Chapter II: Part 2

Poor Mrs. Duffy had prided herself all her life on never having told a lie. She looked up and down the road, but there was not a creature in sight; and she glanced again hopelessly into the man’s savage and stupid face. What should she do? To part with the shilling just given to her would be a very great loss; and she knew it would only be spent in the nearest public-house. Should she be doing very wrong to deny having one? It was the first time for years that she had had a whole silver shilling about her; and any moment during that time she could have replied ‘No’ boldly and truthfully. Might she not say ‘No’ just this once?

‘Haven’t you got a shilling?’ he repeated, shaking her shoulder roughly.

‘Well,’ she said, feebly, ‘I haven’t had a shilling ever so long; but I have got one now. I’m a very poor old woman, my good young man. If I’d got a penny, I’d give it you, and welcome.’

‘I must have your shilling,’ he said, doggedly.

‘I can’t give it you, indeed,’ she answered; ‘there’s my rent, and coals, and other things; and I’m very poor. You’d only drink it.’

She had scarcely finished speaking, when she saw the stranger produce a pistol from under his jacket, and point it at her. There was a sudden flash before her eyes, and she felt a keen pain; then she fell down without feeling or consciousness under the hedge-bank on the high road. A few minutes later, Dr. Layard’s brougham was stopping at a toll-gate just outside the town, when a labouring man, who was striding swiftly past, spoke a few words to the driver. Dr. Layard was inside, with Kate, who was going out with him to see her godfather, a clergyman in the next parish. The doctor, having finished what he had to say to the gatekeeper, inquired what the labourer had said in passing.

‘He says there’s a woman up the road, who’s been shot, sir,’ answered the servant, ‘and he says to me, “Look sharp after her, she’s an old woman, and very poor.”’

‘Shot!’ exclaimed Dr. Layard; ‘drive on then, quickly. Katie, don’t be frightened. Gate, look after that fellow who has just gone through.’

The last order was shouted through the window, as the carriage rolled rapidly away. In a few minutes they gained the spot where the old woman was lying as one dead, under the leafless hedge, with the blood staining the thin shawl which was wrapped about her. Her old wrinkled face had lost all its apple-red, and her grey hair, scanty and short, had fallen down from under her white cap. Both Dr. Layard and Katie exclaimed in one breath, ‘Mrs. Duffy!’

Kate was not wanting in nerve, though she felt a little shaken, and exceedingly troubled. She left the carriage, and sat down on the bank, supporting Mrs. Duffy in her arms, while Dr. Layard made a brief examination of the wounds in the poor old neck and shoulder. His expression was very grave, and he stood for a few moments deliberating silently, with his eyes fastened upon the deathlike face of Mrs. Duffy, and the pretty, anxious face of his daughter.

‘Is it dangerous?’ asked Kate, falteringly.

‘Almost fatal,’ he answered; ‘within a touch of death. There’s one chance. I’m thinking of driving straight to Lentford Hospital. It’s a good level road all the way, and the hospital is at this end of the town. If you get into the brougham first, I can lift the old woman, and place her in an easy posture against you. Could you hold her pretty much as you are now for an hour or more? I’d do it myself; but you could not lift her in as I shall do. Are you strong enough?’

‘I will be strong enough; I will do it,’ said Kate, lifting up her head with determination and endurance in every line of her face.

It did not occur to Dr. Layard that his carriage was a new one, handsomely lined and fitted up; but the servant’s soul ran more upon such subjects, and he began to protest against lifting the wounded and bleeding woman into it. Such a very miserable old creature, too, thought Bob, not a bit of a lady.

‘Dolt! idiot! brute!’ ejaculated Dr. Layard, in high wrath; and Bob, who had only uttered half his protest, shut his mouth, and was silent.

It seemed a very long time to Kate, though the carriage bowled rapidly along the smooth, straight old Roman road. Poor Mrs. Duffy gave no sign of life, but lay against her heavily, with her grey head resting upon Kate’s shoulder. She held her as tenderly as she could, now and then clasping her warm fingers about her wrist, which was knotted and brown with age and hard work, but which gave no throb back to Kate’s touch. Dr. Layard, who rode outside with Bob, looked round from time to time, nodding to her, but with so grave a face that she felt the case was very serious. She thanked God fervently when the spires of Lentford came in sight, and the last notes of the morning chimes fell upon her ear. There were streams of people going to church, exchanging cheery salutations with one another; but many a person caught a glimpse of Kate’s pale and agitated face, and the grey head lying against her neck, and felt a shadow pass over their own Christmas gladness.

Dr. Layard’s carriage drove into the courtyard of the hospital, and then Kate was quickly relieved of her burden. Mrs. Duffy was carried away, and Dr. Layard followed her. Kate sat there, anxious and troubled, while the clock in the nearest church tower struck one quarter after another, and Bob drove up and down at a snail’s pace in dreary and monotonous turns. At length some one beckoned to him from the hospital portico, and Bob responded with an alacrity which betrayed his impatience. Kate only saw at the last moment that it was Dr. Carey, not her father, who had summoned him; and she shrank back, breathless and tremulous, into the corner of the carriage which concealed her best from him.

‘Bob, your master says you must drive home,’ said Dr. Carey; ‘he will return by train in the afternoon.’

‘And the old woman, sir?’ said Bob, ‘how’s she going on?’

‘Very little hope,’ answered Philip Carey, whose face Kate could not see, but whose voice made every nerve thrill.

‘Is it murder?’ asked Bob, who had known Dr. Carey as his master’s assistant, and stood on very little ceremony with him.

‘I’m afraid so,’ he said; ‘how are they all at home, Bob? Miss Brooks and Miss Kate?’

‘She’s in there,’ said Bob, pointing with his thumb to the carriage. Kate roused herself to lift up her head with dignity, sit erect upon her seat, and meet Dr. Carey’s salutation calmly. It was nearly four weeks since he had written to her, and she had replied, ‘Come.’ He looked at her with an amazed and confused expression, and took off his hat, but did not attempt to speak. Both of them coloured, and both bowed stiffly and in silence. Then Philip Carey, still bareheaded, and as if lost in thought, walked slowly back up the broad steps of the portico, and Kate cried most of the way home.

