Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 1005, April 1, 1899
Author: Various
Language: English
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[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.—NO. 1005.]      APRIL 1, 1899.      [PRICE ONE PENNY.]



[Illustration: THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH

by Isabella Fyvie Mayo.]

_All rights reserved._]


CHAPTER I.

A lady came out of a little house set in the corner of a quiet street
on the northern edge of Bloomsbury. The house she left was tiny and
odd-shaped, and seemed to have been built as an afterthought on a
remnant of ground spared from the erection of its high, solemn,
symmetrical neighbours, which towered two storeys above it. Among the
dark dingy brick houses its front alone was painted, and it was also
rounded in form, probably to give a little more space to its small
rooms. It had a verandah too, whose top made a sort of balcony for the
upper windows, and the whole was decorated by bright hardy creepers.

As the lady left the house, she proceeded to cross the road. About
midway she paused, and looking back, she smiled and nodded to somebody
not very distinctly visible. Then something moving at the French window
opening on the verandah caught her eye. This was a maid-servant with a
little child, and the lady, nodding with greater energy and kissing her
hand, hurried on her way.

She had a light, swift step, and a bright mobile face. But it bore a
strain of repressed, intense emotion scarcely to be understood in a
pretty young woman with a houseful of living treasures.

On and on she went, threading her way across squares and along
streets, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left, her
thoughts evidently turned within herself. At last she emerged at the
south-western side of Bloomsbury, into a street chiefly taken up
by shops and hotels. She slackened her pace a little, as one may if
one wishes to prolong a pleasant hope which may not be crowned by
realisation.

She paused opposite a shop window, wherein, backed by a half-curtain of
heavy green serge, stood three low easels. Two bore sketches, one of
an opal dawn over a mass of low red roofs; the other of a lurid sunset
above a forest of spires and masts rising from a purplish mist. But the
centre easel was empty.

She gave a slight exclamation, and hastily entered the shop. She was
not long inside. When she came out, she had her purse in her hands.
Though she had a smile on her lips, the emotion in her face was but
more vivid, as if fuel had been added to the inner flame.

She did not retrace her steps to the little corner house with the
creeper-draped verandah. She went on westward, through the quiet
streets at the back of Oxford Street until she reached a long, decorous
thoroughfare many of whose doors were adorned with brass plates bearing
the names of well-known doctors. Again she slackened her pace and
looked at her watch.

Very slowly did she walk past one great house, with heavy stained
glass in the dining-room windows, and an elaborate gorgon’s head
for the brass knocker. As she drew near the broad white steps, the
door, which bore the name of Dr. Thomas Ivery, opened, and a woman
came out, hastily drawing a veil over tear-stained features. With a
sudden movement, our pedestrian stepped forward and arrested the staid
man-servant in the very act of closing the door.

“Can I see Dr. Ivery?” she asked.

“Well, ma’am”—the well-trained servant hesitated—“his consulting hours
are just over. Have you an appointment with him?”

“No,” she frankly admitted. “But I think he may see me. Will you ask
him, please?—say that Mrs. Challoner of Pelham Street will be so
grateful if he can spare her a few minutes.”

“I will ask him, ma’am,” answered the man of the imperturbable face.
“Will you wait here for his answer?” And he showed her into the front
room with the stained glass windows, of whose glories in the deepening
gloom of the autumn afternoon little was visible save one waving streak
of crimson like a stream of blood.

To her tense mood, the room seemed heavy with the atmosphere of doom.
She wondered whether the apartment had any other uses, whether a happy
family ever gathered about the great hearth, or a merry party ever sat
around the long dining-table. There were big pictures on the walls,
though all she could see of them was spaces of darkness and mystery
enclosed by heavy gilt frames. A bust stood ghostly in the furthest
corner.

She had not to wait long. The man-servant threw open the door.

“Dr. Ivery will see Mrs. Challoner,” he announced, as if she were one
of a waiting group. “Will you walk this way, madam.”

She followed him along a gloomy passage. He ushered her into a room,
cheerful and homelike compared with that she had left. This got the
last of the day’s brightness through a big west window overlooking some
open space; it was lined with books; a great blue jar filled with red
flowers stood in one corner; one or two homely crayon portraits and
weak little water-colours hung immediately behind the doctor, as he sat
in front of his desk.

“Mrs. Challoner?” he said, half-interrogatively. He had never seen her
in walking dress before. There was a suggestion of anxiety in his tone.

“Yes, Mrs. Challoner, Pelham Street,” she humbly explained. “Will you
forgive me, sir, and tell me if I am doing wrong. I so want to speak to
you about my husband.”

“Ah, your husband,” echoed the doctor. “Yes, yes—nothing wrong anew, I
hope.”

“Oh, no,” she answered. “All is going on well, so well that I know——”
she paused. “I want to consult you privately, Dr. Ivery. I could get
no opportunity while Charlie was so very ill, and since he has been
better only the young doctor has come, so I thought if I might visit
you here—if you will forgive me?”

“Certainly, Mrs. Challoner, certainly. A private conversation with a
patient’s nearest friend is often as much a physician’s duty as writing
a prescription. Tell me just what is on your mind about your husband.”

Dr. Ivery was a tall spare man with a silvered head very high and full
at the top. His composed face softened as he met the eager searching
eyes of the young wife. This was a woman who must have the truth. He
thanked God inwardly that though the truth for her must be hard enough,
yet it was not the hardest!

“It is the future, sir,” she said, schooling her voice to absolute
calmness. “Charlie is already talking of returning to the office.”

“The season of the year is against him,” remarked the physician,
guardedly.

“But, apart from anything just now, sir,” she pleaded, “what do you
think of Charlie’s possibilities in the long run?”

She said the only words she could bear to say. It would have killed her
to ask, “Has Charlie any chance of life? Must Charlie die?”

The doctor paused. This was not because he had to extinguish hope, but
because he feared to fan it too much.

“My dear lady,” he said, “I am sure I need not tell you that such
symptoms as his are always serious and always mean that grave mischief
has been done. At the same time, apart from these lung troubles, his
general health is unusually good. The mischief seems so local, that if
he could get the right climatic conditions, I would incline to believe
that he may live as long and as happily and usefully as most of us.”

Mrs. Challoner’s face brightened.

“And are such climatic conditions to be found anywhere in Great
Britain?” she asked wistfully.

“I fear not,” said the doctor. “I was thinking of some of the colonies
in the Southern Hemisphere.”

“I thought so,” she answered with patient sadness. She and Charlie had
talked over these matters before. Even before his recent illness, her
husband had said that if he had known his own constitution earlier, he
would not have adopted such a profession as a solicitor’s, with all
the limitations which would involve a new professional training in any
change of sphere.

“Would there be any good for Charlie in a long, long sea voyage?” she
asked in the tone of one pleading for a dear life.

The doctor brightened.

“The very greatest good,” he said. “This is just one of the cases where
a sea voyage often gives a new lease of life. But we scarcely like to
suggest it to a young professional man—a young married man. We find
that an absolute rearrangement of life is often more feasible.”

“A sea voyage could be managed, Dr. Ivery!” cried Mrs. Challoner. “If
there is hope in it, it can be done—it shall be done!”

“To be of real service, it must be very long,” warned the physician.

“It shall be the very longest that is to be had,” she said. She had
risen from her seat. “I will talk over all details with my husband,”
she added. “And when you come, sir, you will support my arguments.”

“Certainly,” he said, “and most heartily too, now I am entitled to
do so. We must remember that we may have disappointment,” he added,
gazing-down at her eager face. “But I can assure you we shall have good
grounds to hope.”

“I must not detain you longer,” she said. “How blessed you are to be
able to make others as happy as you have made me.”

“I have often to make them sad,” he answered, shaking his head, “at
least, so far as we poor humans know what is gladness and what is
sadness. And Mr. Challoner is really doing well? My assistant always
gives favourable reports. And your boy? A bonnie boy! Why, who is
looking after him while you are so much absorbed in your husband?”

“Oh, he can be with us now since Charlie has been getting stronger!”
she answered. “And I can always trust him with Pollie. I don’t know
what I should do without her. She has been with us ever since we
married. I have been so much more fortunate than most of my friends.”

“Pollie has been more fortunate than some of your friends’ Pollies
probably,” laughed the doctor. “I shouldn’t wonder but you spoil her.”

“No, I don’t!” declared Mrs. Challoner, with a good housewife’s
indignation. “But I knew when I had a good servant, and I kept my place
open for her for six months during her mother’s last illness, and when
her invalid sister was attending the Free Hospital, I had her to stay
with Pollie. That is how we came to hear about you, Dr. Ivery. So I am
sure we have been trebly repaid. These poor people live in a little
damp cottage in Essex—I don’t wonder the family are sickly. Pollie
herself has grown into a different girl since she has lived in Pelham
Street.”

She spoke quite volubly. The doctor understood the nervous tension
thus suddenly relaxed. She scarcely knew what she was saying. Then she
recollected herself, smiled—the smile mounting to her eyes—for the
first time for many weeks, and modestly took her leave.

The doctor himself escorted her to his door, the watchful attendant
saying to himself, “There ain’t a many ladies, be they whom they may,
for whom the master does that.”

The physician returned to his study, thoughtful. He said to himself, “I
wonder how they are to manage this? Challoner has said enough to me to
show how necessary he felt a speedy return to business to be! I suppose
she is going to work some sort of little human miracle. How she lighted
up! I wish I could find such a miracle to be worked by some of my lady
patients, if it would waken them up thus. But I suppose each of us must
find his or her own miracles. They cost too much for any of us to be
able to get them for each other.”

Mrs. Challoner turned eastward with flying feet. Her one thought
now was, that at any cost this thing must be done. She felt herself
like a frail little ship which has but to get the wind behind it to
speedily reach its desired haven. Only she had got to steer it! If it
were wrecked, the fault would lie with her, and with her only. It is
something to have ever gone through such an hour of glorious life.
Henceforth, come what may, we know the secret of the faith which “can
remove mountains.” We know too that the great will of the universe is
with all things good and glad and hopeful, though we may fail to set
our little vessels where they can catch its current, or though they may
come to disaster on other vessels already foundered.

Still, she had another visit to make ere she went back to the little
house with the verandah.

This time she paused at a great house in one of the more important
Bloomsbury squares. On its portal it bore the sign of “St. George’s
Institute of Arts and Languages.”

She was admitted with smiles, for of old she had been familiar there.
She stayed inside fully half an hour. When she came out her face was
not less glad, but it was grave and set, as that of a sailor whose hand
is already on the wheel.

She had one more interruption of her homeward journey. She was not far
from Pelham Street, when she was suddenly greeted by a short, plump
lady richly dressed.

“Why, Lucy, you are so absorbed that I believe you would have passed
me, your very own sister!” cried the stranger.

They shook hands heartily.

“Have you been calling at our place?” asked Mrs. Challoner. “Didn’t
Pollie invite you to await my return? She knew I would not be much
later than this.”

“Oh, yes, she asked me to wait. ‘Her mistress would not like to miss
Mrs. Brand,’” said the lady, evidently mimicking Pollie’s tone. “She
was civil enough. I did sit down for a few minutes; but, as it was
plain there was some cast-iron rule against my getting upstairs to see
Charlie——”

Mrs. Challoner interrupted. “I had told her no visitors were to be
admitted during my absence,” she said, “and she knows that when I am
at home I allow nobody to go upstairs, not even Charlie’s great chum,
Wilfrid Somerset, without my going too. Charlie is so lively and
energetic that unless I am there to intervene and put on the brake, he
would take to delivering orations, and then in a moment all that he has
regained might be lost.”

“Well, I thought you might have made an exception of me,” remarked Mrs.
Brand. “You might have credited me with some sense, seeing that I am
your own sister—your only relative in London; it seemed hard to find
myself shut out by a servant.”

“I could not know you would call, Florence,” said Mrs. Challoner very
gently. She might have added, “since you have not called for more
than a week,” but she refrained, partly because she did not wish to
reproach, and partly because she was by no means sure that under any
circumstances would she have made an exception of Florence Brand.

