The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 1002, by Various.

“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 XXIV.

A BARRED WINDOW.

ow the next fortnight passed, Roy never afterwards could recall. He was sick and dazed with the shock he had had, grieving for Will Peirce, and all but hopeless. He had ceased to care for food, and, though he slept much, passing hours at a time in heavy doze, it was not the kind of sleep to rest him. Life at this time seemed awfully hard to live. Sometimes he envied little Will.

The Colonel, who had spoken to him that day, spoke to him again often when they met in the yard; and Roy was grateful, but he could not rouse himself. He had lost all interest in what went on around him. He hated the yard, and he always kept as far as possible from the spot where that terrible exposure had taken place.

His one longing was to know how the other poor boys in the hospital were; but accounts in that direction were uncertain and not to be relied upon.

About a fortnight later, one cold afternoon, he was leaning against the wall at the further end, hardly thinking, only drearily enduring. He became aware of a man coming across the yard, carrying a large basket, or hotte, piled up with loose wood—not a gendarme, but evidently one employed in the fortress on manual work.

Something about the fellow arrested Roy’s attention, though why it should be so Roy had no idea. He was of medium height, broad-shouldered and long-limbed, and he walked in a slouching manner. As he drew near the basket tilted over, raining the whole mass of wood at Roy’s feet.

“Hallo!” exclaimed Roy.

The man muttered something, and went slowly down upon his knees to pick up the wood. No one else was near. A body of prisoners had been that morning removed elsewhere, and the yard was not so full as usual. Roy, after a moment’s hesitation, good-naturedly bent to help; and as he did so, their faces came close together.

“Hist!” was whispered cautiously.

Roy started.

“Hist!”—again. “Does monsieur know me? But not a word—hist!”

Roy drew one quick breath. Then he picked up more pieces of wood, tossing them into the hotte. He cast another glance at the man, his whole being on the alert. In an instant he saw again the small French town, the crowd in front of the hôtel de ville, the released conscript, the old mother clinging to Denham’s hands, and Denham’s compassionate face. All was clear.

“Jean Paulet,” he breathed.

“Hist!”—softly.

“But—you are he?”

“Oui, M’sieu.”

Jean piled some of the wood together, with unnecessary fuss and noise.

“Will M’sieu not betray that he has seen me before? It is important.”

“Oui.”

Roy tossed two more bits of wood into the hotte. Then he stood up, yawned, and stared listlessly in another direction. After which he hung lazily over the hotte, as if to play with the wood, and under cover of it a touch of cold steel came against his left hand.

“Hist!”—at the same instant.

Roy grasped and slipped the something securely out of reach and out of sight, without a moment’s hesitation. His right hand still turned over the wood.

“Bon!” Jean murmured, making a considerable clatter. Then, low and clearly—“Listen! If M’sieu will file away the bar of his window—ready to be removed—I will be there outside, to-morrow night after dark. When M’sieu hears a whistle—hist! But truly this weight is considerable—oui, M’sieu—and a poor man like me may not complain.”

Jean hitched up the big hotte, now full, and passed on, grumbling audibly, while Roy strolled back to his former position. His heart was beating like a hammer, and he dreaded lest he might betray his change of mood in his face. To return to his former dejected attitude was not easy when new life was stirring in every vein; but he managed to shirk observation, and when two o’clock came it was a relief to be alone in his cell. He could safely there fling his arms aloft in a frenzy of delight.

If only little Will might have escaped with him! That thought lay as a weight of sorrow in his joy.

But there was little leisure for regrets. He had a task to accomplish in a given time, and it might not be an easy task. Many a time he had examined the stout iron bar wedged firmly in across the small window. If that could be taken out, he would be able to squeeze himself through; but to take out the bar, or at least to move it on one side, meant first to file nearly through it—quite through, indeed, for the noise of breaking it might not be risked. What might lie on the other side, down below, he could only guess, since the deep embrasure within, and the thickness of the wall without, prevented him from seeing.

The gendarmes visited him at stated intervals, and he could pretty well reckon upon their visits; yet he knew well that he was never secure against a sudden interruption at any moment. He had to work at the bar in a difficult and cramped position, supporting himself in a corner of the slanting embrasure and filing lightly, so that no sound should reach the ears of any passer-by outside, while his own hearing had to be incessantly strained towards the cell-door to catch the faintest intimation of anybody entering.

One narrow escape of detection he had. Absorbed in his toil, he failed to hear the first preliminary click of the lock, and the door began to open. Roy flung himself to the ground, reckless of bruises, and the noise of his fall was happily drowned in the creak of the door. When the gendarme entered, he found a sleepy prisoner, lying with head on folded arms. Roy wondered that the thumping of his heart did not betray him.

Thoughtful Jean had provided him with three files; and but for this the plan would have proved a failure. Two of them broke. The third held out to the end.

A good part of the night he worked, growing terrified lest the task should not be done in time. In the dark, by feeling instead of sight, silently and persistently, despite aching muscles, he kept on at it. His hands were strained and bleeding, and next day he had carefully to guard them from notice. In the morning he was again up in the embrasure—after the usual visit from a gendarme—filing, filing, softly and steadily. By mid-day he had worked his way through the heavy bar.

Roy stirred it cautiously. Yes, it yielded. The other end alone would not hold it firm. One good wrench, and it could be forced aside.

That was all he had now to do. The bar would have to remain in position till the last moment. He cleared away every speck of iron filing, and then he had to go into the yard. What if the gendarmes should examine the cell during his absence and find out what he had done? What if, any hour before night, they should take it into their heads to test the bar? What if, before Jean came, Roy himself should be removed elsewhere? Then came another question. What if his mother’s prayers were being answered?

And by-and-by the afternoon had waned away without any mischance, and the gendarme’s evening visit had been safely paid. Roy’s allowance of food lay upon the floor, the window had{371} not been examined, and Roy was left alone for the night. He wisely disposed of the food, knowing that he would need all his strength. Then he waited, minute after minute, in a suspense hardly to be imagined, not to be described.

A slight faint whistle, close to the window.

In a moment Roy was up in the slanting embrasure, where for hours he had clung, getting through his task.

Jean’s hand met his, and together, noiselessly, they wrenched the bar aside.

“Hist! Be still as death!” whispered Jean.

Roy squeezed himself through the opening, Jean’s grasp steadying him. He found his feet to be resting on the topmost rung of a ladder. Jean whispered one or two directions, then himself went down and held it firm below while Roy followed. Little need was there to bid the boy be quiet in his movements. The slightest sound might betray them, destroying every hope of escape.

The moment Roy reached the bottom, Jean’s hand grasped his wrist and led him away. The ladder had to remain where it was. Its removal would have meant too great a risk. Roy could not see where they were, for pitch darkness surrounded them; but Jean moved with confidence, though with extreme care.

Soon they had to pass near a sentry, and a sharp challenge rang out. Roy’s heart leaped into his mouth, and Jean promptly replied with the password for the night. Veiled by the darkness, which was increased by a drizzling rain, they went by in safety.

The outer wall at length was gained—that same wall which the middies had reached in their attempted escape, though at a different part of it. Jean had chosen this mode of escape, not daring to take Roy under the eyes of sentries at the gates, where, despite his command of the password, the prisoner must almost inevitably have been found out.

In a quiet corner, where nobody was or seemed to be near, Jean drew down the end of a stout rope, already secured at the top of the wall, the loose end having been knotted up out of easy reach. This had been his doing after dark, before he went to Roy’s cell. With the help of the rope they made their way to the top, Roy first, Jean next, pulling it up after them, and lowering it on the other side. Then, together, they trusted their weight to it once more.

As they hung over the depth, Roy could not but recall the cold-blooded act of two or three weeks earlier and its dire consequences. If any man had obtained an inkling of Jean’s intentions, or had discovered the rope placed in readiness, the same tragedy might now be repeated on a smaller scale. One clear cut would do the business. He and Jean would fall heavily downward, and, in an instant, he too, like little Will, might be in that land where battles and dungeons and cruel separations are things of the past.

These thoughts came to Roy—unbidden—even while his whole attention was bent to the task of working himself, hand under hand, swiftly and noiselessly, down the rope. Already his hands were torn and strained, yet, under the excitement of the moment, he felt no pain.

The rope remained taut. There was no sudden yielding from above—no abrupt and helpless plunge earthward. He and Jean arrived in safety on firm ground.

Again Jean gripped his wrist.

“Now, M’sieu, hist!” he whispered; and as fast as might be, yet with extreme caution, avoiding even the sound of a footfall, they hurried away from that grim surrounding wall. Roy could not see in the darkness where they were, or whither they were going. He could only trust himself blindly to Jean’s guidance, and Jean seemed to be in no doubt. He never paused or faltered.

Running at full speed, then slackening for breath, running again, and halting anew, walking at a brisk swing, then breaking into a fresh race side by side, only to come to another short pause—so they passed the hours of that night. During the first twenty or thirty minutes extreme care was needful; and more than once Jean had to make use of the password, which he had somehow learnt. When once thoroughly away from Bitche, however, immediate discovery became less likely; and the chief aim then was to put as wide a space as possible between themselves and the fortress before morning. That was as much as Roy had in mind. Jean’s object was more definite, including arrival at a particular hiding-place within a given time; but at present he attempted no explanations.

So soon as Roy’s disappearance should become known, and the gendarmes should have started in pursuit, Roy’s danger—and, for the matter of that, Jean’s also—would be intensified a hundred-fold. At present they had a clear field, favoured by darkness and by the fact of a world mainly asleep.

Few words were spoken by either. While in the vicinity of Bitche even the lightest whisper meant a risk of being overheard; and when the fear lessened, breath and strength were too precious to be wasted.

Roy’s powers were severely taxed. Excitement kept him going. But he had slept and eaten little, and had worked hard, during the last thirty hours; and after six months without proper exercise, he was direfully out of training. His muscles had grown flabby, and he so soon began to pant as to become angry with himself. Still, he fought doggedly onward, making no complaint.

At first they followed by-paths or kept to fields for greater safety; but by-and-by Jean struck into the high road, and here advance was easier. It was unlikely that Roy would be missed before early morning; and, even if pursued now, they would see the approaching gendarmes before they could be seen, and to hide in the darkness would not be difficult.

As hour passed after hour, and still they made uninterrupted progress, Roy grew light of heart. Breathlessness, aching limbs, sharp cold, growing hunger—all these were as nothing compared with the fact that he was free! No stone walls, no iron-bound and padlocked doors, shut him ruthlessly in!

From time to time a brief halt became necessary, and Roy was allowed to fling himself flat on the icy ground for ten minutes, after which he could always start with redoubled energy.

“Wonder what happened to take you to Bitche, Jean?” he said, after one of these breaks.

“M’sieu, I had a friend at Bitche.”

“A gendarme! A soldier?” asked Roy, with quickness.

“Oui, M’sieu. Un soldat. M’sieu will perhaps refrain from putting many questions. It is a friend whom I have known from boyhood. He was taken, like others, in the conscription, and no kind Messieurs were at hand to help to buy him off. And his mother, M’sieu, his poor mother became imbécile.[1] La pauvre femme? See what might have come to my mother also, but for the goodness of ces Messieurs.”

“She became imbécile because he had to go to the war?”

