvath.

“We all go together.” “We can’t. Somebody needs to keep them pinned down.

I’m not going to argue about this.” “Gordy, listen,” began Harvath who then stopped as he felt a hand reaching into his coat pocket. Before he could stop her, Alexandra had removed the two fragmentation grenades Morrell had given him and pulled both pins. “Men,” she snorted as she pitched the devices down the hallway toward where the Spestnaz troops were hiding.

Harvath yelled ‘Grenade,’ but it was hardly necessary. Not only had the rest of the team seen what Alexandra had done, but they were already on their feet running for the helicopter. Seconds later, the fragmentation grenades exploded, neutralizing the Spetsnaz troops behind them and starting yet another fire. This time, Raisa didn’t wait for Rick Morrell’s permission. At the next fire alarm they passed, she pulled it and ran.

Before they even burst outside onto the aft deck, they could already hear the heavy chopping of the Assault Helicopter’s rotors. “Sounds like somebody else is trying to leave without us,” said Carlson. “Damn it,” snapped Morrell, turning to the demolitions expert. “Hit the hull charges and send this fucker to the bottom of the ocean right now.”

Carlson reached into his demo sack and removed a lightweight transmitter, about the size of a portable MP3 player, which was part of an improved Remote Activation Munition System, or RAMS.

Developed by the Army Research Lab in Adelphi, Maryland, RAMS allowed Special Operations teams to remotely detonate munitions from ranges of over two kilometers away. In this case, it wasn’t the distance that mattered, but rather the amount of metal the signal had to penetrate to successfully activate the blasting caps on Carlson’s charges. He depressed the buttons in quick succession. A series of resoundingthuds began at the bow and came racing toward them. The entire vessel shuddered as the muted blasts signaled one gaping hole after another being torn in the enormous ship’s hull.

Even if the crew raced to seal off the bulkheads of the compartments now filling with icy water, they wouldn’t be able to prevent theGagarin from meeting its fate. Charging out onto the deck, the team found that during their time inside, the storm had grown much worse. Thick snow was being driven in heavy sheets by a sharp arctic wind.

Visibility had been severely impaired, but not to such an extent that they couldn’t see General Stavropol as he reached the door to the helicopter. Harvath raised his weapon, but before he could fire, the team was under attack from above. More Spetsnaz troops, this time armed with AK-105s, were shooting at them from the upper deck.

While Morrell and the rest of the team maneuvered to return fire, Harvath, along with Alexandra, held their positions. The ferocious wind was incessant and combined with the thick snow, made it all but impossible to find an opportunity to take a shot as they heard the helicopter lift off. As it did, the blowing snow receded and through the glass Alexandra not only saw General Stavropol safe and sound onboard, but also the lopsided smile stretched across his pockmarked face. Ignoring the fact that the hull of theGagarin had steadily been filling with freezing water, Alexandra took aim, but just as she applied the final pressure to the trigger, there was a deafening groan and the ship listed steeply to starboard.

The Pit Bull discharged, but the round completely missed its target as Alexandra came crashing down hard onto the perilously inclined deck and dropped one of the notebooks. As she did, the chopper’s rotor wash swept the other completely overboard. Alexandra lunged for the remaining notebook and felt herself sliding down the deck toward theGagarin ’s iron railing.

She threw her arms out and fought to find any kind of handhold she could, but it was no use. There was nothing between her and the fast approaching railing to stop or even slow her ever-increasing speed. She felt herself slip beneath the railing and as if she were a cloud, become perfectly weightless. Her stomach leapt, the same way it did when she took an abrupt hill too fast in her car, and then suddenly she felt a great pain in her arm.

But that was impossible .

She knew she had slipped beneath the railing. Then she heard the voice and realized how wrong she was. “Alexandra, help me! I can’t hold onto you.”

It was Harvath. Alexandra opened her eyes and looked up.

Harvath was leaning over the edge of the ship. He was holding onto her wrist with his left hand. The pain of suspending her in subzero temperatures several stories above the White Sea was emblazoned like bright red neon across his features.

“Alexandra!”

he yelled again. “Reach up with your other hand!”

Alexandra tried, but she couldn’t. She opened her mouth to speak, but try as she might, no sound would come out. She could feel Harvath’s grip slipping and was paralyzed with fear.

“I’m losing my grip,” groaned Harvath, his arms feeling as if they were going to tear away from his body at any moment. Summoning every last ounce of strength he had, Harvath roared and gave one final tug, which succeeded in hauling Alexandra the rest of the way back onto the icy deck, where he lay in a heap next to her, totally spent. Harvath never noticed the two Spetsnaz soldiers until they were standing right over him and by then, it was too late. Harvath went to grab for his gun, but one of the men put his boot down on his hand.

“Easy,” said Morrell. “It’s us.” Morrell helped Harvath up while Avigliano assisted Alexandra. Rejoining DeWolfe and Carlson, Morrell gave Harvath and Alexandra the pick of Spetsnaz bodies and told them to get out of their clothes and into the Spetsnaz uniforms as quickly as possible, before more of the troops showed up.

As it turned out, more soldiers were not what they had to worry about, as the Mi-17–1V helicopter, which had been hovering off the aft deck, turned and came back in with its 23-mm gun pods blazing. “Incoming!” yelled Morrell as the team dove for cover. The helicopter peppered not only the aft deck, but also half of its housing, showering them with broken glass, splintered wood, and twisted metal. As the helicopter swung out and prepared to make another run, Harvath reached for his gun, but something else caught his eye.

Leaning against a pile of coiled rope was Alexandra’s Pit Bull.

The helicopter was fifty meters out and closing fast when Morrell and the rest of the team took aim and began firing. The Mi-17–1V answered with its own deadly barrage of fire, but when it got within spitting distance and Harvath could see it as well as he could through the blinding curtains of snow, he began firing. One then two, followed by a third of the armor-piercing rounds found their mark and the assault helicopter exploded in an enormous ball of fire.

“That was for Gary, asshole,” said Harvath as he watched the burning chopper crash into the sea. As the team regrouped, Carlson commented on how their primary means of escape was now charred and sinking to the bottom of the ocean. Ever the tactician, Morrell quickly sifted through the possibilities for escape and said, “We’ve got options,” he said, “We’ll figure something out.” “Whatever it is,” said Carlson, “we’d better do it fast.”

Alexandra cleared her throat and suggested, “How about theVyesna ?”

“What’s theVyesna ?” asked Avigliano. “It’s one of the nuclear icebreakers,” she said, pointing over the side of theGagarin through the snow. “The large red one off the port bow.”

“You think the Russian Navy is just going to let us sail right out of here with it?” asked DeWolfe.

“First of all, they don’t have to know we’re on it,” replied Alexandra, “and secondly, the Russian Navy doesn’t have much to say about it. Especially if they believe that theVyesna is having a problem with its reactor.”

DeWolfe was starting to see what she had in mind. “But they’ll want to put one of their people on it to check it out.” “I doubt it.

The icebreakers aren’t part of the Russian Navy. They’re all privately owned by a Russian conglomerate called the Murmansk Shipping Company. TheVyesna is one of the oldest in their fleet. It should have been retired a long time ago.

My guess is that if there’s an accident onboard, complete with the threat of a radiation leak, the Russian Navy won’t want to get anywhere near that boat. They’ll want it out of the area right away.” “They’ll expect it to return to port though,” said Carlson. “That’s what I’m counting on. The service base for the Murmansk Shipping Company is on the Kola Peninsula only a hundred kilometers south of the Norwegian border.

Once we are on land, we can find a car, a truck, or whatever is available and go. Up there, it is still the two months of constant darkness known as Polar night, so we’ll have added cover.” With the fire alarm still blaring and Morrell expecting more soldiers to show up at any moment, he looked at Harvath, then studied the team and said, “I vote we grab the nearest lifeboat and get the hell out of here. If anyone’s got any better ideas, now’s the time.”

When no one offered an alternative, he shouldered one of the AK-105s and instructed the team to watch their backs as they moved out. Fifteen minutes later, once they were a safe distance away in one of theGagarin ’s lifeboats, Harvath and the rest of the team looked back together and watched as the giant ship rolled completely onto its starboard side and began to slide beneath the icy water. While his teammates congratulated each other on sinking the air defense system that the Soviet Union had created to blackmail the United States and pointed the lifeboat toward the nuclear icebreaker known as theVyesna , Harvath was uncharacteristically quiet. Something, he didn’t know what, told him that America wasn’t out of the woods yet.

Not by a long shot.

Chapter 50 W ith its nineteen-inch-thick armor-plated steel hull and twin steam turbine engines, the nuclear icebreakerVyesna made the four hundred and fifty kilometer trip to Murmansk in just under seventeen hours. The dummy charges Carlson rigged in the reactor room and at other strategic points throughout the vessel, which he threatened to detonate via remote if there was any trouble, were enough to ensure the crew’s complete cooperation. The men were professional sailors, not soldiers and had no desire to die. Via encrypted messages transmitted back and forth to Washington, Harvath learned that the threat of a pending Russian attack was already beginning to leak out.

People in America were hoarding food, water, and medical supplies, while millions were fleeing major metropolitan areas, unsure if they had been targeted. Now that Harvath had succeeded in disabling Russia’s previously envisioned impregnable air defense system, hawks in Rutledge’s cabinet were calling for a full-on first strike to neutralize the Russians and calm fears at home. The president, though, was still concerned about the Soviet nukes secreted on American soil and urged Harvath to get back to DC as quickly as possible.

There was less than two days until the State of the Union address. By the time theVyesna crashed its way into the Kola Inlet, General Paul Venrick of the American Joint Special Operations Command had established a rendezvous point just across the border with a Norwegian Special Forces Team. After DeWolfe had disabled the ship’s communication equipment and Carlson, with Alexandra translating, warned that he could still detonate his explosives from up to twenty kilometers away if the crew did anything stupid, the team lowered one of the icebreaker’s rigid inflatable boats over the side and headed for land.

They beached just down from a small town called Platonovka, where Avigliano located an old UAZ-brand cross-country vehicle and, seeing no one around, promptly “commandeered” it. Stopping at two gas stations, Alexandra and Harvath went inside where they allowed the attendants to hear them speaking English. Alexandra then asked for directions in Russian to a village on the Finnish border about two hundred kilometers to the southwest.

At no time did they allow the attendants to see the car they were driving. With enough of a false trail in place to occupy the police and the military until they could make it out of the country, they headed for the Russian border with Norway, using back roads whenever possible. Two hours later, they ran out of road and had no choice but to abandon the UAZ and hike the rest of the way in on foot.

When they made it to the rendezvous point, the Norwegian Special Forces unit allowed them a few minutes to catch their breath before making their presence known.

Harvath, having been tasked to SEAL Team Two—the Navy’s cold weather experts, also known as the Polar SEALs, was well versed in winter warfare and noticed the soldiers before anyone else. The rest of the team was taken somewhat by surprise, as the men appeared virtually out of nowhere. Once identities had been established, the unit commander called in a Royal Norwegian Air Force Bell 412 helicopter for their extraction.

They were transported to Kirkenes Airport about forty kilometers away where the CIA Air Branch Cessna Citation X, which Harvath had flown over to Berlin on six days ago, was de-iced and waiting. The Mach .92 Citation X traveled nearly at the speed of sound. With a range of three thousand nautical miles it was necessary that they put down in Greenland to refuel.

They stopped at Sondre Stromfjord airport and were on the ground for less than fifteen minutes before being airborne again. Harvath and Alexandra hardly noticed the minor interruption and declined to exit the craft to stretch their legs and instead remained on board and continued to pour over Stavropol’s journal. The man might have kept extensive notes, but he was no fool.

Sensitive information was encoded somehow and it was only now, after almost three-and-a-half hours and two thousand miles of flight that Alexandra was beginning to get a handle on it. The fact that the man wrote in cursive Cyrillic and had terrible handwriting to boot, relegated Harvath to the back seat while Alexandra twisted her hair in knots, broke pencil point after pencil point and wore down several erasers trying to crack Stavropol’s code. The code itself wouldn’t have been such a problem had they not lost the first journal. Much of the encrypted information seemed to directly relate to earlier entries in the other notebook.

Leaving Greenland’s airspace , Harvath had received an intelligence update. He was told that Gary Lawlor’s condition had stabilized and that he’d been transported to the Landstuhl Medical Center in southwestern Germany, near Ramstein Airbase. That was the good news. Then came the bad.

Not only had none of the Russian nuclear devices been discovered, but until they were verifiably locked down, president Rutledge wasn’t taking any chances. With less than twenty-four hours left until the State of the Union address, his aides were preparing two separate speeches. Though giving the speech the Russians wanted would create worldwide financial chaos and do immeasurable harm to America’s economy, he was not willing to risk the greater damage to American lives and infrastructure that would be created by the detonation of nuclear weapons on American soil.

Being cooped up in a plane over two thousand miles from home, Harvath had never felt so impotent in his life. Sitting on his hands was driving him insane. They were over Newfoundland when Alexandra began excitedly rifling through her stack of notes, pulling out several pages in particular and laying them in front of her. Next, she tore four pages out of Stavropol’s journal and placed those to her side.

Without even looking up from what she was doing, she told Harvath to go find her more paper. When he returned, she grabbed a sheet off the top of the small stack he held in his hands and told him to sit down. He slid into the seat across the table from her and said, “What is it?”

“I finally figured it out,” she said, as she placed one of the pages from the journal side by side with a blank piece of paper and began writing. “It’s a combination of something we callPoluslovitsa , or half-word, where certain letters are purposely left missing, and an old form of Russian fast written characters.”

Harvath watched as she filled in the missing Russian words and then translated the text into English.

As its meaning became clear, Harvath scrawled down a message and rushed it to DeWolfe, who encrypted his words and sped them ahead of the plane to Washington. Chapter 51

W hen the Cessna Citation X landed just a few miles southeast of Washington, DC, at Andrews Air Force Base, it was met by a contingent of agents from the FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group. Established in 1994, the CIRG represented the FBI’s highest-end tactical and investigative resources.

CIRG teams could be deployed anywhere in the country to handle critical incidents requiring an immediate law enforcement response such as hostage takings, child abductions, prison riots, and terrorist attacks.

One of the CIRG’s best-known units was the FBI’s famed Hostage Rescue Team, which had a helicopter standing by to transport Harvath and the rest of the team to FBI Headquarters at 935 Pennsylvania Avenue. As the Bell 412 helicopter raced across the dark Metro DC sky, agents of the Behavioral Analysis Unit pumped Harvath and Alexandra for anything they knew about Helmut Draegar that might give them the edge in stopping him before he could carry out his assignment. The questions continued as they rode the elevator down from the improvised landing pad on the roof and made their way into the FBI’s Strategic Information and Operations Center, or SIOC.

The main operations area was pulsing with activity as harried operatives simultaneously worked the phones and computer terminals. Large, flat-panel monitors surrounded the room and tracked everything from street traffic to air traffic. Utility and public works departments were being monitored, as was the main 911 Emergency Call Center. Representatives from the Capitol Police Containment & Emergency Response Team were present, as well as representatives from the US Park Police SWAT team, the Federal Marshal Service’s Special Operations Group, the Washington, DC, Metropolitan Police Department Emergency Response Team, the Secret Service’s Counter Assault, Uniform Division Emergency Response, and Counter Sniper Teams, the Department of Energy’s Nuclear Emergency Support Team, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the National Security Council, and a host of other agencies.

Security was always extremely tight leading up to a State of the Union address, but with a confirmed nuclear terrorist threat in the works, the CIRG had been operating at an exhausting, almost overloaded capacity for the last week. Harvath and Alexandra were shown to a conference room above the frenetic main floor, while Morrell and the rest of his team were taken to another part of the Center to be debriefed by both CIA and Defense Department officials. As the door to the crowded conference room opened the first voice Harvath heard belonged to Homeland Security Director Driehaus. “Ifit’s found in time.” “If it’s not, then the president is reluctantly prepared to evacuate the Congress and give his address from the White House,” replied the chief of staff, Charles Anderson.

“Taped, of course.” said CIA Director Vaile. “Your people can record it now and then feed it out tonight while he’s safe and sound aboard Air Force One.”

“The president’s not very happy about that option,” answered Anderson. “It’s not his style.

He doesn’t like the idea of hiding out while millions of American lives are at risk.” “But like it or not, it’s his duty to remain alive,” interjected Driehaus. “If this thing does come down, the American people will want to turn to him for his guidance and leadership in the aftermath.”

“You’ve got no argument with me,” said Anderson. “Anyway, unless we’re one hundred percent certain that the threat has been neutralized, he’s giving the Russians what they want and going with the alternate speech. The international and economic pieces will just have to fall where they may.”

“Hold on a second,” said Driehaus, as he suddenly noticed Alexandra standing next to Harvath in the doorway. “Who the hell cleared them to be in here?”

“I did,” replied FBI Director Sorce, who instructed the two newcomers to take a seat.

“She’s a Russian SVR agent, for Christ’s sake!” “Who has given us one of our biggest breaks in this case.” Driehaus was incensed. “What if she’s a plant?

What if everything she’s given us is disinformation? I want to go on record that I object to her being here and believe that her presence at this meeting puts our national security in serious jeopardy.” “Duly noted,” replied Sorce.

“What for?” rebutted Driehaus. “She’s already decoded and provided us with the list of sleepers and their locations before she and Agent Harvath even landed in DC.” “True,” replied Sorce, “but we still do not have themeans by which to contact them and therefore we believe she may still be useful. There’s no telling how much of a head start Draegar already has on us in activating them.”

“What about the sleepers here in DC?” asked Harvath, anxious to avoid a protracted pissing match between Sorce and Driehaus. “What have you been able to find out about them?”

The FBI director took a deep breath before responding. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to agree with Secretary Driehaus at this point. We’re going to need to talk about those two privately.”

Looking at Alexandra he said, “We have a team here in the main operations area coordinating the pickups of the sleeper agents across the country.

As we pop them, our field agents will be feeding back live video of their interrogations and the searches of their cars, residences, and so on. On each field team is an agent who can speak Russian, just in case Draegar tries to make contact. That being said, you’ve been a very big help to us so far, and if we can impress upon you to assist us further we could really use your help down on the floor.” Alexandra agreed, and Sorce had one of his assistants show her to the area the sleeper pickup teams were being managed from. Once she was out of the conference room and the door had closed behind her, The FBI director looked at Harvath and said, “Out of the names you gave us, one is dead and one is missing.”

“Who are they?” asked Harvath. “The dead guy owned a very successful antique store on Wisconsin Avenue in upper Georgetown. His client list reads like a who’s who of Washington insiders. No priors, never bothered his neighbors, regular churchgoer, no outstanding debts, you know the profile.”

“Was he Russian by birth or did someone turn them here?”

“That’s something we’re still working on.” As Sorce handed him the file, Harvath looked it over and said, “Draegar’s cleaning house. Why?”

“The Russians are tying up their loose ends,” offered Driehaus. “My guess is that the antiques guy changed his mind,” said Sorce.

“That’s always the risk you run with a long-term sleeper. When it came to the point that he was actually called into action, he didn’t want to do it. His ideology had changed.

He liked what he had going on here and didn’t want to give it up, so Draegar broke into his apartment and killed him.” “Where did he live?” asked Harvath as he continued to scan the file. “In some apartment building near Dupont Circle.”

“What about the other guy?”

“That’s the one that really stings,” said the FBI director as he handed over the other file. “His name is David Patrick.

He’s an aide to the National Security Council’s deputy executive secretary. Apparently, he went to Moscow on a goddamn Fulbright Scholarship.” “Our American tax dollars at work,” replied Harvath.

“His job at the NSC put him in a perfect position to slip that ransom note into the president’s briefing papers.” Harvath closed the file and slid it back over to the FBI director, “So where’s our man now?”

“At this point, it’s anybody’s guess. We’ve cast a very intense net for him. If he’s out there, we’ll get him.”

“I assume you’ve got a team at Patrick’s apartment,” said Harvath, “just in case he comes back.” “We do. I reassigned the guys I had on Gary’s place. Why?

Are you thinking about going over there?”

“I’d like Agent Ivanova to see it, and the antique dealer’s home and office as well. She’s got good instincts and might pick up on something we missed.” “Now that she’s in the building,” interrupted the homeland security secretary, “I don’t know if I like the idea of her leaving it.”

Sorce had no choice but to agree, it was too dangerous.
Harvath, though, disagreed. “I know the idea of an SVR agent running around loose while we’re dealing with a major threat from the Russians is a little unorthodox, but I’m telling you she has a very good eye. It’s precisely because she’s Russian that she can be of help to us. She can approach this from a completely different angle.” “And if she tries to rabbit?” asked Sorce, playing Devil’s advocate.

“She won’t.” “But if she does?” prodded Driehaus. “Then I’ll put a bullet in her,” replied Harvath.

“As sure as I’m sitting here, if Agent Alexandra Ivanova tries to run, I give you my word that I’ll kill her myself.” Chapter 52

T hey ended up spending half of the day in the SIOC. With Alexandra’s knowledge of Helmut Draegar, Russian Intelligence, and the events that had transpired, she was suddenly deemed an asset too valuable to let go. As Harvath watched, she fielded question after question and gave her opinion to the agents taking down sleepers on everything from interrogation tactics to potential hiding spots for Russian nukes.

Soon, no one made a move without consulting her first. Though the shift in operational control unsettled some of the FBI’s higher-ups, one look at what Alexandra was doing was enough to convince them that the trust their agents were putting in her was well founded.

Her advice was solid. The good news was that the pickup teams had gotten to the sleepers before Draegar did. The bad news was that they were proving extremely resolute. Across the country, once captured, they gave up little to no information whatsoever.

Finally, Harvath had seen enough. His country needed him. If Alexandra Ivanova wanted to continue to play oracle at Delphi, that was fine with him, but he needed to check out their other leads.

Standing around doing nothing was more than he could stand. It took Harvath another hour to track down the FBI’s director, but once he did, the man pledged to him any support he needed. The first thing Harvath needed was a helicopter that could get in and out of tight spaces —one that could land on a building without a helipad or in the middle of a narrow DC side street, and the HRT Bell 412 sitting on the roof of FBI Headquarters just didn’t fit the bill.

What’s more, HRT’s other birds were already in use. It only took one call to Andrews Air Force Base to track down an MH-6 Little Bird and a Nightstalker pilot from the Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment who was ready to see some action.

Harvath also needed a support team he could trust, and Rick Morrell and Company, still in the building on reserve, were more than happy to help him out. A quartermaster and armorer from Quantico were sent up to see to all the team’s needs. The team was outfitted in black, fire-retardant Nomex fatigues, HellStorm tactical assault gloves, and First Choice body armor. Included with the cache laid out by the armorer, were several newly arrived futuristic .40-caliber Beretta CX4 Storm carbines, as well as Model 96 Beretta Vertec pistols, also in .40 caliber.

There was something about being able to interchange their magazines that Harvath found very comforting. A Picatinny rail system allowed him to outfit the CX4 Storm with an under-mounted laser sight and an above-mounted Leupold scope. He shoved as much extra ammunition as he could get his hands on into his empty pockets and after grabbing a pair of night vision goggles, headed up to the roof with the rest of the team. When they were all on board, the improved MH-6 Little Bird with its new six-bladed rotor and upgraded, silenced engine lifted off and headed northwest to upper Georgetown and the antique shop.

The pilot found a relatively empty parking lot where he could set the Little Bird down and as soon as the skids were within two feet of the ground the team was out and running. The State of the Union address was less than eight hours away. They were met at the shop by an FBI forensics detail, who respectfully stood back as both Harvath and Alexandra searched for anything out of the ordinary.

When they had questions about phone records, the contents of the computer hard drive in the shop’s office, or who the antique dealer’s predominantly high-end customers had been, one of the forensic agents would pick up one of the detail’s many clipboards, sift through the pages and once she had found it, deliver the information as quickly and succinctly as possible. The message had come down loud and clear: Harvath and Alexandra were in a hurry and there was no time to waste. The antique shop was a bust, as was David Patrick’s nearby apartment.

Their last stop was an upscale high-rise called the Park Connecticut where the antiques dealer had lived right up until he had been murdered. It was located in a DC area known as Northwest and occupied a prime piece of real estate just above Dupont Circle along Rock Creek Park. The Nightstalker pilot landed the Little Bird on the Park Connecticut’s rooftop terrace and the team took the fire stairs down to the ninth floor. Another forensics detail met Harvath and his colleagues at the door and led them through the grand foyer, past the gourmet kitchen with its granite countertops, and into the spacious living room, which had been crammed full of beautiful hand-carved antique hardwood furniture.

Framed thank-you notes from diplomats, boutique hotels, private collections, and individual customers recognizing the dealer’s prowess and eye for rare pieces lined one entire wall. Though this FBI detail was confident that they would find something to tie the killer to the crime scene, they had no idea what the bigger picture was.

They knew who had killed the antiques dealer. It was Draegar. What they didn’t know was where Draegar was now and what he was planning to do next.

That was the type of clue they needed to find. The apartment included a gas fireplace and French doors that opened out onto the balcony. In addition to its lavish master bedroom, there was also a den and two marble bathrooms. Harvath and Alexandra quickly began picking the place apart piece by piece.

They went through closets, drawers, and bookcases while they fired off questions at the forensics agents to try and get a better picture of the antiques dealer. They studied the blood stained tub where the man’s body had been found, shot twice in the face. Looking at his Kobold, Harvath noticed it was closing in on five o’clock p.m.
—right around the approximate time yesterday that the forensics people claimed the antiques dealer had been killed.

After completely tossing the bathroom, Harvath headed back into the living room and asked one of the forensics agents, “We’ve got a copy of the building’s surveillance tape from yesterday, right?”

“Of course we do,” the man answered, rummaging through an evidence box and pulling it out for Harvath to see. “We already went through it and there’s nobody on there that matches Helmut Draegar’s description.” “How far back did you go?”

“Hours, just on the off chance that he had snuck in here early and had laid in wait for the victim.”

Harvath fired up the antique dealer’s television and VCR. The tape showed pictures from four different cameras placed throughout the building, including the front and back doors, as well as the garage. “I’m telling you,” said the forensics agent, “we went back and forth over that tape and there was no sign of your man on it at all.

If there was, we would have caught it.” “Not if he didn’t want you to,” replied Harvath as he began shuttling the tape forward. “You just passed at least five guys on there,” said Avigliano, wondering how Harvath could make sense of any of the images at this speed. But somehow, Morrell knew what Harvath was doing and stated, “You’re not looking for guys, are you?”

“Not looking forguys ?

What are you talking about?” asked DeWolfe.

“It would be just like Draegar,” said Alexandra. “Perfect tradecraft.

He’d befriend somebody, probably another tenant, and then use them.” Finally, Harvath found what he was looking for and paused the tape. Yesterday afternoon at 4:07 p.m. a couple entered the building through the garage.

The man’s face was totally obscured from view by the woman who appeared to be helping him carry several packages. “Jesus,” said DeWolfe, “Do you think that’s him?” Harvath advanced the video frame by frame. Draegar was a pro.

With the woman shielding him and his face turned away from the camera, there was absolutely no record of him ever having been in the building. “I know it’s him.” “So he was here, in the building. We know that much,” offered Morrell.

“That’s good.” “We also now know something else,” offered Harvath, as his eyes remained locked on the TV screen. “What’s that?” asked Carlson.

Picking up his CX4 Storm as he headed for the door, Harvath stated, “Where he’s hiding.” Chapter 53

THE WHITE HOUSE STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS—3

HOURS W ith less than three hours before the State of the Union address, president Jack Rutledge had cleared the Oval Office so he could be alone and he now stared at two different folders sitting on the desk in front of him, which contained two very different versions of his State of the Union address. One gave the Russians what they wanted—a message from a humbled American president pulling his country out of the sphere of world politics while, the other was a spit-in-the-eye and a heartyfuck you to any individual, terrorist organization, rogue state, or internationally recognized nation who thought they could blackmail the United States. The irony that one speech lay in a red folder and the other sat in one of presidential blue —all the while separated by a white desk blotter—was not lost on Jack Rutledge.

Meanwhile, outside the Oval Office, Rutledge knew that his aides were pulling their hair out, wondering what his next move would be.

Most of them, along with Congress, save for the absolute diehards, had either been evacuated to a secure location outside the metropolitan DC area, or had been sent home to be with their families while the tangled web of events played out. All that anyone knew at this point was that President Rutledge had taped two State of the Union addresses from the Oval Office and no one was certain which one was going to air. If the truth be told, Rutledge himself didn’t even know.

His daughter, Amanda, had already been evacuated to Andrews Air Force Base and was awaiting him aboard Air Force One while he sat within the deceptive calm of what could only be described as the eye of the most deadly hurricane to ever descend upon the Oval Office. With his personal helicopter, designated asMarine Corps One , sitting hot and ready to move just outside the West Wing, Jack Rutledge tried to put the pleadings of his staff and Secret Service detail out of his mind. Like president George Washington over two hundred years before him, he was bound and determined to deliver his State of the Union address live, not via tape while he and Congress cowered either in a plane 35,000 feet above the United States or deep inside some secret underground complex. What’s more, president Jack Rutledge was going to be damned if his stewardship of the United States of America was going to be undermined by the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics or whatever name the fucking red horde was calling itself these days. Rutledge glanced at his watch and though he knew time was very tight, decided he would wait just a little bit longer.

After all, the Americans had something going for them that the Russians didn’t. Chapter 54

A MullandJacket,” repeated Harvath into his microphone, louder this time so Morrell could hear him over the roar of wind pouring through the Little Bird’s open doors. “It’s a very exclusive tweed coat made for hunting by a company called Holland and Holland. The president gave it to Gary a couple of years back as a gift on one of their pheasant trips and Draegar had one on in that surveillance tape.”

“And that’s what makes you think he’s been using Gary’s house as his home base?”

“Why not?

It makes perfect sense. The FBI has pulled off their surveillance and it’s safer than checking in to a hotel or motel. Draegar’s not stupid. All we’d need to do is circulate his photo and sooner or later we’d have him.”

“Why not shack up with one of the sleepers?”

“I don’t think he trusts them. Would you?

I agree with Sorce that the reason the antiques dealer bought it was because he was probably trying to back out.

If you were having second thoughts, the best thing you could do would be to kill Draegar.”

Harvath paused a moment before continuing. “No, he couldn’t risk counting on the sleepers to put him up. It could jeopardize the entire mission if they were caught together.

He’d want somewhere he knew he could be completely safe. Besides, what better way to rub it in Gary’s face than to use his own place as a safe house?”

“You could burn it,” replied Morrell as an uneasy silence settled over them. They watched as the winter sun sank below the horizon and the helicopter cut through the cold air, west, towards Fairfax.

There were less than three hours to go until the State of the Union. The Little Bird touched down in a field half a mile from Gary Lawlor’s home and rendezvoused with another helicopter transporting two HRT assault teams. In conjunction with Fairfax law enforcement, Harvath helped sketch a picture of Gary’s neighborhood, his property and then the house itself. He detailed all of the windows and doors and then discussed what he felt were the best entry points for the HRT teams, which had been labeled Red Team and Blue Team.

Harvath and Alexandra, along with Morrell and his men, were labeled Gold Team.

Though Director Sorce had been dead set against Alexandra carrying a gun, Harvath gave her his Beretta pistol anyway.

In his mind, if they were all taking the same risks, they all deserved to be afforded the same protections. Once the fine points of the takedown had been established and agreed to, the Fairfax officers transported the three assault teams in as far as they could. A perimeter had been established by uniformed officers for four blocks in every direction around Gary Lawlor’s home. Until Harvath said so, no one was getting in or out of that part of the neighborhood.

Both the MH-6 Little Bird and the HRT chopper were equipped with second generation Forward Looking Infrared and having them keep an eye on things from above made Harvath feel a lot better as he and the rest of his Gold Team crept through the woods bordering the rear of Gary’s property. It was an eerie sensation, not only because he was right back where he had started from a week ago, but because whoever took the picture of him at Gary’s barbecue that he had found onboard theGagarin had come this exact same way. When they reached the edge of the tree line, Harvath used his night vision goggles to scan the property. It didn’t come as much of a surprise that he wasn’t seeing anything. The other teams radioed in from their positions.

Besides a car parked in the driveway in front, there were no other signs that anyone was home. The helicopters weren’t picking up anything from inside the house either. They all knew though, that that didn’t mean there wasn’t a surprise waiting for them.

After all, had the same helicopters been there a week ago, when he was wearing his IR camouflage suit they would have had no idea Harvath was inside. Everyone listened over their earpieces as the Red Team leader counted down the seconds before giving theGo command. Assaulters had positioned themselves under windows and alongside the house with ladders as Harvath and his team crept through the backyard and got ready to breach via the backdoor. To everyone who was there that night, the next several seconds seemed to last a lifetime. When the command came, Red Team tossed flashbang grenades through the front windows and used shock rounds to blow the hinges off the front door.

Blue Team used long poles to break the upper windows and pitch in their flashbangs while the rest of their team scrambled up ladders or tossed more flashbangs through the lower windows and prepared to dive in. Harvath swung an enormous sledgehammer that one of the Fairfax police had given him and shattered the lock assembly on the mudroom door. He and Morrell were first in, followed by Alexandra and then the rest of the team. The mudroom was littered with coats and other assorted items that had been knocked off of the pegs and shelves.

A bucket of Oxyclean had spilled onto the floor and in the greenish glow of his night vision goggles Harvath thought he could make out a footprint. Opening the door to the kitchen, Harvath yelled out, “Banger!”

as Morrell pitched in an underhanded flashbang. The members of Gold Team turned their heads away from the blast and once the device had detonated, rushed into the room unopposed.

None of them noticed the tripwires until it was too late. Alexandra was the only one to hear the slight twang, like a piece of piano wire being plucked, followed by a barely audible pop as the explosive was engaged. “We’ve got a body here,” began one of the members of Blue Team who had come in through one of the house’s second-story windows. He was quickly cut off by Alexandra’s frantic cries of, “Get out!

Get out!

It’s a trap!”

“Gold Team,” said Red Team’s leader with the calm and presence of mind that came with being a seasoned operative, “give us a Sit Rep. What are you looking at?” Harvath’s eyes swept from side to side and then down to the ground, trying to see what Alexandra was yelling about. Morrell did the same, but soon they were both being yanked by their collars as Alexandra pulled them backwards. “The house is booby trapped!

It’s going to explode,” she yelled as the rest of Gold Team cleared the way behind her. “All teams pull your men back now!” Gold Team barely made it out the back door before the house erupted in an incredible pillar of fire. Harvath had seen an explosion like that only once before in his life, and it was in an ATF video of a moonshiner who had convinced himself that with the case against him he had nothing left to live for and had decided to take every government agent into the afterlife with him that he could.

The man had rigged his home with explosives, but had kept gallons upon gallons of accelerant contained in perforated gas cans so there’d be no real smell until it was already too late. The bizarre parallels between the explosions aside, Draegar either had known that someone would be on his trail eventually, or had left a little present for Gary on his eventual return home. Gold Team was showered with broken glass and smoldering debris as they rolled across the backyard and tried to extinguish the burning embers that clung like red-hot coals to their Nomex suits. Had it not been for Alexandra, most of Gold Team would no longer be alive.

The explosives had been concentrated in the center of the house and the trip wires rigged so that entire assault teams would have time to make it inside before the fireworks started. Whoever Draegar was preparing for, he had made sure that there was very little possibility of them getting out alive. That night, the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team suffered more fatalities than during any other assignment in the two plus decades they had been in existence.

Eleven men were dead. While Gold Team wrapped a wrist here and pulled glass out of a laceration there, they each found time to privately thank Alexandra for saving their lives.

Harvath, though, stood off to the side alone and wondered if there was any limit to what Helmut Draegar would do to complete his assignment. It was an exercise in futility.

He knew that there was not only no limit to what Draegar would do to succeed in his mission, but that the man also approached his personal animosities with the same, if not a greater passion. The fire had torched a good portion of the house, a testament to Draegar’s knowledge of explosives and the amount of accelerant he had sloshed around the interior of the structure. Harvath knew that Gary would be heartbroken. He and Heide had built this home together, and it was one of the precious few tangible reminders he still had of their life together.

As multiple fire engine companies arrived to help extinguish the blaze, Harvath became fixated upon the body that the Blue Team operative had seen upstairs, as well as the car, which had been parked in the driveway, and was now nothing more than a flaming hulk. The wondering was killing him and he stuck to the Fairfax County Arson Investigator like glue as the man, along with hastily summoned ATF agents, probed further into the wreckage of Gary Lawlor’s home and the firefighters got the blaze under control. One of the firefighters eventually brought out a badly charred wallet and using a pair of forceps provided by one of the Fairfax EMTs, Harvath pulled out several damaged pieces of identification. Laying them side by side it was easy to see who they had originally belonged to—David Patrick, aide to the Deputy Secretary of the National Security Council.

The firefighters continued to battle the blaze as Harvath regrouped with the rest of his team. “So what the hell do we do now?” asked Avigliano as he flexed his hand and tested the bandage that had been wrapped around his left wrist. “I’ll be fucked if I’m going to stand here and roast marshmallows,” he said and then quickly added for Harvath’s benefit, “No offense.”

Harvath understood his sentiment completely.

When men you know die, not only are the stakes considerably raised, but so is your desire to finish what you and those men had started together. Draegar had made this assignment even more personal for them. With the house in flames, Harvath turned his attention to the car smoldering in Gary Lawlor’s driveway.

He assumed that it belonged to David Patrick, but at the same time, something inside told him that when it came to anything having to do with Helmut Draegar, nothing should be accepted prima facie. He instructed a team of firefighters to get as much water on the car as possible. If the license plates couldn’t be salvaged, he wanted the VIN number, and he wanted it within the next five minutes. The firefighters had the VIN number for him in three.

They were glad that’s all he wanted. Everything else was burned beyond recognition. Harvath asked the Fairfax police chief to run it. In the meantime, SIOC called Harvath with the latest update on the sleeper arrests.

The evidence techs had been instructed to make lists of everything, no matter how insignificant, and to run those lists against what the other field agents were finding. They had come up with two commonalities, neither of which made very much sense. The first, was that each of the sleepers was carrying two portable hydraulic jacks with jack stands in the trunks of their cars and the second, was that in the last twenty-four hours, each sleeper had purchased flowers.

Harvath put the controllers at SIOC on hold while he explained the latest development to Alexandra, only to find she was just as confused as he was. The jacks might have something to do with how heavy the devices were, but why would you need two of them, and what the hell could flowers possibly have to do with what they were up to?
Harvath told SIOC they would get back to them and ended the call.

He and Alexandra were still wondering aloud what the flower connection might be when the Fairfax police chief returned with a positive ID on the car sitting smoking in the driveway. He thanked the chief and then turned toward the backyard and yelled for DeWolfe. The communications expert came limping up on his damaged ankle and asked, “What’s up?”

“We’ve got a positive ID on the car in the driveway.

It’s a Dollar Rent-A-Car out of Dulles from two days ago.” “You want to know who rented it?”

“No,” said Harvath. “I’ve got a pretty good idea who rented it. I want to know where it’s been.”

DeWolfe was wiped out.

He looked from Alexandra to Scot and in all sincerity said, “How the fuck am I supposed to do that?” Harvath could read not only the pain from his injury, but also the stress that was written across the man’s face and replied, “When I was training with the Secret Service before I moved to the White House, I worked a counterfeiting case where some Colombian was bringing bogus fifties and hundreds into the country. The bills were almost perfect. He’d even run them through his clothes dryer at home along with a couple of hundred poker chips to give them just the right look.

We were going crazy trying to nail him. He wasn’t considered a very big fish by the higher-ups, and therefore the amount of resources allocated to the case were less than what we would have liked to have seen.” “But you found a way to pop him anyway, didn’t you?” said DeWolfe.
Harvath smiled and replied, “There’s something about flying into Miami International that automatically makes people forget about everything else. I don’t know if it’s the sea breeze, the palm trees, the beautiful women, or what, but this guy cleared passport control, then customs, and went outside and boarded one of the Thrifty buses to go get his big fancy four-door rental car.” “So?

What does any of that have to do with this car here?”

Harvath was still smiling as he responded, “Thrifty and Dollar both use the same company for fleet management.” “What the hell is fleet management?”

“Something so innocuous sounding that they’ve been able to post it on top of their rental agreements for the last several years without anybody asking any questions.” “I still have no idea what it is.”

“A Canadian company called Air IQ has contracts with rental car companies to install transmitters, like LoJacks, which allows all the movements of all the cars in their fleets to be tracked via satellite.”

Suddenly, DeWolfe was with the program.

“Are you telling me that Dollar knows where this car has been?” “Not Dollar,” responded Harvath, “but Air IQ. I need you to get a hold of them, give them the VIN number and find out everything you can about where this car has been in the last two days.” Chapter 55 A graveyard?” said Harvath.

DeWolfe scanned through the printout that had been faxed to one of Fairfax patrol cars. “That’s what it says here. Two visits to Congressional Cemetery over the past two nights.”

“How’d he get a car in there at night? Don’t they close the gates?” “I asked one of the SIOC guys about that and he told me that the place is open around the clock.” “What about security?”

“Nonexistent.”

“And dead men tell no tales,” said Harvath as the pieces began to come together. Congressional Cemetery was only about three miles from the White House and half that distance from the Capitol. In fact, every major city the Russians had put sleepers in probably had some sort of cemetery close to its most populated area.

Suddenly, the sleepers buying flowers didn’t seem so strange anymore. “I want the exact coordinates of where that car was parked. Have the NEST team ready to move and get SIOC to pull some real time thermal imaging of the cemetery from the National Reconnaissance Office.”

“TheNRO ?

Why not use the HRT bird?” asked DeWolfe. “It has second generation FLIR and can be over the target area in less than fifteen minutes.” “No. No helicopters.

Tell SIOC it has to be satellite. If Draegar’s there, I don’t want him to have any clue that we’re coming. He’s switched cars now, which means he’s being even more careful. Find out the make, model, color—everything about the car Patrick drove—and put out an APB. If anyone sees it, they call it into SIOC, but under no circumstances are they to try to stop it.

Got it?” “Got it. What are you going to do?”

“I’ve got a score to settle for an old friend.”

As the MH-6 Little Bird helicopter raced them due east for the Anacostia Naval Station, Harvath explained that Congressional Cemetery got its name not because one necessarily had to be a member of Congress to be buried there, but rather because of its proximity to the Capitol and the government’s frequent use of it over the last two hundred years. Alexandra was not completely unfamiliar with the Congressional Cemetery and made mention of the fact that the gravesite of former FBI director, J. Edgar Hoover had been a favorite clandestine meeting spot for KGB operatives throughout the seventies and eighties. As interesting as that fact was, Harvath had a feeling they weren’t going to find Draegar just leaning against Hoover’s tombstone. Landing at Anacostia, Harvath received word that the NRO satellite had failed to locate any human heat signatures in the cemetery. They did, though, pick up a warm car engine not too far from where Air IQ had placed Draegar’s rental over the last two nights.

When Harvath asked if the engine was running, he was told that it wasn’t. In fact, it was in the process of cooling down. That could only mean one of two things. Either Draegar had ditched this car as well and was nowhere near the cemetery, or he had settled in and it was just a matter of finding him. But where could he be hiding?

Short of joining the permanent residents, there weren’t that many places in a graveyard where the NRO’s sophisticated, high-tech equipment wouldn’t be able to pick up his heat signature. The Anacostia Naval Station was three miles downriver from the Congressional Cemetery, and Harvath had been serious about keeping any unnecessary helicopters away from the area. Of course, with the State of the Union address less than two hours away, the skies were being heavily patrolled, but buzzing the graveyard would only have served to tip their hand. The best way in was by water.

Because of his bad ankle, DeWolfe was forced to sit this one out.

Everybody else, though, was onboard, their minor injuries all but forgotten as they focused on what lay ahead. The fifteen-foot black Zodiac combat rubber raiding craft was ready and waiting for them as they made their way down to the river. Harvath and the rest of the team checked their weapons and their communications gear one last time before pushing off.

If anything needed fixing or replacing, now was the time to do it. Once they were underway, there was no turning back, not for anything. The silenced outboard drove the heavily reinforced, inflatable craft quickly up the Anacostia. They beached the boat just under the Pennsylvania Avenue Bridge, and covered the rest of the distance on foot.

Based on maps of the cemetery, it had been decided that the best entry point would be over the south wall. Harvath radioed SIOC for a final Sit Rep off the satellite before they went in. “Negative,” came back the voice from SIOC.

“The graveyard is still cold.” No kidding, thought Harvath as he took a deep breath before scaling the wall. Once on the other side, the team fanned out behind the sea of headstones and Harvath pulled out his map of the cemetery.

It was based on a grid system corresponding to range values and site numbers. Though he would have preferred GPS coordinates, it was nevertheless a fairly decent map.

The tiny thoroughfares were well indicated and it wasn’t difficult to place their current position in relation to their objective—a series of family vaults on what the cemetery referred to as “Mausoleum Row.” It had been decided that Harvath and Alexandra would check out Mausoleum Row, while Morrell, Avigliano, and Carlson went to investigate the nearby car, which was parked unusually close to the grave of J. Edgar Hoover. The team split up and Harvath and Alexandra cut across a wide, grassy expanse. As they passed, the headstones glowed a ghostly greenish-white through their night-vision goggles. They hugged the side of a small road until they reached the first intersection, and Mausoleum Row.

The vaults were built into a small hill with regular graves just above and behind them. Harvath was about to try the first iron door when he noticed the second mausoleum’s door was slightly ajar. He traded Alexandra the Beretta carbine for the pistol, which was much more suited for going into such a tight space, and had her stand guard outside. He listened at the door for several seconds until all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart as the blood rushed in and out of his ears.

Harvath grabbed hold of the door with his free hand, and slowly pulled it back, praying there wouldn’t be any loud squeal of metal on metal that would give them away. The old door cooperated and didn’t make a sound. It effortlessly swung back as if on freshly oiled hinges.

As Harvath stepped inside, he suddenly realized what the jacks in the trunks of the sleepers’ cars had been for.

Still secured upon their stands, two hydraulic jacks balanced a marble faceplate easily weighing three or four hundred pounds. Harvath maneuvered around the heavy piece of marble and found a stone bench behind it, which he stood upon to look into the open crypt halfway up the wall. Instead of a coffin, the crypt contained a sophisticated communications array. It appeared he had discovered how Draegar planned on communicating with the sleepers.

By now he would know they had been picked up and would be one desperate man. Harvath wanted Alexandra to see what he was seeing and engaged his throat mike, but there was no response. He was about to try one more time when he heard what he knew in the marrow of his bones was a grenade being rolled into the vault. Without thinking twice, he dropped onto the stone bench behind the faceplate, opened his mouth, closed his eyes, pushed his fingers as far as far as he could into his ears and curled into the tightest fetal position a man had ever attempted.

Harvath had worked with demolitions before, but never in his life had he been so close to such an overwhelming explosion. Despite his desire to keep his mouth open to help equalize the pressure, he bit down so hard he thought for sure he had cracked all of his teeth. The pain of the blast was so intense it felt as if a hand had reached up inside him and was flattening all of his organs. And as for deadening the sound by plugging his ears, he was confident that even Quasimodo himself had never experienced the ringing he was now host to. As the initial shock of sharing a broom closet with a hand grenade began to recede, Harvath assessed the rest of his situation.

The marble faceplate had absorbed most of the grenade’s blast and it now lay on the floor in several pieces. The walls of the mausoleum hadn’t fared much better and were charred and pitted by shrapnel. The ringing in his ears from the grenade was slowly replaced by the ringing of the words of the FBI’s director who asked Harvath what he was prepared to do if Alexandra Ivanova tried to run.

How could he have been so wrong about her? Though his reply to the Director had been simple and to the point, right now putting a bullet in Alexandra Ivanova was a somewhat distant second to what he had been sent here to do.

The mausoleum door had been closed, but not locked and Harvath quietly pushed it open. Knowing that Alexandra still had her radio, he ignored Rick Morrell’s repeated hailings demanding to know what his situation was, and maintained complete radio silence. He knew that Morrell, Avigliano and Carlson would eventually come and investigate the source of the explosion they had heard and as Harvath pressed himself up against the cold stone façade of the mausoleum, he started off into the most likely direction they would be coming from. Suddenly, he heard what sounded like the sharp clap of small arms fire, followed by the broken voice of Rick Morrell crackling through his earpiece, “…under fire…been hit and have two men down.

I repeat, we are under fire and I have two men down.” Harvath began running toward them. He wished like hell that he could have called in for a Sit Rep to see where the shooter was, but it was out of the question. The greatest advantage he had going for him was that Draegar and Alexandra thought he was dead.

As he passed the last mausoleum, an incandescent glow from inside caused Harvath to stop dead in his tracks.

With his Beretta pistol clasped in both hands, he crept closer to the entryway and used his left elbow to pry open the iron door. The entire mausoleum appeared to be lined with lead and it was now clear why they had failed to pick up any heat signatures in the cemetery. He used his night vision goggles to scan the interior and what he saw scared the hell out of him. The marble faceplates of all six crypts had been removed and each one contained a Russian tactical nuke, their display panels flashing, indicating the weapons had been activated.

It was now apparent how the Russians had been so successful in hiding their nukes all of these years. Harvath had been right on the money when he had said, “Dead men tell no tales.” It was also apparent that the previously unaccounted-for nukes were not in the cities of U.S. allies after all, but were right here in Washington. There was enough in this crypt to blow the entire capital off the face of the map and Harvath had a feeling that no matter what speech the president gave, the Russians fully intended to send an overpowering message that times had changed and that they were now in control. The Russians had made one fatal mistake—they hadn’t cleared their message through Scot Harvath, and he was going to be damned if those lying communist bastards caused the collective head of the United States of America to bow even a fraction of an inch in deference to the new world order they planned to unleash.

He’d been to Russia, and he’d seen what a shitty country it was.

As far as he was concerned, they’d gained too much prominence on the world stage, and it wasn’t time for the United States to step back, it was time for someone to shove the Russians the hell off. When a shadow fell across Harvath’s shoulder, he knew he was in trouble. “Don’t bother turning around,” said a voice from behind which he was sure belonged to Helmut Draegar. “Just put your hands up in the air where I can see them.” Harvath did as he was told.

“Good.

Now drop your weapon and kick it away from you, please.” Once again, Harvath complied. “I didn’t know if I would be seeing you again,” Draegar continued in English so perfect, there wasn’t even the hint of an accent, “but I’m glad you’re here. I’m going to slide a pair of handcuffs across the floor to you and I want you to clip one end to your left wrist.”

“Why bother?” asked Harvath. “The whole graveyard is surrounded. You’ll never make it out of here alive.”

“Neither will you I’m afraid,” said Draegar as he laid a pair of cuffs on the ground and kicked them over to Harvath. “Now, do as I say.”

“Why don’t you just shoot me?”

“Your friend Gary Lawlor left me to die in much the same fashion and now I intend to return the favor.”

“By what?

Handcuffing me to one of these nukes? I hate to tell you, but when this thing blows—” said Harvath as he started to turn around to face Draegar. “No moving!” yelled Draegar. “I told you to stay still.

And keep your hands up where I can see them.”

“They’re up and I’m not moving anymore, okay?

Let’s just all stay calm here.”

“Mr. Harvath,” said Draegar as he regained his composure, “Naturally, once the bomb detonates, there will be nothing of you left behind to identify. I realize this. If my goal is to cause Mr. Lawlor an excessive amount of grief, he must be fully aware of how you suffered.

Thankfully, I have a cell phone with a built in camera, which I borrowed from a young government aide who won’t be needing it anymore.” “So that’s your plan? You’re going to strap me to one of these devices and leave me to die?”

“Like I said, it’s exactly what Gary Lawlor did to me. I’m sure the symbolism of my returning the favor won’t be lost on him. Of course, you’re free to try and chew through your wrist or arm to get free.

Trapped animals in the wild, especially wolves, have been known to choose that option. I assure you it’s not a very pleasant alternative, but you do have that choice. You’ll need to make up your mind very quickly though, as the timers are set to give me just enough of a head start to outrun the blast.”

“So regardless of what the president says in his State of the Union address tonight,” replied Harvath, “you’re still going to detonate these nukes.” “You took all of our sleepers offline. All of them!

What choice have you left me? My superiors might disagree with my actions at first, but in time I think they’ll come around. Especially with what’s to be gained.”

“What could you possible gain from this?” asked Harvath as he lowered his hand toward his leg pouch where he’d placed his flashlight. “What’s to gain?

The gains are boundless,” sneered Draegar. “September 11th might have drawn your country together, but an attack of this magnitude coupled with the loss of your entire national leadership will absolutely decimate you. It’s the blow America has needed for decades. Worldwide opinion of the United States is the lowest it has ever been.

Though the attack will be seen as a tragedy, not many tears will be shed for your country.

Like it or not, America will be forced to turn inward and focus on its own rebuilding and with America’s understandable withdrawal from world affairs, Russia will step in and claim its rightful role asthe world superpower.” The man’s unflappable confidence and dedication to his task was chilling. “You forget one thing,” said Harvath. “Every single blast crater will have Russia’s name written all over it.

The residue will be irrefutable proof that the nukes came from your country.” Draegar’s sneer turned into a smile. “Actually, every blast crater will haveyour name written all over it. The fissile material in each of these weapons was taken from one of your Dark Night nuclear devices. The facts will speak for themselves.”

Harvath just shook his head, his hand closing in on his flashlight. He had pulled the same stunt in Berlin without success, but prayed that at much closer range, and in such an enclosed space, this time it would work. “You don’t think so?” chided Draegar, consumed with the hubris of his plan.

“Let me ask you.

Which story do you think the international community will be more prepared to accept? That Russia carried out an unprovoked attack against America or that the arrogant, warmongering United States suffered another catastrophic terrorist attack because of its insidious desire to force its will on the rest of the world? People have suspected for years that many of our suitcase nukes have gone missing. They just didn’t know that we were the ones who took them.”

“You’ll never get away with it,” said Harvath. Draegar laughed and raised his prosthetic hand in salute. “Somehow I knew you were going to say that. But no more games now.

I hope you brought your appetite. The sooner you get started, the sooner you may actually get out of here. Chew, chew, chew.”

As Draegar stepped forward to make sure his prisoner properly cuffed himself, Harvath pulled out his flashlight, flipped up the filter and said, “Chew on this, asshole,” as he depressed the thumb switch on the tail-cap.

While the former Spetsnaz soldier and East German Stasi operative had been able to dodge the overwhelming 225-lumen beam in Berlin, this time he wasn’t so lucky. The man was instantly blinded. Harvath dove to the ground and struggled to get to his Beretta before Draegar could raise his own weapon and fire. But all at once, he knew his efforts were in vain.

The figure of Alexandra Ivanova had appeared in the doorway and the room was instantly filled with brilliant muzzle flashes accompanied by the sharp reports of the CX4 Storm carbine Harvath had given her. Chapter 56 THE WHITE HOUSE TWO DAYS LATER H arvath avoided the hustle and bustle of Pennsylvania Avenue and entered the White House via the southwest gate. Unlike previous visits, he was asked to wait in the guardhouse until his escort arrived. It seemed an odd request, as Harvath was a former member of the president’s protective detail and had never been asked to wait before.

When Secret Service Agents Tom Hollenbeck, Chris Longo, and Kate Palmer arrived to walk him up West Executive Avenue, he had a feeling something was up. As they walked, his friends made small talk. Palmer told him how good he looked, while Hollenbeck and Longo regaled him with stories about the two nurses they had met at the hospital in Berlin. Though the trio refused to tell him why he needed an escort, Harvath decided not to press it and instead took the good-natured, albeit incessant, ribbing in stride.

He allowed himself a few minutes to get lost in the unseasonably warm February day and the relaxed fellowship of his former Secret Service coworkers—each of whom mattered more to him than they would ever know. After holding the door open as they arrived at the West Wing, Hollenbeck jumped ahead of the party and steered them toward the White House Mess.
“Tom,” said Harvath. “What’s going on?”

“They’re not ready for you yet in the Situation Room, so I thought we might get a cup of coffee together in the Mess,” replied Hollenbeck. Though Harvath was wary, he went along with the request and the minute he turned into the cafeteria he was greeted by an overwhelming wave of applause.

In addition to all of his former Secret Service colleagues, it appeared as if every White House staffer was in attendance. Uncomfortable with such fulsome praise, Harvath thought things couldn’t get any worse until Dr. Skip Trawick popped up in the back of the room with a pint glass in hand and began singing in his mock Scottish accent, “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” The rest of the assembled guests joined in and Harvath had to suffer through it until they finished and a glass of punch was shoved into his hand.

He was then led over to a cake decorated with an American flag and

the wordsForever May She Wave where he cut the first piece and then handed the knife over to Longo and placed him in charge. A call came over Tom Hollenbeck’s earpiece and he waded through the crowd of grateful well-wishers to extricate Harvath and accompany him to the Situation Room. “They don’t really have any idea of what we did, do they?” asked Harvath as they exited the Mess.

“Not really,” answered Hollenbeck.

“Technically, the entire event with the Russians never happened.” “Then what was that all about?” “The White House needed a reason to explain why Congress had been put into hiding and the president had conducted his State of the Union address from the White House. As far as the press and everyone else is concerned, there was a credible terrorist threat against the capitol, and you and Gary Lawlor, along with several federal law enforcement agencies and the DC Metro Police, helped to neutralize that threat. The folks at the White House just wanted to show their appreciation.”

“Folks at the White House,” asked Harvath, “or you, Longo, and Palmer?”

Hollenbeck stopped and turned to face Harvath. “So what if they don’t know what really happened? The gratitude you witnessed and hopefully felt back there was genuine. For once in your life, take a moment and enjoy some of the praise that you so rightfully deserve. You’re damn good at your job, Scot, and your country is lucky to have you.”

Hollenbeck didn’t wait for Harvath to respond. In fact, he didn’t want any response from Harvath, that’s not why he said what he had said. He said it because he meant it. When he took his little boy to ball games and sang “The Star Spangled Banner,” when they got to the part about America being the land of the free and the home of the brave, there was a handful of guys he thought about and Harvath was one of them.

They arrived at the security checkpoint before Harvath could come up with anything to say. Hollenbeck briefly put a hand on his shoulder and then turned and walked away as the two Marine guards looked over Harvath’s ID and waved him through. There was the familiar hiss as the airlock released and the Situation Room door swung open. As Harvath entered, he expected to see a mass of agency heads seated at the long cherrywood table, but there were only three people present—the president, Defense Secretary Hilliman, and General Paul Venrick, commander of the Joint Special Operations Command.

Though Harvath had no idea how they had gotten hold of it so fast, each of them had a small piece of his cake sitting in front of them.

Harvath took a seat where the president indicated and waited for the commander in chief to start the meeting. “For once, I find myself in a meeting with no idea of how to begin,” said the president, with more than his customary economy of sentiment. Harvath was at a loss by the show of emotion on the face of the normally rock-steady man. The uncomfortable silence that descended upon the Situation Room was broken when General Venrick took the lead, stood up from his chair, and saluted Scot Harvath. The General was quickly joined by Secretary Hilliman, and even the president himself.

The men held their salute until Harvath rose from his chair and returned their expression of esteem. No matter what followed, this moment was the greatest honor Scot Harvath had ever experienced in his life. “Okay,” said the president, sitting down and stabbing at a piece of cake, “let’s bring Scot up to speed.”

Defense Secretary Hilliman was the first to speak. He described how the FBI, in conjunction with NEST teams from the Department of Energy, had been able to locate all of the sleepers’ nukes in each city and successfully deactivate them.

Each had been hidden in a mausoleum with the same family name as the one Scot and Alexandra had uncovered in the Congressional Cemetery—Lenin. While on the subject of Alexandra, Hilliman explained the high points of her debriefing. While waiting for Harvath outside the first mausoleum, she had heard something and thought it might be Draegar. She went to investigate, but it had been a ruse. Draegar drew her away from the mausoleum, and the next thing she heard was the explosion.

By the time she saw Draegar again, he had already attacked Morrell and his men and was making his way back to the mausoleum where he was holding Harvath captive. Hilliman went on to explain that Alexandra had been offered asylum, but had asked instead that General Stavropol’s journal be entrusted to her care. Other than that, all she wanted was a flight home. As those were her only requests, the United States had willingly granted them to her, after, of course, photocopies had been made and she had fully explained how to decipher the coded entries.

Once the report that Gary Lawlor was doing much better and would be transported Stateside soon was delivered, Secretary Hilliman turned over the meeting to General Venrick. “The President,” began Venrick, “has asked me here to bring you up to speed on the operations end of things.” “What’s our position with the Russians after all of this?” “They still claim that the nukes we uncovered here had been stolen from them.”

“After everything that’s happened, they’re still denying it?” asked Harvath. “The Russians aren’t going to pay any price?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. They’ve definitely paid a price. Not only did you sink two of their Sokzhoi patrol boats, but thanks to you and the rest of the team, you were also able to sink theGagarin .

That was a major tactical coup. “In the meantime, we’ve got our people working around the clock on the notes and schematics that Dr. Nesterov left behind. The NSA already thinks they’ve found a way to subvert the Russian air defense system if they ever bring it back up on line.”

“What do you think the chances of that happening are?” asked Harvath. “At this point, not so good.

We’ve already quietly gotten word to the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund about what the Russians have been doing with their aid money, and they are not very happy.” “So what’s next?” Defense Secretary Hilliman leaned forward and taking a handkerchief from his pocket, took off his glasses and began cleaning them.

“Things are going to get pretty frosty for Moscow. They were a pain in the ass for us during the whole Iraq situation, and we’ve now seen that we can’t trust them at all as an ally. While it would be foolish for us to completely break off ties with them altogether, they are going to be relegated to a very low rung on our ladder of diplomatic and international priorities.” The president stood and walked around the table.

Upon reaching Scot he extended his hand and said, “You are one of the most valuable assets the United States has. Your patriotism, loyalty, and service to your country is something that we will always be grateful for. Don’t ever forget that.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied Harvath.

“I won’t.”

“Good. There’s something else. Until Gary Lawlor is back on his feet, I need you to handle things at the OIIA.

Do you think you can do that?”

“Those are some pretty big shoes to fill,” answered Harvath. The president smiled. “I’ve already talked it over with Gary, and he agrees with me that there’s nobody better suited to do it. Just don’t get too comfortable.

He’ll be back to work before you know it.” “I’m looking forward to that. Thank you, Mr. President.

I’ll do my best.” Sensing that the meeting was over, Harvath added, “Is there anything else, Mr. President?”

The president looked at his watch and indicated that Harvath should remain seated. Fifteen seconds later, the voice of Charles Anderson, the president’s chief of staff came over the speaker phone and said, “Mr. President, I have President Nevkin of Russia on the line.”

“Good,” responded Rutledge. “Put him through.”

“President Rutledge.

Jack,” came the voice of the Russian president over the speaker phone.

“You certainly have taken your time in getting back to me.” “As you are well aware, we’ve been a little busy here.” “So I have seen on the news, but so busy that you were not able to return my phone calls?”

“President Nevkin,” said Rutledge, “Let’s not waste each other’s time.

Tomorrow afternoon at approximately 1300 GMT, an American C-130 is going to land on the Valhalla Ice Shelf three miles below the North Pole. Onboard will be the man-portable nuclear devices you planted in our country.” “But, Jack, I told you they were stolen by the—” began Nevkin.

“Chechens, I remember. We also have eighteen sleeper agents from your country in custody complete with enough evidence to bury you for the next two hundred years.” “These aren’t Russian agents.

Whomever you have caught are terrorists,” replied the Russian president. “Plain and simple.”

“Terrorists,” laughed Rutledge, “If that’s what you’re calling your disavowed agents, that’s fine by me. But you and I both know who they are, why they were here, and who sent them.”

“This comes as a complete shock,” said Nevkin. “If it does turn out that these ‘sleepers’ as you call them were indeed sent by someone in Russia, I can guarantee you that I had no idea that—” Rutledge was sick of listening to the Russian president’s BS and said, “No more lies, Dmitri. You made your move and you lost. There is going to be a very heavy price to pay for what your country has done.

And believe me, Russia is going to pay it, whether you like it or not. In the days ahead, against my better judgment, I am going to exhibit tremendous restraint. That said, I suggest you get out of Moscow for a bit.

I’ll give you my personal guarantee that your villa on the Black Sea won’t be targeted.”

The Russian president was aghast. “Certainly,” he implored, “you are not going to conduct a nuclear strike against the Russian Federation.” “No,” replied Rutledge, “but we are going to respond. And whatever we do, you are going to absorb it without retaliation.”

“Jack how can you expect—” “That’sMr.

President to you,” said Rutledge. “You thought you could hold the United States of America hostage and you were wrong, dead wrong. Now it’s time to pay the piper.

I’ll extend you the courtesy of telling you that we are only targeting military and governmental assets. You have twelve hours to get your people out. You brought this upon yourself and if you even think of engaging any of our fighter aircraft or attempt to shoot down any of our missiles I will not only double, but treble our retaliation. Is this clear?”

There was a long moment of silence before the Russian president responded, “Yes, it is clear.”

Rutledge disconnected the call and turned to Harvath. “So?

How’d I do?”

“Perfect.

I couldn’t have handled it better myself.” “I’m glad you agree,” responded Rutledge. “Now get upstairs and enjoy yourself. No disappearing out the back door.” Scot stood from his chair.

“Is that an order, sir?”

“You’d better believe it.” “Then I’m on my way.”

Epilogue CORONADO, CALIFORNIA

TWO MONTHS LATER T hough it was two months overdue, it was finally the fitting memorial service Maureen Harvath had envisioned to mark the ten years since the passing of her husband, Michael. The day had been long and emotional.

After dropping Mrs. Harvath back at home, Scot, Meg, and Gary returned to the Hotel Del Coronado. While Gary had been given permission by his doctors to travel, he still wasn’t back to full speed and declined joining Scot and Meg for a drink in the bar. Scot ordered a margarita for himself and a glass of wine for Meg, and when their drinks arrived, they took them outside. The sun was just beginning to set as they took off their shoes and walked down to the Hotel Del’s white sand beach.

As they strolled, Harvath reminisced about his grueling SEAL training, most of which had taken place not very far from where they were right now. Meg put her feet in the surf and got a laugh out of Scot when she commented on how cold the water was. Those had been some of the toughest days of his life, and he remembered at times envying the families and casual tourists strolling along the beach while he and his fellow classmates endured frigid swims, never-ending runs, and being forced to help hold a combat rubber raiding craft above his head until he thought for sure his arms were going to fall off. Looking back on it now he realized that while he was competing against his classmates and most definitely against the elements, more than anything else he had been competing against himself.

He had also come to another realization. Scot Harvath was comfortable with who he was and what he did for a living. Though his father might have had some influence on his becoming a SEAL, it was Scot who had mustered the strength, stamina, and integrity to stay one.

Yes, he loved his father very much and he missed him too, but who his father had been had nothing to do with who he was now. The career changes from SEAL to Secret Service and now OIIA had nothing to do with trying to please his deceased father. It was about finding new challenges for himself and being there when his country needed him most. The fact that the highest point in his life had come when he had been saluted by General Venrick, Defense Secretary Hilliman, and President Rutledge two months prior in the White House Situation Room, told him everything he needed to know about himself.

Harvath didn’t require accolades or parties in his honor; that wasn’t why he did what he did. Scot Harvath did what he did out of honor. An honor instilled in him by his father, but an honor which he had come to know, understand and deserve as an adult. While he couldn’t go back and fix the way things had been between them when his father had died, he could appreciate the man for who he was.

Scot also came to peace with the fact that he was proud of himself and what he had been able to accomplish and in life that was all that mattered. As Meg walked beside him, she slipped a reassuring arm around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. They had done a lot of talking over the last two months and had both come to the conclusion that slowing down didn’t have to be a bad thing.

Scot had the brand new OIIA to help organize, and Meg decided that it would be best for her to develop a client base in DC first, before possibly relocating her office there. For the time being they would coordinate their schedules so they could see each other

whenever they could and decided that if things between them were really meant to be, then everything would work out—long-distance relationship and all. Scot put his arm around Meg, and they watched as the sun slid beneath the horizon and was swallowed up by the deep Pacific Ocean.

Neither of them was in a hurry to get back to the hotel. It was their last night together and in the morning they’d be taking two different planes to two different cities. They dragged their feet in the sand, each silently asking time to slow down, but eventually arrived back where they started.

Part of Harvath was tempted to hold onto Meg, keep walking and never look back, but when he saw Gary Lawlor standing on the steps of the Babcock & Story bar, his curiosity got the better of him and he steered Meg away from the beach and toward the hotel. “I thought Gary turned in early,” said Meg upon seeing Lawlor perched at the top of the stairs. “Me too,” replied Harvath. “Maybe he’s changed his mind about having a drink with us.”

“Maybe,” said Scot, though by the look on Gary’s face, he doubted it. As they approached, Gary put on a smile for Meg’s benefit and asked, “It looked like a beautiful sunset. Did you have a nice walk?”

“We did,” replied Meg, who then asked, “Did you change your mind about having a drink?”

Gary’s smile faded. “Actually, no.

I need to talk to Scot.”

Harvath knew it. “What about?”

“I just received a call from DC. We’ve got a situation.” “What kind of situation?”

“There was a shooting in Paris at the Montparnasse train station.

You’ll be briefed en route with all the details. Your plane leaves at midnight.” Harvath began to probe for more details but was interrupted by Meg as she slipped her arm through his and said to Gary, “I’ll have him packed and downstairs by 10:30.” “The car’s going to be here for him at ten,” replied Lawlor.

Catching the look on Meg’s face, he smiled and said, “but 10:30 will be just fine.” Author’s Note Scores of Russian KGB and Russian military intelligence officials who have defected to the United States over the last fifteen years claim that the Soviet Union hid numerous man-portable, suitcase-sized nuclear weapons in caches across the United States. Both the FBI and CIA have expended vast amounts of money and manpower to locate these caches (which they also believe contain cash, radios, pistols, and other items necessary to support Russian sleeper agents positioned throughout America), but have come up empty.

Though the matter has never been resolved, many in the Department of Defense and the intelligence community still believe these weapons caches exist.

Acknowledgments As I have mentioned in previous acknowledgement sections of my novels, no author is an island unto himself. There is no way I could do what I do without the generous help of others, and I owe the following a deep debt: First and foremost, I want to thank my beautiful wife,Trish. Not only did she support me all the way through the writing of this book, she also gave birth to our first child.

Marrying her was the smartest thing I ever did. Honey, thank you for our beautiful baby and for your unwavering support of my career. Chad Norberg:Once again, your insight into geopolitics, wide sweeping knowledge of the way the real world works, and your grating sense of humor have all come together to help see me through another odyssey. Thanks for everything.

Chuck Fretwell:His keen eye for detail and unfailing commitment to the right way of getting things done have proven a godsend to me on more than one occasion. Nothing gets by Chuck and I’m honored to have had so much of his help throughout the writing of this book, both within the Special Operations community and without. Many thanks.

Steven Hoffa:Hoffa’s help on this book, especially in the area of tradecraft, went beyond measure, and he has my deepest gratitude. Steve, I mean it when I say that I couldn’t have done this without your incredibly generous assistance. Mike Noell,US Navy SEAL (retired):

In addition to being an invaluable resource for me when it comes to SEAL culture, tactics, etc., I have a tremendous amount of respect for Mike, who has seen more than his fair share of action around the world and now helps to make sure that the good guys have every advantage.

William Kinane,FBI (retired): Bill served with great distinction as legal attaché at the American embassy in Moscow, establishing the official liaison with the MBD (Ministry of Interior), the national police force of Russia, the FSB, the Prosecutor’s Office, and the Tax Police regarding Organized Crime, Terrorism, Movement of Nuclear Materials and Fraud-Corruption investigation. When it came to Russia, its culture, and the inner workings of its intelligence and military organizations, Bill’s help was invaluable. Scott Hill, Ph.D.:Scott, as always, I appreciate not only your friendship, but your willingness to brainstorm both character development and plot points with me.

You are one of my key sharpshooters and your aim never faltered. Gary Penrith,FBI (retired): Once again, thanks for helping answer all of my questions and of course, thanks to you and Lynne for the ongoing learning process at our annual in Sun Valley. Colonel Robert Birmingham,US Army (retired): As former head of the army’s Comanche Helicopter Program, Bob helped out in several key areas and his assistance was very much appreciated. Frank Gallagher,FBI (retired): Several FBI elements, including the SIOC and related scenes at headquarters would not have come together in this book if it weren’t for Frank, who is still a gentleman of the highest order.

Gabriel DePlano,Beretta USA: A great guy who was always there for me when I wanted to know more about Beretta products. Thanks not only for the technical assistance, but also for offering to read relevant sections of the book. Patrick Doak & David Vennett:My two Washington insiders who are both serving their country with distinction in two different areas of the government. I owe you both more than a couple of drinks the next time we get together.

Mike McCarey:Ballistics, body armor, tactical gear, Mike’s knowledge of what the good guys carry and how they use it is bottomless. Thanks for all of your help and the indepth education.

Richard Levy,American Airlines: My very good friend whose knowledge of aviation and all things German was once again right on point. The next time I’m in Dallas,I’m picking up the tab. Dan Brown & Kyle Mills:I couldn’t be happier for your respective successes. Thanks for being there to talk about the process. Your wit and wisdom went further than you can imagine.

I would also like to thank: “Crazy” Kenny Murrayfor his help in the flashbang department. John Chaffee, Ph.D. for plugging me in with the portable nuke info. Charlie Connolly for his international economic info.

Richard R. Greene, LD for his O.R. assistance.

Phil Redman for his communications wisdom.

Tom Gosse for the interment lesson, as well asBill Fecke who went the extra mile for me at Congressional Cemetery. Bob Boettcher for his help with the Citation X.

And finally,Rudi Asseer at Farallon for all the DPV help.

In addition to those mentioned above, there are a handful of very key people I couldn’t live without: Emily Bestler,Atria Books, who is my superb editor. It hardly seems fair to call what we do together work. Thanks for keeping me on the straight and narrow, and for becoming such a wonderful friend in the process. Heide Lange,Sanford J. Greenburger Associates, who is my agent extraordinaire. Thanks not only for feeding me dinner the night the lights went out in NYC, but for every other thing, both great and small, you do for me on a daily basis.

Judith Curr & Louise Burke,Atria/Pocket Books, who are my publishers both in hardcover and paperback. In addition to having a fabulous agent and editor, as a writer you also need to have terrific publishers who believe in your work and want to do whatever it takes to help you succeed. I am fortunate enough to have that in both Judith and Louise.

Esther Sung and Sarah Branham,who put in loads of work day in and day out, yet still found time to make some major contributions to the novel. As always, I am deeply appreciative. Scott Schwimer,who is equal parts brains and brawn.

I sleep a lot sounder at night knowing he is on my side of the table. Thanks for being my guide through the maze of Hollywood.

The Atria/Pocket Sales Force—Simply put, nobody does it better. Thank you for everything you have done and continue to do for me. The Atria/Pocket Art Department—Paolo, et al., thanks once again for the fabulous artwork.

The Atria/Pocket Books Publicity Department—Radio, TV, print…you always have a million balls in the air and you handle every single one of them masterfully. Many, many thanks.

Finally, I couldn’t close without thanking you, the readers. In the end, all of the hard work is for you. Thank you for your continued support and all of the wonderful letters and emails.

Sincerely, Brad Thor
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.

“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?” Mr. Bennet replied that he had not. “But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.”

Mr. Bennet made no answer.

“Do not you want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife, impatiently. “_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.” [Illustration: “He came down to see the place” [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]

This was invitation enough.

“Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end of next week.” “What is his name?”

“Bingley.”

“Is he married or single?” “Oh, single, my dear, to be sure!

A single man of large fortune; four or five thousand a year.

What a fine thing for our girls!”

“How so?

how can it affect them?” “My dear Mr. Bennet,” replied his wife, “how can you be so tiresome? You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.”

“Is that his design in settling here?” “Design?

Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he _may_

fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes.”

“I see no occasion for that.

You and the girls may go--or you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better; for as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley might like you the best of the party.” “My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of beauty, but I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five grown-up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty.” “In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.”

“But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into the neighbourhood.” “It is more than I engage for, I assure you.” “But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go, merely on that account; for in general, you know, they visit no new comers.

Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for _us_ to visit him, if you do not.” “You are over scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls--though I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy.” “I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others: and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia.

But you are always giving _her_ the preference.”

“They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he: “they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters.” “Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves.” “You mistake me, my dear.

I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these twenty years at least.”

“Ah, you do not know what I suffer.”

“But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.” “It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you will not visit them.” “Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them all.” Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character.

_

Her_ mind was less difficult to develope. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married: its solace was visiting and news. [Illustration: M^{r.} & M^{rs.}

Bennet

[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]

[Illustration: “I hope Mr. Bingley will like it” [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] CHAPTER II.

[Illustration] Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was paid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed her with,-- “I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.”

“We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,” said her mother, resentfully, “since we are not to visit.”

“But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that we shall meet him at the assemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him.” “I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces of her own.

She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion of her.” “No more have I,” said Mr. Bennet; “and I am glad to find that you do not depend on her serving you.”

Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but, unable to contain herself, began scolding one of her daughters. “Don’t keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven’s sake!

Have a little compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.”

“Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,” said her father; “she times them ill.” “I do not cough for my own amusement,” replied Kitty, fretfully. “When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?”

“To-morrow fortnight.”

“Ay, so it is,” cried her mother, “and Mrs. Long does not come back till the day before; so, it will be impossible for her to introduce him, for she will not know him herself.” “Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce Mr. Bingley to _her_.” “Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him myself; how can you be so teasing?”

“I honour your circumspection.

A fortnight’s acquaintance is certainly very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture, somebody else will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their chance; and, therefore, as she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will take it on myself.”

The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, “Nonsense, nonsense!” “What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?” cried he. “Do you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on them, as nonsense?

I cannot quite agree with you _there_.

What say you, Mary? For you are a young lady of deep reflection, I know, and read great books, and make extracts.” Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how.

“While Mary is adjusting her ideas,” he continued, “let us return to Mr.
Bingley.”

“I am sick of Mr. Bingley,” cried his wife. “I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did you not tell me so before? If I had known as much this morning, I certainly would not have called on him.

It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaintance now.” The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished--that of Mrs.
Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though when the first tumult of joy was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the while. “How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should persuade you at last.

I was sure you loved your girls too well to neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! And it is such a good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning, and never said a word about it till now.” “Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr. Bennet; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.

“What an excellent father you have, girls,” said she, when the door was shut. “I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness; or me either, for that matter. At our time of life, it is not so pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new acquaintances every day; but for your sakes we would do anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_ the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball.”

“Oh,” said Lydia, stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the youngest, I’m the tallest.”

The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would return Mr. Bennet’s visit, and determining when they should ask him to dinner. [Illustration: “I’m the tallest”] [Illustration:      “He rode a black horse” ] CHAPTER III.

[Illustration] Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him in various ways, with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all; and they were at last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour, Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been delighted with him.

He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively hopes of Mr. Bingley’s heart were entertained. “If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,” said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, “and all the others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish for.”

In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit, and sat about ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining, from an upper window, that he wore a blue coat and rode a black horse.

An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards despatched; and already had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town the following day, and consequently unable to accept the honour of their invitation, etc.

Mrs. Bennet was quite disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that he might always be flying about from one place to another, and never settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a little by starting the idea of his [Illustration:      “When the Party entered”

[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] being gone to London only to get a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly.

The girls grieved over such a number of ladies; but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing that, instead of twelve, he had brought only six with him from London, his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered the assembly-room, it consisted of only five altogether: Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another young man. Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike: he had a pleasant countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women, with an air of decided fashion.

His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and the report, which was in general circulation within five minutes after his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud, to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his large estate in Derbyshire could save him from having a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his friend. Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal people in the room: he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance, was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for themselves.

What a contrast between him and his friend!

Mr. Darcy danced only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party. His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again. Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of his general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his having slighted one of her daughters.

Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough for her to overhear a conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes to press his friend to join it. “Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.”

“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable.

Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.” “I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Bingley, “for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them, you see, uncommonly pretty.”

“_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr.
Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet. “Oh, she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable.

Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.” [Illustration: “She is tolerable” [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] “Which do you mean?” and turning round, he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till, catching her eye, he withdrew his own, and coldly said, “She is tolerable: but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”

Mr. Bingley followed his advice.

Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth remained with no very cordial feelings towards him. She told the story, however, with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous. The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family.

Mrs.
Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as her mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane’s pleasure.

Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been fortunate enough to be never without partners, which was all that they had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up.

With a book, he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a good deal of curiosity as to the event of an evening which had raised such splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that all his wife’s views on the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found that he had a very different story to hear. “Oh, my dear Mr. Bennet,” as she entered the room, “we have had a most delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there.

Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Everybody said how well she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with her twice. Only think of _that_, my dear: he actually danced with her twice; and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand up with her; but, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody can, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going down the dance.

So he inquired who she was, and got introduced, and asked her for the two next. Then, the two third he danced with Miss King, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the _Boulanger_----”

“If he had had any compassion for _me_,” cried her husband impatiently, “he would not have danced half so much! For God’s sake, say no more of his partners.

O that he had sprained his ancle in the first dance!” “Oh, my dear,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively handsome!

and his sisters are charming women. I never in my life saw anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs. Hurst’s gown----” Here she was interrupted again.

Mr. Bennet protested against any description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit, and some exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy. “But I can assure you,” she added, “that Lizzy does not lose much by not suiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited, that there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very great!

Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my dear, to have given him one of your set-downs. I quite detest the man.”

[Illustration] CHAPTER IV.

[Illustration] When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister how very much she admired him. “He is just what a young-man ought to be,” said she, “sensible, good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners! so much ease, with such perfect good breeding!”

“He is also handsome,” replied Elizabeth, “which a young man ought likewise to be if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete.”

“I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I did not expect such a compliment.”

“Did not you? _

I_ did for you. But that is one great difference between us.

Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_ never. What could be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help seeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for that.

Well, he certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a stupider person.” “Dear Lizzy!”

“Oh, you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general. You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable in your eyes.

I never heard you speak ill of a human being in my life.” “I would wish not to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always speak what I think.” “I know you do: and it is _that_ which makes the wonder.

With _your_ good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of others!

Affectation of candour is common enough; one meets with it everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design,--to take the good of everybody’s character and make it still better, and say nothing of the bad,--belongs to you alone.

And so, you like this man’s sisters, too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his.” “Certainly not, at first; but they are very pleasing women when you converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother, and keep his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming neighbour in her.”

Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced: their behaviour at the assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more quickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister, and with a judgment, too, unassailed by any attention to herself, she was very little disposed to approve them. They were, in fact, very fine ladies; not deficient in good-humour when they were pleased, nor in the power of being agreeable where they chose it; but proud and conceited. They were rather handsome; had been educated in one of the first private seminaries in town; had a fortune of twenty thousand pounds; were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and of associating with people of rank; and were, therefore, in every respect entitled to think well of themselves and meanly of others.

They were of a respectable family in the north of England; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their memories than that their brother’s fortune and their own had been acquired by trade. Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an estate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and sometimes made choice of his county; but, as he was now provided with a good house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those who best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the remainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to purchase. His sisters were very anxious for his having an estate of his own; but though he was now established only as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no means unwilling to preside at his table; nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had married a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider his house as her home when it suited her.

Mr. Bingley had not been of age two years when he was tempted, by an accidental recommendation, to look at Netherfield House. He did look at it, and into it, for half an hour; was pleased with the situation and the principal rooms, satisfied with what the owner said in its praise, and took it immediately. Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of a great opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the easiness, openness, and ductility of his temper, though no disposition could offer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he never appeared dissatisfied.

On the strength of Darcy’s regard, Bingley had the firmest reliance, and of his judgment the highest opinion. In understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient; but Darcy was clever.

He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and fastidious; and his manners, though well bred, were not inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was sure of being liked wherever he appeared; Darcy was continually giving offence.

The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently characteristic. Bingley had never met with pleasanter people or prettier girls in his life; everybody had been most kind and attentive to him; there had been no formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted with all the room; and as to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an angel more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection of people in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for none of whom he had felt the smallest interest, and from none received either attention or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty; but she smiled too much.

Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so; but still they admired her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one whom they should not object to know more of. Miss Bennet was therefore established as a sweet girl; and their brother felt authorized by such commendation to think of her as he chose. [Illustration: [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] CHAPTER V.
[Illustration] Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets were particularly intimate.

Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the honour of knighthood by an address to the king during his mayoralty. The distinction had, perhaps, been felt too strongly. It had given him a disgust to his business and to his residence in a small market town; and, quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house about a mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge; where he could think with pleasure of his own importance, and, unshackled by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the world.

For, though elated by his rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention to everybody. By nature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his presentation at St. James’s had made him courteous. Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet.

They had several children. The eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was Elizabeth’s intimate friend. That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate. “_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet, with civil self-command, to Miss Lucas.

“_You_ were Mr. Bingley’s first choice.” “Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.” “Oh, you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice.

To be sure that _did_ seem as if he admired her--indeed, I rather believe he _did_--I heard something about it--but I hardly know what--something about Mr. Robinson.” “Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson: did not I mention it to you?

Mr. Robinson’s asking him how he liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many pretty women in the room, and _which_ he thought the prettiest?

and his answering immediately to the last question, ‘Oh, the eldest Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt: there cannot be two opinions on that point.’ ”

“Upon my word!

Well, that was very decided, indeed--that does seem as if--but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.” “_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza,” said Charlotte. “Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend, is he?

Poor Eliza! to be only just _tolerable_.” “I beg you will not put it into Lizzy’s head to be vexed by his ill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man that it would be quite a misfortune to be liked by him.

Mrs. Long told me last night that he sat close to her for half an hour without once opening his lips.” [Illustration: “Without once opening his lips”

[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] “Are you quite sure, ma’am?

Is not there a little mistake?” said Jane. “I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.”

“Ay, because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he could not help answering her; but she said he seemed very angry at being spoke to.”

“Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, “that he never speaks much unless among his intimate acquaintance. With _them_ he is remarkably agreeable.” “I do not believe a word of it, my dear.

If he had been so very agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it was; everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare say he had heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had to come to the ball in a hack chaise.”

“I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,” said Miss Lucas, “but I wish he had danced with Eliza.”

“Another time, Lizzy,” said her mother, “I would not dance with _him_, if I were you.”

“I believe, ma’am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with him.”

“His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend _me_

so much as pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a _right_ to be proud.”

“That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily forgive _his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_.”

“Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed; that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves; vanity to what we would have others think of us.”

“If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,” cried a young Lucas, who came with his sisters, “I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine every day.” “Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,” said Mrs.
Bennet; “and if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle directly.”

The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she would; and the argument ended only with the visit. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VI.

[Illustration] The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield.

The visit was returned in due form. Miss Bennet’s pleasing manners grew on the good-will of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was found to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to, a wish of being better acquainted with _them_ was expressed towards the two eldest. By Jane this attention was received with the greatest pleasure; but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of everybody, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them; though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value, as arising, in all probability, from the influence of their brother’s admiration.

It was generally evident, whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her; and to _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a way to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane united with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and an uniform cheerfulness of manner, which would guard her from the suspicions of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend, Miss Lucas. “It may, perhaps, be pleasant,” replied Charlotte, “to be able to impose on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the dark.

There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all _begin_ freely--a slight preference is natural enough; but there are very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement. In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better show _more_ affection than she feels.

Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.” “But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If _I_ can perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton indeed not to discover it too.”

“Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane’s disposition as you do.” “But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavor to conceal it, he must find it out.” “Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her.

But though Bingley and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and as they always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in conversing together.

Jane should therefore make the most of every half hour in which she can command his attention. When she is secure of him, there will be leisure for falling in love as much as she chooses.” “Your plan is a good one,” replied Elizabeth, “where nothing is in question but the desire of being well married; and if I were determined to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But these are not Jane’s feelings; she is not acting by design.

As yet she cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard, nor of its reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four dances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house, and has since dined in company with him four times.

This is not quite enough to make her understand his character.”

“Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she might only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must remember that four evenings have been also spent together--and four evenings may do a great deal.”

“Yes: these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they both like Vingt-un better than Commerce, but with respect to any other leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded.” “Well,” said Charlotte, “I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a twelvemonth.

Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.” “You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound.

You know it is not sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.”

Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley’s attention to her sister, Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty: he had looked at her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had hardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes.

To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness.

Of this she was perfectly unaware: to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance with. He began to wish to know more of her; and, as a step towards conversing with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas’s, where a large party were assembled.

“What does Mr. Darcy mean,” said she to Charlotte, “by listening to my conversation with Colonel Forster?”

“That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.” “But if he does it any more, I shall certainly let him know that I see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him.” [Illustration: “The entreaties of several”

[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]

On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such a subject to him, which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she turned to him and said,-- “Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?”

“With great energy; but it is a subject which always makes a lady energetic.”

“You are severe on us.” “It will be _her_ turn soon to be teased,” said Miss Lucas. “I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.”

“You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers.” On Miss Lucas’s persevering, however, she added, “Very well; if it must be so, it must.”

And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, “There is a very fine old saying, which everybody here is of course familiar with--‘Keep your breath to cool your porridge,’--and I shall keep mine to swell my song.” Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always impatient for display.

Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who with some of the Lucases, and two or three officers, joined eagerly in dancing at one end of the room. Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too much engrossed by his own thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began:-- “What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! There is nothing like dancing, after all.

I consider it as one of the first refinements of polished societies.” “Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world: every savage can dance.” Sir William only smiled. “Your friend performs delightfully,” he continued, after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; “and I doubt not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy.” “You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.”

“Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight.

Do you often dance at St. James’s?”

“Never, sir.” “Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?” “It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it.” “You have a house in town, I conclude?”

Mr. Darcy bowed.

“I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself, for I am fond of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of London would agree with Lady Lucas.” He paused in hopes of an answer: but his companion was not disposed to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was struck with the notion of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to her,-- “My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner.

You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you.” And, taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy, who, though extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William,-- “Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing.

I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.” Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the honour of her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at all shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion.

“You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half hour.”

“Mr. Darcy is all politeness,” said Elizabeth, smiling. “He is, indeed: but considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would object to such a partner?”

Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley,--

“I can guess the subject of your reverie.”

“I should imagine not.” “You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner,--in such society; and, indeed, I am quite of your opinion. I was never more annoyed!

The insipidity, and yet the noise--the nothingness, and yet the self-importance, of all these people!

What would I give to hear your strictures on them!” “Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.”

Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied, with great intrepidity,-- “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all astonishment.

How long has she been such a favourite? and pray when am I to wish you joy?”

“That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.”

“Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and of course she will be always at Pemberley with you.” He listened to her with perfect indifference, while she chose to entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced her that all was safe, her wit flowed along. [Illustration:      “A note for Miss Bennet”

[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] CHAPTER VII.

[Illustration] Mr. Bennet’s property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed, in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother’s fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds. She had a sister married to a Mr. Philips, who had been a clerk to their father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in London in a respectable line of trade. The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt, and to a milliner’s shop just over the way.

The two youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions: their minds were more vacant than their sisters’, and when nothing better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and, however bare of news the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the head-quarters. Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the officers’ names and connections.

Their lodgings were not long a secret, and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Philips visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a source of felicity unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr.
Bingley’s large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an ensign. After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr.
Bennet coolly observed,-- “From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two of the silliest girls in the country.

I have suspected it some time, but I am now convinced.” Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the next morning to London. “I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that you should be so ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly of anybody’s children, it should not be of my own, however.”

“If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it.” “Yes; but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.”

“This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must so far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly foolish.” “My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of their father and mother.

When they get to our age, I dare say they will not think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when I liked a red coat myself very well--and, indeed, so I do still at my heart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year, should want one of my girls, I shall not say nay to him; and I thought Colonel Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William’s in his regimentals.”

“Mamma,” cried Lydia, “my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson’s as they did when they first came; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke’s library.”

Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited for an answer. Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was eagerly calling out, while her daughter read,-- “Well, Jane, who is it from?

What is it about?

What does he say? Well, Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.” “It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane, and then read it aloud. /* NIND “My dear friend, */      “If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and      me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our      lives; for a whole day’s _tête-à-tête_ between two women can never      end without a quarrel.

Come as soon as you can on the receipt of      this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers. Yours ever, “CAROLINE BINGLEY.”

“With the officers!” cried Lydia: “I wonder my aunt did not tell us of _that_.”

“Dining out,” said Mrs. Bennet; “that is very unlucky.”

“Can I have the carriage?” said Jane. “No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to rain; and then you must stay all night.” “That would be a good scheme,” said Elizabeth, “if you were sure that they would not offer to send her home.” “Oh, but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley’s chaise to go to Meryton; and the Hursts have no horses to theirs.”

“I had much rather go in the coach.”

“But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are not they?” [Illustration: Cheerful prognostics] “They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.” “But if you have got them to-day,” said Elizabeth, “my mother’s purpose will be answered.”

She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses were engaged; Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her mother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before it rained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was delighted.

The rain continued the whole evening without intermission; Jane certainly could not come back. “This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!” said Mrs. Bennet, more than once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the next morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her contrivance.

Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield brought the following note for Elizabeth:--      /* NIND “My dearest Lizzie, */      “I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be      imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will      not hear of my returning home till I am better.

They insist also on      my seeing Mr. Jones--therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear      of his having been to me--and, excepting a sore throat and a      headache, there is not much the matter with me. “Yours, etc.”

“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note aloud, “if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness--if she should die--it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.” “Oh, I am not at all afraid of her dying.

People do not die of little trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, it is all very well. I would go and see her if I could have the carriage.”

Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, determined to go to her, though the carriage was not to be had: and as she was no horsewoman, walking was her only alternative.

She declared her resolution. “How can you be so silly,” cried her mother, “as to think of such a thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get there.”

“I shall be very fit to see Jane--which is all I want.” “Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,” said her father, “to send for the horses?”

“No, indeed. I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing, when one has a motive; only three miles.

I shall be back by dinner.” “I admire the activity of your benevolence,” observed Mary, “but every impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion, exertion should always be in proportion to what is required.” “We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Catherine and Lydia. Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young ladies set off together. “If we make haste,” said Lydia, as they walked along, “perhaps we may see something of Captain Carter, before he goes.”

In Meryton they parted: the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one of the officers’ wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing over puddles, with impatient activity, and finding herself at last within view of the house, with weary ancles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing with the warmth of exercise. She was shown into the breakfast parlour, where all but Jane were assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise. That she should have walked three miles so early in the day in such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt for it. She was received, however, very politely by them; and in their brother’s manners there was something better than politeness--there was good-humour and kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at all.

The former was divided between admiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion and doubt as to the occasion’s justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was thinking only of his breakfast. Her inquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and not well enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving alarm or inconvenience, from expressing in her note how much she longed for such a visit, was delighted at her entrance.

She was not equal, however, to much conversation; and when Miss Bingley left them together, could attempt little beside expressions of gratitude for the extraordinary kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended her. When breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth began to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and solicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary came; and having examined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught a violent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it; advised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice was followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head ached acutely.

Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment, nor were the other ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had in fact nothing to do elsewhere. When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and very unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern at parting with her that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer of the chaise into an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present. Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was despatched to Longbourn, to acquaint the family with her stay, and bring back a supply of clothes.

[Illustration: “The Apothecary came” ] [Illustration: “covering a screen” ] CHAPTER VIII. [Illustration] At five o’clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past six Elizabeth was summoned to dinner.

To the civil inquiries which then poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley, she could not make a very favourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked being ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their indifference towards Jane, when not immediately before them, restored Elizabeth to the enjoyment of all her original dislike.

Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his attentions to herself most pleasing; and they prevented her feeling herself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the others. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr.
Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to eat, drink, and play at cards, who, when he found her prefer a plain dish to a ragout, had nothing to say to her. When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room.

Her manners were pronounced to be very bad indeed,--a mixture of pride and impertinence: she had no conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added,-- “She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really looked almost wild.” “She did indeed, Louisa.

I could hardly keep my countenance. Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair so untidy, so blowzy!”

“Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain, and the gown which had been let down to hide it not doing its office.” “Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,” said Bingley; “but this was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.”

“_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley; “and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see _your sister_ make such an exhibition.”

“Certainly not.”

“To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is, above her ancles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what could she mean by it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country-town indifference to decorum.” “It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,” said Bingley.

“I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley, in a half whisper, “that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.” “Not at all,” he replied: “they were brightened by the exercise.” A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again,-- “I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet,--she is really a very sweet girl,--and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.”

“I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in Meryton?” “Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.” “That is capital,” added her sister; and they both laughed heartily. “If they had uncles enough to fill _all_

Cheapside,” cried Bingley, “it would not make them one jot less agreeable.”

“But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world,” replied Darcy. To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of their dear friend’s vulgar relations. With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her asleep, and when it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should go down stairs herself.

On entering the drawing-room, she found the whole party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be playing high, she declined it, and making her sister the excuse, said she would amuse herself, for the short time she could stay below, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment. “Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he; “that is rather singular.”

“Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, “despises cards.

She is a great reader, and has no pleasure in anything else.” “I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” cried Elizabeth; “I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.” “In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,” said Bingley; “and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well.”

Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table where a few books were lying.

He immediately offered to fetch her others; all that his library afforded. “And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow; and though I have not many, I have more than I ever looked into.” Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room.

“I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that my father should have left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!”

“It ought to be good,” he replied: “it has been the work of many generations.”

“And then you have added so much to it yourself--you are always buying books.” “I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these.” “Neglect!

I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley.”

“I wish it may.” “But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model.

There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire.”

“With all my heart: I will buy Pemberley itself, if Darcy will sell it.” “I am talking of possibilities, Charles.” “Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.”

Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little attention for her book; and, soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game. “Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?” said Miss Bingley: “will she be as tall as I am?”

“I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s height, or rather taller.”

“How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners, and so extremely accomplished for her age!

Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.” “It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.” “All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?” “Yes, all of them, I think.

They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses.

I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this; and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.” “Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy, “has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen; but I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general.

I cannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen in the whole range of my acquaintance that are really accomplished.” “Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley. “Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman.” “Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it.”

“Oh, certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and, besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved.”

“All this she must possess,” added Darcy; “and to all she must yet add something more substantial in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.” “I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women.

I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_.”

“Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all this?” “_I_ never saw such a woman. _

I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united.” Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room.

“Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, “is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I daresay, it succeeds; but, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, “there is meanness in _all_

the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.” Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject.

Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones’s being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent physicians. This she would not hear of; but she was not so unwilling to comply with their brother’s proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after supper; while he could find no better relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.

[Illustration: M^{rs} Bennet and her two youngest girls

[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] CHAPTER IX.

[Illustration] Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister’s room, and in the morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the inquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid, and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own judgment of her situation. The note was immediately despatched, and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.

Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She would not listen, therefore, to her daughter’s proposal of being carried home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss Bingley’s appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.

“Indeed I have, sir,” was her answer. “She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.”

“Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal.”

“You may depend upon it, madam,” said Miss Bingley, with cold civility, “that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she remains with us.”

Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments. “I am sure,” she added, “if it was not for such good friends, I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to _her_.

You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short lease.” “Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” replied he; “and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes.

At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.” “That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,” said Elizabeth. “You begin to comprehend me, do you?” cried he, turning towards her. “Oh yes--I understand you perfectly.”

“I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through, I am afraid, is pitiful.” “That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.”

“Lizzy,” cried her mother, “remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.”

“I did not know before,” continued Bingley, immediately, “that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study.” “Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing.

They have at least that advantage.”

“The country,” said Darcy, “can in general supply but few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society.” “But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them for ever.” “Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood.

“I assure you there is quite as much of _that_ going on in the country as in town.” Everybody was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph,-- “I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for my part, except the shops and public places.

The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?”

“When I am in the country,” he replied, “I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town, it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.” “Ay, that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman,” looking at Darcy, “seemed to think the country was nothing at all.”

“Indeed, mamma, you are mistaken,” said Elizabeth, blushing for her mother.

“You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be true.”

“Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families.” Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile.

Elizabeth, for the sake of saying something that might turn her mother’s thoughts, now asked her if Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away. “Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir William is, Mr. Bingley--is not he?

so much the man of fashion! so genteel and so easy!

He has always something to say to everybody. _That_ is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very important and never open their mouths quite mistake the matter.” “Did Charlotte dine with you?” “No, she would go home.

I fancy she was wanted about the mince-pies. For my part, Mr. Bingley, _I_ always keep servants that can do their own work; _my_ daughters are brought up differently. But everybody is to judge for themselves, and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls, I assure you.

It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that _I_ think Charlotte so _very_ plain; but then she is our particular friend.” “She seems a very pleasant young woman,” said Bingley. “Oh dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself has often said so, and envied me Jane’s beauty.

I do not like to boast of my own child; but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see anybody better looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen there was a gentleman at my brother Gardiner’s in town so much in love with her, that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he did not.

Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were.”

“And so ended his affection,” said Elizabeth, impatiently.

“There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!” “I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love,” said Darcy. “Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may.

Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.”

Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again.

She longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs.
Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part, indeed, without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon afterwards ordered her carriage.

Upon this signal, the youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to each other during the whole visit; and the result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming into the country to give a ball at Netherfield. Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the attentions of the officers, to whom her uncle’s good dinners and her own easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance.

She was very equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to her mother’s ear. “I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and, when your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill?”

Lydia declared herself satisfied.

“Oh yes--it would be much better to wait till Jane was well; and by that time, most likely, Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball,” she added, “I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not.”

Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations’ behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of all Miss Bingley’s witticisms on _fine eyes_. [Illustration] CHAPTER X.
[Illustration] The day passed much as the day before had done.

Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and, in the evening, Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.

Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her opinion of each. “How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!”

He made no answer. “You write uncommonly fast.”

“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.” “How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Letters of business, too!

How odious I should think them!”

“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours.” “Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”

“I have already told her so once, by your desire.”

“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well.”

“Thank you--but I always mend my own.”

“How can you contrive to write so even?”

He was silent. “Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley’s.”

“Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At present I have not room to do them justice.” “Oh, it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January.

But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?”

“They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to determine.”

“It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with ease cannot write ill.” “That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her brother, “because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?”

“My style of writing is very different from yours.”

“Oh,” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.” “My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them; by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.”

“Your humility, Mr. Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “must disarm reproof.” “Nothing is more deceitful,” said Darcy, “than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast.”

“And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?”

“The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting.

The power of doing anything with quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs.
Bennet this morning, that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of compliment to yourself; and yet what is there so very laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or anyone else?”

“Nay,” cried Bingley, “this is too much, to remember at night all the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I believed what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless precipitance merely to show off before the ladies.”

“I daresay you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you would be gone with such celerity.

Your conduct would be quite as dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, ‘Bingley, you had better stay till next week,’ you would probably do it--you would probably not go--and, at another word, might stay a month.” “You have only proved by this,” cried Elizabeth, “that Mr. Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much more than he did himself.” “I am exceedingly gratified,” said Bingley, “by your converting what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think the better of me if, under such a circumstance, I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I could.”

“Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?”

“Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter--Darcy must speak for himself.”

“You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine, but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to stand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and the delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering one argument in favour of its propriety.” “To yield readily--easily--to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no merit with you.” “To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either.”

“You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of friendship and affection.

A regard for the requester would often make one readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs, before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases, between friend and friend, where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?”

“Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting between the parties?”

“By all means,” cried Bingley; “let us hear all the particulars, not forgetting their comparative height and size, for that will have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of.

I assure you that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not know a more awful object than Darcy on particular occasions, and in particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening, when he has nothing to do.” Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was rather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her brother for talking such nonsense.

“I see your design, Bingley,” said his friend. “You dislike an argument, and want to silence this.” “Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes.

If you and Miss Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.” “What you ask,” said Elizabeth, “is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr.
Darcy had much better finish his letter.” Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter. When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth for the indulgence of some music.

Miss Bingley moved with alacrity to the pianoforte, and after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead the way, which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she seated herself. Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister; and while they were thus employed, Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over some music-books that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy’s eyes were fixed on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man, and yet that he should look at her because he disliked her was still more strange.

She could only imagine, however, at last, that she drew his notice because there was something about her more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked him too little to care for his approbation.

After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near Elizabeth, said to her,-- “Do you not feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?”

She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some surprise at her silence. “Oh,” said she, “I heard you before; but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say ‘Yes,’ that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt.

I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell you that I do not want to dance a reel at all; and now despise me if you dare.”

“Indeed I do not dare.”

Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody, and Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really believed that, were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he should be in some danger. Miss Bingley saw, or suspected, enough to be jealous; and her great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth. She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance. “I hope,” said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the next day, “you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, to cure the younger girls of running after the officers.

And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady possesses.” [Illustration:      “No, no; stay where you are” [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] “Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?”

“Oh yes.

Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley.

Put them next to your great-uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth’s picture, you must not attempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?”

“It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression; but their colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied.” At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself. “I did not know that you intended to walk,” said Miss Bingley, in some confusion, lest they had been overheard.

“You used us abominably ill,” answered Mrs. Hurst, “running away without telling us that you were coming out.” Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness, and immediately said,-- “This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the avenue.”

But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them, laughingly answered,-- “No, no; stay where you are.

You are charmingly grouped, and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Good-bye.”

She then ran gaily off, rejoicing, as she rambled about, in the hope of being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening. [Illustration:      “Piling up the fire”

[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] CHAPTER XI. [Illustration] When the ladies removed after dinner Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the drawing-room, where she was welcomed by her two friends with many professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared.

Their powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their acquaintance with spirit. But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object; Miss Bingley’s eyes were instantly turned towards Darcy, and she had something to say to him before he had advanced many steps.

He addressed himself directly to Miss Bennet with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and said he was “very glad;” but diffuseness and warmth remained for Bingley’s salutation. He was full of joy and attention. The first half hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she should suffer from the change of room; and she removed, at his desire, to the other side of the fireplace, that she might be farther from the door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone else.

Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great delight. When tea was over Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the card-table--but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr.
Darcy did not wish for cards, and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open petition rejected.

She assured him that no one intended to play, and the silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr.
Hurst had, therefore, nothing to do but to stretch himself on one of the sofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book. Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and rings, joined now and then in her brother’s conversation with Miss Bennet.

Miss Bingley’s attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr.
Darcy’s progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her question and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare, after all, there is no enjoyment like reading!

How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book!

When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.” No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when, hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said,-- “By the bye Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield?

I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure.” “If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he chooses, before it begins; but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing, and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my cards.”

“I should like balls infinitely better,” she replied, “if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the day.”

“Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say; but it would not be near so much like a ball.”

Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one effort more; and, turning to Elizabeth, said,-- “Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.”

Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility: Mr. Darcy looked up.

He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that he could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere. What could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his meaning--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him.

“Not at all,” was her answer; “but, depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing about it.”

Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in anything, and persevered, therefore, in requiring an explanation of his two motives. “I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. “You either choose this method of passing the evening because you are in each other’s confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking: if the first, I should be completely in your way; and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire.” “Oh, shocking!” cried Miss Bingley.

“I never heard anything so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?” “Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,” said Elizabeth. “We can all plague and punish one another. Tease him--laugh at him.

Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done.” “But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me _that_.

Tease calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no; I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr.
Darcy may hug himself.”

“Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!” cried Elizabeth. “That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh.”

“Miss Bingley,” said he, “has given me credit for more than can be.

The wisest and best of men,--nay, the wisest and best of their actions,--may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke.”

“Certainly,” replied Elizabeth, “there are such people, but I hope I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, _do_ divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without.”

“Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule.”

“Such as vanity and pride.”

“Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real superiority of mind--pride will be always under good regulation.”

Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. “Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” said Miss Bingley; “and pray what is the result?” “I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise.”

“No,” said Darcy, “I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding; certainly too little for the convenience of the world.

I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful.

My good opinion once lost is lost for ever.”

“_That_ is a failing, indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “Implacable resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.

I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me.” “There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.”

“And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate everybody.”

“And yours,” he replied, with a smile, “is wilfully to misunderstand them.”

“Do let us have a little music,” cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she had no share. “Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst.” Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was opened; and Darcy, after a few moments’ recollection, was not sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention. [Illustration] CHAPTER XII.

[Illustration] In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the next morning to her mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane’s week, could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before.

Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not to Elizabeth’s wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs.
Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very well. Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively resolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, of being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley’s carriage immediately, and at length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should be mentioned, and the request made. The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay; for her jealousy and dislike of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other.

The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be safe for her--that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where she felt herself to be right. To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence: Elizabeth had been at Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked; and Miss Bingley was uncivil to _her_ and more teasing than usual to himself. He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration should _now_ escape him--nothing that could elevate her with the hope of influencing his felicity; sensible that, if such an idea had been suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through the whole of Saturday: and though they were at one time left by themselves for half an hour, he adhered most conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.

On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost all, took place. Miss Bingley’s civility to Elizabeth increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most tenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of the whole party in the liveliest spirits.

They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. But their father, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really glad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle.

The evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its animation, and almost all its sense, by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth. They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough bass and human nature; and had some new extracts to admire and some new observations of threadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information for them of a different sort.

Much had been done, and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers had dined lately with their uncle; a private had been flogged; and it had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married. [Illustration] CHAPTER XIII

[Illustration] “I hope, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at breakfast the next morning, “that you have ordered a good dinner to-day, because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.” “Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure, unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in; and I hope _my_ dinners are good enough for her.

I do not believe she often sees such at home.” “The person of whom I speak is a gentleman and a stranger.”

Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled. “A gentleman and a stranger!

It is Mr.
Bingley, I am sure. Why, Jane--you never dropped a word of this--you sly thing! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley. But--good Lord!

how unlucky!

there is not a bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell. I must speak to Hill this moment.” “It is _not_

Mr. Bingley,” said her husband; “it is a person whom I never saw in the whole course of my life.”

This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being eagerly questioned by his wife and five daughters at once. After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained:--“About a month ago I received this letter, and about a fortnight ago I answered it; for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.” “Oh, my dear,” cried his wife, “I cannot bear to hear that mentioned.

Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing in the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own children; and I am sure, if I had been you, I should have tried long ago to do something or other about it.” Jane and Elizabeth attempted to explain to her the nature of an entail. They had often attempted it before: but it was a subject on which Mrs.
Bennet was beyond the reach of reason; and she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.

“It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Bennet; “and nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn. But if you will listen to his letter, you may, perhaps, be a little softened by his manner of expressing himself.”

“No, that I am sure I shall not: and I think it was very impertinent of him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false friends. Why could not he keep on quarrelling with you, as his father did before him?”

“Why, indeed, he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that head, as you will hear.”

/

* RIGHT

“Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, _15th October_.

*/ “Dear Sir,      “The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured      father always gave me much uneasiness; and, since I have had the      misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the      breach: but, for some time, I was kept back by my own doubts,      fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be      on good terms with anyone with whom it had always pleased him to be      at variance. ” --‘There, Mrs. Bennet.

’--“My mind, however, is now      made up on the subject; for, having received ordination at Easter,      I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of      the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis      de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the      valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest      endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her      Ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies      which are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman,      moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing      of peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on      these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures of      good-will are highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my      being next in the entail of Longbourn estate will be kindly      overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the offered      olive branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the      means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to      apologize for it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make      them every possible amends; but of this hereafter. If you should      have no objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself      the satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday,      November 18th, by four o’clock, and shall probably trespass on your      hospitality till the Saturday se’nnight following, which I can do      without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting      to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other      clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day. I remain, dear sir,      with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your      well-wisher and friend, “WILLIAM COLLINS.”

“At four o’clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,” said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. “He seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man, upon my word; and, I doubt not, will prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so indulgent as to let him come to us again.” “There is some sense in what he says about the girls, however; and, if he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to discourage him.” “Though it is difficult,” said Jane, “to guess in what way he can mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his credit.” Elizabeth was chiefly struck with his extraordinary deference for Lady Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying his parishioners whenever it were required.

“He must be an oddity, I think,” said she. “I cannot make him out. There is something very pompous in his style.

And what can he mean by apologizing for being next in the entail? We cannot suppose he would help it, if he could. Can he be a sensible man, sir?”

“No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his letter which promises well. I am impatient to see him.”

“In point of composition,” said Mary, “his letter does not seem defective. The idea of the olive branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I think it is well expressed.”

To Catherine and Lydia neither the letter nor its writer were in any degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour.

As for their mother, Mr. Collins’s letter had done away much of her ill-will, and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which astonished her husband and daughters. Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself.

He was a tall, heavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters, said he had heard much of their beauty, but that, in this instance, fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did not doubt her seeing them all in due time well disposed of in marriage.

This gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers; but Mrs.
Bennet, who quarrelled with no compliments, answered most readily,-- “You are very kind, sir, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may prove so; for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so oddly.” “You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.” “Ah, sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you must confess.

Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for such things, I know, are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates will go when once they come to be entailed.” “I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing forward and precipitate.

But I can assure the young ladies that I come prepared to admire them.

At present I will not say more, but, perhaps, when we are better acquainted----” He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins’s admiration. The hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture, were examined and praised; and his commendation of everything would have touched Mrs. Bennet’s heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his own future property.

The dinner, too, in its turn, was highly admired; and he begged to know to which of his fair cousins the excellence of its cookery was owing. But here he was set right by Mrs. Bennet, who assured him, with some asperity, that they were very well able to keep a good cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen.

He begged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologize for about a quarter of an hour. [Illustration] CHAPTER XIV

[Illustration] During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s attention to his wishes, and consideration for his comfort, appeared very remarkable.

Mr. Bennet could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him to more than usual solemnity of manner; and with a most important aspect he protested that he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in a person of rank--such affability and condescension, as he had himself experienced from Lady Catherine.

She had been graciously pleased to approve of both the discourses which he had already had the honour of preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings, and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many people, he knew, but _he_ had never seen anything but affability in her. She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the neighbourhood, nor to his leaving his parish occasionally for a week or two to visit his relations.

She had even condescended to advise him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had once paid him a visit in his humble parsonage, where she had perfectly approved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed to suggest some herself,--some shelves in the closets upstairs. “That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,” said Mrs. Bennet, “and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies in general are not more like her.

Does she live near you, sir?” “The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her Ladyship’s residence.” “I think you said she was a widow, sir? has she any family?”

“She has one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very extensive property.”

“Ah,” cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, “then she is better off than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she?

Is she handsome?” “She is a most charming young lady, indeed. Lady Catherine herself says that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex; because there is that in her features which marks the young woman of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has prevented her making that progress in many accomplishments which she could not otherwise have failed of, as I am informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still resides with them.

But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.”

“Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court.” “Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived the British Court of its brightest ornament. Her Ladyship seemed pleased with the idea; and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies.

I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess; and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her. These are the kind of little things which please her Ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay.” “You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet; “and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?”

“They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time; and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible.” Mr. Bennet’s expectations were fully answered.

His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped; and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance, and, except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure. By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, glad to invite him [Illustration: “Protested that he never read novels”      H.T Feb 94 ] to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but on beholding it (for everything announced it to be from a circulating library)

he started back, and, begging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed.

Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose “Fordyce’s Sermons.”

Lydia gaped as he opened the volume; and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with,-- “Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away Richard?

and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town.” Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr.
Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said,-- “I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit.

It amazes me, I confess; for certainly there can be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin.”

Then, turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs.
Bennet and her daughters apologized most civilly for Lydia’s interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill-will, and should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon. [Illustration] CHAPTER XV.

[Illustration] Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms without forming at it any useful acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up had given him originally great humility of manner; but it was now a good deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a clergyman, and his right as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility. Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had a wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the daughters, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report.

This was his plan of amends--of atonement--for inheriting their father’s estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own part. His plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet’s lovely face confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what was due to seniority; and for the first evening _ she_ was his settled choice.

The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter of an hour’s _tête-à-tête_ with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress for it might be found at Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on. “As to her _younger_ daughters, she could not take upon her to say--she could not positively answer--but she did not _know_ of any prepossession;--her _eldest_ daughter she must just mention--she felt it incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged.” Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth--and it was soon done--done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course. Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have two daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of the day before, was now high in her good graces.

Lydia’s intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten: every sister except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them, at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him, and have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed him after breakfast, and there he would continue, nominally engaged with one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr.
Bennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such doings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room in the house, he was used to be free from them there: his civility, therefore, was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker than a reader, was extremely well pleased to close his large book, and go. In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of the younger ones was then no longer to be gained by _him_.

Their eyes were immediately wandering up the street in quest of the officers, and nothing less than a very smart bonnet, indeed, or a really new muslin in a shop window, could recall them. But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking with an officer on the other side of the way.

The officer was the very Mr. Denny concerning whose return from London Lydia came to inquire, and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the stranger’s air, all wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia, determined if possible to find out, led the way across the street, under pretence of wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained the pavement, when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him the day before from town, and, he was happy to say, had accepted a commission in their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted only regimentals to make him completely charming. His appearance was greatly in his favour: he had all the best parts of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address.

The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation--a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the whole party were still standing and talking together very agreeably, when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of the group the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on purpose to inquire after her.

Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger; and Elizabeth happening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other, was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments, touched his hat--a salutation which Mr. Darcy just deigned to return.

What could be the meaning of it? It was impossible to imagine; it was impossible not to long to know. In another minute Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.

Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of Mr. Philips’s house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia’s pressing entreaties that they would come in, and even in spite of Mrs.
Philips’s throwing up the parlour window, and loudly seconding the invitation. Mrs. Philips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two eldest, from their recent absence, were particularly welcome; and she was eagerly expressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as their own carriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing about, if she had not happened to see Mr. Jones’s shopboy in the street, who had told her that they were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield, because the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed towards Mr. Collins by Jane’s introduction of him. She received him with her very best politeness, which he returned with as much more, apologizing for his intrusion, without any previous acquaintance with her, which he could not help flattering himself, however, might be justified by his relationship to the young ladies who introduced him to her notice.

Mrs. Philips was quite awed by such an excess of good breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon put an end to by exclamations and inquiries about the other, of whom, however, she could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had brought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant’s commission in the ----shire. She had been watching him the last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street,--and had Mr. Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the occupation; but unluckily no one passed the windows now except a few of the officers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become “stupid, disagreeable fellows.” Some of them were to dine with the Philipses the next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr.
Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn would come in the evening. This was agreed to; and Mrs. Philips protested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards.

The prospect of such delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr.
Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured, with unwearying civility, that they were perfectly needless.
As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either or both, had they appeared to be wrong, she could no more explain such behaviour than her sister. Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring Mrs.
Philips’s manners and politeness. He protested that, except Lady Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman; for she had not only received him with the utmost civility, but had even pointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although utterly unknown to her before.

Something, he supposed, might be attributed to his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so much attention in the whole course of his life. [Illustration] CHAPTER XVI.

[Illustration] As no objection was made to the young people’s engagement with their aunt, and all Mr. Collins’s scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for a single evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach conveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and the girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room, that Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle’s invitation, and was then in the house. When this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr.
Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much struck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he might almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast parlour at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much gratification; but when Mrs. Philips understood from him what Rosings was, and who was its proprietor, when she had listened to the description of only one of Lady Catherine’s drawing-rooms, and found that the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a comparison with the housekeeper’s room. In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion, with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and the improvements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Philips a very attentive listener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she heard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as soon as she could.

To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin, and who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine their own indifferent imitations of china on the mantel-piece, the interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last, however. The gentlemen did approach: and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room, Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking of him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration.

The officers of the ----shire were in general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set and the best of them were of the present party; but Mr, Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and walk, as _they_ were superior to the broad-faced stuffy uncle Philips, breathing port wine, who followed them into the room. [Illustration: “The officers of the ----shire”

[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]

Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, and on the probability of a rainy season, made her feel that the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker. With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and the officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to the young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Philips, and was, by her watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin. When the card tables were placed, he had an opportunity of obliging her, in return, by sitting down to whist. “I know little of the game at present,” said he, “but I shall be glad to improve myself; for in my situation of life----”

Mrs. Philips was very thankful for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason.

Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there seemed danger of Lydia’s engrossing him entirely, for she was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming after prizes, to have attention for anyone in particular. Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told, the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly relieved.

Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.

“About a month,” said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject drop, added, “he is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand.”

“Yes,” replied Wickham; “his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum.

You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself--for I have been connected with his family, in a particular manner, from my infancy.” Elizabeth could not but look surprised. “You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?”

“As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth, warmly. “I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable.”

“I have no right to give _my_ opinion,” said Wickham, “as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish--and, perhaps, you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else.

Here you are in your own family.” “Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire.

Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by anyone.” “I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after a short interruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with _him_

I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.”

“I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man.” Wickham only shook his head. “I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, “whether he is likely to be in this country much longer.” “I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield.

I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.”

“Oh no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_ he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_

but what I might proclaim to all the world--a sense of very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections.

His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father.” Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry. Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter, especially, with gentle but very intelligible gallantry. “It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” he added, “which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire.

I know it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps; and my friend Denny tempted me further by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible.

The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I was brought up for the church; and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now.” “Indeed!”

“Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me.

I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere.” “Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could _that_ be? How could his will be disregarded?

Why did not you seek legal redress?”

“There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law.

A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short, anything or nothing. Certain it is that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too freely.

I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me.”

“This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.” “Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_.” Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them.

“But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive? what can have induced him to behave so cruelly?”

“A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father’s uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life.

He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort of preference which was often given me.”

“I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!” After a few minutes’ reflection, however, she continued, “I _do_ remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper.

His disposition must be dreadful.” “I will not trust myself on the subject,” replied Wickham; “_I_ can hardly be just to him.” Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, “To treat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite of his father!”

She could have added, “A young man, too, like _you_, whose very countenance may vouch for your being amiable.” But she contented herself with--“And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner.”

“We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the greatest part of our youth was passed together: inmates of the same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _

My_ father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips, appears to do so much credit to; but he gave up everything to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest obligations to my father’s active superintendence; and when, immediately before my father’s death, Mr. Darcy gave him a voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_ as of affection to myself.” “How strange!” cried Elizabeth.

“How abominable!

I wonder that the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you. If from no better motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest,--for dishonesty I must call it.” “It _is_ wonderful,” replied Wickham; “for almost all his actions may be traced to pride; and pride has often been his best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than any other feeling.

But we are none of us consistent; and in his behaviour to me there were stronger impulses even than pride.”

“Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?”

“Yes; it has often led him to be liberal and generous; to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the poor.

Family pride, and _filial_

pride, for he is very proud of what his father was, have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride, which, with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up as the most attentive and best of brothers.”

“What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?”

He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy; but she is too much like her brother,--very, very proud.

As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now.

She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and, I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father’s death her home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her education.” After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying,-- “I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley. How can Mr. Bingley, who seems good-humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man?

How can they suit each other?

Do you know Mr. Bingley?”

“Not at all.”

“He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr.
Darcy is.” “Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses.

He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and, perhaps, agreeable,--allowing something for fortune and figure.” The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips.

The usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her, with much earnest gravity, that it was not of the least importance; that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not make herself uneasy. “I know very well, madam,” said he, “that when persons sit down to a card table they must take their chance of these things,--and

happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are, undoubtedly, many who could not say the same; but, thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters.”

Mr. Wickham’s attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relations were very intimately acquainted with the family of De Bourgh. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied, “has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long.” “You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy.”

“No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine’s connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before yesterday.” “Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.” This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss Bingley.

Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already self-destined to another. “Mr. Collins,” said she, “speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her daughter; but, from some particulars that he has related of her Ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him; and that, in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman.” “I believe her to be both in a great degree,” replied Wickham; “I have not seen her for many years; but I very well remember that I never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent.

She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who chooses that everyone connected with him should have an understanding of the first class.” Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and they continued talking together with mutual satisfaction till supper put an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr.
Wickham’s attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of Mrs. Philips’s supper party, but his manners recommended him to everybody.

Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent.

Lydia talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the fish she had won; and Mr. Collins, in describing the civility of Mr. and Mrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing that he crowded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House. [Illustration:      “delighted to see their dear friend again” ] CHAPTER XVII. [Illustration] Elizabeth related to Jane, the next day, what had passed between Mr.
Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern: she knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr.
Bingley’s regard; and yet it was not in her nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham.

The possibility of his having really endured such unkindness was enough to interest all her tender feelings; and nothing therefore remained to be done but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account of accident or mistake whatever could not be otherwise explained. “They have both,” said she, “been deceived, I dare say, in some way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other.

It is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side.” “Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say in behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the business? Do clear _them_, too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of somebody.” “Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion.

My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father’s favourite in such a manner,--one whom his father had promised to provide for. It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him?

Oh no.”

“I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley’s being imposed on than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last night; names, facts, everything mentioned without ceremony. If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks.” “It is difficult, indeed--it is distressing.

One does not know what to think.” “I beg your pardon;--one knows exactly what to think.” But Jane could think with certainty on only one point,--that Mr.
Bingley, if he _had been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair became public.

The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this conversation passed, by the arrival of some of the very persons of whom they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal invitation for the long expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To the rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to the others.

They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet’s civilities. The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the society of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr.
Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of everything in Mr. Darcy’s look and behaviour.

The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended less on any single event, or any particular person; for though they each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball was, at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family that she had no disinclination for it. “While I can have my mornings to myself,” said she, “it is enough. I think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements.

Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for everybody.” Elizabeth’s spirits were so high on the occasion, that though she did not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley’s invitation, and if he did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening’s amusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke, either from the Archbishop or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to dance. “I am by no means of opinion, I assure you,” said he, “that a ball of this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people, can have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing myself, that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially; a preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right cause, and not to any disrespect for her.” Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being engaged by Wickham for those very dances; and to have Mr. Collins instead!--her liveliness had been never worse timed.

There was no help for it, however. Mr. Wickham’s happiness and her own was perforce delayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins’s proposal accepted with as good a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his gallantry, from the idea it suggested of something more. It now first struck her, that _she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy of being the mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors. The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing civilities towards herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than gratified herself by this effect of her charms, it was not long before her mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage was exceedingly agreeable to _her_.

Elizabeth, however, did not choose to take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and, till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him. If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the younger Miss Bennets would have been in a pitiable state at this time; for, from the day of the invitation to the day of the ball, there was such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton once. No aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after; the very shoe-roses for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have found some trial of her patience in weather which totally suspended the improvement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than a dance on Tuesday could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday endurable to Kitty and Lydia.

[Illustration] CHAPTER XVIII.

[Illustration] Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a doubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty of meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than might be won in the course of the evening.

But in an instant arose the dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted, for Mr. Darcy’s pleasure, in the Bingleys’ invitation to the officers; and though this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was pronounced by his friend Mr. Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant smile,-- “I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if he had not wished to avoid a certain gentleman here.”

This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by Elizabeth; and, as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for Wickham’s absence than if her first surmise had been just, every feeling of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate disappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to the polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make. Attention, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away with a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly surmount even in speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her.

But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her spirits; and, having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary transition to the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular notice.

The two first dances, however, brought a return of distress: they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn, apologizing instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a disagreeable partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her release from him was ecstasy.

She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with her, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy, who took her so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that, without knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again immediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of mind: Charlotte tried to console her.

“I dare say you will find him very agreeable.” “Heaven forbid!

_

That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an evil.” When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her, in a whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man often times his consequence.

Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and reading in her neighbours’ looks their equal amazement in beholding it. They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and, at first, was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again silent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time, with-- “It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy.

_

I_ talked about the dance, and _you_ ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.” He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be said. “Very well; that reply will do for the present. Perhaps, by-and-by, I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones; but _now_ we may be silent.”

“Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?”

“Sometimes.

One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet, for the advantage of _some_, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”

“Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?”

“Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the _éclat_ of a proverb.” “This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,” said he. “How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend to say.

_

You_ think it a faithful portrait, undoubtedly.”

“I must not decide on my own performance.” He made no answer; and they were again silent till they had gone down the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative; and, unable to resist the temptation, added, “When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.” The effect was immediate.

A deeper shade of _hauteur_ overspread his features, but he said not a word; and Elizabeth, though blaming herself for her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a constrained manner said,-- “Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may insure his _making_ friends; whether he may be equally capable of _retaining_ them, is less certain.” “He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship,” replied Elizabeth, with emphasis, “and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.”

Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At that moment Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass through the set to the other side of the room; but, on perceiving Mr.
Darcy, he stopped, with a bow of superior courtesy, to compliment him on his dancing and his partner.

“I have been most highly gratified, indeed, my dear sir; such very superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not disgrace you: and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Miss Eliza (glancing at her sister and Bingley), shall take place. What congratulations will then flow in!

I appeal to Mr. Darcy;--but let me not interrupt you, sir. You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.” [Illustration: “Such very superior dancing is not often seen.” [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]

The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir William’s allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his eyes were directed, with a very serious expression, towards Bingley and Jane, who were dancing together.

Recovering himself, however, shortly, he turned to his partner, and said,-- “Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we were talking of.” “I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have interrupted any two people in the room who had less to say for themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”

“What think you of books?” said he, smiling. “Books--oh no!--I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.” “I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.” “No--I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of something else.”

“The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes--does it?” said he, with a look of doubt. “Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said; for her thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming, “I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave;--that your resentment, once created, was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its _being created_?”

“I am,” said he, with a firm voice. “And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”

“I hope not.”

“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.”

“May I ask to what these questions tend?”

“Merely to the illustration of _your_ character,” said she, endeavouring to shake off her gravity. “I am trying to make it out.” “And what is your success?”

She shook her head.

“I do not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”

“I can readily believe,” answered he, gravely, “that reports may vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.” “But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity.”

“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he coldly replied. She said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in silence; on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree; for in Darcy’s breast there was a tolerably powerful feeling towards her, which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against another. They had not long separated when Miss Bingley came towards her, and, with an expression of civil disdain, thus accosted her,-- “So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham?
Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand questions; and I find that the young man forgot to tell you, among his other communications, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late Mr.
Darcy’s steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give implicit confidence to all his assertions; for, as to Mr. Darcy’s using him ill, it is perfectly false: for, on the contrary, he has been always remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner.

I do not know the particulars, but I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame; that he cannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned; and that though my brother thought he could not well avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself out of the way. His coming into the country at all is a most insolent thing, indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you, Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite’s guilt; but really, considering his descent, one could not expect much better.”

“His guilt and his descent appear, by your account, to be the same,” said Elizabeth, angrily; “for I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse than of being the son of Mr. Darcy’s steward, and of _that_, I can assure you, he informed me himself.”

“I beg your pardon,” replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer. “Excuse my interference; it was kindly meant.”

“Insolent girl!” said Elizabeth to herself. “You are much mistaken if you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr.
Darcy.”

She then sought her eldest sister, who had undertaken to make inquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of such sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently marked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. Elizabeth instantly read her feelings; and, at that moment, solicitude for Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and everything else, gave way before the hope of Jane’s being in the fairest way for happiness. “I want to know,” said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her sister’s, “what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham.

But perhaps you have been too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person, in which case you may be sure of my pardon.”

“No,” replied Jane, “I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of his history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct, the probity and honour, of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that Mr. Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has received; and I am sorry to say that by his account, as well as his sister’s, Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man. I am afraid he has been very imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy’s regard.” “Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself.”

“No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.” “This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am perfectly satisfied. But what does he say of the living?”

“He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to him _conditionally_ only.”

“I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley’s sincerity,” said Elizabeth warmly, “but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only.

Mr.
Bingley’s defence of his friend was a very able one, I dare say; but since he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt the rest from that friend himself, I shall venture still to think of both gentlemen as I did before.” She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on which there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth listened with delight to the happy though modest hopes which Jane entertained of Bingley’s regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence in it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew to Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last partner she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them, and told her with great exultation, that he had just been so fortunate as to make a most important discovery.

“I have found out,” said he, “by a singular accident, that there is now in the room a near relation to my patroness. I happened to overhear the gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of this house the names of his cousin Miss De Bourgh, and of her mother, Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would have thought of my meeting with--perhaps--a nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in this assembly!

I am most thankful that the discovery is made in time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do, and trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total ignorance of the connection must plead my apology.” “You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy?”

“Indeed I am.

I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier. I believe him to be Lady Catherine’s _nephew_. It will be in my power to assure him that her Ladyship was quite well yesterday se’nnight.”

Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme; assuring him that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction as an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that it was not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either side, and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in consequence, to begin the acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her with the determined air of following his own inclination, and when she ceased speaking, replied thus,-- “My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world of your excellent judgment in all matters within the scope of your understanding, but permit me to say that there must be a wide difference between the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity and those which regulate the clergy; for, give me leave to observe that I consider the clerical office as equal in point of dignity with the highest rank in the kingdom--provided that a proper humility of behaviour is at the same time maintained. You must, therefore, allow me to follow the dictates of my conscience on this occasion, which lead me to perform what I look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit by your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant guide, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by education and habitual study to decide on what is right than a young lady like yourself;” and with a low bow he left her to attack Mr. Darcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose astonishment at being so addressed was very evident.

Her cousin prefaced his speech with a solemn bow, and though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if hearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words “apology,” “Hunsford,” and “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” It vexed her to see him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with unrestrained wonder; and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him to speak, replied with an air of distant civility.

Mr. Collins, however, was not discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy’s contempt seemed abundantly increasing with the length of his second speech; and at the end of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way: Mr.
Collins then returned to Elizabeth. “I have no reason, I assure you,” said he, “to be dissatisfied with my reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered me with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying, that he was so well convinced of Lady Catherine’s discernment as to be certain she could never bestow a favour unworthily.

It was really a very handsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him.”

As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley; and the train of agreeable reflections which her observations gave birth to made her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her in idea settled in that very house, in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection could bestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring even to like Bingley’s two sisters. Her mother’s thoughts she plainly saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to supper, therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely, openly, and of nothing else but of her expectation that Jane would be soon married to Mr.
Bingley.

It was an animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the match. His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living but three miles from them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and then it was such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of Jane, and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger daughters, as Jane’s marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of other rich men; and, lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be able to consign her single daughters to the care of their sister, that she might not be obliged to go into company more than she liked. It was necessary to make this circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on such occasions it is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs.
Bennet to find comfort in staying at home at any period of her life.

She concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no chance of it. In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother’s words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible whisper; for to her inexpressible vexation she could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her mother only scolded her for being nonsensical.

“What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing _he_ may not like to hear.” “For heaven’s sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be to you to offend Mr. Darcy?

You will never recommend yourself to his friend by so doing.”

Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother would talk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed and blushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what she dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her.

The expression of his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and steady gravity. At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who had been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of tranquillity; for when supper was over, singing was talked of, and she had the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty, preparing to oblige the company.

By many significant looks and silent entreaties did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance,--but in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an opportunity of exhibiting was delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth’s eyes were fixed on her, with most painful sensations; and she watched her progress through the several stanzas with an impatience which was very ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving amongst the thanks of the table the hint of a hope that she might be prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of half a minute began another. Mary’s powers were by no means fitted for such a display; her voice was weak, and her manner affected.

Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at Jane to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly talking to Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs of derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however, impenetrably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint, and, when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud,-- “That will do extremely well, child.

You have delighted us long enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.” Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and Elizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her father’s speech, was afraid her anxiety had done no good.

Others of the party were now applied to. “If I,” said Mr. Collins, “were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an air; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly compatible with the profession of a clergyman. I do not mean, however, to assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time to music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The rector of a parish has much to do.

In the first place, he must make such an agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making as comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance that he should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards everybody, especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who should omit an occasion of testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the family.”

And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech, which had been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room. Many stared--many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr.
Bennet himself, while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins for having spoken so sensibly, and observed, in a half-whisper to Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young man. To Elizabeth it appeared, that had her family made an agreement to expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would have been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit, or finer success; and happy did she think it for Bingley and her sister that some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his feelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he must have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should have such an opportunity of ridiculing her relations was bad enough; and she could not determine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman, or the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.

The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teased by Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side; and though he could not prevail with her to dance with him again, put it out of her power to dance with others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with somebody else, and offered to introduce him to any young lady in the room. He assured her that, as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it; that his chief object was, by delicate attentions, to recommend himself to her; and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her the whole evening.

There was no arguing upon such a project. She owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins’s conversation to herself. She was at least free from the offence of Mr. Darcy’s further notice: though often standing within a very short distance of her, quite disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the probable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in it. The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart; and by a manœuvre of Mrs. Bennet had to wait for their carriage a quarter of an hour after everybody else was gone, which gave them time to see how heartily they were wished away by some of the family.

Mrs. Hurst and her sister scarcely opened their mouths except to complain of fatigue, and were evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and, by so doing, threw a languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his sisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and politeness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said nothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene.

Mr. Bingley and Jane were standing together a little detached from the rest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of “Lord, how tired I am!”

accompanied by a violent yawn. When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn; and addressed herself particularly to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy he would make them, by eating a family dinner with them at any time, without the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure; and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on her after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the next day for a short time.

Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied; and quitted the house under the delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of settlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly see her daughter settled at Netherfield in the course of three or four months. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins she thought with equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure. Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the man and the match were quite good enough for _her_, the worth of each was eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield. [Illustration:      “to assure you in the most animated language” ] CHAPTER XIX.

[Illustration] The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as his leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having no feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at the moment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the observances which he supposed a regular part of the business. On finding Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together, soon after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words,-- “May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth, when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the course of this morning?”

Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs.
Bennet instantly answered,-- “Oh dear! Yes, certainly.

I am sure Lizzy will be very happy--I am sure she can have no objection. Come, Kitty, I want you upstairs.” And gathering her work together, she was hastening away, when Elizabeth called out,-- “Dear ma’am, do not go.

I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuse me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I am going away myself.” “No, no, nonsense, Lizzy.

I desire you will stay where you are.”

And upon Elizabeth’s seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about to escape, she added, “Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your staying and hearing Mr. Collins.” Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction; and a moment’s consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again, and tried to conceal, by incessant employment, the feelings which were divided between distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as soon as they were gone, Mr. Collins began,-- “Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You would have been less amiable in my eyes had there _not_ been this little unwillingness; but allow me to assure you that I have your respected mother’s permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken.

Almost as soon as I entered the house I singled you out as the companion of my future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this subject, perhaps it will be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying--and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.”

The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing that she could not use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him farther, and he continued,-- “My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced it will add very greatly to my happiness; and, thirdly, which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I left Hunsford,--between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was arra

nging Miss De Bourgh’s footstool,--that she said, ‘Mr. Collins, you must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose a gentlewoman for _my_ sake, and for your _own_; let her be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice.

Find such a woman as soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.’ Allow me, by the way, to observe, my fair cousin, that

I do not reckon the notice and kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the advantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond anything I can describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views were directed to Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I assure you there are many amiable young women.

But the fact is, that being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured father (who, however, may live many years longer), I could not

satisfy myself without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that the loss to them might be as little as possible when the melancholy event takes place--which, however, as I have already said, may not be for several years.

This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing remains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well aware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds in the 4 per cents., which will not be yours till after your mother’s decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to.

On that head, therefore, I shall be uniformly silent: and you may assure yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married.” It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now. “You are too hasty, sir,” she cried.

“You forget that I have made no answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than decline them.”

“I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the hand, “that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second or even a third time. I am, therefore, by no means discouraged by what you have just said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.” “Upon my word, sir,” cried Elizabeth, “your hope is rather an extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal.

You could not make _me_ happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who would make _you_

so.

Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the situation.” “Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,” said Mr. Collins, very gravely--“but I cannot imagine that her Ladyship would at all disapprove of you. And you may be certain that when I have the honour of seeing her again I shall speak in the highest terms of your modesty, economy, and other amiable qualifications.” “Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment of believing what I say.

I wish you very happy and very rich, and by refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise. In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your feelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn estate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may be considered, therefore, as finally settled.” And rising as she thus spoke, she would have quitted the room, had not Mr. Collins thus addressed her,-- “When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at pres

ent, because I know it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on the first application, and, perhaps, you have even now said as much to encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the female character.”

“Really, Mr. Collins,” cried Elizabeth, with some warmth, “you puzzle me exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as may convince you of its being one.”

“You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your refusal of my addresses are merely words of course. My reasons for believing it are briefly these:--It does not appear to me that my hand is unworthy of your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections with the family of De Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into further consideration that, in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you.

Your portion is unhappily so small, that it will in all likelihood undo the effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must, therefore, conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females.” “I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man.

I would rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you again and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect forbid it.

Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant female intending to plague you, but as a rational creature speaking the truth from her heart.” “You are uniformly charming!” cried he, with an air of awkward gallantry; “and I am persuaded that, when sanctioned by the express authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of being acceptable.”

To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, that if he persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered in such a manner as must be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.

[Illustration] CHAPTER XX.

[Illustration] Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in warm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result of which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the refusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character. This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet: she would have been glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not believe it, and could not help saying so. “But depend upon it, Mr. Collins,” she added, “that Lizzy shall be brought to reason. I will speak to her about it myself directly.

She is a very headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own interest; but I will _make_

her know it.” “Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” cried Mr. Collins; “but if she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If, therefore, she actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to force her into accepting me, because, if liable to such defects of temper, she could not contribute much to my felicity.”

“Sir, you quite misunderstand me,” said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. “Lizzy is only headstrong in such matters as these. In everything else she is as good-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure.” She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her husband, called out, as she entered the library,-- “Oh, Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar.

You must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him; and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and not have _her_.” Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern, which was not in the least altered by her communication. “I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” said he, when she had finished her speech. “Of what are you talking?”

“Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy.

Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy.” “And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems a hopeless business.”

“Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her marrying him.” “Let her be called down.

She shall hear my opinion.”

Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the library. “Come here, child,” cried her father as she appeared. “I have sent for you on an affair of importance.

I understand that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?”

Elizabeth replied that it was. “Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?”

“I have, sir.” “Very well.

We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?”

“Yes, or I will never see her again.”

“An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth.

From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you _do_.” Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning; but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed.

“What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, by talking in this way? You promised me to _insist_ upon her marrying him.” “My dear,” replied her husband, “I have two small favours to request.

First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the present occasion; and, secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be.” Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again; coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in her interest, but Jane, with all possible mildness, declined interfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness, and sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks.

Though her manner varied, however, her determination never did.

Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed. He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motive his cousin could refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other way. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her deserving her mother’s reproach prevented his feeling any regret.

While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper, “I am glad you are come, for there is such fun here! What do you think has happened this morning?

Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.” [Illustration:      “they entered the breakfast room” ]

Charlotte had hardly time to answer before they were joined by Kitty, who came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of her family. “Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,” she added, in a melancholy tone; “for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me; I am cruelly used, nobody feels for my poor nerves.” Charlotte’s reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.

“Ay, there she comes,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “looking as unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided she can have her own way. But I tell you what, Miss Lizzy, if you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all--and I am sure I do not know who is to maintain you when your father is dead.

_

I_ shall not be able to keep you--and so I warn you. I have done with you from this very day. I told you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again, and you will find me as good as my word.

I have no pleasure in talking to undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have no great inclination for talking.

Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it is always so.

Those who do not complain are never pitied.” Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any attempt to reason with or soothe her would only increase the irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of them till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered with an air more stately than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls,-- “Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and let Mr. Collins and me have a little conversation together.”

Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending not to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet thus began the projected conversation:-- “Oh, Mr. Collins!”

“My dear madam,” replied he, “let us be for ever silent on this point. Far be it from me,” he presently continued, in a voice that marked his displeasure, “to resent the behaviour of your daughter.

Resignation to inevitable evils is the duty of us all: the peculiar duty of a young man who has been so fortunate as I have been, in early preferment; and, I trust, I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt of my positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I have often observed, that resignation is never so perfect as when the blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our estimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as showing any disrespect to your family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to your daughter’s favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the compliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my behalf. My conduct may, I fear, be objectionable in having accepted my dismission from your daughter’s lips instead of your own; but we are all liable to error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair.

My object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due consideration for the advantage of all your family; and if my _manner_ has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologize.” [Illustration] CHAPTER XXI.

[Illustration] The discussion of Mr. Collins’s offer was now nearly at an end, and Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily attending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusion of her mother. As for the gentleman himself, _his_ feelings were chiefly expressed, not by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to her; and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of himself were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose civility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all, and especially to her friend. The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet’s ill humour or ill health.

Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on Saturday, and to Saturday he still meant to stay.

After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton, to inquire if Mr. Wickham were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball. He joined them on their entering the town, and attended them to their aunt’s, where his regret and vexation and the concern of everybody were well talked over.

To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged that the necessity of his absence _had_ been self-imposed. “I found,” said he, “as the time drew near, that I had better not meet Mr. Darcy;--that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself.” She highly approved his forbearance; and they had leisure for a full discussion of it, and for all the commendations which they civilly bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk he particularly attended to her.

His accompanying them was a double advantage: she felt all the compliment it offered to herself; and it was most acceptable as an occasion of introducing him to her father and mother. [Illustration: “Walked back with them” [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]

Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and was opened immediately. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady’s fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister’s countenance change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected herself soon; and putting the letter away, tried to join, with her usual cheerfulness, in the general conversation: but Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane invited her to follow her upstairs.

When they had gained their own room, Jane, taking out her letter, said, “This is from Caroline Bingley: what it contains has surprised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town; and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says.”

She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly, and of their meaning to dine that day in Grosvenor Street, where Mr.
Hurst had a house. The next was in these words:--“‘I do not pretend to regret anything I shall leave in Hertfordshire except your society, my dearest friend; but we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that delightful intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that.’” To these high-flown expressions Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of distrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she saw nothing in it really to lament: it was not to be supposed that their absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley’s being there; and as to the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must soon cease to regard it in the enjoyment of his.

“It is unlucky,” said she, after a short pause, “that you should not be able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not hope that the period of future happiness, to which Miss Bingley looks forward, may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful intercourse you have known as friends will be renewed with yet greater satisfaction as sisters?

Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by them.”

“Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into Hertfordshire this winter.

I will read it to you. “‘When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which took him to London might be concluded in three or four days; but as we are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when Charles gets to town he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintance are already there for the winter: I wish I could hear that you, my dearest friend, had any intention of making one in the crowd, but of that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three of whom we shall deprive you.’

“It is evident by this,” added Jane, “that he comes back no more this winter.” “It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean he _should_.” “Why will you think so?

It must be his own doing; he is his own master. But you do not know _all_.

I _will_ read you the passage which particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_. ‘Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister; and to confess the truth, _we_ are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into something still more interesting from the hope we dare to entertain of her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before mentioned to you my feelings on this subject, but I will not leave the country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable.

My brother admires her greatly already; he will have frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing; her relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a sister’s partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most capable of engaging any woman’s heart. With all these circumstances to favour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness of so many?’ What think you of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?” said Jane, as she finished it. “Is it not clear enough?

Does it not expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of her brother’s indifference; and that if she suspects the nature of my feelings for him she means (most kindly!) to put me on my guard.

Can there be any other opinion on the subject?” “Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear it?”

“Most willingly.”

“You shall have it in a few words.

Miss Bingley sees that her brother is in love with you and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to town in the hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he does not care about you.” Jane shook her head. “Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me.

No one who has ever seen you together can doubt his affection; Miss Bingley, I am sure, cannot: she is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr.
Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the case is this:--we are not rich enough or grand enough for them; and she is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that when there has been _one_ inter-marriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it would succeed if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way.

But, my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that, because Miss Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday; or that it will be in her power to persuade him that, instead of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend.”

“If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,” replied Jane, “your representation of all this might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust.

Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving anyone; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived herself.” “That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea, since you will not take comfort in mine: believe her to be deceived, by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer.”

“But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?” “You must decide for yourself,” said Elizabeth; “and if, upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you, by all means, to refuse him.” “How can you talk so?” said Jane, faintly smiling; “you must know, that, though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate.”

“I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion.”

“But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months.” The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline’s interested wishes; and she could not for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so totally independent of everyone.

She represented to her sister, as forcibly as possible, what she felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane’s temper was not desponding; and she was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to Netherfield, and answer every wish of her heart. They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman’s conduct; but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen to go away just as they were all getting so intimate together. After lamenting it, however, at some length, she had the consolation of thinking that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again, and soon dining at Longbourn; and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration, that, though he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two full courses. [Illustration] CHAPTER XXII.

[Illustration] The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases; and again, during the chief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. “It keeps him in good humour,” said she, “and I am more obliged to you than I can express.”

Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was very amiable; but Charlotte’s kindness extended farther than Elizabeth had any conception of:--its object was nothing less than to secure her from any return of Mr. Collins’s addresses, by engaging them towards herself. Such was Miss Lucas’s scheme; and appearances were so favourable, that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost sure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon.

But here she did injustice to the fire and independence of his character; for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet.

He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction that, if they saw him depart, they could not fail to conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known till its success could be known likewise; for, though feeling almost secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday. His reception, however, was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there.

In as short a time as Mr. Collins’s long speeches would allow, everything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as they entered the house, he earnestly entreated her to name the day that was to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must be waived for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with his happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature must guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that establishment were gained. Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins’s present circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were exceedingly fair.

Lady Lucas began directly to calculate, with more interest than the matter had ever [Illustration:      “So much love and eloquence” [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] excited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife should make their appearance at St.
James’s. The whole family in short were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes of _coming out_ a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte’s dying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed.

She had gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were in general satisfactory. Mr.
Collins, to be sure, was neither sensible nor agreeable: his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must be imaginary. But still he would be her husband.

Without thinking highly either of men or of matrimony, marriage had always been her object: it was the only honourable provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, and, however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business was the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder, and probably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved to give her the information herself; and therefore charged Mr. Collins, when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family.

A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct questions on his return, as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love. As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great politeness and cordiality, said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his other engagements might allow him to visit them. “My dear madam,” he replied, “this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible.” They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said,-- “But is there not danger of Lady Catherine’s disapprobation here, my good sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the risk of offending your patroness.”

“My dear sir,” replied Mr. Collins, “I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her Ladyship’s concurrence.” “You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk anything rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence.”

“Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate attention; and, depend upon it, you will speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this as well as for every other mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire.

As for my fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth.”

With proper civilities, the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally surprised to find that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him. She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others: there was a solidity in his reflections which often struck her; and though by no means so clever as herself, she thought that, if encouraged to read and improve himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very agreeable companion. But on the following morning every hope of this kind was done away.

Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before. The possibility of Mr. Collins’s fancying himself in love with her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two: but that Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far from possibility as that she could encourage him herself; and her astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out,-- “Engaged to Mr. Collins! my dear Charlotte, impossible!”

The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her story gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon regained her composure, and calmly replied,-- “Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman’s good opinion, because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?”

But Elizabeth had now recollected herself; and, making a strong effort for it, was able to assure her, with tolerable firmness, that the prospect of their relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she wished her all imaginable happiness.

“I see what you are feeling,” replied Charlotte; “you must be surprised, very much surprised, so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry you. But when you have had time to think it all over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have done.

I am not romantic, you know. I never was. I ask only a comfortable home; and, considering Mr. Collins’s character, connections, and situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the marriage state.”

Elizabeth quietly answered “undoubtedly;” and, after an awkward pause, they returned to the rest of the family.

Charlotte did not stay much longer; and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard. It was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins’s making two offers of marriage within three days was nothing in comparison of his being now accepted. She had always felt that Charlotte’s opinion of matrimony was not exactly like her own; but she could not have supposed it possible that, when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better feeling to worldly advantage.

Charlotte, the wife of Mr. Collins, was a most humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend disgracing herself, and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction that it was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen. [Illustration:      “Protested he must be entirely mistaken.” [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] CHAPTER XXIII.

[Illustration] Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what she had heard, and doubting whether she was authorized to mention it, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter to announce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them, and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the houses, he unfolded the matter,--to an audience not merely wondering, but incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than politeness, protested he must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed,-- “Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story?

Do not you know that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?” Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne without anger such treatment: but Sir William’s good-breeding carried him through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the truth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the most forbearing courtesy.

Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters, by the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she was readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the happiness that might be expected from the match, the excellent character of Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London. Mrs. Bennet was, in fact, too much overpowered to say a great deal while Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings found a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving the whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins had been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be happy together; and, fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two inferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole: one, that Elizabeth was the real cause of all the mischief; and the other, that she herself had been barbarously used by them all; and on these two points she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could console and nothing appease her.

Nor did that day wear out her resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth without scolding her: a month passed away before she could speak to Sir William or Lady Lucas without being rude; and many months were gone before she could at all forgive their daughter. Mr. Bennet’s emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for it gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had been used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and more foolish than his daughter! Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match: but she said less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness; nor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it as improbable.

Kitty and Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a clergyman; and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news to spread at Meryton. Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort on Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was, though Mrs. Bennet’s sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been enough to drive happiness away. Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that no real confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious, as Bingley had now been gone a week, and nothing was heard of his return.

Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a twelve-month’s abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take place as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him the happiest of men. Mr. Collins’s return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of pleasure to Mrs. Bennet.

On the contrary, she was as much disposed to complain of it as her husband. It was very strange that he should come to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient and exceedingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley’s continued absence.

Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs.
Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous falsehood. Even Elizabeth began to fear--not that Bingley was indifferent--but that his sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as she was to admit an idea so destructive to Jane’s happiness, and so dishonourable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its frequently recurring.

The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters, and of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss Darcy and the amusements of London, might be too much, she feared, for the strength of his attachment. As for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspense was, of course, more painful than Elizabeth’s: but whatever she felt she was desirous of concealing; and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject was never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother, an hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her impatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he did not come back she should think herself very ill-used.

It needed all Jane’s steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable tranquillity. Mr. Collins returned most punctually on the Monday fortnight, but his reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention; and, luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.

[Illustration:      “_Whenever she spoke in a low voice_” ] Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of anything concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill-humour, and wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight of Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she regarded her with jealous abhorrence.

Whenever Charlotte came to see them, she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and whenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself and her daughters out of the house as soon as Mr. Bennet was dead. She complained bitterly of all this to her husband. “Indeed, Mr. Bennet,” said she, “it is very hard to think that Charlotte Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that _I_ should be forced to make way for _her_, and live to see her take my place in it!” “My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better things.

Let us flatter ourselves that _I_ may be the survivor.” This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet; and, therefore, instead of making any answer, she went on as before. “I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate.

If it was not for the entail, I should not mind it.” “What should not you mind?”

“I should not mind anything at all.”

“Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such insensibility.” “I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about the entail.

How anyone could have the conscience to entail away an estate from one’s own daughters I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr. Collins, too!
Why should _he_ have it more than anybody else?” “I leave it to yourself to determine,” said Mr. Bennet. [Illustration] CHAPTER XXIV.

[Illustration] Miss Bingley’s letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for the winter, and concluded with her brother’s regret at not having had time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left the country. Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest of the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the writer, that could give her any comfort.

Miss Darcy’s praise occupied the chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on; and Caroline boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict the accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former letter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother’s being an inmate of Mr. Darcy’s house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of the latter with regard to new furniture. Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this, heard it in silent indignation.

Her heart was divided between concern for her sister and resentment against all others. To Caroline’s assertion of her brother’s being partial to Miss Darcy, she paid no credit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she had ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness of temper, that want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave of his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice his own happiness to the caprice of their inclinations.

Had his own happiness, however, been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in whatever manner he thought best; but her sister’s was involved in it, as she thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short, on which reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She could think of nothing else; and yet, whether Bingley’s regard had really died away, or were suppressed by his friends’ interference; whether he had been aware of Jane’s attachment, or whether it had escaped his observation; whichever were the case, though her opinion of him must be materially affected by the difference, her sister’s situation remained the same, her peace equally wounded.

A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to Elizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet’s leaving them together, after a longer irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could not help saying,-- “O that my dear mother had more command over herself! she can have no idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But I will not repine.

It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before.” Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said nothing.

“You doubt me,” cried Jane, slightly colouring; “indeed, you have no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my acquaintance but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear, and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God I have not _that_ pain. A little time, therefore--I shall certainly try to get the better----” With a stronger voice she soon added, “I have this comfort immediately, that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it has done no harm to anyone but myself.”

“My dear Jane,” exclaimed Elizabeth, “you are too good.

Your sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say to you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you deserve.” Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back the praise on her sister’s warm affection. “Nay,” said Elizabeth, “this is not fair. _

You_ wish to think all the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. _

I_ only want to think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not be afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your privilege of universal good-will. You need not.

There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of either merit or sense. I have met with two instances lately: one I will not mention, the other is Charlotte’s marriage. It is unaccountable! in every view it is unaccountable!”

“My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins’s respectability, and Charlotte’s prudent, steady character.

Remember that she is one of a large family; that as to fortune it is a most eligible match; and be ready to believe, for everybody’s sake, that she may feel something like regard and esteem for our cousin.” “To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her understanding than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man: you know he is, as well as I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who marries him cannot have a proper way of thinking.

You shall not defend her, though it is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual, change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of danger security for happiness.” “I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,” replied Jane; “and I hope you will be convinced of it, by seeing them happy together. But enough of this.

You alluded to something else. You mentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that person_ to blame, and saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy ourselves intentionally injured.

We must not expect a lively young man to be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but our own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than it does.”

“And men take care that they should.”

“If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea of there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine.” “I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley’s conduct to design,” said Elizabeth; “but, without scheming to do wrong, or to make others unhappy, there may be error and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness, want of attention to other people’s feelings, and want of resolution, will do the business.”

“And do you impute it to either of those?”

“Yes; to the last. But if I go on I shall displease you by saying what I think of persons you esteem.

Stop me, whilst you can.” “You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?” “Yes, in conjunction with his friend.”

“I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him?

They can only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me no other woman can secure it.” “Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his happiness: they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they may wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great connections, and pride.” “Beyond a doubt they do wish him to choose Miss Darcy,” replied Jane; “but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have known her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love her better.

But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely they should have opposed their brother’s.

What sister would think herself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very objectionable? If they believed him attached to me they would not try to part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an affection, you make everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea.

I am not ashamed of having been mistaken--or, at least, it is slight, it is nothing in comparison of what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it in the best light, in the light in which it may be understood.” Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley’s name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.

Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no more; and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account for it clearly, there seemed little chance of her ever considering it with less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what she did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely the effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw her no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet’s best comfort was, that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer. Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. “So, Lizzy,” said he, one day, “your sister is crossed in love, I find.

I congratulate her. Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then. It is something to think of, and gives her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn to come?

You will hardly bear to be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough at Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.”

“Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me.

We must not all expect Jane’s good fortune.”

“True,” said Mr. Bennet; “but it is a comfort to think that, whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will always make the most of it.” Mr. Wickham’s society was of material service in dispelling the gloom which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now added that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him, was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was pleased to think how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they had known anything of the matter.

Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be any extenuating circumstances in the case unknown to the society of Hertfordshire: her mild and steady candour always pleaded for allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes; but by everybody else Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men. [Illustration] CHAPTER XXV.

[Illustration] After a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity, Mr.
Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his side by preparations for the reception of his bride, as he had reason to hope, that shortly after his next return into Hertfordshire, the day would be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father another letter of thanks. On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving her brother and his wife, who came, as usual, to spend the Christmas at Longbourn.

Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived by trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so well-bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger than Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Philips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant woman, and a great favourite with her Longbourn nieces.

Between the two eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a very particular regard. They had frequently been staying with her in town. The first part of Mrs. Gardiner’s business, on her arrival, was to distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions.

When this was done, she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen. Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They had all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister.

Two of her girls had been on the point of marriage, and after all there was nothing in it. “I do not blame Jane,” she continued, “for Jane would have got Mr.
Bingley if she could. But, Lizzy!

Oh, sister!

it is very hard to think that she might have been Mr. Collins’s wife by this time, had not it been for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room, and she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have a daughter married before I have, and that Longbourn estate is just as much entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people, indeed, sister.

They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of them, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted so in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves before anybody else.

However, your coming just at this time is the greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us of long sleeves.”

Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before, in the course of Jane and Elizabeth’s correspondence with her, made her sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her nieces, turned the conversation.

When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. “It seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane,” said she. “I am sorry it went off. But these things happen so often!

A young man, such as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a few weeks, and, when accident separates them, so easily forgets her, that these sort of inconstancies are very frequent.” [Illustration:      “Offended two or three young ladies” [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] “An excellent consolation in its way,” said Elizabeth; “but it will not do for _us_.

We do not suffer by accident. It does not often happen that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in love with only a few days before.” “But that expression of ‘violently in love’ is so hackneyed, so doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as often applied to feelings which arise only from a half hour’s acquaintance, as to a real, strong attachment.

Pray, how _violent was_ Mr. Bingley’s love?”

“I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he offended two or three young ladies by not asking them to dance; and I spoke to him twice myself without receiving an answer.

Could there be finer symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?”

“Oh, yes!

of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor Jane!

I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get over it immediately. It had better have happened to _you_, Lizzy; you would have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she would be prevailed on to go back with us?

Change of scene might be of service--and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as anything.”

Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded of her sister’s ready acquiescence.

“I hope,” added Mrs. Gardiner, “that no consideration with regard to this young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of town, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go out so little, that it is very improbable they should meet at all, unless he really comes to see her.” “And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such a part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it?

Mr. Darcy may, perhaps, have _heard_ of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he would hardly think a month’s ablution enough to cleanse him from its impurities, were he once to enter it; and, depend upon it, Mr. Bingley never stirs without him.”

“So much the better.

I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane correspond with his sister?

_

She_ will not be able to help calling.” “She will drop the acquaintance entirely.” But, in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this point, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley’s being withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which convinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely hopeless.

It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that his affection might be re-animated, and the influence of his friends successfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane’s attractions. Miss Bennet accepted her aunt’s invitation with pleasure; and the Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time than as she hoped, by Caroline’s not living in the same house with her brother, she might occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of seeing him. The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Philipses, the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment of her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always made part of it, of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and on these occasions Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth’s warm commendation of him, narrowly observed them both.

Without supposing them, from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference of each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such an attachment. To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure, unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago, before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very part of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many acquaintance in common; and, though Wickham had been little there since the death of Darcy’s father, five years before, it was yet in his power to give her fresher intelligence of her former friends than she had been in the way of procuring.

Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by character perfectly well. Here, consequently, was an inexhaustible subject of discourse.

In comparing her recollection of Pemberley with the minute description which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her tribute of praise on the character of its late possessor, she was delighting both him and herself. On being made acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy’s treatment of him, she tried to remember something of that gentleman’s reputed disposition, when quite a lad, which might agree with it; and was confident, at last, that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy. [Illustration:      “Will you come and see me?”

] CHAPTER XXVI. [Illustration] Mrs. Gardiner’s caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone: after honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on:--

“You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve yourself, or endeavour to involve him, in an affection which the want of fortune would make so very imprudent.

I have nothing to say against _him_: he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is--you must not let your fancy run away with you.

You have sense, and we all expect you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.” “My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.”

“Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.”

“Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I can prevent it.”

“Elizabeth, you are not serious now.” “I beg your pardon. I will try again.

At present I am not in love with Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I ever saw--and if he becomes really attached to me--I believe it will be better that he should not.

I see the imprudence of it. Oh, _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy! My father’s opinion of me does me the greatest honour; and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham.

In short, my dear aunt, I should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but since we see, every day, that where there is affection young people are seldom withheld, by immediate want of fortune, from entering into engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many of my fellow-creatures, if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it would be wiser to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing.

In short, I will do my best.” “Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very often. At least you should not _remind_ your mother of inviting him.” “As I did the other day,” said Elizabeth, with a conscious smile; “very true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine that he is always here so often.

It is on your account that he has been so frequently invited this week. You know my mother’s ideas as to the necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do what I think to be wisest; and now I hope you are satisfied.”

Her aunt assured her that she was; and Elizabeth, having thanked her for the kindness of her hints, they parted,--a wonderful instance of advice being given on such a point without being resented. Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but, as he took up his abode with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching; and she was at length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that she “_wished_

they might be happy.” Thursday was to be the wedding-day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother’s ungracious and reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her out of the room.

As they went down stairs together, Charlotte said,-- “I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.” “_That_

you certainly shall.” “And I have another favour to ask. Will you come and see me?”

“We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.”

“I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to come to Hunsford.”

Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the visit. “My father and Maria are to come to me in March,” added Charlotte, “and I hope you will consent to be of the party.

Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome to me as either of them.” The wedding took place: the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from the church door, and everybody had as much to say or to hear on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend, and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as it ever had been: that it should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over; and, though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what had been rather than what was.

Charlotte’s first letters were received with a good deal of eagerness: there could not but be curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing which she could not praise.

The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine’s behaviour was most friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins’s picture of Hunsford and Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait for her own visit there, to know the rest. Jane had already written a few lines to her sister, to announce their safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.

Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience generally is. Jane had been a week in town, without either seeing or hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that her last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been lost. “My aunt,” she continued, “is going to-morrow into that part of the town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor Street.”

She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley. “I did not think Caroline in spirits,” were her words, “but she was very glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming to London. I was right, therefore; my last letter had never reached her. I inquired after their brother, of course.

He was well, but so much engaged with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Darcy was expected to dinner: I wish I could see her. My visit was not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall soon see them here.” Elizabeth shook her head over this letter.

It convinced her that accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister’s being in town. Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be blind to Miss Bingley’s inattention. After waiting at home every morning for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and, yet more, the alteration of her manner, would allow Jane to deceive herself no longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister will prove what she felt:--      “My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in      her better judgment, at my expense, when I confess myself to have      been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley’s regard for me.

But, my      dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not think me      obstinate if I still assert that, considering what her behaviour      was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion.

I do not at      all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate with me; but,      if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am sure I should      be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit till yesterday;      and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the meantime. When she      did come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it; she      made a slight, formal apology for not calling before, said not a      word of wishing to see me again, and was, in every respect, so      altered a creature, that when she went away I was perfectly      resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I      cannot help blaming, her.

She was very wrong in singling me out as      she did; I can safely say, that every advance to intimacy began on      her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been      acting wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her      brother is the cause of it.

I need not explain myself farther; and      though _we_ know this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she      feels it, it will easily account for her behaviour to me; and so      deservedly dear as he is to his sister, whatever anxiety she may      feel on his behalf is natural and amiable. I cannot but wonder,      however, at her having any such fears now, because if he had at all      cared about me, we must have met long, long ago. He knows of my      being in town, I am certain, from something she said herself; and      yet it would seem, by her manner of talking, as if she wanted to      persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy.

I cannot      understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should be      almost tempted to say, that there is a strong appearance of      duplicity in all this. I will endeavour to banish every painful      thought, and think only of what will make me happy, your affection,      and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear      from you very soon.

Miss Bingley said something of his never      returning to Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not      with any certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely      glad that you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at      Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria.

I am      sure you will be very comfortable there. “Yours, etc.”

This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned, as she considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least. All expectation from the brother was now absolutely over.

She would not even wish for any renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on every review of it; and, as a punishment for him, as well as a possible advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr.
Darcy’s sister, as, by Wickham’s account, she would make him abundantly regret what he had thrown away. Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise concerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth had such to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to herself.

His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over, he was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to see it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain. Her heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied with believing that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune permitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in this case than in Charlotte’s, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence.

Nothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and, while able to suppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very sincerely wish him happy. All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and, after relating the circumstances, she thus went on:--“I am now convinced, my dear aunt, that I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that pure and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, and wish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial towards _him_, they are even impartial towards Miss King.

I cannot find out that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think her a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My watchfulness has been effectual; and though I should certainly be a more interesting object to all my acquaintance, were I distractedly in love with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance. Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take his defection much more to heart than I do.

They are young in the ways of the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that handsome young men must have something to live on as well as the plain.” [Illustration:      “On the Stairs” ] CHAPTER XXVII.

[Illustration] With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the plan, and she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure as well as greater certainty.

Absence had increased her desire of seeing Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There was novelty in the scheme; and as, with such a mother and such uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would, moreover, give her a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have been very sorry for any delay.

Everything, however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled according to Charlotte’s first sketch. She was to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement of spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became as perfect as plan could be. The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her, and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he told her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter.

The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their opinion of her--their opinion of everybody--would always coincide, there was a solicitude, an interest, which she felt must ever attach her to him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced, that, whether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable and pleasing. Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her think him less agreeable.

Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but she had known Sir William’s too long. He could tell her nothing new of the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were worn out, like his information.

It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner’s door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival: when they entered the passage, she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth, looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls, whose eagerness for their cousin’s appearance would not allow them to wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and kindness.

The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres. Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first subject was her sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to her minute inquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of dejection.

It was reasonable, however, to hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the particulars also of Miss Bingley’s visit in Gracechurch Street, and repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the acquaintance. Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham’s desertion, and complimented her on bearing it so well. “But, my dear Elizabeth,” she added, “what sort of girl is Miss King?

I should be sorry to think our friend mercenary.”

“Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive?

Where does discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is mercenary.” “If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know what to think.”

“She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her.”

“But he paid her not the smallest attention till her grandfather’s death made her mistress of this fortune?” “No--why should he?

If it were not allowable for him to gain _my_ affections, because I had no money, what occasion could there be for making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally poor?”

“But there seems indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her so soon after this event.”

“A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it, why should _we_?” “_Her_ not objecting does not justify _him_.

It only shows her being deficient in something herself--sense or feeling.”

“Well,” cried Elizabeth, “have it as you choose. _

He_ shall be mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish.” “No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry, you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire.”

“Oh, if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither manners nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after all.”

“Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment.”

Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.

“We have not quite determined how far it shall carry us,” said Mrs.
Gardiner; “but perhaps, to the Lakes.” No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. “My dear, dear aunt,” she rapturously cried, “what delight! what felicity!

You give me fresh life and vigour.

Adieu to disappointment and spleen.

What are men to rocks and mountains? Oh, what hours of transport we shall spend! And when we _do_ return, it shall not be like other travellers, without being able to give one accurate idea of anything.

We _will_ know where we have gone--we _will_ recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains, and rivers, shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor, when we attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarrelling about its relative situation. Let _our_ first effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of travellers.”

[Illustration:      “At the door” ] CHAPTER XXVIII.

[Illustration] Every object in the next day’s journey was new and interesting to Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she had seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health, and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight. When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view. The paling of Rosings park was their boundary on one side.

Elizabeth smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants. At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the road, the house standing in it, the green pales and the laurel hedge, everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate, which led by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of the whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the sight of each other.

Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the liveliest pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with coming, when she found herself so affectionately received. She saw instantly that her cousin’s manners were not altered by his marriage: his formal civility was just what it had been; and he detained her some minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all her family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing out the neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as soon as they were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious formality, to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife’s offers of refreshment. Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect, and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him.

But though everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify him by any sigh of repentance; and rather looked with wonder at her friend, that she could have so cheerful an air with such a companion.

When Mr.
Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be ashamed, which certainly was not seldom, she involuntarily turned her eye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush; but in general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to admire every article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to the fender, to give an account of their journey, and of all that had happened in London, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the garden, which was large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of which he attended himself.

To work in his garden was one of his most respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and owned she encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way through every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the fields in every direction, and could tell how many trees there were in the most distant clump.

But of all the views which his garden, or which the country or the kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with the prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that bordered the park nearly opposite the front of his house.

It was a handsome modern building, well situated on rising ground. From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows; but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white frost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte took her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased, probably, to have the opportunity of showing it without her husband’s help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and everything was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency, of which Elizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit.

When Mr. Collins could be forgotten, there was really a great air of comfort throughout, and by Charlotte’s evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often forgotten. She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining in, observed,-- “Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will be delighted with her.

She is all affability and condescension, and I doubt not

but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice when service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying that she will include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to walk home.

Her Ladyship’s carriage is regularly ordered for us. I _should_ say, one of her Ladyship’s carriages, for she has several.”

“Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman, indeed,” added Charlotte, “and a most attentive neighbour.” “Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.”

The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news, and telling again what had been already written; and when it closed, Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to meditate upon Charlotte’s degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding, and composure in bearing with, her husband, and to acknowledge that it was all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit would pass, the quiet tenour of their usual employments, the vexatious interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all. About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in confusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard somebody running upstairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her.

She opened the door, and met Maria in the landing-place, who, breathless with agitation, cried out,-- [Illustration:      “In Conversation with the ladies”

[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]

]

“Oh, my dear Eliza!

pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make haste, and come down this moment.” Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more; and down they ran into the dining-room which fronted the lane, in quest of this wonder; it was two ladies, stopping in a low phaeton at the garden gate.

“And is this all?” cried Elizabeth. “I expected at least that the pigs were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her daughter!” “La! my dear,” said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, “it is not Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them. The other is Miss De Bourgh.

Only look at her. She is quite a little creature. Who would have thought she could be so thin and small!” “She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind.

Why does she not come in?” “Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours when Miss De Bourgh comes in.” “I like her appearance,” said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas.

“She looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will make him a very proper wife.”

Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth’s high diversion, was stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness before him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss De Bourgh looked that way. At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two girls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which Charlotte explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked to dine at Rosings the next day.

[Illustration:      ‘Lady Catherine, said she, you have given me a treasure.’ [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] CHAPTER XXIX.

[Illustration] Mr. Collins’s triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was complete. The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering visitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his wife, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity of doing it should be given so soon was such an instance of Lady Catherine’s condescension as he knew not how to admire enough. “I confess,” said he, “that I should not have been at all surprised by her Ladyship’s asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it would happen.

But who could have foreseen such an attention as this?
Who could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there (an invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so immediately after your arrival?”

“I am the less surprised at what has happened,” replied Sir William, “from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which my situation in life has allowed me to acquire.

About the court, such instances of elegant breeding are not uncommon.” Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and so splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower them. When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to Elizabeth,-- “Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which becomes herself and daughter.

I would advise you merely to put on whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest--there is no occasion for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you for being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank preserved.”

While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much objected to be kept waiting for her dinner. Such formidable accounts of her Ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas, who had been little used to company; and she looked forward to her introduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as her father had done to his presentation at St. James’s.

As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile across the park. Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but slightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the house, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh. When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria’s alarm was every moment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm. Elizabeth’s courage did not fail her.

She had heard nothing of Lady Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money and rank she thought she could witness without trepidation. From the entrance hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a rapturous air, the fine proportion and finished ornaments, they followed the servants through an antechamber to the room where Lady Catherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her Ladyship, with great condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had settled it with her husband that the office of introduction should be hers, it was performed in a proper manner, without any of those apologies and thanks which he would have thought necessary. In spite of having been at St. James’s, Sir William was so completely awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word; and his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge of her chair, not knowing which way to look.

Elizabeth found herself quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her composedly. Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked features, which might once have been handsome. Her air was not conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by silence: but whatever she said was spoken in so authoritative a tone as marked her self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to Elizabeth’s mind; and, from the observation of the day altogether, she believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he had represented.

When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the daughter, she could almost have joined in Maria’s astonishment at her being so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any likeness between the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was pale and sickly: her features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very little, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance there was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening to what she said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before her eyes.

After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties, and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth looking at in the summer. The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants, and all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he had likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by her Ladyship’s desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish nothing greater. He carved and ate and praised with delighted alacrity; and every dish was commended first by him, and then by Sir William, who was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law said, in a manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear. But Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved a novelty to them.

The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth was ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated between Charlotte and Miss de Bourgh--the former of whom was engaged in listening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all the dinnertime. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little Miss de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish and fearing she was indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question, and the gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire. When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every subject in so decisive a manner as proved that she was not used to have her judgment controverted.

She inquired into Charlotte’s domestic concerns familiarly and minutely, and gave her a great deal of advice as to the management of them all; told her how everything ought to be regulated in so small a family as hers, and instructed her as to the care of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was beneath this great lady’s attention which could furnish her with an occasion for dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew the least, and who, she observed to Mrs. Collins, was a very genteel, pretty kind of girl. She asked her at different times how many sisters she had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of them were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been her mother’s maiden name? Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of her questions, but answered them very composedly.

Lady Catherine then observed,-- “Your father’s estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think? For your sake,” turning to Charlotte, “I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s family. Do you play and sing, Miss Bennet?”

“A little.”

“Oh then--some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our instrument is a capital one, probably superior to ---- you shall try it some day. Do your sisters play and sing?”

“One of them does.” “Why did not you all learn?

You ought all to have learned. The Miss Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as yours. Do you draw?” “No, not at all.”

“What, none of you?”

“Not one.”

“That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity.

Your mother should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters.” “My mother would have no objection, but my father hates London.” “Has your governess left you?”

“We never had any governess.”

“No governess! How was that possible?

Five daughters brought up at home without a governess!

I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must have been quite a slave to your education.” Elizabeth could hardly help smiling, as she assured her that had not been the case.

“Then who taught you? who attended to you?

Without a governess, you must have been neglected.” “Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as wished to learn never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to read, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be idle certainly might.”

“Ay, no doubt: but that is what a governess will prevent; and if I had known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out.

Four nieces of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and it was but the other day that I recommended another young person, who was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalfe’s calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. ‘Lady Catherine,’ said she, ‘you have given me a treasure.’ Are any of your younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?”

“Yes, ma’am, all.”

“All!

What, all five out at once?

Very odd! And you only the second. The younger ones out before the elder are married!

Your younger sisters must be very young?” “Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to be much in company. But really, ma’am, I think it would be very hard upon younger sisters that they should not have their share of society and amusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination to marry early.

The last born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth as the first. And to be kept back on _such_ a motive!

I think it would not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.” “Upon my word,” said her Ladyship, “you give your opinion very decidedly for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?”

“With three younger sisters grown up,” replied Elizabeth, smiling, “your Ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.” Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer; and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence. “You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure,--therefore you need not conceal your age.”

“I am not one-and-twenty.” When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card tables were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat down to quadrille; and as Miss De Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the two girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson expressed her fears of Miss De Bourgh’s being too hot or too cold, or having too much or too little light.

A great deal more passed at the other table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking--stating the mistakes of the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins was employed in agreeing to everything her Ladyship said, thanking her for every fish he won, and apologizing if he thought he won too many. Sir William did not say much.

He was storing his memory with anecdotes and noble names. When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose, the tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins, gratefully accepted, and immediately ordered. The party then gathered round the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were to have on the morrow.

From these instructions they were summoned by the arrival of the coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr.
Collins’s side, and as many bows on Sir William’s, they departed. As soon as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her cousin to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for Charlotte’s sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But her commendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means satisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her Ladyship’s praise into his own hands.

[Illustration] CHAPTER XXX.

[Illustration] Sir William stayed only a week at Hunsford; but his visit was long enough to convince him of his daughter’s being most comfortably settled, and of her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not often met with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his mornings to driving him out in his gig, and showing him the country: but when he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments, and Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her cousin by the alteration; for the chief of the time between breakfast and dinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden, or in reading and writing, and looking out of window in his own book room, which fronted the road. The room in which the ladies sat was backwards.

Elizabeth at first had rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer the dining parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a pleasanter aspect: but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent reason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been much less in his own apartment had they sat in one equally lively; and she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement. From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went along, and how often especially Miss De Bourgh drove by in her phaeton, which he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened almost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and had a few minutes’ conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever prevailed on to get out.

Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and not many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise; and till Elizabeth recollected that there might be other family livings to be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many hours. Now and then they were honoured with a call from her Ladyship, and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work, and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement of the furniture, or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding out that Mrs. Collins’s joints of meat were too large for her family.

Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in the commission of the peace for the county, she was a most active magistrate in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her by Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to be quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the village to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold them into harmony and plenty. [Illustration:      “he never failed to inform them” ]

The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week; and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart of the first. Their other engagements were few, as the style of living of the neighbourhood in general was beyond the Collinses’ reach. This, however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time comfortably enough: there were half hours of pleasant conversation with Charlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year, that she had often great enjoyment out of doors.

Her favourite walk, and where she frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine’s curiosity. In this quiet way the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away. Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be important. Elizabeth had heard, soon after her arrival, that Mr. Darcy was expected there in the course of a few weeks; and though there were not many of her acquaintance whom she did not prefer, his coming would furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and she might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley’s designs on him were, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined by Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by Miss Lucas and herself. His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was walking the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane, in order to have [Illustration: “The gentlemen accompanied him.”

[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] the earliest assurance of it; and, after making his bow as the carriage turned into the park, hurried home with the great intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for Mr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of his uncle, Lord ----; and, to the great surprise of all the party, when Mr. Collins returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen them from her husband’s room, crossing the road, and immediately running into the other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding,-- “I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility.

Mr. Darcy would never have come so soon to wait upon me.” Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and address most truly the gentleman.

Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, paid his compliments, with his usual reserve, to Mrs. Collins; and whatever might be his feelings towards her friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely courtesied to him, without saying a word. Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly, with the readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but his cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to anybody. At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of Elizabeth after the health of her family.

She answered him in the usual way; and, after a moment’s pause, added,-- “My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never happened to see her there?” She was perfectly sensible that he never had: but she wished to see whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between the Bingleys and Jane; and she thought he looked a little confused as he answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The subject was pursued no further, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went away.

[Illustration: “At Church” ] CHAPTER XXXI.

[Illustration] Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners were very much admired at the Parsonage, and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasure of their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they received any invitation thither, for while there were visitors in the house they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day, almost a week after the gentlemen’s arrival, that they were honoured by such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little of either Lady Catherine or her daughter.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had called at the Parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had only seen at church. The invitation was accepted, of course, and at a proper hour they joined the party in Lady Catherine’s drawing-room. Her Ladyship received them civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so acceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact, almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy, much more than to any other person in the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them: anything was a welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins’s pretty friend had, moreover, caught his fancy very much.

He now seated himself by her, and talked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much spirit and flow as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as well as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her Ladyship, after a while, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not scruple to call out,-- “What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking of?

What are you telling Miss Bennet?

Let me hear what it is.”

“We were talking of music, madam,” said he, when no longer able to avoid a reply. “Of music!

Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my share in the conversation, if you are speaking of music. There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste.

If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?”

Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister’s proficiency. “I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,” said Lady Catherine; “and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel, if she does not practise a great deal.” “I assure you, madam,” he replied, “that she does not need such advice. She practises very constantly.” “So much the better.

It cannot be done too much; and when I next write to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often tell young ladies, that no excellence in music is to be acquired without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she will never play really well, unless she practises more; and though Mrs.
Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs.
Jenkinson’s room. She would be in nobody’s way, you know, in that part of the house.” Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt’s ill-breeding, and made no answer.

When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then talked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away from her, and moving with his usual deliberation towards the pianoforte, stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer’s countenance.

Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first convenient pause turned to him with an arch smile, and said,-- “You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me. But I will not be alarmed, though your sister _

does_ play so well.

There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.” “I shall not say that you are mistaken,” he replied, “because you could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know, that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which, in fact, are not your own.” Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to Colonel Fitzwilliam, “Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say.

I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so well able to expose my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire--and, give me leave to say, very impolitic too--for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.”

“I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly. “Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.” “You shall hear, then--but prepare for something very dreadful.

The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball--and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances! I am sorry to pain you, but so it was.

He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.” “I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party.” “True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next?

My fingers wait your orders.” “Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have judged better had I sought an introduction, but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.” “Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Elizabeth, still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill-qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”

“I can answer your question,” said Fitzwilliam, “without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.” “I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said Darcy, “of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.”

“My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault--because I would not take the trouble of practising.

It is not that I do not believe _my_ fingers as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution.” Darcy smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better.

No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.” Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again.

Lady Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said to Darcy,-- “Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised more, and could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne’s. Anne would have been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn.” Elizabeth looked at Darcy, to see how cordially he assented to his cousin’s praise: but neither at that moment nor at any other could she discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss De Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have been just as likely to marry _her_, had she been his relation.

Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth’s performance, mixing with them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received them with all the forbearance of civility; and at the request of the gentlemen remained at the instrument till her Ladyship’s carriage was ready to take them all home. [Illustration] CHAPTER XXXII.

[Illustration] Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane, while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village, when she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to be Lady Catherine; and under that apprehension was putting away her half-finished letter, that she might escape all impertinent questions, when the door opened, and to her very great surprise Mr. Darcy, and Mr.
Darcy only, entered the room. He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologized for his intrusion, by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies to be within. They then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were made, seemed in danger of sinking into total silence.

It was absolutely necessary, therefore, to think of something; and in this emergency recollecting _when_ she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and feeling curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty departure, she observed,-- “How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy! It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?”

“Perfectly so, I thank you.” She found that she was to receive no other answer; and, after a short pause, added,-- “I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever returning to Netherfield again?”

“I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend very little of his time there in future. He has many friends, and he is at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually increasing.” “If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we might possibly get a settled family there. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as for his own, and we must expect him to keep or quit it on the same principle.”

“I should not be surprised,” said Darcy, “if he were to give it up as soon as any eligible purchase offers.”

Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the trouble of finding a subject to him. He took the hint and soon began with, “This seems a very comfortable house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr.
Collins first came to Hunsford.”

“I believe she did--and I am sure she could not have bestowed her kindness on a more grateful object.” “Mr. Collins appears very fortunate in his choice of a wife.” “Yes, indeed; his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding--though I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however; and, in a prudential light, it is certainly a very good match for her.”

“It must be very agreeable to her to be settled within so easy a distance of her own family and friends.” “An easy distance do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.” “And what is fifty miles of good road?

Little more than half a day’s journey.

Yes, I call it a very easy distance.” “I should never have considered the distance as one of the _advantages_ of the match,” cried Elizabeth. “I should never have said Mrs. Collins was settled _near_ her family.” “It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.”

As he spoke there was a sort of smile, which Elizabeth fancied she understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered,-- “I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her family.

The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expense of travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the case _here_.

Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not such a one as will allow of frequent journeys--and I am persuaded my friend would not call herself _near_ her family under less than _half_ the present distance.” Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, “_You_ cannot have a right to such very strong local attachment. _

You_ cannot have been always at Longbourn.” Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and, glancing over it, said, in a colder voice,-- “Are you pleased with Kent?”

A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side calm and concise--and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte and her sister, just returned from their walk. The _tête-à-tête_ surprised them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding on Miss Bennet, and, after sitting a few minutes longer, without saying much to anybody, went away.

[Illustration: “Accompanied by their aunt”

[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] “What can be the meaning of this?” said Charlotte, as soon as he was gone. “My dear Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would never have called on us in this familiar way.” But when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very likely, even to Charlotte’s wishes, to be the case; and, after various conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from the difficulty of finding anything to do, which was the more probable from the time of year.

All field sports were over. Within doors there was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard table, but gentlemen cannot be always within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither almost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in being with him, as well as by his evident admiration, of her former favourite, George Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw there was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners, she believed he might have the best informed mind.

But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage it was more difficult to understand.

It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there ten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak, it seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice--a sacrifice to propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really animated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s occasionally laughing at his stupidity proved that he was generally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told her; and as she would have liked to believe this change the effect of love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza, she set herself seriously to work to find it out: she watched him whenever they were at Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success.

He certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that look was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed nothing but absence of mind. She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs.
Collins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of raising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her opinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend’s dislike would vanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power. In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying Colonel Fitzwilliam.

He was, beyond comparison, the pleasantest man: he certainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but, to counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage in the church, and his cousin could have none at all. [Illustration: “On looking up”] CHAPTER XXXIII. [Illustration] More than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park, unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought; and, to prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him, at first, that it was a favourite haunt of hers.

How it could occur a second time, therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even the third.

It seemed like wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance; for on these occasions it was not merely a few formal inquiries and an awkward pause and then away, but he actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He never said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking or of listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third encounter that he was asking some odd unconnected questions--about her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins’s happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings, and her not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to expect that whenever she came into Kent again she would be staying _there_ too. His words seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel Fitzwilliam in his thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must mean an allusion to what might arise in that quarter.

It distressed her a little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the pales opposite the Parsonage. She was engaged one day, as she walked, in re-perusing Jane’s last letter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not written in spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, she saw, on looking up, that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her.
Putting away the letter immediately, and forcing a smile, she said,-- “I did not know before that you ever walked this way.” “I have been making the tour of the park,” he replied, “as I generally do every year, and intended to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are you going much farther?”

“No, I should have turned in a moment.”

And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage together. “Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?” said she. “Yes--if Darcy does not put it off again.

But I am at his disposal.

He arranges the business just as he pleases.” “And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least great pleasure in the power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy.” “He likes to have his own way very well,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and dependence.”

“In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of either. Now, seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going wherever you chose or procuring anything you had a fancy for?”

“These are home questions--and perhaps I cannot say that I have experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater weight, I may suffer from the want of money.

Younger sons cannot marry where they like.” “Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often do.” “Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many in my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to money.”

“Is this,” thought Elizabeth, “meant for me?” and she coloured at the idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, “And pray, what is the usual price of an earl’s younger son? Unless the elder brother is very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds.”

He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt a silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed, she soon afterwards said,-- “I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of having somebody at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well for the present; and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he likes with her.”

“No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “that is an advantage which he must divide with me.

I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy.” “Are you, indeed? And pray what sort of a guardian do you make?

Does your charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a little difficult to manage; and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she may like to have her own way.”

As she spoke, she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the manner in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other got pretty near the truth. She directly replied,-- “You need not be frightened.

I never heard any harm of her; and I dare say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them.”

“I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant, gentlemanlike man--he is a great friend of Darcy’s.” “Oh yes,” said Elizabeth drily--“Mr.

Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr.
Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.” “Care of him!

Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him in those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant.

It was all conjecture.” “What is it you mean?” “It is a circumstance which Darcy of course could not wish to be generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady’s family it would be an unpleasant thing.” “You may depend upon my not mentioning it.”

“And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other particulars; and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer.”

“Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons for this interference?”

“I understood that there were some very strong objections against the lady.” “And what arts did he use to separate them?”

“He did not talk to me of his own arts,” said Fitzwilliam, smiling. “He only told me what I have now told you.”

Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she was so thoughtful. “I am thinking of what you have been telling me,” said she.

“Your cousin’s conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?” “You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?”

“I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his friend’s inclination; or why, upon his own judgment alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner that friend was to be happy. But,” she continued, recollecting herself, “as we know none of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn him.

It is not to be supposed that there was much affection in the case.” “That is not an unnatural surmise,” said Fitzwilliam; “but it is lessening the honour of my cousin’s triumph very sadly.” This was spoken jestingly, but it appeared to her so just a picture of Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer; and, therefore, abruptly changing the conversation, talked on indifferent matters till they reached the Parsonage. There, shut into her own room, as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption of all that she had heard.

It was not to be supposed that any other people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There could not exist in the world _two_ men over whom Mr. Darcy could have such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures taken to separate Mr. Bingley and Jane, she had never doubted; but she had always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, _he_ was the cause--his pride and caprice were the cause--of all that Jane had suffered, and still continued to suffer.

He had ruined for a while every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart in the world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have inflicted. “There were some very strong objections against the lady,” were Colonel Fitzwilliam’s words; and these strong objections probably were, her having one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in business in London. “To Jane herself,” she exclaimed, “there could be no possibility of objection,--all loveliness and goodness as she is!

Her understanding excellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither could anything be urged against my father, who, though with some peculiarities, has abilities which Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and respectability which he will probably never reach.” When she thought of her mother, indeed, her confidence gave way a little; but she would not allow that any objections _there_ had material weight with Mr.
Darcy, whose pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the want of importance in his friend’s connections than from their want of sense; and she was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister.

The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned brought on a headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening that, added to her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea.

Mrs. Collins, seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go, and as much as possible prevented her husband from pressing her; but Mr. Collins could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine’s being rather displeased by her staying at home. [Illustration] CHAPTER XXXIV.

[Illustration] When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering. But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which had been used to characterize her style, and which, proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself, and kindly disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded.

Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy’s shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict gave her a keener sense of her sister’s sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next, and a still greater that in less than a fortnight she should herself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her spirits, by all that affection could do.

She could not think of Darcy’s leaving Kent without remembering that his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear that he had no intentions at all, and, agreeable as he was, she did not mean to be unhappy about him. While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the door-bell; and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in the evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her. But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room.

In a hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting up walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began:-- “In vain have I struggled.

It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression.

She stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement, and the avowal of all that he felt and had long felt for her immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride.

His sense of her inferiority, of its being a degradation, of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit. In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man’s affection, and though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to receive; till roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with representing to her the strength of that attachment which in spite of all his endeavours he had found impossible to conquer; and with expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand. As he said this she could easily see that he had no doubt of a favourable answer.

He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther; and when he ceased the colour rose into her cheeks and she said,-- “In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned.

It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot--I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly.

I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which you tell me have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation.”

Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantel-piece with his eyes fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the appearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed himself to have attained it.

The pause was to Elizabeth’s feelings dreadful. At length, in a voice of forced calmness, he said,-- “And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.”

“I might as well inquire,” replied she, “why, with so evident a design of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have other provocations.

You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?” As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she continued,-- “I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not, you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind.”

She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse. He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity. “Can you deny that you have done it?”

she repeated. With assumed tranquillity he then replied, “I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_

I have been kinder than towards myself.”

Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her. “But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham.

On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?
or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?” “You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,” said Darcy, in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour. “Who that knows what his misfortunes have been can help feeling an interest in him?”

“His misfortunes!”

repeated Darcy, contemptuously,--“yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed.” “And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth, with energy; “You have reduced him to his present state of poverty--comparative poverty.

You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this!

and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt and ridicule.” “And this,” cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room, “is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed!

But, perhaps,” added he, stopping in his walk, and turning towards her, “these offences might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design.

These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.

Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?--to congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”

Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to the utmost to speak with composure when she said,-- “You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.” She saw him start at this; but he said nothing, and she continued,-- “You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”

Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on,-- “From the very beginning, from the first moment, I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that groundwork of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.” “You have said quite enough, madam.

I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.

Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.” And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the house. The tumult of her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to support herself, and, from actual weakness, sat down and cried for half an hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by every review of it.

That she should receive an offer of marriage from Mr. Darcy!

that he should have been in love with her for so many months!
so much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all the objections which had made him prevent his friend’s marrying her sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case, was almost incredible! it was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride, his shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane, his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited.

She continued in very agitating reflections till the sound of Lady Catherine’s carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter Charlotte’s observation, and hurried her away to her room. [Illustration: “Hearing herself called” ] CHAPTER XXXV. [Illustration] Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the surprise of what had happened: it was impossible to think of anything else; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved soon after breakfast to indulge herself in air and exercise.

She was proceeding directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy’s sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane which led her farther from the turnpike road. The park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one of the gates into the ground. After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and look into the park.

The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk, when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which edged the park: he was moving that way; and fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced her name.

She had turned away; but on hearing herself called, though in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the gate. He had by that time reached it also; and, holding out a letter, which she instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty composure, “I have been walking in the grove some time, in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?” and then, with a slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight. With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and to her still increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter paper, written quite through, in a very close hand.

The envelope itself was likewise full. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings, at eight o’clock in the morning, and was as follows:-- “Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes, which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read.

You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice. “Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister,--and the other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham.

Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young persons whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in future secured, when the following account of my actions and their motives has been read.

If, in the explanation of them which is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd. I had not been long in Hertfordshire before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young woman in the country.

But it was not till the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment.

I had often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas’s accidental information, that Bingley’s attentions to your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could be undecided.

From that moment I observed my friend’s behaviour attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard; and I remained convinced, from the evening’s scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment. If _you_ have not been mistaken here, _I_ must have been in an error.

Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert, that the serenity of your sister’s countenance and air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched.

That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is certain; but I will venture to say that my investigations and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. My objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside in my own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me.

But there were other causes of repugnance; causes which, though still existing, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before me.

These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your mother’s family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison of that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father:--pardon me,--it pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your eldest sister than it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both.

I will only say, farther, that from what passed that evening my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every inducement heightened, which could have led me before to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left Netherfield for London on the day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning. The part which I acted is now to be explained.

His sisters’ uneasiness had been equally excited with my own: our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered; and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London. We accordingly went--and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I described and enforced them earnestly.

But however this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance, which I hesitated not in giving, of your sister’s indifference.

He had before believed her to return his affection with sincere, if not with equal, regard. But Bingley has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgment than on his own.

To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself was no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct, in the whole affair, on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister’s being in town.

I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill consequence is, perhaps, probable; but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise, was beneath me. It is done, however, and it was done for the best.

On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister’s feelings, it was unknowingly done; and though the motives which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them.--With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has _particularly_ accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity.

Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridge; most important assistance, as his own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a gentleman’s education. My father was not only fond of this young man’s society, whose manners were always engaging, he had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it.

As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities, the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have. Here again I shall give you pain--to what degree you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character.

It adds even another motive. My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me to promote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds.

His own father did not long survive mine; and within half a year from these events Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished than believed him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman.

The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town, I believe, he chiefly lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence; and being now free from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation.

For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in question--of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered father’s intentions.

You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances--and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived, I know not.

But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.

I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother’s nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself.

About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over it to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr.
Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid he so far recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love and to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended elopement; and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole to me.

You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my sister’s credit and feelings prevented any public exposure; but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Wickham’s chief object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a strong inducement.

His revenge would have been complete indeed. This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood, he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at, ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either.

Detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed.

For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of the executors of my father’s will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of _me_ should make _my_ assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.

“FITZWILLIAM DARCY.”

[Illustration] CHAPTER XXXVI.

[Illustration] Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of its contents. But such as they were, it may be well supposed how eagerly she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited.

Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did she first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power; and steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong prejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of what had happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which hardly left her power of comprehension; and from impatience of knowing what the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of the one before her eyes.

His belief of her sister’s insensibility she instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and insolence. But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham--when she read, with somewhat clearer attention, a relation of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself--her feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition.

Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!”--and when she had gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not regard it, that she would never look in it again.

In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, she walked on; but it would not do: in half a minute the letter was unfolded again; and collecting herself as well as she could, she again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own words. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living was fresh in her memory; and as she recalled his very words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the other, and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did not err.

But when she read and re-read, with the closest attention, the particulars immediately following of Wickham’s resigning all pretensions to the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate.

She put down the letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be impartiality--deliberated on the probability of each statement--but with little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on. But every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to render Mr. Darcy’s conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.

The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay to Mr. Wickham’s charge exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his entrance into the ----shire militia, in which he had engaged at the persuasion of the young man, who, on meeting him accidentally in town, had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life, nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told [Illustration:      “Meeting accidentally in Town” [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] himself.

As to his real character, had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner, had established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those casual errors, under which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years’ continuance. But no such recollection befriended her.

She could see him instantly before her, in every charm of air and address, but she could remember no more substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to read. But, alas!

the story which followed, of his designs on Miss Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam himself--from whom she had previously received the information of his near concern in all his cousin’s affairs and whose character she had no reason to question.

At one time she had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his cousin’s corroboration. She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation between Wickham and herself in their first evening at Mr. Philips’s.
Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was _now_ struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy--that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that _he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week.

She remembered, also, that till the Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but herself; but that after their removal, it had been everywhere discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy’s character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son. How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned! His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything.

His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive: he had either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter and fainter; and in further justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair;--that, proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance--an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways--seen anything that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust--anything that spoke him of irreligious or immoral habits;--that among his own connections he was esteemed and valued;--that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his sister as to prove him capable of some amiable feeling;--that had his actions been what Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of everything right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and that friendship between a person capable of it and such an amiable man as Mr. Bingley was incomprehensible. She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could she think, without feeling that she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd.

“How despicably have I acted!” she cried. “I, who have prided myself on my discernment!

I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameless distrust. How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation!

Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my folly.

Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away where either were concerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself.” From herself to Jane, from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy’s explanation _there_ had appeared very insufficient; and she read it again.

Widely different was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that credit to his assertions, in one instance, which she had been obliged to give in the other? He declared himself to have been totally unsuspicious of her sister’s attachment; and she could not help remembering what Charlotte’s opinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his description of Jane. She felt that Jane’s feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air and manner, not often united with great sensibility.

When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were mentioned, in tones of such mortifying, yet merited, reproach, her sense of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly for denial; and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded, as having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind than on hers. The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt which had been thus self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she considered that Jane’s disappointment had, in fact, been the work of her nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she had ever known before.

After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every variety of thought, reconsidering events, determining probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made her at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make her unfit for conversation. She was immediately told, that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take leave, but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found. Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern in missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an object.

She could think only of her letter. [Illustration: “His parting obeisance” ]

CHAPTER XXXVII.

[Illustration] The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning; and Mr. Collins having been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was able to bring home the pleasing intelligence of their appearing in very good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then hastened to console Lady Catherine and her daughter; and on his return brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her Ladyship, importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of having them all to dine with her. Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her as her future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of what her Ladyship’s indignation would have been.

“What would she have said?

how would she have behaved?” were the questions with which she amused herself. Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings’ party. “I assure you, I feel it exceedingly,” said Lady Catherine; “I believe nobody feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly attached to these young men; and know them to be so much attached to me!

They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are.

The dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy seemed to feel it most acutely--more, I think, than last year. His attachment to Rosings certainly increases.” Mr. Collins had a compliment and an allusion to throw in here, which were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.

Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of spirits; and immediately accounting for it herself, by supposing that she did not like to go home again so soon, she added,-- “But if that is the case, you must write to your mother to beg that you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your company, I am sure.” “I am much obliged to your Ladyship for your kind invitation,” replied Elizabeth; “but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town next Saturday.” “Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks.

I expected you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly spare you for another fortnight.”

“But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return.” [Illustration: “Dawson”

[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] “Oh, your father, of course, may spare you, if your mother can.

Daughters are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay another _month_ complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as far as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and as Dawson does not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good room for one of you--and, indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I should not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large.” “You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our original plan.”

Lady Catherine seemed resigned. “Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea of two young women travelling post by themselves.

It is highly improper. You must contrive to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in the world to that sort of thing.

Young women should always be properly guarded and attended, according to their situation in life. When my niece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her having two men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr.
Darcy of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with propriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to all those things.

You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I am glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would really be discreditable to _you_ to let them go alone.” “My uncle is to send a servant for us.” “Oh!

Your uncle!

He keeps a man-servant, does he?

I am very glad you have somebody who thinks of those things.

Where shall you change horses?
Oh, Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be attended to.” Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey; and as she did not answer them all herself attention was necessary--which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a mind so occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be reserved for solitary hours: whenever she was alone, she gave way to it as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary walk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant recollections.

Mr. Darcy’s letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She studied every sentence; and her feelings towards its writer were at times widely different. When she remembered the style of his address, she was still full of indignation: but when she considered how unjustly she had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against herself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion.

His attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect: but she could not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret: and in the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin. They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right herself, was entirely insensible of the evil.

Elizabeth had frequently united with Jane in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine and Lydia; but while they were supported by their mother’s indulgence, what chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited, irritable, and completely under Lydia’s guidance, had been always affronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain.

While there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there for ever. Anxiety on Jane’s behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Darcy’s explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved to have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend.

How grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family! When to these recollections was added the development of Wickham’s character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had seldom been depressed before were now so much affected as to make it almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful. Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent there; and her Ladyship again inquired minutely into the particulars of their journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing, and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh. When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year; and Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to courtesy and hold out her hand to both.

[Illustration: “The elevation of his feelings.”

] CHAPTER XXXVIII.

[Illustration] On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few minutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary. “I know not, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, “whether Mrs. Collins has yet expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I am very certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for it. The favour of your company has been much felt, I assure you.

We know how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain manner of living, our small rooms, and few domestics, and the little we see of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like yourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension, and that we have done everything in our power to prevent you spending your time unpleasantly.”

Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She had spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with Charlotte, and the kind attention she had received, must make _her_ feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified; and with a more smiling solemnity replied,-- “It gives me the greatest pleasure to hear that you have passed your time not disagreeably.

We have certainly done our best; and most fortunately having it in our power to introduce you to very superior society, and from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that your Hunsford visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to Lady Catherine’s family is, indeed, the sort of extraordinary advantage and blessing which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You see how continually we are engaged there.

In truth, I must acknowledge, that, with all the disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I should not think anyone abiding in it an object of compassion, while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.”

Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility and truth in a few short sentences. “You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself, at least, that you will be able to do so. Lady Catherine’s great attentions to Mrs. Collins

you have been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear that your friend has drawn an unfortunate--but on this point it will be as well to be silent.

Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in marriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each other.”

Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was the case, and with equal sincerity could add, that she firmly believed and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to have the recital of them interrupted by the entrance of the lady from whom they sprang. Poor Charlotte!

it was melancholy to leave her to such society! But she had chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently regretting that her visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for compassion.

Her home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their dependent concerns, had not yet lost their charms. At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate parting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by Mr. Collins; and as they walked down the garden, he was commissioning her with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her in, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies of Rosings. [Illustration: “They had forgotten to leave any message” ]

“But,” he added, “you will of course wish to have your humble respects delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you while you have been here.”

Elizabeth made no objection: the door was then allowed to be shut, and the carriage drove off. “Good gracious!”

cried Maria, after a few minutes’ silence, “it seems but a day or two since we first came! and yet how many things have happened!”

“A great many indeed,” said her companion, with a sigh. “We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice! How much I shall have to tell!” Elizabeth privately added, “And how much I shall have to conceal!”

Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they reached Mr. Gardiner’s house, where they were to remain a few days. Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her aunt had reserved for them.

But Jane was to go home with her, and at Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation.

It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy’s proposals. To know that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish Jane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own vanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation to openness as nothing could have conquered, but the state of indecision in which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate, and her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into repeating something of Bingley, which might only grieve her sister further. [Illustration:      “How nicely we are crammed in” ] CHAPTER XXXIX. [Illustration] It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out together from Gracechurch Street for the town of ----, in Hertfordshire; and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet’s carriage was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman’s punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room upstairs. These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and dressing a salad and cucumber.

After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming, “Is not this nice? is not this an agreeable surprise?”

“And we mean to treat you all,” added Lydia; “but you must lend us the money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.” Then showing her purchases,--“Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think it is very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any better.”

And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect unconcern, “Oh, but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what one wears this summer, after the ----shire have left Meryton, and they are going in a fortnight.” “Are they, indeed?” cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction. “They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to take us all there for the summer!

It would be such a delicious scheme, and I dare say would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would like to go, too, of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall have!”

“Yes,” thought Elizabeth; “_that_ would be a delightful scheme, indeed, and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven!

Brighton and a whole campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton!”

“Now I have got some news for you,” said Lydia, as they sat down to table. “What do you think? It is excellent news, capital news, and about a certain person that we all like.” Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told that he need not stay.

Lydia laughed, and said,-- “Ay, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse things said than I am going to say.

But he is an ugly fellow!

I am glad he is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for my news: it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is not it? There is no danger of Wickham’s marrying Mary King--there’s for you!

She is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool; gone to stay. Wickham is safe.” “And Mary King is safe!” added Elizabeth; “safe from a connection imprudent as to fortune.”

“She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.” “But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,” said Jane. “I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it, he never cared three straws about her.

Who _could_ about such a nasty little freckled thing?”

Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the _sentiment_ was little other than her own breast had formerly harboured and fancied liberal! As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was ordered; and, after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their boxes, workbags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty’s and Lydia’s purchases, were seated in it. “How nicely we are crammed in!” cried Lydia. “I am glad I brought my bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another band-box! Well, now let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way home.

And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men?

Have you had any flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare.

She is almost three-and-twenty!

Lord!

how ashamed I should be of not being married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Philips wants you so to get husbands you can’t think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr.
Collins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord!
how I should like to be married before any of you! and then I would _chaperon_

you about to all the balls. Dear me!

we had such a good piece of fun the other day at Colonel Forster’s! Kitty and me were to spend the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the evening; (by-the-bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so she asked the two Harringtons to come: but Harriet was ill, and so Pen was forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We dressed up Chamberlayne in woman’s clothes, on purpose to pass for a lady,--only think what fun!

Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel and Mrs.
Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny, and Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they did not know him in the least. Lord!

how I laughed! and so did Mrs.
Forster. I thought I should have died.

And _that_ made the men suspect something, and then they soon found out what was the matter.” With such kind of histories of their parties and good jokes did Lydia, assisted by Kitty’s hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham’s name. Their reception at home was most kind.

Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet say voluntarily to Elizabeth,---- “I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.”

Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were the subjects which occupied them: Lady Lucas was inquiring of Maria, across the table, after the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and on the other, retailing them all to the younger Miss Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person’s, was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who would hear her. “Oh, Mary,” said she, “I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun!
as we went along Kitty and me drew up all the blinds, and pretended there was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if Kitty had not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest cold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never should have got into the coach.

I was ready to die of laughter. And then we were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so loud, that anybody might have heard us ten miles off!”

To this, Mary very gravely replied, “Far be it from me, my dear sister, to depreciate such pleasures. They would doubtless be congenial with the generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for _me_.

I should infinitely prefer a book.” But of this answer Lydia heard not a word.

She seldom listened to anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all. In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to Meryton, and see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth steadily opposed the scheme. It should not be said, that the Miss Bennets could not be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was another reason, too, for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Wickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible.

The comfort to _her_, of the regiment’s approaching removal, was indeed beyond expression. In a fortnight they were to go, and once gone, she hoped there could be nothing more to plague her on his account. She had not been many hours at home, before she found that the Brighton scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were at the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last. [Illustration] CHAPTER XL.

[Illustration] Elizabeth’s impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no longer be overcome; and at length resolving to suppress every particular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised, she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr.
Darcy and herself. Miss Bennet’s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the unhappiness which her sister’s refusal must have given him.

“His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,” said she, “and certainly ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his disappointment.” “Indeed,” replied Elizabeth, “I am heartily sorry for him; but he has other feelings which will probably soon drive away his regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?”

“Blame you! Oh, no.”

“But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?” “No--I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.” “But you _will_ know it, when I have told you what happened the very next day.” She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far as they concerned George Wickham.

What a stroke was this for poor Jane, who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind as was here collected in one individual! Nor was Darcy’s vindication, though grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery.

Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and seek to clear one, without involving the other. “This will not do,” said Elizabeth; “you never will be able to make both of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting about pretty much.

For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Mr.
Darcy’s, but you shall do as you choose.” It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane. “I do not know when I have been more shocked,” said she. “Wickham so very bad!

It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy!

dear Lizzy, only consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment!

and with the knowledge of your ill opinion too!

and having to relate such a thing of his sister! It is really too distressing, I am sure you must feel it so.” “Oh no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so full of both.

I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion makes me saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will be as light as a feather.” “Poor Wickham!

there is such an expression of goodness in his countenance!

such an openness and gentleness in his manner.” “There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young men.

One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it.” “I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you used to do.”

“And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one’s genius, such an opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually abusive without saying anything just; but one cannot be always laughing at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.”

“Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat the matter as you do now.”

“Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I was very uncomfortable--I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to of what I felt, no Jane to comfort me, and say that I had not been so very weak, and vain, and nonsensical, as I knew I had! Oh, how I wanted you!” “How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly undeserved.”

“Certainly.

But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging.

There is one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintance in general understand Wickham’s character.” Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, “Surely there can be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your own opinion?”

“That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorized me to make his communication public.

On the contrary, every particular relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in Meryton, to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham will soon be gone; and, therefore, it will not signify to anybody here what he really is.

Some time hence it will be all found out, and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will say nothing about it.” “You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to re-establish a character.

We must not make him desperate.” The tumult of Elizabeth’s mind was allayed by this conversation. She had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish to talk again of either.

But there was still something lurking behind, of which prudence forbade the disclosure.

She dared not relate the other half of Mr. Darcy’s letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she had been valued by his friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off this last encumbrance of mystery. “And then,” said she, “if that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!” She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real state of her sister’s spirits.

Jane was not happy. She still cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than first attachments often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own health and their tranquillity. “Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet, one day, “what is your opinion _now_ of this sad business of Jane’s?

For my part, I am determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my sister Philips so the other day. But I cannot find out that Jane saw anything of him in London.

Well, he is a very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there is the least chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of everybody, too, who is likely to know.” [Illustration:      “I am determined never to speak of it again” ]

“I do not believe that he will ever live at Netherfield any more.”

“Oh, well!

it is just as he chooses.

Nobody wants him to come; though I shall always say that he used my daughter extremely ill; and, if I was her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry for what he has done.” But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation she made no answer.

“Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, soon afterwards, “and so the Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it will last. And what sort of table do they keep?

Charlotte is an excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her mother, she is saving enough.

There is nothing extravagant in _their_ housekeeping, I dare say.” “No, nothing at all.”

“A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. _

They_ will take care not to outrun their income. _

They_ will never be distressed for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead.

They look upon it quite as their own, I dare say, whenever that happens.” “It was a subject which they could not mention before me.” “No; it would have been strange if they had. But I make no doubt they often talk of it between themselves.

Well, if they can be easy with an estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. _

I_ should be ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me.” [Illustration: “When Colonel Miller’s regiment went away” [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] CHAPTER XLI.

[Illustration] The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was the last of the regiment’s stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost universal.

The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink, and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such hard-heartedness in any of the family. “Good Heaven!

What is to become of us? What are we to do?” would they often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. “How can you be smiling so, Lizzy?”

Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what she had herself endured on a similar occasion five-and-twenty years ago.

“I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days together when Colonel Miller’s regiment went away. I thought I should have broke my heart.” “I am sure I shall break _mine_,” said Lydia. “If one could but go to Brighton!” observed Mrs. Bennet.

“Oh yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so disagreeable.”

“A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever.” “And my aunt Philips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of good,” added Kitty. Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense of pleasure was lost in shame.

She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy’s objections; and never had she before been so much disposed to pardon his interference in the views of his friend. But the gloom of Lydia’s prospect was shortly cleared away; for she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton.

This invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good-humour and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of their _three_ months’ acquaintance they had been intimate _two_. The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister’s feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone’s congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repining at her fate in terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.

“I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as Lydia,” said she, “though I am _not_ her particular friend. I have just as much right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older.” In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she considered it as the death-warrant of all possibility of common sense for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her, were it known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her go.

She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia’s general behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said,-- “Lydia will never be easy till she has exposed herself in some public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present circumstances.”

“If you were aware,” said Elizabeth, “of the very great disadvantage to us all, which must arise from the public notice of Lydia’s unguarded and imprudent manner, nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in the affair.” “Already arisen!” repeated Mr. Bennet. “What! has she frightened away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy!

But do not be cast down.

Such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of the pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Lydia’s folly.” “Indeed, you are mistaken.

I have no such injuries to resent. It is not of peculiar, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the world, must be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark Lydia’s character.

Excuse me,--for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character will be fixed; and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt that ever made herself and her family ridiculous;--a flirt, too, in the worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond youth and a tolerable person; and, from the ignorance and emptiness of her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal contempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty is also comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads.

Vain, ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled!

Oh, my dear father, can you suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the disgrace?” Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject; and, affectionately taking her hand, said, in reply,-- “Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known, you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less advantage for having a couple of--or I may say, three--very silly sisters.

We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to anybody.

At Brighton she will be of less importance even as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow many degrees worse, without authorizing us to lock her up for the rest of her life.”

With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not in her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on them. She was confident of having performed her duty; and to fret over unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her disposition. Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their united volubility. In Lydia’s imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly happiness.

She saw, with the creative eye of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers. She saw herself the object of attention to tens and to scores of them at present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp: its tents stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six officers at once. [Illustration: “Tenderly flirting”

[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] Had she known that her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and such realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could have been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the same. Lydia’s going to Brighton was all that consoled her for the melancholy conviction of her husband’s never intending to go there himself.

But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures continued, with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia’s leaving home.

Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been frequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty well over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so. She had even learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted her, an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary.

