James Sheridan Knowles - "The Love Chase"

John Fox, Jr. - "The Heart Of The Hills"

John Lothrop Motley - "History of the United Netherlands, 1607(a)"

W.B.Yeats - "The Hour Glass"

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: Herb of Grace

R >> Rosa Nouchette Carey >> Herb of Grace





The party from the Crow's Nest were somewhat late in arriving the
following evening. Verity made her excuses very prettily.

"It was all darling Babs's fault," she said to Miss Templeton; "she
would play instead of going to sleep. Mr. Herrick lost patience at
last, and declared he would go on alone."

"I must take my god-daughter in hand, or she will be ruined body and
soul," observed Malcolm severely. "Babs is already a domestic
tyrant, and screams the house down if any of her fads and fancies
are resisted. I am thinking of writing a series of essays on
degenerate and irresponsible parents, and the cruelty of modern
education in the nursery, which out-Herods Herod." Of course they
all laughed at this idea, and then David Carlyon crossed the room to
shake hands with Malcolm and to introduce his father.

The two men were curiously alike. The Rev. Rupert Carlyon was an
older, shabbier, and more careworn David; but there was the same
broad, intellectual brow, the same bright intelligence of
expression, and their voices were so strangely similar that if
Malcolm had closed his eyes he could not have distinguished between
them; they both spoke with the same quickness, and in the same
clipping fashion.

Malcolm noticed before the evening was over that David Carlyon
looked unusually pale and tired, though he seemed in excellent
spirits. Dinah made the same remark to his father.

"Oh, I have been giving that boy of mine a lecture," he said
quickly; "he is a perfect spendthrift and prodigal with regard to
the midnight oil, and burns both ends of his candle in the most
reckless fashion."

"I should not have thought a sleepy little place like Rotherwood
would have overtaxed his energies," observed Malcolm in rather a
surprised tone.

The elder man shook his head.

"There is always work enough if one looks for it. My son is a sort
of medical missionary in his way, and concerns himself with the
bodies as well as the souls of his people. The last two nights he
has been up until nearly dawn with a stranger--a sort of commercial
traveller who has been taken ill at 'The Plough.' It is a sad case:
he is quite a young man, and our doctor fears that he will not pull
through." But Mr. Carlyon forbore to state the fact that each night
he had relieved his son, rising from his bed in the gray pearly
dawn, before the first bird-twitter was heard, to take his watch
beside the fever-stricken stranger. The Carlyons were men whose left
hand did not know what their right hand did, and the Rev. Rupert
Carlyon's ministry had been a record of humble, unobtrusive acts of
good-will and kindness to man, woman, and child; nay, the very dumb
animals knew their friend, and would come to him for protection.

The Carlyons took their leave soon after this. Elizabeth walked down
to the gate with them. Malcolm thought she looked rather grave when
she returned, as though something troubled her, but she would not
hear of the party breaking up, and promised Malcolm that she would
sing all his favourite songs to his friends, and she kept her word.
Malcolm sat in a trance of beatitude while the beautiful voice
floated out into the darkness, startling some night-bird in the
copse; and Verity's eyes were wet, and she stole closer to her
husband, for it seemed to her as though the shadows from the old
life were creeping round her; and unseen by any one but Dinah, she
leant her cheek against Amias's hand.

"Oh, how can you sing like that!" exclaimed Verity in her naive way,
when Elizabeth joined them on the terrace. "You sing right down into
people's hearts. Oh, I felt so sad, and then so happy, and the world
did not seem wide enough to contain me."

"You must not flatter me," returned Elizabeth, but she was evidently
gratified. Then she turned her head to Malcolm, who was behind her,
and said in an undertone, "You were quite right, the Jacobis are
coming to our party. I have sent them a card this afternoon."

"I hope Miss Templeton approved of my suggestion?"

"Yes, she thought with you that it would be an excellent opportunity
of taking stock of the enemy. And Cedric was so pleased. Mr.
Herrick," she continued, as they walked down the terrace, "I must
tell you that we are charmed with Mrs. Keston. She is a dear little
thing, and so fascinating and original, and she looks really pretty
to-night."

"No, she is not pretty," returned Malcolm, "but her dress becomes
her. We call it Keston's chef d'oeuvre. He always designs her gowns.
He is very aesthetic in his tastes, and he knows exactly what suits
her. If Verity were left to her own devices, she would be very crude
and unfinished."

"He is very proud of her," observed Elizabeth. "It is good to see
two such happy people. We like them immensely, and shall hope to see
a great deal of them;" and Malcolm was so elated by these encomiums
on his friends, and by Elizabeth's gracious friendliness, that he
actually suggested that she should walk down the drive with them;
but to his secret chagrin she made some excuse.

