Amy Prentice - "Mouser Cats' Story"

Octave Feuillet - "Monsieur de Camors, v1"

Margaret Sidney - "The Adventures of Joel Pepper"

William Morris - "The Pilgrims of 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: Quill\'s Window

G >> George Barr McCutcheon >> Quill\'s Window




"Please--please!" she cried, shrinking back and putting her hands
to her temples.

Still he did not move. There was a gentleness in his voice, a
softness that disarmed her. It was not the voice of a conqueror,
rather it was that of a suppliant.

"I am not worthy to touch the hem of your garment," he went on, an
expression of pain leaping swiftly to his eyes. "I am most unworthy.
My life has not been perfect. I have done many things that I am
ashamed of, things I would give my soul to recall. But my love for
you, Alix Crown, is perfect. All the good that God ever put into
me is in this feeling I have for you. You are the very soul of me.
If you tell me to go away, I will go. That is how I love you. You
DO believe I love you with all my heart and soul, don't you, Alix?
You DO believe that I would die for you?"

Now she was looking into his eyes across the candle flames. David's
features had vanished. She saw nothing save the white, drawn face
of the man whose voice, sweet with passion, fell upon her ears
like the murmur of far-off music. She felt the warm thrill of blood
rushing back into her icy veins, surging up to her throat, to her
trembling lips, to her eyes.

"I--I don't know what to think--I don't know what to believe," she
heard herself saying.

He came a step or two nearer. Her eyes never left his. She tried
to look away.

"I want you to me mine forever, Alix. I want you to be my wife. I
want you to be with me to the end of my life. I cannot live without
you. Do not send me away now. It is too late."

Her knees gave way. She sank slowly to the bench,--and still she
looked into his gleaming eyes.

He came to her. She was in his arms. His face was close to hers,
his breath was on her cheek....

"No! No!" she almost shrieked, and wrenched herself free. "Not now!
Not here! Give me time--give me time to think!"

She had sprung to her feet and was glaring at him with the eyes of
an animal at bay. He fell back in astonishment.

"You--you had no right to follow me here," she was crying. "You had
no right! This place is sacred. It is sanctuary." Her voice broke.
"My mother was born in this room. She died in this room. And I was
born here. Go! Please go!"

He controlled himself. He held back those words that were on his
tongue, ready to be flung out at her: "Yes, and in this room you
behaved like hell with David Strong!" But he checked them in time.
He lowered his head.

"Forgive me, Alix," he said abjectly. "I--I did not know. I was
wrong to follow you here. I could not help myself. I was mad to
see you. Nothing could have stopped me." He looked up, struck by a
sudden thought. "You call this sanctuary. It is a sacred place to
you. Will you make it sacred to me? Promise here and now, in this
sanctuary of yours, to be my wife, and all my life it shall be the
most sacred spot on earth."

She turned her head quickly to look at David Strong. A startled,
incredulous expression leaped into her eyes. He was not there.
By what magic had he vanished? She had felt his presence. He was
sitting there a moment ago, his tousled head bent down over the pad
of paper,--she was sure of it! Then she realized. A wave of relief
surged over her. He was not there to hear this man making love
to her in the room where he had poured out his soul to her. She
experienced a curious thrill of exultation. David could never take
back those unspoken words of love. She had them safely stored away
in that blessed drawer!

A flush of shame leaped to her cheeks. She could not banish the
notion that he,--honest, devoted David,--had seen her in this man's
arms, clinging to him, giving back his passionate kisses with all
the horrid rapture of a--She stiffened. Her head went up. She faced
the man who had robbed David.

"I cannot marry you," she said quietly. The spell was gone. She
was herself again. "I do not love you."

He stared, speechless, uncomprehending.

"You--you do not love me?" he gasped.

"I do not love you," she repeated deliberately.

"But, good God, you--you couldn't have kissed me as you--"

"Please!"

"--as you did just now," he went on, honestly bewildered. "You put
your arms around my neck,--you kissed me--"

"Stop! Yes, I know I did,--I know I did. But it was not love,--it
was not love! I don't know what it was. You have some dreadful,
appalling power to--Oh, you need not look at me like that! I don't
care THAT for your scorn. Call me a fool, if you like,--call me
ANYTHING you like. It is all one to me now. What's done, is done.
But it can never happen again. I will not even say that I am ashamed,
for in saying so I would be confessing that I was responsible for
my actions. I was not responsible. That is all, Mr. Thane. No
doubt you are sincere in asking me to be your wife. No doubt your
love for me is sincere. I should like to think so--always. It would
help me to forget my own weakness. I am going. I want you to leave
this house before I go, Mr. Thane."

