s a want of "pep." Even the
villains turn out to be comparative gentlemen in the end, the dirty work
being conveniently fastened upon some "person or persons unknown." The yarn
is well enough to wile away an hour; but in these days of burning realities
fiction has lost its bite unless it too is informed with the spirit of
reality.

* * * * *

I have to warn you that the early chapters of _The_ _Moulding Loft_
(METHUEN) are liable to plunge you into some mental agitation, due to the
author's deliberately baffling method of starting her plot. The hero, for
example, is introduced to us abed, and semi-delirious, waited upon by a
pale and sinister young female whom he detests. He appears to be in a house
strange to him, which contains also an unpleasant old woman and a queer
little boy whose behaviour is wrop in mystery. Slowly, perhaps somewhat too
slowly, it is revealed that the hero has been knocked silly by a large
stone dropped upon his unoffending head by the small boy. But why? And why
does the child protest his innocence with such apparent good faith? These
problems I must leave MARGARET WESTRUP (Mrs. W. STACEY) to resolve in her
own unhurried way. Of course before long the "little aversion" between hero
and heroine gives place to an emotion more appropriate. But there remains
an obstacle to their union, one concerned (also, of course) with the
detestable grandmother and the mysterious small boy. Shall I give you one
clue? Somebody is mad; nor is it (as you may at one time have been tempted
to suppose) either the author or reader. More than this wild horses should
not extort from me. But I confess to a rewarding thrill and a very grateful
relief when the mystery was finally cleared up. A good and interesting
book, both for its plot and for some very agreeable Cornish scenes, which
would have been even more welcome had the delectable Duchy not already
engaged the pens of our novelists more than enough.

* * * * *

Mrs. "J.E. BUCKROSE" is one of those writers whose work can always be
depended upon. A pinch of pathos, a _soupcon_ of sentiment, a spice of
humour--there you have the recipe, and a very palatable mixture it makes.
The common element that pervades the dozen stories which compose _War-Time
in Our Street_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON), all in the author's best manner, is
the staunch devotion to duty displayed by her heroines under stress of war.
Pangs o