Half an hour later she entered her sister's room. Dinah was reading
as usual, with her little green lamp beside her; but she closed her
book and looked up at her inquiringly.

"What is it, Betty?" she said gently. "Something has been troubling
you to-night." Then Elizabeth turned aside her face for a moment,
but she was not regarding herself in the great mirror. "It concerns
David," continued Dinah calmly. Then Elizabeth gave vent to a heavy
sigh.

"Yes, it concerns David," she returned. "I have been talking to him,
oh so seriously, and to his father too; but it is no use. They will
let me do nothing to help them. I wanted to send in a night nurse,
but they will have it that it is not necessary. Old Mrs. Roper takes
care of the patient by day, and it is only the night."

"But, Betty dear, surely David Carlyon is not going there again to-
night?"

"Indeed he is," very sadly. "I heard them arranging it this
afternoon. Mr. Carlyon is to relieve him at three. He was so tired
that he could scarcely eat his dinner, and he told me that he dared
not stay for the music, as I should certainly sing him to sleep.
Die," in rather a choked voice, "it is not right. He will kill
himself if he goes on like this."

It was evident that Elizabeth was in a depressed mood; perhaps she
was tired too. Dinah, who knew her well, quite understood her.

"Don't worry, Betty," she said kindly. "David Carlyon is young
enough and strong enough to bear the loss of a few nights' rest, and
the fever is not infectious. By all accounts the poor fellow cannot
last many days. Tomorrow I will go over to the White Cottage and
talk to them both. I shall tell David that he has no right to let
his father work so hard during his holiday."

"Tell him we know such a nice woman, Die," and Dinah promised that
she would do her very best. But Elizabeth had not wholly eased her
mind; she stood looking at her sister rather doubtfully, and then
she said abruptly--

"Die, there is something I want to ask you. You heard from Douglas
Fraser this morning, did you not?" Then a faint colour came to
Dinah's pale cheeks.

"Were you afraid to ask me that before, my dear?" she said with a
smile. "But it was my fault; I ought to have told you--this sort of
question is not easy even for a sister to ask. Yes, Douglas wrote
and Agnes too. Dear little Lettice is so much better. He thinks she
will pull through now, thank God! but they nearly lost her."

"Was it so bad as that, Die?" in an awed tone.

"Yes, it has been a terrible illness. They have nurses, of course,
but poor Agnes is almost worn out. She is their only girl, and
Douglas does so doat on her. He has suffered so--one can read it in
every word," and Dinah's voice shook a little.

Perhaps it needed only that to bring Elizabeth's emotion to a
culminating point, for to Dinah's surprise she suddenly knelt down
and put her arms round her and the tears were running down her face.

"Oh, Die, stop! I cannot bear to hear you--it pains me so--it pains
me all over!"

"My darling Bet! Oh, you foolish, foolish Betty!" But Elizabeth was
not to be soothed so easily.

"That is why I never mention his name. I try to pretend sometimes
that I do not see his handwriting. Oh, Die," caressing her, "how can
any woman be such an angel! It is not natural. In your place, under
your circumstances, I would never have seen him again."

"Dear Elizabeth," returned Dinah quietly, but her face had grown
very white, "you must surely remember that we never met--never
thought of meeting--until dear Agnes herself brought us together.
Don't you recollect how sweetly she wrote and begged me to be their
friend. She said that it would make him happier, and herself too--
that she never wished him to forget me; that it was through my
influence that he had been brought right and that they were no
longer divided in faith. Oh, Betty, I was a happy woman the day I
got that letter, and I have been a happy woman since. 'Through pain
to peace,'" she went on softly, "I should like those words to be
inscribed on my tombstone. To think of the terror and the struggle,
the buffeting of all those cruel waves and billows, and then to see
land at last! Dearest, how you cry! You will make me cry too, and I
have been singing a Te Deum in my heart all day for dear Lettice's
sake." Then Elizabeth tried to control her sobs.

"Die, I am quite ashamed of myself. I cannot think what has come to
me. Think of a woman of thirty blubbering like a little school-girl!
It is not like me, is it, dear? but my heart feels as heavy as lead
to-night. Things are going wrong somehow, or is it my fancy?" And
then she said a little wildly, "Oh, my darling, if I were only like
you!"

"Like me! Oh no, Elizabeth," for Dinah's humility could ill brook
this speech.