“It does not matter,” Mrs. Brand answered. “I don’t suppose either of
us lost much. But if Charlie is so weak and so unfit to take care of
himself, it’s a bad outlook for you, poor dear, and you are worn to a
thread paper already.”

“Won’t you turn back with me, and have a cup of tea with us?” invited
the younger lady.

“No, thanks,” said Mrs. Brand. “Mr. Brand does not like me to be out
alone after dark, and already it will be dark before I get home. No,
never mind; I’ve heard how Charlie is and I’ve seen you and the boy,
and, by the way, Lucy, through having been left so much with Pollie, I
do believe little Hugh is catching her horrid Essex accent.”

“Well, then he must let it go again!” retorted Mrs. Challoner with some
spirit.

More than once she had silenced a reflection that her sister, with
her well appointed nursery and her lady “mother’s help,” with no duty
beyond attendance on the two little Brands, both older than Hugh, might
have invited a visit from her nephew while his father lay at death’s
door, and his mother and her solitary servant wrestled with sick
nursing and housewifery. She had said to herself that Florence had not
reflected on the struggle it was, and would have been quite ready to
give help if she had been asked for it. But that could not be, though
Lucy had conquered her insurgent independence sufficiently to give one
or two broad hints, which had fallen dead. Yet it did seem hard that
Florence, so slow to consider, should be so quick to criticise!

“Well, as things are going on so nicely, I suppose we shall see you at
our place soon,” said Mrs. Brand. “I should think you ought to take
Charlie for some drives before the weather gets cold. It would be a
good thing for him to have a real change. It might have saved much, if
only he had taken one in time. Jem and I are thinking of running down
to Brighton next Saturday. Jem can stay till Tuesday morning, and maybe
I’ll persuade him to leave me there for a day or two longer. It’s such
a rest to get away from one’s housekeeping and one’s children and one’s
callers! I can assure you I’m a very busy woman, Lucy,” she laughed,
“though I see by your face that you don’t believe it. I might well
envy you your nice homely little house, with only Pollie to control.
Why, our table decorations alone are a perpetual worry, and the cook’s
temper is awful. Ta-ta! Don’t bring Charlie to see us till I am sure to
be back at home.”

They parted and Lucy Challoner went on. The little interview had not
done her good. She began to feel that she was very tired—tired in body
now, and tired in soul, with the sense of a steep duty stretching
before her.

But when she turned the corner of Pelham Street, and saw the cheery
light streaming from the windows both within and above the verandah,
her feet felt lighter. Ten minutes later, presiding over the little
tea-table drawn up beside her husband’s couch, Lucy Challoner was
again her dauntless self, prepared to extract its uttermost from every
pleasant possibility.

She brought out her purse with a dramatic air of mystery.

“Do you see this little article, Charlie,” she said. “Look at it!”

“Why, it’s the old purse I gave you during our honeymoon,” he answered
in his invalid’s whisper. “Poor little girl, if I had been able to put
more in it, it would have been worn out by this time!”

“Oh, never mind that nonsense,” said she. “This purse held five
shillings when I went out this afternoon. What do you think it holds
now?”

“Not more than four-and-sixpence I hope,” he replied, “for you have
been out so long, that I trust you have treated yourself at least to a
sixpenny bus fare.”

“Sir, do not trifle,” she said demurely. “Guess again. I brought home
more, not less. You give it up? Well, this purse now contains three
pounds eight shillings. I did not spend a penny, and Messrs. Mapp have
sold my little sketch of the old Surrey mill and have handed me three
guineas for it.”

“And a very good bargain somebody got,” remarked Charlie, who was
straightway called “an ungrateful man.” “I should like to keep all your
pictures to myself,” he said.

“That is selfish,” she answered, with quaint affectation of dogmatism.
“Don’t you know that the true purpose of a work of art is to be seen
and not merely possessed?”

Charlie laughed. “I would not grudge it to a gallery,” he said. “But if
some fellow has got to possess it, I’d rather I was that fellow.”

“But that wasn’t in our bond,” persisted his wife. “Don’t you remember
that when I gave up teaching to marry you, sir, I bargained that I
might sell any sketch I did, provided that I never sketched when I
ought to be doing my duty to you?”

“Nevertheless you forgot to put in a clause that I was not to buy
them,” laughed Charlie. “I suppose my money is as good as any other
body’s—always provided I have any,” he added, with a little sigh.

“You are so mercenary!” cried Lucy. “Do you think I cared only for
the money—though I did want to be able to give you real presents,
sometimes. No, sir! Let me tell you I care also for my art. I wanted it
to gain criticism—I desired it to pass tests.”

“A gentle hint that my art opinions are not worth much!” said Charlie
archly.

“A gentle hint that you have such foolish opinions about a certain
woman, that, provided five pound notes were in plenty, you would give
her one for an outlined cube set on four sticks, and inscribed with the
legend ‘This is a pig!’” said Lucy.

“But now, Charlie,” she went on, with a sudden change of tone from
the assumed merriment in which they had both innocently disguised
the anxieties lying in both breasts, “I have got a piece of news for
you—very important, good news. You are to go for a long sea voyage. It
is all arranged. Dr. Ivery says so.”

There was a moment’s pause.

“But it is impossible, Lucy,” said the young husband gravely. “And that
being so, it is well for us to remember that, could I get it, it might
do me no real good.”

“But you can get it,” Lucy cried, almost passionately. “Of what good
are our savings, small as they are, if they are not to help you to—to
recover health,” she said with a gasp.

“Lucy, my dear,” said Charles Challoner, putting his arm about her and
drawing her close to him, “could it do me good to go away, knowing
that every day of the holiday brought want nearer to you and the
boy and myself? Would not all the good I might gain be undone if I
had to return home and begin life again under the hardest and worst
conditions, struggling for each day’s bread, dreading lest another
attack might leave you not only a widow, Lucy, but penniless, perhaps
in debt?”

“Ah, I own all that, Charlie,” she admitted, gently withdrawing herself
from his clasp that she might gaze straight into his eyes, “but I have
thought it all out, and planned everything, so that this shall not be.
You must arrange for a year’s leave of absence from your office; I
think the firm will give you that—you leaving your salary to be paid to
whoso shall temporarily undertake your work.”

“And am I to lose the little business I am gathering up for myself—my
three or four private clients?” he asked piteously, as if he felt
himself already yielding to the sweet dominance of her will.

“Transfer them to your _locum tenens_, too,” she said, “or even lose
them; something may have to be sacrificed. Then from our little hoard
take what will suffice for a thoroughly long sea-voyage—there must be
no doing it in a half-and-half way. And leave the rest in the bank.”

“The rest in the bank!” echoed poor Charlie. “There won’t be much to
leave after paying for a long journey for you and me and the boy. And
it will cost something to keep the house going while we are away, or we
should lose dreadfully if we tried to sell leasehold and furniture at a
pinch.”

“Dearest old boy!” said his wife, laying her cheek upon his. “Why will
he interrupt? and why will he give himself needless worries? I am to
stay at home with the boy and to keep the house going. Did he think I
was to be dragged all over the world—I and our poor little pet?” (She
could speak so, never flinching, while shocks of pain shook her heart
at the thought that no such journey was possible, but only this awful
loneliness of which she would not dare to begin to think, until Charlie
should be fairly gone, and it was too late to call him back!) “And
I’ll whisper it to you, Charlie, that just as I added three guineas to
my five shillings this afternoon, so I trust when you come back you
will find something—not much maybe, and yet something—added to the
nest egg you will leave in the bank. For, Charlie, at the St. George’s
Institute, they are prepared to forgive me for deserting them for you,
and they will take me on again as a teacher, and Mr. Mapp says he
thinks my sketches will sell very well, and he advises me to try for a
little book-illustrating.”

“And what will become of Hugh, while you are at the Institute?” asked
Charlie.

“I have thought it all out,” she answered. “He shall go to that
nice kindergarten near the church. Its hours are the same as at the
Institute. I shall take him when I go, and call for him on my return.”

“I did not marry you for all this, Lucy,” observed Charlie, looking
earnestly at her.

She knew what he meant. But she lightly turned aside the pathos of his
words.

“I don’t believe you thought I had it in me,” she said. “There isn’t
very much in me, perhaps—just enough to hold out for a little while
till my husband comes back, robust and strong.”

“You must have been thinking over this for some time, Lucy?” he
remarked.

“For a few days,” she answered. “And to know myself laying little plans
and setting little traps, with you so innocent of them, has made me
feel quite guilty of keeping a secret.”

“Poor little girl!” said Charlie, “and I too had my secret. At least
your secret has turned something into a secret, by investing a trifle,
which I did not mention to you, with a significance it did not have
before. If you had not told your secret, you would never have heard
mine!”

They paused in their talk, for Pollie came into the room to remove the
tea-things.

“Did you tell her anything of your plans?” asked Charlie, motioning his
head towards the door as the maid closed it behind her.

“Certainly not,” Lucy answered. “Is it likely I would tell her of my
schemes before you heard them? What makes you ask such a question?”

“Because she looks so solemn and constrained,” he answered, “as people
do when they know something important is in the air.”

(_To be continued._)



VARIETIES.


MORE INFORMATION WANTED.

_Possible Boarder:_ “Now, I have enjoyed my dinner very much, and if it
was a fair sample of your meals I should like to come to terms.”

_Landlady:_ “First of all may I ask if it was a fair sample of your
appetite?”


PAINTING FOR POSTERITY.—“What a folly,” said Sir Edward Burne-Jones,
on one occasion, “to talk of only painting for posterity. Posterity
is only one more drop in the ocean of time. Indeed, I never pass the
chalk-artist working upon the pavement, but I think, ‘Ah, brother, my
pictures can last but a day longer than yours.’”


CLASSICAL MUSIC.

“Mamma, what is classical music?”

“Oh, don’t you know? It is the kind you have to like, whether you like
it or not.”


AN ORIENTAL PROVERB.

    “Good striving
    Brings thriving.
    Better a dog that works
    Than a lion that shirks.”


A SOURCE OF WEAKNESS.—A frequent source of weakness lies in the notion
that what we do at the moment does not matter much, because we shall be
able to alter and mend and patch it as we like by-and-by.


MELANCHOLY WORDS.

The words “no more,” it was once remarked by Madame de Staël, both in
sound and sense are more expressive of melancholy meaning than any
others in the English language.

If not before these, at least second in the scale may be placed the
single word “alone,” and next to this “never.”


TWO HALVES MAKE A WHOLE.

_Mother:_ “Bobbie, how many sisters has your new schoolfellow?”

_Bobbie:_ “He has one, mamma. He tried to make me believe he had two
half-sisters, but he doesn’t know that I’m studying fractions.”



A RAISED FLOWER-BED.


[Illustration: FIG. 1.]

One of the ancient trees upon my lawn having fallen into a dying
condition, I was reluctantly compelled to give an order for its removal.

I was sorry to part with an old favourite, and also I was a little
puzzled as to how the great bare place left by its wide-spreading
branches was to be filled up. At last an inspiration came, “We will
have a raised bed of flowers and shrubs!”

It was a recollection of my youth, for I could recall rustic beds, tier
upon tier, in a certain garden in which I had played when a child.

I sketched for my proposed bed a plan which was skilfully carried out,
and all through the summer it has been so ornamental, and so much
admired that I have had it photographed, and will now endeavour to
describe how it was made, so that, if desired, it can be imitated, or
at any rate the idea can be adapted, with such variation of size and
shape as may be thought desirable.

Fig. 1 gives a section view of details. Fig. 2 shows the bed finished,
and ready to receive the plants.

A tree stem about four feet six inches in length was firmly sunken
about eighteen inches in the ground; upon it was placed half of a
butter tub, obtained from the grocer. When this was nailed to the
tree-stem, the outside of the tub was covered with pieces of bark and
small rustic branches, which concealed its plebeian origin.

A young larch tree was cut into lengths of three feet six inches, and
these were pointed at one end and driven firmly about eighteen inches
into the soil.

The bark being left on these logs gives them a rustic effect, but of
course any wood can be used and some bits of bark nailed on will answer
almost as well. Inside the ring of logs good soil should be filled in
and strips of turf inserted in the joinings of the logs to prevent the
earth from falling through.

