Franklin K. Lane - "The Letters of Franklin K. Lane"

Henry Ketcham - "The Life of Abraham Lincoln"

Anthony Trollope - "The Man Who Kept His Money In A Box"

William Morris - "News from Nowhere"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: The Long Vacation

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Long Vacation




"But you need not be upset!" poor Ernley Armytage pleaded.
"Remember, I am going away for three years. May I not take hope with
me?"

Gillian paused.

"Well," again she said, "I do like you—-I mean, I don't mind you as
much as most people; you have done something, and you have some
sense."

His look of rapture at these very moderate words quite overpowered
her, and the tears welled up into her eyes, while she made a sudden
change of tone.

"There, there-—of course it is all right. I'm a nasty creature, and
if you like me, it is more than I deserve, only, whatever you do,
don't make me cry. I've got all the horrid dolls and pen-wipers, and
bags and rags to get rid of."

"May I talk to your mother?"

"Oh yes, if you can catch her. She will be ever so much more good to
you than I; and I only hope she will warn you what a Tartar I am."

Wherewith Gillian threw off her hat, swung open the gate, and dashed
like a hunted hare up to her mother's stall, where in truth she had
been wanted, since only two helpers had remained to assist in the
cheapening and final disposal of the remnants. Lady Merrifield read
something in those wild eyes and cheeks burning, but the exigencies
of the moment obliged her to hold her peace, and apply herself to
estimating the half-price of the cushions and table-cloths she
rejoiced to see departing, as well as to preserve wits enough not to
let Gillian sell the Indian screen for two shillings and sixpence,
under the impression that this was the half of five pounds. Mysie
was the only one who kept her senses fairly undisturbed, and could
balance between her duty to the schools and her desire to gratify a
child, happy in that she never saw more than one thing at a time.
Valetta and Primrose were yachting, so that the distraction was less,
and Captain Armytage lingered round, taking messages, and looking in
wistful earnestness for some one to be disengaged. Yet there was
something in his eyes that spoke of the calmness of an attained
object, and Miss Mohun, who had sold off all her remaining frocks and
pinafores at a valuation to Marilda for some institution, and was
free to help her sister, saw in a moment that his mind was settled.

Yet speech was scarcely possible till the clearance was finally
effected by a Dutch auction, when Captain Armytage distinguished
himself unexpectedly as auctioneer, and made an end even of the last
sachet, though it smelt so strongly of lip-salve that he declared
that a bearer must be paid to take it away. But the purchaser was a
big sailor, who evidently thought it an elegant gift for his
sweetheart.

By the time it was gone the yachters had come home. Captain Armytage
seized on Sir Jasper, who already know his purpose, and wished him
success, though withheld from saying a word to urge the suit by Lady
Merrifield's assurances, that to hurry Gillian's decision would be
fatal to success, and that a reproof for petulance would be worse.
She did not know whether to wish for the engagement or not; Gillian
was her very dear and sufficient companion, more completely so than
Mysie, who was far less clever; and she had sometimes doubted whether
common domestic life beginning early was for the girl's happiness and
full development; but she knew that her husband would scout these
doubts as nonsense, and both really liked Ernley Armytage, and had
heard nothing but what was to his advantage in every way, when they
had been in his own county, and had seen his neighbours and his
family. However, she could only keep quiet, and let her heart rise
in a continual aspiration at every silent moment for her child's
guidance.

Before she had had her moment of speech with either, she heard her
husband calling Gillian, and she knew that he was the one person with
whom his daughter never hid her true self in petulance or sarcasm.
So Gillian met him in the General's sitting-room, gasping as she
turned the handle of the door. He set a chair for her, and spoke
gravely.

"My dear," he said, "I find you have gained the heart of a good man."

"I am sure I never meant it," half whispered Gillian.

"What is that-—you never meant it? I never supposed you capable of
such an unladylike design. You mean that you were taken by
surprise?"

"No; I did see what he was at," and she hung her head.

"You guessed his intentions?"

"Yes, papa; but I didn't want-—"

"Try to explain yourself," said Sir Jasper as she broke off.

"I--I did wish to go on improving myself and being useful. Surely it
was not wrong, papa. Don't you see, I did not want to let myself be
worried into letting myself go out, and spoiling all my happiness and
improvement and work, and getting to care for somebody else?"

"But you have consented."

"Well, when I was frightened for him I found I did care, and he got
hold of me, and made me allow that I did; and now I suppose nobody
will give me any peace."

