T.S. Arthur - "The Iron Rule"

James De Mille - "A Strange Manuscript Found in a Copper Cylinder"

Catherine Parr Traill - "Lost in the Backwoods"

Ruyard Kipling - "Just So Stories"

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: Heart Histories and Life Pictures

T >> T. S. Arthur >> Heart Histories and Life Pictures




"Edward," replied the young wife with enthusiasm, as she drew her
arm more tightly about his neck, "I will never leave thee nor
forsake thee! Where thou goest I will go, and where thou liest I
will lie. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God."

"Would you forsake all," said Edward, in surprise, "and go far away
with me into a strange land?"

"It will be no stranger to me than it will be to you, Edward."

"No, no, Agnes! I will not think of that," said Edward Marvel, in a
positive, voice. "If I go to that land of promise, it must first be
alone."

"Alone!" A shadow fell over the face of Agnes. "Alone! It cannot--it
must not be!"

"But think, Agnes. If I go alone, it will cost me but a small sum to
live until I find some business, which may not be for weeks, or even
months after I arrive in the New World."

"What if you were to be sick?" The frame of Agnes slightly quivered
as she made this suggestion.

"We will not think of that."

"I cannot help thinking of it, Edward. Therefore entreat me not to
leave thee, nor to return from following after thee. Where thou
goest, I will go."

Marvel's countenance became more serious.

"Agnes," said the young man, after he had reflected for some time,
"let us think no more about this. I cannot take you far away to this
strange country. We will go back to London. Perhaps another trial
there may be more successful."

After a feeble opposition on the part of Agnes, it was finally
agreed that Edward should go once more to London, while she made a
brief visit to her parents. If he found employment, she was to join
him immediately; if not successful, they were then to talk further
of the journey to America.

With painful reluctance, Agnes went back to her father's house, the
door of which ever stood open to receive her; and she went back
alone. The pride of her husband would not permit him to cross the
threshold of a dwelling where his presence was not a welcome one. In
eager suspense, she waited for a whole week ere a letter came from
Edward. The tone of this letter was as cheerful and as hopeful as it
was possible for the young man to write. But, as yet, he had found
no employment. A week elapsed before another came. It opened in
these words:--

"MY DEAR, DEAR AGNES! Hopeless of doing anything here, I have turned
my thoughts once more to the land of promise; and, when you receive
this, I will be on my journey thitherward. Brief, very brief, I
trust, will be our separation. The moment I obtain employment, I
will send for you, and then our re-union will take place with a
fulness of delight such as we have not yet experienced."

Long, tender, and hopeful was the letter; but it brought a burden of
grief and heart-sickness to the tender young creature, who felt
almost as if she had been deserted by the one who was dear to her as
her own life.

Only a few days had Edward Marvel been at sea, when he became
seriously indisposed, and, for the remaining part of the voyage, was
so ill as to be unable to rise from his berth. He had embarked in a
packet ship from Liverpool bound for New York, where he arrived, at
the expiration of five weeks. Then he was removed to the sick wards
of the hospital on Staten Island, and it was the opinion of the
physicians there that he would die.

"Have you friends in this country?" inquired a nurse who was
attending the young man. This question was asked on the day after he
had become an inmate of the hospital.

"None," was the feebly uttered reply.

"You are very ill," said the nurse.

The sick man looked anxiously into the face of his attendant.

"You have friends in England?"

"Yes."

"Have you any communication to make to them?"

Marvel closed his eyes, and remained for some time silent.

"If you will get me a pen and some paper, I will write a few lines,"
said he at length.

"I'm afraid you are too weak for the effort," replied the nurse.

"Let me try," was briefly answered.

The attendant left the room.

"Is there any one in your part of the house named Marvel?" asked a
physician, meeting the nurse soon after she had left the sick man's
room. "There's a young woman down in the office inquiring for a
person of that name."

"Marvel--Marvel?" the nurse shook her head.

"Are you certain?" remarked the physician.

"I'm certain there is no one by that name for whom any here would
make inquiries. There's a young Englishman who came over in the last
packet, whose name is something like that you mention. But he has no
friends in this country."

The physician passed on without further remark.

Soon after, the nurse returned to Marvel with the writing materials
for which he had asked. She drew a table to the side of his bed, and
supported him as he leaned over and tried, with an unsteady hand, to
write.

