Fiction Books

CHAPTER I Dare I say it? Dare I say that I, a plain, prosaic lieutenant in the republican service have done the incredible things here set out for the love of a woman—for a chimera in female shape; for a pale, vapid ghost of woman-loveliness? At times I tell myself I dare not: that you will laugh, and cast me aside as a fabricator; and then again I pick up my pen and collect the scattered pages, for... more...

CHAPTER I BEFORE USING Astride the ridgepole of his father's stable Sube Cane sat with the easy grace of a range-rider, gently rising in his stirrups in unison with the pounding of imaginary unshod hoofs on the soft turf of a dreamland prairie, as he conversed in low tones with a dark-haired maiden who rode in fancy beside him. And, as he rode, he gently rubbed his upper lip with an index finger.... more...

CHAPTER I MY LEARNED BROTHER   "Conflagratam An° 1677. Fabricatam An° 1698. Richardo Powell Armiger Thesaurar." The words, set in four panels, which formed a frieze beneath the pediment of a fine brick portico, summarised the history of one of the tall houses at the upper end of King's Bench Walk and as I, somewhat absently, read over the inscription, my attention was divided between... more...

CHAPTER I If you had stood there in the edge of the bleak spruce forest, with the wind moaning dismally through the twisting trees—midnight of deep December—the Transcontinental would have looked like a thing of fire; dull fire, glowing with a smouldering warmth, but of strange ghostliness and out of place. It was a weird shadow, helpless and without motion, and black as the half-Arctic night save... more...

CHAPTER I A Children’s Festival “There is a fountain in the forest called The Fountain of the Fairies. An ancient oak, The goodliest of the forest, grows beside.” Southey. “Joan of Arc,” Book II.  “Who-oo-ee!” The gleeful shout came from the lips of a little girl who stood, with her hands cupped about her lips, on the edge of a streamlet which divided the village... more...

Chapter I It is not often that you see a man tear his hair, but this is exactly what Rashleigh Allerton did. He tore it, first, because of being under the stress of great agitation, and second, because he had it to tear—a thick, black shock with a tendency to part in the middle, but brushed carefully to one side. Seated on the extreme edge of one of Miss Walbrook’s strong, slender armchairs, his... more...

Narvon III, 2277 CE Marine Captain Jase Thompson enjoyed Evaluation Team duty, and this particular assignment appealed to what his team members called his warped sense of humor. This had started out as an odd one; it was the Archbishop of Narvon III, rather than its Baron or the System Count, who had pushed the panic button. He'd appealed to the Emperor for a battle fleet, with a full complement... more...

A WANDERER. "There's no such word."—BULWER. A wind was blowing through the city. Not a gentle and balmy zephyr, stirring the locks on gentle ladies' foreheads and rustling the curtains in elegant boudoirs, but a chill and bitter gale that rushed with a swoop through narrow alleys and forsaken courtyards, biting the cheeks of the few solitary wanderers that still lingered abroad in... more...

BY MEANS OF A PROLOGUE       It is a pleasure to present a work based on facets that discover, or once again manifest, the Liberator’s prodigious personality and work.     Providence, which seems to pamper the tasks of historians, since they are who best show God’s maximum work when studying men’s acts, has placed the inexhaustible quarry of Simon Bolivar's life and work before... more...

"Oh dear! what shall I do?" cried George, fretfully, one rainy afternoon. "Mamma, do tell me what to do." "And I'm so tired!" echoed Helen, who was lazily playing with a kitten in her lap. "I don't see why it should rain on a Friday afternoon, when we have no lessons to learn. We can't go out, and no one can come to see us. It's too bad, there!"... more...