‘I never saw anything like that,’ thought Bob; ‘and they used to be like brother and sister, almost.’

It was late in the afternoon when Dr. Layard returned, and then he had to see the superintendent of police. The stranger who had passed through the toll-gate had not yet been found; but he could not be far off, and Bob was ready to swear to him when he was taken. Kate’s Christmas party passed off more successfully because one of the invited guests had been almost murdered on the highway. The news ran like wildfire through the town and neighbourhood, and the farmer’s wife came to tell of Mrs. Duffy’s morning visit, and her cheerful carols just before the villain met her. She and Kate mingled their tears together over the recital, and Kate ended her miserable Christmas by going to bed with a very heavy heart.

The next day the stranger was found and sworn to by Bob, though he flatly denied having been anywhere in the direction of the toll-bar. Neither Dr. Layard nor the toll-man could swear to him, as he had passed on the farther side of the carriage while they were talking at the other window. He was an utter stranger in the neighbourhood, without friends, and he stated that he was on the tramp. A very old pistol was found in a ditch near the spot where Mrs. Duffy had been shot. The man was sent in safe custody to Lentford, to be brought face to face with the old woman, if she should recover consciousness enough to identify him and give her evidence against him.

For twenty-four hours or more it continued very doubtful whether the poor old creature would ever rally. She had not spoken since she had been found, but she lay perfectly tranquil and patient on her hospital bed. Now and then a gleam of a smile, like the momentary glimmer of the sun on a cloudy day crossed her face, and her lips moved slightly, as if she were whispering. She knew when they were doing anything for her, for she tried to help herself, to raise her thin hand, or turn her grey head upon the pillow for them to see her neck. Dr. Carey, who had known her in former days, spent as much time as he could beside her bed; and towards the close of the day, just before the night nurse was coming to take her turn, he heard her voice speaking articulately but very slowly and faintly, and he stooped over her to listen to what she said.

‘Dr. Layard’s daughter! Dr. Layard’s daughter!’ she murmured.

‘Would you like to see Dr. Layard’s daughter?’ asked Philip Carey, in his clearest and most pleasant tone.

‘Ay, ay,’ whispered the old woman.

‘To-morrow you shall,’ he said; ‘it is too late now. To-morrow.’

‘Ay, ay,’ she assented, cheerfully.

‘You will be better to-morrow,’ he suggested.

‘No, no,’ murmured the old woman. ‘He shot me dead because I wouldn’t give him my shilling. He robbed me.’

‘There’s a shilling wrapped up in a bit of blue sugar-paper in your pocket,’ said Dr. Carey. A sparkle of satisfaction shone upon the poor drawn face, and then Mrs. Duffy fell quietly asleep.

She was certainly somewhat better in the morning, and watching the people who were about her; her mind was clear, and she evidently knew her circumstances, where she was, and what had happened to her. Before noon Dr. Layard and Kate arrived; and Mrs. Duffy’s sunken blue eyes brightened, yet filled with tears, as she looked up into their faces bending pityingly above her.

‘Well, old friend,’ said Dr. Layard, heartily, ‘you are better already. We are going to pull you through, you’ll see, Carey and me. We know what a tough old lady you are. Carey used to play you some tricks in the old times, and now he’ll make it up to you by pulling you through. Won’t you, Carey?’

Kate had not seen him enter the ward, and now she sat down, feeling weak and tremulous, on a chair at Mrs. Duffy’s head, keeping her eyes fixed upon the old woman’s face. Dr. Carey’s voice sounded oddly in her ears, as if he was speaking in very loud and constrained tones.

‘I am going to do my best,’ he said, ‘but you must keep yourself quite still now, Mrs. Duffy, and get up your strength to tell the magistrate your story. You are a brave old woman, and won’t be afraid; and I’ll tell them you never told a lie in your life.’

Mrs. Duffy smiled, but did not speak. She had not spoken yet, but she stretched out her hand, and tried to turn towards Kate. Dr. Carey seemed to understand her meaning perfectly.

‘You want Dr. Layard’s daughter to sit where you can see her?’ he said. ‘You want her to stay with you?’

‘Ay, ay,’ she answered. ‘God bless her!’

It was Philip Carey who moved Kate’s chair, and placed it in a convenient position for old Mrs. Duffy to see her. She glanced at him once, but his eyes were downcast, and his aspect very solemn. He bade one of the nurses bring her a footstool, and then he and her father went away, and old Mrs. Duffy, smiling now and then, closed her eyes and seemed to fall into a doze.

It was a very quiet hour for Kate. The ward was a small one, containing only four beds, and no other patient in it. The nurses were busy, and had all gone away, leaving her alone. A wintry sunshine was falling through the farthest window upon the bare white walls. Her mind was strangely divided between Mrs. Duffy and Philip Carey, whose life was spent mostly within these walls. He had spoken so kindly, even affectionately, to this poor, friendless old woman, but he had not spoken a word to her. How was it that he could be so fickle, so cruel towards her? What reason or motive could possibly have made him change his mind so suddenly and so dishonourably, and plunge her into so much wretchedness and perplexity? She could not bear to meet him, yet she would have to bear it, for her father was so fond of him. How proud and happy her father would have been in him as his son in-law! It was too hard even to think of. Perhaps she would even have the misery some day of seeing his wife, the girl who had supplanted her, and made her life a blank. For Kate felt sure that it would be impossible for her ever to love another man. No one else could be to her what Philip Carey had been.

The hour passed away, and there were several quiet signs of excitement. Dr. Layard and Dr. Carey came in, felt the old woman’s pulse, and gave her a cordial. Kate was told that if she could be calm she had better remain where she was, as Mrs. Duffy held her hand closely, and wished her to stay. Three or four strange gentlemen came in, and stood about the bed, while Mrs. Duffy, in very feeble tones, told her story, which was written down, word for word, from her lips. She had not much to say, and it was soon over.

‘Could you identify the individual?’ inquired the magistrate’s clerk.

‘Should you know the man again?’ asked Dr. Carey, who was standing close to Kate, and near old Mrs. Duffy.

‘Ay, to be sure,’ she answered, with more energy than she had displayed before.

‘He has been taken;’ said Dr. Layard; ‘that is, a man has been taken up, and we think he is the man. You must see him yourself.’

The old woman shuddered, and grasped Kate’s hand tightly. It might have been Dr. Carey’s hand, for he seemed conscious of the close grasp, and answered to it.

‘Come, come,’ he said, encouragingly, ‘you never used to be a coward; and you have only to open your eyes, and look at him. You have plenty of friends about you, you know.’

‘He’s a dreadful man,’ she said, in a whisper, ‘but let him come.’

Kate herself felt a strong thrill of excitement, as she listened to the regular tramp of the policeman, and the shambling tread of the murderer, coming down the bare boards of the ward. The old woman had closed her eyes, as if to gather strength for the dreadful detective gaze. Dr. Carey laid his hand on the back of Kate’s chair, so close to her it almost touched her shoulder, and one of her brown curls fell upon it. The footsteps came on to the side of the bed, and stopped there. Kate turned her head and took one frightened glance. The murderer was a middle-aged man, with a full, heavy, red face, and light hair just turning grey, not a vicious-looking man on the whole; he might have been a decent, honest, creditable fellow, but for the drinking habits which had brutalised him. He was looking down at the wounded old woman with an air half sorrowful and half ashamed; but a little sullen also, as a boy looks when caught in some fault. The policeman at his right hand was the only sign to mark him out as a criminal; and he seemed as much on the alert as if he expected him to make a second murderous attack on the old woman in her bed. For a minute or two all were silent in the room. Mrs. Duffy’s eyelids were closed, and her lips moved as if in prayer. She looked up at last; and her dim blue eyes, which were full of terror, like those of a child who wakes frightened, changed like those of a child, when it sees that the face bending over it is a familiar face.

‘Why,’ she cried, in a voice at once firm and glad, ‘it’s my boy! It’s my Johnny!’

Her wrinkled features began to work with emotion, and she was about to raise herself up to stretch out her arms to him, but Dr. Carey was quick enough to prevent her. He threw himself on his knees at Kate’s feet, and laid his strong arm gently across the old woman. Every one else stood motionless and thunderstruck. The man himself did not stir hand or foot.

‘That’s my son as went to Australy,’ continued Mrs. Duffy; ‘please let him come and kiss me. Don’t you know your poor old mother again, Johnny?’

‘Oh, mother! mother!’ exclaimed the man, striking his hard hands together, ‘that’s my mother sir, as I came back to, and was looking for. I hadn’t seen her these thirty years, and she’s nothing like the woman she was. You’ll let me go and kiss her, maybe?’

He had spoken to the policeman next to him, and his official eye was softened; but the magistrates were there, and the indulgence was not his to grant.

‘Is this the person who attempted first to rob and then to murder you?’ asked the magistrate’s clerk.

‘Oh, dear no! it’s my boy,’ said the old woman; ‘he’d never shoot at his mother, bless you! It was quite a different man, not him; a dreadful man. That’s the boy I nursed, and taught him his prayers. He’d never lift up his hand agen me; please let him go.’

There was no question in Mrs. Duffy’s mind as to whether she was telling the truth or not. Her gladness was so great that her mind utterly refused the incredible and impossible idea that her own son could have thought of robbing and murdering her. If he had been brought before her red-handed with her blood, she would still have believed herself mistaken. It was some ruffian and monster who had shot her, not her son. As for him, his heavy, bloodshot eyes were filled with tears, and his voice, as he began to speak, was choked and husky.

‘Sir,’ he said, addressing no one in particular, ‘she’s not like the same woman, but she’s my mother. She had brown hair, and was very strong. I never thought of her being like that. I wish I’d kept free from drink. Nobody knows what drink’ll bring him to. She’s my mother; and I came back to work for her, if she were still alive. I’ll never taste a drop again as long’s I live.’

‘Hush, hush!’ said Dr. Layard, coming behind him, and tapping him on the shoulder; ‘hold your tongue, my good fellow. You’ll make your mother worse again if you talk. There’s a good chance for her if she’s kept quiet.’

The magistrates and their clerk walked away to the end of the ward, and held a short consultation there. There was not much doubt that this man was the right man; but there was no one to bring home the crime to him, except his mother. Bob, Dr. Layard’s servant, swore positively that he was the man who told him a woman was lying in the road murdered; but the woman herself denied that it was he who had attacked her. To be sure there was more than sufficient reason for her to do so, but if she persisted in it, what was to be done?

‘You must remember you are upon your oath,’ said the elder magistrate, ‘and probably upon your deathbed. Now look at this man carefully, and tell me if he is not the man who shot at you.’

Mrs. Duffy gazed earnestly at her son, smiling more and more, until her pale, shrunken face grew radiant with happiness.

‘Why, it couldn’t be him,’ she said, ‘how could it? Ay, ay; I could swear it were never him; my Johnny. Please let him stay aside of me for a bit. The police may stop for him if you like; but he’d never do it.’

‘Carey and I will be bail for him, if it’s necessary,’ said Dr. Layard, ‘only let the poor fellow shake hands with his mother. There, let him go.’

The man seemed to slip suddenly from the policeman’s grasp, and sunk down on his knees at his mother’s feet, hiding his face in the bed-clothes, and sobbing till the bed shook under him. All the time his mother’s eyes were shining upon him, and her arms, still kept firmly down by Dr. Carey, were trembling to touch him.

The magistrates and their retinue went their way, leaving Mrs. Duffy with her son, while Kate and Philip Carey stood by, a little aloof from them, and from each other. The man crept closer and closer to his mother, till his hot and heavy face rested upon her hand. There was a deep silence in the ward. Outside in the corridor, through the half open door, could be seen the policeman, still waiting for final orders.

