John Lothrop Motley - "History of the United Netherlands, 1604 05"

Bram Stoker - "The Lady of the Shroud"

F. W. Moorman - "Songs of the Ridings"

Henry Seton Merriman - "The Last Hope"

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: Opening a Chestnut Burr

E >> Edward Payson Roe >> Opening a Chestnut Burr




Well may the purest and strongest pray to be kept from the evil of the
world. It lurks where least suspected, and can plot its wrongs in the
chamber of death, and on the threshold of heaven. Annie and her father
might at least suppose themselves safe now. Were they so, with God's
minister on his way to join truth with untruth--a pure-hearted maiden
to a man from whom she would shrink the moment she came to know him?
Not on the human side. They were safe only as God kept them. If Annie
Walton had found herself married to a swindler, hers would have been a
life-long martyrdom. But unconsciously she drew momentarily nearer the
edge of the precipice. Time was passing, and their venerable pastor
would soon be present. Annie had welcomed him every day previously, as
he came to take sweet counsel with her father rather than prepare him
for death, but now she had a strange, secret dread of his coming.

Her father suddenly put his hand to his heart.

"Have you pain there?" asked Annie.

"It's gone," he replied, after a moment. "They will soon be all past,
Annie dear. How does Mr. Gregory seem now?" he asked of Miss Eulie.

"Greatly depressed, I'm sorry to say," she answered. "He knows that
you are no better, and it seems to distress him very much."

"God bless him for saving my darling's life!" he said, fervently; "and
He will bless him. I have a feeling that he will see brighter and
better days. I can send him almost a father's love and blessing, for
he now seems like a son to me. Say to him that I shall tell his father
of his noble deeds. Be a sister to him, Annie. Carry on the good work
you have so wisely begun. May the friendship of the parents descend to
the children. And you, Charles, my son, will surely feel toward him as
a brother, whatever may have been the differences of the past."

Innocent but deeply embarrassing words to both Hunting and Annie.

Again Mr. Walton put his hand to his heart.

Hunting left the room, for it was surely time for Jeff to return. With
a gleam of exultant joy he saw him driving toward the house with the
white-haired minister at his side. He returned softly to the sick-
room.

Mr. Walton had just taken Annie's hands, and after a look of
unutterable fondness, said, "Before I give you to another--while you
are still my own little girl--let me thank you for having been all and
more than a father could ask. How good God was to give me such a
comfort in your mother's place!"

"Dear father!" was all that Annie could say.

Even then the minister was entering the house.

"I bless thee, my child," the father continued; then turning his eyes
heavenward he reverently closed them in prayer, saying, "and God bless
thee also, and keep thee from every evil."

God answered him.

His grasp on Annie's hand relaxed; without even a sigh he passed away.

Annie started up with a look of alarm, and saw the same expression on
the faces of her aunt and Hunting. They spoke to him; he did not
answer. Hunting felt his pulse. Its throb had ceased forever. The
chill of a great dread turned his own face like that of the dead.

Miss Eulie put her hand on her brother's heart. It was at rest. Annie
stood motionless with dilating eyes watching them. But when her aunt
came toward her with streaming eyes she realized the truth and fell
fainting to the floor.

Just then the old minister crossed the threshold, but Hunting said to
him, almost savagely, "You are too late."




CHAPTER XXXI

"LIVE! LIVE!"--ANNIE'S APPEAL



Annie's swoon was so prolonged that both her aunt and Hunting were
alarmed. It was the reaction from the deep and peculiar excitement of
the last few days. Every power of mind and body had been under the
severest strain, and nature now gave way.

The doctor, when he came to make his morning call, was most welcome.
He said there was nothing alarming about Miss Walton's symptoms, but
added very decisively that she would need rest and quiet of mind for a
long time in order to regain her former tone and health.

When Annie revived he gave something that would tend to quiet her
nervous system and produce sleep.

"I now understand Mr. Walton's case," he said to Miss Eulie. "I could
not see why his severe cold, which he had apparently cured, should
result as it did. But now it's plain that it was complicated with
heart difficulties."

His visit to Gregory was not at all satisfactory, for his patient's
depression was so great that he was sinking under it. Mr. Walton's
death, leaving Annie defenceless, as it were, in the hands of a man
like Hunting, seemed another of the dark and cruel mysteries which to
him made up human life. The death that had given Daddy Tuggar such an
impulse toward faith and hope only led him to say with intense
bitterness, "God has forgotten His world, and the devil rules it."

"Mr. Gregory," said the physician, gravely, "do you know that you are
about the same as taking your own life? All the doctors in the world
cannot help you unless you try to live. Drugs cannot remove your
apathy and morbid depression."

"Very well, doctor," he replied; "do not trouble yourself to come any
more. I absolve you from all blame."

"But I cannot absolve myself. Besides, it's not manly to give up in
this style."

"I make no pretence of being manly or anything else. I am just what
you see. Can a broken reed stand up like a sturdy oak? Can such a
thing as I reverse fate? Thank you, doctor, for all you have done, but
waste no more time upon me. I knew, weeks ago, that the end was near,
and I would like to die in the old place."

The doctor looked at him a moment in deep perplexity, and then
silently left the room.

"Internal injuries that I can't get at," he muttered, as he drove
away.

Miss Eulie came to Gregory's side, and laying her hand gently on his
brow said, "You are mistaken, my young friend. You are going to live."

"Why do you think so?" he asked.

"The dying often have almost prophetic vision;" and she told him all
that Mr. Walton had said, though nothing of the contemplated marriage.
She dwelt with special emphasis on the facts that he had told Annie to
be a sister to Gregory and had gone to heaven with the assurance to
his old friend that his son would join him there.

Gregory was strongly moved, and turning his face upon the pillow, gave
way to a passion of tears; but they were despairing, bitter, regretful
tears. He soon seemed ashamed of them, and when he again turned his
face toward Miss Eulie, it had a hard, stony look.

Almost with sternness he said, "If the dying have supernatural
insight, why could not Mr. Walton see what kind of a man Hunting is?
Please leave me now. I know how kind and well-meant your words are,
but they are mockery to me;" and he turned his face to the wall.

Miss Eulie sighed very deeply, but felt that his case was beyond her
skill.

Daddy Tuggar was at first grievously disappointed. He had wrought
himself up into the hope of a celestial scene, and the abrupt and
quiet termination of Mr. Walton's life seemed inadequate to the
occasion. But Miss Eulie comforted him by saying that "the Christian
walked by faith, and not by sight--that God knew what was best, better
than we, His little children.

"Death had not even the power to cause him a moment's pain," she said.
"God gave him a sweet surprise, by letting him through the gates
before he was aware."

Thus she led the strange old man to think it was for the best after
all. The Rev. Mr. Ames, who had come on such a different mission, also
tried to make clearer what Mr. Walton had said to him. But Daddy
Tuggar would not permit his mind to wander a moment from the simple
truth, which he kept saying over and over to himself, "I'm an awful
sinner, and the good Lord come after just such."

Another thing that greatly perplexed the old man was that Mr. Walton
had not been permitted to live long enough to see his daughter
married. As an old neighbor, and because of his strong attachment to
Annie, he had been invited to be present.

"'Pears to me that the Lord might have spared him a few minutes
longer," he said.

"It _appears_ to you so," replied Mr. Ames, "but the Lord _knows_ why
he did not."

"Well, parson," said Daddy Tuggar, "I thank you very kindly for what
you have said, but John Walton has done the business for me. I'm just
goin' to trust--I'm just goin' to let myself go limber and fall right
down on the Lord Jesus' word. I don't believe it will break with me.
Anyhow, it's all I can do, and John Walton told me to do it and I
allers found he was about right." And thus late in the twilight of
life the old man took his pilgrim's staff and started homeward.

As soon as Hunting recovered from his bitter disappointment and almost
superstitious alarm at the sudden thwarting of his purpose, his wily
and scheming mind fell to work on a new combination. If he still could
induce Annie to be married almost immediately, as he greatly hoped,
all would be well. If not, then he would assume that they were the
same as married, and at once take his place so far as possible at the
head of the household, in accordance with Mr. Walton's wish. On one
hand, by tender care and thoughtfulness for them all, he would place
Annie under the deepest obligation; on the other, he would gain, to
the extent he could, control of her affairs and property. In the
latter purpose Mr. Walton had greatly aided by naming him one of the
executors of his will; and only Miss Eulie, the sister-in-law, was
united with him as executrix. Thus he would substantially have his own
way. Indeed, Mr. Walton, in his perfect trust, meant that he should.

