*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 56071 ***

[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.--NO. 997.]      FEBRUARY 4, 1899.      [PRICE ONE PENNY.]




A BRIDAL SONG.


[Illustration: “GOD SPEED THEE!”]

        Oh, happy bride!
    Heaven’s sunlight wraps thee in a golden gleam,
    And in thine eyes the light of love supreme,
    And in thy heart the dawning of a dream,
        And what beside!

        Hopes reaching wide,
    Out into the new life unbegun,
    Into the untrodden ways thy feet may run
    And the dim future only known by One--
        The One Who died.

        And a sweet pride
    That thou art chosen the whole world above,
    And girt about with mightiness of love,
    Which waits to cherish thee as tend’rest dove
        Till death divide.

        And there abide
    In thy full heart most sweet-sad memories
    Of one who smiles on thee from out the skies,
    Thy best belovèd, now in Paradise,
        Thy earliest guide;

        At whose dear side
    Thy girlhood’s opening flower sweetly grew,
    Till death transplanted her into the blue;
    There to watch over thee with love more true
        And purified.

        In the untried
    And varying life which waits thee, rosy-hued,
    God speed thee! and give daily grace renewed,
    And bless with all His large beatitude
        Thy marriage-tide.

        Though thou be tried
    And troubled oftentimes in this new life,
    Christ wall be with thee through the calm and strife,
    Help thee to beautify the name of wife,
        Oh, happy bride!


_All rights reserved._]




“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 XIX.

ORDERED TO BITCHE.

Roy forgot everything except the affair on hand. He dashed upstairs and
into the salon at a headlong pace, knocking over a chair as he entered.
It fell with a crash, and Roy stopped short. Denham was on the sofa, no
one else being present except Lucille, who, with her bonnet on, as if
she were going out, had just taken an empty cup from his hand.

“Roy, you unkind boy,” she said, turning with a look of positive anger.
“How you can do it!”

“O I’m sorry. I didn’t remember. Isn’t Den better?”

“Not remember! But you ought to remember. So without thought. It is
selfishness.”

For Lucille to be seriously displeased with Roy was an event so new in
his experience, that Roy gazed with astonished eyes.

“No matter,” interposed Denham. “Had a good time, Roy?”

“I’ve seen lots of people. Den, I’m sorry, really. I didn’t mean----”

“No, of course not. It’s all right.”

“Where is my father?” Roy asked in a subdued voice.

“Gone out--but ten minutes since,” said Lucille. “General Cunningham
sent to see him on business. And Colonel Baron has to go with him
somewhere, and cannot return soon. So dinner is put off till six.”

“And mamma?”

“Mrs. Baron had a call to pay in the same direction. Captain Ivor
thought he might get half-an-hour’s sleep. Roy, be good, I entreat.
Do not fidget, and knock over chairs, and talk, talk, talk, without
ending.”

Roy nodded, and Lucille moved towards the door, adding, as she went, “I
also have to see someone, but I shall be back soon.”

Roy sat down in a favourite attitude, facing the back of a chair, and
wondering what to do next. Would it be right to tell Denham what had
happened? Would it be wrong to put off telling? Curtis had enjoined him
to speak at once; but Curtis had not known the posture of affairs. The
matter might be of consequence, or it might not. Roy was disquieted,
but not seriously uneasy; and he hesitated to worry Denham without
cause.

“Seen anybody?” asked Ivor.

“Yes; numbers.”

Then a break.

“Found Curtis?”

“Yes. And Carey too. Would you like to hear all about it?”

“By-and-by, I think. It will keep.”

Silence again, and Roy debated afresh. What if his action should mean
bringing Curtis into trouble? That thought had considerable weight.

Three times he formed with his lips the preliminary “I say, Den!” and
three times he refrained. The third time some slight sound escaped him,
for Denham asked drowsily, “Anything you want?”

“Lucille told me not to talk. Does it matter?”

Ivor did not protest, as Roy had half hoped. He was evidently dropping
off, and Roy decided that a short delay was unavoidable. He took up
a volume that lay near; and, being no longer a book-hater, he became
absorbed in its contents. General Wirion, chips of wood, the Imperial
nose, and irate landladies, faded out of his mind. The matter was no
doubt a pity, but after all it meant only--so Roy supposed--a pull
upon his father’s purse. Boys are apt to look upon parental purses as
unlimited in depth.

Denham was sound asleep, and Roy kept as motionless as any girl; not
that girls are always quiet. An hour passed; another half-hour; and he
began to grow restless. Might it be possible to slip away?

Gruff voices and heavy trampling feet, in the hall below, broke into
the stillness, and Denham woke up. “This is lazy work,” he said
wearily. “Roy--here yet! What time is it?”

“Nearly five. Dinner isn’t till six. Head any better?”

“Yes. I’m wretched company for you to-day. Different to-morrow, I hope.”

“You can’t help it. You’ve just got to get rested--that’s all. I say,
what a noise they are making downstairs. Frenchmen do kick up such a
rumpus about everything.”

The door opened hurriedly, and Lucille came in, wearing still her
bonnet, as if just returned from a walk.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “I do not know what it means, but I must
tell. I have no choice. O it surely must be a mistake, it cannot be
truly----”

Lucille startled herself no less than her listeners by a sharp sob. She
caught Roy’s arm with both hands, holding him fast. “Roy--Roy--what is
it that you have done? O what have you done?” she cried.

“Is it that bosh about the cast? O I know. They want to be paid, I
suppose. Lucille, Den has been asleep, and I’ve been as quiet as
anything--and then for you to come in like this! Den, you just keep
still, and I’ll go and speak to them. I’ll settle it all. I know my
father will pay.”

“No, no, no--stay--you must not go,” panted Lucille. “Stay--it is the
gendarmes! And they come to arrest you--to take you away!”

The word “gendarmes” acted as an electric shock, bringing Denham to his
feet in a moment.

“What is it all about? I do not understand.” He touched Roy on the
shoulder, with an imperative--“Tell me.”

“It was only--I’d have told you before, only I didn’t like to bother
you. It was at Curtis’. There was a bust of Boney on the mantelshelf,
and I just shied bits of wood at it, in fun. And I said ‘_À bas
Napoléon_,’ or something of that sort; and then I threw a ball,
and the idiotic thing tumbled down and broke into pieces. And the
landlady--she’s a regular out-and-out virago--happened that very
moment to come in, and she saw and heard. And she vowed she would tell
of it. Curtis tried to explain things away, and I offered to pay,
but she wouldn’t listen. She went on shrieking at us, and said it
was an insult to the Emperor, and Wirion should know of it. She’s a
Bonapartist--worse luck! Curtis made me hurry off, and said I was to
tell my father at once. But he was out, and you--you know----” with a
glance at Lucille, who wrung her hands, while Ivor said,

“Roy, were you utterly mad?”

“I--don’t know. Was it very stupid? Will it matter, do you think? I’m
sorry about you--most. I thought they would wait till to-morrow; but
I suppose they want me to go and pay directly. Is that it?” looking
towards Lucille.

“No, no, no,” she answered, again wringing her hands. “It is to
take--to take Roy--to the citadel!”

“To the citadel!” Roy opened his eyes. “O I say, what a farce! For
knocking down a wretched little image, not worth fifty sous!”

“For breaking a bust of the Emperor, and for shouting--‘_À bas_----’”
Lucille could not finish.

“You mean--that they will keep him there to-night?” Denham said.

She looked at him with eyes that were almost wild with fear.
“Oui--oui--the citadel to-night! And to-morrow--they say--to Bitche.”

“To--Bitche!” whispered Roy. He grew white, for that word was a sound
of terror in the ears of English prisoners, and his glance went in
appeal to Ivor.

“Stay here, Roy. I will speak to them.”

Ivor crossed the room with his rapid resolute stride, and went out,
meeting the gendarmes half-way downstairs. Lucille clutched Roy’s arm
again, half in reproach, half in protection. “Ah, my poor boy! mon
pauvre garçon! how could you? Ah, such folly! As if there were not
already trouble enough! Ah, my unhappy Roy!”

“Shut up, Lucille! You needn’t jaw a fellow like that! It can’t mean
anything really, you know. Wirion just thinks he can screw a lot of
money out of my father. And that’s the worst of it,” declared Roy, in
an undertone. “I hate to have done such a stupid thing--and I hate the
worry of it for Den, just now when he’s like this. But you know they
couldn’t really send me to Bitche only for smashing a paltry image. It
would be ridiculous.”

“Ah, Roy! even you little know--you--what it means to be under a
despot, such as--but one may not dare to speak.”

Lucille’s tears came fast. They stood listening. From the staircase
rose loud rough voices, alternating with Ivor’s not loud but masterful
tones. That he was prisoner, and that they had power to arrest him too,
if they chose, made not a grain of difference in his bearing. It was
not defiant or excited, but undoubtedly it was haughty; and Lucille,
just able to see him from where she stood, found herself wondering--did
he wish to go to prison with Roy? She could almost have believed it.

“Eh bien, messieurs. Since l’Empéreur sees fit to war with schoolboys,
so be it,” she heard him say sternly in his polished French. “To me, as
an Englishman, it appears that his Majesty might find a foe more worthy
of his prowess.”

“But, ah, why make them angry?” murmured Lucille.

A few more words, and Denham came back. One look at his face made
questions almost needless.

“Then I am to go, Den?”

“I fear--no help for it. The men have authority. You will have to spend
to-night in the citadel. But I am coming with you, and I shall insist
upon seeing Wirion himself.”

“But you--you cannot! You are ill!” remonstrated Lucille. “Will not
Colonel Baron go? Not you.”

He put aside the objection as unimportant.

“Roy must take a few things with him--not more than he can carry
himself. I hope it may be only for the one night. They allow us twenty
minutes--not longer. That is a concession.”

“I will put his things together for him,” Lucille said quickly.

“One moment. May I beg a kindness?”

“Anything in the world.”

“If Colonel Baron does not return before we start--and he will
not--would you, if possible, find him, and beg him to come at once to
the citadel? Then, Mrs. Baron----”

Ivor’s set features yielded slightly; for the thought of Roy’s mother
without her boy was hard to face. Lucille watched him with grieved eyes.

“I will tell her, but not everything--not yet as to Bitche, for that
may be averted. I will stay with her--comfort her--do all that I am
able. Is this what you would ask?”

“God bless you!” he said huskily, and she hurried away.

“Den, must I go with those fellows really?” asked Roy, beginning to
understand what he had brought upon himself. “I never thought of that.
Can’t you manage to get me off? Won’t they let me wait--till my father
comes back?”

“They will consent to no delay. He will follow us soon. And, Roy, I
must urge you to be careful what you say. Any word that you may let
slip without thinking will be used against you. I hoped that you had
learnt that lesson.”

A listener, overhearing Denham with the gendarmes, might have
questioned whether he had learnt it himself; but Roy was in no
condition of mind to be critical. Dismay grew in his face.

“And if you can’t get me off---- If I am sent to Bitche----” with
widening gaze.

“If you are”--with much more of an effort than Roy could imagine--“then
you will meet it like a man. Whatever comes, you must be brave and true
through all. Keep up heart, and remember that it is only for a time.
And, my boy, never let yourself say or do what you would be ashamed to
tell your father.”

“Or--you”--with a catch of his breath.

“Or me!”--steadily. “Remember always that you are an Englishman--that
you are your father’s son--that you are my friend--and that your duty
to God comes first. For your mother’s sake, bear patiently. Don’t make
matters worse by useless anger. And--think how she will be praying for
you!”

Denham could hardly say the words. Roy’s lips quivered.

“Yes, I will! Only, if you could get me off!”

“My dear boy, if they would take me in your stead----”

“Den, I’m so sorry! I’m not frightened, you know--only it’s horrid to
have to go! Just when you’ve come and all! And it would have been so
jolly! And it’s such a bother for you, too! I do wish I hadn’t done it!”

Ten minutes later the two started--Roy under the gendarme-escort, Ivor
keeping pace with them.

Lucille then hastened away on her sorrowful mission, leaving a message
with old M. Courant, in case either Colonel or Mrs. Baron should return
during her absence--not the same message for Mrs. Baron as for the
Colonel.

Half-an-hour’s search brought her into contact with the latter, and she
poured forth a breathless tale. Heavier and heavier grew the cloud upon
his face. He knew too well the uses that might be made of Roy’s boyish
escapade. At the sound of that dread word--“Bitche”--a grey shadow came.

“Captain Ivor went with Roy to the citadel. He ought not--he has been
so suffering all day--but he would not let Roy go alone. And he asked,
would you follow them as soon as possible? For me, I will find Mrs.
Baron, and will stay with her.”

The Colonel muttered words of thanks, and went off at his best speed.

Would he and Captain Ivor be able to do anything? Would they even be
admitted to the presence of the autocratic commandant? Denham might
talk of insisting; but prisoners had no power to insist. If he did, he
might only be thrown into prison himself! Was that what he wanted--to
go with the boy?

“Ah, j’espère que non!” Lucille muttered fervently.

And if they were admitted, what then? Would money purchase Roy’s
immunity from punishment? General Wirion’s known cupidity gave some
ground for hope. Yet, would he neglect such an opportunity for
displaying Imperialist zeal?

Lucille put these questions to herself as she flew homeward. On the way
she met little Mrs. Curtis, and for one moment stopped in response to
the other’s gesture.

“Is it true?” Mrs. Curtis asked, with a scared look. “They tell me Roy
has been arrested. Is it so? My husband could do nothing. The landlady
was off before he could speak to her again. He thought that Roy and the
Colonel would be coming round directly, and so he waited in. But they
did not come. And now two gendarmes are quartered in our lodgings, and
Hugh may not stir without their leave. It is horrid! But--Roy?”

“I cannot wait! Roy is taken to the citadel! I have to see to his
mother! Do not keep me, Madame.” And again Lucille sped homeward.

As she had half hoped, half dreaded, she found Mrs. Baron indoors
before herself, alone in the salon, and uneasy at Captain Ivor’s
absence.

“He ought not to have gone out,” she said. “He will be seriously ill
if he does not let himself rest. It is Roy’s doing, I suppose--so
thoughtless of Roy! I must tell Denham that I will not have him spoil
my boy in this way. It is not good for Roy, and Denham will suffer for
it. You do not know where he is gone?”

“Oui!” faltered Lucille, and Mrs. Baron looked at her.

“You have been crying! What is it?”

As gently as might be, Lucille broke the news of what had happened; and
Mrs. Baron seemed stunned. Roy--her Roy--in the hands of the pitiless
gendarmes! Roy imprisoned in the citadel! Lucille made no mention of
Bitche; but too many prisoners had been passed on thither for the idea
not to occur to Mrs. Baron.

“And it was I who brought him to France! It was I who would not let him
be sent home when he might have gone! O Roy, Roy!” she moaned. Lucille
had hard work to bring any touch of comfort to her.

Hour after hour crept by. Once a messenger arrived with a pencil note
from Colonel Baron to his wife--

“Do not sit up if we are late. We are doing what we can. I cannot
persuade Denham to go back.”

Not sit up! Neither Mrs. Baron nor Lucille could dream of doing
anything else. This suspense drew them together, and Lucille found
herself to be one with the Barons in their trouble.

Nine o’clock, ten o’clock, and at length eleven o’clock. Soon after
came a sound of footsteps. Not of bounding, boyish steps. No Roy came
rushing gaily into the room. Lucille had found fault with him that
afternoon for his noisy impulsiveness; but now, from her very heart,
she would have welcomed his merry rush. Only Colonel Baron and Ivor
entered.

The Colonel’s face was heavily overclouded, while Denham’s features
were rigid as iron, and entirely without colour.

“Roy?” whispered Mrs. Baron.

Deep silence answered the unspoken question. Colonel Baron stood with
folded arms, gazing at his wife. Denham moved two or three paces away,
and rested one arm on the back of a tall chair, as if scarcely able to
keep himself upright.

“Roy!” repeated Mrs. Baron, her voice sharpened and thinned. “You have
not brought--Roy!”

A single piercing laugh rang out. She stopped the sound abruptly with
one quick indrawing of her breath, and waited.

Colonel Baron tried to speak, and no sound came. Denham remained
motionless, not even attempting to raise his eyes.

“Oui!” Lucille said restlessly. “Il est--il est----”

The Colonel managed a few short words. There was no possibility of
softening what had to be said.

“To-night--the citadel. To-morrow--to Bitche!”

“To Bitche!” echoed Lucille. “Ah-h!”

To Bitche--that terrible fortress-prison, the nightmare of Verdun
prisoners! Their Roy to be sent to Bitche! Mrs. Baron swayed slightly
as if on the verge of fainting. Roy, her petted and idolised
darling--her boy, so tenderly cared for--to be hurried away to Bitche!

Lucille hardly could have told which of the two she was watching with
the more intense attention--Mrs. Baron, stunned and wordless, or
Denham, with his fixed still face of suffering.

“And nothing--nothing--can be done?” she asked.

“We have tried everything!” the Colonel answered gloomily.[1]


(_To be continued._)

[1] Actual fact: A young fellow at Verdun, prisoner on parole, was
closely imprisoned for knocking down a bust of the Emperor in his
lodgings.




A RAMBLE ABOUT CHILDHOOD.

BY MRS. MOLESWORTH.


No true child-lover would maintain that all children are equally
lovable, or indeed, in some--though, I think, rare instances--lovable
at all.

But in this, speaking for myself, I detect no inconsistency, no
falsity to one’s colours. For the qualities or deficiencies which
make a child unlovable may be summed up in one word; they are such as
make it unchildlike. And this, not necessarily, if at all, as regards
a child’s mental qualities. It is the moral side of child-nature
that attracts--the heart, the spirit. For painful as it is to meet
with precocity of mind in some instances, especially the precocity
of the kind forced upon the children of the poor not unfrequently,
this, unchildlike as it is, is by no means incompatible with
great sweetness and beauty of the moral character, great power of
affection, delightful candour, even that most exquisite of childlike
possessions--trustfulness.

Yes, the root of a child’s nature, the essential groundwork of it, to
be lovely and lovable, must be childlike. But a literal meaning must be
given to the pretty adjective. I would not even altogether eliminate
from it certain qualities which might, strictly speaking, be perhaps
more correctly described as _childish_, seeing that if we limited
the word too narrowly, we should lose others of the great charms of
children, their queer, delightful inconsistencies and exaggerations,
their quaint originality, their grotesque imaginings, all of which, in
more or less degree, a real child, even a dull or stupid one, possesses.

Take, for example, the unconscious egoism, almost amounting, logically
speaking, to “arrogance,” of most children. The world, nay, the
universe, is their own little life and surroundings; their house and
family are the rules, the proper thing, all others exceptions. It is
not, in most instances, till childhood is growing into a phase of the
past, that the sense of comparison is really developed, or that the
young creatures take in that other circumstances or conditions besides
their own may be what _should_ be, that they themselves do not hold a
monopoly of the model existence.

There is something pretty as well as absurd in this--to my mind, at
least, in certain directions, something almost sacred, which it would
be desecration to touch with hasty or careless fingers; which, one
almost grieves to know, must pass, like all illusions, however sweet
and innocent, when its day is over.

To recall some recollections of my own childish beliefs--if the egotism
may be pardoned, on the ground that one’s own experiences of this
nature cannot but be the most trustworthy. I often smile to myself,
with the smile “akin to tears,” when I look back to some of the faiths,
the first principles, of my earliest years.

Foremost among these was the belief in the absolute perfection of
my father and mother. I thought that they could not do wrong, that
they knew _everything_. I remember feeling extremely surprised and
perplexed on some occasions when, having involuntarily--for I,
like most children, but seldom expressed or alluded to my deepest
convictions--allowed this creed of mine to escape me, the subjects of
it--though not without a smile--endeavoured tenderly to correct my
estimate of them.

“There are many, many things I do not know about, my little girl,” my
father would say, adding once, I remember--for this remark impressed
me greatly--“I only know enough to begin to see that I am exceedingly
ignorant.” And my mother was even more emphatic in her deprecation of
our nursery fiat that “mamma was quite, quite good.”

Not that these protestations shook our faith. In my own case I know
that the unconscious arrogance with regard to family conditions
extended to ludicrous details. I thought that the Christian names of
my parents were the only correct ones for papas and mammas; I believed
that the order in which we children stood--there were six of us, boy,
girl, boy, girl, boy, girl--was the appointed order of nature, that all
deviation from these and other particulars of the kind was abnormal and
incorrect, and I viewed with condescending pity the playmates whose
brothers and sisters were wrongly arranged, or whose parents suffered
under “not right” names.

Gradually, of course, these queer, childish “articles of belief”
faded--melted away in the clearer vision of experience and developing
intellect. But they left a something behind them which I should be
sorry to be without; and they left too, I think, a certain faculty
of penetration into infant inner life, which circumstances have
shown themselves kindly in preserving and deepening. I have learnt to
feel since that nearly all children have their own odd and original
theories of things, though many forget, as life advances, to remember
about their own childhood’s beliefs and imaginings. And this is not
unnatural, when we take into account the rarity and difficulty of
obtaining a child’s full confidence, for uncommunicated, unexpressed
thoughts are apt to die away from want of word-clothing. One really
learns more about children from the revelations of grown-up men and
women who “remember,” and have cherished their remembrances, than from
the children of the moment themselves.

Still, queer ideas crop out to others sometimes. Not often--if it
happened oftener we should be less struck by their oddity, by their
grotesque originality. A few which, in some instances, not without
difficulty and the exertion of some amount of diplomacy, I have
succeeded in extracting--no, that is not the right word for a matter
of such fairylike delicacy--in drawing out, as the bee draws the honey
from the tiny flowers--occur to me as I write, and may be worth mention.

A small boy of my acquaintance, after a fit of extreme penitence for
some little offence against his grandmother, whom he was very fond of,
added to his “so very sorry,” “never do it again, never, never,” the
unintelligible assurance, “I will be always good to you, dear little
granny, always; and when you have to go round all the houses, I’ll see
that our cook gives you lots and lots of scraps--very nice ones--and
nice old boots and shoes, and everything you want. I’ll even”--with a
burst of enthusiastic devotion--“I’ll even go round with you my own
self.”

Grandmother expressed her sense of the intended good offices, but
gingerly, with my assistance, set to work to find out what the little
fellow meant--what in the world he had got into his head; and it was
no easy task, I can assure you. But at last we succeeded. It appeared
that the confusion in the boy’s mind arose from the, in a sense, double
meaning of the word “old.” He associated it, naturally enough, with the
idea of poverty, material worthlessness, in conjunction with that of
age and long-livedness. Every human being, he believed, had to descend,
“when you gets very old,” to a state of beggardom; his dear granny,
like everybody else, would have to wander from door to door with a
piteous tale of want; but from his door she should never be repulsed;
nay indeed, he himself would take her by the hand and lead her on the
painful round. Nor did he murmur at this strange order of things; to
him it was a “has-to-be,” accepted like the darkness that follows the
day; like the gradual out-at-toe condition of his own little worn-out
shoes; and I greatly doubt if our carefully-worded explanation of his
mistake carried real conviction with it. I strongly suspect that he
remained on the look-out for granny in her new _rôle_ for a good many
months, or even years, to come.

Some other curious childish beliefs recur to my memory. I knew a little
girl who cherished as an undoubted article of faith a legend--how
originated who can say?--perhaps suggested by some half poetical talk
of her elders about the aging year, the year about to bid us farewell
and so on, perhaps entirely evolved out of her own fantastic little
brain--that on the 31st of December the “old year” took material human
form and strolled about the world in the guise of an aged man, though
unrecognised by the uninitiated crowd. She had the habit on this day
of taking up her quarters in a corner of the deep, old-fashioned
window-sill of her nursery, and there, in patient silence, gazing down
into the street till Mr. Old-year should have passed by. Nor were her
hopes disappointed. She always caught sight of him and nodded her own
farewell, unexpectful of any response.

“He couldn’t say good-bye to everybody; he wouldn’t have time,” was her
explanation to the little sister to whom she at last confided her odd
fancy, and through whose indiscretion it leaked out to the rest of the
nursery group.

“But how do you know him?” she was asked. “Is he always dressed the
same?”

“Oh, no,” was the reply, “he sometimes wears a black coat and sometimes
a brown; and one year he had a blue one with brass buttons. That was
the first year I saw him, and I have never missed him since. He has
always white hair, and he walks slowly, looking about him. I always
know him, almost as well as you’d know Santa Claus if he came along the
street, though, of course, he never does. _He_ comes down chimneys, and
I don’t think children ever do see him, for they’re always asleep.”

The little woman was, wisely I think, left undisturbed in her innocent
fancy. How many more times she ensconced herself in her window on the
31st of December I cannot say. The belief in the poor Old-year’s lonely
wandering interested her for the time and did her no harm, then gently
faded, to be revived perhaps as a story of “When mother was a little
girl,” when mother came to have little girls of her own to beg for her
childish reminiscences.

This personification of abstract ideas is a peculiarity, a speciality
of children, as it was no doubt of the children of the world’s
history--our remote ancestors. And I have noticed that among abstract
ideas that of _time_ has a particular fascination for imaginative
little people. Many years ago I happened to be staying in a country
house when a group of children arrived from town to spend their summer
holiday with the uncle and aunt to whom it belonged. Entering the
room where these little sisters were quartered, early in the morning
after their journey, I was surprised to find the trio wide awake,
each sitting up in her cot, in absolute silence as if listening for
something.

I too stood silent and still for a minute or two, till yielding to
curiosity I turned to the nearest bed, which happened to be that of the
youngest, a girl of five or six.

“What is it, Francie?” I inquired. “Are you trying to hear the church
bells”--for it was Sunday morning--“or what?”

With perfect seriousness she turned to me as she replied--

“No, auntie dear. We are listening to _time passing_. We can always
hear it when we first come to the country. In London there is too much
noise. Meg”--her mature sister of ten--“taught us about it. So we
always try to wake early the first morning on purpose to hear it.”

Another friend of mine, now an elderly, if not quite an old, woman,
had a curious fancy when a very young child, in connection with which
there is a pretty anecdote of the poet Wordsworth, which may make the
story worth relating. This little girl believed that during the night
before a birthday a miraculous amount of “growing” was done, and on the
morning on which her elder brother attained the age of six, she, his
junior by two years, flew into the nursery when he was being dressed,
expecting to see a marvellous transformation. But--to her immense
disappointment--there stood her dear Jack looking precisely as he had
done when she bade him good-night the evening before. Maimie’s feelings
were too much for her.