Half logs, with the bark on, should be placed round the outer edge of
the bed in order to keep the soil in its place, the earth being filled
in to form a sloping border for low growing plants and shrubs.

In the centre tub the photograph shows the rice paper plant (_Aralia
Sieboldii_), which is hardy and handsome at all seasons of the year.

The pretty Ivy-leaved Toad-flax and Creeping Jenny droop over the edges
of the rustic work, and the other plants, of which I subjoin a list,
are as varied as possible in form and colour.

Golden Privet and Juniper, the silvery leaves of the variegated
periwinkle and veronica, the silver carex, and the flowers that supply
other colours make the bed an extremely pretty feature in our garden
throughout the year, all the plants I have mentioned being perfectly
hardy.

[Illustration: FIG. 2.]

One advantage of such an arrangement in small gardens is, that it
affords the opportunity of growing a large variety of plants in a
comparatively small space of ground. Another advantage is that the
gardening work can be done without much stooping.

Although my flower-bed had to pass through the test of an exceptionally
dry summer, not a single plant died; on the contrary all grew
luxuriantly and gave me the pleasant feeling that they were vigorous
and enjoying the warm sunshine which brought out the rich tints of
their leaves and flowers.

[Illustration: THE RAISED BED.]


LIST OF PLANTS IN RAISED FLOWER-BED.

_Abelia Rupestris_, and Rice Paper Plant, _Hypericum Calycinum_,
various Ivies, Golden Privet, Variegated Periwinkle, _Fuchsia Elegans_,
Dwarf Retinospora, _Thujopsis Dolabrata_, _Cedronella Cana_, Golden
Juniper, _Cotoneaster Buxifolia_, _Bambusa Fortunii-Variegata_, Silver
Carex, _Yucca Filimentosa_, _Crucianella Stylosa_, _Linum Perenne_,
Ivy-leaved Toad-flax, Creeping Jenny.

        ELIZA BRIGHTWEN.



ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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


CHAPTER XXVI.

A few days later Peggy was driven home to the vicarage, and stood the
drive so well that she was able to walk downstairs at tea-time and sit
at the table with only a cushion at her back to mark her out as an
invalid just recovering from a serious illness. There was a special
reason why she wished to look well this afternoon, for Arthur was
expected by the six o’clock train; and the candidate who had come out
first in his examination lists must not have his reception chilled by
anxiety or disappointment.

Peggy was attired in her pink dress, and sat roasting before the
fire so as to get some colour into her cheeks. If her face were only
the size of the palm of a hand, she was determined that it should at
least be rosy; and if she looked very bright, and smiled all the time,
perhaps Arthur would not notice how thin she had become.

When half-past six struck, everyone crowded into the school-room, and
presently a cab drove up to the door, and a modest rap sounded on the
knocker.

“That’s not Arthur!” cried Mrs. Asplin confidently. “He knocks straight
on without stopping, peals the bell at the same time, and shouts
Christmas carols through the letter-box! He has sent on his luggage, I
expect, and is going to pounce in upon us later on.”

“Ah, no, that’s not Arthur!” assented Peggy; but Mr. Asplin turned his
head quickly towards the door, as if his ear had caught a familiar
note, hesitated for a moment, and then walked quickly into the hall.

“My dear boy!” the listeners heard him cry, and then another voice
spoke in reply—Arthur’s voice—saying, “How do you do, sir?” in such
flat, subdued tones as filled them with amazement.

Mrs. Asplin and Peggy turned towards each other with distended eyes. If
Arthur had suddenly slid down the chimney and crawled out on the hearth
before them, turned a somersault in at the window, or crawled from
beneath the table, it would have caused no astonishment whatever; but
that he should knock at the door, walk quietly into the hall, and wait
to hang up his hat like any other ordinary mortal—this was indeed an
unprecedented and extraordinary proceeding! The same explanation darted
into both minds. His sister’s illness! He was afraid of startling an
invalid, and was curbing his overflowing spirits in consideration for
her weakness.

Peggy rose from her chair, and stood waiting, with sparkling eyes and
burning cheeks. He should see in one glance that she was better—almost
well—that there was no need of anxiety on her behalf. And then the
tall, handsome figure appeared in the doorway, and Arthur’s voice cried—

“Peggikens! Up and dressed! This is better than I hoped. How are you,
dear little Peg?”

There was something wrong with the voice, something lacking in the
smile; but his sister was too excited to notice it. She stretched out
her arms towards him, and raised her weak, quavering, little voice in a
song of triumph.

    “See—ee the conquering he—he—he—he—hero com—ums!
    Sow—ow—ow—ow—ownd the trumpet, play—a—a—a——”

“Don’t, Peg!” cried Arthur sharply. “Don’t, dear!” He was standing by
her side by this time, and suddenly he wrapped his arms round her and
laid his curly head on hers. “I’m plucked, Peg!” he cried, and his
voice was full of tears. “Oh, Peg, I’m plucked! It’s all over; I can
never be a soldier. I’m plucked—plucked—plucked!”

“Arthur dear! Arthur darling!” cried Peggy loudly. She clasped her
arms round his neck, and glared over his shoulder, like a tigress
whose young has been threatened with danger. “You plucked! My brother
plucked! Ho! ho! ho!” She gave a shrill peal of laughter. “It’s
impossible! You were first of all, the very first. You always are
first. Who was wicked enough, and cruel enough, and false enough to say
that Arthur Saville was plucked in an examination?”

“Arthur, my boy, what is it? What does it mean? You told us you were
first. How can you possibly be plucked?”

“My—my eyes!” said Arthur faintly. He raised his head from Peggy’s
shoulder and looked round with a haggard smile. “The medical exam.
They would not pass me. I was rather blind when I was here before, but
I thought it was with reading too much. I never suspected there was
anything really wrong—never for a moment!”

“Your eyes!” The Vicar pressed his hand to his forehead, as if unable
to grasp this sudden shattering of his hopes. “But—but I don’t
understand! Your eyes never gave you any trouble when you were here.
You were not short-sighted. One knew, of course, that good sight was
necessary; but there seemed no weakness in that direction. I can’t
imagine any cause that can have brought it on.”

“I can!” said Arthur drearily. “I got a bad knock at lacrosse a year
ago. I didn’t tell you about it, for it wasn’t worth while; but my eyes
were bad for some time after that. I thought they were all right again;
but I had to read a lot of things across a room, and made a poor show
of it. Then the doctor took me to a window and pointed to an omnibus
that was passing.

“‘What’s the name on that ’bus?’ he said. ‘What is the colour of that
woman’s hat? How many horses are there?’

“I guessed. I couldn’t see. I made a shot at it, and it was a wrong
shot. He was a kind old chap. I think he was sorry for me. I—I came out
into the street, and walked about. It was very cold. I tried to write
to you, but I couldn’t do it—I couldn’t put it down in black and white.
No V.C. now, little Peg! That’s all over. You will have a civilian for
your brother, after all!”

He bent down to kiss the girl’s cheeks as he spoke, and she threw her
arms round his neck and kissed him passionately upon his closed eyelids.

“Dear eyes!” she cried impetuously. “Oh, dear eyes! They are the
dearest eyes in all the world, whatever anyone says about them. It
doesn’t matter what you are—you are my Arthur, the best and cleverest
brother in all the world. Nobody is like you!”

“You have a fine career before you still, my boy! You will always
fight, I hope, and conquer enemies even more powerful than armed men!”
cried Mrs. Asplin, trembling. “There are more ways than one of being a
soldier, Arthur!”

“I know it, mater,” said the young man softly. He straightened his
back and stood in silence, his head thrown back, his eyes shining with
emotion, as fine a specimen of a young English gentleman as one could
wish to meet. “I know it,” he repeated, and Mrs. Asplin turned aside
to hide her tears. “Oh, my pretty boy!” she was saying to herself.
“Oh, my pretty boy! And I’ll never see him in his red coat, riding his
horse like a prince among them all! I’ll never see the medals on his
breast! Oh, my poor lad that has the fighting blood in his veins! It’s
like tearing the heart out of him to turn Arthur Saville into anything
but a soldier. And the poor father—what will he say at all when he
hears this terrible news?” She dared not trust herself to speak again,
the others were too much stunned and distressed to make any attempt
at consolation, and it was a relief to all when Mellicent’s calm,
matter-of-fact treble broke the silence.

“Well, for my part, I’m very glad!” she announced slowly. “I’m sorry,
of course, if he has to wear spectacles, because they are unbecoming,
but I’m thankful he is not going to be a soldier. I think it’s silly
having nothing to do but drill in barracks, and pretending to fight
when there is no one to fight with. I should hate to be a soldier in
times of peace, and it would be fifty thousand times worse in war. Oh,
my goodness, shouldn’t I be in a fright! I should run away, I know I
should; but Arthur would be in the front of every battle, and it’s
absurd to think that he would not get killed. You know what Arthur is!
Did you ever know him have a chance of hurting himself and not taking
it? He would be killed in the very first battle—that’s my belief—and
then you would be sorry that you wanted him to be a soldier! Or, if
he wasn’t killed, he would have his legs shot off. Last time I was in
London I saw a man with no legs. He was sitting on a little board with
wheels on it, and selling matches in the street. Well, I must say I’d
rather have my brother a civilian, as you call it, than have no legs,
or be cut in pieces by a lot of nasty, naked old savages!”

A general smile went round the company. There was no resisting it.
Even Arthur’s face brightened, and he turned his head and looked at
Mellicent with his old twinkling smile.

“Bravo, Chubby!” he cried. “Bravo, Chubby! Commend me to Mellicent for
good, sound common-sense. The prospect of squatting on a board, selling
matches, is not exhilarating, I must confess. I’m glad there is one
person at least who thinks my prospects are improved.” He gave a little
sigh, which was stifled with praiseworthy quickness. “Well, the worst
is over now that I have told you and written the letter to India. Those
were the two things that I dreaded most. Now I shall just have to face
life afresh, and see what can be made of it. I must have a talk with
you, sir, later on, and get your advice. Cheer up, Peggikins! Cheer up,
mater! It’s no use grieving over spilt milk, and Christmas is coming.
It would never do to be in the dolefuls over Christmas! I’ve got a
boxful of presents upstairs—amused myself with buying them yesterday to
pass the time. You come up with me to-night, Peg, and I’ll give you a
peep. You look better than I expected, dear, but fearsome scraggy! We
shall have to pad her out a bit, sha’n’t we, mater? She must have an
extra helping of plum pudding this year.”

He rattled on in his own bright style, or in as near an imitation of
it as he could manage, and the others tried their best to follow his
example, and make the evening as cheery as possible. Once or twice the
joy of being all together again in health and strength conquered the
underlying sorrow, and the laughter rang out as gayly as ever, but
the next moment Arthur would draw in his breath with another of those
short, stabbing sighs, and Peggy would shiver, and lie back trembling
among her pillows. She had no heart to look at Christmas presents that
night, but Arthur carried her upstairs in his strong arms, laid her on
her bed, and sat beside her for ten minutes’ precious private talk.

“It’s a facer, Peg,” he said. “I can’t deny it’s a facer. When I walked
out of that doctor’s room I felt as weak as a child. The shock knocked
the strength out of me. I had never thought of anything else but being
a soldier, you see, and it’s a strange experience to have to face life
afresh, with everything that you had expected taken out of it, and
nothing ahead but blankness and disappointment. I’ve been so strong
too—as strong as a horse. If it hadn’t been for that blow—well, it’s
over and it’s a comfort to me to feel that it was not my own fault. If
I’d been lazy or careless and had failed in the exam, it would have
driven me crazy; but this was altogether beyond my control. It is
frightfully rough luck, but I don’t mean to howl—I must make the best
of what’s left!”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you will. You have begun well, for I think you have
been wonderfully brave and courageous about it, Arthur dear!”

“Well, of course!” said Arthur softly. “I always meant to be that, Peg;
and, as the mater says, it is only another kind of battle. The other
would have been easier, but I mean to fight still! I am not going to
give up all my dreams. You shall be proud of me yet, though not in the
way you expected.”

“I never was so proud of you in my life!” Peggy cried. “Never in all my
life.”

