PAGE Glimpse of Napoleon at Elba (A). By J. B. Atlay Godley, A. D.: Art and Letters Harrison, Mrs. Frederic: Visits to Paris after the Great War Haunted Wood (The). By E. V. B. Henry Morton Stanley. By Sidney Low, L.C.C. Historical Mysteries. By Andrew Lang XI. Saint Germain the Deathless Household Budgets Abroad. I. Germany. By Mrs. Alfred Sidgwick II. The United States of America. By Mrs. Ruth K. 87 336 Lang, Andrew: Historical Mysteries. VII. The Cardinal's Necklace XI. Saint Germain the Deathless Latham, the Rev. H. G. D.: Some Natural History L'Empereur d'Allemagne et la Question de Waterloo. By Lieut. Col. MacDonagh, Michael: In the Throes of Composition. 607 202 Mason, A. E. W.: The Truants (Chapters XIX.-XXXVI., conclusion) 1, 145, 289, 433, 577, 721 Mrs. Kavanagh: A Sketch from the Life. By Ella MacMahon. Nathaniel Hawthorne. By Mrs. Humphry Ward 312 New Chemistry (The). II. The Mechanics of Chemical Change. By 523 Oliver, Charles: 'Where Ignorance is Bliss Peard, F. M.: Autumn on Dartmoor 537 488 680 Picquart, Lieut.-Col. L'Empereur d'Allemagne et la Question de Provincial Letters. XV. Bury St. Edmunds. By Urbanus Sylvan Ragamuffin of the Foothills (A). By Horace Annesley Vachell Rose of the World. By Agnes and Egerton Castle (Book I.—Book II. Scientific Prophecies. By John D. Rogers Shenstone, W. A., F.R.S.: The New Chemistry: II. The Mechanics Sidgwick, Mrs. Alfred: Household Budgets Abroad. I. Germany Some Natural History. By the Rev. H. G. D. Latham Storm in a Bygone Teacup (A). By J. C. Kennett Tallentyre, S. G.: The English Friends of Voltaire Thompson, Sir E. Maunde, K.C.B.: The First Englishman in Japan Vachell, Horace Annesley: A Ragamuffin of the Foothills Villari, L.: Household Budgets Abroad. IV. Italy Visits to Paris after the Great War. By Mrs. Frederic Harrison Wallis, Arthur F.: Epic of the Express Ward, Mrs. Humphry: Nathaniel Hawthorne Washington, Lincoln, and Grant. By General James Grant Wilson, Wilson, General James Grant, D.C.L.: Washington, Lincoln, and Ir was not, however, only Millie Stretton whose fortunes were touched by Tony's absence. Warrisden, whom Stretton had met but the once on board the City of Bristol, was no less affected. On a day of that summer, during which Tony camped far away on the edge of the Sahara, Warrisden rode down the steep hill from the village of the three poplars on his way to Whitewebs. Once Pamela had ridden along this road between the white wood rails and the black bare stems of trees on a winter's evening of mist. That was more than fifteen months ago. The brown furrows in the fields were now acres of waving yellow; each black clump was now an ambuscade of green, noisy with birds. The branches creaked in a light wind and rippled and shook the sunlight from their leaves, the road glistened like chalk. It was ten o'clock on an August morning, very clear and light. Voices from far away amongst the corn sounded tiny and distinct, like voices heard through a telephone. Round this bend at the thicket corner Pamela had disappeared on that dim grey evening. How far had she since travelled on the new road, Warrisden wondered. She was at Whitewebs now. He was riding thither to find out. When he inquired for her at the door, he was at once led through the house into the big garden at the back. Pamela was 1 ' Copyright, 1904, by A. E. W. Mason, in the United States of America. 1 sitting in a chair at the edge of the lawn under the shade of the great avenue of elms which ran straight from the back of the house to the shallow stream at the garden's boundary. She saw him at once as he came out from the glass-door on to the gravel, and she rose from her chair. She did not advance to him, but just stood where she was, watching him approach; and in her eyes there was a great perplexity. Warrisden came straight to her over the lawn. There was no hesitation in his manner, at all events. On the other hand there was no air of assurance. He came with a definite object; so much was evident, but no more. He stopped in front of her and raised his hat. Pamela looked at him and said nothing. She did not even give him her hand. She stood and waited almost submissively, with her troubled eyes resting quietly on his. 'You expected me?' he said. 'Yes. I received your letter this morning.' 'And you are troubled,' said Warrisden. They turned and walked under the branches into the avenue. Overhead there was a bustle of blackbirds and thrushes; a gardener sharpening his scythe in the rose garden made a little rasping sound. Over all the lawn the August sunlight lay warm and golden like a benediction. 'I have come to ask you the old question,' said Warrisden. Will you marry me?' Pamela gazed steadily ahead as she walked, and she walked very slowly. She was prepared for the question, yet she took her time to answer it. And the answer when at last she gave it was no answer at all. 'I do not know,' she said, in a low clear voice. Warrisden looked at her. The profile of her face was towards him. He wondered for the thousandth time at its beauty and its gentleness. The broad white forehead under the sweep of her dark hair, the big dark eyes shining beneath her brows, the delicate colour upon her cheeks, the curve of the lips. He wondered and longed. But he spoke simply and without extravagance, knowing that he would be understood. 'I have done nothing for you of the things men often do when a woman comes into their lives. I have tried to make no career. I think there are enough people making careers. They |