"Have you a wife at home?" asked the nurse; her eyes had rested on
the first words he wrote.

"Yes," sighed the young man, as the pen dropped from his fingers,
and he leaned back heavily, exhausted by even the slight effort he
had made.

"Your name is Marvel?"

"Yes."

"A young woman was here just now inquiring if we had a patient by
that name."

"By my name?" There was a slight indication of surprise.

"Yes."

Marvel closed his eyes, and did not speak for some moments.

"Did you see her?" he asked at length, evincing some interest.

"Yes."

"Did she find the one for whom she was seeking?"

"There is no person here, except yourself, whose name came near to
the one she mentioned. As you said you had no friends in this
country, we did not suppose that you were meant."

"No, no." And the sick man shook his head slowly. "There is none to
ask for me. Did you say it was a young woman?" he inquired, soon
after. His mind dwelt on the occurrence.

"Yes. A young woman with a fair complexion and deep blue eyes."

Marvel looked up quickly into the face of the attendant, while a
flush came into his cheeks.

"She was a slender young girl, with light hair, and her face was
pale, as from trouble."

"Agnes! Agnes!" exclaimed Marvel, rising up. "But, no, no," he
added, mournfully, sinking back again upon the bed; "that cannot be.
I left her far away over the wide ocean."

"Will you write?" said the nurse after some moments.

The invalid, without unclosing his eyes, slowly shook his head. A
little while the attendant lingered in his room, and then retired.

"Dear, dear Agnes!" murmured Edward Marvel, closing his eyes, and
letting his thoughts go, swift-winged, across the billow sea. "Shall
I never look on your sweet face again? Never feel your light arms
about my neck, or your breath warm on my cheek? Oh, that I had never
left you! Heaven give thee strength to bear the trouble in store!"

For many minutes he lay thus, alone, with his eyes closed, in sad
self-communion. Then he heard the door open and close softly; but he
did not look up. His thoughts were far, far away. Light feet
approached quickly; but he scarcely heeded them. A form bent over
him; but his eyes remained shut, nor did he open them until warm
lips were pressed against his own, and a low voice, thrilling
through his whole being, said--

"Edward!"

"Agnes!" was his quick response, while his arms were thrown eagerly
around the neck of his wife, "Agnes! Agnes! Have I awakened from a
fearful dream?"

Yes, it was indeed her of whom he had been thinking. The moment she
received his letter, informing her that he had left for the United
States, she resolved to follow him in the next steamer that sailed.
This purpose she immediately avowed to her parents. At first, they
would not listen to her; but, finding that she would, most probably,
elude their vigilance, and get away in spite of all efforts to
prevent her, they deemed it more wise and prudent to provide her
with everything necessary for the voyage, and to place her in the
care of the captain of the steamship in which she was to go. In New
York they had friends, to whom they gave her letters fully
explanatory of her mission, and earnestly commending her to their
care and protection.

Two weeks before the ship in which Edward Marvel sailed reached her
destination, Agnes was in New York. Before her departure, she had
sought, but in vain, to discover the name of the vessel in which her
husband had embarked. On arriving in the New World, she was
therefore uncertain whether he had preceded her in a steamer, or was
still lingering on the way.

The friends to whom Agnes brought letters received her with great
kindness, and gave her all the advice and assistance needed under
the circumstances. But two weeks went by without a word of
intelligence on the one subject that absorbed all her thoughts.
Sadly was her health beginning to suffer. Sunken eyes and pale
cheeks attested the weight of suffering that was on her.

One day it was announced that a Liverpool packet had arrived with
the ship fever on board, and that several of the passengers had been
removed to the hospital.

A thrill of fear went through the heart of the anxious wife. It was
soon ascertained that Marvel had been a passenger on board of this
vessel; but, from some cause, nothing in regard to him beyond this
fact could she learn. Against all persuasion, she started for the
hospital, her heart oppressed with a fearful presentiment that he
was either dead or struggling in the grasp of a fatal malady. On
making inquiry at the hospital, she was told the one she sought was
not there, and she was about returning to the city, when the truth
reached her ears.

"Is he very ill?" she asked, struggling to compose herself.

"Yes, he is extremely ill," was the reply. "And it might not be well
for you, under the circumstances, to see him at present."

"Not well for his wife to see him?" returned Agnes. Tears sprung to
her eyes at the thought of not being permitted to come near in his
extremity. "Do not say that. Oh, take me to him! I will save his
life."