"But it is no use--I could never reach you. I am so human--a
passionate, self-willed woman, who wants her own way in everything;
and you, oh, Die, you are miles above me. That is why I love you so-
-I love you so!"

"Not more than I love you," returned her sister tenderly. "Dear
Elizabeth, it is only your generosity that makes you say this, but
it is not true. I wish I knew what has upset you so to-night." But
Elizabeth made no reply to this; the friendship between the sisters
was so perfect that speech did not always seem necessary. When
Elizabeth remained silent, Dinah did not repeat her question.

Elizabeth had seated herself on the cushioned window-seat close to
Dinah's chair. The little green lamp had been extinguished, and the
room was bathed in moon-light. Down below were the dark woodlands.
"Let me stay for a little while," Elizabeth had whispered, and then
they had both remained silent.

Dinah felt perplexed and troubled by her sister's unusual emotion.
Elizabeth's strong, healthy nature was never morbid; her temperament
was even and sunshiny, and a depressed mood was a rare thing with
her.

Dinah's sweet serenity was vaguely disturbed, and the quiet tears
gathered in her eyes. Silence was good for both of them, she
thought. When one has lived through a great pain, and by God's grace
has conquered, it is better to bury the dead past. Elizabeth's
passionate incredulity, the difficulty she felt in understanding her
sister's motives, her exaggerated praise, made Dinah wince in
positive pain. How could human love misjudge her so! Did not even
her nearest and dearest--her own sister-friend--know how often she
had striven and failed and fainted under that hard cross that had
been laid upon her?

And in truth few women had suffered as Dinah had in the sweet
blossom of her early womanhood, and more than once she had been very
near the gates of the dark valley whose shadow is the shadow of
death.

How she had gloried in her lover--her "Douglas--Douglas, tender and
true," as she had called him to herself--in his great intellect and
his strong man's heart, in the plan and purpose of his life, with
its scientific research and its passionate love of truth!

And then that awful struggle between her affection and her sense of
right, the doubts and terrors, the wakeful nights and joyless days,
the vast blank of life that stretched before her poor eyes, half-
blind with their woman's weeping.

"O Galilaean, Thou hast conquered," were the words that came to her
when the crucial test had been passed, and she had parted with her
beloved.

Those were sad days at the Wood House, and there were sadder days
still at Rome; but she lived through them, and Elizabeth helped her;
and so by and bye the light of a new dawn--a little gray and misty
perhaps, but still dawn--opened before Dinah's tired eyes.

"I loved much and I prayed much, and God answered my prayers," she
said long afterwards.

But the wound was wide and deep and healed slowly, and it was not
until Douglas Fraser had married a noble-hearted and beautiful
woman, whom he called his Lady of Consolation, that Dinah recovered
a measure of her former cheerfulness. But the day she heard that he
was no longer an agnostic was always kept by her as a festival. Then
indeed the cup of her pure joy seemed full to the very brim.

He had come right, and now all was well with him and with her too.
Pain and loss had been his teachers, and great indeed was her
reward.

"It was your renunciation and sacrifice that first opened my eyes,"
he wrote. "I know now how rightly you acted. If I had married you
then--if my entreaties had prevailed--I should never have made you
happy. My dear Agnes has taught me this." And this cherished letter
was Dinah's treasure.

She and Dr. Fraser seldom met--not more than once a year--but from
time to time he wrote to her, and his wife and children were very
dear to her.

"I cannot understand it," Elizabeth had more than once said. But
Dinah could furnish no explanation: she only knew that it was so--
that her life was a happy one, and that she asked for nothing more.

Douglas and his wife were her dearest friends, and Lettice, her
sweet god-daughter, ranked next to Cedric in her heart.

With so many to love, how could life fail to satisfy her! "And it so
short--so short," she would say to herself. "One sees so little of
one's friends here; but one will have plenty of time to enjoy them
in Paradise."

Continuity of life--continuity of love, this was Dinah's simple
creed, but it kept her young and happy.

"Dinah has the secret of perpetual youth," Elizabeth would say to
her friend Mrs. Godfrey; but she generally ended with a sigh, "If
only I were like her!"




CHAPTER XXII

"TWO MAIDEN LADIES OF UNCERTAIN AGE"


How poor a thing is man! Alas, 'tis true;
I'd half forget it when I chanced on you!
--SCHILLER.

Thy clothes are all the soul thou hast.
--BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.


The day of the Templeton's garden fete was as bright and cloudless
as the heart of man or woman could desire. Verity, who had dressed
herself at an unconscionably early hour, sat at an upper window with
Babs in her arms, watching brakes and carriages drive past, filled
with gaily attired people. Malcolm had issued his sovereign mandate
that they must not be amongst the earliest arrivals, and Verity
panted with impatience long before she could induce her household
tyrants to lay aside pipe and cigarette.

Malcolm was not in a festive mood. He had spent his morning
restlessly, pacing up and down the woodlands, with an unread book
under his arm. He was secretly chafed and even a little hurt that
neither of the sisters had needed his help. He had dropped more than
one hint on the previous day, when some errand took him to the Wood
House, and he found Elizabeth looking heated and tired,
superintending the removal of some furniture.

"You might make use of an idle man," he had said half-jestingly. "I
assure you that I am a complete Jack-of-all-trades, and I don't mind
'a scrow,' as old Nurse Dawson calls it." But though Elizabeth
smiled, she did not avail herself of this friendly offer; but it was
Dinah who gave him the real explanation.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Herrick," she had returned gratefully; "we
should have been so glad of your help, only David Carlyon and his
father are doing all we want. Mr. Carlyon is so useful, and David
spends all his spare time with us."

"David"--in a pondering voice. And Dinah blushed as if she had been
guilty of an indiscretion.

"Oh, we only call him that in order to distinguish him from his
father--the two Carlyons are so puzzling; but he is an old and a
very dear friend, and at my age it does not matter," finished Dinah
with her charming smile.

Malcolm had to content himself with this explanation. They were old
friends. Yes, of course, and he was a comparatively new one. He
expected too much; his demands were unreasonable. Nevertheless
Malcolm felt a pang of envy when he saw David Carlyon tearing
breathlessly through the woodlands with his arms full of greenery
from the vicarage garden, and whistling like a schoolboy.

When at last Malcolm and his friends turned in at the gates of the
Wood House that afternoon, they could hear the band playing in the
distance. A group of village children were gathered in the road;
empty carriages passed them; a smart dog-cart, with four young men,
rattled down the drive; and through the openings in the trees the
gleam of white dresses looked silvery in the sunlight.

Miss Templeton was standing in the porch to receive her guests.
Elizabeth had only just left her, she said, to arrange the tennis
tournament. And then, as more guests were arriving, Malcolm left
her. The next moment he came upon Cedric; he was looking rather
bored and disconsolate. He lighted up, however, at the sight of his
friend.

"Here you are at last," he grumbled. "I have been looking all over
the place for you. I came down with a lot of our fellows, but Betty
has paired them all off for tennis. There are the Kestons, I must go
and speak to them." But Malcolm had him by the arm.

"Wait a moment; '"no hurry!" said the Carpenter.' I suppose you
brought the Jacobis with you." Then Cedric's face clouded again.

"Oh, Jacobi came right enough--there he is, talking to David--but
Miss Jacobi had a bad sick headache, and he would not let her come."

"I am sorry to hear that," returned Malcolm; and he was sorry, for
his cleverly-devised plan had been frustrated.

"She was sorry too, poor girl," went on Cedric in a vexed voice.
"She had been so looking forward to the Bean-feast ever since
Betty's invitation arrived. It is my belief that Jacobi is to blame
for the whole thing, for he was rowing her in her room like anything
last night. I could hear them through the ceiling going it like
hammer and tongs."

"Do you mean to tell me that Miss Jacobi and her brother quarrel?"
asked Malcolm in a disgusted voice. Then Cedric looked as if he had
said more than he intended.

"No, not quarrel," rather hesitatingly. "It takes two to do that,
you know, and Leah--Miss Jacobi, I mean," biting his lip--"is much
too fond of her brother to quarrel with him; but Jacobi has a
temper, you see."

"Oh, he has a temper, has he?"

"Well, lots of people have, if you come to that," returned Cedric,
who evidently repented his frankness. "Jacobi is a decent fellow,
but he is hot and peppery, and when things go crooked he lashes out
a bit. Something must have vexed him last night, for he came into
the drawing-room looking very much put out. Miss Jacobi had just
gone upstairs, and he went after her at once."

"And then they quarrelled?"

"Well, not quarrelled exactly; but there was a good deal of talking,
don't you know. He kept her up late, and bothered her, and then she
got a headache. "But Cedric forbore to tell his friend that he had
been so perturbed by the sound of Saul Jacobi's angry voice that he
had stolen down the stairs to the passage below. How long he stood
there transfixed with fear and pity it was impossible to say. No
words reached him--only the harsh, vibrant tones of Saul Jacobi's
voice and Leah's low, piteous sobbing.

He might have stood there until morning, but the door suddenly
unlatched, and he had only just time to steal away; but before he
could enter his room a few words did reach him.

