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[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.—NO. 1003.]       MARCH 18, 1899.       [PRICE ONE PENNY.]




“OUR HERO.”

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

[Illustration: “PUTTING UP THE PONY AND CART AT A WAYSIDE INN.”]

_All rights reserved._]


CHAPTER XXV.

ROY BARON A FUGITIVE.

[Illustration]

On the edge of a little clearing in the centre of the wood stood a
small square charcoal-burner’s cottage, built of stone. Near behind
might be seen a good-sized outhouse or woodhouse; and to one side was
the pile of slowly-burning charcoal. Round and about were heaps of
unsightly rubbish and of blackened moss.

Nobody seemed to be within or at hand. Jean opened the cottage door
without difficulty; and when they had passed through, he bolted it in
their rear.

Then in the darkness he found his way to a corner, struck a light with
flint and steel, made a “dip” to burn, and groped anew. The one window
was closely shuttered.

Roy flung himself upon a small bench, glad to get his breath, and
watched the other’s doings curiously.

“Are we to stop here?” he asked. “But if the gendarmes come?”

“We must circumvent them, M’sieu.”

“How? What are you going to do?”

Jean was too busy to reply. He produced a blouse, such as would be
worn by a French labouring lad, with shirt and trousers to match, and
brought them to Roy. “M’sieu must change his clothes,” he said. “Rest
afterwards.”

“All right,” once more assented Roy, though the cottage was swimming
and his ears were buzzing with fatigue. He stood up, and promptly
divested himself of what he wore, to assume a different guise. Jean
brought from the same corner a small bottle of dark liquid, which he
mixed with a little water in a basin, and then dyed Roy’s hair and
eyebrows, thereby altering his look to such an extent that even his
mother might almost have passed him by. Roy laughed so much under this
operation, as to discompose the operator.

“Tenez, M’sieu! Taisez-vous, donc, s’il vous plait! M’sieu, I entreat.
I assure Monsieur it is no matter for laughter.”

“If you knew what it is to be free again, you’d laugh too,” declared
Roy, and then his merriment passed into a big yawn. “But I’m awfully
sleepy.”

“Deux minutes, and Monsieur shall rest. Monsieur is hungry.”

Monsieur undoubtedly was, though the craving to lie down was even
greater than the craving to eat. Jean handed him a hunch of bread and
cheese and a glass of milk; and while Roy was occupied with the same,
he proceeded to array himself in holiday costume. He donned an old and
shabby but once gorgeous coat, with standing collar and gay buttons,
which, as he informed Roy, had many long years before been the best
holiday coat of his esteemed grandfather.

“I go to the wedding of my niece,” he remarked, with so much
satisfaction that, for a moment, Roy really thought he meant it. “Does
Monsieur perceive? And Monsieur will be the boy—Joseph—who goes with
me in the little cart.”

“But where is the little cart?”

“All in good time, M’sieu. Now we have for the moment to get rid of
these things.”

Jean rolled the discarded clothes into a bundle, with which he
disappeared out of the cottage for a few minutes. Roy conjectured that
he might have buried it in the bushes, or under heaps of black rubbish,
abundance of which lay ready to hand. Jean then took Roy into the
outhouse, which was more than two-thirds full of heavy logs and <DW19>s
of wood—the winter supply—piled together.

“Am I to get underneath all that, Jean?”

“Oui, M’sieu. The gendarmes will not easily find you there.”

“And you too?”

“Non, M’sieu. I betake myself to the _soupente_.”

The _soupente_ in a French cottage is a kind of upper cupboard, a small
corner cut off from the one room, near the ceiling, descending only
half-way to the ground, and reached by a ladder.

“And if they find you there——”

“M’sieu, if they find me, they will not know me—see, in this dress!
I am not like the Jean who chopped wood at Bitche. And I hope then to
draw their attention from M’sieu! Voyez-vous?”

Roy wrung his hand. “I don’t know what makes you so good to me,” the
boy said huskily. “I—I don’t think it’s fair upon you, though. And—I
can’t think why!”

“It is not difficult to tell M’sieu why!” Jean looked abstractedly
at the roof of the wood-hut. “It is for the sake of my mother—for
the sake of that kind Monsieur le Capitaine, who would not leave her
unhappy. Does M’sieu remember—how Monsieur le Capitaine regarded my
mother that day?”

Roy remembered—and understood.

“Now, Monsieur! We may not lose time. The light grows fast.”

Jean pulled down and hauled aside logs and masses of wood, making a
kind of little cave or hollow far back, where Roy could creep in and
lie close to the wall. Jean wrapped round him an old coat, for warmth;
and then, when he had laid himself down, threw light black rubbish
over him as an additional security, before carefully heaping up anew
the logs and <DW19>s, till not the faintest sign remained of any human
being beneath. Jean did his utmost to deface all tokens that the
wood-pile had been disturbed.

“M’sieu must lie still,” he said. “On no account must M’sieu move or
speak. If by chance I should have to go away, M’sieu must wait till
nightfall, when the cart will come to take M’sieu elsewhere.”

“But I say, Jean—you must not get into trouble for me,” called Roy,
his voice sounding far and muffled.

“Bien, M’sieu. Trust Jean to do his best. Can M’sieu breathe easily?”

“Rather stuffy, but it’s all right.”

“Au revoir, M’sieu. I go to the _soupente_. M’sieu will remain in the
_bûcher_, till I or my friend come again.”

Then silence. Jean returned to the cottage, where he rinsed the basin
which had been used for dyeing purposes, put things straight, unbolted
the front door, climbed up into the little _soupente_, drawing the
ladder after him, and there laid himself flat, under a pile of loose
rubbish. Soon he was or pretended to be asleep.

Roy’s sleep was no pretence. Despite his hard bed, and the “stuffiness”
of the limited atmosphere which he had to breathe, despite fear of
gendarmes and risks of discovery, he was very soon peacefully sound
asleep, and knew no more for the next two hours.

Something roused him then. In a moment he was wide awake; his heart
thumping unpleasantly against his side.

The gendarmes had come.

Roy of course could see nothing; he could only hear; and he heard a
good deal more than might have been expected from his position, since
his senses were quickened by the exigency of the moment. Also, the men
made a good deal of noise, after the manner of gendarmes. Roy imagined
that three or four of them must be there.

They made their way first into the cottage, surprised to find the door
on the latch, and nobody within. The fact of finding the door thus
tended to allay their suspicions, as Jean had hoped. On the face of
matters, nothing was less probable than that fugitives hiding within
should not so much as have drawn the bolt. They walked round the one
room, knocking things about a little. One of them looked vaguely about
for a ladder, but seeing none he did not trouble himself further as to
the _soupente_.

Then they left the cottage, and entered the _bûcher_, where the wood
was solidly and firmly piled together, as for the winter’s use. No
signs here of human life. Roy below the pile lay motionless, every
faculty concentrated into listening. One of the men kicked down a few
<DW19>s, and another pulled at a log. To Roy it sounded as if they
were making their way to where he was. But the search stopped at last,
after what seemed to Roy a small century of suspense, and they took
themselves off. He heard them mount their horses and trot away.

“Safe!” murmured Roy, and in his heart there was a fervent “Thank God!”
not spoken in words.

He wondered whether Jean would come to him; but Jean remained absent;
and Roy obeyed orders, staying where he was. Presently he dropped
asleep again, and remembered nothing more for hours.

How many hours he had no means of knowing. Where he lay, he was in
pitch darkness. When he woke, he had the consciousness which we often
have after sleep, of a considerable time having elapsed; but whether
it was now morning or afternoon or evening he could not even guess.
He only knew that he was growing frightfully weary of his constrained
position, longing to get out and exert himself. To sleep more was not
possible. He waited, minute after minute, wondering if the long slow
day would ever come to an end. At length a voice sounded—

“M’sieu!”

“All right,” called Roy.

“Can M’sieu wait a little longer? I hope to get Monsieur out
soon—after dark. It is not safe before then.”

“I’ll wait, Jean. Only as soon as possible, please.”

“Oui, M’sieu.”

Jean disappeared anew. Roy put a question, and had no answer. He was
wildly hungry, but there was nothing to be done except to endure.

The wisdom of Jean’s caution became apparent. Before darkness settled
down the same party of gendarmes again galloped up and sprang to the
ground. They walked as before through cottage and shed, once more
kicking the furniture about. This time one of them found the ladder,
went up it, and stepped inside the _soupente_; but Jean had betaken
himself to another hiding-place outside the cottage, and the search
bore no fruit. The men entered the wood-hut again, in a perfunctory
manner, knocking down a log or two carelessly, and using one to
another rough language as to the escaped prisoner, which boded no
gentle treatment for Roy should he fall into their clutches. Then they
vanished, and silence settled down anew upon the scene.

“Not likely to come again, I hope,” murmured Roy. “O I am tired of
this!”

One more hour he had to endure; and then came the welcome sound of Jean
removing the wood-piles.

“Can M’sieu stand?” asked Jean.

Roy crept out slowly, made the effort, and fell flat. Jean pulled him
up, and held him on his feet.

“All right, I’m only stiff,” declared Roy. “They won’t come back, I
suppose.”

“Non, M’sieu.”

“Why, it’s night, I declare! Been so dark in there, I didn’t know the
difference between night and day. There, now I can walk.” Roy managed
to reach the cottage on his own limbs unassisted. “What a desperately
long day it has been.”

“M’sieu has found it wearying, sans doute.”

“But as if that mattered! As if anything mattered—only to get away
safely!” Roy said energetically. “Jean, you are a good fellow! Is this
for me to eat? I’m as hungry as a bear! Jean, I shall always think
better of Frenchmen for your sake.”

“Yet M’sieu will doubtless fight us one day.”

“I shall fight Buonaparte, not the French nation. I like some of
your people awfully—some at Fontainebleau, and some at Verdun. And
Mademoiselle de St. Roques most of all.”

“Oui, M’sieu. M’sieu had better eat.”

“All right, I’m eating, and you must too. Oh, lots of French have been
as good and as kind to us détenus as they possibly could be. And I only
know one single lodging-house keeper who behaved like a brute. Most of
them have been just the other way. Why, they have kept on lodgers month
after month, out of sheer kindness, when they couldn’t pay anything
because no money reached them from England. I know all that! And I like
the French—only not Boney!”

Jean smiled to himself.

“Cependant, M’sieu, the army of the Emperor is made of French soldiers.”

“Can’t help that,” retorted Roy. “And they can’t help it either, poor
fellows—most of them. I say, this cheese is uncommonly good. Where did
you manage to hide it away, so as to keep it from the gendarmes? Jean,
were you long at Bitche? Tell me about it.”

Jean was cautious. He evidently preferred not to enter into details.
It was better for Roy’s own sake that he should not know too much. It
seemed, however, that on Jean’s arrival at Bitche, he had found one of
the gendarmes to be an old acquaintance; and through this gendarme, not
through his soldier-friend, he had obtained a temporary post in the
fortress. A man who did rough work, chopping and carrying wood and so
on, had fallen ill and had gone home for a fortnight to a neighbouring
village. Meanwhile, Jean was allowed to undertake his work.

This gave Jean a good opportunity to study the fortress and to make
himself acquainted with the surrounding country. He did not fully
explain to Roy the maturing of his plans during that fortnight, nor
precisely what those plans had been. The careful manner in which he
avoided speaking of his soldier-friend made Roy pretty sure that the
said friend had had some sort of hand in aiding his escape; but he put
no more questions in this direction. Jean had had two or three glimpses
of Roy from time to time; but he had held carefully aloof, until he saw
his way to action. Then he contrived to be sent into the yard just when
the better class of prisoners was assembled there; and the rest Roy
knew.

“Why was I sent to that upstairs room?” demanded Roy.

“M’sieu, there were doubtless reasons. It is sometimes best that
one should not know all the reasons that may exist,” observed Jean
meditatively. “What if, perhaps, somebody had known of the intended
escape, and had tried by that means to save M’sieu from danger?”

“Jean, was it you?”

“Non, M’sieu!”—decidedly. But whether Jean spoke the truth on
this point, whether Jean might or might not have had a hand in the
wire-pulling which led to that event, Roy had no means of knowing.
He felt that further questioning would be unfair. He had but to be
thankful that he was free.

By the time hunger and thirst were satisfied, Roy’s spirits had risen
to a pitch unknown to him during eight months past. Then, the land
being shrouded in darkness, a rough little cart drawn by a rough little
pony and driven by a charcoal-burner came to the door. Roy spoke a few
grateful words to him, as well as again to Jean, for their generous
help. After which, he and Jean started in the cart, taking a small
lantern with them.