Having seen Annie quietly sleeping, he started for New York to make
arrangements for the funeral, and look after some personal matters
that had already been neglected too long.

His feelings on the journey were not enviable. He had enough faith to
fear God, but not to trust and obey. The thought recurred with
disheartening frequency, "If God is against this, He will thwart me
every time."

The day had closed in thick darkness and a storm before Annie awoke
from the deep sleep which the sedative had prolonged. Though weak and
languid, she insisted on getting up. Her aunt almost forced her to
take a little supper, and then she went instinctively and naturally to
that room which had always been a place of refuge, but which now was
the chamber of death.

She turned up the light that she might look at the dear, _dear_ face.
How calm and noble it was in its deep repose! It did not suggest
death--only peaceful sleep.

With a passionate burst of sorrow she moaned, "O father, let me sleep
beside you, and be at rest!"

Then she took his cold hand, and sat down mechanically to watch, as in
the days and nights just passed. But as she became composed and
thought grew busy, the deep peace of the sleeper seemed imparted to
her. In vivid imagination she followed him to the home and greetings
that he had so joyously anticipated. She saw him meet her mother and
sister, and other loved ones who had gone before. She saw him at his
Saviour's feet, blessed and crowned. She heard the wild storm raging
without in the darkness, and then thought of his words "There is no
night there."

"Dear father," she murmured, "I would not call you back if I could.
God give me patience to come to you in His own appointed way."

Then she dwelt upon the strange events of the day. How near she had
come to being a wife! Why had she not become one? That the marriage
should have been so suddenly and unexpectedly prevented on the very
eve of consummation, caused some curious thoughts to flit through her
mind.

"It is enough to know that it was God's will," she said; "and my
future is still in His hands. Poor Charles! it will be a
disappointment to him; and yet what difference will a few weeks or
months make?"

Then her father's words, "Be a sister to Gregory," recurred to her,
and she reproached herself that she had so long forgotten him. "Father
is safe home," she said, "and I am leaving him to wander further and
further away. Father told me to be a sister to him, and I will. When
he gets well and strong, if he ever does, he will feel very
differently; and if he is to die (which God forbid), what more sacred
duty can I have than to plead with him and for him to the last?"

Pressing a kiss on her father's silent lips, she went to fulfil one of
their last requests. She first asked her aunt if it would be prudent
to visit Gregory. "I hardly know, Annie, what to say," said Miss
Eulie, in deep perplexity; and she told her what had occurred in
relation to Gregory, the doctor, and herself, omitting all reference
to Hunting. "If he is not roused out of his gloom and apathy, I fear
he will die," concluded her aunt; "and if you can't rouse him, I don't
know who can."

Annie gave her a quick, questioning glance.

"Yes, Annie, I understand," she said, quietly. "He received his worst
injury before the ladder fell."

"O aunty, what shall I do?"

"Indeed, my dear child, I can hardly tell you. You are placed in a
difficult and delicate position. Perhaps your father's words were
wisest, 'Be a sister to him.' At any rate, you have more power with
him than any one else, and you owe it to him to do all you can to save
him."

"I am ready to do anything, aunty, for it seems as if I could never be
happy if he should die an unbeliever."

Annie stole noiselessly to Gregory's side, and motioned to the young
man who was in charge to withdraw to the next room. Gregory was still
asleep. She sat down by him and was greatly shocked to see how
emaciated and pale he was. It seemed as if he had suffered from an
illness of weeks rather than days.

"He will die," she murmured, with all her old terror at the thought
returning. "He will die, and for me. Though innocent, I shall always
feel that his blood is upon me;" and she buried her face in her hands,
and her whole frame shook with a passion of grief.

Her emotion awoke him, and he recognized with something like awe the
bowed head at his side.

Her grief for her father, as he supposed it to be, seemed such a
sacred thing! And yet he could not bear to see her intense sorrow. His
heart ached to comfort her, but what words of consolation could such
as he offer? Still, had she not come to him as if for comfort? This
thought touched him deeply, and he almost cursed his unbelieving soul
that made him dumb at such a time. What could he say but miserable
commonplaces in regard to a bereavement like hers?

He did not say anything, but merely reached out his hand and gently
stroked her bowed head.

Then she knew he was awake, and she took his hand and bowed her head
upon it.

"Miss Walton," he said, in a husky voice, "it cuts me to the heart to
see you grieve so. But, alas! I do not know how to comfort you, and I
can't say trite words which mean nothing. After losing such a father
as yours, what can any one say?"

She raised her head and said, impetuously, "It's not for father I am
grieving. He is in heaven--he is not lost to me. It's for you--you.
You are breaking my heart."

"Miss Walton," he began, in much surprise, "I don't understand--"

"Why don't you understand?" she interrupted. "What do you think I am
made of? Do you think that you can lie here and die for me and I go
serenely on? Do you not see that you would blight the life you have
saved?"

His apathy was gone now. But he was bewildered, so sudden and
overpowering was her emotion. He only found words to say, "Miss
Walton, God knows I am yours, body and soul. What can I do?"

"Live! live!" she continued, with the same passionate earnestness. "I
impose no conditions, I ask nothing else. Only get well and strong
again. If you will do this, I have such confidence in your better
nature, and the many prayers laid up for you, as to feel sure that all
will come out right. But if you will just lie here and die, you will
imbitter my life. What did the doctor tell you this morning? And yet I
shall feel that I am partly the cause. O, Mr. Gregory, you may think
me foolish, but that strange little omen of the chestnut burr is in my
mind so often! I never was superstitious before, but it haunts me.
Don't you remember how you stained my hand with your blood? I can't
get it out of my mind, and it has for me now a strange significance.
If I had to remember through coming years that you died for me all
hopeless and unbelieving, do you think so poorly of me as to imagine I
could be happy? Why can't you be generous enough to brighten the life
you have saved? Among my father's last words he said I must be a
sister to you. How can I if you die? You would make this dear old
place, that we both love, full of terrible memories."

He was deeply moved, and after a moment said, "I did not know that you
felt in this way. I thought the best thing that I could do was to get
out of the world and out of the way. I thought I knew you, but I do
not half understand your large, generous heart. For your sake I will
try and get well, nor will I impose any conditions whatever. But
pardon me: I am going to ask one thing, which you can grant or not as
you choose. Please do not wrong me by thinking that I have any
personal end in view. I have given all that up as truly as if I were
dead. I ask that you do not speedily marry Charles Hunting--not till
you are sure you know him."

"O dear!" exclaimed Annie, in real distress, "this dreadful quarrel!
What trouble it makes all around!"

"If your father," continued Gregory, with grave earnestness, "told you
to be a sister to me, then I have some right to act as a brother
toward you. But as an honest man, with all my faults, and with your
interests nearest my heart, I entreat you to heed my request. Nay,
more: I am going to seem ungenerous, and refer for the first and last
time to the obligation you are under to me. By all the influence I
gained by that act, I beg of you to hesitate before you marry Charles
Hunting. Believe me, I would not lay a straw in the way of your
marrying a good man."

"Your words pain me more than I can tell you," said Annie, sadly. "I
do not understand them. Once they would have angered me. But, however
mistaken you are, I cannot do injustice to your motive.

"I do not see how your request can injure Charles," she continued,
musingly. "I have no wish to marry now for a long time--not till these
sad scenes have faded somewhat from memory. If you will only promise
to live I will not marry him till you get strong and well--till you
can look upon this matter as a man--as a brother ought. But your
hostility must not be unreasonable or implacable. I _know_ you do Mr.
Hunting great injustice. And yet such is my solicitude for you that I
will do what seems to me almost disloyal. But I know that I owe a
great deal to you as well as Charles."

"What I ask is for your sake, not mine. I only used the obligation as
a motive."

"Well," said Annie, "I yield; and surely a sister could do no more
than I have done to-night."

"And I have simply done my duty," he answered, quietly. "And yet I
thank you truly. You also may see the time when you will thank me more
than when I interposed my worthless person between you and danger."

"Please never call yourself 'worthless' to me again. We never did
agree, and I fear we shall be gray before we do. But mark this: I am
never going to give you up, whatever happens. I shall obey dear
father's last words from both duty and inclination. But let us end
this painful conversation. What have you eaten to-day?"

"I'm sure I don't know," he said.

"Will you eat something if I bring it?"

"I will do anything you ask."

"Now you give me hope," and she vanished, sending the regular watcher
back to his post.

Gregory found it no difficult task to eat the dainty little supper she
brought. She had broken the malign spell he was under. As we have
seen, his was a physical nature peculiarly subject to mental
conditions.

Soon after she said, in a low tone meant only for his ear, "Good-
night, my poor suffering brother. We all three shall understand each
other better in God's good time."

"I hope so," he said, with a different meaning. "You have made me feel
that I am not alone and uncared for in the world, though I cannot call
you sister yet. Good-night."

Annie went back to her father's side, and remained till her aunt
almost forced her away.

It is not necessary to dwell on the events of the next few days. Such
is our earthly lot, nearly all can depict them by recalling their own
sad experience: the hushed and solemn household, even the children
speaking low and treading softly, as if they might awake one whom only
"the last trump" could arouse.

John Walton's funeral was no formal pageant, but an occasion of
sincere and general mourning. Even those whose lives and characters
were the opposite of his had the profoundest respect for him, and the
entire community united in honoring his memory.

Perhaps the most painful time of all to the stricken family was the
evening after their slow, dreary ride to the village cemetery. Then,
as not before, they realized their loss.

Annie felt that her best solace would be in trying to cheer others.
She had seen Gregory but seldom and briefly since the interview last
described, but had been greatly comforted by his decided change for
the better. He had kept his word. Indeed, it was only the leaden hand
of despondency that kept him down, and he rallied from the moment it
was lifted. This evening he was dressed and sitting by the fire. As
she entered, in her deep mourning, his look was so wistful and kind,
so eloquent with sympathy, that instead of cheering him, as she had
intended, she sat down on a low ottoman, and burying her face in her
hands, cried as if her heart would break.

"Oh that I knew how to comfort you!" said Gregory, in the deepest
distress. "I cannot bear to see you suffer."

He rose with difficulty and came to her side, saying, "What can I do,
Miss Walton? Would that I could prevent you, at any cost to myself,
from ever shedding another tear!"

His sympathy was so true and strong that it was a luxury for her to
receive it; and she had kept up so long that tears were nature's own
relief.

At last he said timidly, hesitatingly, as if venturing on forbidden
ground, "I think the Bible says that in heaven all tears will be wiped
away. Your father is surely there."

"Would that I were there with him!" she sobbed.

"Not yet, Annie, not yet," he said, gently. "Think how dark this world
would be to more than one if you were not in it."

"But will you never seek this dear home of rest?" she asked.

"The way of life is closed to me," he said, sadly.

"O, Mr. Gregory! Who is it that says, 'I am the way?'"

"But He says to me, 'Depart.'"

"And yet I, knowing all--I, a weak, sinful creature like yourself--
say, Come to Him. I am better and kinder than He who died for us all!
What strange, sad logic! Good-night, Walter. You will not always so
wrong your best Friend."

Gregory's despairing conviction that his day of mercy was past was
hardly proof against her words and manner, but he was in thick
darkness and saw no way out.

Annie went down to her aunt and Hunting in the parlor. "Why will Mr.
Gregory be so hard and unbelieving?" she said, tearfully.

"If you knew him as well as I do you would understand," said Hunting,
politicly, and then changed the conversation.

He was consumed by a jealousy which he dared not show. Annie's manner
toward him was all that he could ask, and he felt sure of her now. But
it was the future he dreaded, for he was satisfied that Gregory had
formed an attachment for Annie, whether she knew it or not, and,
unless he could secure her by marriage, the man he had wronged might
find means of tearing off his mask. With desperate earnestness he
resolved to press his suit.

His course since Mr. Walton's death had been such as to win Annie's
sincerest gratitude. When action rather than moral support was
required, he was strong, and no one could be more delicately
thoughtful of her feelings and kinder than he had been.

"Dear Charles," said Annie, when they were alone. "What should I have
done without you in all these dreary days! How you have saved me from
all painful contact with the world!"

"And so I ever wish to shield you," said Hunting. "Will you not, as
your father purposed, give me the right at once?"

"You have the right, Charles. I ask no more than you have done and are
doing. But do not urge marriage now. I yielded then for father's sake,
not my own. My heart is too sore and crushed to think of it now. After
all, what difference can a few months make to you? Be generous. Give
me a respite, and I will make you a better wife and a happier home."

"But it looks, Annie, as if you could not trust me," he said,
gloomily.

"No, Charles," she said, gravely, "it looks rather as if you
distrusted me; and you must learn to trust me implicitly. Out of both
love for you and justice to myself, I exercise my woman's right of
naming the day. In the meantime I give you my perfect confidence. No
words of others--nothing but your own acts can disturb it, and of this
I have no fear."