“Oui, M’sieu. What wonder? For see—it was not a common parting. Hundreds, thousands, go thus, and never return. They vanish from their homes, and no more is heard of them. Here or there, far away, they have died and have been buried—hélas!—and that is the end.”

“A soldier’s end, Jean!” the boy said proudly.

“Oui, M’sieu. Sans doute. But not all men have a taste for soldiering. I myself, for one——”

“You didn’t want to fight?”

“I had no wish to leave my home, M’sieu. Of late, it is true, I have had other thoughts—some thoughts of entering the army, after all. Le petit Caporal is no such bad leader for a man to follow, when he is not held by ties which bind him down.”

“But your mother, what would she say? Would she be pleased? Did she mind your coming away now?”

“M’sieu, I have not left my mother. It is she that has left me. Le bon Dieu has called her away to another place.”

Roy gave one glance of sympathy, which he could not easily have put into words. He was forgetting himself, walking faster, and panting less. Jean saw that it might be well to encourage a little talking now and then.

“But till the last she had her Jean. And she was content. She did not die alone, forsaken and desolate. For that I shall be eternally grateful to ces deux Messieurs, that her last days were in peace.”

“I remember now, Jean, you said you would like some day to do something for my father and for Captain Ivor. Yes—I know—and this is for them. If they could thank you——”

“M’sieu, if I could thank them——” interjected Jean.

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Then for a while they pressed on in silence.

Morning had begun to break, and they plodded forward still. Roy had pleaded for one more little break, for the boy was nearly at an end of his powers; but Jean refused.

“Courage, M’sieu! Courage! But a little farther, and we will rest. To stop here, if the gendarmes come quickly, would be fatal. Does M’sieu wish to be re-taken? See, the day dawns, and we have made good advance; but soon the gendarmes will scour the country round. And here, where could we hide, if overtaken? Courage! A little further yet!”

“All right,” panted Roy, dragging along his leaden-weighted limbs. “I’ll keep it up—as long as you wish. Wonder how many miles we’ve done.”

“Not so many as M’sieu would think. In the darkness one must walk with care.”

“And are we to hide all day?”

“Mais oui. It is safer to be in hiding than to journey on. There is a cottage in a wood, which belongs to a friend of mine, and he has made ready for our coming. A little way ahead still. The danger increases each minute. For if any man should see us now, and the gendarmes coming here should learn that we have lately passed—voyez-vous? Can M’sieu increase his speed?”

Roy made a vehement effort, and Jean grasped his arm, urging him along. Presently they neared the wood, and turned in thither, Jean’s look of anxiety lessening as the trees closed round them. He consented then to a slight relaxation of their pace, though reiterating his “Courage, M’sieu—one more half-hour, and the worst is done.”

The half-hour seemed a very long one to Roy.

“Eh bien, a little slower—oui—but we are nearly there, and M’sieu will be able to rest. At night-fall we shall start again, refreshed.”

“Will you come with me still? Jean, you are a good fellow!” gasped Roy.

“If I can see Monsieur safe off French ground, then I will let ces Messieurs know at Verdun, and it will gladden their hearts.”

“But what made you think of it? Did you come to Bitche only to see your friend?”

“M’sieu will not ask too many questions. No one at Bitche knew that we were friends. If M’sieu should be re-taken, it is well that he should know nothing.”

“You don’t think I’d betray you, Jean!”

“Non. But for the sake of M’sieu himself——”

“And I hope I’m not going to be re-taken.”

“The good God grant it, M’sieu.”

“Then you came there just to see him,” persisted Roy.

“Non. To see M’sieu.”

“You knew I was there?”

Jean assented.

“Who told you?” Roy was again interested, and walked the better for being so.

“M’sieu, it was a young lady—not English. She is French, and she lives under the same roof with Monsieur’s friends—le bon Colonel et Monsieur le Capitaine.”

“But how did she come across you?”

“I was at St. Mihiel, M’sieu.”

“I know. We drove there once, to see the place. My father had to pay a pretty big douceur, but we went.”

“Naturellement. St. Mihiel is but seven leagues from Verdun, and on the river. And this Demoiselle——”

“Mademoiselle de St. Roques——”

“M’sieu has the name—precisely. Mademoiselle de St. Roques had some affair in the place, claiming her attention; and she was there for some days. Mademoiselle and I chanced to meet—it matters not how at this moment—and when I learnt that she was from Verdun, I asked her, had she ever seen M. le Colonel and the tall Monsieur le Capitaine, and the young gentleman with them? Then she asked me questions, and I found that she knew them—ah, very well indeed, as M’sieu is aware. And she told me of M’sieu being sent to Bitche, and of the great trouble it was to those others.”

“Did she say—were they all well, Jean?”

“Monsieur le Capitaine had been ill. Mademoiselle de St. Roques said that doubtless it would make him well, and would comfort greatly Madame votre mère, could they but hear of your welfare. Then I said to Mademoiselle that I would myself go to Bitche, and would in time bring word of Monsieur to Verdun. And she emptied her pocket of all the money that she had—cette bonne Demoiselle—and said I might have what more I wanted, so that only I could bring word of Monsieur.”

“But Captain Ivor—what was wrong with him? Ill, you said.”

Jean discreetly did not repeat all that Lucille had said.

“Monsieur le Capitaine had fallen ill after his march from Valenciennes, and he was so troubled about Monsieur at Bitche, that it retarded his recovery, so Mademoiselle informed me. And I thought, if I might but compass Monsieur’s escape from that terrible Bitche, and could take word that he was gone to England, then Monsieur le Capitaine would have a light heart, and would grow strong once more.”

“Jean, you’re the best fellow that ever was!” muttered Roy. “Won’t they be glad!”

(To be continued.)

A GROUP OF GALLICIAN EGGS.

EASTER EGGS.

In many European countries the egg is a prominent feature in the observance of Easter.

Many things indicate, however, that the Easter egg is older than that great Christian feast. It seems probable that the egg was dedicated to the goddess of Spring and played an important part in the heathen spring festivals.

Even to-day all sorts of curious superstitions attach themselves to eggs laid on Maundy Thursday. They are supposed to protect those who eat them from all sorts of diseases, and it is firmly believed that if a shepherd buries the shells of one or more of these Maundy eggs in his pasture land, he will not lose a single sheep during the year following.

It is no doubt owing to the strong belief in their power of conferring benefits that we send eggs to our friends at Easter.

But long before the observance of Easter people wanted to improve upon the eggs as they came out of the nest, and proceeded to spend time and talent in colouring and beautifying their shells.

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Originally Easter eggs were coloured red, which to our forefathers was a symbol of the rising sun.

Later, all possible colours were used for this purpose, and the eggs were adorned with coloured patterns, pictures and proverbs.

GIRL ENGRAVING EGGS.

Here and there, especially in Austria, this custom still obtains, and in many of the villages and districts may be found skilled “Egg Painters,” who supply artistically-ornamented eggs at Easter.

The number of these artists is rapidly decreasing, for in modern times people, specially in towns, prefer to present their friends with eggs of chocolate and sugar. In Moravia, among the German population in Iglau, the Easter egg still holds a very important place. Young and old present them one to the other, and young girls are allowed to give them to their sweethearts. A very interesting feature is that eggs are sent by those at home to their relatives in foreign lands. Great care is taken to have these beautifully painted or adorned with mottoes. There are skilful people in the surrounding district, who devote themselves to decorating and adorning with mottoes Easter eggs.

A PAINTED AND ENGRAVED GOOSE EGG.

Franz Paul Piger, who has lately written a very interesting paper on Easter eggs for the Austrian folk, says that “the art of decorating Easter eggs is not so simple as one might think.” The artist first colours the egg yellow with the bark of apple trees which he has cooked in water; the part which is to remain yellow he covers with fine layers of wax, and then proceeds to cook it in water, with onion skins, which turns it red. This being done, he rubs the wax off and he has a yellow and red egg. Now he takes a sharp-pointed instrument and scratches his drawing on the egg-shell, which shines on the yellow or red ground in pure white. In this way he represents human figures, creatures and flowers.

The most important things on Easter eggs are the mottoes which are usually specially given by the person who orders the eggs. These mottoes are often full of sentiment, of expressions of love, friendship and good wishes; sometimes they are jests.

Not only are hens’ eggs used for this purpose, but those of geese also, which look more stately, and being larger admit of longer mottoes.

Men, women and girls also are occupied in ornamenting Easter eggs.

Our illustration shows a Moravian woman at the work of scratching or engraving. Many of the Easter eggs are quite works of art in Moravia. There is a great variety of patterns, including geometrical figures, leaves, flowers, sprays, hearts, and stars.

The dark blue Easter eggs are especially beautiful covered with heart’s-ease.

In the illustration “Moravian Eggs,” we see in No. 1 a red egg engraved with a sharp-pointed instrument; No. 2 is yellow-red; No. 3 is painted; No. 4 is blue, and engraved.

The decoration of Easter eggs is a custom with the Sclavonic National Races of Austro-Hungary, and our illustration shows us something of the Gallician skill. In Poland the women blow Easter eggs and cover them with coloured satin, after which they stick on them all sorts of threads and tinsel. No. 4 in the illustration is an example of such an one, while No. 2 is an engraved and coloured egg; the two remaining patterns are of Ruthenian origin.

In Bohemia light-red eggs prevail, while in Salzburg Easter eggs resemble marble. It is only on close inspection that one discovers that the hens’ eggs have received the veining by the most skilful and tender colouring.

The painting and other preparation of Easter eggs form quite an event in a country household, and here and there, especially in Hungary, the preparation is accompanied by national songs.

It is most amusing to note the care bestowed by the maidens on the eggs intended for the betrothed, the usual ornamentation being caressing doves and intertwined hands. If a Ruthenian youth receives from a girl an egg adorned with threads of wool he is thereby assured of her love and fidelity.

The same is the case in Carinthia and in the Rosenthal. Girls must present their lovers with at least two eggs adorned with inscriptions in order that there may be no doubt as to the firmness of their affection.

The artistic Easter egg, such as we have shown here, is gradually being set aside for eggs of chocolate and sweets, and the time will certainly come when, if we want to see artistic eggs, we must look for them in museums.

They will, we hope, for many years continue to appear in all their beauty at the sound of the Easter bells, be a proof of love and friendship, and awaken joy in many a heart, both abroad and at home.

MORAVIAN EGGS.

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ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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

CHAPTER XXIII.

hile the young folks had been enjoying themselves in the ball-room, their elders had found the time hang somewhat heavily on their hands. The evening had not been so interesting to them as to their juniors. Lady Darcy was tired with the preparations of the day, and the Countess with her journey from town. Both were fain to yawn behind their fans from time to time, and were longing for the moment to come when they could retire to bed. If only those indefatigable children would say good night and take themselves off! But the echo of the piano still sounded from the room, and seemed to go on, and on, in endless repetition.

Everything comes to those who wait however, even the conclusion of a ball to the weary chaperon. At long past midnight the strains died away, and in the hope of an early release the ladies roused themselves to fresh conversational effort. What they said was unimportant and could never be remembered; but at one moment, as it seemed, they were smiling and exchanging their little commonplace amenities, two languid, fine ladies whose aim in life might have been to disguise their own feelings and hide the hearts that God had given them; the next the artificial smiles were wiped away, and they were clinging together, two terrified, cowering women, with a mother’s soul in their faces—a mother’s love and fear and dread! A piercing cry had sounded through the stillness, and another, and another, and while they sat paralysed with fear, footsteps came tearing along the passage, the door was burst open, and a wild, dishevelled-looking figure rushed into the room. A curtain was wound round face and figure, but beneath its folds a long white arm gripped convulsively at the air, and two little feet staggered about in pink silk slippers.

Lady Darcy gave a cry of anguish; but her terror seemed to hold her rooted to the spot, and it was her husband who darted forward and caught the swaying figure in his arms. The heavy wrappings came loose in his grasp, and as they did so an unmistakable smell pervaded the room—the smell of singed and burning clothing. A cloud of blackened rags fluttered to the ground as the last fold of the curtain was unloosed, and among them—most pitiful sight of all—were stray gleams of gold where a severed lock of hair lay on the carpet, its end still turned in glistening curl.

“Rosalind! Rosalind!” gasped the poor mother, clutching the arms of her chair, and looking as if she were about to faint herself, as she gazed upon the pitiful figure of her child. The lower portion of Rosalind’s dress was practically uninjured, but the gauze skirt and all the frills and puffing round the neck hung in tatters, her hair was singed and roughened, and as the air touched her skin she screamed with pain, and held her hands up to her neck and face.

“Oh! Oh! Oh! I am burning! Cover me up! Cover me up! I shall die! Oh, mother, mother! The pain—the pain!”

She reeled as if about to faint, yet if anyone attempted to approach she beat them off with frantic hands, as if in terror of being touched.

One of the ladies ran forward with a shawl, and wrapped it forcibly round the poor scarred shoulders, while the gentlemen hurried out of the room to send for a doctor and make necessary arrangements. One of the number came back almost immediately with the news that he had failed to discover the cause of the accident. There was no sign of fire upstairs, the ball-room was dark and deserted, the servants engaged in setting the entertaining rooms in order. For the present, at least, the cause of the accident remained a mystery, and the distracted father and mother occupied themselves in trying to pacify their child.

“I’ll carry you upstairs, my darling. We will put something on your skin which will take away the pain. Try to be quiet, and tell us how it happened. What were you doing to set yourself on fire?”

“Peggy! Peggy!” gasped Rosalind faintly. Her strength was failing by this time, and she could hardly speak; but Lady Darcy’s face stiffened into an awful anger at the sound of that name. She turned like a tigress to her husband, her face quivering with anger.

“That girl again! That wicked girl! It is the second time to-night! She has killed the child; but she shall be punished! I’ll have her punished! She shall not kill my child, and go free! I’ll—I’ll——”

“Hush, hush, Beatrice! Take care! You frighten Rosalind. We must get her to bed. There is not a moment to lose.”

Lord Darcy beckoned to one of the servants who, by this time, were crowding in at the door, and between them they lifted poor, groaning Rosalind in their arms and carried her up the staircase, down which she had tripped so gaily a few hours before. Tenderly as they held her, she moaned with every movement, and when she was laid on her bed, it seemed for a moment as if consciousness were about to forsake her. Then suddenly a light sprung into her eyes. She lifted her hand and gasped out one word—just one word—repeated over and over again in a tone of agonised entreaty.

“Peggy! Peggy! Peggy!”

“Yes, darling, yes! I’ll go to her. Be quiet—only be quiet!”

Lady Darcy turned away with a shudder as the maid and an old family servant began the task of removing the clothes from Rosalind’s writhing limbs, and, seizing her husband by the arm, drew him out on the landing. Her face was white, but her eyes gleamed, and the words hissed as they fell from her lips.

“Find that girl and turn her out of this house! I will not have her here another hour! Do you hear—not a minute! Send her away at once before I see her! Don’t let me see her! I can’t be responsible for what I would do!”

“Yes, yes, dear, I’ll send her away! Try to calm yourself. Remember you have work to do. Rosalind will need you.”

The poor old lord went stooping away, his tired face looking aged and haggard with anxiety. His beautiful young daughter was scarcely less dear to him than to her mother, and the sound of her cries cut to his heart, yet in the midst of his anguish he had a pang of compassion for the poor child who, as he believed, was the thoughtless cause of the accident. What agony of remorse must be hers! What torture she would now be suffering!

The guests and servants were standing huddled together on the landing upstairs or running to and fro to procure what was needed. Every thought was concentrated on Rosalind, and Rosalind alone, and the part of the house where the dance had been held was absolutely deserted.

He took his way along the gaily decorated hall, noted with absent eye the disordered condition of the “harem,” which had been pointed out so proudly at the beginning of the evening, and entered the empty room. The lights were out, except for a few candles scattered here and there among the flowers. He walked slowly forward, saw the silver candlestick on the floor before the fireplace, and stood gazing at it with a quick appreciation of what had happened. For some reason or other Rosalind had tried to reach the candle, and the light had caught her gauzy skirt which had burst into flames. It was all easy—terribly easy to imagine; but in what way had Peggy Saville been responsible for the accident, so that her name should sound so persistently on Rosalind’s lips, and who had been the good Samaritan who had come to the rescue with that thick curtain which had killed the flames before they had time to finish the work of destruction?

Lord Darcy peered curiously round.{375} The oak floor stretched before him dark and still save where its polished surface reflected the light overhead; but surely in the corner opposite to where he stood there was a darker mass—a shadow deeper than the rest?

He walked towards it, bending forward with straining eyes. Another curtain of the same pattern as that which had enveloped Rosalind—a curtain of rich Oriental hues with a strange unaccountable patch of white in the centre. What was it? It must be part of the fabric itself. Lord Darcy told himself that he had no doubt on the subject, yet the way across the room seemed unaccountably long, and his heart beat fast with apprehension. In another moment he stood in the corner and knew too well the meaning of that patch of white. Peggy Saville lay stretched upon the curtain, white and unconscious, to all appearance dead!

(To be continued.)

OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: IN PERILOUS TIMES.

IN PERILOUS TIMES.

An Accidental Cycle.

Catching Fire.

If your clothing catches fire,

Do not rush about for aid,

Simply roll on mat or mire

And a fearful death evade.

Railway Collision.

If a railway collision you fear,

Jump on the seat of the carriage, for so

Your legs of calamity may be quite clear,

And the spring that’s in wood may all safety bestow.

Prize Winners.

Seven Shillings and Sixpence Each.

Lily Belling, Wribbenhall, Bewdley, Worcestershire.
Nanette Bewley, 40, Fitzwilliam Place, Dublin.
A. C. Carter, Shottery Hall, Stratford-on-Avon.
Maude Gibney, 37, Newton Road, W.
G. D. Honeyburne, Abbotsbury, 23, Duke Street, Southport.
Mrs. Mason, 30, Cambridge Street, Great Horton, Bradford, Yorks.
E. Mastin, 261, Western Bank, Sheffield.
P. Miller, 104, Brecknock Road, N.
Agnes Oliver, 13, Fountainhall Road, Edinburgh.
Janet Scott, Willmington House, Dunster.
Fred and Violet Shoberl, Hookwood, Edge Hill, Wimbledon.
Wm. Dunford-Smith, 71, Ondine Road, E. Dulwich, S.E.
W. Fitzjames White, 9, Kinfauns Terrace, Low Fell, Gateshead.
John R. Whyberd, 308, Crystal Palace Road, S.E.

Special Mention.

Annie A. Arnott, E. Lord, A. Phillips.

Very Highly Commended.

Mrs. Atkins, Amelia Austin, Margaret Bailey, M. Bolingbroke, A. T. Child, Ethel M. A. Darbyshire, Frederick Fuller, Miss Fryer, Thomas Gale, Ellie Hanlon, Mrs. Ethel Hartley, Ethel Winifred Hodgkinson, W. E. Llewellyn, W. M. Madden, E. M. Le Mottée, Ellen M. Price, Helen Simpson, S. Southall, Agnes Mary Vincent, Gertrude Whicker, Emily Wilkinson, Helen B. Younger.

Highly Commended.

Maude Abbott, Eliza Acworth, Rev. S. Bell, Gladys M. Bernays, Dora A. Blake, E. M. Blott, Isabel Borrow, Nellie D. Bourne, Rev. F. Townshend Chamberlain, M. J. Champneys, F. Clark, Lillian Clews, C. A. Cooper, Rev. E. N. Dalton, S. Dewhirst, Ethel Dickson, Violet F. Doney, Louie Drury, William Fraser, F. M. Goodchild, Annie M. Gooden, A. Grainger, E. A. Hedge, Mrs. Hickman, Hilda G. Hinkson, Gertrude Hire, E. St. G. Hodson, Edith M. Howard, Annie M. Hutchens, George L. Ingram, K. H. Ingram, Elsie M. Jay, L. Foster-Jones, D. Langley, Eva H. Laurence, Eliza Learmount, Ethel C. McMaster, John Marshall, Marian Eva Messenger, F. M. Morgan, M. Theodora Moxon, Robert Murdoch, Eben. Mullen, A. St. J. O’Neill, Mrs. Morgan Owen, Hannah E. Powell, Jessie Powell, Helen J. Ransom, Ada Rickards, Eleanor M. Rickie, Alexandrina A. Robertson, Wilhelmina Robson, Eva M. Roper, Annie Saunders, S. Sedgwick, Katherine H. Shorto, Caroline Skinner, Mildred M. Skrine, M. Stuart, Mona Taylor, May Tutte, N. J. Warren, M. S. Webster, A. J. Weight, V. M. Welman, Louisa Whitcher, Henry Wilkinson, R. Williamson, Elizabeth Yarwood.

EXAMINERS’ REPORT.

The “Accidental Cycle” series promises to be very popular, a large number of solutions having already been received. It is really very pleasing to see how our readers struggle to acquire useful knowledge, no matter how fantastic the shape in which it is presented. Certain it is that knowledge acquired by solving a puzzle poem is likely to be retained, and we can only hope that when our solvers’ clothes catch fire, there may be a rug, a mat, or a sufficient quantity of mire at hand.

We know a doctor who had to examine a class of boys on the ways of dealing with various kinds of accidents. One lad appeared to be very nervous, and the doctor, thinking he was not able to do himself justice before the others, kept him back to test his knowledge alone.

“Now,” said the examiner, “supposing I were to catch fire in this room” (a bare schoolroom, by the way), “what would you do?”

The boy seemed to be extremely unhappy and vainly searched the ceiling and floor in turn for an inspiration. It was not until the question had been repeated with a kindly word of encouragement that the answer came:

“Put it out, sir.”

Even then the doctor did not laugh, at any rate not obtrusively.

“Excellent,” said he, “but how?”

“Throw a blanket over you, sir,” was the more confident reply.

As there were no blankets in the building, the doctor gave up his examination in despair, which was, however, somewhat tempered by his thankfulness that the boy’s “knowledge” had not been put to a practical test.

This little anecdote, which is perfectly true, suggests the question: “What would you do if the extinguishers mentioned in the puzzle were not available?” Doubtless our readers know; if not, they will be well advised to find out without delay.

The puzzle form of our advice was not difficult to decipher, but, regardless of rhythm, many solvers gave the first line as

“If your clothing catch fire.”

A large number wrote “around” for “about” in line 2, failing to discern the essential difference, and several substituted “end” for “death” in the fourth line. For this latter reading we can find no justification.

