It is my painful experience that, when a novelist sets out to write a tale of English country life, the better he is at the job the more sombre is the finished product. Mr. GEORGE STEVENSON is very good indeed at his job; he has sincerity and power, and a certain austere aloofness that will take him far; and the result is that _Jenny Cartwright_ (LANE) is about as gloomy a story as ever I read. Above everything else, what I noticed about this book was its freedom from all straining after effect. Whatever takes place, I fancy Mr. STEVENSON saying, do not let us be sentimental about it. Half the characters in the book seem to come by violent ends; of the two chief women, one commits suicide and the other is hanged. Mr. STEVENSON, one can only suppose, speaks of life as he finds it. There are really two stories, that of _Beatrice Barrington_, the faithless wife of _Sir Philip_, and the dreary mockery of life up at The Court, with its hatreds and subterfuges, its crippled master, frightened children and spying servants. This is the county as the author sees it. Linked with this is the life of the farm, where _Jenny_ is brought up by an uncle who hates her; where she tends his bedridden wife; where her cousin _Beatrice_ goes wrong; where _Beatrice's_ betrayer is killed in an accident, and her baby falls into the fire; and where finally the dour uncle himself, after shooting the young squire who has offered dishonourable addresses to _Jenny_, allows her to pay the penalty of his crime. There is undeniable strength about the book and it holds the attention; but I dispute the right of anyone to call it cheerful. * * * * *