How a man's life is drawn, turned, shaped, by a woman! He may deny it. He may swagger and lie about it. Heredity, ambition, lust, noble aspirations, weak self-indulgence, power, failure, success, have their turns with him. But the woman he desires above all others, whose breast is his true home, makes him, mars him. Had she cast herself on the settle exhausted and ill after exposure? Should I find her muttering and helpless? Worse than all, had the night made her forget that she was a Cloud-Mother? I drew my breath with an audible sound in the throat. Her dress stirred. She leaned around the edge of the settle. Eagle de Ferrier, not my Cloud-Mother, looked at me. Her features were pinched from exposure, but flooded themselves instantly with a blush. She snatched her shoes from the hearth and drew them on. I was taken with such a trembling that I held to a gallery post. Suppose this glimpse of herself had been given to me only to be withdrawn! I was afraid to speak, and waited. She stood up facing me. "Louis!" "Madame!" "What is the matter, sire?" "Nothing, madame, nothing." "Where is Paul?" I did not know what to do, and looked at her completely helpless; for if I told her Paul was dead, she might relapse; and evasions must be temporary. "The Indian took him," she cried. "But the Indian didn't kill him, Eagle." "How do you know?" "Because Paul came to me." "He came to you? Where?" "At Fort Stephenson." "Where is my child?" "He is at Fort Stephenson." "Bring him to me!" "I can't bring him, Eagle." "Then let me go to him." I did not know what to say to her. "And there were Cousin Philippe and Ernestine lying across the step. I have been thinking all night. Do you understand it?" "Yes, I understand it, Eagle." By the time I had come into the house her mind leaped forward in comprehension. The blanket she had held on her shoulders fell around her feet. It was a striped gay Indian blanket. "You were attacked, and the settlement was burned." "But whose house is this?" "This is my house." "Did you bring me to your house?" "I wasn't there." "No, I remember. You were not there. I saw you the last time at the Tuileries." "When did you come to yourself, madame?" "I have been sick, haven't I? But I have been sitting by this fire nearly all night, trying to understand. I knew I was alone, because Cousin Philippe and Ernestine--I want Paul!" I looked at the floor, and must have appeared miserable. She passed her hands back over her forehead many times as if brushing something away. "If he died, tell me." "I held him, Eagle." "They didn't kill him?" "No." "Or scalp him?" "The knife never touched him." "But--" "It was in battle." "My child died in battle? How long have I been ill?" "More than a year, Eagle." "And he died in battle?" "He had a wound in his side. He was brought into the fort, and I took care of him." She burst out weeping, and laughed and wept, the tears running down her face and wetting her bosom. "My boy! My little son! You held him! He died like a man!" I put her on the settle, and all the cloud left her in that tempest of rain. Afterwards I wiped her face with my handkerchief and she sat erect and still. A noise of many birds came from the ravine, and winged bodies darted past the door uttering the cries of spring. Abbe Edgeworth sauntered by and she saw him, and was startled. "Who is that?" "A priest." "When did he come?" "He rode here with me this morning." "Louis," she asked, leaning back, "who took care of me?" "You have been with the Grignons since you came to the Illinois Territory." "Am I in the Illinois Territory?" "Yes, I found you with the Grignons." "They must be kind people!" "They are; the earth's salt." "But who brought me to the Illinois Territory?" "A family named Jordan." "The Indians didn't kill them?" "No." "Why wasn't I killed?" "The Indians regarded you with superstition." "What have I said and done?" "Nothing, madame, that need give you any uneasiness." "But what did I say?" she insisted. "You thought you were a Cloud-Mother." "A Cloud-Mother!" She was astonished and asked, "What is a Cloud-Mother?" "You thought I was Paul, and you were my Cloud-Mother." "Did I say such a foolish thing as that?" "Don't call it foolish, madame." "I hope you will forget it." "I don't want to forget it." "But why are you in Illinois Territory, sire?" "I came to find land for the Iroquois. I intend to make a state with the tribe." "But what of France?" "Oh, France is over supplied with men who want to make a state of her. Louis XVIII has been on the throne eleven months, and was recently chased off by Napoleon. "Louis XVIII on the throne? Did true loyalists