In “A railway collision” the metre proved to be very troublesome. It is certainly very modern, the lines being respectively, nine, ten, eleven and twelve syllables long. We do not know the rule which governs such a metre, and are inclined to ascribe it that licence which every true poet sometimes takes.

Considering the difficulty, we were surprised to find from thirty to forty solutions giving the verse correctly. Three out of the four lines were not difficult to solve, but the progressive nature of the metre not being established, the first was not so easy. In many solutions an adjective was inserted before railway as:

“If a terrible railway collision you fear,”

and so long as some sort of rhythm was maintained, we did not much object.

A few competitors complained that the first picture in the last line was very obscure. In our copy it was plain enough and a large majority of solvers adopted “Spring,” in preference to any other reading.

One correspondent ventures to hope that ladies will be well assured of their peril before acting on the advice given. As he points out, it is not at all desirable that a carriageful of people should, for instance, be disturbed by such athletic exercises every time a fog-signal is heard.

Such a caution is perhaps, not wholly unnecessary, for there are people who “fear” a collision every time they enter a train.

By the time this “Cycle” is ended how wise we shall all be!

Competitors whose names have not been mentioned above may rest assured that their papers have been carefully preserved in view of the special award to be made at the end of the series. Not one solution has been destroyed, and quite possibly the greater prizes will fall to outsiders after all.

LESSONS FROM NATURE.

By JEAN A. OWEN, Author of “Forest, Field and Fell,” etc.

PART IV.

THE LOCUSTS THAT GO BY BANDS.

The locusts we take as an instance of what unity in action—co-operation, in fact—can effect. “They have,” says the wise man, “no king, yet they go forth all of them by bands.” Creatures these are so frail, so unsubstantial, that they can be crushed to naught almost; yet they are able to thwart man’s watchful care, and to undo the work of the industry of months, when they settle in hosts, brought by some mysterious instinct, sometimes by the scarcity of those other creatures which, under the laws that keep even the balance of nature, feed upon them, so reducing their numbers.

Whole tracts of land are devastated by these winged armies. In the south of England some of you have seen, during the last dry summer that we had, what legions of caterpillars covered vast tracts of land, eating every vestige of green and leaving bare stalks where fine cabbages and other crops had been looked for. Ravagers of forests, also, some of these insignificant insects have been called, and with good reason.

The term locust we take as a symbol, and we will include here the various groups of tiny beings which, by reason of their vast numbers and the way in which they come and go “in bands,” become such formidable enemies of our race.

The caterpillars of the large white cabbage butterfly, and also those of the small white species, attack several valuable crops besides cabbages. They consume in the larvæ stage an enormous amount when their size is considered. Mr. Wood tells us that it has been calculated that one caterpillar alone, a month after birth, has increased to ten thousand times its original weight on leaving the egg, and has devoured in the meantime no less than forty thousand times that weight in food; and although during the winter months it may be frozen into a brittle condition, it survives this frost uninjured and becomes itself the parent of two broods during the ensuing summer.

These particular caterpillars feed also on the leaves of turnip plants and on the pods that are left for seeding; they eat radishes, horse-radish and water-cress.

Some years they show in myriads. Describing a flight of butterflies that arrived on a certain day years ago, the Zoologist says that it was one of the largest flights ever seen in this country. It crossed the Channel from France on a Sunday in July.

“Such was the density and extent of the cloud formed by the living mass that it completely obscured the sun from the people on board our Continental steamers. The decks were strewed with the insects in all directions. The flight reached England about twelve at noon, and dispersed themselves inland and alongshore, darkening the air as they went. During the sea-passage of the butterflies the weather was calm and sunny, with scarcely a puff of wind stirring; but an hour or so after they reached terra firma it came on to blow great guns from the south-west, the direction whence the insects came.” On a calm sea the butterflies are able to settle frequently, as though the water were land, and to rise again; otherwise, that is, in windy weather, these long flights would be of course an impossibility.

Louis Figuier, a French entomologist, has told how a swarm of plant lice once appeared between Bruges and Ghent, “hovering about, in troops” in such numbers as to darken the light of day. The walls of the houses were so covered that they could no longer be distinguished, and the whole road from the one town to the other was rendered black by the legions of this insect. These were called “smother-fly.”

A female Blight, as one creature is termed—a very destructive aphis—which was shut up for observation by another naturalist, brought forth ninety-five little ones in less than three weeks, and she can repeat this as often as twenty times during one summer if the weather be favourable to her. The calculations which have been made by such scientists as Professor Huxley prove that, were it not for our allies and friends, our unpaid and often ill-appreciated bird labourers, “there would be room in the world for nothing else” but those tiny creatures the aphides!

Mole crickets in the south of France and in Germany do great harm to the pea and bean crops. They have been known to destroy one-sixth, and even one-fourth, of a crop of young corn by eating off the roots. Barley and potatoes also they do a vast amount of harm to. The mole devours this insect, as it does many underground enemies of the agriculturist, and yet mole-catchers still receive so much an acre, year by year, from landholders for destroying the mole, whose heaps help to fertilise the soil, even if they do make it uneven, and if not levelled they injure the mowing machines; but their services are worth the extra labour in levelling.

Winged beetles swarm in the end of May, and they attack beans, broad and other beans. Horses fed on Sicilian beans are often injured in their health by the numbers of these{378} creatures that have been contained in their food. One farmer in England wrote that he calculated he had as many of these small hurtful beetles as he had beans. Another farmer complained that he lost two whole sowings of turnips owing to the ravages of earwigs, and a writer in the Field states that he had one September to cover his windows with muslin and to shut all his doors at sunset because of the army of earwigs that invaded his precincts. “They dropped,” he says, “on the supper-table, they swarmed in the pantry, getting into fruit pies after cooking, and running out when the pies were cut. They pushed their way into the bread, so that we frequently cut slices of these wretches in cutting bread and butter. They found their way into the beds, linings of hats, coats, etc. When the doors were opened in the morning they dropped in such numbers that the mats were literally covered with them,” etc., etc.

To stop the ravages of caterpillars in some forests trenches have had to be dug. Into these they fall as they pour forth “in serried columns,” after having devoured one section of a wood, when on their way to attack a sound part. In the trenches they are stifled by numbers of men heaping earth on them. Sometimes great trees in the forest have to be set on fire as the only way of stopping their ravages. Then there are concealed foes who hollow out galleries in trees before their presence is suspected. One little insect has been dubbed by a naturalist with the formidable name of “the great pine-gnawer.” It ravages forests of fir-trees in such wise that not a single tree escapes its attacks.

Stag-beetles haunt our oak-trees, bruise the bark, and then lick up the sap, and in its larval stage this beetle feeds in the solid wood of the finest trees, keeping near the bark. We read also of the antler moth flying “in countless myriads.”

In Galway in 1868 cockchafers arrived in hosts, forming a dense cloud which darkened the sky for a distance of three miles. “The whole country at midsummer assumed the appearance of winter. The noise of their innumerable jaws sounded like the sawing of wood, and the buzzing of their countless wings filled the air with a sound like the distant rolling of drums.” And to add to the misery of this appalling picture, the famine-stricken Irish were then “driven to eat them in order to support life”!

Whole fields of turnips are often cleared, that is, the leaves of the plants are stripped off, by myriads of the turnip fly or beetle that come flying unexpectedly, one knows not whence. It was estimated that the loss through this to one county in a single season was once £100,000, and Miss Ormerod states that in 1881, when there was an invasion of the turnip fly, spreading nearly all over our country, the loss amounted to considerably more than half a million.

A prince in Bohemia once employed two hundred men for four days and a half in collecting caterpillars during a plague of these, and they gathered twenty-three bushels of them, which they reckoned amounted to 4,500,000 of these creatures. In the year 1574 cockchafers gathered in such numbers on the banks of the Severn that the water-mills were stopped working.

Miss Edith Carrington, who has written many useful little books on out-door life, has lately brought out one called The Farmer and the Birds, in which she has collected many valuable facts and statistics which would be of interest to you.

Think of the size and the weight of one of these cockchafers, and then ponder again on what can be effected by persistent co-operation. And if for evil, yet also for good. That is our lesson just now.

One of my earliest lessons in French, when I was at school at Neuwied on the Rhine, where we had to learn many fables and moral poems by heart, both in French and German, was the story of a father who knowing that he had not long to live, called his children together and bade each of them go and cut a hazel rod and bring it to him. The rods he bade them tie in one bundle, and then he told them to try and break the sheaf of sticks. They could not do this. Next he ordered each to take his rod and break it, which of course was an easy matter. “Now,” said he, “the lesson I want to teach you is combination and united effort. So long as you keep together, you will do something; if you separate, you fail utterly.”

To co-operate means, of course, to work together. “Two are better far than one, for counsel or for fight,” says an old and well-known hymn, and a poet has written that even

“Heaven’s gate is shut to him that comes alone,

Save thou a soul, and it shall save thine own.”

Perhaps one of the chief causes of spiritual deterioration in Christians has been that fallacy that one can worship God as well alone as in the congregations of the faithful. “Forget not the assembling of yourselves together” we read in the Book of books. Again the gracious presence of our Lord is especially promised “where two or three are gathered together.”

One of the saddest stories that I ever read is that of two maiden sisters who lived in one large room in Edinburgh. They quarrelled about something, and so bitter was the animosity engendered that they never spoke to each other again, although they continued to live in the same room for many years. Perhaps they were too poor to live in separate apartments; or they may have had that proverbial Scotch decency and reserve that prevented them from publishing their quarrel to their little world, as an open separation would have done.

They drew a chalk line across their joint domain, which ran from the middle of the fireplace to the centre of the doorway, and they cooked and ate their separate miserable meals and went in and out in solitary fashion, and probably grimly observed each other kneel down in prayer (sic) to her Maker. Perhaps in the silence of the night hours one would lie wakeful, with bated breath, listening to the unconscious breathing of her sleeping sister. Could anything be more dreadful? Whether they died thus, the one left alone in a room with lips that were finally sealed in death, the story does not reveal; it is left half told.

“See that ye fall not out by the way,” was Joseph’s wise counsel to his brethren. “Two are better than one.... For if they fall the one will lift up his fellow; but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up ... and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.” So said the preacher in Ecclesiastes iv. The old words are very forcible in their quaint simplicity.

I knew five sisters once very intimately. They had a bad father whom they never saw—though he was living—after the eldest of the five was about twelve, and their mother was very poor. But they clung together and shared the daily labour—pleasure they knew little of—and when two families of richer relatives had become poor, and the members separated, disunion having partly ruined them, the sisters still held a brave and respectable front to the world, being able to do this because they kept together, serving their mother’s God and having a common faith and practice. “Did none of them marry?” I fancy some of you asking mentally. Yes, two have now good husbands and pleasant homes; and God comforts and strengthens the other three in His own way which is always for the best.

(To be continued.)

{379}

HIS GREAT REWARD.

CHAPTER II.

unday came, and with it a fine dry day, causing Mrs. Duncan to congratulate herself upon her good fortune. She was a martyr to rheumatism in damp weather, and obliged consequently to be very careful. To-day, however, she would be able to go to church, and at the thought her heart bounded with pleasure. For, unlike a great many—indeed, I fear I might almost say the majority of people—Margaret Duncan really loved to go to God’s house. To her the services were never long, nor the familiar prayers and collects wearisome. On the contrary, she realised, as few do, the beauty of the concise language in which they are written, and frequently caught herself wondering how much could be expressed in so few words. This morning, although alone, both husband and son having been called away to see sick people, the service seemed especially sweet, and the sermon to bring more comfort than usual to her heart.