She spoke calmly, evenly, with the utmost self-possession.

"I can't let you go like this, Alix! I can't take this as final.
You--you MUST care for me. How can I think otherwise? In God's
name, what has happened to turn you against me? You owe me more of
an explanation than--"

"You are right," she interrupted. "I do owe you an explanation.
This is not the time or the place to give it. If you will come to
see me tomorrow, I will tell you everything. It is only fair that
you should know. But not now."

"Has some one been lying about me?" he demanded, his eyes narrowing.

She waited an instant before replying.

"No, Mr. Thane," she said; "no one has been lying about you."

He took up his hat from the table.

"I will come tomorrow," he said. At the door he paused to say:
"But I am not going to give you up, Alix. You mean too much to me.
I think I understand. You are frightened. I--I should not have come
here."

"Yes, I WAS frightened," she cried out shrilly. "I was frightened,--but
I am not afraid now."

She had moved to Thane's side of the table, and there she stood
until she heard his footsteps on the little porch outside.

She was in an exalted frame of mind as she hurried from the house.
The short October day had turned to night. For a moment she paused,
peering ahead. A queer little thrill of alarm ran through her. She
had never been afraid of the dark before. But now she shivered.
A great uneasiness assailed her. She listened intently. Far up
the hard gravel road she heard the sound of footsteps, gradually
diminishing. He was far ahead of her and walking rapidly.

At the gate she stopped again. Then she struck out resolutely for
home,--the Phantom Singer was beside her. She was not afraid.

A farm-hand, leaning on the fence at the lower corner of the yard,
scratched his head in perplexity.

"Well, here's a new angle to the case," he mused sourly. "I'm up a
tree for sure. Why the devil should Miss Crown be meeting him out
there in this old deserted house. My word, it begins to look a
trifle spicy. It also begins to look like a case that ought to be
dropped before it gets too hot. I guess it's up to me to see my
dear old Uncle Charlie What's-His-Name."

Whereupon Mr. Gilfillan set off in the wake of the girl who had
employed him to catch the masked invader.





CHAPTER XIX

BRINGING UP THE PAST




Charlie Webster wore a troubled expression when he appeared for dinner
that same evening. He was late. If such a thing were believable,
his kindly blue eyes glittered malevolently as they rested upon
the face of Courtney Thane, who had taken his place at table a few
minutes earlier. The fat little man was strangely preoccupied. He
was even gruff in his response to Mr. Pollock's bland inquiry as
to the state of his health.

"How's your liver, Charlie?" inquired the genial editor. This amiable
question was habitual with Mr. Pollock. He varied it a little when
the object of his polite concern happened to be of the opposite
sex; then he gallantly substituted the word "appetite." It was never
necessary to reply to Mr. Pollock's question. In fact, he always
seemed a little surprised when any one did reply, quite as if he had
missed a portion of the conversation and was trying in a bewildered
sort of way to get the hang of it again.

"Same as it was yesterday," said Charlie. "I don't want any soup,
Maggie. Yes, I know it's bean soup, but I don't want it, just the
same."

"Going on a hunger strike, Charlie?" inquired Doc Simpson.

"Sh! He's reducing," scolded Flora Grady.

"What's on your mind, Charlie?" asked Courtney.

Charlie swallowed hard. He made a determined effort and succeeded
in recovering some of his old-time sprightliness.

"Nothing, now that I've got my hat off."

"Have you heard the latest news, Charlie?" inquired Mrs. Pollock,
a thrill of excitement in her voice.

He started, and looked up quickly. "There's been so blamed much
news lately," he muttered, "I can't keep track of it."

"Well, this is the greatest piece of news we've had in ages," said
the poetess. "Wedding bells are to ring in our midst. Somebody you
know very well is going to be married."

Mr. Webster's heart went to his boots. He stared open-mouthed at
the speaker.

"Oh, my Lord!" he almost groaned. "Don't tell me she has promised
to marry--" He broke off to glare venomously at Thane.

"Don't blame me for it, Charlie," exclaimed the latter. "I am as
innocent as an unborn babe. Charge it to woman's wiles." He laughed
boisterously, unnaturally.

Mr. Pollock spoke. "The next issue of the Sun will contain
the formal announcement of the engagement of the most popular and
beloved young lady in Windomville. No doubt it will be old news by
that time,--next Thursday,--but publication in the press gives it
the importance of officialty."

"We may congratulate ourselves, however, that we are not to lose
her," said Mrs. Pollock. "She is to remain in--"

"Whe-when is it to take place?" groaned Charlie, moisture starting
out on his brow.

"That," began Mr. Pollock, "is a matter which cannot be definitely
announced at present, owing to certain family--er--ah--conditions.
In addition to this, I may say that there is also the children to
consider, as well as the township trustee and, to an extent, the
taxpayer. The--"

"All I've got to say," grated Charlie, "is that the police ought
to be consulted, first of all."

"The police!" exclaimed Angie Miller.

"The--the what?" gasped Furman Hatch, lifting his head suddenly.
He was very red in the face. "I'd like to know what the devil the
police have to do with it?"

Charlie took a look at Angie Miller's face, and then the truth
dawned upon him. He sank back in his chair so suddenly that the
legs gave forth an ominous crack.

"Don't do that!" cried Margaret Slattery sharply. "You know them
chairs are not made of iron. And I don't want you flopping all over
me when I'm passing the stew--"

"Yes, sir!" boomed Charlie, who had collected his wits by this time,
and was pointing his finger accusingly at Mr. Hatch. "The police
have simply got to be called. It's going to take half the force,
including Bill Foss, to keep me from drinking the heart's blood of
my hated rival. Ladies and gents, that infernal, low-down villain
over there has come between me and--But nobody shall say that
Charles Darwin Webster is a poor loser! Say what you please about
him, but do not say he is a short sport. It breaks my heart to do
it, but I'm coming around there to shake hands with you, old Tintype.
I'm going to congratulate you, but I'm never going to get through
hating you."

He arose and bolted around the table. Mr. Hatch got to his feet
and the long and the short man clasped hands.

"Put her there, old boy! I've already made up my mind what my wedding
present is going to be. The day before the wedding I'm coming in
and order a dozen photographs of myself,--pay for 'em in advance.
And I'm going to give every darned one of 'em to the bride, so's she
can stick 'em up all over the house just to make you feel at home,
you blamed old bachelor. And as for you, Miss Angelina Miller, the
very topmost height of my ambition will be reached in less than two
minutes after the ceremony. Because, then and there, I'm going to
kiss you. Bless you, my children. As old Rip Van Winkle used to
say, 'may you live long and brosper.'"

Having delivered himself of this felicitous speech, the somewhat
relieved Mr. Webster wiped his brow.

"What did he say?" quaked old Mrs. Nichols, putting her hand to
her ear.

"Says he hoped they'd be happy," bawled old Mr. Nichols, close to
her ear.

"Pass the bread, Doc," said Mr. Hatch, getting pinker and pinker.

"When's it to take place, Angle?" inquired Charlie, resuming his
seat. He cast a sharp look at Courtney. The young man shifted his
gaze immediately.

"As I explained to Mr. Pollock, everything depends on my aunt,"
said Angie composedly. "She is very old,--eighty-three, in fact."

"You don't mean to say your aunt objects to your marrying old
Tintype," exclaimed Charlie.

"Not at all," replied Angie, somewhat tartly.

"You see, it's this way," volunteered Mr. Pollock. "Miss Angie is
the sole support of a venerable and venerated aunt who lives in
Frankfort. That is a thing to be considered. Her duty to her father's
sister--"

Courtney interrupted, chuckling. "It's too much to ask of any
woman. I suppose it must take nearly all you earn, Miss Miller,
to support your aged relative, so naturally you do not feel like
taking on Mr. Hatch immediately."

There was a moment's silence around the table.

"I see by the Chicago Tribune," said Mr. Pollock, after a hurried
gulp of coffee, "that there's likely to be a strike of the street-car
men up there."

"You don't say so," said Doc Simpson, looking so concerned that
one might have been led to suspect that he was dismayed over the
prospect of getting to his office the next day.

"What's the world coming to?" sighed Maude Baggs Pollock nervously.
"Strikes, strikes everywhere. Murder, bloodshed, robbery, revolution--"

"Next thing we know," put in Charlie Webster, without looking up
from his plate, "God will strike, and when He does there'll be hell
to pay, begging your pardon, ladies, for using a word that sounds
worse than it tastes."

"I use it every day of my life," said Miss Flora Grady. "It's a
grand word, Charlie," she added, a little defiantly.

"Times have changed," remarked Mr. Pollock blandly. "It wasn't so
very long ago that women Said 'pshaw' when they wanted to let off
steam. Then they got to saying 'shucks,' and from that they progressed
to 'darn,' and now they say 'damn' without a quiver. Only yesterday
I heard my wife say something that sounded suspiciously like 'dammit
to hell' when she upset a bottle of ink on her desk. She hasn't
stubbed her toe against a rocking-chair lately, thank goodness."