‘Mother,’ sobbed out Duffy, in a smothered and faltering voice, ‘can you forgive me?’

‘Why! there’s nothing to forgive, Johnny,’ she said, ‘and I’m so happy, I’d forgive everybody. I’d forgive the raskill as shot me. I have forgive him already, Johnny.’

‘I want you to get well, mother,’ he said, with desperate earnestness, ‘and I’ll make it all up to you. I’m come back to work for you, and indeed, I’ll work. Will you forgive me, mother?’

‘Forgive you, Johnny!’ she murmured, ‘it’s a easy thing to forgive a body when you love a body.’

The last words dropped faintly, syllable by syllable, from the old woman’s white lips, and Kate’s heart sank like lead. The withered face had grown paler, and the wrinkled eyelids closed slowly over the filmy blue eyes. Kate uttered a low cry of trouble, and Philip Carey turned quickly towards her.

‘Is she going to die, Philip?’ asked Kate.

‘She is very faint,’ he replied, ‘She has been too much excited, but she may rally yet. Go and send me a nurse, and do not return yourself.’

Kate walked softly down the ward, the tears falling fast from her eyes. She was no longer grieving over her own troubles, but for the hopeful, cheery, brave old woman, who had met her long-lost son again in such a manner, and at such a moment as this. She waited in the matron’s parlour until a message was brought to her that Mrs. Duffy was sleeping again, with her son watching and waiting beside her. Then she returned home with her father.

‘I’ve not the shadow of a doubt Duffy’s the man,’ shouted Dr. Layard to her, above the noise of the train; ‘but the thing cannot be brought home to him. The old woman is as true as truth itself, but she is labouring under a delusion. She no more believes that her son was the man who shot at her than I believe that you did it. I question whether she would believe Duffy himself if he owned it to her, which he must not do. I’ve told him so. I said, “Duffy, I feel pretty sure you are the villain that did it, and if she dies I’ll do my best to prove it. But never you tell your mother it was yourself; it would go far to break her heart.” And he said, “I’ll never speak a word about it, one way or the other, sir.” Oh! Duffy did it!’

‘Do you think she will die?’ asked Kate.

‘Carey will do his best for her,’ said Dr. Layard; ‘I never saw such a change in a young fellow as there is in Carey. He is as dull as a beetle; just when he has got all he has been striving for, too! I don’t understand it.’

Kate believed she understood it, but she kept silence. It was not likely he could feel happy and at ease in her presence or her father’s if he had a spark of feeling; and he certainly possessed a good deal of feeling. She had caught his eye once during the strange interview round Mrs. Duffy’s bed, and they had looked at one another with a sympathy which had seemed at the moment the most natural thing in the world. She had called him Philip, too! How her cheeks burned at the very recollection. She wished she had preserved to the end an icy dignity of manner towards him; but she had altogether forgotten herself, and it had been a happier moment than she had felt for these four weeks past. Perhaps utter forgetfulness of self is the only real happiness.

The next morning Kate was once more sitting alone before the fire in the breakfast-room, with nothing particular to do, until it was time to start for Lentford once more, when the servant brought in a large official-looking cover, with the words ‘Dead Letter Office’ printed upon it, and addressed ‘Miss Kate Layard, Ilverton.’ It was the first time in her life that Kate had ever received such an ominous-looking packet. She opened it with some trepidation, and drew from it her own brief note to Philip Carey, written four weeks before. The envelope bore several postmarks upon it, with directions to try one town after another--Liverpool, then Manchester, then London--but it was several minutes before she discovered how it had all happened. Her own handwriting lay before her eyes, or she could never have believed it: she had directed her letter to ‘Dr. Carey, Everton Square, Liverpool.’

How Kate had come to write Liverpool instead of Lentford she could never understand. It was true Philip had gone to Liverpool after leaving Ilverton, but how stupid of her to make such a dreadful mistake! Then he, too, had been passing through as miserable a time as herself. He must have come to the conclusion that she did not care for him, and that she had not even the grace to thank him for the love he had bestowed upon her in vain. What could he have thought of her? It must have been a pain to him. She would make it up to him in some way.

Kate’s brain was in a whirl all the way to Lentford. She walked up the broad steps of the hospital portico like one in a dream. The fat porter, in his handsome livery, nodded pleasantly at her; and the students, hurrying along the broad corridors, took off their hats to Dr. Layard’s pretty daughter. She had to pass by a recess as large as a good-sized room, with benches round and across it, upon which were seated rows of poor patients, waiting humbly for their turn to go in and see the doctor. The doorkeeper had just opened the door an inch or two, and Kate saw Philip Carey’s face, grave and care-worn, listening to a poor woman who was just going away by another entrance. She laid her hand upon the arm of the patient who was going in, and passed on into the room instead. ‘Philip,’ she said, her face flushing at his look of amazement, ‘I am only going to stay one moment. I have been so miserable. I wrote this four weeks ago.’

‘Wrote what?’ he asked, clasping the hand with which she offered him the misdirected letter, and holding both closely.

‘I only wrote “Come,”’ stammered Kate, the tears starting into her eyes, ‘and I thought--oh, I don’t know what I thought! I directed it to Liverpool instead of Lentford, and it’s been wandering about ever since. Do you understand?’

‘Do you mean you will be my wife?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she answered.

They had only three minutes to themselves. Three minutes was the time allotted for each case, and as it expired the door was opened again an inch or two to see if the doctor was ready for the next patient. Dr. Carey led Kate to the other door, and dismissed her with a glance which set her heart beating fast with happiness. She mounted the long flight of stairs and entered the ward where Mrs. Duffy was lying as if she trod on air. The old woman was resting very comfortably in bed, her eyes calm and bright, and a faint streak of the old apple-red beginning to show itself upon her cheek. The good chance for her recovery was a still better one this morning.