“Oh, Jack,” she cried, bursting into tears, “why haven’t you growed
big? I thought you’d be kite a big boy this morning.”

Jack and nurse stared at her. I am afraid they called her a silly girl,
but however that may have been, her disappointment was vivid enough for
the remembrance of it to have lasted through well nigh half a century,
and her tears flowed on. Just then came a tap at the door, followed by
the entrance of the cook, a north countrywoman and a great favourite
with the children. A glance at her showed Maimie that she was weeping,
and when their old friend threw her arms around the little people, and
kissed them, amidst her sobs Maimie felt certain that the source of her
grief was the same as of her own.

“Is you crying ’cos Jack hasn’t growed for his birthday?” asked the
little girl. But Hannah shook her head.

“I don’t know what you mean, my sweet one,” said the old woman. “I’m
crying because I’ve got to leave you. This very morning I’m going, and
I’ve come to say good-bye.”

This startling announcement checked Maimie’s tears, or if they flowed
again it was from a different cause.

“Oh, dear Hannah,” the two exclaimed, “why must you go if it makes you
so unhappy? Doesn’t mamma want you to stay?”

“Oh, yes, dearie,” was the reply, “but it’s my duty to go to my old
mistress. She’s ill now and sad, and she thinks Hannah can nurse her
better than anyone else.”

So with tender farewells to the children she was never to see again,
poor Hannah went her way.

Her “old mistress” was Miss Dorothy Wordsworth. And though Jack and
Maimie never saw the faithful servant any more, they heard from, or
rather of, her before long. For only a few weeks had passed when one
morning the postman brought a small parcel directed to themselves, and
a letter to Jack, Hannah’s particular pet. The letter and the addresses
were in a queer, somewhat shaky hand-writing, that of Mr. Wordsworth
himself, now an aged man, for it was within a few years of his death;
the parcel contained a tempting-looking volume, bound in red and
gold--“Selections for the young”--of the laureate’s poems, with Jack’s
name inscribed therein, and even more gratifying, from the kindly
thoughtfulness it displayed, a little silk neckerchief in tartan--the
children’s own tartan, for they belonged to a Scotch clan--for Maimie.
And the letter, written to the old servant’s dictation, for she could
not write herself, told of her consultation with her master as to the
most appropriate presents to choose for her little favourites.

Almost more touching than the trustfulness of children is their
extraordinary endurance--a quality often, I fear, carried to a painful
and even dangerous point. It has its root, I suspect, in their innate
trust, their belief that whatever their elders deem right must be so;
also perhaps, in a certain almost fatalistic acceptance of things as
they are. But on few subjects connected with childhood have I felt more
strongly than on this. No parent is justified in “taking for granted”
the moral qualifications, even the suitability of the persons in charge
of their little boys and girls, however unexceptionable may be the
references and recommendations they bring. It takes tact and gives
trouble, but it is among the first of the duties of mothers especially
to make sure on such points for themselves. For besides their trust
in their elders and their natural resignation to the conditions about
them, there is an extreme sense of loyalty in most children, a horror
of “tell-taling,” such as are often far too slightly appreciated or
taken into account.

As these remarks are professedly a “ramble” I may be forgiven for
reverting to that beautiful trustfulness, by relating an incident
which, though trivial in the extreme, has never faded from my memory.
We were returning, late at night, or so at least it seemed to me, from
some kind of juvenile entertainment at Christmas time. It was a stormy
evening; I was a very little girl, and since infancy, high wind has
always frightened me, and that night it was blowing fiercely. I was
already trembling, when the carriage suddenly stopped. My father at
once sprang out, for there was no second man on the box; there was
nothing wrong, only the coachman’s hat had blown off! He got down and
ran back for it, and my father replaced him and drove on slowly, for
the wind had made the horse restless.

“Oh, mamma,” I exclaimed, “I am so frightened. The coachman has gone
away.”

“Yes, darling,” said my mother, “but don’t you see papa is driving?”

I shall never forget the impression of absolute comfort and
fearlessness that came over me at her words.

“Papa is driving,” I repeated to myself. “We are quite, quite safe.”

And all through the many years since that winter night, the impression
has never faded; often and often it has returned to me as a suggestion
of the essential beauty of trust, the germ of the “perfect love”
towards which we strive.

Not _a propos_ of the foregoing reminiscences, yet not, I hope, _mal
a propos_ in a roundabout paper, two anecdotes of a different kind,
of children, recur to me, showing the odd directions that their
cogitations sometimes take.

A little boy of my acquaintance, partly perhaps from nervousness, was
subject to violent fits of crying, most irritating and perplexing to
deal with. Once started--often by some absurdly trivial cause--there
was literally no saying when Charley would leave off. One day, after an
unusually long and exhausting attack, to his mother’s great relief, the
floods gave signs of abating; she left the room to fetch him a glass of
water. On her return the sobs had subsided.

“Oh, Charley,” she said, with natural but ill-advised expression of her
feelings, “you have really worn me out. If ever you have children of
your own, who cry like you, I hope you will remember your poor mother.”

Forthwith, to her dismay, the wails and tears burst out again, and it
was not till some time had elapsed that the child would listen to her
repeated inquiries as to what in the world he was crying for now. At
last came the little looked-for reply.

“It wasn’t because of this morning,” (what had started the fit I do
not remember) “I’d left off crying about that. It was you thinking I
would bring up my children so badly.”

Anecdote No. 2 relates to a more exalted personage than Master Charley.

Several years ago I was gratified by hearing from a friend then
resident in Italy and acquainted with the Court circle, that one of my
earliest books for children, _Carrots_, had found great favour in the
eyes of the young Crown Prince, then a mere boy. His exact sentiments
on the subject were conveyed to me in a letter written at his request.
The story had amused and interested him at a moment when he was
specially in want of entertainment, for it was just at the date of the
death of his grandfather, the great Victor Emanuel, and his little
namesake had not been allowed to go out riding or driving as usual for
several days. He did not know how he would have passed the time but for
_Carrots_, he said. He wished Mrs. Molesworth to know this, and he also
wished to make a request to her. Would she write another book as soon
as possible--(not, as one might have expected, of further details of my
little hero’s boyhood, but)--to tell how “Carrots” brought up his own
children when he became a big man and was married!




ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

BY JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters
Three,” etc.


CHAPTER XVIII.

“Something has happened! Something terrible has happened to the child!
And she was left in our charge. We are responsible. Oh, if any harm has
happened to Peggy, however, ever, ever, can I bear to live and send the
news to her parents----”

“My dearest, you have done your best; you could not have been kinder or
more thoughtful. No blame can attach to you. Remember that Peggy is in
higher hands than yours. However far from us she may be, she can never
stray out of God’s keeping. It all seems very dark and mysterious,
but----”

At this moment a loud rat-tat-tat sounded on the knocker, and with one
accord the hearers darted into the hall and stood panting and gasping
while Arthur threw open the door.

“Telegram, sir!” said a sharp, young voice, and the brown envelope
which causes so much agitation in quiet households was thrust forward
in a small cold hand. Arthur looked at the address and handed it to the
Vicar.

“It is for you, sir, but it cannot possibly be anything about----”

Mr. Asplin tore open the envelope, glanced over the words, and
broke into an exclamation of amazement. “It is! It is from Peggy
herself!--‘Euston Station. Returning by 10.30 train. Please meet me at
twelve o’clock.--Peggy.’ What in the world does it mean?” He looked
round the group of anxious faces, only to see his own expression of
bewilderment repeated on each in turn.

“Euston! Returning! She is in London. She is coming back from town!”
“She ran away to London, to-night when she was so happy, when Arthur
had just arrived! Why? Why? Why?” “She must have caught the seven
o’clock train.” “She must have left the house almost immediately after
going upstairs to dress for dinner.” “Oh, father, why should she go to
London?”

“I am quite unable to tell you, my dear,” replied the Vicar drily. He
looked at his wife’s white, exhausted face, and his eyes flashed with
the “A-word-with-you-in-my-study” expression, which argued ill for Miss
Peggy’s reception. Mrs. Asplin, however, was too thankful to know of
the girl’s safety to have any thought for herself. She began to smile,
with the tears still running down her face, and to draw long breaths of
relief and satisfaction.

“It’s no use trying to guess at that, Millie dear. It is enough for
me to know that she is alive and well. We shall just have to try and
compose ourselves in patience until we hear Peggy’s own explanation.
Let me see! There is nearly an hour before you need set out. What can
we do to pass the time as quickly as possible?”

“Have some coffee, I should say! None of us have had too much dinner,
and a little refreshment would be very welcome after all this strain,”
said Arthur, promptly, and Mrs. Asplin eagerly welcomed the suggestion.

“That’s what I call a really practical proposal! Ring the bell, dear,
and I will order it at once. I am sure we shall all have thankful
hearts while we drink it.” She looked appealingly at Mr. Asplin as she
spoke, but there was no answering smile on his face. The lines down his
cheeks looked deeper and grimmer than ever.

“Oh, goody, goody, goodness, aren’t I glad I am not Peggy!” sighed
Mellicent to herself, while Arthur Saville pursed his lips together,
and thought, “Poor little Peg! She’ll catch it. I’ve never seen the
dominie look so savage. This is a nice sort of treat for a fellow who
has been ordered away for rest and refreshment! I wish the next two
hours were safely over.”

Wishing unfortunately, however, can never carry us over the painful
crises of our lives. We have to face them as best we may, and Arthur
needed all his cheery confidence to sustain him during the damp walk
which followed, when the Vicar tramped silently by his side, his shovel
hat pulled over his eyes, his mackintosh coat flapping to and fro in
the wind.

They reached the station in good time, and punctually to the minute the
lights of the London express were seen in the distance. The train drew
up, and among the few passengers who alighted the figure of Peggy, in
her scarlet trimmed hat, was easily distinguished. She was assisted
out of the carriage by an elderly gentleman, in a big travelling coat,
who stood by her side as she looked about for her friends. As Mr.
Asplin and Arthur approached, they only heard his hearty, “Now you are
all right!” and Peggy’s elegant rejoinder, “Exceedingly indebted to you
for all your kindness!” Then he stepped back into the carriage, and she
came forward to meet them, half shy, half smiling, “I--I am afraid that
you----”

“We will defer explanations, Mariquita, if you please, until we reach
home. A fly is waiting. We will return as quickly as possible,” said
the Vicar frigidly, and the brother and sister lagged behind as he led
the way out of the station, gesticulating and whispering together in
furtive fashion.

“Oh, you Peggy! _Now_ you have done it! No end of a row!”

“Couldn’t help it! So sorry. Had to go. Stick to me, Arthur, whatever
you do!”

“Like a leech! We’ll worry through somehow. Never say die!” Then the
fly was reached, and they jolted home in silence.

Mrs. Asplin and the four young folks were sitting waiting in the
drawing-room, and each one turned an eager, excited face towards the
doorway as Peggy entered, her cheeks white, but with shining eyes, and
hair ruffled into little ends beneath the scarlet cap. Mrs. Asplin
would have rushed forward in welcome, but a look in her husband’s face
restrained her, and there was a deathlike silence in the room as he
took up his position by the mantelpiece.

“Mariquita,” he said slowly, “you have caused us to-night some hours
of the most acute and painful anxiety which we have ever experienced.
You disappeared suddenly from among us, and until ten o’clock, when
your telegram arrived, we had not the faintest notion as to where you
could be. The most tragic suspicions came to our minds. We have spent
the evening in rushing to and fro, searching and inquiring in all
directions. Mrs. Asplin has had a shock from which, I fear, she will
be some time in recovering. Your brother’s pleasure in his visit has
been spoiled. We await your explanation. I am at a loss to imagine any
reason sufficiently good to excuse such behaviour; but I will say no
more until I have heard what you have to say.”

Peggy stood like a prisoner at the bar, with hanging head and hands
clasped together. As the Vicar spoke of his wife, she darted a look at
Mrs. Asplin, and a quiver of emotion passed over her face. When he had
finished she drew a deep breath, raised her head and looked him full in
the face with her bright, earnest eyes.