Long after Arthur had kissed her and gone to his own room she lay
awake, thinking of his words and of the expression on his handsome face
as the firelight played on moistened eye and trembling lip. “I mean
to fight,” “You shall be proud of me yet.” The words rang in her ears
and would not be silenced. When she fell asleep Arthur was still by
her side; the marks of tears were on his face. He was telling her once
more the story of disappointment and failure; but she could not listen
to him, for her eyes were fixed on something that was pinned on the
breast of his coat—a little iron cross with two words printed across
its surface.

In her dream Peggy bent forward and read those two words with a great
rush of joy and exultation.

“For Valour!” “For Valour!” Yes, yes, it was quite true! Never was
soldier flushed with victory more deserving of that decoration than
Arthur Saville in his hour of disappointment and failure.

(_To be concluded._)



HOUSEHOLD HINTS.


FOR those who cannot drink tea without an attack of indigestion to
follow, there is good news. Little tablets are now sold in boxes, one
of which added to each teaspoonful of tea in the pot, corrects the
tannin, and improves the tea. Hundreds of people are now enabled to
drink tea who had been obliged to leave it off, and these tablets are a
most valuable discovery. Boxes of these _Tanocea_ tablets are sent by
the manufacturers, _The Tanocea Tablet Company, Bletchley Station_, or
can be got from all Chemists and Grocers, price one shilling per box.


TO keep butter cool in summer is always somewhat of a difficulty,
but a butter-cooler is easily improvised by turning a basin or clean
flower-pot over the butter on a plate. Place that on a larger dish
or basin in which there is water, cover over the top basin with a
piece of flannel, the ends of which should rest in the water, and the
evaporation of the moisture will keep the butter cool. The water must
not be allowed to touch the butter itself.


BE careful when you buy jam, bottled fruits, pickles, or anything in
glass vessels, to see that there is no broken glass fallen inside.
Should the edge be chipped in any way, examine the contents on the
top of the jar or bottle carefully, as broken glass has been found in
such, and it would be probably fatal if swallowed. This caution is also
necessary for wine and beer bottles.


CHILDREN should all be taught to eat salad olive oil. It obviates the
necessity of administering other oils as medicine, and they get to
like it very much. But care should be taken that it is got from a good
maker, and that it really is olive oil. With salad or even with cold
potato and a few drops of vinegar, this is most wholesome.


GAS-PIPES that are not in use are elements of danger, and great care
should be taken not to knock them in any way, or hang things upon them
so as to cause a leakage. This is very easily done and is not always
readily perceived, so that there may be serious mischief before it is
discovered.



THANK GOD FOR MAY.

BY HELEN MARION BURNSIDE.


    The linnet in the hawthorn bush
      Her last wee egg has not yet hatched,
                    Though it is May:
    But see, the nesting mother thrush,
      By loving mate so proudly watched,
                    Comes forth to-day!

    A veil of fresh translucent green,
      A-gleam with opal sparks of dew,
                    Is the array
    Most meet for dainty Spring, I ween,
      When all her pretty nymphs anew
                    Troop forth in May.

    Immortal Spring! for ever fair,
      Her dews and new-born buds among—
                    Her gardens gay—
    Her callow birds in leafy lair,
      And all the beauty, fresh and young,
                    She brings in May!

    “Thank God for Spring—thank God for all
      The stirring of new hope it brings,”
                    Each year I say—
    When orchards bloom, and cuckoos call,
      And all the land with rapture rings—
                    “Thank God for May.”



A HAPPY HEALTHY GIRLHOOD.

(_Dedicated to “The Mater.”_)

BY “MEDICUS” (DR. GORDON-STABLES, R.N.).

    “From work she wins her spirits light,
    From busy day, the peaceful night;
    Rich, from the very want of wealth,
    In heaven’s best treasures—peace and health.”—_Gray._

    “Wretched, unidea’d girls.”—_Johnson._


The last quoted line is, as you see, from Johnson—Sam Johnson the
lexicographer, Sam the learned, and, if I chose to be ill-natured,
I might add Sam the sot. A man of infinite jest and “a stolid kind
of humour, but cuttingly sarcastic”; a man whom Scotland delighted
to honour, and did honour, and treated with the greatest of kindness
and hospitality, which he rewarded by trying to hold Scotland and the
Scots up to ridicule ever after. A man whose memory therefore I cannot
revere. But, giving him his due, when he says “Wretched, unidea’d
girls,” he does not mean to insult young womanhood. I think rather
that, although his English was like himself, too heavy and elephantine,
he meant to convey the impression that a girl who has no ideas, no
mind, cannot be truly happy. And here I agree with Scotland’s foe. I
pity a poor lassie who has no mind of her own, or who is possessed
of a soul that is not firmly anchored in herself, and ballasted with
ideas and convictions which are independent of those of anyone else. A
flighty soul like this carries with it a nervous, silly, unhappy brain,
and a body that is too often feeble and far from healthy.

I have met young ladies who confused Sam Johnson with the rare Ben
Jonson. Now Sam was too obese and fond of the pleasures of the table to
understand and appreciate girlhood and innocent beauty. Ben was a man
spiritual, not grossly corporeal. It was Ben who wrote the lovely lines
to Celia—

    “Drink to me only with thine eyes
      And I will pledge with mine.
    Or leave a kiss but in the cup
      And I’ll not look for wine.”

The idea, however, was not original, but borrowed from the Greek. But
listen, solid Sam never could have penned such lines as Ben wrote in
his “Good Life, Long Life”—

    “Give me a look, give me a face
    That makes simplicity a grace;
    Robes loosely flowing, hair as free;
    Such sweet neglect more taketh me
    Than all the adulteries of art—
    That strike my eyes, but not my heart.”

Well, I believe I could preach a long, useful and pleasant health
sermon from the very lines I have quoted. This is not quite my
intention, however. But nevertheless I like to see a volume of poetry
in a girl’s hand, and some of our older poets really teach us many a
lesson, and these alas! are far too much neglected. Fashions, even in
poetry, change as well as in music. Give me simplicity in both, and
keep your Browning and your Wagner too. Many a lady in society pretends
to love both, who knows nothing about either.

But, taking Gray as an example of a true and simple poet, whose lines
you can read without racking your brain in wondering what the poet
means, is there not, think you, a deal of truth in the verse that heads
this paper?

From work many a girl wins light spirits. Work I mean, not the slavery
which, alas! is far too often the lot of poor shop lassies and
seamstresses, for whom my heart does bleed. Work _versus_ sauntering
idleness. This idleness means an open empty mind; and parents may rest
assured that, as Nature abhors a vacuum, girls are not very old before
they get such minds filled with thoughts and silly aspirations that
tend neither to the development of a healthy body nor a wholesome mind.
Young girls who have nothing to do build themselves castles in the air
and people them with inmates that they themselves are heartily ashamed
of.

Indeed, I do not know anything more likely to generate future
unhappiness and crabbed ill-health than graduation in the school of
idleness.

An idle body preys upon itself and eke an idle mind.

I may be told that it is fashionable to be idle. True, in certain ranks
of life, but here is my answer to that. Nature not only hates a vacuum,
but she is fond of evenness of surface both as regards the material
world and as regards the immaterial. Nature even levels the mountains,
or is gradually doing so, and fashion is a tool of hers. Fashion levels
down, education and honest work level up; and, in time, Nature will
thus see to it that both shall meet.

It was, I think, Bulwer Lytton—one of the heroes of my boyhood—who
proposed an “Aristocracy of Letters.” The notion has not yet borne
fruit, and the aristocracy we have is certainly not very dignified, it
being constantly added to and adulterated by parvenus of the lowest
type, namely, men who have made millions dishonestly, such as quacks
and patent nostrum men. So, in the course of a few decades, we shall
have little reason to be proud of our “upper ten.” But a true and
pure aristocracy may yet arise in this country from the ashes of the
fading and effete present. Nothing but wisdom, knowledge and health can
support this.

Well, every mater who wishes her girls to grow up happy and healthy, as
they ought to be, has much to do and much to think about.

It cannot be too strongly impressed upon a mother’s mind that the
first portion of a child’s education is begun in the nursery. Children
are imitative to a degree, as much so as the monkeys from which, some
say, we are evoluted. One cannot be too careful then with the ethical
management of the nursery.

Servants allowed to enter there, or maids who take a child out in its
little carriage, should be morally and physically pure. Even baby may
learn from a nurse things that will never be forgotten. When she gets a
little older she may be corrected, and told that to say this or do that
is rude or naughty, and she will refrain for fear of punishment—that is
all. The seed is sown, and nothing can eradicate the mischief.

I look upon it as a crime for mothers to give up their children wholly
to nursery training. The mother should be with her darlings pretty
nearly all the time; and if she loves them, she will be. And a mother
has far greater influence over them than the very best of nurses.

When babyhood merges into girlhood, one of the first things to be
checked is the all-too-easily-learned habit of criticising—generally
spitefully—other children she has seen out of doors. This is the
first sign of that spirit of tittle-tattleism which blossoms into
verbosity, scandal, and all uncharitableness in many full-blown old
maids.

[Illustration: SPRING TROPHIES.]

If charity and love for all who suffer life cannot be taught by the
mother or by a good nurse, then never in this world can a child or
girl be truly happy or truly healthy. For a sour and uncharitable soul
always goes hand in hand with a nervous or puny body.

Keep your girls busy. Be busy yourself, mother. There is a dignity and
grace about household duties that put to the blush all drawing-room
airs and frivolities.

But I note that a real genuine young lady is invariably natural and
never ashamed to do work that, a “wretched, unidea’d girl” would deem
_infra dignitatem_. I think that this is lovely.

“’Pon honour,” as old military men used to say, I’ve had earls’ or
baronets’ daughters in my caravan while gipsying, who have begged of
me to permit them to do something for me, and they have hemmed my
wind-ravelled curtains, stitched my blinds, filled my pin-cushions—ay,
and some would have darned my socks for me, had I permitted them!
Now, these were ladies, mind, in the truest sense of the word, good
God-fearing girls with hearts full of sympathy and in perfect unison
with all the world around them.

Again, as to what some call “menial work,” or household, the girl
who learns to cook and serve a dinner, or knows how a meal should be
served, or who is not ashamed even to bare her bonnie white arms and
help to wash up the delf, the girl who knows even a little medicine
and surgery, the girl to whom the gardener will come with a cut and
bleeding finger to be tenderly washed and dressed, the girl who can get
up betimes in the morning—she is the girl who will make the best wife,
and the only wife really worth having.

And she will be healthy in body too, because pure in thoughts and kind
in nature.


THE GIRL OF COMMERCE.

You find her everywhere almost nowadays. She is not a natural
production. She is got up. She is forced and artificial. She cannot be
healthy, and has no more heart than a hen, no more stamina or staying
power than a stalk of hemp. She is a resultant of the inflexible law
of supply and demand. Made for the matrimonial market, grown to be
sold, and if—like a choice standard rose—she is labelled with a title,
she will go all the sooner. Money will purchase a wife like this, and,
though marriage may change her and love may come after, the man who
has her has speculated on the off-chance. And now that wax dolls can
be manufactured that can both talk and walk, it seems to me that the
man might have done better with his money. But, thank goodness, the
majority of men prefer the genuine, well-reared, healthy girl, and the
girl that has a heart.

But love is still a great factor—nay, the very greatest—in this life,
and, if that love be real, oh, there is nothing it cannot do!

I must, as a medical man, go a little farther, and tell the mater
something that no scientist will venture to deny. It is this: a
loveless or commercial marriage is not only followed by a senseless
and dreary monotonous life, but children born in such wedlock are
never truly healthy in body, and very often they are defective in
mental qualifications, that is, in brain power. Many a case of epilepsy
is congenital, and a child that is nerveless is liable to future
degeneracy, and apt to fall into any kind of temptation. Doctors have
proofs of this every day.

But though ambitious parents may try to alter Nature’s law, she herself
is inexorable and tells us sternly that the fittest shall survive.

       *       *       *       *       *

But, harking back to our poet’s lines—

    “From work she wins her spirits light,
    From busy day, the peaceful night,”

I must give my medical testimony to the truth herein conveyed. Work
does give exhilaration of spirits and enables a girl truly to enjoy
recreation and outdoor exercise, and, moreover, the busy day results in
calm refreshing sleep at night.