suffer that?" "Evidently." "Sire, what became of Napoleon?" "He was beaten by the allies and sent to Elba. Louis XVIII was brought in with processions. But in about eleven months Napoleon made a dash across France--" "Tell me slowly. You say I have been ill more than a year. I know nothing of what has happened." "Napoleon escaped from Elba, made a dash across France, and incidentally swept the Bourbon off the throne. The last news from Europe shows him gathering armies to meet the allies." "Oh, sire, you should have been there!" "Abbe Edgeworth suggests that France is well supplied with dauphins also. Turning off dauphins has been a pastime at court." "Abbe Edgeworth? You do not mean the priest you saw at Mittau? "Confessor and almoner to his majesty. The same man." "Is he here?" "You saw him pass the door." "Why has he come to America?" "I have not inquired." "Why is he here with you?" "Because it pleases him, not me." "He brings you some message?" "So he says." "What is it?" "I have not had time to ask." She stood up. As she became more herself and the spirit rushed forward in her face, I saw how her beauty had ripened. Hoeing corn and washing in the river does not coarsen well-born women. I knew I should feel the sweetness of her presence stinging through me and following me wherever I went in the world. "Call the priest in, sire. I am afraid I have hindered the interview." "I did not meet him with my arms open, madame." "But you would have heard what he had to say, if I had not been in your house. Why am I in your house?" "You came here." "Was I wandering about by myself?" "Yes, madame." "I thought I must have been walking. When I came to myself I was so tired, and my shoes were muddy. If you want to see the priest I will go into another room." "No, I will bring him in and let him give his message in your presence." When Abbe Edgeworth was presented to her, he slightly raised his eyebrows, but expressed no astonishment at meeting her lucid eyes. Nor did I explain--"God has given her back her senses in a night." The position in which she found herself was trying. She made him a grave courtesy. My house might have been the chateau in which she was born, so undisturbed was her manner. Her night wandering and mind-sickness were simply put behind us in the past, with her having taken refuge in my house, as matters which need not concern Abbe Edgeworth. He did not concern himself with them, but bent before her as if he had no doubt of her sanity. I asked her to resume her place on the settle. There was a stool for the abbe and one for myself. We could see the river glinting in its valley, and the windrows of heights beyond it. A wild bee darted into the room, droning, and out again, the sun upon its back. "Monsieur," I said to Abbe Edgeworth, "I am ready now to hear the message which you mentioned to me last night." "If madame will pardon me," he answered, "I will ask you to take me where we can confer alone." "It is not necessary, monsieur. Madame de Ferrier knows my whole story." But the priest moved his shoulders. "I followed you in this remote place, monsieur, that we might talk together without interruption, unembarrassed by any witness." Madame de Ferrier rose. I put her into her seat again with authority. "It is my wish, madame, to have at least one witness with Abbe Edgeworth and myself." "I hope," he protested, "that madame will believe there can be no objection to her presence. I am simply following instructions. I was instructed to deliver my message in private." "Monsieur," Eagle answered, "I would gladly withdraw to another room." "I forbid it, madame," I said to her. "Very well," yielded Abbe Edgeworth. He took a folded paper from his bosom, and spoke to me with startling sharpness. "You think I should address you as Monseigneur, as the dauphin of France should be addressed?" "I do not press my rights. If I did, monsieur the abbe, you would not have the right to sit in my presence." "Suppose we humor your fancy. I will address you as Monseigneur. Let us even go a little farther and assume that you are known to be the dauphin of France by witnesses who have never lost track of you. In that case, Monseigneur, would you put your name to a paper resigning all claim upon the throne?" "Is this your message?" "We have not yet come to the message." "Let us first come to the dauphin. When dauphins are as plentiful as blackberries in France and the court never sees a beggar appear without exclaiming: 'Here comes another dauphin!'--why, may I ask, is Abbe Edgeworth sent so far to seek one?" He smiled. "We are supposing that Monseigneur, in whose presence I have the honor to be, is the true dauphin." "That being the case, how are we to account for the true dauphin's reception at Mittau?" "The gross stupidity and many blunders of agents that the court was obliged to employ, need hardly be assumed." "Poor Bellenger! He has to take abuse from both sides in order that we may be polite to each other." "As Monseigneur suggests, we will not go into that matter." Eagle sat as erect as a statue and as white. I felt an instant's anxiety. Yet she had herself entirely at command. "We have now arrived at the paper, I trust," said the priest. "The message?" "Oh, no. The paper in which you resign all claim to the throne of France, and which may give you the price of a principality in this country." "I do not sign any such paper." "Not at all?" "Not at all." "You are determined to hold to your rights?" "I am determined not to part with my rights." "Inducements large enough might be offered." He paused suggestively. "The only man in France," I said, "empowered to treat for abdication of the throne at present, is Napoleon Bonaparte. Did you bring a message from him?" Abbe Edgeworth winced, but laughed. "Napoleon Bonaparte will not last. All Europe is against him. I see we have arrived at the message." He rose and handed me the paper he held in his hand. I rose and received it, and read it standing. It was one brief line:-- "Louis: You are recalled. Marie-Therese." The blood must have rushed over my face. I had a submerged feeling, looking out of it at the priest. "Well, Monseigneur?" "It is like her heavenly goodness." "Do you see nothing but her heavenly goodness in it?" "This is the message?" "It is a message I crossed the ocean to bring." "With the consent of her uncle?" "Madame d'Angouleme never expresses a wish contrary to the wishes of his majesty." "We are then to suppose that Louis XVIII offers me, through you, monsieur, the opportunity to sign away my rights, and failing that, the opportunity of taking them?" "Supposing you are Monseigneur the dauphin, we will let our supposition run as far as this." I saw distinctly the position of Louis XVIII. Marquis du Plessy had told me he was a mass of superstition. No doubt he had behaved, as Bellenger said, for the good of the royalist cause. But the sanction of heaven was not on his behavior. Bonaparte was let loose on him like the dragon from the pit. And Frenchmen, after yawning eleven months or so in the king's august face, threw up their hats for the dragon. In his second exile the inner shadow and the shadow of age combined against him. He had tasted royalty. It was not as good as he had once thought. Beside him always, he saw the face of Marie-Therese. She never forgot the hushed mystery of her brother. Her silence and obedience to the crown, her loyalty to juggling and evasion, were more powerful than resistance. A young man, brought suddenly before the jaded nation and proclaimed at an opportune moment, might be a successful toy. The sore old king would oil more than the royalist cause, and the blessing of heaven would descend on one who restored the veritable dauphin. I never have seen the most stupid man doubt his power to ride if somebody hoists him into the saddle. "Let us go farther with our suppositions," I said. "Suppose I decline?" I heard Madame de Ferrier gasp. The priest raised his eyebrows. "In that case you will be quite willing to give me a signed paper declaring your reasons." "I sign no paper." "Let me suggest that Monseigneur is not consistent. He neither resigns his supposed rights nor will he exercise them." "I will neither resign them nor exercise them." "This is virtually resigning them." "The abbe will pardon me for saying it is not. My rights are mine, whether I use them or not." "Monseigneur understands that opportunity is a visitor that comes but once." "I understand that the most extraordinary thing has happened to-day that will ever go unrecorded in history. One Bourbon offers to give away a throne he has lost and another Bourbon refuses it." "You may well say it will go unrecorded in history. Excepting this lady,"--the abbe bowed toward Eagle,--"there is no witness." "Wise precautions have been taken," I agreed. "This scrap of paper may mean anything or nothing." "You decline?" he repeated. "I think France is done with the Bourbons, monsieur the abbe. A fine spectacle they have made of themselves, cooling their heels all over Europe, waiting for Napoleon's shoes! Will I go sneaking and trembling to range myself among impotent kings and wrangle over a country that wants none of us? No, I never will! I see where my father slipped. I see where the eighteenth Louis slipped. I am a man tenacious beyond belief. You cannot loose my grip when I take hold. But I never have taken hold, I never will take hold--of my native country, struggling as she is to throw off hereditary rule!" "You are an American!" said Abbe Edgeworth contemptuously. "If France called to me out of need, I would fight for her. A lifetime of peaceful years I would toss away in a minute to die in one achieving battle for her. But she neither calls me nor needs me. A king is not simply an appearance--a continuation of hereditary rights!" "Your position is incredible," said the priest. "I do not belittle the prospect you open before me. I see the practical difficulties, but I see well the magnificence beyond them." "Then why do you hesitate?" "I don't hesitate. A man is contemptible who stands shivering and longing outside of what he dare not attempt. I would dare if I longed. But I don't long." "Monseigneur believes there will be complications?" "I know my own obstinacy. A man who tried to work me with strings behind a throne, would think he was struck by lightning." "Sire," Madame de Ferrier spoke out, "this is the hour of your life. Take your kingdom." "I should have to take it, madame, if I got it. My uncle of Provence has nothing to give me. He merely says--'My dear dauphin, if Europe knocks Napoleon down, will you kindly take hold of a crank which is too heavy for me, and turn it for the good of the Bourbons? We may thus keep the royal machine in the family!'" "You have given no adequate reason for declining this offer," said the priest. "I will give no reason. I simply decline." "Is this the explanation that I shall make to Madame d'Angouleme? Think of the tender sister who says--'Louis, you are recalled!" "I do think of her. God bless her!" "Must I tell her that Monseigneur planted his feet like one of these wild cattle, and wheeled, and fled from the contemplation of a throne?" "You will dress it up in your own felicitous way, monsieur." "What do you wish me to say?" "That I decline. I have not pressed the embarrassing question of why I was not recalled long ago. I reserve to myself the privilege of declining without saying why I decline." "He must be made to change his mind, monsieur!" Madame de Ferrier exclaimed. "I am not a man that changes his mind every time the clock strikes." I took the padlocked book out of my breast and laid it upon the table. I looked at the priest, not at her. The padlocked book seemed to have no more to do with the conversation, than a hat or a pair of gloves. I saw, as one sees from the side of the eye, the scarlet rush of blood and the snow-white rush of pallor which covered her one after the other. The moment was too strenuous. I could not spare her. She had to bear it with me. She set her clenched hands on her knees. "Sire!" I faced her. The coldest look I ever saw in her gray eyes repelled me, as she deliberately said-- "You are not such a fool!" I stared back as coldly and sternly, and deliberately answered-- "I am--just--such a fool!" "Consider how any person who might be to blame for your decision, would despise you for it afterwards!" "A boy in the first flush of his youth," Abbe Edgeworth said, his fine jaws squared with a grin, "might throw away a kingdom for some woman who took his fancy, and whom he could not have perhaps, unless he did throw his kingdom away. And after he had done it he would hate the woman. But a young man in his strength doesn't do such things!" "A king who hasn't spirit to be a king!" Madame de Ferrier mocked. I mercilessly faced her down. "What is there about me? Sum me up. I am robbed on every side by any one who cares to fleece me. Whenever I am about to accomplish anything I fall down as if knocked on the head!" She rose from her seat. "You let yourself be robbed because you are princely! You have plainly left behind you every weakness of your childhood. Look at him in his strength, Monsieur Abbe! He has sucked in the vigor of a new country! The failing power of an old line of kings is renewed in him! You could not have nourished such a dauphin for France in your exiled court! Burying in the American soil has developed what you see for yourself--the king!" "He is a handsome man," Abbe Edgeworth quietly admitted. "Oh, let his beauty alone! Look at his manhood--his kinghood!" "Of what use is his kinghood if he will not exercise it?" "He must!" She turned upon me fiercely. "Have you no ambition?" "Yes, madame. But there are several kinds of ambition, as there are several kinds of success. You have to knock people down with each kind, if you want it acknowledged. As I told you awhile ago, I