"You must be very calm," said the nurse; for it was with her she was
talking. "The least excitement may be fatal."

"Oh, I will be calm and prudent." Yet, even while she spoke, her
frame quivered with excitement.

But she controlled herself when the moment of meeting came, and,
though her unexpected appearance produced a shock, it was salutary
rather than injurious.

"My dear, dear Agnes!" said Edward Marvel, a month from this time,
as they sat alone in the chamber of a pleasant house in New York, "I
owe you my life. But for your prompt resolution to follow me across
the sea, I would, in all probability, now be sleeping the sleep of
death. Oh, what would I not suffer for your sake!"

As Marvel uttered the last sentence, a troubled expression flitted
over his countenance. Agnes gazed tenderly into his face, and
asked--

"Why this look of doubt and anxiety?"

"Need I answer the question?" returned the young man. "It is, thus
far, no better with me than when we left our old home. Though health
is coming back through every fibre, and my heart is filled with an
eager desire to relieve these kind friends of the burden of our
support, yet no prospect opens."

No cloud came stealing darkly over the face of the young wife. The
sunshine, so far from being dimmed, was brighter.

"Let not your heart be troubled," said she, with a beautiful smile.
"All will come out right."

"Right, Agnes? It is not right for me thus to depend on strangers."

"You need depend but a little while longer. I have already made warm
friends here, and, through them, secured for you employment. A good
place awaits you so soon as strength to fill it comes back to your
weakened frame."

"Angel!" exclaimed the young man, overcome with emotion at so
unexpected a declaration.

"No, not an angel," calmly replied Agnes, "only a wife. And now,
dear Edward," she added, "never again, in any extremity, think for a
moment of meeting trials or enduring privations alone. Having taken
a wife, you cannot move safely on your journey unless she moves by
your side."

"Angel! Yes, you are my good angel," repeated Edward.

"Call me what you will," said Agnes, with a sweet smile, as she
brushed, with her delicate hand, the hair from his temples; "but let
me be your wife. I ask no better name, no higher station."






NOT GREAT, BUT HAPPY.





How pure and sweet is the love of young hearts! How little does it
contain of earth--how much of heaven! No selfish passions mar its
beauty. Its tenderness, its pathos, its devotion, who does not
remember, even when the sere leaves of autumn are rustling beneath
his feet? How little does it regard the cold and calculating
objections of worldly-mindedness. They are heard but as a passing
murmur. The deep, unswerving confidence of young love, what a
blessed thing it is! Heart answers to heart without an unequal
throb. The world around is bright and beautiful: the atmosphere is
filled with spring's most delicious perfumes.

From this dream--why should we call it a dream?--Is it not a blessed
reality?--Is not young, fervent love, true love? Alas! this is an
evil world, and man's heart is evil. From this dream there is too
often a tearful awaking. Often, too often, hearts are suddenly torn
asunder, and wounds are made that never heal, or, healing, leave
hard, disfiguring scars. But this is not always so. Pure love
sometimes finds its own sweet reward. I will relate one precious
instance.

The Baron Holbein, after having passed ten years of active life in a
large metropolitan city of Europe, retired to his estate in a
beautiful and fertile valley, far away from the gay circle of
fashion--far away from the sounds of political rancor with which he
had been too long familiar--far away from the strife of selfish men
and contending interests. He had an only child, Nina, just fifteen
years of age. For her sake, as well as to indulge his love of quiet
and nature, he had retired from the world. Her mother had been with
the angels for some years. Without her wise counsels and watchful
care, the father feared to leave his innocent-minded child exposed
to the temptations that must gather around her in a large city.

For a time Nina missed her young companions, and pined to be with
them. The old castle was lonely, and the villagers did not interest
her. Her father urged her to go among the peasantry, and, as an
inducement, placed a considerable sum of money at her command, to be
used as she might see best in works of benevolence. Nina's heart was
warm, and her impulses generous. The idea pleased her, and she acted
upon it. She soon found employment enough both for her time and the
money placed at her disposal. Among the villagers was a woman named
Blanche Delebarre, a widow, whose only son had been from home since
his tenth year, under the care of an uncle, who had offered to
educate him, and fit him for a life of higher usefulness than that
of a mere peasant. There was a gentleness about this woman, and
something that marked her as superior to her class. Yet she was an
humble villager, dependent upon the labor of her own hands, and
claimed no higher station.