This next stage of the journey meant quicker and easier advance than
that of the night before. The pony was both strong and willing; and all
through the hours of darkness they were getting farther and farther
away from Bitche. By dawn of day the fear of pursuit was immensely
lessened. Even if the gendarmes had overtaken them, they would hardly
have suspected the odd figure in a smart old coat and ancient cocked
hat of being the temporary wood-chopper at Bitche, or the black-haired
boy in a rough blouse of being their prisoner, Roy Baron.

For greater safety, both that day and the next, they found a retired
spot in which to hide, letting the pony loose to browse and rest on
some rough ground, or putting up it and the cart at a wayside inn, and
calling for it later. One way and another, the dreaded pursuit was
eluded; and, as day after day went by, Roy felt himself indeed free and
on the road for Home.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Why should you not come with me to England, Jean? I can promise you
that you’d be well looked after there by my friends,” urged Roy. He had
grown sincerely fond of this kind, thoughtful Frenchman.

They were now fast nearing the coast, and their next halting-place
was to be at a farm-house within sight of the sea. There they would
have to remain until an opportunity should occur for Roy to cross the
Channel. Since he had no passport he could not attempt to journey by
the ordinary routes. But even here Jean’s resources did not fail, and
the owners of the said farmhouse were near relatives of his own.

“Non, M’sieu. I should feel strange in another country. Also—have I
not promised to let Monsieur le Capitaine, and Monsieur votre Père, and
Madame votre Mère, hear of your safety? Could I disappoint them?”

“But, I say, will it be safe for you to go back to Verdun? What if
they find out that you have helped me to get away?”

“They will not find out, M’sieu. It was known that I should leave
Bitche that night—and my friends will have diverted suspicion from
me. Moreover, it is no such hard matter to make a little disguise of
myself—if need be.”

Then they reached the farm, and Roy found himself among friends, ready
all to shield him for Jean’s sake. It was decided that he should work
as a boy upon the farm, sufficiently to draw no attention upon himself,
since the waiting for a passage might be long. Roy was willing to be or
to do anything, if only he might at last escape to England.

The farmer’s eldest son, a soldier by conscription in the army of
Napoleon, had been a prisoner in England; and he, like Roy, had made
his escape, getting safely back to France. Roy, immensely interested
in this story, plied the farmer and his wife with questions as to the
experiences of the young fellow in an English prison—questions which
they were not loath to answer. They had, of course, the whole story at
their fingers’ ends.

It was at a place called “Norman’s Cross” that their Philippe had
been confined—somewhere not far from the eastern coast of England.
About seven thousand prisoners of war, chiefly Frenchmen, were there
kept under close surveillance. The prison and the barracks were built
on high land, healthy enough—yes, certainly, as to that, the farmer
said—with plenty of fresh air. And the prisoners were guarded more by
sentinels in all directions, than by fortifications, walls, moats, or
dungeons.

“Not like Bitche!” interjected Roy.

Well, no, certainly—Monsieur spoke correctly. The place—Norman’s
Cross, and the old farmer made a funny sound of these two words—was
not precisely like Bitche. As to arrangements, Philippe had had no
fault to find with the food provided. It was good of its kind; and
cooks were chosen from among the French prisoners by themselves, being
paid for their work of cooking by the English Government. Also, when
Philippe fell ill, he found the hospital well managed. A school for
prisoners was kept going; and several billiard-tables as well as other
amusements were provided.

But, ah, the poor Philippe, he had been unhappy in captivity! Was
it not natural? Had not Monsieur himself experienced the same? He
had longed to be free—to return to his own country once more. And
though on the whole the prisoners had been fairly well treated, at all
events in that particular place, yet of course there had been cases of
roughness and of harsh treatment. Moreover, there was much to make a
prisoner sad—the desperate gaming, the perpetual duelling, among his
fellow-prisoners were of themselves sufficient.[1] So, after more than
a year of captivity, always more and more hopeless, with no token of
the war drawing to a close, he had at last resolved to make his escape.
And, through great dangers, privations, difficulties, he had actually
succeeded.

Where was Philippe now? Ah—pour cela—he had rejoined his regiment,
and was again at his old occupation. Fighting, fighting—who could say
for how long? Perhaps to be again taken prisoner, and once again to be
at Norman’s Cross! Who could foretell?

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[1] All this from a Frenchman’s account.




OUR LILY GARDEN.

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

BY CHARLES PETERS.


[Illustration: _Lilium Brownii._]

Japan is the home of lily culture. Not only are the Japanese Islands
rich in native lilies, but their inhabitants, imbued with a love of
flowers, which to our Western minds is almost incomprehensible, have
introduced into their country all the prominent plants of Eastern Asia.
And with a knowledge which we possess in but a small degree, they have
modified and beautified both their own plants and those that they have
introduced from foreign countries.

The culture of the lily in Japan has reached a high stage of
development, and most of our best varieties of lilies owe their origin
to Japanese gardeners.

Foremost among the lilies of Japan is the one which bears the name of
its native place. _Lilium Japonicum Odorum_ is one of the very finest
of the lilies, and in the strength of its perfume it is absolutely
without a rival.

The true _L. Japonicum_, or, as it is now more generally termed,
_L. Japonicum Odorum_ is but little known in England, but an allied
species, _L. Brownii_, is well known, and though not grown so
frequently as it should be, it is deservedly popular.

It has always been a question whether _L. Japonicum_ and _L. Brownii_
are but varieties of the same plant. Certainly there is a great
similarity between them, but there are points in which the two plants
differ and these differences are very constant.

In Dr. Wallace’s little book on lily culture the differences between
these two lilies are detailed in tabular form, and for ourselves we are
fully convinced that _L. Brownii_ and _L. Japonicum_ are distinct but
very nearly allied species.

The bulb of _L. Japonicum_ is white or yellowish, but never brown. The
scales are narrow and are very loosely connected with the base. The
bulb is always rather loose and the scales divergent, but good bulbs
have a very firm centre. The bulb of _L. Brownii_ is usually reddish
and the scales are broad. The base is very small, and the whole bulb
has a curious and very characteristic shape.

The shoot of _L. Japonicum_ is greener and blunter than that of _L.
Brownii_. The shoot of the latter lily very much resembles thick
asparagus.

During growth it is easy to distinguish between these two lilies, for
the stem of _L. Japonicum_ is green, while that of _L. Brownii_ is
brown.

There is not very much difference in the flowers of these lilies. _L.
Brownii_ often bears three blossoms, and in one case, recorded in _The
Garden_, five blossoms upon one stem. Two blossoms are very frequently
present on the same stem. We have never known _L. Japonicum_ to bear
more than one blossom on each shoot.

[Illustration: _Lilium Longiflorum._]

The flowers of _L. Japonicum_ are a rich custard yellow while they are
opening, but in the fully expanded blossom the colour of the interior
is a rich creamy white. The pollen is reddish brown. The exterior of
the perianth is thickly streaked with chocolate colour. The scent of
this flower is very strong, resembling that of the Jasmine.

The flowers of _L. Brownii_ never show the deep yellow colour which is
present in the partially opened buds of _L. Japonicum_. The pollen is
deep brown and the exterior of the blossoms is more streaked with brown
than are those of _L. Japonicum_. We cannot recognise any difference
in the smell of these two lilies, but Dr. Wallace contends that the
smell of _L. Brownii_ is only moderately strong, like that of _L.
Longiflorum_; while other authors have denied to _L. Brownii_ any scent
whatever!

There is but little reason in the naming of any plant nowadays, and the
foolish and unscientific methods of naming plants after some person who
has discovered, or described, or who has often done nothing more than
bought a specimen of the plant, is unfortunately very rife. Scientists
have tried and are still trying to put down this absurd nomenclature,
but they are thwarted in every way by gardeners and others. Mr. Jones,
Nurseryman, has just flowered a lily. He does not know its name. What
does he do? Does he trouble to find out if the plant is known to
science? Not he! He labels it _Lilium Jonesii_. Mrs. Smith, a very
aristocratic lady and a great patron of Mr. Jones, comes along, sees,
admires and buys that lily. She asks Mr. Jones to send her the plant,
and it arrives labelled, “_Lilium Jonesii var. Smithii_.” So much for
gardeners’ floral nomenclature!

Can anyone tell us who is the Mr. Brown after whom _L. Brownii_ is
named? As far as we can find out that gentleman is quite unknown to
science. Perhaps some wag might suggest that the name originated
through ignorance. The man who discovered the lily—or rather who
thought he had discovered it, for the plant has been cultivated
in Japan for centuries—perceiving that the colour brown was very
characteristic of the flower, wanted to name the lily with a Latinised
version of “The Brown Lily,” but his classical education, having been
somewhat neglected, he knew not the Latin for brown, so he named the
plant _Lilium Brownii_ or _Browni_ to cloak his ignorance.

As no one is certain of the origin of the name _Brownii_, so no one
knows the original habitat of this species. All our specimens come from
Japan, but it is very doubtful whether it is a native of that land.

Have you ever seen a clump of _L. Brownii_ in flower? Last July there
was a bed of this lily at Kew in full blossom, and as the weather had
been remarkably suitable to the plant, and its blossoms had not been
injured by rain, the sight of that bed was one of the loveliest sights
we can remember.

This lily has lately become more popular than formerly, but it is very
far from enjoying that universal admiration which it amply deserves.
One reason for its comparative scarcity is its tendency to degenerate,
a tendency which we strongly suspect is due to improper culture.

It is usually stated that this lily should be grown in very light
sandy soil. We have grown it in such a soil and also in a strong,
well-manured, peaty loam—a soil as different from a light sandy soil
as can be well imagined. Those lilies grown in the light soil became
diseased and died without flowering. Those in the heavy soil grew
strong and very tall, never showed any trace of disease, and each spike
produced two perfect blossoms.

The depth of the colour of the exterior of the blossoms varies with the
amount of light in which the lily is grown. Specimens grown indoors
usually have a pure white exterior. The blossoms are very tender and
are often cankered by rain at the flowering time.

Both _L. Brownii_ and _L. Japonicum_ make admirable pot plants, and
their blossoms last a long time as cut flowers.

The variety of _L. Brownii_ called _Leucanthum_ lacks the brown
coloration of the blossoms. We cannot distinguish it from the ordinary
variety when grown indoors. There are several other so-called varieties.

All the lilies which we have described are natives of Asia, but now we
come to one which inhabits our own continent.

_Lilium Candidum_, the white, or Madonna, or St. Joseph’s Lily, is
unquestionably _the_ lily. And when we mention the lily, this is the
plant which is usually meant.

Common as this lily has been in English gardens for very many
centuries, it is not a native plant, and has very rarely escaped from
cultivation. We have only once seen this lily growing wild. This was
in a wood in Surrey, and it was probably a garden escape. There was
but one spike of blossoms in 1895 when we first saw it. Next year it
produced one solitary flower, but since that period it has entirely
disappeared.

Why this lily has never become wild in England is not very obvious,
for though it never seeds in our Island, it very rapidly increases by
off-sets formed round the bulbs, and hundreds of these must be thrown
away yearly.

Perhaps it is that the lily is not really hardy in our climate, and
though it will flourish when tended in the garden, it is unable to hold
its own in the strife with our native plants.

Where the white lily will grow, it is one of the loveliest of
garden plants. Always better where it has been long established and
undisturbed for years, it is in old gardens that this lily is seen in
perfection.

Unlike the lilies we have already considered, the _Lilium Candidum_
bears from four to thirty blossoms on each stem. It is true that one
very rarely sees an umbel of more than ten blossoms, but a plant
bearing only this number is a very marked feature in a garden.

This lily differs from every one of its colleagues in many points. Its
bulb which we figured in our first part is very characteristic. About
the end of October the white lily begins to throw up an autumn crop
of leaves. This alone marks it off from all other lilies, for though
one or two species do sometimes send up a stray leaf or two in autumn,
none of them do so regularly. But with _L. Candidum_ the autumn leaves
are never absent, and they remain green and fresh till long after the
flower shoot has appeared.

The flowers of the white lily are very different from those of _L.
Longiflorum_ and its allies. They are very short, widely-expanded and
very numerous. The pollen is yellow. The flowers have a pleasant though
rather strong perfume.

Though this plant has been grown for centuries in gardens, there are
but few varieties of it.

One variety named _Aureo-Marginatis_ has its leaves bordered with
golden-yellow and the autumn growth looks very striking in winter.

Three other varieties are recognised. _Monstrosum_ or _Flora-pleno_,
has double flowers. But the flowers themselves never develop, the
bracts becoming a greenish-white. It is an ugly and worthless plant
and is deservedly neglected. The two other varieties are called
_peregrinus_ and _striatum_. In the latter the flowers are streaked
with purple. Neither variety is of any value.

The white lily is one of the oldest of all garden plants. It was
certainly cultivated by the Romans, and is in all probability the
origin of the “_Fleur de Lys_.”

If you turn up _L. Candidum_ in any book of gardening, you will find
something like this: “The _Lilium Candidum_ will grow anywhere,
provided the soil is of a light sandy nature.” If you follow this
advice, you will probably lose every one of your plants.

We cannot, alas, tell you how to grow this lily to perfection, for the
simple reason that we cannot do so ourselves. We can only tell you how
not to grow it and how we have obtained moderate success.

The bulbs must be planted early in autumn. It is best to plant them in
late August or early September. If you defer planting till December or
later, the bulbs will not produce an autumn crop of leaves, they will
not send up a flower spike next season, and will probably lie rotting
in the ground.

Except in very exceptional circumstances this lily will not flower well
the first year it is planted, for it needs several years to accustom
itself to new surroundings.

When once this plant is established and flowers well, it should never
be disturbed.

The bulbs should be planted about a foot deep. Often when the bulbs
have been in the ground for some years, they will work their way to
the surface. Even if this happens it is best to leave them alone, if
they flower well. But if the blossoms begin to deteriorate, take up the
bulbs and replant them.

Now about the soil. _L. Candidum_ won’t grow in sand and does not like
a sandy soil at all. It must have a rich moderately heavy loam of good
depth. It is in the black heavy loam of the Thames valley that we have
seen this lily at its best. It likes lime in the soil, but dislikes
peat.

If this lily is grown in light sandy soil, it grows beautifully till
about the middle of May. Disease then commences and kills all your
lilies with rapid strides, so that out of one hundred spikes you may
get perhaps three half-rotten flowers. This has been our experience
of growing this lily in the orthodox way, and we have lost very many
hundreds of flowers through following the generally received opinions.

_Lilium Candidum_ makes a fairly good pot-plant, if the pot in which it
is placed is very deep.

This plant is grown in nearly every cottage garden, and is very cheap
to purchase. About ten shillings a hundred is the ordinary price of the
bulbs.

Since we wrote our account of the diseases of lilies we have heard of a
new method of treating the bulbs of _Lilium Candidum_, when year after
year the spikes become diseased. The bulbs are washed and then baked in
a cool oven. We have heard that though this method does, to a certain
extent, check the disease, it very materially interferes with the
growth and blossoming of the plant.

Resembling _L. Candidum_ in the form and number of its flowers, but
differing from it in almost every other particular, the next lily, “The
Lily of Washington,” is a species which taxes the resources of the
lily-growers to their utmost.

_Lilium Washingtonianum_ is the first lily which we meet with from the
great Western Continent. It inhabits California and the North West,
growing upon the rocks and mountain <DW72>s of its native home.

The bulb of this lily is different from that of any other. It is long,
oblique, and rhizomatous. Its peculiar ovoid shape is due to the fact
that it grows at one end only. The flower-spike always appears from
near the growing end. The far end of the bulb gradually decays as the
near end grows. Bulbs of this lily are often five or six inches long
and two inches broad. The only other lily which bears a bulb in any way
resembling this is _L. Humboldti_, a native of the same places.

The leaves of _L. Washingtonianum_ are arranged in whorls, and are
quite different from any other Eulirion except _Lilium Parryi_, the
next species.

The flowers are borne in a dense raceme. Good specimens often bear as
many as twenty or thirty blossoms, but only too commonly but one or two
flowers are borne on each stem.

Individually the flowers are not much, being small, thin, and of a pale
purple, fading to the deeper shades of purple. The pollen is yellow.
There is a variety of this species, called _Purpureum_, in which the
flowers are upright. In this type the upper flowers look upwards, the
middle ones are horizontal and the lower flowers droop. Although the
variety is called _Purpureum_, the flowers are by no means always
purple, but vary from pure white to deep violet.

Beautiful as this lily is when seen in perfection, we cannot regard it
otherwise than as a fraud. It is one of the most difficult to grow; it
is very liable to disease; it rapidly degenerates, and it is expensive.
The bed of these lilies at Kew was the least effective of all the
groups of lilies.

If you wish to grow this lily, you must carefully study its native
climate, and the habits of the plant when at home.

It is a moderately hardy lily, but will not stand excessive frosts.
Neither will it stand great heat. For this reason the bulbs should be
planted very deeply. In its native land the bulbs live at the depth
of twelve to thirty inches below the surface, and though we do not
recommend so great a length as the latter, twelve inches should be the
minimum depth at which the bulbs are planted.

A very rich soil is required, but sharp drainage is essential. The
latter may be obtained by mixing gravel with the soil.

Whatever you do, the lilies will probably fail, or if they do live,
they will give you one or two poor blossoms to repay you for your
trouble.

In pots the culture of this lily is rather more satisfactory. The pots
must be of good depth and sharp drainage is essential.

The last group of the Eulirions contains three lilies which possess
drooping bell-like flowers.

_Lilium Parryi_ is an American species coming from the same place as
_L. Washingtonianum_.

It is a little lily with citron-yellow  blossoms and deep
orange pollen-grains. The blossoms, of which there are rarely more than
three on each stem, are small but pretty and curious.

_L. Parryi_ should be grown in the same way as _L. Washingtonianum_. It
is a difficult plant to flower, but is more satisfactory than its showy
ally.

It is rather a rare plant and has not been grown in England for very
long.

The second of the drooping Eulirions is also yellow. It is a native of
Nepaul and takes its name, _L. Nepaulense_, from its native place.

This lily in its growth resembles the other Himalayan lilies,
especially _Lilium Wallichianum_. It is not very commonly grown in this
country, but it is an interesting species and deserves more attention
than it has received.

It grows at the height of five and ten thousand feet, and so should
prove as hardy in our gardens as _L. Giganteum_ has done. But its
hardiness, as far as we are concerned, remains to be proved.

The flowers are about the size of those of _L. Candidum_, but are of
a deep yellow colour, deeply striped and spotted on the interior with
rich purple. The flowers are drooping and somewhat resemble those
of _L. Giganteum_ in form, but they are shorter, thicker and more
revolute. We have never seen more than two flowers on one stem. It
requires similar treatment to _L. Wallichianum_.

In _The Garden_ for April 19th, 1890, was reproduced a plate of
“_Lilium Napaulense var. Ochroleuceum_.” If this plate is accurate,
this variety is indeed a fine lily, being yellowish-white on the
exterior with a deep primrose inside. To our minds this plate recalls
_L. Brownii_ more than any other variety of lily that we are conversant
with.

We must also go to a plate in _The Garden_ for the last of the nodding
Eulirions. This lily is _L. Lowi_, and hails from Burmah.

It resembles _L. Nepaulense_ in shape and growth, but the flowers are
white, densely spotted with rich claret-colour on the interior.

We have never seen the plant, and though we tried hard to obtain a bulb
of this species we were unsuccessful in our quest. So of its culture we
know nothing.

(_To be continued._)




IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.

BY RUTH LAMB.


PART VI.

CORN OR STRAW.

    “Let us draw near with a true heart.”

        Hebrews x. 22.

I think we may spend an hour profitably, my dear girl friends, in
contrasting the fair-seeming part of our lives with that which is real,
true, and thorough.

It is good to be real in all things. True to the core. In thought,
word, and deed to be the same human being as we wish our friends to
think us. On this subject of reality I will tell you a story to begin
with.

I dare say most of us joined in harvest thanksgiving services after we
returned home last autumn; probably many of you joined in preparing for
them, and in arranging the offerings sent by the congregations.

It was in autumn, but not this year, and in city and village churches
the “Feast of Ingathering” was being kept. Daily songs of thanksgiving
were going up to the God of harvest, in acknowledgment of the bounteous
provision He had made to supply the wants of the teeming millions
dependent on Him for their daily bread.

A number of young people, mostly girls, were busily engaged in
decorating a church for the Harvest Festival services on the following
day. Flowers, fruit, vegetables, loaves of all sizes and corn in
sheaves, or shaped into miniature stacks, had been sent in abundance.
The poorest members of the congregation were not the least willing
givers. They could not offer hot-house grapes or fruits that were
costly to mature, but they brought of their best from cottage gardens
and in no stinted measure. The clean, ruddy carrots, white turnips,
cauliflowers in their nest of green leaves, with other homely
vegetables, the best of their kind, added much to the picturesqueness
of the offerings.

The pulpit and font were bordered with green moss on which were pretty
devices in scarlet berries, and below these hung a fringe of oats,
dainty-looking, light and graceful as lace. There was a foot of this
fringing to finish when the material ran short.

“More oats wanted,” said the worker. “Bring me some, please.”

But none were forthcoming.

“You have used them all,” was the answer.

“I cannot fill this space with anything else. The design would be
spoiled. There seemed to be any quantity of oats, but this fringe takes
so much. Who will give us some more?”

Nobody seemed to know and time was precious. At last a girl spoke,
though in a rather shamefaced way and in a hesitating tone.

“I know who would give us a bundle of oat straw. We could pick out the
best pieces and by mixing them in with the unthreshed corn, the length
could be made up. There would be some undoing and working up again, but
I don’t think anybody would notice the difference.”

There was a short uncomfortable silence, soon broken by the tremulous
voice of the youngest helper present—a mere child.

“Oh, we must not, we must not do that. It would be horrid to pretend
to give the best corn that has been grown, to try and show God how
thankful we are, and then for Him to see that there is ever so much
empty straw amongst it. It’s all very well to say that we could make
the fringe look as if it were real corn and nobody would find out, but
God would know, and——”

The child speaker could not utter another word. The trembling voice
broke into a sob that was more eloquent than the simple words which had
however gone home to the hearts of the elder ones present.

“You are right, Nelly darling,” said one of these as she drew her
little friend to her side and kissed her tenderly. “There must be no
ornamental shams amongst our thank-offerings to God. We should not
like our neighbours to know that a portion of the fringe ought to be
labelled ‘Only straw,’ should we?”

“No, indeed,” was the answer from all the rest, and one said, “How
could we bear to look at it and think that it was a miserable
counterfeit? Better no fringe than straw where corn should be.”

To this all the workers heartily assented. I do not remember how
the little difficulty was got over, but I know it was not by the
substitution of straw and empty husks for corn. I know, too, that all
present learned a solemn lesson from the child who, out of the fulness
of her heart, spoke on the side of truth.

It was indeed a question of truth or untruth, reality or pretence,
which had so stirred the young speaker. The child’s words and the
circumstances under which they were uttered have often recurred to my
mind during intervening years, and I believe that in repeating them I
shall have done good service to you, my dear girl friends.

Does not the very thought of that little scene suggest self-examination?
Are we not inclined to ask ourselves how much of what we may well call
“straw” is mingled with our offerings to God? When we kneel with every
appearance of devotion and even our lips repeat the familiar words
of praise, is our worship always what it seems to be? Do not you and
I know that often, when the knee has been bent and the head bowed in
apparent reverence, and when our lips have moved in prayer or response,
or our voices have rung out tunefully in psalm or hymn, our hearts have
had little share in our seeming worship?

It has been a poor, mechanical thing in which true reverence,
penitence, faith and the spirit of love, thankfulness and praise, have
been almost entirely absent. It has seemed to our neighbours like true
corn, but has been mostly empty straw. I say mostly, because it would
be hard to think that there was no reality in it. Even amongst the
straw cast aside from the threshing machine, a few grains of corn will
always be found, each of which contains the germ of a new and fruitful
life.

If, in looking into our own hearts, we find out the poverty of our
worship, the barrenness of our life service, the vast proportion of
coldness and indifference when compared with the little spark of
genuine love to God and man which finds a place there, we cannot help
acknowledging that only a grain of true corn is to be found here and
there, amid the poor straw of our daily lives.

Let us, nevertheless, take courage. A single grain of true wheat may be
the fruitful parent of grand harvests to come—of a handful of grain
at first, each corn of which, fructifying in turn, will yield more and
more until, as the years pass on, whole fields of waving gold will mark
their increase.

Look carefully, dear ones, for the little grains of true corn in
your natures. The little grain of love to God will grow if you let
your hearts dwell on the thought of His great love for you. If we do
not think about it we cannot realise it, but when we do, we are so
filled with a sense of its vastness, that the living grains of love,
gratitude, thankfulness, praise, joy and longing to prove our love by
service, all fructify and become the parents of glorious harvests in
our future lives.

God’s love is such a generous love. He gives everything to His
children. In Christ, God has given to you and me the very best that
even He could give. “Shall He not also with Him freely give us all
things?” “No good thing will He withhold from them that walk uprightly.”

Seeing then that God has given us the best gift of all, and that
all good things are promised us on the one condition that we walk
uprightly, does it not become us to expel all that is false from our
worship and our lives? To be true to the core? To let words and actions
be the harvest springing from the living grain of holy love in our
hearts, watched, watered, cherished, guarded assiduously, lest it
should die and our worship become a mere outward thing—straw, in place
of true corn, the poor sham which human eyes could not detect, but the
worthlessness of which is known to Him who is of purer eyes than to
behold evil or to “look upon iniquity”?