Without sleep, without perfect exercise, ventilation of rooms and fresh
air everywhere, no girl can grow up happy and healthful.

Coddling children and keeping them too warm causes them to become
fragile and delicate, with no nerves worth mentioning, except when they
give rise to the tortures of toothache and neuralgia, and no lungs good
enough to last.

There is, mother, but a sad future for that girl who is ashamed to soil
her fingers by doing honest work, or ashamed to wear a thimble and
wield woman’s real weapon—the needle.

But it is not natural for girls to hate work. Do they not make the best
of nurses, for instance, and the most gentle-handed? It is Scott who
says—

    “Oh, woman, in our hours of ease,
    Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
    And variable as the shade
    By the light and quivering aspen made,
    When pain and anguish wring the brow,
    A ministering angel thou!”

And after many more years than I care to recall—for fear of making me
feel old—of camp life and sea life, I can testify that girls make the
best of all gipsy folks. Amateur, of course, I mean. But even in the
management of a picnic their abilities shine forth; and in camp or on
board ship, if one only gives them credit for common sense, they can do
wonders.

The young lady who would not demean herself—there is really no
demeanment about it—by doing cookery or kitchen work in her own house
often comes out strong in wayside camp or caravan. She gets up to
things as if guided by instinct, can light fires, cook plain nutritious
meals, lay them out prettily, and clear up afterwards with most amiable
and sweet-tempered dexterity, and, when all is over, will take guitar
or mandoline and accompany your violin as if to the gipsy-manner born.

However, I have no doubt that a good deal of a girl’s willingness
to work in this way, depends upon the novelty and romance of her
surroundings, and very much also on the fact that she is breathing the
purest air that can blow through dell or den, or balmy forest of pine,
or from the mountains themselves that God built long before he made the
poor puny microbe man.


THE VALUE OF HEALTH.

The value of health to any of us, whether old or young, cannot well
be over-estimated. It is not, mind you, mater, that a deviation from
its paths may lead to death. Indeed, many times and oft it would be
far better if it did so directly. Instead of that, however, it may
be, in girlhood, but the prelude to a long life of untold misery and
wretchedness. Indeed, an ailing girl can never be anything save an
object of pity. It is spring-time with her, but alas! it is a sad one—a
spring that brings not with it the promise of a gladsome happy summer.
The sun may shine, but it shines not for her. She is unable thoroughly
to enjoy anything. There are times when her very soul seems darkened,
and when even spiritual comfort brings no season of relief or even
forgetfulness. And at such moments is it any wonder that she finds
herself envying her more happy sisters, and thinking that the world
is not only dark but cruel? Her companions have health and happiness;
they may go anywhere and enjoy anything, and perhaps they forget her
entirely until their return.

What comfort shall I pen in these papers for girls such as these? I
think I can give a little hope, and, with our Editor’s kind permission,
I shall continue this subject in my next paper, and have something to
say about ailments and departures from the normal standard of health,
and hints for regaining Heaven’s greatest blessing, that may prove
invaluable to many.



“THAT LUNCHEON!”

A YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER’S DILEMMA.


“Nellie dear,” said Mr. Vernon, the principal solicitor in Riversmouth,
to his nineteen year old daughter and housekeeper, “I have just run
across to tell you that young Squire Laurence is riding over to
consult me this morning, and I should like to bring him in to lunch at
half-past one. Can you manage it?”

For a moment dismay ran riot in pretty Nellie’s heart. Nearly ten
o’clock already, nothing to speak of in the house, and a smart luncheon
to provide, as well as the schoolboys’ early dinner! However, she must
do her best, and answered cheerfully to that effect.

“It need not be grand, you know,” added her father encouragingly, “so
long as everything is nice and tasteful, as you so well understand how
to make it.”

Nellie had been on her way to practise, but she now returned to the
kitchen, and, resuming her big apron, surveyed the larder for the
second time that morning. Ten minutes earlier, yesterday’s underdone
leg of mutton re-roasted, with some vegetables, and the remains of
yesterday’s pudding, with the addition of a homely roly-poly, had been
deemed sufficient for the one o’clock meal, and as Mr. Vernon was
dining out that evening, the butcher had been dismissed without orders.
Economy was a stern necessity to Nellie, whose housekeeping allowance
was not unlimited.

Accustomed to making “something out of nothing,” the cold remnants did
not look as hopeless to her as they might to some young housekeepers.
A cold whiting, the badly-roasted mutton, and a bowl containing about
half a pint of tomato sauce, represented absolute riches to Nellie’s
mind at that moment, and she quickly collected her materials and set to
work in the kitchen.

The menu she drew up was as follows:—

                  Fish Scallops.
    Cold Salt Beef. Cannelon and Tomato Sauce.
                Potato Chips. Salad.
            Hot Apple Tart. Lemon Creams.
                     Custards.
                 Cheese. Biscuits.

The maid was despatched with orders for the milkman and greengrocer,
and a basket in which to bring back a pound of cold salt beef in slices
from the pastrycook’s, half-a-dozen scallop-shells, and two lemons.

In the meantime Nellie began the creams, which she knew must have
plenty of time to cool, and for this reason decided to make them in
cups. There was only a quart of milk in the house; a pint of it she put
into a bowl with half an ounce of gelatine, and left it to soak for
half an hour, whilst she made the rest into a custard, and stood the
jug containing it in cold water to facilitate its cooling.

She next prepared a small bowl of breadcrumbs, and finely flaked the
whiting, removing the bones. Then Mary having returned with the things,
Nellie peeled a small quarter of one of the lemons very thin, and put
milk, gelatine, lemon-peel and five ounces of white sugar into a lined
saucepan on the fire.

During the time it took to bring it to the boil, she buttered the
scallop-shells and proceeded thus:—A layer of breadcrumbs, a layer of
fish, salt and pepper to taste, a layer of breadcrumbs, sprinkled with
small lumps of butter, and so on, taking care to heap the materials
well up in the centre of the shell, and to scatter the last layer of
breadcrumbs liberally with butter; the scallops were then placed on
a baking-sheet ready for cooking, twenty minutes being sufficient to
brown them nicely.

After boiling for five minutes, the contents of the saucepan were
strained into a jug with a lip, and when sufficiently cool to prevent
curdling, the well-beaten yolks of two eggs were stirred in. The
directions, Nellie knew, were to pour constantly from one jug to
another till nearly cold, but she had to content herself with doing
this occasionally, whilst making the pastry for the tart.

A ring at the bell announced the arrival of the greengrocer with the
apples and lettuces. As Mary was busy in the upper regions, Nellie
answered the door herself, returning quickly to prepare the apples,
which she quartered and cored before peeling them, to keep the pieces
whole.

By this time the lemon-cream was cool enough for her to add carefully
the strained juice of the lemons, stirring briskly the while, after
which it was poured into the cups, and these were surrounded with cold
water to set the cream quickly.

“Now for the mutton,” said Nellie to herself, proceeding to cut up the
joint. “No wonder the boys said it was like ‘old boots,’ and I fear
its toughness isn’t entirely due to under-cooking! Well, ‘cannelon’
is a splendid way of using tough meat,” she thought, first reserving
several thick slices to be converted into mock cutlets next day, and
then grinding the rest in the mincing-machine. The minced meat was
well seasoned with salt, pepper, parsley, thyme, and a dessertspoonful
of Harvey’s sauce, adding a _soupçon_ of finely-chopped onion, half a
cupful of breadcrumbs and a well-beaten egg. She made the mixture into
balls rather larger than a walnut, and placed them, wrapped in oiled
paper, on a tin, to be baked in a moderate oven for half an hour. The
tomato sauce was put in a lined saucepan ready to be heated, and the
potatoes which Mary had peeled for that “early dinner” she cut into
slices to be fried crisp and brown.

Mary was a tolerable plain cook; therefore, after directing her, Nellie
was free to arrange fresh flowers in the dining-room, and to make the
necessary additions to her toilet, before laying the luncheon, which
she did herself, in order to send the handmaiden up to dress at a
quarter to one.

The salad was soon made and prettily decorated, the beef arranged
tastefully on a dish and garnished with parsley, and then Nellie
whisked the whites of two eggs with a little sugar to a stiff froth,
piling it in snowy billows amongst the golden creams, previously turned
out into a glass dish. To this the custards in dainty little cups made
an excellent _vis-à-vis_, the salad occupying a central position on the
table.

Mr. Vernon, entering the dining-room with the guest, was abundantly
satisfied with the result of Nellie’s busy morning. Spotless damask,
bright electro-plate and glass, go far to making up for costly dishes
or priceless silver, and the luncheon-table, decorated by an old gold
centre-piece, with sprays of fiery Virginia creeper, and vases of
citron chrysanthemums, was a picture. He could not but observe the
quick look of admiration his daughter called forth when he presented
Mr. Laurence.

She presided at lunch with a gentle dignity, conversing with the
visitor, her father and the two boys, and betraying no anxiety about
the arrangements, which _insouciance_ Mary tried to deserve by changing
the courses as deftly as she could. Mr. Vernon, perhaps for the first
time, realised what a treasure he possessed in one who, at such short
notice, could provide a luxurious meal, and have house, servant,
herself and her little brothers, looking the pink of neatness to do
honour to any friend of his.

Possibly Mr. Laurence was clever enough to read between the lines, for
the lawyer’s modest circumstances were well known; at any rate, the
luncheon-party, which Nellie triumphantly assured her father had only
necessitated the outlay of four shillings, was the means of introducing
the Squire of Templemeade to his future wife.



LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.


PART VI.

        The Temple.

MY DEAR DOROTHY,—The leaving of perishable articles at houses where
they have not been ordered is a very common trick, and one which
often succeeds, because people imagine that they have incurred a
responsibility by taking them in—which they have not.

If tradespeople choose to leave butter, milk, bread, meat, or wine,
etc., which you have not ordered at your house, they do so at their
own risk, and if you do not use the articles, they cannot compel you
to pay for them, neither can they make you pay for them if you do use
the articles under the impression that they were a gift; this last is
only likely to arise in the case of wine or game being left without any
indication of where it came from.

Servant girls are often inveigled into purchasing rubbishy articles,
which they do not want, such as musical-boxes, silver watches, etc., by
men who go about selling these things on commission, and who, refusing
to take “No” for an answer, leave the article in question with the
servant, saying that they will take so much a month for it.

In a day or two the girl receives a letter from the makers saying that
they understand she is prepared to purchase the article in question by
payment of instalments of so much per month. The chances are that the
girl will be frightened into purchasing the thing in this manner; but
if she writes declining to buy the article they will try to bully her
into taking it by threatening legal proceedings, etc.

Girls who are treated in this manner should at once inform their
master or mistress. The latter should then write to the firm, saying
that their servant has no desire to purchase the article left at their
house, and that if the firm want their goods back, they must come and
fetch them.

Servant girls, especially Irish ones, are very fond of joining burial
societies. Such girls should be careful to have a receipt for every
payment they make, and should not allow themselves to be put off with
vain excuses by the collector. It is the duty of the collector to give
a receipt for every payment he receives, and if he fails to do so, it
can only be because he is putting the money into his own pocket and not
paying it over to the society.

What I told you in my former letter about bicycles not being luggage
has just been confirmed by a decision of the High Court, so that
railway companies are entitled to make a charge for carrying your
bicycle by train, although they would take a bag of the same weight for
nothing.

You cannot extend the time for paying a life assurance premium by
adding the three days of grace on to the month’s grace already allowed
you by the company. The three days of grace arise after the premium
becomes payable and are included in the extended time given you by the
company.

If you ever send in a withdrawal order to draw money out of the Post
Office Savings Bank, and then find that you do not wish to take out the
money because you have received some from some other source, be careful
to always draw it out when you get your order, and, if you do not want
to use it, pay it in again the following day.

It is most important that you should do this. If you do not do so, you
leave the door open to fraud, because a duplicate withdrawal notice
is sent to the post office named in your order, and some dishonest
official might make use of it; and, secondly, it saves any confusion
which might otherwise arise through your change of mind.

Of course I do not mean to say that the officials of the Post Office
are dishonest—I should be sorry to make such a statement—but there are
black sheep in every flock, and I do happen to know of a certain case
in which a girl lost all her savings through not following the advice
which I have just given you.

The case which I have in my mind was a particularly hard one, because
the withdrawal order was for the whole amount of her banking account.
And when she found that after all it was not necessary for her to close
her account, it was only natural that she should think that if she
did not use her withdrawal order, the money would still remain to her
credit in the bank—and so it would have been if the postmaster of the
country office had been an honest man; but, unfortunately for the girl,
he was not. By means of the withdrawal order he succeeded in getting
hold of her money and appropriating it to his own use.

Therefore, my dear Dorothy, despise not the warning of

    Your affectionate cousin,
        BOB BRIEFLESS.



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

BY FLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.


CHAPTER VI.

AFFORDS SOME ENTERTAINMENT.

“Here is a letter from Basil, Jennie,” said Marion, as they settled
down to work after dinner. “It came the first thing this morning, but
you went away without noticing it.”

“Thank you,” said Jennie, with great dignity, “I saw the letter quite
well, but I know better than to open an epistle from a school-boy
brother on the first of April before twelve o’clock. If he thinks he is
going to play his tricks on me, he is vastly mistaken. You see I have
waited until the witching hour of half-past seven, so the joke turns
against himself now. I wonder the masters at Oundle don’t keep him
better employed.”

Marion suggested that it was more than probable that this letter, if
its contents were as Jane suggested, had not been submitted to the
masters for their perusal. She added further that perhaps the weight of
advancing years was having a sobering effect on his unruly spirits, and
that possibly the letter was only an ordinary one after all.

“Open it, Jennie,” said Ada. “Brace yourself up for the effort, and
don’t keep us any longer in suspense.”

So Jane opened it. The others watched her face, and laughed heartily
as they saw her expression of triumphant indignation as she read her
mischievous brother’s letter.

“I knew what it would be,” she exclaimed. “It is not a letter at all!
Just a set of nonsense rules for housekeepers.”

“Read it out,” laughed Marion. But now Jane was laughing herself too
much to do so. So Marion took up the paper and began.


“‘RULES FOR THE GUIDANCE OF YOUNG HOUSEKEEPERS.

“‘Rule 1. If you wish to chop suet but have no chopper, go to the
coal-cellar and take the coal-hammer. A good housewife will always do
this.’”

“The idea!” cried Jane. “He once heard me reading out the notes I had
made on a demonstration to working women that one of the teachers at
the cookery school gave to the students. She was always telling us how
to contrive cleverly, but she certainly never said that!”

Marion continued:—

“‘Rule 2. If a dainty savoury is required at a short notice, carefully
remove the jam from some raspberry tarts of the first water, and fill
in the vacuum thus obtained with selected portions of curry-powder
mingled with lard.’”

“Is that another reminiscence of yours, Jennie?” laughed Ada.

“No, certainly not. But it reminds one of the sort of advice given in
some of the ‘answers to correspondents’ in the cookery columns of a
fashion paper. He must have bought one and got the style without the
substance. He and Jimmy Spriggins must have concocted this between
them.”

Jimmy Spriggins was Basil Orlingbury’s chosen friend, and was known as
his companion in mild practical jokes of this nature. Jennie took the
paper from Ada and read on.

“‘Rule 3. A highly cultivated Gorgonzola cheese is a source of true
ekonomy.’ (Oh, the spelling!) ‘It is not necessary to eat it at all,
as the full flavour may be obtained by holding pieces of bread on a
toasting-fork before the cheese for ten minutes.

“‘Rule 4. To make sure nobody does eat the cheese, gum a notice on it:
“You are requested not to worry the Gorgonzola!!”

“‘Rule 5. It is quite time another cake came this way. Please see
that the plums in it are well within shouting distance. The last was
rattling good.’”

“Is that the end?” asked Marion.

“I should think so, and quite enough, indeed,” said Jane. “The
impudence of those two boys to wind up by calmly asking for another
cake! Why, it is not a month since we sent them one.”

“Well, Marion did,” said Ada; “I don’t know that you and I had much to
do with it. I think the hint is to us this time.”

“Well,” returned Jane magnanimously, “I was young once myself, so I
forgive the young people. They shall have their cake and eat it,” she
added, with the air of quoting a proverb. “I will make a cake between
the classes to-morrow, and let it bake during the last class.”

Jane had from twelve o’clock until two o’clock to herself, and her last
class was from two until four.

True to her promise she made a substantial cake. We will copy the
recipe out of her note-book.


BASIL’S CAKE.

_Ingredients._—1½ lb. flour, 1 lb. dripping, ¾ lb. currants, ¾ lb.
raisins, 1 lb. sugar, 1 dessertspoonful of baking powder, 5 eggs, ½
gill of milk.

_Method._—Work the dripping to a cream; work in the sugar and cream
that; beat in the eggs one by one, putting a little flour with each
to prevent their curdling; stir in the currants, washed, dried and
floured, and the raisins, stoned and chopped; mix in the flour and
baking powder, and lastly the milk. Bake about two hours.

This cake was baked in a good hot oven, in a tin lined with greased
paper and standing on a baking-sheet spread with a thick layer of sand.

Jane left it in her class-room on a sieve all night, and brought it
home the next day when it was cold; and she and Ada packed it up and
sent it to Basil at Oundle, where it was received with much rejoicing,
and where it soon disappeared.

“It is just this, you know,” said Jane meditatively, as she curled
herself up in the armchair, one evening after dinner. “It is just this.
I expect people are making jokes about our housekeeping and wondering
how we are getting on.”

“I daresay they are, my dear,” remarked Marion with equanimity, as she
looked up from her lace-work.

“No doubt many of our acquaintances are quite confident that we live
chiefly on bread and dripping, with cold porridge as an occasional
variation,” said Ada, “but don’t let that fact worry you, Jane. Think
of the delicious soup we have just had and be thankful.”

“Oh, I would not care if they did say so, of course. But don’t you
think it would be quite delicious to give a little luncheon party and
ask——”

“A very good idea, Jennie,” broke in Marion. “Certainly we will have a
luncheon party, but it must be on a Saturday, so that you can help me
to cook.”

“We will ask Julia and Mary Holmes, then,” said Ada, “I have not seen
them for an age, and I know they would like to know how we are getting
on.”

The Holmes were two school friends of the Orlingburys, who had come to
London to study music and were living in a boarding-house in Bayswater.

“Whom will you invite, Marion?” inquired Ada.

“My cousin Madge, I think.”

“Yes, do,” said Jennie. “I want to hear all about her visit to
Brighton. Can I ask Dora Hopwood? She is in town. I saw her to-day; she
came to my class to see me.”

Dora Hopwood had been in training at the cookery school at the same
time as Jane, and the latter looked forward with a thrill of pride to
showing her prowess to “one who knew.”

“That will be as many as we can seat, then,” said Marion. “If we invite
any more, Abigail will have too much to do, and get flurried. Jennie,
will you make a Charlotte Russe by way of a sweet? It can be made the
day before.”

“Yes, I can make that in the evening when I get home, and during the
day I can make a Victoria sandwich—we shall want another sweet.”

“Let me exhibit one of my few accomplishments,” said Ada laughing, “and
fry some fish. Would sole be too dear, Marion? We shall have to be very
economical to make up for this extravagance.”

Marion said she thought they might afford sole for once, so that was
settled, and she suggested some fillet of veal by way of a meat course.

“Yes,” said Jane eagerly. “Let us have a nice little joint of fillet of
veal, with mushrooms and pretty little button tomatoes round it.”

Marion reminded her that pretty little button tomatoes did not flourish
in April, so she must forego them, and be content with the mushrooms,
half a pound of which would suffice to garnish the dish.

“If we have mushrooms round the dish, I should think fried potato
croquettes would be nice to hand with them, and some French beans,”
said Jane.

“I did not know beans were in season,” said Ada.

“Not English beans, of course. These are foreign ones, at eightpence a
pound. Half a pound are enough for a dish.”

“I should think that from four to four and a half pounds of veal would
be sufficient for the joint,” said Marion meditatively. “Now, Jennie,
here is our _menu_:”

                Fried Sole.
    Roast Fillet of Veal and Mushrooms.
         Potato Croquettes. Beans.
             Charlotte Russe.
            Victoria Sandwich.
            Custard in Glasses.

The last item was Ada’s idea, and she undertook to make it herself.

The invitations were sent at once for the following Saturday, and
were promptly accepted. On the Friday before, Jane made some Victoria
sandwich, and brought it home in the evening. She also prepared a small
round cake tin ready for the Charlotte Russe. This is her recipe for
the latter—

_Charlotte Russe._—Dissolve half a pint of red jelly and pour a layer
into the tin to the depth of half an inch. Let this set. Cut some
finger sponge cakes to the depth of the tin and arrange them round
the sides, sticking them together with jelly. Melt half an ounce of
gelatine in half a pint of milk, and when it is lukewarm stir it into
half a pint of sweetened whipped double cream, with which two ounces
of crystallised cherries have been mixed. Pour this into the prepared
mould and turn out when cold.

On the Saturday morning, Ada made her custard. The fillet of veal was
rolled and stuffed with a forcemeat made by boiling six ounces of
calf’s liver and chopping it finely and mixing it with half a pound
of breadcrumbs, two ounces of chopped suet, two tablespoonfuls of
parsley, pepper and salt, and binding all together with beaten egg. The
mushrooms that surrounded the joint had been peeled, rinsed and cooked
separately in a little butter. Marion prepared and cooked the joint and
dished it up; she also made the delicious potato croquettes, not one of
which burst in the frying, and cooked the beans.

On the eventful day Jane had nothing to dish up that was hot, so behold
her dressed in her best, welcoming the guests in the sitting-room,
which she had decked with sweet April primroses, and which looked its
brightest. The table was laid for lunch, and in the kitchen Ada was
even now frying the soles and Marion dishing the veal. In a few minutes
they took off their large aprons, gave the beaming Abigail a few last
directions, and joined the party.

Abigail’s abilities had developed greatly of late, and she was fast
becoming an intelligent waitress. On this occasion she served the
fish with great promptitude, before it had time to get cold, and she
contrived to keep the joint perfectly hot and crisp until it was time
to carry it in, and the vegetables likewise.

The guests were delighted with everything, and the Holmes said with
enthusiasm that they wished they could find a delightful third to live
with them and manage for them as Marion did for the Orlingburys. Dora
Hopwood told Jane that she was going to stay near Oundle in a few days,
and she promised to see Basil, and give him a full and particular
account of the feast, which she did; but he declared that it was all
thanks to the directions given in “Hints to Housekeepers,” without
which they would have known nothing.

We are glad to say that the lunch-party did not prove too great a
strain upon the incomes of our three friends, as will be seen from the
following lists—

_Sunday._

    Stewed Rabbits.
    Cauliflower. Baked Potatoes.
    Queen of Puddings.

_Monday._

    Fried Plaice.
    Stew (rabbits and neck of mutton).
    Boiled Potatoes.
    Rhubarb Fool.

_Tuesday._

    Tapioca Soup.
    Brown Stew of Beef.
    Apple Cheesecakes.

_Wednesday._ (_High Tea._)

    Rissoles (made of remains of yesterday’s stew.)
    Brown Scones.

_Thursday._

    Stuffed Haddocks.
    Tomatoes and Macaroni.

_Friday._

    Mutton Chops.
    Boiled Potatoes.
    Sago Pudding.

_Saturday._ (_Lunch Party._)

    Fried Sole.
    Roast Fillet of Veal with Mushrooms.
    French Beans. Potato Croquettes.
    Charlotte Russe. Victoria Sandwiches.
    Custard in Glasses.


FOOD LIST.

                                                           £   s.  d.
  Two rabbits                                              0   2   6
  One pound of neck of mutton                              0   0   6
  One and a half pounds of chuck steak                     0   1   3
  Quarter of a pound of ox kidney                          0   0   2
  Three mutton chops at 5d.                                0   1   3
  Four and a half pounds of fillet of veal at 1s. 1d.      0   4  10½
  Plaice                                                   0   0   9
  Fresh haddock                                            0   0   9
  Two soles (one and a half pounds at 1s. 2d.)             0   1   9
  Rhubarb                                                  0   0   4
  Half a pound of apples                                   0   0   1½
  Small tin of tomatoes                                    0   0   4½
  Half a pound of beans                                    0   0   4
  Half a pound of mushrooms                                0   0   6
  Potatoes                                                 0   0   6
  Finger sponge cakes                                      0   0   6
  Half a pint of cream                                     0   0   9
  One ounce of gelatine                                    0   0   3½
  Twelve eggs                                              0   1   0
  Tin of corned beef (breakfast three days)                0   0  11
  Quaker oats                                              0   0   6
  Half a pound of tea                                      0   0  10
  Flour                                                    0   0   5½
  Milk                                                     0   1   9
  Bread                                                    0   2   2
  Two pounds of fat for rendering                          0   0   4
  One and a half pounds of butter                          0   2   0
  One pound of castor sugar                                0   0   3
  One pound of loaf sugar                                  0   0   1½
  One and a half pounds of demerara                        0   0   2½
                                                         =============
                                                          £1   8   0½
                                                         =============

(_To be continued._)



“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 XXVII.

MORE ABOUT SIR JOHN MOORE.

Another backward glance is needful here to bring the story of Sir John
Moore up to the present date of my tale.

In the year 1806 about twelve thousand British troops, under the
command of Sir John Stuart, had in hand the task of saving Sicily
from the grip of Napoleon; but the tortuous policy of their Sicilian
majesties, the lack of honesty and of public spirit, and the underhand
cabals and oppositions there, hindered far more from being done than
was done.

A short time after the English victory at Maida, in which and in the
retreat following the French lost in killed and wounded over five
thousand, while the English lost only about two hundred and fifty, Sir
John Stuart was recalled, and old General Fox, brother of Mr. Charles
Fox, then Prime Minister of England, was sent out. _Why_ the brave
Stuart should have been thus set aside does not appear, except that, as
quaintly remarked by one of Moore’s brothers, “it was a strong proof of
fraternal affection” on the part of Mr. Fox.

Sir John Moore, who superseded Stuart, was appointed second in command
under General Fox. And at this date occurred his one love affair.

Some mistaken reports on this subject have gained currency. Even lately
the assertion has been freshly made that Moore, when he died, was
engaged to Lady Hester Stanhope, niece of Mr. Pitt. This was not the
case. Lady Hester was his friend; the most intimate woman-friend—though
by no means the only one—that he had outside his own home circle; but
though he both admired and loved her, it was as a friend only, not
as a lover. He seems never to have thought of marrying her. On the
conclusive authority of General Anderson, who for twenty-one years was
with him constantly in the closest possible intercourse, and from whom
Moore appears to have had no secrets, there was but one whom Moore ever
seriously wished to marry, and this was Caroline Fox, daughter of the
old General in command at Sicily.

That the niece of Mr. Pitt should have been his most intimate
woman-friend, and the niece of Mr. Fox his one and only love, reads
curiously in the light of party politics. But Sir John was no party
man. The great Minister, Pitt, had for him an unbounded esteem and
affection, on the one side. And Fox, on the other, at a time when a
movement was in progress to make Moore Commander-in-Chief in India,
sent for him, and frankly informed him that “he could not give his
consent” to this scheme. “It was impossible for him,” he said, “in the
state in which Europe then was, to send to such a distance a General in
whom he had such entire confidence.” Moore stood outside mere political
warfare, grandly and simply, as representative of his country.

Amid the fighting, the difficulties, the perplexities, of Sicilian
politics and struggles, he found time to fall profoundly in love. And
he did not marry. He did not even let the girl know that he loved her.

Why not?

Well, the matter stood thus. Caroline Fox was very young—not yet
eighteen. And Moore was already in his forty-sixth year. There was a
discrepancy of nearly thirty years between the two, and Sir John did
not think it right, at her early age, even to give her the choice.
He was not of a nature to love lightly, or to give up his wishes
easily, and it was a hard fight. Harder far this conflict than all his
battles with the soldiers of Napoleon. Yet he conquered, and to the
young girl herself he spoke not a word which might have opened her
eyes. To Anderson he explained his reasons, with a frank and touching
simplicity, the echo of which comes down to us now through ninety years
and more.

“She is so young,” he said. “Her judgment may be overpowered. The
disparity of age is not perhaps at present very apparent, and my
position here, my reputation as a soldier of service, and my intimacy
with her father, may influence her to an irretrievable error for her
own future contentment. My feelings therefore must be suppressed, that
she may not have to suppress hers hereafter with loss of happiness.”

Can anything surpass the quiet grandeur of that “must”?

This surely is an ideal character—no true flesh and blood—so somebody
may object. What! a man in the prime of middle age, eminently handsome,
accomplished and fascinating, the idol of his friends, the darling
of his country, well off as to worldly goods, with still in all
probability a magnificent career before him—that such a man, when
deeply in love, should pause to view the question simply and solely
with regard to the girl’s happiness, not to his own—that _he_ should
humbly question whether, though he might fairly hope then and there
to win her, she might not in later years regret her action and wish
herself free! This is such a hero, no doubt, as has sometimes figured
in fiction. An ideal hero—but——

But the whole is true. There is no idealising at all here. John Moore,
actually and literally, without any varnishing, less than one hundred
years ago, loved and decided thus, thought and acted and was the same
that I have tried, however ineffectively, to picture for the present
generation.

Such a story of one in the first decade of the nineteenth century may
well serve as an inspiration in unselfishness for those who live in the
last decade of the same century. The grandeur of this man was that he
thought always of others before himself—that he lived for Duty. Where
Duty pointed or seemed to point down a pathway, no matter how hard and
thorny the road, there unhesitatingly Moore walked.

Yet there is another side to the question, which must not be ignored.
Grandly as Moore acted, in obedience to his own convictions, it
may well be that he made a mistake here. His very unselfishness and
humility, both of which are an example for us, may none the less have
led him into a course of action which, while one admires it, one dares
not hold up for general imitation.

For it is, to say the least, conceivable that Caroline Fox might
herself have been by that time deeply in love with Moore—that already
the happiness of her whole life might have hung upon his speaking.
True, he had not sought her, and he did not seek her. But he was
intimate in the house; he was a man of extraordinary attractive power;
and his personal fascinations might well have taken captive her girlish
heart, without the slightest conscious effort on his part. If things
were so, or had been so, how sad it would have been that, from a sense
of duty most nobly carried out, he should have denied happiness to her
as well as to himself! In such cases it does seem—at least, from the
woman’s point of view—that the choice ought to have been given to her;
that she ought to have been allowed to say for herself either Yea or
Nay. If he thought her too young to know her own mind, he still might
have simply declared his passion, and have insisted upon leaving her
ample time for consideration.

He never did propose for that young girl.[1] Moore was not a man to
decide one way and to drift another. Had he lived, he might no doubt
have spoken in the end. But in 1806 he had less than three years of his
fair life remaining.

The Queen of Sicily, an odd fantastic woman, took dire offence at him,
finding that she could not bend him to her will. An attempt made by
her to draw General Fox into steps which could only have resulted in
disaster, was strongly discountenanced by Moore, to whom the General
appealed for advice, and she wrote a torrent of abuse of him to the
English Government.

At about this time General Fox, on account of failing health, was
recalled, and the supreme command was given to Moore. He soon after saw
the Queen, and explained to her the falsity of certain reports which
had been told her about things he was supposed to have said.

A little later, fresh Napoleonic successes drove her to despair, and
she then sent for him again. He found her weeping over a copy of the
Peace of Tilsit, just signed between France, Russia and Prussia; and he
stayed nearly two hours, doing his best to raise her spirits. When he
took leave she said, graciously enough—

“Great pains have been taken to prejudice me against you, and not
without effect; but your plain frank manners have removed every
unfavourable impression, and nothing shall make me think ill of you
again. For I perceive, Monsieur Moore, that you are an upright man who
flatters nobody. You are a little reserved, and do not give confidence
easily. I esteem you on that account the more. I hope, however, at last
to acquire your confidence, and I shall be flattered by it.”

This is all very well, but apparently the Queen made no effort to undo
her harsh misrepresentations of him to the English Government.

Early in 1808 Moore reached England, and then he had his last holiday.
Four months of rest were granted to the hard-worked warrior, who
during thirty years had held himself utterly at his country’s service,
fighting for her in all parts of the world almost without intermission,
and being at least four times wounded. At this date he was looked upon
by competent judges as the foremost man in the whole British Army—as
the one to whom above all others England, in her hour of need, would
turn.[2]

The chief part of his holiday was spent at the quiet Surrey home of his
brother, with his mother and sister, and one is glad to know that he
had that peaceful break before the end.

It was towards the close of the four months that Roy Baron reached the
Bryces’ London house, after his adventurous escape from Bitche; and
so soon as the first excitement of his arrival was over, his thoughts
turned in the old direction—towards the Army.

Those were not days of competitive examinations or of lengthy
preparation. Boys were taken straight from school, commissions were
given to them, they were put into uniforms and drilled—sharply
drilled too, if they happened to be anywhere within touch of Moore’s
influence—and in the majority of cases Nature was expected to do the
rest. On the whole, Nature did not perform her task badly, with such
material as she had to work upon in these plucky English lads.

Mr. Bryce took upon himself to act as he knew that the Colonel would
have acted if able, and a very brief space of time saw Roy being
transformed into a smart young subaltern, in the same regiment of
infantry where Jack had lately obtained command of a company.

Meanwhile, at the close of Sir John Moore’s holiday, he was sent off on
another expedition, this time to Sweden, then an ally of England. He
had over eleven thousand men under his command, all as eager as himself
to help the Swedes. But the expedition was rendered abortive by the
extraordinary conduct of the King of Sweden, who already began to show
signs of the madness, for which he was afterwards deposed.

On the arrival of the English fleet, he flatly refused permission to
Sir John to land any of the troops, unless they were placed entirely
under his own control, to be used how and where he chose. This, of
course, Moore at once refused, and for two months, while he waited for
directions from the home Government, the eleven thousand soldiers had
to remain cooped up on board the vessels. Then came an attempt on the
part of the crazy king to arrest Moore himself when on shore. Moore
evaded the attempt, and at once set sail with his whole force for
England. He wrote to his mother, “This campaign in Sweden has proved
the most painful to me I ever served. It is, however, now nearly over.”

Many criticisms were passed on his conduct by those who did not know
the ins and outs of the whole affair. But the Duke of York expressed
hearty approval, congratulating himself and the country on having sent
a chief who could be firm to resist such unreasonable demands as those
of the Swedish King.

In the autumn of 1807, when Italy, Holland, Prussia, Austria and
Russia were one and all either conquered, or at the least humiliated
and helpless, Portugal next fell a victim to the rapacious conqueror,
and was made a stepping-stone to the conquest of Spain. In the quaint
language of one of Moore’s brothers, “being wont to eke out his martial
feats with wily stratagems,” Napoleon plotted himself into a position
of power there. Before the end of May, 1808, the French Army entered
Madrid, declaring the whole country subject to the Emperor of the
French, and proclaiming Joseph Buonaparte king.

Then it was that the tide of Napoleon’s successes reached their
high-water mark. From this date, it may be said, the retreat of the
waters began upon land, as earlier their retreat had begun upon the
ocean, at first imperceptibly, for a long while fitfully, yet with
accelerating speed.

Again and again the Spaniards had fought on the side of the French
against the English. But now, at last, the spell seemed to be broken;
now, at last; their eyes were opened. “As a man,” it was declared,
Spain had risen against the Emperor, and a burst of enthusiasm, of
vehement sympathy, rushed through the length and breadth of England.
The Army was mad to fight.

By the time that Moore got home from Sweden, Sir Arthur Wellesley had
already been despatched to Portugal, with a force of nine thousand
men, and the eleven thousand who had been on this fruitless errand to
Sweden were not even allowed to disembark, but were at once ordered to
Portsmouth, Moore being summoned to an interview with Lord Castlereagh.

An evening or two later, Jack rushed in upon the Bryce circle in hot
haste.

“Jack! Hallo, man! What’s up now? Something out of the common by the
looks of you,” declared Mr. Bryce, as he sat near the open window; a
small and ugly and genial man, in flowered waistcoat, velvet tights,
and silver-buckled shoes. “You’re just in time, my good fellow. In
three days we’re off to Brighthelmstone.”

“And if I might but have had my will, we should be there already,”
added his “better-half” discontentedly.

“How d’you all do? How do you do, ma’am? Find yourself well, Polly?
Heard the news? I suppose not.”

“What news?” at the same moment from Mr. and Mrs. Bryce, Polly and
Molly.

“Sir John Moore is ordered off to Spain, and our regiment is under
orders too.”

“Oh!”—from Molly, under her breath. “And if Roy should be taken
prisoner——”

“Or if he should not!” suggested Mr. Bryce. “Nay, child, we’ll permit
no doleful foretellings. What’s up, Jack? ’Tis no ill news to you to be
ordered to the seat of war?”

“Ill news? No!”—with sufficient energy.

“Yet you look uncommon like to a thunder-cloud—ready to burst. Hey,
what’s wrong?”

“Could wish nothing better than to go, sir. Every man in the Army is
wild to be off. But I’m angry, I’ll admit. ’Tis inconceivable that
such a man as Sir John should have enemies, yet there’s no other
explanation.”

“Enemies where?”

“I’m not so bold as to say. But ’tis a fact that, after serving in
Sicily and in Sweden as chief in command, he’s now to be placed in a
subordinate position as third. I’ve heard Major Napier declaim against
the shame it was that they didn’t make him from the first supreme
Commander in Sicily; but this—why, ’tis infinitely greater shame. The
thing is beyond comprehension!”

“Yet the King and the Duke of York are ever his friends,” mused Mr.
Bryce, passing a meditative hand over his chin. “And Lord Castlereagh
esteems him highly.”

“So all say; but the chopping and the changing that’s to take
place—’tis amazing! There’s Sir Arthur Wellesley in command of one army
gone to Spain, and Sir John till now in command of another, and both of
’em to be under Sir Hew Dalrymple when he can get to Portugal, and till
he does, Sir Harry Burrard is to act for him. Moore—the foremost and
most brilliant officer England has ever owned—to be under Burrard and
Dalrymple! Has the world gone crazed?”

“For what reason are the changes?” asked Mr. Bryce.

“I know not, sir, and I care not! Sir John has done nothing to merit
such treatment. ’Tis a base shame, and that’s about all that can be
said. But he’ll rise to the top—small fear! When the need arises, he
will be the man whom all will turn unto.”

“Jack, shall we see Roy?” inquired Molly.

Jack had little doubt that Roy would look in. Everything was to be done
in a terrific hurry, and he had come himself to say good-bye there and
then; but Roy would certainly appear. A few minutes later he called
Polly away into the girls’ little boudoir, and said approvingly—

“That is a brave Polly! No tears and no wailings. ’Tis as should be.”

“Dear Jack, I know well how glad you are to be going, and I would not
hold you back.” Polly spoke courageously, though she looked white.

“And when I come again—a battered soldier, maybe, with some part of me
missing—— Nay, I did not mean to make things harder for you, Polly. I
was but jesting.”

Polly had difficulty in controlling her shudder.

“Come, come, that was nothing; that was but a foolish jest. You will
bid me God-speed, I know; and you will think of us. Roy is frantic to
be off. Polly, no letter from Verdun?”

She shook her head.

“If I were Denham—kept there all these long years in a purposeless
captivity—and, it may be, never a letter from Polly to cheer him——”

Polly looked sadly at her brother.

“I have not writ to him lately,” she said. “I cannot tell how to write.
What should I do? I have none but you to advise me, and you, too, will
now be gone. Tell me what I should do, Jack?”

“Write again; write often. One letter among many may get to him.”

“But if he should no longer care? If he should by now have forgot me?”

“He is not that sort. Trust him, Polly; be sure he is trusting you.”

Something of a gleam came to her face.

“You think that? You think I may trust him yet, and not be over bold?
It is so long—over five years!—and no letter from him of later date
than the summer of 1806. May he not have forgot?”

“He will not forget. Roy is convinced on that point.”

“But does Roy know? Jack, sometimes I wonder—if indeed Captain Ivor
loves me still, as once he did—I wonder why does he not ask me to go
out to him there? If he asked me, I would go—I would indeed! And he has
never from the first said any such word; and I cannot say it. It is not
for me to offer to go; but sure, if he wished it, he might send some
words—by some private hand——”

Jack was silent—thinking.

“And there is that French girl—whom Roy is so fond of—always with them
as one of themselves—always near Captain Ivor.”

“But trust him still, Polly dear,” urged Jack. “I cannot know, neither
can you, how things are yet awhile; only I do truly believe that Ivor
is no man to change, or to be fickle in his likings. Whether you write
or do not write, trust him still.”

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Caroline Fox became later the wife of Sir William Napier, historian
of the Peninsular War.

[2] “Then the most honoured military character of the day.”—Sir W.
Napier.

[Illustration]



[Illustration: LENT LILIES AND DOCK LEAVES.]



ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


STUDY AND STUDIO.

K. BARTLETT.—We have attentively read the verses of your friend. It
is always a difficult matter to decide from two or three specimens
whether a girl should “give up writing altogether.” We cannot, however,
say that there are indications here of poetic merit so great as to
afford you the hope she may one day become a poet. The phrasing is
that of a cultured woman, but there is no originality of thought or
expression, and the form needs improvement. In “Springtime,” the best
of the three poems, the author uses the second person singular and
plural indiscriminately (“thee” and “your”). In the third poem, the
conjunction “under unkind” is unmusical. “Flows” in the first poem, is
not an apt expression for the outburst of the song of birds at dawn. No
doubt the study of good poetry, and practice, would do much to improve
your friend’s capacity for verse-writing, and there can be no reason,
if she has leisure, why she should not persevere. While we cannot
prophesy triumphant success, we can at least say that a measure of
success in writing pleasant lyrics is fully possible.

THISTLE.—Your lines are unequal, and the form is incorrect. Compare
these two extracts—

    “The fourth of the sisters there
    Her own mind knows not yet,”

and

    “Outside that little summer-house
    On the lawn so smooth and green.”

Both occupy the same place in the verse, and should therefore
correspond in metre. It is no easy task to write verse that will find
acceptance.

“BILL.”—1. Some friend of yours with a knowledge of musical composition
might set “Marie” to music for you. The lines are very irregular,
and would need special treatment.—2. Your writing is vigorous and
distinctive, but you are inclined to write untidily, omitting fragments
of words and scrawling now and again. If you never allowed yourself to
scribble, and were very careful, you would write well by-and-by.

SESAME.—We advise you to write to the Secretary of Girton College, Miss
Shore Nightingale, 11, Queensborough Terrace, Bayswater, London; and
to the Secretary of Newnham, Miss M. G. Kennedy, Shenstone, Cambridge.
From these ladies you will obtain full particulars. With regard to
scholarships, we refer you to Mrs. Watson’s articles on “What are the
County Councils doing for Girls?” in THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER for March,
July, August, and September, 1897.


INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE.

MARJORY INGLE, aged sixteen, Denmark House, Ely, Cambridgeshire, would
like a French correspondent about her own age. She would much prefer
one well educated and interested in study.

MISS A. NICHOLLS, Laburnum Villa, Leamington, MISS L. JONES, c/o Morris
Hughes, Castle Street, Llangollen, N. Wales, MADEMOISELLE DÉSIRÉE
TUFFLI, Châlet à Monruz, Neuchâtel, Switzerland, and MISS MARGUERITE
FITZROY DIXON, 19, IX Florence Street, Ottawa, wish to correspond
with Miss Anice Cress, Mysore, S. India, and inquire if that address
is sufficient. Miss Dixon would also like to write to Miss Marguerite
Rahier.

MADEMOISELLE VILMA TUFFLI, Châlet à Monruz, Neuchâtel, Switzerland,
would like to exchange illustrated post-cards with anyone who collects
them.

MISS MARY KLEYNTJENS, Maastricht, Holland, wishes to exchange view
post-cards with O MIMOSA SAN.

EDELWEISS AT INNSBRUCK would like to correspond with a French girl of
about her own age (19). She knows French pretty well, but has not much
opportunity of writing French letters.

MISS RUBY TIZAREL, Trosse House School, Neumark, Germany, will be glad
to write in French, German, or English, and receive answers in either
language from a young lady of about her own age (17).

MISS NELLY POLLAK, a German girl, wishes to correspond with an English
girl, aged about sixteen, living in England, or any British colony. Her
address is Vienna, I., Reichsrathstrasse 3.

“CINTRA,” aged sixteen, would like a French correspondent.

MISS WYNNIE L. MOORE JONES, Ladies’ College, Portland Road, Remuera,
Auckland, N.Z., and MISS L. SALMON, c/o E. L. Thornton, Esq., Fonte
da Moura, Oporto, Portugal, would like to exchange New Zealand and
Portuguese stamps for others.

VIOLET M. and FLORENCE VIOLET (not Voilet) FOSTER.—In view of the
increasing applications for foreign correspondents, we cannot undertake
to insert requests from English girls for English correspondents,
unless some special reason is given for their employing the medium of a
magazine. F. V. Foster must not be offended if we say she should try to
improve her writing and spelling. Violet M.’s letter is a pleasant one,
and if she is lonely through circumstances and unable to find friends,
we will consider her application.

GERALDINE wishes to correspond with a Swiss-French or French lady of
good family and education in French. The latter writing in English will
have all letters returned corrected, and the correspondent will require
her French letters corrected and returned also.


MISCELLANEOUS.

JAPONICA.—We do not see how “Japonica” can require _advice_ on such a
subject. Most girls of eighteen have some knowledge of the rules of
propriety; and if in doubt as to allowing stray young men to kiss her,
ignorance which we do not believe, she can consult any older person—her
mother, or one of her brothers—as to how far it is permissible. We
often think that such letters as “Japonica’s” are written by foolish
and vain girls to show off, not to obtain advice. There could be no
other motive in writing to us on the subject.

WINNIE has probably not consulted her parents on this point, or she
might find that there is really some very strong objection, of which
she is in ignorance, to the “good Christian young man” whom she says
“she has found.” Tell your parents all about it, and do not try to
persuade us to counsel you to be disobedient to their wishes.

ESMERALDA.—Why not take _The Boy’s Own Paper_, 56, Paternoster Row,
E.C. You might purchase a number and see how you liked it.

PUZZLED.—The smell of which you complain arises from the skins being
only partially cured and not thoroughly dried. Skunk, however, retains
an unpleasant odour in most cases. Drying the skins in a brick oven for
a little time, taking care not to burn them, might do good. But we fear
there is little help for this trouble.

THREEPENCE.—There is no royal road to handwriting. It is an art which
must be carefully acquired; and if you wish to improve yours, you
must get some copies and set to work in a painstaking way. Select a
handwriting you admire and proceed to copy it, letter by letter, word
by word. If you persevere, you will succeed in about a month’s time in
making a total change.

CHADBAND.—1. The Rev. Mr. Chadband is a character in Dickens’s
_Bleak House_. He was a religious hypocrite. The word “Chadbandism”
is a novelty, applied as it has been lately, in the daily press.—2.
_Chauvinism_ means a blind idolatry of Napoleon I. Just now it seems to
mean a warlike spirit, a blind patriotism. The word _Chauvin_ is taken
from _Les Aides de Camp_, by Bayard and Dumanoir; and was made popular
by Charet’s _Conscrit Chauvin_. _Conspuez_, which is the word most
heard in Paris of to-day, is from the verb _conspuer_, which means to
spit upon or to despise. A _Bordereau_ is a memorandum, or account of
some occurrence, event, or conversation. _Dossier_ means a barrister’s
brief, and also a bundle of papers. In the way used, it means what we
should call “the case” against a prisoner. We do not wonder that you
are puzzled if you do not understand French.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber’s Note—the following corrections have been made to the
text:

Page 426: dignatatem changed to dignitatem—“infra dignitatem”.]





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