"Stay, Gillian-—keep yourself from this impatient mood. I think I
understand your unwillingness to overthrow old associations and admit
a new overmastering feeling."

"That's just it, papa," said Gillian, looking up. "I can't bear that
overmastering feeling, nor the being told every one must come to it.
It seems such folly."

"Folly that Eve was given to be a helpmeet, and as the bride, the
Church to her Bridegroom? Look high enough, Gillian, and the popular
chatter will not confuse your mind. You own that you really love
him."

"Oh, papa, not half so much as mamma, or Mysie, or Jasper, but-—but
I think I might."

"Is that all, Gillian? No one would coerce you. Shall I send him
away, and tell him not to think of it? Remember, it is a serious
thing—-nay, an unworthy thing to trifle with a right-minded man."

Gillian sat clasping the elbow of her chair, her dark eyes fixed.
At last she said—-

"Papa, I do feel a sort of trust in him, a sort of feeling as if my
life and all goodness and all that would be safe with him; and I
couldn't bear him to go quite away and hear no more of him, only I do
wish it wouldn't happen now; and if there is a fuss about it, I shall
get cross and savage, and be as nasty as possible, I know I shall."

"You can't exercise enough self-command to remember what is due-—I
would say kind and considerate-—to a man who has loved you through
all your petulance and discouragement, and now is going to a life not
without peril for three years? Suppose a mishap, Gillian-—how would
you feel as to your treatment of him on this last evening?"

"Oh, papa! if you talk in that way I must, I must," and she burst
into tears.

Sir Jasper bent over her and gave her a kiss-—a kiss that from him
was something to remember. It was late, and summonses to a hurried
meal were ringing through Beechcroft Cottage, where the Clipstone
party waited to see the illuminations.

Talk was eager between the sellers and the sailors as Valetta
described the two parties, the fate of the Indian screen, and the
misconduct of Cockneys in their launches were discussed by many a
voice, but Gillian was unwontedly silent. Her mother had no time for
more than a kiss before the shouts of Wilfred, Fergus, and Primrose
warned them that the illuminations were beginning. She could only
catch Mysie, and beg her to keep the younger ones away from Gillian
and the Captain. Mysie opened her brown eyes wide and said—-

"Oh!" Then, "Is it really?"

"Really, my dear, and remember that it is his last evening!"

"Oh!" said Mysie again. "I never thought it of Gill! May I tell
Valetta?"

"Better not, my dear, if it can be helped."

A screaming for Gill was heard, and Mysie hastened to answer it.
Lady Merrifield was too much tired to do anything but sit in the
garden with Miss Mohun and look out at the ships, glittering with
festoons of coloured lamps, reflected in the sea, but the young
people went further afield, out on the cliff path to Rotherwood Park.
The populace were mainly collected on the quay, and this formed a
more select promenade, though by no means absolute solitude. Sir
Jasper really did keep guard over the path along which Gillian
allowed her Captain to conduct her, not exactly knowing which way
they were going, and quite away from the bay and all its attractions.

She heard him out without any of the sharp, impatient answers in
which her maiden coyness was wont to disguise itself, as he told her
of his hopes and plans for the time when his three years of the
Mediterranean should be over.

"And you see you can go on studying all the time, if you must be so
clever."

"I think one ought to make the most of oneself, just as you want to
rise in your profession! No, indeed, I could not bear you if you
wanted me to sit down and idle, or to dawdle yourself."

"Don't grow too clever for me."

"Mother always says that a real man has stuff in him that is quite
different from cleverness, and yet I could not bear to give that up.
I am so glad you don't mind."

"Mind! I mind nothing but to know you are caring for me. And you
will write to me?"

"I shan't know what to say. You will tell of volcanoes, and Athens,
and Constantinople, and Egypt, and the Holy Land, and I shall have
nothing to say but who lectures in college."

"Little you know what that will be to me."

It was a curious sensation all the time to Gillian, with a dawning
sense that was hardly yet love—-she was afraid of that-—but of
something good and brave and worthy that had become hers. She had
felt something analogous when the big deer-hound at Stokesley came
and put his head upon her lap. But the hound showed himself grateful
for caresses, and so did her present giant when the road grew rough,
and she let him draw her arm into his and talk to her.

It was the parting, for he had to go to London and to his own family
the next day early. Gillian spoke not a word all through the dark
drive to Clipstone, but when the party emerged into the light her
eyes were full of tears. Lady Merrifield followed her to her room,
and her words half choked were—-

"Mamma, I never knew what a great, solemn, holy thing _it_ is. Will
you look me out a prayer to help me to get worthy?"




