The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 997, February 4, 1899
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Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 997, February 4, 1899

Author: Various

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER, VOL. XX. NO. 997, FEBRUARY 4, 1899 ***

THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER

Vol. XX.—No. 997.] | FEBRUARY 4, 1899. | [Price One Penny.

[Transcriber's Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the original.]

A BRIDAL SONG.
“OUR HERO.”
A RAMBLE ABOUT CHILDHOOD.
ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.
LINNÆA;
THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH: AUNT OF THE QUEEN.
VARIETIES.
MISCHIEVOUS JACK.
NEW DRIED FRUITS.
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

A BRIDAL SONG.

“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.)

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.)

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.

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.

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.

“Jack” sunneth himself.
He studieth Entomology.
He disdaineth the Fair Sex.
He arrangeth the Table.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME.”
[From the painting by M. Ellen Edwards (Mrs. Staples), exhibited in the Royal Academy.]

FOOTNOTES

[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.

[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.

[Transcriber's Note—The following changes have been made to this text:
Page 303: cyclinder to cylinder—“get a glass cylinder”.]

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Table of Contents

- THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER

- A BRIDAL SONG.

- “OUR HERO.”

- CHAPTER XIX.

- A RAMBLE ABOUT CHILDHOOD.

- ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

- CHAPTER XVIII.

- LINNÆA;

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH: AUNT OF THE QUEEN.[2]

- VARIETIES.

- MISCHIEVOUS JACK.

- NEW DRIED FRUITS.

- QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.

- ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

- MEDICAL.

- GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.

- MISCELLANEOUS.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE