Sydney G. Fisher - "The Quaker Colonies"

T.S. Arthur - "Lizzy Glenn"

Azel Ames - "The Mayflower and Her Log, v3"

John Lothrop Motley - "History of the United Netherlands, 1602 03"

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: His Sombre Rivals

E >> E. P. Roe >> His Sombre Rivals




"My name is our cause," was the defiant answer; "with it I will live
or die."

Then came upon Graham one of those rare moments in his life when no
mortal man could stand before him. Ceasing his wary, rapid fence, his
sword played like lightning; and in less than a moment the
Confederate's sabre flew from his hand, and he stood helpless.

"Strike," he said, sullenly; "I won't surrender."

"I'd sooner cut off my right hand," replied Graham, smiling upon him,
"than strike the brother of Rita Anderson."

"Is your name Graham?" asked his opponent, his aspect changing
instantly.

"Yes; and you are Henry. I saw your sister's eyes in yours. Take up
your sword, and go quietly to the rear as my friend, not prisoner. I
adjure you, by the name of your old and honored father and your noble-
hearted sister, to let me keep my promise to them to save your life,
were it ever in my power."

"I yield," said the young man, in deep despondency. "Our cause
_is_ lost, and you are the only man in the North to whom I should be
willing to surrender. Colonel, I will obey your orders."

Summoning his orderly and another soldier, he said to them, "Escort
this gentleman to the rear. Let him keep his arms. I have too much
confidence in you, Colonel Anderson, even to ask that you promise not
to escape. Treat him with respect. He will share my quarters to-
night." And then he turned and rushed onward to overtake the extreme
advance of his line, wondering at the strange scene which had passed
with almost the rapidity of thought.

That night by Graham's camp-fire began a friendship between himself
and Henry Anderson which would be lifelong. The latter asked, "Have
you heard from my father and sister since you parted with them?"

"No. My duties have carried me far away from that region. But it is a
source of unspeakable gratification that we have met, and that you can
tell me of their welfare."

"It does seem as if destiny, or, as father would say, Providence, had
linked my fortunes and those of my family with you. He and Rita would
actually have suffered with hunger but for you. Since you were there
the region has been tramped and fought over by the forces of both
sides, and swept bare. My father mentioned your name and that of
Colonel Hilland; and a guard was placed over his house, and he and
Rita were saved from any personal annoyance. But all of his slaves,
except the old woman you remember, were either run off or enticed
away, and his means of livelihood practically destroyed. Old Uncle
Jehu and his son Huey have almost supported them. They, simple souls,
could not keep your secret, though they tried to after their clumsy
fashion. My pay, you know, was almost worthless; and indeed there was
little left for them to buy. Colonel Graham, I am indebted to you for
far more than life, which has become wellnigh a burden to me."

"Life has brought far heavier burdens to others than to you, Colonel
Anderson. Those you love are living; and to provide for and protect
such a father and sister as you possess might well give zest to any
life. Your cause is lost; and the time may come sooner than you expect
when you will be right glad of it. I know you cannot think so now, and
we will not dwell on this topic. I can testify from four years'
experience that no cause was ever defended with higher courage or more
heroic self-sacrifice. But your South is not lost; and it will be the
fault of its own people if it does not work out a grander destiny
within the Union than it could ever achieve alone. But don't let us
discuss politics. You have the same right to your views that I have to
mine. I will tell you how much I owe to your father and sister, and
then you will see that the burden of obligation rests upon me;" and he
gave his own version of that memorable day whose consequences
threatened to culminate in Grace Hilland's death.

Under the dominion of this thought he could not hide the anguish of
his mind; and Rita had hinted enough in her letters to enable Anderson
to comprehend his new-found friend. He took Graham's hand, and as he
wrung it he said, "Yes, life has brought to others heavier burdens
than to me."

"You may have thought," resumed Graham, "that I fought savagely to-
day; but I felt that it is best for all to end this useless, bloody
struggle as soon as possible. As for myself, I'm just crazed with
anxiety to get away and return home. Of course we cannot be together
after tonight, for with the dawn I must be in the saddle. Tonight you
shall share my blankets. You must let me treat you as your father and
Rita treated me. I will divide my money with you: don't grieve me by
objecting. Call it a loan if you will. Your currency is now worthless.
You must go with the other prisoners; but I can soon obtain your
release on parole, and then, in the name of all that is sacred, return
home to those who idolize you. Do this, Colonel Anderson, and you will
lift a heavy burden from one already overweighted"'

"As you put the case I cannot do otherwise," was the sad reply.
"Indeed I have no heart for any more useless fighting. My duty now is
clearly to my father and sister."

That night the two men slumbered side by side, and in the dawn parted
more like brothers than like foes.

As Graham had predicted, but a brief time elapsed before Lee
surrendered, and Colonel Anderson's liberty on parole was soon
secured. They parted with the assurance that they would meet again as
soon as circumstances would permit.

At the earliest hour in which he could depart with honor, Graham's
urgent entreaty secured him a leave of absence; and he lost not a
moment in his return, sending to his aunt in advance a telegram to
announce his coming.



CHAPTER XXXV

HIS SOMBRE RIVALS

Never had his noble horse Mayburn seemed to fail him until the hour
that severed the military chain which had so long bound him to
inexorable duty, and yet the faithful beast was carrying him like the
wind. Iss, his servant, soon fell so far behind that Graham paused and
told him to come on more leisurely, that Mayburn would be at the
terminus of the military railroad. And there Iss found him, with
drooping head and white with foam. The steam-engine was driven to City
Point with the reckless speed characteristic of military railroads;
but to Graham the train seemed to crawl. He caught a steamer bound for
Washington, and paced the deck, while in the moonlight the dark shores
of the James looked stationary. From Washington the lightning express
was in his view more dilatory than the most lumbering stage of the old
regime.

When at last he reached the gate to his aunt's cottage and walked
swiftly up the path, the hour and the scene were almost the same as
when he had first come, an indifferent stranger, long years before.
The fruit-trees were as snowy white with blossoms, the air as
fragrant, the birds singing as jubilantly, as when he had stood at the
window and gazed with critical admiration on a sportive girl, a child-
woman, playing with her little Spitz dog. As he passed the spot where
she had stood, beneath his ambush behind the curtains, his excited
mind brought back her image with lifelike realism--the breeze in her
light hair, her dark eyes brimming with mirth, her bosom panting from
her swift advance, and the color of the red rose in her cheeks.

He groaned as he thought of her now.

His aunt saw him from the window, and a moment later was sobbing on
his breast.

"Aunt," he gasped, "I'm not too late?"

"Oh, no," she said, wearily; "Grace is alive; but one can scarcely say
much more. Alford, you must be prepared for a sad change."

He placed her in her chair, and stood before her with heaving breast.
"Now tell me all," he said, hoarsely.

"Oh, Alford, you frighten me. You must be more composed. You cannot
see Grace, looking and feeling as you do. She is weakness itself;" and
she told him how the idol of his heart was slowly, gradually, but
inevitably sinking into the grave.

"Alford, Alford," she cried, entreatingly, "why do you look so stern?
You could not look more terrible in the most desperate battle."

In low, deep utterance, he said, "This is my most desperate battle;
and in it are the issues of life and death."

"You terrify _me_, and can you think that a weak, dying woman can look
upon you as you now appear?"

"She shall not die," he continued, in the same low, stern utterance,
"and she must look upon me, and listen, too. Aunt, you have been
faithful to me all these years. You have been my mother. I must
entreat one more service. You must second me, sustain me, co-work with
me. You must ally all your experienced womanhood with my manhood, and
with my will, which may be broken, but which shall not yield to my
cruel fate."

"What do you propose to do?"

"That will soon be manifest. Go and prepare Grace for my visit. I wish
to see her alone. You will please be near, however;" and he abruptly
turned and went to his room to remove his military suit and the dust
of travel.

He had given his directions as if in the field, and she wonderingly
and tremblingly obeyed, feeling that some crisis was near.

Grace was greatly agitated when she heard of Graham's arrival; and two
or three hours elapsed before she was able to be carried down and
placed on the sofa in the library. He, out in the darkness on the
piazza, watched with eyes that glowed like coals--watched as he had
done in the most desperate emergency of all the bloody years of
battle. He saw her again, and in her wasted, helpless form, her hollow
cheeks, her bloodless face, with its weary, hopeless look, her mortal
weakness, he clearly recognized his _sombre rivals_, _Grief and
Death_; and with a look of indomitable resolution he raised his
hand and vowed that he would enter the lists against them. If it were
within the scope of human will he would drive them from their prey.

His aunt met him in the hall and whispered, "Be gentle."

"Remain here," was his low reply. "I have also sent for Dr. Markham;"
and he entered.

Grace reached out to him both her hands as she said, "Oh, Alford, you
are barely in time. It is a comfort beyond all words to see you
before--before--" She could not finish the sinister sentence.

He gravely and silently took her hands, and sat down beside her.

"I know I disappoint you," she continued. "I've been your evil genius,
I've saddened your whole life; and you have been so true and faithful!
Promise me, Alford, that after I'm gone you will not let my blighted
life cast its shadow over your future years. How strangely stern you
look!"

"So you intend to die, Grace?" were his first, low words.

"Intend to die?"

"Yes. Do you think you are doing right by your father in dying?"

"Dear, dear papa! I have long ceased to be a comfort to him. He, too,
will be better when I am gone. I am now a hopeless grief to him.
Alford, dear Alford, do not look at me in that way."

"How else can I look? Do you not comprehend what your death means to
_me_, if not to others?"

"Alford, can I help it?"

"Certainly you can. It will be sheer, downright selfishness for you to
die. It will be your one unworthy act. You have no disease: you have
only to comply with the conditions of life in order to live."

"You are mistaken," she said, the faintest possible color coming into
her face. "The bullet that caused Warren's death has been equally
fatal to me. Have I not tried to live?"

"I do not ask you to _try_ to live, but to _live_. Nay, more, I demand
it; and I have the right. I ask for nothing more. Although I have
loved you, idolized you, all these years, I ask only that you comply
with the conditions of life and live." The color deepened perceptibly
under his emphatic words, and she said, "Can a woman live whose heart,
and hope, and soul, if she has one, are dead and buried?"

"Yes, as surely as a man whose heart and hope were buried long years
before. There was a time when I weakly purposed to throw off the
burden of life; but I promised to live and do my best, and I am here
to-day. You must make me the same promise. In the name of all the
past, I demand it. Do you imagine that I am going to sit down tamely
and shed a few helpless tears if you do me this immeasurable wrong?"

"Oh, Alford!" she gasped, "what do you mean?"

"I am not here, Grace, to make threats," he said gravely; "but I fear
you have made a merely superficial estimate of my nature. Hilland is
not. You know that I would have died a hundred times in his place. He
committed you to my care with his last breath, and that trust gave
value to my life. What right have you to die and bring to me the
blackness of despair? I am willing to bear my burden patiently to the
end. You should be willing to bear yours."

"I admit your claim," she cried, wringing her hands. "You have made
death, that I welcome, a terror. How can I live? What is there left of
me but a shadow? What am I but a mere semblance of a woman? The snow
is not whiter than my hair, or colder than my heart. Oh, Alford, you
have grown morbid in all these years. You cannot know what is best.
Your true chance is to let me go. I am virtually dead now, and when my
flickering breath ceases, the change will be slight indeed."

"It will be a fatal change for me," he replied, with such calm
emphasis that she shuddered. "You ask how you can live. Again I
repeat, by complying with the conditions of life. You have been
complying with the conditions of death; and I will not yield you to
him. Grief has been a far closer and more cherished friend than I; and
you have permitted it, like a shadow, to stand between us. The time
has now come when you must choose between this fatal shadow, this
useless, selfish grief, and a loyal friend, who only asks that he may
see you at times, that he may know where to find the one life that is
essential to his life. Can you not understand from your own experience
that a word from you is sweeter to me than all the music of the
world?--that smiles from you will give me courage to fight the battle
of life to the last? Had Hilland come back wounded, would you have
listened if he had reasoned, 'I am weak and maimed--not like my old
self: you will be better off without me'?"

"Say no more," she faltered. "If a shadow can live, I will. If a poor,
heartless, hopeless creature can continue to breathe, I will. If I
die, as I believe I must, I will die doing just what you ask. If it is
possible for me to live, I shall disappoint you more bitterly than
ever. Alford, believe me, the woman is dead within me. If I live I
shall become I know not what--a sort of unnatural creature, having
little more than physical life."

"Grace, our mutual belief forbids such a thought. If a plant is deeply
shadowed, and moisture is withdrawn, it begins to die. Bring to it
again light and moisture, the conditions of its life, and it gradually
revives and resumes its normal state. This principle applies equally
to you in your higher order of existence. Will you promise me that, at
the utmost exertion of your will and intelligence, you will try to
live?"

"Yes, Alford; but again I warn you. You will be disappointed."

He kissed both her hands with a manner that evinced profound gratitude
and respect, but nothing more; and then summoned his aunt and Dr.
Markham.

Grace lay back on the sofa, white and faint, with closed eyes.

"Oh, Alford, what have you done?" exclaimed Mrs. Mayburn.

"What is right and rational. Dr. Markham, Mrs. Hilland has promised to
use the utmost exertion of her will and intelligence to live. I ask
that you and my aunt employ your utmost skill and intelligence in co-
operation with her effort. We here--all four of us--enter upon a
battle; and, like all battles, it should be fought with skill and
indomitable courage, not sentimental impulse. I know that Mrs. Hilland
will honestly make the effort, for she is one to keep her word. Am I
not right, Grace?"

"Yes," was the faint reply.

"Why, now I can go to work with hope," said the physician briskly, as
he gave his patient a little stimulant.

"And I also," cried the old lady, tears streaming down her face. "Oh,
darling Grace, you will live and keep all our hearts from breaking."

"I'll try," she said, in almost mortal weariness.

When she had been revived somewhat by his restoratives, Dr. Markham
said, "I now advise that she be carried back to her room, and I
promise to be unwearied in my care."

"No," said Graham to his aunt. "Do not call the servants; I shall
carry her to her room myself;" and he lifted her as gently as he would
take up a child, and bore her strongly and easily to her room.

"Poor, poor Alford!" she whispered--"wasting your rich, full heart on
a shadow."



CHAPTER XXXVI

ALL MATERIALISTS

When Graham returned to the library he found that the major had
tottered in, and was awaiting him with a look of intense anxiety.

"Graham, Graham!" he cried, "do you. think there is any hope?"

"I do, sir. I think there is almost a certainty that your daughter
will live."

"Now God be praised! although I have little right to say it, for I've
put His name to a bad use all my life."

"I don't think any harm has been done," said Graham, smiling.

"Oh, I know, I know how wise you German students are. You can't find
God with a microscope or a telescope, and therefore there is none. But
I'm the last man to criticise. Grace has been my divinity since her
mother died; and if you can give a reasonable hope that she'll live to
close my eyes, I'll thank the God that my wife worshipped, in spite of
all your new-fangled philosophies."

"And I hope I shall never be so wanting in courtesy, to say the least,
as to show anything but respect for your convictions. You shall know
the whole truth about Grace; and I shall look to you also for aid in a
combined effort to rally and strengthen her forces of life. You know,
Major, that I have seen some service."

"Yes, yes; boy that you are, you are a hundred-fold more of a veteran
than I am. At the beginning of the war I felt very superior and
experienced. But the war that I saw was mere child's-play."

"Well, sir, the war that I've been through was child's play to me
compared with the battle begun to-night. I never feared death, except
as it might bring trouble to others, and for long years I coveted it;
but I fear the death of Grace Hilland beyond anything in this world or
any other. As her father, you now shall learn the whole truth;" and he
told his story from the evening of their first game of whist together.

"Strange, strange!" muttered the old man. "It's the story of Philip
Harkness over again. But, by the God who made me, she shall reward you
if she lives."

"No, Major St. John, no. She shall devote herself to you, and live the
life that her own feelings dictate. She understands this, and I
_will_ it. I assure you that whatever else I lack it's not a will."

"You've proved that, Graham, if ever a man did. Well, well, well, your
coming has brought a strange and most welcome state of affairs.
Somehow you've given me a new lease of life and courage. Of late we've
all felt like hauling down the flag, and letting grim death do his
worst. I couldn't have survived Grace, and didn't want to. Only plucky
Mrs. Mayburn held on to your coming as a forlorn hope. You now make me
feel like nailing the flag to the staff, and opening again with every
gun. Grace is like her mother, if I do say it. Grace Brentford never
lacked for suitors, and she had the faculty of waking up _men_.
Forgive an old man's vanity. Phil Harkness was a little wild as a
young fellow, but he had grand mettle in him. He made more of a figure
in the world than I--was sent to Congress, owned a big plantation, and
all that--but sweet Grace Brentford always looked at me reproachfully
when I rallied her on the mistake she had made, and was contentment
itself in my rough soldier's quarters," and the old man took off his
spectacles to wipe his tear-dimmed eyes. "Grace is just like her. She,
too, has waked up men. Hilland was a grand fellow; and, Graham, you
are a soldier every inch of you, and that's the highest praise I can
bestow. You are in command in this battle, and God be with you. Your
unbelief doesn't affect _Him_ any more than a mole's."

Graham laughed--he could laugh in his present hopefulness--as he
replied, "I agree with you fully. If there is a personal Creator of
the universe, I certainly am a small object in it." "That's not what
I've been taught to believe either; nor is it according to my reason.
An infinite God could give as much attention to you as to the solar
system."

"From the present aspect of the world, a great deal would appear
neglected," Graham replied, with a shrug.

"Come, Colonel Graham," said the major, a little sharply, "you and I
have both heard the rank and file grumble over the tactics of their
general. It often turned out that the general knew more than the men.
But it's nice business for me to be talking religion to you or any one
else;" and the idea struck him as so comical that he laughed outright.

Mrs. Mayburn, who entered at that moment, said: "That's a welcome
sound. I can't remember, Major, when I've heard you laugh. Alford, you
are a magician. Grace is sleeping quietly."

"Little wonder! What have I had to laugh about?" said the major. "But
melancholy itself would laugh at my joke to-night. Would you believe
it, I've been talking religion to the colonel,--if I haven't!"

"I think it's time religion was talked to all of us."

"Oh, now, Mrs. Mayburn, don't you begin. You haven't any God any more
than Graham has. You have a jumble of old-fashioned theological
attributes, that are of no more practical use to you than the
doctrines of Aristotle. Please ring for Jinny, and tell her to bring
us a bottle of wine and some cake. I want to drink to Grace's health.
If I could see her smile again I'd fire a _feu de joie_ if I could
find any ordnance larger than a popgun. Don't laugh at me, friends,"
he added, wiping the tears from his dim old eyes; "but the bare
thought that Grace will live to bless my last few days almost turns my
head. Where is Dr. Markham?"

"He had other patients to see, and said he would return by and by,"
Mrs. Mayburn replied.

"It's time we had a little relief," she continued, "whatever the
future may be. The slow, steady pressure of anxiety and fear was
becoming unendurable. I could scarcely have suffered more if Grace had
been my own child; and I feared for you, Alford, quite as much."

"And with good reason," he said, quietly.

She gave him a keen look, and then did as the major had requested.

"Come, friends," cried he, "let us give up this evening to hope and
cheer. Let what will come on the morrow, we'll have at least one more
gleam of wintry sunshine to-day."

Filling the glasses of all with his trembling hand, he added, when
they were alone: "Here's to my darling's health. May the good God
spare her, and spare us all, to see brighter days. Because I'm not
good, is no reason why He isn't."

"Amen!" cried the old lady, with Methodistic fervor.

"What are you saying amen to?--that I'm not good?"

"Oh, I imagine we all average about alike," was her grim reply--"the
more shame to us all!"

"Dear, conscience-stricken old aunty!" said Graham, smiling at her.
"Will nothing ever lay your theological ghosts?"

"No, Alford," she said, gravely. "Let us change the subject."

"I've told Major St. John everything from the day I first came here,"
Graham explained; "and now before we separate let it be understood
that he joins us as a powerful ally. His influence over Grace, after
all, is more potent than that of all the rest of us united. My words
to-night have acted more like a shock than anything else. I have
placed before her clearly and sharply the consequences of yielding
passively, and of drifting further toward darkness. We must possess
ourselves with an almost infinite patience and vigilance. She, after
all, must bear the brunt of this fight with death; but we must be ever
on hand to give her support, and it must be given also unobtrusively,
with all the tact we possess. We can let her see that we are more
cheerful in our renewed hope, but we must be profoundly sympathetic
and considerate."

"Well, Graham, as I said before, you are captain. I learned to obey
orders long ago as well as to give them;" and the major summoned his
valet and bade them goodnight.

Graham, weary in the reaction from his intense feeling and excitement,
threw himself on the sofa, and his aunt came and sat beside him.

"Alford," she said, "what an immense change your coming has made!"

"The beginning of a change, I hope."

"It was time--it was time. A drearier household could scarcely be
imagined. Oh, how dreary life can become! Grace was dying. Every day I
expected tidings of your death. It's a miracle that you are alive
after all these bloody years. All zest in living had departed from the
major. We are all materialists, after our own fashion, wholly
dependent on earthly things, and earthly things were failing us. In
losing Grace, you and the major would have lost everything; so would I
in losing you. Alford, you have become a son to me. Would you break a
mother's heart? Can you not still promise to live and do your best?"