CHAPTER XXIII. ILLUMINATIONS



'Twas in the summer-time so sweet,
When hearts and flowers are both in season,
That who, of all the world should meet,
In "twilight eve," but Love and Reason.
T. MOORE.


That moon and sparkling lights did not shine alone for Gerald and
Dolores. There were multitudes on the cliffs and the beach, and Sir
Ferdinand and Lady Travis Underwood with their party had come to an
irregular sort of dinner-supper at St. Andrew's Rock. With them, or
rather before them, came Mr. Bramshaw, the engineer, who sent in his
card to Mr. Clement Underwood, and entered with a leathern bag,
betraying the designs on Penbeacon.

Not that these were more than an introduction. Indeed, under the
present circumstances, a definite answer was impossible; but there
was another question, namely, that which regarded Sophia Vanderkist.
She had indeed long been of age, but of course her suitor could not
but look to her former guardian for consent and influence. He was a
very bearded man, pleasant-spoken and gentlemanlike, and Lancelot had
prepared his brother by saying that he knew all about the family, and
they were highly respectable solicitors at Minsterham, one son a
master in the school at Stoneborough. So Clement listened
favourably, liked the young man, and though his fortunes at present
depended on his work, and Lady Vanderkist was no friend to his suit,
gave him fair encouragement, and invited him to join the meal, though
the party was already likely to be too numerous for the dining-room.

That mattered the less when all the young and noisy ones could be
placed, to their great delight, under the verandah outside, where
they could talk and laugh to their utmost content, without
incommoding Uncle Clement, or being awed by Cousin Fernan's black
beard and Cacique-like gravity. How they discussed and made fun over
the humours of the bazaar; nor was Gerald's wit the slackest, nor his
mirth the most lagging. He was very far from depressed now that the
first shock was over. He knew himself to be as much loved or better
than ever by those whose affection he valued, and he was sure of
Dolores' heart as he had never yet been. The latent Bohemianism in
his nature woke with the prospect of having his own way to make, and
being free from the responsibilities of an estate, and his chivalry
was excited by the pleasure of protecting his little half-sister, in
pursuit of whom he intended to go.

So, light-hearted enough to amaze the elders who knew the secret, he
jumped up to go with the rest of the party to the cliff walk, where
the brilliant ships could best be seen. Lance, though his headache
was, as Geraldine said, visible on his brow, declared that night air
and sea-breeze were the best remedy, and went in charge of the two
boys, lest his dainty Ariel should make an excursion over the rocks;
and the four young ladies were escorted by Gerald and the engineer.

The elders were much too tired for further adventures, and Geraldine
and Marilda were too intimate to feel bound to talk. Only a few
words dropped now and then about Emilia and her hospital, where she
was to be left for a year, while Fernan with Marilda visited his
American establishments, and on their return would decide whether she
would return, or whether they would take Franceska, or a younger one,
in her stead. The desertion put Marilda out of heart, and she sighed
what a pity it was that the girl would not listen to young Brown.

Meanwhile, Clement was making Ferdinand go over with him Edgar's
words about his marriage. They had all been written down immediately
after his death, and had been given to Felix with the certificates of
the marriage and birth and of the divorce, and they were now no doubt
with other documents and deeds in the strong-box at Vale Leston
Priory. Fernan could only repeat the words which had been burnt in
on his memory, and promise to hunt up the evidence of the form and
manner of the dissolution of the marriage at Chicago. Like Clement
himself, he very much doubted whether the allegation would not break
down in some important point, but he wished Gerald to be assured that
if the worst came to the worst, he would never be left destitute,
since that first meeting—-the baptism, and the receiving him from the
dying father-—amounted to an adoption sacred in his eyes.

Then, seeing how worn-out Clement looked, he abetted Sibby and
Geraldine, in shutting their patient safe up in his bedroom, not to
be "mislested" any more that night, said Sibby. So he missed the
rush of the return. First came the two sober sisters, Anna and
Emilia, only sorry that Aunt Cherry had not seen the lovely sea, the
exquisite twinkle of silvered waves as the moon rose, and then the
outburst of coloured lights, taking many forms, and the brilliant
fireworks darting to and fro, describing curves, bursting and
scattering their sparks. Emilia had, however, begun by the anxious
question—-

"Nan, what is it with Gerald?"