Nina became acquainted with Blanche soon after the commencement of
her residence at the castle. When she communicated to her the wishes
of her father, and mentioned the money that had been placed at her
disposal, the woman took her hand and said, while a beautiful light
beamed from her countenance--

"It is more blessed to give than to receive, my child. Happy are
they who have the power to confer benefits, and who do so with
willing hearts. I fear, however, that you will find your task a
difficult one. Everywhere are the idle and undeserving, and these
are more apt to force themselves forward as objects of benevolence
than the truly needy and meritorious. As I know every one in the
village, perhaps I may be able to guide you to such objects as
deserve attention."

"My good mother," replied Nina, "I will confide in your judgment. I
will make you my almoner."

"No, my dear young lady, it will be better for you to dispense with
your own hands. I will merely aid you to make a wise dispensation."

"I am ready to begin. Show me but the way."

"Do you see that company of children on the green?" said Blanche.

"Yes. And a wild company they are."

"For hours each day they assemble as you see them, and spend their
time in idle sports. Sometimes they disagree and quarrel. That is
worse than idleness. Now, come here. Do you see that little cottage
yonder on the hill-side, with vines clustering around the door?"

"Yes."

"An aged mother and her daughter reside there. The labor of the
daughter's hands provides food and raiment for both. These children
need instruction, and Jennet Fleury is fully qualified to impart it.
Their parents cannot, or will not, pay to send them to school, and
Jennet must receive some return for her labors, whatever they be."

"I see it all," cried Nina with animation. "There must be a school
in the village. Jennet shall be the teacher."

"If this can be done, it will be a great blessing," said Blanche.

"It shall be done. Let us go over to that sweet little cottage at
once and see Jennet."

The good Blanche Delebarre made no objection. In a little while they
entered the cottage. Every thing was homely, but neat and clean.
Jennet was busy at her reel when they entered. She knew the lady of
Castle Holbein, and arose up quickly and in some confusion. But she
soon recovered herself, and welcomed, with a low courtesy, the
visitors who had come to grace her humble abode. When the object of
this visit was made known, Jennet replied that the condition of the
village children had often pained her, and that she had more than
once prayed that some way would open by which they could receive
instruction. She readily accepted the proposal of Nina to become
their teacher, and wished to receive no more for the service than
what she could now earn by reeling silk.

It did not take long to get the proposed school in operation. The
parents were willing to send their children, the teacher was willing
to receive them, and the young lady patroness was willing to meet
the expenses.

Nina said nothing to her father of what she was doing. She wished to
surprise him some day, after every thing was going on prosperously.
But a matter of so much interest to the neighborhood could not
remain a secret. The school had not been in operation two days
before the baron heard all about it. But he said nothing to his
daughter. He wished to leave her the pleasure which he knew she
desired, that of telling him herself.

At the end of a month Nina presented her father with an account of
what she had done with the money he had placed in her hands. The
expenditure had been moderate enough, but the good done was far
beyond the baron's anticipations. Thirty children were receiving
daily instructions; nurses had been employed, and medicines bought
for the sick; needy persons, who had no employment, were set to work
in making up clothing for children, who, for want of such as was
suitable, could not attend the school. Besides, many other things
had been done. The account was looked over by the Baron Holbein, and
each item noted with sincere pleasure. He warmly commended Nina for
what she had done; he praised the prudence with which she had
managed what she had undertaken; and begged her to persevere in the
good work.

For the space of more than a year did Nina submit to her father, for
approval, every month an accurate statement of what she had done,
with a minute account of all the moneys expended. But after that
time she failed to render this account, although she received the
usual supply, and was as actively engaged as before in works of
benevolence among the poor peasantry. The father often wondered at
this, but did not inquire the cause. He had never asked an account:
to render it had been a voluntary act, and he could not, therefore,
ask why it was withheld. He noticed, however, a change in Nina. She
was more thoughtful, and conversed less openly than before. If he
looked at her intently, her eyes would sink to the floor, and the
color deepen on her cheek. She remained longer in her own room,
alone, than she had done since their removal to the castle. Every
day she went out, and almost always took the direction of Blanche
Delebarre's cottage, where she spent several hours.