Doc Simpson stopped Courtney as he was starting upstairs after
dinner. The dentist was unsmiling.

"Say, Court, I'm running a little close this week. Been so much
excitement a lot of patients have forgotten all about their teeth.
Can you let me have that ten you borrowed last week?"

"Sure," said Courtney, in his most affable manner. "I'll hand it
to you tomorrow. I'll give it to you now if you'll wait till I run
upstairs and get it out of my trunk. That's my bank, you know."

"Tomorrow'll do all right," said Doc, a trifle abashed.

"Can I see you a second, Mr. Thane?" called Miss Grady, when he
was halfway up the stairs.

He stopped and smiled down at her. "I hope you'll forgive me if
I don't come down, Miss Flora. My knee is still on the blink. It
hurts worse to go downstairs, than it does up."

"I'll come up," said Miss Grady promptly. "You remember those roses
I ordered for you last week? Well, I had to pay cash for them,
including parcel post. You owe me seven dollars and thirteen cents."

"I'm glad you spoke of it. I hadn't forgotten it, of course, but--I
simply neglected to square it up with you. Have you change for a
twenty, Miss Flora?"

"Not with me."

"I'll hand it to you tomorrow. Seven-thirteen, you say? Shall
we make it seven-fifteen?" He favoured her with his most engaging
smile, and Miss Grady, who thought she had steeled her heart
against his blandishments, suffered a momentary relapse and said,
"No hurry. I just thought I'd remind you."

He failed completely, however, to affect the susceptibilities of
Miss Mary Dowd, who presently rapped at his door, and rapped again
when he called out "Come in." He opened the door.

"Pardon me, Mr. Thane, for coming up to speak to you about your
bill. Will it be convenient for you to let me have the money this
evening?"

She did not soften the dun by offering the usual excuse about
"expenses being a little heavier this month than we expected," or
that she "hated to ask him for the amount."

"Is it three or four weeks, Miss Molly?" he inquired, taking out
an envelope and a pencil.

"Four weeks today."

"Sixty dollars." He jotted it down. "I cannot let this opportunity
pass to tell you how thoroughly satisfied I have been with everything
here, Miss Molly. The table is really extraordinarily good. I don't
see how you can do it for fifteen dollars a week, including room."
He replaced the envelope in his pocket, and smiled politely, his
hand going to the door knob.

"We couldn't do it, Mr. Thane, unless we stuck pretty closely to
our rule,--that is, of asking our patrons to pay promptly at the
end of every week."

"It's really the only way," he agreed.

"So if you will be kind enough to let me have the amount now, I
will be very much obliged to you."

He stepped to the head of the stairs, ostensibly to be nearer a
light, and took out his purse. While counting out the bills, he cast
frequent glances down into the lower hall. The buzz of conversation
came up from the "lounge."

"I think you will find the proper amount here, Miss Molly," he
said, after restoring the purse to his pocket.

She took the bank-notes and counted them.

"Quite correct, Mr. Thane. Thank you. By the way, I have been
meaning to ask how much longer you contemplate remaining with us.
Pastor Mavity has been inquiring for room and board for his sister,
who is coming on from Indianapolis to spend several months in
Windomville. If by any chance you are thinking of vacating your
room within the next few days, I would be obliged if you would let
me know as soon as possible in order that I may give Mr. Mavity an
answer."

"I think I shall be leaving shortly, Miss Dowd. I can let you know
in a day or two," said he stiffly. "I am afraid your winters are
too severe for me. Good night,--and thank you for being so patient,
Miss Dowd."

Meanwhile, Miss Angie Miller had taken Charlie Webster off to a
corner of the "lounge" remote from the fireplace. She was visibly
excited.

"I had a letter in this afternoon's mail from my uncle, Charlie,"
she announced in subdued tones. "My goodness, you'll simply pass
away when you read it."

"Where is it?" demanded Charlie eagerly.

"I haven't even shown it to Furman," said she, looking over her
shoulder. "I've been wondering whether I ought to let him read it
first."

"Not at all," said he promptly. "It's none of his business. This
is between you and me, Angie. Let's have a look at it."

"I don't think you'd better read it here," she whispered nervously.
"It--it is very private and confidential."

"That's all right," said Charlie. "I'll sneak upstairs with it,
Angie."

"Well, act as if you are looking out of the window," she said, and
when his back was turned she produced the letter from its hiding
place inside her blouse.