In his present behaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure; for the inclination he soon testified of renewing those attentions which had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve, after what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in finding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous gallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the reproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever cause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified, and her preference secured, at any time, by their renewal. On the very last day of the regiment’s remaining in Meryton, he dined, with others of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth disposed to part from him in good-humour, that, on his making some inquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam’s and Mr. Darcy’s having both spent three weeks at Rosings, and asked him if he were acquainted with the former. He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but, with a moment’s recollection, and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen him often; and, after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man, asked her how she had liked him.

Her answer was warmly in his favour. With an air of indifference, he soon afterwards added, “How long did you say that he was at Rosings?”

“Nearly three weeks.” “And you saw him frequently?”

“Yes, almost every day.”

“His manners are very different from his cousin’s.” “Yes, very different; but I think Mr. Darcy improves on acquaintance.”

“Indeed!” cried Wickham, with a look which did not escape her. “And pray may I ask--” but checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone, “Is it in address that he improves?

Has he deigned to add aught of civility to his ordinary style? for I dare not hope,” he continued, in a lower and more serious tone, “that he is improved in essentials.”

“Oh, no!” said Elizabeth.

“In essentials, I believe, he is very much what he ever was.” While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to rejoice over her words or to distrust their meaning. There was a something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive and anxious attention, while she added,-- “When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that either his mind or manners were in a state of improvement; but that, from knowing him better, his disposition was better understood.”

Wickham’s alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated look; for a few minutes he was silent; till, shaking off his embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of accents,-- “You, who so well know my feelings towards Mr. Darcy, will readily comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume even the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that direction, may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must deter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by.

I only fear that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain he has very much at heart.” Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge him. The rest of the evening passed with the _appearance_, on his side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never meeting again.

When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton, from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the only one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs.
Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter, and impressive in her injunctions that she would not miss the opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible,--advice which there was every reason to believe would be attended to; and, in the clamorous happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard.

[Illustration: The arrival of the Gardiners ] CHAPTER XLII.

[Illustration] Had Elizabeth’s opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could not have formed a very pleasing picture of conjugal felicity or domestic comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance of good-humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in their marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views of domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had brought on in any of those pleasures which too often console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice.

He was fond of the country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted than as her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his wife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given. Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her father’s behaviour as a husband.

She had always seen it with pain; but respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own children, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so strongly as now the disadvantages which must attend the children of so unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising from so ill-judged a direction of talents--talents which, rightly used, might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.

When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham’s departure, she found little other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties abroad were less varied than before; and at home she had a mother and sister, whose constant repinings at the dulness of everything around them threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty might in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers of her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition greater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her folly and assurance, by a situation of such double danger as a watering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what has been sometimes found before, that an event to which she had looked forward with impatient desire, did not, in taking place, bring all the satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to name some other period for the commencement of actual felicity; to have some other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the present, and prepare for another disappointment.

Her tour to the Lakes was now the object of her happiest thoughts: it was her best consolation for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her mother and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in the scheme, every part of it would have been perfect. “But it is fortunate,” thought she, “that I have something to wish for.
Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain. But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my sister’s absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of pleasure realized.

A scheme of which every part promises delight can never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by the defence of some little peculiar vexation.” When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very minutely to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and always very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as made her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going to the camp; and from her correspondence with her sister there was still less to be learnt, for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were much too full of lines under the words to be made public. After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good-humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn.

Everything wore a happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs.
Bennet was restored to her usual querulous serenity; and by the middle of June Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without tears,--an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope, that by the following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to mention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and malicious arrangement at the War Office, another regiment should be quartered in Meryton.

The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now fast approaching; and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again within a month; and as that left too short a period for them to go so far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour; and, according to the present plan, were to go no farther northward than Derbyshire. In that county there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction.

The town where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of her curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or the Peak. Elizabeth was excessively disappointed: she had set her heart on seeing the Lakes; and still thought there might have been time enough. But it was her business to be satisfied--and certainly her temper to be happy; and all was soon right again.

With the mention of Derbyshire, there were many ideas connected. It was impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its owner. “But surely,” said she, “I may enter his county with impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars, without his perceiving me.” The period of expectation was now doubled.

Four weeks were to pass away before her uncle and aunt’s arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at Longbourn.

The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every way--teaching them, playing with them, and loving them. The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One enjoyment was certain--that of suitableness as companions; a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear inconveniences--cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure--and affection and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were disappointments abroad. It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither lay--Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc., are sufficiently known.

A small part of Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner’s former residence, and where she had lately learned that some acquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found, from her aunt, that Pemberley was situated. It was not in their direct road; nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an inclination to see the place again.

Mr. Gardiner declared his willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation. “My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so much?” said her aunt. “A place, too, with which so many of your acquaintance are connected.

Wickham passed all his youth there, you know.” Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it.

She must own that she was tired of great houses: after going over so many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains. Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. “If it were merely a fine house richly furnished,” said she, “I should not care about it myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the country.”

Elizabeth said no more; but her mind could not acquiesce. The possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea; and thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt, than to run such a risk. But against this there were objections; and she finally resolved that it could be the last resource, if her private inquiries as to the absence of the family were unfavourably answered.

Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid whether Pemberley were not a very fine place, what was the name of its proprietor, and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for the summer? A most welcome negative followed the last question; and her alarms being now removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go. [Illustration:      “Conjecturing as to the date” ] CHAPTER XLIII.

[Illustration] Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter. The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent. Elizabeth’s mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half a mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of the valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound.

It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted.

She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something! They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of meeting its owner returned.

She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she was. The housekeeper came; a respectable looking elderly woman, much less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her.

They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect.

The hill, crowned with wood, from which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine,--with less of splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings. “And of this place,” thought she, “I might have been mistress!

With these rooms I might have now been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But, no,” recollecting herself, “that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me; I should not have been allowed to invite them.”

This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret. She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master were really absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied, that he was; adding, “But we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends.”

How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture.

She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantel-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master’s steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expense. “He is now gone into the army,” she added; “but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.”

Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it. “And that,” said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, “is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other--about eight years ago.”

“I have heard much of your master’s fine person,” said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; “it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not.”

Mrs. Reynolds’ respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master.

“Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth coloured, and said, “A little.”

“And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma’am?” “Yes, very handsome.”

“I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery upstairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this.

This room was my late master’s favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them.” This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham’s being among them. Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old.

“And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?” said Mr. Gardiner. “Oh, yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished! She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master: she comes here to-morrow with him.”

Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks: Mrs. Reynolds, either from pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister.

“Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?” “Not so much as I could wish, sir: but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months.”

“Except,” thought Elizabeth, “when she goes to Ramsgate.” “If your master would marry, you might see more of him.” “Yes, sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is good enough for him.”

Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, “It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so.” “I say no more than the truth, and what everybody will say that knows him,” replied the other.

Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, “I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old.” This was praise of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion.

Her keenest attention was awakened: she longed to hear more; and was grateful to her uncle for saying,-- “There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having such a master.” “Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could not meet with a better.

But I have always observed, that they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the world.”

Elizabeth almost stared at her.

“Can this be Mr. Darcy?” thought she. “His father was an excellent man,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “Yes, ma’am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him--just as affable to the poor.” Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more.

Mrs.
Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture in vain.

Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family prejudice, to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many merits, as they proceeded together up the great staircase. “He is the best landlord, and the best master,” said she, “that ever lived. Not like the wild young men now-a-days, who think of nothing but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but what will give him a good name.

Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away like other young men.” “In what an amiable light does this place him!” thought Elizabeth. “This fine account of him,” whispered her aunt as they walked, “is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.” “Perhaps we might be deceived.”

“That is not very likely; our authority was too good.” On reaching the spacious lobby above, they were shown into a very pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than the apartments below; and were informed that it was but just done to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room, when last at Pemberley. “He is certainly a good brother,” said Elizabeth, as she walked towards one of the windows.

Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy’s delight, when she should enter the room. “And this is always the way with him,” she added. “Whatever can give his sister any pleasure, is sure to be done in a moment. There is nothing he would not do for her.”

The picture gallery, and two or three of the principal bed-rooms, were all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings: but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss Darcy’s, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and also more intelligible.

In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked on in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested her--and she beheld a striking resemblance of Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face, as she remembered to have sometimes seen, when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery.

Mrs. Reynolds informed them, that it had been taken in his father’s lifetime. There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth’s mind, a more gentle sensation towards the original than she had ever felt in the height of their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant?

As a brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people’s happiness were in his guardianship! How much of pleasure or pain it was in his power to bestow! How much of good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character; and as she stood before the canvas, on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had ever raised before: she remembered its warmth, and softened its impropriety of expression.

When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen, they returned down stairs; and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall door. As they walked across the lawn towards the river, Elizabeth turned back to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also; and while the former was conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself suddenly came forward from the road which led behind it to the stables. They were within twenty yards of each other; and so abrupt was his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of each were overspread with the deepest blush.

He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility. She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach, received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener’s expression of surprise, on beholding his master, must immediately have told it.

They stood a little aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she returned to his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the alteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few minutes in which they continued together were some of the most uncomfortable of her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his inquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her stay in Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the distraction of his thoughts. At length, every idea seemed to fail him; and after standing a few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took leave.

The others then joined her, and expressed their admiration of his figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and, wholly engrossed by her own feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the world! How strange must it appear to him! In what a disgraceful light might it not strike so vain a man!

It might seem as if she had purposely thrown herself in his way again! Oh!

why did she come?
or, why did he thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination; for it was plain that he was that moment arrived, that moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and again over the perverseness of the meeting.

And his behaviour, so strikingly altered,--what could it mean? That he should even speak to her was amazing!--but to speak with such civility, to inquire after her family! Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified, never had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put his letter into her hand!

She knew not what to think, or how to account for it. They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer reach of the woods to which they were approaching: but it was some time before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she distinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then was.

She longed to know what at that moment was passing in his mind; in what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything, she was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he felt himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice, which was not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing her, she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with composure. At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind roused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.

They entered the woods, and, bidding adieu to the river for a while, ascended some of the higher grounds; whence, in spots where the opening of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish of going round the whole park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile, they were told, that it was ten miles round. It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene: it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it.

Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed the bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth’s astonishment was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they met.

Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. The idea lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was immediately before them.

With a glance she saw that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she began as they met to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not got beyond the words “delightful,” and “charming,” when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said no more. Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends.

This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people, against whom his pride had revolted, in his offer to herself. “What will be his surprise,” thought she, “when he knows who they are!

He takes them now for people of fashion.” The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore it; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the connection was evident: he sustained it, however, with fortitude: and, so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but triumph.

It was consoling that he should know she had some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners. The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose, while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself.

Her astonishment, however, was extreme; and continually was she repeating, “Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed?

It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me.”

After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth’s arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband’s. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together.

After a short silence the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected--“for your housekeeper,” she added, “informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and, indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country.” He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. “They will join me early to-morrow,” he continued, “and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr.

Bingley and his sisters.”

Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley’s name had been last mentioned between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged. “There is also one other person in the party,” he continued after a pause, “who more particularly wishes to be known to you.

Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?” The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her, must be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of her.

They now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others; and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind. He then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not tired, and they stood together on the lawn.

At such a time much might have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but there seemed an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dovedale with great perseverance.

Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her patience and her ideas were nearly worn out before the _tête-à-tête_ was over.

On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s coming up they were all pressed to go into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted on each side with the utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house. The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected. “He is perfectly well-behaved, polite, and unassuming,” said her uncle. “There _is_ something a little stately in him, to be sure,” replied her aunt; “but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming.

I can now say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud, _I_ have seen nothing of it.”

“I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling.”

“To be sure, Lizzy,” said her aunt, “he is not so handsome as Wickham; or rather he has not Wickham’s countenance, for his features are perfectly good. But how came you to tell us that he was so disagreeable?”

Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could: said that she had liked him better when they met in Kent than before, and that she had never seen him so pleasant as this morning.

“But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,” replied her uncle. “Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him at his word about fishing, as he might change his mind another day, and warn me off his grounds.” Elizabeth felt that they had entirely mistaken his character, but said nothing. “From what we have seen of him,” continued Mrs. Gardiner, “I really should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by anybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look.

On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance, that would not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But, to be sure, the good lady who showed us the house did give him a most flaming character!

I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I suppose, and _that_, in the eye of a servant, comprehends every virtue.”

Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of his behaviour to Wickham; and, therefore, gave them to understand, in as guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from his relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor Wickham’s so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire.

In confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on. Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned: but as they were now approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out to her husband all the interesting spots in its environs, to think of anything else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning’s walk, they had no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of an intercourse renewed after many years’ discontinuance.

The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth much attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy’s civility, and, above all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister. [Illustration] CHAPTER XLIV.

[Illustration] Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was, consequently, resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning. But her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their own arrival at Lambton these visitors came.

They had been walking about the place with some of their new friends, and were just returned to the inn to dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a carriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and lady in a curricle driving up the street. Elizabeth, immediately recognizing the livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of surprise to her relations, by acquainting them with the honour which she expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment of her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many of the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they now felt that there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such a quarter than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of Elizabeth’s feelings was every moment increasing.

She was quite amazed at her own discomposure; but, amongst other causes of disquiet, she dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much in her favour; and, more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her. She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks of inquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made everything worse. Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud; but the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that she was only exceedingly shy.

She found it difficult to obtain even a word from her beyond a monosyllable. Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother, but there was sense and good-humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as acute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much relieved by discerning such different feelings. They had not been long together before Darcy told her that Bingley was also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley’s quick step was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room.

All Elizabeth’s anger against him had been long done away; but had she still felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected cordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He inquired in a friendly, though general, way, after her family, and looked and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done. To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting personage than to herself. They had long wished to see him.

The whole party before them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece, directed their observation towards each with an earnest, though guarded, inquiry; and they soon drew from those inquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew what it was to love.

MRS. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with alders and ladies’ eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place; it was reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook in its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool and cascade; but by the time it reached Lynde’s Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not even a brook could run past Mrs.
Rachel Lynde’s door without due regard for decency and decorum; it probably was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window, keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children up, and that if she noticed anything odd or out of place she would never rest until she had ferreted out the whys and wherefores thereof. There are plenty of people, in Avonlea and out of it, who can attend closely to their neighbors’ business by dint of neglecting their own; but Mrs. Rachel Lynde was one of those capable creatures who can manage their own concerns and those of other folks into the bargain.

She was a notable housewife; her work was always done and well done; she “ran” the Sewing Circle, helped run the Sunday-school, and was the strongest prop of the Church Aid Society and Foreign Missions Auxiliary. Yet with all this Mrs. Rachel found abundant time to sit for hours at her kitchen window, knitting “cotton warp” quilts--she had knitted sixteen of them, as Avonlea housekeepers were wont to tell in awed voices--and keeping a sharp eye on the main road that crossed the hollow and wound up the steep red hill beyond.

Since Avonlea occupied a little triangular peninsula jutting out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, with water on two sides of it, anybody who went out of it or into it had to pass over that hill road and so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachel’s all-seeing eye. She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. The sun was coming in at the window warm and bright; the orchard on the slope below the house was in a bridal flush of pinky-white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees. Thomas Lynde--a meek little man whom Avonlea people called “Rachel Lynde’s husband”--was sowing his late turnip seed on the hill field beyond the barn; and Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing his on the big red brook field away over by Green Gables.

Mrs. Rachel knew that he ought because she had heard him tell Peter Morrison the evening before in William J. Blair’s store over at Carmody that he meant to sow his turnip seed the next afternoon. Peter had asked him, of course, for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information about anything in his whole life. And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past three on the afternoon of a busy day, placidly driving over the hollow and up the hill; moreover, he wore a white collar and his best suit of clothes, which was plain proof that he was going out of Avonlea; and he had the buggy and the sorrel mare, which betokened that he was going a considerable distance. Now, where was Matthew Cuthbert going and why was he going there? Had it been any other man in Avonlea, Mrs. Rachel, deftly putting this and that together, might have given a pretty good guess as to both questions.

But Matthew so rarely went from home that it must be something pressing and unusual which was taking him; he was the shyest man alive and hated to have to go among strangers or to any place where he might have to talk.

Matthew, dressed up with a white collar and driving in a buggy, was something that didn’t happen often. Mrs. Rachel, ponder as she might, could make nothing of it and her afternoon’s enjoyment was spoiled. “I’ll just step over to Green Gables after tea and find out from Marilla where he’s gone and why,” the worthy woman finally concluded. “He doesn’t generally go to town this time of year and he _never_ visits; if he’d run out of turnip seed he wouldn’t dress up and take the buggy to go for more; he wasn’t driving fast enough to be going for a doctor.

Yet something must have happened since last night to start him off.

I’m clean puzzled, that’s what, and I won’t know a minute’s peace of mind or conscience until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today.” Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the big, rambling, orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the road from Lynde’s Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further.

Matthew Cuthbert’s father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land and there it was to this day, barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place _living_ at all. “It’s just _staying_, that’s what,” she said as she stepped along the deep-rutted, grassy lane bordered with wild rose bushes. “It’s no wonder Matthew and Marilla are both a little odd, living away back here by themselves.

Trees aren’t much company, though dear knows if they were there’d be enough of them. I’d ruther look at people. To be sure, they seem contented enough; but then, I suppose, they’re used to it. A body can get used to anything, even to being hanged, as the Irishman said.” With this Mrs. Rachel stepped out of the lane into the backyard of Green Gables.

Very green and neat and precise was that yard, set about on one side with great patriarchal willows and on the other with prim Lombardies. Not a stray stick nor stone was to be seen, for Mrs. Rachel would have seen it if there had been. Privately she was of the opinion that Marilla Cuthbert swept that yard over as often as she swept her house.

One could have eaten a meal off the ground without overbrimming the proverbial peck of dirt. Mrs. Rachel rapped smartly at the kitchen door and stepped in when bidden to do so. The kitchen at Green Gables was a cheerful apartment--or would have been cheerful if it had not been so painfully clean as to give it something of the appearance of an unused parlor. Its windows looked east and west; through the west one, looking out on the back yard, came a flood of mellow June sunlight; but the east one, whence you got a glimpse of the bloom white cherry-trees in the left orchard and nodding, slender birches down in the hollow by the brook, was greened over by a tangle of vines.

Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, always slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously; and here she sat now, knitting, and the table behind her was laid for supper. Mrs. Rachel, before she had fairly closed the door, had taken a mental note of everything that was on that table. There were three plates laid, so that Marilla must be expecting some one home with Matthew to tea; but the dishes were everyday dishes and there was only crab-apple preserves and one kind of cake, so that the expected company could not be any particular company. Yet what of Matthew’s white collar and the sorrel mare?

Mrs. Rachel was getting fairly dizzy with this unusual mystery about quiet, unmysterious Green Gables.

“Good evening, Rachel,” Marilla said briskly. “This is a real fine evening, isn’t it?

Won’t you sit down? How are all your folks?”

Something that for lack of any other name might be called friendship existed and always had existed between Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs. Rachel, in spite of--or perhaps because of--their dissimilarity. Marilla was a tall, thin woman, with angles and without curves; her dark hair showed some gray streaks and was always twisted up in a hard little knot behind with two wire hairpins stuck aggressively through it.

She looked like a woman of narrow experience and rigid conscience, which she was; but there was a saving something about her mouth which, if it had been ever so slightly developed, might have been considered indicative of a sense of humor. “We’re all pretty well,” said Mrs. Rachel. “I was kind of afraid _you_ weren’t, though, when I saw Matthew starting off today. I thought maybe he was going to the doctor’s.”

Marilla’s lips twitched understandingly. She had expected Mrs.
Rachel up; she had known that the sight of Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably would be too much for her neighbor’s curiosity.

“Oh, no, I’m quite well although I had a bad headache yesterday,” she said. “Matthew went to Bright River. We’re getting a little boy from an orphan asylum in Nova Scotia and he’s coming on the train tonight.” If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright River to meet a kangaroo from Australia Mrs. Rachel could not have been more astonished. She was actually stricken dumb for five seconds.

It was unsupposable that Marilla was making fun of her, but Mrs. Rachel was almost forced to suppose it. “Are you in earnest, Marilla?”

she demanded when voice returned to her. “Yes, of course,” said Marilla, as if getting boys from orphan asylums in Nova Scotia were part of the usual spring work on any well-regulated Avonlea farm instead of being an unheard of innovation. Mrs. Rachel felt that she had received a severe mental jolt. She thought in exclamation points.

A boy!

Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert of all people adopting a boy! From an orphan asylum!

Well, the world was certainly turning upside down! She would be surprised at nothing after this!
Nothing! “What on earth put such a notion into your head?”

she demanded disapprovingly. This had been done without her advice being asked, and must perforce be disapproved.

“Well, we’ve been thinking about it for some time--all winter in fact,”  returned Marilla. “Mrs. Alexander Spencer was up here one day before Christmas and she said she was going to get a little girl from the asylum over in Hopeton in the spring. Her cousin lives there and Mrs.
Spencer has visited her and knows all about it. So Matthew and I have talked it over off and on ever since. We thought we’d get a boy.

Matthew is getting up in years, you know--he’s sixty--and he isn’t so spry as he once was. His heart troubles him a good deal. And you know how desperate hard it’s got to be to get hired help.

There’s never anybody to be had but those stupid, half-grown little French boys; and as soon as you do get one broke into your ways and taught something he’s up and off to the lobster canneries or the States. At first Matthew suggested getting a Home boy. But I said ‘no’ flat to that.

‘They may be all right--I’m not saying they’re not--but no London street Arabs for me,’ I said. ‘Give me a native born at least. There’ll be a risk, no matter who we get. But I’ll feel easier in my mind and sleep sounder at nights if we get a born Canadian.’

So in the end we decided to ask Mrs. Spencer to pick us out one when she went over to get her little girl. We heard last week she was going, so we sent her word by Richard Spencer’s folks at Carmody to bring us a smart, likely boy of about ten or eleven. We decided that would be the best age--old enough to be of some use in doing chores right off and young enough to be trained up proper.

We mean to give him a good home and schooling. We had a telegram from Mrs. Alexander Spencer today--the mail-man brought it from the station--saying they were coming on the five-thirty train tonight. So Matthew went to Bright River to meet him. Mrs. Spencer will drop him off there.

Of course she goes on to White Sands station herself.” Mrs. Rachel prided herself on always speaking her mind; she proceeded to speak it now, having adjusted her mental attitude to this amazing piece of news. “Well, Marilla, I’ll just tell you plain that I think you’re doing a mighty foolish thing--a risky thing, that’s what.

You don’t know what you’re getting. You’re bringing a strange child into your house and home and you don’t know a single thing about him nor what his disposition is like nor what sort of parents he had nor how he’s likely to turn out. Why, it was only last week I read in the paper how a man and his wife up west of the Island took a boy out of an orphan asylum and he set fire to the house at night--set it _on purpose_, Marilla--and nearly burnt them to a crisp in their beds.

And I know another case where an adopted boy used to suck the eggs--they couldn’t break him of it. If you had asked my advice in the matter--which you didn’t do, Marilla--I’d have said for mercy’s sake not to think of such a thing, that’s what.” This Job’s comforting seemed neither to offend nor to alarm Marilla. She knitted steadily on.

“I don’t deny there’s something in what you say, Rachel. I’ve had some qualms myself. But Matthew was terrible set on it.

I could see that, so I gave in. It’s so seldom Matthew sets his mind on anything that when he does I always feel it’s my duty to give in. And as for the risk, there’s risks in pretty near everything a body does in this world. There’s risks in people’s having children of their own if it comes to that--they don’t always turn out well. And then Nova Scotia is right close to the Island.

It isn’t as if we were getting him from England or the States. He can’t be much different from ourselves.” “Well, I hope it will turn out all right,” said Mrs. Rachel in a tone that plainly indicated her painful doubts. “Only don’t say I didn’t warn you if he burns Green Gables down or puts strychnine in the well--I heard of a case over in New Brunswick where an orphan asylum child did that and the whole family died in fearful agonies.

Only, it was a girl in that instance.” “Well, we’re not getting a girl,” said Marilla, as if poisoning wells were a purely feminine accomplishment and not to be dreaded in the case of a boy. “I’d never dream of taking a girl to bring up. I wonder at Mrs. Alexander Spencer for doing it. But there, _she_ wouldn’t shrink from adopting a whole orphan asylum if she took it into her head.”

Mrs. Rachel would have liked to stay until Matthew came home with his imported orphan.

But reflecting that it would be a good two hours at least before his arrival she concluded to go up the road to Robert Bell’s and tell the news.

It would certainly make a sensation second to none, and Mrs. Rachel dearly loved to make a sensation. So she took herself away, somewhat to Marilla’s relief, for the latter felt her doubts and fears reviving under the influence of Mrs. Rachel’s pessimism. “Well, of all things that ever were or will be!” ejaculated Mrs. Rachel when she was safely out in the lane. “It does really seem as if I must be dreaming.

Well, I’m sorry for that poor young one and no mistake. Matthew and Marilla don’t know anything about children and they’ll expect him to be wiser and steadier than his own grandfather, if so be’s he ever had a grandfather, which is doubtful. It seems uncanny to think of a child at Green Gables somehow; there’s never been one there, for Matthew and Marilla were grown up when the new house was built--if they ever _were_ children, which is hard to believe when one looks at them. I wouldn’t be in that orphan’s shoes for anything.

My, but I pity him, that’s what.” So said Mrs. Rachel to the wild rose bushes out of the fulness of her heart; but if she could have seen the child who was waiting patiently at the Bright River station at that very moment her pity would have been still deeper and more profound. CHAPTER II.

Matthew Cuthbert Is Surprised MATTHEW Cuthbert and the sorrel mare jogged comfortably over the eight miles to Bright River. It was a pretty road, running along between snug farmsteads, with now and again a bit of balsamy fir wood to drive through or a hollow where wild plums hung out their filmy bloom. The air was sweet with the breath of many apple orchards and the meadows sloped away in the distance to horizon mists of pearl and purple; while      “The little birds sang as if it were      The one day of summer in all the year.” Matthew enjoyed the drive after his own fashion, except during the moments when he met women and had to nod to them--for in Prince Edward Island you are supposed to nod to all and sundry you meet on the road whether you know them or not. Matthew dreaded all women except Marilla and Mrs. Rachel; he had an uncomfortable feeling that the mysterious creatures were secretly laughing at him.

He may have been quite right in thinking so, for he was an odd-looking personage, with an ungainly figure and long iron-gray hair that touched his stooping shoulders, and a full, soft brown beard which he had worn ever since he was twenty. In fact, he had looked at twenty very much as he looked at sixty, lacking a little of the grayness. When he reached Bright River there was no sign of any train; he thought he was too early, so he tied his horse in the yard of the small Bright River hotel and went over to the station house. The long platform was almost deserted; the only living creature in sight being a girl who was sitting on a pile of shingles at the extreme end.

Matthew, barely noting that it _was_ a girl, sidled past her as quickly as possible without looking at her. Had he looked he could hardly have failed to notice the tense rigidity and expectation of her attitude and expression. She was sitting there waiting for something or somebody and, since sitting and waiting was the only thing to do just then, she sat and waited with all her might and main. Matthew encountered the stationmaster locking up the ticket office preparatory to going home for supper, and asked him if the five-thirty train would soon be along. “The five-thirty train has been in and gone half an hour ago,” answered that brisk official.

“But there was a passenger dropped off for you--a little girl. She’s sitting out there on the shingles. I asked her to go into the ladies’ waiting room, but she informed me gravely that she preferred to stay outside. ‘There was more scope for imagination,’ she said.

She’s a case, I should say.” “I’m not expecting a girl,” said Matthew blankly. “It’s a boy I’ve come for.

He should be here. Mrs. Alexander Spencer was to bring him over from Nova Scotia for me.” The stationmaster whistled.

“Guess there’s some mistake,” he said. “Mrs. Spencer came off the train with that girl and gave her into my charge. Said you and your sister were adopting her from an orphan asylum and that you would be along for her presently.

That’s all I know about it--and I haven’t got any more orphans concealed hereabouts.”

“I don’t understand,” said Matthew helplessly, wishing that Marilla was at hand to cope with the situation. “Well, you’d better question the girl,” said the stationmaster carelessly. “I dare say she’ll be able to explain--she’s got a tongue of her own, that’s certain. Maybe they were out of boys of the brand you wanted.”

He walked jauntily away, being hungry, and the unfortunate Matthew was left to do that which was harder for him than bearding a lion in its den--walk up to a girl--a strange girl--an orphan girl--and demand of her why she wasn’t a boy. Matthew groaned in spirit as he turned about and shuffled gently down the platform towards her. She had been watching him ever since he had passed her and she had her eyes on him now. Matthew was not looking at her and would not have seen what she was really like if he had been, but an ordinary observer would have seen this: A child of about eleven, garbed in a very short, very tight, very ugly dress of yellowish-gray wincey.

She wore a faded brown sailor hat and beneath the hat, extending down her back, were two braids of very thick, decidedly red hair. Her face was small, white and thin, also much freckled; her mouth was large and so were her eyes, which looked green in some lights and moods and gray in others. So far, the ordinary observer; an extraordinary observer might have seen that the chin was very pointed and pronounced; that the big eyes were full of spirit and vivacity; that the mouth was sweet-lipped and expressive; that the forehead was broad and full; in short, our discerning extraordinary observer might have concluded that no commonplace soul inhabited the body of this stray woman-child of whom shy Matthew Cuthbert was so ludicrously afraid.

Matthew, however, was spared the ordeal of speaking first, for as soon as she concluded that he was coming to her she stood up, grasping with one thin brown hand the handle of a shabby, old-fashioned carpet-bag; the other she held out to him. “I suppose you are Mr. Matthew Cuthbert of Green Gables?” she said in a peculiarly clear, sweet voice. “I’m very glad to see you. I was beginning to be afraid you weren’t coming for me

and I was imagining all the things that might have happened to prevent you. I had made up my mind that if you didn’t come for me tonight I’d go down the track to that big wild cherry-tree at the bend, and climb up into it to stay all night. I wouldn’t be a bit afraid, and it would be lovely to sleep in a wild cherry-tree all white with bloom in the moonshine, don’t you think? You could imagine you were dwelling in marble halls, couldn’t you?

And I was quite sure you would come for me in the morning, if you didn’t tonight.” Matthew had taken the scrawny little hand awkwardly in his; then and there he decided what to do. He could not tell this child with the glowing eyes that there had been a mistake; he would take her home and let Marilla do that.

She couldn’t be left at Bright River anyhow, no matter what mistake had been made, so all questions and explanations might as well be deferred until he was safely back at Green Gables. “I’m sorry I was late,” he said shyly. “Come along.

The horse is over in the yard. Give me your bag.” “Oh, I can carry it,” the child responded cheerfully. “It isn’t heavy.

I’ve got all my worldly goods in it, but it isn’t heavy. And if it isn’t carried in just a certain way the handle pulls out--so I’d better keep it because I know the exact knack of it. It’s an extremely old carpet-bag. Oh, I’m very glad you’ve come, even if it would have been nice to sleep in a wild cherry-tree. We’ve got to drive a long piece, haven’t we?

Mrs. Spencer said it was eight miles.

I’m glad because I love driving. Oh, it seems so wonderful that I’m going to live with you and belong to you. I’ve never belonged to anybody--not really. But the asylum was the worst.

I’ve only been in it four months, but that was enough. I don’t suppose you ever were an orphan in an asylum, so you can’t possibly understand what it is like. It’s worse than anything you could imagine. Mrs. Spencer said it was wicked of me to talk like that, but I didn’t mean to be wicked.

It’s so easy to be wicked without knowing it, isn’t it? They were good, you know--the asylum people. But there is so little scope for the imagination in an asylum--only just in the other orphans.

It was pretty interesting to imagine things about them--to imagine that perhaps the girl who sat next to you was really the daughter of a belted earl, who had been stolen away from her parents in her infancy by a cruel nurse who died before she could confess. I used to lie awake at nights and imagine things like that, because I didn’t have time in the day. I guess that’s why I’m so thin--I _am_ dreadful thin, ain’t I? There isn’t a pick on my bones. I do love to imagine I’m nice and plump, with dimples in my elbows.”

With this Matthew’s companion stopped talking, partly because she was out of breath and partly because they had reached the buggy. Not another word did she say until they had left the village and were driving down a steep little hill, the road part of which had been cut so deeply into the soft soil that the banks, fringed with blooming wild cherry-trees and slim white birches, were several feet above their heads. The child put out her hand and broke off a branch of wild plum that brushed against the side of the buggy. “Isn’t that beautiful?

What did that tree, leaning out from the bank, all white and lacy, make you think of?” she asked. “Well now, I dunno,” said Matthew. “Why, a bride, of course--a bride all in white with a lovely misty veil.

I’ve never seen one, but I can imagine what she would look like. I don’t ever expect to be a bride myself. I’m so homely nobody will ever want to marry me--unless it might be a foreign missionary. I suppose a foreign missionary mightn’t be very particular.

But I do hope that some day I shall have a white dress.

That is my highest ideal of earthly bliss. I just love pretty clothes. And I’ve never had a pretty dress in my life that I can remember--but of course it’s all the more to look forward to, isn’t it? And then I can imagine that I’m dressed gorgeously.

This morning when I left the asylum I felt so ashamed because I had to wear this horrid old wincey dress. All the orphans had to wear them, you know. A merchant in Hopeton last winter donated three hundred yards of wincey to the asylum. Some people said it was because he couldn’t sell it, but I’d rather believe that it was out of the kindness of his heart, wouldn’t you?

When we got on the train I felt as if everybody must be looking at me and pitying me.

But I just went to work and imagined that I had on the most beautiful pale blue silk dress--because when you _are_ imagining you might as well imagine something worth while--and a big hat all flowers and nodding plumes, and a gold watch, and kid gloves and boots.

I felt cheered up right away and I enjoyed my trip to the Island with all my might. I wasn’t a bit sick coming over in the boat. Neither was Mrs. Spencer, although she generally is.

She said she hadn’t time to get sick, watching to see that I didn’t fall overboard. She said she never saw the beat of me for prowling about. But if it kept her from being seasick it’s a mercy I did prowl, isn’t it?

And I wanted to see everything that was to be seen on that boat, because I didn’t know whether I’d ever have another opportunity. Oh, there are a lot more cherry-trees all in bloom! This Island is the bloomiest place. I just love it already, and I’m so glad I’m going to live here.

I’ve always heard that Prince Edward Island was the prettiest place in the world, and I used to imagine I was living here, but I never really expected I would. It’s delightful when your imaginations come true, isn’t it? But those red roads are so funny.

When we got into the train at Charlottetown and the red roads began to flash past I asked Mrs. Spencer what made them red and she said she didn’t know and for pity’s sake not to ask her any more questions. She said I must have asked her a thousand already. I suppose I had, too, but how are you going to find out about things if you don’t ask questions?

And what _does_ make the roads red?”

“Well now, I dunno,” said Matthew. “Well, that is one of the things to find out sometime. Isn’t it splendid to think of all the things there are to find out about?

It just makes me feel glad to be alive--it’s such an interesting world. It wouldn’t be half so interesting if we knew all about everything, would it? There’d be no scope for imagination then, would there?

But am I talking too much?

People are always telling me I do. Would you rather I didn’t talk? If you say so I’ll stop.

I can _stop_ when I make up my mind to it, although it’s difficult.” Matthew, much to his own surprise, was enjoying himself. Like most quiet folks he liked talkative people when they were willing to do the talking themselves and did not expect him to keep up his end of it.

But he had never expected to enjoy the society of a little girl.

Women were bad enough in all conscience, but little girls were worse. He detested the way they had of sidling past him timidly, with sidewise glances, as if they expected him to gobble them up at a mouthful if they ventured to say a word. That was the Avonlea type of well-bred little girl.

But this freckled witch was very different, and although he found it rather difficult for his slower intelligence to keep up with her brisk mental processes he thought that he “kind of liked her chatter.”

So he said as shyly as usual: “Oh, you can talk as much as you like. I don’t mind.” “Oh, I’m so glad. I know you and I are going to get along together fine.

It’s such a relief to talk when one wants to and not be told that children should be seen and not heard. I’ve had that said to me a million times if I have once. And people laugh at me because I use big words. But if you have big ideas you have to use big words to express them, haven’t you?”

“Well now, that seems reasonable,” said Matthew.

“Mrs. Spencer said that my tongue must be hung in the middle. But it isn’t--it’s firmly fastened at one end.

Mrs. Spencer said your place was named Green Gables. I asked her all about it. And she said there were trees all around it.

I was gladder than ever. I just love trees. And there weren’t any at all about the asylum, only a few poor weeny-teeny things out in front with little whitewashed cagey things about them.

They just looked like orphans themselves, those trees did. It used to make me want to cry to look at them. I used to say to them, ‘Oh, you _poor_

little things!

If you were out in a great big woods with other trees all around you and little mosses and June bells growing over your roots and a brook not far away and birds singing in your branches, you could grow, couldn’t you? But you can’t where you are.

I know just exactly how you feel, little trees.’ I felt sorry to leave them behind this morning. You do get so attached to things like that, don’t you?

Is there a brook anywhere near Green Gables?

I forgot to ask Mrs. Spencer that.” “Well now, yes, there’s one right below the house.” “Fancy.

It’s always been one of my dreams to live near a brook. I never expected I would, though. Dreams don’t often come true, do they?
Wouldn’t it be nice if they did?

But just now I feel pretty nearly perfectly happy.

I can’t feel exactly perfectly happy because--well, what color would you call this?” She twitched one of her long glossy braids over her thin shoulder and held it up before Matthew’s eyes. Matthew was not used to deciding on the tints of ladies’ tresses, but in this case there couldn’t be much doubt. “It’s red, ain’t it?”

he said.

The girl let the braid drop back with a sigh that seemed to come from her very toes and to exhale forth all the sorrows of the ages. “Yes, it’s red,” she said resignedly. “Now you see why I can’t be perfectly happy. Nobody could who has red hair.

I don’t mind the other things so much--the freckles and the green eyes and my skinniness. I can imagine them away. I can imagine that I have a beautiful rose-leaf complexion and lovely starry violet eyes. But I _cannot_ imagine that red hair away.

I do my best. I think to myself, ‘Now my hair is a glorious black, black as the raven’s wing.’ But all the time I _know_

it is just plain red and it breaks my heart.

It will be my lifelong sorrow. I read of a girl once in a novel who had a lifelong sorrow but it wasn’t red hair. Her hair was pure gold rippling back from her alabaster brow. What is an alabaster brow?

I never could find out. Can you tell me?” “Well now, I’m afraid I can’t,” said Matthew, who was getting a little dizzy. He felt as he had once felt in his rash youth when another boy had enticed him on the merry-go-round at a picnic.

“Well, whatever it was it must have been something nice because she was divinely beautiful. Have you ever imagined what it must feel like to be divinely beautiful?”

“Well now, no, I haven’t,” confessed Matthew ingenuously. “I have, often. Which would you rather be if you had the choice--divinely beautiful or dazzlingly clever or angelically good?”

“Well now, I--I don’t know exactly.” “Neither do I. I can never decide.

But it doesn’t make much real difference for it isn’t likely I’ll ever be either.

It’s certain I’ll never be angelically good. Mrs. Spencer says--oh, Mr. Cuthbert! Oh, Mr.
Cuthbert!!

Oh, Mr. Cuthbert!!!”

That was not what Mrs. Spencer had said; neither had the child tumbled out of the buggy nor had Matthew done anything astonishing. They had simply rounded a curve in the road and found themselves in the “Avenue.” The “Avenue,” so called by the Newbridge people, was a stretch of road four or five hundred yards long, completely arched over with huge, wide-spreading apple-trees, planted years ago by an eccentric old farmer.

Overhead was one long canopy of snowy fragrant bloom. Below the boughs the air was full of a purple twilight and far ahead a glimpse of painted sunset sky shone like a great rose window at the end of a cathedral aisle. Its beauty seemed to strike the child dumb.

She leaned back in the buggy, her thin hands clasped before her, her face lifted rapturously to the white splendor above. Even when they had passed out and were driving down the long slope to Newbridge she never moved or spoke. Still with rapt face she gazed afar into the sunset west, with eyes that saw visions trooping splendidly across that glowing background. Through Newbridge, a bustling little village where dogs barked at them and small boys hooted and curious faces peered from the windows, they drove, still in silence.

When three more miles had dropped away behind them the child had not spoken. She could keep silence, it was evident, as energetically as she could talk. “I guess you’re feeling pretty tired and hungry,” Matthew ventured to say at last, accounting for her long visitation of dumbness with the only reason he could think of. “But we haven’t very far to go now--only another mile.”

She came out of her reverie with a deep sigh and looked at him with the dreamy gaze of a soul that had been wondering afar, star-led. “Oh, Mr. Cuthbert,” she whispered, “that place we came through--that white place--what was it?” “Well now, you must mean the Avenue,” said Matthew after a few moments’ profound reflection. “It is a kind of pretty place.”

“Pretty?

Oh, _pretty_ doesn’t seem the right word to use. Nor beautiful, either.

They don’t go far enough. Oh, it was wonderful--wonderful. It’s the first thing I ever saw that couldn’t be improved upon by imagination. It just satisfied me here”--she put one hand on her breast--“it made a queer funny ache and yet it was a pleasant ache.

Did you ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert?” “Well now, I just can’t recollect that I ever had.” “I have it lots of times--whenever I see anything royally beautiful.

But they shouldn’t call that lovely place the Avenue.

There is no meaning in a name like that. They should call it--let me see--the White Way of Delight. Isn’t that a nice imaginative name? When I don’t like the name of a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always think of them so.

There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere.

Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight. Have we really only another mile to go before we get home? I’m glad and I’m sorry. I’m sorry because this drive has been so pleasant and I’m always sorry when pleasant things end.

Something still pleasanter may come after, but you can never be sure. And it’s so often the case that it isn’t pleasanter. That has been my experience anyhow.

But I’m glad to think of getting home.

You see, I’ve never had a real home since I can remember. It gives me that pleasant ache again just to think of coming to a really truly home. Oh, isn’t that pretty!” They had driven over the crest of a hill.

Below them was a pond, looking almost like a river so long and winding was it. A bridge spanned it midway and from there to its lower end, where an amber-hued belt of sand-hills shut it in from the dark blue gulf beyond, the water was a glory of many shifting hues--the most spiritual shadings of crocus and rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings for which no name has ever been found. Above the bridge the pond ran up into fringing groves of fir and maple and lay all darkly translucent in their wavering shadows. Here and there a wild plum leaned out from the bank like a white-clad girl tiptoeing to her own reflection.

From the marsh at the head of the pond came the clear, mournfully-sweet chorus of the frogs. There was a little gray house peering around a white apple orchard on a slope beyond and, although it was not yet quite dark, a light was shining from one of its windows. “That’s Barry’s pond,” said Matthew. “Oh, I don’t like that name, either.

I shall call it--let me see--the Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, that is the right name for it. I know because of the thrill.

When I hit on a name that suits exactly it gives me a thrill. Do things ever give you a thrill?” Matthew ruminated. “Well now, yes.

It always kind of gives me a thrill to see them ugly white grubs that spade up in the cucumber beds.

I hate the look of them.” “Oh, I don’t think that can be exactly the same kind of a thrill. Do you think it can?

There doesn’t seem to be much connection between grubs and lakes of shining waters, does there?

But why do other people call it Barry’s pond?”

“I reckon because Mr. Barry lives up there in that house.

Orchard Slope’s the name of his place. If it wasn’t for that big bush behind it you could see Green Gables from here. But we have to go over the bridge and round by the road, so it’s near half a mile further.”

“Has Mr. Barry any little girls?

Well, not so very little either--about my size.”

“He’s got one about eleven. Her name is Diana.” “Oh!” with a long indrawing of breath.

“What a perfectly lovely name!” “Well now, I dunno. There’s something dreadful heathenish about it, seems to me.

I’d ruther Jane or Mary or some sensible name like that. But when Diana was born there was a schoolmaster boarding there and they gave him the naming of her and he called her Diana.”

“I wish there had been a schoolmaster like that around when I was born, then. Oh, here we are at the bridge. I’m going to shut my eyes tight.

I’m always afraid going over bridges. I can’t help imagining that perhaps, just as we get to the middle, they’ll crumple up like a jack-knife and nip us. So I shut my eyes. But I always have to open them for all when I think we’re getting near the middle.

Because, you see, if the bridge _did_ crumple up I’d want to _see_

it crumple.

What a jolly rumble it makes! I always like the rumble part of it. Isn’t it splendid there are so many things to like in this world? There, we’re over.

Now I’ll look back. Good night, dear Lake of Shining Waters. I always say good night to the things I love, just as I would to people. I think they like it. That water looks as if it was smiling at me.”

When they had driven up the further hill and around a corner Matthew said: “We’re pretty near home now. That’s Green Gables over--” “Oh, don’t tell me,” she interrupted breathlessly, catching at his partially raised arm and shutting her eyes that she might not see his gesture. “Let me guess. I’m sure I’ll guess right.” She opened her eyes and looked about her.

They were on the crest of a hill. The sun had set some time since, but the landscape was still clear in the mellow afterlight. To the west a dark church spire rose up against a marigold sky.

Below was a little valley and beyond a long, gently-rising slope with snug farmsteads scattered along it. From one to another the child’s eyes darted, eager and wistful. At last they lingered on one away to the left, far back from the road, dimly white with blossoming trees in the twilight of the surrounding woods. Over it, in the stainless southwest sky, a great crystal-white star was shining like a lamp of guidance and promise. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

she said, pointing. Matthew slapped the reins on the sorrel’s back delightedly. “Well now, you’ve guessed it! But I reckon Mrs. Spencer described it so’s you could tell.”

“No, she didn’t--really she didn’t.

All she said might just as well have been about most of those other places. I hadn’t any real idea what it looked like. But just as soon as I saw it I felt it was home.

Oh, it seems as if I must be in a dream. Do you know, my arm must be black and blue from the elbow up, for I’ve pinched myself so many times today. Every little while a horrible sickening feeling would come over me and I’d be so afraid it was all a dream. Then I’d pinch myself to see if it was real--until suddenly I remembered that even supposing it was only a dream I’d better go on dreaming as long as I could; so I stopped pinching.

But it _is_

real

and we’re nearly home.” With a sigh of rapture she relapsed into silence. Matthew stirred uneasily. He felt glad that it would be Marilla and not he who would have to tell this waif of the world that the home she longed for was not to be hers after all.

They drove over Lynde’s Hollow, where it was already quite dark, but not so dark that Mrs. Rachel could not see them from her window vantage, and up the hill and into the long lane of Green Gables. By the time they arrived at the house Matthew was shrinking from the approaching revelation with an energy he did not understand. It was not of Marilla or himself he was thinking or of the trouble this mistake was probably going to make for them, but of the child’s disappointment. When he thought of that rapt light being quenched in her eyes he had an uncomfortable feeling that he was going to assist at murdering something--much the same feeling that came over him when he had to kill a lamb or calf or any other innocent little creature.

The yard was quite dark as they turned into it and the poplar leaves were rustling silkily all round it. “Listen to the trees talking in their sleep,” she whispered, as he lifted her to the ground. “What nice dreams they must have!” Then, holding tightly to the carpet-bag which contained “all her worldly goods,” she followed him into the house.

CHAPTER III.

Marilla Cuthbert Is Surprised MARILLA came briskly forward as Matthew opened the door. But when her eyes fell on the odd little figure in the stiff, ugly dress, with the long braids of red hair and the eager, luminous eyes, she stopped short in amazement.

“Matthew Cuthbert, who’s that?” she ejaculated. “Where is the boy?”

“There wasn’t any boy,” said Matthew wretchedly. “There was only _her_.” He nodded at the child, remembering that he had never even asked her name. “No boy!

But there _must_ have been a boy,” insisted Marilla.

“We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring a boy.” “Well, she didn’t. She brought _her_. I asked the stationmaster. And I had to bring her home.

She couldn’t be left there, no matter where the mistake had come in.” “Well, this is a pretty piece of business!” ejaculated Marilla.

During this dialogue the child had remained silent, her eyes roving from one to the other, all the animation fading out of her face. Suddenly she seemed to grasp the full meaning of what had been said. Dropping her precious carpet-bag she sprang forward a step and clasped her hands. “You don’t want me!”

she cried.

“You don’t want me because I’m not a boy! I might have expected it. Nobody ever did want me.

I might have known it was all too beautiful to last. I might have known nobody really did want me. Oh, what shall I do? I’m going to burst into tears!” Burst into tears she did.

Sitting down on a chair by the table, flinging her arms out upon it, and burying her face in them, she proceeded to cry stormily. Marilla and Matthew looked at each other deprecatingly across the stove. Neither of them knew what to say or do. Finally Marilla stepped lamely into the breach. “Well, well, there’s no need to cry so about it.”

“Yes, there _is_ need!” The child raised her head quickly, revealing a tear-stained face and trembling lips. “_You_ would cry, too, if you were an orphan and had come to a place you thought was going to be home and found that they didn’t want you because you weren’t a boy.

Oh, this is the most _tragical_ thing that ever happened to me!” Something like a reluctant smile, rather rusty from long disuse, mellowed Marilla’s grim expression. “Well, don’t cry any more. We’re not going to turn you out-of-doors tonight.

You’ll have to stay here until we investigate this affair. What’s your name?” The child hesitated for a moment. “Will you please call me Cordelia?”

she said eagerly. “_Call_ you Cordelia?

Is that your name?” “No-o-o, it’s not exactly my name, but I would love to be called Cordelia. It’s such a perfectly elegant name.” “I don’t know what on earth you mean.

If Cordelia isn’t your name, what is?” “Anne Shirley,” reluctantly faltered forth the owner of that name, “but, oh, please do call me Cordelia. It can’t matter much to you what you call me if I’m only going to be here a little while, can it? And Anne is such an unromantic name.”

“Unromantic fiddlesticks!” said the unsympathetic Marilla. “Anne is a real good plain sensible name. You’ve no need to be ashamed of it.” “Oh, I’m not ashamed of it,” explained Anne, “only I like Cordelia better.

I’ve always imagined that my name was Cordelia--at least, I always have of late years. When I was young I used to imagine it was Geraldine, but I like Cordelia better now. But if you call me Anne please call me Anne spelled with an E.” “What difference does it make how it’s spelled?” asked Marilla with another rusty smile as she picked up the teapot.

“Oh, it makes _such_ a difference. It _looks_ so much nicer.

When you hear a name pronounced can’t you always see it in your mind, just as if it was printed out? I can; and A-n-n looks dreadful, but A-n-n-e looks so much more distinguished. If you’ll only call me Anne spelled with an E I shall try to reconcile myself to not being called Cordelia.”

“Very well, then, Anne spelled with an E, can you tell us how this mistake came to be made?

We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring us a boy. Were there no boys at the asylum?”

“Oh, yes, there was an abundance of them. But Mrs. Spencer said _distinctly_ that you wanted a girl about eleven years old.

And the matron said she thought I would do. You don’t know how delighted I was. I couldn’t sleep all last night for joy. Oh,” she added reproachfully, turning to Matthew, “why didn’t you tell me at the station that you didn’t want me and leave me there?

If I hadn’t seen the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters it wouldn’t be so hard.”

“What on earth does she mean?” demanded Marilla, staring at Matthew.

“She--she’s just referring to some conversation we had on the road,”  said Matthew hastily. “I’m going out to put the mare in, Marilla. Have tea ready when I come back.” “Did Mrs. Spencer bring anybody over besides you?” continued Marilla when Matthew had gone out. “She brought Lily Jones for herself.

Lily is only five years old and she is very beautiful and had nut-brown hair. If I was very beautiful and had nut-brown hair would you keep me?”

“No. We want a boy to help Matthew on the farm. A girl would be of no use to us.

Take off your hat. I’ll lay it and your bag on the hall table.” Anne took off her hat meekly. Matthew came back presently and they sat down to supper. But Anne could not eat.

In vain she nibbled at the bread and butter and pecked at the crab-apple preserve out of the little scalloped glass dish by her plate. She did not really make any headway at all. “You’re not eating anything,” said Marilla sharply, eying her as if it were a serious shortcoming. Anne sighed.

“I can’t. I’m in the depths of despair. Can you eat when you are in the depths of despair?”

“I’ve never been in the depths of despair, so I can’t say,” responded Marilla. “Weren’t you?

Well, did you ever try to _imagine_ you were in the depths of despair?” “No, I didn’t.” “Then I don’t think you can understand what it’s like.

It’s a very uncomfortable feeling indeed. When you try to eat a lump comes right up in your throat and you can’t swallow anything, not even if it was a chocolate caramel. I had one chocolate caramel once two years ago and it was simply delicious. I’ve often dreamed since then that I had a lot of chocolate caramels, but I always wake up just when I’m going to eat them.

I do hope you won’t be offended because I can’t eat. Everything is extremely nice, but still I cannot eat.” “I guess she’s tired,” said Matthew, who hadn’t spoken since his return from the barn. “Best put her to bed, Marilla.” Marilla had been wondering where Anne should be put to bed.

She had prepared a couch in the kitchen chamber for the desired and expected boy. But, although it was neat and clean, it did not seem quite the thing to put a girl there somehow.

But the spare room was out of the question for such a stray waif, so there remained only the east gable room.

Marilla lighted a candle and told Anne to follow her, which Anne spiritlessly did, taking her hat and carpet-bag from the hall table as she passed. The hall was fearsomely clean; the little gable chamber in which she presently found herself seemed still cleaner. Marilla set the candle on a three-legged, three-cornered table and turned down the bedclothes. “I suppose you have a nightgown?”

she questioned. Anne nodded.

“Yes, I have two. The matron of the asylum made them for me. They’re fearfully skimpy. There is never enough to go around in an asylum, so things are always skimpy--at least in a poor asylum like ours. I hate skimpy night-dresses.

But one can dream just as well in them as in lovely trailing ones, with frills around the neck, that’s one consolation.”

“Well, undress as quick as you can and go to bed. I’ll come back in a few minutes for the candle. I daren’t trust you to put it out yourself.

You’d likely set the place on fire.” When Marilla had gone Anne looked around her wistfully. The whitewashed walls were so painfully bare and staring that she thought they must ache over their own bareness.

The floor was bare, too, except for a round braided mat in the middle such as Anne had never seen before. In one corner was the bed, a high, old-fashioned one, with four dark, low-turned posts. In the other corner was the aforesaid three-cornered table adorned with a fat, red velvet pincushion hard enough to turn the point of the most adventurous pin. Above it hung a little six-by-eight mirror.

Midway between table and bed was the window, with an icy white muslin frill over it, and opposite it was the wash-stand. The whole apartment was of a rigidity not to be described in words, but which sent a shiver to the very marrow of Anne’s bones. With a sob she hastily discarded her garments, put on the skimpy nightgown and sprang into bed where she burrowed face downward into the pillow and pulled the clothes over her head. When Marilla came up for the light various skimpy articles of raiment scattered most untidily over the floor and a certain tempestuous appearance of the bed were the only indications of any presence save her own.

She deliberately picked up Anne’s clothes, placed them neatly on a prim yellow chair, and then, taking up the candle, went over to the bed. “Good night,” she said, a little awkwardly, but not unkindly. Anne’s white face and big eyes appeared over the bedclothes with a startling suddenness. “How can you call it a _good_

night when you know it must be the very worst night I’ve ever had?”

she said reproachfully. Then she dived down into invisibility again. Marilla went slowly down to the kitchen and proceeded to wash the supper dishes.

Matthew was smoking--a sure sign of perturbation of mind. He seldom smoked, for Marilla set her face against it as a filthy habit; but at certain times and seasons he felt driven to it and then Marilla winked at the practice, realizing that a mere man must have some vent for his emotions. “Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish,” she said wrathfully.

“This is what comes of sending word instead of going ourselves. Richard Spencer’s folks have twisted that message somehow. One of us will have to drive over and see Mrs. Spencer tomorrow, that’s certain. This girl will have to be sent back to the asylum.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Matthew reluctantly. “You _suppose_ so! Don’t you know it?”

“Well now, she’s a real nice little thing, Marilla. It’s kind of a pity to send her back when she’s so set on staying here.” “Matthew Cuthbert, you don’t mean to say you think we ought to keep her!”

Marilla’s astonishment could not have been greater if Matthew had expressed a predilection for standing on his head.

“Well, now, no, I suppose not--not exactly,” stammered Matthew, uncomfortably driven into a corner for his precise meaning. “I suppose--we could hardly be expected to keep her.”

“I should say not. What good would she be to us?”

“We might be some good to her,” said Matthew suddenly and unexpectedly. “Matthew Cuthbert, I believe that child has bewitched you! I can see as plain as plain that you want to keep her.”

“Well now, she’s a real interesting little thing,” persisted Matthew. “You should have heard her talk coming from the station.” “Oh, she can talk fast enough.

I saw that at once. It’s nothing in her favor, either. I don’t like children who have so much to say.

I don’t want an orphan girl and if I did she isn’t the style I’d pick out. There’s something I don’t understand about her. No, she’s got to be despatched straightway back to where she came from.” “I could hire a French boy to help me,” said Matthew, “and she’d be company for you.”

“I’m not suffering for company,” said Marilla shortly. “And I’m not going to keep her.” “Well now, it’s just as you say, of course, Marilla,” said Matthew rising and putting his pipe away. “I’m going to bed.”

To bed went Matthew. And to bed, when she had put her dishes away, went Marilla, frowning most resolutely. And up-stairs, in the east gable, a lonely, heart-hungry, friendless child cried herself to sleep.

CHAPTER IV.

Morning at Green Gables IT was broad daylight when Anne awoke and sat up in bed, staring confusedly at the window through which a flood of cheery sunshine was pouring and outside of which something white and feathery waved across glimpses of blue sky. For a moment she could not remember where she was. First came a delightful thrill, as of something very pleasant; then a horrible remembrance.

This was Green Gables and they didn’t want her because she wasn’t a boy! But it was morning

and, yes, it was a cherry-tree in full bloom outside of her window.

With a bound she was out of bed and across the floor. She pushed up the sash--it went up stiffly and creakily, as if it hadn’t been opened for a long time, which was the case; and it stuck so tight that nothing was needed to hold it up. Anne dropped on her knees and gazed out into the June morning, her eyes glistening with delight.

Oh, wasn’t it beautiful?

Wasn’t it a lovely place? Suppose she wasn’t really going to stay here! She would imagine she was. There was scope for imagination here. A huge cherry-tree grew outside, so close that its boughs tapped against the house, and it was so thick-set with blossoms that hardly a leaf was to be seen.

On both sides of the house was a big orchard, one of apple-trees and one of cherry-trees, also showered over with blossoms; and their grass was all sprinkled with dandelions. In the garden below were lilac-trees purple with flowers, and their dizzily sweet fragrance drifted up to the window on the morning wind. Below the garden a green field lush with clover sloped down to the hollow where the brook ran and where scores of white birches grew, upspringing airily out of an undergrowth suggestive of delightful possibilities in ferns and mosses and woodsy things generally.

Beyond it was a hill, green and feathery with spruce and fir; there was a gap in it where the gray gable end of the little house she had seen from the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters was visible. Off to the left were the big barns and beyond them, away down over green, low-sloping fields, was a sparkling blue glimpse of sea. Anne’s beauty-loving eyes lingered on it all, taking everything greedily in. She had looked on so many unlovely places in her life, poor child; but this was as lovely as anything she had ever dreamed.

She knelt there, lost to everything but the loveliness around her, until she was startled by a hand on her shoulder. Marilla had come in unheard by the small dreamer. “It’s time you were dressed,” she said curtly. Marilla really did not know how to talk to the child, and her uncomfortable ignorance made her crisp and curt when she did not mean to be.

Anne stood up and drew a long breath. “Oh, isn’t it wonderful?”

she said, waving her hand comprehensively at the good world outside. “It’s a big tree,” said Marilla, “and it blooms great, but the fruit don’t amount to much never--small and wormy.”

“Oh, I don’t mean just the tree; of course it’s lovely--yes, it’s _radiantly_ lovely--it blooms as if it meant it--but I meant everything, the garden and the orchard and the brook and the woods, the whole big dear world. Don’t you feel as if you just loved the world on a morning like this? And I can hear the brook laughing all the way up here. Have you ever noticed what cheerful things brooks are?

They’re always laughing. Even in winter-time I’ve heard them under the ice.

I’m so glad there’s a brook near Green Gables. Perhaps you think it doesn’t make any difference to me when you’re not going to keep me, but it does. I shall always like to remember that there is a brook at Green Gables even if I never see it again. If there wasn’t a brook I’d be _haunted_ by the uncomfortable feeling that there ought to be one.

I’m not in the depths of despair this morning. I never can be in the morning. Isn’t it a splendid thing that there are mornings?

But I feel very sad.

I’ve just been imagining that it was really me you wanted after all and that I was to stay here for ever and ever. It was a great comfort while it lasted. But the worst of imagining things is that the time comes when you have to stop and that hurts.”

“You’d better get dressed and come down-stairs and never mind your imaginings,” said Marilla as soon as she could get a word in edgewise. “Breakfast is waiting. Wash your face and comb your hair. Leave the window up and turn your bedclothes back over the foot of the bed.

Be as smart as you can.”

Anne could evidently be smart to some purpose for she was down-stairs in ten minutes’ time, with her clothes neatly on, her hair brushed and braided, her face washed, and a comfortable consciousness pervading her soul that she had fulfilled all Marilla’s requirements. As a matter of fact, however, she had forgotten to turn back the bedclothes. “I’m pretty hungry this morning,” she announced as she slipped into the chair Marilla placed for her. “The world doesn’t seem such a howling wilderness as it did last night.

I’m so glad it’s a sunshiny morning. But I like rainy mornings real well, too.

All sorts of mornings are interesting, don’t you think? You don’t know what’s going to happen through the day, and there’s so much scope for imagination. But I’m glad it’s not rainy today because it’s easier to be cheerful and bear up under affliction on a sunshiny day.

I feel that I have a good deal to bear up under. It’s all very well to read about sorrows and imagine yourself living through them heroically, but it’s not so nice when you really come to have them, is it?” “For pity’s sake hold your tongue,” said Marilla.

“You talk entirely too much for a little girl.” Thereupon Anne held her tongue so obediently and thoroughly that her continued silence made Marilla rather nervous, as if in the presence of something not exactly natural. Matthew also held his tongue,--but this was natural,--so that the meal was a very silent one. As it progressed Anne became more and more abstracted, eating mechanically, with her big eyes fixed unswervingly and unseeingly on the sky outside the window. This made Marilla more nervous than ever; she had an uncomfortable feeling that while this odd child’s body might be there at the table her spirit was far away in some remote airy cloudland, borne aloft on the wings of imagination.

Who would want such a child about the place? Yet Matthew wished to keep her, of all unaccountable things!

Marilla felt that he wanted it just as much this morning as he had the night before, and that he would go on wanting it. That was Matthew’s way--take a whim into his head and cling to it with the most amazing silent persistency--a persistency ten times more potent and effectual in its very silence than if he had talked it out. When the meal was ended Anne came out of her reverie and offered to wash the dishes. “Can you wash dishes right?” asked Marilla distrustfully.

“Pretty well.

I’m better at looking after children, though. I’ve had so much experience at that. It’s such a pity you haven’t any here for me to look after.”

“I don’t feel as if I wanted any more children to look after than I’ve got at present. _

You’re_ problem enough in all conscience. What’s to be done with you I don’t know.

Matthew is a most ridiculous man.” “I think he’s lovely,” said Anne reproachfully. “He is so very sympathetic. He didn’t mind how much I talked--he seemed to like it. I felt that he was a kindred spirit as soon as ever I saw him.”

“You’re both queer enough, if that’s what you mean by kindred spirits,”  said Marilla with a sniff.

“Yes, you may wash the dishes. Take plenty of hot water, and be sure you dry them well. I’ve got enough to attend to this morning for I’ll have to drive over to White Sands in the afternoon and see Mrs. Spencer.

You’ll come with me and we’ll settle what’s to be done with you. After you’ve finished the dishes go up-stairs and make your bed.” Anne washed the dishes deftly enough, as Marilla, who kept a sharp eye on the process, discerned. Later on she made her bed less successfully, for she had never learned the art of wrestling with a feather tick.

But it was done somehow and smoothed down; and then Marilla, to get rid of her, told her she might go out-of-doors and amuse herself until dinnertime.

Anne flew to the door, face alight, eyes glowing. On the very threshold she stopped short, wheeled about, came back and sat down by the table, light and glow as effectually blotted out as if some one had clapped an extinguisher on her. “What’s the matter now?” demanded Marilla. “I don’t dare go out,” said Anne, in the tone of a martyr relinquishing all earthly joys.

“If I can’t stay here there is no use in my loving Green Gables. And if I go out there and get acquainted with all those trees and flowers and the orchard and the brook I’ll not be able to help loving it. It’s hard enough now, so I won’t make it any harder. I want to go out so much--everything seems to be calling to me, ‘Anne, Anne, come out to us.

Anne, Anne, we want a playmate’--but it’s better not. There is no use in loving things if you have to be torn from them, is there? And it’s so hard to keep from loving things, isn’t it? That was why I was so glad when I thought I was going to live here.

I thought I’d have so many things to love and nothing to hinder me. But that brief dream is over.

I am resigned to my fate now, so I don’t think I’ll go out for fear I’ll get unresigned again. What is the name of that geranium on the window-sill, please?” “That’s the apple-scented geranium.” “Oh, I don’t mean that sort of a name.

I mean just a name you gave it yourself. Didn’t you give it a name? May I give it one then? May I call it--let me see--Bonny would do--may I call it Bonny while I’m here? Oh, do let me!”

“Goodness, I don’t care. But where on earth is the sense of naming a geranium?”

“Oh, I like things to have handles even if they are only geraniums.

It makes them seem more like people. How do you know but that it hurts a geranium’s feelings just to be called a geranium and nothing else? You wouldn’t like to be called nothing but a woman all the time. Yes, I shall call it Bonny.

I named that cherry-tree outside my bedroom window this morning. I called it Snow Queen because it was so white. Of course, it won’t always be in blossom, but one can imagine that it is, can’t one?” “I never in all my life saw or heard anything to equal her,” muttered Marilla, beating a retreat down to the cellar after potatoes.

“She _is_ kind of interesting, as Matthew says. I can feel already that I’m wondering what on earth she’ll say next. She’ll be casting a spell over me, too. She’s cast it over Matthew.

That look he gave me when he went out said everything he said or hinted last night over again. I wish he was like other men and would talk things out. A body could answer back then and argue him into reason. But what’s to be done with a man who just _looks?_”

Anne had relapsed into reverie, with her chin in her hands and her eyes on the sky, when Marilla returned from her cellar pilgrimage.

There Marilla left her until the early dinner was on the table. “I suppose I can have the mare and buggy this afternoon, Matthew?” said Marilla. Matthew nodded and looked wistfully at Anne.

Marilla intercepted the look and said grimly: “I’m going to drive over to White Sands and settle this thing. I’ll take Anne with me and Mrs. Spencer will probably make arrangements to send her back to Nova Scotia at once. I’ll set your tea out for you and I’ll be home in time to milk the cows.” Still Matthew said nothing and Marilla had a sense of having wasted words and breath. There is nothing more aggravating than a man who won’t talk back--unless it is a woman who won’t.

Matthew hitched the sorrel into the buggy in due time and Marilla and Anne set off. Matthew opened the yard gate for them and as they drove slowly through, he said, to nobody in particular as it seemed: “Little Jerry Buote from the Creek was here this morning, and I told him I guessed I’d hire him for the summer.” Marilla made no reply, but she hit the unlucky sorrel such a vicious clip with the whip that the fat mare, unused to such treatment, whizzed indignantly down the lane at an alarming pace. Marilla looked back once as the buggy bounced along and saw that aggravating Matthew leaning over the gate, looking wistfully after them.

CHAPTER V. Anne’s History

DO you know,” said Anne confidentially, “I’ve made up my mind to enjoy this drive. It’s been my experience that you can nearly always enjoy things if you make up your mind firmly that you will. Of course, you must make it up _firmly_. I am not going to think about going back to the asylum while we’re having our drive.

I’m just going to think about the drive. Oh, look, there’s one little early wild rose out! Isn’t it lovely?

Don’t you think it must be glad to be a rose?

Wouldn’t it be nice if roses could talk?

I’m sure they could tell us such lovely things. And isn’t pink the most bewitching color in the world?

I love it, but I can’t wear it. Redheaded people can’t wear pink, not even in imagination. Did you ever know of anybody whose hair was red when she was young, but got to be another color when she grew up?”

“No, I don’t know as I ever did,” said Marilla mercilessly, “and I shouldn’t think it likely to happen in your case either.”

Anne sighed. “Well, that is another hope gone. ‘My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes.’ That’s a sentence I read in a book once, and I say it over to comfort myself whenever I’m disappointed in anything.”

“I don’t see where the comforting comes in myself,” said Marilla. “Why, because it sounds so nice and romantic, just as if I were a heroine in a book, you know. I am so fond of romantic things, and a graveyard full of buried hopes is about as romantic a thing as one can imagine, isn’t it? I’m rather glad I have one.

Are we going across the Lake of Shining Waters today?”

“We’re not going over Barry’s pond, if that’s what you mean by your Lake of Shining Waters. We’re going by the shore road.” “Shore road sounds nice,” said Anne dreamily. “Is it as nice as it sounds?

Just when you said ‘shore road’ I saw it in a picture in my mind, as quick as that!

And White Sands is a pretty name, too; but I don’t like it as well as Avonlea. Avonlea is a lovely name. It just sounds like music. How far is it to White Sands?”

“It’s five miles; and as you’re evidently bent on talking you might as well talk to some purpose by telling me what you know about yourself.” “Oh, what I _know_ about myself isn’t really worth telling,” said Anne eagerly. “If you’ll only let me tell you what I _imagine_ about myself you’ll think it ever so much more interesting.”

“No, I don’t want any of your imaginings. Just you stick to bald facts. Begin at the beginning.

Where were you born and how old are you?”

“I was eleven last March,” said Anne, resigning herself to bald facts with a little sigh. “And I was born in Bolingbroke, Nova Scotia. My father’s name was Walter Shirley, and he was a teacher in the Bolingbroke High School. My mother’s name was Bertha Shirley. Aren’t Walter and Bertha lovely names?

I’m so glad my parents had nice names. It would be a real disgrace to have a father named--well, say Jedediah, wouldn’t it?” “I guess it doesn’t matter what a person’s name is as long as he behaves himself,” said Marilla, feeling herself called upon to inculcate a good and useful moral.

“Well, I don’t know.” Anne looked thoughtful. “I read in a book once that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but I’ve never been able to believe it. I don’t believe a rose _would_ be as nice if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage.

I suppose my father could have been a good man even if he had been called Jedediah; but I’m sure it would have been a cross. Well, my mother was a teacher in the High School, too, but when she married father she gave up teaching, of course. A husband was enough responsibility. Mrs. Thomas said that they were a pair of babies and as poor as church mice.

They went to live in a weeny-teeny little yellow house in Bolingbroke. I’ve never seen that house, but I’ve imagined it thousands of times. I think it must have had honeysuckle over the parlor window and lilacs in the front yard and lilies of the valley just inside the gate. Yes, and muslin curtains in all the windows.

Muslin curtains give a house such an air. I was born in that house. Mrs. Thomas said I was the homeliest baby she ever saw, I was so scrawny and tiny and nothing but eyes, but that mother thought I was perfectly beautiful.

I should think a mother would be a better judge than a poor woman who came in to scrub, wouldn’t you? I’m glad she was satisfied with me anyhow; I would feel so sad if I thought I was a disappointment to her--because she didn’t live very long after that, you see. She died of fever when I was just three months old. I do wish she’d lived long enough for me to remember calling her mother. I think it would be so sweet to say ‘mother,’ don’t you?

And father died four days afterwards from fever too. That left me an orphan and folks were at their wits’ end, so Mrs. Thomas said, what to do with me. You see, nobody wanted me even then.

It seems to be my fate. Father and mother had both come from places far away and it was well known they hadn’t any relatives living. Finally Mrs. Thomas said she’d take me, though she was poor and had a drunken husband. She brought me up by hand.

Do you know if there is anything in being brought up by hand that ought to make people who are brought up that way better than other people? Because whenever I was naughty Mrs. Thomas would ask me how I could be such a bad girl when she had brought me up by hand--reproachful-like.
“Mr. and Mrs. Thomas moved away from Bolingbroke to Marysville, and I lived with them until I was eight years old.

I helped look after the Thomas children--there were four of them younger than me--and I can tell you they took a lot of looking after. Then Mr. Thomas was killed falling under a train and his mother offered to take Mrs. Thomas and the children, but she didn’t want me. Mrs. Thomas was at _her_ wits’ end, so she said, what to do with me. Then Mrs. Hammond from up the river came down and said she’d take me, seeing I was handy with children, and I went up the river to live with her in a little clearing among the stumps.

It was a very lonesome place. I’m sure I could never have lived there if I hadn’t had an imagination. Mr. Hammond worked a little sawmill up there, and Mrs. Hammond had eight children. She had twins three times. I like babies in moderation, but twins three times in succession is _too much_.

I told Mrs. Hammond so firmly, when the last pair came. I used to get so dreadfully tired carrying them about. “I lived up river with Mrs. Hammond over two years, and then Mr. Hammond died and Mrs. Hammond broke up housekeeping.

She divided her children among her relatives and went to the States. I had to go to the asylum at Hopeton, because nobody would take me. They didn’t want me at the asylum, either; they said they were overcrowded as it was. But they had to take me and I was there four months until Mrs. Spencer came.”

Anne finished up with another sigh, of relief this time. Evidently she did not like talking about her experiences in a world that had not wanted her. “Did you ever go to school?” demanded Marilla, turning the sorrel mare down the shore road.

“Not a great deal.

I went a little the last year I stayed with Mrs.
Thomas. When I went up river we were so far from a school that I couldn’t walk it in winter and there was vacation in summer, so I could only go in the spring and fall. But of course I went while I was at the asylum.

I can read pretty well and I know ever so many pieces of poetry off by heart--‘The Battle of Hohenlinden’ and ‘Edinburgh after Flodden,’ and ‘Bingen on the Rhine,’ and lots of the ‘Lady of the Lake’ and most of ‘The Seasons,’ by James Thompson. Don’t you just love poetry that gives you a crinkly feeling up and down your back? There is a piece in the Fifth Reader--‘The Downfall of Poland’--that is just full of thrills.

Of course, I wasn’t in the Fifth Reader--I was only in the Fourth--but the big girls used to lend me theirs to read.”

“Were those women--Mrs. Thomas and Mrs. Hammond--good to you?” asked Marilla, looking at Anne out of the corner of her eye. “O-o-o-h,” faltered Anne. Her sensitive little face suddenly flushed scarlet and embarrassment sat on her brow. “Oh, they _meant_ to be--I know they meant to be just as good and kind as possible.

And when people mean to be good to you, you don’t mind very much when they’re not quite--always. They had a good deal to worry them, you know. It’s very trying to have a drunken husband, you see; and it must be very trying to have twins three times in succession, don’t you think?

But I feel sure they meant to be good to me.”

Marilla asked no more questions.

Anne gave herself up to a silent rapture over the shore road and Marilla guided the sorrel abstractedly while she pondered deeply. Pity was suddenly stirring in her heart for the child. What a starved, unloved life she had had--a life of drudgery and poverty and neglect; for Marilla was shrewd enough to read between the lines of Anne’s history and divine the truth.

No wonder she had been so delighted at the prospect of a real home. It was a pity she had to be sent back. What if she, Marilla, should indulge Matthew’s unaccountable whim and let her stay?

He was set on it; and the child seemed a nice, teachable little thing. “She’s got too much to say,” thought Marilla, “but she might be trained out of that. And there’s nothing rude or slangy in what she does say.

She’s ladylike. It’s likely her people were nice folks.” The shore road was “woodsy and wild and lonesome.” On the right hand, scrub firs, their spirits quite unbroken by long years of tussle with the gulf winds, grew thickly.

On the left were the steep red sandstone cliffs, so near the track in places that a mare of less steadiness than the sorrel might have tried the nerves of the people behind her. Down at the base of the cliffs were heaps of surf-worn rocks or little sandy coves inlaid with pebbles as with ocean jewels; beyond lay the sea, shimmering and blue, and over it soared the gulls, their pinions flashing silvery in the sunlight. “Isn’t the sea wonderful?” said Anne, rousing from a long, wide-eyed silence.

“Once, when I lived in Marysville, Mr. Thomas hired an express wagon and took us all to spend the day at the shore ten miles away. I enjoyed every moment of that day, even if I had to look after the children all the time. I lived it over in happy dreams for years. But this shore is nicer than the Marysville shore.

Aren’t those gulls splendid? Would you like to be a gull? I think I would--that is, if I couldn’t be a human girl. Don’t you think it would be nice to wake up at sunrise and swoop down over the water and away out over that lovely blue all day; and then at night to fly back to one’s nest? Oh, I can just imagine myself doing it.

What big house is that just ahead, please?”

“That’s the White Sands Hotel. Mr. Kirke runs it, but the season hasn’t begun yet. There are heaps of Americans come there for the summer. They think this shore is just about right.”

“I was afraid it might be Mrs. Spencer’s place,” said Anne mournfully. “I don’t want to get there. Somehow, it will seem like the end of everything.”

CHAPTER VI.

Marilla Makes Up Her Mind GET there they did, however, in due season. Mrs. Spencer lived in a big yellow house at White Sands Cove, and she came to the door with surprise and welcome mingled on her benevolent face.

“Dear, dear,” she exclaimed, “you’re the last folks I was looking for today, but I’m real glad to see you. You’ll put your horse in? And how are you, Anne?”

“I’m as well as can be expected, thank you,” said Anne smilelessly. A blight seemed to have descended on her. “I suppose we’ll stay a little while to rest the mare,” said Marilla, “but I promised Matthew I’d be home early. The fact is, Mrs. Spencer, there’s been a queer mistake somewhere, and I’ve come over to see where it is. We sent word, Matthew and I, for you to bring us a boy from the asylum.

We told your brother Robert to tell you we wanted a boy ten or eleven years old.” “Marilla Cuthbert, you don’t say so!” said Mrs. Spencer in distress. “Why, Robert sent word down by his daughter Nancy and she said you wanted a girl--didn’t she, Flora Jane?” appealing to her daughter who had come out to the steps. “She certainly did, Miss Cuthbert,” corroborated Flora Jane earnestly. “I’m dreadful sorry,” said Mrs. Spencer.

“It’s too bad; but it certainly wasn’t my fault, you see, Miss Cuthbert. I did the best I could and I thought I was following your instructions. Nancy is a terrible flighty thing. I’ve often had to scold her well for her heedlessness.”

“It was our own fault,” said Marilla resignedly. “We should have come to you ourselves and not left an important message to be passed along by word of mouth in that fashion. Anyhow, the mistake has been made and the only thing to do now is to set it right. Can we send the child back to the asylum? I suppose they’ll take her back, won’t they?”

“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Spencer thoughtfully, “but I don’t think it will be necessary to send her back. Mrs. Peter Blewett was up here yesterday, and she was saying to me how much she wished she’d sent by me for a little girl to help her. Mrs. Peter has a large family, you know, and she finds it hard to get help. Anne will be the very girl for her.

I call it positively providential.” Marilla did not look as if she thought Providence had much to do with the matter. Here was an unexpectedly good chance to get this unwelcome orphan off her hands, and she did not even feel grateful for it. She knew Mrs. Peter Blewett only by sight as a small, shrewish-faced woman without an ounce of superfluous flesh on her bones.

But she had heard of her.

“A terrible worker and driver,” Mrs. Peter was said to be; and discharged servant girls told fearsome tales of her temper and stinginess, and her family of pert, quarrelsome children. Marilla felt a qualm of conscience at the thought of handing Anne over to her tender mercies. “Well, I’ll go in and we’ll talk the matter over,” she said.

“And if there isn’t Mrs. Peter coming up the lane this blessed minute!” exclaimed Mrs. Spencer, bustling her guests through the hall into the parlor, where a deadly chill struck on them as if the air had been strained so long through dark green, closely drawn blinds that it had lost every particle of warmth it had ever possessed. “That is real lucky, for we can settle the matter right away. Take the armchair, Miss Cuthbert. Anne, you sit here on the ottoman and don’t wriggle.

Let me take your hats. Flora Jane, go out and put the kettle on. Good afternoon, Mrs. Blewett.

We were just saying how fortunate it was you happened along. Let me introduce you two ladies. Mrs. Blewett, Miss Cuthbert.

Please excuse me for just a moment. I forgot to tell Flora Jane to take the buns out of the oven.” Mrs. Spencer whisked away, after pulling up the blinds. Anne, sitting mutely on the ottoman, with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, stared at Mrs. Blewett as one fascinated. Was she to be given into the keeping of this sharp-faced, sharp-eyed woman?

She felt a lump coming up in her throat and her eyes smarted painfully. She was beginning to be afraid she couldn’t keep the tears back when Mrs. Spencer returned, flushed and beaming, quite capable of taking any and every difficulty, physical, mental or spiritual, into consideration and settling it out of hand. “It seems there’s been a mistake about this little girl, Mrs. Blewett,”  she said.

“I was under the impression that Mr. and Miss Cuthbert wanted a little girl to adopt. I was certainly told so. But it seems it was a boy they wanted.

So if you’re still of the same mind you were yesterday, I think she’ll be just the thing for you.” Mrs. Blewett darted her eyes over Anne from head to foot. “How old are you and what’s your name?” she demanded. “Anne Shirley,” faltered the shrinking child, not daring to make any stipulations regarding the spelling thereof, “and I’m eleven years old.”

“Humph!

You don’t look as if there was much to you. But you’re wiry.

I don’t know but the wiry ones are the best after all. Well, if I take you you’ll have to be a good girl, you know--good and smart and respectful. I’ll expect you to earn your keep, and no mistake about that.

Yes, I suppose I might as well take her off your hands, Miss Cuthbert. The baby’s awful fractious, and I’m clean worn out attending to him. If you like I can take her right home now.” Marilla looked at Anne and softened at sight of the child’s pale face with its look of mute misery--the misery of a helpless little creature who finds itself once more caught in the trap from which it had escaped.

Marilla felt an uncomfortable conviction that, if she denied the appeal of that look, it would haunt her to her dying day. Moreover, she did not fancy Mrs. Blewett. To hand a sensitive, “highstrung” child over to such a woman! No, she could not take the responsibility of doing that!

“Well, I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I didn’t say that Matthew and I had absolutely decided that we wouldn’t keep her. In fact, I may say that Matthew is disposed to keep her. I just came over to find out how the mistake had occurred.

I think I’d better take her home again and talk it over with Matthew. I feel that I oughtn’t to decide on anything without consulting him. If we make up our mind not to keep her we’ll bring or send her over to you tomorrow night. If we don’t you may know that she is going to stay with us.

Will that suit you, Mrs. Blewett?”

“I suppose it’ll have to,” said Mrs. Blewett ungraciously. During Marilla’s speech a sunrise had been dawning on Anne’s face. First the look of despair faded out; then came a faint flush of hope; her eyes grew deep and bright as morning stars. The child was quite transfigured; and, a moment later, when Mrs. Spencer and Mrs. Blewett went out in quest of a recipe the latter had come to borrow, she sprang up and flew across the room to Marilla.

“Oh, Miss Cuthbert, did you really say that perhaps you would let me stay at Green Gables?”

she said, in a breathless whisper, as if speaking aloud might shatter the glorious possibility. “Did you really say it? Or did I only imagine that you did?”

“I think you’d better learn to control that imagination of yours, Anne, if you can’t distinguish between what is real and what isn’t,” said Marilla crossly. “Yes, you did hear me say just that and no more. It isn’t decided yet and perhaps we will conclude to let Mrs. Blewett take you after all.

She certainly needs you much more than I do.” “I’d rather go back to the asylum than go to live with her,” said Anne passionately. “She looks exactly like a--like a gimlet.” Marilla smothered a smile under the conviction that Anne must be reproved for such a speech.

“A little girl like you should be ashamed of talking so about a lady and a stranger,” she said severely. “Go back and sit down quietly and hold your tongue and behave as a good girl should.” “I’ll try to do and be anything you want me, if you’ll only keep me,”  said Anne, returning meekly to her ottoman.

When they arrived back at Green Gables that evening Matthew met them in the lane. Marilla from afar had noted him prowling along it and guessed his motive. She was prepared for the relief she read in his face when he saw that she had at least brought Anne back with her. But she said nothing, to him, relative to the affair, until they were both out in the yard behind the barn milking the cows.

Then she briefly told him Anne’s history and the result of the interview with Mrs. Spencer. “I wouldn’t give a dog I liked to that Blewett woman,” said Matthew with unusual vim. “I don’t fancy her style myself,” admitted Marilla, “but it’s that or keeping her ourselves, Matthew. And, since you seem to want her, I suppose I’m willing--or have to be.

I’ve been thinking over the idea until I’ve got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty. I’ve never brought up a child, especially a girl, and I dare say I’ll make a terrible mess of it. But I’ll do my best.

So far as I’m concerned, Matthew, she may stay.” Matthew’s shy face was a glow of delight. “Well now, I reckoned you’d come to see it in that light, Marilla,” he said. “She’s such an interesting little thing.” “It’d be more to the point if you could say she was a useful little thing,” retorted Marilla, “but I’ll make it my business to see she’s trained to be that.

And mind, Matthew, you’re not to go interfering with my methods. Perhaps an old maid doesn’t know much about bringing up a child, but I guess she knows more than an old bachelor. So you just leave me to manage her. When I fail it’ll be time enough to put your oar in.”

“There, there, Marilla, you can have your own way,” said Matthew reassuringly. “Only be as good and kind to her as you can without spoiling her. I kind of think she’s one of the sort you can do anything with if you only get her to love you.” Marilla sniffed, to express her contempt for Matthew’s opinions concerning anything feminine, and walked off to the dairy with the pails.

“I won’t tell her tonight that she can stay,” she reflected, as she strained the milk into the creamers. “She’d be so excited that she wouldn’t sleep a wink. Marilla Cuthbert, you’re fairly in for it. Did you ever suppose you’d see the day when you’d be adopting an orphan girl?

It’s surprising enough; but not so surprising as that Matthew should be at the bottom of it, him that always seemed to have such a mortal dread of little girls. Anyhow, we’ve decided on the experiment and goodness only knows what will come of it.” CHAPTER VII.

Anne Says Her Prayers WHEN Marilla took Anne up to bed that night she said stiffly: “Now, Anne, I noticed last night that you threw your clothes all about the floor when you took them off. That is a very untidy habit, and I can’t allow it at all. As soon as you take off any article of clothing fold it neatly and place it on the chair. I haven’t any use at all for little girls who aren’t neat.” “I was so harrowed up in my mind last night that I didn’t think about my clothes at all,” said Anne.

“I’ll fold them nicely tonight. They always made us do that at the asylum. Half the time, though, I’d forget, I’d be in such a hurry to get into bed nice and quiet and imagine things.”

“You’ll have to remember a little better if you stay here,” admonished Marilla. “There, that looks something like. Say your prayers now and get into bed.”

“I never say any prayers,” announced Anne.

Marilla looked horrified astonishment. “Why, Anne, what do you mean?

Were you never taught to say your prayers?

God always wants little girls to say their prayers. Don’t you know who God is, Anne?” “‘God is a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in His being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth,’” responded Anne promptly and glibly.

Marilla looked rather relieved. “So you do know something then, thank goodness! You’re not quite a heathen. Where did you learn that?”

“Oh, at the asylum Sunday-school.

They made us learn the whole catechism. I liked it pretty well. There’s something splendid about some of the words.

‘Infinite, eternal and unchangeable.’ Isn’t that grand?

It has such a roll to it--just like a big organ playing. You couldn’t quite call it poetry, I suppose, but it sounds a lot like it, doesn’t it?” “We’re not talking about poetry, Anne--we are talking about saying your prayers.

Don’t you know it’s a terrible wicked thing not to say your prayers every night? I’m afraid you are a very bad little girl.” “You’d find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair,” said Anne reproachfully. “People who haven’t red hair don’t know what trouble is. Mrs. Thomas told me that God made my hair red _on purpose_, and I’ve never cared about Him since.

And anyhow I’d always be too tired at night to bother saying prayers. People who have to look after twins can’t be expected to say their prayers. Now, do you honestly think they can?”

Marilla decided that Anne’s religious training must be begun at once.

Plainly there was no time to be lost. “You must say your prayers while you are under my roof, Anne.” “Why, of course, if you want me to,” assented Anne cheerfully.

“I’d do anything to oblige you. But you’ll have to tell me what to say for this once.

After I get into bed I’ll imagine out a real nice prayer to say always. I believe that it will be quite interesting, now that I come to think of it.” “You must kneel down,” said Marilla in embarrassment. Anne knelt at Marilla’s knee and looked up gravely.

“Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I’ll tell you what I’d do. I’d go out into a great big field all alone or into the deep, deep woods, and I’d look up into the sky--up--up--up--into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness.

And then I’d just _feel_ a prayer. Well, I’m ready. What am I to say?”

Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Anne the childish classic, “Now I lay me down to sleep.” But she had, as I have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humor--which is simply another name for a sense of the fitness of things; and it suddenly occurred to her that that simple little prayer, sacred to white-robed childhood lisping at motherly knees, was entirely unsuited to this freckled witch of a girl who knew and cared nothing about God’s love, since she had never had it translated to her through the medium of human love.

“You’re old enough to pray for yourself, Anne,” she said finally. “Just thank God for your blessings and ask Him humbly for the things you want.” “Well, I’ll do my best,” promised Anne, burying her face in Marilla’s lap.

“Gracious heavenly Father--that’s the way the ministers say it in church, so I suppose it’s all right in private prayer, isn’t it?”

she interjected, lifting her head for a moment. “Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters and Bonny and the Snow Queen. I’m really extremely grateful for them. And that’s all the blessings I can think of just now to thank Thee for.

As for the things I want, they’re so numerous that it would take a great deal of time to name them all, so I will only mention the two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables; and please let me be good-looking when I grow up. I remain,                     “Yours respectfully,                        Anne Shirley. “There, did I do all right?”

she asked eagerly, getting up. “I could have made it much more flowery if I’d had a little more time to think it over.” Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering that it was not irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when Anne called her back.

“I’ve just thought of it now. I should have said ‘Amen’ in place of ‘yours respectfully,’ shouldn’t I?--the way the ministers do. I’d forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?”

“I--I don’t suppose it will,” said Marilla. “Go to sleep now like a good child. Good night.”

“I can say good night tonight with a clear conscience,” said Anne, cuddling luxuriously down among her pillows. Marilla retreated to the kitchen, set the candle firmly on the table, and glared at Matthew. “Matthew Cuthbert, it’s about time somebody adopted that child and taught her something.

She’s next door to a perfect heathen. Will you believe that she never said a prayer in her life till tonight? I’ll send to the manse tomorrow and borrow the Peep of the Day series, that’s what I’ll do. And she shall go to Sunday-school just as soon as I can get some suitable clothes made for her.

I foresee that I shall have my hands full. Well, well, we can’t get through this world without our share of trouble. I’ve had a pretty easy life of it so far, but my time has come at last and I suppose I’ll just have to make the best of it.”

CHAPTER VIII.

Anne’s Bringing-up Is Begun FOR reasons best known to herself, Marilla did not tell Anne that she was to stay at Green Gables until the next afternoon. During the forenoon she kept the child busy with various tasks and watched over her with a keen eye while she did them. By noon she had concluded that Anne was smart and obedient, willing to work and quick to learn; her most serious shortcoming seemed to be a tendency to fall into daydreams in the middle of a task and forget all about it until such time as she was sharply recalled to earth by a reprimand or a catastrophe.

When Anne had finished washing the dinner dishes she suddenly confronted Marilla with the air and expression of one desperately determined to learn the worst. Her thin little body trembled from head to foot; her face flushed and her eyes dilated until they were almost black; she clasped her hands tightly and said in an imploring voice: “Oh, please, Miss Cuthbert, won’t you tell me if you are going to send me away or not?

I’ve tried to be patient all the morning, but I really feel that I cannot bear not knowing any longer. It’s a dreadful feeling. Please tell me.” “You haven’t scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I told you to do,” said Marilla immovably.

“Just go and do it before you ask any more questions, Anne.”

Anne went and attended to the dishcloth. Then she returned to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes on the latter’s face. “Well,” said Marilla, unable to find any excuse for deferring her explanation longer, “I suppose I might as well tell you.

Matthew and I have decided to keep you--that is, if you will try to be a good little girl and show yourself grateful. Why, child, whatever is the matter?” “I’m crying,” said Anne in a tone of bewilderment. “I can’t think why.

I’m glad as glad can be. Oh, _glad_ doesn’t seem the right word at all. I was glad about the White Way and the cherry blossoms--but this!

Oh, it’s something more than glad. I’m so happy. I’ll try to be so good.

It will be uphill work, I expect, for Mrs. Thomas often told me I was desperately wicked. However, I’ll do my very best.

But can you tell me why I’m crying?”

“I suppose it’s because you’re all excited and worked up,” said Marilla disapprovingly.

“Sit down on that chair and try to calm yourself. I’m afraid you both cry and laugh far too easily. Yes, you can stay here and we will try to do right by you.

You must go to school; but it’s only a fortnight till vacation so it isn’t worth while for you to start before it opens again in September.” “What am I to call you?” asked Anne.

“Shall I always say Miss Cuthbert?
Can I call you Aunt Marilla?”

“No; you’ll call me just plain Marilla. I’m not used to being called Miss Cuthbert and it would make me nervous.” “It sounds awfully disrespectful to just say Marilla,” protested Anne. “I guess there’ll be nothing disrespectful in it if you’re careful to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old, in Avonlea calls me Marilla except the minister.

He says Miss Cuthbert--when he thinks of it.” “I’d love to call you Aunt Marilla,” said Anne wistfully. “I’ve never had an aunt or any relation at all--not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can’t I call you Aunt Marilla?”

“No.

I’m not your aunt and I don’t believe in calling people names that don’t belong to them.” “But we could imagine you were my aunt.” “I couldn’t,” said Marilla grimly. “Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?” asked Anne wide-eyed. “No.”

“Oh!”

Anne drew a long breath.

“Oh, Miss--Marilla, how much you miss!”

“I don’t believe in imagining things different from what they really are,” retorted Marilla. “When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn’t mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds me.

Go into the sitting room, Anne--be sure your feet are clean and don’t let any flies in--and bring me out the illustrated card that’s on the mantelpiece. The Lord’s Prayer is on it and you’ll devote your spare time this afternoon to learning it off by heart. There’s to be no more of such praying as I heard last night.”

“I suppose I was very awkward,” said Anne apologetically, “but then, you see, I’d never had any practice. You couldn’t really expect a person to pray very well the first time she tried, could you?

I thought out a splendid prayer after I went to bed, just as I promised you I would. It was nearly as long as a minister’s and so poetical.

But would you believe it?

I couldn’t remember one word when I woke up this morning.

And I’m afraid I’ll never be able to think out another one as good. Somehow, things never are so good when they’re thought out a second time. Have you ever noticed that?” “Here is something for you to notice, Anne. When I tell you to do a thing I want you to obey me at once and not stand stock-still and discourse about it.

Just you go and do as I bid you.” Anne promptly departed for the sitting-room across the hall; she failed to return; after waiting ten minutes Marilla laid down her knitting and marched after her with a grim expression. She found Anne standing motionless before a picture hanging on the wall between the two windows, with her eyes astar with dreams. The white and green light strained through apple-trees and clustering vines outside fell over the rapt little figure with a half-unearthly radiance.

“Anne, whatever are you thinking of?” demanded Marilla sharply. Anne came back to earth with a start. “That,” she said, pointing to the picture--a rather vivid chromo entitled, “Christ Blessing Little Children”--“and

I was just imagining I was one of them--that I was the little girl in the blue dress, standing off by herself in the corner as if she didn’t belong to anybody, like me. She looks lonely and sad, don’t you think? I guess she hadn’t any father or mother of her own.

But she wanted to be blessed, too, so she just crept shyly up on the outside of the crowd, hoping nobody would notice her--except Him.

I’m sure I know just how she felt. Her heart must have beat and her hands must have got cold, like mine did when I asked you if I could stay. She was afraid He mightn’t notice her. But it’s likely He did, don’t you think?

I’ve been trying to imagine it all out--her edging a little nearer all the time until she was quite close to Him; and then He would look at her and put His hand on her hair and oh, such a thrill of joy as would run over her! But I wish the artist hadn’t painted Him so sorrowful-looking.

All His pictures are like that, if you’ve noticed. But I don’t believe He could really have looked so sad or the children would have been afraid of Him.”

“Anne,” said Marilla, wondering why she had not broken into this speech long before, “you shouldn’t talk that way.

It’s irreverent--positively irreverent.” Anne’s eyes marveled. “Why, I felt just as reverent as could be. I’m sure I didn’t mean to be irreverent.”

“Well, I don’t suppose you did--but it doesn’t sound right to talk so familiarly about such things.

And another thing, Anne, when I send you after something you’re to bring it at once and not fall into mooning and imagining before pictures. Remember that. Take that card and come right to the kitchen.

Now, sit down in the corner and learn that prayer off by heart.” Anne set the card up against the jugful of apple blossoms she had brought in to decorate the dinner table--Marilla had eyed that decoration askance, but had said nothing--propped her chin on her hands, and fell to studying it intently for several silent minutes. “I like this,” she announced at length. “It’s beautiful.

I’ve heard it before--I heard the superintendent of the asylum Sunday-school say it over once. But I didn’t like it then.

He had such a cracked voice and he prayed it so mournfully. I really felt sure he thought praying was a disagreeable duty. This isn’t poetry, but it makes me feel just the same way poetry does.

‘Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.’ That is just like a line of music. Oh, I’m so glad you thought of making me learn this, Miss--Marilla.”

“Well, learn it and hold your tongue,” said Marilla shortly. Anne tipped the vase of apple blossoms near enough to bestow a soft kiss on a pink-cupped bud, and then studied diligently for some moments longer.

“Marilla,” she demanded presently, “do you think that I shall ever have a bosom friend in Avonlea?” “A--a what kind of friend?”

“A bosom friend--an intimate friend, you know--a really kindred spirit to whom I can confide my inmost soul. I’ve dreamed of meeting her all my life.

I never really supposed I would, but so many of my loveliest dreams have come true all at once that perhaps this one will, too. Do you think it’s possible?” “Diana Barry lives over at Orchard Slope and she’s about your age. She’s a very nice little girl, and perhaps she will be a playmate for you when she comes home. She’s visiting her aunt over at Carmody just now.

You’ll have to be careful how you behave yourself, though. Mrs. Barry is a very particular woman. She won’t let Diana play with any little girl who isn’t nice and good.”

Anne looked at Marilla through the apple blossoms, her eyes aglow with interest. “What is Diana like?

Her hair isn’t red, is it? Oh, I hope not.

It’s bad enough to have red hair myself, but I positively couldn’t endure it in a bosom friend.”

“Diana is a very pretty little girl. She has black eyes and hair and rosy cheeks. And she is good and smart, which is better than being pretty.”

Marilla was as fond of morals as the Duchess in Wonderland, and was firmly convinced that one should be tacked on to every remark made to a child who was being brought up. But Anne waved the moral inconsequently aside and seized only on the delightful possibilities before it.

“Oh, I’m so glad she’s pretty. Next to being beautiful oneself--and that’s impossible in my case--it would be best to have a beautiful bosom friend. When I lived with Mrs. Thomas she had a bookcase in her sitting room with glass doors.

There weren’t any books in it; Mrs. Thomas kept her best china and her preserves there--when she had any preserves to keep. One of the doors was broken. Mr. Thomas smashed it one night when he was slightly intoxicated. But the other was whole and I used to pretend that my reflection in it was another little girl who lived in it.

I called her Katie Maurice, and we were very intimate. I used to talk to her by the hour, especially on Sunday, and tell her everything. Katie was the comfort and consolation of my life. We used to pretend that the bookcase was enchanted and that if I only knew the spell I could open the door and step right into the room where Katie Maurice lived, instead of into Mrs. Thomas’ shelves of preserves and china.

And then Katie Maurice would have taken me by the hand and led me out into a wonderful place, all flowers and sunshine and fairies, and we would have lived there happy for ever after. When I went to live with Mrs. Hammond it just broke my heart to leave Katie Maurice. She felt it dreadfully, too, I know she did, for she was crying when she kissed me good-bye through the bookcase door. There was no bookcase at Mrs. Hammond’s.

But just up the river a little way from the house there was a long green little valley, and the loveliest echo lived there.

It echoed back every word you said, even if you didn’t talk a bit loud. So I imagined that it was a little girl called Violetta and we were great friends and I loved her almost as well as I loved Katie Maurice--not quite, but almost, you know. The night before I went to the asylum I said good-bye to Violetta, and oh, her good-bye came back to me in such sad, sad tones. I had become so attached to her that I hadn’t the heart to imagine a bosom friend at the asylum, even if there had been any scope for imagination there.”

“I think it’s just as well there wasn’t,” said Marilla drily. “I don’t approve of such goings-on. You seem to half believe your own imaginations. It will be well for you to have a real live friend to put such nonsense out of your head.

But don’t let Mrs. Barry hear you talking about your Katie Maurices and your Violettas or she’ll think you tell stories.”

“Oh, I won’t.

I couldn’t talk of them to everybody--their memories are too sacred for that. But I thought I’d like to have you know about them.

Oh, look, here’s a big bee just tumbled out of an apple blossom. Just think what a lovely place to live--in an apple blossom! Fancy going to sleep in it when the wind was rocking it. If I wasn’t a human girl I think I’d like to be a bee and live among the flowers.” “Yesterday you wanted to be a sea-gull,” sniffed Marilla.

“I think you are very fickle minded. I told you to learn that prayer and not talk. But it seems impossible for you to stop talking if you’ve got anybody that will listen to you.

So go up to your room and learn it.” “Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now--all but just the last line.” “Well, never mind, do as I tell you.

Go to your room and finish learning it well, and stay there until I call you down to help me get tea.”

“Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?” pleaded Anne. “No; you don’t want your room cluttered up with flowers. You should have left them on the tree in the first place.” “I did feel a little that way, too,” said Anne.

“I kind of felt I shouldn’t shorten their lovely lives by picking them--I wouldn’t want to be picked if I were an apple blossom. But the temptation was _irresistible_.

What do you do when you meet with an irresistible temptation?” “Anne, did you hear me tell you to go to your room?” Anne sighed, retreated to the east gable, and sat down in a chair by the window. “There--I know this prayer.

I learned that last sentence coming upstairs. Now I’m going to imagine things into this room so that they’ll always stay imagined. The floor is covered with a white velvet carpet with pink roses all over it and there are pink silk curtains at the windows. The walls are hung with gold and silver brocade tapestry.

The furniture is mahogany. I never saw any mahogany, but it does sound _so_ luxurious. This is a couch all heaped with gorgeous silken cushions, pink and blue and crimson and gold, and I am reclining gracefully on it. I can see my reflection in that splendid big mirror hanging on the wall.

I am tall and regal, clad in a gown of trailing white lace, with a pearl cross on my breast and pearls in my hair. My hair is of midnight darkness and my skin is a clear ivory pallor. My name is the Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald. No, it isn’t--I can’t make _that_ seem real.” She danced up to the little looking-glass and peered into it.

Her pointed freckled face and solemn gray eyes peered back at her. “You’re only Anne of Green Gables,” she said earnestly, “and I see you, just as you are looking now, whenever I try to imagine I’m the Lady Cordelia. But it’s a million times nicer to be Anne of Green Gables than Anne of nowhere in particular, isn’t it?”

She bent forward, kissed her reflection affectionately, and betook herself to the open window. “Dear Snow Queen, good afternoon.

And good afternoon, dear birches down in the hollow.

And good afternoon, dear gray house up on the hill.

I wonder if Diana is to be my bosom friend. I hope she will, and I shall love her very much. But I must never quite forget Katie Maurice and Violetta.

They would feel so hurt if I did and I’d hate to hurt anybody’s feelings, even a little bookcase girl’s or a little echo girl’s. I must be careful to remember them and send them a kiss every day.” Anne blew a couple of airy kisses from her fingertips past the cherry blossoms and then, with her chin in her hands, drifted luxuriously out on a sea of daydreams.
CHAPTER IX.

Mrs. Rachel Lynde Is Properly Horrified ANNE had been a fortnight at Green Gables before Mrs. Lynde arrived to inspect her. Mrs. Rachel, to do her justice, was not to blame for this. A severe and unseasonable attack of grippe had confined that good lady to her house ever since the occasion of her last visit to Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel was not often sick and had a well-defined contempt for people who were; but grippe, she asserted, was like no other illness on earth and could only be interpreted as one of the special visitations of Providence. As soon as her doctor allowed her to put her foot out-of-doors she hurried up to Green Gables, bursting with curiosity to see Matthew and Marilla’s orphan, concerning whom all sorts of stories and suppositions had gone abroad in Avonlea.

Anne had made good use of every waking moment of that fortnight. Already she was acquainted with every tree and shrub about the place. She had discovered that a lane opened out below the apple orchard and ran up through a belt of woodland; and she had explored it to its furthest end in all its delicious vagaries of brook and bridge, fir coppice and wild cherry arch, corners thick with fern, and branching byways of maple and mountain ash.

She had made friends with the spring down in the hollow--that wonderful deep, clear icy-cold spring; it was set about with smooth red sandstones and rimmed in by great palm-like clumps of water fern; and beyond it was a log bridge over the brook. That bridge led Anne’s dancing feet up over a wooded hill beyond, where perpetual twilight reigned under the straight, thick-growing firs and spruces; the only flowers there were myriads of delicate “June bells,”  those shyest and sweetest of woodland blooms, and a few pale, aerial starflowers, like the spirits of last year’s blossoms. Gossamers glimmered like threads of silver among the trees and the fir boughs and tassels seemed to utter friendly speech. All these raptured voyages of exploration were made in the odd half hours which she was allowed for play, and Anne talked Matthew and Marilla half-deaf over her discoveries.

Not that Matthew complained, to be sure; he listened to it all with a wordless smile of enjoyment on his face; Marilla permitted the “chatter” until she found herself becoming too interested in it, whereupon she always promptly quenched Anne by a curt command to hold her tongue. Anne was out in the orchard when Mrs. Rachel came, wandering at her own sweet will through the lush, tremulous grasses splashed with ruddy evening sunshine; so that good lady had an excellent chance to talk her illness fully over, describing every ache and pulse beat with such evident enjoyment that Marilla thought even grippe must bring its compensations. When details were exhausted Mrs. Rachel introduced the real reason of her call.

“I’ve been hearing some surprising things about you and Matthew.” “I don’t suppose you are any more surprised than I am myself,” said Marilla. “I’m getting over my surprise now.” “It was too bad there was such a mistake,” said Mrs. Rachel sympathetically.

“Couldn’t you have sent her back?”

“I suppose we could, but we decided not to. Matthew took a fancy to her. And I must say I like her myself--although I admit she has her faults. The house seems a different place already.

She’s a real bright little thing.”

Marilla said more than she had intended to say when she began, for she read disapproval in Mrs. Rachel’s expression. “It’s a great responsibility you’ve taken on yourself,” said that lady gloomily, “especially when you’ve never had any experience with children. You don’t know much about her or her real disposition, I suppose, and there’s no guessing how a child like that will turn out. But I don’t want to discourage you I’m sure, Marilla.”

“I’m not feeling discouraged,” was Marilla’s dry response, “when I make up my mind to do a thing it stays made up. I suppose you’d like to see Anne. I’ll call her in.”

Anne came running in presently, her face sparkling with the delight of her orchard rovings; but, abashed at finding the delight herself in the unexpected presence of a stranger, she halted confusedly inside the door. She certainly was an odd-looking little creature in the short tight wincey dress she had worn from the asylum, below which her thin legs seemed ungracefully long. Her freckles were more numerous and obtrusive than ever; the wind had ruffled her hatless hair into over-brilliant disorder; it had never looked redder than at that moment.

“Well, they didn’t pick you for your looks, that’s sure and certain,”  was Mrs. Rachel Lynde’s emphatic comment. Mrs. Rachel was one of those delightful and popular people who pride themselves on speaking their mind without fear or favor. “She’s terrible skinny and homely, Marilla.
Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful heart, did any one ever see such freckles?

And hair as red as carrots!

Come here, child, I say.”

Anne “came there,” but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling from head to foot. “I hate you,” she cried in a choked voice, stamping her foot on the floor. “I hate you--I hate you--I hate you--” a louder stamp with each assertion of hatred.

“How dare you call me skinny and ugly? How dare you say I’m freckled and redheaded? You are a rude, impolite, unfeeling woman!”

“Anne!” exclaimed Marilla in consternation. But Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undauntedly, head up, eyes blazing, hands clenched, passionate indignation exhaling from her like an atmosphere.

“How dare you say such things about me?” she repeated vehemently. “How would you like to have such things said about you? How would you like to be told that you are fat and clumsy and probably hadn’t a spark of imagination in you?

I don’t care if I do hurt your feelings by saying so! I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they were ever hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas’ intoxicated husband. And I’ll _never_ forgive you for it, never, never!”

Stamp!

Stamp!
“Did anybody ever see such a temper!” exclaimed the horrified Mrs.
Rachel. “Anne go to your room and stay there until I come up,” said Marilla, recovering her powers of speech with difficulty. Anne, bursting into tears, rushed to the hall door, slammed it until the tins on the porch wall outside rattled in sympathy, and fled through the hall and up the stairs like a whirlwind. A subdued slam above told that the door of the east gable had been shut with equal vehemence. “Well, I don’t envy you your job bringing _that_ up, Marilla,” said Mrs.
Rachel with unspeakable solemnity.

Marilla opened her lips to say she knew not what of apology or deprecation. What she did say was a surprise to herself then and ever afterwards. “You shouldn’t have twitted her about her looks, Rachel.” “Marilla Cuthbert, you don’t mean to say that you are upholding her in such a terrible display of temper as we’ve just seen?” demanded Mrs.
Rachel indignantly. “No,” said Marilla slowly, “I’m not trying to excuse her.

She’s been very naughty and I’ll have to give her a talking to about it. But we must make allowances for her.

She’s never been taught what is right. And you _were_ too hard on her, Rachel.” Marilla could not help tacking on that last sentence, although she was again surprised at herself for doing it. Mrs. Rachel got up with an air of offended dignity.

“Well, I see that I’ll have to be very careful what I say after this, Marilla, since the fine feelings of orphans, brought from goodness knows where, have to be considered before anything else. Oh, no, I’m not vexed--don’t worry yourself. I’m too sorry for you to leave any room for anger in my mind. You’ll have your own troubles with that child.

But if you’ll take my advice--which I suppose you won’t do, although I’ve brought up ten children and buried two--you’ll do that ‘talking to’ you mention with a fair-sized birch switch.

I should think _that_ would be the most effective language for that kind of a child. Her temper matches her hair I guess. Well, good evening, Marilla.

I hope you’ll come down to see me often as usual. But you can’t expect me to visit here again in a hurry, if I’m liable to be flown at and insulted in such a fashion.

It’s something new in _my_ experience.” Whereat Mrs. Rachel swept out and away--if a fat woman who always waddled _could_ be said to sweep away--and Marilla with a very solemn face betook herself to the east gable. On the way upstairs she pondered uneasily as to what she ought to do.

She felt no little dismay over the scene that had just been enacted. How unfortunate that Anne should have displayed such temper before Mrs.
Rachel Lynde, of all people! Then Marilla suddenly became aware of an uncomfortable and rebuking consciousness that she felt more humiliation over this than sorrow over the discovery of such a serious defect in Anne’s disposition. And how was she to punish her?

The amiable suggestion of the birch switch--to the efficiency of which all of Mrs.
Rachel’s own children could have borne smarting testimony--did not appeal to Marilla. She did not believe she could whip a child. No, some other method of punishment must be found to bring Anne to a proper realization of the enormity of her offense.

Marilla found Anne face downward on her bed, crying bitterly, quite oblivious of muddy boots on a clean counterpane. “Anne,” she said not ungently. No answer.

“Anne,” with greater severity, “get off that bed this minute and listen to what I have to say to you.” Anne squirmed off the bed and sat rigidly on a chair beside it, her face swollen and tear-stained and her eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor. “This is a nice way for you to behave. Anne!

Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“She hadn’t any right to call me ugly and redheaded,” retorted Anne, evasive and defiant. “You hadn’t any right to fly into such a fury and talk the way you did to her, Anne.

I was ashamed of you--thoroughly ashamed of you. I wanted you to behave nicely to Mrs. Lynde, and instead of that you have disgraced me. I’m sure I don’t know why you should lose your temper like that just because Mrs. Lynde said you were red-haired and homely. You say it yourself often enough.” “Oh, but there’s such a difference between saying a thing yourself and hearing other people say it,” wailed Anne.

“You may know a thing is so, but you can’t help hoping other people don’t quite think it is. I suppose you think I have an awful temper, but I couldn’t help it. When she said those things something just rose right up in me and choked me.

I _had_ to fly out at her.”

“Well, you made a fine exhibition of yourself I must say. Mrs. Lynde will have a nice story to tell about you everywhere--and she’ll tell it, too. It was a dreadful thing for you to lose your temper like that, Anne.”

“Just imagine how you would feel if somebody told you to your face that you were skinny and ugly,” pleaded Anne tearfully. An old remembrance suddenly rose up before Marilla. She had been a very small child when she had heard one aunt say of her to another, “What a pity she is such a dark, homely little thing.” Marilla was every day of fifty before the sting had gone out of that memory.

“I don’t say that I think Mrs. Lynde was exactly right in saying what she did to you, Anne,” she admitted in a softer tone. “Rachel is too outspoken. But that is no excuse for such behavior on your part.

She was a stranger and an elderly person and my visitor--all three very good reasons why you should have been respectful to her. You were rude and saucy and”--Marilla had a saving inspiration of punishment--“you must go to her and tell her you are very sorry for your bad temper and ask her to forgive you.” “I can never do that,” said Anne determinedly and darkly. “You can punish me in any way you like, Marilla.

You can shut me up in a dark, damp dungeon inhabited by snakes and toads and feed me only on bread and water and I shall not complain. But I cannot ask Mrs. Lynde to forgive me.”

“We’re not in the habit of shutting people up in dark damp dungeons,”  said Marilla drily, “especially as they’re rather scarce in Avonlea.

But apologize to Mrs. Lynde you must and shall and you’ll stay here in your room until you can tell me you’re willing to do it.”

“I shall have to stay here forever then,” said Anne mournfully, “because I can’t tell Mrs. Lynde I’m sorry I said those things to her. How can I? I’m _not_

sorry. I’m sorry I’ve vexed you; but I’m _glad_

I told her just what I did. It was a great satisfaction. I can’t say I’m sorry when I’m not, can I?

I can’t even _imagine_ I’m sorry.”

“Perhaps your imagination will be in better working order by the morning,” said Marilla, rising to depart. “You’ll have the night to think over your conduct in and come to a better frame of mind.

You said you would try to be a very good girl if we kept you at Green Gables, but I must say it hasn’t seemed very much like it this evening.” Leaving this Parthian shaft to rankle in Anne’s stormy bosom, Marilla descended to the kitchen, grievously troubled in mind and vexed in soul. She was as angry with herself as with Anne, because, whenever she recalled Mrs. Rachel’s dumbfounded countenance her lips twitched with amusement and she felt a most reprehensible desire to laugh.
CHAPTER X. Anne’s Apology MARILLA said nothing to Matthew about the affair that evening; but when Anne proved still refractory the next morning an explanation had to be made to account for her absence from the breakfast table. Marilla told Matthew the whole story, taking pains to impress him with a due sense of the enormity of Anne’s behavior.

“It’s a good thing Rachel Lynde got a calling down; she’s a meddlesome old gossip,” was Matthew’s consolatory rejoinder. “Matthew Cuthbert, I’m astonished at you. You know that Anne’s behavior was dreadful, and yet you take her part! I suppose you’ll be saying next thing that she oughtn’t to be punished at all!”

“Well now--no--not exactly,” said Matthew uneasily.

“I reckon she ought to be punished a little. But don’t be too hard on her, Marilla.

Recollect she hasn’t ever had anyone to teach her right. You’re--you’re going to give her something to eat, aren’t you?” “When did you ever hear of me starving people into good behavior?”  demanded Marilla indignantly.

“She’ll have her meals regular, and I’ll carry them up to her myself. But she’ll stay up there until she’s willing to apologize to Mrs. Lynde, and that’s final, Matthew.”

Breakfast, dinner, and supper were very silent meals--for Anne still remained obdurate. After each meal Marilla carried a well-filled tray to the east gable and brought it down later on not noticeably depleted. Matthew eyed its last descent with a troubled eye. Had Anne eaten anything at all?

When Marilla went out that evening to bring the cows from the back pasture, Matthew, who had been hanging about the barns and watching, slipped into the house with the air of a burglar and crept upstairs. As a general thing Matthew gravitated between the kitchen and the little bedroom off the hall where he slept; once in a while he ventured uncomfortably into the parlor or sitting room when the minister came to tea. But he had never been upstairs in his own house since the spring he helped Marilla paper the spare bedroom, and that was four years ago.

He tiptoed along the hall and stood for several minutes outside the door of the east gable before he summoned courage to tap on it with his fingers and then open the door to peep in. Anne was sitting on the yellow chair by the window gazing mournfully out into the garden. Very small and unhappy she looked, and Matthew’s heart smote him. He softly closed the door and tiptoed over to her. “Anne,” he whispered, as if afraid of being overheard, “how are you making it, Anne?”

Anne smiled wanly.

“Pretty well.

I imagine a good deal, and that helps to pass the time. Of course, it’s rather lonesome. But then, I may as well get used to that.”

Anne smiled again, bravely facing the long years of solitary imprisonment before her. Matthew recollected that he must say what he had come to say without loss of time, lest Marilla return prematurely. “Well now, Anne, don’t you think you’d better do it and have it over with?” he whispered. “It’ll have to be done sooner or later, you know, for Marilla’s a dreadful determined woman--dreadful determined, Anne.

Do it right off, I say, and have it over.”

“Do you mean apologize to Mrs. Lynde?” “Yes--apologize--that’s the very word,” said Matthew eagerly. “Just smooth it over so to speak.

That’s what I was trying to get at.” “I suppose I could do it to oblige you,” said Anne thoughtfully. “It would be true enough to say I am sorry, because I _am_ sorry now. I wasn’t a bit sorry last night.

I was mad clear through, and I stayed mad all night. I know I did because I woke up three times and I was just furious every time.

But this morning it was over.

I wasn’t in a temper anymore--and it left a dreadful sort of goneness, too. I felt so ashamed of myself. But I just couldn’t think of going and telling Mrs. Lynde so.

It would be so humiliating. I made up my mind I’d stay shut up here forever rather than do that. But still--I’d do anything for you--if you really want me to--” “Well now, of course I do.

It’s terrible lonesome downstairs without you. Just go and smooth things over--that’s a good girl.” “Very well,” said Anne resignedly. “I’ll tell Marilla as soon as she comes in I’ve repented.”

“That’s right--that’s right, Anne. But don’t tell Marilla I said anything about it.

She might think I was putting my oar in and I promised not to do that.” “Wild horses won’t drag the secret from me,” promised Anne solemnly. “How would wild horses drag a secret from a person anyhow?” But Matthew was gone, scared at his own success.

He fled hastily to the remotest corner of the horse pasture lest Marilla should suspect what he had been up to. Marilla herself, upon her return to the house, was agreeably surprised to hear a plaintive voice calling, “Marilla” over the banisters. “Well?” she said, going into the hall. “I’m sorry I lost my temper and said rude things, and I’m willing to go and tell Mrs. Lynde so.”

“Very well.”

Marilla’s crispness gave no sign of her relief.

She had been wondering what under the canopy she should do if Anne did not give in. “I’ll take you down after milking.” Accordingly, after milking, behold Marilla and Anne walking down the lane, the former erect and triumphant, the latter drooping and dejected. But halfway down Anne’s dejection vanished as if by enchantment.

She lifted her head and stepped lightly along, her eyes fixed on the sunset sky and an air of subdued exhilaration about her. Marilla beheld the change disapprovingly. This was no meek penitent such as it behooved her to take into the presence of the offended Mrs. Lynde. “What are you thinking of, Anne?”

she asked sharply.

“I’m imagining out what I must say to Mrs. Lynde,” answered Anne dreamily. This was satisfactory--or should have been so. But Marilla could not rid herself of the notion that something in her scheme of punishment was going askew.

Anne had no business to look so rapt and radiant. Rapt and radiant Anne continued until they were in the very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting knitting by her kitchen window. Then the radiance vanished. Mournful penitence appeared on every feature. Before a word was spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.

“Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely sorry,” she said with a quiver in her voice. “I could never express all my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You must just imagine it.

I behaved terribly to you--and I’ve disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who have let me stay at Green Gables although I’m not a boy. I’m a dreadfully wicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve to be punished and cast out by respectable people forever. It was very wicked of me to fly into a temper because you told me the truth. It _was_ the truth; every word you said was true.

My hair is red and I’m freckled and skinny and ugly. What I said to you was true, too, but I shouldn’t have said it. Oh, Mrs.
Lynde, please, please, forgive me.

If you refuse it will be a lifelong sorrow on a poor little orphan girl, would you, even if she had a dreadful temper? Oh, I am sure you wouldn’t. Please say you forgive me, Mrs. Lynde.”

Anne clasped her hands together, bowed her head, and waited for the word of judgment. There was no mistaking her sincerity--it breathed in every tone of her voice. Both Marilla and Mrs. Lynde recognized its unmistakable ring. But the former understood in dismay that Anne was actually enjoying her valley of humiliation--was reveling in the thoroughness of her abasement.

Where was the wholesome punishment upon which she, Marilla, had plumed herself? Anne had turned it into a species of positive pleasure. Good Mrs. Lynde, not being overburdened with perception, did not see this. She only perceived that Anne had made a very thorough apology and all resentment vanished from her kindly, if somewhat officious, heart.

“There, there, get up, child,” she said heartily. “Of course I forgive you. I guess I was a little too hard on you, anyway.

But I’m such an outspoken person.

You just mustn’t mind me, that’s what. It can’t be denied your hair is terrible red; but I knew a girl once--went to school with her, in fact--whose hair was every mite as red as yours when she was young, but when she grew up it darkened to a real handsome auburn. I wouldn’t be a mite surprised if yours did, too--not a mite.”

“Oh, Mrs. Lynde!”

Anne drew a long breath as she rose to her feet. “You have given me a hope. I shall always feel that you are a benefactor. Oh, I could endure anything if I only thought my hair would be a handsome auburn when I grew up.

It would be so much easier to be good if one’s hair was a handsome auburn, don’t you think? And now may I go out into your garden and sit on that bench under the apple-trees while you and Marilla are talking? There is so much more scope for imagination out there.”

“Laws, yes, run along, child. And you can pick a bouquet of them white June lilies over in the corner if you like.” As the door closed behind Anne, Mrs. Lynde got briskly up to light a lamp.

“She’s a real odd little thing. Take this chair, Marilla; it’s easier than the one you’ve got; I just keep that for the hired boy to sit on. Yes, she certainly is an odd child, but there is something kind of taking about her after all.

I don’t feel so surprised at you and Matthew keeping her as I did--nor so sorry for you, either. She may turn out all right. Of course, she has a queer way of expressing herself--a little too--well, too kind of forcible, you know; but she’ll likely get over that now that she’s come to live among civilized folks.

And then, her temper’s pretty quick, I guess; but there’s one comfort, a child that has a quick temper, just blaze up and cool down, ain’t never likely to be sly or deceitful. Preserve me from a sly child, that’s what. On the whole, Marilla, I kind of like her.” When Marilla went home Anne came out of the fragrant twilight of the orchard with a sheaf of white narcissi in her hands.

“I apologized pretty well, didn’t I?”

she said proudly as they went down the lane. “I thought since I had to do it I might as well do it thoroughly.” “You did it thoroughly, all right enough,” was Marilla’s comment. Marilla was dismayed at finding herself inclined to laugh over the recollection.

She had also an uneasy feeling that she ought to scold Anne for apologizing so well; but then, that was ridiculous! She compromised with her conscience by saying severely: “I hope you won’t have occasion to make many more such apologies. I hope you’ll try to control your temper now, Anne.” “That wouldn’t be so hard if people wouldn’t twit me about my looks,”  said Anne with a sigh.

“I don’t get cross about other things; but I’m _so_ tired of being twitted about my hair and it just makes me boil right over. Do you suppose my hair will really be a handsome auburn when I grow up?” “You shouldn’t think so much about your looks, Anne.

I’m afraid you are a very vain little girl.” “How can I be vain when I know I’m homely?” protested Anne. “I love pretty things; and I hate to look in the glass and see something that isn’t pretty. It makes me feel so sorrowful--just as I feel when I look at any ugly thing.

I pity it because it isn’t beautiful.” “Handsome is as handsome does,” quoted Marilla. “I’ve had that said to me before, but I have my doubts about it,” remarked skeptical Anne, sniffing at her narcissi. “Oh, aren’t these flowers sweet!

It was lovely of Mrs. Lynde to give them to me. I have no hard feelings against Mrs.
Lynde now. It gives you a lovely, comfortable feeling to apologize and be forgiven, doesn’t it?

Aren’t the stars bright tonight? If you could live in a star, which one would you pick?

I’d like that lovely clear big one away over there above that dark hill.” “Anne, do hold your tongue,” said Marilla, thoroughly worn out trying to follow the gyrations of Anne’s thoughts. Anne said no more until they turned into their own lane.

A little gypsy wind came down it to meet them, laden with the spicy perfume of young dew-wet ferns. Far up in the shadows a cheerful light gleamed out through the trees from the kitchen at Green Gables. Anne suddenly came close to Marilla and slipped her hand into the older woman’s hard palm. “It’s lovely to be going home and know it’s home,” she said.

“I love Green Gables already, and I never loved any place before. No place ever seemed like home. Oh, Marilla, I’m so happy.

I could pray right now and not find it a bit hard.” Something warm and pleasant welled up in Marilla’s heart at touch of that thin little hand in her own--a throb of the maternity she had missed, perhaps. Its very unaccustomedness and sweetness disturbed her. She hastened to restore her sensations to their normal calm by inculcating a moral.

“If you’ll be a good girl you’ll always be happy, Anne. And you should never find it hard to say your prayers.” “Saying one’s prayers isn’t exactly the same thing as praying,” said Anne meditatively. “But I’m going to imagine that I’m the wind that is blowing up there in those tree tops.

When I get tired of the trees I’ll imagine I’m gently waving down here in the ferns--and then I’ll fly over to Mrs. Lynde’s garden and set the flowers dancing--and then I’ll go with one great swoop over the clover field--and then I’ll blow over the Lake of Shining Waters and ripple it all up into little sparkling waves. Oh, there’s so much scope for imagination in a wind! So I’ll not talk any more just now, Marilla.”

“Thanks be to goodness for that,” breathed Marilla in devout relief. CHAPTER XI.

Anne’s Impressions of Sunday-school WELL, how do you like them?” said Marilla. Anne was standing in the gable room, looking solemnly at three new dresses spread out on the bed. One was of snuffy colored gingham which Marilla had been tempted to buy from a peddler the preceding summer because it looked so serviceable; one was of black-and-white checkered sateen which she had picked up at a bargain counter in the winter; and one was a stiff print of an ugly blue shade which she had purchased that week at a Carmody store.

She had made them up herself, and they were all made alike--plain skirts fulled tightly to plain waists, with sleeves as plain as waist and skirt and tight as sleeves could be. “I’ll imagine that I like them,” said Anne soberly. “I don’t want you to imagine it,” said Marilla, offended.

“Oh, I can see you don’t like the dresses!

What is the matter with them? Aren’t they neat and clean and new?”

“Yes.” “Then why don’t you like them?” “They’re--they’re not--pretty,” said Anne reluctantly.

“Pretty!”

Marilla sniffed. “I didn’t trouble my head about getting pretty dresses for you. I don’t believe in pampering vanity, Anne, I’ll tell you that right off.

Those dresses are good, sensible, serviceable dresses, without any frills or furbelows about them, and they’re all you’ll get this summer. The brown gingham and the blue print will do you for school when you begin to go. The sateen is for church and Sunday-school. I’ll expect you to keep them neat and clean and not to tear them. I should think you’d be grateful to get most anything after those skimpy wincey things you’ve been wearing.”

“Oh, I _am_ grateful,” protested Anne. “But I’d be ever so much gratefuller if--if you’d made just one of them with puffed sleeves. Puffed sleeves are so fashionable now.

It would give me such a thrill, Marilla, just to wear a dress with puffed sleeves.” “Well, you’ll have to do without your thrill. I hadn’t any material to waste on puffed sleeves.

I think they are ridiculous-looking things anyhow. I prefer the plain, sensible ones.” “But I’d rather look ridiculous when everybody else does than plain and sensible all by myself,” persisted Anne mournfully. “Trust you for that! Well, hang those dresses carefully up in your closet, and then sit down and learn the Sunday-school lesson.

I got a quarterly from Mr. Bell for you and you’ll go to Sunday-school tomorrow,” said Marilla, disappearing downstairs in high dudgeon. Anne clasped her hands and looked at the dresses. “I did hope there would be a white one with puffed sleeves,” she whispered disconsolately. “I prayed for one, but I didn’t much expect it on that account. I didn’t suppose God would have time to bother about a little orphan girl’s dress.

I knew I’d just have to depend on Marilla for it. Well, fortunately I can imagine that one of them is of snow-white muslin with lovely lace frills and three-puffed sleeves.” The next morning warnings of a sick headache prevented Marilla from going to Sunday-school with Anne. “You’ll have to go down and call for Mrs. Lynde, Anne,” she said.

“She’ll see that you get into the right class. Now, mind you behave yourself properly. Stay to preaching afterwards and ask Mrs. Lynde to show you our pew. Here’s a cent for collection.

Don’t stare at people and don’t fidget. I shall expect you to tell me the text when you come home.”

Anne started off irreproachable, arrayed in the stiff black-and-white sateen, which, while decent as regards length and certainly not open to the charge of skimpiness, contrived to emphasize every corner and angle of her thin figure. Her hat was a little, flat, glossy, new sailor, the extreme plainness of which had likewise much disappointed Anne, who had permitted herself secret visions of ribbon and flowers.

The latter, however, were supplied before Anne reached the main road, for being confronted halfway down the lane with a golden frenzy of wind-stirred buttercups and a glory of wild roses, Anne promptly and liberally garlanded her hat with a heavy wreath of them. Whatever other people might have thought of the result it satisfied Anne, and she tripped gaily down the road, holding her ruddy head with its decoration of pink and yellow very proudly. When she had reached Mrs. Lynde’s house she found that lady gone. Nothing daunted, Anne proceeded onward to the church alone. In the porch she found a crowd of little girls, all more or less gaily attired in whites and blues and pinks, and all staring with curious eyes at this stranger in their midst, with her extraordinary head adornment.

Avonlea little girls had already heard queer stories about Anne. Mrs. Lynde said she had an awful temper; Jerry Buote, the hired boy at Green Gables, said she talked all the time to herself or to the trees and flowers like a crazy girl. They looked at her and whispered to each other behind their quarterlies.

Nobody made any friendly advances, then or later on when the opening exercises were over and Anne found herself in Miss Rogerson’s class. Miss Rogerson was a middle-aged lady who had taught a Sunday-school class for twenty years. Her method of teaching was to ask the printed questions from the quarterly and look sternly over its edge at the particular little girl she thought ought to answer the question. She looked very often at Anne, and Anne, thanks to Marilla’s drilling, answered promptly; but it may be questioned if she understood very much about either question or answer.

She did not think she liked Miss Rogerson, and she felt very miserable; every other little girl in the class had puffed sleeves. Anne felt that life was really not worth living without puffed sleeves. “Well, how did you like Sunday-school?”

Marilla wanted to know when Anne came home. Her wreath having faded, Anne had discarded it in the lane, so Marilla was spared the knowledge of that for a time. “I didn’t like it a bit.

It was horrid.”

“Anne Shirley!” said Marilla rebukingly. Anne sat down on the rocker with a long sigh, kissed one of Bonny’s leaves, and waved her hand to a blossoming fuchsia. “They might have been lonesome while I was away,” she explained. “And now about the Sunday-school.

I behaved well, just as you told me. Mrs.
Lynde was gone, but I went right on myself. I went into the church, with a lot of other little girls, and I sat in the corner of a pew by the window while the opening exercises went on.

Mr. Bell made an awfully long prayer. I would have been dreadfully tired before he got through if I hadn’t been sitting by that window. But it looked right out on the Lake of Shining Waters, so I just gazed at that and imagined all sorts of splendid things.”

“You shouldn’t have done anything of the sort. You should have listened to Mr. Bell.” “But he wasn’t talking to me,” protested Anne. “He was talking to God and he didn’t seem to be very much interested in it, either.

I think he thought God was too far off though. There was a long row of white birches hanging over the lake and the sunshine fell down through them, ‘way, ‘way down, deep into the water. Oh, Marilla, it was like a beautiful dream! It gave me a thrill and I just said, ‘Thank you for it, God,’ two or three times.”

“Not out loud, I hope,” said Marilla anxiously. “Oh, no, just under my breath.

Well, Mr. Bell did get through at last and they told me to go into the classroom with Miss Rogerson’s class. There were nine other girls in it. They all had puffed sleeves. I tried to imagine mine were puffed, too, but I couldn’t.

Why couldn’t I?

It was as easy as could be to imagine they were puffed when I was alone in the east gable, but it was awfully hard there among the others who had really truly puffs.” “You shouldn’t have been thinking about your sleeves in Sunday-school. You should have been attending to the lesson. I hope you knew it.”

“Oh, yes; and I answered a lot of questions. Miss Rogerson asked ever so many. I don’t think it was fair for her to do all the asking.

There were lots I wanted to ask her, but I didn’t like to because I didn’t think she was a kindred spirit. Then all the other little girls recited a paraphrase. She asked me if I knew any. I told her I didn’t, but I could recite, ‘The Dog at His Master’s Grave’ if she liked.

That’s in the Third Royal Reader. It isn’t a really truly religious piece of poetry, but it’s so sad and melancholy that it might as well be. She said it wouldn’t do and she told me to learn the nineteenth paraphrase for next Sunday. I read it over in church afterwards and it’s splendid.

There are two lines in particular that just thrill me. “‘Quick as the slaughtered squadrons fell      In Midian’s evil day.’
“I don’t know what ‘squadrons’ means nor ‘Midian,’ either, but it sounds _so_ tragical. I can hardly wait until next Sunday to recite it. I’ll practice it all the week. After Sunday-school I asked Miss Rogerson--because Mrs. Lynde was too far away--to show me your pew.

I sat just as still as I could and the text was Revelations, third chapter, second and third verses. It was a very long text. If I was a minister I’d pick the short, snappy ones. The sermon was awfully long, too.

I suppose the minister had to match it to the text. I didn’t think he was a bit interesting. The trouble with him seems to be that he hasn’t enough imagination.

I didn’t listen to him very much. I just let my thoughts run and I thought of the most surprising things.” Marilla felt helplessly that all this should be sternly reproved, but she was hampered by the undeniable fact that some of the things Anne had said, especially about the minister’s sermons and Mr. Bell’s prayers, were what she herself had really thought deep down in her heart for years, but had never given expression to.

It almost seemed to her that those secret, unuttered, critical thoughts had suddenly taken visible and accusing shape and form in the person of this outspoken morsel of neglected humanity. CHAPTER XII.

A Solemn Vow and Promise IT was not until the next Friday that Marilla heard the story of the flower-wreathed hat. She came home from Mrs. Lynde’s and called Anne to account. “Anne, Mrs. Rachel says you went to church last Sunday with your hat rigged out ridiculous with roses and buttercups.

What on earth put you up to such a caper?

A pretty-looking object you must have been!”

“Oh. I know pink and yellow aren’t becoming to me,” began Anne. “Becoming fiddlesticks! It was putting flowers on your hat at all, no matter what color they were, that was ridiculous.

You are the most aggravating child!” “I don’t see why it’s any more ridiculous to wear flowers on your hat than on your dress,” protested Anne. “Lots of little girls there had bouquets pinned on their dresses.

What’s the difference?”

Marilla was not to be drawn from the safe concrete into dubious paths of the abstract. “Don’t answer me back like that, Anne. It was very silly of you to do such a thing. Never let me catch you at such a trick again.

Mrs. Rachel says she thought she would sink through the floor when she saw you come in all rigged out like that. She couldn’t get near enough to tell you to take them off till it was too late. She says people talked about it something dreadful. Of course they would think I had no better sense than to let you go decked out like that.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Anne, tears welling into her eyes. “I never thought you’d mind. The roses and buttercups were so sweet and pretty I thought they’d look lovely on my hat. Lots of the little girls had artificial flowers on their hats.

I’m afraid I’m going to be a dreadful trial to you. Maybe you’d better send me back to the asylum. That would be terrible; I don’t think I could endure it; most likely I would go into consumption; I’m so thin as it is, you see. But that would be better than being a trial to you.”

“Nonsense,” said Marilla, vexed at herself for having made the child cry.

“I don’t want to send you back to the asylum, I’m sure. All I want is that you should behave like other little girls and not make yourself ridiculous. Don’t cry any more.

I’ve got some news for you. Diana Barry came home this afternoon. I’m going up to see if I can borrow a skirt pattern from Mrs. Barry, and if you like you can come with me and get acquainted with Diana.” Anne rose to her feet, with clasped hands, the tears still glistening on her cheeks; the dish towel she had been hemming slipped unheeded to the floor.

“Oh, Marilla, I’m frightened--now that it has come I’m actually frightened. What if she shouldn’t like me! It would be the most tragical disappointment of my life.” “Now, don’t get into a fluster.

And I do wish you wouldn’t use such long words. It sounds so funny in a little girl. I guess Diana ‘ll like you well enough.

It’s her mother you’ve got to reckon with. If she doesn’t like you it won’t matter how much Diana does. If she has heard about your outburst to Mrs. Lynde and going to church with buttercups round your hat I don’t know what she’ll think of you. You must be polite and well behaved, and don’t make any of your startling speeches. For pity’s sake, if the child isn’t actually trembling!”

Anne _was_ trembling.

Her face was pale and tense. “Oh, Marilla, you’d be excited, too, if you were going to meet a little girl you hoped to be your bosom friend and whose mother mightn’t like you,” she said as she hastened to get her hat. They went over to Orchard Slope by the short cut across the brook and up the firry hill grove.

Mrs. Barry came to the kitchen door in answer to Marilla’s knock. She was a tall black-eyed, black-haired woman, with a very resolute mouth. She had the reputation of being very strict with her children.

“How do you do, Marilla?”

she said cordially. “Come in. And this is the little girl you have adopted, I suppose?”

“Yes, this is Anne Shirley,” said Marilla. “Spelled with an E,” gasped Anne, who, tremulous and excited as she was, was determined there should be no misunderstanding on that important point. Mrs. Barry, not hearing or not comprehending, merely shook hands and said kindly: “How are you?”

“I am well in body although considerable rumpled up in spirit, thank you ma’am,” said Anne gravely.

Then aside to Marilla in an audible whisper, “There wasn’t anything startling in that, was there, Marilla?”

Diana was sitting on the sofa, reading a book which she dropped when the callers entered. She was a very pretty little girl, with her mother’s black eyes and hair, and rosy cheeks, and the merry expression which was her inheritance from her father. “This is my little girl Diana,” said Mrs. Barry.

“Diana, you might take Anne out into the garden and show her your flowers. It will be better for you than straining your eyes over that book. She reads entirely too much--” this to Marilla as the little girls went out--“and I can’t prevent her, for her father aids and abets her. She’s always poring over a book.

I’m glad she has the prospect of a playmate--perhaps it will take her more out-of-doors.” Outside in the garden, which was full of mellow sunset light streaming through the dark old firs to the west of it, stood Anne and Diana, gazing bashfully at each other over a clump of gorgeous tiger lilies. The Barry garden was a bowery wilderness of flowers which would have delighted Anne’s heart at any time less fraught with destiny.

It was encircled by huge old willows and tall firs, beneath which flourished flowers that loved the shade. Prim, right-angled paths neatly bordered with clamshells, intersected it like moist red ribbons and in the beds between old-fashioned flowers ran riot. There were rosy bleeding-hearts and great splendid crimson peonies; white, fragrant narcissi and thorny, sweet Scotch roses; pink and blue and white columbines and lilac-tinted Bouncing Bets; clumps of southernwood and ribbon grass and mint; purple Adam-and-Eve, daffodils, and masses of sweet clover white with its delicate, fragrant, feathery sprays; scarlet lightning that shot its fiery lances over prim white musk-flowers; a garden it was where sunshine lingered and bees hummed, and winds, beguiled into loitering, purred and rustled. “Oh, Diana,” said Anne at last, clasping her hands and speaking almost in a whisper, “oh, do you think you can like me a little--enough to be my bosom friend?”

Diana laughed. Diana always laughed before she spoke. “Why, I guess so,” she said frankly. “I’m awfully glad you’ve come to live at Green Gables. It will be jolly to have somebody to play with.

There isn’t any other girl who lives near enough to play with, and I’ve no sisters big enough.” “Will you swear to be my friend forever and ever?” demanded Anne eagerly. Diana looked shocked. “Why it’s dreadfully wicked to swear,” she said rebukingly.

“Oh no, not my kind of swearing.

There are two kinds, you know.” “I never heard of but one kind,” said Diana doubtfully. “There really is another. Oh, it isn’t wicked at all. It just means vowing and promising solemnly.”

“Well, I don’t mind doing that,” agreed Diana, relieved. “How do you do it?”

“We must join hands--so,” said Anne gravely. “It ought to be over running water. We’ll just imagine this path is running water. I’ll repeat the oath first.

I solemnly swear to be faithful to my bosom friend, Diana Barry, as long as the sun and moon shall endure. Now you say it and put my name in.” Diana repeated the “oath” with a laugh fore and aft. Then she said: “You’re a queer girl, Anne. I heard before that you were queer.

But I believe I’m going to like you real well.”

When Marilla and Anne went home Diana went with them as far as the log bridge.

The two little girls walked with their arms about each other. At the brook they parted with many promises to spend the next afternoon together. “Well, did you find Diana a kindred spirit?” asked Marilla as they went up through the garden of Green Gables. “Oh yes,” sighed Anne, blissfully unconscious of any sarcasm on Marilla’s part.

“Oh Marilla, I’m the happiest girl on Prince Edward Island this very moment. I assure you I’ll say my prayers with a right good-will tonight. Diana and I are going to build a playhouse in Mr.
William Bell’s birch grove tomorrow. Can I have those broken pieces of china that are out in the woodshed?

Diana’s birthday is in February and mine is in March.

Don’t you think that is a very strange coincidence?
Diana is going to lend me a book to read. She says it’s perfectly splendid and tremendously exciting. She’s going to show me a place back in the woods where rice lilies grow. Don’t you think Diana has got very soulful eyes?

I wish I had soulful eyes. Diana is going to teach me to sing a song called ‘Nelly in the Hazel Dell.’ She’s going to give me a picture to put up in my room; it’s a perfectly beautiful picture, she says--a lovely lady in a pale blue silk dress. A sewing-machine agent gave it to her.

I wish I had something to give Diana. I’m an inch taller than Diana, but she is ever so much fatter; she says she’d like to be thin because it’s so much more graceful, but I’m afraid she only said it to soothe my feelings. We’re going to the shore some day to gather shells. We have agreed to call the spring down by the log bridge the Dryad’s Bubble. Isn’t that a perfectly elegant name?

I read a story once about a spring called that. A dryad is sort of a grown-up fairy, I think.” “Well, all I hope is you won’t talk Diana to death,” said Marilla. “But remember this in all your planning, Anne.

You’re not going to play all the time nor most of it. You’ll have your work to do and it’ll have to be done first.” Anne’s cup of happiness was full, and Matthew caused it to overflow. He had just got home from a trip to the store at Carmody, and he sheepishly produced a small parcel from his pocket and handed it to Anne, with a deprecatory look at Marilla. “I heard you say you liked chocolate sweeties, so I got you some,” he said.

“Humph,” sniffed Marilla. “It’ll ruin her teeth and stomach. There, there, child, don’t look so dismal. You can eat those, since Matthew has gone and got them.

He’d better have brought you peppermints. They’re wholesomer. Don’t sicken yourself eating all them at once now.” “Oh, no, indeed, I won’t,” said Anne eagerly.

“I’ll just eat one tonight, Marilla. And I can give Diana half of them, can’t I? The other half will taste twice as sweet to me if I give some to her. It’s delightful to think I have something to give her.” “I will say it for the child,” said Marilla when Anne had gone to her gable, “she isn’t stingy.

I’m glad, for of all faults I detest stinginess in a child. Dear me, it’s only three weeks since she came, and it seems as if she’d been here always. I can’t imagine the place without her.

Now, don’t be looking I told-you-so, Matthew. That’s bad enough in a woman, but it isn’t to be endured in a man. I’m perfectly willing to own up that I’m glad I consented to keep the child and that I’m getting fond of her, but don’t you rub it in, Matthew Cuthbert.”

CHAPTER XIII.

The Delights of Anticipation IT’S time Anne was in to do her sewing,” said Marilla, glancing at the clock and then out into the yellow August afternoon where everything drowsed in the heat. “She stayed playing with Diana more than half an hour more ‘n I gave her leave to; and now she’s perched out there on the woodpile talking to Matthew, nineteen to the dozen, when she knows perfectly well she ought to be at her work. And of course he’s listening to her like a perfect ninny. I never saw such an infatuated man. The more she talks and the odder the things she says, the more he’s delighted evidently.

Anne Shirley, you come right in here this minute, do you hear me!” A series of staccato taps on the west window brought Anne flying in from the yard, eyes shining, cheeks faintly flushed with pink, unbraided hair streaming behind her in a torrent of brightness. “Oh, Marilla,” she exclaimed breathlessly, “there’s going to be a Sunday-school picnic next week--in Mr. Harmon Andrews’s field, right near the lake of Shining Waters. And Mrs. Superintendent Bell and Mrs.
Rachel Lynde are going to make ice cream--think of it, Marilla--_ice cream!_

And, oh, Marilla, can I go to it?” “Just look at the clock, if you please, Anne. What time did I tell you to come in?”

“Two o’clock--but isn’t it splendid about the picnic, Marilla?

Please can I go? Oh, I’ve never been to a picnic--I’ve dreamed of picnics, but I’ve never--”

“Yes, I told you to come at two o’clock. And it’s a quarter to three. I’d like to know why you didn’t obey me, Anne.” “Why, I meant to, Marilla, as much as could be.

But you have no idea how fascinating Idlewild is.

And then, of course, I had to tell Matthew about the picnic. Matthew is such a sympathetic listener. Please can I go?”

“You’ll have to learn to resist the fascination of Idle-whatever-you-call-it. When I tell you to come in at a certain time I mean that time and not half an hour later. And you needn’t stop to discourse with sympathetic listeners on your way, either. As for the picnic, of course you can go.

You’re a Sunday-school scholar, and it’s not likely I’d refuse to let you go when all the other little girls are going.”

“But--but,” faltered Anne, “Diana says that everybody must take a basket of things to eat. I can’t cook, as you know, Marilla, and--and--I don’t mind going to a picnic without puffed sleeves so much, but I’d feel terribly humiliated if I had to go without a basket. It’s been preying on my mind ever since Diana told me.” “Well, it needn’t prey any longer.

I’ll bake you a basket.” “Oh, you dear good Marilla.

Oh, you are so kind to me. Oh, I’m so much obliged to you.” Getting through with her “ohs” Anne cast herself into Marilla’s arms and rapturously kissed her sallow cheek.

It was the first time in her whole life that childish lips had voluntarily touched Marilla’s face. Again that sudden sensation of startling sweetness thrilled her. She was secretly vastly pleased at Anne’s impulsive caress, which was probably the reason why she said brusquely: “There, there, never mind your kissing nonsense.

I’d sooner see you doing strictly as you’re told. As for cooking, I mean to begin giving you lessons in that some of these days. But you’re so featherbrained, Anne, I’ve been waiting to see if you’d sober down a little and learn to be steady before I begin.

You’ve got to keep your wits about you in cooking and not stop in the middle of things to let your thoughts rove all over creation. Now, get out your patchwork and have your square done before teatime.” “I do _not_ like patchwork,” said Anne dolefully, hunting out her workbasket and sitting down before a little heap of red and white diamonds with a sigh. “I think some kinds of sewing would be nice; but there’s no scope for imagination in patchwork. It’s just one little seam after another and you never seem to be getting anywhere.

But of course I’d rather be Anne of Green Gables sewing patchwork than Anne of any other place with nothing to do but play.

I wish time went as quick sewing patches as it does when I’m playing with Diana, though. Oh, we do have such elegant times, Marilla. I have to furnish most of the imagination, but I’m well able to do that. Diana is simply perfect in every other way.

You know that little piece of land across the brook that runs up between our farm and Mr. Barry’s. It belongs to Mr. William Bell, and right in the corner there is a little ring of white birch trees--the most romantic spot, Marilla. Diana and I have our playhouse there.

We call it Idlewild.

Isn’t that a poetical name? I assure you it took me some time to think it out. I stayed awake nearly a whole night before I invented it. Then, just as I was dropping off to sleep, it came like an inspiration. Diana was _enraptured_ when she heard it.

We have got our house fixed up elegantly. You must come and see it, Marilla--won’t you? We have great big stones, all covered with moss, for seats, and boards from tree to tree for shelves.

And we have all our dishes on them. Of course, they’re all broken but it’s the easiest thing in the world to imagine that they are whole. There’s a piece of a plate with a spray of red and yellow ivy on it that is especially beautiful. We keep it in the parlor and we have the fairy glass there, too.

The fairy glass is as lovely as a dream. Diana found it out in the woods behind their chicken house. It’s all full of rainbows--just little young rainbows that haven’t grown big yet--and Diana’s mother told her it was broken off a hanging lamp they once had. But it’s nice to imagine the fairies lost it one night when they had a ball, so we call it the fairy glass.

Matthew is going to make us a table. Oh, we have named that little round pool over in Mr. Barry’s field Willowmere. I got that name out of the book Diana lent me. That was a thrilling book, Marilla.

The heroine had five lovers. I’d be satisfied with one, wouldn’t you? She was very handsome and she went through great tribulations.

She could faint as easy as anything. I’d love to be able to faint, wouldn’t you, Marilla? It’s so romantic.

But I’m really very healthy for all I’m so thin.

I believe I’m getting fatter, though. Don’t you think I am? I look at my elbows every morning when I get up to see if any dimples are coming. Diana is having a new dress made with elbow sleeves.

She is going to wear it to the picnic. Oh, I do hope it will be fine next Wednesday. I don’t feel that I could endure the disappointment if anything happened to prevent me from getting to the picnic. I suppose I’d live through it, but I’m certain it would be a lifelong sorrow. It wouldn’t matter if I got to a hundred picnics in after years; they wouldn’t make up for missing this one.

They’re going to have boats on the Lake of Shining Waters--and ice cream, as I told you. I have never tasted ice cream. Diana tried to explain what it was like, but I guess ice cream is one of those things that are beyond imagination.”

“Anne, you have talked even on for ten minutes by the clock,” said Marilla. “Now, just for curiosity’s sake, see if you can hold your tongue for the same length of time.”

Anne held her tongue as desired. But for the rest of the week she talked picnic and thought picnic and dreamed picnic.

On Saturday it rained and she worked herself up into such a frantic state lest it should keep on raining until and over Wednesday that Marilla made her sew an extra patchwork square by way of steadying her nerves. On Sunday Anne confided to Marilla on the way home from church that she grew actually cold all over with excitement when the minister announced the picnic from the pulpit. “Such a thrill as went up and down my back, Marilla! I don’t think I’d ever really believed until then that there was honestly going to be a picnic.

I couldn’t help fearing I’d only imagined it. But when a minister says a thing in the pulpit you just have to believe it.”

“You set your heart too much on things, Anne,” said Marilla, with a sigh.

“I’m afraid there’ll be a great many disappointments in store for you through life.” “Oh, Marilla, looking forward to things is half the pleasure of them,”  exclaimed Anne. “You mayn’t get the things themselves; but nothing can prevent you from having the fun of looking forward to them.

Mrs.
Lynde says, ‘Blessed are they who expect nothing for they shall not be disappointed.’ But I think it would be worse to expect nothing than to be disappointed.”

Marilla wore her amethyst brooch to church that day as usual.

Marilla always wore her amethyst brooch to church. She would have thought it rather sacrilegious to leave it off--as bad as forgetting her Bible or her collection dime. That amethyst brooch was Marilla’s most treasured possession. A seafaring uncle had given it to her mother who in turn had bequeathed it to Marilla.

It was an old-fashioned oval, containing a braid of her mother’s hair, surrounded by a border of very fine amethysts. Marilla knew too little about precious stones to realize how fine the amethysts actually were; but she thought them very beautiful and was always pleasantly conscious of their violet shimmer at her throat, above her good brown satin dress, even although she could not see it. Anne had been smitten with delighted admiration when she first saw that brooch. “Oh, Marilla, it’s a perfectly elegant brooch.

I don’t know how you can pay attention to the sermon or the prayers when you have it on. I couldn’t, I know. I think amethysts are just sweet. They are what I used to think diamonds were like.

Long ago, before I had ever seen a diamond, I read about them and I tried to imagine what they would be like. I thought they would be lovely glimmering purple stones.

When I saw a real diamond in a lady’s ring one day I was so disappointed I cried. Of course, it was very lovely but it wasn’t my idea of a diamond. Will you let me hold the brooch for one minute, Marilla?

Do you think amethysts can be the souls of good violets?”

CHAPTER XIV.

Anne’s Confession ON the Monday evening before the picnic Marilla came down from her room with a troubled face. “Anne,” she said to that small personage, who was shelling peas by the spotless table and singing, “Nelly of the Hazel Dell” with a vigor and expression that did credit to Diana’s teaching, “did you see anything of my amethyst brooch? I thought I stuck it in my pincushion when I came home from church yesterday evening, but I can’t find it anywhere.”

“I--I saw it this afternoon when you were away at the Aid Society,” said Anne, a little slowly. “I was passing your door when I saw it on the cushion, so I went in to look at it.”

“Did you touch it?” said Marilla sternly. “Y-e-e-s,” admitted Anne, “I took it up and I pinned it on my breast just to see how it would look.” “You had no business to do anything of the sort. It’s very wrong in a little girl to meddle.

You shouldn’t have gone into my room in the first place and you shouldn’t have touched a brooch that didn’t belong to you in the second. Where did you put it?” “Oh, I put it back on the bureau.

I hadn’t it on a minute. Truly, I didn’t mean to meddle, Marilla. I didn’t think about its being wrong to go in and try on the brooch; but I see now that it was and I’ll never do it again. That’s one good thing about me.

I never do the same naughty thing twice.” “You didn’t put it back,” said Marilla. “That brooch isn’t anywhere on the bureau. You’ve taken it out or something, Anne.”

“I did put it back,” said Anne quickly--pertly, Marilla thought. “I don’t just remember whether I stuck it on the pincushion or laid it in the china tray. But I’m perfectly certain I put it back.”

“I’ll go and have another look,” said Marilla, determining to be just. “If you put that brooch back it’s there still. If it isn’t I’ll know you didn’t, that’s all!” Marilla went to her room and made a thorough search, not only over the bureau but in every other place she thought the brooch might possibly be. It was not to be found and she returned to the kitchen.

“Anne, the brooch is gone. By your own admission you were the last person to handle it. Now, what have you done with it?

Tell me the truth at once. Did you take it out and lose it?” “No, I didn’t,” said Anne solemnly, meeting Marilla’s angry gaze squarely.

“I never took the brooch out of your room and that is the truth, if I was to be led to the block for it--although I’m not very certain what a block is. So there, Marilla.”

Anne’s “so there” was only intended to emphasize her assertion, but Marilla took it as a display of defiance. “I believe you are telling me a falsehood, Anne,” she said sharply. “I know you are.

There now, don’t say anything more unless you are prepared to tell the whole truth. Go to your room and stay there until you are ready to confess.”

“Will I take the peas with me?” said Anne meekly. “No, I’ll finish shelling them myself. Do as I bid you.” When Anne had gone Marilla went about her evening tasks in a very disturbed state of mind.

She was worried about her valuable brooch. What if Anne had lost it? And how wicked of the child to deny having taken it, when anybody could see she must have! With such an innocent face, too!
“I don’t know what I wouldn’t sooner have had happen,” thought Marilla, as she nervously shelled the peas. “Of course, I don’t suppose she meant to steal it or anything like that.

She’s just taken it to play with or help along that imagination of hers. She must have taken it, that’s clear, for there hasn’t been a soul in that room since she was in it, by her own story, until I went up tonight. And the brooch is gone, there’s nothing surer.

I suppose she has lost it and is afraid to own up for fear she’ll be punished. It’s a dreadful thing to think she tells falsehoods. It’s a far worse thing than her fit of temper.

It’s a fearful responsibility to have a child in your house you can’t trust. Slyness and untruthfulness--that’s what she has displayed. I declare I feel worse about that than about the brooch.

If she’d only have told the truth about it I wouldn’t mind so much.” Marilla went to her room at intervals all through the evening and searched for the brooch, without finding it. A bedtime visit to the east gable produced no result.

Anne persisted in denying that she knew anything about the brooch but Marilla was only the more firmly convinced that she did. She told Matthew the story the next morning. Matthew was confounded and puzzled; he could not so quickly lose faith in Anne but he had to admit that circumstances were against her. “You’re sure it hasn’t fell down behind the bureau?” was the only suggestion he could offer.

“I’ve moved the bureau and I’ve taken out the drawers and I’ve looked in every crack and cranny” was Marilla’s positive answer. “The brooch is gone and that child has taken it and lied about it. That’s the plain, ugly truth, Matthew Cuthbert, and we might as well look it in the face.”

“Well now, what are you going to do about it?”

Matthew asked forlornly, feeling secretly thankful that Marilla and not he had to deal with the situation. He felt no desire to put his oar in this time. “She’ll stay in her room until she confesses,” said Marilla grimly, remembering the success of this method in the former case.

“Then we’ll see. Perhaps we’ll be able to find the brooch if she’ll only tell where she took it; but in any case she’ll have to be severely punished, Matthew.” “Well now, you’ll have to punish her,” said Matthew, reaching for his hat. “I’ve nothing to do with it, remember.

You warned me off yourself.” Marilla felt deserted by everyone. She could not even go to Mrs. Lynde for advice.

She went up to the east gable with a very serious face and left it with a face more serious still. Anne steadfastly refused to confess. She persisted in asserting that she had not taken the brooch. The child had evidently been crying and Marilla felt a pang of pity which she sternly repressed. By night she was, as she expressed it, “beat out.”

“You’ll stay in this room until you confess, Anne. You can make up your mind to that,” she said firmly. “But the picnic is tomorrow, Marilla,” cried Anne. “You won’t keep me from going to that, will you?

You’ll just let me out for the afternoon, won’t you? Then I’ll stay here as long as you like _afterwards_ cheerfully.

But I _must_ go to the picnic.”

“You’ll not go to picnics nor anywhere else until you’ve confessed, Anne.” “Oh, Marilla,” gasped Anne. But Marilla had gone out and shut the door.

Wednesday morning dawned as bright and fair as if expressly made to order for the picnic. Birds sang around Green Gables; the Madonna lilies in the garden sent out whiffs of perfume that entered in on viewless winds at every door and window, and wandered through halls and rooms like spirits of benediction. The birches in the hollow waved joyful hands as if watching for Anne’s usual morning greeting from the east gable. But Anne was not at her window.

When Marilla took her breakfast up to her she found the child sitting primly on her bed, pale and resolute, with tight-shut lips and gleaming eyes. “Marilla, I’m ready to confess.” “Ah!”

Marilla laid down her tray. Once again her method had succeeded; but her success was very bitter to her. “Let me hear what you have to say then, Anne.”

“I took the amethyst brooch,” said Anne, as if repeating a lesson she had learned. “I took it just as you said. I didn’t mean to take it when I went in. But it did look so beautiful, Marilla, when I pinned it on my breast that I was overcome by an irresistible temptation.

I imagined how perfectly thrilling it would be to take it to Idlewild and play I was the Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald. It would be so much easier to imagine I was the Lady Cordelia if I had a real amethyst brooch on. Diana and I make necklaces of roseberries but what are roseberries compared to amethysts? So I took the brooch.

I thought I could put it back before you came home. I went all the way around by the road to lengthen out the time. When I was going over the bridge across the Lake of Shining Waters I took the brooch off to have another look at it. Oh, how it did shine in the sunlight! And then, when I was leaning over the bridge, it just slipped through my fingers--so--and went down--down--down, all purply-sparkling, and sank forevermore beneath the Lake of Shining Waters.

And that’s the best I can do at confessing, Marilla.” Marilla felt hot anger surge up into her heart again. This child had taken and lost her treasured amethyst brooch and now sat there calmly reciting the details thereof without the least apparent compunction or repentance. “Anne, this is terrible,” she said, trying to speak calmly.

“You are the very wickedest girl I ever heard of.” “Yes, I suppose I am,” agreed Anne tranquilly. “And I know I’ll have to be punished.

It’ll be your duty to punish me, Marilla. Won’t you please get it over right off because I’d like to go to the picnic with nothing on my mind.”

“Picnic, indeed!

You’ll go to no picnic today, Anne Shirley. That shall be your punishment. And it isn’t half severe enough either for what you’ve done!”

“Not go to the picnic!”

Anne sprang to her feet and clutched Marilla’s hand. “But you _promised_ me I might! Oh, Marilla, I must go to the picnic. That was why I confessed.

Punish me any way you like but that. Oh, Marilla, please, please, let me go to the picnic. Think of the ice cream! For anything you know I may never have a chance to taste ice cream again.”

Marilla disengaged Anne’s clinging hands stonily. “You needn’t plead, Anne. You are not going to the picnic and that’s final. No, not a word.”

Anne realized that Marilla was not to be moved. She clasped her hands together, gave a piercing shriek, and then flung herself face downward on the bed, crying and writhing in an utter abandonment of disappointment and despair. “For the land’s sake!” gasped Marilla, hastening from the room. “I believe the child is crazy.

No child in her senses would behave as she does. If she isn’t she’s utterly bad. Oh dear, I’m afraid Rachel was right from the first. But I’ve put my hand to the plow and I won’t look back.”

That was a dismal morning.

Marilla worked fiercely and scrubbed the porch floor and the dairy shelves when she could find nothing else to do. Neither the shelves nor the porch needed it--but Marilla did. Then she went out and raked the yard.

When dinner was ready she went to the stairs and called Anne.

A tear-stained face appeared, looking tragically over the banisters. “Come down to your dinner, Anne.”

“I don’t want any dinner, Marilla,” said Anne, sobbingly. “I couldn’t eat anything.

My heart is broken. You’ll feel remorse of conscience someday, I expect, for breaking it, Marilla, but I forgive you. Remember when the time comes that I forgive you. But please don’t ask me to eat anything, especially boiled pork and greens.

Boiled pork and greens are so unromantic when one is in affliction.” Exasperated, Marilla returned to the kitchen and poured out her tale of woe to Matthew, who, between his sense of justice and his unlawful sympathy with Anne, was a miserable man. “Well now, she shouldn’t have taken the brooch, Marilla, or told stories about it,” he admitted, mournfully surveying his plateful of unromantic pork and greens as if he, like Anne, thought it a food unsuited to crises of feeling, “but she’s such a little thing--such an interesting little thing. Don’t you think it’s pretty rough not to let her go to the picnic when she’s so set on it?”

“Matthew Cuthbert, I’m amazed at you.

I think I’ve let her off entirely too easy. And she doesn’t appear to realize how wicked she’s been at all--that’s what worries me most. If she’d really felt sorry it wouldn’t be so bad. And you don’t seem to realize it, neither; you’re making excuses for her all the time to yourself--I can see that.”

“Well now, she’s such a little thing,” feebly reiterated Matthew. “And there should be allowances made, Marilla. You know she’s never had any bringing up.”

“Well, she’s having it now” retorted Marilla. The retort silenced Matthew if it did not convince him.

That dinner was a very dismal meal. The only cheerful thing about it was Jerry Buote, the hired boy, and Marilla resented his cheerfulness as a personal insult. When her dishes were washed and her bread sponge set and her hens fed Marilla remembered that she had noticed a small rent in her best black lace shawl when she had taken it off on Monday afternoon on returning from the Ladies’ Aid.

She would go and mend it. The shawl was in a box in her trunk. As Marilla lifted it out, the sunlight, falling through the vines that clustered thickly about the window, struck upon something caught in the shawl--something that glittered and sparkled in facets of violet light. Marilla snatched at it with a gasp. It was the amethyst brooch, hanging to a thread of the lace by its catch!

“Dear life and heart,” said Marilla blankly, “what does this mean? Here’s my brooch safe and sound that I thought was at the bottom of Barry’s pond. Whatever did that girl mean by saying she took it and lost it? I declare I believe Green Gables is bewitched. I remember now that when I took off my shawl Monday afternoon I laid it on the bureau for a minute.

I suppose the brooch got caught in it somehow. Well!”

Marilla betook herself to the east gable, brooch in hand. Anne had cried herself out and was sitting dejectedly by the window. “Anne Shirley,” said Marilla solemnly, “I’ve just found my brooch hanging to my black lace shawl. Now I want to know what that rigmarole you told me this morning meant.”

“Why, you said you’d keep me here until I confessed,” returned Anne wearily, “and so I decided to confess because I was bound to get to the picnic. I thought out a confession last night after I went to bed and made it as interesting as I could. And I said it over and over so that I wouldn’t forget it.

But you wouldn’t let me go to the picnic after all, so all my trouble was wasted.”

Marilla had to laugh in spite of herself.

But her conscience pricked her.

“Anne, you do beat all! But I was wrong--I see that now.

I shouldn’t have doubted your word when I’d never known you to tell a story. Of course, it wasn’t right for you to confess to a thing you hadn’t done--it was very wrong to do so. But I drove you to it.

So if you’ll forgive me, Anne, I’ll forgive you and we’ll start square again. And now get yourself ready for the picnic.” Anne flew up like a rocket.

“Oh, Marilla, isn’t it too late?”

“No, it’s only two o’clock. They won’t be more than well gathered yet and it’ll be an hour before they have tea. Wash your face and comb your hair and put on your gingham. I’ll fill a basket for you. There’s plenty of stuff baked in the house.

And I’ll get Jerry to hitch up the sorrel and drive you down to the picnic ground.” “Oh, Marilla,” exclaimed Anne, flying to the wash-stand. “Five minutes ago I was so miserable I was wishing I’d never been born and now I wouldn’t change places with an angel!” That night a thoroughly happy, completely tired-out Anne returned to Green Gables in a state of beatification impossible to describe.

“Oh, Marilla, I’ve had a perfectly scrumptious time. Scrumptious is a new word I learned today. I heard Mary Alice Bell use it.

Isn’t it very expressive? Everything was lovely. We had a splendid tea and then Mr.
Harmon Andrews took us all for a row on the Lake of Shining Waters--six of us at a time. And Jane Andrews nearly fell overboard.

She was leaning out to pick water lilies and if Mr. Andrews hadn’t caught her by her sash just in the nick of time she’d fallen in and prob’ly been drowned. I wish it had been me. It would have been such a romantic experience to have been nearly drowned. It would be such a thrilling tale to tell. And we had the ice cream.

Words fail me to describe that ice cream. Marilla, I assure you it was sublime.” That evening Marilla told the whole story to Matthew over her stocking basket. “I’m willing to own up that I made a mistake,” she concluded candidly, “but I’ve learned a lesson.

I have to laugh when I think of Anne’s ‘confession,’ although I suppose I shouldn’t for it really was a falsehood. But it doesn’t seem as bad as the other would have been, somehow, and anyhow I’m responsible for it.

That child is hard to understand in some respects. But I believe she’ll turn out all right yet.

And there’s one thing certain, no house will ever be dull that she’s in.” CHAPTER XV.

A Tempest in the School Teapot WHAT a splendid day!” said Anne, drawing a long breath. “Isn’t it good just to be alive on a day like this? I pity the people who aren’t born yet for missing it. They may have good days, of course, but they can never have this one.

And it’s splendider still to have such a lovely way to go to school by, isn’t it?” “It’s a lot nicer than going round by the road; that is so dusty and hot,” said Diana practically, peeping into her dinner basket and mentally calculating if the three juicy, toothsome, raspberry tarts reposing there were divided among ten girls how many bites each girl would have. The little girls of Avonlea school always pooled their lunches, and to eat three raspberry tarts all alone or even to share them only with one’s best chum would have forever and ever branded as “awful mean” the girl who did it. And yet, when the tarts were divided among ten girls you just got enough to tantalize you.

The way Anne and Diana went to school _was_ a pretty one. Anne thought those walks to and from school with Diana couldn’t be improved upon even by imagination. Going around by the main road would have been so unromantic; but to go by Lover’s Lane and Willowmere and Violet Vale and the Birch Path was romantic, if ever anything was.

Lover’s Lane opened out below the orchard at Green Gables and stretched far up into the woods to the end of the Cuthbert farm. It was the way by which the cows were taken to the back pasture and the wood hauled home in winter. Anne had named it Lover’s Lane before she had been a month at Green Gables. “Not that lovers ever really walk there,” she explained to Marilla, “but Diana and I are reading a perfectly magnificent book and there’s a Lover’s Lane in it.

So we want to have one, too. And it’s a very pretty name, don’t you think? So romantic!

We can’t imagine the lovers into it, you know. I like that lane because you can think out loud there without people calling you crazy.” Anne, starting out alone in the morning, went down Lover’s Lane as far as the brook. Here Diana met her, and the two little girls went on up the lane under the leafy arch of maples--“maples are such sociable trees,” said Anne; “they’re always rustling and whispering to you”--until they came to a rustic bridge.

Then they left the lane and walked through Mr. Barry’s back field and past Willowmere. Beyond Willowmere came Violet Vale--a little green dimple in the shadow of Mr.
Andrew Bell’s big woods. “Of course there are no violets there now,”  Anne told Marilla, “but Diana says there are millions of them in spring.

Oh, Marilla, can’t you just imagine you see them?

It actually takes away my breath. I named it Violet Vale. Diana says she never saw the beat of me for hitting on fancy names for places. It’s nice to be clever at something, isn’t it?

But Diana named the Birch Path.

She wanted to, so I let her; but I’m sure I could have found something more poetical than plain Birch Path. Anybody can think of a name like that. But the Birch Path is one of the prettiest places in the world, Marilla.”

It was. Other people besides Anne thought so when they stumbled on it. It was a little narrow, twisting path, winding down over a long hill straight through Mr. Bell’s woods, where the light came down sifted through so many emerald screens that it was as flawless as the heart of a diamond. It was fringed in all its length with slim young birches, white stemmed and lissom boughed; ferns and starflowers and wild lilies-of-the-valley and scarlet tufts of pigeonberries grew thickly along it; and always there was a delightful spiciness in the air and music of bird calls and the murmur and laugh of wood winds in the trees overhead.

Now and then you might see a rabbit skipping across the road if you were quiet--which, with Anne and Diana, happened about once in a blue moon. Down in the valley the path came out to the main road and then it was just up the spruce hill to the school. The Avonlea school was a whitewashed building, low in the eaves and wide in the windows, furnished inside with comfortable substantial old-fashioned desks that opened and shut, and were carved all over their lids with the initials and hieroglyphics of three generations of school children.

The schoolhouse was set back from the road and behind it was a dusky fir wood and a brook where all the children put their bottles of milk in the morning to keep cool and sweet until dinner hour. Marilla had seen Anne start off to school on the first day of September with many secret misgivings. Anne was such an odd girl. How would she get on with the other children? And how on earth would she ever manage to hold her tongue during school hours?

Things went better than Marilla feared, however. Anne came home that evening in high spirits. “I think I’m going to like school here,” she announced.

“I don’t think much of the master, though. He’s all the time curling his mustache and making eyes at Prissy Andrews. Prissy is grown up, you know. She’s sixteen and she’s studying for the entrance examination into Queen’s Academy at Charlottetown next year.

Tillie Boulter says the master is _dead gone_ on her. She’s got a beautiful complexion and curly brown hair and she does it up so elegantly. She sits in the long seat at the back and he sits there, too, most of the time--to explain her lessons, he says.

But Ruby Gillis says she saw him writing something on her slate and when Prissy read it she blushed as red as a beet and giggled; and Ruby Gillis says she doesn’t believe it had anything to do with the lesson.”

“Anne Shirley, don’t let me hear you talking about your teacher in that way again,” said Marilla sharply.

“You don’t go to school to criticize the master. I guess he can teach _you_ something, and it’s your business to learn. And I want you to understand right off that you are not to come home telling tales about him.

That is something I won’t encourage. I hope you were a good girl.” “Indeed I was,” said Anne comfortably. “It wasn’t so hard as you might imagine, either. I sit with Diana.

Our seat is right by the window and we can look down to the Lake of Shining Waters. There are a lot of nice girls in school and we had scrumptious fun playing at dinnertime. It’s so nice to have a lot of little girls to play with. But of course I like Diana best and always will.

I _adore_ Diana. I’m dreadfully far behind the others. They’re all in the fifth book and I’m only in the fourth.

I feel that it’s kind of a disgrace. But there’s not one of them has such an imagination as I have

and I soon found that out. We had reading and geography and Canadian history and dictation today. Mr. Phillips said my spelling was disgraceful and he held up my slate so that everybody could see it, all marked over.

I felt so mortified, Marilla; he might have been politer to a stranger, I think. Ruby Gillis gave me an apple and Sophia Sloane lent me a lovely pink card with ‘May I see you home?’ on it. I’m to give it back to her tomorrow.

And Tillie Boulter let me wear her bead ring all the afternoon. Can I have some of those pearl beads off the old pincushion in the garret to make myself a ring? And oh, Marilla, Jane Andrews told me that Minnie MacPherson told her that she heard Prissy Andrews tell Sara Gillis that I had a very pretty nose. Marilla, that is the first compliment I have ever had in my life and you can’t imagine what a strange feeling it gave me. Marilla, have I really a pretty nose?

I know you’ll tell me the truth.” “Your nose is well enough,” said Marilla shortly. Secretly she thought Anne’s nose was a remarkable pretty one; but she had no intention of telling her so. That was three weeks ago and all had gone smoothly so far.

And now, this crisp September morning, Anne and Diana were tripping blithely down the Birch Path, two of the happiest little girls in Avonlea. “I guess Gilbert Blythe will be in school today,” said Diana. “He’s been visiting his cousins over in New Brunswick all summer and he only came home Saturday night.

He’s _aw’fly_ handsome, Anne. And he teases the girls something terrible. He just torments our lives out.” Diana’s voice indicated that she rather liked having her life tormented out than not. “Gilbert Blythe?” said Anne.

“Isn’t his name that’s written up on the porch wall with Julia Bell’s and a big ‘Take Notice’ over them?”

“Yes,” said Diana, tossing her head, “but I’m sure he doesn’t like Julia Bell so very much. I’ve heard him say he studied the multiplication table by her freckles.” “Oh, don’t speak about freckles to me,” implored Anne.

“It isn’t delicate when I’ve got so many. But I do think that writing take-notices up on the wall about the boys and girls is the silliest ever.

I should just like to see anybody dare to write my name up with a boy’s. Not, of course,” she hastened to add, “that anybody would.” Anne sighed. She didn’t want her name written up. But it was a little humiliating to know that there was no danger of it.

“Nonsense,” said Diana, whose black eyes and glossy tresses had played such havoc with the hearts of Avonlea schoolboys that her name figured on the porch walls in half a dozen take-notices. “It’s only meant as a joke. And don’t you be too sure your name won’t ever be written up. Charlie Sloane is _dead gone_ on you. He told his mother--his _mother_, mind you--that you were the smartest girl in school.

That’s better than being good-looking.” “No, it isn’t,” said Anne, feminine to the core. “I’d rather be pretty than clever. And I hate Charlie Sloane, I can’t bear a boy with goggle eyes. If anyone wrote my name up with his I’d _never_ get over it, Diana Barry.

But it _is_ nice to keep head of your class.”

“You’ll have Gilbert in your class after this,” said Diana, “and he’s used to being head of his class, I can tell you. He’s only in the fourth book although he’s nearly fourteen. Four years ago his father was sick and had to go out to Alberta for his health and Gilbert went with him. They were there three years and Gil didn’t go to school hardly any until they came back. You won’t find it so easy to keep head after this, Anne.”

“I’m glad,” said Anne quickly. “I couldn’t really feel proud of keeping head of little boys and girls of just nine or ten. I got up yesterday spelling ‘ebullition.’ Josie Pye was head and, mind you, she peeped in her book.

Mr. Phillips didn’t see her--he was looking at Prissy Andrews--but I did. I just swept her a look of freezing scorn and she got as red as a beet and spelled it wrong after all.” “Those Pye girls are cheats all round,” said Diana indignantly, as they climbed the fence of the main road. “Gertie Pye actually went and put her milk bottle in my place in the brook yesterday.

Did you ever?

I don’t speak to her now.”

When Mr. Phillips was in the back of the room hearing Prissy Andrews’s Latin, Diana whispered to Anne, “That’s Gilbert Blythe sitting right across the aisle from you, Anne. Just look at him and see if you don’t think he’s handsome.” Anne looked accordingly. She had a good chance to do so, for the said Gilbert Blythe was absorbed in stealthily pinning the long yellow braid of Ruby Gillis, who sat in front of him, to the back of her seat. He was a tall boy, with curly brown hair, roguish hazel eyes, and a mouth twisted into a teasing smile.

Presently Ruby Gillis started up to take a sum to the master; she fell back into her seat with a little shriek, believing that her hair was pulled out by the roots. Everybody looked at her and Mr. Phillips glared so sternly that Ruby began to cry. Gilbert had whisked the pin out of sight and was studying his history with the soberest face in the world; but when the commotion subsided he looked at Anne and winked with inexpressible drollery. “I think your Gilbert Blythe _is_ handsome,” confided Anne to Diana, “but I think he’s very bold. It isn’t good manners to wink at a strange girl.”

But it was not until the afternoon that things really began to happen.

Mr. Phillips was back in the corner explaining a problem in algebra to Prissy Andrews and the rest of the scholars were doing pretty much as they pleased eating green apples, whispering, drawing pictures on their slates, and driving crickets harnessed to strings, up and down aisle. Gilbert Blythe was trying to make Anne Shirley look at him and failing utterly, because Anne was at that moment totally oblivious not only to the very existence of Gilbert Blythe, but of every other scholar in Avonlea school itself. With her chin propped on her hands and her eyes fixed on the blue glimpse of the Lake of Shining Waters that the west window afforded, she was far away in a gorgeous dreamland hearing and seeing nothing save her own wonderful visions. Gilbert Blythe wasn’t used to putting himself out to make a girl look at him and meeting with failure. She _should_ look at him, that red-haired Shirley girl with the little pointed chin and the big eyes that weren’t like the eyes of any other girl in Avonlea school.

Gilbert reached across the aisle, picked up the end of Anne’s long red braid, held it out at arm’s length and said in a piercing whisper: “Carrots! Carrots!”

Then Anne looked at him with a vengeance! She did more than look. She sprang to her feet, her bright fancies fallen into cureless ruin. She flashed one indignant glance at Gilbert from eyes whose angry sparkle was swiftly quenched in equally angry tears. “You mean, hateful boy!”

she exclaimed passionately.

“How dare you!” And then--thwack!

Anne had brought her slate down on Gilbert’s head and cracked it--slate not head--clear across. Avonlea school always enjoyed a scene. This was an especially enjoyable one.

Everybody said “Oh” in horrified delight. Diana gasped. Ruby Gillis, who was inclined to be hysterical, began to cry. Tommy Sloane let his team of crickets escape him altogether while he stared open-mouthed at the tableau.

Mr. Phillips stalked down the aisle and laid his hand heavily on Anne’s shoulder. “Anne Shirley, what does this mean?” he said angrily. Anne returned no answer.

It was asking too much of flesh and blood to expect her to tell before the whole school that she had been called “carrots.” Gilbert it was who spoke up stoutly. “It was my fault Mr. Phillips. I teased her.”

Mr. Phillips paid no heed to Gilbert. “I am sorry to see a pupil of mine displaying such a temper and such a vindictive spirit,” he said in a solemn tone, as if the mere fact of being a pupil of his ought to root out all evil passions from the hearts of small imperfect mortals. “Anne, go and stand on the platform in front of the blackboard for the rest of the afternoon.” Anne would have infinitely preferred a whipping to this punishment under which her sensitive spirit quivered as from a whiplash. With a white, set face she obeyed.

Mr. Phillips took a chalk crayon and wrote on the blackboard above her head. “Ann Shirley has a very bad temper. Ann Shirley must learn to control her temper,” and then read it out loud so that even the primer class, who couldn’t read writing, should understand it.

Anne stood there the rest of the afternoon with that legend above her. She did not cry or hang her head. Anger was still too hot in her heart for that and it sustained her amid all her agony of humiliation.

With resentful eyes and passion-red cheeks she confronted alike Diana’s sympathetic gaze and Charlie Sloane’s indignant nods and Josie Pye’s malicious smiles. As for Gilbert Blythe, she would not even look at him. She would _never_ look at him again! She would never speak to him!!

When school was dismissed Anne marched out with her red head held high. Gilbert Blythe tried to intercept her at the porch door. “I’m awfully sorry I made fun of your hair, Anne,” he whispered contritely.

“Honest I am. Don’t be mad for keeps, now.”

Anne swept by disdainfully, without look or sign of hearing. “Oh how could you, Anne?” breathed Diana as they went down the road half reproachfully, half admiringly. Diana felt that _she_ could never have resisted Gilbert’s plea. “I shall never forgive Gilbert Blythe,” said Anne firmly. “And Mr.
Phillips spelled my name without an e, too.

The iron has entered into my soul, Diana.” Diana hadn’t the least idea what Anne meant but she understood it was something terrible. “You mustn’t mind Gilbert making fun of your hair,” she said soothingly. “Why, he makes fun of all the girls.

He laughs at mine because it’s so black. He’s called me a crow a dozen times; and I never heard him apologize for anything before, either.”

“There’s a great deal of difference between being called a crow and being called carrots,” said Anne with dignity. “Gilbert Blythe has hurt my feelings _excruciatingly_, Diana.” It is possible the matter might have blown over without more excruciation if nothing else had happened.

But when things begin to happen they are apt to keep on.

Avonlea scholars often spent noon hour picking gum in Mr. Bell’s spruce grove over the hill and across his big pasture field. From there they could keep an eye on Eben Wright’s house, where the master boarded. When they saw Mr. Phillips emerging therefrom they ran for the schoolhouse; but the distance being about three times longer than Mr. Wright’s lane they were very apt to arrive there, breathless and gasping, some three minutes too late. On the following day Mr. Phillips was seized with one of his spasmodic fits of reform and announced before going home to dinner, that he should expect to find all the scholars in their seats when he returned.

Anyone who came in late would be punished. All the boys and some of the girls went to Mr. Bell’s spruce grove as usual, fully intending to stay only long enough to “pick a chew.” But spruce groves are seductive and yellow nuts of gum beguiling; they picked and loitered and strayed; and as usual the first thing that recalled them to a sense of the flight of time was Jimmy Glover shouting from the top of a patriarchal old spruce “Master’s coming.”

The girls who were on the ground, started first and managed to reach the schoolhouse in time but without a second to spare. The boys, who had to wriggle hastily down from the trees, were later; and Anne, who had not been picking gum at all but was wandering happily in the far end of the grove, waist deep among the bracken, singing softly to herself, with a wreath of rice lilies on her hair as if she were some wild divinity of the shadowy places, was latest of all. Anne could run like a deer, however; run she did with the impish result that she overtook the boys at the door and was swept into the schoolhouse among them just as Mr.
Phillips was in the act of hanging up his hat. Mr. Phillips’s brief reforming energy was over; he didn’t want the bother of punishing a dozen pupils; but it was necessary to do something to save his word, so he looked about for a scapegoat and found it in Anne, who had dropped into her seat, gasping for breath, with a forgotten lily wreath hanging askew over one ear and giving her a particularly rakish and disheveled appearance. “Anne Shirley, since you seem to be so fond of the boys’ company we shall indulge your taste for it this afternoon,” he said sarcastically.

“Take those flowers out of your hair and sit with Gilbert Blythe.” The other boys snickered. Diana, turning pale with pity, plucked the wreath from Anne’s hair and squeezed her hand.

Anne stared at the master as if turned to stone. “Did you hear what I said, Anne?” queried Mr. Phillips sternly. “Yes, sir,” said Anne slowly “but I didn’t suppose you really meant it.” “I assure you I did”--still with the sarcastic inflection which all the children, and Anne especially, hated.

It flicked on the raw. “Obey me at once.” For a moment Anne looked as if she meant to disobey. Then, realizing that there was no help for it, she rose haughtily, stepped across the aisle, sat down beside Gilbert Blythe, and buried her face in her arms on the desk.

Ruby Gillis, who got a glimpse of it as it went down, told the others going home from school that she’d “acksually never seen anything like it--it was so white, with awful little red spots in it.” To Anne, this was as the end of all things. It was bad enough to be singled out for punishment from among a dozen equally guilty ones; it was worse still to be sent to sit with a boy, but that that boy should be Gilbert Blythe was heaping insult on injury to a degree utterly unbearable.

Anne felt that she could not bear it and it would be of no use to try. Her whole being seethed with shame and anger and humiliation. At first the other scholars looked and whispered and giggled and nudged. But as Anne never lifted her head and as Gilbert worked fractions as if his whole soul was absorbed in them and them only, they soon returned to their own tasks and Anne was forgotten.

When Mr. Phillips called the history class out Anne should have gone, but Anne did not move, and Mr. Phillips, who had been writing some verses “To Priscilla” before he called the class, was thinking about an obstinate rhyme still and never missed her. Once, when nobody was looking, Gilbert took from his desk a little pink candy heart with a gold motto on it, “You are sweet,” and slipped it under the curve of Anne’s arm. Whereupon Anne arose, took the pink heart gingerly between the tips of her fingers, dropped it on the floor, ground it to powder beneath her heel, and resumed her position without deigning to bestow a glance on Gilbert. When school went out Anne marched to her desk, ostentatiously took out everything therein, books and writing tablet, pen and ink, testament and arithmetic, and piled them neatly on her cracked slate.

“What are you taking all those things home for, Anne?”

Diana wanted to know, as soon as they were out on the road. She had not dared to ask the question before. “I am not coming back to school any more,” said Anne.

Diana gasped and stared at Anne to see if she meant it.

“Will Marilla let you stay home?” she asked. “She’ll have to,” said Anne. “I’ll _never_ go to school to that man again.”

“Oh, Anne!”

Diana looked as if she were ready to cry. “I do think you’re mean. What shall I do?

Mr. Phillips will make me sit with that horrid Gertie Pye--I know he will because she is sitting alone. Do come back, Anne.”

“I’d do almost anything in the world for you, Diana,” said Anne sadly. “I’d let myself be torn limb from limb if it would do you any good. But I can’t do this, so please don’t ask it.

You harrow up my very soul.” “Just think of all the fun you will miss,” mourned Diana. “We are going to build the loveliest new house down by the brook; and we’ll be playing ball next week and you’ve never played ball, Anne. It’s tremendously exciting.

And we’re going to learn a new song--Jane Andrews is practicing it up now; and Alice Andrews is going to bring a new Pansy book next week and we’re all going to read it out loud, chapter about, down by the brook. And you know you are so fond of reading out loud, Anne.” Nothing moved Anne in the least. Her mind was made up.

She would not go to school to Mr. Phillips again; she told Marilla so when she got home.
“Nonsense,” said Marilla. “It isn’t nonsense at all,” said Anne, gazing at Marilla with solemn, reproachful eyes.

“Don’t you understand, Marilla? I’ve been insulted.” “Insulted fiddlesticks! You’ll go to school tomorrow as usual.” “Oh, no.”

Anne shook her head gently.

“I’m not going back, Marilla. I’ll learn my lessons at home and I’ll be as good as I can be and hold my tongue all the time if it’s possible at all. But I will not go back to school, I assure you.”

Marilla saw something remarkably like unyielding stubbornness looking out of Anne’s small face.

She understood that she would have trouble in overcoming it; but she resolved wisely to say nothing more just then. “I’ll run down and see Rachel about it this evening,” she thought. “There’s no use reasoning with Anne now. She’s too worked up and I’ve an idea she can be awful stubborn if she takes the notion.

Far as I can make out from her story, Mr. Phillips has been carrying matters with a rather high hand. But it would never do to say so to her.

I’ll just talk it over with Rachel. She’s sent ten children to school and she ought to know something about it. She’ll have heard the whole story, too, by this time.”

Marilla found Mrs. Lynde knitting quilts as industriously and cheerfully as usual. “I suppose you know what I’ve come about,” she said, a little shamefacedly. Mrs. Rachel nodded.

“About Anne’s fuss in school, I reckon,” she said. “Tillie Boulter was in on her way home from school and told me about it.” “I don’t know what to do with her,” said Marilla.

“She declares she won’t go back to school. I never saw a child so worked up. I’ve been expecting trouble ever since she started to school. I knew things were going too smooth to last. She’s so high strung.

What would you advise, Rachel?”

“Well, since you’ve asked my advice, Marilla,” said Mrs. Lynde amiably--Mrs. Lynde dearly loved to be asked for advice--“I’d just humor her a little at first, that’s what I’d do. It’s my belief that Mr. Phillips was in the wrong. Of course, it doesn’t do to say so to the children, you know.

And of course he did right to punish her yesterday for giving way to temper. But today it was different.

The others who were late should have been punished as well as Anne, that’s what. And I don’t believe in making the girls sit with the boys for punishment. It isn’t modest. Tillie Boulter was real indignant.

She took Anne’s part right through and said all the scholars did too. Anne seems real popular among them, somehow. I never thought she’d take with them so well.” “Then you really think I’d better let her stay home,” said Marilla in amazement. “Yes.

That is I wouldn’t say school to her again until she said it herself.

Depend upon it, Marilla, she’ll cool off in a week or so and be ready enough to go back of her own accord, that’s what, while, if you were to make her go back right off, dear knows what freak or tantrum she’d take next and make more trouble than ever. The less fuss made the better, in my opinion. She won’t miss much by not going to school, as far as _that_ goes.

Mr. Phillips isn’t any good at all as a teacher. The order he keeps is scandalous, that’s what, and he neglects the young fry and puts all his time on those big scholars he’s getting ready for Queen’s. He’d never have got the school for another year if his uncle hadn’t been a trustee--_the_ trustee, for he just leads the other two around by the nose, that’s what. I declare, I don’t know what education in this Island is coming to.”

Mrs. Rachel shook her head, as much as to say if she were only at the head of the educational system of the Province things would be much better managed.

Marilla took Mrs. Rachel’s advice and not another word was said to Anne about going back to school. She learned her lessons at home, did her chores, and played with Diana in the chilly purple autumn twilights; but when she met Gilbert Blythe on the road or encountered him in Sunday-school she passed him by with an icy contempt that was no whit thawed by his evident desire to appease her. Even Diana’s efforts as a peacemaker were of no avail. Anne had evidently made up her mind to hate Gilbert Blythe to the end of life.

As much as she hated Gilbert, however, did she love Diana, with all the love of her passionate little heart, equally intense in its likes and dislikes. One evening Marilla, coming in from the orchard with a basket of apples, found Anne sitting along by the east window in the twilight, crying bitterly. “Whatever’s the matter now, Anne?”

she asked. “It’s about Diana,” sobbed Anne luxuriously. “I love Diana so, Marilla.

I cannot ever live without her. But I know very well when we grow up that Diana will get married and go away and leave me.

And oh, what shall I do? I hate her husband--I just hate him furiously. I’ve been imagining it all out--the wedding and everything--Diana dressed in snowy garments, with a veil, and looking as beautiful and regal as a queen; and me the bridesmaid, with a lovely dress too, and puffed sleeves, but with a breaking heart hid beneath my smiling face. And then bidding Diana goodbye-e-e--”

Here Anne broke down entirely and wept with increasing bitterness.

Marilla turned quickly away to hide her twitching face; but it was no use; she collapsed on the nearest chair and burst into such a hearty and unusual peal of laughter that Matthew, crossing the yard outside, halted in amazement. When had he heard Marilla laugh like that before?
“Well, Anne Shirley,” said Marilla as soon as she could speak, “if you must borrow trouble, for pity’s sake borrow it handier home. I should think you had an imagination, sure enough.”

CHAPTER XVI.

Diana Is Invited to Tea with Tragic Results OCTOBER was a beautiful month at Green Gables, when the birches in the hollow turned as golden as sunshine and the maples behind the orchard were royal crimson and the wild cherry-trees along the lane put on the loveliest shades of dark red and bronzy green, while the fields sunned themselves in aftermaths. Anne reveled in the world of color about her. “Oh, Marilla,” she exclaimed one Saturday morning, coming dancing in with her arms full of gorgeous boughs, “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.

It would be terrible if we just skipped from September to November, wouldn’t it? Look at these maple branches. Don’t they give you a thrill--several thrills? I’m going to decorate my room with them.”

“Messy things,” said Marilla, whose aesthetic sense was not noticeably developed. “You clutter up your room entirely too much with out-of-doors stuff, Anne. Bedrooms were made to sleep in.” “Oh, and dream in too, Marilla.

And you know one can dream so much better in a room where there are pretty things.

I’m going to put these boughs in the old blue jug and set them on my table.” “Mind you don’t drop leaves all over the stairs then.

I’m going on a meeting of the Aid Society at Carmody this afternoon, Anne, and I won’t likely be home before dark. You’ll have to get Matthew and Jerry their supper, so mind you don’t forget to put the tea to draw until you sit down at the table as you did last time.” “It was dreadful of me to forget,” said Anne apologetically, “but that was the afternoon I was trying to think of a name for Violet Vale and it crowded other things out. Matthew was so good.

He never scolded a bit. He put the tea down himself and said we could wait awhile as well as not. And I told him a lovely fairy story while we were waiting, so he didn’t find the time long at all. It was a beautiful fairy story, Marilla. I forgot the end of it, so I made up an end for it myself and Matthew said he couldn’t tell where the join came in.”

“Matthew would think it all right, Anne, if you took a notion to get up and have dinner in the middle of the night. But you keep your wits about you this time.

And--I don’t really know if I’m doing right--it may make you more addlepated than ever--but you can ask Diana to come over and spend the afternoon with you and have tea here.” “Oh, Marilla!”

Anne clasped her hands. “How perfectly lovely!

You _are_ able to imagine things after all or else you’d never have understood how I’ve longed for that very thing. It will seem so nice and grown-uppish. No fear of my forgetting to put the tea to draw when I have company. Oh, Marilla, can I use the rosebud spray tea set?”

“No, indeed!

The rosebud tea set!

Well, what next?

You know I never use that except for the minister or the Aids. You’ll put down the old brown tea set. But you can open the little yellow crock of cherry preserves.

It’s time it was being used anyhow--I believe it’s beginning to work. And you can cut some fruit cake and have some of the cookies and snaps.” “I can just imagine myself sitting down at the head of the table and pouring out the tea,” said Anne, shutting her eyes ecstatically. “And asking Diana if she takes sugar! I know she doesn’t

but of course I’ll ask her just as if I didn’t know.

And then pressing her to take another piece of fruit cake and another helping of preserves. Oh, Marilla, it’s a wonderful sensation just to think of it. Can I take her into the spare room to lay off her hat when she comes?

And then into the parlor to sit?”

“No.

The sitting room will do for you and your company. But there’s a bottle half full of raspberry cordial that was left over from the church social the other night.

It’s on the second shelf of the sitting-room closet and you and Diana can have it if you like, and a cooky to eat with it along in the afternoon, for I daresay Matthew ‘ll be late coming in to tea since he’s hauling potatoes to the vessel.” Anne flew down to the hollow, past the Dryad’s Bubble and up the spruce path to Orchard Slope, to ask Diana to tea. As a result just after Marilla had driven off to Carmody, Diana came over, dressed in _her_ second-best dress and looking exactly as it is proper to look when asked out to tea. At other times she was wont to run into the kitchen without knocking; but now she knocked primly at the front door.

And when Anne, dressed in her second best, as primly opened it, both little girls shook hands as gravely as if they had never met before. This unnatural solemnity lasted until after Diana had been taken to the east gable to lay off her hat and then had sat for ten minutes in the sitting room, toes in position. “How is your mother?” inquired Anne politely, just as if she had not seen Mrs. Barry picking apples that morning in excellent health and spirits.

“She is very well, thank you. I suppose Mr. Cuthbert is hauling potatoes to the _lily sands_ this afternoon, is he?” said Diana, who had ridden down to Mr. Harmon Andrews’s that morning in Matthew’s cart. “Yes.

Our potato crop is very good this year. I hope your father’s crop is good too.”

“It is fairly good, thank you. Have you picked many of your apples yet?”

“Oh, ever so many,” said Anne forgetting to be dignified and jumping up quickly. “Let’s go out to the orchard and get some of the Red Sweetings, Diana. Marilla says we can have all that are left on the tree. Marilla is a very generous woman.

She said we could have fruit cake and cherry preserves for tea. But it isn’t good manners to tell your company what you are going to give them to eat, so I won’t tell you what she said we could have to drink.

Only it begins with an R and a C and it’s bright red color. I love bright red drinks, don’t you? They taste twice as good as any other color.” The orchard, with its great sweeping boughs that bent to the ground with fruit, proved so delightful that the little girls spent most of the afternoon in it, sitting in a grassy corner where the frost had spared the green and the mellow autumn sunshine lingered warmly, eating apples and talking as hard as they could.

Diana had much to tell Anne of what went on in school. She had to sit with Gertie Pye and she hated it; Gertie squeaked her pencil all the time and it just made her--Diana’s--blood run cold; Ruby Gillis had charmed all her warts away, true’s you live, with a magic pebble that old Mary Joe from the Creek gave her. You had to rub the warts with the pebble and then throw it away over your left shoulder at the time of the new moon and the warts would all go. Charlie Sloane’s name was written up with Em White’s on the porch wall and Em White was _awful mad_ about it; Sam Boulter had “sassed” Mr. Phillips in class and Mr. Phillips whipped him and Sam’s father came down to the school and dared Mr. Phillips to lay a hand on one of his children again; and Mattie Andrews had a new red hood and a blue crossover with tassels on it and the airs she put on about it were perfectly sickening; and Lizzie Wright didn’t speak to Mamie Wilson because Mamie Wilson’s grown-up sister had cut out Lizzie Wright’s grown-up sister with her beau; and everybody missed Anne so and wished she’s come to school again; and Gilbert Blythe--

But Anne didn’t want to hear about Gilbert Blythe.

She jumped up hurriedly and said suppose they go in and have some raspberry cordial. Anne looked on the second shelf of the room pantry but there was no bottle of raspberry cordial there. Search revealed it away back on the top shelf. Anne put it on a tray and set it on the table with a tumbler. “Now, please help yourself, Diana,” she said politely.

“I don’t believe I’ll have any just now. I don’t feel as if I wanted any after all those apples.” Diana poured herself out a tumblerful, looked at its bright-red hue admiringly, and then sipped it daintily. “That’s awfully nice raspberry cordial, Anne,” she said.

“I didn’t know raspberry cordial was so nice.” “I’m real glad you like it. Take as much as you want. I’m going to run out and stir the fire up.

There are so many responsibilities on a person’s mind when they’re keeping house, isn’t there?” When Anne came back from the kitchen Diana was drinking her second glassful of cordial; and, being entreated thereto by Anne, she offered no particular objection to the drinking of a third. The tumblerfuls were generous ones and the raspberry cordial was certainly very nice. “The nicest I ever drank,” said Diana.

“It’s ever so much nicer than Mrs. Lynde’s, although she brags of hers so much. It doesn’t taste a bit like hers.” “I should think Marilla’s raspberry cordial would prob’ly be much nicer than Mrs. Lynde’s,” said Anne loyally.

“Marilla is a famous cook. She is trying to teach me to cook but I assure you, Diana, it is uphill work. There’s so little scope for imagination in cookery.

You just have to go by rules. The last time I made a cake I forgot to put the flour in. I was thinking the loveliest story about you and me, Diana. I thought you were desperately ill with smallpox and everybody deserted you, but I went boldly to your bedside and nursed you back to life; and then I took the smallpox and died and I was buried under those poplar trees in the graveyard and you planted a rosebush by my grave and watered it with your tears; and you never, never forgot the friend of your youth who sacrificed her life for you.

Oh, it was such a pathetic tale, Diana. The tears just rained down over my cheeks while I mixed the cake. But I forgot the flour and the cake was a dismal failure.

Flour is so essential to cakes, you know. Marilla was very cross and I don’t wonder. I’m a great trial to her. She was terribly mortified about the pudding sauce last week.

We had a plum pudding for dinner on Tuesday and there was half the pudding and a pitcherful of sauce left over. Marilla said there was enough for another dinner and told me to set it on the pantry shelf and cover it. I meant to cover it just as much as could be, Diana, but when I carried it in I was imagining I was a nun--of course I’m a Protestant but I imagined I was a Catholic--taking the veil to bury a broken heart in cloistered seclusion; and I forgot all about covering the pudding sauce.

I thought of it next morning and ran to the pantry. Diana, fancy if you can my extreme horror at finding a mouse drowned in that pudding sauce! I lifted the mouse out with a spoon and threw it out in the yard and then I washed the spoon in three waters. Marilla was out milking

and I fully intended to ask her when she came in if I’d give the sauce to the pigs; but when she did come in I was imagining that I was a frost fairy going through the woods turning the trees red and yellow, whichever they wanted to be, so I never thought about the pudding sauce again and Marilla sent me out to pick apples. Well, Mr. and Mrs. Chester Ross from Spencervale came here that morning.

You know they are very stylish people, especially Mrs. Chester Ross. When Marilla called me in dinner was all ready and everybody was at the table. I tried to be as polite and dignified as I could be, for I wanted Mrs. Chester Ross to think I was a ladylike little girl even if I wasn’t pretty. Everything went right until I saw Marilla coming with the plum pudding in one hand and the pitcher of pudding sauce _warmed up_, in the other. Diana, that was a terrible moment.

I remembered everything and I just stood up in my place and shrieked out ‘Marilla, you mustn’t use that pudding sauce. There was a mouse drowned in it. I forgot to tell you before.’

Oh, Diana, I shall never forget that awful moment if I live to be a hundred.
Mrs. Chester Ross just _looked_ at me and I thought I would sink through the floor with mortification. She is such a perfect housekeeper and fancy what she must have thought of us. Marilla turned red as fire but she never said a word--then.

She just carried that sauce and pudding out and brought in some strawberry preserves. She even offered me some, but I couldn’t swallow a mouthful. It was like heaping coals of fire on my head. After Mrs. Chester Ross went away, Marilla gave me a dreadful scolding.

Why, Diana, what is the matter?”

Diana had stood up very unsteadily; then she sat down again, putting her hands to her head. “I’m--I’m awful sick,” she said, a little thickly. “I--I--must go right home.” “Oh, you mustn’t dream of going home without your tea,” cried Anne in distress.

“I’ll get it right off--I’ll go and put the tea down

this very minute.”

“I must go home,” repeated Diana, stupidly but determinedly. “Let me get you a lunch anyhow,” implored Anne. “Let me give you a bit of fruit cake and some of the cherry preserves.

Lie down on the sofa for a little while and you’ll be better. Where do you feel bad?” “I must go home,” said Diana, and that was all she would say. In vain Anne pleaded.

“I never heard of company going home without tea,” she mourned. “Oh, Diana, do you suppose that it’s possible you’re really taking the smallpox? If you are I’ll go and nurse you, you can depend on that. I’ll ne

ver forsake you. But I do wish you’d stay till after tea.

Where do you feel bad?” “I’m awful dizzy,” said Diana. And indeed, she walked very dizzily.

Anne, with tears of disappointment in her eyes, got Diana’s hat and went with her as far as the Barry yard fence. Then she wept all the way back to Green Gables, where she sorrowfully put the remainder of the raspberry cordial back into the pantry and got tea ready for Matthew and Jerry, with all the zest gone out of the performance. The next day was Sunday and as the rain poured down in torrents from dawn till dusk Anne did not stir abroad from Green Gables. Monday afternoon Marilla sent her down to Mrs. Lynde’s on an errand. In a very short space of time Anne came flying back up the lane with tears rolling down her cheeks.

Into the kitchen she dashed and flung herself face downward on the sofa in an agony. “Whatever has gone wrong now, Anne?” queried Marilla in doubt and dismay. “I do hope you haven’t gone and been saucy to Mrs. Lynde again.” No answer from Anne save more tears and stormier sobs!
“Anne Shirley, when I ask you a question I want to be answered.

Sit right up this very minute and tell me what you are crying about.” Anne sat up, tragedy personified.

“Mrs. Lynde was up to see Mrs. Barry today and Mrs. Barry was in an awful state,” she wailed. “She says that I set Diana _drunk_ Saturday and sent her home in a disgraceful condition. And she says I must be a thoroughly bad, wicked little girl and she’s never, never going to let Diana play with me again.

Oh, Marilla, I’m just overcome with woe.”

Marilla stared in blank

amazement. “Set Diana drunk!” she said when she found her voice.

“Anne are you or Mrs. Barry crazy?

What on earth did you give her?” “Not a thing but raspberry cordial,” sobbed Anne. “I never thought raspberry cordial would set people drunk, Marilla--not even if they drank three big tumblerfuls as Diana did. Oh, it sounds so--so--like Mrs. Thomas’s husband!

But I didn’t mean to set her drunk.”

“Drunk fiddlesticks!” said Marilla, marching to the sitting-room pantry. There on the shelf was a bottle which she at once recognized as one containing some of her three-year-old homemade currant wine for which she was celebrated in Avonlea, although certain of the stricter sort, Mrs. Barry among them, disapproved strongly of it. And at the same time Marilla recollected that she had put the bottle of raspberry cordial down in the cellar instead of in the pantry as she had told Anne. She went back to the kitchen with the wine bottle in her hand.

Her face was twitching in spite of herself. “Anne, you certainly have a genius for getting into trouble. You went and gave Diana currant wine instead of raspberry cordial. Didn’t you know the difference yourself?”

“I never tasted it,” said Anne. “I thought it was the cordial.

I meant to be so--so--hospitable. Diana got awfully sick and had to go home. Mrs. Barry told Mrs. Lynde she was simply dead drunk. She just laughed silly-like when her mother asked her what was the matter and went to sleep and slept for hours. Her mother smelled her breath and knew she was drunk.

She had a fearful headache all day yesterday. Mrs. Barry is so indignant. She will never believe but what I did it on purpose.” “I should think she would better punish Diana for being so greedy as to drink three glassfuls of anything,” said Marilla shortly.

“Why, three of those big glasses would have made her sick even if it had only been cordial. Well, this story will be a nice handle for those folks who are so down on me for making currant wine, although I haven’t made any for three years ever since I found out that the minister didn’t approve. I just kept that bottle for sickness. There, there, child, don’t cry. I can’t see as you were to blame although I’m sorry it happened so.”

“I must cry,” said Anne. “My heart is broken. The stars in their courses fight against me, Marilla. Diana

and I are parted forever.

Oh, Marilla, I little dreamed of this when first we swore our vows of friendship.” “Don’t be foolish, Anne.

Mrs. Barry will think better of it when she finds you’re not to blame. I suppose she thinks you’ve done it for a silly joke or something of that sort. You’d best go up this evening and tell her how it was.”

“My courage fails me at the thought of facing Diana’s injured mother,”  sighed Anne.

“I wish you’d go, Marilla. You’re so much more dignified than I am. Likely she’d listen to you quicker than to me.”

“Well, I will,” said Marilla, reflecting that it would probably be the wiser course.

“Don’t cry any more, Anne. It will be all right.” Marilla had changed her mind about it being all right by the time she got back from Orchard Slope. Anne was watching for her coming and flew to the porch door to meet her.

“Oh, Marilla, I know by your face that it’s been no use,” she said sorrowfully. “Mrs. Barry won’t forgive me?” “Mrs. Barry indeed!” snapped Marilla. “Of all the unreasonable women I ever saw she’s the worst. I told her it was all a mistake and you weren’t to blame, but she just simply didn’t believe me.

And she rubbed it well in about my currant wine and how I’d always said it couldn’t have the least effect on anybody. I just told her plainly that currant wine wasn’t meant to be drunk three tumblerfuls at a time and that if a child I had to do with was so greedy I’d sober her up with a right good spanking.”

Marilla whisked into the kitchen, grievously disturbed, leaving a very much distracted little soul in the porch behind her. Presently Anne stepped out bareheaded into the chill autumn dusk; very determinedly and steadily she took her way down through the sere clover field over the log bridge and up through the spruce grove, lighted by a pale little moon hanging low over the western woods.

Mrs. Barry, coming to the door in answer to a timid knock, found a white-lipped eager-eyed suppliant on the doorstep. Her face hardened. Mrs. Barry was a woman of strong prejudices and dislikes, and her anger was of the cold, sullen sort which is always hardest to overcome. To do her justice, she really believed Anne had made Diana drunk out of sheer malice prepense, and she was honestly anxious to preserve her little daughter from the contamination of further intimacy with such a child. “What do you want?”

she said stiffly.

Anne clasped her hands. “Oh, Mrs. Barry, please forgive me. I did not mean to--to--intoxicate Diana.

How could I?

Just imagine if you were a poor little orphan girl that kind people had adopted and you had just one bosom friend in all the world. Do you think you would intoxicate her on purpose? I thought it was only raspberry cordial. I was firmly convinced it was raspberry cordial.

Oh, please don’t say that you won’t let Diana play with me any more. If you do you will cover my life with a dark cloud of woe.” This speech which would have softened good Mrs. Lynde’s heart in a twinkling, had no effect on Mrs. Barry except to irritate her still more. She was suspicious of Anne’s big words and dramatic gestures and imagined that the child was making fun of her. So she said, coldly and cruelly: “I don’t think you are a fit little girl for Diana to associate with.

You’d better go home and behave yourself.” Anne’s lips quivered. “Won’t you let me see Diana just once to say farewell?” she implored.

“Diana has gone over to Carmody with her father,” said Mrs. Barry, going in and shutting the door. Anne went back to Green Gables calm with despair. “My last hope is gone,” she told Marilla. “I went up and saw Mrs. Barry myself and she treated me very insultingly.

Marilla, I do _not_ think she is a well-bred woman. There is nothing more to do except to pray and I haven’t much hope that that’ll do much good because, Marilla, I do not believe that God Himself can do very much with such an obstinate person as Mrs. Barry.”

“Anne, you shouldn’t say such things” rebuked Marilla, striving to overcome that unholy tendency to laughter which she was dismayed to find growing upon her. And indeed, when she told the whole story to Matthew that night, she did laugh heartily over Anne’s tribulations. But when she slipped into the east gable before going to bed and found that Anne had cried herself to sleep an unaccustomed softness crept into her face.

“Poor little soul,” she murmured, lifting a loose curl of hair from the child’s tear-stained face. Then she bent down and kissed the flushed cheek on the pillow. CHAPTER XVII.

A New Interest in Life THE next afternoon Anne, bending over her patchwork at the kitchen window, happened to glance out and beheld Diana down by the Dryad’s Bubble beckoning mysteriously. In a trice Anne was out of the house and flying down to the hollow, astonishment and hope struggling in her expressive eyes. But the hope faded when she saw Diana’s dejected countenance.

“Your mother hasn’t relented?” she gasped. Diana shook her head mournfully. “No; and oh, Anne, she says I’m never to play with you again.

I’ve cried and cried and I told her it wasn’t your fault, but it wasn’t any use. I had ever such a time coaxing her to let me come down and say good-bye to you. She said I was only to stay ten minutes and she’s timing me by the clock.” “Ten minutes isn’t very long to say an eternal farewell in,” said Anne tearfully.

“Oh, Diana, will you promise faithfully never to forget me, the friend of your youth, no matter what dearer friends may caress thee?” “Indeed I will,” sobbed Diana, “and I’ll never have another bosom friend--I don’t want to have. I couldn’t love anybody as I love you.” “Oh, Diana,” cried Anne, clasping her hands, “do you _love_ me?” “Why, of course I do.

Didn’t you know that?” “No.”

Anne drew a long breath. “I thought you _liked_ me of course but I never hoped you _loved_ me. Why, Diana, I didn’t think anybody could love me.

Nobody ever has loved me since I can remember. Oh, this is wonderful! It’s a ray of light which will forever shine on the darkness of a path severed from thee, Diana.

Oh, just say it once again.” “I love you devotedly, Anne,” said Diana stanchly, “and I always will, you may be sure of that.” “And I will always love thee, Diana,” said Anne, solemnly extending her hand. “In the years to come thy memory will shine like a star over my lonely life, as that last story we read together says.

Diana, wilt thou give me a lock of thy jet-black tresses in parting to treasure forevermore?”

“Have you got anything to cut it with?” queried Diana, wiping away the tears which Anne’s affecting accents had caused to flow afresh, and returning to practicalities.

“Yes.

I’ve got my patchwork scissors in my apron pocket fortunately,”  said Anne. She solemnly clipped one of Diana’s curls. “Fare thee well, my beloved friend. Henceforth we must be as strangers though living side by side.

But my heart will ever be faithful to thee.”

Anne stood and watched Diana out of sight, mournfully waving her hand to the latter whenever she turned to look back.

Then she returned to the house, not a little consoled for the time being by this romantic parting. “It is all over,” she informed Marilla. “I shall never have another friend. I’m really worse off than ever before, for I haven’t Katie Maurice and Violetta now.

And even if I had it wouldn’t be the same. Somehow, little dream girls are not satisfying after a real friend. Diana and I had such an affecting farewell down by the spring. It will be sacred in my memory forever. I used the most pathetic language I could think of and said ‘thou’ and ‘thee.’

‘Thou’ and ‘thee’ seem so much more romantic than ‘you.’

Diana gave me a lock of her hair and I’m going to sew it up in a little bag and wear it around my neck all my life. Please see that it is buried with me, for I don’t believe I’ll live very long. Perhaps when she sees me lying cold and dead before her Mrs. Barry may feel remorse for what she has done and will let Diana come to my funeral.”

“I don’t think there is much fear of your dying of grief as long as you can talk, Anne,” said Marilla unsympathetically. The following Monday Anne surprised Marilla by coming down from her room with her basket of books on her arm and hip and her lips primmed up into a line of determination. “I’m going back to school,” she announced.

“That is all there is left in life for me, now that my friend has been ruthlessly torn from me. In school I can look at her and muse over days departed.” “You’d better muse over your lessons and sums,” said Marilla, concealing her delight at this development of the situation.

“If you’re going back to school I hope we’ll hear no more of breaking slates over people’s heads and such carryings on.

Behave yourself and do just what your teacher tells you.” “I’ll try to be a model pupil,” agreed Anne dolefully. “There won’t be much fun in it, I expect. Mr. Phillips said Minnie Andrews was a model pupil and there isn’t a spark of imagination or life in her.

She is just dull and poky and never seems to have a good time. But I feel so depressed that perhaps it will come easy to me now.

I’m going round by the road. I couldn’t bear to go by the Birch Path all alone. I should weep bitter tears if I did.” Anne was welcomed back to school with open arms.

Her imagination had been sorely missed in games, her voice in the singing and her dramatic ability in the perusal aloud of books at dinner hour. Ruby Gillis smuggled three blue plums over to her during testament reading; Ella May MacPherson gave her an enormous yellow pansy cut from the covers of a floral catalogue--a species of desk decoration much prized in Avonlea school. Sophia Sloane offered to teach her a perfectly elegant new pattern of knit lace, so nice for trimming aprons.

Katie Boulter gave her a perfume bottle to keep slate water in, and Julia Bell copied carefully on a piece of pale pink paper scalloped on the edges the following effusion:                 “TO ANNE

“When twilight drops her curtain down   And pins it with a star   Remember that you have a friend Though she may wander far.” “It’s so nice to be appreciated,” sighed Anne rapturously to Marilla that night. The girls were not the only scholars who “appreciated” her. When Anne went to her seat after dinner hour--she had been told by Mr. Phillips to sit with the model Minnie Andrews--she found on her desk a big luscious “strawberry apple.”

Anne caught it up all ready to take a bite when she remembered that the only place in Avonlea where strawberry apples grew was in the old Blythe orchard on the other side of the Lake of Shining Waters. Anne dropped the apple as if it were a red-hot coal and ostentatiously wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. The apple lay untouched on her desk until the next morning, when little Timothy Andrews, who swept the school and kindled the fire, annexed it as one of his perquisites. Charlie Sloane’s slate pencil, gorgeously bedizened with striped red and yellow paper, costing two cents where ordinary pencils cost only one, which he sent up to her after dinner hour, met with a more favorable reception.

Anne was graciously pleased to accept it and rewarded the donor with a smile which exalted that infatuated youth straightway into the seventh heaven of delight and caused him to make such fearful errors in his dictation that Mr. Phillips kept him in after school to rewrite it. But as,   The Cæsar’s pageant shorn of Brutus’ bust   Did but of Rome’s best son remind her more, so the marked absence of any tribute or recognition from Diana Barry who was sitting with Gertie Pye embittered Anne’s little triumph.

“Diana might just have smiled at me once, I think,” she mourned to Marilla that night. But the next morning a note most fearfully and wonderfully twisted and folded, and a small parcel were passed across to Anne.

“Dear Anne, ran the former, “Mother says I’m not to play with you or    talk to you even in school. It isn’t my fault and don’t be cross at    me, because I love you as much as ever. I miss you awfully to tell    all my secrets to and I don’t like Gertie Pye one bit. I made you    one of the new bookmarkers out of red tissue paper.

They are awfully    fashionable now and only three girls in school know how to make    them. When you look at it remember                                                       Your true friend,                                                            Diana Barry. Anne read the note, kissed the bookmark, and dispatched a prompt reply back to the other side of the school. My own darling Diana:--

Of course I am not cross at you because you have to obey your   mother. Our spirits can commune.

I shall keep your lovely present   forever. Minnie Andrews is a very nice little girl--although she   has no imagination--but after having been Diana’s busum friend I   cannot be Minnie’s. Please excuse mistakes because my spelling   isn’t very good yet, although much improoved. Yours until death us do part                                               Anne or Cordelia Shirley. P.S. I shall sleep with your letter under my pillow tonight.

A. _or_ C.S.
Marilla pessimistically expected more trouble since Anne had again begun to go to school. But none developed.

Perhaps Anne caught something of the “model” spirit from Minnie Andrews; at least she got on very well with Mr. Phillips thenceforth. She flung herself into her studies heart and soul, determined not to be outdone in any class by Gilbert Blythe. The rivalry between them was soon apparent; it was entirely good natured on Gilbert’s side; but it is much to be feared that the same thing cannot be said of Anne, who had certainly an unpraiseworthy tenacity for holding grudges. She was as intense in her hatreds as in her loves.

She would not stoop to admit that she meant to rival Gilbert in schoolwork, because that would have been to acknowledge his existence which Anne persistently ignored; but the rivalry was there and honors fluctuated between them. Now Gilbert was head of the spelling class; now Anne, with a toss of her long red braids, spelled him down. One morning Gilbert had all his sums done correctly and had his name written on the blackboard on the roll of honor; the next morning Anne, having wrestled wildly with decimals the entire evening before, would be first.

One awful day they were ties and their names were written up together. It was almost as bad as a take-notice and Anne’s mortification was as evident as Gilbert’s satisfaction. When the written examinations at the end of each month were held the suspense was terrible. The first month Gilbert came out three marks ahead.

The second Anne beat him by five. But her triumph was marred by the fact that Gilbert congratulated her heartily before the whole school.

It would have been ever so much sweeter to her if he had felt the sting of his defeat. Mr. Phillips might not be a very good teacher; but a pupil so inflexibly determined on learning as Anne was could hardly escape making progress under any kind of teacher. By the end of the term Anne and Gilbert were both promoted into the fifth class and allowed to begin studying the elements of “the branches”--by which Latin, geometry, French, and algebra were meant. In geometry Anne met her Waterloo.

“It’s perfectly awful stuff, Marilla,” she groaned. “I’m sure I’ll never be able to make head or tail of it. There is no scope for imagination in it at all.

Mr. Phillips says I’m the worst dunce he ever saw at it. And Gil--I mean some of the others are so smart at it. It is extremely mortifying, Marilla. “Even Diana gets along better than I do.

But I don’t mind being beaten by Diana.

Even although we meet as strangers now I still love her with an _inextinguishable_ love. It makes me very sad at times to think about her. But really, Marilla, one can’t stay sad very long in such an interesting world, can one?”

CHAPTER XVIII.

Anne to the Rescue ALL things great are wound up with all things little. At first glance it might not seem that the decision of a certain Canadian Premier to include Prince Edward Island in a political tour could have much or anything to do with the fortunes of little Anne Shirley at Green Gables. But it had.

It was a January the Premier came, to address his loyal supporters and such of his nonsupporters as chose to be present at the monster mass meeting held in Charlottetown. Most of the Avonlea people were on Premier’s side of politics; hence on the night of the meeting nearly all the men and a goodly proportion of the women had gone to town thirty miles away. Mrs. Rachel Lynde had gone too. Mrs. Rachel Lynde was a red-hot politician and couldn’t have believed that the political rally could be carried through without her, although she was on the opposite side of politics.

So she went to town and took her husband--Thomas would be useful in looking after the horse--and Marilla Cuthbert with her. Marilla had a sneaking interest in politics herself, and as she thought it might be her only chance to see a real live Premier, she promptly took it, leaving Anne and Matthew to keep house until her return the following day. Hence, while Marilla and Mrs. Rachel were enjoying themselves hugely at the mass meeting, Anne and Matthew had the cheerful kitchen at Green Gables all to themselves. A bright fire was glowing in the old-fashioned Waterloo stove and blue-white frost crystals were shining on the windowpanes. Matthew nodded over a _Farmers’ Advocate_ on the sofa and Anne at the table studied her lessons with grim determination, despite sundry wistful glances at the clock shelf, where lay a new book that Jane Andrews had lent her that day.

Jane had assured her that it was warranted to produce any number of thrills, or words to that effect, and Anne’s fingers tingled to reach out for it. But that would mean Gilbert Blythe’s triumph on the morrow.

Anne turned her back on the clock shelf and tried to imagine it wasn’t there. “Matthew, did you ever study geometry when you went to school?” “Well now, no, I didn’t,” said Matthew, coming out of his doze with a start. “I wish you had,” sighed Anne, “because then you’d be able to sympathize with me.

You can’t sympathize properly if you’ve never studied it. It is casting a cloud over my whole life. I’m such a dunce at it, Matthew.” “Well now, I dunno,” said Matthew soothingly. “I guess you’re all right at anything.

Mr. Phillips told me last week in Blair’s store at Carmody that you was the smartest scholar in school and was making rapid progress. ‘Rapid progress’ was his very words. There’s them as runs down Teddy Phillips and says he ain’t much of a teacher, but I guess he’s all right.” Matthew would have thought anyone who praised Anne was “all right.”

“I’m sure I’d get on better with geometry if only he wouldn’t change the letters,” complained Anne. “I learn the proposition off by heart and then he draws it on the blackboard and puts different letters from what are in the book and I get all mixed up. I don’t think a teacher should take such a mean advantage, do you?

We’re studying agriculture now and I’ve found out at last what makes the roads red. It’s a great comfort. I wonder how Marilla and Mrs. Lynde are enjoying themselves.

Mrs. Lynde says Canada is going to the dogs the way things are being run at Ottawa and that it’s an awful warning to the electors. She says if women were allowed to vote we would soon see a blessed change. What way do you vote, Matthew?” “Conservative,” said Matthew promptly.

To vote Conservative was part of Matthew’s religion.

“Then I’m Conservative too,” said Anne decidedly. “I’m glad because Gil--because some of the boys in school are Grits. I guess Mr. Phillips is a Grit too because Prissy Andrews’s father is one, and Ruby Gillis says that when a man is courting he always has to agree with the girl’s mother in religion and her father in politics.

Is that true, Matthew?”

“Well now, I dunno,” said Matthew. “Did you ever go courting, Matthew?” “Well now, no, I dunno’s I ever did,” said Matthew, who had certainly never thought of such a thing in his whole existence.

Anne reflected with her chin in her hands. “It must be rather interesting, don’t you think, Matthew? Ruby Gillis says when she grows up she’s going to have ever so many beaus on the string and have them all crazy about her; but I think that would be too exciting. I’d rather have just one in his right mind.

But Ruby Gillis knows a great deal about such matters because she has so many big sisters, and Mrs. Lynde says the Gillis girls have gone off like hot cakes.

Mr. Phillips goes up to see Prissy Andrews nearly every evening. He says it is to help her with her lessons but Miranda Sloane is studying for Queen’s too, and I should think she needed help a lot more than Prissy because she’s ever so much stupider, but he never goes to help her in the evenings at all. There are a great many things in this world that I can’t understand very well, Matthew.”

“Well now, I dunno as I comprehend them all myself,” acknowledged Matthew. “Well, I suppose I must finish up my lessons. I won’t allow myself to open that new book Jane lent me until I’m through. But it’s a terrible temptation, Matthew.

Even when I turn my back on it I can see it there just as plain. Jane said she cried herself sick over it. I love a book that makes me cry.

But I think I’ll carry that book into the sitting room and lock it in the jam closet and give you the key.

And you must _not_ give it to me, Matthew, until my lessons are done, not even if I implore you on my bended knees. It’s all very well to say resist temptation, but it’s ever so much easier to resist it if you can’t get the key. And then shall I run down the cellar and get some russets, Matthew? Wouldn’t you like some russets?”

“Well now, I dunno but what I would,” said Matthew, who never ate russets but knew Anne’s weakness for them.

Just as Anne emerged triumphantly from the cellar with her plateful of russets came the sound of flying footsteps on the icy board walk outside and the next moment the kitchen door was flung open and in rushed Diana Barry, white faced and breathless, with a shawl wrapped hastily around her head. Anne promptly let go of her candle and plate in her surprise, and plate, candle, and apples crashed together down the cellar ladder and were found at the bottom embedded in melted grease, the next day, by Marilla, who gathered them up and thanked mercy the house hadn’t been set on fire. “Whatever is the matter, Diana?” cried Anne. “Has your mother relented at last?” “Oh, Anne, do come quick,” implored Diana nervously.

“Minnie May is awful sick--she’s got croup. Young Mary Joe says--and Father and Mother are away to town and there’s nobody to go for the doctor. Minnie May is awful bad and Young Mary Joe doesn’t know what to do--and oh, Anne, I’m so scared!”

Matthew, without a word, reached out for cap and coat, slipped past Diana and away into the darkness of the yard. “He’s gone to harness the sorrel mare to go to Carmody for the doctor,”  said Anne, who was hurrying on hood and jacket. “I know it as well as if he’d said so. Matthew and I are such kindred spirits I can read his thoughts without words at all.”

“I don’t believe he’ll find the doctor at Carmody,” sobbed Diana. “I know that Dr. Blair went to town and I guess Dr. Spencer would go too. Young Mary Joe never saw anybody with croup and Mrs. Lynde is away.

Oh, Anne!”

“Don’t cry, Di,” said Anne cheerily. “I know exactly what to do for croup. You forget that Mrs. Hammond had twins three times. When you look after three pairs of twins you naturally get a lot of experience.

They all had croup regularly. Just wait till I get the ipecac bottle--you mayn’t have any at your house. Come on now.” The two little girls hastened out hand in hand and hurried through Lover’s Lane and across the crusted field beyond, for the snow was too deep to go by the shorter wood way.

Anne, although sincerely sorry for Minnie May, was far from being insensible to the romance of the situation and to the sweetness of once more sharing that romance with a kindred spirit. The night was clear and frosty, all ebony of shadow and silver of snowy slope; big stars were shining over the silent fields; here and there the dark pointed firs stood up with snow powdering their branches and the wind whistling through them. Anne thought it was truly delightful to go skimming through all this mystery and loveliness with your bosom friend who had been so long estranged. Minnie May, aged three, was really very sick.

She lay on the kitchen sofa feverish and restless, while her hoarse breathing could be heard all over the house. Young Mary Joe, a buxom, broad-faced French girl from the creek, whom Mrs. Barry had engaged to stay with the children during her absence, was helpless and bewildered, quite incapable of thinking what to do, or doing it if she thought of it. Anne went to work with skill and promptness.

“Minnie May has croup all right; she’s pretty bad, but I’ve seen them worse. First we must have lots of hot water. I declare, Diana, there isn’t more than a cupful in the kettle!

There, I’ve filled it up, and, Mary Joe, you may put some wood in the stove. I don’t want to hurt your feelings but it seems to me you might have thought of this before if you’d any imagination. Now, I’ll undress Minnie May and put her to bed and you try to find some soft flannel cloths, Diana. I’m going to give her a dose of ipecac first of all.”

Minnie May did not take kindly to the ipecac but Anne had not brought up three pairs of twins for nothing. Down that ipecac went, not only once, but many times during the long, anxious night when the two little girls worked patiently over the suffering Minnie May, and Young Mary Joe, honestly anxious to do all she could, kept up a roaring fire and heated more water than would have been needed for a hospital of croupy babies. It was three o’clock when Matthew came with a doctor, for he had been obliged to go all the way to Spencervale for one. But the pressing need for assistance was past.

Minnie May was much better and was sleeping soundly. “I was awfully near giving up in despair,” explained Anne. “She got worse and worse until she was sicker than ever the Hammond twins were, even the last pair. I actually thought she was going to choke to death.

I gave her every drop of ipecac in that bottle and when the last dose went down I said to myself--not to Diana or Young Mary Joe, because I didn’t want to worry them any more than they were worried, but I had to say it to myself just to relieve my feelings--‘This is the last lingering hope and I fear, tis a vain one.’ But in about three minutes she coughed up the phlegm and began to get better right away.

You must just imagine my relief, doctor, because I can’t express it in words. You know there are some things that cannot be expressed in words.” “Yes, I know,” nodded the doctor.

He looked at Anne as if he were thinking some things about her that couldn’t be expressed in words. Later on, however, he expressed them to Mr. and Mrs. Barry. “That little redheaded girl they have over at Cuthbert’s is as smart as they make ‘em. I tell you she saved that baby’s life, for it would have been too late by the time I got there.

She seems to have a skill and presence of mind perfectly wonderful in a child of her age. I never saw anything like the eyes of her when she was explaining the case to me.” Anne had gone home in the wonderful, white-frosted winter morning, heavy eyed from loss of sleep, but still talking unweariedly to Matthew as they crossed the long white field and walked under the glittering fairy arch of the Lover’s Lane maples.

“Oh, Matthew, isn’t it a wonderful morning? The world looks like something God had just imagined for His own pleasure, doesn’t it?

Those trees look as if I could blow them away with a breath--pouf! I’m so glad I live in a world where there are white frosts, aren’t you?

And I’m so glad Mrs. Hammond had three pairs of twins after all. If she hadn’t I mightn’t have known what to do for Minnie May. I’m real sorry I was ever cross with Mrs. Hammond for having twins. But, oh, Matthew, I’m so sleepy.

I can’t go to school. I just know I couldn’t keep my eyes open and I’d be so stupid. But I hate to stay home, for Gil--some of the others will get head of the class, and it’s so hard to get up again--although of course the harder it is the more satisfaction you have when you do get up, haven’t you?”

“Well now, I guess you’ll manage all right,” said Matthew, looking at Anne’s white little face and the dark shadows under her eyes.

“You just go right to bed and have a good sleep. I’ll do all the chores.”

Anne accordingly went to bed and slept so long and soundly that it was well on in the white and rosy winter afternoon when she awoke and descended to the kitchen where Marilla, who had arrived home in the meantime, was sitting knitting. “Oh, did you see the Premier?” exclaimed Anne at once. “What did he look like Marilla?” “Well, he never got to be Premier on account of his looks,” said Marilla.

“Such a nose as that man had! But he can speak.

I was proud of being a Conservative. Rachel Lynde, of course, being a Liberal, had no use for him. Your dinner is in the oven, Anne, and you can get yourself some blue plum preserve out of the pantry. I guess you’re hungry.

Matthew has been telling me about last night. I must say it was fortunate you knew what to do. I wouldn’t have had any idea myself, for I never saw a case of croup.

There now, never mind talking till you’ve had your dinner. I can tell by the look of you that you’re just full up with speeches, but they’ll keep.” Marilla had something to tell Anne, but she did not tell it just then for she knew if she did Anne’s consequent excitement would lift her clear out of the region of such material matters as appetite or dinner. Not until Anne had finished her saucer of blue plums did Marilla say: “Mrs. Barry was here this afternoon, Anne. She wanted to see you, but I wouldn’t wake you up.

She says you saved Minnie May’s life, and she is very sorry she acted as she did in that affair of the currant wine. She says she knows now you didn’t mean to set Diana drunk, and she hopes you’ll forgive her and be good friends with Diana again. You’re to go over this evening if you like for Diana can’t stir outside the door on account of a bad cold she caught last night. Now, Anne Shirley, for pity’s sake don’t fly up into the air.”

The warning seemed not unnecessary, so uplifted and aerial was Anne’s expression and attitude as she sprang to her feet, her face irradiated with the flame of her spirit. “Oh, Marilla, can I go right now--without washing my dishes? I’ll wash them when I come back, but I cannot tie myself down to anything so unromantic as dishwashing at this thrilling moment.”

“Yes, yes, run along,” said Marilla indulgently. “Anne Shirley--are you crazy?

Come back this instant and put something on you.

I might as well call to the wind. She’s gone without a cap or wrap. Look at her tearing through the orchard with her hair streaming.

It’ll be a mercy if she doesn’t catch her death of cold.” Anne came dancing home in the purple winter twilight across the snowy places. Afar in the southwest was the great shimmering, pearl-like sparkle of an evening star in a sky that was pale golden and ethereal rose over gleaming white spaces and dark glens of spruce. The tinkles of sleigh bells among the snowy hills came like elfin chimes through the frosty air, but their music was not sweeter than the song in Anne’s heart and on her lips.

“You see before you a perfectly happy person, Marilla,” she announced. “I’m perfectly happy--yes, in spite of my red hair. Just at present I have a soul above red hair. Mrs. Barry kissed me and cried and said she was so sorry and she could never repay me.

I felt fearfully embarrassed, Marilla, but I just said as politely as I could, ‘I have no hard feelings for you, Mrs. Barry. I assure you once for all that I did not mean to intoxicate Diana and henceforth I shall cover the past with the mantle of oblivion.’ That was a pretty dignified way of speaking wasn’t it, Marilla?”

“I felt that I was heaping coals of fire on Mrs. Barry’s head.

And Diana and I had a lovely afternoon. Diana showed me a new fancy crochet stitch her aunt over at Carmody taught her. Not a soul in Avonlea knows it but us, and we pledged a solemn vow never to reveal it to anyone else. Diana gave me a beautiful card with a wreath of roses on it and a verse of poetry:”       “If you love me as I love you       Nothing but death can part us two.” “And that is true, Marilla.

We’re going to ask Mr. Phillips to let us sit together in school again, and Gertie Pye can go with Minnie Andrews. We had an elegant tea. Mrs. Barry had the very best china set out, Marilla, just as if I was real company.

I can’t tell you what a thrill it gave me. Nobody ever used their very best china on my account before. And we had fruit cake and pound cake and doughnuts and two kinds of preserves, Marilla.

And Mrs. Barry asked me if I took tea and said ‘Pa, why don’t you pass the biscuits to Anne?’

It must be lovely to be grown up, Marilla, when just being treated as if you were is so nice.” “I don’t know about that,” said Marilla, with a brief sigh. “Well, anyway, when I am grown up,” said Anne decidedly, “I’m always going to talk to little girls as if they were too, and I’ll never laugh when they use big words. I know from sorrowful experience how that hurts one’s feelings. After tea Diana and I made taffy.

The taffy wasn’t very good, I suppose because neither Diana nor I had ever made any before. Diana left me to stir it while she buttered the plates and I forgot and let it burn; and then when we set it out on the platform to cool the cat walked over one plate and that had to be thrown away. But the making of it was splendid fun.

Then when I came home Mrs. Barry asked me to come over as often as I could and Diana stood at the window and threw kisses to me all the way down to Lover’s Lane. I assure you, Marilla, that I feel like praying tonight and I’m going to think out a special brand-new prayer in honor of the occasion.” CHAPTER XIX.

A Concert, a Catastrophe, and a Confession MARILLA, can I go over to see Diana just for a minute?” asked Anne, running breathlessly down from the east gable one February evening. “I don’t see what you want to be traipsing about after dark for,” said Marilla shortly. “You and Diana walked home from school together and then stood down there in the snow for half an hour more, your tongues going the whole blessed time, clickety-clack. So I don’t think you’re very badly off to see her again.”

“But she wants to see me,” pleaded Anne. “She has something very important to tell me.” “How do you know she has?” “Because she just signaled to me from her window.

We have arranged a way to signal with our candles and cardboard. We set the candle on the window sill and make flashes by passing the cardboard back and forth. So many flashes mean a certain thing. It was my idea, Marilla.”

“I’ll warrant you it was,” said Marilla emphatically. “And the next thing you’ll be setting fire to the curtains with your signaling nonsense.”

“Oh, we’re very careful, Marilla. And it’s so interesting.

Two flashes mean, ‘Are you there?’

Three mean ‘yes’ and four ‘no.’ Five mean, ‘Come over as soon as possible, because I have something important to reveal.’
Diana has just signaled five flashes, and I’m really suffering to know what it is.” “Well, you needn’t suffer any longer,” said Marilla sarcastically. “You can go, but you’re to be back here in just ten minutes, remember that.”

Anne did remember it and was back in the stipulated time, although probably no mortal will ever know just what it cost her to confine the discussion of Diana’s important communication within the limits of ten minutes. But at least she had made good use of them.

“Oh, Marilla, what do you think? You know tomorrow is Diana’s birthday. Well, her mother told her she could ask me to go home with her from school and stay all night with her. And her cousins are coming over from Newbridge in a big pung sleigh to go to the Debating Club concert at the hall tomorrow night. And they are going to take Diana and me to the concert--if you’ll let me go, that is.

You will, won’t you, Marilla? Oh, I feel so excited.” “You can calm down then, because you’re not going. You’re better at home in your own bed, and as for that club concert, it’s all nonsense, and little girls should not be allowed to go out to such places at all.”

“I’m sure the Debating Club is a most respectable affair,” pleaded Anne.

“I’m not saying it isn’t. But you’re not going to begin gadding about to concerts and staying out all hours of the night.

Pretty doings for children.

I’m surprised at Mrs. Barry’s letting Diana go.” “But it’s such a very special occasion,” mourned Anne, on the verge of tears. “Diana has only one birthday in a year. It isn’t as if birthdays were common things, Marilla.

Prissy Andrews is going to recite ‘Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight.’ That is such a good moral piece, Marilla, I’m sure it would do me lots of good to hear it. And the choir are going to sing four lovely pathetic songs that are pretty near as good as hymns.

And oh, Marilla, the minister is going to take part; yes, indeed, he is; he’s going to give an address. That will be just about the same thing as a sermon. Please, mayn’t I go, Marilla?”

“You heard what I said, Anne, didn’t you?

Take off your boots now and go to bed. It’s past eight.”

“There’s just one more thing, Marilla,” said Anne, with the air of producing the last shot in her locker. “Mrs. Barry told Diana that we might sleep in the spare-room bed. Think of the honor of your little Anne being put in the spare-room bed.”

“It’s an honor you’ll have to get along without. Go to bed, Anne, and don’t let me hear another word out of you.” When Anne, with tears rolling over her cheeks, had gone sorrowfully upstairs, Matthew, who had been apparently sound asleep on the lounge during the whole dialogue, opened his eyes and said decidedly: “Well now, Marilla, I think you ought to let Anne go.” “I don’t then,” retorted Marilla.

“Who’s bringing this child up, Matthew, you or me?” “Well now, you,” admitted Matthew. “Don’t interfere then.” “Well now, I ain’t interfering. It ain’t interfering to have your own opinion.

And my opinion is that you ought to let Anne go.” “You’d think I ought to let Anne go to the moon if she took the notion, I’ve no doubt,” was Marilla’s amiable rejoinder. “I might have let her spend the night with Diana, if that was all. But I don’t approve of this concert plan.

She’d go there and catch cold like as not, and have her head filled up with nonsense and excitement. It would unsettle her for a week. I understand that child’s disposition and what’s good for it better than you, Matthew.” “I think you ought to let Anne go,” repeated Matthew firmly. Argument was not his strong point, but holding fast to his opinion certainly was.

Marilla gave a gasp of helplessness and took refuge in silence. The next morning, when Anne was washing the breakfast dishes in the pantry, Matthew paused on his way out to the barn to say to Marilla again: “I think you ought to let Anne go, Marilla.” For a moment Marilla looked things not lawful to be uttered.

Then she yielded to the inevitable and said tartly: “Very well, she can go, since nothing else ‘ll please you.” Anne flew out of the pantry, dripping dishcloth in hand. “Oh, Marilla, Marilla, say those blessed words again.”

“I guess once is enough to say them. This is Matthew’s doings and I wash my hands of it. If you catch pneumonia sleeping in a strange bed or coming out of that hot hall in the middle of the night, don’t blame me, blame Matthew. Anne Shirley, you’re dripping greasy water all over the floor.

I never saw such a careless child.” “Oh, I know I’m a great trial to you, Marilla,” said Anne repentantly. “I make so many mistakes. But then just think of all the mistakes I don’t make, although I might.

I’ll get some sand and scrub up the spots before I go to school. Oh, Marilla, my heart was just set on going to that concert. I never was to a concert in my life, and when the other girls talk about them in school I feel so out of it. You didn’t know just how I felt about it, but you see Matthew did.

Matthew understands me, and it’s so nice to be understood, Marilla.” Anne was too excited to do herself justice as to lessons that morning in school. Gilbert Blythe spelled her down in class and left her clear out of sight in mental arithmetic. Anne’s consequent humiliation was less than it might have been, however, in view of the concert and the spare-room bed. She and Diana talked so constantly about it all day that with a stricter teacher than Mr. Phillips dire disgrace must inevitably have been their portion.

Anne felt that she could not have borne it if she had not been going to the concert, for nothing else was discussed that day in school. The Avonlea Debating Club, which met fortnightly all winter, had had several smaller free entertainments; but this was to be a big affair, admission ten cents, in aid of the library. The Avonlea young people had been practicing for weeks, and all the scholars were especially interested in it by reason of older brothers and sisters who were going to take part.

Everybody in school over nine years of age expected to go, except Carrie Sloane, whose father shared Marilla’s opinions about small girls going out to night concerts. Carrie Sloane cried into her grammar all the afternoon and felt that life was not worth living. For Anne the real excitement began with the dismissal of school and increased therefrom in crescendo until it reached to a crash of positive ecstasy in the concert itself. They had a “perfectly elegant tea;” and then came the delicious occupation of dressing in Diana’s little room upstairs.

Diana did Anne’s front hair in the new pompadour style and Anne tied Diana’s bows with the especial knack she possessed; and they experimented with at least half a dozen different ways of arranging their back hair. At last they were ready, cheeks scarlet and eyes glowing with excitement. True, Anne could not help a little pang when she contrasted her plain black tam and shapeless, tight-sleeved, homemade gray-cloth coat with Diana’s jaunty fur cap and smart little jacket. But she remembered in time that she had an imagination and could use it.

Then Diana’s cousins, the Murrays from Newbridge, came; they all crowded into the big pung sleigh, among straw and furry robes. Anne reveled in the drive to the hall, slipping along over the satin-smooth roads with the snow crisping under the runners. There was a magnificent sunset, and the snowy hills and deep-blue water of the St. Lawrence Gulf seemed to rim in the splendor like a huge bowl of pearl and sapphire brimmed with wine and fire.

Tinkles of sleigh bells and distant laughter, that seemed like the mirth of wood elves, came from every quarter. “Oh, Diana,” breathed Anne, squeezing Diana’s mittened hand under the fur robe, “isn’t it all like a beautiful dream? Do I really look the same as usual? I feel so different that it seems to me it must show in my looks.” “You look awfully nice,” said Diana, who having just received a compliment from one of her cousins, felt that she ought to pass it on.

“You’ve got the loveliest color.” The program that night was a series of “thrills” for at least one listener in the audience, and, as Anne assured Diana, every succeeding thrill was thrillier than the last. When Prissy Andrews, attired in a new pink-silk waist with a string of pearls about her smooth white throat and real carnations in her hair--rumor whispered that the master had sent all the way to town for them for her--“climbed the slimy ladder, dark without one ray of light,” Anne shivered in luxurious sympathy; when the choir sang “Far Above the Gentle Daisies” Anne gazed at the ceiling as if it were frescoed with angels; when Sam Sloane proceeded to explain and illustrate “How Sockery Set a Hen” Anne laughed until people sitting near her laughed too, more out of sympathy with her than with amusement at a selection that was rather threadbare even in Avonlea; and when Mr. Phillips gave Mark Antony’s oration over the dead body of Cæsar in the most heart-stirring tones--looking at Prissy Andrews at the end of every sentence--Anne felt that she could rise and mutiny on the spot if but one Roman citizen led the way.

Only one number on the program failed to interest her. When Gilbert Blythe recited “Bingen on the Rhine” Anne picked up Rhoda Murray’s library book and read it until he had finished, when she sat rigidly stiff and motionless while Diana clapped her hands until they tingled. It was eleven when they got home, sated with dissipation, but with the exceeding sweet pleasure of talking it all over still to come. Everybody seemed asleep and the house was dark and silent. Anne and Diana tiptoed into the parlor, a long narrow room out of which the spare room opened.

It was pleasantly warm and dimly lighted by the embers of a fire in the grate. “Let’s undress here,” said Diana. “It’s so nice and warm.”

“Hasn’t it been a delightful time?” sighed Anne rapturously. “It must be splendid to get up and recite there. Do you suppose we will ever be asked to do it, Diana?”

“Yes, of course, someday.

They’re always wanting the big scholars to recite. Gilbert Blythe does often and he’s only two years older than us. Oh, Anne, how could you pretend not to listen to him? When he came to the line,            ‘There’s Another, _not_ a sister,’ he looked right down at you.”

“Diana,” said Anne with dignity, “you are my bosom friend, but I cannot allow even you to speak to me of that person. Are you ready for bed?
Let’s run a race and see who’ll get to the bed first.” The suggestion appealed to Diana. The two little white-clad figures flew down the long room, through the spare-room door, and bounded on the bed at the same moment.

And then--something--moved beneath them, there was a gasp and a cry--and somebody said in muffled accents: “Merciful goodness!”

Anne and Diana were never able to tell just how they got off that bed and out of the room. They only knew that after one frantic rush they found themselves tiptoeing shiveringly upstairs. “Oh, who was it--_what_ was it?” whispered Anne, her teeth chattering with cold and fright. “It was Aunt Josephine,” said Diana, gasping with laughter.

“Oh, Anne, it was Aunt Josephine, however she came to be there. Oh, and I know she will be furious. It’s dreadful--it’s really dreadful--but did you ever know anything so funny, Anne?”

“Who is your Aunt Josephine?” “She’s father’s aunt and she lives in Charlottetown.

She’s awfully old--seventy anyhow--and I don’t believe she was _ever_ a little girl. We were expecting her out for a visit, but not so soon. She’s awfully prim and proper and she’ll scold dreadfully about this, I know. Well, we’ll have to sleep with Minnie May--and you can’t think how she kicks.”

Miss Josephine Barry did not appear at the early breakfast the next morning.

Mrs. Barry smiled kindly at the two little girls. “Did you have a good time last night? I tried to stay awake until you came home, for I wanted to tell you Aunt Josephine had come and that you would have to go upstairs after all, but I was so tired I fell asleep. I hope you didn’t disturb your aunt, Diana.”

Diana preserved a discreet silence, but she and Anne exchanged furtive smiles of guilty amusement across the table. Anne hurried home after breakfast and so remained in blissful ignorance of the disturbance which presently resulted in the Barry household until the late afternoon, when she went down to Mrs. Lynde’s on an errand for Marilla. “So you and Diana nearly frightened poor old Miss Barry to death last night?” said Mrs. Lynde severely, but with a twinkle in her eye. “Mrs.
Barry was here a few minutes ago on her way to Carmody.

She’s feeling real worried over it. Old Miss Barry was in a terrible temper when she got up this morning--and Josephine Barry’s temper is no joke, I can tell you that. She wouldn’t speak to Diana at all.” “It wasn’t Diana’s fault,” said Anne contritely.

“It was mine. I suggested racing to see who would get into bed first.” “I knew it!” said Mrs. Lynde, with the exultation of a correct guesser.

“I knew that idea came out of your head. Well, it’s made a nice lot of trouble, that’s what. Old Miss Barry came out to stay for a month, but she declares she won’t stay another day and is going right back to town tomorrow, Sunday and all as it is. She’d have gone today if they could have taken her.

She had promised to pay for a quarter’s music lessons for Diana, but now she is determined to do nothing at all for such a tomboy. Oh, I guess they had a lively time of it there this morning. The Barrys must feel cut up.

Old Miss Barry is rich and they’d like to keep on the good side of her. Of course, Mrs. Barry didn’t say just that to me, but I’m a pretty good judge of human nature, that’s what.” “I’m such an unlucky girl,” mourned Anne. “I’m always getting into scrapes myself and getting my best friends--people I’d shed my heart’s blood for--into them too.

Can you tell me why it is so, Mrs. Lynde?”

“It’s because you’re too heedless and impulsive, child, that’s what.

You never stop to think--whatever comes into your head to say or do you say or do it without a moment’s reflection.” “Oh, but that’s the best of it,” protested Anne. “Something just flashes into your mind, so exciting, and you must out with it.

If you stop to think it over you spoil it all. Haven’t you never felt that yourself, Mrs. Lynde?” No, Mrs. Lynde had not.

She shook her head sagely. “You must learn to think a little, Anne, that’s what. The proverb you need to go by is ‘Look before you leap’--especially into spare-room beds.” Mrs. Lynde laughed comfortably over her mild joke, but Anne remained pensive.

She saw nothing to laugh at in the situation, which to her eyes appeared very serious. When she left Mrs. Lynde’s she took her way across the crusted fields to Orchard Slope. Diana met her at the kitchen door. “Your Aunt Josephine was very cross about it, wasn’t she?” whispered Anne. “Yes,” answered Diana, stifling a giggle with an apprehensive glance over her shoulder at the closed sitting-room door.

“She was fairly dancing with rage, Anne. Oh, how she scolded. She said I was the worst-behaved girl she ever saw and that my parents ought to be ashamed of the way they had brought me up. She says she won’t stay and I’m sure I don’t care.

But Father and Mother do.”

“Why didn’t you tell them it was my fault?” demanded Anne. “It’s likely I’d do such a thing, isn’t it?” said Diana with just scorn. “I’m no telltale, Anne Shirley, and anyhow I was just as much to blame as you.”

“Well, I’m going in to tell her myself,” said Anne resolutely.
Diana stared. “Anne Shirley, you’d never!

why--she’ll eat you alive!”

“Don’t frighten me any more than I am frightened,” implored Anne. “I’d rather walk up to a cannon’s mouth. But I’ve got to do it, Diana.

It was my fault and I’ve got to confess. I’ve had practice in confessing, fortunately.” “Well, she’s in the room,” said Diana. “You can go in if you want to.

I wouldn’t dare. And I don’t believe you’ll do a bit of good.” With this encouragement Anne bearded the lion in its den--that is to say, walked resolutely up to the sitting-room door and knocked faintly. A sharp “Come in” followed.

Miss Josephine Barry, thin, prim, and rigid, was knitting fiercely by the fire, her wrath quite unappeased and her eyes snapping through her gold-rimmed glasses. She wheeled around in her chair, expecting to see Diana, and beheld a white-faced girl whose great eyes were brimmed up with a mixture of desperate courage and shrinking terror. “Who are you?” demanded Miss Josephine Barry, without ceremony. “I’m Anne of Green Gables,” said the small visitor tremulously, clasping her hands with her characteristic gesture, “and I’ve come to confess, if you please.”

“Confess what?”

“That it was all my fault about jumping into bed on you last night. I suggested it.

Diana would never have thought of such a thing, I am sure. Diana is a very ladylike girl, Miss Barry. So you must see how unjust it is to blame her.” “Oh, I must, hey?

I rather think Diana did her share of the jumping at least.

Such carryings on in a respectable house!”

“But we were only in fun,” persisted Anne. “I think you ought to forgive us, Miss Barry, now that we’ve apologized. And anyhow, please forgive Diana and let her have her music lessons. Diana’s heart is set on her music lessons, Miss Barry, and I know too well what it is to set your heart on a thing and not get it.

If you must be cross with anyone, be cross with me. I’ve been so used in my early days to having people cross at me that I can endure it much better than Diana can.” Much of the snap had gone out of the old lady’s eyes by this time and was replaced by a twinkle of amused interest. But she still said severely: “I don’t think it is any excuse for you that you were only in fun.

Little girls never indulged in that kind of fun when I was young. You don’t know what it is to be awakened out of a sound sleep, after a long and arduous journey, by two great girls coming bounce down on you.” “I don’t _know_, but I can _imagine_,” said Anne eagerly.

“I’m sure it must have been very disturbing. But then, there is our side of it too.

Have you any imagination, Miss Barry? If you have, just put yourself in our place. We didn’t know there was anybody in that bed and you nearly scared us to death. It was simply awful the way we felt.

And then we couldn’t sleep in the spare room after being promised. I suppose you are used to sleeping in spare rooms. But just imagine what you would feel like if you were a little orphan girl who had never had such an honor.”

All the snap had gone by this time.

Miss Barry actually laughed--a sound which caused Diana, waiting in speechless anxiety in the kitchen outside, to give a great gasp of relief. “I’m afraid my imagination is a little rusty--it’s so long since I used it,” she said. “I dare say your claim to sympathy is just as strong as mine. It all depends on the way we look at it.

Sit down here and tell me about yourself.” “I am very sorry I can’t,” said Anne firmly.

“I would like to, because you seem like an interesting lady, and you might even be a kindred spirit although you don’t look very much like it. But it is my duty to go home to Miss Marilla Cuthbert.

Miss Marilla Cuthbert is a very kind lady who has taken me to bring up properly. She is doing her best, but it is very discouraging work. You must not blame her because I jumped on the bed.

But before I go I do wish you would tell me if you will forgive Diana and stay just as long as you meant to in Avonlea.”

“I think perhaps I will if you will come over and talk to me occasionally,” said Miss Barry. That evening Miss Barry gave Diana a silver bangle bracelet and told the senior members of the household that she had unpacked her valise. “I’ve made up my mind to stay simply for the sake of getting better acquainted with that Anne-girl,” she said frankly. “She amuses me, and at my time of life an amusing person is a rarity.” Marilla’s only comment when she heard the story was, “I told you so.”

This was for Matthew’s benefit. Miss Barry stayed her month out and over. She was a more agreeable guest than usual, for Anne kept her in good humor. They became firm friends. When Miss Barry went away she said: “Remember, you Anne-girl, when you come to town you’re to visit me and I’ll put you in my very sparest spare-room bed to sleep.”

“Miss Barry was a kindred spirit, after all,” Anne confided to Marilla. “You wouldn’t think so to look at her, but she is. You don’t find it right out at first, as in Matthew’s case, but after a while you come to see it. Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. It’s splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world.”

CHAPTER XX.

A Good Imagination Gone Wrong SPRING had come once more to Green Gables--the beautiful capricious, reluctant Canadian spring, lingering along through April and May in a succession of sweet, fresh, chilly days, with pink sunsets and miracles of resurrection and growth. The maples in Lover’s Lane were red budded and little curly ferns pushed up around the Dryad’s Bubble. Away up in the barrens, behind Mr. Silas Sloane’s place, the Mayflowers blossomed out, pink and white stars of sweetness under their brown leaves. All the school girls and boys had one golden afternoon gathering them, coming home in the clear, echoing twilight with arms and baskets full of flowery spoil.

“I’m so sorry for people who live in lands where there are no Mayflowers,” said Anne. “Diana says perhaps they have something better, but there couldn’t be anything better than Mayflowers, could there, Marilla? And Diana says if they don’t know what they are like they don’t miss them. But I think that is the saddest thing of all.

I think it would be _tragic_, Marilla, not to know what Mayflowers are like and _not_ to miss them. Do you know what I think Mayflowers are, Marilla? I think they must be the souls of the flowers that died last summer and this is their heaven. But we had a splendid time today, Marilla.

We had our lunch down in a big mossy hollow by an old well--such a _romantic_ spot. Charlie Sloane dared Arty Gillis to jump over it, and Arty did because he wouldn’t take a dare. Nobody would in school. It is very _fashionable_ to dare.

Mr. Phillips gave all the Mayflowers he found to Prissy Andrews and I heard him to say ‘sweets to the sweet.’ He got that out of a book, I know; but it shows he has some imagination. I was offered some Mayflowers too, but I rejected them with scorn. I can’t tell you the person’s name because I have vowed never to let it cross my lips. We made wreaths of the Mayflowers and put them on our hats; and when the time came to go home we marched in procession down the road, two by two, with our bouquets and wreaths, singing ‘My Home on the Hill.’

Oh, it was so thrilling, Marilla. All Mr. Silas Sloane’s folks rushed out to see us and everybody we met on the road stopped and stared after us. We made a real sensation.”

“Not much wonder!

Such silly doings!” was Marilla’s response. After the Mayflowers came the violets, and Violet Vale was empurpled with them.

Anne walked through it on her way to school with reverent steps and worshiping eyes, as if she trod on holy ground. “Somehow,” she told Diana, “when I’m going through here I don’t really care whether Gil--whether anybody gets ahead of me in class or not. But when I’m up in school it’s all different and I care as much as ever.

There’s such a lot of different Annes in me. I sometimes think that is why I’m such a troublesome person. If I was just the one Anne it would be ever so much more comfortable, but then it wouldn’t be half so interesting.”

One June evening, when the orchards were pink blossomed again, when the frogs were singing silverly sweet in the marshes about the head of the Lake of Shining Waters, and the air was full of the savor of clover fields and balsamic fir woods, Anne was sitting by her gable window. She had been studying her lessons, but it had grown too dark to see the book, so she had fallen into wide-eyed reverie, looking out past the boughs of the Snow Queen, once more bestarred with its tufts of blossom.

In all essential respects the little gable chamber was unchanged. The walls were as white, the pincushion as hard, the chairs as stiffly and yellowly upright as ever. Yet the whole character of the room was altered.

It was full of a new vital, pulsing personality that seemed to pervade it and to be quite independent of schoolgirl books and dresses and ribbons, and even of the cracked blue jug full of apple blossoms on the table. It was as if all the dreams, sleeping and waking, of its vivid occupant had taken a visible although unmaterial form and had tapestried the bare room with splendid filmy tissues of rainbow and moonshine. Presently Marilla came briskly in with some of Anne’s freshly ironed school aprons. She hung them over a chair and sat down with a short sigh.

She had had one of her headaches that afternoon, and although the pain had gone she felt weak and “tuckered out,” as she expressed it. Anne looked at her with eyes limpid with sympathy. “I do truly wish I could have had the headache in your place, Marilla. I would have endured it joyfully for your sake.”

“I guess you did your part in attending to the work and letting me rest,” said Marilla. “You seem to have got on fairly well and made fewer mistakes than usual. Of course it wasn’t exactly necessary to starch Matthew’s handkerchiefs!

And most people when they put a pie in the oven to warm up for dinner take it out and eat it when it gets hot instead of leaving it to be burned to a crisp. But that doesn’t seem to be your way evidently.”

Headaches always left Marilla somewhat sarcastic.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Anne penitently. “I never thought about that pie from the moment I put it in the oven till now, although I felt _instinctively_ that there was something missing on the dinner table. I was firmly resolved, when you left me in charge this morning, not to imagine anything, but keep my thoughts on facts. I did pretty well until I put the pie in, and then an irresistible temptation came to me to imagine I was an enchanted princess shut up in a lonely tower with a handsome knight riding to my rescue on a coal-black steed.

So that is how I came to forget the pie. I didn’t know I starched the handkerchiefs. All the time I was ironing I was trying to think of a name for a new island Diana and I have discovered up the brook. It’s the most ravishing spot, Marilla. There are two maple trees on it and the brook flows right around it.

At last it struck me that it would be splendid to call it Victoria Island because we found it on the Queen’s birthday. Both Diana and I are very loyal. But I’m sorry about that pie and the handkerchiefs.

I wanted to be extra good today because it’s an anniversary. Do you remember what happened this day last year, Marilla?” “No, I can’t think of anything special.”

“Oh, Marilla, it was the day I came to Green Gables. I shall never forget it. It was the turning point in my life.

Of course it wouldn’t seem so important to you. I’ve been here for a year and I’ve been so happy. Of course, I’ve had my troubles, but one can live down troubles. Are you sorry you kept me, Marilla?” “No, I can’t say I’m sorry,” said Marilla, who sometimes wondered how she could have lived before Anne came to Green Gables, “no, not exactly sorry.

If you’ve finished your lessons, Anne, I want you to run over and ask Mrs. Barry if she’ll lend me Diana’s apron pattern.”

“Oh--it’s--it’s too dark,” cried Anne. “Too dark?

Why, it’s only twilight. And goodness knows you’ve gone over often enough after dark.”

“I’ll go over early in the morning,” said Anne eagerly. “I’ll get up at sunrise and go over, Marilla.” “What has got into your head now, Anne Shirley?

I want that pattern to cut out your new apron this evening. Go at once and be smart too.”

“I’ll have to go around by the road, then,” said Anne, taking up her hat reluctantly. “Go by the road and waste half an hour! I’d like to catch you!”

“I can’t go through the Haunted Wood, Marilla,” cried Anne desperately. Marilla stared. “The Haunted Wood!

Are you crazy? What under the canopy is the Haunted Wood?” “The spruce wood over the brook,” said Anne in a whisper.

“Fiddlesticks!

There is no such thing as a haunted wood anywhere. Who has been telling you such stuff?”

“Nobody,” confessed Anne. “Diana and I just imagined the wood was haunted. All the places around here are so--so--_commonplace_.

We just got this up for our own amusement. We began it in April. A haunted wood is so very romantic, Marilla. We chose the spruce grove because it’s so gloomy. Oh, we have imagined the most harrowing things.

There’s a white lady walks along the brook just about this time of the night and wrings her hands and utters wailing cries. She appears when there is to be a death in the family. And the ghost of a little murdered child haunts the corner up by Idlewild; it creeps up behind you and lays its cold fingers on your hand--so. Oh, Marilla, it gives me a shudder to think of it.

And there’s a headless man stalks up and down the path and skeletons glower at you between the boughs. Oh, Marilla, I wouldn’t go through the Haunted Wood after dark now for anything. I’d be sure that white things would reach out from behind the trees and grab me.”

“Did ever anyone hear the like!” ejaculated Marilla, who had listened in dumb amazement. “Anne Shirley, do you mean to tell me you believe all that wicked nonsense of your own imagination?”

“Not believe _exactly_,” faltered Anne.

“At least, I don’t believe it in daylight. But after dark, Marilla, it’s different.

That is when ghosts walk.” “There are no such things as ghosts, Anne.” “Oh, but there are, Marilla,” cried Anne eagerly.

“I know people who have seen them. And they are respectable people. Charlie Sloane says that his grandmother saw his grandfather driving home the cows one night after he’d been buried for a year.

You know Charlie Sloane’s grandmother wouldn’t tell a story for anything. She’s a very religious woman. And Mrs. Thomas’s father was pursued home one night by a lamb of fire with its head cut off hanging by a strip of skin.

He said he knew it was the spirit of his brother and that it was a warning he would die within nine days. He didn’t, but he died two years after, so you see it was really true. And Ruby Gillis says--” “Anne Shirley,” interrupted Marilla firmly, “I never want to hear you talking in this fashion again. I’ve had my doubts about that imagination of yours right along, and if this is going to be the outcome of it, I won’t countenance any such doings.

You’ll go right over to Barry’s, and you’ll go through that spruce grove, just for a lesson and a warning to you. And never let me hear a word out of your head about haunted woods again.” Anne might plead and cry as she liked--and did, for her terror was very real. Her imagination had run away with her and she held the spruce grove in mortal dread after nightfall.

But Marilla was inexorable.

She marched the shrinking ghost-seer down to the spring and ordered her to proceed straightway over the bridge and into the dusky retreats of wailing ladies and headless specters beyond. “Oh, Marilla, how can you be so cruel?” sobbed Anne. “What would you feel like if a white thing did snatch me up and carry me off?” “I’ll risk it,” said Marilla unfeelingly.

“You know I always mean what I say. I’ll cure you of imagining ghosts into places. March, now.”

Anne marched. That is, she stumbled over the bridge and went shuddering up the horrible dim path beyond. Anne never forgot that walk.

Bitterly did she repent the license she had given to her imagination. The goblins of her fancy lurked in every shadow about her, reaching out their cold, fleshless hands to grasp the terrified small girl who had called them into being. A white strip of birch bark blowing up from the hollow over the brown floor of the grove made her heart stand still.

The long-drawn wail of two old boughs rubbing against each other brought out the perspiration in beads on her forehead. The swoop of bats in the darkness over her was as the wings of unearthly creatures. When she reached Mr.
William Bell’s field she fled across it as if pursued by an army of white things, and arrived at the Barry kitchen door so out of breath that she could hardly gasp out her request for the apron pattern. Diana was away so that she had no excuse to linger.

The dreadful return journey had to be faced. Anne went back over it with shut eyes, preferring to take the risk of dashing her brains out among the boughs to that of seeing a white thing. When she finally stumbled over the log bridge she drew one long shivering breath of relief. “Well, so nothing caught you?” said Marilla unsympathetically.

“Oh, Mar--Marilla,” chattered Anne, “I’ll b-b-be contt-tented with c-c-commonplace places after this.” CHAPTER XXI.

A New Departure in Flavorings DEAR me, there is nothing but meetings and partings in this world, as Mrs. Lynde says,” remarked Anne plaintively, putting her slate and books down on the kitchen table on the last day of June and wiping her red eyes with a very damp handkerchief. “Wasn’t it fortunate, Marilla, that I took an extra handkerchief to school today? I had a presentiment that it would be needed.”

“I never thought you were so fond of Mr. Phillips that you’d require two handkerchiefs to dry your tears just because he was going away,” said Marilla. “I don’t think I was crying because I was really so very fond of him,”  reflected Anne. “I just cried because all the others did. It was Ruby Gillis started it.

Ruby Gillis has always declared she hated Mr.
Phillips, but just as soon as he got up to make his farewell speech she burst into tears. Then all the girls began to cry, one after the other. I tried to hold out, Marilla. I tried to remember the time Mr. Phillips made me sit with Gil--with a boy; and the time he spelled my name without an ‘e’ on the blackboard; and how he said I was the worst dunce he ever saw at geometry and laughed at my spelling; and all the times he had been so horrid and sarcastic; but somehow I couldn’t, Marilla, and I just had to cry too.

Jane Andrews has been talking for a month about how glad she’d be when Mr. Phillips went away and she declared she’d never shed a tear. Well, she was worse than any of us and had to borrow a handkerchief from her brother--of course the boys didn’t cry--because she hadn’t brought one of her own, not expecting to need it. Oh, Marilla, it was heartrending. Mr. Phillips made such a beautiful farewell speech beginning, ‘The time has come for us to part.’

It was very affecting. And he had tears in his eyes too, Marilla. Oh, I felt dreadfully sorry and remorseful for all the times I’d talked in school and drawn pictures of him on my slate and made fun of him and Prissy. I can tell you I wished I’d been a model pupil like Minnie Andrews.

She hadn’t anything on her conscience. The girls cried all the way home from school. Carrie Sloane kept saying every few minutes, ‘The time has come for us to part,’ and that would start us off again whenever we were in any danger of cheering up. I do feel dreadfully sad, Marilla.

But one can’t feel quite in the depths of despair with two months’ vacation before them, can they, Marilla?

And besides, we met the new minister and his wife coming from the station. For all I was feeling so bad about Mr.
Phillips going away I couldn’t help taking a little interest in a new minister, could I? His wife is very pretty. Not exactly regally lovely, of course--it wouldn’t do, I suppose, for a minister to have a regally lovely wife, because it might set a bad example. Mrs. Lynde says the minister’s wife over at Newbridge sets a very bad example because she dresses so fashionably.

Our new minister’s wife was dressed in blue muslin with lovely puffed sleeves and a hat trimmed with roses. Jane Andrews said she thought puffed sleeves were too worldly for a minister’s wife, but I didn’t make any such uncharitable remark, Marilla, because I know what it is to long for puffed sleeves. Besides, she’s only been a minister’s wife for a little while, so one should make allowances, shouldn’t they?

They are going to board with Mrs. Lynde until the manse is ready.” If Marilla, in going down to Mrs. Lynde’s that evening, was actuated by any motive save her avowed one of returning the quilting frames she had borrowed the preceding winter, it was an amiable weakness shared by most of the Avonlea people. Many a thing Mrs. Lynde had lent, sometimes never expecting to see it again, came home that night in charge of the borrowers thereof.

A new minister, and moreover a minister with a wife, was a lawful object of curiosity in a quiet little country settlement where sensations were few and far between. Old Mr. Bentley, the minister whom Anne had found lacking in imagination, had been pastor of Avonlea for eighteen years. He was a widower when he came, and a widower he remained, despite the fact that gossip regularly married him to this, that, or the other one, every year of his sojourn. In the preceding February he had resigned his charge and departed amid the regrets of his people, most of whom had the affection born of long intercourse for their good old minister in spite of his shortcomings as an orator.

Since then the Avonlea church had enjoyed a variety of religious dissipation in listening to the many and various candidates and “supplies” who came Sunday after Sunday to preach on trial. These stood or fell by the judgment of the fathers and mothers in Israel; but a certain small, red-haired girl who sat meekly in the corner of the old Cuthbert pew also had her opinions about them and discussed the same in full with Matthew, Marilla always declining from principle to criticize ministers in any shape or form. “I don’t think Mr. Smith would have done, Matthew” was Anne’s final summing up. “Mrs. Lynde says his delivery was so poor, but I think his worst fault was just like Mr. Bentley’s--he had no imagination. And Mr.
Terry had too much; he let it run away with him just as I did mine in the matter of the Haunted Wood.

Besides, Mrs. Lynde says his theology wasn’t sound. Mr. Gresham was a very good man and a very religious man, but he told too many funny stories and made the people laugh in church; he was undignified, and you must have some dignity about a minister, mustn’t you, Matthew?

I thought Mr. Marshall was decidedly attractive; but Mrs. Lynde says he isn’t married, or even engaged, because she made special inquiries about him, and she says it would never do to have a young unmarried minister in Avonlea, because he might marry in the congregation and that would make trouble. Mrs. Lynde is a very farseeing woman, isn’t she, Matthew? I’m very glad they’ve called Mr. Allan.

I liked him because his sermon was interesting and he prayed as if he meant it and not just as if he did it because he was in the habit of it. Mrs. Lynde says he isn’t perfect, but she says she supposes we couldn’t expect a perfect minister for seven hundred and fifty dollars a year, and anyhow his theology is sound because she questioned him thoroughly on all the points of doctrine. And she knows his wife’s people and they are most respectable and the women are all good housekeepers. Mrs. Lynde says that sound doctrine in the man and good housekeeping in the woman make an ideal combination for a minister’s family.”

The new minister and his wife were a young, pleasant-faced couple, still on their honeymoon, and full of all good and beautiful enthusiasms for their chosen lifework. Avonlea opened its heart to them from the start. Old and young liked the frank, cheerful young man with his high ideals, and the bright, gentle little lady who assumed the mistress-ship of the manse. With Mrs. Allan Anne fell promptly and wholeheartedly in love.

She had discovered another kindred spirit. “Mrs. Allan is perfectly lovely,” she announced one Sunday afternoon. “She’s taken our class and she’s a splendid teacher. She said right away she didn’t think it was fair for the teacher to ask all the questions, and you know, Marilla, that is exactly what I’ve always thought.

She said we could ask her any question we liked and I asked ever so many. I’m good at asking questions, Marilla.” “I believe you,” was Marilla’s emphatic comment. “Nobody else asked any except Ruby Gillis, and she asked if there was to be a Sunday-school picnic this summer.

I didn’t think that was a very proper question to ask because it hadn’t any connection with the lesson--the lesson was about Daniel in the lions’ den--but Mrs. Allan just smiled and said she thought there would be. Mrs. Allan has a lovely smile; she has such _exquisite_ dimples in her cheeks. I wish I had dimples in my cheeks, Marilla. I’m not half so skinny as I was when I came here, but I have no dimples yet.

If I had perhaps I could influence people for good. Mrs. Allan said we ought always to try to influence other people for good. She talked so nice about everything. I never knew before that religion was such a cheerful thing. I always thought it was kind of melancholy, but Mrs. Allan’s isn’t, and I’d like to be a Christian if I could be one like her.

I wouldn’t want to be one like Mr.
Superintendent Bell.” “It’s very naughty of you to speak so about Mr. Bell,” said Marilla severely. “Mr. Bell is a real good man.” “Oh, of course he’s good,” agreed Anne, “but he doesn’t seem to get any comfort out of it.

If I could be good I’d dance and sing all day because I was glad of it. I suppose Mrs. Allan is too old to dance and sing and of course it wouldn’t be dignified in a minister’s wife. But I can just feel she’s glad she’s a Christian and that she’d be one even if she could get to heaven without it.”

“I suppose we must have Mr. and Mrs. Allan up to tea someday soon,” said Marilla reflectively. “They’ve been most everywhere but here. Let me see. Next Wednesday would be a good time to have them. But don’t say a word to Matthew about it, for if he knew they were coming he’d find some excuse to be away that day.

He’d got so used to Mr. Bentley he didn’t mind him, but he’s going to find it hard to get acquainted with a new minister, and a new minister’s wife will frighten him to death.” “I’ll be as secret as the dead,” assured Anne. “But oh, Marilla, will you let me make a cake for the occasion? I’d love to do something for Mrs. Allan, and you know I can make a pretty good cake by this time.”

“You can make a layer cake,” promised Marilla. Monday and Tuesday great preparations went on at Green Gables. Having the minister and his wife to tea was a serious and important undertaking, and Marilla was determined not to be eclipsed by any of the Avonlea housekeepers. Anne was wild with excitement and delight. She talked it all over with Diana Tuesday night in the twilight, as they sat on the big red stones by the Dryad’s Bubble and made rainbows in the water with little twigs dipped in fir balsam.

“Everything is ready, Diana, except my cake which I’m to make in the morning, and the baking-powder biscuits which Marilla will make just before teatime. I assure you, Diana, that Marilla and I have had a busy two days of it. It’s such a responsibility having a minister’s family to tea.

I never went through such an experience before. You should just see our pantry. It’s a sight to behold. We’re going to have jellied chicken and cold tongue.

We’re to have two kinds of jelly, red and yellow, and whipped cream and lemon pie, and cherry pie, and three kinds of cookies, and fruit cake, and Marilla’s famous yellow plum preserves that she keeps especially for ministers, and pound cake and layer cake, and biscuits as aforesaid; and new bread and old both, in case the minister is dyspeptic and can’t eat new. Mrs. Lynde says ministers are dyspeptic, but I don’t think Mr. Allan has been a minister long enough for it to have had a bad effect on him. I just grow cold when I think of my layer cake. Oh, Diana, what if it shouldn’t be good!

I dreamed last night that I was chased all around by a fearful goblin with a big layer cake for a head.” “It’ll be good, all right,” assured Diana, who was a very comfortable sort of friend. “I’m sure that piece of the one you made that we had for lunch in Idlewild two weeks ago was perfectly elegant.” “Yes; but cakes have such a terrible habit of turning out bad just when you especially want them to be good,” sighed Anne, setting a particularly well-balsamed twig afloat.

“However, I suppose I shall just have to trust to Providence and be careful to put in the flour. Oh, look, Diana, what a lovely rainbow! Do you suppose the dryad will come out after we go away and take it for a scarf?” “You know there is no such thing as a dryad,” said Diana. Diana’s mother had found out about the Haunted Wood and had been decidedly angry over it.

As a result Diana had abstained from any further imitative flights of imagination and did not think it prudent to cultivate a spirit of belief even in harmless dryads. “But it’s so easy to imagine there is,” said Anne. “Every night before I go to bed, I look out of my window and wonder if the dryad is really sitting here, combing her locks with the spring for a mirror.

Sometimes I look for her footprints in the dew in the morning. Oh, Diana, don’t give up your faith in the dryad!” Wednesday morning came. Anne got up at sunrise because she was too excited to sleep.

She had caught a severe cold in the head by reason of her dabbling in the spring on the preceding evening; but nothing short of absolute pneumonia could have quenched her interest in culinary matters that morning. After breakfast she proceeded to make her cake. When she finally shut the oven door upon it she drew a long breath. “I’m sure I haven’t forgotten anything this time, Marilla.

But do you think it will rise?

Just suppose perhaps the baking powder isn’t good?

I used it out of the new can. And Mrs. Lynde says you can never be sure of getting good baking powder nowadays when everything is so adulterated. Mrs. Lynde says the Government ought to take the matter up, but she says we’ll never see the day when a Tory Government will do it. Marilla, what if that cake doesn’t rise?” “We’ll have plenty without it” was Marilla’s unimpassioned way of looking at the subject.

The cake did rise, however, and came out of the oven as light and feathery as golden foam. Anne, flushed with delight, clapped it together with layers of ruby jelly and, in imagination, saw Mrs. Allan eating it and possibly asking for another piece! “You’ll be using the best tea set, of course, Marilla,” she said. “Can I fix the table with ferns and wild roses?”

“I think that’s all nonsense,” sniffed Marilla.

“In my opinion it’s the eatables that matter and not flummery decorations.” “Mrs. Barry had _her_ table decorated,” said Anne, who was not entirely guiltless of the wisdom of the serpent, “and the minister paid her an elegant compliment. He said it was a feast for the eye as well as the palate.”

“Well, do as you like,” said Marilla, who was quite determined not to be surpassed by Mrs. Barry or anybody else. “Only mind you leave enough room for the dishes and the food.” Anne laid herself out to decorate in a manner and after a fashion that should leave Mrs. Barry’s nowhere.

Having abundance of roses and ferns and a very artistic taste of her own, she made that tea table such a thing of beauty that when the minister and his wife sat down to it they exclaimed in chorus over it loveliness. “It’s Anne’s doings,” said Marilla, grimly just; and Anne felt that Mrs.
Allan’s approving smile was almost too much happiness for this world. Matthew was there, having been inveigled into the party only goodness and Anne knew how. He had been in such a state of shyness and nervousness that Marilla had given him up in despair, but Anne took him in hand so successfully that he now sat at the table in his best clothes and white collar and talked to the minister not uninterestingly.

He never said a word to Mrs. Allan, but that perhaps was not to be expected. All went merry as a marriage bell until Anne’s layer cake was passed. Mrs. Allan, having already been helped to a bewildering variety, declined it. But Marilla, seeing the disappointment on Anne’s face, said smilingly: “Oh, you must take a piece of this, Mrs. Allan.

Anne made it on purpose for you.” “In that case I must sample it,” laughed Mrs. Allan, helping herself to a plump triangle, as did also the minister and Marilla. Mrs. Allan took a mouthful of hers and a most peculiar expression crossed her face; not a word did she say, however, but steadily ate away at it.

Marilla saw the expression and hastened to taste the cake. “Anne Shirley!”

she exclaimed, “what on earth did you put into that cake?” “Nothing but what the recipe said, Marilla,” cried Anne with a look of anguish. “Oh, isn’t it all right?”

“All right!

It’s simply horrible. Mr. Allan, don’t try to eat it. Anne, taste it yourself. What flavoring did you use?”

“Vanilla,” said Anne, her face scarlet with mortification after tasting the cake. “Only vanilla.

Oh, Marilla, it must have been the baking powder. I had my suspicions of that bak--” “Baking powder fiddlesticks!

Go and bring me the bottle of vanilla you used.” Anne fled to the pantry and returned with a small bottle partially filled with a brown liquid and labeled yellowly, “Best Vanilla.”

Marilla took it, uncorked it, smelled it. “Mercy on us, Anne, you’ve flavored that cake with _Anodyne Liniment_. I broke the liniment bottle last week and poured what was left into an old empty vanilla bottle. I suppose it’s partly my fault--I should have warned you--but for pity’s sake why couldn’t you have smelled it?”

Anne dissolved into tears under this double disgrace.

“I couldn’t-- I had such a cold!”

and with this she fairly fled to the gable chamber, where she cast herself on the bed and wept as one who refuses to be comforted. Presently a light step sounded on the stairs and somebody entered the room. “Oh, Marilla,” sobbed Anne, without looking up, “I’m disgraced forever.

I shall never be able to live this down. It will get out--things always do get out in Avonlea. Diana will ask me how my cake turned out and I shall have to tell her the truth. I shall always be pointed at as the girl who flavored a cake with anodyne liniment. Gil--the boys in school will never get over laughing at it.

Oh, Marilla, if you have a spark of Christian pity don’t tell me that I must go down and wash the dishes after this. I’ll wash them when the minister and his wife are gone, but I cannot ever look Mrs. Allan in the face again. Perhaps she’ll think I tried to poison her.

Mrs. Lynde says she knows an orphan girl who tried to poison her benefactor.

But the liniment isn’t poisonous.

It’s meant to be taken internally--although not in cakes. Won’t you tell Mrs. Allan so, Marilla?” “Suppose you jump up and tell her so yourself,” said a merry voice. Anne flew up, to find Mrs. Allan standing by her bed, surveying her with laughing eyes. “My dear little girl, you mustn’t cry like this,” she said, genuinely disturbed by Anne’s tragic face.

“Why, it’s all just a funny mistake that anybody might make.”

“Oh, no, it takes me to make such a mistake,” said Anne forlornly. “And I wanted to have that cake so nice for you, Mrs. Allan.” “Yes, I know, dear.

And I assure you I appreciate your kindness and thoughtfulness just as much as if it had turned out all right. Now, you mustn’t cry any more, but come down with me and show me your flower garden. Miss Cuthbert tells me you have a little plot all your own. I want to see it, for I’m very much interested in flowers.”

Anne permitted herself to be led down and comforted, reflecting that it was really providential that Mrs. Allan was a kindred spirit. Nothing more was said about the liniment cake, and when the guests went away Anne found that she had enjoyed the evening more than could have been expected, considering that terrible incident.

Nevertheless, she sighed deeply.

“Marilla, isn’t it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?” “I’ll warrant you’ll make plenty in it,” said Marilla. “I never saw your beat for making mistakes, Anne.” “Yes, and well I know it,” admitted Anne mournfully.

“But have you ever noticed one encouraging thing about me, Marilla?

I never make the same mistake twice.” “I don’t know as that’s much benefit when you’re always making new ones.” “Oh, don’t you see, Marilla? There must be a limit to the mistakes one person can make, and when I get to the end of them, then I’ll be through with them. That’s a very comforting thought.”

“Well, you’d better go and give that cake to the pigs,” said Marilla. “It isn’t fit for any human to eat, not even Jerry Boute.”

CHAPTER XXII. Anne Is Invited Out to Tea AND what are your eyes popping out of your head about. Now?” asked Marilla, when Anne had just come in from a run to the post office.

“Have you discovered another kindred spirit?”

Excitement hung around Anne like a garment, shone in her eyes, kindled in every feature. She had come dancing up the lane, like a wind-blown sprite, through the mellow sunshine and lazy shadows of the August evening. “No, Marilla, but oh, what do you think? I am invited to tea at the manse tomorrow afternoon!

Mrs. Allan left the letter for me at the post office. Just look at it, Marilla. ‘Miss Anne Shirley, Green Gables.’

That is the first time I was ever called ‘Miss.’ Such a thrill as it gave me! I shall cherish it forever among my choicest treasures.” “Mrs. Allan told me she meant to have all the members of her Sunday-school class to tea in turn,” said Marilla, regarding the wonderful event very coolly. “You needn’t get in such a fever over it.

Do learn to take things calmly, child.” For Anne to take things calmly would have been to change her nature. All “spirit and fire and dew,” as she was, the pleasures and pains of life came to her with trebled intensity. Marilla felt this and was vaguely troubled over it, realizing that the ups and downs of existence would probably bear hardly on this impulsive soul and not sufficiently understanding that the equally great capacity for delight might more than compensate. Therefore Marilla conceived it to be her duty to drill Anne into a tranquil uniformity of disposition as impossible and alien to her as to a dancing sunbeam in one of the brook shallows.

She did not make much headway, as she sorrowfully admitted to herself. The downfall of some dear hope or plan plunged Anne into “deeps of affliction.” The fulfillment thereof exalted her to dizzy realms of delight.

Marilla had almost begun to despair of ever fashioning this waif of the world into her model little girl of demure manners and prim deportment. Neither would she have believed that she really liked Anne much better as she was. Anne went to bed that night speechless with misery because Matthew had said the wind was round northeast and he feared it would be a rainy day tomorrow. The rustle of the poplar leaves about the house worried her, it sounded so like pattering raindrops, and the full, faraway roar of the gulf, to which she listened delightedly at other times, loving its strange, sonorous, haunting rhythm, now seemed like a prophecy of storm and disaster to a small maiden who particularly wanted a fine day.

Anne thought that the morning would never come. But all things have an end, even nights before the day on which you are invited to take tea at the manse.

The morning, in spite of Matthew’s predictions, was fine and Anne’s spirits soared to their highest. “Oh, Marilla, there is something in me today that makes me just love everybody I see,” she exclaimed as she washed the breakfast dishes. “You don’t know how good I feel!

Wouldn’t it be nice if it could last? I believe I could be a model child if I were just invited out to tea every day. But oh, Marilla, it’s a solemn occasion too.

I feel so anxious. What if I shouldn’t behave properly? You know I never had tea at a manse before, and I’m not sure that I know all the rules of etiquette, although I’ve been studying the rules given in the Etiquette Department of the Family Herald ever since I came here. I’m so afraid I’ll do something silly or forget to do something I should do.

Would it be good manners to take a second helping of anything if you wanted to _very_ much?”

“The trouble with you, Anne, is that you’re thinking too much about yourself. You should just think of Mrs. Allan and what would be nicest and most agreeable to her,” said Marilla, hitting for once in her life on a very sound and pithy piece of advice. Anne instantly realized this. “You are right, Marilla. I’ll try not to think about myself at all.”

Anne evidently got through her visit without any serious breach of “etiquette,” for she came home through the twilight, under a great, high-sprung sky gloried over with trails of saffron and rosy cloud, in a beatified state of mind and told Marilla all about it happily, sitting on the big red-sandstone slab at the kitchen door with her tired curly head in Marilla’s gingham lap. A cool wind was blowing down over the long harvest fields from the rims of firry western hills and whistling through the poplars. One clear star hung over the orchard and the fireflies were flitting over in Lover’s Lane, in and out among the ferns and rustling boughs. Anne watched them as she talked and somehow felt that wind and stars and fireflies were all tangled up together into something unutterably sweet and enchanting.

“Oh, Marilla, I’ve had a most _fascinating_ time. I feel that I have not lived in vain and I shall always feel like that even if I should never be invited to tea at a manse again. When I got there Mrs. Allan met me at the door. She was dressed in the sweetest dress of pale-pink organdy, with dozens of frills and elbow sleeves, and she looked just like a seraph. I really think I’d like to be a minister’s wife when I grow up, Marilla.

A minister mightn’t mind my red hair because he wouldn’t be thinking of such worldly things. But then of course one would have to be naturally good and I’ll never be that, so I suppose there’s no use in thinking about it.

Some people are naturally good, you know, and others are not. I’m one of the others. Mrs. Lynde says I’m full of original sin. No matter how hard I try to be good I can never make such a success of it as those who are naturally good.

It’s a good deal like geometry, I expect. But don’t you think the trying so hard ought to count for something?

Mrs. Allan is one of the naturally good people.

I love her passionately. You know there are some people, like Matthew and Mrs.
Allan that you can love right off without any trouble. And there are others, like Mrs. Lynde, that you have to try very hard to love. You know you _ought_

to love them because they know so much and are such active workers in the church, but you have to keep reminding yourself of it all the time or else you forget. There was another little girl at the manse to tea, from the White Sands Sunday-school. Her name was Laurette Bradley, and she was a very nice little girl. Not exactly a kindred spirit, you know, but still very nice.

We had an elegant tea, and I think I kept all the rules of etiquette pretty well. After tea Mrs.
Allan played and sang and she got Lauretta and me to sing too. Mrs. Allan says I have a good voice and she says I must sing in the Sunday-school choir after this.

You can’t think how I was thrilled at the mere thought. I’ve longed so to sing in the Sunday-school choir, as Diana does, but I feared it was an honor I could never aspire to. Lauretta had to go home early because there is a big concert in the White Sands Hotel tonight and her sister is to recite at it. Lauretta says that the Americans at the hotel give a concert every fortnight in aid of the Charlottetown hospital, and they ask lots of the White Sands people to recite.

Lauretta said she expected to be asked herself someday. I just gazed at her in awe. After she had gone Mrs. Allan and I had a heart-to-heart talk. I told her everything--about Mrs. Thomas and the twins and Katie Maurice and Violetta and coming to Green Gables and my troubles over geometry. And would you believe it, Marilla?

Mrs.
Allan told me she was a dunce at geometry too. You don’t know how that encouraged me. Mrs. Lynde came to the manse just before I left, and what do you think, Marilla?

The trustees have hired a new teacher and it’s a lady. Her name is Miss Muriel Stacy. Isn’t that a romantic name?

Mrs.
Lynde says they’ve never had a female teacher in Avonlea before and she thinks it is a dangerous innovation.

But I think it will be splendid to have a lady teacher, and I really don’t see how I’m going to live through the two weeks before school begins.

I’m so impatient to see her.” CHAPTER XXIII.

Anne Comes to Grief in an Affair of Honor ANNE had to live through more than two weeks, as it happened. Almost a month having elapsed since the liniment cake episode, it was high time for her to get into fresh trouble of some sort, little mistakes, such as absentmindedly emptying a pan of skim milk into a basket of yarn balls in the pantry instead of into the pigs’ bucket, and walking clean over the edge of the log bridge into the brook while wrapped in imaginative reverie, not really being worth counting. A week after the tea at the manse Diana Barry gave a party. “Small and select,” Anne assured Marilla. “Just the girls in our class.”

They had a very good time and nothing untoward happened until after tea, when they found themselves in the Barry garden, a little tired of all their games and ripe for any enticing form of mischief which might present itself. This presently took the form of “daring.” Daring was the fashionable amusement among the Avonlea small fry just then. It had begun among the boys, but soon spread to the girls, and all the silly things that were done in Avonlea that summer because the doers thereof were “dared” to do them would fill a book by themselves.

First of all Carrie Sloane dared Ruby Gillis to climb to a certain point in the huge old willow tree before the front door; which Ruby Gillis, albeit in mortal dread of the fat green caterpillars with which said tree was infested and with the fear of her mother before her eyes if she should tear her new muslin dress, nimbly did, to the discomfiture of the aforesaid Carrie Sloane. Then Josie Pye dared Jane Andrews to hop on her left leg around the garden without stopping once or putting her right foot to the ground; which Jane Andrews gamely tried to do, but gave out at the third corner and had to confess herself defeated. Josie’s triumph being rather more pronounced than good taste permitted, Anne Shirley dared her to walk along the top of the board fence which bounded the garden to the east. Now, to “walk” board fences requires more skill and steadiness of head and heel than one might suppose who has never tried it.

But Josie Pye, if deficient in some qualities that make for popularity, had at least a natural and inborn gift, duly cultivated, for walking board fences.

Josie walked the Barry fence with an airy unconcern which seemed to imply that a little thing like that wasn’t worth a “dare.” Reluctant admiration greeted her exploit, for most of the other girls could appreciate it, having suffered many things themselves in their efforts to walk fences. Josie descended from her perch, flushed with victory, and darted a defiant glance at Anne. Anne tossed her red braids.

“I don’t think it’s such a very wonderful thing to walk a little, low, board fence,” she said. “I knew a girl in Marysville who could walk the ridgepole of a roof.” “I don’t believe it,” said Josie flatly.

“I don’t believe anybody could walk a ridgepole. _

You_ couldn’t, anyhow.” “Couldn’t I?” cried Anne rashly. “Then I dare you to do it,” said Josie defiantly.

“I dare you to climb up there and walk the ridgepole of Mr. Barry’s kitchen roof.”

Anne turned pale, but there was clearly only one thing to be done. She walked toward the house, where a ladder was leaning against the kitchen roof. All the fifth-class girls said, “Oh!” partly in excitement, partly in dismay.

“Don’t you do it, Anne,” entreated Diana. “You’ll fall off and be killed. Never mind Josie Pye.

It isn’t fair to dare anybody to do anything so dangerous.” “I must do it. My honor is at stake,” said Anne solemnly. “I shall walk that ridgepole, Diana, or perish in the attempt.

If I am killed you are to have my pearl bead ring.” Anne climbed the ladder amid breathless silence, gained the ridgepole, balanced herself uprightly on that precarious footing, and started to walk along it, dizzily conscious that she was uncomfortably high up in the world and that walking ridgepoles was not a thing in which your imagination helped you out much. Nevertheless, she managed to take several steps before the catastrophe came.

Then she swayed, lost her balance, stumbled, staggered, and fell, sliding down over the sun-baked roof and crashing off it through the tangle of Virginia creeper beneath--all before the dismayed circle below could give a simultaneous, terrified shriek. If Anne had tumbled off the roof on the side up which she had ascended Diana would probably have fallen heir to the pearl bead ring then and there. Fortunately she fell on the other side, where the roof extended down over the porch so nearly to the ground that a fall therefrom was a much less serious thing. Nevertheless, when Diana and the other girls had rushed frantically around the house--except Ruby Gillis, who remained as if rooted to the ground and went into hysterics--they found Anne lying all white and limp among the wreck and ruin of the Virginia creeper.

“Anne, are you killed?” shrieked Diana, throwing herself on her knees beside her friend. “Oh, Anne, dear Anne, speak just one word to me and tell me if you’re killed.” To the immense relief of all the girls, and especially of Josie Pye, who, in spite of lack of imagination, had been seized with horrible visions of a future branded as the girl who was the cause of Anne Shirley’s early and tragic death, Anne sat dizzily up and answered uncertainly: “No, Diana, I am not killed, but I think I am rendered unconscious.”

“Where?” sobbed Carrie Sloane.

“Oh, where, Anne?”

Before Anne could answer Mrs. Barry appeared on the scene. At sight of her Anne tried to scramble to her feet, but sank back again with a sharp little cry of pain. “What’s the matter? Where have you hurt yourself?” demanded Mrs. Barry. “My ankle,” gasped Anne.

“Oh, Diana, please find your father and ask him to take me home. I know I can never walk there. And I’m sure I couldn’t hop so far on one foot when Jane couldn’t even hop around the garden.” Marilla was out in the orchard picking a panful of summer apples when she saw Mr. Barry coming over the log bridge and up the slope, with Mrs.
Barry beside him and a whole procession of little girls trailing after him.

In his arms he carried Anne, whose head lay limply against his shoulder. At that moment Marilla had a revelation. In the sudden stab of fear that pierced her very heart she realized what Anne had come to mean to her. She would have admitted that she liked Anne--nay, that she was very fond of Anne. But now she knew as she hurried wildly down the slope that Anne was dearer to her than anything else on earth.

“Mr. Barry, what has happened to her?” she gasped, more white and shaken than the self-contained, sensible Marilla had been for many years. Anne herself answered, lifting her head. “Don’t be very frightened, Marilla.

I was walking the ridgepole and I fell off. I expect I have sprained my ankle. But, Marilla, I might have broken my neck.

Let us look on the bright side of things.” “I might have known you’d go and do something of the sort when I let you go to that party,” said Marilla, sharp and shrewish in her very relief. “Bring her in here, Mr. Barry, and lay her on the sofa. Mercy me, the child has gone and fainted!” It was quite true.

Overcome by the pain of her injury, Anne had one more of her wishes granted to her. She had fainted dead away. Matthew, hastily summoned from the harvest field, was straightway dispatched for the doctor, who in due time came, to discover that the injury was more serious than they had supposed. Anne’s ankle was broken. That night, when Marilla went up to the east gable, where a white-faced girl was lying, a plaintive voice greeted her from the bed.

“Aren’t you very sorry for me, Marilla?” “It was your own fault,” said Marilla, twitching down the blind and lighting a lamp. “And that is just why you should be sorry for me,” said Anne, “because the thought that it is all my own fault is what makes it so hard. If I could blame it on anybody I would feel so much better.

But what would you have done, Marilla, if you had been dared to walk a ridgepole?”

“I’d have stayed on good firm ground and let them dare away.

Such absurdity!” said Marilla. Anne sighed. “But you have such strength of mind, Marilla. I haven’t.

I just felt that I couldn’t bear Josie Pye’s scorn. She would have crowed over me all my life. And I think I have been punished so much that you needn’t be very cross with me, Marilla.

It’s not a bit nice to faint, after all. And the doctor hurt me dreadfully when he was setting my ankle. I won’t be able to go around for six or seven weeks and I’ll miss the new lady teacher. She won’t be new any more by the time I’m able to go to school. And Gil--everybody will get ahead of me in class.

Oh, I am an afflicted mortal. But I’ll try to bear it all bravely if only you won’t be cross with me, Marilla.”

“There, there, I’m not cross,” said Marilla. “You’re an unlucky child, there’s no doubt about that; but as you say, you’ll have the suffering of it. Here now, try and eat some supper.”

“Isn’t it fortunate I’ve got such an imagination?” said Anne. “It will help me through splendidly, I expect.

What do people who haven’t any imagination do when they break their bones, do you suppose, Marilla?” Anne had good reason to bless her imagination many a time and oft during the tedious seven weeks that followed. But she was not solely dependent on it.

She had many visitors and not a day passed without one or more of the schoolgirls dropping in to bring her flowers and books and tell her all the happenings in the juvenile world of Avonlea. “Everybody has been so good and kind, Marilla,” sighed Anne happily, on the day when she could first limp across the floor. “It isn’t very pleasant to be laid up; but there is a bright side to it, Marilla. You find out how many friends you have.

Why, even Superintendent Bell came to see me, and he’s really a very fine man. Not a kindred spirit, of course; but still I like him and I’m awfully sorry I ever criticized his prayers. I believe now he really does mean them, only he has got into the habit of saying them as if he didn’t. He could get over that if he’d take a little trouble.

I gave him a good broad hint. I told him how hard I tried to make my own little private prayers interesting. He told me all about the time he broke his ankle when he was a boy.

It does seem so strange to think of Superintendent Bell ever being a boy. Even my imagination has its limits, for I can’t imagine _that_. When I try to imagine him as a boy I see him with gray whiskers and spectacles, just as he looks in Sunday-school, only small. Now, it’s so easy to imagine Mrs. Allan as a little girl.

Mrs. Allan has been to see me fourteen times. Isn’t that something to be proud of, Marilla? When a minister’s wife has so many claims on her time! She is such a cheerful person to have visit you, too.

She never tells you it’s your own fault and she hopes you’ll be a better girl on account of it. Mrs. Lynde always told me that when she came to see me; and she said it in a kind of way that made me feel she might hope I’d be a better girl but didn’t really believe I would. Even Josie Pye came to see me.

I received her as politely as I could, because I think she was sorry she dared me to walk a ridgepole. If I had been killed she would had to carry a dark burden of remorse all her life. Diana has been a faithful friend. She’s been over every day to cheer my lonely pillow.

But oh, I shall be so glad when I can go to school for I’ve heard such exciting things about the new teacher.

The girls all think she is perfectly sweet. Diana says she has the loveliest fair curly hair and such fascinating eyes. She dresses beautifully, and her sleeve puffs are bigger than anybody else’s in Avonlea.

Every other Friday afternoon she has recitations and everybody has to say a piece or take part in a dialogue. Oh, it’s just glorious to think of it. Josie Pye says she hates it but that is just because Josie has so little imagination.

Diana and Ruby Gillis and Jane Andrews are preparing a dialogue, called ‘A Morning Visit,’ for next Friday. And the Friday afternoons they don’t have recitations Miss Stacy takes them all to the woods for a ‘field’ day and they study ferns and flowers and birds. And they have physical culture exercises every morning and evening.

Mrs. Lynde says she never heard of such goings on and it all comes of having a lady teacher. But I think it must be splendid and I believe I shall find that Miss Stacy is a kindred spirit.”

“There’s one thing plain to be seen, Anne,” said Marilla, “and that is that your fall off the Barry roof hasn’t injured your tongue at all.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

Miss Stacy and Her Pupils Get Up a Concert IT was October again when Anne was ready to go back to school--a glorious October, all red and gold, with mellow mornings when the valleys were filled with delicate mists as if the spirit of autumn had poured them in for the sun to drain--amethyst, pearl, silver, rose, and smoke-blue. The dews were so heavy that the fields glistened like cloth of silver and there were such heaps of rustling leaves in the hollows of many-stemmed woods to run crisply through. The Birch Path was a canopy of yellow and the ferns were sear and brown all along it.

There was a tang in the very air that inspired the hearts of small maidens tripping, unlike snails, swiftly and willingly to school; and it _was_ jolly to be back again at the little brown desk beside Diana, with Ruby Gillis nodding across the aisle and Carrie Sloane sending up notes and Julia Bell passing a “chew” of gum down from the back seat. Anne drew a long breath of happiness as she sharpened her pencil and arranged her picture cards in her desk. Life was certainly very interesting. In the new teacher she found another true and helpful friend.

Miss Stacy was a bright, sympathetic young woman with the happy gift of winning and holding the affections of her pupils and bringing out the best that was in them mentally and morally. Anne expanded like a flower under this wholesome influence and carried home to the admiring Matthew and the critical Marilla glowing accounts of schoolwork and aims. “I love Miss Stacy with my whole heart, Marilla. She is so ladylike and she has such a sweet voice.

When she pronounces my name I feel _instinctively_ that she’s spelling it with an E. We had recitations this afternoon. I just wish you could have been there to hear me recite ‘Mary, Queen of Scots.’ I just put my whole soul into it.

Ruby Gillis told me coming home that the way I said the line, ‘Now for my father’s arm,’ she said, ‘my woman’s heart farewell,’ just made her blood run cold.” “Well now, you might recite it for me some of these days, out in the barn,” suggested Matthew. “Of course I will,” said Anne meditatively, “but I won’t be able to do it so well, I know. It won’t be so exciting as it is when you have a whole schoolful before you hanging breathlessly on your words. I know I won’t be able to make your blood run cold.”

“Mrs. Lynde says it made _her_ blood run cold to see the boys climbing to the very tops of those big trees on Bell’s hill after crows’ nests last Friday,” said Marilla. “I wonder at Miss Stacy for encouraging it.” “But we wanted a crow’s nest for nature study,” explained Anne.

“That was on our field afternoon. Field afternoons are splendid, Marilla. And Miss Stacy explains everything so beautifully.

We have to write compositions on our field afternoons and I write the best ones.” “It’s very vain of you to say so then. You’d better let your teacher say it.”

“But she _did_ say it, Marilla. And indeed I’m not vain about it.

How can I be, when I’m such a dunce at geometry? Although I’m really beginning to see through it a little, too.

Miss Stacy makes it so clear. Still, I’ll never be good at it and I assure you it is a humbling reflection. But I love writing compositions.

Mostly Miss Stacy lets us choose our own subjects; but next week we are to write a composition on some remarkable person. It’s hard to choose among so many remarkable people who have lived. Mustn’t it be splendid to be remarkable and have compositions written about you after you’re dead? Oh, I would dearly love to be remarkable.

I think when I grow up I’ll be a trained nurse and go with the Red Crosses to the field of battle as a messenger of mercy. That is, if I don’t go out as a foreign missionary. That would be very romantic, but one would have to be very good to be a missionary, and that would be a stumbling block.

We have physical culture exercises every day, too. They make you graceful and promote digestion.” “Promote fiddlesticks!” said Marilla, who honestly thought it was all nonsense.

But all the field afternoons and recitation Fridays and physical culture contortions paled before a project which Miss Stacy brought forward in November.

This was that the scholars of Avonlea school should get up a concert and hold it in the hall on Christmas Night, for the laudable purpose of helping to pay for a schoolhouse flag. The pupils one and all taking graciously to this plan, the preparations for a program were begun at once. And of all the excited performers-elect none was so excited as Anne Shirley, who threw herself into the undertaking heart and soul, hampered as she was by Marilla’s disapproval. Marilla thought it all rank foolishness.

“It’s just filling your heads up with nonsense and taking time that ought to be put on your lessons,” she grumbled. “I don’t approve of children’s getting up concerts and racing about to practices. It makes them vain and forward and fond of gadding.”

“But think of the worthy object,” pleaded Anne. “A flag will cultivate a spirit of patriotism, Marilla.”

“Fudge!

There’s precious little patriotism in the thoughts of any of you. All you want is a good time.” “Well, when you can combine patriotism and fun, isn’t it all right? Of course it’s real nice to be getting up a concert.

We’re going to have six choruses and Diana is to sing a solo. I’m in two dialogues--‘The Society for the Suppression of Gossip’ and ‘The Fairy Queen.’ The boys are going to have a dialogue too.

And I’m to have two recitations, Marilla. I just tremble when I think of it, but it’s a nice thrilly kind of tremble. And we’re to have a tableau at the last--‘Faith, Hope and Charity.’

Diana and Ruby and I are to be in it, all draped in white with flowing hair.

I’m to be Hope, with my hands clasped--so--and my eyes uplifted. I’m going to practice my recitations in the garret. Don’t be alarmed if you hear me groaning. I have to groan heartrendingly in one of them, and it’s really hard to get up a good artistic groan, Marilla.

Josie Pye is sulky because she didn’t get the part she wanted in the dialogue. She wanted to be the fairy queen. That would have been ridiculous, for who ever heard of a fairy queen as fat as Josie?

Fairy queens must be slender. Jane Andrews is to be the queen and I am to be one of her maids of honor. Josie says she thinks a red-haired fairy is just as ridiculous as a fat one, but I do not let myself mind what Josie says.

I’m to have a wreath of white roses on my hair and Ruby Gillis is going to lend me her slippers because I haven’t any of my own. It’s necessary for fairies to have slippers, you know. You couldn’t imagine a fairy wearing boots, could you?

Especially with copper toes?

We are going to decorate the hall with creeping spruce and fir mottoes with pink tissue-paper roses in them. And we are all to march in two by two after the audience is seated, while Emma White plays a march on the organ.

Oh, Marilla, I know you are not so enthusiastic about it as I am, but don’t you hope your little Anne will distinguish herself?”

“All I hope is that you’ll behave yourself. I’ll be heartily glad when all this fuss is over and you’ll be able to settle down. You are simply good for nothing just now with your head stuffed full of dialogues and groans and tableaus. As for your tongue, it’s a marvel it’s not clean worn out.”

Anne sighed and betook herself to the back yard, over which a young new moon was shining through the leafless poplar boughs from an apple-green western sky, and where Matthew was splitting wood. Anne perched herself on a block and talked the concert over with him, sure of an appreciative and sympathetic listener in this instance at least.

“Well now, I reckon it’s going to be a pretty good concert. And I expect you’ll do your part fine,” he said, smiling down into her eager, vivacious little face. Anne smiled back at him. Those two were the best of friends and Matthew thanked his stars many a time

and oft that he had nothing to do with bringing her up. That was Marilla’s exclusive duty; if it had been his he would have been worried over frequent conflicts between inclination and said duty. As it was, he was free to, “spoil Anne”--Marilla’s phrasing--as much as he liked. But it was not such a bad arrangement after all; a little “appreciation” sometimes does quite as much good as all the conscientious “bringing up” in the world.

CHAPTER XXV.

Matthew Insists on Puffed Sleeves MATTHEW was having a bad ten minutes of it. He had come into the kitchen, in the twilight of a cold, gray December evening, and had sat down in the woodbox corner to take off his heavy boots, unconscious of the fact that Anne and a bevy of her schoolmates were having a practice of “The Fairy Queen” in the sitting room. Presently they came trooping through the hall and out into the kitchen, laughing and chattering gaily. They did not see Matthew, who shrank bashfully back into the shadows beyond the woodbox with a boot in one hand and a bootjack in the other, and he watched them shyly for the aforesaid ten minutes as they put on caps and jackets and talked about the dialogue and the concert.

Anne stood among them, bright eyed and animated as they; but Matthew suddenly became conscious that there was something about her different from her mates. And what worried Matthew was that the difference impressed him as being something that should not exist. Anne had a brighter face, and bigger, starrier eyes, and more delicate features than the other; even shy, unobservant Matthew had learned to take note of these things; but the difference that disturbed him did not consist in any of these respects. Then in what did it consist?
Matthew was haunted by this question long after the girls had gone, arm in arm, down the long, hard-frozen lane and Anne had betaken herself to her books.

He could not refer it to Marilla, who, he felt, would be quite sure to sniff scornfully and remark that the only difference she saw between Anne and the other girls was that they sometimes kept their tongues quiet while Anne never did. This, Matthew felt, would be no great help. He had recourse to his pipe that evening to help him study it out, much to Marilla’s disgust.

After two hours of smoking and hard reflection Matthew arrived at a solution of his problem. Anne was not dressed like the other girls! The more Matthew thought about the matter the more he was convinced that Anne never had been dressed like the other girls--never since she had come to Green Gables.

Marilla kept her clothed in plain, dark dresses, all made after the same unvarying pattern. If Matthew knew there was such a thing as fashion in dress it was as much as he did; but he was quite sure that Anne’s sleeves did not look at all like the sleeves the other girls wore. He recalled the cluster of little girls he had seen around her that evening--all gay in waists of red and blue and pink and white--and he wondered why Marilla always kept her so plainly and soberly gowned. Of course, it must be all right.

Marilla knew best and Marilla was bringing her up. Probably some wise, inscrutable motive was to be served thereby. But surely it would do no harm to let the child have one pretty dress--something like Diana Barry always wore.

Matthew decided that he would give her one; that surely could not be objected to as an unwarranted putting in of his oar. Christmas was only a fortnight off. A nice new dress would be the very thing for a present. Matthew, with a sigh of satisfaction, put away his pipe and went to bed, while Marilla opened all the doors and aired the house.

The very next evening Matthew betook himself to Carmody to buy the dress, determined to get the worst over and have done with it. It would be, he felt assured, no trifling ordeal. There were some things Matthew could buy and prove himself no mean bargainer; but he knew he would be at the mercy of shopkeepers when it came to buying a girl’s dress.

After much cogitation Matthew resolved to go to Samuel Lawson’s store instead of William Blair’s.

To be sure, the Cuthberts always had gone to William Blair’s; it was almost as much a matter of conscience with them as to attend the Presbyterian church and vote Conservative. But William Blair’s two daughters frequently waited on customers there and Matthew held them in absolute dread.

He could contrive to deal with them when he knew exactly what he wanted and could point it out; but in such a matter as this, requiring explanation and consultation, Matthew felt that he must be sure of a man behind the counter. So he would go to Lawson’s, where Samuel or his son would wait on him. Alas!

Matthew did not know that Samuel, in the recent expansion of his business, had set up a lady clerk also; she was a niece of his wife’s and a very dashing young person indeed, with a huge, drooping pompadour, big, rolling brown eyes, and a most extensive and bewildering smile. She was dressed with exceeding smartness and wore several bangle bracelets that glittered and rattled and tinkled with every movement of her hands. Matthew was covered with confusion at finding her there at all; and those bangles completely wrecked his wits at one fell swoop.

“What can I do for you this evening, Mr. Cuthbert?”

Miss Lucilla Harris inquired, briskly and ingratiatingly, tapping the counter with both hands. “Have you any--any--any--well now, say any garden rakes?” stammered Matthew. Miss Harris looked somewhat surprised, as well she might, to hear a man inquiring for garden rakes in the middle of December.

“I believe we have one or two left over,” she said, “but they’re upstairs in the lumber room. I’ll go and see.” During her absence Matthew collected his scattered senses for another effort. When Miss Harris returned with the rake and cheerfully inquired: “Anything else tonight, Mr. Cuthbert?”

Matthew took his courage in both hands and replied: “Well now, since you suggest it, I might as well--take--that is--look at--buy some--some hayseed.” Miss Harris had heard Matthew Cuthbert called odd.

She now concluded that he was entirely crazy. “We only keep hayseed in the spring,” she explained loftily. “We’ve none on hand just now.” “Oh, certainly--certainly--just as you say,” stammered unhappy Matthew, seizing the rake and making for the door. At the threshold he recollected that he had not paid for it and he turned miserably back.

While Miss Harris was counting out his change he rallied his powers for a final desperate attempt. “Well now--if it isn’t too much trouble--I might as well--that is--I’d like to look at--at--some sugar.” “White or brown?” queried Miss Harris patiently. “Oh--well now--brown,” said Matthew feebly.

“There’s a barrel of it over there,” said Miss Harris, shaking her bangles at it. “It’s the only kind we have.” “I’ll--I’ll take twenty pounds of it,” said Matthew, with beads of perspiration standing on his forehead. Matthew had driven halfway home before he was his own man again. It had been a gruesome experience, but it served him right, he thought, for committing the heresy of going to a strange store.

When he reached home he hid the rake in the tool house, but the sugar he carried in to Marilla. “Brown sugar!” exclaimed Marilla. “Whatever possessed you to get so much?

You know I never use it except for the hired man’s porridge or black fruit cake. Jerry’s gone and I’ve made my cake long ago. It’s not good sugar, either--it’s coarse and dark--William Blair doesn’t usually keep sugar like that.” “I--I thought it might come in handy sometime,” said Matthew, making good his escape.

When Matthew came to think the matter over he decided that a woman was required to cope with the situation. Marilla was out of the question. Matthew felt sure she would throw cold water on his project at once. Remained only Mrs. Lynde; for of no other woman in Avonlea would Matthew have dared to ask advice.

To Mrs. Lynde he went accordingly, and that good lady promptly took the matter out of the harassed man’s hands. “Pick out a dress for you to give Anne? To be sure I will. I’m going to Carmody tomorrow and I’ll attend to it. Have you something particular in mind?

No?

Well, I’ll just go by my own judgment then. I believe a nice rich brown would just suit Anne, and William Blair has some new gloria in that’s real pretty. Perhaps you’d like me to make it up for her, too, seeing that if Marilla was to make it Anne would probably get wind of it before the time and spoil the surprise? Well, I’ll do it. No, it isn’t a mite of trouble.

I like sewing. I’ll make it to fit my niece, Jenny Gillis, for she and Anne are as like as two peas as far as figure goes.” “Well now, I’m much obliged,” said Matthew, “and--and--I dunno-- but I’d like--I think they make the sleeves different nowadays to what they used to be.

If it wouldn’t be asking too much I--I’d like them made in the new way.” “Puffs?

Of course.

You needn’t worry a speck more about it, Matthew. I’ll make it up in the very latest fashion,” said Mrs. Lynde. To herself she added when Matthew had gone: “It’ll be a real satisfaction to see that poor child wearing something decent for once. The way Marilla dresses her is positively ridiculous, that’s what, and I’ve ached to tell her so plainly a dozen times.

I’ve held my tongue though, for I can see Marilla doesn’t want advice and she thinks she knows more about bringing children up than I do for all she’s an old maid. But that’s always the way.

Folks that has brought up children know that there’s no hard and fast method in the world that’ll suit every child. But them as never have think it’s all as plain and easy as Rule of Three--just set your three terms down so fashion, and the sum ‘ll work out correct.

But flesh and blood don’t come under the head of arithmetic and that’s where Marilla Cuthbert makes her mistake.

I suppose she’s trying to cultivate a spirit of humility in Anne by dressing her as she does; but it’s more likely to cultivate envy and discontent. I’m sure the child must feel the difference between her clothes and the other girls’. But to think of Matthew taking notice of it!

That man is waking up after being asleep for over sixty years.” Marilla knew all the following fortnight that Matthew had something on his mind, but what it was she could not guess, until Christmas Eve, when Mrs. Lynde brought up the new dress. Marilla behaved pretty well on the whole, although it is very likely she distrusted Mrs. Lynde’s diplomatic explanation that she had made the dress because Matthew was afraid Anne would find out about it too soon if Marilla made it.

“So this is what Matthew has been looking so mysterious over and grinning about to himself for two weeks, is it?”

she said a little stiffly but tolerantly. “I knew he was up to some foolishness. Well, I must say I don’t think Anne needed any more dresses.

I made her three good, warm, serviceable ones this fall, and anything more is sheer extravagance. There’s enough material in those sleeves alone to make a waist, I declare there is. You’ll just pamper Anne’s vanity, Matthew, and she’s as vain as a peacock now.

Well, I hope she’ll be satisfied at last, for I know she’s been hankering after those silly sleeves ever since they came in, although she never said a word after the first. The puffs have been getting bigger and more ridiculous right along; they’re as big as balloons now. Next year anybody who wears them will have to go through a door sideways.”

Christmas morning broke on a beautiful white world. It had been a very mild December and people had looked forward to a green Christmas; but just enough snow fell softly in the night to transfigure Avonlea. Anne peeped out from her frosted gable window with delighted eyes. The firs in the Haunted Wood were all feathery and wonderful; the birches and wild cherry-trees were outlined in pearl; the plowed fields were stretches of snowy dimples; and there was a crisp tang in the air that was glorious.

Anne ran downstairs singing until her voice reechoed through Green Gables. “Merry Christmas, Marilla! Merry Christmas, Matthew!

Isn’t it a lovely Christmas?

I’m so glad it’s white. Any other kind of Christmas doesn’t seem real, does it? I don’t like green Christmases.

They’re not green--they’re just nasty faded browns and grays. What makes people call them green? Why--why--Matthew, is that for me? Oh, Matthew!”

Matthew had sheepishly unfolded the dress from its paper swathings and held it out with a deprecatory glance at Marilla, who feigned to be contemptuously filling the teapot, but nevertheless watched the scene out of the corner of her eye with a rather interested air.

Anne took the dress and looked at it in reverent silence. Oh, how pretty it was--a lovely soft brown gloria with all the gloss of silk; a skirt with dainty frills and shirrings; a waist elaborately pintucked in the most fashionable way, with a little ruffle of filmy lace at the neck. But the sleeves--they were the crowning glory!

Long elbow cuffs, and above them two beautiful puffs divided by rows of shirring and bows of brown-silk ribbon. “That’s a Christmas present for you, Anne,” said Matthew shyly. “Why--why--Anne, don’t you like it? Well now--well now.”

For Anne’s eyes had suddenly filled with tears.

“Like it!

Oh, Matthew!”

Anne laid the dress over a chair and clasped her hands. “Matthew, it’s perfectly exquisite. Oh, I can never thank you enough. Look at those sleeves! Oh, it seems to me this must be a happy dream.”

“Well, well, let us have breakfast,” interrupted Marilla. “I must say, Anne, I don’t think you needed the dress; but since Matthew has got it for you, see that you take good care of it. There’s a hair ribbon Mrs.
Lynde left for you.

It’s brown, to match the dress. Come now, sit in.” “I don’t see how I’m going to eat breakfast,” said Anne rapturously. “Breakfast seems so commonplace at such an exciting moment.

I’d rather feast my eyes on that dress. I’m so glad that puffed sleeves are still fashionable. It did seem to me that I’d never get over it if they went out before I had a dress with them. I’d never have felt quite satisfied, you see. It was lovely of Mrs. Lynde to give me the ribbon too.

I feel that I ought to be a very good girl indeed. It’s at times like this I’m sorry I’m not a model little girl; and I always resolve that I will be in future. But somehow it’s hard to carry out your resolutions when irresistible temptations come.

Still, I really will make an extra effort after this.” When the commonplace breakfast was over Diana appeared, crossing the white log bridge in the hollow, a gay little figure in her crimson ulster. Anne flew down the slope to meet her. “Merry Christmas, Diana!

And oh, it’s a wonderful Christmas. I’ve something splendid to show you. Matthew has given me the loveliest dress, with _such_ sleeves. I couldn’t even imagine any nicer.”

“I’ve got something more for you,” said Diana breathlessly. “Here--this box.

Aunt Josephine sent us out a big box with ever so many things in it--and this is for you. I’d have brought it over last night, but it didn’t come until after dark, and I never feel very comfortable coming through the Haunted Wood in the dark now.” Anne opened the box and peeped in.

First a card with “For the Anne-girl and Merry Christmas,” written on it; and then, a pair of the daintiest little kid slippers, with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles. “Oh,” said Anne, “Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming.” “I call it providential,” said Diana.

“You won’t have to borrow Ruby’s slippers now, and that’s a blessing, for they’re two sizes too big for you, and it would be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pye would be delighted. Mind you, Rob Wright went home with Gertie Pye from the practice night before last.

Did you ever hear anything equal to that?”

All the Avonlea scholars were in a fever of excitement that day, for the hall had to be decorated and a last grand rehearsal held. The concert came off in the evening and was a pronounced success. The little hall was crowded; all the performers did excellently well, but Anne was the bright particular star of the occasion, as even envy, in the shape of Josie Pye, dared not deny. “Oh, hasn’t it been a brilliant evening?” sighed Anne, when it was all over and she and Diana were walking home together under a dark, starry sky.

“Everything went off very well,” said Diana practically. “I guess we must have made as much as ten dollars. Mind you, Mr. Allan is going to send an account of it to the Charlottetown papers.”

“Oh, Diana, will we really see our names in print? It makes me thrill to think of it. Your solo was perfectly elegant, Diana.

I felt prouder than you did when it was encored. I just said to myself, ‘It is my dear bosom friend who is so honored.’”

“Well, your recitations just brought down the house, Anne. That sad one was simply splendid.”

“Oh, I was so nervous, Diana. When Mr. Allan called out my name I really cannot tell how I ever got up on that platform. I felt as if a million eyes were looking at me and through me, and for one dreadful moment I was sure I couldn’t begin at all. Then I thought of my lovely puffed sleeves and took courage.

I knew that I must live up to those sleeves, Diana. So I started in, and my voice seemed to be coming from ever so far away. I just felt like a parrot. It’s providential that I practiced those recitations so often up in the garret, or I’d never have been able to get through.

Did I groan all right?” “Yes, indeed, you groaned lovely,” assured Diana. “I saw old Mrs. Sloane wiping away tears when I sat down. It was splendid to think I had touched somebody’s heart. It’s so romantic to take part in a concert, isn’t it?

Oh, it’s been a very memorable occasion indeed.” “Wasn’t the boys’ dialogue fine?” said Diana. “Gilbert Blythe was just splendid. Anne, I do think it’s awful mean the way you treat Gil.

Wait till I tell you. When you ran off the platform after the fairy dialogue one of your roses fell out of your hair. I saw Gil pick it up and put it in his breast pocket. There now.

You’re so romantic that I’m sure you ought to be pleased at that.” “It’s nothing to me what that person does,” said Anne loftily. “I simply never waste a thought on him, Diana.”

That night Marilla and Matthew, who had been out to a concert for the first time in twenty years, sat for a while by the kitchen fire after Anne had gone to bed. “Well now, I guess our Anne did as well as any of them,” said Matthew proudly.

“Yes, she did,” admitted Marilla. “She’s a bright child, Matthew. And she looked real nice too. I’ve been kind of opposed to this concert scheme, but I suppose there’s no real harm in it after all.

Anyhow, I was proud of Anne tonight, although I’m not going to tell her so.” “Well now, I was proud of her and I did tell her so ‘fore she went upstairs,” said Matthew. “We must see what we can do for her some of these days, Marilla. I guess she’ll need something more than Avonlea school by and by.”

“There’s time enough to think of that,” said Marilla. “She’s only thirteen in March. Though tonight it struck me she was growing quite a big girl.

Mrs. Lynde made that dress a mite too long, and it makes Anne look so tall. She’s quick to learn and I guess the best thing we can do for her will be to send her to Queen’s after a spell. But nothing need be said about that for a year or two yet.”

“Well now, it’ll do no harm to be thinking it over off and on,” said Matthew.

“Things like that are all the better for lots of thinking over.” CHAPTER XXVI.

The Story Club Is Formed JUNIOR Avonlea found it hard to settle down to humdrum existence again. To Anne in particular things seemed fearfully flat, stale, and unprofitable after the goblet of excitement she had been sipping for weeks. Could she go back to the former quiet pleasures of those faraway days before the concert?

At first, as she told Diana, she did not really think she could. “I’m positively certain, Diana, that life can never be quite the same again as it was in those olden days,” she said mournfully, as if referring to a period of at least fifty years back. “Perhaps after a while I’ll get used to it, but I’m afraid concerts spoil people for everyday life. I suppose that is why Marilla disapproves of them.

Marilla is such a sensible woman. It must be a great deal better to be sensible; but still, I don’t believe I’d really want to be a sensible person, because they are so unromantic. Mrs. Lynde says there is no danger of my ever being one, but you can never tell. I feel just now that I may grow up to be sensible yet. But perhaps that is only because I’m tired.

I simply couldn’t sleep last night for ever so long. I just lay awake and imagined the concert over and over again. That’s one splendid thing about such affairs--it’s so lovely to look back to them.” Eventually, however, Avonlea school slipped back into its old groove and took up its old interests.

To be sure, the concert left traces. Ruby Gillis and Emma White, who had quarreled over a point of precedence in their platform seats, no longer sat at the same desk, and a promising friendship of three years was broken up. Josie Pye and Julia Bell did not “speak” for three months, because Josie Pye had told Bessie Wright that Julia Bell’s bow when she got up to recite made her think of a chicken jerking its head, and Bessie told Julia. None of the Sloanes would have any dealings with the Bells, because the Bells had declared that the Sloanes had too much to do in the program, and the Sloanes had retorted that the Bells were not capable of doing the little they had to do properly.

Finally, Charlie Sloane fought Moody Spurgeon MacPherson, because Moody Spurgeon had said that Anne Shirley put on airs about her recitations, and Moody Spurgeon was “licked”; consequently Moody Spurgeon’s sister, Ella May, would not “speak” to Anne Shirley all the rest of the winter. With the exception of these trifling frictions, work in Miss Stacy’s little kingdom went on with regularity and smoothness. The winter weeks slipped by.

It was an unusually mild winter, with so little snow that Anne and Diana could go to school nearly every day by way of the Birch Path. On Anne’s birthday they were tripping lightly down it, keeping eyes and ears alert amid all their chatter, for Miss Stacy had told them that they must soon write a composition on “A Winter’s Walk in the Woods,” and it behooved them to be observant. “Just think, Diana, I’m thirteen years old today,” remarked Anne in an awed voice.

“I can scarcely realize that I’m in my teens. When I woke this morning it seemed to me that everything must be different. You’ve been thirteen for a month, so I suppose it doesn’t seem such a novelty to you as it does to me. It makes life seem so much more interesting.

In two more years I’ll be really grown up. It’s a great comfort to think that I’ll be able to use big words then without being laughed at.”

“Ruby Gillis says she means to have a beau as soon as she’s fifteen,”  said Diana. “Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,” said Anne disdainfully. “She’s actually delighted when anyone writes her name up in a take-notice for all she pretends to be so mad.

But I’m afraid that is an uncharitable speech.

Mrs. Allan says we should never make uncharitable speeches; but they do slip out so often before you think, don’t they? I simply can’t talk about Josie Pye without making an uncharitable speech, so I never mention her at all. You may have noticed that.

I’m trying to be as much like Mrs. Allan as I possibly can, for I think she’s perfect. Mr. Allan thinks so too. Mrs. Lynde says he just worships the ground she treads on and she doesn’t really think it right for a minister to set his affections so much on a mortal being. But then, Diana, even ministers are human and have their besetting sins just like everybody else.

I had such an interesting talk with Mrs. Allan about besetting sins last Sunday afternoon. There are just a few things it’s proper to talk about on Sundays and that is one of them. My besetting sin is imagining too much and forgetting my duties. I’m striving very hard to overcome it and now that I’m really thirteen perhaps I’ll get on better.”

“In four more years we’ll be able to put our hair up,” said Diana. “Alice Bell is only sixteen and she is wearing hers up, but I think that’s ridiculous. I shall wait until I’m seventeen.” “If I had Alice Bell’s crooked nose,” said Anne decidedly, “I wouldn’t--but there!

I won’t say what I was going to because it was extremely uncharitable. Besides, I was comparing it with my own nose and that’s vanity. I’m afraid I think too much about my nose ever since I heard that compliment about it long ago. It really is a great comfort to me. Oh, Diana, look, there’s a rabbit.

That’s something to remember for our woods composition. I really think the woods are just as lovely in winter as in summer. They’re so white and still, as if they were asleep and dreaming pretty dreams.” “I won’t mind writing that composition when its time comes,” sighed Diana.

“I can manage to write about the woods, but the one we’re to hand in Monday is terrible. The idea of Miss Stacy telling us to write a story out of our own heads!” “Why, it’s as easy as wink,” said Anne. “It’s easy for you because you have an imagination,” retorted Diana, “but what would you do if you had been born without one?

I suppose you have your composition all done?” Anne nodded, trying hard not to look virtuously complacent and failing miserably. “I wrote it last Monday evening. It’s called ‘The Jealous Rival; or In Death Not Divided.’ I read it to Marilla and she said it was stuff and nonsense.

Then I read it to Matthew and he said it was fine. That is the kind of critic I like. It’s a sad, sweet story.

I just cried like a child while I was writing it. It’s about two beautiful maidens called Cordelia Montmorency and Geraldine Seymour who lived in the same village and were devotedly attached to each other. Cordelia was a regal brunette with a coronet of midnight hair and duskly flashing eyes. Geraldine was a queenly blonde with hair like spun gold and velvety purple eyes.”

“I never saw anybody with purple eyes,” said Diana dubiously. “Neither did I. I just imagined them. I wanted something out of the common. Geraldine had an alabaster brow too.

I’ve found out what an alabaster brow is. That is one of the advantages of being thirteen. You know so much more than you did when you were only twelve.”

“Well, what became of Cordelia and Geraldine?” asked Diana, who was beginning to feel rather interested in their fate.

“They grew in beauty side by side until they were sixteen. Then Bertram DeVere came to their native village and fell in love with the fair Geraldine. He saved her life when her horse ran away with her in a carriage, and she fainted in his arms and he carried her home three miles; because, you understand, the carriage was all smashed up. I found it rather hard to imagine the proposal because I had no experience to go by. I asked Ruby Gillis if she knew anything about how men proposed because I thought she’d likely be an authority on the subject, having so many sisters married.

Ruby told me she was hid in the hall pantry when Malcolm Andres proposed to her sister Susan. She said Malcolm told Susan that his dad had given him the farm in his own name and then said, ‘What do you say, darling pet, if we get hitched this fall?’ And Susan said, ‘Yes--no--I don’t know--let me see’--and there they were, engaged as quick as that. But I didn’t think that sort of a proposal was a very romantic one, so in the end I had to imagine it out as well as I could.

I made it very flowery and poetical and Bertram went on his knees, although Ruby Gillis says it isn’t done nowadays. Geraldine accepted him in a speech a page long. I can tell you I took a lot of trouble with that speech. I rewrote it five times and I look upon it as my masterpiece.

Bertram gave her a diamond ring and a ruby necklace and told her they would go to Europe for a wedding tour, for he was immensely wealthy. But then, alas, shadows began to darken over their path.

Cordelia was secretly in love with Bertram herself and when Geraldine told her about the engagement she was simply furious, especially when she saw the necklace and the diamond ring. All her affection for Geraldine turned to bitter hate and she vowed that she should never marry Bertram. But she pretended to be Geraldine’s friend the same as ever.

One evening they were standing on the bridge over a rushing turbulent stream and Cordelia, thinking they were alone, pushed Geraldine over the brink with a wild, mocking, ‘Ha, ha, ha.’ But Bertram saw it all and he at once plunged into the current, exclaiming, ‘I will save thee, my peerless Geraldine.’

But alas, he had forgotten he couldn’t swim, and they were both drowned, clasped in each other’s arms.

Their bodies were washed ashore soon afterwards. They were buried in the one grave and their funeral was most imposing, Diana. It’s so much more romantic to end a story up with a funeral than a wedding. As for Cordelia, she went insane with remorse and was shut up in a lunatic asylum.

I thought that was a poetical retribution for her crime.” “How perfectly lovely!”

sighed Diana, who belonged to Matthew’s school of critics. “I don’t see how you can make up such thrilling things out of your own head, Anne.

I wish my imagination was as good as yours.”

“It would be if you’d only cultivate it,” said Anne cheeringly. “I’ve just thought of a plan, Diana. Let you and me have a story club all our own and write stories for practice. I’ll help you along until you can do them by yourself. You ought to cultivate your imagination, you know.

Miss Stacy says so. Only we must take the right way. I told her about the Haunted Wood, but she said we went the wrong way about it in that.” This was how the story club came into existence.

It was limited to Diana and Anne at first, but soon it was extended to include Jane Andrews and Ruby Gillis and one or two others who felt that their imaginations needed cultivating. No boys were allowed in it--although Ruby Gillis opined that their admission would make it more exciting--and each member had to produce one story a week. “It’s extremely interesting,” Anne told Marilla. “Each girl has to read her story out loud and then we talk it over.

We are going to keep them all sacredly and have them to read to our descendants. We each write under a nom-de-plume. Mine is Rosamond Montmorency. All the girls do pretty well. Ruby Gillis is rather sentimental.

She puts too much lovemaking into her stories and you know too much is worse than too little. Jane never puts any because she says it makes her feel so silly when she had to read it out loud. Jane’s stories are extremely sensible. Then Diana puts too many murders into hers. She says most of the time she doesn’t know what to do with the people so she kills them off to get rid of them.

I mostly always have to tell them what to write about, but that isn’t hard for I’ve millions of ideas.” “I think this story-writing business is the foolishest yet,” scoffed Marilla. “You’ll get a pack of nonsense into your heads and waste time that should be put on your lessons. Reading stories is bad enough but writing them is worse.”

“But we’re so careful to put a moral into them all, Marilla,” explained Anne. “I insist upon that. All the good people are rewarded and all the bad ones are suitably punished. I’m sure that must have a wholesome effect. The moral is the great thing.

Mr. Allan says so. I read one of my stories to him and Mrs. Allan and they both agreed that the moral was excellent. Only they laughed in the wrong places. I like it better when people cry. Jane and Ruby almost always cry when I come to the pathetic parts.

Diana wrote her Aunt Josephine about our club and her Aunt Josephine wrote back that we were to send her some of our stories. So we copied out four of our very best and sent them. Miss Josephine Barry wrote back that she had never read anything so amusing in her life. That kind of puzzled us because the stories were all very pathetic and almost everybody died.

But I’m glad Miss Barry liked them.

It shows our club is doing some good in the world. Mrs. Allan says that ought to be our object in everything. I do really try to make it my object but I forget so often when I’m having fun.

I hope I shall be a little like Mrs. Allan when I grow up. Do you think there is any prospect of it, Marilla?” “I shouldn’t say there was a great deal” was Marilla’s encouraging answer. “I’m sure Mrs. Allan was never such a silly, forgetful little girl as you are.”

“No; but she wasn’t always so good as she is now either,” said Anne seriously. “She told me so herself--that is, she said she was a dreadful mischief when she was a girl and was always getting into scrapes. I felt so encouraged when I heard that.

Is it very wicked of me, Marilla, to feel encouraged when I hear that other people have been bad and mischievous?

Mrs. Lynde says it is. Mrs. Lynde says she always feels shocked when she hears of anyone ever having been naughty, no matter how small they were. Mrs. Lynde says she once heard a minister confess that when he was a boy he stole a strawberry tart out of his aunt’s pantry and she never had any respect for that minister again. Now, I wouldn’t have felt that way. I’d have thought that it was real noble of him to confess it, and I’d have thought what an encouraging thing it would be for small boys nowadays who do naughty things and are sorry for them to know that perhaps they may grow up to be ministers in spite of it.

That’s how I’d feel, Marilla.” “The way I feel at present, Anne,” said Marilla, “is that it’s high time you had those dishes washed. You’ve taken half an hour longer than you should with all your chattering.

Learn to work first and talk afterwards.”

CHAPTER XXVII. Vanity and Vexation of Spirit MARILLA, walking home one late April evening from an Aid meeting, realized that the winter was over and gone with the thrill of delight that spring never fails to bring to the oldest and saddest as well as to the youngest and merriest. Marilla was not given to subjective analysis of her thoughts and feelings. She probably imagined that she was thinking about the Aids and their missionary box and the new carpet for the vestry room, but under these reflections was a harmonious consciousness of red fields smoking into pale-purply mists in the declining sun, of long, sharp-pointed fir shadows falling over the meadow beyond the brook, of still, crimson-budded maples around a mirrorlike wood pool, of a wakening in the world and a stir of hidden pulses under the gray sod.

The spring was abroad in the land and Marilla’s sober, middle-aged step was lighter and swifter because of its deep, primal gladness. Her eyes dwelt affectionately on Green Gables, peering through its network of trees and reflecting the sunlight back from its windows in several little coruscations of glory. Marilla, as she picked her steps along the damp lane, thought that it was really a satisfaction to know that she was going home to a briskly snapping wood fire and a table nicely spread for tea, instead of to the cold comfort of old Aid meeting evenings before Anne had come to Green Gables.

Consequently, when Marilla entered her kitchen and found the fire black out, with no sign of Anne anywhere, she felt justly disappointed and irritated. She had told Anne to be sure and have tea ready at five o’clock, but now she must hurry to take off her second-best dress and prepare the meal herself against Matthew’s return from plowing. “I’ll settle Miss Anne when she comes home,” said Marilla grimly, as she shaved up kindlings with a carving knife and with more vim than was strictly necessary. Matthew had come in and was waiting patiently for his tea in his corner.

“She’s gadding off somewhere with Diana, writing stories or practicing dialogues or some such tomfoolery, and never thinking once about the time or her duties. She’s just got to be pulled up short and sudden on this sort of thing. I don’t care if Mrs. Allan does say she’s the brightest and sweetest child she ever knew.

She may be bright and sweet enough, but her head is full of nonsense and there’s never any knowing what shape it’ll break out in next. Just as soon as she grows out of one freak she takes up with another. But there!

Here I am saying the very thing I was so riled with Rachel Lynde for saying at the Aid today. I was real glad when Mrs. Allan spoke up for Anne, for if she hadn’t I know I’d have said something too sharp to Rachel before everybody. Anne’s got plenty of faults, goodness knows, and far be it from me to deny it. But I’m bringing her up and not Rachel Lynde, who’d pick faults in the Angel Gabriel himself if he lived in Avonlea.

Just the same, Anne has no business to leave the house like this when I told her she was to stay home this afternoon and look after things. I must say, with all her faults, I never found her disobedient or untrustworthy before and I’m real sorry to find her so now.”

“Well now, I dunno,” said Matthew, who, being patient and wise and, above all, hungry, had deemed it best to let Marilla talk her wrath out unhindered, having learned by experience that she got through with whatever work was on hand much quicker if not delayed by untimely argument. “Perhaps you’re judging her too hasty, Marilla. Don’t call her untrustworthy until you’re sure she has disobeyed you. Mebbe it can all be explained--Anne’s a great hand at explaining.” “She’s not here when I told her to stay,” retorted Marilla.

“I reckon she’ll find it hard to explain _that_ to my satisfaction. Of course I knew you’d take her part, Matthew. But I’m bringing her up, not you.”

It was dark when supper was ready, and still no sign of Anne, coming hurriedly over the log bridge or up Lover’s Lane, breathless and repentant with a sense of neglected duties. Marilla washed and put away the dishes grimly. Then, wanting a candle to light her way down the cellar, she went up to the east gable for the one that generally stood on Anne’s table. Lighting it, she turned around to see Anne herself lying on the bed, face downward among the pillows. “Mercy on us,” said astonished Marilla, “have you been asleep, Anne?”

“No,” was the muffled reply. “Are you sick then?” demanded Marilla anxiously, going over to the bed. Anne cowered deeper into her pillows as if desirous of hiding herself forever from mortal eyes.

“No.

But please, Marilla, go away and don’t look at me. I’m in the depths of despair and I don’t care who gets head in class or writes the best composition or sings in the Sunday-school choir any more. Little things like that are of no importance now because I don’t suppose I’ll ever be able to go anywhere again. My career is closed. Please, Marilla, go away and don’t look at me.”

“Did anyone ever hear the like?”

the mystified Marilla wanted to know. “Anne Shirley, whatever is the matter with you? What have you done?

Get right up this minute and tell me. This minute, I say.

There now, what is it?”

Anne had slid to the floor in despairing obedience. “Look at my hair, Marilla,” she whispered. Accordingly, Marilla lifted her candle and looked scrutinizingly at Anne’s hair, flowing in heavy masses down her back.

It certainly had a very strange appearance. “Anne Shirley, what have you done to your hair? Why, it’s _green!_” Green it might be called, if it were any earthly color--a queer, dull, bronzy green, with streaks here and there of the original red to heighten the ghastly effect. Never in all her life had Marilla seen anything so grotesque as Anne’s hair at that moment.

“Yes, it’s green,” moaned Anne. “I thought nothing could be as bad as red hair. But now I know it’s ten times worse to have green hair.

Oh, Marilla, you little know how utterly wretched I am.” “I little know how you got into this fix, but I mean to find out,” said Marilla. “Come right down to the kitchen--it’s too cold up here--and tell me just what you’ve done. I’ve been expecting something queer for some time.

You haven’t got into any scrape for over two months, and I was sure another one was due. Now, then, what did you do to your hair?” “I dyed it.”

“Dyed it! Dyed your hair! Anne Shirley, didn’t you know it was a wicked thing to do?”

“Yes, I knew it was a little wicked,” admitted Anne. “But I thought it was worth while to be a little wicked to get rid of red hair. I counted the cost, Marilla. Besides, I meant to be extra good in other ways to make up for it.”

“Well,” said Marilla sarcastically, “if I’d decided it was worth while to dye my hair I’d have dyed it a decent color at least.

I wouldn’t have dyed it green.” “But I didn’t mean to dye it green, Marilla,” protested Anne dejectedly. “If I was wicked I meant to be wicked to some purpose.

He said it would turn my hair a beautiful raven black--he positively assured me that it would. How could I doubt his word, Marilla?

I know what it feels like to have your word doubted. And Mrs. Allan says we should never suspect anyone of not telling us the truth unless we have proof that they’re not. I have proof now--green hair is proof enough for anybody.

But I hadn’t then

and I believed every word he said _implicitly_.” “Who said? Who are you talking about?”

“The peddler that was here this afternoon. I bought the dye from him.”

“Anne Shirley, how often have I told you never to let one of those Italians in the house!

I don’t believe in encouraging them to come around at all.” “Oh, I didn’t let him in the house. I remembered what you told me, and I went out, carefully shut the door, and looked at his things on the step. Besides, he wasn’t an Italian--he was a German Jew.

He had a big box full of very interesting things and he told me he was working hard to make enough money to bring his wife and children out from Germany. He spoke so feelingly about them that it touched my heart. I wanted to buy something from him to help him in such a worthy object. Then all at once I saw the bottle of hair dye.

The peddler said it was warranted to dye any hair a beautiful raven black and wouldn’t wash off. In a trice I saw myself with beautiful raven-black hair and the temptation was irresistible. But the price of the bottle was seventy-five cents and I had only fifty cents left out of my chicken money.

I think the peddler had a very kind heart, for he said that, seeing it was me, he’d sell it for fifty cents and that was just giving it away. So I bought it, and as soon as he had gone I came up here and applied it with an old hairbrush as the directions said. I used up the whole bottle, and oh, Marilla, when I saw the dreadful color it turned my hair I repented of being wicked, I can tell you. And I’ve been repenting ever since.” “Well, I hope you’ll repent to good purpose,” said Marilla severely, “and that you’ve got your eyes opened to where your vanity has led you, Anne.

Goodness knows what’s to be done. I suppose the first thing is to give your hair a good washing and see if that will do any good.” Accordingly, Anne washed her hair, scrubbing it vigorously with soap and water, but for all the difference it made she might as well have been scouring its original red. The peddler had certainly spoken the truth when he declared that the dye wouldn’t wash off, however his veracity might be impeached in other respects.

“Oh, Marilla, what shall I do?” questioned Anne in tears. “I can never live this down. People have pretty well forgotten my other mistakes--the liniment cake and setting Diana drunk and flying into a temper with Mrs. Lynde. But they’ll never forget this.

They will think I am not respectable. Oh, Marilla, ‘what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.’ That is poetry, but it is true. And oh, how Josie Pye will laugh!

Marilla, I _cannot_ face Josie Pye. I am the unhappiest girl in Prince Edward Island.”

Anne’s unhappiness continued for a week. During that time she went nowhere and shampooed her hair every day. Diana alone of outsiders knew the fatal secret, but she promised solemnly never to tell, and it may be stated here and now that she kept her word. At the end of the week Marilla said decidedly: “It’s no use, Anne.

That is fast dye if ever there was any. Your hair must be cut off; there is no other way. You can’t go out with it looking like that.” Anne’s lips quivered, but she realized the bitter truth of Marilla’s remarks.

With a dismal sigh she went for the scissors. “Please cut it off at once, Marilla, and have it over. Oh, I feel that my heart is broken. This is such an unromantic affliction. The girls in books lose their hair in fevers or sell it to get money for some good deed, and I’m sure I wouldn’t mind losing my hair in some such fashion half so much.

But there is nothing comforting in having your hair cut off because you’ve dyed it a dreadful color, is there?

I’m going to weep all the time you’re cutting it off, if it won’t interfere. It seems such a tragic thing.” Anne wept then, but later on, when she went upstairs and looked in the glass, she was calm with despair.

Marilla had done her work thoroughly and it had been necessary to shingle the hair as closely as possible. The result was not becoming, to state the case as mildly as may be. Anne promptly turned her glass to the wall. “I’ll never, never look at myself again until my hair grows,” she exclaimed passionately.

Then she suddenly righted the glass. “Yes, I will, too. I’d do penance for being wicked that way. I’ll look at myself every time I come to my room and see how ugly I am. And I won’t try to imagine it away, either.

I never thought I was vain about my hair, of all things, but now I know I was, in spite of its being red, because it was so long and thick and curly. I expect something will happen to my nose next.” Anne’s clipped head made a sensation in school on the following Monday, but to her relief nobody guessed the real reason for it, not even Josie Pye, who, however, did not fail to inform Anne that she looked like a perfect scarecrow. “I didn’t say anything when Josie said that to me,” Anne confided that evening to Marilla, who was lying on the sofa after one of her headaches, “because I thought it was part of my punishment and I ought to bear it patiently.

It’s hard to be told you look like a scarecrow and I wanted to say something back. But I didn’t.

I just swept her one scornful look and then I forgave her. It makes you feel very virtuous when you forgive people, doesn’t it? I mean to devote all my energies to being good after this and I shall never try to be beautiful again. Of course it’s better to be good. I know it is, but it’s sometimes so hard to believe a thing even when you know it.

I do really want to be good, Marilla, like you and Mrs. Allan and Miss Stacy, and grow up to be a credit to you. Diana says when my hair begins to grow to tie a black velvet ribbon around my head with a bow at one side. She says she thinks it will be very becoming. I will call it a snood--that sounds so romantic. But am I talking too much, Marilla?

Does it hurt your head?” “My head is better now. It was terrible bad this afternoon, though.

These headaches of mine are getting worse and worse. I’ll have to see a doctor about them. As for your chatter, I don’t know that I mind it--I’ve got so used to it.” Which was Marilla’s way of saying that she liked to hear it.
CHAPTER XXVIII.

An Unfortunate Lily Maid OF course you must be Elaine, Anne,” said Diana. “I could never have the courage to float down there.” “Nor I,” said Ruby Gillis, with a shiver. “I don’t mind floating down when there’s two or three of us in the flat and we can sit up. It’s fun then.

But to lie down and pretend I was dead--I just couldn’t.

I’d die really of fright.” “Of course it would be romantic,” conceded Jane Andrews, “but I know I couldn’t keep still. I’d be popping up every minute or so to see where I was and if I wasn’t drifting too far out. And you know, Anne, that would spoil the effect.”

“But it’s so ridiculous to have a redheaded Elaine,” mourned Anne. “I’m not afraid to float down and I’d love to be Elaine. But it’s ridiculous just the same.

Ruby ought to be Elaine because she is so fair and has such lovely long golden hair--Elaine had ‘all her bright hair streaming down,’ you know. And Elaine was the lily maid. Now, a red-haired person cannot be a lily maid.” “Your complexion is just as fair as Ruby’s,” said Diana earnestly, “and your hair is ever so much darker than it used to be before you cut it.”

“Oh, do you really think so?” exclaimed Anne, flushing sensitively with delight. “I’ve sometimes thought it was myself--but I never dared to ask anyone for fear she would tell me it wasn’t. Do you think it could be called auburn now, Diana?”

“Yes, and I think it is real pretty,” said Diana, looking admiringly at the short, silky curls that clustered over Anne’s head and were held in place by a very jaunty black velvet ribbon and bow. They were standing on the bank of the pond, below Orchard Slope, where a little headland fringed with birches ran out from the bank; at its tip was a small wooden platform built out into the water for the convenience of fishermen and duck hunters. Ruby and Jane were spending the midsummer afternoon with Diana, and Anne had come over to play with them. Anne and Diana had spent most of their playtime that summer on and about the pond.

Idlewild was a thing of the past, Mr. Bell having ruthlessly cut down the little circle of trees in his back pasture in the spring. Anne had sat among the stumps and wept, not without an eye to the romance of it; but she was speedily consoled, for, after all, as she and Diana said, big girls of thirteen, going on fourteen, were too old for such childish amusements as playhouses, and there were more fascinating sports to be found about the pond. It was splendid to fish for trout over the bridge and the two girls learned to row themselves about in the little flat-bottomed dory Mr. Barry kept for duck shooting.

It was Anne’s idea that they dramatize Elaine. They had studied Tennyson’s poem in school the preceding winter, the Superintendent of Education having prescribed it in the English course for the Prince Edward Island schools. They had analyzed and parsed it and torn it to pieces in general until it was a wonder there was any meaning at all left in it for them, but at least the fair lily maid and Lancelot and Guinevere and King Arthur had become very real people to them, and Anne was devoured by secret regret that she had not been born in Camelot.

Those days, she said, were so much more romantic than the present. Anne’s plan was hailed with enthusiasm. The girls had discovered that if the flat were pushed off from the landing place it would drift down with the current under the bridge and finally strand itself on another headland lower down which ran out at a curve in the pond. They had often gone down like this and nothing could be more convenient for playing Elaine. “Well, I’ll be Elaine,” said Anne, yielding reluctantly, for, although she would have been delighted to play the principal character, yet her artistic sense demanded fitness for it and this, she felt, her limitations made impossible.

“Ruby, you must be King Arthur and Jane will be Guinevere and Diana must be Lancelot. But first you must be the brothers and the father.

We can’t have the old dumb servitor because there isn’t room for two in the flat when one is lying down. We must pall the barge all its length in blackest samite. That old black shawl of your mother’s will be just the thing, Diana.” The black shawl having been procured, Anne spread it over the flat and then lay down on the bottom, with closed eyes and hands folded over her breast.

“Oh, she does look really dead,” whispered Ruby Gillis nervously, watching the still, white little face under the flickering shadows of the birches. “It makes me feel frightened, girls. Do you suppose it’s really right to act like this?

Mrs. Lynde says that all play-acting is abominably wicked.”

“Ruby, you shouldn’t talk about Mrs. Lynde,” said Anne severely. “It spoils the effect because this is hundreds of years before Mrs. Lynde was born.

Jane, you arrange this. It’s silly for Elaine to be talking when she’s dead.” Jane rose to the occasion.

Cloth of gold for coverlet there was none, but an old piano scarf of yellow Japanese crepe was an excellent substitute. A white lily was not obtainable just then, but the effect of a tall blue iris placed in one of Anne’s folded hands was all that could be desired. “Now, she’s all ready,” said Jane.

“We must kiss her quiet brows and, Diana, you say, ‘Sister, farewell forever,’ and Ruby, you say, ‘Farewell, sweet sister,’ both of you as sorrowfully as you possibly can. Anne, for goodness sake smile a little. You know Elaine ‘lay as though she smiled.’

That’s better. Now push the flat off.” The flat was accordingly pushed off, scraping roughly over an old embedded stake in the process.

Diana and Jane and Ruby only waited long enough to see it caught in the current and headed for the bridge before scampering up through the woods, across the road, and down to the lower headland where, as Lancelot and Guinevere and the King, they were to be in readiness to receive the lily maid. For a few minutes Anne, drifting slowly down, enjoyed the romance of her situation to the full. Then something happened not at all romantic.

The flat began to leak. In a very few moments it was necessary for Elaine to scramble to her feet, pick up her cloth of gold coverlet and pall of blackest samite and gaze blankly at a big crack in the bottom of her barge through which the water was literally pouring. That sharp stake at the landing had torn off the strip of batting nailed on the flat. Anne did not know this, but it did not take her long to realize that she was in a dangerous plight. At this rate the flat would fill and sink long before it could drift to the lower headland.

Where were the oars? Left behind at the landing! Anne gave one gasping little scream which nobody ever heard; she was white to the lips, but she did not lose her self-possession.

There was one chance--just one. “I was horribly frightened,” she told Mrs. Allan the next day, “and it seemed like years while the flat was drifting down to the bridge and the water rising in it every moment. I prayed, Mrs. Allan, most earnestly, but I didn’t shut my eyes to pray, for I knew the only way God could save me was to let the flat float close enough to one of the bridge piles for me to climb up on it.

You know the piles are just old tree trunks and there are lots of knots and old branch stubs on them. It was proper to pray, but I had to do my part by watching out and right well I knew it. I just said, ‘Dear God, please take the flat close to a pile and I’ll do the rest,’ over and over again. Under such circumstances you don’t think much about making a flowery prayer.

But mine was answered, for the flat bumped right into a pile for a minute and I flung the scarf and the shawl over my shoulder and scrambled up on a big providential stub.

And there I was, Mrs. Allan, clinging to that slippery old pile with no way of getting up or down. It was a very unromantic position, but I didn’t think about that at the time. You don’t think much about romance when you have just escaped from a watery grave.

I said a grateful prayer at once and then I gave all my attention to holding on tight, for I knew I should probably have to depend on human aid to get back to dry land.” The flat drifted under the bridge and then promptly sank in midstream.
Ruby, Jane, and Diana, already awaiting it on the lower headland, saw it disappear before their very eyes and had not a doubt but that Anne had gone down with it. For a moment they stood still, white as sheets, frozen with horror at the tragedy; then, shrieking at the tops of their voices, they started on a frantic run up through the woods, never pausing as they crossed the main road to glance the way of the bridge. Anne, clinging desperately to her precarious foothold, saw their flying forms and heard their shrieks.

Help would soon come, but meanwhile her position was a very uncomfortable one. The minutes passed by, each seeming an hour to the unfortunate lily maid. Why didn’t somebody come? Where had the girls gone?

Suppose they had fainted, one and all! Suppose nobody ever came! Suppose she grew so tired and cramped that she could hold on no longer!

Anne looked at the wicked green depths below her, wavering with long, oily shadows, and shivered. Her imagination began to suggest all manner of gruesome possibilities to her. Then, just as she thought she really could not endure the ache in her arms and wrists another moment, Gilbert Blythe came rowing under the bridge in Harmon Andrews’s dory!
Gilbert glanced up and, much to his amazement, beheld a little white scornful face looking down upon him with big, frightened but also scornful gray eyes.

“Anne Shirley!

How on earth did you get there?” he exclaimed. Without waiting for an answer he pulled close to the pile and extended his hand.

There was no help for it; Anne, clinging to Gilbert Blythe’s hand, scrambled down into the dory, where she sat, drabbled and furious, in the stern with her arms full of dripping shawl and wet crepe. It was certainly extremely difficult to be dignified under the circumstances!

“What has happened, Anne?” asked Gilbert, taking up his oars. “We were playing Elaine,” explained Anne frigidly, without even looking at her rescuer, “and I had to drift down to Camelot in the barge--I mean the flat. The flat began to leak and I climbed out on the pile. The girls went for help. Will you be kind enough to row me to the landing?”

Gilbert obligingly rowed to the landing and Anne, disdaining assistance, sprang nimbly on shore. “I’m very much obliged to you,” she said haughtily as she turned away. But Gilbert had also sprung from the boat and now laid a detaining hand on her arm.

“Anne,” he said hurriedly, “look here. Can’t we be good friends? I’m awfully sorry I made fun of your hair that time. I didn’t mean to vex you

and I only meant it for a joke. Besides, it’s so long ago. I think your hair is awfully pretty now--honest I do. Let’s be friends.” For a moment Anne hesitated.

She had an odd, newly awakened consciousness under all her outraged dignity that the half-shy, half-eager expression in Gilbert’s hazel eyes was something that was very good to see. Her heart gave a quick, queer little beat. But the bitterness of her old grievance promptly stiffened up her wavering determination.

That scene of two years before flashed back into her recollection as vividly as if it had taken place yesterday. Gilbert had called her “carrots” and had brought about her disgrace before the whole school. Her resentment, which to other and older people might be as laughable as its cause, was in no whit allayed and softened by time seemingly.

She hated Gilbert Blythe! She would never forgive him! “No,” she said coldly, “I shall never be friends with you, Gilbert Blythe; and I don’t want to be!” “All right!”

Gilbert sprang into his skiff with an angry color in his cheeks.

“I’ll never ask you to be friends again, Anne Shirley. And I don’t care either!”

He pulled away with swift defiant strokes, and Anne went up the steep, ferny little path under the maples. She held her head very high, but she was conscious of an odd feeling of regret. She almost wished she had answered Gilbert differently.

Of course, he had insulted her terribly, but still--! Altogether, Anne rather thought it would be a relief to sit down and have a good cry. She was really quite unstrung, for the reaction from her fright and cramped clinging was making itself felt. Halfway up the path she met Jane and Diana rushing back to the pond in a state narrowly removed from positive frenzy.

They had found nobody at Orchard Slope, both Mr. and Mrs. Barry being away. Here Ruby Gillis had succumbed to hysterics, and was left to recover from them as best she might, while Jane and Diana flew through the Haunted Wood and across the brook to Green Gables. There they had found nobody either, for Marilla had gone to Carmody and Matthew was making hay in the back field.

“Oh, Anne,” gasped Diana, fairly falling on the former’s neck and weeping with relief and delight, “oh, Anne--we thought--you were--drowned--and we felt like murderers--because we had made--you be--

Elaine. And Ruby is in hysterics--oh, Anne, how did you escape?” “I climbed up on one of the piles,” explained Anne wearily, “and Gilbert Blythe came along in Mr. Andrews’s dory and brought me to land.” “Oh, Anne, how splendid of him!

Why, it’s so romantic!” said Jane, finding breath enough for utterance at last. “Of course you’ll speak to him after this.” “Of course I won’t,” flashed Anne, with a momentary return of her old spirit. “And I don’t want ever to hear the word ‘romantic’ again, Jane Andrews.

I’m awfully sorry you were so frightened, girls. It is all my fault. I feel sure I was born under an unlucky star. Everything I do gets me or my dearest friends into a scrape.

We’ve gone and lost your father’s flat, Diana, and I have a presentiment that we’ll not be allowed to row on the pond any more.” Anne’s presentiment proved more trustworthy than presentiments are apt to do. Great was the consternation in the Barry and Cuthbert households when the events of the afternoon became known. “Will you ever have any sense, Anne?” groaned Marilla.

“Oh, yes, I think I will, Marilla,” returned Anne optimistically. A good cry, indulged in the grateful solitude of the east gable, had soothed her nerves and restored her to her wonted cheerfulness. “I think my prospects of becoming sensible are brighter now than ever.” “I don’t see how,” said Marilla.

“Well,” explained Anne, “I’ve learned a new and valuable lesson today. Ever since I came to Green Gables I’ve been making mistakes, and each mistake has helped to cure me of some great shortcoming. The affair of the amethyst brooch cured me of meddling with things that didn’t belong to me. The Haunted Wood mistake cured me of letting my imagination run away with me.

The liniment cake mistake cured me of carelessness in cooking. Dyeing my hair cured me of vanity. I never think about my hair and nose now--at least, very seldom. And today’s mistake is going to cure me of being too romantic.

I have come to the conclusion that it is no use trying to be romantic in Avonlea. It was probably easy enough in towered Camelot hundreds of years ago, but romance is not appreciated now. I feel quite sure that you will soon see a great improvement in me in this respect, Marilla.”

“I’m sure I hope so,” said Marilla skeptically. But Matthew, who had been sitting mutely in his corner, laid a hand on Anne’s shoulder when Marilla had gone out.

“Don’t give up all your romance, Anne,” he whispered shyly, “a little of it is a good thing--not too much, of course--but keep a little of it, Anne, keep a little of it.” CHAPTER XXIX.

An Epoch in Anne’s Life ANNE was bringing the cows home from the back pasture by way of Lover’s Lane. It was a September evening and all the gaps and clearings in the woods were brimmed up with ruby sunset light. Here and there the lane was splashed with it, but for the most part it was already quite shadowy beneath the maples, and the spaces under the firs were filled with a clear violet dusk like airy wine.

The winds were out in their tops, and there is no sweeter music on earth than that which the wind makes in the fir trees at evening. The cows swung placidly down the lane, and Anne followed them dreamily, repeating aloud the battle canto from _Marmion_--which had also been part of their English course the preceding winter and which Miss Stacy had made them learn off by heart--and exulting in its rushing lines and the clash of spears in its imagery. When she came to the lines        The stubborn spearsmen still made good        Their dark impenetrable wood, she stopped in ecstasy to shut her eyes that she might the better fancy herself one of that heroic ring. When she opened them again it was to behold Diana coming through the gate that led into the Barry field and looking so important that Anne instantly divined there was news to be told. But betray too eager curiosity she would not.

“Isn’t this evening just like a purple dream, Diana?

It makes me so glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings are best; but when evening comes I think it’s lovelier still.” “It’s a very fine evening,” said Diana, “but oh, I have such news, Anne.
Guess.

You can have three guesses.”

“Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it,” cried Anne. “No. Charlotte’s beau won’t agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It’s too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again.” “Jane’s mother is going to let her have a birthday party?”

Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment.

“I can’t think what it can be,” said Anne in despair, “unless it’s that Moody Spurgeon MacPherson saw you home from prayer meeting last night. Did he?”

“I should think not,” exclaimed Diana indignantly. “I wouldn’t be likely to boast of it if he did, the horrid creature! I knew you couldn’t guess it.

Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine today, and Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go to town next Tuesday and stop with her for the Exhibition. There!”

“Oh, Diana,” whispered Anne, finding it necessary to lean up against a maple tree for support, “do you really mean it? But I’m afraid Marilla won’t let me go.

She will say that she can’t encourage gadding about. That was what she said last week when Jane invited me to go with them in their double-seated buggy to the American concert at the White Sands Hotel. I wanted to go, but Marilla said I’d be better at home learning my lessons and so would Jane. I was bitterly disappointed, Diana.

I felt so heartbroken that I wouldn’t say my prayers when I went to bed. But I repented of that and got up in the middle of the night and said them.”

“I’ll tell you,” said Diana, “we’ll get Mother to ask Marilla. She’ll be more likely to let you go then; and if she does we’ll have the time of our lives, Anne. I’ve never been to an Exhibition, and it’s so aggravating to hear the other girls talking about their trips. Jane and Ruby have been twice, and they’re going this year again.”

“I’m not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go or not,” said Anne resolutely. “If I did and then was disappointed, it would be more than I could bear. But in case I do go I’m very glad my new coat will be ready by that time.

Marilla didn’t think I needed a new coat. She said my old one would do very well for another winter and that I ought to be satisfied with having a new dress. The dress is very pretty, Diana--navy blue and made so fashionably.

Marilla always makes my dresses fashionably now, because she says she doesn’t intend to have Matthew going to Mrs. Lynde to make them. I’m so glad. It is ever so much easier to be good if your clothes are fashionable.

At least, it is easier for me. I suppose it doesn’t make such a difference to naturally good people. But Matthew said I must have a new coat, so Marilla bought a lovely piece of blue broadcloth, and it’s being made by a real dressmaker over at Carmody.

It’s to be done Saturday night, and I’m trying not to imagine myself walking up the church aisle on Sunday in my new suit and cap, because I’m afraid it isn’t right to imagine such things. But it just slips into my mind in spite of me.

My cap is so pretty. Matthew bought it for me the day we were over at Carmody. It is one of those little blue velvet ones that are all the rage, with gold cord and tassels.

Your new hat is elegant, Diana, and so becoming. When I saw you come into church last Sunday my heart swelled with pride to think you were my dearest friend. Do you suppose it’s wrong for us to think so much about our clothes?

Marilla says it is very sinful. But it is such an interesting subject, isn’t it?”

Marilla agreed to let Anne go to town, and it was arranged that Mr. Barry should take the girls in on the following Tuesday.

As Charlottetown was thirty miles away and Mr. Barry wished to go and return the same day, it was necessary to make a very early start. But Anne counted it all joy, and was up before sunrise on Tuesday morning.

A glance from her window assured her that the day would be fine, for the eastern sky behind the firs of the Haunted Wood was all silvery and cloudless. Through the gap in the trees a light was shining in the western gable of Orchard Slope, a token that Diana was also up. Anne was dressed by the time Matthew had the fire on and had the breakfast ready when Marilla came down, but for her own part was much too excited to eat. After breakfast the jaunty new cap and jacket were donned, and Anne hastened over the brook and up through the firs to Orchard Slope.

Mr. Barry and Diana were waiting for her, and they were soon on the road. It was a long drive, but Anne and Diana enjoyed every minute of it. It was delightful to rattle along over the moist roads in the early red sunlight that was creeping across the shorn harvest fields. The air was fresh and crisp, and little smoke-blue mists curled through the valleys and floated off from the hills.

Sometimes the road went through woods where maples were beginning to hang out scarlet banners; sometimes it crossed rivers on bridges that made Anne’s flesh cringe with the old, half-delightful fear; sometimes it wound along a harbor shore and passed by a little cluster of weather-gray fishing huts; again it mounted to hills whence a far sweep of curving upland or misty-blue sky could be seen; but wherever it went there was much of interest to discuss. It was almost noon when they reached town and found their way to “Beechwood.” It was quite a fine old mansion, set back from the street in a seclusion of green elms and branching beeches.

Miss Barry met them at the door with a twinkle in her sharp black eyes. “So you’ve come to see me at last, you Anne-girl,” she said. “Mercy, child, how you have grown!

You’re taller than I am, I declare. And you’re ever so much better-looking than you used to be, too. But I dare say you know that without being told.”

“Indeed I didn’t,” said Anne radiantly. “I know I’m not so freckled as I used to be, so I’ve much to be thankful for, but I really hadn’t dared to hope there was any other improvement. I’m so glad you think there is, Miss Barry.” Miss Barry’s house was furnished with “great magnificence,”  as Anne told Marilla afterward.

The two little country girls were rather abashed by the splendor of the parlor where Miss Barry left them when she went to see about dinner. “Isn’t it just like a palace?” whispered Diana. “I never was in Aunt Josephine’s house before, and I’d no idea it was so grand. I just wish Julia Bell could see this--she puts on such airs about her mother’s parlor.” “Velvet carpet,” sighed Anne luxuriously, “and silk curtains!

I’ve dreamed of such things, Diana. But do you know I don’t believe I feel very comfortable with them after all.

There are so many things in this room and all so splendid that there is no scope for imagination. That is one consolation when you are poor--there are so many more things you can imagine about.” Their sojourn in town was something that Anne and Diana dated from for years.

From first to last it was crowded with delights. On Wednesday Miss Barry took them to the Exhibition grounds and kept them there all day. “It was splendid,” Anne related to Marilla later on. “I never imagined anything so interesting. I don’t really know which department was the most interesting.

I think I liked the horses and the flowers and the fancywork best. Josie Pye took first prize for knitted lace. I was real glad she did.

And I was glad that I felt glad, for it shows I’m improving, don’t you think, Marilla, when I can rejoice in Josie’s success? Mr. Harmon Andrews took second prize for Gravenstein apples and Mr. Bell took first prize for a pig. Diana said she thought it was ridiculous for a Sunday-school superintendent to take a prize in pigs, but I don’t see why.

Do you? She said she would always think of it after this when he was praying so solemnly. Clara Louise MacPherson took a prize for painting, and Mrs. Lynde got first prize for homemade butter and cheese. So Avonlea was pretty well represented, wasn’t it?

Mrs.
Lynde was there that day, and I never knew how much I really liked her until I saw her familiar face among all those strangers. There were thousands of people there, Marilla.

It made me feel dreadfully insignificant. And Miss Barry took us up to the grandstand to see the horse races. Mrs. Lynde wouldn’t go; she said horse racing was an abomination and, she being a church member, thought it her bounden duty to set a good example by staying away. But there were so many there I don’t believe Mrs. Lynde’s absence would ever be noticed.

I don’t think, though, that I ought to go very often to horse races, because they _are_ awfully fascinating. Diana got so excited that she offered to bet me ten cents that the red horse would win. I didn’t believe he would, but I refused to bet, because I wanted to tell Mrs. Allan all about everything, and I felt sure it wouldn’t do to tell her that. It’s always wrong to do anything you can’t tell the minister’s wife. It’s as good as an extra conscience to have a minister’s wife for your friend.

And I was very glad I didn’t bet, because the red horse _did_ win, and I would have lost ten cents. So you see that virtue was its own reward. We saw a man go up in a balloon.

I’d love to go up in a balloon, Marilla; it would be simply thrilling; and we saw a man selling fortunes. You paid him ten cents and a little bird picked out your fortune for you. Miss Barry gave Diana and me ten cents each to have our fortunes told.

Mine was that I would marry a dark-complected man who was very wealthy, and I would go across water to live. I looked carefully at all the dark men I saw after that, but I didn’t care much for any of them, and anyhow I suppose it’s too early to be looking out for him yet. Oh, it was a never-to-be-forgotten day, Marilla.

I was so tired I couldn’t sleep at night. Miss Barry put us in the spare room, according to promise. It was an elegant room, Marilla, but somehow sleeping in a spare room isn’t what I used to think it was. That’s the worst of growing up, and I’m beginning to realize it. The things you wanted so much when you were a child don’t seem half so wonderful to you when you get them.”

Thursday the girls had a drive in the park, and in the evening Miss Barry took them to a concert in the Academy of Music, where a noted prima donna was to sing.

To Anne the evening was a glittering vision of delight. “Oh, Marilla, it was beyond description. I was so excited I couldn’t even talk, so you may know what it was like.

I just sat in enraptured silence. Madame Selitsky was perfectly beautiful, and wore white satin and diamonds. But when she began to sing I never thought about anything else.

Oh, I can’t tell you how I felt. But it seemed to me that it could never be hard to be good any more.

I felt like I do when I look up to the stars. Tears came into my eyes, but, oh, they were such happy tears. I was so sorry when it was all over, and I told Miss Barry I didn’t see how I was ever to return to common life again. She said she thought if we went over to the restaurant across the street and had an ice cream it might help me. That sounded so prosaic; but to my surprise I found it true.

The ice cream was delicious, Marilla, and it was so lovely and dissipated to be sitting there eating it at eleven o’clock at night. Diana said she believed she was born for city life. Miss Barry asked me what my opinion was, but I said I would have to think it over very seriously before I could tell her what I really thought. So I thought it over after I went to bed.

That is the best time to think things out. And I came to the conclusion, Marilla, that I wasn’t born for city life and that I was glad of it. It’s nice to be eating ice cream at brilliant restaurants at eleven o’clock at night once in a while; but as a regular thing I’d rather be in the east gable at eleven, sound asleep, but kind of knowing even in my sleep that the stars were shining outside and that the wind was blowing in the firs across the brook. I told Miss Barry so at breakfast the next morning and she laughed.

Miss Barry generally laughed at anything I said, even when I said the most solemn things. I don’t think I liked it, Marilla, because I wasn’t trying to be funny. But she is a most hospitable lady and treated us royally.”

Friday brought going-home time, and Mr. Barry drove in for the girls.

“Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed yourselves,” said Miss Barry, as she bade them good-bye. “Indeed we have,” said Diana. “And you, Anne-girl?”

“I’ve enjoyed every minute of the time,” said Anne, throwing her arms impulsively about the old woman’s neck and kissing her wrinkled cheek.

Diana would never have dared to do such a thing and felt rather aghast at Anne’s freedom. But Miss Barry was pleased, and she stood on her veranda and watched the buggy out of sight.

Then she went back into her big house with a sigh. It seemed very lonely, lacking those fresh young lives. Miss Barry was a rather selfish old lady, if the truth must be told, and had never cared much for anybody but herself.

She valued people only as they were of service to her or amused her. Anne had amused her, and consequently stood high in the old lady’s good graces. But Miss Barry found herself thinking less about Anne’s quaint speeches than of her fresh enthusiasms, her transparent emotions, her little winning ways, and the sweetness of her eyes and lips.

“I thought Marilla Cuthbert was an old fool when I heard she’d adopted a girl out of an orphan asylum,” she said to herself, “but I guess she didn’t make much of a mistake after all. If I’d a child like Anne in the house all the time I’d be a better and happier woman.” Anne and Diana found the drive home as pleasant as the drive in--pleasanter, indeed, since there was the delightful consciousness of home waiting at the end of it. It was sunset when they passed through White Sands and turned into the shore road. Beyond, the Avonlea hills came out darkly against the saffron sky.

Behind them the moon was rising out of the sea that grew all radiant and transfigured in her light. Every little cove along the curving road was a marvel of dancing ripples. The waves broke with a soft swish on the rocks below them, and the tang of the sea was in the strong, fresh air. “Oh, but it’s good to be alive and to be going home,” breathed Anne.

When she crossed the log bridge over the brook the kitchen light of Green Gables winked her a friendly welcome back, and through the open door shone the hearth fire, sending out its warm red glow athwart the chilly autumn night. Anne ran blithely up the hill and into the kitchen, where a hot supper was waiting on the table. “So you’ve got back?” said Marilla, folding up her knitting.

“Yes, and oh, it’s so good to be back,” said Anne joyously. “I could kiss everything, even to the clock. Marilla, a broiled chicken!

You don’t mean to say you cooked that for me!” “Yes, I did,” said Marilla. “I thought you’d be hungry after such a drive and need something real appetizing. Hurry and take off your things, and we’ll have supper as soon as Matthew comes in.

I’m glad you’ve got back, I must say. It’s been fearful lonesome here without you, and I never put in four longer days.” After supper Anne sat before the fire between Matthew and Marilla, and gave them a full account of her visit.

“I’ve had a splendid time,” she concluded happily, “and I feel that it marks an epoch in my life. But the best of it all was the coming home.”

CHAPTER XXX.

The Queen’s Class Is Organized MARILLA laid her knitting on her lap and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were tired, and she thought vaguely that she must see about having her glasses changed the next time she went to town, for her eyes had grown tired very often of late. It was nearly dark, for the full November twilight had fallen around Green Gables, and the only light in the kitchen came from the dancing red flames in the stove.

Anne was curled up Turk-fashion on the hearthrug, gazing into that joyous glow where the sunshine of a hundred summers was being distilled from the maple cordwood. She had been reading, but her book had slipped to the floor, and now she was dreaming, with a smile on her parted lips. Glittering castles in Spain were shaping themselves out of the mists and rainbows of her lively fancy; adventures wonderful and enthralling were happening to her in cloudland--adventures that always turned out triumphantly and never involved her in scrapes like those of actual life.

Marilla looked at her with a tenderness that would never have been suffered to reveal itself in any clearer light than that soft mingling of fireshine and shadow. The lesson of a love that should display itself easily in spoken word and open look was one Marilla could never learn. But she had learned to love this slim, gray-eyed girl with an affection all the deeper and stronger from its very undemonstrativeness.

Her love made her afraid of being unduly indulgent, indeed. She had an uneasy feeling that it was rather sinful to set one’s heart so intensely on any human creature as she had set hers on Anne, and perhaps she performed a sort of unconscious penance for this by being stricter and more critical than if the girl had been less dear to her. Certainly Anne herself had no idea how Marilla loved her. She sometimes thought wistfully that Marilla was very hard to please and distinctly lacking in sympathy and understanding.

But she always checked the thought reproachfully, remembering what she owed to Marilla.

“Anne,” said Marilla abruptly, “Miss Stacy was here this afternoon when you were out with Diana.” Anne came back from her other world with a start and a sigh. “Was she? Oh, I’m so sorry I wasn’t in.

Why didn’t you call me, Marilla?

Diana and I were only over in the Haunted Wood. It’s lovely in the woods now. All the little wood things--the ferns and the satin leaves and the crackerberries--have gone to sleep, just as if somebody had tucked them away until spring under a blanket of leaves. I think it was a little gray fairy with a rainbow scarf that came tiptoeing along the last moonlight night and did it.

Diana wouldn’t say much about that, though.
Diana has never forgotten the scolding her mother gave her about imagining ghosts into the Haunted Wood.

It had a very bad effect on Diana’s imagination. It blighted it. Mrs. Lynde says Myrtle Bell is a blighted being. I asked Ruby Gillis why Myrtle was blighted, and Ruby said she guessed it was because her young man had gone back on her.

Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but young men, and the older she gets the worse she is. Young men are all very well in their place, but it doesn’t do to drag them into everything, does it? Diana and I are thinking seriously of promising each other that we will never marry but be nice old maids and live together forever. Diana hasn’t quite made up her mind though, because she thinks perhaps it would be nobler to marry some wild, dashing, wicked young man and reform him.

Diana and I talk a great deal about serious subjects now, you know. We feel that we are so much older than we used to be that it isn’t becoming to talk of childish matters. It’s such a solemn thing to be almost fourteen, Marilla. Miss Stacy took all us girls who are in our teens down to the brook last Wednesday, and talked to us about it. She said we couldn’t be too careful what habits we formed and what ideals we acquired in our teens, because by the time we were twenty our characters would be developed and the foundation laid for our whole future life.

And she said if the foundation was shaky we could never build anything really worth while on it. Diana and I talked the matter over coming home from school. We felt extremely solemn, Marilla. And we decided that we would try to be very careful indeed and form respectable habits and learn all we could and be as sensible as possible, so that by the time we were twenty our characters would be properly developed.

It’s perfectly appalling to think of being twenty, Marilla. It sounds so fearfully old and grown up. But why was Miss Stacy here this afternoon?”

“That is what I want to tell you, Anne, if you’ll ever give me a chance to get a word in edgewise.

She was talking about you.” “About me?”

Anne looked rather scared. Then she flushed and exclaimed: “Oh, I know what she was saying.

I meant to tell you, Marilla, honestly I did, but I forgot. Miss Stacy caught me reading Ben Hur in school yesterday afternoon when I should have been studying my Canadian history. Jane Andrews lent it to me. I was reading it at dinner hour, and I had just got to the chariot race when school went in.

I was simply wild to know how it turned out--although I felt sure Ben Hur must win, because it wouldn’t be poetical justice if he didn’t--so I spread the history open on my desk lid and then tucked Ben Hur between the desk and my knee. I just looked as if I were studying Canadian history, you know, while all the while I was reveling in Ben Hur. I was so interested in it that I never noticed Miss Stacy coming down the aisle until all at once I just looked up and there she was looking down at me, so reproachful-like.

I can’t tell you how ashamed I felt, Marilla, especially when I heard Josie Pye giggling. Miss Stacy took Ben Hur away, but she never said a word then. She kept me in at recess and talked to me. She said I had done very wrong in two respects.

First, I was wasting the time I ought to have put on my studies; and secondly, I was deceiving my teacher in trying to make it appear I was reading a history when it was a storybook instead. I had never realized until that moment, Marilla, that what I was doing was deceitful. I was shocked.

I cried bitterly, and asked Miss Stacy to forgive me and I’d never do such a thing again; and I offered to do penance by never so much as looking at Ben Hur for a whole week, not even to see how the chariot race turned out. But Miss Stacy said she wouldn’t require that, and she forgave me freely.

So I think it wasn’t very kind of her to come up here to you about it after all.” “Miss Stacy never mentioned such a thing to me, Anne, and its only your guilty conscience that’s the matter with you. You have no business to be taking storybooks to school. You read too many novels anyhow.

When I was a girl I wasn’t so much as allowed to look at a novel.” “Oh, how can you call Ben Hur a novel when it’s really such a religious book?” protested Anne. “Of course it’s a little too exciting to be proper reading for Sunday, and I only read it on weekdays. And I never read _any_ book now unless either Miss Stacy or Mrs. Allan thinks it is a proper book for a girl thirteen and three-quarters to read.

Miss Stacy made me promise that. She found me reading a book one day called, The Lurid Mystery of the Haunted Hall. It was one Ruby Gillis had lent me, and, oh, Marilla, it was so fascinating and creepy. It just curdled the blood in my veins. But Miss Stacy said it was a very silly, unwholesome book, and she asked me not to read any more of it or any like it.

I didn’t mind promising not to read any more like it, but it was _agonizing_ to give back that book without knowing how it turned out. But my love for Miss Stacy stood the test and I did.

It’s really wonderful, Marilla, what you can do when you’re truly anxious to please a certain person.” “Well, I guess I’ll light the lamp and get to work,” said Marilla. “I see plainly that you don’t want to hear what Miss Stacy had to say.

You’re more interested in the sound of your own tongue than in anything else.” “Oh, indeed, Marilla, I do want to hear it,” cried Anne contritely. “I won’t say another word--not one. I know I talk too much, but I am really trying to overcome it, and although I say far too much, yet if you only knew how many things I want to say and don’t, you’d give me some credit for it.

Please tell me, Marilla.”

“Well, Miss Stacy wants to organize a class among her advanced students who mean to study for the entrance examination into Queen’s. She intends to give them extra lessons for an hour after school. And she came to ask Matthew and me if we would like to have you join it. What do you think about it yourself, Anne?

Would you like to go to Queen’s and pass for a teacher?” “Oh, Marilla!”

Anne straightened to her knees and clasped her hands. “It’s been the dream of my life--that is, for the last six months, ever since Ruby and Jane began to talk of studying for the Entrance. But I didn’t say anything about it, because I supposed it would be perfectly useless.

I’d love to be a teacher. But won’t it be dreadfully expensive?

Mr. Andrews says it cost him one hundred and fifty dollars to put Prissy through, and Prissy wasn’t a dunce in geometry.”

“I guess you needn’t worry about that part of it.

When Matthew and I took you to bring up we resolved we would do the best we could for you and give you a good education. I believe in a girl being fitted to earn her own living whether she ever has to or not. You’ll always have a home at Green Gables as long as Matthew

and I are here, but nobody knows what is going to happen in this uncertain world, and it’s just as well to be prepared. So you can join the Queen’s class if you like, Anne.”

“Oh, Marilla, thank you.” Anne flung her arms about Marilla’s waist and looked up earnestly into her face. “I’m extremely grateful to you and Matthew. And I’ll study as hard as I can and do my very best to be a credit to you.

I warn you not to expect much in geometry, but I think I can hold my own in anything else if I work hard.”

“I dare say you’ll get along well enough. Miss Stacy says you are bright and diligent.” Not for worlds would Marilla have told Anne just what Miss Stacy had said about her; that would have been to pamper vanity. “You needn’t rush to any extreme of killing yourself over your books.

There is no hurry. You won’t be ready to try the Entrance for a year and a half yet. But it’s well to begin in time and be thoroughly grounded, Miss Stacy says.”

“I shall take more interest than ever in my studies now,” said Anne blissfully, “because I have a purpose in life. Mr. Allan says everybody should have a purpose in life and pursue it faithfully. Only he says we must first make sure that it is a worthy purpose.

I would call it a worthy purpose to want to be a teacher like Miss Stacy, wouldn’t you, Marilla? I think it’s a very noble profession.” The Queen’s class was organized in due time. Gilbert Blythe, Anne Shirley, Ruby Gillis, Jane Andrews, Josie Pye, Charlie Sloane, and Moody Spurgeon MacPherson joined it.

Diana Barry did not, as her parents did not intend to send her to Queen’s. This seemed nothing short of a calamity to Anne. Never, since the night on which Minnie May had had the croup, had she and Diana been separated in anything.

On the evening when the Queen’s class first remained in school for the extra lessons and Anne saw Diana go slowly out with the others, to walk home alone through the Birch Path and Violet Vale, it was all the former could do to keep her seat and refrain from rushing impulsively after her chum. A lump came into her throat, and she hastily retired behind the pages of her uplifted Latin grammar to hide the tears in her eyes. Not for worlds would Anne have had Gilbert Blythe or Josie Pye see those tears.

“But, oh, Marilla, I really felt that I had tasted the bitterness of death, as Mr. Allan said in his sermon last Sunday, when I saw Diana go out alone,” she said mournfully that night. “I thought how splendid it would have been if Diana had only been going to study for the Entrance, too. But we can’t have things perfect in this imperfect world, as Mrs.
Lynde says.

Mrs. Lynde isn’t exactly a comforting person sometimes, but there’s no doubt she says a great many very true things. And I think the Queen’s class is going to be extremely interesting. Jane and Ruby are just going to study to be teachers. That is the height of their ambition. Ruby says she will only teach for two years after she gets through, and then she intends to be married.

Jane says she will devote her whole life to teaching, and never, never marry, because you are paid a salary for teaching, but a husband won’t pay you anything, and growls if you ask for a share in the egg and butter money. I expect Jane speaks from mournful experience, for Mrs. Lynde says that her father is a perfect old crank, and meaner than second skimmings. Josie Pye says she is just going to college for education’s sake, because she won’t have to earn her own living; she says of course it is different with orphans who are living on charity--_they_ have to hustle.

Moody Spurgeon is going to be a minister. Mrs. Lynde says he couldn’t be anything else with a name like that to live up to. I hope it isn’t wicked of me, Marilla, but really the thought of Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes me laugh. He’s such a funny-looking boy with that big fat face, and his little blue eyes, and his ears sticking out like flaps.

But perhaps he will be more intellectual-looking when he grows up.

Charlie Sloane says he’s going to go into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he’ll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it’s only rascals that get on in politics nowadays.” “What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?” queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Cæsar. “I don’t happen to know what Gilbert Blythe’s ambition in life is--if he has any,” said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now.

Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class tacitly acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying to compete with them.

Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the aforesaid determined rivalry, had evinced no recognition whatever of the existence of Anne Shirley. He talked and jested with the other girls, exchanged books and puzzles with them, discussed lessons and plans, sometimes walked home with one or the other of them from prayer meeting or Debating Club. But Anne Shirley he simply ignored, and Anne found out that it is not pleasant to be ignored.

It was in vain that she told herself with a toss of her head that she did not care. Deep down in her wayward, feminine little heart she knew that she did care, and that if she had that chance of the Lake of Shining Waters again she would answer very differently. All at once, as it seemed, and to her secret dismay, she found that the old resentment she had cherished against him was gone--gone just when she most needed its sustaining power. It was in vain that she recalled every incident and emotion of that memorable occasion and tried to feel the old satisfying anger. That day by the pond had witnessed its last spasmodic flicker.

Anne realized that she had forgiven and forgotten without knowing it. But it was too late.

And at least neither Gilbert nor anybody else, not even Diana, should ever suspect how sorry she was and how much she wished she hadn’t been so proud and horrid! She determined to “shroud her feelings in deepest oblivion,” and it may be stated here and now that she did it, so successfully that Gilbert, who possibly was not quite so indifferent as he seemed, could not console himself with any belief that Anne felt his retaliatory scorn. The only poor comfort he had was that she snubbed Charlie Sloane, unmercifully, continually, and undeservedly. Otherwise the winter passed away in a round of pleasant duties and studies.

For Anne the days slipped by like golden beads on the necklace of the year. She was happy, eager, interested; there were lessons to be learned and honor to be won; delightful books to read; new pieces to be practiced for the Sunday-school choir; pleasant Saturday afternoons at the manse with Mrs. Allan; and then, almost before Anne realized it, spring had come again to Green Gables and all the world was abloom once more. Studies palled just a wee bit then; the Queen’s class, left behind in school while the others scattered to green lanes and leafy wood cuts and meadow byways, looked wistfully out of the windows and discovered that Latin verbs and French exercises had somehow lost the tang and zest they had possessed in the crisp winter months.

Even Anne and Gilbert lagged and grew indifferent. Teacher and taught were alike glad when the term was ended and the glad vacation days stretched rosily before them. “But you’ve done good work this past year,” Miss Stacy told them on the last evening, “and you deserve a good, jolly vacation.

Have the best time you can in the out-of-door world and lay in a good stock of health and vitality and ambition to carry you through next year. It will be the tug of war, you know--the last year before the Entrance.” “Are you going to be back next year, Miss Stacy?” asked Josie Pye.

Josie Pye never scrupled to ask questions; in this instance the rest of the class felt grateful to her; none of them would have dared to ask it of Miss Stacy, but all wanted to, for there had been alarming rumors running at large through the school for some time that Miss Stacy was not coming back the next year--that she had been offered a position in the grade school of her own home district and meant to accept. The Queen’s class listened in breathless suspense for her answer. “Yes, I think I will,” said Miss Stacy. “I thought of taking another school, but I have decided to come back to Avonlea. To tell the truth, I’ve grown so interested in my pupils here that I found I couldn’t leave them.

So I’ll stay and see you through.”

“Hurrah!” said Moody Spurgeon. Moody Spurgeon had never been so carried away by his feelings before, and he blushed uncomfortably every time he thought about it for a week. “Oh, I’m so glad,” said Anne, with shining eyes.

“Dear Stacy, it would be perfectly dreadful if you didn’t come back. I don’t believe I could have the heart to go on with my studies at all if another teacher came here.” When Anne got home that night she stacked all her textbooks away in an old trunk in the attic, locked it, and threw the key into the blanket box.

“I’m not even going to look at a schoolbook in vacation,” she told Marilla. “I’ve studied as hard all the term as I possibly could and I’ve pored over that geometry until I know every proposition in the first book off by heart, even when the letters _are_ changed. I just feel tired of everything sensible and I’m going to let my imagination run riot for the summer. Oh, you needn’t be alarmed, Marilla. I’ll only let it run riot within reasonable limits.

But I want to have a real good jolly time this summer, for maybe it’s the last summer I’ll be a little girl.

Mrs. Lynde says that if I keep stretching out next year as I’ve done this I’ll have to put on longer skirts. She says I’m all running to legs and eyes. And when I put on longer skirts I shall feel that I have to live up to them and be very dignified. It won’t even do to believe in fairies then, I’m afraid; so I’m going to believe in them with all my whole heart this summer.

I think we’re going to have a very gay vacation. Ruby Gillis is going to have a birthday party soon and there’s the Sunday-school picnic and the missionary concert next month. And Mr. Barry says that some evening he’ll take Diana and me over to the White Sands Hotel and have dinner there.

They have dinner there in the evening, you know. Jane Andrews was over once last summer and she says it was a dazzling sight to see the electric lights and the flowers and all the lady guests in such beautiful dresses. Jane says it was her first glimpse into high life and she’ll never forget it to her dying day.”

Mrs. Lynde came up the next afternoon to find out why Marilla had not been at the Aid meeting on Thursday. When Marilla was not at Aid meeting people knew there was something wrong at Green Gables. “Matthew had a bad spell with his heart Thursday,” Marilla explained, “and I didn’t feel like leaving him. Oh, yes, he’s all right again now, but he takes them spells oftener than he used to

and I’m anxious about him. The doctor says he must be careful to avoid excitement. That’s easy enough, for Matthew doesn’t go about looking for excitement by any means and never did, but he’s not to do any very heavy work either and you might as well tell Matthew not to breathe as not to work.

Come and lay off your things, Rachel. You’ll stay to tea?”

“Well, seeing you’re so pressing, perhaps I might as well, stay” said Mrs. Rachel, who had not the slightest intention of doing anything else. Mrs. Rachel and Marilla sat comfortably in the parlor while Anne got the tea and made hot biscuits that were light and white enough to defy even Mrs. Rachel’s criticism. “I must say Anne has turned out a real smart girl,” admitted Mrs.
Rachel, as Marilla accompanied her to the end of the lane at sunset.

“She must be a great help to you.” “She is,” said Marilla, “and she’s real steady and reliable now. I used to be afraid she’d never get over her featherbrained ways, but she has and I wouldn’t be afraid to trust her in anything now.”

“I never would have thought she’d have turned out so well that first day I was here three years ago,” said Mrs. Rachel. “Lawful heart, shall I ever forget that tantrum of hers! When I went home that night I says to Thomas, says I, ‘Mark my words, Thomas, Marilla Cuthbert ‘ll live to rue the step she’s took.’ But I was mistaken and I’m real glad of it.

I ain’t one of those kind of people, Marilla, as can never be brought to own up that they’ve made a mistake. No, that never was my way, thank goodness. I did make a mistake in judging Anne, but it weren’t no wonder, for an odder, unexpecteder witch of a child there never was in this world, that’s what.

There was no ciphering her out by the rules that worked with other children. It’s nothing short of wonderful how she’s improved these three years, but especially in looks. She’s a real pretty girl got to be, though I can’t say I’m overly partial to that pale, big-eyed style myself. I like more snap and color, like Diana Barry has or Ruby Gillis.

Ruby Gillis’s looks are real showy. But somehow--I don’t know how it is but when Anne and them are together, though she ain’t half as handsome, she makes them look kind of common and overdone--something like them white June lilies she calls narcissus alongside of the big, red peonies, that’s what.”

CHAPTER XXXI.

Where the Brook and River Meet ANNE had her “good” summer and enjoyed it wholeheartedly.

She and Diana fairly lived outdoors, reveling in all the delights that Lover’s Lane and the Dryad’s Bubble and Willowmere and Victoria Island afforded. Marilla offered no objections to Anne’s gypsyings. The Spencervale doctor who had come the night Minnie May had the croup met Anne at the house of a patient one afternoon early in vacation, looked her over sharply, screwed up his mouth, shook his head, and sent a message to Marilla Cuthbert by another person. It was: “Keep that redheaded girl of yours in the open air all summer and don’t let her read books until she gets more spring into her step.”

This message frightened Marilla wholesomely. She read Anne’s death warrant by consumption in it unless it was scrupulously obeyed. As a result, Anne had the golden summer of her life as far as freedom and frolic went. She walked, rowed, berried, and dreamed to her heart’s content; and when September came she was bright-eyed and alert, with a step that would have satisfied the Spencervale doctor and a heart full of ambition and zest once more.

“I feel just like studying with might and main,” she declared as she brought her books down from the attic. “Oh, you good old friends, I’m glad to see your honest faces once more--yes, even you, geometry. I’ve had a perfectly beautiful summer, Marilla, and now I’m rejoicing as a strong man to run a race, as Mr. Allan said last Sunday. Doesn’t Mr.
Allan preach magnificent sermons?

Mrs. Lynde says he is improving every day and the first thing we know some city church will gobble him up and then we’ll be left and have to turn to and break in another green preacher. But I don’t see the use of meeting trouble halfway, do you, Marilla?

I think it would be better just to enjoy Mr. Allan while we have him. If I were a man I think I’d be a minister. They can have such an influence for good, if their theology is sound; and it must be thrilling to preach splendid sermons and stir your hearers’ hearts. Why can’t women be ministers, Marilla?

I asked Mrs. Lynde that

and she was shocked and said it would be a scandalous thing. She said there might be female ministers in the States and she believed there was, but thank goodness we hadn’t got to that stage in Canada yet and she hoped we never would.

But I don’t see why.

I think women would make splendid ministers. When there is a social to be got up or a church tea or anything else to raise money the women have to turn to and do the work. I’m sure Mrs. Lynde can pray every bit as well as Superintendent Bell and I’ve no doubt she could preach too with a little practice.” “Yes, I believe she could,” said Marilla dryly. “She does plenty of unofficial preaching as it is.

Nobody has much of a chance to go wrong in Avonlea with Rachel to oversee them.” “Marilla,” said Anne in a burst of confidence, “I want to tell you something and ask you what you think about it. It has worried me terribly--on Sunday afternoons, that is, when I think specially about such matters.

I do really want to be good; and when I’m with you or Mrs.
Allan or Miss Stacy I want it more than ever and I want to do just what would please you and what you would approve of. But mostly when I’m with Mrs. Lynde I feel desperately wicked and as if I wanted to go and do the very thing she tells me I oughtn’t to do.

I feel irresistibly tempted to do it. Now, what do you think is the reason I feel like that? Do you think it’s because I’m really bad and unregenerate?”

Marilla looked dubious for a moment. Then she laughed.

“If you are I guess I am too, Anne, for Rachel often has that very effect on me. I sometimes think she’d have more of an influence for good, as you say yourself, if she didn’t keep nagging people to do right. There should have been a special commandment against nagging.

But there, I shouldn’t talk so.

Rachel is a good Christian woman and she means well. There isn’t a kinder soul in Avonlea and she never shirks her share of work.” “I’m very glad you feel the same,” said Anne decidedly. “It’s so encouraging. I shan’t worry so much over that after this.

But I dare say there’ll be other things to worry me.

They keep coming up new all the time--things to perplex you, you know. You settle one question and there’s another right after. There are so many things to be thought over and decided when you’re beginning to grow up.

It keeps me busy all the time thinking them over and deciding what is right. It’s a serious thing to grow up, isn’t it, Marilla? But when I have such good friends as you and Matthew and Mrs. Allan and Miss Stacy I ought to grow up successfully, and I’m sure it will be my own fault if I don’t.

I feel it’s a great responsibility because I have only the one chance. If I don’t grow up right I can’t go back and begin over again. I’ve grown two inches this summer, Marilla. Mr. Gillis measured me at Ruby’s party.

I’m so glad you made my new dresses longer. That dark-green one is so pretty and it was sweet of you to put on the flounce. Of course I know it wasn’t really necessary, but flounces are so stylish this fall and Josie Pye has flounces on all her dresses.

I know I’ll be able to study better because of mine. I shall have such a comfortable feeling deep down in my mind about that flounce.” “It’s worth something to have that,” admitted Marilla.

Miss Stacy came back to Avonlea school and found all her pupils eager for work once more.

Especially did the Queen’s class gird up their loins for the fray, for at the end of the coming year, dimly shadowing their pathway already, loomed up that fateful thing known as “the Entrance,”  at the thought of which one and all felt their hearts sink into their very shoes. Suppose they did not pass! That thought was doomed to haunt Anne through the waking hours of that winter, Sunday afternoons inclusive, to the almost entire exclusion of moral and theological problems.

When Anne had bad dreams she found herself staring miserably at pass lists of the Entrance exams, where Gilbert Blythe’s name was blazoned at the top and in which hers did not appear at all. But it was a jolly, busy, happy swift-flying winter.

Schoolwork was as interesting, class rivalry as absorbing, as of yore. New worlds of thought, feeling, and ambition, fresh, fascinating fields of unexplored knowledge seemed to be opening out before Anne’s eager eyes. “Hills peeped o’er hill and Alps on Alps arose.”

Much of all this was due to Miss Stacy’s tactful, careful, broadminded guidance.

She led her class to think and explore and discover for themselves and encouraged straying from the old beaten paths to a degree that quite shocked Mrs. Lynde and the school trustees, who viewed all innovations on established methods rather dubiously. Apart from her studies Anne expanded socially, for Marilla, mindful of the Spencervale doctor’s dictum, no longer vetoed occasional outings. The Debating Club flourished and gave several concerts; there were one or two parties almost verging on grown-up affairs; there were sleigh drives and skating frolics galore. Between times Anne grew, shooting up so rapidly that Marilla was astonished one day, when they were standing side by side, to find the girl was taller than herself.

“Why, Anne, how you’ve grown!” she said, almost unbelievingly. A sigh followed on the words.

Marilla felt a queer regret over Anne’s inches. The child she had learned to love had vanished somehow and here was this tall, serious-eyed girl of fifteen, with the thoughtful brows and the proudly poised little head, in her place. Marilla loved the girl as much as she had loved the child, but she was conscious of a queer sorrowful sense of loss.

And that night, when Anne had gone to prayer meeting with Diana, Marilla sat alone in the wintry twilight and indulged in the weakness of a cry. Matthew, coming in with a lantern, caught her at it and gazed at her in such consternation that Marilla had to laugh through her tears. “I was thinking about Anne,” she explained. “She’s got to be such a big girl--and she’ll probably be away from us next winter. I’ll miss her terrible.”

“She’ll be able to come home often,” comforted Matthew, to whom Anne was as yet and always would be the little, eager girl he had brought home from Bright River on that June evening four years before. “The branch railroad will be built to Carmody by that time.” “It won’t be the same thing as having her here all the time,” sighed Marilla gloomily, determined to enjoy her luxury of grief uncomforted. “But there--men can’t understand these things!”

There were other changes in Anne no less real than the physical change. For one thing, she became much quieter.

Perhaps she thought all the more and dreamed as much as ever, but she certainly talked less. Marilla noticed and commented on this also. “You don’t chatter half as much as you used to, Anne, nor use half as many big words.

What has come over you?” Anne colored and laughed a little, as she dropped her book and looked dreamily out of the window, where big fat red buds were bursting out on the creeper in response to the lure of the spring sunshine. “I don’t know--I don’t want to talk as much,” she said, denting her chin thoughtfully with her forefinger. “It’s nicer to think dear, pretty thoughts and keep them in one’s heart, like treasures.

I don’t like to have them laughed at or wondered over. And somehow I don’t want to use big words any more. It’s almost a pity, isn’t it, now that I’m really growing big enough to say them if I did want to. It’s fun to be almost grown up in some ways, but it’s not the kind of fun I expected, Marilla.

There’s so much to learn and do and think that there isn’t time for big words. Besides, Miss Stacy says the short ones are much stronger and better. She makes us write all our essays as simply as possible. It was hard at first.

I was so used to crowding in all the fine big words I could think of--and I thought of any number of them. But I’ve got used to it now

and I see it’s so much better.” “What has become of your story club? I haven’t heard you speak of it for a long time.”

“The story club isn’t in existence any longer. We hadn’t time for it--and anyhow I think we had got tired of it.

It was silly to be writing about love and murder and elopements and mysteries. Miss Stacy sometimes has us write a story for training in composition, but she won’t let us write anything but what might happen in Avonlea in our own lives, and she criticizes it very sharply and makes us criticize our own too. I never thought my compositions had so many faults until I began to look for them myself. I felt so ashamed I wanted to give up altogether, but Miss Stacy said I could learn to write well if I only trained myself to be my own severest critic.

And so I am trying to.” “You’ve only two more months before the Entrance,” said Marilla. “Do you think you’ll be able to get through?”

Anne shivered.

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think I’ll be all right--and then I get horribly afraid. We’ve studied hard and Miss Stacy has drilled us thoroughly, but we mayn’t get through for all that.

We’ve each got a stumbling block. Mine is geometry of course, and Jane’s is Latin, and Ruby and Charlie’s is algebra, and Josie’s is arithmetic. Moody Spurgeon says he feels it in his bones that he is going to fail in English history. Miss Stacy is going to give us examinations in June just as hard as we’ll have at the Entrance and mark us just as strictly, so we’ll have some idea.

I wish it was all over, Marilla. It haunts me. Sometimes I wake up in the night and wonder what I’ll do if I don’t pass.”

“Why, go to school next year and try again,” said Marilla unconcernedly. “Oh, I don’t believe I’d have the heart for it. It would be such a disgrace to fail, especially if Gil--if the others passed.

And I get so nervous in an examination that I’m likely to make a mess of it. I wish I had nerves like Jane Andrews. Nothing rattles her.”

Anne sighed and, dragging her eyes from the witcheries of the spring world, the beckoning day of breeze and blue, and the green things upspringing in the garden, buried herself resolutely in her book. There would be other springs, but if she did not succeed in passing the Entrance, Anne felt convinced that she would never recover sufficiently to enjoy them. CHAPTER XXXII.

The Pass List Is Out WITH the end of June came the close of the term and the close of Miss Stacy’s rule in Avonlea school. Anne and Diana walked home that evening feeling very sober indeed. Red eyes and damp handkerchiefs bore convincing testimony to the fact that Miss Stacy’s farewell words must have been quite as touching as Mr. Phillips’s had been under similar circumstances three years before.

Diana looked back at the schoolhouse from the foot of the spruce hill and sighed deeply. “It does seem as if it was the end of everything, doesn’t it?”

she said dismally. “You oughtn’t to feel half as badly as I do,” said Anne, hunting vainly for a dry spot on her handkerchief.

“You’ll be back again next winter, but I suppose I’ve left the dear old school forever--if I have good luck, that is.” “It won’t be a bit the same. Miss Stacy won’t be there, nor you nor Jane nor Ruby probably.

I shall have to sit all alone, for I couldn’t bear to have another deskmate after you. Oh, we have had jolly times, haven’t we, Anne? It’s dreadful to think they’re all over.” Two big tears rolled down by Diana’s nose.

“If you would stop crying I could,” said Anne imploringly. “Just as soon as I put away my hanky I see you brimming up and that starts me off again. As Mrs. Lynde says, ‘If you can’t be cheerful, be as cheerful as you can.’

After all, I dare say I’ll be back next year. This is one of the times I _know_

I’m not going to pass. They’re getting alarmingly frequent.”

“Why, you came out splendidly in the exams Miss Stacy gave.”

“Yes, but those exams didn’t make me nervous. When I think of the real thing you can’t imagine what a horrid cold fluttery feeling comes round my heart. And then my number is thirteen and Josie Pye says it’s so unlucky. I am _not_ superstitious and I know it can make no difference.

But still I wish it wasn’t thirteen.”

“I do wish I was going in with you,” said Diana.

“Wouldn’t we have a perfectly elegant time? But I suppose you’ll have to cram in the evenings.”

“No; Miss Stacy has made us promise not to open a book at all.

She says it would only tire and confuse us and we are to go out walking and not think about the exams at all and go to bed early. It’s good advice, but I expect it will be hard to follow; good advice is apt to be, I think. Prissy Andrews told me that she sat up half the night every night of her Entrance week and crammed for dear life; and I had determined to sit up _at least_ as long as she did.

It was so kind of your Aunt Josephine to ask me to stay at Beechwood while I’m in town.” “You’ll write to me while you’re in, won’t you?” “I’ll write Tuesday night and tell you how the first day goes,” promised Anne. “I’ll be haunting the post office Wednesday,” vowed Diana.

Anne went to town the following Monday and on Wednesday Diana haunted the post office, as agreed, and got her letter. “Dearest Diana”

[wrote Anne], “Here it is Tuesday night and I’m writing this in the library at Beechwood. Last night I was horribly lonesome all alone in my room and wished so much you were with me. I couldn’t ‘cram’ because I’d promised Miss Stacy not to, but it was as hard to keep from opening my history as it used to be to keep from reading a story before my lessons were learned.

“This morning Miss Stacy came for me and we went to the Academy, calling for Jane and Ruby and Josie on our way. Ruby asked me to feel her hands and they were as cold as ice. Josie said I looked as if I hadn’t slept a wink and she didn’t believe I was strong enough to stand the grind of the teacher’s course even if I did get through.

There are times and seasons even yet when I don’t feel that I’ve made any great headway in learning to like Josie Pye! “When we reached the Academy there were scores of students there from all over the Island. The first person we saw was Moody Spurgeon sitting on the steps and muttering away to himself.

Jane asked him what on earth he was doing and he said he was repeating the multiplication table over and over to steady his nerves and for pity’s sake not to interrupt him, because if he stopped for a moment he got frightened and forgot everything he ever knew, but the multiplication table kept all his facts firmly in their proper place! “When we were assigned to our rooms Miss Stacy had to leave us. Jane and I sat together and Jane was so composed that I envied her.

No need of the multiplication table for good, steady, sensible Jane!

I wondered if I looked as I felt and if they could hear my heart thumping clear across the room. Then a man came in and began distributing the English examination sheets. My hands grew cold then and my head fairly whirled around as I picked it up. Just one awful moment--Diana, I felt exactly as I did four years ago when I asked Marilla if I might stay at Green Gables--and then everything cleared up in my mind and my heart began beating again--I forgot to say that it had stopped altogether!--for I knew I could do something with _that_ paper anyhow.

“At noon we went home for dinner and then back again for history in the afternoon. The history was a pretty hard paper and I got dreadfully mixed up in the dates. Still, I think I did fairly well today. But oh, Diana, tomorrow the geometry exam comes off and when I think of it it takes every bit of determination I possess to keep from opening my Euclid.

If I thought the multiplication table would help me any I would recite it from now till tomorrow morning. “I went down to see the other girls this evening. On my way I met Moody Spurgeon wandering distractedly around. He said he knew he had failed in history and he was born to be a disappointment to his parents and he was going home on the morning train; and it would be easier to be a carpenter than a minister, anyhow.

I cheered him up and persuaded him to stay to the end because it would be unfair to Miss Stacy if he didn’t. Sometimes I have wished I was born a boy, but when I see Moody Spurgeon I’m always glad I’m a girl and not his sister. “Ruby was in hysterics when I reached their boardinghouse; she had just discovered a fearful mistake she had made in her English paper. When she recovered we went uptown and had an ice cream.

How we wished you had been with us. “Oh, Diana, if only the geometry examination were over! But there, as Mrs. Lynde would say, the sun will go on rising and setting whether I fail in geometry or not.

That is true but not especially comforting. I think I’d rather it didn’t go on if I failed! “Yours devotedly, “Anne” The geometry examination and all the others were over in due time and Anne arrived home on Friday evening, rather tired but with an air of chastened triumph about her. Diana was over at Green Gables when she arrived and they met as if they had been parted for years.

“You old darling, it’s perfectly splendid to see you back again. It seems like an age since you went to town and oh, Anne, how did you get along?” “Pretty well, I think, in everything but the geometry.

I don’t know whether I passed in it or not and I have a creepy, crawly presentiment that I didn’t. Oh, how good it is to be back! Green Gables is the dearest, loveliest spot in the world.”

“How did the others do?”

“The girls say they know they didn’t pass, but I think they did pretty well. Josie says the geometry was so easy a child of ten could do it!
Moody Spurgeon still thinks he failed in history and Charlie says he failed in algebra. But we don’t really know anything about it and won’t until the pass list is out.

That won’t be for a fortnight. Fancy living a fortnight in such suspense! I wish I could go to sleep and never wake up until it is over.”

Diana knew it would be useless to ask how Gilbert Blythe had fared, so she merely said: “Oh, you’ll pass all right. Don’t worry.”

“I’d rather not pass at all than not come out pretty well up on the list,” flashed Anne, by which she meant--and Diana knew she meant--that success would be incomplete and bitter if she did not come out ahead of Gilbert Blythe. With this end in view Anne had strained every nerve during the examinations. So had Gilbert. They had met and passed each other on the street a dozen times without any sign of recognition and every time Anne had held her head a little higher and wished a little more earnestly that she had made friends with Gilbert when he asked her, and vowed a little more determinedly to surpass him in the examination.

She knew that all Avonlea junior was wondering which would come out first; she even knew that Jimmy Glover and Ned Wright had a bet on the question and that Josie Pye had said there was no doubt in the world that Gilbert would be first; and she felt that her humiliation would be unbearable if she failed. But she had another and nobler motive for wishing to do well.

She wanted to “pass high” for the sake of Matthew and Marilla--especially Matthew. Matthew had declared to her his conviction that she “would beat the whole Island.” That, Anne felt, was something it would be foolish to hope for even in the wildest dreams. But she did hope fervently that she would be among the first ten at least, so that she might see Matthew’s kindly brown eyes gleam with pride in her achievement.

That, she felt, would be a sweet reward indeed for all her hard work and patient grubbing among unimaginative equations and conjugations. At the end of the fortnight Anne took to “haunting” the post office also, in the distracted company of Jane, Ruby, and Josie, opening the Charlottetown dailies with shaking hands and cold, sinkaway feelings as bad as any experienced during the Entrance week. Charlie and Gilbert were not above doing this too, but Moody Spurgeon stayed resolutely away. “I haven’t got the grit to go there and look at a paper in cold blood,”  he told Anne. “I’m just going to wait until somebody comes and tells me suddenly whether I’ve passed or not.”

When three weeks had gone by without the pass list appearing Anne began to feel that she really couldn’t stand the strain much longer. Her appetite failed and her interest in Avonlea doings languished. Mrs. Lynde wanted to know what else you could expect with a Tory superintendent of education at the head of affairs, and Matthew, noting Anne’s paleness and indifference and the lagging steps that bore her home from the post office every afternoon, began seriously to wonder if he hadn’t better vote Grit at the next election. But one evening the news came.

Anne was sitting at her open window, for the time forgetful of the woes of examinations and the cares of the world, as she drank in the beauty of the summer dusk, sweet-scented with flower breaths from the garden below and sibilant and rustling from the stir of poplars. The eastern sky above the firs was flushed faintly pink from the reflection of the west, and Anne was wondering dreamily if the spirit of color looked like that, when she saw Diana come flying down through the firs, over the log bridge, and up the slope, with a fluttering newspaper in her hand. Anne sprang to her feet, knowing at once what that paper contained.

The pass list was out! Her head whirled and her heart beat until it hurt her. She could not move a step. It seemed an hour to her before Diana came rushing along the hall and burst into the room without even knocking, so great was her excitement.

“Anne, you’ve passed,” she cried, “passed the _very first_--you and Gilbert both--you’re ties--but your name is first. Oh, I’m so proud!”

Diana flung the paper on the table and herself on Anne’s bed, utterly breathless and incapable of further speech. Anne lighted the lamp, oversetting the match safe and using up half a dozen matches before her shaking hands could accomplish the task. Then she snatched up the paper.

Yes, she had passed--there was her name at the very top of a list of two hundred! That moment was worth living for. “You did just splendidly, Anne,” puffed Diana, recovering sufficiently to sit up and speak, for Anne, starry eyed and rapt, had not uttered a word.

“Father brought the paper home from Bright River not ten minutes ago--it came out on the afternoon train, you know, and won’t be here till tomorrow by mail--and when I saw the pass list I just rushed over like a wild thing. You’ve all passed, every one of you, Moody Spurgeon and all, although he’s conditioned in history. Jane and Ruby did pretty well--they’re halfway up--and so did Charlie. Josie just scraped through with three marks to spare, but you’ll see she’ll put on as many airs as if she’d led. Won’t Miss Stacy be delighted?

Oh, Anne, what does it feel like to see your name at the head of a pass list like that? If it were me I know I’d go crazy with joy. I am pretty near crazy as it is, but you’re as calm and cool as a spring evening.”

“I’m just dazzled inside,” said Anne. “I want to say a hundred things, and I can’t find words to say them in. I never dreamed of this--yes, I did too, just once!

I let myself think _once_, ‘What if I should come out first?’

quakingly, you know, for it seemed so vain and presumptuous to think I could lead the Island. Excuse me a minute, Diana. I must run right out to the field to tell Matthew.

Then we’ll go up the road and tell the good news to the others.” They hurried to the hayfield below the barn where Matthew was coiling hay, and, as luck would have it, Mrs. Lynde was talking to Marilla at the lane fence. “Oh, Matthew,” exclaimed Anne, “I’ve passed and I’m first--or one of the first!

I’m not vain, but I’m thankful.” “Well now, I always said it,” said Matthew, gazing at the pass list delightedly. “I knew you could beat them all easy.”

“You’ve done pretty well, I must say, Anne,” said Marilla, trying to hide her extreme pride in Anne from Mrs. Rachel’s critical eye. But that good soul said heartily: “I just guess she has done well, and far be it from me to be backward in saying it.

You’re a credit to your friends, Anne, that’s what, and we’re all proud of you.” That night Anne, who had wound up the delightful evening with a serious little talk with Mrs. Allan at the manse, knelt sweetly by her open window in a great sheen of moonshine and murmured a prayer of gratitude and aspiration that came straight from her heart. There was in it thankfulness for the past and reverent petition for the future; and when she slept on her white pillow her dreams were as fair and bright and beautiful as maidenhood might desire. CHAPTER XXXIII.

The Hotel Concert PUT on your white organdy, by all means, Anne,” advised Diana decidedly. They were together in the east gable chamber; outside it was only twilight--a lovely yellowish-green twilight with a clear-blue cloudless sky. A big round moon, slowly deepening from her pallid luster into burnished silver, hung over the Haunted Wood; the air was full of sweet summer sounds--sleepy birds twittering, freakish breezes, faraway voices and laughter. But in Anne’s room the blind was drawn and the lamp lighted, for an important toilet was being made.

The east gable was a very different place from what it had been on that night four years before, when Anne had felt its bareness penetrate to the marrow of her spirit with its inhospitable chill. Changes had crept in, Marilla conniving at them resignedly, until it was as sweet and dainty a nest as a young girl could desire. The velvet carpet with the pink roses and the pink silk curtains of Anne’s early visions had certainly never materialized; but her dreams had kept pace with her growth, and it is not probable she lamented them. The floor was covered with a pretty matting, and the curtains that softened the high window and fluttered in the vagrant breezes were of pale-green art muslin.

The walls, hung not with gold and silver brocade tapestry, but with a dainty apple-blossom paper, were adorned with a few good pictures given Anne by Mrs. Allan. Miss Stacy’s photograph occupied the place of honor, and Anne made a sentimental point of keeping fresh flowers on the bracket under it. Tonight a spike of white lilies faintly perfumed the room like the dream of a fragrance. There was no “mahogany furniture,” but there was a white-painted bookcase filled with books, a cushioned wicker rocker, a toilet table befrilled with white muslin, a quaint, gilt-framed mirror with chubby pink Cupids and purple grapes painted over its arched top, that used to hang in the spare room, and a low white bed.

Anne was dressing for a concert at the White Sands Hotel. The guests had got it up in aid of the Charlottetown hospital, and had hunted out all the available amateur talent in the surrounding districts to help it along. Bertha Sampson and Pearl Clay of the White Sands Baptist choir had been asked to sing a duet; Milton Clark of Newbridge was to give a violin solo; Winnie Adella Blair of Carmody was to sing a Scotch ballad; and Laura Spencer of Spencervale and Anne Shirley of Avonlea were to recite. As Anne would have said at one time, it was “an epoch in her life,” and she was deliciously athrill with the excitement of it.

Matthew was in the seventh heaven of gratified pride over the honor conferred on his Anne and Marilla was not far behind, although she would have died rather than admit it, and said she didn’t think it was very proper for a lot of young folks to be gadding over to the hotel without any responsible person with them. Anne and Diana were to drive over with Jane Andrews and her brother Billy in their double-seated buggy; and several other Avonlea girls and boys were going too. There was a party of visitors expected out from town, and after the concert a supper was to be given to the performers.

“Do you really think the organdy will be best?” queried Anne anxiously. “I don’t think it’s as pretty as my blue-flowered muslin--and it certainly isn’t so fashionable.”

“But it suits you ever so much better,” said Diana. “It’s so soft and frilly and clinging.

The muslin is stiff, and makes you look too dressed up. But the organdy seems as if it grew on you.”

Anne sighed and yielded.

Diana was beginning to have a reputation for notable taste in dressing, and her advice on such subjects was much sought after. She was looking very pretty herself on this particular night in a dress of the lovely wild-rose pink, from which Anne was forever debarred; but she was not to take any part in the concert, so her appearance was of minor importance. All her pains were bestowed upon Anne, who, she vowed, must, for the credit of Avonlea, be dressed and combed and adorned to the Queen’s taste. “Pull out that frill a little more--so; here, let me tie your sash; now for your slippers.

I’m going to braid your hair in two thick braids, and tie them halfway up with big white bows--no, don’t pull out a single curl over your forehead--just have the soft part. There is no way you do your hair suits you so well, Anne, and Mrs. Allan says you look like a Madonna when you part it so. I shall fasten this little white house rose just behind your ear.

There was just one on my bush, and I saved it for you.” “Shall I put my pearl beads on?” asked Anne. “Matthew brought me a string from town last week, and I know he’d like to see them on me.”

Diana pursed up her lips, put her black head on one side critically, and finally pronounced in favor of the beads, which were thereupon tied around Anne’s slim milk-white throat. “There’s something so stylish about you, Anne,” said Diana, with unenvious admiration. “You hold your head with such an air.

I suppose it’s your figure. I am just a dumpling. I’ve always been afraid of it, and now I know it is so. Well, I suppose I shall just have to resign myself to it.”

“But you have such dimples,” said Anne, smiling affectionately into the pretty, vivacious face so near her own. “Lovely dimples, like little dents in cream.

I have given up all hope of dimples. My dimple-dream will never come true; but so many of my dreams have that I mustn’t complain. Am I all ready now?”

“All ready,” assured Diana, as Marilla appeared in the doorway, a gaunt figure with grayer hair than of yore and no fewer angles, but with a much softer face. “Come right in and look at our elocutionist, Marilla.
Doesn’t she look lovely?”

Marilla emitted a sound between a sniff and a grunt. “She looks neat and proper.

I like that way of fixing her hair. But I expect she’ll ruin that dress driving over there in the dust and dew with it, and it looks most too thin for these damp nights.

Organdy’s the most unserviceable stuff in the world anyhow, and I told Matthew so when he got it. But there is no use in saying anything to Matthew nowadays.

Time was when he would take my advice, but now he just buys things for Anne regardless, and the clerks at Carmody know they can palm anything off on him. Just let them tell him a thing is pretty and fashionable, and Matthew plunks his money down for it. Mind you keep your skirt clear of the wheel, Anne, and put your warm jacket on.”

Then Marilla stalked downstairs, thinking proudly how sweet Anne looked, with that      “One moonbeam from the forehead to the crown” and regretting that she could not go to the concert herself to hear her girl recite. “I wonder if it _is_ too damp for my dress,” said Anne anxiously. “Not a bit of it,” said Diana, pulling up the window blind.

“It’s a perfect night, and there won’t be any dew. Look at the moonlight.” “I’m so glad my window looks east into the sun rising,” said Anne, going over to Diana.

“It’s so splendid to see the morning coming up over those long hills and glowing through those sharp fir tops. It’s new every morning, and I feel as if I washed my very soul in that bath of earliest sunshine. Oh, Diana, I love this little room so dearly.

I don’t know how I’ll get along without it when I go to town next month.”

“Don’t speak of your going away tonight,” begged Diana. “I don’t want to think of it, it makes me so miserable, and I do want to have a good time this evening. What are you going to recite, Anne?

And are you nervous?”

“Not a bit.

I’ve recited so often in public I don’t mind at all now. I’ve decided to give ‘The Maiden’s Vow.’ It’s so pathetic.

Laura Spencer is going to give a comic recitation, but I’d rather make people cry than laugh.” “What will you recite if they encore you?”

“They won’t dream of encoring me,” scoffed Anne, who was not without her own secret hopes that they would, and already visioned herself telling Matthew all about it at the next morning’s breakfast table. “There are Billy and Jane now--I hear the wheels. Come on.”

Billy Andrews insisted that Anne should ride on the front seat with him, so she unwillingly climbed up. She would have much preferred to sit back with the girls, where she could have laughed and chattered to her heart’s content.

There was not much of either laughter or chatter in Billy. He was a big, fat, stolid youth of twenty, with a round, expressionless face, and a painful lack of conversational gifts. But he admired Anne immensely, and was puffed up with pride over the prospect of driving to White Sands with that slim, upright figure beside him.

Anne, by dint of talking over her shoulder to the girls and occasionally passing a sop of civility to Billy--who grinned and chuckled and never could think of any reply until it was too late--contrived to enjoy the drive in spite of all. It was a night for enjoyment. The road was full of buggies, all bound for the hotel, and laughter, silver clear, echoed and reechoed along it. When they reached the hotel it was a blaze of light from top to bottom. They were met by the ladies of the concert committee, one of whom took Anne off to the performers’ dressing room which was filled with the members of a Charlottetown Symphony Club, among whom Anne felt suddenly shy and frightened and countrified.

Her dress, which, in the east gable, had seemed so dainty and pretty, now seemed simple and plain--too simple and plain, she thought, among all the silks and laces that glistened and rustled around her. What were her pearl beads compared to the diamonds of the big, handsome lady near her? And how poor her one wee white rose must look beside all the hothouse flowers the others wore! Anne laid her hat and jacket away, and shrank miserably into a corner. She wished herself back in the white room at Green Gables.

It was still worse on the platform of the big concert hall of the hotel, where she presently found herself. The electric lights dazzled her eyes, the perfume and hum bewildered her. She wished she were sitting down in the audience with Diana and Jane, who seemed to be having a splendid time away at the back. She was wedged in between a stout lady in pink silk and a tall, scornful-looking girl in a white-lace dress.

The stout lady occasionally turned her head squarely around and surveyed Anne through her eyeglasses until Anne, acutely sensitive of being so scrutinized, felt that she must scream aloud; and the white-lace girl kept talking audibly to her next neighbor about the “country bumpkins”  and “rustic belles” in the audience, languidly anticipating “such fun”  from the displays of local talent on the program. Anne believed that she would hate that white-lace girl to the end of life. Unfortunately for Anne, a professional elocutionist was staying at the hotel and had consented to recite. She was a lithe, dark-eyed woman in a wonderful gown of shimmering gray stuff like woven moonbeams, with gems on her neck and in her dark hair.

She had a marvelously flexible voice and wonderful power of expression; the audience went wild over her selection. Anne, forgetting all about herself and her troubles for the time, listened with rapt and shining eyes; but when the recitation ended she suddenly put her hands over her face. She could never get up and recite after that--never.

Had she ever thought she could recite? Oh, if she were only back at Green Gables!
At this unpropitious moment her name was called. Somehow Anne--who did not notice the rather guilty little start of surprise the white-lace girl gave, and would not have understood the subtle compliment implied therein if she had--got on her feet, and moved dizzily out to the front. She was so pale that Diana and Jane, down in the audience, clasped each other’s hands in nervous sympathy. Anne was the victim of an overwhelming attack of stage fright.

Often as she had recited in public, she had never before faced such an audience as this, and the sight of it paralyzed her energies completely. Everything was so strange, so brilliant, so bewildering--the rows of ladies in evening dress, the critical faces, the whole atmosphere of wealth and culture about her. Very different this from the plain benches at the Debating Club, filled with the homely, sympathetic faces of friends and neighbors. These people, she thought, would be merciless critics.

Perhaps, like the white-lace girl, they anticipated amusement from her “rustic” efforts. She felt hopelessly, helplessly ashamed and miserable. Her knees trembled, her heart fluttered, a horrible faintness came over her; not a word could she utter, and the next moment she would have fled from the platform despite the humiliation which, she felt, must ever after be her portion if she did so.

But suddenly, as her dilated, frightened eyes gazed out over the audience, she saw Gilbert Blythe away at the back of the room, bending forward with a smile on his face--a smile which seemed to Anne at once triumphant and taunting.

In reality it was nothing of the kind. Gilbert was merely smiling with appreciation of the whole affair in general and of the effect produced by Anne’s slender white form and spiritual face against a background of palms in particular. Josie Pye, whom he had driven over, sat beside him, and her face certainly was both triumphant and taunting. But Anne did not see Josie, and would not have cared if she had.

She drew a long breath and flung her head up proudly, courage and determination tingling over her like an electric shock. She _would not_ fail before Gilbert Blythe--he should never be able to laugh at her, never, never! Her fright and nervousness vanished; and she began her recitation, her clear, sweet voice reaching to the farthest corner of the room without a tremor or a break. Self-possession was fully restored to her, and in the reaction from that horrible moment of powerlessness she recited as she had never done before.

When she finished there were bursts of honest applause. Anne, stepping back to her seat, blushing with shyness and delight, found her hand vigorously clasped and shaken by the stout lady in pink silk. “My dear, you did splendidly,” she puffed. “I’ve been crying like a baby, actually I have.

There, they’re encoring you--they’re bound to have you back!” “Oh, I can’t go,” said Anne confusedly. “But yet--I must, or Matthew will be disappointed. He said they would encore me.”

“Then don’t disappoint Matthew,” said the pink lady, laughing. Smiling, blushing, limpid eyed, Anne tripped back and gave a quaint, funny little selection that captivated her audience still further. The rest of the evening was quite a little triumph for her.

When the concert was over, the stout, pink lady--who was the wife of an American millionaire--took her under her wing, and introduced her to everybody; and everybody was very nice to her. The professional elocutionist, Mrs. Evans, came and chatted with her, telling her that she had a charming voice and “interpreted” her selections beautifully. Even the white-lace girl paid her a languid little compliment. They had supper in the big, beautifully decorated dining room; Diana and Jane were invited to partake of this, also, since they had come with Anne, but Billy was nowhere to be found, having decamped in mortal fear of some such invitation.

He was in waiting for them, with the team, however, when it was all over, and the three girls came merrily out into the calm, white moonshine radiance. Anne breathed deeply, and looked into the clear sky beyond the dark boughs of the firs. Oh, it was good to be out again in the purity and silence of the night!

How great and still and wonderful everything was, with the murmur of the sea sounding through it and the darkling cliffs beyond like grim giants guarding enchanted coasts. “Hasn’t it been a perfectly splendid time?” sighed Jane, as they drove away. “I just wish I was a rich American and could spend my summer at a hotel and wear jewels and low-necked dresses and have ice cream and chicken salad every blessed day.

I’m sure it would be ever so much more fun than teaching school. Anne, your recitation was simply great, although I thought at first you were never going to begin. I think it was better than Mrs. Evans’s.”

“Oh, no, don’t say things like that, Jane,” said Anne quickly, “because it sounds silly.

It couldn’t be better than Mrs. Evans’s, you know, for she is a professional, and I’m only a schoolgirl, with a little knack of reciting. I’m quite satisfied if the people just liked mine pretty well.” “I’ve a compliment for you, Anne,” said Diana. “At least I think it must be a compliment because of the tone he said it in.

Part of it was anyhow. There was an American sitting behind Jane and me--such a romantic-looking man, with coal-black hair and eyes. Josie Pye says he is a distinguished artist, and that her mother’s cousin in Boston is married to a man that used to go to school with him. Well, we heard him say--didn’t we, Jane?--‘Who is that girl on the platform with the splendid Titian hair? She has a face I should like to paint.’

There now, Anne.

But what does Titian hair mean?”

“Being interpreted it means plain red, I guess,” laughed Anne. “Titian was a very famous artist who liked to paint red-haired women.” “_Did_

you see all the diamonds those ladies wore?” sighed Jane. “They were simply dazzling. Wouldn’t you just love to be rich, girls?”

“We _are_ rich,” said Anne staunchly. “Why, we have sixteen years to our credit, and we’re happy as queens, and we’ve all got imaginations, more or less. Look at that sea, girls--all silver and shadow and vision of things not seen. We couldn’t enjoy its loveliness any more if we had millions of dollars and ropes of diamonds.

You wouldn’t change into any of those women if you could. Would you want to be that white-lace girl and wear a sour look all your life, as if you’d been born turning up your nose at the world? Or the pink lady, kind and nice as she is, so stout and short that you’d really no figure at all? Or even Mrs. Evans, with that sad, sad look in her eyes?

She must have been dreadfully unhappy sometime to have such a look. You _know_ you wouldn’t, Jane Andrews!” “I _don’t_ know--exactly,” said Jane unconvinced. “I think diamonds would comfort a person for a good deal.”

“Well, I don’t want to be anyone but myself, even if I go uncomforted by diamonds all my life,” declared Anne.

“I’m quite content to be Anne of Green Gables, with my string of pearl beads. I know Matthew gave me as much love with them as ever went with Madame the Pink Lady’s jewels.” CHAPTER XXXIV.

