to that taken by most of the people who came out.

When they had all gone away, and the sexton had come out and locked the gate behind him, Sophy crept back. Her roses had faded now, and from some of them the petals had fallen. She stood there irresolute, loath to leave with her heart's desire unsatisfied when, as her eyes sought again the teacher's last resting-place, she saw lying beside the new made grave what looked like a small bundle of white wool. Sophy's eyes lightened up with a sudden glow.

"Prince! Here, Prince!" she called. The little dog rose and trotted down to the gate. Sophy pushed the bouquet between the iron bars.

"Take that ter Miss Ma'y, Prince," she said, "that's a good doggie."

The dog wagged his tail intelligently, took the bouquet carefully in his mouth, carried it to his mistress's grave and laid it among the other flowers. The bunch of roses was so small that from where she stood Sophy could see only a dash of yellow against the white background of the mass of flowers.

When Prince had performed his mission he turned his eyes toward Sophy inquiringly, and, when she gave him a nod of approval, lay down and resumed his watch by the grave-side. Sophy looked at him a moment with a feeling very much like envy, and then turned and moved slowly away.

Suddenly there arose in Nekhlúdoff's mind an extremely vivid picture of a prisoner with black, slightly-squinting eyes, and how she began to cry when the last words of the prisoners had been heard; and he hurriedly put out his cigarette; pressing it into the ash pan, lit another and began pacing up and down the room. One after another the scenes he had lived through with her arose in his mind. He recalled that last interview with her. He remembered the white dress, the blue sash, the early mass. "Why, I loved her, really loved her, with a good, pure love that night; I loved her even before; yes, I loved her when I lived with my aunts the first time and was writing my composition." And he remembered himself as he had been then. A breath of that freshness, youth and fulness of life

⚫From Resurrection. By Count Leo Tolstoy. Translated by Mrs. Louise Maude. Copyright, 1900, Dodd, Mead & Co. Price, $1.50.

seemed to touch him, and he grew painfully sad. Then he was true and fearless, and innumerable possibilities lay ready to open before him; now he felt himself caught in the meshes of a stupid, empty, valueless, frivolous life, out of which he saw no means of extricating himself, if he wished to, which he hardly did. He remembered how proud he was at one time of his straightforwardness, how he had made a rule of always speaking the truth, and really had been truthful; and how he was now sunk deep in lies; in the most dreadful of lies-lies considered a truth by all who surounded him. And, as far as he could see, there was no way out of these lies. He had sunk in the mire, got used to it, indulged himself in it.

How was he to break off his relations with Mary Vasilievna and her husband in such a way as to be able to look him and his children

in the eyes? How disentangle himself from Missy? How choose between the two opposites-the recognition that holding land was unjust, and the heritage from his mother? How atone for his sin against Katúsha? This last, at any rate, could not be left as it was. He could not abandon a woman he had loved, and satisfy himself by paying money to an advocate to save her from hard labor in Siberia. She had not even deserved hard labor. Atone for a fault by paying money. Had he not

then, when he gave her the money, thought he was afoning for his fault?

And he clearly recalled to mind that moment when, having caught her up in the passage he thrust the money into her bib and ran away. “Oh, that money!" he thought, with the same horror and disgust he had then felt. "Oh, dear! oh dear! how disgusting!" he cried, as loud as he had done then. "Only a scoundrel, a knave, could do such a thing. And I-I am that knave, that scoundrel!" He went on aloud: "But is it possible?"-he stopped and stood still-"is it possible that I am really a scoundrel?" . . . "Well, who but I?" he answered himself. "And then, is this the only thing?" he went on, convicting himself. "Was not my conduct towards Mary Vasilievna and her husband base and disgusting? And my position with regard to money? To use riches considered by me unlawful on the plea that they are inherited from my mother? And the whole of my idle detestable life? And my conduct towards Katúsha to crown all? Knave and scoundrel! Let men judge me as they like, I can deceive them; but myself I cannot deceive."

And suddenly, he understood the aversion he had lately, and particularly to-day, felt for everybody-the Prince and Sophia Vasilievna and Corney and Missy-was an aversion for himself. And, strange to say, in this acknowledgment of his baseness there was

something painful, yet joyful and quieting.

More than once in Nekhlúdoff's life there had been what he called a "cleansing of the soul." By "cleansing of the soul" he meant a state of mind in which, after a long period of sluggish inner life, a total cessation of its activity, he began to clear out all the rubbish that had accumulated in his soul and was the cause of the cessation of the true life. His soul needed cleansing as a watch does. After such an awakening Nekhlúdoff always made some rules for himself which he meant to follow forever after, wrote his diary, and began afresh a life which he hoped never to change again. "Turning over a new leaf," he called it to himself in English. But each time the temptations of the world entrapped him, and, without noticing it, he fell again, often lower than before.

Thus, he had several times in his life raised and cleansed himself. The first time this happened was during the summer he spent with his aunts; that was his most vital and rapturous awakening, and its effects had lasted some time. Another awakening was when he gave up civil service and joined the army in war time, ready to sacrifice his life. But here the choking-up process was soon accomplished. Then an awakening came when he left the army and went abroad, devoting himself to art.

From that time until this day a long period had elapsed without any cleansing, and, therefore, the discord between the demands of his conscience and the life he was leading was greater than it had ever been before. He was horrorstruck when he saw how great the divergence was. It was so great, and the defilement so complete that he despaired of ever getting cleansed. "Have you not tried before to perfect yourself and become better, and nothing has come of it?" whispered the voice of the

tempter within. "What is the use of trying any more? Are you the only one?-All are alike, such is life," whispered the voice. But the spiritual being, which alone is true, alone powerful, alone eternal, had already awakened in Nekhlúdoff, and he could not but believe it. Enormous though the distance was between what he wished to be and what he was, nothing appeared insurmountable to the newly-awakened spiritual being.

"At any cost, I will break this lie which binds me and confess everything, and will tell everybody the truth, and act the truth," he said, resolutely, aloud. "I shall tell Missy the truth; tell her I am a profligate and cannot marry her, and have only uselessly upset her. I shall tell Mary VasilievnaOh, there is nothing to tell her. I shall tell her husband that I, scoundrel that I am, have been deceiving him. I shall dispose of the inheritance in such a way as to acknowledge the truth. I shall tell her, Katúsha, that I am a scoundrel, and have sinned towards her, and will do all I can to ease her lot. Yes, I will see her and will ask her to forgive me."

"Yes, I will beg her pardon, as children do." He stopped-"will marry her if necessary." He stopped again, folded his hands in front of his breast, as he used to do when a little child, lifted his eyes, and said, addressing some one: "Lord, help me, teach me, come enter within me, and purify me of all this abomination."

He prayed God to help him, to enter into him, and what he was praying for had happened already; the God within him had awakened his consciousness. He felt himself one with Him, and therefore felt not only the freedom, fulness and joy of life, but all the power of righteousness. All, all the best that a man could do he felt capable of doing.

His eyes filled with tears as he was saying all this to himself, good and bad tears; good because they were tears of joy at the awakening of the spiritual being within him, the being which had been asleep all these years; and bad tears because they were tears of tenderness to himself at his own goodness. He felt hot and went to the window and opened it. The window opened into a garden. It was a moonlit, quiet, fresh night; a vehicle rattled past and then all was still. The shadow of a tall poplar fell on the ground just opposite the window, and all the intricate pattern of its branches was clearly defined on the clean-swept gravel. To the left the roof of a coach-house shone white in the moonlight. In front the black shadow of the garden wall was visible through the tangled branches of the trees.

Nekhlúdoff gazed at the roof, the moonlit garden, and the shadows of the poplar, and drank in the fresh, invigorating air.

"How delightful, how delightful; oh, God, how delightful!" he said, meaning that which was going on in his soul.

The publication of Mr. Leonard Huxley's biography of his father has been postponed, probably until autumn.

Miss Mary Kingsley has embarked for Cape Town, where she will devote

herself to helping and taking care of the nurses, and to nursing such of them as fall ill in the care of the wounded.

The latest signal success in the field of American historical fiction is Miss

cloth. Defoe, Wesley and Browning are the subjects of the volumes first on the list.