When we think of it, does it not seem strange that “feigned lips,”
wandering thoughts, outward reverence without any real adoration, can
be permitted to pass current in our minds? We know that, in God’s
sight, one little act of kindness done for His sake, one spark of love
fanned into a flame which illumines the life of a fellow creature who
is sitting in darkness and the very shadow of death; one honest effort
after righteousness; one sentence of true prayer uttered with a sense
of need by longing lips; one note of true, spontaneous praise and
thanksgiving from a grateful heart; one cry for strength, light and
needed grace, spoken in the fewest words that can express desire; each
and all of these, though small in a sense, are precious and will not
be forgotten. Mere grains they may be, but they are living grains—the
seeds whence come grand harvests to God’s glory and our own good.

I have taken the higher and more important part of our subject first,
but we will come down to a lower level and speak a little about
carrying the same spirit of truth and thoroughness into our everyday
work.

I hope we all feel that we ought to render of our very best to God,
and to do this with full sincerity of purpose and of heart. Surely the
same spirit should enter into all our dealings and intercourse with our
neighbour. Whatever work may be entrusted to us, do not let us think
how little will pass muster, but what is the best we can do, and then
resolve on doing this.

We must never forget that whoever truly loves God will love his
neighbour also, and will prove this in daily life and intercourse.

I want you, my dear girl friends, to be animated by this spirit in
the home, whether you are a daughter or one who, in serving, serves
also the Lord Christ. In the work-room too, where so much of the
character and success of the employer depends on the thoroughness and
conscientiousness of the workers.

Do not give the mother, the mistress, or the outside employer cause
to complain that you put no heart into your work, or that, if you can
do it without immediate loss to yourself, you will bestow less pains
upon the portion which is below the surface and not likely to be so
carefully examined as the rest. To act in such a manner is to render
the merest eye-service. It is giving straw from which nearly all the
golden grain has been taken away. It is fair-seeming, but unreal and
untrue.

Little things sometimes illustrate important lessons. Some time ago,
two girls undertook to dress a couple of dolls which were exactly
alike and intended as presents for twin sisters, seven years old. Both
were equally anxious to give pleasure to the little people, but they
set about it in different ways. Each had the same amount to spend on
clothes, which was not to be exceeded, but the details were left to
themselves.

The one chose her materials less for show than for real fitness, and
said to her friend, who was lost in choice amongst remnants of rich
silks, “My doll is going to be just a little girl, not a fine lady.”

“My fine lady will be the more attractive,” said the other. “Both the
children will want it, and that will be the worst of it all.”

The other did not answer, but set diligently to work, and gave time,
pains, and patience in no stinted measure. She made complete sets of
beautifully finished little garments, both for day and night wear.
Every string and button was in the right place, and every article could
be taken off and put on as easily as a real child’s. All would bear
washing and be none the worse for it.

The second girl bought rich silk for a frock, dainty boots, and tiny
silk stockings, and succeeded in making a little picture hat, evening
cloak and dress in suitable style. Altogether the lady doll made a
distinguished appearance; but below the shining dress there were the
poorest shams for garments, which, once taken off, would not be worth
replacing.

Naturally, both children at first turned longing eyes on the
gaily-attired doll, and seemed anxious to possess it. But the unselfish
nature of one triumphed, and whilst her sister grasped the showy toy,
she whispered, “I’ll have the other, please!” and lifted her rosebud
mouth to kiss the giver.

We know the endless joy a child finds in playing “little mother.”
She never tires of dressing and undressing her doll, of setting up a
washing day for its garments, or smoothing them with a tiny iron—under
supervision.

The little twin maidens soon decided that the doll, whose clothes could
be treated exactly like their own, was a treasure indeed, and the curly
heads bent over it, shared in maternal cares, and found delightful
occupation therein for many a day.

The fine garments were, after all, but as straw in comparison with
corn. They were just to be looked at and admired, then put aside. They
gave the “little mother” no change. She could do nothing for a fine
lady.

To the girl who had given of her best, the sight of the children’s
pleasure was reward enough. As to the other, she said, “I _meant_
well, you _did_ well; but I have learned a lesson. Even a child soon
finds out the difference between what is thorough and what has only a
fair outside. I saw my gaily-dressed toy lying neglected, whilst one
‘little mother’ was hushing her sham baby to sleep and the other child
was folding away its day clothes. They saw my eyes turning towards my
neglected handiwork, and, fearing I should be hurt, one said, ‘She’s
very nice to take out for a walk; but she’s a fine lady, you know, not
a baby to nurse, and her things won’t take off, so we can’t put her to
bed.’ I said to myself, ‘No more shams even in doll dressing. My work
shall be real all through.’”

So the fine lady was not without use after all. As to the other doll,
it did more than give pleasure. It was a mute lesson which seemed
to be always saying, “If a thing is worth doing at all, it is worth
doing well.” It was an example of neatness, orderliness, industry and
ungrudging labour to the small people, who were taught by those about
them to take care of what had cost so much painstaking to produce.

I think I hear one of you ask, “Has not straw its value also? Could it
be done without? Is it not necessary for the production of the grain
itself?”

Certainly it is a most valuable thing and fills a most important place.
It could be ill spared from Nature’s storehouse. Its uses are manifold,
and would take long to enumerate. You will remember that, at the very
beginning of our talk this evening, we showed the straw in use, along
with the grain it held, both as an offering and a decoration in the
house of God. It was only when it was proposed to put straw in place of
“the full corn in the ear,” that it was objected to as an empty sham.

There is a great deal of straw mixed with our social intercourse
that might well be thrown aside, and there are other cases in which
we should be sorry to part with it. The visits which are paid merely
because we owe them, without the slightest wish to see the individual
and only to get rid of a feeling of debt, are straw of one kind.

We have all heard the remark, “I got through such a number of calls
to-day. It was so fine that nearly everybody was out, as I thought they
would be.”

The calls made in the expectation and hope of finding our acquaintances
out, are surely a kind of social straw that we could well dispense
with. The invitation given, not because a guest is really wanted, but
because it “would not do to leave her out,” is straw of the same kind.

But there are many kind words said and little thoughtful actions
performed which are only straw, in a sense; but we should miss them
sadly if they were omitted.

Supposing that one of you received two gifts of equal intrinsic value
at the same time. A curt line or a telegram announced the one, a
lovingly-worded letter, or kind expressions uttered in a tone and with
a look of good will accompanied the other. In neither case would the
value of the gift be affected; but—oh, what a difference there would
be in the feelings of the receiver!

The prettily-worded letter or message would linger in the memory and
the pleasant smile would be recalled whenever the gift was in sight.
They were but the straw that enfolded it, but it was precious straw
which had its right place and value.

Much that I have said to-night, dear girls, is intended to suggest
thought—not to exhaust the subject, for that would be difficult.
But I trust it will help us all to discriminate between the false
and the true, the thorough and the fair-seeming, and strengthen our
determination to give of our best to God above all, and, for His sake,
to our neighbour also.

(_To be continued._)

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE GUITARIST.]




SOME NEW GUITAR MUSIC.


Now that the guitar has again become a favourite and fashionable
instrument, many girls are searching out and bringing to light guitars
which their mothers, aye, and even their grandmothers, played on in
days gone by, and they endeavour once more to awake the long silent
strings (if any survive) with more or less musical and unmusical
results. Presuming that our readers have learnt the rudiments from
their master or mistress, or even if they have found them out
themselves from such clear tutors as De Marescot’s (Metzler), or Madame
Sidney Pratten’s (Boosey), they will find themselves soon able to
undertake the accompaniments in a collection of twelve songs arranged
for the guitar with much taste and discrimination in album form (1s.
6d.), by Lily Montagu (J. Williams). These include Schubert’s “Who is
Sylvia,” Godard’s “Song of Florian;” songs by Cowen, Cellier and A.
Horrocks, who sets Charles Kingsley’s wistful lines:—

    “I once had a sweet little doll, dears.”

The poor damsel was lost in the heath one day, and, after bitter
lamentation, she was found a terrible wreck long after by her faithful
mistress, to whom

    “... for old sake’s sake, she is still, dears,
    The prettiest doll in the world.”

Most of us have gone through the triste era of our girl-life, when we
were obliged to confess to ourselves that we had “grown too big for
dolls.”

Vol. I. of Alfred Scott Gatty’s well-known plantation songs (Boosey)
are now published for guitar, and they “go” capitally.

There are some duets for two guitars by Madame Pratten, and their
effect is quite charming; we think too that Messrs. Schott still have
the old but delightful Opus 87, by Joseph Küffner, namely, twelve
(short) duos for two guitars for the use of beginners.

To those who wish to add the many Spanish graces there are to their
guitar playing, we thoroughly recommend a really clever little 3s.
book, particularly dealing with this difficult subject for description.
It is entitled “Brilliant Effects on the Guitar,” by Edith Feilden
(J. Blockley). Most teaching photographs show the hands in different
positions on the guitar, and its dainty exterior is so gaily and well
 by a representation of the Spanish flag, that it is attractive
for a gift book. It is to be obtained of Miss Feilden, Feniscowles
House, Scarborough.

        MARY AUGUSTA SALMOND.




A VICE-REGAL DINNER-PARTY.

BY A MAJOR’S DAUGHTER.


It was not because I am a major’s daughter that an invitation came to
me one bright autumn morning, but because I was the curate’s wife. We
were seated at breakfast when the “command” to meet their Excellencies
was handed up. Just like the proverbial curate’s family we were laying
in a foundation of stirabout, only _our_ porridge was swimming in thick
yellow cream, and was daintily served. On the table, besides, was the
purest heather honey, a few golden peaches, and hot rolls of crispy
bread.

“Thank goodness! a clergyman is always in full dress!” quoth the dear
curate, as he pulled down his silk M.B. waistcoat. “But you, my dear
Eileen, had better meditate on chiffons.”

And meditate I did, until I was fairly puzzled. There was the white
silk, and the pink one, the yellow brocade, with its beautiful train,
and the simple muslin. I was very young at the time, and dearly loved
finery.

The real vital question of suitability turned on what the invitation
meant. Were Lord and Lady L—— coming as royalty, or simply as
themselves? The duchess alone could interpret her card, and so to the
duchess I went.

“Did you not notice that R.S.V.P. was omitted? Put on feathers and
veils, and your best bib and tuckers,” said the dear old hostess. “’Tis
as King and Queen their Excellencies come.”

So, of course, the yellow brocade it had to be, with its low neck, and
short topaz-trimmed sleeves.

Now, though the curate’s wife was fairly well-to-do in the world, the
curate would keep no carriage. It was quite out of the question to
drive in a pony-trap to the Castle, so the duchess “loaned” one of
her own state chariots! She did more, a few hours before dinner-time
a square box was handed in at the Clergy House, containing a mass of
copper- William Allen Richardsons, arranged in the newest mode
by the duchess’s head-gardener.

Most of the house-party were assembled in the huge drawing-room when
Mr. Giles, accompanied by his attendant satellites, threw open the door
and announced—

“The Reverend and Mrs. Smith.”

It was blazing, too, with electric light, and sweet with perfume as I
walked forward, to be encouragingly greeted by my dear old friend and
patron.

“Their Excellencies are not down yet,” she said kindly; “but you are
just in time——”

With this, the door was suddenly flung open again, and everyone stood
up, whilst something like a cannon-ball plunged into the room! It was
the Lord-Lieutenant! I found out, during the course of the evening,
that this was his way of hurrying in, in order that the company might
re-take their seats as soon as possible. A few more seconds, then a
vision of loveliness in white satin and crystal, and a whole stomacher
of magnificent pearls, walked in. It was sweet Lady L——. There
were no introductions, and every usual order of procession into the
dining-room was reversed. For the duchess went in first, leaning on
the Lord-Lieutenant’s arm, immediately followed by the Duke, leading
her Excellency. The rest of the company—thirteen couples—followed in
stately order, the curate’s wife being last with some insignificant
honourable.

But she had her revenge! Her husband was the first to speak, as he
was called upon by a rap to say grace, and she found herself on Lord
L——’s right hand. In order to show why she was there, I must explain
that the royal chairs were placed in the centre of the long table, not
at each end, and that their Excellencies and our hosts occupied the
middle of the room. In a few minutes I had time to notice that their
own footmen stood behind the regal party, but that the rest of us were
served by the duke’s servants.

What a sight was that whole party! Every earl wore his star, and every
countess her coronet. Jewels galore glittered everywhere. All the same,
the most striking-looking man there was the curate, in his plain black
dress, with his beautiful face just as usual—calm and radiant and
_spirituelle_.

I do not think that dinner was quite a success, though a _chef_ had
been engaged to cook it and two others at a fee of £100. The game was
burned, and the ice-puddings were in lumps. There were long pauses
between the _rêlêves_, and an ominous wait before all the twelve
courses were handed round. I was so much taken up with the scene that
I frequently laid down my knife and fork, even before I had tasted the
morsels set before me, and found everything whisked away in a second.

Nearly two hours that dinner occupied. Then, from behind a palm, our
hostess nodded to the other end of the table, and his Excellency stood
up. For this moment I had waited in fear and trembling. I knew we had
to make the tour of that long table, then back out of the room, for
royalty must never see behind the scenes.

I had practised a sweeping curtsey before the pier-glass at home. I
had gracefully backed from before it over and over again, but when my
turn came I grew the colour of my copper roses, and nearly tumbled over
my train.

Nobody seemed to notice, however, not even James Giles, the major-domo,
so I was fairly cool by the time the duchess took me by the arm to
introduce me to her Excellency.

“It is as good as a presentation at Court, my dear,” she whispered,
“and will give you the _entrée_.”

I had often rehearsed this scene, and in imagination had seen Lady
L—— standing up stately, and receiving the curate’s wife very
frigidly. Behold the contrary.

Seated on a stool before the blazing fire, with all her lovely dress
crumpled up under her, Lady L—— was “roasting her bones,” as she
said. She jumped up like a girl when the duchess led me towards her;
and I really think she admired the yellow brocade.

“I hope I shall soon see you at Court,” she said pleasantly, as I
kissed her hand. “And your husband too. The brave stand made by the
Church of —— in all her difficulties makes us value every one of her
clergy and their wives, even if they are bits of girls like yourself.”

Then she laughed, and I laughed, and we found out we had each a
beautiful home-ruler at home about the same age, who ruled us with
a rod of iron. So we had a pleasant chat until I forgot I was the
curate’s wife and she her Excellency.

Suddenly the cannon-ball shot in again, in a great hurry, and we
rose to our feet. A few presentations had been made to him in the
dining-room, and soon everyone was chatting like ordinary folk over
coffee cups and cream. About eleven o’clock cards were got out, and the
curate and “his reverence’s honoured lady” left. I nearly backed into
Mr. Giles as I did so, and he very nearly laughed, but not quite. I
never saw Giles laugh.

As we were driving home under the big elms and pines, we kept silence
awhile. The first remark came, of course, from me.

“I’m very hungry,” in a plaintive voice.

“And I’m starving,” was the response, as the curate slipped his arm
round his little wife’s yellow brocade waist.

“American crackers and apples?” I suggested.

“And a big fire,” said his reverence, drawing my furs closer round me.
“You are frozen.”

So, over a blazing fire in our bedroom, we ate crackers and apples to
fill the vacuum left by curiosity even after a vice-regal dinner-party.




ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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


CHAPTER XXIV.

It was one o’clock in the morning when a carriage drove up to the door
of the Larches, and Mrs. Asplin alighted, all pale, tear-stained, and
tremulous. She had been nodding over the fire in her bedroom when the
young people had returned with the news of the tragic ending to the
night’s festivity, and no persuasion or argument could induce her to
wait until the next day before flying to Peggy’s side.

“No, no!” she cried. “You must not hinder me. If I can’t drive, I will
walk! I would go to the child to-night if I had to crawl on my hands
and knees! I promised her mother to look after her. How could I stay
at home and think of her lying there? Oh, children, children, pray for
Peggy! Pray that she may be spared, and that her poor parents may be
spared this awful—awful news!”

Then she kissed her own girls, clasped them to her in a passionate
embrace, and drove off to the Larches in the carriage which had brought
the young people home.

Lady Darcy came out to meet her, and gripped her hand in eager welcome.

“You have come! I knew you would. I am so thankful to see you. The
doctor has come, and will stay all night. He has sent for a nurse——”

“And—my Peggy?”

Lady Darcy’s lips quivered.

“Very, very ill—much worse than Rosalind! Her poor little arms! I was
so wicked, I thought it was her fault, and I had no pity, and now it
seems that she has saved my darling’s life. They can’t tell us about
it yet, but it was she who wrapped the curtain round Rosalind, and
burned herself in pressing out the flames. Rosalind kept crying ‘Peggy!
Peggy!’ and we thought she meant that it was Peggy’s fault. We had
heard so much of her mischievous tricks. My husband found her lying
on the floor. She was unconscious; but she came round when they were
dressing her arms. I think she will know you——”

“Take me to her, please!” Mrs. Asplin said quickly. She had to wait
several moments before she could control her voice sufficiently to add,
“And Rosalind, how is she?”

“There is no danger. Her neck is scarred, and her hair singed and
burned. She is suffering from the shock, but the doctor says it is not
serious. Peggy——”

She paused, and the other walked on resolutely, not daring to ask for
the termination of that sentence. She crept into the little room, bent
over the bed, and looked down on Peggy’s face through a mist of tears.
It was drawn and haggard with pain, and the eyes met hers without a ray
of light in their hollow depths. That she recognised was evident, but
the pain which she was suffering was too intense to leave room for any
other feeling. She lay motionless, with her bandaged arms stretched
before her, and her face looked so small and white against the pillow
that Mrs. Asplin trembled to think how little strength was there to
fight against the terrible shock and strain. Only once in all that long
night did Peggy show any consciousness of her surroundings, but then
her eyes lit up with a gleam of remembrance, her lips moved, and Mrs.
Asplin bent down to catch the faintly-whispered words—

“The twenty-sixth—next Monday! Don’t tell Arthur!”

“‘The twenty-sixth’! What is that, darling? Ah, I remember—Arthur’s
examination! You mean if he knew you were ill, it would upset him for
his work?”

An infinitesimal movement of the head answered “Yes,” and she gave the
promise in trembling tones—

“No, my precious, we won’t tell him. He could not help, and it would
only distress you to feel that he was upset. Don’t trouble about it,
darling. It will be all right.”

Then Peggy shut her eyes and wandered away into a strange world, in
which accustomed things disappeared, and time was not, and nothing
remained but pain, and weariness, and mystery. Those of us who have
come near to death have visited this world too, and know the blackness
of it, and the weary waking.

Peggy lay in her little white bed and heard voices speaking in her
ear, and saw strange shapes flit to and fro. Quite suddenly as it
appeared, a face would be bending over her own, and as she watched it
with languid curiosity wondering what manner of thing it could be, it
would melt away and vanish in the distance. At other times again it
would grow larger and larger, until it assumed gigantic proportions,
and she cried out in fear of the huge, saucer-like eyes. There was a
weary puzzle in her brain, an effort to understand, but everything
seemed mixed up and incomprehensible. She would look round the room
and see the sunshine peeping in through, the chinks of the blinds,
and when she closed her eyes for a moment—just a single, fleeting
moment—lo! the gas was lit, and someone was nodding in a chair by her
side. And it was by no means always the same room. She was tired, and
wanted badly to rest, yet she was always rushing about here, there, and
everywhere, striving vainly to dress herself in clothes which fell off
as soon as they were fastened, hurrying to catch a train to reach a
certain destination; but in each instance the end was the same—she was
falling, falling, falling—always falling—from the crag of an Alpine
precipice, from the pinnacle of a tower, from the top of a flight of
stairs. The slip and the terror pursued her wherever she went; she
would shriek aloud, and feel soft hands pressed on her cheeks, soft
voices murmuring in her ear.

One vision stood out plainly from those nightmare dreams—the vision
of a face which suddenly appeared in the midst of the big grey cloud
which enveloped her on every side—a beautiful face which was strangely
like, and yet unlike, something she had seen long, long ago in a world
which she had well nigh forgotten. It was pale and thin, and the golden
hair fell in a short curly crop on the blue garment which was swathed
over the shoulders. It was like one of the heads of celestial choirboys
which she had seen on Christmas cards and in books of engravings, yet
something about the eyes and mouth seemed familiar. She stared at it
curiously, and then suddenly a strange, weak little voice faltered out
a well-known name.

“Rosalind!” it cried, and a quick exclamation of joy sounded from the
side of the bed. Who had spoken? The first voice had been strangely
like her own, but at an immeasurable distance. She shut her eyes to
think about it, and the fair-haired vision disappeared and was seen no
more.

There was a big, bearded man also who came in from time to time, and
Peggy grew to dread his appearance, for with it came terrible stabbing
pain, as if her whole body were on the rack. He was one of the Spanish
Inquisitors, of whom she had read, and she was an English prisoner whom
he was torturing! Well, he might do his worst! She would die before
she would turn traitor and betray her flag and country. The Savilles
were a fighting race, and would a thousand times rather face death than
dishonour.

One day when she felt rather stronger than usual, she told him so
to his face, and he laughed—she was quite sure he laughed, the
hard-hearted wretch! And someone else said, “Poor little love!” which
was surely an extraordinary expression for a Spanish Inquisitor.
That was one of the annoying things in this new life—people were so
exceedingly stupid in their conversation!

Now and again she herself had something which she was especially
anxious to say, and when she set it forth with infinite difficulty and
pains, the only answer which she received was a soothing “Yes, dear,
yes!” “No, dear, no!” or a still more maddening “Yes, darling, I quite
understand!”—which she knew perfectly well to be an untruth. Really
these good people seemed to think that she was demented, and did not
know what she was saying. As a matter of fact it was exactly the other
way about; but she was too tired to argue. And then one day came a
sleep when she neither dreamt, nor slipped, nor fell, but opened her
eyes refreshed and cheerful, and beheld Mrs. Asplin sitting by a table
drinking tea and eating what appeared to be a particularly tempting
slice of cake.

“I want some cake!” she said clearly, and Mrs. Asplin jumped as if a
cannon had been fired off at her ear, and rushed breathlessly to the
bedside, stuttering and stammering in amazement—

“Wh—wh—wh—what?”

“Cake!” repeated Peggy shrilly. “I want some! And tea! I want my tea!”

Surely it was a very natural request! What else could you expect from a
girl who had been asleep and wakened up feeling hungry? What on earth
was there in those commonplace words to make a grown-up woman cry like
a baby, and why need everyone in the house rush in and stare at her as
if she were a figure in a waxwork? Lord Darcy, Lady Darcy, Rosalind,
the old French maid—they were all there—and, as sure as her name was
Peggy Saville, they were all four, handkerchief in hand, mopping their
eyes like so many marionettes!

Nobody gave her the cake for which she had asked. Peggy considered it
exceedingly rude and ill-bred; but while she was thinking of it she
grew tired again, and rolling round into a soft little bundle among the
blankets, fell afresh into sweet refreshing slumbers.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]




GOOD CHEER FOR WOMEN WORKERS.

A SHORT SKETCH OF “KENT HOUSE,” THE Y. W. C. A. HOME FOR STUDENTS AND
OTHERS AT 91, GREAT PORTLAND STREET, LONDON.

BY THE HON. SUPERINTENDENT.


Their number is so great now that the most old-fashioned and
conservative of us are bound to recognise women workers as a separate
factor in our national life.

There has been a gradual, though very evident, upheaval in our social
system during the last few years; new occupations are opening to women
on every side, and girls flock to London and other large centres to fit
themselves for these. They are the women of the future, keen, eager for
the fray, with fresh interests, hopes and ambitions—a motley crowd
gathered from every section of middle-class society.

It is both a happiness and an education to come into close personal
touch with fresh young lives whose work will so greatly affect the
well-being of England in the near future. For in each life there lie
elements of the eternal and the divine, capacities for good or evil. It
is a time for building. Character, tastes, habits, faith, may either be
unformed or in a transition state. When the floods rise and storm winds
blow, strong foundations laid at the outset of a girl’s independent
career will help her to resist and stand firm.

We are a large community of women at Kent House, most of us young
and untried, though among the older ones we are glad to number a few
lecturers, teachers, and writers, besides nurses from one or other of
the great nursing associations of London. Friends in need these last,
especially in the winter-time, when chills and other small ailments
attack our ranks like foes to be fought and conquered.

“Such a lot of women living together, and so little bickering and
snarling!” a visitor exclaimed the other day. But I think most of us
are too busy to be cantankerous, and our common womanhood, lived out
in homelike surroundings, links us too closely together for petty
word-wars.

Happy, well-filled student life forms the principal element of the
household, though I was amused one day to find that even students may
be unlearned in the etymology of words. One of our candidates for
admission emulated the immortal M. Jourdain, who talked prose without
knowing it, by remarking doubtfully, “I am not a student. I only go to
Bedford College for classes.”

Most of the girls sleep in cubicles separated by thin wood partitions,
the rooms being reserved for the older ladies, except two or three
double rooms apportioned to girls who chum together.

Conversation is carried on freely “over the cubicle wall,” and
listeners may sometimes overhear scraps illustrating the good
comradeship and _bonhomie_ of student life.

“Oh, Molly,” cries one girl to her mate next door, “when you leave the
Slade and set up a studio, and Harold and I are earning enough to marry
on, won’t we have many a jaw about jolly old Kent House left behind!”

Kent House prices are framed to meet slender resources. For twelve
shillings weekly a girl can provide herself with a snug little cubicle
and good breakfast and supper. The dining-hall _menu_ is of a varied
order, always tea, coffee, and cocoa without stint, a roast joint, and
two or three made dishes, fish or soup, bread and butter, and jam or
marmalade.

Dinner and afternoon tea are not included in the fixed board tariff,
but paid for at table, restaurant fashion—uniform charge 9d. and 4d.,
respectively.

Anyone who orders “five o’clock tea” is served with a pot freshly made
for each person, bread and butter, muffins, or tea-cake. We are glad to
welcome non-residents to both these meals.

“But how can you make the concern pay at such prices?” asks some
cynical political economist.

I answer, illogically of course, as I am a woman, “We _do_ make it pay.”

Conversation at meals is by no means confined to the English tongue,
for visitors of all nationalities throw themselves on the hospitality
of Kent House. English “as she is spoke” by French and Germans makes
many a quaint piece of word-painting.

A Dutch lady, describing her struggles with the letter “h,” raised a
merry laugh at one of the supper-tables.

“I go to the Wood Saint John,” she remarked, “and I say to the
gend’arme, ‘Which bus, if you please, sare, take I?’ He say to me quite
short ‘Hatless’; but I find it not. Then I ask one other. He say to
me, ‘You would mean Atlas—no?’ But I say, ‘No, I do not think—it
is Hatless.’ He smile and he tell me, ‘The English peoples they goes
without umbrellas, but without hats—oh, no, nevare!’”

It has been a work of great difficulty to establish and keep going a
Home in the very centre of London on liberal housekeeping lines which
yet should be self-supporting. Perhaps it has been even more difficult
to keep in close personal relationship with girls and women who need
society, friends, sympathy, amusement, yet whose freedom must in no
sense be interfered with.

Without a _sursum corda_ I believe both would be impossible. With it we
have surmounted many difficulties and lived through many dark days. And
as morning after morning we gather together as a household to give the
first freshness of our thoughts to God, there may be many denominations
amongst us, but there is one Christ, and there is a sacred unity
underlying every variety of dogma or ritual—the unity of His spirit in
His bond of peace.




OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;

OR,

VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE TIMES.


PART VI.

We now have to consider cottages erected of different materials and
constructed in a totally different manner to those which we have
hitherto described, and this variety in methods of building naturally
leads to a distinct treatment of details and decoration.

[Illustration: AT HUNDRED ELMS, NEAR HARROW.]

We find all along the Kentish sea-coast houses and cottages, the
chief materials entering into the construction of which are flint,
sometimes cut so as to form the surface of their walls, and sometimes
left irregular in shape, and the wall surfaces chiefly formed by the
mortar in which the stones are embedded. This is called flint rubble.
Where the flint is cut to a surface the angles, doorways, and window
openings are constructed of stone or brick, and these are the portions
of the building which receive ornamentation and give the character
to the design, but where the flint is uncut and used as rubble, not
unfrequently the whole surface is covered with a coating of plaster
which is adorned in various ways, sometimes by simply drawing over it a
toothed implement like a saw, sometimes by stamping or “pargeting,” and
occasionally by mixing the plaster with  materials of several
shades and arranging them in patterns.

This last method is somewhat akin to what the Italians call
“sgraffito.” I do not think that genuine sgraffito was ever executed in
England, but that in some parts of this country they obtained a very
similar effect by other means. In genuine sgraffito a layer of dark
 plaster is placed over the wall, and when that is dry a layer
of white or lighter  plaster is spread over it while wet: this
second coating is scraped away in places so as to form a pattern or
design over the darker material.

The ornamentation of which we give a sketch from Calais-Court, near
Dover, appears to have been done by  plasters placed side by
side, not one over the other. We are not, however, quite sure about
this, as the lower portions of the work have either been destroyed or
never executed, so that it is difficult to examine it closely. The two
wheel patterns are very curious and are probably inspired by the wheel
windows of ancient churches. One of them is not unlike the east window
of Barfreston church a few miles away. This kind of imitation of wheel
windows is not uncommon in old decoration. The church of Chastleton in
Oxfordshire has a floor of encaustic tiling entirely composed of this
ornamentation. It is difficult to ascribe any exact date to this work
at Calais-Court; it is probably not earlier than the sixteenth century.
The house or cottage has been so much pulled about and altered, at
later periods, that it is impossible to say whether it forms a portion
of a larger structure or was always of its present humble proportions.

The first example we give is from a farm called “Hundred Elms,”
between Harrow and Sudbury. It is now used as a stable with a loft
over it. I think it was originally a dwelling-house, though as the
whole of the interior has been dismantled and altered, its purpose
cannot be distinctly traced; its great peculiarity is that everything
is constructed of brick, the window-mullions and tracery being very
neatly cut out of that material and put together with no little skill.
It is thought that the Archbishops of Canterbury, in early times, had
a residence at Hundred Elms (in the fourteenth century), and that
afterwards they removed to Headstone, where there still exists a moated
grange, now a farm-house.

[Illustration: AT CALAIS-COURT, KENT.]

The Rev. W. Done Bushell in the “Harrow Octocentenary Tracts” has
entered into all the arguments connected with the question, and they
are very interesting, but too long to quote here, nor would they help
us in ascertaining the history or purpose of this interesting little
building, as the Archbishops must have left Hundred Elms farm some two
centuries before it was built, as it is evidently a sixteenth century
work.

Brickwork in England, it should be observed, is rarely found in
houses before the commencement of the sixteenth century. Although
brick-making was never quite abandoned, yet it was very little used
during the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries. The only
important brick church erected during this period is Holy Trinity
at Hull, which is of fine red brick. The thirteenth century walls of
Yarmouth show dressings of white brick, used like stone, and brick
vaulting constructed exactly after the manner of stone is to be seen in
the ground floor of the Bishop’s Palace and the Chapter House of the
Blackfriars monastery at Norwich. At the commencement of the sixteenth
century brick was probably regarded as a luxury and was more expensive
than stone. This explains the fact that the palaces and great mansions
of the nobles are erected of this material in all districts where it
could be procured. In the second quarter of the century, it became
the practice to build all the better class of houses of brick in the
eastern and home counties of England, though not so in the north or
west where fine building stone was much more easily procurable. It
is, however, very remarkable that even in the eastern counties, where
beautiful brick was to hand, we scarcely ever find this material used
for churches. There was evidently an idea prevalent in the minds of
our forefathers that churches should be built of stone, and houses of
brick, and this prejudice, to a great extent, prevails to the present
day, and is very curious because it does not pertain in any other
country in Europe. I think nearly all girls and women dislike brick
churches, yet why they should do so it is difficult to understand. We
should like some of our clever girls to tell us.

(_To be continued._)




HIS GREAT REWARD.


CHAPTER III.

It was Tuesday afternoon in the week following Easter week, and Mrs.
Heritage and her daughter were together in the tiny drawing-room of
their house in York Road, when a knock at the street door made them
turn and look at each other in surprise.

“Whoever can it be, mumsie darling?” exclaimed Marielle, pausing in
her occupation of arranging bunches of yellow daffodils in brown jars
on the mantelpiece. Fresh and fair and sweet as the Lent lilies, some
of which she had pinned in the bosom of her dress, looked the girl
herself, as she stood there in her simple black gown, which only served
to set off her delicate complexion to greater advantage.

“I’m sure I don’t know, dearie. It is not very likely to be a visitor
for us any way, since very few of our old friends seem to care to
trouble themselves about calling nowadays. It was different when your
father was alive.” And Mrs. Heritage’s lips quivered a little as the
recollection of social triumphs, long gone by, flashed through her mind.

How true it is that “a sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier
things!”

Marielle had only time to cast a loving glance at her mother in answer,
for the opening of the door and a slight rustle outside warned her that
a visitor was approaching.

“Mrs. Duncan!” was announced by the little maid who, with faithful old
Mysie the cook, constituted the whole of the domestic establishment at
No. 27.

With stately courtesy Marielle’s mother rose to receive the doctor’s
wife, her manner insensibly thawing however, under the influence of her
visitor’s winning smile.

“I am so glad to find you at home,” began Mrs. Duncan as soon as she
was seated. Then, noticing that Marielle dropped the rest of the
flowers she was holding on to a newspaper which she had spread upon a
chair near, “Please do not let me interrupt you, Miss Heritage. Will
you not go on arranging your flowers?”

“I shall do so with pleasure if you do not mind,” replied Marielle
brightly, “only I fear I shall have to turn my back upon you now and
again during the performance.”

“Oh, never mind that, it will be reward enough to see the effects of
your handiwork when finished. I am so fond of daffodils. They are my
favourite flowers.”

“And mine also,” returned Marielle, pleased at the mutual taste.
Then—smiling and holding a big bunch towards Mrs. Duncan—“Aren’t
these beauties too? I saw them as I was coming back from Forman’s this
morning, and I could not resist the temptation of bringing some home
with me. They look so bright they are quite cheering. I always think
yellow flowers are like sunlight in a room.”

“They are indeed,” assented Mrs. Duncan, lifting her gaze from the
flowers in order to contemplate the face bending over her.

“How pure and true it looks!” she mused. Those large clear hazel eyes,
with their black lashes, and delicately-pencilled dark eyebrows, the
refined features, and rose-leaf skin, crowned by the rebellious fair
hair which, in spite of all Marielle’s efforts, persisted in standing
out round her shapely head, like a veritable golden halo—all these
made up a picture which, once seen, was not likely to pass out of mind.

And the girl herself, with her tall, dainty figure, was as good and
true as her face indicated.

Little wonder then that Mrs. Heritage thanked God every day on her
knees for the precious gift of her daughter. Her flowers all disposed
of into the various vases, Marielle slipped away to wash her hands, and
to give a few directions concerning afternoon tea. Ann was to be sure
to put the pretty new cloth worked by Marielle’s busy fingers on the
table, and Mysie must not forget to send up some of her delicious hot
scones, and the shortbread which she was famous for making.

Mysie, who nearly worshipped the young girl she had known from a
baby, promised to do her best, and Marielle ran upstairs to remove
the flower-stains from her fingers, humming as she went the air of a
favourite song.

In the meantime the elder ladies, left alone, found themselves rapidly
progressing towards intimacy. They had many tastes in common as they
soon discovered, and each had known a great sorrow in the loss of one
very dear to them. We know that in the one case, viz., that of Mrs.
Heritage, it was the husband who had been taken away, while in that of
Mrs. Duncan, it was the daughter.

It was not long before the conversation turned upon Marielle’s singing,
and her mother’s face flushed with pleasure at the warm tribute of
praise bestowed upon the girl by her new acquaintance.

Mrs. Duncan was proceeding to enlarge upon the pleasure it had given
them all to hear her, when she was interrupted by the girl herself, and
shortly after, the tea made its appearance.

The hot scones and shortbread were duly discussed by the three ladies
in a manner that made old Mysie beam again when told of it by Marielle.

After extracting a promise from Mrs. Heritage and her daughter to the
effect that they would soon come and see her, Mrs. Duncan took her
departure. But all the way home she seemed to be haunted by the fair
face, clear hazel eyes, and ringing laugh of Marielle Heritage.

“I like Mrs. Duncan, mother, don’t you?” asked the girl after their
visitor had gone.

“Very much, darling, as far as I can tell at present,” replied Mrs.
Heritage, fondly regarding her daughter as she ensconced herself upon a
footstool at her feet, and prepared for a cosy talk in the firelight.
“She has known trouble too, poor thing, she lost her only daughter two
years ago.”

“Oh, did she, mumsie? How sorry I am! Perhaps that is what makes her
look so sad at times.” For Marielle had noticed the wistful look that
had crept over Mrs. Duncan’s face when regarding herself.

“It may be that she envies me my daughter,” rejoined Mrs. Heritage
proudly. “Yet I do not think she is sad, for she told me that this
Eastertide had been the happiest she had ever known.”

“I wonder why?” speculated Marielle.

“Perhaps we may learn the reason some day, darling. But here comes Ann
with the lamp, and you must leave me in peace as I have several letters
to write before post time.”

“And I must try over that new work for the Chester concert,” replied
Marielle, and very shortly both the ladies were absorbed in their
respective occupations.

       *       *       *       *       *

Three months had come and gone, and the acquaintance begun between
the Duncans and Heritages had rapidly ripened into a warm friendship.
Scarcely a week now passed without, at any rate, the ladies of the two
families meeting at one house or the other, and Mrs. Duncan had begun
to feel that she should sorely miss either Mrs. Heritage or Marielle
should anything occur to cause their removal from Manningham. True,
the remark was frequently made to Marielle, “Oh, you ought to be in
London!” But the girl so far had only smiled and answered very justly:

“Why should I go to London when I can find plenty to do here. There I
should be only one among hundreds, while here I already have a position
and name in the musical world.”

The force of her argument was undeniable, and the Heritages remained in
Manningham.

One hot afternoon in July a telegram came to No. 27, York Road, from a
pupil, to ask Marielle if she could give a lesson at Forman’s at five
o’clock.

Marielle grumbled a little, not unnaturally, as it would necessitate
her breaking a promise she had made to accompany her mother and Mrs.
Duncan in a walk to the High Park at that hour. But the pupil was one
whom it would not do to offend, so she wired back that she would give
the lesson, and persuaded her mother not to give up the walk on that
account, but to go notwithstanding her own absence.

“You will get your walk just the same, mother darling, won’t you? For
I know Mrs. Duncan would be greatly disappointed if you did not go. It
would seem as if you only cared to go when I was with you, and that
would never do!”

Mrs. Heritage gave the required promise, and duly set forth at the time
appointed.

The lesson over, Marielle glanced at her watch. It wanted
five-and-twenty minutes to six.

“I know what I will do,” she said to herself as she closed the piano
and drew on her gloves. “I’ll take a Roxton Road tram, and get out
at the park gates. I am sure to find mother and Mrs. Duncan in the
Rose-walk, they always gravitate in that direction”—smiling, as she
pictured their surprise at her unexpected appearance. “I wonder I did
not think of it before. I shall be in time to walk home with them in
any case, if only I do not have to wait long for my tram!”

Good fortune awaited her in this respect, and the hands of the clock
in the park tower were pointing to six as she sped along towards the
Rose-walk. Presently she descried the two ladies she sought sitting
together on a bench, but they were evidently far too much occupied with
one another to take any heed of Marielle’s approach, if, indeed, they
heard her footsteps on the grass. No one else was in sight, and the
girl drew nearer until when within a few yards, her mother looked up
and saw her.

“Why, Marielle darling, what a pleasure!” Mrs. Heritage exclaimed,
but her voice sounded tremulous, and Marielle, coming closer still,
scrutinised the faces of the two friends. The eyes of both were full of
tears, which, as the girl gazed, overflowed. Not a little alarmed, she
hurriedly asked what was the matter.

“Come and sit here between us, dear, and you shall know,” answered Mrs.
Duncan for them both, smiling and making room on the bench beside her.

Puzzled, and it must be confessed, extremely curious, Marielle did as
she was requested, and Mrs. Duncan began:

“I have just been telling your dear mother, Marielle, what it has often
before been my wish to make known to her; but one naturally feels a
little shy about speaking of such matters until sufficiently intimate
with anyone to warrant doing so. What I had to tell was simply this,
that under God, to you, dear girl, I owe the greatest happiness of my
life. Your singing at St. Jude’s on the last Sunday in Lent, of ‘There
is a green hill,’ was the means of opening my dear husband’s eyes to
his need of a Saviour, and he has been a changed man ever since. Not
that he was ever anything but good, kind, and true, but his belief was
not a living faith, and his soul might be said to have been almost dead
within him. Now all is different, and John and I, who had been at one
upon every other point except religion, are now at one upon that too. I
repeat that I have to thank you, dear girl, for the greatest happiness
of my life, under God,” and taking Marielle’s hand in hers, Margaret
Duncan pressed it affectionately.

For a few moments not a word was spoken, for Marielle could not control
her voice sufficiently. She was moved beyond expression, and realised
more fully than ever she had done what a gift had been entrusted to
her by God, in that glorious voice and high musical talent. Presently
however she turned to Mrs. Duncan with glistening eyes, and remarked
simply:

“I shall always consider what you have told me, as my greatest reward,
since no amount of money could ever be worth to me what the knowledge
of the good I was the instrument, in God’s hands, of doing, will ever
be.”

(_To be concluded._)

[Illustration]




A DREAM OF FAIR SERVICE.

BY C. A. MACIRONE.


CHAPTER III.

THE POOR ITALIAN PEASANT, ROSA GOVONA.

I was lost in thought, and dreaming of the incidents I had been
permitted to see, when the vast hall and its dark recesses recurred
to my mind, and the radiant angels, the recorders of noble actions,
were again before me, lofty figures of light holding back the cloudy
draperies, and bringing before me now an Italian countryside, hilly,
rocky, its distant town, and campanile, the angelus sounding in the
air; up the mountains and rugged hillsides a few peasants’ huts, and
in woods and valleys, brooks and waterfalls making a music of their
own, through which the angelus seemed to breathe the peace and rest of
religion.

The evening sunshine threw a golden glow over woods and mountain,
valleys and chestnut woods, and in one of those huts I saw a woman—a
working woman past the first bloom of youth—alone, noted for her
skill in needlework, one of dignified, calm, and modest demeanour. She
was troubled at the distress of a friend, a young orphan girl who was
forsaken and helpless, and, unfortunately, too young to live in that
country without some responsible protector. She had come to Rosa in her
trouble. “Come to me,” Rosa said. Her name was Rosa Govona. “Here shalt
thou abide with me. Thou shalt sleep in my bed, thou shalt drink of my
cup, and thou shalt live by the labours of thine own hands.”

I saw the young guest docile and industrious, a success and a comfort.
Her safety and happiness became evident, and I saw inmate after inmate,
young, helpless, and orphaned, gathered into Rosa’s home in the hills,
working and learning, adding one industry after another amidst calumny
and persecution. Ignorance and Vice lost no time in attacking them, and
only their silence and patience, loyalty to their Head, and blameless
lives, could, and did at last, quiet their enemies.

I saw, after a while, the authorities of the town (Mondovi) offer Rosa,
whose community had grown too large for the little village where they
first lived, a large house in the flowery plains of Carcassonne, but
the foundress of the home still could not receive all who flocked to
her. Lonely and poor girls, exposed to so many temptations of want and
evil, pleaded for admission to the shelter and order of her home, and a
still larger house at Brao rose, with its serene religion, its peaceful
order, its intelligent work, its ceaseless industry.

Years went by, and lo! another scene arose before me—Turin, the bright
capital of Piedmont, girt with its snow mountains, Monte Viso and the
lesser heights around it—Turin, its stately palaces and white streets;
and into this city came a poor working peasant, Rosa Govona, on whose
wisdom and goodness a large household now depended, her suite two
or three of the poor friendless orphan girls whom she had saved and
befriended.

“I saw the Fathers of the Oratory of St. Philip moved for the love of
God to give her a few rooms, and the soldiers at the barracks, roused
to enthusiasm by the reports ringing through the town of the good work
she had done, ransacked the place for straw mattresses and tables.

“Blessing and praising God, the little army of working women and girls
march into Turin, and in a short time large buildings which belonged
to a suppressed monastery are given over to Rosa and her people. The
buildings are large, but they are soon filled with forsaken orphan
girls, and the King (Charles Emanuel III.) considers and approves the
judicious rules laid down by Rosa, and orders the factories of the
establishment to be organised and registered by the magistrates who
regulate commercial matters.

“I see this vast organisation under the special patronage of the
Sardinian Government.”

Two great factories under the Rosinas (so called in honour of their
foundress) have risen into public usefulness, the one of cloth for the
army, the other of the best silks and ribands.

Thanks to this single-handed, poor working woman, Rosa Govona, I see
three hundred women, without dowry, without any resource save their
own labour and their conscientious discipline, earning an honest and
comfortable livelihood, and able to provide in youth for the comfort
and independence of old age.

I see houses depending on that at Turin established at Novara, Fossano,
Savigliano, Saluzzo, Chieri, and St. Damian of Asti.

I see over every house which she founded, engraved over the entrance,
the words she addressed to her first guest, “_Tu mangerai col lavoro
delle tue mani_”—“Thou shalt live by the labour of thine own hands.”

I see twenty-one years spent in going over the provinces of Piedmont,
and founding asylums for the unprotected and industrious poor of her
own sex, until, exhausted by her labours, she died at Turin.

I see her remains deposited in the chapel of the establishment, and
there, on the simple monument which covers them, may still be read the
following epitaph:—

“Here lies Rosa Govona of Mondovi. From her youth she consecrated
herself to God. For His glory she founded in her native place and in
other towns, retreats, opened for forsaken young girls, so that they
might serve God. She gave them excellent regulations, which attach
them to piety and labour. During an administration of thirty years she
gave constant proofs of admirable charity and of unshaken firmness.
She entered on eternal life on the 28th day of February in the year
1776, the sixtieth year of her age. Grateful daughters have raised this
monument to their mother and benefactress.”

I saw this noble and dignified life come to a close amidst those she
had saved and blessed. “They say of her that she was ever doing, ever
thoughtful and silent. In aspect she was grave, earnest, and resolute.
I beheld her as they describe her, a serious and beneficent apparition.
A plain cap, a white kerchief across her bosom, and a brown robe
constituted the attire of the foundress of the Rosinas. She imposed no
tie upon her people. They can leave their abode and marry if they wish,
but they rarely do so.

“I saw, in a later vision of the Rosinas, they are still prosperous
and happy. They are admitted from thirteen to twenty. They must be
wholly destitute, healthy, active, and both able and willing to work.
The old and infirm are supported by their younger companions.[2] To
preserve the spirit of the modest and retired life which Rosa wished
her daughters to lead, no commercial matters are transacted save at the
establishment in Turin, which governs the other houses.

“The labours of the Rosinas are varied and complete. Whatever they
manufacture they do with their own hands from beginning to end. They
buy the cocoons in spring, and perform every one of the delicate
operations which silk undergoes before it is finally woven into gros
de Naples, levantines, and ribands. Their silks are of the best
quality, but plain, in order to avoid the expense and inconvenience of
changing their looms with every caprice of fashion. They also fabricate
linen, but only a limited number of Rosinas can undergo the fatigue
of weaving. In order not to interfere with the silk establishment at
Turin, the manufacture of woollen stuffs is now carried on at Chieri.
Government buys all the cloth of the army from the Rosinas. They even
manufacture all the necessary ornaments, and make up the uniforms, with
one cut out for them by tailors. Gold lace and the rich vestments of
priests are likewise produced by these industrious women ... who are
renowned for their skill in embroidery.

“There is a large magazine at Turin where the produce of their labours
is gathered and sold by trustworthy persons, and is patronised by
Government and by the population, for their goods are excellent in
quality and fair in price, and there is a general preference for
the work of these pure and innocent women. The house in Turin alone
spends eighty thousand francs a year. It holds three hundred women,
and is governed by six mistresses and one director, a woman, and an
ecclesiastic administers and directs it; and it is frequently visited
by the Queen, who grants it a special protection and interest.”

And this was the work of one poor and obscure workwoman, inspired by
love of her orphan and helpless sisters, and in her devotion to her God.

(_To be concluded._)

FOOTNOTES:

[2] From _Women of Christianity_, by Julia Kavanagh, p. 326.




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


MEDICAL.

MADDALENA.—Yes; you had better see a medical man. Your symptoms may
be due to anæmia, nervousness or heart disease. Of these the last is
infinitely the least likely. Anæmia is the probable cause, and is,
moreover, the simplest to cure.

AILING.—There are two questions that we ask every dyspeptic—how long
do you take over your meals? how much do you eat at each meal?

ONE OF FIVE.—1. Dilute the sulphur ointment with an equal quantity
of lanoline. Otherwise follow out exactly the advice we gave to “Fair
Isabel,” April 9, 1898. You are at the age when acne is most common
in girls.—2. The white marks on the nails which trouble your sister
are very commonly found. The only way to prevent them is to trim the
nails carefully; but do not scrape the nails, as this of itself will
sometimes produce opaque patches. About once a week rub the nails over
with vaseline or cold cream.

MUCH FRIGHTENED.—On page 63 of the present volume you will find an
“answer” dealing at some length with the question of the causation of
typhoid fever by oysters.

MINERVA.—1. There is no objection to using cocoanut oil for the hair
if you like it.—2. No; five feet two inches is by no means short for
a girl of fourteen and a half—rather the reverse, in fact. During
childhood and adolescence people increase chiefly in weight during the
winter, and chiefly in height during the summer.

A READER.—“Headache” is one of those symptoms which are met with in
a very large number of affections. It is not a specialised symptom
pointing to one organ definitely as the seat of disease. It is chiefly
met with in the following ailments:—1. Injury, or disease of the
brain. In this headache is nearly always present—it is a persistent,
intense pain. 2. Abnormal states of the blood. In the infectious
fevers headache is extremely common. In typhoid fever it is always
present at the beginning of the disease. Under this class of headaches
from abnormal states of the blood must be considered the headaches of
Bright’s disease, of anæmia, and of indigestion and biliousness. 3.
Headache due to mental fatigue. According to which of these causes
is at work, the seat of the headache will vary. If the head aches on
top, anæmia is the probable cause. Aching of the back of the head is
often associated with errors of refraction of the eyes—an extremely
common cause of mental fatigue and headache. The various forms of
biliousness give rise to headaches in different localities. Frontal
headache, occipital headache, and a sense of fulness deep within the
skull are all commonly met with in indigestion and biliousness. Fatigue
of the brain is a common cause of headaches, and it is, we believe,
the cause of your trouble. Overwork, too little sleep, innutritious
food, badly-ventilated rooms and errors of refraction of the eyes, all
produce fatigue of the brain and headaches. Then there is the “nervous
headache,” about which nobody knows very much. To treat headaches it
is first necessary to find out what produces them. If you suppress
the cause, the headaches will go. In treating headaches it is very
necessary to prevent the bowels from becoming confined. Eat well, sleep
well, and ventilate your rooms well.

CONSTANT READER.—The treatment of debility is one of very great
difficulty. For the condition, though alas! so very common, is not
well understood, and we have no sound working hypothesis as to its
cause. The most plausible theory is that debility is loss of nervous
energy—that in this condition the nervous system is in the same state
as the blood is in anæmia. The best way to treat the condition is by a
strong tonic treatment to stimulate the flagging nervous system. The
word “tonic” naturally brings up visions of quinine and iron to most
persons. Quinine is a tonic, but it is not the tonic which is required
in debility. The medicinal tonics are drugs which stimulate for a
short time. But in debility we want something which will stimulate
for weeks or months, and the Pharmacopœia does not provide us with
drugs wherewith to do this. But we can get a strong tonic treatment
without drugs in the following way:—Eat well of highly-nutritious
food, plenty of meat and green vegetables, custards, milk, etc. Avoid
food which fills you up without giving you sufficient nourishment, such
as excessive quantities of starchy food, dried peas and beans, soups,
etc. Eat as much as you wish. For drinks, the best are milk or milk and
soda. Beef essences taken as stimulants are sometimes useful. Cod-liver
oil, maltine, cream, etc., are also very helpful. These are definite
foods and not drugs. Tea and coffee may be taken in moderation. You
should also take plenty of sleep, and plenty of healthy, but not
severe, exercise; and, if possible, a change of air and scene.

OPTIMIST.—Some years ago an ingenious person made the remark that
there existed on the earth vegetable productions which could cure
all human diseases; that we had only to find the trees and we should
have a specific for every ailment. Quite so. We have only to find the
trees. But it is a significant fact that although we have explored at
least nine-tenths of our planet, and have tried almost all vegetable
productions for the treatment of disease, we have not yet discovered
one single specific for any disease. We see there are something
over ten thousand ways by which a man can lose his life. We suppose
therefore that we are to discover ten thousand trees with ten thousand
separate actions. True, the vegetable kingdom has given up many
valuable drugs, but not one single specific has it supplied to us.
The mineral kingdom has given us the nearest approach to a specific,
_i.e._, iron for anæmia.


STUDY AND STUDIO.

MISS VARDON (India).—Do not be disappointed when we tell you that we
think it is better to wait for a correspondent until the plague, of
which you speak, has ceased raging. You have been inoculated, your
house is free, and doubtless there is no danger whatever, but your
correspondent or her elder friends might feel a little uneasy. Besides,
we have received so many letters offering correspondence with the lady
in question that we fear yours would be too late.

SISSIE REDMOND.—1. Write about your farthing to the authorities of the
British Museum or of South Kensington Numismatic Department. We thank
you for your letter. As you grow older you will not mind “having your
hair up” and so forth, but the feelings you express are natural enough
for your age.—2. If we had “easier puzzles,” we should have so many
solutions that the Puzzle Editor would be wholly buried alive under
manuscripts, instead of only half buried, as he is at present.

A LOVER OF THE “G.O.P.”—1. The whole sonnet by Archbishop Trench is as
follows. We commend its advice to you with much sympathy:—

    “Thou cam’st not to thy place by accident;
      It is the very place God meant for thee;
      And shouldst thou there small scope for action see,
    Do not for this give room to discontent;
    Nor let the time thou owest to God be spent
      In idly dreaming how thou mightest be,
      In what concerns thy spiritual life, more free
    From outward hindrance or impediment.
    For presently this hindrance thou shalt find
      That without which all goodness were a task
        So slight, that virtue never could grow strong:
    And wouldst thou do one duty to His mind,
      The Imposer’s—over-burdened thou shalt ask,
        And own thy need of grace to help, ere long.”

Archbishop Trench’s _Poems_ are published by Macmillan.—2. We do not
think your writing is, as you say, “very bad.” The tails of your g’s
and y’s are not bold enough for the rest of it. The only way to improve
is daily to copy some model you admire, and never to let yourself write
carelessly.

C. G.—1. Many thanks for your pleasant letter. We have no knowledge of
the word “crofts,” in the sense in which it is quoted, and should think
it must be a misprint for “cups” or “crockery”; but if it is a local
expression, you would gain information by writing direct to the author
of the article in question.—2. If you cannot read an English play with
your party of thirty German girls—and we see your difficulty—could
you spend the time in working and reading some very interesting English
story aloud in turn? If that would not do, the only alternative seems
to be, to play English games. Of these there are a great variety.
“Subject and Object” is a good game. Two go out of the room, and return
personating a character in history or fiction, and some thing or
animal well known in connection with the character, such as King John
and Magna Charta; Una and the Lion. The others, by questioning them,
have to guess who and what they are. Any English handbook of games, or
_The Girls’ Indoor Book_ (56, Paternoster Row) would be useful. Two
questions are our limit, but we could not in any case help you about
the translations.

<DW29>.—If you had told us in what part of England you live, we could
have helped you more definitely. There are numbers of schools and
classes all over the kingdom where girls can be trained as teachers
in any branch of technical instruction, and we can only advise you
to write for exact information to the Secretary, Board of Technical
Education, St. Martin’s Lane, London, W.C. You may also refer to Mrs.
Watson’s articles in THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER, for 1897, on “What the
County Councils are doing for Girls.”

F. L. J.—Your verses are very immature. For instance, you say “is
come” and “has come” in close connection; your lines are of irregular
length, and verses ii. and iii. dispense with rhymes, excepting in
the chorus. Your metaphors are mixed—sea, blast, battle, &c., are
all applied to life, in a confusing manner. We do not wish to be
severe, but it is necessary to observe the laws of composition and of
versification in attempting poetry.

ANCIENT.—It is impossible to value old Bibles without seeing them.
Yours is probably a reprint of the Geneva version and not valuable.
If, however, you would like to forward it to J. Arnold Green, Esq.,
56, Paternoster Row, London, E.C., he will be happy to give you advice
respecting it. Or you might apply to a firm of booksellers—Messrs.
Sotheran & Co., 140, Strand.


MISCELLANEOUS.

COOKIE (Barcelona).—Perhaps the following recipe would suit you. Take
one pint of wholemeal, one teacup of milk, butter of about the size of
a walnut; add a few small raisins and a teaspoonful of baking powder.
Mix well, and bake for about half an hour. To make good soda buns, take
of flour half a pound, butter three ounces, of sugar three ounces,
of candied orange-peel one ounce (or more, cut in small pieces), one
small teacupful of milk, the yolks of two eggs and white of one, of
carbonate of soda a small teaspoonful (not heaped), and a little grated
nutmeg. Beat and blend all well together, butter an oven-tin, and drop
the mixture into it, and bake for fifteen or twenty-five minutes in a
moderate oven. This will make about a dozen small buns.

A. M. GARD.—If the man to whom you are attached has told you that he
cannot at present marry, on account of his circumstances, and says,
in addition, that the oftener you meet each other, the harder it is
for you, and begs you not to fret, it is clear that he considers
it expedient for both to be free, and to keep apart. Under these
circumstances it would be both honourable and unselfish to keep out of
his society. We should always look for Divine leading, and pray for it;
and the indications in this case (quite out of your control) are very
clear, and point to retirement on your part.

A BERKSHIRE READER.—Take eight eggs for the rice cake. Tea, loaves and
biscuits are to be obtained of any baker or grocer.

SEPTEMBER.—1. The meaning of the name Cicely is “blind.” It is derived
from Cecil, a male name, from the Latin Cæcillius, a diminutive of
_cæcus_, “blind.” The original woman’s name was Cecilia, and Cicely is
a corruption of it.—2. Your question is very vague, and you do not say
in what part of London you wish to reside. The Young Women’s Christian
Association has many Homes for women in business. Apply for information
at the head office, 26, George Street, Hanover Square, W.

LORA.—This name is a form of Laura, and is found as early as 1208 A.D.
Laura is derived from _laurus_, a laurel or bay-tree. Laura corresponds
with the Greek name Daphne.

MAY MOREY.—The description you give sounds like the old willow
pattern, which was manufactured at Stoke-upon-Trent, by the first
Josiah Spode, about 1780. But we think perhaps the plate may be
porcelain, in which case the name Spode would be that of the second
Josiah Spode, who introduced the manufacture of porcelain in 1800. If
the mark be _painted_ in red, blue or purple, the plate is porcelain;
if _impressed_ on the clay, it is not. The first Josiah Spode
introduced the blue printed china. We could not say what the value is,
unless we knew its condition.

CHRISTABEL.—1. We should be afraid that the letters were not genuine.
The people who offer large sums of money on condition of a million
or more stamps being collected, are usually not to be found when the
subject is inquired into. But why not put an end to the nuisance by
writing a postcard to the sender and asking her to send no more “chain
letters” to you, as you will forward no more?—2. The two books you
inquire about are not of very great value. The _Milton_, by John
Gillies, was published in 1788, and went through three editions.
If yours be the one of 1793, it is number two, and is worth about
2s. The _Shakespeare_, or rather _The History and Antiquities of
Stratford-on-Avon_, by R. B. Wheler, 1806, 8vo., is worth about 16s.,
if in good condition, as it is a standard work on Warwickshire. Many
thanks for your kind wishes which we fully reciprocate.

BEATTIE.—The uncle has no legal authority at all, unless a guardian
or trustee, save that a near relative and an older man may have. The
duties of trustees are to see all the accounts of the trust, know all
the investments, and never to sign any papers they do not _fully_
understand.

MOTHER KITTY.—1. White felt hats can be cleaned with flour, and will
look quite well after rubbing. Of course all the trimming should be
taken off, and when finished, the flour must be well beaten out, so
that it may not come off on everything.—2. Handwriting is clear and
neat—what is called a “running hand.” Why do you put a knot at the
ends of the t’s? It is incorrect.

COOKMAID.—1. The date appears to be 1744, if your letters be right. We
cannot say of what value it is, because you omit the author’s name.—2.
The snuff-box is of value as a curiosity, but we could not say of how
much. A great deal of the wood of the _Royal George_ was used for such
things.

MAYBLOSSOM.—The name of David’s mother is unknown, as we have often
said. His grandmother was Ruth.

A LOVER OF THE “G.O.P.”—It is always better to err on the side of
kindness, and if you have had a conversation on business matters, and
are constantly meeting, you will find it awkward, and it would be
impolitic if you did not bow when you see him in the street. This does
not entail any further intimacy.

MARIGOLD.—The best German yeast is very good for making bread. The
“D.C.L.” brand is what we prefer for our own home use. We should employ
this in preference to brewers’ barm.

NOEL.—The name Noel is derived from the Latin _Dies Natalis_—Christmas.
It may mean born on Christmas Day. The French is _Noel_, Italian
_Natali_, Spanish and Portuguese _Natal_. And this last brings us to
the origin of the name of one of our South African colonies, Natal,
which was bestowed by Vasco da Gama, because he discovered it on
Christmas Day.

LE DUC.—We think your letter a very charming piece of effrontery,
and even the commendation you are kind enough to lavish on us does
not blind our eyes to the fact that you are a boy. We are glad to
see, however, that you say “only a boy” in your letter; so we will,
in consideration of that humility, overlook the fact that your place
is in the “B.O.P.” Strange to say, we have a great many boys who like
our paper, and we are glad to know they take an interest in what their
sisters are doing. The Diary you inquire about, _Write as you like It_,
is issued by Charles Letts & Co., so you can order it through your
stationer. About the pens, we regret we cannot help you, as we hear the
same complaint from others. But an Italian lady tells us that the only
good ones are to be purchased in Italy, which might form a good excuse
for going there. Any ordinary blank book will do for a diary; there are
many kinds described in the article of Feb. 1897.

MONAH STAIRS.—We do not think matters can be as bad as you say; and
you have your aunt and both your brothers to consult, and no one will,
we are sure, coerce you. You have also the doctor of whom you speak;
so we hope, by this time, you have cheered up and are looking on the
brighter side of things.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No.
1003, March 18, 1899, by Various

*** 