*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 50745 ***

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

By JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of "Sisters Three," etc.

All rights reserved.]

CHAPTER VII.

Peggy looked very sad and wan after her mother's departure, but her companions soon discovered that anything like out-spoken sympathy was unwelcome. The redder her eyes, the more erect and dignified was her demeanour; if her lips trembled when she spoke, the more grandiose and formidable became her conversation, for Peggy's love of long words and high-sounding expressions was fully recognised by this time, and caused much amusement in the family.

A few days after Mrs. Saville sailed, a welcome diversion arrived in the shape of the promised camera. The Parcels Delivery van drove up to the door, and two large cases were delivered, one of which was found to contain the camera itself, the tripod and a portable dark room, while the other held such a collection of plates, printing-frames and chemicals as delighted the eyes of the beholders. It was the gift of one who possessed not only a deep purse, but a most true and thoughtful kindness, for when young people are concerned, two-thirds of the enjoyment of any present is derived from the possibility of being able to put it to immediate use. As it was a holiday afternoon, it was unanimously agreed to take two groups and develop them straightway.

"Professional photographers are so dilatory," said Peggy severely; "and{114} indeed, I have noticed that amateurs are even worse. I have twice been photographed by friends, and they have solemnly promised to send me a copy within a few days. I have waited, consumed by curiosity, and, my dears, it has been months before it has arrived. Now we will make a rule to finish off our groups at once, and not keep people waiting until all the interest has died away. There's no excuse for such dilatory behaviour!"

"There is some work to do, remember, Peggy. You can't get a photograph by simply taking off and putting on the cap; you must have a certain amount of time and fine weather. I haven't had much experience, but I remember thinking that photographs were jolly cheap considering all the trouble they cost, and wondered how the fellows could do them at the price. There's the developing, and washing, and printing, and toning, half-a-dozen processes before you are finished."

Peggy smiled in a patient, forbearing manner.

"They don't get any less, do they, by putting them off? Procrastination will never lighten labour. Come, put the camera up for us, like a good boy, and we'll show you how to do it." She waved her hand towards the brown canvas bag, and the six young people immediately seized different portions of the tripod and camera, and set to work to put them together. The girls tugged and pulled at the sliding legs, which were too new and stiff to work with ease; Maxwell turned the screws which moved the bellows, and tried in vain to understand their working; Robert peered through the lenses, and Oswald alternately raved, chided, and jeered at their efforts. With so many cooks at work, it took an unconscionable time to get ready, and even when the camera was perched securely on its spidery legs, it still remained to choose the site of the picture, and to pose the victims. After much wandering about the garden, it was finally decided that the schoolroom window would be an appropriate background for a first effort, but a long and heated argument followed before the second question could be decided.

"I vote that we stand in couples, arm-on-arm, like this," said Mellicent, sidling up to her beloved brother, and gazing into his face in a sentimental manner, which had the effect of making him stride away as fast as he could walk, muttering indignant protests beneath his breath.

Then Esther came forward with her suggestion.

"I'll hold a book as if I were reading aloud, and you can all sit round in easy, natural positions, and look as if you were listening. I think that would make a charming picture."

"Idiotic, I call it! 'Scene from the Goodchild family; mamma reading aloud to the little ones.' Couldn't possibly look easy and natural under the circumstances; should feel too miserable. Try again, my dear. You must think of something better than that."

It was impossible to please those three fastidious boys. One suggestion after another was made, only to be waved aside with lordly contempt, until at last the girls gave up any say in the matter, and left Oswald to arrange the group in a manner highly satisfactory to himself and his two friends, however displeasing to the more artistic members of the party. Three girls in front, two boys behind, all standing stiff and straight as pokers; with solemn faces and hair much tangled by constant peepings beneath the black cloth. Peggy in the middle, with her eyebrows more peaked than ever, and an expression of resigned martyrdom on her small, pale face; Mellicent, large and placid, on the left; Esther on the right, scowling at nothing, and, over their shoulders, the two boys' heads, handsome Max, and frowning Robert.

"There," cried Oswald, "that's what I call a sensible arrangement! If you take a photograph, take a photograph, and don't try to do a pastoral play at the same time. Keep still a moment now, and I will see if it is focused all right. I can see you pulling faces, Peggy; it's not at all becoming. Now then, I'll put in the plate—that's the way!—one—two—three—and I shall take you. Stea—dy!"

Instantly Mellicent burst into giggles of laughter, and threw up her hands to her face, to be roughly seized from behind and shaken into order.

"Be quiet, you silly thing! Didn't you hear him say steady? What are you trying to do?"

"She has spoiled this plate, anyhow," said Oswald icily. "I'll try the other, and if she can't keep still this time, she had better run away and laugh by herself at the other end of the garden. Baby!"

"Not a ba——" began Mellicent indignantly; but she was immediately punched into order, and stood with her mouth wide open, waiting to finish her protest so soon as the ordeal was over.

Peggy forestalled her, however, with an eager plea to be allowed to take the third picture herself.

"I want to have one of Oswald to send to mother, for we are not complete without him, and I know it would please her to think I had taken it myself," she urged; and permission was readily granted, as everyone felt that she had a special claim in the matter. Oswald therefore put in new plates, gave instructions as to how the shutters were to be worked, and retired to take up an elegant position in the centre of the group.

"Are you read—ee?" cried Peggy, in professional sing-song; then she put her head on one side and stared at them with twinkling eyes. "Hee, hee! How silly you look! Everyone has a new expression for the occasion! Your own mothers would not recognise you! That's better. Keep that smile going for another moment, and—how long must I keep off the cap, did you say?"

Oswald hesitated.

"Well, it varies. You have to use your own judgment. It depends upon—lots of things! You might try one second for the first, and two for the next, then one of them is bound to be right."

"And one a failure! If I were going to depend on my judgment, I'd have a better one than that!" cried Peggy scornfully. "Ready. A little more cheerful, if you please—Christmas is coming! That's one. Be so good as to remain in your positions, ladies and gentlemen, and I'll try another." The second shutter was pulled out, the cap removed, and the group broke up with sighs of relief, exhausted with the strain of cultivating company smiles for a whole two minutes on end. Max stayed to help the girls to fold up the camera, while Oswald darted into the house to prepare the dark room for the development of the plates.

When he came out, ten minutes later on, it was a pleasant surprise to discover Miss Mellicent holding a plate in her hand and taking sly peeps inside the shutter, just "to see how it looked." He stormed and raved; Mellicent looked like a martyr, wished to know how a teeny little light like that could possibly hurt anything, and seemed incapable of understanding that if one flash of sunlight could make a picture, it could also destroy it with equal swiftness. Oswald was forced to comfort himself with the reflection that there were still three plates left; and, when all was ready, the six operators squeezed themselves in the dark room, to watch the process of development, indulging the while in the most flowery expectations.

"If it is very good, let me send it to an illustrated paper. Oh, do!" said Mellicent, with a gush. "I have often seen groups of people in them. 'The thing-a-me-bob touring company,' and stupid old cricketers, and things like that. We should be far more interesting."

"It will make a nice present for mother, enlarged and mounted," said Peggy thoughtfully. "I shall keep an album of my own, and mount every single picture we take. If there are any failures, I shall put them in too, for they will make it all the more amusing. Photograph albums are horribly uninteresting as a rule, but mine will be quite different. There shall be nothing stiff and prim about it; the photographs will be dotted about in all sorts of positions, and underneath each I shall put in—ah—conversational annotations." Her tongue lingered over the words with triumphant enjoyment. "Conversational annotations, describing the circumstances under which it was taken, and anything about it which is worth remembering.... What are you going to do with those bottles?"

Oswald ruffled his hair in embarrassment. To pose as an instructor in an art, when one is in doubt about its very rudiments, is a position which has its drawbacks.

"I don't—quite—know. The stupid fellow has written instructions on all the other labels, and none on these except simply 'Developer No. 1' and 'Developer No. 2;' I think the only difference is that one is rather stronger than the other. I'll put some of the No. 2 in a dish and see what happens; I believe that's the right way—in fact, I'm sure it is. You pour it{115} over the plate and jog it about, and in two or three minutes the picture ought to begin to appear. Like this."

Five eager faces peered over his shoulders, rosy red in the light of the lamp; five pairs of lips uttered a simultaneous "oh!" of surprise; five cries of dismay followed in instant echo. It was the tragedy of a second. Even as Oswald poured the fluid over the plate, a picture flashed before their eyes, each one saw and recognised some fleeting feature; and, in the very moment of triumph, lo, darkness, as of night, a sheet of useless, blackened glass!

"What about the conversational annotations?" asked Robert slyly; but he was interrupted by a storm of indignant queries, levied at the head of the poor operator, who tried in vain to carry off his mistake with a jaunty air. Now that he came to think of it, he believed you did mix the two developers together! Just at the moment he had forgotten the proportions, but he would go outside and look it up in the book; and he beat a hasty retreat, glad to escape from the scene of his failure. It was rather a disconcerting beginning, but hope revived once more when Oswald returned, primed with information from the Photographic Manual, and Peggy's plates were taken from their case and put into the bath. This time the result was slow in coming. Five minutes went by, and no signs of a picture, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour.

"It's a good thing to develop slowly; you get the details better," said Oswald, in so professional a matter that he was instantly reinstated in public confidence; but when twenty minutes had passed, he looked perturbed, and thought he would use a little more of the hastener. The bath was strengthened and strengthened, but still no signs of a picture. The plate was put away in disgust, and the second one tried with a like result. So far as it was possible to judge, there was nothing to be developed on the plate.

"A nice photographer you are, I must say! What are you playing at now?" asked Max, in scornful impatience, and Oswald turned severely to Peggy—

"Which shutter did you draw out? The one nearest to yourself?"

"Yes, I did—of course I did!"

"You drew out the nearest to you, and the farthest away from the lens?"

"Precisely—I told you so!" and Peggy bridled with an air of virtue.

"Then no wonder nothing has come out! You have drawn out the wrong shutter each time, and the plates have never been exposed. They are wasted! That's fivepence simply thrown away, to say nothing of the chemicals!"

His air of aggrieved virtue; Peggy's little face staring at him, aghast with horror; the thought of four plates being used and leaving not a vestige of a result were all too funny to be resisted. Mellicent went off into irrepressible giggles; Max gave a loud "Ha, ha!" and once again a mischievous whisper sounded in Peggy's ear—

"Good for you, Mariquita! What about the conversational annotations?"

(To be continued.)

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SOME PRACTICAL HINTS ON COSMETIC MEDICINE.

By "THE NEW DOCTOR."

PART IV.

THE HANDS.