‘He’s coming back again this morning,’ she whispered in Kate’s ear; ‘they let him stay beside me all yesterday, and he’s coming back again to-day. It’s a beautiful Christmas this is; I never knew one like it. I hope they’ll never catch that poor raskill as shot me, I do. It ’ud spoil my Christmas and Johnny’s if they did. Has it been a happy Christmas for you, my dear?’

‘Very happy,’ answered Kate, with a bright smile, as the present joy blotted out the remembrance of the past sorrow.

‘That’s right, my dear!’ murmured Mrs. Duffy, ‘I don’t know as ever I knew such a Christmas.’

There is little more to be told. Dr. Carey made his appearance at Dr. Layard’s that evening, and delighted him beyond measure by asking him for Kate. Mrs. Duffy recovered and lived two or three years longer in undisturbed happiness, and in a degree of comfort to which she had been unaccustomed throughout her life. For her son, who had not prospered much in Australia, worked industriously and steadily to maintain her at home, and devoted himself to her with real tenderness. It was not till after her death, when Kate Carey was standing beside her coffin looking down at the placid face and closed eyes of the old woman, that he told the story of his return home.

‘I’d worked my passage across, ma’am,’ he said, the tears rolling down his cheeks, ‘and I’d landed in Liverpool a week afore Christmas, with as much as five pound in my pocket, all I’d saved in Australy; and there were a lot set on me, and took me to a public, and I suppose I drank all my wits away. I reached Ilverton by the last train on Christmas Eve, but I didn’t know as mother were gone to live in the town. It were a bitter night, and I slept on a bench at the railway station. I hadn’t a penny left, when I set out to seek mother; and I were wandering about very miserable, when I saw a decent old woman coming along all alone. I only thought I’d frighten a shilling out of her. I never meant no harm. The pistol were an old pistol I’d had in the bush; and I didn’t recollect it was loaded, and it went bursting off, all in an instant of time. That quite brought me to, and I were running away to find somebody, when I see you and the doctor coming. I seemed to know it were a doctor. But when I found out it were my own poor old mother, which I did face to face with her in the hospital, I felt as I should die. She never knew as it were me, never. She used to talk about him, and say, “I forgave him, Johnny, and I hope God has forgave him too, whoever he is.” I shall never see another woman like my poor old mother.’

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‘Little Meggie’s Home,’
‘Aggie’s Christmas,’
‘Sermon in Baby’s Shoes,’
‘Lina.’

Small square, uniform with ‘Lost Gip,’ &c. Three Illustrations. Price
1_s_. 6_d._

=DADDIE’S PET.= By Mrs. ELLEN ROSS (‘Nelsie Brook’). A Sketch from
Humble Life. Square crown 8vo. uniform with ‘Lost Gip.’ With Six
Illustrations. 1_s._

‘We have been more than pleased with this simple bit of
writing.’--_Christian World._

‘Full of deep feeling and true and noble sentiment.’--_Brighton
Gazette._

‘A very pretty tale.’--_John Bull._

‘A pretty little story for children.’--_Scotsman._

‘An exceedingly pretty little story.’--_Literary Churchman._

=LOCKED OUT=: A Tale of the Strike. By ELLEN BARLEE. With a
Frontispiece. 1_s._ 6_d._

‘Beautifully written ... should be bought by all means for parochial
libraries, whether in country or in town.’--_Literary Churchman._

‘Well written.’--_Edinburgh Courant._

* * * * *

_HENRY S. KING & CO.’S THREE-AND-SIXPENNY SERIES of BOOKS for JUVENILES._

Works by the Author of ‘St. Olave’s,’ ‘When I was a Little Girl,’ &c.

=I. AUNT MARY’S BRAN PIE.= Illustrated.

‘A bright story for children.’--_Globe._

‘The stories are exceedingly good.’--_Nonconformist._

‘Capital stories.’--_Hour._

‘This is a very amusing book for children; one of the best books of
the season.’--_Literary World._

=II. SUNNYLAND STORIES.= Fcp. 8vo. Illustrated.

=BRAVE MEN’S FOOTSTEPS.= A Book of Example and Anecdote for
Young People. By the Editor of ‘Men who have Risen.’ With Four
Illustrations by C. DOYLE. Third Edition. Crown 8vo.

The lives have been chosen to represent marked varieties of
character, and their operation under different forms of effort.
Success is here viewed in no narrow or merely commercial sense.

‘The little volume is precisely of the stamp to win the favour of
those who, in choosing a gift for a boy, would consult his moral
development as well as his temporary pleasure.’--_Daily Telegraph._

‘A readable and instructive volume.’--_Examiner._

‘A good book which will, we hope, meet well-deserved
success.’--_Spectator._

Works by CHARLES CAMDEN.

=I. HOITY, TOITY, THE GOOD LITTLE FELLOW.= With Eleven Illustrations.
Crown 8vo.

‘Relates very pleasantly the history of a charming little fellow who
meddles always with a kindly disposition with other people’s
affairs, and helps them to do right. There are many shrewd lessons
to be picked up in this clever little story.’--_Public Opinion._

‘Another of those charming books which Mr. Charles Camden knows so
well how to produce.’--_Leeds Mercury._

‘Original, faithful, and humorous story.’--_Manchester Examiner._

=II. THE TRAVELLING MENAGERIE.= With Ten Illustrations by J. MAHONEY.
Crown 8vo.

‘A capital little book ... deserves a wide circulation among our
boys and girls.’--_Hour._

‘A very attractive story.’--_Public Opinion._

‘A series of admirable tales in which boys will take the deepest
interest.’--_Leeds Mercury._

‘Will be sure to delight young readers; they will get from it much
useful knowledge of natural history. The story is told in a
pleasant, chatty style.’--_Standard._

* * * * *

=PRETTY LESSONS IN VERSE FOR GOOD CHILDREN=; with some Lessons in
Latin, in Easy Rhyme. By SARA COLERIDGE. A New Edition. Illustrated.