A Queen’s Girl THE next three weeks were busy ones at Green Gables, for Anne was getting ready to go to Queen’s, and there was much sewing to be done, and many things to be talked over and arranged. Anne’s outfit was ample and pretty, for Matthew saw to that, and Marilla for once made no objections whatever to anything he purchased or suggested. More--one evening she went up to the east gable with her arms full of a delicate pale green material.

“Anne, here’s something for a nice light dress for you. I don’t suppose you really need it; you’ve plenty of pretty waists; but I thought maybe you’d like something real dressy to wear if you were asked out anywhere of an evening in town, to a party or anything like that. I hear that Jane and Ruby and Josie have got ‘evening dresses,’ as they call them, and I don’t mean you shall be behind them. I got Mrs. Allan to help me pick it in town last week, and we’ll get Emily Gillis to make it for you. Emily has got taste, and her fits aren’t to be equaled.”

“Oh, Marilla, it’s just lovely,” said Anne. “Thank you so much. I don’t believe you ought to be so kind to me--it’s making it harder every day for me to go away.” The green dress was made up with as many tucks and frills and shirrings as Emily’s taste permitted.

Anne put it on one evening for Matthew’s and Marilla’s benefit, and recited “The Maiden’s Vow” for them in the kitchen. As Marilla watched the bright, animated face and graceful motions her thoughts went back to the evening Anne had arrived at Green Gables, and memory recalled a vivid picture of the odd, frightened child in her preposterous yellowish-brown wincey dress, the heartbreak looking out of her tearful eyes. Something in the memory brought tears to Marilla’s own eyes. “I declare, my recitation has made you cry, Marilla,” said Anne gaily stooping over Marilla’s chair to drop a butterfly kiss on that lady’s cheek.

“Now, I call that a positive triumph.” “No, I wasn’t crying over your piece,” said Marilla, who would have scorned to be betrayed into such weakness by any poetry stuff. “I just couldn’t help thinking of the little girl you used to be, Anne.

And I was wishing you could have stayed a little girl, even with all your queer ways. You’ve grown up now and you’re going away; and you look so tall and stylish and so--so--different altogether in that dress--as if you didn’t belong in Avonlea at all--and I just got lonesome thinking it all over.”

“Marilla!”

Anne sat down on Marilla’s gingham lap, took Marilla’s lined face between her hands, and looked gravely and tenderly into Marilla’s eyes. “I’m not a bit changed--not really. I’m only just pruned down and branched out. The real _me_--back here--is just the same.

It won’t make a bit of difference where I go or how much I change outwardly; at heart I shall always be your little Anne, who will love you and Matthew and dear Green Gables more and better every day of her life.” Anne laid her fresh young cheek against Marilla’s faded one, and reached out a hand to pat Matthew’s shoulder. Marilla would have given much just then to have possessed Anne’s power of putting her feelings into words; but nature and habit had willed it otherwise, and she could only put her arms close about her girl and hold her tenderly to her heart, wishing that she need never let her go. Matthew, with a suspicious moisture in his eyes, got up and went out-of-doors.

Under the stars of the blue summer night he walked agitatedly across the yard to the gate under the poplars. “Well now, I guess she ain’t been much spoiled,” he muttered, proudly. “I guess my putting in my oar occasional never did much harm after all. She’s smart and pretty, and loving, too, which is better than all the rest.

She’s been a blessing to us, and there never was a luckier mistake than what Mrs. Spencer made--if it _was_ luck. I don’t believe it was any such thing. It was Providence, because the Almighty saw we needed her, I reckon.”

The day finally came when Anne must go to town. She and Matthew drove in one fine September morning, after a tearful parting with Diana and an untearful practical one--on Marilla’s side at least--with Marilla. But when Anne had gone Diana dried her tears and went to a beach picnic at White Sands with some of her Carmody cousins, where she contrived to enjoy herself tolerably well; while Marilla plunged fiercely into unnecessary work and kept at it all day long with the bitterest kind of heartache--the ache that burns and gnaws and cannot wash itself away in ready tears.

But that night, when Marilla went to bed, acutely and miserably conscious that the little gable room at the end of the hall was untenanted by any vivid young life and unstirred by any soft breathing, she buried her face in her pillow, and wept for her girl in a passion of sobs that appalled her when she grew calm enough to reflect how very wicked it must be to take on so about a sinful fellow creature.

Anne and the rest of the Avonlea scholars reached town just in time to hurry off to the Academy. That first day passed pleasantly enough in a whirl of excitement, meeting all the new students, learning to know the professors by sight and being assorted and organized into classes. Anne intended taking up the Second Year work being advised to do so by Miss Stacy; Gilbert Blythe elected to do the same. This meant getting a First Class teacher’s license in one year instead of two, if they were successful; but it also meant much more and harder work. Jane, Ruby, Josie, Charlie, and Moody Spurgeon, not being troubled with the stirrings of ambition, were content to take up the Second Class work.

Anne was conscious of a pang of loneliness when she found herself in a room with fifty other students, not one of whom she knew, except the tall, brown-haired boy across the room; and knowing him in the fashion she did, did not help her much, as she reflected pessimistically. Yet she was undeniably glad that they were in the same class; the old rivalry could still be carried on, and Anne would hardly have known what to do if it had been lacking.

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable without it,” she thought. “Gilbert looks awfully determined. I suppose he’s making up his mind, here and now, to win the medal.

What a splendid chin he has! I never noticed it before. I do wish Jane and Ruby had gone in for First Class, too. I suppose I won’t feel so much like a cat in a strange garret when I get acquainted, though.

I wonder which of the girls here are going to be my friends. It’s really an interesting speculation. Of course I promised Diana that no Queen’s girl, no matter how much I liked her, should ever be as dear to me as she is; but I’ve lots of second-best affections to bestow.

I like the look of that girl with the brown eyes and the crimson waist. She looks vivid and red-rosy; there’s that pale, fair one gazing out of the window. She has lovely hair, and looks as if she knew a thing or two about dreams.

I’d like to know them both--know them well--well enough to walk with my arm about their waists, and call them nicknames. But just now I don’t know them and they don’t know me, and probably don’t want to know me particularly.

Oh, it’s lonesome!” It was lonesomer still when Anne found herself alone in her hall bedroom that night at twilight. She was not to board with the other girls, who all had relatives in town to take pity on them. Miss Josephine Barry would have liked to board her, but Beechwood was so far from the Academy that it was out of the question; so Miss Barry hunted up a boarding-house, assuring Matthew and Marilla that it was the very place for Anne.

“The lady who keeps it is a reduced gentlewoman,” explained Miss Barry. “Her husband was a British officer, and she is very careful what sort of boarders she takes. Anne will not meet with any objectionable persons under her roof.

The table is good, and the house is near the Academy, in a quiet neighborhood.” All this might be quite true, and indeed, proved to be so, but it did not materially help Anne in the first agony of homesickness that seized upon her. She looked dismally about her narrow little room, with its dull-papered, pictureless walls, its small iron bedstead and empty bookcase; and a horrible choke came into her throat as she thought of her own white room at Green Gables, where she would have the pleasant consciousness of a great green still outdoors, of sweet peas growing in the garden, and moonlight falling on the orchard, of the brook below the slope and the spruce boughs tossing in the night wind beyond it, of a vast starry sky, and the light from Diana’s window shining out through the gap in the trees. Here there was nothing of this; Anne knew that outside of her window was a hard street, with a network of telephone wires shutting out the sky, the tramp of alien feet, and a thousand lights gleaming on stranger faces. She knew that she was going to cry, and fought against it.

“I _won’t_ cry. It’s silly--and weak--there’s the third tear splashing down by my nose. There are more coming! I must think of something funny to stop them. But there’s nothing funny except what is connected with Avonlea, and that only makes things worse--four--five--I’m going home next Friday, but that seems a hundred years away.

Oh, Matthew is nearly home by now--and Marilla is at the gate, looking down the lane for him--six--seven-- eight--

oh, there’s no use in counting them! They’re coming in a flood presently. I can’t cheer up--I don’t _want_ to cheer up. It’s nicer to be miserable!” The flood of tears would have come, no doubt, had not Josie Pye appeared at that moment.

In the joy of seeing a familiar face Anne forgot that there had never been much love lost between her and Josie. As a part of Avonlea life even a Pye was welcome. “I’m so glad you came up,” Anne said sincerely. “You’ve been crying,” remarked Josie, with aggravating pity.

“I suppose you’re homesick--some people have so little self-control in that respect. I’ve no intention of being homesick, I can tell you. Town’s too jolly after that poky old Avonlea.

I wonder how I ever existed there so long. You shouldn’t cry, Anne; it isn’t becoming, for your nose and eyes get red, and then you seem _all_ red. I’d a perfectly scrumptious time in the Academy today.

Our French professor is simply a duck. His moustache would give you kerwollowps of the heart. Have you anything eatable around, Anne?

I’m literally starving.

Ah, I guessed likely Marilla ‘d load you up with cake. That’s why I called round. Otherwise I’d have gone to the park to hear the band play with Frank Stockley.

He boards same place as I do, and he’s a sport. He noticed you in class today, and asked me who the red-headed girl was. I told him you were an orphan that the Cuthberts had adopted, and nobody knew very much about what you’d been before that.” Anne was wondering if, after all, solitude and tears were not more satisfactory than Josie Pye’s companionship when Jane and Ruby appeared, each with an inch of Queen’s color ribbon--purple and scarlet--pinned proudly to her coat. As Josie was not “speaking” to Jane just then she had to subside into comparative harmlessness.

“Well,” said Jane with a sigh, “I feel as if I’d lived many moons since the morning. I ought to be home studying my Virgil--that horrid old professor gave us twenty lines to start in on tomorrow. But I simply couldn’t settle down to study tonight.

Anne, methinks I see the traces of tears. If you’ve been crying _do_ own up. It will restore my self-respect, for I was shedding tears freely before Ruby came along.

I don’t mind being a goose so much if somebody else is goosey, too. Cake?
You’ll give me a teeny piece, won’t you?

Thank you. It has the real Avonlea flavor.” Ruby, perceiving the Queen’s calendar lying on the table, wanted to know if Anne meant to try for the gold medal.

Anne blushed and admitted she was thinking of it. “Oh, that reminds me,” said Josie, “Queen’s is to get one of the Avery scholarships after all. The word came today. Frank Stockley told me--his uncle is one of the board of governors, you know.

It will be announced in the Academy tomorrow.”

An Avery scholarship! Anne felt her heart beat more quickly, and the horizons of her ambition shifted and broadened as if by magic. Before Josie had told the news Anne’s highest pinnacle of aspiration had been a teacher’s provincial license, First Class, at the end of the year, and perhaps the medal!

But now in one moment Anne saw herself winning the Avery scholarship, taking an Arts course at Redmond College, and graduating in a gown and mortar board, before the echo of Josie’s words had died away.

For the Avery scholarship was in English, and Anne felt that here her foot was on native heath. A wealthy manufacturer of New Brunswick had died and left part of his fortune to endow a large number of scholarships to be distributed among the various high schools and academies of the Maritime Provinces, according to their respective standings. There had been much doubt whether one would be allotted to Queen’s, but the matter was settled at last, and at the end of the year the graduate who made the highest mark in English and English Literature would win the scholarship--two hundred and fifty dollars a year for four years at Redmond College. No wonder that Anne went to bed that night with tingling cheeks!

“I’ll win that scholarship if hard work can do it,” she resolved. “Wouldn’t Matthew be proud if I got to be a B.A.? Oh, it’s delightful to have ambitions.

I’m so glad I have such a lot. And there never seems to be any end to them--that’s the best of it. Just as soon as you attain to one ambition you see another one glittering higher up still. It does make life so interesting.”

CHAPTER XXXV.

The Winter at Queen’s ANNE’S homesickness wore off, greatly helped in the wearing by her weekend visits home. As long as the open weather lasted the Avonlea students went out to Carmody on the new branch railway every Friday night. Diana and several other Avonlea young folks were generally on hand to meet them and they all walked over to Avonlea in a merry party. Anne thought those Friday evening gypsyings over the autumnal hills in the crisp golden air, with the homelights of Avonlea twinkling beyond, were the best and dearest hours in the whole week. Gilbert Blythe nearly always walked with Ruby Gillis and carried her satchel for her.

Ruby was a very handsome young lady, now thinking herself quite as grown up as she really was; she wore her skirts as long as her mother would let her and did her hair up in town, though she had to take it down when she went home. She had large, bright-blue eyes, a brilliant complexion, and a plump showy figure. She laughed a great deal, was cheerful and good-tempered, and enjoyed the pleasant things of life frankly.

“But I shouldn’t think she was the sort of girl Gilbert would like,”  whispered Jane to Anne. Anne did not think so either, but she would not have said so for the Avery scholarship. She could not help thinking, too, that it would be very pleasant to have such a friend as Gilbert to jest and chatter with and exchange ideas about books and studies and ambitions. Gilbert had ambitions, she knew, and Ruby Gillis did not seem the sort of person with whom such could be profitably discussed.

There was no silly sentiment in Anne’s ideas concerning Gilbert. Boys were to her, when she thought about them at all, merely possible good comrades. If she and Gilbert had been friends she would not have cared how many other friends he had nor with whom he walked. She had a genius for friendship; girl friends she had in plenty; but she had a vague consciousness that masculine friendship might also be a good thing to round out one’s conceptions of companionship and furnish broader standpoints of judgment and comparison.

Not that Anne could have put her feelings on the matter into just such clear definition. But she thought that if Gilbert had ever walked home with her from the train, over the crisp fields and along the ferny byways, they might have had many and merry and interesting conversations about the new world that was opening around them and their hopes and ambitions therein.

Gilbert was a clever young fellow, with his own thoughts about things and a determination to get the best out of life and put the best into it. Ruby Gillis told Jane Andrews that she didn’t understand half the things Gilbert Blythe said; he talked just like Anne Shirley did when she had a thoughtful fit on and for her part she didn’t think it any fun to be bothering about books and that sort of thing when you didn’t have to. Frank Stockley had lots more dash and go, but then he wasn’t half as good-looking as Gilbert

and she really couldn’t decide which she liked best! In the Academy Anne gradually drew a little circle of friends about her, thoughtful, imaginative, ambitious students like herself.

With the “rose-red” girl, Stella Maynard, and the “dream girl,” Priscilla Grant, she soon became intimate, finding the latter pale spiritual-looking maiden to be full to the brim of mischief and pranks and fun, while the vivid, black-eyed Stella had a heartful of wistful dreams and fancies, as aerial and rainbow-like as Anne’s own. After the Christmas holidays the Avonlea students gave up going home on Fridays and settled down to hard work. By this time all the Queen’s scholars had gravitated into their own places in the ranks and the various classes had assumed distinct and settled shadings of individuality. Certain facts had become generally accepted.

It was admitted that the medal contestants had practically narrowed down to three--Gilbert Blythe, Anne Shirley, and Lewis Wilson; the Avery scholarship was more doubtful, any one of a certain six being a possible winner. The bronze medal for mathematics was considered as good as won by a fat, funny little up-country boy with a bumpy forehead and a patched coat. Ruby Gillis was the handsomest girl of the year at the Academy; in the Second Year classes Stella Maynard carried off the palm for beauty, with small but critical minority in favor of Anne Shirley. Ethel Marr was admitted by all competent judges to have the most stylish modes of hair-dressing, and Jane Andrews--plain, plodding, conscientious Jane--carried off the honors in the domestic science course.

Even Josie Pye attained a certain preeminence as the sharpest-tongued young lady in attendance at Queen’s. So it may be fairly stated that Miss Stacy’s old pupils held their own in the wider arena of the academical course. Anne worked hard and steadily. Her rivalry with Gilbert was as intense as it had ever been in Avonlea school, although it was not known in the class at large, but somehow the bitterness had gone out of it.

Anne no longer wished to win for the sake of defeating Gilbert; rather, for the proud consciousness of a well-won victory over a worthy foeman. It would be worth while to win, but she no longer thought life would be insupportable if she did not. In spite of lessons the students found opportunities for pleasant times. Anne spent many of her spare hours at Beechwood and generally ate her Sunday dinners there and went to church with Miss Barry. The latter was, as she admitted, growing old, but her black eyes were not dim nor the vigor of her tongue in the least abated.

But she never sharpened the latter on Anne, who continued to be a prime favorite with the critical old lady.

“That Anne-girl improves all the time,” she said. “I get tired of other girls--there is such a provoking and eternal sameness about them. Anne has as many shades as a rainbow and every shade is the prettiest while it lasts. I don’t know that she is as amusing as she was when she was a child, but she makes me love her and I like people who make me love them.

It saves me so much trouble in making myself love them.” Then, almost before anybody realized it, spring had come; out in Avonlea the Mayflowers were peeping pinkly out on the sere barrens where snow-wreaths lingered; and the “mist of green” was on the woods and in the valleys. But in Charlottetown harassed Queen’s students thought and talked only of examinations.

“It doesn’t seem possible that the term is nearly over,” said Anne. “Why, last fall it seemed so long to look forward to--a whole winter of studies and classes. And here we are, with the exams looming up next week.

Girls, sometimes I feel as if those exams meant everything, but when I look at the big buds swelling on those chestnut trees and the misty blue air at the end of the streets they don’t seem half so important.” Jane and Ruby and Josie, who had dropped in, did not take this view of it. To them the coming examinations were constantly very important indeed--far more important than chestnut buds or Maytime hazes.

It was all very well for Anne, who was sure of passing at least, to have her moments of belittling them, but when your whole future depended on them--as the girls truly thought theirs did--you could not regard them philosophically. “I’ve lost seven pounds in the last two weeks,” sighed Jane. “It’s no use to say don’t worry. I _will_

worry.

Worrying helps you some--it seems as if you were doing something when you’re worrying. It would be dreadful if I failed to get my license after going to Queen’s all winter and spending so much money.” “_I_ don’t care,” said Josie Pye. “If I don’t pass this year I’m coming back next.

My father can afford to send me. Anne, Frank Stockley says that Professor Tremaine said Gilbert Blythe was sure to get the medal and that Emily Clay would likely win the Avery scholarship.” “That may make me feel badly tomorrow, Josie,” laughed Anne, “but just now I honestly feel that as long as I know the violets are coming out all purple down in the hollow below Green Gables and that little ferns are poking their heads up in Lovers’ Lane, it’s not a great deal of difference whether I win the Avery or not. I’ve done my best and I begin to understand what is meant by the ‘joy of the strife.’

Next to trying and winning, the best thing is trying and failing. Girls, don’t talk about exams! Look at that arch of pale green sky over those houses and picture to yourself what it must look like over the purply-dark beech-woods back of Avonlea.”

“What are you going to wear for commencement, Jane?” asked Ruby practically. Jane and Josie both answered at once and the chatter drifted into a side eddy of fashions. But Anne, with her elbows on the window sill, her soft cheek laid against her clasped hands, and her eyes filled with visions, looked out unheedingly across city roof and spire to that glorious dome of sunset sky and wove her dreams of a possible future from the golden tissue of youth’s own optimism.

All the Beyond was hers with its possibilities lurking rosily in the oncoming years--each year a rose of promise to be woven into an immortal chaplet. CHAPTER XXXVI.

The Glory and the Dream ON the morning when the final results of all the examinations were to be posted on the bulletin board at Queen’s, Anne and Jane walked down the street together. Jane was smiling and happy; examinations were over and she was comfortably sure she had made a pass at least; further considerations troubled Jane not at all; she had no soaring ambitions and consequently was not affected with the unrest attendant thereon. For we pay a price for everything we get or take in this world; and although ambitions are well worth having, they are not to be cheaply won, but exact their dues of work and self-denial, anxiety and discouragement.

Anne was pale and quiet; in ten more minutes she would know who had won the medal and who the Avery. Beyond those ten minutes there did not seem, just then, to be anything worth being called Time. “Of course you’ll win one of them anyhow,” said Jane, who couldn’t understand how the faculty could be so unfair as to order it otherwise.

“I have not hope of the Avery,” said Anne. “Everybody says Emily Clay will win it. And I’m not going to march up to that bulletin board and look at it before everybody. I haven’t the moral courage. I’m going straight to the girls’ dressing room.

You must read the announcements and then come and tell me, Jane. And I implore you in the name of our old friendship to do it as quickly as possible. If I have failed just say so, without trying to break it gently; and whatever you do _don’t_ sympathize with me.

Promise me this, Jane.”

Jane promised solemnly; but, as it happened, there was no necessity for such a promise. When they went up the entrance steps of Queen’s they found the hall full of boys who were carrying Gilbert Blythe around on their shoulders and yelling at the tops of their voices, “Hurrah for Blythe, Medalist!” For a moment Anne felt one sickening pang of defeat and disappointment. So she had failed and Gilbert had won! Well, Matthew would be sorry--he had been so sure she would win.

And then!
Somebody called out: “Three cheers for Miss Shirley, winner of the Avery!”

“Oh, Anne,” gasped Jane, as they fled to the girls’ dressing room amid hearty cheers. “Oh, Anne I’m so proud! Isn’t it splendid?”

And then the girls were around them and Anne was the center of a laughing, congratulating group. Her shoulders were thumped and her hands shaken vigorously. She was pushed and pulled and hugged and among it all she managed to whisper to Jane: “Oh, won’t Matthew and Marilla be pleased! I must write the news home right away.” Commencement was the next important happening.

The exercises were held in the big assembly hall of the Academy. Addresses were given, essays read, songs sung, the public award of diplomas, prizes and medals made. Matthew and Marilla were there, with eyes and ears for only one student on the platform--a tall girl in pale green, with faintly flushed cheeks and starry eyes, who read the best essay and was pointed out and whispered about as the Avery winner. “Reckon you’re glad we kept her, Marilla?” whispered Matthew, speaking for the first time since he had entered the hall, when Anne had finished her essay. “It’s not the first time I’ve been glad,” retorted Marilla.

“You do like to rub things in, Matthew Cuthbert.” Miss Barry, who was sitting behind them, leaned forward and poked Marilla in the back with her parasol. “Aren’t you proud of that Anne-girl?

I am,” she said. Anne went home to Avonlea with Matthew and Marilla that evening. She had not been home since April and she felt that she could not wait another day.

The apple blossoms were out and the world was fresh and young. Diana was at Green Gables to meet her. In her own white room, where Marilla had set a flowering house rose on the window sill, Anne looked about her and drew a long breath of happiness. “Oh, Diana, it’s so good to be back again.

It’s so good to see those pointed firs coming out against the pink sky--and that white orchard and the old Snow Queen. Isn’t the breath of the mint delicious?

And that tea rose--why, it’s a song and a hope and a prayer all in one. And it’s _good_ to see you again, Diana!” “I thought you liked that Stella Maynard better than me,” said Diana reproachfully.

“Josie Pye told me you did. Josie said you were _infatuated_ with her.”

Anne laughed and pelted Diana with the faded “June lilies” of her bouquet. “Stella Maynard is the dearest girl in the world except one and you are that one, Diana,” she said. “I love you more than ever--and I’ve so many things to tell you.

But just now I feel as if it were joy enough to sit here and look at you.

I’m tired, I think--tired of being studious and ambitious. I mean to spend at least two hours tomorrow lying out in the orchard grass, thinking of absolutely nothing.” “You’ve done splendidly, Anne. I suppose you won’t be teaching now that you’ve won the Avery?”

“No.

I’m going to Redmond in September. Doesn’t it seem wonderful? I’ll have a brand new stock of ambition laid in by that time after three glorious, golden months of vacation. Jane and Ruby are going to teach. Isn’t it splendid to think we all got through even to Moody Spurgeon and Josie Pye?”

“The Newbridge trustees have offered Jane their school already,” said Diana. “Gilbert Blythe is going to teach, too. He has to.

His father can’t afford to send him to college next year, after all, so he means to earn his own way through. I expect he’ll get the school here if Miss Ames decides to leave.”

Anne felt a queer little sensation of dismayed surprise. She had not known this; she had expected that Gilbert would be going to Redmond also.

What would she do without their inspiring rivalry?

Would not work, even at a coeducational college with a real degree in prospect, be rather flat without her friend the enemy? The next morning at breakfast it suddenly struck Anne that Matthew was not looking well. Surely he was much grayer than he had been a year before. “Marilla,” she said hesitatingly when he had gone out, “is Matthew quite well?”

“No, he isn’t,” said Marilla in a troubled tone.

“He’s had some real bad spells with his heart this spring and he won’t spare himself a mite. I’ve been real worried about him, but he’s some better this while back

and we’ve got a good hired man, so I’m hoping he’ll kind of rest and pick up. Maybe he will now you’re home. You always cheer him up.”

Anne leaned across the table and took Marilla’s face in her hands. “You are not looking as well yourself as I’d like to see you, Marilla. You look tired. I’m afraid you’ve been working too hard.

You must take a rest, now that I’m home. I’m just going to take this one day off to visit all the dear old spots and hunt up my old dreams, and then it will be your turn to be lazy while I do the work.” Marilla smiled affectionately at her girl. “It’s not the work--it’s my head.

I’ve got a pain so often now--behind my eyes. Doctor Spencer’s been fussing with glasses, but they don’t do me any good. There is a distinguished oculist coming to the Island the last of June and the doctor says I must see him. I guess I’ll have to.

I can’t read or sew with any comfort now. Well, Anne, you’ve done real well at Queen’s I must say. To take First Class License in one year and win the Avery scholarship--well, well, Mrs. Lynde says pride goes before a fall and she doesn’t believe in the higher education of women at all; she says it unfits them for woman’s true sphere.

I don’t believe a word of it. Speaking of Rachel reminds me--did you hear anything about the Abbey Bank lately, Anne?” “I heard it was shaky,” answered Anne.

“Why?”

“That is what Rachel said. She was up here one day last week and said there was some talk about it. Matthew felt real worried. All we have saved is in that bank--every penny.

I wanted Matthew to put it in the Savings Bank in the first place, but old Mr. Abbey was a great friend of father’s

and he’d always banked with him. Matthew said any bank with him at the head of it was good enough for anybody.”

“I think he has only been its nominal head for many years,” said Anne. “He is a very old man; his nephews are really at the head of the institution.” “Well, when Rachel told us that, I wanted Matthew to draw our money right out and he said he’d think of it.

But Mr. Russell told him yesterday that the bank was all right.”

Anne had her good day in the companionship of the outdoor world. She never forgot that day; it was so bright and golden and fair, so free from shadow and so lavish of blossom.

Anne spent some of its rich hours in the orchard; she went to the Dryad’s Bubble and Willowmere and Violet Vale; she called at the manse and had a satisfying talk with Mrs. Allan; and finally in the evening she went with Matthew for the cows, through Lovers’ Lane to the back pasture. The woods were all gloried through with sunset and the warm splendor of it streamed down through the hill gaps in the west. Matthew walked slowly with bent head; Anne, tall and erect, suited her springing step to his. “You’ve been working too hard today, Matthew,” she said reproachfully.

“Why won’t you take things easier?” “Well now, I can’t seem to,” said Matthew, as he opened the yard gate to let the cows through. “It’s only that I’m getting old, Anne, and keep forgetting it.

Well, well, I’ve always worked pretty hard and I’d rather drop in harness.” “If I had been the boy you sent for,” said Anne wistfully, “I’d be able to help you so much now and spare you in a hundred ways. I could find it in my heart to wish I had been, just for that.” “Well now, I’d rather have you than a dozen boys, Anne,” said Matthew patting her hand.

“Just mind you that--rather than a dozen boys. Well now, I guess it wasn’t a boy that took the Avery scholarship, was it? It was a girl--my girl--my girl that I’m proud of.” He smiled his shy smile at her as he went into the yard.

Anne took the memory of it with her when she went to her room that night and sat for a long while at her open window, thinking of the past and dreaming of the future. Outside the Snow Queen was mistily white in the moonshine; the frogs were singing in the marsh beyond Orchard Slope. Anne always remembered the silvery, peaceful beauty and fragrant calm of that night. It was the last night before sorrow touched her life; and no life is ever quite the same again when once that cold, sanctifying touch has been laid upon it.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

The Reaper Whose Name Is Death MATTHEW--Matthew--what is the matter? Matthew, are you sick?” It was Marilla who spoke, alarm in every jerky word. Anne came through the hall, her hands full of white narcissus,--it was long before Anne could love the sight or odor of white narcissus again,--in time to hear her and to see Matthew standing in the porch doorway, a folded paper in his hand, and his face strangely drawn and gray.

Anne dropped her flowers and sprang across the kitchen to him at the same moment as Marilla. They were both too late; before they could reach him Matthew had fallen across the threshold. “He’s fainted,” gasped Marilla. “Anne, run for Martin--quick, quick! He’s at the barn.”

Martin, the hired man, who had just driven home from the post office, started at once for the doctor, calling at Orchard Slope on his way to send Mr. and Mrs. Barry over.

Mrs. Lynde, who was there on an errand, came too. They found Anne and Marilla distractedly trying to restore Matthew to consciousness. Mrs. Lynde pushed them gently aside, tried his pulse, and then laid her ear over his heart. She looked at their anxious faces sorrowfully and the tears came into her eyes.

“Oh, Marilla,” she said gravely. “I don’t think--we can do anything for him.”

“Mrs. Lynde, you don’t think--you can’t think Matthew is--is--” Anne could not say the dreadful word; she turned sick and pallid.

“Child, yes, I’m afraid of it. Look at his face. When you’ve seen that look as often as I have you’ll know what it means.”

Anne looked at the still face and there beheld the seal of the Great Presence. When the doctor came he said that death had been instantaneous and probably painless, caused in all likelihood by some sudden shock.

The secret of the shock was discovered to be in the paper Matthew had held and which Martin had brought from the office that morning. It contained an account of the failure of the Abbey Bank. The news spread quickly through Avonlea, and all day friends and neighbors thronged Green Gables and came and went on errands of kindness for the dead and living. For the first time shy, quiet Matthew Cuthbert was a person of central importance; the white majesty of death had fallen on him and set him apart as one crowned.

When the calm night came softly down over Green Gables the old house was hushed and tranquil. In the parlor lay Matthew Cuthbert in his coffin, his long gray hair framing his placid face on which there was a little kindly smile as if he but slept, dreaming pleasant dreams. There were flowers about him--sweet old-fashioned flowers which his mother had planted in the homestead garden in her bridal days and for which Matthew had always had a secret, wordless love. Anne had gathered them and brought them to him, her anguished, tearless eyes burning in her white face.

It was the last thing she could do for him. The Barrys and Mrs. Lynde stayed with them that night. Diana, going to the east gable, where Anne was standing at her window, said gently: “Anne dear, would you like to have me sleep with you tonight?”

“Thank you, Diana.”

Anne looked earnestly into her friend’s face. “I think you won’t misunderstand me when I say I want to be alone. I’m not afraid. I haven’t been alone one minute since it happened--and I want to be.

I want to be quite silent and quiet and try to realize it. I can’t realize it. Half the time it seems to me that Matthew can’t be dead; and the other half it seems as if he must have been dead for a long time

and I’ve had this horrible dull ache ever since.” Diana did not quite understand. Marilla’s impassioned grief, breaking all the bounds of natural reserve and lifelong habit in its stormy rush, she could comprehend better than Anne’s tearless agony.

But she went away kindly, leaving Anne alone to keep her first vigil with sorrow.

Anne hoped that the tears would come in solitude. It seemed to her a terrible thing that she could not shed a tear for Matthew, whom she had loved so much and who had been so kind to her, Matthew who had walked with her last evening at sunset and was now lying in the dim room below with that awful peace on his brow. But no tears came at first, even when she knelt by her window in the darkness and prayed, looking up to the stars beyond the hills--no tears, only the same horrible dull ache of misery that kept on aching until she fell asleep, worn out with the day’s pain and excitement.

In the night she awakened, with the stillness and the darkness about her, and the recollection of the day came over her like a wave of sorrow. She could see Matthew’s face smiling at her as he had smiled when they parted at the gate that last evening--she could hear his voice saying, “My girl--my girl that I’m proud of.” Then the tears came and Anne wept her heart out.

Marilla heard her and crept in to comfort her. “There--there--don’t cry so, dearie.

It can’t bring him back. It--it--isn’t right to cry so. I knew that today, but I couldn’t help it then.

He’d always been such a good, kind brother to me--but God knows best.”

“Oh, just let me cry, Marilla,” sobbed Anne. “The tears don’t hurt me like that ache did. Stay here for a little while with me and keep your arm round me--so. I couldn’t have Diana stay, she’s good and kind and sweet--but it’s not her sorrow--she’s outside of it

and she couldn’t come close enough to my heart to help me. It’s our sorrow--yours and mine. Oh, Marilla, what will we do without him?” “We’ve got each other, Anne.

I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here--if you’d never come. Oh, Anne, I know I’ve been kind of strict and harsh with you maybe--but you mustn’t think I didn’t love you as well as Matthew did, for all that. I want to tell you now when I can. It’s never been easy for me to say things out of my heart, but at times like this it’s easier.

I love you as dear as if you were my own flesh and blood and you’ve been my joy and comfort ever since you came to Green Gables.”

Two days afterwards they carried Matthew Cuthbert over his homestead threshold and away from the fields he had tilled and the orchards he had loved and the trees he had planted; and then Avonlea settled back to its usual placidity and even at Green Gables affairs slipped into their old groove and work was done and duties fulfilled with regularity as before, although always with the aching sense of “loss in all familiar things.”

Anne, new to grief, thought it almost sad that it could be so--that they _could_ go on in the old way without Matthew. She felt something like shame and remorse when she discovered that the sunrises behind the firs and the pale pink buds opening in the garden gave her the old inrush of gladness when she saw them--that Diana’s visits were pleasant to her and that Diana’s merry words and ways moved her to laughter and smiles--that, in brief, the beautiful world of blossom and love and friendship had lost none of its power to please her fancy and thrill her heart, that life still called to her with many insistent voices. “It seems like disloyalty to Matthew, somehow, to find pleasure in these things now that he has gone,” she said wistfully to Mrs. Allan one evening when they were together in the manse garden. “I miss him so much--all the time--and yet, Mrs. Allan, the world and life seem very beautiful and interesting to me for all.

Today Diana said something funny and I found myself laughing. I thought when it happened I could never laugh again. And it somehow seems as if I oughtn’t to.” “When Matthew was here he liked to hear you laugh and he liked to know that you found pleasure in the pleasant things around you,” said Mrs.
Allan gently.

“He is just away now; and he likes to know it just the same. I am sure we should not shut our hearts against the healing influences that nature offers us. But I can understand your feeling.

I think we all experience the same thing. We resent the thought that anything can please us when someone we love is no longer here to share the pleasure with us, and we almost feel as if we were unfaithful to our sorrow when we find our interest in life returning to us.” “I was down to the graveyard to plant a rosebush on Matthew’s grave this afternoon,” said Anne dreamily. “I took a slip of the little white Scotch rosebush his mother brought out from Scotland long ago; Matthew always liked those roses the best--they were so small and sweet on their thorny stems.

It made me feel glad that I could plant it by his grave--as if I were doing something that must please him in taking it there to be near him. I hope he has roses like them in heaven. Perhaps the souls of all those little white roses that he has loved so many summers were all there to meet him. I must go home now.

Marilla is all alone and she gets lonely at twilight.” “She will be lonelier still, I fear, when you go away again to college,”  said Mrs. Allan. Anne did not reply; she said good night and went slowly back to Green Gables. Marilla was sitting on the front door-steps and Anne sat down beside her.

The door was open behind them, held back by a big pink conch shell with hints of sea sunsets in its smooth inner convolutions. Anne gathered some sprays of pale-yellow honeysuckle and put them in her hair. She liked the delicious hint of fragrance, as some aerial benediction, above her every time she moved. “Doctor Spencer was here while you were away,” Marilla said.

“He says that the specialist will be in town tomorrow and he insists that I must go in and have my eyes examined. I suppose I’d better go and have it over. I’ll be more than thankful if the man can give me the right kind of glasses to suit my eyes. You won’t mind staying here alone while I’m away, will you?

Martin will have to drive me in and there’s ironing and baking to do.”

“I shall be all right. Diana will come over for company for me. I shall attend to the ironing and baking beautifully--you needn’t fear that I’ll starch the handkerchiefs or flavor the cake with liniment.” Marilla laughed. “What a girl you were for making mistakes in them days, Anne.

You were always getting into scrapes. I did use to think you were possessed. Do you mind the time you dyed your hair?” “Yes, indeed.

I shall never forget it,” smiled Anne, touching the heavy braid of hair that was wound about her shapely head. “I laugh a little now sometimes when I think what a worry my hair used to be to me--but I don’t laugh _much_, because it was a very real trouble then.

I did suffer terribly over my hair and my freckles. My freckles are really gone; and people are nice enough to tell me my hair is auburn now--all but Josie Pye.

She informed me yesterday that she really thought it was redder than ever, or at least my black dress made it look redder, and she asked me if people who had red hair ever got used to having it. Marilla, I’ve almost decided to give up trying to like Josie Pye. I’ve made what I would once have called a heroic effort to like her, but Josie Pye won’t _be_ liked.” “Josie is a Pye,” said Marilla sharply, “so she can’t help being disagreeable.

I suppose people of that kind serve some useful purpose in society, but I must say I don’t know what it is any more than I know the use of thistles. Is Josie going to teach?”

“No, she is going back to Queen’s next year. So are Moody Spurgeon and Charlie Sloane. Jane and Ruby are going to teach and they have both got schools--Jane at Newbridge and Ruby at some place up west.”

“Gilbert Blythe is going to teach too, isn’t he?”

“Yes”--briefly. “What a nice-looking fellow he is,” said Marilla absently. “I saw him in church last Sunday and he seemed so tall and manly. He looks a lot like his father did at the same age.

John Blythe was a nice boy. We used to be real good friends, he and I. People called him my beau.” Anne looked up with swift interest. “Oh, Marilla--and what happened?--why didn’t you--” “We had a quarrel.

I wouldn’t forgive him when he asked me to. I meant to, after awhile--but I was sulky and angry and I wanted to punish him first. He never came back--the Blythes were all mighty independent. But I always felt--rather sorry.

I’ve always kind of wished I’d forgiven him when I had the chance.” “So you’ve had a bit of romance in your life, too,” said Anne softly. “Yes, I suppose you might call it that. You wouldn’t think so to look at me, would you?

But you never can tell about people from their outsides.

Everybody has forgot about me and John. I’d forgotten myself. But it all came back to me when I saw Gilbert last Sunday.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

The Bend in the Road MARILLA went to town the next day and returned in the evening. Anne had gone over to Orchard Slope with Diana and came back to find Marilla in the kitchen, sitting by the table with her head leaning on her hand. Something in her dejected attitude struck a chill to Anne’s heart. She had never seen Marilla sit limply inert like that.

“Are you very tired, Marilla?” “Yes--no--I don’t know,” said Marilla wearily, looking up. “I suppose I am tired but I haven’t thought about it. It’s not that.” “Did you see the oculist?

What did he say?” asked Anne anxiously. “Yes, I saw him. He examined my eyes.

He says that if I give up all reading and sewing entirely and any kind of work that strains the eyes, and if I’m careful not to cry, and if I wear the glasses he’s given me he thinks my eyes may not get any worse and my headaches will be cured. But if I don’t he says I’ll certainly be stone-blind in six months.

Blind!

Anne, just think of it!” For a minute Anne, after her first quick exclamation of dismay, was silent. It seemed to her that she could _not_ speak. Then she said bravely, but with a catch in her voice: “Marilla, _don’t_ think of it. You know he has given you hope.

If you are careful you won’t lose your sight altogether; and if his glasses cure your headaches it will be a great thing.” “I don’t call it much hope,” said Marilla bitterly. “What am I to live for if I can’t read or sew or do anything like that? I might as well be blind--or dead. And as for crying, I can’t help that when I get lonesome.

But there, it’s no good talking about it.

If you’ll get me a cup of tea I’ll be thankful. I’m about done out. Don’t say anything about this to any one for a spell yet, anyway. I can’t bear that folks should come here to question and sympathize and talk about it.”

When Marilla had eaten her lunch Anne persuaded her to go to bed. Then Anne went herself to the east gable and sat down by her window in the darkness alone with her tears and her heaviness of heart. How sadly things had changed since she had sat there the night after coming home! Then she had been full of hope and joy and the future had looked rosy with promise. Anne felt as if she had lived years since then, but before she went to bed there was a smile on her lips and peace in her heart.

She had looked her duty courageously in the face and found it a friend--as duty ever is when we meet it frankly. One afternoon a few days later Marilla came slowly in from the front yard where she had been talking to a caller--a man whom Anne knew by sight as Sadler from Carmody. Anne wondered what he could have been saying to bring that look to Marilla’s face.

“What did Mr. Sadler want, Marilla?”

Marilla sat down by the window and looked at Anne. There were tears in her eyes in defiance of the oculist’s prohibition and her voice broke as she said: “He heard that I was going to sell Green Gables and he wants to buy it.” “Buy it! Buy Green Gables?”

Anne wondered if she had heard aright. “Oh, Marilla, you don’t mean to sell Green Gables!”

“Anne, I don’t know what else is to be done. I’ve thought it all over. If my eyes were strong I could stay here and make out to look after things and manage, with a good hired man. But as it is I can’t.

I may lose my sight altogether; and anyway I’ll not be fit to run things. Oh, I never thought I’d live to see the day when I’d have to sell my home. But things would only go behind worse and worse all the time, till nobody would want to buy it.

Every cent of our money went in that bank; and there’s some notes Matthew gave last fall to pay. Mrs. Lynde advises me to sell the farm and board somewhere--with her I suppose. It won’t bring much--it’s small and the buildings are old. But it’ll be enough for me to live on I reckon.

I’m thankful you’re provided for with that scholarship, Anne. I’m sorry you won’t have a home to come to in your vacations, that’s all, but I suppose you’ll manage somehow.” Marilla broke down and wept bitterly.

“You mustn’t sell Green Gables,” said Anne resolutely. “Oh, Anne, I wish I didn’t have to. But you can see for yourself.

I can’t stay here alone. I’d go crazy with trouble and loneliness. And my sight would go--I know it would.” “You won’t have to stay here alone, Marilla. I’ll be with you.

I’m not going to Redmond.” “Not going to Redmond!” Marilla lifted her worn face from her hands and looked at Anne.

“Why, what do you mean?” “Just what I say. I’m not going to take the scholarship. I decided so the night after you came home from town.

You surely don’t think I could leave you alone in your trouble, Marilla, after all you’ve done for me. I’ve been thinking and planning. Let me tell you my plans.

Mr. Barry wants to rent the farm for next year. So you won’t have any bother over that. And I’m going to teach.

I’ve applied for the school here--but I don’t expect to get it for I understand the trustees have promised it to Gilbert Blythe. But I can have the Carmody school--Mr. Blair told me so last night at the store.

Of course that won’t be quite as nice or convenient as if I had the Avonlea school. But I can board home and drive myself over to Carmody and back, in the warm weather at least.

And even in winter I can come home Fridays. We’ll keep a horse for that. Oh, I have it all planned out, Marilla. And I’ll read to you and keep you cheered up.

You sha’n’t be dull or lonesome. And we’ll be real cozy and happy here together, you and I.” Marilla had listened like a woman in a dream. “Oh, Anne, I could get on real well if you were here, I know. But I can’t let you sacrifice yourself so for me.

It would be terrible.” “Nonsense!”

Anne laughed merrily. “There is no sacrifice.

Nothing could be worse than giving up Green Gables--nothing could hurt me more. We must keep the dear old place. My mind is quite made up, Marilla. I’m _not_ going to Redmond; and I _am_ going to stay here and teach.

Don’t you worry about me a bit.” “But your ambitions--and--” “I’m just as ambitious as ever. Only, I’ve changed the object of my ambitions.

I’m going to be a good teacher--and I’m going to save your eyesight. Besides, I mean to study at home here and take a little college course all by myself. Oh, I’ve dozens of plans, Marilla.

I’ve been thinking them out for a week. I shall give life here my best, and I believe it will give its best to me in return. When I left Queen’s my future seemed to stretch out before me like a straight road. I thought I could see along it for many a milestone.

Now there is a bend in it. I don’t know what lies around the bend, but I’m going to believe that the best does. It has a fascination of its own, that bend, Marilla.

I wonder how the road beyond it goes--what there is of green glory and soft, checkered light and shadows--what new landscapes--what new beauties--what curves and hills and valleys further on.”

“I don’t feel as if I ought to let you give it up,” said Marilla, referring to the scholarship. “But you can’t prevent me. I’m sixteen and a half, ‘obstinate as a mule,’ as Mrs. Lynde once told me,” laughed Anne. “Oh, Marilla, don’t you go pitying me.

I don’t like to be pitied, and there is no need for it. I’m heart glad over the very thought of staying at dear Green Gables. Nobody could love it as you and I do--so we must keep it.”

“You blessed girl!” said Marilla, yielding. “I feel as if you’d given me new life. I guess I ought to stick out and make you go to college--but I know I can’t, so I ain’t going to try. I’ll make it up to you though, Anne.”

When it became noised abroad in Avonlea that Anne Shirley had given up the idea of going to college and intended to stay home and teach there was a good deal of discussion over it.

Most of the good folks, not knowing about Marilla’s eyes, thought she was foolish. Mrs. Allan did not. She told Anne so in approving words that brought tears of pleasure to the girl’s eyes. Neither did good Mrs. Lynde.

She came up one evening and found Anne and Marilla sitting at the front door in the warm, scented summer dusk. They liked to sit there when the twilight came down and the white moths flew about in the garden and the odor of mint filled the dewy air. Mrs. Rachel deposited her substantial person upon the stone bench by the door, behind which grew a row of tall pink and yellow hollyhocks, with a long breath of mingled weariness and relief. “I declare I’m getting glad to sit down.

I’ve been on my feet all day, and two hundred pounds is a good bit for two feet to carry round. It’s a great blessing not to be fat, Marilla. I hope you appreciate it. Well, Anne, I hear you’ve given up your notion of going to college.

I was real glad to hear it. You’ve got as much education now as a woman can be comfortable with. I don’t believe in girls going to college with the men and cramming their heads full of Latin and Greek and all that nonsense.”

“But I’m going to study Latin and Greek just the same, Mrs. Lynde,” said Anne laughing. “I’m going to take my Arts course right here at Green Gables, and study everything that I would at college.” Mrs. Lynde lifted her hands in holy horror.

“Anne Shirley, you’ll kill yourself.”

“Not a bit of it. I shall thrive on it. Oh, I’m not going to overdo things.

As ‘Josiah Allen’s wife,’ says, I shall be ‘mejum’. But I’ll have lots of spare time in the long winter evenings, and I’ve no vocation for fancy work.

I’m going to teach over at Carmody, you know.” “I don’t know it. I guess you’re going to teach right here in Avonlea.

The trustees have decided to give you the school.” “Mrs. Lynde!” cried Anne, springing to her feet in her surprise. “Why, I thought they had promised it to Gilbert Blythe!” “So they did.

But as soon as Gilbert heard that you had applied for it he went to them--they had a business meeting at the school last night, you know--and told them that he withdrew his application, and suggested that they accept yours.

He said he was going to teach at White Sands. Of course he knew how much you wanted to stay with Marilla, and I must say I think it was real kind and thoughtful in him, that’s what. Real self-sacrificing, too, for he’ll have his board to pay at White Sands, and everybody knows he’s got to earn his own way through college. So the trustees decided to take you.

I was tickled to death when Thomas came home and told me.” “I don’t feel that I ought to take it,” murmured Anne. “I mean--I don’t think I ought to let Gilbert make such a sacrifice for--for me.”

“I guess you can’t prevent him now.

He’s signed papers with the White Sands trustees. So it wouldn’t do him any good now if you were to refuse. Of course you’ll take the school. You’ll get along all right, now that there are no Pyes going.

Josie was the last of them, and a good thing she was, that’s what. There’s been some Pye or other going to Avonlea school for the last twenty years, and I guess their mission in life was to keep school teachers reminded that earth isn’t their home. Bless my heart!

What does all that winking and blinking at the Barry gable mean?”

“Diana is signaling for me to go over,” laughed Anne. “You know we keep up the old custom. Excuse me while I run over and see what she wants.”

Anne ran down the clover slope like a deer, and disappeared in the firry shadows of the Haunted Wood. Mrs. Lynde looked after her indulgently.

“There’s a good deal of the child about her yet in some ways.”

“There’s a good deal more of the woman about her in others,” retorted Marilla, with a momentary return of her old crispness. But crispness was no longer Marilla’s distinguishing characteristic.

As Mrs. Lynde told her Thomas that night.
“Marilla Cuthbert has got _mellow_. That’s what.” Anne went to the little Avonlea graveyard the next evening to put fresh flowers on Matthew’s grave and water the Scotch rosebush. She lingered there until dusk, liking the peace and calm of the little place, with its poplars whose rustle was like low, friendly speech, and its whispering grasses growing at will among the graves.

When she finally left it and walked down the long hill that sloped to the Lake of Shining Waters it was past sunset and all Avonlea lay before her in a dreamlike afterlight--“a haunt of ancient peace.” There was a freshness in the air as of a wind that had blown over honey-sweet fields of clover. Home lights twinkled out here and there among the homestead trees.

Beyond lay the sea, misty and purple, with its haunting, unceasing murmur. The west was a glory of soft mingled hues, and the pond reflected them all in still softer shadings. The beauty of it all thrilled Anne’s heart, and she gratefully opened the gates of her soul to it. “Dear old world,” she murmured, “you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you.”

Halfway down the hill a tall lad came whistling out of a gate before the Blythe homestead. It was Gilbert, and the whistle died on his lips as he recognized Anne. He lifted his cap courteously, but he would have passed on in silence, if Anne had not stopped and held out her hand. “Gilbert,” she said, with scarlet cheeks, “I want to thank you for giving up the school for me. It was very good of you--and I want you to know that I appreciate it.”

Gilbert took the offered hand eagerly. “It wasn’t particularly good of me at all, Anne. I was pleased to be able to do you some small service. Are we going to be friends after this? Have you really forgiven me my old fault?”

Anne laughed and tried unsuccessfully to withdraw her hand.

“I forgave you that day by the pond landing, although I didn’t know it. What a stubborn little goose I was. I’ve been--I may as well make a complete confession--I’ve been sorry ever since.” “We are going to be the best of friends,” said Gilbert, jubilantly.

“We were born to be good friends, Anne. You’ve thwarted destiny enough. I know we can help each other in many ways.

You are going to keep up your studies, aren’t you? So am I. Come, I’m going to walk home with you.” Marilla looked curiously at Anne when the latter entered the kitchen. “Who was that came up the lane with you, Anne?”

“Gilbert Blythe,” answered Anne, vexed to find herself blushing.

“I met him on Barry’s hill.” “I didn’t think you and Gilbert Blythe were such good friends that you’d stand for half an hour at the gate talking to him,” said Marilla with a dry smile. “We haven’t been--we’ve been good enemies. But we have decided that it will be much more sensible to be good friends in the future.

Were we really there half an hour? It seemed just a few minutes. But, you see, we have five years’ lost conversations to catch up with, Marilla.”

Anne sat long at her window that night companioned by a glad content.

The wind purred softly in the cherry boughs, and the mint breaths came up to her. The stars twinkled over the pointed firs in the hollow and Diana’s light gleamed through the old gap. Anne’s horizons had closed in since the night she had sat there after coming home from Queen’s; but if the path set before her feet was to be narrow she knew that flowers of quiet happiness would bloom along it. The joy of sincere work and worthy aspiration and congenial friendship were to be hers; nothing could rob her of her birthright of fancy or her ideal world of dreams. And there was always the bend in the road!

“‘God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world,’” whispered Anne softly. In the days when the spinning-wheels hummed busily in the farmhouses—and even great ladies, clothed in silk and thread-lace, had their toy spinning-wheels of polished oak—there might be seen in districts far away among the lanes, or deep in the bosom of the hills, certain pallid undersized men, who, by the side of the brawny country-folk, looked like the remnants of a disinherited race. The shepherd’s dog barked fiercely when one of these alien-looking men appeared on the upland, dark against the early winter sunset; for what dog likes a figure bent under a heavy bag?—and these pale men rarely stirred abroad without that mysterious burden. The shepherd himself, though he had good reason to believe that the bag held nothing but flaxen thread, or else the long rolls of strong linen spun from that thread, was not quite sure that this trade of weaving, indispensable though it was, could be carried on entirely without the help of the Evil One.

In that far-off time superstition clung easily round every person or thing that was at all unwonted, or even intermittent and occasional merely, like the visits of the pedlar or the knife-grinder. No one knew where wandering men had their homes or their origin; and how was a man to be explained unless you at least knew somebody who knew his father and mother? To the peasants of old times, the world outside their own direct experience was a region of vagueness and mystery: to their untravelled thought a state of wandering was a conception as dim as the winter life of the swallows that came back with the spring; and even a settler, if he came from distant parts, hardly ever ceased to be viewed with a remnant of distrust, which would have prevented any surprise if a long course of inoffensive conduct on his part had ended in the commission of a crime; especially if he had any reputation for knowledge, or showed any skill in handicraft.

All cleverness, whether in the rapid use of that difficult instrument the tongue, or in some other art unfamiliar to villagers, was in itself suspicious: honest folk, born and bred in a visible manner, were mostly not overwise or clever—at least, not beyond such a matter as knowing the signs of the weather; and the process by which rapidity and dexterity of any kind were acquired was so wholly hidden, that they partook of the nature of conjuring. In this way it came to pass that those scattered linen-weavers—emigrants from the town into the country—were to the last regarded as aliens by their rustic neighbours, and usually contracted the eccentric habits which belong to a state of loneliness. In the early years of this century, such a linen-weaver, named Silas Marner, worked at his vocation in a stone cottage that stood among the nutty hedgerows near the village of Raveloe, and not far from the edge of a deserted stone-pit. The questionable sound of Silas’s loom, so unlike the natural cheerful trotting of the winnowing-machine, or the simpler rhythm of the flail, had a half-fearful fascination for the Raveloe boys, who would often leave off their nutting or birds’-nesting to peep in at the window of the stone cottage, counterbalancing a certain awe at the mysterious action of the loom, by a pleasant sense of scornful superiority, drawn from the mockery of its alternating noises, along with the bent, tread-mill attitude of the weaver.

But sometimes it happened that Marner, pausing to adjust an irregularity in his thread, became aware of the small scoundrels, and, though chary of his time, he liked their intrusion so ill that he would descend from his loom, and, opening the door, would fix on them a gaze that was always enough to make them take to their legs in terror.

For how was it possible to believe that those large brown protuberant eyes in Silas Marner’s pale face really saw nothing very distinctly that was not close to them, and not rather that their dreadful stare could dart cramp, or rickets, or a wry mouth at any boy who happened to be in the rear? They had, perhaps, heard their fathers and mothers hint that Silas Marner could cure folks’ rheumatism if he had a mind, and add, still more darkly, that if you could only speak the devil fair enough, he might save you the cost of the doctor. Such strange lingering echoes of the old demon-worship might perhaps even now be caught by the diligent listener among the grey-haired peasantry; for the rude mind with difficulty associates the ideas of power and benignity. A shadowy conception of power that by much persuasion can be induced to refrain from inflicting harm, is the shape most easily taken by the sense of the Invisible in the minds of men who have always been pressed close by primitive wants, and to whom a life of hard toil has never been illuminated by any enthusiastic religious faith.

To them pain and mishap present a far wider range of possibilities than gladness and enjoyment: their imagination is almost barren of the images that feed desire and hope, but is all overgrown by recollections that are a perpetual pasture to fear. “Is there anything you can fancy that you would like to eat?”

I once said to an old labouring man, who was in his last illness, and who had refused all the food his wife had offered him. “No,” he answered, “I’ve never been used to nothing but common victual, and I can’t eat that.”

Experience had bred no fancies in him that could raise the phantasm of appetite. And Raveloe was a village where many of the old echoes lingered, undrowned by new voices. Not that it was one of those barren parishes lying on the outskirts of civilization—inhabited by meagre sheep and thinly-scattered shepherds: on the contrary, it lay in the rich central plain of what we are pleased to call Merry England, and held farms which, speaking from a spiritual point of view, paid highly-desirable tithes. But it was nestled in a snug well-wooded hollow, quite an hour’s journey on horseback from any turnpike, where it was never reached by the vibrations of the coach-horn, or of public opinion.

It was an important-looking village, with a fine old church and large churchyard in the heart of it, and two or three large brick-and-stone homesteads, with well-walled orchards and ornamental weathercocks, standing close upon the road, and lifting more imposing fronts than the rectory, which peeped from among the trees on the other side of the churchyard:—a village which showed at once the summits of its social life, and told the practised eye that there was no great park and manor-house in the vicinity, but that there were several chiefs in Raveloe who could farm badly quite at their ease, drawing enough money from their bad farming, in those war times, to live in a rollicking fashion, and keep a jolly Christmas, Whitsun, and Easter tide. It was fifteen years since Silas Marner had first come to Raveloe; he was then simply a pallid young man, with prominent short-sighted brown eyes, whose appearance would have had nothing strange for people of average culture and experience, but for the villagers near whom he had come to settle it had mysterious peculiarities which corresponded with the exceptional nature of his occupation, and his advent from an unknown region called “North’ard”. So had his way of life:—he invited no comer to step across his door-sill, and he never strolled into the village to drink a pint at the Rainbow, or to gossip at the wheelwright’s: he sought no man or woman, save for the purposes of his calling, or in order to supply himself with necessaries; and it was soon clear to the Raveloe lasses that he would never urge one of them to accept him against her will—quite as if he had heard them declare that they would never marry a dead man come to life again.

This view of Marner’s personality was not without another ground than his pale face and unexampled eyes; for Jem Rodney, the mole-catcher, averred that one evening as he was returning homeward, he saw Silas Marner leaning against a stile with a heavy bag on his back, instead of resting the bag on the stile as a man in his senses would have done; and that, on coming up to him, he saw that Marner’s eyes were set like a dead man’s, and he spoke to him, and shook him, and his limbs were stiff, and his hands clutched the bag as if they’d been made of iron; but just as he had made up his mind that the weaver was dead, he came all right again, like, as you might say, in the winking of an eye, and said “Good-night,” and walked off. All this Jem swore he had seen, more by token that it was the very day he had been mole-catching on Squire Cass’s land, down by the old saw-pit. Some said Marner must have been in a “fit,” a word which seemed to explain things otherwise incredible; but the argumentative Mr. Macey, clerk of the parish, shook his head, and asked if anybody was ever known to go off in a fit and not fall down. A fit was a stroke, wasn’t it? and it was in the nature of a stroke to partly take away the use of a man’s limbs and throw him on the parish, if he’d got no children to look to.

No, no; it was no stroke that would let a man stand on his legs, like a horse between the shafts, and then walk off as soon as you can say “Gee!” But there might be such a thing as a man’s soul being loose from his body, and going out and in, like a bird out of its nest and back; and that was how folks got over-wise, for they went to school in this shell-less state to those who could teach them more than their neighbours could learn with their five senses and the parson.

And where did Master Marner get his knowledge of herbs from—and charms too, if he liked to give them away? Jem Rodney’s story was no more than what might have been expected by anybody who had seen how Marner had cured Sally Oates, and made her sleep like a baby, when her heart had been beating enough to burst her body, for two months and more, while she had been under the doctor’s care. He might cure more folks if he would; but he was worth speaking fair, if it was only to keep him from doing you a mischief.

It was partly to this vague fear that Marner was indebted for protecting him from the persecution that his singularities might have drawn upon him, but still more to the fact that, the old linen-weaver in the neighbouring parish of Tarley being dead, his handicraft made him a highly welcome settler to the richer housewives of the district, and even to the more provident cottagers, who had their little stock of yarn at the year’s end. Their sense of his usefulness would have counteracted any repugnance or suspicion which was not confirmed by a deficiency in the quality or the tale of the cloth he wove for them. And the years had rolled on without producing any change in the impressions of the neighbours concerning Marner, except the change from novelty to habit. At the end of fifteen years the Raveloe men said just the same things about Silas Marner as at the beginning: they did not say them quite so often, but they believed them much more strongly when they did say them. There was only one important addition which the years had brought: it was, that Master Marner had laid by a fine sight of money somewhere, and that he could buy up “bigger men” than himself.

But while opinion concerning him had remained nearly stationary, and his daily habits had presented scarcely any visible change, Marner’s inward life had been a history and a metamorphosis, as that of every fervid nature must be when it has fled, or been condemned, to solitude.

His life, before he came to Raveloe, had been filled with the movement, the mental activity, and the close fellowship, which, in that day as in this, marked the life of an artisan early incorporated in a narrow religious sect, where the poorest layman has the chance of distinguishing himself by gifts of speech, and has, at the very least, the weight of a silent voter in the government of his community. Marner was highly thought of in that little hidden world, known to itself as the church assembling in Lantern Yard; he was believed to be a young man of exemplary life and ardent faith; and a peculiar interest had been centred in him ever since he had fallen, at a prayer-meeting, into a mysterious rigidity and suspension of consciousness, which, lasting for an hour or more, had been mistaken for death. To have sought a medical explanation for this phenomenon would have been held by Silas himself, as well as by his minister and fellow-members, a wilful self-exclusion from the spiritual significance that might lie therein.

Silas was evidently a brother selected for a peculiar discipline; and though the effort to interpret this discipline was discouraged by the absence, on his part, of any spiritual vision during his outward trance, yet it was believed by himself and others that its effect was seen in an accession of light and fervour. A less truthful man than he might have been tempted into the subsequent creation of a vision in the form of resurgent memory; a less sane man might have believed in such a creation; but Silas was both sane and honest, though, as with many honest and fervent men, culture had not defined any channels for his sense of mystery, and so it spread itself over the proper pathway of inquiry and knowledge. He had inherited from his mother some acquaintance with medicinal herbs and their preparation—a little store of wisdom which she had imparted to him as a solemn bequest—but of late years he had had doubts about the lawfulness of applying this knowledge, believing that herbs could have no efficacy without prayer, and that prayer might suffice without herbs; so that the inherited delight he had in wandering in the fields in search of foxglove and dandelion and coltsfoot, began to wear to him the character of a temptation.

Among the members of his church there was one young man, a little older than himself, with whom he had long lived in such close friendship that it was the custom of their Lantern Yard brethren to call them David and Jonathan. The real name of the friend was William Dane, and he, too, was regarded as a shining instance of youthful piety, though somewhat given to over-severity towards weaker brethren, and to be so dazzled by his own light as to hold himself wiser than his teachers. But whatever blemishes others might discern in William, to his friend’s mind he was faultless; for Marner had one of those impressible self-doubting natures which, at an inexperienced age, admire imperativeness and lean on contradiction.

The expression of trusting simplicity in Marner’s face, heightened by that absence of special observation, that defenceless, deer-like gaze which belongs to large prominent eyes, was strongly contrasted by the self-complacent suppression of inward triumph that lurked in the narrow slanting eyes and compressed lips of William Dane. One of the most frequent topics of conversation between the two friends was Assurance of salvation: Silas confessed that he could never arrive at anything higher than hope mingled with fear, and listened with longing wonder when William declared that he had possessed unshaken assurance ever since, in the period of his conversion, he had dreamed that he saw the words “calling and election sure” standing by themselves on a white page in the open Bible. Such colloquies have occupied many a pair of pale-faced weavers, whose unnurtured souls have been like young winged things, fluttering forsaken in the twilight. It had seemed to the unsuspecting Silas that the friendship had suffered no chill even from his formation of another attachment of a closer kind.

For some months he had been engaged to a young servant-woman, waiting only for a little increase to their mutual savings in order to their marriage; and it was a great delight to him that Sarah did not object to William’s occasional presence in their Sunday interviews. It was at this point in their history that Silas’s cataleptic fit occurred during the prayer-meeting; and amidst the various queries and expressions of interest addressed to him by his fellow-members, William’s suggestion alone jarred with the general sympathy towards a brother thus singled out for special dealings. He observed that, to him, this trance looked more like a visitation of Satan than a proof of divine favour, and exhorted his friend to see that he hid no accursed thing within his soul. Silas, feeling bound to accept rebuke and admonition as a brotherly office, felt no resentment, but only pain, at his friend’s doubts concerning him; and to this was soon added some anxiety at the perception that Sarah’s manner towards him began to exhibit a strange fluctuation between an effort at an increased manifestation of regard and involuntary signs of shrinking and dislike.

He asked her if she wished to break off their engagement; but she denied this: their engagement was known to the church, and had been recognized in the prayer-meetings; it could not be broken off without strict investigation, and Sarah could render no reason that would be sanctioned by the feeling of the community. At this time the senior deacon was taken dangerously ill, and, being a childless widower, he was tended night and day by some of the younger brethren or sisters. Silas frequently took his turn in the night-watching with William, the one relieving the other at two in the morning. The old man, contrary to expectation, seemed to be on the way to recovery, when one night Silas, sitting up by his bedside, observed that his usual audible breathing had ceased.

The candle was burning low, and he had to lift it to see the patient’s face distinctly. Examination convinced him that the deacon was dead—had been dead some time, for the limbs were rigid. Silas asked himself if he had been asleep, and looked at the clock: it was already four in the morning. How was it that William had not come?

In much anxiety he went to seek for help, and soon there were several friends assembled in the house, the minister among them, while Silas went away to his work, wishing he could have met William to know the reason of his non-appearance. But at six o’clock, as he was thinking of going to seek his friend, William came, and with him the minister.

They came to summon him to Lantern Yard, to meet the church members there; and to his inquiry concerning the cause of the summons the only reply was, “You will hear.” Nothing further was said until Silas was seated in the vestry, in front of the minister, with the eyes of those who to him represented God’s people fixed solemnly upon him. Then the minister, taking out a pocket-knife, showed it to Silas, and asked him if he knew where he had left that knife?

Silas said, he did not know that he had left it anywhere out of his own pocket—but he was trembling at this strange interrogation. He was then exhorted not to hide his sin, but to confess and repent. The knife had been found in the bureau by the departed deacon’s bedside—found in the place where the little bag of church money had lain, which the minister himself had seen the day before.

Some hand had removed that bag; and whose hand could it be, if not that of the man to whom the knife belonged? For some time Silas was mute with astonishment: then he said, “God will clear me: I know nothing about the knife being there, or the money being gone. Search me and my dwelling; you will find nothing but three pound five of my own savings, which William Dane knows I have had these six months.”

At this William groaned, but the minister said, “The proof is heavy against you, brother Marner. The money was taken in the night last past, and no man was with our departed brother but you, for William Dane declares to us that he was hindered by sudden sickness from going to take his place as usual, and you yourself said that he had not come; and, moreover, you neglected the dead body.” “I must have slept,” said Silas.

Then, after a pause, he added, “Or I must have had another visitation like that which you have all seen me under, so that the thief must have come and gone while I was not in the body, but out of the body. But, I say again, search me and my dwelling, for I have been nowhere else.”

The search was made, and it ended—in William Dane’s finding the well-known bag, empty, tucked behind the chest of drawers in Silas’s chamber! On this William exhorted his friend to confess, and not to hide his sin any longer. Silas turned a look of keen reproach on him, and said, “William, for nine years that we have gone in and out together, have you ever known me tell a lie? But God will clear me.”

“Brother,” said William, “how do I know what you may have done in the secret chambers of your heart, to give Satan an advantage over you?”

Silas was still looking at his friend. Suddenly a deep flush came over his face, and he was about to speak impetuously, when he seemed checked again by some inward shock, that sent the flush back and made him tremble. But at last he spoke feebly, looking at William.

“I remember now—the knife wasn’t in my pocket.” William said, “I know nothing of what you mean.” The other persons present, however, began to inquire where Silas meant to say that the knife was, but he would give no further explanation: he only said, “I am sore stricken; I can say nothing. God will clear me.”

On their return to the vestry there was further deliberation. Any resort to legal measures for ascertaining the culprit was contrary to the principles of the church in Lantern Yard, according to which prosecution was forbidden to Christians, even had the case held less scandal to the community. But the members were bound to take other measures for finding out the truth, and they resolved on praying and drawing lots.

This resolution can be a ground of surprise only to those who are unacquainted with that obscure religious life which has gone on in the alleys of our towns. Silas knelt with his brethren, relying on his own innocence being certified by immediate divine interference, but feeling that there was sorrow and mourning behind for him even then—that his trust in man had been cruelly bruised. _

The lots declared that Silas Marner was guilty._ He was solemnly suspended from church-membership, and called upon to render up the stolen money: only on confession, as the sign of repentance, could he be received once more within the folds of the church. Marner listened in silence.

At last, when everyone rose to depart, he went towards William Dane and said, in a voice shaken by agitation— “The last time I remember using my knife, was when I took it out to cut a strap for you. I don’t remember putting it in my pocket again. _

You_ stole the money, and you have woven a plot to lay the sin at my door. But you may prosper, for all that: there is no just God that governs the earth righteously, but a God of lies, that bears witness against the innocent.”

There was a general shudder at this blasphemy. William said meekly, “I leave our brethren to judge whether this is the voice of Satan or not. I can do nothing but pray for you, Silas.” Poor Marner went out with that despair in his soul—that shaken trust in God and man, which is little short of madness to a loving nature.

In the bitterness of his wounded spirit, he said to himself, “_She_ will cast me off too.” And he reflected that, if she did not believe the testimony against him, her whole faith must be upset as his was. To people accustomed to reason about the forms in which their religious feeling has incorporated itself, it is difficult to enter into that simple, untaught state of mind in which the form and the feeling have never been severed by an act of reflection. We are apt to think it inevitable that a man in Marner’s position should have begun to question the validity of an appeal to the divine judgment by drawing lots; but to him this would have been an effort of independent thought such as he had never known; and he must have made the effort at a moment when all his energies were turned into the anguish of disappointed faith.

If there is an angel who records the sorrows of men as well as their sins, he knows how many and deep are the sorrows that spring from false ideas for which no man is culpable. Marner went home, and for a whole day sat alone, stunned by despair, without any impulse to go to Sarah and attempt to win her belief in his innocence. The second day he took refuge from benumbing unbelief, by getting into his loom and working away as usual; and before many hours were past, the minister and one of the deacons came to him with the message from Sarah, that she held her engagement to him at an end. Silas received the message mutely, and then turned away from the messengers to work at his loom again.

In little more than a month from that time, Sarah was married to William Dane; and not long afterwards it was known to the brethren in Lantern Yard that Silas Marner had departed from the town. CHAPTER II.

Even people whose lives have been made various by learning, sometimes find it hard to keep a fast hold on their habitual views of life, on their faith in the Invisible, nay, on the sense that their past joys and sorrows are a real experience, when they are suddenly transported to a new land, where the beings around them know nothing of their history, and share none of their ideas—where their mother earth shows another lap, and human life has other forms than those on which their souls have been nourished. Minds that have been unhinged from their old faith and love, have perhaps sought this Lethean influence of exile, in which the past becomes dreamy because its symbols have all vanished, and the present too is dreamy because it is linked with no memories. But even _their_ experience may hardly enable them thoroughly to imagine what was the effect on a simple weaver like Silas Marner, when he left his own country and people and came to settle in Raveloe.

Nothing could be more unlike his native town, set within sight of the widespread hillsides, than this low, wooded region, where he felt hidden even from the heavens by the screening trees and hedgerows. There was nothing here, when he rose in the deep morning quiet and looked out on the dewy brambles and rank tufted grass, that seemed to have any relation with that life centring in Lantern Yard, which had once been to him the altar-place of high dispensations. The whitewashed walls; the little pews where well-known figures entered with a subdued rustling, and where first one well-known voice and then another, pitched in a peculiar key of petition, uttered phrases at once occult and familiar, like the amulet worn on the heart; the pulpit where the minister delivered unquestioned doctrine, and swayed to and fro, and handled the book in a long accustomed manner; the very pauses between the couplets of the hymn, as it was given out, and the recurrent swell of voices in song: these things had been the channel of divine influences to Marner—they were the fostering home of his religious emotions—they were Christianity and God’s kingdom upon earth. A weaver who finds hard words in his hymn-book knows nothing of abstractions; as the little child knows nothing of parental love, but only knows one face and one lap towards which it stretches its arms for refuge and nurture.

And what could be more unlike that Lantern Yard world than the world in Raveloe?—orchards looking lazy with neglected plenty; the large church in the wide churchyard, which men gazed at lounging at their own doors in service-time; the purple-faced farmers jogging along the lanes or turning in at the Rainbow; homesteads, where men supped heavily and slept in the light of the evening hearth, and where women seemed to be laying up a stock of linen for the life to come. There were no lips in Raveloe from which a word could fall that would stir Silas Marner’s benumbed faith to a sense of pain. In the early ages of the world, we know, it was believed that each territory was inhabited and ruled by its own divinities, so that a man could cross the bordering heights and be out of the reach of his native gods, whose presence was confined to the streams and the groves and the hills among which he had lived from his birth. And poor Silas was vaguely conscious of something not unlike the feeling of primitive men, when they fled thus, in fear or in sullenness, from the face of an unpropitious deity.

It seemed to him that the Power he had vainly trusted in among the streets and at the prayer-meetings, was very far away from this land in which he had taken refuge, where men lived in careless abundance, knowing and needing nothing of that trust, which, for him, had been turned to bitterness. The little light he possessed spread its beams so narrowly, that frustrated belief was a curtain broad enough to create for him the blackness of night. His first movement after the shock had been to work in his loom; and he went on with this unremittingly, never asking himself why, now he was come to Raveloe, he worked far on into the night to finish the tale of Mrs. Osgood’s table-linen sooner than she expected—without contemplating beforehand the money she would put into his hand for the work.

He seemed to weave, like the spider, from pure impulse, without reflection. Every man’s work, pursued steadily, tends in this way to become an end in itself, and so to bridge over the loveless chasms of his life. Silas’s hand satisfied itself with throwing the shuttle, and his eye with seeing the little squares in the cloth complete themselves under his effort.

Then there were the calls of hunger; and Silas, in his solitude, had to provide his own breakfast, dinner, and supper, to fetch his own water from the well, and put his own kettle on the fire; and all these immediate promptings helped, along with the weaving, to reduce his life to the unquestioning activity of a spinning insect. He hated the thought of the past; there was nothing that called out his love and fellowship toward the strangers he had come amongst; and the future was all dark, for there was no Unseen Love that cared for him. Thought was arrested by utter bewilderment, now its old narrow pathway was closed, and affection seemed to have died under the bruise that had fallen on its keenest nerves.

But at last Mrs. Osgood’s table-linen was finished, and Silas was paid in gold.

His earnings in his native town, where he worked for a wholesale dealer, had been after a lower rate; he had been paid weekly, and of his weekly earnings a large proportion had gone to objects of piety and charity. Now, for the first time in his life, he had five bright guineas put into his hand; no man expected a share of them, and he loved no man that he should offer him a share. But what were the guineas to him who saw no vista beyond countless days of weaving?

It was needless for him to ask that, for it was pleasant to him to feel them in his palm, and look at their bright faces, which were all his own: it was another element of life, like the weaving and the satisfaction of hunger, subsisting quite aloof from the life of belief and love from which he had been cut off. The weaver’s hand had known the touch of hard-won money even before the palm had grown to its full breadth; for twenty years, mysterious money had stood to him as the symbol of earthly good, and the immediate object of toil. He had seemed to love it little in the years when every penny had its purpose for him; for he loved the _purpose_ then.

But now, when all purpose was gone, that habit of looking towards the money and grasping it with a sense of fulfilled effort made a loam that was deep enough for the seeds of desire; and as Silas walked homeward across the fields in the twilight, he drew out the money and thought it was brighter in the gathering gloom.

About this time an incident happened which seemed to open a possibility of some fellowship with his neighbours. One day, taking a pair of shoes to be mended, he saw the cobbler’s wife seated by the fire, suffering from the terrible symptoms of heart-disease and dropsy, which he had witnessed as the precursors of his mother’s death. He felt a rush of pity at the mingled sight and remembrance, and, recalling the relief his mother had found from a simple preparation of foxglove, he promised Sally Oates to bring her something that would ease her, since the doctor did her no good.

In this office of charity, Silas felt, for the first time since he had come to Raveloe, a sense of unity between his past and present life, which might have been the beginning of his rescue from the insect-like existence into which his nature had shrunk. But Sally Oates’s disease had raised her into a personage of much interest and importance among the neighbours, and the fact of her having found relief from drinking Silas Marner’s “stuff” became a matter of general discourse.

When Doctor Kimble gave physic, it was natural that it should have an effect; but when a weaver, who came from nobody knew where, worked wonders with a bottle of brown waters, the occult character of the process was evident. Such a sort of thing had not been known since the Wise Woman at Tarley died; and she had charms as well as “stuff”: everybody went to her when their children had fits. Silas Marner must be a person of the same sort, for how did he know what would bring back Sally Oates’s breath, if he didn’t know a fine sight more than that?

The Wise Woman had words that she muttered to herself, so that you couldn’t hear what they were, and if she tied a bit of red thread round the child’s toe the while, it would keep off the water in the head. There were women in Raveloe, at that present time, who had worn one of the Wise Woman’s little bags round their necks, and, in consequence, had never had an idiot child, as Ann Coulter had. Silas Marner could very likely do as much, and more; and now it was all clear how he should have come from unknown parts, and be so “comical-looking”. But Sally Oates must mind and not tell the doctor, for he would be sure to set his face against Marner: he was always angry about the Wise Woman, and used to threaten those who went to her that they should have none of his help any more.

Silas now found himself and his cottage suddenly beset by mothers who wanted him to charm away the whooping-cough, or bring back the milk, and by men who wanted stuff against the rheumatics or the knots in the hands; and, to secure themselves against a refusal, the applicants brought silver in their palms. Silas might have driven a profitable trade in charms as well as in his small list of drugs; but money on this condition was no temptation to him: he had never known an impulse towards falsity, and he drove one after another away with growing irritation, for the news of him as a wise man had spread even to Tarley, and it was long before people ceased to take long walks for the sake of asking his aid. But the hope in his wisdom was at length changed into dread, for no one believed him when he said he knew no charms and could work no cures, and every man and woman who had an accident or a new attack after applying to him, set the misfortune down to Master Marner’s ill-will and irritated glances.

Thus it came to pass that his movement of pity towards Sally Oates, which had given him a transient sense of brotherhood, heightened the repulsion between him and his neighbours, and made his isolation more complete. Gradually the guineas, the crowns, and the half-crowns grew to a heap, and Marner drew less and less for his own wants, trying to solve the problem of keeping himself strong enough to work sixteen hours a-day on as small an outlay as possible. Have not men, shut up in solitary imprisonment, found an interest in marking the moments by straight strokes of a certain length on the wall, until the growth of the sum of straight strokes, arranged in triangles, has become a mastering purpose? Do we not wile away moments of inanity or fatigued waiting by repeating some trivial movement or sound, until the repetition has bred a want, which is incipient habit? That will help us to understand how the love of accumulating money grows an absorbing passion in men whose imaginations, even in the very beginning of their hoard, showed them no purpose beyond it.

Marner wanted the heaps of ten to grow into a square, and then into a larger square; and every added guinea, while it was itself a satisfaction, bred a new desire. In this strange world, made a hopeless riddle to him, he might, if he had had a less intense nature, have sat weaving, weaving—looking towards the end of his pattern, or towards the end of his web, till he forgot the riddle, and everything else but his immediate sensations; but the money had come to mark off his weaving into periods, and the money not only grew, but it remained with him. He began to think it was conscious of him, as his loom was, and he would on no account have exchanged those coins, which had become his familiars, for other coins with unknown faces. He handled them, he counted them, till their form and colour were like the satisfaction of a thirst to him; but it was only in the night, when his work was done, that he drew them out to enjoy their companionship. He had taken up some bricks in his floor underneath his loom, and here he had made a hole in which he set the iron pot that contained his guineas and silver coins, covering the bricks with sand whenever he replaced them.

Not that the idea of being robbed presented itself often or strongly to his mind: hoarding was common in country districts in those days; there were old labourers in the parish of Raveloe who were known to have their savings by them, probably inside their flock-beds; but their rustic neighbours, though not all of them as honest as their ancestors in the days of King Alfred, had not imaginations bold enough to lay a plan of burglary. How could they have spent the money in their own village without betraying themselves? They would be obliged to “run away”—a course as dark and dubious as a balloon journey.

So, year after year, Silas Marner had lived in this solitude, his guineas rising in the iron pot, and his life narrowing and hardening itself more and more into a mere pulsation of desire and satisfaction that had no relation to any other being. His life had reduced itself to the functions of weaving and hoarding, without any contemplation of an end towards which the functions tended. The same sort of process has perhaps been undergone by wiser men, when they have been cut off from faith and love—only, instead of a loom and a heap of guineas, they have had some erudite research, some ingenious project, or some well-knit theory. Strangely Marner’s face and figure shrank and bent themselves into a constant mechanical relation to the objects of his life, so that he produced the same sort of impression as a handle or a crooked tube, which has no meaning standing apart.

The prominent eyes that used to look trusting and dreamy, now looked as if they had been made to see only one kind of thing that was very small, like tiny grain, for which they hunted everywhere: and he was so withered and yellow, that, though he was not yet forty, the children always called him “Old Master Marner”. Yet even in this stage of withering a little incident happened, which showed that the sap of affection was not all gone.

It was one of his daily tasks to fetch his water from a well a couple of fields off, and for this purpose, ever since he came to Raveloe, he had had a brown earthenware pot, which he held as his most precious utensil among the very few conveniences he had granted himself. It had been his companion for twelve years, always standing on the same spot, always lending its handle to him in the early morning, so that its form had an expression for him of willing helpfulness, and the impress of its handle on his palm gave a satisfaction mingled with that of having the fresh clear water. One day as he was returning from the well, he stumbled against the step of the stile, and his brown pot, falling with force against the stones that overarched the ditch below him, was broken in three pieces. Silas picked up the pieces and carried them home with grief in his heart.

The brown pot could never be of use to him any more, but he stuck the bits together and propped the ruin in its old place for a memorial. This is the history of Silas Marner, until the fifteenth year after he came to Raveloe. The livelong day he sat in his loom, his ear filled with its monotony, his eyes bent close down on the slow growth of sameness in the brownish web, his muscles moving with such even repetition that their pause seemed almost as much a constraint as the holding of his breath. But at night came his revelry: at night he closed his shutters, and made fast his doors, and drew forth his gold.

Long ago the heap of coins had become too large for the iron pot to hold them, and he had made for them two thick leather bags, which wasted no room in their resting-place, but lent themselves flexibly to every corner. How the guineas shone as they came pouring out of the dark leather mouths! The silver bore no large proportion in amount to the gold, because the long pieces of linen which formed his chief work were always partly paid for in gold, and out of the silver he supplied his own bodily wants, choosing always the shillings and sixpences to spend in this way.

He loved the guineas best, but he would not change the silver—the crowns and half-crowns that were his own earnings, begotten by his labour; he loved them all. He spread them out in heaps and bathed his hands in them; then he counted them and set them up in regular piles, and felt their rounded outline between his thumb and fingers, and thought fondly of the guineas that were only half-earned by the work in his loom, as if they had been unborn children—thought of the guineas that were coming slowly through the coming years, through all his life, which spread far away before him, the end quite hidden by countless days of weaving. No wonder his thoughts were still with his loom and his money when he made his journeys through the fields and the lanes to fetch and carry home his work, so that his steps never wandered to the hedge-banks and the lane-side in search of the once familiar herbs: these too belonged to the past, from which his life had shrunk away, like a rivulet that has sunk far down from the grassy fringe of its old breadth into a little shivering thread, that cuts a groove for itself in the barren sand. But about the Christmas of that fifteenth year, a second great change came over Marner’s life, and his history became blent in a singular manner with the life of his neighbours.

CHAPTER III.

The greatest man in Raveloe was Squire Cass, who lived in the large red house with the handsome flight of stone steps in front and the high stables behind it, nearly opposite the church. He was only one among several landed parishioners, but he alone was honoured with the title of Squire; for though Mr. Osgood’s family was also understood to be of timeless origin—the Raveloe imagination having never ventured back to that fearful blank when there were no Osgoods—still, he merely owned the farm he occupied; whereas Squire Cass had a tenant or two, who complained of the game to him quite as if he had been a lord. It was still that glorious war-time which was felt to be a peculiar favour of Providence towards the landed interest, and the fall of prices had not yet come to carry the race of small squires and yeomen down that road to ruin for which extravagant habits and bad husbandry were plentifully anointing their wheels.

I am speaking now in relation to Raveloe and the parishes that resembled it; for our old-fashioned country life had many different aspects, as all life must have when it is spread over a various surface, and breathed on variously by multitudinous currents, from the winds of heaven to the thoughts of men, which are for ever moving and crossing each other with incalculable results. Raveloe lay low among the bushy trees and the rutted lanes, aloof from the currents of industrial energy and Puritan earnestness: the rich ate and drank freely, accepting gout and apoplexy as things that ran mysteriously in respectable families, and the poor thought that the rich were entirely in the right of it to lead a jolly life; besides, their feasting caused a multiplication of orts, which were the heirlooms of the poor. Betty Jay scented the boiling of Squire Cass’s hams, but her longing was arrested by the unctuous liquor in which they were boiled; and when the seasons brought round the great merry-makings, they were regarded on all hands as a fine thing for the poor.

For the Raveloe feasts were like the rounds of beef and the barrels of ale—they were on a large scale, and lasted a good while, especially in the winter-time. After ladies had packed up their best gowns and top-knots in bandboxes, and had incurred the risk of fording streams on pillions with the precious burden in rainy or snowy weather, when there was no knowing how high the water would rise, it was not to be supposed that they looked forward to a brief pleasure. On this ground it was always contrived in the dark seasons, when there was little work to be done, and the hours were long, that several neighbours should keep open house in succession. So soon as Squire Cass’s standing dishes diminished in plenty and freshness, his guests had nothing to do but to walk a little higher up the village to Mr.
Osgood’s, at the Orchards, and they found hams and chines uncut, pork-pies with the scent of the fire in them, spun butter in all its freshness—everything, in fact, that appetites at leisure could desire, in perhaps greater perfection, though not in greater abundance, than at Squire Cass’s. For the Squire’s wife had died long ago, and the Red House was without that presence of the wife and mother which is the fountain of wholesome love and fear in parlour and kitchen; and this helped to account not only for there being more profusion than finished excellence in the holiday provisions, but also for the frequency with which the proud Squire condescended to preside in the parlour of the Rainbow rather than under the shadow of his own dark wainscot; perhaps, also, for the fact that his sons had turned out rather ill.

Raveloe was not a place where moral censure was severe, but it was thought a weakness in the Squire that he had kept all his sons at home in idleness; and though some licence was to be allowed to young men whose fathers could afford it, people shook their heads at the courses of the second son, Dunstan, commonly called Dunsey Cass, whose taste for swopping and betting might turn out to be a sowing of something worse than wild oats. To be sure, the neighbours said, it was no matter what became of Dunsey—a spiteful jeering fellow, who seemed to enjoy his drink the more when other people went dry—always provided that his doings did not bring trouble on a family like Squire Cass’s, with a monument in the church, and tankards older than King George. But it would be a thousand pities if Mr. Godfrey, the eldest, a fine open-faced good-natured young man who was to come into the land some day, should take to going along the same road with his brother, as he had seemed to do of late.

If he went on in that way, he would lose Miss Nancy Lammeter; for it was well known that she had looked very shyly on him ever since last Whitsuntide twelvemonth, when there was so much talk about his being away from home days and days together. There was something wrong, more than common—that was quite clear; for Mr. Godfrey didn’t look half so fresh-coloured and open as he used to do. At one time everybody was saying, What a handsome couple he and Miss Nancy Lammeter would make!
and if she could come to be mistress at the Red House, there would be a fine change, for the Lammeters had been brought up in that way, that they never suffered a pinch of salt to be wasted, and yet everybody in their household had of the best, according to his place.

Such a daughter-in-law would be a saving to the old Squire, if she never brought a penny to her fortune; for it was to be feared that, notwithstanding his incomings, there were more holes in his pocket than the one where he put his own hand in. But if Mr. Godfrey didn’t turn over a new leaf, he might say “Good-bye” to Miss Nancy Lammeter.

It was the once hopeful Godfrey who was standing, with his hands in his side-pockets and his back to the fire, in the dark wainscoted parlour, one late November afternoon in that fifteenth year of Silas Marner’s life at Raveloe. The fading grey light fell dimly on the walls decorated with guns, whips, and foxes’ brushes, on coats and hats flung on the chairs, on tankards sending forth a scent of flat ale, and on a half-choked fire, with pipes propped up in the chimney-corners: signs of a domestic life destitute of any hallowing charm, with which the look of gloomy vexation on Godfrey’s blond face was in sad accordance. He seemed to be waiting and listening for some one’s approach, and presently the sound of a heavy step, with an accompanying whistle, was heard across the large empty entrance-hall. The door opened, and a thick-set, heavy-looking young man entered, with the flushed face and the gratuitously elated bearing which mark the first stage of intoxication. It was Dunsey, and at the sight of him Godfrey’s face parted with some of its gloom to take on the more active expression of hatred.

The handsome brown spaniel that lay on the hearth retreated under the chair in the chimney-corner. “Well, Master Godfrey, what do you want with me?” said Dunsey, in a mocking tone. “You’re my elders and betters, you know; I was obliged to come when you sent for me.”

“Why, this is what I want—and just shake yourself sober and listen, will you?” said Godfrey, savagely. He had himself been drinking more than was good for him, trying to turn his gloom into uncalculating anger. “I want to tell you, I must hand over that rent of Fowler’s to the Squire, or else tell him I gave it you; for he’s threatening to distrain for it, and it’ll all be out soon, whether I tell him or not. He said, just now, before he went out, he should send word to Cox to distrain, if Fowler didn’t come and pay up his arrears this week. The Squire’s short o’ cash, and in no humour to stand any nonsense; and you know what he threatened, if ever he found you making away with his money again.

So, see and get the money, and pretty quickly, will you?”

“Oh!” said Dunsey, sneeringly, coming nearer to his brother and looking in his face. “Suppose, now, you get the money yourself, and save me the trouble, eh? Since you was so kind as to hand it over to me, you’ll not refuse me the kindness to pay it back for me: it was your brotherly love made you do it, you know.” Godfrey bit his lips and clenched his fist. “Don’t come near me with that look, else I’ll knock you down.”

“Oh no, you won’t,” said Dunsey, turning away on his heel, however. “Because I’m such a good-natured brother, you know. I might get you turned out of house and home, and cut off with a shilling any day.

I might tell the Squire how his handsome son was married to that nice young woman, Molly Farren, and was very unhappy because he couldn’t live with his drunken wife, and I should slip into your place as comfortable as could be. But you see, I don’t do it—

I’m so easy and good-natured.

You’ll take any trouble for me. You’ll get the hundred pounds for me—I know you will.”

“How can I get the money?” said Godfrey, quivering. “I haven’t a shilling to bless myself with. And it’s a lie that you’d slip into my place: you’d get yourself turned out too, that’s all.

For if you begin telling tales, I’ll follow. Bob’s my father’s favourite—you know that very well. He’d only think himself well rid of you.” “Never mind,” said Dunsey, nodding his head sideways as he looked out of the window.

“It ’ud be very pleasant to me to go in your company—you’re such a handsome brother, and we’ve always been so fond of quarrelling with one another, I shouldn’t know what to do without you. But you’d like better for us both to stay at home together; I know you would.

So you’ll manage to get that little sum o’ money, and I’ll bid you good-bye, though I’m sorry to part.” Dunstan was moving off, but Godfrey rushed after him and seized him by the arm, saying, with an oath— “I tell you, I have no money: I can get no money.” “Borrow of old Kimble.”

“I tell you, he won’t lend me any more, and I shan’t ask him.” “Well, then, sell Wildfire.” “Yes, that’s easy talking. I must have the money directly.” “Well, you’ve only got to ride him to the hunt to-morrow.

There’ll be Bryce and Keating there, for sure. You’ll get more bids than one.” “I daresay, and get back home at eight o’clock, splashed up to the chin.

I’m going to Mrs. Osgood’s birthday dance.”

“Oho!” said Dunsey, turning his head on one side, and trying to speak in a small mincing treble. “And there’s sweet Miss Nancy coming; and we shall dance with her, and promise never to be naughty again, and be taken into favour, and—” “Hold your tongue about Miss Nancy, you fool,” said Godfrey, turning red, “else I’ll throttle you.” “What for?” said Dunsey, still in an artificial tone, but taking a whip from the table and beating the butt-end of it on his palm. “You’ve a very good chance.

I’d advise you to creep up her sleeve again: it ’ud be saving time, if Molly should happen to take a drop too much laudanum some day, and make a widower of you. Miss Nancy wouldn’t mind being a second, if she didn’t know it. And you’ve got a good-natured brother, who’ll keep your secret well, because you’ll be so very obliging to him.”

“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Godfrey, quivering, and pale again, “my patience is pretty near at an end. If you’d a little more sharpness in you, you might know that you may urge a man a bit too far, and make one leap as easy as another. I don’t know but what it is so now: I may as well tell the Squire everything myself—I should get you off my back, if I got nothing else. And, after all, he’ll know some time. She’s been threatening to come herself and tell him.

So, don’t flatter yourself that your secrecy’s worth any price you choose to ask. You drain me of money till I have got nothing to pacify _her_ with, and she’ll do as she threatens some day. It’s all one. I’ll tell my father everything myself, and you may go to the devil.”

Dunsey perceived that he had overshot his mark, and that there was a point at which even the hesitating Godfrey might be driven into decision. But he said, with an air of unconcern— “As you please; but I’ll have a draught of ale first.”

And ringing the bell, he threw himself across two chairs, and began to rap the window-seat with the handle of his whip. Godfrey stood, still with his back to the fire, uneasily moving his fingers among the contents of his side-pockets, and looking at the floor. That big muscular frame of his held plenty of animal courage, but helped him to no decision when the dangers to be braved were such as could neither be knocked down nor throttled.

His natural irresolution and moral cowardice were exaggerated by a position in which dreaded consequences seemed to press equally on all sides, and his irritation had no sooner provoked him to defy Dunstan and anticipate all possible betrayals, than the miseries he must bring on himself by such a step seemed more unendurable to him than the present evil. The results of confession were not contingent, they were certain; whereas betrayal was not certain. From the near vision of that certainty he fell back on suspense and vacillation with a sense of repose. The disinherited son of a small squire, equally disinclined to dig and to beg, was almost as helpless as an uprooted tree, which, by the favour of earth and sky, has grown to a handsome bulk on the spot where it first shot upward.

Perhaps it would have been possible to think of digging with some cheerfulness if Nancy Lammeter were to be won on those terms; but, since he must irrevocably lose _her_ as well as the inheritance, and must break every tie but the one that degraded him and left him without motive for trying to recover his better self, he could imagine no future for himself on the other side of confession but that of “’listing for a soldier”—the most desperate step, short of suicide, in the eyes of respectable families. No!

he would rather trust to casualties than to his own resolve—rather go on sitting at the feast, and sipping the wine he loved, though with the sword hanging over him and terror in his heart, than rush away into the cold darkness where there was no pleasure left. The utmost concession to Dunstan about the horse began to seem easy, compared with the fulfilment of his own threat. But his pride would not let him recommence the conversation otherwise than by continuing the quarrel.

Dunstan was waiting for this, and took his ale in shorter draughts than usual. “It’s just like you,” Godfrey burst out, in a bitter tone, “to talk about my selling Wildfire in that cool way—the last thing I’ve got to call my own, and the best bit of horse-flesh I ever had in my life. And if you’d got a spark of pride in you, you’d be ashamed to see the stables emptied, and everybody sneering about it. But it’s my belief you’d sell yourself, if it was only for the pleasure of making somebody feel he’d got a bad bargain.”

“Aye, aye,” said Dunstan, very placably, “you do me justice, I see. You know I’m a jewel for ’ticing people into bargains. For which reason I advise you to let _me_ sell Wildfire. I’d ride him to the hunt to-morrow for you, with pleasure.

I shouldn’t look so handsome as you in the saddle, but it’s the horse they’ll bid for, and not the rider.” “Yes, I daresay—trust my horse to you!”

“As you please,” said Dunstan, rapping the window-seat again with an air of great unconcern. “It’s _you_ have got to pay Fowler’s money; it’s none of my business. You received the money from him when you went to Bramcote, and _you_ told the Squire it wasn’t paid.

I’d nothing to do with that; you chose to be so obliging as to give it me, that was all. If you don’t want to pay the money, let it alone; it’s all one to me. But I was willing to accommodate you by undertaking to sell the horse, seeing it’s not convenient to you to go so far to-morrow.”

Godfrey was silent for some moments. He would have liked to spring on Dunstan, wrench the whip from his hand, and flog him to within an inch of his life; and no bodily fear could have deterred him; but he was mastered by another sort of fear, which was fed by feelings stronger even than his resentment. When he spoke again, it was in a half-conciliatory tone.

“Well, you mean no nonsense about the horse, eh? You’ll sell him all fair, and hand over the money?

If you don’t, you know, everything ’ull go to smash, for I’ve got nothing else to trust to. And you’ll have less pleasure in pulling the house over my head, when your own skull’s to be broken too.” “Aye, aye,” said Dunstan, rising; “all right. I thought you’d come round.

I’m the fellow to bring old Bryce up to the scratch. I’ll get you a hundred and twenty for him, if I get you a penny.” “But it’ll perhaps rain cats and dogs to-morrow, as it did yesterday, and then you can’t go,” said Godfrey, hardly knowing whether he wished for that obstacle or not. “Not _it_,” said Dunstan. “I’m always lucky in my weather.

It might rain if you wanted to go yourself. You never hold trumps, you know—I always do. You’ve got the beauty, you see, and I’ve got the luck, so you must keep me by you for your crooked sixpence; you’ll _ne_-ver get along without me.” “Confound you, hold your tongue!” said Godfrey, impetuously.

“And take care to keep sober to-morrow, else you’ll get pitched on your head coming home, and Wildfire might be the worse for it.” “Make your tender heart easy,” said Dunstan, opening the door. “You never knew me see double when I’d got a bargain to make; it ’ud spoil the fun. Besides, whenever I fall, I’m warranted to fall on my legs.”

With that, Dunstan slammed the door behind him, and left Godfrey to that bitter rumination on his personal circumstances which was now unbroken from day to day save by the excitement of sporting, drinking, card-playing, or the rarer and less oblivious pleasure of seeing Miss Nancy Lammeter. The subtle and varied pains springing from the higher sensibility that accompanies higher culture, are perhaps less pitiable than that dreary absence of impersonal enjoyment and consolation which leaves ruder minds to the perpetual urgent companionship of their own griefs and discontents. The lives of those rural forefathers, whom we are apt to think very prosaic figures—men whose only work was to ride round their land, getting heavier and heavier in their saddles, and who passed the rest of their days in the half-listless gratification of senses dulled by monotony—had a certain pathos in them nevertheless. Calamities came to _them_ too, and their early errors carried hard consequences: perhaps the love of some sweet maiden, the image of purity, order, and calm, had opened their eyes to the vision of a life in which the days would not seem too long, even without rioting; but the maiden was lost, and the vision passed away, and then what was left to them, especially when they had become too heavy for the hunt, or for carrying a gun over the furrows, but to drink and get merry, or to drink and get angry, so that they might be independent of variety, and say over again with eager emphasis the things they had said already any time that twelvemonth?

Assuredly, among these flushed and dull-eyed men there were some whom—thanks to their native human-kindness—even riot could never drive into brutality; men who, when their cheeks were fresh, had felt the keen point of sorrow or remorse, had been pierced by the reeds they leaned on, or had lightly put their limbs in fetters from which no struggle could loose them; and under these sad circumstances, common to us all, their thoughts could find no resting-place outside the ever-trodden round of their own petty history. That, at least, was the condition of Godfrey Cass in this six-and-twentieth year of his life. A movement of compunction, helped by those small indefinable influences which every personal relation exerts on a pliant nature, had urged him into a secret marriage, which was a blight on his life.

It was an ugly story of low passion, delusion, and waking from delusion, which needs not to be dragged from the privacy of Godfrey’s bitter memory. He had long known that the delusion was partly due to a trap laid for him by Dunstan, who saw in his brother’s degrading marriage the means of gratifying at once his jealous hate and his cupidity. And if Godfrey could have felt himself simply a victim, the iron bit that destiny had put into his mouth would have chafed him less intolerably.

If the curses he muttered half aloud when he was alone had had no other object than Dunstan’s diabolical cunning, he might have shrunk less from the consequences of avowal. But he had something else to curse—his own vicious folly, which now seemed as mad and unaccountable to him as almost all our follies and vices do when their promptings have long passed away.

For four years he had thought of Nancy Lammeter, and wooed her with tacit patient worship, as the woman who made him think of the future with joy: she would be his wife, and would make home lovely to him, as his father’s home had never been; and it would be easy, when she was always near, to shake off those foolish habits that were no pleasures, but only a feverish way of annulling vacancy. Godfrey’s was an essentially domestic nature, bred up in a home where the hearth had no smiles, and where the daily habits were not chastised by the presence of household order. His easy disposition made him fall in unresistingly with the family courses, but the need of some tender permanent affection, the longing for some influence that would make the good he preferred easy to pursue, caused the neatness, purity, and liberal orderliness of the Lammeter household, sunned by the smile of Nancy, to seem like those fresh bright hours of the morning when temptations go to sleep and leave the ear open to the voice of the good angel, inviting to industry, sobriety, and peace. And yet the hope of this paradise had not been enough to save him from a course which shut him out of it for ever. Instead of keeping fast hold of the strong silken rope by which Nancy would have drawn him safe to the green banks where it was easy to step firmly, he had let himself be dragged back into mud and slime, in which it was useless to struggle.

He had made ties for himself which robbed him of all wholesome motive, and were a constant exasperation. Still, there was one position worse than the present: it was the position he would be in when the ugly secret was disclosed; and the desire that continually triumphed over every other was that of warding off the evil day, when he would have to bear the consequences of his father’s violent resentment for the wound inflicted on his family pride—would have, perhaps, to turn his back on that hereditary ease and dignity which, after all, was a sort of reason for living, and would carry with him the certainty that he was banished for ever from the sight and esteem of Nancy Lammeter. The longer the interval, the more chance there was of deliverance from some, at least, of the hateful consequences to which he had sold himself; the more opportunities remained for him to snatch the strange gratification of seeing Nancy, and gathering some faint indications of her lingering regard. Towards this gratification he was impelled, fitfully, every now and then, after having passed weeks in which he had avoided her as the far-off bright-winged prize that only made him spring forward and find his chain all the more galling.

One of those fits of yearning was on him now, and it would have been strong enough to have persuaded him to trust Wildfire to Dunstan rather than disappoint the yearning, even if he had not had another reason for his disinclination towards the morrow’s hunt. That other reason was the fact that the morning’s meet was near Batherley, the market-town where the unhappy woman lived, whose image became more odious to him every day; and to his thought the whole vicinage was haunted by her. The yoke a man creates for himself by wrong-doing will breed hate in the kindliest nature; and the good-humoured, affectionate-hearted Godfrey Cass was fast becoming a bitter man, visited by cruel wishes, that seemed to enter, and depart, and enter again, like demons who had found in him a ready-garnished home.

What was he to do this evening to pass the time? He might as well go to the Rainbow, and hear the talk about the cock-fighting: everybody was there, and what else was there to be done? Though, for his own part, he did not care a button for cock-fighting.

Snuff, the brown spaniel, who had placed herself in front of him, and had been watching him for some time, now jumped up in impatience for the expected caress. But Godfrey thrust her away without looking at her, and left the room, followed humbly by the unresenting Snuff—perhaps because she saw no other career open to her.
CHAPTER IV.
Dunstan Cass, setting off in the raw morning, at the judiciously quiet pace of a man who is obliged to ride to cover on his hunter, had to take his way along the lane which, at its farther extremity, passed by the piece of unenclosed ground called the Stone-pit, where stood the cottage, once a stone-cutter’s shed, now for fifteen years inhabited by Silas Marner.

The spot looked very dreary at this season, with the moist trodden clay about it, and the red, muddy water high up in the deserted quarry. That was Dunstan’s first thought as he approached it; the second was, that the old fool of a weaver, whose loom he heard rattling already, had a great deal of money hidden somewhere. How was it that he, Dunstan Cass, who had often heard talk of Marner’s miserliness, had never thought of suggesting to Godfrey that he should frighten or persuade the old fellow into lending the money on the excellent security of the young Squire’s prospects? The resource occurred to him now as so easy and agreeable, especially as Marner’s hoard was likely to be large enough to leave Godfrey a handsome surplus beyond his immediate needs, and enable him to accommodate his faithful brother, that he had almost turned the horse’s head towards home again. Godfrey would be ready enough to accept the suggestion: he would snatch eagerly at a plan that might save him from parting with Wildfire.

But when Dunstan’s meditation reached this point, the inclination to go on grew strong and prevailed.

He didn’t want to give Godfrey that pleasure: he preferred that Master Godfrey should be vexed. Moreover, Dunstan enjoyed the self-important consciousness of having a horse to sell, and the opportunity of driving a bargain, swaggering, and possibly taking somebody in. He might have all the satisfaction attendant on selling his brother’s horse, and not the less have the further satisfaction of setting Godfrey to borrow Marner’s money. So he rode on to cover. Bryce and Keating were there, as Dunstan was quite sure they would be—he was such a lucky fellow.

“Heyday!” said Bryce, who had long had his eye on Wildfire, “you’re on your brother’s horse to-day: how’s that?” “Oh, I’ve swopped with him,” said Dunstan, whose delight in lying, grandly independent of utility, was not to be diminished by the likelihood that his hearer would not believe him—“Wildfire’s mine now.” “What! has he swopped with you for that big-boned hack of yours?” said Bryce, quite aware that he should get another lie in answer.

“Oh, there was a little account between us,” said Dunsey, carelessly, “and Wildfire made it even. I accommodated him by taking the horse, though it was against my will, for I’d got an itch for a mare o’ Jortin’s—as rare a bit o’ blood as ever you threw your leg across. But I shall keep Wildfire, now I’ve got him, though I’d a bid of a hundred and fifty for him the other day, from a man over at Flitton—he’s buying for Lord Cromleck—a fellow with a cast in his eye, and a green waistcoat.

But I mean to stick to Wildfire: I shan’t get a better at a fence in a hurry.

The mare’s got more blood, but she’s a bit too weak in the hind-quarters.” Bryce of course divined that Dunstan wanted to sell the horse, and Dunstan knew that he divined it (horse-dealing is only one of many human transactions carried on in this ingenious manner); and they both considered that the bargain was in its first stage, when Bryce replied ironically— “I wonder at that now; I wonder you mean to keep him; for I never heard of a man who didn’t want to sell his horse getting a bid of half as much again as the horse was worth. You’ll be lucky if you get a hundred.” Keating rode up now, and the transaction became more complicated. It ended in the purchase of the horse by Bryce for a hundred and twenty, to be paid on the delivery of Wildfire, safe and sound, at the Batherley stables.

It did occur to Dunsey that it might be wise for him to give up the day’s hunting, proceed at once to Batherley, and, having waited for Bryce’s return, hire a horse to carry him home with the money in his pocket. But the inclination for a run, encouraged by confidence in his luck, and by a draught of brandy from his pocket-pistol at the conclusion of the bargain, was not easy to overcome, especially with a horse under him that would take the fences to the admiration of the field.

Dunstan, however, took one fence too many, and got his horse pierced with a hedge-stake. His own ill-favoured person, which was quite unmarketable, escaped without injury; but poor Wildfire, unconscious of his price, turned on his flank and painfully panted his last. It happened that Dunstan, a short time before, having had to get down to arrange his stirrup, had muttered a good many curses at this interruption, which had thrown him in the rear of the hunt near the moment of glory, and under this exasperation had taken the fences more blindly. He would soon have been up with the hounds again, when the fatal accident happened; and hence he was between eager riders in advance, not troubling themselves about what happened behind them, and far-off stragglers, who were as likely as not to pass quite aloof from the line of road in which Wildfire had fallen. Dunstan, whose nature it was to care more for immediate annoyances than for remote consequences, no sooner recovered his legs, and saw that it was all over with Wildfire, than he felt a satisfaction at the absence of witnesses to a position which no swaggering could make enviable.

Reinforcing himself, after his shake, with a little brandy and much swearing, he walked as fast as he could to a coppice on his right hand, through which it occurred to him that he could make his way to Batherley without danger of encountering any member of the hunt. His first intention was to hire a horse there and ride home forthwith, for to walk many miles without a gun in his hand, and along an ordinary road, was as much out of the question to him as to other spirited young men of his kind. He did not much mind about taking the bad news to Godfrey, for he had to offer him at the same time the resource of Marner’s money; and if Godfrey kicked, as he always did, at the notion of making a fresh debt from which he himself got the smallest share of advantage, why, he wouldn’t kick long: Dunstan felt sure he could worry Godfrey into anything. The idea of Marner’s money kept growing in vividness, now the want of it had become immediate; the prospect of having to make his appearance with the muddy boots of a pedestrian at Batherley, and to encounter the grinning queries of stablemen, stood unpleasantly in the way of his impatience to be back at Raveloe and carry out his felicitous plan; and a casual visitation of his waistcoat-pocket, as he was ruminating, awakened his memory to the fact that the two or three small coins his forefinger encountered there were of too pale a colour to cover that small debt, without payment of which the stable-keeper had declared he would never do any more business with Dunsey Cass.

After all, according to the direction in which the run had brought him, he was not so very much farther from home than he was from Batherley; but Dunsey, not being remarkable for clearness of head, was only led to this conclusion by the gradual perception that there were other reasons for choosing the unprecedented course of walking home. It was now nearly four o’clock, and a mist was gathering: the sooner he got into the road the better. He remembered having crossed the road and seen the finger-post only a little while before Wildfire broke down; so, buttoning his coat, twisting the lash of his hunting-whip compactly round the handle, and rapping the tops of his boots with a self-possessed air, as if to assure himself that he was not at all taken by surprise, he set off with the sense that he was undertaking a remarkable feat of bodily exertion, which somehow and at some time he should be able to dress up and magnify to the admiration of a select circle at the Rainbow. When a young gentleman like Dunsey is reduced to so exceptional a mode of locomotion as walking, a whip in his hand is a desirable corrective to a too bewildering dreamy sense of unwontedness in his position; and Dunstan, as he went along through the gathering mist, was always rapping his whip somewhere. It was Godfrey’s whip, which he had chosen to take without leave because it had a gold handle; of course no one could see, when Dunstan held it, that the name _Godfrey Cass_ was cut in deep letters on that gold handle—they could only see that it was a very handsome whip.

Dunsey was not without fear that he might meet some acquaintance in whose eyes he would cut a pitiable figure, for mist is no screen when people get close to each other; but when he at last found himself in the well-known Raveloe lanes without having met a soul, he silently remarked that that was part of his usual good luck. But now the mist, helped by the evening darkness, was more of a screen than he desired, for it hid the ruts into which his feet were liable to slip—hid everything, so that he had to guide his steps by dragging his whip along the low bushes in advance of the hedgerow.

He must soon, he thought, be getting near the opening at the Stone-pits: he should find it out by the break in the hedgerow. He found it out, however, by another circumstance which he had not expected—namely, by certain gleams of light, which he presently guessed to proceed from Silas Marner’s cottage. That cottage and the money hidden within it had been in his mind continually during his walk, and he had been imagining ways of cajoling and tempting the weaver to part with the immediate possession of his money for the sake of receiving interest. Dunstan felt as if there must be a little frightening added to the cajolery, for his own arithmetical convictions were not clear enough to afford him any forcible demonstration as to the advantages of interest; and as for security, he regarded it vaguely as a means of cheating a man by making him believe that he would be paid.

Altogether, the operation on the miser’s mind was a task that Godfrey would be sure to hand over to his more daring and cunning brother: Dunstan had made up his mind to that; and by the time he saw the light gleaming through the chinks of Marner’s shutters, the idea of a dialogue with the weaver had become so familiar to him, that it occurred to him as quite a natural thing to make the acquaintance forthwith. There might be several conveniences attending this course: the weaver had possibly got a lantern, and Dunstan was tired of feeling his way. He was still nearly three-quarters of a mile from home, and the lane was becoming unpleasantly slippery, for the mist was passing into rain. He turned up the bank, not without some fear lest he might miss the right way, since he was not certain whether the light were in front or on the side of the cottage.

But he felt the ground before him cautiously with his whip-handle, and at last arrived safely at the door.

He knocked loudly, rather enjoying the idea that the old fellow would be frightened at the sudden noise. He heard no movement in reply: all was silence in the cottage. Was the weaver gone to bed, then?

If so, why had he left a light? That was a strange forgetfulness in a miser. Dunstan knocked still more loudly, and, without pausing for a reply, pushed his fingers through the latch-hole, intending to shake the door and pull the latch-string up and down, not doubting that the door was fastened. But, to his surprise, at this double motion the door opened, and he found himself in front of a bright fire which lit up every corner of the cottage—the bed, the loom, the three chairs, and the table—and showed him that Marner was not there.

Nothing at that moment could be much more inviting to Dunsey than the bright fire on the brick hearth: he walked in and seated himself by it at once. There was something in front of the fire, too, that would have been inviting to a hungry man, if it had been in a different stage of cooking. It was a small bit of pork suspended from the kettle-hanger by a string passed through a large door-key, in a way known to primitive housekeepers unpossessed of jacks. But the pork had been hung at the farthest extremity of the hanger, apparently to prevent the roasting from proceeding too rapidly during the owner’s absence.

The old staring simpleton had hot meat for his supper, then? thought Dunstan. People had always said he lived on mouldy bread, on purpose to check his appetite. But where could he be at this time, and on such an evening, leaving his supper in this stage of preparation, and his door unfastened?

Dunstan’s own recent difficulty in making his way suggested to him that the weaver had perhaps gone outside his cottage to fetch in fuel, or for some such brief purpose, and had slipped into the Stone-pit.

That was an interesting idea to Dunstan, carrying consequences of entire novelty. If the weaver was dead, who had a right to his money?

Who would know where his money was hidden? _Who would know that anybody had come to take it away?_

He went no farther into the subtleties of evidence: the pressing question, “Where _is_ the money?” now took such entire possession of him as to make him quite forget that the weaver’s death was not a certainty. A dull mind, once arriving at an inference that flatters a desire, is rarely able to retain the impression that the notion from which the inference started was purely problematic. And Dunstan’s mind was as dull as the mind of a possible felon usually is. There were only three hiding-places where he had ever heard of cottagers’ hoards being found: the thatch, the bed, and a hole in the floor.

Marner’s cottage had no thatch; and Dunstan’s first act, after a train of thought made rapid by the stimulus of cupidity, was to go up to the bed; but while he did so, his eyes travelled eagerly over the floor, where the bricks, distinct in the fire-light, were discernible under the sprinkling of sand. But not everywhere; for there was one spot, and one only, which was quite covered with sand, and sand showing the marks of fingers, which had apparently been careful to spread it over a given space.

It was near the treddles of the loom. In an instant Dunstan darted to that spot, swept away the sand with his whip, and, inserting the thin end of the hook between the bricks, found that they were loose. In haste he lifted up two bricks, and saw what he had no doubt was the object of his search; for what could there be but money in those two leathern bags? And, from their weight, they must be filled with guineas. Dunstan felt round the hole, to be certain that it held no more; then hastily replaced the bricks, and spread the sand over them.

Hardly more than five minutes had passed since he entered the cottage, but it seemed to Dunstan like a long while; and though he was without any distinct recognition of the possibility that Marner might be alive, and might re-enter the cottage at any moment, he felt an undefinable dread laying hold on him, as he rose to his feet with the bags in his hand. He would hasten out into the darkness, and then consider what he should do with the bags. He closed the door behind him immediately, that he might shut in the stream of light: a few steps would be enough to carry him beyond betrayal by the gleams from the shutter-chinks and the latch-hole. The rain and darkness had got thicker, and he was glad of it; though it was awkward walking with both hands filled, so that it was as much as he could do to grasp his whip along with one of the bags.

But when he had gone a yard or two, he might take his time.

So he stepped forward into the darkness. CHAPTER V.
When Dunstan Cass turned his back on the cottage, Silas Marner was not more than a hundred yards away from it, plodding along from the village with a sack thrown round his shoulders as an overcoat, and with a horn lantern in his hand. His legs were weary, but his mind was at ease, free from the presentiment of change. The sense of security more frequently springs from habit than from conviction, and for this reason it often subsists after such a change in the conditions as might have been expected to suggest alarm. The lapse of time during which a given event has not happened, is, in this logic of habit, constantly alleged as a reason why the event should never happen, even when the lapse of time is precisely the added condition which makes the event imminent.

A man will tell you that he has worked in a mine for forty years unhurt by an accident as a reason why he should apprehend no danger, though the roof is beginning to sink; and it is often observable, that the older a man gets, the more difficult it is to him to retain a believing conception of his own death. This influence of habit was necessarily strong in a man whose life was so monotonous as Marner’s—who saw no new people and heard of no new events to keep alive in him the idea of the unexpected and the changeful; and it explains simply enough, why his mind could be at ease, though he had left his house and his treasure more defenceless than usual. Silas was thinking with double complacency of his supper: first, because it would be hot and savoury; and secondly, because it would cost him nothing. For the little bit of pork was a present from that excellent housewife, Miss Priscilla Lammeter, to whom he had this day carried home a handsome piece of linen; and it was only on occasion of a present like this, that Silas indulged himself with roast-meat.

Supper was his favourite meal, because it came at his time of revelry, when his heart warmed over his gold; whenever he had roast-meat, he always chose to have it for supper. But this evening, he had no sooner ingeniously knotted his string fast round his bit of pork, twisted the string according to rule over his door-key, passed it through the handle, and made it fast on the hanger, than he remembered that a piece of very fine twine was indispensable to his “setting up” a new piece of work in his loom early in the morning.

It had slipped his memory, because, in coming from Mr. Lammeter’s, he had not had to pass through the village; but to lose time by going on errands in the morning was out of the question. It was a nasty fog to turn out into, but there were things Silas loved better than his own comfort; so, drawing his pork to the extremity of the hanger, and arming himself with his lantern and his old sack, he set out on what, in ordinary weather, would have been a twenty minutes’ errand. He could not have locked his door without undoing his well-knotted string and retarding his supper; it was not worth his while to make that sacrifice. What thief would find his way to the Stone-pits on such a night as this? and why should he come on this particular night, when he had never come through all the fifteen years before?

These questions were not distinctly present in Silas’s mind; they merely serve to represent the vaguely-felt foundation of his freedom from anxiety. He reached his door in much satisfaction that his errand was done: he opened it, and to his short-sighted eyes everything remained as he had left it, except that the fire sent out a welcome increase of heat. He trod about the floor while putting by his lantern and throwing aside his hat and sack, so as to merge the marks of Dunstan’s feet on the sand in the marks of his own nailed boots. Then he moved his pork nearer to the fire, and sat down to the agreeable business of tending the meat and warming himself at the same time.

Any one who had looked at him as the red light shone upon his pale face, strange straining eyes, and meagre form, would perhaps have understood the mixture of contemptuous pity, dread, and suspicion with which he was regarded by his neighbours in Raveloe. Yet few men could be more harmless than poor Marner.

In his truthful simple soul, not even the growing greed and worship of gold could beget any vice directly injurious to others. The light of his faith quite put out, and his affections made desolate, he had clung with all the force of his nature to his work and his money; and like all objects to which a man devotes himself, they had fashioned him into correspondence with themselves. His loom, as he wrought in it without ceasing, had in its turn wrought on him, and confirmed more and more the monotonous craving for its monotonous response. His gold, as he hung over it and saw it grow, gathered his power of loving together into a hard isolation like its own.

As soon as he was warm he began to think it would be a long while to wait till after supper before he drew out his guineas, and it would be pleasant to see them on the table before him as he ate his unwonted feast. For joy is the best of wine, and Silas’s guineas were a golden wine of that sort. He rose and placed his candle unsuspectingly on the floor near his loom, swept away the sand without noticing any change, and removed the bricks. The sight of the empty hole made his heart leap violently, but the belief that his gold was gone could not come at once—only terror, and the eager effort to put an end to the terror.

He passed his trembling hand all about the hole, trying to think it possible that his eyes had deceived him; then he held the candle in the hole and examined it curiously, trembling more and more. At last he shook so violently that he let fall the candle, and lifted his hands to his head, trying to steady himself, that he might think. Had he put his gold somewhere else, by a sudden resolution last night, and then forgotten it?

A man falling into dark waters seeks a momentary footing even on sliding stones; and Silas, by acting as if he believed in false hopes, warded off the moment of despair. He searched in every corner, he turned his bed over, and shook it, and kneaded it; he looked in his brick oven where he laid his sticks. When there was no other place to be searched, he kneeled down again and felt once more all round the hole. There was no untried refuge left for a moment’s shelter from the terrible truth. Yes, there was a sort of refuge which always comes with the prostration of thought under an overpowering passion: it was that expectation of impossibilities, that belief in contradictory images, which is still distinct from madness, because it is capable of being dissipated by the external fact.

Silas got up from his knees trembling, and looked round at the table: didn’t the gold lie there after all? The table was bare. Then he turned and looked behind him—looked all round his dwelling, seeming to strain his brown eyes after some possible appearance of the bags where he had already sought them in vain. He could see every object in his cottage—and his gold was not there. Again he put his trembling hands to his head, and gave a wild ringing scream, the cry of desolation.

For a few moments after, he stood motionless; but the cry had relieved him from the first maddening pressure of the truth. He turned, and tottered towards his loom, and got into the seat where he worked, instinctively seeking this as the strongest assurance of reality. And now that all the false hopes had vanished, and the first shock of certainty was past, the idea of a thief began to present itself, and he entertained it eagerly, because a thief might be caught and made to restore the gold.

The thought brought some new strength with it, and he started from his loom to the door. As he opened it the rain beat in upon him, for it was falling more and more heavily. There were no footsteps to be tracked on such a night—footsteps?

When had the thief come?

During Silas’s absence in the daytime the door had been locked, and there had been no marks of any inroad on his return by daylight. And in the evening, too, he said to himself, everything was the same as when he had left it. The sand and bricks looked as if they had not been moved. _Was_ it a thief who had taken the bags?

or was it a cruel power that no hands could reach, which had delighted in making him a second time desolate? He shrank from this vaguer dread, and fixed his mind with struggling effort on the robber with hands, who could be reached by hands.

His thoughts glanced at all the neighbours who had made any remarks, or asked any questions which he might now regard as a ground of suspicion. There was Jem Rodney, a known poacher, and otherwise disreputable: he had often met Marner in his journeys across the fields, and had said something jestingly about the weaver’s money; nay, he had once irritated Marner, by lingering at the fire when he called to light his pipe, instead of going about his business. Jem Rodney was the man—there was ease in the thought. Jem could be found and made to restore the money: Marner did not want to punish him, but only to get back his gold which had gone from him, and left his soul like a forlorn traveller on an unknown desert.

The robber must be laid hold of. Marner’s ideas of legal authority were confused, but he felt that he must go and proclaim his loss; and the great people in the village—the clergyman, the constable, and Squire Cass—would make Jem Rodney, or somebody else, deliver up the stolen money. He rushed out in the rain, under the stimulus of this hope, forgetting to cover his head, not caring to fasten his door; for he felt as if he had nothing left to lose. He ran swiftly, till want of breath compelled him to slacken his pace as he was entering the village at the turning close to the Rainbow. The Rainbow, in Marner’s view, was a place of luxurious resort for rich and stout husbands, whose wives had superfluous stores of linen; it was the place where he was likely to find the powers and dignities of Raveloe, and where he could most speedily make his loss public.

He lifted the latch, and turned into the bright bar or kitchen on the right hand, where the less lofty customers of the house were in the habit of assembling, the parlour on the left being reserved for the more select society in which Squire Cass frequently enjoyed the double pleasure of conviviality and condescension. But the parlour was dark to-night, the chief personages who ornamented its circle being all at Mrs. Osgood’s birthday dance, as Godfrey Cass was.

And in consequence of this, the party on the high-screened seats in the kitchen was more numerous than usual; several personages, who would otherwise have been admitted into the parlour and enlarged the opportunity of hectoring and condescension for their betters, being content this evening to vary their enjoyment by taking their spirits-and-water where they could themselves hector and condescend in company that called for beer.
CHAPTER VI. The conversation, which was at a high pitch of animation when Silas approached the door of the Rainbow, had, as usual, been slow and intermittent when the company first assembled. The pipes began to be puffed in a silence which had an air of severity; the more important customers, who drank spirits and sat nearest the fire, staring at each other as if a bet were depending on the first man who winked; while the beer-drinkers, chiefly men in fustian jackets and smock-frocks, kept their eyelids down and rubbed their hands across their mouths, as if their draughts of beer were a funereal duty attended with embarrassing sadness. At last Mr. Snell, the landlord, a man of a neutral disposition, accustomed to stand aloof from human differences as those of beings who were all alike in need of liquor, broke silence, by saying in a doubtful tone to his cousin the butcher— “Some folks ’ud say that was a fine beast you druv in yesterday, Bob?” The butcher, a jolly, smiling, red-haired man, was not disposed to answer rashly.

He gave a few puffs before he spat and replied, “And they wouldn’t be fur wrong, John.” After this feeble delusive thaw, the silence set in as severely as before. “Was it a red Durham?” said the farrier, taking up the thread of discourse after the lapse of a few minutes.

The farrier looked at the landlord, and the landlord looked at the butcher, as the person who must take the responsibility of answering. “Red it was,” said the butcher, in his good-humoured husky treble—“and a Durham it was.” “Then you needn’t tell _me_ who you bought it of,” said the farrier, looking round with some triumph; “I know who it is has got the red Durhams o’ this country-side. And she’d a white star on her brow, I’ll bet a penny?”

The farrier leaned forward with his hands on his knees as he put this question, and his eyes twinkled knowingly. “Well; yes—she might,” said the butcher, slowly, considering that he was giving a decided affirmative.

“I don’t say contrairy.” “I knew that very well,” said the farrier, throwing himself backward again, and speaking defiantly; “if _I_ don’t know Mr. Lammeter’s cows, I should like to know who does—that’s all. And as for the cow you’ve bought, bargain or no bargain, I’ve been at the drenching of her—contradick me who will.” The farrier looked fierce, and the mild butcher’s conversational spirit was roused a little.

“I’m not for contradicking no man,” he said; “I’m for peace and quietness. Some are for cutting long ribs—I’m for cutting ’em short myself; but _I_ don’t quarrel with ’em. All I say is, it’s a lovely carkiss—and anybody as was reasonable, it ’ud bring tears into their eyes to look at it.”

“Well, it’s the cow as I drenched, whatever it is,” pursued the farrier, angrily; “and it was Mr. Lammeter’s cow, else you told a lie when you said it was a red Durham.”

“I tell no lies,” said the butcher, with the same mild huskiness as before, “and I contradick none—not if a man was to swear himself black: he’s no meat o’ mine, nor none o’ my bargains. All I say is, it’s a lovely carkiss. And what I say, I’ll stick to; but I’ll quarrel wi’ no man.” “No,” said the farrier, with bitter sarcasm, looking at the company generally; “and p’rhaps you aren’t pig-headed; and p’rhaps you didn’t say the cow was a red Durham; and p’rhaps you didn’t say she’d got a star on her brow—stick to that, now you’re at it.”

“Come, come,” said the landlord; “let the cow alone. The truth lies atween you: you’re both right and both wrong, as I allays say. And as for the cow’s being Mr. Lammeter’s, I say nothing to that; but this I say, as the Rainbow’s the Rainbow. And for the matter o’ that, if the talk is to be o’ the Lammeters, _you_ know the most upo’ that head, eh, Mr. Macey? You remember when first Mr. Lammeter’s father come into these parts, and took the Warrens?”

Mr. Macey, tailor and parish-clerk, the latter of which functions rheumatism had of late obliged him to share with a small-featured young man who sat opposite him, held his white head on one side, and twirled his thumbs with an air of complacency, slightly seasoned with criticism.

He smiled pityingly, in answer to the landlord’s appeal, and said— “Aye, aye; I know, I know; but I let other folks talk. I’ve laid by now, and gev up to the young uns. Ask them as have been to school at Tarley: they’ve learnt pernouncing; that’s come up since my day.” “If you’re pointing at me, Mr. Macey,” said the deputy clerk, with an air of anxious propriety, “I’m nowise a man to speak out of my place.

As the psalm says— ‘I know what’s right, nor only so, But also practise what I know.’
“Well, then, I wish you’d keep hold o’ the tune, when it’s set for you; if you’re for prac_tis_ing, I wish you’d prac_tise_ that,” said a large jocose-looking man, an excellent wheelwright in his week-day capacity, but on Sundays leader of the choir. He winked, as he spoke, at two of the company, who were known officially as the “bassoon” and the “key-bugle,” in the confidence that he was expressing the sense of the musical profession in Raveloe. Mr. Tookey, the deputy-clerk, who shared the unpopularity common to deputies, turned very red, but replied, with careful moderation—“Mr. Winthrop, if you’ll bring me any proof as I’m in the wrong, I’m not the man to say I won’t alter.

But there’s people set up their own ears for a standard, and expect the whole choir to follow ’em.

There may be two opinions, I hope.” “Aye, aye,” said Mr. Macey, who felt very well satisfied with this attack on youthful presumption; “you’re right there, Tookey: there’s allays two ’pinions; there’s the ’pinion a man has of himsen, and there’s the ’pinion other folks have on him. There’d be two ’pinions about a cracked bell, if the bell could hear itself.” “Well, Mr. Macey,” said poor Tookey, serious amidst the general laughter, “I undertook to partially fill up the office of parish-clerk by Mr. Crackenthorp’s desire, whenever your infirmities should make you unfitting; and it’s one of the rights thereof to sing in the choir—else why have you done the same yourself?” “Ah! but the old gentleman and you are two folks,” said Ben Winthrop.

“The old gentleman’s got a gift. Why, the Squire used to invite him to take a glass, only to hear him sing the ‘Red Rovier’; didn’t he, Mr.
Macey? It’s a nat’ral gift. There’s my little lad Aaron, he’s got a gift—he can sing a tune off straight, like a throstle.

But as for you, Master Tookey, you’d better stick to your ‘Amens’: your voice is well enough when you keep it up in your nose.

It’s your inside as isn’t right made for music: it’s no better nor a hollow stalk.” This kind of unflinching frankness was the most piquant form of joke to the company at the Rainbow, and Ben Winthrop’s insult was felt by everybody to have capped Mr. Macey’s epigram. “I see what it is plain enough,” said Mr. Tookey, unable to keep cool any longer. “There’s a consperacy to turn me out o’ the choir, as I shouldn’t share the Christmas money—that’s where it is.

But I shall speak to Mr. Crackenthorp; I’ll not be put upon by no man.”

“Nay, nay, Tookey,” said Ben Winthrop.

“We’ll pay you your share to keep out of it—that’s what we’ll do. There’s things folks ’ud pay to be rid on, besides varmin.”

“Come, come,” said the landlord, who felt that paying people for their absence was a principle dangerous to society; “a joke’s a joke. We’re all good friends here, I hope. We must give and take.

You’re both right and you’re both wrong, as I say. I agree wi’ Mr. Macey here, as there’s two opinions; and if mine was asked, I should say they’re both right. Tookey’s right

and Winthrop’s right, and they’ve only got to split the difference and make themselves even.” The farrier was puffing his pipe rather fiercely, in some contempt at this trivial discussion. He had no ear for music himself, and never went to church, as being of the medical profession, and likely to be in requisition for delicate cows. But the butcher, having music in his soul, had listened with a divided desire for Tookey’s defeat and for the preservation of the peace.

“To be sure,” he said, following up the landlord’s conciliatory view, “we’re fond of our old clerk; it’s nat’ral, and him used to be such a singer, and got a brother as is known for the first fiddler in this country-side. Eh, it’s a pity but what Solomon lived in our village, and could give us a tune when we liked; eh, Mr. Macey? I’d keep him in liver and lights for nothing—that I would.” “Aye, aye,” said Mr. Macey, in the height of complacency; “our family’s been known for musicianers as far back as anybody can tell. But them things are dying out, as I tell Solomon every time he comes round; there’s no voices like what there used to be, and there’s nobody remembers what we remember, if it isn’t the old crows.”

“Aye, you remember when first Mr. Lammeter’s father come into these parts, don’t you, Mr. Macey?” said the landlord. “I should think I did,” said the old man, who had now gone through that complimentary process necessary to bring him up to the point of narration; “and a fine old gentleman he was—as fine, and finer nor the Mr. Lammeter as now is. He came from a bit north’ard, so far as I could ever make out.

But there’s nobody rightly knows about those parts: only it couldn’t be far north’ard, nor much different from this country, for he brought a fine breed o’ sheep with him, so there must be pastures there, and everything reasonable.

We heared tell as he’d sold his own land to come and take the Warrens, and that seemed odd for a man as had land of his own, to come and rent a farm in a strange place. But they said it was along of his wife’s dying; though there’s reasons in things as nobody knows on—that’s pretty much what I’ve made out; yet some folks are so wise, they’ll find you fifty reasons straight off, and all the while the real reason’s winking at ’em in the corner, and they niver see’t.

Howsomever, it was soon seen as we’d got a new parish’ner as know’d the rights and customs o’ things, and kep a good house, and was well looked on by everybody.

And the young man—that’s the Mr.
Lammeter as now is, for he’d niver a sister—soon begun to court Miss Osgood, that’s the sister o’ the Mr. Osgood as now is, and a fine handsome lass she was—eh, you can’t think—they pretend this young lass is like her, but that’s the way wi’ people as don’t know what come before ’em. _

I_ should know, for I helped the old rector, Mr. Drumlow as was, I helped him marry ’em.” Here Mr. Macey paused; he always gave his narrative in instalments, expecting to be questioned according to precedent. “Aye, and a partic’lar thing happened, didn’t it, Mr. Macey, so as you were likely to remember that marriage?” said the landlord, in a congratulatory tone. “I should think there did—a _very_ partic’lar thing,” said Mr. Macey, nodding sideways.

“For Mr. Drumlow—poor old gentleman, I was fond on him, though he’d got a bit confused in his head, what wi’ age and wi’ taking a drop o’ summat warm when the service come of a cold morning. And young Mr. Lammeter, he’d have no way but he must be married in Janiwary, which, to be sure, ’s a unreasonable time to be married in, for it isn’t like a christening or a burying, as you can’t help; and so Mr. Drumlow—poor old gentleman, I was fond on him—but when he come to put the questions, he put ’em by the rule o’ contrairy, like, and he says, ‘Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded wife?’says he,

and then he says, ‘Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded husband?’ says he. But the partic’larest thing of all is, as nobody took any notice on it but me, and they answered straight off ‘yes,’ like as if it had been me saying ‘Amen’ i’ the right place, without listening to what went before.”

“But _you_ knew what was going on well enough, didn’t you, Mr. Macey?
You were live enough, eh?” said the butcher.

“Lor bless you!” said Mr. Macey, pausing, and smiling in pity at the impotence of his hearer’s imagination—“why, I was all of a tremble: it was as if I’d been a coat pulled by the two tails, like; for I couldn’t stop the parson, I couldn’t take upon me to do that; and yet I said to myself, I says, ‘Suppose they shouldn’t be fast married, ’cause the words are contrairy?’ and my head went working like a mill, for I was allays uncommon for turning things over and seeing all round ’em; and I says to myself, ‘Is’t the meanin’ or the words as makes folks fast i’ wedlock?’

For the parson meant right, and the bride and bridegroom meant right.

But then, when I come to think on it, meanin’ goes but a little way i’ most things, for you may mean to stick things together and your glue may be bad, and then where are you?

And so I says to mysen, ‘It isn’t the meanin,’ it’s the glue.’ And I was worreted as if I’d got three bells to pull at once, when we went into the vestry, and they begun to sign their names. But where’s the use o’ talking?—you can’t think what goes on in a ’cute man’s inside.”

“But you held in for all that, didn’t you, Mr. Macey?” said the landlord. “Aye, I held in tight till I was by mysen wi’ Mr. Drumlow, and then I out wi’ everything, but respectful, as I allays did. And he made light on it, and he says, ‘Pooh, pooh, Macey, make yourself easy,’ he says; ‘it’s neither the meaning nor the words—it’s the re_ges_ter does it—that’s the glue.’ So you see he settled it easy; for parsons and doctors know everything by heart, like, so as they aren’t worreted wi’ thinking what’s the rights and wrongs o’ things, as I’n been many and many’s the time. And sure enough the wedding turned out all right, on’y poor Mrs. Lammeter—that’s Miss Osgood as was—died afore the lasses was growed up; but for prosperity and everything respectable, there’s no family more looked on.”

Every one of Mr. Macey’s audience had heard this story many times, but it was listened to as if it had been a favourite tune, and at certain points the puffing of the pipes was momentarily suspended, that the listeners might give their whole minds to the expected words. But there was more to come; and Mr. Snell, the landlord, duly put the leading question.

“Why, old Mr. Lammeter had a pretty fortin, didn’t they say, when he come into these parts?” “Well, yes,” said Mr. Macey; “but I daresay it’s as much as this Mr.
Lammeter’s done to keep it whole. For there was allays a talk as nobody could get rich on the Warrens: though he holds it cheap, for it’s what they call Charity Land.”

“Aye, and there’s few folks know so well as you how it come to be Charity Land, eh, Mr. Macey?” said the butcher. “How should they?” said the old clerk, with some contempt.

“Why, my grandfather made the grooms’ livery for that Mr. Cliff as came and built the big stables at the Warrens. Why, they’re stables four times as big as Squire Cass’s, for he thought o’ nothing but hosses and hunting, Cliff didn’t—a Lunnon tailor, some folks said, as had gone mad wi’ cheating. For he couldn’t ride; lor bless you!

they said he’d got no more grip o’ the hoss than if his legs had been cross-sticks: my grandfather heared old Squire Cass say so many and many a time. But ride he would, as if Old Harry had been a-driving him; and he’d a son, a lad o’ sixteen; and nothing would his father have him do, but he must ride and ride—though the lad was frighted, they said.

And it was a common saying as the father wanted to ride the tailor out o’ the lad, and make a gentleman on him—not but what I’m a tailor myself, but in respect as God made me such, I’m proud on it, for ‘Macey, tailor,’ ’s been wrote up over our door since afore the Queen’s heads went out on the shillings. But Cliff, he was ashamed o’ being called a tailor, and he was sore vexed as his riding was laughed at, and nobody o’ the gentlefolks hereabout could abide him.

Howsomever, the poor lad got sickly and died, and the father didn’t live long after him, for he got queerer nor ever, and they said he used to go out i’ the dead o’ the night, wi’ a lantern in his hand, to the stables, and set a lot o’ lights burning, for he got as he couldn’t sleep; and there he’d stand, cracking his whip and looking at his hosses; and they said it was a mercy as the stables didn’t get burnt down wi’ the poor dumb creaturs in ’em.

But at last he died raving, and they found as he’d left all his property, Warrens and all, to a Lunnon Charity, and that’s how the Warrens come to be Charity Land; though, as for the stables, Mr.
Lammeter never uses ’em—they’re out o’ all charicter—lor bless you!

if you was to set the doors a-banging in ’em, it ’ud sound like thunder half o’er the parish.” “Aye, but there’s more going on in the stables than what folks see by daylight, eh, Mr. Macey?” said the landlord. “Aye, aye; go that way of a dark night, that’s all,” said Mr. Macey, winking mysteriously, “and then make believe, if you like, as you didn’t see lights i’ the stables, nor hear the stamping o’ the hosses, nor the cracking o’ the whips, and howling, too, if it’s tow’rt daybreak.

‘Cliff’s Holiday’ has been the name of it ever sin’ I were a boy; that’s to say, some said as it was the holiday Old Harry gev him from roasting, like. That’s what my father told me, and he was a reasonable man, though there’s folks nowadays know what happened afore they were born better nor they know their own business.” “What do you say to that, eh, Dowlas?” said the landlord, turning to the farrier, who was swelling with impatience for his cue. “There’s a nut for _you_ to crack.”

Mr. Dowlas was the negative spirit in the company, and was proud of his position. “Say? I say what a man _should_ say as doesn’t shut his eyes to look at a finger-post.

I say, as I’m ready to wager any man ten pound, if he’ll stand out wi’ me any dry night in the pasture before the Warren stables, as we shall neither see lights nor hear noises, if it isn’t the blowing of our own noses. That’s what I say, and I’ve said it many a time; but there’s nobody ’ull ventur a ten-pun’ note on their ghos’es as they make so sure of.”

“Why, Dowlas, that’s easy betting, that is,” said Ben Winthrop. “You might as well bet a man as he wouldn’t catch the rheumatise if he stood up to ’s neck in the pool of a frosty night. It ’ud be fine fun for a man to win his bet as he’d catch the rheumatise.

Folks as believe in Cliff’s Holiday aren’t agoing to ventur near it for a matter o’ ten pound.” “If Master Dowlas wants to know the truth on it,” said Mr. Macey, with a sarcastic smile, tapping his thumbs together, “he’s no call to lay any bet—let him go and stan’ by himself—there’s nobody ’ull hinder him; and then he can let the parish’ners know if they’re wrong.”

“Thank you! I’m obliged to you,” said the farrier, with a snort of scorn. “If folks are fools, it’s no business o’ mine.

_

I_ don’t want to make out the truth about ghos’es: I know it a’ready. But I’m not against a bet—everything fair and open.

Let any man bet me ten pound as I shall see Cliff’s Holiday, and I’ll go and stand by myself. I want no company. I’d as lief do it as I’d fill this pipe.” “Ah, but who’s to watch you, Dowlas, and see you do it? That’s no fair bet,” said the butcher.

“No fair bet?” replied Mr. Dowlas, angrily. “I should like to hear any man stand up and say I want to bet unfair. Come now, Master Lundy, I should like to hear you say it.”

“Very like you would,” said the butcher. “But it’s no business o’ mine.

You’re none o’ my bargains, and I aren’t a-going to try and ’bate your price. If anybody ’ll bid for you at your own vallying, let him. I’m for peace and quietness, I am.” “Yes, that’s what every yapping cur is, when you hold a stick up at him,” said the farrier.

“But I’m afraid o’ neither man nor ghost, and I’m ready to lay a fair bet. _

I_ aren’t a turn-tail cur.” “Aye, but there’s this in it, Dowlas,” said the landlord, speaking in a tone of much candour and tolerance. “There’s folks, i’ my opinion, they can’t see ghos’es, not if they stood as plain as a pike-staff before ’em. And there’s reason i’ that.

For there’s my wife, now, can’t smell, not if she’d the strongest o’ cheese under her nose. I never see’d a ghost myself; but then I says to myself, ‘Very like I haven’t got the smell for ’em.’ I mean, putting a ghost for a smell, or else contrairiways. And so, I’m for holding with both sides; for, as I say, the truth lies between ’em. And if Dowlas was to go and stand, and say he’d never seen a wink o’ Cliff’s Holiday all the night through, I’d back him; and if anybody said as Cliff’s Holiday was certain sure, for all that, I’d back _him_ too.

For the smell’s what I go by.” The landlord’s analogical argument was not well received by the farrier—a man intensely opposed to compromise. “Tut, tut,” he said, setting down his glass with refreshed irritation; “what’s the smell got to do with it?

Did ever a ghost give a man a black eye? That’s what I should like to know. If ghos’es want me to believe in ’em, let ’em leave off skulking i’ the dark and i’ lone places—let ’em come where there’s company and candles.”

“As if ghos’es ’ud want to be believed in by anybody so ignirant!” said Mr. Macey, in deep disgust at the farrier’s crass incompetence to apprehend the conditions of ghostly phenomena. CHAPTER VII.

Yet the next moment there seemed to be some evidence that ghosts had a more condescending disposition than Mr. Macey attributed to them; for the pale thin figure of Silas Marner was suddenly seen standing in the warm light, uttering no word, but looking round at the company with his strange unearthly eyes.

The long pipes gave a simultaneous movement, like the antennae of startled insects, and every man present, not excepting even the sceptical farrier, had an impression that he saw, not Silas Marner in the flesh, but an apparition; for the door by which Silas had entered was hidden by the high-screened seats, and no one had noticed his approach. Mr. Macey, sitting a long way off the ghost, might be supposed to have felt an argumentative triumph, which would tend to neutralize his share of the general alarm. Had he not always said that when Silas Marner was in that strange trance of his, his soul went loose from his body? Here was the demonstration: nevertheless, on the whole, he would have been as well contented without it.

For a few moments there was a dead silence, Marner’s want of breath and agitation not allowing him to speak. The landlord, under the habitual sense that he was bound to keep his house open to all company, and confident in the protection of his unbroken neutrality, at last took on himself the task of adjuring the ghost. “Master Marner,” he said, in a conciliatory tone, “what’s lacking to you? What’s your business here?”

“Robbed!” said Silas, gaspingly.

“I’ve been robbed! I want the constable—and the Justice—and Squire Cass—and Mr. Crackenthorp.” “Lay hold on him, Jem Rodney,” said the landlord, the idea of a ghost subsiding; “he’s off his head, I doubt. He’s wet through.”

Jem Rodney was the outermost man, and sat conveniently near Marner’s standing-place; but he declined to give his services. “Come and lay hold on him yourself, Mr. Snell, if you’ve a mind,” said Jem, rather sullenly. “He’s been robbed, and murdered too, for what I know,” he added, in a muttering tone. “Jem Rodney!” said Silas, turning and fixing his strange eyes on the suspected man.

“Aye, Master Marner, what do you want wi’ me?” said Jem, trembling a little, and seizing his drinking-can as a defensive weapon. “If it was you stole my money,” said Silas, clasping his hands entreatingly, and raising his voice to a cry, “give it me back—and I won’t meddle with you. I won’t set the constable on you.

Give it me back, and I’ll let you—I’ll let you have a guinea.” “Me stole your money!” said Jem, angrily. “I’ll pitch this can at your eye if you talk o’ _my_ stealing your money.”

“Come, come, Master Marner,” said the landlord, now rising resolutely, and seizing Marner by the shoulder, “if you’ve got any information to lay, speak it out sensible, and show as you’re in your right mind, if you expect anybody to listen to you. You’re as wet as a drownded rat.
Sit down and dry yourself, and speak straight forrard.” “Ah, to be sure, man,” said the farrier, who began to feel that he had not been quite on a par with himself and the occasion. “Let’s have no more staring and screaming, else we’ll have you strapped for a madman. That was why I didn’t speak at the first—thinks I, the man’s run mad.”

“Aye, aye, make him sit down,” said several voices at once, well pleased that the reality of ghosts remained still an open question. The landlord forced Marner to take off his coat, and then to sit down on a chair aloof from every one else, in the centre of the circle and in the direct rays of the fire. The weaver, too feeble to have any distinct purpose beyond that of getting help to recover his money, submitted unresistingly.

The transient fears of the company were now forgotten in their strong curiosity, and all faces were turned towards Silas, when the landlord, having seated himself again, said— “Now then, Master Marner, what’s this you’ve got to say—as you’ve been robbed? Speak out.” “He’d better not say again as it was me robbed him,” cried Jem Rodney, hastily. “What could I ha’ done with his money?

I could as easy steal the parson’s surplice, and wear it.” “Hold your tongue, Jem, and let’s hear what he’s got to say,” said the landlord. “Now then, Master Marner.”

Silas now told his story, under frequent questioning as the mysterious character of the robbery became evident. This strangely novel situation of opening his trouble to his Raveloe neighbours, of sitting in the warmth of a hearth not his own, and feeling the presence of faces and voices which were his nearest promise of help, had doubtless its influence on Marner, in spite of his passionate preoccupation with his loss.

Our consciousness rarely registers the beginning of a growth within us any more than without us: there have been many circulations of the sap before we detect the smallest sign of the bud. The slight suspicion with which his hearers at first listened to him, gradually melted away before the convincing simplicity of his distress: it was impossible for the neighbours to doubt that Marner was telling the truth, not because they were capable of arguing at once from the nature of his statements to the absence of any motive for making them falsely, but because, as Mr. Macey observed, “Folks as had the devil to back ’em were not likely to be so mushed” as poor Silas was. Rather, from the strange fact that the robber had left no traces, and had happened to know the nick of time, utterly incalculable by mortal agents, when Silas would go away from home without locking his door, the more probable conclusion seemed to be, that his disreputable intimacy in that quarter, if it ever existed, had been broken up, and that, in consequence, this ill turn had been done to Marner by somebody it was quite in vain to set the constable after. Why this preternatural felon should be obliged to wait till the door was left unlocked, was a question which did not present itself.

“It isn’t Jem Rodney as has done this work, Master Marner,” said the landlord. “You mustn’t be a-casting your eye at poor Jem. There may be a bit of a reckoning against Jem for the matter of a hare or so, if anybody was bound to keep their eyes staring open, and niver to wink; but Jem’s been a-sitting here drinking his can, like the decentest man i’ the parish, since before you left your house, Master Marner, by your own account.”

“Aye, aye,” said Mr. Macey; “let’s have no accusing o’ the innicent. That isn’t the law. There must be folks to swear again’ a man before he can be ta’en up. Let’s have no accusing o’ the innicent, Master Marner.”

Memory was not so utterly torpid in Silas that it could not be awakened by these words. With a movement of compunction as new and strange to him as everything else within the last hour, he started from his chair and went close up to Jem, looking at him as if he wanted to assure himself of the expression in his face. “I was wrong,” he said—“yes, yes—I ought to have thought.

There’s nothing to witness against you, Jem. Only you’d been into my house oftener than anybody else, and so you came into my head. I don’t accuse you—I won’t accuse anybody—only,” he added, lifting up his hands to his head, and turning away with bewildered misery, “I try—I try to think where my guineas can be.” “Aye, aye, they’re gone where it’s hot enough to melt ’em, I doubt,” said Mr. Macey. “Tchuh!” said the farrier.

And then he asked, with a cross-examining air, “How much money might there be in the bags, Master Marner?” “Two hundred and seventy-two pounds, twelve and sixpence, last night when I counted it,” said Silas, seating himself again, with a groan. “Pooh!

why, they’d be none so heavy to carry.

Some tramp’s been in, that’s all; and as for the no footmarks, and the bricks and the sand being all right—why, your eyes are pretty much like a insect’s, Master Marner; they’re obliged to look so close, you can’t see much at a time. It’s my opinion as, if I’d been you, or you’d been me—for it comes to the same thing—you wouldn’t have thought you’d found everything as you left it. But what I vote is, as two of the sensiblest o’ the company should go with you to Master Kench, the constable’s—he’s ill i’ bed, I know that much—and get him to appoint one of us his deppity; for that’s the law, and I don’t think anybody ’ull take upon him to contradick me there.

It isn’t much of a walk to Kench’s; and then, if it’s me as is deppity, I’ll go back with you, Master Marner, and examine your premises; and if anybody’s got any fault to find with that, I’ll thank him to stand up and say it out like a man.” By this pregnant speech the farrier had re-established his self-complacency, and waited with confidence to hear himself named as one of the superlatively sensible men. “Let us see how the night is, though,” said the landlord, who also considered himself personally concerned in this proposition. “Why, it rains heavy still,” he said, returning from the door.

“Well, I’m not the man to be afraid o’ the rain,” said the farrier. “For it’ll look bad when Justice Malam hears as respectable men like us had a information laid before ’em and took no steps.” The landlord agreed with this view, and after taking the sense of the company, and duly rehearsing a small ceremony known in high ecclesiastical life as the _nolo episcopari_, he consented to take on himself the chill dignity of going to Kench’s. But to the farrier’s strong disgust, Mr. Macey now started an objection to his proposing himself as a deputy-constable; for that oracular old gentleman, claiming to know the law, stated, as a fact delivered to him by his father, that no doctor could be a constable.

“And you’re a doctor, I reckon, though you’re only a cow-doctor—for a fly’s a fly, though it may be a hoss-fly,” concluded Mr. Macey, wondering a little at his own “’cuteness”. There was a hot debate upon this, the farrier being of course indisposed to renounce the quality of doctor, but contending that a doctor could be a constable if he liked—the law meant, he needn’t be one if he didn’t like. Mr. Macey thought this was nonsense, since the law was not likely to be fonder of doctors than of other folks.

Moreover, if it was in the nature of doctors more than of other men not to like being constables, how came Mr. Dowlas to be so eager to act in that capacity?
“_I_ don’t want to act the constable,” said the farrier, driven into a corner by this merciless reasoning; “and there’s no man can say it of me, if he’d tell the truth. But if there’s to be any jealousy and en_vy_ing about going to Kench’s in the rain, let them go as like it—you won’t get me to go, I can tell you.”

By the landlord’s intervention, however, the dispute was accommodated. Mr. Dowlas consented to go as a second person disinclined to act officially; and so poor Silas, furnished with some old coverings, turned out with his two companions into the rain again, thinking of the long night-hours before him, not as those do who long to rest, but as those who expect to “watch for the morning”.
CHAPTER VIII. When Godfrey Cass returned from Mrs. Osgood’s party at midnight, he was not much surprised to learn that Dunsey had not come home.

Perhaps he had not sold Wildfire, and was waiting for another chance—perhaps, on that foggy afternoon, he had preferred housing himself at the Red Lion at Batherley for the night, if the run had kept him in that neighbourhood; for he was not likely to feel much concern about leaving his brother in suspense. Godfrey’s mind was too full of Nancy Lammeter’s looks and behaviour, too full of the exasperation against himself and his lot, which the sight of her always produced in him, for him to give much thought to Wildfire, or to the probabilities of Dunstan’s conduct. The next morning the whole village was excited by the story of the robbery, and Godfrey, like every one else, was occupied in gathering and discussing news about it, and in visiting the Stone-pits. The rain had washed away all possibility of distinguishing foot-marks, but a close investigation of the spot had disclosed, in the direction opposite to the village, a tinder-box, with a flint and steel, half sunk in the mud. It was not Silas’s tinder-box, for the only one he had ever had was still standing on his shelf; and the inference generally accepted was, that the tinder-box in the ditch was somehow connected with the robbery.

A small minority shook their heads, and intimated their opinion that it was not a robbery to have much light thrown on it by tinder-boxes, that Master Marner’s tale had a queer look with it, and that such things had been known as a man’s doing himself a mischief, and then setting the justice to look for the doer. But when questioned closely as to their grounds for this opinion, and what Master Marner had to gain by such false pretences, they only shook their heads as before, and observed that there was no knowing what some folks counted gain; moreover, that everybody had a right to their own opinions, grounds or no grounds, and that the weaver, as everybody knew, was partly crazy.

Mr. Macey, though he joined in the defence of Marner against all suspicions of deceit, also pooh-poohed the tinder-box; indeed, repudiated it as a rather impious suggestion, tending to imply that everything must be done by human hands, and that there was no power which could make away with the guineas without moving the bricks. Nevertheless, he turned round rather sharply on Mr.
Tookey, when the zealous deputy, feeling that this was a view of the case peculiarly suited to a parish-clerk, carried it still farther, and doubted whether it was right to inquire into a robbery at all when the circumstances were so mysterious.

“As if,” concluded Mr. Tookey—“as if there was nothing but what could be made out by justices and constables.” “Now, don’t you be for overshooting the mark, Tookey,” said Mr. Macey, nodding his head aside admonishingly. “That’s what you’re allays at; if I throw a stone and hit, you think there’s summat better than hitting, and you try to throw a stone beyond.

What I said was against the tinder-box: I said nothing against justices and constables, for they’re o’ King George’s making, and it ’ud be ill-becoming a man in a parish office to fly out again’ King George.” While these discussions were going on amongst the group outside the Rainbow, a higher consultation was being carried on within, under the presidency of Mr. Crackenthorp, the rector, assisted by Squire Cass and other substantial parishioners. It had just occurred to Mr. Snell, the landlord—he being, as he observed, a man accustomed to put two and two together—to connect with the tinder-box, which, as deputy-constable, he himself had had the honourable distinction of finding, certain recollections of a pedlar who had called to drink at the house about a month before, and had actually stated that he carried a tinder-box about with him to light his pipe.

Here, surely, was a clue to be followed out. And as memory, when duly impregnated with ascertained facts, is sometimes surprisingly fertile, Mr. Snell gradually recovered a vivid impression of the effect produced on him by the pedlar’s countenance and conversation. He had a “look with his eye” which fell unpleasantly on Mr. Snell’s sensitive organism.

To be sure, he didn’t say anything particular—no, except that about the tinder-box—but it isn’t what a man says, it’s the way he says it.

Moreover, he had a swarthy foreignness of complexion which boded little honesty. “Did he wear ear-rings?” Mr. Crackenthorp wished to know, having some acquaintance with foreign customs.

“Well—stay—let me see,” said Mr. Snell, like a docile clairvoyante, who would really not make a mistake if she could help it. After stretching the corners of his mouth and contracting his eyes, as if he were trying to see the ear-rings, he appeared to give up the effort, and said, “Well, he’d got ear-rings in his box to sell, so it’s nat’ral to suppose he might wear ’em. But he called at every house, a’most, in the village; there’s somebody else, mayhap, saw ’em in his ears, though I can’t take upon me rightly to say.”

Mr. Snell was correct in his surmise, that somebody else would remember the pedlar’s ear-rings. For on the spread of inquiry among the villagers it was stated with gathering emphasis, that the parson had wanted to know whether the pedlar wore ear-rings in his ears, and an impression was created that a great deal depended on the eliciting of this fact. Of course, every one who heard the question, not having any distinct image of the pedlar as _without_ ear-rings, immediately had an image of him _with_ ear-rings, larger or smaller, as the case might be; and the image was presently taken for a vivid recollection, so that the glazier’s wife, a well-intentioned woman, not given to lying, and whose house was among the cleanest in the village, was ready to declare, as sure as ever she meant to take the sacrament the very next Christmas that was ever coming, that she had seen big ear-rings, in the shape of the young moon, in the pedlar’s two ears; while Jinny Oates, the cobbler’s daughter, being a more imaginative person, stated not only that she had seen them too, but that they had made her blood creep, as it did at that very moment while there she stood. Also, by way of throwing further light on this clue of the tinder-box, a collection was made of all the articles purchased from the pedlar at various houses, and carried to the Rainbow to be exhibited there.

In fact, there was a general feeling in the village, that for the clearing-up of this robbery there must be a great deal done at the Rainbow, and that no man need offer his wife an excuse for going there while it was the scene of severe public duties. Some disappointment was felt, and perhaps a little indignation also, when it became known that Silas Marner, on being questioned by the Squire and the parson, had retained no other recollection of the pedlar than that he had called at his door, but had not entered his house, having turned away at once when Silas, holding the door ajar, had said that he wanted nothing. This had been Silas’s testimony, though he clutched strongly at the idea of the pedlar’s being the culprit, if only because it gave him a definite image of a whereabout for his gold after it had been taken away from its hiding-place: he could see it now in the pedlar’s box. But it was observed with some irritation in the village, that anybody but a “blind creatur” like Marner would have seen the man prowling about, for how came he to leave his tinder-box in the ditch close by, if he hadn’t been lingering there?

Doubtless, he had made his observations when he saw Marner at the door. Anybody might know—and only look at him—that the weaver was a half-crazy miser. It was a wonder the pedlar hadn’t murdered him; men of that sort, with rings in their ears, had been known for murderers often and often; there had been one tried at the ’sizes, not so long ago but what there were people living who remembered it.

Godfrey Cass, indeed, entering the Rainbow during one of Mr. Snell’s frequently repeated recitals of his testimony, had treated it lightly, stating that he himself had bought a pen-knife of the pedlar, and thought him a merry grinning fellow enough; it was all nonsense, he said, about the man’s evil looks. But this was spoken of in the village as the random talk of youth, “as if it was only Mr. Snell who had seen something odd about the pedlar!”

On the contrary, there were at least half-a-dozen who were ready to go before Justice Malam, and give in much more striking testimony than any the landlord could furnish. It was to be hoped Mr. Godfrey would not go to Tarley and throw cold water on what Mr. Snell said there, and so prevent the justice from drawing up a warrant. He was suspected of intending this, when, after mid-day, he was seen setting off on horseback in the direction of Tarley.

But by this time Godfrey’s interest in the robbery had faded before his growing anxiety about Dunstan and Wildfire, and he was going, not to Tarley, but to Batherley, unable to rest in uncertainty about them any longer.

The possibility that Dunstan had played him the ugly trick of riding away with Wildfire, to return at the end of a month, when he had gambled away or otherwise squandered the price of the horse, was a fear that urged itself upon him more, even, than the thought of an accidental injury; and now that the dance at Mrs. Osgood’s was past, he was irritated with himself that he had trusted his horse to Dunstan. Instead of trying to still his fears, he encouraged them, with that superstitious impression which clings to us all, that if we expect evil very strongly it is the less likely to come; and when he heard a horse approaching at a trot, and saw a hat rising above a hedge beyond an angle of the lane, he felt as if his conjuration had succeeded. But no sooner did the horse come within sight, than his heart sank again.

It was not Wildfire; and in a few moments more he discerned that the rider was not Dunstan, but Bryce, who pulled up to speak, with a face that implied something disagreeable. “Well, Mr. Godfrey, that’s a lucky brother of yours, that Master Dunsey, isn’t he?” “What do you mean?” said Godfrey, hastily.

“Why, hasn’t he been home yet?” said Bryce. “Home?

no.

What has happened? Be quick.

What has he done with my horse?” “Ah, I thought it was yours, though he pretended you had parted with it to him.” “Has he thrown him down and broken his knees?” said Godfrey, flushed with exasperation. “Worse than that,” said Bryce.

“You see, I’d made a bargain with him to buy the horse for a hundred and twenty—a swinging price, but I always liked the horse. And what does he do but go and stake him—fly at a hedge with stakes in it, atop of a bank with a ditch before it. The horse had been dead a pretty good while when he was found. So he hasn’t been home since, has he?”

“Home?

no,” said Godfrey, “and he’d better keep away. Confound me for a fool!

I might have known this would be the end of it.” “Well, to tell you the truth,” said Bryce, “after I’d bargained for the horse, it did come into my head that he might be riding and selling the horse without your knowledge, for I didn’t believe it was his own. I knew Master Dunsey was up to his tricks sometimes. But where can he be gone?

He’s never been seen at Batherley. He couldn’t have been hurt, for he must have walked off.” “Hurt?” said Godfrey, bitterly.

“He’ll never be hurt—he’s made to hurt other people.” “And so you _did_ give him leave to sell the horse, eh?” said Bryce. “Yes; I wanted to part with the horse—he was always a little too hard in the mouth for me,” said Godfrey; his pride making him wince under the idea that Bryce guessed the sale to be a matter of necessity. “I was going to see after him—I thought some mischief had happened. I’ll go back now,” he added, turning the horse’s head, and wishing he could get rid of Bryce; for he felt that the long-dreaded crisis in his life was close upon him.

“You’re coming on to Raveloe, aren’t you?” “Well, no, not now,” said Bryce. “I _was_ coming round there, for I had to go to Flitton, and I thought I might as well take you in my way, and just let you know all I knew myself about the horse.

I suppose Master Dunsey didn’t like to show himself till the ill news had blown over a bit. He’s perhaps gone to pay a visit at the Three Crowns, by Whitbridge—I know he’s fond of the house.” “Perhaps he is,” said Godfrey, rather absently. Then rousing himself, he said, with an effort at carelessness, “We shall hear of him soon enough, I’ll be bound.”

“Well, here’s my turning,” said Bryce, not surprised to perceive that Godfrey was rather “down”; “so I’ll bid you good-day, and wish I may bring you better news another time.”

Godfrey rode along slowly, representing to himself the scene of confession to his father from which he felt that there was now no longer any escape. The revelation about the money must be made the very next morning; and if he withheld the rest, Dunstan would be sure to come back shortly, and, finding that he must bear the brunt of his father’s anger, would tell the whole story out of spite, even though he had nothing to gain by it. There was one step, perhaps, by which he might still win Dunstan’s silence and put off the evil day: he might tell his father that he had himself spent the money paid to him by Fowler; and as he had never been guilty of such an offence before, the affair would blow over after a little storming. But Godfrey could not bend himself to this.

He felt that in letting Dunstan have the money, he had already been guilty of a breach of trust hardly less culpable than that of spending the money directly for his own behoof; and yet there was a distinction between the two acts which made him feel that the one was so much more blackening than the other as to be intolerable to him. “I don’t pretend to be a good fellow,” he said to himself; “but I’m not a scoundrel—at least, I’ll stop short somewhere. I’ll bear the consequences of what I _have_ done sooner than make believe I’ve done what I never would have done. I’d never have spent the money for my own pleasure—I was tortured into it.”

Through the remainder of this day Godfrey, with only occasional fluctuations, kept his will bent in the direction of a complete avowal to his father, and he withheld the story of Wildfire’s loss till the next morning, that it might serve him as an introduction to heavier matter. The old Squire was accustomed to his son’s frequent absence from home, and thought neither Dunstan’s nor Wildfire’s non-appearance a matter calling for remark. Godfrey said to himself again and again, that if he let slip this one opportunity of confession, he might never have another; the revelation might be made even in a more odious way than by Dunstan’s malignity: _she_ might come as she had threatened to do.

And then he tried to make the scene easier to himself by rehearsal: he made up his mind how he would pass from the admission of his weakness in letting Dunstan have the money to the fact that Dunstan had a hold on him which he had been unable to shake off, and how he would work up his father to expect something very bad before he told him the fact. The old Squire was an implacable man: he made resolutions in violent anger, and he was not to be moved from them after his anger had subsided—as fiery volcanic matters cool and harden into rock. Like many violent and implacable men, he allowed evils to grow under favour of his own heedlessness, till they pressed upon him with exasperating force, and then he turned round with fierce severity and became unrelentingly hard. This was his system with his tenants: he allowed them to get into arrears, neglect their fences, reduce their stock, sell their straw, and otherwise go the wrong way,—and

then, when he became short of money in consequence of this indulgence, he took the hardest measures and would listen to no appeal. Godfrey knew all this, and felt it with the greater force because he had constantly suffered annoyance from witnessing his father’s sudden fits of unrelentingness, for which his own habitual irresolution deprived him of all sympathy.

(He was not critical on the faulty indulgence which preceded these fits; _that_ seemed to him natural enough.) Still there was just the chance, Godfrey thought, that his father’s pride might see this marriage in a light that would induce him to hush it up, rather than turn his son out and make the family the talk of the country for ten miles round. This was the view of the case that Godfrey managed to keep before him pretty closely till midnight, and he went to sleep thinking that he had done with inward debating. But when he awoke in the still morning darkness he found it impossible to reawaken his evening thoughts; it was as if they had been tired out and were not to be roused to further work.

Instead of arguments for confession, he could now feel the presence of nothing but its evil consequences: the old dread of disgrace came back—the old shrinking from the thought of raising a hopeless barrier between himself and Nancy—the old disposition to rely on chances which might be favourable to him, and save him from betrayal. Why, after all, should he cut off the hope of them by his own act? He had seen the matter in a wrong light yesterday. He had been in a rage with Dunstan, and had thought of nothing but a thorough break-up of their mutual understanding; but what it would be really wisest for him to do, was to try and soften his father’s anger against Dunsey, and keep things as nearly as possible in their old condition. If Dunsey did not come back for a few days (and Godfrey did not know but that the rascal had enough money in his pocket to enable him to keep away still longer), everything might blow over.
CHAPTER IX.
Godfrey rose and took his own breakfast earlier than usual, but lingered in the wainscoted parlour till his younger brothers had finished their meal and gone out, awaiting his father, who always took a walk with his managing-man before breakfast.

Every one breakfasted at a different hour in the Red House, and the Squire was always the latest, giving a long chance to a rather feeble morning appetite before he tried it. The table had been spread with substantial eatables nearly two hours before he presented himself—a tall, stout man of sixty, with a face in which the knit brow and rather hard glance seemed contradicted by the slack and feeble mouth. His person showed marks of habitual neglect, his dress was slovenly; and yet there was something in the presence of the old Squire distinguishable from that of the ordinary farmers in the parish, who were perhaps every whit as refined as he, but, having slouched their way through life with a consciousness of being in the vicinity of their “betters,” wanted that self-possession and authoritativeness of voice and carriage which belonged to a man who thought of superiors as remote existences with whom he had personally little more to do than with America or the stars. The Squire had been used to parish homage all his life, used to the presupposition that his family, his tankards, and everything that was his, were the oldest and best; and as he never associated with any gentry higher than himself, his opinion was not disturbed by comparison.

He glanced at his son as he entered the room, and said, “What, sir!
haven’t _you_ had your breakfast yet?”

but there was no pleasant morning greeting between them; not because of any unfriendliness, but because the sweet flower of courtesy is not a growth of such homes as the Red House. “Yes, sir,” said Godfrey, “I’ve had my breakfast, but I was waiting to speak to you.” “Ah!

well,” said the Squire, throwing himself indifferently into his chair, and speaking in a ponderous coughing fashion, which was felt in Raveloe to be a sort of privilege of his rank, while he cut a piece of beef, and held it up before the deer-hound that had come in with him. “Ring the bell for my ale, will you? You youngsters’ business is your own pleasure, mostly.

There’s no hurry about it for anybody but yourselves.” The Squire’s life was quite as idle as his sons,’ but it was a fiction kept up by himself and his contemporaries in Raveloe that youth was exclusively the period of folly, and that their aged wisdom was constantly in a state of endurance mitigated by sarcasm. Godfrey waited, before he spoke again, until the ale had been brought and the door closed—an interval during which Fleet, the deer-hound, had consumed enough bits of beef to make a poor man’s holiday dinner. “There’s been a cursed piece of ill-luck with Wildfire,” he began; “happened the day before yesterday.”

“What! broke his knees?” said the Squire, after taking a draught of ale. “I thought you knew how to ride better than that, sir. I never threw a horse down in my life. If I had, I might ha’ whistled for another, for _my_ father wasn’t quite so ready to unstring as some other fathers I know of.

But they must turn over a new leaf—_they_ must.

What with mortgages and arrears, I’m as short o’ cash as a roadside pauper. And that fool Kimble says the newspaper’s talking about peace. Why, the country wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. Prices ’ud run down like a jack, and I should never get my arrears, not if I sold all the fellows up.

And there’s that damned Fowler, I won’t put up with him any longer; I’ve told Winthrop to go to Cox this very day. The lying scoundrel told me he’d be sure to pay me a hundred last month. He takes advantage because he’s on that outlying farm, and thinks I shall forget him.” The Squire had delivered this speech in a coughing and interrupted manner, but with no pause long enough for Godfrey to make it a pretext for taking up the word again.

He felt that his father meant to ward off any request for money on the ground of the misfortune with Wildfire, and that the emphasis he had thus been led to lay on his shortness of cash and his arrears was likely to produce an attitude of mind the utmost unfavourable for his own disclosure. But he must go on, now he had begun.

“It’s worse than breaking the horse’s knees—he’s been staked and killed,” he said, as soon as his father was silent, and had begun to cut his meat. “But I wasn’t thinking of asking you to buy me another horse; I was only thinking I’d lost the means of paying you with the price of Wildfire, as I’d meant to do. Dunsey took him to the hunt to sell him for me the other day, and after he’d made a bargain for a hundred and twenty with Bryce, he went after the hounds, and took some fool’s leap or other that did for the horse at once.

If it hadn’t been for that, I should have paid you a hundred pounds this morning.” The Squire had laid down his knife and fork, and was staring at his son in amazement, not being sufficiently quick of brain to form a probable guess as to what could have caused so strange an inversion of the paternal and filial relations as this proposition of his son to pay him a hundred pounds. “The truth is, sir—I’m very sorry—I was quite to blame,” said Godfrey.

“Fowler did pay that hundred pounds. He paid it to me, when I was over there one day last month. And Dunsey bothered me for the money, and I let him have it, because I hoped I should be able to pay it you before this.” The Squire was purple with anger before his son had done speaking, and found utterance difficult.

“You let Dunsey have it, sir? And how long have you been so thick with Dunsey that you must _ collogue_ with him to embezzle my money?

Are you turning out a scamp? I tell you I won’t have it. I’ll turn the whole pack of you out of the house together, and marry again. I’d have you to remember, sir, my property’s got no entail on it;—since my grandfather’s time the Casses can do as they like with their land.

Remember that, sir. Let Dunsey have the money! Why should you let Dunsey have the money?

There’s some lie at the bottom of it.” “There’s no lie, sir,” said Godfrey. “I wouldn’t have spent the money myself, but Dunsey bothered me, and I was a fool, and let him have it. But I meant to pay it, whether he did or not.

That’s the whole story. I never meant to embezzle money, and I’m not the man to do it. You never knew me do a dishonest trick, sir.”

“Where’s Dunsey, then?

What do you stand talking there for? Go and fetch Dunsey, as I tell you, and let him give account of what he wanted the money for, and what he’s done with it. He shall repent it. I’ll turn him out.

I said I would, and I’ll do it. He shan’t brave me. Go and fetch him.” “Dunsey isn’t come back, sir.” “What! did he break his own neck, then?” said the Squire, with some disgust at the idea that, in that case, he could not fulfil his threat.

“No, he wasn’t hurt, I believe, for the horse was found dead, and Dunsey must have walked off. I daresay we shall see him again by-and-by. I don’t know where he is.”

“And what must you be letting him have my money for? Answer me that,” said the Squire, attacking Godfrey again, since Dunsey was not within reach. “Well, sir, I don’t know,” said Godfrey, hesitatingly.

That was a feeble evasion, but Godfrey was not fond of lying, and, not being sufficiently aware that no sort of duplicity can long flourish without the help of vocal falsehoods, he was quite unprepared with invented motives. “You don’t know? I tell you what it is, sir.

You’ve been up to some trick, and you’ve been bribing him not to tell,” said the Squire, with a sudden acuteness which startled Godfrey, who felt his heart beat violently at the nearness of his father’s guess. The sudden alarm pushed him on to take the next step—a very slight impulse suffices for that on a downward road. “Why, sir,” he said, trying to speak with careless ease, “it was a little affair between me and Dunsey; it’s no matter to anybody else. It’s hardly worth while to pry into young men’s fooleries: it wouldn’t have made any difference to you, sir, if I’d not had the bad luck to lose Wildfire.

I should have paid you the money.” “Fooleries!

Pshaw!

it’s time you’d done with fooleries. And I’d have you know, sir, you _must_ ha’ done with ’em,” said the Squire, frowning and casting an angry glance at his son. “Your goings-on are not what I shall find money for any longer. There’s my grandfather had his stables full o’ horses, and kept a good house, too, and in worse times, by what I can make out; and so might I, if I hadn’t four good-for-nothing fellows to hang on me like horse-leeches.

I’ve been too good a father to you all—that’s what it is. But I shall pull up, sir.”

Godfrey was silent. He was not likely to be very penetrating in his judgments, but he had always had a sense that his father’s indulgence had not been kindness, and had had a vague longing for some discipline that would have checked his own errant weakness and helped his better will. The Squire ate his bread and meat hastily, took a deep draught of ale, then turned his chair from the table, and began to speak again.

“It’ll be all the worse for you, you know—you’d need try and help me keep things together.” “Well, sir, I’ve often offered to take the management of things, but you know you’ve taken it ill always, and seemed to think I wanted to push you out of your place.”

“I know nothing o’ your offering or o’ my taking it ill,” said the Squire, whose memory consisted in certain strong impressions unmodified by detail; “but I know, one while you seemed to be thinking o’ marrying, and I didn’t offer to put any obstacles in your way, as some fathers would. I’d as lieve you married Lammeter’s daughter as anybody. I suppose, if I’d said you nay, you’d ha’ kept on with it; but, for want o’ contradiction, you’ve changed your mind.

You’re a shilly-shally fellow: you take after your poor mother. She never had a will of her own; a woman has no call for one, if she’s got a proper man for her husband. But _your_ wife had need have one, for you hardly know your own mind enough to make both your legs walk one way.

The lass hasn’t said downright she won’t have you, has she?” “No,” said Godfrey, feeling very hot and uncomfortable; “but I don’t think she will.” “Think! why haven’t you the courage to ask her?

Do you stick to it, you want to have _her_—that’s the thing?” “There’s no other woman I want to marry,” said Godfrey, evasively.

“Well, then, let me make the offer for you, that’s all, if you haven’t the pluck to do it yourself. Lammeter isn’t likely to be loath for his daughter to marry into _my_ family, I should think. And as for the pretty lass, she wouldn’t have her cousin—and there’s nobody else, as I see, could ha’ stood in your way.” “I’d rather let it be, please sir, at present,” said Godfrey, in alarm.

“I think she’s a little offended with me just now, and I should like to speak for myself. A man must manage these things for himself.” “Well, speak, then, and manage it, and see if you can’t turn over a new leaf. That’s what a man must do when he thinks o’ marrying.”

“I don’t see how I can think of it at present, sir. You wouldn’t like to settle me on one of the farms, I suppose, and I don’t think she’d come to live in this house with all my brothers. It’s a different sort of life to what she’s been used to.” “Not come to live in this house?

Don’t tell me. You ask her, that’s all,” said the Squire, with a short, scornful laugh. “I’d rather let the thing be, at present, sir,” said Godfrey. “I hope you won’t try to hurry it on by saying anything.”

“I shall do what I choose,” said the Squire, “and I shall let you know I’m master; else you may turn out and find an estate to drop into somewhere else.

Go out and tell Winthrop not to go to Cox’s, but wait for me. And tell ’em to get my horse saddled. And stop: look out and get that hack o’ Dunsey’s sold, and hand me the money, will you? He’ll keep no more hacks at my expense. And if you know where he’s sneaking—I daresay you do—you may tell him to spare himself the journey o’ coming back home.

Let him turn ostler, and keep himself. He shan’t hang on me any more.”

“I don’t know where he is, sir; and if I did, it isn’t my place to tell him to keep away,” said Godfrey, moving towards the door. “Confound it, sir, don’t stay arguing, but go and order my horse,” said the Squire, taking up a pipe. Godfrey left the room, hardly knowing whether he were more relieved by the sense that the interview was ended without having made any change in his position, or more uneasy that he had entangled himself still further in prevarication and deceit.

What had passed about his proposing to Nancy had raised a new alarm, lest by some after-dinner words of his father’s to Mr. Lammeter he should be thrown into the embarrassment of being obliged absolutely to decline her when she seemed to be within his reach. He fled to his usual refuge, that of hoping for some unforeseen turn of fortune, some favourable chance which would save him from unpleasant consequences—perhaps even justify his insincerity by manifesting its prudence. And in this point of trusting to some throw of fortune’s dice, Godfrey can hardly be called specially old-fashioned.

Favourable Chance, I fancy, is the god of all men who follow their own devices instead of obeying a law they believe in. Let even a polished man of these days get into a position he is ashamed to avow, and his mind will be bent on all the possible issues that may deliver him from the calculable results of that position. Let him live outside his income, or shirk the resolute honest work that brings wages, and he will presently find himself dreaming of a possible benefactor, a possible simpleton who may be cajoled into using his interest, a possible state of mind in some possible person not yet forthcoming. Let him neglect the responsibilities of his office, and he will inevitably anchor himself on the chance that the thing left undone may turn out not to be of the supposed importance.

Let him betray his friend’s confidence, and he will adore that same cunning complexity called Chance, which gives him the hope that his friend will never know. Let him forsake a decent craft that he may pursue the gentilities of a profession to which nature never called him, and his religion will infallibly be the worship of blessed Chance, which he will believe in as the mighty creator of success. The evil principle deprecated in that religion is the orderly sequence by which the seed brings forth a crop after its kind.

CHAPTER X.
Justice Malam was naturally regarded in Tarley and Raveloe as a man of capacious mind, seeing that he could draw much wider conclusions without evidence than could be expected of his neighbours who were not on the Commission of the Peace. Such a man was not likely to neglect the clue of the tinder-box, and an inquiry was set on foot concerning a pedlar, name unknown, with curly black hair and a foreign complexion, carrying a box of cutlery and jewellery, and wearing large rings in his ears. But either because inquiry was too slow-footed to overtake him, or because the description applied to so many pedlars that inquiry did not know how to choose among them, weeks passed away, and there was no other result concerning the robbery than a gradual cessation of the excitement it had caused in Raveloe.

Dunstan Cass’s absence was hardly a subject of remark: he had once before had a quarrel with his father, and had gone off, nobody knew whither, to return at the end of six weeks, take up his old quarters unforbidden, and swagger as usual. His own family, who equally expected this issue, with the sole difference that the Squire was determined this time to forbid him the old quarters, never mentioned his absence; and when his uncle Kimble or Mr.
Osgood noticed it, the story of his having killed Wildfire, and committed some offence against his father, was enough to prevent surprise. To connect the fact of Dunsey’s disappearance with that of the robbery occurring on the same day, lay quite away from the track of every one’s thought—even Godfrey’s, who had better reason than any one else to know what his brother was capable of.

He remembered no mention of the weaver between them since the time, twelve years ago, when it was their boyish sport to deride him; and, besides, his imagination constantly created an _alibi_ for Dunstan: he saw him continually in some congenial haunt, to which he had walked off on leaving Wildfire—saw him sponging on chance acquaintances, and meditating a return home to the old amusement of tormenting his elder brother. Even if any brain in Raveloe had put the said two facts together, I doubt whether a combination so injurious to the prescriptive respectability of a family with a mural monument and venerable tankards, would not have been suppressed as of unsound tendency. But Christmas puddings, brawn, and abundance of spirituous liquors, throwing the mental originality into the channel of nightmare, are great preservatives against a dangerous spontaneity of waking thought.

When the robbery was talked of at the Rainbow and elsewhere, in good company, the balance continued to waver between the rational explanation founded on the tinder-box, and the theory of an impenetrable mystery that mocked investigation. The advocates of the tinder-box-and-pedlar view considered the other side a muddle-headed and credulous set, who, because they themselves were wall-eyed, supposed everybody else to have the same blank outlook; and the adherents of the inexplicable more than hinted that their antagonists were animals inclined to crow before they had found any corn—mere skimming-dishes in point of depth—whose clear-sightedness consisted in supposing there was nothing behind a barn-door because they couldn’t see through it; so that, though their controversy did not serve to elicit the fact concerning the robbery, it elicited some true opinions of collateral importance. But while poor Silas’s loss served thus to brush the slow current of Raveloe conversation, Silas himself was feeling the withering desolation of that bereavement about which his neighbours were arguing at their ease.

To any one who had observed him before he lost his gold, it might have seemed that so withered and shrunken a life as his could hardly be susceptible of a bruise, could hardly endure any subtraction but such as would put an end to it altogether. But in reality it had been an eager life, filled with immediate purpose which fenced him in from the wide, cheerless unknown.

It had been a clinging life; and though the object round which its fibres had clung was a dead disrupted thing, it satisfied the need for clinging. But now the fence was broken down—the support was snatched away.

Marner’s thoughts could no longer move in their old round, and were baffled by a blank like that which meets a plodding ant when the earth has broken away on its homeward path. The loom was there, and the weaving, and the growing pattern in the cloth; but the bright treasure in the hole under his feet was gone; the prospect of handling and counting it was gone: the evening had no phantasm of delight to still the poor soul’s craving. The thought of the money he would get by his actual work could bring no joy, for its meagre image was only a fresh reminder of his loss; and hope was too heavily crushed by the sudden blow for his imagination to dwell on the growth of a new hoard from that small beginning. He filled up the blank with grief. As he sat weaving, he every now and then moaned low, like one in pain: it was the sign that his thoughts had come round again to the sudden chasm—to the empty evening-time.

And all the evening, as he sat in his loneliness by his dull fire, he leaned his elbows on his knees, and clasped his head with his hands, and moaned very low—not as one who seeks to be heard. And yet he was not utterly forsaken in his trouble. The repulsion Marner had always created in his neighbours was partly dissipated by the new light in which this misfortune had shown him. Instead of a man who had more cunning than honest folks could come by, and, what was worse, had not the inclination to use that cunning in a neighbourly way, it was now apparent that Silas had not cunning enough to keep his own. He was generally spoken of as a “poor mushed creatur”; and that avoidance of his neighbours, which had before been referred to his ill-will and to a probable addiction to worse company, was now considered mere craziness.

This change to a kindlier feeling was shown in various ways. The odour of Christmas cooking being on the wind, it was the season when superfluous pork and black puddings are suggestive of charity in well-to-do families; and Silas’s misfortune had brought him uppermost in the memory of housekeepers like Mrs. Osgood. Mr. Crackenthorp, too, while he admonished Silas that his money had probably been taken from him because he thought too much of it and never came to church, enforced the doctrine by a present of pigs’ pettitoes, well calculated to dissipate unfounded prejudices against the clerical character. Neighbours who had nothing but verbal consolation to give showed a disposition not only to greet Silas and discuss his misfortune at some length when they encountered him in the village, but also to take the trouble of calling at his cottage and getting him to repeat all the details on the very spot; and then they would try to cheer him by saying, “Well, Master Marner, you’re no worse off nor other poor folks, after all; and if you was to be crippled, the parish ’ud give you a ’lowance.” I suppose one reason why we are seldom able to comfort our neighbours with our words is that our goodwill gets adulterated, in spite of ourselves, before it can pass our lips.

We can send black puddings and pettitoes without giving them a flavour of our own egoism; but language is a stream that is almost sure to smack of a mingled soil. There was a fair proportion of kindness in Raveloe; but it was often of a beery and bungling sort, and took the shape least allied to the complimentary and hypocritical. Mr. Macey, for example, coming one evening expressly to let Silas know that recent events had given him the advantage of standing more favourably in the opinion of a man whose judgment was not formed lightly, opened the conversation by saying, as soon as he had seated himself and adjusted his thumbs— “Come, Master Marner, why, you’ve no call to sit a-moaning.

You’re a deal better off to ha’ lost your money, nor to ha’ kep it by foul means. I used to think, when you first come into these parts, as you were no better nor you should be; you were younger a deal than what you are now; but you were all

ays a staring, white-faced creatur, partly like a bald-faced calf, as I may say. But there’s no knowing: it isn’t every queer-looksed thing as Old Harry’s had the making of—I mean, speaking o’ toads and such; for they’re often harmless, like, and useful against varmin.

And it’s pretty much the same wi’ you, as fur as I can see. Though as to the yarbs and stuff to cure the breathing, if you brought that sort o’ knowledge from distant parts, you might ha’ been a bit freer of it.

And if the knowledge wasn’t well come by, why, you might ha’ made up for it by coming to church reg’lar; for, as for the children as the Wise Woman charmed, I’ve been at the christening of ’em again and again, and they took the water just as well. And that’s reasonable; for if Old Harry’s a mind to do a bit o’ kindness for a holiday, like, who’s got anything against it? That’s my thinking; and I’ve been clerk o’ this parish forty year, and I know, when the parson and me does the cussing of a Ash Wednesday, th

ere’s no cussing o’ folks as have a mind to be cured without a doctor, let Kimble say what he will. And so, Master Marner, as I was saying—for there’s windings i’ things as they may carry you to the fur end o’ the prayer-book afore you get back to ’em—my advice is, as you keep up your sperrits; for as for thinking you’re a deep un, and ha’ got more inside you nor ’ull bear daylight, I’m not o’ that opinion at all, and so I tell the neighbours. For, says I, you talk o’ Master Marner making out a tale—why, it’s nonsense, that is: it ’ud take a ’cute man to make a tale like that; and, says I, he looked as scared as a rabbit.”

During this discursive address Silas had continued motionless in his previous attitude, leaning his elbows on his knees, and pressing his hands against his head. Mr. Macey, not doubting that he had been listened to, paused, in the expectation of some appreciatory reply, but Marner remained silent. He had a sense that the old man meant to be good-natured and neighbourly; but the kindness fell on him as sunshine falls on the wretched—he had no heart to taste it, and felt that it was very far off him. “Come, Master Marner, have you got nothing to say to that?” said Mr.
Macey at last, with a slight accent of impatience.

“Oh,” said Marner, slowly, shaking his head between his hands, “I thank you—thank you—kindly.” “Aye, aye, to be sure: I thought you would,” said Mr. Macey; “and my advice is—have you got a Sunday suit?”

“No,” said Marner. “I doubted it was so,” said Mr. Macey.

“Now, let me advise you to get a Sunday suit: there’s Tookey, he’s a poor creatur, but he’s got my tailoring business, and some o’ my money in it, and he shall make a suit at a low price, and give you trust, and then you can come to church, and be a bit neighbourly. Why, you’ve never heared me say ‘Amen’ since you come into these parts, and I recommend you to lose no time, for it’ll be poor work when Tookey has it all to himself, for I mayn’t be equil to stand i’ the desk at all, come another winter.” Here Mr. Macey paused, perhaps expecting some sign of emotion in his hearer; but not observing any, he went on.

“And as for the money for the suit o’ clothes, why, you get a matter of a pound a-week at your weaving, Master Marner, and you’re a young man, eh, for all you look so mushed. Why, you couldn’t ha’ been five-and-twenty when you come into these parts, eh?” Silas started a little at the change to a questioning tone, and answered mildly, “I don’t know; I can’t rightly say—it’s a long while since.”

After receiving such an answer as this, it is not surprising that Mr.
Macey observed, later on in the evening at the Rainbow, that Marner’s head was “all of a muddle,” and that it was to be doubted if he ever knew when Sunday came round, which showed him a worse heathen than many a dog. Another of Silas’s comforters, besides Mr. Macey, came to him with a mind highly charged on the same topic. This was Mrs. Winthrop, the wheelwright’s wife. The inhabitants of Raveloe were not severely regular in their church-going, and perhaps there was hardly a person in the parish who would not have held that to go to church every Sunday in the calendar would have shown a greedy desire to stand well with Heaven, and get an undue advantage over their neighbours—a wish to be better than the “common run,” that would have implied a reflection on those who had had godfathers and godmothers as well as themselves, and had an equal right to the burying-service.

At the same time, it was understood to be requisite for all who were not household servants, or young men, to take the sacrament at one of the great festivals: Squire Cass himself took it on Christmas-day; while those who were held to be “good livers” went to church with greater, though still with moderate, frequency. Mrs. Winthrop was one of these: she was in all respects a woman of scrupulous conscience, so eager for duties that life seemed to offer them too scantily unless she rose at half-past four, though this threw a scarcity of work over the more advanced hours of the morning, which it was a constant problem with her to remove. Yet she had not the vixenish temper which is sometimes supposed to be a necessary condition of such habits: she was a very mild, patient woman, whose nature it was to seek out all the sadder and more serious elements of life, and pasture her mind upon them.

She was the person always first thought of in Raveloe when there was illness or death in a family, when leeches were to be applied, or there was a sudden disappointment in a monthly nurse. She was a “comfortable woman”—good-looking, fresh-complexioned, having her lips always slightly screwed, as if she felt herself in a sick-room with the doctor or the clergyman present. But she was never whimpering; no one had seen her shed tears; she was simply grave and inclined to shake her head and sigh, almost imperceptibly, like a funereal mourner who is not a relation.

It seemed surprising that Ben Winthrop, who loved his quart-pot and his joke, got along so well with Dolly; but she took her husband’s jokes and joviality as patiently as everything else, considering that “men _would_ be so,” and viewing the stronger sex in the light of animals whom it had pleased Heaven to make naturally troublesome, like bulls and turkey-cocks. This good wholesome woman could hardly fail to have her mind drawn strongly towards Silas Marner, now that he appeared in the light of a sufferer; and one Sunday afternoon she took her little boy Aaron with her, and went to call on Silas, carrying in her hand some small lard-cakes, flat paste-like articles much esteemed in Raveloe. Aaron, an apple-cheeked youngster of seven, with a clean starched frill which looked like a plate for the apples, needed all his adventurous curiosity to embolden him against the possibility that the big-eyed weaver might do him some bodily injury; and his dubiety was much increased when, on arriving at the Stone-pits, they heard the mysterious sound of the loom. “Ah, it is as I thought,” said Mrs. Winthrop, sadly.

They had to knock loudly before Silas heard them; but when he did come to the door he showed no impatience, as he would once have done, at a visit that had been unasked for and unexpected. Formerly, his heart had been as a locked casket with its treasure inside; but now the casket was empty, and the lock was broken. Left groping in darkness, with his prop utterly gone, Silas had inevitably a sense, though a dull and half-despairing one, that if any help came to him it must come from without; and there was a slight stirring of expectation at the sight of his fellow-men, a faint consciousness of dependence on their goodwill.

He opened the door wide to admit Dolly, but without otherwise returning her greeting than by moving the armchair a few inches as a sign that she was to sit down in it. Dolly, as soon as she was seated, removed the white cloth that covered her lard-cakes, and said in her gravest way— “I’d a baking yisterday, Master Marner, and the lard-cakes turned out better nor common, and I’d ha’ asked you to accept some, if you’d thought well. I don’t eat such things myself, for a bit o’ bread’s what I like from one year’s end to the other; but men’s stomichs are made so comical, they want a change—they do, I know, God help ’em.” Dolly sighed gently as she held out the cakes to Silas, who thanked her kindly and looked very close at them, absently, being accustomed to look so at everything he took into his hand—eyed all the while by the wondering bright orbs of the small Aaron, who had made an outwork of his mother’s chair, and was peeping round from behind it.

“There’s letters pricked on ’em,” said Dolly. “I can’t read ’em myself, and there’s nobody, not Mr. Macey himself, rightly knows what they mean; but they’ve a good meaning, for they’re the same as is on the pulpit-cloth at church. What are they, Aaron, my dear?” Aaron retreated completely behind his outwork.

“Oh, go, that’s naughty,” said his mother, mildly. “Well, whativer the letters are, they’ve a good meaning; and it’s a stamp as has been in our house, Ben says, ever since he was a little un, and his mother used to put it on the cakes, and I’ve allays put it on too; for if there’s any good, we’ve need of it i’ this world.” “It’s I. H. S.,” said Silas, at which proof of learning Aaron peeped round the chair again. “Well, to be sure, you can read ’em off,” said Dolly. “Ben’s read ’em to me many and many a time, but they slip out o’ my mind again; the more’s the pity, for they’re good letters, else they wouldn’t be in the church; and so I prick ’em on all the loaves and all the cakes, though sometimes they won’t hold, because o’ the rising—for, as I said, if there’s any good to be got we’ve need of it

i’ this world—that we have; and I hope they’ll bring good to you, Master Marner, for it’s wi’ that will I brought you the cakes; and you see the letters have held better nor common.”

Silas was as unable to interpret the letters as Dolly, but there was no possibility of misunderstanding the desire to give comfort that made itself heard in her quiet tones. He said, with more feeling than before—“Thank you—thank you kindly.” But he laid down the cakes and seated himself absently—drearily unconscious of any distinct benefit towards which the cakes and the letters, or even Dolly’s kindness, could tend for him.

“Ah, if there’s good anywhere, we’ve need of it,” repeated Dolly, who did not lightly forsake a serviceable phrase. She looked at Silas pityingly as she went on. “But you didn’t hear the church-bells this morning, Master Marner? I doubt you didn’t know it was Sunday.

Living so lone here, you lose your count, I daresay; and then, when your loom makes a noise, you can’t hear the bells, more partic’lar now the frost kills the sound.”

“Yes, I did; I heard ’em,” said Silas, to whom Sunday bells were a mere accident of the day, and not part of its sacredness. There had been no bells in Lantern Yard. “Dear heart!” said Dolly, pausing before she spoke again. “But what a pity it is you should work of a Sunday, and not clean yourself—if you _didn’t_ go to church; for if you’d a roasting bit, it might be as you couldn’t leave it, being a lone man.

But there’s the bakehus, if you could make up your mind to spend a twopence on the oven now and then,—not every week, in course—I shouldn’t like to do that myself,—you might carry your bit o’ dinner there, for it’s nothing but right to have a bit o’

summat hot of a Sunday, and not to make it as you can’t know your dinner from Saturday. But now, upo’ Christmas-day, this blessed Christmas as is ever coming, if you was to take your dinner to the bakehus, and go to church, and see the holly and the yew, and hear the anthim, and then take the sacramen,’ you’d be a deal the better, and you’d know which end you stood on, and you could put your trust i’ Them as knows better nor we do, seein’ you’d ha’ done what it lies on us all to do.”

Dolly’s exhortation, which was an unusually long effort of speech for her, was uttered in the soothing persuasive tone with which she would have tried to prevail on a sick man to take his medicine, or a basin of gruel for which he had no appetite.

Silas had never before been closely urged on the point of his absence from church, which had only been thought of as a part of his general queerness; and he was too direct and simple to evade Dolly’s appeal. “Nay, nay,” he said, “I know nothing o’ church. I’ve never been to church.”

“No!” said Dolly, in a low tone of wonderment.

Then bethinking herself of Silas’s advent from an unknown country, she said, “Could it ha’ been as they’d no church where you was born?” “Oh, yes,” said Silas, meditatively, sitting in his usual posture of leaning on his knees, and supporting his head. “There was churches—a many—it was a big town.

But I knew nothing of ’em—I went to chapel.”

Dolly was much puzzled at this new word, but she was rather afraid of inquiring further, lest “chapel” might mean some haunt of wickedness. After a little thought, she said— “Well, Master Marner, it’s niver too late to turn over a new leaf, and if you’ve niver had no church, there’s no telling the good it’ll do you. For I feel so set up and comfortable as niver was, when I’ve been and heard the prayers, and the singing to the praise and glory o’ God, as Mr. Macey gives out—and Mr. Crackenthorp saying good words, and more partic’lar on Sacramen’ Day; and if a bit o’ trouble comes, I feel as I can put up wi’ it, for I’ve looked for help i’ the right quarter, and gev myself up to Them as we must all give ourselves up to at the last; and if we’n done our part, it isn’t to be believed as Them as are above us ’ull be worse nor we are, and come short o’ Their’n.” Poor Dolly’s exposition of her simple Raveloe theology fell rather unmeaningly on Silas’s ears, for there was no word in it that could rouse a memory of what he had known as religion, and his comprehension was quite baffled by the plural pronoun, which was no heresy of Dolly’s, but only her way of avoiding a presumptuous familiarity.

He remained silent, not feeling inclined to assent to the part of Dolly’s speech which he fully understood—her recommendation that he should go to church. Indeed, Silas was so unaccustomed to talk beyond the brief questions and answers necessary for the transaction of his simple business, that words did not easily come to him without the urgency of a distinct purpose. But now, little Aaron, having become used to the weaver’s awful presence, had advanced to his mother’s side, and Silas, seeming to notice him for the first time, tried to return Dolly’s signs of good-will by offering the lad a bit of lard-cake.

Aaron shrank back a little, and rubbed his head against his mother’s shoulder, but still thought the piece of cake worth the risk of putting his hand out for it. “Oh, for shame, Aaron,” said his mother, taking him on her lap, however; “why, you don’t want cake again yet awhile. He’s wonderful hearty,” she went on, with a little sigh—“that he is, God knows. He’s my youngest, and we spoil him sadly, for either me or the father must allays hev him in our sight—that we must.” She stroked Aaron’s brown head, and thought it must do Master Marner good to see such a “pictur of a child”.

But Marner, on the other side of the hearth, saw the neat-featured rosy face as a mere dim round, with two dark spots in it.

“And he’s got a voice like a bird—you wouldn’t think,” Dolly went on; “he can sing a Christmas carril as his father’s taught him; and I take it for a token as he’ll come to good, as he can learn the good tunes so quick. Come, Aaron, stan’ up and sing the carril to Master Marner, come.” Aaron replied by rubbing his forehead against his mother’s shoulder. “Oh, that’s naughty,” said Dolly, gently.

“Stan’ up, when mother tells you, and let me hold the cake till you’ve done.” Aaron was not indisposed to display his talents, even to an ogre, under protecting circumstances; and after a few more signs of coyness, consisting chiefly in rubbing the backs of his hands over his eyes, and then peeping between them at Master Marner, to see if he looked anxious for the “carril,” he at length allowed his head to be duly adjusted, and standing behind the table, which let him appear above it only as far as his broad frill, so that he looked like a cherubic head untroubled with a body, he began with a clear chirp, and in a melody that had the rhythm of an industrious hammer: “God rest you, merry gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay, For Jesus Christ our Savior Was born on Christmas-day.” Dolly listened with a devout look, glancing at Marner in some confidence that this strain would help to allure him to church. “That’s Christmas music,” she said, when Aaron had ended, and had secured his piece of cake again. “There’s no other music equil to the Christmas music—‘Hark

the erol angils sing.’ And you may judge what it is at church, Master Marner, with the bassoon and the voices, as you can’t help thinking you’ve got to a better place a’ready—for I wouldn’t speak ill o’ this world, seeing as Them put us in it as knows best—but what wi’ the drink, and the quarrelling, and the bad illnesses, and the hard dying, as I’ve seen times and times, one’s thankful to hear of a better. The boy sings pretty, don’t he, Master Marner?”

“Yes,” said Silas, absently, “very pretty.” The Christmas carol, with its hammer-like rhythm, had fallen on his ears as strange music, quite unlike a hymn, and could have none of the effect Dolly contemplated. But he wanted to show her that he was grateful, and the only mode that occurred to him was to offer Aaron a bit more cake.

“Oh, no, thank you, Master Marner,” said Dolly, holding down Aaron’s willing hands. “We must be going home now. And so I wish you good-bye, Master Marner; and if you ever feel anyways bad in your inside, as you can’t fend for yourself, I’ll come and clean up for you, and get you a bit o’ victual, and willing. But I beg and pray of you to leave off weaving of a Sunday, for it’s bad for soul and body—and the money as comes i’ that way ’ull be a bad bed to lie down on at the last, if it doesn’t fly away, nobody knows where, like the white frost.

And you’ll excuse me being that free with you, Master Marner, for I wish you well—I do. Make your bow, Aaron.” Silas said “Good-bye, and thank you kindly,” as he opened the door for Dolly, but he couldn’t help feeling relieved when she was gone—relieved that he might weave again and moan at his ease.

Her simple view of life and its comforts, by which she had tried to cheer him, was only like a report of unknown objects, which his imagination could not fashion. The fountains of human love and of faith in a divine love had not yet been unlocked, and his soul was still the shrunken rivulet, with only this difference, that its little groove of sand was blocked up, and it wandered confusedly against dark obstruction. And so, notwithstanding the honest persuasions of Mr. Macey and Dolly Winthrop, Silas spent his Christmas-day in loneliness, eating his meat in sadness of heart, though the meat had come to him as a neighbourly present. In the morning he looked out on the black frost that seemed to press cruelly on every blade of grass, while the half-icy red pool shivered under the bitter wind; but towards evening the snow began to fall, and curtained from him even that dreary outlook, shutting him close up with his narrow grief.

And he sat in his robbed home through the livelong evening, not caring to close his shutters or lock his door, pressing his head between his hands and moaning, till the cold grasped him and told him that his fire was grey. Nobody in this world but himself knew that he was the same Silas Marner who had once loved his fellow with tender love, and trusted in an unseen goodness. Even to himself that past experience had become dim. But in Raveloe village the bells rang merrily, and the church was fuller than all through the rest of the year, with red faces among the abundant dark-green boughs—faces prepared for a longer service than usual by an odorous breakfast of toast and ale.

Those green boughs, the hymn and anthem never heard but at Christmas—even the Athanasian Creed, which was discriminated from the others only as being longer and of exceptional virtue, since it was only read on rare occasions—brought a vague exulting sense, for which the grown men could as little have found words as the children, that something great and mysterious had been done for them in heaven above and in earth below, which they were appropriating by their presence. And then the red faces made their way through the black biting frost to their own homes, feeling themselves free for the rest of the day to eat, drink, and be merry, and using that Christian freedom without diffidence. At Squire Cass’s family party that day nobody mentioned Dunstan—nobody was sorry for his absence, or feared it would be too long.

The doctor and his wife, uncle and aunt Kimble, were there, and the annual Christmas talk was carried through without any omissions, rising to the climax of Mr. Kimble’s experience when he walked the London hospitals thirty years back, together with striking professional anecdotes then gathered. Whereupon cards followed, with aunt Kimble’s annual failure to follow suit, and uncle Kimble’s irascibility concerning the odd trick which was rarely explicable to him, when it was not on his side, without a general visitation of tricks to see that they were formed on sound principles: the whole being accompanied by a strong steaming odour of spirits-and-water. But the party on Christmas-day, being a strictly family party, was not the pre-eminently brilliant celebration of the season at the Red House.

It was the great dance on New Year’s Eve that made the glory of Squire Cass’s hospitality, as of his forefathers,’ time out of mind. This was the occasion when all the society of Raveloe and Tarley, whether old acquaintances separated by long rutty distances, or cooled acquaintances separated by misunderstandings concerning runaway calves, or acquaintances founded on intermittent condescension, counted on meeting and on comporting themselves with mutual appropriateness. This was the occasion on which fair dames who came on pillions sent their bandboxes before them, supplied with more than their evening costume; for the feast was not to end with a single evening, like a paltry town entertainment, where the whole supply of eatables is put on the table at once, and bedding is scanty. The Red House was provisioned as if for a siege; and as for the spare feather-beds ready to be laid on floors, they were as plentiful as might naturally be expected in a family that had killed its own geese for many generations.

Godfrey Cass was looking forward to this New Year’s Eve with a foolish reckless longing, that made him half deaf to his importunate companion, Anxiety. “Dunsey will be coming home soon: there will be a great blow-up, and how will you bribe his spite to silence?” said Anxiety. “Oh, he won’t come home before New Year’s Eve, perhaps,” said Godfrey; “and I shall sit by Nancy then, and dance with her, and get a kind look from her in spite of herself.” “But money is wanted in another quarter,” said Anxiety, in a louder voice, “and how will you get it without selling your mother’s diamond pin? And if you don’t get it...?” “Well, but something may happen to make things easier.

At any rate, there’s one pleasure for me close at hand: Nancy is coming.” “Yes, and suppose your father should bring matters to a pass that will oblige you to decline marrying her—and to give your reasons?” “Hold your tongue, and don’t worry me. I can see Nancy’s eyes, just as they will look at me, and feel her hand in mine already.”

But Anxiety went on, though in noisy Christmas company; refusing to be utterly quieted even by much drinking.
CHAPTER XI.

Some women, I grant, would not appear to advantage seated on a pillion, and attired in a drab joseph and a drab beaver-bonnet, with a crown resembling a small stew-pan; for a garment suggesting a coachman’s greatcoat, cut out under an exiguity of cloth that would only allow of miniature capes, is not well adapted to conceal deficiencies of contour, nor is drab a colour that will throw sallow cheeks into lively contrast. It was all the greater triumph to Miss Nancy Lammeter’s beauty that she looked thoroughly bewitching in that costume, as, seated on the pillion behind her tall, erect father, she held one arm round him, and looked down, with open-eyed anxiety, at the treacherous snow-covered pools and puddles, which sent up formidable splashings of mud under the stamp of Dobbin’s foot. A painter would, perhaps, have preferred her in those moments when she was free from self-consciousness; but certainly the bloom on her cheeks was at its highest point of contrast with the surrounding drab when she arrived at the door of the Red House, and saw Mr. Godfrey Cass ready to lift her from the pillion.

She wished her sister Priscilla had come up at the same time behind the servant, for then she would have contrived that Mr. Godfrey should have lifted off Priscilla first, and, in the meantime, she would have persuaded her father to go round to the horse-block instead of alighting at the door-steps. It was very painful, when you had made it quite clear to a young man that you were determined not to marry him, however much he might wish it, that he would still continue to pay you marked attentions; besides, why didn’t he always show the same attentions, if he meant them sincerely, instead of being so strange as Mr. Godfrey Cass was, sometimes behaving as if he didn’t want to speak to her, and taking no notice of her for weeks and weeks, and then, all on a sudden, almost making love again? Moreover, it was quite plain he had no real love for her, else he would not let people have _that_ to say of him which they did say. Did he suppose that Miss Nancy Lammeter was to be won by any man, squire or no squire, who led a bad life?

That was not what she had been used to see in her own father, who was the soberest and best man in that country-side, only a little hot and hasty now and then, if things were not done to the minute. All these thoughts rushed through Miss Nancy’s mind, in their habitual succession, in the moments between her first sight of Mr. Godfrey Cass standing at the door and her own arrival there. Happily, the Squire came out too and gave a loud greeting to her father, so that, somehow, under cover of this noise she seemed to find concealment for her confusion and neglect of any suitably formal behaviour, while she was being lifted from the pillion by strong arms which seemed to find her ridiculously small and light. And there was the best reason for hastening into the house at once, since the snow was beginning to fall again, threatening an unpleasant journey for such guests as were still on the road. These were a small minority; for already the afternoon was beginning to decline, and there would not be too much time for the ladies who came from a distance to attire themselves in readiness for the early tea which was to inspirit them for the dance.

There was a buzz of voices through the house, as Miss Nancy entered, mingled with the scrape of a fiddle preluding in the kitchen; but the Lammeters were guests whose arrival had evidently been thought of so much that it had been watched for from the windows, for Mrs. Kimble, who did the honours at the Red House on these great occasions, came forward to meet Miss Nancy in the hall, and conduct her up-stairs. Mrs.
Kimble was the Squire’s sister, as well as the doctor’s wife—a double dignity, with which her diameter was in direct proportion; so that, a journey up-stairs being rather fatiguing to her, she did not oppose Miss Nancy’s request to be allowed to find her way alone to the Blue Room, where the Miss Lammeters’ bandboxes had been deposited on their arrival in the morning. There was hardly a bedroom in the house where feminine compliments were not passing and feminine toilettes going forward, in various stages, in space made scanty by extra beds spread upon the floor; and Miss Nancy, as she entered the Blue Room, had to make her little formal curtsy to a group of six.

On the one hand, there were ladies no less important than the two Miss Gunns, the wine merchant’s daughters from Lytherly, dressed in the height of fashion, with the tightest skirts and the shortest waists, and gazed at by Miss Ladbrook (of the Old Pastures) with a shyness not unsustained by inward criticism. Partly, Miss Ladbrook felt that her own skirt must be regarded as unduly lax by the Miss Gunns, and partly, that it was a pity the Miss Gunns did not show that judgment which she herself would show if she were in their place, by stopping a little on this side of the fashion. On the other hand, Mrs. Ladbrook was standing in skull-cap and front, with her turban in her hand, curtsying and smiling blandly and saying, “After you, ma’am,” to another lady in similar circumstances, who had politely offered the precedence at the looking-glass. But Miss Nancy had no sooner made her curtsy than an elderly lady came forward, whose full white muslin kerchief, and mob-cap round her curls of smooth grey hair, were in daring contrast with the puffed yellow satins and top-knotted caps of her neighbours.

She approached Miss Nancy with much primness, and said, with a slow, treble suavity— “Niece, I hope I see you well in health.” Miss Nancy kissed her aunt’s cheek dutifully, and answered, with the same sort of amiable primness, “Quite well, I thank you, aunt; and I hope I see you the same.” “Thank you, niece; I keep my health for the present. And how is my brother-in-law?”

These dutiful questions and answers were continued until it was ascertained in detail that the Lammeters were all as well as usual, and the Osgoods likewise, also that niece Priscilla must certainly arrive shortly, and that travelling on pillions in snowy weather was unpleasant, though a joseph was a great protection.

Then Nancy was formally introduced to her aunt’s visitors, the Miss Gunns, as being the daughters of a mother known to _their_ mother, though now for the first time induced to make a journey into these parts; and these ladies were so taken by surprise at finding such a lovely face and figure in an out-of-the-way country place, that they began to feel some curiosity about the dress she would put on when she took off her joseph. Miss Nancy, whose thoughts were always conducted with the propriety and moderation conspicuous in her manners, remarked to herself that the Miss Gunns were rather hard-featured than otherwise, and that such very low dresses as they wore might have been attributed to vanity if their shoulders had been pretty, but that, being as they were, it was not reasonable to suppose that they showed their necks from a love of display, but rather from some obligation not inconsistent with sense and modesty. She felt convinced, as she opened her box, that this must be her aunt Osgood’s opinion, for Miss Nancy’s mind resembled her aunt’s to a degree that everybody said was surprising, considering the kinship was on Mr. Osgood’s side; and though you might not have supposed it from the formality of their greeting, there was a devoted attachment and mutual admiration between aunt and niece. Even Miss Nancy’s refusal of her cousin Gilbert Osgood (on the ground solely that he was her cousin), though it had grieved her aunt greatly, had not in the least cooled the preference which had determined her to leave Nancy several of her hereditary ornaments, let Gilbert’s future wife be whom she might. Three of the ladies quickly retired, but the Miss Gunns were quite content that Mrs. Osgood’s inclination to remain with her niece gave them also a reason for staying to see the rustic beauty’s toilette.

And it was really a pleasure—from the first opening of the bandbox, where everything smelt of lavender and rose-leaves, to the clasping of the small coral necklace that fitted closely round her little white neck. Everything belonging to Miss Nancy was of delicate purity and nattiness: not a crease was where it had no business to be, not a bit of her linen professed whiteness without fulfilling its profession; the very pins on her pincushion were stuck in after a pattern from which she was careful to allow no aberration; and as for her own person, it gave the same idea of perfect unvarying neatness as the body of a little bird. It is true that her light-brown hair was cropped behind like a boy’s, and was dressed in front in a number of flat rings, that lay quite away from her face; but there was no sort of coiffure that could make Miss Nancy’s cheek and neck look otherwise than pretty; and when at last she stood complete in her silvery twilled silk, her lace tucker, her coral necklace, and coral ear-drops, the Miss Gunns could see nothing to criticise except her hands, which bore the traces of butter-making, cheese-crushing, and even still coarser work. But Miss Nancy was not ashamed of that, for even while she was dressing she narrated to her aunt how she and Priscilla had packed their boxes yesterday, because this morning was baking morning, and since they were leaving home, it was desirable to make a good supply of meat-pies for the kitchen; and as she concluded this judicious remark, she turned to the Miss Gunns that she might not commit the rudeness of not including them in the conversation.

The Miss Gunns smiled stiffly, and thought what a pity it was that these rich country people, who could afford to buy such good clothes (really Miss Nancy’s lace and silk were very costly), should be brought up in utter ignorance and vulgarity. She actually said “mate” for “meat,” “’appen” for “perhaps,” and “oss” for “horse,” which, to young ladies living in good Lytherly society, who habitually said ’orse, even in domestic privacy, and only said ’appen on the right occasions, was necessarily shocking. Miss Nancy, indeed, had never been to any school higher than Dame Tedman’s: her acquaintance with profane literature hardly went beyond the rhymes she had worked in her large sampler under the lamb and the shepherdess; and in order to balance an account, she was obliged to effect her subtraction by removing visible metallic shillings and sixpences from a visible metallic total. There is hardly a servant-maid in these days who is not better informed than Miss Nancy; yet she had the essential attributes of a lady—high veracity, delicate honour in her dealings, deference to others, and refined personal habits,—and lest these should not suffice to convince grammatical fair ones that her feelings can at all resemble theirs, I will add that she was slightly proud and exacting, and as constant in her affection towards a baseless opinion as towards an erring lover. The anxiety about sister Priscilla, which had grown rather active by the time the coral necklace was clasped, was happily ended by the entrance of that cheerful-looking lady herself, with a face made blowsy by cold and damp.

After the first questions and greetings, she turned to Nancy, and surveyed her from head to foot—then wheeled her round, to ascertain that the back view was equally faultless. “What do you think o’ _these_ gowns, aunt Osgood?” said Priscilla, while Nancy helped her to unrobe. “Very handsome indeed, niece,” said Mrs. Osgood, with a slight increase of formality.

She always thought niece Priscilla too rough. “I’m obliged to have the same as Nancy, you know, for all I’m five years older, and it makes me look yallow; for she never _will_ have anything without I have mine just like it, because she wants us to look like sisters. And I tell her, folks ’ull think it’s my weakness makes me fancy as I shall look pretty in what she looks pretty in.

For I _am_ ugly—there’s no denying that: I feature my father’s family. But, law!

I don’t mind, do you?” Priscilla here turned to the Miss Gunns, rattling on in too much preoccupation with the delight of talking, to notice that her candour was not appreciated. “The pretty uns do for fly-catchers—they keep the men off us. I’ve no opinion o’ the men, Miss Gunn—I don’t know what _you_ have.