The appearance of the hands is secondary only to that of the face, and many women pride themselves upon their beautiful white hands. But it is not everybody who can have white hands. Manual labour will always make the hands red and rough, and no amount of applications will whiten them. General servants and laundry women cannot expect their hands to remain white. It is interesting to see why house labour should injure the appearance of the hands in this way. In the first place the hands must get a good deal knocked about by the rough work necessary in a household. Laying fires, cleaning grates, blacking boots, etc., make the hands rough from inflicting numerous small injuries upon them. You all know that if you cut your finger the place remains hard and horny for some time afterwards, and so hands that are exposed to rough usage will also get horny and coarse. Then, again, rough red hands, being less delicate, are better fitted to do hard work, and so Nature, who cares more for usefulness than for idle beauty, will tend to make the hands of those who do manual labour hard and coarse. Another reason why servants so often have red hands is the constant use of soda and water, which is necessary for cleaning the house. Soda is very bad for the hands, and this, together with the impossibility of keeping the hands dry, is another cause of red hands.

With a little care, nearly everybody can have white hands. Even in those who have to work hard a little care will often do wonders to keep the hands from becoming very red—not from becoming red slightly, for nothing will prevent this. When you wash your hands, always dry them afterwards on a fairly rough towel. In winter you should be very careful about thoroughly drying your hands, as it takes very little to produce chaps.

If you are desirous of having white hands, always wear gloves when you go out. This, indeed, will do more than anything else to keep the hands white.

In the winter most persons suffer from chaps. These are a more pronounced and more acute form of "red hands." But they are often very painful, and if not properly treated are apt to be very persistent and unsightly.

Prevention is better than cure, and we can do a considerable amount to prevent our hands from becoming chapped. It is the cold wind that produces chaps, and so, if you would be freed from this evil, you should always wear thick gloves when you go out in a strong north-easter. I have already mentioned that you should dry your hands very carefully after washing. If you are very liable to chaps, you should not wash your hands in cold water, but only use warm water, not hot (for this is worse than cold water for producing chaps), but just slightly warm. You must also be careful about the soap you use, as coarse alkaline soaps are very bad, and make chapped hands smart.

If the chaps are not very bad, a little glycerine and rose-water may be applied after washing. This is very efficacious in a mild case, but it is insufficient in more severe grades of the affection. The following preparation I have found invaluable for severe chaps—sulphate of zinc, two grains; compound tincture of lavender, one dram; glycerine, three drams; rose-water to the ounce.

A very much worse affair than chaps is a chilblain. Indeed, a bad broken chilblain is a very serious and unpleasant matter. Chilblains may occur in anyone, but they are most common in persons in whom the circulation is feeble. I have seen a terribly bad chilblain in an anæmic girl. Moreover, when the circulation is below par, chilblains do not heal properly, and give great trouble often for months together.

Warm gloves, warm stockings, loose-fitting boots, and flannel next the skin all over the body, are the best safeguards against this complaint. As chilblains are a kind of minor frostbite, keeping warm will necessarily prevent them, but it is very difficult for a person with feeble circulation to keep warm.

If you have a chilblain coming do not scratch it, for this makes it far worse. Bathe the part gently in warm spirit and water, and wrap the finger or toe, whichever it is, in a thick layer of cotton wool. If you do this you will probably prevent the chilblains from bursting.

There are a large number of messy preparations made of lard, dripping, tallow, cream, and other "pantry drugs," which are advised for chilblains. They are none of them any good. A broken chilblain is a septic wound, that is, it is a wound that contains germs. It should therefore be treated as a septic wound. Wash the place gently in diluted carbolic acid lotion (1 in 80), or warm solution of boracic acid. Then cover the broken surface thickly with powdered boracic acid, and put on a bandage. If you do this, and attend to your general health at the same time, you get rid of your chilblains more rapidly than by any other method.

Warts are more common on the hands than anywhere else. Of their cause we know but little. Irritation sometimes causes them, and they are to a certain extent infectious from place to place. We used to be taught that lady-birds produced or cured them, according to which version of the story we heard. There is about an equal amount of truth in each doctrine.

The best way to treat warts is to first soak the hand in hot water, and clean it thoroughly with soap. Then paint the skin surrounding the wart with vaseline, and drop on to the wart itself one drop of glacial acetic acid. Wait one minute, and then well rub the wart over with a stick of lunar caustic (silver nitrate). This treatment may require to be repeated, but I have never known it to fail.

(To be continued.)

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{116}

GIRLS AS I HAVE KNOWN THEM.

By ELSA D'ESTERRE-KEELING, Author of "Old Maids and Young."

PART II.

THE WITTY GIRL.

First let us understand each other.

By the witty girl is not here meant the girl—if such a girl exists—whose conversation has the high brilliancy which characterises the conversation of certain men and women.

No. The thing here meant is nothing more than the common domestic wit-snapper, generally, say her enemies, more of a snapper than a wit, concerning which statement it is perhaps not unpermissible to say that he who makes it shows himself to be less a wit than a snapper.

While all but invariably of a character that loses much by the process of retailing, the wit of the girl here in view will sometimes bear being brought to book. The samples of it given in this paper are all authentic and heretofore unpublished. They do not, perhaps, reach a high standard of excellence, but they who know girls will concede that they are good girl-wit of the middle order.

Take a case like this: "My name is May. I feel I am reaching the age when I should be called Hawthorn."

Or take this: "Your mother will miss you when you marry."

"No—then she'll 'Mrs.' me."

Such jests are the bric-à-brac of home conversation, and make it pretty.

He who listens to the talk between girls and their brothers will sometimes hear a thing worth noting, in compensation for the many things not worth noting which—if the truth is to be told—he will also hear.

The following does not show young Ethel at her best, but it also does not show her at her worst.

"D'you know, Jim," she said, "that two-year-old babies can marry on Jupiter?"

"Don't talk bosh, Ethel!"

"But they can. It's this way. A year on Jupiter is eleven years and ten months of our time, so the two-year-old babies are grown up. Ee—you didn't know that!"

Jim said nothing. But when young Ethel exploited her astronomy with Bob, she found her overmatch. This is precisely what was said by them—

Bob: "One can hear your voice ten miles off, Ethel."

Y. E.: "Make it nine, Bob?"

Bob: "Why?"

Y. E.: "Nine miles is the greatest distance at which thunder can be heard."

Bob: "TIT-BITS."

The fact is that young Ethel is less an astronomer than a student of current periodical literature. What matters it, after all, however, whence she gleans her general information, if her reading enables her to say—as I once heard her say—with veritable wit, to a girl who was wearing a primrose brooch—

"Blossom and leaves of the primrose are —— Radical."

There are funny men in Parliament who have never said anything much more funny than that.

In her captious mood the witty girl is very terrible. A North Briton has been thus described by her: "A big, lumpy, pale-faced, red-haired, freckled Scotchman," and it was a witty, but captious, girl who said of a certain pianist, a concert given by whom she had attended, "His feet obscured the platform."

The literary appreciations of the witty girl are few. She is apt, in appraising poets, to take them at their weakest rather than at their strongest. She judges Wordsworth by his "Idiot Boy," and she would be capable of passing sentence on Cowper as having cut in his door three holes of different sizes for his tom-cat, his tabby cat and his kitten.

Yet another tendency of the witty girl which must be strongly deprecated, is to harp on phrases which may have once had a faintly comical ring, but which have long lost it; such phrases as, "Where does this live?" applied to inanimate objects, or, "Hang on to this," used in reference to objects held in the hand. It would be interesting to know who first evolved these mild witticisms destined to win such enduring popularity.

The singular phraseology of girls not minded to confine themselves to English of the academies has of late been made the subject of much comment. There follow here some specimens of it in which the facetious was aimed at, and in some cases not unsuccessfully.

Wordsworth was, by a Scotch Annie, described as a "baa-lamby;" a Welsh Beatrice described "a most wizened farewell concert;" her impressions of Holland were summed up by an English Madge in the words "flobby bread and flobby wall-paper," and an Irish Constance, writing to her home in Ireland from a school in France attended by her with her sister Ethel, penned this anomalous statement, "We are here six Irish, counting Ethel, and six English, counting me."

Both these girls were the daughters of an Irishman and an Englishwoman. She who was accounted of the six English had been born in her mother's country, while she who was accounted of the six Irish had been born in that of her father. In drawing the fine line of distinction which made her English and her sister Irish, the young maid Constance aimed not at precision but at wit, and, as behoved her father's daughter, she did not aim at wit in vain. Her letter was read with laughter.

In almost all girls' letters there is a marked quality of phrasing which, even when not witty, is mirth-provoking. Take the following:

"Papa has just come back from London, and has brought me a very thin umbrella, with a steel stick running through it, just simply frightfully elegant; also a pair of shoes, fawn antelope, embroidered with gold beads. You needn't sniff."

Sniff, indeed? Perish the thought!

"Tinpot" used as an adjective does not spoil the following curious bit of description penned by a London girl during a stay in Ryde:

"I am enjoying myself very much in a quiet, non-dissipated, tinpot way—walking on the sea-wall and the pier, reading Carlyle and Marion Crawford, and making little vests for Kilburn orphans."

Only a girl could have written that, and of its kind it is admirable.

An idea largely held by girls, in common with women and men who have a witty tendency, is that appreciation is a form of ignorance. It was, be it here called to remembrance, to correct this notion, that Wordsworth wrote, "True knowledge leads to love," and that Browning wrote, "Admiration grows as knowledge grows."

It is doubtless the circumstance that unkindness is so often confounded with wit that has led to the fact that of all good gifts the good gift of wit is the one held in least liking by the majority of persons. The truth would seem to be that, with wit, as with everything else not intrinsically bad, the thing of main importance is that it be handled carefully. Like gunpowder, it has its uses to him who knows how to avail himself of them. He who does not, would do well to do what certain savages once did. Having come into the possession of a bag of gunpowder, they carefully preserved it till the spring, when they planted it as they did their corn. It did not burst forth when the corn burst forth; so much the better for the sowers. That gunpowder was very safely deposited, and much wit might with equal advantage be held over till the next planting season.

Another thing. The wit-snapper should always carry about with him a little balm and a little honey. That was a good sword that Cambuscan had; it could heal the wounds it gave. Only the wit-snapper who{117} carries a little balm and a little honey will be as well equipped as was the knight whose story Chaucer "left half-told."

A further point which calls for passing comment is this. Wit and merriment do not always go hand in hand; indeed, they are often sundered wide. Thus, of the world's famous humorists, it is well known that they were mostly melancholy at the home-fireside. Something very similar holds good in the case of girls—and there are many such—who, while witty in society, are deplorably glum in the family circle, in this unlike a girl of girls whom her father called "Minnehaha"—laughing water—so merry was she in her home, beyond which her influence was to be shed so far that she is known to-day from Indus to the Pole as the friend of Indian women.