Intelligence of his daughter's good deeds did not, so often as
before, reach the old baron's ears; and yet Nina drew as much money
as before, and had twice asked to have the sum doubled. The father
could not understand the meaning of all this. He did not believe
that any thing was wrong--he had too much confidence in Nina--but he
was puzzled. We will briefly apprise the reader of the cause of this
change.

One day--it was nearly a year from the time Nina had become a
constant visitor at Blanche Delebarre's--the young lady sat reading
a book in the matron's cottage. She was alone--Blanche having gone
out to visit a sick neighbor at Nina's request. A form suddenly
darkened the door, and some one entered hurriedly. Nina raised her
eyes, and met the gaze of a youthful strange, who had paused and
stood looking at her with surprise and admiration. With more
confusion, but with not less of wonder and admiration, did Nina
return the stranger's gaze.

"Is not this the cottage of Blanche Delebarre?" asked he, after a
moment's pause. His voice was low and musical.

"It is," replied Nina. "She has gone to visit a sick neighbor, but
will return shortly."

"Is my mother well?" asked the youth.

Nina rose to her feet. This, then, was Pierre Delebarre, of whom his
mother had so often spoke. The heart of the maiden fluttered.

"The good Blanche is well," was her simple reply. "I will go and say
to her that her son has come home. It will make her heart glad."

"My dear young lady, no!" said Pierre. "Do not disturb my mother in
her good work. Let her come home and meet me here--the surprise will
add to the pleasure. Sit down again. Pardon my rudeness--but are not
you the young lady from the castle, of whom my mother so often
writes to me as the good angel of the village? I am sure you must
be, or you would not be alone in my mother's cottage."

Nina's blushes deepened, but she answered without disguise that she
was from the castle.

A full half hour passed before Blanche returned. The young and
artless couple did not talk of love with their lips during that
time, but their eyes beamed with a mutual passion. When the mother
entered, so much were they interested in each other, that they did
not hear her approaching footstep. She surprised them leaning toward
each other in earnest conversation.

The joy of the mother's heart was great on meeting her son. He was
wonderfully improved since she last saw him--had grown several
inches, and had about him the air of one born of gentle blood,
rather than the air of a peasant. Nina staid only a very short time
after Blanche returned, and then hurried away from the cottage.

The brief interview held with young Pierre sealed the maiden's fate.
She knew nothing of love before the beautiful youth stood before
her--her heart was as pure as an infant's--she was artlessness
itself. She had heard him so often spoken of by his mother, that she
had learned to think of Pierre as the kindest and best of youths.
She saw him, for the first time, as one to love. His face, his
tones, the air of refinement and intelligence that was about him,
all conspired to win her young affections. But of the true nature of
her feelings, Nina was as yet ignorant. She did not think of love.
She did not, therefore, hesitate as to the propriety of continuing
her visits at the cottage of Blanche Delebarre, nor did she feel any
reserve in the presence of Pierre. Not until the enamored youth
presumed to whisper the passion her presence had awakened in his
bosom, did she fully understand the cause of the delight she always
felt while by his side.

After Pierre had been home a few weeks, he ventured to explain to
his mother the cause of his unexpected and unannounced return. He
had disagreed with his uucle, who, in a passion, had reminded him
of his dependence. This the high-spirited youth could not bear,
and he left his uncle's house within twenty-four hours, with a fixed
resolution never to return. He had come back to the village, resolved,
he said, to lead a peasant's life of toil, rather than live with a relative
who could so far forget himself as to remind him of his dependence.
Poor Blanche was deeply grieved. All her fond hopes for her son were
at an end. She looked at his small, delicate hands and slender pro-
portions, and wept when she thought of a peasant's life of hard
labor.

A very long time did not pass before Nina made a proposition to
Blanche, that relieved, in some measure, the painful depression
under which she labored. It was this. Pierre had, from a child,
exhibited a decided talent for painting. This talent had been
cultivated by the uncle, and Pierre was, already, quite a
respectable artist. But he needed at least a year's study of the old
masters, and more accurate instruction than he had yet received,
before he would be able to adopt the painter's calling as one by
which he could take an independent position in society as a man.
Understanding this fully, Nina said that Pierre must go to Florence,
and remain there a year, in order to perfect himself in the art, and
that she would claim the privilege of bearing all the expense. For a
time, the young man's proud spirit shrunk from an acceptance of this
generous offer; but Nina and the mother overruled all his
objections, and almost forced him to go.