_Michael Winter_, hero of _The Black Knight_ (HUTCHINSON), by Mrs. ALFRED SIDGWICK and CROSBIE GARSTIN, had led a nice easy life till his father's nefarious schemes crashed, bringing down in a common ruin half the small investors in the country. Left penniless, he changes his disgraced name and goes out to Canada to make good. There, on the prairies, he puts in some hard honest work. But, in his haste to be rich, the _Black Knight_, as they do in chess, after moving straight, moved obliquely. In order to make a coup out of a Wall Street cinch he helped himself to the money of the bank of which he was cashier. Other people who shall be nameless have done this sort of thing before, and, after returning the "borrowed" cash, have enjoyed a stainless prosperity. But _Michael_, through a motor-car accident, just failed to put it back in time, and had to do two years. But he had made a fortune, and on emerging from prison returned to Europe to enjoy it. There he rescues an innocent English girl from a shady Parisian environment and marries her. By chance she learns the secret of the source of his wealth and leaves him. In order to appease her scruples and recover her he signs away his goods for the benefit of his father's creditors. What might have been a too sugary conclusion is saved by a pleasant touch of corrective irony in the very last line, where his wife expresses a very human satisfaction on finding that her best necklace was not included in the noble sacrifice. I hope I shall not be suspected of flattering Mr. Punch's "PATLANDER" if I admire the excellence of the Canadian section, obviously contributed by Mr. CROSBIE GARSTIN, who has knocked about most of the world marked red on the maps. Here his humour and vitality are at their keenest. The rest of a well-told tale I attribute to Mrs. ALFRED SIDGWICK, with the exception of a pugilistic episode, for which I imagine that the male fist was called in to supplement her proper inexperience. * * * * * [Illustration: "MY DEAR, I _FELT_ I OUGHT NEVER TO HAVE TAKEN THE HOLIDAY. SCARCELY HAD I SET FOOT IN MY APARTMENTS WHEN I WAS HANDED A TELEGRAM FROM SARAH:--'PARROT LAID AN EGG. WIRE INSTRUCTIONS.'"] * * * * *