“I am sorry,” she said slowly. “I can’t tell you in words how sorry I
am. I know it will be difficult, but I hope you will forgive me. I was
thinking what I had better do while I was coming back in the train,
and I decided that I ought to tell you everything, even though it is
supposed to be a secret. Robert will forgive me, and it is Robert’s
secret as much as mine. I’ll begin at the beginning. About five weeks
ago Robert saw an advertisement of a prize that was offered by a
magazine. You had to make up a calendar with quotations for every day
in the year, and the person who sent in the best selection would get
thirty pounds. Rob wanted the money very badly to buy a microscope,
and he asked me to help him. I was to have ten pounds for myself if we
won, but I didn’t care about that. I just wanted to help Rob. I said I
would take the money, because I knew if I didn’t he would not let me
work so hard, and I thought I would spend it in buying p--p--presents
for you all at Christmas.”--Peggy’s voice faltered at this point, and
she gulped nervously several times before she could go on with her
story.--“We had to work very hard, because the time was so short.
Robert had not seen the advertisement until it had been out some
time. I printed the headings on the cards; that is why I sat so much
in my own room. The last fortnight I have been writing every morning
before six o’clock. Oh, you can’t think how difficult it was to get it
finished, but Robert was determined to go on; he thought our chance was
very good, because he had found some beautiful extracts, and translated
others, and the pages really looked pretty and dainty. The MS. had to
be in London this morning; if it missed the post last night all our
work would have been wasted, and at the very last Lady Darcy took Rob
away with her, and I was left with everything to finish. I _may_ have
slept a little bit the last two nights; I did lie down for an hour or
two, and I _may_ have had a doze, but I don’t think so! I wrote the
last word this morning after the breakfast-bell had rung, and I made
up the parcel at twelve o’clock. I thought of going out and posting
it then; of course, that is what I should have done, but”--her voice
trembled once more--“I was so tired! I thought I would give it to the
postman myself, and that would do just as well. I didn’t put it with
the letters because I was afraid someone would see the address and ask
questions, and Rob had said that I was to keep it a secret until we
knew whether we had won. I left the parcel on my table. Then Arthur
came! I was so happy--there was so much to talk about--we had tea--it
seemed like five minutes. Everyone was amazed when we found it was
time to dress, but even then I forgot all about the calendar. I only
remembered that Arthur was here, and was going to stay for four days,
and all the way upstairs I was saying to myself, ‘I’m happy, I’m happy;
oh, I _am_ happy!’ because, you know, though you are so kind, you have
so many relations belonging to you whom you love better than me, and
my own people are all far away, and sometimes I’ve been very lonely! I
thought of nothing but Arthur, and then I opened the door of my room,
and there, before my eyes, was the parcel; Rob’s parcel that he had
trusted to me--that I had solemnly promised--to post in time----”

She stopped short, and there was a gasp of interest and commiseration
among the listeners. Peggy caught it; she glanced sharply at the
Vicar’s face, saw its sternness replaced by a momentary softness, and
was quick to make the most of her opportunity. Out flew the dramatic
little hand, her eyes flashed, her voice thrilled with suppressed
excitement.

“It lay there before my eyes, and I stood and looked at it ... I
thought of nothing, but just stood and stared. I heard you all come
upstairs, and the doors shut, and Arthur’s voice laughing and talking;
but there was only one thing I could remember--I had forgotten Rob’s
parcel, and he would come back, and I should have to tell him, and see
his face! I felt as if I were paralysed, and then suddenly I seized
the parcel in my hands, and flew downstairs. I put on my cap and cloak
and went out into the garden. I didn’t know what I was going to do,
but I was going to do something! I ran on and on, through the village,
down towards the station. I knew it was too late for the post office,
but I had a sort of feeling that if I were at the station something
might be done. Just as I got there a train came in, and I heard the
porter call out ‘London express.’ I thought--no! I did not think at
all--I just ran up to a carriage and took a seat, and the door banged
and away we went. The porter came and asked for my ticket, and I had a
great deal of trouble to convince him that I had only really come from
here, and not all the way. There was an old lady in the carriage, and
she told him that it was quite true, for she had seen me come in. When
we went off again, she looked at me very hard, and said, ‘Are you in
trouble, dear?’ and I said, ‘Yes I am, but oh, please don’t talk to
me! Do please leave me alone!’ for I had begun to realise what I had
done, and that I couldn’t be back for hours and hours, and that you
would all be so anxious and unhappy. I think I was as miserable as you
were when I sent off that telegram. I posted the parcel in London, and
went and sat in the waiting-room. I had an hour and a half to wait,
and I was wretched, and nervous, and horribly hungry. I had no money
left but a few coppers, and I was afraid to spend them and have nothing
left. It seemed like a whole day, but at last the train came in, and I
saw a dear old gentleman with white hair standing on the platform. I
took a fancy to his appearance, so I walked up to him, and bowed and
said, ‘Excuse me, sir, I find myself in a dilemma! Will you allow me to
travel in the same carriage as yourself?’ He was most agreeable. He
had travelled all over the world, and talked in the most interesting
fashion, but I could not listen to his conversation. I was too unhappy.
Then we arrived, and Mr. Asplin called me ‘M--M--Mariquita!’ and
w--wouldn’t let you kiss me----”

Her voice broke helplessly this time, and she stood silent, with
quivering lip while sighs and sobs of sympathy echoed from every side.
Mrs. Asplin cast a glance at her husband, half defiant, half appealing,
met a smile of assent, and rushed impetuously to Peggy’s side.

“My darling! I’ll kiss you now. You see we knew nothing of your
trouble, dear, and we were so very, very anxious. Mr. Asplin is not
angry with you any longer, are you, Austin? You know now that she had
no intention of grieving us, and that she is truly sorry----”

“I never thought--I never thought--” sobbed Peggy; and the Vicar gave a
slow, kindly smile.

“Ah, Peggy, that is just what I complain about. You don’t think, dear,
and that causes all the trouble. No, I am not angry any longer. I
realise that the circumstances were peculiar, and that your distress
was naturally very great. At the same time, it was a most mad and
foolish thing for a girl of your age to rush off by rail, alone, and
at nighttime, to a place like London. You say that you had only a few
coppers left in your purse. Now suppose there had been no train back
to-night, what would you have done? It does not bear thinking of, my
dear, or that you should have waited alone in the station for so long,
or thrown yourself on strangers for protection. What would your parents
have said to such an escapade?”

Peggy sighed, and cast down her eyes. “I think they would have been
cross too. I am sure they would have been anxious, but I know they
would forgive me when I was sorry, and promised that I really and
truly would try to be better and more thoughtful! They would say,
‘Peggy, dear, you have been sufficiently punished! Consider yourself
absolved!...’”

The Vicar’s lips twitched, and a twinkle came into his eye. “Well,
then, I will say the same! I am sure you have regretted your hastiness
by this time, and it will be a lesson to you in the future. For
Arthur’s sake, as well as your own, we will say no more on the subject.
It would be a pity if his visit were spoiled. Just one thing, Peggy, to
show you that, after all, grown-up people are wiser than young ones,
and that it is just as well to refer to them now and then, in matters
of difficulty! Has it ever occurred to you that the mail went up to
London by the very train in which you yourself travelled, and that by
giving your parcel to the guard it could still have been put in the
bag? Did not that thought never occur to your wise little brain?”

Peggy made a gesture as of one heaping dust and ashes on her head. “I
never did,” she said, “not for a single moment! And I thought I was so
clever! I am covered with confusion!”

(_To be continued._)

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WILD ROBIN AND OAK-LEAF.]

       *       *       *       *       *




LINNÆA;

THE STORY OF A FRIENDSHIP.


CHAPTER I.

    “What a thing friendship is, world without end!”--_Browning._

Yes, Linnæa March was the dunce of the school. She was neither
pretty nor attractive, nor did she seem to wish to be either. Nobody
understood Linnæa. She made friends with no one, and no one made
friends with her. Even the teachers said she was a girl nothing could
be done with, and concluded to leave her alone.

One new governess, Miss Golding, had brought a look of interest to the
girl’s face over a story of Indian life, and had determined to follow
up her advantage and make friends with this solitary pupil; but her
next advance had been met with such decided coldness that Miss Golding
went over to the opinion of the other teachers, that “it was best to
leave Linnæa March alone.”

The truth of the matter was that Linnæa had overheard a remark from
the lips of the wit of the school--“Golding is trying to cultivate the
March hare. Don’t you wish she may succeed?” This name had been given
her by the same girl, Marion Edwards, very soon after she came to
school. Marion was not a girl who actually meant to be unkind, but she
had a ready tongue, and, when she saw a chance to make a witty remark,
did not trouble herself to consider anyone’s feelings.

How cruel schoolgirls are to each other without knowing it! And these
were not hard-hearted girls--some of them developed into the very
sweetest and best of women. Had they known or thought what a lonely
life Linnæa had had, they might have taken more trouble to approach
her; but it was the fashion of the school to shun her, and she
certainly gave no one any encouragement to do otherwise.

No one came into Linnæa’s cubicle to discuss some little bit of gossip
before going to bed; no one gave a playful tap on the wooden partition,
which divided her room from the next, as was done to everyone else now
and then. Friends kissed each other when they met in the morning; no
one dreamed of kissing Linnæa, unless it was the governesses, who did
it to all as a matter of form.

Did she miss it, do you ask?

She said vehemently to herself over and over again that she did
not--she loved none of them, and wanted nobody’s love. Nobody knew it,
nobody suspected it, but--ah, what a wealth of love lay dormant in that
lonely heart!--what a hungering after affection that seemed doomed to
be for ever denied!

She nursed and fostered an intense love for the mother she had never
seen, unless in babyhood. She had been born in India, where her parents
still were, and her mother had been so ill for a long time after
the birth that it had been deemed wise to send the delicate baby of
eighteen months home to England to be brought up by a maiden aunt, as,
in any case, she must very soon, like all Anglo-Indian children, leave
the trying climate. Thus Linnæa could not remember the face of her
mother, but she cherished a photograph of her, and her letters were the
bright spots in an otherwise colourless life.

Miss March had no love for the child committed to her care, and made
no pretence of any. Her comfort and training were strictly looked
after--no suspicion of neglect could be breathed--but the love which
is necessary to the happiness of a child’s life was a-wanting.

“Such a very unattractive child!” Miss March described her to her
acquaintances, even at times in the presence of the little girl, so
that she grew up with the idea firmly rooted in her mind that she
was plain, stupid, and that no one cared for her. Companions she had
none--in fact, was not allowed to have--for her aunt could not tolerate
any noise or disorder in her well-regulated house. Mrs. Sedley, the
Rector’s wife, had invited the solitary child to come and have a romp
with her lively boys and girls; but the invitation had been refused,
because Miss March could not think of having them at her house in
return.

Mrs. Sedley’s motherly heart was glad when she heard it had been
decided that Linnæa should go to a boarding school. “She will have
companions now, poor child; and lead a much brighter life than she has
led here.” But the life she led now was little if any brighter than the
other had been.

The first morning after her arrival in school Linnæa was introduced to
her companions by Miss Elder, the principal.

“This is a new companion for you--Linnæa March. I hope you will all be
friendly to her as she is a stranger yet.”

Plainly dressed to severity, her face more forbidding than usual from
the fact that she felt shy but would not show it, Linnæa sat on a chair
near the door, and the other girls did their duty by staring at her
unmercifully.

One governess was in the room and, unfortunately, not a very judicious
one. After a few minutes had passed, she looked over at the newcomer
and said--

“Now, little girl, don’t look so sulky. You must put on a nice pleasant
face, so that your companions will like you.”

It was an unhappy remark. Some of the more forward girls tittered, and
the forlorn, lonely child felt even more isolated and friendless than
she had felt in her aunt’s house.

“Come away over here,” said the governess again, “and tell us how old
you are and where you come from.”

“From the Ark, I should guess!” whispered one girl, who was supposed to
be witty by some--herself in particular.

Linnæa was forthwith subjected to a string of small questions, which
she answered mostly in monosyllables. The whispered remark had been
overheard by the sensitive child, and her heart had begun to harden
towards girls and governess alike.

Some of the pupils made advances at first, but Linnæa met them all with
a suspicion and distrust that chilled and disappointed. Therefore,
incredible as it may seem, at the age of sixteen, and after seven years
at Meldon Hall, Linnæa March was utterly without a friend in the school.


CHAPTER II.

THE “NEW GIRL.”

“And was her grandfather really an earl?”

“And shall we have to call her Lady Gwendoline when we speak to her?”

“I wonder what she is like; I am dying to see her!”

“She is coming to-night; but perhaps Miss Elder won’t trot her out
until to-morrow.”

What an excited hubbub was going on in Meldon Hall schoolroom. The
girls had been told that a new pupil would arrive that night. This
alone, in mid-term, would have been enough to arouse some interest, but
when it got abroad by some means or another that the importation was a
beauty, an heiress, and related to an earl, their excitement knew no
bounds.

Marion Edwards, perched on the back of a chair, gave out what she had
heard, and a little more, to an admiring audience who took Marion’s
words for vastly more than they were worth. In every school there
are one or two leading spirits, and Meldon Hall had at present two
leaders--Marion Edwards and Edith Barclay. Edith was the clever,
studious girl of the school; and amongst those who were inclined to
be industrious, she was looked up to with great reverence. Marion was
handsome, rich, and had an aptitude for making witty remarks, which
made her at once admired and feared by her “set.” The two leaders
were quite friendly; they were in no wise rivals of each other, being
altogether different in disposition and aims. Edith loved study for
study’s sake, and had secret thoughts of entering a profession. Marion
cared nothing for her lessons, but easily managed to get along in a
superficial way; she was an only daughter and rich, and was looking
forward to entering society after she left school. Marion’s feelings
were divided between pleasure at the prospect of knowing a girl whose
grandfather was an earl, and a secret fear that this rich beauty might
want to queen it even over her, and that her set might forsake her for
the greater light.

The only one who was really indifferent to the new arrival was Linnæa.
She had had her times of hidden excitement over an expected newcomer,
and vague longings that she might be “nice,” but these feelings
were over and done, with long ago. Successive disappointments had
embittered her, and now it was a matter of little moment to her who
came and went. This night she had a slight headache and felt tired of
her schoolfellows’ chatter and not inclined to face the introduction
of a new girl, proud and haughty, who would doubtless criticise her
looks and manners and set her down--as all the others had done--as
hopelessly unattractive. She therefore slipped quietly away to her room.