"I don't quite know. I suspect Dolores has somehow teased him,
though it is not like her."

"Then there is something in it?"

"I can't help believing so, but I don't believe it has come to
anything."

"And is she not a most disagreeable girl! Those black eyebrows do
look so sullen and thunderous."

"Oh no, Emmie, I thought so at first, but she can't help her
eyebrows; and when you come to know her there is a vast deal in her-—
thought, and originality, and purpose. I am sure it has been good
for Gerald. He has seemed more definite and in earnest lately, less
as if he were playing with everything, with all views all round."

"But his spirits are so odd!-—so merry and then so grave."

"That is only during these last few days, and I fancy there must be
some hitch—-perhaps about Dolores' father, and we are all in such
haste."

Emilia did not pursue the subject. She had never indulged in the
folly of expecting any signs of actual love from her cousin. She had
always known that the family regarded any closer bond as impossible;
but she had been always used to be his chief confidante, and she
missed his attention, but she would not own this even to herself, go
she talked of her hospital schemes with much zest, and how she should
spend her outings at a favourite sisterhood.

"For," said she, "I am tired of luxury."

It had been a delightful walk to Anna, with her companion sister,
discussing Adrian, or Emily's plans, or Sophy's prospects. They had
come home the sooner, for Emily had to pack, as she was to spend a
little while with her mother at Vale Leston. Where was Franceska?
They were somewhat dismayed not to find her, but it was one of the
nights when everybody loses everybody, and no doubt she was with
Uncle Lance, or with Sophy, or Gerald.

No such thing. Here was Uncle Lance with his two boys in varying
kinds of delight, Adrian pronouncing that "it was very jolly, the
most ripping sight he ever saw," then eating voraciously, with his
eyes half shut, and tumbling off to bed "like a veritable Dutchman,"
said Lance, who had his own son in a very different mood, with
glowing cheeks, sparkling eyes, appetite gone for very excitement, as
he sprang about and waved his hands to describe the beautiful course
of the rockets, and the fall of the stars from the Roman candles.

"Oh, such as I never-—never saw! How shall I get Pearl and Audrey to
get even a notion of it? Grandpapa will guess in a moment! Oh, and
the sea, all shine with a path of—-of glory! Oh, daddy, there are
things more beautiful than anybody could ever dream of!"

"Go and dream then, my sprite. Try to be as still as you can, even
if you do go on feeling the yacht, and seeing the sparks when you
shut your eyes. For you see my head is bad, and I do want a chance
of sleep."

"Poor daddy! I'll try, even if the music goes on in my head. Good-
night."

"That will keep him quieter than anything," said Lance; "but I would
not give much for the chance of his not seeing the dawn."

"Or you either, I fear," said Geraldine. "Have you slept since the
discovery?"

"I shall make my sleep up at home, now I have had the whole out. Who
comes now?"

It was Sophy, with her look of


"Gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long."


Mr. Bramshaw had brought her to the door, and no doubt she and he had
had a quiet, restful time of patient planning; but the not finding
Francie soon filled her with great alarm and self-reproach for having
let herself be drawn away from the party, when all had stood together
on Miss Mohun's lawn. She wanted to start off at once in search of
her sister, and was hardly pacified by finding that Gerald was still
to come. Then, however, Gerald did come, and alone. He said he had
just seen the Clipstone party off. No, he had not seen Francie
there; but he added, rather as if recovering from a bewilderment, as
Sophy was asking him to come out with her again, "Oh, never fear.
Lord Ivinghoe was there somewhere!"

"I thought he was gone."

"No, he said the yacht got in too late for the train. Never mind,
Sophy, depend upon it she is all right."

None of the ladies present felt equally pleased, but in a minute or
two more in came a creature, bright, lovely, and flushed, with two
starry eyes, gleaming like the blue lights on the ships.

"Oh, Cousin Marilda, have I kept you waiting? I am so sorry!"

"Where have you been?"

"Only on the cliff walk. Lord Ivinghoe took me to see the place
where his father had the accident, and we watched the fireworks from
there. Oh, it was so nice, and still more beautiful when the strange
lights were out and the people gone, and only the lovely quiet moon
shining on the sea, and a path of light from Venus."

"I should think so," muttered Gerald, and Marilda began—-

"Pretty well, miss."

"I am very sorry to bo so late," began Francie, and Geraldine caught
an opportunity while shawling Marilda to say—-

"Dear, good Marilda, I implore you to say nothing to put it into her
head or Alda's. I don't think any harm is done yet, but it can't be
anything. It can't come to good, and it would only be unhappiness to
them all."

"Oh, ah! well, I'll try. But what a chance it would be, and how
happy it would make poor Alda!"

"It can't be. The boy's mother would never let him look at her!
Don't, don't, don't!"

"Well, I'll try not." She kissed her fondly.

Gerald's walk had been with Dolores of course, a quiet, grave,
earnest talk and walk, making them feel how much they belonged to one
another, and building schemes in which they were to learn the nature
of the poor and hard-worked, by veritably belonging to them, and
being thus able to be of real benefit. In truth, neither of them, in
their brave youthfulness, really regretted Vale Leston, and the
responsibilities; and, as Gerald declared, he would give it up
tomorrow gladly if he could save his name and his father's from
shame, but, alas! the things went together.

Dolores wished to write fully to her father, and that Gerald should
do the same, but she did not wish to have the matter discussed in the
family at once, before his answer came, and Gerald had agreed to
silence, as indeed they would not call themselves engaged till that
time. Indeed, Dolores said there was so much excitement about
Captain Armytage that no one was thinking of her.




CHAPTER XXIV. COUNSELS OF PATIENCE



He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who fears to put it to the touch,
To win or lose it all.


If Sibby hoped to keep her "long boy" from being "mislested," she was
mistaken. He knew too well what was to come, and when she knocked at
his door with his cup of tea, he came to it half dressed, to her
extreme indignation, calling for his shaving water.

"Now, Master Clem, if you would only be insinsed enough to keep to
your bed, you might have Miss Sophy to speak to you there, if nothing
else will serve you."

"Is she there?"

"In coorse, and Miss Francie too. What should they do else, after
colloguing with their young men all night? Ah, 'tis a proud woman
poor Miss Alda would be if she could have seen the young lord! And
the real beauty is Miss Francie, such as my own babbies were before
her, bless them!"

"Stop," cried Clement in consternation. "It is only a bit of passing
admiration. Don't say a word about it to the others."

"As if I would demane myself to the like of them! Me that has been
forty-seven years with you and yours, and had every one of you in my
arms the first thing, except the blessed eldest that is gone to a
better place."

"Would that he were here now!" sighed Clement, almost as he had
sighed that first morning of his loss. "Where are those girls?"

"Rampaging over the house with Sir Adrian, and his packing of all his
rubbish, enough to break the heart of a coal-heaver! I'd not let
them in to bother their aunt, and Mr. Gerald is asleep like a blessed
baby."

"And Lance?"

"Oh! it is down to the sea he is with that child that looks as if he
was made of air, and lived on live larks! And Master Lance, he's no
better-—eats like a sparrow, and sits up half the night writing for
his paper."

Clement got rid of Sibby at last, but he was hardly out of his room
before Sophy descended on him, anxious and blushing, though he could
give her much sympathy and kindly hope of his influence, only he had
to preach patience. It had been no hasty fancy, but there had long
been growing esteem and affection, and he could assure her of all the
aid the family could give with her mother, though Penbeacon works
would be a very insecure foundation for hope.

"I think Gerald would consent," said Sophy, "and he will soon be of
age."

Clement could only say "Humph!"

"One thing I hope is not wrong," said Sophy, "but I do trust that no
one will tell mother about Lord Ivinghoe. It is not jealousy, I
hope, but I cannot see that there is anything in it, only the very
sound would set mother more against Philip than ever."

"You do not suppose that Francie is—-is touched?"

"No," said Sophy, gravely as an elder, "she is such a child. She was
very much pleased and entertained, and went on chattering, till I
begged her to let us say our prayers in peace. We never talk after
that, and she went to sleep directly, and was smiling when she woke,
but I do not fancy she will dwell on it, or fancy there is more to
come, unless some one puts it into her head."

It was sagely said, and Clement knew pretty well who was the one
person from whom Sophy had fears. Poor Alda, improved and altered as
she was, if such a hope occurred to her, would she be able to help
imparting it to her daughter and looking out for the fulfilment?

Loud calls for Sophy rang through the house, and Clement had only
time to add—-

"Patience, dear child, and submission. They not only win the day,
but are the best preparation for it when it is won."

That family of girls had grown up to be a care to one who had trusted
that his calling would be a shield from worldly concerns; but he
accepted it as providential, and as a trust imposed on him as
certainly as Felix had felt the headship of the orphaned house.