am tenacious beyond belief, and shall succeed in what I undertake." "What are you undertaking?" "I am not undertaking to mount a throne." "I cannot believe it! Where is there a man who would turn from what is offered you? Consider the life before you in this country. Compare it with the life you are throwing away." She joined her hands. "Sire, the men of my house who fought for the kings of yours, plead through me that you will take your inheritance." I kept my eyes on Abbe Edgeworth. He considered the padlocked book as an object directly in his line of vision. Its wooden covers and small metal padlock attracted the secondary attention we bestow on trifles when we are at great issues. I answered her, "The men of your house--and the women of your house, madame--cannot dictate what kings of my house should do in this day." "Well as you appear to know him, madame," said Abbe Edgeworth, "and loyally as you urge him, your efforts are wasted." She next accused me-- "You hesitate on account of the Indians!" "If there were no Indians in America, I should do just as I am doing." "All men," the abbe noted, "hold in contempt a man who will not grasp power when he can." "Why should I grasp power? I have it in myself. I am using it." "Using it to ruin yourself!" she cried. "Monseigneur!" The abbe rose. We stood eye to eye. "I was at the side of the king your father upon the scaffold. My hand held to his lips the crucifix of our Lord Jesus Christ. In his death no word of bitterness escaped him. True son of St. Louis, he supremely loved France. Upon you he laid injunction to leave to God alone the punishment of regicides, and to devote your life to the welfare of all Frenchmen. Monseigneur! are you deaf to this call of sacred duty? The voice of your father from the scaffold, in this hour when the fortunes of your house are lowest, bids you take your rightful place and rid your people of the usurper who grinds France and Europe into the blood-stained earth!" I wheeled and walked across the floor from Abbe Edgeworth, and turned again and faced him. "Monsieur, you have put a dart through me. If anything in the universe could move me from my position, what you have said would do it. But my father's blood cries through me to-day--'Shall the son of Louis XVI be forced down the unwilling throats of his countrymen by foreign bayonets?--Russians--Germans--English!--Shall the dauphin of France be hoisted to place by the alien?'--My father would forbid it! . . . You appeal to my family love. I bear about with me everywhere the pictured faces of my family. The father whose name you invoke, is always close to my heart. That royal duchess, whom you are privileged to see daily, monsieur, and I--never--is so dear and sacred to me that I think of her with a prayer. . . . But my life is here. . . . Monsieur, in this new world, no man can say to me--'Come,' or 'Go.' I am as free as the Indian. But the pretender to the throne of France, the puppet of Russia, of England, of the enemies of my country,--a slave to policy and intrigue--a chained wanderer about Europe--O my God! to be such a pretender--gasping for air--for light--as I gasped in Ste. Pelagie!--O let me be a free man--a free man!" The old churchman whispered over and over-- "My royal son!" My arms dropped relaxed. There was another reason. I did not give it. I would not give it. We heard the spring wind following the river channel--and a far faint call that I knew so well--the triangular wild flock in the upper air, flying north. "Honk! honk!" It was the jubilant cry of freedom! "Madame," said Abbe Edgeworth, resting his head on his hands, "I have seen many stubborn Bourbons, but he is the most obstinate of them all. We do not make as much impression on him as that little padlocked book." Her terrified eyes darted at him--and hid their panic. "Monsieur Abbe," she exclaimed piercingly, "tell him no woman will love him for throwing away a kingdom!" The priest began once more. "You will not resign your rights?" "No." "You will not exercise them?" "No." "If I postpone my departure from to-day until to-morrow, or next week, or next month, is there any possibility of your reconsidering this decision?" "No." "Monseigneur, must I leave you with this answer?" "Your staying cannot alter it, Monsieur Abbe." "You understand this ends all overtures from France?" "I understand." "Is there nothing that you would ask?" "I would ask Madame d'Angouleme to remember me." He came forward like a courtier, lifted my hand to his lips, and kissed it. "With your permission, Monseigneur, I will now retire and ride slowly back along the river until you overtake