"I have been allowed to forget, too," Madge went on, "or to remember it only as a nightmare from which I awoke, the way I shrank from him, and I only wonder now whether, if he had lived, I should have got used to it. Ah, surely it must have been in a dream only that I shrank from him." "Yes, dear, it was only that," said Mrs. Home. "At least, no one knew. You behaved so that no one guessed." "Philip knew. If it had not been for him during those months I think I should have gone mad. And for the second time he kept me--it is hardly an exaggeration--kept me sane when baby died." Mrs. Home, when she had anything important and difficult to say, often gave out little twittering, mouse-like noises before she could manage to speak. Madge knew this, and thus, hearing them now, waited for her to overcome her embarrassment. "And is there no hope for Philip, dear?" she asked at length. Madge had rather expected this was coming, but her answer gave her less embarrassment than the question had caused his mother. "I owe Philip everything," she said, "and though I don't suppose I can ever love again in the way that I have loved, still--you know once I told him quite truthfully that I would give him all that I was capable of. You see, I did not know then what love meant. That was a niggardly gift to offer him. And now again I can give him--oh, so gratefully--all I am capable of. It is, I hope, not quite such a mean thing as it was. I think----" Madge paused a moment. "I think sorrow has made me a little more worthy of him," she went on. "It has made me a little more like a woman. So if he cares still----" "Ah, my dear, you say 'still.' Why, day by day he loves you more." Madge looked at Mrs. Home a moment in silence, and the sadness of her eyes was melted into pure tenderness. "You are sure?" she said. "He will tell you better than I." Madge gave a long sigh, then let her gaze wander down the steep path to the river, which crossed the weir and formed a short cut through the fields of Pangbourne. The sun, which was near to its setting, dazzled her a little, and she put up her hand to shade her eyes. "Ah, that is he coming up the path," she said. "He must have caught the earlier train. Shall we go to meet him?" "You go, dear," said Mrs. Home. "I will wait for you here." * * * * * THE CHALLONERS BY E. F. BENSON _12mo. Cloth, $1.50._ The theme is a father's concern lest his children become contaminated by what he considers an unwholesome social atmosphere. The book is filled with Mr. Benson's clever observations on the English smart set, and the love-story shows him at his best. * * * * * MORGANATIC By MAX NORDAU _12mo. Decorated cloth, $1.50._ This new book by the author of "Degeneration," has many of the qualities which gave its predecessor such a phenomenal sale. It is a study of morganatic marriage, and full of strong situations. J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA