The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX, No. 998,
February 11, 1899, by Various

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Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX, No. 998, February 11, 1899

Author: Various

Release Date: February 24, 2018 [EBook #56635]

Language: English

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[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.—NO. 998.]      FEBRUARY 11, 1899.      [PRICE ONE PENNY.]




LINNÆA;

THE STORY OF A FRIENDSHIP.


[Illustration: “‘I DESPISE YOU!’”]

_All rights reserved._]


CHAPTER III.

    “You sought to prove how I could love,
    And my disdain is my reply.”

        _Tennyson._

Linnæa’s first waking thoughts carried with them the conviction that
life was different—why was it? Ah, she remembered! Last night’s scene
came back to her with a rush of feeling that brought the warm colour to
her face. Then came the colder and more prosaic feelings which so often
come with the morning. Gwendoline would soon be like the others—she
would go over to the popular opinion, and Linnæa would be thrust upon
her own companionship as before. These thoughts were passing through
her mind when she heard a tap at the door, and a voice called, “May I
come in?”

Linnæa opened the door, and there stood Gwendoline, her arms full of
knick-knacks of all sorts.

“You are only dressing! I have been dressed for an hour. I awoke early
and thought I would rise and deck my cubicle; but I haven’t room for
half the things I brought. As you haven’t many things in yours, I
thought perhaps you might like a few. Would you care for them?”

“Very much indeed! It was very kind of you to think of me!”

“Oh, not at all, if you will let me help you to put them up, for
that is the best fun! Here is rather a pretty picture we might hang
opposite the bed. It has no frame, but I suppose you won’t mind. This
is a bracket which you might find convenient within reach of your
bed; I brought a pair, but will only need one. I did wish I had had
it up last night. I lay awake a long time during the night, and rose
to get my bon-bon box. First of all I could find no matches to light
my candle, then I searched my trunk in the dark for my box. I only
found it after sticking my fingers in a box of ointment and nearly
swallowing some pills. This morning, as you may imagine, my trunk was
a sight to behold. The ointment has spoiled a pair of new gloves, and I
found a pill reposing restfully in the toe of my slipper. Lisette, my
maid, never forgets to pack anything; but she puts things in the most
unlikely places. I possess two bon-bon boxes—one she has filled with
sweets, the other with pills.”

Linnæa scarcely knew her cubicle when Gwendoline’s things were arranged
in it. She could not have believed that a few knick-knacks would make
such a difference.

“Now there is one thing more I want you to let me do.”

“What is that?”

“Let me dress your hair for you. Why do you take it back so tightly
from your face? It is such a pretty colour, and, I believe, might be
quite wavy if you would allow it.”

“I never thought of it. It never seemed to me that it mattered how my
hair looked.”

“Oh, but that isn’t right; you should make it as nice as you can.
Lisette says I have a talent for hairdressing; I have dressed mine
myself for more than a year, for Lisette confesses she cannot do it so
well as I can. Come now, and we shall see what can be done with yours.”

There was indeed a wonderful improvement in Linnæa when she went
downstairs that morning; all the girls noticed it, and a few
complimented her on the improvement of her hair. A few of them guessed
who had done it, and understood that Gwendoline was proceeding with
the work she had taken in hand, but no remarks were passed on that
subject; for had not that been forbidden by Gwendoline?—and already
Gwendoline’s will was law in that small community.

That night Gwendoline and Linnæa again walked up to bed together and
parted at Linnæa’s door. Linnæa’s heart beat quickly as they neared
her door. Would Gwendoline kiss her to-night? If so, the kiss should
be returned. She would at least make an effort to keep this sweet
friendship which had entered into her barren life so suddenly.

“Let me come in for a minute,” said Gwendoline. “We are to be friends,
are we not?” she said, slipping her arm round Linnæa’s waist, and
looking at her with her large, lustrous eyes.

“I hope so, indeed,” Linnæa answered, her voice husky with emotion.

“Very well, dear. Good night.”

She was gone, and Linnæa had kissed her—the first schoolgirl she had
ever kissed.

What a happy girl she was that night. There was no doubt about it now;
she had a friend at last—and such a friend—the loveliest, richest,
most courted girl in the school.

At the end of a week it was quite a noticeable friendship. Teachers
saw it and remarked to each other on this strange freak of the new
pupil in attaching herself to the girl who had kept herself so solitary
hitherto. This view of it was wonderful, but equally so was it that
Linnæa should return the affection; and that she did so in thorough
earnest, no one could doubt. Her usually dull face lighted up when her
eyes fell on Gwendoline—but indeed, her face was never so dull now, as
it had once been; her very step was more elastic, and her voice had a
different tone.

And what of Gwendoline?

She had fulfilled her vow, and awakened the love which had hitherto
been slumbering in that lonely heart.

The girls said inwardly it was a splendid piece of acting; anyone
watching Gwendoline would have said the love was as much on her side
as Linnæa’s. Her attitude towards Linnæa was such that, if the girls
had not known it to be assumed, some of them would have been intensely
jealous. Gwendoline Rivers, with her beauty and independence of
character, had taken the school by storm, and a few would have given a
good deal to have got half of the attention lavished upon Linnæa. Great
were the talks which took place with reference to it, when they thought
themselves fairly out of the hearing of both girls.

One evening six or seven were together in the small schoolroom after
preparation hours were over, and their conversation turned upon this
ever-interesting topic.

“I never saw anything like it in my life. Linnæa March simply worships
her.”

“It is most amusing to see Gwendoline single her out whenever she comes
into the room; you would really think, to watch her, it must be real
and not put on.”

“Well, for my part, I think it is a very mean proceeding to pretend to
be so fond of the girl, all to show what she can do; and very probably
when she has led her far enough she will cast her off!”

“Oh, she may never find out that it isn’t genuine! Do you think she
would mind very much if she did? We all thought she had no feelings of
that kind. I wonder if we have been mistaken?”

“I am beginning to think——”

At this moment the schoolroom door opened and Linnæa March entered.
But was it Linnæa? She had never looked like this before. She was
transformed from the dull, uninteresting girl, who had lived amongst
them for seven years—unknowing and unknown—to a trembling, excited,
and passionate being, almost terrible in her rage and indignation.

Before she spoke she seemed to force back the tumult of angry words
that rushed to her lips. She paused a moment in the doorway, and then
said, in a voice, calm though piercing—

“Girls, I have heard what you said. It may have been mean of me, but I
heard what Janet said about—Gwendoline—pretending to love me—and—I
could not help it—I listened until now.”

The girls were dumb. What could they say to this injured and justly
indignant girl? They could not retract what they had said; alas, it was
all too true! One and all pitied her; and yet, pity was scarcely the
word—they almost feared her. Yes—feared Linnæa March, whom before
they had scarcely noticed. But, as she stood there in her anger, she
might have struck them, and they would not have been surprised. She
stood for a moment, then turned and shut the door.

Not a word was spoken until the sound of her footsteps had died away.
Then they faced the situation.

Would it come to Miss Elder’s ears? What would Gwendoline say? If
Linnæa’s anger were so terrible when roused, what would Gwendoline’s
be, who had seldom, or never, been crossed in her life? What would
Linnæa say or do when she met Gwendoline?

These were some of the questions that presented themselves to the
girls’ minds. They did not know whether they wanted to witness the
meeting or not.

“I don’t care,” said one, “it serves her right, she had no business
doing such a mean thing, and it was right she should be found out. She
would not have kept it up much longer in any case, she would soon have
tired of paying her such attention after she had gained her object.”

“But she will blame us for it—she will say we ought to have been more
careful how we talked about it.”

“Ought we to tell Gwendoline what she has heard, do you think?”

“I think it would be better.”

“She will very likely be down soon. She is studying hard to-night; she
seems determined to come out high in the exam. I shouldn’t wonder if
she beats even you, Edith.”

“Do you notice how much better Linnæa March learns her lessons since
Gwendoline came?”

“Yes. Gwendoline helped her with them, and she takes ever so much more
interest in them now.”

“All in the plan, I suppose—really I am very sorry for Linnæa.”

“Did you think she could ever have looked as she did to-night? I always
thought her rather soft and stupid, but I can tell you there was no
softness about her then. I almost admired her as she stood, so proud
and angry.”

The girls were not to have an opportunity of preparing Gwendoline for
her meeting with Linnæa, for, as Linnæa went up to her room, she met
Gwendoline coming down from hers.

Gwendoline’s face lit up as she saw Linnæa, and she advanced towards
her to put her arm round her waist.

Linnæa drew herself back with a sudden twitch, and turned on her with a
face almost livid with anger.

“Go!—don’t touch me!—don’t dare to come near me!”

“Linnæa! what is it?”

“I have found you out! Do you need to ask any more? I know the reason
of all your pretence of affection and friendship. Oh, it was mean!
mean!”

“But Linnæa——”

“No, I will hear no excuses; let me go. Perhaps to-morrow I may be able
to look on you with a little less hatred. The others have been kind
to me compared to you; they, at least, let me alone; you have drawn
me on with your false pretences, all to show your dangerous powers of
fascination. I despise you! O that I might never see you again!”

Gwendoline walked away in the direction of the small schoolroom, her
head bowed. She entered the room, and, sitting down near the door,
began to read a book she had in her hand.

The girls noticed at once that something was wrong. Her face was
white and drawn and she did not, as usual, make some bright remark on
entering the room; but they did not guess that she had already met
Linnæa.

“Have you a headache, Gwen?” said Edith Barclay.

“Yes, I have a headache; and I want you to tell Miss Elder I have gone
to bed, as I mean to go in a minute or two.”

“You are studying too hard,” said another, “you won’t keep your
position as beauty of the school, if you carry on in this style. I
declare you look quite ill!”

“I think we ought to tell you something, Gwendoline,” Janet Hillyards
said, summoning up courage to confess the havoc they had just played.

“What is it?” asked Gwendoline, with a vague idea of the confession
about to be made.

“We were talking—talking about the joke you were playing upon
Linnæa—and—and she overheard us.”

“I know. I met her just now.”

Gwendoline kept her head down, and continued to look at the book in her
hand; but the words had no meaning for her, if, indeed, she saw them at
all.

The girls were speechless. Where was the anger and the indignation they
had expected to meet with when the knowledge of their carelessness
came to Gwendoline’s ears? Was this white, subdued, quiet-looking
girl the proud and haughty Gwendoline, whose wrath they had been
afraid to encounter? Surely they were dreaming, and had reversed the
two—Gwendoline for Linnæa, and Linnæa for Gwendoline; there must be
some mistake. They heard the timepiece mark the seconds as they passed,
and not one could break the silence. Tick—tick—tick—tick—someone
must speak. Each one looked at another; who was it to be?

Gwendoline rose. “Will you do as I asked, and tell Miss Elder? I am
going up now.” The spell was broken, and Janet Hillyards found her
voice.

“Will you forgive me, Gwen? It was my fault—I began it. I never
thought of her being near.”

Surely Gwendoline would speak to them now; she could not mean to cut
them all for this mistake they had made. Surely their friendship was of
more value to her than Linnæa March’s. They would much rather she would
scold them roundly, and be done with it.

“There is no question of my forgiving you. The fault was mine, and I
must suffer for it. I blame no one but myself.”

She was gone, and the girls were free to talk it over—this strange and
unexpected development of affairs. To say they were astonished would
be to put the case very mildly. They were perfectly thunderstruck. It
had been food for surprise that Linnæa should betray a capacity for
wounded pride and anger they had not dreamed her capable of, but that
the quick-tempered Gwendoline should receive fiery and contemptuous
words from Linnæa—for of this they had little doubt—and also the
information of their neglect of her command, with such meekness and
evident sorrow and regret, was beyond their comprehension.

If it were regret for the feelings she had stirred and not returned,
why did she do it at all? She had done it with her eyes open—had only
attained the object she had desired; the only thing for her to regret
seemed to them to be that her designs should have been made known to
Linnæa: and she had as much as said it was not this that troubled her.
Altogether it was too deep for them, and they gave it up. And the two
girls who had caused this unusual excitement, what of them? Linnæa
lay on her bed in a passion of tears. Rage, wounded pride, love, and
hate, all strove for the mastery. What had she done, she moaned, that
everyone should be against her? Was it not enough that she should be
naturally unattractive, but this cruel siren must go out of her way to
find a refined system of torture for her? How was she to live in the
school with this girl she had loved, and who had so basely deceived her?

And Gwendoline?

She sat on a chair by her bed, her head laid on the pillow, hot tears
chasing one another down her cheeks.

“Oh, Linnæa, Linnæa,” she moaned, “if you only knew how I love you;
but you will never know now, you would never believe me, and I don’t
deserve you should! Would she believe if someone were to tell her?
No—why should she? She would think it some trumped-up story told to
keep her quiet.”

She could see no way to undo the evil she had wrought. Linnæa could
never trust her now, would have no more to do with her.

The facts of the case were these. Gwendoline had tried to attract
Linnæa, as we all know, at first to fulfil her vow. From the second
day she had felt drawn to her for her own sake. Linnæa was totally
different with Gwendoline from what she was with anyone else. She
seemed to get out of herself, and to forget the reserve and awkwardness
which characterised her when with others. The girls did not even see
this, for the presence of a third person was enough to stifle any
show of demonstrativeness on the part of Linnæa. If they had seen it
they would not have wondered so much, for Linnæa with Gwendoline was
attractive and lovable.

Thus insensibly Gwendoline had come to love Linnæa with as great ardour
as she was loved in return. We need not then be astonished at her
feelings now. Gwendoline’s character was a strong one, but—surrounded
by luxury all her life, with scarcely a wish ungratified—there had
been little as yet to develop it. She had never cared very greatly for
any of her companions; a great many had taken a violent fancy to her,
and she had come to regard it as a matter of course that she should be
courted and made much of. Her love for Linnæa was the first which had
touched her heart, and it was none the less strong on that account.
She had tried to forget the way in which the friendship had been begun
and many a time had she hoped that Linnæa would not hear of it. Surely
the girls must see, she thought, that it was genuine now; and yet, she
could not forget having called upon them all to witness the conquest
she was about to make, and the remembrance brought a flush of shame to
her face.

Now, what she had dreaded had taken place, and in the most untoward
way—in such a way that it was almost impossible for Linnæa now to
learn the truth.

(_To be concluded._)




SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.


PART II.

In our last paper on this subject we reduced the word “culture” to
its simple and original meaning, and used the familiar illustration
of a plot of garden ground, showing that weeds would spring up if
cultivation were neglected; that things useful and beautiful alike
flourish in the ideal garden; that the quality of the soil and other
conditions should be taken into account by the wise cultivator; and
that, culture being a process as well as a result, a little work in
that direction is better than none at all. We might follow the simile
further; but we are now met by a difficulty, and can imagine some
critic expostulating, “Your illustration of the garden is all very
well, but it breaks down at the most important point. The ground cannot
cultivate itself, and needs an experienced gardener. If let alone, it
becomes, as you have said, a tangle of weeds and deserves Hamlet’s
words—

    “‘Fie on’t! Ah fie! ’tis an unweeded garden
    That grows to seed.’

“So our mental faculties, our whole nature, are like a garden
susceptible of being properly cultivated; but _when there is no
gardener_, no intelligence from without to direct the process, what is
to be done?”

The simile, it is true, does break down, as similes are apt to do if
pushed too far. And, dear reader, we freely confess that in the term
“self-culture” all the difficulty is expressed. It is a hard matter to
be dependent upon one’s unaided efforts in this matter. We may even go
further and confess that nothing can quite make up for the contact with
people of culture, the student life in the atmosphere of a college, the
marvellous, enchanting process of education received when one is old
enough to appreciate it.

We cannot perhaps wonder if those who know the stimulus of University
life at its keenest, the delight of interchange of thought, the
unspeakable associations

    “Of that sweet city with her dreaming spires,”

look with serenest pity on any attempt at “culture” outside that and
kindred regions.

But it is exclusive and cruel to laugh down the attempts of the
partially educated to attain farther; and certainly it is unreasonable
to tell them, “You must have all, or nothing.”

Much can be done by the most ignorant—no one can say how much—and at
any rate it is worth the while of every reader who scans this page to
do something towards the process of self-culture. For there are outside
helps within the reach of all. No girl, however cut off she may be from
people who can help her to study, can be, especially in the present
day, altogether cut off from Books.

How much books may do, is a commonplace often dilated upon. But have
you, who are glancing down this column, ever reflected upon it as
regards your own individual self?

How fine a thing you would think it if you had the privilege of
introduction to some great author and could exchange a few words with
him! How great an honour if you could enjoy his friendship, and spend
an hour with him from time to time in intimate conversation! What a
means of culture you would consider it to be!

But the power of reading admits you to the society of the wise and
great without let or hindrance, and to their society at their best
moments. It is often a very disappointing thing to be introduced to the
literary hero or heroine of one’s adoration. One expects an utterance
equal to the author’s reputation, and there comes instead some
commonplace suggested by the surrounding circumstances. We have heard
of a young lady devotee taken down to dinner by a great poet, whom
to meet had been her dream for years. She listened for his voice in
breathless silence, unable to eat for excitement, but he said nothing
during soup, fish, entrées; until at length, on the appearance of a
fresh course, he remarked, “I like mutton cut in wedges.”

Whether the story be true or not, it is a good illustration. On first
meeting a stranger it is impossible for the wisest man to drag up from
the depths of his being some remark equal to his reputation. There is
nothing to call it forth, and it would probably sound affected, or
far-fetched, if he began instantly to “talk like a book,” especially
like his own books. You cannot get at the inner nature of the man
without long friendship, and without a likeness of disposition. But in
his book you find him at once, with no tedious preliminary process, at
his very best. As Mr. J. R. Lowell has said, the art of reading is the
talisman that admits “to the company of saint and sage, of the wisest
and the wittiest at their wisest and wittiest moments; that enables us
to see with the keenest eyes, hear with the finest ears, and listen to
the sweetest voices of all time.”

To the girl, then, who has aspirations, or even a dim stirring of faint
desire, after self-culture, we may say, “Read; in the second place,
Read; and yet again, Read.”

In Matthew Arnold’s published _Letters_, he gives a piece of excellent
advice to a young lady who is a relation of his:

“If I were you, I should now take to some regular reading, if it were
only an hour a day. It is the best thing in the world to have something
of this sort as a point in the day, and far too few people know and use
this secret. You would have your district still and all your business
as usual, but you would have this hour in your day, in the midst of it
all, and it would soon become of the greatest solace to you. Desultory
reading is a mere anodyne, regular reading, well chosen, is restoring
and edifying.”

It would be a good thing if every girl would study Ruskin’s _Sesame and
Lilies_, and follow the advice therein contained. It has been so often
quoted that we hesitate again to transcribe it; but it cannot be read
too frequently.

“Have you measured and mapped out this short life and its
possibilities? Do you know if you read this that you cannot read that;
that what you lose to-day you cannot gain to-morrow? Will you go and
gossip with your housemaid or your stable boy when you may talk with
queens and kings? Will you jostle with the common crowd for _entrée_
here and audience there, when all the while this eternal court is open
to you, with its society wide as the world, multitudinous as its days,
the chosen and the mighty of every place and time?”

Time is precious and is fleeting fast. There would be less poring over
fashion-plates, fewer pennies spent on miscellaneous collections of
tawdry scraps of useless information garnished with comic anecdotes, if
it were realised that each hour spent in aimless, silly reading is an
hour lost, never to be regained.

This may seem “a counsel of perfection.” We do not say, read nothing
at all of the ephemeral literature whose aim is to enliven and amuse,
but if you have any desire for self-culture, read something else as
well. If you get into the habit of this light, disconnected, desultory
reading, you will find it spoil your taste and your appetite for
anything else. The loss you will suffer will be simply incalculable.
Amuse a few spare minutes at the railway station, on the tedious
journey, by all means: but do not let your reading stop short at mere
entertainment or information about dress.

It is a terrible thing when this power of reading—the instrument,
almost the only instrument, of self-culture—is turned so persistently
to other ends that it becomes a warped and worthless tool.

“It is of paramount importance,” says Schopenhauer, the German
philosopher, “to acquire the art _not_ to read.... We should recollect
that he who writes for fools finds an enormous audience, and we should
devote the ever scant leisure of our circumscribed existence to the
master spirits of all ages and nations—those who tower over humanity,
and whom the voice of Fame proclaims; only such writers cultivate and
instruct us.”

Too stringent perhaps! and yet a truth lies here which may well be
taken to heart. A more modern critic, Frederic Harrison, puts it thus:

“Every book that we take up without a purpose is an opportunity lost of
taking up a book with a purpose; every bit of stray information which
we cram into our heads without any sense of its importance is for the
most part a bit of the most useful information driven out of our heads
and choked off from our minds.... We know that books differ in value as
much as diamonds differ from the sand on the seashore ... and I cannot
but think the very infinity of opportunities is robbing us of the
actual power of using them.”

What to read, will form the subject of future articles; only let the
girl who scans this page make up her mind that she will follow its
advice and read _something_. “Studies serve for delight, for ornament,
and for ability” is a familiar sentence of Lord Bacon. Even the busiest
girl can lay this to heart and profit by it, as was shown by some
articles which appeared in THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER on the life of working
girls—“My Daily Round.” Some of the most charming sentences in those
interesting papers were the sentences where appreciation of literature
as a companion to the scant hour of freedom held a conspicuous place.

Life is often a very hard and sordid thing, and far too many women are
forced to spend their days in detail of a distasteful kind. We must not
extol a spirit of discontent with “the trivial round, the common task,”
and must remember the French motto, “When one cannot have what one
likes, one must like what one has.” Yet we all need a resource. Every
man or woman, young or old, ought to have a refuge wherein to flee
from the worries and minute cares of “this troublesome world”—a refuge
that shall prove

    “The world’s sweet inn from care and wearisome turmoil.”

And for this self-culture is invaluable.

Walter Besant somewhere observes that he often sees in London
omnibuses, girls returning from the work of the day, whose lips are
noiselessly moving. Their look is harassed, and they are talking
to themselves in irritated fashion of what has gone wrong; perhaps
uttering imaginary repartees to unreasonable employers. Some
engrossment in poetry or romance, some mental diversion which should
force them to turn away their thoughts, would be a panacea, and they
might dwell with consolation, remembering such employers, on one of the
antitheta of Lord Bacon—“In reading we hold converse with the wise; in
the business of life, generally with the foolish.”

And study is a priceless relief and refuge to women in any grade of
society. A girl who really loves reading possesses an inexhaustible
charm to lift her above the little worries of daily life, in whatever
sphere that life may be.

In Switzerland one finds a summer stay in the valleys, beautiful and
fertile as they are, beset by certain annoyances, of which perhaps the
most dire and disturbing is a peculiar sort of fly, like a horse-fly,
that settles and stings even through a thick glove. The most lovely
summer resorts beside the lakes are infested by this creature, which
comes everywhere with slow, sleepy virulence, alighting upon face and
hands and thrusting in its poison. To escape it, one must go to the
mountains; far up on the fragrant slopes where the pine trees hang in
air, and the torrent leaps down among them, and the blue gloom of the
valley lies below, and the everlasting snows stretch far away behind,
up and up against the sky. Here there are no poisonous insects to buzz
and sting; the wanderer has ascended too high.

So in life we can escape the trivial vexations and irritations of
life by rising above them to the height of some lofty thought, some
beautiful idea, whence we can view the plains of daily existence with
its petty cares and stings far, far below.

    LILY WATSON.

(_To be continued._)




SOCIAL INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF AN EAST END GIRL.


PART II.

A WEDDING.

At one time my proposed expedition seemed threatened with extinction,
for my family strongly objected to my running about the East End with
no more efficient protector than Belinda Ann—on a bank holiday too!
In vain I painted her character in glowing colours; in vain I cited
my hostess of the club as an authority that I should come to no harm.
The family were obdurate. Either I must find someone to go with me who
could look after me properly, or I must give up the idea.

I was loath to do the latter so I set about the former, and by great
good luck discovered a lady who spent most of her time amongst Belinda
Ann and her friends and knew the bride and her family intimately.

I admit it robbed the expedition of some of its fun to thus have a
chaperon tacked on to me, and there was a lurking doubt in my mind as
to how Belinda Ann herself would regard the innovation. When, after a
long, hot omnibus ride, we arrived at the place where we had appointed
to meet her we caught sight of her waiting, my eyes anxiously sought
her face to judge from its expression whether or no she would resent
the unexpected addition to the party. Luckily she both knew and liked
the lady in question (who shall be called Miss H.), and though for a
moment her face clouded over, it soon brightened again, and, with a
great air of importance, she bustled us off to the tram.

On the way I had time to note that she had evidently bestowed great
pains on her person, for the straight fringe was elaborately curled
and surmounted by a wonderful crimson plush hat, _à la_ Gainsborough,
adorned with a profusion of feathers to match shaded off to palest pink.

“That must have cost her a lot of money,” I whispered to Miss H.; but
the latter replied, “She belongs to a feather club, of course.”

I did not understand what she meant, and there was no opportunity of
then asking; but I resolved to inquire into this at some future period.

Meanwhile Belinda Ann, by means of a dexterous application of her
thin sharp elbows and a running fire of chaff, secured us an entrance
into the tram which was already inconveniently crowded in my opinion;
but everyone was so heartily good-natured, no one could possibly show
temper at being a little squeezed.

Belinda Ann ensconced herself near the door, where she kept a lively
look-out for every fresh arrival, whom she greeted with some choice
specimen of wit which, if replied to in the proper spirit, afforded her
unbounded satisfaction.

During this period of waiting I was able to study, from the window of
the tram, the fashionable hand-shake as practised by a lady with a
market-basket taking leave of another matron on the pavement. There was
a sort of perpendicular and horizontal movement combined about it which
was very difficult to catch but most effective, and I could not but
admire the elegance with which it was done. It is, I believe, sacred to
trams.

Presently the tram moved off, rather to my relief, for it was decidedly
warm waiting in the sun, and we rolled smoothly along, Miss H. ever and
anon pointing out objects of interest on the route.

“There’s the bridegroom!” she whispered presently, clutching my arm;
and, looking in the direction of her glance, I espied a well set-up
young man emerging from a barber’s shop.

Belinda Ann caught sight of him at the same time, and in a sarcastic
undertone remarked, “My! Ain’t ’e done ’isself proper?”

I suppose I looked mystified, and, indeed, it was Greek to me until
Miss H. silently pointed to the sign over the door—“Shaving done here.
Fresh water for every person.” And even then I didn’t quite see it till
she explained that the latter was by no means a _sine quâ non_, but
that the bridegroom on this important occasion evidently thought it
incumbent on him to do the thing in style!

Next we passed a church with an inscription outside to the effect that
parties could be married there for sevenpence halfpenny.

I was still lost in wonder at this legend when a wedding-party emerged
and made a wild rush for the tram. The bride came inside and the
bridegroom went outside, and I felt grieved to think they should be
separated so soon after their sevenpence-halfpennyworth. Judging from
the bride’s apparent age, I concluded that the youthful bridesmaid of
ten was her eldest daughter.

At this moment a man plumped down next to me carrying a trio of
remarkably lively puppies, and the remainder of the drive was rendered
extremely hilarious by the antics of the small doggies, who persisted
in swarming on to the floor ever other minute, and then abjectly
licking our boots.

“They don’t allow live-stock inside the trams on Sundays,” remarked
Miss H., as she hauled up a puppy for the twentieth time and handed it
over to its rightful owner. “Still,” she added meditatively, “a man
may get in holding a sack, not by the neck, but round the loins, so to
speak, and if he lets go to get his fare or his handkerchief, you see
the sack wriggle!”

I had not done laughing at this graphic description when Belinda Ann,
who had been keeping a sharp look-out all this time, gave us the signal
to dismount, which we did in a breathless scramble owing to the tram
starting on again before we were well off the step.

I found there was still some little distance to walk before we arrived
at the house, but everything was so new to me that I did not mind.

Thus, passing a second-hand clothier’s window, my eye was at once
caught by a white dress in the window labelled, “A boon to young ladies
about to marry! Let out by the day!”

It was made of some soft silky material in the prevailing fashion and
thoughtfully cut large enough to accommodate any figure, as of course
any superfluity could be pinned over should the hirer happen to be of a
sylph-like form!

“I s’pose I shall come ter that if any chap ever says ‘Chairs’ ter me!”
remarked Belinda Ann, with a last glance at it as we tore ourselves
away.

“Says what?” I inquired, not very elegantly, I fear.

“Chairs!” she replied shortly, for she took the surprise in my voice to
imply a doubt of her ever wanting a wedding-dress.

“What in all the world has that to do with it?” I asked, after a
moment’s puzzled silence.

She surveyed me for a second with a sort of pitying scorn for my
ignorance, and then proceeded to enlighten me.

“Why, yer see, yer may walk out with a feller fer months an’ never get
no forrader, so ter speak, or yer may chynge about with another feller
an’ no one think any harm of it; but if any on ’em mentions ‘furniture’
to yer, it’s a sign that he means bizness, an’ yer can begin ter think
about yer trossax.”

This tickled my fancy so much that I doubt if I should ever have
stopped laughing if Belinda Ann had not shown signs of temper by
remarking huffily, “In coorse I knows as ’ow toffs don’t manage it that
wy; but yer arsked me about it, an’ it ain’t bad fer all that.”

“I think it’s a perfectly charming plan,” I put in hastily, smothering
my mirth as well as I could; but I nearly went off again at the
reflection that the innocent remark, “Can I get you a chair?” would be
construed by an East End beauty into a proposal of marriage.

Belinda Ann did not quite recover her good humour till we arrived at
the bride’s mansion, which fortunately was not far off, for once there
her smiles returned in full force, and she quite forgot my ill-timed
merriment.

We stepped straight from the court into the banqueting-hall, without
even the formality of a doorstep, and the bride received us in person,
her mother being busy in the back premises over her toilette.

The heroine of the occasion was of such colossal proportions she might
almost have gone about in a show, and her complexion matched her gown,
which was of a warm brickdusty red.

This was not, however, the wedding garment, for, after having greeted
us, she disappeared with Belinda Ann and many apologies to reappear
later on in a really elegant grey silk, presented by Miss H. and her
sister in fulfilment of a very old promise.

She had rather spoilt the effect by hanging round her neck a string of
iridescent beads, so large that they looked like homœopathic globules,
and wearing the inevitable befeathered hat, this time of a crude violet
hue; but otherwise she was all that could be desired, and was immensely
admired.

Belinda Ann had added to her attire a huge lace collar and a silver
chain, from which hung a locket to match about the size of a small
warming-pan, and the party was completed by the bride’s mother, also
dressed in an old gown of Miss H.’s.

Now Miss H. being tall and slim, while Mrs. Hogg was of the same
generous proportions as her daughter, the dress proved somewhat too
scanty, so she had taken some of the material from the waist to eke out
the bodice, and to hide this theft had donned a black velvet apron.
It looked a little odd, perhaps, but on the whole was pronounced very
fair, and we set off for the church. Not on foot, although the edifice
was just round the corner. That would, indeed, have been a serious
breach of etiquette on such an occasion. No! Two four-wheeled cabs had
been chartered for the drive, and into these we packed, the bride, her
mother and father (who turned up at the last minute in a fearful state
of heat and nervousness) going in the first, and Belinda Ann, Miss H.,
and I taking the second.

An enthusiastic crowd was hanging round the porch cheering wildly
when we alighted, and at first I thought that Miss Hogg must be the
most popular girl in the East End; but I was soon undeceived. She was
not the only expectant bride of the occasion, for Bank Holiday is a
favourite East End wedding-day, for obvious reasons.

The crowd inside was so great, although perfectly orderly and reverent,
that I could see little or nothing of the actual ceremony, and was
rather glad than not when, all formalities having been complied with,
our party disentangled itself from the general _mêlée_, and we drove
back in the same order as we had come, with the addition of the
bridegroom, of course.

In our absence the table had been elegantly laid with wine-glasses
of every shape, colour, and size, borrowed right and left for the
occasion, each with half a sheet of clean notepaper stuck in it. I
puzzled over these for some time, till I came to the conclusion that
possibly this was in imitation of the serviettes placed in wine-glasses
at restaurants.

As each guest appeared, he or she was hospitably pressed to say
what he or she would take (“Give it a nyme!” was the general form
of invitation), and he or she usually seemed quite prepared for the
question and quite ready with an answer, for without any false delicacy
they promptly replied, “Drop o’ port!” This was immediately handed
them, and there they sat in a row, never opening their mouths except to
empty into them the aforesaid “drop o’ port.”

I was sorely troubled as to what to do with mine, which I would have
gladly refused only that I was warned that it was considered as
great an insult as to refuse in the real East to drink the cup of
black coffee offered at the threshold; so there I sat with the rest,
occasionally raising it to my lips, till an opportunity offered to
stick it behind a flower-pot, where it may remain to this day for all I
know.

The honeymoon was to be spent on Hampstead Heath, and we were pressed
to accompany the party, but excused ourselves as politely as possible
and shortly after took leave, as everyone was obviously aching to be
off, though far too polite to say so.

Our presence had added great _éclat_ to the proceedings in the opinion
of our hosts, and when we took leave the bridegroom insisted on
presenting each of us with seven Tangerine oranges!

Now he was by profession a fruiterer, and a kind Providence had
thoughtfully endowed him with hands so large that he could easily hold
seven oranges (or anything else for the matter of that) in one. My
hands, unluckily, are not on the same liberal scale; consequently when
he dropped the seven oranges into them, about six were bound to fall
on the ground in spite of all my efforts. Of course, they rolled into
all sorts of inaccessible corners, after their perverse nature; but
the company collected them with unfailing good-humour, and my secret
hope that one or two of them at least might be irrevocably lost was not
realised.

We left Belinda Ann behind to share the forthcoming trip, and soon
found ourselves in an omnibus rolling westwards.

“I never refuse little gifts of this kind,” said Miss H., as she
rescued an orange from bounding out of the door, “for it seems
more friendly to accept. Besides, I know if they send or give me
sixpennyworth of lemons, I can readily make it up to them later on by
something costing half-a-crown.”

I assented, and then remarked dreamily, “Those hats are the most
wonderful erections!”

“They may not be very artistic,” she replied, “but they are a sign of
self-respect. The last thing a respectable woman parts with, as a rule,
is her headgear, and the last thing a self-respecting man leaves off is
having his boots cleaned. When you see a man with dirty boots, and a
woman bareheaded, you may know they have touched the lowest depths.”

I was still meditating on this when the omnibus stopped with a jerk,
precipitating all my oranges into the gutter, and thus settling once
for all the vexed question of how I was to get them home.




ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

BY JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters
Three,” etc.


CHAPTER XIX.

In consideration of Arthur’s presence and of the late hours and
excitement of the night before, the next day was observed as a holiday
in the vicarage. Mrs. Asplin stayed in bed until lunch time, the boys
went for a bicycle ride, and Peggy and her brother had a delightful
chat together by the schoolroom fire, when he told her more details
about his own plans than he had been able to touch upon in a dozen
letters.

“The preliminary examination for Sandhurst begins on the 26th this
year,” he explained, “and so far as I can make out I shall romp through
it. I am going to take all the subjects in Class I.—mathematics,
Latin, French, geometrical drawing, and English composition; I’ll
astonish them in the last subject! Plenty of dash and go, eh
Peggy,—that’s the style to fetch ’em! In Class II. you can only take
two subjects, so I’m going in for chemistry and physics. I rather fancy
myself in physics, and if I don’t come out at the head of the list, or
precious near the head, it won’t be for want of trying. I have worked
like a nigger these last six months; between ourselves I thought I had
worked too hard a few days ago; I felt so stupid and dizzy, and my
head ached until I could hardly open my eyes. If I had not come away,
I believe I should have broken down, but I’m better already, and by
Tuesday I shall be as fit as a fiddle. I hope I do well, it would be so
jolly to cable out the news to the old pater, and I say, Peg, I don’t
mean to leave Sandhurst without bringing home something to keep as a
souvenir. At the end of each Christmas term a sword is presented to
the cadet who passes out first in the final exam.—‘The Anson Memorial
Sword.’ Mariquita!” Arthur smote his breast, and struck a fierce and
warlike attitude. “That sword is mine! In the days to come when you
are old and grey-headed, you will see that rusty blade hanging over my
ancestral hearth, and tell in faltering tones the story of the gallant
youth who wrested it from his opponents.”

“Ha, ha!” responded Peggy deeply. There was no particular meaning in
the exclamation, but it seemed right and fitting in the connection, and
had a smack of melodrama which was quite to her taste. “Of course you
will be first, Arthur!” she added, “and, oh dear! how proud I shall be
when I see you in all your uniform! I am thankful all my men relations
are soldiers, they are so much more interesting than civilians. It
would break my heart, Arthur, to think of you as a civilian! Of course
wars are somewhat disconcerting, but then one always hopes there won’t
be wars.”

“I don’t,” cried Arthur loudly. “No, no, active serve for me, and
plenty of it! ‘Come one, come all, this rock shall fly from its firm
base as soon as I!’ That’s my motto, and my ambition is the Victoria
Cross, and I’ll get that too before I’m done; you see if I don’t! It’s
the great ambition of my life, Peg. I lie awake and think of that
little iron cross; I go to sleep and dream of it, and see the two words
dancing before my eyes in letters of fire, ‘For Valour,’ ‘For Valour,’
‘For Valour.’ Ah!”—he drew a deep breath of excitement—“I don’t think
there is anything in the world I should envy if I could only gain that.”

Peggy gazed at him with kindling eyes. “You are a soldier’s son,”
she said, “and the grandson of a soldier, and the great grandson of
a soldier; it’s in your blood; you can’t help it—it’s in _my_ blood
too, Arthur! I give you my solemn word of honour that if the French or
Germans came over to invade this land, I’d”—Peggy seized the ruler
and waved it in the air with a gesture of fiercest determination—“I’d
fight them! There! I’d shoot at them; I’d go out and spike the guns;
I’d—I’d climb on the house-tops and throw stones at them. You needn’t
laugh, I tell you I should be terrible! I feel as if I could face a
whole regiment myself. The spirit, the spirit of my ancestors is in my
breast, Arthur Reginald, and woe betide that enemy who tries to wrest
from me my native land!” Peggy went off into a shriek of laughter, in
which Arthur joined until the sound of the merry peals reached Mrs.
Asplin’s ears as she lay wearily on her pillow, and brought a smile to
her pale face. “Bless the dears! How happy they are,” she murmured to
herself, nor even suspected that it was a wholesale massacre of foreign
nations which had been the cause of this gleeful outburst.

Arthur left the vicarage on Tuesday evening, seemingly much refreshed
by the few days’ change, though he still complained of his head and
pressed his hand over his eyes from time to time as though in pain. The
parting from Peggy was more cheerful than might have been expected, for
in a few more weeks Christmas would be at hand, when, as he himself
expressed it, he hoped to return with blushing honours thick upon him.
Peggy mentally expended her whole ten pounds in a present for the dear
handsome fellow, and held her head high in the consciousness of owning
a brother who was destined to be Commander-in-Chief of the British
forces in the years to come.

The same evening Robert returned from his visit to London. He had heard
of Peggy’s escapade from his father and sister, and was by no means so
grateful as that young lady had expected.

“What in all the world possessed you to play such a mad trick?” he
queried bluntly. “It makes me ill to think of it. Rushing off to London
on a wet, foggy night, never even waiting to inquire if there was a
return train, or to count if you had enough money to see you through!
Goodness only knows what might have happened! You are careless enough
in an ordinary way, but I must say I gave you credit for more sense
than that.”

“Well, but Rob,” pleaded Peggy aggrieved, “I don’t think you need
scold! I did it for you, and I thought you would be pleased.”

“Did you indeed. Well, you are mightily mistaken; I wouldn’t have let
you do a thing like that for all the prizes in the world. I don’t care
a rap for the wretched old microscope.”

“Oh! Oh!”

“In comparison, I mean. Of course I should have been glad to get it if
it had come to me in an ordinary way, but I was not so wrapped up in
the idea that I would not have been reasonable if you had come to me
quietly, and explained that you had missed the post.”

Peggy shook her head sagely. “You think so now, because the danger is
over, and you are sure it can’t happen. But I know better. I can tell
you exactly what would have happened. You wouldn’t have stormed or
raged, it would have been better if you had, and sooner over; you would
just have stood still, and—glared at me! When I’d finished speaking,
you would have swallowed two or three times over, as if you were
gulping down something which you dared not say, and then turned on your
heel and marched out of the room. That’s what you would have done, my
dear and honourable sir, and you know it.”

Robert hung his head and looked self-conscious.

“Well, if I had! A fellow can’t hide all he feels in the first moment
of disappointment. But I should have got over it, and you know very
well that I should never have brought it up against you. ‘Glared!’ What
if I did glare? There is nothing very terrible in that, is there?”

“Yes, there is. I could not have borne it, when I had been trying
so hard to help you. And it would not have been only the first few
minutes. Every time when you were quiet and depressed, when you looked
at your specimens through your little old glass and sighed, and pitched
it away as I’ve seen you do scores and scores of times, I should have
felt that it was my fault, and been in the depths of misery. No, no,
I’m sorry to the depths of my heart that I scared dear Mrs. Asplin and
the rest, but it is a matter of acute satisfaction to me to know that
your chance has in no way been hindered by your confidence in me!” and
Peggy put her head on one side, and coughed in a faint and lady-like
manner, which brought the twinkle back into Robert’s eyes.

“Good old Mariquita!” he cried, laughing. “‘Acute satisfaction’ is
good, Mariquita, decidedly good! You will make your name yet in the
world of letters. Well, as I said before, you are a jolly little brick,
and the best partner a fellow ever had! Mind you, I tell you straight
that I think you behaved badly in cutting off like that; but I’ll stand
by you to the others, and not let them sit upon you while I am there.”

“Thanks!” said Peggy, meekly. “But, oh, I beseech of you, don’t bring
up the subject if you can help it! I’m tired to death of it all! The
kindest thing you can do is to talk hard about something else, and
give them a fresh excitement to think about. Talk about—about—about
Rosalind if you will; anything will do, only, for pity’s sake, leave
me alone, and pretend there is not such a thing in the world as a
calendar!”

“Right you are!” said Robert, laughing. “I’ll steer clear of the rocks!
And as it happens I have got a piece of news that will put your doings
into the background at one fell swoop. Rosalind is going to give a
party! The Earl and Countess of B—— are coming down to the Larches
the week after next, and are going to bring their two girls with them.
They are great, lanky things, with about as much ‘go’ in the pair as
in one of your little fingers; but this party is to be given in their
honour. The mater has asked everyone of a right age within a dozen
miles around, and the house will be crammed with visitors. Your card is
coming to-morrow, and I hope you will give me the honour of the first
round, and as many as possible after that.”

“The first with pleasure; I won’t promise any more until I see how we
get on. It doesn’t seem appropriate to think of your dancing, Bob;
there is something too heavy and serious in your demeanour. Oswald
is different; he would make a charming dancing-master. Oh, it will
be an excitement! Mellicent will not be able to eat or sleep for
thinking of it; and poor Mrs. Asplin will be running up seams on the
sewing-machine, and making up ribbon bows from this day to that. I’m
glad I have a dress all ready and sha’n’t be bothered with any trying
on! You don’t know what it is to stand first on one leg and then on
the other, to be turned and pulled about as if you were a dummy, and
have pins stuck into you as if you were a pin-cushion! I adore pretty
clothes, but every time I go to the dressmaker’s I vow and declare that
I shall take to sacks. Tell them at dinner, do, and they will talk
about it for the rest of the evening!”

Peggy’s prophecy came true, for the subject of Rosalind’s party became
a topic of such absorbing interest as left room for little else during
the next few weeks. New dresses had to be bought and made for the
girls, and Peggy superintended the operations of the village dressmaker
with equal satisfaction to herself and her friends.

Rosalind appeared engrossed in preparations, and two or three times
a week, as the girls trudged along the muddy roads, with Fräulein
lagging in the rear, the jingle of bells would come to their ears,
and Rosalind’s two white long-tailed ponies would come dashing
past, drawing the little open carriage in which their mistress sat,
half-hidden among a pile of baskets and parcels. She was always
beautiful, and radiant, and, as she passed, she would turn her head
over her shoulders and look at the three mud-bespattered pedestrians
with a smile of pitying condescension which made Peggy set her teeth
and draw her eyebrows together in an ominous frown.

One day she condescended to stop and speak a few words from her throne
among the cushions.

“How de do? So sowwy not to have been to see you! Fwightfully busy,
don’t you know. We are decowating the wooms, and don’t know how to
furnish in time. It’s going to be quite charming!”

“We know! We know! Rob told us. I’m dying to see it. You should ask
Peggy to help you if you are in a hurry. She’s s—imply splendid at
decorations! Mother says she never knew anyone so good at it as Peggy!”
cried Mellicent, with an outburst of gushing praise, in acknowledgment
of which she received a thunderous frown and such a sharp pinch on the
arm as penetrated through all her thick winter wrappings.

Rosalind, however, only ejaculated, “Oh, weally!” in an uninterested
manner, and whipped up her ponies without taking any further notice of
the suggestion; but it had taken root in her mind all the same, and she
did not forget to question her brother on the first opportunity.

Mellicent Asplin had said that Peggy Saville was clever at decoration.
Was it true, and would it be the least use asking her to come and help
in the decorations?

Robert laughed, and wagged his head with an air of proud assurance.

Clever! Peggy? She was a witch! She could work wonders! If you set her
down in an empty room, and gave her two-and-sixpence to transform it
into an Alhambra, he verily believed she could do it. The way in which
she had rigged up the various characters for the Shakespeare reading
was nothing short of miraculous. Yes, indeed, Peggy would be worth a
dozen ordinary helpers. The question was, would she come?

“Certainly she will come. I’ll send down for her at once,” said
Rosalind promptly, and forthwith sat down and wrote a dainty little
note, not to Peggy herself, but to Mrs. Asplin, stating that she had
heard great accounts of Peggy Saville’s skill in the art of decoration,
and begging that she might be allowed to come up to the Larches to
help with the final arrangements, arriving as early as possible on the
day of the party, and bringing her box with her so as to be saved the
fatigue of returning home to dress. It was a prettily-worded letter,
and Mrs. Asplin was dismayed at the manner of its reception.

“No, Peggy Saville won’t!” said that young person, pursing her lips
and tossing her head in her most high and mighty manner. “She won’t
do anything of the sort! Why should I go? Let her ask some of her own
friends! I’m not her friend! I should simply loath to go!”

“My dear Peggy! When you are asked to help! When this entertainment is
given for your pleasure, and you can be of real use——”

“I never asked her to give the party! I don’t care whether I go or not!
She is simply making use of me for her own convenience!”

“It is not the first or only time that you have been asked, as you know
well, Peggy. And sometimes you have enjoyed yourself very much. You
said you would never forget the pink luncheon. In spite of all you say,
you owe Rosalind thanks for some pleasant times; and now you can be of
some service to her—— Well, I’m not going to force you, dear. I hate
unwilling workers, and if it’s not in your heart to go, stay at home,
and settle with your conscience as best you can.”

Peggy groaned with sepulchral misery.

“Wish I hadn’t got no conscience! Tiresome, presuming thing that it
is—always poking itself forward and making remarks when it isn’t
wanted. I suppose I shall have to go, and run about from morning till
night, holding a pair of scissors and nasty little balls of string, for
Rosalind’s use! Genius indeed! What’s the use of talking about genius?
I know very well I shall not be allowed to do anything but run about
and wait upon her. It’s no use staring at me, Mrs. Asplin. I mean it
all—every single word.”

“No, you don’t, Peggy! No, you don’t, my little kind, warm-hearted
Peggy! I know better than that! It’s just that foolish tongue that is
running away with you, dearie. In your heart you are pleased to do a
service for a friend, and are going to put your whole strength into
doing it as well and tastefully as it can be done.”

“I’m not! I’m not! I’m not! I’m savage, and it’s no use pretending——”

“Yes, you are! I know it! What is the good of having a special gift
if one doesn’t put it to good use? Ah, that’s the face I like to see!
I didn’t recognise my Peggy with that ugly frown. I’ll write and say
you’ll come with pleasure.”

“It’s to please you, then, not Rosalind!” said Peggy obstinately. But
Mrs. Asplin only laughed, dropped a kiss upon her cheek, and walked
away to answer the invitation forthwith.

(_To be continued._)




ABSENCE.

BY INA NOEL.


    I call to thee across the space that lies
    Between us now and keeps thee from my eyes;
    But, like a tired swallow on the sea,
    Words fall and die, unheard alas! by thee.
    No tone of mine can reach thee now, belov’d,
      No sound of human voice will bridge the deep,
    Only my spirit calling through the dark
      May stir a smile upon thy lips in sleep.

[Illustration]




THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.

BY FLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.


CHAPTER V.

THE MARCH WIND BLOWS.

“Well, Jane, tell us something interesting,” said Ada, as the trio sat
toasting their toes before the fire on a gusty evening in March.

Jane yawned, and the wind whistled eerily round the house.

“I can’t think of anything,” she said, after a minute or two. “My head
feels as if it were stuffed with cotton wool. I wish this wind would go
down.”

“You have not told us any anecdotes of your children for ever so long.
How are the little things getting on?”

“A detachment of volunteers came to drill in the school yard this
afternoon, and they were all longing to look out of the windows and
watch.”

“Why could you not let them?”

“Oh, they never settle down to their work properly if interruptions
like that are allowed,” said Jane, getting more wide awake.

“Are your classes full?”

“There is a great deal of illness about, and that keeps some of them at
home. The people are terribly poor. I wish I could persuade some of the
better class people about to give me orders for dinners for the poor
people. It would cost so little, and I would be very careful to give it
to those who most needed it. I ask this of everyone who happens to come
in to see the children at work, but except for a chance order now and
then, it is very difficult to get rid of the food.”

“Who buys the things that the children make?” asked Marion.

“The children are supposed to buy the things themselves; and they
generally do buy rock cakes and gingerbread and things that are of no
practical use to them. But more sensible dishes, such as stews and
soup, are very difficult to sell without outside help. There are one or
two people in some workmen’s buildings just near who buy from time to
time, and when the beef-tea lesson comes round, the vicar is very kind
in buying it for anyone who is sick. It is very difficult to get along
sometimes,” added Jane, gazing dolefully into the depths of the fire.

“I was just thinking,” said Ada meditatively, after a minute or
two’s thought; “I was just thinking if there was no one to whom we
could mention the matter, who would be glad to help. Of course, one
can understand that there are certain objections. For instance,
if it became widely known that food was given away at the cookery
school, people would be always coming in to beg, and it would be very
inconvenient. Besides, there would be so much jealousy amongst those
who did not get it, and it would be impossible to satisfy all. But I
should think a few private orders might be managed, and they would
certainly be a great help to you, Jennie, and if you told the people
who came for dinners not to mention it to others, I should think it
would be all right.”

“They would not do that, I am sure,” said Jane. “They do not like it
known that they are taking charity, unless it is some widely recognised
institution like a soup-kitchen. I have often noticed that.”

“There are the Baddeleys, now; they live near your school in
Warrington Road. Do you ever see them?”

“No; I had forgotten about them. I do not think they know that I teach
up there. I will write to-night and ask them to come and see me.”

“I will write,” said Ada, patting her sister’s nut-brown head, “you are
so tired.”

“The wind has made my eyes ache.”

So Ada wrote to Mrs. Baddeley, knowing her to be a philanthropic woman,
and her appeal was warmly answered.

Mrs. Baddeley called to see Jane at her school two days after, to
her great delight. The lady in question was an old friend of their
mother’s, but they had not seen her for some time. She had heard that
the girls had come to live in London, but had not yet been to see them,
and she had had no idea that Jane was teaching so near to her.

“I had heard that cookery was taught to the children in the schools,
but I did not know exactly where. I am so pleased to come and see
the cookery kitchen, and still more to find you in it,” said the
sympathetic lady, as she sat down in a chair by the dresser and looked
round admiringly at the gleaming pots and pans which Jane’s little
scholars kept in order.

Jennie explained her difficulty to her genial friend.

“You do not have to spend your own money on the food for the classes,
do you?” asked Mrs. Baddeley.

“No; I have some given me to start the lessons with, but if I do not
sell anything for a day or two it is difficult to get along.”

“Of course, it must be, but I think I see a way out of your difficulty.
I shall be only too glad if you can manage to prepare three dinners
twice a week for some poor old people whom I try to help. I will give
you the names, and they shall call for the dishes. But I hope the
dinners will be quite plain and simple but very nourishing.”

Jane assured Mrs. Baddeley that she taught no dishes that were not
plain and simple, and mentioned such items as Exeter stew, Irish stew,
beef skirt pie, liver and bacon, and for puddings fruit in batter, milk
puddings, baked ginger puddings, and so on.

And so the compact was made; Mrs. Baddeley’s _protégées_ came for their
dinners punctually every other day at the appointed time, and the
arrangement proved equally satisfactory to all concerned.

It was now near the end of March. On looking through her dinner lists,
which she kept by her to avoid a too frequent repetition of any one
thing, Marion noticed that the time for pork would soon be at an end,
for she believed in the old saying that pork is not wholesome in any
month that has not an “r” in it. So as April was the last “r” month,
she treated her household to a nice little piece of roast loin, which
they appreciated very much. It was allowed plenty of time to cook;
about half an hour longer than a piece of beef or mutton of the same
weight would have been, and it was so well basted that the crackling
was beautifully crisp and very unlike the tough leathery pieces that
are occasionally served only to be left on the plates of those to whom
they are given. On the following day she cut up the remains into dice,
and, having purchased half a pound of chuck steak and cut it up small,
made it into a curry to which she added the remains of the pork.

This is her list for the week—

_Sunday._

    Roast Ptarmigan.
    Artichokes.
    Baked Potatoes.
    Lemon Sponge.
    (_Supper._) Sardines. Brown Bread and Butter.
    Cocoa.

_Monday._

    Roast Pork. Apple Sauce.
    Boiled Potatoes.
    Stewed Prunes.
    Rice Shape.

_Tuesday._

    Curry and Rice.
    Boiled Batter Pudding.

_Wednesday._

    (_High Tea._) Sausages.
    Oat Biscuits.

_Thursday._

    Pea Soup.
    Baked Whitings with Brown Sauce.
    Sea-kale.
    Cauliflower with Cheese Sauce.

_Friday._

    Stuffed Sheep’s Heart with Forcemeat Balls.
    Loch Lomond Pudding.

_Saturday._

    Fried Liver and Bacon.
    Cabbage.
    Baked Potatoes.
    Semolina Pudding.

Lest my readers should be startled to see sea-kale on the list, and
think that our housekeeper was forgetting her economy, I will explain
at once that it was not the expensive sea-kale at eighteenpence the
basket that one sees wrapped in blue paper in the green-grocers’ shops.
It was some sold at twopence the pound—a quite small kind—that
Marion had discovered at some local “stores” which she occasionally
frequented. It was not as delicate as the expensive kind, but it was
very nice. The salesman told her that they were the siftings of the
finer kind. The ptarmigan she bought on a day when they were for sale
very cheap, as there had been a large supply in the market, and they
hung for a day or two until they were wanted. They took so little time
to cook—about twenty-five minutes, that it was hardly more trouble to
cook them than to warm up a pie or stew as they often did on a Sunday.
The oat biscuits and the Loch Lomond pudding were both made from
recipes given some years before to Marion’s mother by a Highland lady
famous for her good things. Here they are:—

_Oat Biscuits._—Mix a teaspoonful of baking powder with six ounces
of flour; mix in four ounces of fine oatmeal with two ounces of brown
sugar; mix with beaten egg to a dough. Roll out, stamp into rounds with
a wineglass, lay on a greased tin and bake in a rather slow oven about
twenty minutes.

_Loch Lomond Pudding._—Beat a quarter of a pound of dripping to a
cream, stir in two tablespoonfuls of brown sugar, two tablespoonfuls of
raspberry jam, and half a teaspoonful of carbonate of soda; add four
ounces of flour, and lastly beat in two eggs one by one. Bake in a
buttered pie-dish about three-quarters of an hour.

The food bill for the week was certainly economical. The breakfasts on
the alternate mornings, when they did not take porridge, were dried
haddocks, Monday and Wednesday, and bacon on Friday. The haddocks
were left to soak in milk and water all night and then cooked in a
frying-pan in the milk and water until quite tender, skimmed carefully,
drained on a fish-slice, put on a hot dish that had first been rubbed
with a little piece of butter, and another bit was put on the top of
the fish. Then they were peppered and brought quickly to table.

Food account:—

                                           £  s. d.
  Two ptarmigan                            0  2   0
  Three and a half pounds of loin of pork  0  2  11
  Half a pound of chuck steak              0  0   5
  One pound of sausages                    0  0   8
  Four sheep’s hearts at 3½d.              0  1   2
  One pound of liver                       0  0   8
  One and a half pounds of bacon           0  1   0
  Two haddocks                             0  1   0
  Four small whitings                      0  1   0
  One pound of artichokes                  0  0   1½
  Celery (for flavouring)                  0  0   1
  One pound of onions                      0  0   2
  One pound of small sea-kale              0  0   2
  Cauliflower                              0  0   3
  Cabbage                                  0  0   2
  Nine pounds of potatoes                  0  0   7
  One pound of prunes                      0  0   6½
  Tin of potted meat                       0  0   4½
  Small tin of cocoa                       0  0   6
  Half a pound of tea                      0  0  10
  Eight loaves of bread                    0  2   6
  Milk                                     0  1   9
  Sundries (peaflour, jam, etc.)           0  0   6
  Quaker oats                              0  0   6
  Fat for rendering                        0  0   2
  One and a half pounds of butter          0  1   8
  Tin of sardines                          0  0  10½
                                          -----------
                                          £1  2   7
                                          -----------

Towards the end of the month, as oranges were getting much sweeter, and
were very cheap, they made some excellent marmalade. Jane, Marion and
Abigail cut up the oranges one Saturday morning, put them in a large
earthenware pan with the right quantity of water, covered the pan and
let the contents soak all Sunday. On Monday Marion cooked it until it
was sufficiently firm and put it in jars, which she tied down on the
following day. This is her recipe—

_Orange Marmalade._—Shred finely sixteen Seville oranges, twelve sweet
ones and four lemons, carefully removing the pips as you do so, and
put them to soak in an earthenware pan with six quarts of water, cover
the pan and let it soak for forty-eight hours. Put in a stewpan or
fish-kettle with eight pounds of loaf sugar. As soon as the sugar has
melted, boil the marmalade, quickly skimming all the while for twenty
minutes, and then let it simmer until the marmalade jellies.

(_To be continued._)

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: “MY SPIRIT CALLING THROUGH THE DARK.”

[_From photo: Copyright 1896, by Franz Hanfstaengl, Munich._]

       *       *       *       *       *




CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.

BY MARGARET INNES.


CHAPTER V.

OUR FIRST DAYS IN THE BARN.

The route we had chosen, a drive of about eighteen miles, was supposed
to be the least steep in its ups and downs; an important consideration,
with our heavy load. When we crept round the last turning and could see
our hill, with its little patch of brown earth turned up, and the barn
which looked like a small wooden box, we felt that our difficulties
for the day were conquered. At that moment we were passing a ranch
which was just being enclosed with a fence made of narrow laths wired
together; these were lying in large bundles at intervals all along the
road for a distance of about a quarter of a mile. To our dismay, when
Dan reached the first of these bundles, he put back his ears and gave
a sudden and most violent shy, almost lurching the surrey over, and
then stood trembling, his legs planted apart in an obstinate manner,
and absolutely refused to move an inch further.

We tried coaxing, then whipping, till Dan showed us his heels in a
series of most vicious kicks, higher and higher, till we feared he
would break some part of the harness, or the surrey itself.

Eventually he did allow himself to be slowly coaxed past, I making
myself as broad as possible to try and screen that side of the road,
and leading him, and my husband checking his evident desire to bolt
after each separate bundle was left behind. By this time it was grey
twilight, and when we reached our haven, we had to be satisfied with
the simplest arrangements possible for the night.

As we were occupying the rooms which by rights belonged to the horses,
they had to be staked out on the open hillside, and during the night
Joe managed to get loose and went careering off, up and down and round
the barn, so that we were awakened by the clattering of his hoofs. It
was a brilliant starlit night, perfectly still and mild, and all the
family turned out in their night gear to help to catch him and fasten
him up again. It was a curious sensation to be so absolutely alone, and
free, with nothing but the great ranges of big bare mountains lying
spread out into the far distance.

The absolute stillness was very weird; the smallest sound from miles
around reached us in the calm quiet. The plaintive call of the little
brown owls had a sad uneasy ring in it, and the coyote’s mocking yelp
seemed most uncomfortably near.

The mountain ranges looked so calm and stately and unreachable in the
cold clear moonlight, and we felt horribly lonely.

There was one cañon some four miles away, across the Silvero Valley,
called Mexican Cañon, and we wondered uneasily whether Indians and
Mexicans lived there; for we seemed to be on the very borders of
civilisation. When we got to know the neighbourhood better, we found
nothing but peaceable ranches, and more ranches far back into the hills.

Returning to the barn we were rather glad to roll the big door to,
and close it fast. We crept into our makeshift beds and were asleep
before long. But we were awakened with a disagreeable start, hearing
right inside the barn a strange cry, which, in our sleepiness and
ignorance, might well have been the call of a Red Indian, straight from
the Mexican Cañon, intent on securing the scalps of us “tenderfeet.”
The cry was repeated, as we sat up listening eagerly, and then we all
laughed to see a little squatty figure sitting on one of the open
windows, and recognised a harmless little brown owl.

In the morning we made some kind of order and comfort around us. The
one large room in the barn (viz., the hayloft) we had divided into
two with a temporary screen, one half for our bedroom, the other for
sitting- and dining-room. A small shanty had been added outside for
kitchen, and a shed which was to receive the cow, when we had one,
served meanwhile as bedroom for our “coloured lady.” There was a lower
floor which was divided into stalls for the horses, and which was
entered by a lower road, as the barn stood on a steep slope.

The fifty cases of furniture, which had been stored at San Francisco
till we sent for them, were strewn all about the hill top on which the
barn stood, and our first task was to open most of these, take a few
things out, and pack away all the rest safely before the rains came.

For days and days we worked away busily at this, my husband and I, and
our boys, standing out in that hot glaring Californian sun, with the
dry dust of the soil getting into our shoes and stockings and soaking
all our clothes. Our ranchman was busy with the trees, and the coloured
lady looked on when she was not cooking; looked on with a disdainful
air, showing by many signs a great contempt for people who could be so
foolish as to carry about such quantities of “stuff,” as she called it.

To English eyes many Californian houses look very empty, and no doubt
our possessions did seem ridiculously unnecessary to this darky, who
thought only of the bother they would be to keep clean.

As we packed away case after case into every available corner,
stringing up chairs and sofas, and all manner of things on to the
rafters, we began to wonder where we ourselves were to be housed. We
have always since considered that it was a proof positive of great
sweetness of temper that we got through a time of such terribly close
quarters without doing any violence to each other.

But with all our contriving there were a number of cases for which
we could find no room, and these we covered with bits of oil-cloth,
and left them out of doors. They led us a dreadful life, those seven
cases; our ranchman was for ever predicting rain, which did not come,
but kept us anxiously on the watch. Finally, when it did come, it was
unexpected, and we had to rush out one night to see if the high wind,
which had risen with the rain, had dislodged the oil-cloth. That was a
lively night, for the rain came running down the inside walls of our
barn in little streams on the windward side, and pictures and other
things hung there for safety had to be hurriedly removed.

It was the first night, too, that a large, handsome kangaroo rat
paid us a visit, running about like an acrobat among the chairs on
the rafters, and when I carried a candle quite near to him, to see
what he was like, he looked down at me with the greatest coolness and
impudence, with his brilliant black eyes. The place seemed to suit
him, for he became a constant visitor. Another intimate guest was a
particularly large lizard, who darted in and out under the big door.

We were a little uneasy lest some less harmless visitors should invite
themselves. We knew that there were scorpions and tarantulas; the men
who had built our barn had unwittingly pitched their tent the first
night just over a nest of tarantulas, and had discovered them in the
early evening, and spent the rest of the night in searching for and
killing them with their hammers.

Ugly, wicked-looking things they are, with their enormous hairy legs
and body and cruel nippers; they are very aggressive, too, and would
much rather fight than run away.

But most of all we dreaded the rattlesnakes. Our ranchman had killed
thirty on the adjoining land, and several had already been found on
ours. Everyone told us they were very easy to kill, but that did not
reassure us.

Our first introduction to snakes was more alarming than dangerous. We
had put all our umbrellas and sticks into a corner of the barn behind
a large corner seat. One day whilst we were quietly resting after
dinner, our youngest boy, Gip, asleep on his couch, my husband chanced
to be looking at these umbrellas, thinking sleepily that he did not
recognise one of the handles, which seemed to stand out from the rest,
when he was suddenly made wide awake by seeing it move quietly round,
first to one side then to the other, and knew that it was a snake. He
reached out his hand quietly for something to strike it with, but it
darted out of sight at once behind the couch, and though we searched
long for it, we did not find it. We found, however, a large notch hole
through which it had probably crept in, and we lost no time in closing
this securely. It was not a rattlesnake, however, and was probably
quite harmless, as numbers of the snakes are, some of them being
considered valuable as destroyers of vermin.

Some of these try to pass themselves off as rattlers, however, and we
often wondered how they knew that the faint sound of the rattle is so
strangely horrible and frightening, that they should try to imitate it
as a means of defence.

Another fright which we had, while still in the barn, was very
thrilling. It was in the night, and we had been fast asleep, when all
at once we became wide awake, straining our ears for the repetition
of a horrible sound that we seemed to have heard in our sleep. It is
impossible to describe the cold horror and fear which that curious dry
rattle gives one.

Here was the thing we had so dreaded—a rattlesnake in the room. As we
sat up in the dark the sound was repeated, seemingly from the middle
of the room. Someone whispered, “Do you hear,” and we answered, “Do
not move.” We reached cautiously for matches and candle, and of course
these poor, wretched Californian matches—the worst surely in the
world—did nothing but break off or go out. For some minutes the sound
continued with an angry crescendo, till we began to wonder if the
dreadful thing had got itself wedged in somewhere between the piles of
furniture.

At last a feeble, uncertain light and four pairs of strained eyes
searched the dim room. And there, sitting nicely balanced on his hind
legs, with his sharp black eyes shining brightly, was a small field
mouse with a long rattle between his teeth, shaking it about vigorously
every few minutes, then running a few paces and rattling it again.

We had cut off a number of rattles from the snakes killed on our ranch
to keep them as curiosities, and this was one of them which the mouse
had got hold of and seemed to find such a good plaything.

(_To be continued._)




VARIETIES.


HOW HE GREW RICH.

A man who had by his own unaided exertions become rich, was asked by a
friend the secret of his success.

“I accumulated,” said he, “about one-half of my property by attending
to my own business and the other half by letting other people’s
entirely alone.”


TOIL ON.—If you want knowledge you must toil for it; if food you
must toil for it; if pleasure you must toil for it. Toil is the law.
Pleasure comes through toil, and not by self-indulgence and indolence.
When a girl gets to love work her life is a happy one.


I DON’T CARE!—When you say “I don’t care!” see that your tone of voice
doesn’t indicate that you do.


NO, NOT HEAVY.

A little girl was wandering in an Edinburgh street, dragging about a
great baby boy almost as big as herself.

A clergyman who was passing stopped and said, “Why, my little lass, can
you carry that boy? He must be heavy.”

The child looked up in his face and gasped, “No, sir, he’s no heavy.
He’s my brither.”

Surely a whole sermon in itself!


WITH HIS FRIEND.

In a London mission school near a “settlement,” the teacher asked,
“Where does Jesus live?”

A small boy spoke up: “Some of His friends have come to live in our
alley, and I think He lives with them.”


A POET’S MARRIAGE.

Robert Browning, the famous poet, and Elizabeth Browning, one of the
sweetest and truest of our poetesses, were married on the 12th of
September, 1846, in the parish church of St. Marylebone.

The poet proved a model husband, intensely devoted to his wife, proud
of her genius, and watchful over her happiness. In his “Life” we read
that in 1851, and indeed “on each succeeding visit paid to London
with his wife, he commemorated his marriage in a manner all his own.
He went to the church in which it had been solemnised and kissed the
paving-stones in front of the door.”


TIME FOR EVERYTHING.—There is time enough for everything in the day if
you do but one thing at once.




OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;

OR,

VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE TIMES.


PART V.

In our last paper upon this subject we described some examples of
cottages in the immediate neighbourhood of London, and we propose
devoting this one to a continuation of the same subject.

Close to the Church of Ryslip, and opposite to its western end, is a
group of cottages, one of which is undoubtedly of early date, probably
16th century. It is long and low, the ground floor storey being of
brick, and the upper portion of “Post-and-pan,” so that it is what is
architecturally known as a “half timber” structure; one end has been
plastered over in later times, and the whole forms a row of small
cottages. We are in some doubt whether, as originally arranged, it may
not have formed one single dwelling-house, the whole, or, at any rate,
the centre portion of which was the parsonage. It has some curious
features about it. A large black cross of brick is built into the wall,
it is of the form known in heraldry as a “Cross Calvary” that is, it
stands upon three steps. We do not, however, suggest that it has any
heraldic signification, as its position seems to point to a different
purpose. This cross is not in the centre of the building, but is placed
exactly opposite to the western door of the church, and immediately
over it are three windows, the centre one of which is much longer than
the other two, and is now blocked up, showing that it was unnecessary
for giving light to the room. These peculiarities seem to point out
the fact that in former times this was the residence of the rector or
vicar of the parish. The cross was placed there to mark out the house
to any who might need his ministrations, and the long window over it to
give light to his “study,” where he might write or read, and at the
same time look out upon the church door to see who went in or came out
of the sacred edifice. All the other windows are very small and high
up, because those who resided in the other cottages, not requiring to
read and write, and having no special interest in watching the church
door, could do well enough without extra light in their rooms. The
whole group of cottages is very interesting. The oak beams are well
moulded, and have stood the test of time admirably. If our suggestion
is correct, these buildings have a peculiar interest, as there are
so very few mediæval parsonages in existence. Some thirty years back
an interesting one was to be seen at Willesden, but in improving the
churchyard they “improved” this venerable relic of church history off
the face of the earth. It was of the same homely but substantial and
picturesque character as the building at Ryslip.

Our second sketch represents some of those thatched and whitewashed
cottages which are common all over the home counties. They are for the
most part built of wattle clogged with clay, and covered over with a
thin coating of lime mortar, whitewashed all over, and roofed with
thatch composed of rushes or straw; they are comfortable and cheerful
little abodes, cool in summer and warm in winter, with a thorough look
of home about them. They, however, have two great drawbacks: they are
liable to fire, and are less durable than buildings constructed of more
solid materials. Consequently we rarely come across examples which are
above a century old, though we not unfrequently find portions of the
timber framing considerably more ancient, especially the angle posts
and “spurs,” which have been protected by that judicious arrangement,
followed in all ancient timber buildings in England, of making the
upper storeys of the structure project over the lower. Some writers
tell us that this was done to save ground space! This, however, cannot
be the case because land in a country village could never have been of
sufficient value to have caused such a peculiarity in construction.
The idea undoubtedly was to protect the ends of the upright beams from
wet, because when wood is cut “with the grain,” as it should always be
when used for constructive purposes, the ends of the beam absorb the
moisture, but the sides are little affected. Now by making the storeys
overlap as they ascend, and the roof overlap the top storey, however
lofty a house may be, its timbers are thoroughly protected from the
rain.

The general effect of a village consisting of thatched and whitewashed
cottages is very pleasing, especially when there is an ancient stone or
flint-built church in their midst. The clean bright whitewash forms a
lovely contrast to the soft velvety look of the thatch. The red brick
chimneys, grey lichen-covered walls of the old church, the lofty elms,
and brilliant patches of garden, combine together to form a charming
scene of peaceful and homely life.

Up to within some five years back an old thatched cottage stood at
Shepherd’s Bush green, and another close to Paddington churchyard; both
have now disappeared, and we do not know of the existence of any old
thatched cottages within four miles of Charing Cross. Don’t let our
readers imagine that we should suggest the building of thatched houses
in London or any great city. Such structures would be contrary to all
architectural propriety in such localities, and dangerous in case of
fire.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration: COTTAGE HOMES AT RYSLIP.]

[Illustration: THATCHED AND WHITE-WASHED COTTAGES, ESSEX.]




“OUR HERO.”

A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.

BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the
Dower House,” etc.


CHAPTER XX.

A GLIMPSE OF LOVELY POLLY.

“Now, my dear Polly, I pray you make the very most this evening of your
charms. For somebody will be there whom you little think to see.”

Polly and Molly, both on a visit to the Bryces in London, looked up
sharply.

“Yes, indeed, and you may guess, but I vow you’ll never guess the
truth. Two young maidens to have such good fortune! Had it come to me
in my young days, why, I think ’twould have driven me out of my senses
with joy. But you may conjecture—you may conjecture, Polly. Who in the
world can it be?”

Polly was seated upright on a straight-backed chair, looking as usual
exceedingly pretty. Her eyes, softer and more than ever like brown
velvet, took a faraway expression, and the delicate tinting of her
cheeks grew roseate. She said demurely, after a pause—

“If I might conjecture that which my desires would prompt, ma’am, I
would say—Captain Ivor!”

Mrs. Bryce tapped the floor impatiently with her slippered and
sandalled foot.

“Pish-pshaw! To be sure, that is proper enough, my dear. But now you
may rest satisfied that you have said what propriety demands. And since
Captain Ivor is a prisoner in foreign parts, and likely so to remain
for many a long year to come, being therefore out of the question,
we’ll e’en dismiss the thoughts of him, and I’ll ask Molly whom she
would most desire to meet at the dance to-night.”

Molly sat upon a second high-backed chair, busily netting. At
sixteen—close upon seventeen, indeed—she was more altered from the
child of twelve than her twin-brother in the same lapse of time. She
had not grown tall, and she was more rounded than in earlier years.
Her black eyes looked less big and less anxious, partly because the
face had lost its peakiness. A healthy complexion and an expression of
straightforward earnestness served in place of good looks. Molly Baron
would never be a “belle,” but she might become a woman to whom men and
women alike would turn, with a restful certainty of finding in her what
they wanted. Her reply was more prompt than Polly’s had been, and it
consisted of one single syllable.

“Roy!”

“But Roy, like Captain Ivor, is a prisoner, child. Like to remain so
also. Who next?”

“Jack!” Molly said, with equal rapidity.

“Nay, Jack is nobody. Jack is one of ourselves, and is in and out
perpetually. Jack’s a genteel young fellow enough, I make no question,
but somewhat better than Jack awaits you this evening. Eh, Polly—what
if it be—no other than Captain Peirce?”

“Captain Peirce better than Jack! Nay!” Molly said indignantly.

Polly’s colour went up again, as it was wont to do on slight
provocation, delicately and prettily. Polly also tossed her head, and
arranged the light scarf, which covered her shoulders.

“Captain Peirce is welcome enough, ma’am,” she made answer carelessly.

“I do not like Captain Peirce,” murmured Molly.

“Nobody desired you to like Captain Peirce, my dear Molly. ’Tis vastly
more to the point whether Polly likes him, since of a certainty Captain
Peirce’s affections are engaged in a certain direction, which may be
named without difficulty. Captain Peirce is a prodigious favourite
with everybody, especially, I can assure you, with all the young women
of _mode_. And he has eyes for none of ’em except Polly.”

Polly looked studiously down, offering no remark; and Molly frowned.

“If Captain Peirce were what a man should be, he would never come after
Polly as he does, knowing that Polly is engaged to another, and he out
of reach!”

“Tut, tut, my dear Molly! Pish! Pshaw! What know you of such matters?
A chit of a young female of sixteen! I’m positively ashamed of you!
Why, you’re scarce out of the nursery, child. And here’s Polly, the
prettiest girl in all London, past twenty-one, and not yet married.
No, nor no chance to be married, while old Nap lives; and depend on’t,
he’ll not die yet, for many a long year. Is Polly to wait and wait,
till her prettiness goes, and she turns into an elderly maiden, whom
no man of _ton_ will ever deign to cast eyes upon, while Captain Ivor
spends perhaps fifteen or twenty years in France, and forgets his past
fancy, and marries some beauteous young Frenchwoman?”

Molly gazed at Polly’s downcast face. “But Polly knows Captain Ivor
better!” she suggested.

“Knows Captain Ivor better! And how may that be?” demanded the
vivacious lady. “Since Polly has seen him but from time to time, and
that at long intervals, and I have been acquainted closely with him
since he was left an orphan at the age of seven. Nor have I a word to
speak against Captain Denham Ivor, save only that to expect Polly to
wait for him twenty years, losing her bloom and growing old, would be
altogether unreasonable. And I have said the same before, Molly.” Which
certainly she had.

“Polly is still a long way off from growing old,” persisted Molly.

“Well, well, that’s as may be. But you’ve not divined my secret yet,”
pursued Mrs. Bryce. “Jack will be at my Lady Hawthorn’s to-night;
and ’tis not Jack of whom I speak. Captain Peirce will be there; and
’tis not Captain Peirce. The Admiral will be there; and ’tis not the
Admiral. Somebody else also will be there—and ’tis he.”

Mrs. Bryce lifted a book from the table. “Who was it that read last
week the ‘Lay of the Last Minstrel,’ and that said she would give half
she was possessed of to set eyes on the writer of that most elegant
poem?”

“Mr. Walter Scott!” The rapture on Molly’s girlish face fully repaid
Mrs. Bryce, who, whatever her faults might have been, did dearly love
to give pleasure. Polly too smiled, but more quietly, having her mind
greatly preoccupied.

“Mr. Walter Scott is now in London, and will be at Lady Hawthorn’s
assemblage. So now, Miss, what say you to my promise of somebody that
shall be worth seeing?”

“Really and truly?” questioned Molly, half incredulously. “May we in
truth hope to see Mr. Walter Scott himself to-night? That will be
worth going for, were there naught else. Think, Polly, Mr. Walter
Scott himself, that writ all about William of Deloraine and the ‘Fair
Ladye Margaret of Branksome Hall.’”

“You may count yourself a fortunate young woman, Molly,” complacently
observed Mrs. Bryce. “At the early age of sixteen, not only to have
a personal acquaintance with so distinguished a martial hero as Sir
John Moore, but also to have had a sight of Mr. Southey, the author of
‘Thalaba,’ as well as of Mr. Southey’s friend, Mr. William Wordsworth,
and now to be brought face to face with Mr. Scott himself—I give you
joy of such good fortune.”

“And the last will be the best,” remarked Molly. “For I love the ‘Lay
of the Last Minstrel’ infinitely more than I love ‘Thalaba.’ Sure,
ma’am, so great a poet as Mr. Scott has never yet been known.”

“If the public voice be true, ’tis even so. Mr. Southey complains
sorely of his ill-luck in the poor sale of his poems, and I know not
that Mr. Wordsworth has much to boast of. Whereas Mr. Scott’s poems go
off by the myriad, and are read of all. I’m informed that Mr. Constable
is this year paying him one thousand pounds in advance for a poem not
yet completed—a poem about a place that is called ‘Rokeby.’ And ten
thousand people are on the look-out for its appearance. But now ’tis
full time you began to prepare yourselves; and Polly must look her best
this night.”

Polly was in no wise unwilling. It was as natural to her to adorn her
dainty self as to a wren to preen and perk. Molly, being no professed
beauty, made shorter work of her toilette. Her white muslin gown was
of the simplest; and her short black hair was all but hidden under
a turban of white silk. But every strand of Polly’s abundant mane
needed attention, though crowned with a fantastic hat, which carried
lofty white feathers; and her embroidered white gown, made with its
waist under the arm-pits, left throat and snowy shoulders bare. The
skirt was clinging and scanty; and a large white muff completed her
ball-room equipment, except that a light scarf was wound round the said
shoulders, and that the dainty feet bore satin slippers.

Polly looked exquisitely pretty. Her skin was like ivory; the
blush-rose tinting was just where it ought to have been; and the smile
in her velvet eyes was in itself a sunbeam.

She could never enter a crowded room, without becoming at once a centre
for all glances. Molly, close behind, was neglected by comparison, and
was quite content to have it so. While amused with the scene, she did
not expect admiration.

The one thing on which her heart was set was the promised sight of Mr.
Walter Scott, the future “Wizard of the North.” His real work in life,
the writing of the “Waverley Novels,” had not then been so much as
begun; but he was already well known as the very successful author of
divers historical ballads, which had taken the fashionable world by
storm. When he came from his Scotch home to London, he was fêted and
made much of to any extent.

Molly pictured him to herself as a quite ineffable individual, with
fathomless dark eyes and flowing locks of ebony, such as should befit
an immortal poet. And “immortal” Scott doubtless is, in the literary
sense, with still no peer, but hardly as a poet. Popular judgment made
a mistake there—not for the first or the last time in its existence.

    “Where, where, is he of the radiant brow,
    The faulchion glance and the flashing eye,
      Whose lofty mien and dazzling air
      Bespeaks——” etc.

This is not a quotation; it is merely a specimen of the kind of thing
that our great-grandmothers and grandmothers in their early youth
admired and doted on. The bump of veneration must have been more highly
developed on people’s heads in those days than in these. And how they
did admire and did dote, the dear young things! Just as Molly Baron did
that evening. She sat upon her quiet seat, neglected, yet perfectly
happy at the thought of the glorious poet-form, which her gaze was soon
to rest upon. She did not care to talk. She did not wish to dance. She
was wrapped in a dream, from which Mrs. Bryce’s decisive finger-tips
aroused her.

“Wake up, my dear. Are you asleep, Molly? Here he comes.”

Molly looked rapturously around and about in eager quest. But she saw
no wondrous human form to correspond to the image in her mind. A lame
man, of good height, rather robust in make, healthy, but scarcely
“elegant,” with brown hair, flaxen eyebrows, a long upper lip, and a
frank genial expression—no, that was not Molly Baron’s ideal of an
immortal poet. His eyes were only light grey in colour, not dark and
wild, as a poet’s should have been. Yet the gleams of arch brightness
which lighted up his face, as he talked, went a long way towards
redeeming it from homeliness.

Then Molly was called up to be presented to the poet; and he said a few
kind words to the young girl—she could not afterwards remember what
they were. In later years she would be glad to know always that she had
seen and spoken with him; but at the moment her mind was full of its
sudden disillusionment.

Mr. Walter Scott passed on, surrounded by a host of friends; and Molly
retreated again to her seat. Plenty was going on to amuse and interest
her. She had danced twice, and now a rather long pause had come, no
fresh partners turning up. Molly was of course under Mrs. Bryce’s
wing, but that lady had too many irons in the fire to spare much time
for the quiet country girl at her side. Molly cared little. She liked
to look and listen, indulging in cogitations of her own. Mrs. Bryce’s
gay talk was entertaining enough, as the good lady expatiated on this
person and that, flirted her fan at one elderly gentleman and captured
another, dissected theoretically one lady’s “bewitching gown,” and
descanted on the “superb equipage” possessed by another, reverting then
to the “London Particular Madeira” which had been served at a recent
grand dinner-party, and hoping for some of the same at supper.

Growing surfeited with this, Molly turned her attention elsewhere, and
descried Admiral Peirce close at hand, button-holing another gentleman,
and holding forth to him in a loud voice on the advantages of London as
a place of residence.

“Why, sir,” he was saying, “why, sir, there’s nothing after all
like old Thames. Give me the blue ocean and tossing waves. But for
a landsman—why, the Thames is as good as he may look to find. And
I tell you what, sir, the water of the river Thames is the finest
drinking-water in the world! Only has to stand and ferment a little,
and then it’ll keep as long as ever you want it.[1] Yes, sir, it will
indeed.”

Molly, being sublimely indifferent to the qualities of London
drinking-water, which in those days was not considered a question
of pressing interest, wandered farther afield. A slight pucker came
between her brows, as she made out Polly at a short distance, with
Captain Albert Peirce in close attendance. He was bending towards
Polly, saying something in a low and confidential voice; and it was
impossible from Polly’s look to know whether she were pleased or
displeased.

The gay scene around faded from Molly’s vision. She was looking down,
thoughtfully, at her own half-furled fan; but she did not see the fan,
or the crowds of gay women around in their low dresses and hats or
turbans, scarves and muffs and satin shoes. Another scene had risen
before her mental eyes. She seemed again to be in a day long gone by;
and Roy was giving her a boisterous kiss.

“All right, Molly!” he was calling gaily. “It’s only for two weeks,
you know, and then we shall be back again.” And as Roy ran off, in
high glee, she had looked up, and had seen Denham Ivor holding Polly’s
hands in a firm clasp, while Polly’s sweet face was downward bent and
blushing. But it was not Polly who in one moment had left an indelible
impression upon Molly’s childish memory. When she thought of that day
it was always Ivor’s face—the young Guardsman’s look of silent grave
devotion—which unbidden came up.

“How can Mrs. Bryce say such things? He will never, never forget!”
murmured Molly, her lips unconsciously moving with the energy of her
own thoughts.

“Molly, this is sure scarce a place for audible meditation,” a voice
said at her side.

“Jack!”

Molly’s whole face grew bright. Now she had all, or nearly all, that
she wanted. She was extremely fond of Jack, and Jack of her. They were
exactly like brother and sister, so Molly, not Jack, often stated. He
was quite next to Roy in her estimation. Roy held inviolate the first
place in his twin-sister’s affections; but Jack came closely after.

“Were you spouting Mr. Scott’s last new poem, Molly?” demanded Jack, as
he deposited himself in an empty chair by her side.

“You love to plague me, Jack! Why should I be spouting aught?”

Jack gave her a quizzical look.

“’Tis dull work for a young maiden to be seated here. What may Mrs.
Bryce be after, not to find you partners?”

“Jack, be cautious, she is near. See!”—with a motion of her fan. “And
I am not dull. I am never dull. I have danced two whole dances, Jack.”

“And three with me to come. You do not forget.”

“Two,” corrected Molly. “And they will be the best of all”—with
childish frankness. “But my grandmother desired me to dance no more
than two with any one man. And what news of Sir John?” Molly had a
quick womanly instinct, which not all women possess, as to what people
would like to speak about, and she generally managed to hit the mark,
whence her quiet popularity in the little circle of those who knew her
well.

“I went to Cobham but a week since, and saw his mother. She fears Sir
John is sorely worried by these Sicilian complications. The Queen of
Sicily must be a strange personage. She detests the English, and gives
all her confidence to Frenchmen—so says Sir John—yet our government
fights in defence of the King, her husband, and pays him too a subsidy.”

“And ’tis but a year since Sir John was all on the alert to be sent to
India.”

“Ay; so he told me, and his mother speaks of it still. She says that
Sir John deems India to be by far the most important colony our nation
has ever had. He thought then that he might well be spared for a while
from Europe, matters being somewhat at a standstill. Since Trafalgar
there can be no further dread of an invasion, and little was doing or
is doing on the Continent, to check the Emperor’s advance. For my part,
I doubt not that Sir John would prefer above all to be at the head of
affairs in India. I have heard him say that that was the greatest and
most important command which could fall to a British officer. But Mr.
Fox refused to spare him, saying that England could not do without him
in Europe.”

Jack had always plenty to say, when once he got upon the subject of his
Hero.

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Actually said early in the century.




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


STUDY AND STUDIO.

EXILE OF ERIN.—We must offer you the same advice as we gave to “An
Ardent Admirer” (No. 995), though it seems ungracious thus to respond
to your very pleasant letter. The thought that breathes through your
composition is touching, and it is natural that a gift of primroses
should suggest the picture of a woodland dell. But your lines halt
occasionally: _e.g._—

    “Celandine and pale wind-flower, these the dark blue violet greet.”

Again, we should be disposed to question whether the anemone and all
the other flowers you mention bloom at once. In the woodland region we
knew best the anemone preceded the “bluebell” or wild hyacinth.

M. B. (Rosario).—Many thanks for your kind and grateful letter.

ASPHODEL CRAVEN.—1. The word “xystos” is not generally used, but it
is doubtless the English form of the Greek word ξυστὁς, from the verb
ξὑωξὑω to smooth, polish, or work delicately. In the connection you
give, the term probably was applied to a piece of sculpture very highly
wrought. In Greek (Lat. _xystum_) the term was used for a colonnade
or covered terrace, with a polished floor.—2. Your writing is fairly
good; but if you made your turns less pointed, and did not leave a
margin at the end of your lines, it would look better.

LEONORE CRISTABEL.—Your poem is touching, and we sympathise with you
in the loss of your little brother. Your letter is modest, and the
thought of your verses, if not original, is sweet and comforting.
The first three verses are quite correct as to metre and rhyme; but
afterwards you occasionally introduce a syllable too many, as in

    “Trials might have formed his earthly lot.”

CHEREA.—We fancy that you would hear of an Early Rising Society from
Miss Isabella E. Kent, Lay Rectory, Abington, Cambridge; but if not,
perhaps one of our readers would suggest an address. You might consult
our back numbers, where such societies have occasionally been mentioned.

DAFFODIL.—1. The lines

    “I could not love thee, dear, so much
      Loved I not honour more,”

are from a poem by Richard Lovelace (1618-1658) “To Lucasta, on going
to the Wars.”—2. Joan of Arc was called “La Pucelle,” because it means
“The Maid,” and if you read her history, you will see why she, above
all others, was called “The Maid of Orleans.” The Italian word for maid
is also _pulcella_; Latin, _puella_.

JULIA INA FRASER.—1. We believe Pitman’s method of learning shorthand
is more popular than the one you name.—2. We have never offered
prizes for exactly the sort of thing you describe; but we offer prizes
monthly, as you will see, in our “Supplement Story Competition.”

PETER DAVID (ISÈRE.)—We thank you for your kind letter, and are sorry
that, as this is a girl’s magazine, we cannot comply with its request.
You write English tolerably well. Do not say, “I have already written
to you four months ago,” but “I wrote,” and “be so kind as to insert,”
not “for inserting.”

COPPER BEECH.—1. You will find the recitation “King John and the
Abbot of Canterbury” in “The Popular Elocutionist,” compiled by J. E.
Carpenter, Warne & Co., Bedford Street, Strand. It comes from Percy’s
_Reliques of English Poetry_.—2. The lines of the little girl are
fairly good considering her age.

M. H. T.—1. We have inserted your request in “Our Open Letter
Box,” and also suggest that you should apply to some London firm
where second-hand books can be procured, such as Messrs. Sotheran,
Strand.—2. Your writing is good, although a little cramped, and your
lines are uneven. With a trifle more care, you would write remarkably
well.

KING LEAR.—1.—There are many commentaries on Shakespeare’s plays—by
Gervinus, Cowden Clarke, Dowden, Miss Rossi, and so on. The plays are
also published separately, with notes, at a very low price: see for
instance those in the Clarendon Press series; those edited by the
Rev. John Hunter (Longmans & Co.), or Chambers’s School Edition of
Shakespeare.—2. There is an excellent _Life of Shakespeare_ by Sidney
Lee, just published by Smith and Elder.

CORRIGENDA.—The sentiment of your poem, “The Power of Love in the
Home,” is good, but the form is faulty. “Home” and “alone” do not
rhyme, and we think you must have omitted a word in

    “O wond_e_rous this love can hold.”

“As if” takes the subjunctive—“were” led. It is not quite true that
in time of deep sorrow “Love will chase away all gloom,” though it
undoubtedly can do much to relieve the sufferer.

A CUMBERLAND LASSIE.—Many thanks for your letter with its pretty view
of Derwentwater. We have just been staying at Keswick, and saw the two
lakes become one in the flood of early November. We are glad you can
appreciate the beauty of your home, and hope the loveliness of Nature
will teach you many lessons. Your request is inserted below.


OUR OPEN LETTER BOX.

MISS MARTIN, The Hawthorns, Sandyway, Lichfield, Staffordshire, informs
“Ninette,” Budapesth, that “Somebody’s Darling,” and Hood’s “Song
of the Shirt,” are to be found in the “Royal Reader,” Part VI. If
“Ninette” likes, Miss Martin will forward her a written copy of each
poem on receipt of her address.

WINTON asks where the following verse is to be found—

    “Come tell all that ye have said and done—
      Your victories, failures, hopes, and fears—
    I know how hardly souls are wooed and won,
      My choicest wreaths are always wet with tears.”

M. H. T. inquires for a series of books, entitled respectively, _The
Heir of Lugna-Quilla_, _Sister Ursula_, and _Dicky’s Secret_. _Sister
Ursula_ appeared as a serial in _The Children’s Own Paper_ about ten
years ago.

HOPE wishes to know the publishers, or the author, of a piece for
recitation entitled, “Trouble in Amen Corner.”

GOWAN will be obliged if any reader can send a copy of the words of the
recitation “The Women of Mumbles Head.”


INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE.

“AN INQUISITIVE GIRL,” who expressed a wish for a “nice girl
correspondent in a distant land,” has two answers. GIGIA RICCIARDI,
aged eighteen, Chiatamone, Palazzo Arlotta, Naples, Italy, volunteers
to write to her in Italian, French, German, or English. Should “Miss
Inquisitive” not accept this offer, our “Faithful Italian Reader”
would nevertheless like to correspond with an English girl of the
upper classes, who is invited to send her full name, address, and age.
MISS ALICE VERENA AHERNE, 712, Walnut Street, Columbia, Lancaster Co.
Pa., U. S. America, aged seventeen, will be glad to hear from “Miss
Inquisitive,” and observes, “Whether I am nice or not, she will find
out.”

MISS FRANÇOIS wishes to correct an error in printing her address. It
should be Anzin (Nord), France, not Auzier.

“O MIMOSA SAN” has answers from “HIGHLAND LASSIE” (whom we thank for
her enthusiastic letter), Post Office, St. Cyrus, Kincardineshire,
Scotland; Miss A. Van der Meersch, 8, Rue de la Reine, Anvers, Belgium;
and Mrs. Newman, King Street, Emsworth, Hants. These ladies all collect
“view post cards,” and if “O Mimosa San” will send “Highland Lassie”
her address, a number shall be forwarded at once.

“LOVER OF LITERATURE,” aged sixteen, who does not give her address,
would like to correspond with either P. or H. Pierson. She is not very
proficient in the French language, but wishes to become so.

MISS ELSIE HIGHTON, Brigham, Keswick, Cumberland, would like to
correspond with a French girl of sixteen or seventeen, each to write in
the language of the other. Miss Highton is a pupil teacher; she writes
a neat and interesting letter.

GRETE FROMBERG, Kurfürstenstrasse 132, Berlin, a German girl, would
like to correspond with an English girl of good family, who takes great
interest in music or painting, about sixteen or seventeen years of age;
each writing in the language of the other, or both in English.

WHITE ASTER.—An English girl of fifteen would like to correspond in
English with an Italian girl about her own age, or a year or two older.

KATE M. BUTTIFANT, 49, Minet Avenue, Harlesden, London, N.W., aged
fourteen and a half, desires to correspond with a well-educated French
girl of about the same age.

LAURA would like to correspond with a French, Dutch, or Russian girl,
over twenty years of age, in English or in French.

MARGARET M. S. CATTON, aged sixteen, would like to correspond with a
French girl about the same age, or a little older. Address, Belmont,
Honolulu, Hawaiian Island, viâ San Francisco.

UNE PETITE JERSIASE (17) has the same wish, but gives no detailed
address.

ETHEL G. CARELESS, Stream Vale, Clonmel, Co. Tipperary, Ireland (an
English girl, aged seventeen), would like to correspond with Miss
Valentine Massaria.


MEDICAL.

PETUNIA.—Menthol is not likely to do much harm if taken internally
for a length of time. Its action is mainly one of stimulation. But
what do you take it for? The habit of taking any medicine regularly is
greatly to be deprecated. And unless you have some very strong reason
for taking menthol, we would advise you to discontinue the practice.
Menthol is not a mixture of camphor and peppermint, but is the solid
part of the oil of peppermint. It is what is called in chemistry a
stearoptene—_i.e._, a solid volatile oil. Camphor and thymol are other
examples of stearoptenes.

CAMELIA.—That tea-drinking in excess is harmful is unquestionable, and
it is for this reason that the medical profession has had its knife
into tea for so long. But the dangers of tea-drinking have been grossly
exaggerated. Tea in moderation is one of the best drinks for a person
with a healthy stomach. It is the best drink for breakfast; and though
dyspeptics must be cautious in their use of the beverage, it is a drink
which can safely be recommended to everybody—and everybody drinks it,
and quite rightly too. Of course tea is harmful when taken in excess;
but what on this earth is not? It is not an easily digested drink—nor
is any other fluid easy to digest (except milk, and that does not
agree with all stomachs). Freshly-brewed tea is the most digestible
of fluids which we habitually drink hot. We are quite sure that it is
more easily digested than cocoa. Second brews and tea that has been
allowed to draw too long are not easily digested, for they contain a
very large quantity of tannic acid. China tea is preferable to Indian
tea. You should never drink tea, nor any other drink, without eating
something before it. Of course, you must be moderate in tea-drinking.
It is the excessive tea-drinking by women in the afternoon which causes
most of the dyspepsia due to tea which is so very common. It is said
that cocoa is more digestible than tea, and that persons who drink
cocoa rarely take more than half-a-pint of it at a time. We believe the
latter; the fulness and nausea produced by one cup of cocoa, is quite
sufficient—in our case, at all events—to enforce moderation, if not
total abstinence.

REBELLIOUS.—In the case of cancer, heredity plays an extremely
unimportant part. But there are certain families in which cancer
seems to run as a family disease. You say your mother died of cancer,
and that other relatives on your mother’s side have also died from
that disease. How many of your relatives? Here it is a question of
percentage. Cancer is a very common disease, and therefore the fact
that two or three of your relatives have died of cancer may simply be
a coincidence, and not a case of hereditary influence at all. As we
see the case, we would not prohibit a woman from marrying because one
or two of her relatives have died of cancer. If she is a member of
one of the families in which cancer is the usual termination of its
members, then the question must be looked at in another light. Still,
even here we would not discourage marriage, for even in these cases
the hereditary influence is doubtful. Where, however, the disease has
been very rife, the woman must consider from a very wide standpoint
whether she is justified in marrying and thus spreading this fearful
disease; but in nine cases out of ten the answer will be “Yes, it is
justifiable.”

DONA ANNA.—We can quite understand your alarm when you found that
you coughed up blood, and that you came to the conclusion that you
had consumption is also not unnatural. But why did you not go to a
doctor at the time? You say you had a bad cough at the time which kept
you awake all night; but that you are not particularly subject to
coughs, and that you have been perfectly well since. This subject of
blood-spitting is very important, so we will briefly mention its chief
causes. The blood may come from a tooth, from the gums, from the nose,
or from the lips or tongue as a result of injury. It is frequently
due to inflammation about the throat, especially of the tonsils. It
occurs commonly in nearly all acute diseases of the lungs, especially
in bronchitis and inflammation of the voice-box. These are the common
causes. In all the amount of blood spat up is very small—usually
merely streaks. In consumption and some forms of heart disease
blood-spitting is common and is often very profuse. Other causes of
profuse bleeding are the rupture of an aneurism and some diseases of
the vessels of the lungs. Or the blood may come from the stomach. This
is a formidable list, but we have no doubt whatever which of these
caused your blood-spitting. It was acute bronchitis and not consumption.

GERTRUDE.—1. Tomatoes are a very good article of diet if they are
fresh. Bad tomatoes are the cause of a large number of cases of summer
diarrhœa at this time of the year. It is better to eat them cooked than
raw. No, tomatoes have nothing to do with the development of cancer.
Where did you hear that they contained “cancerous matter”? We think
your informant must have been joking.—2. Fruit is much better in the
morning than at night. One reason for this is, that fruit is not easy
to digest, and therefore may interfere with sleep.


MISCELLANEOUS.

R. P. S.—To remove stains from marble take two parts of soda, one of
pumice-stone, and one of finely-powdered chalk, sift through a fine
sieve and mix into a paste with water. Rub well with it and then wash
it with soap and water. This process will both remove the stains and
also produce a fine polish. If the general colour of the marble be
deteriorated, mix a quantity of the strongest soap lees with quicklime
to the consistency of milk, lay the wash on the marble for twenty-four
hours, and wash it afterwards with soap and water, and you will find
the colour restored to its original hue.

SATURDAY’S CHILD.—The duties of a lady’s maid vary of course in
different houses. As a rule she must be a good hairdresser and
dressmaker, and know enough of millinery to alter or re-arrange a hat
or bonnet, be able to pack, to wash lace, clean hairbrushes, and do all
needful mendings. If a travelling maid she must understand packing, and
travelling and foreign shopping, and must speak French well. The wages
vary from £20 to £50 or even more, and if a competent woman, there is
no more difficulty in finding this situation than in finding any other
first-class place, such as governess or companion.

MRS. B. (Ireland).—You do not give us a _nom de plume_, so we hope you
will recognise this heading. There is no alteration in the rules about
such presents. When a girl is _not_ engaged to a man, the presents
she may accept from him are flowers, books, or music, certainly not
jewellery nor clothes. The former should never be accepted unless from
an accepted suitor, and must be returned in case of a rupture between
the parties. There could be no alteration in these laws, and every
nice girl should know and abide by them, as the question is one of
self-respect and propriety.

CARRIE.—There is no objection to a girl playing the clarionet nor
flute, only they somewhat spoil the beauty of the performer during
a performance, to which some would take exception. The former is an
ancient instrument invented by Denner, at Nuremberg, 1690; but the
flute still more so, being mentioned in the Book of Daniel. An oboe
is a hautboy, and is also one of the reed wind instruments of which
the bassoon is the bass. The former, the hautboy, was much used by
itinerant English musicians as early as in the fourteenth century, and
formed one of the instruments played by the Court band, _temp._ Edward
III. It was invented by Anfranci, an Italian, A.D. 1539. An ophicleide
is the bass of the horn, and is a brass wind instrument invented by
Frichot in 1790. The trombone may be had of four kinds, soprano, alto,
tenor and bass, the best amongst them being the tenor.

CORNISH GIRL sends us the address of Miss C. Flower, 14, Norfolk
Crescent, Hyde Park, W., who collects used stamps, and sells them for
the purpose of helping poor and sick members of The Girls’ Friendly
Society. Miss Flower sells foreign stamps at 7d. for fifty, and is
very successful in making money out of them. She has sent eight sick
members to the sea, and paid for two beds for two months in the
Eastbourne House, Durnford Lodge.—2. Black currant acid is made as
follows:—three pounds of black currants, one and a half ounces of
tartaric acid, to one pint of water. Put the water and the tartaric
acid into a deep pan, let the latter dissolve, add the fruit, and let
it stand covered for twenty-four hours. Then strain it off and add
to every pint one and a half pounds of loaf sugar. Stir it well, and
when the sugar is dissolved, bottle it and seal it up. This would
be enough for three bottles. A dessertspoonful will be needed for
a tumbler of water for drinking. This recipe can be used for other
fruits—strawberry, raspberry, mulberry and red currants as well.

DOLLY.—The origination of the harp on the ancient Irish National
escutcheon, on the authority of tradition, is attributed to one of
the early Irish kings, called David, who took a harp as his heraldic
device from the harp played by his namesake, the Psalmist. It was first
placed on Irish coins by Henry VIII. Paper money owes its origin to
the Chinese, some 2697 years B.C. The early issues in that country are
said to have been, in all essentials, similar to modern bank notes. A
specimen of a Chinese bank note is preserved in the Asiatic Museum, St.
Petersburg, bearing date 1399 years B.C.

BEGADKEPHATH.—It is a rule to which all the best English stylists
conform, that “very” shall not be used to modify a verb, even when
the verb is used adjectivally, while it may be used to modify an
adjective or an adverb, as thus—very pleasant, very pleasantly. With
“pleased,” the correct phrasing is “much pleased,” or “very much
pleased.” The foremost reviews of this country—the _Athenæum_ and
the _Spectator_—are loud in denunciation of “very pleased,” “very
gratified,” and so forth. It has been made the subject of comment that
Thackeray upon occasion writes “very pleased,” and “different to” for
“different from.” His superb gifts make good such lapses, just as
Shakespeare’s genius lifts him above criticism, even when his grammar
is faulty. The average English girl, however, should beware of using
ungrammatical phrasing, and when she is not of ingrained vulgarity, we
have always found her willing to do so.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber’s Note—The following changes have been made to this text:

Page 315: of to off—“cut off”

Page 320: intruments to instruments—“wind instruments”]





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