he had to give up his place.  Now he resides in Switzerland and “makes use,” he says, “of the opportunity ... to range himself boldly on the side of truth, and show that there are still Germans who find it impossible to condone, even tacitly, the moral transgression and political stupidity of their own and an allied Government.”  This is a big undertaking, but Dr. STUERMER attacks it manfully in his book, Two War Years in Constantinople (HODDER AND STOUGHTON).  He gives a harrowing description of the sufferings of the Armenians, and leaves no doubt that he considers Germany responsible for the massacre of a nation.  I advise those who desire first-hand knowledge of the political schemes and ambitions of the Germans and their Young Turkish friends to consult this book.  It is a mine of information.

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Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL always packs his novels with sober stuff and redeems them from any trace of dulness by the skill with which he handles his theme, and by his conscientious study not only of his characters but of the details of his background.  That background in The Dwelling-Place of Light (MACMILLAN) is an American cottonmill district with a mixed alien population of operatives, and trouble brewing as the result of a headstrong wage-cutting manager, Claude Ditmar, in conflict with the I.W.W.  The phases of this grim struggle are most forcibly described, the author holding no brief for either protagonist.  And, if widower Ditmar, man of iron, for whom the Chippering Mill is his second and abiding mate, be no hero, Janet, his typist, has the makings of a notable heroine.  How this girl, full of character and of passion bravely restrained, breaks down the business preoccupation of her chief and how her courage and steadfast honour convince him that the liaison he promised himself will not suffice for honour or purified desire—­all this is finely told.  It was, however, but a faltering and slowly-growing conviction, and death claims him before he can make amends for the wrong into which his masterful pleading has betrayed her.  I never quite precisely gathered what was “the dwelling-place of light.”  Anyway it wasn’t the Chippering Mill ...  But I was sorry when I reached the four hundred and ninth and last of the closely-set pages.  Good measure for a book in war-time.

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Throughout a vagabond career that began in happiness on a farm and finished, thankfully, amongst the fields, Frank Rainger followed always the pathway of the broader experience.  Followed it so stoutly and was such good company on the long road that whether it was high holiday at Cranbrook Circus with Maggie Coalbran, or a fight for the hopeless cause of the Southern States in shell-torn Vicksburg, or only the keeping of eternal lazy summer with the peons of Yucatan, I was altogether content to go humbly forward with him, convinced that, as it was written, so and