‘Both in English and Latin they will pleasantly help little
folk through what has been called “the bitterness of
learning.”’--_Saturday Review._

‘This is a most delightful, and, let us add, a most sensible book
for children. It teaches us many a good moral, many a good
common-sense lesson, in its rhymes, which are, for the most part,
very musical to the ear.’--_Standard._

=THE DESERT PASTOR, JEAN JAROUSSEAU.= By Colonel E. P. DE L’HOSTE.
Translated from the French of Eugène Pelletan. In fcp. 8vo. with an
Engraved Frontispiece. New Edition.

‘There is a poetical simplicity and picturesqueness; the noblest
heroism; unpretentious religion; pure love, and the spectacle of a
household brought up in the fear of the Lord.’--_Illustrated London
News._

‘It is a touching record of the struggles in the cause of religious
liberty of a real man.’--_Graphic._

‘It is difficult to imagine any class of persons to whom this little
book will not prove attractive.’--_London Quarterly._

Works by MARTHA FARQUHARSON.

=I. ELSIE DINSMORE.= Crown 8vo.
=II. ELSIE’S GIRLHOOD.= Crown 8vo.
=III. ELSIE’S HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS.= Crown 8vo.

‘We do not pretend to have read the history of Elsie as she is
portrayed in three different volumes. By the help, however, of the
illustrations, and by dips here and there, we can safely give a
favourable account.’--_Westminster Review._

‘Elsie Dinsmore is a familiar name to a world of young readers.
In the above three pretty volumes her story is complete, and
it is one full of youthful experiences, winning a general
interest.’--_Athenæum._

* * * * *

=THE DESERTED SHIP.= A Real Story of the Atlantic. By CUPPLES HOWE,
Master Mariner. Illustrated by TOWNLEY GREEN. Crown 8vo.

‘Curious adventures with bears, seals, and other Arctic animals, and
with scarcely more human Esquimaux, form the mass of material with
which the story deals, and will much interest boys who have a spice
of romance in their composition.’--_Edinburgh Courant._

‘It is full of that continual succession of easily apprehended,
yet stirring events, which please a boy, more than any other
quality.’--_Edinburgh Daily Review._

=THE LITTLE WONDER-HORN.= By JEAN INGELOW. A Second Series of
‘Stories told to a Child.’ With Fifteen Illustrations. Square 24mo.

‘We like all the contents of the “Little Wonder-Horn” very
much.’--_Athenæum._

‘We recommend it with confidence.’--_Pall Mall Gazette._

‘Full of fresh and vigorous fancy; it is worthy of the author of
some of the best of our modern verse.’--_Standard._

=GUTTA-PERCHA WILLIE, the WORKING GENIUS.= By GEORGE MACDONALD. With
Nine Illustrations by ARTHUR HUGHES. Second Edition. Crown 8vo.

‘The cleverest child we know assures us she has read this story
through five times. Mr. MacDonald will, we are convinced, accept
that verdict upon his little work as final.’--_Spectator._

=PLUCKY FELLOWS.= A Book for Boys. By STEPHEN J. MACKENNA. With Nine
Illustrations. Second Edition. Crown 8vo.

‘This is one of the very best “Books for Boys” which have been
issued this year.’--_Morning Advertiser._

‘A thorough book for boys ... written throughout in a manly,
straightforward manner, that is sure to win the hearts of the
children.’--_London Society._

=LITTLE MINNIE’S TROUBLES=: an Every-day Chronicle. By N. R.
D’ANVERS. Illustrated by W. H. HUGHES. Fcp. 8vo.

=THE AFRICAN CRUISER.= A Midshipman’s Adventures on the West Coast.
By S. W. SADLER, R.N., Author of ‘Marshall Vavasour.’ A Book for
Boys. With Nine Illustrations. Second Edition. Crown 8vo.

‘A capital story of youthful adventure.... Sea-loving boys will
find few pleasanter gift-books this season than “The African
Cruiser.”’--_Hour._

‘Sea yarns have always been in favour with boys, but this,
written in a brisk style by a thorough sailor, is crammed full of
adventures.’--_Times._

=SEEKING HIS FORTUNE, and other Stories.= Crown 8vo. With Four
Illustrations.

CONTENTS:--Seeking his Fortune--Oluf and Stephanoff--What’s in a
Name?--Contrast--Onesta.

‘These are plain, straightforward stories, told in the precise
detailed manner which we are sure young people like.’--_Spectator._

‘They are romantic, entertaining, and decidedly inculcate a sound
and generous moral.... We can answer for it that this volume will
find favour with those for whom it is written, and that the sisters
will like it quite as well as the brothers.’--_Athenæum._

=SEVEN AUTUMN LEAVES FROM FAIRYLAND.= Illustrated with Nine Etchings.

CONTENTS:--

Mermaid.
Little Hans.
Dimple.
The Two Princes.
Specklesides.
Black Sneid.
Little Curly.

* * * * *

_HENRY S. KING & CO.’S SERIES OF FIVE-SHILLING BOOKS FOR JUVENILES._

=MIKE HOWE, THE BUSHRANGER OF VAN DIEMEN’S LAND.= By JAMES BONWICK.
Crown 8vo. With a Frontispiece.

This story, although a work of fiction, is a narrative of facts as
to the leading incidents of the Bushranger’s career. The tale may
therefore be regarded as a contribution to Colonial Literature.

‘He illustrates the career of a bushranger half a century ago; and
this he does in a highly creditable manner. His delineations of life
in the bush are, to say the least, exquisite, and his
representations of character are very marked.’--_Edinburgh Courant._

=THE TASMANIAN LILY.= By JAMES BONWICK. Crown 8vo. With Frontispiece.

‘An interesting and useful work.’--_Hour._

‘The characters of the stories are capitally conceived, and are full
of those touches which give them a natural appearance.’--_Public
Opinion._

Two Works by DAVID KER.

=I. THE BOY SLAVE IN BOKHARA.= A Tale of Central Asia. Crown 8vo.
With Illustrations.

In this work real scenes are grouped round an imaginary hero; genuine
information is conveyed in a more attractive form than that of a mere
dry statistical report.

‘Ostap Danilevitch Kostarenko, the Russian who is supposed to relate
the story, has a great number of adventures, and passes, by dint of
courage and ability, from a state of slavery to one of independence.
Will prove attractive to boys.’--_Pall Mall Gazette._

‘Exciting boy’s story, well told and abounding in incidents.’
--_Hour._

‘Full of strange adventures ... well worked out to the
end.’--_Standard._

‘An attractive boy’s book. He claims to have grouped real scenes
round an imaginary hero.’--_Spectator._

=II. THE WILD HORSEMAN OF THE PAMPAS.= Crown 8vo. Illustrated.

[_Just out._

* * * * *

=RAMBLES AND ADVENTURES OF OUR SCHOOL FIELD CLUB.= A Book for Boys.
By G. C. DAVIES.

=FANTASTIC STORIES.= By RICHARD LEANDER. Translated from the German
by PAULINA B. GRANVILLE. With Eight full-page Illustrations by M. E.
FRASER-TYTLER. Crown 8vo.

‘Short, quaint, and, as they are fitly called, fantastic, they deal
with all manner of subjects.’--_Guardian._

‘“Fantastic” is certainly the right epithet to apply to some of
these strange tales.’--_Examiner._

‘Amusing tales by one who took part in the general siege of
Paris.’--_Standard._

‘“The Knight who grew Rusty” is a delightful story, but “The
Queen who could not make gingerbread nuts, and the King who could
not play on the Jew’s harp,” will probably be the children’s
favourite.’--_Daily News._

=THE GREAT DUTCH ADMIRALS.= By JACOB DE LIEFDE. Crown 8vo. With
Eleven Illustrations by TOWNLEY GREEN and others.

‘A wholesome present for boys.’--_Athenæum._

‘A really good book.’--_Standard._

‘A really excellent book.’--_Spectator._

=HER TITLE OF HONOUR=: a Book for Girls. By HOLME LEE. New Edition.
Crown 8vo. With a Frontispiece.

‘It is unnecessary to recommend tales of Holme Lee’s, for they are
well known, and all more or less liked. But this book far exceeds
even our favourites, not perhaps as a story, for this is of the
simplest kind, but because with the interest of a pathetic story
is united the value of a definite and high purpose; and because,
also, it is a careful and beautiful piece of writing, and is full of
studies of refined and charming character.’--_Spectator._

‘It contains a vast amount of admirable and happy teaching, as
valuable as it is rare.’--_Standard._

=AT SCHOOL WITH AN OLD DRAGOON.= By STEPHEN J. MACKENNA. Crown 8vo.
With Six Illustrations.

‘Consisting almost entirely of startling stories of military
adventure.... Boys will find them sufficiently exciting
reading.’--_Times._

‘These yarns give some very spirited and interesting descriptions of
soldiering in various parts of the world.’--_Spectator._

‘Mr. MacKenna’s former work, “Plucky Fellows,” is already a
general favourite, and those who read the stories of the Old
Dragoon will find that he has still plenty of materials at hand
for pleasant tales, and has lost none of his power in telling them
well.’--_Standard._

=WAKING AND WORKING; OR, FROM GIRLHOOD TO WOMANHOOD.= By Mrs. G. S.
REANEY. With a Frontispiece. Crown 8vo.

‘A good tale--good in composition, good in style, good in
purpose.’--_Nonconformist._

‘The story is of a very attractive character. Its purpose is a good
and important one.’--_Rock._

=SLAVONIC FAIRY TALES.= From Russian, Servian, Polish, and Bohemian
Sources. By JOHN T. NAAKE, of the British Museum. With Four
Illustrations. Crown 8vo.

‘A most choice and charming selection.... The tales have an original
national ring in them, and will be pleasant reading to thousands
besides children. Yet children will eagerly open the pages, and not
willingly close them, of the pretty volume.’--_Standard._

‘English readers now have an opportunity of becoming acquainted with
eleven Polish and eight Bohemian stories, as well as with eight
Russian and thirteen Servian, in Mr. Naake’s modest but serviceable
collection of Slavonic Fairy Tales. Its contents are, as a general
rule, well chosen, and they are translated with a fidelity which
deserves cordial praise.... Before taking leave of his prettily got
up volume, we ought to mention that its contents fully come up to
the promise held out in its preface.’--_Academy._

=STORIES IN PRECIOUS STONES.= By HELEN ZIMMERN. With Six
Illustrations. Third Edition. Crown 8vo.

‘A series of pretty tales which are half fantastic, half natural,
and pleasantly quaint, as befits stories intended for the young.’
--_Daily Telegraph._

‘A pretty little book which fanciful young persons will appreciate,
and which will remind its readers of many a legend, and many
an imaginary virtue attached to the gems they are so fond of
wearing.’--_Post._

* * * * *

=THE BETTER SELF.= By J. HAIN FRISWELL. Essays for Home Life. Crown
8vo. 6_s._

CONTENTS:--

Beginning at Home
The Girls at Home
The Wife’s Mother
Pride in the Family
Discontent and Grumbling
Domestic Economy
Likes and Dislikes
On Keeping People Down
On Falling Out Peace

‘A high conception, but never severe nor morose; the spirit is as
sound and wholesome as it is noble and elevated.’--_Standard._

‘A really charming volume of Essays, which gives good advice without
becoming a bore.’--_City Press._

=BY STILL WATERS.= By EDWARD GARRETT. A Story for Quiet Hours. Crown
8vo. With Seven Illustrations. 6_s._

‘We have read many books by Edward Garrett, but none that has
pleased us so well as this. It has more than pleased; it has charmed
us.’--_Nonconformist._

‘Mr. Garrett is a novelist whose books it is always a pleasure to
meet. His stories are full of quiet, penetrating observations, and
there is about them a rare atmosphere of not unpleasing meditative
melancholy.’--_Echo._