me. I should like to have some time for solitary thought." "You have my permission, Monsieur Abbe." He bowed to Madame de Ferrier, and so moving to the door, he bowed again to me, and took his leave. His horse's impatient start, and his remonstrance as he mounted, came plainly to our ears. The regular beat of hoofs upon the sward followed; then an alternating tap-tap of horse's feet diminished down the trail. Eagle and I avoided looking at each other. A bird inquired through the door with inquisitive chirp, and was away. Volcanoes, and whirlwinds, fire, and all force, held themselves condensed and quiescent in the still room. I moved first, laying Marie-Therese's message on the padlocked book. Standing with folded arms I faced Eagle, and she as stonily faced me. It was a stare of unspeakable love that counts a thousand years as a day. She shuddered from head to foot. Thus a soul might ripple in passing from its body. "I am not worth a kingdom!" her voice wailed through the room. I opened my arms and took her. Volcanoes and whirlwinds, fire, and all force, were under our feet. We trod them breast to breast. She held my head between her hands. The tears streamed down her face. "Louis!--you are a king!--you are a king!" THE END. A LIST OF RECENT FICTION OF THE BOWEN-MERRILL COMPANY WHEN KNIGHTHOOD WAS IN FLOWER Over one-quarter of a million copies have been sold of this great historical love-story of Princess Mary Tudor, sister of Henry VIII. Price, $1.50 ASK YOUR BOOKSELLER FOR IT A VIVACIOUS ROMANCE OF REVOLUTIONARY DAYS ALICE of OLD VINCENNES By MAURICE THOMPSON The Atlanta Constitution says: "Mr. Thompson, whose delightful writings in prose and verse have made his reputation national, has achieved his master stroke of genius in this historical novel of revolutionary days in the West." The Denver Daily News says: "There are three great chapters of fiction: Scott's tournament on Ashby field, General Wallace's chariot race, and now Maurice Thompson's duel scene and the raising of Alice's flag over old Fort Vincennes." The Chicago Times-Herald says: "More original than 'Richard Carvel,' more cohesive than 'To Have and To Hold,' more vital than 'Janice Meredith,' such is Maurice Thompson's superb American romance, 'Alice of Old Vincennes.' It is, in addition, more artistic and spontaneous than any of its rivals." 12mo, with five illustrations and a frontispiece in color, all drawn by Mr. F.C. Yohn Price, $1.50 The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis "A NOVEL THAT'S WORTH WHILE" The REDEMPTION of DAVID CORSON By CHARLES FREDERIC GOSS A Mid-century American Novel of Intense Power and Interest The Interior says: "This is a book that is worth while. Though it tells of weakness and wickedness, of love and license, of revenge and remorse in an intensely interesting way, yet it is above all else a clean and pure story. No one can read it and honestly ask 'what's the use.'" Newell Dwight Hillis, Pastor of Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, says: "'The Redemption of David Corson' strikes a strong, healthy, buoyant note.'" Dr. F.W. Gunsaulus, President Armour Institute, says: "Mr. Goss writes with the truthfulness of light. He has told a story in which the fact of sin is illuminated with the utmost truthfulness and the fact of redemption is portrayed with extraordinary power. There are lines of greatness in the book which I shall never forget." President M.W. Stryker, Hamilton College, says: "It is a victory in writing for one whose head seems at last to have matched his big human heart. There is ten times as much of reality in it as there is in 'David Harum,' which does not value lightly that admirable charcoal sketch." Price, $1.50 The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis "AS CRISP AND CLEAN CUT AS A NEW MINTAGE." THE PUPPET CROWN BY HAROLD MACGRATH A princess rarely beautiful; a duchess magnificent and heartless; a villain revengeful and courageous; a hero youthful, humorous, fearless and truly American;--such are the principal characters of this delightful story.--Syracuse Post-Standard. Harold MacGrath has attained the highest point achievable in recent fiction. We have the climax of romance and adventure in "The Puppet Crown."--The Philadelphia North American. Superior to most of the great successes.--St. Paul Pioneer Press. "The Puppet Crown" is a profusion of cleverness.--Baltimore American. Challenges comparison with authors whose names have become immortal--Chicago American. Latest entry in the list of winners.