It was perhaps by design that Mr. Mellis preached from the text “That which thou sowest is not quickened, except it die,” dwelling upon the necessity for the death of the body, that the soul might rise again, and particularly on the hope—nay, certainty—of a blessed reunion above with those who had “gone before.”

Listening to the comforting words, and looking on the face of the dear old Rector, which fairly shone, as he spoke, with intense conviction, it was little wonder that Mrs. Duncan felt happier than she had done for a long time. Her child was not lost, only safe in Christ’s keeping, till she, too, should go to join her.

How the strong faith of one individual helps the feeble faith of others! In such a manner did Mr. Mellis help his friend and parishioner to-day.

Not that Mrs. Duncan really doubted God’s wisdom in taking away from her her child, but just as we crave a fresh protestation of love from one dear to us, drawing pleasure from it, so did she find comfort and consolation in the renewed assurances of divine love, spoken by the Rector this morning. To her husband, Margaret Duncan never mentioned such topics. Years before she had made the discovery that, although the doctor was careful to keep all the ordinary religious observances, being a regular attendant at church, yet he was not imbued with that living faith which delights in dwelling upon a future life when this one shall be ended. A loving husband and tender father, Dr. Duncan had felt the death of his little daughter keenly at the time, but though his wife had hoped for some permanent spiritual awakening and an expression of it, nothing was said which could lead her to suppose it had taken place. Belief does not come to all with equal facility, and knowing this, Mrs. Duncan never even in thought blamed her husband, but was content to wait.

It was at this juncture that good old Mr. Mellis had proved himself so true a friend to the almost broken-hearted mother, and the faith which had always been so precious to Margaret Duncan became even more so under the fostering guidance and help of the good Rector of St. Jude’s.

By a fortunate turn of events it so happened that both Dr. Duncan and his son Magnus were able to accompany “little mother” to St. Jude’s on the evening of this last Sunday in Lent.

It was a fine church, and there was, as usual, a full congregation, for people will rally round a consistent Christian man, such as Mr. Mellis. Were there more like him, we should less frequently hear the familiar remark, “such a poor congregation.”

The service proceeded as usual until after the Third Collect, when the curate announced that “The words of the anthem would be found in the three hundred and thirty-second hymn.” There was a slight pause, and then the opening bars of Gounod’s “There is a green hill” rang through the church.

Magnus Duncan drew a long breath of delighted anticipation.

Presently the tones of a rich mellow contralto voice floated down the aisles and up to the vaulted roof of the building. It was a voice of rarest quality, powerful but sweet, and the singer sang as though her whole soul was wrapped up in the words and music.

The tender pathetic verses seemed to have gained a new meaning when sung as Marielle Heritage sang them that night. Magnus craned his neck to get a glimpse of the singer, but she was almost hidden from view by the reading-desk, for she had taken a seat in the choir-stalls on entering the church that evening, and a mass of fair hair under a black hat was all that could be seen.

On and on sang that glorious voice till the last verse was reached, and then with what tender insistence came the repetition of the words, “we must love Him too,” as if in pleading with a most precious child.

Mrs. Duncan glanced up at her husband’s face, to see there an expression which it had never worn before, and one which made a glad hope spring up in her heart.

As the last notes died away, a tear, noticed by the loving eyes that watched him, trickled slowly down the doctor’s face, and with a long-drawn sigh he sank upon his knees as the congregation knelt for the rest of the prayers. “For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes,” was the text of the curate’s sermon that night. He was only a young man, but very earnest, and Dr. Duncan could not help thinking that he himself, though so much older, was as a very child in comparison, with regard to spiritual things. Only God knew how fervently John Duncan prayed to be led to the “living fountains of waters” that night!

It was about ten o’clock on the Saturday night following. Magnus, tired with a long day’s work, had just said “Good night” to his parents, and betaken himself off to bed, leaving them sitting by the drawing-room fire.

John Duncan was ostensibly reading the paper, but a close observer might have noticed that the reading progressed in a most eccentric fashion. He had not got beyond the first six lines of the leader during the last hour, but was staring absently at the printed matter before him, evidently without cognisance of the news it contained. Eventually he dropped the paper and gazed into the fire instead. Mrs. Duncan was occupied in finishing an interesting article in a favourite magazine, and when she had concluded it, she said, without looking up:

“What is the news in to-day’s paper, John? Anything fresh taken place?”

Finding that her husband did not reply as usual, she hastily glanced at him, laying down her magazine as she did so.

“He did not hear my question,” she decided in her own mind; then rose and knelt beside his chair saying, “What can you be thinking about so deeply, my dear old man? It must be something very interesting, I should think, seeing that you did not even hear me speak to you just now!” And Margaret gave a happy little laugh, and looked teasingly at him.

“Thinking of, my darling? Why, something that has been on the tip of my tongue to tell you all the week, but I was almost afraid to; besides, I was not quite sure of myself.”

“It sounds like an enigma, John! But do tell me. I am all curiosity to know what you mean.”

Placing one arm round his wife as she knelt beside his chair, the doctor drew her closer to him and began:

“You remember last Sunday evening, Maggie?”

Mrs. Duncan nodded, and her eyes lit up with pleasure at the recollection.

“Well, it is a wonderful thing to me, and it may seem strange to you, my wife; but ever since I heard that girl sing that song, I have felt quite differently about religious matters.”

A glad cry burst from Margaret Duncan’s lips, but she checked it as her husband continued:

“I cannot tell how it was, but the reality of Christ’s death for us was borne in upon me as it had never been before. The story of Jesus had always seemed more like a beautiful dream, or myth, somehow, to me; perhaps I had not felt the need of a Saviour. But now, oh! Maggie, I can only wonder that I have been blind so long. I feel like a child when it first opens its eyes upon the world, and notices the beauties it contains. I had so often wished I could feel as you did, and draw the same comfort from religion, but I never could. And last Sunday evening it was as if Christ revealed Himself to me all at once, showing me my need of a Saviour, and asking only my love in return. All the week I have been thinking of it, Maggie, but the only prayer I could find to say was, ‘Lord, I believe, help Thou mine unbelief!’”

“Oh, Jack! my Jack! If you only knew how I have prayed for this, and what it means to me!” cried Maggie, flinging her arms round her husband as she burst into a very passion of tears—tears of joy, not sorrow.

Drawing her head down to the shelter of his breast, John Duncan held his wife very tightly to him, as he said, in a voice which shook with emotion:

“You will help me, won’t you, my darling? I want help so much, and we can speak of these things together now. I am groping in the dark yet.”

“Nay, John,” said Margaret, smiling through her tears, “I think you are just dazzled with the light. But all the help I can give is yours, you know, my dear one.”

Hand in hand, for the first time during their married lives, these two knelt that night at the feet of their heavenly Father, while Margaret prayed for strength and guidance for them both; and John Duncan was not a whit surprised when, in concluding, his wife added a petition for a blessing upon the dear girl who had been God’s instrument in effecting the longed-for change in her husband.

“It was just like Maggie,” he reflected, as he helped her to rise from her knees, and thought, as he kissed her, that she had never looked so fair in his eyes.

Happiness is a great beautifier, as we all know, and it was a very happy Margaret Duncan who laid her head on her pillow that Easter Eve.

(To be continued.)

{380}

CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.

By MARGARET INNES.

CHAPTER VI.

THE BUILDING OF THE HOUSE—THE WORKMEN—THE COLOURED LADY—AN ILLNESS IN THE BARN.

he plans for our house were finished. We had been very fortunate in the choice of our architect, and he had delighted us by working into them, with great taste, all the peculiarly English features, which we had set our hearts upon having, in this far-away Californian home.

There was to be a roomy ingle-nook, and large open fire-places, latticed windows with green shutters, and deep window seats, and great overhanging eaves to the roof. On the gables outside we were to have black beams in white plaster, to look like an old farm. To make the housework easier, and also because we liked it, all the rooms were to be on one floor, the whole second storey being one large attic.

Finally after many negotiations, the contract was signed, and we began to look daily for the coming of the men. We had learnt to dread the desert wind, which according to tradition, comes along in spells of three, or at most four days, but which we found had a nasty habit of staying longer, leaving one painfully parched, inside and out, body and spirit. At such times we watched anxiously for the great bank of white sea fog, rising up behind the mountains on the west, and always a sign that the fresh sea breeze was coming back to us.

It was on a Sunday evening, during a specially diabolical dose of desert wind, when there were bush fires on nearly all the mountains round us, and the air seemed filled with smoke and the pungent smell of burning sage, that our men arrived, bringing with them two waggon loads of materials for putting up the various sheds and tents needed for their comfort, during the eighty days, which was the contracted time for building the house.

They had had a breakdown on the way out from town, and what with this and the scorching heat of the day, had been much tried. However, they were very good tempered, and seemed to consider the whole business as a kind of picnic—a holiday in the country. The contractor, Mr. Scott, who was also the principal carpenter, was a huge man, very capable, as we soon found, and a splendid workman. He had brought his wife with him, to serve the two-fold purpose of a change of air for her, and a satisfactory cook for himself and his men! They had also their two little children with them and Mr. Scott’s dog. Four more carpenters arrived with them; the plumbers, plasterers, and painters, were to follow later, when their work would be wanted.

The whole first day was spent in putting up the temporary houses needed for the little settlement. They were going to make themselves quite comfortable, though it was all done with extraordinary quickness. There was a “cookhouse” as they called it, which was the most ambitious building of all the settlement, and we thought it showed Mr. Scott’s good sense, and promised well for the undertaking, that he provided so royally for the men’s comfort in this particular. The cookhouse had one good-sized dining-room, with a long table down the middle, and a bench on each side; out of this was the kitchen, with two beautiful gasoline cooking stoves, containing large ovens and all the newest American contrivances. A nice cool cupboard or larder opened out of the kitchen, and was made with walls of wire gauze to let the air in freely and keep out the flies. The tent put up for Mr. Scott and his family was quite a work of art; nicely floored and with walls of wood about four feet high, to keep out draughts, the rest of the walls and roof being of canvas. They had it comfortably furnished, and seemed at once quite at home there.

The tents for the men were simpler, but satisfactory. By evening all their preparations were made, and when the lights were lit all over the little settlement, we were strongly reminded of the “Buffalo Bill” shows we had been to at home.

By early morning the men were hard at work, laying the mud sills of the house; and now began an exciting time for us, for these wooden houses are built so quickly, and American carpenters are such clever workmen, that it is most interesting to watch them. They were all good humouredly amused at the plans of our house, and said they had never put down such an irregular and unexpected outline of a house. Now, too, we proved the very great advantage it was to us to be at hand during the building; in this way several mistakes, which would have caused loss of time and vexation, were corrected at once, and some very decided improvements on the original plan were carried out.

