Have you ever imagined yourself plunged (bodily, not mentally) into the midst of a story by some particular author?  If, for example, you could get inside the covers of a Mrs. ALFRED SIDGWICK novel, what would you expect to find?  Probably a large and pleasantly impecunious family, with one special daughter who combines great practical sense with rare personal charm.  You would certainly not be startled to find her brought into contact with persons of greater social importance than her own; and you would be excusably disappointed if she did not end by securing the most eligible young male in the cast.  I feel bound to add that a perusal of Anne Lulworth (METHUEN) has left me with these convictions more firmly established than ever.  The Lulworth household, from the twins to the practical mother, is Sidgwickian to its core, though perhaps one can’t but regret that the Great Unmasking has for ever robbed them of the society of those fat and seemingly kindly Teutons who used to provide such good contrast.  The Lulworths lived at Putney, and never had quite enough money for the varied calls of clothes and education and sausages for breakfast.  Then Anne went on a visit to ever such a delightful big house in Cornwall, and there met the only son ...  But then came the War and he was reported missing, so Anne stayed on indefinitely with his widowed mother; and the unpleasant next-of-kin (Mrs. SIDGWICK never can wholly resist the temptation of burlesquing her villains) refused to believe that she had ever been engaged to Victor, and indeed went on indulging their low-comedy spleen till the great moment, so long and confidently expected, when—­But really I suppose I needn’t say what happens then.  Sidgwickiana, in short, seasonable at all times, and sufficient for any number of persons.

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Mrs. A.M.  DIXON began her work in October, 1915, as manager of one of the Cantines des Dames Anglaises established in France under the aegis of the London Committee of the French Red Cross.  She remained until the beginning of July in the following year, and in The Canteeners (MURRAY) she gives an account of her experiences at Troyes, Hericourt and Le Bourget, where she and her helpers ministered to an almost unceasing stream of tired-out French soldiers.  There is something remarkably fresh and attractive about this story.  It does not aim at fine writing, but its very simplicity, which is that of letters written to an intimate friend, carries a reader along through a succession of incidents keenly observed and sympathetically noted in the scanty leisure of a very busy life.  That she succeeded as she did is a high tribute to her kindness and tact as well as to her organising capacity, I cannot forbear quoting from the letter of a grateful poilu:  “DEAR MISS,—­I am arrived yesterday very much fatiguated.  After 36 o’clocks of train we have made 15 kms.  You can think then that has been very dur for us, because in the train we don’t