--Cleveland World. With illustrations by R. Martine Reay 12mo. Price, $1.50. The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis FULL of INCIDENT, ACTION & COLOR LIKE ANOTHER HELEN By GEORGE HORTON Mr. Horton's powerful romance stands in a new field and brings an almost unknown world in reality before the reader--the world of conflict between Greek and Turk. The island of Crete seems real and genuine after reading this book; not a mere spot on the map. The tragic and pathetic troubles of this people are told with sympathetic force. Mr. Horton employs a vivid style that keeps the interest alive and many passages are filled with delicate poetic feeling. Things happen and the story moves. The characters are well conceived and are human and convincing. Beyond question Mr. Horton's fine story is destined to take high rank among the books of the day. With illustrations by C.M. Relyea 12mo, Cloth bound Price, $1.50 The Chicago Times-Herald says: "Here are chapters that are Stephen Crane plus sympathy; chapters of illuminated description fragrant with the atmosphere of art." The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis ANOTHER SUCCESSFUL HISTORICAL NOVEL THE BLACK WOLF'S BREED By HARRIS DICKSON From the Boston Globe: "A vigorous tale of France in the old and new world during the reign of Louis XIV." From the Philadelphia Press: "As delightfully seductive as certain mint-flavored beverages they make down South." From the Los Angeles Herald: "The sword-play is great, even finer than the pictures in 'To Have and To Hold.'" From the San Francisco Chronicle: "As fine a piece of sustained adventure as has appeared in recent fiction." From the St. Louis Globe-Democrat: "There is action, vivid description and intensely dramatic situations." From the Indianapolis News: "So full of tender love-making, of gallant fighting, that one regrets it's no longer." Illustrated by C.M. Relyea. Price $1.50 The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis A FINE STORY OF THE COWBOY AT HIS BEST WITH HOOPS of STEEL By FLORENCE FINCH KELLY "The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel" * * * * * From the San Francisco Chronicle: "Western men and women will read it because it paints faithfully the life which they know so well, and because it gives us three big, manly fellows, fine types of the cowboy at his best. Eastern readers will be attracted by its splendid realism." From Julian Hawthorne: "For my own part, I finished it all in one day, and dreamt it over again that night. And I am an old hand, heaven knows" From the Denver Times: "Mrs. Kelly's character stands out from the background of the New Mexican plains, desert and mountain with all the distinctness of a Remington sketch." With six illustrations, in color, by Dan Smith Price, $1.50 The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis A NOVEL OF EARLY NEW YORK PATROON VAN VOLKENBERG By HENRY THEW STEPHENSON * * * * * From the New York Press: "Many will compare 'Patroon Van Volkenberg,' with its dash, style and virility, with 'Richard Carvel,' and in that respect they will be right, as one would compare the strong, sturdy and spreading elm with a slender sapling." The action of this stirring story begins when New York was a little city of less than 5,000 inhabitants. The Governor has forbidden the port to the free traders or pirate ships, which sailed boldly under their own flag; while the Patroon and his merchant colleagues not only traded openly with the buccaneers, but owned and managed such illicit craft. The story of the clash of these conflicting interests and the resulting exciting happenings is absorbing. The atmosphere of the tale is fresh in fiction, the plot is stirring and well knit, and the author is possessed of the ability to write forceful, fragrant English. From the Brooklyn Standard-Union: "The tale is one of vibrant quality. It can not be read at a leisurely pace. It bears the reader through piratical seas and buccaneering adventures, through storm and stress of many sorts, but it lands him safely, and leads him to peace." 12mo, Illustrated in color by C.M. Relyea Price, $1.50 The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis A STORY OF THE MORGAN RAID, DURING THE WAR of the REBELLION THE LEGIONARIES By HENRY SCOTT CLARK * * * * * The Memphis Commercial-appeal says: "The backbone of the story is Morgan's great raid--one of the most romantic and reckless pieces of adventure ever attempted in the history of the world. Mr. Clark's description of the Ride of the Three Thousand is a piece of literature that deserves to live; and is as fine in its way as the chariot race from 'Ben Hur.'" The Cincinnati Commercial-Tribune says: "'The Legionaries' is pervaded with what seems to be the true spirit of artistic impartiality. The author is simply a narrator. He stands aside, regarding with equal eye all the issues involved and the scales dip not in his hands. To sum up, the first romance of the new day on the Ohio is an eminently readable one--a good yarn well spun." The Rochester Herald says: "The appearance of a new novel in the West marks an epoch in fiction relating to the war between the sections for the preservation of the Union. 