Meanwhile our life in the barn was very dusty and hot. The coloured lady had unfortunately taken a great dislike to me, and though she did her work, she was so brutal in her manner, and scowled at me so savagely, that, half in earnest and half in jest, I made an arrangement with my husband and the boys that I should never be left alone with her after dark. In appearance she might have been first cousin to the gorilla, with his large, protruding mouth and big teeth. On Sundays, she would go off hunting for wild bees’ nests, an occupation which seemed to be an absorbing passion with her. At such times, she would wear a very dilapidated print gown, her feet were thrust into men’s boots, her head was covered with a red cotton sun bonnet, and she carried in her hand a tall, heavy stick; and as she came striding along, over the rough hill-side, with a peculiar movement of the hips, like a wild animal, and waving her great club, she looked like some man-eating aboriginal! One day, when her manner had become quite unbearable, I arranged with my husband that I would speak to her before him, for I did not dare tackle her alone. I hoped at least to find out what provoked her specially aggressive manner to me; for she made some slight attempt at friendliness to my husband and the boys. We got no satisfaction however; all she would say, standing meanwhile outside the open barn door, and shouting in her deep bass voice, was, “What does the woman want? I didn’t insult the woman!” We felt it was hopeless, and as the quarters were so rough that few good servants would have put up with them, we decided to bear with our gorilla and her angry mutterings till the house was built. But I was quite determined that whatever happened, she should not set foot in the house, even if I failed to find anyone else.

She much preferred to work with the ranch man, at any outdoor labour, however heavy, rather than do so-called woman’s work. Especially she loved managing the horses, and we could hear her big guffaw out on the ranch, where she would try with the rest to trick or compel Dan, who was giving more and more trouble, into doing his work. All the workmen had some never-failing plan to coerce him, but each in turn was beaten by Dan’s obstinacy, and his readiness to spend all day fighting out the question as to his way or theirs. Poor Dan! before long we discovered what was really amiss with him: he was going blind, and was in a constant state of irritation and excitement at not being able to see. No doubt the two young men who sold him to us, had known that this was coming on (though his eyes betrayed no sign of it), and were glad to be rid of him. Eventually we gave him away, and got a pair of young greys, giving the other horse Joe in part payment for them. Dan has been our only dead loss; all the other animals have turned out particularly well.

“Poll,” the little Indian pony for Tip, the younger boy, is quite a character. She finds a trail through the most hopeless-looking bush, without a moment’s hesitation, is as surefooted as a goat on the steep rocky hill-sides, and has no vice about her. So that Tip, who was far from strong when first we came here, has become a very good rider, without accidents or trouble of any kind. He gallops her, bare-backed, up and down the steep hills around us at full speed, sitting on the reins and playing an accordion, waving it about over his head, and making her fly with excitement. Then there is Jennie, a pretty mare belonging to Larry, the elder boy. She is very nervous and high strung, fond of polo, and racing, and good at both, but never quite satisfied to go along on any quiet, everyday business. Ben is a strong, heavy ranch horse, dutiful and hardworking; Rex and Dick, the greys, are general favourites. They were only four years old when we bought them, and they needed always close watching, for they were full of spirits; but now they are more sober, and do their part bravely. Dickie is “the gentleman,” and rarely does much ranch work, but trots the buggy for miles and miles about the country.

By this time, all was going forward wonderfully quickly with the building of the house. The carpenters and workmen enjoyed their trip in the country, and indeed Mrs. Scott prepared such comfortable meals for them in the cookhouse, that I fancy these alone would have reconciled them to a much worse lot. She was very proud of her cooking, and used often to show me her pies, and roasts, and biscuits, etc., as I passed to and fro.

She was rather a grand lady too, and felt very virtuous about working so hard at this job for her husband, but she told me privately that, though he made no show of praising her for doing so well, he always “came down handsome” after any such time, and that this one would probably mean a silk dress for her! So though she grumbled in an ostentatious way at times to me, when he was within hearing, she was really very cheerful and helpful.

Nowadays, when I see our Chinaman, in his clean white jacket, wandering about, carrying a basket in his hand, and returning presently with it full of beautiful tomatoes,{381} we think gratefully of Mrs. Scott and the cookhouse; for the odd bits she threw from her door in those days, came up very shortly in fruitful vines, and by this time they have distributed themselves all over the ranch.

The barn was not a nice place to be ill in, nor was Liza, the darkey, a nurse any invalid would willingly choose, and during a sharp attack of influenza I had while we were there, I wondered sometimes if she worked evil charms over the poultices, before she brought them to me, with such an angry face. To be ill at all was, I think, in her opinion a piece of fine ladyism, to which I had no right whatever. Fortunately I did not depend upon her nursing, but had my three tenderhearted, helpful menfolk. I lay very ill indeed, the influenza bringing on a bad attack of congestion of the lungs, which nearly killed me, and of course in addition to the illness, there was the hopeless discomfort of the surroundings, the heat and dust, and when I was at my worst, a spell of desert wind, and oh! the horror of it all. The barn seemed no protection whatsoever. It was swept through and through by that parched, scorching air, like a draught from a red-hot furnace. The cracking and groaning of every wooden thing was like the wrenching and straining of a ship in a storm; the barn and everything inside the barn protested loudly. Fortunately our furniture was not to be housed for long in a building one plank thick, or there would have been but very little use in bringing it so far; soon it would have been lying about us, in disconnected bits, all sprang apart during desert wind spells.

Once we were in the house, by shutting all doors and windows we could keep the fiend out, sufficiently at least to prevent mischief; though no one can boast of much comfort till our blessed friend the sea breeze returns to us.

However, notwithstanding the desert wind, Liza’s illwill, and the influenza, I recovered a little strength and crept out again before long to see how the house was progressing.

I found the plasterers and brickbuilders hard at work, and their different encampments added to the rest. Each man brought at least one horse, often two, with his “rig,” and a dog and a gun. The horses were tethered all about the land, and we seemed more “Buffalo Bill” like than ever.

The building of the house went forward splendidly, and it promised to be both very pretty and very convenient.

(To be continued.)

THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.

MARCH.

By LA MÉNAGÈRE.

ith March we are in Lent. Now although we may not approve of any restriction being placed on our dietary with regard to Lent, all the same as spring is approaching we shall find that those restrictions have their foundation laid in sound common sense. We do not now need such substantial faring as we did a month or two earlier; we shall be all the better for occasionally substituting fish for meat, for more eggs, and for fewer cakes and puddings.

March does not bring us much that is new in the way of provisions, but imported fruits and vegetables are not quite so dear as they were, and in our gardens we should be beginning to have mustard and cress and radishes. The first shoots of young sorrel—and how good they are—will be coming above ground, and forced rhubarb is plentiful and cheap.

We are now the worst off for the wherewithal to make our tables pretty, just before the spring flowers come in. We can supply the deficit by having some of the pretty little green ferns in fancy pottery—pteris, ivy, hart’s tongues, and so forth, and few things look nicer. Try, too, for special occasions, the effect of crossed ribbons on the white tablecloth. A table that is well-set with regard to its minor points, namely, salt-cellars, mustard pots, bright knives and forks, clear sparkling glass, and a clean tablecloth, can hardly ever fail to look attractive, even if it has to go without other decoration; just as the most elaborate decoration will never make up for deficiencies in these respects.

At this time of the year we may make plentiful use of such things as rice, macaroni, polenta, and other farinaceous foods; remembering, too, that eggs are at their best as well and fairly reasonable in price.

MENU FOR MARCH.

Julienne Soup.
Boiled Cod; Sauce Maître d’Hôtel, and Potatoes.
Roast Guinea-fowl; Chicory Salad.
Savoury Omelette.
Stewed Pears and Rice.

Julienne Soup.—The foundation of this must be strong clear stock, and preferably that which is made from a knuckle of veal, using a little Liebeg’s Essence to make it a deeper colour at the last. This should be strained and left to keep hot in a lined saucepan, while the vegetables are stewing in a separate pan. There is an art in shredding the vegetables for julienne soup, and they are best done with one of the little tools sold for the purpose, as the beauty of the soup depends on their being cut exactly alike. A fair quantity of vegetables will be required, enough to give the soup a pronounced character. When quite tender, these may be put into the tureen with the seasoning and flavouring, and the hot stock poured over.

Maître d’Hôtel Butter is made by melting about a quarter of a pound of salt butter in a saucepan and adding to it two tablespoonfuls of minced parsley, chervil and tarragon, with a shallot to give flavour. Simmer these well together, and before using add a few drops of vinegar, and some pepper and more salt if required.

Steam the potatoes if possible and garnish the cod with them.

When we speak of boiled fish by the way, we mean simmered fish, for it should never be allowed to actually boil, or it will be tough and flavourless. Very great care is needed in cooking all boiled articles of food.

Chicory Salad, which is, of course, made from the chicory that comes to us from abroad, requires a cream dressing. This should be made by mixing the yolk of an egg with oil and cream, a spoonful of made mustard, and a few drops of tarragon vinegar. Beat these ingredients together until they resemble a thick cream, and pour over the chicory (which should be cut into convenient lengths) at the last moment.

A guinea-fowl takes about the same time to roast as an ordinary fowl, and requires to be well basted. Serve fried crumbs with it.

Savoury Omelette.—When the art of making a plain omelette has been acquired, it is easy to ring the changes of variety. The additions that transform it into a savoury are, minced chives (or shallots), chervil, tarragon and parsley; in France this is called an omelette aux fines herbes. Four eggs would be needed to make one of a sufficient size for a dinner. Beat these on a plate with a knife and add the salt and pepper to them, also a very little milk. Pour into the omelette pan when the butter is beginning to turn colour, as the right point of heat has much to do with the ultimate success. Slip the knife under it a time or two, but as soon as the mixture shows signs of “setting,” it should be left alone for a minute longer, then the pan should be put into a very hot oven for another minute, to raise the surface, then folded over and slipped out of the pan on to a very hot dish. The savoury herbs should be added to the eggs at the beginning. Lose not a moment of time in bringing an omelette to table once it is cooked.

To boil rice successfully is not the easiest thing in the world. The water, of which there should be a large pan three parts full, must be boiling to begin with; then, while this is getting ready, the rice, after washing, should be soaking in cold water. Put plenty of salt in the pan. Boil the rice until it is tender enough to crush the grains between the thumb and finger, then pour off into a colander; pour more water through this until every grain is well separated, then return the rice to the saucepan, cover it tightly, and let it steam gently for half an hour. It ought then to be perfectly soft, yet every grain free from the other.

All rice, macaroni, and foods of this kind need to be extremely well cooked, otherwise they are anything but digestible.

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HIGH-CLASS SWEETMEATS.

Whatever the season, sweetmeats, especially high-class confections, are always in favour, most girls finding them delectable when sitting over the fire as when resting in a hammock.

I purpose telling the readers of the “G. O. P.” therefore some delightful recipes which I guarantee will not only be reasonable in price, but will look professional enough to enable you to refill any empty bonbon boxes you may possess as acceptable presents for your girl friends. But you must be very careful to follow my instructions most minutely, for like most handiwork it is the attention to details that ensures success. As space forbids I can only give the two following dainties as examples of what may be accomplished at home. They are Marrons glaces and Marzipane varieties.

Marrons Glaces.—For these take one quart of chestnuts, and after removing the outer skin cover with water, boil gently till soft thirty minutes to one hour, depending upon the kind of chestnuts. The Italian chestnut is the best for keeping its shape. Peel very carefully and put into a pan with any broken pieces there may be on the top.

Make a syrup of one pound of sugar and a quarter of a pint of water, boil briskly for five minutes or until it threads; by which I mean the syrup will form a tiny thread on dipping the finger and thumb in cold water and then into the syrup. Let this cool and then pour over the nuts and leave for thirty-six hours in a warm place, or longer if more convenient. Lift the nuts out and drain. Now another syrup must be made of one pound of sugar, a quarter of a pint of water, and one pinch of cream of tartar. Boil quickly for seven minutes; this time the thread must be thicker, and if registered by the thermometer it would be 250°. Take off the fire and place the nuts in carefully, and merely bring to the boil. Stir the syrup most gently and then lift out and drain them. When dry they are ready. Little paper cases make them look more dainty; they can be got at any large stationer’s.

A few hints on making syrup I think are necessary here before going to the next recipe. The first point to attend to is the saucepan, which should be perfectly clean and of strong enough material to prevent the syrup being likely to burn, and for this reason enamelled saucepans are not to be recommended. Then care must be taken not to let the syrup grain, which is the technical term for syrup crystallising again. A clean paint-brush or piece of rag dipped in water to wipe the sides of the pan. Skim carefully. Boil quickly, and do not stir, as stirring causes graining. For those who can afford a thermometer I should strongly advise its purchase; it simplifies the process of boiling syrup as it is much more accurate.

Marzipane Varieties.—Marzipane is made in various ways, but the recipe I intend giving is one that may be depended upon and will give satisfaction. One and a half pounds of almonds, two pounds of sugar, four eggs (whites only), half a saltspoon of cream of tartar, half a pint of water.

Make a syrup of the sugar, water and cream of tartar, boil for seven minutes in the same way as for marrons glaces. Stir in at once the ground almonds; if these be prepared at home the flavour is improved; those already prepared cost 1s. 4d. per pound, and answer very well. In either case add a few drops of almond essence and one teaspoonful of orange-flower water. Now put in the eggs, without beating; these must be stirred in off the fire and then returned to cook them slightly. You will find the quantities given make a large amount of marzipane; it may be considerably reduced, say to one-fourth, if desired. After the mixture is made, turn out on to a very large meat dish or marble slab (which is better) and work it with a wooden spoon until it is cool enough to knead with the hands. When worked enough it should look and be of the consistency of a nice dough. The next thing is to divide the marzipane in three or four portions. Colour and flavour each differently—cochineal, coffee, vegetable sap green are all suitable, and one portion may be left its natural colour. Work the colours in most thoroughly, as a streaky appearance would spoil the whole effect. To make diamonds—take a piece of each of the colours and roll out about a quarter of an inch, damp each slightly with a little white of egg and place on top of each other. Rice paper can be bought quite reasonably at any good confectioner’s. A small sheet of this damped and placed both at the top and bottom of the square of marzipane makes a professional finish to the diamonds. Leave an hour or two till quite dry, then with a sharp knife cut into slices half an inch wide and cut crosswise into diamonds. I must only give suggestions for several other varieties. Farced fruits, for example, farced being the term used to express stuffed; we will take French plums as an instance. Cut the plum carefully down the middle and remove the stone; cut a piece of marzipane about as large as a nut, roll in the palms of the hands till smooth and oblong, place right inside to show a little of the marzipane only. Cherries, raisins, etc., are all done in this way.

Another way to use the marzipane. Detach a piece of it as large as a filbert and roll again between the palms till smooth, and stick half a walnut on each side, or the walnut may be completely covered with the marzipane. Almonds may be used in the same way. Do not forget that all these goodies look much nicer if placed in small paper cases. Also when arranging them in rows with a little fold of white paper between each row. These do not by any means exhaust the sweets that can be made at home with profit and without undue labour.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MEDICAL.

A Lover of the “G. O. P.”—The question you ask we have answered many times before. Still, as we have not yet discussed the subject in this year’s volume, we will go over the old ground again, adding a little new matter which has come to our knowledge during the past few months. The question of the causation and cure of constipation is mainly a question of diet. A few weeks ago we gave a long answer on the treatment of indigestion. Read this and follow the advice there laid down. But, besides, take plenty of green vegetables and fruit, especially before breakfast. Stewed prunes, figs, dates, tamarinds, etc., are very useful for this complaint. You should also drink a fair quantity of fluid with your meals. In indigestion we restrict fluids; but in constipation we do the reverse, unless severe indigestion is present besides. Not only is highly-digestible food not necessary in your condition, but food which is not so digestible, but which contains a quantity of non-digestible material is better. Exercise in moderation every day is essential. An active occupation is preferable to a sedentary one. Last, and least important, is the question of drugs. Never take drugs unless absolutely necessary. When you have to take them, take a pill of aloes and nux vomica, or a small dose of calomel and bicarbonate of soda. The latter, which is from physiological considerations the most reasonable drug to take, is also the most effective, the least unpleasant, and the least dangerous, but it must only be taken occasionally.

Student.—The little blisters which come out on the eyelids and produce a pricking sensation for about an hour or two and then go away, are, we think, experienced by everybody, especially after using the eyes too long or after reading too small print. Indigestion has nothing to do with them.

Edna.—You need not worry yourself about the trouble of getting the pills. These are frequently used, and most chemists keep them already made up. You cannot possibly make pills yourself without a machine. We have already published an article on blushing, where you will see that it is only in very few cases that internal medication is of any avail.

Fralda.—We are afraid that you cannot do very much for your finger. The hardness and induration left after a severe chilblain is often very difficult to remove. If the chilblain has destroyed the deeper structures, as it does sometimes when untreated, especially in persons with feeble circulations, it will leave a hard knotty scar which nothing on this earth will remove. The best thing for you to do is to massage the finger every day. This will probably reduce the swelling, even though there may be a considerable amount of scar tissue present, which latter is, of course, absolutely incurable. Always wash in warm water and clad yourself warmly in cold weather.

Mignonette.—Cascara sagrada is a comparatively new drug. It is a liquid extract made from the bark of Rhamnus Purshiana by maceration in water and alcohol. Syrup of buckthorn is a country preparation of the bark of Rhamnus Frangula. It is far less efficacious than cascara. The dose of cascara sagrada is from one-half to two teaspoonfuls. It is a useful aperient in many cases.

Afflicted.—We published an article on blushing and nervousness a short time back. Of course your heart may be diseased; but remember that very many diseases of the heart are not very serious, and if care be taken, do not in any way interfere with or limit life. There is only one form of valvular disease of the heart which ever kills suddenly. This is aortic regurgitation—a form of disease very uncommonly due to rheumatism.

Inquirer.—The public must be getting rather tired of nostrums guaranteed to “cure all diseases of the stomach, bowels, liver and kidneys.” The fact that there are some hundreds of patent preparations sold to cure everything is sufficient to prove that the “elixir of life” still remains undiscovered. That any drug will ever be discovered that will cure every disease, even of one organ, is hardly conceivable. We cannot understand how any agent could cure two diametrically opposite conditions. Do you think that millions would die of diseases of the stomach, liver and kidneys, if a cure for them could be obtained for 1s. 1½d. per bottle—cure guaranteed after taking two bottles—that is, for 2s. 3d.?

Olive Mary.—1. A few weeks ago we gave a résumé of the treatment of indigestion such as you suffer from. If you read this column carefully, you cannot help finding many dozens or hundreds of answers concerning diet and digestion.—2. You will find the following very useful:—five drops of essence of ginger, and ten drops of compound tincture of cardamons in a wineglassful of water. This may be taken occasionally as required. Do not take it regularly, and leave it off as soon as you can. You will soon get the upper hand of your indigestion if you carry out our instructions carefully.

Mater.—Knock-knees are very common. They are almost invariably caused by rickets in childhood. The treatment for the condition varies with its severity. If very severe an operation may be required to straighten the legs. If slight, the deformity may often be cured by splints.

From a Male Reader.—There is nothing known which will remove hair or prevent it from growing. When we say nothing, we mean nothing which is in any way possible in your case. You can lighten the colour of your hair and so make it less noticeable with peroxide of hydrogen.

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Sefton Park.—“Musical stammering” is the same affection as “writer’s cramp,” the only difference between them being due to the different purposes to which the hand is put. There is a very large number of affections of the nervous system called “habit spasms” or “occupation neuroses.” An example will illustrate the cause and treatment of all. So let us take your complaint, “musical stammering.” A pianist discovers one day that she cannot play properly, that her finger persists in striking the same note constantly. Her arm undergoes spasms which prevent her from moving her fingers over the keys. She has an attack of “musical stammering.” What is the cause of this? Well, this question cannot be directly answered. Let us see what possible factors have led up to the present outbreak. Obviously the first is her occupation. Then she has been practising very long. The five-finger exercise is monotonous. The brain, which at first gave its attention to the notes, is now fagging. The mind no longer controls the hands. The exercise ceases to be a voluntary act. It has become a series of involuntary reflexes which require little effort to continue, but a considerable amount of volition to stop. The hand becomes tired and its muscles and nerves exhausted. Now, no longer will they respond rhythmically to the stimulus of striking the finger, they undergo spasms and twitchings. It is very difficult to say which causes the spasms—the brain or the nerves of the arm. But be this as it may, it is an affection which is most difficult to eradicate. It occurs chiefly in members of neurotic families, and, occasionally, is only present when the health is impaired, but it may develop in anybody who is in perfect health. Now for a few words about the prevention and cure of “musical stammering.” Of course we cannot give you any absolute cure for the condition, and you have not been unreasonable enough to demand one. Drugs may be put out of the question as being totally useless. The same may be said of dieting. Locally, mild electrical stimulation and massage of the arms are sometimes useful. The former agent is often quite useless, and sometimes makes the condition worse; massage never does any harm. The usual treatment adopted is to give up the occupation connected with the malady and do something else. This is not always possible, and, besides, it is rather fighting shy of the evil and not treating it. The best form of treatment, we feel certain, is mild and careful exercise. For instance, in your case, practise for five minutes; if this brings on “stammering,” leave off at once; if it does not, practise for the five minutes and then leave off. You might practise twice a day. Every week you should add one minute more to the time you practise, till you have got to practise for two separate half-hours daily. The chief points to remember are these:—on the slightest return of symptoms cut down the time by two or three minutes; if the symptoms do not return, increase the time very gradually; never practise unless you can give the whole of your mind to the work—as soon as the brain begins to fag you are in danger, and even if you were not, the practising done is of no value whatever. If this form of treatment fails there is little left, except giving up music altogether, at all events for some years.

STUDY AND STUDIO.

Lizzie van Hardenbroek (Algiers).—We thank you heartily for your very pleasant letter. The English and handwriting are admirable, considering that you are a foreigner.—1. Your quotation is from Milton’s poem “On His Blindness.” You may perhaps know that our great poet, who had from childhood injured his eyesight by excessive study and strain, became totally blind in about the forty-seventh year of his age. As you may have difficulty in procuring it, we transcribe the whole sonnet, which is one of the most beautiful in the English language:—

“When I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent, which is death to hide,

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he returning chide;

‘Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?’

I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, ‘God doth not need

Either man’s work or his own gifts. Who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o’er land and ocean without rest;

They also serve who only stand and wait.’”

Fiddler.—We can only confirm your own modest opinion, that your composition is very incorrect. There appears to be no melody, and it is without meaning or coherence. We can, however, give you one word of praise, for the music is most beautifully copied. You should study the laws of musical composition. Davenport’s Elements of Music, and Harmony, are the best books for you to procure.

Olive.—The literal Latin words for “Love conquers” are “Amor vincit,” but as a motto it reads better “Omnia vincit amor”—“Love conquers all things.”

Victoria.—1. Your writing has a small and cramped appearance, and you do not form your letters well. The tails of your g’s, y’s, &c., are too long. You write very clearly, and might easily improve with care.—2. We do not give the private address of the authoress in question, but letters sent to the office of The Girl’s Own Paper would be forwarded to her. Ethel Rimmer’s question has been already answered, though we thank you for your kindness.

Snowdrop.—1. Yes; we are afraid we must confirm the opinion of your relations, that your writing is very bad; but do not despair! Purchase some good copybooks and practise every day.—2. “The Anchor’s Weighed” is a very well known nautical song, and you could purchase it in a cheap form by inquiring at any music shop, so that it is hardly necessary for us to print all the words here.

Joyce.—The play to which you refer, “The Witches’ Curse,” is by Miss Alcott, the author of Little Women, and you can procure it separately; “The Witches’ Curse and Other Plays, by Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy.” Inquire at your bookseller’s. We have seen it prettily acted by children.

Hilda Quelch.—1. Write to the Registrar, University of London, Burlington Gardens, W., for a syllabus of the Matriculation exam.—2. Your writing does not strike us as “babyish,” but it is a little small and cramped. We do not admire the backward slope; but if you wish to retain that, you may still acquire greater freedom by practice and care. Two questions are our limit. We thank you for your kind little letter and assure you of our good wishes.

OUR OPEN LETTER BOX.

Stanmore’s query concerning some verses is answered by Dorothy A. Cross and “Nell.” The authoress is said by the former to be Miss M. E. Manners, though the lines are printed anonymously. Nell encloses a similar poem, which we print verbatim.

The Forget-Me-Not.

It’s said that ages, long ago, when God had formed the earth and heaven,

He called the flowers one by one, until to all sweet names He’d given:

To one, pure Lily, other Rose, another Violet, or Daisy fair,

As each bright flower before Him passed, to wear anew its Father’s care.

But oh! one day, a tiny flower, with pale blue eye and little tear,

Came back to Him and said, “Dear Lord, I’ve forgotten quite my name, I fear.”

Then looking down upon the flower, which trembling stood, with bended head,

Without reproof or look unkind, “Forget-Me-Not,” He gently said.

Ninette (Budapesth) has four answers. N. E. Coote tells her she will find “The Song of the Shirt” and “Somebody’s Darling” in No. VI. Royal Reader. F. W. Stone refers her to Bell’s Standard Elocutionist, published by Hodder and Stoughton. “Rosebud” says the poems are both in The Art of Speaking, by Harold Ford. Edith Walpole, 58, Talgarth Road, West Kensington, London, refers her to vol. v. of The Royal Reader, but offers to copy out and send both poems to Ninette.

Janet wishes to know the title and author of the song in which these lines occur—

“Blue seas, and blue skies,

New friends, and new ties.”

E. M. W. seeks the authors of the two following quotations, and the poems from which they are taken:—

(1) “What a single word can do!

Making life seem all untrue;

Driving joy and hope away,

Leaving not one cheering ray;

Blighting every flower that grew—

What a single word can do!”

(2) “Not all who seem to fail, have failed indeed;

Not all who fail have therefore worked in vain,

For all our acts to many issues lead;

And out of earnest purpose, pure and plain,

The Lord will fashion ends in His good time.”

INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE.

⁂ We have to request our correspondents kindly to refrain from sending us letters stamped with 2½d. stamps for us to forward to foreign subscribers. This waste of trouble and of postage distresses us, and we must repeat that we cannot undertake any postal business whatever in connection with this column. We keep no register of addresses, so are unable to forward letters, nor can we engage to return them to the writers. If addresses are not sent for publication on the one side, they must be so sent on the other. We refer our readers to The Girl’s Own Paper for April, 1898, where we endeavoured to explain our method of procedure.

Miss Sissie Redmond, Shortlands, Folkestone, aged fifteen, would like to correspond with Miss Anice Cress, also to exchange stamps with girl collectors living abroad. She is an enthusiastic collector and has about 4000 stamps.

O Mimosa San has offers of correspondence, with a view to exchanging picture postcards, from Miss Bessie Golding, 9, Handford Street, Derby; Miss Lizzie van Hardenbroek, Hôtel Continental, Mustapha Supérieur, Algiers, Africa; Miss Ethel Miller, Effra Dene, Church Road, Brixton Hill; and Miss Eva Miller, Luthergasse 4, Graz, Styria, Austria. (We imagine this identity of name is only a coincidence.) Will “O Mimosa San” write to these addresses? Miss van Hardenbroek, whose house is near Utrecht, would like to send “O Mimosa San” three Dutch and three Algerian postcards for six Russian ones.

Edith Walpole should write direct to Miss Valentine Massaria, whose address we published.

Miss Inquisitive has an answer from Miss Islay Campbell, “Newhouse,” 25, Sinza Road, Shanghai, China, who would be pleased to correspond with her.

Nellie would very much like to correspond with a girl of her own age (nineteen) who works with her hands, and if possible lives in the country, as “Nellie” lives in London.

Japonica would be glad if some educated French girl of good family, aged about twenty, would send her address to this column. “Japonica” suggests writing alternate French and English letters, her correspondent doing the same; each to return the other’s letters corrected, when necessary.

Miss Dorothy A. Cross, Minterne, Cerne, Dorset, aged fourteen, fond of history, French, general reading, and bicycling, wishes for a French correspondent of about the same age and tastes.

Miss van Hardenbroek, whose address we give in the answer to “O Mimosa San,” wishes to exchange old Dutch and French stamps with the three-cornered stamps of the Cape of Good Hope, if any reader of The Girl’s Own Paper has the latter.

Miss Hilda Quelch, Stanley Lodge, Bedford Road, South Woodford, Essex, would like to correspond with a French girl.

GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.

Wood Violet (Home Occupation).—As you wish to do something in your spare time at home and do not need to earn your living, perhaps it would be best to learn some handicraft. We would suggest lace-making, flax spinning, cane basket weaving, or repoussé metal work. By applying to the Secretary, Home Arts and Industries Association, Royal Albert Hall, Kensington Gore, W., you would probably hear of some classes that you might join.

A Reluctant Home-Bird.—It is natural and proper that you should wish to be fully employed now that you are young and vigorous. And it is manifestly not easy to find work enough for several daughters to do at home. At the same time you must remember that you have had one or two chances of outside occupation already. You have not cared for hospital nursing; but as you say you “love children,” how would it be to be trained either as a children’s nurse (at the Norland Institute), or as a kindergarten teacher? If you were interested in work among poor children, and did not require much salary, we would suggest that some of the London Boards of Guardians are inclined to appoint young ladies of about your own age as matrons of small cottage homes for pauper children. Much useful work might be done by ladies acting in this capacity. But we do not think this is quite the career for you. Travelling companionships are so scarce that we do not advise you to seek one. And it is difficult to know otherwise how you are to see the world as you desire. If money enough could be spared for you to live at some home for working ladies in London (e.g., the Beechwood Club, 6, Oakley Street, S.W.), it might be worth while for you to come up and to study shorthand and typewriting with a view to seeking work as a newspaper reporter. A secretaryship, we fear, would be put almost out of reach by the circumstance of your handwriting not being first rate. But you appear to have some natural aptitude for literary expression, and it is just possible—though we should not like to hold out any definite hope—that you could obtain a little journalistic work.

Rubes (Table Decoration).—This is a precarious employment, and naturally much affected by the London Season. We do not strongly advise any girl to adopt it who is in need of a regular income. Pupils are taken by the Women’s London Gardening Association, 62, Lower Sloane Street, S.W.

The Stewardess.—The principal steamship companies are those to which you should apply for a post as stewardess; but successful applicants are usually the widows or daughters of the companies’ officers.

Netta (Book-keeping).—At twenty-eight you are by no means too old to learn book-keeping. You might attend classes at the Birkbeck Institute, or at almost any polytechnic, and then present yourself for one of the Society of Arts’ examinations. Your handwriting is decidedly good, and would serve as a recommendation for secretarial work.

An Irish Girl (Gardening).—Lady gardeners are decidedly in request, and you would not do at all unwisely to study at the Horticultural College, Swanley, Kent. It is probably Kew Gardens in which your friends have told you that ladies were employed. To be trained at Swanley would cost about £70 a year for board, lodging, and tuition.

{384}

MISCELLANEOUS.

Britannia.—The stains you describe are probably of the nature of a dye, in which case you can do nothing for them. You might show them to a cleaner, or have the garment dyed a darker colour.

A. D.—The training classes held by the Home Arts and Industries Association for voluntary teachers and others, at the Albert Hall, have now opened for the Autumn Session. Bookbinding, carpentry and wood-carving, inlaying and marquetry, metal repoussé and basket-making are taught. Particulars can be obtained from the Secretary at the Royal Albert Hall, S.W.

Lily of the Valley.—To turn your light straw hat black there are several things; but the best is, we think, Berlin black, to be obtained from any oil shop.

Annette.—We regret that it is not in our power to help you to dispose of clothes, either old or new ones.

Miss A. A. L.—Nearly all large drapers sell waterproof garments, and the fashions in cloaks and mantles change every season.

Chapeau.—The velvet must be taken off the hat and steamed over boiling water in order to take out the spots. Hold the wrong side of the velvet over the steam, and afterwards go over the velvet with either a velvet brush or a piece of black crape to raise the pile again. The velvet must not be wetted in the operation, only steamed enough to raise the pile.

Fanny G.—It is not unusual for a girl to pay a visit to the family of the man to whom she is betrothed; nor is there anything wrong in it, as she should know something of them before marriage.

M. E. W.—Unless in use, you had better try to dispose of the water-bed. It will answer no purpose to put it away, and it is useless save in sickness. They will allow you for it, where you procured it, as second-hand.

Veilchen.—1. As a general rule it is better to take all such kindly attentions as meaning nothing beyond what appears on the surface. A man very often walks home with a girl out of kindness only; and there is no harm in his doing so, as in the country, where the roads are lonely, he may feel obliged to do it. If your family object to it, and if you feel it unpleasant, have one of the servants sent to meet you. It is well to discourage self-consciousness, and to accept such attentions as they are, probably, meant; that is, as the natural acts of kindness which a man feels it right to offer to a woman in need of them.—2. There are plenty of good hair washes which you can make yourself. Dr. Erasmus Wilson’s is excellent—

℞	Eau de Cologne	8	oz.
	Tincture of cantharides	1	“
	Oil of English Lavender	½	drachm.
	Oil of rosemary	½	”

Mix in a bottle, and shake well.

THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

“OUR HERO.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

EASTER EGGS.

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

CHAPTER XXIII.

OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: IN PERILOUS TIMES.

IN PERILOUS TIMES.

EXAMINERS’ REPORT.

THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS.

LESSONS FROM NATURE.

PART IV.

VARIETIES.

HIS GREAT REWARD.

CHAPTER II.

CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.

CHAPTER VI.

THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.

MENU FOR MARCH.

HIGH-CLASS SWEETMEATS.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MEDICAL.

STUDY AND STUDIO.

OUR OPEN LETTER BOX.

INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE.

GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.

MISCELLANEOUS.

AN EMBROIDERED PIANOFORTE BACK.