And as for fretting and stewing about what _they_’ll think of you from morning till night, and making your life uneasy about what they’re doing when they’re out o’ your sight—as I tell Nancy, it’s a folly no woman need be guilty of, if she’s got a good father and a good home: let her leave it to them as have got no fortin, and can’t help themselves. As I say, Mr.
Have-your-own-way is the best husband, and the only one I’d ever promise to obey. I know it isn’t pleasant, when you’ve been used to living in a big way, and managing hogsheads and all that, to go and put your nose in by somebody else’s fireside, or to sit down by yourself to a scrag or a knuckle; but, thank God!

my father’s a sober man and likely to live; and if you’ve got a man by the chimney-corner, it doesn’t matter if he’s childish—the business needn’t be broke up.” The delicate process of getting her narrow gown over her head without injury to her smooth curls, obliged Miss Priscilla to pause in this rapid survey of life, and Mrs. Osgood seized the opportunity of rising and saying— “Well, niece, you’ll follow us. The Miss Gunns will like to go down.” “Sister,” said Nancy, when they were alone, “you’ve offended the Miss Gunns, I’m sure.” “What have I done, child?” said Priscilla, in some alarm.

“Why, you asked them if they minded about being ugly—you’re so very blunt.”

“Law, did I? Well, it popped out: it’s a mercy I said no more, for I’m a bad un to live with folks when they don’t like the truth. But as for being ugly, look at me, child, in this silver-coloured silk—I told you how it ’ud be—I look as yallow as a daffadil.

Anybody ’ud say you wanted to make a mawkin of me.” “No, Priscy, don’t say so. I begged and prayed of you not to let us have this silk if you’d like another better. I was willing to have _your_ choice, you know I was,” said Nancy, in anxious self-vindication.

“Nonsense, child!

you know you’d set your heart on this; and reason good, for you’re the colour o’ cream. It ’ud be fine doings for you to dress yourself to suit _my_ skin. What I find fault with, is that notion o’ yours as I must dress myself just like you. But you do as you like with me—you always did, from when first you begun to walk.

If you wanted to go the field’s length, the field’s length you’d go; and there was no whipping you, for you looked as prim and innicent as a daisy all the while.” “Priscy,” said Nancy, gently, as she fastened a coral necklace, exactly like her own, round Priscilla’s neck, which was very far from being like her own, “I’m sure I’m willing to give way as far as is right, but who shouldn’t dress alike if it isn’t sisters? Would you have us go about looking as if we were no kin to one another—us that have got no mother and not another sister in the world? I’d do what was right, if I dressed in a gown dyed with cheese-colouring; and I’d rather you’d choose, and let me wear what pleases you.” “There you go again!

You’d come round to the same thing if one talked to you from Saturday night till Saturday morning. It’ll be fine fun to see how you’ll master your husband and never raise your voice above the singing o’ the kettle all the while. I like to see the men mastered!” “Don’t talk _so_, Priscy,” said Nancy, blushing.

“You know I don’t mean ever to be married.” “Oh, you never mean a fiddlestick’s end!” said Priscilla, as she arranged her discarded dress, and closed her bandbox. “Who shall _I_ have to work for when father’s gone, if you are to go and take notions in your head and be an old maid, because some folks are no better than they should be?

I haven’t a bit o’ patience with you—sitting on an addled egg for ever, as if there was never a fresh un in the world. One old maid’s enough out o’ two sisters; and I shall do credit to a single life, for God A’mighty meant me for it. Come, we can go down now. I’m as ready as a mawkin _can_ be—there’s nothing awanting to frighten the crows, now I’ve got my ear-droppers in.”

As the two Miss Lammeters walked into the large parlour together, any one who did not know the character of both might certainly have supposed that the reason why the square-shouldered, clumsy, high-featured Priscilla wore a dress the facsimile of her pretty sister’s, was either the mistaken vanity of the one, or the malicious contrivance of the other in order to set off her own rare beauty. But the good-natured self-forgetful cheeriness and common-sense of Priscilla would soon have dissipated the one suspicion; and the modest calm of Nancy’s speech and manners told clearly of a mind free from all disavowed devices.

Places of honour had been kept for the Miss Lammeters near the head of the principal tea-table in the wainscoted parlour, now looking fresh and pleasant with handsome branches of holly, yew, and laurel, from the abundant growths of the old garden; and Nancy felt an inward flutter, that no firmness of purpose could prevent, when she saw Mr. Godfrey Cass advancing to lead her to a seat between himself and Mr.
Crackenthorp, while Priscilla was called to the opposite side between her father and the Squire. It certainly did make some difference to Nancy that the lover she had given up was the young man of quite the highest consequence in the parish—at home in a venerable and unique parlour, which was the extremity of grandeur in her experience, a parlour where _she_ might one day have been mistress, with the consciousness that she was spoken of as “Madam Cass,” the Squire’s wife. These circumstances exalted her inward drama in her own eyes, and deepened the emphasis with which she declared to herself that not the most dazzling rank should induce her to marry a man whose conduct showed him careless of his character, but that, “love once, love always,” was the motto of a true and pure woman, and no man should ever have any right over her which would be a call on her to destroy the dried flowers that she treasured, and always would treasure, for Godfrey Cass’s sake. And Nancy was capable of keeping her word to herself under very trying conditions.

Nothing but a becoming blush betrayed the moving thoughts that urged themselves upon her as she accepted the seat next to Mr. Crackenthorp; for she was so instinctively neat and adroit in all her actions, and her pretty lips met each other with such quiet firmness, that it would have been difficult for her to appear agitated. It was not the rector’s practice to let a charming blush pass without an appropriate compliment. He was not in the least lofty or aristocratic, but simply a merry-eyed, small-featured, grey-haired man, with his chin propped by an ample, many-creased white neckcloth which seemed to predominate over every other point in his person, and somehow to impress its peculiar character on his remarks; so that to have considered his amenities apart from his cravat would have been a severe, and perhaps a dangerous, effort of abstraction. “Ha, Miss Nancy,” he said, turning his head within his cravat and smiling down pleasantly upon her, “when anybody pretends this has been a severe winter, I shall tell them I saw the roses blooming on New Year’s Eve—eh, Godfrey, what do _you_ say?”

Godfrey made no reply, and avoided looking at Nancy very markedly; for though these complimentary personalities were held to be in excellent taste in old-fashioned Raveloe society, reverent love has a politeness of its own which it teaches to men otherwise of small schooling.

But the Squire was rather impatient at Godfrey’s showing himself a dull spark in this way.

By this advanced hour of the day, the Squire was always in higher spirits than we have seen him in at the breakfast-table, and felt it quite pleasant to fulfil the hereditary duty of being noisily jovial and patronizing: the large silver snuff-box was in active service and was offered without fail to all neighbours from time to time, however often they might have declined the favour. At present, the Squire had only given an express welcome to the heads of families as they appeared; but always as the evening deepened, his hospitality rayed out more widely, till he had tapped the youngest guests on the back and shown a peculiar fondness for their presence, in the full belief that they must feel their lives made happy by their belonging to a parish where there was such a hearty man as Squire Cass to invite them and wish them well. Even in this early stage of the jovial mood, it was natural that he should wish to supply his son’s deficiencies by looking and speaking for him. “Aye, aye,” he began, offering his snuff-box to Mr. Lammeter, who for the second time bowed his head and waved his hand in stiff rejection of the offer, “us old fellows may wish ourselves young to-night, when we see the mistletoe-bough in the White Parlour. It’s true, most things are gone back’ard in these last thirty years—the country’s going down since the old king fell ill.

But when I look at Miss Nancy here, I begin to think the lasses keep up their quality;—ding me if I remember a sample to match her, not when I was a fine young fellow, and thought a deal about my pigtail.

No offence to you, madam,” he added, bending to Mrs. Crackenthorp, who sat by him, “I didn’t know _you_ when you were as young as Miss Nancy here.” Mrs. Crackenthorp—a small blinking woman, who fidgeted incessantly with her lace, ribbons, and gold chain, turning her head about and making subdued noises, very much like a guinea-pig that twitches its nose and soliloquizes in all company indiscriminately—now blinked and fidgeted towards the Squire, and said, “Oh, no—no offence.” This emphatic compliment of the Squire’s to Nancy was felt by others besides Godfrey to have a diplomatic significance; and her father gave a slight additional erectness to his back, as he looked across the table at her with complacent gravity.

That grave and orderly senior was not going to bate a jot of his dignity by seeming elated at the notion of a match between his family and the Squire’s: he was gratified by any honour paid to his daughter; but he must see an alteration in several ways before his consent would be vouchsafed. His spare but healthy person, and high-featured firm face, that looked as if it had never been flushed by excess, was in strong contrast, not only with the Squire’s, but with the appearance of the Raveloe farmers generally—in accordance with a favourite saying of his own, that “breed was stronger than pasture”. “Miss Nancy’s wonderful like what her mother was, though; isn’t she, Kimble?” said the stout lady of that name, looking round for her husband.

But Doctor Kimble (country apothecaries in old days enjoyed that title without authority of diploma), being a thin and agile man, was flitting about the room with his hands in his pockets, making himself agreeable to his feminine patients, with medical impartiality, and being welcomed everywhere as a doctor by hereditary right—not one of those miserable apothecaries who canvass for practice in strange neighbourhoods, and spend all their income in starving their one horse, but a man of substance, able to keep an extravagant table like the best of his patients.

Time out of mind the Raveloe doctor had been a Kimble; Kimble was inherently a doctor’s name; and it was difficult to contemplate firmly the melancholy fact that the actual Kimble had no son, so that his practice might one day be handed over to a successor with the incongruous name of Taylor or Johnson. But in that case the wiser people in Raveloe would employ Dr. Blick of Flitton—as less unnatural.

“Did you speak to me, my dear?” said the authentic doctor, coming quickly to his wife’s side; but, as if foreseeing that she would be too much out of breath to repeat her remark, he went on immediately—“Ha, Miss Priscilla, the sight of you revives the taste of that super-excellent pork-pie. I hope the batch isn’t near an end.” “Yes, indeed, it is, doctor,” said Priscilla; “but I’ll answer for it the next shall be as good. My pork-pies don’t turn out well by chance.”

“Not as your doctoring does, eh, Kimble?—because folks forget to take your physic, eh?” said the Squire, who regarded physic and doctors as many loyal churchmen regard the church and the clergy—tasting a joke against them when he was in health, but impatiently eager for their aid when anything was the matter with him. He tapped his box, and looked round with a triumphant laugh. “Ah, she has a quick wit, my friend Priscilla has,” said the doctor, choosing to attribute the epigram to a lady rather than allow a brother-in-law that advantage over him. “She saves a little pepper to sprinkle over her talk—that’s the reason why she never puts too much into her pies.

There’s my wife now, she never has an answer at her tongue’s end; but if I offend her, she’s sure to scarify my throat with black pepper the next day, or else give me the colic with watery greens. That’s an awful tit-for-tat.”

Here the vivacious doctor made a pathetic grimace. “Did you ever hear the like?” said Mrs. Kimble, laughing above her double chin with much good-humour, aside to Mrs. Crackenthorp, who blinked and nodded, and seemed to intend a smile, which, by the correlation of forces, went off in small twitchings and noises. “I suppose that’s the sort of tit-for-tat adopted in your profession, Kimble, if you’ve a grudge against a patient,” said the rector.
“Never do have a grudge against our patients,” said Mr. Kimble, “except when they leave us: and then, you see, we haven’t the chance of prescribing for ’em.

Ha, Miss Nancy,” he continued, suddenly skipping to Nancy’s side, “you won’t forget your promise? You’re to save a dance for me, you know.” “Come, come, Kimble, don’t you be too for’ard,” said the Squire. “Give the young uns fair-play.

There’s my son Godfrey’ll be wanting to have a round with you if you run off with Miss Nancy. He’s bespoke her for the first dance, I’ll be bound. Eh, sir!

what do you say?”

he continued, throwing himself backward, and looking at Godfrey. “Haven’t you asked Miss Nancy to open the dance with you?” Godfrey, sorely uncomfortable under this significant insistence about Nancy, and afraid to think where it would end by the time his father had set his usual hospitable example of drinking before and after supper, saw no course open but to turn to Nancy and say, with as little awkwardness as possible— “No; I’ve not asked her yet, but I hope she’ll consent—if somebody else hasn’t been before me.” “No, I’ve not engaged myself,” said Nancy, quietly, though blushingly.

(If Mr. Godfrey founded any hopes on her consenting to dance with him, he would soon be undeceived; but there was no need for her to be uncivil.) “Then I hope you’ve no objections to dancing with me,” said Godfrey, beginning to lose the sense that there was anything uncomfortable in this arrangement. “No, no objections,” said Nancy, in a cold tone.

“Ah, well, you’re a lucky fellow, Godfrey,” said uncle Kimble; “but you’re my godson, so I won’t stand in your way. Else I’m not so very old, eh, my dear?” he went on, skipping to his wife’s side again.

“You wouldn’t mind my having a second after you were gone—not if I cried a good deal first?” “Come, come, take a cup o’ tea and stop your tongue, do,” said good-humoured Mrs. Kimble, feeling some pride in a husband who must be regarded as so clever and amusing by the company generally. If he had only not been irritable at cards! While safe, well-tested personalities were enlivening the tea in this way, the sound of the fiddle approaching within a distance at which it could be heard distinctly, made the young people look at each other with sympathetic impatience for the end of the meal.

“Why, there’s Solomon in the hall,” said the Squire, “and playing my fav’rite tune, _I_ believe—‘The flaxen-headed ploughboy’—he’s for giving us a hint as we aren’t enough in a hurry to hear him play. Bob,” he called out to his third long-legged son, who was at the other end of the room, “open the door, and tell Solomon to come in. He shall give us a tune here.” Bob obeyed, and Solomon walked in, fiddling as he walked, for he would on no account break off in the middle of a tune.

“Here, Solomon,” said the Squire, with loud patronage. “Round here, my man.

Ah, I knew it was ‘The flaxen-headed ploughboy’: there’s no finer tune.” Solomon Macey, a small hale old man with an abundant crop of long white hair reaching nearly to his shoulders, advanced to the indicated spot, bowing reverently while he fiddled, as much as to say that he respected the company, though he respected the key-note more. As soon as he had repeated the tune and lowered his fiddle, he bowed again to the Squire and the rector, and said, “I hope I see your honour and your reverence well, and wishing you health and long life and a happy New Year. And wishing the same to you, Mr. Lammeter, sir; and to the other gentlemen, and the madams, and the young lasses.”

As Solomon uttered the last words, he bowed in all directions solicitously, lest he should be wanting in due respect. But thereupon he immediately began to prelude, and fell into the tune which he knew would be taken as a special compliment by Mr. Lammeter.

“Thank ye, Solomon, thank ye,” said Mr. Lammeter when the fiddle paused again. “That’s ‘Over the hills and far away,’ that is. My father used to say to me, whenever we heard that tune, ‘Ah, lad, _I_ come from over the hills and far away.’

There’s a many tunes I don’t make head or tail of; but that speaks to me like the blackbird’s whistle. I suppose it’s the name: there’s a deal in the name of a tune.” But Solomon was already impatient to prelude again, and presently broke with much spirit into “Sir Roger de Coverley,” at which there was a sound of chairs pushed back, and laughing voices.

“Aye, aye, Solomon, we know what that means,” said the Squire, rising. “It’s time to begin the dance, eh? Lead the way, then, and we’ll all follow you.” So Solomon, holding his white head on one side, and playing vigorously, marched forward at the head of the gay procession into the White Parlour, where the mistletoe-bough was hung, and multitudinous tallow candles made rather a brilliant effect, gleaming from among the berried holly-boughs, and reflected in the old-fashioned oval mirrors fastened in the panels of the white wainscot.

A quaint procession!

Old Solomon, in his seedy clothes and long white locks, seemed to be luring that decent company by the magic scream of his fiddle—luring discreet matrons in turban-shaped caps, nay, Mrs. Crackenthorp herself, the summit of whose perpendicular feather was on a level with the Squire’s shoulder—luring fair lasses complacently conscious of very short waists and skirts blameless of front-folds—luring burly fathers in large variegated waistcoats, and ruddy sons, for the most part shy and sheepish, in short nether garments and very long coat-tails. Already Mr. Macey and a few other privileged villagers, who were allowed to be spectators on these great occasions, were seated on benches placed for them near the door; and great was the admiration and satisfaction in that quarter when the couples had formed themselves for the dance, and the Squire led off with Mrs. Crackenthorp, joining hands with the rector and Mrs. Osgood. That was as it should be—that was what everybody had been used to—and the charter of Raveloe seemed to be renewed by the ceremony. It was not thought of as an unbecoming levity for the old and middle-aged people to dance a little before sitting down to cards, but rather as part of their social duties.

For what were these if not to be merry at appropriate times, interchanging visits and poultry with due frequency, paying each other old-established compliments in sound traditional phrases, passing well-tried personal jokes, urging your guests to eat and drink too much out of hospitality, and eating and drinking too much in your neighbour’s house to show that you liked your cheer? And the parson naturally set an example in these social duties. For it would not have been possible for the Raveloe mind, without a peculiar revelation, to know that a clergyman should be a pale-faced memento of solemnities, instead of a reasonably faulty man whose exclusive authority to read prayers and preach, to christen, marry, and bury you, necessarily coexisted with the right to sell you the ground to be buried in and to take tithe in kind; on which last point, of course, there was a little grumbling, but not to the extent of irreligion—not of deeper significance than the grumbling at the rain, which was by no means accompanied with a spirit of impious defiance, but with a desire that the prayer for fine weather might be read forthwith. There was no reason, then, why the rector’s dancing should not be received as part of the fitness of things quite as much as the Squire’s, or why, on the other hand, Mr. Macey’s official respect should restrain him from subjecting the parson’s performance to that criticism with which minds of extraordinary acuteness must necessarily contemplate the doings of their fallible fellow-men.

“The Squire’s pretty springe, considering his weight,” said Mr. Macey, “and he stamps uncommon well. But Mr. Lammeter beats ’em all for shapes: you see he holds his head like a sodger, and he isn’t so cushiony as most o’ the oldish gentlefolks—they run fat in general; and he’s got a fine leg.

The parson’s nimble enough, but he hasn’t got much of a leg: it’s a bit too thick down’ard, and his knees might be a bit nearer wi’out damage; but he might do worse, he might do worse. Though he hasn’t that grand way o’ waving his hand as the Squire has.”

“Talk o’ nimbleness, look at Mrs. Osgood,” said Ben Winthrop, who was holding his son Aaron between his knees.

“She trips along with her little steps, so as nobody can see how she goes—it’s like as if she had little wheels to her feet. She doesn’t look a day older nor last year: she’s the finest-made woman as is, let the next be where she will.” “I don’t heed how the women are made,” said Mr. Macey, with some contempt. “They wear nayther coat nor breeches: you can’t make much out o’ their shapes.” “Fayder,” said Aaron, whose feet were busy beating out the tune, “how does that big cock’s-feather stick in Mrs. Crackenthorp’s yead?

Is there a little hole for it, like in my shuttle-cock?”

“Hush, lad, hush; that’s the way the ladies dress theirselves, that is,” said the father, adding, however, in an undertone to Mr. Macey, “It does make her look funny, though—partly like a short-necked bottle wi’ a long quill in it. Hey, by jingo, there’s the young Squire leading off now, wi’ Miss Nancy for partners! There’s a lass for you!—like a pink-and-white posy—there’s nobody ’ud think as anybody could be so pritty. I shouldn’t wonder if she’s Madam Cass some day, arter all—and nobody more rightfuller, for they’d make a fine match. You can find nothing against Master Godfrey’s shapes, Macey, _I_’ll bet a penny.”

Mr. Macey screwed up his mouth, leaned his head further on one side, and twirled his thumbs with a presto movement as his eyes followed Godfrey up the dance. At last he summed up his opinion. “Pretty well down’ard, but a bit too round

i’ the shoulder-blades.

And as for them coats as he gets from the Flitton tailor, they’re a poor cut to pay double money for.” “Ah, Mr. Macey, you and me are two folks,” said Ben, slightly indignant at this carping. “When I’ve got a pot o’ good ale, I like to swaller it, and do my inside good, i’stead o’ smelling and staring at it to see if I can’t find faut wi’ the brewing. I should like you to pick me out a finer-limbed young fellow nor Master Godfrey—one as ’ud knock you down easier, or ’s more pleasanter-looksed when he’s piert and merry.”

“Tchuh!” said Mr. Macey, provoked to increased severity, “he isn’t come to his right colour yet: he’s partly like a slack-baked pie. And I doubt he’s got a soft place in his head, else why should he be turned round the finger by that offal Dunsey as nobody’s seen o’ late, and let him kill that fine hunting hoss as was the talk o’ the country? And one while he was allays after Miss Nancy, and then it all went off again, like a smell o’ hot porridge, as I may say.

That wasn’t my way when _I_ went a-coorting.” “Ah, but mayhap Miss Nancy hung off, like, and your lass didn’t,” said Ben. “I should say she didn’t,” said Mr. Macey, significantly. “Before I said ‘sniff,’ I took care to know as she’d say ‘snaff,’ and pretty quick too.

I wasn’t a-going to open _my_ mouth, like a dog at a fly, and snap it to again, wi’ nothing to swaller.” “Well, I think Miss Nancy’s a-coming round again,” said Ben, “for Master Godfrey doesn’t look so down-hearted to-night. And I see he’s for taking her away to sit down, now they’re at the end o’ the dance: that looks like sweethearting, that does.” The reason why Godfrey and Nancy had left the dance was not so tender as Ben imagined. In the close press of couples a slight accident had happened to Nancy’s dress, which, while it was short enough to show her neat ankle in front, was long enough behind to be caught under the stately stamp of the Squire’s foot, so as to rend certain stitches at the waist, and cause much sisterly agitation in Priscilla’s mind, as well as serious concern in Nancy’s.

One’s thoughts may be much occupied with love-struggles, but hardly so as to be insensible to a disorder in the general framework of things. Nancy had no sooner completed her duty in the figure they were dancing than she said to Godfrey, with a deep blush, that she must go and sit down till Priscilla could come to her; for the sisters had already exchanged a short whisper and an open-eyed glance full of meaning. No reason less urgent than this could have prevailed on Nancy to give Godfrey this opportunity of sitting apart with her. As for Godfrey, he was feeling so happy and oblivious under the long charm of the country-dance with Nancy, that he got rather bold on the strength of her confusion, and was capable of leading her straight away, without leave asked, into the adjoining small parlour, where the card-tables were set.

“Oh no, thank you,” said Nancy, coldly, as soon as she perceived where he was going, “not in there. I’ll wait here till Priscilla’s ready to come to me. I’m sorry to bring you out of the dance and make myself troublesome.” “Why, you’ll be more comfortable here by yourself,” said the artful Godfrey: “I’ll leave you here till your sister can come.” He spoke in an indifferent tone.

That was an agreeable proposition, and just what Nancy desired; why, then, was she a little hurt that Mr. Godfrey should make it?

They entered, and she seated herself on a chair against one of the card-tables, as the stiffest and most unapproachable position she could choose. “Thank you, sir,” she said immediately. “I needn’t give you any more trouble.

I’m sorry you’ve had such an unlucky partner.” “That’s very ill-natured of you,” said Godfrey, standing by her without any sign of intended departure, “to be sorry you’ve danced with me.” “Oh, no, sir, I don’t mean to say what’s ill-natured at all,” said Nancy, looking distractingly prim and pretty.

“When gentlemen have so many pleasures, one dance can matter but very little.” “You know that isn’t true. You know one dance with you matters more to me than all the other pleasures in the world.” It was a long, long while since Godfrey had said anything so direct as that, and Nancy was startled.

But her instinctive dignity and repugnance to any show of emotion made her sit perfectly still, and only throw a little more decision into her voice, as she said— “No, indeed, Mr. Godfrey, that’s not known to me, and I have very good reasons for thinking different.

But if it’s true, I don’t wish to hear it.”

“Would you never forgive me, then, Nancy—never think well of me, let what would happen—would you never think the present made amends for the past?

Not if I turned a good fellow, and gave up everything you didn’t like?” Godfrey was half conscious that this sudden opportunity of speaking to Nancy alone had driven him beside himself; but blind feeling had got the mastery of his tongue. Nancy really felt much agitated by the possibility Godfrey’s words suggested, but this very pressure of emotion that she was in danger of finding too strong for her roused all her power of self-command. “I should be glad to see a good change in anybody, Mr. Godfrey,” she answered, with the slightest discernible difference of tone, “but it ’ud be better if no change was wanted.” “You’re very hard-hearted, Nancy,” said Godfrey, pettishly.

“You might encourage me to be a better fellow. I’m very miserable—but you’ve no feeling.” “I think those have the least feeling that act wrong to begin with,” said Nancy, sending out a flash in spite of herself. Godfrey was delighted with that little flash, and would have liked to go on and make her quarrel with him; Nancy was so exasperatingly quiet and firm.

But she was not indifferent to him _yet_, though— The entrance of Priscilla, bustling forward and saying, “Dear heart alive, child, let us look at this gown,” cut off Godfrey’s hopes of a quarrel.

“I suppose I must go now,” he said to Priscilla. “It’s no matter to me whether you go or stay,” said that frank lady, searching for something in her pocket, with a preoccupied brow. “Do _you_ want me to go?” said Godfrey, looking at Nancy, who was now standing up by Priscilla’s order. “As you like,” said Nancy, trying to recover all her former coldness, and looking down carefully at the hem of her gown.

“Then I like to stay,” said Godfrey, with a reckless determination to get as much of this joy as he could to-night, and think nothing of the morrow. CHAPTER XII.

While Godfrey Cass was taking draughts of forgetfulness from the sweet presence of Nancy, willingly losing all sense of that hidden bond which at other moments galled and fretted him so as to mingle irritation with the very sunshine, Godfrey’s wife was walking with slow uncertain steps through the snow-covered Raveloe lanes, carrying her child in her arms. This journey on New Year’s Eve was a premeditated act of vengeance which she had kept in her heart ever since Godfrey, in a fit of passion, had told her he would sooner die than acknowledge her as his wife. There would be a great party at the Red House on New Year’s Eve, she knew: her husband would be smiling and smiled upon, hiding _her_ existence in the darkest corner of his heart. But she would mar his pleasure: she would go in her dingy rags, with her faded face, once as handsome as the best, with her little child that had its father’s hair and eyes, and disclose herself to the Squire as his eldest son’s wife.

It is seldom that the miserable can help regarding their misery as a wrong inflicted by those who are less miserable. Molly knew that the cause of her dingy rags was not her husband’s neglect, but the demon Opium to whom she was enslaved, body and soul, except in the lingering mother’s tenderness that refused to give him her hungry child. She knew this well; and yet, in the moments of wretched unbenumbed consciousness, the sense of her want and degradation transformed itself continually into bitterness towards Godfrey. _ He_ was well off; and if she had her rights she would be well off too. The belief that he repented his marriage, and suffered from it, only aggravated her vindictiveness.

Just and self-reproving thoughts do not come to us too thickly, even in the purest air, and with the best lessons of heaven and earth; how should those white-winged delicate messengers make their way to Molly’s poisoned chamber, inhabited by no higher memories than those of a barmaid’s paradise of pink ribbons and gentlemen’s jokes? She had set out at an early hour, but had lingered on the road, inclined by her indolence to believe that if she waited under a warm shed the snow would cease to fall. She had waited longer than she knew, and now that she found herself belated in the snow-hidden ruggedness of the long lanes, even the animation of a vindictive purpose could not keep her spirit from failing. It was seven o’clock, and by this time she was not very far from Raveloe, but she was not familiar enough with those monotonous lanes to know how near she was to her journey’s end.

She needed comfort, and she knew but one comforter—the familiar demon in her bosom; but she hesitated a moment, after drawing out the black remnant, before she raised it to her lips. In that moment the mother’s love pleaded for painful consciousness rather than oblivion—pleaded to be left in aching weariness, rather than to have the encircling arms benumbed so that they could not feel the dear burden. In another moment Molly had flung something away, but it was not the black remnant—it was an empty phial. And she walked on again under the breaking cloud, from which there came now and then the light of a quickly veiled star, for a freezing wind had sprung up since the snowing had ceased.

But she walked always more and more drowsily, and clutched more and more automatically the sleeping child at her bosom.

Slowly the demon was working his will, and cold and weariness were his helpers. Soon she felt nothing but a supreme immediate longing that curtained off all futurity—the longing to lie down and sleep. She had arrived at a spot where her footsteps were no longer checked by a hedgerow, and she had wandered vaguely, unable to distinguish any objects, notwithstanding the wide whiteness around her, and the growing starlight.

She sank down against a straggling furze bush, an easy pillow enough; and the bed of snow, too, was soft. She did not feel that the bed was cold, and did not heed whether the child would wake and cry for her. But her arms had not yet relaxed their instinctive clutch; and the little one slumbered on as gently as if it had been rocked in a lace-trimmed cradle.

But the complete torpor came at last: the fingers lost their tension, the arms unbent; then the little head fell away from the bosom, and the blue eyes opened wide on the cold starlight.

At first there was a little peevish cry of “mammy,” and an effort to regain the pillowing arm and bosom; but mammy’s ear was deaf, and the pillow seemed to be slipping away backward. Suddenly, as the child rolled downward on its mother’s knees, all wet with snow, its eyes were caught by a bright glancing light on the white ground, and, with the ready transition of infancy, it was immediately absorbed in watching the bright living thing running towards it, yet never arriving. That bright living thing must be caught; and in an instant the child had slipped on all-fours, and held out one little hand to catch the gleam. But the gleam would not be caught in that way, and now the head was held up to see where the cunning gleam came from.

It came from a very bright place; and the little one, rising on its legs, toddled through the snow, the old grimy shawl in which it was wrapped trailing behind it, and the queer little bonnet dangling at its back—toddled on to the open door of Silas Marner’s cottage, and right up to the warm hearth, where there was a bright fire of logs and sticks, which had thoroughly warmed the old sack (Silas’s greatcoat) spread out on the bricks to dry. The little one, accustomed to be left to itself for long hours without notice from its mother, squatted down on the sack, and spread its tiny hands towards the blaze, in perfect contentment, gurgling and making many inarticulate communications to the cheerful fire, like a new-hatched gosling beginning to find itself comfortable. But presently the warmth had a lulling effect, and the little golden head sank down on the old sack, and the blue eyes were veiled by their delicate half-transparent lids.

But where was Silas Marner while this strange visitor had come to his hearth?

He was in the cottage, but he did not see the child.

During the last few weeks, since he had lost his money, he had contracted the habit of opening his door and looking out from time to time, as if he thought that his money might be somehow coming back to him, or that some trace, some news of it, might be mysteriously on the road, and be caught by the listening ear or the straining eye. It was chiefly at night, when he was not occupied in his loom, that he fell into this repetition of an act for which he could have assigned no definite purpose, and which can hardly be understood except by those who have undergone a bewildering separation from a supremely loved object. In the evening twilight, and later whenever the night was not dark, Silas looked out on that narrow prospect round the Stone-pits, listening and gazing, not with hope, but with mere yearning and unrest. This morning he had been told by some of his neighbours that it was New Year’s Eve, and that he must sit up and hear the old year rung out and the new rung in, because that was good luck, and might bring his money back again. This was only a friendly Raveloe-way of jesting with the half-crazy oddities of a miser, but it had perhaps helped to throw Silas into a more than usually excited state.

Since the on-coming of twilight he had opened his door again and again, though only to shut it immediately at seeing all distance veiled by the falling snow. But the last time he opened it the snow had ceased, and the clouds were parting here and there.

He stood and listened, and gazed for a long while—there was really something on the road coming towards him then, but he caught no sign of it; and the stillness and the wide trackless snow seemed to narrow his solitude, and touched his yearning with the chill of despair.

He went in again, and put his right hand on the latch of the door to close it—but he did not close it: he was arrested, as he had been already since his loss, by the invisible wand of catalepsy, and stood like a graven image, with wide but sightless eyes, holding open his door, powerless to resist either the good or the evil that might enter there. When Marner’s sensibility returned, he continued the action which had been arrested, and closed his door, unaware of the chasm in his consciousness, unaware of any intermediate change, except that the light had grown dim, and that he was chilled and faint. He thought he had been too long standing at the door and looking out.

Turning towards the hearth, where the two logs had fallen apart, and sent forth only a red uncertain glimmer, he seated himself on his fireside chair, and was stooping to push his logs together, when, to his blurred vision, it seemed as if there were gold on the floor in front of the hearth. Gold!—his own gold—brought back to him as mysteriously as it had been taken away!

He felt his heart begin to beat violently, and for a few moments he was unable to stretch out his hand and grasp the restored treasure. The heap of gold seemed to glow and get larger beneath his agitated gaze. He leaned forward at last, and stretched forth his hand; but instead of the hard coin with the familiar resisting outline, his fingers encountered soft warm curls. In utter amazement, Silas fell on his knees and bent his head low to examine the marvel: it was a sleeping child—a round, fair thing, with soft yellow rings all over its head.

Could this be his little sister come back to him in a dream—his little sister whom he had carried about in his arms for a year before she died, when he was a small boy without shoes or stockings? That was the first thought that darted across Silas’s blank wonderment. _Was_ it a dream? He rose to his feet again, pushed his logs together, and, throwing on some dried leaves and sticks, raised a flame; but the flame did not disperse the vision—it only lit up more distinctly the little round form of the child, and its shabby clothing. It was very much like his little sister.

Silas sank into his chair powerless, under the double presence of an inexplicable surprise and a hurrying influx of memories. How and when had the child come in without his knowledge? He had never been beyond the door. But along with that question, and almost thrusting it away, there was a vision of the old home and the old streets leading to Lantern Yard—and within that vision another, of the thoughts which had been present with him in those far-off scenes.

The thoughts were strange to him now, like old friendships impossible to revive; and yet he had a dreamy feeling that this child was somehow a message come to him from that far-off life: it stirred fibres that had never been moved in Raveloe—old quiverings of tenderness—old impressions of awe at the presentiment of some Power presiding over his life; for his imagination had not yet extricated itself from the sense of mystery in the child’s sudden presence, and had formed no conjectures of ordinary natural means by which the event could have been brought about. But there was a cry on the hearth: the child had awaked, and Marner stooped to lift it on his knee.

It clung round his neck, and burst louder and louder into that mingling of inarticulate cries with “mammy” by which little children express the bewilderment of waking. Silas pressed it to him, and almost unconsciously uttered sounds of hushing tenderness, while he bethought himself that some of his porridge, which had got cool by the dying fire, would do to feed the child with if it were only warmed up a little. He had plenty to do through the next hour. The porridge, sweetened with some dry brown sugar from an old store which he had refrained from using for himself, stopped the cries of the little one, and made her lift her blue eyes with a wide quiet gaze at Silas, as he put the spoon into her mouth. Presently she slipped from his knee and began to toddle about, but with a pretty stagger that made Silas jump up and follow her lest she should fall against anything that would hurt her.

But she only fell in a sitting posture on the ground, and began to pull at her boots, looking up at him with a crying face as if the boots hurt her.

He took her on his knee again, but it was some time before it occurred to Silas’s dull bachelor mind that the wet boots were the grievance, pressing on her warm ankles. He got them off with difficulty, and baby was at once happily occupied with the primary mystery of her own toes, inviting Silas, with much chuckling, to consider the mystery too. But the wet boots had at last suggested to Silas that the child had been walking on the snow, and this roused him from his entire oblivion of any ordinary means by which it could have entered or been brought into his house.

Under the prompting of this new idea, and without waiting to form conjectures, he raised the child in his arms, and went to the door. As soon as he had opened it, there was the cry of “mammy” again, which Silas had not heard since the child’s first hungry waking. Bending forward, he could just discern the marks made by the little feet on the virgin snow, and he followed their track to the furze bushes.

“Mammy!”

the little one cried again and again, stretching itself forward so as almost to escape from Silas’s arms, before he himself was aware that there was something more than the bush before him—that there was a human body, with the head sunk low in the furze, and half-covered with the shaken snow. CHAPTER XIII.

It was after the early supper-time at the Red House, and the entertainment was in that stage when bashfulness itself had passed into easy jollity, when gentlemen, conscious of unusual accomplishments, could at length be prevailed on to dance a hornpipe, and when the Squire preferred talking loudly, scattering snuff, and patting his visitors’ backs, to sitting longer at the whist-table—a choice exasperating to uncle Kimble, who, being always volatile in sober business hours, became intense and bitter over cards and brandy, shuffled before his adversary’s deal with a glare of suspicion, and turned up a mean trump-card with an air of inexpressible disgust, as if in a world where such things could happen one might as well enter on a course of reckless profligacy. When the evening had advanced to this pitch of freedom and enjoyment, it was usual for the servants, the heavy duties of supper being well over, to get their share of amusement by coming to look on at the dancing; so that the back regions of the house were left in solitude. There were two doors by which the White Parlour was entered from the hall, and they were both standing open for the sake of air; but the lower one was crowded with the servants and villagers, and only the upper doorway was left free. Bob Cass was figuring in a hornpipe, and his father, very proud of this lithe son, whom he repeatedly declared to be just like himself in his young days in a tone that implied this to be the very highest stamp of juvenile merit, was the centre of a group who had placed themselves opposite the performer, not far from the upper door.

Godfrey was standing a little way off, not to admire his brother’s dancing, but to keep sight of Nancy, who was seated in the group, near her father. He stood aloof, because he wished to avoid suggesting himself as a subject for the Squire’s fatherly jokes in connection with matrimony and Miss Nancy Lammeter’s beauty, which were likely to become more and more explicit. But he had the prospect of dancing with her again when the hornpipe was concluded, and in the meanwhile it was very pleasant to get long glances at her quite unobserved.

But when Godfrey was lifting his eyes from one of those long glances, they encountered an object as startling to him at that moment as if it had been an apparition from the dead.

It _was_ an apparition from that hidden life which lies, like a dark by-street, behind the goodly ornamented facade that meets the sunlight and the gaze of respectable admirers. It was his own child, carried in Silas Marner’s arms. That was his instantaneous impression, unaccompanied by doubt, though he had not seen the child for months past; and when the hope was rising that he might possibly be mistaken, Mr. Crackenthorp and Mr. Lammeter had already advanced to Silas, in astonishment at this strange advent. Godfrey joined them immediately, unable to rest without hearing every word—trying to control himself, but conscious that if any one noticed him, they must see that he was white-lipped and trembling. But now all eyes at that end of the room were bent on Silas Marner; the Squire himself had risen, and asked angrily, “How’s this?—what’s this?—what do you do coming in here in this way?”

“I’m come for the doctor—I want the doctor,” Silas had said, in the first moment, to Mr. Crackenthorp.

“Why, what’s the matter, Marner?” said the rector. “The doctor’s here; but say quietly what you want him for.” “It’s a woman,” said Silas, speaking low, and half-breathlessly, just as Godfrey came up. “She’s dead, I think—dead in the snow at the Stone-pits—not far from my door.”

Godfrey felt a great throb: there was one terror in his mind at that moment: it was, that the woman might _not_ be dead. That was an evil terror—an ugly inmate to have found a nestling-place in Godfrey’s kindly disposition; but no disposition is a security from evil wishes to a man whose happiness hangs on duplicity. “Hush, hush!” said Mr. Crackenthorp.

“Go out into the hall there. I’ll fetch the doctor to you. Found a woman in the snow—and thinks she’s dead,” he added, speaking low to the Squire.

“Better say as little about it as possible: it will shock the ladies. Just tell them a poor woman is ill from cold and hunger. I’ll go and fetch Kimble.”

By this time, however, the ladies had pressed forward, curious to know what could have brought the solitary linen-weaver there under such strange circumstances, and interested in the pretty child, who, half alarmed and half attracted by the brightness and the numerous company, now frowned and hid her face, now lifted up her head again and looked round placably, until a touch or a coaxing word brought back the frown, and made her bury her face with new determination. “What child is it?” said several ladies at once, and, among the rest, Nancy Lammeter, addressing Godfrey. “I don’t know—some poor woman’s who has been found in the snow, I believe,” was the answer Godfrey wrung from himself with a terrible effort. (“After all, _am_

I certain?”

he hastened to add, silently, in anticipation of his own conscience.) “Why, you’d better leave the child here, then, Master Marner,” said good-natured Mrs. Kimble, hesitating, however, to take those dingy clothes into contact with her own ornamented satin bodice. “I’ll tell one o’ the girls to fetch it.”

“No—no—I can’t part with it, I can’t let it go,” said Silas, abruptly.

“It’s come to me—I’ve a right to keep it.” The proposition to take the child from him had come to Silas quite unexpectedly, and his speech, uttered under a strong sudden impulse, was almost like a revelation to himself: a minute before, he had no distinct intention about the child. “Did you ever hear the like?” said Mrs. Kimble, in mild surprise, to her neighbour.

“Now, ladies, I must trouble you to stand aside,” said Mr. Kimble, coming from the card-room, in some bitterness at the interruption, but drilled by the long habit of his profession into obedience to unpleasant calls, even when he was hardly sober. “It’s a nasty business turning out now, eh, Kimble?” said the Squire. “He might ha’ gone for your young fellow—the ’prentice, there—what’s his name?”

“Might?

aye—what’s the use of talking about might?” growled uncle Kimble, hastening out with Marner, and followed by Mr. Crackenthorp and Godfrey. “Get me a pair of thick boots, Godfrey, will you? And stay, let somebody run to Winthrop’s and fetch Dolly—she’s the best woman to get.

Ben was here himself before supper; is he gone?” “Yes, sir, I met him,” said Marner; “but I couldn’t stop to tell him anything, only I said I was going for the doctor, and he said the doctor was at the Squire’s. And I made haste and ran, and there was nobody to be seen at the back o’ the house, and so I went in to where the company was.” The child, no longer distracted by the bright light and the smiling women’s faces, began to cry and call for “mammy,” though always clinging to Marner, who had apparently won her thorough confidence. Godfrey had come back with the boots, and felt the cry as if some fibre were drawn tight within him.

“I’ll go,” he said, hastily, eager for some movement; “I’ll go and fetch the woman—Mrs. Winthrop.” “Oh, pooh—send somebody else,” said uncle Kimble, hurrying away with Marner. “You’ll let me know if I can be of any use, Kimble,” said Mr.
Crackenthorp.

But the doctor was out of hearing.

Godfrey, too, had disappeared: he was gone to snatch his hat and coat, having just reflection enough to remember that he must not look like a madman; but he rushed out of the house into the snow without heeding his thin shoes. In a few minutes he was on his rapid way to the Stone-pits by the side of Dolly, who, though feeling that she was entirely in her place in encountering cold and snow on an errand of mercy, was much concerned at a young gentleman’s getting his feet wet under a like impulse. “You’d a deal better go back, sir,” said Dolly, with respectful compassion.

“You’ve no call to catch cold; and I’d ask you if you’d be so good as tell my husband to come, on your way back—he’s at the Rainbow, I doubt—if you found him anyway sober enough to be o’ use. Or else, there’s Mrs. Snell ’ud happen send the boy up to fetch and carry, for there may be things wanted from the doctor’s.” “No, I’ll stay, now I’m once out—I’ll stay outside here,” said Godfrey, when they came opposite Marner’s cottage.

“You can come and tell me if I can do anything.” “Well, sir, you’re very good: you’ve a tender heart,” said Dolly, going to the door. Godfrey was too painfully preoccupied to feel a twinge of self-reproach at this undeserved praise.

He walked up and down, unconscious that he was plunging ankle-deep in snow, unconscious of everything but trembling suspense about what was going on in the cottage, and the effect of each alternative on his future lot. No, not quite unconscious of everything else.

Deeper down, and half-smothered by passionate desire and dread, there was the sense that he ought not to be waiting on these alternatives; that he ought to accept the consequences of his deeds, own the miserable wife, and fulfil the claims of the helpless child. But he had not moral courage enough to contemplate that active renunciation of Nancy as possible for him: he had only conscience and heart enough to make him for ever uneasy under the weakness that forbade the renunciation.

And at this moment his mind leaped away from all restraint toward the sudden prospect of deliverance from his long bondage. “Is she dead?” said the voice that predominated over every other within him. “If she is, I may marry Nancy; and then I shall be a good fellow in future, and have no secrets, and the child—shall be taken care of somehow.” But across that vision came the other possibility—“She may live, and then it’s all up with me.”

Godfrey never knew how long it was before the door of the cottage opened and Mr. Kimble came out.

He went forward to meet his uncle, prepared to suppress the agitation he must feel, whatever news he was to hear. “I waited for you, as I’d come so far,” he said, speaking first. “Pooh, it was nonsense for you to come out: why didn’t you send one of the men? There’s nothing to be done.

She’s dead—has been dead for hours, I should say.” “What sort of woman is she?” said Godfrey, feeling the blood rush to his face. “A young woman, but emaciated, with long black hair. Some vagrant—quite in rags.

She’s got a wedding-ring on, however. They must fetch her away to the workhouse to-morrow. Come, come along.” “I want to look at her,” said Godfrey.

“I think I saw such a woman yesterday. I’ll overtake you in a minute or two.” Mr. Kimble went on, and Godfrey turned back to the cottage. He cast only one glance at the dead face on the pillow, which Dolly had smoothed with decent care; but he remembered that last look at his unhappy hated wife so well, that at the end of sixteen years every line in the worn face was present to him when he told the full story of this night.

He turned immediately towards the hearth, where Silas Marner sat lulling the child. She was perfectly quiet now, but not asleep—only soothed by sweet porridge and warmth into that wide-gazing calm which makes us older human beings, with our inward turmoil, feel a certain awe in the presence of a little child, such as we feel before some quiet majesty or beauty in the earth or sky—before a steady glowing planet, or a full-flowered eglantine, or the bending trees over a silent pathway. The wide-open blue eyes looked up at Godfrey’s without any uneasiness or sign of recognition: the child could make no visible audible claim on its father; and the father felt a strange mixture of feelings, a conflict of regret and joy, that the pulse of that little heart had no response for the half-jealous yearning in his own, when the blue eyes turned away from him slowly, and fixed themselves on the weaver’s queer face, which was bent low down to look at them, while the small hand began to pull Marner’s withered cheek with loving disfiguration. “You’ll take the child to the parish to-morrow?” asked Godfrey, speaking as indifferently as he could.

“Who says so?” said Marner, sharply. “Will they make me take her?” “Why, you wouldn’t like to keep her, should you—an old bachelor like you?” “Till anybody shows they’ve a right to take her away from me,” said Marner.

“The mother’s dead, and I reckon it’s got no father: it’s a lone thing—and I’m a lone thing. My money’s gone, I don’t know where—and this is come from I don’t know where. I know nothing—I’m partly mazed.” “Poor little thing!” said Godfrey. “Let me give something towards finding it clothes.”

He had put his hand in his pocket and found half-a-guinea, and, thrusting it into Silas’s hand, he hurried out of the cottage to overtake Mr. Kimble. “Ah, I see it’s not the same woman I saw,” he said, as he came up. “It’s a pretty little child: the old fellow seems to want to keep it; that’s strange for a miser like him. But I gave him a trifle to help him out: the parish isn’t likely to quarrel with him for the right to keep the child.”

“No; but I’ve seen the time when I might have quarrelled with him for it myself. It’s too late now, though. If the child ran into the fire, your aunt’s too fat to overtake it: she could only sit and grunt like an alarmed sow. But what a fool you are, Godfrey, to come out in your dancing shoes and stockings in this way—and you one of the beaux of the evening, and at your own house!

What do you mean by such freaks, young fellow? Has Miss Nancy been cruel, and do you want to spite her by spoiling your pumps?” “Oh, everything has been disagreeable to-night. I was tired to death of jigging and gallanting, and that bother about the hornpipes.

And I’d got to dance with the other Miss Gunn,” said Godfrey, glad of the subterfuge his uncle had suggested to him. The prevarication and white lies which a mind that keeps itself ambitiously pure is as uneasy under as a great artist under the false touches that no eye detects but his own, are worn as lightly as mere trimmings when once the actions have become a lie. Godfrey reappeared in the White Parlour with dry feet, and, since the truth must be told, with a sense of relief and gladness that was too strong for painful thoughts to struggle with. For could he not venture now, whenever opportunity offered, to say the tenderest things to Nancy Lammeter—to promise her and himself that he would always be just what she would desire to see him? There was no danger that his dead wife would be recognized: those were not days of active inquiry and wide report; and as for the registry of their marriage, that was a long way off, buried in unturned pages, away from every one’s interest but his own.

Dunsey might betray him if he came back; but Dunsey might be won to silence. And when events turn out so much better for a man than he has had reason to dread, is it not a proof that his conduct has been less foolish and blameworthy than it might otherwise have appeared? When we are treated well, we naturally begin to think that we are not altogether unmeritorious, and that it is only just we should treat ourselves well, and not mar our own good fortune. Where, after all, would be the use of his confessing the past to Nancy Lammeter, and throwing away his happiness?—nay, hers?

for he felt some confidence that she loved him. As for the child, he would see that it was cared for: he would never forsake it; he would do everything but own it. Perhaps it would be just as happy in life without being owned by its father, seeing that nobody could tell how things would turn out, and that—is there any other reason wanted?—well, then, that the father would be much happier without owning the child.
CHAPTER XIV. There was a pauper’s burial that week in Raveloe, and up Kench Yard at Batherley it was known that the dark-haired woman with the fair child, who had lately come to lodge there, was gone away again. That was all the express note taken that Molly had disappeared from the eyes of men.

But the unwept death which, to the general lot, seemed as trivial as the summer-shed leaf, was charged with the force of destiny to certain human lives that we know of, shaping their joys and sorrows even to the end.

Silas Marner’s determination to keep the “tramp’s child” was matter of hardly less surprise and iterated talk in the village than the robbery of his money. That softening of feeling towards him which dated from his misfortune, that merging of suspicion and dislike in a rather contemptuous pity for him as lone and crazy, was now accompanied with a more active sympathy, especially amongst the women. Notable mothers, who knew what it was to keep children “whole and sweet”; lazy mothers, who knew what it was to be interrupted in folding their arms and scratching their elbows by the mischievous propensities of children just firm on their legs, were equally interested in conjecturing how a lone man would manage with a two-year-old child on his hands, and were equally ready with their suggestions: the notable chiefly telling him what he had better do, and the lazy ones being emphatic in telling him what he would never be able to do. Among the notable mothers, Dolly Winthrop was the one whose neighbourly offices were the most acceptable to Marner, for they were rendered without any show of bustling instruction. Silas had shown her the half-guinea given to him by Godfrey, and had asked her what he should do about getting some clothes for the child.

“Eh, Master Marner,” said Dolly, “there’s no call to buy, no more nor a pair o’ shoes; for I’ve got the little petticoats as Aaron wore five years ago, and it’s ill spending the money on them baby-clothes, for the child ’ull grow like grass i’ May, bless it—that it will.” And the same day Dolly brought her bundle, and displayed to Marner, one by one, the tiny garments in their due order of succession, most of them patched and darned, but clean and neat as fresh-sprung herbs. This was the introduction to a great ceremony with soap and water, from which Baby came out in new beauty, and sat on Dolly’s knee, handling her toes and chuckling and patting her palms together with an air of having made several discoveries about herself, which she communicated by alternate sounds of “gug-gug-gug,” and “mammy”. The “mammy” was not a cry of need or uneasiness: Baby had been used to utter it without expecting either tender sound or touch to follow.

“Anybody ’ud think the angils in heaven couldn’t be prettier,” said Dolly, rubbing the golden curls and kissing them. “And to think of its being covered wi’ them dirty rags—and the poor mother—froze to death; but there’s Them as took care of it, and brought it to your door, Master Marner. The door was open, and it walked in over the snow, like as if it had been a little starved robin. Didn’t you say the door was open?” “Yes,” said Silas, meditatively.

“Yes—the door was open. The money’s gone I don’t know where, and this is come from I don’t know where.” He had not mentioned to any one his unconsciousness of the child’s entrance, shrinking from questions which might lead to the fact he himself suspected—namely, that he had been in one of his trances. “Ah,” said Dolly, with soothing gravity, “it’s like the night and the morning, and the sleeping and the waking, and the rain and the harvest—one goes and the other comes, and we know nothing how nor where. We may strive and scrat and fend, but it’s little we can do arter all—the big things come and go wi’

no striving o’ our’n—they do, that they do; and I think you’re in the right on it to keep the little un, Master Marner, seeing as it’s been sent to you, though there’s folks as thinks different.

You’ll happen be a bit moithered with it while it’s so little; but I’ll come, and welcome, and see to it for you: I’ve a bit o’ time to spare most days, for when one gets up betimes i’ the morning, the clock seems to stan’ still tow’rt ten, afore it’s time to go about the victual. So, as I say, I’ll come and see to the child for you, and welcome.”

“Thank you ... kindly,” said Silas, hesitating a little. “I’ll be glad if you’ll tell me things. But,” he added, uneasily, leaning forward to look at Baby with some jealousy, as she was resting her head backward against Dolly’s arm, and eyeing him contentedly from a distance—“But I want to do things for it myself, else it may get fond o’ somebody else, and not fond o’ me.

I’ve been used to fending for myself in the house—I can learn, I can learn.” “Eh, to be sure,” said Dolly, gently. “I’ve seen men as are wonderful handy wi’ children.

The men are awk’ard and contrairy mostly, God help ’em—but when the drink’s out of ’em, they aren’t unsensible, though they’re bad for leeching and bandaging—so fiery and unpatient. You see this goes first, next the skin,” proceeded Dolly, taking up the little shirt, and putting it on. “Yes,” said Marner, docilely, bringing his eyes very close, that they might be initiated in the mysteries; whereupon Baby seized his head with both her small arms, and put her lips against his face with purring noises. “See there,” said Dolly, with a woman’s tender tact, “she’s fondest o’ you.

She wants to go o’ your lap, I’ll be bound. Go, then: take her, Master Marner; you can put the things on, and then you can say as you’ve done for her from the first of her coming to you.” Marner took her on his lap, trembling with an emotion mysterious to himself, at something unknown dawning on his life. Thought and feeling were so confused within him, that if he had tried to give them utterance, he could only have said that the child was come instead of the gold—that the gold had turned into the child. He took the garments from Dolly, and put them on under her teaching; interrupted, of course, by Baby’s gymnastics.

“There, then!

why, you take to it quite easy, Master Marner,” said Dolly; “but what shall you do when you’re forced to sit in your loom? For she’ll get busier and mischievouser every day—she will, bless her. It’s lucky as you’ve got that high hearth i’stead of a grate, for that keeps the fire more out of her reach: but if you’ve got anything as can be spilt or broke, or as is fit to cut her fingers off, she’ll be at it—and it is but right you should know.”

Silas meditated a little while in some perplexity. “I’ll tie her to the leg o’ the loom,” he said at last—“tie her with a good long strip o’ something.” “Well, mayhap that’ll do, as it’s a little gell, for they’re easier persuaded to sit i’ one place nor the lads.

I know what the lads are; for I’ve had four—four I’ve had, God knows—and if you was to take and tie ’em up, they’d make a fighting and a crying as if you was ringing the pigs. But I’ll bring you my little chair, and some bits o’ red rag and things for her to play wi’; an’ she’ll sit and chatter to ’em as if they was alive.

Eh, if it wasn’t a sin to the lads to wish ’em made different, bless ’em, I should ha’ been glad for one of ’em to be a little gell; and to think as I could ha’ taught her to scour, and mend, and the knitting, and everything. But I can teach ’em this little un, Master Marner, when she gets old enough.”

“But she’ll be _my_ little un,” said Marner, rather hastily. “She’ll be nobody else’s.” “No, to be sure; you’ll have a right to her, if you’re a father to her, and bring her up according. But,” added Dolly, coming to a point which she had determined beforehand to touch upon, “you must bring her up like christened folks’s children, and take her to church, and let her learn her catechise, as my little Aaron can say off—the ‘I believe,’ and everything, and ‘hurt nobody by word or deed,’—as well as if he was the clerk.

That’s what you must do, Master Marner, if you’d do the right thing by the orphin child.” Marner’s pale face flushed suddenly under a new anxiety. His mind was too busy trying to give some definite bearing to Dolly’s words for him to think of answering her. “And it’s my belief,” she went on, “as the poor little creatur has never been christened, and it’s nothing but right as the parson should be spoke to; and if you was noways unwilling, I’d talk to Mr. Macey about it this very day.

For if the child ever went anyways wrong, and you hadn’t done your part by it, Master Marner—’noculation, and everything to save it from harm—it ’ud be a thorn i’ your bed for ever o’ this side the grave; and I can’t think as it ’ud be easy lying down for anybody when they’d got to another world, if they hadn’t done their part by the helpless children as come wi’out their own asking.” Dolly herself was disposed to be silent for some time now, for she had spoken from the depths of her own simple belief, and was much concerned to know whether her words would produce the desired effect on Silas. He was puzzled and anxious, for Dolly’s word “christened” conveyed no distinct meaning to him.

He had only heard of baptism, and had only seen the baptism of grown-up men and women. “What is it as you mean by ‘christened?’” he said at last, timidly.
“Won’t folks be good to her without it?” “Dear, dear!

Master Marner,” said Dolly, with gentle distress and compassion. “Had you never no father nor mother as taught you to say your prayers, and as there’s good words and good things to keep us from harm?”

“Yes,” said Silas, in a low voice; “I know a deal about that—used to, used to. But your ways are different: my country was a good way off.”

He paused a few moments, and then added, more decidedly, “But I want to do everything as can be done for the child. And whatever’s right for it i’ this country, and you think ’ull do it good, I’ll act according, if you’ll tell me.”

“Well, then, Master Marner,” said Dolly, inwardly rejoiced, “I’ll ask Mr. Macey to speak to the parson about it; and you must fix on a name for it, because it must have a name giv’ it when it’s christened.” “My mother’s name was Hephzibah,” said Silas, “and my little sister was named after her.”

“Eh, that’s a hard name,” said Dolly. “I partly think it isn’t a christened name.”

“It’s a Bible name,” said Silas, old ideas recurring. “Then I’ve no call to speak again’ it,” said Dolly, rather startled by Silas’s knowledge on this head; “but you see I’m no scholard, and I’m slow at catching the words. My husband says I’m allays like as if I was putting the haft for the handle—that’s what he says—for he’s very sharp, God help him. But it was awk’ard calling your little sister by such a hard name, when you’d got nothing big to say, like—wasn’t it, Master Marner?”

“We called her Eppie,” said Silas.

“Well, if it was noways wrong to shorten the name, it ’ud be a deal handier. And so I’ll go now, Master Marner, and I’ll speak about the christening afore dark; and I wish you the best o’ luck, and it’s my belief as it’ll come to you, if you do what’s right by the orphin child;—and there’s the ’noculation to be seen to; and as to washing its bits o’ things, you need look to nobody but me, for I can do ’em wi’ one hand when I’ve got my suds about.

Eh, the blessed angil! You’ll let me bring my Aaron one o’ these days, and he’ll show her his little cart as his father’s made for him, and the black-and-white pup as he’s got a-rearing.” Baby _was_ christened, the rector deciding that a double baptism was the lesser risk to incur; and on this occasion Silas, making himself as clean and tidy as he could, appeared for the first time within the church, and shared in the observances held sacred by his neighbours.

He was quite unable, by means of anything he heard or saw, to identify the Raveloe religion with his old faith; if he could at any time in his previous life have done so, it must have been by the aid of a strong feeling ready to vibrate with sympathy, rather than by a comparison of phrases and ideas: and now for long years that feeling had been dormant. He had no distinct idea about the baptism and the church-going, except that Dolly had said it was for the good of the child; and in this way, as the weeks grew to months, the child created fresh and fresh links between his life and the lives from which he had hitherto shrunk continually into narrower isolation. Unlike the gold which needed nothing, and must be worshipped in close-locked solitude—which was hidden away from the daylight, was deaf to the song of birds, and started to no human tones—Eppie was a creature of endless claims and ever-growing desires, seeking and loving sunshine, and living sounds, and living movements; making trial of everything, with trust in new joy, and stirring the human kindness in all eyes that looked on her. The gold had kept his thoughts in an ever-repeated circle, leading to nothing beyond itself; but Eppie was an object compacted of changes and hopes that forced his thoughts onward, and carried them far away from their old eager pacing towards the same blank limit—carried them away to the new things that would come with the coming years, when Eppie would have learned to understand how her father Silas cared for her; and made him look for images of that time in the ties and charities that bound together the families of his neighbours.

The gold had asked that he should sit weaving longer and longer, deafened and blinded more and more to all things except the monotony of his loom and the repetition of his web; but Eppie called him away from his weaving, and made him think all its pauses a holiday, reawakening his senses with her fresh life, even to the old winter-flies that came crawling forth in the early spring sunshine, and warming him into joy because _she_ had joy. And when the sunshine grew strong and lasting, so that the buttercups were thick in the meadows, Silas might be seen in the sunny midday, or in the late afternoon when the shadows were lengthening under the hedgerows, strolling out with uncovered head to carry Eppie beyond the Stone-pits to where the flowers grew, till they reached some favourite bank where he could sit down, while Eppie toddled to pluck the flowers, and make remarks to the winged things that murmured happily above the bright petals, calling “Dad-dad’s” attention continually by bringing him the flowers. Then she would turn her ear to some sudden bird-note, and Silas learned to please her by making signs of hushed stillness, that they might listen for the note to come again: so that when it came, she set up her small back and laughed with gurgling triumph.

Sitting on the banks in this way, Silas began to look for the once familiar herbs again; and as the leaves, with their unchanged outline and markings, lay on his palm, there was a sense of crowding remembrances from which he turned away timidly, taking refuge in Eppie’s little world, that lay lightly on his enfeebled spirit. As the child’s mind was growing into knowledge, his mind was growing into memory: as her life unfolded, his soul, long stupefied in a cold narrow prison, was unfolding too, and trembling gradually into full consciousness. It was an influence which must gather force with every new year: the tones that stirred Silas’s heart grew articulate, and called for more distinct answers; shapes and sounds grew clearer for Eppie’s eyes and ears, and there was more that “Dad-dad” was imperatively required to notice and account for.

Also, by the time Eppie was three years old, she developed a fine capacity for mischief, and for devising ingenious ways of being troublesome, which found much exercise, not only for Silas’s patience, but for his watchfulness and penetration. Sorely was poor Silas puzzled on such occasions by the incompatible demands of love. Dolly Winthrop told him that punishment was good for Eppie, and that, as for rearing a child without making it tingle a little in soft and safe places now and then, it was not to be done.

“To be sure, there’s another thing you might do, Master Marner,” added Dolly, meditatively: “you might shut her up once i’ the coal-hole. That was what I did wi’ Aaron; for I was that silly wi’ the youngest lad, as I could never bear to smack him. Not as I could find i’ my heart to let him stay i’ the coal-hole more nor a minute, but it was enough to colly him all over, so as he must be new washed and dressed, and it was as good as a rod to him—that was.

But I put it upo’ your conscience, Master Marner, as there’s one of ’em you must choose—ayther smacking or the coal-hole—else she’ll get so masterful, there’ll be no holding her.”

Silas was impressed with the melancholy truth of this last remark; but his force of mind failed before the only two penal methods open to him, not only because it was painful to him to hurt Eppie, but because he trembled at a moment’s contention with her, lest she should love him the less for it.

Let even an affectionate Goliath get himself tied to a small tender thing, dreading to hurt it by pulling, and dreading still more to snap the cord, and which of the two, pray, will be master? It was clear that Eppie, with her short toddling steps, must lead father Silas a pretty dance on any fine morning when circumstances favoured mischief. For example.

He had wisely chosen a broad strip of linen as a means of fastening her to his loom when he was busy: it made a broad belt round her waist, and was long enough to allow of her reaching the truckle-bed and sitting down on it, but not long enough for her to attempt any dangerous climbing. One bright summer’s morning Silas had been more engrossed than usual in “setting up” a new piece of work, an occasion on which his scissors were in requisition. These scissors, owing to an especial warning of Dolly’s, had been kept carefully out of Eppie’s reach; but the click of them had had a peculiar attraction for her ear, and watching the results of that click, she had derived the philosophic lesson that the same cause would produce the same effect. Silas had seated himself in his loom, and the noise of weaving had begun; but he had left his scissors on a ledge which Eppie’s arm was long enough to reach; and now, like a small mouse, watching her opportunity, she stole quietly from her corner, secured the scissors, and toddled to the bed again, setting up her back as a mode of concealing the fact.

She had a distinct intention as to the use of the scissors; and having cut the linen strip in a jagged but effectual manner, in two moments she had run out at the open door where the sunshine was inviting her, while poor Silas believed her to be a better child than usual. It was not until he happened to need his scissors that the terrible fact burst upon him: Eppie had run out by herself—had perhaps fallen into the Stone-pit. Silas, shaken by the worst fear that could have befallen him, rushed out, calling “Eppie!”

and ran eagerly about the unenclosed space, exploring the dry cavities into which she might have fallen, and then gazing with questioning dread at the smooth red surface of the water.

The cold drops stood on his brow. How long had she been out? There was one hope—that she had crept through the stile and got into the fields, where he habitually took her to stroll. But the grass was high in the meadow, and there was no descrying her, if she were there, except by a close search that would be a trespass on Mr. Osgood’s crop.

Still, that misdemeanour must be committed; and poor Silas, after peering all round the hedgerows, traversed the grass, beginning with perturbed vision to see Eppie behind every group of red sorrel, and to see her moving always farther off as he approached. The meadow was searched in vain; and he got over the stile into the next field, looking with dying hope towards a small pond which was now reduced to its summer shallowness, so as to leave a wide margin of good adhesive mud. Here, however, sat Eppie, discoursing cheerfully to her own small boot, which she was using as a bucket to convey the water into a deep hoof-mark, while her little naked foot was planted comfortably on a cushion of olive-green mud. A red-headed calf was observing her with alarmed doubt through the opposite hedge.

Here was clearly a case of aberration in a christened child which demanded severe treatment; but Silas, overcome with convulsive joy at finding his treasure again, could do nothing but snatch her up, and cover her with half-sobbing kisses. It was not until he had carried her home, and had begun to think of the necessary washing, that he recollected the need that he should punish Eppie, and “make her remember”. The idea that she might run away again and come to harm, gave him unusual resolution, and for the first time he determined to try the coal-hole—a small closet near the hearth.

“Naughty, naughty Eppie,” he suddenly began, holding her on his knee, and pointing to her muddy feet and clothes—“naughty to cut with the scissors and run away. Eppie must go into the coal-hole for being naughty. Daddy must put her in the coal-hole.”

He half-expected that this would be shock enough, and that Eppie would begin to cry. But instead of that, she began to shake herself on his knee, as if the proposition opened a pleasing novelty.

Seeing that he must proceed to extremities, he put her into the coal-hole, and held the door closed, with a trembling sense that he was using a strong measure. For a moment there was silence, but then came a little cry, “Opy, opy!” and Silas let her out again, saying, “Now Eppie ’ull never be naughty again, else she must go in the coal-hole—a black naughty place.”

The weaving must stand still a long while this morning, for now Eppie must be washed, and have clean clothes on; but it was to be hoped that this punishment would have a lasting effect, and save time in future—though, perhaps, it would have been better if Eppie had cried more. In half an hour she was clean again, and Silas having turned his back to see what he could do with the linen band, threw it down again, with the reflection that Eppie would be good without fastening for the rest of the morning. He turned round again, and was going to place her in her little chair near the loom, when she peeped out at him with black face and hands again, and said, “Eppie in de toal-hole!”

This total failure of the coal-hole discipline shook Silas’s belief in the efficacy of punishment. “She’d take it all for fun,” he observed to Dolly, “if I didn’t hurt her, and that I can’t do, Mrs. Winthrop. If she makes me a bit o’ trouble, I can bear it. And she’s got no tricks but what she’ll grow out of.”

“Well, that’s partly true, Master Marner,” said Dolly, sympathetically; “and if you can’t bring your mind to frighten her off touching things, you must do what you can to keep ’em out of her way. That’s what I do wi’ the pups as the lads are allays a-rearing. They _will_ worry and gnaw—worry and gnaw they will, if it was one’s Sunday cap as hung anywhere

so as they could drag it.

They know no difference, God help ’em: it’s the pushing o’ the teeth as sets ’em on, that’s what it is.” So Eppie was reared without punishment, the burden of her misdeeds being borne vicariously by father Silas. The stone hut was made a soft nest for her, lined with downy patience: and also in the world that lay beyond the stone hut she knew nothing of frowns and denials. Notwithstanding the difficulty of carrying her and his yarn or linen at the same time, Silas took her with him in most of his journeys to the farmhouses, unwilling to leave her behind at Dolly Winthrop’s, who was always ready to take care of her; and little curly-headed Eppie, the weaver’s child, became an object of interest at several outlying homesteads, as well as in the village.

Hitherto he had been treated very much as if he had been a useful gnome or brownie—a queer and unaccountable creature, who must necessarily be looked at with wondering curiosity and repulsion, and with whom one would be glad to make all greetings and bargains as brief as possible, but who must be dealt with in a propitiatory way, and occasionally have a present of pork or garden stuff to carry home with him, seeing that without him there was no getting the yarn woven. But now Silas met with open smiling faces and cheerful questioning, as a person whose satisfactions and difficulties could be understood.

Everywhere he must sit a little and talk about the child, and words of interest were always ready for him: “Ah, Master Marner, you’ll be lucky if she takes the measles soon and easy!”—or, “Why, there isn’t many lone men ’ud ha’ been wishing to take up with a little un like that: but I reckon the weaving makes you handier than men as do out-door work—you’re partly as handy as a woman, for weaving comes next to spinning.” Elderly masters and mistresses, seated observantly in large kitchen arm-chairs, shook their heads over the difficulties attendant on rearing children, felt Eppie’s round arms and legs, and pronounced them remarkably firm, and told Silas that, if she turned out well (which, however, there was no telling), it would be a fine thing for him to have a steady lass to do for him when he got helpless. Servant maidens were fond of carrying her out to look at the hens and chickens, or to see if any cherries could be shaken down in the orchard; and the small boys and girls approached her slowly, with cautious movement and steady gaze, like little dogs face to face with one of their own kind, till attraction had reached the point at which the soft lips were put out for a kiss.

No child was afraid of approaching Silas when Eppie was near him: there was no repulsion around him now, either for young or old; for the little child had come to link him once more with the whole world. There was love between him and the child that blent them into one, and there was love between the child and the world—from men and women with parental looks and tones, to the red lady-birds and the round pebbles. Silas began now to think of Raveloe life entirely in relation to Eppie: she must have everything that was a good in Raveloe; and he listened docilely, that he might come to understand better what this life was, from which, for fifteen years, he had stood aloof as from a strange thing, with which he could have no communion: as some man who has a precious plant to which he would give a nurturing home in a new soil, thinks of the rain, and the sunshine, and all influences, in relation to his nursling, and asks industriously for all knowledge that will help him to satisfy the wants of the searching roots, or to guard leaf and bud from invading harm. The disposition to hoard had been utterly crushed at the very first by the loss of his long-stored gold: the coins he earned afterwards seemed as irrelevant as stones brought to complete a house suddenly buried by an earthquake; the sense of bereavement was too heavy upon him for the old thrill of satisfaction to arise again at the touch of the newly-earned coin.

And now something had come to replace his hoard which gave a growing purpose to the earnings, drawing his hope and joy continually onward beyond the money. In old days there were angels who came and took men by the hand and led them away from the city of destruction. We see no white-winged angels now. But yet men are led away from threatening destruction: a hand is put into theirs, which leads them forth gently towards a calm and bright land, so that they look no more backward; and the hand may be a little child’s.

CHAPTER XV.

There was one person, as you will believe, who watched with keener though more hidden interest than any other, the prosperous growth of Eppie under the weaver’s care. He dared not do anything that would imply a stronger interest in a poor man’s adopted child than could be expected from the kindliness of the young Squire, when a chance meeting suggested a little present to a simple old fellow whom others noticed with goodwill; but he told himself that the time would come when he might do something towards furthering the welfare of his daughter without incurring suspicion. Was he very uneasy in the meantime at his inability to give his daughter her birthright? I cannot say that he was.

The child was being taken care of, and would very likely be happy, as people in humble stations often were—happier, perhaps, than those brought up in luxury. That famous ring that pricked its owner when he forgot duty and followed desire—I wonder if it pricked very hard when he set out on the chase, or whether it pricked but lightly then, and only pierced to the quick when the chase had long been ended, and hope, folding her wings, looked backward and became regret?
Godfrey Cass’s cheek and eye were brighter than ever now. He was so undivided in his aims, that he seemed like a man of firmness.

No Dunsey had come back: people had made up their minds that he was gone for a soldier, or gone “out of the country,” and no one cared to be specific in their inquiries on a subject delicate to a respectable family. Godfrey had ceased to see the shadow of Dunsey across his path; and the path now lay straight forward to the accomplishment of his best, longest-cherished wishes. Everybody said Mr. Godfrey had taken the right turn; and it was pretty clear what would be the end of things, for there were not many days in the week that he was not seen riding to the Warrens. Godfrey himself, when he was asked jocosely if the day had been fixed, smiled with the pleasant consciousness of a lover who could say “yes,” if he liked.

He felt a reformed man, delivered from temptation; and the vision of his future life seemed to him as a promised land for which he had no cause to fight. He saw himself with all his happiness centred on his own hearth, while Nancy would smile on him as he played with the children. And that other child—not on the hearth—he would not forget it; he would see that it was well provided for. That was a father’s duty.

PART II.
CHAPTER XVI.

It was a bright autumn Sunday, sixteen years after Silas Marner had found his new treasure on the hearth. The bells of the old Raveloe church were ringing the cheerful peal which told that the morning service was ended; and out of the arched doorway in the tower came slowly, retarded by friendly greetings and questions, the richer parishioners who had chosen this bright Sunday morning as eligible for church-going. It was the rural fashion of that time for the more important members of the congregation to depart first, while their humbler neighbours waited and looked on, stroking their bent heads or dropping their curtsies to any large ratepayer who turned to notice them. Foremost among these advancing groups of well-clad people, there are some whom we shall recognize, in spite of Time, who has laid his hand on them all. The tall blond man of forty is not much changed in feature from the Godfrey Cass of six-and-twenty: he is only fuller in flesh, and has only lost the indefinable look of youth—a loss which is marked even when the eye is undulled and the wrinkles are not yet come.

Perhaps the pretty woman, not much younger than he, who is leaning on his arm, is more changed than her husband: the lovely bloom that used to be always on her cheek now comes but fitfully, with the fresh morning air or with some strong surprise; yet to all who love human faces best for what they tell of human experience, Nancy’s beauty has a heightened interest. Often the soul is ripened into fuller goodness while age has spread an ugly film, so that mere glances can never divine the preciousness of the fruit. But the years have not been so cruel to Nancy.

The firm yet placid mouth, the clear veracious glance of the brown eyes, speak now of a nature that has been tested and has kept its highest qualities; and even the costume, with its dainty neatness and purity, has more significance now the coquetries of youth can have nothing to do with it. Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Cass (any higher title has died away from Raveloe lips since the old Squire was gathered to his fathers and his inheritance was divided) have turned round to look for the tall aged man and the plainly dressed woman who are a little behind—Nancy having observed that they must wait for “father and Priscilla”—and now they all turn into a narrower path leading across the churchyard to a small gate opposite the Red House. We will not follow them now; for may there not be some others in this departing congregation whom we should like to see again—some of those who are not likely to be handsomely clad, and whom we may not recognize so easily as the master and mistress of the Red House? But it is impossible to mistake Silas Marner.

His large brown eyes seem to have gathered a longer vision, as is the way with eyes that have been short-sighted in early life, and they have a less vague, a more answering gaze; but in everything else one sees signs of a frame much enfeebled by the lapse of the sixteen years. The weaver’s bent shoulders and white hair give him almost the look of advanced age, though he is not more than five-and-fifty; but there is the freshest blossom of youth close by his side—a blonde dimpled girl of eighteen, who has vainly tried to chastise her curly auburn hair into smoothness under her brown bonnet: the hair ripples as obstinately as a brooklet under the March breeze, and the little ringlets burst away from the restraining comb behind and show themselves below the bonnet-crown. Eppie cannot help being rather vexed about her hair, for there is no other girl in Raveloe who has hair at all like it, and she thinks hair ought to be smooth. She does not like to be blameworthy even in small things: you see how neatly her prayer-book is folded in her spotted handkerchief.

That good-looking young fellow, in a new fustian suit, who walks behind her, is not quite sure upon the question of hair in the abstract, when Eppie puts it to him, and thinks that perhaps straight hair is the best in general, but he doesn’t want Eppie’s hair to be different. She surely divines that there is some one behind her who is thinking about her very particularly, and mustering courage to come to her side as soon as they are out in the lane, else why should she look rather shy, and take care not to turn away her head from her father Silas, to whom she keeps murmuring little sentences as to who was at church and who was not at church, and how pretty the red mountain-ash is over the Rectory wall? “I wish _we_ had a little garden, father, with double daisies in, like Mrs. Winthrop’s,” said Eppie, when they were out in the lane; “only they say it ’ud take a deal of digging and bringing fresh soil—and you couldn’t do that, could you, father? Anyhow, I shouldn’t like you to do it, for it ’ud be too hard work for you.” “Yes, I could do it, child, if you want a bit o’ garden: these long evenings, I could work at taking in a little bit o’ the waste, just enough for a root or two o’ flowers for you; and again, i’ the morning, I could have a turn wi’ the spade before I sat down to the loom.

Why didn’t you tell me before as you wanted a bit o’ garden?” “_I_ can dig it for you, Master Marner,” said the young man in fustian, who was now by Eppie’s side, entering into the conversation without the trouble of formalities. “It’ll be play to me after I’ve done my day’s work, or any odd bits o’ time when the work’s slack. And I’ll bring you some soil from Mr. Cass’s garden—he’ll let me, and willing.” “Eh, Aaron, my lad, are you there?” said Silas; “I wasn’t aware of you; for when Eppie’s talking o’ things, I see nothing but what she’s a-saying.

Well, if you could help me with the digging, we might get her a bit o’ garden all the sooner.” “Then, if you think well and good,” said Aaron, “I’ll come to the Stone-pits this afternoon, and we’ll settle what land’s to be taken in, and I’ll get up an hour earlier i’ the morning, and begin on it.” “But not if you don’t promise me not to work at the hard digging, father,” said Eppie. “For I shouldn’t ha’ said anything about it,” she added, half-bashfully, half-roguishly, “only Mrs. Winthrop said as Aaron ’ud be so good, and—” “And you might ha’ known it without mother telling you,” said Aaron.

“And Master Marner knows too, I hope, as I’m able and willing to do a turn o’ work for him, and he won’t do me the unkindness to anyways take it out o’ my hands.” “There, now, father, you won’t work in it till it’s all easy,” said Eppie, “and you and me can mark out the beds, and make holes and plant the roots. It’ll be a deal livelier at the Stone-pits when we’ve got some flowers, for I always think the flowers can see us and know what we’re talking about. And I’ll have a bit o’ rosemary, and bergamot, and thyme, because they’re so sweet-smelling; but there’s no lavender only in the gentlefolks’ gardens, I think.”

“That’s no reason why you shouldn’t have some,” said Aaron, “for I can bring you slips of anything; I’m forced to cut no end of ’em when I’m gardening, and throw ’em away mostly. There’s a big bed o’ lavender at the Red House: the missis is very fond of it.”

“Well,” said Silas, gravely, “so as you don’t make free for us, or ask for anything as is worth much at the Red House: for Mr. Cass’s been so good to us, and built us up the new end o’ the cottage, and given us beds and things, as I couldn’t abide to be imposin’ for garden-stuff or anything else.” “No, no, there’s no imposin,’” said Aaron; “there’s never a garden in all the parish but what there’s endless waste in it for want o’ somebody as could use everything up.

It’s what I think to myself sometimes, as there need nobody run short o’ victuals if the land was made the most on, and there was never a morsel but what could find its way to a mouth. It sets one thinking o’ that—gardening does. But I must go back now, else mother ’ull be in trouble as I aren’t there.”

“Bring her with you this afternoon, Aaron,” said Eppie; “I shouldn’t like to fix about the garden, and her not know everything from the first—should _you_, father?” “Aye, bring her if you can, Aaron,” said Silas; “she’s sure to have a word to say as’ll help us to set things on their right end.” Aaron turned back up the village, while Silas and Eppie went on up the lonely sheltered lane.

“O daddy!”

she began, when they were in privacy, clasping and squeezing Silas’s arm, and skipping round to give him an energetic kiss. “My little old daddy!

I’m so glad. I don’t think I shall want anything else when we’ve got a little garden; and I knew Aaron would dig it for us,” she went on with roguish triumph—“I knew that very well.” “You’re a deep little puss, you are,” said Silas, with the mild passive happiness of love-crowned age in his face; “but you’ll make yourself fine and beholden to Aaron.” “Oh, no, I shan’t,” said Eppie, laughing and frisking; “he likes it.”

“Come, come, let me carry your prayer-book, else you’ll be dropping it, jumping i’ that way.” Eppie was now aware that her behaviour was under observation, but it was only the observation of a friendly donkey, browsing with a log fastened to his foot—a meek donkey, not scornfully critical of human trivialities, but thankful to share in them, if possible, by getting his nose scratched; and Eppie did not fail to gratify him with her usual notice, though it was attended with the inconvenience of his following them, painfully, up to the very door of their home. But the sound of a sharp bark inside, as Eppie put the key in the door, modified the donkey’s views, and he limped away again without bidding.

The sharp bark was the sign of an excited welcome that was awaiting them from a knowing brown terrier, who, after dancing at their legs in a hysterical manner, rushed with a worrying noise at a tortoise-shell kitten under the loom, and then rushed back with a sharp bark again, as much as to say, “I have done my duty by this feeble creature, you perceive”; while the lady-mother of the kitten sat sunning her white bosom in the window, and looked round with a sleepy air of expecting caresses, though she was not going to take any trouble for them. The presence of this happy animal life was not the only change which had come over the interior of the stone cottage. There was no bed now in the living-room, and the small space was well filled with decent furniture, all bright and clean enough to satisfy Dolly Winthrop’s eye. The oaken table and three-cornered oaken chair were hardly what was likely to be seen in so poor a cottage: they had come, with the beds and other things, from the Red House; for Mr. Godfrey Cass, as every one said in the village, did very kindly by the weaver; and it was nothing

but right a man should be looked on and helped by those who could afford it, when he had brought up an orphan child, and been father and mother to her—and had lost his money too, so as he had nothing but what he worked for week by week, and when the weaving was going down too—for there was less and less flax spun—and Master Marner was none so young.

Nobody was jealous of the weaver, for he was regarded as an exceptional person, whose claims on neighbourly help were not to be matched in Raveloe. Any superstition that remained concerning him had taken an entirely new colour; and Mr. Macey, now a very feeble old man of fourscore and six, never seen except in his chimney-corner or sitting in the sunshine at his door-sill, was of opinion that when a man had done what Silas had done by an orphan child, it was a sign that his money would come to light again, or leastwise that the robber would be made to answer for it—for, as Mr.
Macey observed of himself, his faculties were as strong as ever. Silas sat down now and watched Eppie with a satisfied gaze as she spread the clean cloth, and set on it the potato-pie, warmed up slowly in a safe Sunday fashion, by being put into a dry pot over a slowly-dying fire, as the best substitute for an oven.

For Silas would not consent to have a grate and oven added to his conveniences: he loved the old brick hearth as he had loved his brown pot—and was it not there when he had found Eppie?

The gods of the hearth exist for us still; and let all new faith be tolerant of that fetishism, lest it bruise its own roots. Silas ate his dinner more silently than usual, soon laying down his knife and fork, and watching half-abstractedly Eppie’s play with Snap and the cat, by which her own dining was made rather a lengthy business. Yet it was a sight that might well arrest wandering thoughts: Eppie, with the rippling radiance of her hair and the whiteness of her rounded chin and throat set off by the dark-blue cotton gown, laughing merrily as the kitten held on with her four claws to one shoulder, like a design for a jug-handle, while Snap on the right hand and Puss on the other put up their paws towards a morsel which she held out of the reach of both—Snap occasionally desisting in order to remonstrate with the cat by a cogent worrying growl on the greediness and futility of her conduct; till Eppie relented, caressed them both, and divided the morsel between them.

But at last Eppie, glancing at the clock, checked the play, and said, “O daddy, you’re wanting to go into the sunshine to smoke your pipe.

But I must clear away first, so as the house may be tidy when godmother comes.

I’ll make haste—I won’t be long.” Silas had taken to smoking a pipe daily during the last two years, having been strongly urged to it by the sages of Raveloe, as a practice “good for the fits”; and this advice was sanctioned by Dr. Kimble, on the ground that it was as well to try what could do no harm—a principle which was made to answer for a great deal of work in that gentleman’s medical practice. Silas did not highly enjoy smoking, and often wondered how his neighbours could be so fond of it; but a humble sort of acquiescence in what was held to be good, had become a strong habit of that new self which had been developed in him since he had found Eppie on his hearth: it had been the only clew his bewildered mind could hold by in cherishing this young life that had been sent to him out of the darkness into which his gold had departed. By seeking what was needful for Eppie, by sharing the effect that everything produced on her, he had himself come to appropriate the forms of custom and belief which were the mould of Raveloe life; and as, with reawakening sensibilities, memory also reawakened, he had begun to ponder over the elements of his old faith, and blend them with his new impressions, till he recovered a consciousness of unity between his past and present.

The sense of presiding goodness and the human trust which come with all pure peace and joy, had given him a dim impression that there had been some error, some mistake, which had thrown that dark shadow over the days of his best years; and as it grew more and more easy to him to open his mind to Dolly Winthrop, he gradually communicated to her all he could describe of his early life. The communication was necessarily a slow and difficult process, for Silas’s meagre power of explanation was not aided by any readiness of interpretation in Dolly, whose narrow outward experience gave her no key to strange customs, and made every novelty a source of wonder that arrested them at every step of the narrative. It was only by fragments, and at intervals which left Dolly time to revolve what she had heard till it acquired some familiarity for her, that Silas at last arrived at the climax of the sad story—the drawing of lots, and its false testimony concerning him; and this had to be repeated in several interviews, under new questions on her part as to the nature of this plan for detecting the guilty and clearing the innocent. “And yourn’s the same Bible, you’re sure o’ that, Master Marner—the Bible as you brought wi’ you from that country—it’s the same as what they’ve got at church, and what Eppie’s a-learning to read in?”

“Yes,” said Silas, “every bit the same; and there’s drawing o’ lots in the Bible, mind you,” he added in a lower tone. “Oh, dear, dear,” said Dolly in a grieved voice, as if she were hearing an unfavourable report of a sick man’s case.

She was silent for some minutes; at last she said— “There’s wise folks, happen, as know how it all is; the parson knows, I’ll be bound; but it takes big words to tell them things, and such as poor folks can’t make much out on. I can never rightly know the meaning o’ what I hear at church, only a bit here and there, but I know it’s good words—I do. But what lies upo’ your mind—it’s this, Master Marner: as, if Them above had done the right thing by you, They’d never ha’ let you be turned out for a wicked thief when you was innicent.”

“Ah!” said Silas, who had now come to understand Dolly’s phraseology, “that was what fell on me like as if it had been red-hot iron; because, you see, there was nobody as cared for me or clave to me above nor below. And him as I’d gone out and in wi’ for ten year and more, since when we was lads and went halves—mine own familiar friend in whom I trusted, had lifted up his heel again’ me, and worked to ruin me.” “Eh, but he was a bad un—I can’t think as there’s another such,” said Dolly. “But I’m o’ercome, Master Marner; I’m like as if I’d waked and didn’t know whether it was night or morning.

I feel somehow as sure as I do when I’ve laid something up though I can’t justly put my hand on it, as there was a rights in what happened to you, if one could but make it out; and you’d no call to lose heart as you did. But we’ll talk on it again; for sometimes things come into my head when I’m leeching or poulticing, or such, as I could never think on when I was sitting still.”

Dolly was too useful a woman not to have many opportunities of illumination of the kind she alluded to, and she was not long before she recurred to the subject. “Master Marner,” she said, one day that she came to bring home Eppie’s washing, “I’ve been sore puzzled for a good bit wi’ that trouble o’ yourn and the drawing o’ lots; and it got twisted back’ards and for’ards, as I didn’t know which end to lay hold on. But it come to me all clear like, that night when I was sitting up wi’ poor Bessy Fawkes, as is dead and left her children behind, God help ’em—it come to me as clear as daylight; but whether I’ve got hold on it now, or can anyways bring it to my tongue’s end, that I don’t know.

For I’ve often a deal inside me as’ll never come out; and for what you talk o’ your folks in your old country niver saying prayers by heart nor saying ’em out of a book, they must be wonderful cliver; for if I didn’t know ‘Our Father,’ and little bits o’ good words as I can carry out o’ church wi’ me, I might down o’ my knees every night, but nothing could I say.” “But you can mostly say something as I can make sense on, Mrs.
Winthrop,” said Silas. “Well, then, Master Marner, it come to me summat like this: I can make nothing o’ the drawing o’ lots and the answer coming wrong; it ’ud mayhap take the parson to tell that, and he could only tell us i’ big words.

But what come to me as clear as the daylight, it was when I was troubling over poor Bessy Fawkes, and it allays comes into my head when I’m sorry for folks, and feel as I can’t do a power to help ’em, not if I was to get up i’ the middle o’ the night—it comes into my head as Them above has got a deal tenderer heart nor what I’ve got—for I can’t be anyways better nor Them as made me; and if anything looks hard to me, it’s because there’s things I don’t know on; and for the matter o’ that, there may be plenty o’ things I don’t know on, for it’s little as I know—that it is.

And so, while I was thinking o’ that, you come into my mind, Master Marner, and it all come pouring in:—if _ I_ felt i’ my inside what was the right and just thing by you, and them as prayed and drawed the lots, all but that wicked un, if _ they_’d ha’ done the right thing by you if they could, isn’t there Them as was at the making on us, and knows better and has a better will? And that’s all as ever I can be sure on, and everything else is a big puzzle to me when I think on it.

For there was the fever come and took off them as were full-growed, and left the helpless children; and there’s the breaking o’ limbs; and them as ’ud do right and be sober have to suffer by them as are contrairy—eh, there’s trouble i’ this world, and there’s things as we can niver make out the rights on. And all as we’ve got to do is to trusten, Master Marner—to do the right thing as fur as we know, and to trusten. For if us as knows so little can see a bit o’ good and rights, we may be sure as there’s a good and a rights bigger nor what we can know—I feel it i’ my own inside as it must be so. And if you could but ha’ gone on trustening, Master Marner, you wouldn’t ha’ run away from your fellow-creaturs and been so lone.”

“Ah, but that ’ud ha’ been hard,” said Silas, in an under-tone; “it ’ud ha’ been hard to trusten then.” “And so it would,” said Dolly, almost with compunction; “them things are easier said nor done; and I’m partly ashamed o’ talking.” “Nay, nay,” said Silas, “you’re i’ the right, Mrs. Winthrop—you’re i’ the right.

There’s good i’ this world—I’ve a feeling o’ that now; and it makes a man feel as there’s a good more nor he can see, i’ spite o’ the trouble and the wickedness. That drawing o’ the lots is dark; but the child was sent to me: there’s dealings with us—there’s dealings.” This dialogue took place in Eppie’s earlier years, when Silas had to part with her for two hours every day, that she might learn to read at the dame school, after he had vainly tried himself to guide her in that first step to learning.

Now that she was grown up, Silas had often been led, in those moments of quiet outpouring which come to people who live together in perfect love, to talk with _her_ too of the past, and how and why he had lived a lonely man until she had been sent to him. For it would have been impossible for him to hide from Eppie that she was not his own child: even if the most delicate reticence on the point could have been expected from Raveloe gossips in her presence, her own questions about her mother could not have been parried, as she grew up, without that complete shrouding of the past which would have made a painful barrier between their minds. So Eppie had long known how her mother had died on the snowy ground, and how she herself had been found on the hearth by father Silas, who had taken her golden curls for his lost guineas brought back to him.

The tender and peculiar love with which Silas had reared her in almost inseparable companionship with himself, aided by the seclusion of their dwelling, had preserved her from the lowering influences of the village talk and habits, and had kept her mind in that freshness which is sometimes falsely supposed to be an invariable attribute of rusticity. Perfect love has a breath of poetry which can exalt the relations of the least-instructed human beings; and this breath of poetry had surrounded Eppie from the time when she had followed the bright gleam that beckoned her to Silas’s hearth; so that it is not surprising if, in other things besides her delicate prettiness, she was not quite a common village maiden, but had a touch of refinement and fervour which came from no other teaching than that of tenderly-nurtured unvitiated feeling. She was too childish and simple for her imagination to rove into questions about her unknown father; for a long while it did not even occur to her that she must have had a father; and the first time that the idea of her mother having had a husband presented itself to her, was when Silas showed her the wedding-ring which had been taken from the wasted finger, and had been carefully preserved by him in a little lackered box shaped like a shoe.

He delivered this box into Eppie’s charge when she had grown up, and she often opened it to look at the ring: but still she thought hardly at all about the father of whom it was the symbol. Had she not a father very close to her, who loved her better than any real fathers in the village seemed to love their daughters? On the contrary, who her mother was, and how she came to die in that forlornness, were questions that often pressed on Eppie’s mind. Her knowledge of Mrs. Winthrop, who was her nearest friend next to Silas, made her feel that a mother must be very precious; and she had again and again asked Silas to tell her how her mother looked, whom she was like, and how he had found her against the furze bush, led towards it by the little footsteps and the outstretched arms. The furze bush was there still; and this afternoon, when Eppie came out with Silas into the sunshine, it was the first object that arrested her eyes and thoughts.

“Father,” she said, in a tone of gentle gravity, which sometimes came like a sadder, slower cadence across her playfulness, “we shall take the furze bush into the garden; it’ll come into the corner, and just against it I’ll put snowdrops and crocuses, ’cause Aaron says they won’t die out, but’ll always get more and more.” “Ah, child,” said Silas, always ready to talk when he had his pipe in his hand, apparently enjoying the pauses more than the puffs, “it wouldn’t do to leave out the furze bush; and there’s nothing prettier, to my thinking, when it’s yallow with flowers. But it’s just come into my head what we’re to do for a fence—mayhap Aaron can help us to a thought; but a fence we must have, else the donkeys and things ’ull come and trample everything down.

And fencing’s hard to be got at, by what I can make out.” “Oh, I’ll tell you, daddy,” said Eppie, clasping her hands suddenly, after a minute’s thought. “There’s lots o’ loose stones about, some of ’em not big, and we might lay ’em atop of one another, and make a wall. You and me could carry the smallest, and Aaron ’ud carry the rest—I know he would.” “Eh, my precious un,” said Silas, “there isn’t enough stones to go all round; and as for you carrying, why, wi’ your little arms you couldn’t carry a stone no bigger than a turnip.

You’re dillicate made, my dear,” he added, with a tender intonation—“that’s what Mrs. Winthrop says.”

“Oh, I’m stronger than you think, daddy,” said Eppie; “and if there wasn’t stones enough to go all round, why they’ll go part o’ the way, and then it’ll be easier to get sticks and things for the rest. See here, round the big pit, what a many stones!” She skipped forward to the pit, meaning to lift one of the stones and exhibit her strength, but she started back in surprise. “Oh, father, just come and look here,” she exclaimed—“come and see how the water’s gone down since yesterday. Why, yesterday the pit was ever so full!”

“Well, to be sure,” said Silas, coming to her side. “Why, that’s the draining they’ve begun on, since harvest,

i’ Mr. Osgood’s fields, I reckon. The foreman said to me the other day, when I passed by ’em, ‘Master Marner,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t wonder if we lay your bit o’ waste as dry as a bone.’

It was Mr. Godfrey Cass, he said, had gone into the draining: he’d been taking these fields o’ Mr. Osgood.” “How odd it’ll seem to have the old pit dried up!” said Eppie, turning away, and stooping to lift rather a large stone. “See, daddy, I can carry this quite well,” she said, going along with much energy for a few steps, but presently letting it fall.

“Ah, you’re fine and strong, aren’t you?” said Silas, while Eppie shook her aching arms and laughed. “Come, come, let us go and sit down on the bank against the stile there, and have no more lifting. You might hurt yourself, child. You’d need have somebody to work for you—and my arm isn’t over strong.”

Silas uttered the last sentence slowly, as if it implied more than met the ear; and Eppie, when they sat down on the bank, nestled close to his side, and, taking hold caressingly of the arm that was not over strong, held it on her lap, while Silas puffed again dutifully at the pipe, which occupied his other arm.

An ash in the hedgerow behind made a fretted screen from the sun, and threw happy playful shadows all about them. “Father,” said Eppie, very gently, after they had been sitting in silence a little while, “if I was to be married, ought I to be married with my mother’s ring?” Silas gave an almost imperceptible start, though the question fell in with the under-current of thought in his own mind, and then said, in a subdued tone, “Why, Eppie, have you been a-thinking on it?”

“Only this last week, father,” said Eppie, ingenuously, “since Aaron talked to me about it.” “And what did he say?” said Silas, still in the same subdued way, as if he were anxious lest he should fall into the slightest tone that was not for Eppie’s good. “He said he should like to be married, because he was a-going in four-and-twenty, and had got a deal of gardening work, now Mr. Mott’s given up; and he goes twice a-week regular to Mr. Cass’s, and once to Mr. Osgood’s, and they’re going to take him on at the Rectory.”

“And who is it as he’s wanting to marry?” said Silas, with rather a sad smile.

“Why, me, to be sure, daddy,” said Eppie, with dimpling laughter, kissing her father’s cheek; “as if he’d want to marry anybody else!” “And you mean to have him, do you?” said Silas. “Yes, some time,” said Eppie, “I don’t know when.

Everybody’s married some time, Aaron says. But I told him that wasn’t true: for, I said, look at father—he’s never been married.”

“No, child,” said Silas, “your father was a lone man till you was sent to him.”

“But you’ll never be lone again, father,” said Eppie, tenderly. “That was what Aaron said—‘I could never think o’ taking you away from Master Marner, Eppie.’ And I said, ‘It ’ud be no use if you did, Aaron.’

And he wants us all to live together, so as you needn’t work a bit, father, only what’s for your own pleasure; and he’d be as good as a son to you—that was what he said.” “And should you like that, Eppie?” said Silas, looking at her. “I shouldn’t mind it, father,” said Eppie, quite simply.

“And I should like things to be so as you needn’t work much. But if it wasn’t for that, I’d sooner things didn’t change.

I’m very happy: I like Aaron to be fond of me, and come and see us often, and behave pretty to you—he always _does_ behave pretty to you, doesn’t he, father?” “Yes, child, nobody could behave better,” said Silas, emphatically. “He’s his mother’s lad.” “But I don’t want any change,” said Eppie. “I should like to go on a long, long while, just as we are.

Only Aaron does want a change; and he made me cry a bit—only a bit—because he said I didn’t care for him, for if I cared for him I should want us to be married, as he did.” “Eh, my blessed child,” said Silas, laying down his pipe as if it were useless to pretend to smoke any longer, “you’re o’er young to be married. We’ll ask Mrs. Winthrop—we’ll ask Aaron’s mother what _ she_ thinks: if there’s a right thing to do, she’ll come at it.

But there’s this to be thought on, Eppie: things _will_

change, whether we like it or no; things won’t go on for a long while just as they are and no difference.

I shall get older and helplesser, and be a burden on you, belike, if I don’t go away from you altogether. Not as I mean you’d think me a burden—I know you wouldn’t—but it ’ud be hard upon you; and when I look for’ard to that, I like to think as you’d have somebody else besides me—somebody young and strong, as’ll outlast your own life, and take care on you to the end.” Silas paused, and, resting his wrists on his knees, lifted his hands up and down meditatively as he looked on the ground. “Then, would you like me to be married, father?” said Eppie, with a little trembling in her voice.

“I’ll not be the man to say no, Eppie,” said Silas, emphatically; “but we’ll ask your godmother. She’ll wish the right thing by you and her son too.”

“There they come, then,” said Eppie. “Let us go and meet ’em. Oh, the pipe!

won’t you have it lit again, father?” said Eppie, lifting that medicinal appliance from the ground.

“Nay, child,” said Silas, “I’ve done enough for to-day. I think, mayhap, a little of it does me more good than so much at once.”

CHAPTER XVII. While Silas and Eppie were seated on the bank discoursing in the fleckered shade of the ash tree, Miss Priscilla Lammeter was resisting her sister’s arguments, that it would be better to take tea at the Red House, and let her father have a long nap, than drive home to the Warrens so soon after dinner. The family party (of four only) were seated round the table in the dark wainscoted parlour, with the Sunday dessert before them, of fresh filberts, apples, and pears, duly ornamented with leaves by Nancy’s own hand before the bells had rung for church. A great change has come over the dark wainscoted parlour since we saw it in Godfrey’s bachelor days, and under the wifeless reign of the old Squire.

Now all is polish, on which no yesterday’s dust is ever allowed to rest, from the yard’s width of oaken boards round the carpet, to the old Squire’s gun and whips and walking-sticks, ranged on the stag’s antlers above the mantelpiece. All other signs of sporting and outdoor occupation Nancy has removed to another room; but she has brought into the Red House the habit of filial reverence, and preserves sacredly in a place of honour these relics of her husband’s departed father. The tankards are on the side-table still, but the bossed silver is undimmed by handling, and there are no dregs to send forth unpleasant suggestions: the only prevailing scent is of the lavender and rose-leaves that fill the vases of Derbyshire spar. All is purity and order in this once dreary room, for, fifteen years ago, it was entered by a new presiding spirit.

“Now, father,” said Nancy, “_is_ there any call for you to go home to tea? Mayn’t you just as well stay with us?—such a beautiful evening as it’s likely to be.” The old gentleman had been talking with Godfrey about the increasing poor-rate and the ruinous times, and had not heard the dialogue between his daughters. “My dear, you must ask Priscilla,” he said, in the once firm voice, now become rather broken. “She manages me and the farm too.”

“And reason good as I should manage you, father,” said Priscilla, “else you’d be giving yourself your death with rheumatism. And as for the farm, if anything turns out wrong, as it can’t but do in these times, there’s nothing kills a man so soon as having nobody to find fault with but himself. It’s a deal the best way o’ being master, to let somebody else do the ordering, and keep the blaming in your own hands.

It ’ud save many a man a stroke, _I_ believe.” “Well, well, my dear,” said her father, with a quiet laugh, “I didn’t say you don’t manage for everybody’s good.” “Then manage so as you may stay tea, Priscilla,” said Nancy, putting her hand on her sister’s arm affectionately.

“Come now; and we’ll go round the garden while father has his nap.” “My dear child, he’ll have a beautiful nap in the gig, for I shall drive. And as for staying tea, I can’t hear of it; for there’s this dairymaid, now she knows she’s to be married, turned Michaelmas, she’d as lief pour the new milk into the pig-trough as into the pans.

That’s the way with ’em all: it’s as if they thought the world ’ud be new-made because they’re to be married. So come and let me put my bonnet on, and there’ll be time for us to walk round the garden while the horse is being put in.” When the sisters were treading the neatly-swept garden-walks, between the bright turf that contrasted pleasantly with the dark cones and arches and wall-like hedges of yew, Priscilla said— “I’m as glad as anything at your husband’s making that exchange o’ land with cousin Osgood, and beginning the dairying. It’s a thousand pities you didn’t do it before; for it’ll give you something to fill your mind.

There’s nothing like a dairy if folks want a bit o’ worrit to make the days pass. For as for rubbing furniture, when you can once see your face in a table there’s nothing else to look for; but there’s always something fresh with the dairy; for even in the depths o’ winter there’s some pleasure in conquering the butter, and making it come whether or no. My dear,” added Priscilla, pressing her sister’s hand affectionately as they walked side by side, “you’ll never be low when you’ve got a dairy.”

“Ah, Priscilla,” said Nancy, returning the pressure with a grateful glance of her clear eyes, “but it won’t make up to Godfrey: a dairy’s not so much to a man.

And it’s only what he cares for that ever makes me low. I’m contented with the blessings we have, if he could be contented.” “It drives me past patience,” said Priscilla, impetuously, “that way o’ the men—always wanting and wanting, and never easy with what they’ve got: they can’t sit comfortable in their chairs when they’ve neither ache nor pain, but either they must stick a pipe in their mouths, to make ’em better than well, or else they must be swallowing something strong, though they’re forced to make haste before the next meal comes in. But joyful be it spoken, our father was never that sort o’ man.

And if it had pleased God to make you ugly, like me, so as the men wouldn’t ha’ run after you, we might have kept to our own family, and had nothing to do with folks as have got uneasy blood in their veins.” “Oh, don’t say so, Priscilla,” said Nancy, repenting that she had called forth this outburst; “nobody has any occasion to find fault with Godfrey. It’s natural he should be disappointed at not having any children: every man likes to have somebody to work for and lay by for, and he always counted so on making a fuss with ’em when they were little. There’s many another man ’ud hanker more than he does.

He’s the best of husbands.” “Oh, I know,” said Priscilla, smiling sarcastically, “I know the way o’ wives; they set one on to abuse their husbands, and then they turn round on one and praise ’em as if they wanted to sell ’em. But father’ll be waiting for me; we must turn now.”

The large gig with the steady old grey was at the front door, and Mr.
Lammeter was already on the stone steps, passing the time in recalling to Godfrey what very fine points Speckle had when his master used to ride him. “I always _would_ have a good horse, you know,” said the old gentleman, not liking that spirited time to be quite effaced from the memory of his juniors. “Mind you bring Nancy to the Warrens before the week’s out, Mr. Cass,” was Priscilla’s parting injunction, as she took the reins, and shook them gently, by way of friendly incitement to Speckle.

“I shall just take a turn to the fields against the Stone-pits, Nancy, and look at the draining,” said Godfrey. “You’ll be in again by tea-time, dear?” “Oh, yes, I shall be back in an hour.” It was Godfrey’s custom on a Sunday afternoon to do a little contemplative farming in a leisurely walk.

Nancy seldom accompanied him; for the women of her generation—unless, like Priscilla, they took to outdoor management—were not given to much walking beyond their own house and garden, finding sufficient exercise in domestic duties. So, when Priscilla was not with her, she usually sat with Mant’s Bible before her, and after following the text with her eyes for a little while, she would gradually permit them to wander as her thoughts had already insisted on wandering. But Nancy’s Sunday thoughts were rarely quite out of keeping with the devout and reverential intention implied by the book spread open before her.

She was not theologically instructed enough to discern very clearly the relation between the sacred documents of the past which she opened without method, and her own obscure, simple life; but the spirit of rectitude, and the sense of responsibility for the effect of her conduct on others, which were strong elements in Nancy’s character, had made it a habit with her to scrutinize her past feelings and actions with self-questioning solicitude. Her mind not being courted by a great variety of subjects, she filled the vacant moments by living inwardly, again and again, through all her remembered experience, especially through the fifteen years of her married time, in which her life and its significance had been doubled. She recalled the small details, the words, tones, and looks, in the critical scenes which had opened a new epoch for her by giving her a deeper insight into the relations and trials of life, or which had called on her for some little effort of forbearance, or of painful adherence to an imagined or real duty—asking herself continually whether she had been in any respect blamable.

This excessive rumination and self-questioning is perhaps a morbid habit inevitable to a mind of much moral sensibility when shut out from its due share of outward activity and of practical claims on its affections—inevitable to a noble-hearted, childless woman, when her lot is narrow. “I can do so little—have I done it all well?” is the perpetually recurring thought; and there are no voices calling her away from that soliloquy, no peremptory demands to divert energy from vain regret or superfluous scruple. There was one main thread of painful experience in Nancy’s married life, and on it hung certain deeply-felt scenes, which were the oftenest revived in retrospect. The short dialogue with Priscilla in the garden had determined the current of retrospect in that frequent direction this particular Sunday afternoon.

The first wandering of her thought from the text, which she still attempted dutifully to follow with her eyes and silent lips, was into an imaginary enlargement of the defence she had set up for her husband against Priscilla’s implied blame. The vindication of the loved object is the best balm affection can find for its wounds:—“A man must have so much on his mind,” is the belief by which a wife often supports a cheerful face under rough answers and unfeeling words. And Nancy’s deepest wounds had all come from the perception that the absence of children from their hearth was dwelt on in her husband’s mind as a privation to which he could not reconcile himself. Yet sweet Nancy might have been expected to feel still more keenly the denial of a blessing to which she had looked forward with all the varied expectations and preparations, solemn and prettily trivial, which fill the mind of a loving woman when she expects to become a mother.

Was there not a drawer filled with the neat work of her hands, all unworn and untouched, just as she had arranged it there fourteen years ago—just, but for one little dress, which had been made the burial-dress? But under this immediate personal trial Nancy was so firmly unmurmuring, that years ago she had suddenly renounced the habit of visiting this drawer, lest she should in this way be cherishing a longing for what was not given.

Perhaps it was this very severity towards any indulgence of what she held to be sinful regret in herself, that made her shrink from applying her own standard to her husband. “It is very different—it is much worse for a man to be disappointed in that way: a woman can always be satisfied with devoting herself to her husband, but a man wants something that will make him look forward more—and sitting by the fire is so much duller to him than to a woman.” And always, when Nancy reached this point in her meditations—trying, with predetermined sympathy, to see everything as Godfrey saw it—there came a renewal of self-questioning. _

Had_ she done everything in her power to lighten Godfrey’s privation?

Had she really been right in the resistance which had cost her so much pain six years ago, and again four years ago—the resistance to her husband’s wish that they should adopt a child? Adoption was more remote from the ideas and habits of that time than of our own; still Nancy had her opinion on it. It was as necessary to her mind to have an opinion on all topics, not exclusively masculine, that had come under her notice, as for her to have a precisely marked place for every article of her personal property: and her opinions were always principles to be unwaveringly acted on.

They were firm, not because of their basis, but because she held them with a tenacity inseparable from her mental action. On all the duties and proprieties of life, from filial behaviour to the arrangements of the evening toilette, pretty Nancy Lammeter, by the time she was three-and-twenty, had her unalterable little code, and had formed every one of her habits in strict accordance with that code. She carried these decided judgments within her in the most unobtrusive way: they rooted themselves in her mind, and grew there as quietly as grass. Years ago, we know, she insisted on dressing like Priscilla, because “it was right for sisters to dress alike,” and because “she would do what was right if she wore a gown dyed with cheese-colouring”.

That was a trivial but typical instance of the mode in which Nancy’s life was regulated. It was one of those rigid principles, and no petty egoistic feeling, which had been the ground of Nancy’s difficult resistance to her husband’s wish. To adopt a child, because children of your own had been denied you, was to try and choose your lot in spite of Providence: the adopted child, she was convinced, would never turn out well, and would be a curse to those who had wilfully and rebelliously sought what it was clear that, for some high reason, they were better without. When you saw a thing was not meant to be, said Nancy, it was a bounden duty to leave off so much as wishing for it. And so far, perhaps, the wisest of men could scarcely make more than a verbal improvement in her principle.

But the conditions under which she held it apparent that a thing was not meant to be, depended on a more peculiar mode of thinking.

She would have given up making a purchase at a particular place if, on three successive times, rain, or some other cause of Heaven’s sending, had formed an obstacle; and she would have anticipated a broken limb or other heavy misfortune to any one who persisted in spite of such indications. “But why should you think the child would turn out ill?” said Godfrey, in his remonstrances. “She has thriven as well as child can do with the weaver; and _he_ adopted her. There isn’t such a pretty little girl anywhere else in the parish, or one fitter for the station we could give her. Where can be the likelihood of her being a curse to anybody?”

“Yes, my dear Godfrey,” said Nancy, who was sitting with her hands tightly clasped together, and with yearning, regretful affection in her eyes. “The child may not turn out ill with the weaver. But, then, he didn’t go to seek her, as we should be doing.

It will be wrong: I feel sure it will. Don’t you remember what that lady we met at the Royston Baths told us about the child her sister adopted? That was the only adopting I ever heard of: and the child was transported when it was twenty-three. Dear Godfrey, don’t ask me to do what I know is wrong: I should never be happy again. I know it’s very hard for _you_—it’s easier for me—but it’s the will of Providence.”

It might seem singular that Nancy—with her religious theory pieced together out of narrow social traditions, fragments of church doctrine imperfectly understood, and girlish reasonings on her small experience—should have arrived by herself at a way of thinking so nearly akin to that of many devout people, whose beliefs are held in the shape of a system quite remote from her knowledge—singular, if we did not know that human beliefs, like all other natural growths, elude the barriers of system. Godfrey had from the first specified Eppie, then about twelve years old, as a child suitable for them to adopt. It had never occurred to him that Silas would rather part with his life than with Eppie. Surely the weaver would wish the best to the child he had taken so much trouble with, and would be glad that such good fortune should happen to her: she would always be very grateful to him, and he would be well provided for to the end of his life—provided for as the excellent part he had done by the child deserved.

Was it not an appropriate thing for people in a higher station to take a charge off the hands of a man in a lower? It seemed an eminently appropriate thing to Godfrey, for reasons that were known only to himself; and by a common fallacy, he imagined the measure would be easy because he had private motives for desiring it. This was rather a coarse mode of estimating Silas’s relation to Eppie; but we must remember that many of the impressions which Godfrey was likely to gather concerning the labouring people around him would favour the idea that deep affections can hardly go along with callous palms and scant means; and he had not had the opportunity, even if he had had the power, of entering intimately into all that was exceptional in the weaver’s experience. It was only the want of adequate knowledge that could have made it possible for Godfrey deliberately to entertain an unfeeling project: his natural kindness had outlived that blighting time of cruel wishes, and Nancy’s praise of him as a husband was not founded entirely on a wilful illusion. “I was right,” she said to herself, when she had recalled all their scenes of discussion—“I feel I was right to say him nay, though it hurt me more than anything; but how good Godfrey has been about it!

Many men would have been very angry with me for standing out against their wishes; and they might have thrown out that they’d had ill-luck in marrying me; but Godfrey has never been the man to say me an unkind word. It’s only what he can’t hide: everything seems so blank to him, I know; and the land—what a difference it ’ud make to him, when he goes to see after things, if he’d children growing up that he was doing it all for! But I won’t murmur; and perhaps if he’d married a woman who’d have had children, she’d have vexed him in other ways.”

This possibility was Nancy’s chief comfort; and to give it greater strength, she laboured to make it impossible that any other wife should have had more perfect tenderness. She had been _forced_ to vex him by that one denial. Godfrey was not insensible to her loving effort, and did Nancy no injustice as to the motives of her obstinacy. It was impossible to have lived with her fifteen years and not be aware that an unselfish clinging to the right, and a sincerity clear as the flower-born dew, were her main characteristics; indeed, Godfrey felt this so strongly, that his own more wavering nature, too averse to facing difficulty to be unvaryingly simple and truthful, was kept in a certain awe of this gentle wife who watched his looks with a yearning to obey them.

It seemed to him impossible that he should ever confess to her the truth about Eppie: she would never recover from the repulsion the story of his earlier marriage would create, told to her now, after that long concealment. And the child, too, he thought, must become an object of repulsion: the very sight of her would be painful. The shock to Nancy’s mingled pride and ignorance of the world’s evil might even be too much for her delicate frame. Since he had married her with that secret on his heart, he must keep it there to the last.

Whatever else he did, he could not make an irreparable breach between himself and this long-loved wife. Meanwhile, why could he not make up his mind to the absence of children from a hearth brightened by such a wife?

Why did his mind fly uneasily to that void, as if it were the sole reason why life was not thoroughly joyous to him?

I suppose it is the way with all men and women who reach middle age without the clear perception that life never _can_ be thoroughly joyous: under the vague dullness of the grey hours, dissatisfaction seeks a definite object, and finds it in the privation of an untried good. Dissatisfaction seated musingly on a childless hearth, thinks with envy of the father whose return is greeted by young voices—seated at the meal where the little heads rise one above another like nursery plants, it sees a black care hovering behind every one of them, and thinks the impulses by which men abandon freedom, and seek for ties, are surely nothing but a brief madness. In Godfrey’s case there were further reasons why his thoughts should be continually solicited by this one point in his lot: his conscience, never thoroughly easy about Eppie, now gave his childless home the aspect of a retribution; and as the time passed on, under Nancy’s refusal to adopt her, any retrieval of his error became more and more difficult.

On this Sunday afternoon it was already four years since there had been any allusion to the subject between them, and Nancy supposed that it was for ever buried. “I wonder if he’ll mind it less or more as he gets older,” she thought; “I’m afraid more. Aged people feel the miss of children: what would father do without Priscilla? And if I die, Godfrey will be very lonely—not holding together with his brothers much.

But I won’t be over-anxious, and trying to make things out beforehand: I must do my best for the present.”

With that last thought Nancy roused herself from her reverie, and turned her eyes again towards the forsaken page. It had been forsaken longer than she imagined, for she was presently surprised by the appearance of the servant with the tea-things. It was, in fact, a little before the usual time for tea; but Jane had her reasons. “Is your master come into the yard, Jane?”

“No ’m, he isn’t,” said Jane, with a slight emphasis, of which, however, her mistress took no notice. “I don’t know whether you’ve seen ’em, ’m,” continued Jane, after a pause, “but there’s folks making haste all one way, afore the front window. I doubt something’s happened. There’s niver a man to be seen i’ the yard, else I’d send and see.

I’ve been up into the top attic, but there’s no seeing anything for trees. I hope nobody’s hurt, that’s all.” “Oh, no, I daresay there’s nothing much the matter,” said Nancy. “It’s perhaps Mr. Snell’s bull got out again, as he did before.”

“I wish he mayn’t gore anybody then, that’s all,” said Jane, not altogether despising a hypothesis which covered a few imaginary calamities. “That girl is always terrifying me,” thought Nancy; “I wish Godfrey would come in.”

She went to the front window and looked as far as she could see along the road, with an uneasiness which she felt to be childish, for there were now no such signs of excitement as Jane had spoken of, and Godfrey would not be likely to return by the village road, but by the fields. She continued to stand, however, looking at the placid churchyard with the long shadows of the gravestones across the bright green hillocks, and at the glowing autumn colours of the Rectory trees beyond.

Before such calm external beauty the presence of a vague fear is more distinctly felt—like a raven flapping its slow wing across the sunny air. Nancy wished more and more that Godfrey would come in. CHAPTER XVIII.

Some one opened the door at the other end of the room, and Nancy felt that it was her husband. She turned from the window with gladness in her eyes, for the wife’s chief dread was stilled. “Dear, I’m so thankful you’re come,” she said, going towards him. “I began to get—” She paused abruptly, for Godfrey was laying down his hat with trembling hands, and turned towards her with a pale face and a strange unanswering glance, as if he saw her indeed, but saw her as part of a scene invisible to herself. She laid her hand on his arm, not daring to speak again; but he left the touch unnoticed, and threw himself into his chair.

Jane was already at the door with the hissing urn. “Tell her to keep away, will you?” said Godfrey; and when the door was closed again he exerted himself to speak more distinctly. “Sit down, Nancy—there,” he said, pointing to a chair opposite him. “I came back as soon as I could, to hinder anybody’s telling you but me.

I’ve had a great shock—but I care most about the shock it’ll be to you.” “It isn’t father and Priscilla?” said Nancy, with quivering lips, clasping her hands together tightly on her lap. “No, it’s nobody living,” said Godfrey, unequal to the considerate skill with which he would have wished to make his revelation.

“It’s Dunstan—my brother Dunstan, that we lost sight of sixteen years ago. We’ve found him—found his body—his skeleton.” The deep dread Godfrey’s look had created in Nancy made her feel these words a relief.

She sat in comparative calmness to hear what else he had to tell. He went on: “The Stone-pit has gone dry suddenly—from the draining, I suppose; and there he lies—has lain for sixteen years, wedged between two great stones. There’s his watch and seals, and there’s my gold-handled hunting-whip, with my name on: he took it away, without my knowing, the day he went hunting on Wildfire, the last time he was seen.”

Godfrey paused: it was not so easy to say what came next. “Do you think he drowned himself?” said Nancy, almost wondering that her husband should be so deeply shaken by what had happened all those years ago to an unloved brother, of whom worse things had been augured. “No, he fell in,” said Godfrey, in a low but distinct voice, as if he felt some deep meaning in the fact.

Presently he added: “Dunstan was the man that robbed Silas Marner.” The blood rushed to Nancy’s face and neck at this surprise and shame, for she had been bred up to regard even a distant kinship with crime as a dishonour. “O Godfrey!”

she said, with compassion in her tone, for she had immediately reflected that the dishonour must be felt still more keenly by her husband.

“There was the money in the pit,” he continued—“all the weaver’s money. Everything’s been gathered up, and they’re taking the skeleton to the Rainbow. But I came back to tell you: there was no hindering it; you must know.”

He was silent, looking on the ground for two long minutes. Nancy would have said some words of comfort under this disgrace, but she refrained, from an instinctive sense that there was something behind—that Godfrey had something else to tell her. Presently he lifted his eyes to her face, and kept them fixed on her, as he said— “Everything comes to light, Nancy, sooner or later. When God Almighty wills it, our secrets are found out.

I’ve lived with a secret on my mind, but I’ll keep it from you no longer. I wouldn’t have you know it by somebody else, and not by me—I wouldn’t have you find it out after I’m dead. I’ll tell you now. It’s been ‘I will’ and ‘I won’t’ with me all my life—I’ll make sure of myself now.”

Nancy’s utmost dread had returned. The eyes of the husband and wife met with awe in them, as at a crisis which suspended affection. “Nancy,” said Godfrey, slowly, “when I married you, I hid something from you—something I ought to have told you. That woman Marner found dead in the snow—Eppie’s mother—that wretched woman—was my wife: Eppie is my child.”

He paused, dreading the effect of his confession. But Nancy sat quite still, only that her eyes dropped and ceased to meet his.

She was pale and quiet as a meditative statue, clasping her hands on her lap. “You’ll never think the same of me again,” said Godfrey, after a little while, with some tremor in his voice. She was silent. “I oughtn’t to have left the child unowned: I oughtn’t to have kept it from you.

But I couldn’t bear to give you up, Nancy.

I was led away into marrying her—I suffered for it.” Still Nancy was silent, looking down; and he almost expected that she would presently get up and say she would go to her father’s. How could she have any mercy for faults that must seem so black to her, with her simple, severe notions? But at last she lifted up her eyes to his again and spoke.

There was no indignation in her voice—only deep regret. “Godfrey, if you had but told me this six years ago, we could have done some of our duty by the child. Do you think I’d have refused to take her in, if I’d known she was yours?” At that moment Godfrey felt all the bitterness of an error that was not simply futile, but had defeated its own end.

He had not measured this wife with whom he had lived so long. But she spoke again, with more agitation.

“And—Oh, Godfrey—if we’d had her from the first, if you’d taken to her as you ought, she’d have loved me for her mother—and you’d have been happier with me: I could better have bore my little baby dying, and our life might have been more like what we used to think it ’ud be.” The tears fell, and Nancy ceased to speak. “But you wouldn’t have married me then, Nancy, if I’d told you,” said Godfrey, urged, in the bitterness of his self-reproach, to prove to himself that his conduct had not been utter folly. “You may think you would now, but you wouldn’t then.

With your pride and your father’s, you’d have hated having anything to do with me after the talk there’d have been.”

“I can’t say what I should have done about that, Godfrey. I should never have married anybody else. But I wasn’t worth doing wrong for—nothing is in this world.

Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand—not even our marrying wasn’t, you see.” There was a faint sad smile on Nancy’s face as she said the last words. “I’m a worse man than you thought I was, Nancy,” said Godfrey, rather tremulously.

“Can you forgive me ever?”

“The wrong to me is but little, Godfrey: you’ve made it up to me—you’ve been good to me for fifteen years. It’s another you did the wrong to; and I doubt it can never be all made up for.” “But we can take Eppie now,” said Godfrey. “I won’t mind the world knowing at last.

I’ll be plain and open for the rest o’ my life.” “It’ll be different coming to us, now she’s grown up,” said Nancy, shaking her head sadly. “But it’s your duty to acknowledge her and provide for her; and I’ll do my part by her, and pray to God Almighty to make her love me.” “Then we’ll go together to Silas Marner’s this very night, as soon as everything’s quiet at the Stone-pits.”

CHAPTER XIX.

Between eight and nine o’clock that evening, Eppie and Silas were seated alone in the cottage. After the great excitement the weaver had undergone from the events of the afternoon, he had felt a longing for this quietude, and had even begged Mrs. Winthrop and Aaron, who had naturally lingered behind every one else, to leave him alone with his child. The excitement had not passed away: it had only reached that stage when the keenness of the susceptibility makes external stimulus intolerable—when there is no sense of weariness, but rather an intensity of inward life, under which sleep is an impossibility. Any one who has watched such moments in other men remembers the brightness of the eyes and the strange definiteness that comes over coarse features from that transient influence. It is as if a new fineness of ear for all spiritual voices had sent wonder-working vibrations through the heavy mortal frame—as if “beauty born of murmuring sound” had passed into the face of the listener.

Silas’s face showed that sort of transfiguration, as he sat in his arm-chair and looked at Eppie. She had drawn her own chair towards his knees, and leaned forward, holding both his hands, while she looked up at him. On the table near them, lit by a candle, lay the recovered gold—the old long-loved gold, ranged in orderly heaps, as Silas used to range it in the days when it was his only joy. He had been telling her how he used to count it every night, and how his soul was utterly desolate till she was sent to him.

“At first, I’d a sort o’ feeling come across me now and then,” he was saying in a subdued tone, “as if you might be changed into the gold again; for sometimes, turn my head which way I would, I seemed to see the gold; and I thought I should be glad if I could feel it, and find it was come back. But that didn’t last long.

After a bit, I should have thought it was a curse come again, if it had drove you from me, for I’d got to feel the need o’ your looks and your voice and the touch o’ your little fingers. You didn’t know then, Eppie, when you were such a little un—you didn’t know what your old father Silas felt for you.” “But I know now, father,” said Eppie. “If it hadn’t been for you, they’d have taken me to the workhouse, and there’d have been nobody to love me.”

“Eh, my precious child, the blessing was mine. If you hadn’t been sent to save me, I should ha’ gone to the grave in my misery. The money was taken away from me in time; and you see it’s been kept—kept till it was wanted for you.

It’s wonderful—our life is wonderful.” Silas sat in silence a few minutes, looking at the money. “It takes no hold of me now,” he said, ponderingly—“the money doesn’t. I wonder if it ever could again—I doubt it might, if I lost you, Eppie.

I might come to think I was forsaken again, and lose the feeling that God was good to me.” At that moment there was a knocking at the door; and Eppie was obliged to rise without answering Silas. Beautiful she looked, with the tenderness of gathering tears in her eyes and a slight flush on her cheeks, as she stepped to open the door. The flush deepened when she saw Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Cass. She made her little rustic curtsy, and held the door wide for them to enter.

“We’re disturbing you very late, my dear,” said Mrs. Cass, taking Eppie’s hand, and looking in her face with an expression of anxious interest and admiration. Nancy herself was pale and tremulous.
Eppie, after placing chairs for Mr. and Mrs. Cass, went to stand against Silas, opposite to them. “Well, Marner,” said Godfrey, trying to speak with perfect firmness, “it’s a great comfort to me to see you with your money again, that you’ve been deprived of so many years.

It was one of my family did you the wrong—the more grief to me—and I feel bound to make up to you for it in every way. Whatever I can do for you will be nothing but paying a debt, even if I looked no further than the robbery. But there are other things I’m beholden—shall be beholden to you for, Marner.”

Godfrey checked himself.

It had been agreed between him and his wife that the subject of his fatherhood should be approached very carefully, and that, if possible, the disclosure should be reserved for the future, so that it might be made to Eppie gradually. Nancy had urged this, because she felt strongly the painful light in which Eppie must inevitably see the relation between her father and mother. Silas, always ill at ease when he was being spoken to by “betters,” such as Mr. Cass—tall, powerful, florid men, seen chiefly on horseback—answered with some constraint— “Sir, I’ve a deal to thank you for a’ready.

As for the robbery, I count it no loss to me. And if I did, you couldn’t help it: you aren’t answerable for it.” “You may look at it in that way, Marner, but I never can; and I hope you’ll let me act according to my own feeling of what’s just. I know you’re easily contented: you’ve been a hard-working man all your life.” “Yes, sir, yes,” said Marner, meditatively.

“I should ha’ been bad off without my work: it was what I held by when everything else was gone from me.” “Ah,” said Godfrey, applying Marner’s words simply to his bodily wants, “it was a good trade for you in this country, because there’s been a great deal of linen-weaving to be done. But you’re getting rather past such close work, Marner: it’s time you laid by and had some rest.

You look a good deal pulled down, though you’re not an old man, _are_ you?” “Fifty-five, as near as I can say, sir,” said Silas. “Oh, why, you may live thirty years longer—look at old Macey!

And that money on the table, after all, is but little. It won’t go far either way—whether it’s put out to interest, or you were to live on it as long as it would last: it wouldn’t go far if you’d nobody to keep but yourself, and you’ve had two to keep for a good many years now.” “Eh, sir,” said Silas, unaffected by anything Godfrey was saying, “I’m in no fear o’ want. We shall do very well—Eppie and me ’ull do well enough.

There’s few working-folks have got so much laid by as that. I don’t know what it is to gentlefolks, but I look upon it as a deal—almost too much. And as for us, it’s little we want.” “Only the garden, father,” said Eppie, blushing up to the ears the moment after. “You love a garden, do you, my dear?” said Nancy, thinking that this turn in the point of view might help her husband.

“We should agree in that: I give a deal of time to the garden.” “Ah, there’s plenty of gardening at the Red House,” said Godfrey, surprised at the difficulty he found in approaching a proposition which had seemed so easy to him in the distance. “You’ve done a good part by Eppie, Marner, for sixteen years. It ’ud be a great comfort to you to see her well provided for, wouldn’t it?

She looks blooming and healthy, but not fit for any hardships: she doesn’t look like a strapping girl come of working parents. You’d like to see her taken care of by those who can leave her well off, and make a lady of her; she’s more fit for it than for a rough life, such as she might come to have in a few years’ time.” A slight flush came over Marner’s face, and disappeared, like a passing gleam.

Eppie was simply wondering Mr. Cass should talk so about things that seemed to have nothing to do with reality; but Silas was hurt and uneasy. “I don’t take your meaning, sir,” he answered, not having words at command to express the mingled feelings with which he had heard Mr.
Cass’s words. “Well, my meaning is this, Marner,” said Godfrey, determined to come to the point.

“Mrs. Cass and I, you know, have no children—nobody to benefit by our good home and everything else we have—more than enough for ourselves. And we should like to have somebody in the place of a daughter to us—we should like to have Eppie, and treat her in every way as our own child. It ’ud be a great comfort to you in your old age, I hope, to see her fortune made in that way, after you’ve been at the trouble of bringing her up so well.

And it’s right you should have every reward for that. And Eppie, I’m sure, will always love you and be grateful to you: she’d come and see you very often, and we should all be on the look-out to do everything we could towards making you comfortable.” A plain man like Godfrey Cass, speaking under some embarrassment, necessarily blunders on words that are coarser than his intentions, and that are likely to fall gratingly on susceptible feelings.

While he had been speaking, Eppie had quietly passed her arm behind Silas’s head, and let her hand rest against it caressingly: she felt him trembling violently. He was silent for some moments when Mr. Cass had ended—powerless under the conflict of emotions, all alike painful. Eppie’s heart was swelling at the sense that her father was in distress; and she was just going to lean down and speak to him, when one struggling dread at last gained the mastery over every other in Silas, and he said, faintly— “Eppie, my child, speak. I won’t stand in your way.

Thank Mr. and Mrs.
Cass.” Eppie took her hand from her father’s head, and came forward a step. Her cheeks were flushed, but not with shyness this time: the sense that her father was in doubt and suffering banished that sort of self-consciousness. She dropped a low curtsy, first to Mrs. Cass and then to Mr. Cass, and said— “Thank you, ma’am—thank you, sir.

But I can’t leave my father, nor own anybody nearer than him.

And I don’t want to be a lady—thank you all the same” (here Eppie dropped another curtsy). “I couldn’t give up the folks I’ve been used to.” Eppie’s lips began to tremble a little at the last words. She retreated to her father’s chair again, and held him round the neck: while Silas, with a subdued sob, put up his hand to grasp hers. The tears were in Nancy’s eyes, but her sympathy with Eppie was, naturally, divided with distress on her husband’s account.

She dared not speak, wondering what was going on in her husband’s mind. Godfrey felt an irritation inevitable to almost all of us when we encounter an unexpected obstacle. He had been full of his own penitence and resolution to retrieve his error as far as the time was left to him; he was possessed with all-important feelings, that were to lead to a predetermined course of action which he had fixed on as the right, and he was not prepared to enter with lively appreciation into other people’s feelings counteracting his virtuous resolves.

The agitation with which he spoke again was not quite unmixed with anger. “But I’ve a claim on you, Eppie—the strongest of all claims. It’s my duty, Marner, to own Eppie as my child, and provide for her.

She is my own child—her mother was my wife. I’ve a natural claim on her that must stand before every other.”

Eppie had given a violent start, and turned quite pale. Silas, on the contrary, who had been relieved, by Eppie’s answer, from the dread lest his mind should be in opposition to hers, felt the spirit of resistance in him set free, not without a touch of parental fierceness. “Then, sir,” he answered, with an accent of bitterness that had been silent in him since the memorable day when his youthful hope had perished—“then, sir, why didn’t you say so sixteen year ago, and claim her before I’d come to love her, i’stead o’ coming to take her from me now, when you might as well take the heart out o’ my body?

God gave her to me because you turned your back upon her, and He looks upon her as mine: you’ve no right to her! When a man turns a blessing from his door, it falls to them as take it in.” “I know that, Marner. I was wrong.

I’ve repented of my conduct in that matter,” said Godfrey, who could not help feeling the edge of Silas’s words. “I’m glad to hear it, sir,” said Marner, with gathering excitement; “but repentance doesn’t alter what’s been going on for sixteen year. Your coming now and saying ‘I’m her father’ doesn’t alter the feelings inside us. It’s me

she’s been calling her father ever since she could say the word.” “But I think you might look at the thing more reasonably, Marner,” said Godfrey, unexpectedly awed by the weaver’s direct truth-speaking. “It isn’t as if she was to be taken quite away from you, so that you’d never see her again. She’ll be very near you, and come to see you very often. She’ll feel just the same towards you.”

“Just the same?” said Marner, more bitterly than ever. “How’ll she feel just the same for me as she does now, when we eat o’ the same bit, and drink o’ the same cup, and think o’ the same things from one day’s end to another?

Just the same?

that’s idle talk. You’d cut us i’ two.” Godfrey, unqualified by experience to discern the pregnancy of Marner’s simple words, felt rather angry again. It seemed to him that the weaver was very selfish (a judgment readily passed by those who have never tested their own power of sacrifice) to oppose what was undoubtedly for Eppie’s welfare; and he felt himself called upon, for her sake, to assert his authority.

“I should have thought, Marner,” he said, severely—“I should have thought your affection for Eppie would make you rejoice in what was for her good, even if it did call upon you to give up something. You ought to remember your own life’s uncertain, and she’s at an age now when her lot may soon be fixed in a way very different from what it would be in her father’s home: she may marry some low working-man, and then, whatever I might do for her, I couldn’t make her well-off. You’re putting yourself in the way of her welfare; and though I’m sorry to hurt you after what you’ve done, and what I’ve left undone, I feel now it’s my duty to insist on taking care of my own daughter.

I want to do my duty.” It would be difficult to say whether it were Silas or Eppie that was more deeply stirred by this last speech of Godfrey’s. Thought had been very busy in Eppie as she listened to the contest between her old long-loved father and this new unfamiliar father who had suddenly come to fill the place of that black featureless shadow which had held the ring and placed it on her mother’s finger. Her imagination had darted backward in conjectures, and forward in previsions, of what this revealed fatherhood implied; and there were words in Godfrey’s last speech which helped to make the previsions especially definite. Not that these thoughts, either of past or future, determined her resolution—_that_ was determined by the feelings which vibrated to every word Silas had uttered; but they raised, even apart from these feelings, a repulsion towards the offered lot and the newly-revealed father.

Silas, on the other hand, was again stricken in conscience, and alarmed lest Godfrey’s accusation should be true—lest he should be raising his own will as an obstacle to Eppie’s good. For many moments he was mute, struggling for the self-conquest necessary to the uttering of the difficult words. They came out tremulously. “I’ll say no more. Let it be as you will.

Speak to the child.

I’ll hinder nothing.” Even Nancy, with all the acute sensibility of her own affections, shared her husband’s view, that Marner was not justifiable in his wish to retain Eppie, after her real father had avowed himself. She felt that it was a very hard trial for the poor weaver, but her code allowed no question that a father by blood must have a claim above that of any foster-father. Besides, Nancy, used all her life to plenteous circumstances and the privileges of “respectability,” could not enter into the pleasures which early nurture and habit connect with all the little aims and efforts of the poor who are born poor: to her mind, Eppie, in being restored to her birthright, was entering on a too long withheld but unquestionable good.

Hence she heard Silas’s last words with relief, and thought, as Godfrey did, that their wish was achieved. “Eppie, my dear,” said Godfrey, looking at his daughter, not without some embarrassment, under the sense that she was old enough to judge him, “it’ll always be our wish that you should show your love and gratitude to one who’s been a father to you so many years, and we shall want to help you to make him comfortable in every way. But we hope you’ll come to love us as well; and though I haven’t been what a father should ha’ been to you all these years, I wish to do the utmost in my power for you for the rest of my life, and provide for you as my only child.

And you’ll have the best of mothers in my wife—that’ll be a blessing you haven’t known since you were old enough to know it.” “My dear, you’ll be a treasure to me,” said Nancy, in her gentle voice. “We shall want for nothing when we have our daughter.” Eppie did not come forward and curtsy, as she had done before. She held Silas’s hand in hers, and grasped it firmly—it was a weaver’s hand, with a palm and finger-tips that were sensitive to such pressure—while she spoke with colder decision than before.

“Thank you, ma’am—thank you, sir, for your offers—they’re very great, and far above my wish. For I should have no delight i’ life any more if I was forced to go away from my father, and knew he was sitting at home, a-thinking of me and feeling lone. We’ve been used to be happy together every day, and I can’t think o’ no happiness without him. And he says he’d nobody i’ the world till I was sent to him, and he’d have nothing when I was gone.

And he’s took care of me and loved me from the first, and I’ll cleave to him as long as he lives, and nobody shall ever come between him and me.” “But you must make sure, Eppie,” said Silas, in a low voice—“you must make sure as you won’t ever be sorry, because you’ve made your choice to stay among poor folks, and with poor clothes and things, when you might ha’ had everything o’ the best.” His sensitiveness on this point had increased as he listened to Eppie’s words of faithful affection. “I can never be sorry, father,” said Eppie.

“I shouldn’t know what to think on or to wish for with fine things about me, as I haven’t been used to. And it ’ud be poor work for me to put on things, and ride in a gig, and sit in a place at church, as ’ud make them as I’m fond of think me unfitting company for ’em. What could _I_ care for then?”

Nancy looked at Godfrey with a pained questioning glance. But his eyes were fixed on the floor, where he was moving the end of his stick, as if he were pondering on something absently.

She thought there was a word which might perhaps come better from her lips than from his. “What you say is natural, my dear child—it’s natural you should cling to those who’ve brought you up,” she said, mildly; “but there’s a duty you owe to your lawful father. There’s perhaps something to be given up on more sides than one. When your father opens his home to you, I think it’s right you shouldn’t turn your back on it.” “I can’t feel as I’ve got any father but one,” said Eppie, impetuously, while the tears gathered.

“I’ve always thought of a little home where he’d sit i’ the corner, and I should fend and do everything for him: I can’t think o’ no other home. I wasn’t brought up to be a lady, and I can’t turn my mind to it. I like the working-folks, and their victuals, and their ways. And,” she ended passionately, while the tears fell, “I’m promised to marry a working-man, as’ll live with father, and help me to take care of him.”

Godfrey looked up at Nancy with a flushed face and smarting dilated eyes. This frustration of a purpose towards which he had set out under the exalted consciousness that he was about to compensate in some degree for the greatest demerit of his life, made him feel the air of the room stifling. “Let us go,” he said, in an under-tone. “We won’t talk of this any longer now,” said Nancy, rising. “We’re your well-wishers, my dear—and yours too, Marner.

We shall come and see you again. It’s getting late now.” In this way she covered her husband’s abrupt departure, for Godfrey had gone straight to the door, unable to say more.
CHAPTER XX.
Nancy and Godfrey walked home under the starlight in silence. When they entered the oaken parlour, Godfrey threw himself into his chair, while Nancy laid down her bonnet and shawl, and stood on the hearth near her husband, unwilling to leave him even for a few minutes, and yet fearing to utter any word lest it might jar on his feeling. At last Godfrey turned his head towards her, and their eyes met, dwelling in that meeting without any movement on either side.

That quiet mutual gaze of a trusting husband and wife is like the first moment of rest or refuge from a great weariness or a great danger—not to be interfered with by speech or action which would distract the sensations from the fresh enjoyment of repose. But presently he put out his hand, and as Nancy placed hers within it, he drew her towards him, and said— “That’s ended!”

She bent to kiss him, and then said, as she stood by his side, “Yes, I’m afraid we must give up the hope of having her for a daughter. It wouldn’t be right to want to force her to come to us against her will. We can’t alter her bringing up and what’s come of it.”

“No,” said Godfrey, with a keen decisiveness of tone, in contrast with his usually careless and unemphatic speech—“there’s debts we can’t pay like money debts, by paying extra for the years that have slipped by.

While I’ve been putting off and putting off, the trees have been growing—it’s too late now. Marner was in the right in what he said about a man’s turning away a blessing from his door: it falls to somebody else. I wanted to pass for childless once, Nancy—I shall pass for childless now against my wish.”

Nancy did not speak immediately, but after a little while she asked—“You won’t make it known, then, about Eppie’s being your daughter?” “No: where would be the good to anybody?—only harm.

I must do what I can for her in the state of life she chooses. I must see who it is she’s thinking of marrying.” “If it won’t do any good to make the thing known,” said Nancy, who thought she might now allow herself the relief of entertaining a feeling which she had tried to silence before, “I should be very thankful for father and Priscilla never to be troubled with knowing what was done in the past, more than about Dunsey: it can’t be helped, their knowing that.”

“I shall put it in my will—I think I shall put it in my will. I shouldn’t like to leave anything to be found out, like this of Dunsey,” said Godfrey, meditatively. “But I can’t see anything but difficulties that ’ud come from telling it now. I must do what I can to make her happy in her own way. I’ve a notion,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “it’s Aaron Winthrop she meant she was engaged to.

I remember seeing him with her and Marner going away from church.” “Well, he’s very sober and industrious,” said Nancy, trying to view the matter as cheerfully as possible. Godfrey fell into thoughtfulness again.

Presently he looked up at Nancy sorrowfully, and said— “She’s a very pretty, nice girl, isn’t she, Nancy?” “Yes, dear; and with just your hair and eyes: I wondered it had never struck me before.” “I think she took a dislike to me at the thought of my being her father: I could see a change in her manner after that.” “She couldn’t bear to think of not looking on Marner as her father,” said Nancy, not wishing to confirm her husband’s painful impression.

“She thinks I did wrong by her mother as well as by her. She thinks me worse than I am. But she _must_ think it: she can never know all.

It’s part of my punishment, Nancy, for my daughter to dislike me. I should never have got into that trouble if I’d been true to you—if I hadn’t been a fool. I’d no right to expect anything but evil could come of that marriage—and when I shirked doing a father’s part too.”

Nancy was silent: her spirit of rectitude would not let her try to soften the edge of what she felt to be a just compunction. He spoke again after a little while, but the tone was rather changed: there was tenderness mingled with the previous self-reproach. “And I got _you_, Nancy, in spite of all; and yet I’ve been grumbling and uneasy because I hadn’t something else—as if I deserved it.” “You’ve never been wanting to me, Godfrey,” said Nancy, with quiet sincerity.

“My only trouble would be gone if you resigned yourself to the lot that’s been given us.”

“Well, perhaps it isn’t too late to mend a bit there. Though it _is_ too late to mend some things, say what they will.”

CHAPTER XXI.

The next morning, when Silas and Eppie were seated at their breakfast, he said to her— “Eppie, there’s a thing I’ve had on my mind to do this two year, and now the money’s been brought back to us, we can do it. I’ve been turning it over and over in the night, and I think we’ll set out to-morrow, while the fine days last. We’ll leave the house and everything for your godmother to take care on, and we’ll make a little bundle o’ things and set out.” “Where to go, daddy?” said Eppie, in much surprise.

“To my old country—to the town where I was born—up Lantern Yard. I want to see Mr. Paston, the minister: something may ha’ come out to make ’em know I was innicent o’ the robbery. And Mr. Paston was a man with a deal o’ light—I want to speak to him about the drawing o’ the lots.

And I should like to talk to him about the religion o’ this country-side, for I partly think he doesn’t know on it.” Eppie was very joyful, for there was the prospect not only of wonder and delight at seeing a strange country, but also of coming back to tell Aaron all about it. Aaron was so much wiser than she was about most things—it would be rather pleasant to have this little advantage over him. Mrs. Winthrop, though possessed with a dim fear of dangers attendant on so long a journey, and requiring many assurances that it would not take them out of the region of carriers’ carts and slow waggons, was nevertheless well pleased that Silas should revisit his own country, and find out if he had been cleared from that false accusation. “You’d be easier in your mind for the rest o’ your life, Master Marner,” said Dolly—“that you would.

And if there’s any light to be got up the yard as you talk on, we’ve need of it i’ this world, and I’d be glad on it myself, if you could bring it back.” So on the fourth day from that time, Silas and Eppie, in their Sunday clothes, with a small bundle tied in a blue linen handkerchief, were making their way through the streets of a great manufacturing town. Silas, bewildered by the changes thirty years had brought over his native place, had stopped several persons in succession to ask them the name of this town, that he might be sure he was not under a mistake about it. “Ask for Lantern Yard, father—ask this gentleman with the tassels on his shoulders a-standing at the shop door; he isn’t in a hurry like the rest,” said Eppie, in some distress at her father’s bewilderment, and ill at ease, besides, amidst the noise, the movement, and the multitude of strange indifferent faces. “Eh, my child, he won’t know anything about it,” said Silas; “gentlefolks didn’t ever go up the Yard.

But happen somebody can tell me which is the way to Prison Street, where the jail is.

I know the way out o’ that as if I’d seen it yesterday.” With some difficulty, after many turnings and new inquiries, they reached Prison Street; and the grim walls of the jail, the first object that answered to any image in Silas’s memory, cheered him with the certitude, which no assurance of the town’s name had hitherto given him, that he was in his native place. “Ah,” he said, drawing a long breath, “there’s the jail, Eppie; that’s just the same: I aren’t afraid now.

It’s the third turning on the left hand from the jail doors—that’s the way we must go.” “Oh, what a dark ugly place!” said Eppie. “How it hides the sky!

It’s worse than the Workhouse. I’m glad you don’t live in this town now, father. Is Lantern Yard like this street?” “My precious child,” said Silas, smiling, “it isn’t a big street like this.

I never was easy

i’ this street myself, but I was fond o’ Lantern Yard. The shops here are all altered, I think—I can’t make ’em out; but I shall know the turning, because it’s the third.” “Here it is,” he said, in a tone of satisfaction, as they came to a narrow alley. “And then we must go to the left again, and then straight for’ard for a bit, up Shoe Lane: and then we shall be at the entry next to the o’erhanging window, where there’s the nick in the road for the water to run.

Eh, I can see it all.”

“O father, I’m like as if I was stifled,” said Eppie. “I couldn’t ha’ thought as any folks lived i’ this way, so close together. How pretty the Stone-pits ’ull look when we get back!”

“It looks comical to _me_, child, now—and smells bad. I can’t think as it usened to smell so.” Here and there a sallow, begrimed face looked out from a gloomy doorway at the strangers, and increased Eppie’s uneasiness, so that it was a longed-for relief when they issued from the alleys into Shoe Lane, where there was a broader strip of sky.

“Dear heart!” said Silas, “why, there’s people coming out o’ the Yard as if they’d been to chapel at this time o’ day—a weekday noon!” Suddenly he started and stood still with a look of distressed amazement, that alarmed Eppie. They were before an opening in front of a large factory, from which men and women were streaming for their midday meal. “Father,” said Eppie, clasping his arm, “what’s the matter?” But she had to speak again and again before Silas could answer her.

“It’s gone, child,” he said, at last, in strong agitation—“Lantern Yard’s gone. It must ha’ been here, because here’s the house with the o’erhanging window—I know that—it’s just the same; but they’ve made this new opening; and see that big factory! It’s all gone—chapel and all.” “Come into that little brush-shop and sit down, father—they’ll let you sit down,” said Eppie, always on the watch lest one of her father’s strange attacks should come on.

“Perhaps the people can tell you all about it.” But neither from the brush-maker, who had come to Shoe Lane only ten years ago, when the factory was already built, nor from any other source within his reach, could Silas learn anything of the old Lantern Yard friends, or of Mr. Paston the minister.

“The old place is all swep’ away,” Silas said to Dolly Winthrop on the night of his return—“the little graveyard and everything. The old home’s gone; I’ve no home but this now. I shall never know whether they got at the truth o’ the robbery, nor whether Mr. Paston could ha’ given me any light about the drawing o’ the lots. It’s dark to me, Mrs.
Winthrop, that is; I doubt it’ll be dark to the last.” “Well, yes, Master Marner,” said Dolly, who sat with a placid listening face, now bordered by grey hairs; “I doubt it may.

It’s the will o’ Them above as a many things should be dark to us; but there’s some things as I’ve never felt i’ the dark about, and they’re mostly what comes i’ the day’s work. You were hard done by that once, Master Marner, and it seems as you’ll never know the rights of it; but that doesn’t hinder there _being_ a rights, Master Marner, for all it’s dark to you and me.” “No,” said Silas, “no; that doesn’t hinder. Since the time the child was sent to me and I’ve come to love her as myself, I’ve had light enough to trusten by; and now she says she’ll never leave me, I think I shall trusten till I die.”

CONCLUSION There was one time of the year which was held in Raveloe to be especially suitable for a wedding. It was when the great lilacs and laburnums in the old-fashioned gardens showed their golden and purple wealth above the lichen-tinted walls, and when there were calves still young enough to want bucketfuls of fragrant milk. People were not so busy then as they must become when the full cheese-making and the mowing had set in; and besides, it was a time when a light bridal dress could be worn with comfort and seen to advantage. Happily the sunshine fell more warmly than usual on the lilac tufts the morning that Eppie was married, for her dress was a very light one.

She had often thought, though with a feeling of renunciation, that the perfection of a wedding-dress would be a white cotton, with the tiniest pink sprig at wide intervals; so that when Mrs. Godfrey Cass begged to provide one, and asked Eppie to choose what it should be, previous meditation had enabled her to give a decided answer at once. Seen at a little distance as she walked across the churchyard and down the village, she seemed to be attired in pure white, and her hair looked like the dash of gold on a lily. One hand was on her husband’s arm, and with the other she clasped the hand of her father Silas.

“You won’t be giving me away, father,” she had said before they went to church; “you’ll only be taking Aaron to be a son to you.” Dolly Winthrop walked behind with her husband; and there ended the little bridal procession. There were many eyes to look at it, and Miss Priscilla Lammeter was glad that she and her father had happened to drive up to the door of the Red House just in time to see this pretty sight. They had come to keep Nancy company to-day, because Mr. Cass had had to go away to Lytherley, for special reasons. That seemed to be a pity, for otherwise he might have gone, as Mr. Crackenthorp and Mr. Osgood certainly would, to look on at the wedding-feast which he had ordered at the Rainbow, naturally feeling a great interest in the weaver who had been wronged by one of his own family.

“I could ha’ wished Nancy had had the luck to find a child like that and bring her up,” said Priscilla to her father, as they sat in the gig; “I should ha’ had something young to think of then, besides the lambs and the calves.” “Yes, my dear, yes,” said Mr. Lammeter; “one feels that as one gets older. Things look dim to old folks: they’d need have some young eyes about ’em, to let ’em know the world’s the same as it used to be.”

Nancy came out now to welcome her father and sister; and the wedding group had passed on beyond the Red House to the humbler part of the village. Dolly Winthrop was the first to divine that old Mr. Macey, who had been set in his arm-chair outside his own door, would expect some special notice as they passed, since he was too old to be at the wedding-feast. “Mr. Macey’s looking for a word from us,” said Dolly; “he’ll be hurt if we pass him and say nothing—and him so racked with rheumatiz.” So they turned aside to shake hands with the old man.

He had looked forward to the occasion, and had his premeditated speech. “Well, Master Marner,” he said, in a voice that quavered a good deal, “I’ve lived to see my words come true. I was the first to say there was no harm in you, though your looks might be again’ you; and I was the first to say you’d get your money back. And it’s nothing but rightful as you should.

And I’d ha’ said the ‘Amens,’ and willing, at the holy matrimony; but Tookey’s done it a good while now, and I hope you’ll have none the worse luck.” In the open yard before the Rainbow the party of guests were already assembled, though it was still nearly an hour before the appointed feast time. But by this means they could not only enjoy the slow advent of their pleasure; they had also ample leisure to talk of Silas Marner’s strange history, and arrive by due degrees at the conclusion that he had brought a blessing on himself by acting like a father to a lone motherless child.

Even the farrier did not negative this sentiment: on the contrary, he took it up as peculiarly his own, and invited any hardy person present to contradict him. But he met with no contradiction; and all differences among the company were merged in a general agreement with Mr. Snell’s sentiment, that when a man had deserved his good luck, it was the part of his neighbours to wish him joy.

As the bridal group approached, a hearty cheer was raised in the Rainbow yard; and Ben Winthrop, whose jokes had retained their acceptable flavour, found it agreeable to turn in there and receive congratulations; not requiring the proposed interval of quiet at the Stone-pits before joining the company. Eppie had a larger garden than she had ever expected there now; and in other ways there had been alterations at the expense of Mr. Cass, the landlord, to suit Silas’s larger family. For he and Eppie had declared that they would rather stay at the Stone-pits than go to any new home. The garden was fenced with stones on two sides, but in front there was an open fence, through which the flowers shone with answering gladness, as the four united people came within sight of them.

“O father,” said Eppie, “what a pretty home ours is! I think nobody could be happier than we are.”

If you ever go into the Maine woods to hunt and fish you will have as your companion a veteran of forest and stream, a professional guide. It will be his duty to show you where the game and fish are most plentiful; to see that you do not get into trouble with the authorities by breaking the game laws; to make your camp comfortable; and if you are very green, to keep a watchful eye on you lest you accidentally shoot him or mistake another sportsman for a deer.

If you are the right sort--the Maine guide is almost certain to be the right sort--you will get a great deal more from your companion than the simple services for which you pay him. He will be not only guide, but friend and philosopher, and will grudge you nothing of his stores of wisdom, kindliness, and humor. If, however, you are to receive most profit and pleasure from life in the woods with this good comrade, you must do your part of the work, use what wits you have, and not show a disposition to lean too limply on his strength. There are some things that the best guide cannot do.

Not only will he be unable to think for you, but if you are too ready to let him do all the paddling, he will give you only perfunctory help and sulky advice. If, on the contrary, you are handy, he will be doubly handy. The more you learn, the more he can tell you.

The more rapidly you approach the time when you are qualified to set up as professional guide yourself, the more you will enjoy the niceties of his theories of hunting, fishing, and wood lore. Now, a guide to reading--if he be of the right sort--can do for the beginner in literature very much the same degree of service as the Maine woodsman. The literary guide is merely one who has lived longer among books than the unprofessional reader. Since he has elected to pass his life in the literary woods, he may be supposed to have a good nose for interesting clews, and sharp eyes and alert ears for leading signs.

He knows what novels are good fishing and what poetic trees are sound and what are hollow. But his services, however willingly tendered and skillfully performed, have limitations.

You must do your own thinking and your own reading, and understand that only when you cease to be in floundering need of a guide will you begin to receive the richest benefits of reading. The guide’s idea of his duty is to help you to get along altogether without him. No guide, no literary adviser can give you ears for poetry or eyes for truth. The wisest companion can only persuade you to live among good books in order that your ear may have opportunity to reveal its fine capacities if it has them, and in order that your eye, dwelling upon beautiful things, may grow practiced in discernment. He cannot read for you.

If you do not intend or hope to read any of the books mentioned in this volume, it will be waste of time for you to turn this page. If you passively receive every judgment of your guide about the merits of the scores of books we shall discuss, and never once question or try his judgment for yourself, you may be learning something about this guide, but you will not be learning about literature. It is not the part of a good pupil to surrender right of private judgment, but it is his part to give his judgment solid matter to work upon. On the other hand, too much independence, especially if it is not grounded in experience, is not modest. Even those who have read a good deal and arrived at mature opinions about books, may be content to accompany for a while a new guide whose experience has, necessarily, been different from that of others.

Whatever your hope or intention, your guide is only a guide; he has not power to lead you against your will, he has not the schoolmaster’s right to prescribe a set course of reading. The reading must be voluntary, and to have value it must involve some hard work. Healthful entertainment and recreation we can safely promise. As for wisdom, reverence, the deeper delights of communion with noble minds, whether you meet these great spiritual experiences depends on you.

The guide can merely indicate where they may be sought.
Let us at the outset agree not to map out our journey too rigidly. A young friend of mine conceived at the age of sixteen the inordinate ambition to read everything that is good. He procured a public library catalogue, and asked a school-teacher to check off the titles of all the books knowledge of which is essential to a perfect education. The teacher smiled and confessed that she did not know even the titles herself. She might have added that neither does any one else know the titles, much less the insides, of all good books.

But she marked some hundred names, and the ambitious youngster entered upon his long feast.

He never finished all the books that were checked, for one or two proved discouragingly stiff and dull, and as he ran his eye down the list for the next prescribed masterpiece he saw other alluring titles which were not checked, and he wrote the numbers on library slips. The experience taught him that he must select books for himself, and that the world’s library is too vast for anyone to be acquainted with all its treasures. A youth so eager to know good books can be trusted sooner or later to find his way to them. For the benefit of less zealous persons, great faith used to be placed in lists of the Hundred Best Books. Such lists, even the very judicious selection made by Sir John Lubbock (Lord Avebury), can never be satisfactory.

Lord Avebury is too good a student of nature and human nature to regard his list as final. It was not final for one man, John Ruskin, who has given us a most inspiring essay on books, “Of Kings’ Treasures.” Ruskin thought that Lubbock had included in the chosen hundred some books that were not only unworthy but injurious.

No man could make a list which would fare any better at the hands of another critic of solid convictions. Who shall select a social Four Hundred, all of whom we should accept as friends? Who can select a Four Hundred or a One Hundred of books and not leave out some of the noblest and best? It may be that Lubbock and Ruskin were both a little priggish to take that century of masterpieces quite so solemnly. In books, as in all things, we cherish much that is not the best, but is good in its way.

It is not natural nor right to reject all but the superlatively excellent. It is natural to prefer sometimes a book of secondary value, and it is perversely natural to turn away from the book that we are assured too insistently we “ought to read.” A formal list of “oughts” is a severe test for ordinary human patience. Becky Sharp in “Vanity Fair” is a bad-tempered and bad-hearted young woman, but one can have a little sympathy with her when she throws her copy of Johnson’s Dictionary at the head of her teacher as she parts forever from the school gates. It is not altogether her fault if Johnson’s Dictionary seems to her at that moment of all printed things the most detestable.

Yet perhaps no better book than a good dictionary could be found whereon to base a library and a knowledge of literature.

The wit who said that the dictionary is a good book, but changes the subject too often, told but a partial truth, for the dictionary keeps consistently to the first of all subjects, the language in which all subjects are expressed. If it be true that Americans are of all peoples the most assiduous patrons of the dictionary, the future of our popular education and of our national literature is secure, for although mere words will not make thought, it is only thoughtful people who have a zealous interest in the dictionary. The schoolmaster who first made the present writer conscious that there is a difference between good English and bad used to tell us in the moments when regular school exercises were pending to study our dictionaries. The dictionary would be a reasonable answer to that delightful conundrum: “If you were wrecked on a desert island, and could have only one book, what book would you choose?” The shrewdest of all answers to that question evaded it: “I should spend so much time trying to choose the book that I should miss the steamer and not be wrecked.”

These conundrums--the best book?--the best hundred books?--the greatest novel?--the greatest poem?--are not to be answered. The use of them is that they stir our imaginations and whet our judgments. If we come close and try to settle them in earnest, we bring tumbling about our heads a multitude of conflicting answers. Then we flee from the disorder and realize that conundrums are only stimulating nonsense.

Individual choice among the riches of the world’s literature is not to be confined by hard and fast rules and tests. As a practical matter we are not altogether free to choose. Our book friends, like our human friends, are in part chosen for us by accidental encounters.

We do not wander over the world seeking for the dozen souls that are most fit to be grappled to us with hoops of steel. We merely choose the most congenial among our neighbors. So it is with books. Each of us wishes to select the best among such as are available, to have judgment in accepting the right one when it falls in our way. Biography is full of instances of chance encounters in the world’s library that have shaped great careers.

John Stuart Mill records in his Autobiography how Wordsworth’s poetry brought about in him a spiritual regeneration. At the age of twenty-one, precociously far advanced in his study of economics and philosophy, he found himself dejected and with no clear outlook upon life. He had often heard of the uplifting power of poetry, and read the whole of Byron, but Byron did him no good.

He took up Wordsworth’s poems “from curiosity, with no expectation of mental relief.” “I found myself,” he says, “at once better and happier as I came under their influence.” The reading of Wordsworth was the immediate occasion, though not the sole cause, of a complete change in his way of thinking, and his new way of thinking led him to life-long associations with other great men.

We cannot tell which poet, which thinker, will do for us what Wordsworth did for Mill. But while we are young we can take trial excursions into literature until we find our own.

And when we do find our own, the treasure that is most precious to our souls, we shall know it, and know it the better, perhaps, if we have tried many good books and failed to like them. If we are to rely so frankly upon our own likings, a word of caution may be necessary to help us distinguish liberty of choice from unreasonable license. We have to ask not only, Does this book interest me?--but, Does this book appeal to the best tastes and emotions in me? Many of us, by no means bad human beings, are so constituted that if our eye meets the morbid, the coarse, the senselessly horrible, we are fascinated, we are indeed interested. But it requires only the most simple self-analysis and a little honesty, to pull ourselves together and realize that it is an unworthy side of us, a side that we do not care to show our friends, which is being held at attention.

Not that we need, like the stupidest of the old Puritans, be afraid of a book simply because it does thrill us and make us breathless. For every bad book which holds the depraved mind guiltily alert, a good book can be found, so absorbing, so compelling, that beside it the bad book is tame. I once had a pupil whose transparent honesty was only one of his many lovable qualities. He believed that “Literature” consisted of dull books written by authors who died long ago.

The ill-reasoned conclusion was his own, but I found that the raw materials of his error lay in the prudishness of one of his teachers. When I told him that “Huckleberry Finn,” by a very live author, is literature, and that a short story by Mrs. Mary Wilkins-Freeman in a current magazine seemed to me literature of rare excellence, his delight so aroused his wits that for some time after that my part of the lessons consisted merely in meeting his enthusiasm halfway. A friend once asked me what he could read to improve his mind. In the pride of a little superior wisdom, I loftily recommended Shakespeare. His reply was, “That is too deep for me.”

A wiser counselor than I, knowing his circumstances, would not have tried to cultivate a sprouting ambition with quite so perfect an intellectual instrument. But I stuck to my advice, and shortly after I had opportunity to prove that I was, if not wise, at least on the side of wisdom.

We went together to see “Othello”--from gallery seats. After that my friend read the play and another that was bound with it. Shakespeare is deep, forsooth. Hamlet’s soliloquy in the fourth act:     How all occasions do inform against me, is so profound that it is darkened by its very depth.

But the play “Hamlet” is a stirring melodrama that keeps the “gallery gods” leaning forward in their seats.

The larger part of literature is by dead authors, because the “great majority” of the race is dead and includes its proportionate number of poets and prophets. Some great books _are_ dull except to a comparatively few minds in certain moods. But most dull books by old writers have been forgotten; our ancestors saved us the trouble of rejecting them.

Most books that have survived are triumphantly alive in all senses. The vitality of a book that is just born may be brief as a candle flame. The old book that is still bright has proved that its brightness is the true luster of the metal; else we should not know its name. CHAPTER II THE PURPOSE OF READING The question why we read books is one of those vast questions that need no answer.

As well ask, Why ought we to be good? or, Why do we believe in a God? The whole universe of wisdom answers.

To attempt an answer in a chapter of a book would be like turning a spyglass for a moment toward the stars. We take the great simple things for granted, like the air we breathe. In a country that holds popular education to be the foundation of all its liberties and fortunes, we do not find many people who need to be argued into the belief that the reading of books is good for us; even people who do not read much acknowledge vaguely that they ought to read more. There are, to be sure, men of rough worldly wisdom, even endowed with spiritual insight, who distrust “book learning” and fall back on the obvious truth that experience of life is the great teacher. Such persons are in a measure justified in their conviction by the number of unwise human beings who have read much but to no purpose.

The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read,     With loads of learned lumber in his head is a living argument against mere reading. But we can meet such argument by pointing out that the blockhead who cannot learn from books cannot learn much from life, either.

That sometimes useful citizen whom it is fashionable to call a Philistine, and who calls himself a “practical man,” often has under him a beginner fresh from the schools, who is glib and confident in repeating bookish theories, but is not yet skillful in applying them. If the practical man is thoughtless, he sniffs at theory and points to his clumsy assistant as proof of the uselessness of what is to be got from books. If he is wise, the practical man realizes how much better off he would be, how much farther his hard work and experience might have carried him, if he had had the advantage of bookish training. Moreover, the hard-headed skeptic, self-made and self-secure, who will not traffic with the literature that touches his life work, is seldom so confined to his own little shop that he will not, for recreation, take holiday tours into the literature of other men’s lives and labors. The man who does not like to read any books is, I am confident, seldom found, and at the risk of slandering a patriot, I will express the doubt whether he is a good citizen.

Honest he may be, but certainly not wise. The human race for thousands of years has been writing its experiences, telling how it has met our everlasting problems, how it has struggled with darkness and rejoiced in light. What fools we should be to try to live our lives without the guidance and inspiration of the generations that have gone before, without the joy, encouragement, and sympathy that the best imaginations of our generation are distilling into words. For literature is simply life selected and condensed into books.

In a few hours we can follow all that is recorded of the life of Jesus--the best that He did in years of teaching and suffering all ours for a day of reading, and the more deeply ours for a lifetime of reading and meditation! If the expression of life in words is strong and beautiful and true it outlives empires, like the oldest books of the Old Testament. If it is weak or trivial or untrue, it is forgotten like most of the “stories” in yesterday’s newspaper, like most of the novels of last year. The expression of truth, the transmission of knowledge and emotions between man and man from generation to generation, this is the purpose of literature. Not to read books is like being shut up in a dungeon while life rushes by outside.

I happen to be writing in Christmas week, and I have read for the tenth time “A Christmas Carol,” by Dickens, that amazing allegory in which the hard, bitter facts of life are involved in a beautiful myth, that wizard’s caldron in which humor bubbles and from which rise phantom figures of religion and poetry. Can anyone doubt that if this story were read by every man, woman, and child in the world, Christmas would be a happier time and the feelings of the race elevated and strengthened? The story has power enough to defeat armies, to make revolutions in the faith of men, and turn the cold markets of the world into festival scenes of charity.

If you know any mean person, you may be sure that he has not read “A Christmas Carol,” or that he read it long ago and has forgotten it. I know there are persons who pretend that the sentimentality of Dickens destroys their interest in him. I once took a course with an overrefined, imperfectly educated professor of literature, who advised me that in time I should outgrow my liking for Dickens. It was only his way of recommending to me a kind of fiction that I had not learned to like.

In time I did learn to like it, but I did not outgrow Dickens. A person who can read “A Christmas Carol” aloud to the end and keep his voice steady is, I suspect, not a safe person to trust with one’s purse or one’s honor. It is not necessary to argue about the value of literature or even to define it.

One way of bringing ourselves to realize vividly what literature can do for us is to enter the libraries of great men and see what books have done for the acknowledged leaders of our race. You will recall John Stuart Mill’s experience in reading Wordsworth. Mill was a man of letters as well as a scientific economist and philosopher, and we expect to find that men of letters have been nourished on literature; reading must necessarily have been a large part of their professional preparation. The examples of men of action who have been molded and inspired by books will perhaps be more helpful to remember; for most of us are not to be writers or to engage in purely intellectual work; our ambitions point to a thousand different careers in the world of action.

[Illustration: DICKENS]

Lincoln was not primarily a man of letters, although he wrote noble prose on occasion, and the art of expression was important, perhaps indispensable, in his political success. He read deeply in the law and in books on public questions. For general literature he had little time, either during his early struggles or after his public life began, and his autobiographical memorandum contains the significant words: “Education defective.” But these more significant words are found in a letter which he wrote to Hackett, the player: “Some of Shakespeare’s plays I have never read, while others I have gone over perhaps as frequently as any unprofessional reader.

Among the latter are ‘Lear,’ ‘Richard III,’ ‘Henry VIII,’ ‘Hamlet,’ and, especially, ‘Macbeth.’” If he had not read these masterpieces, no doubt he would have become President just the same and guided the country through its terrible difficulties; but we may be fairly sure that the high philosophy by which he lifted the political differences of his day above partisan quarrels, the command of words which gives his letters and speeches literary permanence apart from their biographical interest, the poetic exaltation of the Gettysburg Address, these higher qualities of genius, beyond the endowment of any native wit, came to Lincoln in some part from the reading of books. It is important to note that he followed Franklin’s advice to read much but not too many books; the list of books mentioned in the biographical records of Lincoln is not long. But he went over those half dozen plays “frequently.”

We should remember, too, that he based his ideals upon the Bible and his style upon the King James Version. His writings abound in biblical phrases. We are accustomed to regard Lincoln as a thinker. His right arm in the saddest duty of his life, General Grant, was a man of deeds; as Lincoln said of him, he was a “copious worker and fighter, but a very meager writer and telegrapher.” In his “Memoirs,” Grant makes a modest confession about his reading: “There is a fine library connected with the Academy [West Point] from which cadets can get books to read in their quarters.

I devoted more time to these than to books relating to the course of studies. Much of the time, I am sorry to say, was devoted to novels, but not those of a trashy sort. I read all of Bulwer’s then published, Cooper’s, Marryat’s, Scott’s, Washington Irving’s works, Lever’s, and many others that I do not now remember.” Grant was not a shining light in his school days, nor indeed in his life until the Civil War, and at first sight he is not a striking example of a great man influenced by books. Yet who can deny that the fruit of that early reading is to be found in his “Memoirs,” in which a man of action unused to writing and called upon to narrate great events, discovers an easy adequate style?

There is a dangerous kind of conjecture in which many biographers indulge when they try to relate logically the scattered events of a man’s life. A conjectured relation is set down as a proved or unquestioned relation. I shall say something about this in the chapter on biography, and I do not wish to violate my own teachings. But we may, without harm, hazard the suggestion, which is only a suggestion, that some of the chivalry of Scott’s heroes wove itself into Grant’s instincts and inspired this businesslike, modern general, in the days when politeness has lost some of its flourish, to be the great gentleman he was at Appomattox when he quietly wrote into the terms of the surrender that the Confederate officers should keep their side arms.

Stevenson’s account of the episode in his essay on “Gentlemen” is heightened, though not above the dignity of the facts, certainly not to a degree that is untrue to the facts as they are to be read in Grant’s simple narrative. Since I have agreed not to say “ought to read,” I will only express the hope that the quotation from Stevenson will lead you to the essay and to the volume that contains it. “On the day of the capitulation, Lee wore his presentation sword; it was the first thing that Grant observed, and from that moment he had but one thought: how to avoid taking it. A man, who should perhaps have had the nature of an angel, but assuredly not the special virtues of a gentleman, might have received the sword, and no more words about it: he would have done well in a plain way.

One who wished to be a gentleman, and knew not how, might have received and returned it: he would have done infamously ill, he would have proved himself a cad; taking the stage for himself, leaving to his adversary confusion of countenance and the ungraceful posture of a man condemned to offer thanks. Grant, without a word said, added to the terms this article: ‘All officers to retain their side arms’; and the problem was solved and Lee kept his sword, and Grant went down to posterity, not perhaps a fine gentleman, but a great one.” Napoleon, who of all men of mighty deeds after Julius Cæsar had the greatest intellect, was a tireless reader, and since he needed only four or five hours’ sleep in twenty-four he found time to read in the midst of his prodigious activities. Nowadays those of us who are preparing to conquer the world are taught to strengthen ourselves for the task by getting plenty of sleep. Napoleon’s devouring eyes read far into the night; when he was in the field his secretaries forwarded a stream of books to his headquarters; and if he was left without a new volume to begin, some underling had to bear his imperial displeasure.

No wonder that his brain contained so many ideas that, as the sharp-tongued poet, Heine, said, one of his lesser thoughts would keep all the scholars and professors in Germany busy all their lives making commentaries on it. In Franklin’s “Autobiography” we have an unusually clear statement of the debt of a man of affairs to literature: “From a child I was fond of reading, and all the little money that came into my hands was ever laid out in books. Pleased with the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ my first collection was of John Bunyan’s works in separate little volumes.... My father’s little library consisted chiefly of books in polemic divinity, most of which I read, and have since often regretted that, at a time when I had such a thirst for knowledge, more proper books had not fallen in my way, since it was now resolved that I should not be a clergyman.

‘Plutarch’s Lives’ there was in which I read abundantly, and I still think that time spent to great advantage. There was also a book of De Foe’s, called an ‘Essay on Projects,’ and another of Dr.
Mather’s, called ‘Essays to do Good,’ which perhaps gave me a turn of thinking that had an influence on some of the principal future events of my life.” It is not surprising to find that the most versatile of versatile Americans read De Foe’s “Essay on Projects,” which contains practical suggestions on a score of subjects, from banking and insurance to national academies.

In Cotton Mather’s “Essays to do Good” is the germ perhaps of the sensible morality of Franklin’s “Poor Richard.”

The story of how Franklin gave his nights to the study of Addison and by imitating the _Spectator_ papers taught himself to write, is the best of lessons in self-cultivation in English. The “Autobiography” is proof of how well he learned, not Addison’s style, which was suited to Joseph Addison and not to Benjamin Franklin, but a clear, firm manner of writing. In Franklin’s case we can see not only what he owed to books, but how one side of his fine, responsive mind was starved because, as he put it, more proper books did not fall in his way. The blind side of Franklin’s great intellect was his lack of religious imagination.

This defect may be accounted for by the forbidding nature of the religious books in his father’s library. Repelled by the dull discourses, the young man missed the religious exaltation and poetic mysticism which the New England divines concealed in their polemic argument. Franklin’s liking for Bunyan and his confession that his father’s discouragement kept him from being a poet, “most probably,” he says, “a very bad one,” show that he would have responded to the right kind of religious literature, and not have remained all his life such a complacent rationalist. If it is clear that the purpose of reading is to put ourselves in communication with the best minds of our race, we need go no farther for a definition of “good reading.”

Whatever human beings have said well in words is literature, whether it be the Declaration of Independence or a love story. Reading consists in nothing more than in taking one of the volumes in which somebody has said something well, opening it on one’s knee, and beginning. We take it for granted, then, that we know why we read.

We shall presently discuss some books which we shall like to read. But before we come to an examination of certain kinds of literature and certain of its great qualities, we may ask one further question: How shall we read?

One answer is that we should read with as much of ourselves as a book warrants, with the part of ourselves that a book demands. Mrs.
Browning says:               We get no good     By being ungenerous, even to a book,     And calculating profits--so much help     By so much reading. It is rather when     We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge     Soul-forward, headlong, into a book’s profound,     Impassioned for its beauty, and salt of truth--     ’Tis then we get the right good from a book. We sometimes know exactly what we wish to get from a book, especially if it is a volume of information on a definite subject.

But the great book is full of treasures that one does not deliberately seek, and which indeed one may miss altogether on the first journey through.

It is almost nonsensical to say: Read Macaulay for clearness, Carlyle for power, Thackeray for ease. Literary excellence is not separated and bottled up in any such drug-shop array. If Macaulay is a master of clearness it is because he is much else besides. Unless we read a man for all there is in him, we get very little, we meet, not a living human being, not a vital book, but something dead, dismembered, disorganized. We do not read Thackeray for ease; we read him for Thackeray and enjoy his ease by the way.

We must read a book for all there is in it or we shall get little or nothing. To be masters of books we must have learned to let books master us. This is true of books that we are required to read, such as text books, and of those we read voluntarily and at leisure. The law of reading is to give a book its due and a little more. The art of reading is to know how to apply this law.

For there is an art of reading, for each of us to learn for himself, a private way of making the acquaintance of books. Macaulay, whose mind was never hurried nor confused, learned to read very rapidly, to absorb a page at a glance. A distinguished professor, who has spent his life in the most minutely technical scholarship, surprised us one day by commending to his classes the fine art of “skipping.” Many good books, including some most meritorious “three-decker” novels, have their profitless pages, and it is useful to know by a kind of practiced instinct where to pause and reread and where to run lightly and rapidly over the page.

It is a useful accomplishment not only in the reading of fiction, but in the business of life, to the man of affairs who must get the gist of a mass of written matter, and to the student of any special subject. Usually, of course, a book that is worth reading at all is worth reading carefully. Thoroughness of reading is the first thing to preach and to practice, and it is perhaps dangerous to suggest to a beginner that any book should be skimmed. The suggestion will serve its purpose if it indicates that there are ways to read, that practice in reading is like practice in anything else; the more one does, and the more intelligently one does it, the farther and more easily one can go.

In the best reading--that is, the most thoughtful reading of the most thoughtful books, attention is necessary. It is even necessary that we should read some works, some passages, so often and with such close application that we commit them to memory. It is said that the habit of learning pieces by heart is not so prevalent as it used to be. I hope that this is not so.

What!

have you no poems by heart, no great songs, no verses from the Bible, no speeches from Shakespeare? Then you have not begun to read, you have not learned how to read. We have said enough, perhaps, of the theories of reading.

The one lesson that seems most obvious is that we must come close to literature. Therefore we shall pause no longer on general considerations, but enter at once the library where the living books are ranged upon the shelves. CHAPTER III THE READING OF FICTION

Our reason for considering prose fiction before the other departments of literature is not that fiction is of greatest importance, but that it is the branch of literature most widely known and enjoyed. Pretend as we may to prefer poetry and “solid books” (as if good fiction lacked solidity!) most of us have read more novels than histories, more short stories than poems.

The good old Quaker who wrote a dull history of Nantucket could not understand why the young people preferred novels to his veracious chronicle; which was the same as saying that he did not understand young people, or old people, either. Since the beginning of recorded human history the world has gathered eagerly about the knees of its story-tellers, and to the end of the race it will continue to applaud and honor the skillful inventor of fiction. There was a time when preachers and teachers, at least those of the English-speaking nations, had a somber view of life and looked with distrust on pleasant arts; and no doubt they were right in holding that if stories take our thoughts off the great realities, we cannot afford to abandon our minds to such toys and trivial inventions. But the severe moralists never made out a good case against the arts; they could not prove that joy and laughter and light entertainment interfered with high thinking and right living; and in time they rediscovered, what other wise men had never forgotten, that art is good for the soul.

In the past century the novel has taken all knowledge for its province and has allied itself to the labors of prophets, preachers, and educators. The philosopher finds that some of the great speculative minds have uttered their thoughts in the form of artistic fiction. The true scholar no longer confines himself to annotating the fictions of the Greeks and Romans and the established classics of his race. He sees in the best art of his contemporaries the same effort of the human soul to express itself which informed the ancient masterpieces.

Jane Austen, whose delicate novels inspired stronger writers than she, who by her gentleness and truth influenced creative powers greater than her own, whimsically recognized and perhaps helped to remove the pedantic prejudice against fiction. The following passage from “Northanger Abbey” will give a taste of that delicious book. It is a quiet satire on the absurdly romantic such as is still manufactured and sold by the million copies to readers who, one may suppose, have not had the good fortune to read Jane Austen. The heroines of “Northanger Abbey,” Catherine and Isabella, “shut themselves up to read novels together. Yes, novels; for I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom, so common with novel writers, of degrading, by their contemptuous censure, the very performances to the number of which they are themselves adding; joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with disgust.

Alas!

if the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured body.

Although our productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much decried.

From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers; and while the abilities of the nine-hundredth abridger of the ‘History of England,’ or of the man who collects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper from the _Spectator_, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by a thousand pens, there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labor of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them. ‘I am no novel reader; I seldom look into novels; do not imagine that _I_ often read novels; it is really very well for a novel.’ Such is the common cant. ‘And what are you reading, Miss ----?’ ‘Oh, it is only a novel!’

replies the young lady; while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. ‘It is only “Cecilia,” or “Camilla,” or “Belinda,”’ or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humor, are conveyed to the world in the best chosen language.” Since that was written the novel has overridden its detractors by sheer bulk and power. The greatest man in Russia, Tolstoi, is, or was, a novelist.

The greatest poet and thinker alive but yesterday in England, George Meredith, was a novelist. Of the two wisest living writers in America, one, Mr. William Dean Howells, is a novelist, and the other, Mark Twain, whom one hardly knows how to rank or label, has done a part of his best writing in the form of fiction. We no longer question the power and dignity of the novel. Our only concern is to discriminate good stories from bad and get the greatest delight and profit from the good. To bring our discussion to a vital example, let us consider Thackeray’s “Henry Esmond,” an all but perfect fiction, in which every element of excellent narrative is present.

The first element is plot. A story must begin in an interesting set of circumstances and arrive by a series of events to a conclusion that satisfies. The plot of “Esmond” is unusually well made, and it is composed of rich matter. From the first chapter in which Henry is introduced to us as “no servant, though a dependent, no relative, though he bore the name and inherited the blood of the house”--a youth with a mystery--on through the schemes for the restoration of the Stuart King, through Esmond’s unsuccessful rivalry with the other suitors of Beatrice, to the end of the high intrigues of politics and the quiet conclusion of Esmond’s career, the story moves steadily with well-mannered leisure.

It takes its own time, but it takes the right time, slow when events are preparing, rapid and flashing when events come to a crisis. The great crisis, when Esmond overtakes the prince at Castlewood, breaks his sword and renounces both allegiance to the Stuarts and his own birthright, is one of the supreme dramatic scenes in literature. There Thackeray matches, even excels, Scott and Dumas.

And such is the variety of his power that on other pages he writes brilliant and witty comedy surpassed only by the lighter plays of Shakespeare, on yet other pages he gives compact lucid summary of events, the skill of which an historian might envy, and again he writes pages of comment on human character which equal the best pages of Esmond’s friend, “the famous Mr. Joseph Addison.” The actors in these events are as distinct and memorable as any in history or as any in life. It would be impossible for a reader not well acquainted with the age of Queen Anne to tell which of the personages in the book once moved in the flesh and which Thackeray created. And readers who have a wide acquaintance with the world and have known many of its sons and daughters will find in their gallery of memories no brilliant and heartless woman whom they seem to remember with more sense of intimacy and understanding than the woman who led Mr. Esmond such an uncomfortable dance and was the means of defeating Stuart ambitions--Beatrice Esmond.

How are these personages of a fiction made to seem so lifelike? Genius only can answer, and genius is often unaware by just what devices a character is made to take on its own life and to walk, as it were, independent of the author. One thing is generally true of characters that strike us as real: they talk each in a style of his own, and yet they talk “like folks.” The thing that they do may be far removed from anything in our experience, a soldier may be talking to a king, Esmond may be speaking in noble anger to the prince; we feel somehow that the words on the page have in them the sound of the human voice, that a man placed in such circumstances would think and speak as the novelist makes him speak.

In a good novel human beings, whose emotions represent and idealize our own, act and talk amid intelligible circumstances and entertaining events. These persons, since they seem real, are visible to the eye of fancy and the events happen in scenes--the divisions of a drama are called “scenes”--which strike the imagination as if they were actually striking the senses. Each person is recognizable by look and gesture; each place is distinct from all other places, as the room you sit in and the street beyond your window are different from all other rooms and all other highways in the world.

Our master of story telling is a master of description. An unskillful author tries to persuade us that a woman is beautiful by merely asserting it, and his assertion makes no impression on us because it appeals to the part of our brain that collects information and not the part that sees pictures. But Thackeray paints Miss Beatrice tripping down the stairs to greet Esmond, and no eye that has seen her through Thackeray’s words but can recall the portrait at will.

Further description of Beatrice accompanies the action all through the book and no one can tell, or cares to tell, where narration pauses and description begins. No one can tell, either, where out of all this emerges that quality of writing called style. Manner of expression is not a separable shell in which the stuff is contained like a kernel.

The manner is in the substance. Yet there is a charm of words felt for itself which seems to lie above and around the thing conveyed.

In other books Thackeray loses his plot, and sometimes apparently forgets his characters, and yet he carries the reader on by virtue of saying things compellingly and invitingly. When, as in “Esmond,” the order of action is so satisfying and the people are so interesting to watch and be with, and in addition every page is a delight to the ear, then literary excellence is complete. [Illustration: THACKERAY] Here, united in one book, are the elements of fiction--plot, character, description and style. And from these elements, however blended, there results a total value, the measure of a book’s importance in relation to the other things in life. This value is essentially moral, not so much because literature is under peculiar obligations to preach and teach morality as because it is part of life and the fundamental things in life are moral in the large sense of the word.

It is as impossible to think of a fiction which shall be neither moral nor immoral as to think of an act which shall be, in the modern meaningless word, unmoral. Even a very slight fiction, like a trivial act, weighs on one side or the other. All the best of our novelists have been fully conscious of their ethical obligations to their readers. Having thought deeply enough about life to write about it, they could not have failed to think deeply about their professional responsibility, their part in life.

I am going to quote at length a passage from Anthony Trollope’s “Life of Thackeray” in the series of biographies known as _English Men of Letters_. The young reader can find no better book about the novel than this account of one great novelist by another. In spite of a current idea that shop-talk is not interesting, a thoughtful craftsman talking about his work is likely to be at his best.

Moreover, Trollope’s judgments on the moral obligation of the novelist are especially worthy of confidence, for he is no heavy-handed preacher, no metaphysical critic, but a broad-minded humorist, an affectionate student of human nature, a cheerful workman who regarded his own books in a modest businesslike way. “I have said previously,” says Trollope, “that it is the business of a novel to instruct in morals and to amuse. I will go further, and will add, having been for many years a prolific writer of novels myself, that I regard him who can put himself into close communication with young people year after year without making some attempt to do them good, as a very sorry fellow indeed. However poor your matter may be, however near you may come to that ‘foolishest of existing mortals,’ as Carlyle presumes some unfortunate novelist to be, still, if there be those who read your works, they will undoubtedly be more or less influenced by what they find there.

And it is because the novelist amuses that he must be influential. The sermon too often has no such effect, because it is applied with the declared intention of having it. The palpable and overt dose the child rejects; but that which is cunningly insinuated by the aid of jam or honey is accepted unconsciously, and goes on upon its curative mission. So it is with the novel. It is taken because of its jam and honey.

But, unlike the honest and simple jam and honey of the household cupboard, it is never unmixed with physic.

There will be the dose within it, either curative or poisonous. The girl will be taught modesty or immodesty, truth or falsehood; the lad will be taught honor or dishonor, simplicity or affectation. Without the lesson the amusement will not be there. There are novels which certainly can teach nothing; but then neither can they amuse any one.

“I should be said to insist absurdly on the power of my own fraternity if I were to declare that the bulk of the young people in the upper and middle classes receive their moral teaching chiefly from the novels they read. Mothers would no doubt think of their own sweet teaching; fathers of the examples which they set; and schoolmasters of the excellence of their instructions. Happy is the country that has such mothers, fathers, and schoolmasters!

But the novelist creeps in closer than the schoolmaster, closer than the father, closer almost than the mother.

He is the chosen guide, the tutor whom the young pupil chooses for herself. She retires with him, suspecting no lesson, safe against rebuke, throwing herself head and heart into the narration as she can hardly do into her task work; and there she is taught--how she shall learn to love; how she shall receive the lover when he comes; how far she should advance to meet the joy; why she should be reticent, and not throw herself at once into this new delight. It is the same with the young man, though he would be more prone even than she to reject the suspicion of such tutorship. But he, too, will learn either to speak the truth, or to lie; and will receive from his novel lessons either of real manliness, or of that affected apishness and tailor-begotten demeanor which too many professors of the craft give out as their dearest precepts.

“At any rate the close intercourse is admitted. Where is the house now from which novels are tabooed? Is it not common to allow them almost indiscriminately, so that young and old each chooses his own novel? Shall he, then, to whom this close fellowship is allowed--this inner confidence--shall he not be careful what words he uses, and what thoughts he expresses, when he sits in council with his young friend?...

A novelist has two modes of teaching--by good example or bad. It is not to be supposed that because the person treated of be evil, therefore the precept will be evil. If so, some personages with whom we have been acquainted from our youth upward would have been omitted in our early lessons.

It may be a question whether the teaching is not more efficacious which comes from an evil example. What story was ever more powerful in showing the beauty of feminine reticence, and the horrors of feminine evildoing, than the fate of Effie Deans [in “The Heart of Midlothian” by Scott]. The ‘Templar’

[in Scott’s “Ivanhoe”] would have betrayed a woman to his lust, but has not encouraged others by the freedom of his life. ‘Varney’ [in Scott’s “Kenilworth”] was utterly bad--but though a gay courtier, he has enticed no others to go the way he went. So has it been with Thackeray. His examples have generally been of that kind--but they have all been efficacious in their teaching on the side of modesty and manliness, truth, and simplicity.”

To return to the elements of the novel, plot, character, description, style, if we think of a score of great novels that have had many readers for many years, we shall see that some novelists are blessed with genius for one element more than for another, or that they have chosen to put their energies into one or the other. And we shall see, too, that few novels are perfect, few as nearly perfect as “Esmond,” and that we should not expect them to be. All that we need demand is that a writer give us enough of something to make the reading of his book worth while. No rules that have so far been laid down about the requirements of fiction are final or from the reader’s point of view of great assistance. Some of us have made up our minds that the English novel is growing more shapely and well constructed: Mr. W. D. Howells, for instance, by precept and practice, and some other novelists and critics who are under the influence of French fiction, insist on construction and form and simplicity of plot.

Then in spite of all “tendencies” and rules of fiction, along comes Mr. William De Morgan with three novels which might have been written fifty years ago, and wins instantaneous and deserved success as a new novelist--at the age of seventy. His plots are as wayward and leisurely as most of Thackeray’s, his people are human, and his discursive individual style is as fresh as if novelists had not been filling the world with books for two centuries. “Joseph Vance” and “Alice-for-Short” prove how inconsiderate genius is of rules made by critics and how far is the “old-fashioned” novel from having gone stale and fallen on evil days.

So long as a plot has vitality of some kind, truth to life, or ingenuity, or dramatic power, it makes no difference to the mere reader what material the novelist chooses. Twenty years ago there was a strange contest between realists and romanticists. The realists, or as they sometimes call themselves, “naturalists,” take the simpler facts of common life and weave them into stories. The romanticist selects from highly colored epochs of history, or from no-man’s land, or from the more unusual circumstances of actual life, such startling adventures, such well-joined incidents, such mysteries, surprises, and dramatic revelations as we do not meet with in ordinary times and places.

Thackeray is a romanticist in “Henry Esmond,” a realist in “Pendennis” and “The Newcomes.” Scott’s novels are romantic. Those of Trollope, of Mr. Henry James, of Mr. W. D. Howells are realistic. There is no sharp line between the two.

Dickens found extraordinary romance in ordinary London streets, which he knew with journalistic realism to the last brick and cobblestone. In “Bleak House,” he says, he “purposely dwelt upon the romantic side of familiar things.” But, though he may have considered this book a special quest for the romantic in real life, it does not differ in the kind or the proportion of its romanticism from a dozen others of his novels.

It is no more romantic than “David Copperfield” or “The Old Curiosity Shop,” no less romantic than the historical fiction, “A Tale of Two Cities.” His imagination penetrated life, real or unreal, familiar or remote, and found it rich with plot and subplot; he touched the slums with his mythmaker’s wand, and in obedience to his touch the children of the streets and dark tenements became heroes of strange adventure, moving through mysteries as varied and wonderful as fairyland. Because Dickens loved human beings and understood their everyday sorrow and happiness, he wrought into the great fabric of his plots a multitude of people as real, as like to us and our friends, as can be found in the work of the most thorough-going realist; he reflects, too, like the avowed realist, the social and political problems of his own times.

He is both romanticist and realist. So also are his contemporaries, the Brontë sisters and Charles Reade. And their greatest successors in the English novel, Thomas Hardy and George Meredith, are equally masters of common social facts, human nature in its daily aspects, and of the highly colored, the picturesque, the mystery, the surprise, the dramatic complexity of events. The genius of English fiction in most of its powerful exponents has this dual character of romance and realism.

“Robinson Crusoe” is a romantic adventure; its scene is transported far away from human life to a solitude such as only the wanderer’s eye has looked upon; the reader is taken bodily into another world. Yet Defoe is the first great realist in English prose fiction; he piles detail upon detail, gives an exact inventory of Crusoe’s possessions, and compels belief in the story as in a chronicle of events that really happened.

Later in the eighteenth century appeared Richardson’s “Clarissa Harlowe,” a vast romantic tragedy, which held the attention of all novel readers of the time; the story was published in parts, and when it was learned before the last part was printed that the ending was to be tragic, ladies wrote to Richardson begging him to bring his heroine out of her difficulties and allow her to “live happily ever after.” The plot of this novel is imposed by the logic of character upon the facts of English society; the plot is not realistic or even probable in its relations to the known circumstances of the civilization in which it is laid; any magistrate could have rescued Clarissa. But everything stands aside to let the great romance pass by; the readers of the time, who knew better than we do the social facts surrounding an English girl, did not question the probability of the plot, because they accepted the character.

The plot granted, Richardson’s method is realistic. We know Clarissa’s daily acts and circumstances; we have a bulletin of her feelings every hour. No modern psychological novelist ever analyzed the workings of a human mind more minutely, with greater fidelity and insight. The result is a voluminous diary of eighteenth-century manners and customs and sentiments hung upon as romantic a plot as was ever devised.

Midway in time between Richardson and Dickens stands the king of romantics, Scott, and he, too, is a realist in his depiction of Scottish life and character. In “The Bride of Lammermoor” so melodramatic and “stagey” that it seems to be set behind footlights and played to music--a familiar opera is based upon it--there is one character that Scott found not in legend or history, but in the life he knew, Caleb Balderstone. Like the gravedigger in “Hamlet,” he is a link between unusual, we might fairly say unnatural, events and common humanity. In many of Scott’s novels, beside the strutting heroes that startle the world in high astounding terms, walk the soldiers, servants, parsons, shepherds, who by their presence make us feel that it is the firm earth upon which the action moves. Argument among critics as to the nature of romance and realism helps, as all questions of definition may help, to make us understand the relation of one novel to another and to see the range and purpose of fiction.

But that any one should say of two novels that one is better than the other, simply because it is more realistic or more romantic, is to impose a technicality on enjoyment with which enjoyment refuses to be burdened.

Who that picks up a novel for the pleasure of reading it cares whether it is romance or realism? So long as it has vitality of its own kind, and gives us enough of the many virtues which a novel may possess, we are content to plunge into it and ask no questions. A lily is not a rose; it takes no great wisdom to know that; the botanists will tell us the exact difference, and the gardener will tell us how they grow; but if botanist or horticulturist tells us which is more beautiful, we listen to his opinion and keep our own. Mr. Kipling’s “Kim,” or Mr. Howells’s “A Modern Instance”; “Far from the Madding Crowd,” by Thomas Hardy, or Scott’s “Ivanhoe”; Stevenson’s “Kidnapped,” or Mark Twain’s “Huckleberry Finn”--which of these books is realistic and which is the other kind?

Suppose you read them to find out. In the midst of any one of them you will have forgotten the question, because the novelist will have filled your whole mind with other--and more important--interests. A good novel is a self-contained, complete world with its own laws and inhabitants. The inhabitants and laws of different novels resemble each other in some degree or we should not be able to understand them. Great books, and great men, have common qualities, and yet it is true, in large measure, that they are memorable for their _difference_ from other books and men.

This suggests why histories of literature and analytical studies of the forms of literature are so often artificial and lifeless. The critic is fond of grouping books and authors together, of finding points of resemblance, of marking genius with brands and labels. In some histories of Elizabethan drama, Shakespeare is neatly placed in the center of a rising and declining “school of playwrights.” He is laid out like the best specimen of a collection in a glass case.

Shakespeare was a playwright; no doubt he was a “practical” one. But the important thing about him is that he was the greatest of poets, and he is not at ease in any school or class of literary workmen.

He is inexplicably, gigantically different from all other Elizabethan dramatists, and if he is to be grouped at all, his fellows are the few greatest poets of the world, not his contemporaries in the art, or the business, of playmaking, the best of whom do not reach to his shoulder. All the supreme creative geniuses are difficult to classify. They work in conventional art forms, the drama, the epic, in which scores of lesser poets have worked; but the greatest art emerges above the form. When rules of art and sharp characterizations of schools of art fit snugly on the shoulders of a writer, that alone is sufficient to prove that he is not a writer of the highest power. [Illustration: SCOTT]

However wisely critics and philosophers may argue about fiction and other forms of art, inexperienced readers will be narrowing their outlook if they make up their minds, after one or two experiments or as a result of a critical opinion which they get at second hand, that there are certain classes of stories that they do not like.

If one knows that Stevenson is a romanticist and happens to have read “David Balfour” and failed to like it, it is foolish to rule out the romantic, for perhaps Dumas will prove better. Some people are tired beyond recovery of historical novels, because so many bad ones have been urged upon the public during the last fifteen years. Some people have decided that they do not like stories that end unhappily. This seems a thoughtless decision because many of the great fictions from the “Iliad” to “The Mill on the Floss” terminate with the death of the principal characters and sadness for the characters that survive.

When we hear some one say, “There is tragedy enough in real life, I want something pleasant to read,” we may suggest that the great tragedy that is told in the Gospels has brought more lasting joy and good feeling to the race than any other story. Not to make so high an argument, I feel that I could give to any person who pretends to like only “pleasant” fiction a half dozen tragic novels that would capture and delight this sad soul that has seen enough of “tragedy in real life.” Arguments are unnecessary, for fiction itself outstrips them or defeats them and triumphs. The public is tired, we say, of historical romance, and it cannot be charmed by sad stories which end in death and disaster. Yet during the past winter one of “best sellers” was Miss Mary Johnston’s “Lewis Rand.”

This is an historical romance laid in Jefferson’s Virginia. It is a tragic romance; the finest gentleman is killed, the titular hero goes to prison on the last page, a ruin of ambitious genius, and the heroine, his wife, parts from us at the end to enter, in the world that lies just beyond the covers of books, a life of inevitable sadness. Individual vitality is what makes the good book.

When the good book appears we like to classify it and examine its form and material, but its vitality defies us. You may group all your friends and acquaintances in familiar types, and in thinking of them when they are absent you may assure yourself that they fall into definite intelligible classes. But in the presence of any one of them, the most transparent and simple, you recognize the mystery of a person, a power, however slight, that is unlike other powers, a vital soul that baffles analysis.

And so it is with books: each makes its effect as a living individual and it may have an entirely different effect from the book that seems nearest like it. Somebody once expressed the idea that he did not care for Dickens because so many of his characters are low persons who would not be interesting to associate with in real life; and other readers have expressed the same idea, either sincerely or in thoughtless repetition. If they do not like Dickens, it is probably for some other reason than that Dickens portrays “common” people, for that reason is not broad enough to stand on. These same readers may like another writer whose characters are as low and uncultivated as most of the people whom Dickens loved.

If such a writer is not to be found in our libraries, his first book may be still unpublished; he may walk to-morrow into the town where we live, discover the humor and pathos of our commonplace neighbors, and of the low persons whom we do not acknowledge as neighbors. And ever after our village will be a shrine for tourists. The great fiction writer is a magician; he upsets conventional values in a flash and turns lead into gold in spite of all the chemists. The true reader of fiction will be a believer in that miracle, and he will keep his mind receptive to it in every form in which it manifests itself.

CHAPTER IV THE READING OF FICTION--(_Continued_) In discussing the question of plots we could not keep out the question of character, which we agreed for the purposes of our discussion is the second element of fiction. In importance it is the first--the indispensable element.

What is fiction for except to tell us about human beings? I cannot believe what somebody said, that the three essentials of stories are first plot, second plot and third plot. In the first place, that sounds too clever to be true and in the second place--it is not true.

The plot is the means of keeping persons in action so that we can get to know them. In this “naturalists” and “realists” find a good argument, for they put their emphasis on human character. They say: “Here we exhibit you and your friends and your enemies.

Plot?

We are telling a story. Stories are all about you. But we have not forced events out of probable order or distorted the facts of life beyond recognition for the sake of an exciting situation.

We draw our fellow men, so that you recognize them as they are. Even as they are in their homes and shops and churches, so they are in these pages, talking, loving, hating, bargaining, intriguing, dying. We select the significant, we heighten the values of life; but we portray life essentially as it is.” True enough.

The realist gives us “folks.” But he has no monopoly of human beings.

We are quite as well acquainted with Alice who wandered in Wonderland and went through the Looking Glass as we are with Mr. David Copperfield and Miss Maggie Tulliver. Peter Pan (in Mr. J. M. Barrie’s play), who flew in the face of nature and refused to grow up, is so true a person that all the children recognized him at once and old men chuckled and remembered him. The English novel is varied and abundant, and its characters, collectively, form a populous democracy.

Everybody is in it somewhere from peasant to king, and if some of us and our friends have been left out, new novelists are at hand watching every kind and grade of life and preparing to fix it in a living page. The American novel is not yet old and broad enough to have captured all our types of men and women and recreated them in fiction. But a good beginning has been made.

The varied voices of the American country town are heard from all corners of the land, but so far most of them have been voices of short compass, incapable of sustained utterance. We still depend for studies of American character on sketches and short stories, and these in the mass are an important body of literature. New England, Virginia, California, the Middle West, the great cities, have had their short-story writers.

The novelists are still on the way. Our national life is so scattered and changing that the novelist has difficulty in keeping a group of Americans together long enough to plot them into a large book. In Europe where a small town contains every kind of society the novelist finds the compact social stage all set and characters in abundance. Anthony Trollope, with little care to plot, sets society to turning in the quiet eddy of a small cathedral town and presently we are looking into the heart of England. He introduces the same people into novel after novel and we are always glad to see them again.

The success of his many novels supports the contention that characters are the staff of fiction. A defect of plot is easier to pardon than a defect in character drawing. Untruth to human nature, violence either to its waking experiences or its dreams, destroys a book, destroys the living world it represents and leaves us holding a thing of ink and paper. The other day I was reading a novel which has multiplied itself over the land by force of printing presses and sensational advertising.

It is a story about modern people of an undistinguished but potentially interesting kind; the heroine is, if I remember right, a confidential secretary to a business man. The author makes her say something like this to her lover: “Ere I knew you, there had come into my life but few pleasures and diversions; I had been like a bird shut up in a cage; and you set me free. Yet it was not that alone which attracted me to you.

Grateful as I was, I was charmed, too, by your conversation which was so totally different than (_sic_) anything I had known heretofore. You saved me from the wretched monotony of commonplace existence and took me into a new world, and my gratitude for that blossomed into love”; and so on. The only thing in that which sounds like human speech is the blunder in the use of “than,” which I suspect is an unintentional blunder on the part of the author. The speech is no more appropriate to the given character in the given place than a sentence out of Macaulay’s essays. The most ingenious plotting could not entice a discriminating reader beyond that dead line of empty words, for they are proof enough that the author himself does not know his heroine’s character.

To be sure, dialogue in novels cannot be “natural as life,” for actual conversation taken down word for word is diffuse and hard to read. The conversations in books must sound natural, appropriate to the place, the time, and the character of the person whom the reader is expected to believe in. There cannot be any rules for making conversation; if there are any rules they are for the novelists to study, not for the reader.

The reader only knows whether the speeches sound right or whether the author is cheating him by passing off as talk mere words which the author strung out on paper and did not hear with his inner sense from the lips of his character. In the same book there is a description which I will quote, if I can resist the temptation to parody it: “The house nestled amid the verdurous shade of immense trees; to the left of the wooded park were sloping lawns dotted here and there with beds of the most exquisite flowers, which in contrast to the old weatherbeaten house greatly enhanced the beauty of the scene. Inside the house the utmost good taste prevailed from the antique colonial hatrack in the front hall to the handsome, but simple furniture of the parlor, in one corner of which on a sofa that was a cherished heirloom, a young girl might have been seen sitting engaged in embroidering a fine piece of linen. She was beautiful with large dark eyes and a luxuriant mass of richest brown hair,” and so on. Except for the poor fun of making sport of the author no one with a sense of humor will read beyond that.

The author himself cannot see the place he would present to his reader’s eye. Description, which we have chosen to regard as the third element of fiction, must aid the imagination to realize the events and the people or it is worse than ineffectual. The novelist whose story is “dotted here and there” with descriptions which really “enhance the beauty” of his story is to be numbered among the immortals.

The masters of description touch in details of sound and vision as they progress with the narrative, and the reader hears and sees without being aware that he has read description. The more leisurely novelists, who are great enough to carry a story through three volumes, do often stop and paint a picture, and even the great ones frequently fail to get the pictorial effect they seek. Scott’s descriptions sometimes interfere with his story and descend into a catalogue of details. But the total effect of his description is to make the entire world familiar with Scotland, streets, houses, mountains, and moors.

It is part of Scott’s patriotic purpose to preserve in a series of novels the legend, the history, the character, the ideals, the social customs of old and new Scotland; and he allows himself, as a kind of antiquarian, all the space he needs for minute description. So his descriptions serve a purpose, even when they lack imaginative vision. Moreover, the great river of his stories is broad and swift enough to carry an amount of dead wood which would choke narratives of lesser volume and power. A great example of a long descriptive passage in fiction is in the fifty-fifth chapter of “David Copperfield.”

There is to be action enough presently to sweep the reader off his feet; in preparation for it Dickens gives three or four pages of description of the storm. The excellence of that description grows upon the reader who finds how seldom even the better novelists succeed in painting on large canvases. Few artists in prose have been adequate to the greatness of the sea.

Stevenson has succeeded in giving both the seas on the Scotch coast and the Pacific with its mysterious islands. Of living writers in English the masters of “sea pieces” are Mr. Rudyard Kipling and Mr. Joseph Conrad. But none of the younger writers, even of those especially devoted to the sea, has excelled Dickens, landsman and London cockney as he was, in that great picture of the storm.

I once knew some young ladies who were enamored of the books of that third-rate novelist, Miss Marie Corelli. To be fair, I never read but two of her novels, and though they are so false that I doubt her ability to write anything beautiful and true, she may have written masterpieces that I have unfortunately missed. The young ladies had named their club after one of Miss Corelli’s books. I asked one worshipper what she liked in her favorite novelist. The reply was startling: “I love the beautiful descriptions.”

It was interesting to find a young lady who liked beautiful descriptions for their own sake--most of us are not so far advanced in our critical enjoyment of fiction--and it was interesting to learn that Miss Corelli had written beautiful descriptions. But when I ungraciously pressed the matter, my friend confessed that she could not find any descriptive passage that seemed especially worth exhibiting.

The secret of this case, if we are ungallant enough to subject to inquisition so tender a thing as a young lady’s conscience and literary tastes, is that she had learned from some muddied source that a beautiful description is a precious thing in a novel. She was afraid that the things in the book which really interested her might not be admirable--though I dare say they are harmless enough--and so she presented that little white excuse for reading the novel. Just so ladies who are not young have been known to admire a fiction of doubtful character wholly for its “exquisite style,” when if they really appreciated “exquisite style,” they would be reading something else. There is an enjoyment of style that seems either apart from the other kinds of enjoyment in reading or is a refinement, an addition, which makes the other kinds keener.

In choosing novels, however, we do not need, as a practical matter, to hunt for style, any more than we need to hunt for descriptions, for the writer who is great enough to contrive plots and draw characters must have learned how to write well. The good novels are all in good style. The fiction maker whose style is poor is almost certain to fail in other ways and be altogether unacceptable.

It is true that among the great ones some have more distinction of manner than others. Thackeray never writes so clumsily as Dickens at his worst. Stevenson’s phrasing is invariably excellent, whereas a greater novelist, Walter Scott, often for pages at a time throws off his sentences so hastily that they are not easy, not pleasant, to read.

Jane Austen in her style is near to perfection; George Eliot, a writer of much more power, whose heights of eloquence are not equaled by any other woman, seems sometimes to be either expressing a kind of thought, or expressing it in a vocabulary and with a complexity of construction, which would be tolerable in a philosophic essay but is not suited to fictitious narrative. It is well to begin to be aware of the degrees of style and their general effect, to enjoy beauty and eloquence and grace in some measure for their own sake. But the inexperienced reader is safe to choose his novels for their substance; the style will usually be adequate and the merits of the style will enter the reader’s consciousness gradually and without effort of appreciation on his part.

In choosing novels the ordinary reader need not at first concern himself with the history of a novelist or his technical characteristics, or with the place which critics have given to him in their schemes of literary development. A simple method of selection is to find on somebody’s advice a novel that has interested many readers, and then if it prove good, to try another by the same author. If a writer has produced two novels that interest you, it is safe to assume that he has written a third and a fourth.

Some writers, it is true, have been distinguished for a single masterpiece. “Don Quixote” is the only book of Cervantes’ that we are likely to care for. “Robinson Crusoe” is all that most people have found good in Defoe’s tales (though there is much merit in his other stories). No other book of Mrs. Stowe’s is even second to “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” “The Vicar of Wakefield” is the glorious whole of Goldsmith’s narrative prose, though he succeeded in every other form of literature, including the prose drama.

But the man who can write two novels can write three if he has time; the two-novel power is likely to be a ten-novel power with torpedo fleets of short stories and essays.

Anyone who has liked “Silas Marner” and “Middlemarch” will not need to be urged to read “Felix Holt,” “Adam Bede,” “Romola,” “The Mill on the Floss.” The person who has once read and enjoyed two novels of Dickens is likely to read six or eight. “Pendennis” leads to “The Newcomes.”

And any of Trollope’s “Barchester,” novels is an introduction to the happily interminable series. [Illustration: HAWTHORNE]

I have purposely said little about the short story, because in this day of magazines we all read short stories, some of them pretty good ones. There are fifty persons who can write one or two acceptable short tales to one who can make a novel of moderate merit. And the great writers of the tale have often been novelists as well, so that if one begins to read novels one will meet with the best short stories which have been worth collecting into volumes. Readers of “The House of Seven Gables” and “The Scarlet Letter” will make the acquaintance of Hawthorne’s “Twice Told Tales” and “Mosses from an Old Manse.”

Among modern fictionists of importance Poe stands almost alone as a writer of tales who never tried the longer and greater form of the novel, though there are several excellent authors, such as Mr. Rudyard Kipling, Miss Sarah Orne Jewett, Mrs. Mary Wilkins-Freeman, whose short tales outweigh in value, if not in quantity, their more extended narratives. In our discussion of fiction we have dwelt entirely on books for adults and neglected what is known as juvenile fiction. Here again the omission was intended. Juvenile fiction is certain to make its way in more than ample supply into American homes, and I doubt whether fiction that is wholly good for adults is not the best for boys and girls of, say, thirteen.

When our fathers and mothers, or our grandfathers and grandmothers, were young, they read the newest book by Dickens, Thackeray, Wilkie Collins, and were no worse for having fewer “juveniles” than modern publishers purvey for the benefit of the growing generation. I should think that Henty’s books, which have merits, but were turned out on a steam lathe, would suggest that Scott’s historical romances are better, and that the Pattys and Pollys and Lucys and Brendas, whose adventures are chronicled in many an entertaining series would speedily make way for heroines like Maggie Tulliver and heroes like Master Tom Brown, whose youth is perennial. When “juveniles” are really good, parents read them after children have gone to bed.

I do not know whether “Tom Brown at Rugby” is catalogued by the careful librarians as a book for boys, but I am sure it is a book for men. I dare say that a good many pairs of eyes that have passed over the pages of Mr. John T. Trowbridge and Elijah Kellogg and Louisa Alcott have been old enough to wear spectacles. And if Mrs. Kate Douglas Wiggin ever thought that in “Timothy’s Quest” and “Rebecca” she was writing books especially for the young, adult readers have long since claimed her for their own. I have enjoyed Mr. A. S. Pier’s tales of the boys at “St. Timothy’s,” though he planned them for younger readers.

We are told on good authority that _St. Nicholas_ and _The Youth’s Companion_ appear in households where there are no children, and they give a considerable portion of their space to serial stories written for young people. Between good “juveniles” and good books for grown persons there is not much essential difference. Anyone who is old enough to make out the words can safely enter the large world of the English and American novel.

The chances of encountering the few that are unfit for the young are slight. Ruskin in his essay “Of Queens’ Gardens,” which treats of the education of girls, says: “Whether novels, or poetry, or history be read, they should be chosen, not for what is _out_ of them but for what is _in_ them. The chance and scattered evil that may here and there haunt, or hide itself in, a powerful book, never does any harm to a noble girl; but the emptiness of an author oppresses her, and his amiable folly degrades her.” A novel in our language that has been read and freely talked of for many years is as safe as a church; and there are enough such novels to keep one happily occupied during all the hours one can give to reading fiction to the end of one’s days. LIST OF FICTION _

Supplementary to Chapter IV_

The following list of novels, tales, and prose dramas is offered to the young reader by way of suggestion and not as a “prescribed” list. Like the other lists in this book it omits many masterpieces that will occur immediately to the mind of the older reader, and it includes some books that are not masterpieces. The notes, or “evaluations” as the librarians call them, are arbitrary, indicating the private opinions of the present Guide; they are sometimes extensive in the case of less important writers and are omitted in the cases of the great masters.

The way to use the list is to run over it from time to time until you form a bowing acquaintance with the names of a few authors and some of their books. One title or another is likely to attract you or excite your curiosity. If you follow the impulse of that aroused curiosity and go get the book, the list will have served its purpose. EDMOND FRANÇOIS VALENTIN ABOUT (1828-85).

_Le Roi des Montagnes._

Easy to read in French, and to be found translated into English. ÆSOP.

_Fables._

Found in many editions, some especially selected and illustrated for children. LOUISA MAY ALCOTT (1832-88).

_

An Old-Fashioned Girl._ _

Little Women._  _Little Men._ _

Work._ _

Jack and Jill._ _

Jo’s Boys._

Miss Alcott has always been a favorite of young people. Her faithful and wholesome stories of life in a New England country town entitle her to place in the delightful company of Rose Terry Cooke, Sarah Orne Jewett, Mrs. Mary Wilkins-Freeman, and Miss Alice Brown. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH (1836-1907).

_

The Story of a Bad Boy._ _

Marjorie  Daw._

A delicate romancer with subtle humor and a turn for paradoxical ingenious fooling which is characteristic in one form or another of American writers as unlike as Frank R. Stockton, Edward Everett Hale, and Mark Twain. JAMES LANE ALLEN.

_Flute and Violin._

_

The Blue Grass Region._

_

A  Kentucky Cardinal._ _Aftermath._

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN (1805-75).

_Fairy Tales._

To be found in _Everyman’s Library_. This collection of books, published at fifty cents the volume by E. P. Dutton & Co., is perhaps the best ever grouped in an inexpensive edition. It will be frequently referred to in this and succeeding lists.

Most of the books in it are worth reading and no doubt worth buying, and this is true of most “Universal Libraries,” “Libraries of the World’s Best Literature,” “Five-Foot Book Shelves,” etc. But for variety’s sake one would wish not to have all the books on one’s shelves in the same style of type and binding.