“Oh, I do wish Miss Elder would bring her in to-night!” said one;
and, as if in response to her wish, the door opened and the principal
entered, followed by the new girl.

“This is Miss Gwendoline Rivers,” said Miss Elder, introducing a few of
the girls who were nearest her by name. “I shall leave her with you for
twenty minutes, but after that she must go to bed, as she has come a
long way to-day.”

Shyness was not one of the new pupil’s failings, and she asked more
questions than she answered. Soon she had found out all the rules and
regulations of the school, and had taken mental note of a few of the
characters around her. Report had been correct as far as her beauty
and wealth were concerned--her connection with the earl was a little
more remote--she was indeed a lovely girl. Her dark eyes were large and
lustrous, and her face had an almost southern richness of colouring.
Her appearance was aristocratic to a degree, and her clothes were
expensive and in the best of taste.

[Illustration: THE DUNCE OF THE SCHOOL.]

“Are you all here?” she said by-and-by, looking round on the group.

“All except two. Alice Melrose is in bed with neuralgia, and Linnæa
March has retired for the night.”

“And, pray, why has Linnæa March retired for the night? Had she not the
curiosity to wait up and see the newest thing in girls? I suppose she
knew I should arrive to-night, as you all did, and I know you were all
dying for me to put in an appearance so that you might deluge me with
questions. But I think I have got more out of you than you have out of
me. I find the only way to avoid too many questions is to ask a great
many yourself. Tell me about Miss March, please; I am quite excited.
What an outlandish name, too? She is altogether very mysterious!”

“There is not much to tell about Linnæa March, as you will soon know.
You will find the best way is to leave her alone, for, as sure as fate,
she will not trouble herself about you, any more than she has about the
rest of us.”

“But that is precisely what I never do! I never allow anyone to be
indifferent to me; they may hate me, if they please, but they shall not
be indifferent!”

“You don’t know Linnæa. I don’t believe she knows what love and hate
are--love, at least; she might manage to hate you, perhaps!”

“I shall make her love me then!”

The girls laughed. There was something very fresh and original about
this young lady who spoke as if the world and anything in it were hers
for the asking. It was easily seen she had not been denied much during
her life, and most of them felt very much inclined to carry on the
spoiling process if only they might be termed friends of this beautiful
and determined young woman; for if there is anything young people
worship, it is determination. But to talk of making Linnæa March love
her was a little too absurd.

“How long is it since this unimpressionable young lady left the
company? She won’t be in bed yet, will she? One of you go up to her
room and tell her the new girl wants to see her, and bring her down.”

Really, this was most ridiculous! Who was to go and give this
extraordinary message to Linnæa March? As if to-morrow were not soon
enough to see her! Whoever went would not get a very great reception.

“Has she a chum here?”

“She has no chum at all.”

“Then do you go!” said the imperious Miss Rivers, pointing to a
pleasant-looking girl beside her. “Listen to me,” said Gwendoline, when
the messenger had departed; “I mean to make this Linnæa March like me;
in fact, I mean to make her fall over head and ears in love with me,
and none of you must say a word to influence her in any way. I have
never yet made up my mind to do a thing that I have not done, and I
shall show you that I can do this.”

The excitement of the school was aroused, and the girls awaited
with great interest the development of the comedy to be enacted in
their midst. Would it be a comedy or a tragedy? If, as she boasted,
Gwendoline Rivers were able to awaken the love which lay dormant in
that sensitive heart, woe to Linnæa if she should discover the motive
which had called it forth; it would run a chance of souring her whole
after life.

After a few minutes the door opened and the messenger returned,
accompanied by Linnæa.

“Now, you know, I don’t think it was nice of you to go off to bed
without waiting to see me!” said Gwendoline, advancing towards her with
a smile and holding out her hand.

Linnæa’s sensitive face flushed.

“I am sorry if I appeared rude,” she said; “I did not think of it.”

“You will be forgiven this time; but”--looking serious--“I hope you
have not a headache; if so, I shall be sorry I brought you down.”

“Oh, no, thank you! I am quite well. I often go up earlier than the
others.”

“Well, I sha’n’t keep you down long, for I am going to bed myself. I
shall go up with you now and try if I can find my cubicle again.”

Calling good-night to the others, Gwendoline slipped her arm through
Linnæa’s, and the two walked away in the direction of the stairs.

“How strange it is, coming in amongst a lot of girls one has never seen
before! It is fortunate for me I am not shy, else, I suppose, I should
feel dreadfully put out. How long have you been here?”

“Seven years.”

“Seven years! Such a long time to be away from home!”

“My father and mother are out in India. I shall go there when I am
finished with school.”

“Oh, how splendid! I should love to go to India. I have a brother who
went out last year, and when I leave school I mean to pay him a visit.
Perhaps we may happen to go together. Wouldn’t that be nice? Is this
your cubicle? Horrid, bare places, aren’t they? I was warned about it
and brought some pictures and things with me; but I sha’n’t unpack them
to-night--I am too sleepy. Shall we say good-night, then? I somehow
think we shall be friends.”

Gwendoline, as she spoke, leant over and kissed Linnæa on the cheek,
then ran away to find her bedroom.

“Funny, quiet little thing!” said Gwendoline as she went. “I wonder if
I shall make good my words? She seemed almost workable to-night. I was
prepared to brave a few snubs to begin with.”

And what about Linnæa? She did not begin to undress at once as usual.
Why was she so excited to-night? Something had come over her, and
it was nothing more nor less than a subtle magnetism towards this
beautiful girl who had taken more notice of her than of any of the
others--who had kissed her when she bade her good-night. Why had she
felt so wooden and stupid? Why had she not returned the kiss? What must
this girl think of her?

She was in bed at last, but could not sleep. She seemed to feel the
kiss on her cheek and hear the voice saying they might be friends.
By-and-by, when sleep came, she dreamt that her father and mother
had come to school to take her home--the time she had looked forward
to through all the seven years--and she told them she wanted to stay
another year because Gwendoline had come.

(_To be continued._)




THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH: AUNT OF THE QUEEN.[2]


The letters of a favourite daughter of George III., and an aunt of
the Queen, whose life extended through the eventful period 1770-1840,
make a book of great interest and permanent value. The period referred
to takes in some of the more momentous events in modern history--the
loss of the American colonies, the French Revolution, the battle of
Waterloo, and the fall of Napoleon--as well as various important
parliamentary movements at home. Letter-writing is now generally
supposed to be a lost art; but the Princess Elizabeth, as one who “ever
remained an Englishwoman to the backbone,” wrote letters of the genuine
old-time order to her confidante. She imposed wholesome restraint on
herself in days when party spirit was more violent than we can realise;
but being in fullest accord with her father, who aimed at personal
government, her sympathy was rather for the cause of “Church and King
than for that of reform and progress.” The Princess did not deal in
scandal, however, she was not a politician, and in other respects she
showed a delicacy of language not common in those times.

In reference to his heroine, Mr. Yorke says that “the familiarity of
her style brings us all the closer to her, and the more familiar it
is the more intimate becomes our friendship for her. Sometimes it is
the case that where the style is most imperfect, there most appear
the individuality and originality of the Princess, and her portrait
drawn by herself must be of more value and interest to us than any
accuracy or polish of diction.” The Princess also loved her friends,
and this led her to write to them _con amore_, so that, as we read, “a
whiff of old times is breathed upon us.” She was in the best sense a
woman of her own times, one who inherited her father’s good qualities;
and during the ailments of youth she proved her good constitution by
surviving the medical treatment of the day. A girl of fifteen in these
days may still be liable to congestion of the lungs, but what would
she now say to being bled five times in forty-eight hours, to having
to take “emetics every other day,” and to having her “backbones rubbed
with musk?” In other respects the Princess seems to have been subjected
to very old-fashioned treatment. Even at the age of twenty-six she
was not allowed to read a book which her mother had not previously
examined. Nor does she appear to have possessed an income of her own
until she was forty-two years old. The Princess was six years older
when she married Frederick VI. of Hesse-Homburg.

The attention which the Princess extended to certain of her chosen
friends, appears to have been quite extraordinary. Thus, Lady Harcourt,
wife of the second Earl, says: “Once, when I was ill and confined
to the house for six weeks, I received from her in that time 143
letters.” The crosses of life, its joys and sorrows, with adventures
which vividly show how different those times were from our own, all in
turn come in for a share of attention. The journey between Windsor and
Weymouth was then a familiar one, and it was possible even for Royalty
to meet with rough adventures on the road. On October, 3, 1792, the
Princess writes: “Anything so disgusting as the breakfast at Woodgate’s
Inn, on the way from Weymouth, I thank God I never saw before and never
wish to see again. Bad butter, tea, coffee, bread, etc.; nothing to
eat but boiled eggs, which were so hard that I could not eat them.
So I returned to the carriage just as I got out--starved.” Anxieties
connected with public affairs and the wars gave far more serious
trouble, however. The brothers of the Princess, the Duke of York, and
the father of the present Duke of Cambridge, were with the army on the
Continent in the summer of 1793, and when news came that the heroes
were “within sixty yards of Valencienne,” their sister turned sick at
thought of the peril; but the Queen, their mother, showed “such an
uncommon share of fortitude,” that she would not even speak about it.
Still more alarming was the King’s being attacked by the mob when on
his way to open Parliament. A bullet even entered the royal carriage,
the street crowd following “in an insolent manner, moaning and
screaming.” In private the Queen cried over that adventure; “but I, who
naturally cry a great deal, scarcely shed a tear,” remarks Elizabeth.
“It was indeed very horrid,” she adds; “and my poor ears, I believe,
will never get the better of the groans I heard on the Thursday in the
Park, and my eyes of the sight of that mob!” A plot to murder the King,
and to attack the Tower, the Bank and the prisons, and on account of
which Colonel Despard and six others were executed, followed in 1801.
In May, 1810, the Duke of Cumberland was attacked while in bed by a
servant. “My brother, by all accounts, has been mercifully preserved
by the interference of a wise and good Providence, but sadly wounded,”
remarks the Princess; and then she adds, “We live in such a state of
constant anxiety, that upon my word when I rise in the morning I feel,
‘What will happen before night?’”

Things happened beyond what were looked for, so hard and troublous
were the times; but the heaviest trials of the Royal family culminated
in the blindness and insanity of the King and in the death of the
Princess Charlotte in November, 1817. As regarded the old monarch, the
distress occasioned by his condition was for others rather than for
himself; personally, his bodily health was good, he was happy in his
mind, and found something wherewith to amuse himself through each day.

There is one letter relating to the death of the Princess Charlotte
which affords us a vivid glimpse into the inner circle of the Royal
family in November, 1817--

“Just after we had set down to dinner at six, Gen. Taylor was asked
out; our hearts misgave us; he sent out for Lady Ilchester, which
gave us a moment for to be sure that something dreadful had happened:
the moment he came in my mother said, ‘I am sure it is all over,’
and he desired her to go upstairs. You may conceive that the horror,
sorrow, and misery was far beyond show, for it struck the heart, and
no tear would fall after such a dreadful shock.... It is indeed most
tremendous, but it is the Lord’s doing, and we must with great humility
bow, and kiss the rod, and remember that the Lord giveth and the Lord
taketh away, and that all that proceeds from that hand is right; and
that He does all things for the best.”

This faith in God was as characteristic of the King as it was of this
favourite daughter. It is true that at the time of Princess Charlotte’s
death George III. knew nothing of the crushing sorrow which had come
upon the Royal family; but the King had very remarkable lucid intervals
in his insanity when his Christian fervour never failed to find
expression. It had been so before his intellect had become finally
clouded, however.

At that crisis of danger from the mob already referred to, the King
sought to calm the feelings of excited peers, when about to step into
his carriage after opening Parliament, by saying--

“Well, my lords, one person is proposing this, and another is supposing
that, forgetting that there is One above us all Who is disposing of
everything, on Whom alone we depend.”

After her marriage in 1818, the Princess was thoroughly happy with her
husband, the Landgrave Frederick VI. of Homburg. Some would ridicule
the state and ceremonial of the little court as being a mimicry of the
Royal magnificence of greater nations; but it was picturesque, full of
interest, and probably gave far more satisfaction or enjoyment than
courtiers found either at London or Paris. At all events, while she
remained thoroughly English, and never even quite conquered the German
language, the Princess would speak of her own “dear little Homburg” in
the language of genuine affection. After the death of the Landgrave,
who expired April 2, 1829, through influenza affecting an old wound
received in the wars, she refers to the palace as “My own dear home,
once the happiest of happy homes.”

Certain fashionable people in London made it their business to ridicule
the Landgrave; but all impartial readers will see that his character
was superior to that of his detractors.

The Princess lived for about twenty-two years after her marriage, and
during half that period she was a widow. In some respects, to the
English reader, this was the more interesting period of a quietly
interesting life. Home life afforded genuine pleasure, and while there
may have been no pretentious magnificence, gardens, pictures and books
afforded tasteful recreation, though the poor were not forgotten. The
Princess even lent books to such friends as could be trusted with them.