=BEATRICE AYLMER, AND OTHER TALES.= By MARY M. HOWARD, Author of
‘Brampton Rectory.’ Crown 8vo. 6_s._

‘These tales possess considerable merit.’--_Court Journal._

‘A neat and chatty little volume.’--_Hour._

=OUR PLACE AMONG INFINITIES.= By RICHARD A. PROCTOR, B.A., Author of
‘Saturn and its Systems,’ ‘The Universe,’ ‘The Expanse of Heaven,’
&c. To which are added, ‘Essays on Astrology’ and ‘The Jewish
Sabbath.’ Crown 8vo. 6_s._

=THE EXPANSE OF HEAVEN.= A Series of Essays on the Wonders of the
Firmament. By RICHARD A. PROCTOR, B.A. With a Frontispiece. Second
Edition. Crown 8vo. 6_s._

‘A very charming work; cannot fail to lift the reader’s mind up
“through nature’s work to nature’s God.”’--_Standard._

‘Full of thought, readable, and popular.’--_Brighton Gazette._

=PHANTASMION.= A Fairy Romance. By SARA COLERIDGE. With an
Introductory Preface by the Right Hon. Lord COLERIDGE, of Ottery S.
Mary. A new Edition. In 1 vol. Crown 8vo. 7_s._ 6_d._

This book, of which the first edition was limited to 250 copies, was
long out of print, and as now revived appeals to a larger audience
and a new generation. They will find in this delicate imagination,
melody of verse, clear and picturesque language, and virginal purity
of conception.

‘The readers of this fairy tale will find themselves dwelling for a
time in a veritable region of romance, breathing an atmosphere of
unreality, and surrounded by supernatural beings.’--_Morning Post._

‘This delightful work.... We would gladly have read it were it twice
the length, closing the book with a feeling of regret that the
repast was at an end.’--_Vanity Fair._

‘A beautiful conception of a rarely gifted mind.’--_Examiner._

=ECHOES OF A FAMOUS YEAR.= By HARRIETT PARR. Crown 8vo. 8_s._ 6_d._

The story of the Franco-Prussian War, 1870-71, told mainly for the
young, but, it is hoped, possessing permanent interest as a record of
the great struggle.

‘Miss Parr has the great gift of charming simplicity of style; and
if children are not interested in her book, many of their seniors
will be.’--_British Quarterly Review._

HENRY S. KING & CO., London.

POETICAL GIFT BOOKS.

=LYRICS OF LOVE=, from Shakespeare to Tennyson. Selected and arranged
by W. DAVENPORT ADAMS, Jun. Fcap. 8vo. cloth extra, gilt edges, 3_s._
6_d._

The present work differs from previous collections of the kind in
these particulars: (1) That it consists entirely of short lyric poems.
(2) That each poem exhibits some phase of the tender passion, and
(3) That it includes specimens of the genius of the latest as well as
of the earliest writers.

=HOME SONGS FOR QUIET HOURS.= By the Rev. Canon R. H. BAYNES, Editor
of ‘Lyra Anglicana,’ &c. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth extra,
3_s._ 6_d._

A Collection of Hymns and Sacred Songs for the help and solace of the
various members of Christ’s Church Militant here on earth.

‘A tasteful collection of devotional poetry of a very high
standard of excellence. The pieces are short, mostly original,
and instinct, for the most part, with the most ardent spirit of
devotion.’--_Standard._

=POEMS.= By WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Red-line Edition. Handsomely
bound. With 24 Illustrations and Portrait of the Author. 7_s._ 6_d._

A Cheaper Edition, with Frontispiece. 3_s._ 6_d._

These are the only complete English Editions sanctioned by the Author,
and they contain several of the Author’s Poems which have not appeared
in any previous Collection.

‘Of all the poets of the United States there is no one who obtained
the fame and position of a classic earlier, or has kept them longer
than William Cullen Bryant.’--_Academy._

=ENGLISH SONNETS.= Collected and Arranged by JOHN DENNIS. Fcap. 8vo.
Elegantly bound. 3_s._ 6_d._

This Collection of Sonnets, arranged chronologically from the
Elizabethan to the Victorian era, is designed for the students of
poetry, and not only for the reader who takes up a volume of verse in
order to pass away an idle hour. The Sonnet contains, to use the words
of Marlowe, ‘infinite riches in a little room.’

‘An exquisite selection, a selection which every lover of poetry
will consult again and again with delight. The notes are very
useful.... The volume is one for which English literature owes Mr.
Dennis the heartiest thanks.’--_Spectator._

HENRY S. KING & CO., London.

_W. C. BENNETT’S POEMS. NEW EDITIONS._

A LIBRARY EDITION. Crown 8vo. Illustrated, cloth 6_s._

=BABY MAY=--HOME POEMS and BALLADS. People’s Edition, in Two Parts,
paper covers, 1_s._ each.

‘One of the most popular of our poets. Let us say that every
mother ought to learn “Baby May” and “Baby’s Shoes” off by
heart.’--_Westminster Review._

‘The love of children few poets of our day have expressed with so
much naïve fidelity as Dr. Bennett.’--_Examiner._

‘Those readers who do not as yet know “Baby May” should make her
acquaintance forthwith; those who have that pleasure already will
find her in good company.’--_Guardian._

‘Many a tender thought and charming fancy find graceful utterance in
his pages.’--_Athenæum._

‘“Baby’s Shoes” is worthy to rank with “Baby May,” which, from its
completeness and finished charm as a picture of infancy, is one
of the most exquisite among Dr. Bennett’s productions.’--_Daily
Telegraph._

‘Some of his poems on children are among the most charming in the
language, and are familiar in a thousand homes.’--_Weekly Dispatch._

=SONGS FOR SAILORS.= Cloth gilt, Illustrated, 3_s._ 6_d._; paper
covers, 1_s._

‘Spirited, melodious, and vigorously graphic’--_Morning Post._

‘Very spirited.’--_Daily News._

‘Really admirable.’--_Pall Mall Gazette._

‘Right well done.’--_Illustrated London News._