And in general it is better to buy the book one wants, distinguished by its title and author, than to take as a whole any editor’s or publisher’s collection of “classics.” RASMUS BJÖRN ANDERSON.

_

Norse Mythology._

The simplest form in which to read the stories of the Eddas and Scandinavian myths. It is at once a lore book for students and a wonder book for young and old.
_Arabian Nights._ In a volume of _Everyman’s Library_.

Another good edition is that prepared by Andrew Lang. JANE AUSTEN (1775-1817).

_Sense and Sensibility._ _

Pride and  Prejudice._ _

Mansfield Park._ _

Emma._ _

Northanger Abbey._ _

Persuasion._

In _Everyman’s Library_.
HONORÉ DE BALZAC (1799-1850).

_

Atheist’s Mass._ _

The Chouans._ _Christ  in Flanders._ _Eugénie Grandet._ _Old Goriot._ _

The Quest of the  Absolute._ _

Wild Ass’s Skin._

These are the works of Balzac found in translation in _Everyman’s Library_. All the novels of Balzac have been translated into English. Balzac is not the easiest of French novelists to read in the original, though not very difficult. The young American who will take the trouble, and give himself the pleasure, of reading a score of French novels will find himself with a good reading knowledge of the language, and school and college examinations in French will lose their terror.

JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE. _

Auld Licht Idylls._

_

A Window in Thrums._

_The  Little Minister._ _

Sentimental Tommy._ _

Tommy and Grizel._

Mr. Barrie has the most tender and whimsical imagination of living writers in English. His later work has been largely for the stage. RICHARD DODDRIDGE BLACKMORE (1825-1900).

_

Lorna Doone._

GEORGE HENRY BORROW (1803-81).

_Lavengro._ _

Romany Rye._

In _Everyman’s Library_.
CHARLOTTE BRONTË (1816-55).

_

Jane Eyre._

EMILY BRONTË (1818-48).

_Wuthering Heights._

ALICE BROWN.

_

King’s End._ _

Meadow Grass._ _Tiverton Tales._

JOHN BROWN (1810-82).

_

Rab and His Friends._

In _Everyman’s Library_.
THOMAS BULFINCH.

_

The Age of Chivalry, or Legends of King Arthur._

_The Age of Fable, or Beauties of Mythology._ _

Legends of Charlemagne,  or Romance of the Middle Ages._

The prose storehouse of Arthurian legend in English is Thomas Mallory’s “Morte d’Arthur,” which is in two volumes in _Everyman’s Library_. But Mallory is not easy reading.

The finest versions are those by the poets, Tennyson’s “Idylls of the King,” Matthew Arnold’s “Tristram and Iseult,” Swinburne’s “Tale of Balen.” Modern prose versions suited to young readers are Howard Pyle’s “Story of King Arthur and his Knights,” Sidney Lanier’s “Boy’s King Arthur” and Andrew Lang’s “Book of Romance.” Legends allied to the Arthurian stories are found in Lady Guest’s “Mabinogian,” which appears in one volume in _Everyman’s Library_.

See also “The Boy’s Mabinogian,” by Sidney Lanier. The stories of Charlemagne are found in a volume suited for young readers edited by Alfred John Church. Classic mythology in its highest form is, of course, to be found in the Greek and Roman poets, and it permeates English poetry.

Prose versions of Greek and Roman tales suited to young readers are to be found in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “Wonder Book” and “Tanglewood Tales,” Charles Kingsley’s “The Heroes, or Greek Fairy Tales for My Children,” and “Stories from the Greek Tragedians,” by Alfred John Church. See also “A Child’s Guide to Mythology,” by Helen A. Clarke. HENRY CUYLUR BUNNER (1855-96).

_Short Sixes._

Among the best American short stories.

JOHN BUNYAN (1628-88).

_

The Pilgrim’s Progress._

In _Everyman’s Library_ and many other cheap editions.
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.

_

Little Lord Fauntleroy._ _

Editha’s Burglar._  _Sara Crewe._

FRANCES BURNEY (Madame d’Arblay, 1752-1840).

_Evelina._

GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE.

_Old Creole Days._

_The Grandissimes._

MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA (1547-1616).

_Don Quixote._

[Illustration: COOPER]

In Motteux’s translation in two volumes of _Everyman’s Library_, and other popular editions.

SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS (“Mark Twain”).

_

Tom Sawyer._

_

The Prince  and the Pauper._ _

Huckleberry Finn._ _

A Connecticut Yankee in King  Arthur’s Court._

_Pudd’nhead Wilson._ _

Personal Recollections of Joan  of Arc._

_

The Man that Corrupted Hadleyburg._ WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS (1824-89).

_

The Woman in White._

_

The  Moonstone._

JOSEPH CONRAD.

_Youth._ _

Falk._ _

The Children of the Sea._ _Typhoon._

One of the most remarkable of recent writers, a Pole who adopted the English language and has contributed to its beauties. Unsurpassed as a writer of stories of the sea. JAMES FENIMORE COOPER (1789-1851).

_

The Spy._ _

The Pilot._ _

The Last  of the Mohicans._ _

The Prairie._ _

The Pathfinder._ _

The Deerslayer._  _The Red Rover._

The young reader had better plunge into Cooper before he ceases to be a young reader; not that the adult reader cannot enjoy these virile narratives, which have been read all over the world for nearly a century, they will always remain important records of early American life; but better fiction soon displaces them, growth in literary taste makes evident the defects which Mark Twain sets forth in his witty essay on Cooper; and to have grown beyond Cooper without having met and enjoyed him means a genuine loss. DINAH MARIA CRAIK (Mrs. Mulock, 1826-87).

_

John Halifax, Gentleman._

FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD (1854-1909).

_

Mr. Isaacs._

_Dr. Claudius._  _Saracinesca._ _

Sant’ Ilario._

_

A Cigarette Maker’s Romance._

Crawford had a vein of real genius which is obscured by the great number of his less meritorious books. GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS (1824-92).

_Prue and I._

This pleasant, fine-hearted humorist should not be neglected by the rising generation of Americans. GEORGE CUPPLES (1822-91).

_

The Green Hand._

RICHARD HENRY DANA (1815-82).

_

Two Years Before the Mast._

It is a happy accident that Dana’s name follows that of Cupples. Fifty years ago in “The Green Hand” and “Two Years Before the Mast” England and America held command of the sea in fiction. This is an appropriate place to mention three books by the American writer, Herman Melville (1819-91), “Omoo,” “Typee” and “Moby Dick,” which are big enough to sail in the fleet with Cupples and Dana. Sea craft are growing larger every year but not sea books, though Mr. Joseph Conrad, Mr. Rudyard Kipling, Mr. Frank Bullen and Mr. Clark Russell are taking us on good voyages under sail and steam.

ALPHONSE DAUDET (1840-97).

_

Le Petit Chose._ _

Jack._ _

Tartarin of  Tarascon._

_Contes Choisis._

Among the easiest of French writers to read in the original. Several of his books have been published in English. RICHARD HARDING DAVIS.

_Gallegher._

_

Van Bibber and Others._

Fresh and charming short stories by a writer who has not fulfilled the promise of his youth. EDMONDO DE AMICIS.

_Heart; A School Boy’s Journal._

A fine story of schoolboy life, to be found in English translation. DANIEL DEFOE (166?-1731).

_

Robinson Crusoe._

WILLIAM DE MORGAN. _

Joseph Vance._

_Alice-for-Short._ _

Somehow Good._  CHARLES DICKENS (1812-70).

No list of titles is necessary under the name of Dickens. There are innumerable editions of his works. BENJAMIN DISRAELI (Lord Beaconsfield, 1804-81).

VIVIAN GREY.
CONINGSBY.

LOTHAIR.

SYBIL.
CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON (“Lewis Carroll”).

_

Alice’s Adventures in  Wonderland._

_

Through the Looking Glass._ _Silvie and Bruno._

And we could not be happy without “The Hunting of the Snark” and other verses in Lewis Carroll’s “Rhyme and Reason.” ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.

_

Adventures of Sherlock Holmes._

_Memoirs of  Sherlock Holmes._

_Micah Clark._ _The White Company._

The fame of the Sherlock Holmes stories has thrown somewhat into the background the best of Sir Conan Doyle’s work, the two historical romances. ALEXANDRE DUMAS, Père (1803-70).

No list of titles is necessary under Dumas’s name. For though he and his “syndicate” of assistants produced a great number of mediocre works, those most frequently met in English are good, “The Three Musketeers,” “The Count of Monte Cristo,” “The Queen’s Necklace” and “Twenty Years After.” GEORGE DU MAURIER (1831-96).

_

Peter Ibbetson._ _

Trilby.

_

EDWARD EGGLESTON.

_

The Hoosier Schoolmaster._ _

The Hoosier Schoolboy._

GEORGE ELIOT (Mary Ann Evans, 1819-80).

No titles are necessary under George Eliot’s name. Several of her novels are in _Everyman’s Library_, and there are other inexpensive editions. ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN (Emile Erckmann and Louis Alexandre Chatrian).
_Friend Fritz._ _

The Blockade of Phalsburg._ _

Madame Thérèse._

_The  Story of a Conscript._ _

Waterloo._

The two last named are in _Everyman’s Library_. ANATOLE FRANCE (Thibault).

_

Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard._ _

From a  Mother of Pearl Casket._

All the works of this writer are being translated into English. The title given above in English is a translated collection of some of his short stories. ALICE FRENCH (Octave Thanet). _Stories of a Western Town._

ELIZABETH GASKELL (1810-65).

_Cranford._

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE (1749-1832).

_

Wilhelm Meister’s  Apprenticeship and Travels._

In Carlyle’s translation.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-74).

_

The Vicar of Wakefield._

_

She Stoops to  Conquer._ _

The Good-Natured Man._  KENNETH GRAHAME.

_

The Golden Age._ _Dream Days.

_

JAKOB AND WILHELM GRIMM.

_Fairy Tales._

In _Everyman’s Library_.
EDWARD EVERETT HALE (1822-1909).

_

The Man Without a Country._

The volume under this title, published by Little, Brown & Co., contains the best of Dr. Hale’s short stories. The title story is a masterpiece of fiction and the greatest of all sermons on patriotism. LUDOVIC HALÉVY.

_

The Abbé Constantin._

A charming story in simple French, and to be found translated into English. THOMAS HARDY. _

Far from the Madding Crowd._ _ The Return of the  Native._ _

The Mayor of Casterbridge._ _

A Pair of Blue Eyes._

_

Under  the Greenwood Tree._

Incomparably the greatest of living novelists of our race. Certain characteristics of his later novels make them neither pleasant nor intelligible to young readers, but any of those here mentioned is as well adapted to the reader of any age as are George Eliot’s “Adam Bede” and Thackeray’s “Pendennis.”  JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. _Uncle Remus._ _

Nights with Uncle Remus._  _Mingo._ _

Free Joe._

FRANCIS BRET HARTE (1839-1902).

_

The Luck of Roaring Camp._

The volume of this title, published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., contains the best of Harte’s short stories, and the best remain very good indeed, though since they took the world by storm other writers have given us a truer insight into the life which Harte was the first to discover and proclaim. Harte is a capital humorist in his way, both in his swaggering hearty short stories (see “Colonel Starbottle’s Client”) and in his parodies (see “Condensed Novels”). NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE (1804-64).

No list of titles is necessary under Hawthorne’s name. America has no other literary artist of his stature and perfection, and he is the one American whose works we can say “you ought to read” entire--we dare say it, that is, to American readers. MAURICE HEWLETT.

_Life and Death of Richard Yea-and-Nay._

Mr. Hewlett is one of the ten or twelve important living writers of English fiction. I have seen no book of his which is not good. I give only one title; his brilliant and varied achievement in the past decade makes difficult the selection of other titles for this limited list. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES (1809-94).

_

Elsie Venner._ _Guardian Angel._

Holmes’s fiction is subordinate both to his essays and his poems, and should be postponed until the reader has become a true lover of the Autocrat. The novels are good for the reason, if for no other, that Holmes was one of the rare geniuses who cannot write otherwise than with wisdom and charm. ANTHONY HOPE (Hawkins).

_

The Prisoner of Zenda._

The first in point of time and excellence of a now numerous class of historical novels in which the history and the geography as well as the “story” are fictitious. WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.

_

A Chance Acquaintance._ _

The Lady of the  Aroostook._

_

Dr. Breen’s Practice._ _

A Modern Instance._ _

The Rise of  Silas Lapham._ _

The Minister’s Charge._ _April Hopes._ _

The Flight of  Pony Baker._

THOMAS HUGHES (1823-96).

_

Tom Brown’s Schooldays._

_

Tom Brown at  Oxford._

VICTOR HUGO (1812-85).

_

Les Miserables._

_

Quatrevingt-Treize._ _Notre  Dame de Paris._

_

Les Travailleurs de la Mer._

Hugo’s novels appear in several English translations. HENRIK IBSEN.

_

Prose Dramas._

Edited and translated by William Archer and others. The reading of Ibsen, the greatest dramatist of the nineteenth century, may be postponed until the reader has come to mature views of life. WASHINGTON IRVING (1783-1859).

_Sketch-Book._

_

Tales of a Traveler._

_Bracebridge Hall._

W. W. JACOBS.

_

Many Cargoes._ _Light Freights._ _ Dialstone Lane._

A teller of delightfully droll stories.

Like Frank R. Stockton, a much finer artist than the more serious-minded critics would be disposed to admit. It is difficult to select for this list the best of the score of talented short-story writers of the day. Perhaps this is a good place to slip in the name of a contemporary American whose fresh and original stories have deservedly survived their day in the magazines and been collected in volumes--Mr. Sidney Porter, “O. Henry.” HENRY JAMES.

_

Roderick Hudson._

_Daisy Miller._ _

The American._

_

The  Portrait of a Lady._ _

The Princess Casamassima._

Young readers should beware of misleading chatter about Mr. James which appears in columns of book gossip and newspaper comment; it attempts to turn Mr. James into a joke and caricatures his subtlety and obscurity; it is analogous to the flippant and derisive nonsense through which Browning lived to reach the people at last. “Roderick Hudson” is a great novel and is as clear, strong, and easy to read as the work of any other thoughtful novelist you may choose for comparison. [Illustration: ELIOT]

SARAH ORNE JEWETT (1849-1909).

_Country By-Ways._ _

A Country Doctor._  _

A White Heron._ _

Strangers and Wayfarers._

_

The Country of the  Pointed Firs._

Stories of the better classes of New England country folk written in a style of unblemished clarity and sweetness. MARY JOHNSTON.

_

Lewis Rand._

CHARLES KINGSLEY (1819-75).

_

Alton Locke._ _

Hypatia._ _

Westward Ho!_

RUDYARD KIPLING.

_

Plain Tales from the Hills._ _

Many Inventions._  _

Wee Willie Winkie._ _

Life’s Handicap._ _

Soldiers Three._

_

In Black  and White._ _

The Story of the Gadsbys._

_

The Light that Failed._ _The  Jungle Book._ _

The Second Jungle Book._ _

The Day’s Work._ _

Captains  Courageous._ _Kim._

In spite of a curiously eager disposition on the part of current writers to regard Kipling’s career as over and done, he is the foremost living writer of short stories in English, and of no other young living writer can it be so safely averred that he has become one of the established classics of his race. FRIEDRICH HEINRICH KARL DE LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ (1777-1843).

_Undine._

PIERRE LOTI (L. M. J. Viaud).

_

An Iceland Fisherman._

This and the autobiographical “Romance of a Child,” and several of Loti’s books of travel are in English. EDWARD G. E. L. BULWER-LYTTON (1801-72).

_

Harold, the Last of the  Saxon Kings._

_

Last Days of Pompeii._

Lord Lytton is one of the Victorian novelists whose great reputation is growing rapidly less, and deservedly so, but his historical novels are more than worth reading. GEORGE MACDONALD (1824-1905).

_

David Elginbrod._ _

Robert Falconer._

_Sir Gibbie._ _

At the Back of the North Wind._

A novelist whose popularity among younger readers is probably less than his great merits. XAVIER DE MAISTRE (1764-1852).

_

La Jeune Sibérienne._

ALESSANDRO MANZONI (1785-1873).

_

The Betrothed Lovers._

There are several English translations of this most famous of Italian historical romances. FREDERICK MARRYAT (1792-1848).

_

Jacob Faithful._

_Peter Simple._ _

Mr.
Midshipman Easy._ _Masterman Ready._

A. E. W. MASON.

_The Four Feathers._

A story of bravery and cowardice of unusual merit.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT (1850-93).

_

The Odd Number._

This is an English translation of some of Maupassant’s best tales.
GEORGE MEREDITH (1828-1909). _

Harry Richmond._

_

Beauchamp’s Career._  _

Rhoda Fleming._ _

Evan Harrington._

At his death the foremost English man of letters.

A noble poet and a novelist who easily stands among the few greatest of the century. A taste for Meredith grows on the individual as it has grown on the general world of readers. The novels in this list include not all the greatest but the best for the new reader to try first.

PROSPER MÉRIMÉE (1803-70).

_Colomba._

In easy French, and has been translated into English. SILAS WEIR MITCHELL. _

Hugh Wynne._ _Roland Blake._

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD (1786-1855).

_

Our Village._

WILLIAM MORRIS (1834-96).

_

The Well at the World’s End._

Readers who chance to like this prose poem by a devoted apostle of liberty and beauty will be led to his other romances in prose and verse. MARY NOAILLES MURFREE (“Charles Egbert Craddock”).

_

In the Tennessee  Mountains._ _

Down the Ravine._ _

In the Clouds._

_

In the Stranger  People’s Country._

Portrays the solitude and pathos of the life of the mountaineers of Tennessee. In sincerity and the genuineness of the substance better than in workmanship.
_Nibelungenlied._ The story of the Treasure of the Nibelungs is told for young readers by A. J. Church in “Heroes of Chivalry and Romance.” It is also found in “Wagner Opera Stories” by G. E. Barber, and in “The Wagner Story Book” by W. H. Frost.

Any critical or biographical work on Wagner will take the reader into this great German legend. FRANK NORRIS. _

The Octopus._ _

The Pit._

A serious novelist cut off in his prime before his work attained the greatness that it seemed to promise. MARGARET OLIPHANT (1828-97).

_Chronicles of Carlingford._

_

A  Beleaguered City._  ALFRED OLLIVANT.

_Bob, Son of Battle._

A first-rate story of a dog.

THOMAS NELSON PAGE.

_Elsket._ _

In Ole Virginia._

A sincere and sympathetic portrayer of old and new Virginia.

As is generally true of American fictionists, he is better in the short story than in the novel. GILBERT PARKER.

_Pierre and His People._

_

The Battle of the Strong._

_Seats of the Mighty._

ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS.

_Fourteen to One._ _ A Singular Life._

EDEN PHILLPOTTS.

_Children of the Mist._

_

The Human Boy._ _

The Secret  Woman._

One of the distinguished living novelists of England.
EDGAR ALLAN POE (1809-49). _

Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque._

There are many single-volume editions of Poe’s short stories. An inexpensive complete edition of Poe is published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons. The best and final edition of Poe is that edited by Stedman and Woodberry.

JANE PORTER (1776-1850).

_Scottish Chiefs._

HOWARD PYLE. _

Some Merry Adventures of Robin Hood._ _

The Garden Behind  the Moon._

Mr. Pyle’s books are delightful for the illustrations. The competence of his painting and his dramatic and literary imagination make him the foremost American illustrator, and the texts which he writes to accompany his drawings are adequate, though not in themselves remarkable. RUDOLF ERICH RASPE.

_

Surprising Adventures of Baron Münchausen._

In the translation edited by Thomas Seccombe. A selection of the Münchausen stories for young people made by Dr. Edward Everett Hale, is published by D. C. Heath & Co.
CHARLES READE (1814-84). _

The Cloister and the Hearth._ _

Hard Cash._

_Put Yourself in His Place._ SAMUEL RICHARDSON (1689-1761).

_

Clarissa Harlowe._

There is an abridged edition of this very long novel. GEORGE SAND (A. L. A. Dupin, 1804-76).

_Consuelo._

_The Little  Fadette._ _

The Devil’s Pool._ _

Mauprat._

These and others of George Sand’s novels are in English. WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832).

No list of titles is necessary under Scott’s name. ERNEST THOMPSON SETON.

_Biography of a Grizzly._

A nature writer who for the most part wisely and artistically embodies his knowledge of animals in fiction where they are not subjected to those acid tests of fact which have recently betrayed the base metal in some of the other modern writers about nature. ANNA SEWELL.

_Black Beauty._

The story of a horse; a tract in the interests of kindness to animals which proved to be more than a tract, a charming and immensely popular piece of imaginative writing. HENRYK SIENKIWICZ. _

The Deluge._ _

Quo Vadis._

_With Fire and Sword._

In the translation by Jeremiah Curtin.
WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS (1806-70).

_The Scout._

A writer historically important to Americans because he had a great vogue in his day and accomplished much in a time when there was no American literature south of Poe’s Richmond. Simms is an inferior writer, but “The Scout” is a vigorous narrative and will interest young readers.
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN (1751-1816). _

Dramatic Works._

In _Bohn’s Library_ and in one volume of _Everyman’s Library_.

JOSEPH HENRY SHORTHOUSE.

_

John Inglesant.

_

ANNIE TRUMBULL SLOSSON.

_Seven Dreamers._

_Story-Tell Lib._

FRANCIS HOPKINSON SMITH.

_

Colonel Carter of Cartersville._

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (1849-94).

_

Treasure Island._

_Prince Otto._  _Kidnapped._ _ David Balfour._

_The Merry Men._ _

Dr. Jekyll and Mr.
Hyde._ _The Black Arrow._ _

The Master of Ballantrae._ _St. Ives._

FRANK RICHARD STOCKTON (1834-1902).

_Rudder Grange._ _

The Casting Away  of Mrs. Lecks and Mrs. Aleshine._

_

The Floating Prince and Other Fairy  Tales._ _ The Lady or the Tiger?_ _

A Chosen Few._ _ A Story-Teller’s  Pack._

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE (1812-96).

_

Uncle Tom’s Cabin._

RUTH MCENERY STUART.

_

The Golden Wedding._ _Sonny._

Perhaps the wittiest of all contemporaneous writers about southern life.

JONATHAN SWIFT (1667-1745).

_

Gulliver’s Travels._

There are several editions of “Gulliver” prepared for schools. It is to be found in _Everyman’s Library_. The book is, of course, a satirical essay on man; it is also a masterpiece of fictitious narrative. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY (1811-63).

No list of titles is necessary under this name. LEOF NICOLAEVICH TOLSTOI.

_War and Peace._

Advanced students of French can read the French version of this novel. A good English version is that by Leo Wiener. ANTHONY TROLLOPE (1815-82).

_

The Warden._ _Barchester Towers._

_Framley Parsonage._ _Dr. Thorne._ _

The Small House at Allington._

_Last Chronicle of Barset._

(The foregoing six constitute the  _Chronicles of Barsetshire_.) _

Can You Forgive Her?_ _Phineas Finn._  _Phineas Redux._ _ The Prime Minister._ _

The Duke’s Children._

_The  Eustace Diamonds._

(The foregoing six constitute the _Parliamentary  Novels_.) _Is He Popenjoy?_ _Orley Farm._ _ The Vicar of Bullhampton._

(The last are called the _Manor House Novels_.) This list, disproportionately long perhaps, seems justifiable because Trollope wrote an incredible number of novels not all of which are equally good, and because his books are in the present quarter century not so widely read as they should be. After Dickens, Thackeray, and George Eliot, who are the highest peaks in the half century (we cannot quite measure Meredith and Hardy yet), Anthony Trollope is easily fourth. And even among the peaks the broad massive plateau of his work seems more and more to have enduring solidity. Like Balzac in France (though little like him, book for book), Trollope has written England’s _comédie humaine_.

With him quantity is a quality, for he is a master in large part by virtue of his bulk; no other novelist seems to have told so much about the daily life of his nation. The one thing lacking to make Trollope a very great writer of fiction is that his prose is not eloquent; though it is good, it has no moments of supreme goodness; but few other English novelists have sustained such a level of merit through so many volumes. JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

_

Neighbor Jackwood._

_Jack Hazard and His  Fortunes._

_

A Chance for Himself._

_Doing His Best._ _ Cudjo’s Cave._  _

The Tinkham Brothers’ Tidemill._

No other writer of equal ability has devoted himself to books for boys. IVAN SERGYEVICH TURGENIEFF (1818-83).

_Fathers and Children._

_Smoke._

Several of Turgenieff’s novels have been translated into English. The English reader should, if possible, read Russian novels in French.
ALFRED DE VIGNY (1799-1863). _Cinq-Mars._

This great historical novel is in easy French. It has been published in an English translation. MARY ARNOLD WARD (Mrs. Humphrey Ward).

_

Robert Elsmere._

An English writer of excellent ideals and deep seriousness, overrated by Americans who seem to think that she is giving them the “true inwardness” of British high life.
ELIZABETH CHERRY WALTZ. _ Pa Gladden._

Humorous and touching stories of a Kentucky farmer.
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER (1829-1900).

_

A Little Journey in the World._

_The Golden House._

JOHN WATSON (“Ian Maclaren”).

_

Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush._

_The  Days of Auld Lang Syne.

_

EDWARD NOYES WESTCOTT. _

David Harum._

An illustration of the fact that a true humorous character will catch the fancy of the world, no matter in how defective a plot it is embodied. KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN (Mrs. Riggs).

_

The Birds’ Christmas Carol._

_Penelope’s Progress._ _

The Story of Patsy._ _

Timothy’s Quest._  _Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm._

MARY ELEANOR WILKINS (Mrs. Freeman). _

A Humble Romance._ _

A New  England Nun._ _Jane Field._ _

Pembroke._ _

Jerome, a Poor Man._ _

Silence  and Other Stories._  OWEN WISTER.

_The Virginian._ _

Lady Baltimore._

ISRAEL ZANGWILL.

_Children of the Ghetto._ _

Dreamers of the Ghetto.

_

CHAPTER V THE READING OF POETRY When Julia Bryant, the daughter of William Cullen Bryant, was a child, a neighbor of the poet made her first call, and was shown into the parlor. She found the small Julia seated on the floor with an illustrated volume of Milton in her lap. She knew, of course, that the pictures and not the text engaged the child’s attention, but by way of beginning an acquaintance, she asked: “Reading poetry already, little girl”?
Julia looked up and regarded her gravely. Then with an air of politely correcting ignorance, she explained: “People don’t _read_ poetry. Papas write poetry, and mamas sing poetry, and little girls learn to say poetry, but nobody reads poetry.

That isn’t what it’s for.” If the several members of all families were as happily accounted for as those in Bryant’s household, the Muses would not live so remote from this world. That mothers sing poetry and little girls say it is enough to keep it everlastingly alive.

The trouble is that few households are blessed with papas who write poetry; and there are none too many papas who read it. If we have not learned to read poetry, let us begin now. Suppose we read and commit to memory the following stanza, and then talk a little about it.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down;     The voice I heard this passing night was heard       In ancient days by emperor and clown:     Perhaps the self-same song that found a path       Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,         She stood in tears amid the alien corn;           The same that oft-times hath     Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam       Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. This is from Keats’s “Ode to a Nightingale.” It is one of the most musical, most magical stanzas in all English poetry; that much anyone can tell you who has read the poets.

But to tell you in what consists its glory is beyond any critic who is not a poet; nothing of analysis can add to the effect it is making in your ears, in your brain, now that you have committed it to memory.

One of the best of English critics--and he was a poet, too--Matthew Arnold, in his essay, “The Study of Poetry,” made but a dull and wordy discourse when he tried to tell what the qualities of poetry are. Only by reading the rest of the poem, and then the rest of Keats, and then other poets, can you increase for yourself the delight of those wonderful lines. If they do not tempt you to the great excursion into the poets, you have not read them over, you have not repeated them aloud often enough. Only for the sake of dwelling upon these lines, and because we have agreed to talk about poetry, and not because our comment can reveal the secret, let us go back and study the stanza.

The nightingale’s song is the voice of immortality. It releases the individual soul from the present hour, from the struggle of life and makes it one with the great experiences of the race. The imagination sweeps over all history on the wings of those first four lines, and then carries us into the world of religious story, in the lines recalling the Book of Ruth. And finally we are borne out of the human world into fairyland.

All this in a single stanza!

Every poem of high quality, every one of the treasured passages from long poems, makes such a magic flight into the realm of eternal ideas, so that it is commonly said that poetry is “uplifting.” Life and death and Heaven and the stars are the poet’s subjects. And the poem of common things, in praise of simple virtues and domestic happiness, such as have made Burns and Longfellow and Whittier so dear to the heart, have the same kind of power in less degree; if they do not transport us to Heaven they reveal the seed of immortality in daily circumstance.

Keats bears the imagination over the world and beyond it in a single stanza. All poetry of the highest rank has this power to utter eternity in a few words. And though at first it seems a contradictory thing to say, it is true that the long poem has the same quality of compression; it makes long flights of idea in relatively short compass of words.

The time of reading, the time that the physical eye needs to catch the winged sentences, is nothing. What, you say, “The Faerie Queene,” “Paradise Lost,” “Hamlet,” the “Iliad,” the “Idylls of the King” are compressed so that the time it takes to read them is annihilated? Just that.

The complete works of a great poet do not fill more space than one or two long novels. Poetry is greater than prose if only because it expresses noble ideas in fewer words; it is language at its highest power. Its rhymes and rhythms are all a means of conveying this power.

The person who regards poetry as rhymed sentences that might as well be put into prose, has his eye on the shell of form and has never felt the inner virtues of poetry. Poetry has its forms because only in its forms can it say the most. But what of the great lines of prose that are as eloquent and compact with thought as any line of poetry?

There is only one answer to that. Such lines of prose are poetry too. “In my Father’s house are many mansions” is poetry.

That it looks like prose on the printed page is a matter of typesetting, and type is only the outermost husk about the shell. Hear that sentence from the Bible, think it and feel it, and you will know that it has high poetic quality. The intensity of language, the heat of high passion has made the diamond; the diamond is more beautiful after it is cut, but cutting cannot make a diamond.

The outward form we shall enjoy, but we must look inward for the essential quality. As our Bible is printed, the following passage from Ecclesiastes has the appearance of prose, yet it has, too, something like the stanzaic divisions of poetry. Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days  come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no  pleasure in them;  While the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars be not  darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain:

In the day when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong  men shall bow themselves, and the grinders cease because they are few,  and those that look out of the windows be darkened,  And the doors shall be shut in the streets, when the sound of the  grinding is low, and he shall rise up at the voice of the bird, and  all the daughters of music shall be brought low;  Also when they shall be afraid of that which is high, and fears shall  be in the way, and the almond tree shall flourish, and the grasshopper  shall be a burden, and desire shall fail: because man goeth to his  long home, and the mourners go about the streets:  Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or  the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the  cistern; Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit  shall return unto God who gave it. Whatever else this may be, it is poetry of high power. Millions of men have found in the Bible something which is not in other books, but that it has in common with other great books the miracle of poetic utterance every right view of the Bible must admit. The passage we have just quoted is in beauty equal and not wholly dissimilar to the stanza from Keats.

The Biblical poet has into a few words condensed the tragic symbols of death and sorrow; and from their dust and dissolution his soul has aspired upward to the stars. If the stanza from Keats and the verse from the Bible are both essentially poetic, what becomes of certain devices of arrangement which are in Keats and not in the Bible poem, such devices as rhymes and regularity of accent? These are but instruments of beauty; the words and their arrangement are the result of the inward passion and beauty of the thought, and we in reading are acted upon by that result, and feel again the passion and idea that produced it. In inferior poetry cause and effect are reversed or fail altogether. Thousands of poets have tried to make poetry by devices of rhyme and line division, by deliberately arranging vowels and consonants into pleasant sounds; almost any conventionally educated person can learn to do this, just as almost anybody with practice can learn to play a piece on the piano and carefully obey every sign on the music score.

But no music results, only an empty regularity of sound.

Because there are so many of these mechanical pianists, the sound of the piano seldom attracts and arrests us.

Because so many verses, thousands in the monthly magazines, have merely the outward form of poetry, thousands of persons have come to believe that poetry is an artificial trick of words.

The heart of poetry is emotion and a sense of beauty. The great emotions, patriotism, religion, love, acting upon the poet, turn his words into magic sequences. When the poetry is finished and arranged on the printed page, we find, true, that it has a form, that it has metrical excellences, that its varieties of sound are thus and so; the poets are masters of at least as many technicalities as the little versifiers.

The test comes when we read the sequence of words cooled, as it were, into a set form, and touched by their appeal to our inward sense feel them start into warm life again. If we go far enough in our reading to study poetry, then we shall expect to learn about the technical methods and rhetorical elements of verse; we shall expect to learn about the lives of the poets and about their growth in their art. Just so the lover of music will wish to study the laws of sound, even the mechanical and physical properties of musical instruments, mastering from a scientific point of view the conditions and materials of the art. Such study helps us to appreciate great music and great poetry.

But it is not necessary.

The orchestra will act upon us without our knowing how it is arranged. The true poem will act on us if we know nothing more than our own language and our own feelings. Our pleasant task is to offer ourselves to the great poem with attention and a desire for pleasure. Attention and a desire for pleasure are easily distracted in those who have not the habit of reading poetry.

And poetry is often surrounded by unnecessary distractions. The very zeal of those who would draw our sympathies to it leads them to stand in the light attempting to explain what needs no explanation, what, indeed, cannot be explained. The lecturer upon music too often talks while the orchestra is playing. After one knows Shakespeare, a discourse on the “lessons of the tragedies” may enlarge one’s understanding. But such disquisitions are a forbidding introduction to any poet.

We have in America many worthy persons who lecture on the ethical beliefs of Robert Browning. Of course any interest, any occasion that will bring in a new “convert,” and lead him to think of Browning at all, is a gain--the principal excuse for lectures and criticisms is that they do invite wandering souls in to meet a poet. But it is usually true that two hours’ reading in Browning is more delightful and more profitable than a two hours’ lecture about him.

And it is often the case that lectures about his philosophy repel readers who might enjoy his poetry. The lesson of poetry is beauty; the meaning of poetry is exalted emotions. The private special beliefs of the poet are of interest, because those beliefs raised the poet’s intelligence to a white heat, and that heat left us verse crystals which are beautiful long after the poet’s beliefs have passed away.

Through his beliefs the poet reaches to great passions that endure, and anyone can understand them without knowing how the poet arrived at them. If a poet cannot deliver his message, a critic cannot do it for him. Shelley was a worshiper of democracy; Shakespeare was a believer in the divinity of kings. Browning was an optimist. Omar Khayyám, as Edward Fitzgerald rendered him in English poetry, was a kind of pessimistic fatalist.

All this is interesting to know. But the reader of poetry does not, in the immediate enjoyment of the poets, vex himself with these diversities of faith.

Hear the poets themselves: Shakespeare’s unrighteous king, Macbeth, hedged round by his enemies, dulled in feeling yet still keenly intelligent, hears of the death of his queen. She should have died hereafter;     There would have been a time for such a word. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,     Creeps in this petty pace from day to day     To the last syllable of recorded time;     And all our yesterdays have lighted fools     The way to dusty death.

Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player     That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more. It is a tale     Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,     Signifying nothing. Shelley, the lover of human liberty and the wide freedom of nature, chants to the West Wind:     Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is;     What if my leaves are falling like its own!

The tumult of thy mighty harmonies     Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,     Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce,     My spirit!

Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe     Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse,     Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth     Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth     The trumpet of a prophecy! O, wind,     If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? [Illustration: SHELLEY]

Hear Browning, the athletic optimist:     The year’s at the spring And day’s at the morn;     Morning’s at seven;     The hillside’s dew-pearled;     The lark’s on the wing;     The snail’s on the thorn:     God’s in his heaven--     All’s right with the world! And of himself, at the close of his life, Browning sings:     One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,       Never doubted clouds would break,     Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, ere baffled to fight better,                              Sleep to wake.

Finally listen to the beauty-loving pessimist that Fitzgerald brought out of Persia and set among the jewels in the crown of English poetry: So when the Angel of the darker Drink     At last shall find you by the River-brink,       And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul     Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink. I sent my Soul through the Invisible,       Some letter of that After-life to spell: And after many Days my Soul returned       And said, “Behold, Myself am Heaven and Hell.”

Here are four poets of different generations and different beliefs; large volumes have been written to expound each and tell us the meaning, the philosophy, the development, the tendencies, the influence of this poet and that. But see them together: no explanation of their _meanings_ can divide them, for they are all poets, and no group of men on earth are liker one to another _in purpose_ than great poets are like to each other.

They are all singing the eternal in words of unmatchable power. They are wondrously alike in their celebration of beauty and high feelings. The great poet differs not from other great poets, but from inferior ones; he differs from his equals mainly in manner of expression.

The new poet is he who brings the old messages in ways that no other poet has conceived, and the old poet is always new, because he has attained to beautiful utterance of ideas that we cannot outgrow, which indeed most of mankind have not yet reached. Prose becomes old-fashioned (except the Bible, which has a special place in our life and is, moreover, largely poetic in substance); the prose of Shakespeare’s time and Milton’s is difficult to read, it seems written in an antique language. But Shakespeare and Milton are the poetry of to-day and of uncounted to-morrows.

Not to read poetry is to miss the greatest ideas in the world, to disregard the noblest and most exalted work that the human mind has achieved. To poetry all other arts and sciences are in some way inferior. Not music, nor painting, nor the laws of government, nor the discoveries of mechanics, nor anything else that man has done has the right of poetry to be called divine, except only that of which poetry is the vehicle, which is in a sense one with it, religious prophecy and worship.

Whether religion and poetry are one, as some philosophers hold, it is a fact of history that the great religious prophets have had the gifts of poets, and the poets are all singers of hymns and incantations which stir in our hearts the religious sense. We need not go further into this question than to this simple truth, that the man who has no poetry in him is likely to be an irreligious man, not necessarily lacking in goodness and righteousness, but lacking the upward aspiration of the truly religious mind. Come, poet, come! A thousand laborers ply their task,     And what it tends to scarcely ask,     And trembling thinkers on the brink     Shiver and know not how to think.
To tell the purport of their pain,     And what our silly joys contain;     In lasting lineaments portray     The substance of the shadowy day;     Our real and inner deeds rehearse,     And make our meaning clear in verse:     Come, Poet, come!

or but in vain     We do the work or feel the pain,     And gather up the seeming gain,     Unless before the end thou come     To take, ere they are lost, their sum. Come, Poet, come!
To give an utterance to the dumb,     And make vain babblers silent, come;     A thousand dupes point here and there,     Bewildered by the show and glare;     And wise men half have learned to doubt     Whether we are not best without. Come, Poet; both but wait to see     Their error proved to them in thee. Come, Poet, come!

In vain I seem to call. And yet     Think not the living times forget. Ages of heroes fought and fell     That Homer in the end might tell;     O’er groveling generations past     Upstood the Doric fane at last;     And countless hearts on countless years     Had wasted thoughts, and hopes, and fears,     Rude laughter and unmeaning tears, Ere England Shakespeare saw, or Rome     The pure perfection of her dome.

Others, I doubt not, if not we,     The issue of our toils shall see;     Young children gather as their own     The harvest that the dead had sown,     The dead forgotten and unknown. ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

CHAPTER VI THE READING OF POETRY--(_Continued_) In almost every American household there will be some volume of poetry through which the young reader can make his entrance into the enchanted world; there will be a volume of Shakespeare, an old copy of “Paradise Lost” or the works of Longfellow or Tennyson. In our day a desire to read is seldom thwarted by lack of books.

Indeed, it sometimes seems as if the very abundance of books made us so familiar with their backs that we do not value the treasures inside. The biographies of our grandfathers tell us of walks of five miles to secure some coveted volume, and a volume so secured was not skimmed or neglected; the effort to get it made it doubly precious. If one is left to choose the door through which to enter the realm of poetry, a good anthology will prove a broad approach. There is none better than Palgrave’s “Golden Treasury of Songs and Lyrics.”

It is inexpensive, so that anyone can save enough pennies to buy it. It is convenient to carry in one’s pocket, a virtue that makes it preferable to larger anthologies, to those old-fashioned “household collections” printed in double columns. If all our men and boys had the “Golden Treasury” in their coat pockets, what a civilization we should have at the end of ten years! In order to keep up with us the ladies would have to provide pockets in their dresses or carry more spacious handbags than the tyranny of style now permits. The selections in Palgrave or in the four volumes of Ward’s “English Poets,” are so rich and varied that no reader can fail to find his own poet, and the next step will be to get a larger selection from that poet’s works.

All the English poets have been published in inexpensive volumes of selections, many of them in the same _Golden Treasury Series_; and as poets, like other human beings, are not always at their best, an edition which contains only the best will save the reader from the unfortunate experience of meeting a poet for the first time in his inferior work. When we have learned really to like a poet, we shall wish to have his complete works, but for the young reader most modern poets are better for the suppression of their less admirable passages. Only three or four--Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, our greatest poets--wrote long poems which to be enjoyed at their fullest must be read entire. Although it is true that poetry consists of great lines and that a collection of short poems and passages will be enough to nourish the soul for its whole earthly life, yet supreme poetry is built on a mighty plan.

Brief lyrics and bits of song are like jewels, precious, complete, beautiful. Great poems, epics and dramas, are like cathedrals in which the jewels are set in the walls and in the windows. One might read all the fine passages from Shakespeare and yet not feel Shakespeare’s highest, that is, his entire, poetic power. For the marvelous speeches and songs, however satisfying in themselves, lose some of their meaning when taken out of the structure of which they are a part. The stained glass window is beautiful in the artist’s studio, but when it is set in the church and the light falls through it, it becomes part of a beauty greater than its own.

So, too, “Macbeth” is greater than Shakespeare’s lyrics, “Paradise Lost” is greater than all of Milton’s short poems taken together. The true reader of poetry will pass beyond the delight of the perfect stanza to the wider joy of the complete drama, the complete epic. In approaching a long poem, the modern impatient reader is discouraged sometimes by the number of pages of solid verse which follow those first pages into which he has plunged.

It is well to remember that in reading poetry, a little traveling of the eye takes the imagination on long journeys, and that imagination will join for us the first page and the last even if we have spent six months in making the intervening journey. “Hamlet” need not be read in a day. If one reads a few lines at a time one will soon be in the depths of it, and there is no danger of losing one’s way.

We can spend a month in the first perusal or we can run rapidly through it in the three hours which it is supposed to occupy on the stage. We can go backward and forward in it, pause as long as we will on a single speech, or fly swiftly upon the wings of the action. The sense of leisure, of independence of hourly circumstance, is one of the spiritual uses of poetry.

The poet and our own nature will determine the time for us. When we follow the pageant of Shakespeare’s sad histories of the death of kings, we shall not, I hope, comport ourselves like tourists hurrying through a picture gallery in order that we may have “done” it before our train goes. We shall not be so misguided as to plume ourselves when we enter in our diary: “Read two plays of Shakespeare this week.” Reading that consists merely in passing the eye over the page is not reading at all. When we become conscious of turning pages without any inward response, it is time to lay the book down and do something else.

When we are really reading, we shall not be conscious of the book and we shall not know how many pages we have read--until we wake up out of dreamland and come back into our own world. Two or three plays of Shakespeare are being read every year in every high school in America. It is a common experience of teachers that the pupils regard Shakespeare’s plays as the hardest part of the prescribed reading. One reason is that these dramatic poems are through a regrettable necessity made the text of lessons in language.

The atmosphere of study and duty surrounding “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” in the classroom takes the charm out of that fairy play. This is not the fault of the teachers and it is not for us to criticise them; the wisest leaders in education have not found a way to make the study of Shakespeare in school less laborious than it is. And many of them think that it is well that lessons should be hard nuts to crack, that the young mind is better disciplined if its schoolday tasks are not made too delightful and easy. Some teachers believe that the old-fashioned hard digging at books is being in too large a measure replaced by kindergarten methods, which are so unadvisedly extended that even a geometry lesson is treated as a game.

For the present we will keep our consideration of the uses and delights of reading apart from the problems of the schools, and regard Shakespeare as we regard Scott--a friend to enjoy in leisure hours. I should advise, then, that pupils who are reading Shakespeare in school select other plays than those prescribed in class and come to them as to a novel chosen for pleasure. If the class work requires a study of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” let the young reader try “The Tempest” by himself. If “Julius Cæsar” is a part of the winter’s school task, let us in vacation time slip “Macbeth” or “Henry V” into our pockets.

And while our friends in the other hammock are reading a romance of the hour, let us be reading a romance of the ages. When we are tired of reading and are ready to play that game of tennis, our opponent, who has been reading a book that he bought on the newsstand at the railroad station, will not necessarily beat us, because we know what he does not know, that a gift of tennis balls comes into the plot of “Henry V.” The Dauphin of France sends Henry the tennis balls for a mocking gift, and Henry answers:     When we have matched our rackets to these balls,     We will, in France, by God’s grace, play a set     Shall strike his father’s crown into the hazard. Tell him he hath made a match with such a wrangler     That all the courts of France will be disturbed     With chaces. That has a spirit which your friend will not find in the excellent story of a school game which he has been reading, “How Ralph Saved the Day.” The great poems receive us on any good ground of interest which we choose to tread.

Would you have a romantic novel? Shakespeare provides that in “As You Like It” and “Twelfth Night.” Or a military adventure?

There is “Henry Fifth.” Or a love tragedy?

There is “Romeo and Juliet.” These satisfy our primitive liking for a good story. And so in some measure do all great poems, for the great poems are epics and dramas, that is, stories in verse.

Literature finds its best structural material in action and event, and language is best suited to the expression of actions, perhaps because it has been made by a world of workers and doers. The most effective means of conveying abstract ideas is through story. The most moving sections of the Bible are narrative, the greatest lessons are taught in parables and instances.

“Paradise Lost” is a narrative of great vigor, for all the dull debates and arguments; and if it was not Milton’s primary intention to tell a great story for its own sake, nevertheless he did tell a great story and we can enjoy it for its own sake long before we have begun, and long after we have ceased, to be interested in his theology and philosophy.
To say that great poets, Homer, Vergil, Dante, Spenser, Shakespeare, are romancers as truly as are the writers of prose novels is not to belittle poetry. The highest thoughts can be conveyed in a story. When a great poetic story-teller ceases for too many lines to be master of narrative, it will often be found that some other poetic qualities have for the moment died out of him too. And when he attempts to convey great ideas with little regard to their place in a moving sequence of events, he pays the penalty of not being read, he loses hold of the reader’s interest.

The most titanic case of the failure of high poetic thoughts to win their way to the common heart of man, because of the disregard of narrative form, is Browning’s “The Ring and the Book.” There the story, a terrible and touching story, is told over a dozen times, and not once told well. Imbedded in its strange shapelessness are wonderful ideas and passages of intense beauty.

As a heap of poetry it is the only production of the Victorian age that has the magnitude of Shakespeare and the classic epics. Other poems of Browning’s, “Clive” and “Ivan Ivanovitch,” show that he had narrative gifts. Some scenes in his dramas are in emotional energy and narrative progression unrivaled by any poet since Shakespeare. But in “The Ring and the Book,” into which he put his whole heart, he would not or could not tell his story as the experience of all ages has shown that stories must be told: his poem does not move forward in a continuously high and noble style.

And so most of the world of readers are deprived of the richness with which he freighted from his prodigal mind and great soul his mighty rudderless ship that goes down in midocean. Shakespeare told good stories in almost all his plays. He did not invent the stories, but he selected them from the literature of the world and from other Elizabethan writers, and then enriched the narrative with every kind of beauty and significance which it would hold. On account of their excellence as narratives and their intensely human and stirring materials, the plays of Shakespeare enjoyed some measure of popularity even in their own time, if the scholars have rightly informed us; and the plays have continued to hold the stage and to interest many of the “great variety of readers” who are addressed in one of the introductions to the first collected edition of Shakespeare’s works.

In our time the influence of the schools has insured popular acquaintance with Shakespeare as an object of serious study. On the other hand, the great increase in the quantity of prose fiction, and the fact that it is easier to read thin prose than rich poetry, have obscured for many readers the elementary delight of Shakespeare’s plays as fictitious romances. One reason that the inexperienced reader regards the reading of Shakespeare as an unusual operation of eye and brain is that we are not accustomed to read the drama of our own time; so that we have not the habit of following naked dialogue accompanied only by a few terse stage directions. Since Shakespeare’s time our literature has not been so rich in drama as in other forms.

Some of our plays--those that have succeeded on the stage and those written in conventional dramatic form without regard to performance on the stage--are worth reading. But the public does not encourage the printing of them.

Many of our writers shrewdly make double use of their ideas and turn them both into stage form and into prose fiction. The large number of dramatized novels and “novelized” dramas--Shakespeare himself dramatized novels--shows that in England and America we regard the playbook as something for the actor to learn and represent to us in spoken word and action. In France the latest play is for sale in the bookshops like the latest novel.

If our stage is to return to high literary standards, there must grow up in our public an audience of intelligent playreaders as well as playgoers. The more intelligently we read plays, the more there will be worth reading; we can help the stage to attain and hold a better level of excellence by demanding of it that its productions shall be “literary,” that is, readable. That Shakespeare is the single dramatist in our language whom we feel we ought to read is regrettable.

It sets him apart in a solitude which is as artificial in its way as the attempt of some critics to group him in a “school of playwrights.” He is solitary in greatness, quite lonely among his many contemporaries[1] in drama, but the form he used, narrative dialogue, ought to be as familiar to us as the novel. If ten people read “The Vicar of Wakefield” to one that reads “She Stoops to Conquer,” the reason is not that “The Vicar” is better work, but that the printed play looks strange to the eyes of our reading public. Plato put his philosophy in dramatic dialogue, apparently with the intention of choosing a popular and readable form.

And the author of the Shakespearian drama seems to have felt that he had chosen the most popular and practical vehicle of ideas. Perhaps, if he had known to what a low condition Puritan prejudice, the social weaknesses of stage life and other causes were to bring dramatic literature, he might have turned his narrative genius into other than dramatic form. That we are not readers of plays is no special fault of this age. A hundred years ago Charles and Mary Lamb found a wide audience for their “Tales from Shakespeare.” The publisher announced in the second edition that the “Tales,” intended primarily for children, had been found “an acceptable and improving present to young ladies advancing to the state of womanhood.”

If Shakespeare was to be retold for the young, it was fortunate that Charles Lamb was selected as the emissary from the land of poetry to those who had never made the great adventure beyond the confines of prose. Yet it is hard to believe that Lamb’s “Tales” are necessary to any but lovers of Lamb.

There is a danger that the young reader, for whom he designed the book as a door to Shakespeare, will linger in the vestibule, content with the genuine riches that are there, and will not go on to the greater riches of Shakespeare himself. Shakespeare told the stories better than another can tell them, and anyone who knows enough of the English language to read Lamb’s “Tales” will find Shakespeare’s plays intelligible to read, just as when performed on the stage they are intelligible to the people in the gallery, even to those in the boxes. Repeated readings with some reference to simple explanatory notes will make the deep meanings and fine beauties ever more and more clear.

The plays which a beginner should read are, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” “The Merchant of Venice,” “As You Like It,” “Twelfth Night,” “The Tempest,” “Henry IV,” “Henry V,” “Richard III,” “Romeo and Juliet,” “Julius Cæsar,” “Hamlet,” “Othello,” “King Lear,” and “Macbeth.” The other plays and the poems may, for various reasons, be reserved for the time when one no longer needs advice about reading. We shall have gained much of the freedom of soul which is the necessary condition of reading poetry, if we make a New Year’s resolution not to be frightened away from the real mysteries of Shakespeare by the false mysteries of his editors and critics.[2] Shakespeare speaks our language, but the scholars speak a language which they invented, as if they intended to hold their authority by wrapping themselves in impenetrable obscurities which common folk would not try to master.

Let us not be deceived. “The Tempest” was not written for university professors. Let us open it with the same confident curiosity that we should bring to “Robinson Crusoe” or “Ivanhoe.”

And after you have read “The Tempest,” what do you remember to have found difficult? Is it not clearer than daylight, that enchanted island where Prospero, the exiled duke, has lived twelve years with his daughter Miranda? Is it not a simple and sweet romance that Prince Ferdinand should be wrecked on the island and should fall in love with Miranda and that she should fall in love with him, the first man she has seen except her father?

Is it not clear that Prospero, a student of magic, has gained control of the spirits of the island and has his blithe servant, Ariel, and his brutal servant, Caliban? Did you find any difficulty in understanding that when the wicked brother, who cheated Prospero of his dukedom, is cast ashore upon the island, Prospero pardons him and gets his dukedom back? What is obscure in this wonder tale? “Cinderella” and “The Sleeping Beauty” are made of the same stuff, and we hear them at our mothers’ knees before we are able to read at all.

But there is more in “The Tempest” than a childish fairy tale.

Yes, much more, but that more is insinuated into the story, it is embroidered upon it, it comes to us without effort of ours, for the poet is a Prospero and teaches us, as Prospero taught Miranda, by art and nature and not by laborious counsel. You will feel as you follow the fairy story that the spirit of nature has stolen over you unawares, that Caliban represents the evil in the natural world and Ariel the good, and that both are obedient to the bidding of man’s intelligence. So much philosophy will come to you of itself; it is not a dull lesson to knit your brows over; you need seek no lecturer to expound it to you. A song of Ariel will linger in your ear.

All that is required of you is that your senses be wide awake and that your fancy be free from bookish anxiety and ready to be played upon. The miracle will be wrought for you. You need only sit, like Ferdinand, and watch the masque which the wizard evokes--“a most majestic vision, and harmoniously charming.” There will remain with you some speech, grave with philosophy and luminous with imagery, such as this:                   These our actors,     As I foretold you, were all spirits, and     Are melted into air, into thin air;

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,     The cloud capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,     The solemn temples, the great globe itself,     Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,     And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,     Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff     As dreams are made on; and our little life     Is rounded with a sleep. [Illustration: TENNYSON]

It is better, perhaps, to read the comedies and histories before the tragedies. The comedies and histories are simpler in motive, and through lighter thoughts give one the feeling for Shakespeare’s diction and prepare one to enter the tragedies that treat of higher matters. It is because tragedy is concerned with greater ideas, not because it ends unhappily, that it is greater poetry than comedy. It deals with more important motives and more serious events, and its thought is complete; the career of Hamlet, or of Macbeth, is finished, and the ideas of life that informed the career and shaped the events are carried out to their fullest.

Tragedy does not consist in the piling up of corpses in the last act; the end of the characters is nothing in itself. Shakespeare always rounds off the conclusion with rapid strokes; having done with the ideas and motives that lead to the end he has little interest in the mere death of his characters. It is the “way to dusty death” that interests him and us and makes the tragedy profound. To those readers referred to in a previous chapter, who do not like sad endings, we can now give another answer. They put too much thought upon the ending and too little upon the story that leads to the end.

Whoever does not like tragedy does not like serious ideas, and whoever does not read tragedy does not read the greatest poetry. For the greatest poetry must consist of the most important ideas. Not only upon beauty of form and magic of phrase, but on the heart, the content, depends the greatness of a poem. LIST OF BOOKS OF POETRY (_Supplementary to Chapter VI_) COLLECTIONS AND ANTHOLOGIES OF POETRY  _

The English Poets_, edited by T. H. WARD, and published by Macmillan,  in four volumes, at $1 each. On the whole, the most satisfactory collection of English poetry.

Each of the chief poets is represented by several selections, and the introductory criticisms are in themselves a liberal education. _Little Masterpieces of Poetry_, edited by HENRY VAN DYKE, in six  volumes, and published by Doubleday, Page & Co. The poems are divided according to form; one volume containing ballads; another, odes and sonnets; another, lyrics; and so on. This is a rational, but not a practical, principle of division, for it is better to have the selections, say, from Keats, together in one’s anthology than to have his sonnets in one volume and his lyrics in another.

A poet and his poetry are very definite units, but the lines between lyrics and ballads and odes are not sharp and, on the whole, not important. _Lyra Heroica_, edited by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY, and published by  Charles Scribner’s Sons.
Called “a book of verse for boys”; really a book of verse for everybody, consisting of the martial, the heroic, the patriotic, from the old English ballads to Rudyard Kipling. _A Victorian Anthology_, edited by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN, and  published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. A remarkably adequate collection of English poems of the last seventy years.

_

An American Anthology_, edited by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN, and  published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
Not only a wise selection of the best American poetry, but a complete survey of the poetic utterance of this country, from a biographical and historical point of view. _The Golden Treasury_, edited by FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE, and  published by Macmillan (see page 109 of this Guide).
_ The Golden Treasury_, second series, edited by FRANCIS TURNER  PALGRAVE. This continues the first _Golden Treasury_ and includes the Victorian poets. It is not so complete as Stedman’s _Anthology_, but costs only half as much.
_

The Children’s Treasury of Lyrical Poetry_, edited by FRANCIS TURNER  PALGRAVE. _

The Children’s Garland from the Best Poets_, edited by COVENTRY  PATMORE. The two foregoing are in the _Golden Treasury Series_, and published by Macmillan. _Elizabethan Lyrics_, edited by FELIX E. SCHELLING.

An inexpensive collection, published by Ginn & Co., covering the same period as is covered by about one sixth of the _Golden Treasury_, but in larger type and so pleasanter to read. _Seventeenth Century Lyrics_, edited by FELIX E. SCHELLING. Continues the volume mentioned above. _

The Blue Poetry Book_, edited by ANDREW LANG. A good collection of verse intended by the editor for young people, and selected by him wisely, but quite whimsically, from poets he happens to like.
_Golden Numbers_, edited by KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN AND NORA ARCHIBALD  SMITH. An excellent anthology intended for youth. _Oxford Book of English Verse_, edited by ARTHUR T. QUILLER-COUCH.

A handsome book which represents, in less degree than most anthologies, the traditional standards of excellence or traditionally excellent poets, and in rather greater degree the fine taste of the editor for the best.
_English and Scottish Popular Ballads_, edited by FRANCIS JAMES CHILD. This is a selection in a single volume from the great edition of the ballads by Professor Child. It is equally for the student and the reader. In the _Cambridge Poets_, published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
_Specimens of English Dramatic Poets_, edited by CHARLES LAMB.
Passages that pleased Lamb in the works of Shakespeare’s contemporaries.

Interesting to a reader of Elizabethan drama and to a reader of Lamb.
INDIVIDUAL POETS  ÆSCHYLUS (525-456 B.C.).

_Lyrical Dramas._

In _Everyman’s Library_.
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH (1836-1907).

_Poems._

Household Edition.

Aldrich was a careful editor of his own work and this volume is complete in its inclusions and its omissions. It is one of the few volumes of American poetry worth owning. ARISTOPHANES (about 450-380 B.C.).

_Comedies._

In two volumes of _Bohn’s Library_, translated by W. J. Hickie.
MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-88). _Poetical Works._

The Globe Edition, published by Macmillan, which costs $1.75, is the best. Most of the chief British poets can be had in this edition. The Cambridge Edition, published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., costs a little more the volume, but it is preferable on the whole in point of manufacture and readability.

The young reader of Arnold may begin with the narrative poem, “Sohrab and Rustum.” FRANCIS BEAUMONT (158?-1616).

_Dramatic Works._

The best selection of the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher is the two volumes, edited by J. St. Loe Strachey in the _Mermaid Series_, published by Charles Scribner’s Sons. In this series are, in the words of the title page, “The Best Plays of the Old Dramatists.”

A taste for Elizabethan drama is as well left undeveloped until after a fair acquaintance has been formed with the plays of Shakespeare. WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827).

_Songs of Innocence._

_Songs of Experience._

There are several collections of Blake’s lyrics in single-volume editions. A good one is that with an introductory essay by Lawrence Housman. Blake’s lyrics of children and his “Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright” will be found in many of the anthologies. THOMAS EDWARD BROWN (1830-97).

_

Collected Poems._

A remarkable English poet, but little known to the general public until the posthumous publication of his work in 1900 by Macmillan & Co., in the single-volume Globe Edition, which contains the works of Shelley, Tennyson, and other great poets; Brown is worthy of that distinguished company. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (1809-61).

_Poetical Works._

In one volume, in Macmillan’s Globe Edition.

“The Sonnets from the Portuguese” are to be found in a small volume by themselves. They are the best of Mrs. Browning’s work. The new reader of Mrs. Browning should begin after page 150 in the Macmillan edition and read only the shorter poems. ROBERT BROWNING (1812-89).

_

Complete Poetic and Dramatic Works._

The Cambridge Edition is the best, in one volume. The Globe Edition is in two volumes. The two volumes in _Everyman’s Library_ contain all of Browning’s poems written up to 1864. A good volume for the young reader is “The Boys’ Browning,” which contains poems of action and incident.

An inexpensive volume, published by Smith, Elder & Co., called “The Brownings for the Young,” contains a good variety of Browning, with some selections from Mrs. Browning. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT (1794-1878).

_Poetical Works._

The poems of Bryant are published in one volume by D. Appleton & Co.
Bryant’s translations of the “Iliad” and the “Odyssey” are better than most poetic versions of Homer in simplicity and dignity. The young reader cannot do better than to meet Homer in Bryant before he learns Greek enough to meet Homer himself. ROBERT BURNS (1759-96).

_Poems, Songs, and Letters._

The complete work of Burns in the Globe Edition (Macmillan).

GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON (1788-1824).

_Poetry of Byron._

A selection by Matthew Arnold in the _Golden Treasury Series_.

CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY (1831-84).

_Fly Leaves._ A taste for refined parody indicates the possession of a critical sense. Coarse parody which implies no intimate knowledge of the poet parodied is not worth while. The reader who appreciates Calverley’s delicious verses will have learned to appreciate the serious modern poets.

Other writers of humorous verse, including parodies which are delicate and witty, are J. K. Stephen, Mr. Owen Seaman, Henry Cuyler Bunner. THOMAS CAMPBELL (1777-1844).

Enough of Campbell will be found in Ward’s Poets. GEORGE CHAPMAN (1559-1634).

_Dramas._

One volume in the _Mermaid Series_.

(See pages 243-8 of this Guide.) GEOFFREY CHAUCER (1340-1400).

_Canterbury Tales._

A volume in _Everyman’s Library_ contains eighteen of the tales, slightly simplified in spelling and vocabulary, said to be the first successful attempt to modernize Chaucer, for the benefit of the ordinary reader, without destroying the essential quality of the original. But with the glossary and notes found in “The Student’s Chaucer,” edited by W. W. Skeat, the lover of poetry will find himself able to read Chaucer in the original form without great difficulty.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH (1819-61).

_Poems._

In the _Golden Treasury Series_.

Readers of poetry who have not met Clough have an entirely new poetical experience before them in “The Bothie,” a narrative poem. It should be tried after Longfellow’s “Miles Standish” and “Evangeline.” Clough was not among the greatest Victorian poets, but there is room for him in an age like ours which is said, whether justly or not, to be lacking in poetic voices.

In this connection readers may turn to Clough’s poem, “Come, Poet Come!” (see page 107 of this Guide). SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE (1772-1834).

_Poetical Works._

In the Globe Edition.

The single volume in _Everyman’s Library_ is adequate. WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800).

_Poetical Works._

In the Globe Edition.

DANTE ALIGHIERI (1265-1321).

_Divina Commedia._

Cary’s translation is in _Everyman’s Library_. The best way on the whole for English readers to learn their Dante is through Charles Eliot Norton’s prose translation (see page 210 of this Guide). THOMAS DEKKER (157?-163?).

_Dramas._

In the _Mermaid Series_.

JOHN DONNE (1573-1631).

_Poems._

In the _Muses Library_

(Charles Scribner’s Sons).

A wonderful poet, who, perhaps, is not to be read until one’s taste for poetry has grown certain, but a liking for whom in mature years is an almost infallible proof of true poetic appreciation. JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1700).

_Poetical Works._

In the Globe Edition and also in the Cambridge Edition.

The reader should first read Dryden’s odes and lyrical pieces; his satires may be deferred. GEORGE ELIOT (Mary Ann Evans, 1819-80).

_Poems._

In one volume, published by Doubleday, Page & Co., and to be found in any complete edition of her works. Her reputation as a novelist has overshadowed her excellence as a poet. “The Choir Invisible” is one of the noble poems of the century.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON (1803-82).

_Poems._

In one volume, published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Emerson is the most exalted spirit of our literature, and his poems condense and refine the best ideas to be found in his prose. EURIPIDES (480-406 B.C.).

_Dramas._

In two volumes in _Everyman’s Library_.
_Everyman and Other Miracle Plays._

In _Everyman’s Library_.

See also “Specimens of Pre-Shakespearean Drama,” edited by J. M. Manly (Ginn & Co.). The recent stage production of “Everyman” has created a new popular interest in very early English dramas. The value of most of them is historical rather than intrinsically poetic.
EUGENE FIELD. _

A Little Book of Western Verse._

Contains the familiar poems for and about children. EDWARD FITZGERALD (1809-83).

_Translation of the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám._

There are innumerable editions of this famous poem. An inexpensive one is published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
JOHN FLETCHER (1579-1625). _Dramas._

With Beaumont in the _Mermaid Series_.

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE (1749-1832).

_Dramatic and Poetic Works._

The dramas, translated by Walter Scott and others, are in _Bohn’s Library_. American readers will be interested in Bayard Taylor’s poetic version of “Faust.” OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-74).

_Poems, etc._

Goldsmith’s few poems are to be found in a good edition of his works in one volume, published by Crowell & Co.
THOMAS GRAY (1716-71). _Poetical Works._

In one volume, in the Aldine Edition (Macmillan).

Readers of the familiar “Elegy in a Country Churchyard” need only to be told that a half dozen of Gray’s other poems are equally fine; and they should not overlook the delightful “Ode on the Death of Mr. Walpole’s Cat.” KATE GREENAWAY.

_Marigold Garden._

_

Under the Window._

Miss Greenaway’s delightful pictures of children would entitle her to a place among the poets, even if she had not done the little rhymes that go with her drawings. FRANCIS BRET HARTE (1839-1902).

_Poetical Works._

In one volume, published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
HEINRICH HEINE (1797-1856). _Poems._ Heine’s lyrics have tempted the talents of many translators. The finest collection of verses from Heine in English is that by Emma Lazarus, herself a true poet. WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY.

_Poems._

Henley’s one volume of poems, a slender volume, published by Scribner, places him high among the secondary poets of nineteenth century England. GEORGE HERBERT (1593-1633).

_Poems._

Herbert’s poems with his “Life” by Izaak Walton, are published by Walter Scott, in one volume in the _Canterbury Poets_, and also, in a single volume, by Crowell & Co. Herbert is the finest of the religious lyric poets of the seventeenth century. ROBERT HERRICK (1591-1674).

_Poems._

A fine selection, with an introduction by Thomas Bailey Aldrich, is published in one volume by the Century Co. Herrick is to be found also in the _Canterbury Poets_, in one volume, and in _Morley’s Universal Library_, published by George Rutledge & Sons. THOMAS HEYWOOD (158?-164?).

_

Dramatic Works._

In the _Mermaid Series_.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES (1809-94).

_Complete Poetical Works._

In the Cambridge Edition.
HOMER.

_The Iliad._ _

The Odyssey._

See pages 211-12 of this Guide. THOMAS HOOD (1799-1845).

_Poems._

Hood’s humorous poems are found in a pleasantly illustrated volume, published by Macmillan. His serious poems, “Eugene Aram,” “The Bridge of Sighs,” “The Song of the Shirt,” are well known, and are in many anthologies. HORACE.

_Odes, Epodes, Satires, and Epistles._

Selected translations from the best English poets and scholars in one volume of the _Chandos Classics_, published by Frederick Warne & Co. [Illustration: LONGFELLOW]  BEN JONSON (1573-1637).

_Plays._

In the _Mermaid Series_.

Jonson’s fine lyrics, including the perfect song “Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes,” should be looked for in the anthologies. JOHN KEATS (1795-1821).

_Poems._

The best edition of Keats is that edited by Buxton Forman. Good editions are those in _Everyman’s Library_ and in the _Golden Treasury Series_. RUDYARD KIPLING.

_Barrack-Room Ballads._

_The Seven Seas._

SIDNEY LANIER (1842-81).

_Poems._

In one volume, published by Scribner. An inspired poet, if ever one was born in America.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR (1775-1864). _Poems, Imaginary Conversations,  etc._

A volume of selections from the prose and verse of Landor is to be found in the _Golden Treasury Series_. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807-82).

_Complete Poetical Works._

In the Cambridge Edition.

A good selection from Longfellow appears in the _Golden Treasury Series_. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL (1819-91).

_Complete Poetical Works._

In the Cambridge Edition.
MAURICE MAETERLINCK.

_Plays._

Translated by Richard Hovey. CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE (1564-93).

_Plays._

In the _Mermaid Series_.
GEORGE MEREDITH (1828-1909).

_Poems._

Published in one volume by Scribner. Meredith’s poems of nature should be read first. JOHN MILTON (1608-74).

_Complete Poetical Works._

In the Cambridge Edition and also in the Globe Edition.

There are many texts of Milton prepared for use in schools. The young reader will be fortunate if he can read and enjoy the shorter poems and two or three books of “Paradise Lost,” before he comes to the study of them in school. MOLIÈRE (Jean Baptiste Poquelin, 1622-73).

_

Dramatic Works._

There are many English versions of Molière, some prepared for the stage. The edition in three volumes in _Bohn’s Library_ is practically complete. THOMAS MOORE (1779-1852).

_Irish Melodies._

The complete poems of Moore are published in an inexpensive volume by T. Y. Crowell & Co. Moore’s songs are his best work and many of them retain a sure place in the popular balladry of our race. WILLIAM MORRIS (1834-96).

_

The Defence of Guinevere._

_Life and Death  of Jason._

The great fluency of Morris’s poetry makes his longer narratives remarkably easy to read. Although he is a poet known and cherished by the few, his stories in verse are singularly well adapted to young readers.

EDGAR ALLAN POE (1809-49).

_Complete Poetical Works._

The best edition is that edited by Stedman and Woodberry. There are several other single-volume editions. The dozen best poems of Poe should be known to every young American, and Mr. Andrew Lang is right in saying (preface to the “Blue Poetry Book”) that the youngest ear will be delighted by the beauty of the words. ALEXANDER POPE (1688-1744).

_Complete Poetical Works._

In the Cambridge Edition.

A century that began with Keats and Shelley and ended with Swinburne and Meredith does not accord Pope the high place he enjoyed in his own century, but places him at best among the most brilliant of the comic poets. The “Rape of the Lock” is a humorous masterpiece. A surprisingly good anthology of Pope is the section given to him in Bartlett’s “Familiar Quotations”; the large number of lines from his work is sure proof of his place in our literature; only Shakespeare, Milton, and the Bible contribute so much that is “familiar.”

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

_Old-Fashioned Roses._

A natural and joyous singer about common things, deservedly popular in America and a truer poet than many critics suspect. CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI (1830-94).

_Poems._

Published in one volume by Little, Brown & Co. Among English women only Mrs. Browning is so fine a poet as Christina Rossetti.
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI (1828-82). _Complete Poetical Works._

In two volumes, published by Little, Brown & Co. The young reader should begin with Rossetti’s songs, ballads, and simpler poems, “The Blessed Damosel” and “My Sister’s Sleep.” The sonnet sequence, “The House of Life,” is for mature readers. JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH VON SCHILLER (1759-1805).

_

Dramatic Works  and Poems._

In several volumes of _Bohn’s Library_, translated by Coleridge and others.
WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832). _Complete Poetical Works._

In the Cambridge Edition.

Scott’s narrative poems are preëminently adapted to the taste and understanding of young readers. There are many school editions of Scott’s poetry, and innumerable reprints attest his continued popularity. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

The best one-volume edition of Shakespeare is the Cambridge Edition. The best edition in many volumes is the Cambridge Shakespeare, published by Macmillan & Co. It gives the readings of the Elizabethan texts so that the reader can distinguish (and accept or reject) the emendations of scholars. A pocket edition such as the Temple (Macmillan), or the Ariel (Putnam), will prove a good friend.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (1792-1822).

_Complete Poetical Works._

In the Cambridge Edition or the Globe.

In two volumes in _Everyman’s Library_.

Selected poems in the _Golden Treasury Series_. PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-86).

_Lyric Poems._

In a small attractive volume, published by Macmillan. SOPHOCLES (495-406 B.C.) _Plays._

In the English translation of R. C. Jebb.

The volume in _Everyman’s Library_ contains translations by Young. Professor G. H. Palmer’s “Antigone” is as remarkable as his “Odyssey.” ROBERT SOUTHEY (1774-1843).

_Poems._

Selected poems in the _Golden Treasury Series_. EDMUND SPENSER (1552-99).

_Complete Poems._

In the Globe Edition.

Called the poet’s poet; a source of inspiration to other poets. If we do not read “The Faerie Queene” at length, it is because we have so many poets since Spenser. Yet if the reader had only Spenser he would have an inexhaustible river of English poetry.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (1849-94).

_

A Child’s Garden of Verses._

Published by Scribner, in one volume, which contains Stevenson’s other verse. “The Child’s Garden” celebrates childhood in a way that touches the grown imagination, like the poems about children by Blake, Swinburne, and Francis Thompson, but it appeals also to children of all ages. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE (1837-1909).

_Selected Poems._

Edited by R. H. Stoddard and published by Crowell. The young reader should approach Swinburne first in “Atalanta,” poems about children, poems about other poets, and poems of liberty, notably “The Litany of Nations.” He is a noble poet, frequently misrepresented by friendly and unfriendly wafters of current literary opinion. JOHN B. TABB.

_Poems._

In two or three small volumes, published by Small, Maynard & Co. The purest note among living American poets.
ALFRED TENNYSON (1809-92). _

Poetic and Dramatic Works._

Complete in one volume in the Cambridge Edition and also in the Globe.

Of all modern poets preëminently the one for young and old readers to know entire (with the possible exception of his dramas).
THEOCRITUS. _Idylls._ In English prose, together with translations from Bion and Moschus, by Andrew Lang, in the _Golden Treasury Series_.

Theocritus is translated into excellent English verse by the poet, C. S. Calverley. JAMES THOMSON (1700-48).

_

The Castle of Indolence._ _

The Seasons._

Dimmed but not displaced by later poets of nature. Thomson may be read first in the anthologies, from which now and again a sincere admirer will be sent to his complete works. JAMES THOMSON (1834-82).

_

The City of Dreadful Night._

A remarkable poet, easily among those whom we think of as next to the greatest poets. Professor William James calls “The City of Dreadful Night” “that pathetic book,” “which I think is less well known than it should be for its literary beauty, simply because men are afraid to quote its words--they are so gloomy, and at the same time so sincere.” FRANCIS THOMPSON (1859-1907).

_

The Hound of Heaven._

This poet, lately dead, has surely taken his place among the true voices of English poetry. HENRY VAUGHAN (1622-95).

_Poems._

In the Aldine Edition (Macmillan).
VERGIL (70-19 B.C.).

_Eclogues._ _

Georgics._ _

Æneid._

In Conington’s prose translation.

The poetic version of William Morris is spirited and fluent. JOHN WEBSTER (lived in the Elizabethan age). _Dramas._

In the _Mermaid Series_.

WALT WHITMAN (1819-92).

_Leaves of Grass._

Whitman’s poetry is complete in one volume, published by Small, Maynard & Co. The most powerful of American poets.

The young reader should begin with the patriotic pieces and the poems of nature in the sections entitled “Sea-Drift,” “By the Roadside,” “Drum Taps,” “Memories of President Lincoln,” “Whispers of Heavenly Death.” JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (1807-92).

_Complete Poetical Works._

In the Cambridge Edition.

Widely loved in America for his popular ballads and songs of common things. In his poems of liberty and in poems of religious sympathy and faith, the true passion of the poet overcomes the technical limitations of his verse and results in pure poetry. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850).

_Complete Poetical Works._

In the Globe Edition.

The true Wordsworthian believes with Robert Southey that “a greater poet than Wordsworth there never has been nor ever will be.” A serene voice that swelled increasingly through a troubled century, and is more and more felt to have uttered the essential ideas needed in these hundred years. Yet much of Wordsworth is less than poetic, and the new reader should seek him first in the selections edited by Matthew Arnold in the _Golden Treasury Series_.

[Illustration: WORDSWORTH] FOOTNOTES:

[1] See page 56. [2] See pages 251-4.
CHAPTER VII THE READING OF HISTORY The plays of Shakespeare which are based upon the chronicles of English kings are grouped in the Folio edition of the dramatic works as “Histories.”

It will not surprise any reader, who happens not to have thought of it before, to learn that the episodes in “Henry IV” and “Henry V” do not follow the actual course of events in the reigns of the real kings; we take it for granted that Shakespeare meant to write historical fiction, and we read the plays as creations of the poetic imagination. But many readers will be surprised to hear that most works which we call historic are likewise figments of the imagination, and that we should read many of them in somewhat the same spirit as we read the historical plays of Shakespeare or good historical novels.

Not only do we get the most pleasure out of the great historians by regarding their works as pieces of artistic writing, but we save ourselves from the error of accepting their narratives as fact. For it is generally true that the more glowing, the more imaginative, the more architectural a work of history, the more it is open to suspicion that it is not an exact account of true events. In taking this position we are not appropriating to the uses of literary enjoyment works of information that should be left among the dictionaries and encyclopedias; we are only obeying the best critical historians, who warn us not to believe the accepted masterpieces of history, but allow us to enjoy them.

And enjoyment is what we seek and value. The conception of history as the work of the imagination was held by all the older historians. Bacon said that poetry is “feigned history.” That is, he conceived that the methods of poetry and history are the same and that the difference lies in the material, the poet inventing the substance of his story, the historian finding his substance in the recorded events of the past.

This view of history obtained up to the nineteenth century. Macaulay said that history is a compound of poetry and philosophy. And Carlyle thought it proper to designate as a history his “French Revolution,” a work based on certain facts in history but consisting in large part of dramatic fiction, philosophic reflection, and political argument.

In the last hundred years there has grown up a view of history as a science, the purpose of which is to examine the evidences of the past in human life as the geologist studies the past of the physical globe on which we live. The new school of history is comparatively so young that it has not produced many writers of high rank in eloquence and literary power, whereas poetic history is as old as literature and includes the work of many great masters. These masters live by their eloquence; for it is eloquence rather than mere truth to fact that gives a work a permanent place in literature. So our knowledge of historic events must come to us, the world of general readers, in large part from historians who were great artists rather than accurate scholars. And scientific history, and also scientific biography, will for another century be a voice crying in the beautiful wilderness of legend, myth, philosophical opinion, political prejudice, and patriotic enthusiasm.

We can cheerfully leave this scientific history where it belongs, in the hands of historians and special students. The better for us as readers if we can read the great histories with the same delight and somewhat the same kind of interest that we bring to the reading of romances. There will be enough truth in them to give us a fairly just view of former ages.

The culture and humanity will be there. Shakespeare’s stories of English kings give us the spirit of England. Carlyle’s “French Revolution” will never cease to be a splendid work of art. Bancroft’s “History of the United States” will remain a noble celebration of democracy, even though he was not strict in his use of documents. In school we expect to learn true lessons in history, to get our dates right and keep our judgments impartial.

Out of school we shall read history for pleasure and like it the better if it is informed with the eloquence, the prejudice, the philosophy, in short the personality of a great writer. There are certain books that occur immediately as introductions to the various departments of literature. We agreed that Palgrave’s “Golden Treasury” is the best book to put into the hands of one knocking for the first time at the door of poetry. Boswell’s “Life of Johnson” is a perfect biography to win the new reader’s liking for biographical literature and memoirs.

And so there is one volume of history that seems the best of all books in which English-speaking youth may read the great story of the race, Green’s “Short History of the English People.” One might wish from patriotic motives that there were an American history equally good, but there is none, so far as I know--none which covers our national life as a whole. We can, however, be content with Green, for the American cannot know his own history or his own literature and traditions without knowing those of England.

Our literature is English literature and must be for centuries to come, and in most of our reading of poetry and fiction we shall find that the history of England is involved more deeply than the history of our country. The merits of Green’s History, the literary merits, are its clear arrangements, the fine lucidity of the writing, its condensation of national movements into rich chapters where, as from a peak one overlooks the great epochs of disaster and progress. These are the opening sentences: “For the fatherland of the English race we must look far away from England itself. In the fifth century after the birth of Christ, the one country which we know to have borne the name of Angeln or the Engleland lay in the district which we now call Sleswick, a district in the heart of the peninsula which parts the Baltic from the northern seas.

Its pleasant pastures, its black-timbered homesteads, its prim little townships, looking down on inlets of purple water, were then but a wild waste of heather and sand, girt along the coast with sunless woodland, broken here and there by meadows which crept down to the marshes and the sea.” Could any historic novel, we may say could any _other_ historic romance, open more enticingly?

Here is rich promise, promise of the picturesque, promise of the eloquent phrase, promise of a sympathetic history of a people who are delvers in the soil, dwellers in homesteads, and no mere pawns in the game of kings. This is to be a history of a people. We shall learn of their great common characteristics; we shall understand them as we understand a family, and every adventure from King Alfred’s burning of the cakes to Clive’s conquest of India will spring like the episodes in a great plot from the character of the English race. From Green’s History, as a whole, we shall learn what are the important things in the history of any people.

His admirable sense of the relative values of events and persons informs his work with a philosophy of life that is just, wholesome, and salutary for a young person to be imbued with who must look out on the daily struggle about him, read the endless hodge-podge of newspaper chronicle, and weigh the day’s events wisely. Green fulfils the ideal which he sets forth in the preface: “It is the reproach of historians that they have too often turned history into a mere record of the butchery of men by their fellow men. But war plays a small part in the real history of European nations, and in that of England its part is smaller than in any....

If I have said little of the glories of Cressy, it is because I have dwelt much on the wrong and misery which prompted the verse of Longland and the preaching of Ball. But on the other hand, I have never shrunk from telling at length of the triumphs of peace.

I have restored to their place among the achievements of Englishmen the ‘Faerie Queene’ and the ‘Novum Organum.’ I have set Shakespeare among the heroes of the Elizabethan age.... I have had to find a place for figures little heeded in common history--the figures of the missionary, the poet, the printer, the merchant, the philosopher.” One of the practical merits of Green’s England as an introduction to the reading of historic literature is that at the head of each chapter he gives the works from which he has drawn.

And as his nature and ideals of history led him to the most fertile and interesting of other historians, his lists contain the titles of readable books rather than dry and obscure sources. So that if a reader finds one part of the story of England especially fascinating he can turn aside to those historians who have treated it more fully, to the authorities whom Green read and enjoyed. For instance, see the wealth of books which Green mentions at the head of the chapter that most concerns us, The Independence of America.

There are Lord Stanhope’s “History of England from the Peace of Utrecht,” Bancroft’s “History of the United States,” Massey’s “History of England from the Accession of George the Third,” Lecky’s “History of England in the Eighteenth Century”; the letters and memoirs of individuals who witnessed the struggle, or took part in it, such as the “Letters” of Junius, “Life and Correspondence of Charles James Fox,” Burke’s speeches and pamphlets. And we should add the newest important authority on the conflict, Trevelyan’s “American Revolution.” These books in turn will lead to others as far as the reader cares to go. Indeed it is one of the delights and excitements of reading that one book suggests another, and the eager reader, who is under no obligation to go along a definite course, finds himself in a glorious tangle of bypaths.

A book like Green’s may lead into any corner of literature; one may follow, as it were, over the intellectual ground where he got his education. We may begin with Gibbon’s “Rome” which he read at sixteen (other boys of sixteen can read it with as much pleasure as he found in it, even if they do not become historians), and we can go on through his early studies of the English church. If one reads only the poets and men of letters to whom he gives a place in his chronicle of English life one will be, before one knows it, a cultivated man--even a learned man.

Let us dwell a moment on this aspect of leadership in books. No two persons will ever follow the same course of reading; no list will prove good for everybody; but any book which has interested you, and which you have reason to think the product of a great mind, will constitute itself a guide to reading;[3] it will throw out a hundred clues, far-leading and profitable to take up, clues which show what has been the reading of the author whose work suggests them. And there must always be safety in following where a great man has gone in his literary pilgrimages.

If there is no history of America comparable in scope and style to Green’s “Short History of the English People,” there are several American historians of high rank. Perhaps because they were endowed with dramatic imagination, or were influenced by the literary rather than the scientific masterpieces of history, American historians of genius have applied their talents to romantic periods in the story of foreign nations, or to those early navigations and settlements which resulted in the founding of our nation. Washington Irving began in his “Life of Columbus” and “The Conquest of Granada” the brilliant stories of Spanish chivalry and adventure, which were continued by William Hickling Prescott in “The History of the Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella,” “The Conquest of Mexico” and “The Conquest of Peru.” The writings of Prescott and Irving have a kind of antique gorgeousness in which the modern historian does not allow himself to indulge.

The history of the French and the Indians and the pioneers appealed to the genius of Francis Parkman. The beginner may settle down to any book of Parkman’s with the happy certainty of finding a brilliant and thrilling story. John Lothrop Motley, in “The Rise of the Dutch Republic” and “The United Netherlands,” treats of a people whose story the American reader may learn in youth or may postpone until after he has become acquainted with some books on English and American history. The colonial history of America is best read in the work of John Fiske, whose gifts of style and philosophic outlook on life place him among the great historians. The history of America from the beginning to modern times must be read in books by various authors, who deal with limited sections and periods.

It is especially true of recent periods that no one historian is adequate. Partisanship and our closeness to the Civil War have prevented the American historian from seeing the conflict clearly in its relations to the rest of our national story, and for a just impression of the struggle between the states, the reader should go to the documents and the memoirs of the time. The reminiscences of the political leaders, the biography of Lincoln, and the excellent narratives of Union and Confederate generals--Grant, Alexander, Longstreet, Gordon, Sherman, Sheridan, and others--constitute a history of the period. There is peculiar validity in the reminiscences of the contemporary witnesses of historical events.

The writer of autobiography and memoirs is not expected to give final judgments, and we unconsciously allow for his personal limitation. The professional historian, on the other hand, is obliged to make sweeping decisions, and we are likely too often to accept his decisions as final, unless we are trained and critical students of history. If one reads several memoirs of the same period, one gradually forms an historical judgment about it and comes to a position midway between the points of view of the various writers. The young man beginning to read history now, as Green began Gibbon at sixteen, may consider whether he will devote himself to the task of writing the history of the American people. Even if his ambitions are not so high, he may be sure that as a citizen of the Republic he can never know too much about the history of his nation and of the men who helped to make it.

As aids to historical reading, it is well to have some books of bare facts, a short history of America, a dictionary of dates, and a compact general encyclopedia of events, such as Ploetz’s “Epitome.” But these are for reference and not for entertainment.

As a rule, text books of history prepared for schools, however excellent they may be for the purposes of study, are not entertaining to read. They have not space for all the elaborate plots, political intrigues, biographical interludes, accounts of popular movements of thought, which appeal to the imagination of the leisurely reader. Our school teachers will take care that we learn the salient facts which everyone must know.

By ourselves we shall dip into Parkman’s “Montcalm and Wolfe” or Prescott’s “Conquest of Mexico” or Carlyle’s “French Revolution.” In reading these masterpieces for pleasure, we shall be supplementing our work in school and making our daily lessons easier.
LIST OF WORKS OF HISTORY _ Supplementary to Chapter VII_

The following list of titles is not intended to outline an adequate reference library for the student of history. It includes principally books that have taken their place in literature by virtue of their readability and their imaginative power, and may therefore be supposed to interest the general reader. A few books are included which deal with current historical problems and politics. AMERICAN HISTORY  HENRY ADAMS.

_History of the United States._

Covers exhaustively the period immediately following the Revolution.
GEORGE BANCROFT (1800-91). _History of the United States from the  Discovery of the Continent to 1789._

JAMES BRYCE.

_

The American Commonwealth._

The recognized authority on American political institutions. EDWARD CHANNING.

_Students’ History of the United States._

Said to be the best of the one-volume histories of this country. JOHN FISKE (1842-1901).

_Discovery of America, with Some Account  of Ancient America and the Spanish Conquest._ _

New France and New  England._

_Old Virginia and Her Neighbors._

_The Beginnings of New  England._ _

The Puritan Theocracy in its Relations to Civil and  Religious Liberty._

_

Dutch and Quaker Colonies in America._

_American  Revolution._

_

Critical Period of American History (1783-89)._

_War  of Independence._

_

Mississippi Valley in the Civil War._

_Civil  Government in the United States.

_

JOHN BROWN GORDON. _

Reminiscences of the Civil War._

ALBERT BUSHNELL HART (and collaborators).

_American History Told by  Contemporaries._ Four volumes of extracts from diaries and writers who lived in the epochs under consideration. A rich source of information and enjoyment, as are also the following books:  _How Our Grandfathers Lived._ _ Colonial Children._ _

Camps and  Firesides of the Revolution._ _

Romance of the Civil War._

WILLIAM EDWARD HARTPOLE LECKY. _American Revolution._

Selected from his “History of England in the Eighteenth Century.” This with Trevelyan’s “American Revolution” will give American readers the history of the conflict from a British point of view. JAMES LONGSTREET.

_

From Manassas to Appomattox._

To be read in conjunction with the Memoirs by Grant, Porter, Sherman, Gordon, Alexander, and other Union and Confederate generals. FRANCIS PARKMAN (1823-93).

_

The Oregon Trail.

_ _

France and England in  North America._

“France and England in North America” is divided into seven parts under the following titles:  _Pioneers of France in the New World_; _The Jesuits in North America  in the Seventeenth Century_; _La Salle and the Discovery of the Great  West_; _The Old Régime in Canada_; _Count Frontenac and New France  under Louis XIV_; _A Half Century of Conflict_; _Montcalm and Wolfe_. JAMES FORD RHODES.

_History of the United States from the Compromise  of 1850._

THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

_American Ideals._ _

The Naval War of 1812._

_The  Winning of the West._

ELLEN CHURCHILL SEMPLE.

_American History and Its Geographic  Conditions._

GOLDWIN SMITH.

_Canada and the Canadian Question._

_The United States,  an Outline of Political History._

GEORGE OTTO TREVELYAN.

_American Revolution._

WOODROW WILSON.

_

Congressional Government: a Study in American  Politics._

_

History of the American People._

The second work, in five volumes, covers the history of the country from the beginnings to the present time; both readable and trustworthy. GREAT BRITAIN  FRANCIS BACON (1561-1626).

_History of the Reign of Henry VII._

The first great piece of critical history in our language.

HENRY THOMAS BUCKLE.

_History of Civilization in England._

THOMAS CARLYLE (1795-1881).

_

Cromwell’s Letters and Speeches, with  Elucidations._

EARL OF CLARENDON (1608-74).

_History of the Great Rebellion._

A vivid account of the Cromwellian wars by a royalist.

Interesting to read in connection with Carlyle’s “Elucidations” of the letters and speeches of Cromwell. MANDELL CREIGHTON.

_Age of Elizabeth._

EDWARD AUGUSTUS FREEMAN (1823-92).

_History of the Norman Conquest._

_William the Conquerer._ _

Growth of the English Constitution from the  Earliest Times._

JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE (1818-94).

_History of England from the Fall of  Wolsey to the Defeat of the Armada._

SAMUEL RAWSON GARDINER.

_

A Student’s History of England._

_History of  England from the Accession of James to the Outbreak of the Civil War._

_History of the Great Civil War._

_History of the Commonwealth and the  Protectorate._

The three histories last named constitute a continuous work of eighteen volumes. Gardiner is not the easiest historian to read, but his work is indispensable to anyone who would get a true view of a period which more than any other in English history has been discolored by brilliant biased historians, from Clarendon to Carlyle and Macaulay. JOHN RICHARD GREEN (1837-83).

_

A Short History of the English People._

_

The Making of England._ _

The Conquest of England._ _

A History of the  English People._

The “History” is a longer, though, perhaps, not a “greater,” book than the “Short History.” RICHARD HAKLUYT (1553-1616).

_

The Principal Navigations, Voyages and  Discoveries of the English Nation._

In eight volumes of _Everyman’s Library_.

HENRY HALLAM (1777-1859).

_Constitutional History of England._

DAVID HUME (1711-76).

_History of England._

Almost displaced as a historian by later writers, but still interesting because of his philosophic and literary genius. ANDREW LANG.

_History of Scotland._

WILLIAM EDWARD HARTPOLE LECKY. _History of England in the Eighteenth  Century._

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY (1800-59).

_History of England from James  II._

In three volumes in _Everyman’s Library_.

GOLDWIN SMITH.

_

The United Kingdom._

JACQUES NICOLAS AUGUSTIN THIERRY.

_History of the Norman Conquest of  England._

In _Everyman’s Library_.

FRANCE  EDMUND BURKE (1729-97).

_Reflections on the Revolution in France._

THOMAS CARLYLE (1795-1881).

_

The French Revolution._

VICTOR DURUY.

_History of France._

English translation, published by Crowell & Co.
FRANÇOIS PIERRE GUILLAUME GUIZOT. _History of France from the Earliest  Times to 1848._

VICTOR HUGO.

_History of a Crime._

Deals with the Coup d’etat of 1851, of which Hugo was a witness. Vivid, powerful writing, easy to read in the French. HENRY MORSE STEPHENS.

_History of the French Revolution._

The work of a modern scientific historian, may be read after Carlyle’s “French Revolution” as a corrective and for the sake of comparing two historical methods. HIPPOLYTE ADOLPHE TAINE. _

The Ancient Régime._ _

The French  Revolution._ _

The Modern Régime._

The application to French history of somewhat the same philosophic methods and principles that inform his “History of English Literature.” GERMANY  SAMUEL RAWSON GARDINER.

_

The Thirty Years’ War._

ERNEST FLAGG HENDERSON.

_

A Short History of Germany._

HELMUTH KARL BERNHARD VON MOLTKE.

_

The Franco-German War._

ANCIENT GREECE  ALFRED JOHN CHURCH.

_

Pictures from Greek Life and Story._

Especially adapted to young readers. ERNST CURTIUS.

_History of Greece._

A monumental German work to be found in a readable translation. THOMAS DAVIDSON.

_Education of the Greek People and its Influence on  Civilization._

GEORGE FINLAY.

_

Greece Under the Romans._

In _Everyman’s Library_.
GEORGE GROTE.

_History of Greece._

The standard English work in Greek history.

In twelve volumes of _

Everyman’s Library_.

HERODOTUS.

_Stories of the East from Herodotus._

Extracts retold by Alfred John Church, especially for young readers. JOHN PENTLAND MAHAFFY.

_

Greek Life and Thought from the Age of  Alexander to the Roman Conquest._ _

A Survey of Greek Civilization._

ANCIENT ROME  SAMUEL DILL.

_Roman Society in the Last Century of the Western Empire.

_

EDWARD GIBBON (1737-94).

_History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman  Empire._

The supreme contribution of England to historical literature, in its combination of distinguished style and scientific method.
THEODOR MOMMSEN. _History of Rome._

A great German work, in five volumes, to be found in a readable English translation.
OTHER HISTORIES  _Cambridge Modern History._ Of this great History planned by the late Lord Acton, ten volumes have been published. It is the work of many writers and will be a storehouse of the most competent historical writing of our time.

JAMES BRYCE.

_Holy Roman Empire._

Readers of Bryce’s “American Commonwealth” will seek this other excellent work. JEAN FROISSART.

_Chronicles._

In _Everyman’s Library_.
There are several translations and condensations of Froissart’s “Chronicles,” notably “The Boy’s Froissart,” edited by the American poet, Sidney Lanier. MARY HENRIETTA KINGSLEY.

_

The Story of West Africa._

HENRY HART MILMAN (1791-1868).

_History of Latin Christianity._

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

_

A Footnote to History: Eight Years of Trouble  in Samoa._

A fine piece of historical writing showing that Stevenson had the gifts of the historian as well as the gifts of the poet and romancer. WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT (1796-1859).

_Conquest of Mexico._

_Conquest  of Peru._

_Reign of Philip Second._

_Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella._

JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY (1814-77).

_Rise of the Dutch Republic._

_History  of the United Netherlands._

ARCHIBALD FORBES.

_

The Afghan Wars._

A mixture of history and vivid reporting by a great war correspondent.

PIERRE LOTI.

_

Last Days of Pekin._

WASHINGTON IRVING (1783-1859).

_

Knickerbocker’s History of New York._

_The Conquest of Granada._

These books demonstrate the wide range of Irving’s genius from burlesque, mingled with genuine study of racial characteristics, to sober and poetic history. FRANÇOIS MARIE AROUET (VOLTAIRE).

_History of Charles XII of Sweden._

Accompanied in the English translation by the critical essays of Macaulay and Carlyle. Easy to read in the French. JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS (1840-93).

_

Renaissance in Italy._

A work of rare beauty on the men, the history, and the art of Italy.
WALTER RALEIGH (1552-1618).

_

The Discovery of the Empire of Guiana._

_A History of the World._

Raleigh’s “History of the World” is not so large as it sounds in scope, but in imagination it almost lives up to its title. Thoreau says: “He is remarkable in the midst of so many masters. There is a natural emphasis in his style, like a man’s tread, and a breathing space between his sentences.” FREDERIC HARRISON. _

The Meaning of History._

An excellent guide to the reading of history.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] See also page 244 of this Guide. CHAPTER VIII THE READING OF BIOGRAPHY Since literature is, broadly, the written record of human life, biography, the life story of real men, lies at the core and center of literature. On one side biography is allied to history, which is the collective biography of many men. On the other side it is related to fiction.

In our discussion of “History” we found that there are two ideals or methods of writing it: one the picturesque, the other the scientific. The scientific historian accuses the picturesque historian of falsifications and disproportions. Scientific history is new and aggressive and it accentuates its differences from the old ideals.

Yet there is no essential opposition between fact and an imaginative representation of fact.

Gibbon is picturesque, yet he is one of the first great historians to make exhaustive study and accurate use of documents. Carlyle can be as eloquent when he is telling the truth as when he is misled by his love of color and his partisan passions. The great historian of the future will not falsify or distort facts except as human nature must always intervene before the facts which it presents in human language.

The true historian will have great imagination, great vision, and yet have scrupulous care to precisions of truth. For the present, history is recovering from its traditional eloquence and trying to learn to present facts honestly and clearly. Never again will the spirit of history and historical criticism tolerate such a magnificent fabrication as the end of De Quincey’s “Flight of a Tartar Tribe,” in which he gives, with all the paraphernalia of a learned note, the inscription carved on the columns of granite and brass to commemorate the migration of the Kalmucks. The columns are a structure of De Quincey’s fancy, and the inscription is in such prose as he alone among white men or Chinamen knew how to write!

In De Quincey’s time it was not considered an ethical aberration to invent facts. In a ponderous article which he wrote for the _Encyclopædia Britannica_ on Shakespeare, he quoted the poet from memory and spun some of the biography from his own fancy. The pious and learned President of Harvard College, Jared Sparks, for the greater glory of America and its founder, “improved” the style of Washington’s private papers and ably defended the emendations. And Weems, an early biographer of the man who seems nobler the more truly we know him and who needs no legend to dignify him, wrote his life of Washington with the deliberate purpose, indicated on the title page, of inculcating patriotic and moral lessons in the young. Hence the cherry-tree story.

History has improved in its morals, if not in its manners, and scientific biography is making some headway. But biography is still in a hazy state of legend and myth.

Approach any man you choose, especially among men of letters who have been written about by other men of letters, and you find a mass of conjecture and legend masquerading as fact. Sometimes there is an added garment of disguise, the dignified gown of science and scholarship. No great writer has suffered from credulous and weak-principled biographers so much as the greatest of all--Shakespeare. Most of the lives of him are gigantic myths, built on hardly as many known facts as would fill two pages of this book.

Of late historians and men of science have begun to laugh at literary biographers for making such confusion of the institution of Shakespeare biography. It is well enough for the young reader to learn carefully the biographical notes prefixed to the school editions of Shakespeare, for the better the young reader learns school exercises and the notes in the text books, the better basis he has for reading and thinking for himself. I may say, however, that there are at present, so far as I know, only two books on the life of Shakespeare which are trustworthy, Halliwell-Phillips’s “Outlines,” which gives all the documents, and a recent masterly discussion of the documents by George G. Greenwood called “The Shakespeare Problem Restated.” It is a problem and not one for us to go into here except that it illustrates what we are saying about scientific and fanciful biography.

I should not wonder if another generation were more interested than our fathers have been in the poetic achievements, whatever they are, of the man whose youthful portrait is on the cover of this book--Francis Bacon. One thing is certain: the rising generation had better learn early to approach with caution and tolerant scepticism books bearing such titles as “Shakespeare, Man, Player and Poet,” “Shakespeare, His Life, His Mind and His Art.” We had better bend our attentions to the plays themselves, and when we wish to read _about_

Shakespeare, turn not to the so-called biographies and “studies in Shakespeare” by college professors, but to the great critics, Coleridge, Hazlitt, Lamb, De Quincey, Pater. As we said that we, mere readers, should leave scientific history in the hands of specialists, so we may leave the problems of literary biography to expert investigators. We are interested rather in that kind of biography which is as old as the earliest legends of heroes, that which celebrates the great ones of the earth. If it is true to fact so much the better; but since biographers are likely to be the friends, kinsmen, admirers of their subjects, biography will be the last division of history to be informed with the scientific spirit. And so far as it is an art, it will err on the right side, like fiction and poetry, by presenting an ennobled view of human nature.

That biography is an art is proved by the admittedly great examples. The novelist who creates a fictitious biography has no more difficult and delicate task than the biographer who finds in a real life story the true character of a man, and gives to the events which produced the character artistic form, unity, and movement. Boswell’s “Life of Samuel Johnson” and Robert Southey’s “Life of Lord Nelson” are as beautifully designed as the best novels. Boswell’s masterpiece resembles a realistic novel and Southey’s

“Nelson” is like a romantic tale of chivalry and heroism. Benjamin Jowett, the great professor of Greek at Oxford, said that biography is the best material for ethical teaching. In many ways it is the best material for all kinds of teaching. For everything that human beings have done and thought is to be found in the life stories of interesting individuals, so that biography opens the way to every subject.

In our discussion of history we said that the directest path to the heart of an historical epoch is through the biography of an important figure or a wise observer of that epoch. There is no better political history of America during the Civil War than Nicolay and Hay’s “Life of Lincoln.” Grant’s “Memoirs” contains all that an ordinary reader needs to know of the movements of the Northern armies after Grant took command. The memoirs and reminiscences of Davis and Confederate generals give us an adequate account of the civil and military movements of the Southern side. Carlyle’s “Cromwell,” no matter how biased and overwrought it seems to discriminating students, will open the seventeenth century for those of us who cannot be specialists in history.

Bourrienne’s “Memoirs of Napoleon,” in the English translation, is a good introduction to the history of Europe during the Napoleonic wars (and it makes little difference to us that the book was largely rewritten and augmented by the French editor). Morley’s “Life of Gladstone” is a history of Victorian England. The life of Luther is the heart of the Protestant Reformation.

The layman who would know something of the tendencies of modern science cannot do better than to read the biographies of men of science in which sympathetic pupils have told in a style more simple than the masters’ treatises the intellectual principles and human conditions of the masters’ work. Such biographies are the “Life and Letters” of Darwin, of Huxley, of Agassiz. The “Life of Pasteur” by Valery-Radot, which has been translated into English, is a clear account of the main tendencies of modern medicine, the subject that all the world is so much interested in. Anyone who reads it will know better how to make his way through the masses of popular articles on medicine and public health in the current magazines. Since literary men are the most interesting of all heroes to other makers of books, it is natural that the lives of the masters of literature should have been written in greater abundance and usually with greater skill and charm than the lives of any other class of men.

A good way, perhaps the best way, to study literature is to read the lives of a dozen or a score of great writers. An ambitious youth, determined to lay the foundations of a knowledge of literature, might begin to read in any order the biographies in the series called _English Men of Letters_. From that series I should cross out William Black’s “Goldsmith” and substitute Forster’s or Washington Irving’s “Life of Goldsmith”; I should also omit Leslie Stephen’s “George Eliot” and read instead the “Life and Letters” by J. W. Cross.

It would be as well to pass by Mr. Henry James’s “Hawthorne” in favor of the biography by Mr. George E. Woodberry in _American Men of Letters_. It will not be wise even for the enthusiastic reader of literature to confine his reading in biography to the lives of men of letters. There is such a thing as being too much interested in bookish persons.

Men of action have led more eventful lives than most writers, and their biographers are likely therefore to have more of a story to tell. Whenever you find yourself interested in any man, when some reference to him rouses your curiosity, read his biography. In general it is better to read about him in a complete “Life,” even if it is a bulky one in a forbidding number of volumes. You are not obliged to read it all.

It is better to roam for half an hour through Boswell than to read a short life of Johnson. This is a day of pellet books, handy volumes, and popular compendiums; we need to learn again the use and delight of a little reading in big books, in which we can dwell for long or short periods. We need, also, to get over the idea that only learned persons and special students can go to original documents. A boy of fifteen will have more fun turning over the state papers and letters and addresses of Washington and Jefferson and Lincoln than in reading a short encyclopedia article on one of those great men.

Just try it the next time you happen to be wandering aimlessly in a public library and see if you do not stumble on something interesting. The whole “Dictionary of National Biography” is not so much worth owning and, except for purposes of reference, not so much worth reading as half as many volumes of first-hand biography. The first of all original documentary biography is autobiography. A man knows more about his own life than anyone else and he is quite as likely to tell the truth about it as his official biographer.

“The Story of My Life” is always an attractive title, no matter who the hero is. If an autobiography has continued to find readers for a number of years, it is likely to be worth looking at. Sometimes men who are not entitled to be called great have written great autobiographies. The “Autobiography” of Joseph Jefferson is full of delightful humor and sweetness.

At a time when the theater is not an institution of which we are proud and actors as they appear in the public prints are usually bores and vulgarians, Jefferson’s “Autobiography” will give the reader a new sense of the potential dignity of the stage and of the humanity of the actor’s profession. Among the great men who have written autobiographies we have mentioned Mill and Franklin and Grant. Others who have written delightful volumes of self-portraiture are Goethe, Gibbon, Trollope, Mrs. Oliphant. As a working rule, I should suggest that when you are interested in a man, you should first read his autobiography if he wrote one.

If he did not, turn to the most complete story of his life, the one that contains whatever letters and documents have survived. And as a third choice try to find a life of him by some writer who was intimate with him during his life, or who is an expert in the subject to which his life was devoted, or who is a master in the art of biography. LIST OF BIOGRAPHIES _Supplementary to Chapter VIII_

This list of biographies does not constitute a catalogue of great men. It merely gives some biographies that have literary quality or some other quality that makes them important. The subject of the biography is given first whenever the person written about would naturally come into the mind before the author of the book; thus: Samuel Johnson; “Life” by James Boswell.

In other cases the author comes first; thus: Plutarch; Lives. JOHN AND ABIGAIL ADAMS.

_

Familiar Letters of John Adams and His Wife,  Abigail Adams, During the Revolution._

JOSEPH ADDISON.

_Life_, by William John Courthope.

In _English Men of Letters_.
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

_Life_, by Ferris Greenslet.
ALFRED THE GREAT.

_Life_, by Walter Besant.

HENRI FRÉDÉRIC AMIEL.

_Journal_, translated by Mrs. Humphrey Ward.
AURELIUS AUGUSTINUS. _Confessions of St. Augustine._

A remarkable autobiography.

Pusey’s translation is in _Everyman’s Library_. FRANCIS BACON.

_Life and Letters_, edited by James Spedding. JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE. _

Margaret Ogilvy._

Barrie’s life of his mother; a delicious book.

GEORGE HENRY BORROW.

_

The Bible in Spain._

The subtitle defines this interesting book: “The journeys, adventures, and imprisonments of an Englishman in an attempt to circulate the Scriptures in the peninsula.” Readers of Borrow (see page 75 of this Guide) will be interested in his “Life and Letters,” edited by William I. Knapp. ROBERT BROWNING.

_Life and Letters_, by Alexandra Leighton Orr.

JAMES BRYCE.

_Studies in Contemporary Biography._

EDMUND BURKE.

_Life_, by John Morley.

In _English Men of Letters_.
ROBERT BURNS. _Life_, by John Gibson Lockhart.
JULIUS CÆSAR. _Life_, by James Anthony Froude. _Commentaries on the  Gallic and Civil Wars._

THOMAS CARLYLE AND MRS.

CARLYLE. _Life and Letters_, by James Anthony  Froude.

THOMAS DE QUINCEY. _

Autobiographic Sketches.

_

_

Confessions of an  English Opium-Eater._ _

Reminiscences of the Lake Poets._

CHARLES DICKENS.

_Life_, by John Forster.

In the edition abridged and revised by the English novelist, the late George Gissing.
GEORGE ELIOT. _Letters and Journals_, edited by John Walter Cross. RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

_Life_, by Oliver Wendell Holmes.

In _American Men of Letters_.

See also Emerson’s letters to Carlyle and John Sterling.
FRANCIS OF ASSISI. _Life_, by Paul Sabatier.

In the English translation.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

_

Autobiography._

WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE. _Life_, by John Morley.

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.

_Autobiography._

Translated in _Bohn’s Library_. OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

_Life_, by Austin Dobson.

See also the biographies  by John Forster and Washington Irving.
ULYSSES SIMPSON GRANT. _Personal Memoirs._ _Life_, by Owen Wister (in  the _Beacon Biographies_).

THOMAS GRAY. _

Letters_, edited with a biographical sketch by Henry  Milnor Rideout.
ALEXANDER HAMILTON. _Life_, by Henry Cabot Lodge.

In _American Statesmen_.
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. _Hawthorne and His Circle_, by Julian Hawthorne.
_Life_, by George Edward Woodberry (in _American Men of Letters_).
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

_

Life and Letters_, edited by John Torrey  Morse, Jr.
THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY. _Life and Letters_, edited by Leonard Huxley.
WASHINGTON IRVING. _Life and Letters_, edited by Pierre Munroe Irving.
_Life_, by Charles Dudley Warner (in _American Men of Letters_). JEANNE D’ARC. _Life_, by Francis Cabot Lowell.

_Life_, by Andrew  Lang.

_Condemnation and Rehabilitation of Jeanne d’Arc_, by J. E. J.
Quicherat (in the English translation).

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

_

Lives of the Poets_, selected by Matthew Arnold. _Life of Johnson_, by James Boswell (in two volumes in _Everyman’s  Library_).

JOHN KEATS.

_Life_, by Sidney Colvin.

In _English Men of Letters_.
CHARLES LAMB. _

Letters_, edited by Alfred Ainger. ROBERT EDWARD LEE. _Life_, by Philip Alexander Bruce.

_Life and  Letters_, by John William Jones.

_Recollections and Letters_, by R. E.
Lee, Jr. _Life_, by Thomas Nelson Page.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

_Life_, by John George Nicolay and John Hay. _

A Short  Life of Abraham Lincoln_, by John George Nicolay.

_Lincoln, Master of  Men_, by Alonzo Rothschild.

DAVID LIVINGSTONE.

_

Last Journals in Central Africa.

How I Found  Livingstone_, by Henry Morton Stanley.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. _Life and Letters_, edited by Samuel  Longfellow. THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

_Life and Letters_, by George Otto  Trevelyan.

JOHN STUART MILL.

_Autobiography._

JOHN MILTON.

_Life_, by Mark Pattison.

In _English Men of Letters_.
Napoleon. _Life_, by John Gibson Lockhart.

_

Life_, by William Milligan  Sloane.

_Memoirs of L. A. F. de Bourrienne._ _Life_, by John Holland  Rose.

MARGARET OLIPHANT.

_Autobiography and Letters._

CHARLES WILLIAM CHADWICK OMAN.

_Seven Roman Statesmen of the Later  Republic: the Gracchi, Sulla, Crassus, Cato, Pompey, Cæsar._

SAMUEL PEPYS.

_Diary._

Two volumes in _Everyman’s Library_.
PLUTARCH.

_Lives._

In the Elizabethan translation by Thomas North, or the modern translation by Arthur Hugh Clough.

An abridged edition of this is published for schools by Ginn & Co.
JACOB AUGUST RIIS. _ The Making of an American._

WALTER SCOTT. _

Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott_, by John  Gibson Lockhart.

There is an abridged edition of Lockhart, edited by J. M. Sloan. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

_

The Shakespeare Problem Restated_, by George G.
Greenwood. _Outlines of the Life of Shakespeare_, by James Orchard  Halliwell-Phillips.

At the present time the most reliable works on Shakespeare’s life.

WILLIAM TECUMSEH SHERMAN.

_Memoirs.

Home Letters of General Sherman_,  edited by M. A. DeWolf Howe. ROBERT SOUTHEY.

_Life of Nelson._

In _Everyman’s Library_.
ANTHONY TROLLOPE. _

Autobiography._

IZAAK WALTON.

_Lives_ of John Donne, George Herbert and Richard Hooker.

GEORGE WASHINGTON.

_Life of Washington_, by Washington Irving.

_The  Seven Ages of Washington_, by Owen Wister.

_Life_, by Woodrow Wilson.

JOHN WESLEY.

_

The Heart of Wesley’s Journal_, with an essay by  Augustine Birrell, published by Fleming-Revell Co.
The journal is found in four volumes of _Everyman’s Library_. CHAPTER IX THE READING OF ESSAYS All literature consists of the written opinions and ideas, the knowledge and experience, of individuals; it is a chorus of human voices. Often the individuality of the creative artist is lost in the magnitude of the work. It is present, necessarily, in every line, but in the highest forms of literature, epic and dramatic poetry, the personal lineaments are dissolved. Shakespeare, sincerest of poets, did not in his dramas reveal his heart or directly utter a single belief that we can feel sure was the private conviction of the author, and the attempts to associate lines from Shakespeare with the personal experiences of the actor of Stratford are invariably grotesque.

Homer, who, according to Mr. Kipling, “smote his bloomin’ lyre” and “winked back” at us, was no such living man; it is likely that even if there was a Homer, a poet who made the nucleus of “Iliad,” many hands during several centuries produced the Greek epics, “The Iliad” and “The Odyssey,” as we have them. Although Dante writes in the first person, his adventures in worlds beyond the earth are those of a disembodied spirit, a universal soul seeing visions in regions where he must put off something of his personality before he can enter.

In the places where his prejudices and local enmities creep into his immense epic of the heavens, his work is least poetic; it is precipitated from the ideal to a kind of ghostly guide book, and the voices of the angels and the winds of the under world for the moment become still. The novelist at his best disappears from his work. There is no greater shock than when at the end of “The Newcomes,” Thackeray abruptly wrenches us from the deathbed of Colonel Newcome and says that he, W.
M. Thackeray, has just written a story and that it is now fading away into Fableland. A device of printing would save us from the shock; the epilogue ought to begin on a new page, and a large “Finis” should follow Colonel Newcome’s death.

The person who makes a work of art has the privilege of talking about himself in a preface; after that he must stand back and let the stage fill with characters. Even in great art, however, we do feel the presence of a man and we are willing to let him step in front of his stage sometimes and talk in his own person. The best English novelists, Fielding, Thackeray, George Eliot, Meredith, are essayists for pages at a time, and most of us do not resent their intrusion. We like writers who use the capital I. So we take peculiar delight in that kind of literature which is avowedly a talk, a monologue in which an author discourses, not through poetic forms, or through fiction in which other characters are the speakers, but directly to us as in a private letter or a spoken lecture.

This kind of discourse is called an essay. The man who talks may pretend to be something that he is not, and the essayist is often a writer of fiction portraying only one character. Such was Lamb when he pretended to be Elia; such was Swift in many of his pamphlets; such was the “_Spectator_,” a multiple personality whose wig Addison and Steele and their friends could put on at will. Whether it is a real or a fictitious person who addresses us through the essay, the form of the essay is the same, a direct communication from a “me” to a “you.”

The essay may have for its subject anything under the sun. It may be a short biography with critical comment, as in Macaulay’s essays on Addison, on Chatham, on Clive, and Carlyle’s essays on Burns and Scott.
Other essays by Macaulay and Carlyle are on a framework of historical narrative. Oliver Wendell Holmes invented an essay form all his own in “The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table,” in which the opinions of the autocrat are linked together by a pleasant boarding-house romance. And he achieved an unusual triumph when he continued the form in other books, “The Poet at the Breakfast Table” and “The Professor at the Breakfast Table,” and did not suffer the disaster that usually befalls a writer’s effort to repeat a success.

Most of the written philosophy of the modern world is in the form of essays. In Emerson we have philosophy in short eloquent discourses, many of them like sermons. Political arguments and orations, if they have literary quality, like those of Burke and Webster, properly come under the head of essay. And almost all of the important body of literature called criticism is in essay form. To say that every kind of writing seems to be essay which is not something else is, like some other Hibernian statements, a short way of expressing the truth.

To be an artistic essay, to be really worthy the name, a composition must have in it a living personality. Personality is the soul of the essay. We do not admit under the term, essay, broad as it is, the discourse which has only utility to recommend it.

An article on “How Our Presidents are Elected” may be instructive, it may be more necessary to the education of the young citizen than Leigh Hunt’s chat about stage-coaches. But Hunt’s chat is an essay: the other is not.

A present-day indication of the difference between the essay and the unliterary form of exposition is the habit of our magazines of classifying all prose pieces that tell us “how” and “what” as “special articles,” whereas “essays”--the editors do not print essays if they can help it! If a modern writer has an idea that would make an essay he is tempted to disguise it under some more acceptable shape. But the editors would retort--and with justice--that they would gladly print essays if they could get good ones.

There is something frank and immediate in the appeal of an essay; the writer of it must be able to talk continuously well; he has no surprises of plot to fall back on to wake the interest of an inattentive auditor; he stands before us on a bare platform with no stage lights or scenery to help him. When he succeeds, his reward is a kind of personal victory, he finds not only readers but friends. This is especially true of those essayists who discourse of “things in general,” the true essayists, Charles Lamb, William Hazlitt, Leigh Hunt, Montaigne, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Robert Louis Stevenson, Oliver Goldsmith. The true essayist, like the Walrus in “Alice in Wonderland,” advises us that the time has come       To talk of many things:     Of shoes--and ships--and sealing wax--       Of cabbages--and kings--

And why the sea is burning hot-- And whether pigs have wings. And he proceeds, subject to no obligation in the world except the great obligation never to be dull. The obligation upon the essayist not to be dull imposes a peculiar obligation upon the reader that he shall be keen-witted. A stupid person may be stirred to attention by a novel or a play, but no stupid person can enjoy an essay.

Indeed a taste for essays is a pretty sure sign of a reader who appreciates the literary spirit in itself. Just as the essay form is a kind of test of appreciation, so certain writers are touchstones by which the taste of the reader may be judged. One such touchstone is Charles Lamb, the prince of English essayists. Whoever likes Lamb with unfeigned enthusiasm has passed the frontier of reading and is at home in the universe of books. The reader who hopes to care for the best in Lamb will not do well, I think, to begin with the most familiar of his essays “A Dissertation on Roast Pig”; certainly he will not stop with that, for it has not Elia’s finest smile nor even his jolliest fooling.

And of course it has not his wisdom and pathos. The young reader can in an hour read a half dozen of Lamb’s essays, “Old China,” “The Superannuated Man,” “Dream Children,” “Imperfect Sympathies,” “The Sanity of True Genius” and “A Chapter on Ears,” and get a taste of his sweet variety. Lamb is one of the easiest of writers to read entire. His attempts at fiction and even his verse may be disregarded.

The true Lamb, the Lamb of the essays and the letters, which are as good as essays, can be contained in a couple of volumes of moderate size. The essays of Elia are printed in many cheap editions; I have seen a book seller’s counter stacked high with copies at twenty-five cents. As late as 1864, the editor of the first complete edition of Lamb thought that the public at large knew him but little, though his fame and popularity had increased since his death. I believe that since 1864 his popularity has increased still more--those twenty-five cent editions seem to show that in his own phrase, he has become “endenizened” in the heart of the English-speaking nations.

Perhaps the beginner will be a little perplexed at first by the obscurity of Lamb’s allusions to literature, for though he says that he could “read almost anything,” he has a special liking for the quaint, and half the books that he mentions will be unfamiliar to the modern reader. But any book that pleased him will be worth looking at, and there is so much of common humanity in him that one can pass over his obscure references and still understand and enjoy him.

So that if I recommend as the best possible short guide to literature his “Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading,” I do not forget that the beginner will not recognize all the book titles and authors that Lamb touches with affectionate familiarity. Yet the thoughts are clear enough and have more of the true spirit of reading packed into them than is to be found in many a thick volume of literary criticism.

The essays that touch the heart of the simplest reader, such as “Dream Children,” may be read first, and they will lead to the literary essays, which are the best of all criticisms in the English language. Knowledge of Lamb is knowledge of literature. He opens the way not only to the choicest old books, but to the finest of his contemporaries.

No man knew better than he the value of those friends of his whom we have set high in literature; he measured their altitude while they were swinging into place among the poetic stars. As the chief master of literary ceremonies of his time, Lamb will be found at his best not only in his essays but in his letters. His essays have the informality of letters, and his letters have much of the choiceness of phrase, the original turn of thought that distinguish his essays.

In his friendly letters you can meet almost everybody worth knowing in that great period of English literature. Lamb is among the fine few whose correspondence is a work of literary art. The literature of private letters stands somewhere between essays and biography and partakes of the interest of both. The good letter writer is as rare in printed books as in the mail bags that are now hurrying over the world; and the delight of reading good printed letters by a distinguished man is somewhat like the delight of reading a well-written letter from a friend. To be sure, a book of letters is not a masterwork of art, but it often brings pleasure when the reader is not just in mood for the artistic masterpiece, for the great poem or novel.

I can recommend for a place in a library even of very limited dimensions such a collection of letters as Mr. E. V. Lucas’s “The Gentlest Art,” or Scoones’s “English Letters.” It is said that the modern modes of communication, the telegraph, the telephone, the unpardonable post card, have caused or accompanied a decline in the art of letter writing. But the mail of the day has not yet been sorted; there may be great letter writers even now sending to their friends epistles that we shall some day wish to read in print.

It hardly seems as if the world could be growing so unfriendly that it will let polite correspondence go the way of some other old-fashioned graces. Certainly the young man and the young woman can do nothing better for the pleasure of friends and family, and nothing better for their own self-cultivation, than to develop the habit of careful and courteous letter writing. Better than most school courses in literature and composition would be the daily practice of writing to some brother, sister or friend. One of the most remarkable young writers of the present day owes much of her purity of style, much of her education, to the practice of writing--no, of _rewriting_ letters to her many friends. Our friendly letters need not be stiff compositions written with the nose to the paper and the tongue squeezed painfully between the lips.

But they should be written with care.

A rewritten letter need not be an artificial thing. Why should we not take pains in phrasing a message to a friend? Neither sincerity nor “naturalness” enjoins us to send off the first blotted drafts of our communications, any more than freedom and “naturalness” oblige us to go out in public hastily dressed. Candor and spontaneity do not suffer from a care for our phrases and some thought in grooming our style.

If the courtly letter and the well-bred essay are not the characteristic literary form of our generation, we have some writers of satire and of literary and political opinions who deserve to be ranked among the essayists. Mr. F. P. Dunne would have been a pamphleteer in Swift’s time, a writer of the chatty essay in the days of Lamb and Hunt. Since he was born to bless our time, he finds a wider audience by putting his wit and wisdom, his Celtic blend of irony and humanity, into the mouth of “Mr. Dooley.” Another essayist of great power, though he is probably not called an “essayist” in the encyclopedias, is Mark Twain. He promises us an interminable Autobiography, some parts of which have been published.

It is to be different from all other autobiographies, for the principle of its construction is that it is to have no order; he will talk about anything that happens to interest him, talk about it until he is tired of it and then talk about something else. This unprincipled willfulness of order and subject is the essayist’s special privilege. No man since Elia has succeeded better than Mark Twain in keeping up the interest of discursive monologue about things in general.

Our public does not yet know how great a writer is this master of the American joke, and there are critics who will cry out that the mention of Mark Twain and Charles Lamb in the same breath is a violation of good sense. Yet Charles Lamb’s “Autobiography” is, except in its brevity, as like to the fragments of Mark Twain as the work of two men can be.

“Below the middle stature,” says Elia of himself, “cast of face slightly Jewish, with no Judaic tinge in his complexional religion; stammers abominably, and is therefore more apt to discharge his occasional conversation in a quaint aphorism, or a poor quibble, than in set and edifying speeches; has consequently been libeled as a person always aiming at wit; which, as he told a dull fellow that charged him with it, is at least as good as aiming at dullness. A small eater, but not drinker; confesses a partiality for the production of the juniper berry; was a fierce smoker of tobacco, but may be resembled to a volcano burnt out, emitting only now and then an occasional puff....
He died ----, 18--, much lamented.” The footnote to the last sentence reads: “To anybody.--Please to fill up these blanks.” That is about as near to Mark Twain’s manner of fooling as anything in literature. All the genial essayists are given to jest and quibble and folly.

And when you come upon a writer whose fantastic whimsies and nonsensical abandon are charming, be sure to turn the page, for you will invariably find wisdom and pathos and greatness of heart. In one class of essay Mark Twain is past master, the essay of travel. In “A Tramp Abroad” and “Following the Equator,” not to speak of that satire on foolish American tourists, “Innocents Abroad,” we have not only some of the best of Mark Twain’s writing, but examples of a kind of essay in which very few authors have succeeded.

The traveler who can see things with his own eye and make the reader see them, with a tramp’s independence of what guide books, geographies, and histories say, is the rarest of companions. A good essay in travel looks easy when it is done, but is very seldom met with because the independent eye is so seldom placed in a human head. Moreover, until recent times of cheap transit, most men of letters have been obliged to stay at home and make literature of domestic materials or what the great world sent them in books. Though literature of travel is very old, going back to the time when the first educated man visited a neighboring tribe and lived to return home and tell the tale, yet the personal essay of travel is, in its abundance, the product of the nineteenth century, when authors ceased to be poor and could circumnavigate the globe.

The English historian, Kinglake, is remembered not for his “Crimean War” but for his “Eothen,” published in 1844. It was so strange and fresh a book of travel that several London publishers rejected it. An account of a journey in the East that omitted information about many great landmarks of Palestine and had not a word of statistics--how could a publisher recommend it to the British people? One secret of the book is that Kinglake, having tried to write his travels in various forms and having failed, hit on the plan of addressing his account to a friend, and the feeling of freedom which this gave him prevented him, he says, “from robing my thoughts in the grave and decorous style which I should have maintained if I had professed to lecture to the public. Whilst I feigned to myself that you, and only you, were listening, I could not by any possibility speak very solemnly.

Heaven forbid that I should talk to my genial friend as though he were a great and enlightened Community, or any other respectable Aggregate.” Thus it came about that Kinglake, aiming at one friend, reached the community, the “Aggregate,” and found in it a host of friends. In the same year that saw the publication of “Eothen,” Thackeray began his “Journey from Cornhill to Cairo,” another book of travel that stands like a green tree in a world of guide posts.

Among American writers, besides Mark Twain, who have made delightful books of their journeys abroad, are Aldrich, Howells, and Charles Dudley Warner. These touring essayists are usually more interested in living people than in monuments of the dead; and they take more pleasure in their own opinions and experiences than in encyclopedic facts. They are good traveling companions because they are stored with wisdom and sympathy before they set sail, and in the presence of strange sights and scenes they give play to their fancy.

So they are akin not so much to the professional traveler, the geographer and student of social conditions, as to the essayist who is good company at home. That is what the essayist must be, above all other writers--unfailing good company. He may be philosopher, historian, or critic, but if he is to be numbered among the choice company of essayists, his pages must be lighted by the glow of friendliness, enlivened by the voice of comradeship. Sometimes this friendliness takes terribly unfriendly forms, as in the stinging irony of Swift or the hot thunder and lightning of Carlyle; these preachers seem not to love their audience, but at heart they have sympathy even for us whom they browbeat, and it is not we, but the heavy thoughts with which their souls are burdened, that have banished the smile from their faces.

LIST OF ESSAYS _

Supplementary to Chapter VIII_  JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-1719).

_Selections from the Spectator._

Edited by Thomas Arnold in the _Clarendon Press Series_. There are many school editions of the De Coverley papers. A sense of unity rather than of excellence has singled out the De Coverley papers for school reading and has made them, consequently, the best known of Addison’s (and Steele’s) work. But only about a third of the De Coverley papers are among the fifty best essays from the _Spectator_.

Owing to the weight of eighteenth-century tradition, under which criticism is still laboring, Addison’s reputation is greater among professional writers about literature than many modern readers, coming with fresh mind to the _Spectator_, can quite sincerely feel is justified. Only the mature reader who has some historical understanding of Addison’s time can appreciate his cool wit and somewhat pallid humor, and feel how nearly perfect is the adaptation of his style to his purpose and his limited thoughts. MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-88).

_

Essays in Criticism._

_Culture and Anarchy._

Arnold’s essays on books and writers are among the very best, for he combines deep knowledge of literature with the charm of the true essayist. His essays on “Culture,” like many of the literary sermons of Carlyle and Ruskin, propound with great earnestness what every well-bred person takes more or less for granted. But one reason we take the need of culture for granted, one reason that such sermons are becoming obsolete, is because Carlyle and Ruskin and Arnold made their ideas, through their writings and the hosts of writers they influenced, part of the common current thought of our time.

FRANCIS BACON (1561-1626).

_Essays._ _

Wisdom of the Ancients._

_

The  Advancement of Learning._

There are many inexpensive editions of the “Essays,” and good texts of Bacon’s other work in English prose have been prepared for students. Owing to their brevity the “Essays” are the best known of Bacon’s prose work. But compared with the longer works of Bacon, they are scarcely more than _tours de force_, experiments in epigrammatic condensation.

Not the young reader, but the mature reader who would know the Elizabethan age, its noblest thinker and the most eloquent prose contemporary with the King James Bible, will wish to read Bacon’s life and works in Spedding’s edition. THOMAS BROWNE (1605-82).

_

Religio Medici._

_

Urn Burial._ _

Enquiries  into Vulgar Errors._

The three or four small books of this very great essayist are to be found in a volume of the _Golden Treasury Series_, and also in the fine little Dent edition. EDMUND BURKE (1729-97).

_Speech on American Taxation._

_Speech on  Conciliation with America._

_Letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol._

A good edition of Burke’s principal speeches is that edited by F. G.
Selby and published by Macmillan. The prescriptions of the schools have made the “Speech on Conciliation” familiar as a difficult thing to analyze rather than as a magnificent essay (for essay it is, though delivered as a speech). Burke’s other philosophic and political essays are among the great prose of his century and should be sought both by the student of history and by the reader of literature.

JOHN BURROUGHS.

_Birds and Poets._ _

Locusts and Wild Honey._  _Wake-Robin._

After Thoreau Mr. Burroughs is the most distinguished of modern writers on nature and out-of-door life. THOMAS CARLYLE (1795-1881).

_

Sartor Resartus._ _

Heroes and  Hero-Worship._

_Past and Present._ _

Critical and Miscellaneous Essays._

“Heroes and Hero-Worship” is, for the beginner, the best, because the clearest, of Carlyle’s work. Carlyle’s opinions become of less and less consequence as time passes, and he remains great by virtue of the superbly eloquent passages in which the poet overcomes the preacher. He is an illustrious example of the fact that nothing passes so rapidly as the beliefs of a day which a preacher hurls at the world about him--and at posterity,--and also of the fact that eloquence and beauty survive the original burning question which gave them life and which later generations are interested in only from a biographic and historic point of view.

The essay carries in it the journalistic bacteria that make for its speedy dissolution, but the poetic thought, whatever the occasion of its utterance, outlives circumstance and changes of ideas and taste.
CICERO. _Letters and Orations._

In English, in _Everyman’s Library_.
SAMUEL MCCHORD CROTHERS.

_The Gentle Reader._

The most charming and humorously wise of living American essayists.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE (1772-1834). _Biographia Literaria._ _

Lectures  on Shakespeare._

Both in _Bohn’s Library_ and in _Everyman’s Library_.

Coleridge’s detached opinions on books are golden fragments of criticism. His “Lectures on Shakespeare” are, for a reader with imagination, the most inspiring notes on Shakespeare that we have, though the many and patent inaccuracies make his comments distasteful to modern scholars, who prefer to commit their own inaccuracies. WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800).

_Letters._

In the _Golden Treasury Series_.
DANIEL DEFOE (1661-1731).

_Essay on Projects._ _

The Shortest Way with  the Dissenters._

Defoe was a journalist and pamphleteer who lacked the charm of the true essayist, but whose prose in essay form is worth reading for its vigor and variety of idea. THOMAS DE QUINCEY (1785-1859).

_Selections._

In one volume, published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. “The Confessions of an English Opium-Eater” is in _Everyman’s Library_, and also the “Reminiscences of the Lake Poets.” De Quincey’s beautiful poetic prose is unlike anything before or since. The “Opium-Eater” belongs perhaps under “Biography,” but may stand here. Its somewhat sensational subject has secured for it, fortunately, a wide reading and so kept De Quincey from passing into the shadowy company of distinguished writers known only to the few.

His essays fill many volumes. Those in the inexpensive volume in the _Camelot Series_, published by Walter Scott, include some of the best and should be read, perhaps, before the “Opium-Eater.” JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1700).

There are collections of Dryden’s prose, but the best way to become acquainted with “the father of modern English prose” is to run through his complete works and read the remarkable prefaces to his plays and poems. In them English criticism, for all the merit of some essays earlier in the seventeenth century, really begins. [Illustration: EMERSON]  FINLEY PETER DUNNE.

_

Mr. Dooley in Peace and War._

_

Mr. Dooley in the  Hearts of His Countrymen._ _

Mr. Dooley’s Philosophy._

RALPH WALDO EMERSON (1803-82).

_Essays._ _Representative Men._

_

The  Conduct of Life._ _Society and Solitude._

Emerson’s essays, including “The American Scholar” (which is as fresh and pertinent to our time as if written yesterday), have been printed in inexpensive editions by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. The volumes named above should be owned in American households. More than Carlyle or Ruskin or any other of the preaching essayists of the nineteenth century, Emerson emerges as the prophetic, visionary spirit who seized and phrased the best moral and spiritual ideas that his time had to offer to future times. JOHN FLORIO (1550-1625).

_Translation of Montaigne’s Essays._

There are several handy editions, notably the pocket edition, published by Dent, of this famous translation whereby Montaigne became an English classic. OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-74).

_

The Citizen of the World._

Among the lighter satirical essays of the eighteenth century “The Citizen of the World” is second only to the _Spectator_, if not equal to it. WILLIAM HAZLITT (1778-1830).

_Essays._

A good selection appears in the _Camelot Series_. “Though we are mighty fine fellows nowadays,” says Stevenson, “we cannot write like Hazlitt.” (See Hazlitt’s “English Comic Writers” and “Lectures on the English Poets” for his studies of Shakespeare).

LAFCADIO HEARN. _

Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan._ _

Kokoro:

Hints and  Echoes of Japanese Inner Life._

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES (1809-94).

_Autocrat of the Breakfast Table._

_Professor at the Breakfast Table._

_Poet at the Breakfast Table._ In _Everyman’s Library_ and in inexpensive editions, published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. A wise, witty, beautifully lucid mind.

Holmes snatched philosophy from the library and brought it to the breakfast table so that the poorest boarder goes to his day’s work from the company of an immortal who has met him halfway and talked to him without condescension. JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT (1784-1859).

_Essays._

One volume of selections in the _Camelot Series_.

Also in two volumes with his poems in the _Temple Classics_ (Dent & Co.).

Young readers who will look at Hunt’s essay “On Getting Up on Cold Mornings” will not need to be urged further into his delightful society. RICHARD JEFFERIES (1848-87).

_

An English Village._ _Field and  Hedgerow._ _

The Open Air._ _

The Story of My Heart._

SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-84).

_

Lives of the Poets._

Students of literature will wish to read one or two of Johnson’s criticisms. He was a much greater man than writer, better as a talker and letter writer than as an essayist. A good selection from the “Lives of the Poets” is edited by Matthew Arnold.
CHARLES LAMB (1775-1834). _

Essays of Elia._

See pages 183-6 of this Guide.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN (1809-65). _Letters and Speeches._

To be found in the complete works, edited by Nicolay and Hay, and in several small volumes of selections; the volume in _Everyman’s Library_ has an introduction by James Bryce. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL (1819-91).

_

Among My Books._

_

My Study Windows._  _Democracy and Other Addresses._ _Political Essays._ _Letters._

The foremost American critic.

Interest in the bookish and literary side of Lowell should not lead us to overlook his ringing political essays, notably that on Lincoln, written during the war and remarkable as having phrased at the moment the judgment of the next generation. THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY (1800-59).

_Essays._

There are many editions of the more familiar essays of Macaulay, especially those that have formed a part of school and college reading courses. The essay on Milton, unfortunately prescribed in college preparatory work, is one of the poorest. Those on Clive and Hastings, also often prescribed, are among the best.

It is the prevailing fashion to underrate Macaulay as a critic, as it was perhaps in his lifetime the fashion to overrate him. He is lastingly powerful and invigorating, a great essayist, if only because he knows so well what he wishes to say and knows precisely how to say it. He is not subtle, not poetic, but his clear large intellect is still a bright light through the many-hued mists of Victorian criticism. JOHN MILTON (1608-74).

_Areopagitica, etc._

Milton’s prose is difficult to read and only a little of it is worth reading except by the student of Milton and the student of history. The noblest passages of Milton’s prose have been collected in a single volume, edited by Ernest Myers, and published by Kegan Paul, Trench & Co.
JOHN MUIR. _

The Mountains of California._

_Our National Parks._

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN (1801-90).

_Idea of a University._ _

Apologia pro  Vita Sua._

An admirable volume of selections, edited by Lewis E. Gates, is published by Henry Holt & Co. Newman’s “Apologia” belongs properly in our list of Biography, but it is really an essay in defense of certain of his ideas. Owing to the fact that Newman’s work is largely religious controversy and discourse directed to practical rather than artistic ends, his literary power and the beauty of his prose have not won him so many readers as he deserves.
BLAISE PASCAL (1623-62). _Provincial Letters._

In the English translation of Thomas M’Crie.
WALTER HORATIO PATER (1839-94).

_

The Renaissance._ _Appreciations._

The finest English critic of his generation.

Contrary to a current impression that Pater is for the “ultra-literary,” most of his work is clear and simple; the essays on Wordsworth and Coleridge are the best to which a reader of those poets can turn. JOHN RUSKIN (1819-1900).

_Sesame and Lilies._

_Crown of Wild Olive._

_Queen of the Air._ _

Frondes Agrestes._

There are fourteen volumes of Ruskin in _ Everyman’s Library_.

“Sesame and Lilies” and “Frondes Agrestes” (selected passages from “Modern Painters”) have been often reprinted. The best of Ruskin’s prose is very beautiful, the worst is tediously prolix. He regretted that his eloquence took attention from his subject matter, but like Carlyle, he lives by his eloquence and poetry rather than by his opinions and teachings.

SYDNEY SMITH (1771-1845).

_

The Peter Plymley Letters._ _

Essays._

In one volume, published by Ward, Lock & Co. After Swift, perhaps the wittiest English essayist who used his keen weapons in the interests of justice. RICHARD STEELE (1671-1729).

_

Essays_ from the _Tatler_ and the  _Spectator_.

Steele is usually found with Addison in selections from the _Spectator_. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (1849-94).

_

Familiar Studies of Men and Books._

_Memories and Portraits._

_

An Inland Voyage._

_Travels with a Donkey._

The best thoughts of this romancer and some of the best of his writing are in his essays. JONATHAN SWIFT (1667-1745).

_Selected Prose._

Selections from his prose writings are to be found in a volume of the _Camelot Series_ and also in a small volume published by D. Appleton & Co. Not until the reader is familiar with “Gulliver’s Travels” and has some understanding of Swift’s life and the historical background of his work, can he feel the genius of the satirical essays and political lampoons. Swift is often repellent to those who only half understand him, but he grows in power and dignity to those who appreciate his underlying righteousness.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY (1811-63).

_Book of Snobs._

_

Roundabout  Papers._

_

From Cornhill to Cairo._

_English Humorists._

Thackeray is an essayist by temperament and shows it in his novels. His satirical and literary essays may be reserved until after one has read his novels, but they will not be overlooked by anyone who likes Thackeray or who likes good essays. HENRY DAVID THOREAU (1817-62).

_

A Week on the Concord and Merrimac  Rivers._ _

Walden._ _

Excursions._

_

The Maine Woods._

_Cape Cod._  _

Spring._

_Summer._ _

Winter._ _

Autumn._

Thoreau’s work is one long autobiographical journal ranging from brief diary notes on nature to full rounded essays. A prose poet of nature, and second to Emerson only as a philosophic essayist on nature and society.

His greatness becomes more and more evident in an age when “nature writers” are popular. IZAAK WALTON (1593-1683).

_The Complete Angler._

In _Everyman’s  Library_.
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER (1829-1900).

_

In the Wilderness._ _As We Go._  _Backlog Studies._ _ In the Levant._

A charming essayist, a humorous lover of books and nature.

His reputation has waned somewhat during the past twenty years, but Americans cannot afford to lose sight of him. DANIEL WEBSTER (1782-1852).

_Speeches and Orations._

In one volume, published by Little, Brown & Co. The literary quality of Webster’s orations entitles them to a place among American essays. CHAPTER X THE READING OF FOREIGN CLASSICS Since there is not time in the short life of man to read all the good books written in one language, the young reader, or even the person who has formed the habit of reading, may feel that he need never go beyond the books of his own race. In a sense this is true. Perhaps it is especially true for us who are born to the English language.

For the English people, however insular they may be in some respects, have always been great explorers of the lands and the thoughts of other races. They have plundered the literature of their neighbors and loaded the borrowed riches into their own books. In the Elizabethan age some writers seem to have regarded it as a patriotic duty to render for their countrymen the choicest literature of France and Italy and Spain.

While they were robbing their neighbors across the channel, they were also building English classics out of the literary monuments of “insolent Greece and haughty Rome.” And for many generations English writers, like those of other modern countries, have been brought up on the classics. So we find incorporated in English literature the culture of the entire ancient and modern world, and one who should read only English books could still have a full mind and a cultivated spirit.

We cannot say, therefore, that it is necessary, in order to realize the true purpose of reading, to make excursions into the literature of foreign countries. But we can point out the advantage of such excursions, and I would insist on the ease with which the ordinary person, who has enjoyed only a limited formal education, can make himself acquainted with foreign languages and literatures if he will.

In our time we have schools to teach everything known to man from advertising to zoölogy. It is well that our schools are broadening in interest and that every kind of knowledge is being organized so that it can be imparted. But there is a danger that we may get into the habit of leaving too much for the schools, that we may come to think that the schools monopolize all knowledge, or at least all the methods of teaching.

This would be a great pity in a nation that is proud of self-made men. We, of all peoples, must remember what Walter Scott said, that the best part of a man’s education is that which he gives himself. Schools and universities only start us in a methodical way, on a short well-surveyed path, into the world of knowledge. Most of the learning of educated men and women is acquired after they have left the college gates, and anyone may set out on the road to knowledge with little direct assistance from the schools.

The better, the easier for us, if we can go to college; but if we cannot have the advantage of formal education we need not resign ourselves to ignorance.[4] Most young people, however, will think of Greek, Latin, French, and German as difficult and “learned” mysteries accessible only to the fortunate who can go to the higher schools, and of use only to those who intend to enter scientific and literary professions. If I say that with no knowledge of any language but English you can teach yourself any other language well enough to read it, I hope you will not shake your head and say that such self-teaching is possible only to extraordinary intellects. Many commonplace persons have learned languages by reading them, with no equipment but a lexicon, a short grammar, and an interesting text. Perhaps it is not fair on top of that statement to cite the case of Elihu Burritt, for he was an exceptional man.

But as readers will learn from his excellent “Autobiography,” he began his studies under very difficult circumstances; so that, taking all things together, talent and conditions, many a young man can start where he began and under no greater disadvantages.

Burritt would have gone some way on the road to learning even if his endowments had been small. And with no genius but the genius of industry we can follow for a little distance his democratic course. Burritt was a blacksmith by trade. He had only such education as he could get in a country academy, where his brother was the master.

In his leisure he studied mathematics and languages, and before he died he had acquired a reading knowledge of fifty tongues and dialects, ancient and modern. Yet he was not a self-absorbed man who shut himself up in profitless culture.

He became a world-wide apostle of peace. The study of languages taught him that all men are brothers. If he could learn fifty foreign languages, any of us can learn one, and through that one we too shall understand that we are not an isolated people, not the only people in the world.

We shall meet in their native tongue some great group of our brothers, the Germans, the French, the Italians, learn their ideals and broaden our own. It is impossible to learn Greek and Latin and not to feel how close we are to the peoples of two thousand years ago. It is impossible to learn French or German and keep in our hearts any of that contempt for “foreigners” which ignorant and provincial people so stupidly cherish.

We shall arrive, too, through knowledge of another language at a finer appreciation of our own language, its shades and distinctions, its variety and power. We shall understand better the great English writers, many of whom have known something of foreign literature and refer in a familiar way to French and German and ancient classics, as if they took for granted in their readers an acquaintance with the literature of other nations. How shall we go to work to learn foreign languages? The answer is as simple as the prescription for reading English. Open a book written in the foreign language and take each word in order through a whole sentence.

Then read that same sentence in a good translation. Then write down all the words that seem to be nouns and all the words that seem to be verbs. After that read the sections in the grammar about verbs and nouns. The other parts of speech will take care of themselves for a while.

Then try another sentence. I know one young person who read through a French book and got at its meaning by guessing at the words and then returning over those which appeared oftenest and which, of course, were the commonest. It is possible by a comparison of the many uses of the same word to squeeze some meaning out of it.

The dictionary and the grammar will give the rest. The foreign book stores, the publishers of text books, and the purveyors of home teaching methods that are advertised in the more reputable journals offer language books that are of real assistance. The scope of this Guide does not admit any detailed instruction in the methods of learning foreign languages.

I can only insist that with a few books and perseverance anyone can learn, not to speak, perhaps not to write, but to read a strange tongue. And I say to the boy or the girl who is going to the high school that not to take the courses in Greek, Latin, French and German is to throw away a precious opportunity. Upon the grounding of those few years in school, the young receptive years, what a knowledge of languages one can build! The notion, all too prevalent, that foreign languages, especially Greek and Latin, are of no use to the boy or the girl who is going “right into business,” is one of the dullest fallacies with which a hard-working practical people ever blinded its soul.

Playing the piano and learning to sing, nay, even going to church, are of no use in business. But who will be so foolish as to devote his whole life to business?

Burritt, the blacksmith boy, taught himself languages. The high-school boy who is going to be a blacksmith can begin to study languages before he picks up the tools of his bread-winning labor. If this seems like the vain idealism of a bookish person, let me make an appeal to your patriotism. Do you know that this land of opportunity and prosperity is not developing so many fundamentally educated men and women as we should expect from our vast system of public schools and our many universities?

One reason is that we have so many bread-and-butter Americans who allow their boys and girls to stay away from those classes in Greek and Latin and French and German which our high schools provide at such great cost to the generous taxpayer. All we lack in America is the will to use the good things we have provided for us. Well, we who are interested in the reading of good books will make up our minds to get by hook or crook a little taste of some language besides English. If we truly care for poetry we shall try to read Vergil and Homer and Dante and Goethe.

To become gradually familiar with one great foreign poet, so that we know him as we know Shakespeare, is to conquer a whole new world. The easiest books to read in a foreign tongue are prose fictions, in which the interest of the story spurs the reader on and makes him eager for the meanings of the words. Text-book publishers issue inexpensive editions of modern French and German fictions, which are, of course, selected by the editors with a view to their fitness for young readers. The French or German book which has become a recognized classic in its native land and is considered by editors of school books to be a good classroom text is likely to have universal literary qualities, simplicity, purity of style, and right-mindedness.

I find in admirable inexpensive texts representative stories by Dumas, Zola, George Sand, Halévy, Daudet, Pierre Loti, Balzac, Hugo, About, and other French masters, and by Freytag, Baumbach, Sudermann, and Heyse among modern German writers. French and German drama and history lie but a step beyond.

I, for one, have read more of these school editions of foreign classics since I left school than when they were part of school-day duty, and I am still grateful for the convenient notes and lists of hard words. As one with only an imperfect reading knowledge of foreign languages, I can testify with the right degree of authority to the pleasure of the ordinary person in reading unfamiliar tongues. If one has a fair grounding of Latin, the exploration of Italian and Spanish is a tour through a cleared and easy country. With Professor Norton’s wonderful prose translation and with the text of Dante in the _Temple Classics_, where the English version faces the Italian, page for page, one can read Dante as one would read Chaucer.

And there could be no better way to learn the difference between prose and poetry than to turn now and again to Longfellow’s truly poetic translation and feel how his verse lifts in places to something that the prose cannot quite attain. If we are not persuaded that our soul’s good depends on a knowledge of foreign languages, we can make the acquaintance of the classics of other nations in the best English renderings. Our greatest book, the King James Bible, is a translation, so great a translation that in point of style it is said by some critical scholars to be better than its Greek and Hebrew originals. In general it is true that translation falls below the original or radically changes its character. Until the nineteenth century, when the scholars of our race began to give us literal translations of the classics, which although “literal” are still idiomatic English, translators in our tongue have been, as a rule, willful conquerors who dominated the native spirit of their originals with the overwhelming power of the English language and spirit.

They anglicized the foreign masterpiece so that its own father would not recognize it. The result was often, as in Pope’s “Iliad,” a new English classic but not a good pathway to the house of the foreign poet. Pope’s “Iliad” is a “classic” but it is poor Homer and not the best of Pope.

His genius is much better expressed in “The Rape of the Lock.” And Homer’s genius is much better preserved for us in the simple prose of Leaf, Myers, Butcher, and Lang. Professor G. H. Palmer’s “Odyssey” is so good that no translator hereafter has a right to plead as excuse for the failure of his version of any classic that “the English language will not do it.”

Matthew Arnold’s essay “On Translating Homer” will stimulate the reader’s interest in the art of translation and help bring him near to the Greek spirit. But this essay goes into subtleties which may baffle the beginner.

Any beginner, old enough to read at all, can read Professor Palmer’s “Odyssey.” Many books of Greek stories and legends of the heroes have been prepared for young readers. “Old Greek Stories” by C. H. Hanson, or A. J. Church’s books of Greek life and story, together with Bulfinch’s “Age of Fable,” will initiate one into the Homeric mysteries.[5]

After the reader has advanced far enough to be interested in philosophy, he will wish to read Epictetus and Plato. Jowett’s “Plato” is one of the great translations of the nineteenth century. The reader of Browning will not omit his noble, if somewhat difficult translation of the “Agamemnon” of Æschylus. From the early Elizabethans to the late Victorians the works of the English poets are starred with bits from the Latin and Greek poets.

One of the finest of translations from the Greek is the “Theocritus” of Charles Stuart Calverley, the English poet, who loved all things beautiful and enjoyed all things absurd. Calverley’s translations from the classics and his delicious burlesques and parodies will give one a new sense of how close together the different moods of literature may lie in the same heart, both the heart of the poet and the heart of the reader. If an artistic translation of a foreign work has not been made or is not easily accessible, a literal translation is of great service to the casual reader. Even in the preparation of lessons in Latin and Greek a literal translation, honestly used, helps one to learn the original language and extends one’s English vocabulary.

The reason there is a ban upon the “pony” in school is that people ride it too hard and do not learn to walk on their own feet. Out of school we can get much from literal renderings of the classics, such as are to be found in the cheap series of _ Handy Literal Translations_, published by Hinds & Co.
Their fault is that they are printed in tryingly small type, but this is a defect due to their merits of compactness and low cost. The best translation of Vergil is Conington’s prose version, which has become an English classic.

The introduction is one of the best essays on translating. There are several renderings of Vergil into English verse. Dryden’s is the best known, and is of interest to the reader of English principally because Dryden did it.

He brought to Vergil somewhat the same ideals of translation and the same kind of skill that Pope brought to the “Iliad.” William Morris’s version is probably the most fluent and poetic of modern translations of Vergil into English verse. The Latin poet who has been most often translated, and by the greatest variety of talent, is Horace, whom our forefathers thought that every gentleman should be able to quote.

The accomplished translator likes to match his skill against the clever Roman, to render his light philosophy, his keen phrase, his beautiful brevity. The American will like the free and joyous “Echoes from the Sabine Farm,” by the late Eugene Field and his brother, Mr. Roswell Field, a book that must have made the shade of Horace inquire appreciatively in what part of the world Chicago is “located.” Modern literature in all countries has attracted the readers of other countries, and the work of translation is going on continuously. Not only the great foreign classics of the last three hundred years, but a host of lesser writers on the continent of Europe have made their way into English.

At the beginning of the nineteenth century there was a new interest in German literature and philosophy--indeed, there was a new German literature. Goethe was translated by Sir Walter Scott and others. Coleridge translated Schiller’s “Wallenstein.” Carlyle made a number of translations from German romance, among them a glowing version of Goethe’s “Wilhelm Meister,” which, in part, suggested his own strange masterpiece, “Sartor Resartus.”

Bayard Taylor’s poetic version of “Faust” is of interest to the American reader and is no mean representation of the original. Hugo and Dumas are as well known to us as Scott and Dickens. Who has not read “Les Miserables” and “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” and “The Toilers of the Sea”; “The Count of Monte Cristo” and “The Three Musketeers”? “The Devil’s Pool,” “Mauprat” and “The Little Fadette” by George Sand have been English literature these many years. So, too, have “Eugénie Grandet” and “Le Père Goriot” by Balzac, the first of the great French realists whose work has come to us directly in translation and indirectly through the English and American writers whom they have influenced.

As for later French fiction we can trust to the taste of English translators, as we can to the judgment of the editors of the school texts, to give us the best, that is, the best for us. The finest of Maupassant comes to us politely introduced by Mr. Henry James in “The Odd Number.” Bourget, Daudet, Pierre Loti, Mérimée, Halévy, the great Belgian poet, Maeterlinck, who belongs to French literature, Anatole France in his beautiful story, “The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard,” the poet Rostand--these and others we have naturalized in English.

It is to France that we turn for the best criticism, and the reader who gets far enough to be interested in that branch of literature will find that many of the critics of our race have been pupils of the French critics from Sainte-Beuve to Brunetière and Hennequin. Other countries besides France, Germany, and England have produced literature which has crossed the boundaries of the nations and become the possession of the world. The Russian novel is, perhaps, the most powerful that the nineteenth century has seen, but the American reader may as well leave it until he has read a great deal of English fiction. Then he will find that Turgenieff, Tolstoi, Dostoevski are giants in a giant nation. Poland has one writer who is known to English readers, Sienkiewicz, whose “Quo Vadis” and “With Fire and Sword” are among the great novels of our age.

I should recommend that admirers of “Ben Hur” read “Quo Vadis” and get a lesson in the difference between a masterpiece and a pleasant book that is very much less than a masterpiece. Readers who think there is some special virtue in American humor--and no doubt there is--ought to know at least one of the great books of Spain, “Don Quixote.” Spanish has become an important language to us who are learning about our neighbors, “the other Americans,” and are trying to wake up our lagging trade relations with them and our backward sympathies. The young man going into business will find some good chances open to him if he knows Spanish, and, what is perhaps quite as important, he will find that Spain, too, has a modern literature.

We cannot know all foreign literatures, but we can know at least one. Whether we visit in spirit Italy or Norway or Spain or Russia, we shall be learning the great lesson of literature, that our brothers the world over are doing and thinking and hoping the same things that we are. Reading foreign books[6] is the cheapest and perhaps the wisest kind of travel, for the body rests while the mind goes abroad.
FOOTNOTES: [4] See also page 241. [5] See also the discussion of Chapman, pp. 245-8 of this Guide.

[6] Books in foreign languages and English translations will be found in their proper place in the lists of fiction, poetry, etc.
CHAPTER XI THE PRESS OF TO-DAY If we were guiding an intelligent stranger from another planet through our busy world, before what institution should we pause with greatest anxiety to explain to our alien comrade its meaning, its value? Perhaps before the church, yet when we remembered that the Bible and other works of religion and poetry are in our homes, we could not bring ourselves to tell our companion that the church is the heart, the indispensable fountain of our religious life. The school then?

Maybe that, yet Knowledge spends in the school but relatively few hours of her day-long ministrations. We might wax eloquent before the hospitals, but they are only repairing some of the damages which man and nature have inflicted upon a small part of the race, and it is the healthy major portion of humanity that carries on the life of the world and does whatever is worth doing. It would be simple to explain the thundering factories whose din drowns the voice of the expositor, to tell how in yonder building are made the machines that cut and thresh the wheat that feeds the world, and how in the building beyond are made the cars that bring the wheat from the fields to the teeming towns. All these institutions are wonderful, all are essential in our life. Yet greater than any, more difficult to explain, inspiring and disheartening, grinding good and evil, is the press, from which our visitor could see streaming forth thousands of tons of paper blackened with the imprint of little types.

The stranger could see that. We should have to make it clear to him that those types are turning over once a year almost all that man has ever known and thought. The contemporary press is engaged in three kinds of activity: the reprinting of old books, the printing of new ones, and the printing of the magazines, periodicals, newspapers, and other communications relating to the conduct of daily business. The first activity, the printing of old books, is an unmixed blessing.

Every book, great or small, that the world has found worth preserving is continuously revived and redistributed to our generation. Never before were the classics of the ages so cheap, so accessible to the common man. Toward the second product of the whirling presses, the books of to-day, our attitude may easily become too censorious or too complacent.

It is the fashion to slander the productions of one’s own age and recall with a sigh the good old days when there were giants. But in those good old days it was fashionable, too, to underrate or ignore the living and praise the dead.

When the Elizabethan age was waning but not vanished, Ben Jonson wrote: “Now things daily fall, wits grow downward, and eloquence grows backward.” And yet Milton, the greatest poet after Shakespeare, was even then a young man and had not done his noblest work. A century later Pope wrote:     Be thou the first true merit to befriend;     His praise is lost who stays till all commend. Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes,     And ’tis but just to let them live betimes.

No longer now the golden age appears     When Patriarch-wits surviv’d a thousand years:     Now length of Fame (our second life) is lost,     And bare three score is all even that can boast;     Our sons their fathers’ failing language see,     And such as Chaucer is shall Dryden be. But Chaucer is more alive now than he was in Pope’s day, and both Dryden and Pope are brightly modern in diction if not in thought.

Pope’s idea is not so much that his contemporaries are unworthy of long life as that changes in taste and language will soon make their work obsolete. He pleads for his contemporaries, yet like many another critic he is _laudator temporis acti_, a praiser of times past and done. His injunction that we befriend and commend our neighbor’s merit before it speedily perishes is generous but fails to recognize that merit, true merit, does not die. This is certainly true in our time when books are so easily manifolded and come into so many hands that there is little likelihood of a real poet’s work being accidentally annihilated, or failing to find a reader somewhere in the world.

In the nineteenth century pessimism about current literary productions was almost chronic, at least among professional critics.

The Edinburgh Reviewers and the other Scotch terrier, Thomas Carlyle, set the whole century to growling at itself. Thoreau, with a humorous parenthesis to the effect that it is permissible to slander one’s own time, says that Elizabethan writers--and he seems to be speaking not of the poets but the prose writers--have a greater vigor and naturalness than the more modern, and that a quotation from an Elizabethan in a modern writer is like a green bough laid across the page. Stevenson says we are fine fellows but cannot write like Hazlitt (there is no reason why we should write like Hazlitt, or like anybody else in particular). Emerson, tolerant and generous toward his contemporaries, looks askance at new books, implies with an ambiguous “if” that “our times are sterile in genius,” and lays down as a practical rule, “Never read any book that is not a year old,”--which being translated means, “Encourage literature by starving your authors.”

As we have said, most of the great authors are dead because most of the people ever born in this world are dead. And it is natural for bookmen to glance about their libraries, review the dignified backs of a hundred classics, and then, looking the modern world in the face, say, “Can any of you fellows do as well as these great ones?” To be sure, one age cannot rival the selected achievements of a hundred ages.

But the Spirit of Literature is abroad in our garish modern times; she has been continuously occupied for at least three centuries in every civilized country in the world.

And, as Pope pleads, let us welcome the labors of those whom the Spirit of Literature brushes with her wing. So far as one can judge, a very small part of contemporaneous writing has literary excellence in any degree. But a similarly small portion of the writing of any age has had lasting excellence; and more men and women, more kinds of men and women, are to-day expressing themselves in print than ever in the world before.

Since no one person has to read many books, the world is not undul

y burdened with them; it can read, classify, and reject or preserve all that the presses are capable of putting forth. “The trash with which the press now groans” was foolish cant a hundred years ago, when Jane Austen satirically quoted it.[7] And it is more threadbare now than it was then. There are alive to-day a goodly company of competent writers of novels; I could name ten.

I believe, too, that there are genuine poets, though we do not dare name young poets until they are dead. History and biography are, regarded as a collective institution, in flourishing state, though, to be sure, the work of art in those departments of literature as in poetry and fiction, appears none too frequently. It is our part to join in the work of that great critic, the World, encourage the good and discourage the bad, and help make the best book the “best seller.” It would be foolish to hope for that ideal condition in which only authors of ability should write books.

“Were angels to write, I fancy we should have but few folios.” But writing is a human affair, and human labor is necessarily wasteful.

We have to endure the printing of a hundred poor books and we have to support a score of inferior writers in order to get one good book and give one talented writer a part of his living. Thousands of machines are built and thrown away before the Wrights make one that will fly, and they could not make theirs if other men had not tried and in large part failed, bequeathing them a little experience. A hundred men for a hundred years contributed to the making of Bell’s telephone. We do not grudge the wasted machines, the broken apparatus in the laboratory.

So, too, when hundreds of minor poets print their little books and suffer heartache and disappointment for the sake of the one volume of verse that shows genius, we need not groan amid the whir of the presses; we need only contemplate with sympathy and understanding the pathetic losses and brave gains of human endeavor. Numberless books must be born and die in order that the one or two may live. We shall try to ignore the minor versifier as gently as possible, to suppress the cheap novelist as firmly as we can, and give our dollar for the good book when we think we have found it. The third part of the printed matter published from day to day, periodicals and magazines and newspapers, presents a complex problem. It is in place for us to say a word about it, for this is avowedly a guide to reading and not a guide to literature, and most of us spend, properly, a good third of our reading time over magazines and newspapers.

Much depends on our making ourselves not only intelligent readers of books but intelligent readers of periodicals and papers. The magazine industry in America is colossal, and its chief support is that amazing business institution, American advertising. The public pays a big tax on flour, shoes, clothes, paint, and every other commodity in order that advertisers may pay for space in periodicals and newspapers. The periodicals and newspapers, in turn, pay writers from a fiftieth to a twentieth of the income from advertising in order to make the advertising medium interesting enough for people to buy it. In this the magazine manufacturers are on the whole successful.

Perhaps there are sages and seers who can live content with bound books and prefer that those books should be at least fifty years old. I know of one man, a constant reader of poetry and philosophy, who tried the experiment of retiring to his library and stopping all his subscriptions to the current periodicals. The experiment was an utter failure, because he was a man of active intelligence, and because, in truth, the magazines, many of them, are very good. No less a philosopher than Professor William James said in a recent article: “_McClure’s Magazine_, _

The American Magazine_, _Collier’s Weekly_ and in its fashion, _The World’s Work_, constitute together a real popular university.... It would be a pity if any future historian were to have to write words like these: ‘By the middle of the twentieth century the higher institutions of learning had lost all influence over public opinion in the United States. But the mission of raising the tone of democracy which they had proved themselves so lamentably unfitted to exert, was assumed with rare enthusiasm and prosecuted with extraordinary skill and success by a new educational power; and for the clarification of their human preferences, the people at large acquired the habit of resorting exclusively to the guidance of certain private literary ventures, commonly designated in the market by the affectionate name of ten-cent magazines.’

Must not we of the colleges see to it that no historian shall ever say anything like this?” The possible failure, here implied, of universities to lead in the subjects which they profess to study has already become actual in the departments of English literature. Of this we shall say something in the next chapter.

It is, however, the other side of the matter that is important. Our best magazines are vital: they are enlisting the services of every kind of thinker and teacher and man of experience, and they are printing as good fiction and verse as they can get; certainly they are not willfully printing inferior work. But it is not the fiction or the verse in the magazines that is of greatest moment, even when it is good.

The value of the magazine lies in the miscellaneous contributions on science, politics, medicine, and current affairs, which seem to me of continuously good substance from month to month. And the literary quality of these articles (the words I quoted from Professor James are from a fine article printed in a popular magazine, _McClure’s_) is, on the whole, just as high as the average in the old _Edinburgh Review_, through which Sydney Smith, Lord Jeffrey, and others, with stinging and brilliant essays, helped to reform that terribly brutal England of the early nineteenth century. It is easy to find fault with the magazines. You may say that the _Atlantic Monthly_ is pseudo-literary and seems to be living on the sweepings of a New England culture of which all the important representatives died twenty years ago. You may say that the _Nation_ often sounds as if it were written by the more narrow-minded sort of college professor.

You may say that the _Outlook_ is permeated by a weak religiosity. All the same, if you see on a man’s table the _Atlantic Monthly_, the _Nation_, and the _Outlook_, and the copies look as if they had been read, you may be reasonably sure that that man appreciates good writing and has a just-minded view of public questions. Of the lighter, more “entertaining” magazines there are, from an ideal point of view, too many, and the large circulation of some of the sillier ones indicates what we all know and need not moralize about--that there are millions of uneducated people who want something to read. It is, however, a matter for congratulation that some of the best magazines, _McClure’s_, _Collier’s_, _The Youth’s Companion, Everybody’s_, have large circulations, and that our respectable and well-bred old friends, _Scribner’s_, _Harper’s_, the _Century_, are national institutions.[8]

It is difficult to understand how the American magazine and the American newspaper are products of the same nation; the magazine is so honest and so able, the newspaper so dishonest and so ignorant except in its genius for making money and sending chills up the back. We will not waste our time by turning the rest of this chapter into an article demanding a “reform” of the newspapers, but in the spirit of a conscientious guide of young readers we will make two or three observations. The advertising departments of the American newspaper, with few exceptions, differ from the advertising departments of all reputable magazines, in that the newspaper proprietors take no responsibility for the character of the advertisements.

The magazines reject all advertisements that the managers know to be fraudulent. The newspapers do not reject them. Let the reader draw his own conclusions as to the trustworthiness of his daily paper as a business institution and a purveyor of the truth. When we have a generation of Americans who understand the business dishonesty of the newspaper and what it implies about the character of the news and the editorials, the newspapers will be better in all departments.

Meanwhile, all our writing about the low quality of our daily press will have little effect.

In the matter of journalistic honesty in the news and editorial departments, let us understand this: With few exceptions, American newspapers are so irresponsible that no unsupported statement appearing in them is to be counted on as the truth or as a fair expression of what the men in the editorial offices believe to be the truth. Of course, much of every daily paper is true, because the proprietors have no motive in most cases for telling anything untrue. In order to give some weight to these opinions I may say that for a number of years I was an exchange editor and read newspapers from all parts of America. Also, for a number of years I acted as private secretary to a distinguished person whose name is often in the newspapers, and whose position is such that no editor can have any motive, except the desire to print a “story,” for connecting the name with any untrue idea.

From a collection of fifty clippings made from American newspapers in a period of two years I find over thirty that are mainly incorrect and contain ideas invented at the reporter’s or the editor’s desk; more than ten that are entire fabrications; and five that are not only untrue, but damaging to the peace of mind of the subject and other interested persons. And under all this is not a touch of malice, for toward that person the entire press and public are friendly. Imagine the lies that are told about a person to whom the editors (or, rather, the owners) are indifferent or unfriendly! When one considers the energy and enterprise of the newspaper, it is difficult to understand why there is not more literary ability, at least of the humbler kind, in the news columns, the reviews and the editorial comments.

One reason is, perhaps, that the magazines take all the best journalistic ability, so far as that ability consists in skill in the use of language; any journalist or writer on special subjects prints his work in the magazines if he can, and the newspapers get what is left. Editorial writing is at such a low pitch that there are only two or three real editorial pages in the daily press of the nation. The reporting is often clever and quite as often without conscience. The machinery for gathering world news is amazingly well organized.

Other kinds of ability are abundant in the newspaper office; and it is a natural economic fact that the most debased papers, making the most money, can hire the most talented men--and debauch them; while the more conscientious paper, struggling in competition with its rich and dishonest rivals, cannot afford to pay for the best editors and reporters. If the rising generation will understand this and grow up with an increasing distrust of the newspaper, the newspaper will reform in obedience to the demand of the public, the silent demand expressed by the greater circulation of good papers and the failure of these that are degrading and degraded. We called in the opinions of one philosopher, Professor James, to support our view of the American magazine. Let us summon another philosopher to corroborate in part our view of the newspapers, to show that the foregoing opinions are not (as some newspapers would probably affirm if they noticed the matter at all), the complaints of a crank who does not understand “practical” newspaper work. Our philosopher will confirm, too, the belief of this Guide that the ethics of the newspaper is of importance to the young reader.

The newspaper is ours. We must have it; it renders indispensable service to all departments of our life, business, education, philanthropy, politics. We cannot turn our backs on it; we cannot in lofty scorn reject the newsboy at the door. It is for us to understand the constitution and methods of the daily press and not be duped by its grosser treacheries as our fathers have been.

I quote from _ The Outlook_ a letter from Professor George Herbert Palmer, whose name will be found elsewhere in this book as philosopher and translator of the “Odyssey.” “_To the Editor of ‘The Outlook’_:  “SIR:

May I make use of your columns for a personal explanation  and also to set forth certain traits in our press and people which  manifest themselves, I believe, in an equal degree in no other country?
“The personal facts are these: On June 16th I delivered a Commencement  address at a girls’ college in Boston, taking for my subject the  common objections to the higher education of women, objections  generally rather felt than formulated by hesitating mothers. Five were  mentioned: the danger to health, to manners, to marriage, to religion,  and to companionship with parents in the home. These I described from  the parents’ point of view, and then pointed out the misconceptions  on which I believed them to rest.

In speaking of manners, I said that  a mother often fears that attention to study may make her daughter  awkward, keep her unfamiliar with the general world, and leave her  unfit for mixed society. To which I replied that in the rare cases  where intellectual interests do for a time overshadow the social, we  may well bear in mind the relative difficulties of subsequent repair. A girl who has had only social interests before twenty-one does not  usually gain intellectual ones afterwards; while the ways of the world  are rapidly acquired by any young woman of brains. To illustrate, I  told of a strong student of Radcliffe who had lived much withdrawn  during her course there, alarming her uncollegiate parents by her  slender interest in social functions. At graduation they pressed her  to devote a year to balls and dinners and to what they regarded as the  occult art of manners.

She came to me for counsel, and I advised her  to accede to their wishes. ‘Flirt hard, M.,’ said I, ‘and show that a  college girl is equal to whatever is required of her.’ This was the  only allusion to the naughty topic which my speech, an hour in length,  contained.

“That evening one of the ‘yellowest’ of the Boston papers printed a  report of my ‘Address on Flirtation,’ and the next day a reporter came  from the same paper requesting an interview. The interview I refused,  saying that I had given no such address and I wished my name kept  altogether out of print. The following Sunday, however, the bubble  was fully blown, the paper printing a column of pretended interview,  generously adorned with headlines and quotation marks, setting forth  in gay colors my ‘advocacy of flirtation.’ “And now the dirty bubble began to float.

Not being a constant reader  of this particular paper, I knew nothing of its mischief until a week  had gone by. Then remonstrances began to be sent to me from all parts  of the country, denouncing my hoary frivolity. From half the states  of the Union they came, and in such numbers that few days of the past  month have been free from a morning insult. My mail has been crowded  with solemn or derisive editorials, with distressed letters, abusive  postal cards, and occasionally the leaflet of some society for the  prevention of vice, its significant passages marked.

During all this  hullabaloo I have been silent. The story was already widespread when  my attention was first called to it. It struck me then as merely a  gigantic piece of summer silliness, arguing emptiness of the editorial  mind. I felt, too, how easily a man makes himself ridiculous in  attempting to prove that he is not a fit subject for ridicule, and  how in the long run character is its own best vindication. I should  accordingly prefer to remain silent still; but the story, like all  that touches on questions of sex, has shown a strange persistency.

My  friends are disquieted. Harvard is defamed. Reports of my depravity  have lately been sent to me from English and French papers, and in a  recent number of _Life_

I appear in a capital cartoon, my utterance  being reckoned one of the principal events of the month. Perhaps,  then, it is as well to say that no such incident has occurred, and  that now, when all of us have had our laugh, the racket had better  cease. “But such persistent pursuit of an unoffending person throws into  strong relief four defects in our newspapers, and especially in the  attitude of our people toward them. In the first place, the plan of  reporting practiced here is a mistaken one, and is adopted, so far  as I know, nowhere else on earth.

Our papers rarely try to give an  ordered outline of an address. They either report verbatim, or more  usually the reporter is expected to gather a lot of taking phrases,  regardless of connection. While these may occasionally amuse, I  believe that readers turn less and less to printed reports of  addresses.

Serious reporting of public speech is coming to an end. It  would be well if it ended altogether, so impossible is it already to  learn from the newspapers what a man has been saying. “Of the indifference to truth in the lower class of our papers,  their vulgarity, intrusions into private life, and eagerness at all  hazards to print something startling, I say little, because these  characteristics are widely known and deplored. It apparently did not  occur to any of my abusers to look up the evidence of my folly. I dare say it was the very unlikelihood of the tale which gave it  currency.

I was in general known to be a quiet person, with no liking  for notoriety, a teacher of one of the gravest subjects in a dignified  university. I had just published a largely circulated biography,  presenting an exalted ideal of marriage. It struck the press of the  country as a diverting thing to reverse all this in a day, to picture  me as favoring loose relations of the sexes, and to attribute to me  buffoonery from which every decent man recoils. “Again, our people seem growing incapable of taking a joke--or rather  of taking anything else.

The line which parts lightness from reality  is becoming blurred. My lively remark has served as the subject for  portentous sermonizing, while the earnest appeal made later in my  address to look upon marriage seriously, as that which gives life its  best meaning, has been either passed by in silence or mentioned as  giving additional point to my nonsense. The passion for facetiousness  is taking the heart out of our people and killing true merriment. The  ‘funny column’ has so long used marriage and its accompaniments as  a standing jest that it is becoming difficult to think of it in any  other way, and the divorce court appears as merely the natural end of  the comedy.

“The part of this affair, however, which should give us gravest  concern is the lazy credulity of the public. They know the  recklessness of journalism as clearly as do I, on whom its dirty  water has been poured. Yet readers trust, and journal copies journal,  as securely as if the authorities were quite above suspicion.

Once  started by the sensational press, my enormities were taken up with  amazing swiftness by the respectable and religious papers, and by many  thousands of their readers. It is this easy trust on the part of the  public which perpetuates newspaper mendacity. What inducement has a  paper to criticise its statements when it knows they will never be  criticised by its readers? Nothing in all this curious business has  surprised me more than the ease with which the American people can be  hoaxed. One would expect decent persons to put two and two together,  and not to let a story gain acceptance from them unless it had some  relation to the character of him of whom it was told.

I please myself  with thinking that if a piece of profanity were reported of President  Taft I should think no worse of President Taft, but very badly and  loudly of that paper. But, perhaps I, too, am an American.

Perhaps I,  too, might rest satisfied with saying, ‘I saw it in print.’ Only then  I should be unreasonable to complain of bad newspapers. “G. H. PALMER.”

FOOTNOTES:

[7] See page 42. [8] They seem to be international institutions if one is to believe the story of the English lady who, comparing the United States unfavorably with her own country, said to an American: “You have nothing equal to _our_ _Century_, _Harper’s_, and _Scribner’s_.” Those magazines publish English editions. CHAPTER XII THE STUDY OF LITERATURE

In our age of free libraries and cheap editions of good books anyone who has time and disposition may become not merely a reader of literature, but a student of literature. The difference is not great, perhaps not important; it seems to be only a matter of attitude and method. The reader opens any book that falls in his way or to which he is led for any reason, tries a page or two of it, and continues or not, at pleasure. The student opens a book which he has deliberately sought and brings to it not only the tastes and moods of the ordinary reader, but a determination to know the book, however much or little it may please him.

He is impelled not only to know the book, with his critical faculties more or less consciously awake, but to know the circumstances under which the book was written, and its relation to other books. One may read “Hamlet” ten times and know much of it by heart and still not be a _student_ of “Hamlet,” much less a student of Shakespeare. The student feels it necessary to know the other plays of Shakespeare, some of the other Elizabethan dramatists, a little of the history and biography of Shakespeare’s time, and something, too, of the best critical literature that “Hamlet” has inspired in the past two centuries. The study of literature implies order and method in the selection of books, and orderly reading in turn implies enough seriousness and willful application to turn the act of reading, in part, from play to work. Well, then, it is better to be a student of literature than a mere reader.

Ideally that is true; if there were years enough in a human life we should like to be students of everything under the sun. But the conditions of life limit the mere reader on one side and the student on the other, and it is a question which one is ultimately richer in mind.

A mere reader will read “Hamlet” until he can almost imagine himself standing on the stage able to speak the lines of any part. The student of literature will read “Hamlet” thoroughly, investigate its real or supposed relation to the rest of the Shakespearian plays, toil through a large volume of learned notes and opinions, read fifty other Elizabethan tragedies and a half dozen volumes on the life and works of Shakespeare. He is on the way to becoming a student of Shakespeare. But while he is struggling with the learned notes, the mere reader is reading, say, Henley’s poems; while the student is reading the lesser plays of Shakespeare, the mere reader is enjoying Browning’s tragedies; while the student of “Hamlet” is making the acquaintance of fifty tragedies by Chapman, Beaumont and Fletcher, Jonson, Marlowe, Webster--less than ten of which are masterpieces--the idle reader is wandering through Sterne’s “Tristram Shandy,” ten modern novels, the seventh book of “Paradise Lost” (that noble Chant of Creation), a beautiful new edition of the poems of George Herbert, and some quite unrelated bits of prose and verse that happen to attract his eye.

Which of the two has pursued the happier, wiser course? Each has spent his time well, and each, if there were more time, might profitably follow the other’s course in addition to his own. Intensive, orderly reading, like that of the _student_, tends to make the mind methodical and certainly furnishes it with a coherent body of related ideas on which to meditate. Extensive reading, such as we assume the _reader’s_ will be, seems to engender superficiality, and yet such is the nature of books and human thought that scattered reading may disclose unexpected and vital relations of idea.

Greater effort of will is required to keep the student on his narrower course, and effort of will is profitable to the spirit. On the other hand, the mind is likely to have keener appetite for what it meets on a discursive course, and it assimilates and absorbs more exhaustively what it approaches with natural, unforced interest. “It is better,” says Johnson, “when a man reads from immediate inclination.” It would be educational anarchy to depreciate orderly intensive study of any subject, and we shall presently consider some helpful introductions to the methodical study of literature.

But I believe that human nature and human conditions favor the unmethodical reader, and that he, on the whole, discovers the best uses of books in the world as it is.

For in the world as it is, we have in adult life thirty, forty, fifty years in which to read books. If we consider everything a book from the little volume which occupies half an hour to the Bible which cannot be read through once intelligently in under six months, we see that three books a week is a liberal number for an assiduous reader. So that in a lifetime one cannot expect to know more than five or six thousand books. Five thousand, or two thousand, or one thousand are plenty for a life of wisdom and enjoyment. The five thousand or the one thousand books of the discursive reader are likely to be at least as good a collection as the five thousand or the one thousand of the student of literature.

Reader and student are both restricted to a small picking from the vineyard of books. The ordinary reader will have spent a third of his reading hours on books that have meant little to him. The student will have spent a third of his time in digging through sapless, fiberless volumes. But the free wandering reader is not disturbed by the number of books he has read in vain or by the vast number of interesting books he has not read at all; whereas the student of literature is lured by his ideal of exhaustive knowledge to hurry through books that he “ought to know,” and in desperation is tempted to insincere pretensions.

In no class of readers does the tendency to unwarranted assumptions of knowledge show more comically than in those advanced students of books who are called Professors of English Literature. Properly speaking, no one is a professor of literature except the man who can produce something worth reading. But as the term is used it defines a class of teachers who have spent much time and study, not as writers but as readers of books, and who then set themselves up, or are set up in spite of individual modesty by the artificial university systems, to “teach” literature.

The professional teacher of literature can know only a limited number of books. And while he has been reading his kind, his unprofessional neighbors, even his students, are reading their kind. He knows some literature that they do not; they know some literature that he does not. The chances are that the professor and not the lay reader will have departed the farther from the true uses of literature.

It is possible to read a number of good books while the professor is studying what another professor says in reply to a third professor’s opinions about what Shakespeare meant in a certain passage. The professor of literature seems to regard Shakespeare and other poets as inspired children who need a grown person to interpret their baby talk; whereas the lay reader takes it for granted that Shakespeare had more or less definite ideas about what he wished to say and succeeded in saying it with admirable clarity. To be sure, a professor here and there may be found who is a live and virile reader of poetry like the rest of us, and the faults of pedantry and pretentious authority are not inevitable faults of the profession as a whole.

There is, however, one universal fault of the professional teacher of literature which is imposed by the conditions of employment in our universities and is subversive of the true purpose of colleges and the true purposes of literature. One fundamental idea of a college is to afford a certain number of scholarly men the means of livelihood from college endowments in order that they may have time to devote to books. The modern professor of literature seems to have so many duties of administration and discipline that he has little time to read for the sake of reading--which is the chief reason for reading at all. The old idea of a university as a place where the few educated members of society could retire for study and intellectual communion has passed away, and the professor of literature is rather at a disadvantage in the modern world where there are more educated persons outside the universities than in them, and where the cultivated person of leisure, reading literature by himself, can easily outstrip the professor.

Professor of literature?

As well might there be a professor of Life, or a professor of Love, or a professor of Wisdom. Literature is too vast for anyone to profess it, excepting always him who can contribute to it. Even if our professors of literature were a more capable class of men, they would still be anomalous members of society, for they are trying to do an anomalous thing, maintain themselves in authority on a subject which is open to everybody in a world of books and libraries. And they are working under conditions not only not helpful, but distinctly unfavorable to a true knowledge and enjoyment of literature, as compared with the conditions of the person of equal intelligence outside the college. My purpose is not so much to dispraise the literary departments of universities as to praise a world which has grown so rich in opportunities that the universities are no longer the unique leaders in literature or the seats of the best knowledge about it.

Our masters are on the shelves and not in the colleges. (Carlyle, Emerson, and Ruskin all said that, and it was said before them.) Without going to college we can become students of literature, professors of literature, if we have the talent and the will.

I do not say or mean that we should not go to college if we can. I mean that we can stay away from college if we must and still be as wise and happy readers of books as those bachelors of arts who have sat for four years or more under “professors of literature.” If my advice were sought on this point, I should advise every boy and girl to go to college if possible, but to take few courses in English literature and English composition. One great advantage of a college course is that it offers four years of comparative leisure, of freedom from the day’s work of the breadwinner; and in those four years the student, with a good library at hand, can read for himself.

I should advise the student to take courses in foreign languages, history, economics, and the sciences, things which can be taught in classrooms and laboratories and are usually taught by experts. There is no need of listening to a professor of English who discourses about Walter Scott and Shakespeare; we can read them without assistance. Literature is a universal possession among people of general intelligence. It is made, fostered, and enjoyed by men who are not professors of literature in the meaningless sense; it is written for and addressed to people who are not professors of literature; and it is understood and appreciated, I dare affirm, by no intelligent, cultivated class in the world less certainly, less directly, less profitably than by professors of literature in the modern American college.

Well, we may leave our little declaration of independence from those who are supposed to be authorities in literature, and turning from them not too disrespectfully, go our own way. Let us be readers of literature. The study of literature will take care of itself. We cannot expect to know as much about the sources of “Hamlet” as Professor Puppendorf thinks he knows.

Neither can we hope to bring as much imagination to our reading as Lamb brought to his. But of the two masters we shall follow Lamb, who was not a professor, nor even, it seems, a student of literature, but only a reader.

If we happen to be interested in Professor Smith’s ideas of Milton, we can in three or four hours read his handbook on the subject, or, better, the other handbook from which he got his ideas. For the professors do not keep their wisdom for their students in class; they live, in spite of themselves, in a modern world and publish for the general reader all the knowledge they have--and a little more. We can follow the professors, if we choose, in the libraries. But probably there will be more wisdom and happiness in following Lamb or Stevenson, or some other reader who was not a professor; they tread a broader highway and never forget what books are made for.

We may well follow Dr. S. M. Crothers, “The Gentle Reader,” who seems to have been enjoying books all his life and still enjoys them, though he lives near a great university. Another genial guide and counselor, whose company the younger generation might well seek often, is Mr. Howells. He is a professor of literature in the real sense, because he makes it. He is also a reader whose enthusiasms are fresh and individual.

Many of his recorded impressions of contemporaneous books are buried in an obscure magazine, and his reticence has its disadvantages in an age when too many inept voices chatter about books. But he reads books and writes about them because he likes them, and so his accounts of his reading are rich in suggestion.

Most of the authentic professors of literature, that is, the men who have produced literature, have been readers rather than students of books. Keats, I am quite sure, had neither opportunity nor inclination to make a formal study of books, even of the old poets from whom his genius drew its sustenance. He seems not to have studied Homer or the English translation by the Elizabethan poet, George Chapman.

He calls his sonnet “On First Looking Into Chapman’s Homer.” You see, he only read it, only “looked into” it, just like an ordinary reader. But he was not ordinary, he was a poet, and so he could write this of his experience as a reader:     Much have I travel’d in the realms of gold,       And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;       Round many western islands have I been,     Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told,       That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;       Yet never did I breathe its pure serene     Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:     Then felt I like some watcher of the skies       When a new planet swims into his ken;     Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes       He stared at the Pacific--and all his men     Looked at each other with a wild surmise--       Silent, upon a peak in Darien. Something like that experience ambushes the road of any reader, the most commonplace of us. We, too, can travel in the realms of gold.

Only three or four men are born in a century who could express the experience so finely as that. But the breathless adventure can be ours, even if we cannot write about it.

The great writers themselves are the best guides to one another, for they have kept the reader’s point of view--they had too much imagination, as a rule, to descend to any other point of view. We conjecture that Shakespeare was an omnivorous reader. And so, certainly, were Milton, Browning, Tennyson, Shelley, Carlyle, George Eliot, Macaulay.

Nearly all the great writers have been, of course, life-long, assiduous students of the technical characteristics of certain kinds of literature from which they were learning their art. The poet must study the poets; the novelist must study the novelists. But the creative artist is usually far from being a scientific or methodical student of literature as it is laid out (suggestive words!), in handbooks and courses.

The nature of literature and the experience of the makers of it seem to confirm us in the belief that books are to be read, to be understood and enjoyed as they come to one’s hands, and not jammed into text-book diagrams of periods and cycles and schools. The great writers of our race, those obviously who know most about literature, seem to have taken their books as they took life, just as they happened to come. They were wanderers, not tourists. And though we shall never see as much by the way as they did and have not the power to travel so far, we can roam through “many goodly states and kingdoms” and be sure of inspiring encounters, if only a small corner of our nature is capable of being inspired.

But as travelers in lands of beauty and adventure may profitably spend an hour a day in searching the guide books for facts about what they have seen and directions for finding the most interesting places, so the reader, without sacrificing his spirit of freedom, may well equip himself with a few handbooks of literature.

Suppose that Keats has interested us in Chapman’s Homer. Let us find out who Chapman was and when he lived. A fairly reliable book in which to seek for him is Professor George Saintsbury’s “History of Elizabethan Literature.”

It is one of a series of histories in which the volume on “Early English Literature” is by Mr. Stopford Brooke, and the volume on “English Literature of the Eighteenth Century” is by Mr. Edmund Gosse. We find in Saintsbury’s handbook ten pages of biography and criticism of Chapman and extracts from his poetry. This is enough to give a little notion of Chapman’s place in literature and to suggest to the ordinary reader whether Chapman is a writer he will wish to know more fully. We find among Mr. Saintsbury’s comments on Chapman the following: “The splendid sonnet of Keats testifies to the influence which his work long had on those Englishmen who were unable to read Homer in the original.

A fine essay of Mr. Swinburne’s has done, for the first time, justice to his general literary powers, and a very ingenious and, among such hazardous things, unusually probable conjecture of Mr.
Minto’s identifies him with the ‘rival poet’ of Shakespeare’s sonnets. But these are adventitious claims to fame.

What is not subject to such deduction is the assertion that Chapman was a great Englishman who, while exemplifying the traditional claim of great Englishmen to originality, independence, and versatility of work, escaped at once the English tendency to lack of scholarship, and to ignorance of contemporary continental achievements, was entirely free from the fatal Philistinism in taste and in politics, and in other matters, which has been the curse of our race, was a Royalist, a lover, a scholar, and has left us at once one of the most voluminous and peculiar collections of work that stand to the credit of any literary man of his country.” Here, in this paragraph, we stand neck-deep in the study of literature, its exhilarating eddies of opinion, its mind-strengthening difficulties, and also, we must confess, its harmless dangers and absurdities. Let us run over Mr. Saintsbury’s sentences again and see whither they take us. Keats’s sonnet--we have just read that--which Mr. Saintsbury says, testifies to the influence of Chapman for a long time on Englishmen who could not read Greek, really does nothing of the sort. It testifies only that Keats met Chapman, and the momentous meeting took place, in point of fact, at a time when the interest in Elizabethan poetry was reviving after a century that preferred Pope’s “Iliad” to Chapman’s.

Handbook makers sometimes go to sleep and make statements like that, and it is just as well that they do, for their noddings tumble them from their Olympian elevations to our level and help to make them intelligible to the common run of mortals. The mention of Swinburne’s essay is an interesting clue to follow. His recent death (1909) has occasioned much talk about him, and at least his name is familiar, and the fact that he was a great poet. It is interesting to discover that he was also a critic of Elizabethan poetry.

We are thus led to an important modern critic and poet as a result of having struck from a side path into a history of Elizabethan literature. Mr. Minto’s conjecture that Chapman was the “rival poet” of Shakespeare’s sonnets is valuable because it will take us to those sonnets, and will give us our first taste of the great hodge-podge of conjectures and ingenious guesses which constitute a large part of the “study of literature” and are so delightful and stimulating to lose oneself in. After you have read Shakespeare’s sonnets and a biography of Shakespeare and the whole of Mr. Saintsbury’s book, you can pick out some other Elizabethan poet and conjecture that _he_ is the rival to whom Shakespeare enigmatically alludes. Neither you nor anyone else will ever be sure who has guessed right.

But that matters little.

The value of the game, whatever its foolish aspects, is that interest in a problem of literature or literary biography cultivates your mind, keeps you reading, so entangles you in books and the things relating to books that, like Mr. Kipling’s hero, you can’t drop it if you tried. The rewards of such an interest are lifelong and satisfying, even if the solution is unattainable or not really worth attaining. The literary problem is a changeful wind that keeps one forever sailing the sea of books. The rest of Mr. Saintsbury’s remarks, those about English character, have this significance for us: One cannot read books, or study literary problems, without studying the people who produced them.

The study of literature is the study of national characteristics. The reason we Americans know so much more about the English than the English know about us, is that we have been brought up on English literature, while the Englishman has only begun to read our literature. Mr. Saintsbury’s reflections on the Philistinism of the English open at once to the reader large questions, philosophic in their nature, but not too philosophic for any ordinary person to think about, the question of the relation of English literature to Continental literature, and the question whether the English, who have produced the greatest of all modern poetry, are in comparison with their neighbors a notably poetic race. One of the best works on English literature for the student to read and possess, that by the Frenchman Taine (the English translation is excellent), is based on a philosophic inquiry into the nature of the English people.

There is, so far as I know, no analogous study of American literature, though Professor Barrett Wendell’s “Literary History of America” might have developed into such a book if the author had taken pains to think out some of his clever, fugitive suggestions. The best books on the literature of our country which I have seen are Professor Charles F. Richardson’s “American Literature” and the “Manual,” edited by Mr. Theodore Stanton for the German Tauchnitz edition of British and American authors, and published in this country by the Putnams. Well, we have entered the classroom in which Mr. Saintsbury is discoursing of Elizabethan literature, we have entered, so to speak, by the side door. If our nature is at all shaped to receive profit and enjoyment from the study of books, we shall be curious to see from reading the whole of Mr. Saintsbury’s book what has led up to Chapman and what writers succeed him.

Of the various ways in which authors may be grouped for analysis the historical is the best for the young student; and it is on the historical scheme of division that most studies of literature are based. A very useful series of books has been begun under the editorship of Professor William A. Neilson in which each volume deals with a class of literature, one with the essay, one with the drama, one with ballads, and so on. This series, intended for advanced students, will probably not be the best for the beginner, though it is often true that works intended for advanced readers are the very best for the young, and that books for young readers entirely fail as introductions to more thorough studies.

The reader who is really interested in tracing out the relations between writers will in good time wish to read studies of literature made on the historic plan and also some which survey generic divisions of literature. The two methods intersect at right angles. The main thoroughfare of literary study which runs from the early story-tellers through Fielding and Thackeray to Hardy and George Meredith, crosses the other great thoroughfares: the one which follows the relations between Fielding, Gray, Johnson, and Burke and other great men of that age; the one which makes its way through the age of Wordsworth and passes from Burns’s cottage to Scott’s Abbottsford; and the one through the age of Victoria. This has been surveyed as far as George Meredith, and the critics are busily putting up the fences and the sign posts.

In view of the limitations which mere time imposes on the number of books which any individual may study, we shall resolve early not to attempt the impossible, not to try to study with great intimacy the entire range of literature. The thing to do is to select, or to allow our natural drift of mind to select for us, one period of literature, or one group, or one writer in a period. In ten years of leisurely but thoughtful reading, after the day’s work is done, one can know, so far as one’s given capacity will admit, as much about Shakespeare as any Shakespeare scholar, that is, as much that is essential and worth knowing. Not that ten years will exhaust Shakespeare or any other great poet, but they will suffice for the laying of a foundation of knowledge complete and adequate for the individual reader, and on that foundation the individual can build his personal knowledge of the poet, a structure in which the materials furnished by other students become of decreasing importance. There is a story of a French scholar who made up his mind to write a great book on Shakespeare.

In preparation he resolved to read all that had been written about the poet. He found that the accumulation of books on Shakespeare in the Paris libraries was a quarry which he could not excavate in a lifetime, and more appalling still, contemporary scholars and critics were producing books faster than he could read them. This story should console and instruct us.

We cannot read all that has been written about Shakespeare; neither can the professional Shakespearians. But we can all read enough.

Two or three books a year for ten years will, I am sure, put any student in possession of the best thought of the world on Shakespeare or any other writer. The multitude of works are repetitious, one volume repeats the best of a hundred others, and most of them are waste matter, even for the specialist who vainly strives to digest them. The thing for us to learn early is not to be appalled by the miles of shelves full of books, but to regard them in a cheerful spirit, to look at them as an interminable supply of spiritual food and drink, a comforting abundance that shall not tempt us to be gourmands. I am convinced that young people are often deterred from the study of books by professional students who preside over the long shelves in the twilight of libraries--blinking high priests of literature who seem to say: “Ah! young seeker of knowledge, here is the mystery of mysteries, where only a few of us after long and blinding study are qualified to dwell. For five and forty years I have been studying Shakespeare--whisper the name in reverence, not for him, but for me--and I have found that in the ‘Winter’s Tale’ a certain comma has been misplaced by preceding high priests, and the line should read thus and so.”

Well, if you go inside and open a few windows to let the light and air in, you are likely to find, sitting in one of the airiest recesses, an acquaintance of yours, quite an ordinary person, who has read the “Winter’s Tale” for only five years, has not bothered his head about that blessed comma, can tell you things about the play that the high priest would not find out in a million years, and is using the high priest’s latest disquisition for a paper weight. So approach your Shakespeare, if he be the poet you select for special study in the next ten years, in a light-hearted and confident spirit. He _is_ a mystery, but he is not past finding out, and the elements of mystery that baffle, that deserve respect, are those which he chose to wrap about himself and his work. The mysteries which others have hung about him are moth-eaten hangings or modern slazy draperies that tear at a vigorous touch.

If you hear learned literary muttering behind the arras and plunge your sword through, you will kill, not the king, but a commentator Polonius. Anyone in the leisure of his evenings, or of his days, if he is fortunate enough to have unoccupied sunlit hours, may master any poet in the language to which we have been born. Nothing is necessary to this study but a literate, intelligent mind, the text of the poet and such books as one can get in the libraries or with one’s pin money.

And in selecting the books one has only to begin at random and follow the lead of the books themselves. Any text of “Macbeth” will give references to all the critical works that anyone needs and they in turn will point to all the rest. You do not need a laboratory course in philology in order to read your poet and to know him, to know him at least as well as the philologist knows him, to know him better, if you have a spark of poetic imagination. There is no democracy so natural, so real, and so increasingly populous as the democracy of studious readers. We acknowledge divinity in man, in our poet above all, and we see flickerings of divinity in the rare reader who is a critic.

But we do not acknowledge the divine right of Shakespearian scholars or of any other self-constituted authorities in books.

In our literary state the scholars are not our masters but our servants. We rejoice that they are at work and now and again turn up for us a useful piece of knowledge. But they cannot monopolize knowledge of the poets.

That is open to any of us, and it is attainable with far less labor than the scholars have led us to believe. The selection of a single writer for special study, a selection open to us all, should not be made in haste. It should be a “natural selection” determined gradually and unawares. It will not do to say: “I will now begin to study Shakespeare for ten years.” That New Year’s resolution will not survive the first of February.

But as you browse among books you may find yourself especially drawn to some one of the poets or prose writers.

Follow your master when you find him. In the meantime you can get a general idea of the development of English literature and the place of the chief writers. A good method is to read selections from English prose and poetry grouped in historical sequence. The volumes of prose edited by Henry Craik and Ward’s “English Poets” afford an adequate survey of British literature. Carpenter’s “American Prose” and Stedman’s “American Anthology” constitute an excellent introduction to the branch of English literature produced on this side of the water.

The volumes of selections may be accompanied by the historical handbooks already mentioned, which deal with literary periods, or by one of the histories which cover all the centuries of English authors, such as Saintsbury’s “Short History,” or Stopford Brooke’s “English Literature.” The student should guard against spending too large a portion of his time reading about literature instead of reading the literature itself. But a systematic review of the history of a national literature has great value, apart from the enjoyment of literature; it is, if nothing more, a course in history and biography.

I have found that the study of a handbook of a foreign literature in which I could not hope to read extensively was in effect a study of the development of the foreign nation. I never read a better history of Rome than J. W. Mackail’s “Latin Literature.” The student who can read French will receive pleasure and profit from Petit de Julleville’s “Littérature Française” or from the shorter “Petit Histoire” of M. Delphine Duval.

Everyone will study literature in his own way, keep the attitude which his own nature determines, and for that matter the nature of the individual will determine whether he shall study literature at all. I would make one last suggestion to the eager student: Let your study be diligent and as serious as may be, but do not let it be solemn. I once attended a lecture on literature given to a mixed audience, that is, an audience composed mainly of ladies.

The lecture was not bad in its way; it contained a good deal of useful information, but at times it reminded me of the discourses on “terewth” by Mr. Chadband in “Bleak House.” It was the audience that was oppressive. The ladies were not, so far as I could see, entertained, but they had paid their money for a dose of light, literature and culture and they meant to have it.

So they sat with looks of solemn determination devotedly taking in every word. Two ladies near me were not solemn; they concealed their restiveness and maintained a respectful but not quite attentive demeanor. As I followed them out, I heard one of them say, “Would not Falstaff have roared to hear himself talked about that way”?

I once heard a class rebuked for laughing aloud at something funny in Chaucer. The classroom was a serious place and the professor was working. But Chaucer did not intend to be serious at that moment.

On another occasion the professor remarked that it was well that Chaucer had not subjected his genius to the deadening effect of the universities of his time, and it occurred to me then that he would have fared about as well in a medieval university as his poems were faring in a modern one. Of course we take literature seriously; by a kind of paradox we take humorous literature seriously. But solemnity is seldom in place when one is reading or studying books.

The hours of hard work and deliberate application which are necessary to a study of literature should be joyous hours, and the only appropriate solemnity is that directly inspired by the poets and prose writers when they are solemn.