“If you wish to take any home, I shall be happy to lend them, knowing
you to be careful,” she writes to Miss Swinburne. “I have been obliged
to give it up here, for if you could have seen some that were returned
to me you would have been disgusted; I was quite provoked.”

Unhappily, the ill-usage of books is not confined to Germany. On many
matters strong common-sense opinions are expressed. She does not accept
exaggerated local gossip; and though she never had measles, she says,
“I have no fears, I trust in God, and don’t let myself think about
catching anything, otherwise I should be miserable.”

We have glimpses of Brighton as it was sixty or seventy years ago, when
the reigning sovereign had a palace there.

“It appears as if it was a petty London, and all the fine ladies come
down in parties to enjoy a few days of the sea and back again in no
time,” writes the Princess in December, 1832.

There was a great procession to celebrate the town being made into a
parliamentary borough by the Reform Bill of 1832; but “why they would
not turn it at once into a marine city or town, I cannot think. It was
large enough when I was there and now much increased.”

Early in 1835 we find the Princess at the Pavilion on a visit to her
brother William IV.

“I generally drive out with my brother,” she writes. “He goes out, and
stays out till the lamps are well lighted, when we come in; to-day the
dear Queen is gone with him, so I may remain quiet.”

Political feeling still ran high, but Princess Elizabeth confessed to
hating politics. “I had rather talk of winter potatoes, though a very
mealy subject.”

In 1833, being over sixty, she realised that she was growing old.

“I am still from all accounts a fine old lady,” she remarks. “My
looking-glass tells me at times rather tall, and I say to you with
truth that no one enjoys more their old age than me, and am convinced
that I have been a much happier being since the spring and summer of
life are over--so many things I do and can do without bearing anything
unpleasant.” She was able even to wear a winter tippet which her
sister Augusta presented. “I look like a bear in it; but what signifies
looks when health is in question?”

As time passed, Elizabeth had other reminders that she was growing old.

“I blush to think how often I am late of a morning, which is not like
me, but my poor legs require time,” she writes in November, 1833.
“First I read my serious readings, then write, and do what business
I must do, and of late I have had a good deal of what I call parish
business, settling work for the poor and trying to content them if
possible.” She seems to have cultivated her mind in a wholesome way
without harbouring any foolish ambitions. “I have taught myself to see
everything with pleasure and without envy,” she remarks, and added
later, “Without religion there can be no peace, no order, no blessing.”

The Princess was struck with the excess of luxury in England in 1836.
“More jewels and more extravagance than ever.”

It was then that she saw the last of her brother William IV., whose
death in the following year she sincerely deplored. Elizabeth thus
survived to see the opening of the present reign; but she belonged too
much to a former age and to a different order of things to have much
sympathy with the new and more promising outlook of the Victorian era.

The memorial volume which Mr. Yorke has so well edited is of
considerable interest and of permanent value.

    G. H. P.

[2] _Letters of Princess Elizabeth of England_, daughter of George
III., and Landgravine of Hesse-Homburg. Written for the most part
to Miss Louisa Swinburne. Edited by Philip Ch. Yorke, M.A., with
portraits. London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1898.




VARIETIES.


HE THREW AWAY THE STONE.

The haughty favourite of an oriental monarch once in the public street
threw a stone at a poor dervish or priest.

The dervish did not dare to throw it back at the man who had assaulted
him, for he knew the favourite was very powerful. So he picked up the
stone and put it carefully in his pocket, saying to himself: “The time
for revenge will come by-and-by, and then I will repay him for it.”

Not long afterwards this same dervish, in walking through the city,
saw a great crowd coming towards him. He hastened to see what was the
matter, and found to his astonishment that his enemy, the favourite who
had fallen into disgrace with the king, was being paraded through the
principal streets on a camel, exposed to the jests and insults of the
populace.

The dervish, seeing all this, hastily grasped the stone which he
carried in his pocket. “The time,” he said, “has now come for my
revenge, I will repay him for his insulting conduct.”

But after considering a moment he threw the stone away, saying: “The
time for revenge never comes, for if our enemy is powerful, revenge
is dangerous as well as foolish; and if he is weak and wretched, then
revenge is worse than foolish, it is mean and cruel. And in all cases
it is wicked and forbidden.”


WHEN THINGS GO WRONG.

    What’s the use of wooing trouble,
      And of nursing every sorrow?
    Though to-day is black as Egypt,
      There’s another day to-morrow.
    Lightly treat each hour’s distresses--
      Sing a song for gloom to borrow;
    Mirth and cheer can chase all phantoms--
      There’s another day to-morrow.


WHY THEY HANGED THE DOGS.

On one of the early visits to Scotland of Sir Edwin Landseer, the
famous animal painter, he stopped at a village and took a great deal
of notice of the dogs, jotting down rapid sketches of them on a bit of
paper.

Next day, on resuming his journey, he was horrified to find dogs
suspended from trees in all directions, or drowned in the river with
stones round their necks.

He stopped a weeping urchin who was hurrying off with a pet pup in
his arms, and learned to his dismay that he was supposed to be an
excise officer, who was taking note of all the dogs he saw in order to
prosecute the owners for unpaid taxes.


CHARITY AS IT OUGHT TO BE.--If our mercy to the poor is to be true
mercy, it must never be careless giving, dictated by mere sentimental
impulse. Sentiment may be nobler than insensibility, but it often does
more harm. The Samaritan would have been no good example for us if he
had passed on with an easy conscience after administering the two pence
and had omitted to consider whether the special needs of the case did
not also require oil and wine.


THE AVERAGE WOMAN.--We have been favoured with this definition of the
average woman:--She is lovable but limited, for on the north side she
is bounded by servants; on the south by children; on the east by her
ailments, and on the west by her clothes.


TAKE A RIGHT VIEW OF LIFE.--It is a sad thing to begin life with low
conceptions of it. It may not be possible for a girl to measure life,
but it is possible for her to say, “I am resolved to put life to its
noblest and best use.”


TRIPLE ACROSTIC I.

    In yonder bower, one glorious May,
      Three lovely sisters grew;
    _One_, in imperial bright array
      Of richest purple hue;
    _One_, who conceal’d her drooping head
      Amid her foliage green;
    And _one_ with fragrant petals spread,
      Our beauteous Summer-Queen.

    1. Waster of time, of mind, of health,
         This useless creature see:
       Yet once, in print, he gather’d wealth
         And greatly sought was he.

    2. From the north-east adventurers came
         And built this City fair;
       They call’d it by the river’s name
         And yet--no river’s there!

    3. A monster was to be destroy’d,
         A hero claim’d the feat;
       Alas! the means that he employ’d
         Were sadly incomplete.
       My ready help he needs would ask,
         Which I was prompt to give,
       Or else he must forego his task
         And let the creature live:
       While he, with heavy axe in hand,
         Struck off each slimy head,
       I tear’d the wound with flaming brand
         And laid the monster dead.

    4. ’Tis sometimes good, and sometimes bad,
         And sometimes none at all;
       This in his belt the Roman had,
         Sharp-pointed, bright, and small.
       For centuries it fix’d remain’d,
         And might have kept so still
       But that a Pontiff pow’r obtain’d
         To change it at his will.

            XIMENA.




MISCHIEVOUS JACK.

[Illustration]


I am gradually learning to estimate rightly the responsibility of
having a jackdaw loose upon the premises.

There is really no way of circumventing Jack’s craftiness except by
keeping him shut up all day in an outdoor aviary. I feel sorry to be
driven to this course, and would far rather let him roam where he
pleases; but his mischievous pranks have become unendurable.

I thought to-day I had made a great discovery, and that by placing a
large stuffed flamingo at the open French window I should effectually
frighten the jackdaw from entering.

I found him in the drawing-room on my writing-table busy about some
evil deed, so I held up the great stuffed bird, at which Jack cast one
horrified glance and then fled precipitately out at the window as if
his last hour had come. Now, I thought, by placing the flamingo near
the window, I could leave the room with an easy mind. Vain hope! I came
back after a few minutes and found the impertinent jackdaw hopping
about as happy as a king. He had pulled to pieces a rare foreign
insect I had just been setting on a piece of cork. He had overturned
all the small curios he could find, had pulled all the pins out of a
pin-cushion, and, worst of all, he had opened a Mudie book and torn its
map and pages to ribbons. That book will have to become my property and
remain a monument of Jack’s misplaced energy.

It was humiliating to think how he must have chuckled at my flamingo.
He had seen through the device at once and had no idea of submitting to
be scared away by such a bogie.

During the winter months we do not often have weather which will admit
of open windows, so Jack exercised his talent for mischief out of doors
by hiding the padlock of the aviary, pulling up flower labels, and
drawing nails out of the walls. In these varied occupations he managed
to spend his hours of idleness.

[Illustration: He disdaineth the Fair Sex]

As a rare treat he was sometimes allowed to bask on the fender before
the fire, and, charmed by the delicious warmth, he would assume the
various attitudes shown in the illustration. His wings and tail
expanded, his head on one side and beak wide open, he looked like a
dying bird, but we knew that in reality he was in a state of ecstasy.

When next summer arrived Jack was again kept in the aviary, and I am
sorry to have to reveal a very dark page in his moral character. He
was usually content with raw meat and sopped bread; but, alas, he much
preferred to catch his own dinner! And when, attracted by his food,
innocent little robins, chaffinches, and sparrows found their way into
his domain, I grieve to record the dreadful fact that none came out
alive! Jack feasted on their small bodies, and left only a little bunch
of feathers to show what he had been doing.

I have said enough to prove that Jack is neither to be loved nor
respected; but he is unquestionably clever, and evidently has his own
thoughts and ideas.

[Illustration: “Jack” sunneth himself.]

He will fly at one’s hand like a fury even when food is being given
him; but when his mood changes and he wishes to be caressed, he picks
up a twig or a dead leaf. This is a signal of peace, and whilst he
continues to hold it in his bill he is quite safe, and may be stroked
and petted.

[Illustration: He studieth Entomology.]

One day in the height of summer Jack was perfectly electrified by a
visit from six lively young magpies. The aviary door happened to be
open, and these birds came hopping in with their usual free and easy
manner, chattering to each other and coolly abstracting any morsels of
food which suited their taste. At first Jack tried to drive out these
audacious visitors, but they ignored him altogether and at last he had
to stand aside and watch their depredations, a very discomfited and
astonished bird. The magpies came at intervals for several days in
succession, and then I suppose they went off to the woods, for we saw
them no more.

[Illustration: He arrangeth the Table.]

It is rather curious that the mating instinct has not led Jack into the
bands of matrimony. I have seen several attractive specimens of his own
kind making overtures to him, but he treats them all with lofty disdain
and elects to remain a bachelor.

Perhaps next year he may yield to the fascinations of a wild mate,
and settle happily somewhere in my woods. It would be the best thing
that could happen, only I fear we should all eagerly bid him good-bye
without the addition of _au revoir_.

    ELIZA BRIGHTWEN.




NEW DRIED FRUITS.

BY DORA DE BLAQUIÈRE.


Most of my readers can recall, I fancy, the days when we had only
prunes and Normandy pippins in the way of dried fruits. The dried
apricots, apples, and plums of the present day are very modern and
recent gifts to a grateful world. So recent are they indeed that the
ignorance about them is very great; and, strange to say, the grocers
who have them for sale have not been supplied as they should have been
with small printed papers describing how to cook them.

In using the term “dried fruits,” you will notice, I hope, that I am
dealing with what may be called stewing fruits; for, though we stew,
or can stew, raisins, figs, and even currants, I believe the first
treatment of these fruits is not to cook them in that manner. Raisins
and currants speak to us more distinctly of our Christmas mince-pies
and plum puddings, and of a regular dessert dish throughout the year in
some houses, than of any other kind of cooking.

The stewing of raisins was introduced, I believe, by vegetarians, and
in this form with a flavouring of lemon-peel. They are not at all bad
when added to a milk pudding or some blancmange.

The stewing of dried figs comes almost under the same description, and
their chief objection lies in their extreme sweetness, which is a cause
of quite unmerited and needless toothache at times. The best way of
cooking figs will always be in the way of a fig pudding, which is an
excellent though rich dish.

Dried apples have always been a great household requisite in cold
countries like Canada and the northern states of America, and I
remember that the making of them constituted a very large part of the
many winter preparations which used to be necessary when the country
was less civilised than it is now, the fruit less plentiful, and the
means of keeping it very imperfect.

It was not always easy to guard against the frost, which penetrated the
ground to a depth of four or even five feet when the winters were too
snowless. On these occasions when the earth is left bare and without
her warm coating of snow, the frost has been known to penetrate even
six feet into the ground in exposed places. This fact is verified in
cold countries like Canada in a very painful manner when graves have to
be dug. So difficult is this that in large cities where there are many
to dig a cemetery hall is built to contain the bodies of those who die
in the winter, so that the frost may be out of the ground before the
graves are dug.

This will explain to you why in Canada all kinds of root crops and
apples must be so carefully guarded from frost; and when the country
was less settled, and even to-day in the less inhabited parts, the
apples are still dried in a primitive manner. They are peeled generally
by a small machine, then quartered and cored, and strung on long
threads by means of a coarse needle. Then they are dried, either near
the stove or else in the sun; but this last is not often possible,
because of the lateness of the season. The apples thus dried are very
good, but if cooked carelessly are apt to be rather tough.

In Italy figs are dried in the sun by the peasantry. Each fig is cut
open, but not divided, and carefully dried. Then, when dried, they are
closed together so as to look like whole figs again, and strung one by
one on the long flexible mulberry twigs. They are very good and are
less sweet than the dried fig of commerce, as no sugar is added to them
in drying.

Last year I saw quantities of figs dried by the peasantry in this
manner for sale in Switzerland, where they appeared to be quite a
novelty. I could not find out where they came from; but I daresay from
the Italian canton of Ticino, or, as the French call it, Tessin. This
is, of course, warmer than its sister cantons on the northern side of
the Alps. I have not seen these yet in England, but there have been
some Californian dried figs that were very good for eating, and perhaps
we shall see more of them in the future, as the market for them grows
more assured.

Dried figs are said by the scientists to contain nerve and muscle food,
heat and waste, but to be bad for the liver. The same is said of dried
prunes, but they afford the best and highest kind of nerve or brain
food. They also supply heat and waste; but they are not muscle feeding.

All stone fruits are said to be injurious for people who suffer from
the liver and should be used rather cautiously.

Apples are thought a most valuable food in every way but one--they do
not afford staying properties, but they supply the highest nerve and
muscle food.

If you be fond of almonds, you may like to know that they afford no
heat, but give the highest brain, nerve, and muscle food. I hope this
applies to the salted almonds which are so popular.

The process of drying is called “desiccation” or, usually in America,
“evaporated.” The original desiccator is an apparatus much used in
chemistry and physics and the word comes from the Latin _desicco_, “I
dry up”--meaning that the water is evaporated out of the fruit or any
substance to be dried. This idea was carried out into the drying up of
the water and fruit juices for commercial purposes. An oven with trays
in it to hold the fruit is one of the forms of using heat, and in Lower
California the heat of the sun is utilised for the drying of prunes.
Some time ago there were notices of the commencement of this industry
and the importation of work-people from the neighbourhood of Tours.

The ordinary prunes sold in the shops are the fruit of the St. Julian
plum, a common species which is grown everywhere in France for the
purpose. The best French or dessert plums come from Provence, and the
Californian plums must be of the same variety as the Brignole plum. The
latest competitor in the English market is Bosnia, and those which I
have tried were quite as good as the French plums. Under Austrian rule,
Bosnia has developed wonderfully, and the climate is a delightful one,
well suited to fruit growing.

The best of all the French dried prunes come from Provence, the land
of poetry and romance. They are made of the kinds of prunes called the
_Perdrigon blanc_, and _Violette_, and _Prune d’Ast_. The two former
come under one category and are called _Pruneaux de Brignole_, from
the place where they are prepared, the small town of Brignole, in
Provence, a name I am sure you will have often seen on the boxes of
prunes used for dessert. The common kinds of prunes are gathered by
merely shaking the trees; but those for preparing as French plums must
be gathered in the morning, before the sun is up, by taking hold of
the stalk without touching the fruit and laying each plum very gently
on vine leaves in baskets. The latter must be filled without the plums
being allowed to touch each other, and then they are carried to the
fruit-room and exposed to the sun and air for three or four days, after
which they become quite soft. The next process is to put them on trays
into a spent oven and shut up quite closely for twenty-four hours. Then
they are taken out, the oven is re-heated, and made rather warmer, and
the plums are put in again for the same time; then they are taken out,
carefully turned over, and the oven is heated to one-fourth hotter than
it was before, and the plums are returned to it again for the third
time, and after remaining the twenty-four hours, are taken out and left
exposed till they become quite cold. Then comes the most curious part
of the process, which, when once explained to me, was a solution of an
enigma over which I had much wondered, namely, why the stones of the
good French plums are loose and unattached, while those of the common
prune are so much more fixed in the fleshy substance of the fruit. This
part of the process is called “rounding,” and is performed by turning
the stones in the plums without breaking the skins, and the two ends
are then pressed between the thumb and finger to flatten the fruit.
Then they are once more laid on the sieves for drying and placed in
a rather hot oven for one hour, the oven being closely shut. Lastly,
they are put again into a cool oven, left for twenty-four hours, when
the process is ended, and they are packed in bottles or boxes for
sale and exportation. Now I have given this long account, taken from
a recent authority, because I know my readers of the “G. O. P.” are
world-spread, and because this is the kind of process adopted with any
kind of dried fruit; and an ordinary brick oven for bread-baking can
be perfectly well used for doing it. All varieties of the plum can, I
am told, be dried in this manner, some, of course, with better success
than others.

After the prunes come the kind which, I daresay, most of my readers
have seen in the grocers’ shops, namely, the crystal or dried yellow
plums, which are likewise said to be from California. They are
so-called silver plums, and are yellow, not black, and were first seen
in 1897, I believe. They require soaking over-night in just enough
water to swell them, and the next day should be put into a prepared
syrup, which has had a little lemon peel boiled in it, and very slowly
stewed, without breaking them. I find a war rages about this question
of soaking dried fruit over-night, as many people consider that long
slow stewing is equally good, or better.

Apricots are amongst the dried fruits that have been introduced within
the last few years; and although they may be a novelty to us, they have
been used in the East in this way for centuries. The apricot grows well
as a wall fruit in England, and is interesting because it was brought
here and first grown in the gardens of Henry VIII. by his gardener,
Wolfe, who was a Roman Catholic priest, and who brought it from Italy.
Indeed, it was during the reign of this monarch, and the subsequent
Tudors, that horticulture began to make such progress in England; and
no politics made them forget the interests of their gardens, to which,
as a family, they appear to have been much attached.

The dried peach we have not yet seen, but it is much used in that way
in New Jersey, Delaware, and in the Southern States; but probably
canning has rendered drying needless. Dried pears are also of ancient
origin, and I find them excellent in the present day, though I consider
they need careful doing. Any recipe for the stewing of winter pears
will answer for dried ones; and they must be soaked over-night to
ensure their being tender. It is well to remember that the less water
used, the more flavour in the pear, and the syrup should not be very
abundant.

And now we come to that most useful of all fruits--the apple. This
has been dried in many forms, and canned as well. The most recent are
the evaporated apple rings--the apple cut into rounds horizontally
through the fruit. When these first came out they were called “Alden
apple rings,” probably from the town or district where they were
grown. They are said to be made from greenings--the best of American
cooking apples--and one pound of the apples rings is said to represent
six pounds of ordinary apples. The best recipe for cooking these is
an American one, and in this the food is required to be soaked in
a pie-dish in cold water--just enough to cover it--for four hours;
then, without pouring off the water, add sugar, a little lemon rind or
spice, and then put the dish in a slow oven and stew very gently till
sufficiently cooked. If intended for a tart, soak as directed and stew
gently in a slow oven for half an hour before adding the crust, or the
latter will be done before the apples are sufficiently cooked.

The apples, which are dried whole, must be rather differently
treated. Take about a dozen apples, place them in an earthenware or
porcelain-lined vessel, and add about a pint and a half of water, and
let them soak for seven or eight hours. Then add sugar, spice, and the
rind of a lemon to your taste; put them all together as they are into
a porcelain-lined saucepan, and stew gently for an hour. If a more
_recherche_ dish be required than merely the apples plainly stewed, a
little whipped cream may be inserted in the place from whence the core
has been taken, and some cream poured round them in a glass dish.

“It is simply absurd,” says a recipe writer in an American paper,
“to soak evaporated apples over-night”; so, as this is a case of
doctors differing, I must give the directions which follow. Place
the evaporated apples in a saucepan, cover with water, and boil till
done; flavour to taste, and use for sauce, tarts or conserve. Now this
recipe I have also found good; and I know that the writer considers
that soaking or leaving the apple rings too long in water renders them
tasteless and vapid.

It seems strange that the subject of dried fruits, save and except the
ancient pippins of Normandy, should be quite ignored in our cookery
books; and yet there can be no doubt of their value as foods, and
adjuncts to other things, at a time when fruit is dear and scarce. They
are always inexpensive; a pound goes a long way, and, as a rule, if
well done, they are liked by the little folks.

But alas, the general remembrance of stewed prunes, apples or apricots
is enough to make anyone dislike them, sent up as they generally are in
a slop of tasteless, coloured, watery fluid. If we only examine into
the ordinary methods of cooking them, we shall see the cook washing
them first in one water, and then in another; perhaps letting them
remain for half an hour in soak, then putting them into more water,
with a cupful of sugar in a dirty saucepan on the fire, where she
boils it violently, and finishes it in half an hour.

Now, from beginning to end, this is all wrong. In the first place,
you must remember that the evaporated fruit took a long time to do.
The moisture was not removed from it in one hour, nor two, but took
a long time. So if you want to restore it to them you must give them
time also. Thus, perhaps, you will agree with me that the fruit must
be soaked for at least twenty-four hours, especially in the case of
apricots and peaches; and the water should cover the fruit to the depth
of an inch. When you are ready to stew the fruit, take it out and put
it carefully into a porcelain-lined saucepan; then pour the water in
which they have been soaking upon the fruit, leaving at the bottom
any dregs there may be. If not sufficient to cover it, you must add a
little more, then give an hour’s very quiet boiling; and a few minutes
before you remove it from the fire, add a little sugar, and use a
silver spoon to stir it in. I prefer to take the fruit out when I add
the sugar, for fear of breaking and spoiling the look of the fruit; and
then the syrup is boiled up once or twice, and poured over the fruit.
Peaches require rather more cooking than apricots.

Apples and pears need care in the cooking, and also in the flavouring;
and the best thing for both is the juice and grated rind of a lemon.
But before flavouring, you should taste the fruit after stewing, as you
will then judge whether you should add sugar, or the rind of a lemon,
and not the juice. The sugar should be put in first and thoroughly
dissolved, and then the flavouring. If you flavour first, and sugar
after, you will need double the amount of sugar. Prunes, raisins,
dates, and figs can all be stewed in the same way; and if you will only
remember that haste is not possible in preparing dried fruit for table,
you will always be successful.




QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.


    A CORRESPONDENT asks: “_Will the Editor of THE GIRL’S OWN
    PAPER be so kind as to let ‘DORA’ know through his columns,
    what author first made use of the phrase, ‘Oil on the troubled
    waters’._”

Although we cannot with absolute certainty point DORA to the first
author who made use of the expression, she may be interested to know
that it has its origin in antiquity.

Pliny the Elder (23-79 A.D.) says in his Natural History (Book ii.,
Sect. 234)--

“Everything is soothed by oil, and this is the reason why divers send
out small quantities of it from their mouths, because it smoothes every
part which is rough.”

Plutarch (46?-120?) asks in his _Symposiacs_ (Book viii., Question ix)--

“Why does pouring oil on the sea make it clear and calm? Is it for that
the winds, slipping the smooth oil, have no form, nor cause any waves?”

The Venerable Bede relates in his Ecclesiastical History (completed in
735) a story bearing on this point, which he says he had from “a most
creditable man in Holy Orders.”

A young priest was to set out by land, but return by water, to escort
a maiden destined for the bride of King Oswy. He sought a farewell
blessing from St. Aidan, Bishop of Lindisfarne, who gave him a cruse of
holy oil, saying, “I know that when you go abroad, you will meet with
a storm and contrary wind; but do you remember to cast this oil I give
you into the sea, and the wind shall cease immediately.” A storm did
arise, and the young priest, pouring oil on the waves, reduced them to
a calm.

Apart from any suggestion of the miraculous, the effect of oil on rough
waters has been observed in modern times. It is stated that Professor
Horsford, by emptying a vial of oil on the sea in a stiff breeze,
stilled the surface, and Commodore Wilkes, of the United States, saw
the waves calmed in a storm off the Cape of Good Hope by oil leaking
from a whale ship.

The pictorial application of this physical fact is so obvious that it
could not help passing into popular usage.

    _“MERCIA,” “THE WOULD-BE WISE ONE,” and “NOTHING BUT LEAVES,”
    all ask us in effect the same question, the full meaning of
    self-culture, and how it is to be attained._

In ways too many to particularise, “our girls” are anxiously seeking
this end. From all quarters of the globe questions come to us; not
perhaps expressed in the same direct fashion as the one above, but
showing an eagerness in some way to develop latent faculty, to improve
the whole nature. What, then, is self-culture? It is briefly personal
cultivation of self; the bringing forth, or “educing” talent and
capability, the improvement of taste, the storing of the mind with what
will elevate and help and inspire. There is the same difference between
a “cultured” and an “uncultured” person as between a cultivated and
uncultivated plot of garden-ground. The chief difficulty lies in having
to perform the affair for oneself. To yield one’s nature to trained and
skilful teachers is delightful, but when no such teachers are at hand,
the task assumes a different complexion, and looks well-nigh impossible.

But there are teachers whom everyone can command. The girl to whom
Newnham and Girton are undreamed-of possibilities, whose education at
school has been only just long enough to make her crave for more, can
call to her aid the greatest and wisest of mankind. Self-culture by
books is within the reach of all.

What books? and how shall they be studied?

The subject is too vast to be dealt with in even the longest answer to
correspondents, and we can only say here to “Mercia,” “The Would-be
Wise One,” and “Nothing but Leaves,” that we have begun in this volume
a series of articles by Lily Watson on “Self-Culture for Girls,” which
deal practically and in detail with the books that should be read, the
method of studying them, and everything that girls anxious to make the
best of their opportunities can wish to know.




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


MEDICAL.

LITTLE DOT.--1. The condition of your face is almost for certain due
to _acne rosacea_. The only other disease which we think it likely
that you could be suffering from would be _lupus erythematosus_--a
form of lupus which is not due to tuberculosis or scrofula, but which
is a highly-developed form of chilblains. Your description agrees so
well with that of _acne rosacea_ that there can be little doubt but
that it is that complaint. This disease would be in no way dependent
upon nor influenced by any disease that your parents may have had.
This complaint commonly goes by the name of “grog-blossoms”; but is
frequently caused by other things than “grog.” In fact it is not the
alcohol itself so much as the indigestion that it causes which produces
the “blossoms.” Any form of indigestion may be accompanied by rosacea;
and so the first thing in the treatment of the affection is to look
to the digestion. Locally use an ointment of sulphur or ichthiol,
preferably the latter. You must guard carefully against constipation,
as this of itself will produce rosacea.--2. We think it highly
improbable that you suffer from stone in the kidney; but of course we
could not be certain without personal examination. The only symptom
you give us is one which you are very likely to have misinterpreted,
whereas you tell us nothing which to our minds suggests kidney disease.

MARGARET.--You _can_ test for yourself whether the water supplied to
you contains lead; but it is hardly worth your while to do so. Still,
if you wish to try, get a glass cylinder two feet long, and place it on
a sheet of white paper. Fill it with the water to be tested, and pour
into it a few drops of solution of sulphuretted hydrogen, or let a jet
of the pure gas bubble through the water. If lead is present a brownish
discoloration of the water will occur, varying in depth of tint
according to the amount of lead present. Copper and one or two other
metals give the same reaction. You must be careful of the sulphuretted
hydrogen, for it is poisonous. You could get the water tested for less
money than the cylinder and reagent cost to buy.

O MIMOSA SAN.--Certainly all your symptoms can be traced to your bad
teeth. You complain of flatulency, headache, constipation, cold feet,
and poor appetite. Are not all these common symptoms of dyspepsia? And
what is commoner as a cause of dyspepsia than bad teeth? Go to the
dentist again and have your teeth thoroughly overhauled. But remember,
if you have many teeth extracted, you _must_ have false ones inserted
in their place. Have the false teeth made at once, for after a month
or two the remaining teeth make an attempt to fill up the gap where
bad teeth have been extracted and leave your teeth with narrow slits
between them. How few people recognise the value of teeth! Normal
digestion is quite impossible without them.

AN IRISH READER.--1. Do you wear a straw hat, and do the spots on your
forehead correspond to the line where the hat presses? During the
summer many girls develop spots on their foreheads from the irritation
of straw hats. These spots often trouble girls, who seek in vain for
their cause. The real cause scarcely ever presents itself to their
notice. If you have thoroughly tried sulphur ointment without success,
use ichthiol ointment 2½ per cent. instead. Also see that your hats do
not press upon your forehead.--2. The fifth of September, 1877, was a
Wednesday.

LORNA DOONE.--One would naturally suppose that such a simple subject
as the care of the nails was completely understood. But this is,
nevertheless, far from being the case, and it often gives more trouble
to cure thin or broken nails than it does to cure some of the most
deadly diseases to which we are subject. We advise your friend to soak
her finger-tips every night in hot water and then to smear them with
lanoline or other simple ointment. In the morning she should wipe off
the ointment and dip her fingers into pure alcohol for five minutes.
She should also be very careful to cut and trim her nails properly. We
do not promise to cure her, but we have seen good results from this
treatment.

MAORI.--The hair frequently falls off in larger quantities in autumn
than in any other season. Indeed, it appears that the hair of man
“moults” as does the fur of mammals and the feathers of birds. After
autumn, the spring is the time of year at which the hair falls out in
greatest quantities. This periodical moulting of the hair does good
rather than harm, and there is really no call to stop it--if, indeed,
it could be stopped, which we question.

AGRICOLA.--“What is the difference between a sprained and a varicose
vein?” We really do not know what you mean by a “sprained vein,” so
that part of the question we cannot answer. Systematic rubbing or
massage is of some value for varicose veins; but it is not altogether
safe, and is not worth a trial. Rest with the legs elevated, walking,
and the support given by an elastic stocking are the chief items in
the treatment of varicose veins. Standing is to be avoided as far as
possible.


GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.

L. M. (_Employment on Board Ship_).--We fear you would find this
difficult to obtain, seeing that you are not strong at present.
Stewardesses need to be decidedly vigorous people. Such positions are
commonly accorded by the steamship companies to the relatives of their
own officers. It would seem that the work in a cotton mill, though well
paid, is likely to be injurious to your health, and therefore if you
could find some more healthy occupation, you should certainly take it.
Cannot your employer put you in the way of emigrating to South Africa?
It would be well to lay the case before him. You should likewise apply
for advice to the Manchester and Salford branch of the National Union
of Women Workers, 13, Temple Chambers, Brazenose Street, Manchester.
With this Union many of the most important societies in Manchester for
women and girls are affiliated, and the secretary could tell you which
would be most likely to help you. The secretary could also inform you
whether there is in Manchester any active member of the British Women’s
Emigration Association, the headquarters of which are at the Imperial
Institute, Kensington, W. We imagine that emigration would be best for
you; at the same time it is possible that work might be found for you
in this country under conditions that would better accord with your
health.

LACE-MAKING.--We know of no school for lace-making in London, but
very likely by inquiring of the Secretary of the Home Arts and
Industries Association, Royal Albert Hall, Kensington Gore, you might
find somebody to teach you. London ladies have interested themselves
especially in the revival of Buckinghamshire laces. The different
varieties of Honiton can best be studied in Devonshire. In your place
we should be disposed to give particular study to the various kinds of
guipure, as these are likely to remain fashionable for some time to
come.

AN ANXIOUS ONE (_Gardening, Dairy-work, &c._).--For you we should
say, Not gardening. It is too precarious a calling for a young woman
without private means or any conspicuous fondness for the occupation.
Dairy-work, which you could learn at the Dairy Institute, Reading,
would be considerably better. If you would like a colonial life with
its freedom from social conventions, and if you can do every sort of
housework (including, prominently, cooking), then by all means try to
emigrate to Canada or Australia through the British Women’s Emigration
Association. Except if you think of emigrating, we do not recommend
you to call yourself a useful help. In this country the woman who
specialises is the one who succeeds, not the “Jill-of-all-Trades.” Make
up your mind, we would say, to become thoroughly efficient either as
cook, dressmaker, laundress or dairy-worker, then you will be sure to
prosper. Of course these occupations are not for everybody; but one of
them would be best for you, seeing that your ability seems to lie in
the direction of practical rather than intellectual work.

A MOTHER (_Clay Modelling_).--The organs of the pottery trade are _The
Pottery Gazette_ (Scott, Greenwood & Co., 19, Ludgate Hill, E.C.)
and _The British Potter_ (W. Brickel, Longton, Staffordshire). Both
of these publications appear monthly, and the second may be obtained
gratis. But what we should advise is that the modeller call with
specimens of work upon Messrs. Doulton of Lambeth. It is probable,
also, that Messrs. Goode of South Audley Street, who deal in some of
the finest china, both English and foreign, would be kind enough to
advise in such a matter. But cannot the South Kensington authorities
themselves put their pupils and examinees in the way of seeking
employment in the proper quarters? They ought to understand these
artistic trades better than anyone. Teachers of clay-modelling are in
some demand for evening continuation schools and the like. It might
be desirable on this point to consult the Home Arts and Industries
Association, Royal Albert Hall.

SEVENTEEN SUMMERS (_Typing and Shorthand Writing_).--A typist and
shorthand writer may earn from 15s. up to £2 a week. Typewriting can be
learnt in about two months, shorthand takes a year of steady practice
at the least. You complain that your handwriting is far from good, and
that you also have great difficulty in expressing yourself. Now both
these circumstances are serious obstacles in the career of a clerk;
your prospects in this walk of life are not improved by the other
disability you mention. We strongly urge you to turn to some other
occupation. A person who finds it a “hard job” to “compose” a letter is
evidently not meant to make letter-writing a conspicuous part of her
business, as she must do if she is to remain a satisfactory clerk or
secretary. Is there not some other kind of work that is less of a “hard
job”? You might learn dress-cutting and pattern-cutting, generally, or
you could enter one of the better kinds of manufactories. Pray think
over your qualifications, and discover which sort of work you do best
(for there must be some), and then try to find the means of doing it.


MISCELLANEOUS.

M. A. R.--We think that your selection of Malvern seems a wise one,
especially as others should be considered as well as the invalid.
The waters are of an alkaline earthy nature, specially suitable to
scrofulous sores and skin diseases, besides internal complaints. There
are hydropathic establishments, and apart from the mineral waters,
the spring water is exceptionally pure. Great Malvern occupies a fine
position in the centre of the Chase of Malvern, on the slopes of the
hills, and those who can walk find the latter very attractive, as the
air is bracing and the view very fine. The distance from London is
123 miles by railroad. For anæmic patients the ferruginous waters of
Harrogate are specially suited. It has also sulphureous and saline
springs.

CURIOSITY.--Do you not confuse the heir presumptive and the heir
apparent to the throne? The Grand Duke Michael is the heir presumptive
only, and the “Czarevitch,” a term meaning only king’s son, or prince.
The title “Cesarevitch,” _i.e._, “son of the Czar,” is only given to
the eldest son, who is Crown Prince, Nashlyedrik, and heir apparent,
and his consort is “Cesarevna.” The first Czar of Russia of the House
of Romanoff was elected, and the succession has never proceeded in
regular order. Peter the Great left the crown by will to his daughter
Elizabeth; but Anne was elected instead, to Elizabeth’s prejudice, who
had to wait till after the death of the Emperor John before she came
to the throne. The four Empresses of Russia who have reigned alone
have been Catherine, widow of Peter the Great; Anne, daughter of Ivan,
his elder brother; Elizabeth his daughter; and Catherine II., widow
of Peter III., a grandson of Peter the Great. The Czar is the supreme
ruler, and the Government is an autocracy. The Salic law does not
obtain in Russia.

PANSY.--The following is the way that rust may be taken from steel, but
great care is needed to do it. Immerse the article to be cleaned for a
few minutes, till all dirt and rust be taken off, in a strong solution
of cyanide of potassium--about ½oz. in a wineglassful of water. Take out
and clean it with a toothbrush, using some paste made of cyanide of
potassium, Castile soap, whiting and water, mixed into a paste of about
the consistency of thick cream.

MARTHA.--When washing linen you will find it advisable not to place
either soap or soda directly into washing-tubs, coppers, or boilers of
any kind. Both should be thoroughly dissolved in warm or cold water,
and then only used in the coppers or boilers. A great deal depends on
the soaking of linen before it is put into the boiler. It should be
placed in a large tub of tepid water in which borax has been dissolved,
or a little good soap has been lathered. One tablespoonful of prepared
Californian borax to every gallon of hot water will be a very effective
soaking fluid. Do not use soda at this stage of the process. You have
probably been using too much. The soaking-water, or bath into which
you put the linen must be tepid, not hot nor cold. Many people rub a
little soap on the soiled place after the soaking and before boiling.
The rinsing is also very important, and must be attended to or else the
linen will be streaky or of a bad colour. In fact, neglect of rinsing
is the general cause of a yellow hue in linen. The water used should
never be cold but warm. Cold water sets, or fixes the grease and soap
in the fabric. Boiling-bags are very useful, and protect the linen from
the copper, but we think you will find too much soda is the cause of
trouble.

WAITING.--It would be impossible for us to give such a list, and,
indeed, we could not without knowing the kind of work it was and its
subject, as some firms publish one thing and others another. Some deal
with purely educational works, others take fiction; and many limit
themselves to high-class works only, such as those of reference and
research. The safest way to proceed is, we think, to write to the
Incorporated Society of Authors, 4, Portugal Street, Lincoln’s Inn
Fields; Chairman, Sir Walter Besant; Secretary, S. Squire Sprigge, Esq.
From them you will receive all requisite information and advice on the
subject.

MAB.--There is no reason why any building or institution should not be
inspected if it were thought needful. Health and sanitary inspectors
have power to go everywhere, we believe.

TINY.--Any strong wide-mouthed phial about 2½ inches high and 1½ inches
in diameter, containing spirits of wine, and having a cork stopper,
will answer for beetles; the cork should be secured round the neck of
the bottle by a piece of string. A smaller bottle can be used with a
quill through the cork for smaller insects. But a proper bottle of
solid mixture is expressly sold for destroying specimens. There is a
very nice little book called _The Home Naturalist_, published at 56,
Paternoster Row, which would be useful to you, as it contains full
directions for all the processes of catching and preserving insects,
plants, woods and stones. Its price is 5s. Insects may be destroyed for
collections of specimens without causing suffering.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: “THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME.” [_From the painting by M.
Ellen Edwards (Mrs. Staples), exhibited in the Royal Academy._]]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber's Note--The following changes have been made to this text:

Page 303: cyclinder to cylinder--“get a glass cylinder”.]





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No.
997, February 4, 1899, by Various

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 56071 ***