"Oh, Saul, please do not leave me like this. Don't I always do as
you wish; only--only I thought you approved; that--that--" but here
sobs choked her voice.

"What is the use of turning on the waterworks like this?" muttered
her brother angrily. "What fools you women are! A boy like that
too!"

"But, Saul, Saul--"

"Yes, I know," sulkily. "I have not changed my mind, but I mean to
have my way about to-morrow all the same. If you had been sensible I
would have told you my reasons; but you chose to aggravate me, and I
said a precious lot more than I meant. There, go to sleep and forget
it"--evidently a rough attempt to be conciliatory; but Leah's sad
and weary face told its own tale the next morning.

Malcolm did not ask any more questions, and after a few more casual
remarks Cedric went off in search of the Kestons, and Malcolm
sauntered across the lawn, looking at the various groups in the hope
of seeing Elizabeth's tall figure.

Presently he came upon Mr. Jacobi. He was standing by the sun-dial,
looking smart and well-groomed in his frock-coat, and a rare orchid
in his button-hole. He was contemplating the house with fixed
attention. A sudden impulse made Malcolm join him. Mr. Jacobi
greeted him with his usual affability, and then, as though by mutual
consent, they strolled together in the direction of the rustic
bridge.

"Nice sleepy old place this," observed Mr. Jacobi condescendingly.
"Seems as though it had been in existence for a hundred years at
least. Do you know how long it has belonged to the Templetons?"

"No, I have no idea," returned Malcolm stiffly, for he resented the
question. "What a perfect day it is! I am sorry to hear from
Templeton that your sister is indisposed."

Mr. Jacobi's eyes narrowed a little; he looked rather sharply at
Malcolm.

"Oh, Templeton told you that. Nice fellow--as good a specimen of a
young Briton as ever I wish to see; sensible too, and a good
companion. Yes, my sister is a bit seedy--a bad sick headache,
nothing more. It is in our family; my mother had them, and Leah
takes after her. It is hard lines, poor old girl," continued Mr.
Jacobi in a feeling tone, "for she was longing to make the Misses
Templeton's acquaintance."

Malcolm returned a civil answer, and Mr. Jacobi continued--

"Templeton is a lucky fellow, between you and me and the post," in a
jocular tone. "It must be a good thing for him that his sisters have
set their faces against matrimony. Nice-looking women, both of them,
but in my humble opinion Miss Elizabeth is the most attractive.
Templeton let out to Leah the other day that she could have married
a dozen times over if she had wished to do so, only she vowed she
was cut out for an old maid."

"I don't suppose he knows anything about it," returned Malcolm,
feeling this speech was in the worst possible form. It revolted him
to hear this man even mention Elizabeth's name--he would give him no
encouragement; but Saul Jacobi, who could be dense when he chose,
did not drop the subject.

"It is rather a big place for two maiden ladies of uncertain age,"
he remarked blandly; but this speech irritated Malcolm beyond
endurance.

"There is nothing uncertain about the second Miss Templeton's age,"
he said impatiently; "she is still a young woman." Then it struck
him that Mr. Jacobi looked a trifle crestfallen.

"Young, do you call her? Oh no, very mature and sedate, like a
middle-aged woman. Gyp Campion told me as a fact--do you know Gyp?
he is in the Hussars, and a tiptop swell in the bargain--well, Gyp
let out that his brother Owen had proposed to Miss Elizabeth
Templeton years ago at Alassio."

"Oh, I daresay," indifferently. "I think I must go back to the house
now;" it cost Malcolm an effort to be civil.

"I will walk back with you. What was I saying? Oh, she refused the
poor chap, and told him that the holy estate of matrimony had no
attraction for her, or some such rubbish. That is why I call
Templeton a lucky fellow. There is not a creature belonging to them,
except a distant cousin or two in New Zealand, so of course he will
come in for everything;" a pause here, and a furtive glance of
inquiry; but Malcolm remained mute, and his face might have been a
blank wall as far as expression was concerned.

"They have got a pretty penny saved too," went on Mr. Jacobi, not in
the least silenced by Malcolm's lack of interest. "Gyp told me a
thing or two about that. It seems they had a farm in Cornwall"--here
he sniffed at his scentless orchid with an air of enjoyment, a habit
of his when his subject interested him. "It was a rotten concern--
farm buildings out of repair, and a few scrubby fields with more
stones than grass. Miss Templeton was just going to sell it for a
mere song when some one discovered tin. My word, those few acres
rose in value! Gyp declared they realised quite a small fortune on
it. That was only three or four years ago."