The Killiney bay towers were specifically planned following a 1797 survey by a Major La Chaussée who was employed by the British administration to survey the area and plot out points of weakness and potential locations for military defensive installations.
players
Boston United F.C.
An Ifè–French dictionary (Oŋù-afɔ ŋa nfɛ̀ òŋu òkpi-ŋà ŋa nfãrãsé), edited by Mary Gardner and Elizabeth Graveling, was produced in 2000.
Arthur Otto Sachse (22 May 1860 – 25 July 1920) was an Australian politician.
The winner was Vic Dhillon of the Ontario Liberal Party.
Chairmen of party commissions, heads of departments of these committees, editors of party newspapers and magazines are also approved at plenary committees.
Thus the Admiralty's engraver  deliberately altered and refined Cook's manuscript charts when preparing them for printing.
The Tappan and Warawankogs of the Lenni-Lenape Wolf Tribes, an Algonquian people, worshipped the sun, moon, stars, and a spirit called Manitou.
These products, however, required quarrying in land that many later believed should be set aside as a preserve.
These 10 Shrutis and the 7 natural Shrutis together make 17 out of 22 Shrutis, directly emerging from 7 natural Shrutis.
The only bigger majorities came in 1934, when the Liberals won 50 out of 55 seats, and 1982, when the Tories won 55 out of 64.
Clarksville – Renamed Nyack Turnpike, then Mont Moor and presently West Nyack.
It also included some elements from traditional Russian, Celtic, Mexican, Spanish, and Indian strings cultures.
The building is constructed of red brick trimmed with limestone, which is used for the window surrounds and belt course.
It was the strongest earthquake ever recorded in Thailand according to National Disaster Warning Center Director Somsak Khaosuwan.
He attended The Albany Academy, graduating in 1950, and received a BA from Cornell University in 1954 and an MA from Columbia University in 1956.
The post of the governor was abolished and that of the Chief Commissioner in Sindh established.
CLS 37 (Parasession on Arctic languages): 305-320
VAJDA, Edward J.
Advertising
The brewers of Rolling Rock beer launched an advertising campaign in the United Kingdom in 1998 based on The Dice Man theme, a campaign that included a short-lived Dice Life website.
Norisoprenoids, such as C13-norisoprenoids found in grape (Vitis vinifera) or wine, can be produced by fungal peroxidases or glycosidases.
b In many Caucasian languages (28), systems of this type more or less persist to this day, especially in the East Caucasian languages, whereas in West Caucasian, only Abkhaz and Abaza preserve a distinction human-nonhuman.
The TMAG receives 400,000 visitors annually.
According to WhoSampled, a user-generated website cataloging samples, "Amen, Brother" is the most sampled track in history, appearing in over 5000 tracks as of 2021.
Promoted to the rank of Generaloberst on 26 February 1918, and also raised to the nobility early the same year, Arz was ultimately responsible for planning the invasion of Italy which was to take place during the summer of 1918, with Russia now knocked out of the war and a good number of experienced forces at his disposal.
Descendants of victims make up the installation in a row in front of the monument, all symbolically buried with soil from the garden of one of the participants, where his relatives had been shot.
In 1959, the capital of Pakistan was shifted from Karachi to Islamabad.
Two other screenplays, Mawson and Picton's Chance, are original concepts.
John Edward Baumgartner (born May 29, 1931) is an American former professional baseball player.
The North River Steamboat or North River (often erroneously referred to as Clermont) is widely regarded as the world's first commercially successful steamboat.
Music video 
The official music video of the song was released at the same day through Martin Garrix's YouTube channel.
Moscow, March 20-22, 2013.
References

Living people
Place of birth missing (living people)
Recipients of the Defense Superior Service Medal
Recipients of the Distinguished Service Medal (US Army)
Recipients of the Legion of Merit
United States Army generals
United States Army personnel of the War in Afghanistan (2001–2021)
Year of birth missing (living people)
In the 2020 provincial election, the Saskatchewan Party under Moe was re-elected to its fourth majority government.
Figure showing 22 Shruti-Mandal (Organogram)

1 denotes a 'lower' shruti or the 'beginning' of the region of the note on a string.
The bastion was located at the southern tip of the walled city, off the coast of the Gulf of Mexico.
1928: A home economics building was added.
/V/ means that the vowel in this position has not been successfully reconstructed.
The exhibition brought together the Buried project and fragments of all of Azcona's works.
In 1600, William Gilbert strongly supported Earth's rotation in his treatise on Earth's magnetism and thereby influenced many of his contemporaries.
The judge found that the sample, comprising six seconds and three notes, was de minimis and did not require clearance.
In 2013 the American Chemical Society gave him their Elias J. Corey Award for Outstanding Original Contribution in Organic Synthesis by a Young Investigator, and in 2017 they named Burke their Nobel Laureate Signature Award in Graduate Education in Chemistry.
Judith Scott (May 1, 1943 – March 15, 2005) was an American fiber sculptor, born with Down Syndrome and deaf.
(Bengtson 2008:108)

The mentioned "transitive/causative" */s/- is found in Haida, Tlingit, Sino-Tibetan, Burushaski, possibly Yeniseian ("an 'empty' morpheme occupying the position of object in intransitive verbs with an animate subject"; Bengtson 2008:107) and maybe in Basque.
Likewise, the second interval is called dvishruti rishabha, and the first ekashruti rishabha.
See also 

 Allais effect
 Diurnal cycle
 Earth's orbit
 Earth orientation parameters
 Formation and evolution of the Solar System
 Geodesic (in mathematics)
 Geodesics in general relativity
 Geodesy
 History of Earth
 History of geodesy
 Inner core super-rotation
 List of important publications in geology
 Nychthemeron
 Spherical Earth
 World Geodetic System

Notes

References

External links 
USNO Earth Orientation new site, being populated
USNO IERS old site, to be abandoned
IERS Earth Orientation Center: Earth rotation data and interactive analysis
International Earth Rotation and Reference Systems Service (IERS)
If the Earth's rotation period is less than 24 hours, why don't our clocks fall out of sync with the Sun?
In 1947, when Pakistan achieved independence, Karachi had become a bustling metropolitan city with beautiful classical and colonial European styled buildings lining the city's thoroughfares.
In 1952 the boards of the Botanical Gardens and the Museum were split and the museum assumed its modern name.
During the original production of the score, McConnell had never imaged that it would one day be re-recorded with a live orchestra.
He has also written a defence of pornography as free expression (National Post, 25 March 2000).
The previous leader, Elwin Hermanson, was a member of the Reform and Canadian Alliance federal parties.
29 Martello towers and battery installations were constructed or partially constructed in the Greater Dublin Area between 1803 and 1808.
The inclusion of the Na-Dené languages has been somewhat complicated by the ongoing dispute over whether Haida belongs to the family.
13 2nd sg.
in 2015 Fact magazine noted that "few soundtracks have ever felt more integral to the success of a video game" and that "the game’s blend of styles would never have held together so well if it weren’t for McConnell’s masterful ability to fuse Mexican folk music with Duke Ellington-era big band jazz and noir scores in the spirit of Adolph Deutsch."
Materials to their language-historical investigation and list of the bird species of Alaska].
Notable alumni
This is a list of notable alumni that graduated from Chamblee Charter High School, sorted by year of graduation.
The first general elections contested by the party were in 1990, in which it received only 0.4% of the vote, and failed to win a seat.
However, Aristotle in the fourth century BCE criticized the ideas of Philolaus as being based on theory rather than observation.
Service record
 May 1902 – Promoted to Oberst
 May 1903 – Chairman of the Management Bureau until November 1908
 November 1908 – Promoted to Generalmajor
 November 1908 – Commands 61st Infantry Brigade until April 1912
 April 1912 – Commands 15th Infantry Division until April 1913
 May 1912 – Promoted to Feldmarschalleutnant
 April 1913 – Section chief of all military Departments in the War Ministry until September 1914
 September 1914 – Commands 15th Infantry Division until end of the month
 September 1914 – Commands VI Corps until August 1916
 September 1915 – Promoted to General der Infanterie
 August 1916 – Commands 1st Army until February 1917
 March 1917 – Chief of the General Staff until November 1918
 February 1918 – Promoted to Generaloberst

Awards
 Arz received a number of awards from the Habsburg Monarchy, including, most importantly, appointment to the grade of Commander of the Military Order of Maria Theresa.
BENGTSON, John D., 1999b.
References

Departments of Santiago del Estero Province
Under Saskatchewan law, a party must run at least 10 candidates to retain its registration.
And in this dark wet street like something from a different time, yet colorful and beautiful.'"
The factory on Lodge Causeway was subsequently taken over by Parnall & Sons for shop and ship fitting and aircraft component manufacturing.
Effects

The earthquake was a recorded as having a maximum intensity of strong (MMI VI), shaking both northern Thailand and Myanmar in the evening.
A 43-minute version with 32 tracks was concurrently released in 1998 as a CD album, sold at the LucasArts online company store.
36, no.
Available on NewsBank, Record Number: 33658e6f3e435749c466e59bf44dd1b692752.
Forshays Corners – North of Viola.
Her presence on the ward is a disturbing influence."
The Royal Society granted the Royal Botanical Gardens, Hobart to the state government at the same time, and they became known as the Tasmanian Museum and Botanical Gardens in that year.
Formerly a baker on a Texaco ship, later a landlord and a day renovator.
Whim (2002 reissue of Adventures of Wim).
The Conservatives lost almost half of their popular vote and retained only 10 of the 66 seats in the Legislature.
"The Dene–Caucasian noun prefix *s-."
Big Audio Dynamite pioneered sampling in rock and pop with their 1985 album This Is Big Audio Dynamite.
Berkeley, CA.
SHEVOROSHKIN, Vitaliy V., 2003.
In the studio, Lewis played the role of singer and guitarist.
Nomenclature of 22 Shrutis/Swaras in Carnatic Music and Hindustani Classical Music

The Nomenclature in Carnatic and Hindustani systems has been imperfect largely due to the ignorance about the scientific facts about 12 Swaraprakaras (Chromatic pitch-classes) and the inter-spaced 22 Shrutis.
Long Voyage Back (1983).
Gennaken
|-
| one || chéye
|-
| two || päch
|-
| ear || chütsk
|-
| tooth || xaye
|-
| hand || yapal
|-
| foot || yapgit
|-
| sun || apiúkük
|-
| moon || apioxok
|-
| dog || dáshü
|}

Bibliography

See also 
Boreal Pehuelche

References

External links 
 Gününa Küne language dictionary online from IDS (select simple or advanced browsing)
 WALS: Puelche
 Gününa Küne (Intercontinental Dictionary Series)

Languages of Argentina
Chonan languages
Extinct languages of South America
Languages extinct in the 1930s
Language isolates of South America
The northern border of New Jersey was placed in a straight line from the Delaware River at present-day Port Jervis to the Hudson River at 41 degrees even North latitude, where the Palisades Cliffs pause and give way to Sneden's Landing in Orangetown.
Has campaigned for no fewer than five registered political parties.
Subsequently, Derek Williams was credited for finding them.
There Churchill developed his support for European unity, an attitude of which Martin approved.
Buckman, David Lear., Old Steamboat Days on the Hudson River Copyright 1990, J. C. Fawcett, Inc., 
 Budke, George H., Rockland County during the American Revolution, 1776–1781.
Most of the Post Offices were built near the stations.
To make the digital pieces sound more "organic" and "not quantized" and orchestra-like, McConnell tried to be "very free with the tempo" so even though he was using a sequencer, it would sound like the conductor was watching the sequences of the game during the performance, following the old-school movie scoring methods.
Eno felt the album's innovation was to make samples "the lead vocal".
Alternative Magazine Online in 2015 noted that upon its original release it "instantly became one of the greatest video game soundtracks of all time" and that the remastered version went even further.
The Grim Fandango score remained decades later one of McConnell's most famous scores (With "Mr.
Elkhart is a train station in Elkhart, Indiana, served by Amtrak's Capitol Limited between Chicago and Washington D.C, and Lake Shore Limited between Chicago and New York City/Boston.
Current and former Saskatchewan Conservative MPs who have been involved with the Saskatchewan Party include Carol Skelton, who served on Elwin Hermanson's constituency executive; Tom Lukiwski, who served as a General Manager of the Saskatchewan Party; Garry Breitkreuz, who supported the formation of the party; and Lynne Yelich, who worked for Allan Kerpan while Kerpan served as MP and received funding from him in the 2006 federal election.
The name was adopted when the post office opened in 1882.
It is also an important concept in Indian music, where it means the smallest interval of pitch that the human ear can detect and a singer or musical instrument can produce and do nyaas(stay) on it.
She founded a number of schools.
He ran again in 2006, when the seat was vacated, and lost.
This gradual rotational deceleration is empirically documented by estimates of day lengths obtained from observations of tidal rhythmites and stromatolites; a compilation of these measurements found that the length of the day has increased steadily from about 21 hours at 600 Myr ago to the current 24-hour value.
In 1770, Cook found Sydney Harbour by walking overland from Botany Bay, along an Aboriginal track connecting the two inlets.
Many Religious of the Sacred Heart, other congregations, and individuals have been inspired by her conferences, essays, and poetry.
A nude series, My Mother Caught Me Doodling, was shown at London's KK Outlet in 2014.
The Evolution of 22 Shrutis from Shadja (Fundamental) and their natural arrangement on a string

All the 22 Shrutis evolve from Shadja (Fundamental).
References

External links 
 Reading Hall of Fame

Educational psychologists
1890 births
1972 deaths
People from Fortuna, California
People from Red Wing, Minnesota
Columbia University alumni
Columbia University faculty
University of California, Berkeley alumni
Selected Nadas become shrutis, (22), which create a change in the perception of 12 swaraprakaras (universal chromatic pitch classes) as we play them from one end of the string.
The precise places to play these 7 notes on a string is already shown in the above table.
Death

On 1 August 2012, the "death" of Rhinehart at the age of 79 was announced by email to 25 friends, beginning with the words “It is our pleasure to inform you that Luke Rhinehart is dead”; it was later revealed the “Death Letter” was instigated as a playful hoax by Cockcroft.
All the other Ragas too are derived from selection of different Shrutis as shown in the diagram.
A causative suffix *-/s/ is found in many Nostratic languages, too, but its occurrence as a prefix and its position in the prefix chain may nevertheless be innovations of Dené–Caucasian.
4-Vinylphenol is further reduced to 4-ethylphenol by the enzyme vinyl phenol reductase.
The series which initially aired as a single season of 13 episodes on Africa magic was released on Netflix as a single season with 7 episodes on Netflix on 16 September 2021.
A

B
Lester Bowie

C
James Chance
Steve Coleman
Ornette Coleman

D
Jack DeJohnette

H
Doug Hammond
Human Arts Ensemble

J
Ronald Shannon Jackson
Juju

O
Greg Osby

P
Ponga

R
Ned Rothenberg

S

T
Craig Taborn
Jamaaladeen Tacuma
Gary Thomas

U
James "Blood" Ulmer

W
 Cassandra Wilson

References

Free funk
 
 Free funk
These tables were used to calculate the world's ephemerides between 1900 and 1983, so this second became known as the ephemeris second.
The winner was Linda Jeffrey of the Ontario Liberal Party.
In the 1670s, permanent Dutch settlers began to arrive with land grants, starting with the Tappan area.
Rather, in order to make it sound more lively during the original digital production, McConnell had intentionally incorporated many tempo changes.
Catalino Duarte Ortuño (born 23 March 1970) is a Mexican politician affiliated with the PRD.
Circuit
Irish emigrants to the United States (before 1923)
United States federal judges appointed by Grover Cleveland
19th-century American judges
Composition process

When later interviewed, McConnell noted his satisfaction of being given ample lead time to compose and produce the score; he first began to work on the project in early 1997, about a year and a half before the game's release.
Elwin Hermanson (1998–2004) 
In 1998, former Reform Party federal house leader Elwin Hermanson was elected the party's first leader.
Previous candidacies:

1987 Ontario general election, Elgin, 546 votes, fifth out of five candidates (winner: Marietta Roberts, Liberal)
1990 Ontario general election, Elgin, 1,104 votes, fourth out of four candidates (winner: Peter North, Ontario New Democratic Party)
1995 Ontario general election, Elgin, 565 votes, fifth out of five candidates (winner: Peter North, Independent)
1999 Ontario general election, Elgin—Middlesex—London, 405 votes, fourth out of six candidates (winner: Steve Peters, Liberal)

Charles Olito (Haliburton—Victoria—Brock)
Perennial candidate.
We can calculate the frequencies and the positions of all the 22 shrutis accordingly.
He moved to Brooklyn in 2004 and in 2006 opened a studio.
1934: Depression-era WPA funding allowed Chamblee High School to add eight new classrooms, a new gymnasium, a canning plant, and a machine shop.
He has also campaigned for federal office on four occasions:
Ran in Victoria—Haliburton in the 1993 federal election as a candidate of the Canada Party, and finished last in a field of nine candidates with 178 votes.
3, 5, 9, 13, 16, 18, and 22 (See figure below).
Member of the Canadian Taxpayers Federation.
Then the cars would have coasted by gravity down a nine-mile (14 km) scenic railway, making two spirals and three switchbacks.
It has also released various Maand albums sung by Allah Jilai Bai.
He later claimed that the chorus of "Used to Love" is one of the highest vocal lines and that the single is one of the most challenging ones he has worked on.
Censorship of maps is also applied by Google Maps, where certain areas are greyed out or areas are purposely left outdated with old imagery.
In 1894 she became Superior of the community in Roehampton, then Superior of Vicar of England.
The NID staff were originally responsible for fleet mobilisation and war plans as well as foreign intelligence collection; thus in the beginning there were originally two divisions: (1) intelligence (Foreign) and (2) Mobilisation.
George Powers Cockcroft (November 15, 1932 – November 6, 2020), widely known by the pen name Luke Rhinehart, was an American novelist, screenwriter, and nonfiction writer with at least ten books to his name.
Her Clinical Record states that "She does not seem to be in good contact with her environment.
Lafayette Theatre – 97 Lafayette Ave in Suffern is Rockland's only surviving movie palace.
Empirical tests
Earth's rotation implies that the Equator bulges and the geographical poles are flattened.
He was sworn in as premier on February 2, 2018.
Additionally, Craig was a contributing editor for several tech magazines.
Springer-Verlag.
GTCMT's mission is to provide a collaborative framework for committed students, faculty, and researchers to apply their musical, technological, and scientific creativity to the development of innovative artistic and technological artifacts.
Phonology

Vowels 
Puelche has 7 vowels:

A short sounding // is realized as [].
Sprachhistorische Untersuchung einiger Tiernamen im Haida (Fische, Stachelhäuter, Weichtiere, Gliederfüßer, u.a.)
Selected exhibitions that Napartuk's work has appeared in include Group Show of Wallhangings at the Innuit Gallery of Eskimo Art; Things Made by Inuit at La Federation des Cooperatives du Nouveau-Quebec; and Inuit Art: A Selection of Inuit Art from the Collection of the National Museum of Man, Ottawa, and the Rothmans Permanent Collection of Inuit Sculpture, Canada at the National Museum of Man, Ottawa.
1950: A lighted general athletic field was built for football and baseball games.
During the administration of Prime Minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto riots and Karachi labour unrest of 1972 caused major decline in economic development.
Martin stated that he could not go back to depressed areas in his constituency and tell them that the Government's policy was a solution to all their problems.
The natural barrier of the Ramapo Mountains and the size of the county made carrying out governmental activities difficult.
From the dark, plunger-muted swing of 'Swanky Maximo' to the mellow, guitar-accompanied lobby-trombone of the appropriately named 'Frustration Man', it's simply good, video game-related or no."
Critical reception 
Katie Bain of Billboard wrote that Garrix and Lewis paid homage to American singer Bruce Springsteen with the lyrics "we had Springsteen playing so loud" in their track.
The Rockland County Public Librarians Association.
References

Cerambycinae
Beetles described in 1844
The idea had been broached several times from the 1960s onward.
SCHULZE-FÜRHOFF, Wolfgang, 1992.
It shows Lewis with his piano, while Garrix plays the guitar.
Earth's movement along its nearly circular orbit while it is rotating once around its axis requires that Earth rotate slightly more than once relative to the fixed stars before the mean Sun can pass overhead again, even though it rotates only once (360°) relative to the mean Sun.
Division A

Division B

References

Men mass start
3
Its designer, Roger Linn, anticipated that users would sample short sounds, such as individual notes or drum hits, to use as building blocks for compositions; however, users sampled longer passages of music.
However, if the giant-impact hypothesis for the origin of the Moon is correct, this primordial rotation rate would have been reset by the Theia impact 4.5 billion years ago.
Karak Bander 
In the seventeenth century, Karak Bander was a small port on the Arabian Sea on the estuary of the Hub River, 40 km west of present-day Karachi.
Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the U.S.A. 95: 13994–13996.
Track listing

Personnel
Credits adapted from the album's liner notes.
The Rolling Stone Album Guide felt that the writing was "empty and mannered."
Sino-Tibetan languages

Bengtson's theory
John D. Bengtson groups Basque, Caucasian and Burushaski together in a Macro-Caucasian (earlier Vasco-Caucasian) family (see the section on Macro-Caucasian below).
Its ability to "glue" together the game's elements and "elevate" it is seen as one of the high points of the video game music genre.
Cosmos Engineering was a company that manufactured aero-engines in a factory in Fishponds, Bristol during World War I.
Martin Henry Connolly (1874 – 8 August 1945) was a British politician and trade unionist.
In one case, he even quotes from a future book that he did not actually write until more than two decades later.
Born August 21, 1920.
With Judson Rosebush.
Karachi continues to be an important financial and industrial centre for the Sindh and handles most of the overseas trade of Pakistan and the Central Asian countries.
20 years later ABC noted retrospectively that since the original release of the soundtrack it had been consistently praised; despite the technical limitations imposed on its original production "it was still considered [at the time of its release] a stellar album to listen to, even without the context of the game, which speaks to the composer’s tremendous skill and musicality."
and signed his first playing contract at age 24, with the Pittsburgh Pirates in 1971.
Many buildings in New York City were built with bricks made in Rockland.
Katrina and the Waves
Katrina Leskanich – vocals, rhythm guitar
Kimberley Rew – lead guitar, vocals, keyboards
Vince de la Cruz – bass, additional guitars, vocals, keyboards
Alex Cooper – drums, vocals, keyboards
Additional musicians
Nick Glennie-Smith – additional keyboards
Stevie Lange – backing vocals
Shirley Lewis – backing vocals
Dee Lewis – backing vocals
Jimmy Helms – backing vocals
George Chandler – backing vocals
Jimmy Chambers – backing vocals
Technical
Katrina and the Waves – producer
Jay Burnett – additional production, engineer, mixing
Stephen Stewart – engineer  
Mark Sayer-Wade – engineer 
Mike Vindice – additional engineer 
Dennis Herman – additional engineer 
Pat Collier – additional engineer 
Sarah Jarman – assistant engineer 
Simon Lee – assistant engineer  
Vicente Roix – assistant engineer  
Nigel Green – mixing 
Paul Cox – front cover photography
Robin Emilien – back cover photography

Charts

Singles

Notes 

Katrina and the Waves albums
1989 albums
SBK Records albums
Attic Records albums
To stay within the budget, McConnell felt he had to choose carefully which pieces would get the most attention and how.
1992; Wannemacher 1995-7, as cited in Mann 1998, and Yabu 1988).
Conventional novels
In Matari (1975)  (republished as White Wind, Black Rider (2008)) is historical fiction set in 18th Century Japan, the beautiful Matari is joined by two zen poets as she flees from her husband, a samurai lord who is giving chase with intent to murder her.
Among the most important acquisitions are works by Ilya Kabakov, Stephen Antonakos, Gary Hill, Nan Goldin, Vadim Zakharov, Gillian Wearing, Ann Sofi Siden, Vlassis Caniaris, Nikos Kessanlis, Eleni Mylonas, Dimitris Alithinos, Nikos Navridis, Joel Sanders, Allan Sekula, Costas Tsoclis, George Hadjimichalis, Chryssa, Yiannis Psychopedis, Andreas Angelidakis, Lewis.Tsurumaki.Lewis and Tessera.
The complete nomenclature for 12 swaraprakaras and 22 shrutis in Hindustani Classical Music is shown in the table.
In 1876, Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the founder of Pakistan, was born in the city, which by now had become a bustling city with Temples, mosques, churches, courthouses, markets, paved streets and a magnificent harbour.
BERGER, Hermann, 1974.
The supreme body of a regional, provincial, republican party organization is the regional, provincial party conference or congress of the Communist Party of the Union Republic, and in the interval between them - the regional committee, regional committee, and the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Union Republic.
It depends on Earth's orbital motion and is thus affected by changes in the eccentricity and inclination of Earth's orbit.
11 Feminine.
In 2014, he created a mural for a Chipotle restaurant in Los Angeles, and a mural in Breda, the Netherlands, featuring a poem by Frank Nicholas, and later in 2015, he made a mural and installation for Facebook in New York.
Ladentown – 18th-century settlement within the Village of Pomona.
Edited with Walter Zimmermann.
Captain Charles L. Vaughan-Lee,  January, 1905  –  December, 1905.
He survived on stipends from a support fund organized by former Imperial and Royal comrades to help officers in such situations.
Captain Henry H. Campbell, August, 1906 – October, 1909.
They are usually integrated using hardware (samplers) or software such as digital audio workstations.
By around the start of the 20th century, the city faced street congestion, which led to South Asia's first tramway system being laid down in 1900.
However, in 2002 its vote share dropped to 0.7% and it lost its parliamentary representation.
Mining industry
In Parliament, Martin concentrated on issues which affected the working lives of his mining constituents.
Organization 
Each regional committee was responsible to the Central Committee of the Communist Party of their republic.
'Teevra' (in Sanskrit) means 'of a larger volume', not 'of a higher frequency'!
Howe managed the Astros (–), Oakland Athletics (–), and New York Mets (–), compiling a career managerial record of 1,129 wins and 1,137 losses.
Robert Stephen (Steve) Cunningham  (born 1942 – March 27, 2015) was an American Computer Scientist and Professor Emeritus of Computer Science at California State University Stanislaus.
(2004): Ket.
20 years later, The Ringer noted that the best example in the game of the blending of cultures was its soundtrack, by combining elements of an orchestral score, with more traditional South American strings, and the jazz and swing music of the film noir era, becoming "commonly celebrated as one of the best video game soundtracks of all time.
Honor

Morris received the honorary degree Doctor of Laws (LL.D.)
Works

Spanish Peru, 1532-1560 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1968; second edition 1994).
He currently serves as Deputy of the LXII Legislature of the Mexican Congress representing Guerrero and previously served in the Congress of Guerrero.
This provides an absolute reference for the determination of universal time, precession, and nutation.
He is the Freedom Party's candidate in Haliburton—Kawartha Lakes—Brock in the 2011 provincial election.
Many of the old brownstone and brick structures that were constructed in New York City in the late 1890s-early 1900s were composed of bricks manufactured by Haverstraw.
The Tappan tribe had a particularly noteworthy presence in the area, extending from present-day Nyack, south to Sparkill and Tappan, down the Hackensack River valley through present-day Bergen County, NJ, and also along the Palisades and Hudson shore all the way down to present-day Edgewater, NJ.
She is anti-abortion, but does not support conscience rights for medical practitioners who oppose abortion.
Robert Sabharwal (Huron—Bruce)
Was 26 years old, and an undergraduate student in Chemistry and Biochemistry at the University of Western Ontario at the time of the election.
The Independent named the American singer Loleatta Holloway "the most sampled female voice in popular music"; her vocals were sampled in house and dance tracks such as "Ride on Time" by Black Box, the bestselling single of 1989.
Cook's program of disinformation was first proposed in the book Lying for the Admiralty: Captain Cook's Endeavour Voyage (2018).
The names of the 22 shrutis were provided by Śārñgadeva.
This was accomplished with the use of the pioneering iMUSE software, previously created by McConnell and Michael Land, and it heralded the age of dynamic and cinematic music experiences in video games.
Millard Fillmore – 13th President of the United States.
Claimed his intent was to demonstrate that Canadians are a nation of sheep, blinding following the will of civil servants.
A Buddha statue's head at the Udomwaree Temple fell off due to the quake and a residential building of the temple suffered exterior cracks and ceiling damage.
Stuart felt that the Catholic Church would give her the most freedom in her spirituality and converted in 1879.
Historic steamboats
With the lack of roads, travel was largely confined to sloops, which made regular trips up and down the river.
Historic railroads
In 1833, a charter was given to the New York and Erie Railroad, which had trains running in the county by 1840.
The messages "Second Attempt" and "rident Rool" are scratched in on the A-side.
"Caucasian and Sino-Tibetan: A Hypothesis of S. A.
Supports monetary reform, and has argued that Canada's Goods and Services Tax (GST) is illegal.
Since 1931, the Hungarian Parliament put a condition to all pensioner to be habitually residing in Budapest, in 1932, he moved officially to the city, however he did not check out from Vienna and continued to stay there recurrently.
The Athamanika and Valtou mountains are the least populated.
In 1924, an aerodrome was built and Karachi became the main airport of entry into British Raj.
The foundation of a city municipal committee was laid down by the Commissioner in Sinde, Bartle Frere and infrastructure development was undertaken.
original 1884 edition
 Gonyea, Maryellen., Stony Point in Words and Pictures, ed.
A new cafeteria was built on the site.
New York and Erie Railroad was completed in 1851 becoming the longest railroad in the US  stretching 483 miles from Piermont to Dunkirk on Lake Erie and the second-longest railroad in the world.
Previous candidacies:

1995 Ontario general election, Scarborough North, 601 votes, fourth out of six candidates (winner: Alvin Curling, Ontario Liberal Party)
1999 Ontario general election, Oxford, 312 votes, sixth out of seven candidates (winner: Ernie Hardemann, Progressive Conservative)

Richard (Dick) Field (Parkdale—High Park)

A World War II Veteran, Richard (Dick) Field Was chairman of Voice of Canadians Committees, which later merged into the Freedom Party.
Airport general manager Damrong Klongakara said the runway and flights had not been affected by the quake.
He served two years in that role (2007–08) but his contract was not renewed at the end of the Rangers' disappointing 2008 season.
Received 127 votes, finishing last in a field of six candidates.
Captain Charles L. Ottley,  December, 1904 - January 1905.
When Sindh started trading across the sea with Muscat and the Persian Gulf in the late 18th century, Karachi gained in importance; a small fort was constructed for its protection with a few cannons imported from Muscat.
Seven of the 22 notes (see table) are thus additionally called shuddha.
L’Aracine Musee D’Art Brut (Paris, France), Art Brut Connaissance & Diffusion Collection (Paris and Prague), Collection de l'art brut (Lausanne, Switzerland).
Finally, the band released its long awaited follow-up to Bag of Hammers:  entitled Ampalanche, it released first on vinyl through Italian label Vincebus Eruptum in January 2016, and then in April of that year, it was released digitally online, paired with a 49-minute bonus track:  "Vi, de Druknede (We, the Drowned)", a droning wordless group improvisation based on twin electronic tambouras.
The Charter of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union from 1972 states how regional committees and republican branches of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union are to be managed.Governing bodies of republican, regional and regional organizations of the party

43.
Lindsay George King (Thornhill)
A United Church of Canada minister in Toronto for over thirty years, overseeing the Willowdale United Church.
About 5.2% of families and 7.5% of the population were below the poverty line, including 8.2% of those under age 18 and 4.7% of those age 65 or over.
|
|-
|Gaming in Symphony
|June 14, 2019
|EuroArts
| MP3, LP
|2067701
| Concert performed by the Danish National Symphony Orchestra with the Danish National Concert Choir and various soloists, conducted by Eímear Noone.
While he played third base exclusively in MLB, he also was an outfielder and first baseman in the minor leagues.
Computer Graphics: Programming in OpenGL for Visual Communication.
The first steamer bringing passengers to the railroad for the historic trip from Piermont to Ramapo was named "South American" and the steamer "Utica" brought passengers from New York City on the opening of the Erie railroad to Goshen, New York.
An Indian monograph about shruti claims various opinions about the number (66, 53) of shrutis.
After both of them departed LucasArts, they collaborated on titles including Psychonauts (2005), Brütal Legend (2009), and Broken Age (2015).
In the 1960s, the school was named Erskine College, after her.
BENGTSON, John D., 2004.
Under the name of Desafectos, Azcona formed a wall with the relatives as a complaint, next to the wells outside the city of Teruel, where more than a thousand people had been shot and thrown into the wells over the course of three days during the Civil War.
The stand-alone remastered soundtrack was released concurrently with the remastered game in 2015 (17 years after the original release).
Table showing the Ratios, Frequencies, % length of the string where 22 Shrutis are played (*Frequency of the Fundamental frequency or Shadja taken as 100 Hz, as example)

Thus, Shrutis can be expressed as 1) 'Interval ratio',  2) Audio frequency, and 3) The playing position as % length of the string.
Anderson).
The proponents of the Dené–Caucasian hypothesis incline towards supporters of Haida's membership in Na-Dené, such as Heinz-Jürgen Pinnow or, most recently, John Enrico.
After that collaboration coming to fruition, working together in orchestrating Grim Fandango became "the next logical step" and it felt "like working with old friends".
In fact, when different artists performed raga Yaman on flute, sarangi, sitar, and voice, accuracy of pitch was found to be 'relative' and 'subjective', and 'neither rigidly fixed','nor randomly varying'.
The following is an example of a Kabardian (West Caucasian) verb from Bengtson (2008:98):

Bengtson (2008) suggests correspondences between some of these prefixes (sometimes suffixes) and between their positions.
The all-inclusive Nomenclature for 12 Swaraprakaras and 22 Sruthis is shown in the Table.
He was arrested in 1608, and then again in 1612.
(Ed.)
The average household size was 2.05 and the average family size was 2.78.
it also has some addendum quotes on how to become a smart money woman and also discusses challenges women face with societal pressure and desire to meet up with standards.
References

2003
It was also during this time that Flip Osman left Houston and the band added keyboardist and photo-theremin player Carol Sandin to the group, though both members were present at the band's appearance at Terrastock IV.
Figure showing Madhyama Grama on a stretched string.
Table shows % frequency above Shadja (Fundamental Tone) of the 
12-Tone-Equal Temperament Scale and the 22-Shruti-Indian Scale.
Thus, the frequencies of the 1st Natural 7 Shrutis emerge as S=100 (taken for convenience), R=112.5, G=125, M =133.33, P=150, D=166.66, and N=187.5.
Ratios and frequencies

It was shown in this research that 22 Shrutis are essentially related to Shadja (Fundamental frequency), by most natural interval ratios, 100:125 (S:G) or 100:150 (S:P) as shown in the Figure below.
By the age of 6 she had become well acquainted with Bible stories and would often look at theological questions with her brother.
Early life
George Powers Cockcroft was born on November 15, 1932 in Albany, New York to Donald and Elizabeth Cockcroft, both college graduates, his mother from Wellesley College.
The township also contains the community of Edgemont Park.
Geraniol is a by-product of the metabolism of sorbate.
On 1 May 1902 he was promoted to Oberst and appointed to the managing bureau of the General Staff, of which department he was appointed head in May 1903.
Thus, P comes at 100 Hz + 50% = 150 Hz.
The work of these poets was largely unknown to the wider Arab world for years because of the lack of diplomatic relations between Israel and Arab governments.
He also endorsed a voluntary national levy on the coal trade to help exports.
The Japanese electronic band Yellow Magic Orchestra were pioneers in sampling, constructing music by cutting fragments of sounds and looping them; their album Technodelic (1981) is an early example of an album consisting mostly of samples.
He has been involved with the Freedom Party since at least 1995, and is known to support the privatization of health care, education and housing services (Annex Gleaner, June 1999).
Other molecules found in wine

Preservatives 
 Ascorbic acid is used during wine making
 Sulfur dioxide (SO2), a preservative often added to wine

Fining agents 
Gum arabic has been used in the past as fining agent.
WERNER, Heinrich K. (2004): Zur jenissejisch-indianischen Urverwandtschaft [On the Yeniseian-[American] Indian primordial relationship].
It is located in close proximity to the center of Athens as well as the archaeological sites of the city, including the Acropolis and the Acropolis Museum.
In 2006, in preparation for the Weyburn-Big Muddy by-election, the Saskatchewan Party was accused of using push polling by attempting to link Liberal leader David Karwacki with the Canadian gun registry.
It quickly became and remains a cult classic.It was followed by two spiritual sequels in Adventures of Wim (1986) and The Search for the Dice Man (1993) as well as a companion volume called The Book of the Die (2000).
(Dublin: Dún Laoghaire-Rathdown & Fingal County Council).
To eliminate confusion, the words Poorna, Pramana and Nyuna should be called as ‘Shrutyantara’ (in Sanskrit) meaning distance between Shrutis rather than ‘Shruti’, which indicates a musical note.
183-233.
NYC merged with the Pennsylvania Railroad in 1968, and passenger service was taken over by Amtrak in 1971.
Earth's rotation is slowing slightly with time; thus, a day was shorter in the past.
The dual D(M) of a left Λ-module M is the right Λ-module D(M) = HomR(M,J), where J is the dualizing module of R, equal to the sum of the injective envelopes of the non-isomorphic simple R-modules or equivalently the injective envelope of R/rad R. The dual of a left module over Λ does not depend on the choice of R (up to isomorphism).
In 1935, Arz wrote of his experiences during the war.
2000
VAJDA, Edward J.
(Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2006).
Books After The Dice Man

Comic philosophical novels
A number of works authored by him have a similar style to The Dice Man and alternate between first- and third-person voice with selections from fictional documents.
NIKOLA(Y)EV, Sergei L., 1991.
Mizoram People's Party (MPP) was a former regional political party in Mizoram, India.
This included losing Game 5 at home in 2000 and 2002 and blowing a 2-0 lead in the 2001 series.
References

1860 births
1920 deaths
Nationalist Party of Australia members of the Parliament of Victoria
Members of the Victorian Legislative Council
Basque
1.1.2.
The precise places to play these 7 notes on a string is already shown in the earlier table.
In 1900 another division, War, was added to deal with issues of strategy and defence, and in 1902 a fourth division, Trade, was created for matters related to the protection of merchant shipping.
Fact noted of the game that the game returned twenty years later in a new edition "to the masterpiece-accolades (and sales) it deserved all along.
The presence in the shared vocabulary of words that are rarely borrowed or otherwise replaced, such as personal pronouns (see below).
(see External links below)
BERGER, Hermann, 1998.
The album was originally released on June 12, 2001 through Equal Vision Records under the name American Nightmare, but was later reissued in 2003 under the name Give Up the Ghost after another band named American Nightmare filed a cease and desist order.
To accompany his announcement, he added, "This track was made during my break while I was recovering from my ankle injury.
Benny Lennartsson is a Swedish football coach, former football and bandy player.
Composers including John Cage, Edgar Varèse, Karheinz Stockhausen and Iannis Xenakis experimented with musique concrète, and Bebe and Louis Barron used it to create the first totally electronic film soundtrack, for the 1956 science fiction film Forbidden Planet.
"Une nouvelle famille de langues: le déné-caucasien," Pour la Science (Dossier, October), 68–73.
The mean solar day in SI seconds is available from the IERS for the periods  and .
List of Regional Committees 
This is a list of Regional Committees of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union in August 1991.
The remaining ones are called anuvādi (assonant).
Martin joined the other Conservative candidates for Camberwell divisions in inviting Winston Churchill to speak for them; but observers expected that the leading Labour personality Charles Ammon would succeed in regaining the seat he had lost four years previously.
Dr. Davies Farm, in Congers was owned by a relative of Meriwether Lewis (of the Lewis and Clark Expedition).
He accepted that other industries should not be sacrificed to help the coal trade, but urged that operating theatres be set up near to mines to help miners who had suffered industrial accidents.
Angular speed

The angular speed of Earth's rotation in inertial space is  ± .
To facilitate steamboat traffic from Tappan Landing, a road was built over the marshes to the end of a 500-foot pier, which within a few years became the terminus of the New York & Erie Railroad.
However, dissatisfaction with the Conservative government towards the end of the decade resulted in it being soundly defeated by the NDP in 1991.
Arta borders on the regional units of Preveza in the west, Ioannina to the north, Trikala in the east, Karditsa to the east and Aetolia-Acarnania to the south.
He accompanied President Martin Van Buren when Van Buren came to call on Mrs. Gertrude Oblenis of West Nyack.
The wooden storehouse's walls were insulated with sawdust to keep the ice blocks frozen until they were shipped in the summer.
(2000) "Where Digital Music Technology and Law Collide – Contemporary Issues of Digital Sampling, Appropriation and Copyright Law" Journal of Information, Law & Technology.
In 2000, jazz flautist James Newton filed a claim against the Beastie Boys' 1992 single "Pass the Mic", which samples his composition "Choir".
During most of the 1990s, while it was under distribution by Mercury/PolyGram Records, the label ventured into hip hop music and released albums by artists including Big Daddy Kane and Professor Griff.
14: Halloween Haunts
Pluto's Judgement Day (1935)
Lonesome Ghosts (1937)
Trick or Treat (1952)

Linking clips reused from: The Worm Turns (1947), Daddy Duck (1948)

Special Edition - Fun on the Job!
Assheton G. Curzon-Howe, August, 1891 – September, 1892.
Footnotes:
1 On Caucasian evidence alone, this word cannot be reconstructed for Proto-Caucasian or even Proto-East Caucasian; it is only found in Lak and Dargwa (Bengtson 2008:94).
St. John's in the Wilderness is the only private land within the Harriman State Park.
Historical settlements
In the 19th century, the following settlements were created in these towns.
In 1995, the BBC called it "one of the fifty most influential books of the last half of the twentieth century," and in 1999, after one of their reporters experimented, controversially, with dicing, Loaded magazine named it "Novel of the Century".
It is said that it has always been a "picnic and pleasure ground visited annually by thousands from New York and other neighboring cities".
The tangential speed of Earth's rotation at a point on Earth can be approximated by multiplying the speed at the equator by the cosine of the latitude.
He stayed on as leader until a January 2018 leadership election and premier until early February.
Germany 
Censorship of maps was also used in former East Germany, especially for the areas near the border to West Germany in order to make attempts of defection more difficult.
Stellar and sidereal day

Earth's rotation period relative to the International Celestial Reference Frame, called its stellar day by the International Earth Rotation and Reference Systems Service (IERS), is  seconds of mean solar time (UT1) , ).
While serving on the frontier, Wagner saw action during campaigns against the Sioux and Nez Perce from 1876 until 1877, and the Utes in 1881.
BENGTSON, John D., 1996.
His parents were Thomas R. Smart Jr. (a production manager and later an economist) and Liz Smart (a teacher).
The towers were intended to act as a deterrent against a foreign invasion by Napoleon and his French Armies as well as being used as general lookout posts.
The winner was Tony Ruprecht of the Ontario Liberal Party.
Joyas del Pescador 

The Joyas del Pescador (the Fisherman's Jewels) are Prehispanic pieces of jewelry found  by the octopus fisherman Raúl Hurtado in 1976 about 20 km north of the city of Veracruz, in a Colonial Spanish shipwreck.
Sampling without permission can breach the copyright of the original sound recording, of the composition and lyrics, and of the performances, such as a rhythm or guitar riff.
Shortly after forming Wings, the McCartneys took the band on an impromptu tour of the United Kingdom's universities in early 1972, showing up unannounced and performing for whoever happened to be on campus.
This day length corresponds to the semidiurnal resonant period of the thermally-driven atmospheric tide; at this day length, the decelerative lunar torque could have been canceled by an accelerative torque from the atmospheric tide, resulting in no net torque and a constant rotational period.
Na-Dené

Proposed subbranches

Macro-Caucasian

John Bengtson (2008) proposes that, within Dené–Caucasian, the Caucasian languages form a branch together with Basque and Burushaski, based on many shared word roots as well as shared grammar such as:

 the Caucasian plural/collective ending  of nouns, which is preserved in many modern Caucasian languages, as well as sometimes fossilized in singular nouns with collective meaning; one of the many Burushaski plural endings for class I and II (masculine and feminine) nouns is .
Also active with the Ontario Rifle Association.
Institute for Oriental and Classical Studies, Russian State University for the Humanities.
Poorna, Pramana and Nyuna Shrutis correspond respectively to Pythagorean Limma (90 cents), Diatonic Semitone Minor (70 cents), and Comma of Didymus (22 cents).
She joined the Society of the Sacred Heart at Roehampton three years later and, in 1911, became Superior General of the Society.
In 2002 and 2004, Smart won the US national sabre championship.
Love Tales (January 13, 1995)
Mickey Loves Minnie (January 9, 1996)
Sweetheart Stories (January 9, 1996)

International versions
The Walt Disney Cartoon Classics series was released in other different countries.
players
Bradford City A.F.C.
This release won the 2003 "Best Original Soundtrack Album" award from the Game Audio Network Guild.
The selection of the 22 Shrutis (specific frequencies) in each of them depends on the 'Rāga' chosen.
When the game and its soundtrack were remastered and re-released, they also garnered praise.
It has also released folk albums sung by Manganiars.
In the presumed daughter languages some of the roots are often affixes (such as verb prefixes or possessive noun prefixes) instead of independent pronouns.
He read law in 1863 and subsequently entered private practice in Baltimore, Maryland from 1864 to 1867.
Art
On April 1, 1987, Judith Scott began attending the Creative Growth Art Center in Oakland, one of the first organizations in the world to provide studio space for artists with disabilities.
He was the series editor for the Nahuatl Studies Series, initially based at the UCLA Latin American Center and then jointly with Stanford University Press.
Editions Palais de Tokyo

References

External links 

 Oliver Beer personal artist's website

British male artists
1985 births
Living people
Alumni of the Ruskin School of Art
21st-century British artists
21st-century male artists
British contemporary artists
By May 2016, he was worth US$1.86billion.
ENRICO, John.
Lee Seung-hoon of South Korea won the Division B race.
Rockland Lake, a beautiful sheet of water a half mile back from the Hudson, at an elevation of more the 150 feet above that river was and is the most notable natural lake and  the source of one of the largest branches of the Hackensack River.
STAROSTIN, Sergei A., 2004–2005.
Although the developmental gap between the two girls was apparent, "the parents consciously sought to treat these youngest members of the family alike."
Also opposed calling an inquiry into the death of Dudley George, claiming George was a violent protester.
Four Union generals and four Medal of Honor recipients lived in Rockland.
Orangetown was created at the same time under a royal grant, originally encompassing all of modern Rockland County.
Since Hermanson did not have a seat in the legislature, Krawetz remained as interim parliamentary leader.
Format
!
Opposed the inclusion of a question on race on the 1996 Canadian census.
Animation 
Perry became more widely known for animating the titles for all seasons of the Comedy Central show Broad City and for animating the Mushrooms episode animation.
The advent of affordable samplers such as the Akai MPC (1988) made looping easier.
Has campaigned for the Freedom Party in every provincial election since 1987, and frequently polls above the party's provincial average.
On the other hand, the jazz parts were recorded live, something uncommon at the time.
UK Channel 4's broadcast of Diceworld (1999, Paul Wilmshurst directing), a 50-minute television documentary about Cockcroft/Rhinehart and some of the people influenced by his novels, led to a resurgence of interest in Cockcroft/Rhinehart's books, and in various related "dicing projects".
Alaku is a name for Shruti in ancient Tamil music and 22 Shrutis are referred to as 22 Alakus.
Martin D. Burke (born February 5, 1976 in Westminster, Maryland) is the May and Ving Lee Professor for Chemical Innovation at the University of Illinois at Urbana–Champaign, and Associate Dean of Research in the Carle Illinois College of Medicine.
The capital of Sindh was shifted from Hyderabad to Karachi in the 1840s.
Track listings

Releases

The first stand-alone release of the soundtrack was in a CD in 1998.
John Almond was hanged, drawn, and quartered on 5 December 1612 at Tyburn, London, England.
Although brick-making involved all the ethnic groups, 60 percent of the brickyard workers were African-Americans.
Was arrested for tax evasion in 2004 after claiming false losses in a partnership.
A century after Copernicus, Riccioli disputed the model of a rotating Earth due to the lack of then-observable eastward deflections in falling bodies; such deflections would later be called the Coriolis effect.
In the field, he made two errors in 23 total chances for a fielding percentage of .913.
Palestinian poets often write about the common theme of a strong affection and sense of loss and longing for a lost homeland.
Perry worked at the company's headquarters on digital media, publications, and catalog design for three years.
It was circumscribed by James Sowerby in 1816. , WoRMS recognizes approximately 33 species in this genus.
Other past artist participants include Lisa Hanawalt, Deanne Cheuk, Jon Burgerman, Julia Rothman and Monica Ramos.
A member of the Montgomery Tavern Society.
In an article written later he remarked that releasing the single on Halloween day was "a bit of an odd choice for such an uplifting song as this".
A number of online neuroscience databases are available which provide information regarding gene expression, neurons, macroscopic brain structure, and neurological or psychiatric disorders.
It was produced under Nile Rodgers' label Sumthing Else.
While other students were stitching, she was sculpting with an unprecedented zeal and concentration.
According to Forbes, he was worth US$1.86 billion as of May 2016.
A ball dropped from a height of 158.5 m departed by 27.4 mm from the vertical compared with a calculated value of 28.1 mm.
A devout Seventh-day Adventist, and a former railway worker at Conrail for 38 years.
In September 1915, he was promoted to the rank of General der Infanterie, and having fought alongside Mackensen's 11th army he gained the respect of the Germans in his abilities as a commander.
The first part of the ride would have taken the cars up two inclined planes to the summit  above the Hudson River, where visitors could disembark to enjoy the scenery.
These observations can be used to determine changes in Earth's rotation over the last 27 centuries, since the length of the day is a critical parameter in the calculation of the place and time of eclipses.
Edited with N. Craighill, M. Fong and J.
Cook has been accused of making "major mistakes in his charting", such as depicting "Stewart Island as a peninsula, and the failure to determine the insular character of Tasmania".
Received 165 votes, finishing last in a field of eight candidates.
This mass migration changed the religious and cultural mosaic of Karachi.
As M1 functions as the 'new' Fundamental frequency (Shadja), M2 must become redundant as it is too close to it.
Formerly a tax auditor with the Canada Customs and Revenue Agency.
The 3rd line shows the Shrutis 'in-between the 7 notes' as bold and underlined

Bharata's Natya Shastra states in Chapter 28, Shloka 27 and 28, the shrutis in Madhyama Grama.
I remember feeling that when I first saw Manny walking around in Rubacava: 'A walking skeleton?
Mike Davidson (London—Fanshawe)
A computer science lecturer at the University of Western Ontario.
Katya is thrown into a world of artists, frauds, sex, drugs and the struggle to discover who she wants to be.
Steamboats provided much of the transportation to New York City.
Further comparing it with L.A. Noire, Kotaku added that it "doesn't come close to the variety and vivaciousness of McConnell's Grim Fandango score.
Retired in 1993.
He was also the father of Confederate general Robert E. Lee.
Keeth and his sister Erinn are actively involved in the Peter Westbrook Foundation in New York.
"; MacEntee raised a point of order and challenged him to repeat it outside.
McConnell estimated that he put in himself about 800 hours into the remastering project, in arranging, sample replacement, preparing for orchestration, mixing, and reviewing the music, resulting in over 2 hours of music that was completely overhauled, in addition to the 45 minutes of music the team had already recorded live in the original version.
Claudius Smith – (1736 – January 22, 1779) was a notorious Loyalist guerrilla leader during the American Revolution.
Received 404 votes, finishing sixth in a field of seven candidates.
Its main focus is to bring out the true essence of Rajasthani folk music.
A process similar to sampling originated in the 1940s with musique concrète, experimental music created by splicing and looping tape.
Swadesh's colleague Mary Haas attributes the origin of the Basque-Dennean hypothesis to Edward Sapir.
See also
Politics of Saskatchewan
Saskatchewan Party leadership elections

References

External links
Official website
Caucus website
Constitution of the Saskatchewan Party (2008)
The Canadian Encyclopedia
Crown Corporations Public Ownership Act (official text; PDF)

1997 establishments in Saskatchewan
Conservative parties in Canada
Liberal parties in Canada
Political parties established in 1997
Provincial political parties in Saskatchewan
Organizations based in Regina, Saskatchewan
Elkhart-Goshen route connects to westbound Capitol Limited and Lake Shore Limited trains, while Concord route can only connect to westbound Lake Shore Limited train.
This was accepted by most of those who came after, in particular Claudius Ptolemy (2nd century CE), who thought Earth would be devastated by gales if it rotated.
2000b.
Indus Valley Civilization 
Ahladino and Pir Shah Jurio are the archaeological sites from the Indus Valley Civilisation periods situated in Karachi district.
Volumes 1-5 were released on May 19, 1987.
Some models suggest that Earth maintained a constant day length of 21 hours throughout much of the Precambrian.
of shrutis).
Once the original tapes were found, the next challenge was to retrieve the data from within them.
The 22 Shrutis can be seen as a sub-set of 7 natural Shrutis as shown in the diagram.
For example, the Kennedy Space Center is located at latitude 28.59° N, which yields a speed of: cos(28.59°) × 1674.4 km/h = 1470.2 km/h.
The per capita income for the township was $22,885.
It was their last studio album released in the United States and the first and only release for the SBK label (the band would briefly move to Virgin Records just before it was sold to Capitol's then-owner EMI).
Säugetiernamen des Haida und Tlingit: Materialien zu ihrer historischen Erforschung [Mammal names of Haida and Tlingit: materials to their historical investigation].
At the same time, the municipalities were reorganised, according to the table below.
The 2003 election was better; while it picked up two seats in Saskatoon, it was again shut out of Regina.
Both Spanish Peru and The Men of Cajamarca have been published in Spanish translation.
It merged a number of disparate collections, including that of the Royal Society of Tasmania.
Bishops

Ordinaries
Manuel Menéndez (bishop) (1961–1991) 
Luis Héctor Villalba (1991–1999), appointed Archbishop of Tucumán; future Cardinal
Raúl Omar Rossi (2000–2003) 
Guillermo Rodríguez Melgarejo (2003–2018)
Miguel Ángel D’Annibale (2018-2020)
Martín Fassi (2020-

Auxiliary bishops
Horacio Alberto Bózzoli (1973-1975), appointed Auxiliary Bishop of Buenos Aires
Han Lim Moon (2014-

References

External links
 

San Martin
San Martin
San Martin
San Martin
1961 establishments in Argentina
She outlived her life expectancy at birth by almost fifty years.
At the time, McConnell had been working on the soundtrack for Broken Age, a new adventure game by Tim Schafer.
This view has continued to follow the party.
Its students' SAT scores are ranked first in Dekalb County and sixth in the state.
Poorna comes between Shrutis 0–1, 4–5, 8–9, 12–13, 13–14, 17–18, and 21–22, Nyuna between Shrutis 2–3, 6–7, 10–11, 15–16, 19–20, and Pramana between Shrutis 1–2, 3–4, 5–6, 7–8, 9–10, 11–12, 14–15, 16–17, 18–19, 20–21.
| 
|-
|}

Live performances
In 2013 McConnell collaborated with Melbourne Symphony Orchestra to do a pops concert performance of Grim Fandango.
On 1 July 1935, during a visit to Budapest to collect his pension, he suffered a heart attack and died.
Basque / North Caucasian lexical matches on the 50-item wordlist.
The LP4 contributed a notable version of Syd Barrett's song "Vegetable Man" to The Vegetable Man Project, a compilation of wildly disparate covers of that song released by Italian label Oggetti Volanti Non Identificati in 2002.
The Soomra dynasty, Samma Dynasty, Arghun Dynasty, Tarkhan and Talpur dynasties ruled Sindh.
This sense of international solidarity can also be found in Palestinian poets' work such as in Mahmoud Darwish's poem Cuban Chants, "And the banner in Cuba..
Company origins
In 1918 the Anglo-American company Cosmos bought Straker-Squire (also known as Brazil Straker), a car and bus manufacturing firm which had branched out into aircraft engine repair and manufacture.
As a coach and manager

In 1986, Howe began his coaching career as an aide to Bobby Valentine with the Texas Rangers.
Slaughter's Landing was used as the shipping point for the Ice harvested at Rockland Lake.
The soundtrack is a mix of South American folk music, jazz, swing and big band sounds, for the game story filled with adventure and intrigue set in a unique combination of film noir and Mexican folklore's Day of the Dead.
45.
The museum was noted as first being an established institution in the 1848 minutes of the Royal Society of Tasmania, though Wilmot had done most of the work in 1843 and had attempted to set up a museum in the cottage of the Secretary of the Governor, in what is now the Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens.
[Footnote: "Alone in N[a]-D[ene] Eyak allows for subjects and objects in a suffix position."]
She provided regular schedule between Nyack and New York.
Supported Premier Mike Harris's cut to social welfare in 1995, on the grounds that the poor would be encouraged to improve their lives.
References

Yoruboid languages
Languages of Togo
Languages of Benin
(Abhandlungen, Hefte 67–68)
PINNOW, Heinz-Jürgen (1988).
Karachi, Sindh) during the early British colonial rule.
Collections 
Scott's work has become immensely popular in the world of outsider art, and her pieces sell for substantial sums.
Money is currently being raised to preserve the house.
Now, it possible to play a precise note on a string every time without difficulty, because,  irrespective of the length of the string or the frequency in which the string is tuned,    7 Poorna, 5 Nyuna, and 10 Pramana Shrutis yield sequentially, perfect playing positions of 22 Shrutis on any string instrument.
Consequently, new businesses started opening up and the population of the town started rising rapidly.
A 379% Increase.
Melbourne Symphony Orchestra

The involvement of the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra (MSO) in the orchestration of the Grim Fandango soundtrack grew out of several prior collaborations that McConnell had had with the orchestra.
Switching to an internet distribution model has allowed the show to include a video component that has been used for on-air demonstrations and an overall more complete show experience.
Bill Frampton (London West)
A computer software developer in London.
Since 2007, it has been the province's governing party; both the party and the province are currently led by Premier Scott Moe.
Received the highest vote totals of any Freedom Party candidate in the 1999 and 2003 elections.
Publications
The EMST editorial program includes bilingual (in Greek and English) exhibition catalogs, which host theoretical and critical essays, as well as interdisciplinary interpretational approaches bu sociologists, anthropologists, philosophers, e.a.
In the November 7, 2007 general election, the Saskatchewan Party won 38 of the 58 seats in the legislature, allowing it to form the first centre-right government in the province since 1991, and only the third in the province's history.
Early life
John Almond was born around 1577 in Allerton, Liverpool, and spent his childhood there and at Much Woolton, Lancashire (now Woolton, Liverpool) until at the age of eight, he was taken to Ireland.
The British realised the importance of the city as a military cantonment and as a port for exporting the produce of the Indus River basin, and rapidly developed its harbour for shipping.
The median age was 35 years.
Currently Rockland County is one of 24 areas in New York State designated a Preserve America Community.
"On the origin of Sumerian."
The Saskatchewan Party even managed to unseat NDP leader Dwain Lingenfelter in his own riding.
"Despite hurdles, consolidating Lansing, East Lansing and Lansing Township makes sense."
Captain Harry Jones, 1905 – 15 January 1906.
as in Shadja Grama, i.e., 3, 5, 9, 13, 16, 18, and 22.
Received 707 votes, finishing fifth in a field of five candidates.
The Ramapo Wheel and Foundry Company, organized in 1873, took the prize among all competitors for the productions of their wheels at the Vienna Exposition of 1873.
Iona Island (I own an island) – formerly known as Waggons (Weyant's) Island.
Precursors 

In the 1940s, French composer Pierre Schaeffer developed musique concrète, an experimental form of music created by recording sounds to tape, splicing them, and manipulating them to create sound collages.
Hence, 'any' note such as Rishabha, Gandhar, Madhyama, Dhaivata and Nishad can be Teevra, or of a larger volume.
As a result, there now exist databases of neuroscience databases, some of which reach over 3000 entries.
Most of the population lives in the west, in the Arachthos valley, south and east of Arta.
is his first solo book for children.
Early life
Born into a Protestant family that was among the ancient Saxon settlers of east Transylvania, Arz was the product of a noble "Siebenbürger" family.
Previously a teacher.
The party won a third term in 2016.
He received his MBA from Columbia University in 2010 and now works as the
Regional GM for Chelsea Piers Fitness.
Mike Perry is an American artist, illustrator, animator and curator.
It was listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1974.
Vajda, Edward.
44–74.
In Sino-Tibetan, Classical Tibetan has a "directive" prefix /d/-, and Nung has a causative prefix /d/- (positions do not apply because Sino-Tibetan verbs have at most two prefixes depending on the language).
"How Can Class Markers Petrify?
André was captured with the plans in Tarrytown on his way back to the British lines; he was brought to Tappan for trial in the Tappan church, found guilty, hanged, and buried nearby.
The transpose Tr(M) of a left Λ-module M is a right Λ-module defined to be the cokernel of the map Q* → P*, where P → Q → M → 0 is a minimal projective presentation of M.

References

Ring theory
West of Stony Point.
The Government of Pakistan through Public Works Department bought land to settle the Muslim refugees.
References

External links 
 Steve Cunningham homepage.
Regional Committees were elected by their Regional Conferences.
See also 
Neuroinformatics
Budapest Reference Connectome

References 

neuroscience databases

neuroscience databases
neuroscience databases
neuroscience databases
It is their last album to reach the Billboard 200, reaching #122, and contains their last top 40 hit in the United States, "That's the Way", which reached #16.
The Arabs knew it as the port of Debal, from where Muhammad bin Qasim led his conquering force into Sindh (the western corner of South Asia) in AD 712.
Late in life, Lockhart wrote a short, candid memoir.
He placed third of three candidates with 89 votes, behind Donna Villemaire (1050 votes) and Ron Jenkins  (486 votes).
"Class Inflection and Related Categories in the Caucasus."
Floor tiles of a house have been discovered at this site of Ahladino.
At one point, in the early 20th century, there were more than 40 brick-making factories lining the Hudson River within the village.
In Cahiers de l'Institut de Linguistique de Louvain (CILL): 33–54.
There are 12 universally identifiable musical notes  (pitch classes of Chromatic scale or Swara-prakara) in a Saptak (Octave).They indicate 'a musical note or scale degree, but Shruti is a more subtle division of the octave'.
Until 20 years ago, local folk bards reciting traditional verses were a feature of every Palestinian town.
In Brooklyn in 2013 he had several projects: street art on a construction site; a playground mural at the school P.S.
The whole bridge was dismantled piece by piece, sent off-site for restoration and restored to its original state after a complete forensic analysis.
2009.
In 1882, she entered the Society of the Sacred Heart at Roehampton, where she would spend the next 30 years of her religious life.
The Fairlight inspired competition, improving sampling technology and driving down prices.
4 Also in Proto-Southern Wakashan.
Although some Afroasiatic languages have developed free word order, it is generally surmised that PAA was originally a VO language.
Franz Cauchi (Davenport)
Owns a marketing business.
In 1994, wrote an article attacking multiculturalism as undermining Canadian values.
Water power of the Minisceongo was used for grinding grist in 1793;
A 120-foot dam was constructed across the Ramapo River.
In 1853 the governor placed before the Legislative Council a debate on the state granting a plot of land for the building of a permanent museum building.
Supported the Reform Party of Canada at the federal level.
It was executively produced by the writer of the novel, Arese Ugwu and produced by Kemi Lala Akindoju.
He died on 17 January 2014 at the age of 80.
To a lesser degree this also holds for the Na-Dené comparisons, where only a few sound correspondences have yet been published.
White Wind, Black Rider (2008).
A Kickstarter campaign for the event raised $32,000 in a month.
He retained his membership of Pratt's Club where he was said to be "in his element leading the conversation at the head of the table"; so welcome was he at the club that when he resigned his membership owing to the decreasing number of visits to London, the club proprietor the Duke of Devonshire refused to accept it and waived the subscription to keep him.
Janet Erskine Stuart, RSCJ (11 November 1857, Cottesmore, Rutland, England – 21 October 1914, Roehampton, England), also known as Mother Janet Stuart, was an English Roman Catholic nun and educator.
2000.
Challis, B (2003) "The Song Remains The Same – A Review of the Legalities of Music Sampling"
 
Ratcliffe, Robert.
Westport, Connecticut, 1978.
Then they developed a MIDI score to serve as a "mock-up", leading to the recording of the final score that would include live musicians for some parts.
She felt the song swelling and compelling "in the same style as many of Springsteen's biggest and most grandiose hits", noting that "Lewis' soaring vocals add to the effect" and that "all these elements making yet another bonafide smash from the EDM hitmaker".
Isaac Jones, 24 years old was hanged on Oct 5, 1792 for a bar room brawl killing.
In 1838, the British occupied it to use it for launching their campaigns against the Russian Empire in Central Asia and Afghanistan.
Personal life
Keeth married Shyra (Cooper) Smart on May 27, 2007 in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.
She lived in rural Rutland and would often explore the land around her, developing a deep love of flora and fauna, as well as an ability to find comfort and relief in nature.
Because of Earth's rotation under the swinging pendulum, the pendulum's plane of oscillation appears to rotate at a rate depending on latitude.
Less interested in the complicated political events of the era, he focused on the formation of Spanish colonial society in the midst of Spanish war with the indigenous and internecine struggles between factions of conquerors.
The first in the series was the 2001 Somono Bala of the Upper Niger, an epic story of fishing people, translated into English from the Maninka language for the first time.
In a by-election held on March 5, 2007, the Saskatchewan Party recaptured the seat in the Legislative Assembly left vacant by the death of Ben Heppner.
He concluded his term there by giving the 'Grand Act' -- a public defence of theses which cover the whole course of philosophy and theology—and was warmly congratulated by Cardinals Caesar Baronius and Francesco Maria Tarugi, who presided.
Reactions ranged from sorrow to gratitude and amusement.
References 

Buildings and structures in Veracruz
Buildings and structures completed in 1635
1635 establishments in New Spain
Veracruz (city)
Rew was quoted on the website saying, "We've never been successful enough to be immune from the influences of producers and marketing men ... the more we fell for those 80s trademarks, the more we diluted the band."
Captain The Hon.
Munich: LINCOM Europa.
References

Political parties in Mizoram
Political parties disestablished in 2018
2018 disestablishments in India
Political parties with year of establishment missing
Independence & Dissolution
The PRM went on to win every seat at the 1959 parliamentary election, although did so largely due to non-PRM political activity being banned, and PRM loyalists controlling selections to the electoral lists.
Captain Francis F. Haworth-Booth, December, 1905 – 19 March 1908.
Several ancient scholars have cited 22 Shrutis including Dattila (AD 400–100 BC, in Shlokas 12–14), Sarangadeva (AD 1210–1247, after Shloka 11 in Sangeeta Ratnakara), Ramamatya (AD 1550 in Shlokas 24–26 in Swaramelakalanidhi), Somanatha (AD 1609 in Shloka 17, Chapter 1, in Ragavibodha) and Venkatamakhin (AD 1626–1662, in Shloka 5, Chapter 2; Shlokas 2–3, Chapter 3; and Shlokas 94, 105, 106, Chapter 4 in Chaturdandi Prakashika).
Bibliography
The Military Necessities of the United States, and the Best Method of Meeting Them.
After an international architectural competition was announced, the architectural office which won the first prize and will realize the renovation of the Fix building are 3SK Stylianidis Architects in collaboration with Ioannis Mouzakis and associates architects LTD – studies of technical works Pan.
His style puts him in the Bolognese School of painting.
She is an eight-time Spanish national champion and competed in two Winter Olympics, placing 20th in 1994 and 22nd in 1998.
Morgantown WV: West Virginia University Press, 2016.
He was, including concurrently with his later federal judicial service, a Professor at Georgetown Law from 1876 to 1909, serving as Dean of that institution from 1891 to 1896.
Paul McKeever (Oshawa)
Party leader.
The population density was 1,658.3 per square mile (634.8/km2).
Another aspect of map censorship in the UK is that the internal layout of HM Prison facilities were not shown on public OS mapping.
Since its establishment, it has released many albums in Rajasthani and Hindi languages.
1935 election
He was also much preoccupied with pushing forward a new constitution for the University of Durham.
The Natya Shastra identifies and discusses twenty two shruti and seven swara per octave.
External links
Official Website of the Charter Township of Lansing
Eastwood Downtown Development Authority

Townships in Ingham County, Michigan
Charter townships in Michigan
Lansing, Michigan
Lansing–East Lansing metropolitan area
1842 establishments in Michigan
Populated places established in 1842
He participated in four editions of the World Championships (2009, 2013, 2015), and 2017 World Artistic Gymnastics Championships, where he won the bronze on high bar in Montreal.
Kotaku noted that even among other lauded games that were successful in incorporating jazz in their scores to great advantage (EarthBound, The Operative: No One Lives Forever, and L.A. Noire), Grim Fandangos stood apart.
The post overlooked Haverstraw Bay and afforded views of the Hudson River to the north and south.
After the Texas Rangers hired Ron Washington – a former coach under Howe in Oakland – as their new manager, the Phillies gave Howe permission to speak with the Rangers about any openings in the organization.
The correct 12 names of Hindustani 12 notes are 1) Shadja, 2) Komal Rishabha, 3) Tara Rishabha, 4) Komal Gandhara, 5) Tara Gandhara, 6) Komal Madhyama, 7) Tara Madhyama, 8) Panchama, 9) Komal Dhaivata, 10) Tara Dhaivata, 11) Komal Nishada, and 12) Tara Nishad.
They all took place in the 18th century.
This is a list of the candidates running for the Marxist–Leninist Party in the 41st Canadian federal election.
Background and context

The game

Grim Fandango is a graphic adventure video game directed by Tim Schafer and released by LucasArts in 1998.
Drum machines such as the Oberheim DMX and Linn LM-1 incorporated samples of drum kits and percussion rather than generating sounds from circuits.
Rockland factories made shoes, straw hats, silk and cotton cloth, sulfur matches, smoking pipes and pianos.
In Earth's rotating frame of reference, a freely moving body follows an apparent path that deviates from the one it would follow in a fixed frame of reference.
Every Artin algebra is an Artin ring.
History

Origins of the party and political basis
Saskatchewan politics has tended towards a two-party system, with third parties enjoying limited political success.
E.g., there are two 'Shrutis' at the two ends, which are connected by nadas in-between.
Several critics also noted how the music was a key contribution to enhancing the overall experience of the game.
Hip hop sampling has been likened to the origins of blues and rock, which were created by repurposing existing music.
As a result of vote-splitting with the Liberals, the Tories gradually lost ground in the Legislative Assembly, and were shut out of the chamber altogether in 1934.
In 1926, the Hungarian Government granted him a pension - ex post facto from 1 November 1925 -, after this the former support fund was transformed to the "Funds of the former General Staff".
The name comes from rocky land, an early description of the area given by settlers.
Warren Steinley and Corey Tochor are Conservative federal MPs, but also served as MLAs for the Saskatchewan Party.
Arta () is one of the regional units of Greece.
In the original production, the orchestral elements of the score were digitally synthesized due to the common budgetary and technological limitations on gaming audio of the time.
Anthropological Science (Tokyo) 102: 207-230.
However, since then it has been included in several rankings of best video game music.
Throughout their years as a band, they embarked on a number of concert tours, varying in scale from their initial "DIY" tour of British universities to the epic Wings Over the World tour.
Its main aim is to promote true Rajasthani music in today's music scenario of adulterated, poor and high-noise music.
Ramapo developed into an agricultural marketplace and a locale for manufacturing innovations.
With Transylvania and the Bukovina awarded to Romania after the war, he became a Romanian citizen but he refused to return to his home in a country in the defeat of which he had played a significant role only a few years earlier, having expected of possible retaliation.
The third of these is called trishruti rishabha (Ri).
(Erhard insisted on using lower case letters for the acronym.)
Brand consulting work as creative director and designer includes projects for The New York Times, Dolby, Jameson, the Tonight Show, Facebook, Microsoft, Honda and Insound.
Columbus, OH: Slavica.
The LP4 was formed in 1994 by veterans of various local groups from the Houston and Clear Lake areas of Texas.
Wood developed the modern way of mixing coal dust with the clay, in 1828, which revolutionized the manufacture of brick.
The winner was Maria Van Bommel of the Ontario Liberal Party.
Theater
Inspired by The Dice Man and written by Paul Lucas, the play The Dice House premiered in the United Kingdom in 2001, and went on to staging at the Arts Theatre in London's West End in 2004.
It has been used in several contexts throughout the history of Indian music.
Gamakas or alankaras  or ‘specific tonal configurations forming the core of a Raga’  are merely a combination of shrutis and Nadas.
Samples may comprise elements such as rhythm, melody, speech, sounds or entire bars of music, and may be layered, equalized, sped up or slowed down, repitched, looped, or otherwise manipulated.
If D is taken as S, R’ becomes at M2, coming at 135, a ratio of 27/20.
In 2019, the European Court of Justice ruled that producers Moses Pelham and Martin Haas had illegally sampled a drum sequence from the 1977 Kraftwerk track “Metal on Metal" for the Sabrina Setlur song "Nur Mir".
Also, a project for the exchange of editions with institutions in Greece and abroad has already been initiated.
Biography 

Beer's background in both music and fine art led to an early interest in the relationship between sound and space, particularly the voice and architecture.
CHS was ranked #215 of the 1500 best public high schools by Newsweek magazine.
Tuck petitioned for a conservative Canadian television network in 2005, and in the same year co-wrote a work entitled Death by Modern Medicine.
Group shows include The Fine Line in 2010; Walker Art Center's 2011 traveling installation Posterwall for the 21st Century, on the role digital art has played in design; Wondering Around Wandering in 2012; sculpture at the Corning Museum of Glass' Making Ideas: Experiments in Design at Glass Lab in 2013; WOW (Writing on Walls) in Belgium in 2016; and A Fantastic World in 2018.
Thomas Ballantyne Martin (13 November 1901 – 28 January 1995) was a British politician, stockbroker and journalist.
gloss !
Thus, the sidereal day is shorter than the stellar day by about .
Perry's work from 2004 to 2011 was collected in the 2012 monograph for Rizzoli, Wondering Around Wandering.
The following is a list of the 23 cantons of the Tarn department, in France, following the French canton reorganisation which came into effect in March 2015:

 Albi-1
 Albi-2
 Albi-3
 Albi-4
 Carmaux-1 Le Ségala
 Carmaux-2 Vallée du Cérou
 Castres-1
 Castres-2
 Castres-3
 Les Deux Rives
 Gaillac
 Graulhet
 Le Haut Dadou
 Les Hautes Terres d'Oc
 Lavaur Cocagne
 Mazamet-1
 Mazamet-2 Vallée du Thoré
 La Montagne noire
 Le Pastel
 Plaine de l'Agoût
 Les Portes du Tarn
 Saint-Juéry
 Vignobles et Bastides

References
He wrote several books on the psychology of reading, the remediation of reading difficulties, and put forward support for the view that children should not be taught reading as an end in itself or as an isolated activity but in the context of things and activities that they find interesting.
The band's notice by Ptolemaic Terrascope was particularly helpful, as the LP4 were invited to contribute a track to the magazine's inaugural benefit compilation double-CD Succour.
"Etruscan and North Caucasian."
The company was one of the first to be brought under Admiralty control, and Fedden and his draughtsman Leonard Butler designed two engines during the war; the 14-cylinder Mercury and the larger, 9-cylinder Jupiter.
The party was accused of having undisclosed plans to privatize the province's crown corporations.
Scott Moe (2018–present) 

Wall announced his retirement from politics on August 10, 2017.
BENGTSON, John D., 2002.
The Search for the Dice Man (1993), set twenty years later, tells the story of Rhinehart's son, Larry, who has built a highly successful and stable life, having rejected his father's embracing of Chance.
Marlborough, Wiltshire: Airlife Publishing, 2003. .
They then recorded Schafer talking about the game and turned it into little snippets assigned to those plot points.
The party won 28 seats, while the NDP won 30 seats.
References

1874 births
1945 deaths
Councillors in Newcastle upon Tyne
Trade unionists from Newcastle upon Tyne
Labour Party (UK) MPs for English constituencies
Politicians from Newcastle upon Tyne
UK MPs 1924–1929
Labour Party (UK) councillors
United Society of Boilermakers-sponsored MPs
It is the only private land within the Harriman State Park.
Results

The race took place on Sunday, 6 December, with Division A scheduled in the afternoon session, at 17:17, and Division B scheduled in the evening session, at 18:39.
Received 384 votes, finishing last in a field of six candidates.
These names have also been carried forward due to ignorance about the meanings of these names, and also about 22 Shrutis.
McConnell called this recovery process "a chain of miracles" since "if any of the links had not held up, we would have had very little to work with at all."
However, it still maintained a great cultural diversity as its new inhabitants arrived from the different parts of the South Asia.
Outcome

McConnell noted that the one element that he and his team did not get "so perfectly" in the original release was the film noir orchestral part and that that was what they were "really able to do in a big way" with the remastering work.
It grows as a terrestrial plant in damp, sandy soils over sandstone rocks at altitudes from  to  and flowers between January and June in its native range.
"Sino-Caucasian Languages in America."
He was ordained in 1598 and martyred in 1612.
The 3rd line shows the Shrutis 'in-between the 7 notes' as bold and underlined,

Bharata's Natya Shastra states in Chapter 28, Shloka 24 that S' is situated on the 4th shruti (after n1), M1 is situated on the 4th Shruti (after g1), P is situated on the 4th Shruti (after M1), R1 is situated on the 3rd Shruti (after S', the cycle repeats from the beginning), D1 is situated on the 3rd Shruti (after P), g1 is situated on the 2nd Shruti (after R1), and n1 is situated on the 2nd Shruti (after D1).
Identification of a shruti, distinct from nada 

In performance, notes identified as one of the 12 universal pitch classes of Chromatic scale (swara-prakara) are the shrutis, and connected unidentified notes between them are nadas.
The first post office in Rockland County was established at New Antrim, now Suffern, on October 4, 1797.
The hypothesis is supported by the Afroasiatic terms for early livestock and crops in Anatolia and Iran, but would then imply that branches other than Semitic developed outside of the proposed homeland.
2014 Oliver Beer : topologies singulières, 02 magazine, text by Ingrid Luquet-Gad
 2013 Oliver Beer, cahier de résidence.
Post 1970s–present
The 1980s and '90s also saw an influx of Afghan refugees from the Soviet–Afghan War into Karachi, and the city.
2017 was the fourth consecutive year that Earth's rotation has slowed.
History
The Foreign Intelligence Committee was established in 1882 and it evolved into the Naval Intelligence Department in 1887.
See also

 Houston Astros award winners and league leaders
 List of Major League Baseball managers by wins

References

External links

Art Howe at Astros Daily
Art Howe at Ultimate Mets Database

1946 births
Living people
Major League Baseball third basemen
Major League Baseball second basemen
Pittsburgh Pirates players
Houston Astros players
St. Louis Cardinals players
Houston Astros managers
Oakland Athletics managers
New York Mets managers
Caribbean Series managers
Major League Baseball bench coaches
Major League Baseball hitting coaches
Baseball players from Pittsburgh
Charleston Charlies players
Texas Rangers coaches
Colorado Rockies (baseball) coaches
Los Angeles Dodgers scouts
Wyoming Cowboys baseball players
Sportspeople from Pittsburgh
Governance
In 1885, TMAG became a Government authority under the control of a Board of Trustees that also controlled the Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens.
Albums
Veena group has released various albums since its inception centered mainly on Rajasthani culture and traditions.
Google Earth censors places that may be of special security concern.
Tappan, 300 Years, 1686–1986 Tappantown Historical Society, (1989)
 Watts, Gardner F., A short history of Suffern and the Ramapaugh area: With emphasis on Revolutionary days and ways (Rockland County bicentennial publication) (1972)
 Zimmerman, Linda., Rockland County: Century of History
 Zimmerman, Linda., Rockland County Scrapbook Published by Eagle Press, 2004
 American Revolution Bicentennial Committee of Sloatsburg: Bicentennial History of Sloatsburg, New York 1776–1976,
 America's Bicentennial, 1776–1976, Haverstraw Commemorative Edition.
See Manchester Metropolitan University, http://e-space.mmu.ac.uk/view/creators/Colton=3ADavid,_G=3A=3A.html

More generally, art exploring the application of chance or randomness in its expression is referred to as aleatoricism, and at least one academic, Richard Hoadley, a faculty member in Music and Performing Arts at Anglia Ruskin University in the United Kingdom, refers to the writings of Cockcroft/Rhinehart in their teaching on aleatoricism in art.
The PDSI gained only 1.6% of votes in the general election of the same year and Antonio Colonna di Cesarò took part to the Aventine Secession.
Captain Osmond Brock, May, 1907 – March, 1909 
 Captain Arthur R. Hulbert, March, 1909 – October, 1909 .
The village that grew out of this settlement was known as Kolachi-jo-Goth (The Village of Kolachi in Sindhi).
Son of the painter Benedetto Gennari and Giulia Bovi, his baptism is recorded in the collegiate church of San Biagio in Cento, Io Ercole Dondini Arciprete etc.
EMST aims at developing, within the next few years, a core collection of works representative of the basic directions of contemporary art.
It was also nominated for the Academy of Interactive Arts & Sciences' "Outstanding Achievement in Sound and Music".
If M is taken as S, R’ becomes D2, coming at 168.75, a ratio of 27/16.
Wine is a complex mixture of chemical compounds in a hydro-alcoholic solution with a pH around 4.
In 2000, Lennartsson joined Viking for a second spell.
2014.
On November 23, 2006, the Saskatchewan Party tried to make a political issue about the provincial government trying to reclaim money from tobacco companies for the additional strain smokers placed on the health care system.
Mela system

By the time Venkatamakhin formulated the melakarta ("mela") system, the grama system was no longer in use.
In 1998, Vitaly V. Shevoroshkin rejected the Amerind affinity of the Almosan (Algonquian-Wakashan) languages, suggesting instead that they had a relationship with Dené–Caucasian.
List of Wings tours
Wings University Tour – 11 shows in the UK, 1972
Wings Over Europe Tour – 26 shows throughout Europe, 1972
Wings 1973 UK Tour – 21 shows in the UK, 1973
Wings Over the World tour – 66 shows over the world, 1975–1976
Wings UK Tour 1979 – 19 shows in the UK, 1979 + 1 show on 29 December 1979 (the last of the 4 Concerts for the People of Kampuchea)

Solo

Solo tours

Solo unique shows

Timeline members

Notes

References

 
Lists of concert tours
Especially given the disparate themes of Grim Fandango, McConnell kept the score cohesive by building it on a "backbone" of classic Max Steiner-style orchestral underscoring.
Cold War 
In the United Kingdom, during the Cold War period and shortly after, a number of military installations (including 'prohibited places') did not appear on commercially issued Ordnance Survey mapping.
Mostly heavy forest, boulders, swamps and streams.
The Freedom Party of Ontario is a political party in Ontario, Canada.
Tolstoy Foundation of Valley Cottage, New York, founded in 1939 by Alexandra Lvovna Tolstoy, youngest daughter of Leo Tolstoy.
The British, venturing and enterprising in South Asia opened a small factory here in September 1799, but it was closed down within a year because of disputes with the ruling Talpurs.
Fernão Mendes Pinto also claims that Sindhi sailors joined the Ottoman Admiral Kurtoğlu Hızır Reis on his voyage to Aceh.
In the decades that followed, the county became a maturely developed suburb of New York City.
After three seasons, he was hired by his old team, the Astros, as manager for 1989, succeeding Hal Lanier.
In 1987, Judith was enrolled at the Creative Growth Art Center in Oakland, California which supports people with developmental disabilities.
Tremors were felt as far away as in Yangon, Myanmar.
Why performance analysis never gives true values for 22 Shrutis 

Some suggest that the best way to find the exact positions of shrutis is by analyzing the frequencies players use in actual performances.
Sino-Tibetan: A Conspectus: 103ff; Ed.
Artists include The Eyeliners, Girl in a Coma, the Cute Lepers, the Dollyrots, The Vacancies, Fea, Jackknife Stiletto, L7, and Joan Jett & the Blackhearts.
"Prof" Smith was named principal.
Hakawati
The art of story telling was for a long time part of the cultural life in Arabic speaking countries of the Middle East.
5 1st pl.. 
6 Tlingit xa , Eyak -, .
Only months later the band released Horns of Ammon, an album of songs recorded with Carol Sandin, primarily dating back to 2003-2005, released on Homeskool Records; it included the single "Monster", as well as the biker anthem "HAWG!!!
History
Six of Jett's Top 40 hits were released on Blackheart Records.
It also coincided with Tim Schafer's brother having brought one such instrument from a trip to Mexico.
Lashi (, endonym Lacid) is a Burmish language.
Distribution
There are conflicting reports about the size of the Lashi population.
Gallery

References 

Covered bridges on the National Register of Historic Places in Pennsylvania
Covered bridges in Pennsylvania
Covered bridges in Franklin County, Pennsylvania
Bridges completed in 1849
Wooden bridges in Pennsylvania
Bridges in Franklin County, Pennsylvania
Road bridges in Pennsylvania
1849 establishments in Pennsylvania
National Register of Historic Places in Franklin County, Pennsylvania
Road bridges on the National Register of Historic Places in Pennsylvania
Lattice truss bridges in the United States
If outweighed by the Bible, she must be a witch beyond any doubt, and must suffer accordingly.
He was granted a civil list pension of 20 000 Krone, but because of the growing inflation and anyway being not wealthy he had soon a very bad financial situation.
At the urging of his parents, he and his younger sister Erinn began to learn fencing at the Peter Westbrook Foundation, whose founder, Olympic sabre bronze-medalist Peter Westbrook, was his mentor.
players
English Football League players
Association football wingers
Is involved in the Family Life Foundation.
2".
The Georgia Tech Center for Music Technology (GTCMT) is an interdisciplinary research center housed at Georgia Institute of Technology College of Design.
Party secretaries must be at least five years old.
He voted for the Progressive Conservative Party in the 1995 general election, and subsequently argued that the PCs more closely approximated his views than did the other major parties (Globe and Mail, 8 August 1997).
His tenure at the head of the army saw increasing German control over Austro-Hungarian forces and reduced independence of action, but also a number of notable victories in the spring and summer of 1917, including the clearing of Galicia and the Bukovina, as well as the breakthrough at Flitsch Tolmein and the great victory at Caporetto later in the year.
Since 1967, most critics have theorized the existence of three "branches" of Palestinian literature, loosely divided by geographic location: 1) from inside Israel, 2) from the occupied territories, 3) from among the Palestinian diaspora throughout the Middle East.
Critical reception

The soundtrack was very well received at its original release, and it continued to receive praise years after, often considered one of the best game soundtracks of all time.
However, it was with Grim Fandango that the relationship between the two became very close and set the stage for numerous subsequent collaborations, with McConnell becoming Schafer's "go-to man".
Dutch – North of Nanuet, South of Spring Valley
 Kakiat (Hackyackawet) - East of Mechanicsville/Viola, West of New City.
St. Paul's Episcopal Church – 26 South Madison Ave  in Spring Valley was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 2008.
Brown.
After wartime service in intelligence, he supported Winston Churchill's attempt to bring European unity and then became a stockbroker.
A collection of proverbs, essays, cartoons, poems, scenes from movies and more form this guide to creating a more playful and unpredictable life.
Commonly sampled elements include strings, basslines, drum loops, vocal hooks, or entire bars of music, especially from soul records.
Ultimately, the general manager of the club, Omar Minaya, replaced Howe with Willie Randolph, bench coach for the New York Yankees.
The shruti table below shows the mathematical ratios considered to correspond to the system described by Bharata and Dattilam, along with the comparable notes in common Western 12-TET tuning.
Cast in Deathless Bronze: Andrew Rowan, the Spanish–American War, and the Origins of American Empire.
In order to fend off these six separate invasions, Arz, now fighting on his home turf, ordered the 71st Infantry Division and 141st and 142nd Brigades to the sector.
Cockroft died in November 2020.
The same poll asked respondents if they linked the Saskatchewan Party with the Progressive Conservative Party of Saskatchewan.
"A response to Alexander Vovin's criticism of the Sino-Caucasian theory."
The reader is put in the place of a participant, in order to vicariously "experience" the training.
players
Örebro SK managers
IK Start managers
Bristol City F.C.
Earth rotates eastward, in prograde motion.
7 Masculine verb prefix.
The reconstruction of Proto-Afroasiatic is problematic and remains largely lacking.
Three Little Wolves (1936)
Toby Tortoise Returns (1936)
Water Babies (1935)

Linking clips reused from: Three Little Pigs (1933)

Vol.
Poet Mourid Barghouti for example, has often said that "poetry is not a civil servant, it's not a soldier, it's in nobody's employ."
This suffix may therefore be shared among a larger group, possibly Dené–Caucasian as a whole.
Compare  with satellite image

See also
Cartographic aggression
Cartographic generalization
Cartographic propaganda
Omission of Taiwan from maps of China
Omission of Tasmania from maps of Australia
Paper street
Phantom island
Phantom settlement
Restrictions on geographic data in China
Satellite map images with missing or unclear data

References

Sources 
 
 
 

Censorship
Cartography
Propaganda
"Dene–Caucasian: A New Linguistic Family," in The Origins and Past of Modern Humans—Towards Reconciliation, ed.
There are other proposed cognate sets:

"six": Egyptian , Proto-Semitic , Berber (Tamazight) .
Morris was one of the founders of Georgetown Law in 1870, alongside Charles W. Hoffman, Hubley Ashton, and Charles James.
In 1998 its electoral performance improved, as it received 1.2% of the national vote and winning its first seat.
North of Haverstraw Village, South of Bensons Corners.
The remaining 2 notes, namely the Fundamental frequency (Shadja) and the perfect 5th (Panchama) have a 'single point' on which they are placed on the string by nature.
This scale is close to the current version of the Kafi (raga).
She has been known as Maru-Kokila (The Desert Cuckoo).
The population of the city was about 105,000 inhabitants by the end of the 19th century, with a cosmopolitan mix of Muslims, Hindus, Europeans, Jews, Parsis, Iranians, Lebanese, and Goans.
He has taught at Minneapolis College of Art and Design in Minneapolis, Maryland Institute College of Art in Baltimore, the University of the Arts in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and Parsons School of Design in New York City.
Greek artists and galleries have granted to the museum archives related to contemporary Greek art, after an invitation by EMST.
Smart graduated from Brooklyn Technical High School in 1996.
Its remastering kept the soul of the game intact while polishing what needed to be polished: the graphics, animation, controls, and most importantly, the music."
The township was organized in 1842 in the northwest corner of Ingham County and was named after the hometown of one of the township's original settlers.
Marta Andrade Vidal (born 17 May 1972) is a Spanish former competitive figure skater.
The Agricultural Labour Action Party () is a political party in Costa Rica.
She also posits a temporal distinction between literature produced before 1948 and that produced thereafter.
More of Disney's Best: 1932-1946 (1984)
Three Little Pigs (1933)
Brave Little Tailor (1938)
The Old Mill (1937)
Donald's Crime (1945)
The Tortoise and the Hare (1935)
Squatter's Rights (1946)

Sport Goofy's Vacation (1984)
Two Weeks Vacation (1952)
Father's Lion (1952)
Foul Hunting (1947)
How to Fish (1942)
Tiger Trouble (1945)
Aquamania (1961)

Donald Duck's First 50 Years (1984)
The Wise Little Hen (1934)
Donald and Pluto (1936)
Don Donald (1937)
Donald's Nephews (1938)
Donald's Double Trouble (1946)
Rugged Bear (1953)

Mickey's Crazy Careers (1984)
Mickey's Fire Brigade (1935)
The Band Concert (1935)
The Mail Pilot (1933)
Magician Mickey (1937)
Clock Cleaners (1937)
Tugboat Mickey (1940)

The Continuing Adventures of Chip 'N' Dale Featuring Donald Duck (1985)
All in a Nutshell (1949)
Test Pilot Donald (1951)
Modern Inventions (1937)
Food for Feudin' (1950)
Old Sequoia (1945)
The Flying Jalopy (1943)
Toy Tinkers (1949)

Disney's Tall Tales (1985)
Casey at the Bat (1946)
The Saga of Windwagon Smith (1961)
A Cowboy Needs a Horse (1956)
The Golden Touch (1935)
The Brave Engineer (1950)
The Big Bad Wolf (1934)

Silly Symphonies: Fanciful Fables (1986)
The Merry Dwarfs (1929)
Playful Pan (1930)
Babes in the Woods (1932)
Father Noah's Ark (1933)
The Goddess of Spring (1934)
Little Hiawatha (1937)

Silly Symphonies: Animal Tales (1986)
Monkey Melodies (1930)
The Spider and the Fly (1931)
Peculiar Penguins (1934)
Cock o' the Walk (1935)
More Kittens (1936)
Elmer Elephant (1936)

Limited Gold Editions
In 1984 and 1985, the "Limited Gold Editions" I and II came out with a historical introduction documentary to each video, like the first series, the second series had six or seven cartoons, but with the exceptions of "How the Best Was Won: 1933-1960", which had five cartoons, and "Disney's Best: The Fabulous '50s", which had four cartoons.
Years after its original release, the soundtrack has also been included in lists of all-time best video game soundtracks.
In the 2020 provincial election, the Saskatchewan Party under Moe was re-elected to its fourth majority government.
"Review of R.L.
Smeltzer-Stevenot, Marjorie., Footprints in the Ramapos: Life in the Mountains Before the State Parks
 Stalter Elizabeth., Doodletown: Hiking through history in a vanished hamlet on the Hudson
 Talman, Wilfred Blanch., How things began in Rockland and places nearby
 Talman, Wilfred Blanch., Fabend, Firth Haring Ed.
The Joyas del Pescador are exhibited in the Museo Baluarte de Santiago since 1991, which have remained until this day as a permanent exhibition.
Earth's rotation or Earth's spin is the rotation of planet Earth around its own axis, as well as changes in the orientation of the rotation axis in space.
The VOC persuaded the Dutch government to prohibit the publication of this latest geographical information.
10: Starring Pluto & Fifi
Pluto's Quin-Puplets (1937)
Society Dog Show (1939)
Pluto's Blue Note (1947)

Linking clips reused from: Pluto's Heart Throb (1950), Canine Casanova (1945)

Special Edition
Mickey's Trailer (1938)
Mickey and the Seal (1948)
Bubble Bee (1949)
All in a Nutshell (1949)

Linking clips reused from: The Pointer (1939), Mr.
In From Neanderthal to Easter Island (Festschrift W. W. Schuhmacher), ed.
Weighing more than the Bible, the committee released her.
At the previous election, Camberwell North had produced a Conservative majority of 765, almost as small as at Blaydon.
At one point, two governments were active, one on each side of the Ramapo Mountains, so Rockland split off from Orange in 1798 to form its own county.
Chief financial officer was Paul Blair, another Freedom Party candidate.
The U.S. Army 1776–1899, An Historical Sketch.
Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz.
Communist Party Congress could refer to:

Ruling or former ruling communist parties
 Congress of the Socialist Unity Party of Germany
 National Congress of the Communist Party of Vietnam
 National Congress of the Communist Party of China
 Congress of the Romanian Communist Party
 Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union
 Congresses of the Communist Party of Lithuania

Non-ruling communist party congresses
 Congresses of the Communist Party of Brazil
Unlike the grama system, the mela system uses the same starting swara.
The Men of Cajamarca has both individual biographies of those who shared in the treasure, as well as a thorough analysis of the general social patterns of those conquerors.
In 2000, Dove criticized bankers for many of the world's ills.
Sino-Tibetan
1.4.
Biography
Born in Ottawa, Illinois, Wagner graduated from West Point in 1875 near the bottom of his class with a commission in the infantry.
On May 5, 1783, General George Washington received the British Commander, Sir Guy Carleton, at the 1700 DeWint House to discuss the terms of the peace treaty.
Townend has led worship and performed events across the world at many conferences and festivals, including the Stoneleigh Bible Week in the early 1990s to the early 2000s, Keswick Convention, Spring Harvest, and more.
She was internationally renowned for her art.
Selected  become , (innumerable), which provide a musical experience.
Together, these events helped propel her to worldwide recognition.
The museum moved to Harrington St in 1852, where it paid £60 a year in rent for a hall there.
In October 1931, when the general election was already underway, he was adopted as Conservative Party candidate for the constituency of Blaydon in County Durham; the seat had a Labour majority of 13,374 and was thought absolutely safe.
It initially sold poorly in the United States, but well in Europe, particularly England, Sweden, Denmark, and Spain.
It also described "Lost Souls' Alliance", with its rhythmic arrangement and the use of an Andean flute, as evoking a feel of Hispanic music, with the tremolo baritone guitar reminiscent of the Western: "a little 'rockabilly ballad' that makes us travel instantly to this corner of the planet and to that period, at the beginning of the twentieth century."
It showed them in a short boat hanging out by the water canals in Amsterdam and was accompanied by the comment "I live for days like this!"
In 1986, the "Limited Gold Editions I" was released on VHS in the United Kingdom, and laserdisc only in Japan, CAV, and bilingual.
", previously released as a single through the extremely limited-edition Grey Ghost series in Houston.
During the 1994–95 Dominican Winter League season, Howe led the Azucareros del Este to their first championship.
In that occasion the PDSI, that was especially strong in Southern Italy, gained 10.9% of the vote and 60 seats in the Chamber of Deputies.
The 7 notes are in bold.
It is highly significant that Matanga arrives at the conclusion that Swara is manifested through the Shrutis and that Swaras are separated by each other by bands of Shrutis.
In 1878, he was commissioned with the rank Leutnant.
It is also known as Ana, Ana-Ifé, Anago, Baate and Ede Ife.
After his surgery, his friend and co-producer Albin Nedler visited him at the hospital.
but of 'can I get away with sampling this?'.
List of additives permitted for use in the production of wine under European Union law:

Others 
 Melatonin
 Wine lactone
 Anthocyanone A, a degradation product of malvidin under acidic conditions

Wine faults 

A wine fault or defect is an unpleasant characteristic of a wine often resulting from poor winemaking practices or storage conditions, and leading to wine spoilage.
Azcona invited dozens of relatives of Republicans who were shot, persecuted or disappeared during the Spanish Civil War.
During President Muhammad Zia-ul-Haq's martial law, Karachi saw relative peace and prosperity, specially during the 3 years of Major General Mahmood Aslam Hayat, as Deputy Martial Law Administrator Karachi from 1977 to 1980.
(Languages of the World, Materials, 204) München: LINCOM Europa
VAJDA, Edward J.
See also
New Philology
Historiography of Colonial Spanish America

References

External links

Scholar profile of James Lockhart at the Virtual Mesoamerican Archive
UCLA obituary

Historians of Mexico
American Mesoamericanists
Historians of Mesoamerica
Historians of Peru
Aztec scholars
Translators from Nahuatl
20th-century Mesoamericanists
21st-century Mesoamericanists
Historians of Latin America
Latin Americanists
Linguists
Social historians
Writers from Huntington, West Virginia
1933 births
2014 deaths
University of Wisconsin–Madison alumni
University of Texas faculty
University of California, Los Angeles faculty
Institute for Advanced Study visiting scholars
20th-century translators
21st-century translators
Historians from California
Two hundred years later, the Admiralty's instructions to Captain Cook were almost identical.
Shrutis in Shadja Grama

The basic Indian Scale was called as Shadja Grama in Bharata's Natya Shastra.
Linn said: "It was a very pleasant surprise.
The winner was Barry Devolin of the Conservative Party of Canada.
In 1971, co-founded sandal manufacturer Grendene with his brother, Pedro Grendene Bartelle.
4: Silly Symphonies!
These rules were relaxed as younger producers took over: "For many producers today it is no longer a case of 'should I sample this?'
Henry Hunter won and was awarded the contract to design a permanent building for the museum.
Ran again for the Canada Party in Hamilton East in a 1996 by-election, and finished twelfth in a field of thirteen candidates with 52 votes.
Until the Museum building will have been completed and will be able to open its doors to the public, the permanent collections (both historical and contemporary) are presented in periodical exhibitions with selections of thematic and conceptual nuclei or artistic tendencies.
In the southeast, it is bounded by Oras, to the south by San Policarpo.
STAROSTIN, Sergei A., 2002.
The ratio of P thus becomes 150/100.
left by Garrix.
A founding member of the Montgomery Tavern Society.
Grammar
It has been proposed that Proto-Afroasiatic had marked nominative case marking, where the subject was overtly marked for nominative case, while the object appeared in unmarked default case.
The Romanian Campaign

With the threatened entry of Romania into the war on the Allied side, Arz was reassigned from the 6th Corps and appointed to command the newly reorganised 1st Army on 16 August 1916.
Recreating samples 
To circumvent legal problems, producers may recreate a recording rather than sample it.
The slow progress in the reconstruction of Proto-Na-Dené, so that Haida and Athabaskan–Eyak–Tlingit have so far mostly been considered separately.
In 1838 Calvin Tomkins and his brother Daniel purchased approximately  of land, located in a cove north of the Stony Point promontory, limestone was found in usable quantities suitable for burning along the river shore for the purpose of making lime.
The main highways are:

Greek National Road 5/E55, S, Cen., W
Greek National Road 21, W
Greek National Road 30, Cen., E

Sporting teams

Anagennisi Artas

People

 Pyrrhus (318 BC-272 BC) general and king of Epirus
 Epicrates of Ambracia, 4th BC comic poet
 Silanus of Ambracia
 Epigonus of Ambracia 6th-5th BC musician
 Georgios Karaiskakis Years of service 1796 - 1827 Rank - General, Battles/wars Greek War of Independence
 Maximus the Greek (c. 1475-1556) publicist, writer, scholar, humanist and translator
 Napoleon Zervas (1891–1957)
 Theodoros Tzinis
 Nikolaos Skoufas
 Yannis Makriyannis
 Kostas Kristallis poet
 Yiannis Moralis (1916) painter
 Antonios Nikopolidis (1971) footballer
 Yannis Anastasiou (1973) footballer
 Nikos Rizos (1924 - April 20, 1999), actor

See also
List of settlements in the Arta regional unit

References

External links
https://web.archive.org/web/20040602225531/http://www.culture.gr/maps/ipiros/arta/arta.html

 
Prefectures of Greece
Regional units in Epirus (region)
Musical Initiatives 
GTCMT is home for a number of artistic and musical initiatives:
 The Margaret Guthman Musical Instrument Competition - an annual event focusing on identifying the world’s best new ideas in musical instrument design, engineering, and performance.
Mauritanian Regroupment Party (PRM, French Parti de Regroupement Mauritanien; Arabic: حزب التجمع الموريتاني ) was a political party in Mauritania from 1958 to 1961.
Horizontal arrows indicate an Interval ratio of 100:150.
That same year, the county seat was transferred from Tappan to New City, where a new courthouse was built.
Some sources state that Earth's equatorial speed is slightly less, or .
The tales of the hakawati, once told for all ages, are now sometimes emerging from the Palestinian diaspora as children's books.
British Major John André met with American traitor Benedict Arnold near Stony Point to buy the plans for the fortifications at West Point.
The Mechanics' Institution of Hobart, Van Diemen's Land Agricultural Society and Van Diemen's Land Scientific Society had each attempted to found a museum earlier than this date, the most successful of these being the Mechanics' Institution, but little record remains of what happened to these efforts.
Nortorf: Völkerkundliche Arbeitsgemeinschaft.
Other facilities
In addition to the main campus, TMAG includes three external sites: a herbarium, a storage and research facility, and the Moonah Workshop.
He participated on the Gorlice–Tarnów Offensive in 1915 and the countryside of Romania in 1916.
In 2019, celebrating the 20th anniversary of the original release of the game, the soundtrack was released for the first time in vinyl format.
Also opposed bilingualism and political correctness.
He acknowledged the contribution of the Pythagoreans and pointed to examples of relative motion.
In algebra, an Artin algebra is an algebra Λ over a commutative Artin ring R that is a finitely generated R-module.
Emmanuel Carrère, writing for The Guardian, presented a long-form expose on Cockcroft and the relationship between author and legend in 2019, and in following others, established the author Cockcroft as a life-long English professor living "in an old farmhouse with a yard that slopes down to a duck pond", a husband of fifty-years, father of three, and a caregiver to a special needs child.
The Saskatchewan Party served as the province's Official Opposition until the provincial election on November 7, 2007.
by N. A. Kirk & P. J. Sidwell.
Transport

As one of the first completed sections of the future Ionia Odos linking Ioannina with Patras and Kalamata, the motorway bypass of the GR-5 around Arta was opened in 1997.
2004.
23.
The company harvested thousands of tons of ice from the lake each year and once harvested 1 million tons of ice.
Support Staff 
 Ben Crossman is the Host of The Show!
Many countries sought to emulate Pakistan's economic planning strategy and one of them, South Korea, copied the city's second "Five-Year Plan" and World Financial Centre in Seoul is designed and modeled after Karachi.
(1995)
Topolino Amore Mio (Mickey Be Mine) (1996)
Topolino e Minnie Innamorati (Mickey Loves Minnie) (1998)
I capolavori di Topolino (Mickeys Greatest Hits) (1998)
I capolavori di Qui Quo Qua (Huey, Dewey and Louie's Greatest Hits) (1998)
I capolavori di Pluto (Pluto's Greatest Hits) (1998)
I capolavori di Paperino (Donald's Greatest Hits) (1998)
I capolavori di Minni (Minnie's Greatest Hits) (1998)
I capolavori di Pippo (Goofy's Greatest Hits) (1998)

France
Les Aventures de Pluto (1980)
Mickey, Donald, Pluto et Dingo en Vacances (1980)
Contes et Legendes de Jiminy Cricket (1980)
La Joyeuse Menagerie (1980)
Bon Anniversaire Donald (1984)
Si Disney m'etait Conte (1985)
Donald et Dingo allias Goofy Champions Olympiques (1985)
Donald Vedette de Television (1985)
Sport Goofy Joue et Gagne (1985)
Silly Symphonies Volume 1 (1985)
Silly Symphonies Volume 2 (1985)
Les Nouvelles Aventures de Pluto (1986)
Les Aventures de Tic et Tac (1986)
Goofy Fait le Fou (1986)
Donald et Dingo au Far-West (1986)
Les Aventures de Mickey et Minnie (The Adventures of Mickey and Minnie) (1988)
Disney Parade 6 (1988)
Disney Festival (1988)
Tic et Tac (Chip' n' Dale) (1994)
Une Cervelle D'oiseau (1994)
Les Folles Vacances de Mickey (1996)

United Kingdom
Celebrate with Mickey (August 23, 1994)
Donald's Birthday Bash (August 23, 1994)
Frontier Pluto (August 23, 1994)

Japan
Disney Cartoon Festival 1 (April 21, 1985)
Fun and Fancy Free (April 21, 1985)
Disney Cartoon Festival 2 (May 26, 1985)
Disney Cartoon Festival 3 (July 21, 1985)
The Academy Award Review Of Walt Disney Cartoons (June 21, 1985)
Donald Duck Goes West (July 21, 1985)
The Hunting Instinct (August 26, 1985)
Make Mine Music (October 21, 1985)
Merry Christmas (December 16, 1985)
Winnie the Pooh and a Day for Eeyore and Other Stories (March 25, 1986)
Donald Duck's 50 Crazy Years (April 25, 1986)
Milestones For Mickey (May 25, 1986)
Mickey: Limited Gold Edition (June 25, 1986)
Minnie: Limited Gold Edition (June 25, 1986)
Goin' Quackers (June 25, 1986)
Donald: Limited Gold Edition (July 25, 1986)
Daisy: Limited Gold Edition (July 25, 1986)
Scary Tales (July 25, 1986)
Once Upon a Mouse and Other Mousetime Stories (August 25, 1986)
The Fabulous 50s: Limited Gold Edition (August 25, 1986)
Silly Symphonies: Limited Gold Edition (August 25, 1986)
Pluto: Limited Gold Edition (September 25, 1986)
Donald Duck and His Duckling Gang (October 25, 1986)
Donald's Golden Jubilee (November 25, 1986)
Let's Relax (December 25, 1986)
Melody Time (January 25, 1987)

References 

Disney-related lists
Short film compilations
Home video lines
Disney home video releases
Early competitors included the E-mu Emulator and the Akai S950.
A sequel is to be published entitled The Hairy Balls and the End of Civilization.
Henry Honychurch Gorringe (August 11, 1841 – July 7, 1885) was a United States naval officer who attained national acclaim for successfully completing the removal of Cleopatra's needle from Alexandria, Egypt to Central Park, New York City.
As the number of databases that seek to disseminate information about the structure, development and function of the brain has grown, so has the need to collate these resources themselves.
His father, Albert Arz von Straußenburg, served as an evangelical preacher and curate as well as a member of the House of Magnates.
References

Houses on the National Register of Historic Places in Indiana
Second Empire architecture in Indiana
Houses completed in 1882
Buildings and structures in Wells County, Indiana
National Register of Historic Places in Wells County, Indiana
Early Sports

Transportation during the earlier years

Stagecoach

Roads were primitive and transporting products from the western end of the county to the Hudson River was very difficult.
"Edward Sapir and the 'Sino-Dene' Hypothesis."
Arthur Henry Howe Jr. (born December 15, 1946) is an American former professional baseball infielder, coach, scout, and manager, who appeared as a player in Major League Baseball (MLB) for the Pittsburgh Pirates (–), Houston Astros (–), and St. Louis Cardinals (–).
Winners and nominees

1990s

2000s

2010s

2020s

See also
 Laurence Olivier Award for Best Set Design
 Tony Award for Best Scenic Design

References

External links
 Drama Desk official website

Set Design
Remastered soundtrack

Background and context

McConnell had made the most of the resources he had for the score's original production, which meant devoting more of them where they could make the greatest impact while cutting corners in other areas.
Latitude is a placement consideration for spaceports.
2 (1981)
Pippo nel pallone (1985)
L'apprendista stregone (1987)
Disney Adventures (1988)
Paperino Pippo Pluto e ... (1988)
Le Radici di Pippo (1988)
Topolino & Soci (1989)
Sono io...Topolino (1990)
Sono io...Paperino (1990)
Sono io...Pippo (1990)
Sono io...Pluto (1990)
Topolino Superstar (1991)
Paperino Superstar (1991)
Pippo Superstar (1991)
Pippo star delle olimpiadi (1992)
Pippo Superdetective (Inspector Goofy) (1994)
Paperino Guai in Vista (Birdbrain Donald) (1994)
Pippo Star dei Mondali (Sport Goofy Soccermania)  (1994)
Paperino 60 Anni in Allegria (Donald's Birthday Bash) (1994)
Topolino Lupo di Mare (Captain Mickey) (1994)
Topolino Apprendista Scalatore (Mountainer Mickey) (1994)
Paparino Disastri in Cuciana (Chef Donald) (1995)
Pluto Amico Quasi Perfetto (Paperboy Pluto) (1995)
Topolino Pesca Guai (Fisherman Mickey) (1995)
Pluto Aiutante Offresi (Pluto Cleans Up) (1995)
Io Paperino (That's Donald!)
Figure showing the Evolution of 22 Shrutis from Shadja (Fundamental) and their natural arrangement on a string

The sequentially placed 12 universal pitch classes in an Octave on the string, are represented in the above diagram by the Indian synonyms r, R, g, G, M, m, P, d, D, n, N, S'.
During the 2003 provincial election, the Saskatchewan Party campaigned on a platform of tax reduction and decreased government involvement in the private sector.
This change happens only at 22 points as placed by nature.
Is currently a provincial officer in the party, and a member of the national executive of the Freedom Party of Canada.
It was established 25 years ago, and has since been a pioneer in fostering Rajasthani music through its albums and various cultural programmes held across the state and abroad.
Acted as a foster father to 175 children over a twenty-year period.
It further lauded "the epic saxophone of 'She Sailed Away', the chord-less free jazz of 'Blue Casket Bop', or the menacing bari sax/bass clarinet duet of 'Rubacava'" as highlights of an overall outstanding score.
Captain F. C. Doveton Sturdee, January, 1900 – 16 October 1902.
Martin Van Buren – 8th President of the United States.
The archives are constituted by catalogues, books, exhibition invitations, audiovisual material, texts by artists, correspondence, critiques, reviews, reproductions of works and biographical data.
St. Peter's Catholic Church, 115 Broadway in the Village of Haverstraw is the first Catholic Church in Rockland County.
Oliver Beer (born 1985) is a British artist who lives and works in Kent and Paris.
Lima: Editorial Milla Batres, 1986).The Art of Nahuatl Speech: The Bancroft Dialogues (ed., with Frances Karttunen, Los Angeles: UCLA Latin American Center, 1987).Charles Gibson and the Ethnohistory of Post-conquest Central Mexico (Bundoora, Australia: LaTrobe University Institute of Latin American Studies, 1988).Nahuas and Spaniards: Postconquest Mexican History and Philology (Stanford: Stanford University Press; and Los Angeles: UCLA Latin American Center, 1991).The Nahuas after the Conquest: A Social and Cultural History of the Indians of Central Mexico, Sixteenth through Eighteenth Centuries (Stanford: Stanford Univ.
Lack of appreciation of this difference has led to many scientists to opine that because of the meend and the oscillating notes, it is hard to determine the exact numerical frequencies.
The pieces were then recovered and have become property of INAH.
Rockland remained semirural until the 1950s, when the Palisades Interstate Parkway, Tappan Zee Bridge, and other major arteries were built.
He wrote several books and papers on remedial education, testing, and reading; and served as a professor in Columbia University.
Ancient observations
There are recorded observations of solar and lunar eclipses by Babylonian and Chinese astronomers beginning in the 8th century BCE, as well as from the medieval Islamic world  and elsewhere.
; Tlingit i , Eyak  "thou".
They saw the war to the end including engagements in the Battle of the Weldon Railroad, Battle of Hatcher's Run, and the Appomattox Campaign.
Solo shows includeThe Landscape Between Time & Space in London in 2008, and The Patterns Found in Space in New York at Giant Robot in 2009.
Interviews 
The interviews typically run for the first hour of the program, with occasional half-hour interviews during the second hour.
Awards and rankings

In 1999's Academy of Interactive Arts & Sciences Annual Interactive Achievement Awards, the soundtrack was nominated in the category of "Outstanding Achievement in Sound and Music".
One South American record that was influential was a Peruvian-style record by Gustavo Santaolalla titled Ronrocco released at the time, that made heavy use of charangos.
Brad Wall (2004–2018) 
Brad Wall was acclaimed as the new party leader on March 15, 2004, after being the only declared candidate for the leadership.
So when the opportunity came to re-record with the MSO, McConnell tried to save time by planning the recording by breaking cues into smaller segments, recording those one at a time, and then put them back together like a puzzle.
The court ruled that permission was required for recognizable samples; modified, unrecognizable samples could still be used without authorisation.
It forms the scales by varying the intervals of the subsequent swaras, and does not specify a fixed interval for a swara in terms of shrutis.
Rather than fully develop each piece one at a time, his approach was to create a short sketch for each situation in the game of about fifteen seconds long and then move on as soon as he felt he had hit the target and gotten the gist of the mood.
Maria's Rock – Front lawn of Pfizer/Wyeth – (Lederle Laboratories), North Middletown Road in Pearl River – An 18th-century legend tells of a little girl named Maria who wandered from her home in nearby Tappan and died of hunger and exposure.
A featured speaker at conferences, Perry has been interviewed extensively about the issues of working as a freelance artist.
Puelche was a language formerly spoken by the Puelche people in the Pampas region of Argentina.
Karachi quickly turned into a city, making true the famous quote by Napier who is known to have said: Would that I could come again to see you in your grandeur!
Indeed, on the Romanian declaration of war on 27 August, the 1st 'Army' comprised a mere 10,000 men (half a division).
Willow Grove – Contains part of the former New York State Letchworth Village facility.
For Whom the Bulls Toil (1953)
Lion Down (1951)
A Knight for a Day (1946)

Linking clips reused from: A Gentleman's Gentleman (1941), Brave Little Tailor (1938)

Vol.
The National Museum of Contemporary Art (EMST Εθνικό Μουσείο Σύγχρονης Τέχνης (ΕΜΣΤ)), established in October 2000, is the sole national institution focused only on collecting and exhibiting contemporary Greek and international art in Athens.
Soon after, she was moved to a smaller state institution at Gallipolis, Ohio.
Cartoon Classics: Version One
The first 14 volumes, from 1983–1986, came with six or seven cartoons and ran from 30–60 minutes.
Letters and People of the Spanish Indies, Sixteenth Century (with Enrique Otte).
It remains in use, and he is sometimes called "The Great Pathfinder".
by W. S.-Y.
Martin was in the end beaten by nearly two to one, with a substantial majority of 5,777 against him.
First World War

The opening
At the outbreak of war in the Summer of 1914, Arz von Straussenburg requested a transfer to a field assignment and was again given command of the 15th infantry division, which participated in the closing stages of Komarów.
In 1888 he married Frederica Alice Lange.
Dancecult: Journal of Electronic Dance Music Culture 6(1): 97-122.
'Komal' is the 'flatter' variety of the note and the correct name for the 'sharper' version is 'Tara', not 'Shuddha'.
With Wings

The British–American rock band Wings was Paul McCartney's post-Beatles band who were active from 1971 to 1981.
Tuck's argument that Health Canada was mistaken in its ruling was thrown out of court.
Note that swara in a raga (1 single frequency), is different from swaraprakara (12 universal pitch classes of a chromatic scale with a range of different frequencies).
He studied at Universidade de Caxias do Sul, graduating with a bachelor's degree in Law.
The right-handed hitter appeared in 891 games over all or parts of 11 seasons, compiling a lifetime batting average of .260 with 43 home runs.
In 1964 he received a PhD in American literature, also from Columbia.
It is the second oldest high school of the DeKalb County School District, having opened in 1917.
The story playfully reveals and deconstructs the hypocrisy of government and modern politics.
The donation of the archives of Bia Davou and Pandelis Xagoraris by their son Zafos Xagoraris is exceptionally significant.
The major difference in the two systems is the way they combine shrutis and connect nadas, resulting in characteristically different music between the styles.
He had his first experience in composing jazz in his work for Monkey Island; a team of composers (Michael Land, Clint Bajakian, and McConnell) split their work by the several islands in which the story of the game was set, and within McConnell's island (named Booty), he experimented with clarinet sounds.
The forces of Muhammad bin Qasim defeated Raja Dahir in alliance with the Jats and other regional governors.
Consonants 
Puelche has 25 consonants:

It is not clear if there is a uvular ejective stop .
Tycho Brahe, who produced accurate observations on which Kepler based his laws of planetary motion, used Copernicus's work as the basis of a system assuming a stationary Earth.
.
History

Prior to 1917: Chamblee High School and Chamblee Elementary School were housed in a single building on the present site of the First Baptist Church of Chamblee.
Federal judicial service

Morris was nominated by President Grover Cleveland on April 14, 1893, to the Court of Appeals of the District of Columbia (now the United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit), to a new Associate Justice seat authorized by 27 Stat.
Astarte is a genus of bivalve mollusc in the Astartidae family.
Keeth Thomas Smart (born July 29, 1978) is a US sabre fencer who became the first American to gain the sport's top ranking for males.
Not to be confused with the Wayne Forbes, Project Manager from Sydney, Australia.
Cosmopolitan city (1970–1980)

During the 1960s, Karachi was seen as an economic role model around the world.
Catalog
!
Works
Among his works are Saint Thomas, formerly in the church of the Most Holy Rosary of Hundred and now in the Pinacoteca of the town.
Samples may be layered, equalized, sped up or slowed down, repitched, looped, or otherwise manipulated.
This objection was dismissed by the presiding judge.
These are (number as in the map in the infobox):
Arta (1)
Central Tzoumerka (Kentrika Tzoumerka, 3)
Georgios Karaiskakis (2)
Nikolaos Skoufas (4)

Prefecture

Arta was established as a prefecture in 1882 ().
In 2000, 2001 and 2002, the A's won 91, 102 and 103 games respectively and made the American League playoffs in each season.
End of the war
During the night of 2–3 November 1918, the Emperor relinquished command of the armed forces.
Hot Latin Track Of The Year

 "Nada Valgo Sin Tu Amor," Juanes (Surco/Universal Latino)

Hot Latin Track Of The Year, Vocal Duet
 "Duele El Amor," Aleks Syntek With Ana Torroja (EMI Latin)

Hot Latin Tracks Artist Of The Year 
 Paulina Rubio (Universal Latino)

Songwriter Of The Year
 Leonel Garcia

Producer Of The Year
  Rudy Perez

Latin Pop Album Of The Year, Male 
 "Mi Sangre," Juanes (Surco/Universal Latino)

Latin Pop Album Of The Year, Female 
 "Pau-Latina," Paulina Rubio (Universal Latino)

Latin Pop Album Of The Year, Duo Or Group 
 "Fuego," A.B.
Henry Young, Governor of Tasmania, laid the cornerstone in that year.
The work of Nathalie Handal  an award-winning poet, playwright, and writer appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines.
(with Frances Berdan and Arthur J.O.
New businesses started opening up and the population of the town began rising rapidly.
Of this, Rhinehart stated hat they had “ always conceived of myself as being multiple – having, you know, a dozen different selves, if not a thousand different selves, at any given moment.”

Adventures of Wim was an effort to create a new interpretation of the story of Wim, a Montauk boy born of a virgin mother, declared the savior of the Montauk nation, and his life quest for Ultimate Truth.
Despite this, former Liberal Krawetz was named as interim leader of the new party, and hence remained Leader of the Opposition.
8 Proto-Athabaskan -, Tlingit ÿi  > yi  = 2nd pl.
A shruti is the smallest gradation of pitch available, while a swara is the selected pitches from which the musician constructs the scales, melodies and ragas.
Some geneticists and archaeologists have argued for a back migration of proto-Afroasiatic speakers from Western Asia to Africa as early as the 10th millennium BC.
After the independence of Pakistan, the city population increased dramatically when hundreds of thousands of Muslim refugees from India fleeing from anti-Muslim pogroms and from other parts of South Asia came to settle in Karachi.
In the 2007 provincial election, he is a running  in the same riding as one of two candidates of the Republican Party of Ontario, which he founded.
Besides agriculture, boat building was one of the early industries until after the American Civil War.
Bohartilla is a genus of insects belonging to the monotypic family Bohartillidae.
The Sindh government is undertaking a massive upgrading of the city's infrastructure which promises to again put this heart of Sindh city of Karachi into the lineup of one of the world's greatest metropolitan cities.
However, it did not result in a formal merger between the two parties.
However, measurements by Maupertuis and the French Geodesic Mission in the 1730s established the oblateness of Earth, thus confirming the positions of both Newton and Copernicus.
The village was later annexed to the British Indian Empire when the Sindh was conquered by Charles Napier in 1843.
Career
Born in Lucknow, India, in 1939, Thorpe began his career in non-league football with Ossett Albion in 1957, before signing for Scunthorpe United in September 1960 as a 21-year-old.
References

Further reading
 Balaskovitz, Andy.
In 2005, Cross Rhythms magazine described Townend as "one of the most significant songwriters in the whole international Christian music field".
He formulates jatis, which are classes of melodic structures.
Sino-Vasconic languages [7,900 BCE]
1.2.1.
Previous candidacies:

1995 Ontario general election, Perth, 427, fourth of five candidates (winner: Bert Johnson, Progressive Conservative Party of Ontario)
1999 Ontario general election, Perth—Middlesex, 521 votes, fifth out of five candidates (winner: Bert Johnson, Progressive Conservative)

Trueman Tuck (Prince Edward—Hastings)
Tuck is a self-described "non-lawyer legal consultant", who owns a consultation firm in Belleville, Ontario called Tuck's Professional Services.
As of March 2016, the label is also a member of Phonographic Performance Limited.
WhoSampled cites James Brown as the most sampled artist, appearing in more than 3000 tracks.
Supports a change in Ontario law, allowing greater access to adoption information by children and parents.
Ideology
The party was strongly nationalistic, and opposed the inclusion of Mauritania into either a Greater Morocco, or any other form of federation, rejecting a proposal by France for a federation uniting all of its Saharan African territories into a Common Saharan States Organization.
"A Final (?)
However, in 1997, a confidential discussion of such an idea at a Liberal caucus meeting was shouted down by MLA Gerard Aldridge.
Supports the full legalization of drugs, and once compared Canadian former cabinet minister Allan Rock to Deng Xiaoping for his refusal to consider an end to Canada's prohibition laws.
Sino-Caucasian [comparative phonology] & Sino-Caucasian [comparative glossary].
The reference further mentions in further sequence; Dayavati/ Ranjani/Raktika as shrutis for Rishabha, Roudri/Krodha for Gandhara, Vajrika/ Prasarini/Priti/Marjani for Madhyama, Kshiti/Rakta/Sandipani/Alapini for Panchama, Madanti/Rohini/Ramya for Dhaivata, and Ugra/Kshobhini for Nishada.
The connection first happened when Special Projects Manager of the orchestra Andrew Pogson reached out to McConnell in early 2013 to do a pops concert performance of Grim Fandango.
Programs

Results 
GP: Champions Series (Grand Prix)

References

 Skatabase: 1990s Worlds
 Skatabase: 1990s Europeans
 Skatabase: 1990s Olympics
 Skatabase: 2000s Worlds
 Skatabase: 2000s Europeans

External links
 
 
 
 

1972 births
Living people
Spanish female single skaters
Olympic figure skaters of Spain
Figure skaters at the 1994 Winter Olympics
Figure skaters at the 1998 Winter Olympics
Sportspeople from Barcelona
Competitors at the 1999 Winter Universiade
Former President Herbert Hoover became the first honorary chairman of Tolstoy Foundation in Valley Cottage, New York, in 1939 and served in this capacity until his death in 1964.
Release

The full length of the score within the game was about three hours long, with an approximate 110 pieces.
Guinness World Records cites DJ Shadow's acclaimed hip hop album Endtroducing (1996), made almost entirely on an MPC60, as the first album created entirely from samples.
Thurgood Marshall – Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States

Other historical figures who lived in Rockland County
 John Charles Frémont (January 21, 1813July 13, 1890), was an American military officer, explorer, the first candidate of the Republican Party for the office of President of the United States, and the first presidential candidate of a major party to run on a platform opposing slavery.
It was also wrongly attributed to Bharata, who proposed shruti in a completely different context.
e Objective verb prefixes; /a/ and /i/ are used in the present tense, /o/ and /id/ in the past.
It had 7 notes emanating at Shruti nos.
Thurgood Marshall won a disparity case regarding integration of the schools of Hillburn, 11 years before his landmark case of Brown v. Board of Education, on behalf of the African-American parents.
Rather, Palestinian displacement both in Israel/Palestine and the diaspora have led to cultural and lingual diversification among Palestinians that exceeds experiences in Arabic- and English-speaking locations.
of notes than those in a 'Thaļa'.
Dené–Caucasian languages [8,700 BCE]
1.1.
In the 1960s, Jamaican dub reggae producers such as King Tubby and Lee "Scratch" Perry began using recordings of reggae rhythms to produce riddim tracks, which were then deejayed over.
Towards a Functional Diachrony of Morphological Subsystems in the East Caucasian Languages."
(Abhandlungen, Heft 47)
PINNOW, Heinz-Jürgen (1986b).
Haverstraw was separated from Orangetown in 1719, and became a town in 1788; it included the present-day Clarkstown, Ramapo, and Stony Point.
While the station has a waiting room, it is only open in early mornings and late evenings, half an hour before the first westbound and eastbound train arrives.
Abraham P. Stephens - Corporal in Captain Theunis Cooper's Company of Colonel Benjamin J. Gurnee's Regiment

95th New York Volunteer Infantry

 The 95th New York Volunteer Infantry, nicknamed "Warren Rifles",  fought in the American Civil War under the commandment of Ulysses S. Grant, Major General James Samuel Wadsworth and General Brigadier General Edmund Rice (general).
(2001a): Toward a typology of position class: comparing Navajo and Ket verb morphology.
Consequently, on medical advice, her parents placed Judith in the Columbus State Institution (formerly the Columbus State School), an institution for the mentally disabled, on October 18, 1950.
The estuary silted up due to heavy rains in 1728 and the harbour could no longer be used.
They have three children and six grandchildren.
Captain The Hon.
Also served in the Royal Canadian Air Force.
However, Cook was the greatest navigator of his day and too experienced to make such errors.
Operations then moved to a former flying school located on the northern edge of Filton Aerodrome.
Wings never again attempted a tour prior to their breakup in 1981.
Frustration" track as "sometimes bebop, sometimes melancholic, sweet or sensual" and observing that "whether led by a saxophone, a trumpet or a guitar, jazz is the predominant style of the Grim Fandango soundtrack, all reminiscent of the snug atmosphere of casinos and bars between the two world wars".
Given the unique opportunity to re-visit a project first developed 17 years earlier in his career, McConnell was asked how different would the soundtrack be if he had developed it from scratch at the time of remastering.
In September 2004, word of Howe's impending firing was leaked to the media two weeks before the season ended, but he was allowed to finish the year.
Novels and short stories
Susan Abulhawas book Mornings in Jenin tells the story of a Palestinian family lost their homes during the 1948 war.
Chicago: Chicago Linguistic Society.
In 1885 the museum was passed from the Royal Society of Tasmania to the a board of trustees under the state government, with a yearly endowment of £500.
January 7, 2014: The new academic building held its first day of school.
Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic - Communist Party of the Russian SFSR 
Regional Committees of Oblasts

Regional Committees of Autonomous Oblasts

Regional Committees of Krais

Regional Committees of Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republics

Azerbaijan Soviet Socialist Republic - Communist Party of the Azerbaijan SSR

Byelorussian Soviet Socialist Republic - Communist Party of the Byelorussian SSR

Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic - Communist Party of the Georgian SSR

Kazakh Soviet Socialist Republic - Communist Party of the Kazakh SSR

Kirghiz Soviet Socialist Republic - Communist Party of the Kirghiz SSR

Tajik Soviet Socialist Republic - Communist Party of the Tajik SSR

Turkmen Soviet Socialist Republic - Communist Party of the Turkmen SSR

Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic - Communist Party of the Ukrainian SSR

Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic - Communist Party of the Uzbek SSR

See also 

 Communist Party of the Soviet Union
 Oblast
 Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic

References 

 
Communist Party of the Soviet Union
1919 establishments in the Soviet Union
1991 disestablishments in the Soviet Union
Armed with a recording contract with September Gurls, in 1996 the band added analog synthesizer player Flip Osman and saxophonist/guitarist/singer Charlie Horshack, swelling their ranks and expanding their sonic palette, and this lineup released Killing You With Rock in 1998.
Athabaskan–Eyak–Tlingit and Yeniseian: lexical and phonological parallels.
He was also active in local politics, and served as a Labour Party member of Newcastle City Council.
Nortorf: Völkerkundliche Arbeitsgemeinschaft.
In March 1917, he became Chief of the General Staff until his resignation on 3 November 1918.
Early life 

Perry grew up outside of Kansas City, Missouri.
After the independence of Pakistan in 1947, the minority Hindus and Sikhs migrated to India and this led to the decline of Karachi, as Hindus controlled the business in Karachi, while the Muslim refugees from India settled down in Karachi.
In recent times it seems that the number of shrutis is broadly agreed upon to be 22.
Wayne Simmons (Don Valley East)
Philosophical objectivist, a follower of Ayn Rand.
Political tensions between the Muslim refugees and other groups also erupted and the city was wracked with political violence.
Tradition says that villagers found her bones near the massive boulder.
During this time, as the Infantry and Cavalry School became an official military training school with the establishment of regulations and training programs in 1888, Wagner would author several important military textbooks including The Campaign of Koniggratz (1889) and Organization and Tactics (1895).
Current Anthropology 41/5 (October, 2000): 668–69.
RPGFan said, "the pieces are beautifully composed, wonderfully played (...).
The Chashan language, which is closely related to Lashi, is spoken in nearby Pianma Township (片马镇), Lushui County.
Verwandtschafts- und andere Personenbezeichnungen im Tlingit und Haida: Versuch ihrer sprachhistorischen Deutung [Kinship and other person terms in Tlingit and Haida: attempt at their language-historical interpretation].
References

External links
Wall hanging of appliquéd sealskin on cloth made by Mina Napartuk

1913 births
2001 deaths
20th-century Canadian women artists
20th-century Canadian artists
Inuit textile artists
Canadian textile artists
Artists from Quebec
Canadian Inuit women
People from Nunavik
Indigenous fashion designers of the Americas
Inuit from Quebec
Women textile artists
Women fashion designers
In 1910, the NID was shorn of its responsibility for war planning and strategy when the outgoing Fisher created the Navy War Council as a stop-gap remedy to criticisms emanating from the Beresford Inquiry that the Navy needed a naval staff—a role the NID had been in fact fulfilling since at least 1900, if not earlier.
Human Biology, Dec 1 2002 74 (6) 743-761.
At the end of 2002, despite a seven-year mark of 600–533 (.530), Howe was released from his Oakland contract to become the manager of the New York Mets.
Comparative-Historical Linguistics of the XXIst Century: Issues and Perspectives.
It caused the building of Piermont with its lone pier which made possible the founding of a half dozen villages and opened the way to the utilization of the mineral and agricultural resources of Rockland.
A Compact disc (CD) soundtrack was released simultaneously with the game in 1998.
In the 2004 federal election, Wall endorsed incumbent Conservative David L. Anderson, Member of Parliament for Cypress Hills—Grasslands; that riding includes Swift Current, Wall's hometown.
Art
San Francisco artist Larnie Fox created War Toys, "an exhibit of kinetic sound sculptures", for which an activity, "The Dicewalk", inspired by Cockcroft's work, was part of its closing ceremony.
All except Algic, Salishan and Wakashan are taken from Bengtson (2008).
Perry has created and curated a number of public art installations for arts organizations and companies.
Sumerian
1.3.
In 2016 the city of Pamplona invited Azcona to show his work inside the Monument and the project was recreated inside the Monument, which had been converted into an exhibition hall, under the name of Unearthed: A retrospective view on the political and subversive work of the artist Abel Azcona.
In 1890 Betsey Island, then Franklin Island, was granted to the Trustees of the Museum.
He is scheduled to retire from active duty.
Fate
Soon afterwards the company went into liquidation and was taken over by the Bristol Aeroplane Company in 1920.
Colonial period (1839 - 1947)

Company rule 
After sending a couple of exploratory missions to the area, the British East India Company conquered the town on February 3, 1839.
Edward J. Vajda, who otherwise rejects the Dené–Caucasian hypothesis, has suggested that Tlingit, Eyak, and the Athabaskan languages are closely related to the Yeniseian languages, but he denies any genetic relationship of the former three to Haida.
The NDP used the ambiguity in the Saskatchewan Party's position to turn the election into a referendum on crown corporation ownership for many voters, and won the one seat it needed to regain a majority government.
His pop culture artwork, collaborative projects and communal work are often outside the standard art gallery sensibility.
Fondation Hermès, text by Clément Dirier, Editions Actes Sud
 2013 Voyage en territoires partagés, dir.
Only one mountain road links Arta with the Pineios valley and Thessaly.
The 1965 Pakistani presidential election disturbance and political movement against President Muhammad Ayub Khan started of a long period of decline in the city.
She also works as a physiotherapist.
Recent computational simulations support this hypothesis and suggest the Marinoan or Sturtian glaciations broke this stable configuration about 600 Myr ago; the simulated results agree quite closely with existing paleorotational data.
Unlike Joyce, Judith was born with Down Syndrome.
BENGTSON, John D., 1999a.
The South Korean government has expressed concern that the software offers images of the presidential palace and various military installations that could possibly be used by North Korea.
The party sought to maintain the balance between Mauritania's Moorish and Black African communities, and local PRM committees were set up that were open to all citizens.
McConnell remarked how their retrieval was a technical feat requiring specialized hardware and expertise Jory Prum (who then did the sound mixing for the orchestral pieces) spent two months recovering the data, with the use of DLT drive, an old Mac with a SCSI drive, and an old piece of software called Retrospect Remote.
See also
 National Gallery (Athens)
 Municipal Gallery of Athens
 Benaki Museum, Athens
 State Museum of Contemporary Art, Thessaloniki

References

External links 

EMST website
EMST blog
City of Athens
www.athensinfoguide.com

Museums in Athens
Modern art museums in Greece
Art museums established in 2000
2000 establishments in Greece
Oliver Beer has also held residencies at the Palais de Tokyo, the Watermill Foundation and the Fondation Hermès.
It accounts for a large portion of the GDP of Sindh, Pakistan and a large chunk of the country's white collar workers.
In Проблемы изучения дальнего родства языков на рыбеже третьего тысячелетия: Доклады и тезисы международной конференции РГГУ [Problems of the research on the distant origin of languages at the beginning of the third millennium: Talks and abstracts of the international conference of the RGGU], Moscow 2000.
Potential problems include:

 The somewhat heavy reliance on the reconstruction of Proto-(North-)Caucasian by Starostin and Nikolayev.
Including Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Goofy, Pluto, Disney's war cartoons, Silly Symphonies, and the Academy Award winning shorts.
During the American Revolutionary War, Rockland County was a strategic crossroads, camping ground and vital link between the northern and southern colonies.
Following is the list of some most notable albums released by the label.
There was only one classroom for children with disabilities, and Judith was not able to pass the verbally-based entrance tests, due to her still undiagnosed deafness.
The Italian Social Democratic Party (, PDSI), or simply Social Democracy (), was a social-liberal political party in Italy.
See also

 List of coastal fortifications of County Cork

Sources 
 Bolton, J., Carey, T., Goodbody, R. & Clabby, G. (2012) The Martello Towers of Dublin.
Shrutis in Madhyama Grama

The ancient Indian musicologists knew that the voice range of females is placed by nature at a 'higher' pitch than males.
The party was founded after the end of the Agrarian Politics Union Party.
Electoral history

Presidential elections

National Assembly elections

References 

Defunct political parties in Mauritania
Parties of one-party systems
Mauritanian nationalism
Journalist Simon Reynolds likened the situation to "the man who goes to the sperm bank and unknowingly sires hundreds of children".
Assistant Director Trade Division
 Captain Edward F. Inglefield, September, 1901, (temporary, until 28 July 1902).
The Roman Catholic Diocese of San Martín  is located in the city of San Martín, Buenos Aires, Argentina.
de Vries purchased from natives the area where the Sparkill Creek flows into the Hudson River.
An atheist, opposes the idea of "Christian libertarianism".
Otherwise, the next few years were outwardly quiet for the LP4, but they were hard at work recording a large cache of material which would go on to comprise much of their subsequent two albums, and continuing to compose more material for future releases, intermittently taking breaks to play shows in their native Houston; Carol Sandin departed the group during this time.
He began to read by the age of three thanks to his mother's teaching.
The government of Israel also expressed concern over the availability of high-resolution pictures of sensitive locations in its territory, and applied pressure to have Israeli territory (and the Occupied Territories held by Israeli forces) appear in less clear detail.
Turtles singer Mark Volman told the Los Angeles Times: "Sampling is just a longer term for theft.
Pogson, having been a financial backer for Broken Age, pushed to have MSO record that score, making it the first time for the MSO to be involved in such a project.
Stony Point
 Caldwells Landing – formerly known as Gibraltar.
Sampling can help popularize the sampled work; for example, the Desiigner track "Panda" topped the Billboard Hot 100 after West sampled it on "Father Stretch My Hands, Pt.
The winner was George Smitherman of the Ontario Liberal Party.
RUHLEN, Merritt, 1998c.
The precise place to play the new shruti, P1 is shown below.
The following are possible values for the non-IPA symbols used for Ancient Egyptian:  = ;  = ;  = , or ejective .
Response to the Basque Debate in Mother Tongue 1 (GIF)
Merritt Ruhlen on the Dené–Caucasian hypothesis(PDF)

 
Proposed language families
In 1964 Martin and Dr Charles Goodson-Wickes reformed the Kit Cat Club as an attempt to restart an 18th-century Whig dining club; it gathered a significant membership, many of whom entered public life (Dr Goodson-Wickes himself became a member of parliament).
Judith worked on her art five days a week for eighteen years, producing over 200 pieces in total.
The winner on that occasion was Chris Hodgson of the Progressive Conservative Party of Ontario.
His purpose was to pretend that the new eastern sea route to Asia and was far longer than it actually is, in order to discourage foreign interlopers from profiting from Portuguese discoveries.
The Algic, Salishan, Wakashan, and Sumerian comparisons should be regarded as especially tentative because regular sound correspondences between these families and the more often accepted Dené–Caucasian families have not yet been reconstructed.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt – then governor of the State of New York and afterwards the 32nd President of the United States.
The drums in Led Zeppelin's recording of "When the Levee Breaks", played by John Bonham, is another of the most widely sampled drum breaks, used by artists including the Beastie Boys, Dr. Dre, Eminem and Massive Attack.
In Terre Haute, the earthquake toppled two chimneys, cracked plaster, and knocked pictures from walls.
The effects of the equinoxes shorten it near  and  by  and , respectively.
English musician Paul McCartney has participated in a number of concert tours across several eras of his musical career.
Following independence in November 1960 most Mauritanian politicians rallied around Daddah and the PRM, and relations between the PRM and the Nadha party warmed, with the latter being granted several seats in the Council of Ministers in September 1961.
Visualization in Teaching and Learning Mathematics.
Dual and transpose

There are several different dualities taking finitely generated modules over Λ to modules over the opposite algebra Λop.
RUHLEN, Merritt, 2001a.
This allowed him to be more productive, as it was easier and less stressful to later on in the process develop full pieces based on already existing sketches, instead of rushing to develop completely novel compositions from scratch as the completion deadline neared.
Mughal empire 
During the rule of the Mughal administrator of Sindh, Mirza Ghazi Beg the city was well fortified against Portuguese colonial incursions in Sindh.
Publication

Morris wrote "Lectures on the History of the Development of Constitutional and Civil Liberty" in 1908.
Hip hop 
Sampling is one of the foundations of hip hop, which emerged in the 1980s.
New Hope Christian Church, established in 1824 and the only continuing congregation that was once part of Classis Hackensack of the True Reformed Dutch Church.
A reconstruction of the sound system, the basic parts of the grammar, and much of the vocabulary of the macrofamily's most recent common ancestor, the so-called Proto-Dené–Caucasian language.
In his book, Palestinian Resistance Literature Under Occupation, Ghassan Kanafani argues, "Palestinian resistance literature, just like armed resistance, shapes a new circle in the historical series which practically has not been cut throughout the last half century in the Palestinian life”.
Many unsuccessful efforts were made to turn much of the Hudson Highlands on the northern tip of the county into a forest preserve.
The earthquake occurred somewhere along a fault within the Wabash Valley Seismic Zone.
A small factory was opened by the British in September 1799, but was closed down within a year.
3 volumes.
To accomplish this, Garren noted that “this meant focused attention to mixing, EQ'ing, and programming articulation data on an individual instrument basis to bring each phrase and gesture in line with Pete's original intentions.
Chandogya Upanishad speaks of the division of the octave in 22 parts.
The winner was Carol Mitchell of the Ontario Liberal Party.
Martin Ferdinand Morris (December 3, 1834 – September 12, 1909) was an Associate Justice of the Court of Appeals of the District of Columbia.
Customs House was later requisitioned by the Legislative Council of Tasmania and became Parliament House, Hobart.
He was a liaison officer between the Foreign Office and the BBC and then volunteered for military service during the Second World War, becoming a Squadron Leader in the Middle East Intelligence Centre (part of the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve) from 1940 to 1943, then leaving the services to become adviser on public relations to the United Kingdom High Commissioner in Australia where he remained until the end of the war.
Hudson River Day liners included PS Alexander Hamilton, PS Chauncey Vibbard, PS Washington Irving

Prominent Hudson River steamboats included Chancellor Livingston (1816), James Kent (1823), DeWitt Clinton (1828), Robert L. Stevens (1835), Rip Van Winkle (1845), Isaac Newton (1846), Daniel Drew (1860), Thomas Cornell (1863), Chauncey Vibbard (1864), Dean Richmond(1864), Charles W. Morse (1904), Hendrick Hudson (1906), Robert Fulton (1909) constructed or engines built by Allaire Iron Works, Cornelius H. DeLamater, Harlan and Hollingsworth, Jonh Stevens, W. & A. Fletcher Company, West Point Foundry.
"Taxonomic Controversies in the Twentieth Century", in New Essays on the Origin of Language, ed.
Community, southeast of Johnsontown, populated mainly by farmers, wood-cutters and basket-weavers.
Information about these candidates may be found on this page.
References

External links

1931 births
Living people
Alabama Crimson Tide baseball players
Baseball players from Birmingham, Alabama
Buffalo Bisons (minor league) players
Detroit Tigers players
Durham Bulls players
Jamestown Falcons players
Little Rock Travelers players
Major League Baseball third basemen
Montgomery Grays players
Terre Haute Tigers players
Williamsport Tigers players
If M is a left Λ module then the right Λ-module M* is defined to be HomΛ(M,Λ).
History
EMST first operated, from 2000 to September 2003, on the ground floor of approximately 1,800 square meters, of the old Fix brewery, an example of post-war industrial architecture designed by Takis Zenetos.
VI 4161 (1985)
I 50 anni folli di Paperino (1984)
Pippo pasticci e simpatia (1985)
Silly Symphonies vol.
Opposes same-sex marriage and euthanasia, and supports health workers being able to deny assistance to women seeking lawful access to abortion.
The fact that McConnell was able to open a Pro Tools session from 1997 on a new version of Pro Tools also proved key in being able to use the files.
It measured 5.1 on a seismic scale that is based on an isoseismal map or the event's felt area.
Connolly stood for Labour in Middlesbrough East at the 1922 general election, and again in 1923, but failed to win the seat.
This practice was effectively curtailed with the mass availability of satellite imagery.
Debal was also visited by the British travel writers such as Thomas Postans and Eliot, who is noted for his vivid account on the city of Thatta.
He was National Science Foundation Program Director, EHR/DUE from 2003 to 2005.
This is confirmed by multiplying by the number of sidereal days in one mean solar day, , which yields the equatorial speed in mean solar hours given above of 1,674.4 km/h.
An account of Scott's life, Entwined: Sisters and Secrets in the Silent World of Artist Judith Scott (2016) has been written by her twin sister.
Though the album was essentially an "odds and sods" release, documenting a set of more melodic and textural music than appeared on the other "official" albums contemporaneously released, it received largely positive reviews.
Portugal

The German cartographer Henricus Martellus made his famous mappamundi (World Map), soon after the Portuguese navigator, Bartolomeu Dias, sailed round  the southern tip of Africa.
References

Further reading

Interviews in The Guardian

Other works

External links
For a long list of further articles based on interviews, see the articles cited in the text.
My Life in the Bush of Ghosts (1981) by David Byrne and Brian Eno is another important early work of sampling, incorporating samples of sources including Arabic singers, radio DJs and an exorcist.
She devoted herself to the care of her only child, a son by a previous marriage, named Tobias Lowrie.
In 2000, he wrote a letter to the National Post complaining of State Capitalism in Canada (National Post, 3 April 2000).
Even though, for example, he wished he had been able to find a better-sounding sampled piano, he did not regret not recording an acoustic piano as it would have meant compromising the quality of more important parts given the time and budget constraints.
The winner on that occasion was Sheila Copps.
Soon, he was promoted to the head of the 6th Corps and the First Army.
As a Freedom Party candidate in 2003, he received 229 votes and finished last in a field of five candidates.
In 2019, to celebrate the 20th anniversary, the remastered soundtrack was released in vinyl.
Indian Classical Music (both Hindustani and Carnatic) employs a combination of identifiable 'shrutis' and connecting, fleeting, unidentifiable nadas in any Alankara or Gamaka (Music).
The notes (swaras) are separated by intervals, as measured in shrutis.
As living in poverty, he applied - as well in the name of 72 fellow officer - to the Hungarian Prime István Bethlen, who denied his submission.
Compared to later samplers, the Fairlight was limited; it allowed control over pitch and envelope, and could only record a few seconds of sound.
Kansas City, Missouri, 1896.
Measurement

The primary monitoring of Earth's rotation is performed by very-long-baseline interferometry coordinated with the Global Positioning System, satellite laser ranging, and other satellite geodesy techniques.
As a result, the merchants of Karak Bander decided to relocate their activities to what is today known as Karachi.
The population was 8,126 at the 2010 census.
To counter this strike, Arz deployed the 16th, 19th and elements of the 61st divisions.
British producer Brian Eno cited German musician Holger Czukay's experiments with Dictaphones and shortwave radios as examples of early sampling.
As of 2020, the restoration of the building is in progress in order to create state-of-the-art facilities for the permanent collection, periodic exhibitions, educational programs, and workshops.
She treated, with great results, neighbors that came to her with herbs and methods she learned from her late husband.
Recently (1999–2010) the average annual length of the mean solar day in excess of  has varied between  and , which must be added to both the stellar and sidereal days given in mean solar time above to obtain their lengths in SI seconds (see Fluctuations in the length of day).
British Raj 

In 1795, the village became a domain of the Balochi Talpur rulers.
Volumes 11 and 12 were released on August 31, 1989.
It dates back to the Scytho-Parthian era and was later controlled by Hindu Buddhist kingdoms before falling into Arab possession in the 8th century CE.
It was also lauded by GameSpot, which awarded it the "Best PC Music awards", and included it in the "Ten Best PC Game Soundtracks" list in 1999.
The mid-20th century saw the introduction of keyboard instruments that played sounds recorded on tape, such as the Mellotron.
As the movement for independence almost reached its conclusion, the city suffered widespread outbreaks of communal violence between the majority Muslims and the minority Hindus, who were often targeted by the incoming Muslim refugees.
By 1899, Karachi had become the largest wheat exporting port in the east.
Martin regretted that Churchill did not maintain his enthusiasm when he returned to government in 1951.
In 2018, the Smithsonian cited the most sampled track as "Change the Beat" by Fab Five Freddy, which appears in more than 1,150 tracks.
The famous Rajasthani singer Seema Mishra was launched by Veena.
In Capturing Sound:  How Technology has Changed Music (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004), 137–57.
In 2018, he won the Primetime Emmy Award for Outstanding Motion Design as Animation Director for the Broad City Mushrooms episode for Comedy Central and Jax Media.
Show Staff

Founder 
Craig Crossman is The Founder of The Show and is now retired.
In his book, one of the foremost leaders of Palestinian literature and the person who coined the term Palestinian Resistance Literature, Ghassan Kanafani says, "In my stories I give my characters the freedom to express their own positions without reservation".
He spent a few years of graduate studies and then moved to Columbia University where he obtained his doctoral degree in 1917 and then joined as a teaching fellow.
The varsity football, lacrosse and soccer teams play their home games at North DeKalb Stadium in Chamblee.
It follows the philosophy that people must give up their illusion that a self can control life; they must let go.
They had a daughter Katherine who was a doctorate in English literature from Harvard-Radcliffe.
Admission to the first show was £0.50, proceeds being split up equally among the band members.
Its syntax possibly featured an exclusively default, strict word ordering of VSO.
He also noted that there had been a small number of things that had long "bugged" him from the original release ("the occasional klunker, or ham-fisted move") that he finally got the chance to fix them.
All Things Are Light, self-released in conjunction with Camera Obscura on purple vinyl and made up primarily of some of the band's heaviest music to date, garnered a considerable number of positive reviews upon its release in December 2007.
Martin Garrix  – production, composition, lyrics, guitar, master engineering, mix engineering
 Albin Nedler – co-production, composition, lyrics, backing vocals
 Dean Lewis – lead vocals, composition, lyrics, guitar
 Kristoffer Fogelmark – composition, lyrics
 Eelco Bakker – drums
 Tom Myers – drums
 Alex Bennison – guitar
 Rob Bekhuis – vocal engineering
 Frank van Essen – strings, string arrangement

Charts

Weekly charts

Year-end charts

Certifications

References

External links 
 

2019 singles
2019 songs
Martin Garrix songs
Dean Lewis songs
Future bass songs
Songs written by Martin Garrix
Songs written by Dean Lewis
Songs written by Kristoffer Fogelmark
Stmpd Rcrds singles
Songs written by Albin Nedler
1: Here's Mickey!
Robert Smink (Perth—Middlesex)
A businessperson in London, Ontario.
The early policy of secrecy proved difficult to enforce and soon maps became subject to censorship and falsification.
Earth's rotation period relative to the precessing mean vernal equinox, named sidereal day, is  of mean solar time (UT1) , ).
The swara differs from the shruti concept in Indian music.
players
Scunthorpe United F.C.
Playing career
Howe was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and attended Shaler Area High School.
Martha Washington – The 1st First Lady of the United States.
Thus, the notes of Shadja Grama are situated on Shruti nos.
The shadja-grama is given by the following division: Sa of four shrutis, Ri of three shrutis, Ga of two shrutis, Ma of four shrutis, Pa of four shrutis, Da of three shrutis and Ni of two shrutis.
Georgica 20: 88–94.
Oliver Beer's work has been the subject of many screenings as well as solo and group exhibitions, notably at the Ikon Gallery, Birmingham; the Palais de Tokyo, Fondation Vuitton and Centre Pompidou, Paris; the Musée d'art contemporain, Lyon; Modern Art Oxford; WIELS, Brussels; the Ménagerie de Verre, Paris; the Hebbel Theater in Berlin.
Holds a degree in Philosophy and History from the University of Waterloo (1974).
Shortly thereafter, the band split, with lead singer/songwriter/guitarist Clinton Heider moving on to new adventures, including playing guitar with Mlee Marie's band Hearts of Animals, and the rest of the group re-teaming with earlier keyboardist/vocalist Carol Sandin Cooley, now calling themselves the Cryptographers, with Medina and Sandin Cooley taking over singing and songwriting duties, sporting a somewhat poppier sound informed by krautrock, indie rock, and the Velvet Underground.
Still another important chapter in the story of the Revolution was written on May 5, 1783, when General Washington received Sir Guy Carleton at the DeWint House, where they discussed terms of a peace treaty.
"Proto-Salishan and Proto-North-Caucasian Consonants: a few cognate sets."
2002.
– Paper read at: Linguistics Department Colloquium, University of British Columbia, Mar.
(2014) "A Proposed Typology of Sampled Material within Electronic Dance Music."
Received 671 votes, finishing fifth in a field of five candidates.
Brettanomyces converts p-coumaric acid to 4-vinylphenol via the enzyme cinnamate decarboxylase.
In Phan district of Chiang Rai, a road was split by serious cracks.
pp.
Assisted the Freedom Party campaign in the 1995 provincial election.
The creation of Rockland Lake State Park ended the community.
First ran for the Freedom Party in the 1999 provincial election in Don Valley East and received 53 votes, finishing ninth in a field of ten candidates.
On May 7, 1783, Sir Guy Carleton received General George Washington aboard his vessel Perseverance.
Excited about the publication and wanting to turn it into a bigger, communal and free event, he developed "an unprecedented" and "unlikely" three month long, pop-up community art space in a 7,000-square-foot warehouse in Crown Heights.
Nearby Covington, north of Terre Haute in Fountain County, experienced several fallen chimneys and some broken windows.
The Saskatchewan Party is a centre-right political party in the Canadian province of Saskatchewan.
In July 1958 more radical anti-French and Arab nationalist members were expelled, and later formed the Nadha party on September 26, 1958.
by.
Many of her works also feature pairs, reflecting Scott's experience as a twin.
Colin Stewart may refer to:
 Colin Stewart (alpine skier) (1927–2015), American Olympic skier
 Colin Stewart (footballer) (born 1980), English-born Scottish goalkeeper
 Colin Stewart (record producer) (born 1974), record producer and audio engineer
 Colin Stewart (rugby union) (born 1980), Scottish rugby union player
 R. Colin Stewart (1926–1994), Canadian politician

See also
 Colin Stuart (disambiguation)
The Saskatchewan Party denies involvement, even though three of the five trustees are active in the Saskatchewan Party.
Claims range from lights on at night, to ghastly faces in the windows.
There are two main axons according to which the collections are structured: a historic one, dating from the second half of the 20th century, and a contemporary one.
In 2015, he donated funds for the construction of a veterinary hospital in Porto Alegre.
Track listing
Side A:
"Adrenalin" – 3:59
Side B:
"Distant Dreams (Part Two)" – 5:30

Charts

References

External links
Discogs entry

Throbbing Gristle songs
1980 singles
1980 songs
The 22 Shrutis can also be called as 'microtones', because they are produced at mathematically defined micro-positions.
Journal of Chinese Linguistics 27 (1): 1–12.
Following his transfer to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas the next year, Wagner accepted a personal request by the commandant of the United States Infantry and Cavalry School to be an assistant instructor of tactics and the military arts.
Dove is an ally and frequent collaborator of Daniel Lavigne, who has promoted the "Tax Refusal" position extensively on Canadian political newsgroups.
Das Yasin-Burushaski (Werchikwar).
Also, the starting point for David Colton's 2019 PhD thesis, ″Canned Chance, The commodification of aleatory art practice″ is the Dice Man novel.
Aero-engine range

In 1919 the range consisted of the 450 hp Jupiter, the 300 hp Mercury and the smaller 100 hp Lucifer.
Received 242 votes, finishing last in a field of six candidates.
The mountain people in Ladentown made baskets, beer barrel hoops, bowls, chairs, ladles and spoons they made from the wood and reeds found in the mountain to sell or take to New York City to be sold.
Governor of Tasmania, did much of the work that led to the modern museum.
In November 2007, the party was sued by the Progressive Conservative Party of Saskatchewan over a trust fund.
Personnel
McConnell dubbed the Grim Fandango score as "the mission district score", as virtually all the performers and a lot of the inspiration came from it.
Employing a rugged captain and his trusty crew (The LP4’s Charlie Horshack, Clinton Heider, and Stephen Finley), they sail to the fabled R’lyeh to meet their fate.
The jewels were suspected to have archaeological background, which was further confirmed by specialists from the University of Veracruz and INAH.
From 1999 to 2000 Cunningham was also Visiting Scientist at the San Diego Supercomputer Center.
Her art is held in the permanent collections of many museums, including:  Museum of Modern Art (Manhattan, New York), the American Visionary Art Museum (Baltimore, Maryland), San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, Museum of American Folk Art (Manhattan, New York), Intuit: The Center for Intuitive and Outsider Art (Chicago, Illinois), Irish Museum of Modern Art, Dublin, The Oakland Museum, Oakland, CA.
1930s
 Objectivist poets

1940s

1950s
 Beat Generation
 Black Mountain poets
 Confessional poetry
 New York School

1960s
 British Poetry Revival
 New Wave (science fiction)
 Nouveau roman

1970s
 L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets

1980s
 Cyberpunk
 Maximalism
 New Formalism
 Poetry slam

1990s
 Post cyber punk

2000s
 New Weird

2010s

2020s

See also
 in literature
Modernist literature
Postmodern literature
 Twentieth-century English literature
20th century in literature
2000s in books

 
History of literature
For McConnell personally, he saw this as a special project in his musical career, calling Grim Fandango "almost like an opera" for how integrated the music was with the story.
Mouse Takes a Trip (1940)
Symphony Hour (1942)
The Simple Things (1953)

Minnie (1984)
Plane Crazy (1928)
Mickey's Rival (1936)
First Aiders (1944)
The Nifty Nineties (1941)
Bath Day (1946)
Mickey's Delayed Date (1947)
Figaro and Frankie (1947)

Donald (1984)
Donald's Cousin Gus (1939)
The Riveter (1940)
The Autograph Hound (1939)
A Good Time for a Dime (1941)
Donald's Tire Trouble (1943)
Drip Dippy Donald (1948)
The New Neighbor (1953)

Daisy (1984)
Mr.
Steamboat navigation in Rockland started with a local steam vessel named the "Orange" referred by some as "Pot-Cheese" in reference to her beauty and others “The Flying Dutchman" because of her speed.
Some record labels and other music licensing companies have simplified their clearance processes by "pre-clearing" their records.
Toward Proto–Na-Dene.
History
Arta was one of the capitals of the Despotate of Epirus in the late Middle Ages.
They now have three children; Joseph, Emma and Eden.
Sterlington – One mile east of Sloatsburg.
Background and critical reception
After being dropped by Capitol Records following 1986's Waves album, Katrina and the Waves secured a new deal with SBK Records, which released the more rock-oriented Break of Hearts.
Compilation albums such as Ultimate Breaks and Beats compiled tracks with drum breaks and solos intended for sampling, and were aimed at DJs and hip hop producers.
This was done using LucasArts iMUSE proprietary adaptive music system that McConnell himself had co-created with Michael Land a few years earlier.
Unparliamentary language
Martin's first recorded contribution in the chamber of the House of Commons came in December 1931 during bad tempered scenes.
The company was taken over by the Bristol Aeroplane Company in 1920.
In 1855 the Lady Franklin Museum, founded in 1842 at Acanthe Park (now Lenah Valley), sold its fittings and collection to the Royal Society and these were added to the TMAG.
As a solo artist, McCartney has undergone sixteen major concert tours, nine being worldwide.
Other works

Screenplays
Though best known as a novelist, Rhinehart has also written nine screenplays: five are based directly on his novels: The Dice Man, The Search for the Dice Man, Whim, Naked Before the World, and White Wind, Black Rider.
In Basque, an element d- appears in position −3 of auxiliary verbs in the present tense unless a first or second person absolutive agreement marker occupies that position instead.
He later attained a Bachelor of Science in Computer Science from Florida Atlantic University.
He was also assistant editor of The Spectator, becoming a regular houseguest of Lady Londonderry and of the Astor family at Cliveden.
He also identified Bass Strait which separates Tasmania from mainland Australia.
Starting in the 1980s Napartuk managed the women’s craftshop in Kuujjuarapik which focused on traditional crafts of the area.
Melbourne.
Computer Graphics Using Object-Oriented Programming.
The first five locomotives were "Eleazar Lord", "Piermont", ""Rockland", "Orange" and "Ramapo" respectively.
Story has it that a Dutch farmer's daughter was sacrificed at this site and her ghost appears on the anniversary of her death.
The band appeared at showcases at Austin's South by Southwest festival in 2004, 2005, and 2008.
Stuart directed the Society’s administration from their main office in Ixelles, Brussels until 1914, when she had to return to Roehampton due to the German occupation of Brussels that began in August 1914.
The Saskatchewan Party government also was successful in lobbying the federal government to block the takeover bid of Potash Corporation of Saskatchewan from Australian mining giant BHP Billiton.
Burushaski
1.2.
Reports range from 30,000 to 60,000.
Another prefix /b/ is found in some Sino-Tibetan languages; in Classical Tibetan it marks the past tense and precedes other prefixes (if any).
by J.
The accompanying video starred Burn the Boats vocalist Stevie Sims and MMA fighter Makana Clemons as intrepid and fearless archaeologists who seek that which should be left unknown.
Harry S. Truman – 33rd President of the United States.
He works in a variety of media including illustration, animation, painting, type, magazines, videos, public art, sculpture, and books.
Previous candidacies:

1995 Ontario general election, Sarnia, 159 votes, sixth in a field of six candidates (winner: David Boushy, Progressive Conservative Party of Ontario)
1999 Ontario general election, Sarnia—Lambton, 517 votes, fourth in a field of four candidates (winner: Caroline Di Cocco, Liberal)

Carol Leborg (St. Paul's)
Coordinated "Capitalism Day" in Toronto in 2002.
(Sarah) Cline, Kimberly Gauderman,  Robert Haskett, Rebecca Horn, John E. Kicza, Leslie K. Lewis, Doris Namala, Leslie Offutt, Matthew Restall, Susan Schroeder, Lisa Sousa, Kevin Terraciano, John Tutino, John Super, and Stephanie Wood.
References

1939 births
Living people
English footballers
Ossett Albion A.F.C.
Graphics Shaders: Theory and Practice.
.
Knight, Robert P., Centennial history of Pearl River, New York Pearl River Centennial Committee 1973
 Kuykendall, Eugene L., Historic Sloatsburg, 1738–1998, The Way it Was, Is and Can Be, Sloatsburg Historical Society, 1998.
The newly established First Austrian Republic in spite of a new law accepted on 19 December 1918 conducted an infringement procedure against him regarding the Battle of Piave, however it ended without any result.
He also lamented that just two years after the release of Grim Fandango, orchestral recording in gaming took off.
Chimneys were "jarred loose" in Princeton, Indiana, and one chimney was even "shaken to pieces" at Olivette, Missouri (a suburb of St. Louis).
He has also painted Madonna and Child with St. Felix of Cantalice, preserved in the Pinacoteca Comunale di Cesena.
Selected (12 or fewer) shrutis become  — used in a particular raga.
Periods

True solar day

Earth's rotation period relative to the Sun (solar noon to solar noon) is its true solar day or apparent solar day.
New musical instruments have been made to demonstrate the accurate sounds, the position, and the practical use of 22 shrutis in music, including a 22-Shruti-Harmonium (Indian Patent No.
The language is also known as Gününa Küne, Gennaken (Guenaken), Northern Tehuelche, Gününa Yajich, Ranquelche, and Pampa.
Walt Disney Cartoon Classics was a series of cartoon compilations from Disney.
Written works began to be produced in the language in the 1980s, published by the Comité Provisoire de Langue Ifɛ̀ and SIL.
Between each short are clips from other cartoons, redubbed with new voices to link the featured cartoons together.
From a draft written at the same time as The Dice Man, Naked Before the World (2008) celebrates the lives of both hippies and the establishment in 1960s Mallorca through the story of Katya, an innocent Catholic art student who arrives on the island to study abroad.
North America 

In October 1941, before the United States entered World War II, President Franklin D. Roosevelt announced that he had "a secret map" of South America titled 'Luftverkehrsnetz der Vereinigten Staaten Süd-Amerikas Hauptlinien'.
This stone church was built in 1865.
George Washington – 1st President of the United States (1776–1783) Approximately 20 times.
References

External links 
 
 
 

1991 births
Living people
Dutch male artistic gymnasts
Sportspeople from Ridderkerk
Gymnasts at the 2016 Summer Olympics
Olympic gymnasts of the Netherlands
Gymnasts at the 2020 Summer Olympics
Shared pronominal morphemes
Several roots can be reconstructed for the 1st and 2nd person singular pronouns.
He also noted that between the remixes and the live symphony "it turned out to be the score the way it was always meant to be heard", also adding that "I have to say I'm glad I took extra care on the themes because I feel they were really able to blossom in the new live recordings."
The acquisition was driven by the donation of a large geology collection by Joseph Milligan.
The music for the video game Grim Fandango was composed and produced by Peter McConnell and published by LucasArts in 1998.
The Search for the Dice Man (1993).
The Dunderberg Spiral Railway
A pleasure railroad partially constructed in 1890–1891 and never finished.
John Casper (class of 1961), space shuttle astronaut
Diana Palmer (class of 1964), author of 115 romance novels written under several pen names
Andy Spiva (class of 1973), former Atlanta Falcons linebacker
 J. Max Davis, (Class of 1988) former mayor of Brookhaven, Georgia
Susan Walters (class of 1981), actress and former model
Steve Wallace (class of 1982), former San Francisco 49ers tackle, part of three Super Bowl championships with the San Francisco 49ers (1988, 1989, 1994)
Teresa Tomlinson (class of 1983), mayor of Columbus, Georgia and 2020 Democratic candidate for United States Senate
Troy Sadowski (class of 1984), former Atlanta Falcons tight end
Ryan Gravel (class of 1991), creator of the Atlanta Beltline
Tim Chen (class of 2000), founder and CEO of NerdWallet
Coleman Collins (class of 2003), basketball player and writer
Paul Delaney (class of 2004), basketball player in the Israeli National League
Brandon Armstrong (Class of 2008), viral YouTuber and NBA impressionist 
Warren Norman (Class of 2009), former football player for the Vanderbilt Commodores

Unknown graduation year 

Paul Delaney (born 1986), basketball player in the Israeli National League

References

External links
Chamblee High School website

DeKalb County School District high schools
Educational institutions established in 1917
Magnet schools in Georgia (U.S. state)
Charter schools in Georgia (U.S. state)
Chamblee, Georgia
1917 establishments in Georgia (U.S. state)
Construction began.
1962: North DeKalb Stadium opened next door to Chamblee High School.
It contains more than 2.000 articles and manuscripts of the two artists, their correspondence between them and also with other fellow artists, correspondence with official Fine Arts institutions, such as the Chamber of Fine Arts and the Ministry of Culture, archival material of the DESMOS gallery, which played a leading role in the artistic scene of the '70s, archival material from the Association of Contemporary Art and Artists and more.
1403); the arguments and evidence they used resemble those used by Copernicus.
In Lebanon, all maps concerning the country are property of the Lebanese Army and are issued by the Directory of Geographic affairs of the Lebanese military.
(See section 2.9).
Later ran as a candidate of the Ontario Provincial Confederation of Regions Party in the 1995 provincial election, and received 151 votes in the riding of Victoria—Haliburton, finishing sixth in a field of six candidates.
Received 264 votes, finishing sixth in a field of seven candidates.
Palestinian literature refers to the Arabic language novels, short stories and poems produced by Palestinians.
Antecedents and influence
To date there appears to be a single published scholarly work on the ideas appearing in Cockcroft's The Dice Man, a conference paper from Shanna Robinson of the Institute for Culture and Society at the University of Western Sydney in Australia; in addressing the popular accounts of Dickson on its having the "impact of religious conversion on millions" and the suggestion, again in popular media (by Dickson and Adams), that the dicing theme was, at that time, "enjoying a renaissance", Robinson writes:Although acknowledged that there has been no research at this point establishing the veracity of this, a number of other manifestations of dicing lend some credibility to the idea that it enjoys a certain level of popularity.
The relationship between this campaign and Cockcroft's work has been established.
Later the same year, an evening gala was organized in tribute of the soundtrack during the inaugural edition of the Game Music Festival in the National Forum of Music of Poland.
Before the rise of sampling, DJs used turntables to loop breaks from records, which MCs would rap over.
Caucaso-Sino-Yeniseian [5,900 BCE]
1.2.2.2.1.
Sanskrit Names of 22 Shrutis

Sangita Ratnakara of Sarangadeva states in Chapter 3, shlokas 35 to 38 that Teevra, Kumudvati, Manda and Chandovati are the names of shrutis for Shadja.
TRASK, R. L., 1995.
Vaughan Byrnes (Willowdale)
President of Vaughan Byrnes and Co., a family engineering business.
At the Maragha and Samarkand observatories, Earth's rotation was discussed by Tusi (b.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012.
Taking whatever objects she found, regardless of ownership, she would wrap them in carefully selected colored yarns to create diverse sculptures of many different shapes.
Caplan again won the riding.
Biography

Early life
Stuart was born on 11 November 1857 in Cottesmore, Rutland where her father, The Reverend the Honourable Andrew Godfrey Stuart, a son of Earl Castle Stewart, was the Rector.
The party was established in 1997 by a coalition of former provincial Progressive Conservative and Liberal party members and supporters who sought to remove the Saskatchewan New Democratic Party (NDP) from power.
225–251.
Of the films provided by Schafer, McConnell focussed his attention in The Maltese Falcon, The Big Sleep, Treasure of the Sierra Madre, and Casablanca; The first one scored by Adolph Deutsch and the other three by Max Steiner.
42–66.
Classification 
Puelche has long been considered a language isolate.
The Cosmos 10.5 of 1919, featured an air cooled 3cyl radial layout 994cc engine of 16 hp and was significantly innovative for its time.
For example, the intervals of kakali-nishad and shuddha-madhyam vary depending on the dhaivat and the gandhar that precede them, respectively.
During his three Pacific voyages, Cook was on a mission to keep secret any strategic discoveries he made such as off-shore islands and deep, natural harbours.
See also
Dené–Yeniseian languages
Language families and languages
Proto-language
Borean languages
Haplogroup C-M217 (Y-DNA)
Sino-Uralic

Footnotes

References

BENEDICT, Paul K., 1972.
Out of the innumerable  on a string, 22 become 'special' and are called shrutis because the perception of the 12 universal pitch classes of Chromatic scale (Swara-prakara) 'changes' with them.
Jacobson said the titles were “such a big part of the identity of Broad City.”  Mushrooms earned Perry and his team an Emmy Award for Outstanding Motion Design.
The winner was Jerry Ouellette of the Progressive Conservative Party of Ontario.
He was buried with the highest military honours at the Kerepesi cemetery in Budapest.
The North Pole, also known as the Geographic North Pole or Terrestrial North Pole, is the point in the Northern Hemisphere where Earth's axis of rotation meets its surface.
Books and Magazines 
In collaboration with partner Anna Wolf, Perry started Untitled: (a fashion) Magazine in 2007, and in 2014, Tidal, a biannual print magazine focused on art and culture.
Electronic Publishing on CD-ROM.
Post-glacial rebound, ongoing since the last Ice age, is also changing the distribution of Earth's mass, thus affecting the moment of inertia of Earth and, by the conservation of angular momentum, Earth's rotation period.
The county seat is the hamlet of New City.
Once co-presented the "Toronto Dollar" system to former Mayor of Toronto Mel Lastman.
Urheimat

A commonly proposed homeland is northeast Africa, particularly in or near Ethiopia, in part due to the presence of many branches of the family in and near that region (and in Africa).
!
Legal and ethical issues 
To legally use a sample, an artist must acquire legal permission from the copyright holder, a potentially lengthy and complex process known as clearance.
Library and Archives
The Library of EMST includes a significant number of specialized editions and journals on the fields of History and Theory of Art, Museology and Conservation of art works as well as on the field of History of Philosophy, Anthropology, Architecture and Industrial Design, New Technologies and Multimedia and is constantly enriched in order to serve scientific research and writing as well as the induction of the staff, of the visitors/researchers and artists.
He is best known for his 1971 novel The Dice Man, the story of a psychiatrist who experiments with making life decisions based on the roll of a die.
This primordial cloud was composed of hydrogen and helium produced in the Big Bang, as well as heavier elements ejected by supernovas.
First ran for the Freedom Party in the 1999 provincial election and received 152 votes in Willowdale, finishing seventh in a field of eight candidates.
The 1989 Beastie Boys album Paul's Boutique is composed almost entirely of samples, most of which were cleared "easily and affordably"; the clearance process would be much more expensive today.
If R is taken as S, M becomes g1, coming at 118.518518, a ratio of 32/27.
The winner was John O'Reilly of the Liberal Party of Canada.
Courts have taken different positions on whether sampling without permission is permitted.
Bear Mountain/Harriman State Park became a reality in 1910 when Harriman's widow donated his lands to the state, and by 1914, more than an estimated one million people a year were coming to the park.
Moscow: Nauka.
Shadja Grama (the 7 notes documented by Bharata in Natyashastra) is very much in use today, providing the perfect Swaras for Ragas such as Abhogi, Bageshri, Bhimpalasi, and Gorakh Kalyan in Hindustani Classical Music; and Abheri, Reethigowla, and Suddha Dhanyasi in Carnatic Music.
In 2013, Disney made the strategic decision to turn LucasArts into a publisher-only of video games, and licensing out its intellectual property.
3, 5, 9, 13, 16, 18, and 22; and these notes are separated by 3, 2, 4, 4, 3, 2, and 4 shrutis respectively.
Lucanera, Viola M., The role of Orangetown in the Revolution (Rockland County bicentennial publication)
 Penford, Saxby Vouler., The first hundred years of Spring Valley: Written in commemoration of the Spring Valley Centennial, 1842–1942 (Social Science Research Foundation.
Indian Space Research Organization says that Google Earth poses a security threat to India and seeks dialogue with Google officials.
The Akai MPC, released in 1988, had a major influence on electronic and hip hop music, allowing artists to create elaborate tracks without other instruments, a studio or formal music knowledge.
The winner was David Young of the Progressive Conservative Party of Ontario.
The city was predominantly Muslim with Sindhi and Baloch ethnic groups.
With moderate damage in the Wabash River Valley, it is currently the strongest earthquake recorded in the U.S. state of Indiana.
Regardless of the speed and tilt of Earth's rotation before the impact, it would have experienced a day some five hours long after the impact.
His sister Erinn also earned a silver medal at the 2008 Olympics.
The following table with its footnotes, except for Burushaski, is taken from Bengtson (2008).
Males had a median income of $37,124 versus $28,829 for females.
- Grey Ghost No.
1966: The new basketball gymnasium, chorus rooms, band rooms, and swimming pool were added.
in Chemistry.
Within and alongside his work with sound, Oliver Beer creates subtle and diverse sculptural, installation and film projects whose provenance sometimes seems biographical; but in which his play with universal – often intimate – concerns draws on shared emotions and perceptions.
The party had a strong showing, retaking many rural ridings from the NDP.
Provincial organizations were reorganized into regional committees.
In a handwritten note which can still be found in the Vienna war archives, he wrote:

Not wanting responsibility for handling the armistice, Arz declined the appointment, and Kövess took up appointment as commander-in-chief instead.
As people moved up from the five boroughs (particularly the Bronx in the early years) the population flourished from 89,276 in 1950 to 338,329 in 2020.
While composer Peter McConnell himself credits the outstanding directorial work of Tim Schafer, critics emphasized that one of the key components in the excellence of the game was McConnell's outstanding soundtrack.
However, two other papers on the genetic affinity of Sumerian appeared in the same volume: while Allan R. Bomhard considered Sumerian to be a sister of Nostratic, Igor M. Diakonoff compared it to the Munda languages.
In composing for Grim Fandango, McConnell benefitted from having been a big jazz and film noir fan since his college time.
A series of editions of Critical Essays on contemporary art, as well as artists' monographs based on unpublished material of The Archives of Greek Artists is being prepared.
In 1864, the first telegraphic message was sent from India to England when a direct telegraph connection was laid between Karachi and London.
The Museum was completed by 1862 and a celebratory art exhibition was hosted by Morton Allport, Henry Hunter and a Captain F. E. Chesney.
Career
Townend, son of a Church of England vicar in Sowerby Bridge, West Yorkshire has three older siblings.
40.1% of all households were made up of individuals, and 10.1% had someone living alone who was 65 years of age or older.
While playing in only 125 games in 1977, and alternating among 2B, SS and 3B, Howe committed just 8 errors.
Duck Steps Out (1940)
Cured Duck (1945)
Dumb Bell of the Yukon (1946)
Sleepy Time Donald (1947)
Donald's Dilemma (1947)
Donald's Dream Voice (1948)
Crazy Over Daisy (1950)

Pluto (1984)
Pluto Junior (1942)
Canine Casanova (1945)
Pluto at the Zoo (1942)
Pluto's Housewarming (1947)
Pluto's Heart Throb (1950)
Cat Nap Pluto (1948)
Wonder Dog (1950)

Silly Symphonies (1984)
Birds in the Spring (1933)
The China Shop (1934)
The Flying Mouse (1934)
The Cookie Carnival (1935)
Woodland Cafe (1937)
The Moth and the Flame (1938)
Farmyard Symphony (1938)

Disney's Best: The Fabulous '50s (1984)
Lambert the Sheepish Lion (1952)
Pigs Is Pigs (1954)
Toot, Whistle, Plunk and Boom (1953)
Noah's Ark (1959)

Limited Gold Edition II

Life with Mickey (1985)
Shanghaied (1934)
Mickey's Polo Team (1936)
Alpine Climbers (1936)
Mickey's Circus (1936)
Mickey Down Under (1948)
R'Coon Dawg (1951)

Donald's Bee Pictures (1985)
Inferior Decorator (1948)
Honey Harvester (1949)
Slide, Donald, Slide (1949)
Window Cleaners (1940)
Tea for Two Hundred (1948) (some copies have Bee at the Beach (1949) instead)
Bee on Guard (1951)
Let's Stick Together (1952)

The World According to Goofy (1985)
Goofy's Glider (1940)
Baggage Buster (1941)
How to Be a Sailor (1944)
They're Off (1948)
Home Made Home (1951)
Man's Best Friend (1952)
How to Dance (1953)

From Pluto With Love (1985)
Pluto's Playmate (1941)
T-Bone for Two (1942)
Rescue Dog (1947)
Pluto's Surprise Package (1949)
Sheep Dog (1949)
Cold Turkey (1951)
Plutopia (1951)

An Officer and a Duck (1985)
Donald Gets Drafted (1942)
The Vanishing Private (1942)
Sky Trooper (1942)
Fall Out Fall In (1943)
The Old Army Game (1943)
Home Defense (1943)

The Disney Dream Factory: 1933-1938 (1985)
Old King Cole (1933)
The Pied Piper (1933)
Music Land (1935)
Three Blind Mouseketeers (1936)
Merbabies (1938)
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod (1938)

How the Best Was Won: 1933-1960 (1985)
Building a Building (1933)
Funny Little Bunnies (1934)
Three Orphan Kittens (1935)
Ferdinand the Bull (1938)
Goliath II (1960)

Cartoon Classics: Version Two
In 1987, another series of "Cartoon Classics" was released, with 14 volumes, as well as a "Special Edition" series.
In later years, towers were also used as coast guard stations, lookout stations to prevent smuggling and as other general purpose military installations by various British and Irish defence forces.
(2001b): Linguistic relations across Bering Strait: Siberia and the Native Americans.
Matanga's conclusion is highly significant that 'Swaras' are manifested through the 'Shrutis'.
Some have accused the law of restricting creativity, while others argue it forces producers to innovate.
Thus shruti as a measure of interval is not fully employed in the mela system.
They live in Brooklyn, NY with their two children.
According to linguist Václav Blažek, the possibility a language similar to Cushitic being formerly spoken originally in the south of Arabia also speaks for a Middle Eastern origin.
Hermanson resigned as leader shortly afterward.
Personal life and family

Cockroft married his wife, Ann, who would later become a writer of two romance novels and a volume of poetry, on June 30, 1956; together they have three children.
(Abhandlungen, Heft 39)
PINNOW, Heinz-Jürgen (1985b) (in four parts).
Shortly after taking the leadership, Hermanson led the party into the 1999 provincial election.
The commonest example of nada is a musical sound made on a stretched string under constant tension.
The government has argued it was not responsible for the film's production, and rebuked the motion for an apology.
Thus the ethics of sampling unravelled as the practice became ever more ubiquitous."
Original release

Production team
Peter McConnell – composer, producer
Jeff Kliment – music engineering, mixing, lead sound design
Hans Christian Reumschüssel – additional music production
 Michael Land – sound production supervision

Performers
Ralph Carney – clarinet, bass clarinet, contrabass clarinet, slide clarinet, baritone and bass saxes
Sheldon Brown – clarinet and bass clarinet
Paul Hanson – bassoon, clarinet, alto and tenor saxes
Bill Ortiz – trumpet
Dan Armstrong – trombone
Shane Norman – trombone
Hans Christian – cello
Clint Bajakian – classical guitar and melodica
Peter McConnell – electric guitar, charango and violin (tango piece)
Derek Jones – bass
Paul van Wageningen – drums
Jorge Molina – quena
Geresh Cruden – tablas

Remastered soundtrack – Additional credits

Production
Anthony Caruso – mixing (Sony Computer Entertainment America)
Jonathan Mayer – mix project manager (Sony Computer Entertainment America) 
Camden Stoddard – mixing music with ambient sound effects for in-game play (Double Fine Productions)
Clint Bajakian – midi re-orchestration and mixing, cutscenes mixing (Pyramind studios)
Jeremy Garren – midi re-orchestration and mixing, cutscenes mixing (Pyramind studios)
Jonathan Buch – midi re-orchestration and mixing 
Mike Forst – cutscenes mixing (Pyramind studios), production manager
Jonathan Buch – production assistant (Pyramind studios)
Ophylia Wispling – production assistant (Pyramind studios)

Melbourne Symphony recordings
Performed by the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra
Brett Kelly – conductor
Andrew Pogson – special projects manager
Haig Burnell – ABC producer 
Chris Lawson – ABC sound engineer
Nick Mierisch – ABC sound engineer
Russell Thompson – ABC sound engineer
Karim Elmahmoudi – orchestration
Jory Prum - orchestral mixing, session engineer (Studio Jory)
Joel Raabe - session engineer (Studio Jory)

Data management
Rob Cowles – original data safeguarding
Derek Williams – original data recovery
Jory Prum – original data retrieval

Album art
Holly Rothrock – 2019 vinyl release album art

 Notes 

 References 

Further reading
 
 (LucasArts' official web page for Grim Fandango'', which included commentary on the music by its composer)

External links
Grim Fandango Remastered: The Resurrection of Sound with composer Peter McConnell - YouTube short documentary
E3 Coliseum: Grim Fandango featuring Jack Black (YouTube)
Performance of Grim Fandango's main theme by the Danish National Symphony Orchestra (YouTube)
Original soundtrack listing provided by the Grim Fandango Network
Grim Fandango original soundtrack, extended version (YouTube; 1:58:11)
Grim Fandango live performance at GAMESCOM 2015 Cologne (organized by Video Games Live)

Video game soundtracks
Video games scored by Peter McConnell
He also received the Pour le Mérite from the German Empire

Works
 Arz von Straussenburg, A., The History of the Great War 1914–1918 (Vienna, 1924)
 Arz von Straussenburg, A., Fight and Fall of the Empires (Vienna and Leipzig, 1935)

Notes

Sources

 Pope, S. & Wheal, E., The Macmillan Dictionary of the First World War (London: Macmillan, 1997)
 Austro-Hungarian Army - Generaloberst Arthur Freiherr Arz von Straussenburg at www.austro-hungarian-army.co.uk

External links
 First World War.com – Who's Who – Arz von Straußenberg at www.firstworldwar.com

1857 births
1935 deaths
People from Sibiu
Hungarian monarchists
Transylvanian-Saxon people
Royalty and nobility of Austria-Hungary
Hungarian nobility
Barons of Austria
Austro-Hungarian military personnel of World War I
Austro-Hungarian generals
Recipients of the Pour le Mérite (military class)
Commanders Cross of the Military Order of Maria Theresa
The 1972 Lyn Collins song "Think (About It)", written by Brown, includes another widely sampled drum break, featuring the cries "Woo!"
Early works 
Using the Fairlight, the "first truly world-changing sampler", producer Trevor Horn became the "key architect" in incorporating sampling into pop music in the 1980s.
Portrait of West Nyack S-E-A-R-C-H Foundation of West Nyack, N.Y. 10994 LIC 73-83686 Zingaro Printing Corporation – 1973.
"Building a 'bum-pa for Sino-Caucasian."
Originally no casualties were reported, but later there were news reports of one death and several injuries.
Captain Charles G. Dicken, November, 1895 – October, 1897.
Port city of Banbhore was established before Christian era which served as an important trade hub in the region, the port was recorded by various names by the Greeks such as Krokola, Morontobara port, and Barbarikon, a sea port of the Indo-Greek Bactrian kingdom.
An example of the rich atmospheric goals of the music is recounted by the French online publication Gameblog, that described the "Mr.
Now, the notes at 3, 5, 9, 13, 16, 18, and 22 becomes the Madhyama Grama, these notes are separated by 3, 2, 4, 3, 4, 2, and 4 shrutis respectively.
McKenna, Tyrone B.
They are named after Emil Artin.
by Keiichi Omoto and Phillip V. Tobias, Singapore: World Scientific, 231–46.
The map is based on a Portuguese prototype (which has not survived), but the coast of southern Africa is greatly extended and dislocated.
16, Composition for tuning an architectural space insert.
Meads Corner – South of Garnerville.
It was a fake map, probably created by British intelligence agents, but Roosevelt may have thought it was genuine.
Following his appointment as leader, Wall undertook a review of party policies.
Rensselaer, New York, US
Erskine College, Wellington, NZ
Stuart Country Day School, Princeton, New Jersey, US
Stuart Hall for Boys, a K-8 school and Stuart Hall High School, a high school for boys, both in San Francisco, California, US
Stuart Hall School for Boys, New Orleans, US
Stuartholme School, a Catholic day and boarding school for girls aged 12–17 in Brisbane, Queensland, Australia

External links

Biographical page at the Network of Sacred Heart Schools website
 
 
 
 Erskine College, Wellington New Zealand named after her

1857 births
1914 deaths
People from Rutland
Converts to Roman Catholicism from Anglicanism
19th-century English educators
English Roman Catholic religious sisters and nuns
20th-century Christian nuns
Academics of the University of Roehampton
19th-century English women
19th-century English people
20th-century English women
20th-century English people
Judith had her first exhibition in 1999, which coincided with the publication of John MacGregor's book Metamorphosis: The Fiber Art of Judith Scott.
Their primary line-up was McCartney, his wife Linda and guitarist Denny Laine, formerly of the Moody Blues.
Troops often used Kings Ferry at Stony Point and Dobbs Ferry at Snedens Landing in Palisades.
BENGTSON, John D., 1997a.
1997.
To the north, it is bounded by Pacific Ocean and in the north-west by Lapinig.
After the 1948 Palestinian exodus, poetry was transformed into a vehicle for political activism.
TRASK, R. L., 1997.
References

External links
Summary of the Saint's life

1570s births
1612 deaths
English Roman Catholic saints
Canonizations by Pope Paul VI
Forty Martyrs of England and Wales
People executed by Stuart England by hanging, drawing and quartering
17th-century Christian saints
17th-century Roman Catholic martyrs
17th-century English Roman Catholic priests
Executed people from Merseyside
People from Allerton
Clergy from Liverpool
He initially supported the National Government's efforts to help distressed areas, urging that the grants be continued until the Unemployment Act replaced them, but by December 1934 was disappointed on behalf of himself and other younger supporters of the Government to find the latest proposals which would not help the basic industries.
The party came short of victory in 1999 and 2003 because it had been almost nonexistent outside its rural stronghold.
Kakiat means neck of land between two hills.
Except for the anecdotal disappearance of two cymbal hits, this process succeeded in recovering all the data of the three-hour score.
Chip 'N' Dale with Donald Duck (1983)
Chip an' Dale (1947)
Winter Storage (1949)
Up a Tree (1955)
Three for Breakfast (1948)
Out on a Limb (1950)
Corn Chips (1951)
Out of Scale (1951)

Pluto (1983)
Pluto's Fledgling (1948)
The Pointer (1939)
The Legend of Coyote Rock (1945)
In Dutch (1946)
Private Pluto (1943)
Bone Trouble (1940)
Camp Dog (1950)

Scary Tales (1983)
Donald Duck and the Gorilla (1944)
Duck Pimples (1945)
The Skeleton Dance (1929)
The Haunted House (1929)
Donald's Lucky Day (1939)
Pluto's Judgement Day (1935)

Sport Goofy (1983)
The Olympic Champ (1942)
Goofy Gymnastics (1949)
How to Play Baseball (1942)
How to Play Golf (1944)
Tennis Racquet (1949)
Hockey Homicide (1945)

Disney's Best of 1931-1948 (1983)
The Ugly Duckling (1939)
Mickey's Orphans (1931)
Flowers and Trees (1932)
Truant Officer Donald (1941)
The Country Cousin (1936)
Mickey and the Seal (1948)

More Sport Goofy (1983)
How to Play Football (1944)
The Art of Self Defense (1941)
The Art of Skiing (1941)
How to Ride a Horse (1941)
How to Swim (1942)
Double Dribble (1946)
Note: This is the only Cartoon Classics video to not be released on VHS.
This resulted in the utter failure of the offensive at the Piave River in June 1918.
Pécs: Lingua Franca Group.
Asked about his reasons for campaigning, he once responded "I'm not doing this to win votes.
Taxtyranny includes criticisms of fluoride usage, and has also included criticisms Conservative Party of Canada leader Stephen Harper for his participation at the Bilderbergers summit in 2003.
Some resemble cocoons or body parts, while others are elongated totemic poles.
In 1854 the museum attracted over 1000 visitors in a year for the first time.
STAROSTIN, Sergei A., 1996.
Patrick Ouart (born 25 May 1959 in Sallenelle, municipality of Pendé, France) is a former French magistrate, and former personal advisor for justice to Prime Minister Edouard Balladur.
A combination of ‘Shrutis’ and ‘Nadas’ is the back-bone of Gamakas, and Alankaras

Both the types of Indian Classical Music namely the Hindustani, and the Carnatic, essentially employ a variety of musical phrases known as Gamaka (Music) (Carnatic) and Alankara (Hindustani).
Dove is a former Certified General Accountant who had his license revoked by the Certified General Accountants of Ontario for his promotion of unlawful detax schemes.
Over 1,500 engines were produced in total.
Die Burushaski-Sprache von Hunza und Nager.
The hamlet included a number of hotels, Knickerbocker Fire House – established 1862, school, stores and the stone-crushing mill.
British Major John André – (May 2, 1750 – October 2, 1780) was a British army officer hanged as a spy during the American Revolutionary War.
The fisherman soon had to sell the jewels, which were sold to a jeweler, which melt some of the pieces into graduation rings.
With separate chapters on different social groups, including Africans and indigenous brought into the Spanish sphere, and an important chapter on women of the conquest era, his work shifted the understanding of that era.
Picture gallery

See also

 Demographic history of Karachi
 Abdullah Shah Ghazi
 Bhambore
 Culture of Karachi
 Debal
 Demographics of Karachi
 Economy of Karachi
 Education in Karachi
 History of Pakistan
 History of Sindh
 Karachi
 Kolachi jo Goth
 Kolachi
 Krokola
 Kulachi (tribe)
 Mai Kolachi
 Morontobara
 Muhammad bin Qasim
 Politics of Karachi
 Timeline of Karachi history
 Timeline of Karachi

References

External links
A story behind every name
History of Karachi with old & new Pictures 
'Traitor of Sindh' Seth Naomal: A case of blasphemy in 1832 
The real Father of Karachi (it's not who you think) 
The real Father of Karachi — II
Of streets and names
Harchand Rai Vishan Das: Karachi's beheaded benefactor 
Karachi's Polo Ground: Digging into history 
Ranchor Line: 14 acres of an abandoned identity 
Mr. Strachan and Maulana Wafaai 
The Clifton of yore
Karachi's Ranchor Line: Where red chilli is no more
(Abhandlungen, Hefte 43–46)
RUBICZ, R., MELVIN, K. L., CRAWFORD, M.H.
Nanuet ran a Lumber business.
Early samplers could store samples of only a few seconds in length, but this increased with improved memory.
Debal and the Manora Island and was visited by Ottoman admiral Seydi Ali Reis and mentioned in his  there.
To him, the whole game felt very inspirational, as dialogue, story, and the puzzles all worked together as an "opera"; "one big cohesive flow of music and voice" that made it special to score.
The Book of the Die (2000) is “handbook of dice living” intended to help free readers from barriers to an unfulfilled life.
Athletics 
The Chamblee Bulldogs participate in baseball, basketball, badminton, cheerleading, cross country, football, golf, lacrosse, soccer, softball, tennis, track and field, ultimate frisbee, volleyball, water polo, and wrestling.
Thus angular momentum is slowly transferred to the Moon at a rate proportional to , where  is the orbital radius of the Moon.
History 
It is a military building that was completed in 1635.
In the late 1970s, the Progressive Conservatives re-emerged as a political force, forming government under Grant Devine for most of the 1980s.
Captain Cook's fake maps were not fake enough for the Admiralty.
It is about  longer near a solstice when the projection of the Sun's apparent motion along the ecliptic onto the celestial equator causes the Sun to move through a greater angle than usual.
He was confirmed by the United States Senate on April 15, 1893, and received his commission the same day.
The Dice Man

Cockcroft has described the origin of the idea for this work variously, however, at the time of the publication of this work, "it was not clear whether the book was fiction or autobiography", all the more because its protagonist and author were eponymous, both were described as having the same profession (psychiatry), and elements of the described lives of both (e.g., places of residence, date of birth) were also in common; hence, curiosity over its authorship have persisted since its publication.
Andarta was a Celtic goddess worshiped in southern Gaul.
Grama system

Bharata Muni uses shruti to mean the interval between two notes such that the difference between them is perceptible.
The 2014 Mae Lao earthquake occurred at  on May 5.
Although nominally led by party President Sidi el-Mokhtar N'Diaye, it was de facto headed by Moktar Ould Daddah.
References

External links
 Veena Music Official website
 

Rajasthani music
Indian record labels
Indian music record labels
Thus, the ear can identify shrutis played or sung longer than that—but cannot identify nadas played or sung faster than that limit, but can only hear them.
In 1885 he settled in Victoria, where he worked as a consulting engineer and patents and trademarks attorney.
Captain Thomas Jackson, December, 1909 – January, 1912.
The Christian website Crosswalk.com commented, "the uniqueness of Townend’s writing lies partly in its lyrical content.
Received 780 votes, finishing sixth in a field of six candidates.
Regulars varied during the run of the series, but included host Ted Zeigler (an American), June Finlayson, Jocelyn Terry, Brenda Marshall, Jean Battersby, John d'Arcy, Beryl Wright, Judd Laine, Elinor Gordon, and Graeme Bent.
The album surprisingly earned considerable attention beyond their native Houston, garnering notable reviews in several music magazines such as Q Music, Factsheet Five, Alternative Press, Crohinga Well, and Ptolemaic Terrascope, and featured "The Linus Theme" and "Hamburger Girl", two songs which came to define the band's early years, and which the LP4 revisited many times throughout their career.
Haverstraw
 Archerville – Later changed to Samsondale.
There are elective performing art classes which are bolstered by performances.
Debal and Bhanbhore 

Debal and Bhanbhore were the ancient port cities established near present-day modern city of Karachi.
On 9 April 1919 a Bristol Scout F fitted with a Mercury engine set two British records at Farnborough achieving the time to 10,000 ft and 20,000 ft records.
Content and Distribution

Distribution 
Historically, The Computer America Show has been more of a conventional talk radio program in which interviews and dialogue were conducted by phone and were audio-only.
Work 
Cunningham's research interests were in Computer graphics, especially computer graphics education, Computer Science Education, and computer visualization in learning mathematics.
The winner was Tony Ruprecht of the Ontario Liberal Party.
In some cases, sampling is protected under American fair use laws, which grant "limited use of copyrighted material without permission from the rights holder".Richard Lewis Spencer, who owned the copyright for the widely sampled Amen break, never received royalties for its use; he condemned the sampling as plagiarism, but later said it was flattering.
His chief financial officer in 2003 was Paul Blair, another Freedom Party candidate.
So when in 2013 Schafer offered McConnell the unique opportunity to remaster the soundtrack, McConnell was ready to jump in.
British Piston Engines and their Aircraft.
However, the injunction was lifted after twelve months and Willem Blaeu and other cartographers were permitted to publish revised maps.
In 2006 the party released a taxpayer-funded advertisement for the Saskatchewan Party critical of the then-NDP administration.
Assisted the Freedom Party campaign in the 1995 provincial election.
In 1986, the tracks "South Bronx", "Eric B. is President" and "It's a Demo" sampled the funk and soul tracks of James Brown, particularly a drum break from "Funky Drummer", helping popularize the technique.
The recorded history of Rockland County, New York begins on February 23, 1798, when the county was split off from Orange County, New York and formed as its own administrative division of the state of New York.
Andrew Falby (Sarnia—Lambton)
Advocate of Ayn Rand's philosophy, has references Atlas Shrugged in interviews.
Associated bodies
TMAG has a number of associated bodies.
The titles of all 14 volumes and their cartoons are as follows.
Interactive Learning Through Visualization - The Impact of Computer Graphics in Education.
250197), 22-Shruti-Veena, 22-Shruti-Metallophone and 22 Shruti-Tanpura.
The game is one of the most acclaimed adventure games of all time, considered the last great adventure game to be released during the golden age of the adventure game genre.
While planning was underway, both Conrad and Boroević demanded to lead the offensive, and neither Arz nor the AOK was able to make a decisive decision.
This previous Shruti P1 has a frequency of 148.148 (if Shadja is taken as 100 Hz), and can be played on 67.56% length on the string.
The Orangetown Resolutions were adopted in Tappan when Great Britain increased its taxes on tea and crops, prompting protest from local patriots on Monday, July 4, 1774, two years to the date before adopting the Declaration of Independence.
In 1991, Sergei L. Nikolaev added the Na-Dené languages to Starostin's classification.
1917: DeKalb County authorized the purchase of land for the high school on Chamblee Dunwoody road.
The Sterling Mountain Railway transported ore to the furnaces at Sterling which was known as Sterling Junction or Pierson's Depot.
Types of natural molecules present in wine 
 Acids in wine
 Phenolic compounds in wine
 Proteins in wine
 Sugars in wine
 Yeast assimilable nitrogen
 Minerals
 Dissolved gas (CO2)
 Monoterpenes and sesquiterpenes such as linalool and α-terpineol
 Glutathione (reduced and oxidized)

Volatiles 

 Methoxypyrazines
 Esters : Ethyl acetate is the most common ester in wine, being the product of the most common volatile organic acid — acetic acid, and the ethyl alcohol generated during the fermentation.
In the 20th century, a railroad station named after Thomas C. Durant, organizer and builder of the Union Pacific Railroad, was the third stop of the New Jersey and New York Railroad.
By late October 1918, Arz could see that ultimate defeat for the Imperial forces was inevitable.
in Computer Science at Oregon State University.
Why reinvent the wheel?"
Geography
According to the United States Census Bureau, the township has a total area of , of which  is land and  (2.52%) is water.
In 2016, Azcona coordinated a new performative action, or happening, with relatives of those who were shot in the Pozos de Caudé.
State collection
The museum and art gallery reopened to the public on 15 March 2013, after a four-month closure for redevelopment works.
MacKay, Art (2016) Blockhouses & Martello Towers

References 

Martello towers
Coastal fortifications
Round towers
Buildings listed on the Fingal Record of Protected Structures
The moral rights of the original artist may also be breached if they are not credited or object to the sampling.
Palestinian literature can be intensely political, as underlined by writers like Salma Khadra Jayyusi and novelist Liana Badr, who have mentioned the need to give expression to the Palestinian "collective identity" and the "just case" of their struggle.
Each point could then be clicked and hear Schafer's explanations of it.
Colonial administrators also set up military camps, a European inhabited quarter, and organised marketplaces, of which the Empress Market is most notable.
In 1847, on Napier's departure the entire Sindh was added to the Bombay Presidency.
Hawkesworth's "Journals" was a bestseller in Europe, and the Admiralty's fake maps misled Britain's rivals for decades.
This settlement was reputedly founded by Baloch tribes from Balochistan and Makran in 1729 as the settlement of Kolachi.
The soundtrack was distributed under Nile Rodgers' label Sumthing Else.
The player follows Manny on a mission to save Mercedes "Meche" Colomar, a good soul thrust into and trapped in this corrupted world.
On a quest to find his father however, Larry's life of order and routine becomes enveloped in chaos, the legacy of his father's work.
The basic 7 Shrutis are called ‘Shuddha’ (in Sanskrit meaning pure) in Hindustani Classical Music.
Veena Music (Oriental Audio Visual Electronics) is a music label based in Rajasthan, India.
Google Books
After a year as a Major League scout for the Los Angeles Dodgers, and spending 1995 as bench coach for the Colorado Rockies, Howe was selected to replace the high-profile Tony La Russa as manager of the Athletics for 1996.
Foundation
Daddah founded the party in May 1958 in an attempt to unite the various competing political groups within  Mauritania into a single inclusive organisation so as to both strengthen the credibility of Mauritanian independence movement and secure his own power.
showing 22 Shruti-Mandal (Organogram) (Carnatic).
Asked the Sarnia city council to reduce its budget by 10% in 2004.
It also moves with respect to Earth's crust; this is called polar motion.
The infantry joined in the action of the Railroad cut on the first day of the Battle of Gettysburg.
The column was picked up by Knight Ridder (acquired by McClatchy Tribute), and the column reached a national readership once syndicated.
Species include:
 Astarte acuticostata 
 Astarte arctica 
 Astarte borealis 
 Astarte castanea 
 Astarte crebricostata 
 Astarte crenata 
 Astarte elliptica 
 Astarte fusca  
 Astarte montagui 
 Astarte subaequilatera 
 Astarte sulcata 
 Astarte undata 

Approximately nine of its species can be found in the waters of Europe.
New York: Cambridge University Press, 1976).
John G. Purdy (Brampton West—Mississauga)
Purdy is a computer consultant, and has described himself as a part-time poet and composer (Globe and Mail, 20 December 1999).
The madhyama-grama is the same, but the panchama (Pa) has to be diminished by one shruti.
These apparent omissions and additions confound the Carnatic nomenclature.
Diamond Valley – A farming community southeast of Johnsontown.
Supports the LETS scheme, as promoted by John Turmel and others.
The first modern port city near Manora Island (now Manora Peninsula) as established during British colonial Raj in the late 19th century.
Demographics

2010 census
As of the census of 2010, there were 8,126 people, 3,929 households, and 1,897 families residing in the township.
STAROSTIN, Sergei A. and Orel, V., 1989.
Stephen G. Fogarty is a United States Army lieutenant general who serves as the Commanding General of the United States Army Cyber Command.
Shruti is only mentioned as a perceptual measure in the music of Bharata's time.
Education and career

Born December 3, 1834, in Youghal, Ireland (then United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland), of Irish Catholic descent, Morris graduated from Georgetown University in 1854.
Yeniseian languages
1.2.2.2.2.2.
In popular culture

Music
A 1979 song by The Fall called "Dice Man" takes its title and general concept from the book.
The recent research has shown that 10 out of 12 of these notes (Swaraprakaras) have a 'spread' or a 'region' on a string (Swara-kshetra in Sanskrit) in which, 'any' frequency leads to the perception of the 'same' note by the human ear, and the perception 'changes' at both the ends.
Akron, Ohio, 1899

See also

 Battery Howe-Wagner, named for Wagner

References
 Nenninger, Timothy K. The Leavenworth Schools and the Old Army: Education, Professionalism, and the Officer Corps of the U.S. Army, 1818–1918.
Chiang Rai International Airport, located near the epicenter, immediately evacuated people from its terminal.
The band released their next and eighth official studio album, entitled Bag of Hammers, in September 2012.
Baumgartner played college baseball at the University of Alabama, which qualified for the 1950 College World Series led by Baumgartner and other future big leaguers such as longtime MLB pitchers Frank Lary (who would become one of the Tigers' stalwart starting pitchers of the 1950s and early 1960s) and Al Worthington.
Moreover, no consensus exists as to the location of the Afroasiatic Urheimat, the putative homeland of Proto-Afroasiatic speakers.
"The Origin of the Na-Dene."
The true solar day tends to be longer near perihelion when the Sun apparently moves along the ecliptic through a greater angle than usual, taking about  longer to do so.
"The Comparative Method and Ventures Beyond Sino-Tibetan."
In both the Hindusthani and Carnatic classical music, the places for playing 22 shrutis (as % length of the string) remain exactly the same on instruments such as Veena, Sarod, Sitar, Sarangi, Violin as shown in the table and diagram.
Adrenalin/Distant Dreams (Part Two) is a single by Throbbing Gristle.
He was a member of the 1999 Pan American Games bronze medal team.
According to al-Biruni, Abu Sa'id al-Sijzi (d. circa 1020) invented an astrolabe called al-zūraqī based on the idea believed by some of his contemporaries "that the motion we see is due to the Earth's movement and not to that of the sky."
According to the people at that time she dressed oddly, had strange hairdos and was unsociable.
Orangeville Mills – Orangeville was a hamlet  west from Blauvelt, formerly known as Blauveltville.
He remained mentally alert but in his later years became physically infirm, which he recognised as "a downward glide" to a serene death.
See also
 List of museums in Tasmania

References

External links

Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery Twitter stream
Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery YouTube channel
Flora of Tasmania Online
TMAGgots website

Landmarks in Hobart
Museums in Hobart
1843 establishments in Australia
Natural history museums in Australia
Culture in Hobart
Art museums and galleries in Australia
Numismatic museums in Australia
Government agencies of Tasmania
Tasmanian Heritage Register
The interval of kakali-nishad is of three different shruti values depending on whether shuddha, pancha-shruti or shat-shruti-dhaivat preceded it.
This separation had a profound effect on both twins.
of California Press, 1976).
The station was originally set amid a well-kept garden that displayed neat beds of colorful flowers and a row of trees along the tracks; this manicured landscape was not only a pretty introduction to the city for first time visitors, but it also buffered the streets of downtown from the noise and dirt associated with steam engines and freight trains.
Other railroads followed.
The Tories were believed to have a significant amount of money on hand, and would have had to forfeit their assets to the government if they were ever de-registered.
Contemporary literature is literature which is generally set after World War II.
BENGTSON, John D., 1998.
It is the only surviving bastion of nine that guard the port of pirate and corsairs attacks.
Andrade lives in Barcelona.
His student Walter H. McGinitie was involved in the creation of the reading test known as the Gates-McGinitie Reading Test.
The Men of Cajamarca: A Social and Biographical Study of the First Conquerors of Peru (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1972).
The cantonment formed the basis of the 'white' city where the Indians were not allowed free access.
Yeniseian
1.5.
John Townend, was vicar of Christ Church, Sowerby Bridge from 1974 until his death in a motor accident in 1985.
The Royal Society of Tasmania founded the museum, donating much of its collection, and continues to loan a significant number of pieces.
The stagecoach which crossed the Ramapo Pass, was heavily traveled in winter when the Hudson River froze over to travel between Albany, New York and New York City.
(Attention Lion!)
References

External links
Home page

University of Illinois at Urbana–Champaign faculty
21st-century American chemists
Living people
Johns Hopkins University alumni
Harvard Medical School alumni
1976 births
Tuck is a social conservative, and unlike most others in the Freedom Party is a committed theist.
Vogelnamen des Tlingit und Haida.
The following year, they were featured on a split 7" vinyl single with Italian band Kryptasthesie, contributing a very rare live version of their song "Jason Bill", a tribute to the erstwhile Charalambides guitarist.
She has promoted international literature through translation, research, and the edited The Poetry of Arab Women, an anthology that introduced several Arab women poets to a wider audience in the west.
The same is true of Daivatham too.
He was awarded a silver medal at the 2008 Olympic Games in Beijing.
References
Notes

Bibliography

Gaulish goddesses
On Napier's departure it was added along with the rest of Sindh to the Bombay Presidency, a move that caused considerable resentment among the native Sindhis.
Karachi was divided into two major poles.
The 'black' town in the northwest, now enlarged to accommodate the burgeoning Indian mercantile population, comprised the Old Town, Napier Market and Bunder, while the 'white' town in the southeast comprised the Staff lines, Frere Hall, Masonic lodge, Sindh Club, Governor House and the Collectors Kutchery [Law Court]  located in the Civil Lines Quarter.
ed.
Wayne Forbes (Lambton—Kent—Middlesex)
Perennial candidate.
"A comparative vocabulary of five Sino-Tibetan languages".
Career

In 1969, while Cockcroft was teaching a study abroad program on the island of Mallorca, an Englishman starting a new publishing house happened to stop at a cafe in the same village, Deià, and was given a partial manuscript of The Dice Man to read by Cockcroft.
There have been a variety of other conspiracy references on the page, some involving John F. Kennedy.
The median income for a household in the township was $41,017, and the median income for a family was $50,632.
Global events 

Some recent large-scale events, such as the 2004 Indian Ocean earthquake, have caused the length of a day to shorten by 3 microseconds by reducing Earth's moment of inertia.
However, Wings achieved notoriety for its aborted sixth tour, a January 1980 tour of Japan, which was cancelled before it even started when Paul McCartney was arrested for possession of marijuana while entering Japan on 16 January 1980 and was eventually deported on 25 January after nine days in prison, without Wings ever performing.
Jesus Invades George: An Alternative History  (2013)
 Invasion (2016).
"Il Dene–caucasico: una nuova famiglia linguistica."
Cool!
History
The renowned map historian, J.B. Harley, wrote in 1989:

Throughout the history of modern cartography in the West ... there have been numerous instances of where maps have been falsified, of where they have been censored or kept secret, or of where they have surreptitiously contradicted the rules of their proclaimed scientific status.
The southeastern section of the township is exclusively agricultural in nature, containing experimental farms for Michigan State University.
Impact 
Sampling has influenced many genres of music, particularly pop, hip hop and electronic music; Guardian journalist David McNamee likened its importance in these genres to the guitar's importance in rock.
Also supports "choice" in education, a term normally used by those favouring privatization.
Solo exhibitions 

2019
 Met Breuer, New York, USA, Vessel Orchestra, 2 July - 11 August 2019
 Galerie des Arts Visuels, Quebec City, Canada, Recomposition (Baloo Stripped Bare), 16 February - 21 April 2019
 University of New South Wales Gallery, Sydney, Australia Impossible Composition, 1–23 February 2019 
 Galerie Thaddaeus Ropac, Paris, France, Household Gods, 12 January - 16 February 2019

2018
 Anna Schwartz Gallery, Melbourne Impossible Composition curated by Anaïs Lellouche, 24 March – 21 April 2018  George Eastman Museum, Rochester, NY, USA, 
 Reanimation (Snow White), Video Presentation, 30 October 2018 – 1 January 2019   Ruya Foundation, Baghdad, Iraq
 Reanimation (Alice Falling), Video Presentation, 16 November - 8 December 2018

2017

 THADDAEUS ROPAC GALLERY, Ely House, London New Performance and Sculpture, 28 April 2017 - 29 July 2017
 IKON GALLERY, Birmingham Solo exhibition, 15 March - 14 June 2017

2016

 POMPIDOU CENTRE, Paris Polyphonies curated by Christine Macel 19 October 2016 – 23 January 2017
 NUIT BLANCHE, Paris, 2016 Live Stream, Pont des Arts, 1 October 2016
 VG PRIZE EXHIBITION, London August–September 2016
 FRAENKEL LAB, San Francisco, Reanimation (Snow White), January 2016

2015
 AOYAMA MEGURO, Tokyo, Life, Death and Tennis.
Comics and related media
The UK comic, 2000 AD, published the Gamebook magazine title, Dice Man, in 1986; in total 5 editions were created by Pat Mills through October of that year, with script and game by Mills, covers by Glenn Fabry, and with art and lettering done by various individuals at 2000 AD.
Bajakian also added live classical guitar parts that were not covered in 1998 using the same instrument he played back then.
Mountville – An alternate name for the southern end of Doodletown.
It was one of their first attempts to put cartoons on home video, after Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck Cartoon Collections.
Currently, Karachi is a melting pot where people from all the different parts of Pakistan live.
The Dice Man was critically well received and a commercial success.
The winner was Pat Hoy of the Ontario Liberal Party.
The work is now a classic and was published in a second, revised edition in 1994.
Annual Review of Anthropology 6: 283-314.
Mother Tongue 8: 39–64.
At university, he met Caroline, whom he married in 1988.
After the March on Rome, the Social Democratic Party took part to the governments of Benito Mussolini until July 1924.
He started the first seven games of the regular season at third base for Detroit, collecting five hits (all singles) in 27 at bats and scoring three runs.
It has since influenced many genres of music, particularly electronic music and pop.
– Paper read at: January 2000 meeting of Society for the Study of Indigenous Languages of America (SSILA) and Linguistic Society of America (LSA)
VAJDA, Edward J.
For every 100 females, there were 87.7 males.
Television and radio
Four seasons of a television travel series called The Diceman were made between 1998 and 2000 by the Discovery Channel.
He used sounds from sources such as the human body, locomotives, and kitchen utensils.
For the region of 'R', the perception of R begins at point '3' and ends at point '4', and so on.
It is suburban in nature, with a considerable amount of scenic designated parkland.
The fort had two main gateways: one facing the sea, known as Khara Dar (Brackish Gate) and the other facing the adjoining Lyari river, known as the Meetha Dar (Sweet Gate).
Since the O'Sullivan lawsuit, samples on commercial recordings have typically been taken either from obscure recordings or cleared, an often expensive option only available to successful acts.
9th Annual Readings in memory of S. Starostin.
"Why should a language have any relatives?"
Born in Huntington, West Virginia, Lockhart attended West Virginia University (BA, 1956) and the University of Wisconsin–Madison (MA, 1962; PhD, 1967).
In the words of Greg Milner, author of Perfecting Sound Forever, musicians "didn't just want the sound of John Bonham's kick drum, they wanted to loop and repeat the whole of 'When the Levee Breaks'."
After World War II some of its members joined the Labour Democratic Party, a centre-left outfit.
Alexis Contin of France won the race, while Jorrit Bergsma of the Netherlands came second, and Fabio Francolini of Italy came third.
North Caucasian
1.1.3.
Hence, this scale was called as Madhyama Grama in Bharata's Natya Shastra.
46.
Evidence for a genetic connection between Na-Dene and Yeniseian (Central Siberia).
Haverstraw King's Daughters Village Library – The oldest public library in Rockland County.
If G is taken as S, P becomes g2, coming at 120, a ratio of 6/5.
Jones Point – a hamlet located in the town of Stony Point.
Regional Committees of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union were regional branches of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union which usually encompassed a region, oblast, krai, or Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic.
The drawings are exhibited and sold at a pop-up exhibition immediately afterwards.
2:3–54.
Nahuatl in the Middle Years: Language Contact Phenomena in Texts of the Colonial Period (with Frances Karttunen, Berkeley: Univ.
The remaining 5 Shrutis is just a matter of filling the blanks considering the symmetrical order of R,G,M, D, and N.