II

Charlie retired to his room a few minutes later. There he perused
the following letter, written on the stationery of Beck, Blossom,
Fredericks & Smith, Attorneys-at-law, New York City:

MY DEAR NIECE:

Pardon my delay in replying to your letter of recent date. I have
been very busy in court and have not been in a position to devote
even a little of my time to your inquiry. Your second letter reached
me yesterday, and I now make amends for my previous delinquency by
answering it with a promptness most uncommon in lawyers.

The firm of which I am a member appeared in 1912 for the plaintiff
in the case of Ritter vs. Thane. Our client was a young woman
residing in Brooklyn. The defendant was Courtney Thane, the son
of Howard Thane, and no doubt the young man to whom you refer. In
any case, he was the grandson of Silas Thane, who lived in your part
of the State of Indiana. We were demanding one hundred thousand
dollars for our client. Miss Ritter was a trained nurse. Young
Thane had been severely injured in an automobile accident. If YOUR
Courtney Thane is the same as MINE, he will be walking with a slight
limp. His left leg was badly crushed in the accident to which I
refer. For several months he was unable to walk. Upon his removal
from St. Luke's Hospital to his father's home in Park Avenue, a
fortnight after the accident, our client was employed as a nurse on
the case. This was early in the spring of 1912. In June the Thane
family went to the Berkshires, where they had rented a house for
the summer. Our client accompanied them. Prior to their departure,
Thane, senior, had settled out of court with the occupants of the
automobile with which his son's car had collided in upper Broadway.
His son was alone in his car when the accident occurred, but there
were a number of witnesses ready to testify that he was driving at
a high rate of speed, regardless of traffic or crossings. If my memory
serves me correctly, his father paid something like twenty-five
thousand dollars to the three persons injured. That, however,
is neither here nor there, except to illustrate the young man's
disregard for the law.

Miss Ritter had been on the case a very short time before he began
to make ardent love to her. She was an extremely pretty girl, two
years his senior, and, I am convinced, a most worthy and exemplary
young woman. She became infatuated with the young man. He asked
her to marry him. (Permit me to digress for a moment in order to
state that while Courtney Thane was in his freshman year at college
his father was obliged to pay out quite a large sum of money to a
chorus-girl with whom, it appears, he had become involved.) To make
a long story short, our client, trusting implicitly to his honour
and submitting to the ardour of their joint passion, anticipated
the marriage ceremony with serious results to herself. When she
discovered that he had no intention of marrying her, she attempted
suicide. Her mother, on learning the truth, went to Thane's parents
and pleaded for the righting of the wrong. Howard Thane had, by this
time, lost all patience with his son. He refused to have anything
to do with the matter. The young man's mother ordered Miss Ritter's
mother out of the apartment and threatened to have her arrested for
blackmail. Shortly after this episode, we were consulted by Mrs.
Ritter, much against the wishes of her daughter, who shrank from
the notoriety and the disgrace of a lawsuit. The elder Thane was
adamant in his decision that his son should marry the girl, who,
he was fair enough to admit, was a young woman of very superior
character and who, he was convinced, had been basely deceived. The
mother, on the other hand, was relentlessly opposed to the sacrifice
of her son. We took the matter to court. On the morning of the
first day of the trial, before the opening of court, the defendant's
counsel came to us with a proposition. They offered to settle out
of court for twenty-five thousand dollars. In the end, we accepted
fifty thousand, and the case was dismissed. Afterwards counsel
for the other side informed us that the elder Thane turned his son
out of his home and refused to have anything more to do with him.
I understand the young man went to Europe, where he subsisted on
an allowance provided by his mother. Thane, senior, died shortly
after this. Our client, I am pained to say, died with her babe in
childbirth.

You may be interested to know, my dear niece, that Mrs. Thane
married soon after her husband's death. Her second husband was
a young French nobleman, many years her junior. He was killed in
the war, I think at Verdun. I understand she is now living in this
city. Her present name escapes me, but I know that her widowhood
has been made endurable by a legacy which happens to be one in name
only. In other words, he left her the title of Countess.

If I can be of any further service to you, my dear niece, pray do
not hesitate to call upon me. Believe me to be...etc., etc.

Within ten minutes after the perusal of this very convincing
indictment, Charlie Webster was on his way to Alix's home. He was
quite out of breath when he presented himself at the front door,
and his first words to Alix were:

"While I'm getting my breath, Alix, you might prepare yourself for
a shock."





CHAPTER XX

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF ROSABEL VICK




Early the next morning, the telephone in township assessor Jordan's
house rang. Annie Jordan was "setting" the breakfast table. She
waited for the call to be repeated; she was not sure whether the
bell had rung thrice or four times. Their call was "Party J, ring
four." Four sharp rings came promptly. She looked at the kitchen
clock. It lacked five minutes of seven.