Others beside Catholic readers will find helpful thoughts in the addresses of the Rt. Rev. J. L. Spalding, which are collected in a little book called "Opportunity." There are eight of these and they chiefly concern themselves with matters educational or patriotic. The anti-imperialist views of Bishop Spalding are here vigorously set forth. A. C. McClurg & Co. are the publish

ers.

The publication of Mr. G. W. Steevens's last book, "From Cape Town to Ladysmith" (Dodd, Mead & Co.), will make more deep and poignant the sense of regret for the author's untimely death. Beyond almost any other newspaper writer of his time, Mr. Steevens had the faculty of seizing a salient situation and presenting it in vivid and forceful English. To read these pages is to be in the very centre of the stir of the incidents described, and to share the perils and tedium of the long and wasting siege. It is a pity that Mr. Steevens was not spared to tell us what the lifting of that siege meant to the beleaguered garrison and residents.

A book sure to arouse both friendly and hostile discussion is a treatise on "The Domestic Blunders of Women," which purports to be written by "A Mere Man." It deals with the servant problem, the questions of bills and of breakage, the proper feeding, clothing, and training of the, as it affirms, downtrodden infant, and the inconveniences to which no less downtrodden man is cruelly subject. Underneath the humorous, and at times exaggerated, tone of many of these "skits" there is a good deal of practical common-sense, and an uncertainty as to whether they are really the work of a man's pen or not,

adds to the interest. Funk & Wagnalls Co.

An unusual sense of reality pervades that striking study of tenement life "Poor People," by I. K. Friedman. The story does not purport to be told by an outsider, student of sociology or otherwise, but to come from the pen of one of the lodgers, and to be his simple recorddignified, and yet touching-of the crises through which his family passes. The heroine is his daughter, a sewinggirl of a lovely character, and the hero the German watch-mender and writer of plays who lives on the floor above. Strong as the interest in these young people becomes, it is, after all, the writer himself, the anxious father and the patient, cheerful mother, who, in their old age and their affectionate solicitudes, most insistently appeal to the reader. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

The life of Charles Francis Adams, by his son Charles Francis Adams, published in the American Statesmen Series by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., will be immediately recognized as one of the most important volumes in a series of exceptional value. In a sense, it is, perhaps, the most important volume, for the writer has had access to and has drawn freely upon unpublished documents relating to the diplomatic history of a critical period, when the issues of peace and war between the United States and England were in the balance, and no human influence did more than the mingled tact and firmness of Mr. Adams, then American Minister to England, to turn the scales towards peace. It is a story of absorbing interest.

A "problem story," whose scene is laid in a most interesting quarter of the globe, is Evelyn Dickinson's "Hearts Importunate," which Dodd, Mead & Co. publish. The hero, Ralph Hazell, with

a bitter past to be forgotten, buys a sheep ranch in New South Wales, with the intention of spending all his energies courageously in improving it. The heroine is a beautiful young English woman, Avis Fletcher, who has lived eight years in the "Bush," and has a bitter secret of her own, which her devoted mother, as well as her fostermother in Sidney, carefully guard from the world. The intimacy of these two people, and the working out of the difference between the judgment of society and the judgment of the individual, make up the romance.

Studies of married life are often unsatisfactory in moral tone, but a notable exception is "The Prelude and the Play," by Rufus Mann. The book is earnest, logical, and helpful. The "prelude" recounts the wooing of a beautiful college girl, an idealist, Alexandra Gordon, by the manly young captain of the "Canterbury" eleven, near "Botolph." But the play begins in earnest when Alexandra finds that she must apply to her own needs the elaborate theories as to the retaining or recapturing of a husband's heart with which / she so diligently armed herself before marriage. The gradual alienation of the two, and, at last, the conclusion of the whole matter is interestingly portrayed. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

The heroine of Katharine Tynan's pretty story, "She Walks in Beauty," is difficult to determine, for the title might well fit any one of the four winsome Irish maidens who figure in it. Three of these are daughters of a country gentleman, poor and scholarly, whose pupil, one of the two heroes of the tale, falls in love with Miss "Pam." His cold-hearted, worldly mother, a dainty city cousin who may prove to be a rival but doesn't, and a second, elderly hero-who rises steadily in the admiration of the reader, and is at last