Poorna, Pramana and Nyuna Shrutis 

When the frequency and positions of all 22 shrutis are calculated, we get 3 ratios operating between 22 Shrutis as 256/243 (Pythagorean limma or Pythagorean diatonic semitone or Pythagorean minor semitone), 25/24 (a type of Just diatonic semitone) and 81/80 (Syntonic comma).
The notes that are at the distance of two and 20 shrutis are mutually vivādi (dissonant).
Post-Independence (1947 CE – present)

Pakistan's capital (1947–1958)

Karachi was chosen as the capital city of Pakistan.
The Emesal dialect has .
Arz took full responsibility for the failure of the massive invasion of Italy and tendered his resignation, but the Emperor refused to accept it, even after Generaloberst Schönburg-Hartenstein had said to the Emperor's face that the army had lost all confidence in Arz.
During the American Revolution, when control of the Hudson River was viewed by the British as strategic to dominating the American territories, Rockland had skirmishes at Haverstraw, Nyack, and Piermont, and significant military engagements at the Battle of Stony Point, where General "Mad" Anthony Wayne earned his nickname.
22 Shrutis are a sub-set of Natural 7 Shrutis 

The Indian Classical Music (both Hindustani and Carnatic) is based on the Tanpura, which produces the 1st 3 natural shrutis, Shadja (1st Harmonic), Gandhar (5th Harmonic), and Pancham (3rd Harmonic), at a ratio of 100:125:150.
in Mathematics in 1966 and his Ph.D. in Mathematics three years later.
|
|-
| The Best Of LucasArts Original Soundtracks
| 2002
| LucasArts
| CD 
| 8127927
| LucasArts 20th anniversary compilation of original game soundtracks, including excerpts from The Dig, Outlaws, Grim Fandango, and the Monkey Island series.
Basque, West Caucasian [see table above], Burushaski, Yeniseian, Na-Dené, Sumerian templates […].
Data recovery

The remastering of the soundtrack started with the retrieval of the original 16-year-old data, in a process dubbed by Polygon as "digital archeology".
Therefore, when the ratio 150/100 is 'inverted' we get the position of P on the string as 100/150 or 2/3 or 66.66% length of the string.
The Washington Post wrote in 2018 that "no court decision has changed the sound of pop music as much as this", likening it to banning a musical instrument.
of California Press, 1976).
KOROTAYEV, Andrey, and KAZANKOV, Alexander, 2000.
The South Pole is the other point where Earth's axis of rotation intersects its surface, in Antarctica.
Grover Cleveland – 22nd and 24th President of the United States.
See also

References

Notes

Bibliography

 Bartlett, John Images of England, Fishponds Tempus 2004 
 Culshaw, David & Horrobin, Peter The Complete Catalogue of British Cars Veloce 1997 
 Lumsden, Alec.
African Sources for African History is a book series published by Brill that aims to make available critical editions of indigenous African narrative sources from sub-Saharan Africa.
During the 1840s, that era's penny press accorded Frémont the sobriquet The Pathfinder.
"There are also some commonalities in the sequential ordering of verbal affixes: typically the transitive/causative *s- is directly before the verb stem (−1), a pronominal agent or patient in the next position (−2).
Theill's Corners, named after a Dane who came to the locality previous to the Revolution erected a forge.
Organization and Tactics.
1964: The school was remodeled, adding 19 classrooms and five laboratories.
One of the prefixes, */s/-, seems to be abundant in Haida, though again fossilized.
While developing the Fairlight, Vogel recorded around a second of a piano performance from a radio broadcast, and discovered that he could imitate a piano by playing the recording back at different pitches.
The school offers a variety of extracurricular activities, courses, and sports.
Musically, out of the 7 natural Shrutis, (see diagram)
 If R is taken as S, G becomes R1, coming at 111.1111111, a ratio of 10/9.
In 2019, celebrating its 20th anniversary, it was also released in vinyl format.
Captain Robert F. Scott, January, 1906, – August, 1906.
Treatises were written to discuss its possibility, either as refutations or expressing doubts about Ptolemy's arguments against it.
In a 2003 article published in the Studies in the Humanities journal, Steven Salaita posits a fourth branch made up of English language works, particularly those written by Palestinians in the United States, which he defines as "writing rooted in diasporic countries but focused in theme and content on Palestine."
BOMHARD, Allan R., 1997.
Sickletown – A hamlet named after the Sickles family located along the east and west side of Sickletown Road, also named after them.
"Basque and Dene–Caucasian: A Critique from the Basque Side".
After 60 years of recording, there are so many prerecorded examples to sample from.
MAA Notes Number 19, Mathematical Association of America.
The remixes pack was released on 20 December 2019 and an acoustic version on 14 February 2020.
This ad became known for the misspelling of Saskatchewan – as "Saskatchwan".
Originally a Progressive Conservative, but voted for the Liberals in the 1985 provincial election.
According to the Guardian, "Sampling became risky business and a rich man's game, with record labels regularly checking if their musical property had been tea-leafed."
There, Judith discovered her passion and talent for abstract fiber art and she was able to communicate in a new form.
'Raga' can have a 'lesser' no.
Sir Roy Fedden, the company's principal designer, developed the 14-cylinder radial Mercury engine during this period.
Durant's daughter, Heloise Durant Rose was the founder of the Rockland County Welfare Society and of the Dante League of America.
The 14 titles are as follows:

Limited Gold Edition I

Mickey (1984)
Steamboat Willie (1928)
Mickey's Grand Opera (1936)
The Worm Turns (1937)
Mickey's Parrot (1938)
Mr.
Moscow, RSUH, March 27-28, 2014.
Reissue of Matari.
11: Mickey and the Gang
Boat Builders (1938)
Canine Caddy (1941)
Moose Hunters (1937)

Linking clips reused from: Pluto's Dream House (1940), How to Play Golf (1944), African Diary (1945)

Vol.
Only the root cellar remains.
The situation changed after Ghassan Kanafani, another Palestinian writer in exile in Lebanon published an anthology of their work in 1966.
Vajda's ideas on the relationship of Athabaskan–Eyak–Tlingit and Yeniseian have found support independently in works of various authors, including Heinrich K. Werner or Merritt Ruhlen.
The Saskatchewan Party won 38 seats in the Legislative Assembly, and leader Brad Wall was sworn in as the province's 14th Premier on November 21, 2007.
Nortorf: Völkerkundliche Arbeitsgemeinschaft.
Viking also got to the final of the Norwegian Cup in both 2000 and 2001, but only winning it in the latter.
Instead of asking for royalties, O'Sullivan forced Biz Markie's label Warner Bros to recall the album until the song was removed.
The party later saw the nomination vacated.
McConnell would then come up with a theme by humming a tune, record it in a cassette, play it back to Schafer, and eventually replace the plot points narration with those tunes.
Journal of Chinese Linguistics 24.2: 281–311.
Segments in one episode included Shopping Sleuth (with Mitta Hamilton), Dressmaking (with Dorothy Bradfield), Entertainment Review (with Jean Battersby), Cookery (with Elinor Gordon), Let's Figure it Out (with Beryl Wright and Mel Cowdrey), Disc Dizzy (with John d'Arcy), "Sundowner" Story (with Roy Lyons) and Murder Tale (with Raymond Singer).
He is known for winning a Primetime Emmy Award for animation on Comedy Central's Broad City television show.
Furthermore, all charts made or captured from foreigners had to be delivered to the Lords of Her Majesty's Privy Council.
Currently, each of these seconds is slightly longer than an SI second because Earth's mean solar day is now slightly longer than it was during the 19th century due to tidal friction.
Karachi remained a federal territory and became the capital of Sindh in 1970 by general Yahya khan.
4 Shrutis each of the notes R, G, M, D and N progress in a symmetrical order  of Poorna, Pramana, Nyuna, Pramana as shown in the diagram.
A. Matisoff.
It may correspond to the Tlingit perfect prefix wu-/woo- /wʊ, wu/, which occurs in position −2, and the fossilized Haida wu-/w- /wu, w/ which occurs in verbs with "resultative/perfect" meanings.
(Los Angeles: UCLA Latin American Center Publications, University of California, Los Angeles, 1976).
Entering military education while assigned as a professor of military science and tactics at the Louisiana State University and East Florida Seminary, Wagner would win high praise from the Military Service Institution of the United States, and greatly increased his prominence as one of the leading military scholars, for his monograph The Military Necessities of the United States, and the Best Method of Meeting Them in 1884.
Stuart contributed also to the Catholic Encyclopedia.
Renamed back to Grassy Point on September 10, 1836.
1/2, 1998 (1996).
Other caucus members who expressed interest in running included Jason Dearborn, Allan Kerpan (a former Reform MP), and Ken Cheveldayoff, the MLA for Saskatoon Silver Springs who at one time was the President of the Young Progressive Conservatives of Saskatchewan.
Attaining the rank of Oberleutnant, Arz attended the Imperial Kriegschule in Vienna, 1885–1887, where he again distinguished himself, and in 1888 he was appointed to the General Staff.
Only a limited number were made, and it was followed up by the larger 10.5 CAR which never got beyond prototype stage.
Nortorf: Völkerkundliche Arbeitsgemeinschaft.
'Komal' notes are subdivided into their Shrutis 'Ati-Komal' (Lower frequency version) and 'Komal' (Higher frequency version); and 'Tara' notes into 'Tara' (Lower frequency version) and 'Ati-Tara' (Higher frequency version).
The Security of Service and Information.
Shared noun class pre- and infixes

Noun classification occurs in the North Caucasian languages, Burushaski, Yeniseian, and the Na-Dené languages.
Since 1982 he has worked at the California State University Stanislaus, since 1986 as Professor of Computer Science until 2001, Gemperle Distinguished Professor for three years and Stanislaus Professor Emeritus since 2005.
Some scientific evidence shows that these intermediate tones perceived in the contemporary rendition of a raga do not hint at the existence of 22 shrutis.
Has made a court application to quash the provincial anti-smoking bylaw in Lambton County.
With Judith R. Brown.
e.g., For the region of r, the perception of r begins at point 1 (called swara-uday-bindu in Sanskrit meaning, the point where the swara emerges or starts) and ends at point '2' (called 'Swara-Asta-Bindu' in Sanskrit meaning, the point where the swara disappears or ends).
The mean solar second between 1750 and 1892 was chosen in 1895 by Simon Newcomb as the independent unit of time in his Tables of the Sun.
Frustration Man" or "Swanky Maximino" being some of his favorite pieces because of the solo performances).
See also 
 List of Utricularia species

References 

Carnivorous plants of South America
Flora of Brazil
parthenopipes
His work, unlike those of many of his contemporaries, contained no element of self-justification or political statement.
On May 14, 2020 Howe confirmed that he was in an ICU suffering from Covid-19.
United Kingdom

Francis Drake 

When Francis Drake sailed on his voyage round the world in 1577, he was given clear instructions that "none shall make any charts or descriptions of the said voyage."
References 

1959 births
Living people
If M is taken as S, N becomes m1, coming at 140.625, a ratio of 45/32.
In 1991, Craig approached a local radio station, WJNO, about starting a tech radio program that eventually became Computer America.
In 1990 the Speaker of the House of Commons Bernard Weatherill held a dinner in honour of the 23 remaining pre-war MPs at which Martin was one of the star guests; he was interviewed by the BBC afterwards.
The method also involved tape loops, splicing lengths of tape end to end so a sound could be played indefinitely.
"seven": Egyptian , Proto-Semitic , Berber (Tamazight) .
Having been steadily promoted and seen as a promising and competent officer, he received an "outstanding" evaluation from his old commander, Archduke Eugen, during 1911's fall maneuvres.
It was followed by competing samplers from companies including Korg, Roland and Casio.
He served for 35 years.
Writings
Her writings included The Education of Catholic Girls (1912), The Society of the Sacred Heart (1914), and Highways and By-ways in the Spiritual Life.
It wasn't until Judith casually observed a fiber art class conducted by visiting artist Sylvia Seventy, that she had her artistic breakthrough.
In 2008, he was selected by the Art Directors Club for Young Guns 6, and received Print Magazine's New Visual Artist award.
Celebrate Clarkstown 1791–1991.
Great adventure games such as Grim Fandango feature worlds so cohesive and rich with detail that they’re transportive for the player and McConnell’s soundtrack is the glue that binds the game's elements."
Has also campaigned for municipal office.
The threshold of identification of a musical note within the range of human voice of 100–1000 Hertz is 20–45 msec.
The station and the railroad were acquired by the New York Central Railroad in 1914.
However, when it was time for the girls to start attending school, Judith was found to be "ineducable."
There is no difference between  and shrutis as both are nadas.
He would report such prizes to the Admiralty when he returned to London, but meanwhile he would omit them from his journal and charts.
Around 2015 McConnell prepared a suite of music for performance by the Queensland Symphony Orchestra.
Mean solar day

The average of the true solar day during the course of an entire year is the mean solar day, which contains .
The western section of the township is the largest, and it includes almost all of the township's industrial developments including the large General Motors Lansing Craft Center and General Motors Lansing Metal Center automobile factories, both of which were closed and shuttered in early 2006.
Rockland Lake – formerly known as Slaughterer's Landing.
Below are the winners of the 2005 Billboard Latin Music Awards.
If G is taken as S, S’ becomes d2, coming at 160, a ratio of 8/5.
The naming of settlements mostly derived from the person who owned the land, the geography of the location.
It stretched along what is now known as Lake Sebago and Lake Kanawauke making it the largest settlement in the western part of the state park.
By 2020, the Greek government spent 40 million euros on the museum, with the Stavros Niarchos Foundation giving a further 3 million euros in the final push towards completion.
History
Among the ancient Greeks, several of the Pythagorean school believed in the rotation of Earth rather than the apparent diurnal rotation of the heavens.
In 1994 its vote share dropped to 0.3%, again failing to win a seat.
Received 354 votes, finishing last in a field of five candidates.
The 1st line shows Shruti nos.
With a ten-second sample length and a distinctive "gritty" sound, the E-mu SP-1200, released in 1987, was used extensively by East Coast producers during the golden age of hip hop of the late 1980s and early 90s.
He noted that "Grim’s music was a little bit ahead of [its] time", and it suffered because of that.
Murder mystery author Terry Mitchell often uses characters who throw dice to make decisions, and in his own personal life, Mitchell created the "dice road trip", "dicing to eat", and "The Sacred Journey", each of which used dice to make decisions about life decisions.
the case endings themselves:

As Bengtson (2008) himself notes, an ergative ending -/s/, which may be compared to the ending that has instrumental function in Basque, occurs in some Sino-Tibetan languages, and the Yeniseian language Ket has an instrumental/comitative in .
Once appointed in March 1917, Arz made every effort to comply with the Emperor's wishes, but unlike his predecessor he acted as a personal advisor to the Emperor on army matters, rather than as a driver of his own strategy, which had been Conrad's hallmark.
Cassady's Corners – South of Mechanicsville/Viola.
In Jesus Invades George: An Alternative History (2013), which takes place in 2007, then-sitting President George W. Bush is possessed by the spirit of Jesus Christ.
Ran for the Progressive Conservative Party of Ontario in the 1987 provincial election, and received 798 votes in Parkdale for a distant third-place finish.
1912 saw him promoted to command a division, the 15th infantry at Miskolc.
Die Zahlwörter des Haida in sprachvergleichender Sicht [The numerals of Haida in comparative view].
Spook Rock is the largest of the cluster of rocks located on Spook Rock Road and Highview Avenue in Airmont.
"External Connections of the Sumerian Language."
The British realized its importance as a military cantonment and a port for the produce of the Indus basin, and rapidly developed its harbor for shipping.
2000 census
There were 4,104 households, out of which 22.8% had children under the age of 18 living with them, 34.3% were married couples living together, 12.6% had a female householder with no husband present, and 50.1% were non-families.
Celebrating its 20th anniversary, a live performance of script-reading with live music was performed at Electronic Entertainment Expo 2018.
An all-night practice space recording session yielded not only their contribution "Dartania", which was chosen as the lead-off track on the benefit album, but also a batch of other tracks split evenly between improvisations and structured songs, which were ultimately released by German label September Gurls in 1997 as a self-titled limited edition vinyl album.
He won 59 votes (0.4% of the total), placing last in a field of seven candidates.
In the 1980s, Sergei Starostin, using strict linguistic methods (proposing regular phonological correspondences, reconstructions, glottochronology, etc.
Germany
Alle Enten Fertig...Los!
Mother Tongue 3: 75-93.
In Burushaski, a fossilized preverb /d/- appears in position −3.
Producer Frank Dukes and his Kingsway Music Library is often credited in popularizing the craft; his sample compositions have been used for the likes of Drake's "0 to 100 / The Catch Up" and Kanye West's "Real Friends".
Windows, walls and roads as well as temples all suffered damage from the quake.
Moscow: RSUH.
It had a standard release of 37 tracks, as well as a Director's Cut with 14 extra tracks (the latter sold exclusively through Sumthing Else).
In the township the population was spread out, with 20.9% under the age of 18, 11.3% from 18 to 24, 32.9% from 25 to 44, 20.8% from 45 to 64, and 14.1% who were 65 years of age or older.
Napartuk died in 2001 in Umiujaq.
Captain Cook 

The British Admiralty sent James Cook on his three Pacific voyages during the Second Hundred Years War when France and Britain were vying for commercial supremacy and control of shipping lanes around the world.
Orangetown
 Middletown – A hamlet midway between the pioneers settled at Ramapo and Tappan.
New York.
[Language-historical investigation of some animal names in Haida (fish, echinoderms, mollusks, arthropods, and others)].
Schaeffer developed the Phonogene, which played loops at 12 different pitches triggered by a keyboard.
The land was cleared, homes, schools and churches were built and sawmills and gristmills erected along the numerous creeks.
Captain Robert S. Lowry, October, 1897 - December 1899.
After World War I, Rockland County became the most important sausage-making hub in New York.
Chaturdandi Prakashika (Sanskrit) by Pandit Venkatamakhin in Shloka 105 and 106, Chapter 4, narrates the same sequence of Shrutis as,

 Chatush Chatush Chatush Cha Eva Shadja Madhyama Panchamou Dve Dve NishĀda GĀndharou Tri Tri Rishabha Dhaivatou 

meaning,

Shadja, Madhyama and Panchama (situated on) 4, 4, and 4; Nishad and Gandhara (situated on) 2 and 2; Rishabha and Dhaivata (situated on) 3 and 3.
The music tracks were on archaic DLT backup tapes stored in the LucasArts/Disney archives.
The ancient data are consistent with a shorter day, meaning Earth was turning faster throughout the past.
The same year, in his article for Mother Tongue, Bengtson concluded that Sumerian might have been a remnant of a distinct subgroup of the Dené–Caucasian languages.
Na-Dené languages (Athabascan–Eyak–Tlingit)
1.2.
The original name "Kolachi" survives in the name of a well-known Karachi locality named Mai Kolachi.
Yet the Dutch did leave a legacy in place names like Dunderberg Mountain, Sparkill and High Tor, as well as a small collection of unique sandstone houses like the 1700 DeWint House, built in Tappan and still exists, which later served as George Washington’s headquarters.
In World War I many German soldiers were killed in Belgium after their camps were flooded, even though the maps used by German military indicated the camp sites were not prone to flooding.
1970: The old basketball gymnasium and home economics building were demolished.
Angered by opposition Members jeering at Prime Minister Ramsay MacDonald he was overheard by Labour MP Valentine MacEntee shouting out "Lie down, dog!
Nelson George described it as the "most damaging example of anti-hip hop vindictiveness", which "sent a chill through the industry that is still felt".
Between Pine Meadow and Ladentown, southeast of Johnsontown.
The number 22 is of no practical significance in the current performance of Carnatic and Hindustani music traditions, partly because different musicians use slightly different "shrutis" when performing the same raga, an example being the ati-komal (extra flat) gandhar in Darbari.
Similarly, the values of 22 shrutis can be precisely calculated based on their natural relationships to the 22 Shruti-Mandal (Organogram) rather than an analysis of performances.
PEIROS, Ilia, and STAROSTIN, Sergei A., 1996.
For this reason she was denied any training opportunities.
Schooled in Dresden and Hermannstadt, Arz graduated "with great achievement", and went on to read law at a university, during which time he volunteered for one year's service in a Hungarian Feldjäger battalion during 1876–1877.
When he recorded his vocals he was led to make several attempts to get the right vocal balance and the right notes without forcing his voice.
Nortorf: Völkerkundliche Arbeitsgemeinschaft.
The 1970s saw major labour struggles in Karachi's industrial estates.
If G is taken as S, M becomes r2, coming at 106.666666, a ratio of 16/15.
This policy is meant to prohibit terrorists, outlaws, and entities that are at war with Lebanon from obtaining those maps.
Manghai (မန်ဟိုင်, 芒海镇)
Zhongshan (ကျုင်းရှန်မြို့ , 中山乡)
Dongshan (သုင်ရှန်မြို့ , 东山乡)
Santai (ဆန်ထိုင်မြို့ , 三台乡, in Gonglin ကုင်လင် 拱岭寨 and Manggang မန်ကန်芒岗寨 villages)

Lashi (လရှီ) is also spoken in eastern Shan State, Burma.
Stewart-Studebaker House, also known as the John Studebaker Residence, is a historic home located at Bluffton, Wells County, Indiana.
He applied and was granted Hungarian citizenship in 1933.
He has managed Örebro SK, Lyngby FC and Bristol City among others.
In May 1981 he won the Player of the Month Award, the only Astros third baseman to win it until it was also won by Alex Bregman in June 2018.
In charge of the 6th Corps, he performed outstandingly and with great energy at Limanowa-Lapanów, where his unit formed part of the 4th Army.
The EP also resulted in another Medina video, this time for the song "The Road", which again featured Mlee Marie, playing a bell-like keyboard part which helped underline the song's fragile feel and circular structure.
She is the main coach at FC Barcelona's figure skating section.
Hermanson stated he would not sell the four major crown corporations, but would consider offers.
His fluorescent color, busy, organic and playful work looks "like hand-drawn doodles," patterns and type.
For example, at the time of the original release Computer Gaming Worlds review remarked that "a musical score (...) accompanies the art to complete the experience."
Received 316 votes, finishing last in a field of five candidates.
Cartographic disinformation has long been a weapon in political propaganda, military counter-intelligence and covert diplomacy.
Bensons Corners – North of Garnerville.
McConnell also noted how the game's mélange of themes was musically very "potent" as it brought together diverse music styles, including folk, noir jazz, and classic underscore.
Until this point it was officially named The Royal Society's Museum.
The addition of a cotton mill in 1814, and later woolen mills, nearly doubled the size of the Works, which in 1822 were incorporated under the name "Ramapo Manufacturing Company."
Gradually, Howe and general manager Billy Beane grew estranged.
DNA analyses have not shown any special connection between the modern Ket population and the modern speakers of the Na-Dené languages.
Improvements and re-recording

Just like with the original game development, project lead Tim Schafer had very little input into the soundtrack's re-mastering, except that "he was very supportive of the effort to make the music the highest quality possible."
Bart Deurloo (born February 23, 1991) is a Dutch male artistic gymnast and a member of the national team.
The A's suffered through three losing seasons under Howe before, in 1999, they returned to contention.
Stuart Townend (born 1963) is an English Christian worship leader and writer of hymns and contemporary worship music.
Post Islamic era (8th century AD - 19th century)

Muhammad bin Qasim 
In AD 711, Muhammad bin Qasim conquered the Sindh and Indus Valley, bringing South Asian societies into contact with Islam, succeeding partly because Raja Dahir was a Hindu king that ruled over a Buddhist majority and that Chach of Alor and his kin were regarded as usurpers of the earlier Buddhist Rai dynasty this view is questioned by those who note the diffuse and blurred nature of Hindu and Buddhist practices in the region, especially that of a royalty to be patrons of both and those who believe that Chach himself may have been a Buddhist.
It wanted even greater concealment of politically sensitive discoveries when it commissioned Dr. Hawkesworth to write the official account of Cook's voyages.
Musicians had used similar techniques before, but, according to Guardian writer Dave Simpson, sampling had never before been used "to such cataclysmic effect".
First ran for the Freedom Party in the 1999 provincial election, and received 135 votes in Haliburton—Victoria—Brock; Hodgson again won the riding.
She competed in eleven World Championships, achieving her highest placement, 19th, in 2002 in Nagano, Japan.
With significantly revised core policies and increased emphasis on social issues, the party began to soften its image and attract voters in the cities.
At Gorlice-Tarnów he was again to play an outstanding role and was in command again at Grodek-Magierow and Brest-litowsk during the summer of 1915.
From among those Palestinians who became Arab citizens of Israel and after the passage of the Citizenship Law of 1952, a school of resistance poetry was born that included poets like Mahmoud Darwish, Samih al-Qasim, and Tawfiq Zayyad.
After the original Pro Tools project files were recovered, he found that some of the digital samples he had used originally did not sound good, and the team opted to re-mix, re-sample, add additional tracks, and re-orchestrate different parts of the score.
Empirical data tentatively shows a sharp increase in rotational deceleration about 600 Myr ago.
In 1967 the SI second was made equal to the ephemeris second.
Out of the 22 notes thus created, the word shuddha denotes 'purity' and signifies notes with a natural ratio of 100:125:150.
At the outbreak of the First World War, he commanded the 15th Infantry Division.
c Burushaski seems to have reversed the first two animate classes, which may have parallels in some East Caucasian languages, namely Rutul, Tsakhur, or Kryz.
RUHLEN, Merritt.
A few of the sandstone homes, mostly Pre-Revolutionary, built by the members of the Sickles family remain.
Nortorf: Völkerkundliche Arbeitsgemeinschaft.
Returning to the US, he entered the graduate program at University of Wisconsin, where he pursued his doctorate in the social history of conquest-era Peru.
Assessing the Sino-Caucasian Hypothesis.
The most celebrated test of Earth's rotation is the Foucault pendulum first built by physicist Léon Foucault in 1851, which consisted of a lead-filled brass sphere suspended  from the top of the Panthéon in Paris.
Sino-Yeniseian [5,100 BCE]
1.2.2.2.2.1.
As this interstellar dust is heterogeneous, any asymmetry during gravitational accretion resulted in the angular momentum of the eventual planet.
History of the hypothesis

Classifications similar to Dené–Caucasian were put forward in the 20th century by Alfredo Trombetti, Edward Sapir, Robert Bleichsteiner, Karl Bouda, E. J. Furnée, René Lafon, Robert Shafer, Olivier Guy Tailleur, Morris Swadesh, Vladimir N. Toporov, and other scholars.
He soon unveiled a more moderate policy platform that included plans for more treatment beds for crystal meth addicts, democratic workplaces, and a new model for economic development in Saskatchewan.
In certain ragas, due to inflexions or gamakas on some of those 12 notes, listeners perceive a sharpened or flattened version of an existing note.
The song was nominated for Most Performed Australian Work and Most Performed Dance Work at the APRA Music Awards of 2021

Background 
In May 2019, when Garrix injured his ankle, his doctors ordered him to take two weeks off before resuming his tour.
Tim Schafer's guidance and the cultures that shaped the game were the basis for the composition.
There is also resistance to this school of thought, whereby Palestinian artists have "rebelled" against the demand that their art be "committed".
The museum was established in 1846, by the Royal Society of Tasmania, the oldest Royal Society outside England.
1942 births
American computer scientists
Living people
Information visualization experts
Drury University alumni
Oregon State University alumni
University of Oregon alumni
Allan King Sloan, the great-great-grandson of the company's founder, provided some of the information that is on the historical marker nearby and attended the dedication ceremony on August 7, 2009.
Brick-making was so popular due to the clay formed by the Hudson River's water and the rich soil that lined Haverstraw's waterfront, that it was nicknamed the "Brickmaking Capital of the World".
On May 16, 2006, in an effort to gain political support, Saskatchewan Party MLAs tried to associate the provincial NDP – which had vocally opposed the gun registry – with their federal party counterparts – which support it.
In 2015, Perry created and curated an 820-foot-long mural with nine other artists, that was completed in one day.
5: Here's Pluto!
The soundtrack was praised both as a stand-alone musical experience, as well as for its outstanding contribution to the overall game experience; capturing the spirit of the game,  "gluing" the story together, and becoming "integral" to the success of the game.
This requires only the publisher's permission, and gives the artist more freedom to alter constituent components such as separate guitar and drum tracks.
Discography

Audio
 Classical Praise Piano: Come Holy Spirit (1995)
 Say the Word (1997)
 Personal Worship (2001)
 Lord of Every Heart (2002)
 Monument to Mercy (2006)
 The Best of Stuart Townend Live (2007)
 There is a Hope (live) (2008)
 Creation Sings (2009)
 The Journey (2011)
 Ultimate Collection (2012)
 The Paths of Grace (2014)
 The Best of Stuart Townend Live, Volume 2 (2015)
 In Christ Alone: Songs of Stuart Townend & Keith Getty (2016)
 Courage (2018)

Audio—featuring Townend
 Stoneleigh Bible Week albums, 1994–2001
 Mandate—O Church Arise
 Mandate—See What A Morning
 Newfrontiers albums, 2004–2006
 Mission:Worship albums, 2006–present
 Phatfish—Hope—Unplugged Live (2002)
 Keswick Convention albums, 2007–present
 Spring Harvest albums

Video
 There is a Hope (live) (DVD 2008)
 Creation Sings (DVD 2009)

Video—featuring Townend
 Mission:Worship—Just One Touch From The King (DVD 2007)
 Worship From The Abbey (DVD 2007)
 Phatfish—There Is A Day (DVD 2006)
 Phatfish—Hope—Unplugged Live (VHS 2002)

With Keith Getty
The Apostles' Creed

References

External links
 Debra Akins, 10 Questions With Stuart Townend (Crosswalk.com)
 Stuart Townend, "Tips for writing a successful hymn", originally posted in BBC Religion and Ethics, 2004
 There is a Hope album review

Christian hymnwriters
English hymnwriters
English evangelicals
Evangelical Anglicans
Alumni of the University of Sussex
Performers of contemporary worship music
Living people
British performers of Christian music
1963 births
Place of birth missing (living people)
People from Halifax, West Yorkshire
Also, in this new scale, P from Shadja Grama operates as P2 or (musically, Ati-Tara Rishabha, see Nomenclature table below), and Tara Rishabha  or a shruti at an Interval ratio 10/9 (Just Major Second) is absent.
The Liberal caucus soon became bogged down in factional disputes, leading a number of Liberals to propose joining forces with the Tories in hopes of providing an alternative to the NDP.
The Christ Episcopal Church of Piermont – 416 Valentine Avenue in Sparkill – is Rockland's first established Episcopal Church.
Names 
The ancient names of Karachi included: Krokola, Barbarikon, Nawa Nar, Rambagh, Kurruck, Karak Bander, Auranga Bandar, Minnagara, Kalachi, Morontobara, Kalachi-jo-Goth, Banbhore, Debal, Barbarice and Kurrachee.
Publications)
 Penford, Saxby Voulaer., "Romantic Suffern - The History of Suffern, New York, from the Earliest Times to the Incorporation of the Village in 1896", Tallman, N.Y., 1955, (1st Edition)
 Pritchard, Evan T., Native New Yorkers: The Legacy of the Algonquin People of New York.
The orchestra hit originated as a sound on the Fairlight sampled from Stravinsky's 1910 orchestral work Firebird Suite and became a hip hop cliche.
Deprived of her twin, Judith became severely alienated, and behavioral problems soon surfaced.
See also
 List of American sabre fencers
List of USFA Division I National Champions

References

1978 births
Living people
St. John's University (New York City) alumni
Columbia Business School alumni
American male sabre fencers
Fencers at the 2000 Summer Olympics
Fencers at the 2004 Summer Olympics
Fencers at the 2008 Summer Olympics
Olympic silver medalists for the United States in fencing
Sportspeople from New York City
African-American sportsmen
Medalists at the 2008 Summer Olympics
Brooklyn Technical High School alumni
Pan American Games medalists in fencing
Pan American Games bronze medalists for the United States
Fencers at the 1999 Pan American Games
St. John's Red Storm fencers
Medalists at the 1999 Pan American Games
21st-century African-American sportspeople
20th-century African-American sportspeople
As early as 1792, tanneries were in existence.
His father, Rev.
The last hunter-gatherers, who left abundant traces of their passage, repeatedly inhabited the Hills.
Singer Katrina Leskanich said on the band's website, "SBK told us that they could see us as a stadium band, Bryan Adams style, and [guitarist Kimberley Rew] was coming up with this stuff that was perfect for rock radio."
Possible Dene-Caucasian cognates.
The 9th Annual Sergei Starostin Memorial Conference on Comparative Historical Linguistics.
The winner was Steve Peters of the Ontario Liberal Party.
Pyramind studios

Pyramind studios composers Clint Bajakian and Jeremy Garren imported McConnell's original audio mixes into Cubase 7 along with MIDI tracks that were assigned to modern sample libraries residing on two slave PCs running Vienna Ensemble Pro loaded with leading sample libraries.
2000a.
Describes herself as a business woman, library board member, hiker, environmentalist, soccer fan, Thatcher fan and Beatlemaniac.
Netherlands

The Dutch East India Company, or VOC, had a mission to censor cartographic knowledge of newly explored regions.
Random fluctuations due to core-mantle coupling have an amplitude of about 5 ms.
1991.
The use of Bengtson's reconstruction of Proto-/Pre-Basque rather than Trask's.
Starostin, George.
Britain's competition with imperial Russia during the Great Game also heightened the need for a modern port near Central Asia, and so Karachi prospered as a major centre of commerce and industry during the Raj, attracting communities of: Africans, Arabs, Armenians, Catholics from Goa, Jews, Lebanese, Malays, Konkani people from Maharashtra, Kuchhi from Kuchh, Gujarat in India, and Zoroastrians (also known as Parsees)—in addition to the large number of British businessmen and colonial administrators who established the city's poshest locales, such as Clifton.
This may indicate that there were pronouns with irregular declension (suppletion) in Proto-Dené–Caucasian, like "I" vs "me" throughout Indo-European.
In 1999, it was completely shut out in Regina and won only one seat in Saskatoon.
The Center, founded in November 2008, by Gil Weinberg focuses on research and development of new musical technologies for music creation, performance and consumption.
Similar technology was popularised in the 60s with the Mellotron.
Woodtown – Founded in the early 18th century.
As of 2008, Christian Copyright Licensing International (CCLI) lists "In Christ Alone" in its Top 25 CCLI Songs list.
Musically, P in Shadja Grama (3/2) operates as the Perfect 5th, and the same shruti (P2 in Madhyama Grama) operates as 9/8 (another ratio for Just Major Second) in Madhyama Grama, because the Fundamental frequency has changed to M1.
In The Linguist's Linguist: A Collection of Papers in Honour of Alexis Manaster Ramer, ed.
American talk radio programs
For almost two years, Judith showed little interest in any artistic activity.
CCHS offers 32 AP courses, the most of any high school in Dekalb County, and was named an AP Honor School in 2011 for every category in which it was eligible.
The tradition of “Tales From a Thousand and One Nights” is not an exception.
Radio host Emily Reese called the score "amazing", further adding how she really enjoyed how McConnell wrote the various sections of the orchestra: "It seems [McConnell was] able to capitalize on really specific characteristics of the instruments; like you'll have the brass play in a militaristic style, or you'll have the bassoons or baby base clarinets being very mischievous, strings will do something where they are trembling(...)."
Riders who wish to board eastbound trains would have to arrive several hours ahead of time.
Natural existence of 22 shrutis on a string

In ancient times, shruti was described in Sanskrit as Shruyate iti Shruti, meaning, "What is heard is a shruti".
He was a major contributor to a field of ethnohistory built on the study of indigenous-language sources from colonial Mexico, which he called New Philology.
Large and heavyset, despises political correctness.
Further afield, inclusion in a putative Macro-Jibaro family has been posited.
He called the single "a future bass inspired sound" endowed with "an uplifting vivacity" thanks to "Lewis' piano parts and vocals" which "are the cherry on top" and giving to the song "a bright and summery feeling".
He said the map had been "made in Germany by Hitler's government" and that it showed that the Nazis had designs against the United States.
His many designs for brands include sneakers for Nike and custom glassware for Duvel.
The Baluarte de Santiago was part of the construction of seven bastions that would form the defensive system of the walled city of Veracruz.
Read at: Bureau of Faculty Research, Western Washington University, Bellingham, WA, March 8, 2001
VAJDA, Edward J.
Sampling without permission can infringe copyright or may be fair use.
At his peak rate, he noted that there were weeks during which he composed as much as two minutes of finished music a day, which he considered a "heavy regimen".
His article was printed by the Freedom Party in 1995.
In March 2006, the Saskatchewan Party introduced a motion calling on the NDP government to apologize for the highly unfavourable and inaccurate portrayal of Jimmy Gardiner in Prairie Giant: The Tommy Douglas Story.
Background Music was also reissued in 2011 through Deathwish Inc. in celebration of the band's reunion shows.
Yeniseian and Athabaskan–Eyak–Tlingit.'
8: Starring Silly Symphonies: Animals Two by Two
Father Noah's Ark (1933)
Peculiar Penguins (1934)
The Tortoise and the Hare (1935)

Linking clips reused from: The Grasshopper and the Ants (1934)

Vol.
and at the same time began to repair the ruined town with the stones of minaret.
The resulting mayhem reveals the primitive nature of our society, and offers an alternative vision for the human race.
She has been translated into twelve languages.
His mural Wiggling Waves & Water Wanders went up in 2019 at Pier 17 in New York.
Opposes any form of rent control.
Julia Buovi, et fu tenuto da M. Agustino di Faci et la Comar Mad.
The following is an overview of 2018 in Chinese music.
A lyrical and poetic tale of love, honor and morality.
Themes and recording

McConnell went on to compose and produce Grim Fandangos original soundtrack, which combined an orchestral score, South American (Peruvian and Mexican) folk music, swing jazz from the noir era, jazz from other periods, bebop, and big band music.
Piermont hand-cranked drawbridge
The Piermont hand-cranked drawbridge was originally built in 1880 by The King Iron Bridge Company, a Cleveland company in the state of Ohio that constructed more than 10,000 bridges over six decades.
History
The Italian Social Democratic Party was formed for the 1919 general election by the union of the Constitutional Democratic Party with several other parties of the liberal left.
Label
!
He also acknowledged the influence of the films Glengarry Glen Ross and The City of Lost Children, the latter a French sci-fi/fantasy movie that informed the oceanic part of the game.
The Baluarte de Santiago (Spanish for "Bastion of Santiago"), also known as the bastion of gunpowder, is located on Street Francisco Canal S/N, between Avenues Gómez Farías and 16 septiembre, in the port city of Veracruz, Veracruz, Mexico.
News section.
Born in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, Connolly became an active trade unionist, and was elected to the General Council of the United Society of Boilermakers.
Newton lost appeals in 2003 and 2004.
Mother Tongue 3: 63–74.
Multiplying by (180°/π radians) × (86,400 seconds/day) yields , indicating that Earth rotates more than 360° relative to the fixed stars in one solar day.
The validity of the rest of the family, however, is viewed as doubtful or rejected by nearly all historical linguists.
1 (1986)
Le vacanze di Pippo (1984)
Le Nuove Avventure di Pluto (1986)
La vita con Topolino (1985)
Il Mondo Di Pippo (1986)
Paperino e le api (1985)
Cartoni animati da Oscar (1985)
Da tutti noi a tutti voi (1983)
Le Meravigliose Fiabe del Grillo Parlante (1985)
Da Pluto con amore (1985)
Paperino & Soci a caccia di guai (1986)
La fabbrica dei sogni Cod.
Oscar-winning actor Philip Seymour Hoffman portrayed Howe in the film Moneyball, which dramatized Billy Beane's tactics of using sabermetrics to select players.
Reports came from various states, including Arkansas, Illinois, Iowa, Kentucky, Ohio, and Tennessee.
Administration

The regional unit Arta is subdivided into 4 municipalities.
2013.
Arthur W. Thorpe (born 1939) is an English former professional footballer who played as a winger.
Sanskrit ṛta 'cosmic law, order', Greek artús 'arrangement', Latin artus 'joint').
There were 4,319 housing units at an average density of 881.4 per square mile (337.4/km2).
MD., The History of Rockland County: (New York) 1886, A. S. Barnes.
All the 22 Shrutis attain the status of Swaras, in some raga or the other.
1991: The first magnet class entered Chamblee High School.
The species of this genus are found in Caribbean.
The process of acquiring permission for a sample is known as clearance, and can be complex and costly; samples from well known sources may be prohibitively expensive.
Recent research has more precisely defined the term shruti, its difference from nada and swara, and pinpointed positions on a string to play 22 shrutis.
The 1st line shows Shruti nos.
Ira M. Hedges - private

Rockland County's historical and notable people from the past

Historical figures who came to Rockland County
 Aaron Burr – 3rd Vice President of the United States.
A "dead map" is a term often applied to sensitive government maps that show the location of top secret facilities and other highly sensitive installations within a country.
): Nostratic: Examining a Linguistic Macrofamily, McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research, Cambridge (UK).
Fusel alcohols are a mixture of several alcohols (chiefly amyl alcohol) produced as a by-product of alcoholic fermentation.
Break of Hearts is the fifth studio album by rock band Katrina and the Waves, released in 1989 (see 1989 in music).
Now a member of Canada's small "Tax Refusal" (or DeTax) movement, members of which refuse to pay income tax, claiming that such taxation is illegal under Canadian law (very few people, and no court authorities, accept the arguments of this group).
During the War of 1812 against the British Empire, Rockland turned out more soldiers in proportion than any other county in the state.
In 2003, received 227 votes and finished last in a field of six candidates.
Volumes 6-10 were released on October 6, 1987.
Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1986).
History
Arteche was created in 1950 from the barrios of San Ramon, Carapdapan, Beri, Tangbo, Catumsan, Bego, Concepcion, Casidman, Tawagan, and Tibalawon of the Municipality of Oras.
As of 2010, it serves 1512 students in grades 9-12.
In 1912 the department was restructured with most of its divisions and functions being absorbed within the Admiralty War Staff organisation the department was abolished and re-emerged as the Naval Intelligence Division of the new department.
The Vice President of the United States' residence (Naval Observatory) in Washington, DC has been pixelated, as has the Federal Gold Depository at Fort Knox.
It set guidelines for conduct and outlined how to deal with violators.
References

External links

Georgia Tech
Kalhora dynasty 
During the reign of the Kalhora dynasty the present city started life as a fishing settlement when a Balochi fisher-woman called Mai Kolachi took up residence and started a family.
Honours
In June 2017, he was awarded the Cranmer Award for Worship by the Archbishop of Canterbury "for his outstanding contribution to contemporary worship music".
The drum break from the 1970 James Brown song "Funky Drummer" is one of the most influential samples.
Wealthy businessmen also funded the construction of the Jehangir Kothari Parade (a large seaside promenade) and the Frere Hall, in addition to the cinemas, and gambling parlours which dotted the city.
Choya Department () is a department of Argentina in Santiago del Estero Province.
Janet Erskine Stuart died on 21 October 1914.
Simultaneously, the Romanian North Army sought to advance along the entire Moldavian front in the Eastern Carpathians, although in fact this amounted to an advance in the northern sector, where the Russian 9th Army was best placed to aid the advance.
Audio
The music and spoken word album, The Dice Man Speaks, on Dice Man Records, a new imprint of bizbro CREATIVE, features the pseudonymous Rhinehart and Sputnik Weazel and was released in 2018.
He received 133 votes, finishing seventh in a field of eight candidates.
*BENGTSON, John D., 1994.
See his biography page for further details.
Thus, the 7-Note scale as indicated by this arrangement is R1, g1, M1, P, D1, n1 and S', and is called as 'Shadja Grama' in Natya Shastra.
Daily Telegraph journalist
After losing his seat, Martin returned to the Palace of Westminster the next year as a political correspondent of The Daily Telegraph, where he remained until 1940.
Since the new Saskatchewan Party consisted largely of former Progressive Conservatives, opponents derided it as merely a re-branding of the Progressive Conservatives in an attempt to distance the party from the still-fresh corruption scandal; then-Premier Roy Romanow often referred to the new party as the "Saska-Tories".
Marquis de Lafayette – Revolutionary War hero and a leader of the Garde Nationale during the French Revolution visited in 1824.
The relationship between this comic title and the similarly titled Cockcroft work has been established.
Though estimations vary widely, it is believed by scholars to have been spoken as a single language around 12,000 to 18,000 years ago (12 to 18 kya), that is, between 16,000 and 10,000 BC.
If G is taken as S, R’ becomes n2, coming at 180, a ratio of 9/5.
State championships

As of the 2021–22 season.
Adventures of Wim (1986).
Biography
Napartuk was born in 1913 in Kuujjuarapik, Quebec.
His last season as manager of Viking, was in 2002.
On May 17, 2020, he was released from the hospital, and sent home, reportedly "weak, but on the mend".
An extended version of 128 tracks was later available online.
Nevertheless, the British were able to quickly reassert control over Karachi and defeat the uprising.
On October 16, 2006, Howe was hired as the third base coach and an infield instructor by the Philadelphia Phillies.
Morris Swadesh included all of the members of Dené–Caucasian in a family that he called "Basque-Dennean" (when writing in English, 2006/1971: 223) or "vascodene" (when writing in Spanish, 1959: 114).
1976
 Cohen, David Steven The Ramapo Mountain People Rutgers University Press 1974
 Cole, David D.D., History of Rockland County: (New York) 1976, Historical Society of Rockland County.
The city's population continued to grow exceeding the capacity of its creaking infrastructure and increased the pressure on the city.
The Clarksville Witch 1816
Jane  (Naut) Kannif, the widow of a Scotch physician, lived in a small house on Germonds Road in West Nyack.
Generaloberst Arthur Freiherr Arz von Straußenburg (; 16 June 1857 – 1 July 1935) was an Austro-Hungarian colonel general and last Chief of the General Staff of the Austro-Hungarian Army.
Owns Forbes Fresh Fish in Grand Bend, Ontario.
Biography

Early life and education 
Bartelle was born in Farroupilha, Rio Grande do Sul.
"Old Chinese Basic Vocabulary: A Historical Perspective."
General Linguistics, Vol.
Bochum Publications in Evolutionary Cultural Semiotics.
Mother Tongue 1:3–82.
Titles in series
 The Epic of Sumanguru Kante
 Les mémoires de Maalaŋ Galisa sur le royaume confédéré du Kaabu
 Guidance (Uwongozi) by Sheikh al-Amin Mazrui: Selections from the First Swahili Islamic Newspaper
 Print Culture and the First Yoruba Novel
 Sukuma Labor Songs from Western Tanzania
 Writing for Kenya
 Tarikh Mandinka de Bijini (Guinée-Bissau)
 Entretiens avec Bala Kanté
 The Pen-Pictures of Modern Africans and African Celebrities by Charles Francis Hutchison
 Servants of the Sharia
 Djinns, Stars and Warriors
 Telling Our Own Stories
 Les Rois des Tambours au Haayre
 Marita: or the Folly of Love
 Somono Bala of the Upper Niger

References

History of Africa
African literature
Monographic series
Publications established in 2001
The use of the reconstruction of Proto-Sino-Tibetan by Peiros and Starostin, parts of which have been criticized on various grounds, although Starostin himself has proposed a few revisions.
Parts of the score was performed live, with 100 pages of musical arrangements prepared by Bartosz Pernal in cooperation with McConnell, who attended and performed in the event.
In Carnatic nomenclature, for example, the 'Eka'-sruthi Rishabham (called as Suddha Rishabham) is followed by 'Chatu'-sruthi Rishabham, omitting the 'Dvi' and 'Tri'-sruthi versions of Rishabham.
"Wider genetic affiliations of the Chinese language."
Burke conducted his Ph.D. thesis work with Professor Stuart L. Schreiber on the combinatorial synthesis of small molecules with diverse skeletons.
published by Council Oak Books, 2002 
 Scott, John A Short history of the West Nyack Area The West Nyack free library, June 7, 1970.
3 Proto-Athabaskan , Haida dii .
Paul Blair (Oxford)
A firefighter in London, Ontario.
Burushaski
1.2.2.2.
He joined the US Army and was posted to Germany, working in "a low-level intelligence agency," translating letters from East Germany.
Others include the rishabh in Bhairav, the nishad in Bhimpalasi and Miya Malhar, and the gandhar in Todi.
Trask, The History of Basque."
Many ancient Sanskrit and Tamil works refer to 22 shrutis as the foundation of the Indian Music Scale.
Name 
The Gaulish theonym Andarta is traditionally interpreted as meaning 'Great Bear', perhaps 'powerful bear' or Ursa Major, formed with an intensifying suffix and- attached to a feminine form of artos ('bear').
It would have been to this day the biggest roller coaster ever constructed.
DJing
Hip hop production
Plagiarism controversies
(IPA: [arˈtɛtʃe]), officially the  (; ), is a   in the province of , .
VOVIN, Alexander, 1997.
Pascack – A hamlet, often called "South Spring Valley" settled in the first half of the 18th century.
The settlers lived almost entirely off the land, farming – berries, fruits and vegetables, as well as hunting, fishing, and trapping.
Platyarthron bilineatum is a species of beetle in the family Cerambycidae.
Damage
The earthquake was felt over an area of 30,000 square miles.
In the 2003 campaign, received 273 votes and again finished sixth in a field of six candidates.
December 1942: The high school was rebuilt and classes resumed on campus.
1853 births
1905 deaths
American military personnel of the Philippine–American War
American military personnel of the Spanish–American War
American people of the Indian Wars
United States Army generals
United States Military Academy alumni
People from Ottawa, Illinois
Military personnel from Illinois
History
The first white pioneer to purchase land in the township was Jacob F. Cooley in 1837.
Research Professor of Computer Science at the Oregon State University 2004-05 and Noyce Visiting Professor of Computer Science at Grinnell College in 2006.
They are still released almost every year around the beginning of January through the middle of February, and retail for around $10.00 each.
On it, Cockcroft/Rhinehart performs spoken word passages voiced over acoustic and electronic musical pieces by Weazel.
Overview

Palestinian Literature spoke to other causes of oppression and discrimination across the world.
But "Naut Kannif", as she was called, seemed to have been exceedingly eccentric.
26 in the UK Indie Chart.
– Paper read at: 38th Conference on American Indian Languages (SSILA), Chicago, Jan. 2000
VAJDA, Edward J.
(See especially pages 403–408.)
Exhibitions 

Since 2007, Perry has been in over forty group and solo exhibitions worldwide.
He died in Bologna and was buried in the church of San Nicolò of Bologna Albari.
References to the subjects of resistance to occupation, exile, loss, and love and longing for homeland are also common.
The Book of the Die (2000).
Elements of grammar, such as verb prefixes and their positions (see below), noun class prefixes (see below), and case suffixes that are shared between at least some of the component families.
The winner was John Wilkinson of the Ontario Liberal Party.
A slow Romanian advance combined with hysterical outcry from Budapest led to the 1st Army being considerably and rapidly strengthened to drive back the challenge from the south.
History 
Craig Crossman began as a professional entertainer and singer.
She was the youngest of thirteen children in the family.
These tasks were assigned to three teams: an audio team at Sony recorded live tracks and remixed 45 minutes of jazz tunes (which included a few new live parts and some new solos); another team at Pyramind Studios in San Francisco replaced old samples with better sounds in another 45 minutes of music and re-mixed all of the cut scenes in six languages; and finally the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra (MSO) recorded about 30 minutes of orchestral music.
the presence of compound case endings (agglutinated from the suffixes of two different cases) in all three branches.
As technology improved, cheaper standalone samplers with more memory emerged, such as the E-mu Emulator, Akai S950 and Akai MPC.
Beginning in the 2000s, some music producers began releasing full compositions with the intention for them to be manipulated by other producers in the tradition of library music.
Two others are direct Dice Man sequels featuring the original character: The Dice Lady (co-written with Peter Forbes), and Last Roll of the Die (co-written with Nick Mead).
He said it was unfortunate that Beane's lack of regard for him was that obvious.
"Word-final resonants in Sino-Caucasian."
General "Mad" Anthony Wayne earned his nickname leading 1,350 Continental Army troops in a surprise attack against the 544 man British garrison at Stony Point.
Similarly, cities had City Committees of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.
At the latitude of Paris the predicted and observed shift was about  clockwise per hour.
Vol.
The most well-known example of shrutis is probably the use of the ati-komal (extra flat) gandhar in raga Darbari.
But the greatest of the industries was the making of brick followed by the ice harvesting.
British colonialists embarked on a number of public works of sanitation and transportation, such as gravel paved streets, proper drains, street sweepers, and a network of trams and horse-drawn trolleys.
Opposes government involvement in matters such as health provision, rent control, social welfare, drug prohibition and abortion provision.
The award was retired after the 2009 ceremony, before being revived once again in the 2016 ceremony.
Townend started learning to play the piano at age 7.
Rhinehart wrote several other novels between 1986 and 2006 though none achieved the success of The Dice Man.
In the third century BCE, Aristarchus of Samos suggested the Sun's central place.
A narrower connection specifically between North American Na-Dené and Siberian Yeniseian (the Dené–Yeniseian languages hypothesis) was proposed by Edward Vajda in 2008, and has met with some acceptance within the community of professional linguists.
In 1908, Arz was again promoted, this time to the rank of Generalmajor, and was given command of the 61st Infantry Brigade.
Table shows Nomenclature for 12 Swara-prakaras and 22 Shrutis in Carnatic Classical Music.
However, the contributions of Kepler, Galileo and Newton gathered support for the theory of the rotation of Earth.
Quaspeck – Located at the foot of Hook Mountain at the southern end of Rockland Lake.
In 1857, the Indian Mutiny broke out in South Asia and the 21st Native Infantry stationed in Karachi declared allegiance to rebels, joining their cause on 10 September 1857.
These settlers were eager to escape "city life", moving from Manhattan to Rockland.
This began by first reconditioning, then substantially redesigning and re-manufacturing Curtiss OX-5 engines.
He was consulting engineer for the British North Borneo Company, and worked to abolish the slave trade.
1884.
Based on very limited evidence, Viegas Barros (1992) suggests that Puelche might be closely related to the language of the Querandí, one of the Het peoples, and Viegas Barros (2005) that it is related to the Chon languages.
Received 218 votes, finishing sixth out of seven candidates.
Tallman was named after Tunis Tallman, a direct descendant of Rockland's oldest family.
Karachi was made the capital of Sindh in the 1840s.
Guardian journalist David McNamee wrote that, in the 1980s, sampling in hip hop had been a political act, the "working-class black answer to punk".
Thus, shrutis are called  in a raga, and both are primarily Nadas.
Sampling is a fundamental element of remix culture.
by F. Cavoto, pp.
Evidence for Dené–Caucasian

The existence of Dené–Caucasian is supported by:

 Many words that correspond between some or all of the families referred to Dené–Caucasian.
A rich collection of video art has also been built.
George Washington had headquarters for a time at John Suffern's tavern, the later site of the village of Suffern.
These phrases employ primarily a combination of 'Shrutis' (identified steady notes) and connecting Nadas' (unidentified fleeting notes) only.
While many poor low caste Hindus, Christians, and wealthy Zoroastrians (Parsees) remained in the city, Karachi's Sindhi Hindu migrated to India and was replaced by Muslim refugees who, in turn, had been uprooted from regions belonging to India.
In 1991, he won the first tier of Norwegian football, before leaving the club the same season.
In 1683, when the Duke of York (who became King James II of England) established the first 12 counties of New York, present-day Rockland County was part of Orange County, known then as "Orange County South of the Mountains".
At that time the DJ confessed to him that he was writing the song from afar with Dean Lewis.
The town was later annexed to the British Indian Empire when Sindh was conquered by Charles James Napier in Battle of Miani on February 17, 1843.
Research
Aside from the permanent collection, periodic exhibitions and educational programming, the museum directs its efforts toward establishing an important infrastructure for research and artistic creation in its premises.
Mouse Takes a Trip (1940), Donald's Ostrich (1937), Chips Ahoy (1956)

Vol.
References

1970 births
Living people
Politicians from Guerrero
Members of the Chamber of Deputies (Mexico)
Party of the Democratic Revolution politicians
21st-century Mexican politicians
Autonomous University of Guerrero alumni
Members of the Congress of Guerrero
Penalties included having the offender's party membership revoked.
Mickey's Birthday Party (1942)
Orphan's Benefit (1941)
Mickey's Garden (1935)

Linking clips rescued from: Mickey's Delayed Date (1947)

Vol.
The 2nd line shows the synonyms and the 7 notes as bold and underlined.
She was regarded as insane – worse yet – a witch in an era of superstition.
All you had to do was catch it."
The Mets won only 42 percent of their games, the front office went through three general managers, and attendance at Shea Stadium fell.
A genitive suffix -/nV/ is also widespread among Nostratic languages.
She scribbled loops and circles, but her work contained no representational imagery, and she was so uninterested in creating that the staff was considering ending her involvement with the program.
The national show entertained live audiences from several venues in South Florida, including The Roof Garden club and Palm Beach Atlantic University.
Chamblee High School, formerly known as Chamblee Charter High School, is a public secondary school located in Chamblee, Georgia, United States.
Maurice A. Bourke, April, 1890 – August, 1891.
The NDP government pointed out in response that the Saskatchewan Party had accepted a $10,000 donation from Imperial Tobacco in 2003.
In a poem about the Israeli bombing of Lebanon, published in the Palestinian literary magazine al-Karmel, Mahmoud Darwish wrote:
Smoke rises from me, I reach out a hand to collect my limbs scattered from so many bodies, besieged from land and sky and sea and language.
History 
In 1919, the previous committees of the Russian Communist Party (Bolsheviks) were replaced by provincial organizations of the Russian Communist Party (Bolsheviks), during the reform of the administrative-territorial division.
This point is distinct from Earth's North Magnetic Pole.
Raised in St. Thomas, Ontario, though he lived in Sarnia on a co-op placement during the election.
Phil Scilippa of EDM.com noted that the song "retains an optimistic vibe, while the lyrics themselves are quite nostalgic and sad".
Descendants of the original community still live in the area on the small island of Abdullah Goth, which is located near the Karachi Port.
Career 
Mike Perry, a studio artist whose work is rooted in popular culture, "is king" of working in many mediums as an illustrator, typographer, sculptor, animator, painter, curator and producer.
The term sampling was coined in the late 1970s by the creators of the Fairlight CMI, a synthesizer with the ability to record and play back short sounds.
The Original patent, which included  is dated 1694.
Retrospective reviews were less than positive.
The winner was David Caplan of the Ontario Liberal Party.
Captain Henry D. Barry, October, 1892 - October 1895.
Has worked as a toastmaster at Toronto's Imperial Oil building.
Federal political affiliations
While not officially aligned with any federal political party, some of the Saskatchewan Party's supporters are involved with the Conservative Party of Canada, with others being involved with the Liberal Party of Canada.
Why does the Melakarta system (Carnatic) not have prescribed shrutis

The system of 72 basic types of singing or playing scales (Thaļas) was evolved with specific mathematical combinations of the universal 12 pitch classes.
However, overall, "the pleasant surprise in the process was how well much of the original material held up".
Among his many graduate students in colonial Spanish American social history and the philology of Mesoamerican indigenous languages, who earned doctorates under his mentorship are S.L.
Howe enjoyed a successful first season in Houston, but the team was rebuilding with young players such as Jeff Bagwell and Craig Biggio, and suffered losing years in 1990–91.
Hayek on occasion.
Track listing
 "(We Are)" – 2:38
 "There's a Black Hole in the Shadow of the Pru" – 2:00
 "AM/PM" – 3:05
 "Shoplifting in a Ghost Town" – 2:51
 "I Saved Latin" – 0:22
 "Postmark My Compass" – 2:15
 "I.C.
Iron mining was opened up by an English company in 1768 and in 1771 a nickel mine.
Many of the hamlets and villages were built near the Depots.
The Dice Man was critically well received.
Read at: SSILA Summer Meeting, July 7, 2001
VAJDA, Edward J.
Formerly owned and operated by the city of Lansing, Michigan Avenue Park included a sledding hill and Little League Baseball field.
Vasconic (see below)
1.2.2.
He provided the following analogy: "Just as a man in a boat going in one direction sees the stationary things on the bank as moving in the opposite direction, in the same way to a man at Lanka the fixed stars appear to be going westward."
Writing for Your EDM, Matthew Meadow said that the track is "usual Garrix fare, with some quaint vocal chops in the drop and a non-intrusive melody".
Bulsontown – Hamlet.
The three "Special Edition" videos were released on June 19, 1992.
Captain Herbert L. Heath, January, 1902 – December, 1903 
 Captain George A. Ballard, January, 1904 – January, 1906.
The winner was Ernie Hardeman of the Progressive Conservative Party of Ontario.
In modern times requests for censorship are sent to Google Earth for certain sites that are deemed to pose security risks for national governments.
It once was a thriving mission established in 1880.
The party was disbanded by the regime in 1926, as all the other parties.
Filmography

Exhibitions

Below is a list of select notable exhibitions for Judith Scott.
Geography

The regional unit of Arta is located north of the Ambracian Gulf.
A further documentary was produced in 2004, a collaboration between Cockcroft/Rhinehart and director Nick Mead, entitled Dice Life: The Random Mind of Luke Rhinehart.
Assistant Director Foreign Division
 Captain Sydney M. Eardley Wilmot, February, 1887 - March 1890.
However Martin was elected with a majority of 496 as part of the landslide election victory of the National Government; his win was the only time that the seat had been won by a Conservative.
It had 7 notes emanating at the same shruti nos.
In the 10th century, some Muslim astronomers accepted that Earth rotates around its axis.
Preparing for the next general election, Martin decided not to defend Blaydon, but was instead adopted as candidate for Camberwell North in inner south London in May 1935.
According to legend, the city started as a fishing settlement, where a fisherwoman, Mai Kolachi, settled and started a family.
Actions prohibited in this document include disseminating false information, pressuring prospective contributors and offering bribes to other political parties, candidates or voters.
He initially turned down the offer to do the titles, his "first real animation project."
In October 2014, the Linus Pauling Quartet released both a video and a 7" single for their song C is for Cthulhu, an epic retelling of the discovery of Cthulhu and the ensuing slaughter and madness.
Thorpe also played Bradford City, scoring 17 goals in 81 League appearances between 1963 and 1966.
This is obtained by dividing Earth's equatorial circumference by .
In November 1612, seven priests escaped from prison.
The show changed networks several times as a result of various mergers and acquisitions, and in 2012 the decision was made to self-syndicate.
Lansing Charter Township is a charter township of Ingham County in the U.S. state of Michigan.
All this led to McConnell eventually incorporating the charango as one of the unique sounds of the score, along with the Andean flutes quena and tarka.
Attempted to have the case dismissed, on the grounds that no legal income tax act exists in Canada.
The capital city of the department is situated in Frías.
From 16 May 2007 to 2009, he served as personal advisor to the former French president Nicolas Sarkozy.
He became a full professor in 1956.
With McConnell having created tracks for almost every location and character in Grim Fandango, these were weaved into a continuous sequence of music, seamlessly transitioning to different pieces as the player progressed through the game, making it the most cinematic soundtrack of any LucasArts game.
December 8, 1941: The entire campus burned to the ground.
According to the , it has a population of  people.
On November 7, 2006, Howe was hired by the Rangers as Washington's bench coach.
Babilis and associates, and INSTA.
Modern use 
Censorship of maps is today still often applied, although it is less effective in the age of satellite picture services.
Washington Irving (April 3, 1783 – November 28, 1859) was an American author, essayist, biographer and historian of the early 19th century.
by H. I. Aronson, pp.
Simmons has written several articles summarizing his beliefs on philosophy-oriented newsgroups.
He came to the major leagues as a part-time player with Pittsburgh in 1974–75, before a trade to the Astros for infielder Tommy Helms on January 6, 1976.
He was one of 31 members of parliament to sign a letter endorsing an All-India Federation with provincial autonomy as a way forward of constitutional reform in India.
Managerial career

Viking
In 1988, Lennartsson signed for Norwegian club Viking FK.
The destinations and activities of the participants were determined by the roll of a die.
Electoral results

References

1922 establishments in Italy
1926 disestablishments in Italy
Defunct political parties in Italy
Political parties established in 1922
Political parties disestablished in 1926
Radical parties in Italy
Banned political parties
Steamboats were built to travel up and down the Hudson, carrying both passengers and freight.
Sterlington ceased when the railway ceased operation.
This led to a turning point in the city's history.
McConnell explained how, since his college days, Duke Ellington had been a "huge influence" for him and kept a headshot in his office studio at LucasArts.
Many regional and non-regional artists are associated with the label which includes regional artists Seema Mishra, Deepali, Supriya and O. P. Vyas while non-regional singers include Shreya Ghoshal, Sunidhi Chauhan, Kavita Krishnamurthy, Udit Narayan and Sadhana Sargam etc.
Chief of General Staff

Karl I of Austria succeeded Franz Joseph as Emperor on 21 November 1916, bringing with him a wave of change across the upper echelons of the government and military command.
The winner was David Zimmer of the Ontario Liberal Party.
The albums showcase an amalgam of Rajasthani folk with the contemporary music and is received positively by people in Rajasthan and also other states.
Some twenty different spots of flint tools were discovered during the surface surveys.
Among his students was the Forlì painter Giuseppe Maria Galleppini.
She has participated in workshops in Montreal and Toronto.
You Are Feeling Drake" – 2:09
 "Hearts" – 1:03
 "God Save the Queen" – 2:00
 "Your Arsonist" – 2:48
 "Farewell" – 2:22

References

Equal Vision Records albums
Deathwish Inc. albums
2001 albums
Contemporary use 
According to Fact, early hip hop sampling was governed by "unspoken" rules forbidding the sampling of recent records, reissues, other hip hop records, or from non-vinyl sources, among other restrictions.
It is according to Nishi (1999: 70) in the Maruic branch, which preserves the preglottalized initials of Proto-Burmish in the most phonotactic environments.
Jamaican immigrants introduced the techniques to American hip hop music in the 1970s.
He watched them "about a hundred times", and for the latter two being able to get copies of their scores from the Warner Brothers archives.
Maps are weapons of war and the falsification of maps is a legitimate ruse de guerre.
Bibliography

 The Dice Man (1971).
Inscriptions invoking her name have been found among the Vocontii in southern France, and in Bern, Switzerland.
Back in the day, fishermen on sloops heading up and down the creek got out of their vessel, cranked up the drawbridge, sailed across, got out of their vessel and cranked down the drawbridge for vehicular traffic.
Chaturdandi Prakashika (Sanskrit) by Pandit Venkatamakhin in Shloka 65 and 66, Chapter 3, confirms the positions of Panchama both in Shadja and Madhyama Gramas as,
 Shadja GrĀma Panchame Swa Chaturtha Shruti Sansthite Swa-UpĀntya Shruti Sansthe Asmin Madhyama GrĀma Ishyate 
meaning,

in Shadja Grama, Panchama is positioned on its 4th Shruti, and on its previous Shruti in Madhyama Grama.
In the mid-1980s she moved to nearby Umiujaq.
It complained when ships owned by its rival, the Australische Compagnie, entered the Pacific by a new passage round Cape Horn, named the Le Maire Strait.
He went to local schools and joined the University of California, Berkeley majoring in experimental psychology.
Likely the only bright spot was Howe winning his 1000th game as manager on April 20, 2003, winning 7-4 against the Florida Marlins.
It dealt with intelligence matters concerning British naval plans, and with the collection of naval intelligence in regard to coastal defences, foreign powers, mobilisation, trade and war.
Sneden's Landing –  Now known as Palisades.
People in many northern provinces (including Chiang Rai, Chiang Mai, and Lampang) sensed the quake.
The polar motion is primarily due to free core nutation and the Chandler wobble.
6: Starring Mickey & Minnie
Hawaiian Holiday (1937)
Brave Little Tailor (1938)
The Little Whirlwind (1941)

Linking clips reused from: The Simple Things (1953), The Nifty Nineties (1941)

Vol.
Rockland is New York's southernmost county west of the Hudson River.
Genetic Evidence for the phylogenetic relationship between Na-Dene and Yeniseian speakers.
To create this missing Tara Rishabha, P2 must be lowered by Interval ratio of 81/80 (Pramana) creating a new shruti P1.
The city continued to be ruled by the Talpur Amir's of Sindh until it was occupied by Bombay Army under the command of John Keane on 2 February 1839.
Received 182 votes, finishing seventh in a field of eight candidates; the winner was Rosario Marchese of the Ontario New Democratic Party.
Cambridge University Press.
Buckberg Mountain – The site of Washington's Lookout, an observation point used by General George Washington and Colonel "Mad" Anthony Wayne to plan a surprise attack on British troops in the Battle of Stony Point.
The state line remains there to this day, though various disagreements along the exact border were had over the years.
Four years later, in 1921 general election the PDSI won only 4.7% of the vote and 29 seats.
Early attempts to settle the county by the Dutch were generally unsuccessful, and in 1664 they handed over the territory to the English.
He was appointed Associate Dean of Research of the Carle-Illinois College of Medicine in 2018.
In 1985, after 35 years of complete separation and lengthy and difficult negotiations, Joyce Scott became her sister's legal guardian, and brought Judith to live with her in California, a state where all mentally disabled citizens are entitled to an ongoing education.
Burke studied chemistry as an undergraduate at Johns Hopkins University, graduating in 1998 with his B.A.
This process has gradually increased the length of the day to its current value, and resulted in the Moon being tidally locked with Earth.
The Grim Fandango game had been originally developed and published by LucasArts, which in 2012 was acquired by Disney.
The collection My Mother Caught Me Doodling is from the show of the same name.
Baldy "The University Wine Course" Third Edition pgs 37-39, 69-80, 134-140 The Wine Appreciation Guild 2009 </ref>

The yeast Brettanomyces produces an array of metabolites when growing in wine, some of which are volatile phenolic compounds.
Moreover, he became a scapegoat by the public opinion since next to the resigned King the Chief of the General Staff was made responsible for the consequences of the armistice and the defeat of the Battle of Piave.
Fencing career
During college, he was the NCAA sabre champion in 1997 and 1999, and took second place in 2001.
He received several awards and honors.
Not until Nicolaus Copernicus in 1543 adopted a heliocentric world system did the contemporary understanding of Earth's rotation begin to be established.
This in fact, is the basic structure of any phrase created in Indian Music (Hindustani and Carnatic), as two or more shrutis connected by nadas.
Those would be Baumgartner's only games played in the Majors; he was sent back to the minors, and Ray Boone was eventually acquired from the Cleveland Indians to play the hot corner for Detroit.
The 7 notes are in bold.
The prefecture had the same territory as the present regional unit.
For example, NASA scientists calculated that the water stored in the Three Gorges Dam has increased the length of Earth's day by 0.06 microseconds due to the shift in mass.
Shrutis can be identified by the human ear because they are played for this time limit or more.
Reference

|-
|Level 5 - Video Games Live
|August 15, 2016
|Mystical Stone Entertainment, LLC; Video Games Live
|MP3, CD
|
|Compilation of video game soundtracks, from concerts organized by Video Games Live, and performed by the City of Prague Philharmonic Orchestra.
Buried is a conceptual and performative work of critical, social and political content by artist Abel Azcona.
The station is directly across the tracks from the National New York Central Railroad Museum.
SHEVOROSHKIN, Vitaliy V., 1991.
Tidal effects would then have slowed this rate to its modern value.
Improved his total to 119 votes in the 2003 election, though this was still the lowest vote total of any Freedom Party candidate in the province.
Early life and education
Smart was born in Brooklyn, New York and grew up in Flatbush, Brooklyn, New York City.
95-105.
The Computer America Show is a talk radio/video program about technology ranging from consumer-level to new developments.
In February 2017, the land dealings of the Global Transportation Hub (GTH) taken on by The Saskatchewan Party governments of Brad Wall and Scott Moe are under investigation by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) for any wrongdoing or conflicts of interest.
Quintanilla III Presents Kumbia Kings (EMI Latin)

Latin Pop Album Of The Year, New Artist 
 "Si," Julieta Venegas (Ariola/BMG Latin)

Top Latin Albums Artist Of The Year 
 Los Temerarios (Fonovisa/UG)

Latin Rock/Alternative Album Of The Year
  "Street Signs," Ozomatli (Concord Picante/Concord)

Tropical Album Of The Year, Male 
 "Para Ti," Juan Luis Guerra (Vene/Universal Latino)

Tropical Album Of The Year, Female 
 "Flor De Amor," Omara Portuondo (World Circuit/Nonesuch/Warner Bros.)

Tropical Album Of The Year, Duo or Group
 "Hasta El Fin," Monchy & Alexandra (J&N/Sony Discos)

Tropical Album Of The Year, New Artist 
 "Recordando Los Terricolas," Michael Stevan (Fonovisa/UG)

Regional Mexican Album Of The Year, Male Solo Artist 
 "Mexico En La Piel," Luis Miguel (Warner Latina)

Regional Mexican Album Of The Year, Male Duo Or Group 
 "Za Za Za," Grupo Climax (Musart/Balboa)

Regional Mexican Album Of The Year, Female Group or Female Solo Artist
  "Locos De Amor," Los Horoscopos De Durango (Procan/Disa)

Regional Mexican Album Of The Year, New Artist
  "Za Za Za," Grupo Climax (Musart/Balboa)

Latin Greatest Hits Album Of The Year 
 "Dos Grandes," Marco Antonio Solis & Joan Sebastian (Fonovisa/UG)

Latin Compilation Album Of The Year 
 "Agarron Duranguense," Various Artists (Disa)

Latin Jazz Album Of The Year 
 "Cositas Buenas," Paco De Lucia (Blue Thumb/GRP)

Latin Dance Club Play Track Of The Year 
 "Not In Love/No Es Amor (Club Remixes)," Enrique Iglesias (Interscope/Universal Latino)

Latin Rap/Hip-Hop Album Of The Year 
 "KOMP 104.9 Radio Compa," Akwid (Univision/UG)

Publisher Of The Year
 WB, ASCAP

Publishing Corporation Of The Year 
 Warner/Chappell Music Publishing

Latin Pop Airplay Track Of The Year, Male 
 "Nada Valgo Sin Tu Amor," Juanes (Surco/Universal Latino)

Latin Pop Airplay Track Of The Year, Female 
 "Te Quise Tanto," Paulina Rubio (Universal Latino)

Latin Pop Airplay Track Of The Year, Duo or Group 
 "Duele El Amor," Aleks Syntek With Ana Torroja (EMI Latin)

Latin Pop Airplay Track Of The Year, New Artist
 "Aunque No Te Pueda Ver," Alex Ubago (Warner Latina)

Tropical Airplay Track Of The Year, Male
 "Tengo Ganas," Victor Manuelle (Sony Discos)

Tropical Airplay Track Of The Year, Female 
 "Tu Fotografia," Gloria Estefan (Epic/Sony Discos)

Tropical Airplay Track Of The Year, Duo Or Group 
 "Perdidos," Monchy & Alexandra (J&N)

Tropical Airplay Track Of The Year, New Artist 
 "Quitemonos La Ropa," NG2 (Sony Discos)

Regional Mexican Airplay Track Of The Year, Male Solo Artist 
 "Nadie Es Eterno," Adan Chalino Sanchez (Moon/Costarola/Sony Discos)

Regional Mexican Airplay Track Of The Year, Male Group 
 "Esta Llorando Mi Corazon," Beto Y Sus Canarios (Disa)

Regional Mexican Airplay Track Of The Year, Female Group or Female Solo Artist 
 "Dos Locos," Los Horoscopos De Durango (Procan/Disa)

Regional Mexican Airplay Track Of The Year, New Artist 
 "Dos Locos," Los Horoscopos De Durango (Procan/Disa)

Latin Christian/Gospel Album Of The Year
 "Para Ti," Juan Luis Guerra (Vene/Universal Latino)

Latin Tour Of The Year 
 Vicente Fernandez (Sony Discos)

Reggaeton Album Of The Year 
 "Barrio Fino," Daddy Yankee (El Cartel/VI Music)

Hot Latin Tracks Label Of The Year 
 Sony Discos

Top Latin Albums Label Of The Year 
 Univision Music Group

Latin Pop Airplay Label Of The Year
 Sony Discos

Tropical Airplay Label Of The Year 
 Sony Discos

Regional Mexican Airplay Label Of The Year 
 Disa

Latin Pop Albums Label Of The Year
 Sony Discos

Tropical Albums Label Of The Year 
 Universal Latino

Regional Mexican Albums Label Of The Year 
 Univision Music Group

Billboard Lifetime Achievement Award 
 Marco Antonio Solis

Billboard Spirit Of Hope Award 
 Juan Luis Guerra

Telemundo Star Award
 Marc Anthony

Telemundo Viewer's Choice Award 
 David Bisbal

References

Billboard Latin Music Awards
Latin Billboard Music Awards
Latin Billboard Music Awards
Latin Billboard Music Awards
Latin Billboard Music
Henry Lee III – An early American patriot who served as the 9th Governor of Virginia and a member of the U.S. House of Representatives from Virginia's 19th district.
The 1909 Wabash River earthquake occurred at 04:45 local time on September 27 with a maximum Mercalli intensity of VII (Very strong).
After an early career as a private secretary he was unexpectedly elected as a Conservative Member of Parliament in Blaydon, a traditionally extremely secure Labour constituency.
Marked nominative case marking is still found in languages of the Cushitic, Omotic and Berber branches.
However, because of the way the train schedules are currently set up, riders can only connect to westbound trains.
One casualty of these changes was Conrad, with Karl reported as "not wanting a genius to command his armies", but following on from the experience of the supremely gifted but often unsuccessful Conrad, rather someone who was just capable.
Despite, since January 1921 the Romanian state granted his pension until 1923 when because of the intervention of Ion I. C. Brătianu the Romanian legislation voted a new law which denied the pension to those former Imperial and Royal military personnel officially resident in Transylvania, Banat and Bukovina who were not living in Romania.
Doodletown – in Harriman State Park is now a ghost town.
In 1609, Henry Hudson was the first major Dutch explorer to arrive in the area.
2012.
Promoted to captain in 1892, Wagner was named head of the Military Arts Department two years later.
Kotaku noted upon revisiting the game in 2011 how "I was struck by just how much McConnell's soundtrack (...) elevates the basic game."
In 2018, the party merged with Zoram People's Movement.
European unity
In the 1945 general election, Martin was the Conservative Party candidate in Houghton-le-Spring where he was defeated by 21,866 votes.
He won promotion from the second tier in his first season at the club.
The peak of the Cayambe volcano is the point of Earth's surface farthest from its axis; thus, it rotates the fastest as Earth spins.
According to him, the singer voice "never really stands out from the production, which itself never really reaches any sort of crescendo".
SHEVOROSHKIN, Vitaliy V., 2004.
Joined the Freedom Party in the 1990s, and did considerable work in designing the party's web pages.
Talpur period 
In 1795, Kolachi-Jo-Goth passed from the control of the Khan of Kalat, Kalat to the Talpur rulers of Sindh.
The 'white' town was modeled after English industrial parent-cities where work and residential spaces were separated, as were residential from recreational places.
Has also written against pay equity and in favour of legalized Sunday shopping.
It was simultaneously released with Subhuman/Something Came Over Me.
Track listing

Credits and personnel 
Credits adapted from Tidal.
Ultimately the quality of the wine is reduced, making it less appealing and sometimes undrinkable.<ref name="Baldy pg 37-39, et al">M.
Andarta might thus have been a counterpart or an alternative name of the Celtic bear goddess, Artio.
CHIRIKBA, Vyacheslav A., 1985.
In response to the perceived threat of Hindu domination, self-preservation of identity, the province of Sindh became the first province of British India to pass the Pakistan Resolution, in favour of the creation of the Pakistani state.
Samplers 

The Guardian described the Chamberlin as the first sampler, developed by the English engineer Harry Chamberlin in the 1940s.
Olito was also a candidate in the 1988 North York municipal election, finishing fifth against Anthony Perruzza in the city's fifth ward.
Studio albums released

References

External links

Joan Jett and the Legend of Blackheart Records

American record labels
Hip hop record labels
Joan Jett
History 
Elkhart station was originally built in 1900 by the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern Railway and had a freight house installed across the tracks in 1907.
During her infancy, Judith suffered from Scarlet Fever, which caused her to lose her hearing, a fact that remained unknown until much later on in her life.
Changes

In rotational axis 

Earth's rotation axis moves with respect to the fixed stars (inertial space); the components of this motion are precession and nutation.
Starostin."
In Yeniseian (position −5) [...] and Na-Dene (position −5) [...] noun stems or (secondary) verb stems can be incorporated into the verbal chain."
Pronouns 
 reconstructs the following pronouns, most of which are supported by at least five of the six branches:

Numerals 
 reconstructs the following cardinal numbers (Ehret does not include Berber in his reconstruction):

The first root for "two" has been compared to Berber (Tamazight) .
University of Melbourne Department of Linguistics and Applied Linguistics.
Graduated from the University of Toronto's Teacher's College in 1969, and taught in that city.
Howe stated that he was unhappy with his portrayal in both the film and the Michael Lewis book it was based on, in which Howe was portrayed as a stubborn traditionalist who refused to follow Beane's plans and a figurehead who acquiesced while Beane ran the A's from the clubhouse.
Special educational booklets for Primary and Secondary ( High School and Lyceum) education, as well as editions with the Museum new Acquisitions.
Copernicus pointed out that if the movement of Earth is violent, then the movement of the stars must be very much more so.
Except for P (Perfect 5th) and S'(Fundamental frequency) which are played at a single point each (13 and 22 respectively), all other 10 notes have a 'spread' or a 'region' on the string (Swara-kshetra).
Until June 1990, the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic was the only union republic where the Regional Committees were responsible directly to the Communist Party of the Soviet Union instead of their respective republican branch of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.
After the war

After the collapse, Arz moved to in Vienna.
The Friends of the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery works to encourage community engagement with the museum, along with its youth-focused counterpart TMAGgots.
Bharata divided the scale of 7 notes by 'no.'
Transit connections 

MACOG Interurban Trolley's Elkhart-Goshen and Concord routes both stop near the station.
The location of these gates corresponds to the present-day city localities of Khaaradar (Khārā Dar) and Meethadar (Mīṭhā Dar) respectively.
Consonant correspondences
The following table shows consonant correspondences in Afroasiatic languages, as given in Dolgopolsky (1999), along with some reconstructed consonants for Proto-Afroasiatic.
The winner was Khalil Ramal of the Ontario Liberal Party.
Early industries
The earliest of its industries was the growing of foodstuffs for the great city.
Atomic clocks show that a modern-day is longer by about 1.7 milliseconds than a century ago, slowly increasing the rate at which UTC is adjusted by leap seconds.
Wang, pp.
In order to create a soundtrack that would follow the story of the game and mesh with the different settings within it, McConnell and his team created a digital interface system of little buttons that represented places in the game as a way to visually represent the score.
A Superfund site, Adams Plating, is located in this part of the township.
The ad was also criticized for having false information – for example claiming rising tuition costs, despite the government policy of a 3-year freeze in the price of tuition.
The sound of a 'clap' is a , but that of a bell is a nada.
The records from Judith Scott's first few years at the Institution indicate that she had an IQ of 30 (based upon oral testing before her deafness was recognized).
The epicenter was located at a point  south of Mae Lao District,  southwest of Chiang Rai, Thailand.
VAJDA, Edward J.
They are produced at the same natural ratio as shown in the diagram with a   2-Step process.
These 22 Shrutis are not theoretical postulates, but solid musical facts that provide the foundation of Indian music, and have been used for centuries.
The book is told through the medium of fictional documents.
By 1914, Karachi had become the largest grain exporting port of the British Empire.
After a few years, the American Forum Radio Network approached him about syndicating during weekends.
In his Principia, Newton predicted this flattening would occur in the ratio of 1:230, and pointed to the pendulum measurements taken by Richer in 1673 as corroboration of the change in gravity, but initial measurements of meridian lengths by Picard and Cassini at the end of the 17th century suggested the opposite.
under special conditions 

NOTE:
 = 
Symbols with dots underneath are emphatic consonants (variously glottalized, ejective or pharyngealized).
That said, as mentioned above, Basque, Caucasian and Burushaski also share words that do not occur in other families.
It was originally described and published by Peter Taylor in 1986.
He received 304 votes in 2003, finishing last in a field of five candidates.
Hyper-intelligent and able to morph into multiple forms, they play games with culture and infrastructure, from computer networks and social media to corporate culture and human relationships.
Prentice-Hall.
Mollie Sneden operated her ferry service from here during the American Revolutionary War.
It was a daytime variety series.
Captain Herbert G. King-Hall, March, 1906  – June, 1908.
The Story of Guadalupe: Luis Laso de la Vega's Huey tlamahuicoltica of 1649 (with Lisa Sousa and Stafford Poole)(Stanford University Press, 1998)Of things of the Indies : essays old and new in early Latin American history, (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999).Los nahuas despúes de la conquista: historia social y cultural de los indios del Mexico central, del siglo XVI al XVIII)(Spanish translation of Nahuas After the Conquest)(Mexico: Fondo de Cultura Económico 1999.
By 1828, Native Americans had virtually disappeared from the county and slavery existed in a diminished form.
Further, the 'Chatu'-sruthi Rishabham (as a Swaraprakara) has 'Tri'-sruthi Rishabham and 'Chatu'-sruthi Rishabham (as it is two ).
Strabo mentions export of Rice from near present day Karachi and Gulf of Cambay) to Arabia.
For McConnell, who had joined LucasArts at the urging of Michael Land, another acclaimed composer of LucasArts, that included working on the music of other notable computer games, including Monkey Island 2: LeChuck's Revenge (1991), Indiana Jones and the Fate of Atlantis (1992), Sam & Max Hit the Road (1993), Day of the Tentacle (1993), Full Throttle (1995).
Figure showing Shadja Grama on a stretched string.
The Coriolis effect is mainly observable at a meteorological scale, where it is responsible for the opposite directions of cyclone rotation in the Northern and Southern hemispheres (anticlockwise and clockwise, respectively).
The central eastern sections of the township are almost exclusively residential, save for a small strip of land that runs along either side of US-127.
In Non-Slavic Languages of the USSR, ed.
It was named for Basque and Navajo, the languages at its geographic extremes.
Fake maps were a weapon for all seasons, to be used against all rivals, political and commercial.
Currently, the perihelion and solstice effects combine to lengthen the true solar day near  by  solar seconds, but the solstice effect is partially cancelled by the aphelion effect near  when it is only  longer.
After legislative approval, it took 17 years to complete the Nyack Turnpike, a cross-country carriage road which connected Nyack to Suffern.
The territory of the regional unit was ceded to Greece in 1881 by the Ottoman Empire, along with Thessaly, in accordance with the 1878 Congress of Berlin.
In 1988, Akai released the first MPC sampler, which allowed users to assign samples to pads and trigger them independently, similarly to playing a keyboard or drum kit.
The racial makeup of the township was 76.3% White, 12.5% African American, 0.5% Native American, 2.6% Asian, 0.0% Pacific Islander, 3.5% from other races, and 4.7% from two or more races.
In Grand Upright Music, Ltd. v. Warner Bros. Records Inc (1991) and Bridgeport Music, Inc. v. Dimension Films (2005), the courts ruled that unlicensed sampling constitutes copyright infringement; however, VMG Salsoul v Ciccone (2016) found that unlicensed samples constituted de minimis copying, and did not infringe copyright.
The shorts featured on volumes 1-5 were all new-to-VHS in the United States at the time, while shorts featured on all subsequent volumes are duplicated from the earlier "Cartoon Classics" series and other early Disney VHS releases.
Her mother, his second wife, was Mary Penelope Noel, a relative of the Earl of Gainsborough.
Resonant stabilization 

The current rate of tidal deceleration is anomalously high, implying Earth's rotational velocity must have decreased more slowly in the past.
Yeniseian and Na-Dene: evidence for a genetic relationship.
Thorpe then returned to non-league football with Boston United.
Original development

Inspiration and influences

Very early in the process, project leader and writer Tim Schafer handed to McConnell black and white concept art of the characters sketched by Peter Chan, his collection of Humphrey Bogart films, and some vinyl records of a type Mexican folk music called Son, which McConnell described as "very raw, using crude folk instruments" that included hand percussion, violins, and charangos.
Doodletown settlement is now a ghost town.
1973: The old 1942 classrooms were demolished and a new administration building and library were built.
The winner was Sarkis Assadourian of the Liberal Party of Canada.
In October 1961 Daddah organised a Conference of Unity, and on 4 October the PRM was merged with several other Mauritanian parties to form the Mauritanian People's Party.
A change in day length of milliseconds per century shows up as a change of hours and thousands of kilometers in eclipse observations.
"Used to Love" is a song by Dutch DJ Martin Garrix and Australian singer Dean Lewis.
"Basque and the Superfamilies".
He has written numerous letters to Canada's major newspapers on a variety of issues.
Pegasus Press, University of North Carolina, Asheville, North Carolina.
She was taken to the mill against her most earnest protest, put on the scales, and weighed.
Samples such as the Amen break, the "Funky Drummer" drum break and orchestra hit have been used in thousands of recordings; James Brown, Loleatta Holloway, Fab Five Freddy and Led Zeppelin are among the most sampled artists.
Biography 
Steve Cunningham received his BA cum laude in Mathematics from Drury University in 1964.
At this moment, the police was searching for jewelry theft in the city, which led to the foundings of the jewels, who were noticed that the jewels were of different manufacture.
The family moved in 1892 to Fortuna, California where his father worked in a lumber company.
(1996)Figaro und Cleo (Figaro and Cleo) (1997)Pluto auf der Jagd (1997)Micky im Siebten Himmel (January 20, 2000)

ItalyCartoons Disney 1 (1981)Cartoons Disney 2 (1981)Cartoons Disney 3 (1981)Saludos Amigos (1981)Pippo Olimpionico (1980)Buon Compleanno Topolino (1982)Winnie Puh Orsetto Ghiottone (1982)Pinocchio, DuckTales e... (1989)Bongo e i Tre Avventurieri (1982)I tre caballeros (1982)Musica Maestro (1983)
Paperino nel mondo della Matemagica (1983)
Il nostro amico atomo (1983)
Nasce un nuovo mondo (1983)
L'Asinello (sulla custodia data 1980)
Paperino nel Far West (1983)
Pippo, Pluto, Paperino Supershow (1984)
Lo scrigno delle sette perle (1983)
Troppo Vento Per Winnie Puh (1983)
Buon compleanno Paperino (1983)
Canto di Natale di Topolino (1983)
Le Avventure di Pluto (1984)
La storia di Paperino (1984)
I Cattivi Disney (1983)
Cani e simpatia (1983)
Le avventure di Cip e Ciop (1984)
Paperino e i racconti misteriosi (1983)
Da Disney con amore (1983)
Topolino (1984)
Minni (1983)
Paperino e la sua banda dei paperi (1984)
Cartoons Disney 4 (1983)
Paperino (1984)
Pluto (1984)
Cartoons Disney 5 (1983)
Silly Symphonies (1984)
Il meglio di Disney (1984)
Le avventure di caccia del Prof. De Paperis (1985)
Cartoons Disney 6 (1988)
Vita da Paperi (1984)
Come Divertirsti con Paperino &C. (1984)
C'era una volta un Topo (1984)
Winny Puh a Tu Per Tu (1985)
Paperino Marmittone (1986)
I Capolavori di Walt Disney (1986)
Silly Symphonies Vol.
This resulted in the worst election showing for the NDP since 1982.
It contained 32 tracks totalling 43 minutes from the about 3 hours of the full length of the game score.
He believed that remaking the latter would make the greatest difference: "If you want to do something really great with this score, biggest bang for the buck is going to be to take those orchestral movements and record them live."
The Drama Desk Award for Outstanding Scenic Design of a Musical was an annual award presented by Drama Desk in recognition of achievements in the theatre among Broadway, Off Broadway and Off-Off Broadway productions.
See also 
Afroasiatic phonetic notation
Nostratic languages
Proto-Afroasiatic reconstructions (Wiktionary)

References

Bibliography 

 

Afro-Asiatic
Afroasiatic languages
Team and collaborations
Tim Schafer, Peter McConnell and other members of the development team had had long and overlapping careers from previous projects at LucasArts.
Was elected to the provincial council of the Freedom Party on February 13, 2005, having previously served as a provincial councillor.
Honours

Viking
Tippeligaen: 1991

2. divisjon: 1988

Norwegian Cup: 1989, 2001

References

1943 births
Swedish football managers
Swedish footballers
Sportspeople from Örebro
Living people
Viborg FF managers
Kniksen Award winners
Viking FK managers
Eliteserien managers
Örebro SK players
Fulham F.C.
He went to the English College in Rome, at the age of twenty, where he was ordained as a priest, returning to England as a missionary in 1602.
David Rodman (Chatham-Kent—Essex)
Has been a member of the Freedom Party since at least 1995.
Footnotes:
a In Basque, the class prefixes became fossilized.
Gamaka or 'Alankara' thus means a Swara goes from its own (identifiable) Shruti to the other, making use of (unidentified connecting) 'Nadas' in-between.
Facility
The school is adjacent to North Dekalb Stadium, which is used by many sports teams and local schools.
181–191.
AK Peters.
Utricularia parthenopipes is a small annual carnivorous plant that belongs to the genus Utricularia and is endemic to the Brazilian state of Bahia.
In 2002, he accused Canada's business community of not being sufficiently supportive of free enterprise (National Post, 22 July 2002).
He graduated from St. John's University in New York, majoring in finance.
Background Music is the debut studio album by the American hardcore punk band Give Up the Ghost.
The arrival of troops of the Kumpany Bahadur in 1839 spawned the foundation of the new section, the military cantonment.
Therefore, Shrutis can be selected only 'after' the selection of a Raga.
Research 
Research in the center focuses on innovative musical technologies that transform the way in which music is created, performed and consumed.
Most Western music divides the octave into 12 notes, whereas Indian classical music divides them into 22 notes.
Secretariats may be created to consider current issues and verify compliance with the regional, party, and regional committees of the Communist Parties of the Union republics.
The prevalence of this view is further confirmed by a reference from the 13th century which states: "According to the geometers [or engineers] (muhandisīn), the Earth is in constant circular motion, and what appears to be the motion of the heavens is actually due to the motion of the Earth and not the stars."
Adye Douglas, Premier of Tasmania, was elected Chair of the Board and Alexander Morton was reelected curator and secretary with an annual salary of £200.
The 'beginning' and 'end' of these regions form a total of 22 points.
In 1997, the Saskatchewan Party was formed by a coalition of eight MLAs: four former Progressive Conservatives (Dan D'Autremont, Ben Heppner, Don Toth, and PC leader Bill Boyd) and four former Liberals (Bob Bjornerud, June Draude, Rod Gantefoer, and Liberal caucus leader Ken Krawetz).
He has also run in Ontario elections in the riding of Thornhill.
Directors of Naval Intelligence
Directors of Naval Intelligence included:
 Captain William Henry Hall, 1887–1889
 Rear-Admiral Cyprian Bridge, 1889–1894
 Rear-Admiral Lewis Beaumont, 1895–1899
 Rear-Admiral Reginald Custance, 1899–1902
 Rear-Admiral Prince Louis of Battenberg, 1902–1905
 Captain Charles Ottley, 1905–1907
 Rear-Admiral Sir Edmond Slade, 1907–1909
 Rear-Admiral Alexander Bethell, 1909–1912

Assistant directors
Included:
Assistant Director Mobilisation Division
 Captain Reginald N. Custance, February, 1887 – January, 1890.
Some producers have opted to use stock library music in their productions as samples.
by Brown and Bobby Byrd.
He had just finished a long tour that injured his voice, which led him to save it for the second day of recordings and start by recording his guitar parts.
Promoted next to the rank of Major, then Oberstleutnant, Arz was attached to the 2nd Corps, then commanded by Archduke Eugen, following his assignment to the General Staff.
Because of the Coriolis effect, falling bodies veer slightly eastward from the vertical plumb line below their point of release, and projectiles veer right in the Northern Hemisphere (and left in the Southern) from the direction in which they are shot.
Key:

Athletics
 Boys' track: 1954, 1960, 1964
 Wrestling: 1974, 1979
 Boys' tennis: 1998, 2019
 Girls' tennis: 2017, 2018, 2019
 Girls' cross country: 1981
 Boys' cross country: 1986
 Boys' soccer: 2008
 Cheerleading: 2007, 2008, 2009
 Boys' swimming: 400 free relay (2015), 2015, 200 freestyle (2013, 100 breaststroke) (2008, 50 freestyle)
 Girls' swimming: 2019 AAAA-AAAAA State Champions, 200 medley relay (2019, 2017, 1975), 100 Butterfly (2019, 2018, 2017, 2016), 200 IM (2019, 2018), (2004, 50 freestyle) (1987, 100 butterfly) (1983, 100 butterfly) (1976, 200 freestyle and 100 freestyle; 1975, 200 freestyle and 100 butterfly; 1974, 200 IM and 100 butterfly) (1974, 500 freestyle), Lanoue (1956, 200 freestyle)

Academics
 TEAMS (academic competition): 2009, 2010
 PAGE Academic Bowl: 1994, 2011
 Science Olympiad: 1997, 1998
 Math Team: 2003
 Math Counts: 1991, 1992
 We The People: The Citizen and the Constitution: 1995, 1996, 2004, 2006, 2007, 2012
 Chess: 2006, 2007
 GearGrinders - FIRST Robotics Team: 2006
 Debate 2006, 2007
 Odyssey of the Mind: 2004, 2005, 2006

Feeder schools
The following schools feed into Chamblee Charter High School:
 Chamblee Middle School
 Sequoyah Middle School
The following schools feed into Chamblee Middle School:
 Ashford Park
 Huntley Hills
 Kittredge Magnet School
 Montgomery

School newspaper

The Blue and Gold is Chamblee Charter High School's official school newspaper.
Silvio Ursomarzo (Toronto Centre—Rosedale)
Ursomarzo was born and raised in Toronto, has a Bachelor of Economics degree from York University (1988) and works in the financial services industry.
Received 281 votes, finishing fifth in a field of five candidates.
In The Ancestry of the Chinese Language (Journal of Chinese Linguistics Monograph No.
TRASK, R. L., 1994–1995.
Chaturdandi Prakashika (Sanskrit) by Pandit Venkatamakhin in Shloka 3, Chapter 2, stated that,

meaning,

'Shrutis are the 'special' Nadas that cause .
The Government opposed his amendment and the House of Commons rejected it by 228 to 58.
The township experienced its first loss of land in 1859 when the unincorporated settlement of Lansing officially incorporated as a city out of seven square miles near the center of the township.
(The big exceptions are East Caucasian, where there is usually only one prefix and many suffixes, the similarly suffixing Haida, and Sino-Tibetan, for which little morphology can so far be reconstructed at all; Classical Tibetan with its comparatively rich morphology has at most two prefixes and one suffix.
Dynamics of the Solar System
Rotation
Rotation
But some other proposals posit Northern Africa or the Horn of Africa as possible places of origin.
NCL RR 974.728 STO
 Gottlock, Barbara H., Gottlock Wesley., New York's Palisades Interstate Park (NY) (Images of America)
 Green, Frank Bertangue.
from Georgetown University in 1877.
The Linus Pauling Quartet was an American psychedelic rock group which specializes in a specific subgenre known as "Texas Psych", but frequently dabbles also in garage rock, stoner rock, punk rock, and heavy metal at various points throughout their discography.
VOVIN, Alexander, 2002.
He established the idea of a sphere of fixed stars that rotated about Earth.
In 1992 and 1993 the Astros improved to .500 and then a winning record, but Howe was fired in favor of Terry Collins at the close of the '93 campaign.
In this way, sounds () are progressively classified as:
 All sounds in the world are .
Historical places of Rockland County
See National Register of Historic Places listings in Rockland County, New York.
References

Astartidae
Marine molluscs of Europe
Bivalve genera
– Paper read at: Athabaskan Language Conference, Moricetown, BC, June 9, 2000
VAJDA, Edward J.
Due to the strong religious divide in England at the time, and being the daughter of the evangelical rector, this conversion cost Stuart her relationship with her family as she left the Church of England.
His 2016 Intoxicating Pollen Wiggling in a Moist Journey of Constantly Blooming Tides at Garis & Hahn in New York, featuring abstract paintings of nudes and still lifes, led to a show of the same name inaugurating the gallery's Los Angeles location in 2017.
The last plane has taken off from Beirut airport and left me in front of the screen to watch
with millions of viewers
the rest of my death 
As for my heart, I see it roll, like a pine cone, from Mount Lebanon, to Gaza.
He believed that while the original jazz music came out well, the orchestral part, done with 1997-era digital samples and a limited budget, did not fully match his vision.
(Sanskrit) means sound of any kind.
In this role, Stuart made it her mission to become personally acquainted with all the religious and visit every community affiliated with the Society in the world.
The Chamberlin used a keyboard to trigger a series of tape decks, each containing eight seconds of sound.
In the years before 1664 when the area was formally a Dutch colony called New Netherland, present-day Rockland did not have formal European settlements.
Wally Dove (Brampton Centre)
Full name is Wallace Maxwell Raymond Dove.
In 2016, Perry made one of New York City's largest rooftop murals in Brooklyn at the workspace a/d/o, and in 2017 he completed a multifloor mural in Cleveland incorporating a Tyehimba Jess poem.
In 2004, the Saskatchewan Party's aggressive questioning of the provincial NDP government over a bad investment of public funds – SPUDCO – forced cabinet minister Eldon Lautermilch to apologize for misleading the legislature, a fact that only became apparent once sworn evidence was acquired from a civil lawsuit against the province.
has a stellar soundtrack with music that easily stands alone outside the context of the game.
Sampling is a foundation of hip hop music, which emerged with 1980s producers sampling funk and soul records, particularly drum breaks.
This is a result of the Earth turning 1 additional rotation, relative to the celestial reference frame, as it orbits the Sun (so 366.25 rotations/y).
Two days later, Washington visited Sir Guy aboard a British war vessel.
Martin's Mill Covered Bridge is a historic wooden covered bridge located at Antrim Township in Franklin County, Pennsylvania.
N. Ramanathan, a musicologist points this out and says that the idea of 22 shrutis is applicable only to the music system of Bharata's time.
In the 2006 federal election, Wall stated he supported the Conservative Party, but would not get involved in a federal election.
Since the last couple of years however, most of these tensions have largely been quieted.
Several years later, he offered a number of lexical and phonological correspondences between the North Caucasian, Salishan, and Wakashan languages, concluding that Salishan and Wakashan may represent a distinct branch of North Caucasian and that their separation from it must postdate the dissolution of the Northeast Caucasian unity (Avar-Andi-Tsezian), which took place around the 2nd or 3rd millennium BC.
Arz was acquainted with the emperor; not only was he a capable commander of troops, but he also possessed a conciliatory manner which did not make the Emperor feel he was being patronised during discussions on military matters, as was the case with other commanders.
Sonic Generator - a contemporary music ensemble-in-residence dedicated to the performance and exploration of music composed, shaped, influenced, enhanced, and created by the use of technology.
History
The museum was officially created in 1848, though the collections it housed were much created earlier.
Thereafter, authorities of the British Raj embarked on a large-scale modernisation of the city in the 19th century with the intention of establishing a major and modern port which could serve as a gateway to Punjab, the western parts of British Raj, and Afghanistan.
External links
Moscow Lexical Database (MosLex) by Alexei Kassian, which compares basic vocabulary for Dené-Caucasian languages
Dené–Caucasian ethno-linguistic map
The Tower of Babel (site in English and Russian including Proposed family tree and Word-final resonants in Sino-Caucasian)
A Final (?)
Ancient treatises on Indian classical music and performing arts
 Natya Shastra by Bharata
 Dattilam by Dattila
 Brihaddeshi by Matanga Muni
 Abhinavabharati – Abhinava Gupta's commentary on Natya Shastra
 Sangita Ratnakara by Sarangadeva
 Svaramelakalanidhi by Ramamatya
 Charurdandi Prakashika by Venkatamakhin
 Ragavibodha by Somanatha

References

Bibliography

External links
 www.22shruti.com

Indian classical music
Intervals (music)
Hindustani music terminology
Carnatic music terminology
2014.
Career 
In 1971, Alexandre and Pedro co-founded Grendene.
RUHLEN, Merritt, 1998a.
A heavier sounding release than the material presented on Horns of Ammon, it also included one of the first examples of the band employing a guest vocalist as the lead singer on the song "Rust", which was sung by Hearts of Animals vocalist Mlee Marie.
December 20, 2013: Demolition of the remaining old building started.
Controversy

In current practice of Carnatic music, shruti has several meanings.
When he arrived on 17 June, Garrix and Lewis shared their meeting with their fans by posting a photo of themselves on Instagram.
e.g., to calculate the 'frequency' of P, consider the frequency of Shadja as 100 Hz (for convenience of calculation).
4
 2012 Arts Magazine April issue Oliver Beer: Echologiste by Francois Quintin
 2012 Palais Magazine No.
At its original release, IGN called it a "beautiful soundtrack that you'll find yourself listening to even after you're done with the game".
Martin moved an amendment to the 1933 Budget to limit the tax on hydrocarbon oils to no more than 10%.
In the eighteenth century Karachi was occupied by the Kalhora dynasty, handed over by them to the Khan of Kalat as blood money for the killing of his brother by the Kalhoras, and finally taken over by the Talpur dynasty.
In 657 minor league games, Baumgartner batted .261 with 624 hits.
Return to England and martyrdom
He returned to the dangers of England in 1602 as a secular priest and administered to the faithful there.
On April 4, 2016, the party won a third consecutive mandate, capturing 51 of 61 seats, and became the first non-social-democratic party to win three consecutive elections since 1925.
Scientists reported that in 2020 Earth has started spinning faster, after consistently spinning slower than 86,400 seconds per day in the decades before.
Received 460 votes, the winner was Liberal Party candidate Chris Bentley.
As sampling technology has improved, the possibilities for manipulation have grown.
These are probably nothing more than tales told by Bluffton school children to scare their friends, but it is a legend that ties a community together in folklore.
Journal of Chinese Linguistics 30.1:142–153.
and qualified for the 2016 Summer Olympics.
The current faculty advisor of the Blue and Gold is Fred Avett.
Captain Stuart Nicholson, October, 1902 – March, 1906.
Muddy Brook – Pearl River proper.
The length of the day can also be influenced by manmade structures.
In 2017 Fact magazine also listed it as one of the "100 best video game soundtracks of all time".
Among the most prominent artists are: Bill Viola, Bruce Nauman, Nam June Paik,  Mona Hatoum, Vito Acconci, Dan Graham,  Robert Wilson, Tony Oursler, Marina Abramović & Ulay, Eleni Mylonas, Chris Burden, Lynda Benglis,  Sadie Benning, Sophie Calle & Gregory Shephard, Carolee Schneemann, Martha Rosler, Dara Birnbaum, Walid Ra’ad/The Atlas Group and Jayce Salloum.
Passengers traveling to New York City would board steamers at Piermont.
The Deputy Speaker Robert Bourne pronounced it unparliamentary and urged Martin to restrain his exuberance.
Family tree proposals

Starostin's theory
The Dené–Caucasian family tree and approximate divergence dates (estimated by modified glottochronology) proposed by S. A. Starostin and his colleagues from the Tower of Babel project:

1.
So much ice was shipped that Rockland Lake became known as the "Icehouse of New York City".
John Almond (c. 1577 – 5 December 1612) was an English Catholic priest.
Currently, the Blue and Gold is published online and in a print format.
He is also a former corporate officer at Suez, in charge of ethical issues and corporate governance.
On this day, the king's navy fired its first salute to the flag of the United States of America.
James H. Conklin built a cabin which was posted as a historic site before it was vandalized and ultimately destroyed.
It is part of the Epirus region.
in 2003 and 2005, respectively.
The winner was Michael Bryant of the Ontario Liberal Party.
Poetry

Poetry, using classic pre-Islamic forms, remains an extremely popular art form, often attracting Palestinian audiences in the thousands.
Interviews
GQ interview, 7 March 2012

Other works

1932 births
2020 deaths
Cornell University alumni
Columbia University alumni
American male novelists
20th-century American novelists
21st-century American novelists
Writers from Albany, New York
People from Mallorca
20th-century American male writers
21st-century American male writers
20th-century pseudonymous writers
21st-century pseudonymous writers
The construction of this road was an invaluable aid in the development of the county.
Grammar of the Mexican Language: With an explanation of Its Adverbs,(1645), Horacio Carochi, James Lockhart (translator)(Stanford: Stanford Univ.
From June 2007 until January 2009, downtown Washington, DC was shown using USGS aerial photography from the spring 2002, while the rest of the District of Columbia was shown using imagery from 2005.
Trade increased between 1729 and 1839 because of the silting up of Shahbandar and Keti Bandar (important ports on the Indus River) and the shifting of their activities to Karachi.
Swadesh's Basque-Dennean thus differed from Dené–Caucasian in including (1) Uralic, Altaic, Japanese, Chukotian, and Eskimo-Aleut (languages which are classed as Eurasiatic by the followers of Sergei Starostin and those of Joseph Greenberg), (2) Dravidian, which is classed as Nostratic by Starostin's school, and (3) Austronesian (which according to Starostin is indeed related to Dené–Caucasian, but only at the next stage up, which he termed Dené–Daic, and only via Austric (see Starostin's Borean macrofamily)).
This video is a laserdisc reissue of an older VHS from 1981, entitled Goofy Over Sports.
Read at: 39th Conference on American Indian Languages, San Francisco, Nov. 14-18, 2000
VAN DRIEM, George, 2001.
Mother Tongue 3: 54-63.
"Баскский и северокавказские языки [Basque and the North Caucasian languages]."
Having Schafer established the mood and tone of the project, McConnell said that aside from the listening material, Schafer did not give him much direction; "In my experience, Tim leads more by inspiring than by directing".
The Foundation of the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery serves as the primary fundraising body for the TMAG.
Tim Schafer, who had also long been eager to revisit and re-release the game and make it available to new platforms and to new generations, seized the opportunity and was able to acquire the rights to the game, in partnership with Sony.
The weekly series aired live.
In 1936, Sindh was separated from the Bombay Presidency and Karachi was made again the capital of the Sindh.
A famous landmark of Arta is the Old Bridge over the Arachthos river.
« Critiques littéraires », 2009.
He added that the singer wrote deeply personal lyrics accompanied by a timeless style of music during the development of the track.
It was decided to take "Naut" to Auert Polhemus's grist mill and using his great flour scales weigh her against the old Holland Dutch family Bible, iron bound, with wooden covers and iron chain to carry it by.
The band followed this up in July 2013 with the 7" EP Find What You Love And Let It Kill You, which showcased the songwriting of Ramon Medina, as well as a considerably softer side of the Linus psychedelic sound.
It was released on 31 October 2019, through Garrix's Netherlands-based record label Stmpd Rcrds, and exclusively licensed to Epic Amsterdam, a division of Sony Music.
In Romance Philology 52 (Spring): 219–224.
Species:

Bohartilla joachimscheveni 
Bohartilla kinzelbachi 
Bohartilla megalognatha

References

Strepsiptera
Trouser Press described the album as a "horrendously wrongheaded comeback bid that shows the Waves to be utterly oblivious to their own strengths," calling it "bland, overprocessed commercial slop."
Cunningham started working at the University of Kansas as Assistant Professor of Mathematics from 1969 to 1974.
The 1939 3-cent United States postage stamp commemorates the hundredth anniversary of baseball depicting the old baseball diamond at Grassy Point.
He received 266 votes (0.42%), finishing sixth in a field of six candidates.
In January 2013, the Linus Pauling Quartet released Assault on the Vault of the Ancient Bonglords, a three-disk anthology covering their earliest recordings from 1994 all the way through 2010, packaged with a fully playable Dungeons & Dragons-style dice-based roleplaying game module, and a purple 20-sided die.
Even so, the airport was closed for a while.
Unlike Conrad, Arz was not overtly political, was wholly committed to the Central Powers, and had full faith in the Emperor.
The First Secretary was the highest official within a regional committee and was elected by their regional committee.
Runs a website called "The Homeless Landlords".
Some of his students included Ruth Strang, Margaret Mead, Dorothy Van Alstyne, Guy L. Bond, and David H. Russell.
In 2007, he received 145 votes and was the last of seven candidates.
The Progressive Conservatives lost further ground at the 1995 general election, falling to only five seats.
12 Proto-Athabaskan -, Eyak -, Tlingit wé , Haida 'wa .
53–57.
See also 

 Beer chemistry
 Food chemistry
 Premature oxidation
 Congener (alcohol), such as tryptophol

 Notes 

 References 
 Comprehensive Natural Products II — Chemistry and Biology, chapter 3.26 – Chemistry of Wine, volume 3, pages 1119–1172.
According to Biladuri, A large minaret of a temple existed in Debal whose upper portion was knocked down by Ambissa Ibn Ishak and converted into prison.
434.
It has been used in thousands of recordings, including songs by rock bands such as Oasis and in theme tunes for television shows such as Futurama.
After missing the entire 1983 season with an injury, he finished his playing career with the St. Louis Cardinals (1984–85).
of shrutis (distance measured by no.
Has called for the legalization of marijuana, and admits to pot smoking.
The series aims to expand the sources available to historians of Africa, and to rectify bias that may have been introduced into the writing of African history through an over-reliance on sources written by Europeans.
Plot summary 
The Smart Money Woman revolves around five young women and how they take control of their finances and assets, the series focuses on spending culture of women and how it ultimately affects their finances on the long run, the series also talks about how friendship, peer pressure and societal influence can affect how we spend money, It also features and teaches how women should learn to invest in their themselves amidst romantic and financial losses.
George Clinton – First (and longest-serving) elected Governor of New York, and then 4th Vice President of the United States.
Show stars and creators Abbi Jacobson and Ilana Glazer described the Mushrooms episode as one of their favorites from the series’ entire run.
Cyclic variability 
Around every 25–30 years Earth's rotation slows temporarily by a few milliseconds per day, usually lasting around 5 years.
9 Feminine verb prefix.
An airship mast was also built in Karachi in 1927 as part of the Imperial Airship Communications scheme, which was later abandoned.
The winner was Richard Patten of the Ontario Liberal Party.
External links
Review of the anthology Qissat: Short Stories by Palestinian Women
Google Books Sonia Nimr, Hannah Shaw, Ghada Karmi (2008) “Ghaddar the Ghoul and Other Palestinian Stories”, frances lincoln ltd, 
Palestinian Literature: News and Reviews at IMEU.net
Mornings in Jenin by Susan Abulhawa review

 
Literature by ethnicity
2007.
This is due to the tidal effects the Moon has on Earth's rotation.
Samsondale Iron Works was established in 1832.
He stated he had taken the party as far as he could, and it was time for the party to elect a new leader who could take it further.
In 1982, he received an M.S.
The Shrutis in a Raga should be ideally related to each other, by natural ratios 100:125, 100:133.33, 100:150, and 100:166.66.
A brick wall was also "shook" down within St. Louis, Missouri.
Journal of Chinese Linguistics 30.1: 154–171.
Press, 2001).
Brill, Leiden.
2001: Chamblee High was named a State School of Excellence.
185-192.
Similar cases 
Lists of air traffic obstacles may not be published by many countries as many of them are strategically important (chimneys of power stations, radio masts, etc.)
During his years as a university professor he taught, among other things, courses in Zen and Western literature.
Within this framework, the National Museum of Contemporary Art will establish and organize a center for the production of audiovisual works of art as well as a center of digital documentation of contemporary art.
It is owned by K. C. Maloo and is headquartered at Jaipur.
"The Origin of the Na-Dene."
I. Hegedűs & P. Sidwell, pp.
Recognition
Burke was named a Beckman Foundation Young Investigator in 2008.
In Invasion (2016), aliens invade Earth for the sole purpose of having fun.
Later life
Martin developed his career by becoming a member of the London Stock Exchange in 1949, but retained his interest in politics and contributed many letters to newspapers.
House Party was an Australian television series which aired on Melbourne station HSV-7.
Hudson, thinking he had found the legendary "Northwest Passage", sailed on the Half Moon up the river that would one day bear his name, and anchored near the area that is now Haverstraw before continuing north of what is now Albany.
He has also written that the right of businesses to profit is "fundamental and inalienable" (Toronto Star, 29 March 2000).
They, therefore created the scale for females, beginning on the 9th Shruti (M1) with a higher frequency.
Years after the release, the soundtrack continued to receive critical acclaim.
Relationship to , , and 

Shruti is intimately linked to the fundamental aspects of .
When he returned to Britain, Martin warned fellow members of parliament about the dangers of Nazism.
Rockland County does not border any of the New York City boroughs, but is only  north of Manhattan at the counties' (New York and Rockland) two respective closest points (Palisades, New York, in Rockland and Inwood Park in Manhattan)

Most of the early settlers were Dutch, with a sprinkling of Huguenot and Quaker families.
It was not until twenty years later that a boat was used that could be depended on to make a round trip in one day attracting competition from steamboats later built at Haverstraw and Tappan.
The student body also has one of the highest acceptance rates to tier 1 colleges and universities in the state of Georgia.
A number of unique, Dutch-style red sandstone houses still stand, and many place names in the county reveal their Dutch origin.
And while the video game soundtracks are meant to be created in support of the larger goal of an integrated interactive experience of dialogue, graphics, story, and sound, Grim Fandangos soundtrack also stands on its own, with critics noting that it can be appreciated independently of the game it was created for.
BENGTSON, John D., 1997b.
The performance artwork was created in 2015 through a public and participatory performance, or happening, on the esplanade of Franco's Monument to the Fallen in Pamplona.
Early History

Pre history 
The Late Paleolithic and Mesolithic sites found by Karachi University team on the Mulri Hills, in front of Karachi University Campus, constitute one of the most important archaeological discoveries made in Sindh during the last fifty years.
In China, Lashi (Leqi) speakers are distributed in Mangshi City (formerly Luxi County), Ruili City, Longchuan County, and Yingjiang County of western Yunnan Province (Dai 2007:5).
He also owns a store in Belleville called Tuck's Discount Vitamins, and describes his products as "synthetic medicine".
Johnsontown in Haverstraw was the seat of the first boat building.
It meant a constant back and forth with the original music and imagining, ‘What should this sound like today?’” and Bajakian added, “For us to do this right, we had to also wrap our minds around the ‘extra-musical’ content of the music – the concepts, the references, the puns – the ideas that interact like characters in a play”.
The musical shruti concept is found in ancient and medieval Sanskrit texts such as the Natya Shastra, the Dattilam, the Brihaddeshi, and the Sangita Ratnakara.
The northern portion of these two sections contain the large Groesbeck neighborhood, and the smaller southern portion includes part of the Urbandale neighborhood.
The art exhibition's objective was to raise money for internal fittings of the building, as the money allocated by the state had only covered construction of the building.
After getting into trouble as an early teen, he discovered drawing and painting when his grandfather, a painter, gave him a tackle box filled with oil paints.
Often released in packs, the compositions are used by beatmakers and offer more than a single sound or musical phrase.
With the support of staff (who McConnell called "friends of Grim" by either having worked on the original project or had grown up with it as a favorite game) at Disney Interactive, LucasArts, and Sony Computer Entertainment, Schafer's Double Fine studio worked to remaster the game and re-released it in 2015.
Has also quoted F.A.
While an undergraduate, he was a Howard Hughes Medical Institute Undergraduate Research Fellow, and he conducted research with Professors Henry Brem and Gary H. Posner on derivatives of calcitriol as potential drug candidates.
Stuart continued to develop and search for her relationship with God into her early adulthood, when she met Priest Fr.
He has translated his research into fascinating performances in which spectators take part by the mere fact of their presence, and he makes sculptures and videos that embody, literally or metaphorically, the plastic expression of this subtle relationship and the way the human body experiences it.
Joined the party's provincial executive in 1995.
As against this, connecting Nadas are played faster than this limit, which disallows the human ear to identify them.
The last Concert for the People of Kampuchea on 29 December 1979, which was the final date of Wings' fifth tour, was Wings' final gig.
Instead, the Tories essentially went dormant for the next two election cycles; its assets were held in trust while a select group of party members ran paper candidates to keep the party alive.
Her creative gifts and absolute focus were quickly recognized, and she was given complete freedom to choose her own materials.
The freight house became the National NYC Museum in 1987.
Dean and I are super excited to share it with the world!"
Had he run, Mood would have been the party's only candidate in northern Ontario.
Journal of Chinese Linguistics 25.2: 308–336.
Hooke, following a suggestion from Newton in 1679, tried unsuccessfully to verify the predicted eastward deviation of a body dropped from a height of , but definitive results were obtained later, in the late 18th and early 19th century, by Giovanni Battista Guglielmini in Bologna, Johann Friedrich Benzenberg in Hamburg and Ferdinand Reich in Freiberg, using taller towers and carefully released weights.
Vocabulary
Loukotka (1968) lists the following basic vocabulary items for Gennaken.
Edited with Roger Hubbold.
Dene–Sino-Caucasian Languages.
This helps us to get their precise positions and frequencies.
Kolachii 

The present city of Karachi was reputedly founded as "Kolachi" by Baloch tribes from Makran, Balochistan, who established a small fishing community in the area.
Judith Scott spent her first seven and a half years at home with her parents, twin sister and older brothers.
In the 13th century it was abandoned Remains of one of the earliest known mosques in the region dating back to 727 AD are still preserved in the city.
Meaning

The meaning of shruti varies in different systems.
The township consists of five non-contiguous sections bordered mostly by the cities of East Lansing and Lansing.
Despite the strong Latin American influences and themes, McConnell decided to not attempt to compose a particularly ethnic score, but to be "organic" and to "evoke a texture that was real".
Blackheart Records is an American record label founded by rock musicians Joan Jett and Kenny Laguna.
For the B side, the LP4 reached back into Houston's swirling psychedelic past to cover My Desire, originally by Houston's Pain Teens, featuring Bliss Blood and Scott Ayres.
In 1861 after a number of years, funding was acquired from the state government to construct a museum and the Royal Society hosted an architectural contest.
Clarkstown and Ramapo became towns in 1791, followed by Stony Point in 1865.
In 1996, John D. Bengtson added the Vasconic languages (including Basque, its extinct relative or ancestor Aquitanian, and possibly Iberian), and in 1997 he proposed the inclusion of Burushaski.
It is a highly successful and well-known music label in Rajasthan.
His pop culture monographs include Pulled: A Catalog of Screen Printing and the career anthology Wondering Around Wandering: Work-So-Far.
Curation 
Since 2011, Perry and artist Josh Cochran have been organizing a series of nude, two-day drawing marathons, #GetNudeGetDrawn, enlisting volunteers to model nude, initially organized using social media and Craigslist.
The club finished in 4th place in the league and knocked Chelsea out of the UEFA Cup.
The band's intended first stop on the tour, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, refused to allow them to play, so the band moved on to the more receptive University of Nottingham.
Writing for Dancing Astronaut, Farrell Sweeney noted the presence of "an energy-building violin line and acoustic elements" resulting from a song "vocal-led by Lewis's impassioned vocals, while Garrix foregoes a heavy electronic emphasis, trading it in for a subtle production backdrop accented with acoustics".
At the north end of this section of the township north of Saginaw Highway (M-43) lies the residential neighborhood and CDP (census-designated place) of Edgemont Park.
In the period between the 1948 Palestinian exodus and the 1967 Six-Day War, Palestinian Resistance Literature played a significant role in maintaining the Palestinian identity; forming a bridge between the two periods, which allowed the Palestinian identity to survive especially in the absence of armed resistance.
Scott is now hailed as a contemporary artist, no longer just an outsider.
Bartolomeo Gennari (10 July 1594 – 29 January 1661) was an Italian Renaissance painter.
The Roman numbers are those conventionally used for the East Caucasian noun classes.
SCHMIDT, Karl Horst, 1994.
Wrote an editorial in support of the 2003 Invasion of Iraq, referring to it as America's finest hour.
This was the last witch trial in the state of New York.
Independent career 
He joined the Department of Chemistry in 2005 as an Assistant Professor, was promoted to Associate Professor in 2011, then to full Professor in 2014.
False altitudes
A variant of censorship of maps is putting in false altitudes.
in Nostratic Centennial Conference: the Pécs Papers.
Lives in Mariposa, and lists his occupation as a farmer.
Both the stellar day and the sidereal day are shorter than the mean solar day by about  .
Has been president of the Freedom Party's Perth riding association.
According to him, it is as yet premature to propose other nodes or subgroupings, but he notes that Sumerian seems to share the same number of isoglosses with the (geographically) western branches as with the eastern ones:

1.
Presenting these multiple fragments from multiple viewpoints together resulted in a "cubist" narrative structure.
Programming the User Interface: Principles and Examples.
Example 
 Hiding a VLF-transmitter of Russian Navy on a map.
Perhaps the first was Philolaus (470–385 BCE), though his system was complicated, including a counter-earth rotating daily about a central fire.
When years later McConnell was asked how he reacted when he first played the game, he said that "some games just really strike you when you first see the main character in the game environment.
This sounds simple, but runs the risk of giving multiple inaccurate values.
The hand-cranked drawbridge is used as a pedestrian walkway providing a link to Tallman Mountain State Park.
A thriving community in Rockland Lake State Park made up of the many workers at the Knickerbocker Ice Company, which owned numerous pieces of property.
Furmanville – North of Sherwoodville, South of Ladentown.
In 1664, the British Crown assumed control of New Netherland from the Dutch.
Classes were relocated to area hospitals and Baptist and Methodist churches.
Solo exhibitions 

 2018 –  Judith Scott: Touchdown, Creative Growth Art Center, Oakland, California
 2014-15 – Bound and Unbound, Brooklyn Museum, Brooklyn, New York
 2009 – Judith Scott: Retrospective, Ricco Maresca Gallery, New York City, New York
 2002 – Cocoon: Judith Scott, Ricco-Maresca Gallery, New York City, New York

Group exhibitions 

 2019 – Memory Palaces: Inside the Collection of Audrey B. Heckler, American Folk Art Museum, New York City, New York
 2019 – The Doors of Perception, Curated by Javier Téllez in collaboration with the Outsider Art Fair, Frieze Art Fair, New York City, New York
 2019 – Flying High: Women Artists of Art Brut, Bank Austria Kunstforum, Vienna
 2018 – Outliers and American Vanguard Art, National Gallery of Art, Washington DC
 2017 – Forget Me Not: Judith Scott, Zuckerman Museum of Art, Kennesaw, Georgia
 2017 – Viva Arte Viva, the 57th Venice Biennale, Venice, Italy
 2015 – Collection ABCD, La Maison Rouge, Paris, France
 2013 – Create, Creative Growth Art Center, Oakland, California
 2013 – Create, Boca Raton Museum of Art, Boca Raton, Florida
 2013 – Extreme Art, The Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum, Ridgefield, Connecticut 
 2012 – Rosemarie Trockel: A Cosmos, New Museum of Contemporary Art, New York City, New York
 2011 – World Transformers, Schirn Kunsthalle Frankfurt, Frankfurt, Germany
 2000 – Visions, American Visionary Art Museum, Baltimore, Maryland
 2005 – Creative Growth, The Ricky Jay Broadside Collection, Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, San Francisco, California

References

Further reading
Mullin, Rick, "Sculpture", American Arts Quarterly, Fall 2010
Joyce Wallace Scott, "Entwined:Sisters and Secrets in the Silent World of Artist Judith Scott", Beacon Press
"Judith Scott - Bound and Unbound" Brooklyn Museum, 2015

External links

 Judith Scott profile, Creative Growth Art Center
Clip from 'Outsider : The Life and Art of Judith Scott' a film by Betsy Bayha

1943 births
2005 deaths
Deaf artists
Outsider artists
Women outsider artists
American textile artists
20th-century American women artists
21st-century American women artists
People with Down syndrome
Artists from the San Francisco Bay Area
Women textile artists
Deaf people from the United States
For example, the Los Angeles record label Now-Again Records has cleared songs produced for West and Pusha T in a matter of hours.
"The Languages of the Himalayas."
Fruits of these new interests were the publication of the anthology Provinces of Early Mexico: Variants of Spanish American Regional Evolution (edited with Ida Altman) and Nahuatl in the Middle Years: Language Contact Phenomena in Texts of the Colonial Period (with linguist Frances Karttunen).
First ran for the Freedom Party in Trinity—Spadina in the 1999 provincial election.
As a part of the 2011 Kallikratis government reform, the regional unit Arta was created out of the former prefecture Arta.
The list should not be assumed to be comprehensive.
Shruti or śruti is a Sanskrit word, found in the Vedic texts of Hinduism where it means lyrics and "what is heard" in general.
Further, Shrutis 'selected' in a Raga 'cause' (or become) the swaras.
Historical places and events
Cereo, first baby food, was manufactured by Macy Deming at the Haring Adams (Deming) House in Tappan.
Some have criticized him as an entrist, seeking to manipulate the Freedom Party and other organizations for his own ends.
Received 356 votes, finishing fifth in a field of five candidates.
Approximately one hundred repeated aftershocks were reported by the Asian Disaster Preparedness Center.
In 1924 he was publishing his memoirs.
The Naval Intelligence Department (NID) was the intelligence arm of the British Admiralty from 1887 until 1912 when most of its subsidiary divisions were absorbed during the creation of the Admiralty War Staff department that included a new Naval Intelligence Division that concentrated in that sphere solely.
References

External links
 

1901 births
1995 deaths
Alumni of Jesus College, Cambridge
British male journalists
Conservative Party (UK) MPs for English constituencies
People educated at Giggleswick School
Stockbrokers
UK MPs 1931–1935
People from Blaydon-on-Tyne
Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve personnel of World War II
Royal Air Force squadron leaders
Garnerville was the home of the John Suffern Paper Mill in 1850, and print cotton textile factories.
"Regions Based on Social Structure: A Reconsideration".
The same is true of Daivatham.
The novel, and the use of dice and other tools for accessing chance are discussed here.
He now has an injunction against him prohibiting him from continuing to attempt to use his previous CGA credentials.
Short stories in Palestinian literature started with writers like Samira Azam.
It was established by Saint John XXIII on 10 April 1961.
49 years old in 2003.
The Washington Post described the modern use of well known samples, such as on records by Kanye West, as an act of conspicuous consumption similar to flaunting cars or jewelry.
Only 'Raga' can have shrutis, not 'Thaļa'.
Second edition.
He developed three types of musical pieces: event-triggered episodes, ambient pieces, and underscoring for cutscenes.
Because of the proximity of iron mines, numerous metal products were made – plows, hoes, railings, nails, machinery, even cannonballs.
(New York: Cambridge University Press, 1983).The Tlaxcalan Actas: A compendium of records of the Cabildo of Tlaxcala, 1545–1627.
Julius Braunsdorf, industrial developer & founder of Pearl River was the inventor of carbon arc light bulbs and electric generators and installed the first indoor lighting in the world in U.S. Capitol in Washington, D.C.
Knickerbocker Ice Company – established 1831 in Valley Cottage at Rockland Lake had the cleanest and purest ice in the area and became known as the "Icehouse of New York City".
Writing in 2017 for The Guardian, Tanya Gold noted that "over the course of 45 years" it was still in print, had become famous, had devoted fans, and had "sold more than 2m copies in multiple languages" (e.g., as many as 27 languages and 60 countries have been claimed).
The rebel raises it in the Aures.. Oh a nation that feels cold", and in Samih Al-Qasim's poem, Birds Without Wings.
However, the use of the solar day is incorrect; it must be the sidereal day, so the corresponding time unit must be a sidereal hour.
The city was an integral part of the Talpur dynasty in the 1720s.
The series was filmed to exclusively act and bring to life what was in the novel.
Galloway who became her spiritual mentor and friend.
The score was awarded GameSpot 1998 "Best PC Music Award".
The winner was Deb Matthews of the Ontario Liberal Party.
(Spanish translation of Spanish Peru) (Mexico: Fondo de Cultura Economica, 1982).Early Latin America: A Short History of Colonial Spanish America and Brazil (with Stuart B. Schwartz).
12 Swaras with their 16 names are shown as S, R1, R2/G1, R3, G1, G2/R3, G3, M1, M2, P, D1, D2/N1, D3, N1, N2/D3, N3.
2 The final  found in Sumerian pronouns is the ergative ending.
Verb morphology

In general, many Dené–Caucasian languages (and Sumerian) have polysynthetic verbs with several prefixes in front of the verb stem, but usually few or no suffixes.
The soundtrack garnered critical acclaim and remained subject of positive reviews and inclusion in critics' rankings for the two decades after its first release.
and has also acquired music rights of many Rajasthani films.
Airing every weekday  for two hours, it features interviews, regular correspondents who specialize in various fields, and a review of developments in technology news.
In a glide or meend.
Some focus on the human brain, others on non-human.
Chaturdandi Prakashika (Sanskrit) by Pandit Venkatamakhin in Shloka 118, Chapter 3, gives the description of Gamaka as,
 Swarasya Kampo Gamakah, Shrotru Chitta SukhĀvah, Sweeya SthĀna Shruti Gatah ChhayĀm anyĀm ĀshrayĀm api 
meaning,
                                                                                         
Swara's movement creates Gamaka, delighting the listeners, going from the position of its own Shruti to reside in the shadow of another.
His dissertation, published in 1968 as Spanish Peru, 1531-1560 was a path breaking approach to this early period.
The outcome was described by McConnell as a score that had been "re-arranged, re-voiced, re-orchestrated, re-recorded, re-mixed, re-mastered and – most of all – retrieved" (and in a couple of key spots, even “re-composed").
I'm doing it to shock people."
His brother, James Cockcroft, is the author of more than 20 books, mostly on Latin American history and society.
Using the materials at hand, Judith spontaneously invented her own unique and radically different form of artistic expression.
Еach shruti may be approximated in 53EDO system.
and Ramya according to some Greek texts.
Stuart proceeded to visit almost every RSCJ community around the world and travelled extensively throughout the United States and Latin America.
Election in Blaydon
During the 1920s Martin worked as a private secretary, and was on the staff of the Turkish Embassy in London as its English Secretary in 1928 and in 1930–31.
Despite a US Top 20 hit with "That's the Way", it was their only album for the label.
(1995)Pluto Räumt Auf (Pluto Cleans Up) (1995)Zeitungsjunge Pluto (1995)Käpt'n Donald (Captain Donald) (1995)Swinging Micky (Swinging Mickey) (1995)Mickys Sommerspaß (Mickey's Summer Vacation) (1996)That's Donald (1996)Vorsicht Löwe!
2000c.
In cooperation with the German 9th Army, the Romanian invasion was repelled and its forces were thrown back across the border within eight weeks, leading to Arz receiving the respect and appreciation of the new Austro-Hungarian emperor, Karl I.
The Rishabha, Gandhar, Dhaivat and Nishad have the 'Komal' version first followed by 'Shuddha'; whereas for Madhyam, there is the 'Shuddha' version first followed by 'Teevra'.
McConnell and Schafer's professional collaboration started with Day of the Tentacle, then continued with Full Throttle (possibly in part due to McConnell having a rock band at the time, which suited the genre of the game).
Historical Origins
Palestinian literature is one of numerous Arabic literatures, but its affiliation is national, rather than territorial.
On 25 October, he posted via his social media the cover of the song, unveiling its release date.
At the age of 13, he made a Christian commitment, and began songwriting at age 22.
Durant – small settlement of private residences one mile (1.6 km) south of New City.
Alexander Hamilton – 1st United States Secretary of the Treasury.
Aaron Crossman, Executive Producer and Webmaster; Craig's other son who helps with the development of content, the show's website, and the show in general.
For the first 25 years of the province's existence, political power was split between the Saskatchewan Liberal Party in government, with the Conservatives (initially the Provincial Rights Party) in opposition.
d As with Basque, the class system was already obsolete by the time the languages were recorded.
Has supported the right of figures on Canada's 'far-right' to express their views in public, presenting the issue as one of free speech.
Mechanicsville – present-day Viola.
Some scholars have attempted to fit such perceived new tones into the non-contextual Bharata's 22 shrutis, which lead to confusion and controversy.
Game Revolution in its game review praised it as one of the "most memorable soundtracks ever to grace the inside of a cranial cavity where an eardrum used to be."
Magazines and books
Controversially, journalist Ben Marshall spent two years from 1998 to 2000 experimenting with dicing, and reporting his experiences in Loaded magazine; Loaded subsequently named Cockcroft/Rhinehart as novelist of the century.
The award was originally created in the 1996 ceremony, when the Drama Desk Award for Outstanding Set Design was separated into two categories, for plays and musicals.
Sherwoodville – North of Mechanicsville/Viola in the Village of Montebello.
The PC party alleges the fund's trustees, which contains $2.9 million, conspired with the Saskatchewan Party to deny the PC party access to their funds, and thus not be able to run candidates in the next election.
Alberta - 5 seats

British Columbia - 13 seats

Ontario - 29 seats

Nova Scotia - 1 seat

Quebec - 22 seats

See also
Results of the Canadian federal election, 2011
Communist Party of Canada (Marxist–Leninist) candidates, 2008 Canadian federal election

References

Candidates in the 2011 Canadian federal election
This reconstruction contains much uncertainty due to the extreme complexity of the sound systems of the Caucasian languages; the sound correspondences between these languages are difficult to trace.
The President of the United States, Millard Fillmore, 13th President of the United States and the Secretary of State, Daniel Webster, along with a score of national and state officials, boarded the train at the Piermont Pier for the first trip.
Around this time, as the English began to colonize Nyack and Tappan, the Native Americans began to leave Rockland in search of undisturbed land further north.
On May 7, 1980, he suffered a fractured jaw when hit by a pitch from Expos pitcher Scott Sanderson.
Car production
Despite selling off the engineering side of Brazil Straker, which continued to successfully build cars, Cosmos Engineering also produced a small number of Fedden-designed cars.
Wiley.
Matt Szymanowicz (Ottawa Centre)
A private in the Canadian Forces Primary Reserve as a weapons technician living in Ottawa.
It is considered a felony to reproduce whole or portions of maps without the permission of the military, although maps can be issued to certain universities and urban design schools for use by students and can be issued to civilian upon presenting certain documents.
It included all the songs of the 2015-release of the Director's Cut.Main albumsCompilations'''
{|class="wikitable"
|-
!
The Talk Talk song, "Such A Shame", was inspired by The Dice Man.
Includes one song from Grim Fandango.
Notes
!
The Billboard Latin Music Awards honor the most popular albums, song, and performers in Latin music, as determined by the actual sales and radio airplay data that shapes Billboards weekly charts during a one-year period from the issue dated Feb. 14, 2004, through this year's Feb. 5 issue.
Similarly, Cook depicted New Zealand's Stewart Island as a peninsula, concealing Foveaux Strait.
Table shows nomenclature for 12 swara-prakaras and 22 shrutis in Hindustani classical music.
1919: The first classes were held in the partially completed school.
Captain Charles J. Briggs, 11 February 1904  –  December, 1904.
Germany
While a member of parliament, Martin visited Germany where he met leading Nazis Hitler, Goering and Goebbels; he was invited to a Nuremberg rally, but also visited Dachau.
the consonant -, which is inserted between the components of some Basque compound nouns and can be compared to the East Caucasian element - which is inserted between the noun stem and the endings of cases other than the ergative.
By counting the microscopic lamina that form at higher tides, tidal frequencies (and thus day lengths) can be estimated, much like counting tree rings, though these estimates can be increasingly unreliable at older ages.
705; and his Crown Heights mural, a push back on the gentrification of the neighborhood where Perry's studio is located.
Lahari Bandar or Lari Bandar succeeded Debal as a major port of the Indus it was located close to Banbhore, in modern Karachi.
James Lockhart (born April 8, 1933 - January 17, 2014) was a U.S. historian of colonial Spanish America, especially the Nahua people and Nahuatl language.
Then, from 7 to 8 September was taking place Garrix's fifth anniversary of Lollapalooza Berlin.
Demographics

In the , the population of Arteche, Eastern Samar, was  people, with a density of .
In the decades following the Revolution, Rockland became popular for its stone and bricks.
He began to do research on colonial Mexico while at University of Texas, looking both at the socioeconomic patterns there and began learning Nahuatl.
For less successful artists, the legal implications of using samples pose obstacles; according to Fact, "For a bedroom producer, clearing a sample can be nearly impossible, both financially and in terms of administration."
He has competed in three Olympic Games.
"Salishan and North Caucasian."
During the Philippine–American War, Wagner served in various staff positions, reaching the rank of colonel before returning to the United States in 1902 as adjutant general of the Department of the Lakes at Chicago.
While it would have been possible to do live recordings of full songs with big tempo changes, it would have required an intensive rehearsal, meaning more time and costs.
His research has involved the development of antifungal treatments for cystic fibrosis, and the development of a COVID-19 test that the University of Illinois has used over one million times.
Stuart left the Church of England and converted to the Catholic Church in 1879.
By statute, it is now controlled by a Board of Trustees, and is currently part of the Department of State Growth.
Originating between the Ramapo Mountains and Hudson Highlands, this glacial erratic was deposited in Montebello by the Laurentide Ice Sheet approximately 21,000 years ago.
In each small town or village of Palestine, itinerant story tellers called hakawati would visit and tell folk stories they knew, often in teahouses.
In Bangkok, tall buildings swayed as the earthquake occurred.
''Annals of His Time: Don Domingo de San Anton Munon Chimalpahin Quauhtlehuanitzin (with Susan Schroeder and Doris Namala, 2006).
The last census was held in 1998, the current estimated population ratio of 2012 is:
Urdu: 41.38%
Sindhi: 40.62%
Punjabi: 6.2%
Pashto:  5.8%
Balochi: 4.1%

The others include Konkani, Kuchhi, Gujarati, Dawoodi Bohra, Memon, Brahui, Makrani, Khowar, Burushaski, Arabic, and Bengali.
In 2013, Alex Clark of the Telegraph chose it as one of the fifty greatest cult books of the last hundred years.
A more conventional picture was supported by Hicetas, Heraclides and Ecphantus in the fourth century BCE who assumed that Earth rotated but did not suggest that Earth revolved about the Sun.
The 12 swaraprakaras and 22 shrutis in both the Hindustani and Carnatic tables are exactly the same in terms of ratios, frequencies, and percentage of length of the string where they are played.
The city faced a huge cholera epidemic in 1899.
He moved to University of California, Los Angeles, where he spent the bulk of his teaching career 1972–1994, retiring early and continuing to collaborate with colleagues on research projects and mentor graduate students working on historical sources in the Nahuatl language and the colonial-era Nahua people.
The Trade Division was abolished in October 1909 in the wake of the Committee of Imperial Defence inquiry into the feud between the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir John Fisher and former Commander-in-Chief Channel Fleet, Admiral Lord Charles Beresford, when it was discovered that the captain heading the Trade Division had been supplying the latter with confidential information during the inquiry.
Gorband
 Ghoomar (4 parts)
 Balam Chhoto So
 Kuve Par Aekali (2 parts)
 Chudi Chamke

Awards
 "Dagar Gharana Award" by Maharana Mewar Foundation, 2012
 "Rajasthani Film Award" by the then Governor of Rajasthan Pratibha Patil.
The emergence of the Co-operative Commonwealth Federation (CCF), forerunner of the NDP – a social democratic political party formed by the coming together of various socialist, agrarian and labour groups under a united front – forced the Liberals to the right.
According to linguist Blanca María Prósper, however, "this idea is uncompelling because the semantics lack good parallels and the inner syntax of the compound is utterly problematic."
Explorations in Language Macrofamilies.
His articles grew to a weekly column in the Miami Herald in the 1980s, one of the top ten newspapers in the USA at the time.
Saint John's-in-the-Wilderness – Located about a mile from Sandyfield.
If both subject/agent and object/patient are referenced in the same verbal chain, the object typically precedes the subject (OSV or OVS, where V is the verb stem): cf.
North of Tomkins Cove, South of Iona Island.
Other commanders also hailed his achievements during the campaign, with Conrad writing that he had "proved to be an energetic resolute leader in the most difficult situations..." and Boroević stating that Arz was an "Honourable, noble character....outstanding general."
Musique concrète was brought to a mainstream audience by the BBC Radiophonic Workshop, which used the techniques to produce soundtracks for shows including Doctor Who.
Following Wings' final 1979 tour of the UK, McCartney did not undergo a major concert tour for ten years.
Baumgartner appeared in seven Major League games as a member of the 1953 Detroit Tigers and played six seasons (1950–1955) in minor league baseball.
References 

1950 births
Living people
People from Rio Grande do Sul
Brazilian people of Italian descent
Brazilian chief executives
Brazilian billionaires
Brazilian philanthropists
Twin people from Brazil
People from Porto Alegre
The Royal Society of Tasmania later founded TMAG in the sub-committee room of the Parliament, possibly the same room.
Long Voyage Back (1983), a nautical action-adventure novel, follows a group of people sailing aboard a trimaran, and their struggle for survival as they escape the aftermath of nuclear war.
17 years later, in 2015, the remastered soundtrack was released.
The party ran twenty-four candidates in the 2003 provincial election.
The soundtrack was remastered and orchestrated, and re-released in 2015.
John Genser was also slated to run for the party in Vaughan—King—Aurora, but he too did not appear on the ballot.
Mirza Ghazi Beg, the Mughal administrator of Sindh, is among the first historical figures credited for the development of coastal Sindh (consisting of regions such as the Makran coast and the Indus delta), including the cities of Thatta.
1992.
[Translation of Starostin 1984]
 [See Starostin 1991 for English translation]

TRASK, R. L., 1999.
"Ein Vergleich von Buruschaski und Nordkaukasisch [A comparison of B. and North Caucasian]."
Received 218 votes in 2003, finishing last in a field of six candidates.
Mina Napartuk (1913 – 2001) is a Canadian Inuit artist known for her fabric and fur crafts, as well as her management of the women’s craftshop in Kuujjuarapik.
It would prove to be a successful one, as the club finished in third place in his first two seasons in charge.
History
Below, contemporary literary movements are listed by decade.
Clock Cleaners (1937)
Baggage Buster (1941)
Mickey's Fire Brigade (1935)
The Big Wash (1948)

Linking clips reused from: Fathers Are People (1951), The Fire Chief (1940), Motor Mania (1950)

Special Edition - Happy Summer Days
Father's Lion (1952)
Tea for Two Hundred (1948)
The Simple Things (1953)
Two Weeks Vacation (1952)

Linking clips reused from: Donald's Vacation (1940), How to Fish (1942), Lion Down (1951)

Special Edition - The Goofy World of Sports
The Olympic Champ (1942)
Donald's Golf Game (1938)
The Art of Skiing (1941)
Aquamania (1961)

Linking clips reused from: Goofy Gymnastics (1948), How to Play Golf (1944)

Disney's Valentine Collection 
These three videos came out originally for Valentine's Day in 1995-96.
North Caucasian languages
1.2.2.2.2.
Das Haida als Na-Dene-Sprache [Haida as a Na-Dene language].
References

Legacy
Digby Stuart College, a constituent college of the University of Roehampton, England
Doane Stuart School.
Has also accused the federal government of "cav[ing] in" to demands by native groups, and returning land expropriated in previous years.
The following is a list of free funk musicians.
It is more practical to define the centre of a circle mathematically, and then compute the centre of the lake relative to points fixed in advance.
When adjusted for differences in demographics, Chamblee High School has the highest SAT scores of all Atlanta-metro schools (including Cobb, Gwinnett, and Forsyth).
48 (Grey Ghost, CD, USA, 2007)
 (No Label, 7", USA, 2010)
Horns Of Ammon (Homeskool Records, CD, USA, 2010)
Bag Of Hammers (Homeskool Records, CD, USA, 2012)
Assault on the Vault of the Ancient Bonglords (Homeskool Records, 3xCD, USA, 2013)
Find What You Love And Let It Kill You (Homeskool Records, 7", USA, 2013)
C is for Cthulhu b/w My Desire (Homeskool Records, 7", USA, 2014)
Ampalanche (Vincebus Eruptum, LP, Italy, 2016)
Psychedelic Battles Volume Three (Vincebus Eruptum, split LP w/ Colt38, Italy, 2017)

External links 
 Linus Pauling Quartet
 Linus Pauling Quartet on Rutracker
 

Musical groups from Houston
Psychedelic rock music groups from Texas
Stoner rock musical groups
In 1838 the Mechanics' Institution received an agreement from the government for a room to be constructed in the Customs House for use as a museum.
Due to the quality of this work, they were the only company permitted to manufacture Rolls-Royce aircraft engines under licence, building Hawk and Falcon engines, major components for the Eagle engine and also 600 Renault 80hp 8Ca engines.
It was at this time that the DJ officially revealed that the song was set to be released at the end of October.
In 1889 a new wing was opened by R Hamilton to extend the museum.
Common samples 

 
A seven-second drum break in the 1969 track "Amen, Brother", known as the Amen break, became popular with American hip hop producers and then British jungle producers in the early 1990s.
The PRM moved closer to Mali for support against Morocco's plans for the inclusion of Mauritania in a Greater Morocco, plans which the Arab nationalist Nadha party supported.
Brihaddeshi (Sanskrit) by Pandit Matanga  mentions after Shloka 24, in Shrutiprakarana (Chapter on Shrutis) that,

Shravanendriya GrĀhyatvĀd Dhwanireva Shrutirbhavet

meaning, "Only when the ear understands (the point on the string where perception of the notes changes), does that sound become a Shruti."
Received 518 votes, finishing fifth in a field of six candidates.
Between 1944 and 2007 the CCF–NDP won 12 out of 17 provincial elections in Saskatchewan, and formed the government for 47 of those 63 years.
Hispanic or Latino of any race were 10.9% of the population.
Assistant Director War Division
 Captain Charles J. Briggs, March, 1900 – December, 1901.
The author and his family spent a number of years traveling, sailing, and returning to Mallorca, living in Deià in the late 1960s and early 70s, including time spent on a large catamaran which became the inspiration for the boat in his novel Long Voyage Back.
Arthur Irving Gates (22 September 1890 – 24 August 1972) was an American educationist who specialized in educational psychology.
By 4 September they had succeeded in pushing nearly as far as Sepsiszentgyörgy in the Székely territories.
After his retirement from the Stock Exchange in 1974, Martin moved back to the borders area of Northumberland where he lived at Naworth Keep and Dacre Castle.
Thorpe spent three years at Scunthorpe, scoring 5 goals in 27 appearances in the Football League between 1960 and 1963.
Former longtime  president of the local Freedom Party riding association.
However, they later withdrew the request.
Recognizing the controversy over the number and the exact ratios of shruti intervals, it also says that not all shruti intervals are equal and known as pramana shruti (22%), nyuna shruti (70% cents) and purana shruti (90%).
While researching Spanish Peru, he compiled information on the Spaniards who received a share of the ransom of the Inca Atahualpa, extracted at Cajamarca.
Defunct companies based in Bristol
Defunct aircraft engine manufacturers of the United Kingdom
Defunct motor vehicle manufacturers of the United Kingdom
Bristol Aeroplane Company
Clarkstown
 Cedar Grove Corner – North of the hamlet of Rockland Lake, East of New City.
The northeastern section of the township is heavily industrialized on its western end (west of Wood Road), but since 2002 this section has become the 'downtown' of Lansing Township with the construction of the Eastwood Towne Center, one of the largest shopping malls in Metropolitan Lansing, and the subsequent creation of the Lansing Township Downtown Development Authority to capture state and national funds for development.
However, he had long wished to revisit the score if the opportunity arose, to fix and enhance the various aspects that had not been viable during the original production.
The fact that the soundtrack had stood the test of time, was attributed by McConnell to a combination of "story and the world are so rich and potent, and deal with timeless themes on a level rarely attained in a game", the rich musical heritage of film noir scores and freedom of jazz, the talent of the musicians inspired by the musical effervescence of San Francisco's mission district; "The score was literally in the air, like it was meant to be.
PINNOW, Heinz-Jürgen (1990a).
The forms in parentheses are very rare.
Wide Open Spaces (1947)
Donald's Ostrich (1937)
Crazy with the Heat (1947)

Linking clips reused from: Baggage Buster (1941), Mickey's Trailer (1938)

Vol.
A past tense marker /n/ is found in Basque, Caucasian, Burushaski, Yeniseian, and Na-Dené (Haida, Tlingit and Athabaskan); in all of these except Yeniseian, it is a suffix or circumfix, which is noteworthy in these (with the exception of East Caucasian and Haida) suffix-poor language families.
Until the return of the museum to the Fix building, EMST will continue its exhibitions program in the spaces of the Athens Conservatory, one of the most prestigious cultural institutions and finest buildings of architecture in the capital.
The city's wealthy elite also endowed the city with a large number of grand edifices, such as the elaborately decorated buildings that house social clubs, known as 'Gymkhanas.'
Opposes abortion funding and supports "conscience rights" for health-care workers opposed to abortion.
From 1903 to 1908 he was Minister of Public Instruction.
His service terminated on June 30, 1905, due to his retirement.
Date
!
Personal life 
He currently lives in Porto Alegre and has seven children.
Some scholars have suggested that this distortion is a result of misinformation circulated by King John II.
Wagner lived in Asheville, North Carolina as a staff officer for the recently established Army War College at the Washington Barracks (Fort Lesley McNair), until his death on June 17, 1905, the same day in which he had won promotion to brigadier general.
The term sample was coined by Kim Ryrie and Peter Vogel to describe a feature of their Fairlight CMI synthesizer, launched in 1979.
Stuart was named Mistress of Novices on 12 February 1889, which began her three decades of serving as secretary and associate of the Mother Superior.
Promoted to major in 1896, Wagner was transferred to the adjutant general's office of the War Department as Chief of the Military Information Division.
"Yeah!"
LGE I videos all have the documentary about Walt Disney's early start and the first original Mickey Mouse.
Bibliography

See also 

 Performance Art
 Installation
 Endurance art

References

Performances
Horizontal arrow indicates an Interval ratio of 100:150.
(Abhandlungen, Heft 50)
PINNOW, Heinz-Jürgen (1985a).
Wears rumpled clothing in his campaigns, and claims his concern is with changing society as a whole.
Artwork
As with Subhuman/Something Came Over Me, the single contains two distinctive black-and-white photographs, the first of a storefront and the second of an unidentified interior.
Johnsontown (Town of West Haverstraw) – Founded in the late 18th century by the Johnson brothers who came to the mountain area looking for timber to use for shipbuilding.
See also
 Palestine Festival of Literature
 Palestinian art
 Palestinian handicrafts
 Palestinian music
 Palestinian National Theatre
 Speak, Bird, Speak Again

References

Additional references
 Alvarado-Larroucau, Carlos, Écritures palestiniennes francophones ; Quête d’identité en espace néocolonial, Paris, Éditions L’Harmattan, coll.
Early life and education
Burke was born on February 5, 1976 in Westminster, Maryland.
The winner was John O'Toole of the Progressive Conservative Party of Ontario.
Alexandre Grendene Bartelle (born January 2, 1950) is a Brazilian businessman and billionaire.
In the case of the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic, every regional committee within the RSFSR was directly responsible to the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.
Lansing City Pulse.
The winner was Laurie Scott of the Progressive Conservative Party.
Romanian forces crossed the frontier on 28 August 1916 with six separate forces pushing through the six Carpathian passes to converge on Brassó (today Braşov, Romania).
ho battizato Bertolomio filiolo di M. Benedetto Genari et la Consorte Mad.
However, Maurice Ebileeni argues that a fourth branch referring exclusively to anglophone literary works is not sufficient.
Saddar bazaar area and Empress Market were used by the 'white' population, while the Serai Quarter served the needs of the 'black' town.
Early career
Having successfully completed a year's military service, Arz sat and passed the reserve officers examination and went on to apply for and successfully obtain a commission as a regular officer.
The average length of the mean solar day since the introduction of the leap second in 1972 has been about 0 to 2 ms longer than .
In 1884 Alexander Morton, previously Assistant Curator of the Australian Museum, was appointed curator.
Cockcroft was subsequently offered an advance payment for publication.
It does not have a ticket agent, but the station does have personnel that can assist riders upon departure and arrival.
He was the party's candidate in the provincial by-election on November 24, 2005, in Scarborough—Rouge River.
In response to the results of the 2003 election, the Saskatchewan Party caucus voted in favour of the NDP's Crown Corporations Public Ownership Act, which provided legislative entrenchment for the ownership of the major crown utilities and services.
The new video was described by The Big Takeover as “insanely ambitious” and by the Houston Press as a  “monumental work” .
The first album created entirely from samples, Endtroducing by DJ Shadow, was released in 1996.
Melakarta 72 Thatas therefore do not have 'prescribed' Shrutis with them.
V. Shevoroshkin.
Greeks Visitors 
The Greeks recorded the place by many names: Krokola, the place where Alexander camped to prepare a fleet for Babylon after his campaign in the Indus Valley; Morontobara, from whence Alexander's admiral Nearchus set sail; and Barbarikon, a port of the Bactrian kingdom.
Ifè (or Ifɛ) is a Niger–Congo language spoken by some 180,000 people in Togo, Benin and Ghana.
1922: M.E.
Also in the western part are the former Waverly Golf Course and the adjacent Michigan Avenue Park.
It was sold in a camouflage printed plastic bag and reached No.
PC Gamer in its 2014 list of Top 100 Games, acclaimed Grim Fandango for including "one of the best soundtracks in PC gaming history".
In the 2004 federal election, he ran as an independent candidate and received 330 votes, finishing last in a field of six candidates.
Ownership of the Fix building was transferred from the subway authority Attica Metro, which owned the former brewery since the 1990s, to the museum foundation.
The first service was held in 1847 in a converted warehouse.
STAROSTIN, Sergei A., 2000.
Commonly referred to as "Bricktown", Haverstraw was famous for its brick-making, which was a major industry for the village.
LGE II videos each have different documentaries focusing on histories of the specific characters/themes of the video.
Prior to hosting Computer America, he worked as a professional singer in Las Vegas and later as a manager of one of the early Apple stores.
Previous candidacies:

1995 Ontario general election, Lambton, 417 votes, fifth out of five candidates (winner: Marcel Beaubien, Progressive Conservative Party of Ontario)
1999 Ontario general election, Lambton—Kent—Middlesex, 1,076 votes, fourth out of four candidates (winner: Marcel Beaubien, Progressive Conservative)

Lisa Turner (London North Centre)
Opposes excessive taxation, and promised to end the province's energy tax cap.
2 denotes a 'higher' shruti or the 'end' of the region of the note on a string,
Small letters denote a komal or flatter version (except m, which is 'tara'),
Capital letters denote a tara or sharper version (except M, which is 'komal'),
Vertical arrows indicate an interval ratio of 100:125.
The next season, Viking were the winners of the Norwegian Cup by beating Molde in the final.
History

The area that became Rockland County was originally inhabited by Algonquian-speaking Native Americans, including Munsees, or Lenni Lenape.
Rockland was also the site of the first formal recognition of the new nation by the British.
Access is now restricted by the Palisades Interstate Park Commission.
It was alleged that, whilst in prison, Almond had said that "whosoever had killed a king, and were afterward penitent ... and did confesse the same to a priest, might have absolution".
managers
Lyngby Boldklub managers
Swedish expatriate sportspeople in Denmark
Swedish expatriate sportspeople in England
Expatriate football managers in Denmark
Expatriate football managers in England
Swedish expatriate sportspeople in Norway
expatriate football managers in Norway
Swedish expatriate football managers
Association football midfielders
Swedish bandy players
Örebro SK Bandy players
Host 
Ben Crossman is now the host of the Show, Craig's son.
The community-centered space featured classes, workshops, performances and work by local artists.
For example, in 1640, Dutch Captain David Pietersz.
The area of Karachi (, ) in Sindh, Karachi has a natural harbor and has been used as fishing port by local fisherman belonging to Sindhi  tribes since [[prehistoryArchaeological excavations have uncovered a period going back to Indus valley civilization which shows the importance of the port since the Bronze Age.
American Revolutionary War and War of 1812
Two important battles took place in Rockland County during the American Revolutionary War – the capture by the British of Fort Clinton at Bear Mountain in October 1777 and the victorious attack by General "Mad Anthony" Wayne's army on the British fort at Stony Point in July 1779.
He further says that these points on the string are very precise, as in Shloka 28, Chapter 1, in Nadaprakarana (Chapter on Nadas) that, ĀdĀtmyam Cha Vivartatvam KĀryatvam ParinĀmita AbhivyanjakatĀ Cha api ShrutinĀm Parikathyate  {तादात्म्यं च विवर्तत्वं कार्यत्वं परिणामिता अभिव्यञ्जकता चापि  श्रुतीनां परिकथ्यते
} meaning, "Reaching (the point on the string where the perception of the notes changes), and reverting (from there) results in the precision that is called as 'Shruti."
The companies were recruited principally: A, B, C, D, G and H in New York city; E in Brooklyn and New York city; F at Haverstraw; I at Sing Sing; and K at Carmel, Peekskill, Sing Sing and White Plains.
(Abhandlungen, Heft 64)
PINNOW, Heinz-Jürgen (1990b) (in two parts).
4-Ethylphenol causes a wine fault at a concentration of greater than 140 µg/L.
She does not get along well with other children, is restless, eats messily, tears her clothing, and beats other children.
Rockland County places of interest

Rockland County's rocks

 Indian Rock – This 17,300-ton Proterozoic granite gneiss is .8–1.2 billion years old.
O'Reilly and Associates.
In 1989, the Turtles sued De La Soul for using an uncleared sample on their album 3 Feet High and Rising.
Assistant Director Coastal Defences Division

Divisions
The distribution of intelligence work within specialist divisions assigned for those tasks can be seen below.
It has a lexical similarity of 87%–91% with Ede Nago.
He continued his studies at the University of Oregon where he earned his M.A.
One person was killed as a result.
The winner on both occasions was Ernie Parsons of the Ontario Liberal Party.
The case was settled out of court and set a legal precedent that had a chilling effect on sampling in hip hop.
A founder of the Alternative Parent Participating Learning Environment, APPLE ...as a local option within the public school system.
See also
 List of earthquakes in 2014

References

External links
 Likelihood of earthquakes in Thailand
 

Mae Lao earthquake
Earthquakes in Thailand
Chiang Rai province
2014 in Thailand
In Basque and Sino-Tibetan, only fossilized vestiges of the prefixes remain.
In July 2017, the group contributed side one to the Vincebus Eruptum label's third Psychedelic Battles split LP with Colt38, including their final masterpiece, "Jolakottur," the lyrics of which were derived from Icelandic folklore.
Lashi was originally spoken in the downstream area of the Ngochang Hka river valley, a tributary of the N’Mai Hka river, while Ngochang was originally spoken in the upstream area of the Ngochang Hka river valley.
He is a leader of "Friends of Freedom", and opposes the regulatory powers of Health Canada over medicines that may be sold in Canada.
He owns an Amels Limited Editions 199 yacht and a Falcon 7X jet.
Sachse served until his death in South Yarra in 1920.
She visited the Catholic girls' boarding school in Wellington, NZ, in 1914 and planted a tree.
The "understanding" and "learning" part is the natural fact that on 22 specific points on a string, the perception of notes changes.
On the other hand, comparison of noun morphology among Dené–Caucasian families other than Basque, Burushaski and Caucasian is usually not possible: little morphology can so far be reconstructed for Proto-Sino-Tibetan at all; "Yeniseian has case marking, but it seems to have little in common with the western DC families" except for the abovementioned suffix (Bengtson 2008:footnote 182, emphasis added); and Na-Dené languages usually express case relations as prefixes on the polysynthetic verb.
Similarly in Hindustani Music, the names of 'Komal' and 'Shuddha' Swaras have no uniformity.
The voices having different characteristics, the novel's mood changes accordingly.
The music was also performed for live audiences.
In this role, Stuart studied social injustice in her community, taught Sunday school, and advocated on behalf of poor tenant farmers.
Soon afterwards Arz attained the rank of Feldmarschall-Leutnant and in 1913 was reassigned to the war ministry in Vienna to head up a section.
/K/ could have been any velar or uvular plosive, /S/ could have been any sibilant or assibilate.
The Macro-Caucasian family
1.1.1.
Judith Scott died of natural causes at her sister's home in Dutch Flat, California, a few weeks short of her 62nd birthday.
7: Starring Donald & Daisy
Don Donald (1937)
Donald's Double Trouble (1946)
Donald's Diary (1954)

Linking clips reused from: This Is Your Life, Donald Duck (1960)

Vol.
Baumgartner threw and batted right-handed, stood  tall and weighed .
They would not win another seat until 1975.
Back in the 19th century railroads, freight and passenger lines, were instrumental for the development, growth and prosperity of Rockland County.
Arthur Lockwood Wagner (March 16, 1853 – June 17, 1905) was a United States brigadier general and military instructor.
Such an exercise is akin to estimating the centre of a large circular lake by comparing intersections between ropes stretched across the surface; this gives a range of answers, and introduces difficulties in estimating accuracy.
Proto–Afroasiatic, sometimes referred to as Proto-Afrasian, is the reconstructed proto-language from which all modern Afroasiatic languages are descended.
Mike Wass of Idolator deemed the song "an emotional banger" and "a duo's genre-blurring bop", containing Dean Lewis vocals "over piano keys and strummed guitar".
8), ed.
It crosses Conococheague Creek.
On the heels of this release, the band was again invited to perform at Terrastock in June 2008, this time in Louisville, Kentucky, resulting in one of their most memorable shows, playing alongside such notable psychedelic groups as MV & EE, Robert Schneider's Thee American Revolution, Damon & Naomi, and Kawabata Makoto.
Burke went on to Harvard University, where he earned a Ph.D. and M.D.
Both vary over thousands of years, so the annual variation of the true solar day also varies.
Pine Meadow – present site of Pine Meadows Lake.
The Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery (TMAG) is a museum located in Hobart, Tasmania.
An armistice with Italy was concluded on 3 November 1918 and was to come into effect 36 hours later, during which time thousands of Imperial troops were captured while believing themselves to be at peace, due to poor communication from Army High Command.
RUHLEN, Merritt, 1998b.
The same year, he married Stefanie Tomka von Tomkahaza und Falkusfalva, a Hungarian noblewoman,  with whom he had a daughter.
Anna Kafetsi, Ph.D in Aesthetics- Art History and former curator for 17 years of the 20th century collection at the National Gallery of Athens, was appointed founding director of EMST.
But they did not win a playoff series, losing each time in the Division Series in five games.
References

External links

Elkart Amtrak Station (USA Rail Guide -- Train Web)
Elkhart Station (EKH) Great American Stations (Amtrak)
National New York Central Railroad Museum (Official Site)

Amtrak stations in Indiana
Former New York Central Railroad stations
Railway stations in the United States opened in 1900
Transportation in Elkhart, Indiana
Transportation buildings and structures in Elkhart County, Indiana
Notes 9 and 13 shrutis from each other occur at a ratio of 100:133.33(3:4) and 100:150(2:3) respectively and are mutually samvādi (consonant).
However, individuals did explore the area and made transactions with Tappan tribe for land with the idea that it could have future use.
The Karasuk theory as proposed by van Driem does not address other language families that are hypothesized to belong to Dené–Caucasian, so whether the Karasuk hypothesis is compatible or not with the Macro-Caucasian hypothesis remains to be investigated.
The party's MLAs requested a public inquiry.
All 18 cabinet ministers were re-elected, and the Saskatchewan Party captured 64.2% of the popular vote en route to the third-biggest majority government (in terms of percentage of seats won) in the province's history.
Generally, it is longer than the mean solar day during two periods of the year and shorter during another two.
The predominantly Muslim population supported Muslim League and Pakistan Movement.
Canonised in 1970, John Almond is one of the Forty Martyrs of England and Wales.
On this day, the King's Navy fired its first salute to the flag of the United States of America.
After graduating he attended the University of Wyoming on a college football scholarship, but played baseball after injuries ended his football career.
At that convention, second-term MLA and former Environment Minister Scott Moe was elected leader on the fifth ballot.
In 499 CE, the Indian astronomer Aryabhata suggested that the spherical Earth rotates about its axis daily, and that the apparent movement of the stars is a relative motion caused by the rotation of Earth.
In its first term, the Saskatchewan Party government undertook the largest single-year income tax reduction, debt reduction, and investment in infrastructure in Saskatchewan history, while still maintaining a $1.9 billion cash balance in the Growth and Financial Security Fund.
In Древняя Анатолия [Ancient Anatolia], pp.
Upper Grandview
 Ramapo
 Alexis Station – Hamlet.
China (season 3) (13 July – present)

Awards
2018 ERC Chinese Top Ten Awards (zh)
2018 Global Chinese Golden Chart Awards
2018 Global Chinese Music Awards
2018 Ku Music Asian Music Awards
2018 Migu Music Awards
2018 QQ Music Awards
2018 Top Chinese Music Awards
2018 Music Radio China Top Chart Awards

Groups formed
 Boy Story
 NEX7
 Nine Percent
 Rocket Girls 101
 AKB48 Team SH

Releases

First quarter

January

March

Second quarter

April

May

June

Third quarter

July

August

Fourth Quarter

December

See also 

2018 in China

References

 
2018 in music
They fought many battles including Battle of Mine Run, Grant's Overland Campaign, Battle of the Wilderness, Battle of Spotsylvania Court House, Battle of North Anna, Battle of Cold Harbor and the Siege of Petersburg.
See also 
 1947 Wisconsin earthquake
 List of earthquakes in 1909
 List of earthquakes in the United States

References

1909 earthquakes
1909 Wabash River
1909 Wabash River
1909 in Indiana
1909 in Missouri
1909 natural disasters in the United States
September 1909 events
During his final speech on the scaffold he condemned regicide, discussed the nature of grace and true repentance, and said that he conceded as much authority to James as to any Christian prince.
In 2011, We Are the Infinity of Each Other and Color, Shapes, and Infinity were exhibited in Tokyo.
In 1920 he married Georgina Strickland, who received a PhD in psychology from Columbia University.
It was at this point that the band began producing homemade videos to some of their songs; album lead-off track "Crom" and "Victory Gin" were both set to videos created predominantly by band guitarist Ramon Medina.
He grew up in the borders area but went to Giggleswick School boarding school, and later matriculated at Jesus College, Cambridge where he graduated with a Master of Arts.
The apparent solar time is a measure of Earth's rotation and the difference between it and the mean solar time is known as the equation of time.
At the Council of Aleg Daddah persuaded the Mauritanian Progressive Union, the Entente Mauritanienne, and the black nationalist Bloc Démocratique du Gorgol to merge to form the Mauritanian Regroupment Party.
Frampton has endorsed guaranteed private property rights as a means of improving Canada's environment.
Out of all the  created in the world, sounds that are 'musical'—give an experience or perception of a 'musical' sound—are called Nadas.
Together with his younger brother Ercole Gennari (1597-1658) he was a lifetime associate of Guercino, of which he copied several works.
Wiley,
 1992.
However, this village by the mouth of the Indus river had caught the attention of the British East India Company, who, after sending a couple of exploratory missions to the area, conquered the town on February 3, 1839.
That meant that his composition was unconstrained by considerations of flow and changes of tempo that a real orchestra would have to contend with.
Bochum: Brockmeyer.
Earth rotates once in about 24 hours with respect to the Sun, but once every 23 hours, 56 minutes and 4 seconds with respect to other distant stars (see below).
After he was rejected for an internship at the Walker Art Center, the museum's design director, Andrew Blauvelt, wrote a note suggesting he apply for a job at Urban Outfitters.
With the British–American rock band Wings, he undertook five major tours, with one, the Wings Over the World tour, being worldwide.
Fig.
See also 
 Educational visualization

Publications 
 1989.
However, the death of his father left him the sole support of his mother and sisters and he thereafter pursued the study of law.
Forming part of the broader genre of Arabic literature, contemporary Palestinian literature is often characterized by its heightened sense of irony and the exploration of existential themes and issues of identity.
References

Episodes

Seven Network original programming
1959 Australian television series debuts
1960 Australian television series endings
Black-and-white Australian television shows
English-language television shows
Several have been renamed, some expanded and others disappeared.
Was a founder of the Toronto LETS.
It quickly became, and remains thought of as a cult classic.
The stored ice was placed on inclined railroad cars, transported down the mountainside, placed on barges on the Hudson River and shipped to New York City.
Electoral performance

Party leaders

James Thornsteinson is the party president.
Opposes multiculturalism, and once described Canada's policies on immigration, multiculturalism and employment equity as "genocidal" to Canadians.
However, off-shore islands can provide a base from which operations could be mounted by a hostile power so he concealed Tasmania's insularity.
Coumaric acid is sometimes added to microbiological media, enabling the positive identification of Brettanomyces by smell.
He collaborated with colonial Brazilianist Stuart B. Schwartz in writing Early Spanish America (1983), which is a foundational text for graduate students studying colonial Latin America.
The Social History of Colonial Spanish America: evolution and potential Austin, Texas: University of Texas Institute of Latin American Studies, 1972).
Some databases contain descriptive and numerical data, some to brain function, others offer access to 'raw' imaging data, such as postmortem brain sections or 3D MRI and fMRI images.
A 'TG' label is printed on both sides, with each side's respective song and an Industrial Records catalog number.
Monsey - Hamlet.
He continued private practice in Washington, D.C. from 1867 to 1893.
During the November 7, 2011 general election, the party won a landslide victory, winning 49 of 58 seats – the third largest majority government in Saskatchewan's history.
A Chiang Rai police officer reported that goods in shops were scattered, cracks appeared in buildings, and some provincial roads proved to have "large cracks".
Almost immediately thereafter, on 7 September, Arz was given command of the 6th corps, taking over from Boroević, who had been appointed to command the Third Army.
Though the concept of reusing recordings in other recordings was not new, the Fairlight's design and built-in sequencer simplified the process.
This can be important for predicting flooding.
Out of these, 81/80 operates in the 'region' of 10 notes and was called as 'Pramana', in Sanskrit meaning 'Standard' (region of the note).
Benjamin Harrison – 23rd President of the United States.
The audio is still broadcast live via terrestrial and internet radio networks, while the live video is hosted live on the show's website, and archived episodes are available through YouTube.
"I Hate Myself for Loving You" from 1988 placed highest in the charts.
Nonfiction
The Book of est (1976) is a narrative account of Werner Erhard's controversial LGAT course  personal transformation course known as Erhard Seminar Training or est, which began in 1971.
RUHLEN, Merritt, 2001b.
This land, meant to be only a place of passage to the final heavenly destination, has been settled by undeserving souls turning it into a land full of film noir-inspired crime and corruption, and making the travel of many departed souls more difficult and treacherous.
Thus, the 10 notes give 20 Shrutis, and along with the 2 points of Fundamental frequency (Shadja) and the Perfect 5th (Panchama), a natural system of 22 Shrutis can be observed and played on any string.
It was built in 1882, and is a two-story, Second Empire style red brick dwelling topped by a slate mansard roof.
(unpublished manuscript cited by Mann 1998).
Mail Dog (1947)
Pantry Pirate (1940)
Springtime for Pluto (1944)

Linking clips reused from: A Gentleman's Gentleman (1941), Cold Turkey (1951)

Vol.
Press, 1992).America Latina en la Edad Moderna: una historia de la America Espanola y el Brazil Coloniales (Spanish translation of Early Latin America) Madrid: Akal Ediciones 1992).We People Here: Nahuatl Accounts of the Conquest of Mexico (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993).
(written for the 3rd International Conference on Chinese Linguistics in Hongkong in 1994)
STAROSTIN, Sergei A., 1995.
2000d.
In reality, the 'Eka'-sruthi Rishabham (as a Swaraprakara) has 'Eka'-sruthi Rishabham and 'Dvi'-sruthi Rishabham (as it is two ).
Iona Island, known as Weyant's Island  became famous with the noted Iona grape as well as hundreds of fruit trees and vines.
The 12th annual event was held April 28 at Florida's Miami Arena and broadcast live on the Telemundo network.
She trained in the traditional arts of working with fur, skins, and fabric to create dolls, clothing (including kamiks), and wall-hangings known as akinnamiutak.
Clements, William H. (1998) Towers of Strength: Story of Martello Towers.
A subsequent corruption scandal further weakened the Tories.
Name
!
It features a Mansarded tower above the main entrance.
Karachi's population has continued to grow and is estimated to have exceeded 15 million people.
In Shevoroshkin (1991), pp.
Bochum.
Selected discography 
Immortal Chinese Classics (Worship Guitars, CD, USA, 1995)
Untitled (Alien LP) (September Gurls, LP, Germany, 1997)
Killing You With Rock (September Gurls, CD Germany, 1998)
VA - Succour (Ptolemaic Terrascope, 2X CD, UK, 1995) (Reissued by Flydaddy, USA 1996)
LP4/Kryptasthesie (Mizmaze, 7", Italy, 1999)
VA - Thou Shalt Expand Your Mind (Ptolemaic Terrascope, CD, UK, 1999)
Ashes in the Bong of God (Fleece,CD, USA, 2000)
Ashes in the Bong of God (September Gurls, 2x LP, Germany, 2000)
VA - The Vegetable Man Project (Oggetti Volanti Non Identificati, CD, Italy, 2002)
 (September Gurls, CD, Germany, 2003)
Songs Of The Cretaceous (Shifty Pope, CD, USA, 2005)
All Things Are Light (Camera Obscura, LP, Australia, 2007)
HAWG!!!
There are innumerable 'nadas' in a Saptak (octave).
In 1878, the city was connected to the rest of British India by rail.
The renamed Progressive Conservative Party of Saskatchewan would not return to the legislature again until 1964, when they won only one seat, only to lose it in 1967.
With the course of time(the present system), the Sa swar is relocated to the 1st shruti and whole svar saptak is constructed accordingly.
The first bricks, made for public market, were baked in 1810 on the banks of the Minisceongo, but not until James Wood, of England, set up a brick kiln at Haverstraw, in 1817, was the first successful plant erected.
Arriving at Kolozsvár (today Cluj-Napoca, Romania), where forces were being marshalled to repel an expected Romanian advance into Transylvania, he stated "I am an Army Commander without an Army".
He won a by-election for the Victorian Legislative Council province of North Eastern in 1892, and was briefly a minister without portfolio in June 1902 before his appointment as Vice-President of the Board of Land and Works.
Handed out Freedom Party paraphernalia at a "Straight Pride" parade organized by 'far-right' figures in 2000 (the event was organized as a hostile response to Gay Pride parades).
Sensitive objects and places have been removed from maps since historic times, sometimes as a disinformation tactic in times of war, and also to serve competitive political and economic interests, such as during the Age of Discovery when strategic geographic information was highly sought after.
Ran for Turmel's Abolitionist Party of Canada in the 1993 federal election in the riding of Don Valley North, and finished last in a field of six candidates with 76 votes.
by H. I. Aronson, pp.
Mills, both saw and grist, were among the first industries of the county.
Between the 17th and 19th century, the system of bastions protected the city from pirate attacks.
Public building projects such as Frere Hall (1865) and the Empress Market (1890) were undertaken.
In 1995, took place in a "counter-demonstration", supporting cuts to public funding by Mike Harris's government.
MusicRadar cited the Zero-G Datafiles sample libraries as a major influence on dance music in the early 90s, becoming the "de facto source of breakbeats, bass and vocal samples".
Climate

Economy

References

External links
 [ Philippine Standard Geographic Code]
 Philippine Census Information
 Local Governance Performance Management System

Municipalities of Eastern Samar
SHEVOROSHKIN, Vitaliy V., 1999 "Nostratic and Sino-Caucasian: two ancient language phyla."
This connection with nature helped Stuart find peace when her older sister, who had acted as a surrogate mother for her, died.
"Mountain of Tongues: The languages of the Caucasus."
In 2003 the band released their final offering on the September Gurls label: , a massive slab of psych-rock showing the full range of the band's abilities, including MC5-esque garage rock, a psychedelic depiction of airplanes falling out of the sky, songs about bongs, a song about eating Mexican food with Satan, and a lush psych-rock cover of Kraftwerk's "Hall of Mirrors".
After standing up in Parliament for the local mining industry he opted out of defending his seat, and could not find election elsewhere; he then became a political journalist.
3: Here's Goofy!
Other users of the Fairlight included Kate Bush, Peter Gabriel, Thomas Dolby, Duran Duran, Herbie Hancock, Todd Rundgren, Icehouse and Ebn Ozn.
There is both a theological depth and poetic expression that some say is rare in today’s worship writing".
Lives in St. Thomas.
The 2nd line shows the synonyms and the 7 notes as bold and underlined.
Die Na-Dene-Sprachen im Lichte der Greenberg-Klassifikation [The Na-Dene languages in the light of the Greenberg classification].
He was educated in Brisbane and became an engineer, working around North Queensland and the Northern Territory.
Born of the same musical cauldron that birthed such renowned Texas Psych favorites as The Mike Gunn, Dry Nod, and Schlong Weasel, bands which also included later members of Charalambides and Dunlavy, the LP4 got off the ground when guitarist Ramon Medina and bassist Stephen Finley recruited drummer Larry Liska and singer/guitarist Clinton Heider and the quartet began writing and recording songs for their first album, Immortal Chinese Classics Music, released in 1995 on their own Worship Guitars label.
While Egyptian literature is that written in Egypt, Jordanian literature is that written in Jordan etc., and up until the 1948 Arab–Israeli war, Palestinian literature was also territory-bound, since the 1948 Palestinian exodus it has become "a literature written by Palestinians" irrespective of their place of residence.
Kansas City, Missouri, 1895.
Captain Frederick S. Inglefield, 15 October 1902  – February, 1904.
Naked Before the World: A Lovely Pornographic Love Story (2008).
Charlotte Moth, including a text by Oliver Beer, Editions Cercle d'Art
 2013 Expérienz, Art Même No.
He graduated in 2009 from the Ruskin School of Drawing and Fine Art, University of Oxford, England and in 2007 from the Academy of Contemporary Music in England.
The History of Basque, Routledge, London.
Stevie Wonder's 1979 album Journey Through the Secret Life of Plants may have been the first album to make extensive use of samples.
After the release, Dean Lewis talked about his collaboration, saying:

Garrix felt it was amazing to make the song with Lewis, who he considers as "a good friend and an exciting talent".
by Jürgen Trabant and Sean Ward, Berlin, Mouton de Gruyter, 197–214.
Finished sixth in a field of six candidates.
13: Donald's Scary Tales
Donald Duck and the Gorilla (1944)
Duck Pimples (1945)
Donald's Lucky Day (1939)

Linking clips reused from: Mickey's Parrot (1938), Donald's Off Day (1944), The Plastics Inventor (1944)

Vol.
Provinces of Early Mexico: Variants of Spanish American Regional Evolution (ed., with Ida Altman).
As a consequence, the demographics of the city also changed drastically.
Many of the compounds that cause wine faults are already naturally present in wine but at insufficient concentrations to adversely affect it.
Origin 

Earth's original rotation was a vestige of the original angular momentum of the cloud of dust, rocks, and gas that coalesced to form the Solar System.
He is buried at Rockland Cemetery at Sparkill.
Their song "Pallo Latake" from the album of the same name was featured in the Star Plus soap Diya Aur Baati Hum and the song "Mhari Bahu Ae" was featured in Colors soap Balika Vadhu.
Pages 157–176 in: C. Renfrew & D. Nettle (eds.
Gained local notoriety in the 1999 provincial election by making two bleating noises during a Rotary meeting.
McConnell understood that the game's atmosphere brought together a noir story that was familiar to the Anglo-American audience, with a Latin culture that may have been less familiar.
1994: Chamblee High was named a National School of Excellence.
CATFORD, J. C., 1977.
Catholic vocation

At the age of 21,  Stuart converted to Roman Catholicism on 6 March 1879.
You think, 'Wow, this is something really different.'
Daiwa Art Prize 2015 solo exhibition November–December 2015
 ASAKUSA HOUSE, Tokyo, Deconstructing Sound, Daiwa Art Prize 2015 solo exhibition November–December 2015
 WATERMILL CENTER, New York, Making Tristan, Watermill Center artist in residence September 2015
 KILIC ALI PASA HAMAM, Istanbul, Call to Sound, Galerie Thaddaeus Ropac / Istanbul Biennale September 2015
 DAIWA ART PRIZE 2015, London, Daiwa Foundation Art Prize Exhibition, 12 June – 17 July 2015

2014
 Diabolus in Musica, Galerie Thaddaeus Ropac, (Septembre 2014)
 Rabbit Hole, Oliver Beer, MAC Lyon, (6 Juin - 17 Août 2014) 
 Prospectif Cinéma - Oliver Beer, Pompidou Centre, Paris (22 May 2014)
 Sunday Sessions, MoMA PS1, New York, (6 April 2014)

2013
 Composition for Hearing an Architectural space, Galerie Thaddaeus Ropac, Pantin
 Oliver Beer, Villa Arson, Nice
 Outside-In, Ikon Gallery, Birmingham (permanent installation)
 Out of Shot, Silencio, Paris

2012
 Klang, Palais de Tokyo, Paris

2011
 Pay and Display, Ikon Gallery, Birmingham, UK

2010
 Deep and Meaningful, MurmurART, 20 Hoxton Square, London
 Training, Ikon Gallery, Birmingham (Tower Room)

2009
 Die Budgie History, Dolphin Gallery, Oxford

2008
 The Resonance Project, Abbazia di Farfa, Rome, Italy

2007
 Oliver Beer, La Viande Gallery, London

Public collections 

 Centre national des arts plastiques, France
 FRAC (Fond Régional d'Art Contemporain), Île-de-France, France 
 FRAC, Midi-Pyrénées, Les Abattoirs, Toulouse
 Musée d'art contemporain, Lyon, France
 Musée National d'Art Moderne, Centre Pompidou, Paris
 MACVAL, Ivry-sur-Seine
 Nouveau Musée National de Monaco,
 Museum of Old and New Art (MONA), Australie
 Fondation Louis Vuitton, Paris
 National Museum of Art, Osaka, Japon
 Museum Voorlinden, Wassenaar, Royaume des Pays-Bas
 IKON Gallery, Birmingham, Royaume-Uni
 Zabludowicz 176 Collection, London, Royaume-Uni
 Kramlich Collection, San Francisco, Etats-Unis d'Amérique

Bibliography 

 2014 Rabbit Hall, Oliver Beer, co-edited by Mac Lyon and Galerie Thaddaeus Ropac, texts by Thierry Raspail, Jonathan Wattkins, Rebecca Lamarche-Vadel, Isabelle Bertolotti and Matthieu Lelièvre.
A very clubbable man, he attracted interest in the 1990s as a rare survivor of the pre-Second World War Parliament.
(Going Quackers) (1984)
Bum, Bum, Bumerang (Boom, Boom, Boomerang) (1984)Donald Duck in die Größte Show der Welt (Donald Duck in the Biggest Show in the World) (1984)Donald Duck Geht Nach Wildwest (Donald Duck Goes West) (1984)Donald 50 Verrückte Jahre (Donald: 50 Crazy Years) (1984)Donald Macht nie Pause (Donald Never Pauses) (1984)Donald Duck's Ferienabenteur (Donald Duck's Vacation Adventures) (1984)Donald Superstar and Co. (1984)Donald Total Verliebt (Donald's Totally in Love) (1984)Plutos Tollkühne Abenteur (Pluto's Daredevil Adventure) (1984)Donald und die Entenbande (Donald and the Ducks)   (1985)Die Drei Kleinen Schweinchen und der Böse Wolf (The Three Little Pigs and the Big Bad Wolf) (1985)Lachkonzert in Entenhausen (1985)Donald Ich bin der Grösste (1985)Frohe Weihnachten mit MickyMaus und ihren Freunden (1985)Goofys Lustige Sportschau (1985)Micky's Lustige Abenteuer (1985)Pluto Held Wider Willen (1985)Walt Disneys Musikhitparade (1985)Melodie Tanz Rhythmus (Melody Time) (1987)Mickey, Donald und Goofy im Märchenland (1987)Mit Mir Nicht (1987)Die Popcornschlacht (1987)Verrückte Musikanten (1987)Donald Präsentiert (Donald Presents) (1990)Micky Präsentiert (Mickey Presents) (1990)Pluto Präsentiert (Pluto Presents) (1990)Micky und Company (Mickey and Company) (1991)Goofys Lustige Olympiade (1992)Meister-Cartoons von Walt Disney (1993)Happy Birthday, Pluto!
Set in the Mexican folklore's Land of the Dead and with a strong film noir twist, the story follows Department of Death's travel agent Manny Calavera who acts as a guide for recently departed souls as they travel through the Land of the Dead on their way to their final destinations.
Out of the remaining 2 ratios, the bigger (256/243) was called as Poorna (in Sanskrit meaning 'big'), and the smaller (25/24) was called as 'Nyuna' (in Sanskrit meaning 'small').
Cartographic censorship is the  deliberate modification of publicly available maps in order to disguise, remove, or obfuscate potentially strategic locations or buildings, such as military bases, power plants or transmitters.
The presence of future Prime Minister John Diefenbaker, who represented a Saskatchewan riding for his entire career, was not enough to reverse this trend.
It is located  north-northwest of New York City, and is part of the New York Metropolitan Area.
Captain Tynte F. Hammill, January, 1890 - April, 1892.
Listening Machines - An annual student concert series.
Rob Cowles, a marketer at LucasArts was credited for saving the assets while LucasArts was being acquired by Disney in 2012.
In the 1997 federal election, campaigned again in Victoria—Haliburton as a candidate of Paul Hellyer's Canadian Action Party, and finished last in a field of five candidates with 504 votes; O'Reilly again won the riding.
The sitting MP Arthur Bateman had stepped down although at one stage considered standing for neighbouring Peckham as an Independent candidate.
Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 95: 13994–96.
Shortly afterwards, Cockcroft was encouraged by his course Director to take an early sabbatical from his teaching duties.
Hannah Amit-Kochavi recognizes only two branches: that written by Palestinians from inside the State of Israel as distinct from that written outside.
In A Rift in Time author  Raja Shehadeh explored the relationship between the decline of the Ottoman Empire, British colonialism and Palestinian self-identity in a novel about his great-uncle Najib Nassar.
Because of that, engineers worldwide are discussing a 'negative leap second' and other possible timekeeping measures.
It has been suggested that the Natufian culture might have spoken a proto-Afroasian language just prior to its disintegration into sub-languages.
In her view, the name should be translated as 'Well-fixed, Staying-firm', formed with a prefix *h₂ndʰi- (or *h₁ndo-) attached to a participle *-h₂-rtó ('fixed, composed, built'; cf.
The plenary session of the regional, regional committee, and the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Union Republic is convened at least once every four months.
The winner was Gerard Kennedy of the Ontario Liberal Party.
What If My Dog Had Thumbs?
Seven hundred people came to the opening.
1201) and Qushji (b.
The Smart Money Woman is a Nigerian TVseries based on a 2016 novel of the same name by Arese Ugwu.
The painting St. John the Evangelist Preaches to his Disciples is in the church of San Filippo Neri.
He was born in Toowoomba to Dr Frederick Sachse and a Miss Glisson.
His first was The Paul McCartney World Tour (1989–90) and his most recent being the 2018–20 Freshen Up tour.
Has supported the Freedom Party since 1986.
"Music in 1s and 0s: The Art and Politics of Digital Sampling."
Mobilisation division
Responsibilities included:

War division
Responsibilities included:

Foreign division
Responsibilities included:

Trade division
Responsibilities included:

Coastal defences division
Responsibilities included:

See also
 Naval Intelligence Division

References

Sources

External links
30 Commando Assault Unit - Ian Fleming's 'Red Indians'

Royal Navy
Abhinavagupta describes an experiment to obtain the correct physical configuration of shruti in shadja grama, Sarana Chatushtai.
Arz however undertook the position de facto until Field Marshal Kövess could take up his office.
Captain William L. Grant, June, 1908 – December, 1909.
In February 2006, the party released a code of ethics document for its members.
In 1953 he married for the first time, Jean Bennett; they had two daughters.
Gates was born in Red Wing, Minnesota to William P. and Lenore Gaylord (who had a son from an earlier marriage).
Finally, for ocean-related music, McConnell read scores of several Debussy works.
All reconstructions of Proto-Sino-Tibetan suffer from the facts that many languages of the huge Sino-Tibetan family are underresearched and that the shape of the Sino-Tibetan tree is poorly known and partly controversial.
Ed.
The Book of est (1976).
The Telugu term "Shruti chesuko (శ్రుతి చేసుకో)" is a way to correspond with the accompanying artists to tune their instruments.
The At The Gates song, "World of Lies", quotes The Dice Man during its spoken word lyrics.
On 27 August 1911, she was elected as the sixth Superior General of the Society of the Sacred Heart.
For this project, McConnell listened to Ellington's opus copiously.
Nortorf: Völkerkundliche Arbeitsgemeinschaft.
Grey and red sandstones were quarried in great quantities, Building stone from local quarries went into the old Capitol at Albany, Fort Lafayette and the old Trinity Church in New York destroyed in the Great Fire of New York (1776), and the first building at Rutgers College.
Dhumbadji!
The first "Special Edition" was released on November 15, 1988.
It included the original score from the LucasArts archives, new compositions by Peter McConnell and new orchestral arrangements, as well as new extended versions of jazz pieces re-mixed at Sony Computer Entertainment America.
In May 2015, the band released the single "Planck", a song co-written with band associate Brandon R. Brown, based on his contemporaneously published book Driven By Vision, Broken By War about German physicist Max Planck, as a teaser for their next full-length release.
In 2003, he became the first American to be named the top-ranked fencer internationally.
The party also planned to run Gordon Mood in Algoma—Manitoulin, but he did not appear on the ballot.
Includes Grim Fandangos main theme song, among music from other computer games.
He studied literature at the University of Sussex.
Education
Martin was the son of Angus Martin, a surgeon from Forest Hall in Northumberland; his mother Robina was from Wooler.
Instead a compromise suggested by the Emperor was adopted, with their forces divided and sent to attack Italian positions on the front from two different directions.
(A) The New Jersey & New York Railroad – 1875
(B) New City Branch NJ&NY Railroad
(C) Erie Railroad Piermont Branch −1870
(D) Northern Railroad of NJ – 1859
(E) New York, West Shore & Buffalo Railroad −1883
(F) Main Line
(G) Sterlington Mountain Railway – May 18, 1864.
This CD was an absolute pleasure to listen to and comes highly recommended."
Multiplying the value in rad/s by Earth's equatorial radius of  (WGS84 ellipsoid) (factors of 2π radians needed by both cancel) yields an equatorial speed of .
He still books the Show.
There are low-lying agricultural plains in the west.
2001: Chamblee High became a charter school.
Perry graduated from the Minneapolis College of Art and Design in 2003 after changing his major from Art to Graphic Design.
Hangings in Rockland County
There are three recorded hangings in Rockland County.
He developed the jazz score to be most recognizable, taking the culturally specific part (the Latin jazz and the Latin folk music) and weaving it into the score ("taking it for granted rather than pointing it up") with the goal of naturally leading the audience from their comfort zone and then make an "unfamiliar world more familiar."
Time and place had an important influence as well; McConnell was drawn to and inspired by the vibrant and diverse culture (musical and otherwise) of the San Francisco Mission District, which he called the "crown jewel" of the city that included rock clubs, jazz clubs, taquerias with mariachis bands, and Mexican folklore.
He lost the seat at the 1931 general election, and did not stand again.
Mangshi has the most Lashi speakers, who are distributed in the following townships.
Regional, regional committees, and the Central Committee of the Communist Parties of the Union Republics elect bureaus, including committee secretaries.
In music, sampling is the reuse of a portion (or sample) of a sound recording in another recording.
In the 2006 municipal election, he ran as a candidate for the city council of the City of Kawartha Lakes in Ward 8 on a platform proposing de-amalgamation of that city.
LegacyGrim Fandangos soundtrack is considered a classic, receiving critical acclaim in its original release of 1998, and remaining a critics' favorite in ensuing years, including 17 years later in its remastered re-release in 2015.
Karasuk

George van Driem has proposed that the Yeniseian languages are the closest known relatives of Burushaski, based on a small number of similarities in grammar and lexicon.
Its 84th percentile ranking is superior to Walton (73rd percentile) and other suburban counterparts.
In both the gramas, Ri is three shrutis away from Sa – there are three perceptible intervals between Sa and Ri.
The winner was Caroline Di Cocco of the Ontario Liberal Party.
He undertook a lecture tour of Germany in 1929.
Tuck operates taxtyranny.ca, and other related web-sites.
This bridge is the only hand-cranked drawbridge in Rockland County and perhaps in the United States.
In a first for Saskatchewan politics, Heppner's daughter – Nancy Heppner – won the seat in both the by-election and the 2007 general election.
External links
Lacid language site

Burmish languages
Languages of Myanmar
Grassey Point – Renamed North Haverstraw on August 21, 1834.
For example, a preverb /t/- occurs in Yeniseian languages and appears in position −3 (Ket) or −4 (Kott) in the verb template (where the verb stem is in position 0, suffix positions get positive numbers, and prefix positions negative numbers).
However, the sampling function became its most popular feature.
12: Nuts About Chip 'n' Dale
Trailer Horn (1950)
Food for Feudin (1950)
Two Chips and a Miss (1952)

Linking clips reused from: Mickey's Amateurs (1937),

Vol.
As viewed from the north pole star Polaris, Earth turns counterclockwise.
West Haverstraw, once known as Samsondale, was where a large rolling mill was started in 1830;

Ramapo built its early reputation in the iron industry.
Their ‘Lower’ and ‘Higher’ Shruti versions are shown respectively marked as ‘L’ and ‘H’ in Italics.
He ran in Prince Edward—Hastings as an Independent Reform candidate in the 1999 provincial election, the only such candidate in the province.
The orchestral part was digitally created, as the team did not consider doing live orchestra because at the time "games didn’t occupy a place in the culture that could obtain that level of production."
The soundtrack is also notable for being one of the best examples of early adaptive music systems.
Matari (1975).
She was unexceptional with paint.
Bas Balkissoon won the riding for the Liberal Party.
Previously, he served as the Chief of Staff of the United States Cyber Command.
Had 500 votes in Regina Wascana Plains gone to the Saskatchewan Party, it would have resulted in a hung parliament; both the NDP and Saskatchewan Party would have had 29 seats apiece.
The foundations of a city municipal government were laid down and infrastructure development was undertaken.
He was raised in Albany, where his father was an electrical engineer, and his ancestry included Vermont political notables.
Their grandfather lent them capital to purchase plastic injection molding machines and hire five employees.
(Abhandlungen, Heft 62)
PINNOW, Heinz-Jürgen (1986a).
Chamblee was a charter school until 2021 and accepts students from all of Dekalb County as well as from its local district.
Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz.
Of the twenty two shruti, veena scholars identified the 4th shruti to be sa solfege, 7th to be re, 9th as ga, 13th as ma, 17th as pa, 20th to be dha and 22nd as ni shuddha swara.
References

External links
 Rockland History from its official website
 
 Rockland Review weekly newspaper
 Rockland County Times Official RC Newspaper since 1888

 
1798 establishments in New York (state)

ar:مقاطعة روكلاند، نيويورك
bg:Рокланд (окръг, Ню Йорк)
cs:Rockland County
de:Rockland County
es:Condado de Rockland
fr:Comté de Rockland
bpy:রকল্যান্ড কাউন্টি, নিউ ইয়র্ক
it:Contea di Rockland
la:Rockland Comitatus
nl:Rockland County
ja:ロックランド郡 (ニューヨーク州)
no:Rockland County
nds:Rockland County
pl:Hrabstwo Rockland
pt:Condado de Rockland
ru:Рокленд (округ, Нью-Йорк)
fi:Rocklandin piirikunta
sv:Rockland County
vi:Quận Rockland, New York
yi:ראקלענד קאונטי
zh:羅克蘭縣 (紐約州)
Captain Michael Culme-Seymour, 20 March 1908 – 11 October 1909.
Those like Gilbert who did not openly support or reject the motion of Earth about the Sun are called "semi-Copernicans".
These can be further grouped into two gramas—shadja-grama and madhyama-grama.
Has been a member of the Freedom Party since at least 1995.
Other video game music awards, such as from BAFTA or the Game Audio Network Guild, began to be awarded in the 2000s, and therefore Grim Fandangos soundtrack at the time of its release could not opt to compete for them.
Sandyfield – was submerged when swampy Beaver Pond was dammed to create Lake Welch by the Palisades Interstate Park Commission.
Although the endonym Lashi is often used by Western researchers, the people refer to themselves and their language as Lacid.
Dené–Caucasian is a proposed language family that includes widely-separated language groups spoken in the Northern Hemisphere: Sino-Tibetan languages, Yeniseian languages, Burushaski and North Caucasian languages in Asia; Na-Dené languages in North America; and the Vasconic languages from Europe (including Basque).
In the individual Olympic men's sabre competition, he placed 30th in the 2000 Olympic Games, 15th in 2004, 4th in the team event, 6th in 2008, and he won the silver medal in the team event.
Lockhart was honored by the Conference on Latin American History Distinguished Service Award in 2004.
It was last renovated in 2014, using $58 million in federal stimulus bonds as well as $11 million already set aside by the special-purpose local-option sales tax.
(monograph)
The Campaign of Koniggratz Leavenworth, Kansas, 1889.
At that same election, the Liberals rebounded to 11 seats and Official Opposition.
The Saskatchewan Tories spent the next four decades on the margins of provincial politics.
Charts
List of Billboard China V Chart number-one videos of 2018
List of Global Chinese Pop Chart number-one songs of 2018

Music shows
Singer 2018 (January 12 – April 20)
Idol Producer (January 19 – April 6)
Produce 101 (April 21 – June 23)
Sing!
The series premiered on Africa Magic Showcase in September 2020.
The winner was Mario Racco of the Ontario Liberal Party.
Prince Louis of Battenberg, June, 1899 – May, 1901.
To calculate the frequency of Shrutis, for every horizontal arrow, 50% is added; and for every vertical arrow, 25% is added.
McConnell used the limited MIDI composition palette of the time, a couple of EMU E4 samplers (with 128 MB of RAM each), a Roland GMIDI Sound Canvas, and one or two other sound modules.
Union Pacific Railroad president E. H. Harriman, though, donated land and large sums of money for the purchase of properties in the area of Bear Mountain.
Europe

In the Age of Discovery there was a premium on geographic information: ports of call for wood and fresh water, deep natural harbours, shorter passages and straits.
Educational Programs
Within the framework of the educational policy of EMST educational programs for school groups and families, children workshops, tours for adults, and educators' seminars are realized, aiming at contributing to the discovery of and familiarization with contemporary art, Greek and international, of all age audiences.
The sole exception is The Big Wash, which made its VHS debut on Fun on the Job.
Woodburn – Hamlet.
His main source for the people and processes of this early period were notarial documents, often property transfers and other types of legal agreements, which gave insight into the formation and function of Spanish colonial society.
1996.
Reported Ghost, Local legends claim that this residence is the dwelling place of the "Studebaker Ghost".
Véronique Cheynier, Rémi Schneider, Jean-Michel Salmon and Hélène Fulcrand, 

 External links 
 Wine Chemistry and Biochemistry, by M. Victoria Moreno-Arribas, Carmen Polo and María Carmen Polo, on Google books
 Mass Spectrometry in Grape and Wine Chemistry, by Riccardo Flamini and Pietro Traldi, on Google books
 Antoine de Saporta La Chimie des vins : les vins naturels, les vins manipulés et falsifiés'' (1889).
She also visited convents from Europe to Egypt, Australia, Japan, Canada, and the United States.
During the following months, both artists were busy creating new music in Garrix's studio based in Amsterdam.
For Copernicus this was the first step in establishing the simpler pattern of planets circling a central Sun.
"Some features of Dene–Caucasian phonology (with special reference to Basque)."
The period from 1992 to 1994 is regarded as the bloody period in the history of the city, when the Army commenced its Operation Clean-up against the Mohajir Qaumi Movement.
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Biography
Judith was born into a middle-class family in Cincinnati, Ohio in May 1, 1943 along with her fraternal twin sister Joyce.
In the process, they won 25 seats, five short of victory, and reduced the NDP to a minority government.
9: Starring Chip 'n' Dale
Working for Peanuts (1953)
Donald Applecore (1952)
Dragon Around (1954)

Linking clips reused from: This Is Your Life, Donald Duck (1960)

Vol.
From 1974 he worked at the Birmingham-Southern College as Assistant Professor of Mathematics for a year, Associate Professor of Mathematics for four years and as Associate Professor of Computer Science from 1979 to 1982.
By 1834, the company owned a dozen steamboats, 75 ice barges and employed about 3,000 to ship ice countrywide.
References

Agrarian parties in Costa Rica
Labour parties
Political parties in Costa Rica
Political parties with year of establishment missing
However, when the concentration of these compounds greatly exceeds the sensory threshold, they replace or obscure the flavors and aromas that the wine should be expressing (or that the winemaker wants the wine to express).
Today, most samples are recorded and edited using digital audio workstations such as Pro Tools and Ableton Live.
Howe's two years in New York proved highly unsuccessful.
Anthropological Linguistics 46(3).229–302.
The Congregation of the Sons of Jacob, 37 Clove Avenue in the Village of Haverstraw begun in 1877 is the oldest Jewish congregation in Rockland County.
Perry noted that his inspiration for the project, run by volunteers, came from the fact that "he doesn’t see a lot of support or room for work like his in the galleries and institutions of today’s art world"; Perry "connected that attitude to an absence of more zine, print, and t-shirt shops — alternative spaces, essentially, that function so often as both communal and artistic (and commercial) loci."
As Shadja is placed on the 4th shruti in this group, this means that Chandovati is the name for the shruti of Shadja.
Conversely, near an equinox the projection onto the equator is shorter by about .
Kotaku noted in 2011 that "it remains as killer today as it was when the game launched in 1998."
The first Mass was celebrated on November 14, 1847.
Conversely, it is about  shorter near aphelion.
Subgenres of contemporary literature include contemporary romance.
Ket verb morphology and its parallels with Athabaskan–Eyak–Tlingit: evidence of a genetic link.
Art gallery

Historic paintings
The following artists studied at the Hudson River School:
 Jasper Francis Cropsey (February 18, 1823 – April 23, 1900)

Books and publications

 Anderson, Jane McDill., Rocklandia: A collection of facts and fancies, legends and ghost stories of Rockland County life 1977
 Baracks, Clarence., Growing up in New City, New York in the early 1920s
 Bedell, Cornelia F., (Compiled and privately printed) Now and then and long ago in Rockland County Copyright 1968, Historical Society of Rockland County.
The cause of this variability has not yet been determined.
The museum is developing its permanent collections through purchasing works of art as well as soliciting donations.
The first railroad line across Rockland County was built in 1841 and ran from Piermont to Ramapo.
Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz

Further reading
Nikolayev, Sergei.
Clarkstown, New York: Clarkstown Bicentennial Commission, 1991.
However, at the 1924 general election, he switched to contest Newcastle-upon-Tyne East, winning the constituency.
2011: Senior and Sophomore halls were torn down for the rebuilding of the new school.
The year 2000 was an active year for the Linus Pauling Quartet: they were invited to Seattle, Washington, to play at the fourth Terrastock psychedelic music festival alongside such musical luminaries as Bardo Pond, Moe Tucker, and Ghost; and they released Ashes in the Bong of God, a "concept album" related to their ongoing saga of the "bongs of power", alien "bug people," and "the Great Singularity," issued on double vinyl in Europe through the September Gurls label and on CD in the United States through the Fleece label.
He also spotted similarities with Martin Garrix previous songs, such as "No Sleep" or "There for You", but noted that "Used to Love" showed off "a more mellow side to his sound, rather than the firework-inducing main stage bangers most people know him for".
Ray Monteith (Elgin—Middlesex—London)
Perennial candidate.
He appeared in a 1994 documentary on "Westminster at War" which interviewed the survivors of the era about what political life was like.
The human ear takes about '20–45 msec' to identify a note within the range of the human voice—from 100 to 1000 Hz.
Lost in the Discovery of What Shapes the Mind, 2010, covering 2,800-square-feet, was the first solo alumnus show at the Minneapolis College of Art and Design.
Erhard authored a foreword to the book.
Its purpose, according to Engel, was to exaggerate the length and difficulty of the Northeast Passage along the arctic coast, in the hope of discouraging rival European merchants from attempting this route to the Pacific and China.
Promoted to Hauptmann and assigned to a corps staff, Arz was made Adjutant to Feldzeugmeister Baron Schönfelda before returning to the General Staff in 1898, where he was to remain, with a few breaks, until 1908.
In 1990, the bastion was conditioned to become a museum, which opened in 1991 and remained and has remained as such since then, being called now Museo Baluarte de Santiago.
Vertical arrow indicates an Interval ratio of 100:125.
In June of 1664, the Berkeley-Carteret land grant established the colony of New Jersey, dividing present-day Rockland and Bergen Counties into separate political areas.
McConnell praised MSO, for their outstanding level of musicianship and focus and care; how they worked well together and reinforced yet again his notion from his early days in LucasArts that having a great team was of the highest value.
The main party's founders were Giovanni Antonio Colonna di Cesarò, Arturo Labriola and Ettore Sacchi.
Transcription of Ancient Egyptian follows Allen (2000); see Transliteration of Ancient Egyptian.
The name Karachee was used for the first time in a Dutch document from 1742, in which a merchant ship de Ridderkerk is shipwrecked near the original settlement.
Volumes 13 and 14 were released on October 19, 1990.
Beyond the Codices: The Nahua View of Colonial Mexico (with Arthur J. O. Anderson and Frances Berdan, Berkeley: Univ.
Sir John Eardley-Wilmot, 1st Baronet, during his period was Lt.
Rula Jebreal's novel Miral tells the story of Hind Husseini's effort to establish an orphanage in Jerusalem after the 1948 Arab–Israeli War, the Deir Yassin Massacre, and the establishment of the state of Israel.
Its capital is the town of Arta.
While most Tory supporters and members joined the new party, the Progressive Conservative Party was not disbanded.
He has also featured on Songs of Praise and worked alongside other high-profile Christian musicians including Keith Getty, Lou Fellingham and Phatfish.
To calculate the 'position' of  P on the string, we can use the law of Galileo Galilei, called in India as ‘Dviguna’ relationship, which states that the frequency ratio is 'inversely' proportional to the length of the string.
Over a year was spent building sets, crafting a stop motion Cthulhu from scratch, as well as shooting stop motion sequences and live actors.
After obtaining his PhD, he went into teaching.
The main rivers are the Acheloos in the east, the Arachthos in the centre, and the Louros in the west.
The Saskatchewan Party attracted fewer defections from the provincial Liberals, who continue to contest elections.
Captain Arthur Barrow, May, 1892 – March, 1895.
The main genres of album include romance, devotional, fun & joy, wedding, dance,  celebration etc.
The men's mass start race of the 2015–16 ISU Speed Skating World Cup 3, arranged in Eisstadion Inzell, in Inzell, Germany, was held on 6 December 2015.
He defended the makers of Bell Magicc Bullet (a sexual enhancement drug) in 2003, after Health Canada ruled that the drug contains an active ingredient in Viagra and should be pulled from the market.
Russia

In 1765, the Swiss geographer Samuel Engel, accused the Russian government of deliberately falsifying maps by extending Siberia 30° eastward.
Ebileeni suggest a polylingual branch that entails works by Palestinian authors - or authors of Palestinian descent - written in English as well as Italian, Spanish, Danish, Hebrew and several other languages.
In Burushaski, the number of suffixes can surpass the rather large number of prefixes.)
SEMO said "the compositions and performances are so good that listening to this album on a stand-alone basis can make people feel like they're in a bar back then".
The school became the first in DeKalb County to be accredited by the Southern Association of Colleges and Schools.
Captain Richard W. White, April, 1895 - October 1897
 Captain Arthur Barrow, November, 1897 – 28 June 1899 
 Captain H.S.H.
In the mid 1970s they returned to the United States and spent 1975 in a sufi commune, before moving to a large old farmhouse and former religious retreat in the foothills of the Berkshires in upstate New York.
In medieval Europe, Thomas Aquinas accepted Aristotle's view and so, reluctantly, did John Buridan and Nicole Oresme in the fourteenth century.
Collections
Pivotal aspect of the EMST’s artistic policy is the enhancement and enrichment of its permanent collections with works from Greek and international artists.
Some have linked Blair to Paul Fromm, Raphael Bergmann and other far-right figures, although there is no evidence to suggest that Blair actually endorses Fromm's opinions.
It is used by musicians in several contexts.
Captain Harry Jones, January, 1906 – 8 May 1907.
Other historical figures who came to Rockland County
 Comte de Rochambeau – A French aristocrat, soldier, and a Marshal of France who participated in the American Revolutionary War.
McConnell noted that if he were to start from scratch he would have taken the exact same approach, with the exception of the "crazy tempo" changes that he had never thought a real orchestra would have to perform; some parts were originally played live into a sequencer without regard for bar lines and retrospectively he would have taken a different approach.
During the Spanish–American War, Wagner served as a staff officer to Gen. Henry Lawton from June to July 1898 and Gen. Nelson A.
El mundo hispanoperuano, 1532-1560.
Selected work

Bibliography 

 Hand Job: A Catalog of Hand-Drawn Type, Princeton Architectural Press, 2007, 
 Over & Over: A Catalog of Hand-Drawn Patterns, Princeton Architectural Press, 2008, 
 Iron Me On, Chronicle Books, 2009
 Pulled: A Catalog of Screen Printing, Princeton Architectural Press, 2011, 
 I Heart Everything, Chronicle Books, 2011
 Wondering Around Wandering: Work-So-Far, Rizzolli NY, 2012, 
 A Coloring Book by Mike Perry and YOU, Chronicle Books, 2012
 Type: Wall Decals by Mike Perry: 200 Peel-and-Stick Letters, Chronicle Books, 2012
 Unlimited Editions, Chronicle Books, 2012
 My Mother Caught Me Doodling, Mike Perry Studio, 2015
 Curios, Blurb, 2016
 The Broad City Coloring Book, Laurence King Publishing, 2017, 
 Stoned Marker in Houston W/⁠ Chris, Melville Brand Design, 2018
 Z GOES FIRST: An Alphabet Story Z-to-A, illustrator, Sean Lamb, author, Imprint, 2018 
 Astro Baby, illustrator, Michelle Tea, author, Dottir Press, 2019, 
 What If My Dog Had Thumbs?, Dottir Press, 2019,

Animation 
 Behind Broad City - Animating the Mushrooms Episode, Comedy Central
 Ringo Starr, Jimmy Fallon & The Roots Sing Yellow Submarine (Classroom Instruments)

Magazines 
 Tidal Magazine, Design Director

Film 
 Bill Stumpf's Comfort Criteria, Herman Miller]

References

External links 
 Mike Perry Studio Instagram
 Mike Perry Studio videos
 Mike Perry IMDB
 Abbi Jacobson in Conversation with Mike Perry

1981 births
American animators
American male artists
American contemporary painters
21st-century American painters
American art curators
American children's book illustrators
American cartoonists
Minneapolis College of Art and Design alumni
Artists from New York (state)
Artists from Missouri
Living people
Cathy McKeever (Durham)
Joined the Reform Party of Canada in 1990, claims the Freedom Party of Ontario has similar goals.
It can therefore not be excluded that some or all of the noun morphology presented here was present in Proto-Dené–Caucasian and lost in Sino-Tibetan, Yeniseian and Na-Dené; in this case it cannot be considered evidence for the Macro-Caucasian hypothesis.
Both centers will be developed with the support of the Ministry of Culture and the funding programs “Culture” and “Information Society” of the European Union.
He had drawn up plans for an orderly troop withdrawal in the event of an armistice, so as to prevent unnecessary further bloodshed.
The Na-Dené languages have a "classifier" /d/- (Haida, Tlingit, Eyak) or */də/- (Proto-Athabaskan) that is either fossilized or has a vaguely transitive function (reflexive in Tlingit) and appears in position −3 in Haida.
After this reorganisation, war planning and strategic matters were transferred to the newly created Naval Mobilisation Department and the NID reverted to the position it held prior to 1887—an intelligence collection and collation organisation.
Response to the Basque Debate in Mother Tongue 1."
Also claimed that Canadian and British traditions had been dishonoured by multiculturalism.
He played all four infield positions, mostly as a third baseman and second baseman, for Houston from 1976–82.
The PRM also developed a more flexible attitude towards France.
His songs include "In Christ Alone", (2001, co-written with Keith Getty, Townend's first collaboration with any other songwriter), "How Deep The Father's Love For Us", "Beautiful Saviour" and "The King of Love".
The Nyacks Historical Society of the Nyacks and the Nyack Library, Arcadia Publishing of Maine October, 2005
 Nyack in the 20th century: A Centennial Journal by the Historical Society of the Nyacks, published in 2000
 Suffern: 200 years, 1773–1973  Bicentennial Committee, Suffern, New York Published in 1973.
That is, the panchama of madhyama-grama is lower than that of shadja-grama by one shruti, according to Bharata.
In the 1980s, samples were incorporated into synthesizers and music workstations, such as the bestselling Korg M1, released in 1988.
(London: Pen & Sword).
According to Swadesh (1959: 114), it included "Basque, the Caucasian languages, Ural-Altaic, Dravidian, Tibeto-Burman, Chinese, Austronesian, Japanese, Chukchi (Siberia), Eskimo-Aleut, Wakash, and Na-Dene", and possibly "Sumerian".
In the meantime, the delays in the museum's opening cost EMST a 3.3 million dollars subsidy from the European Union.
In 1991, songwriter Gilbert O'Sullivan sued rapper Biz Markie after he sampled O'Sullivan's "Alone Again (Naturally)" on the album I Need a Haircut.
Former owner of the Fabulous Forum strip club.
It was a transit point for the South Asian-Central Asian trade.
In May 1932 he made his maiden speech on the Coal Mines Bill, urging a system where the mine owner had a guaranteed profit, while the miner had a guaranteed minimum wage, with additions according to the business done.
Analysis of historical astronomical records shows a slowing trend; the length of a day increased about 2.3 milliseconds per century since the 8th century BCE.
Episodes

Selected cast 
Osas Ighodaro as Zuri
Kemi Lala Akindoju as Adesuwa
Toni Tones as Lara
Ebenezer Eno as Ladun
Eku Edewor as Banke
Timini Egbuson as Bobby
Ini Dima-Okojie as Tami
Seun Ajayi as Soji
Nonso Bassey as Olumide Sanni

References

2020s Nigerian television series
2020 Nigerian television series debuts
BENGTSON, John D., 2003.
51 years old in 2003.
Anybody who can honestly say sampling is some sort of creativity has never done anything creative."
The phenomenon of intermediate tones is pursued as an active area of research in Indian Musicology, which says the number of perceptible intermediate tones may be less or more than 22.
Research groups include Robotic Musicianship, Distributed, Music Informatics, Mobile Music and Sonification.
New Hempstead Presbyterian Church, known as The English Meeting House was the first English-speaking church west of the Hudson River in New York State.
Christopher Columbus may have consulted Martellus' map (or a copy) before leaving Spain in 1492 to find the western route to Asia.
Karachi was known as Khurachee Scinde (i.e.
The treasure consisted of 42 gold pieces from Mixtec origin in their original form, plus another 23 gold pieces melted by the jeweler, consisting of a total of 65 pieces, which together weigh more than 7 kg.
Materialien zu ihrer sprachhistorischen Erforschung sowie Auflistung der Vogelarten von Alaska [Bird names of Tlingit and Haida.
Miles until August, serving briefly as adjutant general of the Department of Dakota, before his transfer to the Philippines in December 1899.
Theodore Roosevelt – 26th President of the United States.
On leaving Georgetown, Morris entered the Jesuit novitiate at Frederick, Maryland, to prepare himself for the Catholic priesthood.
In 1969, the English engineer Peter Zinovieff developed the first digital sampler, the EMS Musys.
During its heyday, the Pierson nail factory was a powerful economic stimulus to the region because of its links to existing agricultural and commercial trade.
The city remained a small fishing village until the British seized control of the offshore and strategically located at Manora Island.
By 1813, The Ramapo Works, owned by the Pierson brothers were producing a million pounds of nails annually.
The background of the stamp shows St. Joseph's Church and the Grassy Point school which was one of the last one-room schools in Rockland closing in 1963.
Baumgartner signed with Detroit in 1950 and made the Tigers 1953 roster coming out of spring training.
An act of Parliament was passed to make this so.
Death

Morris died on September 12, 1909, in Washington, D.C.

References

Sources
 
 

1834 births
1909 deaths
Georgetown University alumni
Maryland lawyers
Judges of the United States Court of Appeals for the D.C.
He also voted against the Government and in support of an amendment to remove the profits of Co-operative Societies from tax.
), became the first to put the idea that the Caucasian, Yeniseian and Sino-Tibetan languages are related on firmer ground.
2010 saw the band release a 7" vinyl split single with Austin sister-band ST 37; ST 37 contributed a cover of Helios Creed's "Lactating Purple", while the Linus Pauling Quartet debuted their original piece "Monster".
A notice is written on the maps prohibiting reproduction, copying or sale of the map and that it should be returned to the Ministry of National Defense upon request.
Jacoma Burgnona li 10 de Julio 1594.
Veena's album Ghoomar which was released in 4 parts from 2000-2001 was very well received and became the biggest selling Rajasthani album of the year which also promoted the folk dance "Ghoomar" of Rajasthan.
Neuroscience databases

Databases of neuroscience databases

Neuroscience article aggregators 

Neuroscience feed at RightRelevance.
The project cemented a close working relationship between Schafer and McConnell that continued for decades after their work together at LucasArts.
The team faced the challenge to adjust MIDI parameters to maximize realism and sonic quality while preserving McConnell's original artistic intent.
Also, there is the creation of an additional name each for Chatu-sruthi Rishabham, Sadharana Gandharam, Chatu-sruthi Daivatham and Kaishiki Nishadam; respectively as Suddha Gandharam, Shat-sruthi Rishabham, Suddha Nishadam and Shat-sruthi Daivatham.
He remained in Mallorca to complete the novel, after which the publisher sold the American rights to the novel for a large sum, and within a year the film rights, allowing Cockcroft to retire from teaching and become a full time novelist.
Barangays

Arteche is politically subdivided into 20 barangays.
It starred Osas Ighodaro, Timini Egbuson, Ini Dima-Okojie, Kemi Lala Akindoju and many others.
"Genesis of the Long Vowels in Sino-Tibetan."
The court ruled that sampling without permission infringed copyright.
In rotational speed

Tidal interactions 
Over millions of years, Earth's rotation has been slowed significantly by tidal acceleration through gravitational interactions with the Moon.
He is buried at Rockland Cemetery at Sparkill.
However, such Machiavellian arts were not confined to wartime, particularly in an age when there was very little peacetime.
In The Non-Slavic Languages of the USSR: Linguistic Studies, Second Series, ed.
Dunderberg Mountain – A landmark for British forces during the American Revolutionary War, The formation of the Dunderberg Spiral Railway Corporation in 1889 and Thomas Edison, in 1890, began to establish an iron mine by acquiring nearly  on the north slope of Dunderberg.
There is not a single common note between the European 12-Tone Equal Temperament Scale and the 22-Shruti-Indian scale.
Managerial record

Personal life
Howe is married to his high school sweetheart, Betty.
The main mountain ranges are the Athamanika in the northeast, the Pindus in the east, and Valtou in the southeast.
A Fellow of the European Association for Computer Graphics in 1998, the Outstanding Professor for Research, Scholarship, and Creative Activity, CSU Stanislaus in 2001, the Gemperle Distinguished Professor, CSU Stanislaus in 2001, the ACM SIGGRAPH Outstanding Contribution Award in 2004 and the Noyce Visiting Professor of Computer Science, Grinnell College in 2006.
Josephine Hudson House in the hamlet of Rockland Lake belonged to the first woman to work in the Knickerbocker Ice Company.
See also 
 Interpolation
 Mashup
 Musical quotation 
 Plunderphonics
 Recombinant culture
 Riddim

References

Further reading

Katz, Mark.
Data on Lashi is available in the followining publications (A Literature Review on Segments in Lacid (Lashi) ,) (Luce 1985: Charts S, T, V; Huang et al.
References
 JA Calvi, News of the life and works of the knight Giovanni Francesco Barbieri Guercino, Bologna 1808
 The School of Guercino, edited by E. Negro, M. and N. Pirondini Roio, with a preface by DM Stone, Modena 2004 

Painters from Bologna
Italian Renaissance painters
1594 births
1661 deaths
Italian male painters
People from Cento
17th-century Italian painters
"The riddle of Sumerian: A Dene–Caucasic language?"
Mother Tongue 8: 21–39.
The following is a selection of such concerns:
 Former Indian president Abdul Kalam had expressed concern over the availability of high-resolution pictures of sensitive locations in India.
Chamblee was named a National Blue Ribbon School of Excellence in 1996 and is one of 27% of schools in Dekalb to make the AYP of the No Child Left Behind Act.
If R is taken as S, S’ becomes n1, coming at 177.777777, a ratio of 16/9.
The party did however favour joining the French Community, and campaigned for a yes vote in the 1958 referendum.
DIAKONOFF, Igor M., 1997.
(2002): The origin of phonemic tone in Yeniseic.
In 2012, Field opposed the Progressive Conservative nomination of Ghina Al-Sewaidi, an Iraqi-Canadian immigration lawyer.
The scale starting from M1 is close to the current version of Khamaj (raga).
Cauchi is the FpO's candidate in the March 30, 2006 provincial by-election in Toronto—Danforth.
"Notes on Basque Comparative Phonology."
Martin then became secretary of the United European Movement in 1947, working closely with Winston Churchill for a year before becoming Secretary of the British all-party delegation to the Congress of Europe at The Hague in 1948.
The series debuted 22 October 1959 and ended circa 4 August 1960.
A few days later, the singer came to Amsterdam, Netherlands to finish writing it and start recording it.
Operators of the Lucas Heights nuclear reactor in Sydney, Australia asked Google to censor high resolution pictures of the facility.
For every 100 females age 18 and over, there were 83.1 males.
2: Here's Donald!
Other compounds produced by Brettanomyces that cause wine faults include 4-ethylguaiacol and isovaleric acid.
1924: Ten classrooms and DeKalb County's first gymnasium were added to the campus.
Pluriverso 2: 76–85.
Exhibitions
Within the framework of the exhibition policy of EMST, series of periodical exhibitions of open and explorative character are presented, on issues, investigations, and quests of international contemporary art, individual works commissioned by the Museum, mid-career retrospectives of contemporary artists, and historical retrospectives on the fields of painting, installations, photography, video, new media, and "experimental" architecture.
Awards and recognition 
Perry was chosen for Step Magazine's 30 under 30 in 2004, and named a groundbreaking illustrator by Computer Arts Projects Magazine in 2007.
In 2018, Grim Fandango main theme song was one of the pieces performed by the Danish National Symphony Orchestra and subsequently included in the album Gaming in Symphony.
McConnell further gratefully credited the retrieval success to numerous people who were devoted fans of the game, calling it a "labor of love".
The absolute value of Earth rotation including UT1 and nutation can be determined using space geodetic observations, such as Very Long Baseline Interferometry and Lunar laser ranging, whereas their derivatives, denoted as Length-of-day excess and nutation rates can be derived from satellite observations, such as GPS, GLONASS, Galileo and Satellite laser ranging to geodetic satellites.
Arz was to remain in charge of the 1st Army until February 1917, after major operations in Romania ended, with help from Falkenhayn 9th German Army and from the German Army of the Danube under Mackensen.
These historical introduction documentaries also include interviews with the likes of Jack Hannah, Clarence Nash, Jack Kinney, and archival footage of Walt Disney himself.
Further, the 'same Swara was pitched differently at different times by the same artiste in the same raga', and 'different artistes intoned the same swara differently in the same raga'.
Sino-Caucasian languages [6,200 BCE]
1.2.2.1.
In January 1922 the "National Council of Social Democracy and Radicalism" was officially created; this event is considered the date of the PDSI official formation and of the dissolution of the Italian Radical Party.
"Basque: The Search for Relatives (Part 1)."
It was described by Félix Édouard Guérin-Méneville in 1844.
With Mike Bailey.
58
 2013 The Resonance Project, Dante No.
In any Gamaka (Music), Alankara, or 'Inflexion', 'Ornamentation' etc., one can not have a 3rd type of note, other than a 'Shruti' and a 'Nada'.
The use of Starostin's reconstruction of Proto-Yeniseian rather than the competing one by Vajda or that by Werner.
By 1800, the total population of the newly created County of Rockland was nearly 6,400.
Biographies
 Brereton, T. R. Educating the U.S. Army: Arthur L. Wagner and Reform, 1875–1905
 Men of Mark in America

Further reading 
 Rice, Donald Tunnicliff.
(* Seven shuddha notes in the table are underlined and bold.)
References

At the time of the original release of Grim Fandango and its soundtrack, few video game music awards existed.
The result better resembled a real piano than sounds generated by synthesizers.
Description
The cities of Lansing and East Lansing have incorporated much of the land that formerly constituted the township reducing the township from its original  to its current  in five disconnected land areas.
[NCL 974.728 HAV].
It is a , Town lattice truss bridge, constructed in 1849.
According to others, words for fauna and flora and evidence of linguistic contact with language families known to have been spoken in Eurasia suggest that its home was in the Middle East, probably the Levant.
On November 7, 2011 general election, it won a landslide victory, winning 49 of 58 seats.
It was listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1979.
This stabilizing effect could have been broken by a sudden change in global temperature.
Russia, the United States and Great Britain all have such maps.
This loose translation created confusion because, Shru (in Sanskrit) does not merely mean "to hear", but to "hear, understand and learn".
Several other temples were also damaged.
Dené–Caucasian
1.1.
West has been sued several times over his use of samples.
For instance, the Tamil term "Oru kattai sruti (ஒரு கட்டை ஸ்ருதி)" means that the tonic is set to the pitch C or the first key.
Stuart lost her mother at the age of 3, and her older sister therefore became her surrogate mother.
Received 493 votes, finishing last in a field of five candidates.
10 Proto-Athabaskan -, Haida dang /dàŋ/, Tlingit wa.é , where the hypothesis of a connection between the Proto-Athabaskan and Haida forms on the one hand and the rest on the other hand requires ad hoc assumptions of assimilation and dissimilation (Bengtson 2008: 94).
Rockland Lake, known to have had the cleanest and purest ice in the area was harvested by The Knickerbocker Ice Company established 1831.
Los de Cajamarca: un estudio social y biografico del los primeros conquistadores del Peru (Spanish translation of The Men of Cajamarca).
Foucault pendulums now swing in museums around the world.
Precession is a rotation of Earth's rotation axis, caused primarily by external torques from the gravity of the Sun, Moon and other bodies.