'The Legionaries' is a remarkable book, and we can scarcely credit the assurance that it is the work of a new writer." 12mo, illustrated Price, $1.50 The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis THE STORY OF AN AMERICAN CRUCIFIXION THE PENITENTES By LOUIS HOW The Chicago Record says: "To describe the customs of this band of intensely religious people, to retain all the color and picturesqueness of the original scene without excess, was the difficult task which Mr. How has done well." The Brooklyn Eagle says: "The author has been fortunate enough to unearth a colossal American tragedy." The Chicago Tribune says: "'The Penitentes' abounds in dramatic possibilities. It is full of action, warm color and variety. The denouement at the little church of San Rafael, when the soldiers surprise the Penitentes at mass in the early dawn of their fete day, will appeal strongly to the dramatizer." The Interior says: "Mr. How has done a truly remarkable piece of work . . . any hand, however practiced, might well be proud of the marvelously good descriptions, the dramatic, highly unusual story, the able characterizations." 12mo, Cloth, Ornamental Price, $1.50 The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis THE SUBTLE SPIRIT OF THE SEA SWEEPERS OF THE SEA The Story of a Strange Navy By CLAUDE H. WETMORE * * * * * From the St. Louis Mirror: "The recital of the deeds of the 'Sweepers of the Sea' is a breathless one. The romance is heightened by the realism of the technique of naval warfare, by the sureness and voluminosity of nautical knowledge." From the Buffalo Review: "It rivals Stevenson in its ingenuity of plot and dramatic interest." From the Albany Journal: "There rings the exultant note of tossing billows and a crashing ship." From the Minneapolis Times: "Mr. Wetmore has the genius of Jules Verne and can make the improbable seem the actual. In fact, 'Sweepers of the Sea' comes into the class of important fiction, and as such will be received and read by a discriminating public." Illustrated Price, $1.50 The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis A STORY TOLD BY A REAL STORYTELLER A SON OF AUSTERITY By GEORGE KNIGHT * * * * * Mr. Knight has created a real atmosphere for his men and women to breathe, and his men and women take deep breaths. They are alive, they are human, they are real. He has a delightful story to tell and knows how to tell it. It is a story of human life, of possible people in possible situations, living out their little span of life in that state in which it has pleased God to call them. The reader realizes at once that Mr. Knight is a man who served his seven years of apprenticeship before opening a shop on his own account. The deftness and charm of his literary style, combined with the absorbing interest of the story, can not but prove a delight to every reader. With a frontispiece by Harrison Fisher 12mo, Cloth. Price, $1.50 The Liverpool Mercury says: "This is a book far removed from the ordinary mass of featureless fiction. There is no gainsaying the strength of characterization and the command of English language." The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis VIGOROUS, ELEMENTAL, DRAMATIC A HEART OF FLAME The story of a Master Passion BY CHARLES FLEMING EMBREE Author of "A Dream of a Throne." * * * * * The men and women in this story are children of the soil. Their strength is in their nearness to nature. Their minds are vigorous, their bodies powerful, their passions elemental, their courage sublime. They are loyal in friendship, persistent in enmity, determined in purpose. The story is a story of great wrongs and of supreme love. It is done in black and white, with few strokes, but they are masterly. The shadows at the back are sombre but the value of contrast is appreciated for the vivid high light in the foreground. It is a work of art--powerful, convincing and abiding. Powerful, because true to life; convincing, for it has the saving touch of humor; and abiding because love, like "A Heart of Flame," prevails in the end. With illustrations by Dan Smith 12mo. cloth. Price, $1.50. The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis