Isaac Landman - "Stories of the Prophets"

Thomas Belt - "The Naturalist in Nicaragua"

John Lothrop Motley - "The Rise of the Dutch Republic, 1578"

Charlotte M. Yonge - "The Lances Of Lynwood"

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: Miss Lou

E >> E. P. Roe >> Miss Lou




"Well, you have," resumed the captain, who was slightly feverish,
excited and inclined to talk. "One of my dearest hopes now is to get
back to my little girl soon and deepen her mind by making her
ashamed of the silly things in a girl's life. Of course I wish her
to be joyous and happy as a young thing should be, as I think you
would be if you had the chance. By means of your story I can make
her ashamed ever to indulge in those picayune, contemptible feminine
traits which exasperate men. I want her to be brave, helpful,
sincere, like you, like her mother. How quickly poor Yarry
recognized the spirit in which you came among us at first! Jove! I
didn't think him capable of such feeling. I tell you, Miss Baron,
the roughest of us reverence an unselfish woman--one who doesn't
think of herself first and always. She mayn't be a saint, but if she
has heart enough for sympathy and is brave and simple enough to
bestow it just as a cool spring gushes from the ground, we feel she
is the woman God meant her to be. Ah, uncle, that reminds me--
another cup of that cold water. For some reason I'm awfully thirsty
this morning."

Miss Lou listened with hands nervously clasping and unclasping,
utterly at a loss to know how to tell the man, dreaming of home and
planning for the future, that he must soon sleep beside poor Yarry.
She had already taken to herself the mournful comfort that his grave
also should be where she could care for it and keep it green.

"I wish to tell you more about my little Sadie and my wife. Some
day, when this miserable war is over, you will visit us. We'll give
you a reception then which may turn even your head. Ha! ha! you
thought we'd be worse than Indians. Well, I'll show you a lot of our
squaws in full evening dress and you'll own that my wife is the
prettiest in the tribe. Every day, until we started on this blasted
raid, I received a letter from her. I knew about as well what was
going on at home as if there. With my wife it was love almost at
first sight, but I can tell you that it's not 'out of sight out of
mind' with us. Time merely adds to the pure, bright flame, and such
a pair of lovers as we shall be when gray as badgers will be worth a
journey to you."

Miss Lou could maintain her self-control no longer. She burst into
tears and sobbed helplessly.

"You poor little girl," exclaimed the captain in deep commiseration.
"Here I've been talking like a garrulous fool when your heart is
burdened with some trouble that perhaps you would like to speak to
me about. Tell me, my child, just as little Sadie would."

"My heart is burdened with trouble, captain; it feels as if it would
break when I hear you talk so. Would to God little Sadie were here,
and your beautiful wife too! Oh, what shall I say? How can I, how
can I?"

"Miss Baron!" he exclaimed, looking at her in vague alarm.

"Oh, Captain Hanfield, you are a brave, unselfish man like Yarry.
Don't make it too hard for me. Oh, I feel as if I could scarcely
breathe."

As he saw her almost panting at his side and tears streaming from
her eyes, the truth began to dawn upon him. He looked at her
steadily and silently for a moment, then reached out his hand as he
said in an awed whisper, "Is it on account of me? Did Borden send
you here?"

She took his hand, bowed her forehead upon it and wept speechlessly.

She felt it tremble for a moment, then it was withdrawn and placed
on her bowed head. "So you are the angel of death to me?" the
officer faltered.

Her tears were her only, yet sufficient answer. Both were silent,
she not having the heart to look at him.

At last he said in deep tones, "I wasn't expecting this. It will
make a great change in"--and then he was silent again.

She took his limp hand and bowed her forehead on it, as before
feeling by some fine instinct that her unspoken sympathy was best.

It was. The brave man, in this last emergency, did as he would have
done in the field at the head of his company if subjected to a
sudden attack. He promptly rearranged and marshalled all his
faculties to face the enemy. There was not a moment of despairing,
vain retreat. In the strong pressure upon his mind of those
questions which must now be settled once for all, he forgot the girl
by his side. He was still so long that she timidly raised her head
and was awed by his stern, fixed expression of deep abstraction. She
did not disturb him except as the stifled sobs of her deep, yet now
passing agitation convulsed her bosom, and she began to give her
attention to Uncle Lusthah, hitherto unheeded. The old man was on
his knees in a dusky corner, praying in low tones. "Oh, I'm so glad
he's here," she thought. "I'm glad he's praying God to help us
both." In the uncalculating sympathy and strength of her nature she
had unconsciously entered into the dying man's experience and was
suffering with him. Indeed, her heart sank with a deeper dread and
awe than he from the great change which he had faced so often as to
be familiar with its thought.

At last he seemed to waken to her presence and said compassionately,
"Poor little girl! so all your grief was about me. How pale you
are!"

"I do so wish you could go home," she breathed; "I am so very, VERY
sorry."

"Well, Miss Baron," he replied with dignity, "I'm no better than
thousands of others. I always knew this might happen any day. You
have learned why it is peculiarly hard for me--but that's not to be
thought of now. If I've got my marching orders, that's enough for a
soldier. It was scarcely right in Borden to give you this heavy
task. I could have faced the truth from his lips."

"He felt so dreadfully about it," she replied. "He said he had been
giving you false hopes in trying to make you get well."

"Oh, yes, he meant kindly. Well, if it hasn't been too much for you,
I'm glad you told me. Your sympathy, your face, will be a sweet
memory to carry, G--od only knows where. Since it can't be little
Sadie's face or my wife's I'm glad it's yours. What am I saying? as
if I should forget their dear faces through all eternity."

"Ah! captain, I wish you could hear one of our soldiers, talk. Dying
with him just means going to Heaven."

The officer shook his head. "I'm not a Christian," he said simply.

"Neither am I," she replied, "but I've been made to feel that being
one is very different from what I once thought it was."

"Well, Miss Baron, what is it to be a Christian--what is your idea
of it? There has always seemed to me such a lot of conflicting
things to be considered--well, well, I haven't given the subject
thought and it's too late now. I must give my mind to my family and--"

Uncle Lusthah stepped before him with clasped hands and quivering
lips. "Ef marse cap'n des list'n ter de ole man a minit. I ain't
gwine ter talk big en long. I kyant. I des wanter say I hab
'spearance. Dat sump'n, marse cap'n, you kyant say not'n agin--
rale 'spearance, sump'n I KNOWS."

"Well, you kind old soul, what do you know?"

"P'raps des what mars'r knows ef he ony tinks a lil. Let us git
right down ter de root ob de marter, kaze I feared dere ain' time
fer 'locutions."

"Now you're right at least, uncle. I must set my house in order. I
must write to my wife."

"Marse cap'n, you gwine on a journey. Wa't yo' wife wish mo'n dat
you git ready fer de journey? She tek dat journey too, bime by soon,
en you bof be at de same deah home."

"Ah, uncle, if that could be true, the sting of death would be
gone."

"Sut'ny, marse cap'n. Didn't I know dat ar w'en I mek bole ter
speak? Now des tink on hit, mars'r. Yere I is, an ole ign'rant
slabe, kyant eben read de good Book. De worl' full ob poor folks lak
me. Does you tink ef de Lawd mean ter sabe us't all He'd do hit in
some long rounerbout way dat de wise people kyant mos' fin' out? No,
bress He gret big heart, He des stan' up en say to all, 'Come ter me
en I gib you res'."

"Yes, uncle, but I haven't gone to Him. I don't know how to go, and
what's more, I don't feel it's right to go now at the last minute as
if driven by fear."

"Now, cap'n, fergib de ole man fer sayin' you all wrong. Haint young
mistis been breakin' her lil gyurlish heart ober yo' trouble? Am de
Lawd dat die fer us wuss'n a graven himage? Doan He feel fer you
mo'n we kin? I reck'n you got des de bes' kin' of prep'ration ter go
ter 'Im. You got trouble. How He act toward folks dat hab trouble--
ev'y kin' ob trouble? Marse cap'n, I des KNOWS dat de Lawd wanter
brung you en yo' wife en dat lil Sadie I year you talk 'bout all
togeder whar He is. I des KNOWS hit. Hit's 'spearance."

"Miss Baron," said the captain calmly, "Isn't it wonderful? This old
slave says he knows what, if true, is worth more to me than all the
accumulated wisdom of the world. What do you think of it?"

"It seems as if it ought to be true," she answered earnestly. "I
never so felt before that it OUGHT to be true. We never should have
been born, or given such love as you have for your dear ones, if it
isn't true. Oh, to be just snatched hopelessly away from such ties
is horrible. My whole soul revolts at it."

"See here, uncle," said the captain almost sternly, "I'm not going
to groan, sigh, weep, and take on in any of your camp-meeting
tactics. I am before the last great enemy and I know how to meet him
like a man and soldier, if not a Christian. I'm willing to do
anything not insincere or unmanly to meet my wife and children
again. If my thought and feeling for them at this time isn't right,
then I've been created wrong."

"Marse cap'n, I'se seen de mos' po'ful feelin's en miseries ob de
'victed ones vaperate lak de maunin' dew en I'se larn in my ole age
dat de sabin po'r ain' in we uns, ner in any ting we is ob oursefs
ner in w'at we po' lil chil'n of yearth kin do. De Lawd say, He come
ter seek en sabe de loss; I wuz loss. De wuss ting He enemies cud
speak agin 'Im wuz, Dis man 'ceiveth sinners: I wuz a sinner. I des
arst 'Im ter sabe me, en He did. I des trus' 'Im fer life en death
en does de bes' I kin. Dat's all. But hit's 'SPEARANCE, marse cap'n,
en I KNOWS hit. Now, marse cap'n, w'at fo' you go way in the de
dark, you dunno whar? De bressed Lawd say, I go ter prepare a place
fer you. Now you des let young mistis write ter yo' folks dat you
gwine wid Jesus ter dat ar place en dat you gwine ter wait fer dem
dar en welcome urn home bime by des lak dey wud welcome you home way
up Norf. Dat ud comf't em a heap, en hit's all true. I knows hit.
Young mistis berry sens'ble w'en she say we neber orter be bawn ef
hit ain' true."

The officer looked fixedly at the tearful, wrinkled face for a few
moments and then said firmly, "I'll soon find out if it's true. If I
do this thing at all, I'll do it in the only way I can. Miss Baron,
you may write to my wife that I accept her faith. It's much the same
as Uncle Lusthah's--too simple and unphilosophical, I used to think;
but it meets my need now. I can't deal even with God in any other
way than this. The mind he has endowed me with revolts at anything
else as hypocritical. I can and do say that I will accept in
grateful, downright sincerity the terms which Uncle Lusthah
accepted, which my wife accepted. I submit myself to His will. I do
this calmly, as I would give my hand and pledge my faith to a man,
and I cannot do any more. Now He may do with me as He pleases. Miss
Baron, you do the same and you'll be just as good--yes, a much
better Christian than I, for I've done rough, bad things in my life.
Don't you wait till you're in my extremity. I must say that I have a
wretched sense of self-contempt that I am looking Heavenward with
dying eyes. There's only one thing that reconciles me to it--the
words 'Our Father.' God knows that I'd open my arms to my little
Sadie under any possible circumstances. What the old man here says
must be true, for to trifle with or mock a man in my position
presupposes a degree of malignity inconceivable. I ask nothing
better than that Christ will receive me as I would receive my child
from world-wide wandering."

"Ah, bress He big gret heart," cried Uncle Lusthah, dropping on his
knees, "w'en yo' fader en yo' moder forsook you den de Lawd took you
up."

"Miss Baron, I wish to think a while and learn from Borden just how
much time I have left. You will come to me again?"

"Yes, whenever you wish."

"Well, then, good-by for a short time. Thank God for sending me such
an angel of death. You stay with me, uncle, till I send you for
Borden."




CHAPTER XXX

GLIMPSES OF MOODS AND MINDS


Dr. Borden's predictions were verified in regard to his friend and
patient, Captain Hanfield, but not before the officer had dictated
calm, farewell letters to his wife and "little Sadie." To Miss Lou
were left the serene, smiling likenesses, a grave to be cared for
beside Yarry's, and a memory that could never be blotted out. She
was kept from witnessing the terrible convulsions which began soon
after her interview, but was present at his death and held his hand
until it was cold and lifeless.

Within two weeks after the battle very few patients were left, and
all these were to go with Dr. Ackley on the following day,
Lieutenant Waldo excepted. He was still too weak to be moved. His
mother had become so skilful in the care of his wound that she would
be competent, with the help of an aged resident practitioner, to
carry him through his convalescence. Mrs. Whately now spent most of
the time on her plantation, her presence being needed there to
remedy the effects, as far as possible, of the harsh measures at
first adopted by her son. It was discouraging effort. The strong ebb
tide in the old order of things had set in even far from the Union
lines, and only the difficulty in reaching them prevented a general
stampede of the negroes. As it was, two or three of her best hands
would steal away from time to time, and run the gantlet of many
dangers in their travel by night Northward. Her attempts to mollify
and render her slaves contented were more than counterbalanced by
the threats and severity of her son, who was too vacillating to
adopt a fixed policy, and arbitrary by nature.

Her chief hope for him still centred in Miss Lou, upon whom his
thoughts were fixed with a steadfastness and earnestness which his
mother fondly believed would win her eventually, "I'm sure," she
reasoned, "Captain Maynard has made no deep impression. He is about
to depart. All will soon be gone, and the old monotony of plantation
life will be resumed. After what has happened Louise will not be
able to endure this. Madison will return, older and wiser from
experience and she, with nothing else to occupy her thoughts will
react, like all impulsive natures, from her opposition. Next to
winning her or her favor from the start, he has scored a success in
waking a hostility far removed from fatal indifference."

She maintained an affectionate manner toward her niece and never
discussed the hope she entertained and expectation of calling her
daughter. In truth, she had won the girl's respect and goodwill in a
very high degree. She had been a kind and successful nurse among the
wounded, confining her efforts chiefly to the Confederates. She had
also been a dignified lady in all the scenes they had passed
through. Her weakness was her son, yet the girl was compelled to
admit that it was the weakness of love. In seeking to bring about
the detested union a motherly heart and feeling toward her had ever
been apparent.

The girl was already becoming depressed by a presentiment of the
dull, stagnant days to come. Scoville had been lost in the great
outside, unknown world completely. She was suffering from reaction
after the strong excitements and fatigues of her experience. Her two
lovers, remaining on the scene, possessed a sort of goading interest
which compelled her to think of them, but she contemplated their
near departure without regret. Nothing in her nature answered to
their looks, words and evident desires. She felt that she would as
soon marry one as the other, and that she would rather be buried
beside Captain Hanfield and take the journey of which Uncle Lusthah
had quaintly spoken than wed either. Yet in her lassitude she feared
that she could now be compelled to marry either or any one if enough
active force was employed, so strangely had ebbed her old fearless
spirit.

It were with a kind of wondering pity that she looked at Maynard and
saw the evidences of an honest, ardent attachment. "Why does he feel
so?" she asked herself. "I have done nothing for him, given no
encouragement, and would not care if I never saw him again. I merely
wish him well, as I do so many others. Why can't he see this, and
just act on the truth? He says he is coming to see me every chance
he gets and tries to make me feel that he'll never give me up.
Perhaps if I should let him speak plainly he would see how useless
it all would be."

Circumstances apparently favored the half-formed purpose. Languid
from the heat of the day, she went out on the piazza after supper,
sat down on the upper step and leaned against a rose-entwined
pillar. Maynard was entranced by the picture she made and promptly
availed himself of the opportunity. Every one else had disappeared
except Zany, of whom glimpses could be caught through the open
windows of the supper-room; but she did not count. Sitting on a
lower step so as to be in a measure at her feet Maynard began.

"Miss Baron, I am thinking very sadly, if you are not, over the fact
that I am to go away in the morning."

"Yes," she replied, half-consciously ignoring his personal view,
"the old house and plantation will soon be as quiet and deserted as
before."

"Do you regret this?"

"I scarcely know. I am very tired and feel sad over all that has
happened. Perhaps I'll feel differently by and by, when I've rested
and had time to think."

"Oh, Miss Baron, if you knew how earnestly I hope to be remembered
in those thoughts, to give you something definite to think of."

She had scarcely the energy to check him, the thought occurring more
than once, "I might just as well let him speak his mind and see how
vain his hope is."

"You have not given me encouragement," he resumed. "You have seemed
too preoccupied, sad or weary; but this phase of your life will pass
away. Our glorious cause must soon be crowned with success. If I
survive, may I not hope that when I come again you will give me a
hearing, a chance? I can be patient, even though not patient by
nature. I will do all that a man--"

"Captain," interrupted the girl, at last, "I suppose, from the books
I've read, I should make some fine speeches about the honor you are
bestowing on me, and all that. I'm too tired and sad for anything
conventional and appropriate. I'm just going to answer you like a
simple, honest girl. One of my chief reasons for sadness is that you
feel as you do. I see no reason for it. I'm glad you say I've given
you no encouragement, I know I have not. Why should you care so for
me when I do not and cannot respond at all? I do sincerely wish you
well, but it seems to me that it should be enough for a man when a
girl listens to such words as yours in weary sadness only."

"It may be hard indeed for a man to recognize this truth, Miss
Baron, but I am not speaking of the present--of the future rather.
There has been much to make you sad and weary. Your very youth and
high spirit will soon lead you to react from your present
depression. Let me speak of the future. Please let me fill that with
hope for you and for me."

"Oh, I don't know about the future. For some reason I dread even to
think of it."

At this instant Whately galloped to the piazza, threw the reins on
the neck of his horse as he dismounted, evidently not caring in his
perturbation where the animal wandered. He was in a bad mood, for
things were not going smoothly at home. The attitude of his rival at
his cousin's feet stung him into a jealous rage and he remarked
bitterly as he strode past them, "Don't let my inopportune arrival
disturb this charming tete-a-tete. In fact, I had no business to
remain at my uncle's home at all, even at the call of duty, after
Captain Maynard signified his intention of making it the long-
continued field of his operations."

Cut to the quick, Maynard sprang to his feet, but Miss Lou merely
made a gesture of annoyance and went to her room.

"Lieutenant Whately," began the captain in low, stern tones, "were I
not in some sense a guest, even though an unwelcome one--"

"You are no guest of mine, sir, nor indeed of anyone that I am aware
of."

"Thank you. I was haunted by some restraining consideration of
Southern hospitality, but if I am free--"

"You are perfectly free, sir," again interrupted Whately, dropping
his hand on the hilt of his sabre. "Let me also add that a Southern
gentleman would not have made Southern hospitality a subterfuge for
an opportunity to press a suit repugnant to the family concerned. We
have never failed in hospitality to any invited guest."

"Your words are offensive, sir."

"I mean them to be so."

"Very well; then I have but one answer. I challenge you. Choose your
weapons, hour and place of meeting."

"Revolvers, if you please. Meet me back of the grove yonder, at the
right of the house, at daybreak."

"I'll not fail you. There is no need of seconds in this affair, I
take it, and we are to keep our purpose secret. Dr. Ackley would
interfere and the family be distressed were our intentions known."

"No one need know till our shots are heard and then it will be too
late to interfere. I insist that we fight to the death."

"Certainly, if that's your wish. Good-evening, sir."

"Good-evening," and Whately went to his room to remove the dust of
his ride and prepare for the late supper which his aunt had ordered
for him.

This lady, hearing his step in the hall, hastened downstairs and
called for Zany. "Yassum," came in quick response. The young woman
emerged from the dining-room looking as stolid as a wooden image.

"Attend to Lieutenant Whately's supper and see that he has the best
you can get for him."

"Yassum."

Mrs. Baron then repaired to her husband's office, where he and
Surgeon Ackley were closeted, making up the accounts relating to the
occupation of the property for hospital purposes. Maynard lighted
his pipe, and strolled out into the grounds. He was in a cold,
deadly mood of anger. There was just enough sting of truth in
Whately's words to make the insult unendurable. Added to this was
intense exasperation that he had been interrupted at a critical and,
as he believed, a hopeful, moment. He had seen that the girl was not
ready for his suit or that of any one at present, but was quite sure
he could have won permission to renew his addresses in the future.
Now--well, he was ready enough to fight to the death and utterly
oblivious of the still, serene beauty of the night. He appeared but
a shadow as he walked quietly under the trees, but it was a shadow
of death. An hour since and he was but a passionate youth, full of
ardent love and longing, vaguely inspired, under the influence of
his passion, toward all noble enthusiasms. At the touch of a few
words his heart overflowed with bitterness, and a cold, vindictive
hate rendered the hours interminable till he could aim a bullet at
his rival's heart, reckless meantime that another bullet was aimed
at his.

In his walk he passed the tent in which Lieutenant Waldo and his
mother were talking quietly of their home and the prospects of
maintaining it during the troublous times clearly foreseen.

"Mother," said Waldo, "have you any definite idea as to the success
of our arms?"

"No, Vincent, nor do I suppose we can at this remote plantation. We
only know that there is heavy fighting at various points and great
successes are claimed; but it seems very hard to get at the real
truth. Our chief confidence must be in the sacredness and justness
of our cause and in the prayers of so many sincere hearts to the God
of justice. In giving you, my son, to our country, when you were
scarcely more than a boy, you can understand why I feel that such
sacrifices cannot be in vain. Now that I have watched beside you in
your patient, heroic suffering, the feeling becomes a conviction
that our sunny land must be enriched and blessed for all time by
such blood as yours."

"Well, mother, I do not begrudge my blood or my life. You have
taught me that to die is gain; but almost hourly I pray for recovery
that I may soon rejoin my regiment and do more toward achieving our
liberty. How strange it is that men of the North should be animated
by much the same spirit! Miss Baron has been showing me the lovely
faces of the wife and daughter of a Federal officer who died
heroically a few days ago. She says the war is all a dreadful
mystery to her."

"I am beginning to understand her better," replied Mrs. Waldo
musingly, "for to some extent she has given me her confidence. If
she had been brought up as you have been she would feel as you do. I
can see why her uncle and aunts have not won her sympathy, while her
cousin's conduct has been well calculated to alienate her. I can
also understand why the negroes on the place have so enlisted her
sympathy. I do not think they have been treated very harshly, but it
is too clear that they are regarded simply as property, and Mr.
Baron has allowed himself to be represented among them by a brutal,
coarse-fibred man. If she had been your sister and had witnessed the
spirit in which our slaves are governed and cared for she would feel
as you do, not vindictive hatred of the North--such feeling is not
permissible toward any of the human race--but a stern, lofty spirit
of independence, such as our fathers had in separating from
England."