If they be right who consider, in opposition to Juliet, that something is in a name, then those among us who hold that such a name as Juliet tends to annihilate wit in the possessor of it are not mere fancy-mongers, and we are entitled to a courteous hearing when we submit that on the other hand the name Nelly, and still more the variant of it by which it becomes Nell, almost announces the owner of it to be a wit. This circumstance is quite independent of the fact that Scott has said, in just so many words, in reference to a particular case, "Mistress Nelly, wit she has," and if any explanation of it may be hazarded, the one which will probably satisfy most is that persons named Nelly or Nell—and the number of such is, happily, legion—are hardly ever found lacking in whimsicality. In the few cases in which they are deficient in this quality they should be called—and, as a matter of fact, they are generally called—Nella, the name Nella being that form of Nelly or Nell by which all the sparkle is taken out of it.

In conclusion, a word on wits under their physiognomical aspect. That a certain type of face in general denotes a witty person may be allowed.

"The slightly tossed nose," says one of Thomas Moore's biographers, "confirmed the fun of the expression."

"The slightly tossed nose" for what the French call "nez retroussé" is happy wording. Girl-readers of this who have "tossed" noses are, by their faces, wits. Let this console them, if it so hap that they want consolation. On the other part, girls with short upper lips have a part of beauty, but lack a part of wit. Wherefore, if they be vain, let there be a curb put on their vanity, and let girls with long upper lips hold up their heads, for a long upper lip denotes wit.

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OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: "TO A GIRL GOLFER."

SOLUTION.

To a Girl Golfer.

Prize Winners.

Seven Shillings and Sixpence Each.

• Edith Ashworth, The Mount, Knutsford.
• Dr. R. Swan Coulthard, Coventry.
• Mrs. Deane, Lismoyle, Ballymoney, co. Antrim.
• Edith E. Grundy, 105, London Road, Leicester.
• Edward St. G. Hodson, Twyford, Athlone, Ireland.
• G. Honeyburne, 16, Hawkshead Street, Southport, Lancs.
• Louise M. McCready, Howth, co. Dublin.
• Annie Manderson, Waterfoot, Crumlin, co. Antrim.
• F. M. Morgan, The Library, Armagh.
• May Robson, Garry Lodge, Perth, N.B.
• W. Shattock, Hillmorton Villa, Sneyd Park, near Bristol.
• Mrs. Isabel Snell, 51, Mere Road, Leicester.
• Alice Woodhead, Tickhill, Rotheram, Yorkshire.
• Elizabeth Yarwood, 59, Beech Road, Cale Green, Stockport.

Very Highly Commended.

Florence Ashwin, Rev. S. Bell, Nanette Bewley, M. J. Champneys, Edith Collins, Nellie R. Hasmer, Helen Lapage, Annie Roberson, A. C. Sharp.

Highly Commended.

Eliza Acworth, A. A. Campbell, N. Campbell, Rev. F. T. Chamberlain, Rev. J. Chambers, Mary I. Chislett, N. Chute, Nina Coote, Mrs. Cumming, R. D. Davis, Wm. Fraser, Percy H. Horne, J. Hunt, Alice E. Johnson, Mildred E. Lockyear, Winifred Lockyear, Annie G. Luck, Mrs. T. Maxwell, F. Miller, E. C. Milne, E. Nerve, Edward Roqulski, Gertrude Saffery, S. Southall, C. E. Thurgar, Aileen Tyler.

Honourable Mention.

Mrs. Acheson, Elizabeth M. Caple, Annie J. Cather, J. A. Center, Mrs. Crossman, Ellie Crossman, Winifred Eady, A. S. K. Ellson, Phyllis M. Fulford, Agnes Glen, Alice Goakes, Beatrice E. Hackforth, Sadie Harbison, M. Hooppell, Rose A. Hooppell, Mima How, A. J. Knight, E. M. Le Mottée, Carlina V. M. Leggett, May Lethbridge, E. E. Lockyear, E. Lord, E. Macalister, Margaret A. Macalister, Nellie Meikle, C. A. Murton, Jas. D. Musgrave, Mrs. Nicholls, Henrietta M. Oldfield, Hannah E. Powell, Ellen M. Price, F. C. Redgrave, Ada Rickards, James Scott, Violet Shoberl, Mildred M. Skrine, Marriott T. Smiley, Annie E. Starritt, Ellen C. Tarrant, S. Taylor, Mrs. Walker, W. Fitzjames White, Florence Whitlock, Emily Wilkinson, Edith Mary Younge, Helen B. Younger.

EXAMINERS' REPORT.

Hitherto we have been in the habit of associating all that was best concerning the game of golf with the Scottish Nation. In the future we shall have to remember that out of fourteen golf puzzle prizes, five went to Ireland and only one to Scotland, and modify our view accordingly. Of England's share we find it difficult to speak with becoming modesty.

If the north of the Tweed had been honoured by our earliest presence we should have found no difficulty in explaining away the National failure—for how else can it be regarded?—in connection with this puzzle. "A poem with such a title," we should have said, "must surely contain advice about our noble game. As we have played it with considerable success for at least four hundred and fifty years, we can need no advice, and therefore we will not trouble to solve your puzzle."

But our birthplace was many miles south of the Tweed, and such an explanation would not appeal to us with any force. The simple fact remains: Ireland receives one pound seventeen shillings and sixpence, Scotland, only seven shillings and sixpence, and England—well, modesty forbids us to say how much!

Not long ago golf was regarded as an occupation for elderly gentlemen whose time and energies were at the service of any respectable game. With much impressiveness they used to traverse the links decked in red coats, the brilliancy of which signified the extremity of the danger to which the unwary onlooker was exposed.

But a few years have changed all that. Now for one elderly, impressive, red-coated gentleman to be found, there are many young men who cannot afford red coats and maidens in plenty who wouldn't wear them if they could. To this last class our puzzle poem was addressed, not by way of advice but as a sympathetic intimation that we know all about the game in which they so freely indulge.

Naturally enough the title was frequently rendered "To a golfer," and after much serious consideration we decided to accept it. This being so, some who did not receive prizes will possibly wonder why. The explanation is simple enough: our ruling left us with so many claimants for the five guineas that we set aside those who did not trouble to indent the lines properly.

We wonder how many of the solvers who wrote "helpless" in the first line really discovered that the p was less than the other letters. It is also to be observed that the ball in the same line was much smaller than the others in the puzzle and therefore was intended to be designated "little." Hence the rhythm required the word "very" in the fifth line—s—very small. So many solvers failed to notice these points that it is necessary to call attention to them.

It was not even right to leave out the "little" and the "very," because then the rhythm of the first verse would not coincide with that of the second.

Authorities differ as to the spelling of by-and-bye; apparently the more modern ones prefer it without the e, and of course we accepted both ways as correct.

The statement in line thirteen does not seem to have been universally understood. When you are playing golf you do not "put" the ball into the hole—unless no one is looking!—but you putt it in, which is a very different matter. Curiously enough, not one solver who wrote "put" pointed out that the reading involved a mistake in the line.

If any of our readers would like a puzzle on any particular subject or subjects, let them mention it. Their wishes shall certainly receive consideration and very possibly fulfilment.

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{118}

"OUR HERO."

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

By AGNES GIBERNE, Author of "Sun, Moon and Stars," "The Girl at the Dower House," etc.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE THREATENED INVASION.

Though no true-hearted Englishman believed for a moment in the possibility of his country becoming a French province, all knew that the threatened invasion might take place.

Many indeed regarded the attempt as almost certain, feeling sure that Napoleon would never be convinced of his own inability to conquer England, until he had tried and failed. And while the final result of such an attempt might be looked upon as a foregone conclusion, yet no doubt much personal loss and distress would be caused by even the most unsuccessful invasion of our shores.

On one point all were agreed—that safety lay and could only lie in getting ready beforehand.

At that date steamboats and railways were unknown, and telegraphs did not exist. There was happily time, through the slowness with which affairs moved, after the note of alarm had been sounded, to make preparations.

An extraordinary burst of enthusiasm throughout the whole country was the response to Napoleon's threat. Large supplies of money were freely voted and eagerly given. The regular army was increased, and the militia was called out; while a volunteer force sprang into being, with such rapidity that it soon numbered about four hundred thousand men.

These "citizen-soldiers," as it was the fashion to call them, were all over the country, each place having its own corps. But the regular troops, drawn from all parts, were stationed chiefly where the danger seemed to be greatest, between London and the south coast, Sir David Dundas being in command.

Along the shore were erected batteries and martello towers—the latter remaining to this day. And since Boulogne was the headquarters of the French army of invasion, an advanced corps was placed on the opposite coast, near Sandgate, under General Moore, in readiness to repel the first onslaught. There the General occupied his time in such splendid training of the regiments under his control that throughout the long years of the Peninsular War, after he himself had passed away, the stamp of his spirit rested upon them, the impress of his enthusiasm and of his magnificent discipline made them the foremost soldiers in the British Army. These were the regiments who, as the "Reserve," bore the brunt of the fighting in Moore's famous "Retreat," and who were known in Spain and at Waterloo as Wellington's unequalled and invincible "Light Brigade." Wellington used those regiments for the saving of Europe; but Moore made them what they were.

To the delight of Jack an opportunity offered itself whereby he might exchange into one of the Shornecliffe regiments, and he grasped at it eagerly.

He had for Moore the half-worshipping admiration which is sometimes seen in a young man towards an older man. Jack would be none the worse for his hero-worship, since happily he had fixed upon a worthy object. As yet he had seen little personally of the General, having met him but two or three times. But long before they came together, he had cherished an intense interest in the man, an interest awakened first in more boyish days by Ivor's vivid descriptions of campaigns in the West Indies and in Egypt, descriptions of which Moore was always the central figure. Jack had seized with avidity upon all such details.

When at length the two met he could feel no surprise at Ivor's intense and reverent love for his chief. The soldierly bearing of Moore, his grace of manner, the power of his unique personality, together with his chivalrous devotion to his mother and his courteous kindness towards all with whom he came in contact—these things from the first made a profound impression upon Jack; and the more he learnt to know of Moore, the more that impression was deepened. He counted himself thenceforward ready to live or to die for the General; and one day in a fit of confidence he said so to Polly.

"Nay, Jack; live for him; do not wish to die for him," pleaded Polly. "That will be the best."

Jack was not so sure. His imagination had been fired long before by the story, told to him by Ivor, of a certain heroic Guardsman—a man who, in the West Indies, had flung himself between Moore and the musket aimed at him, thus giving his life for that of his officer. But it was not needful for Jack to explain how much he longed to do the same. He merely smiled, and remarked, "In all England there is no other his equal. Of that I am convinced."

To the great disappointment of Jack, the General had been quickly summoned away on important duty; and intercourse between them came for the moment to a close. The young subaltern, however, found it possible to pursue acquaintance with the General's mother and sister; and gentle old Mrs. Moore had a great deal to say about this most idolised son of hers, where she found a sympathetic listener. Few listeners could have been more sympathetic than Jack Keene, who never grew tired of the subject. Mrs. Moore had other sons beside the General, but it was noticed that when she referred to him he was always distinctively, "My son!" not "My eldest son," or "My son John!" This did not touch the close friendship between Moore and his brothers, one of whom was a Naval officer of note.

Through those summer weeks of 1803 Polly was longing for Captain Ivor to come home. It was sad to think of him as a prisoner, forced to stay against his will in a foreign land. She knew, too, that any day Jack might be ordered off elsewhere; and one day, as she had feared, he rushed in, to tell them that he would be leaving immediately for Shornecliffe Camp, there to await Napoleon's first attempt to land on English soil.

The news was less a matter of congratulation for them than for Jack himself. At Sandgate he would be in the very forefront of the peril which threatened the land. Mrs. Fairbank had to rub her large horn spectacles more than once; and she was disposed to blame Jack for not referring the question to herself, before he accepted the offer of an exchange. Molly looked curiously at Jack, and asked—

"Are you glad to say good-bye to us all?"

"Not glad to say good-bye, but glad to be going. People must say good-bye sometimes, Molly. And I shall be fighting under one of the best and bravest men that ever lived. Would not you like that?"

Molly shook her head. "If Roy was here, I should never want to go away," she said decisively. "But if you care more for General Moore than for us——"

"Pooh! What nonsense!" retorted Jack; and Polly exclaimed—

"Molly, how can you say such a thing? Jack wants to be one of the first to fight in defence of England. Do you not see? It is but right. He would be no true soldier, otherwise. If Captain Ivor were but free to do the same! Yes, indeed, I do wish it! It is terrible for him to be cut off from action—but not for Jack to wish to be foremost. O fie, Molly dear, you must have more sense."

"Polly always understands," murmured Jack; and Molly would have given much at the moment to have had those words spoken of herself. She hung her head and was mute. Tender-hearted Polly could never endure to see anyone sad or abashed, and her hand stole into Molly's as she went on—

"But Molly will understand now. Jack, she and I have this morning learnt by heart a verse of Mr. Walter Scott's, which 'tis said he has but just writ. Molly, you shall say the words to Jack, for they are brave words. Hold up your head, dear, and speak out, as an Englishwoman should."

Molly obeyed, not sorry for the chance to redeem her previous error, and to re-establish herself in Jack's good graces, for which she cared more than she quite allowed to herself. She held her head well up, therefore, and spouted with considerable effect—

{119}

"Come, that is good. That was well said. You understand too, I see, Molly. I e'en thought it must be so—you, a British Colonel's daughter! And you'll both bid me God-speed. And when Napoleon is beaten, and old England is again in safety, I'll come back, and be grannie's home-boy once more. Eh, ma'am?"

"Yes, yes, Jack; yes, my dear boy." Mrs. Fairbank did her best to control her voice, and as usual when agitated she knitted at railway speed. "You will do your duty, Jack. I am sure of it. And General Moore will be a good friend to you."

"But now I have somewhat else to show you all, in return for Molly's poetry," observed Jack in cheerful tones, anxious to prevent a breakdown on the part of his grandmother. "What do you think it may be, Molly? Guess, all of you. Must I tell? Well, 'tis nought less than two letters about our Hero, which his mother let me see. They are writ some four years since to the General's father, Dr. Moore; the one from Sir Ralph Abercrombie, and the other from Sir Robert Brownrigg, who was secretary to the Duke of York, and Adjutant-General. Nay, these are not the originals, for I can assure you 'twould be no easy task to get them out of Mrs. Moore's keeping. But she permitted me to take copies of the same, and they are here. The engagement spoken of was that on the second of October, in 1799, between the English and the French in Holland; and General Moore was wounded early in the action, but nevertheless he fought on until wounded a second time. These, to his father afterwards, both make mention of his wounds. Shall I read?"

"Pray do so, my dear Jack," said Mrs. Fairbank; and, "O do, Jack!" entreated Polly.

Jack obeyed.

"'Headquarters. Zuper Sluys, Holland. October 4th, 1799.

"'My dear Sir—I cannot suffer the accompanying letter from my dear friend, your son, to go to you, without assuring you that the wounds he has received are attended with no danger. Mr. Knight, the Duke's surgeon, attends him, and gives hope of his speedy recovery. The wound in his thigh he received early in the action, but it did not prevent him from continuing his exertions for two hours afterwards, when a wound in his face obliged him to leave the field. It is through the cheek, and I understand has not wounded the bone. His conduct in the serious action of the 2nd, which perhaps may be ranked among the most obstinately contested battles that have been fought this war, has raised him, if possible, higher than he before stood in the estimation of this army. Everyone admires and loves him; and you may boast of having as your son the most amiable man and the best General in the British service; this is a universal opinion, and does not proceed from my partiality alone.

"'God bless you, my dear Sir. I hope in a few days to have it in my power to tell you that considerable progress is made in Moore's cure; and believe me, with great respect and regard,

"'Very faithfully yours,
"'Robert Brownrigg.'"

Jack paused, and repeated thoughtfully, "'Everyone admires and loves him—the most amiable man and the best General in the British service!' Yet by nature his is no easy temper, ma'am; of that his mother could assure me. She said that her son—ever the best of sons to her—gave her in his boyhood many an anxious hour, by reason of his hot and impulsive moods, and his readiness to fight. But listen now to the letter of Sir Ralph himself—

"'Egmond-on-the-Sea, Oct. 4th.

"'My dear Sir—Although your son is wounded in the thigh and in the cheek, I can assure you he is in no sort of danger; both wounds are slight. The public and myself are the greatest sufferers by these accidents.

"'The General is a hero, with more sense than many others of that description, in that he is an ornament to his family and to his profession. I hope Mrs. Moore and his sister will be easy on his account, and that you are proud of such a son.

"'Yours,
"'Ralph Abercrombie.'"

This time it was Mrs. Fairbank who quoted words from the letter. She said, "'With more sense than many others of that description.' Pray, my dear Jack, what think you Sir Ralph might have meant to signify?"

"Why, ma'am, I take it thus. Many a man is brave and fights well, who in fact is nought else beside. Whereas General Moore is a man of extraordinary genius and great nobility of character, one who shines in whatever society he may find himself, and above all, who is ardently beloved by everybody that knows him. What else might Sir Ralph signify?"

"To my mind, 'tis a somewhat droll mode of expressing himself, though, none the less, 'tis clear what he thinks of the General. Were he my son, I could fain be proud of him. Not that pride is so suitable a feeling as thankfulness."

"In truth, ma'am, his mother is proud and thankful too. She thinks that all the whole world holds no man equal to her brave son. And I—I am disposed to think the same."

Then Jack carefully folded his precious letters, stowed them in his pocket, and stood up. "Come, Polly and Molly," he said. "There is time yet for a turn before dinner? We will go to the Pump Room."

Molly looked anxiously for leave, and flew to obey. A walk with Jack was always delightful. They entered the old Pump Room together, finding there, as usual, a large assemblage of gaily-dressed ladies and fashionably-attired gentlemen, some walking about, some lounging on seats. The ladies wore short-waisted gowns, chiefly of white or figured muslin, with short cloaks or mantles of bright hues, or short spencers of silk or coloured crape, and great feathered hats or bonnets, and plenty of large gilt and silver buttons; and many of the gentlemen were in tights and long flowered waistcoats and silver-buckled shoes, while others wore blue coats with brass buttons. Pig-tails too might still be seen, though soon to be discontinued.

Jack gazed about for several minutes in vain; and then they came face to face with Mrs. Bryce, Admiral Peirce being her attendant cavalier.

Both were immensely interested to hear Jack's news—how, in less than a week, he would be off to Sandgate, there to be under the command of General Moore; and there also, as Jack hoped, to be called upon to bear the first brunt of Napoleon's invasion.

"Not you, my dear sir," objected the Admiral, with beaming face. "Before ever Boney reaches English shores, depend on't, he'll render a good account of himself to our ships of war. Trust gallant Nelson for that, since he's on the look-out. I doubt me, Boney won't contrive to give our Navy the slip."

Jack had no wish to get into a discussion. "Well, sir, well, our Navy and our Army too will both of them do their best," he said. "But he would be a foolish fellow who should trust all his eggs in one basket, as the saying is. And should by any chance the slip be given, and Boney arrive on our shores, why, then the Army will make him render his account, fairly! Has anybody seen Mrs. Moore, ma'am?" and he turned to Mrs. Bryce.

Mrs. Bryce had not the least intention of parting hastily with her second cavalier. To walk about the Pump Room, in view of all her Bath acquaintances, with a gentleman on either side, was highly desirable. So Polly and Molly were adroitly dropped behind, and she set off.

"If not Mrs. Moore, Jack, I have seen someone else of passable interest," she remarked. "Her name is Miss Jane Austen—a well-bred young woman, I do assure you. And only to think—the good lady has writ a book, which may by chance be one day printed. 'Twas told my husband in strictest confidence; and if I had not wormed it out of him——Ah, ha! Jack—wait till you get you a wife, and then you'll not smile on that side of your mouth."

"I have found my bride, ma'am. 'Tis my profession," declared Jack.

"Nay, nay, nothing of the sort, my dear sir. Wait a while, and you'll find your affections engaged in another fashion. Can you be so hard-hearted as to hold out even now, in the face of all this youth and elegance? See—there goes a bewitching young woman, though 'tis true she wears a shocking unbecoming gown! But she's a prodigious favourite, and she can dance as tolerable a minuet as any young female present. Then there's young Susie, yonder—something of a hoyden, may be, and calls herself 'a dasher,' but uncommonly pretty, and prodigiously good spirits. And if you'd sooner have a blue-stocking—why, I've but to introduce you to Miss Jane Austen herself."

(To be continued.)

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{120}

METHODS OF MOUNTING FOR GIRL CYCLISTS.

By Mrs. EGBERT A. NORTON.

Nothing else, I think, affords one such a good opportunity of judging of a girl's general capabilities or style in riding as the way in which she mounts her machine.

In this matter as in so many others a "good start is most important."

Having already mastered the principle of steering, the mystery of the mount is a matter of balance only.

There are several points which, if borne in mind, will considerably help the beginner in first attempts, namely—

1. To select a road inclining slightly down-hill.

2. Stand on rather higher ground than the bicycle.

3. Incline the front wheel slightly to the right.

4. Be careful not to check the motion of the machine by too much pressure on the pedal after it passes its lowest point.

5. Do not catch the left pedal too quickly, or apply pressure before it passes the top centre.

There are five distinct methods of mounting for skirted riders, two of which are suitable for beginners only, the other three for more advanced riders.

I.

Imagine an individual who has some knowledge of riding, but who is unable to mount alone; refusing all offers of assistance she determines to assert her independence.

Standing on the left side of the machine with the right pedal just past its highest point, she steps across the frame, and places her right foot securely on the pedal, the saddle being so low that she is able to take her seat easily, the left foot being still on the ground. Then putting as much pressure as possible on the right pedal and pushing off with the left foot, she starts the machine—not perhaps without a few failures first, but nil desperandum. Independence must cost something, and if she will consider, I have no doubt her failure can be traced to one or the other of the above mentioned causes. But how tiring the ride will be, and how awkward the whole position, the knees moving most ungracefully high with each revolution of the pedal—all defects caused by the saddle being adjusted much too low.

II.

Now if she would only listen, I should advise her to raise her saddle inches higher until it is nearly on a level with the turn of the hip, and, if still determined to learn alone, wheel the machine to the kerbstone or other eminence, to enable her to seat herself in the saddle, and then push off as before. Her appearance once mounted is now greatly improved, and when I tell her so, after enjoying a nice little run with none of the previous feeling of tiredness, she is quite ready to listen to what further I have to say on the subject. Seeing that it is quite impracticable to always depend on the help of the friendly kerbstone, we will try and master mount

III.

Having already learnt the importance of the height of saddle or length of reach from pedal to saddle, first ascertain that this is adjusted correctly. When sitting{121} erect in the saddle with the leg straight and pedal at its lowest point, the heel of the foot should be able to rest on the centre bar of the pedal with ease. The saddle is now so high that it is impossible to sit on it with the foot still on the ground, so for this reason "The Spring Mount" is the term generally given to this method of mounting. Taking a fold of the skirt in the right hand, pass the right foot over the frame and place it securely on the right pedal when it is about half-way between its highest and lowest point, the left foot resting on the ground close to the machine and well before the left pedal, stand quite central with the body perfectly free from the saddle, then by standing on the right pedal the machine moves forward, the body is raised and drops gently back on to the saddle, the other pedal rises under the left foot ready for the next thrust forward, and the deed is done, easily, steadily, gracefully, but from the first there must be no hurry, no quick jump for the saddle, or scramble for the left pedal, but first the weight on the right pedal, then the saddle moves forward under one, and the downward thrust with the left foot preserves the balance. This is the mount most generally adopted, with more or less degree of efficiency, and on the whole is really difficult to improve upon; the only thing that can be said against it is, that the first position standing with the leg across the frame and the foot raised is not particularly graceful. Personally I much prefer mount

IV.

The near-side mount. It is more uncommon and infinitely prettier in my opinion when well done, than either of the others, but it requires a little practice to get the skirt to fall well. Stand close to the machine with the left foot on the left pedal, then firmly holding the handles throw all the weight on the pedal, at the same time springing forwards and sideways to the saddle. In first attempts all the fulness of the skirt invariably falls to the left; this can be remedied as the machine is in motion by a little forward movement throwing the weight on pedals and handle-bar, then as the skirt falls straight down, move centrally backwards to the saddle again. Be in no hurry to reach the saddle and the skirt will adjust itself. Move well forward with the downward movement of the pedal, throw the weight on the handles as it rises, the peak of the saddle will then divide the skirt as you take your seat and give your first thrust to the right pedal.

This is worth a little practice, as correctly done the skirt needs no arrangement with the hand, and the mount is certainly quicker and more graceful than any other.

V.

Is somewhat similar, but is done while the machine is in motion, and is therefore pre-eminently the mount for busy thoroughfares.

Walking on the left of the machine, give a quick hop with the right foot, placing the left on the pedal when in any position, then a sudden pull on the handles, will lift one forward on to the saddle without checking the motion of the machine.

This is a most useful mount for traffic and for all occasions where a quick mount is necessary. It will probably require considerable practice to accomplish successfully, but the feeling of complete mastery it gives one over the machine is worth some little trouble to acquire, and when the feat is accomplished, I think you will look back on the learning of a new method of mounting as another pleasure added to the many enjoyments of cycling.

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FILED—FOR REFERENCE!

He had let love and life slip past him, and now he lay a-dying, and love and life lay behind him for evermore.

Lying in his narrow bed, in the room which in all his days of grinding work, he had never troubled to make homelike or comfortable, his thoughts wandered back over the years with wearisome persistency. He had been a successful man. The name of John Saunders was known far and wide as the name of the shrewdest solicitor of his day; hard-headed, keen, practical—feared by friend and enemy alike; loved, men said, by none.

They called him "old Dryasdust" in his own office; they declared that his heart had withered away in the atmosphere of work and in the squirrel round of business in which he had lived. Some, indeed, went so far as to say that Nature had never provided him with a heart at all.

And now he lay dying—a lonely man, in his lonely chambers, looking wearily back across his life.

His grey head moved uneasily upon the pillows, arranged by his valet into clumsy discomfort; his eyes glanced restlessly round the room, turning almost impatiently from its severe dreariness, towards the window, through which he could just see a glimpse of a tree-top in the square garden.

He was tired, most dreadfully tired. It was a weariness to think, yet the busy brain, that in all his busy life had never learnt to rest, refused now to be stilled. Thick and fast there crowded before his mind memories of long forgotten cases, recollections of clients long since dead, worrying details of business, that had long ago been settled and done with.

His head moved again impatiently. He turned to look for the lemonade which should have been on the table by his bedside. An angry exclamation broke from him. The table with the lemonade was placed exactly where he could not reach it; what was the use of all his years of labour, of all the wealth he had acquired, if now he could not even obtain the common necessaries of life?

The electric bell beside the bed was close to his hand. He rang it furiously, and his valet arrived, panting and breathless.

"Why can't you put the things within my reach?" the old man asked irritably. "Am I to die of thirst, because you are careless?"

The servant moved the table nearer to his master, handed him the tumbler, and, in his own mind, considered the pros and cons of giving warning on the spot. A dim hope of a possible legacy gave the cons the victory, but the man did not remain in the sick-room a moment longer than was absolutely necessary. As he confided to the wife of the porter, in the basement, "Old Saunders was getting that unbearable in his illness, it was hard to stand him."

The sick man lay quiet after the servant had left him, his eyes fixed upon the waving green of the tree-tops in the square. A faint curiosity as to what tree it was that he could see, ran through his mind. Was it an elm, he wondered?

There had been elms in the meadow behind the old Rectory garden where he had played as a boy—great elms in which the rooks had built year after year. It was a long, long time since he had heard the soft cawing of the rooks. He had a faint remembrance of picking daisies and buttercups in those fields under the elms, whilst the rooks cawed soothingly overhead.

A little smile flickered across his hard old face. Perhaps the tree in the square was not an elm after all. It might be a lime. There had been limes in another garden, and the bees had hummed amongst their blossoms on that summer's day when—when—— Why, how many years ago was it? Forty? Fifty? Could it be forty years? He had been a young fellow then, at the beginning of his career, and life had been less crammed with work and business.

He moved restlessly.

Yes! He had been able then to notice the sweetness of a girl's eyes, to heed the music of a girl's voice.

Pshaw! It was utter folly to let his thoughts wander to so remote a past. What was the good of remembrance?

And yet—— If he had not been so wrapped up in his work, to the exclusion of everything human and loveable, he might now have had other hands than those of Richard his valet to tend him. A woman would have made his room look less like a prison cell. A woman would not have put his things just out of his reach. She would not have been in such a hurry to leave him to himself!

{122}

Again he stirred irritably. He hated the sight of those rustling leaves now, even though they held some strange fascination for him; but they reminded him too strongly of youth, and love, and happiness. And he had wilfully put them all away from him with his own hands. Ah! fool and blind that he had been! And now—now, he was old and dying—and alone!

The door opened softly. Richard stepped quietly in, and seeing that his master's eyes were shut, laid a note upon the table, and as quietly departed again.

"Bother the man!" old John Saunders muttered. "He seems afraid to stay with me. A letter for me? Strange—very strange." And he stretched out his hand and took up the envelope.

A faint sense of something familiar stirred within him as he glanced at the handwriting—a something which he could not quite recall out of the past. He opened the envelope and drew out the letter almost rapidly. It was very short.

"Dear John,—I wonder if I may still call you that, after all the years that have gone by? I would not have troubled you with a letter now, but that I heard, only to-day, that you are ill and alone. And I thought I must write to you for auld lang syne, and ask you whether you would let me come and see you. We are both old people now, John; but let me come to see you, for old sake's sake.

"Yours, as ever,
"Joan Bentley.

"P.S.—Did you never get the letter I wrote you more than thirty years ago?"

The letter dropped from his hands. The keen grey eyes grew dim.

It was strange that this should have come just when the remembrance had returned to him of the lime-trees in her father's garden, of the bees that had hummed among them forty years ago.

His dreary room faded from his sight. It was as if the walls melted into space, and he could feel the warm air of July blowing round him, smell the fragrance of the lime-flowers, step upon the softness of the smooth turf beneath his feet.

He was young again! A man with his life before him, and love within his grasp.

He could see the tall hollyhocks by the gate—the hollyhocks she loved. There were tall white lilies there as well. The sweetness of them filled the air, mingling with the scent of roses that clambered up the old red wall. The wood-pigeons cooed gently in the copse across the road, and the rooks cawed as they swung upon the boughs of the lime-trees.

And Joan's clear eyes looked into his; Joan's voice was in his ear.

"Oh, John, will it be long?" he heard her say. And his own voice, young and strong, replied:

"No, no, my dear—not long. How could I let it be long, when I shall be working for you? When I have made enough money I shall come and claim you. Your father is quite right not to allow a formal engagement till then. But we understand each other, Joan—my Joan!"

Strange! How the years had rolled away, and the world seemed full again, as it had seemed then, of Joan—Joan, and only Joan!

The vision slowly faded; the walls of the dull room returned to their places, the noise of the irritating clock on the mantelpiece replaced the soft voices of the wood-pigeons; he was an old man again, an old man who was alone—and dying!

But Joan had not forgotten. Joan's letter lay upon his bed. She had remembered for forty years; whilst he had forgotten everything, except the work to which he was a slave.

He picked up the letter once more and read the postscript first—

"Did you never get the letter I wrote you more than thirty years ago?"

Had he received it? What then had happened to it? A puzzled frown puckered his brow, as he struggled to recall the long past incident.

"I remember now," he exclaimed suddenly and aloud—"I remember! She wrote to me when I was in the midst of a press of work! Her letter was filed for reference—my Joan's letter filed for reference!"

His bell pealed through the house, and when Richard appeared, he found his master partially raised in bed, excited and breathless.

"Send to the office at once," he said; "tell them to send me up the files of the year —— immediately! And who brought this letter?"

"A lady called with it, sir. She said she would return for the answer in about an hour."

"Did she leave her name?"

"Yes, sir—Miss Joan Bentley, she wished me to say."

"When she comes back, bring her up to me"—and the old man sank exhausted on his pillows, his eyes closed, but a faint smile upon his lips.

It was less than an hour later when a little tap on the door aroused him.

"Come in," he said, not opening his eyes, till he heard the soft rustle of a dress beside his bed. Then he looked up, but it was the woman who spoke first.

"Why, John," she said brokenly—"why, John!" And all at once the shyness that had assailed her as she climbed the stairs slipped from her; the gulf of years that had seemed impassable became as nothing, and she dropped on her knees by the bed, looking into the tired old face upon the pillow, with wistful yearning eyes.

He put out his hand almost timidly, and laid it upon hers.

"How sweet the limes smelt, dear," he whispered, "and the bees hummed all the time among the flowers."

She thought for a moment that he was wandering, but he went on quietly.

"It was your letter that brought it all back. You have been faithful—all these years—and I—was a fool!"

Her clasp on his hand tightened.

"Did you forget," she asked—"did you forget? Was there someone else?"

The smile flickered out again upon his face.

"No, no, my dear, there was no someone else. There was nothing but my work—it wrapped me round, it has made me a successful man—and it—has spoilt my life! They call me Dryasdust, you know," his weak voice went on. "Somebody told me once that I had no heart."

"Ah, but it wasn't true," she said.

"Wasn't it? I don't know; I was a fool, and blind—I—but now it is too late, my Joan."

The little caressing words came strangely from the thin lips, but the hard, old face had softened in some unaccountable fashion.

"Is it ever too late for love?" she asked, and her hand touched gently the thin grey hair upon his temples.

"I have wasted my life, and yours," he answered drearily. "We might have been together all these years—all the long, long years—with our children round us—and now—it is nearly over. I am old, and dying, and you——"

"I am old too, my dear; perhaps it will not be long before—before——" her voice faltered and broke.

"Are you old?" he said; "your eyes are just what I remember, and your voice—it seems to me you are just the same as when I said good-bye to you under the lime-trees."

"Did you never get my other letter, John?" she said, after a moment or two. "I sent it to you ten years after you left me, because—because the silence was unbearable. Did you get it?"

"Yes, I got it; and I was busy—very, very busy. It brought me the scent of the garden, and the memory of you; and then—then I set it aside for a more convenient season, and it—ah, Joan!—it was filed for reference. Forgive me—Joan!"

Her caressing hand stroked his hair more tenderly, though her eyes filled with tears.

"We shall find it here," he said a little later, when Richard had deposited a great pile of letters beside him. "I was always methodical in my work—the letter will be here. Will you look for it?" His voice was so much weaker, that she looked at him with startled eyes, and the valet, returning, held a glass of cordial to his lips.

The two were alone again after that. Amongst the pile of old and faded letters the woman had found her own—the tiny girlish scrap, written impetuously, in a girl's impatient misery of long ago.

"Send me just one word," it ran—"only one word, to tell me that you have not forgotten."

A little bitterness surged up within her as she read again the scrap of faded writing, the old agony out of the past stirred once more at her heart.

"If I might make a daisy-chain for you, Joan—my Joan! How the rooks caw to-night! Do you hear them, dear?" The weak voice spoke dreamily; the bitterness in her heart died away. She laid her face softly against the tired face on the pillow.

"My poor boy," she whispered—"my poor boy!"

"And the limes—are so sweet," he rambled on. "I think—it is—the bees—that hum so loudly in my ears. Give me a rose, sweetheart. It—is getting dark—so dark for you—out here in the garden. You must go in. The wood-pigeons are quiet now, only how white the lilies shine—against the darkness; and the bees—the bees are humming still, and the—limes—are—so sweet."

For a moment the tired voice stopped, then began again:

"Never a someone else, my Joan, only you. And the years slipped, and I forgot how fast they went; we will have hollyhocks—in our own garden, dear."

The doctor, summoned by Richard, had entered the room, but he shook his head sadly, and moved towards the door.

"There is nothing to be done," he whispered to the servant, "we had better leave them alone. There is nothing we can do."

The room was very still, save only for the laboured breathing of the dying man. The woman's hand still softly stroked his hair; he lay so quietly that she thought he had passed out of consciousness into that strange borderland which is Death's ante-chamber.

The setting sunlight streamed into the room and across his face; the twittering of the birds in the square, the soft rustling of the wind in the tree-tops, were borne in at the half-open window.

Suddenly the dying man opened his eyes in full consciousness.

"I knew you would not leave me," he whispered. "I—said—a woman would stay—with me, it was—you I meant. I—have wasted my life—God forgive me! You have forgiven, my dear—a faithful woman—has forgiven—I think—God—will forgive—too—I—am taking"—his voice almost failed—"my wasted life—with me—to be—to be"—a little whimsical smile stole over his face—"to be—filed—for—reference."

L. G. Moberly.

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{123}

OUR LILY GARDEN.

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

By CHARLES PETERS.

For the last three months cut blossoms of Lilium Speciosum have decorated our table in the centre of London, and have afforded our friends and us real delight, creating subject for discussion at the dinner-table such as we have never known in connection with any other cut flowers.

Perhaps this has arisen from the fact that the floral decorations consisted of flowers of one botanical group only, making a truly consistent nosegay, and creating from its very uniqueness fit subject for special questionings and interest. Of course in the group there were several colours. The Speciosum Album and the varieties of white, the Speciosum Roseum with its varieties of lovely rose-colour, and finally the deep and rich Speciosum Melpomone. Nothing in the way of table decoration could be more æsthetic and cheerful-looking than an arrangement of such blossoms, in which we find real white mingled with a lovely purple red, and with nothing but the right gradations of colour between.

In the days of old it was the custom to group flowers of every conceivable colour—reds, blues, pinks, yellow, and others; but now we know better, two colours or three being the most effective scheme for table or bouquet effect, and in all our experience we have never found any general appearance more pleasing than that of our group of Lilium Speciosum.

One of the greatest testimonies to the value of these flowers is that the buds will develop and open into blossoms of their natural size while in water in a close room of a London square, and another reason for their value is that they last two or three weeks if attended to about every other day, that is, longer than any other cut flower of our cultivation.

A month ago we took up to town a bunch of Lilium Speciosum from our little country garden to garnish the dinner-table of a well-known doctor on the day of his golden wedding. There were, we were told, many other groups of flowers sent by friends for such an interesting occasion, but although many were from hot-houses, and some were valuable orchids, the group of Lilium Speciosum, so easy and so inexpensive to rear, had the place of honour, was admired the most, and lasted the longest number of days.

But we must not forget to mention an incident which happened to us while carrying this particular bunch through a City street from the railway terminus. We became conscious of a footstep close behind us, and felt that someone was keeping close to the flowers as they dangled at our side; but walking on unheeding, we presently relaxed our speed, when the follower made a semi-circle round the bouquet, watching it greedily until he faced it and us; then he turned and hastily disappeared, but not before we recognised in the London-dressed man a young and handsome Japanese! The flowers came from his distant land, and maybe reminded him of a home, a mother, or a sweetheart, and all so far away. We have ever since been ashamed of ourselves for not offering him one of the blossoms for a buttonhole.

The discouraging news given at the end of our first chapter led us to think: "Lilies will not grow in pots, but some kinds do fairly well in the open." "Lilies though suitable for pot plants are unsatisfactory for the flower-bed." Surely it is impossible to reconcile these two statements. Either one or both opinions must be incorrect. We must settle this point, and we can easily do so by growing lilies, both in pots and in the open ground.

We have before told you that we have ourselves grown eighty-seven distinct kinds of lilies. We have grown them in pots and in the open. We have obtained great satisfaction from both.

Few flowers are easier to grow in pots than lilies, and as they form probably the finest of all pot plants the culture of lilies in pots deserves more attention than it has heretofore received.

There are two ways of potting lilies, each of which has its advantages and uses, so we will describe both methods.

The first method is the simplest. Take a large flower-pot. No lily should be grown in a pot less than six inches in diameter. Of course the pot must vary in size with the size of the plant it has to contain. Lilium Concolor and Elegans grow well in six-inch pots; L. Auratum or Speciosum should have an eight or ten-inch pot, while L. Giganteum will require the largest sized pot procurable or a small tub.

One bulb only should be placed in each pot if absolutely perfect plants are desired; but very pretty effects can be obtained by growing two or three bulbs in a large pot or tub.

See that the pot is perfectly clean. Place about an inch depth of crocks, stones, etc., at the bottom, then put three inches of the prepared soil in the pot, and over this place a thin layer of peat, mixed with sharp sand and pieces of charcoal. Take the bulb, examine it, remove diseased scales and wash it in lime water, as you did in the case of the lilies you planted out last month. Dust it over with powdered charcoal and place it in the pot surrounded with sharp sand and peat. Then fill up the pot with the prepared soil.[1]

In potting lilies, deep potting is to be aimed at. No bulb should be placed at a less depth than four inches below the surface. Large bulbs require to be six, eight, or even twelve inches below the surface of the soil. The reason for this deep potting is that the flower stems send out roots above the bulb, and it is essential that these roots should be below the surface of the soil.

The second method of potting bulbs is similar in all respects to the above, except that the pots are not filled up at once. When you have placed the bulb in the pot you add a little soil, but leave the top of the bulb exposed. When growth commences, which will be shown by the appearance of roots and flower stems, you fill up the pots with the prepared soil.

Established bulbs and bulbs of the hardier lilies are best potted by the former method, but for bulbs received from abroad, especially those of the more tender species, the second method of potting is to be preferred.

Now that you have potted your lilies the question arises, Where shall you keep the pots? For the majority of lilies the best place is either a garden or a balcony. Lilies are too tall growing for window plants and it is totally unnecessary to coddle them up in rooms.

There are some lilies which will not come to perfection out of doors in our uncertain climate, except in very favourable seasons. These kinds, many of them among the finest of the tribe, will, however, grow admirably in a conservatory or room.

If lilies are grown in rooms, they should be put out of doors every fine day, as they require sun to mature their flowers.

The lilies which are not sufficiently hardy for the open air are, Wallichianum, Harrisii, Philippinense, Neilgherrense, Formosanum, Nepaulense, and Catesbaei. (With the exception of Neilgherrense, all these lilies will grow well out of doors in our southern counties in exceptionally fine seasons.)

November is over; our lilies are planted. How are we to treat them before the flowering season arrives?

Lilies out in the ground require but very little attention until the shoots appear. In severe winters Lilium Giganteum, Cordifolium, Speciosum, and one or two others, should be protected by bracken or other litter; but lilies stand the frost remarkably well, and rarely suffer from this cause before the flower shoots appear. Lilies grow all through the winter, forming roots. Lilium Candidum puts up an autumn growth of leaves, and occasionally other lilies do the same. When the shoots appear more attention is required. Those kinds which send up shoots in January, February, or March may need slight protection, such as a hand light, from frosts. As the season advances you must guard against two great enemies—slugs and drought. A dry April, not at all an unusual occurrence, will often do great damage in the lily garden.

During growth lilies require a very large amount of water. In a dry season it is a good plan to water them every day. An insufficient supply of water is one of the commonest causes of failure with lilies.

With lilies in pots only an occasional watering will be required before the shoots appear. As soon as this stage is reached they should be watered daily until the flower-buds appear.

{124}

If only we could guard against slugs! These are the greatest of all pests to the lily grower, and though there are many infallible preventives against slugs used and sold, not one of them answers its purpose. Soot is usually regarded as the best agent to use to prevent slugs from eating the tender spring growth of lilies. The soot is thickly dusted round the plant, and as slugs very much dislike any powder which adheres to their slimy bodies, they will not venture across the sooty track. No, they will not cross the soot—at least not until the soot gets damp, as it does after the first heavy dew or shower of rain. As soon as the soot gets wet it is no longer a deterrent to slugs. Lime is also recommended to be used in the same way as soot; but it, too, fails to serve its purpose when it has once become damp.

Then have we no way to keep down the ravages of slugs? Yes!—we have one way, a very excellent way, but a most tedious and unpleasant one to carry out. The only effective way of thwarting the ravages of the slugs is to pick off by hand the culprits, while they are gorging themselves in the evening.

Go out as soon as the sun is set with a lanthorn and a gallipot filled with strong brine, and visit each lily-shoot in succession. You will see the slugs congregated on your pets by hundreds, from the little tiny fellow of one-quarter of an inch long, who is eating your best lilies in order that he may grow into a larger and more capacious enemy, to the slimy monster of six inches long, who is attempting to fill his vast maw with lilies of great value. All are there, all devouring your best specimens, as though you were their most hated enemy—as indeed you will be if you want your garden to look gay. These slugs are not, as one would suppose, dirty feeders, but they are gourmands of the deepest dye. They are not content with the outside or decaying leaves—not they—they want the very tenderest tops of the young shoots! When the lilies are about a foot high, they will not eat the leaves at the base, they must needs crawl up the stem to feed on the tender growing top of the plants. But now you can have your revenge. Pick off with your fingers[2] every slug you can see, be he little or great, and put him into the brine. The brine kills and dissolves them in a very short time.

Some gardeners place cabbage-leaves, etc., on the ground as "traps" for slugs, but alas! the tender lily shoot is far more tickling to the palate of a slug than any cabbage-leaf!

The damage which slugs can do to lilies is incredible, and unless these pests are summarily dealt with, every lily in a garden may be decapitated ere the summer commences. One reason why lilies in pots do so well is that it is not so easy for the slug to get at them.

The lilies are singularly exempt from the ravages of animals other than slugs. The aphides or green flies are, however, often very troublesome. We will refer to this pest when talking of the treatment of lilies just before and during the flowering stage.

The leaves of some lilies are sometimes eaten by the larvæ of the Lily Beetle (Crioceris Merdigera), but as this insect is a great rarity in England, we will not describe it.

There is neither animal nor plant which is exempt from disease, and the lily has inherited this universal tendency to disease. There are not many common diseases of lilies, and very few even of these do much damage to more than one or two kinds. But some of these diseases give great trouble to the lily grower, and often tax his patience to the utmost.

Some lilies are very prone to a form of mildew which, beginning as a minute spot of discolouration on one leaf, eventually destroys the whole of the foliage and flower-buds, and turns a beautiful, well-grown, apparently healthy lily into a brown slimy stick.

This disease usually begins to show itself about the middle of May. A small grayish transparent spot appears on one leaf, and in about a month it has spread and completely destroyed the plant. Not all lilies suffer from this disease, and of those which are liable to be attacked, not all suffer to the same extent. Of all lilies, Lilium Candidum is the most frequently attacked, and in this lily the disease usually destroys the deciduous portion of the plant altogether. The other members of the Eulirion group of lilies: L. Brownii, Wallichianum, Washingtonianum, etc., are also frequently attacked, but are rarely much injured by it. It also occurs on L. Speciosum, L. Superbum, L. Canadense, and, indeed, most kinds of lily; but in these it rarely attacks the flower-head and does not, in our experience, do much harm. We have never seen the disease in L. Auratum, L. Tigrinum, or L. Longiflorum.

Of the cause of this calamity we know but little, but we rather think that it is often due to growing lilies in soils which are too poor or are exhausted. This, indeed, seems highly probable in the case of Lilium Candidum, the most frequently attacked of all lilies, for it is grown by most people without any care being given to it, and made to shift in a dry sandy garden exposed to the full blaze of the sun and scarcely ever watered. Where lilies can have a good rich soil, with plenty of water, the disease is very uncommon.

Once established, this disease is very difficult to cure. Syringing with solution of sulphuretted potash, or of sulphur boiled in lime{125} water, will sometimes stop it, but too frequently the disease runs its course to the bitter end. If you uproot the plant and examine its bulb and root, you will find both quite healthy-looking.

There is another disease which, though not so devastating to the lily garden as the last, is yet very exasperating and even more fatal in its results.

Here is a beautiful strong growing Lilium Auratum, eight feet high, just showing its flower buds, and showing a large series of beautiful glossy leaves. Next week we notice that the lower two or three leaves are yellow and withered. Every day more and more leaves die, and eventually what was once a beautiful plant is now a naked stalk with a girdle of fallen yellow leaves and buds around it. Dig up the plant and examine its bulb and roots. The base of the bulb is gone! And its place is taken by a mass of evil-smelling pulp. Swarms of little thread-like worms will be seen twisting about all over the diseased portion. It seems natural to think that these worms are the cause of the evil, but we do not think that this is so. The worms are the result, not the cause of the disease.

Lilium Auratum and L. Speciosum are the two lilies which mainly suffer from this disease, but other kinds are occasionally attacked. When once manifest, no treatment has any effect. Take up the plant as soon as you are certain that this disease has started, thoroughly wash the bulb in water, and let it soak in lime water for three days. Then thickly cover with powdered charcoal, and replant. If you do this the bulb may recover, and send up a good spike of blossoms next year. If you have bought good bulbs, and have planted them as we directed last month, you need not fear that you will lose many plants from this disease. Of one hundred and six lilies which we had in pots this year we have only lost one from this cause.

Yet another disease to irritate and discourage the lily grower! Look at this Lilium Humboldti. Its leaves are well developed, and it already shows five flower-buds, but on closer observation you will see that the stalks which support these buds are black and withered. Or see this L. Martagon, which shows a head of twenty blossoms. Touch these blossoms, or gently shake the stem, and five or six buds drop off! These buds, you will observe, have a black rotten base!

This disease is caused by three or four causes. If the bulbs have been planted in a poor or dry soil, or if the spot is unsuitable, you will lose many of your lilies from this cause. Bulbs which have not been properly ripened often disappoint you in this way. Again, if you delay planting your bulbs till February or March, you must expect to be treated in this way. But the most common cause of all is the presence of mildew among the scales. You can guard against this by paying attention to the methods described in our last number.

There are three other ways by which lilies may disappoint you. They may either not come up at all, or they may come out but fail to produce flowers, or they produce flowers which are damaged and are deformed or discoloured.

The first of these untoward results is usually due to the bulb having rotted in the ground. You can do nothing for this but bear the{126} loss philosophically. You should remember, however, that some lilies, especially Lilium Longiflorum, often lie dormant for a year, but come up the next year better than ever.

No lily will flower every year, and some lilies require a year or two to get accustomed to a new home. These will not flower the first year. As a rule, when a bulb does not send up a flowering shoot, the bulb itself grows to a very large size.

It is most annoying to see a lily which promises well belie itself and produce either a deformed or a cankered flower. The cause of the first is almost always green fly. To this we will refer later. The cause of the latter is either too poor soil, abuse of liquid manure, or continuous rain just before the flowers open.

Lilies like the rain. If the weather were arranged to please a lily, it would rain every day from the time when the shoot appears till the flowering period has arrived. But lilies object to rain from the time that the buds begin to change from green to white, or whatever colour the bud will eventually become, until the flower is fully opened. It is here that lilies grown in pots have the pull over those grown in the open ground, for if a spell of rainy weather occurs at the wrong time, the pots can be taken indoors or placed under shelter, which is impossible in the case of lilies grown in the open. But something can be done for the lilies which are exposed to the weather. The buds can either be wrapped round with oiled paper, or else they can be sheltered by an old umbrella tied to a stick. By this latter means we have saved many valuable lilies from disaster.

Lilies vary much in their powers of enduring excessive rain at the flowering period. Lilium Auratum, Candidum, and some others are nearly always ruined when they happen to flower in a spell of rainy weather. Lilium Giganteum, Concolor, Tigrinum, and many others stand rain at their flowering time with ease.

Do not be frightened at this chapter of possible calamities. Although it comes so early in our series, do not let it damp your enthusiasm. These diseases have to be described, and we have described them, but though they are, unfortunately, far from uncommon, if you grow lilies carefully you will not lose many from any of these causes. We have grown many hundred lilies, we have seen all these adverse conditions, but they have not damped our ardour. We lose a few lilies every season, but then there are plenty which give us full satisfaction; and lilies are such gorgeous plants! If you were to lose half of your stock, and the other half were satisfactory, you would not complain at the result, for the good half would delight you and your friends as no other flowers would.

(To be continued.)

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

By FLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.

CHAPTER II.

THE PLAN OF OPERATIONS.

As we have seen, the incomes of our three friends amounted altogether to £270 a year. In the winter months the accounts for the rent of the rooms, coal, gas, candles, and similar expenses came to £1 3s. 6d. each week, as the following accounts set forth—

For about a month in the year the three were away, Marion in her own home in Nottinghamshire, and the Orlingburys staying with different friends and relations. Ada Orlingbury had only three weeks holiday in the summer, and not quite a week at Christmas, but was busy with her type-writing all the rest of the year. Jane had a far longer rest from her cookery classes than Ada from her work, and Marion had longer holidays than either. When all were away they paid rent for their rooms just the same, but, of course, had no other household expenses. Marion was a very economical housekeeper and understood how to keep down expenses as low as possible, whilst still having everything comfortable. We must admit that very acceptable "helps" arrived sometimes from their friends in the country. It might be a large box of eggs, or a "hand" of pork, or perhaps a bag of apples, but this did not happen very often. Once a week they had a dinner without meat, but this was no hardship to any of the three, for all liked vegetables, fruit and fish, and this arrangement made things much easier for the housekeeper.

Marion had quite grasped the fact that the best way to keep down the bills was to economise with the butcher's bill, for meat is the most expensive item of all. They had soup very often, as nice soup can be made for so little. They indulged largely in savoury dishes of macaroni and rice, some recipes for which we shall give in the course of this account of the girl-chums and their doings.

Once a week, on Wednesday evenings, they went to a choral society to which they belonged, and, as they had to start at seven o'clock, instead of sitting down to dinner at that hour, they found it more convenient to have a sort of "high tea" on that evening and to have hot milk and cake or porridge when they came back.

We must not forget to say that on alternate mornings they had porridge for breakfast, which Marion cooked the day before in a double saucepan, whilst she was seeing to her other cookery and which was warmed up in the morning. They generally supplemented this with scones, which Jane, with her superior knowledge of food-stuffs, pronounced to be very nourishing. On Sundays they dined at two o'clock. For this meal they often had meat pie, as that could be made the day before and heated, or eaten cold, as they preferred, or they chose something that did not take long to cook, such as cutlets.

Marion found her path made easy by some of the tradesmen with whom she dealt, who were very accommodating to her wishes, and never in the least resented her subtle knowledge of ways and means, as they undoubtedly did in the case of some other of their customers' housekeepers of many years' standing and very much Marion's seniors in years! Mr. Calvesfoot, the butcher, for instance, let her have fat for rendering down at 2d. a pound, and so she was able to have a constant supply of excellent dripping for frying and for pastry at the slightest possible cost. She started her stock with four pounds at the beginning, and by straining it each time after using it, and by rendering down one and a half pounds of fresh fat each week and adding it to the stock, she always had plenty of good dripping. To do this she cut up the fat and put it in a saucepan with a little water, and then let it cook until the water had boiled away and the fat had melted, leaving nothing but crisp little brown bits; the liquid fat was strained off and the crisp brown bits saved for Abigail, by whom they were esteemed a great luxury. To others Mr. Calvesfoot was adamant, and declined to part with the fat under double the sum, but Marion (who was asked the extra price at first) refused to take "No" for an answer, and asked him calmly why he could not let her have it cheaply as well as the soap-boilers whose carts she had seen waiting before his shop early in the morning, and who she knew only gave him a penny a pound for it.

At the exhibition of so much knowledge he was dumb, and fell in with her views with much meekness, as no doubt he would have done for his other customers if they had not allowed themselves to be beaten so weakly.

She always provided a hot dinner as she found that, with proper management, it cost no more than a cold one, and it was infinitely more appreciated. She had learnt just how much was required of any given thing, and so there was no waste. The little that was left over from their dinner was always worked into the next day's meals, or else was finished up by Abigail on the alternate days when she had dinner at "The Rowans."

Here we have the list of a week's dinners in February.

On Sunday they had a light supper at half-past eight, consisting of cocoa, boiled eggs, and bread and butter.

Saturday and Sunday were the only days on which they were at home to tea.

The breakfast for the week, on non-porridge mornings, consisted of brawn, which Marion had made a fortnight before, when they had had half a pig's face sent them from the country. The brawn was excellently flavoured.

Dinners for the Week.

Sunday.

• Beef and Kidney Pie.
• Baked Potatoes.
• Pineapple in Syrup.
• Rice Mould.

Monday.

• Cabbage Soup.
• Boiled Beef and Kidney Pudding.
• Boiled Potatoes.
• Cabbage.
• Jam Tarts.

Tuesday.

• Irish Stew.
• Apple Pie.

Wednesday. (High Tea Night.)

• Stuffed Herrings.
• Scones.
• Cocoa.

Thursday.

• Potato Soup.
• Curried Fish.
• Ginger Pudding.

Friday.

• Stewed Rabbit and Forcemeat Balls.
• Brussels Sprouts.
• Baked Potatoes.
• Swiss Roll.

Saturday.

• Brown Soup.
• Boiled Potatoes.
• Boiled Artichokes.
• Tapioca Pudding.

{127}

The beef pie which they had on Sunday and the beef pudding of Monday were both made out of a pound and a quarter of beef skirt, which, costing only ninepence a pound, makes just as good gravy as rump steak, and if cooked long enough is very tender. The half that was used for the pie was cut into rather thin pieces, and half the kidney was cut in dice; then all was dipped in pepper, flour, and salt, and put into a saucepan to stew gently for an hour before it was used for the pie. Marion always did this now, as she had noticed that if the meat was put raw into the pie, the pastry got overcooked before the meat was done. It was not necessary to do this with the pudding, however, as that could be boiled for a very long while—in fact, was all the better for long boiling.

For the pastry for the pie she used half a pound of flour mixed with a good teaspoonful of baking powder, and three ounces of dripping rubbed in lightly. Her hands seldom got hot, so she made delicious pastry, and as she was careful not to pour in too much water, when mixing the flour and dripping to a dough, it was not tough. She mixed in the water quickly and lightly, using a knife to begin the mixing and finishing with her hands, keeping it as cool as possible while it was being made, and being very careful not to squeeze it, or work it about more than was absolutely necessary. The pastry was rolled out quickly and lightly, and the pie was baked in a good hot oven, and it was voted a great success. The pineapple needed no cooking, being the contents of a sixpenny tin turned on to a glass dish. The ground rice mould was made with a pint of milk brought gently to the boil with two ounces of castor sugar and a bay leaf to flavour, two ounces of ground rice were mixed smoothly with a little cold milk while this was happening, and stirred into the milk on the fire; the mixture was stirred and cooked for a few minutes and the bay leaf taken out, then it was poured into a wetted mould to be turned out when cold.

On Monday Marion made the quarter of a large cabbage do for the soup, and the rest she cooked as a vegetable. The cabbage for the soup was cut up small and put into boiling water for three minutes to take away the disagreeable smell; then it was drained and put with a small onion sliced, a bunch of herbs, a small piece of butter, a teaspoonful of salt, and simmered for twenty minutes; half a pint of warm milk was added, and a beaten-up egg strained in. The soup was then stirred over the fire for a few minutes to cook the egg, but was on no account allowed to boil for fear of its curdling, as happened, alas! on one occasion when Marion left her handmaid Abigail to watch it for a minute or two.

All stews were done in a brown earthenware stewing jar that was one of her most cherished possessions. While the stew within it was cooking, the jar stood in a dripping tin containing water in the oven; by this means the contents of the jar never boiled, though the water outside it might do so, and if the stew cooked long enough it was always perfectly tender. As the heat of the fire did not hurt the look of the jar, the stews were always served in it, which arrangement had the double advantage of saving time and keeping the dish hot. The Irish stew of Tuesday was made with one and a half pounds of scrag of mutton, three pounds of potatoes, and half a pound of onions, all sliced and cooked gently for two hours. There was a good deal over, so it was used on Thursday, with the addition of a few more potatoes, half a pint of water, a gill of milk, and a piece of celery, to make a delicious potato soup. The milk was added last after the soup had been rubbed through a sieve and re-heated. For the apple pie a pound of apples of a good cooking sort were used, and these turned a beautiful amber colour in the pie. They had such a good flavour of their own that no cloves were needed to assist them.

The herrings on Wednesday were boned, spread with veal stuffing, rolled up, brushed with milk and rolled in brown crumbs, then packed in a greased dripping tin and baked for twenty-five minutes. They made a substantial meal; on the next day there were one and a half one over, which were sliced up and put into the curried fish. The scones were mixed with milk that was slightly sour, as they are always lightest when so made.

The forcemeat balls that went with the rabbit on Friday were made of veal stuffing, fried separately, and served on a hot plate instead of going in the jar with the rabbit. The Swiss roll was made in the morning before the rabbit was put to cook. The brown soup of Saturday was made by frying lightly some pieces of carrot, onion, turnip and celery in a little dripping, and then pouring in the gravy from the rabbit, and adding any pieces or bones that were left. The lid was put on, and the soup simmered an hour and a half; then it was rubbed through a sieve, returned to the fire, brought to the boil, and thickened with an ounce of flour mixed with a little cold gravy.

When Marion looked through her accounts (which she kept scrupulously) on Saturday, she found that her food expenses had been as follows:—

With this account of her expenditure she was perfectly content. Her aim was to keep the money spent on food below ten shillings a head, and this week she was well within the margin.

(To be continued.)

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ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MEDICAL.

{128}

STUDY AND STUDIO.

OUR OPEN LETTER-BOX.

MISCELLANEOUS.

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OUR PUZZLE POEMS.

FOREIGN AWARDS.

Prepositions.

Prize Winners (Half-a-Guinea Each).

• Helen Shilstone, Ellangowan, Fontabelle, Barbados.
• Mrs. Talbot Smith, Adelaide, S. Australia.

Very Highly Commended.

J. W. W. Hogan (Penang), Laura O'Sullivan (Rangoon).

Highly Commended.

Mrs. G. Marrett (Hyderabad).

Honourable Mention.

M. Browne (Oudh), Elsie V. Davies (Australia), Clara J. Hardy (Australia), Lily Harman (Benares), Elizabeth Lang (France), Maud C. Ogilvie (Deccan), Hilda D'Rozario (Bangalore).

A Short Story in Verse.

Prize Winner (One Guinea).

Elizabeth MacPherson, Umbango, Tarcutta, N. S. W., Australia.

Very Highly Commended.

Lizzie Cameron (S. Africa).

Highly Commended.

Nellie M. Daft (Portugal), E. Violet Davies (Australia), E. H. Glass (Oudh), Mrs. Hardy, Clara J. Hardy (Australia), Caroline Hunt (Tasmania), M. R. Laurie (Barbados), Maud C. Ogilvie, K. Prout (Deccan), E. Nina Reid (New Zealand), Mrs. Sprigg (Cape Colony).

Honourable Mention.

Ethel Beven (Ceylon), Winifred Bizzey (Canada), Gertrude Burden (S. Australia), Milicent Clark (S. Australia), Lillian Dobson (Australia), Maggie Douglas (N. Zealand), John A. FitzMaurice (Australia), "Gertrude" (Transvaal), Lily Harman (Benares), L. Hill (Argentine Republic), Miss Horne (N. Zealand), Margie C. Lewis (Johannesburg), J. McDougal (Jamaica), Mrs. Daisy McFedries (N. Zealand), Mrs. S. F. Moore (W. Australia), Mrs. E. E. Murray (Australia), Violet Sellers (Portugal), J. S. Summers (Bombay), Mrs. H. L. Thompson (St. Vincent, W. I.), Herbert Traill (Bombay), Fred. Walker (W. Australia).

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*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 50745 ***